[
    {
        "title": "Robinson Crusoe",
        "author": "Daniel Defoe",
        "category": "Adventure",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I. START IN LIFE\n\n\nI was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family,\nthough not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who\nsettled first at Hull. He got a good estate by merchandise, and leaving\noff his trade, lived afterwards at York, from whence he had married my\nmother, whose relations were named Robinson, a very good family in that\ncountry, and from whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer; but, by the\nusual corruption of words in England, we are now called nay we call\nourselves and write our name Crusoe; and so my companions always called\nme.\n\nI had two elder brothers, one of whom was lieutenant-colonel to an\nEnglish regiment of foot in Flanders, formerly commanded by the famous\nColonel Lockhart, and was killed at the battle near Dunkirk against the\nSpaniards. What became of my second brother I never knew, any more than\nmy father or mother knew what became of me.\n\nBeing the third son of the family and not bred to any trade, my head\nbegan to be filled very early with rambling thoughts. My father, who\nwas very ancient, had given me a competent share of learning, as far as\nhouse-education and a country free school generally go, and designed me\nfor the law; but I would be satisfied with nothing but going to sea;\nand my inclination to this led me so strongly against the will, nay,\nthe commands of my father, and against all the entreaties and\npersuasions of my mother and other friends, that there seemed to be\nsomething fatal in that propensity of nature, tending directly to the\nlife of misery which was to befall me.\n\nMy father, a wise and grave man, gave me serious and excellent counsel\nagainst what he foresaw was my design. He called me one morning into\nhis chamber, where he was confined by the gout, and expostulated very\nwarmly with me upon this subject. He asked me what reasons, more than a\nmere wandering inclination, I had for leaving father s house and my\nnative country, where I might be well introduced, and had a prospect of\nraising my fortune by application and industry, with a life of ease and\npleasure. He told me it was men of desperate fortunes on one hand, or\nof aspiring, superior fortunes on the other, who went abroad upon\nadventures, to rise by enterprise, and make themselves famous in\nundertakings of a nature out of the common road; that these things were\nall either too far above me or too far below me; that mine was the\nmiddle state, or what might be called the upper station of low life,\nwhich he had found, by long experience, was the best state in the\nworld, the most suited to human happiness, not exposed to the miseries\nand hardships, the labour and sufferings of the mechanic part of\nmankind, and not embarrassed with the pride, luxury, ambition, and envy\nof the upper part of mankind. He told me I might judge of the happiness\nof this state by this one thing viz. that this was the state of life\nwhich all other people envied; that kings have frequently lamented the\nmiserable consequence of being born to great things, and wished they\nhad been placed in the middle of the two extremes, between the mean and\nthe great; that the wise man gave his testimony to this, as the\nstandard of felicity, when he prayed to have neither poverty nor\nriches.\n\nHe bade me observe it, and I should always find that the calamities of\nlife were shared among the upper and lower part of mankind, but that\nthe middle station had the fewest disasters, and was not exposed to so\nmany vicissitudes as the higher or lower part of mankind; nay, they\nwere not subjected to so many distempers and uneasinesses, either of\nbody or mind, as those were who, by vicious living, luxury, and\nextravagances on the one hand, or by hard labour, want of necessaries,\nand mean or insufficient diet on the other hand, bring distemper upon\nthemselves by the natural consequences of their way of living; that the\nmiddle station of life was calculated for all kind of virtue and all\nkind of enjoyments; that peace and plenty were the handmaids of a\nmiddle fortune; that temperance, moderation, quietness, health,\nsociety, all agreeable diversions, and all desirable pleasures, were\nthe blessings attending the middle station of life; that this way men\nwent silently and smoothly through the world, and comfortably out of\nit, not embarrassed with the labours of the hands or of the head, not\nsold to a life of slavery for daily bread, nor harassed with perplexed\ncircumstances, which rob the soul of peace and the body of rest, nor\nenraged with the passion of envy, or the secret burning lust of\nambition for great things; but, in easy circumstances, sliding gently\nthrough the world, and sensibly tasting the sweets of living, without\nthe bitter; feeling that they are happy, and learning by every day s\nexperience to know it more sensibly.\n\nAfter this he pressed me earnestly, and in the most affectionate\nmanner, not to play the young man, nor to precipitate myself into\nmiseries which nature, and the station of life I was born in, seemed to\nhave provided against; that I was under no necessity of seeking my\nbread; that he would do well for me, and endeavour to enter me fairly\ninto the station of life which he had just been recommending to me; and\nthat if I was not very easy and happy in the world, it must be my mere\nfate or fault that must hinder it; and that he should have nothing to\nanswer for, having thus discharged his duty in warning me against\nmeasures which he knew would be to my hurt; in a word, that as he would\ndo very kind things for me if I would stay and settle at home as he\ndirected, so he would not have so much hand in my misfortunes as to\ngive me any encouragement to go away; and to close all, he told me I\nhad my elder brother for an example, to whom he had used the same\nearnest persuasions to keep him from going into the Low Country wars,\nbut could not prevail, his young desires prompting him to run into the\narmy, where he was killed; and though he said he would not cease to\npray for me, yet he would venture to say to me, that if I did take this\nfoolish step, God would not bless me, and I should have leisure\nhereafter to reflect upon having neglected his counsel when there might\nbe none to assist in my recovery.\n\nI observed in this last part of his discourse, which was truly\nprophetic, though I suppose my father did not know it to be so\nhimself I say, I observed the tears run down his face very plentifully,\nespecially when he spoke of my brother who was killed: and that when he\nspoke of my having leisure to repent, and none to assist me, he was so\nmoved that he broke off the discourse, and told me his heart was so\nfull he could say no more to me.\n\nI was sincerely affected with this discourse, and, indeed, who could be\notherwise? and I resolved not to think of going abroad any more, but to\nsettle at home according to my father s desire. But alas! a few days\nwore it all off; and, in short, to prevent any of my father s further\nimportunities, in a few weeks after I resolved to run quite away from\nhim. However, I did not act quite so hastily as the first heat of my\nresolution prompted; but I took my mother at a time when I thought her\na little more pleasant than ordinary, and told her that my thoughts\nwere so entirely bent upon seeing the world that I should never settle\nto anything with resolution enough to go through with it, and my father\nhad better give me his consent than force me to go without it; that I\nwas now eighteen years old, which was too late to go apprentice to a\ntrade or clerk to an attorney; that I was sure if I did I should never\nserve out my time, but I should certainly run away from my master\nbefore my time was out, and go to sea; and if she would speak to my\nfather to let me go one voyage abroad, if I came home again, and did\nnot like it, I would go no more; and I would promise, by a double\ndiligence, to recover the time that I had lost.\n\nThis put my mother into a great passion; she told me she knew it would\nbe to no purpose to speak to my father upon any such subject; that he\nknew too well what was my interest to give his consent to anything so\nmuch for my hurt; and that she wondered how I could think of any such\nthing after the discourse I had had with my father, and such kind and\ntender expressions as she knew my father had used to me; and that, in\nshort, if I would ruin myself, there was no help for me; but I might\ndepend I should never have their consent to it; that for her part she\nwould not have so much hand in my destruction; and I should never have\nit to say that my mother was willing when my father was not.\n\nThough my mother refused to move it to my father, yet I heard\nafterwards that she reported all the discourse to him, and that my\nfather, after showing a great concern at it, said to her, with a sigh,\n That boy might be happy if he would stay at home; but if he goes\nabroad, he will be the most miserable wretch that ever was born: I can\ngive no consent to it. \n\nIt was not till almost a year after this that I broke loose, though, in\nthe meantime, I continued obstinately deaf to all proposals of settling\nto business, and frequently expostulated with my father and mother\nabout their being so positively determined against what they knew my\ninclinations prompted me to. But being one day at Hull, where I went\ncasually, and without any purpose of making an elopement at that time;\nbut, I say, being there, and one of my companions being about to sail\nto London in his father s ship, and prompting me to go with them with\nthe common allurement of seafaring men, that it should cost me nothing\nfor my passage, I consulted neither father nor mother any more, nor so\nmuch as sent them word of it; but leaving them to hear of it as they\nmight, without asking God s blessing or my father s, without any\nconsideration of circumstances or consequences, and in an ill hour, God\nknows, on the 1st of September 1651, I went on board a ship bound for\nLondon. Never any young adventurer s misfortunes, I believe, began\nsooner, or continued longer than mine. The ship was no sooner out of\nthe Humber than the wind began to blow and the sea to rise in a most\nfrightful manner; and, as I had never been at sea before, I was most\ninexpressibly sick in body and terrified in mind. I began now seriously\nto reflect upon what I had done, and how justly I was overtaken by the\njudgment of Heaven for my wicked leaving my father s house, and\nabandoning my duty. All the good counsels of my parents, my father s\ntears and my mother s entreaties, came now fresh into my mind; and my\nconscience, which was not yet come to the pitch of hardness to which it\nhas since, reproached me with the contempt of advice, and the breach of\nmy duty to God and my father.\n\nAll this while the storm increased, and the sea went very high, though\nnothing like what I have seen many times since; no, nor what I saw a\nfew days after; but it was enough to affect me then, who was but a\nyoung sailor, and had never known anything of the matter. I expected\nevery wave would have swallowed us up, and that every time the ship\nfell down, as I thought it did, in the trough or hollow of the sea, we\nshould never rise more; in this agony of mind, I made many vows and\nresolutions that if it would please God to spare my life in this one\nvoyage, if ever I got once my foot upon dry land again, I would go\ndirectly home to my father, and never set it into a ship again while I\nlived; that I would take his advice, and never run myself into such\nmiseries as these any more. Now I saw plainly the goodness of his\nobservations about the middle station of life, how easy, how\ncomfortably he had lived all his days, and never had been exposed to\ntempests at sea or troubles on shore; and I resolved that I would, like\na true repenting prodigal, go home to my father.\n\nThese wise and sober thoughts continued all the while the storm lasted,\nand indeed some time after; but the next day the wind was abated, and\nthe sea calmer, and I began to be a little inured to it; however, I was\nvery grave for all that day, being also a little sea-sick still; but\ntowards night the weather cleared up, the wind was quite over, and a\ncharming fine evening followed; the sun went down perfectly clear, and\nrose so the next morning; and having little or no wind, and a smooth\nsea, the sun shining upon it, the sight was, as I thought, the most\ndelightful that ever I saw.\n\nI had slept well in the night, and was now no more sea-sick, but very\ncheerful, looking with wonder upon the sea that was so rough and\nterrible the day before, and could be so calm and so pleasant in so\nlittle a time after. And now, lest my good resolutions should continue,\nmy companion, who had enticed me away, comes to me;  Well, Bob,  says\nhe, clapping me upon the shoulder,  how do you do after it? I warrant\nyou were frighted, wer n t you, last night, when it blew but a capful\nof wind?   A capful d you call it?  said I;  twas a terrible storm. \n A storm, you fool you,  replies he;  do you call that a storm? why, it\nwas nothing at all; give us but a good ship and sea-room, and we think\nnothing of such a squall of wind as that; but you re but a fresh-water\nsailor, Bob. Come, let us make a bowl of punch, and we ll forget all\nthat; d ye see what charming weather  tis now?  To make short this sad\npart of my story, we went the way of all sailors; the punch was made\nand I was made half drunk with it: and in that one night s wickedness I\ndrowned all my repentance, all my reflections upon my past conduct, all\nmy resolutions for the future. In a word, as the sea was returned to\nits smoothness of surface and settled calmness by the abatement of that\nstorm, so the hurry of my thoughts being over, my fears and\napprehensions of being swallowed up by the sea being forgotten, and the\ncurrent of my former desires returned, I entirely forgot the vows and\npromises that I made in my distress. I found, indeed, some intervals of\nreflection; and the serious thoughts did, as it were, endeavour to\nreturn again sometimes; but I shook them off, and roused myself from\nthem as it were from a distemper, and applying myself to drinking and\ncompany, soon mastered the return of those fits for so I called them;\nand I had in five or six days got as complete a victory over conscience\nas any young fellow that resolved not to be troubled with it could\ndesire. But I was to have another trial for it still; and Providence,\nas in such cases generally it does, resolved to leave me entirely\nwithout excuse; for if I would not take this for a deliverance, the\nnext was to be such a one as the worst and most hardened wretch among\nus would confess both the danger and the mercy of.\n\nThe sixth day of our being at sea we came into Yarmouth Roads; the wind\nhaving been contrary and the weather calm, we had made but little way\nsince the storm. Here we were obliged to come to an anchor, and here we\nlay, the wind continuing contrary viz. at south-west for seven or eight\ndays, during which time a great many ships from Newcastle came into the\nsame Roads, as the common harbour where the ships might wait for a wind\nfor the river.\n\nWe had not, however, rid here so long but we should have tided it up\nthe river, but that the wind blew too fresh, and after we had lain four\nor five days, blew very hard. However, the Roads being reckoned as good\nas a harbour, the anchorage good, and our ground-tackle very strong,\nour men were unconcerned, and not in the least apprehensive of danger,\nbut spent the time in rest and mirth, after the manner of the sea; but\nthe eighth day, in the morning, the wind increased, and we had all\nhands at work to strike our topmasts, and make everything snug and\nclose, that the ship might ride as easy as possible. By noon the sea\nwent very high indeed, and our ship rode forecastle in, shipped several\nseas, and we thought once or twice our anchor had come home; upon which\nour master ordered out the sheet-anchor, so that we rode with two\nanchors ahead, and the cables veered out to the bitter end.\n\nBy this time it blew a terrible storm indeed; and now I began to see\nterror and amazement in the faces even of the seamen themselves. The\nmaster, though vigilant in the business of preserving the ship, yet as\nhe went in and out of his cabin by me, I could hear him softly to\nhimself say, several times,  Lord be merciful to us! we shall be all\nlost! we shall be all undone!  and the like. During these first hurries\nI was stupid, lying still in my cabin, which was in the steerage, and\ncannot describe my temper: I could ill resume the first penitence which\nI had so apparently trampled upon and hardened myself against: I\nthought the bitterness of death had been past, and that this would be\nnothing like the first; but when the master himself came by me, as I\nsaid just now, and said we should be all lost, I was dreadfully\nfrighted. I got up out of my cabin and looked out; but such a dismal\nsight I never saw: the sea ran mountains high, and broke upon us every\nthree or four minutes; when I could look about, I could see nothing but\ndistress round us; two ships that rode near us, we found, had cut their\nmasts by the board, being deep laden; and our men cried out that a ship\nwhich rode about a mile ahead of us was foundered. Two more ships,\nbeing driven from their anchors, were run out of the Roads to sea, at\nall adventures, and that with not a mast standing. The light ships\nfared the best, as not so much labouring in the sea; but two or three\nof them drove, and came close by us, running away with only their\nspritsail out before the wind.\n\nTowards evening the mate and boatswain begged the master of our ship to\nlet them cut away the fore-mast, which he was very unwilling to do; but\nthe boatswain protesting to him that if he did not the ship would\nfounder, he consented; and when they had cut away the fore-mast, the\nmain-mast stood so loose, and shook the ship so much, they were obliged\nto cut that away also, and make a clear deck.\n\nAny one may judge what a condition I must be in at all this, who was\nbut a young sailor, and who had been in such a fright before at but a\nlittle. But if I can express at this distance the thoughts I had about\nme at that time, I was in tenfold more horror of mind upon account of\nmy former convictions, and the having returned from them to the\nresolutions I had wickedly taken at first, than I was at death itself;\nand these, added to the terror of the storm, put me into such a\ncondition that I can by no words describe it. But the worst was not\ncome yet; the storm continued with such fury that the seamen themselves\nacknowledged they had never seen a worse. We had a good ship, but she\nwas deep laden, and wallowed in the sea, so that the seamen every now\nand then cried out she would founder. It was my advantage in one\nrespect, that I did not know what they meant by _founder_ till I\ninquired. However, the storm was so violent that I saw, what is not\noften seen, the master, the boatswain, and some others more sensible\nthan the rest, at their prayers, and expecting every moment when the\nship would go to the bottom. In the middle of the night, and under all\nthe rest of our distresses, one of the men that had been down to see\ncried out we had sprung a leak; another said there was four feet water\nin the hold. Then all hands were called to the pump. At that word, my\nheart, as I thought, died within me: and I fell backwards upon the side\nof my bed where I sat, into the cabin. However, the men roused me, and\ntold me that I, that was able to do nothing before, was as well able to\npump as another; at which I stirred up and went to the pump, and worked\nvery heartily. While this was doing the master, seeing some light\ncolliers, who, not able to ride out the storm were obliged to slip and\nrun away to sea, and would come near us, ordered to fire a gun as a\nsignal of distress. I, who knew nothing what they meant, thought the\nship had broken, or some dreadful thing happened. In a word, I was so\nsurprised that I fell down in a swoon. As this was a time when\neverybody had his own life to think of, nobody minded me, or what was\nbecome of me; but another man stepped up to the pump, and thrusting me\naside with his foot, let me lie, thinking I had been dead; and it was a\ngreat while before I came to myself.\n\nWe worked on; but the water increasing in the hold, it was apparent\nthat the ship would founder; and though the storm began to abate a\nlittle, yet it was not possible she could swim till we might run into\nany port; so the master continued firing guns for help; and a light\nship, who had rid it out just ahead of us, ventured a boat out to help\nus. It was with the utmost hazard the boat came near us; but it was\nimpossible for us to get on board, or for the boat to lie near the\nship s side, till at last the men rowing very heartily, and venturing\ntheir lives to save ours, our men cast them a rope over the stern with\na buoy to it, and then veered it out a great length, which they, after\nmuch labour and hazard, took hold of, and we hauled them close under\nour stern, and got all into their boat. It was to no purpose for them\nor us, after we were in the boat, to think of reaching their own ship;\nso all agreed to let her drive, and only to pull her in towards shore\nas much as we could; and our master promised them, that if the boat was\nstaved upon shore, he would make it good to their master: so partly\nrowing and partly driving, our boat went away to the northward, sloping\ntowards the shore almost as far as Winterton Ness.\n\nWe were not much more than a quarter of an hour out of our ship till we\nsaw her sink, and then I understood for the first time what was meant\nby a ship foundering in the sea. I must acknowledge I had hardly eyes\nto look up when the seamen told me she was sinking; for from the moment\nthat they rather put me into the boat than that I might be said to go\nin, my heart was, as it were, dead within me, partly with fright,\npartly with horror of mind, and the thoughts of what was yet before me.\n\nWhile we were in this condition the men yet labouring at the oar to\nbring the boat near the shore we could see (when, our boat mounting the\nwaves, we were able to see the shore) a great many people running along\nthe strand to assist us when we should come near; but we made but slow\nway towards the shore; nor were we able to reach the shore till, being\npast the lighthouse at Winterton, the shore falls off to the westward\ntowards Cromer, and so the land broke off a little the violence of the\nwind. Here we got in, and though not without much difficulty, got all\nsafe on shore, and walked afterwards on foot to Yarmouth, where, as\nunfortunate men, we were used with great humanity, as well by the\nmagistrates of the town, who assigned us good quarters, as by\nparticular merchants and owners of ships, and had money given us\nsufficient to carry us either to London or back to Hull as we thought\nfit.\n\nHad I now had the sense to have gone back to Hull, and have gone home,\nI had been happy, and my father, as in our blessed Saviour s parable,\nhad even killed the fatted calf for me; for hearing the ship I went\naway in was cast away in Yarmouth Roads, it was a great while before he\nhad any assurances that I was not drowned.\n\nBut my ill fate pushed me on now with an obstinacy that nothing could\nresist; and though I had several times loud calls from my reason and my\nmore composed judgment to go home, yet I had no power to do it. I know\nnot what to call this, nor will I urge that it is a secret overruling\ndecree, that hurries us on to be the instruments of our own\ndestruction, even though it be before us, and that we rush upon it with\nour eyes open. Certainly, nothing but some such decreed unavoidable\nmisery, which it was impossible for me to escape, could have pushed me\nforward against the calm reasonings and persuasions of my most retired\nthoughts, and against two such visible instructions as I had met with\nin my first attempt.\n\nMy comrade, who had helped to harden me before, and who was the\nmaster s son, was now less forward than I. The first time he spoke to\nme after we were at Yarmouth, which was not till two or three days, for\nwe were separated in the town to several quarters; I say, the first\ntime he saw me, it appeared his tone was altered; and, looking very\nmelancholy, and shaking his head, he asked me how I did, and telling\nhis father who I was, and how I had come this voyage only for a trial,\nin order to go further abroad, his father, turning to me with a very\ngrave and concerned tone  Young man,  says he,  you ought never to go\nto sea any more; you ought to take this for a plain and visible token\nthat you are not to be a seafaring man.   Why, sir,  said I,  will you\ngo to sea no more?   That is another case,  said he;  it is my calling,\nand therefore my duty; but as you made this voyage on trial, you see\nwhat a taste Heaven has given you of what you are to expect if you\npersist. Perhaps this has all befallen us on your account, like Jonah\nin the ship of Tarshish. Pray,  continues he,  what are you; and on\nwhat account did you go to sea?  Upon that I told him some of my story;\nat the end of which he burst out into a strange kind of passion:  What\nhad I done,  says he,  that such an unhappy wretch should come into my\nship? I would not set my foot in the same ship with thee again for a\nthousand pounds.  This indeed was, as I said, an excursion of his\nspirits, which were yet agitated by the sense of his loss, and was\nfarther than he could have authority to go. However, he afterwards\ntalked very gravely to me, exhorting me to go back to my father, and\nnot tempt Providence to my ruin, telling me I might see a visible hand\nof Heaven against me.  And, young man,  said he,  depend upon it, if\nyou do not go back, wherever you go, you will meet with nothing but\ndisasters and disappointments, till your father s words are fulfilled\nupon you. \n\nWe parted soon after; for I made him little answer, and I saw him no\nmore; which way he went I knew not. As for me, having some money in my\npocket, I travelled to London by land; and there, as well as on the\nroad, had many struggles with myself what course of life I should take,\nand whether I should go home or to sea.\n\nAs to going home, shame opposed the best motions that offered to my\nthoughts, and it immediately occurred to me how I should be laughed at\namong the neighbours, and should be ashamed to see, not my father and\nmother only, but even everybody else; from whence I have since often\nobserved, how incongruous and irrational the common temper of mankind\nis, especially of youth, to that reason which ought to guide them in\nsuch cases viz. that they are not ashamed to sin, and yet are ashamed\nto repent; not ashamed of the action for which they ought justly to be\nesteemed fools, but are ashamed of the returning, which only can make\nthem be esteemed wise men.\n\nIn this state of life, however, I remained some time, uncertain what\nmeasures to take, and what course of life to lead. An irresistible\nreluctance continued to going home; and as I stayed away a while, the\nremembrance of the distress I had been in wore off, and as that abated,\nthe little motion I had in my desires to return wore off with it, till\nat last I quite laid aside the thoughts of it, and looked out for a\nvoyage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. SLAVERY AND ESCAPE\n\n\nThat evil influence which carried me first away from my father s\nhouse which hurried me into the wild and indigested notion of raising\nmy fortune, and that impressed those conceits so forcibly upon me as to\nmake me deaf to all good advice, and to the entreaties and even the\ncommands of my father I say, the same influence, whatever it was,\npresented the most unfortunate of all enterprises to my view; and I\nwent on board a vessel bound to the coast of Africa; or, as our sailors\nvulgarly called it, a voyage to Guinea.\n\nIt was my great misfortune that in all these adventures I did not ship\nmyself as a sailor; when, though I might indeed have worked a little\nharder than ordinary, yet at the same time I should have learnt the\nduty and office of a fore-mast man, and in time might have qualified\nmyself for a mate or lieutenant, if not for a master. But as it was\nalways my fate to choose for the worse, so I did here; for having money\nin my pocket and good clothes upon my back, I would always go on board\nin the habit of a gentleman; and so I neither had any business in the\nship, nor learned to do any.\n\nIt was my lot first of all to fall into pretty good company in London,\nwhich does not always happen to such loose and misguided young fellows\nas I then was; the devil generally not omitting to lay some snare for\nthem very early; but it was not so with me. I first got acquainted with\nthe master of a ship who had been on the coast of Guinea; and who,\nhaving had very good success there, was resolved to go again. This\ncaptain taking a fancy to my conversation, which was not at all\ndisagreeable at that time, hearing me say I had a mind to see the\nworld, told me if I would go the voyage with him I should be at no\nexpense; I should be his messmate and his companion; and if I could\ncarry anything with me, I should have all the advantage of it that the\ntrade would admit; and perhaps I might meet with some encouragement.\n\nI embraced the offer; and entering into a strict friendship with this\ncaptain, who was an honest, plain-dealing man, I went the voyage with\nhim, and carried a small adventure with me, which, by the disinterested\nhonesty of my friend the captain, I increased very considerably; for I\ncarried about  40 in such toys and trifles as the captain directed me\nto buy. These  40 I had mustered together by the assistance of some of\nmy relations whom I corresponded with; and who, I believe, got my\nfather, or at least my mother, to contribute so much as that to my\nfirst adventure.\n\nThis was the only voyage which I may say was successful in all my\nadventures, which I owe to the integrity and honesty of my friend the\ncaptain; under whom also I got a competent knowledge of the mathematics\nand the rules of navigation, learned how to keep an account of the\nship s course, take an observation, and, in short, to understand some\nthings that were needful to be understood by a sailor; for, as he took\ndelight to instruct me, I took delight to learn; and, in a word, this\nvoyage made me both a sailor and a merchant; for I brought home five\npounds nine ounces of gold-dust for my adventure, which yielded me in\nLondon, at my return, almost  300; and this filled me with those\naspiring thoughts which have since so completed my ruin.\n\nYet even in this voyage I had my misfortunes too; particularly, that I\nwas continually sick, being thrown into a violent calenture by the\nexcessive heat of the climate; our principal trading being upon the\ncoast, from latitude of 15 degrees north even to the line itself.\n\nI was now set up for a Guinea trader; and my friend, to my great\nmisfortune, dying soon after his arrival, I resolved to go the same\nvoyage again, and I embarked in the same vessel with one who was his\nmate in the former voyage, and had now got the command of the ship.\nThis was the unhappiest voyage that ever man made; for though I did not\ncarry quite  100 of my new-gained wealth, so that I had  200 left,\nwhich I had lodged with my friend s widow, who was very just to me, yet\nI fell into terrible misfortunes. The first was this: our ship making\nher course towards the Canary Islands, or rather between those islands\nand the African shore, was surprised in the grey of the morning by a\nTurkish rover of Sallee, who gave chase to us with all the sail she\ncould make. We crowded also as much canvas as our yards would spread,\nor our masts carry, to get clear; but finding the pirate gained upon\nus, and would certainly come up with us in a few hours, we prepared to\nfight; our ship having twelve guns, and the rogue eighteen. About three\nin the afternoon he came up with us, and bringing to, by mistake, just\nathwart our quarter, instead of athwart our stern, as he intended, we\nbrought eight of our guns to bear on that side, and poured in a\nbroadside upon him, which made him sheer off again, after returning our\nfire, and pouring in also his small shot from near two hundred men\nwhich he had on board. However, we had not a man touched, all our men\nkeeping close. He prepared to attack us again, and we to defend\nourselves. But laying us on board the next time upon our other quarter,\nhe entered sixty men upon our decks, who immediately fell to cutting\nand hacking the sails and rigging. We plied them with small shot,\nhalf-pikes, powder-chests, and such like, and cleared our deck of them\ntwice. However, to cut short this melancholy part of our story, our\nship being disabled, and three of our men killed, and eight wounded, we\nwere obliged to yield, and were carried all prisoners into Sallee, a\nport belonging to the Moors.\n\nThe usage I had there was not so dreadful as at first I apprehended;\nnor was I carried up the country to the emperor s court, as the rest of\nour men were, but was kept by the captain of the rover as his proper\nprize, and made his slave, being young and nimble, and fit for his\nbusiness. At this surprising change of my circumstances, from a\nmerchant to a miserable slave, I was perfectly overwhelmed; and now I\nlooked back upon my father s prophetic discourse to me, that I should\nbe miserable and have none to relieve me, which I thought was now so\neffectually brought to pass that I could not be worse; for now the hand\nof Heaven had overtaken me, and I was undone without redemption; but,\nalas! this was but a taste of the misery I was to go through, as will\nappear in the sequel of this story.\n\nAs my new patron, or master, had taken me home to his house, so I was\nin hopes that he would take me with him when he went to sea again,\nbelieving that it would some time or other be his fate to be taken by a\nSpanish or Portugal man-of-war; and that then I should be set at\nliberty. But this hope of mine was soon taken away; for when he went to\nsea, he left me on shore to look after his little garden, and do the\ncommon drudgery of slaves about his house; and when he came home again\nfrom his cruise, he ordered me to lie in the cabin to look after the\nship.\n\nHere I meditated nothing but my escape, and what method I might take to\neffect it, but found no way that had the least probability in it;\nnothing presented to make the supposition of it rational; for I had\nnobody to communicate it to that would embark with me no fellow-slave,\nno Englishman, Irishman, or Scotchman there but myself; so that for two\nyears, though I often pleased myself with the imagination, yet I never\nhad the least encouraging prospect of putting it in practice.\n\nAfter about two years, an odd circumstance presented itself, which put\nthe old thought of making some attempt for my liberty again in my head.\nMy patron lying at home longer than usual without fitting out his ship,\nwhich, as I heard, was for want of money, he used constantly, once or\ntwice a week, sometimes oftener if the weather was fair, to take the\nship s pinnace and go out into the road a-fishing; and as he always\ntook me and young Maresco with him to row the boat, we made him very\nmerry, and I proved very dexterous in catching fish; insomuch that\nsometimes he would send me with a Moor, one of his kinsmen, and the\nyouth the Maresco, as they called him to catch a dish of fish for him.\n\nIt happened one time, that going a-fishing in a calm morning, a fog\nrose so thick that, though we were not half a league from the shore, we\nlost sight of it; and rowing we knew not whither or which way, we\nlaboured all day, and all the next night; and when the morning came we\nfound we had pulled off to sea instead of pulling in for the shore; and\nthat we were at least two leagues from the shore. However, we got well\nin again, though with a great deal of labour and some danger; for the\nwind began to blow pretty fresh in the morning; but we were all very\nhungry.\n\nBut our patron, warned by this disaster, resolved to take more care of\nhimself for the future; and having lying by him the longboat of our\nEnglish ship that he had taken, he resolved he would not go a-fishing\nany more without a compass and some provision; so he ordered the\ncarpenter of his ship, who also was an English slave, to build a little\nstate-room, or cabin, in the middle of the long-boat, like that of a\nbarge, with a place to stand behind it to steer, and haul home the\nmain-sheet; the room before for a hand or two to stand and work the\nsails. She sailed with what we call a shoulder-of-mutton sail; and the\nboom jibed over the top of the cabin, which lay very snug and low, and\nhad in it room for him to lie, with a slave or two, and a table to eat\non, with some small lockers to put in some bottles of such liquor as he\nthought fit to drink; and his bread, rice, and coffee.\n\nWe went frequently out with this boat a-fishing; and as I was most\ndexterous to catch fish for him, he never went without me. It happened\nthat he had appointed to go out in this boat, either for pleasure or\nfor fish, with two or three Moors of some distinction in that place,\nand for whom he had provided extraordinarily, and had, therefore, sent\non board the boat overnight a larger store of provisions than ordinary;\nand had ordered me to get ready three fusees with powder and shot,\nwhich were on board his ship, for that they designed some sport of\nfowling as well as fishing.\n\nI got all things ready as he had directed, and waited the next morning\nwith the boat washed clean, her ancient and pendants out, and\neverything to accommodate his guests; when by-and-by my patron came on\nboard alone, and told me his guests had put off going from some\nbusiness that fell out, and ordered me, with the man and boy, as usual,\nto go out with the boat and catch them some fish, for that his friends\nwere to sup at his house, and commanded that as soon as I got some fish\nI should bring it home to his house; all which I prepared to do.\n\nThis moment my former notions of deliverance darted into my thoughts,\nfor now I found I was likely to have a little ship at my command; and\nmy master being gone, I prepared to furnish myself, not for fishing\nbusiness, but for a voyage; though I knew not, neither did I so much as\nconsider, whither I should steer anywhere to get out of that place was\nmy desire.\n\nMy first contrivance was to make a pretence to speak to this Moor, to\nget something for our subsistence on board; for I told him we must not\npresume to eat of our patron s bread. He said that was true; so he\nbrought a large basket of rusk or biscuit, and three jars of fresh\nwater, into the boat. I knew where my patron s case of bottles stood,\nwhich it was evident, by the make, were taken out of some English\nprize, and I conveyed them into the boat while the Moor was on shore,\nas if they had been there before for our master. I conveyed also a\ngreat lump of beeswax into the boat, which weighed about half a\nhundred-weight, with a parcel of twine or thread, a hatchet, a saw, and\na hammer, all of which were of great use to us afterwards, especially\nthe wax, to make candles. Another trick I tried upon him, which he\ninnocently came into also: his name was Ismael, which they call Muley,\nor Moely; so I called to him Moely,  said I,  our patron s guns are on\nboard the boat; can you not get a little powder and shot? It may be we\nmay kill some alcamies (a fowl like our curlews) for ourselves, for I\nknow he keeps the gunner s stores in the ship.   Yes,  says he,  I ll\nbring some;  and accordingly he brought a great leather pouch, which\nheld a pound and a half of powder, or rather more; and another with\nshot, that had five or six pounds, with some bullets, and put all into\nthe boat. At the same time I had found some powder of my master s in\nthe great cabin, with which I filled one of the large bottles in the\ncase, which was almost empty, pouring what was in it into another; and\nthus furnished with everything needful, we sailed out of the port to\nfish. The castle, which is at the entrance of the port, knew who we\nwere, and took no notice of us; and we were not above a mile out of the\nport before we hauled in our sail and set us down to fish. The wind\nblew from the N.N.E., which was contrary to my desire, for had it blown\nsoutherly I had been sure to have made the coast of Spain, and at least\nreached to the bay of Cadiz; but my resolutions were, blow which way it\nwould, I would be gone from that horrid place where I was, and leave\nthe rest to fate.\n\nAfter we had fished some time and caught nothing for when I had fish on\nmy hook I would not pull them up, that he might not see them I said to\nthe Moor,  This will not do; our master will not be thus served; we\nmust stand farther off.  He, thinking no harm, agreed, and being in the\nhead of the boat, set the sails; and, as I had the helm, I ran the boat\nout near a league farther, and then brought her to, as if I would fish;\nwhen, giving the boy the helm, I stepped forward to where the Moor was,\nand making as if I stooped for something behind him, I took him by\nsurprise with my arm under his waist, and tossed him clear overboard\ninto the sea. He rose immediately, for he swam like a cork, and called\nto me, begged to be taken in, told me he would go all over the world\nwith me. He swam so strong after the boat that he would have reached me\nvery quickly, there being but little wind; upon which I stepped into\nthe cabin, and fetching one of the fowling-pieces, I presented it at\nhim, and told him I had done him no hurt, and if he would be quiet I\nwould do him none.  But,  said I,  you swim well enough to reach to the\nshore, and the sea is calm; make the best of your way to shore, and I\nwill do you no harm; but if you come near the boat I ll shoot you\nthrough the head, for I am resolved to have my liberty;  so he turned\nhimself about, and swam for the shore, and I make no doubt but he\nreached it with ease, for he was an excellent swimmer.\n\nI could have been content to have taken this Moor with me, and have\ndrowned the boy, but there was no venturing to trust him. When he was\ngone, I turned to the boy, whom they called Xury, and said to him,\n Xury, if you will be faithful to me, I ll make you a great man; but if\nyou will not stroke your face to be true to me that is, swear by\nMahomet and his father s beard I must throw you into the sea too.  The\nboy smiled in my face, and spoke so innocently that I could not\ndistrust him, and swore to be faithful to me, and go all over the world\nwith me.\n\nWhile I was in view of the Moor that was swimming, I stood out directly\nto sea with the boat, rather stretching to windward, that they might\nthink me gone towards the Straits  mouth (as indeed any one that had\nbeen in their wits must have been supposed to do): for who would have\nsupposed we were sailed on to the southward, to the truly Barbarian\ncoast, where whole nations of negroes were sure to surround us with\ntheir canoes and destroy us; where we could not go on shore but we\nshould be devoured by savage beasts, or more merciless savages of human\nkind.\n\nBut as soon as it grew dusk in the evening, I changed my course, and\nsteered directly south and by east, bending my course a little towards\nthe east, that I might keep in with the shore; and having a fair, fresh\ngale of wind, and a smooth, quiet sea, I made such sail that I believe\nby the next day, at three o clock in the afternoon, when I first made\nthe land, I could not be less than one hundred and fifty miles south of\nSallee; quite beyond the Emperor of Morocco s dominions, or indeed of\nany other king thereabouts, for we saw no people.\n\nYet such was the fright I had taken of the Moors, and the dreadful\napprehensions I had of falling into their hands, that I would not stop,\nor go on shore, or come to an anchor; the wind continuing fair till I\nhad sailed in that manner five days; and then the wind shifting to the\nsouthward, I concluded also that if any of our vessels were in chase of\nme, they also would now give over; so I ventured to make to the coast,\nand came to an anchor in the mouth of a little river, I knew not what,\nnor where, neither what latitude, what country, what nation, or what\nriver. I neither saw, nor desired to see any people; the principal\nthing I wanted was fresh water. We came into this creek in the evening,\nresolving to swim on shore as soon as it was dark, and discover the\ncountry; but as soon as it was quite dark, we heard such dreadful\nnoises of the barking, roaring, and howling of wild creatures, of we\nknew not what kinds, that the poor boy was ready to die with fear, and\nbegged of me not to go on shore till day.  Well, Xury,  said I,  then I\nwon t; but it may be that we may see men by day, who will be as bad to\nus as those lions.   Then we give them the shoot gun,  says Xury,\nlaughing,  make them run wey.  Such English Xury spoke by conversing\namong us slaves. However, I was glad to see the boy so cheerful, and I\ngave him a dram (out of our patron s case of bottles) to cheer him up.\nAfter all, Xury s advice was good, and I took it; we dropped our little\nanchor, and lay still all night; I say still, for we slept none; for in\ntwo or three hours we saw vast great creatures (we knew not what to\ncall them) of many sorts, come down to the sea-shore and run into the\nwater, wallowing and washing themselves for the pleasure of cooling\nthemselves; and they made such hideous howlings and yellings, that I\nnever indeed heard the like.\n\nXury was dreadfully frighted, and indeed so was I too; but we were both\nmore frighted when we heard one of these mighty creatures come swimming\ntowards our boat; we could not see him, but we might hear him by his\nblowing to be a monstrous huge and furious beast. Xury said it was a\nlion, and it might be so for aught I know; but poor Xury cried to me to\nweigh the anchor and row away;  No,  says I,  Xury; we can slip our\ncable, with the buoy to it, and go off to sea; they cannot follow us\nfar.  I had no sooner said so, but I perceived the creature (whatever\nit was) within two oars  length, which something surprised me; however,\nI immediately stepped to the cabin door, and taking up my gun, fired at\nhim; upon which he immediately turned about and swam towards the shore\nagain.\n\nBut it is impossible to describe the horrid noises, and hideous cries\nand howlings that were raised, as well upon the edge of the shore as\nhigher within the country, upon the noise or report of the gun, a thing\nI have some reason to believe those creatures had never heard before:\nthis convinced me that there was no going on shore for us in the night\non that coast, and how to venture on shore in the day was another\nquestion too; for to have fallen into the hands of any of the savages\nhad been as bad as to have fallen into the hands of the lions and\ntigers; at least we were equally apprehensive of the danger of it.\n\nBe that as it would, we were obliged to go on shore somewhere or other\nfor water, for we had not a pint left in the boat; when and where to\nget to it was the point. Xury said, if I would let him go on shore with\none of the jars, he would find if there was any water, and bring some\nto me. I asked him why he would go? why I should not go, and he stay in\nthe boat? The boy answered with so much affection as made me love him\never after. Says he,  If wild mans come, they eat me, you go wey. \n Well, Xury,  said I,  we will both go and if the wild mans come, we\nwill kill them, they shall eat neither of us.  So I gave Xury a piece\nof rusk bread to eat, and a dram out of our patron s case of bottles\nwhich I mentioned before; and we hauled the boat in as near the shore\nas we thought was proper, and so waded on shore, carrying nothing but\nour arms and two jars for water.\n\nI did not care to go out of sight of the boat, fearing the coming of\ncanoes with savages down the river; but the boy seeing a low place\nabout a mile up the country, rambled to it, and by-and-by I saw him\ncome running towards me. I thought he was pursued by some savage, or\nfrighted with some wild beast, and I ran forward towards him to help\nhim; but when I came nearer to him I saw something hanging over his\nshoulders, which was a creature that he had shot, like a hare, but\ndifferent in colour, and longer legs; however, we were very glad of it,\nand it was very good meat; but the great joy that poor Xury came with,\nwas to tell me he had found good water and seen no wild mans.\n\nBut we found afterwards that we need not take such pains for water, for\na little higher up the creek where we were we found the water fresh\nwhen the tide was out, which flowed but a little way up; so we filled\nour jars, and feasted on the hare he had killed, and prepared to go on\nour way, having seen no footsteps of any human creature in that part of\nthe country.\n\nAs I had been one voyage to this coast before, I knew very well that\nthe islands of the Canaries, and the Cape de Verde Islands also, lay\nnot far off from the coast. But as I had no instruments to take an\nobservation to know what latitude we were in, and not exactly knowing,\nor at least remembering, what latitude they were in, I knew not where\nto look for them, or when to stand off to sea towards them; otherwise I\nmight now easily have found some of these islands. But my hope was,\nthat if I stood along this coast till I came to that part where the\nEnglish traded, I should find some of their vessels upon their usual\ndesign of trade, that would relieve and take us in.\n\nBy the best of my calculation, that place where I now was must be that\ncountry which, lying between the Emperor of Morocco s dominions and the\nnegroes, lies waste and uninhabited, except by wild beasts; the negroes\nhaving abandoned it and gone farther south for fear of the Moors, and\nthe Moors not thinking it worth inhabiting by reason of its barrenness;\nand indeed, both forsaking it because of the prodigious number of\ntigers, lions, leopards, and other furious creatures which harbour\nthere; so that the Moors use it for their hunting only, where they go\nlike an army, two or three thousand men at a time; and indeed for near\na hundred miles together upon this coast we saw nothing but a waste,\nuninhabited country by day, and heard nothing but howlings and roaring\nof wild beasts by night.\n\nOnce or twice in the daytime I thought I saw the Pico of Teneriffe,\nbeing the high top of the Mountain Teneriffe in the Canaries, and had a\ngreat mind to venture out, in hopes of reaching thither; but having\ntried twice, I was forced in again by contrary winds, the sea also\ngoing too high for my little vessel; so, I resolved to pursue my first\ndesign, and keep along the shore.\n\nSeveral times I was obliged to land for fresh water, after we had left\nthis place; and once in particular, being early in morning, we came to\nan anchor under a little point of land, which was pretty high; and the\ntide beginning to flow, we lay still to go farther in. Xury, whose eyes\nwere more about him than it seems mine were, calls softly to me, and\ntells me that we had best go farther off the shore;  For,  says he,\n look, yonder lies a dreadful monster on the side of that hillock, fast\nasleep.  I looked where he pointed, and saw a dreadful monster indeed,\nfor it was a terrible, great lion that lay on the side of the shore,\nunder the shade of a piece of the hill that hung as it were a little\nover him.  Xury,  says I,  you shall on shore and kill him.  Xury,\nlooked frighted, and said,  Me kill! he eat me at one mouth! one\nmouthful he meant. However, I said no more to the boy, but bade him lie\nstill, and I took our biggest gun, which was almost musket-bore, and\nloaded it with a good charge of powder, and with two slugs, and laid it\ndown; then I loaded another gun with two bullets; and the third (for we\nhad three pieces) I loaded with five smaller bullets. I took the best\naim I could with the first piece to have shot him in the head, but he\nlay so with his leg raised a little above his nose, that the slugs hit\nhis leg about the knee and broke the bone. He started up, growling at\nfirst, but finding his leg broken, fell down again; and then got upon\nthree legs, and gave the most hideous roar that ever I heard. I was a\nlittle surprised that I had not hit him on the head; however, I took up\nthe second piece immediately, and though he began to move off, fired\nagain, and shot him in the head, and had the pleasure to see him drop\nand make but little noise, but lie struggling for life. Then Xury took\nheart, and would have me let him go on shore.  Well, go,  said I: so\nthe boy jumped into the water and taking a little gun in one hand, swam\nto shore with the other hand, and coming close to the creature, put the\nmuzzle of the piece to his ear, and shot him in the head again, which\ndespatched him quite.\n\nThis was game indeed to us, but this was no food; and I was very sorry\nto lose three charges of powder and shot upon a creature that was good\nfor nothing to us. However, Xury said he would have some of him; so he\ncomes on board, and asked me to give him the hatchet.  For what, Xury? \nsaid I.  Me cut off his head,  said he. However, Xury could not cut off\nhis head, but he cut off a foot, and brought it with him, and it was a\nmonstrous great one.\n\nI bethought myself, however, that, perhaps the skin of him might, one\nway or other, be of some value to us; and I resolved to take off his\nskin if I could. So Xury and I went to work with him; but Xury was much\nthe better workman at it, for I knew very ill how to do it. Indeed, it\ntook us both up the whole day, but at last we got off the hide of him,\nand spreading it on the top of our cabin, the sun effectually dried it\nin two days  time, and it afterwards served me to lie upon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. WRECKED ON A DESERT ISLAND\n\n\nAfter this stop, we made on to the southward continually for ten or\ntwelve days, living very sparingly on our provisions, which began to\nabate very much, and going no oftener to the shore than we were obliged\nto for fresh water. My design in this was to make the river Gambia or\nSenegal, that is to say anywhere about the Cape de Verde, where I was\nin hopes to meet with some European ship; and if I did not, I knew not\nwhat course I had to take, but to seek for the islands, or perish there\namong the negroes. I knew that all the ships from Europe, which sailed\neither to the coast of Guinea or to Brazil, or to the East Indies, made\nthis cape, or those islands; and, in a word, I put the whole of my\nfortune upon this single point, either that I must meet with some ship\nor must perish.\n\nWhen I had pursued this resolution about ten days longer, as I have\nsaid, I began to see that the land was inhabited; and in two or three\nplaces, as we sailed by, we saw people stand upon the shore to look at\nus; we could also perceive they were quite black and naked. I was once\ninclined to have gone on shore to them; but Xury was my better\ncounsellor, and said to me,  No go, no go.  However, I hauled in nearer\nthe shore that I might talk to them, and I found they ran along the\nshore by me a good way. I observed they had no weapons in their hand,\nexcept one, who had a long slender stick, which Xury said was a lance,\nand that they could throw them a great way with good aim; so I kept at\na distance, but talked with them by signs as well as I could; and\nparticularly made signs for something to eat: they beckoned to me to\nstop my boat, and they would fetch me some meat. Upon this I lowered\nthe top of my sail and lay by, and two of them ran up into the country,\nand in less than half-an-hour came back, and brought with them two\npieces of dried flesh and some corn, such as is the produce of their\ncountry; but we neither knew what the one or the other was; however, we\nwere willing to accept it, but how to come at it was our next dispute,\nfor I would not venture on shore to them, and they were as much afraid\nof us; but they took a safe way for us all, for they brought it to the\nshore and laid it down, and went and stood a great way off till we\nfetched it on board, and then came close to us again.\n\nWe made signs of thanks to them, for we had nothing to make them\namends; but an opportunity offered that very instant to oblige them\nwonderfully; for while we were lying by the shore came two mighty\ncreatures, one pursuing the other (as we took it) with great fury from\nthe mountains towards the sea; whether it was the male pursuing the\nfemale, or whether they were in sport or in rage, we could not tell,\nany more than we could tell whether it was usual or strange, but I\nbelieve it was the latter; because, in the first place, those ravenous\ncreatures seldom appear but in the night; and, in the second place, we\nfound the people terribly frighted, especially the women. The man that\nhad the lance or dart did not fly from them, but the rest did; however,\nas the two creatures ran directly into the water, they did not offer to\nfall upon any of the negroes, but plunged themselves into the sea, and\nswam about, as if they had come for their diversion; at last one of\nthem began to come nearer our boat than at first I expected; but I lay\nready for him, for I had loaded my gun with all possible expedition,\nand bade Xury load both the others. As soon as he came fairly within my\nreach, I fired, and shot him directly in the head; immediately he sank\ndown into the water, but rose instantly, and plunged up and down, as if\nhe were struggling for life, and so indeed he was; he immediately made\nto the shore; but between the wound, which was his mortal hurt, and the\nstrangling of the water, he died just before he reached the shore.\n\nIt is impossible to express the astonishment of these poor creatures at\nthe noise and fire of my gun: some of them were even ready to die for\nfear, and fell down as dead with the very terror; but when they saw the\ncreature dead, and sunk in the water, and that I made signs to them to\ncome to the shore, they took heart and came, and began to search for\nthe creature. I found him by his blood staining the water; and by the\nhelp of a rope, which I slung round him, and gave the negroes to haul,\nthey dragged him on shore, and found that it was a most curious\nleopard, spotted, and fine to an admirable degree; and the negroes held\nup their hands with admiration, to think what it was I had killed him\nwith.\n\nThe other creature, frighted with the flash of fire and the noise of\nthe gun, swam on shore, and ran up directly to the mountains from\nwhence they came; nor could I, at that distance, know what it was. I\nfound quickly the negroes wished to eat the flesh of this creature, so\nI was willing to have them take it as a favour from me; which, when I\nmade signs to them that they might take him, they were very thankful\nfor. Immediately they fell to work with him; and though they had no\nknife, yet, with a sharpened piece of wood, they took off his skin as\nreadily, and much more readily, than we could have done with a knife.\nThey offered me some of the flesh, which I declined, pointing out that\nI would give it them; but made signs for the skin, which they gave me\nvery freely, and brought me a great deal more of their provisions,\nwhich, though I did not understand, yet I accepted. I then made signs\nto them for some water, and held out one of my jars to them, turning it\nbottom upward, to show that it was empty, and that I wanted to have it\nfilled. They called immediately to some of their friends, and there\ncame two women, and brought a great vessel made of earth, and burnt, as\nI supposed, in the sun, this they set down to me, as before, and I sent\nXury on shore with my jars, and filled them all three. The women were\nas naked as the men.\n\nI was now furnished with roots and corn, such as it was, and water; and\nleaving my friendly negroes, I made forward for about eleven days more,\nwithout offering to go near the shore, till I saw the land run out a\ngreat length into the sea, at about the distance of four or five\nleagues before me; and the sea being very calm, I kept a large offing\nto make this point. At length, doubling the point, at about two leagues\nfrom the land, I saw plainly land on the other side, to seaward; then I\nconcluded, as it was most certain indeed, that this was the Cape de\nVerde, and those the islands called, from thence, Cape de Verde\nIslands. However, they were at a great distance, and I could not well\ntell what I had best to do; for if I should be taken with a fresh of\nwind, I might neither reach one or other.\n\nIn this dilemma, as I was very pensive, I stepped into the cabin and\nsat down, Xury having the helm; when, on a sudden, the boy cried out,\n Master, master, a ship with a sail!  and the foolish boy was frighted\nout of his wits, thinking it must needs be some of his master s ships\nsent to pursue us, but I knew we were far enough out of their reach. I\njumped out of the cabin, and immediately saw, not only the ship, but\nthat it was a Portuguese ship; and, as I thought, was bound to the\ncoast of Guinea, for negroes. But, when I observed the course she\nsteered, I was soon convinced they were bound some other way, and did\nnot design to come any nearer to the shore; upon which I stretched out\nto sea as much as I could, resolving to speak with them if possible.\n\nWith all the sail I could make, I found I should not be able to come in\ntheir way, but that they would be gone by before I could make any\nsignal to them: but after I had crowded to the utmost, and began to\ndespair, they, it seems, saw by the help of their glasses that it was\nsome European boat, which they supposed must belong to some ship that\nwas lost; so they shortened sail to let me come up. I was encouraged\nwith this, and as I had my patron s ancient on board, I made a waft of\nit to them, for a signal of distress, and fired a gun, both which they\nsaw; for they told me they saw the smoke, though they did not hear the\ngun. Upon these signals they very kindly brought to, and lay by for me;\nand in about three hours; time I came up with them.\n\nThey asked me what I was, in Portuguese, and in Spanish, and in French,\nbut I understood none of them; but at last a Scotch sailor, who was on\nboard, called to me: and I answered him, and told him I was an\nEnglishman, that I had made my escape out of slavery from the Moors, at\nSallee; they then bade me come on board, and very kindly took me in,\nand all my goods.\n\nIt was an inexpressible joy to me, which any one will believe, that I\nwas thus delivered, as I esteemed it, from such a miserable and almost\nhopeless condition as I was in; and I immediately offered all I had to\nthe captain of the ship, as a return for my deliverance; but he\ngenerously told me he would take nothing from me, but that all I had\nshould be delivered safe to me when I came to the Brazils.  For,  says\nhe,  I have saved your life on no other terms than I would be glad to\nbe saved myself: and it may, one time or other, be my lot to be taken\nup in the same condition. Besides,  said he,  when I carry you to the\nBrazils, so great a way from your own country, if I should take from\nyou what you have, you will be starved there, and then I only take away\nthat life I have given. No, no,  says he:  Seignior Inglese  (Mr.\nEnglishman),  I will carry you thither in charity, and those things\nwill help to buy your subsistence there, and your passage home again. \n\nAs he was charitable in this proposal, so he was just in the\nperformance to a tittle; for he ordered the seamen that none should\ntouch anything that I had: then he took everything into his own\npossession, and gave me back an exact inventory of them, that I might\nhave them, even to my three earthen jars.\n\nAs to my boat, it was a very good one; and that he saw, and told me he\nwould buy it of me for his ship s use; and asked me what I would have\nfor it? I told him he had been so generous to me in everything that I\ncould not offer to make any price of the boat, but left it entirely to\nhim: upon which he told me he would give me a note of hand to pay me\neighty pieces of eight for it at Brazil; and when it came there, if any\none offered to give more, he would make it up. He offered me also sixty\npieces of eight more for my boy Xury, which I was loth to take; not\nthat I was unwilling to let the captain have him, but I was very loth\nto sell the poor boy s liberty, who had assisted me so faithfully in\nprocuring my own. However, when I let him know my reason, he owned it\nto be just, and offered me this medium, that he would give the boy an\nobligation to set him free in ten years, if he turned Christian: upon\nthis, and Xury saying he was willing to go to him, I let the captain\nhave him.\n\nWe had a very good voyage to the Brazils, and I arrived in the Bay de\nTodos los Santos, or All Saints  Bay, in about twenty-two days after.\nAnd now I was once more delivered from the most miserable of all\nconditions of life; and what to do next with myself I was to consider.\n\nThe generous treatment the captain gave me I can never enough remember:\nhe would take nothing of me for my passage, gave me twenty ducats for\nthe leopard s skin, and forty for the lion s skin, which I had in my\nboat, and caused everything I had in the ship to be punctually\ndelivered to me; and what I was willing to sell he bought of me, such\nas the case of bottles, two of my guns, and a piece of the lump of\nbeeswax for I had made candles of the rest: in a word, I made about two\nhundred and twenty pieces of eight of all my cargo; and with this stock\nI went on shore in the Brazils.\n\nI had not been long here before I was recommended to the house of a\ngood honest man like himself, who had an _ingenio_, as they call it\n(that is, a plantation and a sugar-house). I lived with him some time,\nand acquainted myself by that means with the manner of planting and\nmaking of sugar; and seeing how well the planters lived, and how they\ngot rich suddenly, I resolved, if I could get a licence to settle\nthere, I would turn planter among them: resolving in the meantime to\nfind out some way to get my money, which I had left in London, remitted\nto me. To this purpose, getting a kind of letter of naturalisation, I\npurchased as much land that was uncured as my money would reach, and\nformed a plan for my plantation and settlement; such a one as might be\nsuitable to the stock which I proposed to myself to receive from\nEngland.\n\nI had a neighbour, a Portuguese, of Lisbon, but born of English\nparents, whose name was Wells, and in much such circumstances as I was.\nI call him my neighbour, because his plantation lay next to mine, and\nwe went on very sociably together. My stock was but low, as well as\nhis; and we rather planted for food than anything else, for about two\nyears. However, we began to increase, and our land began to come into\norder; so that the third year we planted some tobacco, and made each of\nus a large piece of ground ready for planting canes in the year to\ncome. But we both wanted help; and now I found, more than before, I had\ndone wrong in parting with my boy Xury.\n\nBut, alas! for me to do wrong that never did right, was no great\nwonder. I had no remedy but to go on: I had got into an employment\nquite remote to my genius, and directly contrary to the life I\ndelighted in, and for which I forsook my father s house, and broke\nthrough all his good advice. Nay, I was coming into the very middle\nstation, or upper degree of low life, which my father advised me to\nbefore, and which, if I resolved to go on with, I might as well have\nstayed at home, and never have fatigued myself in the world as I had\ndone; and I used often to say to myself, I could have done this as well\nin England, among my friends, as have gone five thousand miles off to\ndo it among strangers and savages, in a wilderness, and at such a\ndistance as never to hear from any part of the world that had the least\nknowledge of me.\n\nIn this manner I used to look upon my condition with the utmost regret.\nI had nobody to converse with, but now and then this neighbour; no work\nto be done, but by the labour of my hands; and I used to say, I lived\njust like a man cast away upon some desolate island, that had nobody\nthere but himself. But how just has it been and how should all men\nreflect, that when they compare their present conditions with others\nthat are worse, Heaven may oblige them to make the exchange, and be\nconvinced of their former felicity by their experience I say, how just\nhas it been, that the truly solitary life I reflected on, in an island\nof mere desolation, should be my lot, who had so often unjustly\ncompared it with the life which I then led, in which, had I continued,\nI had in all probability been exceeding prosperous and rich.\n\nI was in some degree settled in my measures for carrying on the\nplantation before my kind friend, the captain of the ship that took me\nup at sea, went back for the ship remained there, in providing his\nlading and preparing for his voyage, nearly three months when telling\nhim what little stock I had left behind me in London, he gave me this\nfriendly and sincere advice: Seignior Inglese,  says he (for so he\nalways called me),  if you will give me letters, and a procuration in\nform to me, with orders to the person who has your money in London to\nsend your effects to Lisbon, to such persons as I shall direct, and in\nsuch goods as are proper for this country, I will bring you the produce\nof them, God willing, at my return; but, since human affairs are all\nsubject to changes and disasters, I would have you give orders but for\none hundred pounds sterling, which, you say, is half your stock, and\nlet the hazard be run for the first; so that, if it come safe, you may\norder the rest the same way, and, if it miscarry, you may have the\nother half to have recourse to for your supply. \n\nThis was so wholesome advice, and looked so friendly, that I could not\nbut be convinced it was the best course I could take; so I accordingly\nprepared letters to the gentlewoman with whom I had left my money, and\na procuration to the Portuguese captain, as he desired.\n\nI wrote the English captain s widow a full account of all my\nadventures my slavery, escape, and how I had met with the Portuguese\ncaptain at sea, the humanity of his behaviour, and what condition I was\nnow in, with all other necessary directions for my supply; and when\nthis honest captain came to Lisbon, he found means, by some of the\nEnglish merchants there, to send over, not the order only, but a full\naccount of my story to a merchant in London, who represented it\neffectually to her; whereupon she not only delivered the money, but out\nof her own pocket sent the Portugal captain a very handsome present for\nhis humanity and charity to me.\n\nThe merchant in London, vesting this hundred pounds in English goods,\nsuch as the captain had written for, sent them directly to him at\nLisbon, and he brought them all safe to me to the Brazils; among which,\nwithout my direction (for I was too young in my business to think of\nthem), he had taken care to have all sorts of tools, ironwork, and\nutensils necessary for my plantation, and which were of great use to\nme.\n\nWhen this cargo arrived I thought my fortune made, for I was surprised\nwith the joy of it; and my stood steward, the captain, had laid out the\nfive pounds, which my friend had sent him for a present for himself, to\npurchase and bring me over a servant, under bond for six years \nservice, and would not accept of any consideration, except a little\ntobacco, which I would have him accept, being of my own produce.\n\nNeither was this all; for my goods being all English manufacture, such\nas cloths, stuffs, baize, and things particularly valuable and\ndesirable in the country, I found means to sell them to a very great\nadvantage; so that I might say I had more than four times the value of\nmy first cargo, and was now infinitely beyond my poor neighbour I mean\nin the advancement of my plantation; for the first thing I did, I\nbought me a negro slave, and an European servant also I mean another\nbesides that which the captain brought me from Lisbon.\n\nBut as abused prosperity is oftentimes made the very means of our\ngreatest adversity, so it was with me. I went on the next year with\ngreat success in my plantation: I raised fifty great rolls of tobacco\non my own ground, more than I had disposed of for necessaries among my\nneighbours; and these fifty rolls, being each of above a hundredweight,\nwere well cured, and laid by against the return of the fleet from\nLisbon: and now increasing in business and wealth, my head began to be\nfull of projects and undertakings beyond my reach; such as are, indeed,\noften the ruin of the best heads in business. Had I continued in the\nstation I was now in, I had room for all the happy things to have yet\nbefallen me for which my father so earnestly recommended a quiet,\nretired life, and of which he had so sensibly described the middle\nstation of life to be full of; but other things attended me, and I was\nstill to be the wilful agent of all my own miseries; and particularly,\nto increase my fault, and double the reflections upon myself, which in\nmy future sorrows I should have leisure to make, all these miscarriages\nwere procured by my apparent obstinate adhering to my foolish\ninclination of wandering abroad, and pursuing that inclination, in\ncontradiction to the clearest views of doing myself good in a fair and\nplain pursuit of those prospects, and those measures of life, which\nnature and Providence concurred to present me with, and to make my\nduty.\n\nAs I had once done thus in my breaking away from my parents, so I could\nnot be content now, but I must go and leave the happy view I had of\nbeing a rich and thriving man in my new plantation, only to pursue a\nrash and immoderate desire of rising faster than the nature of the\nthing admitted; and thus I cast myself down again into the deepest gulf\nof human misery that ever man fell into, or perhaps could be consistent\nwith life and a state of health in the world.\n\nTo come, then, by the just degrees to the particulars of this part of\nmy story. You may suppose, that having now lived almost four years in\nthe Brazils, and beginning to thrive and prosper very well upon my\nplantation, I had not only learned the language, but had contracted\nacquaintance and friendship among my fellow-planters, as well as among\nthe merchants at St. Salvador, which was our port; and that, in my\ndiscourses among them, I had frequently given them an account of my two\nvoyages to the coast of Guinea: the manner of trading with the negroes\nthere, and how easy it was to purchase upon the coast for trifles such\nas beads, toys, knives, scissors, hatchets, bits of glass, and the\nlike not only gold-dust, Guinea grains, elephants  teeth, &c., but\nnegroes, for the service of the Brazils, in great numbers.\n\nThey listened always very attentively to my discourses on these heads,\nbut especially to that part which related to the buying of negroes,\nwhich was a trade at that time, not only not far entered into, but, as\nfar as it was, had been carried on by assientos, or permission of the\nkings of Spain and Portugal, and engrossed in the public stock: so that\nfew negroes were bought, and these excessively dear.\n\nIt happened, being in company with some merchants and planters of my\nacquaintance, and talking of those things very earnestly, three of them\ncame to me next morning, and told me they had been musing very much\nupon what I had discoursed with them of the last night, and they came\nto make a secret proposal to me; and, after enjoining me to secrecy,\nthey told me that they had a mind to fit out a ship to go to Guinea;\nthat they had all plantations as well as I, and were straitened for\nnothing so much as servants; that as it was a trade that could not be\ncarried on, because they could not publicly sell the negroes when they\ncame home, so they desired to make but one voyage, to bring the negroes\non shore privately, and divide them among their own plantations; and,\nin a word, the question was whether I would go their supercargo in the\nship, to manage the trading part upon the coast of Guinea; and they\noffered me that I should have my equal share of the negroes, without\nproviding any part of the stock.\n\nThis was a fair proposal, it must be confessed, had it been made to any\none that had not had a settlement and a plantation of his own to look\nafter, which was in a fair way of coming to be very considerable, and\nwith a good stock upon it; but for me, that was thus entered and\nestablished, and had nothing to do but to go on as I had begun, for\nthree or four years more, and to have sent for the other hundred pounds\nfrom England; and who in that time, and with that little addition,\ncould scarce have failed of being worth three or four thousand pounds\nsterling, and that increasing too for me to think of such a voyage was\nthe most preposterous thing that ever man in such circumstances could\nbe guilty of.\n\nBut I, that was born to be my own destroyer, could no more resist the\noffer than I could restrain my first rambling designs when my father s\ngood counsel was lost upon me. In a word, I told them I would go with\nall my heart, if they would undertake to look after my plantation in my\nabsence, and would dispose of it to such as I should direct, if I\nmiscarried. This they all engaged to do, and entered into writings or\ncovenants to do so; and I made a formal will, disposing of my\nplantation and effects in case of my death, making the captain of the\nship that had saved my life, as before, my universal heir, but obliging\nhim to dispose of my effects as I had directed in my will; one half of\nthe produce being to himself, and the other to be shipped to England.\n\nIn short, I took all possible caution to preserve my effects and to\nkeep up my plantation. Had I used half as much prudence to have looked\ninto my own interest, and have made a judgment of what I ought to have\ndone and not to have done, I had certainly never gone away from so\nprosperous an undertaking, leaving all the probable views of a thriving\ncircumstance, and gone upon a voyage to sea, attended with all its\ncommon hazards, to say nothing of the reasons I had to expect\nparticular misfortunes to myself.\n\nBut I was hurried on, and obeyed blindly the dictates of my fancy\nrather than my reason; and, accordingly, the ship being fitted out, and\nthe cargo furnished, and all things done, as by agreement, by my\npartners in the voyage, I went on board in an evil hour, the 1st\nSeptember 1659, being the same day eight years that I went from my\nfather and mother at Hull, in order to act the rebel to their\nauthority, and the fool to my own interests.\n\nOur ship was about one hundred and twenty tons burden, carried six guns\nand fourteen men, besides the master, his boy, and myself. We had on\nboard no large cargo of goods, except of such toys as were fit for our\ntrade with the negroes, such as beads, bits of glass, shells, and other\ntrifles, especially little looking-glasses, knives, scissors, hatchets,\nand the like.\n\nThe same day I went on board we set sail, standing away to the\nnorthward upon our own coast, with design to stretch over for the\nAfrican coast when we came about ten or twelve degrees of northern\nlatitude, which, it seems, was the manner of course in those days. We\nhad very good weather, only excessively hot, all the way upon our own\ncoast, till we came to the height of Cape St. Augustino; from whence,\nkeeping further off at sea, we lost sight of land, and steered as if we\nwere bound for the isle Fernando de Noronha, holding our course N.E. by\nN., and leaving those isles on the east. In this course we passed the\nline in about twelve days  time, and were, by our last observation, in\nseven degrees twenty-two minutes northern latitude, when a violent\ntornado, or hurricane, took us quite out of our knowledge. It began\nfrom the south-east, came about to the north-west, and then settled in\nthe north-east; from whence it blew in such a terrible manner, that for\ntwelve days together we could do nothing but drive, and, scudding away\nbefore it, let it carry us whither fate and the fury of the winds\ndirected; and, during these twelve days, I need not say that I expected\nevery day to be swallowed up; nor, indeed, did any in the ship expect\nto save their lives.\n\nIn this distress we had, besides the terror of the storm, one of our\nmen die of the calenture, and one man and the boy washed overboard.\nAbout the twelfth day, the weather abating a little, the master made an\nobservation as well as he could, and found that he was in about eleven\ndegrees north latitude, but that he was twenty-two degrees of longitude\ndifference west from Cape St. Augustino; so that he found he was upon\nthe coast of Guiana, or the north part of Brazil, beyond the river\nAmazon, toward that of the river Orinoco, commonly called the Great\nRiver; and began to consult with me what course he should take, for the\nship was leaky, and very much disabled, and he was going directly back\nto the coast of Brazil.\n\nI was positively against that; and looking over the charts of the\nsea-coast of America with him, we concluded there was no inhabited\ncountry for us to have recourse to till we came within the circle of\nthe Caribbee Islands, and therefore resolved to stand away for\nBarbadoes; which, by keeping off at sea, to avoid the indraft of the\nBay or Gulf of Mexico, we might easily perform, as we hoped, in about\nfifteen days  sail; whereas we could not possibly make our voyage to\nthe coast of Africa without some assistance both to our ship and to\nourselves.\n\nWith this design we changed our course, and steered away N.W. by W., in\norder to reach some of our English islands, where I hoped for relief.\nBut our voyage was otherwise determined; for, being in the latitude of\ntwelve degrees eighteen minutes, a second storm came upon us, which\ncarried us away with the same impetuosity westward, and drove us so out\nof the way of all human commerce, that, had all our lives been saved as\nto the sea, we were rather in danger of being devoured by savages than\never returning to our own country.\n\nIn this distress, the wind still blowing very hard, one of our men\nearly in the morning cried out,  Land!  and we had no sooner run out of\nthe cabin to look out, in hopes of seeing whereabouts in the world we\nwere, than the ship struck upon a sand, and in a moment her motion\nbeing so stopped, the sea broke over her in such a manner that we\nexpected we should all have perished immediately; and we were\nimmediately driven into our close quarters, to shelter us from the very\nfoam and spray of the sea.\n\nIt is not easy for any one who has not been in the like condition to\ndescribe or conceive the consternation of men in such circumstances. We\nknew nothing where we were, or upon what land it was we were\ndriven whether an island or the main, whether inhabited or not\ninhabited. As the rage of the wind was still great, though rather less\nthan at first, we could not so much as hope to have the ship hold many\nminutes without breaking into pieces, unless the winds, by a kind of\nmiracle, should turn immediately about. In a word, we sat looking upon\none another, and expecting death every moment, and every man,\naccordingly, preparing for another world; for there was little or\nnothing more for us to do in this. That which was our present comfort,\nand all the comfort we had, was that, contrary to our expectation, the\nship did not break yet, and that the master said the wind began to\nabate.\n\nNow, though we thought that the wind did a little abate, yet the ship\nhaving thus struck upon the sand, and sticking too fast for us to\nexpect her getting off, we were in a dreadful condition indeed, and had\nnothing to do but to think of saving our lives as well as we could. We\nhad a boat at our stern just before the storm, but she was first staved\nby dashing against the ship s rudder, and in the next place she broke\naway, and either sunk or was driven off to sea; so there was no hope\nfrom her. We had another boat on board, but how to get her off into the\nsea was a doubtful thing. However, there was no time to debate, for we\nfancied that the ship would break in pieces every minute, and some told\nus she was actually broken already.\n\nIn this distress the mate of our vessel laid hold of the boat, and with\nthe help of the rest of the men got her slung over the ship s side; and\ngetting all into her, let go, and committed ourselves, being eleven in\nnumber, to God s mercy and the wild sea; for though the storm was\nabated considerably, yet the sea ran dreadfully high upon the shore,\nand might be well called _den wild zee_, as the Dutch call the sea in a\nstorm.\n\nAnd now our case was very dismal indeed; for we all saw plainly that\nthe sea went so high that the boat could not live, and that we should\nbe inevitably drowned. As to making sail, we had none, nor if we had\ncould we have done anything with it; so we worked at the oar towards\nthe land, though with heavy hearts, like men going to execution; for we\nall knew that when the boat came near the shore she would be dashed in\na thousand pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we committed our\nsouls to God in the most earnest manner; and the wind driving us\ntowards the shore, we hastened our destruction with our own hands,\npulling as well as we could towards land.\n\nWhat the shore was, whether rock or sand, whether steep or shoal, we\nknew not. The only hope that could rationally give us the least shadow\nof expectation was, if we might find some bay or gulf, or the mouth of\nsome river, where by great chance we might have run our boat in, or got\nunder the lee of the land, and perhaps made smooth water. But there was\nnothing like this appeared; but as we made nearer and nearer the shore,\nthe land looked more frightful than the sea.\n\nAfter we had rowed, or rather driven about a league and a half, as we\nreckoned it, a raging wave, mountain-like, came rolling astern of us,\nand plainly bade us expect the _coup de gr ce_. It took us with such a\nfury, that it overset the boat at once; and separating us as well from\nthe boat as from one another, gave us no time to say,  O God!  for we\nwere all swallowed up in a moment.\n\nNothing can describe the confusion of thought which I felt when I sank\ninto the water; for though I swam very well, yet I could not deliver\nmyself from the waves so as to draw breath, till that wave having\ndriven me, or rather carried me, a vast way on towards the shore, and\nhaving spent itself, went back, and left me upon the land almost dry,\nbut half dead with the water I took in. I had so much presence of mind,\nas well as breath left, that seeing myself nearer the mainland than I\nexpected, I got upon my feet, and endeavoured to make on towards the\nland as fast as I could before another wave should return and take me\nup again; but I soon found it was impossible to avoid it; for I saw the\nsea come after me as high as a great hill, and as furious as an enemy,\nwhich I had no means or strength to contend with: my business was to\nhold my breath, and raise myself upon the water if I could; and so, by\nswimming, to preserve my breathing, and pilot myself towards the shore,\nif possible, my greatest concern now being that the sea, as it would\ncarry me a great way towards the shore when it came on, might not carry\nme back again with it when it gave back towards the sea.\n\nThe wave that came upon me again buried me at once twenty or thirty\nfeet deep in its own body, and I could feel myself carried with a\nmighty force and swiftness towards the shore a very great way; but I\nheld my breath, and assisted myself to swim still forward with all my\nmight. I was ready to burst with holding my breath, when, as I felt\nmyself rising up, so, to my immediate relief, I found my head and hands\nshoot out above the surface of the water; and though it was not two\nseconds of time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved me\ngreatly, gave me breath, and new courage. I was covered again with\nwater a good while, but not so long but I held it out; and finding the\nwater had spent itself, and began to return, I struck forward against\nthe return of the waves, and felt ground again with my feet. I stood\nstill a few moments to recover breath, and till the waters went from\nme, and then took to my heels and ran with what strength I had further\ntowards the shore. But neither would this deliver me from the fury of\nthe sea, which came pouring in after me again; and twice more I was\nlifted up by the waves and carried forward as before, the shore being\nvery flat.\n\nThe last time of these two had well-nigh been fatal to me, for the sea\nhaving hurried me along as before, landed me, or rather dashed me,\nagainst a piece of rock, and that with such force, that it left me\nsenseless, and indeed helpless, as to my own deliverance; for the blow\ntaking my side and breast, beat the breath as it were quite out of my\nbody; and had it returned again immediately, I must have been strangled\nin the water; but I recovered a little before the return of the waves,\nand seeing I should be covered again with the water, I resolved to hold\nfast by a piece of the rock, and so to hold my breath, if possible,\ntill the wave went back. Now, as the waves were not so high as at\nfirst, being nearer land, I held my hold till the wave abated, and then\nfetched another run, which brought me so near the shore that the next\nwave, though it went over me, yet did not so swallow me up as to carry\nme away; and the next run I took, I got to the mainland, where, to my\ngreat comfort, I clambered up the cliffs of the shore and sat me down\nupon the grass, free from danger and quite out of the reach of the\nwater.\n\nI was now landed and safe on shore, and began to look up and thank God\nthat my life was saved, in a case wherein there was some minutes before\nscarce any room to hope. I believe it is impossible to express, to the\nlife, what the ecstasies and transports of the soul are, when it is so\nsaved, as I may say, out of the very grave: and I do not wonder now at\nthe custom, when a malefactor, who has the halter about his neck, is\ntied up, and just going to be turned off, and has a reprieve brought to\nhim I say, I do not wonder that they bring a surgeon with it, to let\nhim blood that very moment they tell him of it, that the surprise may\nnot drive the animal spirits from the heart and overwhelm him.\n\n For sudden joys, like griefs, confound at first. \n\n\nI walked about on the shore lifting up my hands, and my whole being, as\nI may say, wrapped up in a contemplation of my deliverance; making a\nthousand gestures and motions, which I cannot describe; reflecting upon\nall my comrades that were drowned, and that there should not be one\nsoul saved but myself; for, as for them, I never saw them afterwards,\nor any sign of them, except three of their hats, one cap, and two shoes\nthat were not fellows.\n\nI cast my eye to the stranded vessel, when, the breach and froth of the\nsea being so big, I could hardly see it, it lay so far of; and\nconsidered, Lord! how was it possible I could get on shore?\n\nAfter I had solaced my mind with the comfortable part of my condition,\nI began to look round me, to see what kind of place I was in, and what\nwas next to be done; and I soon found my comforts abate, and that, in a\nword, I had a dreadful deliverance; for I was wet, had no clothes to\nshift me, nor anything either to eat or drink to comfort me; neither\ndid I see any prospect before me but that of perishing with hunger or\nbeing devoured by wild beasts; and that which was particularly\nafflicting to me was, that I had no weapon, either to hunt and kill any\ncreature for my sustenance, or to defend myself against any other\ncreature that might desire to kill me for theirs. In a word, I had\nnothing about me but a knife, a tobacco-pipe, and a little tobacco in a\nbox. This was all my provisions; and this threw me into such terrible\nagonies of mind, that for a while I ran about like a madman. Night\ncoming upon me, I began with a heavy heart to consider what would be my\nlot if there were any ravenous beasts in that country, as at night they\nalways come abroad for their prey.\n\nAll the remedy that offered to my thoughts at that time was to get up\ninto a thick bushy tree like a fir, but thorny, which grew near me, and\nwhere I resolved to sit all night, and consider the next day what death\nI should die, for as yet I saw no prospect of life. I walked about a\nfurlong from the shore, to see if I could find any fresh water to\ndrink, which I did, to my great joy; and having drank, and put a little\ntobacco into my mouth to prevent hunger, I went to the tree, and\ngetting up into it, endeavoured to place myself so that if I should\nsleep I might not fall. And having cut me a short stick, like a\ntruncheon, for my defence, I took up my lodging; and having been\nexcessively fatigued, I fell fast asleep, and slept as comfortably as,\nI believe, few could have done in my condition, and found myself more\nrefreshed with it than, I think, I ever was on such an occasion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. FIRST WEEKS ON THE ISLAND\n\n\nWhen I waked it was broad day, the weather clear, and the storm abated,\nso that the sea did not rage and swell as before. But that which\nsurprised me most was, that the ship was lifted off in the night from\nthe sand where she lay by the swelling of the tide, and was driven up\nalmost as far as the rock which I at first mentioned, where I had been\nso bruised by the wave dashing me against it. This being within about a\nmile from the shore where I was, and the ship seeming to stand upright\nstill, I wished myself on board, that at least I might save some\nnecessary things for my use.\n\nWhen I came down from my apartment in the tree, I looked about me\nagain, and the first thing I found was the boat, which lay, as the wind\nand the sea had tossed her up, upon the land, about two miles on my\nright hand. I walked as far as I could upon the shore to have got to\nher; but found a neck or inlet of water between me and the boat which\nwas about half a mile broad; so I came back for the present, being more\nintent upon getting at the ship, where I hoped to find something for my\npresent subsistence.\n\nA little after noon I found the sea very calm, and the tide ebbed so\nfar out that I could come within a quarter of a mile of the ship. And\nhere I found a fresh renewing of my grief; for I saw evidently that if\nwe had kept on board we had been all safe that is to say, we had all\ngot safe on shore, and I had not been so miserable as to be left\nentirely destitute of all comfort and company as I now was. This forced\ntears to my eyes again; but as there was little relief in that, I\nresolved, if possible, to get to the ship; so I pulled off my\nclothes for the weather was hot to extremity and took the water. But\nwhen I came to the ship my difficulty was still greater to know how to\nget on board; for, as she lay aground, and high out of the water, there\nwas nothing within my reach to lay hold of. I swam round her twice, and\nthe second time I spied a small piece of rope, which I wondered I did\nnot see at first, hung down by the fore-chains so low, as that with\ngreat difficulty I got hold of it, and by the help of that rope I got\nup into the forecastle of the ship. Here I found that the ship was\nbulged, and had a great deal of water in her hold, but that she lay so\non the side of a bank of hard sand, or, rather earth, that her stern\nlay lifted up upon the bank, and her head low, almost to the water. By\nthis means all her quarter was free, and all that was in that part was\ndry; for you may be sure my first work was to search, and to see what\nwas spoiled and what was free. And, first, I found that all the ship s\nprovisions were dry and untouched by the water, and being very well\ndisposed to eat, I went to the bread room and filled my pockets with\nbiscuit, and ate it as I went about other things, for I had no time to\nlose. I also found some rum in the great cabin, of which I took a large\ndram, and which I had, indeed, need enough of to spirit me for what was\nbefore me. Now I wanted nothing but a boat to furnish myself with many\nthings which I foresaw would be very necessary to me.\n\nIt was in vain to sit still and wish for what was not to be had; and\nthis extremity roused my application. We had several spare yards, and\ntwo or three large spars of wood, and a spare topmast or two in the\nship; I resolved to fall to work with these, and I flung as many of\nthem overboard as I could manage for their weight, tying every one with\na rope, that they might not drive away. When this was done I went down\nthe ship s side, and pulling them to me, I tied four of them together\nat both ends as well as I could, in the form of a raft, and laying two\nor three short pieces of plank upon them crossways, I found I could\nwalk upon it very well, but that it was not able to bear any great\nweight, the pieces being too light. So I went to work, and with a\ncarpenter s saw I cut a spare topmast into three lengths, and added\nthem to my raft, with a great deal of labour and pains. But the hope of\nfurnishing myself with necessaries encouraged me to go beyond what I\nshould have been able to have done upon another occasion.\n\nMy raft was now strong enough to bear any reasonable weight. My next\ncare was what to load it with, and how to preserve what I laid upon it\nfrom the surf of the sea; but I was not long considering this. I first\nlaid all the planks or boards upon it that I could get, and having\nconsidered well what I most wanted, I got three of the seamen s chests,\nwhich I had broken open, and emptied, and lowered them down upon my\nraft; the first of these I filled with provisions viz. bread, rice,\nthree Dutch cheeses, five pieces of dried goat s flesh (which we lived\nmuch upon), and a little remainder of European corn, which had been\nlaid by for some fowls which we brought to sea with us, but the fowls\nwere killed. There had been some barley and wheat together; but, to my\ngreat disappointment, I found afterwards that the rats had eaten or\nspoiled it all. As for liquors, I found several, cases of bottles\nbelonging to our skipper, in which were some cordial waters; and, in\nall, about five or six gallons of rack. These I stowed by themselves,\nthere being no need to put them into the chest, nor any room for them.\nWhile I was doing this, I found the tide begin to flow, though very\ncalm; and I had the mortification to see my coat, shirt, and waistcoat,\nwhich I had left on the shore, upon the sand, swim away. As for my\nbreeches, which were only linen, and open-kneed, I swam on board in\nthem and my stockings. However, this set me on rummaging for clothes,\nof which I found enough, but took no more than I wanted for present\nuse, for I had others things which my eye was more upon as, first,\ntools to work with on shore. And it was after long searching that I\nfound out the carpenter s chest, which was, indeed, a very useful prize\nto me, and much more valuable than a shipload of gold would have been\nat that time. I got it down to my raft, whole as it was, without losing\ntime to look into it, for I knew in general what it contained.\n\nMy next care was for some ammunition and arms. There were two very good\nfowling-pieces in the great cabin, and two pistols. These I secured\nfirst, with some powder-horns and a small bag of shot, and two old\nrusty swords. I knew there were three barrels of powder in the ship,\nbut knew not where our gunner had stowed them; but with much search I\nfound them, two of them dry and good, the third had taken water. Those\ntwo I got to my raft with the arms. And now I thought myself pretty\nwell freighted, and began to think how I should get to shore with them,\nhaving neither sail, oar, nor rudder; and the least capful of wind\nwould have overset all my navigation.\n\nI had three encouragements 1st, a smooth, calm sea; 2ndly, the tide\nrising, and setting in to the shore; 3rdly, what little wind there was\nblew me towards the land. And thus, having found two or three broken\noars belonging to the boat and, besides the tools which were in the\nchest, I found two saws, an axe, and a hammer; with this cargo I put to\nsea. For a mile or thereabouts my raft went very well, only that I\nfound it drive a little distant from the place where I had landed\nbefore; by which I perceived that there was some indraft of the water,\nand consequently I hoped to find some creek or river there, which I\nmight make use of as a port to get to land with my cargo.\n\nAs I imagined, so it was. There appeared before me a little opening of\nthe land, and I found a strong current of the tide set into it; so I\nguided my raft as well as I could, to keep in the middle of the stream.\n\nBut here I had like to have suffered a second shipwreck, which, if I\nhad, I think verily would have broken my heart; for, knowing nothing of\nthe coast, my raft ran aground at one end of it upon a shoal, and not\nbeing aground at the other end, it wanted but a little that all my\ncargo had slipped off towards the end that was afloat, and to fallen\ninto the water. I did my utmost, by setting my back against the chests,\nto keep them in their places, but could not thrust off the raft with\nall my strength; neither durst I stir from the posture I was in; but\nholding up the chests with all my might, I stood in that manner near\nhalf-an-hour, in which time the rising of the water brought me a little\nmore upon a level; and a little after, the water still-rising, my raft\nfloated again, and I thrust her off with the oar I had into the\nchannel, and then driving up higher, I at length found myself in the\nmouth of a little river, with land on both sides, and a strong current\nof tide running up. I looked on both sides for a proper place to get to\nshore, for I was not willing to be driven too high up the river: hoping\nin time to see some ships at sea, and therefore resolved to place\nmyself as near the coast as I could.\n\nAt length I spied a little cove on the right shore of the creek, to\nwhich with great pain and difficulty I guided my raft, and at last got\nso near that, reaching ground with my oar, I could thrust her directly\nin. But here I had like to have dipped all my cargo into the sea again;\nfor that shore lying pretty steep that is to say sloping there was no\nplace to land, but where one end of my float, if it ran on shore, would\nlie so high, and the other sink lower, as before, that it would\nendanger my cargo again. All that I could do was to wait till the tide\nwas at the highest, keeping the raft with my oar like an anchor, to\nhold the side of it fast to the shore, near a flat piece of ground,\nwhich I expected the water would flow over; and so it did. As soon as I\nfound water enough for my raft drew about a foot of water I thrust her\nupon that flat piece of ground, and there fastened or moored her, by\nsticking my two broken oars into the ground, one on one side near one\nend, and one on the other side near the other end; and thus I lay till\nthe water ebbed away, and left my raft and all my cargo safe on shore.\n\nMy next work was to view the country, and seek a proper place for my\nhabitation, and where to stow my goods to secure them from whatever\nmight happen. Where I was, I yet knew not; whether on the continent or\non an island; whether inhabited or not inhabited; whether in danger of\nwild beasts or not. There was a hill not above a mile from me, which\nrose up very steep and high, and which seemed to overtop some other\nhills, which lay as in a ridge from it northward. I took out one of the\nfowling-pieces, and one of the pistols, and a horn of powder; and thus\narmed, I travelled for discovery up to the top of that hill, where,\nafter I had with great labour and difficulty got to the top, I saw my\nfate, to my great affliction viz. that I was in an island environed\nevery way with the sea: no land to be seen except some rocks, which lay\na great way off; and two small islands, less than this, which lay about\nthree leagues to the west.\n\nI found also that the island I was in was barren, and, as I saw good\nreason to believe, uninhabited except by wild beasts, of whom, however,\nI saw none. Yet I saw abundance of fowls, but knew not their kinds;\nneither when I killed them could I tell what was fit for food, and what\nnot. At my coming back, I shot at a great bird which I saw sitting upon\na tree on the side of a great wood. I believe it was the first gun that\nhad been fired there since the creation of the world. I had no sooner\nfired, than from all parts of the wood there arose an innumerable\nnumber of fowls, of many sorts, making a confused screaming and crying,\nand every one according to his usual note, but not one of them of any\nkind that I knew. As for the creature I killed, I took it to be a kind\nof hawk, its colour and beak resembling it, but it had no talons or\nclaws more than common. Its flesh was carrion, and fit for nothing.\n\nContented with this discovery, I came back to my raft, and fell to work\nto bring my cargo on shore, which took me up the rest of that day. What\nto do with myself at night I knew not, nor indeed where to rest, for I\nwas afraid to lie down on the ground, not knowing but some wild beast\nmight devour me, though, as I afterwards found, there was really no\nneed for those fears.\n\nHowever, as well as I could, I barricaded myself round with the chest\nand boards that I had brought on shore, and made a kind of hut for that\nnight s lodging. As for food, I yet saw not which way to supply myself,\nexcept that I had seen two or three creatures like hares run out of the\nwood where I shot the fowl.\n\nI now began to consider that I might yet get a great many things out of\nthe ship which would be useful to me, and particularly some of the\nrigging and sails, and such other things as might come to land; and I\nresolved to make another voyage on board the vessel, if possible. And\nas I knew that the first storm that blew must necessarily break her all\nin pieces, I resolved to set all other things apart till I had got\neverything out of the ship that I could get. Then I called a\ncouncil that is to say in my thoughts whether I should take back the\nraft; but this appeared impracticable: so I resolved to go as before,\nwhen the tide was down; and I did so, only that I stripped before I\nwent from my hut, having nothing on but my chequered shirt, a pair of\nlinen drawers, and a pair of pumps on my feet.\n\nI got on board the ship as before, and prepared a second raft; and,\nhaving had experience of the first, I neither made this so unwieldy,\nnor loaded it so hard, but yet I brought away several things very\nuseful to me; as first, in the carpenters stores I found two or three\nbags full of nails and spikes, a great screw-jack, a dozen or two of\nhatchets, and, above all, that most useful thing called a grindstone.\nAll these I secured, together with several things belonging to the\ngunner, particularly two or three iron crows, and two barrels of musket\nbullets, seven muskets, another fowling-piece, with some small quantity\nof powder more; a large bagful of small shot, and a great roll of\nsheet-lead; but this last was so heavy, I could not hoist it up to get\nit over the ship s side.\n\nBesides these things, I took all the men s clothes that I could find,\nand a spare fore-topsail, a hammock, and some bedding; and with this I\nloaded my second raft, and brought them all safe on shore, to my very\ngreat comfort.\n\nI was under some apprehension, during my absence from the land, that at\nleast my provisions might be devoured on shore: but when I came back I\nfound no sign of any visitor; only there sat a creature like a wild cat\nupon one of the chests, which, when I came towards it, ran away a\nlittle distance, and then stood still. She sat very composed and\nunconcerned, and looked full in my face, as if she had a mind to be\nacquainted with me. I presented my gun at her, but, as she did not\nunderstand it, she was perfectly unconcerned at it, nor did she offer\nto stir away; upon which I tossed her a bit of biscuit, though by the\nway, I was not very free of it, for my store was not great: however, I\nspared her a bit, I say, and she went to it, smelled at it, and ate it,\nand looked (as if pleased) for more; but I thanked her, and could spare\nno more: so she marched off.\n\nHaving got my second cargo on shore though I was fain to open the\nbarrels of powder, and bring them by parcels, for they were too heavy,\nbeing large casks I went to work to make me a little tent with the sail\nand some poles which I cut for that purpose: and into this tent I\nbrought everything that I knew would spoil either with rain or sun; and\nI piled all the empty chests and casks up in a circle round the tent,\nto fortify it from any sudden attempt, either from man or beast.\n\nWhen I had done this, I blocked up the door of the tent with some\nboards within, and an empty chest set up on end without; and spreading\none of the beds upon the ground, laying my two pistols just at my head,\nand my gun at length by me, I went to bed for the first time, and slept\nvery quietly all night, for I was very weary and heavy; for the night\nbefore I had slept little, and had laboured very hard all day to fetch\nall those things from the ship, and to get them on shore.\n\nI had the biggest magazine of all kinds now that ever was laid up, I\nbelieve, for one man: but I was not satisfied still, for while the ship\nsat upright in that posture, I thought I ought to get everything out of\nher that I could; so every day at low water I went on board, and\nbrought away something or other; but particularly the third time I went\nI brought away as much of the rigging as I could, as also all the small\nropes and rope-twine I could get, with a piece of spare canvas, which\nwas to mend the sails upon occasion, and the barrel of wet gunpowder.\nIn a word, I brought away all the sails, first and last; only that I\nwas fain to cut them in pieces, and bring as much at a time as I could,\nfor they were no more useful to be sails, but as mere canvas only.\n\nBut that which comforted me more still, was, that last of all, after I\nhad made five or six such voyages as these, and thought I had nothing\nmore to expect from the ship that was worth my meddling with I say,\nafter all this, I found a great hogshead of bread, three large runlets\nof rum, or spirits, a box of sugar, and a barrel of fine flour; this\nwas surprising to me, because I had given over expecting any more\nprovisions, except what was spoiled by the water. I soon emptied the\nhogshead of the bread, and wrapped it up, parcel by parcel, in pieces\nof the sails, which I cut out; and, in a word, I got all this safe on\nshore also.\n\nThe next day I made another voyage, and now, having plundered the ship\nof what was portable and fit to hand out, I began with the cables.\nCutting the great cable into pieces, such as I could move, I got two\ncables and a hawser on shore, with all the ironwork I could get; and\nhaving cut down the spritsail-yard, and the mizzen-yard, and everything\nI could, to make a large raft, I loaded it with all these heavy goods,\nand came away. But my good luck began now to leave me; for this raft\nwas so unwieldy, and so overladen, that, after I had entered the little\ncove where I had landed the rest of my goods, not being able to guide\nit so handily as I did the other, it overset, and threw me and all my\ncargo into the water. As for myself, it was no great harm, for I was\nnear the shore; but as to my cargo, it was a great part of it lost,\nespecially the iron, which I expected would have been of great use to\nme; however, when the tide was out, I got most of the pieces of the\ncable ashore, and some of the iron, though with infinite labour; for I\nwas fain to dip for it into the water, a work which fatigued me very\nmuch. After this, I went every day on board, and brought away what I\ncould get.\n\nI had been now thirteen days on shore, and had been eleven times on\nboard the ship, in which time I had brought away all that one pair of\nhands could well be supposed capable to bring; though I believe verily,\nhad the calm weather held, I should have brought away the whole ship,\npiece by piece. But preparing the twelfth time to go on board, I found\nthe wind began to rise: however, at low water I went on board, and\nthough I thought I had rummaged the cabin so effectually that nothing\nmore could be found, yet I discovered a locker with drawers in it, in\none of which I found two or three razors, and one pair of large\nscissors, with some ten or a dozen of good knives and forks: in another\nI found about thirty-six pounds value in money some European coin, some\nBrazil, some pieces of eight, some gold, and some silver.\n\nI smiled to myself at the sight of this money:  O drug!  said I, aloud,\n what art thou good for? Thou art not worth to me no, not the taking\noff the ground; one of those knives is worth all this heap; I have no\nmanner of use for thee e en remain where thou art, and go to the bottom\nas a creature whose life is not worth saving.  However, upon second\nthoughts I took it away; and wrapping all this in a piece of canvas, I\nbegan to think of making another raft; but while I was preparing this,\nI found the sky overcast, and the wind began to rise, and in a quarter\nof an hour it blew a fresh gale from the shore. It presently occurred\nto me that it was in vain to pretend to make a raft with the wind\noffshore; and that it was my business to be gone before the tide of\nflood began, otherwise I might not be able to reach the shore at all.\nAccordingly, I let myself down into the water, and swam across the\nchannel, which lay between the ship and the sands, and even that with\ndifficulty enough, partly with the weight of the things I had about me,\nand partly the roughness of the water; for the wind rose very hastily,\nand before it was quite high water it blew a storm.\n\nBut I had got home to my little tent, where I lay, with all my wealth\nabout me, very secure. It blew very hard all night, and in the morning,\nwhen I looked out, behold, no more ship was to be seen! I was a little\nsurprised, but recovered myself with the satisfactory reflection that I\nhad lost no time, nor abated any diligence, to get everything out of\nher that could be useful to me; and that, indeed, there was little left\nin her that I was able to bring away, if I had had more time.\n\nI now gave over any more thoughts of the ship, or of anything out of\nher, except what might drive on shore from her wreck; as, indeed,\ndivers pieces of her afterwards did; but those things were of small use\nto me.\n\nMy thoughts were now wholly employed about securing myself against\neither savages, if any should appear, or wild beasts, if any were in\nthe island; and I had many thoughts of the method how to do this, and\nwhat kind of dwelling to make whether I should make me a cave in the\nearth, or a tent upon the earth; and, in short, I resolved upon both;\nthe manner and description of which, it may not be improper to give an\naccount of.\n\nI soon found the place I was in was not fit for my settlement, because\nit was upon a low, moorish ground, near the sea, and I believed it\nwould not be wholesome, and more particularly because there was no\nfresh water near it; so I resolved to find a more healthy and more\nconvenient spot of ground.\n\nI consulted several things in my situation, which I found would be\nproper for me: 1st, health and fresh water, I just now mentioned;\n2ndly, shelter from the heat of the sun; 3rdly, security from ravenous\ncreatures, whether man or beast; 4thly, a view to the sea, that if God\nsent any ship in sight, I might not lose any advantage for my\ndeliverance, of which I was not willing to banish all my expectation\nyet.\n\nIn search of a place proper for this, I found a little plain on the\nside of a rising hill, whose front towards this little plain was steep\nas a house-side, so that nothing could come down upon me from the top.\nOn the one side of the rock there was a hollow place, worn a little way\nin, like the entrance or door of a cave but there was not really any\ncave or way into the rock at all.\n\nOn the flat of the green, just before this hollow place, I resolved to\npitch my tent. This plain was not above a hundred yards broad, and\nabout twice as long, and lay like a green before my door; and, at the\nend of it, descended irregularly every way down into the low ground by\nthe seaside. It was on the N.N.W. side of the hill; so that it was\nsheltered from the heat every day, till it came to a W. and by S. sun,\nor thereabouts, which, in those countries, is near the setting.\n\nBefore I set up my tent I drew a half-circle before the hollow place,\nwhich took in about ten yards in its semi-diameter from the rock, and\ntwenty yards in its diameter from its beginning and ending.\n\nIn this half-circle I pitched two rows of strong stakes, driving them\ninto the ground till they stood very firm like piles, the biggest end\nbeing out of the ground above five feet and a half, and sharpened on\nthe top. The two rows did not stand above six inches from one another.\n\nThen I took the pieces of cable which I had cut in the ship, and laid\nthem in rows, one upon another, within the circle, between these two\nrows of stakes, up to the top, placing other stakes in the inside,\nleaning against them, about two feet and a half high, like a spur to a\npost; and this fence was so strong, that neither man nor beast could\nget into it or over it. This cost me a great deal of time and labour,\nespecially to cut the piles in the woods, bring them to the place, and\ndrive them into the earth.\n\nThe entrance into this place I made to be, not by a door, but by a\nshort ladder to go over the top; which ladder, when I was in, I lifted\nover after me; and so I was completely fenced in and fortified, as I\nthought, from all the world, and consequently slept secure in the\nnight, which otherwise I could not have done; though, as it appeared\nafterwards, there was no need of all this caution from the enemies that\nI apprehended danger from.\n\nInto this fence or fortress, with infinite labour, I carried all my\nriches, all my provisions, ammunition, and stores, of which you have\nthe account above; and I made a large tent, which to preserve me from\nthe rains that in one part of the year are very violent there, I made\ndouble one smaller tent within, and one larger tent above it; and\ncovered the uppermost with a large tarpaulin, which I had saved among\nthe sails.\n\nAnd now I lay no more for a while in the bed which I had brought on\nshore, but in a hammock, which was indeed a very good one, and belonged\nto the mate of the ship.\n\nInto this tent I brought all my provisions, and everything that would\nspoil by the wet; and having thus enclosed all my goods, I made up the\nentrance, which till now I had left open, and so passed and repassed,\nas I said, by a short ladder.\n\nWhen I had done this, I began to work my way into the rock, and\nbringing all the earth and stones that I dug down out through my tent,\nI laid them up within my fence, in the nature of a terrace, so that it\nraised the ground within about a foot and a half; and thus I made me a\ncave, just behind my tent, which served me like a cellar to my house.\n\nIt cost me much labour and many days before all these things were\nbrought to perfection; and therefore I must go back to some other\nthings which took up some of my thoughts. At the same time it happened,\nafter I had laid my scheme for the setting up my tent, and making the\ncave, that a storm of rain falling from a thick, dark cloud, a sudden\nflash of lightning happened, and after that a great clap of thunder, as\nis naturally the effect of it. I was not so much surprised with the\nlightning as I was with the thought which darted into my mind as swift\nas the lightning itself Oh, my powder! My very heart sank within me\nwhen I thought that, at one blast, all my powder might be destroyed; on\nwhich, not my defence only, but the providing my food, as I thought,\nentirely depended. I was nothing near so anxious about my own danger,\nthough, had the powder took fire, I should never have known who had\nhurt me.\n\nSuch impression did this make upon me, that after the storm was over I\nlaid aside all my works, my building and fortifying, and applied myself\nto make bags and boxes, to separate the powder, and to keep it a little\nand a little in a parcel, in the hope that, whatever might come, it\nmight not all take fire at once; and to keep it so apart that it should\nnot be possible to make one part fire another. I finished this work in\nabout a fortnight; and I think my powder, which in all was about two\nhundred and forty pounds weight, was divided in not less than a hundred\nparcels. As to the barrel that had been wet, I did not apprehend any\ndanger from that; so I placed it in my new cave, which, in my fancy, I\ncalled my kitchen; and the rest I hid up and down in holes among the\nrocks, so that no wet might come to it, marking very carefully where I\nlaid it.\n\nIn the interval of time while this was doing, I went out once at least\nevery day with my gun, as well to divert myself as to see if I could\nkill anything fit for food; and, as near as I could, to acquaint myself\nwith what the island produced. The first time I went out, I presently\ndiscovered that there were goats in the island, which was a great\nsatisfaction to me; but then it was attended with this misfortune to\nme viz. that they were so shy, so subtle, and so swift of foot, that it\nwas the most difficult thing in the world to come at them; but I was\nnot discouraged at this, not doubting but I might now and then shoot\none, as it soon happened; for after I had found their haunts a little,\nI laid wait in this manner for them: I observed if they saw me in the\nvalleys, though they were upon the rocks, they would run away, as in a\nterrible fright; but if they were feeding in the valleys, and I was\nupon the rocks, they took no notice of me; from whence I concluded\nthat, by the position of their optics, their sight was so directed\ndownward that they did not readily see objects that were above them; so\nafterwards I took this method I always climbed the rocks first, to get\nabove them, and then had frequently a fair mark.\n\nThe first shot I made among these creatures, I killed a she-goat, which\nhad a little kid by her, which she gave suck to, which grieved me\nheartily; for when the old one fell, the kid stood stock still by her,\ntill I came and took her up; and not only so, but when I carried the\nold one with me, upon my shoulders, the kid followed me quite to my\nenclosure; upon which I laid down the dam, and took the kid in my arms,\nand carried it over my pale, in hopes to have bred it up tame; but it\nwould not eat; so I was forced to kill it and eat it myself. These two\nsupplied me with flesh a great while, for I ate sparingly, and saved my\nprovisions, my bread especially, as much as possibly I could.\n\nHaving now fixed my habitation, I found it absolutely necessary to\nprovide a place to make a fire in, and fuel to burn: and what I did for\nthat, and also how I enlarged my cave, and what conveniences I made, I\nshall give a full account of in its place; but I must now give some\nlittle account of myself, and of my thoughts about living, which, it\nmay well be supposed, were not a few.\n\nI had a dismal prospect of my condition; for as I was not cast away\nupon that island without being driven, as is said, by a violent storm,\nquite out of the course of our intended voyage, and a great way, viz.\nsome hundreds of leagues, out of the ordinary course of the trade of\nmankind, I had great reason to consider it as a determination of\nHeaven, that in this desolate place, and in this desolate manner, I\nshould end my life. The tears would run plentifully down my face when I\nmade these reflections; and sometimes I would expostulate with myself\nwhy Providence should thus completely ruin His creatures, and render\nthem so absolutely miserable; so without help, abandoned, so entirely\ndepressed, that it could hardly be rational to be thankful for such a\nlife.\n\nBut something always returned swift upon me to check these thoughts,\nand to reprove me; and particularly one day, walking with my gun in my\nhand by the seaside, I was very pensive upon the subject of my present\ncondition, when reason, as it were, expostulated with me the other way,\nthus:  Well, you are in a desolate condition, it is true; but, pray\nremember, where are the rest of you? Did not you come, eleven of you in\nthe boat? Where are the ten? Why were they not saved, and you lost? Why\nwere you singled out? Is it better to be here or there?  And then I\npointed to the sea. All evils are to be considered with the good that\nis in them, and with what worse attends them.\n\nThen it occurred to me again, how well I was furnished for my\nsubsistence, and what would have been my case if it had not happened\n(which was a hundred thousand to one) that the ship floated from the\nplace where she first struck, and was driven so near to the shore that\nI had time to get all these things out of her; what would have been my\ncase, if I had been forced to have lived in the condition in which I at\nfirst came on shore, without necessaries of life, or necessaries to\nsupply and procure them?  Particularly,  said I, aloud (though to\nmyself),  what should I have done without a gun, without ammunition,\nwithout any tools to make anything, or to work with, without clothes,\nbedding, a tent, or any manner of covering?  and that now I had all\nthese to sufficient quantity, and was in a fair way to provide myself\nin such a manner as to live without my gun, when my ammunition was\nspent: so that I had a tolerable view of subsisting, without any want,\nas long as I lived; for I considered from the beginning how I would\nprovide for the accidents that might happen, and for the time that was\nto come, even not only after my ammunition should be spent, but even\nafter my health and strength should decay.\n\nI confess I had not entertained any notion of my ammunition being\ndestroyed at one blast I mean my powder being blown up by lightning;\nand this made the thoughts of it so surprising to me, when it lightened\nand thundered, as I observed just now.\n\nAnd now being about to enter into a melancholy relation of a scene of\nsilent life, such, perhaps, as was never heard of in the world before,\nI shall take it from its beginning, and continue it in its order. It\nwas by my account the 30th of September, when, in the manner as above\nsaid, I first set foot upon this horrid island; when the sun, being to\nus in its autumnal equinox, was almost over my head; for I reckoned\nmyself, by observation, to be in the latitude of nine degrees\ntwenty-two minutes north of the line.\n\nAfter I had been there about ten or twelve days, it came into my\nthoughts that I should lose my reckoning of time for want of books, and\npen and ink, and should even forget the Sabbath days; but to prevent\nthis, I cut with my knife upon a large post, in capital letters and\nmaking it into a great cross, I set it up on the shore where I first\nlanded I came on shore here on the 30th September 1659. \n\nUpon the sides of this square post I cut every day a notch with my\nknife, and every seventh notch was as long again as the rest, and every\nfirst day of the month as long again as that long one; and thus I kept\nmy calendar, or weekly, monthly, and yearly reckoning of time.\n\nIn the next place, we are to observe that among the many things which I\nbrought out of the ship, in the several voyages which, as above\nmentioned, I made to it, I got several things of less value, but not at\nall less useful to me, which I omitted setting down before; as, in\nparticular, pens, ink, and paper, several parcels in the captain s,\nmate s, gunner s and carpenter s keeping; three or four compasses, some\nmathematical instruments, dials, perspectives, charts, and books of\nnavigation, all which I huddled together, whether I might want them or\nno; also, I found three very good Bibles, which came to me in my cargo\nfrom England, and which I had packed up among my things; some\nPortuguese books also; and among them two or three Popish prayer-books,\nand several other books, all which I carefully secured. And I must not\nforget that we had in the ship a dog and two cats, of whose eminent\nhistory I may have occasion to say something in its place; for I\ncarried both the cats with me; and as for the dog, he jumped out of the\nship of himself, and swam on shore to me the day after I went on shore\nwith my first cargo, and was a trusty servant to me many years; I\nwanted nothing that he could fetch me, nor any company that he could\nmake up to me; I only wanted to have him talk to me, but that would not\ndo. As I observed before, I found pens, ink, and paper, and I husbanded\nthem to the utmost; and I shall show that while my ink lasted, I kept\nthings very exact, but after that was gone I could not, for I could not\nmake any ink by any means that I could devise.\n\nAnd this put me in mind that I wanted many things notwithstanding all\nthat I had amassed together; and of these, ink was one; as also a\nspade, pickaxe, and shovel, to dig or remove the earth; needles, pins,\nand thread; as for linen, I soon learned to want that without much\ndifficulty.\n\nThis want of tools made every work I did go on heavily; and it was near\na whole year before I had entirely finished my little pale, or\nsurrounded my habitation. The piles, or stakes, which were as heavy as\nI could well lift, were a long time in cutting and preparing in the\nwoods, and more, by far, in bringing home; so that I spent sometimes\ntwo days in cutting and bringing home one of those posts, and a third\nday in driving it into the ground; for which purpose I got a heavy\npiece of wood at first, but at last bethought myself of one of the iron\ncrows; which, however, though I found it, made driving those posts or\npiles very laborious and tedious work.\n\n\nBut what need I have been concerned at the tediousness of anything I\nhad to do, seeing I had time enough to do it in? nor had I any other\nemployment, if that had been over, at least that I could foresee,\nexcept the ranging the island to seek for food, which I did, more or\nless, every day.\n\nI now began to consider seriously my condition, and the circumstances I\nwas reduced to; and I drew up the state of my affairs in writing, not\nso much to leave them to any that were to come after me for I was\nlikely to have but few heirs as to deliver my thoughts from daily\nporing over them, and afflicting my mind; and as my reason began now to\nmaster my despondency, I began to comfort myself as well as I could,\nand to set the good against the evil, that I might have something to\ndistinguish my case from worse; and I stated very impartially, like\ndebtor and creditor, the comforts I enjoyed against the miseries I\nsuffered, thus: \n\n\n_Evil_.\n\n\n_Good_.\n\n\nI am cast upon a horrible, desolate island, void of all hope of\nrecovery.\n\n\nBut I am alive; and not drowned, as all my ship s company were.\n\n\nI am singled out and separated, as it were, from all the world, to be\nmiserable.\n\n\nBut I am singled out, too, from all the ship s crew, to be spared from\ndeath; and He that miraculously saved me from death can deliver me from\nthis condition.\n\n\nI am divided from mankind a solitaire; one banished from human society.\n\n\nBut I am not starved, and perishing on a barren place, affording no\nsustenance.\n\n\nI have no clothes to cover me.\n\n\nBut I am in a hot climate, where, if I had clothes, I could hardly wear\nthem.\n\n\nI am without any defence, or means to resist any violence of man or\nbeast.\n\n\nBut I am cast on an island where I see no wild beasts to hurt me, as I\nsaw on the coast of Africa; and what if I had been shipwrecked there?\n\n\nI have no soul to speak to or relieve me.\n\n\nBut God wonderfully sent the ship in near enough to the shore, that I\nhave got out as many necessary things as will either supply my wants or\nenable me to supply myself, even as long as I live.\n\n\nUpon the whole, here was an undoubted testimony that there was scarce\nany condition in the world so miserable but there was something\nnegative or something positive to be thankful for in it; and let this\nstand as a direction from the experience of the most miserable of all\nconditions in this world: that we may always find in it something to\ncomfort ourselves from, and to set, in the description of good and\nevil, on the credit side of the account.\n\nHaving now brought my mind a little to relish my condition, and given\nover looking out to sea, to see if I could spy a ship I say, giving\nover these things, I began to apply myself to arrange my way of living,\nand to make things as easy to me as I could.\n\nI have already described my habitation, which was a tent under the side\nof a rock, surrounded with a strong pale of posts and cables: but I\nmight now rather call it a wall, for I raised a kind of wall up against\nit of turfs, about two feet thick on the outside; and after some time\n(I think it was a year and a half) I raised rafters from it, leaning to\nthe rock, and thatched or covered it with boughs of trees, and such\nthings as I could get, to keep out the rain; which I found at some\ntimes of the year very violent.\n\nI have already observed how I brought all my goods into this pale, and\ninto the cave which I had made behind me. But I must observe, too, that\nat first this was a confused heap of goods, which, as they lay in no\norder, so they took up all my place; I had no room to turn myself: so I\nset myself to enlarge my cave, and work farther into the earth; for it\nwas a loose sandy rock, which yielded easily to the labour I bestowed\non it: and so when I found I was pretty safe as to beasts of prey, I\nworked sideways, to the right hand, into the rock; and then, turning to\nthe right again, worked quite out, and made me a door to come out on\nthe outside of my pale or fortification. This gave me not only egress\nand regress, as it was a back way to my tent and to my storehouse, but\ngave me room to store my goods.\n\nAnd now I began to apply myself to make such necessary things as I\nfound I most wanted, particularly a chair and a table; for without\nthese I was not able to enjoy the few comforts I had in the world; I\ncould not write or eat, or do several things, with so much pleasure\nwithout a table: so I went to work. And here I must needs observe, that\nas reason is the substance and origin of the mathematics, so by stating\nand squaring everything by reason, and by making the most rational\njudgment of things, every man may be, in time, master of every mechanic\nart. I had never handled a tool in my life; and yet, in time, by\nlabour, application, and contrivance, I found at last that I wanted\nnothing but I could have made it, especially if I had had tools.\nHowever, I made abundance of things, even without tools; and some with\nno more tools than an adze and a hatchet, which perhaps were never made\nthat way before, and that with infinite labour. For example, if I\nwanted a board, I had no other way but to cut down a tree, set it on an\nedge before me, and hew it flat on either side with my axe, till I\nbrought it to be thin as a plank, and then dub it smooth with my adze.\nIt is true, by this method I could make but one board out of a whole\ntree; but this I had no remedy for but patience, any more than I had\nfor the prodigious deal of time and labour which it took me up to make\na plank or board: but my time or labour was little worth, and so it was\nas well employed one way as another.\n\nHowever, I made me a table and a chair, as I observed above, in the\nfirst place; and this I did out of the short pieces of boards that I\nbrought on my raft from the ship. But when I had wrought out some\nboards as above, I made large shelves, of the breadth of a foot and a\nhalf, one over another all along one side of my cave, to lay all my\ntools, nails and ironwork on; and, in a word, to separate everything at\nlarge into their places, that I might come easily at them. I knocked\npieces into the wall of the rock to hang my guns and all things that\nwould hang up; so that, had my cave been to be seen, it looked like a\ngeneral magazine of all necessary things; and had everything so ready\nat my hand, that it was a great pleasure to me to see all my goods in\nsuch order, and especially to find my stock of all necessaries so\ngreat.\n\nAnd now it was that I began to keep a journal of every day s\nemployment; for, indeed, at first I was in too much hurry, and not only\nhurry as to labour, but in too much discomposure of mind; and my\njournal would have been full of many dull things; for example, I must\nhave said thus:  30_th_. After I had got to shore, and escaped\ndrowning, instead of being thankful to God for my deliverance, having\nfirst vomited, with the great quantity of salt water which had got into\nmy stomach, and recovering myself a little, I ran about the shore\nwringing my hands and beating my head and face, exclaiming at my\nmisery, and crying out,  I was undone, undone!  till, tired and faint,\nI was forced to lie down on the ground to repose, but durst not sleep\nfor fear of being devoured. \n\nSome days after this, and after I had been on board the ship, and got\nall that I could out of her, yet I could not forbear getting up to the\ntop of a little mountain and looking out to sea, in hopes of seeing a\nship; then fancy at a vast distance I spied a sail, please myself with\nthe hopes of it, and then after looking steadily, till I was almost\nblind, lose it quite, and sit down and weep like a child, and thus\nincrease my misery by my folly.\n\nBut having gotten over these things in some measure, and having settled\nmy household staff and habitation, made me a table and a chair, and all\nas handsome about me as I could, I began to keep my journal; of which I\nshall here give you the copy (though in it will be told all these\nparticulars over again) as long as it lasted; for having no more ink, I\nwas forced to leave it off.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. BUILDS A HOUSE THE JOURNAL\n\n\nSeptember 30, 1659. I, poor miserable Robinson Crusoe, being\nshipwrecked during a dreadful storm in the offing, came on shore on\nthis dismal, unfortunate island, which I called  The Island of\nDespair ; all the rest of the ship s company being drowned, and myself\nalmost dead.\n\nAll the rest of the day I spent in afflicting myself at the dismal\ncircumstances I was brought to viz. I had neither food, house, clothes,\nweapon, nor place to fly to; and in despair of any relief, saw nothing\nbut death before me either that I should be devoured by wild beasts,\nmurdered by savages, or starved to death for want of food. At the\napproach of night I slept in a tree, for fear of wild creatures; but\nslept soundly, though it rained all night.\n\n_October_ 1. In the morning I saw, to my great surprise, the ship had\nfloated with the high tide, and was driven on shore again much nearer\nthe island; which, as it was some comfort, on one hand for, seeing her\nset upright, and not broken to pieces, I hoped, if the wind abated, I\nmight get on board, and get some food and necessaries out of her for my\nrelief so, on the other hand, it renewed my grief at the loss of my\ncomrades, who, I imagined, if we had all stayed on board, might have\nsaved the ship, or, at least, that they would not have been all drowned\nas they were; and that, had the men been saved, we might perhaps have\nbuilt us a boat out of the ruins of the ship to have carried us to some\nother part of the world. I spent great part of this day in perplexing\nmyself on these things; but at length, seeing the ship almost dry, I\nwent upon the sand as near as I could, and then swam on board. This day\nalso it continued raining, though with no wind at all.\n\n_From the 1st of October to the 24th_. All these days entirely spent in\nmany several voyages to get all I could out of the ship, which I\nbrought on shore every tide of flood upon rafts. Much rain also in the\ndays, though with some intervals of fair weather; but it seems this was\nthe rainy season.\n\n_Oct._ 20. I overset my raft, and all the goods I had got upon it; but,\nbeing in shoal water, and the things being chiefly heavy, I recovered\nmany of them when the tide was out.\n\n_Oct._ 25. It rained all night and all day, with some gusts of wind;\nduring which time the ship broke in pieces, the wind blowing a little\nharder than before, and was no more to be seen, except the wreck of\nher, and that only at low water. I spent this day in covering and\nsecuring the goods which I had saved, that the rain might not spoil\nthem.\n\n_Oct._ 26. I walked about the shore almost all day, to find out a place\nto fix my habitation, greatly concerned to secure myself from any\nattack in the night, either from wild beasts or men. Towards night, I\nfixed upon a proper place, under a rock, and marked out a semicircle\nfor my encampment; which I resolved to strengthen with a work, wall, or\nfortification, made of double piles, lined within with cables, and\nwithout with turf.\n\nFrom the 26th to the 30th I worked very hard in carrying all my goods\nto my new habitation, though some part of the time it rained\nexceedingly hard.\n\nThe 31st, in the morning, I went out into the island with my gun, to\nseek for some food, and discover the country; when I killed a she-goat,\nand her kid followed me home, which I afterwards killed also, because\nit would not feed.\n\n_November_ 1. I set up my tent under a rock, and lay there for the\nfirst night; making it as large as I could, with stakes driven in to\nswing my hammock upon.\n\n_Nov._ 2. I set up all my chests and boards, and the pieces of timber\nwhich made my rafts, and with them formed a fence round me, a little\nwithin the place I had marked out for my fortification.\n\n_Nov._ 3. I went out with my gun, and killed two fowls like ducks,\nwhich were very good food. In the afternoon went to work to make me a\ntable.\n\n_Nov_. 4. This morning I began to order my times of work, of going out\nwith my gun, time of sleep, and time of diversion viz. every morning I\nwalked out with my gun for two or three hours, if it did not rain; then\nemployed myself to work till about eleven o clock; then eat what I had\nto live on; and from twelve to two I lay down to sleep, the weather\nbeing excessively hot; and then, in the evening, to work again. The\nworking part of this day and of the next were wholly employed in making\nmy table, for I was yet but a very sorry workman, though time and\nnecessity made me a complete natural mechanic soon after, as I believe\nthey would do any one else.\n\n_Nov._ 5. This day went abroad with my gun and my dog, and killed a\nwild cat; her skin pretty soft, but her flesh good for nothing; every\ncreature that I killed I took of the skins and preserved them. Coming\nback by the sea-shore, I saw many sorts of sea-fowls, which I did not\nunderstand; but was surprised, and almost frightened, with two or three\nseals, which, while I was gazing at, not well knowing what they were,\ngot into the sea, and escaped me for that time.\n\n_Nov._ 6. After my morning walk I went to work with my table again, and\nfinished it, though not to my liking; nor was it long before I learned\nto mend it.\n\n_Nov._ 7. Now it began to be settled fair weather. The 7th, 8th, 9th,\n10th, and part of the 12th (for the 11th was Sunday) I took wholly up\nto make me a chair, and with much ado brought it to a tolerable shape,\nbut never to please me; and even in the making I pulled it in pieces\nseveral times.\n\n_Note_. I soon neglected my keeping Sundays; for, omitting my mark for\nthem on my post, I forgot which was which.\n\n_Nov._ 13. This day it rained, which refreshed me exceedingly, and\ncooled the earth; but it was accompanied with terrible thunder and\nlightning, which frightened me dreadfully, for fear of my powder. As\nsoon as it was over, I resolved to separate my stock of powder into as\nmany little parcels as possible, that it might not be in danger.\n\n_Nov._ 14, 15, 16. These three days I spent in making little square\nchests, or boxes, which might hold about a pound, or two pounds at\nmost, of powder; and so, putting the powder in, I stowed it in places\nas secure and remote from one another as possible. On one of these\nthree days I killed a large bird that was good to eat, but I knew not\nwhat to call it.\n\n_Nov._ 17. This day I began to dig behind my tent into the rock, to\nmake room for my further conveniency.\n\n_Note_. Three things I wanted exceedingly for this work viz. a pickaxe,\na shovel, and a wheelbarrow or basket; so I desisted from my work, and\nbegan to consider how to supply that want, and make me some tools. As\nfor the pickaxe, I made use of the iron crows, which were proper\nenough, though heavy; but the next thing was a shovel or spade; this\nwas so absolutely necessary, that, indeed, I could do nothing\neffectually without it; but what kind of one to make I knew not.\n\n_Nov._ 18. The next day, in searching the woods, I found a tree of that\nwood, or like it, which in the Brazils they call the iron-tree, for its\nexceeding hardness. Of this, with great labour, and almost spoiling my\naxe, I cut a piece, and brought it home, too, with difficulty enough,\nfor it was exceeding heavy. The excessive hardness of the wood, and my\nhaving no other way, made me a long while upon this machine, for I\nworked it effectually by little and little into the form of a shovel or\nspade; the handle exactly shaped like ours in England, only that the\nboard part having no iron shod upon it at bottom, it would not last me\nso long; however, it served well enough for the uses which I had\noccasion to put it to; but never was a shovel, I believe, made after\nthat fashion, or so long in making.\n\nI was still deficient, for I wanted a basket or a wheelbarrow. A basket\nI could not make by any means, having no such things as twigs that\nwould bend to make wicker-ware at least, none yet found out; and as to\na wheelbarrow, I fancied I could make all but the wheel; but that I had\nno notion of; neither did I know how to go about it; besides, I had no\npossible way to make the iron gudgeons for the spindle or axis of the\nwheel to run in; so I gave it over, and so, for carrying away the earth\nwhich I dug out of the cave, I made me a thing like a hod which the\nlabourers carry mortar in when they serve the bricklayers. This was not\nso difficult to me as the making the shovel: and yet this and the\nshovel, and the attempt which I made in vain to make a wheelbarrow,\ntook me up no less than four days I mean always excepting my morning\nwalk with my gun, which I seldom failed, and very seldom failed also\nbringing home something fit to eat.\n\n_Nov._ 23. My other work having now stood still, because of my making\nthese tools, when they were finished I went on, and working every day,\nas my strength and time allowed, I spent eighteen days entirely in\nwidening and deepening my cave, that it might hold my goods\ncommodiously.\n\n_Note_. During all this time I worked to make this room or cave\nspacious enough to accommodate me as a warehouse or magazine, a\nkitchen, a dining-room, and a cellar. As for my lodging, I kept to the\ntent; except that sometimes, in the wet season of the year, it rained\nso hard that I could not keep myself dry, which caused me afterwards to\ncover all my place within my pale with long poles, in the form of\nrafters, leaning against the rock, and load them with flags and large\nleaves of trees, like a thatch.\n\n_December_ 10. I began now to think my cave or vault finished, when on\na sudden (it seems I had made it too large) a great quantity of earth\nfell down from the top on one side; so much that, in short, it frighted\nme, and not without reason, too, for if I had been under it, I had\nnever wanted a gravedigger. I had now a great deal of work to do over\nagain, for I had the loose earth to carry out; and, which was of more\nimportance, I had the ceiling to prop up, so that I might be sure no\nmore would come down.\n\n_Dec_. 11. This day I went to work with it accordingly, and got two\nshores or posts pitched upright to the top, with two pieces of boards\nacross over each post; this I finished the next day; and setting more\nposts up with boards, in about a week more I had the roof secured, and\nthe posts, standing in rows, served me for partitions to part off the\nhouse.\n\n_Dec._ 17. From this day to the 20th I placed shelves, and knocked up\nnails on the posts, to hang everything up that could be hung up; and\nnow I began to be in some order within doors.\n\n_Dec._ 20. Now I carried everything into the cave, and began to furnish\nmy house, and set up some pieces of boards like a dresser, to order my\nvictuals upon; but boards began to be very scarce with me; also, I made\nme another table.\n\n_Dec._ 24. Much rain all night and all day. No stirring out.\n\n_Dec._ 25. Rain all day.\n\n_Dec._ 26. No rain, and the earth much cooler than before, and\npleasanter.\n\n_Dec._ 27. Killed a young goat, and lamed another, so that I caught it\nand led it home in a string; when I had it at home, I bound and\nsplintered up its leg, which was broke.\n\n_N.B._ I took such care of it that it lived, and the leg grew well and\nas strong as ever; but, by my nursing it so long, it grew tame, and fed\nupon the little green at my door, and would not go away. This was the\nfirst time that I entertained a thought of breeding up some tame\ncreatures, that I might have food when my powder and shot was all\nspent.\n\n_Dec._ 28, 29, 30. Great heats and no breeze, so that there was no\nstirring abroad except in the evening for food; this time I spent in\nputting all my things in order within doors.\n\n_January_ 1. Very hot still: but I went abroad early and late with my\ngun, and lay still in the middle of the day. This evening, going\nfarther into the valleys which lay towards the centre of the island, I\nfound there were plenty of goats, though exceedingly shy, and hard to\ncome at; however, I resolved to try if I could not bring my dog to hunt\nthem down.\n\n_Jan._ 2. Accordingly, the next day I went out with my dog, and set him\nupon the goats, but I was mistaken, for they all faced about upon the\ndog, and he knew his danger too well, for he would not come near them.\n\n_Jan._ 3. I began my fence or wall; which, being still jealous of my\nbeing attacked by somebody, I resolved to make very thick and strong.\n\n_N.B._ This wall being described before, I purposely omit what was said\nin the journal; it is sufficient to observe, that I was no less time\nthan from the 2nd of January to the 14th of April working, finishing,\nand perfecting this wall, though it was no more than about twenty-four\nyards in length, being a half-circle from one place in the rock to\nanother place, about eight yards from it, the door of the cave being in\nthe centre behind it.\n\nAll this time I worked very hard, the rains hindering me many days,\nnay, sometimes weeks together; but I thought I should never be\nperfectly secure till this wall was finished; and it is scarce credible\nwhat inexpressible labour everything was done with, especially the\nbringing piles out of the woods and driving them into the ground; for I\nmade them much bigger than I needed to have done.\n\nWhen this wall was finished, and the outside double fenced, with a turf\nwall raised up close to it, I perceived myself that if any people were\nto come on shore there, they would not perceive anything like a\nhabitation; and it was very well I did so, as may be observed\nhereafter, upon a very remarkable occasion.\n\nDuring this time I made my rounds in the woods for game every day when\nthe rain permitted me, and made frequent discoveries in these walks of\nsomething or other to my advantage; particularly, I found a kind of\nwild pigeons, which build, not as wood-pigeons in a tree, but rather as\nhouse-pigeons, in the holes of the rocks; and taking some young ones, I\nendeavoured to breed them up tame, and did so; but when they grew older\nthey flew away, which perhaps was at first for want of feeding them,\nfor I had nothing to give them; however, I frequently found their\nnests, and got their young ones, which were very good meat. And now, in\nthe managing my household affairs, I found myself wanting in many\nthings, which I thought at first it was impossible for me to make; as,\nindeed, with some of them it was: for instance, I could never make a\ncask to be hooped. I had a small runlet or two, as I observed before;\nbut I could never arrive at the capacity of making one by them, though\nI spent many weeks about it; I could neither put in the heads, or join\nthe staves so true to one another as to make them hold water; so I gave\nthat also over. In the next place, I was at a great loss for candles;\nso that as soon as ever it was dark, which was generally by seven\no clock, I was obliged to go to bed. I remembered the lump of beeswax\nwith which I made candles in my African adventure; but I had none of\nthat now; the only remedy I had was, that when I had killed a goat I\nsaved the tallow, and with a little dish made of clay, which I baked in\nthe sun, to which I added a wick of some oakum, I made me a lamp; and\nthis gave me light, though not a clear, steady light, like a candle. In\nthe middle of all my labours it happened that, rummaging my things, I\nfound a little bag which, as I hinted before, had been filled with corn\nfor the feeding of poultry not for this voyage, but before, as I\nsuppose, when the ship came from Lisbon. The little remainder of corn\nthat had been in the bag was all devoured by the rats, and I saw\nnothing in the bag but husks and dust; and being willing to have the\nbag for some other use (I think it was to put powder in, when I divided\nit for fear of the lightning, or some such use), I shook the husks of\ncorn out of it on one side of my fortification, under the rock.\n\nIt was a little before the great rains just now mentioned that I threw\nthis stuff away, taking no notice, and not so much as remembering that\nI had thrown anything there, when, about a month after, or thereabouts,\nI saw some few stalks of something green shooting out of the ground,\nwhich I fancied might be some plant I had not seen; but I was\nsurprised, and perfectly astonished, when, after a little longer time,\nI saw about ten or twelve ears come out, which were perfect green\nbarley, of the same kind as our European nay, as our English barley.\n\nIt is impossible to express the astonishment and confusion of my\nthoughts on this occasion. I had hitherto acted upon no religious\nfoundation at all; indeed, I had very few notions of religion in my\nhead, nor had entertained any sense of anything that had befallen me\notherwise than as chance, or, as we lightly say, what pleases God,\nwithout so much as inquiring into the end of Providence in these\nthings, or His order in governing events for the world. But after I saw\nbarley grow there, in a climate which I knew was not proper for corn,\nand especially that I knew not how it came there, it startled me\nstrangely, and I began to suggest that God had miraculously caused His\ngrain to grow without any help of seed sown, and that it was so\ndirected purely for my sustenance on that wild, miserable place.\n\nThis touched my heart a little, and brought tears out of my eyes, and I\nbegan to bless myself that such a prodigy of nature should happen upon\nmy account; and this was the more strange to me, because I saw near it\nstill, all along by the side of the rock, some other straggling stalks,\nwhich proved to be stalks of rice, and which I knew, because I had seen\nit grow in Africa when I was ashore there.\n\nI not only thought these the pure productions of Providence for my\nsupport, but not doubting that there was more in the place, I went all\nover that part of the island, where I had been before, peering in every\ncorner, and under every rock, to see for more of it, but I could not\nfind any. At last it occurred to my thoughts that I shook a bag of\nchickens  meat out in that place; and then the wonder began to cease;\nand I must confess my religious thankfulness to God s providence began\nto abate, too, upon the discovering that all this was nothing but what\nwas common; though I ought to have been as thankful for so strange and\nunforeseen a providence as if it had been miraculous; for it was really\nthe work of Providence to me, that should order or appoint that ten or\ntwelve grains of corn should remain unspoiled, when the rats had\ndestroyed all the rest, as if it had been dropped from heaven; as also,\nthat I should throw it out in that particular place, where, it being in\nthe shade of a high rock, it sprang up immediately; whereas, if I had\nthrown it anywhere else at that time, it had been burnt up and\ndestroyed.\n\nI carefully saved the ears of this corn, you may be sure, in their\nseason, which was about the end of June; and, laying up every corn, I\nresolved to sow them all again, hoping in time to have some quantity\nsufficient to supply me with bread. But it was not till the fourth year\nthat I could allow myself the least grain of this corn to eat, and even\nthen but sparingly, as I shall say afterwards, in its order; for I lost\nall that I sowed the first season by not observing the proper time; for\nI sowed it just before the dry season, so that it never came up at all,\nat least not as it would have done; of which in its place.\n\nBesides this barley, there were, as above, twenty or thirty stalks of\nrice, which I preserved with the same care and for the same use, or to\nthe same purpose to make me bread, or rather food; for I found ways to\ncook it without baking, though I did that also after some time.\n\nBut to return to my Journal.\n\nI worked excessive hard these three or four months to get my wall done;\nand the 14th of April I closed it up, contriving to go into it, not by\na door but over the wall, by a ladder, that there might be no sign on\nthe outside of my habitation.\n\n_April_ 16. I finished the ladder; so I went up the ladder to the top,\nand then pulled it up after me, and let it down in the inside. This was\na complete enclosure to me; for within I had room enough, and nothing\ncould come at me from without, unless it could first mount my wall.\n\nThe very next day after this wall was finished I had almost had all my\nlabour overthrown at once, and myself killed. The case was thus: As I\nwas busy in the inside, behind my tent, just at the entrance into my\ncave, I was terribly frighted with a most dreadful, surprising thing\nindeed; for all on a sudden I found the earth come crumbling down from\nthe roof of my cave, and from the edge of the hill over my head, and\ntwo of the posts I had set up in the cave cracked in a frightful\nmanner. I was heartily scared; but thought nothing of what was really\nthe cause, only thinking that the top of my cave was fallen in, as some\nof it had done before: and for fear I should be buried in it I ran\nforward to my ladder, and not thinking myself safe there neither, I got\nover my wall for fear of the pieces of the hill, which I expected might\nroll down upon me. I had no sooner stepped down upon the firm ground,\nthan I plainly saw it was a terrible earthquake, for the ground I stood\non shook three times at about eight minutes  distance, with three such\nshocks as would have overturned the strongest building that could be\nsupposed to have stood on the earth; and a great piece of the top of a\nrock which stood about half a mile from me next the sea fell down with\nsuch a terrible noise as I never heard in all my life. I perceived also\nthe very sea was put into violent motion by it; and I believe the\nshocks were stronger under the water than on the island.\n\nI was so much amazed with the thing itself, having never felt the like,\nnor discoursed with any one that had, that I was like one dead or\nstupefied; and the motion of the earth made my stomach sick, like one\nthat was tossed at sea; but the noise of the falling of the rock\nawakened me, as it were, and rousing me from the stupefied condition I\nwas in, filled me with horror; and I thought of nothing then but the\nhill falling upon my tent and all my household goods, and burying all\nat once; and this sunk my very soul within me a second time.\n\nAfter the third shock was over, and I felt no more for some time, I\nbegan to take courage; and yet I had not heart enough to go over my\nwall again, for fear of being buried alive, but sat still upon the\nground greatly cast down and disconsolate, not knowing what to do. All\nthis while I had not the least serious religious thought; nothing but\nthe common  Lord have mercy upon me!  and when it was over that went\naway too.\n\nWhile I sat thus, I found the air overcast and grow cloudy, as if it\nwould rain. Soon after that the wind arose by little and little, so\nthat in less than half-an-hour it blew a most dreadful hurricane; the\nsea was all on a sudden covered over with foam and froth; the shore was\ncovered with the breach of the water, the trees were torn up by the\nroots, and a terrible storm it was. This held about three hours, and\nthen began to abate; and in two hours more it was quite calm, and began\nto rain very hard. All this while I sat upon the ground very much\nterrified and dejected; when on a sudden it came into my thoughts, that\nthese winds and rain being the consequences of the earthquake, the\nearthquake itself was spent and over, and I might venture into my cave\nagain. With this thought my spirits began to revive; and the rain also\nhelping to persuade me, I went in and sat down in my tent. But the rain\nwas so violent that my tent was ready to be beaten down with it; and I\nwas forced to go into my cave, though very much afraid and uneasy, for\nfear it should fall on my head. This violent rain forced me to a new\nwork viz. to cut a hole through my new fortification, like a sink, to\nlet the water go out, which would else have flooded my cave. After I\nhad been in my cave for some time, and found still no more shocks of\nthe earthquake follow, I began to be more composed. And now, to support\nmy spirits, which indeed wanted it very much, I went to my little\nstore, and took a small sup of rum; which, however, I did then and\nalways very sparingly, knowing I could have no more when that was gone.\nIt continued raining all that night and great part of the next day, so\nthat I could not stir abroad; but my mind being more composed, I began\nto think of what I had best do; concluding that if the island was\nsubject to these earthquakes, there would be no living for me in a\ncave, but I must consider of building a little hut in an open place\nwhich I might surround with a wall, as I had done here, and so make\nmyself secure from wild beasts or men; for I concluded, if I stayed\nwhere I was, I should certainly one time or other be buried alive.\n\nWith these thoughts, I resolved to remove my tent from the place where\nit stood, which was just under the hanging precipice of the hill; and\nwhich, if it should be shaken again, would certainly fall upon my tent;\nand I spent the two next days, being the 19th and 20th of April, in\ncontriving where and how to remove my habitation. The fear of being\nswallowed up alive made me that I never slept in quiet; and yet the\napprehension of lying abroad without any fence was almost equal to it;\nbut still, when I looked about, and saw how everything was put in\norder, how pleasantly concealed I was, and how safe from danger, it\nmade me very loath to remove. In the meantime, it occurred to me that\nit would require a vast deal of time for me to do this, and that I must\nbe contented to venture where I was, till I had formed a camp for\nmyself, and had secured it so as to remove to it. So with this\nresolution I composed myself for a time, and resolved that I would go\nto work with all speed to build me a wall with piles and cables, &c.,\nin a circle, as before, and set my tent up in it when it was finished;\nbut that I would venture to stay where I was till it was finished, and\nfit to remove. This was the 21st.\n\n_April_ 22. The next morning I begin to consider of means to put this\nresolve into execution; but I was at a great loss about my tools. I had\nthree large axes, and abundance of hatchets (for we carried the\nhatchets for traffic with the Indians); but with much chopping and\ncutting knotty hard wood, they were all full of notches, and dull; and\nthough I had a grindstone, I could not turn it and grind my tools too.\nThis cost me as much thought as a statesman would have bestowed upon a\ngrand point of politics, or a judge upon the life and death of a man.\nAt length I contrived a wheel with a string, to turn it with my foot,\nthat I might have both my hands at liberty. _Note_. I had never seen\nany such thing in England, or at least, not to take notice how it was\ndone, though since I have observed, it is very common there; besides\nthat, my grindstone was very large and heavy. This machine cost me a\nfull week s work to bring it to perfection.\n\n_April_ 28, 29. These two whole days I took up in grinding my tools, my\nmachine for turning my grindstone performing very well.\n\n_April_ 30. Having perceived my bread had been low a great while, now I\ntook a survey of it, and reduced myself to one biscuit cake a day,\nwhich made my heart very heavy.\n\n_May_ 1. In the morning, looking towards the sea side, the tide being\nlow, I saw something lie on the shore bigger than ordinary, and it\nlooked like a cask; when I came to it, I found a small barrel, and two\nor three pieces of the wreck of the ship, which were driven on shore by\nthe late hurricane; and looking towards the wreck itself, I thought it\nseemed to lie higher out of the water than it used to do. I examined\nthe barrel which was driven on shore, and soon found it was a barrel of\ngunpowder; but it had taken water, and the powder was caked as hard as\na stone; however, I rolled it farther on shore for the present, and\nwent on upon the sands, as near as I could to the wreck of the ship, to\nlook for more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. ILL AND CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN\n\n\nWhen I came down to the ship I found it strangely removed. The\nforecastle, which lay before buried in sand, was heaved up at least six\nfeet, and the stern, which was broke in pieces and parted from the rest\nby the force of the sea, soon after I had left rummaging her, was\ntossed as it were up, and cast on one side; and the sand was thrown so\nhigh on that side next her stern, that whereas there was a great place\nof water before, so that I could not come within a quarter of a mile of\nthe wreck without swimming I could now walk quite up to her when the\ntide was out. I was surprised with this at first, but soon concluded it\nmust be done by the earthquake; and as by this violence the ship was\nmore broke open than formerly, so many things came daily on shore,\nwhich the sea had loosened, and which the winds and water rolled by\ndegrees to the land.\n\nThis wholly diverted my thoughts from the design of removing my\nhabitation, and I busied myself mightily, that day especially, in\nsearching whether I could make any way into the ship; but I found\nnothing was to be expected of that kind, for all the inside of the ship\nwas choked up with sand. However, as I had learned not to despair of\nanything, I resolved to pull everything to pieces that I could of the\nship, concluding that everything I could get from her would be of some\nuse or other to me.\n\n_May_ 3. I began with my saw, and cut a piece of a beam through, which\nI thought held some of the upper part or quarter-deck together, and\nwhen I had cut it through, I cleared away the sand as well as I could\nfrom the side which lay highest; but the tide coming in, I was obliged\nto give over for that time.\n\n_May_ 4. I went a-fishing, but caught not one fish that I durst eat of,\ntill I was weary of my sport; when, just going to leave off, I caught a\nyoung dolphin. I had made me a long line of some rope-yarn, but I had\nno hooks; yet I frequently caught fish enough, as much as I cared to\neat; all which I dried in the sun, and ate them dry.\n\n_May_ 5. Worked on the wreck; cut another beam asunder, and brought\nthree great fir planks off from the decks, which I tied together, and\nmade to float on shore when the tide of flood came on.\n\n_May_ 6. Worked on the wreck; got several iron bolts out of her and\nother pieces of ironwork. Worked very hard, and came home very much\ntired, and had thoughts of giving it over.\n\n_May_ 7. Went to the wreck again, not with an intent to work, but found\nthe weight of the wreck had broke itself down, the beams being cut;\nthat several pieces of the ship seemed to lie loose, and the inside of\nthe hold lay so open that I could see into it; but it was almost full\nof water and sand.\n\n_May_ 8. Went to the wreck, and carried an iron crow to wrench up the\ndeck, which lay now quite clear of the water or sand. I wrenched open\ntwo planks, and brought them on shore also with the tide. I left the\niron crow in the wreck for next day.\n\n_May_ 9. Went to the wreck, and with the crow made way into the body of\nthe wreck, and felt several casks, and loosened them with the crow, but\ncould not break them up. I felt also a roll of English lead, and could\nstir it, but it was too heavy to remove.\n\n_May_ 10 14. Went every day to the wreck; and got a great many pieces\nof timber, and boards, or plank, and two or three hundredweight of\niron.\n\n_May_ 15. I carried two hatchets, to try if I could not cut a piece off\nthe roll of lead by placing the edge of one hatchet and driving it with\nthe other; but as it lay about a foot and a half in the water, I could\nnot make any blow to drive the hatchet.\n\n_May_ 16. It had blown hard in the night, and the wreck appeared more\nbroken by the force of the water; but I stayed so long in the woods, to\nget pigeons for food, that the tide prevented my going to the wreck\nthat day.\n\n_May_ 17. I saw some pieces of the wreck blown on shore, at a great\ndistance, near two miles off me, but resolved to see what they were,\nand found it was a piece of the head, but too heavy for me to bring\naway.\n\n_May_ 24. Every day, to this day, I worked on the wreck; and with hard\nlabour I loosened some things so much with the crow, that the first\nflowing tide several casks floated out, and two of the seamen s chests;\nbut the wind blowing from the shore, nothing came to land that day but\npieces of timber, and a hogshead, which had some Brazil pork in it; but\nthe salt water and the sand had spoiled it. I continued this work every\nday to the 15th of June, except the time necessary to get food, which I\nalways appointed, during this part of my employment, to be when the\ntide was up, that I might be ready when it was ebbed out; and by this\ntime I had got timber and plank and ironwork enough to have built a\ngood boat, if I had known how; and also I got, at several times and in\nseveral pieces, near one hundredweight of the sheet lead.\n\n_June_ 16. Going down to the seaside, I found a large tortoise or\nturtle. This was the first I had seen, which, it seems, was only my\nmisfortune, not any defect of the place, or scarcity; for had I\nhappened to be on the other side of the island, I might have had\nhundreds of them every day, as I found afterwards; but perhaps had paid\ndear enough for them.\n\n_June_ 17. I spent in cooking the turtle. I found in her three-score\neggs; and her flesh was to me, at that time, the most savoury and\npleasant that ever I tasted in my life, having had no flesh, but of\ngoats and fowls, since I landed in this horrid place.\n\n_June_ 18. Rained all day, and I stayed within. I thought at this time\nthe rain felt cold, and I was something chilly; which I knew was not\nusual in that latitude.\n\n_June_ 19. Very ill, and shivering, as if the weather had been cold.\n\n_June_ 20. No rest all night; violent pains in my head, and feverish.\n\n_June_ 21. Very ill; frighted almost to death with the apprehensions of\nmy sad condition to be sick, and no help. Prayed to God, for the first\ntime since the storm off Hull, but scarce knew what I said, or why, my\nthoughts being all confused.\n\n_June_ 22. A little better; but under dreadful apprehensions of\nsickness.\n\n_June_ 23. Very bad again; cold and shivering, and then a violent\nheadache.\n\n_June_ 24. Much better.\n\n_June_ 25. An ague very violent; the fit held me seven hours; cold fit\nand hot, with faint sweats after it.\n\n_June_ 26. Better; and having no victuals to eat, took my gun, but\nfound myself very weak. However, I killed a she-goat, and with much\ndifficulty got it home, and broiled some of it, and ate, I would fain\nhave stewed it, and made some broth, but had no pot.\n\n_June_ 27. The ague again so violent that I lay a-bed all day, and\nneither ate nor drank. I was ready to perish for thirst; but so weak, I\nhad not strength to stand up, or to get myself any water to drink.\nPrayed to God again, but was light-headed; and when I was not, I was so\nignorant that I knew not what to say; only I lay and cried,  Lord, look\nupon me! Lord, pity me! Lord, have mercy upon me!  I suppose I did\nnothing else for two or three hours; till, the fit wearing off, I fell\nasleep, and did not wake till far in the night. When I awoke, I found\nmyself much refreshed, but weak, and exceeding thirsty. However, as I\nhad no water in my habitation, I was forced to lie till morning, and\nwent to sleep again. In this second sleep I had this terrible dream: I\nthought that I was sitting on the ground, on the outside of my wall,\nwhere I sat when the storm blew after the earthquake, and that I saw a\nman descend from a great black cloud, in a bright flame of fire, and\nlight upon the ground. He was all over as bright as a flame, so that I\ncould but just bear to look towards him; his countenance was most\ninexpressibly dreadful, impossible for words to describe. When he\nstepped upon the ground with his feet, I thought the earth trembled,\njust as it had done before in the earthquake, and all the air looked,\nto my apprehension, as if it had been filled with flashes of fire. He\nwas no sooner landed upon the earth, but he moved forward towards me,\nwith a long spear or weapon in his hand, to kill me; and when he came\nto a rising ground, at some distance, he spoke to me or I heard a voice\nso terrible that it is impossible to express the terror of it. All that\nI can say I understood was this:  Seeing all these things have not\nbrought thee to repentance, now thou shalt die;  at which words, I\nthought he lifted up the spear that was in his hand to kill me.\n\nNo one that shall ever read this account will expect that I should be\nable to describe the horrors of my soul at this terrible vision. I\nmean, that even while it was a dream, I even dreamed of those horrors.\nNor is it any more possible to describe the impression that remained\nupon my mind when I awaked, and found it was but a dream.\n\nI had, alas! no divine knowledge. What I had received by the good\ninstruction of my father was then worn out by an uninterrupted series,\nfor eight years, of seafaring wickedness, and a constant conversation\nwith none but such as were, like myself, wicked and profane to the last\ndegree. I do not remember that I had, in all that time, one thought\nthat so much as tended either to looking upwards towards God, or\ninwards towards a reflection upon my own ways; but a certain stupidity\nof soul, without desire of good, or conscience of evil, had entirely\noverwhelmed me; and I was all that the most hardened, unthinking,\nwicked creature among our common sailors can be supposed to be; not\nhaving the least sense, either of the fear of God in danger, or of\nthankfulness to God in deliverance.\n\nIn the relating what is already past of my story, this will be the more\neasily believed when I shall add, that through all the variety of\nmiseries that had to this day befallen me, I never had so much as one\nthought of it being the hand of God, or that it was a just punishment\nfor my sin my rebellious behaviour against my father or my present\nsins, which were great or so much as a punishment for the general\ncourse of my wicked life. When I was on the desperate expedition on the\ndesert shores of Africa, I never had so much as one thought of what\nwould become of me, or one wish to God to direct me whither I should\ngo, or to keep me from the danger which apparently surrounded me, as\nwell from voracious creatures as cruel savages. But I was merely\nthoughtless of a God or a Providence, acted like a mere brute, from the\nprinciples of nature, and by the dictates of common sense only, and,\nindeed, hardly that. When I was delivered and taken up at sea by the\nPortugal captain, well used, and dealt justly and honourably with, as\nwell as charitably, I had not the least thankfulness in my thoughts.\nWhen, again, I was shipwrecked, ruined, and in danger of drowning on\nthis island, I was as far from remorse, or looking on it as a judgment.\nI only said to myself often, that I was an unfortunate dog, and born to\nbe always miserable.\n\nIt is true, when I got on shore first here, and found all my ship s\ncrew drowned and myself spared, I was surprised with a kind of ecstasy,\nand some transports of soul, which, had the grace of God assisted,\nmight have come up to true thankfulness; but it ended where it began,\nin a mere common flight of joy, or, as I may say, being glad I was\nalive, without the least reflection upon the distinguished goodness of\nthe hand which had preserved me, and had singled me out to be preserved\nwhen all the rest were destroyed, or an inquiry why Providence had been\nthus merciful unto me. Even just the same common sort of joy which\nseamen generally have, after they are got safe ashore from a shipwreck,\nwhich they drown all in the next bowl of punch, and forget almost as\nsoon as it is over; and all the rest of my life was like it. Even when\nI was afterwards, on due consideration, made sensible of my condition,\nhow I was cast on this dreadful place, out of the reach of human kind,\nout of all hope of relief, or prospect of redemption, as soon as I saw\nbut a prospect of living and that I should not starve and perish for\nhunger, all the sense of my affliction wore off; and I began to be very\neasy, applied myself to the works proper for my preservation and\nsupply, and was far enough from being afflicted at my condition, as a\njudgment from heaven, or as the hand of God against me: these were\nthoughts which very seldom entered my head.\n\nThe growing up of the corn, as is hinted in my Journal, had at first\nsome little influence upon me, and began to affect me with seriousness,\nas long as I thought it had something miraculous in it; but as soon as\never that part of the thought was removed, all the impression that was\nraised from it wore off also, as I have noted already. Even the\nearthquake, though nothing could be more terrible in its nature, or\nmore immediately directing to the invisible Power which alone directs\nsuch things, yet no sooner was the first fright over, but the\nimpression it had made went off also. I had no more sense of God or His\njudgments much less of the present affliction of my circumstances being\nfrom His hand than if I had been in the most prosperous condition of\nlife. But now, when I began to be sick, and a leisurely view of the\nmiseries of death came to place itself before me; when my spirits began\nto sink under the burden of a strong distemper, and nature was\nexhausted with the violence of the fever; conscience, that had slept so\nlong, began to awake, and I began to reproach myself with my past life,\nin which I had so evidently, by uncommon wickedness, provoked the\njustice of God to lay me under uncommon strokes, and to deal with me in\nso vindictive a manner. These reflections oppressed me for the second\nor third day of my distemper; and in the violence, as well of the fever\nas of the dreadful reproaches of my conscience, extorted some words\nfrom me like praying to God, though I cannot say they were either a\nprayer attended with desires or with hopes: it was rather the voice of\nmere fright and distress. My thoughts were confused, the convictions\ngreat upon my mind, and the horror of dying in such a miserable\ncondition raised vapours into my head with the mere apprehensions; and\nin these hurries of my soul I knew not what my tongue might express.\nBut it was rather exclamation, such as,  Lord, what a miserable\ncreature am I! If I should be sick, I shall certainly die for want of\nhelp; and what will become of me!  Then the tears burst out of my eyes,\nand I could say no more for a good while. In this interval the good\nadvice of my father came to my mind, and presently his prediction,\nwhich I mentioned at the beginning of this story viz. that if I did\ntake this foolish step, God would not bless me, and I would have\nleisure hereafter to reflect upon having neglected his counsel when\nthere might be none to assist in my recovery.  Now,  said I, aloud,  my\ndear father s words are come to pass; God s justice has overtaken me,\nand I have none to help or hear me. I rejected the voice of Providence,\nwhich had mercifully put me in a posture or station of life wherein I\nmight have been happy and easy; but I would neither see it myself nor\nlearn to know the blessing of it from my parents. I left them to mourn\nover my folly, and now I am left to mourn under the consequences of it.\nI abused their help and assistance, who would have lifted me in the\nworld, and would have made everything easy to me; and now I have\ndifficulties to struggle with, too great for even nature itself to\nsupport, and no assistance, no help, no comfort, no advice.  Then I\ncried out,  Lord, be my help, for I am in great distress.  This was the\nfirst prayer, if I may call it so, that I had made for many years.\n\nBut to return to my Journal.\n\n_June_ 28. Having been somewhat refreshed with the sleep I had had, and\nthe fit being entirely off, I got up; and though the fright and terror\nof my dream was very great, yet I considered that the fit of the ague\nwould return again the next day, and now was my time to get something\nto refresh and support myself when I should be ill; and the first thing\nI did, I filled a large square case-bottle with water, and set it upon\nmy table, in reach of my bed; and to take off the chill or aguish\ndisposition of the water, I put about a quarter of a pint of rum into\nit, and mixed them together. Then I got me a piece of the goat s flesh\nand broiled it on the coals, but could eat very little. I walked about,\nbut was very weak, and withal very sad and heavy-hearted under a sense\nof my miserable condition, dreading, the return of my distemper the\nnext day. At night I made my supper of three of the turtle s eggs,\nwhich I roasted in the ashes, and ate, as we call it, in the shell, and\nthis was the first bit of meat I had ever asked God s blessing to, that\nI could remember, in my whole life. After I had eaten I tried to walk,\nbut found myself so weak that I could hardly carry a gun, for I never\nwent out without that; so I went but a little way, and sat down upon\nthe ground, looking out upon the sea, which was just before me, and\nvery calm and smooth. As I sat here some such thoughts as these\noccurred to me: What is this earth and sea, of which I have seen so\nmuch? Whence is it produced? And what am I, and all the other creatures\nwild and tame, human and brutal? Whence are we? Sure we are all made by\nsome secret Power, who formed the earth and sea, the air and sky. And\nwho is that? Then it followed most naturally, it is God that has made\nall. Well, but then it came on strangely, if God has made all these\nthings, He guides and governs them all, and all things that concern\nthem; for the Power that could make all things must certainly have\npower to guide and direct them. If so, nothing can happen in the great\ncircuit of His works, either without His knowledge or appointment.\n\nAnd if nothing happens without His knowledge, He knows that I am here,\nand am in this dreadful condition; and if nothing happens without His\nappointment, He has appointed all this to befall me. Nothing occurred\nto my thought to contradict any of these conclusions, and therefore it\nrested upon me with the greater force, that it must needs be that God\nhad appointed all this to befall me; that I was brought into this\nmiserable circumstance by His direction, He having the sole power, not\nof me only, but of everything that happened in the world. Immediately\nit followed: Why has God done this to me? What have I done to be thus\nused? My conscience presently checked me in that inquiry, as if I had\nblasphemed, and methought it spoke to me like a voice:  Wretch! dost\n_thou_ ask what thou hast done? Look back upon a dreadful misspent\nlife, and ask thyself what thou hast _not_ done? Ask, why is it that\nthou wert not long ago destroyed? Why wert thou not drowned in Yarmouth\nRoads; killed in the fight when the ship was taken by the Sallee\nman-of-war; devoured by the wild beasts on the coast of Africa; or\ndrowned _here_, when all the crew perished but thyself? Dost _thou_\nask, what have I done?  I was struck dumb with these reflections, as\none astonished, and had not a word to say no, not to answer to myself,\nbut rose up pensive and sad, walked back to my retreat, and went up\nover my wall, as if I had been going to bed; but my thoughts were sadly\ndisturbed, and I had no inclination to sleep; so I sat down in my\nchair, and lighted my lamp, for it began to be dark. Now, as the\napprehension of the return of my distemper terrified me very much, it\noccurred to my thought that the Brazilians take no physic but their\ntobacco for almost all distempers, and I had a piece of a roll of\ntobacco in one of the chests, which was quite cured, and some also that\nwas green, and not quite cured.\n\nI went, directed by Heaven no doubt; for in this chest I found a cure\nboth for soul and body. I opened the chest, and found what I looked\nfor, the tobacco; and as the few books I had saved lay there too, I\ntook out one of the Bibles which I mentioned before, and which to this\ntime I had not found leisure or inclination to look into. I say, I took\nit out, and brought both that and the tobacco with me to the table.\nWhat use to make of the tobacco I knew not, in my distemper, or whether\nit was good for it or no: but I tried several experiments with it, as\nif I was resolved it should hit one way or other. I first took a piece\nof leaf, and chewed it in my mouth, which, indeed, at first almost\nstupefied my brain, the tobacco being green and strong, and that I had\nnot been much used to. Then I took some and steeped it an hour or two\nin some rum, and resolved to take a dose of it when I lay down; and\nlastly, I burnt some upon a pan of coals, and held my nose close over\nthe smoke of it as long as I could bear it, as well for the heat as\nalmost for suffocation. In the interval of this operation I took up the\nBible and began to read; but my head was too much disturbed with the\ntobacco to bear reading, at least at that time; only, having opened the\nbook casually, the first words that occurred to me were these,  Call on\nMe in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt\nglorify Me.  These words were very apt to my case, and made some\nimpression upon my thoughts at the time of reading them, though not so\nmuch as they did afterwards; for, as for being _delivered_, the word\nhad no sound, as I may say, to me; the thing was so remote, so\nimpossible in my apprehension of things, that I began to say, as the\nchildren of Israel did when they were promised flesh to eat,  Can God\nspread a table in the wilderness?  so I began to say,  Can God Himself\ndeliver me from this place?  And as it was not for many years that any\nhopes appeared, this prevailed very often upon my thoughts; but,\nhowever, the words made a great impression upon me, and I mused upon\nthem very often. It grew now late, and the tobacco had, as I said,\ndozed my head so much that I inclined to sleep; so I left my lamp\nburning in the cave, lest I should want anything in the night, and went\nto bed. But before I lay down, I did what I never had done in all my\nlife I kneeled down, and prayed to God to fulfil the promise to me,\nthat if I called upon Him in the day of trouble, He would deliver me.\nAfter my broken and imperfect prayer was over, I drank the rum in which\nI had steeped the tobacco, which was so strong and rank of the tobacco\nthat I could scarcely get it down; immediately upon this I went to bed.\nI found presently it flew up into my head violently; but I fell into a\nsound sleep, and waked no more till, by the sun, it must necessarily be\nnear three o clock in the afternoon the next day nay, to this hour I am\npartly of opinion that I slept all the next day and night, and till\nalmost three the day after; for otherwise I know not how I should lose\na day out of my reckoning in the days of the week, as it appeared some\nyears after I had done; for if I had lost it by crossing and recrossing\nthe line, I should have lost more than one day; but certainly I lost a\nday in my account, and never knew which way. Be that, however, one way\nor the other, when I awaked I found myself exceedingly refreshed, and\nmy spirits lively and cheerful; when I got up I was stronger than I was\nthe day before, and my stomach better, for I was hungry; and, in short,\nI had no fit the next day, but continued much altered for the better.\nThis was the 29th.\n\nThe 30th was my well day, of course, and I went abroad with my gun, but\ndid not care to travel too far. I killed a sea-fowl or two, something\nlike a brandgoose, and brought them home, but was not very forward to\neat them; so I ate some more of the turtle s eggs, which were very\ngood. This evening I renewed the medicine, which I had supposed did me\ngood the day before the tobacco steeped in rum; only I did not take so\nmuch as before, nor did I chew any of the leaf, or hold my head over\nthe smoke; however, I was not so well the next day, which was the first\nof July, as I hoped I should have been; for I had a little spice of the\ncold fit, but it was not much.\n\n_July_ 2. I renewed the medicine all the three ways; and dosed myself\nwith it as at first, and doubled the quantity which I drank.\n\n_July_ 3. I missed the fit for good and all, though I did not recover\nmy full strength for some weeks after. While I was thus gathering\nstrength, my thoughts ran exceedingly upon this Scripture,  I will\ndeliver thee ; and the impossibility of my deliverance lay much upon my\nmind, in bar of my ever expecting it; but as I was discouraging myself\nwith such thoughts, it occurred to my mind that I pored so much upon my\ndeliverance from the main affliction, that I disregarded the\ndeliverance I had received, and I was as it were made to ask myself\nsuch questions as these viz. Have I not been delivered, and wonderfully\ntoo, from sickness from the most distressed condition that could be,\nand that was so frightful to me? and what notice had I taken of it? Had\nI done my part? God had delivered me, but I had not glorified Him that\nis to say, I had not owned and been thankful for that as a deliverance;\nand how could I expect greater deliverance? This touched my heart very\nmuch; and immediately I knelt down and gave God thanks aloud for my\nrecovery from my sickness.\n\n_July_ 4. In the morning I took the Bible; and beginning at the New\nTestament, I began seriously to read it, and imposed upon myself to\nread a while every morning and every night; not tying myself to the\nnumber of chapters, but long as my thoughts should engage me. It was\nnot long after I set seriously to this work till I found my heart more\ndeeply and sincerely affected with the wickedness of my past life. The\nimpression of my dream revived; and the words,  All these things have\nnot brought thee to repentance,  ran seriously through my thoughts. I\nwas earnestly begging of God to give me repentance, when it happened\nprovidentially, the very day, that, reading the Scripture, I came to\nthese words:  He is exalted a Prince and a Saviour, to give repentance\nand to give remission.  I threw down the book; and with my heart as\nwell as my hands lifted up to heaven, in a kind of ecstasy of joy, I\ncried out aloud,  Jesus, thou son of David! Jesus, thou exalted Prince\nand Saviour! give me repentance!  This was the first time I could say,\nin the true sense of the words, that I prayed in all my life; for now I\nprayed with a sense of my condition, and a true Scripture view of hope,\nfounded on the encouragement of the Word of God; and from this time, I\nmay say, I began to hope that God would hear me.\n\nNow I began to construe the words mentioned above,  Call on Me, and I\nwill deliver thee,  in a different sense from what I had ever done\nbefore; for then I had no notion of anything being called\n_deliverance_, but my being delivered from the captivity I was in; for\nthough I was indeed at large in the place, yet the island was certainly\na prison to me, and that in the worse sense in the world. But now I\nlearned to take it in another sense: now I looked back upon my past\nlife with such horror, and my sins appeared so dreadful, that my soul\nsought nothing of God but deliverance from the load of guilt that bore\ndown all my comfort. As for my solitary life, it was nothing. I did not\nso much as pray to be delivered from it or think of it; it was all of\nno consideration in comparison to this. And I add this part here, to\nhint to whoever shall read it, that whenever they come to a true sense\nof things, they will find deliverance from sin a much greater blessing\nthan deliverance from affliction.\n\nBut, leaving this part, I return to my Journal.\n\nMy condition began now to be, though not less miserable as to my way of\nliving, yet much easier to my mind: and my thoughts being directed, by\na constant reading the Scripture and praying to God, to things of a\nhigher nature, I had a great deal of comfort within, which till now I\nknew nothing of; also, my health and strength returned, I bestirred\nmyself to furnish myself with everything that I wanted, and make my way\nof living as regular as I could.\n\nFrom the 4th of July to the 14th I was chiefly employed in walking\nabout with my gun in my hand, a little and a little at a time, as a man\nthat was gathering up his strength after a fit of sickness; for it is\nhardly to be imagined how low I was, and to what weakness I was\nreduced. The application which I made use of was perfectly new, and\nperhaps which had never cured an ague before; neither can I recommend\nit to any to practise, by this experiment: and though it did carry off\nthe fit, yet it rather contributed to weakening me; for I had frequent\nconvulsions in my nerves and limbs for some time. I learned from it\nalso this, in particular, that being abroad in the rainy season was the\nmost pernicious thing to my health that could be, especially in those\nrains which came attended with storms and hurricanes of wind; for as\nthe rain which came in the dry season was almost always accompanied\nwith such storms, so I found that rain was much more dangerous than the\nrain which fell in September and October.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. AGRICULTURAL EXPERIENCE\n\n\nI had now been in this unhappy island above ten months. All possibility\nof deliverance from this condition seemed to be entirely taken from me;\nand I firmly believe that no human shape had ever set foot upon that\nplace. Having now secured my habitation, as I thought, fully to my\nmind, I had a great desire to make a more perfect discovery of the\nisland, and to see what other productions I might find, which I yet\nknew nothing of.\n\nIt was on the 15th of July that I began to take a more particular\nsurvey of the island itself. I went up the creek first, where, as I\nhinted, I brought my rafts on shore. I found after I came about two\nmiles up, that the tide did not flow any higher, and that it was no\nmore than a little brook of running water, very fresh and good; but\nthis being the dry season, there was hardly any water in some parts of\nit at least not enough to run in any stream, so as it could be\nperceived. On the banks of this brook I found many pleasant savannahs\nor meadows, plain, smooth, and covered with grass; and on the rising\nparts of them, next to the higher grounds, where the water, as might be\nsupposed, never overflowed, I found a great deal of tobacco, green, and\ngrowing to a great and very strong stalk. There were divers other\nplants, which I had no notion of or understanding about, that might,\nperhaps, have virtues of their own, which I could not find out. I\nsearched for the cassava root, which the Indians, in all that climate,\nmake their bread of, but I could find none. I saw large plants of\naloes, but did not understand them. I saw several sugar-canes, but\nwild, and, for want of cultivation, imperfect. I contented myself with\nthese discoveries for this time, and came back, musing with myself what\ncourse I might take to know the virtue and goodness of any of the\nfruits or plants which I should discover, but could bring it to no\nconclusion; for, in short, I had made so little observation while I was\nin the Brazils, that I knew little of the plants in the field; at\nleast, very little that might serve to any purpose now in my distress.\n\nThe next day, the sixteenth, I went up the same way again; and after\ngoing something further than I had gone the day before, I found the\nbrook and the savannahs cease, and the country become more woody than\nbefore. In this part I found different fruits, and particularly I found\nmelons upon the ground, in great abundance, and grapes upon the trees.\nThe vines had spread, indeed, over the trees, and the clusters of\ngrapes were just now in their prime, very ripe and rich. This was a\nsurprising discovery, and I was exceeding glad of them; but I was\nwarned by my experience to eat sparingly of them; remembering that when\nI was ashore in Barbary, the eating of grapes killed several of our\nEnglishmen, who were slaves there, by throwing them into fluxes and\nfevers. But I found an excellent use for these grapes; and that was, to\ncure or dry them in the sun, and keep them as dried grapes or raisins\nare kept, which I thought would be, as indeed they were, wholesome and\nagreeable to eat when no grapes could be had.\n\nI spent all that evening there, and went not back to my habitation;\nwhich, by the way, was the first night, as I might say, I had lain from\nhome. In the night, I took my first contrivance, and got up in a tree,\nwhere I slept well; and the next morning proceeded upon my discovery;\ntravelling nearly four miles, as I might judge by the length of the\nvalley, keeping still due north, with a ridge of hills on the south and\nnorth side of me. At the end of this march I came to an opening where\nthe country seemed to descend to the west; and a little spring of fresh\nwater, which issued out of the side of the hill by me, ran the other\nway, that is, due east; and the country appeared so fresh, so green, so\nflourishing, everything being in a constant verdure or flourish of\nspring that it looked like a planted garden. I descended a little on\nthe side of that delicious vale, surveying it with a secret kind of\npleasure, though mixed with my other afflicting thoughts, to think that\nthis was all my own; that I was king and lord of all this country\nindefensibly, and had a right of possession; and if I could convey it,\nI might have it in inheritance as completely as any lord of a manor in\nEngland. I saw here abundance of cocoa trees, orange, and lemon, and\ncitron trees; but all wild, and very few bearing any fruit, at least\nnot then. However, the green limes that I gathered were not only\npleasant to eat, but very wholesome; and I mixed their juice afterwards\nwith water, which made it very wholesome, and very cool and refreshing.\nI found now I had business enough to gather and carry home; and I\nresolved to lay up a store as well of grapes as limes and lemons, to\nfurnish myself for the wet season, which I knew was approaching. In\norder to do this, I gathered a great heap of grapes in one place, a\nlesser heap in another place, and a great parcel of limes and lemons in\nanother place; and taking a few of each with me, I travelled homewards;\nresolving to come again, and bring a bag or sack, or what I could make,\nto carry the rest home. Accordingly, having spent three days in this\njourney, I came home (so I must now call my tent and my cave); but\nbefore I got thither the grapes were spoiled; the richness of the fruit\nand the weight of the juice having broken them and bruised them, they\nwere good for little or nothing; as to the limes, they were good, but I\ncould bring but a few.\n\nThe next day, being the nineteenth, I went back, having made me two\nsmall bags to bring home my harvest; but I was surprised, when coming\nto my heap of grapes, which were so rich and fine when I gathered them,\nto find them all spread about, trod to pieces, and dragged about, some\nhere, some there, and abundance eaten and devoured. By this I concluded\nthere were some wild creatures thereabouts, which had done this; but\nwhat they were I knew not. However, as I found there was no laying them\nup on heaps, and no carrying them away in a sack, but that one way they\nwould be destroyed, and the other way they would be crushed with their\nown weight, I took another course; for I gathered a large quantity of\nthe grapes, and hung upon the out-branches of the trees, that they\nmight cure and dry in the sun; and as for the limes and lemons, I\ncarried as many back as I could well stand under.\n\nWhen I came home from this journey, I contemplated with great pleasure\nthe fruitfulness of that valley, and the pleasantness of the situation;\nthe security from storms on that side of the water, and the wood: and\nconcluded that I had pitched upon a place to fix my abode which was by\nfar the worst part of the country. Upon the whole, I began to consider\nof removing my habitation, and looking out for a place equally safe as\nwhere now I was situate, if possible, in that pleasant, fruitful part\nof the island.\n\nThis thought ran long in my head, and I was exceeding fond of it for\nsome time, the pleasantness of the place tempting me; but when I came\nto a nearer view of it, I considered that I was now by the seaside,\nwhere it was at least possible that something might happen to my\nadvantage, and, by the same ill fate that brought me hither might bring\nsome other unhappy wretches to the same place; and though it was scarce\nprobable that any such thing should ever happen, yet to enclose myself\namong the hills and woods in the centre of the island was to anticipate\nmy bondage, and to render such an affair not only improbable, but\nimpossible; and that therefore I ought not by any means to remove.\nHowever, I was so enamoured of this place, that I spent much of my time\nthere for the whole of the remaining part of the month of July; and\nthough upon second thoughts, I resolved not to remove, yet I built me a\nlittle kind of a bower, and surrounded it at a distance with a strong\nfence, being a double hedge, as high as I could reach, well staked and\nfilled between with brushwood; and here I lay very secure, sometimes\ntwo or three nights together; always going over it with a ladder; so\nthat I fancied now I had my country house and my sea-coast house; and\nthis work took me up to the beginning of August.\n\nI had but newly finished my fence, and began to enjoy my labour, when\nthe rains came on, and made me stick close to my first habitation; for\nthough I had made me a tent like the other, with a piece of a sail, and\nspread it very well, yet I had not the shelter of a hill to keep me\nfrom storms, nor a cave behind me to retreat into when the rains were\nextraordinary.\n\nAbout the beginning of August, as I said, I had finished my bower, and\nbegan to enjoy myself. The 3rd of August, I found the grapes I had hung\nup perfectly dried, and, indeed, were excellent good raisins of the\nsun; so I began to take them down from the trees, and it was very happy\nthat I did so, for the rains which followed would have spoiled them,\nand I had lost the best part of my winter food; for I had above two\nhundred large bunches of them. No sooner had I taken them all down, and\ncarried the most of them home to my cave, than it began to rain; and\nfrom hence, which was the 14th of August, it rained, more or less,\nevery day till the middle of October; and sometimes so violently, that\nI could not stir out of my cave for several days.\n\nIn this season I was much surprised with the increase of my family; I\nhad been concerned for the loss of one of my cats, who ran away from\nme, or, as I thought, had been dead, and I heard no more tidings of her\ntill, to my astonishment, she came home about the end of August with\nthree kittens. This was the more strange to me because, though I had\nkilled a wild cat, as I called it, with my gun, yet I thought it was\nquite a different kind from our European cats; but the young cats were\nthe same kind of house-breed as the old one; and both my cats being\nfemales, I thought it very strange. But from these three cats I\nafterwards came to be so pestered with cats that I was forced to kill\nthem like vermin or wild beasts, and to drive them from my house as\nmuch as possible.\n\nFrom the 14th of August to the 26th, incessant rain, so that I could\nnot stir, and was now very careful not to be much wet. In this\nconfinement, I began to be straitened for food: but venturing out\ntwice, I one day killed a goat; and the last day, which was the 26th,\nfound a very large tortoise, which was a treat to me, and my food was\nregulated thus: I ate a bunch of raisins for my breakfast; a piece of\nthe goat s flesh, or of the turtle, for my dinner, broiled for, to my\ngreat misfortune, I had no vessel to boil or stew anything; and two or\nthree of the turtle s eggs for my supper.\n\nDuring this confinement in my cover by the rain, I worked daily two or\nthree hours at enlarging my cave, and by degrees worked it on towards\none side, till I came to the outside of the hill, and made a door or\nway out, which came beyond my fence or wall; and so I came in and out\nthis way. But I was not perfectly easy at lying so open; for, as I had\nmanaged myself before, I was in a perfect enclosure; whereas now I\nthought I lay exposed, and open for anything to come in upon me; and\nyet I could not perceive that there was any living thing to fear, the\nbiggest creature that I had yet seen upon the island being a goat.\n\n_Sept._ 30. I was now come to the unhappy anniversary of my landing. I\ncast up the notches on my post, and found I had been on shore three\nhundred and sixty-five days. I kept this day as a solemn fast, setting\nit apart for religious exercise, prostrating myself on the ground with\nthe most serious humiliation, confessing my sins to God, acknowledging\nHis righteous judgments upon me, and praying to Him to have mercy on me\nthrough Jesus Christ; and not having tasted the least refreshment for\ntwelve hours, even till the going down of the sun, I then ate a\nbiscuit-cake and a bunch of grapes, and went to bed, finishing the day\nas I began it. I had all this time observed no Sabbath day; for as at\nfirst I had no sense of religion upon my mind, I had, after some time,\nomitted to distinguish the weeks, by making a longer notch than\nordinary for the Sabbath day, and so did not really know what any of\nthe days were; but now, having cast up the days as above, I found I had\nbeen there a year; so I divided it into weeks, and set apart every\nseventh day for a Sabbath; though I found at the end of my account I\nhad lost a day or two in my reckoning. A little after this, my ink\nbegan to fail me, and so I contented myself to use it more sparingly,\nand to write down only the most remarkable events of my life, without\ncontinuing a daily memorandum of other things.\n\nThe rainy season and the dry season began now to appear regular to me,\nand I learned to divide them so as to provide for them accordingly; but\nI bought all my experience before I had it, and this I am going to\nrelate was one of the most discouraging experiments that I made.\n\nI have mentioned that I had saved the few ears of barley and rice,\nwhich I had so surprisingly found spring up, as I thought, of\nthemselves, and I believe there were about thirty stalks of rice, and\nabout twenty of barley; and now I thought it a proper time to sow it,\nafter the rains, the sun being in its southern position, going from me.\nAccordingly, I dug up a piece of ground as well as I could with my\nwooden spade, and dividing it into two parts, I sowed my grain; but as\nI was sowing, it casually occurred to my thoughts that I would not sow\nit all at first, because I did not know when was the proper time for\nit, so I sowed about two-thirds of the seed, leaving about a handful of\neach. It was a great comfort to me afterwards that I did so, for not\none grain of what I sowed this time came to anything: for the dry\nmonths following, the earth having had no rain after the seed was sown,\nit had no moisture to assist its growth, and never came up at all till\nthe wet season had come again, and then it grew as if it had been but\nnewly sown. Finding my first seed did not grow, which I easily imagined\nwas by the drought, I sought for a moister piece of ground to make\nanother trial in, and I dug up a piece of ground near my new bower, and\nsowed the rest of my seed in February, a little before the vernal\nequinox; and this having the rainy months of March and April to water\nit, sprung up very pleasantly, and yielded a very good crop; but having\npart of the seed left only, and not daring to sow all that I had, I had\nbut a small quantity at last, my whole crop not amounting to above half\na peck of each kind. But by this experiment I was made master of my\nbusiness, and knew exactly when the proper season was to sow, and that\nI might expect two seed-times and two harvests every year.\n\nWhile this corn was growing I made a little discovery, which was of use\nto me afterwards. As soon as the rains were over, and the weather began\nto settle, which was about the month of November, I made a visit up the\ncountry to my bower, where, though I had not been some months, yet I\nfound all things just as I left them. The circle or double hedge that I\nhad made was not only firm and entire, but the stakes which I had cut\nout of some trees that grew thereabouts were all shot out and grown\nwith long branches, as much as a willow-tree usually shoots the first\nyear after lopping its head. I could not tell what tree to call it that\nthese stakes were cut from. I was surprised, and yet very well pleased,\nto see the young trees grow; and I pruned them, and led them up to grow\nas much alike as I could; and it is scarce credible how beautiful a\nfigure they grew into in three years; so that though the hedge made a\ncircle of about twenty-five yards in diameter, yet the trees, for such\nI might now call them, soon covered it, and it was a complete shade,\nsufficient to lodge under all the dry season. This made me resolve to\ncut some more stakes, and make me a hedge like this, in a semi-circle\nround my wall (I mean that of my first dwelling), which I did; and\nplacing the trees or stakes in a double row, at about eight yards\ndistance from my first fence, they grew presently, and were at first a\nfine cover to my habitation, and afterwards served for a defence also,\nas I shall observe in its order.\n\nI found now that the seasons of the year might generally be divided,\nnot into summer and winter, as in Europe, but into the rainy seasons\nand the dry seasons, which were generally thus: The half of February,\nthe whole of March, and the half of April rainy, the sun being then on\nor near the equinox.\n\nThe half of April, the whole of May, June, and July, and the half of\nAugust dry, the sun being then to the north of the line.\n\nThe half of August, the whole of September, and the half of\nOctober rainy, the sun being then come back.\n\nThe half of October, the whole of November, December, and January, and\nthe half of February dry, the sun being then to the south of the line.\n\nThe rainy seasons sometimes held longer or shorter as the winds\nhappened to blow, but this was the general observation I made. After I\nhad found by experience the ill consequences of being abroad in the\nrain, I took care to furnish myself with provisions beforehand, that I\nmight not be obliged to go out, and I sat within doors as much as\npossible during the wet months. This time I found much employment, and\nvery suitable also to the time, for I found great occasion for many\nthings which I had no way to furnish myself with but by hard labour and\nconstant application; particularly I tried many ways to make myself a\nbasket, but all the twigs I could get for the purpose proved so brittle\nthat they would do nothing. It proved of excellent advantage to me now,\nthat when I was a boy, I used to take great delight in standing at a\nbasket-maker s, in the town where my father lived, to see them make\ntheir wicker-ware; and being, as boys usually are, very officious to\nhelp, and a great observer of the manner in which they worked those\nthings, and sometimes lending a hand, I had by these means full\nknowledge of the methods of it, and I wanted nothing but the materials,\nwhen it came into my mind that the twigs of that tree from whence I cut\nmy stakes that grew might possibly be as tough as the sallows, willows,\nand osiers in England, and I resolved to try. Accordingly, the next day\nI went to my country house, as I called it, and cutting some of the\nsmaller twigs, I found them to my purpose as much as I could desire;\nwhereupon I came the next time prepared with a hatchet to cut down a\nquantity, which I soon found, for there was great plenty of them. These\nI set up to dry within my circle or hedge, and when they were fit for\nuse I carried them to my cave; and here, during the next season, I\nemployed myself in making, as well as I could, a great many baskets,\nboth to carry earth or to carry or lay up anything, as I had occasion;\nand though I did not finish them very handsomely, yet I made them\nsufficiently serviceable for my purpose; thus, afterwards, I took care\nnever to be without them; and as my wicker-ware decayed, I made more,\nespecially strong, deep baskets to place my corn in, instead of sacks,\nwhen I should come to have any quantity of it.\n\nHaving mastered this difficulty, and employed a world of time about it,\nI bestirred myself to see, if possible, how to supply two wants. I had\nno vessels to hold anything that was liquid, except two runlets, which\nwere almost full of rum, and some glass bottles some of the common\nsize, and others which were case bottles, square, for the holding of\nwater, spirits, &c. I had not so much as a pot to boil anything, except\na great kettle, which I saved out of the ship, and which was too big\nfor such as I desired it viz. to make broth, and stew a bit of meat by\nitself. The second thing I fain would have had was a tobacco-pipe, but\nit was impossible to me to make one; however, I found a contrivance for\nthat, too, at last. I employed myself in planting my second rows of\nstakes or piles, and in this wicker-working all the summer or dry\nseason, when another business took me up more time than it could be\nimagined I could spare.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. SURVEYS HIS POSITION\n\n\nI mentioned before that I had a great mind to see the whole island, and\nthat I had travelled up the brook, and so on to where I built my bower,\nand where I had an opening quite to the sea, on the other side of the\nisland. I now resolved to travel quite across to the sea-shore on that\nside; so, taking my gun, a hatchet, and my dog, and a larger quantity\nof powder and shot than usual, with two biscuit-cakes and a great bunch\nof raisins in my pouch for my store, I began my journey. When I had\npassed the vale where my bower stood, as above, I came within view of\nthe sea to the west, and it being a very clear day, I fairly descried\nland whether an island or a continent I could not tell; but it lay very\nhigh, extending from the W. to the W.S.W. at a very great distance; by\nmy guess it could not be less than fifteen or twenty leagues off.\n\nI could not tell what part of the world this might be, otherwise than\nthat I knew it must be part of America, and, as I concluded by all my\nobservations, must be near the Spanish dominions, and perhaps was all\ninhabited by savages, where, if I had landed, I had been in a worse\ncondition than I was now; and therefore I acquiesced in the\ndispositions of Providence, which I began now to own and to believe\nordered everything for the best; I say I quieted my mind with this, and\nleft off afflicting myself with fruitless wishes of being there.\n\nBesides, after some thought upon this affair, I considered that if this\nland was the Spanish coast, I should certainly, one time or other, see\nsome vessel pass or repass one way or other; but if not, then it was\nthe savage coast between the Spanish country and Brazils, where are\nfound the worst of savages; for they are cannibals or men-eaters, and\nfail not to murder and devour all the human bodies that fall into their\nhands.\n\nWith these considerations, I walked very leisurely forward. I found\nthat side of the island where I now was much pleasanter than mine the\nopen or savannah fields sweet, adorned with flowers and grass, and full\nof very fine woods. I saw abundance of parrots, and fain I would have\ncaught one, if possible, to have kept it to be tame, and taught it to\nspeak to me. I did, after some painstaking, catch a young parrot, for I\nknocked it down with a stick, and having recovered it, I brought it\nhome; but it was some years before I could make him speak; however, at\nlast I taught him to call me by name very familiarly. But the accident\nthat followed, though it be a trifle, will be very diverting in its\nplace.\n\nI was exceedingly diverted with this journey. I found in the low\ngrounds hares (as I thought them to be) and foxes; but they differed\ngreatly from all the other kinds I had met with, nor could I satisfy\nmyself to eat them, though I killed several. But I had no need to be\nventurous, for I had no want of food, and of that which was very good\ntoo, especially these three sorts, viz. goats, pigeons, and turtle, or\ntortoise, which added to my grapes, Leadenhall market could not have\nfurnished a table better than I, in proportion to the company; and\nthough my case was deplorable enough, yet I had great cause for\nthankfulness that I was not driven to any extremities for food, but had\nrather plenty, even to dainties.\n\nI never travelled in this journey above two miles outright in a day, or\nthereabouts; but I took so many turns and re-turns to see what\ndiscoveries I could make, that I came weary enough to the place where I\nresolved to sit down all night; and then I either reposed myself in a\ntree, or surrounded myself with a row of stakes set upright in the\nground, either from one tree to another, or so as no wild creature\ncould come at me without waking me.\n\nAs soon as I came to the sea-shore, I was surprised to see that I had\ntaken up my lot on the worst side of the island, for here, indeed, the\nshore was covered with innumerable turtles, whereas on the other side I\nhad found but three in a year and a half. Here was also an infinite\nnumber of fowls of many kinds, some which I had seen, and some which I\nhad not seen before, and many of them very good meat, but such as I\nknew not the names of, except those called penguins.\n\nI could have shot as many as I pleased, but was very sparing of my\npowder and shot, and therefore had more mind to kill a she-goat if I\ncould, which I could better feed on; and though there were many goats\nhere, more than on my side the island, yet it was with much more\ndifficulty that I could come near them, the country being flat and\neven, and they saw me much sooner than when I was on the hills.\n\nI confess this side of the country was much pleasanter than mine; but\nyet I had not the least inclination to remove, for as I was fixed in my\nhabitation it became natural to me, and I seemed all the while I was\nhere to be as it were upon a journey, and from home. However, I\ntravelled along the shore of the sea towards the east, I suppose about\ntwelve miles, and then setting up a great pole upon the shore for a\nmark, I concluded I would go home again, and that the next journey I\ntook should be on the other side of the island east from my dwelling,\nand so round till I came to my post again.\n\nI took another way to come back than that I went, thinking I could\neasily keep all the island so much in my view that I could not miss\nfinding my first dwelling by viewing the country; but I found myself\nmistaken, for being come about two or three miles, I found myself\ndescended into a very large valley, but so surrounded with hills, and\nthose hills covered with wood, that I could not see which was my way by\nany direction but that of the sun, nor even then, unless I knew very\nwell the position of the sun at that time of the day. It happened, to\nmy further misfortune, that the weather proved hazy for three or four\ndays while I was in the valley, and not being able to see the sun, I\nwandered about very uncomfortably, and at last was obliged to find the\nseaside, look for my post, and come back the same way I went: and then,\nby easy journeys, I turned homeward, the weather being exceeding hot,\nand my gun, ammunition, hatchet, and other things very heavy.\n\nIn this journey my dog surprised a young kid, and seized upon it; and\nI, running in to take hold of it, caught it, and saved it alive from\nthe dog. I had a great mind to bring it home if I could, for I had\noften been musing whether it might not be possible to get a kid or two,\nand so raise a breed of tame goats, which might supply me when my\npowder and shot should be all spent. I made a collar for this little\ncreature, and with a string, which I made of some rope-yarn, which I\nalways carried about me, I led him along, though with some difficulty,\ntill I came to my bower, and there I enclosed him and left him, for I\nwas very impatient to be at home, from whence I had been absent above a\nmonth.\n\nI cannot express what a satisfaction it was to me to come into my old\nhutch, and lie down in my hammock-bed. This little wandering journey,\nwithout settled place of abode, had been so unpleasant to me, that my\nown house, as I called it to myself, was a perfect settlement to me\ncompared to that; and it rendered everything about me so comfortable,\nthat I resolved I would never go a great way from it again while it\nshould be my lot to stay on the island.\n\nI reposed myself here a week, to rest and regale myself after my long\njourney; during which most of the time was taken up in the weighty\naffair of making a cage for my Poll, who began now to be a mere\ndomestic, and to be well acquainted with me. Then I began to think of\nthe poor kid which I had penned in within my little circle, and\nresolved to go and fetch it home, or give it some food; accordingly I\nwent, and found it where I left it, for indeed it could not get out,\nbut was almost starved for want of food. I went and cut boughs of\ntrees, and branches of such shrubs as I could find, and threw it over,\nand having fed it, I tied it as I did before, to lead it away; but it\nwas so tame with being hungry, that I had no need to have tied it, for\nit followed me like a dog: and as I continually fed it, the creature\nbecame so loving, so gentle, and so fond, that it became from that time\none of my domestics also, and would never leave me afterwards.\n\nThe rainy season of the autumnal equinox was now come, and I kept the\n30th of September in the same solemn manner as before, being the\nanniversary of my landing on the island, having now been there two\nyears, and no more prospect of being delivered than the first day I\ncame there, I spent the whole day in humble and thankful\nacknowledgments of the many wonderful mercies which my solitary\ncondition was attended with, and without which it might have been\ninfinitely more miserable. I gave humble and hearty thanks that God had\nbeen pleased to discover to me that it was possible I might be more\nhappy in this solitary condition than I should have been in the liberty\nof society, and in all the pleasures of the world; that He could fully\nmake up to me the deficiencies of my solitary state, and the want of\nhuman society, by His presence and the communications of His grace to\nmy soul; supporting, comforting, and encouraging me to depend upon His\nprovidence here, and hope for His eternal presence hereafter.\n\nIt was now that I began sensibly to feel how much more happy this life\nI now led was, with all its miserable circumstances, than the wicked,\ncursed, abominable life I led all the past part of my days; and now I\nchanged both my sorrows and my joys; my very desires altered, my\naffections changed their gusts, and my delights were perfectly new from\nwhat they were at my first coming, or, indeed, for the two years past.\n\nBefore, as I walked about, either on my hunting or for viewing the\ncountry, the anguish of my soul at my condition would break out upon me\non a sudden, and my very heart would die within me, to think of the\nwoods, the mountains, the deserts I was in, and how I was a prisoner,\nlocked up with the eternal bars and bolts of the ocean, in an\nuninhabited wilderness, without redemption. In the midst of the\ngreatest composure of my mind, this would break out upon me like a\nstorm, and make me wring my hands and weep like a child. Sometimes it\nwould take me in the middle of my work, and I would immediately sit\ndown and sigh, and look upon the ground for an hour or two together;\nand this was still worse to me, for if I could burst out into tears, or\nvent myself by words, it would go off, and the grief, having exhausted\nitself, would abate.\n\nBut now I began to exercise myself with new thoughts: I daily read the\nword of God, and applied all the comforts of it to my present state.\nOne morning, being very sad, I opened the Bible upon these words,  I\nwill never, never leave thee, nor forsake thee.  Immediately it\noccurred that these words were to me; why else should they be directed\nin such a manner, just at the moment when I was mourning over my\ncondition, as one forsaken of God and man?  Well, then,  said I,  if\nGod does not forsake me, of what ill consequence can it be, or what\nmatters it, though the world should all forsake me, seeing on the other\nhand, if I had all the world, and should lose the favour and blessing\nof God, there would be no comparison in the loss? \n\nFrom this moment I began to conclude in my mind that it was possible\nfor me to be more happy in this forsaken, solitary condition than it\nwas probable I should ever have been in any other particular state in\nthe world; and with this thought I was going to give thanks to God for\nbringing me to this place. I know not what it was, but something\nshocked my mind at that thought, and I durst not speak the words.  How\ncanst thou become such a hypocrite,  said I, even audibly,  to pretend\nto be thankful for a condition which, however thou mayest endeavour to\nbe contented with, thou wouldst rather pray heartily to be delivered\nfrom?  So I stopped there; but though I could not say I thanked God for\nbeing there, yet I sincerely gave thanks to God for opening my eyes, by\nwhatever afflicting providences, to see the former condition of my\nlife, and to mourn for my wickedness, and repent. I never opened the\nBible, or shut it, but my very soul within me blessed God for directing\nmy friend in England, without any order of mine, to pack it up among my\ngoods, and for assisting me afterwards to save it out of the wreck of\nthe ship.\n\nThus, and in this disposition of mind, I began my third year; and\nthough I have not given the reader the trouble of so particular an\naccount of my works this year as the first, yet in general it may be\nobserved that I was very seldom idle, but having regularly divided my\ntime according to the several daily employments that were before me,\nsuch as: first, my duty to God, and the reading the Scriptures, which I\nconstantly set apart some time for thrice every day; secondly, the\ngoing abroad with my gun for food, which generally took me up three\nhours in every morning, when it did not rain; thirdly, the ordering,\ncutting, preserving, and cooking what I had killed or caught for my\nsupply; these took up great part of the day. Also, it is to be\nconsidered, that in the middle of the day, when the sun was in the\nzenith, the violence of the heat was too great to stir out; so that\nabout four hours in the evening was all the time I could be supposed to\nwork in, with this exception, that sometimes I changed my hours of\nhunting and working, and went to work in the morning, and abroad with\nmy gun in the afternoon.\n\nTo this short time allowed for labour I desire may be added the\nexceeding laboriousness of my work; the many hours which, for want of\ntools, want of help, and want of skill, everything I did took up out of\nmy time. For example, I was full two and forty days in making a board\nfor a long shelf, which I wanted in my cave; whereas, two sawyers, with\ntheir tools and a saw-pit, would have cut six of them out of the same\ntree in half a day.\n\nMy case was this: it was to be a large tree which was to be cut down,\nbecause my board was to be a broad one. This tree I was three days in\ncutting down, and two more cutting off the boughs, and reducing it to a\nlog or piece of timber. With inexpressible hacking and hewing I reduced\nboth the sides of it into chips till it began to be light enough to\nmove; then I turned it, and made one side of it smooth and flat as a\nboard from end to end; then, turning that side downward, cut the other\nside til I brought the plank to be about three inches thick, and smooth\non both sides. Any one may judge the labour of my hands in such a piece\nof work; but labour and patience carried me through that, and many\nother things. I only observe this in particular, to show the reason why\nso much of my time went away with so little work viz. that what might\nbe a little to be done with help and tools, was a vast labour and\nrequired a prodigious time to do alone, and by hand. But\nnotwithstanding this, with patience and labour I got through everything\nthat my circumstances made necessary to me to do, as will appear by\nwhat follows.\n\nI was now, in the months of November and December, expecting my crop of\nbarley and rice. The ground I had manured and dug up for them was not\ngreat; for, as I observed, my seed of each was not above the quantity\nof half a peck, for I had lost one whole crop by sowing in the dry\nseason. But now my crop promised very well, when on a sudden I found I\nwas in danger of losing it all again by enemies of several sorts, which\nit was scarcely possible to keep from it; as, first, the goats, and\nwild creatures which I called hares, who, tasting the sweetness of the\nblade, lay in it night and day, as soon as it came up, and eat it so\nclose, that it could get no time to shoot up into stalk.\n\nThis I saw no remedy for but by making an enclosure about it with a\nhedge; which I did with a great deal of toil, and the more, because it\nrequired speed. However, as my arable land was but small, suited to my\ncrop, I got it totally well fenced in about three weeks  time; and\nshooting some of the creatures in the daytime, I set my dog to guard it\nin the night, tying him up to a stake at the gate, where he would stand\nand bark all night long; so in a little time the enemies forsook the\nplace, and the corn grew very strong and well, and began to ripen\napace.\n\nBut as the beasts ruined me before, while my corn was in the blade, so\nthe birds were as likely to ruin me now, when it was in the ear; for,\ngoing along by the place to see how it throve, I saw my little crop\nsurrounded with fowls, of I know not how many sorts, who stood, as it\nwere, watching till I should be gone. I immediately let fly among them,\nfor I always had my gun with me. I had no sooner shot, but there rose\nup a little cloud of fowls, which I had not seen at all, from among the\ncorn itself.\n\nThis touched me sensibly, for I foresaw that in a few days they would\ndevour all my hopes; that I should be starved, and never be able to\nraise a crop at all; and what to do I could not tell; however, I\nresolved not to lose my corn, if possible, though I should watch it\nnight and day. In the first place, I went among it to see what damage\nwas already done, and found they had spoiled a good deal of it; but\nthat as it was yet too green for them, the loss was not so great but\nthat the remainder was likely to be a good crop if it could be saved.\n\nI stayed by it to load my gun, and then coming away, I could easily see\nthe thieves sitting upon all the trees about me, as if they only waited\ntill I was gone away, and the event proved it to be so; for as I walked\noff, as if I was gone, I was no sooner out of their sight than they\ndropped down one by one into the corn again. I was so provoked, that I\ncould not have patience to stay till more came on, knowing that every\ngrain that they ate now was, as it might be said, a peck-loaf to me in\nthe consequence; but coming up to the hedge, I fired again, and killed\nthree of them. This was what I wished for; so I took them up, and\nserved them as we serve notorious thieves in England hanged them in\nchains, for a terror to others. It is impossible to imagine that this\nshould have such an effect as it had, for the fowls would not only not\ncome at the corn, but, in short, they forsook all that part of the\nisland, and I could never see a bird near the place as long as my\nscarecrows hung there. This I was very glad of, you may be sure, and\nabout the latter end of December, which was our second harvest of the\nyear, I reaped my corn.\n\nI was sadly put to it for a scythe or sickle to cut it down, and all I\ncould do was to make one, as well as I could, out of one of the\nbroadswords, or cutlasses, which I saved among the arms out of the\nship. However, as my first crop was but small, I had no great\ndifficulty to cut it down; in short, I reaped it in my way, for I cut\nnothing off but the ears, and carried it away in a great basket which I\nhad made, and so rubbed it out with my hands; and at the end of all my\nharvesting, I found that out of my half-peck of seed I had near two\nbushels of rice, and about two bushels and a half of barley; that is to\nsay, by my guess, for I had no measure at that time.\n\nHowever, this was a great encouragement to me, and I foresaw that, in\ntime, it would please God to supply me with bread. And yet here I was\nperplexed again, for I neither knew how to grind or make meal of my\ncorn, or indeed how to clean it and part it; nor, if made into meal,\nhow to make bread of it; and if how to make it, yet I knew not how to\nbake it. These things being added to my desire of having a good\nquantity for store, and to secure a constant supply, I resolved not to\ntaste any of this crop but to preserve it all for seed against the next\nseason; and in the meantime to employ all my study and hours of working\nto accomplish this great work of providing myself with corn and bread.\n\nIt might be truly said, that now I worked for my bread. I believe few\npeople have thought much upon the strange multitude of little things\nnecessary in the providing, producing, curing, dressing, making, and\nfinishing this one article of bread.\n\nI, that was reduced to a mere state of nature, found this to my daily\ndiscouragement; and was made more sensible of it every hour, even after\nI had got the first handful of seed-corn, which, as I have said, came\nup unexpectedly, and indeed to a surprise.\n\nFirst, I had no plough to turn up the earth no spade or shovel to dig\nit. Well, this I conquered by making me a wooden spade, as I observed\nbefore; but this did my work but in a wooden manner; and though it cost\nme a great many days to make it, yet, for want of iron, it not only\nwore out soon, but made my work the harder, and made it be performed\nmuch worse. However, this I bore with, and was content to work it out\nwith patience, and bear with the badness of the performance. When the\ncorn was sown, I had no harrow, but was forced to go over it myself,\nand drag a great heavy bough of a tree over it, to scratch it, as it\nmay be called, rather than rake or harrow it. When it was growing, and\ngrown, I have observed already how many things I wanted to fence it,\nsecure it, mow or reap it, cure and carry it home, thrash, part it from\nthe chaff, and save it. Then I wanted a mill to grind it, sieves to\ndress it, yeast and salt to make it into bread, and an oven to bake it;\nbut all these things I did without, as shall be observed; and yet the\ncorn was an inestimable comfort and advantage to me too. All this, as I\nsaid, made everything laborious and tedious to me; but that there was\nno help for. Neither was my time so much loss to me, because, as I had\ndivided it, a certain part of it was every day appointed to these\nworks; and as I had resolved to use none of the corn for bread till I\nhad a greater quantity by me, I had the next six months to apply myself\nwholly, by labour and invention, to furnish myself with utensils proper\nfor the performing all the operations necessary for making the corn,\nwhen I had it, fit for my use.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. A BOAT\n\n\nBut first I was to prepare more land, for I had now seed enough to sow\nabove an acre of ground. Before I did this, I had a week s work at\nleast to make me a spade, which, when it was done, was but a sorry one\nindeed, and very heavy, and required double labour to work with it.\nHowever, I got through that, and sowed my seed in two large flat pieces\nof ground, as near my house as I could find them to my mind, and fenced\nthem in with a good hedge, the stakes of which were all cut off that\nwood which I had set before, and knew it would grow; so that, in a\nyear s time, I knew I should have a quick or living hedge, that would\nwant but little repair. This work did not take me up less than three\nmonths, because a great part of that time was the wet season, when I\ncould not go abroad. Within-doors, that is when it rained and I could\nnot go out, I found employment in the following occupations always\nobserving, that all the while I was at work I diverted myself with\ntalking to my parrot, and teaching him to speak; and I quickly taught\nhim to know his own name, and at last to speak it out pretty loud,\n Poll,  which was the first word I ever heard spoken in the island by\nany mouth but my own. This, therefore, was not my work, but an\nassistance to my work; for now, as I said, I had a great employment\nupon my hands, as follows: I had long studied to make, by some means or\nother, some earthen vessels, which, indeed, I wanted sorely, but knew\nnot where to come at them. However, considering the heat of the\nclimate, I did not doubt but if I could find out any clay, I might make\nsome pots that might, being dried in the sun, be hard enough and strong\nenough to bear handling, and to hold anything that was dry, and\nrequired to be kept so; and as this was necessary in the preparing\ncorn, meal, &c., which was the thing I was doing, I resolved to make\nsome as large as I could, and fit only to stand like jars, to hold what\nshould be put into them.\n\nIt would make the reader pity me, or rather laugh at me, to tell how\nmany awkward ways I took to raise this paste; what odd, misshapen, ugly\nthings I made; how many of them fell in and how many fell out, the clay\nnot being stiff enough to bear its own weight; how many cracked by the\nover-violent heat of the sun, being set out too hastily; and how many\nfell in pieces with only removing, as well before as after they were\ndried; and, in a word, how, after having laboured hard to find the\nclay to dig it, to temper it, to bring it home, and work it I could not\nmake above two large earthen ugly things (I cannot call them jars) in\nabout two months  labour.\n\nHowever, as the sun baked these two very dry and hard, I lifted them\nvery gently up, and set them down again in two great wicker baskets,\nwhich I had made on purpose for them, that they might not break; and as\nbetween the pot and the basket there was a little room to spare, I\nstuffed it full of the rice and barley straw; and these two pots being\nto stand always dry I thought would hold my dry corn, and perhaps the\nmeal, when the corn was bruised.\n\nThough I miscarried so much in my design for large pots, yet I made\nseveral smaller things with better success; such as little round pots,\nflat dishes, pitchers, and pipkins, and any things my hand turned to;\nand the heat of the sun baked them quite hard.\n\nBut all this would not answer my end, which was to get an earthen pot\nto hold what was liquid, and bear the fire, which none of these could\ndo. It happened after some time, making a pretty large fire for cooking\nmy meat, when I went to put it out after I had done with it, I found a\nbroken piece of one of my earthenware vessels in the fire, burnt as\nhard as a stone, and red as a tile. I was agreeably surprised to see\nit, and said to myself, that certainly they might be made to burn\nwhole, if they would burn broken.\n\nThis set me to study how to order my fire, so as to make it burn some\npots. I had no notion of a kiln, such as the potters burn in, or of\nglazing them with lead, though I had some lead to do it with; but I\nplaced three large pipkins and two or three pots in a pile, one upon\nanother, and placed my firewood all round it, with a great heap of\nembers under them. I plied the fire with fresh fuel round the outside\nand upon the top, till I saw the pots in the inside red-hot quite\nthrough, and observed that they did not crack at all. When I saw them\nclear red, I let them stand in that heat about five or six hours, till\nI found one of them, though it did not crack, did melt or run; for the\nsand which was mixed with the clay melted by the violence of the heat,\nand would have run into glass if I had gone on; so I slacked my fire\ngradually till the pots began to abate of the red colour; and watching\nthem all night, that I might not let the fire abate too fast, in the\nmorning I had three very good (I will not say handsome) pipkins, and\ntwo other earthen pots, as hard burnt as could be desired, and one of\nthem perfectly glazed with the running of the sand.\n\nAfter this experiment, I need not say that I wanted no sort of\nearthenware for my use; but I must needs say as to the shapes of them,\nthey were very indifferent, as any one may suppose, when I had no way\nof making them but as the children make dirt pies, or as a woman would\nmake pies that never learned to raise paste.\n\nNo joy at a thing of so mean a nature was ever equal to mine, when I\nfound I had made an earthen pot that would bear the fire; and I had\nhardly patience to stay till they were cold before I set one on the\nfire again with some water in it to boil me some meat, which it did\nadmirably well; and with a piece of a kid I made some very good broth,\nthough I wanted oatmeal, and several other ingredients requisite to\nmake it as good as I would have had it been.\n\nMy next concern was to get me a stone mortar to stamp or beat some corn\nin; for as to the mill, there was no thought of arriving at that\nperfection of art with one pair of hands. To supply this want, I was at\na great loss; for, of all the trades in the world, I was as perfectly\nunqualified for a stone-cutter as for any whatever; neither had I any\ntools to go about it with. I spent many a day to find out a great stone\nbig enough to cut hollow, and make fit for a mortar, and could find\nnone at all, except what was in the solid rock, and which I had no way\nto dig or cut out; nor indeed were the rocks in the island of hardness\nsufficient, but were all of a sandy, crumbling stone, which neither\nwould bear the weight of a heavy pestle, nor would break the corn\nwithout filling it with sand. So, after a great deal of time lost in\nsearching for a stone, I gave it over, and resolved to look out for a\ngreat block of hard wood, which I found, indeed, much easier; and\ngetting one as big as I had strength to stir, I rounded it, and formed\nit on the outside with my axe and hatchet, and then with the help of\nfire and infinite labour, made a hollow place in it, as the Indians in\nBrazil make their canoes. After this, I made a great heavy pestle or\nbeater of the wood called the iron-wood; and this I prepared and laid\nby against I had my next crop of corn, which I proposed to myself to\ngrind, or rather pound into meal to make bread.\n\nMy next difficulty was to make a sieve or searce, to dress my meal, and\nto part it from the bran and the husk; without which I did not see it\npossible I could have any bread. This was a most difficult thing even\nto think on, for to be sure I had nothing like the necessary thing to\nmake it I mean fine thin canvas or stuff to searce the meal through.\nAnd here I was at a full stop for many months; nor did I really know\nwhat to do. Linen I had none left but what was mere rags; I had goat s\nhair, but neither knew how to weave it or spin it; and had I known how,\nhere were no tools to work it with. All the remedy that I found for\nthis was, that at last I did remember I had, among the seamen s clothes\nwhich were saved out of the ship, some neckcloths of calico or muslin;\nand with some pieces of these I made three small sieves proper enough\nfor the work; and thus I made shift for some years: how I did\nafterwards, I shall show in its place.\n\nThe baking part was the next thing to be considered, and how I should\nmake bread when I came to have corn; for first, I had no yeast. As to\nthat part, there was no supplying the want, so I did not concern myself\nmuch about it. But for an oven I was indeed in great pain. At length I\nfound out an experiment for that also, which was this: I made some\nearthen-vessels very broad but not deep, that is to say, about two feet\ndiameter, and not above nine inches deep. These I burned in the fire,\nas I had done the other, and laid them by; and when I wanted to bake, I\nmade a great fire upon my hearth, which I had paved with some square\ntiles of my own baking and burning also; but I should not call them\nsquare.\n\nWhen the firewood was burned pretty much into embers or live coals, I\ndrew them forward upon this hearth, so as to cover it all over, and\nthere I let them lie till the hearth was very hot. Then sweeping away\nall the embers, I set down my loaf or loaves, and whelming down the\nearthen pot upon them, drew the embers all round the outside of the\npot, to keep in and add to the heat; and thus as well as in the best\noven in the world, I baked my barley-loaves, and became in little time\na good pastrycook into the bargain; for I made myself several cakes and\npuddings of the rice; but I made no pies, neither had I anything to put\ninto them supposing I had, except the flesh either of fowls or goats.\n\nIt need not be wondered at if all these things took me up most part of\nthe third year of my abode here; for it is to be observed that in the\nintervals of these things I had my new harvest and husbandry to manage;\nfor I reaped my corn in its season, and carried it home as well as I\ncould, and laid it up in the ear, in my large baskets, till I had time\nto rub it out, for I had no floor to thrash it on, or instrument to\nthrash it with.\n\nAnd now, indeed, my stock of corn increasing, I really wanted to build\nmy barns bigger; I wanted a place to lay it up in, for the increase of\nthe corn now yielded me so much, that I had of the barley about twenty\nbushels, and of the rice as much or more; insomuch that now I resolved\nto begin to use it freely; for my bread had been quite gone a great\nwhile; also I resolved to see what quantity would be sufficient for me\na whole year, and to sow but once a year.\n\nUpon the whole, I found that the forty bushels of barley and rice were\nmuch more than I could consume in a year; so I resolved to sow just the\nsame quantity every year that I sowed the last, in hopes that such a\nquantity would fully provide me with bread, &c.\n\nAll the while these things were doing, you may be sure my thoughts ran\nmany times upon the prospect of land which I had seen from the other\nside of the island; and I was not without secret wishes that I were on\nshore there, fancying that, seeing the mainland, and an inhabited\ncountry, I might find some way or other to convey myself further, and\nperhaps at last find some means of escape.\n\nBut all this while I made no allowance for the dangers of such an\nundertaking, and how I might fall into the hands of savages, and\nperhaps such as I might have reason to think far worse than the lions\nand tigers of Africa: that if I once came in their power, I should run\na hazard of more than a thousand to one of being killed, and perhaps of\nbeing eaten; for I had heard that the people of the Caribbean coast\nwere cannibals or man-eaters, and I knew by the latitude that I could\nnot be far from that shore. Then, supposing they were not cannibals,\nyet they might kill me, as many Europeans who had fallen into their\nhands had been served, even when they had been ten or twenty\ntogether much more I, that was but one, and could make little or no\ndefence; all these things, I say, which I ought to have considered\nwell; and did come into my thoughts afterwards, yet gave me no\napprehensions at first, and my head ran mightily upon the thought of\ngetting over to the shore.\n\nNow I wished for my boy Xury, and the long-boat with shoulder-of-mutton\nsail, with which I sailed above a thousand miles on the coast of\nAfrica; but this was in vain: then I thought I would go and look at our\nship s boat, which, as I have said, was blown up upon the shore a great\nway, in the storm, when we were first cast away. She lay almost where\nshe did at first, but not quite; and was turned, by the force of the\nwaves and the winds, almost bottom upward, against a high ridge of\nbeachy, rough sand, but no water about her. If I had had hands to have\nrefitted her, and to have launched her into the water, the boat would\nhave done well enough, and I might have gone back into the Brazils with\nher easily enough; but I might have foreseen that I could no more turn\nher and set her upright upon her bottom than I could remove the island;\nhowever, I went to the woods, and cut levers and rollers, and brought\nthem to the boat resolving to try what I could do; suggesting to myself\nthat if I could but turn her down, I might repair the damage she had\nreceived, and she would be a very good boat, and I might go to sea in\nher very easily.\n\nI spared no pains, indeed, in this piece of fruitless toil, and spent,\nI think, three or four weeks about it; at last finding it impossible to\nheave it up with my little strength, I fell to digging away the sand,\nto undermine it, and so to make it fall down, setting pieces of wood to\nthrust and guide it right in the fall.\n\nBut when I had done this, I was unable to stir it up again, or to get\nunder it, much less to move it forward towards the water; so I was\nforced to give it over; and yet, though I gave over the hopes of the\nboat, my desire to venture over for the main increased, rather than\ndecreased, as the means for it seemed impossible.\n\nThis at length put me upon thinking whether it was not possible to make\nmyself a canoe, or periagua, such as the natives of those climates\nmake, even without tools, or, as I might say, without hands, of the\ntrunk of a great tree. This I not only thought possible, but easy, and\npleased myself extremely with the thoughts of making it, and with my\nhaving much more convenience for it than any of the negroes or Indians;\nbut not at all considering the particular inconveniences which I lay\nunder more than the Indians did viz. want of hands to move it, when it\nwas made, into the water a difficulty much harder for me to surmount\nthan all the consequences of want of tools could be to them; for what\nwas it to me, if when I had chosen a vast tree in the woods, and with\nmuch trouble cut it down, if I had been able with my tools to hew and\ndub the outside into the proper shape of a boat, and burn or cut out\nthe inside to make it hollow, so as to make a boat of it if, after all\nthis, I must leave it just there where I found it, and not be able to\nlaunch it into the water?\n\nOne would have thought I could not have had the least reflection upon\nmy mind of my circumstances while I was making this boat, but I should\nhave immediately thought how I should get it into the sea; but my\nthoughts were so intent upon my voyage over the sea in it, that I never\nonce considered how I should get it off the land: and it was really, in\nits own nature, more easy for me to guide it over forty-five miles of\nsea than about forty-five fathoms of land, where it lay, to set it\nafloat in the water.\n\nI went to work upon this boat the most like a fool that ever man did\nwho had any of his senses awake. I pleased myself with the design,\nwithout determining whether I was ever able to undertake it; not but\nthat the difficulty of launching my boat came often into my head; but I\nput a stop to my inquiries into it by this foolish answer which I gave\nmyself Let me first make it; I warrant I will find some way or other\nto get it along when it is done. \n\nThis was a most preposterous method; but the eagerness of my fancy\nprevailed, and to work I went. I felled a cedar-tree, and I question\nmuch whether Solomon ever had such a one for the building of the Temple\nof Jerusalem; it was five feet ten inches diameter at the lower part\nnext the stump, and four feet eleven inches diameter at the end of\ntwenty-two feet; after which it lessened for a while, and then parted\ninto branches. It was not without infinite labour that I felled this\ntree; I was twenty days hacking and hewing at it at the bottom; I was\nfourteen more getting the branches and limbs and the vast spreading\nhead cut off, which I hacked and hewed through with axe and hatchet,\nand inexpressible labour; after this, it cost me a month to shape it\nand dub it to a proportion, and to something like the bottom of a boat,\nthat it might swim upright as it ought to do. It cost me near three\nmonths more to clear the inside, and work it out so as to make an exact\nboat of it; this I did, indeed, without fire, by mere mallet and\nchisel, and by the dint of hard labour, till I had brought it to be a\nvery handsome periagua, and big enough to have carried six-and-twenty\nmen, and consequently big enough to have carried me and all my cargo.\n\nWhen I had gone through this work I was extremely delighted with it.\nThe boat was really much bigger than ever I saw a canoe or periagua,\nthat was made of one tree, in my life. Many a weary stroke it had cost,\nyou may be sure; and had I gotten it into the water, I make no\nquestion, but I should have begun the maddest voyage, and the most\nunlikely to be performed, that ever was undertaken.\n\nBut all my devices to get it into the water failed me; though they cost\nme infinite labour too. It lay about one hundred yards from the water,\nand not more; but the first inconvenience was, it was up hill towards\nthe creek. Well, to take away this discouragement, I resolved to dig\ninto the surface of the earth, and so make a declivity: this I began,\nand it cost me a prodigious deal of pains (but who grudge pains who\nhave their deliverance in view?); but when this was worked through, and\nthis difficulty managed, it was still much the same, for I could no\nmore stir the canoe than I could the other boat. Then I measured the\ndistance of ground, and resolved to cut a dock or canal, to bring the\nwater up to the canoe, seeing I could not bring the canoe down to the\nwater. Well, I began this work; and when I began to enter upon it, and\ncalculate how deep it was to be dug, how broad, how the stuff was to be\nthrown out, I found that, by the number of hands I had, being none but\nmy own, it must have been ten or twelve years before I could have gone\nthrough with it; for the shore lay so high, that at the upper end it\nmust have been at least twenty feet deep; so at length, though with\ngreat reluctancy, I gave this attempt over also.\n\nThis grieved me heartily; and now I saw, though too late, the folly of\nbeginning a work before we count the cost, and before we judge rightly\nof our own strength to go through with it.\n\nIn the middle of this work I finished my fourth year in this place, and\nkept my anniversary with the same devotion, and with as much comfort as\never before; for, by a constant study and serious application to the\nWord of God, and by the assistance of His grace, I gained a different\nknowledge from what I had before. I entertained different notions of\nthings. I looked now upon the world as a thing remote, which I had\nnothing to do with, no expectations from, and, indeed, no desires\nabout: in a word, I had nothing indeed to do with it, nor was ever\nlikely to have, so I thought it looked, as we may perhaps look upon it\nhereafter viz. as a place I had lived in, but was come out of it; and\nwell might I say, as Father Abraham to Dives,  Between me and thee is a\ngreat gulf fixed. \n\nIn the first place, I was removed from all the wickedness of the world\nhere; I had neither the lusts of the flesh, the lusts of the eye, nor\nthe pride of life. I had nothing to covet, for I had all that I was now\ncapable of enjoying; I was lord of the whole manor; or, if I pleased, I\nmight call myself king or emperor over the whole country which I had\npossession of: there were no rivals; I had no competitor, none to\ndispute sovereignty or command with me: I might have raised\nship-loadings of corn, but I had no use for it; so I let as little grow\nas I thought enough for my occasion. I had tortoise or turtle enough,\nbut now and then one was as much as I could put to any use: I had\ntimber enough to have built a fleet of ships; and I had grapes enough\nto have made wine, or to have cured into raisins, to have loaded that\nfleet when it had been built.\n\nBut all I could make use of was all that was valuable: I had enough to\neat and supply my wants, and what was all the rest to me? If I killed\nmore flesh than I could eat, the dog must eat it, or vermin; if I sowed\nmore corn than I could eat, it must be spoiled; the trees that I cut\ndown were lying to rot on the ground; I could make no more use of them\nbut for fuel, and that I had no occasion for but to dress my food.\n\nIn a word, the nature and experience of things dictated to me, upon\njust reflection, that all the good things of this world are no farther\ngood to us than they are for our use; and that, whatever we may heap up\nto give others, we enjoy just as much as we can use, and no more. The\nmost covetous, griping miser in the world would have been cured of the\nvice of covetousness if he had been in my case; for I possessed\ninfinitely more than I knew what to do with. I had no room for desire,\nexcept it was of things which I had not, and they were but trifles,\nthough, indeed, of great use to me. I had, as I hinted before, a parcel\nof money, as well gold as silver, about thirty-six pounds sterling.\nAlas! there the sorry, useless stuff lay; I had no more manner of\nbusiness for it; and often thought with myself that I would have given\na handful of it for a gross of tobacco-pipes; or for a hand-mill to\ngrind my corn; nay, I would have given it all for a sixpenny-worth of\nturnip and carrot seed out of England, or for a handful of peas and\nbeans, and a bottle of ink. As it was, I had not the least advantage by\nit or benefit from it; but there it lay in a drawer, and grew mouldy\nwith the damp of the cave in the wet seasons; and if I had had the\ndrawer full of diamonds, it had been the same case they had been of no\nmanner of value to me, because of no use.\n\nI had now brought my state of life to be much easier in itself than it\nwas at first, and much easier to my mind, as well as to my body. I\nfrequently sat down to meat with thankfulness, and admired the hand of\nGod s providence, which had thus spread my table in the wilderness. I\nlearned to look more upon the bright side of my condition, and less\nupon the dark side, and to consider what I enjoyed rather than what I\nwanted; and this gave me sometimes such secret comforts, that I cannot\nexpress them; and which I take notice of here, to put those\ndiscontented people in mind of it, who cannot enjoy comfortably what\nGod has given them, because they see and covet something that He has\nnot given them. All our discontents about what we want appeared to me\nto spring from the want of thankfulness for what we have.\n\nAnother reflection was of great use to me, and doubtless would be so to\nany one that should fall into such distress as mine was; and this was,\nto compare my present condition with what I at first expected it would\nbe; nay, with what it would certainly have been, if the good providence\nof God had not wonderfully ordered the ship to be cast up nearer to the\nshore, where I not only could come at her, but could bring what I got\nout of her to the shore, for my relief and comfort; without which, I\nhad wanted for tools to work, weapons for defence, and gunpowder and\nshot for getting my food.\n\nI spent whole hours, I may say whole days, in representing to myself,\nin the most lively colours, how I must have acted if I had got nothing\nout of the ship. How I could not have so much as got any food, except\nfish and turtles; and that, as it was long before I found any of them,\nI must have perished first; that I should have lived, if I had not\nperished, like a mere savage; that if I had killed a goat or a fowl, by\nany contrivance, I had no way to flay or open it, or part the flesh\nfrom the skin and the bowels, or to cut it up; but must gnaw it with my\nteeth, and pull it with my claws, like a beast.\n\nThese reflections made me very sensible of the goodness of Providence\nto me, and very thankful for my present condition, with all its\nhardships and misfortunes; and this part also I cannot but recommend to\nthe reflection of those who are apt, in their misery, to say,  Is any\naffliction like mine?  Let them consider how much worse the cases of\nsome people are, and their case might have been, if Providence had\nthought fit.\n\nI had another reflection, which assisted me also to comfort my mind\nwith hopes; and this was comparing my present situation with what I had\ndeserved, and had therefore reason to expect from the hand of\nProvidence. I had lived a dreadful life, perfectly destitute of the\nknowledge and fear of God. I had been well instructed by father and\nmother; neither had they been wanting to me in their early endeavours\nto infuse a religious awe of God into my mind, a sense of my duty, and\nwhat the nature and end of my being required of me. But, alas! falling\nearly into the seafaring life, which of all lives is the most destitute\nof the fear of God, though His terrors are always before them; I say,\nfalling early into the seafaring life, and into seafaring company, all\nthat little sense of religion which I had entertained was laughed out\nof me by my messmates; by a hardened despising of dangers, and the\nviews of death, which grew habitual to me by my long absence from all\nmanner of opportunities to converse with anything but what was like\nmyself, or to hear anything that was good or tended towards it.\n\nSo void was I of everything that was good, or the least sense of what I\nwas, or was to be, that, in the greatest deliverances I enjoyed such as\nmy escape from Sallee; my being taken up by the Portuguese master of\nthe ship; my being planted so well in the Brazils; my receiving the\ncargo from England, and the like I never had once the words  Thank\nGod!  so much as on my mind, or in my mouth; nor in the greatest\ndistress had I so much as a thought to pray to Him, or so much as to\nsay,  Lord, have mercy upon me!  no, nor to mention the name of God,\nunless it was to swear by, and blaspheme it.\n\nI had terrible reflections upon my mind for many months, as I have\nalready observed, on account of my wicked and hardened life past; and\nwhen I looked about me, and considered what particular providences had\nattended me since my coming into this place, and how God had dealt\nbountifully with me had not only punished me less than my iniquity had\ndeserved, but had so plentifully provided for me this gave me great\nhopes that my repentance was accepted, and that God had yet mercy in\nstore for me.\n\nWith these reflections I worked my mind up, not only to a resignation\nto the will of God in the present disposition of my circumstances, but\neven to a sincere thankfulness for my condition; and that I, who was\nyet a living man, ought not to complain, seeing I had not the due\npunishment of my sins; that I enjoyed so many mercies which I had no\nreason to have expected in that place; that I ought never more to\nrepine at my condition, but to rejoice, and to give daily thanks for\nthat daily bread, which nothing but a crowd of wonders could have\nbrought; that I ought to consider I had been fed even by a miracle,\neven as great as that of feeding Elijah by ravens, nay, by a long\nseries of miracles; and that I could hardly have named a place in the\nuninhabitable part of the world where I could have been cast more to my\nadvantage; a place where, as I had no society, which was my affliction\non one hand, so I found no ravenous beasts, no furious wolves or\ntigers, to threaten my life; no venomous creatures, or poisons, which I\nmight feed on to my hurt; no savages to murder and devour me. In a\nword, as my life was a life of sorrow one way, so it was a life of\nmercy another; and I wanted nothing to make it a life of comfort but to\nbe able to make my sense of God s goodness to me, and care over me in\nthis condition, be my daily consolation; and after I did make a just\nimprovement on these things, I went away, and was no more sad. I had\nnow been here so long that many things which I had brought on shore for\nmy help were either quite gone, or very much wasted and near spent.\n\nMy ink, as I observed, had been gone some time, all but a very little,\nwhich I eked out with water, a little and a little, till it was so\npale, it scarce left any appearance of black upon the paper. As long as\nit lasted I made use of it to minute down the days of the month on\nwhich any remarkable thing happened to me; and first, by casting up\ntimes past, I remembered that there was a strange concurrence of days\nin the various providences which befell me, and which, if I had been\nsuperstitiously inclined to observe days as fatal or fortunate, I might\nhave had reason to have looked upon with a great deal of curiosity.\n\nFirst, I had observed that the same day that I broke away from my\nfather and friends and ran away to Hull, in order to go to sea, the\nsame day afterwards I was taken by the Sallee man-of-war, and made a\nslave; the same day of the year that I escaped out of the wreck of that\nship in Yarmouth Roads, that same day-year afterwards I made my escape\nfrom Sallee in a boat; the same day of the year I was born on viz. the\n30th of September, that same day I had my life so miraculously saved\ntwenty-six years after, when I was cast on shore in this island; so\nthat my wicked life and my solitary life began both on a day.\n\nThe next thing to my ink being wasted was that of my bread I mean the\nbiscuit which I brought out of the ship; this I had husbanded to the\nlast degree, allowing myself but one cake of bread a-day for above a\nyear; and yet I was quite without bread for near a year before I got\nany corn of my own, and great reason I had to be thankful that I had\nany at all, the getting it being, as has been already observed, next to\nmiraculous.\n\nMy clothes, too, began to decay; as to linen, I had had none a good\nwhile, except some chequered shirts which I found in the chests of the\nother seamen, and which I carefully preserved; because many times I\ncould bear no other clothes on but a shirt; and it was a very great\nhelp to me that I had, among all the men s clothes of the ship, almost\nthree dozen of shirts. There were also, indeed, several thick\nwatch-coats of the seamen s which were left, but they were too hot to\nwear; and though it is true that the weather was so violently hot that\nthere was no need of clothes, yet I could not go quite naked no, though\nI had been inclined to it, which I was not nor could I abide the\nthought of it, though I was alone. The reason why I could not go naked\nwas, I could not bear the heat of the sun so well when quite naked as\nwith some clothes on; nay, the very heat frequently blistered my skin:\nwhereas, with a shirt on, the air itself made some motion, and\nwhistling under the shirt, was twofold cooler than without it. No more\ncould I ever bring myself to go out in the heat of the sun without a\ncap or a hat; the heat of the sun, beating with such violence as it\ndoes in that place, would give me the headache presently, by darting so\ndirectly on my head, without a cap or hat on, so that I could not bear\nit; whereas, if I put on my hat it would presently go away.\n\nUpon these views I began to consider about putting the few rags I had,\nwhich I called clothes, into some order; I had worn out all the\nwaistcoats I had, and my business was now to try if I could not make\njackets out of the great watch-coats which I had by me, and with such\nother materials as I had; so I set to work, tailoring, or rather,\nindeed, botching, for I made most piteous work of it. However, I made\nshift to make two or three new waistcoats, which I hoped would serve me\na great while: as for breeches or drawers, I made but a very sorry\nshift indeed till afterwards.\n\nI have mentioned that I saved the skins of all the creatures that I\nkilled, I mean four-footed ones, and I had them hung up, stretched out\nwith sticks in the sun, by which means some of them were so dry and\nhard that they were fit for little, but others were very useful. The\nfirst thing I made of these was a great cap for my head, with the hair\non the outside, to shoot off the rain; and this I performed so well,\nthat after I made me a suit of clothes wholly of these skins that is to\nsay, a waistcoat, and breeches open at the knees, and both loose, for\nthey were rather wanting to keep me cool than to keep me warm. I must\nnot omit to acknowledge that they were wretchedly made; for if I was a\nbad carpenter, I was a worse tailor. However, they were such as I made\nvery good shift with, and when I was out, if it happened to rain, the\nhair of my waistcoat and cap being outermost, I was kept very dry.\n\nAfter this, I spent a great deal of time and pains to make an umbrella;\nI was, indeed, in great want of one, and had a great mind to make one;\nI had seen them made in the Brazils, where they are very useful in the\ngreat heats there, and I felt the heats every jot as great here, and\ngreater too, being nearer the equinox; besides, as I was obliged to be\nmuch abroad, it was a most useful thing to me, as well for the rains as\nthe heats. I took a world of pains with it, and was a great while\nbefore I could make anything likely to hold: nay, after I had thought I\nhad hit the way, I spoiled two or three before I made one to my mind:\nbut at last I made one that answered indifferently well: the main\ndifficulty I found was to make it let down. I could make it spread, but\nif it did not let down too, and draw in, it was not portable for me any\nway but just over my head, which would not do. However, at last, as I\nsaid, I made one to answer, and covered it with skins, the hair\nupwards, so that it cast off the rain like a pent-house, and kept off\nthe sun so effectually, that I could walk out in the hottest of the\nweather with greater advantage than I could before in the coolest, and\nwhen I had no need of it could close it, and carry it under my arm.\n\nThus I lived mighty comfortably, my mind being entirely composed by\nresigning myself to the will of God, and throwing myself wholly upon\nthe disposal of His providence. This made my life better than sociable,\nfor when I began to regret the want of conversation I would ask myself,\nwhether thus conversing mutually with my own thoughts, and (as I hope I\nmay say) with even God Himself, by ejaculations, was not better than\nthe utmost enjoyment of human society in the world?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. TAMES GOATS\n\n\nI cannot say that after this, for five years, any extraordinary thing\nhappened to me, but I lived on in the same course, in the same posture\nand place, as before; the chief things I was employed in, besides my\nyearly labour of planting my barley and rice, and curing my raisins, of\nboth which I always kept up just enough to have sufficient stock of one\nyear s provisions beforehand; I say, besides this yearly labour, and my\ndaily pursuit of going out with my gun, I had one labour, to make a\ncanoe, which at last I finished: so that, by digging a canal to it of\nsix feet wide and four feet deep, I brought it into the creek, almost\nhalf a mile. As for the first, which was so vastly big, for I made it\nwithout considering beforehand, as I ought to have done, how I should\nbe able to launch it, so, never being able to bring it into the water,\nor bring the water to it, I was obliged to let it lie where it was as a\nmemorandum to teach me to be wiser the next time: indeed, the next\ntime, though I could not get a tree proper for it, and was in a place\nwhere I could not get the water to it at any less distance than, as I\nhave said, near half a mile, yet, as I saw it was practicable at last,\nI never gave it over; and though I was near two years about it, yet I\nnever grudged my labour, in hopes of having a boat to go off to sea at\nlast.\n\nHowever, though my little periagua was finished, yet the size of it was\nnot at all answerable to the design which I had in view when I made the\nfirst; I mean of venturing over to the _terra firma_, where it was\nabove forty miles broad; accordingly, the smallness of my boat assisted\nto put an end to that design, and now I thought no more of it. As I had\na boat, my next design was to make a cruise round the island; for as I\nhad been on the other side in one place, crossing, as I have already\ndescribed it, over the land, so the discoveries I made in that little\njourney made me very eager to see other parts of the coast; and now I\nhad a boat, I thought of nothing but sailing round the island.\n\nFor this purpose, that I might do everything with discretion and\nconsideration, I fitted up a little mast in my boat, and made a sail\ntoo out of some of the pieces of the ship s sails which lay in store,\nand of which I had a great stock by me. Having fitted my mast and sail,\nand tried the boat, I found she would sail very well; then I made\nlittle lockers or boxes at each end of my boat, to put provisions,\nnecessaries, ammunition, &c., into, to be kept dry, either from rain or\nthe spray of the sea; and a little, long, hollow place I cut in the\ninside of the boat, where I could lay my gun, making a flap to hang\ndown over it to keep it dry.\n\nI fixed my umbrella also in the step at the stern, like a mast, to\nstand over my head, and keep the heat of the sun off me, like an\nawning; and thus I every now and then took a little voyage upon the\nsea, but never went far out, nor far from the little creek. At last,\nbeing eager to view the circumference of my little kingdom, I resolved\nupon my cruise; and accordingly I victualled my ship for the voyage,\nputting in two dozen of loaves (cakes I should call them) of\nbarley-bread, an earthen pot full of parched rice (a food I ate a good\ndeal of), a little bottle of rum, half a goat, and powder and shot for\nkilling more, and two large watch-coats, of those which, as I mentioned\nbefore, I had saved out of the seamen s chests; these I took, one to\nlie upon, and the other to cover me in the night.\n\nIt was the 6th of November, in the sixth year of my reign or my\ncaptivity, which you please that I set out on this voyage, and I found\nit much longer than I expected; for though the island itself was not\nvery large, yet when I came to the east side of it, I found a great\nledge of rocks lie out about two leagues into the sea, some above\nwater, some under it; and beyond that a shoal of sand, lying dry half a\nleague more, so that I was obliged to go a great way out to sea to\ndouble the point.\n\nWhen I first discovered them, I was going to give over my enterprise,\nand come back again, not knowing how far it might oblige me to go out\nto sea; and above all, doubting how I should get back again: so I came\nto an anchor; for I had made a kind of an anchor with a piece of a\nbroken grappling which I got out of the ship.\n\nHaving secured my boat, I took my gun and went on shore, climbing up a\nhill, which seemed to overlook that point where I saw the full extent\nof it, and resolved to venture.\n\nIn my viewing the sea from that hill where I stood, I perceived a\nstrong, and indeed a most furious current, which ran to the east, and\neven came close to the point; and I took the more notice of it because\nI saw there might be some danger that when I came into it I might be\ncarried out to sea by the strength of it, and not be able to make the\nisland again; and indeed, had I not got first upon this hill, I believe\nit would have been so; for there was the same current on the other side\nthe island, only that it set off at a further distance, and I saw there\nwas a strong eddy under the shore; so I had nothing to do but to get\nout of the first current, and I should presently be in an eddy.\n\nI lay here, however, two days, because the wind blowing pretty fresh at\nESE., and that being just contrary to the current, made a great breach\nof the sea upon the point: so that it was not safe for me to keep too\nclose to the shore for the breach, nor to go too far off, because of\nthe stream.\n\nThe third day, in the morning, the wind having abated overnight, the\nsea was calm, and I ventured: but I am a warning to all rash and\nignorant pilots; for no sooner was I come to the point, when I was not\neven my boat s length from the shore, but I found myself in a great\ndepth of water, and a current like the sluice of a mill; it carried my\nboat along with it with such violence that all I could do could not\nkeep her so much as on the edge of it; but I found it hurried me\nfarther and farther out from the eddy, which was on my left hand. There\nwas no wind stirring to help me, and all I could do with my paddles\nsignified nothing: and now I began to give myself over for lost; for as\nthe current was on both sides of the island, I knew in a few leagues\ndistance they must join again, and then I was irrecoverably gone; nor\ndid I see any possibility of avoiding it; so that I had no prospect\nbefore me but of perishing, not by the sea, for that was calm enough,\nbut of starving from hunger. I had, indeed, found a tortoise on the\nshore, as big almost as I could lift, and had tossed it into the boat;\nand I had a great jar of fresh water, that is to say, one of my earthen\npots; but what was all this to being driven into the vast ocean, where,\nto be sure, there was no shore, no mainland or island, for a thousand\nleagues at least?\n\nAnd now I saw how easy it was for the providence of God to make even\nthe most miserable condition of mankind worse. Now I looked back upon\nmy desolate, solitary island as the most pleasant place in the world\nand all the happiness my heart could wish for was to be but there\nagain. I stretched out my hands to it, with eager wishes O happy\ndesert!  said I,  I shall never see thee more. O miserable creature!\nwhither am going?  Then I reproached myself with my unthankful temper,\nand that I had repined at my solitary condition; and now what would I\ngive to be on shore there again! Thus, we never see the true state of\nour condition till it is illustrated to us by its contraries, nor know\nhow to value what we enjoy, but by the want of it. It is scarcely\npossible to imagine the consternation I was now in, being driven from\nmy beloved island (for so it appeared to me now to be) into the wide\nocean, almost two leagues, and in the utmost despair of ever recovering\nit again. However, I worked hard till, indeed, my strength was almost\nexhausted, and kept my boat as much to the northward, that is, towards\nthe side of the current which the eddy lay on, as possibly I could;\nwhen about noon, as the sun passed the meridian, I thought I felt a\nlittle breeze of wind in my face, springing up from SSE. This cheered\nmy heart a little, and especially when, in about half-an-hour more, it\nblew a pretty gentle gale. By this time I had got at a frightful\ndistance from the island, and had the least cloudy or hazy weather\nintervened, I had been undone another way, too; for I had no compass on\nboard, and should never have known how to have steered towards the\nisland, if I had but once lost sight of it; but the weather continuing\nclear, I applied myself to get up my mast again, and spread my sail,\nstanding away to the north as much as possible, to get out of the\ncurrent.\n\nJust as I had set my mast and sail, and the boat began to stretch away,\nI saw even by the clearness of the water some alteration of the current\nwas near; for where the current was so strong the water was foul; but\nperceiving the water clear, I found the current abate; and presently I\nfound to the east, at about half a mile, a breach of the sea upon some\nrocks: these rocks I found caused the current to part again, and as the\nmain stress of it ran away more southerly, leaving the rocks to the\nnorth-east, so the other returned by the repulse of the rocks, and made\na strong eddy, which ran back again to the north-west, with a very\nsharp stream.\n\nThey who know what it is to have a reprieve brought to them upon the\nladder, or to be rescued from thieves just going to murder them, or who\nhave been in such extremities, may guess what my present surprise of\njoy was, and how gladly I put my boat into the stream of this eddy; and\nthe wind also freshening, how gladly I spread my sail to it, running\ncheerfully before the wind, and with a strong tide or eddy underfoot.\n\nThis eddy carried me about a league on my way back again, directly\ntowards the island, but about two leagues more to the northward than\nthe current which carried me away at first; so that when I came near\nthe island, I found myself open to the northern shore of it, that is to\nsay, the other end of the island, opposite to that which I went out\nfrom.\n\nWhen I had made something more than a league of way by the help of this\ncurrent or eddy, I found it was spent, and served me no further.\nHowever, I found that being between two great currents viz. that on the\nsouth side, which had hurried me away, and that on the north, which lay\nabout a league on the other side; I say, between these two, in the wake\nof the island, I found the water at least still, and running no way;\nand having still a breeze of wind fair for me, I kept on steering\ndirectly for the island, though not making such fresh way as I did\nbefore.\n\nAbout four o clock in the evening, being then within a league of the\nisland, I found the point of the rocks which occasioned this disaster\nstretching out, as is described before, to the southward, and casting\noff the current more southerly, had, of course, made another eddy to\nthe north; and this I found very strong, but not directly setting the\nway my course lay, which was due west, but almost full north. However,\nhaving a fresh gale, I stretched across this eddy, slanting north-west;\nand in about an hour came within about a mile of the shore, where, it\nbeing smooth water, I soon got to land.\n\nWhen I was on shore, God I fell on my knees and gave God thanks for my\ndeliverance, resolving to lay aside all thoughts of my deliverance by\nmy boat; and refreshing myself with such things as I had, I brought my\nboat close to the shore, in a little cove that I had spied under some\ntrees, and laid me down to sleep, being quite spent with the labour and\nfatigue of the voyage.\n\nI was now at a great loss which way to get home with my boat! I had run\nso much hazard, and knew too much of the case, to think of attempting\nit by the way I went out; and what might be at the other side (I mean\nthe west side) I knew not, nor had I any mind to run any more ventures;\nso I resolved on the next morning to make my way westward along the\nshore, and to see if there was no creek where I might lay up my frigate\nin safety, so as to have her again if I wanted her. In about three\nmiles or thereabouts, coasting the shore, I came to a very good inlet\nor bay, about a mile over, which narrowed till it came to a very little\nrivulet or brook, where I found a very convenient harbour for my boat,\nand where she lay as if she had been in a little dock made on purpose\nfor her. Here I put in, and having stowed my boat very safe, I went on\nshore to look about me, and see where I was.\n\nI soon found I had but a little passed by the place where I had been\nbefore, when I travelled on foot to that shore; so taking nothing out\nof my boat but my gun and umbrella, for it was exceedingly hot, I began\nmy march. The way was comfortable enough after such a voyage as I had\nbeen upon, and I reached my old bower in the evening, where I found\neverything standing as I left it; for I always kept it in good order,\nbeing, as I said before, my country house.\n\nI got over the fence, and laid me down in the shade to rest my limbs,\nfor I was very weary, and fell asleep; but judge you, if you can, that\nread my story, what a surprise I must be in when I was awaked out of my\nsleep by a voice calling me by my name several times,  Robin, Robin,\nRobin Crusoe: poor Robin Crusoe! Where are you, Robin Crusoe? Where are\nyou? Where have you been? \n\nI was so dead asleep at first, being fatigued with rowing, or part of\nthe day, and with walking the latter part, that I did not wake\nthoroughly; but dozing thought I dreamed that somebody spoke to me; but\nas the voice continued to repeat,  Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe,  at last\nI began to wake more perfectly, and was at first dreadfully frightened,\nand started up in the utmost consternation; but no sooner were my eyes\nopen, but I saw my Poll sitting on the top of the hedge; and\nimmediately knew that it was he that spoke to me; for just in such\nbemoaning language I had used to talk to him and teach him; and he had\nlearned it so perfectly that he would sit upon my finger, and lay his\nbill close to my face and cry,  Poor Robin Crusoe! Where are you? Where\nhave you been? How came you here?  and such things as I had taught him.\n\nHowever, even though I knew it was the parrot, and that indeed it could\nbe nobody else, it was a good while before I could compose myself.\nFirst, I was amazed how the creature got thither; and then, how he\nshould just keep about the place, and nowhere else; but as I was well\nsatisfied it could be nobody but honest Poll, I got over it; and\nholding out my hand, and calling him by his name,  Poll,  the sociable\ncreature came to me, and sat upon my thumb, as he used to do, and\ncontinued talking to me,  Poor Robin Crusoe! and how did I come here?\nand where had I been?  just as if he had been overjoyed to see me\nagain; and so I carried him home along with me.\n\nI had now had enough of rambling to sea for some time, and had enough\nto do for many days to sit still and reflect upon the danger I had been\nin. I would have been very glad to have had my boat again on my side of\nthe island; but I knew not how it was practicable to get it about. As\nto the east side of the island, which I had gone round, I knew well\nenough there was no venturing that way; my very heart would shrink, and\nmy very blood run chill, but to think of it; and as to the other side\nof the island, I did not know how it might be there; but supposing the\ncurrent ran with the same force against the shore at the east as it\npassed by it on the other, I might run the same risk of being driven\ndown the stream, and carried by the island, as I had been before of\nbeing carried away from it: so with these thoughts, I contented myself\nto be without any boat, though it had been the product of so many\nmonths  labour to make it, and of so many more to get it into the sea.\n\nIn this government of my temper I remained near a year; and lived a\nvery sedate, retired life, as you may well suppose; and my thoughts\nbeing very much composed as to my condition, and fully comforted in\nresigning myself to the dispositions of Providence, I thought I lived\nreally very happily in all things except that of society.\n\nI improved myself in this time in all the mechanic exercises which my\nnecessities put me upon applying myself to; and I believe I should,\nupon occasion, have made a very good carpenter, especially considering\nhow few tools I had.\n\nBesides this, I arrived at an unexpected perfection in my earthenware,\nand contrived well enough to make them with a wheel, which I found\ninfinitely easier and better; because I made things round and shaped,\nwhich before were filthy things indeed to look on. But I think I was\nnever more vain of my own performance, or more joyful for anything I\nfound out, than for my being able to make a tobacco-pipe; and though it\nwas a very ugly, clumsy thing when it was done, and only burned red,\nlike other earthenware, yet as it was hard and firm, and would draw the\nsmoke, I was exceedingly comforted with it, for I had been always used\nto smoke; and there were pipes in the ship, but I forgot them at first,\nnot thinking there was tobacco in the island; and afterwards, when I\nsearched the ship again, I could not come at any pipes.\n\nIn my wicker-ware also I improved much, and made abundance of necessary\nbaskets, as well as my invention showed me; though not very handsome,\nyet they were such as were very handy and convenient for laying things\nup in, or fetching things home. For example, if I killed a goat abroad,\nI could hang it up in a tree, flay it, dress it, and cut it in pieces,\nand bring it home in a basket; and the like by a turtle; I could cut it\nup, take out the eggs and a piece or two of the flesh, which was enough\nfor me, and bring them home in a basket, and leave the rest behind me.\nAlso, large deep baskets were the receivers of my corn, which I always\nrubbed out as soon as it was dry and cured, and kept it in great\nbaskets.\n\nI began now to perceive my powder abated considerably; this was a want\nwhich it was impossible for me to supply, and I began seriously to\nconsider what I must do when I should have no more powder; that is to\nsay, how I should kill any goats. I had, as is observed in the third\nyear of my being here, kept a young kid, and bred her up tame, and I\nwas in hopes of getting a he-goat; but I could not by any means bring\nit to pass, till my kid grew an old goat; and as I could never find in\nmy heart to kill her, she died at last of mere age.\n\nBut being now in the eleventh year of my residence, and, as I have\nsaid, my ammunition growing low, I set myself to study some art to trap\nand snare the goats, to see whether I could not catch some of them\nalive; and particularly I wanted a she-goat great with young. For this\npurpose I made snares to hamper them; and I do believe they were more\nthan once taken in them; but my tackle was not good, for I had no wire,\nand I always found them broken and my bait devoured. At length I\nresolved to try a pitfall; so I dug several large pits in the earth, in\nplaces where I had observed the goats used to feed, and over those pits\nI placed hurdles of my own making too, with a great weight upon them;\nand several times I put ears of barley and dry rice without setting the\ntrap; and I could easily perceive that the goats had gone in and eaten\nup the corn, for I could see the marks of their feet. At length I set\nthree traps in one night, and going the next morning I found them, all\nstanding, and yet the bait eaten and gone; this was very discouraging.\nHowever, I altered my traps; and not to trouble you with particulars,\ngoing one morning to see my traps, I found in one of them a large old\nhe-goat; and in one of the others three kids, a male and two females.\n\nAs to the old one, I knew not what to do with him; he was so fierce I\ndurst not go into the pit to him; that is to say, to bring him away\nalive, which was what I wanted. I could have killed him, but that was\nnot my business, nor would it answer my end; so I even let him out, and\nhe ran away as if he had been frightened out of his wits. But I did not\nthen know what I afterwards learned, that hunger will tame a lion. If I\nhad let him stay three or four days without food, and then have carried\nhim some water to drink and then a little corn, he would have been as\ntame as one of the kids; for they are mighty sagacious, tractable\ncreatures, where they are well used.\n\nHowever, for the present I let him go, knowing no better at that time:\nthen I went to the three kids, and taking them one by one, I tied them\nwith strings together, and with some difficulty brought them all home.\n\nIt was a good while before they would feed; but throwing them some\nsweet corn, it tempted them, and they began to be tame. And now I found\nthat if I expected to supply myself with goats  flesh, when I had no\npowder or shot left, breeding some up tame was my only way, when,\nperhaps, I might have them about my house like a flock of sheep. But\nthen it occurred to me that I must keep the tame from the wild, or else\nthey would always run wild when they grew up; and the only way for this\nwas to have some enclosed piece of ground, well fenced either with\nhedge or pale, to keep them in so effectually, that those within might\nnot break out, or those without break in.\n\nThis was a great undertaking for one pair of hands yet, as I saw there\nwas an absolute necessity for doing it, my first work was to find out a\nproper piece of ground, where there was likely to be herbage for them\nto eat, water for them to drink, and cover to keep them from the sun.\n\nThose who understand such enclosures will think I had very little\ncontrivance when I pitched upon a place very proper for all these\n(being a plain, open piece of meadow land, or savannah, as our people\ncall it in the western colonies), which had two or three little drills\nof fresh water in it, and at one end was very woody I say, they will\nsmile at my forecast, when I shall tell them I began by enclosing this\npiece of ground in such a manner that, my hedge or pale must have been\nat least two miles about. Nor was the madness of it so great as to the\ncompass, for if it was ten miles about, I was like to have time enough\nto do it in; but I did not consider that my goats would be as wild in\nso much compass as if they had had the whole island, and I should have\nso much room to chase them in that I should never catch them.\n\nMy hedge was begun and carried on, I believe, about fifty yards when\nthis thought occurred to me; so I presently stopped short, and, for the\nbeginning, I resolved to enclose a piece of about one hundred and fifty\nyards in length, and one hundred yards in breadth, which, as it would\nmaintain as many as I should have in any reasonable time, so, as my\nstock increased, I could add more ground to my enclosure.\n\nThis was acting with some prudence, and I went to work with courage. I\nwas about three months hedging in the first piece; and, till I had done\nit, I tethered the three kids in the best part of it, and used them to\nfeed as near me as possible, to make them familiar; and very often I\nwould go and carry them some ears of barley, or a handful of rice, and\nfeed them out of my hand; so that after my enclosure was finished and I\nlet them loose, they would follow me up and down, bleating after me for\na handful of corn.\n\nThis answered my end, and in about a year and a half I had a flock of\nabout twelve goats, kids and all; and in two years more I had\nthree-and-forty, besides several that I took and killed for my food.\nAfter that, I enclosed five several pieces of ground to feed them in,\nwith little pens to drive them to take them as I wanted, and gates out\nof one piece of ground into another.\n\nBut this was not all; for now I not only had goat s flesh to feed on\nwhen I pleased, but milk too a thing which, indeed, in the beginning, I\ndid not so much as think of, and which, when it came into my thoughts,\nwas really an agreeable surprise, for now I set up my dairy, and had\nsometimes a gallon or two of milk in a day. And as Nature, who gives\nsupplies of food to every creature, dictates even naturally how to make\nuse of it, so I, that had never milked a cow, much less a goat, or seen\nbutter or cheese made only when I was a boy, after a great many essays\nand miscarriages, made both butter and cheese at last, also salt\n(though I found it partly made to my hand by the heat of the sun upon\nsome of the rocks of the sea), and never wanted it afterwards. How\nmercifully can our Creator treat His creatures, even in those\nconditions in which they seemed to be overwhelmed in destruction! How\ncan He sweeten the bitterest providences, and give us cause to praise\nHim for dungeons and prisons! What a table was here spread for me in\nthe wilderness, where I saw nothing at first but to perish for hunger!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. FINDS PRINT OF MAN S FOOT ON THE SAND\n\n\nIt would have made a Stoic smile to have seen me and my little family\nsit down to dinner. There was my majesty the prince and lord of the\nwhole island; I had the lives of all my subjects at my absolute\ncommand; I could hang, draw, give liberty, and take it away, and no\nrebels among all my subjects. Then, to see how like a king I dined,\ntoo, all alone, attended by my servants! Poll, as if he had been my\nfavourite, was the only person permitted to talk to me. My dog, who was\nnow grown old and crazy, and had found no species to multiply his kind\nupon, sat always at my right hand; and two cats, one on one side of the\ntable and one on the other, expecting now and then a bit from my hand,\nas a mark of especial favour.\n\nBut these were not the two cats which I brought on shore at first, for\nthey were both of them dead, and had been interred near my habitation\nby my own hand; but one of them having multiplied by I know not what\nkind of creature, these were two which I had preserved tame; whereas\nthe rest ran wild in the woods, and became indeed troublesome to me at\nlast, for they would often come into my house, and plunder me too, till\nat last I was obliged to shoot them, and did kill a great many; at\nlength they left me. With this attendance and in this plentiful manner\nI lived; neither could I be said to want anything but society; and of\nthat, some time after this, I was likely to have too much.\n\nI was something impatient, as I have observed, to have the use of my\nboat, though very loath to run any more hazards; and therefore\nsometimes I sat contriving ways to get her about the island, and at\nother times I sat myself down contented enough without her. But I had a\nstrange uneasiness in my mind to go down to the point of the island\nwhere, as I have said in my last ramble, I went up the hill to see how\nthe shore lay, and how the current set, that I might see what I had to\ndo: this inclination increased upon me every day, and at length I\nresolved to travel thither by land, following the edge of the shore. I\ndid so; but had any one in England met such a man as I was, it must\neither have frightened him, or raised a great deal of laughter; and as\nI frequently stood still to look at myself, I could not but smile at\nthe notion of my travelling through Yorkshire with such an equipage,\nand in such a dress. Be pleased to take a sketch of my figure, as\nfollows.\n\nI had a great high shapeless cap, made of a goat s skin, with a flap\nhanging down behind, as well to keep the sun from me as to shoot the\nrain off from running into my neck, nothing being so hurtful in these\nclimates as the rain upon the flesh under the clothes.\n\nI had a short jacket of goat s skin, the skirts coming down to about\nthe middle of the thighs, and a pair of open-kneed breeches of the\nsame; the breeches were made of the skin of an old he-goat, whose hair\nhung down such a length on either side that, like pantaloons, it\nreached to the middle of my legs; stockings and shoes I had none, but\nhad made me a pair of somethings, I scarce knew what to call them, like\nbuskins, to flap over my legs, and lace on either side like\nspatterdashes, but of a most barbarous shape, as indeed were all the\nrest of my clothes.\n\nI had on a broad belt of goat s skin dried, which I drew together with\ntwo thongs of the same instead of buckles, and in a kind of a frog on\neither side of this, instead of a sword and dagger, hung a little saw\nand a hatchet, one on one side and one on the other. I had another belt\nnot so broad, and fastened in the same manner, which hung over my\nshoulder, and at the end of it, under my left arm, hung two pouches,\nboth made of goat s skin too, in one of which hung my powder, in the\nother my shot. At my back I carried my basket, and on my shoulder my\ngun, and over my head a great clumsy, ugly, goat s-skin umbrella, but\nwhich, after all, was the most necessary thing I had about me next to\nmy gun. As for my face, the colour of it was really not so mulatto-like\nas one might expect from a man not at all careful of it, and living\nwithin nine or ten degrees of the equinox. My beard I had once suffered\nto grow till it was about a quarter of a yard long; but as I had both\nscissors and razors sufficient, I had cut it pretty short, except what\ngrew on my upper lip, which I had trimmed into a large pair of\nMahometan whiskers, such as I had seen worn by some Turks at Sallee,\nfor the Moors did not wear such, though the Turks did; of these\nmoustachios, or whiskers, I will not say they were long enough to hang\nmy hat upon them, but they were of a length and shape monstrous enough,\nand such as in England would have passed for frightful.\n\nBut all this is by-the-bye; for as to my figure, I had so few to\nobserve me that it was of no manner of consequence, so I say no more of\nthat. In this kind of dress I went my new journey, and was out five or\nsix days. I travelled first along the sea-shore, directly to the place\nwhere I first brought my boat to an anchor to get upon the rocks; and\nhaving no boat now to take care of, I went over the land a nearer way\nto the same height that I was upon before, when, looking forward to the\npoints of the rocks which lay out, and which I was obliged to double\nwith my boat, as is said above, I was surprised to see the sea all\nsmooth and quiet no rippling, no motion, no current, any more there\nthan in other places. I was at a strange loss to understand this, and\nresolved to spend some time in the observing it, to see if nothing from\nthe sets of the tide had occasioned it; but I was presently convinced\nhow it was viz. that the tide of ebb setting from the west, and joining\nwith the current of waters from some great river on the shore, must be\nthe occasion of this current, and that, according as the wind blew more\nforcibly from the west or from the north, this current came nearer or\nwent farther from the shore; for, waiting thereabouts till evening, I\nwent up to the rock again, and then the tide of ebb being made, I\nplainly saw the current again as before, only that it ran farther off,\nbeing near half a league from the shore, whereas in my case it set\nclose upon the shore, and hurried me and my canoe along with it, which\nat another time it would not have done.\n\nThis observation convinced me that I had nothing to do but to observe\nthe ebbing and the flowing of the tide, and I might very easily bring\nmy boat about the island again; but when I began to think of putting it\nin practice, I had such terror upon my spirits at the remembrance of\nthe danger I had been in, that I could not think of it again with any\npatience, but, on the contrary, I took up another resolution, which was\nmore safe, though more laborious and this was, that I would build, or\nrather make, me another periagua or canoe, and so have one for one side\nof the island, and one for the other.\n\nYou are to understand that now I had, as I may call it, two plantations\nin the island one my little fortification or tent, with the wall about\nit, under the rock, with the cave behind me, which by this time I had\nenlarged into several apartments or caves, one within another. One of\nthese, which was the driest and largest, and had a door out beyond my\nwall or fortification that is to say, beyond where my wall joined to\nthe rock was all filled up with the large earthen pots of which I have\ngiven an account, and with fourteen or fifteen great baskets, which\nwould hold five or six bushels each, where I laid up my stores of\nprovisions, especially my corn, some in the ear, cut off short from the\nstraw, and the other rubbed out with my hand.\n\nAs for my wall, made, as before, with long stakes or piles, those piles\ngrew all like trees, and were by this time grown so big, and spread so\nvery much, that there was not the least appearance, to any one s view,\nof any habitation behind them.\n\nNear this dwelling of mine, but a little farther within the land, and\nupon lower ground, lay my two pieces of corn land, which I kept duly\ncultivated and sowed, and which duly yielded me their harvest in its\nseason; and whenever I had occasion for more corn, I had more land\nadjoining as fit as that.\n\nBesides this, I had my country seat, and I had now a tolerable\nplantation there also; for, first, I had my little bower, as I called\nit, which I kept in repair that is to say, I kept the hedge which\nencircled it in constantly fitted up to its usual height, the ladder\nstanding always in the inside. I kept the trees, which at first were no\nmore than stakes, but were now grown very firm and tall, always cut, so\nthat they might spread and grow thick and wild, and make the more\nagreeable shade, which they did effectually to my mind. In the middle\nof this I had my tent always standing, being a piece of a sail spread\nover poles, set up for that purpose, and which never wanted any repair\nor renewing; and under this I had made me a squab or couch with the\nskins of the creatures I had killed, and with other soft things, and a\nblanket laid on them, such as belonged to our sea-bedding, which I had\nsaved; and a great watch-coat to cover me. And here, whenever I had\noccasion to be absent from my chief seat, I took up my country\nhabitation.\n\nAdjoining to this I had my enclosures for my cattle, that is to say my\ngoats, and I had taken an inconceivable deal of pains to fence and\nenclose this ground. I was so anxious to see it kept entire, lest the\ngoats should break through, that I never left off till, with infinite\nlabour, I had stuck the outside of the hedge so full of small stakes,\nand so near to one another, that it was rather a pale than a hedge, and\nthere was scarce room to put a hand through between them; which\nafterwards, when those stakes grew, as they all did in the next rainy\nseason, made the enclosure strong like a wall, indeed stronger than any\nwall.\n\nThis will testify for me that I was not idle, and that I spared no\npains to bring to pass whatever appeared necessary for my comfortable\nsupport, for I considered the keeping up a breed of tame creatures thus\nat my hand would be a living magazine of flesh, milk, butter, and\ncheese for me as long as I lived in the place, if it were to be forty\nyears; and that keeping them in my reach depended entirely upon my\nperfecting my enclosures to such a degree that I might be sure of\nkeeping them together; which by this method, indeed, I so effectually\nsecured, that when these little stakes began to grow, I had planted\nthem so very thick that I was forced to pull some of them up again.\n\nIn this place also I had my grapes growing, which I principally\ndepended on for my winter store of raisins, and which I never failed to\npreserve very carefully, as the best and most agreeable dainty of my\nwhole diet; and indeed they were not only agreeable, but medicinal,\nwholesome, nourishing, and refreshing to the last degree.\n\nAs this was also about half-way between my other habitation and the\nplace where I had laid up my boat, I generally stayed and lay here in\nmy way thither, for I used frequently to visit my boat; and I kept all\nthings about or belonging to her in very good order. Sometimes I went\nout in her to divert myself, but no more hazardous voyages would I go,\nscarcely ever above a stone s cast or two from the shore, I was so\napprehensive of being hurried out of my knowledge again by the currents\nor winds, or any other accident. But now I come to a new scene of my\nlife.\n\nIt happened one day, about noon, going towards my boat, I was\nexceedingly surprised with the print of a man s naked foot on the\nshore, which was very plain to be seen on the sand. I stood like one\nthunderstruck, or as if I had seen an apparition. I listened, I looked\nround me, but I could hear nothing, nor see anything; I went up to a\nrising ground to look farther; I went up the shore and down the shore,\nbut it was all one; I could see no other impression but that one. I\nwent to it again to see if there were any more, and to observe if it\nmight not be my fancy; but there was no room for that, for there was\nexactly the print of a foot toes, heel, and every part of a foot. How\nit came thither I knew not, nor could I in the least imagine; but after\ninnumerable fluttering thoughts, like a man perfectly confused and out\nof myself, I came home to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, the\nground I went on, but terrified to the last degree, looking behind me\nat every two or three steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and\nfancying every stump at a distance to be a man. Nor is it possible to\ndescribe how many various shapes my affrighted imagination represented\nthings to me in, how many wild ideas were found every moment in my\nfancy, and what strange, unaccountable whimsies came into my thoughts\nby the way.\n\nWhen I came to my castle (for so I think I called it ever after this),\nI fled into it like one pursued. Whether I went over by the ladder, as\nfirst contrived, or went in at the hole in the rock, which I had called\na door, I cannot remember; no, nor could I remember the next morning,\nfor never frightened hare fled to cover, or fox to earth, with more\nterror of mind than I to this retreat.\n\nI slept none that night; the farther I was from the occasion of my\nfright, the greater my apprehensions were, which is something contrary\nto the nature of such things, and especially to the usual practice of\nall creatures in fear; but I was so embarrassed with my own frightful\nideas of the thing, that I formed nothing but dismal imaginations to\nmyself, even though I was now a great way off. Sometimes I fancied it\nmust be the devil, and reason joined in with me in this supposition,\nfor how should any other thing in human shape come into the place?\nWhere was the vessel that brought them? What marks were there of any\nother footstep? And how was it possible a man should come there? But\nthen, to think that Satan should take human shape upon him in such a\nplace, where there could be no manner of occasion for it, but to leave\nthe print of his foot behind him, and that even for no purpose too, for\nhe could not be sure I should see it this was an amusement the other\nway. I considered that the devil might have found out abundance of\nother ways to have terrified me than this of the single print of a\nfoot; that as I lived quite on the other side of the island, he would\nnever have been so simple as to leave a mark in a place where it was\nten thousand to one whether I should ever see it or not, and in the\nsand too, which the first surge of the sea, upon a high wind, would\nhave defaced entirely. All this seemed inconsistent with the thing\nitself and with all the notions we usually entertain of the subtlety of\nthe devil.\n\nAbundance of such things as these assisted to argue me out of all\napprehensions of its being the devil; and I presently concluded then\nthat it must be some more dangerous creature viz. that it must be some\nof the savages of the mainland opposite who had wandered out to sea in\ntheir canoes, and either driven by the currents or by contrary winds,\nhad made the island, and had been on shore, but were gone away again to\nsea; being as loath, perhaps, to have stayed in this desolate island as\nI would have been to have had them.\n\nWhile these reflections were rolling in my mind, I was very thankful in\nmy thoughts that I was so happy as not to be thereabouts at that time,\nor that they did not see my boat, by which they would have concluded\nthat some inhabitants had been in the place, and perhaps have searched\nfarther for me. Then terrible thoughts racked my imagination about\ntheir having found out my boat, and that there were people here; and\nthat, if so, I should certainly have them come again in greater numbers\nand devour me; that if it should happen that they should not find me,\nyet they would find my enclosure, destroy all my corn, and carry away\nall my flock of tame goats, and I should perish at last for mere want.\n\nThus my fear banished all my religious hope, all that former confidence\nin God, which was founded upon such wonderful experience as I had had\nof His goodness; as if He that had fed me by miracle hitherto could not\npreserve, by His power, the provision which He had made for me by His\ngoodness. I reproached myself with my laziness, that would not sow any\nmore corn one year than would just serve me till the next season, as if\nno accident could intervene to prevent my enjoying the crop that was\nupon the ground; and this I thought so just a reproof, that I resolved\nfor the future to have two or three years  corn beforehand; so that,\nwhatever might come, I might not perish for want of bread.\n\nHow strange a chequer-work of Providence is the life of man! and by\nwhat secret different springs are the affections hurried about, as\ndifferent circumstances present! To-day we love what to-morrow we hate;\nto-day we seek what to-morrow we shun; to-day we desire what to-morrow\nwe fear, nay, even tremble at the apprehensions of. This was\nexemplified in me, at this time, in the most lively manner imaginable;\nfor I, whose only affliction was that I seemed banished from human\nsociety, that I was alone, circumscribed by the boundless ocean, cut\noff from mankind, and condemned to what I call silent life; that I was\nas one whom Heaven thought not worthy to be numbered among the living,\nor to appear among the rest of His creatures; that to have seen one of\nmy own species would have seemed to me a raising me from death to life,\nand the greatest blessing that Heaven itself, next to the supreme\nblessing of salvation, could bestow; I say, that I should now tremble\nat the very apprehensions of seeing a man, and was ready to sink into\nthe ground at but the shadow or silent appearance of a man having set\nhis foot in the island.\n\nSuch is the uneven state of human life; and it afforded me a great many\ncurious speculations afterwards, when I had a little recovered my first\nsurprise. I considered that this was the station of life the infinitely\nwise and good providence of God had determined for me; that as I could\nnot foresee what the ends of Divine wisdom might be in all this, so I\nwas not to dispute His sovereignty; who, as I was His creature, had an\nundoubted right, by creation, to govern and dispose of me absolutely as\nHe thought fit; and who, as I was a creature that had offended Him, had\nlikewise a judicial right to condemn me to what punishment He thought\nfit; and that it was my part to submit to bear His indignation, because\nI had sinned against Him. I then reflected, that as God, who was not\nonly righteous but omnipotent, had thought fit thus to punish and\nafflict me, so He was able to deliver me: that if He did not think fit\nto do so, it was my unquestioned duty to resign myself absolutely and\nentirely to His will; and, on the other hand, it was my duty also to\nhope in Him, pray to Him, and quietly to attend to the dictates and\ndirections of His daily providence.\n\nThese thoughts took me up many hours, days, nay, I may say weeks and\nmonths: and one particular effect of my cogitations on this occasion I\ncannot omit. One morning early, lying in my bed, and filled with\nthoughts about my danger from the appearances of savages, I found it\ndiscomposed me very much; upon which these words of the Scripture came\ninto my thoughts,  Call upon Me in the day of trouble, and I will\ndeliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me.  Upon this, rising cheerfully\nout of my bed, my heart was not only comforted, but I was guided and\nencouraged to pray earnestly to God for deliverance: when I had done\npraying I took up my Bible, and opening it to read, the first words\nthat presented to me were,  Wait on the Lord, and be of good cheer, and\nHe shall strengthen thy heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.  It is\nimpossible to express the comfort this gave me. In answer, I thankfully\nlaid down the book, and was no more sad, at least on that occasion.\n\nIn the middle of these cogitations, apprehensions, and reflections, it\ncame into my thoughts one day that all this might be a mere chimera of\nmy own, and that this foot might be the print of my own foot, when I\ncame on shore from my boat: this cheered me up a little, too, and I\nbegan to persuade myself it was all a delusion; that it was nothing\nelse but my own foot; and why might I not come that way from the boat,\nas well as I was going that way to the boat? Again, I considered also\nthat I could by no means tell for certain where I had trod, and where I\nhad not; and that if, at last, this was only the print of my own foot,\nI had played the part of those fools who try to make stories of\nspectres and apparitions, and then are frightened at them more than\nanybody.\n\nNow I began to take courage, and to peep abroad again, for I had not\nstirred out of my castle for three days and nights, so that I began to\nstarve for provisions; for I had little or nothing within doors but\nsome barley-cakes and water; then I knew that my goats wanted to be\nmilked too, which usually was my evening diversion: and the poor\ncreatures were in great pain and inconvenience for want of it; and,\nindeed, it almost spoiled some of them, and almost dried up their milk.\nEncouraging myself, therefore, with the belief that this was nothing\nbut the print of one of my own feet, and that I might be truly said to\nstart at my own shadow, I began to go abroad again, and went to my\ncountry house to milk my flock: but to see with what fear I went\nforward, how often I looked behind me, how I was ready every now and\nthen to lay down my basket and run for my life, it would have made any\none have thought I was haunted with an evil conscience, or that I had\nbeen lately most terribly frightened; and so, indeed, I had. However, I\nwent down thus two or three days, and having seen nothing, I began to\nbe a little bolder, and to think there was really nothing in it but my\nown imagination; but I could not persuade myself fully of this till I\nshould go down to the shore again, and see this print of a foot, and\nmeasure it by my own, and see if there was any similitude or fitness,\nthat I might be assured it was my own foot: but when I came to the\nplace, first, it appeared evidently to me, that when I laid up my boat\nI could not possibly be on shore anywhere thereabouts; secondly, when I\ncame to measure the mark with my own foot, I found my foot not so large\nby a great deal. Both these things filled my head with new\nimaginations, and gave me the vapours again to the highest degree, so\nthat I shook with cold like one in an ague; and I went home again,\nfilled with the belief that some man or men had been on shore there;\nor, in short, that the island was inhabited, and I might be surprised\nbefore I was aware; and what course to take for my security I knew not.\n\nOh, what ridiculous resolutions men take when possessed with fear! It\ndeprives them of the use of those means which reason offers for their\nrelief. The first thing I proposed to myself was, to throw down my\nenclosures, and turn all my tame cattle wild into the woods, lest the\nenemy should find them, and then frequent the island in prospect of the\nsame or the like booty: then the simple thing of digging up my two\ncorn-fields, lest they should find such a grain there, and still be\nprompted to frequent the island: then to demolish my bower and tent,\nthat they might not see any vestiges of habitation, and be prompted to\nlook farther, in order to find out the persons inhabiting.\n\nThese were the subject of the first night s cogitations after I was\ncome home again, while the apprehensions which had so overrun my mind\nwere fresh upon me, and my head was full of vapours. Thus, fear of\ndanger is ten thousand times more terrifying than danger itself, when\napparent to the eyes; and we find the burden of anxiety greater, by\nmuch, than the evil which we are anxious about: and what was worse than\nall this, I had not that relief in this trouble that from the\nresignation I used to practise I hoped to have. I looked, I thought,\nlike Saul, who complained not only that the Philistines were upon him,\nbut that God had forsaken him; for I did not now take due ways to\ncompose my mind, by crying to God in my distress, and resting upon His\nprovidence, as I had done before, for my defence and deliverance;\nwhich, if I had done, I had at least been more cheerfully supported\nunder this new surprise, and perhaps carried through it with more\nresolution.\n\nThis confusion of my thoughts kept me awake all night; but in the\nmorning I fell asleep; and having, by the amusement of my mind, been as\nit were tired, and my spirits exhausted, I slept very soundly, and\nwaked much better composed than I had ever been before. And now I began\nto think sedately; and, upon debate with myself, I concluded that this\nisland (which was so exceedingly pleasant, fruitful, and no farther\nfrom the mainland than as I had seen) was not so entirely abandoned as\nI might imagine; that although there were no stated inhabitants who\nlived on the spot, yet that there might sometimes come boats off from\nthe shore, who, either with design, or perhaps never but when they were\ndriven by cross winds, might come to this place; that I had lived there\nfifteen years now and had not met with the least shadow or figure of\nany people yet; and that, if at any time they should be driven here, it\nwas probable they went away again as soon as ever they could, seeing\nthey had never thought fit to fix here upon any occasion; that the most\nI could suggest any danger from was from any casual accidental landing\nof straggling people from the main, who, as it was likely, if they were\ndriven hither, were here against their wills, so they made no stay\nhere, but went off again with all possible speed; seldom staying one\nnight on shore, lest they should not have the help of the tides and\ndaylight back again; and that, therefore, I had nothing to do but to\nconsider of some safe retreat, in case I should see any savages land\nupon the spot.\n\nNow, I began sorely to repent that I had dug my cave so large as to\nbring a door through again, which door, as I said, came out beyond\nwhere my fortification joined to the rock: upon maturely considering\nthis, therefore, I resolved to draw me a second fortification, in the\nmanner of a semicircle, at a distance from my wall, just where I had\nplanted a double row of trees about twelve years before, of which I\nmade mention: these trees having been planted so thick before, they\nwanted but few piles to be driven between them, that they might be\nthicker and stronger, and my wall would be soon finished. So that I had\nnow a double wall; and my outer wall was thickened with pieces of\ntimber, old cables, and everything I could think of, to make it strong;\nhaving in it seven little holes, about as big as I might put my arm out\nat. In the inside of this I thickened my wall to about ten feet thick\nwith continually bringing earth out of my cave, and laying it at the\nfoot of the wall, and walking upon it; and through the seven holes I\ncontrived to plant the muskets, of which I took notice that I had got\nseven on shore out of the ship; these I planted like my cannon, and\nfitted them into frames, that held them like a carriage, so that I\ncould fire all the seven guns in two minutes  time; this wall I was\nmany a weary month in finishing, and yet never thought myself safe till\nit was done.\n\nWhen this was done I stuck all the ground without my wall, for a great\nlength every way, as full with stakes or sticks of the osier-like wood,\nwhich I found so apt to grow, as they could well stand; insomuch that I\nbelieve I might set in near twenty thousand of them, leaving a pretty\nlarge space between them and my wall, that I might have room to see an\nenemy, and they might have no shelter from the young trees, if they\nattempted to approach my outer wall.\n\nThus in two years  time I had a thick grove; and in five or six years \ntime I had a wood before my dwelling, growing so monstrously thick and\nstrong that it was indeed perfectly impassable: and no men, of what\nkind soever, could ever imagine that there was anything beyond it, much\nless a habitation. As for the way which I proposed to myself to go in\nand out (for I left no avenue), it was by setting two ladders, one to a\npart of the rock which was low, and then broke in, and left room to\nplace another ladder upon that; so when the two ladders were taken down\nno man living could come down to me without doing himself mischief; and\nif they had come down, they were still on the outside of my outer wall.\n\nThus I took all the measures human prudence could suggest for my own\npreservation; and it will be seen at length that they were not\naltogether without just reason; though I foresaw nothing at that time\nmore than my mere fear suggested to me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. A CAVE RETREAT\n\n\nWhile this was doing, I was not altogether careless of my other\naffairs; for I had a great concern upon me for my little herd of goats:\nthey were not only a ready supply to me on every occasion, and began to\nbe sufficient for me, without the expense of powder and shot, but also\nwithout the fatigue of hunting after the wild ones; and I was loath to\nlose the advantage of them, and to have them all to nurse up over\nagain.\n\nFor this purpose, after long consideration, I could think of but two\nways to preserve them: one was, to find another convenient place to dig\na cave underground, and to drive them into it every night; and the\nother was to enclose two or three little bits of land, remote from one\nanother, and as much concealed as I could, where I might keep about\nhalf-a-dozen young goats in each place; so that if any disaster\nhappened to the flock in general, I might be able to raise them again\nwith little trouble and time: and this though it would require a good\ndeal of time and labour, I thought was the most rational design.\n\nAccordingly, I spent some time to find out the most retired parts of\nthe island; and I pitched upon one, which was as private, indeed, as my\nheart could wish: it was a little damp piece of ground in the middle of\nthe hollow and thick woods, where, as is observed, I almost lost myself\nonce before, endeavouring to come back that way from the eastern part\nof the island. Here I found a clear piece of land, near three acres, so\nsurrounded with woods that it was almost an enclosure by nature; at\nleast, it did not want near so much labour to make it so as the other\npiece of ground I had worked so hard at.\n\nI immediately went to work with this piece of ground; and in less than\na month s time I had so fenced it round that my flock, or herd, call it\nwhich you please, which were not so wild now as at first they might be\nsupposed to be, were well enough secured in it: so, without any further\ndelay, I removed ten young she-goats and two he-goats to this piece,\nand when they were there I continued to perfect the fence till I had\nmade it as secure as the other; which, however, I did at more leisure,\nand it took me up more time by a great deal. All this labour I was at\nthe expense of, purely from my apprehensions on account of the print of\na man s foot; for as yet I had never seen any human creature come near\nthe island; and I had now lived two years under this uneasiness, which,\nindeed, made my life much less comfortable than it was before, as may\nbe well imagined by any who know what it is to live in the constant\nsnare of the fear of man. And this I must observe, with grief, too,\nthat the discomposure of my mind had great impression also upon the\nreligious part of my thoughts; for the dread and terror of falling into\nthe hands of savages and cannibals lay so upon my spirits, that I\nseldom found myself in a due temper for application to my Maker; at\nleast, not with the sedate calmness and resignation of soul which I was\nwont to do: I rather prayed to God as under great affliction and\npressure of mind, surrounded with danger, and in expectation every\nnight of being murdered and devoured before morning; and I must\ntestify, from my experience, that a temper of peace, thankfulness,\nlove, and affection, is much the more proper frame for prayer than that\nof terror and discomposure: and that under the dread of mischief\nimpending, a man is no more fit for a comforting performance of the\nduty of praying to God than he is for a repentance on a sick-bed; for\nthese discomposures affect the mind, as the others do the body; and the\ndiscomposure of the mind must necessarily be as great a disability as\nthat of the body, and much greater; praying to God being properly an\nact of the mind, not of the body.\n\nBut to go on. After I had thus secured one part of my little living\nstock, I went about the whole island, searching for another private\nplace to make such another deposit; when, wandering more to the west\npoint of the island than I had ever done yet, and looking out to sea, I\nthought I saw a boat upon the sea, at a great distance. I had found a\nperspective glass or two in one of the seamen s chests, which I saved\nout of our ship, but I had it not about me; and this was so remote that\nI could not tell what to make of it, though I looked at it till my eyes\nwere not able to hold to look any longer; whether it was a boat or not\nI do not know, but as I descended from the hill I could see no more of\nit, so I gave it over; only I resolved to go no more out without a\nperspective glass in my pocket. When I was come down the hill to the\nend of the island, where, indeed, I had never been before, I was\npresently convinced that the seeing the print of a man s foot was not\nsuch a strange thing in the island as I imagined: and but that it was a\nspecial providence that I was cast upon the side of the island where\nthe savages never came, I should easily have known that nothing was\nmore frequent than for the canoes from the main, when they happened to\nbe a little too far out at sea, to shoot over to that side of the\nisland for harbour: likewise, as they often met and fought in their\ncanoes, the victors, having taken any prisoners, would bring them over\nto this shore, where, according to their dreadful customs, being all\ncannibals, they would kill and eat them; of which hereafter.\n\nWhen I was come down the hill to the shore, as I said above, being the\nSW. point of the island, I was perfectly confounded and amazed; nor is\nit possible for me to express the horror of my mind at seeing the shore\nspread with skulls, hands, feet, and other bones of human bodies; and\nparticularly I observed a place where there had been a fire made, and a\ncircle dug in the earth, like a cockpit, where I supposed the savage\nwretches had sat down to their human feastings upon the bodies of their\nfellow-creatures.\n\nI was so astonished with the sight of these things, that I entertained\nno notions of any danger to myself from it for a long while: all my\napprehensions were buried in the thoughts of such a pitch of inhuman,\nhellish brutality, and the horror of the degeneracy of human nature,\nwhich, though I had heard of it often, yet I never had so near a view\nof before; in short, I turned away my face from the horrid spectacle;\nmy stomach grew sick, and I was just at the point of fainting, when\nnature discharged the disorder from my stomach; and having vomited with\nuncommon violence, I was a little relieved, but could not bear to stay\nin the place a moment; so I got up the hill again with all the speed I\ncould, and walked on towards my own habitation.\n\nWhen I came a little out of that part of the island I stood still\nawhile, as amazed, and then, recovering myself, I looked up with the\nutmost affection of my soul, and, with a flood of tears in my eyes,\ngave God thanks, that had cast my first lot in a part of the world\nwhere I was distinguished from such dreadful creatures as these; and\nthat, though I had esteemed my present condition very miserable, had\nyet given me so many comforts in it that I had still more to give\nthanks for than to complain of: and this, above all, that I had, even\nin this miserable condition, been comforted with the knowledge of\nHimself, and the hope of His blessing: which was a felicity more than\nsufficiently equivalent to all the misery which I had suffered, or\ncould suffer.\n\nIn this frame of thankfulness I went home to my castle, and began to be\nmuch easier now, as to the safety of my circumstances, than ever I was\nbefore: for I observed that these wretches never came to this island in\nsearch of what they could get; perhaps not seeking, not wanting, or not\nexpecting anything here; and having often, no doubt, been up the\ncovered, woody part of it without finding anything to their purpose. I\nknew I had been here now almost eighteen years, and never saw the least\nfootsteps of human creature there before; and I might be eighteen years\nmore as entirely concealed as I was now, if I did not discover myself\nto them, which I had no manner of occasion to do; it being my only\nbusiness to keep myself entirely concealed where I was, unless I found\na better sort of creatures than cannibals to make myself known to. Yet\nI entertained such an abhorrence of the savage wretches that I have\nbeen speaking of, and of the wretched, inhuman custom of their\ndevouring and eating one another up, that I continued pensive and sad,\nand kept close within my own circle for almost two years after this:\nwhen I say my own circle, I mean by it my three plantations viz. my\ncastle, my country seat (which I called my bower), and my enclosure in\nthe woods: nor did I look after this for any other use than an\nenclosure for my goats; for the aversion which nature gave me to these\nhellish wretches was such, that I was as fearful of seeing them as of\nseeing the devil himself. I did not so much as go to look after my boat\nall this time, but began rather to think of making another; for I could\nnot think of ever making any more attempts to bring the other boat\nround the island to me, lest I should meet with some of these creatures\nat sea; in which case, if I had happened to have fallen into their\nhands, I knew what would have been my lot.\n\nTime, however, and the satisfaction I had that I was in no danger of\nbeing discovered by these people, began to wear off my uneasiness about\nthem; and I began to live just in the same composed manner as before,\nonly with this difference, that I used more caution, and kept my eyes\nmore about me than I did before, lest I should happen to be seen by any\nof them; and particularly, I was more cautious of firing my gun, lest\nany of them, being on the island, should happen to hear it. It was,\ntherefore, a very good providence to me that I had furnished myself\nwith a tame breed of goats, and that I had no need to hunt any more\nabout the woods, or shoot at them; and if I did catch any of them after\nthis, it was by traps and snares, as I had done before; so that for two\nyears after this I believe I never fired my gun once off, though I\nnever went out without it; and what was more, as I had saved three\npistols out of the ship, I always carried them out with me, or at least\ntwo of them, sticking them in my goat-skin belt. I also furbished up\none of the great cutlasses that I had out of the ship, and made me a\nbelt to hang it on also; so that I was now a most formidable fellow to\nlook at when I went abroad, if you add to the former description of\nmyself the particular of two pistols, and a broadsword hanging at my\nside in a belt, but without a scabbard.\n\nThings going on thus, as I have said, for some time, I seemed,\nexcepting these cautions, to be reduced to my former calm, sedate way\nof living. All these things tended to show me more and more how far my\ncondition was from being miserable, compared to some others; nay, to\nmany other particulars of life which it might have pleased God to have\nmade my lot. It put me upon reflecting how little repining there would\nbe among mankind at any condition of life if people would rather\ncompare their condition with those that were worse, in order to be\nthankful, than be always comparing them with those which are better, to\nassist their murmurings and complainings.\n\nAs in my present condition there were not really many things which I\nwanted, so indeed I thought that the frights I had been in about these\nsavage wretches, and the concern I had been in for my own preservation,\nhad taken off the edge of my invention, for my own conveniences; and I\nhad dropped a good design, which I had once bent my thoughts upon, and\nthat was to try if I could not make some of my barley into malt, and\nthen try to brew myself some beer. This was really a whimsical thought,\nand I reproved myself often for the simplicity of it: for I presently\nsaw there would be the want of several things necessary to the making\nmy beer that it would be impossible for me to supply; as, first, casks\nto preserve it in, which was a thing that, as I have observed already,\nI could never compass: no, though I spent not only many days, but\nweeks, nay months, in attempting it, but to no purpose. In the next\nplace, I had no hops to make it keep, no yeast to make it work, no\ncopper or kettle to make it boil; and yet with all these things\nwanting, I verily believe, had not the frights and terrors I was in\nabout the savages intervened, I had undertaken it, and perhaps brought\nit to pass too; for I seldom gave anything over without accomplishing\nit, when once I had it in my head to began it. But my invention now ran\nquite another way; for night and day I could think of nothing but how I\nmight destroy some of the monsters in their cruel, bloody\nentertainment, and if possible save the victim they should bring hither\nto destroy. It would take up a larger volume than this whole work is\nintended to be to set down all the contrivances I hatched, or rather\nbrooded upon, in my thoughts, for the destroying these creatures, or at\nleast frightening them so as to prevent their coming hither any more:\nbut all this was abortive; nothing could be possible to take effect,\nunless I was to be there to do it myself: and what could one man do\namong them, when perhaps there might be twenty or thirty of them\ntogether with their darts, or their bows and arrows, with which they\ncould shoot as true to a mark as I could with my gun?\n\nSometimes I thought of digging a hole under the place where they made\ntheir fire, and putting in five or six pounds of gunpowder, which, when\nthey kindled their fire, would consequently take fire, and blow up all\nthat was near it: but as, in the first place, I should be unwilling to\nwaste so much powder upon them, my store being now within the quantity\nof one barrel, so neither could I be sure of its going off at any\ncertain time, when it might surprise them; and, at best, that it would\ndo little more than just blow the fire about their ears and fright\nthem, but not sufficient to make them forsake the place: so I laid it\naside; and then proposed that I would place myself in ambush in some\nconvenient place, with my three guns all double-loaded, and in the\nmiddle of their bloody ceremony let fly at them, when I should be sure\nto kill or wound perhaps two or three at every shot; and then falling\nin upon them with my three pistols and my sword, I made no doubt but\nthat, if there were twenty, I should kill them all. This fancy pleased\nmy thoughts for some weeks, and I was so full of it that I often\ndreamed of it, and, sometimes, that I was just going to let fly at them\nin my sleep. I went so far with it in my imagination that I employed\nmyself several days to find out proper places to put myself in\nambuscade, as I said, to watch for them, and I went frequently to the\nplace itself, which was now grown more familiar to me; but while my\nmind was thus filled with thoughts of revenge and a bloody putting\ntwenty or thirty of them to the sword, as I may call it, the horror I\nhad at the place, and at the signals of the barbarous wretches\ndevouring one another, abetted my malice. Well, at length I found a\nplace in the side of the hill where I was satisfied I might securely\nwait till I saw any of their boats coming; and might then, even before\nthey would be ready to come on shore, convey myself unseen into some\nthickets of trees, in one of which there was a hollow large enough to\nconceal me entirely; and there I might sit and observe all their bloody\ndoings, and take my full aim at their heads, when they were so close\ntogether as that it would be next to impossible that I should miss my\nshot, or that I could fail wounding three or four of them at the first\nshot. In this place, then, I resolved to fulfil my design; and\naccordingly I prepared two muskets and my ordinary fowling-piece. The\ntwo muskets I loaded with a brace of slugs each, and four or five\nsmaller bullets, about the size of pistol bullets; and the\nfowling-piece I loaded with near a handful of swan-shot of the largest\nsize; I also loaded my pistols with about four bullets each; and, in\nthis posture, well provided with ammunition for a second and third\ncharge, I prepared myself for my expedition.\n\nAfter I had thus laid the scheme of my design, and in my imagination\nput it in practice, I continually made my tour every morning to the top\nof the hill, which was from my castle, as I called it, about three\nmiles or more, to see if I could observe any boats upon the sea, coming\nnear the island, or standing over towards it; but I began to tire of\nthis hard duty, after I had for two or three months constantly kept my\nwatch, but came always back without any discovery; there having not, in\nall that time, been the least appearance, not only on or near the\nshore, but on the whole ocean, so far as my eye or glass could reach\nevery way.\n\nAs long as I kept my daily tour to the hill, to look out, so long also\nI kept up the vigour of my design, and my spirits seemed to be all the\nwhile in a suitable frame for so outrageous an execution as the killing\ntwenty or thirty naked savages, for an offence which I had not at all\nentered into any discussion of in my thoughts, any farther than my\npassions were at first fired by the horror I conceived at the unnatural\ncustom of the people of that country, who, it seems, had been suffered\nby Providence, in His wise disposition of the world, to have no other\nguide than that of their own abominable and vitiated passions; and\nconsequently were left, and perhaps had been so for some ages, to act\nsuch horrid things, and receive such dreadful customs, as nothing but\nnature, entirely abandoned by Heaven, and actuated by some hellish\ndegeneracy, could have run them into. But now, when, as I have said, I\nbegan to be weary of the fruitless excursion which I had made so long\nand so far every morning in vain, so my opinion of the action itself\nbegan to alter; and I began, with cooler and calmer thoughts, to\nconsider what I was going to engage in; what authority or call I had to\npretend to be judge and executioner upon these men as criminals, whom\nHeaven had thought fit for so many ages to suffer unpunished to go on,\nand to be as it were the executioners of His judgments one upon\nanother; how far these people were offenders against me, and what right\nI had to engage in the quarrel of that blood which they shed\npromiscuously upon one another. I debated this very often with myself\nthus:  How do I know what God Himself judges in this particular case?\nIt is certain these people do not commit this as a crime; it is not\nagainst their own consciences reproving, or their light reproaching\nthem; they do not know it to be an offence, and then commit it in\ndefiance of divine justice, as we do in almost all the sins we commit.\nThey think it no more a crime to kill a captive taken in war than we do\nto kill an ox; or to eat human flesh than we do to eat mutton. \n\nWhen I considered this a little, it followed necessarily that I was\ncertainly in the wrong; that these people were not murderers, in the\nsense that I had before condemned them in my thoughts, any more than\nthose Christians were murderers who often put to death the prisoners\ntaken in battle; or more frequently, upon many occasions, put whole\ntroops of men to the sword, without giving quarter, though they threw\ndown their arms and submitted. In the next place, it occurred to me\nthat although the usage they gave one another was thus brutish and\ninhuman, yet it was really nothing to me: these people had done me no\ninjury: that if they attempted, or I saw it necessary, for my immediate\npreservation, to fall upon them, something might be said for it: but\nthat I was yet out of their power, and they really had no knowledge of\nme, and consequently no design upon me; and therefore it could not be\njust for me to fall upon them; that this would justify the conduct of\nthe Spaniards in all their barbarities practised in America, where they\ndestroyed millions of these people; who, however they were idolators\nand barbarians, and had several bloody and barbarous rites in their\ncustoms, such as sacrificing human bodies to their idols, were yet, as\nto the Spaniards, very innocent people; and that the rooting them out\nof the country is spoken of with the utmost abhorrence and detestation\nby even the Spaniards themselves at this time, and by all other\nChristian nations of Europe, as a mere butchery, a bloody and unnatural\npiece of cruelty, unjustifiable either to God or man; and for which the\nvery name of a Spaniard is reckoned to be frightful and terrible, to\nall people of humanity or of Christian compassion; as if the kingdom of\nSpain were particularly eminent for the produce of a race of men who\nwere without principles of tenderness, or the common bowels of pity to\nthe miserable, which is reckoned to be a mark of generous temper in the\nmind.\n\nThese considerations really put me to a pause, and to a kind of a full\nstop; and I began by little and little to be off my design, and to\nconclude I had taken wrong measures in my resolution to attack the\nsavages; and that it was not my business to meddle with them, unless\nthey first attacked me; and this it was my business, if possible, to\nprevent: but that, if I were discovered and attacked by them, I knew my\nduty. On the other hand, I argued with myself that this really was the\nway not to deliver myself, but entirely to ruin and destroy myself; for\nunless I was sure to kill every one that not only should be on shore at\nthat time, but that should ever come on shore afterwards, if but one of\nthem escaped to tell their country-people what had happened, they would\ncome over again by thousands to revenge the death of their fellows, and\nI should only bring upon myself a certain destruction, which, at\npresent, I had no manner of occasion for. Upon the whole, I concluded\nthat I ought, neither in principle nor in policy, one way or other, to\nconcern myself in this affair: that my business was, by all possible\nmeans to conceal myself from them, and not to leave the least sign for\nthem to guess by that there were any living creatures upon the island I\nmean of human shape. Religion joined in with this prudential\nresolution; and I was convinced now, many ways, that I was perfectly\nout of my duty when I was laying all my bloody schemes for the\ndestruction of innocent creatures I mean innocent as to me. As to the\ncrimes they were guilty of towards one another, I had nothing to do\nwith them; they were national, and I ought to leave them to the justice\nof God, who is the Governor of nations, and knows how, by national\npunishments, to make a just retribution for national offences, and to\nbring public judgments upon those who offend in a public manner, by\nsuch ways as best please Him. This appeared so clear to me now, that\nnothing was a greater satisfaction to me than that I had not been\nsuffered to do a thing which I now saw so much reason to believe would\nhave been no less a sin than that of wilful murder if I had committed\nit; and I gave most humble thanks on my knees to God, that He had thus\ndelivered me from blood-guiltiness; beseeching Him to grant me the\nprotection of His providence, that I might not fall into the hands of\nthe barbarians, or that I might not lay my hands upon them, unless I\nhad a more clear call from Heaven to do it, in defence of my own life.\n\nIn this disposition I continued for near a year after this; and so far\nwas I from desiring an occasion for falling upon these wretches, that\nin all that time I never once went up the hill to see whether there\nwere any of them in sight, or to know whether any of them had been on\nshore there or not, that I might not be tempted to renew any of my\ncontrivances against them, or be provoked by any advantage that might\npresent itself to fall upon them; only this I did: I went and removed\nmy boat, which I had on the other side of the island, and carried it\ndown to the east end of the whole island, where I ran it into a little\ncove, which I found under some high rocks, and where I knew, by reason\nof the currents, the savages durst not, at least would not, come with\ntheir boats upon any account whatever. With my boat I carried away\neverything that I had left there belonging to her, though not necessary\nfor the bare going thither viz. a mast and sail which I had made for\nher, and a thing like an anchor, but which, indeed, could not be called\neither anchor or grapnel; however, it was the best I could make of its\nkind: all these I removed, that there might not be the least shadow for\ndiscovery, or appearance of any boat, or of any human habitation upon\nthe island. Besides this, I kept myself, as I said, more retired than\never, and seldom went from my cell except upon my constant employment,\nto milk my she-goats, and manage my little flock in the wood, which, as\nit was quite on the other part of the island, was out of danger; for\ncertain, it is that these savage people, who sometimes haunted this\nisland, never came with any thoughts of finding anything here, and\nconsequently never wandered off from the coast, and I doubt not but\nthey might have been several times on shore after my apprehensions of\nthem had made me cautious, as well as before. Indeed, I looked back\nwith some horror upon the thoughts of what my condition would have been\nif I had chopped upon them and been discovered before that; when, naked\nand unarmed, except with one gun, and that loaded often only with small\nshot, I walked everywhere, peeping and peering about the island, to see\nwhat I could get; what a surprise should I have been in if, when I\ndiscovered the print of a man s foot, I had, instead of that, seen\nfifteen or twenty savages, and found them pursuing me, and by the\nswiftness of their running no possibility of my escaping them! The\nthoughts of this sometimes sank my very soul within me, and distressed\nmy mind so much that I could not soon recover it, to think what I\nshould have done, and how I should not only have been unable to resist\nthem, but even should not have had presence of mind enough to do what I\nmight have done; much less what now, after so much consideration and\npreparation, I might be able to do. Indeed, after serious thinking of\nthese things, I would be melancholy, and sometimes it would last a\ngreat while; but I resolved it all at last into thankfulness to that\nProvidence which had delivered me from so many unseen dangers, and had\nkept me from those mischiefs which I could have no way been the agent\nin delivering myself from, because I had not the least notion of any\nsuch thing depending, or the least supposition of its being possible.\nThis renewed a contemplation which often had come into my thoughts in\nformer times, when first I began to see the merciful dispositions of\nHeaven, in the dangers we run through in this life; how wonderfully we\nare delivered when we know nothing of it; how, when we are in a\nquandary as we call it, a doubt or hesitation whether to go this way or\nthat way, a secret hint shall direct us this way, when we intended to\ngo that way: nay, when sense, our own inclination, and perhaps business\nhas called us to go the other way, yet a strange impression upon the\nmind, from we know not what springs, and by we know not what power,\nshall overrule us to go this way; and it shall afterwards appear that\nhad we gone that way, which we should have gone, and even to our\nimagination ought to have gone, we should have been ruined and lost.\nUpon these and many like reflections I afterwards made it a certain\nrule with me, that whenever I found those secret hints or pressings of\nmind to doing or not doing anything that presented, or going this way\nor that way, I never failed to obey the secret dictate; though I knew\nno other reason for it than such a pressure or such a hint hung upon my\nmind. I could give many examples of the success of this conduct in the\ncourse of my life, but more especially in the latter part of my\ninhabiting this unhappy island; besides many occasions which it is very\nlikely I might have taken notice of, if I had seen with the same eyes\nthen that I see with now. But it is never too late to be wise; and I\ncannot but advise all considering men, whose lives are attended with\nsuch extraordinary incidents as mine, or even though not so\nextraordinary, not to slight such secret intimations of Providence, let\nthem come from what invisible intelligence they will. That I shall not\ndiscuss, and perhaps cannot account for; but certainly they are a proof\nof the converse of spirits, and a secret communication between those\nembodied and those unembodied, and such a proof as can never be\nwithstood; of which I shall have occasion to give some remarkable\ninstances in the remainder of my solitary residence in this dismal\nplace.\n\nI believe the reader of this will not think it strange if I confess\nthat these anxieties, these constant dangers I lived in, and the\nconcern that was now upon me, put an end to all invention, and to all\nthe contrivances that I had laid for my future accommodations and\nconveniences. I had the care of my safety more now upon my hands than\nthat of my food. I cared not to drive a nail, or chop a stick of wood\nnow, for fear the noise I might make should be heard: much less would I\nfire a gun for the same reason: and above all I was intolerably uneasy\nat making any fire, lest the smoke, which is visible at a great\ndistance in the day, should betray me. For this reason, I removed that\npart of my business which required fire, such as burning of pots and\npipes, &c., into my new apartment in the woods; where, after I had been\nsome time, I found, to my unspeakable consolation, a mere natural cave\nin the earth, which went in a vast way, and where, I daresay, no\nsavage, had he been at the mouth of it, would be so hardy as to venture\nin; nor, indeed, would any man else, but one who, like me, wanted\nnothing so much as a safe retreat.\n\nThe mouth of this hollow was at the bottom of a great rock, where, by\nmere accident (I would say, if I did not see abundant reason to ascribe\nall such things now to Providence), I was cutting down some thick\nbranches of trees to make charcoal; and before I go on I must observe\nthe reason of my making this charcoal, which was this I was afraid of\nmaking a smoke about my habitation, as I said before; and yet I could\nnot live there without baking my bread, cooking my meat, &c.; so I\ncontrived to burn some wood here, as I had seen done in England, under\nturf, till it became chark or dry coal: and then putting the fire out,\nI preserved the coal to carry home, and perform the other services for\nwhich fire was wanting, without danger of smoke. But this is\nby-the-bye. While I was cutting down some wood here, I perceived that,\nbehind a very thick branch of low brushwood or underwood, there was a\nkind of hollow place: I was curious to look in it; and getting with\ndifficulty into the mouth of it, I found it was pretty large, that is\nto say, sufficient for me to stand upright in it, and perhaps another\nwith me: but I must confess to you that I made more haste out than I\ndid in, when looking farther into the place, and which was perfectly\ndark, I saw two broad shining eyes of some creature, whether devil or\nman I knew not, which twinkled like two stars; the dim light from the\ncave s mouth shining directly in, and making the reflection. However,\nafter some pause I recovered myself, and began to call myself a\nthousand fools, and to think that he that was afraid to see the devil\nwas not fit to live twenty years in an island all alone; and that I\nmight well think there was nothing in this cave that was more frightful\nthan myself. Upon this, plucking up my courage, I took up a firebrand,\nand in I rushed again, with the stick flaming in my hand: I had not\ngone three steps in before I was almost as frightened as before; for I\nheard a very loud sigh, like that of a man in some pain, and it was\nfollowed by a broken noise, as of words half expressed, and then a deep\nsigh again. I stepped back, and was indeed struck with such a surprise\nthat it put me into a cold sweat, and if I had had a hat on my head, I\nwill not answer for it that my hair might not have lifted it off. But\nstill plucking up my spirits as well as I could, and encouraging myself\na little with considering that the power and presence of God was\neverywhere, and was able to protect me, I stepped forward again, and by\nthe light of the firebrand, holding it up a little over my head, I saw\nlying on the ground a monstrous, frightful old he-goat, just making his\nwill, as we say, and gasping for life, and, dying, indeed, of mere old\nage. I stirred him a little to see if I could get him out, and he\nessayed to get up, but was not able to raise himself; and I thought\nwith myself he might even lie there for if he had frightened me, so he\nwould certainly fright any of the savages, if any of them should be so\nhardy as to come in there while he had any life in him.\n\nI was now recovered from my surprise, and began to look round me, when\nI found the cave was but very small that is to say, it might be about\ntwelve feet over, but in no manner of shape, neither round nor square,\nno hands having ever been employed in making it but those of mere\nNature. I observed also that there was a place at the farther side of\nit that went in further, but was so low that it required me to creep\nupon my hands and knees to go into it, and whither it went I knew not;\nso, having no candle, I gave it over for that time, but resolved to go\nagain the next day provided with candles and a tinder-box, which I had\nmade of the lock of one of the muskets, with some wildfire in the pan.\n\nAccordingly, the next day I came provided with six large candles of my\nown making (for I made very good candles now of goat s tallow, but was\nhard set for candle-wick, using sometimes rags or rope-yarn, and\nsometimes the dried rind of a weed like nettles); and going into this\nlow place I was obliged to creep upon all-fours as I have said, almost\nten yards which, by the way, I thought was a venture bold enough,\nconsidering that I knew not how far it might go, nor what was beyond\nit. When I had got through the strait, I found the roof rose higher up,\nI believe near twenty feet; but never was such a glorious sight seen in\nthe island, I daresay, as it was to look round the sides and roof of\nthis vault or cave the wall reflected a hundred thousand lights to me\nfrom my two candles. What it was in the rock whether diamonds or any\nother precious stones, or gold which I rather supposed it to be I knew\nnot. The place I was in was a most delightful cavity, or grotto, though\nperfectly dark; the floor was dry and level, and had a sort of a small\nloose gravel upon it, so that there was no nauseous or venomous\ncreature to be seen, neither was there any damp or wet on the sides or\nroof. The only difficulty in it was the entrance which, however, as it\nwas a place of security, and such a retreat as I wanted; I thought was\na convenience; so that I was really rejoiced at the discovery, and\nresolved, without any delay, to bring some of those things which I was\nmost anxious about to this place: particularly, I resolved to bring\nhither my magazine of powder, and all my spare arms viz. two\nfowling-pieces for I had three in all and three muskets for of them I\nhad eight in all; so I kept in my castle only five, which stood ready\nmounted like pieces of cannon on my outmost fence, and were ready also\nto take out upon any expedition. Upon this occasion of removing my\nammunition I happened to open the barrel of powder which I took up out\nof the sea, and which had been wet, and I found that the water had\npenetrated about three or four inches into the powder on every side,\nwhich caking and growing hard, had preserved the inside like a kernel\nin the shell, so that I had near sixty pounds of very good powder in\nthe centre of the cask. This was a very agreeable discovery to me at\nthat time; so I carried all away thither, never keeping above two or\nthree pounds of powder with me in my castle, for fear of a surprise of\nany kind; I also carried thither all the lead I had left for bullets.\n\nI fancied myself now like one of the ancient giants who were said to\nlive in caves and holes in the rocks, where none could come at them;\nfor I persuaded myself, while I was here, that if five hundred savages\nwere to hunt me, they could never find me out or if they did, they\nwould not venture to attack me here. The old goat whom I found expiring\ndied in the mouth of the cave the next day after I made this discovery;\nand I found it much easier to dig a great hole there, and throw him in\nand cover him with earth, than to drag him out; so I interred him\nthere, to prevent offence to my nose.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. WRECK OF A SPANISH SHIP\n\n\nI was now in the twenty-third year of my residence in this island, and\nwas so naturalised to the place and the manner of living, that, could I\nbut have enjoyed the certainty that no savages would come to the place\nto disturb me, I could have been content to have capitulated for\nspending the rest of my time there, even to the last moment, till I had\nlaid me down and died, like the old goat in the cave. I had also\narrived to some little diversions and amusements, which made the time\npass a great deal more pleasantly with me than it did before first, I\nhad taught my Poll, as I noted before, to speak; and he did it so\nfamiliarly, and talked so articulately and plain, that it was very\npleasant to me; and he lived with me no less than six-and-twenty years.\nHow long he might have lived afterwards I know not, though I know they\nhave a notion in the Brazils that they live a hundred years. My dog was\na pleasant and loving companion to me for no less than sixteen years of\nmy time, and then died of mere old age. As for my cats, they\nmultiplied, as I have observed, to that degree that I was obliged to\nshoot several of them at first, to keep them from devouring me and all\nI had; but at length, when the two old ones I brought with me were\ngone, and after some time continually driving them from me, and letting\nthem have no provision with me, they all ran wild into the woods,\nexcept two or three favourites, which I kept tame, and whose young,\nwhen they had any, I always drowned; and these were part of my family.\nBesides these I always kept two or three household kids about me, whom\nI taught to feed out of my hand; and I had two more parrots, which\ntalked pretty well, and would all call  Robin Crusoe,  but none like my\nfirst; nor, indeed, did I take the pains with any of them that I had\ndone with him. I had also several tame sea-fowls, whose name I knew\nnot, that I caught upon the shore, and cut their wings; and the little\nstakes which I had planted before my castle-wall being now grown up to\na good thick grove, these fowls all lived among these low trees, and\nbred there, which was very agreeable to me; so that, as I said above, I\nbegan to be very well contented with the life I led, if I could have\nbeen secured from the dread of the savages. But it was otherwise\ndirected; and it may not be amiss for all people who shall meet with my\nstory to make this just observation from it: How frequently, in the\ncourse of our lives, the evil which in itself we seek most to shun, and\nwhich, when we are fallen into, is the most dreadful to us, is\noftentimes the very means or door of our deliverance, by which alone we\ncan be raised again from the affliction we are fallen into. I could\ngive many examples of this in the course of my unaccountable life; but\nin nothing was it more particularly remarkable than in the\ncircumstances of my last years of solitary residence in this island.\n\nIt was now the month of December, as I said above, in my twenty-third\nyear; and this, being the southern solstice (for winter I cannot call\nit), was the particular time of my harvest, and required me to be\npretty much abroad in the fields, when, going out early in the morning,\neven before it was thorough daylight, I was surprised with seeing a\nlight of some fire upon the shore, at a distance from me of about two\nmiles, toward that part of the island where I had observed some savages\nhad been, as before, and not on the other side; but, to my great\naffliction, it was on my side of the island.\n\nI was indeed terribly surprised at the sight, and stopped short within\nmy grove, not daring to go out, lest I might be surprised; and yet I\nhad no more peace within, from the apprehensions I had that if these\nsavages, in rambling over the island, should find my corn standing or\ncut, or any of my works or improvements, they would immediately\nconclude that there were people in the place, and would then never rest\ntill they had found me out. In this extremity I went back directly to\nmy castle, pulled up the ladder after me, and made all things without\nlook as wild and natural as I could.\n\nThen I prepared myself within, putting myself in a posture of defence.\nI loaded all my cannon, as I called them that is to say, my muskets,\nwhich were mounted upon my new fortification and all my pistols, and\nresolved to defend myself to the last gasp not forgetting seriously to\ncommend myself to the Divine protection, and earnestly to pray to God\nto deliver me out of the hands of the barbarians. I continued in this\nposture about two hours, and began to be impatient for intelligence\nabroad, for I had no spies to send out. After sitting a while longer,\nand musing what I should do in this case, I was not able to bear\nsitting in ignorance longer; so setting up my ladder to the side of the\nhill, where there was a flat place, as I observed before, and then\npulling the ladder after me, I set it up again and mounted the top of\nthe hill, and pulling out my perspective glass, which I had taken on\npurpose, I laid me down flat on my belly on the ground, and began to\nlook for the place. I presently found there were no less than nine\nnaked savages sitting round a small fire they had made, not to warm\nthem, for they had no need of that, the weather being extremely hot,\nbut, as I supposed, to dress some of their barbarous diet of human\nflesh which they had brought with them, whether alive or dead I could\nnot tell.\n\nThey had two canoes with them, which they had hauled up upon the shore;\nand as it was then ebb of tide, they seemed to me to wait for the\nreturn of the flood to go away again. It is not easy to imagine what\nconfusion this sight put me into, especially seeing them come on my\nside of the island, and so near to me; but when I considered their\ncoming must be always with the current of the ebb, I began afterwards\nto be more sedate in my mind, being satisfied that I might go abroad\nwith safety all the time of the flood of tide, if they were not on\nshore before; and having made this observation, I went abroad about my\nharvest work with the more composure.\n\nAs I expected, so it proved; for as soon as the tide made to the\nwestward I saw them all take boat and row (or paddle as we call it)\naway. I should have observed, that for an hour or more before they went\noff they were dancing, and I could easily discern their postures and\ngestures by my glass. I could not perceive, by my nicest observation,\nbut that they were stark naked, and had not the least covering upon\nthem; but whether they were men or women I could not distinguish.\n\nAs soon as I saw them shipped and gone, I took two guns upon my\nshoulders, and two pistols in my girdle, and my great sword by my side\nwithout a scabbard, and with all the speed I was able to make went away\nto the hill where I had discovered the first appearance of all; and as\nsoon as I got thither, which was not in less than two hours (for I\ncould not go quickly, being so loaded with arms as I was), I perceived\nthere had been three canoes more of the savages at that place; and\nlooking out farther, I saw they were all at sea together, making over\nfor the main. This was a dreadful sight to me, especially as, going\ndown to the shore, I could see the marks of horror which the dismal\nwork they had been about had left behind it viz. the blood, the bones,\nand part of the flesh of human bodies eaten and devoured by those\nwretches with merriment and sport. I was so filled with indignation at\nthe sight, that I now began to premeditate the destruction of the next\nthat I saw there, let them be whom or how many soever. It seemed\nevident to me that the visits which they made thus to this island were\nnot very frequent, for it was above fifteen months before any more of\nthem came on shore there again that is to say, I neither saw them nor\nany footsteps or signals of them in all that time; for as to the rainy\nseasons, then they are sure not to come abroad, at least not so far.\nYet all this while I lived uncomfortably, by reason of the constant\napprehensions of their coming upon me by surprise: from whence I\nobserve, that the expectation of evil is more bitter than the\nsuffering, especially if there is no room to shake off that expectation\nor those apprehensions.\n\nDuring all this time I was in a murdering humour, and spent most of my\nhours, which should have been better employed, in contriving how to\ncircumvent and fall upon them the very next time I should see\nthem especially if they should be divided, as they were the last time,\ninto two parties; nor did I consider at all that if I killed one\nparty suppose ten or a dozen I was still the next day, or week, or\nmonth, to kill another, and so another, even _ad infinitum_, till I\nshould be, at length, no less a murderer than they were in being\nman-eaters and perhaps much more so. I spent my days now in great\nperplexity and anxiety of mind, expecting that I should one day or\nother fall into the hands of these merciless creatures; and if I did at\nany time venture abroad, it was not without looking around me with the\ngreatest care and caution imaginable. And now I found, to my great\ncomfort, how happy it was that I had provided a tame flock or herd of\ngoats, for I durst not upon any account fire my gun, especially near\nthat side of the island where they usually came, lest I should alarm\nthe savages; and if they had fled from me now, I was sure to have them\ncome again with perhaps two or three hundred canoes with them in a few\ndays, and then I knew what to expect. However, I wore out a year and\nthree months more before I ever saw any more of the savages, and then I\nfound them again, as I shall soon observe. It is true they might have\nbeen there once or twice; but either they made no stay, or at least I\ndid not see them; but in the month of May, as near as I could\ncalculate, and in my four-and-twentieth year, I had a very strange\nencounter with them; of which in its place.\n\nThe perturbation of my mind during this fifteen or sixteen months \ninterval was very great; I slept unquietly, dreamed always frightful\ndreams, and often started out of my sleep in the night. In the day\ngreat troubles overwhelmed my mind; and in the night I dreamed often of\nkilling the savages and of the reasons why I might justify doing it.\n\nBut to waive all this for a while. It was in the middle of May, on the\nsixteenth day, I think, as well as my poor wooden calendar would\nreckon, for I marked all upon the post still; I say, it was on the\nsixteenth of May that it blew a very great storm of wind all day, with\na great deal of lightning and thunder, and; a very foul night it was\nafter it. I knew not what was the particular occasion of it, but as I\nwas reading in the Bible, and taken up with very serious thoughts about\nmy present condition, I was surprised with the noise of a gun, as I\nthought, fired at sea. This was, to be sure, a surprise quite of a\ndifferent nature from any I had met with before; for the notions this\nput into my thoughts were quite of another kind. I started up in the\ngreatest haste imaginable; and, in a trice, clapped my ladder to the\nmiddle place of the rock, and pulled it after me; and mounting it the\nsecond time, got to the top of the hill the very moment that a flash of\nfire bid me listen for a second gun, which, accordingly, in about half\na minute I heard; and by the sound, knew that it was from that part of\nthe sea where I was driven down the current in my boat. I immediately\nconsidered that this must be some ship in distress, and that they had\nsome comrade, or some other ship in company, and fired these for\nsignals of distress, and to obtain help. I had the presence of mind at\nthat minute to think, that though I could not help them, it might be\nthat they might help me; so I brought together all the dry wood I could\nget at hand, and making a good handsome pile, I set it on fire upon the\nhill. The wood was dry, and blazed freely; and, though the wind blew\nvery hard, yet it burned fairly out; so that I was certain, if there\nwas any such thing as a ship, they must needs see it. And no doubt they\ndid; for as soon as ever my fire blazed up, I heard another gun, and\nafter that several others, all from the same quarter. I plied my fire\nall night long, till daybreak: and when it was broad day, and the air\ncleared up, I saw something at a great distance at sea, full east of\nthe island, whether a sail or a hull I could not distinguish no, not\nwith my glass: the distance was so great, and the weather still\nsomething hazy also; at least, it was so out at sea.\n\nI looked frequently at it all that day, and soon perceived that it did\nnot move; so I presently concluded that it was a ship at anchor; and\nbeing eager, you may be sure, to be satisfied, I took my gun in my\nhand, and ran towards the south side of the island to the rocks where I\nhad formerly been carried away by the current; and getting up there,\nthe weather by this time being perfectly clear, I could plainly see, to\nmy great sorrow, the wreck of a ship, cast away in the night upon those\nconcealed rocks which I found when I was out in my boat; and which\nrocks, as they checked the violence of the stream, and made a kind of\ncounter-stream, or eddy, were the occasion of my recovering from the\nmost desperate, hopeless condition that ever I had been in in all my\nlife. Thus, what is one man s safety is another man s destruction; for\nit seems these men, whoever they were, being out of their knowledge,\nand the rocks being wholly under water, had been driven upon them in\nthe night, the wind blowing hard at ENE. Had they seen the island, as I\nmust necessarily suppose they did not, they must, as I thought, have\nendeavoured to have saved themselves on shore by the help of their\nboat; but their firing off guns for help, especially when they saw, as\nI imagined, my fire, filled me with many thoughts. First, I imagined\nthat upon seeing my light they might have put themselves into their\nboat, and endeavoured to make the shore: but that the sea running very\nhigh, they might have been cast away. Other times I imagined that they\nmight have lost their boat before, as might be the case many ways;\nparticularly by the breaking of the sea upon their ship, which many\ntimes obliged men to stave, or take in pieces, their boat, and\nsometimes to throw it overboard with their own hands. Other times I\nimagined they had some other ship or ships in company, who, upon the\nsignals of distress they made, had taken them up, and carried them off.\nOther times I fancied they were all gone off to sea in their boat, and\nbeing hurried away by the current that I had been formerly in, were\ncarried out into the great ocean, where there was nothing but misery\nand perishing: and that, perhaps, they might by this time think of\nstarving, and of being in a condition to eat one another.\n\nAs all these were but conjectures at best, so, in the condition I was\nin, I could do no more than look on upon the misery of the poor men,\nand pity them; which had still this good effect upon my side, that it\ngave me more and more cause to give thanks to God, who had so happily\nand comfortably provided for me in my desolate condition; and that of\ntwo ships  companies, who were now cast away upon this part of the\nworld, not one life should be spared but mine. I learned here again to\nobserve, that it is very rare that the providence of God casts us into\nany condition so low, or any misery so great, but we may see something\nor other to be thankful for, and may see others in worse circumstances\nthan our own. Such certainly was the case of these men, of whom I could\nnot so much as see room to suppose any were saved; nothing could make\nit rational so much as to wish or expect that they did not all perish\nthere, except the possibility only of their being taken up by another\nship in company; and this was but mere possibility indeed, for I saw\nnot the least sign or appearance of any such thing. I cannot explain,\nby any possible energy of words, what a strange longing I felt in my\nsoul upon this sight, breaking out sometimes thus:  Oh that there had\nbeen but one or two, nay, or but one soul saved out of this ship, to\nhave escaped to me, that I might but have had one companion, one\nfellow-creature, to have spoken to me and to have conversed with!  In\nall the time of my solitary life I never felt so earnest, so strong a\ndesire after the society of my fellow-creatures, or so deep a regret at\nthe want of it.\n\nThere are some secret springs in the affections which, when they are\nset a-going by some object in view, or, though not in view, yet\nrendered present to the mind by the power of imagination, that motion\ncarries out the soul, by its impetuosity, to such violent, eager\nembracings of the object, that the absence of it is insupportable. Such\nwere these earnest wishings that but one man had been saved. I believe\nI repeated the words,  Oh that it had been but one!  a thousand times;\nand my desires were so moved by it, that when I spoke the words my\nhands would clinch together, and my fingers would press the palms of my\nhands, so that if I had had any soft thing in my hand I should have\ncrushed it involuntarily; and the teeth in my head would strike\ntogether, and set against one another so strong, that for some time I\ncould not part them again. Let the naturalists explain these things,\nand the reason and manner of them. All I can do is to describe the\nfact, which was even surprising to me when I found it, though I knew\nnot from whence it proceeded; it was doubtless the effect of ardent\nwishes, and of strong ideas formed in my mind, realising the comfort\nwhich the conversation of one of my fellow-Christians would have been\nto me. But it was not to be; either their fate or mine, or both,\nforbade it; for, till the last year of my being on this island, I never\nknew whether any were saved out of that ship or no; and had only the\naffliction, some days after, to see the corpse of a drowned boy come on\nshore at the end of the island which was next the shipwreck. He had no\nclothes on but a seaman s waistcoat, a pair of open-kneed linen\ndrawers, and a blue linen shirt; but nothing to direct me so much as to\nguess what nation he was of. He had nothing in his pockets but two\npieces of eight and a tobacco pipe the last was to me of ten times more\nvalue than the first.\n\nIt was now calm, and I had a great mind to venture out in my boat to\nthis wreck, not doubting but I might find something on board that might\nbe useful to me. But that did not altogether press me so much as the\npossibility that there might be yet some living creature on board,\nwhose life I might not only save, but might, by saving that life,\ncomfort my own to the last degree; and this thought clung so to my\nheart that I could not be quiet night or day, but I must venture out in\nmy boat on board this wreck; and committing the rest to God s\nprovidence, I thought the impression was so strong upon my mind that it\ncould not be resisted that it must come from some invisible direction,\nand that I should be wanting to myself if I did not go.\n\nUnder the power of this impression, I hastened back to my castle,\nprepared everything for my voyage, took a quantity of bread, a great\npot of fresh water, a compass to steer by, a bottle of rum (for I had\nstill a great deal of that left), and a basket of raisins; and thus,\nloading myself with everything necessary. I went down to my boat, got\nthe water out of her, got her afloat, loaded all my cargo in her, and\nthen went home again for more. My second cargo was a great bag of rice,\nthe umbrella to set up over my head for a shade, another large pot of\nwater, and about two dozen of small loaves, or barley cakes, more than\nbefore, with a bottle of goat s milk and a cheese; all which with great\nlabour and sweat I carried to my boat; and praying to God to direct my\nvoyage, I put out, and rowing or paddling the canoe along the shore,\ncame at last to the utmost point of the island on the north-east side.\nAnd now I was to launch out into the ocean, and either to venture or\nnot to venture. I looked on the rapid currents which ran constantly on\nboth sides of the island at a distance, and which were very terrible to\nme from the remembrance of the hazard I had been in before, and my\nheart began to fail me; for I foresaw that if I was driven into either\nof those currents, I should be carried a great way out to sea, and\nperhaps out of my reach or sight of the island again; and that then, as\nmy boat was but small, if any little gale of wind should rise, I should\nbe inevitably lost.\n\nThese thoughts so oppressed my mind that I began to give over my\nenterprise; and having hauled my boat into a little creek on the shore,\nI stepped out, and sat down upon a rising bit of ground, very pensive\nand anxious, between fear and desire, about my voyage; when, as I was\nmusing, I could perceive that the tide was turned, and the flood come\non; upon which my going was impracticable for so many hours. Upon this,\npresently it occurred to me that I should go up to the highest piece of\nground I could find, and observe, if I could, how the sets of the tide\nor currents lay when the flood came in, that I might judge whether, if\nI was driven one way out, I might not expect to be driven another way\nhome, with the same rapidity of the currents. This thought was no\nsooner in my head than I cast my eye upon a little hill which\nsufficiently overlooked the sea both ways, and from whence I had a\nclear view of the currents or sets of the tide, and which way I was to\nguide myself in my return. Here I found, that as the current of ebb set\nout close by the south point of the island, so the current of the flood\nset in close by the shore of the north side; and that I had nothing to\ndo but to keep to the north side of the island in my return, and I\nshould do well enough.\n\nEncouraged by this observation, I resolved the next morning to set out\nwith the first of the tide; and reposing myself for the night in my\ncanoe, under the watch-coat I mentioned, I launched out. I first made a\nlittle out to sea, full north, till I began to feel the benefit of the\ncurrent, which set eastward, and which carried me at a great rate; and\nyet did not so hurry me as the current on the south side had done\nbefore, so as to take from me all government of the boat; but having a\nstrong steerage with my paddle, I went at a great rate directly for the\nwreck, and in less than two hours I came up to it. It was a dismal\nsight to look at; the ship, which by its building was Spanish, stuck\nfast, jammed in between two rocks. All the stern and quarter of her\nwere beaten to pieces by the sea; and as her forecastle, which stuck in\nthe rocks, had run on with great violence, her mainmast and foremast\nwere brought by the board that is to say, broken short off; but her\nbowsprit was sound, and the head and bow appeared firm. When I came\nclose to her, a dog appeared upon her, who, seeing me coming, yelped\nand cried; and as soon as I called him, jumped into the sea to come to\nme. I took him into the boat, but found him almost dead with hunger and\nthirst. I gave him a cake of my bread, and he devoured it like a\nravenous wolf that had been starving a fortnight in the snow; I then\ngave the poor creature some fresh water, with which, if I would have\nlet him, he would have burst himself. After this I went on board; but\nthe first sight I met with was two men drowned in the cook-room, or\nforecastle of the ship, with their arms fast about one another. I\nconcluded, as is indeed probable, that when the ship struck, it being\nin a storm, the sea broke so high and so continually over her, that the\nmen were not able to bear it, and were strangled with the constant\nrushing in of the water, as much as if they had been under water.\nBesides the dog, there was nothing left in the ship that had life; nor\nany goods, that I could see, but what were spoiled by the water. There\nwere some casks of liquor, whether wine or brandy I knew not, which lay\nlower in the hold, and which, the water being ebbed out, I could see;\nbut they were too big to meddle with. I saw several chests, which I\nbelieve belonged to some of the seamen; and I got two of them into the\nboat, without examining what was in them. Had the stern of the ship\nbeen fixed, and the forepart broken off, I am persuaded I might have\nmade a good voyage; for by what I found in those two chests I had room\nto suppose the ship had a great deal of wealth on board; and, if I may\nguess from the course she steered, she must have been bound from Buenos\nAyres, or the Rio de la Plata, in the south part of America, beyond the\nBrazils to the Havannah, in the Gulf of Mexico, and so perhaps to\nSpain. She had, no doubt, a great treasure in her, but of no use, at\nthat time, to anybody; and what became of the crew I then knew not.\n\nI found, besides these chests, a little cask full of liquor, of about\ntwenty gallons, which I got into my boat with much difficulty. There\nwere several muskets in the cabin, and a great powder-horn, with about\nfour pounds of powder in it; as for the muskets, I had no occasion for\nthem, so I left them, but took the powder-horn. I took a fire-shovel\nand tongs, which I wanted extremely, as also two little brass kettles,\na copper pot to make chocolate, and a gridiron; and with this cargo,\nand the dog, I came away, the tide beginning to make home again and the\nsame evening, about an hour within night, I reached the island again,\nweary and fatigued to the last degree. I reposed that night in the boat\nand in the morning I resolved to harbour what I had got in my new cave,\nand not carry it home to my castle. After refreshing myself, I got all\nmy cargo on shore, and began to examine the particulars. The cask of\nliquor I found to be a kind of rum, but not such as we had at the\nBrazils; and, in a word, not at all good; but when I came to open the\nchests, I found several things of great use to me for example, I found\nin one a fine case of bottles, of an extraordinary kind, and filled\nwith cordial waters, fine and very good; the bottles held about three\npints each, and were tipped with silver. I found two pots of very good\nsuccades, or sweetmeats, so fastened also on the top that the\nsalt-water had not hurt them; and two more of the same, which the water\nhad spoiled. I found some very good shirts, which were very welcome to\nme; and about a dozen and a half of white linen handkerchiefs and\ncoloured neckcloths; the former were also very welcome, being\nexceedingly refreshing to wipe my face in a hot day. Besides this, when\nI came to the till in the chest, I found there three great bags of\npieces of eight, which held about eleven hundred pieces in all; and in\none of them, wrapped up in a paper, six doubloons of gold, and some\nsmall bars or wedges of gold; I suppose they might all weigh near a\npound. In the other chest were some clothes, but of little value; but,\nby the circumstances, it must have belonged to the gunner s mate;\nthough there was no powder in it, except two pounds of fine glazed\npowder, in three flasks, kept, I suppose, for charging their\nfowling-pieces on occasion. Upon the whole, I got very little by this\nvoyage that was of any use to me; for, as to the money, I had no manner\nof occasion for it; it was to me as the dirt under my feet, and I would\nhave given it all for three or four pair of English shoes and\nstockings, which were things I greatly wanted, but had had none on my\nfeet for many years. I had, indeed, got two pair of shoes now, which I\ntook off the feet of two drowned men whom I saw in the wreck, and I\nfound two pair more in one of the chests, which were very welcome to\nme; but they were not like our English shoes, either for ease or\nservice, being rather what we call pumps than shoes. I found in this\nseaman s chest about fifty pieces of eight, in rials, but no gold: I\nsupposed this belonged to a poorer man than the other, which seemed to\nbelong to some officer. Well, however, I lugged this money home to my\ncave, and laid it up, as I had done that before which I had brought\nfrom our own ship; but it was a great pity, as I said, that the other\npart of this ship had not come to my share: for I am satisfied I might\nhave loaded my canoe several times over with money; and, thought I, if\nI ever escape to England, it might lie here safe enough till I come\nagain and fetch it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. A DREAM REALISED\n\n\nHaving now brought all my things on shore and secured them, I went back\nto my boat, and rowed or paddled her along the shore to her old\nharbour, where I laid her up, and made the best of my way to my old\nhabitation, where I found everything safe and quiet. I began now to\nrepose myself, live after my old fashion, and take care of my family\naffairs; and for a while I lived easy enough, only that I was more\nvigilant than I used to be, looked out oftener, and did not go abroad\nso much; and if at any time I did stir with any freedom, it was always\nto the east part of the island, where I was pretty well satisfied the\nsavages never came, and where I could go without so many precautions,\nand such a load of arms and ammunition as I always carried with me if I\nwent the other way.\n\n\nI lived in this condition near two years more; but my unlucky head,\nthat was always to let me know it was born to make my body miserable,\nwas all these two years filled with projects and designs how, if it\nwere possible, I might get away from this island: for sometimes I was\nfor making another voyage to the wreck, though my reason told me that\nthere was nothing left there worth the hazard of my voyage; sometimes\nfor a ramble one way, sometimes another and I believe verily, if I had\nhad the boat that I went from Sallee in, I should have ventured to sea,\nbound anywhere, I knew not whither.\n\n\n\nI have been, in all my circumstances, a memento to those who are\ntouched with the general plague of mankind, whence, for aught I know,\none half of their miseries flow: I mean that of not being satisfied\nwith the station wherein God and Nature hath placed them for, not to\nlook back upon my primitive condition, and the excellent advice of my\nfather, the opposition to which was, as I may call it, my _original\nsin_, my subsequent mistakes of the same kind had been the means of my\ncoming into this miserable condition; for had that Providence which so\nhappily seated me at the Brazils as a planter blessed me with confined\ndesires, and I could have been contented to have gone on gradually, I\nmight have been by this time I mean in the time of my being in this\nisland one of the most considerable planters in the Brazils nay, I am\npersuaded, that by the improvements I had made in that little time I\nlived there, and the increase I should probably have made if I had\nremained, I might have been worth a hundred thousand moidores and what\nbusiness had I to leave a settled fortune, a well-stocked plantation,\nimproving and increasing, to turn supercargo to Guinea to fetch\nnegroes, when patience and time would have so increased our stock at\nhome, that we could have bought them at our own door from those whose\nbusiness it was to fetch them? and though it had cost us something\nmore, yet the difference of that price was by no means worth saving at\nso great a hazard.\n\n\n\nBut as this is usually the fate of young heads, so reflection upon the\nfolly of it is as commonly the exercise of more years, or of the\ndear-bought experience of time so it was with me now; and yet so deep\nhad the mistake taken root in my temper, that I could not satisfy\nmyself in my station, but was continually poring upon the means and\npossibility of my escape from this place; and that I may, with greater\npleasure to the reader, bring on the remaining part of my story, it may\nnot be improper to give some account of my first conceptions on the\nsubject of this foolish scheme for my escape, and how, and upon what\nfoundation, I acted.\n\nI am now to be supposed retired into my castle, after my late voyage to\nthe wreck, my frigate laid up and secured under water, as usual, and my\ncondition restored to what it was before: I had more wealth, indeed,\nthan I had before, but was not at all the richer; for I had no more use\nfor it than the Indians of Peru had before the Spaniards came there.\n\nIt was one of the nights in the rainy season in March, the\nfour-and-twentieth year of my first setting foot in this island of\nsolitude, I was lying in my bed or hammock, awake, very well in health,\nhad no pain, no distemper, no uneasiness of body, nor any uneasiness of\nmind more than ordinary, but could by no means close my eyes, that is,\nso as to sleep; no, not a wink all night long, otherwise than as\nfollows:\n\n\n\nIt is impossible to set down the innumerable crowd of thoughts that\nwhirled through that great thoroughfare of the brain, the memory, in\nthis night s time. I ran over the whole history of my life in\nminiature, or by abridgment, as I may call it, to my coming to this\nisland, and also of that part of my life since I came to this island.\nIn my reflections upon the state of my case since I came on shore on\nthis island, I was comparing the happy posture of my affairs in the\nfirst years of my habitation here, with the life of anxiety, fear, and\ncare which I had lived in ever since I had seen the print of a foot in\nthe sand. Not that I did not believe the savages had frequented the\nisland even all the while, and might have been several hundreds of them\nat times on shore there; but I had never known it, and was incapable of\nany apprehensions about it; my satisfaction was perfect, though my\ndanger was the same, and I was as happy in not knowing my danger as if\nI had never really been exposed to it. This furnished my thoughts with\nmany very profitable reflections, and particularly this one: How\ninfinitely good that Providence is, which has provided, in its\ngovernment of mankind, such narrow bounds to his sight and knowledge of\nthings; and though he walks in the midst of so many thousand dangers,\nthe sight of which, if discovered to him, would distract his mind and\nsink his spirits, he is kept serene and calm, by having the events of\nthings hid from his eyes, and knowing nothing of the dangers which\nsurround him.\n\nAfter these thoughts had for some time entertained me, I came to\nreflect seriously upon the real danger I had been in for so many years\nin this very island, and how I had walked about in the greatest\nsecurity, and with all possible tranquillity, even when perhaps nothing\nbut the brow of a hill, a great tree, or the casual approach of night,\nhad been between me and the worst kind of destruction viz. that of\nfalling into the hands of cannibals and savages, who would have seized\non me with the same view as I would on a goat or turtle; and have\nthought it no more crime to kill and devour me than I did of a pigeon\nor a curlew. I would unjustly slander myself if I should say I was not\nsincerely thankful to my great Preserver, to whose singular protection\nI acknowledged, with great humanity, all these unknown deliverances\nwere due, and without which I must inevitably have fallen into their\nmerciless hands.\n\nWhen these thoughts were over, my head was for some time taken up in\nconsidering the nature of these wretched creatures, I mean the savages,\nand how it came to pass in the world that the wise Governor of all\nthings should give up any of His creatures to such inhumanity nay, to\nsomething so much below even brutality itself as to devour its own\nkind: but as this ended in some (at that time) fruitless speculations,\nit occurred to me to inquire what part of the world these wretches\nlived in? how far off the coast was from whence they came? what they\nventured over so far from home for? what kind of boats they had? and\nwhy I might not order myself and my business so that I might be able to\ngo over thither, as they were to come to me?\n\nI never so much as troubled myself to consider what I should do with\nmyself when I went thither; what would become of me if I fell into the\nhands of these savages; or how I should escape them if they attacked\nme; no, nor so much as how it was possible for me to reach the coast,\nand not to be attacked by some or other of them, without any\npossibility of delivering myself; and if I should not fall into their\nhands, what I should do for provision, or whither I should bend my\ncourse; none of these thoughts, I say, so much as came in my way; but\nmy mind was wholly bent upon the notion of my passing over in my boat\nto the mainland. I looked upon my present condition as the most\nmiserable that could possibly be; that I was not able to throw myself\ninto anything but death, that could be called worse; and if I reached\nthe shore of the main I might perhaps meet with relief, or I might\ncoast along, as I did on the African shore, till I came to some\ninhabited country, and where I might find some relief; and after all,\nperhaps I might fall in with some Christian ship that might take me in:\nand if the worst came to the worst, I could but die, which would put an\nend to all these miseries at once. Pray note, all this was the fruit of\na disturbed mind, an impatient temper, made desperate, as it were, by\nthe long continuance of my troubles, and the disappointments I had met\nin the wreck I had been on board of, and where I had been so near\nobtaining what I so earnestly longed for somebody to speak to, and to\nlearn some knowledge from them of the place where I was, and of the\nprobable means of my deliverance. I was agitated wholly by these\nthoughts; all my calm of mind, in my resignation to Providence, and\nwaiting the issue of the dispositions of Heaven, seemed to be\nsuspended; and I had as it were no power to turn my thoughts to\nanything but to the project of a voyage to the main, which came upon me\nwith such force, and such an impetuosity of desire, that it was not to\nbe resisted.\n\nWhen this had agitated my thoughts for two hours or more, with such\nviolence that it set my very blood into a ferment, and my pulse beat as\nif I had been in a fever, merely with the extraordinary fervour of my\nmind about it, Nature as if I had been fatigued and exhausted with the\nvery thoughts of it threw me into a sound sleep. One would have thought\nI should have dreamed of it, but I did not, nor of anything relating to\nit, but I dreamed that as I was going out in the morning as usual from\nmy castle, I saw upon the shore two canoes and eleven savages coming to\nland, and that they brought with them another savage whom they were\ngoing to kill in order to eat him; when, on a sudden, the savage that\nthey were going to kill jumped away, and ran for his life; and I\nthought in my sleep that he came running into my little thick grove\nbefore my fortification, to hide himself; and that I seeing him alone,\nand not perceiving that the others sought him that way, showed myself\nto him, and smiling upon him, encouraged him: that he kneeled down to\nme, seeming to pray me to assist him; upon which I showed him my\nladder, made him go up, and carried him into my cave, and he became my\nservant; and that as soon as I had got this man, I said to myself,  Now\nI may certainly venture to the mainland, for this fellow will serve me\nas a pilot, and will tell me what to do, and whither to go for\nprovisions, and whither not to go for fear of being devoured; what\nplaces to venture into, and what to shun.  I waked with this thought;\nand was under such inexpressible impressions of joy at the prospect of\nmy escape in my dream, that the disappointments which I felt upon\ncoming to myself, and finding that it was no more than a dream, were\nequally extravagant the other way, and threw me into a very great\ndejection of spirits.\n\nUpon this, however, I made this conclusion: that my only way to go\nabout to attempt an escape was, to endeavour to get a savage into my\npossession: and, if possible, it should be one of their prisoners, whom\nthey had condemned to be eaten, and should bring hither to kill. But\nthese thoughts still were attended with this difficulty: that it was\nimpossible to effect this without attacking a whole caravan of them,\nand killing them all; and this was not only a very desperate attempt,\nand might miscarry, but, on the other hand, I had greatly scrupled the\nlawfulness of it to myself; and my heart trembled at the thoughts of\nshedding so much blood, though it was for my deliverance. I need not\nrepeat the arguments which occurred to me against this, they being the\nsame mentioned before; but though I had other reasons to offer now viz.\nthat those men were enemies to my life, and would devour me if they\ncould; that it was self-preservation, in the highest degree, to deliver\nmyself from this death of a life, and was acting in my own defence as\nmuch as if they were actually assaulting me, and the like; I say though\nthese things argued for it, yet the thoughts of shedding human blood\nfor my deliverance were very terrible to me, and such as I could by no\nmeans reconcile myself to for a great while. However, at last, after\nmany secret disputes with myself, and after great perplexities about it\n(for all these arguments, one way and another, struggled in my head a\nlong time), the eager prevailing desire of deliverance at length\nmastered all the rest; and I resolved, if possible, to get one of these\nsavages into my hands, cost what it would. My next thing was to\ncontrive how to do it, and this, indeed, was very difficult to resolve\non; but as I could pitch upon no probable means for it, so I resolved\nto put myself upon the watch, to see them when they came on shore, and\nleave the rest to the event; taking such measures as the opportunity\nshould present, let what would be.\n\nWith these resolutions in my thoughts, I set myself upon the scout as\noften as possible, and indeed so often that I was heartily tired of it;\nfor it was above a year and a half that I waited; and for great part of\nthat time went out to the west end, and to the south-west corner of the\nisland almost every day, to look for canoes, but none appeared. This\nwas very discouraging, and began to trouble me much, though I cannot\nsay that it did in this case (as it had done some time before) wear off\nthe edge of my desire to the thing; but the longer it seemed to be\ndelayed, the more eager I was for it: in a word, I was not at first so\ncareful to shun the sight of these savages, and avoid being seen by\nthem, as I was now eager to be upon them. Besides, I fancied myself\nable to manage one, nay, two or three savages, if I had them, so as to\nmake them entirely slaves to me, to do whatever I should direct them,\nand to prevent their being able at any time to do me any hurt. It was a\ngreat while that I pleased myself with this affair; but nothing still\npresented itself; all my fancies and schemes came to nothing, for no\nsavages came near me for a great while.\n\nAbout a year and a half after I entertained these notions (and by long\nmusing had, as it were, resolved them all into nothing, for want of an\noccasion to put them into execution), I was surprised one morning by\nseeing no less than five canoes all on shore together on my side the\nisland, and the people who belonged to them all landed and out of my\nsight. The number of them broke all my measures; for seeing so many,\nand knowing that they always came four or six, or sometimes more in a\nboat, I could not tell what to think of it, or how to take my measures\nto attack twenty or thirty men single-handed; so lay still in my\ncastle, perplexed and discomforted. However, I put myself into the same\nposition for an attack that I had formerly provided, and was just ready\nfor action, if anything had presented. Having waited a good while,\nlistening to hear if they made any noise, at length, being very\nimpatient, I set my guns at the foot of my ladder, and clambered up to\nthe top of the hill, by my two stages, as usual; standing so, however,\nthat my head did not appear above the hill, so that they could not\nperceive me by any means. Here I observed, by the help of my\nperspective glass, that they were no less than thirty in number; that\nthey had a fire kindled, and that they had meat dressed. How they had\ncooked it I knew not, or what it was; but they were all dancing, in I\nknow not how many barbarous gestures and figures, their own way, round\nthe fire.\n\nWhile I was thus looking on them, I perceived, by my perspective, two\nmiserable wretches dragged from the boats, where, it seems, they were\nlaid by, and were now brought out for the slaughter. I perceived one of\nthem immediately fall; being knocked down, I suppose, with a club or\nwooden sword, for that was their way; and two or three others were at\nwork immediately, cutting him open for their cookery, while the other\nvictim was left standing by himself, till they should be ready for him.\nIn that very moment this poor wretch, seeing himself a little at\nliberty and unbound, Nature inspired him with hopes of life, and he\nstarted away from them, and ran with incredible swiftness along the\nsands, directly towards me; I mean towards that part of the coast where\nmy habitation was. I was dreadfully frightened, I must acknowledge,\nwhen I perceived him run my way; and especially when, as I thought, I\nsaw him pursued by the whole body: and now I expected that part of my\ndream was coming to pass, and that he would certainly take shelter in\nmy grove; but I could not depend, by any means, upon my dream, that the\nother savages would not pursue him thither and find him there. However,\nI kept my station, and my spirits began to recover when I found that\nthere was not above three men that followed him; and still more was I\nencouraged, when I found that he outstripped them exceedingly in\nrunning, and gained ground on them; so that, if he could but hold out\nfor half-an-hour, I saw easily he would fairly get away from them all.\n\nThere was between them and my castle the creek, which I mentioned often\nin the first part of my story, where I landed my cargoes out of the\nship; and this I saw plainly he must necessarily swim over, or the poor\nwretch would be taken there; but when the savage escaping came thither,\nhe made nothing of it, though the tide was then up; but plunging in,\nswam through in about thirty strokes, or thereabouts, landed, and ran\nwith exceeding strength and swiftness. When the three persons came to\nthe creek, I found that two of them could swim, but the third could\nnot, and that, standing on the other side, he looked at the others, but\nwent no farther, and soon after went softly back again; which, as it\nhappened, was very well for him in the end. I observed that the two who\nswam were yet more than twice as strong swimming over the creek as the\nfellow was that fled from them. It came very warmly upon my thoughts,\nand indeed irresistibly, that now was the time to get me a servant,\nand, perhaps, a companion or assistant; and that I was plainly called\nby Providence to save this poor creature s life. I immediately ran down\nthe ladders with all possible expedition, fetched my two guns, for they\nwere both at the foot of the ladders, as I observed before, and getting\nup again with the same haste to the top of the hill, I crossed towards\nthe sea; and having a very short cut, and all down hill, placed myself\nin the way between the pursuers and the pursued, hallowing aloud to him\nthat fled, who, looking back, was at first perhaps as much frightened\nat me as at them; but I beckoned with my hand to him to come back; and,\nin the meantime, I slowly advanced towards the two that followed; then\nrushing at once upon the foremost, I knocked him down with the stock of\nmy piece. I was loath to fire, because I would not have the rest hear;\nthough, at that distance, it would not have been easily heard, and\nbeing out of sight of the smoke, too, they would not have known what to\nmake of it. Having knocked this fellow down, the other who pursued him\nstopped, as if he had been frightened, and I advanced towards him: but\nas I came nearer, I perceived presently he had a bow and arrow, and was\nfitting it to shoot at me: so I was then obliged to shoot at him first,\nwhich I did, and killed him at the first shot. The poor savage who\nfled, but had stopped, though he saw both his enemies fallen and\nkilled, as he thought, yet was so frightened with the fire and noise of\nmy piece that he stood stock still, and neither came forward nor went\nbackward, though he seemed rather inclined still to fly than to come\non. I hallooed again to him, and made signs to come forward, which he\neasily understood, and came a little way; then stopped again, and then\na little farther, and stopped again; and I could then perceive that he\nstood trembling, as if he had been taken prisoner, and had just been to\nbe killed, as his two enemies were. I beckoned to him again to come to\nme, and gave him all the signs of encouragement that I could think of;\nand he came nearer and nearer, kneeling down every ten or twelve steps,\nin token of acknowledgment for saving his life. I smiled at him, and\nlooked pleasantly, and beckoned to him to come still nearer; at length\nhe came close to me; and then he kneeled down again, kissed the ground,\nand laid his head upon the ground, and taking me by the foot, set my\nfoot upon his head; this, it seems, was in token of swearing to be my\nslave for ever. I took him up and made much of him, and encouraged him\nall I could. But there was more work to do yet; for I perceived the\nsavage whom I had knocked down was not killed, but stunned with the\nblow, and began to come to himself: so I pointed to him, and showed him\nthe savage, that he was not dead; upon this he spoke some words to me,\nand though I could not understand them, yet I thought they were\npleasant to hear; for they were the first sound of a man s voice that I\nhad heard, my own excepted, for above twenty-five years. But there was\nno time for such reflections now; the savage who was knocked down\nrecovered himself so far as to sit up upon the ground, and I perceived\nthat my savage began to be afraid; but when I saw that, I presented my\nother piece at the man, as if I would shoot him: upon this my savage,\nfor so I call him now, made a motion to me to lend him my sword, which\nhung naked in a belt by my side, which I did. He no sooner had it, but\nhe runs to his enemy, and at one blow cut off his head so cleverly, no\nexecutioner in Germany could have done it sooner or better; which I\nthought very strange for one who, I had reason to believe, never saw a\nsword in his life before, except their own wooden swords: however, it\nseems, as I learned afterwards, they make their wooden swords so sharp,\nso heavy, and the wood is so hard, that they will even cut off heads\nwith them, ay, and arms, and that at one blow, too. When he had done\nthis, he comes laughing to me in sign of triumph, and brought me the\nsword again, and with abundance of gestures which I did not understand,\nlaid it down, with the head of the savage that he had killed, just\nbefore me. But that which astonished him most was to know how I killed\nthe other Indian so far off; so, pointing to him, he made signs to me\nto let him go to him; and I bade him go, as well as I could. When he\ncame to him, he stood like one amazed, looking at him, turning him\nfirst on one side, then on the other; looked at the wound the bullet\nhad made, which it seems was just in his breast, where it had made a\nhole, and no great quantity of blood had followed; but he had bled\ninwardly, for he was quite dead. He took up his bow and arrows, and\ncame back; so I turned to go away, and beckoned him to follow me,\nmaking signs to him that more might come after them. Upon this he made\nsigns to me that he should bury them with sand, that they might not be\nseen by the rest, if they followed; and so I made signs to him again to\ndo so. He fell to work; and in an instant he had scraped a hole in the\nsand with his hands big enough to bury the first in, and then dragged\nhim into it, and covered him; and did so by the other also; I believe\nhe had him buried them both in a quarter of an hour. Then, calling\naway, I carried him, not to my castle, but quite away to my cave, on\nthe farther part of the island: so I did not let my dream come to pass\nin that part, that he came into my grove for shelter. Here I gave him\nbread and a bunch of raisins to eat, and a draught of water, which I\nfound he was indeed in great distress for, from his running: and having\nrefreshed him, I made signs for him to go and lie down to sleep,\nshowing him a place where I had laid some rice-straw, and a blanket\nupon it, which I used to sleep upon myself sometimes; so the poor\ncreature lay down, and went to sleep.\n\nHe was a comely, handsome fellow, perfectly well made, with straight,\nstrong limbs, not too large; tall, and well-shaped; and, as I reckon,\nabout twenty-six years of age. He had a very good countenance, not a\nfierce and surly aspect, but seemed to have something very manly in his\nface; and yet he had all the sweetness and softness of a European in\nhis countenance, too, especially when he smiled. His hair was long and\nblack, not curled like wool; his forehead very high and large; and a\ngreat vivacity and sparkling sharpness in his eyes. The colour of his\nskin was not quite black, but very tawny; and yet not an ugly, yellow,\nnauseous tawny, as the Brazilians and Virginians, and other natives of\nAmerica are, but of a bright kind of a dun olive-colour, that had in it\nsomething very agreeable, though not very easy to describe. His face\nwas round and plump; his nose small, not flat, like the negroes; a very\ngood mouth, thin lips, and his fine teeth well set, and as white as\nivory.\n\nAfter he had slumbered, rather than slept, about half-an-hour, he awoke\nagain, and came out of the cave to me, for I had been milking my goats\nwhich I had in the enclosure just by: when he espied me he came running\nto me, laying himself down again upon the ground, with all the possible\nsigns of an humble, thankful disposition, making a great many antic\ngestures to show it. At last he lays his head flat upon the ground,\nclose to my foot, and sets my other foot upon his head, as he had done\nbefore; and after this made all the signs to me of subjection,\nservitude, and submission imaginable, to let me know how he would serve\nme so long as he lived. I understood him in many things, and let him\nknow I was very well pleased with him. In a little time I began to\nspeak to him; and teach him to speak to me; and first, I let him know\nhis name should be Friday, which was the day I saved his life; I called\nhim so for the memory of the time. I likewise taught him to say Master;\nand then let him know that was to be my name; I likewise taught him to\nsay Yes and No and to know the meaning of them. I gave him some milk in\nan earthen pot, and let him see me drink it before him, and sop my\nbread in it; and gave him a cake of bread to do the like, which he\nquickly complied with, and made signs that it was very good for him. I\nkept there with him all that night; but as soon as it was day I\nbeckoned to him to come with me, and let him know I would give him some\nclothes; at which he seemed very glad, for he was stark naked. As we\nwent by the place where he had buried the two men, he pointed exactly\nto the place, and showed me the marks that he had made to find them\nagain, making signs to me that we should dig them up again and eat\nthem. At this I appeared very angry, expressed my abhorrence of it,\nmade as if I would vomit at the thoughts of it, and beckoned with my\nhand to him to come away, which he did immediately, with great\nsubmission. I then led him up to the top of the hill, to see if his\nenemies were gone; and pulling out my glass I looked, and saw plainly\nthe place where they had been, but no appearance of them or their\ncanoes; so that it was plain they were gone, and had left their two\ncomrades behind them, without any search after them.\n\nBut I was not content with this discovery; but having now more courage,\nand consequently more curiosity, I took my man Friday with me, giving\nhim the sword in his hand, with the bow and arrows at his back, which I\nfound he could use very dexterously, making him carry one gun for me,\nand I two for myself; and away we marched to the place where these\ncreatures had been; for I had a mind now to get some further\nintelligence of them. When I came to the place my very blood ran chill\nin my veins, and my heart sunk within me, at the horror of the\nspectacle; indeed, it was a dreadful sight, at least it was so to me,\nthough Friday made nothing of it. The place was covered with human\nbones, the ground dyed with their blood, and great pieces of flesh left\nhere and there, half-eaten, mangled, and scorched; and, in short, all\nthe tokens of the triumphant feast they had been making there, after a\nvictory over their enemies. I saw three skulls, five hands, and the\nbones of three or four legs and feet, and abundance of other parts of\nthe bodies; and Friday, by his signs, made me understand that they\nbrought over four prisoners to feast upon; that three of them were\neaten up, and that he, pointing to himself, was the fourth; that there\nhad been a great battle between them and their next king, of whose\nsubjects, it seems, he had been one, and that they had taken a great\nnumber of prisoners; all which were carried to several places by those\nwho had taken them in the fight, in order to feast upon them, as was\ndone here by these wretches upon those they brought hither.\n\nI caused Friday to gather all the skulls, bones, flesh, and whatever\nremained, and lay them together in a heap, and make a great fire upon\nit, and burn them all to ashes. I found Friday had still a hankering\nstomach after some of the flesh, and was still a cannibal in his\nnature; but I showed so much abhorrence at the very thoughts of it, and\nat the least appearance of it, that he durst not discover it: for I\nhad, by some means, let him know that I would kill him if he offered\nit.\n\nWhen he had done this, we came back to our castle; and there I fell to\nwork for my man Friday; and first of all, I gave him a pair of linen\ndrawers, which I had out of the poor gunner s chest I mentioned, which\nI found in the wreck, and which, with a little alteration, fitted him\nvery well; and then I made him a jerkin of goat s skin, as well as my\nskill would allow (for I was now grown a tolerably good tailor); and I\ngave him a cap which I made of hare s skin, very convenient, and\nfashionable enough; and thus he was clothed, for the present, tolerably\nwell, and was mighty well pleased to see himself almost as well clothed\nas his master. It is true he went awkwardly in these clothes at first:\nwearing the drawers was very awkward to him, and the sleeves of the\nwaistcoat galled his shoulders and the inside of his arms; but a little\neasing them where he complained they hurt him, and using himself to\nthem, he took to them at length very well.\n\nThe next day, after I came home to my hutch with him, I began to\nconsider where I should lodge him: and that I might do well for him and\nyet be perfectly easy myself, I made a little tent for him in the\nvacant place between my two fortifications, in the inside of the last,\nand in the outside of the first. As there was a door or entrance there\ninto my cave, I made a formal framed door-case, and a door to it, of\nboards, and set it up in the passage, a little within the entrance;\nand, causing the door to open in the inside, I barred it up in the\nnight, taking in my ladders, too; so that Friday could no way come at\nme in the inside of my innermost wall, without making so much noise in\ngetting over that it must needs awaken me; for my first wall had now a\ncomplete roof over it of long poles, covering all my tent, and leaning\nup to the side of the hill; which was again laid across with smaller\nsticks, instead of laths, and then thatched over a great thickness with\nthe rice-straw, which was strong, like reeds; and at the hole or place\nwhich was left to go in or out by the ladder I had placed a kind of\ntrap-door, which, if it had been attempted on the outside, would not\nhave opened at all, but would have fallen down and made a great\nnoise as to weapons, I took them all into my side every night. But I\nneeded none of all this precaution; for never man had a more faithful,\nloving, sincere servant than Friday was to me: without passions,\nsullenness, or designs, perfectly obliged and engaged; his very\naffections were tied to me, like those of a child to a father; and I\ndaresay he would have sacrificed his life to save mine upon any\noccasion whatsoever the many testimonies he gave me of this put it out\nof doubt, and soon convinced me that I needed to use no precautions for\nmy safety on his account.\n\nThis frequently gave me occasion to observe, and that with wonder, that\nhowever it had pleased God in His providence, and in the government of\nthe works of His hands, to take from so great a part of the world of\nHis creatures the best uses to which their faculties and the powers of\ntheir souls are adapted, yet that He has bestowed upon them the same\npowers, the same reason, the same affections, the same sentiments of\nkindness and obligation, the same passions and resentments of wrongs,\nthe same sense of gratitude, sincerity, fidelity, and all the\ncapacities of doing good and receiving good that He has given to us;\nand that when He pleases to offer them occasions of exerting these,\nthey are as ready, nay, more ready, to apply them to the right uses for\nwhich they were bestowed than we are. This made me very melancholy\nsometimes, in reflecting, as the several occasions presented, how mean\na use we make of all these, even though we have these powers\nenlightened by the great lamp of instruction, the Spirit of God, and by\nthe knowledge of His word added to our understanding; and why it has\npleased God to hide the like saving knowledge from so many millions of\nsouls, who, if I might judge by this poor savage, would make a much\nbetter use of it than we did. From hence I sometimes was led too far,\nto invade the sovereignty of Providence, and, as it were, arraign the\njustice of so arbitrary a disposition of things, that should hide that\nsight from some, and reveal it to others, and yet expect a like duty\nfrom both; but I shut it up, and checked my thoughts with this\nconclusion: first, that we did not know by what light and law these\nshould be condemned; but that as God was necessarily, and by the nature\nof His being, infinitely holy and just, so it could not be, but if\nthese creatures were all sentenced to absence from Himself, it was on\naccount of sinning against that light which, as the Scripture says, was\na law to themselves, and by such rules as their consciences would\nacknowledge to be just, though the foundation was not discovered to us;\nand secondly, that still as we all are the clay in the hand of the\npotter, no vessel could say to him,  Why hast thou formed me thus? \n\nBut to return to my new companion. I was greatly delighted with him,\nand made it my business to teach him everything that was proper to make\nhim useful, handy, and helpful; but especially to make him speak, and\nunderstand me when I spoke; and he was the aptest scholar that ever\nwas; and particularly was so merry, so constantly diligent, and so\npleased when he could but understand me, or make me understand him,\nthat it was very pleasant for me to talk to him. Now my life began to\nbe so easy that I began to say to myself that could I but have been\nsafe from more savages, I cared not if I was never to remove from the\nplace where I lived.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. FRIDAY S EDUCATION\n\n\nAfter I had been two or three days returned to my castle, I thought\nthat, in order to bring Friday off from his horrid way of feeding, and\nfrom the relish of a cannibal s stomach, I ought to let him taste other\nflesh; so I took him out with me one morning to the woods. I went,\nindeed, intending to kill a kid out of my own flock; and bring it home\nand dress it; but as I was going I saw a she-goat lying down in the\nshade, and two young kids sitting by her. I catched hold of Friday.\n Hold,  said I,  stand still;  and made signs to him not to stir:\nimmediately I presented my piece, shot, and killed one of the kids. The\npoor creature, who had at a distance, indeed, seen me kill the savage,\nhis enemy, but did not know, nor could imagine how it was done, was\nsensibly surprised, trembled, and shook, and looked so amazed that I\nthought he would have sunk down. He did not see the kid I shot at, or\nperceive I had killed it, but ripped up his waistcoat to feel whether\nhe was not wounded; and, as I found presently, thought I was resolved\nto kill him: for he came and kneeled down to me, and embracing my\nknees, said a great many things I did not understand; but I could\neasily see the meaning was to pray me not to kill him.\n\nI soon found a way to convince him that I would do him no harm; and\ntaking him up by the hand, laughed at him, and pointing to the kid\nwhich I had killed, beckoned to him to run and fetch it, which he did:\nand while he was wondering, and looking to see how the creature was\nkilled, I loaded my gun again. By-and-by I saw a great fowl, like a\nhawk, sitting upon a tree within shot; so, to let Friday understand a\nlittle what I would do, I called him to me again, pointed at the fowl,\nwhich was indeed a parrot, though I thought it had been a hawk; I say,\npointing to the parrot, and to my gun, and to the ground under the\nparrot, to let him see I would make it fall, I made him understand that\nI would shoot and kill that bird; accordingly, I fired, and bade him\nlook, and immediately he saw the parrot fall. He stood like one\nfrightened again, notwithstanding all I had said to him; and I found he\nwas the more amazed, because he did not see me put anything into the\ngun, but thought that there must be some wonderful fund of death and\ndestruction in that thing, able to kill man, beast, bird, or anything\nnear or far off; and the astonishment this created in him was such as\ncould not wear off for a long time; and I believe, if I would have let\nhim, he would have worshipped me and my gun. As for the gun itself, he\nwould not so much as touch it for several days after; but he would\nspeak to it and talk to it, as if it had answered him, when he was by\nhimself; which, as I afterwards learned of him, was to desire it not to\nkill him. Well, after his astonishment was a little over at this, I\npointed to him to run and fetch the bird I had shot, which he did, but\nstayed some time; for the parrot, not being quite dead, had fluttered\naway a good distance from the place where she fell: however, he found\nher, took her up, and brought her to me; and as I had perceived his\nignorance about the gun before, I took this advantage to charge the gun\nagain, and not to let him see me do it, that I might be ready for any\nother mark that might present; but nothing more offered at that time:\nso I brought home the kid, and the same evening I took the skin off,\nand cut it out as well as I could; and having a pot fit for that\npurpose, I boiled or stewed some of the flesh, and made some very good\nbroth. After I had begun to eat some I gave some to my man, who seemed\nvery glad of it, and liked it very well; but that which was strangest\nto him was to see me eat salt with it. He made a sign to me that the\nsalt was not good to eat; and putting a little into his own mouth, he\nseemed to nauseate it, and would spit and sputter at it, washing his\nmouth with fresh water after it: on the other hand, I took some meat\ninto my mouth without salt, and I pretended to spit and sputter for\nwant of salt, as much as he had done at the salt; but it would not do;\nhe would never care for salt with meat or in his broth; at least, not\nfor a great while, and then but a very little.\n\nHaving thus fed him with boiled meat and broth, I was resolved to feast\nhim the next day by roasting a piece of the kid: this I did by hanging\nit before the fire on a string, as I had seen many people do in\nEngland, setting two poles up, one on each side of the fire, and one\nacross the top, and tying the string to the cross stick, letting the\nmeat turn continually. This Friday admired very much; but when he came\nto taste the flesh, he took so many ways to tell me how well he liked\nit, that I could not but understand him: and at last he told me, as\nwell as he could, he would never eat man s flesh any more, which I was\nvery glad to hear.\n\nThe next day I set him to work beating some corn out, and sifting it in\nthe manner I used to do, as I observed before; and he soon understood\nhow to do it as well as I, especially after he had seen what the\nmeaning of it was, and that it was to make bread of; for after that I\nlet him see me make my bread, and bake it too; and in a little time\nFriday was able to do all the work for me as well as I could do it\nmyself.\n\nI began now to consider, that having two mouths to feed instead of one,\nI must provide more ground for my harvest, and plant a larger quantity\nof corn than I used to do; so I marked out a larger piece of land, and\nbegan the fence in the same manner as before, in which Friday worked\nnot only very willingly and very hard, but did it very cheerfully: and\nI told him what it was for; that it was for corn to make more bread,\nbecause he was now with me, and that I might have enough for him and\nmyself too. He appeared very sensible of that part, and let me know\nthat he thought I had much more labour upon me on his account than I\nhad for myself; and that he would work the harder for me if I would\ntell him what to do.\n\nThis was the pleasantest year of all the life I led in this place.\nFriday began to talk pretty well, and understand the names of almost\neverything I had occasion to call for, and of every place I had to send\nhim to, and talked a great deal to me; so that, in short, I began now\nto have some use for my tongue again, which, indeed, I had very little\noccasion for before. Besides the pleasure of talking to him, I had a\nsingular satisfaction in the fellow himself: his simple, unfeigned\nhonesty appeared to me more and more every day, and I began really to\nlove the creature; and on his side I believe he loved me more than it\nwas possible for him ever to love anything before.\n\nI had a mind once to try if he had any inclination for his own country\nagain; and having taught him English so well that he could answer me\nalmost any question, I asked him whether the nation that he belonged to\nnever conquered in battle? At which he smiled, and said Yes, yes, we\nalways fight the better;  that is, he meant always get the better in\nfight; and so we began the following discourse: \n\n_Master_. You always fight the better; how came you to be taken\nprisoner, then, Friday?\n\n_Friday_. My nation beat much for all that.\n\n_Master_. How beat? If your nation beat them, how came you to be taken?\n\n_Friday_. They more many than my nation, in the place where me was;\nthey take one, two, three, and me: my nation over-beat them in the\nyonder place, where me no was; there my nation take one, two, great\nthousand.\n\n_Master_. But why did not your side recover you from the hands of your\nenemies, then?\n\n_Friday_. They run, one, two, three, and me, and make go in the canoe;\nmy nation have no canoe that time.\n\n_Master_. Well, Friday, and what does your nation do with the men they\ntake? Do they carry them away and eat them, as these did?\n\n_Friday_. Yes, my nation eat mans too; eat all up.\n\n_Master_. Where do they carry them?\n\n_Friday_. Go to other place, where they think.\n\n_Master_. Do they come hither?\n\n_Friday_. Yes, yes, they come hither; come other else place.\n\n_Master_. Have you been here with them?\n\n_Friday_. Yes, I have been here (points to the NW. side of the island,\nwhich, it seems, was their side).\n\nBy this I understood that my man Friday had formerly been among the\nsavages who used to come on shore on the farther part of the island, on\nthe same man-eating occasions he was now brought for; and some time\nafter, when I took the courage to carry him to that side, being the\nsame I formerly mentioned, he presently knew the place, and told me he\nwas there once, when they ate up twenty men, two women, and one child;\nhe could not tell twenty in English, but he numbered them by laying so\nmany stones in a row, and pointing to me to tell them over.\n\nI have told this passage, because it introduces what follows: that\nafter this discourse I had with him, I asked him how far it was from\nour island to the shore, and whether the canoes were not often lost. He\ntold me there was no danger, no canoes ever lost: but that after a\nlittle way out to sea, there was a current and wind, always one way in\nthe morning, the other in the afternoon. This I understood to be no\nmore than the sets of the tide, as going out or coming in; but I\nafterwards understood it was occasioned by the great draft and reflux\nof the mighty river Orinoco, in the mouth or gulf of which river, as I\nfound afterwards, our island lay; and that this land, which I perceived\nto be W. and NW., was the great island Trinidad, on the north point of\nthe mouth of the river. I asked Friday a thousand questions about the\ncountry, the inhabitants, the sea, the coast, and what nations were\nnear; he told me all he knew with the greatest openness imaginable. I\nasked him the names of the several nations of his sort of people, but\ncould get no other name than Caribs; from whence I easily understood\nthat these were the Caribbees, which our maps place on the part of\nAmerica which reaches from the mouth of the river Orinoco to Guiana,\nand onwards to St. Martha. He told me that up a great way beyond the\nmoon, that was beyond the setting of the moon, which must be west from\ntheir country, there dwelt white bearded men, like me, and pointed to\nmy great whiskers, which I mentioned before; and that they had killed\nmuch mans, that was his word: by all which I understood he meant the\nSpaniards, whose cruelties in America had been spread over the whole\ncountry, and were remembered by all the nations from father to son.\n\nI inquired if he could tell me how I might go from this island, and get\namong those white men. He told me,  Yes, yes, you may go in two canoe. \nI could not understand what he meant, or make him describe to me what\nhe meant by two canoe, till at last, with great difficulty, I found he\nmeant it must be in a large boat, as big as two canoes. This part of\nFriday s discourse I began to relish very well; and from this time I\nentertained some hopes that, one time or other, I might find an\nopportunity to make my escape from this place, and that this poor\nsavage might be a means to help me.\n\nDuring the long time that Friday had now been with me, and that he\nbegan to speak to me, and understand me, I was not wanting to lay a\nfoundation of religious knowledge in his mind; particularly I asked him\none time, who made him. The creature did not understand me at all, but\nthought I had asked who was his father but I took it up by another\nhandle, and asked him who made the sea, the ground we walked on, and\nthe hills and woods. He told me,  It was one Benamuckee, that lived\nbeyond all;  he could describe nothing of this great person, but that\nhe was very old,  much older,  he said,  than the sea or land, than the\nmoon or the stars.  I asked him then, if this old person had made all\nthings, why did not all things worship him? He looked very grave, and,\nwith a perfect look of innocence, said,  All things say O to him.  I\nasked him if the people who die in his country went away anywhere? He\nsaid,  Yes; they all went to Benamuckee.  Then I asked him whether\nthose they eat up went thither too. He said,  Yes. \n\nFrom these things, I began to instruct him in the knowledge of the true\nGod; I told him that the great Maker of all things lived up there,\npointing up towards heaven; that He governed the world by the same\npower and providence by which He made it; that He was omnipotent, and\ncould do everything for us, give everything to us, take everything from\nus; and thus, by degrees, I opened his eyes. He listened with great\nattention, and received with pleasure the notion of Jesus Christ being\nsent to redeem us; and of the manner of making our prayers to God, and\nHis being able to hear us, even in heaven. He told me one day, that if\nour God could hear us, up beyond the sun, he must needs be a greater\nGod than their Benamuckee, who lived but a little way off, and yet\ncould not hear till they went up to the great mountains where he dwelt\nto speak to them. I asked him if ever he went thither to speak to him.\nHe said,  No; they never went that were young men; none went thither\nbut the old men,  whom he called their Oowokakee; that is, as I made\nhim explain to me, their religious, or clergy; and that they went to\nsay O (so he called saying prayers), and then came back and told them\nwhat Benamuckee said. By this I observed, that there is priestcraft\neven among the most blinded, ignorant pagans in the world; and the\npolicy of making a secret of religion, in order to preserve the\nveneration of the people to the clergy, not only to be found in the\nRoman, but, perhaps, among all religions in the world, even among the\nmost brutish and barbarous savages.\n\nI endeavoured to clear up this fraud to my man Friday; and told him\nthat the pretence of their old men going up to the mountains to say O\nto their god Benamuckee was a cheat; and their bringing word from\nthence what he said was much more so; that if they met with any answer,\nor spake with any one there, it must be with an evil spirit; and then I\nentered into a long discourse with him about the devil, the origin of\nhim, his rebellion against God, his enmity to man, the reason of it,\nhis setting himself up in the dark parts of the world to be worshipped\ninstead of God, and as God, and the many stratagems he made use of to\ndelude mankind to their ruin; how he had a secret access to our\npassions and to our affections, and to adapt his snares to our\ninclinations, so as to cause us even to be our own tempters, and run\nupon our destruction by our own choice.\n\nI found it was not so easy to imprint right notions in his mind about\nthe devil as it was about the being of a God. Nature assisted all my\narguments to evidence to him even the necessity of a great First Cause,\nan overruling, governing Power, a secret directing Providence, and of\nthe equity and justice of paying homage to Him that made us, and the\nlike; but there appeared nothing of this kind in the notion of an evil\nspirit, of his origin, his being, his nature, and above all, of his\ninclination to do evil, and to draw us in to do so too; and the poor\ncreature puzzled me once in such a manner, by a question merely natural\nand innocent, that I scarce knew what to say to him. I had been talking\na great deal to him of the power of God, His omnipotence, His aversion\nto sin, His being a consuming fire to the workers of iniquity; how, as\nHe had made us all, He could destroy us and all the world in a moment;\nand he listened with great seriousness to me all the while. After this\nI had been telling him how the devil was God s enemy in the hearts of\nmen, and used all his malice and skill to defeat the good designs of\nProvidence, and to ruin the kingdom of Christ in the world, and the\nlike.  Well,  says Friday,  but you say God is so strong, so great; is\nHe not much strong, much might as the devil?   Yes, yes,  says I,\n Friday; God is stronger than the devil God is above the devil, and\ntherefore we pray to God to tread him down under our feet, and enable\nus to resist his temptations and quench his fiery darts.   But,  says\nhe again,  if God much stronger, much might as the wicked devil, why\nGod no kill the devil, so make him no more do wicked?  I was strangely\nsurprised at this question; and, after all, though I was now an old\nman, yet I was but a young doctor, and ill qualified for a casuist or a\nsolver of difficulties; and at first I could not tell what to say; so I\npretended not to hear him, and asked him what he said; but he was too\nearnest for an answer to forget his question, so that he repeated it in\nthe very same broken words as above. By this time I had recovered\nmyself a little, and I said,  God will at last punish him severely; he\nis reserved for the judgment, and is to be cast into the bottomless\npit, to dwell with everlasting fire.  This did not satisfy Friday; but\nhe returns upon me, repeating my words,  _Reserve at last_!  me no\nunderstand but why not kill the devil now; not kill great ago?   You\nmay as well ask me,  said I,  why God does not kill you or me, when we\ndo wicked things here that offend Him we are preserved to repent and be\npardoned.  He mused some time on this.  Well, well,  says he, mighty\naffectionately,  that well so you, I, devil, all wicked, all preserve,\nrepent, God pardon all.  Here I was run down again by him to the last\ndegree; and it was a testimony to me, how the mere notions of nature,\nthough they will guide reasonable creatures to the knowledge of a God,\nand of a worship or homage due to the supreme being of God, as the\nconsequence of our nature, yet nothing but divine revelation can form\nthe knowledge of Jesus Christ, and of redemption purchased for us; of a\nMediator of the new covenant, and of an Intercessor at the footstool of\nGod s throne; I say, nothing but a revelation from Heaven can form\nthese in the soul; and that, therefore, the gospel of our Lord and\nSaviour Jesus Christ, I mean the Word of God, and the Spirit of God,\npromised for the guide and sanctifier of His people, are the absolutely\nnecessary instructors of the souls of men in the saving knowledge of\nGod and the means of salvation.\n\nI therefore diverted the present discourse between me and my man,\nrising up hastily, as upon some sudden occasion of going out; then\nsending him for something a good way off, I seriously prayed to God\nthat He would enable me to instruct savingly this poor savage;\nassisting, by His Spirit, the heart of the poor ignorant creature to\nreceive the light of the knowledge of God in Christ, reconciling him to\nHimself, and would guide me so to speak to him from the Word of God\nthat his conscience might be convinced, his eyes opened, and his soul\nsaved. When he came again to me, I entered into a long discourse with\nhim upon the subject of the redemption of man by the Saviour of the\nworld, and of the doctrine of the gospel preached from Heaven, viz. of\nrepentance towards God, and faith in our blessed Lord Jesus. I then\nexplained to him as well as I could why our blessed Redeemer took not\non Him the nature of angels but the seed of Abraham; and how, for that\nreason, the fallen angels had no share in the redemption; that He came\nonly to the lost sheep of the house of Israel, and the like.\n\nI had, God knows, more sincerity than knowledge in all the methods I\ntook for this poor creature s instruction, and must acknowledge, what I\nbelieve all that act upon the same principle will find, that in laying\nthings open to him, I really informed and instructed myself in many\nthings that either I did not know or had not fully considered before,\nbut which occurred naturally to my mind upon searching into them, for\nthe information of this poor savage; and I had more affection in my\ninquiry after things upon this occasion than ever I felt before: so\nthat, whether this poor wild wretch was better for me or no, I had\ngreat reason to be thankful that ever he came to me; my grief sat\nlighter, upon me; my habitation grew comfortable to me beyond measure:\nand when I reflected that in this solitary life which I have been\nconfined to, I had not only been moved to look up to heaven myself, and\nto seek the Hand that had brought me here, but was now to be made an\ninstrument, under Providence, to save the life, and, for aught I knew,\nthe soul of a poor savage, and bring him to the true knowledge of\nreligion and of the Christian doctrine, that he might know Christ\nJesus, in whom is life eternal; I say, when I reflected upon all these\nthings, a secret joy ran through every part of My soul, and I\nfrequently rejoiced that ever I was brought to this place, which I had\nso often thought the most dreadful of all afflictions that could\npossibly have befallen me.\n\nI continued in this thankful frame all the remainder of my time; and\nthe conversation which employed the hours between Friday and me was\nsuch as made the three years which we lived there together perfectly\nand completely happy, if any such thing as complete happiness can be\nformed in a sublunary state. This savage was now a good Christian, a\nmuch better than I; though I have reason to hope, and bless God for it,\nthat we were equally penitent, and comforted, restored penitents. We\nhad here the Word of God to read, and no farther off from His Spirit to\ninstruct than if we had been in England. I always applied myself, in\nreading the Scripture, to let him know, as well as I could, the meaning\nof what I read; and he again, by his serious inquiries and\nquestionings, made me, as I said before, a much better scholar in the\nScripture knowledge than I should ever have been by my own mere private\nreading. Another thing I cannot refrain from observing here also, from\nexperience in this retired part of my life, viz. how infinite and\ninexpressible a blessing it is that the knowledge of God, and of the\ndoctrine of salvation by Christ Jesus, is so plainly laid down in the\nWord of God, so easy to be received and understood, that, as the bare\nreading the Scripture made me capable of understanding enough of my\nduty to carry me directly on to the great work of sincere repentance\nfor my sins, and laying hold of a Saviour for life and salvation, to a\nstated reformation in practice, and obedience to all God s commands,\nand this without any teacher or instructor, I mean human; so the same\nplain instruction sufficiently served to the enlightening this savage\ncreature, and bringing him to be such a Christian as I have known few\nequal to him in my life.\n\nAs to all the disputes, wrangling, strife, and contention which have\nhappened in the world about religion, whether niceties in doctrines or\nschemes of church government, they were all perfectly useless to us,\nand, for aught I can yet see, they have been so to the rest of the\nworld. We had the sure guide to heaven, viz. the Word of God; and we\nhad, blessed be God, comfortable views of the Spirit of God teaching\nand instructing by His word, leading us into all truth, and making us\nboth willing and obedient to the instruction of His word. And I cannot\nsee the least use that the greatest knowledge of the disputed points of\nreligion, which have made such confusion in the world, would have been\nto us, if we could have obtained it. But I must go on with the\nhistorical part of things, and take every part in its order.\n\nAfter Friday and I became more intimately acquainted, and that he could\nunderstand almost all I said to him, and speak pretty fluently, though\nin broken English, to me, I acquainted him with my own history, or at\nleast so much of it as related to my coming to this place: how I had\nlived there, and how long; I let him into the mystery, for such it was\nto him, of gunpowder and bullet, and taught him how to shoot. I gave\nhim a knife, which he was wonderfully delighted with; and I made him a\nbelt, with a frog hanging to it, such as in England we wear hangers in;\nand in the frog, instead of a hanger, I gave him a hatchet, which was\nnot only as good a weapon in some cases, but much more useful upon\nother occasions.\n\nI described to him the country of Europe, particularly England, which I\ncame from; how we lived, how we worshipped God, how we behaved to one\nanother, and how we traded in ships to all parts of the world. I gave\nhim an account of the wreck which I had been on board of, and showed\nhim, as near as I could, the place where she lay; but she was all\nbeaten in pieces before, and gone. I showed him the ruins of our boat,\nwhich we lost when we escaped, and which I could not stir with my whole\nstrength then; but was now fallen almost all to pieces. Upon seeing\nthis boat, Friday stood, musing a great while, and said nothing. I\nasked him what it was he studied upon. At last says he,  Me see such\nboat like come to place at my nation.  I did not understand him a good\nwhile; but at last, when I had examined further into it, I understood\nby him that a boat, such as that had been, came on shore upon the\ncountry where he lived: that is, as he explained it, was driven thither\nby stress of weather. I presently imagined that some European ship must\nhave been cast away upon their coast, and the boat might get loose and\ndrive ashore; but was so dull that I never once thought of men making\ntheir escape from a wreck thither, much less whence they might come: so\nI only inquired after a description of the boat.\n\nFriday described the boat to me well enough; but brought me better to\nunderstand him when he added with some warmth,  We save the white mans\nfrom drown.  Then I presently asked if there were any white mans, as he\ncalled them, in the boat.  Yes,  he said;  the boat full of white\nmans.  I asked him how many. He told upon his fingers seventeen. I\nasked him then what became of them. He told me,  They live, they dwell\nat my nation. \n\nThis put new thoughts into my head; for I presently imagined that these\nmight be the men belonging to the ship that was cast away in the sight\nof my island, as I now called it; and who, after the ship was struck on\nthe rock, and they saw her inevitably lost, had saved themselves in\ntheir boat, and were landed upon that wild shore among the savages.\nUpon this I inquired of him more critically what was become of them. He\nassured me they lived still there; that they had been there about four\nyears; that the savages left them alone, and gave them victuals to live\non. I asked him how it came to pass they did not kill them and eat\nthem. He said,  No, they make brother with them;  that is, as I\nunderstood him, a truce; and then he added,  They no eat mans but when\nmake the war fight;  that is to say, they never eat any men but such as\ncome to fight with them and are taken in battle.\n\nIt was after this some considerable time, that being upon the top of\nthe hill at the east side of the island, from whence, as I have said, I\nhad, in a clear day, discovered the main or continent of America,\nFriday, the weather being very serene, looks very earnestly towards the\nmainland, and, in a kind of surprise, falls a jumping and dancing, and\ncalls out to me, for I was at some distance from him. I asked him what\nwas the matter.  Oh, joy!  says he;  Oh, glad! there see my country,\nthere my nation!  I observed an extraordinary sense of pleasure\nappeared in his face, and his eyes sparkled, and his countenance\ndiscovered a strange eagerness, as if he had a mind to be in his own\ncountry again. This observation of mine put a great many thoughts into\nme, which made me at first not so easy about my new man Friday as I was\nbefore; and I made no doubt but that, if Friday could get back to his\nown nation again, he would not only forget all his religion but all his\nobligation to me, and would be forward enough to give his countrymen an\naccount of me, and come back, perhaps with a hundred or two of them,\nand make a feast upon me, at which he might be as merry as he used to\nbe with those of his enemies when they were taken in war. But I wronged\nthe poor honest creature very much, for which I was very sorry\nafterwards. However, as my jealousy increased, and held some weeks, I\nwas a little more circumspect, and not so familiar and kind to him as\nbefore: in which I was certainly wrong too; the honest, grateful\ncreature having no thought about it but what consisted with the best\nprinciples, both as a religious Christian and as a grateful friend, as\nappeared afterwards to my full satisfaction.\n\nWhile my jealousy of him lasted, you may be sure I was every day\npumping him to see if he would discover any of the new thoughts which I\nsuspected were in him; but I found everything he said was so honest and\nso innocent, that I could find nothing to nourish my suspicion; and in\nspite of all my uneasiness, he made me at last entirely his own again;\nnor did he in the least perceive that I was uneasy, and therefore I\ncould not suspect him of deceit.\n\nOne day, walking up the same hill, but the weather being hazy at sea,\nso that we could not see the continent, I called to him, and said,\n Friday, do not you wish yourself in your own country, your own\nnation?   Yes,  he said,  I be much O glad to be at my own nation. \n What would you do there?  said I.  Would you turn wild again, eat\nmen s flesh again, and be a savage as you were before?  He looked full\nof concern, and shaking his head, said,  No, no, Friday tell them to\nlive good; tell them to pray God; tell them to eat corn-bread, cattle\nflesh, milk; no eat man again.   Why, then,  said I to him,  they will\nkill you.  He looked grave at that, and then said,  No, no, they no\nkill me, they willing love learn.  He meant by this, they would be\nwilling to learn. He added, they learned much of the bearded mans that\ncame in the boat. Then I asked him if he would go back to them. He\nsmiled at that, and told me that he could not swim so far. I told him I\nwould make a canoe for him. He told me he would go if I would go with\nhim.  I go!  says I;  why, they will eat me if I come there.   No, no, \nsays he,  me make they no eat you; me make they much love you.  He\nmeant, he would tell them how I had killed his enemies, and saved his\nlife, and so he would make them love me. Then he told me, as well as he\ncould, how kind they were to seventeen white men, or bearded men, as he\ncalled them who came on shore there in distress.\n\nFrom this time, I confess, I had a mind to venture over, and see if I\ncould possibly join with those bearded men, who I made no doubt were\nSpaniards and Portuguese; not doubting but, if I could, we might find\nsome method to escape from thence, being upon the continent, and a good\ncompany together, better than I could from an island forty miles off\nthe shore, alone and without help. So, after some days, I took Friday\nto work again by way of discourse, and told him I would give him a boat\nto go back to his own nation; and, accordingly, I carried him to my\nfrigate, which lay on the other side of the island, and having cleared\nit of water (for I always kept it sunk in water), I brought it out,\nshowed it him, and we both went into it. I found he was a most\ndexterous fellow at managing it, and would make it go almost as swift\nagain as I could. So when he was in, I said to him,  Well, now, Friday,\nshall we go to your nation?  He looked very dull at my saying so; which\nit seems was because he thought the boat was too small to go so far. I\nthen told him I had a bigger; so the next day I went to the place where\nthe first boat lay which I had made, but which I could not get into the\nwater. He said that was big enough; but then, as I had taken no care of\nit, and it had lain two or three and twenty years there, the sun had so\nsplit and dried it, that it was rotten. Friday told me such a boat\nwould do very well, and would carry  much enough vittle, drink, bread; \nthis was his way of talking.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. RESCUE OF PRISONERS FROM CANNIBALS\n\n\nUpon the whole, I was by this time so fixed upon my design of going\nover with him to the continent that I told him we would go and make one\nas big as that, and he should go home in it. He answered not one word,\nbut looked very grave and sad. I asked him what was the matter with\nhim. He asked me again,  Why you angry mad with Friday? what me done? \nI asked him what he meant. I told him I was not angry with him at all.\n No angry!  says he, repeating the words several times;  why send\nFriday home away to my nation?   Why,  says I,  Friday, did not you say\nyou wished you were there?   Yes, yes,  says he,  wish we both there;\nno wish Friday there, no master there.  In a word, he would not think\nof going there without me.  I go there, Friday?  says I;  what shall I\ndo there?  He turned very quick upon me at this.  You do great deal\nmuch good,  says he;  you teach wild mans be good, sober, tame mans;\nyou tell them know God, pray God, and live new life.   Alas, Friday! \nsays I,  thou knowest not what thou sayest; I am but an ignorant man\nmyself.   Yes, yes,  says he,  you teachee me good, you teachee them\ngood.   No, no, Friday,  says I,  you shall go without me; leave me\nhere to live by myself, as I did before.  He looked confused again at\nthat word; and running to one of the hatchets which he used to wear, he\ntakes it up hastily, and gives it to me.  What must I do with this? \nsays I to him.  You take kill Friday,  says he.  What must kill you\nfor?  said I again. He returns very quick What you send Friday away\nfor? Take kill Friday, no send Friday away.  This he spoke so earnestly\nthat I saw tears stand in his eyes. In a word, I so plainly discovered\nthe utmost affection in him to me, and a firm resolution in him, that I\ntold him then and often after, that I would never send him away from me\nif he was willing to stay with me.\n\nUpon the whole, as I found by all his discourse a settled affection to\nme, and that nothing could part him from me, so I found all the\nfoundation of his desire to go to his own country was laid in his\nardent affection to the people, and his hopes of my doing them good; a\nthing which, as I had no notion of myself, so I had not the least\nthought or intention, or desire of undertaking it. But still I found a\nstrong inclination to attempting my escape, founded on the supposition\ngathered from the discourse, that there were seventeen bearded men\nthere; and therefore, without any more delay, I went to work with\nFriday to find out a great tree proper to fell, and make a large\nperiagua, or canoe, to undertake the voyage. There were trees enough in\nthe island to have built a little fleet, not of periaguas or canoes,\nbut even of good, large vessels; but the main thing I looked at was, to\nget one so near the water that we might launch it when it was made, to\navoid the mistake I committed at first. At last Friday pitched upon a\ntree; for I found he knew much better than I what kind of wood was\nfittest for it; nor can I tell to this day what wood to call the tree\nwe cut down, except that it was very like the tree we call fustic, or\nbetween that and the Nicaragua wood, for it was much of the same colour\nand smell. Friday wished to burn the hollow or cavity of this tree out,\nto make it for a boat, but I showed him how to cut it with tools;\nwhich, after I had showed him how to use, he did very handily; and in\nabout a month s hard labour we finished it and made it very handsome;\nespecially when, with our axes, which I showed him how to handle, we\ncut and hewed the outside into the true shape of a boat. After this,\nhowever, it cost us near a fortnight s time to get her along, as it\nwere inch by inch, upon great rollers into the water; but when she was\nin, she would have carried twenty men with great ease.\n\nWhen she was in the water, though she was so big, it amazed me to see\nwith what dexterity and how swift my man Friday could manage her, turn\nher, and paddle her along. So I asked him if he would, and if we might\nventure over in her.  Yes,  he said,  we venture over in her very well,\nthough great blow wind.  However I had a further design that he knew\nnothing of, and that was, to make a mast and a sail, and to fit her\nwith an anchor and cable. As to a mast, that was easy enough to get; so\nI pitched upon a straight young cedar-tree, which I found near the\nplace, and which there were great plenty of in the island, and I set\nFriday to work to cut it down, and gave him directions how to shape and\norder it. But as to the sail, that was my particular care. I knew I had\nold sails, or rather pieces of old sails, enough; but as I had had them\nnow six-and-twenty years by me, and had not been very careful to\npreserve them, not imagining that I should ever have this kind of use\nfor them, I did not doubt but they were all rotten; and, indeed, most\nof them were so. However, I found two pieces which appeared pretty\ngood, and with these I went to work; and with a great deal of pains,\nand awkward stitching, you may be sure, for want of needles, I at\nlength made a three-cornered ugly thing, like what we call in England a\nshoulder-of-mutton sail, to go with a boom at bottom, and a little\nshort sprit at the top, such as usually our ships  long-boats sail\nwith, and such as I best knew how to manage, as it was such a one as I\nhad to the boat in which I made my escape from Barbary, as related in\nthe first part of my story.\n\nI was near two months performing this last work, viz. rigging and\nfitting my masts and sails; for I finished them very complete, making a\nsmall stay, and a sail, or foresail, to it, to assist if we should turn\nto windward; and, what was more than all, I fixed a rudder to the stern\nof her to steer with. I was but a bungling shipwright, yet as I knew\nthe usefulness and even necessity of such a thing, I applied myself\nwith so much pains to do it, that at last I brought it to pass; though,\nconsidering the many dull contrivances I had for it that failed, I\nthink it cost me almost as much labour as making the boat.\n\nAfter all this was done, I had my man Friday to teach as to what\nbelonged to the navigation of my boat; though he knew very well how to\npaddle a canoe, he knew nothing of what belonged to a sail and a\nrudder; and was the most amazed when he saw me work the boat to and\nagain in the sea by the rudder, and how the sail jibed, and filled this\nway or that way as the course we sailed changed; I say when he saw this\nhe stood like one astonished and amazed. However, with a little use, I\nmade all these things familiar to him, and he became an expert sailor,\nexcept that of the compass I could make him understand very little. On\nthe other hand, as there was very little cloudy weather, and seldom or\nnever any fogs in those parts, there was the less occasion for a\ncompass, seeing the stars were always to be seen by night, and the\nshore by day, except in the rainy seasons, and then nobody cared to\nstir abroad either by land or sea.\n\nI was now entered on the seven-and-twentieth year of my captivity in\nthis place; though the three last years that I had this creature with\nme ought rather to be left out of the account, my habitation being\nquite of another kind than in all the rest of the time. I kept the\nanniversary of my landing here with the same thankfulness to God for\nHis mercies as at first: and if I had such cause of acknowledgment at\nfirst, I had much more so now, having such additional testimonies of\nthe care of Providence over me, and the great hopes I had of being\neffectually and speedily delivered; for I had an invincible impression\nupon my thoughts that my deliverance was at hand, and that I should not\nbe another year in this place. I went on, however, with my husbandry;\ndigging, planting, and fencing as usual. I gathered and cured my\ngrapes, and did every necessary thing as before.\n\nThe rainy season was in the meantime upon me, when I kept more within\ndoors than at other times. We had stowed our new vessel as secure as we\ncould, bringing her up into the creek, where, as I said in the\nbeginning, I landed my rafts from the ship; and hauling her up to the\nshore at high-water mark, I made my man Friday dig a little dock, just\nbig enough to hold her, and just deep enough to give her water enough\nto float in; and then, when the tide was out, we made a strong dam\nacross the end of it, to keep the water out; and so she lay, dry as to\nthe tide from the sea: and to keep the rain off we laid a great many\nboughs of trees, so thick that she was as well thatched as a house; and\nthus we waited for the months of November and December, in which I\ndesigned to make my adventure.\n\nWhen the settled season began to come in, as the thought of my design\nreturned with the fair weather, I was preparing daily for the voyage.\nAnd the first thing I did was to lay by a certain quantity of\nprovisions, being the stores for our voyage; and intended in a week or\na fortnight s time to open the dock, and launch out our boat. I was\nbusy one morning upon something of this kind, when I called to Friday,\nand bid him to go to the sea-shore and see if he could find a turtle or\na tortoise, a thing which we generally got once a week, for the sake of\nthe eggs as well as the flesh. Friday had not been long gone when he\ncame running back, and flew over my outer wall or fence, like one that\nfelt not the ground or the steps he set his foot on; and before I had\ntime to speak to him he cries out to me,  O master! O master! O sorrow!\nO bad! What s the matter, Friday?  says I.  O yonder there,  says he,\n one, two, three canoes; one, two, three!  By this way of speaking I\nconcluded there were six; but on inquiry I found there were but three.\n Well, Friday,  says I,  do not be frightened.  So I heartened him up\nas well as I could. However, I saw the poor fellow was most terribly\nscared, for nothing ran in his head but that they were come to look for\nhim, and would cut him in pieces and eat him; and the poor fellow\ntrembled so that I scarcely knew what to do with him. I comforted him\nas well as I could, and told him I was in as much danger as he, and\nthat they would eat me as well as him.  But,  says I,  Friday, we must\nresolve to fight them. Can you fight, Friday?   Me shoot,  says he,\n but there come many great number.   No matter for that,  said I again;\n our guns will fright them that we do not kill.  So I asked him\nwhether, if I resolved to defend him, he would defend me, and stand by\nme, and do just as I bid him. He said,  Me die when you bid die,\nmaster.  So I went and fetched a good dram of rum and gave him; for I\nhad been so good a husband of my rum that I had a great deal left. When\nwe had drunk it, I made him take the two fowling-pieces, which we\nalways carried, and loaded them with large swan-shot, as big as small\npistol-bullets. Then I took four muskets, and loaded them with two\nslugs and five small bullets each; and my two pistols I loaded with a\nbrace of bullets each. I hung my great sword, as usual, naked by my\nside, and gave Friday his hatchet. When I had thus prepared myself, I\ntook my perspective glass, and went up to the side of the hill, to see\nwhat I could discover; and I found quickly by my glass that there were\none-and-twenty savages, three prisoners, and three canoes; and that\ntheir whole business seemed to be the triumphant banquet upon these\nthree human bodies: a barbarous feast, indeed! but nothing more than,\nas I had observed, was usual with them. I observed also that they had\nlanded, not where they had done when Friday made his escape, but nearer\nto my creek, where the shore was low, and where a thick wood came\nalmost close down to the sea. This, with the abhorrence of the inhuman\nerrand these wretches came about, filled me with such indignation that\nI came down again to Friday, and told him I was resolved to go down to\nthem and kill them all; and asked him if he would stand by me. He had\nnow got over his fright, and his spirits being a little raised with the\ndram I had given him, he was very cheerful, and told me, as before, he\nwould die when I bid die.\n\nIn this fit of fury I divided the arms which I had charged, as before,\nbetween us; I gave Friday one pistol to stick in his girdle, and three\nguns upon his shoulder, and I took one pistol and the other three guns\nmyself; and in this posture we marched out. I took a small bottle of\nrum in my pocket, and gave Friday a large bag with more powder and\nbullets; and as to orders, I charged him to keep close behind me, and\nnot to stir, or shoot, or do anything till I bid him, and in the\nmeantime not to speak a word. In this posture I fetched a compass to my\nright hand of near a mile, as well to get over the creek as to get into\nthe wood, so that I could come within shot of them before I should be\ndiscovered, which I had seen by my glass it was easy to do.\n\nWhile I was making this march, my former thoughts returning, I began to\nabate my resolution: I do not mean that I entertained any fear of their\nnumber, for as they were naked, unarmed wretches, it is certain I was\nsuperior to them nay, though I had been alone. But it occurred to my\nthoughts, what call, what occasion, much less what necessity I was in\nto go and dip my hands in blood, to attack people who had neither done\nor intended me any wrong? who, as to me, were innocent, and whose\nbarbarous customs were their own disaster, being in them a token,\nindeed, of God s having left them, with the other nations of that part\nof the world, to such stupidity, and to such inhuman courses, but did\nnot call me to take upon me to be a judge of their actions, much less\nan executioner of His justice that whenever He thought fit He would\ntake the cause into His own hands, and by national vengeance punish\nthem as a people for national crimes, but that, in the meantime, it was\nnone of my business that it was true Friday might justify it, because\nhe was a declared enemy and in a state of war with those very\nparticular people, and it was lawful for him to attack them but I could\nnot say the same with regard to myself. These things were so warmly\npressed upon my thoughts all the way as I went, that I resolved I would\nonly go and place myself near them that I might observe their barbarous\nfeast, and that I would act then as God should direct; but that unless\nsomething offered that was more a call to me than yet I knew of, I\nwould not meddle with them.\n\nWith this resolution I entered the wood, and, with all possible\nwariness and silence, Friday following close at my heels, I marched\ntill I came to the skirts of the wood on the side which was next to\nthem, only that one corner of the wood lay between me and them. Here I\ncalled softly to Friday, and showing him a great tree which was just at\nthe corner of the wood, I bade him go to the tree, and bring me word if\nhe could see there plainly what they were doing. He did so, and came\nimmediately back to me, and told me they might be plainly viewed\nthere that they were all about their fire, eating the flesh of one of\ntheir prisoners, and that another lay bound upon the sand a little from\nthem, whom he said they would kill next; and this fired the very soul\nwithin me. He told me it was not one of their nation, but one of the\nbearded men he had told me of, that came to their country in the boat.\nI was filled with horror at the very naming of the white bearded man;\nand going to the tree, I saw plainly by my glass a white man, who lay\nupon the beach of the sea with his hands and his feet tied with flags,\nor things like rushes, and that he was an European, and had clothes on.\n\nThere was another tree and a little thicket beyond it, about fifty\nyards nearer to them than the place where I was, which, by going a\nlittle way about, I saw I might come at undiscovered, and that then I\nshould be within half a shot of them; so I withheld my passion, though\nI was indeed enraged to the highest degree; and going back about twenty\npaces, I got behind some bushes, which held all the way till I came to\nthe other tree, and then came to a little rising ground, which gave me\na full view of them at the distance of about eighty yards.\n\nI had now not a moment to lose, for nineteen of the dreadful wretches\nsat upon the ground, all close huddled together, and had just sent the\nother two to butcher the poor Christian, and bring him perhaps limb by\nlimb to their fire, and they were stooping down to untie the bands at\nhis feet. I turned to Friday.  Now, Friday,  said I,  do as I bid\nthee.  Friday said he would.  Then, Friday,  says I,  do exactly as you\nsee me do; fail in nothing.  So I set down one of the muskets and the\nfowling-piece upon the ground, and Friday did the like by his, and with\nthe other musket I took my aim at the savages, bidding him to do the\nlike; then asking him if he was ready, he said,  Yes.   Then fire at\nthem,  said I; and at the same moment I fired also.\n\nFriday took his aim so much better than I, that on the side that he\nshot he killed two of them, and wounded three more; and on my side I\nkilled one, and wounded two. They were, you may be sure, in a dreadful\nconsternation: and all of them that were not hurt jumped upon their\nfeet, but did not immediately know which way to run, or which way to\nlook, for they knew not from whence their destruction came. Friday kept\nhis eyes close upon me, that, as I had bid him, he might observe what I\ndid; so, as soon as the first shot was made, I threw down the piece,\nand took up the fowling-piece, and Friday did the like; he saw me cock\nand present; he did the same again.  Are you ready, Friday?  said I.\n Yes,  says he.  Let fly, then,  says I,  in the name of God!  and with\nthat I fired again among the amazed wretches, and so did Friday; and as\nour pieces were now loaded with what I call swan-shot, or small\npistol-bullets, we found only two drop; but so many were wounded that\nthey ran about yelling and screaming like mad creatures, all bloody,\nand most of them miserably wounded; whereof three more fell quickly\nafter, though not quite dead.\n\n Now, Friday,  says I, laying down the discharged pieces, and taking up\nthe musket which was yet loaded,  follow me,  which he did with a great\ndeal of courage; upon which I rushed out of the wood and showed myself,\nand Friday close at my foot. As soon as I perceived they saw me, I\nshouted as loud as I could, and bade Friday do so too, and running as\nfast as I could, which, by the way, was not very fast, being loaded\nwith arms as I was, I made directly towards the poor victim, who was,\nas I said, lying upon the beach or shore, between the place where they\nsat and the sea. The two butchers who were just going to work with him\nhad left him at the surprise of our first fire, and fled in a terrible\nfright to the seaside, and had jumped into a canoe, and three more of\nthe rest made the same way. I turned to Friday, and bade him step\nforwards and fire at them; he understood me immediately, and running\nabout forty yards, to be nearer them, he shot at them; and I thought he\nhad killed them all, for I saw them all fall of a heap into the boat,\nthough I saw two of them up again quickly; however, he killed two of\nthem, and wounded the third, so that he lay down in the bottom of the\nboat as if he had been dead.\n\nWhile my man Friday fired at them, I pulled out my knife and cut the\nflags that bound the poor victim; and loosing his hands and feet, I\nlifted him up, and asked him in the Portuguese tongue what he was. He\nanswered in Latin, Christianus; but was so weak and faint that he could\nscarce stand or speak. I took my bottle out of my pocket and gave it\nhim, making signs that he should drink, which he did; and I gave him a\npiece of bread, which he ate. Then I asked him what countryman he was:\nand he said, Espagniole; and being a little recovered, let me know, by\nall the signs he could possibly make, how much he was in my debt for\nhis deliverance.  Seignior,  said I, with as much Spanish as I could\nmake up,  we will talk afterwards, but we must fight now: if you have\nany strength left, take this pistol and sword, and lay about you.  He\ntook them very thankfully; and no sooner had he the arms in his hands,\nbut, as if they had put new vigour into him, he flew upon his murderers\nlike a fury, and had cut two of them in pieces in an instant; for the\ntruth is, as the whole was a surprise to them, so the poor creatures\nwere so much frightened with the noise of our pieces that they fell\ndown for mere amazement and fear, and had no more power to attempt\ntheir own escape than their flesh had to resist our shot; and that was\nthe case of those five that Friday shot at in the boat; for as three of\nthem fell with the hurt they received, so the other two fell with the\nfright.\n\nI kept my piece in my hand still without firing, being willing to keep\nmy charge ready, because I had given the Spaniard my pistol and sword:\nso I called to Friday, and bade him run up to the tree from whence we\nfirst fired, and fetch the arms which lay there that had been\ndischarged, which he did with great swiftness; and then giving him my\nmusket, I sat down myself to load all the rest again, and bade them\ncome to me when they wanted. While I was loading these pieces, there\nhappened a fierce engagement between the Spaniard and one of the\nsavages, who made at him with one of their great wooden swords, the\nweapon that was to have killed him before, if I had not prevented it.\nThe Spaniard, who was as bold and brave as could be imagined, though\nweak, had fought the Indian a good while, and had cut two great wounds\non his head; but the savage being a stout, lusty fellow, closing in\nwith him, had thrown him down, being faint, and was wringing my sword\nout of his hand; when the Spaniard, though undermost, wisely quitting\nthe sword, drew the pistol from his girdle, shot the savage through the\nbody, and killed him upon the spot, before I, who was running to help\nhim, could come near him.\n\nFriday, being now left to his liberty, pursued the flying wretches,\nwith no weapon in his hand but his hatchet: and with that he despatched\nthose three who as I said before, were wounded at first, and fallen,\nand all the rest he could come up with: and the Spaniard coming to me\nfor a gun, I gave him one of the fowling-pieces, with which he pursued\ntwo of the savages, and wounded them both; but as he was not able to\nrun, they both got from him into the wood, where Friday pursued them,\nand killed one of them, but the other was too nimble for him; and\nthough he was wounded, yet had plunged himself into the sea, and swam\nwith all his might off to those two who were left in the canoe; which\nthree in the canoe, with one wounded, that we knew not whether he died\nor no, were all that escaped our hands of one-and-twenty. The account\nof the whole is as follows: Three killed at our first shot from the\ntree; two killed at the next shot; two killed by Friday in the boat;\ntwo killed by Friday of those at first wounded; one killed by Friday in\nthe wood; three killed by the Spaniard; four killed, being found\ndropped here and there, of the wounds, or killed by Friday in his chase\nof them; four escaped in the boat, whereof one wounded, if not\ndead twenty-one in all.\n\nThose that were in the canoe worked hard to get out of gun-shot, and\nthough Friday made two or three shots at them, I did not find that he\nhit any of them. Friday would fain have had me take one of their\ncanoes, and pursue them; and indeed I was very anxious about their\nescape, lest, carrying the news home to their people, they should come\nback perhaps with two or three hundred of the canoes and devour us by\nmere multitude; so I consented to pursue them by sea, and running to\none of their canoes, I jumped in and bade Friday follow me: but when I\nwas in the canoe I was surprised to find another poor creature lie\nthere, bound hand and foot, as the Spaniard was, for the slaughter, and\nalmost dead with fear, not knowing what was the matter; for he had not\nbeen able to look up over the side of the boat, he was tied so hard\nneck and heels, and had been tied so long that he had really but little\nlife in him.\n\nI immediately cut the twisted flags or rushes which they had bound him\nwith, and would have helped him up; but he could not stand or speak,\nbut groaned most piteously, believing, it seems, still, that he was\nonly unbound in order to be killed. When Friday came to him I bade him\nspeak to him, and tell him of his deliverance; and pulling out my\nbottle, made him give the poor wretch a dram, which, with the news of\nhis being delivered, revived him, and he sat up in the boat. But when\nFriday came to hear him speak, and look in his face, it would have\nmoved any one to tears to have seen how Friday kissed him, embraced\nhim, hugged him, cried, laughed, hallooed, jumped about, danced, sang;\nthen cried again, wrung his hands, beat his own face and head; and then\nsang and jumped about again like a distracted creature. It was a good\nwhile before I could make him speak to me or tell me what was the\nmatter; but when he came a little to himself he told me that it was his\nfather.\n\nIt is not easy for me to express how it moved me to see what ecstasy\nand filial affection had worked in this poor savage at the sight of his\nfather, and of his being delivered from death; nor indeed can I\ndescribe half the extravagances of his affection after this: for he\nwent into the boat and out of the boat a great many times: when he went\nin to him he would sit down by him, open his breast, and hold his\nfather s head close to his bosom for many minutes together, to nourish\nit; then he took his arms and ankles, which were numbed and stiff with\nthe binding, and chafed and rubbed them with his hands; and I,\nperceiving what the case was, gave him some rum out of my bottle to rub\nthem with, which did them a great deal of good.\n\nThis affair put an end to our pursuit of the canoe with the other\nsavages, who were now almost out of sight; and it was happy for us that\nwe did not, for it blew so hard within two hours after, and before they\ncould be got a quarter of their way, and continued blowing so hard all\nnight, and that from the north-west, which was against them, that I\ncould not suppose their boat could live, or that they ever reached\ntheir own coast.\n\nBut to return to Friday; he was so busy about his father that I could\nnot find in my heart to take him off for some time; but after I thought\nhe could leave him a little, I called him to me, and he came jumping\nand laughing, and pleased to the highest extreme: then I asked him if\nhe had given his father any bread. He shook his head, and said,  None;\nugly dog eat all up self.  I then gave him a cake of bread out of a\nlittle pouch I carried on purpose; I also gave him a dram for himself;\nbut he would not taste it, but carried it to his father. I had in my\npocket two or three bunches of raisins, so I gave him a handful of them\nfor his father. He had no sooner given his father these raisins but I\nsaw him come out of the boat, and run away as if he had been bewitched,\nfor he was the swiftest fellow on his feet that ever I saw: I say, he\nran at such a rate that he was out of sight, as it were, in an instant;\nand though I called, and hallooed out too after him, it was all\none away he went; and in a quarter of an hour I saw him come back\nagain, though not so fast as he went; and as he came nearer I found his\npace slacker, because he had something in his hand. When he came up to\nme I found he had been quite home for an earthen jug or pot, to bring\nhis father some fresh water, and that he had got two more cakes or\nloaves of bread: the bread he gave me, but the water he carried to his\nfather; however, as I was very thirsty too, I took a little of it. The\nwater revived his father more than all the rum or spirits I had given\nhim, for he was fainting with thirst.\n\nWhen his father had drunk, I called to him to know if there was any\nwater left. He said,  Yes ; and I bade him give it to the poor\nSpaniard, who was in as much want of it as his father; and I sent one\nof the cakes that Friday brought to the Spaniard too, who was indeed\nvery weak, and was reposing himself upon a green place under the shade\nof a tree; and whose limbs were also very stiff, and very much swelled\nwith the rude bandage he had been tied with. When I saw that upon\nFriday s coming to him with the water he sat up and drank, and took the\nbread and began to eat, I went to him and gave him a handful of\nraisins. He looked up in my face with all the tokens of gratitude and\nthankfulness that could appear in any countenance; but was so weak,\nnotwithstanding he had so exerted himself in the fight, that he could\nnot stand up upon his feet he tried to do it two or three times, but\nwas really not able, his ankles were so swelled and so painful to him;\nso I bade him sit still, and caused Friday to rub his ankles, and bathe\nthem with rum, as he had done his father s.\n\nI observed the poor affectionate creature, every two minutes, or\nperhaps less, all the while he was here, turn his head about to see if\nhis father was in the same place and posture as he left him sitting;\nand at last he found he was not to be seen; at which he started up,\nand, without speaking a word, flew with that swiftness to him that one\ncould scarce perceive his feet to touch the ground as he went; but when\nhe came, he only found he had laid himself down to ease his limbs, so\nFriday came back to me presently; and then I spoke to the Spaniard to\nlet Friday help him up if he could, and lead him to the boat, and then\nhe should carry him to our dwelling, where I would take care of him.\nBut Friday, a lusty, strong fellow, took the Spaniard upon his back,\nand carried him away to the boat, and set him down softly upon the side\nor gunnel of the canoe, with his feet in the inside of it; and then\nlifting him quite in, he set him close to his father; and presently\nstepping out again, launched the boat off, and paddled it along the\nshore faster than I could walk, though the wind blew pretty hard too;\nso he brought them both safe into our creek, and leaving them in the\nboat, ran away to fetch the other canoe. As he passed me I spoke to\nhim, and asked him whither he went. He told me,  Go fetch more boat; \nso away he went like the wind, for sure never man or horse ran like\nhim; and he had the other canoe in the creek almost as soon as I got to\nit by land; so he wafted me over, and then went to help our new guests\nout of the boat, which he did; but they were neither of them able to\nwalk; so that poor Friday knew not what to do.\n\nTo remedy this, I went to work in my thought, and calling to Friday to\nbid them sit down on the bank while he came to me, I soon made a kind\nof hand-barrow to lay them on, and Friday and I carried them both up\ntogether upon it between us.\n\nBut when we got them to the outside of our wall, or fortification, we\nwere at a worse loss than before, for it was impossible to get them\nover, and I was resolved not to break it down; so I set to work again,\nand Friday and I, in about two hours  time, made a very handsome tent,\ncovered with old sails, and above that with boughs of trees, being in\nthe space without our outward fence and between that and the grove of\nyoung wood which I had planted; and here we made them two beds of such\nthings as I had viz. of good rice-straw, with blankets laid upon it to\nlie on, and another to cover them, on each bed.\n\nMy island was now peopled, and I thought myself very rich in subjects;\nand it was a merry reflection, which I frequently made, how like a king\nI looked. First of all, the whole country was my own property, so that\nI had an undoubted right of dominion. Secondly, my people were\nperfectly subjected I was absolutely lord and lawgiver they all owed\ntheir lives to me, and were ready to lay down their lives, if there had\nbeen occasion for it, for me. It was remarkable, too, I had but three\nsubjects, and they were of three different religions my man Friday was\na Protestant, his father was a Pagan and a cannibal, and the Spaniard\nwas a Papist. However, I allowed liberty of conscience throughout my\ndominions. But this is by the way.\n\nAs soon as I had secured my two weak, rescued prisoners, and given them\nshelter, and a place to rest them upon, I began to think of making some\nprovision for them; and the first thing I did, I ordered Friday to take\na yearling goat, betwixt a kid and a goat, out of my particular flock,\nto be killed; when I cut off the hinder-quarter, and chopping it into\nsmall pieces, I set Friday to work to boiling and stewing, and made\nthem a very good dish, I assure you, of flesh and broth; and as I\ncooked it without doors, for I made no fire within my inner wall, so I\ncarried it all into the new tent, and having set a table there for\nthem, I sat down, and ate my own dinner also with them, and, as well as\nI could, cheered them and encouraged them. Friday was my interpreter,\nespecially to his father, and, indeed, to the Spaniard too; for the\nSpaniard spoke the language of the savages pretty well.\n\nAfter we had dined, or rather supped, I ordered Friday to take one of\nthe canoes, and go and fetch our muskets and other firearms, which, for\nwant of time, we had left upon the place of battle; and the next day I\nordered him to go and bury the dead bodies of the savages, which lay\nopen to the sun, and would presently be offensive. I also ordered him\nto bury the horrid remains of their barbarous feast, which I could not\nthink of doing myself; nay, I could not bear to see them if I went that\nway; all which he punctually performed, and effaced the very appearance\nof the savages being there; so that when I went again, I could scarce\nknow where it was, otherwise than by the corner of the wood pointing to\nthe place.\n\nI then began to enter into a little conversation with my two new\nsubjects; and, first, I set Friday to inquire of his father what he\nthought of the escape of the savages in that canoe, and whether we\nmight expect a return of them, with a power too great for us to resist.\nHis first opinion was, that the savages in the boat never could live\nout the storm which blew that night they went off, but must of\nnecessity be drowned, or driven south to those other shores, where they\nwere as sure to be devoured as they were to be drowned if they were\ncast away; but, as to what they would do if they came safe on shore, he\nsaid he knew not; but it was his opinion that they were so dreadfully\nfrightened with the manner of their being attacked, the noise, and the\nfire, that he believed they would tell the people they were all killed\nby thunder and lightning, not by the hand of man; and that the two\nwhich appeared viz. Friday and I were two heavenly spirits, or furies,\ncome down to destroy them, and not men with weapons. This, he said, he\nknew; because he heard them all cry out so, in their language, one to\nanother; for it was impossible for them to conceive that a man could\ndart fire, and speak thunder, and kill at a distance, without lifting\nup the hand, as was done now: and this old savage was in the right;\nfor, as I understood since, by other hands, the savages never attempted\nto go over to the island afterwards, they were so terrified with the\naccounts given by those four men (for it seems they did escape the\nsea), that they believed whoever went to that enchanted island would be\ndestroyed with fire from the gods. This, however, I knew not; and\ntherefore was under continual apprehensions for a good while, and kept\nalways upon my guard, with all my army: for, as there were now four of\nus, I would have ventured upon a hundred of them, fairly in the open\nfield, at any time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. VISIT OF MUTINEERS\n\n\nIn a little time, however, no more canoes appearing, the fear of their\ncoming wore off; and I began to take my former thoughts of a voyage to\nthe main into consideration; being likewise assured by Friday s father\nthat I might depend upon good usage from their nation, on his account,\nif I would go. But my thoughts were a little suspended when I had a\nserious discourse with the Spaniard, and when I understood that there\nwere sixteen more of his countrymen and Portuguese, who having been\ncast away and made their escape to that side, lived there at peace,\nindeed, with the savages, but were very sore put to it for necessaries,\nand, indeed, for life. I asked him all the particulars of their voyage,\nand found they were a Spanish ship, bound from the Rio de la Plata to\nthe Havanna, being directed to leave their loading there, which was\nchiefly hides and silver, and to bring back what European goods they\ncould meet with there; that they had five Portuguese seamen on board,\nwhom they took out of another wreck; that five of their own men were\ndrowned when first the ship was lost, and that these escaped through\ninfinite dangers and hazards, and arrived, almost starved, on the\ncannibal coast, where they expected to have been devoured every moment.\nHe told me they had some arms with them, but they were perfectly\nuseless, for that they had neither powder nor ball, the washing of the\nsea having spoiled all their powder but a little, which they used at\ntheir first landing to provide themselves with some food.\n\nI asked him what he thought would become of them there, and if they had\nformed any design of making their escape. He said they had many\nconsultations about it; but that having neither vessel nor tools to\nbuild one, nor provisions of any kind, their councils always ended in\ntears and despair. I asked him how he thought they would receive a\nproposal from me, which might tend towards an escape; and whether, if\nthey were all here, it might not be done. I told him with freedom, I\nfeared mostly their treachery and ill-usage of me, if I put my life in\ntheir hands; for that gratitude was no inherent virtue in the nature of\nman, nor did men always square their dealings by the obligations they\nhad received so much as they did by the advantages they expected. I\ntold him it would be very hard that I should be made the instrument of\ntheir deliverance, and that they should afterwards make me their\nprisoner in New Spain, where an Englishman was certain to be made a\nsacrifice, what necessity or what accident soever brought him thither;\nand that I had rather be delivered up to the savages, and be devoured\nalive, than fall into the merciless claws of the priests, and be\ncarried into the Inquisition. I added that, otherwise, I was persuaded,\nif they were all here, we might, with so many hands, build a barque\nlarge enough to carry us all away, either to the Brazils southward, or\nto the islands or Spanish coast northward; but that if, in requital,\nthey should, when I had put weapons into their hands, carry me by force\namong their own people, I might be ill-used for my kindness to them,\nand make my case worse than it was before.\n\nHe answered, with a great deal of candour and ingenuousness, that their\ncondition was so miserable, and that they were so sensible of it, that\nhe believed they would abhor the thought of using any man unkindly that\nshould contribute to their deliverance; and that, if I pleased, he\nwould go to them with the old man, and discourse with them about it,\nand return again and bring me their answer; that he would make\nconditions with them upon their solemn oath, that they should be\nabsolutely under my direction as their commander and captain; and they\nshould swear upon the holy sacraments and gospel to be true to me, and\ngo to such Christian country as I should agree to, and no other; and to\nbe directed wholly and absolutely by my orders till they were landed\nsafely in such country as I intended, and that he would bring a\ncontract from them, under their hands, for that purpose. Then he told\nme he would first swear to me himself that he would never stir from me\nas long as he lived till I gave him orders; and that he would take my\nside to the last drop of his blood, if there should happen the least\nbreach of faith among his countrymen. He told me they were all of them\nvery civil, honest men, and they were under the greatest distress\nimaginable, having neither weapons nor clothes, nor any food, but at\nthe mercy and discretion of the savages; out of all hopes of ever\nreturning to their own country; and that he was sure, if I would\nundertake their relief, they would live and die by me.\n\nUpon these assurances, I resolved to venture to relieve them, if\npossible, and to send the old savage and this Spaniard over to them to\ntreat. But when we had got all things in readiness to go, the Spaniard\nhimself started an objection, which had so much prudence in it on one\nhand, and so much sincerity on the other hand, that I could not but be\nvery well satisfied in it; and, by his advice, put off the deliverance\nof his comrades for at least half a year. The case was thus: he had\nbeen with us now about a month, during which time I had let him see in\nwhat manner I had provided, with the assistance of Providence, for my\nsupport; and he saw evidently what stock of corn and rice I had laid\nup; which, though it was more than sufficient for myself, yet it was\nnot sufficient, without good husbandry, for my family, now it was\nincreased to four; but much less would it be sufficient if his\ncountrymen, who were, as he said, sixteen, still alive, should come\nover; and least of all would it be sufficient to victual our vessel, if\nwe should build one, for a voyage to any of the Christian colonies of\nAmerica; so he told me he thought it would be more advisable to let him\nand the other two dig and cultivate some more land, as much as I could\nspare seed to sow, and that we should wait another harvest, that we\nmight have a supply of corn for his countrymen, when they should come;\nfor want might be a temptation to them to disagree, or not to think\nthemselves delivered, otherwise than out of one difficulty into\nanother.  You know,  says he,  the children of Israel, though they\nrejoiced at first for their being delivered out of Egypt, yet rebelled\neven against God Himself, that delivered them, when they came to want\nbread in the wilderness. \n\nHis caution was so seasonable, and his advice so good, that I could not\nbut be very well pleased with his proposal, as well as I was satisfied\nwith his fidelity; so we fell to digging, all four of us, as well as\nthe wooden tools we were furnished with permitted; and in about a\nmonth s time, by the end of which it was seed-time, we had got as much\nland cured and trimmed up as we sowed two-and-twenty bushels of barley\non, and sixteen jars of rice, which was, in short, all the seed we had\nto spare: indeed, we left ourselves barely sufficient, for our own food\nfor the six months that we had to expect our crop; that is to say\nreckoning from the time we set our seed aside for sowing; for it is not\nto be supposed it is six months in the ground in that country.\n\nHaving now society enough, and our numbers being sufficient to put us\nout of fear of the savages, if they had come, unless their number had\nbeen very great, we went freely all over the island, whenever we found\noccasion; and as we had our escape or deliverance upon our thoughts, it\nwas impossible, at least for me, to have the means of it out of mine.\nFor this purpose I marked out several trees, which I thought fit for\nour work, and I set Friday and his father to cut them down; and then I\ncaused the Spaniard, to whom I imparted my thoughts on that affair, to\noversee and direct their work. I showed them with what indefatigable\npains I had hewed a large tree into single planks, and I caused them to\ndo the like, till they made about a dozen large planks, of good oak,\nnear two feet broad, thirty-five feet long, and from two inches to four\ninches thick: what prodigious labour it took up any one may imagine.\n\nAt the same time I contrived to increase my little flock of tame goats\nas much as I could; and for this purpose I made Friday and the Spaniard\ngo out one day, and myself with Friday the next day (for we took our\nturns), and by this means we got about twenty young kids to breed up\nwith the rest; for whenever we shot the dam, we saved the kids, and\nadded them to our flock. But above all, the season for curing the\ngrapes coming on, I caused such a prodigious quantity to be hung up in\nthe sun, that, I believe, had we been at Alicant, where the raisins of\nthe sun are cured, we could have filled sixty or eighty barrels; and\nthese, with our bread, formed a great part of our food very good living\ntoo, I assure you, for they are exceedingly nourishing.\n\nIt was now harvest, and our crop in good order: it was not the most\nplentiful increase I had seen in the island, but, however, it was\nenough to answer our end; for from twenty-two bushels of barley we\nbrought in and thrashed out above two hundred and twenty bushels; and\nthe like in proportion of the rice; which was store enough for our food\nto the next harvest, though all the sixteen Spaniards had been on shore\nwith me; or, if we had been ready for a voyage, it would very\nplentifully have victualled our ship to have carried us to any part of\nthe world; that is to say, any part of America. When we had thus housed\nand secured our magazine of corn, we fell to work to make more\nwicker-ware, viz. great baskets, in which we kept it; and the Spaniard\nwas very handy and dexterous at this part, and often blamed me that I\ndid not make some things for defence of this kind of work; but I saw no\nneed of it.\n\nAnd now, having a full supply of food for all the guests I expected, I\ngave the Spaniard leave to go over to the main, to see what he could do\nwith those he had left behind him there. I gave him a strict charge not\nto bring any man who would not first swear in the presence of himself\nand the old savage that he would in no way injure, fight with, or\nattack the person he should find in the island, who was so kind as to\nsend for them in order to their deliverance; but that they would stand\nby him and defend him against all such attempts, and wherever they went\nwould be entirely under and subjected to his command; and that this\nshould be put in writing, and signed in their hands. How they were to\nhave done this, when I knew they had neither pen nor ink, was a\nquestion which we never asked. Under these instructions, the Spaniard\nand the old savage, the father of Friday, went away in one of the\ncanoes which they might be said to have come in, or rather were brought\nin, when they came as prisoners to be devoured by the savages. I gave\neach of them a musket, with a firelock on it, and about eight charges\nof powder and ball, charging them to be very good husbands of both, and\nnot to use either of them but upon urgent occasions.\n\nThis was a cheerful work, being the first measures used by me in view\nof my deliverance for now twenty-seven years and some days. I gave them\nprovisions of bread and of dried grapes, sufficient for themselves for\nmany days, and sufficient for all the Spaniards for about eight days \ntime; and wishing them a good voyage, I saw them go, agreeing with them\nabout a signal they should hang out at their return, by which I should\nknow them again when they came back, at a distance, before they came on\nshore. They went away with a fair gale on the day that the moon was at\nfull, by my account in the month of October; but as for an exact\nreckoning of days, after I had once lost it I could never recover it\nagain; nor had I kept even the number of years so punctually as to be\nsure I was right; though, as it proved when I afterwards examined my\naccount, I found I had kept a true reckoning of years.\n\nIt was no less than eight days I had waited for them, when a strange\nand unforeseen accident intervened, of which the like has not, perhaps,\nbeen heard of in history. I was fast asleep in my hutch one morning,\nwhen my man Friday came running in to me, and called aloud,  Master,\nmaster, they are come, they are come!  I jumped up, and regardless of\ndanger I went, as soon as I could get my clothes on, through my little\ngrove, which, by the way, was by this time grown to be a very thick\nwood; I say, regardless of danger I went without my arms, which was not\nmy custom to do; but I was surprised when, turning my eyes to the sea,\nI presently saw a boat at about a league and a half distance, standing\nin for the shore, with a shoulder-of-mutton sail, as they call it, and\nthe wind blowing pretty fair to bring them in: also I observed,\npresently, that they did not come from that side which the shore lay\non, but from the southernmost end of the island. Upon this I called\nFriday in, and bade him lie close, for these were not the people we\nlooked for, and that we might not know yet whether they were friends or\nenemies. In the next place I went in to fetch my perspective glass to\nsee what I could make of them; and having taken the ladder out, I\nclimbed up to the top of the hill, as I used to do when I was\napprehensive of anything, and to take my view the plainer without being\ndiscovered. I had scarce set my foot upon the hill when my eye plainly\ndiscovered a ship lying at anchor, at about two leagues and a half\ndistance from me, SSE., but not above a league and a half from the\nshore. By my observation it appeared plainly to be an English ship, and\nthe boat appeared to be an English long-boat.\n\nI cannot express the confusion I was in, though the joy of seeing a\nship, and one that I had reason to believe was manned by my own\ncountrymen, and consequently friends, was such as I cannot describe;\nbut yet I had some secret doubts hung about me I cannot tell from\nwhence they came bidding me keep upon my guard. In the first place, it\noccurred to me to consider what business an English ship could have in\nthat part of the world, since it was not the way to or from any part of\nthe world where the English had any traffic; and I knew there had been\nno storms to drive them in there in distress; and that if they were\nreally English it was most probable that they were here upon no good\ndesign; and that I had better continue as I was than fall into the\nhands of thieves and murderers.\n\nLet no man despise the secret hints and notices of danger which\nsometimes are given him when he may think there is no possibility of\nits being real. That such hints and notices are given us I believe few\nthat have made any observation of things can deny; that they are\ncertain discoveries of an invisible world, and a converse of spirits,\nwe cannot doubt; and if the tendency of them seems to be to warn us of\ndanger, why should we not suppose they are from some friendly agent\n(whether supreme, or inferior and subordinate, is not the question),\nand that they are given for our good?\n\nThe present question abundantly confirms me in the justice of this\nreasoning; for had I not been made cautious by this secret admonition,\ncome it from whence it will, I had been done inevitably, and in a far\nworse condition than before, as you will see presently. I had not kept\nmyself long in this posture till I saw the boat draw near the shore, as\nif they looked for a creek to thrust in at, for the convenience of\nlanding; however, as they did not come quite far enough, they did not\nsee the little inlet where I formerly landed my rafts, but ran their\nboat on shore upon the beach, at about half a mile from me, which was\nvery happy for me; for otherwise they would have landed just at my\ndoor, as I may say, and would soon have beaten me out of my castle, and\nperhaps have plundered me of all I had. When they were on shore I was\nfully satisfied they were Englishmen, at least most of them; one or two\nI thought were Dutch, but it did not prove so; there were in all eleven\nmen, whereof three of them I found were unarmed and, as I thought,\nbound; and when the first four or five of them were jumped on shore,\nthey took those three out of the boat as prisoners: one of the three I\ncould perceive using the most passionate gestures of entreaty,\naffliction, and despair, even to a kind of extravagance; the other two,\nI could perceive, lifted up their hands sometimes, and appeared\nconcerned indeed, but not to such a degree as the first. I was\nperfectly confounded at the sight, and knew not what the meaning of it\nshould be. Friday called out to me in English, as well as he could,  O\nmaster! you see English mans eat prisoner as well as savage mans. \n Why, Friday,  says I,  do you think they are going to eat them, then? \n Yes,  says Friday,  they will eat them.   No no,  says I,  Friday; I\nam afraid they will murder them, indeed; but you may be sure they will\nnot eat them. \n\nAll this while I had no thought of what the matter really was, but\nstood trembling with the horror of the sight, expecting every moment\nwhen the three prisoners should be killed; nay, once I saw one of the\nvillains lift up his arm with a great cutlass, as the seamen call it,\nor sword, to strike one of the poor men; and I expected to see him fall\nevery moment; at which all the blood in my body seemed to run chill in\nmy veins. I wished heartily now for the Spaniard, and the savage that\nhad gone with him, or that I had any way to have come undiscovered\nwithin shot of them, that I might have secured the three men, for I saw\nno firearms they had among them; but it fell out to my mind another\nway. After I had observed the outrageous usage of the three men by the\ninsolent seamen, I observed the fellows run scattering about the\nisland, as if they wanted to see the country. I observed that the three\nother men had liberty to go also where they pleased; but they sat down\nall three upon the ground, very pensive, and looked like men in\ndespair. This put me in mind of the first time when I came on shore,\nand began to look about me; how I gave myself over for lost; how wildly\nI looked round me; what dreadful apprehensions I had; and how I lodged\nin the tree all night for fear of being devoured by wild beasts. As I\nknew nothing that night of the supply I was to receive by the\nprovidential driving of the ship nearer the land by the storms and\ntide, by which I have since been so long nourished and supported; so\nthese three poor desolate men knew nothing how certain of deliverance\nand supply they were, how near it was to them, and how effectually and\nreally they were in a condition of safety, at the same time that they\nthought themselves lost and their case desperate. So little do we see\nbefore us in the world, and so much reason have we to depend cheerfully\nupon the great Maker of the world, that He does not leave His creatures\nso absolutely destitute, but that in the worst circumstances they have\nalways something to be thankful for, and sometimes are nearer\ndeliverance than they imagine; nay, are even brought to their\ndeliverance by the means by which they seem to be brought to their\ndestruction.\n\nIt was just at high-water when these people came on shore; and while\nthey rambled about to see what kind of a place they were in, they had\ncarelessly stayed till the tide was spent, and the water was ebbed\nconsiderably away, leaving their boat aground. They had left two men in\nthe boat, who, as I found afterwards, having drunk a little too much\nbrandy, fell asleep; however, one of them waking a little sooner than\nthe other and finding the boat too fast aground for him to stir it,\nhallooed out for the rest, who were straggling about: upon which they\nall soon came to the boat: but it was past all their strength to launch\nher, the boat being very heavy, and the shore on that side being a soft\noozy sand, almost like a quicksand. In this condition, like true\nseamen, who are, perhaps, the least of all mankind given to\nforethought, they gave it over, and away they strolled about the\ncountry again; and I heard one of them say aloud to another, calling\nthem off from the boat,  Why, let her alone, Jack, can t you? she ll\nfloat next tide;  by which I was fully confirmed in the main inquiry of\nwhat countrymen they were. All this while I kept myself very close, not\nonce daring to stir out of my castle any farther than to my place of\nobservation near the top of the hill: and very glad I was to think how\nwell it was fortified. I knew it was no less than ten hours before the\nboat could float again, and by that time it would be dark, and I might\nbe at more liberty to see their motions, and to hear their discourse,\nif they had any. In the meantime I fitted myself up for a battle as\nbefore, though with more caution, knowing I had to do with another kind\nof enemy than I had at first. I ordered Friday also, whom I had made an\nexcellent marksman with his gun, to load himself with arms. I took\nmyself two fowling-pieces, and I gave him three muskets. My figure,\nindeed, was very fierce; I had my formidable goat-skin coat on, with\nthe great cap I have mentioned, a naked sword by my side, two pistols\nin my belt, and a gun upon each shoulder.\n\nIt was my design, as I said above, not to have made any attempt till it\nwas dark; but about two o clock, being the heat of the day, I found\nthat they were all gone straggling into the woods, and, as I thought,\nlaid down to sleep. The three poor distressed men, too anxious for\ntheir condition to get any sleep, had, however, sat down under the\nshelter of a great tree, at about a quarter of a mile from me, and, as\nI thought, out of sight of any of the rest. Upon this I resolved to\ndiscover myself to them, and learn something of their condition;\nimmediately I marched as above, my man Friday at a good distance behind\nme, as formidable for his arms as I, but not making quite so staring a\nspectre-like figure as I did. I came as near them undiscovered as I\ncould, and then, before any of them saw me, I called aloud to them in\nSpanish,  What are ye, gentlemen?  They started up at the noise, but\nwere ten times more confounded when they saw me, and the uncouth figure\nthat I made. They made no answer at all, but I thought I perceived them\njust going to fly from me, when I spoke to them in English.\n Gentlemen,  said I,  do not be surprised at me; perhaps you may have a\nfriend near when you did not expect it.   He must be sent directly from\nheaven then,  said one of them very gravely to me, and pulling off his\nhat at the same time to me;  for our condition is past the help of\nman.   All help is from heaven, sir,  said I,  but can you put a\nstranger in the way to help you? for you seem to be in some great\ndistress. I saw you when you landed; and when you seemed to make\napplication to the brutes that came with you, I saw one of them lift up\nhis sword to kill you. \n\nThe poor man, with tears running down his face, and trembling, looking\nlike one astonished, returned,  Am I talking to God or man? Is it a\nreal man or an angel?   Be in no fear about that, sir,  said I;  if God\nhad sent an angel to relieve you, he would have come better clothed,\nand armed after another manner than you see me; pray lay aside your\nfears; I am a man, an Englishman, and disposed to assist you; you see I\nhave one servant only; we have arms and ammunition; tell us freely, can\nwe serve you? What is your case?   Our case, sir,  said he,  is too\nlong to tell you while our murderers are so near us; but, in short,\nsir, I was commander of that ship my men have mutinied against me; they\nhave been hardly prevailed on not to murder me, and, at last, have set\nme on shore in this desolate place, with these two men with me one my\nmate, the other a passenger where we expected to perish, believing the\nplace to be uninhabited, and know not yet what to think of it.   Where\nare these brutes, your enemies?  said I;  do you know where they are\ngone?   There they lie, sir,  said he, pointing to a thicket of trees;\n my heart trembles for fear they have seen us and heard you speak; if\nthey have, they will certainly murder us all.   Have they any\nfirearms?  said I. He answered,  They had only two pieces, one of which\nthey left in the boat.   Well, then,  said I,  leave the rest to me; I\nsee they are all asleep; it is an easy thing to kill them all; but\nshall we rather take them prisoners?  He told me there were two\ndesperate villains among them that it was scarce safe to show any mercy\nto; but if they were secured, he believed all the rest would return to\ntheir duty. I asked him which they were. He told me he could not at\nthat distance distinguish them, but he would obey my orders in anything\nI would direct.  Well,  says I,  let us retreat out of their view or\nhearing, lest they awake, and we will resolve further.  So they\nwillingly went back with me, till the woods covered us from them.\n\n Look you, sir,  said I,  if I venture upon your deliverance, are you\nwilling to make two conditions with me?  He anticipated my proposals by\ntelling me that both he and the ship, if recovered, should be wholly\ndirected and commanded by me in everything; and if the ship was not\nrecovered, he would live and die with me in what part of the world\nsoever I would send him; and the two other men said the same.  Well, \nsays I,  my conditions are but two; first, that while you stay in this\nisland with me, you will not pretend to any authority here; and if I\nput arms in your hands, you will, upon all occasions, give them up to\nme, and do no prejudice to me or mine upon this island, and in the\nmeantime be governed by my orders; secondly, that if the ship is or may\nbe recovered, you will carry me and my man to England passage free. \n\nHe gave me all the assurances that the invention or faith of man could\ndevise that he would comply with these most reasonable demands, and\nbesides would owe his life to me, and acknowledge it upon all occasions\nas long as he lived.  Well, then,  said I,  here are three muskets for\nyou, with powder and ball; tell me next what you think is proper to be\ndone.  He showed all the testimonies of his gratitude that he was able,\nbut offered to be wholly guided by me. I told him I thought it was very\nhard venturing anything; but the best method I could think of was to\nfire on them at once as they lay, and if any were not killed at the\nfirst volley, and offered to submit, we might save them, and so put it\nwholly upon God s providence to direct the shot. He said, very\nmodestly, that he was loath to kill them if he could help it; but that\nthose two were incorrigible villains, and had been the authors of all\nthe mutiny in the ship, and if they escaped, we should be undone still,\nfor they would go on board and bring the whole ship s company, and\ndestroy us all.  Well, then,  says I,  necessity legitimates my advice,\nfor it is the only way to save our lives.  However, seeing him still\ncautious of shedding blood, I told him they should go themselves, and\nmanage as they found convenient.\n\nIn the middle of this discourse we heard some of them awake, and soon\nafter we saw two of them on their feet. I asked him if either of them\nwere the heads of the mutiny? He said,  No.   Well, then,  said I,  you\nmay let them escape; and Providence seems to have awakened them on\npurpose to save themselves. Now,  says I,  if the rest escape you, it\nis your fault.  Animated with this, he took the musket I had given him\nin his hand, and a pistol in his belt, and his two comrades with him,\nwith each a piece in his hand; the two men who were with him going\nfirst made some noise, at which one of the seamen who was awake turned\nabout, and seeing them coming, cried out to the rest; but was too late\nthen, for the moment he cried out they fired I mean the two men, the\ncaptain wisely reserving his own piece. They had so well aimed their\nshot at the men they knew, that one of them was killed on the spot, and\nthe other very much wounded; but not being dead, he started up on his\nfeet, and called eagerly for help to the other; but the captain\nstepping to him, told him it was too late to cry for help, he should\ncall upon God to forgive his villainy, and with that word knocked him\ndown with the stock of his musket, so that he never spoke more; there\nwere three more in the company, and one of them was slightly wounded.\nBy this time I was come; and when they saw their danger, and that it\nwas in vain to resist, they begged for mercy. The captain told them he\nwould spare their lives if they would give him an assurance of their\nabhorrence of the treachery they had been guilty of, and would swear to\nbe faithful to him in recovering the ship, and afterwards in carrying\nher back to Jamaica, from whence they came. They gave him all the\nprotestations of their sincerity that could be desired; and he was\nwilling to believe them, and spare their lives, which I was not\nagainst, only that I obliged him to keep them bound hand and foot while\nthey were on the island.\n\nWhile this was doing, I sent Friday with the captain s mate to the boat\nwith orders to secure her, and bring away the oars and sails, which\nthey did; and by-and-by three straggling men, that were (happily for\nthem) parted from the rest, came back upon hearing the guns fired; and\nseeing the captain, who was before their prisoner, now their conqueror,\nthey submitted to be bound also; and so our victory was complete.\n\nIt now remained that the captain and I should inquire into one\nanother s circumstances. I began first, and told him my whole history,\nwhich he heard with an attention even to amazement and particularly at\nthe wonderful manner of my being furnished with provisions and\nammunition; and, indeed, as my story is a whole collection of wonders,\nit affected him deeply. But when he reflected from thence upon himself,\nand how I seemed to have been preserved there on purpose to save his\nlife, the tears ran down his face, and he could not speak a word more.\nAfter this communication was at an end, I carried him and his two men\ninto my apartment, leading them in just where I came out, viz. at the\ntop of the house, where I refreshed them with such provisions as I had,\nand showed them all the contrivances I had made during my long, long\ninhabiting that place.\n\nAll I showed them, all I said to them, was perfectly amazing; but above\nall, the captain admired my fortification, and how perfectly I had\nconcealed my retreat with a grove of trees, which having been now\nplanted nearly twenty years, and the trees growing much faster than in\nEngland, was become a little wood, so thick that it was impassable in\nany part of it but at that one side where I had reserved my little\nwinding passage into it. I told him this was my castle and my\nresidence, but that I had a seat in the country, as most princes have,\nwhither I could retreat upon occasion, and I would show him that too\nanother time; but at present our business was to consider how to\nrecover the ship. He agreed with me as to that, but told me he was\nperfectly at a loss what measures to take, for that there were still\nsix-and-twenty hands on board, who, having entered into a cursed\nconspiracy, by which they had all forfeited their lives to the law,\nwould be hardened in it now by desperation, and would carry it on,\nknowing that if they were subdued they would be brought to the gallows\nas soon as they came to England, or to any of the English colonies, and\nthat, therefore, there would be no attacking them with so small a\nnumber as we were.\n\nI mused for some time on what he had said, and found it was a very\nrational conclusion, and that therefore something was to be resolved on\nspeedily, as well to draw the men on board into some snare for their\nsurprise as to prevent their landing upon us, and destroying us. Upon\nthis, it presently occurred to me that in a little while the ship s\ncrew, wondering what was become of their comrades and of the boat,\nwould certainly come on shore in their other boat to look for them, and\nthat then, perhaps, they might come armed, and be too strong for us:\nthis he allowed to be rational. Upon this, I told him the first thing\nwe had to do was to stave the boat which lay upon the beach, so that\nthey might not carry her off, and taking everything out of her, leave\nher so far useless as not to be fit to swim. Accordingly, we went on\nboard, took the arms which were left on board out of her, and whatever\nelse we found there which was a bottle of brandy, and another of rum, a\nfew biscuit-cakes, a horn of powder, and a great lump of sugar in a\npiece of canvas (the sugar was five or six pounds): all which was very\nwelcome to me, especially the brandy and sugar, of which I had had none\nleft for many years.\n\nWhen we had carried all these things on shore (the oars, mast, sail,\nand rudder of the boat were carried away before), we knocked a great\nhole in her bottom, that if they had come strong enough to master us,\nyet they could not carry off the boat. Indeed, it was not much in my\nthoughts that we could be able to recover the ship; but my view was,\nthat if they went away without the boat, I did not much question to\nmake her again fit to carry as to the Leeward Islands, and call upon\nour friends the Spaniards in my way, for I had them still in my\nthoughts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. THE SHIP RECOVERED\n\n\nWhile we were thus preparing our designs, and had first, by main\nstrength, heaved the boat upon the beach, so high that the tide would\nnot float her off at high-water mark, and besides, had broke a hole in\nher bottom too big to be quickly stopped, and were set down musing what\nwe should do, we heard the ship fire a gun, and make a waft with her\nensign as a signal for the boat to come on board but no boat stirred;\nand they fired several times, making other signals for the boat. At\nlast, when all their signals and firing proved fruitless, and they\nfound the boat did not stir, we saw them, by the help of my glasses,\nhoist another boat out and row towards the shore; and we found, as they\napproached, that there were no less than ten men in her, and that they\nhad firearms with them.\n\nAs the ship lay almost two leagues from the shore, we had a full view\nof them as they came, and a plain sight even of their faces; because\nthe tide having set them a little to the east of the other boat, they\nrowed up under shore, to come to the same place where the other had\nlanded, and where the boat lay; by this means, I say, we had a full\nview of them, and the captain knew the persons and characters of all\nthe men in the boat, of whom, he said, there were three very honest\nfellows, who, he was sure, were led into this conspiracy by the rest,\nbeing over-powered and frightened; but that as for the boatswain, who\nit seems was the chief officer among them, and all the rest, they were\nas outrageous as any of the ship s crew, and were no doubt made\ndesperate in their new enterprise; and terribly apprehensive he was\nthat they would be too powerful for us. I smiled at him, and told him\nthat men in our circumstances were past the operation of fear; that\nseeing almost every condition that could be was better than that which\nwe were supposed to be in, we ought to expect that the consequence,\nwhether death or life, would be sure to be a deliverance. I asked him\nwhat he thought of the circumstances of my life, and whether a\ndeliverance were not worth venturing for?  And where, sir,  said I,  is\nyour belief of my being preserved here on purpose to save your life,\nwhich elevated you a little while ago? For my part,  said I,  there\nseems to be but one thing amiss in all the prospect of it.   What is\nthat?  say he.  Why,  said I,  it is, that as you say there are three\nor four honest fellows among them which should be spared, had they been\nall of the wicked part of the crew I should have thought God s\nprovidence had singled them out to deliver them into your hands; for\ndepend upon it, every man that comes ashore is our own, and shall die\nor live as they behave to us.  As I spoke this with a raised voice and\ncheerful countenance, I found it greatly encouraged him; so we set\nvigorously to our business.\n\nWe had, upon the first appearance of the boat s coming from the ship,\nconsidered of separating our prisoners; and we had, indeed, secured\nthem effectually. Two of them, of whom the captain was less assured\nthan ordinary, I sent with Friday, and one of the three delivered men,\nto my cave, where they were remote enough, and out of danger of being\nheard or discovered, or of finding their way out of the woods if they\ncould have delivered themselves. Here they left them bound, but gave\nthem provisions; and promised them, if they continued there quietly, to\ngive them their liberty in a day or two; but that if they attempted\ntheir escape they should be put to death without mercy. They promised\nfaithfully to bear their confinement with patience, and were very\nthankful that they had such good usage as to have provisions and light\nleft them; for Friday gave them candles (such as we made ourselves) for\ntheir comfort; and they did not know but that he stood sentinel over\nthem at the entrance.\n\nThe other prisoners had better usage; two of them were kept pinioned,\nindeed, because the captain was not able to trust them; but the other\ntwo were taken into my service, upon the captain s recommendation, and\nupon their solemnly engaging to live and die with us; so with them and\nthe three honest men we were seven men, well armed; and I made no doubt\nwe should be able to deal well enough with the ten that were coming,\nconsidering that the captain had said there were three or four honest\nmen among them also. As soon as they got to the place where their other\nboat lay, they ran their boat into the beach and came all on shore,\nhauling the boat up after them, which I was glad to see, for I was\nafraid they would rather have left the boat at an anchor some distance\nfrom the shore, with some hands in her to guard her, and so we should\nnot be able to seize the boat. Being on shore, the first thing they\ndid, they ran all to their other boat; and it was easy to see they were\nunder a great surprise to find her stripped, as above, of all that was\nin her, and a great hole in her bottom. After they had mused a while\nupon this, they set up two or three great shouts, hallooing with all\ntheir might, to try if they could make their companions hear; but all\nwas to no purpose. Then they came all close in a ring, and fired a\nvolley of their small arms, which indeed we heard, and the echoes made\nthe woods ring. But it was all one; those in the cave, we were sure,\ncould not hear; and those in our keeping, though they heard it well\nenough, yet durst give no answer to them. They were so astonished at\nthe surprise of this, that, as they told us afterwards, they resolved\nto go all on board again to their ship, and let them know that the men\nwere all murdered, and the long-boat staved; accordingly, they\nimmediately launched their boat again, and got all of them on board.\n\nThe captain was terribly amazed, and even confounded, at this,\nbelieving they would go on board the ship again and set sail, giving\ntheir comrades over for lost, and so he should still lose the ship,\nwhich he was in hopes we should have recovered; but he was quickly as\nmuch frightened the other way.\n\nThey had not been long put off with the boat, when we perceived them\nall coming on shore again; but with this new measure in their conduct,\nwhich it seems they consulted together upon, viz. to leave three men in\nthe boat, and the rest to go on shore, and go up into the country to\nlook for their fellows. This was a great disappointment to us, for now\nwe were at a loss what to do, as our seizing those seven men on shore\nwould be no advantage to us if we let the boat escape; because they\nwould row away to the ship, and then the rest of them would be sure to\nweigh and set sail, and so our recovering the ship would be lost.\nHowever we had no remedy but to wait and see what the issue of things\nmight present. The seven men came on shore, and the three who remained\nin the boat put her off to a good distance from the shore, and came to\nan anchor to wait for them; so that it was impossible for us to come at\nthem in the boat. Those that came on shore kept close together,\nmarching towards the top of the little hill under which my habitation\nlay; and we could see them plainly, though they could not perceive us.\nWe should have been very glad if they would have come nearer us, so\nthat we might have fired at them, or that they would have gone farther\noff, that we might come abroad. But when they were come to the brow of\nthe hill where they could see a great way into the valleys and woods,\nwhich lay towards the north-east part, and where the island lay lowest,\nthey shouted and hallooed till they were weary; and not caring, it\nseems, to venture far from the shore, nor far from one another, they\nsat down together under a tree to consider it. Had they thought fit to\nhave gone to sleep there, as the other part of them had done, they had\ndone the job for us; but they were too full of apprehensions of danger\nto venture to go to sleep, though they could not tell what the danger\nwas they had to fear.\n\nThe captain made a very just proposal to me upon this consultation of\ntheirs, viz. that perhaps they would all fire a volley again, to\nendeavour to make their fellows hear, and that we should all sally upon\nthem just at the juncture when their pieces were all discharged, and\nthey would certainly yield, and we should have them without bloodshed.\nI liked this proposal, provided it was done while we were near enough\nto come up to them before they could load their pieces again. But this\nevent did not happen; and we lay still a long time, very irresolute\nwhat course to take. At length I told them there would be nothing done,\nin my opinion, till night; and then, if they did not return to the\nboat, perhaps we might find a way to get between them and the shore,\nand so might use some stratagem with them in the boat to get them on\nshore. We waited a great while, though very impatient for their\nremoving; and were very uneasy when, after long consultation, we saw\nthem all start up and march down towards the sea; it seems they had\nsuch dreadful apprehensions of the danger of the place that they\nresolved to go on board the ship again, give their companions over for\nlost, and so go on with their intended voyage with the ship.\n\nAs soon as I perceived them go towards the shore, I imagined it to be\nas it really was that they had given over their search, and were going\nback again; and the captain, as soon as I told him my thoughts, was\nready to sink at the apprehensions of it; but I presently thought of a\nstratagem to fetch them back again, and which answered my end to a\ntittle. I ordered Friday and the captain s mate to go over the little\ncreek westward, towards the place where the savages came on shore, when\nFriday was rescued, and so soon as they came to a little rising round,\nat about half a mile distant, I bid them halloo out, as loud as they\ncould, and wait till they found the seamen heard them; that as soon as\never they heard the seamen answer them, they should return it again;\nand then, keeping out of sight, take a round, always answering when the\nothers hallooed, to draw them as far into the island and among the\nwoods as possible, and then wheel about again to me by such ways as I\ndirected them.\n\nThey were just going into the boat when Friday and the mate hallooed;\nand they presently heard them, and answering, ran along the shore\nwestward, towards the voice they heard, when they were stopped by the\ncreek, where the water being up, they could not get over, and called\nfor the boat to come up and set them over; as, indeed, I expected. When\nthey had set themselves over, I observed that the boat being gone a\ngood way into the creek, and, as it were, in a harbour within the land,\nthey took one of the three men out of her, to go along with them, and\nleft only two in the boat, having fastened her to the stump of a little\ntree on the shore. This was what I wished for; and immediately leaving\nFriday and the captain s mate to their business, I took the rest with\nme; and, crossing the creek out of their sight, we surprised the two\nmen before they were aware one of them lying on the shore, and the\nother being in the boat. The fellow on shore was between sleeping and\nwaking, and going to start up; the captain, who was foremost, ran in\nupon him, and knocked him down; and then called out to him in the boat\nto yield, or he was a dead man. They needed very few arguments to\npersuade a single man to yield, when he saw five men upon him and his\ncomrade knocked down: besides, this was, it seems, one of the three who\nwere not so hearty in the mutiny as the rest of the crew, and therefore\nwas easily persuaded not only to yield, but afterwards to join very\nsincerely with us. In the meantime, Friday and the captain s mate so\nwell managed their business with the rest that they drew them, by\nhallooing and answering, from one hill to another, and from one wood to\nanother, till they not only heartily tired them, but left them where\nthey were, very sure they could not reach back to the boat before it\nwas dark; and, indeed, they were heartily tired themselves also, by the\ntime they came back to us.\n\nWe had nothing now to do but to watch for them in the dark, and to fall\nupon them, so as to make sure work with them. It was several hours\nafter Friday came back to me before they came back to their boat; and\nwe could hear the foremost of them, long before they came quite up,\ncalling to those behind to come along; and could also hear them answer,\nand complain how lame and tired they were, and not able to come any\nfaster: which was very welcome news to us. At length they came up to\nthe boat: but it is impossible to express their confusion when they\nfound the boat fast aground in the creek, the tide ebbed out, and their\ntwo men gone. We could hear them call one to another in a most\nlamentable manner, telling one another they were got into an enchanted\nisland; that either there were inhabitants in it, and they should all\nbe murdered, or else there were devils and spirits in it, and they\nshould be all carried away and devoured. They hallooed again, and\ncalled their two comrades by their names a great many times; but no\nanswer. After some time we could see them, by the little light there\nwas, run about, wringing their hands like men in despair, and sometimes\nthey would go and sit down in the boat to rest themselves: then come\nashore again, and walk about again, and so the same thing over again.\nMy men would fain have had me give them leave to fall upon them at once\nin the dark; but I was willing to take them at some advantage, so as to\nspare them, and kill as few of them as I could; and especially I was\nunwilling to hazard the killing of any of our men, knowing the others\nwere very well armed. I resolved to wait, to see if they did not\nseparate; and therefore, to make sure of them, I drew my ambuscade\nnearer, and ordered Friday and the captain to creep upon their hands\nand feet, as close to the ground as they could, that they might not be\ndiscovered, and get as near them as they could possibly before they\noffered to fire.\n\nThey had not been long in that posture when the boatswain, who was the\nprincipal ringleader of the mutiny, and had now shown himself the most\ndejected and dispirited of all the rest, came walking towards them,\nwith two more of the crew; the captain was so eager at having this\nprincipal rogue so much in his power, that he could hardly have\npatience to let him come so near as to be sure of him, for they only\nheard his tongue before: but when they came nearer, the captain and\nFriday, starting up on their feet, let fly at them. The boatswain was\nkilled upon the spot: the next man was shot in the body, and fell just\nby him, though he did not die till an hour or two after; and the third\nran for it. At the noise of the fire I immediately advanced with my\nwhole army, which was now eight men, viz. myself, generalissimo;\nFriday, my lieutenant-general; the captain and his two men, and the\nthree prisoners of war whom we had trusted with arms. We came upon\nthem, indeed, in the dark, so that they could not see our number; and I\nmade the man they had left in the boat, who was now one of us, to call\nthem by name, to try if I could bring them to a parley, and so perhaps\nmight reduce them to terms; which fell out just as we desired: for\nindeed it was easy to think, as their condition then was, they would be\nvery willing to capitulate. So he calls out as loud as he could to one\nof them,  Tom Smith! Tom Smith!  Tom Smith answered immediately,  Is\nthat Robinson?  for it seems he knew the voice. The other answered,\n Ay, ay; for God s sake, Tom Smith, throw down your arms and yield, or\nyou are all dead men this moment.   Who must we yield to? Where are\nthey?  says Smith again.  Here they are,  says he;  here s our captain\nand fifty men with him, have been hunting you these two hours; the\nboatswain is killed; Will Fry is wounded, and I am a prisoner; and if\nyou do not yield you are all lost.   Will they give us quarter, then? \nsays Tom Smith,  and we will yield.   I ll go and ask, if you promise\nto yield,  said Robinson: so he asked the captain, and the captain\nhimself then calls out,  You, Smith, you know my voice; if you lay down\nyour arms immediately and submit, you shall have your lives, all but\nWill Atkins. \n\nUpon this Will Atkins cried out,  For God s sake, captain, give me\nquarter; what have I done? They have all been as bad as I:  which, by\nthe way, was not true; for it seems this Will Atkins was the first man\nthat laid hold of the captain when they first mutinied, and used him\nbarbarously in tying his hands and giving him injurious language.\nHowever, the captain told him he must lay down his arms at discretion,\nand trust to the governor s mercy: by which he meant me, for they all\ncalled me governor. In a word, they all laid down their arms and begged\ntheir lives; and I sent the man that had parleyed with them, and two\nmore, who bound them all; and then my great army of fifty men, which,\nwith those three, were in all but eight, came up and seized upon them,\nand upon their boat; only that I kept myself and one more out of sight\nfor reasons of state.\n\nOur next work was to repair the boat, and think of seizing the ship:\nand as for the captain, now he had leisure to parley with them, he\nexpostulated with them upon the villainy of their practices with him,\nand upon the further wickedness of their design, and how certainly it\nmust bring them to misery and distress in the end, and perhaps to the\ngallows. They all appeared very penitent, and begged hard for their\nlives. As for that, he told them they were not his prisoners, but the\ncommander s of the island; that they thought they had set him on shore\nin a barren, uninhabited island; but it had pleased God so to direct\nthem that it was inhabited, and that the governor was an Englishman;\nthat he might hang them all there, if he pleased; but as he had given\nthem all quarter, he supposed he would send them to England, to be\ndealt with there as justice required, except Atkins, whom he was\ncommanded by the governor to advise to prepare for death, for that he\nwould be hanged in the morning.\n\nThough this was all but a fiction of his own, yet it had its desired\neffect; Atkins fell upon his knees to beg the captain to intercede with\nthe governor for his life; and all the rest begged of him, for God s\nsake, that they might not be sent to England.\n\nIt now occurred to me that the time of our deliverance was come, and\nthat it would be a most easy thing to bring these fellows in to be\nhearty in getting possession of the ship; so I retired in the dark from\nthem, that they might not see what kind of a governor they had, and\ncalled the captain to me; when I called, at a good distance, one of the\nmen was ordered to speak again, and say to the captain,  Captain, the\ncommander calls for you;  and presently the captain replied,  Tell his\nexcellency I am just coming.  This more perfectly amazed them, and they\nall believed that the commander was just by, with his fifty men. Upon\nthe captain coming to me, I told him my project for seizing the ship,\nwhich he liked wonderfully well, and resolved to put it in execution\nthe next morning. But, in order to execute it with more art, and to be\nsecure of success, I told him we must divide the prisoners, and that he\nshould go and take Atkins, and two more of the worst of them, and send\nthem pinioned to the cave where the others lay. This was committed to\nFriday and the two men who came on shore with the captain. They\nconveyed them to the cave as to a prison: and it was, indeed, a dismal\nplace, especially to men in their condition. The others I ordered to my\nbower, as I called it, of which I have given a full description: and as\nit was fenced in, and they pinioned, the place was secure enough,\nconsidering they were upon their behaviour.\n\nTo these in the morning I sent the captain, who was to enter into a\nparley with them; in a word, to try them, and tell me whether he\nthought they might be trusted or not to go on board and surprise the\nship. He talked to them of the injury done him, of the condition they\nwere brought to, and that though the governor had given them quarter\nfor their lives as to the present action, yet that if they were sent to\nEngland they would all be hanged in chains; but that if they would join\nin so just an attempt as to recover the ship, he would have the\ngovernor s engagement for their pardon.\n\nAny one may guess how readily such a proposal would be accepted by men\nin their condition; they fell down on their knees to the captain, and\npromised, with the deepest imprecations, that they would be faithful to\nhim to the last drop, and that they should owe their lives to him, and\nwould go with him all over the world; that they would own him as a\nfather to them as long as they lived.  Well,  says the captain,  I must\ngo and tell the governor what you say, and see what I can do to bring\nhim to consent to it.  So he brought me an account of the temper he\nfound them in, and that he verily believed they would be faithful.\nHowever, that we might be very secure, I told him he should go back\nagain and choose out those five, and tell them, that they might see he\ndid not want men, that he would take out those five to be his\nassistants, and that the governor would keep the other two, and the\nthree that were sent prisoners to the castle (my cave), as hostages for\nthe fidelity of those five; and that if they proved unfaithful in the\nexecution, the five hostages should be hanged in chains alive on the\nshore. This looked severe, and convinced them that the governor was in\nearnest; however, they had no way left them but to accept it; and it\nwas now the business of the prisoners, as much as of the captain, to\npersuade the other five to do their duty.\n\nOur strength was now thus ordered for the expedition: first, the\ncaptain, his mate, and passenger; second, the two prisoners of the\nfirst gang, to whom, having their character from the captain, I had\ngiven their liberty, and trusted them with arms; third, the other two\nthat I had kept till now in my bower, pinioned, but on the captain s\nmotion had now released; fourth, these five released at last; so that\nthere were twelve in all, besides five we kept prisoners in the cave\nfor hostages.\n\nI asked the captain if he was willing to venture with these hands on\nboard the ship; but as for me and my man Friday, I did not think it was\nproper for us to stir, having seven men left behind; and it was\nemployment enough for us to keep them asunder, and supply them with\nvictuals. As to the five in the cave, I resolved to keep them fast, but\nFriday went in twice a day to them, to supply them with necessaries;\nand I made the other two carry provisions to a certain distance, where\nFriday was to take them.\n\nWhen I showed myself to the two hostages, it was with the captain, who\ntold them I was the person the governor had ordered to look after them;\nand that it was the governor s pleasure they should not stir anywhere\nbut by my direction; that if they did, they would be fetched into the\ncastle, and be laid in irons: so that as we never suffered them to see\nme as governor, I now appeared as another person, and spoke of the\ngovernor, the garrison, the castle, and the like, upon all occasions.\n\nThe captain now had no difficulty before him, but to furnish his two\nboats, stop the breach of one, and man them. He made his passenger\ncaptain of one, with four of the men; and himself, his mate, and five\nmore, went in the other; and they contrived their business very well,\nfor they came up to the ship about midnight. As soon as they came\nwithin call of the ship, he made Robinson hail them, and tell them they\nhad brought off the men and the boat, but that it was a long time\nbefore they had found them, and the like, holding them in a chat till\nthey came to the ship s side; when the captain and the mate entering\nfirst with their arms, immediately knocked down the second mate and\ncarpenter with the butt-end of their muskets, being very faithfully\nseconded by their men; they secured all the rest that were upon the\nmain and quarter decks, and began to fasten the hatches, to keep them\ndown that were below; when the other boat and their men, entering at\nthe forechains, secured the forecastle of the ship, and the scuttle\nwhich went down into the cook-room, making three men they found there\nprisoners. When this was done, and all safe upon deck, the captain\nordered the mate, with three men, to break into the round-house, where\nthe new rebel captain lay, who, having taken the alarm, had got up, and\nwith two men and a boy had got firearms in their hands; and when the\nmate, with a crow, split open the door, the new captain and his men\nfired boldly among them, and wounded the mate with a musket ball, which\nbroke his arm, and wounded two more of the men, but killed nobody. The\nmate, calling for help, rushed, however, into the round-house, wounded\nas he was, and, with his pistol, shot the new captain through the head,\nthe bullet entering at his mouth, and came out again behind one of his\nears, so that he never spoke a word more: upon which the rest yielded,\nand the ship was taken effectually, without any more lives lost.\n\nAs soon as the ship was thus secured, the captain ordered seven guns to\nbe fired, which was the signal agreed upon with me to give me notice of\nhis success, which, you may be sure, I was very glad to hear, having\nsat watching upon the shore for it till near two o clock in the\nmorning. Having thus heard the signal plainly, I laid me down; and it\nhaving been a day of great fatigue to me, I slept very sound, till I\nwas surprised with the noise of a gun; and presently starting up, I\nheard a man call me by the name of  Governor! Governor!  and presently\nI knew the captain s voice; when, climbing up to the top of the hill,\nthere he stood, and, pointing to the ship, he embraced me in his arms,\n My dear friend and deliverer,  says he,  there s your ship; for she is\nall yours, and so are we, and all that belong to her.  I cast my eyes\nto the ship, and there she rode, within little more than half a mile of\nthe shore; for they had weighed her anchor as soon as they were masters\nof her, and, the weather being fair, had brought her to an anchor just\nagainst the mouth of the little creek; and the tide being up, the\ncaptain had brought the pinnace in near the place where I had first\nlanded my rafts, and so landed just at my door. I was at first ready to\nsink down with the surprise; for I saw my deliverance, indeed, visibly\nput into my hands, all things easy, and a large ship just ready to\ncarry me away whither I pleased to go. At first, for some time, I was\nnot able to answer him one word; but as he had taken me in his arms I\nheld fast by him, or I should have fallen to the ground. He perceived\nthe surprise, and immediately pulled a bottle out of his pocket and\ngave me a dram of cordial, which he had brought on purpose for me.\nAfter I had drunk it, I sat down upon the ground; and though it brought\nme to myself, yet it was a good while before I could speak a word to\nhim. All this time the poor man was in as great an ecstasy as I, only\nnot under any surprise as I was; and he said a thousand kind and tender\nthings to me, to compose and bring me to myself; but such was the flood\nof joy in my breast, that it put all my spirits into confusion: at last\nit broke out into tears, and in a little while after I recovered my\nspeech; I then took my turn, and embraced him as my deliverer, and we\nrejoiced together. I told him I looked upon him as a man sent by Heaven\nto deliver me, and that the whole transaction seemed to be a chain of\nwonders; that such things as these were the testimonies we had of a\nsecret hand of Providence governing the world, and an evidence that the\neye of an infinite Power could search into the remotest corner of the\nworld, and send help to the miserable whenever He pleased. I forgot not\nto lift up my heart in thankfulness to Heaven; and what heart could\nforbear to bless Him, who had not only in a miraculous manner provided\nfor me in such a wilderness, and in such a desolate condition, but from\nwhom every deliverance must always be acknowledged to proceed.\n\nWhen we had talked a while, the captain told me he had brought me some\nlittle refreshment, such as the ship afforded, and such as the wretches\nthat had been so long his masters had not plundered him of. Upon this,\nhe called aloud to the boat, and bade his men bring the things ashore\nthat were for the governor; and, indeed, it was a present as if I had\nbeen one that was not to be carried away with them, but as if I had\nbeen to dwell upon the island still. First, he had brought me a case of\nbottles full of excellent cordial waters, six large bottles of Madeira\nwine (the bottles held two quarts each), two pounds of excellent good\ntobacco, twelve good pieces of the ship s beef, and six pieces of pork,\nwith a bag of peas, and about a hundred-weight of biscuit; he also\nbrought me a box of sugar, a box of flour, a bag full of lemons, and\ntwo bottles of lime-juice, and abundance of other things. But besides\nthese, and what was a thousand times more useful to me, he brought me\nsix new clean shirts, six very good neckcloths, two pair of gloves, one\npair of shoes, a hat, and one pair of stockings, with a very good suit\nof clothes of his own, which had been worn but very little: in a word,\nhe clothed me from head to foot. It was a very kind and agreeable\npresent, as any one may imagine, to one in my circumstances, but never\nwas anything in the world of that kind so unpleasant, awkward, and\nuneasy as it was to me to wear such clothes at first.\n\nAfter these ceremonies were past, and after all his good things were\nbrought into my little apartment, we began to consult what was to be\ndone with the prisoners we had; for it was worth considering whether we\nmight venture to take them with us or no, especially two of them, whom\nhe knew to be incorrigible and refractory to the last degree; and the\ncaptain said he knew they were such rogues that there was no obliging\nthem, and if he did carry them away, it must be in irons, as\nmalefactors, to be delivered over to justice at the first English\ncolony he could come to; and I found that the captain himself was very\nanxious about it. Upon this, I told him that, if he desired it, I would\nundertake to bring the two men he spoke of to make it their own request\nthat he should leave them upon the island.  I should be very glad of\nthat,  says the captain,  with all my heart.   Well,  says I,  I will\nsend for them up and talk with them for you.  So I caused Friday and\nthe two hostages, for they were now discharged, their comrades having\nperformed their promise; I say, I caused them to go to the cave, and\nbring up the five men, pinioned as they were, to the bower, and keep\nthem there till I came. After some time, I came thither dressed in my\nnew habit; and now I was called governor again. Being all met, and the\ncaptain with me, I caused the men to be brought before me, and I told\nthem I had got a full account of their villainous behaviour to the\ncaptain, and how they had run away with the ship, and were preparing to\ncommit further robberies, but that Providence had ensnared them in\ntheir own ways, and that they were fallen into the pit which they had\ndug for others. I let them know that by my direction the ship had been\nseized; that she lay now in the road; and they might see by-and-by that\ntheir new captain had received the reward of his villainy, and that\nthey would see him hanging at the yard-arm; that, as to them, I wanted\nto know what they had to say why I should not execute them as pirates\ntaken in the fact, as by my commission they could not doubt but I had\nauthority so to do.\n\nOne of them answered in the name of the rest, that they had nothing to\nsay but this, that when they were taken the captain promised them their\nlives, and they humbly implored my mercy. But I told them I knew not\nwhat mercy to show them; for as for myself, I had resolved to quit the\nisland with all my men, and had taken passage with the captain to go to\nEngland; and as for the captain, he could not carry them to England\nother than as prisoners in irons, to be tried for mutiny and running\naway with the ship; the consequence of which, they must needs know,\nwould be the gallows; so that I could not tell what was best for them,\nunless they had a mind to take their fate in the island. If they\ndesired that, as I had liberty to leave the island, I had some\ninclination to give them their lives, if they thought they could shift\non shore. They seemed very thankful for it, and said they would much\nrather venture to stay there than be carried to England to be hanged.\nSo I left it on that issue.\n\nHowever, the captain seemed to make some difficulty of it, as if he\ndurst not leave them there. Upon this I seemed a little angry with the\ncaptain, and told him that they were my prisoners, not his; and that\nseeing I had offered them so much favour, I would be as good as my\nword; and that if he did not think fit to consent to it I would set\nthem at liberty, as I found them: and if he did not like it he might\ntake them again if he could catch them. Upon this they appeared very\nthankful, and I accordingly set them at liberty, and bade them retire\ninto the woods, to the place whence they came, and I would leave them\nsome firearms, some ammunition, and some directions how they should\nlive very well if they thought fit. Upon this I prepared to go on board\nthe ship; but told the captain I would stay that night to prepare my\nthings, and desired him to go on board in the meantime, and keep all\nright in the ship, and send the boat on shore next day for me; ordering\nhim, at all events, to cause the new captain, who was killed, to be\nhanged at the yard-arm, that these men might see him.\n\nWhen the captain was gone I sent for the men up to me to my apartment,\nand entered seriously into discourse with them on their circumstances.\nI told them I thought they had made a right choice; that if the captain\nhad carried them away they would certainly be hanged. I showed them the\nnew captain hanging at the yard-arm of the ship, and told them they had\nnothing less to expect.\n\nWhen they had all declared their willingness to stay, I then told them\nI would let them into the story of my living there, and put them into\nthe way of making it easy to them. Accordingly, I gave them the whole\nhistory of the place, and of my coming to it; showed them my\nfortifications, the way I made my bread, planted my corn, cured my\ngrapes; and, in a word, all that was necessary to make them easy. I\ntold them the story also of the seventeen Spaniards that were to be\nexpected, for whom I left a letter, and made them promise to treat them\nin common with themselves. Here it may be noted that the captain, who\nhad ink on board, was greatly surprised that I never hit upon a way of\nmaking ink of charcoal and water, or of something else, as I had done\nthings much more difficult.\n\nI left them my firearms viz. five muskets, three fowling-pieces, and\nthree swords. I had above a barrel and a half of powder left; for after\nthe first year or two I used but little, and wasted none. I gave them a\ndescription of the way I managed the goats, and directions to milk and\nfatten them, and to make both butter and cheese. In a word, I gave them\nevery part of my own story; and told them I should prevail with the\ncaptain to leave them two barrels of gunpowder more, and some\ngarden-seeds, which I told them I would have been very glad of. Also, I\ngave them the bag of peas which the captain had brought me to eat, and\nbade them be sure to sow and increase them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX. RETURN TO ENGLAND\n\n\nHaving done all this I left them the next day, and went on board the\nship. We prepared immediately to sail, but did not weigh that night.\nThe next morning early, two of the five men came swimming to the ship s\nside, and making the most lamentable complaint of the other three,\nbegged to be taken into the ship for God s sake, for they should be\nmurdered, and begged the captain to take them on board, though he\nhanged them immediately. Upon this the captain pretended to have no\npower without me; but after some difficulty, and after their solemn\npromises of amendment, they were taken on board, and were, some time\nafter, soundly whipped and pickled; after which they proved very honest\nand quiet fellows.\n\nSome time after this, the boat was ordered on shore, the tide being up,\nwith the things promised to the men; to which the captain, at my\nintercession, caused their chests and clothes to be added, which they\ntook, and were very thankful for. I also encouraged them, by telling\nthem that if it lay in my power to send any vessel to take them in, I\nwould not forget them.\n\nWhen I took leave of this island, I carried on board, for relics, the\ngreat goat-skin cap I had made, my umbrella, and one of my parrots;\nalso, I forgot not to take the money I formerly mentioned, which had\nlain by me so long useless that it was grown rusty or tarnished, and\ncould hardly pass for silver till it had been a little rubbed and\nhandled, as also the money I found in the wreck of the Spanish ship.\nAnd thus I left the island, the 19th of December, as I found by the\nship s account, in the year 1686, after I had been upon it\neight-and-twenty years, two months, and nineteen days; being delivered\nfrom this second captivity the same day of the month that I first made\nmy escape in the long-boat from among the Moors of Sallee. In this\nvessel, after a long voyage, I arrived in England the 11th of June, in\nthe year 1687, having been thirty-five years absent.\n\nWhen I came to England I was as perfect a stranger to all the world as\nif I had never been known there. My benefactor and faithful steward,\nwhom I had left my money in trust with, was alive, but had had great\nmisfortunes in the world; was become a widow the second time, and very\nlow in the world. I made her very easy as to what she owed me, assuring\nher I would give her no trouble; but, on the contrary, in gratitude for\nher former care and faithfulness to me, I relieved her as my little\nstock would afford; which at that time would, indeed, allow me to do\nbut little for her; but I assured her I would never forget her former\nkindness to me; nor did I forget her when I had sufficient to help her,\nas shall be observed in its proper place. I went down afterwards into\nYorkshire; but my father was dead, and my mother and all the family\nextinct, except that I found two sisters, and two of the children of\none of my brothers; and as I had been long ago given over for dead,\nthere had been no provision made for me; so that, in a word, I found\nnothing to relieve or assist me; and that the little money I had would\nnot do much for me as to settling in the world.\n\nI met with one piece of gratitude indeed, which I did not expect; and\nthis was, that the master of the ship, whom I had so happily delivered,\nand by the same means saved the ship and cargo, having given a very\nhandsome account to the owners of the manner how I had saved the lives\nof the men and the ship, they invited me to meet them and some other\nmerchants concerned, and all together made me a very handsome\ncompliment upon the subject, and a present of almost  200 sterling.\n\nBut after making several reflections upon the circumstances of my life,\nand how little way this would go towards settling me in the world, I\nresolved to go to Lisbon, and see if I might not come at some\ninformation of the state of my plantation in the Brazils, and of what\nwas become of my partner, who, I had reason to suppose, had some years\npast given me over for dead. With this view I took shipping for Lisbon,\nwhere I arrived in April following, my man Friday accompanying me very\nhonestly in all these ramblings, and proving a most faithful servant\nupon all occasions. When I came to Lisbon, I found out, by inquiry, and\nto my particular satisfaction, my old friend, the captain of the ship\nwho first took me up at sea off the shore of Africa. He was now grown\nold, and had left off going to sea, having put his son, who was far\nfrom a young man, into his ship, and who still used the Brazil trade.\nThe old man did not know me, and indeed I hardly knew him. But I soon\nbrought him to my remembrance, and as soon brought myself to his\nremembrance, when I told him who I was.\n\nAfter some passionate expressions of the old acquaintance between us, I\ninquired, you may be sure, after my plantation and my partner. The old\nman told me he had not been in the Brazils for about nine years; but\nthat he could assure me that when he came away my partner was living,\nbut the trustees whom I had joined with him to take cognisance of my\npart were both dead: that, however, he believed I would have a very\ngood account of the improvement of the plantation; for that, upon the\ngeneral belief of my being cast away and drowned, my trustees had given\nin the account of the produce of my part of the plantation to the\nprocurator-fiscal, who had appropriated it, in case I never came to\nclaim it, one-third to the king, and two-thirds to the monastery of St.\nAugustine, to be expended for the benefit of the poor, and for the\nconversion of the Indians to the Catholic faith: but that, if I\nappeared, or any one for me, to claim the inheritance, it would be\nrestored; only that the improvement, or annual production, being\ndistributed to charitable uses, could not be restored: but he assured\nme that the steward of the king s revenue from lands, and the\nprovidore, or steward of the monastery, had taken great care all along\nthat the incumbent, that is to say my partner, gave every year a\nfaithful account of the produce, of which they had duly received my\nmoiety. I asked him if he knew to what height of improvement he had\nbrought the plantation, and whether he thought it might be worth\nlooking after; or whether, on my going thither, I should meet with any\nobstruction to my possessing my just right in the moiety. He told me he\ncould not tell exactly to what degree the plantation was improved; but\nthis he knew, that my partner was grown exceeding rich upon the\nenjoying his part of it; and that, to the best of his remembrance, he\nhad heard that the king s third of my part, which was, it seems,\ngranted away to some other monastery or religious house, amounted to\nabove two hundred moidores a year: that as to my being restored to a\nquiet possession of it, there was no question to be made of that, my\npartner being alive to witness my title, and my name being also\nenrolled in the register of the country; also he told me that the\nsurvivors of my two trustees were very fair, honest people, and very\nwealthy; and he believed I would not only have their assistance for\nputting me in possession, but would find a very considerable sum of\nmoney in their hands for my account, being the produce of the farm\nwhile their fathers held the trust, and before it was given up, as\nabove; which, as he remembered, was for about twelve years.\n\nI showed myself a little concerned and uneasy at this account, and\ninquired of the old captain how it came to pass that the trustees\nshould thus dispose of my effects, when he knew that I had made my\nwill, and had made him, the Portuguese captain, my universal heir, &c.\n\nHe told me that was true; but that as there was no proof of my being\ndead, he could not act as executor until some certain account should\ncome of my death; and, besides, he was not willing to intermeddle with\na thing so remote: that it was true he had registered my will, and put\nin his claim; and could he have given any account of my being dead or\nalive, he would have acted by procuration, and taken possession of the\ningenio (so they call the sugar-house), and have given his son, who was\nnow at the Brazils, orders to do it.  But,  says the old man,  I have\none piece of news to tell you, which perhaps may not be so acceptable\nto you as the rest; and that is, believing you were lost, and all the\nworld believing so also, your partner and trustees did offer to account\nwith me, in your name, for the first six or eight years  profits, which\nI received. There being at that time great disbursements for increasing\nthe works, building an ingenio, and buying slaves, it did not amount to\nnear so much as afterwards it produced; however,  says the old man,  I\nshall give you a true account of what I have received in all, and how I\nhave disposed of it. \n\nAfter a few days  further conference with this ancient friend, he\nbrought me an account of the first six years  income of my plantation,\nsigned by my partner and the merchant-trustees, being always delivered\nin goods, viz. tobacco in roll, and sugar in chests, besides rum,\nmolasses, &c., which is the consequence of a sugar-work; and I found by\nthis account, that every year the income considerably increased; but,\nas above, the disbursements being large, the sum at first was small:\nhowever, the old man let me see that he was debtor to me four hundred\nand seventy moidores of gold, besides sixty chests of sugar and fifteen\ndouble rolls of tobacco, which were lost in his ship; he having been\nshipwrecked coming home to Lisbon, about eleven years after my having\nthe place. The good man then began to complain of his misfortunes, and\nhow he had been obliged to make use of my money to recover his losses,\nand buy him a share in a new ship.  However, my old friend,  says he,\n you shall not want a supply in your necessity; and as soon as my son\nreturns you shall be fully satisfied.  Upon this he pulls out an old\npouch, and gives me one hundred and sixty Portugal moidores in gold;\nand giving the writings of his title to the ship, which his son was\ngone to the Brazils in, of which he was quarter-part owner, and his son\nanother, he puts them both into my hands for security of the rest.\n\nI was too much moved with the honesty and kindness of the poor man to\nbe able to bear this; and remembering what he had done for me, how he\nhad taken me up at sea, and how generously he had used me on all\noccasions, and particularly how sincere a friend he was now to me, I\ncould hardly refrain weeping at what he had said to me; therefore I\nasked him if his circumstances admitted him to spare so much money at\nthat time, and if it would not straiten him? He told me he could not\nsay but it might straiten him a little; but, however, it was my money,\nand I might want it more than he.\n\nEverything the good man said was full of affection, and I could hardly\nrefrain from tears while he spoke; in short, I took one hundred of the\nmoidores, and called for a pen and ink to give him a receipt for them:\nthen I returned him the rest, and told him if ever I had possession of\nthe plantation I would return the other to him also (as, indeed, I\nafterwards did); and that as to the bill of sale of his part in his\nson s ship, I would not take it by any means; but that if I wanted the\nmoney, I found he was honest enough to pay me; and if I did not, but\ncame to receive what he gave me reason to expect, I would never have a\npenny more from him.\n\nWhen this was past, the old man asked me if he should put me into a\nmethod to make my claim to my plantation. I told him I thought to go\nover to it myself. He said I might do so if I pleased, but that if I\ndid not, there were ways enough to secure my right, and immediately to\nappropriate the profits to my use: and as there were ships in the river\nof Lisbon just ready to go away to Brazil, he made me enter my name in\na public register, with his affidavit, affirming, upon oath, that I was\nalive, and that I was the same person who took up the land for the\nplanting the said plantation at first. This being regularly attested by\na notary, and a procuration affixed, he directed me to send it, with a\nletter of his writing, to a merchant of his acquaintance at the place;\nand then proposed my staying with him till an account came of the\nreturn.\n\nNever was anything more honourable than the proceedings upon this\nprocuration; for in less than seven months I received a large packet\nfrom the survivors of my trustees, the merchants, for whose account I\nwent to sea, in which were the following, particular letters and papers\nenclosed: \n\nFirst, there was the account-current of the produce of my farm or\nplantation, from the year when their fathers had balanced with my old\nPortugal captain, being for six years; the balance appeared to be one\nthousand one hundred and seventy-four moidores in my favour.\n\nSecondly, there was the account of four years more, while they kept the\neffects in their hands, before the government claimed the\nadministration, as being the effects of a person not to be found, which\nthey called civil death; and the balance of this, the value of the\nplantation increasing, amounted to nineteen thousand four hundred and\nforty-six crusadoes, being about three thousand two hundred and forty\nmoidores.\n\nThirdly, there was the Prior of St. Augustine s account, who had\nreceived the profits for above fourteen years; but not being able to\naccount for what was disposed of by the hospital, very honestly\ndeclared he had eight hundred and seventy-two moidores not distributed,\nwhich he acknowledged to my account: as to the king s part, that\nrefunded nothing.\n\nThere was a letter of my partner s, congratulating me very\naffectionately upon my being alive, giving me an account how the estate\nwas improved, and what it produced a year; with the particulars of the\nnumber of squares, or acres that it contained, how planted, how many\nslaves there were upon it: and making two-and-twenty crosses for\nblessings, told me he had said so many _Ave Marias_ to thank the\nBlessed Virgin that I was alive; inviting me very passionately to come\nover and take possession of my own, and in the meantime to give him\norders to whom he should deliver my effects if I did not come myself;\nconcluding with a hearty tender of his friendship, and that of his\nfamily; and sent me as a present seven fine leopards  skins, which he\nhad, it seems, received from Africa, by some other ship that he had\nsent thither, and which, it seems, had made a better voyage than I. He\nsent me also five chests of excellent sweetmeats, and a hundred pieces\nof gold uncoined, not quite so large as moidores. By the same fleet my\ntwo merchant-trustees shipped me one thousand two hundred chests of\nsugar, eight hundred rolls of tobacco, and the rest of the whole\naccount in gold.\n\nI might well say now, indeed, that the latter end of Job was better\nthan the beginning. It is impossible to express the flutterings of my\nvery heart when I found all my wealth about me; for as the Brazil ships\ncome all in fleets, the same ships which brought my letters brought my\ngoods: and the effects were safe in the river before the letters came\nto my hand. In a word, I turned pale, and grew sick; and, had not the\nold man run and fetched me a cordial, I believe the sudden surprise of\njoy had overset nature, and I had died upon the spot: nay, after that I\ncontinued very ill, and was so some hours, till a physician being sent\nfor, and something of the real cause of my illness being known, he\nordered me to be let blood; after which I had relief, and grew well:\nbut I verily believe, if I had not been eased by a vent given in that\nmanner to the spirits, I should have died.\n\nI was now master, all on a sudden, of above five thousand pounds\nsterling in money, and had an estate, as I might well call it, in the\nBrazils, of above a thousand pounds a year, as sure as an estate of\nlands in England: and, in a word, I was in a condition which I scarce\nknew how to understand, or how to compose myself for the enjoyment of\nit. The first thing I did was to recompense my original benefactor, my\ngood old captain, who had been first charitable to me in my distress,\nkind to me in my beginning, and honest to me at the end. I showed him\nall that was sent to me; I told him that, next to the providence of\nHeaven, which disposed all things, it was owing to him; and that it now\nlay on me to reward him, which I would do a hundred-fold: so I first\nreturned to him the hundred moidores I had received of him; then I sent\nfor a notary, and caused him to draw up a general release or discharge\nfrom the four hundred and seventy moidores, which he had acknowledged\nhe owed me, in the fullest and firmest manner possible. After which I\ncaused a procuration to be drawn, empowering him to be the receiver of\nthe annual profits of my plantation: and appointing my partner to\naccount with him, and make the returns, by the usual fleets, to him in\nmy name; and by a clause in the end, made a grant of one hundred\nmoidores a year to him during his life, out of the effects, and fifty\nmoidores a year to his son after him, for his life: and thus I requited\nmy old man.\n\nI had now to consider which way to steer my course next, and what to do\nwith the estate that Providence had thus put into my hands; and,\nindeed, I had more care upon my head now than I had in my state of life\nin the island where I wanted nothing but what I had, and had nothing\nbut what I wanted; whereas I had now a great charge upon me, and my\nbusiness was how to secure it. I had not a cave now to hide my money\nin, or a place where it might lie without lock or key, till it grew\nmouldy and tarnished before anybody would meddle with it; on the\ncontrary, I knew not where to put it, or whom to trust with it. My old\npatron, the captain, indeed, was honest, and that was the only refuge I\nhad. In the next place, my interest in the Brazils seemed to summon me\nthither; but now I could not tell how to think of going thither till I\nhad settled my affairs, and left my effects in some safe hands behind\nme. At first I thought of my old friend the widow, who I knew was\nhonest, and would be just to me; but then she was in years, and but\npoor, and, for aught I knew, might be in debt: so that, in a word, I\nhad no way but to go back to England myself and take my effects with\nme.\n\nIt was some months, however, before I resolved upon this; and,\ntherefore, as I had rewarded the old captain fully, and to his\nsatisfaction, who had been my former benefactor, so I began to think of\nthe poor widow, whose husband had been my first benefactor, and she,\nwhile it was in her power, my faithful steward and instructor. So, the\nfirst thing I did, I got a merchant in Lisbon to write to his\ncorrespondent in London, not only to pay a bill, but to go find her\nout, and carry her, in money, a hundred pounds from me, and to talk\nwith her, and comfort her in her poverty, by telling her she should, if\nI lived, have a further supply: at the same time I sent my two sisters\nin the country a hundred pounds each, they being, though not in want,\nyet not in very good circumstances; one having been married and left a\nwidow; and the other having a husband not so kind to her as he should\nbe. But among all my relations or acquaintances I could not yet pitch\nupon one to whom I durst commit the gross of my stock, that I might go\naway to the Brazils, and leave things safe behind me; and this greatly\nperplexed me.\n\nI had once a mind to have gone to the Brazils and have settled myself\nthere, for I was, as it were, naturalised to the place; but I had some\nlittle scruple in my mind about religion, which insensibly drew me\nback. However, it was not religion that kept me from going there for\nthe present; and as I had made no scruple of being openly of the\nreligion of the country all the while I was among them, so neither did\nI yet; only that, now and then, having of late thought more of it than\nformerly, when I began to think of living and dying among them, I began\nto regret having professed myself a Papist, and thought it might not be\nthe best religion to die with.\n\nBut, as I have said, this was not the main thing that kept me from\ngoing to the Brazils, but that really I did not know with whom to leave\nmy effects behind me; so I resolved at last to go to England, where, if\nI arrived, I concluded that I should make some acquaintance, or find\nsome relations, that would be faithful to me; and, accordingly, I\nprepared to go to England with all my wealth.\n\nIn order to prepare things for my going home, I first (the Brazil fleet\nbeing just going away) resolved to give answers suitable to the just\nand faithful account of things I had from thence; and, first, to the\nPrior of St. Augustine I wrote a letter full of thanks for his just\ndealings, and the offer of the eight hundred and seventy-two moidores\nwhich were undisposed of, which I desired might be given, five hundred\nto the monastery, and three hundred and seventy-two to the poor, as the\nprior should direct; desiring the good padre s prayers for me, and the\nlike. I wrote next a letter of thanks to my two trustees, with all the\nacknowledgment that so much justice and honesty called for: as for\nsending them any present, they were far above having any occasion of\nit. Lastly, I wrote to my partner, acknowledging his industry in the\nimproving the plantation, and his integrity in increasing the stock of\nthe works; giving him instructions for his future government of my\npart, according to the powers I had left with my old patron, to whom I\ndesired him to send whatever became due to me, till he should hear from\nme more particularly; assuring him that it was my intention not only to\ncome to him, but to settle myself there for the remainder of my life.\nTo this I added a very handsome present of some Italian silks for his\nwife and two daughters, for such the captain s son informed me he had;\nwith two pieces of fine English broadcloth, the best I could get in\nLisbon, five pieces of black baize, and some Flanders lace of a good\nvalue.\n\nHaving thus settled my affairs, sold my cargo, and turned all my\neffects into good bills of exchange, my next difficulty was which way\nto go to England: I had been accustomed enough to the sea, and yet I\nhad a strange aversion to go to England by the sea at that time, and\nyet I could give no reason for it, yet the difficulty increased upon me\nso much, that though I had once shipped my baggage in order to go, yet\nI altered my mind, and that not once but two or three times.\n\nIt is true I had been very unfortunate by sea, and this might be one of\nthe reasons; but let no man slight the strong impulses of his own\nthoughts in cases of such moment: two of the ships which I had singled\nout to go in, I mean more particularly singled out than any other,\nhaving put my things on board one of them, and in the other having\nagreed with the captain; I say two of these ships miscarried. One was\ntaken by the Algerines, and the other was lost on the Start, near\nTorbay, and all the people drowned except three; so that in either of\nthose vessels I had been made miserable.\n\nHaving been thus harassed in my thoughts, my old pilot, to whom I\ncommunicated everything, pressed me earnestly not to go by sea, but\neither to go by land to the Groyne, and cross over the Bay of Biscay to\nRochelle, from whence it was but an easy and safe journey by land to\nParis, and so to Calais and Dover; or to go up to Madrid, and so all\nthe way by land through France. In a word, I was so prepossessed\nagainst my going by sea at all, except from Calais to Dover, that I\nresolved to travel all the way by land; which, as I was not in haste,\nand did not value the charge, was by much the pleasanter way: and to\nmake it more so, my old captain brought an English gentleman, the son\nof a merchant in Lisbon, who was willing to travel with me; after which\nwe picked up two more English merchants also, and two young Portuguese\ngentlemen, the last going to Paris only; so that in all there were six\nof us and five servants; the two merchants and the two Portuguese,\ncontenting themselves with one servant between two, to save the charge;\nand as for me, I got an English sailor to travel with me as a servant,\nbesides my man Friday, who was too much a stranger to be capable of\nsupplying the place of a servant on the road.\n\nIn this manner I set out from Lisbon; and our company being very well\nmounted and armed, we made a little troop, whereof they did me the\nhonour to call me captain, as well because I was the oldest man, as\nbecause I had two servants, and, indeed, was the origin of the whole\njourney.\n\nAs I have troubled you with none of my sea journals, so I shall trouble\nyou now with none of my land journals; but some adventures that\nhappened to us in this tedious and difficult journey I must not omit.\n\nWhen we came to Madrid, we, being all of us strangers to Spain, were\nwilling to stay some time to see the court of Spain, and what was worth\nobserving; but it being the latter part of the summer, we hastened\naway, and set out from Madrid about the middle of October; but when we\ncame to the edge of Navarre, we were alarmed, at several towns on the\nway, with an account that so much snow was falling on the French side\nof the mountains, that several travellers were obliged to come back to\nPampeluna, after having attempted at an extreme hazard to pass on.\n\nWhen we came to Pampeluna itself, we found it so indeed; and to me,\nthat had been always used to a hot climate, and to countries where I\ncould scarce bear any clothes on, the cold was insufferable; nor,\nindeed, was it more painful than surprising to come but ten days before\nout of Old Castile, where the weather was not only warm but very hot,\nand immediately to feel a wind from the Pyrenean Mountains so very\nkeen, so severely cold, as to be intolerable and to endanger benumbing\nand perishing of our fingers and toes.\n\nPoor Friday was really frightened when he saw the mountains all covered\nwith snow, and felt cold weather, which he had never seen or felt\nbefore in his life. To mend the matter, when we came to Pampeluna it\ncontinued snowing with so much violence and so long, that the people\nsaid winter was come before its time; and the roads, which were\ndifficult before, were now quite impassable; for, in a word, the snow\nlay in some places too thick for us to travel, and being not hard\nfrozen, as is the case in the northern countries, there was no going\nwithout being in danger of being buried alive every step. We stayed no\nless than twenty days at Pampeluna; when (seeing the winter coming on,\nand no likelihood of its being better, for it was the severest winter\nall over Europe that had been known in the memory of man) I proposed\nthat we should go away to Fontarabia, and there take shipping for\nBordeaux, which was a very little voyage. But, while I was considering\nthis, there came in four French gentlemen, who, having been stopped on\nthe French side of the passes, as we were on the Spanish, had found out\na guide, who, traversing the country near the head of Languedoc, had\nbrought them over the mountains by such ways that they were not much\nincommoded with the snow; for where they met with snow in any quantity,\nthey said it was frozen hard enough to bear them and their horses. We\nsent for this guide, who told us he would undertake to carry us the\nsame way, with no hazard from the snow, provided we were armed\nsufficiently to protect ourselves from wild beasts; for, he said, in\nthese great snows it was frequent for some wolves to show themselves at\nthe foot of the mountains, being made ravenous for want of food, the\nground being covered with snow. We told him we were well enough\nprepared for such creatures as they were, if he would insure us from a\nkind of two-legged wolves, which we were told we were in most danger\nfrom, especially on the French side of the mountains. He satisfied us\nthat there was no danger of that kind in the way that we were to go; so\nwe readily agreed to follow him, as did also twelve other gentlemen\nwith their servants, some French, some Spanish, who, as I said, had\nattempted to go, and were obliged to come back again.\n\nAccordingly, we set out from Pampeluna with our guide on the 15th of\nNovember; and indeed I was surprised when, instead of going forward, he\ncame directly back with us on the same road that we came from Madrid,\nabout twenty miles; when, having passed two rivers, and come into the\nplain country, we found ourselves in a warm climate again, where the\ncountry was pleasant, and no snow to be seen; but, on a sudden, turning\nto his left, he approached the mountains another way; and though it is\ntrue the hills and precipices looked dreadful, yet he made so many\ntours, such meanders, and led us by such winding ways, that we\ninsensibly passed the height of the mountains without being much\nencumbered with the snow; and all on a sudden he showed us the pleasant\nand fruitful provinces of Languedoc and Gascony, all green and\nflourishing, though at a great distance, and we had some rough way to\npass still.\n\nWe were a little uneasy, however, when we found it snowed one whole day\nand a night so fast that we could not travel; but he bid us be easy; we\nshould soon be past it all: we found, indeed, that we began to descend\nevery day, and to come more north than before; and so, depending upon\nour guide, we went on.\n\nIt was about two hours before night when, our guide being something\nbefore us, and not just in sight, out rushed three monstrous wolves,\nand after them a bear, from a hollow way adjoining to a thick wood; two\nof the wolves made at the guide, and had he been far before us, he\nwould have been devoured before we could have helped him; one of them\nfastened upon his horse, and the other attacked the man with such\nviolence, that he had not time, or presence of mind enough, to draw his\npistol, but hallooed and cried out to us most lustily. My man Friday\nbeing next me, I bade him ride up and see what was the matter. As soon\nas Friday came in sight of the man, he hallooed out as loud as the\nother,  O master! O master!  but like a bold fellow, rode directly up\nto the poor man, and with his pistol shot the wolf in the head that\nattacked him.\n\nIt was happy for the poor man that it was my man Friday; for, having\nbeen used to such creatures in his country, he had no fear upon him,\nbut went close up to him and shot him; whereas, any other of us would\nhave fired at a farther distance, and have perhaps either missed the\nwolf or endangered shooting the man.\n\nBut it was enough to have terrified a bolder man than I; and, indeed,\nit alarmed all our company, when, with the noise of Friday s pistol, we\nheard on both sides the most dismal howling of wolves; and the noise,\nredoubled by the echo of the mountains, appeared to us as if there had\nbeen a prodigious number of them; and perhaps there was not such a few\nas that we had no cause of apprehension: however, as Friday had killed\nthis wolf, the other that had fastened upon the horse left him\nimmediately, and fled, without doing him any damage, having happily\nfastened upon his head, where the bosses of the bridle had stuck in his\nteeth. But the man was most hurt; for the raging creature had bit him\ntwice, once in the arm, and the other time a little above his knee; and\nthough he had made some defence, he was just tumbling down by the\ndisorder of his horse, when Friday came up and shot the wolf.\n\nIt is easy to suppose that at the noise of Friday s pistol we all\nmended our pace, and rode up as fast as the way, which was very\ndifficult, would give us leave, to see what was the matter. As soon as\nwe came clear of the trees, which blinded us before, we saw clearly\nwhat had been the case, and how Friday had disengaged the poor guide,\nthough we did not presently discern what kind of creature it was he had\nkilled.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. FIGHT BETWEEN FRIDAY AND A BEAR\n\n\nBut never was a fight managed so hardily, and in such a surprising\nmanner as that which followed between Friday and the bear, which gave\nus all, though at first we were surprised and afraid for him, the\ngreatest diversion imaginable. As the bear is a heavy, clumsy creature,\nand does not gallop as the wolf does, who is swift and light, so he has\ntwo particular qualities, which generally are the rule of his actions;\nfirst, as to men, who are not his proper prey (he does not usually\nattempt them, except they first attack him, unless he be excessively\nhungry, which it is probable might now be the case, the ground being\ncovered with snow), if you do not meddle with him, he will not meddle\nwith you; but then you must take care to be very civil to him, and give\nhim the road, for he is a very nice gentleman; he will not go a step\nout of his way for a prince; nay, if you are really afraid, your best\nway is to look another way and keep going on; for sometimes if you\nstop, and stand still, and look steadfastly at him, he takes it for an\naffront; but if you throw or toss anything at him, though it were but a\nbit of stick as big as your finger, he thinks himself abused, and sets\nall other business aside to pursue his revenge, and will have\nsatisfaction in point of honour that is his first quality: the next is,\nif he be once affronted, he will never leave you, night or day, till he\nhas his revenge, but follows at a good round rate till he overtakes\nyou.\n\nMy man Friday had delivered our guide, and when we came up to him he\nwas helping him off his horse, for the man was both hurt and\nfrightened, when on a sudden we espied the bear come out of the wood;\nand a monstrous one it was, the biggest by far that ever I saw. We were\nall a little surprised when we saw him; but when Friday saw him, it was\neasy to see joy and courage in the fellow s countenance.  O! O! O! \nsays Friday, three times, pointing to him;  O master, you give me te\nleave, me shakee te hand with him; me makee you good laugh. \n\nI was surprised to see the fellow so well pleased.  You fool,  says I,\n he will eat you up. Eatee me up! eatee me up!  says Friday, twice\nover again;  me eatee him up; me makee you good laugh; you all stay\nhere, me show you good laugh.  So down he sits, and gets off his boots\nin a moment, and puts on a pair of pumps (as we call the flat shoes\nthey wear, and which he had in his pocket), gives my other servant his\nhorse, and with his gun away he flew, swift like the wind.\n\nThe bear was walking softly on, and offered to meddle with nobody, till\nFriday coming pretty near, calls to him, as if the bear could\nunderstand him.  Hark ye, hark ye,  says Friday,  me speakee with you. \nWe followed at a distance, for now being down on the Gascony side of\nthe mountains, we were entered a vast forest, where the country was\nplain and pretty open, though it had many trees in it scattered here\nand there. Friday, who had, as we say, the heels of the bear, came up\nwith him quickly, and took up a great stone, and threw it at him, and\nhit him just on the head, but did him no more harm than if he had\nthrown it against a wall; but it answered Friday s end, for the rogue\nwas so void of fear that he did it purely to make the bear follow him,\nand show us some laugh as he called it. As soon as the bear felt the\nblow, and saw him, he turns about and comes after him, taking very long\nstrides, and shuffling on at a strange rate, so as would have put a\nhorse to a middling gallop; away runs Friday, and takes his course as\nif he ran towards us for help; so we all resolved to fire at once upon\nthe bear, and deliver my man; though I was angry at him for bringing\nthe bear back upon us, when he was going about his own business another\nway; and especially I was angry that he had turned the bear upon us,\nand then ran away; and I called out,  You dog! is this your making us\nlaugh? Come away, and take your horse, that we may shoot the creature. \nHe heard me, and cried out,  No shoot, no shoot; stand still, and you\nget much laugh:  and as the nimble creature ran two feet for the bear s\none, he turned on a sudden on one side of us, and seeing a great\noak-tree fit for his purpose, he beckoned to us to follow; and doubling\nhis pace, he got nimbly up the tree, laying his gun down upon the\nground, at about five or six yards from the bottom of the tree. The\nbear soon came to the tree, and we followed at a distance: the first\nthing he did he stopped at the gun, smelt at it, but let it lie, and up\nhe scrambles into the tree, climbing like a cat, though so monstrous\nheavy. I was amazed at the folly, as I thought it, of my man, and could\nnot for my life see anything to laugh at, till seeing the bear get up\nthe tree, we all rode near to him.\n\nWhen we came to the tree, there was Friday got out to the small end of\na large branch, and the bear got about half-way to him. As soon as the\nbear got out to that part where the limb of the tree was weaker,  Ha! \nsays he to us,  now you see me teachee the bear dance:  so he began\njumping and shaking the bough, at which the bear began to totter, but\nstood still, and began to look behind him, to see how he should get\nback; then, indeed, we did laugh heartily. But Friday had not done with\nhim by a great deal; when seeing him stand still, he called out to him\nagain, as if he had supposed the bear could speak English,  What, you\ncome no farther? pray you come farther;  so he left jumping and shaking\nthe tree; and the bear, just as if he understood what he said, did come\na little farther; then he began jumping again, and the bear stopped\nagain. We thought now was a good time to knock him in the head, and\ncalled to Friday to stand still and we should shoot the bear: but he\ncried out earnestly,  Oh, pray! Oh, pray! no shoot, me shoot by and\nthen:  he would have said by-and-by. However, to shorten the story,\nFriday danced so much, and the bear stood so ticklish, that we had\nlaughing enough, but still could not imagine what the fellow would do:\nfor first we thought he depended upon shaking the bear off; and we\nfound the bear was too cunning for that too; for he would not go out\nfar enough to be thrown down, but clung fast with his great broad claws\nand feet, so that we could not imagine what would be the end of it, and\nwhat the jest would be at last. But Friday put us out of doubt quickly:\nfor seeing the bear cling fast to the bough, and that he would not be\npersuaded to come any farther,  Well, well,  says Friday,  you no come\nfarther, me go; you no come to me, me come to you;  and upon this he\nwent out to the smaller end, where it would bend with his weight, and\ngently let himself down by it, sliding down the bough till he came near\nenough to jump down on his feet, and away he ran to his gun, took it\nup, and stood still.  Well,  said I to him,  Friday, what will you do\nnow? Why don t you shoot him?   No shoot,  says Friday,  no yet; me\nshoot now, me no kill; me stay, give you one more laugh:  and, indeed,\nso he did; for when the bear saw his enemy gone, he came back from the\nbough, where he stood, but did it very cautiously, looking behind him\nevery step, and coming backward till he got into the body of the tree,\nthen, with the same hinder end foremost, he came down the tree,\ngrasping it with his claws, and moving one foot at a time, very\nleisurely. At this juncture, and just before he could set his hind foot\non the ground, Friday stepped up close to him, clapped the muzzle of\nhis piece into his ear, and shot him dead. Then the rogue turned about\nto see if we did not laugh; and when he saw we were pleased by our\nlooks, he began to laugh very loud.  So we kill bear in my country, \nsays Friday.  So you kill them?  says I;  why, you have no guns. No, \nsays he,  no gun, but shoot great much long arrow.  This was a good\ndiversion to us; but we were still in a wild place, and our guide very\nmuch hurt, and what to do we hardly knew; the howling of wolves ran\nmuch in my head; and, indeed, except the noise I once heard on the\nshore of Africa, of which I have said something already, I never heard\nanything that filled me with so much horror.\n\nThese things, and the approach of night, called us off, or else, as\nFriday would have had us, we should certainly have taken the skin of\nthis monstrous creature off, which was worth saving; but we had near\nthree leagues to go, and our guide hastened us; so we left him, and\nwent forward on our journey.\n\nThe ground was still covered with snow, though not so deep and\ndangerous as on the mountains; and the ravenous creatures, as we heard\nafterwards, were come down into the forest and plain country, pressed\nby hunger, to seek for food, and had done a great deal of mischief in\nthe villages, where they surprised the country people, killed a great\nmany of their sheep and horses, and some people too.\n\n\n\nWe had one dangerous place to pass, and our guide told us if there were\nmore wolves in the country we should find them there; and this was a\nsmall plain, surrounded with woods on every side, and a long, narrow\ndefile, or lane, which we were to pass to get through the wood, and\nthen we should come to the village where we were to lodge.\n\n\n\nIt was within half-an-hour of sunset when we entered the wood, and a\nlittle after sunset when we came into the plain: we met with nothing in\nthe first wood, except that in a little plain within the wood, which\nwas not above two furlongs over, we saw five great wolves cross the\nroad, full speed, one after another, as if they had been in chase of\nsome prey, and had it in view; they took no notice of us, and were gone\nout of sight in a few moments. Upon this, our guide, who, by the way,\nwas but a fainthearted fellow, bid us keep in a ready posture, for he\nbelieved there were more wolves a-coming. We kept our arms ready, and\nour eyes about us; but we saw no more wolves till we came through that\nwood, which was near half a league, and entered the plain. As soon as\nwe came into the plain, we had occasion enough to look about us. The\nfirst object we met with was a dead horse; that is to say, a poor horse\nwhich the wolves had killed, and at least a dozen of them at work, we\ncould not say eating him, but picking his bones rather; for they had\neaten up all the flesh before. We did not think fit to disturb them at\ntheir feast, neither did they take much notice of us. Friday would have\nlet fly at them, but I would not suffer him by any means; for I found\nwe were like to have more business upon our hands than we were aware\nof. We had not gone half over the plain when we began to hear the\nwolves howl in the wood on our left in a frightful manner, and\npresently after we saw about a hundred coming on directly towards us,\nall in a body, and most of them in a line, as regularly as an army\ndrawn up by experienced officers. I scarce knew in what manner to\nreceive them, but found to draw ourselves in a close line was the only\nway; so we formed in a moment; but that we might not have too much\ninterval, I ordered that only every other man should fire, and that the\nothers, who had not fired, should stand ready to give them a second\nvolley immediately, if they continued to advance upon us; and then that\nthose that had fired at first should not pretend to load their fusees\nagain, but stand ready, every one with a pistol, for we were all armed\nwith a fusee and a pair of pistols each man; so we were, by this\nmethod, able to fire six volleys, half of us at a time; however, at\npresent we had no necessity; for upon firing the first volley, the\nenemy made a full stop, being terrified as well with the noise as with\nthe fire. Four of them being shot in the head, dropped; several others\nwere wounded, and went bleeding off, as we could see by the snow. I\nfound they stopped, but did not immediately retreat; whereupon,\nremembering that I had been told that the fiercest creatures were\nterrified at the voice of a man, I caused all the company to halloo as\nloud as they could; and I found the notion not altogether mistaken; for\nupon our shout they began to retire and turn about. I then ordered a\nsecond volley to be fired in their rear, which put them to the gallop,\nand away they went to the woods. This gave us leisure to charge our\npieces again; and that we might lose no time, we kept going; but we had\nbut little more than loaded our fusees, and put ourselves in readiness,\nwhen we heard a terrible noise in the same wood on our left, only that\nit was farther onward, the same way we were to go.\n\nThe night was coming on, and the light began to be dusky, which made it\nworse on our side; but the noise increasing, we could easily perceive\nthat it was the howling and yelling of those hellish creatures; and on\na sudden we perceived three troops of wolves, one on our left, one\nbehind us, and one in our front, so that we seemed to be surrounded\nwith them: however, as they did not fall upon us, we kept our way\nforward, as fast as we could make our horses go, which, the way being\nvery rough, was only a good hard trot. In this manner, we came in view\nof the entrance of a wood, through which we were to pass, at the\nfarther side of the plain; but we were greatly surprised, when coming\nnearer the lane or pass, we saw a confused number of wolves standing\njust at the entrance. On a sudden, at another opening of the wood, we\nheard the noise of a gun, and looking that way, out rushed a horse,\nwith a saddle and a bridle on him, flying like the wind, and sixteen or\nseventeen wolves after him, full speed: the horse had the advantage of\nthem; but as we supposed that he could not hold it at that rate, we\ndoubted not but they would get up with him at last: no question but\nthey did.\n\nBut here we had a most horrible sight; for riding up to the entrance\nwhere the horse came out, we found the carcasses of another horse and\nof two men, devoured by the ravenous creatures; and one of the men was\nno doubt the same whom we heard fire the gun, for there lay a gun just\nby him fired off; but as to the man, his head and the upper part of his\nbody was eaten up. This filled us with horror, and we knew not what\ncourse to take; but the creatures resolved us soon, for they gathered\nabout us presently, in hopes of prey; and I verily believe there were\nthree hundred of them. It happened, very much to our advantage, that at\nthe entrance into the wood, but a little way from it, there lay some\nlarge timber-trees, which had been cut down the summer before, and I\nsuppose lay there for carriage. I drew my little troop in among those\ntrees, and placing ourselves in a line behind one long tree, I advised\nthem all to alight, and keeping that tree before us for a breastwork,\nto stand in a triangle, or three fronts, enclosing our horses in the\ncentre. We did so, and it was well we did; for never was a more furious\ncharge than the creatures made upon us in this place. They came on with\na growling kind of noise, and mounted the piece of timber, which, as I\nsaid, was our breastwork, as if they were only rushing upon their prey;\nand this fury of theirs, it seems, was principally occasioned by their\nseeing our horses behind us. I ordered our men to fire as before, every\nother man; and they took their aim so sure that they killed several of\nthe wolves at the first volley; but there was a necessity to keep a\ncontinual firing, for they came on like devils, those behind pushing on\nthose before.\n\nWhen we had fired a second volley of our fusees, we thought they\nstopped a little, and I hoped they would have gone off, but it was but\na moment, for others came forward again; so we fired two volleys of our\npistols; and I believe in these four firings we had killed seventeen or\neighteen of them, and lamed twice as many, yet they came on again. I\nwas loth to spend our shot too hastily; so I called my servant, not my\nman Friday, for he was better employed, for, with the greatest\ndexterity imaginable, he had charged my fusee and his own while we were\nengaged but, as I said, I called my other man, and giving him a horn of\npowder, I had him lay a train all along the piece of timber, and let it\nbe a large train. He did so, and had but just time to get away, when\nthe wolves came up to it, and some got upon it, when I, snapping an\nuncharged pistol close to the powder, set it on fire; those that were\nupon the timber were scorched with it, and six or seven of them fell;\nor rather jumped in among us with the force and fright of the fire; we\ndespatched these in an instant, and the rest were so frightened with\nthe light, which the night for it was now very near dark made more\nterrible that they drew back a little; upon which I ordered our last\npistols to be fired off in one volley, and after that we gave a shout;\nupon this the wolves turned tail, and we sallied immediately upon near\ntwenty lame ones that we found struggling on the ground, and fell to\ncutting them with our swords, which answered our expectation, for the\ncrying and howling they made was better understood by their fellows; so\nthat they all fled and left us.\n\nWe had, first and last, killed about threescore of them, and had it\nbeen daylight we had killed many more. The field of battle being thus\ncleared, we made forward again, for we had still near a league to go.\nWe heard the ravenous creatures howl and yell in the woods as we went\nseveral times, and sometimes we fancied we saw some of them; but the\nsnow dazzling our eyes, we were not certain. In about an hour more we\ncame to the town where we were to lodge, which we found in a terrible\nfright and all in arms; for, it seems, the night before the wolves and\nsome bears had broken into the village, and put them in such terror\nthat they were obliged to keep guard night and day, but especially in\nthe night, to preserve their cattle, and indeed their people.\n\nThe next morning our guide was so ill, and his limbs swelled so much\nwith the rankling of his two wounds, that he could go no farther; so we\nwere obliged to take a new guide here, and go to Toulouse, where we\nfound a warm climate, a fruitful, pleasant country, and no snow, no\nwolves, nor anything like them; but when we told our story at Toulouse,\nthey told us it was nothing but what was ordinary in the great forest\nat the foot of the mountains, especially when the snow lay on the\nground; but they inquired much what kind of guide we had got who would\nventure to bring us that way in such a severe season, and told us it\nwas surprising we were not all devoured. When we told them how we\nplaced ourselves and the horses in the middle, they blamed us\nexceedingly, and told us it was fifty to one but we had been all\ndestroyed, for it was the sight of the horses which made the wolves so\nfurious, seeing their prey, and that at other times they are really\nafraid of a gun; but being excessively hungry, and raging on that\naccount, the eagerness to come at the horses had made them senseless of\ndanger, and that if we had not by the continual fire, and at last by\nthe stratagem of the train of powder, mastered them, it had been great\nodds but that we had been torn to pieces; whereas, had we been content\nto have sat still on horseback, and fired as horsemen, they would not\nhave taken the horses so much for their own, when men were on their\nbacks, as otherwise; and withal, they told us that at last, if we had\nstood altogether, and left our horses, they would have been so eager to\nhave devoured them, that we might have come off safe, especially having\nour firearms in our hands, being so many in number. For my part, I was\nnever so sensible of danger in my life; for, seeing above three hundred\ndevils come roaring and open-mouthed to devour us, and having nothing\nto shelter us or retreat to, I gave myself over for lost; and, as it\nwas, I believe I shall never care to cross those mountains again: I\nthink I would much rather go a thousand leagues by sea, though I was\nsure to meet with a storm once a-week.\n\nI have nothing uncommon to take notice of in my passage through\nFrance nothing but what other travellers have given an account of with\nmuch more advantage than I can. I travelled from Toulouse to Paris, and\nwithout any considerable stay came to Calais, and landed safe at Dover\nthe 14th of January, after having had a severe cold season to travel\nin.\n\nI was now come to the centre of my travels, and had in a little time\nall my new-discovered estate safe about me, the bills of exchange which\nI brought with me having been currently paid.\n\nMy principal guide and privy-counsellor was my good ancient widow, who,\nin gratitude for the money I had sent her, thought no pains too much\nnor care too great to employ for me; and I trusted her so entirely that\nI was perfectly easy as to the security of my effects; and, indeed, I\nwas very happy from the beginning, and now to the end, in the unspotted\nintegrity of this good gentlewoman.\n\nAnd now, having resolved to dispose of my plantation in the Brazils, I\nwrote to my old friend at Lisbon, who, having offered it to the two\nmerchants, the survivors of my trustees, who lived in the Brazils, they\naccepted the offer, and remitted thirty-three thousand pieces of eight\nto a correspondent of theirs at Lisbon to pay for it.\n\nIn return, I signed the instrument of sale in the form which they sent\nfrom Lisbon, and sent it to my old man, who sent me the bills of\nexchange for thirty-two thousand eight hundred pieces of eight for the\nestate, reserving the payment of one hundred moidores a year to him\n(the old man) during his life, and fifty moidores afterwards to his son\nfor his life, which I had promised them, and which the plantation was\nto make good as a rent-charge. And thus I have given the first part of\na life of fortune and adventure a life of Providence s chequer-work,\nand of a variety which the world will seldom be able to show the like\nof; beginning foolishly, but closing much more happily than any part of\nit ever gave me leave so much as to hope for.\n\nAny one would think that in this state of complicated good fortune I\nwas past running any more hazards and so, indeed, I had been, if other\ncircumstances had concurred; but I was inured to a wandering life, had\nno family, nor many relations; nor, however rich, had I contracted\nfresh acquaintance; and though I had sold my estate in the Brazils, yet\nI could not keep that country out of my head, and had a great mind to\nbe upon the wing again; especially I could not resist the strong\ninclination I had to see my island, and to know if the poor Spaniards\nwere in being there. My true friend, the widow, earnestly dissuaded me\nfrom it, and so far prevailed with me, that for almost seven years she\nprevented my running abroad, during which time I took my two nephews,\nthe children of one of my brothers, into my care; the eldest, having\nsomething of his own, I bred up as a gentleman, and gave him a\nsettlement of some addition to his estate after my decease. The other I\nplaced with the captain of a ship; and after five years, finding him a\nsensible, bold, enterprising young fellow, I put him into a good ship,\nand sent him to sea; and this young fellow afterwards drew me in, as\nold as I was, to further adventures myself.\n\nIn the meantime, I in part settled myself here; for, first of all, I\nmarried, and that not either to my disadvantage or dissatisfaction, and\nhad three children, two sons and one daughter; but my wife dying, and\nmy nephew coming home with good success from a voyage to Spain, my\ninclination to go abroad, and his importunity, prevailed, and engaged\nme to go in his ship as a private trader to the East Indies; this was\nin the year 1694.\n\nIn this voyage I visited my new colony in the island, saw my successors\nthe Spaniards, had the old story of their lives and of the villains I\nleft there; how at first they insulted the poor Spaniards, how they\nafterwards agreed, disagreed, united, separated, and how at last the\nSpaniards were obliged to use violence with them; how they were\nsubjected to the Spaniards, how honestly the Spaniards used them a\nhistory, if it were entered into, as full of variety and wonderful\naccidents as my own part particularly, also, as to their battles with\nthe Caribbeans, who landed several times upon the island, and as to the\nimprovement they made upon the island itself, and how five of them made\nan attempt upon the mainland, and brought away eleven men and five\nwomen prisoners, by which, at my coming, I found about twenty young\nchildren on the island.\n\nHere I stayed about twenty days, left them supplies of all necessary\nthings, and particularly of arms, powder, shot, clothes, tools, and two\nworkmen, which I had brought from England with me, viz. a carpenter and\na smith.\n\nBesides this, I shared the lands into parts with them, reserved to\nmyself the property of the whole, but gave them such parts respectively\nas they agreed on; and having settled all things with them, and engaged\nthem not to leave the place, I left them there.\n\nFrom thence I touched at the Brazils, from whence I sent a bark, which\nI bought there, with more people to the island; and in it, besides\nother supplies, I sent seven women, being such as I found proper for\nservice, or for wives to such as would take them. As to the Englishmen,\nI promised to send them some women from England, with a good cargo of\nnecessaries, if they would apply themselves to planting which I\nafterwards could not perform. The fellows proved very honest and\ndiligent after they were mastered and had their properties set apart\nfor them. I sent them, also, from the Brazils, five cows, three of them\nbeing big with calf, some sheep, and some hogs, which when I came again\nwere considerably increased.\n\nBut all these things, with an account how three hundred Caribbees came\nand invaded them, and ruined their plantations, and how they fought\nwith that whole number twice, and were at first defeated, and one of\nthem killed; but at last, a storm destroying their enemies  canoes,\nthey famished or destroyed almost all the rest, and renewed and\nrecovered the possession of their plantation, and still lived upon the\nisland.\n\nAll these things, with some very surprising incidents in some new\nadventures of my own, for ten years more, I shall give a farther\naccount of in the Second Part of my Story."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer",
        "author": "Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)",
        "category": "Adventure",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I\n\n\n Tom! \n\nNo answer.\n\n TOM! \n\nNo answer.\n\n What s gone with that boy, I wonder? You TOM! \n\nNo answer.\n\nThe old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the\nroom; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or\nnever looked _through_ them for so small a thing as a boy; they were\nher state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for  style,  not\nservice she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well.\nShe looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but\nstill loud enough for the furniture to hear:\n\n Well, I lay if I get hold of you I ll \n\nShe did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching\nunder the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the\npunches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.\n\n I never did see the beat of that boy! \n\nShe went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the\ntomato vines and  jimpson  weeds that constituted the garden. No Tom. So\nshe lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and shouted:\n\n Y-o-u-u TOM! \n\nThere was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to seize\na small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.\n\n There! I might  a  thought of that closet. What you been doing in\nthere? \n\n Nothing. \n\n Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What _is_ that\ntruck? \n\n I don t know, aunt. \n\n Well, I know. It s jam that s what it is. Forty times I ve said if you\ndidn t let that jam alone I d skin you. Hand me that switch. \n\nThe switch hovered in the air the peril was desperate \n\n My! Look behind you, aunt! \n\nThe old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger.\nThe lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and\ndisappeared over it.\n\nHis aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle\nlaugh.\n\n Hang the boy, can t I never learn anything? Ain t he played me tricks\nenough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time? But old\nfools is the biggest fools there is. Can t learn an old dog new tricks,\nas the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days,\nand how is a body to know what s coming? He  pears to know just how long\nhe can torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows if he can make\nout to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it s all down again and\nI can t hit him a lick. I ain t doing my duty by that boy, and that s\nthe Lord s truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spile the child, as\nthe Good Book says. I m a laying up sin and suffering for us both, I\nknow. He s full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he s my own dead\nsister s boy, poor thing, and I ain t got the heart to lash him,\nsomehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and\nevery time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man that is\nborn of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says,\nand I reckon it s so. He ll play hookey this evening,[*] and I ll just\nbe obleeged to make him work, tomorrow, to punish him. It s mighty hard\nto make him work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he\nhates work more than he hates anything else, and I ve _got_ to do some\nof my duty by him, or I ll be the ruination of the child. \n\n[*] Southwestern for  afternoon \n\nTom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home\nbarely in season to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day s wood\nand split the kindlings before supper at least he was there in time\nto tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the work.\nTom s younger brother (or rather half-brother) Sid was already through\nwith his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet boy,\nand had no adventurous, trouble-some ways.\n\nWhile Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity\noffered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and\nvery deep for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like\nmany other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she\nwas endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she\nloved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low\ncunning. Said she:\n\n Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn t it? \n\n Yes m. \n\n Powerful warm, warn t it? \n\n Yes m. \n\n Didn t you want to go in a-swimming, Tom? \n\nA bit of a scare shot through Tom a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. He\nsearched Aunt Polly s face, but it told him nothing. So he said:\n\n No m well, not very much. \n\nThe old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom s shirt, and said:\n\n But you ain t too warm now, though.  And it flattered her to reflect\nthat she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing\nthat that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew\nwhere the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move:\n\n Some of us pumped on our heads mine s damp yet. See? \n\nAunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of\ncircumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new\ninspiration:\n\n Tom, you didn t have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to\npump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket! \n\nThe trouble vanished out of Tom s face. He opened his jacket. His shirt\ncollar was securely sewed.\n\n Bother! Well, go  long with you. I d made sure you d played hookey\nand been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you re a kind of a\nsinged cat, as the saying is better n you look. _This_ time. \n\nShe was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom\nhad stumbled into obedient conduct for once.\n\nBut Sidney said:\n\n Well, now, if I didn t think you sewed his collar with white thread,\nbut it s black. \n\n Why, I did sew it with white! Tom! \n\nBut Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:\n\n Siddy, I ll lick you for that. \n\nIn a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into\nthe lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them one needle\ncarried white thread and the other black. He said:\n\n She d never noticed if it hadn t been for Sid. Confound it! sometimes\nshe sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black. I wish to\ngee-miny she d stick to one or t other I can t keep the run of  em. But\nI bet you I ll lam Sid for that. I ll learn him! \n\nHe was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well\nthough and loathed him.\n\nWithin two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not\nbecause his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a\nman s are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore\nthem down and drove them out of his mind for the time just as men s\nmisfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This new\ninterest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired\nfrom a negro, and he was suffering to practise it undisturbed. It\nconsisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble,\nproduced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short\nintervals in the midst of the music the reader probably remembers how to\ndo it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him\nthe knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of\nharmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer\nfeels who has discovered a new planet no doubt, as far as strong, deep,\nunalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the\nastronomer.\n\nThe summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom\nchecked his whistle. A stranger was before him a boy a shade larger\nthan himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an impressive\ncuriosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy\nwas well dressed, too well dressed on a week-day. This was simply\nastounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth\nroundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes\non and it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright bit of\nribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom s vitals. The\nmore Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose\nat his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to\nhim to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved but only\nsidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the\ntime. Finally Tom said:\n\n I can lick you! \n\n I d like to see you try it. \n\n Well, I can do it. \n\n No you can t, either. \n\n Yes I can. \n\n No you can t. \n\n I can. \n\n You can t. \n\n Can! \n\n Can t! \n\nAn uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:\n\n What s your name? \n\n Tisn t any of your business, maybe. \n\n Well I  low I ll _make_ it my business. \n\n Well why don t you? \n\n If you say much, I will. \n\n Much much _much_. There now. \n\n Oh, you think you re mighty smart, _don t_ you? I could lick you with\none hand tied behind me, if I wanted to. \n\n Well why don t you _do_ it? You _say_ you can do it. \n\n Well I _will_, if you fool with me. \n\n Oh yes I ve seen whole families in the same fix. \n\n Smarty! You think you re _some_, now, _don t_ you? Oh, what a hat! \n\n You can lump that hat if you don t like it. I dare you to knock it\noff and anybody that ll take a dare will suck eggs. \n\n You re a liar! \n\n You re another. \n\n You re a fighting liar and dasn t take it up. \n\n Aw take a walk! \n\n Say if you give me much more of your sass I ll take and bounce a rock\noff n your head. \n\n Oh, of _course_ you will. \n\n Well I _will_. \n\n Well why don t you _do_ it then? What do you keep _saying_ you will\nfor? Why don t you _do_ it? It s because you re afraid. \n\n I _ain t_ afraid. \n\n You are. \n\n I ain t. \n\n You are. \n\nAnother pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. Presently\nthey were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said:\n\n Get away from here! \n\n Go away yourself! \n\n I won t. \n\n I won t either. \n\nSo they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both\nshoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with hate. But\nneither could get an advantage. After struggling till both were hot and\nflushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and Tom said:\n\n You re a coward and a pup. I ll tell my big brother on you, and he can\nthrash you with his little finger, and I ll make him do it, too. \n\n What do I care for your big brother? I ve got a brother that s bigger\nthan he is and what s more, he can throw him over that fence, too. \n [Both brothers were imaginary.]\n\n That s a lie. \n\n _Your_ saying so don t make it so. \n\nTom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:\n\n I dare you to step over that, and I ll lick you till you can t stand\nup. Anybody that ll take a dare will steal sheep. \n\nThe new boy stepped over promptly, and said:\n\n Now you said you d do it, now let s see you do it. \n\n Don t you crowd me now; you better look out. \n\n Well, you _said_ you d do it why don t you do it? \n\n By jingo! for two cents I _will_ do it. \n\nThe new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out\nwith derision. Tom struck them to the ground. In an instant both boys\nwere rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and\nfor the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other s hair and\nclothes, punched and scratched each other s nose, and covered themselves\nwith dust and glory. Presently the confusion took form, and through the\nfog of battle Tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and pounding him\nwith his fists.  Holler  nuff!  said he.\n\nThe boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying mainly from rage.\n\n Holler  nuff! and the pounding went on.\n\nAt last the stranger got out a smothered  Nuff!  and Tom let him up and\nsaid:\n\n Now that ll learn you. Better look out who you re fooling with next\ntime. \n\nThe new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing,\nsnuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and\nthreatening what he would do to Tom the  next time he caught him out. \n To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and\nas soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw it\nand hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like\nan antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he\nlived. He then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the\nenemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the\nwindow and declined. At last the enemy s mother appeared, and called Tom\na bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went away; but\nhe said he  lowed  to  lay  for that boy.\n\nHe got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in\nat the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and\nwhen she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his\nSaturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its\nfirmness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nSaturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and\nfresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if\nthe heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in\nevery face and a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom\nand the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond\nthe village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far\nenough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.\n\nTom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a\nlong-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and\na deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board\nfence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a\nburden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost\nplank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant\nwhitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed\nfence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at\nthe gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from\nthe town pump had always been hateful work in Tom s eyes, before, but\nnow it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at\nthe pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there\nwaiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting,\nskylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred\nand fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under an\nhour and even then somebody generally had to go after him. Tom said:\n\n Say, Jim, I ll fetch the water if you ll whitewash some. \n\nJim shook his head and said:\n\n Can t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an  git dis water\nan  not stop foolin  roun  wid anybody. She say she spec  Mars Tom gwine\nto ax me to whitewash, an  so she tole me go  long an   tend to my own\nbusiness she  lowed _she d_  tend to de whitewashin . \n\n Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That s the way she always talks.\nGimme the bucket I won t be gone only a a minute. _She_ won t ever\nknow. \n\n Oh, I dasn t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she d take an  tar de head off n me.\n Deed she would. \n\n _She_! She never licks anybody whacks  em over the head with her\nthimble and who cares for that, I d like to know. She talks awful, but\ntalk don t hurt anyways it don t if she don t cry. Jim, I ll give you a\nmarvel. I ll give you a white alley! \n\nJim began to waver.\n\n White alley, Jim! And it s a bully taw. \n\n My! Dat s a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I s powerful\n fraid ole missis \n\n And besides, if you will I ll show you my sore toe. \n\nJim was only human this attraction was too much for him. He put down\nhis pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing\ninterest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he\nwas flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was\nwhitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field with\na slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.\n\nBut Tom s energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had\nplanned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys\nwould come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and\nthey would make a world of fun of him for having to work the very\nthought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and\nexamined it bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange\nof _work_, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour\nof pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and\ngave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless\nmoment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a great,\nmagnificent inspiration.\n\nHe took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in\nsight presently the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been\ndreading. Ben s gait was the hop-skip-and-jump proof enough that his\nheart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and\ngiving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned\nding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As\nhe drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned\nfar over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp\nand circumstance for he was personating the Big Missouri, and considered\nhimself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and captain and\nengine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own\nhurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:\n\n Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!  The headway ran almost out, and he\ndrew up slowly toward the sidewalk.\n\n Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!  His arms straightened and stiffened\ndown his sides.\n\n Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow!\nChow!  His right hand, mean-time, describing stately circles for it was\nrepresenting a forty-foot wheel.\n\n Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow! \n The left hand began to describe circles.\n\n Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead on\nthe stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow!\nTing-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! _lively_ now!\nCome out with your spring-line what re you about there! Take a turn\nround that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now let her\ngo! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH T! S H T! SH T! \n(trying the gauge-cocks).\n\nTom went on whitewashing paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared\na moment and then said:  _Hi-Yi! You re_ up a stump, ain t you! \n\nNo answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then\nhe gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as\nbefore. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom s mouth watered for the\napple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:\n\n Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey? \n\nTom wheeled suddenly and said:\n\n Why, it s you, Ben! I warn t noticing. \n\n Say I m going in a-swimming, I am. Don t you wish you could? But of\ncourse you d druther _work_ wouldn t you? Course you would! \n\nTom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:\n\n What do you call work? \n\n Why, ain t _that_ work? \n\nTom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:\n\n Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain t. All I know, is, it suits Tom\nSawyer. \n\n Oh come, now, you don t mean to let on that you _like_ it? \n\nThe brush continued to move.\n\n Like it? Well, I don t see why I oughtn t to like it. Does a boy get a\nchance to whitewash a fence every day? \n\nThat put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple.\nTom swept his brush daintily back and forth stepped back to note the\neffect added a touch here and there criticised the effect again Ben\nwatching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more\nabsorbed. Presently he said:\n\n Say, Tom, let _me_ whitewash a little. \n\nTom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:\n\n No no I reckon it wouldn t hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly s awful\nparticular about this fence right here on the street, you know but if it\nwas the back fence I wouldn t mind and _she_ wouldn t. Yes, she s awful\nparticular about this fence; it s got to be done very careful; I reckon\nthere ain t one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it\nthe way it s got to be done. \n\n No is that so? Oh come, now lemme just try. Only just a little I d let\n_you_, if you was me, Tom. \n\n Ben, I d like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly well, Jim wanted to do\nit, but she wouldn t let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn t let\nSid. Now don t you see how I m fixed? If you was to tackle this fence\nand anything was to happen to it \n\n Oh, shucks, I ll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say I ll give you\nthe core of my apple. \n\n Well, here No, Ben, now don t. I m afeard \n\n I ll give you _all_ of it! \n\nTom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his\nheart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the\nsun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by,\ndangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more\ninnocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every\nlittle while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time\nBen was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for\na kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in\nfor a dead rat and a string to swing it with and so on, and so on, hour\nafter hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a\npoor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in\nwealth. He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part\nof a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool\ncannon, a key that wouldn t unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a\nglass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles,\nsix fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a\ndog-collar but no dog the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel,\nand a dilapidated old window sash.\n\nHe had had a nice, good, idle time all the while plenty of company and\nthe fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn t run out of\nwhitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.\n\nTom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He\nhad discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it namely,\nthat in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary\nto make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and\nwise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have\ncomprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is _obliged_ to do,\nand that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And\nthis would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or\nperforming on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing\nMont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England\nwho drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a\ndaily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable\nmoney; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn\nit into work and then they would resign.\n\nThe boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place\nin his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to\nreport.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nTom presented himself before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an\nopen window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom,\nbreakfast-room, dining-room, and library, combined. The balmy summer\nair, the restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing\nmurmur of the bees had had their effect, and she was nodding over her\nknitting for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her\nlap. Her spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety. She had\nthought that of course Tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at\nseeing him place himself in her power again in this intrepid way. He\nsaid:  Mayn t I go and play now, aunt? \n\n What, a ready? How much have you done? \n\n It s all done, aunt. \n\n Tom, don t lie to me I can t bear it. \n\n I ain t, aunt; it _is_ all done. \n\nAunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to see for\nherself; and she would have been content to find twenty per cent. of\nTom s statement true. When she found the entire fence white-washed, and\nnot only whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even a\nstreak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable. She\nsaid:\n\n Well, I never! There s no getting round it, you can work when you re a\nmind to, Tom.  And then she diluted the compliment by adding,  But it s\npowerful seldom you re a mind to, I m bound to say. Well, go  long and\nplay; but mind you get back some time in a week, or I ll tan you. \n\nShe was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took\nhim into the closet and selected a choice apple and delivered it to him,\nalong with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a treat\ntook to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort.\nAnd while she closed with a happy Scriptural flourish, he  hooked  a\ndoughnut.\n\nThen he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside stairway\nthat led to the back rooms on the second floor. Clods were handy and\nthe air was full of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid like a\nhail-storm; and before Aunt Polly could collect her surprised faculties\nand sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect,\nand Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a gate, but as a general\nthing he was too crowded for time to make use of it. His soul was at\npeace, now that he had settled with Sid for calling attention to his\nblack thread and getting him into trouble.\n\nTom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by the\nback of his aunt s cow-stable. He presently got safely beyond the reach\nof capture and punishment, and hastened toward the public square of the\nvillage, where two  military  companies of boys had met for conflict,\naccording to previous appointment. Tom was General of one of these\narmies, Joe Harper (a bosom friend) General of the other. These two\ngreat commanders did not condescend to fight in person that being better\nsuited to the still smaller fry but sat together on an eminence\nand conducted the field operations by orders delivered through\naides-de-camp. Tom s army won a great victory, after a long and\nhard-fought battle. Then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged,\nthe terms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the\nnecessary battle appointed; after which the armies fell into line and\nmarched away, and Tom turned homeward alone.\n\nAs he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new\ngirl in the garden a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow\nhair plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered\npantalettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A\ncertain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a\nmemory of herself behind. He had thought he loved her to distraction;\nhe had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor\nlittle evanescent partiality. He had been months winning her; she had\nconfessed hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest\nboy in the world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time\nshe had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is\ndone.\n\nHe worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had\ndiscovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present, and\nbegan to  show off  in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win\nher admiration. He kept up this grotesque foolishness for some time;\nbut by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous gymnastic\nperformances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl was wending\nher way toward the house. Tom came up to the fence and leaned on it,\ngrieving, and hoping she would tarry yet awhile longer. She halted a\nmoment on the steps and then moved toward the door. Tom heaved a great\nsigh as she put her foot on the threshold. But his face lit up,\nright away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment before she\ndisappeared.\n\nThe boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and\nthen shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street as\nif he had discovered something of interest going on in that direction.\nPresently he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his\nnose, with his head tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side,\nin his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally his\nbare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it, and he hopped\naway with the treasure and disappeared round the corner. But only for a\nminute only while he could button the flower inside his jacket, next\nhis heart or next his stomach, possibly, for he was not much posted in\nanatomy, and not hypercritical, anyway.\n\nHe returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall,  showing\noff,  as before; but the girl never exhibited herself again, though Tom\ncomforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some\nwindow, meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally he strode\nhome reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.\n\nAll through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered  what\nhad got into the child.  He took a good scolding about clodding Sid, and\ndid not seem to mind it in the least. He tried to steal sugar under his\naunt s very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it. He said:\n\n Aunt, you don t whack Sid when he takes it. \n\n Well, Sid don t torment a body the way you do. You d be always into\nthat sugar if I warn t watching you. \n\nPresently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his immunity,\nreached for the sugar-bowl a sort of glorying over Tom which was\nwellnigh unbearable. But Sid s fingers slipped and the bowl dropped and\nbroke. Tom was in ecstasies. In such ecstasies that he even controlled\nhis tongue and was silent. He said to himself that he would not speak a\nword, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly still till she\nasked who did the mischief; and then he would tell, and there would be\nnothing so good in the world as to see that pet model  catch it.  He was\nso brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold himself when the old\nlady came back and stood above the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath\nfrom over her spectacles. He said to himself,  Now it s coming!  And the\nnext instant he was sprawling on the floor! The potent palm was uplifted\nto strike again when Tom cried out:\n\n Hold on, now, what  er you belting _me_ for? Sid broke it! \n\nAunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But when\nshe got her tongue again, she only said:\n\n Umf! Well, you didn t get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been into some\nother audacious mischief when I wasn t around, like enough. \n\nThen her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something\nkind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a\nconfession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that.\nSo she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart.\nTom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew that in her heart\nhis aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the\nconsciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice\nof none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then,\nthrough a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured\nhimself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching\none little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and\ndie with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured\nhimself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and\nhis sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how\nher tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back\nher boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he would\nlie there cold and white and make no sign a poor little sufferer, whose\ngriefs were at an end. He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos of\nthese dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to choke;\nand his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked,\nand ran down and trickled from the end of his nose. And such a luxury to\nhim was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any\nworldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too\nsacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin Mary danced\nin, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit\nof one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness\nout at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other.\n\nHe wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought desolate\nplaces that were in harmony with his spirit. A log raft in the river\ninvited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and contemplated\nthe dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while, that he could\nonly be drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without undergoing the\nuncomfortable routine devised by nature. Then he thought of his flower.\nHe got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal\nfelicity. He wondered if she would pity him if she knew? Would she\ncry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms around his neck and\ncomfort him? Or would she turn coldly away like all the hollow world?\nThis picture brought such an agony of pleasurable suffering that he\nworked it over and over again in his mind and set it up in new and\nvaried lights, till he wore it threadbare. At last he rose up sighing\nand departed in the darkness.\n\nAbout half-past nine or ten o clock he came along the deserted street to\nwhere the Adored Unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell upon\nhis listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the curtain\nof a second-story window. Was the sacred presence there? He climbed the\nfence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till he stood under\nthat window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion; then he laid him\ndown on the ground under it, disposing himself upon his back, with his\nhands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor wilted flower.\nAnd thus he would die out in the cold world, with no shelter over his\nhomeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the death-damps from his brow,\nno loving face to bend pityingly over him when the great agony came. And\nthus _she_ would see him when she looked out upon the glad morning, and\noh! would she drop one little tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would\nshe heave one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blighted,\nso untimely cut down?\n\nThe window went up, a maid-servant s discordant voice profaned the holy\ncalm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr s remains!\n\nThe strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort. There was a whiz\nas of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound\nas of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the\nfence and shot away in the gloom.\n\nNot long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his\ndrenched garments by the light of a tallow dip, Sid woke up; but if he\nhad any dim idea of making any  references to allusions,  he thought\nbetter of it and held his peace, for there was danger in Tom s eye.\n\nTom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made mental\nnote of the omission.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nThe sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful\nvillage like a benediction. Breakfast over, Aunt Polly had family\nworship: it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid\ncourses of Scriptural quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of\noriginality; and from the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter of\nthe Mosaic Law, as from Sinai.\n\nThen Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to  get\nhis verses.  Sid had learned his lesson days before. Tom bent all his\nenergies to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of the\nSermon on the Mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter.\nAt the end of half an hour Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson,\nbut no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human\nthought, and his hands were busy with distracting recreations. Mary took\nhis book to hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through the\nfog:\n\n Blessed are the a a \n\n Poor \n\n Yes poor; blessed are the poor a a \n\n In spirit \n\n In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they they \n\n _Theirs_ \n\n For _theirs_. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom\nof heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they they \n\n Sh \n\n For they a \n\n S, H, A \n\n For they S, H Oh, I don t know what it is! \n\n _Shall_! \n\n Oh, _shall_! for they shall for they shall a a shall\nmourn a a blessed are they that shall they that a they that\nshall mourn, for they shall a shall _what_? Why don t you tell me,\nMary? what do you want to be so mean for? \n\n Oh, Tom, you poor thick-headed thing, I m not teasing you. I wouldn t\ndo that. You must go and learn it again. Don t you be discouraged, Tom,\nyou ll manage it and if you do, I ll give you something ever so nice.\nThere, now, that s a good boy. \n\n All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is. \n\n Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it s nice, it is nice. \n\n You bet you that s so, Mary. All right, I ll tackle it again. \n\nAnd he did  tackle it again and under the double pressure of curiosity\nand prospective gain he did it with such spirit that he accomplished a\nshining success. Mary gave him a brand-new  Barlow  knife worth twelve\nand a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that swept his system\nshook him to his foundations. True, the knife would not cut anything,\nbut it was a  sure-enough  Barlow, and there was inconceivable grandeur\nin that though where the Western boys ever got the idea that such a\nweapon could possibly be counterfeited to its injury is an imposing\nmystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom contrived to scarify the\ncupboard with it, and was arranging to begin on the bureau, when he was\ncalled off to dress for Sunday-school.\n\nMary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went\noutside the door and set the basin on a little bench there; then he\ndipped the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves;\npoured out the water on the ground, gently, and then entered the kitchen\nand began to wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the door. But\nMary removed the towel and said:\n\n Now ain t you ashamed, Tom. You mustn t be so bad. Water won t hurt\nyou. \n\nTom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time he\nstood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big breath\nand began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut\nand groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of\nsuds and water was dripping from his face. But when he emerged from\nthe towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped\nshort at his chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line\nthere was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in\nfront and backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and when she\nwas done with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of\ncolor, and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls\nwrought into a dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He privately\nsmoothed out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his\nhair close down to his head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and his\nown filled his life with bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of his\nclothing that had been used only on Sundays during two years they were\nsimply called his  other clothes and so by that we know the size of his\nwardrobe. The girl  put him to rights  after he had dressed himself;\nshe buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt\ncollar down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with\nhis speckled straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and\nuncomfortable. He was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there\nwas a restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He\nhoped that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she\ncoated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought\nthem out. He lost his temper and said he was always being made to do\neverything he didn t want to do. But Mary said, persuasively:\n\n Please, Tom that s a good boy. \n\nSo he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the three\nchildren set out for Sunday-school a place that Tom hated with his whole\nheart; but Sid and Mary were fond of it.\n\nSabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past ten; and then church\nservice. Two of the children always remained for the sermon voluntarily,\nand the other always remained too for stronger reasons. The church s\nhigh-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three hundred persons;\nthe edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board\ntree-box on top of it for a steeple. At the door Tom dropped back a step\nand accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade:\n\n Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket? \n\n Yes. \n\n What ll you take for her? \n\n What ll you give? \n\n Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook. \n\n Less see  em. \n\nTom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed hands.\nThen Tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and some\nsmall trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid other\nboys as they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten\nor fifteen minutes longer. He entered the church, now, with a swarm\nof clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started\na quarrel with the first boy that came handy. The teacher, a grave,\nelderly man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and Tom pulled a\nboy s hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy\nturned around; stuck a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear\nhim say  Ouch!  and got a new reprimand from his teacher. Tom s whole\nclass were of a pattern restless, noisy, and troublesome. When they came\nto recite their lessons, not one of them knew his verses perfectly, but\nhad to be prompted all along. However, they worried through, and each\ngot his reward in small blue tickets, each with a passage of Scripture\non it; each blue ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation. Ten\nblue tickets equalled a red one, and could be exchanged for it; ten red\ntickets equalled a yellow one; for ten yellow tickets the superintendent\ngave a very plainly bound Bible (worth forty cents in those easy\ntimes) to the pupil. How many of my readers would have the industry and\napplication to memorize two thousand verses, even for a Dor  Bible? And\nyet Mary had acquired two Bibles in this way it was the patient work of\ntwo years and a boy of German parentage had won four or five. He once\nrecited three thousand verses without stopping; but the strain upon his\nmental faculties was too great, and he was little better than an idiot\nfrom that day forth a grievous misfortune for the school, for on great\noccasions, before company, the superintendent (as Tom expressed it)\nhad always made this boy come out and  spread himself.  Only the older\npupils managed to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work\nlong enough to get a Bible, and so the delivery of one of these prizes\nwas a rare and noteworthy circumstance; the successful pupil was so\ngreat and conspicuous for that day that on the spot every scholar s\nheart was fired with a fresh ambition that often lasted a couple\nof weeks. It is possible that Tom s mental stomach had never really\nhungered for one of those prizes, but unquestionably his entire being\nhad for many a day longed for the glory and the eclat that came with it.\n\nIn due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with\na closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its\nleaves, and commanded attention. When a Sunday-school superintendent\nmakes his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as\nnecessary as is the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer\nwho stands forward on the platform and sings a solo at a concert though\nwhy, is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of music\nis ever referred to by the sufferer. This superintendent was a slim\ncreature of thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair; he\nwore a stiff standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his ears\nand whose sharp points curved forward abreast the corners of his mouth a\nfence that compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning of the\nwhole body when a side view was required; his chin was propped on a\nspreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a bank-note, and had\nfringed ends; his boot toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion\nof the day, like sleigh-runners an effect patiently and laboriously\nproduced by the young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a\nwall for hours together. Mr. Walters was very earnest of mien, and very\nsincere and honest at heart; and he held sacred things and places\nin such reverence, and so separated them from worldly matters, that\nunconsciously to himself his Sunday-school voice had acquired a peculiar\nintonation which was wholly absent on week-days. He began after this\nfashion:\n\n Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty as\nyou can and give me all your attention for a minute or two. There that\nis it. That is the way good little boys and girls should do. I see one\nlittle girl who is looking out of the window I am afraid she thinks I\nam out there somewhere perhaps up in one of the trees making a speech\nto the little birds. [Applausive titter.] I want to tell you how good it\nmakes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces assembled in a\nplace like this, learning to do right and be good.  And so forth and so\non. It is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration. It was of a\npattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar to us all.\n\nThe latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights\nand other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings\nand whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of\nisolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every sound\nceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr. Walters  voice, and the\nconclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude.\n\nA good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was\nmore or less rare the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher, accompanied\nby a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged gentleman\nwith iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter s\nwife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless and full of\nchafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too he could not meet Amy\nLawrence s eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But when he saw this\nsmall newcomer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment. The next\nmoment he was  showing off  with all his might cuffing boys, pulling\nhair, making faces in a word, using every art that seemed likely to\nfascinate a girl and win her applause. His exaltation had but one\nalloy the memory of his humiliation in this angel s garden and that\nrecord in sand was fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that\nwere sweeping over it now.\n\nThe visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as Mr.\nWalters  speech was finished, he introduced them to the school. The\nmiddle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage no less a one\nthan the county judge altogether the most august creation these children\nhad ever looked upon and they wondered what kind of material he was made\nof and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half afraid he might,\ntoo. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles away so he had travelled,\nand seen the world these very eyes had looked upon the county\ncourt-house which was said to have a tin roof. The awe which these\nreflections inspired was attested by the impressive silence and the\nranks of staring eyes. This was the great Judge Thatcher, brother of\ntheir own lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward, to be familiar\nwith the great man and be envied by the school. It would have been music\nto his soul to hear the whisperings:\n\n Look at him, Jim! He s a going up there. Say look! he s a going to\nshake hands with him he _is_ shaking hands with him! By jings, don t you\nwish you was Jeff? \n\nMr. Walters fell to  showing off,  with all sorts of official bustlings\nand activities, giving orders, delivering judgments, discharging\ndirections here, there, everywhere that he could find a target. The\nlibrarian  showed off running hither and thither with his arms full of\nbooks and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that insect authority\ndelights in. The young lady teachers  showed off bending sweetly over\npupils that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning fingers\nat bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly. The young gentlemen\nteachers  showed off  with small scoldings and other little displays of\nauthority and fine attention to discipline and most of the teachers, of\nboth sexes, found business up at the library, by the pulpit; and it was\nbusiness that frequently had to be done over again two or three times\n(with much seeming vexation). The little girls  showed off  in various\nways, and the little boys  showed off  with such diligence that the air\nwas thick with paper wads and the murmur of scufflings. And above it\nall the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all\nthe house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur for he was\n showing off,  too.\n\nThere was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters  ecstasy complete,\nand that was a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a prodigy.\nSeveral pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough he had been\naround among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given worlds, now,\nto have that German lad back again with a sound mind.\n\nAnd now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward with\nnine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded\na Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Walters was not\nexpecting an application from this source for the next ten years. But\nthere was no getting around it here were the certified checks, and they\nwere good for their face. Tom was therefore elevated to a place with\nthe Judge and the other elect, and the great news was announced from\nheadquarters. It was the most stunning surprise of the decade, and\nso profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the\njudicial one s altitude, and the school had two marvels to gaze upon\nin place of one. The boys were all eaten up with envy but those that\nsuffered the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they\nthemselves had contributed to this hated splendor by trading tickets to\nTom for the wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges.\nThese despised themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a\nguileful snake in the grass.\n\nThe prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the\nsuperintendent could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked\nsomewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow s instinct taught him\nthat there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light,\nperhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two\nthousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises a dozen would\nstrain his capacity, without a doubt.\n\nAmy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in\nher face but he wouldn t look. She wondered; then she was just a grain\ntroubled; next a dim suspicion came and went came again; she watched;\na furtive glance told her worlds and then her heart broke, and she was\njealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom most\nof all (she thought).\n\nTom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath\nwould hardly come, his heart quaked partly because of the awful\ngreatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would\nhave liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The\nJudge put his hand on Tom s head and called him a fine little man, and\nasked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:\n\n Tom. \n\n Oh, no, not Tom it is \n\n Thomas. \n\n Ah, that s it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That s very well.\nBut you ve another one I daresay, and you ll tell it to me, won t you? \n\n Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas,  said Walters,  and say\nsir. You mustn t forget your manners. \n\n Thomas Sawyer sir. \n\n That s it! That s a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little fellow. Two\nthousand verses is a great many very, very great many. And you never can\nbe sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowledge is worth\nmore than anything there is in the world; it s what makes great men\nand good men; you ll be a great man and a good man yourself, some\nday, Thomas, and then you ll look back and say, It s all owing to the\nprecious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood it s all owing to\nmy dear teachers that taught me to learn it s all owing to the good\nsuperintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a\nbeautiful Bible a splendid elegant Bible to keep and have it all for my\nown, always it s all owing to right bringing up! That is what you will\nsay, Thomas and you wouldn t take any money for those two thousand\nverses no indeed you wouldn t. And now you wouldn t mind telling me and\nthis lady some of the things you ve learned no, I know you wouldn t for\nwe are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no doubt you know the names\nof all the twelve disciples. Won t you tell us the names of the first\ntwo that were appointed? \n\nTom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish. He blushed,\nnow, and his eyes fell. Mr. Walters  heart sank within him. He said\nto himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest\nquestion why _did_ the Judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up\nand say:\n\n Answer the gentleman, Thomas don t be afraid. \n\nTom still hung fire.\n\n Now I know you ll tell me,  said the lady.  The names of the first two\ndisciples were \n\n _David and Goliah!_ \n\nLet us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nAbout half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring,\nand presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon. The\nSunday-school children distributed themselves about the house and\noccupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt\nPolly came, and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her Tom being placed next\nthe aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window\nand the seductive outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd filed up\nthe aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days;\nthe mayor and his wife for they had a mayor there, among other\nunnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the widow Douglas, fair,\nsmart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill\nmansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much\nthe most lavish in the matter of festivities that St. Petersburg could\nboast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer Riverson, the\nnew notable from a distance; next the belle of the village, followed by\na troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers; then all\nthe young clerks in town in a body for they had stood in the vestibule\nsucking their cane-heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering\nadmirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came\nthe Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as\nif she were cut glass. He always brought his mother to church, and was\nthe pride of all the matrons. The boys all hated him, he was so\ngood. And besides, he had been  thrown up to them  so much. His\nwhite handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on\nSundays accidentally. Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys\nwho had as snobs.\n\nThe congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more,\nto warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the\nchurch which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the\nchoir in the gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all\nthrough service. There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred,\nbut I have forgotten where it was, now. It was a great many years ago,\nand I can scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was in\nsome foreign country.\n\nThe minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a\npeculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country. His\nvoice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a\ncertain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word\nand then plunged down as if from a spring-board:\n\n  Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow ry _beds_\n                                                        of ease,\n\n  Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro  _blood_\n                                                        -y seas?\n\nHe was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church  sociables  he was\nalways called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies\nwould lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps,\nand  wall  their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say,  Words\ncannot express it; it is too beautiful, TOO beautiful for this mortal\nearth. \n\nAfter the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into\na bulletin-board, and read off  notices  of meetings and societies and\nthings till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of\ndoom a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in cities,\naway here in this age of abundant newspapers. Often, the less there is\nto justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.\n\nAnd now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer it was, and went\ninto details: it pleaded for the church, and the little children of the\nchurch; for the other churches of the village; for the village itself;\nfor the county; for the State; for the State officers; for the United\nStates; for the churches of the United States; for Congress; for the\nPresident; for the officers of the Government; for poor sailors, tossed\nby stormy seas; for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of\nEuropean monarchies and Oriental despotisms; for such as have the light\nand the good tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear\nwithal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with\na supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace\nand favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a\ngrateful harvest of good. Amen.\n\nThere was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down.\nThe boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he\nonly endured it if he even did that much. He was restive all through it;\nhe kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously for he was not\nlistening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman s regular\nroute over it and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded,\nhis ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered\nadditions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had\nlit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by\ncalmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and\npolishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with\nthe body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping\nits wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they\nhad been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if\nit knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom s\nhands itched to grab for it they did not dare he believed his soul would\nbe instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going\non. But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal\nforward; and the instant the  Amen  was out the fly was a prisoner of\nwar. His aunt detected the act and made him let it go.\n\nThe minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an\nargument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod and\nyet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and\nthinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly\nworth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he\nalways knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything\nelse about the discourse. However, this time he was really interested\nfor a little while. The minister made a grand and moving picture of the\nassembling together of the world s hosts at the millennium when the lion\nand the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead\nthem. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle\nwere lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the\nprincipal character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the\nthought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child,\nif it was a tame lion.\n\nNow he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed.\nPresently he bethought him of a treasure he had and got it out. It was\na large black beetle with formidable jaws a  pinchbug,  he called it. It\nwas in a percussion-cap box. The first thing the beetle did was to\ntake him by the finger. A natural fillip followed, the beetle went\nfloundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went\ninto the boy s mouth. The beetle lay there working its helpless legs,\nunable to turn over. Tom eyed it, and longed for it; but it was safe out\nof his reach. Other people uninterested in the sermon found relief in\nthe beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently a vagrant poodle dog came\nidling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the\nquiet, weary of captivity, sighing for change. He spied the beetle; the\ndrooping tail lifted and wagged. He surveyed the prize; walked around\nit; smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around it again; grew\nbolder, and took a closer smell; then lifted his lip and made a gingerly\nsnatch at it, just missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy\nthe diversion; subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws,\nand continued his experiments; grew weary at last, and then indifferent\nand absent-minded. His head nodded, and little by little his chin\ndescended and touched the enemy, who seized it. There was a sharp yelp,\na flirt of the poodle s head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards\naway, and lit on its back once more. The neighboring spectators\nshook with a gentle inward joy, several faces went behind fans and\nhand-kerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy. The dog looked foolish,\nand probably felt so; but there was resentment in his heart, too, and a\ncraving for revenge. So he went to the beetle and began a wary attack on\nit again; jumping at it from every point of a circle, lighting with his\nfore-paws within an inch of the creature, making even closer snatches at\nit with his teeth, and jerking his head till his ears flapped again. But\nhe grew tired once more, after a while; tried to amuse himself with a\nfly but found no relief; followed an ant around, with his nose close\nto the floor, and quickly wearied of that; yawned, sighed, forgot the\nbeetle entirely, and sat down on it. Then there was a wild yelp of agony\nand the poodle went sailing up the aisle; the yelps continued, and so\ndid the dog; he crossed the house in front of the altar; he flew\ndown the other aisle; he crossed before the doors; he clamored up the\nhome-stretch; his anguish grew with his progress, till presently he was\nbut a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the gleam and the speed of\nlight. At last the frantic sufferer sheered from its course, and sprang\ninto its master s lap; he flung it out of the window, and the voice of\ndistress quickly thinned away and died in the distance.\n\nBy this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with\nsuppressed laughter, and the sermon had come to a dead standstill.\nThe discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all\npossibility of impressiveness being at an end; for even the gravest\nsentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of\nunholy mirth, under cover of some remote pew-back, as if the poor parson\nhad said a rarely facetious thing. It was a genuine relief to the whole\ncongregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction pronounced.\n\nTom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that there was\nsome satisfaction about divine service when there was a bit of variety\nin it. He had but one marring thought; he was willing that the dog\nshould play with his pinchbug, but he did not think it was upright in\nhim to carry it off.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nMonday morning found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always found\nhim so because it began another week s slow suffering in school. He\ngenerally began that day with wishing he had had no intervening holiday,\nit made the going into captivity and fetters again so much more odious.\n\nTom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was\nsick; then he could stay home from school. Here was a vague possibility.\nHe canvassed his system. No ailment was found, and he investigated\nagain. This time he thought he could detect colicky symptoms, and he\nbegan to encourage them with considerable hope. But they soon grew\nfeeble, and presently died wholly away. He reflected further. Suddenly\nhe discovered something. One of his upper front teeth was loose. This\nwas lucky; he was about to begin to groan, as a  starter,  as he\ncalled it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court with that\nargument, his aunt would pull it out, and that would hurt. So he thought\nhe would hold the tooth in reserve for the present, and seek further.\nNothing offered for some little time, and then he remembered hearing\nthe doctor tell about a certain thing that laid up a patient for two or\nthree weeks and threatened to make him lose a finger. So the boy eagerly\ndrew his sore toe from under the sheet and held it up for inspection.\nBut now he did not know the necessary symptoms. However, it seemed\nwell worth while to chance it, so he fell to groaning with considerable\nspirit.\n\nBut Sid slept on unconscious.\n\nTom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe.\n\nNo result from Sid.\n\nTom was panting with his exertions by this time. He took a rest and then\nswelled himself up and fetched a succession of admirable groans.\n\nSid snored on.\n\nTom was aggravated. He said,  Sid, Sid!  and shook him. This course\nworked well, and Tom began to groan again. Sid yawned, stretched, then\nbrought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at Tom.\nTom went on groaning. Sid said:\n\n Tom! Say, Tom!  [No response.]  Here, Tom! TOM! What is the matter,\nTom?  And he shook him and looked in his face anxiously.\n\nTom moaned out:\n\n Oh, don t, Sid. Don t joggle me. \n\n Why, what s the matter, Tom? I must call auntie. \n\n No never mind. It ll be over by and by, maybe. Don t call anybody. \n\n But I must! _Don t_ groan so, Tom, it s awful. How long you been this\nway? \n\n Hours. Ouch! Oh, don t stir so, Sid, you ll kill me. \n\n Tom, why didn t you wake me sooner? Oh, Tom, _don t!_ It makes my flesh\ncrawl to hear you. Tom, what is the matter? \n\n I forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.] Everything you ve ever done to\nme. When I m gone \n\n Oh, Tom, you ain t dying, are you? Don t, Tom oh, don t. Maybe \n\n I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell  em so, Sid. And Sid, you give\nmy window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that s come to\ntown, and tell her \n\nBut Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in reality,\nnow, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his groans had\ngathered quite a genuine tone.\n\nSid flew downstairs and said:\n\n Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom s dying! \n\n Dying! \n\n Yes m. Don t wait come quick! \n\n Rubbage! I don t believe it! \n\nBut she fled upstairs, nevertheless, with Sid and Mary at her heels.\nAnd her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled. When she reached the\nbedside she gasped out:\n\n You, Tom! Tom, what s the matter with you? \n\n Oh, auntie, I m \n\n What s the matter with you what is the matter with you, child? \n\n Oh, auntie, my sore toe s mortified! \n\nThe old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried a\nlittle, then did both together. This restored her and she said:\n\n Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense and\nclimb out of this. \n\nThe groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe. The boy felt a\nlittle foolish, and he said:\n\n Aunt Polly, it _seemed_ mortified, and it hurt so I never minded my\ntooth at all. \n\n Your tooth, indeed! What s the matter with your tooth? \n\n One of them s loose, and it aches perfectly awful. \n\n There, there, now, don t begin that groaning again. Open your mouth.\nWell your tooth _is_ loose, but you re not going to die about that.\nMary, get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen. \n\nTom said:\n\n Oh, please, auntie, don t pull it out. It don t hurt any more. I wish\nI may never stir if it does. Please don t, auntie. I don t want to stay\nhome from school. \n\n Oh, you don t, don t you? So all this row was because you thought you d\nget to stay home from school and go a-fishing? Tom, Tom, I love you so,\nand you seem to try every way you can to break my old heart with your\noutrageousness.  By this time the dental instruments were ready. The old\nlady made one end of the silk thread fast to Tom s tooth with a loop\nand tied the other to the bedpost. Then she seized the chunk of fire and\nsuddenly thrust it almost into the boy s face. The tooth hung dangling\nby the bedpost, now.\n\nBut all trials bring their compensations. As Tom wended to school after\nbreakfast, he was the envy of every boy he met because the gap in his\nupper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and admirable\nway. He gathered quite a following of lads interested in the exhibition;\nand one that had cut his finger and had been a centre of fascination and\nhomage up to this time, now found himself suddenly without an adherent,\nand shorn of his glory. His heart was heavy, and he said with a disdain\nwhich he did not feel that it wasn t anything to spit like Tom Sawyer;\nbut another boy said,  Sour grapes!  and he wandered away a dismantled\nhero.\n\nShortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, Huckleberry\nFinn, son of the town drunkard. Huckleberry was cordially hated and\ndreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle and lawless\nand vulgar and bad and because all their children admired him so, and\ndelighted in his forbidden society, and wished they dared to be like\nhim. Tom was like the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied\nHuckleberry his gaudy outcast condition, and was under strict orders\nnot to play with him. So he played with him every time he got a chance.\nHuckleberry was always dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown\nmen, and they were in perennial bloom and fluttering with rags. His hat\nwas a vast ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his coat,\nwhen he wore one, hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons\nfar down the back; but one suspender supported his trousers; the seat of\nthe trousers bagged low and contained nothing, the fringed legs dragged\nin the dirt when not rolled up.\n\nHuckleberry came and went, at his own free will. He slept on doorsteps\nin fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to\nschool or to church, or call any being master or obey anybody; he could\ngo fishing or swimming when and where he chose, and stay as long as it\nsuited him; nobody forbade him to fight; he could sit up as late as he\npleased; he was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring\nand the last to resume leather in the fall; he never had to wash, nor\nput on clean clothes; he could swear wonderfully. In a word, everything\nthat goes to make life precious that boy had. So thought every harassed,\nhampered, respectable boy in St. Petersburg.\n\nTom hailed the romantic outcast:\n\n Hello, Huckleberry! \n\n Hello yourself, and see how you like it. \n\n What s that you got? \n\n Dead cat. \n\n Lemme see him, Huck. My, he s pretty stiff. Where d you get him? \n\n Bought him off n a boy. \n\n What did you give? \n\n I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter-house. \n\n Where d you get the blue ticket? \n\n Bought it off n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick. \n\n Say what is dead cats good for, Huck? \n\n Good for? Cure warts with. \n\n No! Is that so? I know something that s better. \n\n I bet you don t. What is it? \n\n Why, spunk-water. \n\n Spunk-water! I wouldn t give a dern for spunk-water. \n\n You wouldn t, wouldn t you? D you ever try it? \n\n No, I hain t. But Bob Tanner did. \n\n Who told you so! \n\n Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny\ntold Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the\nnigger told me. There now! \n\n Well, what of it? They ll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger. I\ndon t know _him_. But I never see a nigger that _wouldn t_ lie. Shucks!\nNow you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck. \n\n Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain-water\nwas. \n\n In the daytime? \n\n Certainly. \n\n With his face to the stump? \n\n Yes. Least I reckon so. \n\n Did he say anything? \n\n I don t reckon he did. I don t know. \n\n Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame fool\nway as that! Why, that ain t a-going to do any good. You got to go all\nby yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there s a\nspunk-water stump, and just as it s midnight you back up against the\nstump and jam your hand in and say:\n\n     Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts,\n    Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts, \n\nand then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then\nturn around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody.\nBecause if you speak the charm s busted. \n\n Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain t the way Bob Tanner\ndone. \n\n No, sir, you can bet he didn t, becuz he s the wartiest boy in this\ntown; and he wouldn t have a wart on him if he d knowed how to work\nspunk-water. I ve took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way,\nHuck. I play with frogs so much that I ve always got considerable many\nwarts. Sometimes I take  em off with a bean. \n\n Yes, bean s good. I ve done that. \n\n Have you? What s your way? \n\n You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood,\nand then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig\na hole and bury it  bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the\nmoon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece\nthat s got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to\nfetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the\nwart, and pretty soon off she comes. \n\n Yes, that s it, Huck that s it; though when you re burying it if you\nsay  Down bean; off wart; come no more to bother me!  it s better.\nThat s the way Joe Harper does, and he s been nearly to Coonville and\nmost everywheres. But say how do you cure  em with dead cats? \n\n Why, you take your cat and go and get in the grave-yard  long about\nmidnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it s\nmidnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can t see\n em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear  em talk;\nand when they re taking that feller away, you heave your cat after  em\nand say,  Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I m\ndone with ye!  That ll fetch _any_ wart. \n\n Sounds right. D you ever try it, Huck? \n\n No, but old Mother Hopkins told me. \n\n Well, I reckon it s so, then. Becuz they say she s a witch. \n\n Say! Why, Tom, I _know_ she is. She witched pap. Pap says so his own\nself. He come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so he\ntook up a rock, and if she hadn t dodged, he d a got her. Well, that\nvery night he rolled off n a shed wher  he was a layin drunk, and broke\nhis arm. \n\n Why, that s awful. How did he know she was a-witching him? \n\n Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they keep looking at you right\nstiddy, they re a-witching you. Specially if they mumble. Becuz when\nthey mumble they re saying the Lord s Prayer backards. \n\n Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat? \n\n To-night. I reckon they ll come after old Hoss Williams to-night. \n\n But they buried him Saturday. Didn t they get him Saturday night? \n\n Why, how you talk! How could their charms work till midnight? and\n_then_ it s Sunday. Devils don t slosh around much of a Sunday, I don t\nreckon. \n\n I never thought of that. That s so. Lemme go with you? \n\n Of course if you ain t afeard. \n\n Afeard!  Tain t likely. Will you meow? \n\n Yes and you meow back, if you get a chance. Last time, you kep  me\na-meowing around till old Hays went to throwing rocks at me and says\n Dern that cat!  and so I hove a brick through his window but don t you\ntell. \n\n I won t. I couldn t meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me, but\nI ll meow this time. Say what s that? \n\n Nothing but a tick. \n\n Where d you get him? \n\n Out in the woods. \n\n What ll you take for him? \n\n I don t know. I don t want to sell him. \n\n All right. It s a mighty small tick, anyway. \n\n Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don t belong to them. I m\nsatisfied with it. It s a good enough tick for me. \n\n Sho, there s ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of  em if I wanted\nto. \n\n Well, why don t you? Becuz you know mighty well you can t. This is a\npretty early tick, I reckon. It s the first one I ve seen this year. \n\n Say, Huck I ll give you my tooth for him. \n\n Less see it. \n\nTom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry viewed\nit wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said:\n\n Is it genuwyne? \n\nTom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.\n\n Well, all right,  said Huckleberry,  it s a trade. \n\nTom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been the\npinchbug s prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier than\nbefore.\n\nWhen Tom reached the little isolated frame school-house, he strode in\nbriskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed. He\nhung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business-like\nalacrity. The master, throned on high in his great splint-bottom\narm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study. The\ninterruption roused him.\n\n Thomas Sawyer! \n\nTom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble.\n\n Sir! \n\n Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again, as usual? \n\nTom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of\nyellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric\nsympathy of love; and by that form was _the only vacant place_ on the\ngirls  side of the school-house. He instantly said:\n\n _I stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn!_ \n\nThe master s pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. The buzz of\nstudy ceased. The pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his\nmind. The master said:\n\n You you did what? \n\n Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn. \n\nThere was no mistaking the words.\n\n Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding confession I have ever\nlistened to. No mere ferule will answer for this offence. Take off your\njacket. \n\nThe master s arm performed until it was tired and the stock of switches\nnotably diminished. Then the order followed:\n\n Now, sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this be a warning to you. \n\nThe titter that rippled around the room appeared to abash the boy, but\nin reality that result was caused rather more by his worshipful awe\nof his unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good\nfortune. He sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the girl hitched\nherself away from him with a toss of her head. Nudges and winks and\nwhispers traversed the room, but Tom sat still, with his arms upon the\nlong, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book.\n\nBy and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur\nrose upon the dull air once more. Presently the boy began to steal\nfurtive glances at the girl. She observed it,  made a mouth  at him\nand gave him the back of her head for the space of a minute. When she\ncautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her. She thrust it\naway. Tom gently put it back. She thrust it away again, but with less\nanimosity. Tom patiently returned it to its place. Then she let it\nremain. Tom scrawled on his slate,  Please take it I got more.  The\ngirl glanced at the words, but made no sign. Now the boy began to draw\nsomething on the slate, hiding his work with his left hand. For a time\nthe girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity presently began\nto manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs. The boy worked on,\napparently unconscious. The girl made a sort of non-committal attempt\nto see, but the boy did not betray that he was aware of it. At last she\ngave in and hesitatingly whispered:\n\n Let me see it. \n\nTom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable ends\nto it and a corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. Then the girl s\ninterest began to fasten itself upon the work and she forgot everything\nelse. When it was finished, she gazed a moment, then whispered:\n\n It s nice make a man. \n\nThe artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick. He\ncould have stepped over the house; but the girl was not hypercritical;\nshe was satisfied with the monster, and whispered:\n\n It s a beautiful man now make me coming along. \n\nTom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and armed\nthe spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The girl said:\n\n It s ever so nice I wish I could draw. \n\n It s easy,  whispered Tom,  I ll learn you. \n\n Oh, will you? When? \n\n At noon. Do you go home to dinner? \n\n I ll stay if you will. \n\n Good that s a whack. What s your name? \n\n Becky Thatcher. What s yours? Oh, I know. It s Thomas Sawyer. \n\n That s the name they lick me by. I m Tom when I m good. You call me\nTom, will you? \n\n Yes. \n\nNow Tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from\nthe girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to see. Tom\nsaid:\n\n Oh, it ain t anything. \n\n Yes it is. \n\n No it ain t. You don t want to see. \n\n Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me. \n\n You ll tell. \n\n No I won t deed and deed and double deed won t. \n\n You won t tell anybody at all? Ever, as long as you live? \n\n No, I won t ever tell _any_body. Now let me. \n\n Oh, _you_ don t want to see! \n\n Now that you treat me so, I _will_ see.  And she put her small hand\nupon his and a little scuffle ensued, Tom pretending to resist in\nearnest but letting his hand slip by degrees till these words were\nrevealed:  _I love you_. \n\n Oh, you bad thing!  And she hit his hand a smart rap, but reddened and\nlooked pleased, nevertheless.\n\nJust at this juncture the boy felt a slow, fateful grip closing on his\near, and a steady lifting impulse. In that wise he was borne across the\nhouse and deposited in his own seat, under a peppering fire of giggles\nfrom the whole school. Then the master stood over him during a few awful\nmoments, and finally moved away to his throne without saying a word. But\nalthough Tom s ear tingled, his heart was jubilant.\n\nAs the school quieted down Tom made an honest effort to study, but\nthe turmoil within him was too great. In turn he took his place in the\nreading class and made a botch of it; then in the geography class and\nturned lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers into\ncontinents, till chaos was come again; then in the spelling class, and\ngot  turned down,  by a succession of mere baby words, till he brought\nup at the foot and yielded up the pewter medal which he had worn with\nostentation for months.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThe harder Tom tried to fasten his mind on his book, the more his ideas\nwandered. So at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he gave it up. It seemed\nto him that the noon recess would never come. The air was utterly dead.\nThere was not a breath stirring. It was the sleepiest of sleepy days.\nThe drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying scholars soothed\nthe soul like the spell that is in the murmur of bees. Away off in the\nflaming sunshine, Cardiff Hill lifted its soft green sides through a\nshimmering veil of heat, tinted with the purple of distance; a few birds\nfloated on lazy wing high in the air; no other living thing was visible\nbut some cows, and they were asleep. Tom s heart ached to be free, or\nelse to have something of interest to do to pass the dreary time.\nHis hand wandered into his pocket and his face lit up with a glow of\ngratitude that was prayer, though he did not know it. Then furtively\nthe percussion-cap box came out. He released the tick and put him on\nthe long flat desk. The creature probably glowed with a gratitude that\namounted to prayer, too, at this moment, but it was premature: for when\nhe started thankfully to travel off, Tom turned him aside with a pin and\nmade him take a new direction.\n\nTom s bosom friend sat next him, suffering just as Tom had been, and\nnow he was deeply and gratefully interested in this entertainment in\nan instant. This bosom friend was Joe Harper. The two boys were sworn\nfriends all the week, and embattled enemies on Saturdays. Joe took a\npin out of his lapel and began to assist in exercising the prisoner.\nThe sport grew in interest momently. Soon Tom said that they were\ninterfering with each other, and neither getting the fullest benefit\nof the tick. So he put Joe s slate on the desk and drew a line down the\nmiddle of it from top to bottom.\n\n Now,  said he,  as long as he is on your side you can stir him up and\nI ll let him alone; but if you let him get away and get on my side,\nyou re to leave him alone as long as I can keep him from crossing over. \n\n All right, go ahead; start him up. \n\nThe tick escaped from Tom, presently, and crossed the equator. Joe\nharassed him awhile, and then he got away and crossed back again. This\nchange of base occurred often. While one boy was worrying the tick with\nabsorbing interest, the other would look on with interest as strong, the\ntwo heads bowed together over the slate, and the two souls dead to all\nthings else. At last luck seemed to settle and abide with Joe. The\ntick tried this, that, and the other course, and got as excited and as\nanxious as the boys themselves, but time and again just as he would\nhave victory in his very grasp, so to speak, and Tom s fingers would\nbe twitching to begin, Joe s pin would deftly head him off, and keep\npossession. At last Tom could stand it no longer. The temptation was too\nstrong. So he reached out and lent a hand with his pin. Joe was angry in\na moment. Said he:\n\n Tom, you let him alone. \n\n I only just want to stir him up a little, Joe. \n\n No, sir, it ain t fair; you just let him alone. \n\n Blame it, I ain t going to stir him much. \n\n Let him alone, I tell you. \n\n I won t! \n\n You shall he s on my side of the line. \n\n Look here, Joe Harper, whose is that tick? \n\n I don t care whose tick he is he s on my side of the line, and you\nsha n t touch him. \n\n Well, I ll just bet I will, though. He s my tick and I ll do what I\nblame please with him, or die! \n\nA tremendous whack came down on Tom s shoulders, and its duplicate on\nJoe s; and for the space of two minutes the dust continued to fly from\nthe two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it. The boys had been\ntoo absorbed to notice the hush that had stolen upon the school awhile\nbefore when the master came tiptoeing down the room and stood over them.\nHe had contemplated a good part of the performance before he contributed\nhis bit of variety to it.\n\nWhen school broke up at noon, Tom flew to Becky Thatcher, and whispered\nin her ear:\n\n Put on your bonnet and let on you re going home; and when you get to\nthe corner, give the rest of  em the slip, and turn down through the\nlane and come back. I ll go the other way and come it over  em the same\nway. \n\nSo the one went off with one group of scholars, and the other with\nanother. In a little while the two met at the bottom of the lane, and\nwhen they reached the school they had it all to themselves. Then they\nsat together, with a slate before them, and Tom gave Becky the pencil\nand held her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another surprising\nhouse. When the interest in art began to wane, the two fell to talking.\nTom was swimming in bliss. He said:\n\n Do you love rats? \n\n No! I hate them! \n\n Well, I do, too _live_ ones. But I mean dead ones, to swing round your\nhead with a string. \n\n No, I don t care for rats much, anyway. What I like is chewing-gum. \n\n Oh, I should say so! I wish I had some now. \n\n Do you? I ve got some. I ll let you chew it awhile, but you must give\nit back to me. \n\nThat was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their legs\nagainst the bench in excess of contentment.\n\n Was you ever at a circus?  said Tom.\n\n Yes, and my pa s going to take me again some time, if I m good. \n\n I been to the circus three or four times lots of times. Church ain t\nshucks to a circus. There s things going on at a circus all the time.\nI m going to be a clown in a circus when I grow up. \n\n Oh, are you! That will be nice. They re so lovely, all spotted up. \n\n Yes, that s so. And they get slathers of money most a dollar a day, Ben\nRogers says. Say, Becky, was you ever engaged? \n\n What s that? \n\n Why, engaged to be married. \n\n No. \n\n Would you like to? \n\n I reckon so. I don t know. What is it like? \n\n Like? Why it ain t like anything. You only just tell a boy you won t\never have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that s\nall. Anybody can do it. \n\n Kiss? What do you kiss for? \n\n Why, that, you know, is to well, they always do that. \n\n Everybody? \n\n Why, yes, everybody that s in love with each other. Do you remember\nwhat I wrote on the slate? \n\n Ye yes. \n\n What was it? \n\n I sha n t tell you. \n\n Shall I tell _you_? \n\n Ye yes but some other time. \n\n No, now. \n\n No, not now to-morrow. \n\n Oh, no, _now_. Please, Becky I ll whisper it, I ll whisper it ever so\neasy. \n\nBecky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm about\nher waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to\nher ear. And then he added:\n\n Now you whisper it to me just the same. \n\nShe resisted, for a while, and then said:\n\n You turn your face away so you can t see, and then I will. But you\nmustn t ever tell anybody _will_ you, Tom? Now you won t, _will_ you? \n\n No, indeed, indeed I won t. Now, Becky. \n\nHe turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath stirred\nhis curls and whispered,  I love you! \n\nThen she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches,\nwith Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her little\nwhite apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and pleaded:\n\n Now, Becky, it s all done all over but the kiss. Don t you be afraid\nof that it ain t anything at all. Please, Becky.  And he tugged at her\napron and the hands.\n\nBy and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing\nwith the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and\nsaid:\n\n Now it s all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you ain t\never to love anybody but me, and you ain t ever to marry anybody but me,\never never and forever. Will you? \n\n No, I ll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I ll never marry anybody\nbut you and you ain t to ever marry anybody but me, either. \n\n Certainly. Of course. That s _part_ of it. And always coming to school\nor when we re going home, you re to walk with me, when there ain t\nanybody looking and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because\nthat s the way you do when you re engaged. \n\n It s so nice. I never heard of it before. \n\n Oh, it s ever so gay! Why, me and Amy Lawrence \n\nThe big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped, confused.\n\n Oh, Tom! Then I ain t the first you ve ever been engaged to! \n\nThe child began to cry. Tom said:\n\n Oh, don t cry, Becky, I don t care for her any more. \n\n Yes, you do, Tom you know you do. \n\nTom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and\nturned her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with\nsoothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. Then his pride was\nup, and he strode away and went outside. He stood about, restless and\nuneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping\nshe would repent and come to find him. But she did not. Then he began\nto feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong. It was a hard struggle\nwith him to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and\nentered. She was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with\nher face to the wall. Tom s heart smote him. He went to her and stood a\nmoment, not knowing exactly how to proceed. Then he said hesitatingly:\n\n Becky, I I don t care for anybody but you. \n\nNo reply but sobs.\n\n Becky pleadingly.  Becky, won t you say something? \n\nMore sobs.\n\nTom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an andiron,\nand passed it around her so that she could see it, and said:\n\n Please, Becky, won t you take it? \n\nShe struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched out of the house and over\nthe hills and far away, to return to school no more that day. Presently\nBecky began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not in sight; she\nflew around to the play-yard; he was not there. Then she called:\n\n Tom! Come back, Tom! \n\nShe listened intently, but there was no answer. She had no companions\nbut silence and loneliness. So she sat down to cry again and upbraid\nherself; and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she\nhad to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross\nof a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers about\nher to exchange sorrows with.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nTom dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of the\ntrack of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. He crossed\na small  branch  two or three times, because of a prevailing juvenile\nsuperstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an hour later\nhe was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of Cardiff\nHill, and the school-house was hardly distinguishable away off in the\nvalley behind him. He entered a dense wood, picked his pathless way to\nthe centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak.\nThere was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even\nstilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken\nby no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a wood-pecker, and\nthis seemed to render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness the\nmore profound. The boy s soul was steeped in melancholy; his feelings\nwere in happy accord with his surroundings. He sat long with his elbows\non his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating. It seemed to him\nthat life was but a trouble, at best, and he more than half envied Jimmy\nHodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful, he thought, to lie\nand slumber and dream forever and ever, with the wind whispering through\nthe trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over the grave, and\nnothing to bother and grieve about, ever any more. If he only had a\nclean Sunday-school record he could be willing to go, and be done with\nit all. Now as to this girl. What had he done? Nothing. He had meant\nthe best in the world, and been treated like a dog like a very dog. She\nwould be sorry some day maybe when it was too late. Ah, if he could only\ndie _temporarily_!\n\nBut the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained\nshape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift insensibly back into\nthe concerns of this life again. What if he turned his back, now, and\ndisappeared mysteriously? What if he went away ever so far away, into\nunknown countries beyond the seas and never came back any more! How\nwould she feel then! The idea of being a clown recurred to him now, only\nto fill him with disgust. For frivolity and jokes and spotted tights\nwere an offense, when they intruded themselves upon a spirit that was\nexalted into the vague august realm of the romantic. No, he would be\na soldier, and return after long years, all war-worn and illustrious.\nNo better still, he would join the Indians, and hunt buffaloes and go on\nthe warpath in the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of the\nFar West, and away in the future come back a great chief, bristling with\nfeathers, hideous with paint, and prance into Sunday-school, some drowsy\nsummer morning, with a blood-curdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs\nof all his companions with unappeasable envy. But no, there was\nsomething gaudier even than this. He would be a pirate! That was it!\n_now_ his future lay plain before him, and glowing with unimaginable\nsplendor. How his name would fill the world, and make people shudder!\nHow gloriously he would go plowing the dancing seas, in his long, low,\nblack-hulled racer, the Spirit of the Storm, with his grisly flag flying\nat the fore! And at the zenith of his fame, how he would suddenly appear\nat the old village and stalk into church, brown and weather-beaten, in\nhis black velvet doublet and trunks, his great jack-boots, his crimson\nsash, his belt bristling with horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cutlass\nat his side, his slouch hat with waving plumes, his black flag unfurled,\nwith the skull and crossbones on it, and hear with swelling ecstasy\nthe whisperings,  It s Tom Sawyer the Pirate! the Black Avenger of the\nSpanish Main! \n\nYes, it was settled; his career was determined. He would run away from\nhome and enter upon it. He would start the very next morning. Therefore\nhe must now begin to get ready. He would collect his resources together.\nHe went to a rotten log near at hand and began to dig under one end of\nit with his Barlow knife. He soon struck wood that sounded hollow. He\nput his hand there and uttered this incantation impressively:\n\n What hasn t come here, come! What s here, stay here! \n\nThen he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine shingle. He took it\nup and disclosed a shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and sides\nwere of shingles. In it lay a marble. Tom s astonishment was boundless!\nHe scratched his head with a perplexed air, and said:\n\n Well, that beats anything! \n\nThen he tossed the marble away pettishly, and stood cogitating. The\ntruth was, that a superstition of his had failed, here, which he and\nall his comrades had always looked upon as infallible. If you buried\na marble with certain necessary incantations, and left it alone a\nfortnight, and then opened the place with the incantation he had just\nused, you would find that all the marbles you had ever lost had gathered\nthemselves together there, meantime, no matter how widely they had been\nseparated. But now, this thing had actually and unquestionably failed.\nTom s whole structure of faith was shaken to its foundations. He had\nmany a time heard of this thing succeeding but never of its failing\nbefore. It did not occur to him that he had tried it several times\nbefore, himself, but could never find the hiding-places afterward. He\npuzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided that some witch\nhad interfered and broken the charm. He thought he would satisfy himself\non that point; so he searched around till he found a small sandy spot\nwith a little funnel-shaped depression in it. He laid himself down and\nput his mouth close to this depression and called \n\n Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! Doodle-bug,\ndoodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! \n\nThe sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a\nsecond and then darted under again in a fright.\n\n He dasn t tell! So it _was_ a witch that done it. I just knowed it. \n\nHe well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so he\ngave up discouraged. But it occurred to him that he might as well have\nthe marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a\npatient search for it. But he could not find it. Now he went back to his\ntreasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been standing\nwhen he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble from his\npocket and tossed it in the same way, saying:\n\n Brother, go find your brother! \n\nHe watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it must\nhave fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The last\nrepetition was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each\nother.\n\nJust here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green\naisles of the forest. Tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned\na suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log,\ndisclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and\nin a moment had seized these things and bounded away, barelegged,\nwith fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a great elm, blew an\nanswering blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily out, this way\nand that. He said cautiously to an imaginary company:\n\n Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I blow. \n\nNow appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as Tom.\nTom called:\n\n Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass? \n\n Guy of Guisborne wants no man s pass. Who art thou that that \n\n Dares to hold such language,  said Tom, prompting for they talked  by\nthe book,  from memory.\n\n Who art thou that dares to hold such language? \n\n I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know. \n\n Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right gladly will I dispute\nwith thee the passes of the merry wood. Have at thee! \n\nThey took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground,\nstruck a fencing attitude, foot to foot, and began a grave, careful\ncombat,  two up and two down.  Presently Tom said:\n\n Now, if you ve got the hang, go it lively! \n\nSo they  went it lively,  panting and perspiring with the work. By and\nby Tom shouted:\n\n Fall! fall! Why don t you fall? \n\n I sha n t! Why don t you fall yourself? You re getting the worst of\nit. \n\n Why, that ain t anything. I can t fall; that ain t the way it is in the\nbook. The book says,  Then with one back-handed stroke he slew poor Guy\nof Guisborne.  You re to turn around and let me hit you in the back. \n\nThere was no getting around the authorities, so Joe turned, received the\nwhack and fell.\n\n Now,  said Joe, getting up,  you got to let me kill _you_. That s\nfair. \n\n Why, I can t do that, it ain t in the book. \n\n Well, it s blamed mean that s all. \n\n Well, say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck or Much the miller s son, and lam\nme with a quarter-staff; or I ll be the Sheriff of Nottingham and you be\nRobin Hood a little while and kill me. \n\nThis was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out. Then\nTom became Robin Hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous nun to\nbleed his strength away through his neglected wound. And at last Joe,\nrepresenting a whole tribe of weeping outlaws, dragged him sadly forth,\ngave his bow into his feeble hands, and Tom said,  Where this arrow\nfalls, there bury poor Robin Hood under the greenwood tree.  Then he\nshot the arrow and fell back and would have died, but he lit on a nettle\nand sprang up too gaily for a corpse.\n\nThe boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off\ngrieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern\ncivilization could claim to have done to compensate for their loss.\nThey said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest than\nPresident of the United States forever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nAt half-past nine, that night, Tom and Sid were sent to bed, as usual.\nThey said their prayers, and Sid was soon asleep. Tom lay awake and\nwaited, in restless impatience. When it seemed to him that it must be\nnearly daylight, he heard the clock strike ten! This was despair. He\nwould have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded, but he was\nafraid he might wake Sid. So he lay still, and stared up into the dark.\nEverything was dismally still. By and by, out of the stillness, little,\nscarcely perceptible noises began to emphasize themselves. The ticking\nof the clock began to bring itself into notice. Old beams began to crack\nmysteriously. The stairs creaked faintly. Evidently spirits were abroad.\nA measured, muffled snore issued from Aunt Polly s chamber. And now the\ntiresome chirping of a cricket that no human ingenuity could locate,\nbegan. Next the ghastly ticking of a death-watch in the wall at the\nbed s head made Tom shudder it meant that somebody s days were numbered.\nThen the howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air, and was answered\nby a fainter howl from a remoter distance. Tom was in an agony. At last\nhe was satisfied that time had ceased and eternity begun; he began to\ndoze, in spite of himself; the clock chimed eleven, but he did not hear\nit. And then there came, mingling with his half-formed dreams, a most\nmelancholy caterwauling. The raising of a neighboring window disturbed\nhim. A cry of  Scat! you devil!  and the crash of an empty bottle\nagainst the back of his aunt s woodshed brought him wide awake, and a\nsingle minute later he was dressed and out of the window and creeping\nalong the roof of the  ell  on all fours. He  meow d  with caution once\nor twice, as he went; then jumped to the roof of the woodshed and thence\nto the ground. Huckleberry Finn was there, with his dead cat. The boys\nmoved off and disappeared in the gloom. At the end of half an hour they\nwere wading through the tall grass of the graveyard.\n\nIt was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western kind. It was on a hill,\nabout a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board fence\naround it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the\ntime, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over the\nwhole cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in, there was not a\ntombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over\nthe graves, leaning for support and finding none.  Sacred to the memory\nof  So-and-So had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have\nbeen read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light.\n\nA faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom feared it might be the\nspirits of the dead, complaining at being disturbed. The boys talked\nlittle, and only under their breath, for the time and the place and the\npervading solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits. They found the\nsharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the\nprotection of three great elms that grew in a bunch within a few feet of\nthe grave.\n\nThen they waited in silence for what seemed a long time. The hooting of\na distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness. Tom s\nreflections grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So he said in a\nwhisper:\n\n Hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here? \n\nHuckleberry whispered:\n\n I wisht I knowed. It s awful solemn like, _ain t_ it? \n\n I bet it is. \n\nThere was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter\ninwardly. Then Tom whispered:\n\n Say, Hucky do you reckon Hoss Williams hears us talking? \n\n O  course he does. Least his sperrit does. \n\nTom, after a pause:\n\n I wish I d said Mister Williams. But I never meant any harm. Everybody\ncalls him Hoss. \n\n A body can t be too partic lar how they talk  bout these-yer dead\npeople, Tom. \n\nThis was a damper, and conversation died again.\n\nPresently Tom seized his comrade s arm and said:\n\n Sh! \n\n What is it, Tom?  And the two clung together with beating hearts.\n\n Sh! There  tis again! Didn t you hear it? \n\n I \n\n There! Now you hear it. \n\n Lord, Tom, they re coming! They re coming, sure. What ll we do? \n\n I dono. Think they ll see us? \n\n Oh, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. I wisht I hadn t\ncome. \n\n Oh, don t be afeard. I don t believe they ll bother us. We ain t doing\nany harm. If we keep perfectly still, maybe they won t notice us at\nall. \n\n I ll try to, Tom, but, Lord, I m all of a shiver. \n\n Listen! \n\nThe boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. A muffled\nsound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.\n\n Look! See there!  whispered Tom.  What is it? \n\n It s devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is awful. \n\nSome vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an\nold-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable\nlittle spangles of light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a\nshudder:\n\n It s the devils sure enough. Three of  em! Lordy, Tom, we re goners!\nCan you pray? \n\n I ll try, but don t you be afeard. They ain t going to hurt us.  Now I\nlay me down to sleep, I \n\n Sh! \n\n What is it, Huck? \n\n They re _humans_! One of  em is, anyway. One of  em s old Muff Potter s\nvoice. \n\n No tain t so, is it? \n\n I bet I know it. Don t you stir nor budge. He ain t sharp enough to\nnotice us. Drunk, the same as usual, likely blamed old rip! \n\n All right, I ll keep still. Now they re stuck. Can t find it. Here they\ncome again. Now they re hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot! They re\np inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I know another o  them voices; it s\nInjun Joe. \n\n That s so that murderin  half-breed! I d druther they was devils a dern\nsight. What kin they be up to? \n\nThe whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the\ngrave and stood within a few feet of the boys  hiding-place.\n\n Here it is,  said the third voice; and the owner of it held the lantern\nup and revealed the face of young Doctor Robinson.\n\nPotter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a couple\nof shovels on it. They cast down their load and began to open the grave.\nThe doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came and sat\ndown with his back against one of the elm trees. He was so close the\nboys could have touched him.\n\n Hurry, men!  he said, in a low voice;  the moon might come out at any\nmoment. \n\nThey growled a response and went on digging. For some time there was no\nnoise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight of\nmould and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck upon\nthe coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or two\nthe men had hoisted it out on the ground. They pried off the lid with\ntheir shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground. The\nmoon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid face.\nThe barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered with a\nblanket, and bound to its place with the rope. Potter took out a large\nspring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope and then said:\n\n Now the cussed thing s ready, Sawbones, and you ll just out with\nanother five, or here she stays. \n\n That s the talk!  said Injun Joe.\n\n Look here, what does this mean?  said the doctor.  You required your\npay in advance, and I ve paid you. \n\n Yes, and you done more than that,  said Injun Joe, approaching the\ndoctor, who was now standing.  Five years ago you drove me away from\nyour father s kitchen one night, when I come to ask for something to\neat, and you said I warn t there for any good; and when I swore I d get\neven with you if it took a hundred years, your father had me jailed for\na vagrant. Did you think I d forget? The Injun blood ain t in me for\nnothing. And now I ve _got_ you, and you got to _settle_, you know! \n\nHe was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this time.\nThe doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on the ground.\nPotter dropped his knife, and exclaimed:\n\n Here, now, don t you hit my pard!  and the next moment he had grappled\nwith the doctor and the two were struggling with might and main,\ntrampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels. Injun Joe\nsprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion, snatched up Potter s\nknife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping, round and round about\nthe combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at once the doctor flung\nhimself free, seized the heavy headboard of Williams  grave and felled\nPotter to the earth with it and in the same instant the half-breed saw\nhis chance and drove the knife to the hilt in the young man s breast. He\nreeled and fell partly upon Potter, flooding him with his blood, and in\nthe same moment the clouds blotted out the dreadful spectacle and the\ntwo frightened boys went speeding away in the dark.\n\nPresently, when the moon emerged again, Injun Joe was standing over the\ntwo forms, contemplating them. The doctor murmured inarticulately, gave\na long gasp or two and was still. The half-breed muttered:\n\n _That_ score is settled damn you. \n\nThen he robbed the body. After which he put the fatal knife in Potter s\nopen right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin. Three four five\nminutes passed, and then Potter began to stir and moan. His hand closed\nupon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a\nshudder. Then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed at it, and\nthen around him, confusedly. His eyes met Joe s.\n\n Lord, how is this, Joe?  he said.\n\n It s a dirty business,  said Joe, without moving.\n\n What did you do it for? \n\n I! I never done it! \n\n Look here! That kind of talk won t wash. \n\nPotter trembled and grew white.\n\n I thought I d got sober. I d no business to drink to-night. But it s\nin my head yet worse n when we started here. I m all in a muddle;\ncan t recollect anything of it, hardly. Tell me, Joe _honest_, now,\nold feller did I do it? Joe, I never meant to pon my soul and honor, I\nnever meant to, Joe. Tell me how it was, Joe. Oh, it s awful and him so\nyoung and promising. \n\n Why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the headboard\nand you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and staggering\nlike, and snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as he fetched\nyou another awful clip and here you ve laid, as dead as a wedge til\nnow. \n\n Oh, I didn t know what I was a-doing. I wish I may die this minute if I\ndid. It was all on account of the whiskey and the excitement, I reckon.\nI never used a weepon in my life before, Joe. I ve fought, but never\nwith weepons. They ll all say that. Joe, don t tell! Say you won t tell,\nJoe that s a good feller. I always liked you, Joe, and stood up for you,\ntoo. Don t you remember? You _won t_ tell, _will_ you, Joe?  And the\npoor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and\nclasped his appealing hands.\n\n No, you ve always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter, and I\nwon t go back on you. There, now, that s as fair as a man can say. \n\n Oh, Joe, you re an angel. I ll bless you for this the longest day I\nlive.  And Potter began to cry.\n\n Come, now, that s enough of that. This ain t any time for blubbering.\nYou be off yonder way and I ll go this. Move, now, and don t leave any\ntracks behind you. \n\nPotter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The half-breed\nstood looking after him. He muttered:\n\n If he s as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he\nhad the look of being, he won t think of the knife till he s gone so\nfar he ll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by\nhimself chicken-heart! \n\nTwo or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the\nlidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the\nmoon s. The stillness was complete again, too.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with\nhorror. They glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time,\napprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed. Every stump\nthat started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them\ncatch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay\nnear the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give\nwings to their feet.\n\n If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!  whispered\nTom, in short catches between breaths.  I can t stand it much longer. \n\nHuckleberry s hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed\ntheir eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it.\nThey gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst\nthrough the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering\nshadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered:\n\n Huckleberry, what do you reckon ll come of this? \n\n If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging ll come of it. \n\n Do you though? \n\n Why, I _know_ it, Tom. \n\nTom thought a while, then he said:\n\n Who ll tell? We? \n\n What are you talking about? S pose something happened and Injun Joe\n_didn t_ hang? Why, he d kill us some time or other, just as dead sure\nas we re a laying here. \n\n That s just what I was thinking to myself, Huck. \n\n If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he s fool enough. He s\ngenerally drunk enough. \n\nTom said nothing went on thinking. Presently he whispered:\n\n Huck, Muff Potter don t know it. How can he tell? \n\n What s the reason he don t know it? \n\n Because he d just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D you reckon\nhe could see anything? D you reckon he knowed anything? \n\n By hokey, that s so, Tom! \n\n And besides, look-a-here maybe that whack done for _him_! \n\n No,  taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and\nbesides, he always has. Well, when pap s full, you might take and belt\nhim over the head with a church and you couldn t phase him. He says so,\nhis own self. So it s the same with Muff Potter, of course. But if a man\nwas dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I dono. \n\nAfter another reflective silence, Tom said:\n\n Hucky, you sure you can keep mum? \n\n Tom, we _got_ to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn t\nmake any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak\n bout this and they didn t hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take\nand swear to one another that s what we got to do swear to keep mum. \n\n I m agreed. It s the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear\nthat we \n\n Oh no, that wouldn t do for this. That s good enough for little\nrubbishy common things specially with gals, cuz _they_ go back on you\nanyway, and blab if they get in a huff but there orter be writing  bout\na big thing like this. And blood. \n\nTom s whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful;\nthe hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it.\nHe picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moon-light, took a\nlittle fragment of  red keel  out of his pocket, got the moon on\nhis work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow\ndown-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the\npressure on the up-strokes.\n\n   Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer swears they will keep mum about This and\n   They wish They may Drop down dead in Their Tracks if They ever Tell\n   and Rot. \n\nHuckleberry was filled with admiration of Tom s facility in writing, and\nthe sublimity of his language. He at once took a pin from his lapel and\nwas going to prick his flesh, but Tom said:\n\n Hold on! Don t do that. A pin s brass. It might have verdigrease on\nit. \n\n What s verdigrease? \n\n It s p ison. That s what it is. You just swaller some of it once you ll\nsee. \n\nSo Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked\nthe ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In time, after\nmany squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his\nlittle finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to make an H and\nan F, and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle close to the\nwall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters\nthat bound their tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown\naway.\n\nA figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined\nbuilding, now, but they did not notice it.\n\n Tom,  whispered Huckleberry,  does this keep us from _ever_\ntelling _always_? \n\n Of course it does. It don t make any difference _what_ happens, we got\nto keep mum. We d drop down dead don t _you_ know that? \n\n Yes, I reckon that s so. \n\nThey continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up\na long, lugubrious howl just outside within ten feet of them. The boys\nclasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.\n\n Which of us does he mean?  gasped Huckleberry.\n\n I dono peep through the crack. Quick! \n\n No, _you_, Tom! \n\n I can t I can t _do_ it, Huck! \n\n Please, Tom. There  tis again! \n\n Oh, lordy, I m thankful!  whispered Tom.  I know his voice. It s Bull\nHarbison.  *\n\n[* If Mr. Harbison owned a slave named Bull, Tom would have spoken of\nhim as  Harbison s Bull,  but a son or a dog of that name was  Bull\nHarbison. ]\n\n Oh, that s good I tell you, Tom, I was most scared to death; I d a bet\nanything it was a _stray_ dog. \n\nThe dog howled again. The boys  hearts sank once more.\n\n Oh, my! that ain t no Bull Harbison!  whispered Huckleberry.  _Do_,\nTom! \n\nTom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. His\nwhisper was hardly audible when he said:\n\n Oh, Huck, _it s a stray dog_! \n\n Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean? \n\n Huck, he must mean us both we re right together. \n\n Oh, Tom, I reckon we re goners. I reckon there ain t no mistake  bout\nwhere _I ll_ go to. I been so wicked. \n\n Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a\nfeller s told _not_ to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I d a\ntried but no, I wouldn t, of course. But if ever I get off this time,\nI lay I ll just _waller_ in Sunday-schools!  And Tom began to snuffle a\nlittle.\n\n _You_ bad!  and Huckleberry began to snuffle too.  Consound it, Tom\nSawyer, you re just old pie,  long-side o  what I am. Oh, _lordy_,\nlordy, lordy, I wisht I only had half your chance. \n\nTom choked off and whispered:\n\n Look, Hucky, look! He s got his _back_ to us! \n\nHucky looked, with joy in his heart.\n\n Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before? \n\n Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully, you\nknow. _Now_ who can he mean? \n\nThe howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears.\n\n Sh! What s that?  he whispered.\n\n Sounds like like hogs grunting. No it s somebody snoring, Tom. \n\n That _is_ it! Where  bouts is it, Huck? \n\n I bleeve it s down at  tother end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap used to sleep\nthere, sometimes,  long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts\nthings when _he_ snores. Besides, I reckon he ain t ever coming back to\nthis town any more. \n\nThe spirit of adventure rose in the boys  souls once more.\n\n Hucky, do you das t to go if I lead? \n\n I don t like to, much. Tom, s pose it s Injun Joe! \n\nTom quailed. But presently the temptation rose up strong again and the\nboys agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to their\nheels if the snoring stopped. So they went tiptoeing stealthily down,\nthe one behind the other. When they had got to within five steps of the\nsnorer, Tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap. The man\nmoaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the moonlight. It was\nMuff Potter. The boys  hearts had stood still, and their hopes too,\nwhen the man moved, but their fears passed away now. They tip-toed out,\nthrough the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little distance\nto exchange a parting word. That long, lugubrious howl rose on the night\nair again! They turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few\nfeet of where Potter was lying, and _facing_ Potter, with his nose\npointing heavenward.\n\n Oh, geeminy, it s _him_!  exclaimed both boys, in a breath.\n\n Say, Tom they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny Miller s\nhouse,  bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come\nin and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and there\nain t anybody dead there yet. \n\n Well, I know that. And suppose there ain t. Didn t Gracie Miller fall\nin the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next Saturday? \n\n Yes, but she ain t _dead_. And what s more, she s getting better, too. \n\n All right, you wait and see. She s a goner, just as dead sure as Muff\nPotter s a goner. That s what the niggers say, and they know all about\nthese kind of things, Huck. \n\nThen they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom window\nthe night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive caution, and\nfell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade. He\nwas not aware that the gently-snoring Sid was awake, and had been so for\nan hour.\n\nWhen Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone. There was a late look in the\nlight, a late sense in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not\nbeen called persecuted till he was up, as usual? The thought filled\nhim with bodings. Within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs,\nfeeling sore and drowsy. The family were still at table, but they had\nfinished breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke; but there were averted\neyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a chill\nto the culprit s heart. He sat down and tried to seem gay, but it\nwas up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into\nsilence and let his heart sink down to the depths.\n\nAfter breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened in\nthe hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt\nwept over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so;\nand finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs\nwith sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any more.\nThis was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom s heart was sorer now\nthan his body. He cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform\nover and over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that\nhe had won but an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble\nconfidence.\n\nHe left the presence too miserable to even feel revengeful toward\nSid; and so the latter s prompt retreat through the back gate was\nunnecessary. He moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging,\nalong with Joe Harper, for playing hookey the day before, with the\nair of one whose heart was busy with heavier woes and wholly dead to\ntrifles. Then he betook himself to his seat, rested his elbows on his\ndesk and his jaws in his hands, and stared at the wall with the stony\nstare of suffering that has reached the limit and can no further go.\nHis elbow was pressing against some hard substance. After a long time\nhe slowly and sadly changed his position, and took up this object with\na sigh. It was in a paper. He unrolled it. A long, lingering, colossal\nsigh followed, and his heart broke. It was his brass andiron knob!\n\nThis final feather broke the camel s back.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nClose upon the hour of noon the whole village was suddenly electrified\nwith the ghastly news. No need of the as yet un-dreamed-of telegraph;\nthe tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from house to house,\nwith little less than telegraphic speed. Of course the schoolmaster gave\nholiday for that afternoon; the town would have thought strangely of\nhim if he had not.\n\nA gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had been\nrecognized by somebody as belonging to Muff Potter so the story ran. And\nit was said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter washing himself\nin the  branch  about one or two o clock in the morning, and that Potter\nhad at once sneaked off suspicious circumstances, especially the washing\nwhich was not a habit with Potter. It was also said that the town had\nbeen ransacked for this  murderer  (the public are not slow in the\nmatter of sifting evidence and arriving at a verdict), but that he\ncould not be found. Horsemen had departed down all the roads in every\ndirection, and the Sheriff  was confident  that he would be captured\nbefore night.\n\nAll the town was drifting toward the graveyard. Tom s heartbreak\nvanished and he joined the procession, not because he would not\na thousand times rather go anywhere else, but because an awful,\nunaccountable fascination drew him on. Arrived at the dreadful place, he\nwormed his small body through the crowd and saw the dismal spectacle.\nIt seemed to him an age since he was there before. Somebody pinched\nhis arm. He turned, and his eyes met Huckleberry s. Then both looked\nelsewhere at once, and wondered if anybody had noticed anything in their\nmutual glance. But everybody was talking, and intent upon the grisly\nspectacle before them.\n\n Poor fellow!   Poor young fellow!   This ought to be a lesson to grave\nrobbers!   Muff Potter ll hang for this if they catch him!  This was the\ndrift of remark; and the minister said,  It was a judgment; His hand is\nhere. \n\nNow Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid\nface of Injun Joe. At this moment the crowd began to sway and struggle,\nand voices shouted,  It s him! it s him! he s coming himself! \n\n Who? Who?  from twenty voices.\n\n Muff Potter! \n\n Hallo, he s stopped! Look out, he s turning! Don t let him get away! \n\nPeople in the branches of the trees over Tom s head said he wasn t\ntrying to get away he only looked doubtful and perplexed.\n\n Infernal impudence!  said a bystander;  wanted to come and take a quiet\nlook at his work, I reckon didn t expect any company. \n\nThe crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through, ostentatiously\nleading Potter by the arm. The poor fellow s face was haggard, and\nhis eyes showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood before the\nmurdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face in his hands\nand burst into tears.\n\n I didn t do it, friends,  he sobbed;  pon my word and honor I never\ndone it. \n\n Who s accused you?  shouted a voice.\n\nThis shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his face and looked around\nhim with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe, and\nexclaimed:\n\n Oh, Injun Joe, you promised me you d never \n\n Is that your knife?  and it was thrust before him by the Sheriff.\n\nPotter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to the\nground. Then he said:\n\n Something told me  t if I didn t come back and get  He shuddered; then\nwaved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and said,  Tell  em,\nJoe, tell  em it ain t any use any more. \n\nThen Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the\nstony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every\nmoment that the clear sky would deliver God s lightnings upon his head,\nand wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed. And when he had\nfinished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to\nbreak their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner s life faded and\nvanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to Satan and\nit would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that.\n\n Why didn t you leave? What did you want to come here for?  somebody\nsaid.\n\n I couldn t help it I couldn t help it,  Potter moaned.  I wanted to\nrun away, but I couldn t seem to come anywhere but here.  And he fell to\nsobbing again.\n\nInjun Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes\nafterward on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the\nlightnings were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that\nJoe had sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to them, the most\nbalefully interesting object they had ever looked upon, and they could\nnot take their fascinated eyes from his face.\n\nThey inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should\noffer, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master.\n\nInjun Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in\na wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering\ncrowd that the wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy\ncircumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were\ndisappointed, for more than one villager remarked:\n\n It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it done it. \n\nTom s fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as\nmuch as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid said:\n\n Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me\nawake half the time. \n\nTom blanched and dropped his eyes.\n\n It s a bad sign,  said Aunt Polly, gravely.  What you got on your mind,\nTom? \n\n Nothing. Nothing  t I know of.  But the boy s hand shook so that he\nspilled his coffee.\n\n And you do talk such stuff,  Sid said.  Last night you said,  It s\nblood, it s blood, that s what it is!  You said that over and over.\nAnd you said,  Don t torment me so I ll tell!  Tell _what_? What is it\nyou ll tell? \n\nEverything was swimming before Tom. There is no telling what might have\nhappened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of Aunt Polly s face\nand she came to Tom s relief without knowing it. She said:\n\n Sho! It s that dreadful murder. I dream about it most every night\nmyself. Sometimes I dream it s me that done it. \n\nMary said she had been affected much the same way. Sid seemed satisfied.\nTom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after\nthat he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his jaws every\nnight. He never knew that Sid lay nightly watching, and frequently\nslipped the bandage free and then leaned on his elbow listening a good\nwhile at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage back to its place\nagain. Tom s distress of mind wore off gradually and the toothache grew\nirksome and was discarded. If Sid really managed to make anything out of\nTom s disjointed mutterings, he kept it to himself.\n\nIt seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding\ninquests on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his mind.\nSid noticed that Tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries,\nthough it had been his habit to take the lead in all new enterprises;\nhe noticed, too, that Tom never acted as a witness and that was strange;\nand Sid did not overlook the fact that Tom even showed a marked aversion\nto these inquests, and always avoided them when he could. Sid marvelled,\nbut said nothing. However, even inquests went out of vogue at last, and\nceased to torture Tom s conscience.\n\nEvery day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom watched his\nopportunity and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled such\nsmall comforts through to the  murderer  as he could get hold of. The\njail was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge\nof the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it\nwas seldom occupied. These offerings greatly helped to ease Tom s\nconscience.\n\nThe villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather Injun Joe and ride\nhim on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character\nthat nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in the\nmatter, so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin both of his\ninquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the grave-robbery\nthat preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in\nthe courts at present.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nOne of the reasons why Tom s mind had drifted away from its secret\ntroubles was, that it had found a new and weighty matter to interest\nitself about. Becky Thatcher had stopped coming to school. Tom had\nstruggled with his pride a few days, and tried to  whistle her down the\nwind,  but failed. He began to find himself hanging around her father s\nhouse, nights, and feeling very miserable. She was ill. What if she\nshould die! There was distraction in the thought. He no longer took an\ninterest in war, nor even in piracy. The charm of life was gone; there\nwas nothing but dreariness left. He put his hoop away, and his bat;\nthere was no joy in them any more. His aunt was concerned. She began to\ntry all manner of remedies on him. She was one of those people who\nare infatuated with patent medicines and all new-fangled methods of\nproducing health or mending it. She was an inveterate experimenter in\nthese things. When something fresh in this line came out she was in a\nfever, right away, to try it; not on herself, for she was never ailing,\nbut on anybody else that came handy. She was a subscriber for all the\n Health  periodicals and phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance\nthey were inflated with was breath to her nostrils. All the  rot  they\ncontained about ventilation, and how to go to bed, and how to get up,\nand what to eat, and what to drink, and how much exercise to take, and\nwhat frame of mind to keep one s self in, and what sort of clothing\nto wear, was all gospel to her, and she never observed that her\nhealth-journals of the current month customarily upset everything they\nhad recommended the month before. She was as simple-hearted and honest\nas the day was long, and so she was an easy victim. She gathered\ntogether her quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and thus armed\nwith death, went about on her pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with\n hell following after.  But she never suspected that she was not an\nangel of healing and the balm of Gilead in disguise, to the suffering\nneighbors.\n\nThe water treatment was new, now, and Tom s low condition was a windfall\nto her. She had him out at daylight every morning, stood him up in the\nwood-shed and drowned him with a deluge of cold water; then she scrubbed\nhim down with a towel like a file, and so brought him to; then she\nrolled him up in a wet sheet and put him away under blankets till she\nsweated his soul clean and  the yellow stains of it came through his\npores as Tom said.\n\nYet notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more and more melancholy and\npale and dejected. She added hot baths, sitz baths, shower baths, and\nplunges. The boy remained as dismal as a hearse. She began to assist the\nwater with a slim oatmeal diet and blister-plasters. She calculated his\ncapacity as she would a jug s, and filled him up every day with quack\ncure-alls.\n\nTom had become indifferent to persecution by this time. This phase\nfilled the old lady s heart with consternation. This indifference must\nbe broken up at any cost. Now she heard of Pain-killer for the first\ntime. She ordered a lot at once. She tasted it and was filled with\ngratitude. It was simply fire in a liquid form. She dropped the water\ntreatment and everything else, and pinned her faith to Pain-killer.\nShe gave Tom a teaspoonful and watched with the deepest anxiety for the\nresult. Her troubles were instantly at rest, her soul at peace again;\nfor the  indifference  was broken up. The boy could not have shown a\nwilder, heartier interest, if she had built a fire under him.\n\nTom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be\nromantic enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have\ntoo little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. So he\nthought over various plans for relief, and finally hit upon that of\nprofessing to be fond of Pain-killer. He asked for it so often that he\nbecame a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and\nquit bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had no misgivings\nto alloy her delight; but since it was Tom, she watched the bottle\nclandestinely. She found that the medicine did really diminish, but it\ndid not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a crack in\nthe sitting-room floor with it.\n\nOne day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt s yellow\ncat came along, purring, eyeing the teaspoon avariciously, and begging\nfor a taste. Tom said:\n\n Don t ask for it unless you want it, Peter. \n\nBut Peter signified that he did want it.\n\n You better make sure. \n\nPeter was sure.\n\n Now you ve asked for it, and I ll give it to you, because there ain t\nanything mean about me; but if you find you don t like it, you mustn t\nblame anybody but your own self. \n\nPeter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down\nthe Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then\ndelivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging\nagainst furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next\nhe rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment,\nwith his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his\nunappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again\nspreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time\nto see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah,\nand sail through the open window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots\nwith him. The old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over\nher glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter.\n\n Tom, what on earth ails that cat? \n\n I don t know, aunt,  gasped the boy.\n\n Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so? \n\n Deed I don t know, Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they re having a\ngood time. \n\n They do, do they?  There was something in the tone that made Tom\napprehensive.\n\n Yes m. That is, I believe they do. \n\n You _do_? \n\n Yes m. \n\nThe old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with interest emphasized\nby anxiety. Too late he divined her  drift.  The handle of the telltale\ntea-spoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt Polly took it, held it\nup. Tom winced, and dropped his eyes. Aunt Polly raised him by the usual\nhandle his ear and cracked his head soundly with her thimble.\n\n Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for? \n\n I done it out of pity for him because he hadn t any aunt. \n\n Hadn t any aunt! you numskull. What has that got to do with it? \n\n Heaps. Because if he d had one she d a burnt him out herself! She d a\nroasted his bowels out of him  thout any more feeling than if he was a\nhuman! \n\nAunt Polly felt a sudden pang of remorse. This was putting the thing in\na new light; what was cruelty to a cat _might_ be cruelty to a boy, too.\nShe began to soften; she felt sorry. Her eyes watered a little, and she\nput her hand on Tom s head and said gently:\n\n I was meaning for the best, Tom. And, Tom, it _did_ do you good. \n\nTom looked up in her face with just a perceptible twinkle peeping\nthrough his gravity.\n\n I know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and so was I with Peter. It\ndone _him_ good, too. I never see him get around so since \n\n Oh, go  long with you, Tom, before you aggravate me again. And you try\nand see if you can t be a good boy, for once, and you needn t take any\nmore medicine. \n\nTom reached school ahead of time. It was noticed that this strange thing\nhad been occurring every day latterly. And now, as usual of late,\nhe hung about the gate of the schoolyard instead of playing with his\ncomrades. He was sick, he said, and he looked it. He tried to seem to\nbe looking everywhere but whither he really was looking down the road.\nPresently Jeff Thatcher hove in sight, and Tom s face lighted; he gazed\na moment, and then turned sorrowfully away. When Jeff arrived, Tom\naccosted him; and  led up  warily to opportunities for remark about\nBecky, but the giddy lad never could see the bait. Tom watched and\nwatched, hoping whenever a frisking frock came in sight, and hating the\nowner of it as soon as he saw she was not the right one. At last frocks\nceased to appear, and he dropped hopelessly into the dumps; he entered\nthe empty schoolhouse and sat down to suffer. Then one more frock passed\nin at the gate, and Tom s heart gave a great bound. The next instant he\nwas out, and  going on  like an Indian; yelling, laughing, chasing boys,\njumping over the fence at risk of life and limb, throwing handsprings,\nstanding on his head doing all the heroic things he could conceive of,\nand keeping a furtive eye out, all the while, to see if Becky Thatcher\nwas noticing. But she seemed to be unconscious of it all; she never\nlooked. Could it be possible that she was not aware that he was there?\nHe carried his exploits to her immediate vicinity; came war-whooping\naround, snatched a boy s cap, hurled it to the roof of the schoolhouse,\nbroke through a group of boys, tumbling them in every direction, and\nfell sprawling, himself, under Becky s nose, almost upsetting her and\nshe turned, with her nose in the air, and he heard her say:  Mf! some\npeople think they re mighty smart always showing off! \n\nTom s cheeks burned. He gathered himself up and sneaked off, crushed and\ncrestfallen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nTom s mind was made up now. He was gloomy and desperate. He was a\nforsaken, friendless boy, he said; nobody loved him; when they found out\nwhat they had driven him to, perhaps they would be sorry; he had tried\nto do right and get along, but they would not let him; since nothing\nwould do them but to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them blame\n_him_ for the consequences why shouldn t they? What right had the\nfriendless to complain? Yes, they had forced him to it at last: he would\nlead a life of crime. There was no choice.\n\nBy this time he was far down Meadow Lane, and the bell for school to\n take up  tinkled faintly upon his ear. He sobbed, now, to think he\nshould never, never hear that old familiar sound any more it was very\nhard, but it was forced on him; since he was driven out into the cold\nworld, he must submit but he forgave them. Then the sobs came thick and\nfast.\n\nJust at this point he met his soul s sworn comrade, Joe\nHarper hard-eyed, and with evidently a great and dismal purpose in his\nheart. Plainly here were  two souls with but a single thought.  Tom,\nwiping his eyes with his sleeve, began to blubber out something about\na resolution to escape from hard usage and lack of sympathy at home by\nroaming abroad into the great world never to return; and ended by hoping\nthat Joe would not forget him.\n\nBut it transpired that this was a request which Joe had just been going\nto make of Tom, and had come to hunt him up for that purpose. His mother\nhad whipped him for drinking some cream which he had never tasted and\nknew nothing about; it was plain that she was tired of him and wished\nhim to go; if she felt that way, there was nothing for him to do but\nsuccumb; he hoped she would be happy, and never regret having driven her\npoor boy out into the unfeeling world to suffer and die.\n\nAs the two boys walked sorrowing along, they made a new compact to stand\nby each other and be brothers and never separate till death relieved\nthem of their troubles. Then they began to lay their plans. Joe was for\nbeing a hermit, and living on crusts in a remote cave, and dying,\nsome time, of cold and want and grief; but after listening to Tom, he\nconceded that there were some conspicuous advantages about a life of\ncrime, and so he consented to be a pirate.\n\nThree miles below St. Petersburg, at a point where the Mississippi River\nwas a trifle over a mile wide, there was a long, narrow, wooded island,\nwith a shallow bar at the head of it, and this offered well as a\nrendezvous. It was not inhabited; it lay far over toward the further\nshore, abreast a dense and almost wholly unpeopled forest. So Jackson s\nIsland was chosen. Who were to be the subjects of their piracies was a\nmatter that did not occur to them. Then they hunted up Huckleberry Finn,\nand he joined them promptly, for all careers were one to him; he was\nindifferent. They presently separated to meet at a lonely spot on the\nriver-bank two miles above the village at the favorite hour which was\nmidnight. There was a small log raft there which they meant to capture.\nEach would bring hooks and lines, and such provision as he could steal\nin the most dark and mysterious way as became outlaws. And before the\nafternoon was done, they had all managed to enjoy the sweet glory of\nspreading the fact that pretty soon the town would  hear something.  All\nwho got this vague hint were cautioned to  be mum and wait. \n\nAbout midnight Tom arrived with a boiled ham and a few trifles,\nand stopped in a dense undergrowth on a small bluff overlooking the\nmeeting-place. It was starlight, and very still. The mighty river lay\nlike an ocean at rest. Tom listened a moment, but no sound disturbed the\nquiet. Then he gave a low, distinct whistle. It was answered from under\nthe bluff. Tom whistled twice more; these signals were answered in the\nsame way. Then a guarded voice said:\n\n Who goes there? \n\n Tom Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main. Name your names. \n\n Huck Finn the Red-Handed, and Joe Harper the Terror of the Seas.  Tom\nhad furnished these titles, from his favorite literature.\n\n Tis well. Give the countersign. \n\nTwo hoarse whispers delivered the same awful word simultaneously to the\nbrooding night:\n\n _Blood_! \n\nThen Tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let himself down after it,\ntearing both skin and clothes to some extent in the effort. There was\nan easy, comfortable path along the shore under the bluff, but it lacked\nthe advantages of difficulty and danger so valued by a pirate.\n\nThe Terror of the Seas had brought a side of bacon, and had about worn\nhimself out with getting it there. Finn the Red-Handed had stolen a\nskillet and a quantity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had also brought\na few corn-cobs to make pipes with. But none of the pirates smoked or\n chewed  but himself. The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main said it\nwould never do to start without some fire. That was a wise thought;\nmatches were hardly known there in that day. They saw a fire smouldering\nupon a great raft a hundred yards above, and they went stealthily\nthither and helped themselves to a chunk. They made an imposing\nadventure of it, saying,  Hist!  every now and then, and suddenly\nhalting with finger on lip; moving with hands on imaginary dagger-hilts;\nand giving orders in dismal whispers that if  the foe  stirred, to  let\nhim have it to the hilt,  because  dead men tell no tales.  They knew\nwell enough that the raftsmen were all down at the village laying\nin stores or having a spree, but still that was no excuse for their\nconducting this thing in an unpiratical way.\n\nThey shoved off, presently, Tom in command, Huck at the after oar and\nJoe at the forward. Tom stood amidships, gloomy-browed, and with folded\narms, and gave his orders in a low, stern whisper:\n\n Luff, and bring her to the wind! \n\n Aye-aye, sir! \n\n Steady, steady-y-y-y! \n\n Steady it is, sir! \n\n Let her go off a point! \n\n Point it is, sir! \n\nAs the boys steadily and monotonously drove the raft toward mid-stream\nit was no doubt understood that these orders were given only for\n style,  and were not intended to mean anything in particular.\n\n What sail s she carrying? \n\n Courses, tops ls, and flying-jib, sir. \n\n Send the r yals up! Lay out aloft, there, half a dozen of\nye foretopmaststuns l! Lively, now! \n\n Aye-aye, sir! \n\n Shake out that maintogalans l! Sheets and braces! _now_ my hearties! \n\n Aye-aye, sir! \n\n Hellum-a-lee hard a port! Stand by to meet her when she comes! Port,\nport! _Now_, men! With a will! Stead-y-y-y! \n\n Steady it is, sir! \n\nThe raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the boys pointed her head\nright, and then lay on their oars. The river was not high, so there was\nnot more than a two or three mile current. Hardly a word was said during\nthe next three-quarters of an hour. Now the raft was passing before\nthe distant town. Two or three glimmering lights showed where it lay,\npeacefully sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of star-gemmed water,\nunconscious of the tremendous event that was happening. The Black\nAvenger stood still with folded arms,  looking his last  upon the scene\nof his former joys and his later sufferings, and wishing  she  could see\nhim now, abroad on the wild sea, facing peril and death with dauntless\nheart, going to his doom with a grim smile on his lips. It was but\na small strain on his imagination to remove Jackson s Island beyond\neye-shot of the village, and so he  looked his last  with a broken and\nsatisfied heart. The other pirates were looking their last, too; and\nthey all looked so long that they came near letting the current drift\nthem out of the range of the island. But they discovered the danger in\ntime, and made shift to avert it. About two o clock in the morning the\nraft grounded on the bar two hundred yards above the head of the island,\nand they waded back and forth until they had landed their freight. Part\nof the little raft s belongings consisted of an old sail, and this they\nspread over a nook in the bushes for a tent to shelter their provisions;\nbut they themselves would sleep in the open air in good weather, as\nbecame outlaws.\n\nThey built a fire against the side of a great log twenty or thirty steps\nwithin the sombre depths of the forest, and then cooked some bacon in\nthe frying-pan for supper, and used up half of the corn  pone  stock\nthey had brought. It seemed glorious sport to be feasting in that wild,\nfree way in the virgin forest of an unexplored and uninhabited island,\nfar from the haunts of men, and they said they never would return to\ncivilization. The climbing fire lit up their faces and threw its ruddy\nglare upon the pillared tree-trunks of their forest temple, and upon the\nvarnished foliage and festooning vines.\n\nWhen the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the last allowance\nof corn pone devoured, the boys stretched themselves out on the grass,\nfilled with contentment. They could have found a cooler place, but\nthey would not deny themselves such a romantic feature as the roasting\ncampfire.\n\n _Ain t_ it gay?  said Joe.\n\n It s _nuts_!  said Tom.  What would the boys say if they could see us? \n\n Say? Well, they d just die to be here hey, Hucky! \n\n I reckon so,  said Huckleberry;  anyways, I m suited. I don t want\nnothing better n this. I don t ever get enough to eat, gen ally and here\nthey can t come and pick at a feller and bullyrag him so. \n\n It s just the life for me,  said Tom.  You don t have to get up,\nmornings, and you don t have to go to school, and wash, and all that\nblame foolishness. You see a pirate don t have to do _anything_, Joe,\nwhen he s ashore, but a hermit _he_ has to be praying considerable, and\nthen he don t have any fun, anyway, all by himself that way. \n\n Oh yes, that s so,  said Joe,  but I hadn t thought much about it, you\nknow. I d a good deal rather be a pirate, now that I ve tried it. \n\n You see,  said Tom,  people don t go much on hermits, nowadays, like\nthey used to in old times, but a pirate s always respected. And\na hermit s got to sleep on the hardest place he can find, and put\nsackcloth and ashes on his head, and stand out in the rain, and \n\n What does he put sackcloth and ashes on his head for?  inquired Huck.\n\n I dono. But they ve _got_ to do it. Hermits always do. You d have to do\nthat if you was a hermit. \n\n Dern d if I would,  said Huck.\n\n Well, what would you do? \n\n I dono. But I wouldn t do that. \n\n Why, Huck, you d _have_ to. How d you get around it? \n\n Why, I just wouldn t stand it. I d run away. \n\n Run away! Well, you _would_ be a nice old slouch of a hermit. You d be\na disgrace. \n\nThe Red-Handed made no response, being better employed. He had finished\ngouging out a cob, and now he fitted a weed stem to it, loaded it with\ntobacco, and was pressing a coal to the charge and blowing a cloud of\nfragrant smoke he was in the full bloom of luxurious contentment. The\nother pirates envied him this majestic vice, and secretly resolved to\nacquire it shortly. Presently Huck said:\n\n What does pirates have to do? \n\nTom said:\n\n Oh, they have just a bully time take ships and burn them, and get the\nmoney and bury it in awful places in their island where there s ghosts\nand things to watch it, and kill everybody in the ships make  em walk a\nplank. \n\n And they carry the women to the island,  said Joe;  they don t kill the\nwomen. \n\n No,  assented Tom,  they don t kill the women they re too noble. And\nthe women s always beautiful, too. \n\n And don t they wear the bulliest clothes! Oh no! All gold and silver\nand di monds,  said Joe, with enthusiasm.\n\n Who?  said Huck.\n\n Why, the pirates. \n\nHuck scanned his own clothing forlornly.\n\n I reckon I ain t dressed fitten for a pirate,  said he, with a\nregretful pathos in his voice;  but I ain t got none but these. \n\nBut the other boys told him the fine clothes would come fast enough,\nafter they should have begun their adventures. They made him understand\nthat his poor rags would do to begin with, though it was customary for\nwealthy pirates to start with a proper wardrobe.\n\nGradually their talk died out and drowsiness began to steal upon the\neyelids of the little waifs. The pipe dropped from the fingers of the\nRed-Handed, and he slept the sleep of the conscience-free and the weary.\nThe Terror of the Seas and the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main had\nmore difficulty in getting to sleep. They said their prayers inwardly,\nand lying down, since there was nobody there with authority to make them\nkneel and recite aloud; in truth, they had a mind not to say them at\nall, but they were afraid to proceed to such lengths as that, lest they\nmight call down a sudden and special thunderbolt from heaven. Then at\nonce they reached and hovered upon the imminent verge of sleep but an\nintruder came, now, that would not  down.  It was conscience. They began\nto feel a vague fear that they had been doing wrong to run away; and\nnext they thought of the stolen meat, and then the real torture came.\nThey tried to argue it away by reminding conscience that they had\npurloined sweetmeats and apples scores of times; but conscience was not\nto be appeased by such thin plausibilities; it seemed to them, in the\nend, that there was no getting around the stubborn fact that taking\nsweetmeats was only  hooking,  while taking bacon and hams and such\nvaluables was plain simple stealing and there was a command against that\nin the Bible. So they inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in\nthe business, their piracies should not again be sullied with the\ncrime of stealing. Then conscience granted a truce, and these curiously\ninconsistent pirates fell peacefully to sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nWhen Tom awoke in the morning, he wondered where he was. He sat up and\nrubbed his eyes and looked around. Then he comprehended. It was the cool\ngray dawn, and there was a delicious sense of repose and peace in the\ndeep pervading calm and silence of the woods. Not a leaf stirred; not\na sound obtruded upon great Nature s meditation. Beaded dewdrops stood\nupon the leaves and grasses. A white layer of ashes covered the fire,\nand a thin blue breath of smoke rose straight into the air. Joe and Huck\nstill slept.\n\nNow, far away in the woods a bird called; another answered; presently\nthe hammering of a woodpecker was heard. Gradually the cool dim gray\nof the morning whitened, and as gradually sounds multiplied and life\nmanifested itself. The marvel of Nature shaking off sleep and going\nto work unfolded itself to the musing boy. A little green worm came\ncrawling over a dewy leaf, lifting two-thirds of his body into the air\nfrom time to time and  sniffing around,  then proceeding again for he\nwas measuring, Tom said; and when the worm approached him, of its own\naccord, he sat as still as a stone, with his hopes rising and falling,\nby turns, as the creature still came toward him or seemed inclined to\ngo elsewhere; and when at last it considered a painful moment with its\ncurved body in the air and then came decisively down upon Tom s leg and\nbegan a journey over him, his whole heart was glad for that meant that\nhe was going to have a new suit of clothes without the shadow of a\ndoubt a gaudy piratical uniform. Now a procession of ants appeared,\nfrom nowhere in particular, and went about their labors; one struggled\nmanfully by with a dead spider five times as big as itself in its arms,\nand lugged it straight up a tree-trunk. A brown spotted lady-bug climbed\nthe dizzy height of a grass blade, and Tom bent down close to it and\nsaid,  Lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your\nchildren s alone,  and she took wing and went off to see about it which\ndid not surprise the boy, for he knew of old that this insect was\ncredulous about conflagrations, and he had practised upon its simplicity\nmore than once. A tumblebug came next, heaving sturdily at its ball, and\nTom touched the creature, to see it shut its legs against its body\nand pretend to be dead. The birds were fairly rioting by this time. A\ncatbird, the Northern mocker, lit in a tree over Tom s head, and trilled\nout her imitations of her neighbors in a rapture of enjoyment; then\na shrill jay swept down, a flash of blue flame, and stopped on a twig\nalmost within the boy s reach, cocked his head to one side and eyed the\nstrangers with a consuming curiosity; a gray squirrel and a big fellow\nof the  fox  kind came skurrying along, sitting up at intervals to\ninspect and chatter at the boys, for the wild things had probably never\nseen a human being before and scarcely knew whether to be afraid or not.\nAll Nature was wide awake and stirring, now; long lances of sunlight\npierced down through the dense foliage far and near, and a few\nbutterflies came fluttering upon the scene.\n\nTom stirred up the other pirates and they all clattered away with\na shout, and in a minute or two were stripped and chasing after and\ntumbling over each other in the shallow limpid water of the white\nsandbar. They felt no longing for the little village sleeping in the\ndistance beyond the majestic waste of water. A vagrant current or a\nslight rise in the river had carried off their raft, but this only\ngratified them, since its going was something like burning the bridge\nbetween them and civilization.\n\nThey came back to camp wonderfully refreshed, glad-hearted, and\nravenous; and they soon had the camp-fire blazing up again. Huck found a\nspring of clear cold water close by, and the boys made cups of broad oak\nor hickory leaves, and felt that water, sweetened with such a wildwood\ncharm as that, would be a good enough substitute for coffee. While Joe\nwas slicing bacon for breakfast, Tom and Huck asked him to hold on a\nminute; they stepped to a promising nook in the river-bank and threw in\ntheir lines; almost immediately they had reward. Joe had not had time\nto get impatient before they were back again with some handsome bass,\na couple of sun-perch and a small catfish provisions enough for quite a\nfamily. They fried the fish with the bacon, and were astonished; for\nno fish had ever seemed so delicious before. They did not know that the\nquicker a fresh-water fish is on the fire after he is caught the better\nhe is; and they reflected little upon what a sauce open-air sleeping,\nopen-air exercise, bathing, and a large ingredient of hunger make, too.\n\nThey lay around in the shade, after breakfast, while Huck had a smoke,\nand then went off through the woods on an exploring expedition. They\ntramped gayly along, over decaying logs, through tangled underbrush,\namong solemn monarchs of the forest, hung from their crowns to the\nground with a drooping regalia of grape-vines. Now and then they came\nupon snug nooks carpeted with grass and jeweled with flowers.\n\nThey found plenty of things to be delighted with, but nothing to be\nastonished at. They discovered that the island was about three miles\nlong and a quarter of a mile wide, and that the shore it lay closest to\nwas only separated from it by a narrow channel hardly two hundred yards\nwide. They took a swim about every hour, so it was close upon the middle\nof the afternoon when they got back to camp. They were too hungry to\nstop to fish, but they fared sumptuously upon cold ham, and then threw\nthemselves down in the shade to talk. But the talk soon began to drag,\nand then died. The stillness, the solemnity that brooded in the woods,\nand the sense of loneliness, began to tell upon the spirits of the boys.\nThey fell to thinking. A sort of undefined longing crept upon them. This\ntook dim shape, presently it was budding homesickness. Even Finn the\nRed-Handed was dreaming of his doorsteps and empty hogsheads. But they\nwere all ashamed of their weakness, and none was brave enough to speak\nhis thought.\n\nFor some time, now, the boys had been dully conscious of a peculiar\nsound in the distance, just as one sometimes is of the ticking of a\nclock which he takes no distinct note of. But now this mysterious sound\nbecame more pronounced, and forced a recognition. The boys started,\nglanced at each other, and then each assumed a listening attitude. There\nwas a long silence, profound and unbroken; then a deep, sullen boom came\nfloating down out of the distance.\n\n What is it!  exclaimed Joe, under his breath.\n\n I wonder,  said Tom in a whisper.\n\n Tain t thunder,  said Huckleberry, in an awed tone,  becuz thunder \n\n Hark!  said Tom.  Listen don t talk. \n\nThey waited a time that seemed an age, and then the same muffled boom\ntroubled the solemn hush.\n\n Let s go and see. \n\nThey sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore toward the town. They\nparted the bushes on the bank and peered out over the water. The little\nsteam ferry-boat was about a mile below the village, drifting with the\ncurrent. Her broad deck seemed crowded with people. There were a great\nmany skiffs rowing about or floating with the stream in the neighborhood\nof the ferryboat, but the boys could not determine what the men in\nthem were doing. Presently a great jet of white smoke burst from the\nferryboat s side, and as it expanded and rose in a lazy cloud, that same\ndull throb of sound was borne to the listeners again.\n\n I know now!  exclaimed Tom;  somebody s drownded! \n\n That s it!  said Huck;  they done that last summer, when Bill Turner\ngot drownded; they shoot a cannon over the water, and that makes\nhim come up to the top. Yes, and they take loaves of bread and put\nquicksilver in  em and set  em afloat, and wherever there s anybody\nthat s drownded, they ll float right there and stop. \n\n Yes, I ve heard about that,  said Joe.  I wonder what makes the bread\ndo that. \n\n Oh, it ain t the bread, so much,  said Tom;  I reckon it s mostly what\nthey _say_ over it before they start it out. \n\n But they don t say anything over it,  said Huck.  I ve seen  em and\nthey don t. \n\n Well, that s funny,  said Tom.  But maybe they say it to themselves. Of\n_course_ they do. Anybody might know that. \n\nThe other boys agreed that there was reason in what Tom said, because\nan ignorant lump of bread, uninstructed by an incantation, could not\nbe expected to act very intelligently when set upon an errand of such\ngravity.\n\n By jings, I wish I was over there, now,  said Joe.\n\n I do too,  said Huck.  I d give heaps to know who it is. \n\nThe boys still listened and watched. Presently a revealing thought\nflashed through Tom s mind, and he exclaimed:\n\n Boys, I know who s drownded it s us! \n\nThey felt like heroes in an instant. Here was a gorgeous triumph; they\nwere missed; they were mourned; hearts were breaking on their account;\ntears were being shed; accusing memories of unkindness to these poor\nlost lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and remorse were being\nindulged; and best of all, the departed were the talk of the whole town,\nand the envy of all the boys, as far as this dazzling notoriety was\nconcerned. This was fine. It was worth while to be a pirate, after all.\n\nAs twilight drew on, the ferryboat went back to her accustomed business\nand the skiffs disappeared. The pirates returned to camp. They were\njubilant with vanity over their new grandeur and the illustrious trouble\nthey were making. They caught fish, cooked supper and ate it, and then\nfell to guessing at what the village was thinking and saying about them;\nand the pictures they drew of the public distress on their account were\ngratifying to look upon from their point of view. But when the shadows\nof night closed them in, they gradually ceased to talk, and sat gazing\ninto the fire, with their minds evidently wandering elsewhere. The\nexcitement was gone, now, and Tom and Joe could not keep back thoughts\nof certain persons at home who were not enjoying this fine frolic as\nmuch as they were. Misgivings came; they grew troubled and unhappy; a\nsigh or two escaped, unawares. By and by Joe timidly ventured upon a\nroundabout  feeler  as to how the others might look upon a return to\ncivilization not right now, but \n\nTom withered him with derision! Huck, being uncommitted as yet, joined\nin with Tom, and the waverer quickly  explained,  and was glad to get\nout of the scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted home-sickness\nclinging to his garments as he could. Mutiny was effectually laid to\nrest for the moment.\n\nAs the night deepened, Huck began to nod, and presently to snore.\nJoe followed next. Tom lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time,\nwatching the two intently. At last he got up cautiously, on his knees,\nand went searching among the grass and the flickering reflections flung\nby the campfire. He picked up and inspected several large semi-cylinders\nof the thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose two which seemed\nto suit him. Then he knelt by the fire and painfully wrote something\nupon each of these with his  red keel ; one he rolled up and put in his\njacket pocket, and the other he put in Joe s hat and removed it to a\nlittle distance from the owner. And he also put into the hat certain\nschoolboy treasures of almost inestimable value among them a lump of\nchalk, an India-rubber ball, three fishhooks, and one of that kind\nof marbles known as a  sure  nough crystal.  Then he tiptoed his way\ncautiously among the trees till he felt that he was out of hearing, and\nstraightway broke into a keen run in the direction of the sandbar.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nA few minutes later Tom was in the shoal water of the bar, wading toward\nthe Illinois shore. Before the depth reached his middle he was halfway\nover; the current would permit no more wading, now, so he struck out\nconfidently to swim the remaining hundred yards. He swam quartering\nupstream, but still was swept downward rather faster than he had\nexpected. However, he reached the shore finally, and drifted along till\nhe found a low place and drew himself out. He put his hand on his jacket\npocket, found his piece of bark safe, and then struck through the woods,\nfollowing the shore, with streaming garments. Shortly before ten\no clock he came out into an open place opposite the village, and saw the\nferryboat lying in the shadow of the trees and the high bank. Everything\nwas quiet under the blinking stars. He crept down the bank, watching\nwith all his eyes, slipped into the water, swam three or four strokes\nand climbed into the skiff that did  yawl  duty at the boat s stern. He\nlaid himself down under the thwarts and waited, panting.\n\nPresently the cracked bell tapped and a voice gave the order to  cast\noff.  A minute or two later the skiff s head was standing high up,\nagainst the boat s swell, and the voyage was begun. Tom felt happy in\nhis success, for he knew it was the boat s last trip for the night. At\nthe end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels stopped, and\nTom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the dusk, landing fifty yards\ndownstream, out of danger of possible stragglers.\n\nHe flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at his\naunt s back fence. He climbed over, approached the  ell,  and looked\nin at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning there. There\nsat Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and Joe Harper s mother, grouped together,\ntalking. They were by the bed, and the bed was between them and the\ndoor. Tom went to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then\nhe pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he continued pushing\ncautiously, and quaking every time it creaked, till he judged he might\nsqueeze through on his knees; so he put his head through and began,\nwarily.\n\n What makes the candle blow so?  said Aunt Polly. Tom hurried up.  Why,\nthat door s open, I believe. Why, of course it is. No end of strange\nthings now. Go  long and shut it, Sid. \n\nTom disappeared under the bed just in time. He lay and  breathed \n himself for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch his\naunt s foot.\n\n But as I was saying,  said Aunt Polly,  he warn t _bad_, so to say only\nmisch_ee_vous. Only just giddy, and harum-scarum, you know. He warn t\nany more responsible than a colt. _He_ never meant any harm, and he was\nthe best-hearted boy that ever was and she began to cry.\n\n It was just so with my Joe always full of his devilment, and up to\nevery kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he\ncould be and laws bless me, to think I went and whipped him for taking\nthat cream, never once recollecting that I throwed it out myself because\nit was sour, and I never to see him again in this world, never, never,\nnever, poor abused boy!  And Mrs. Harper sobbed as if her heart would\nbreak.\n\n I hope Tom s better off where he is,  said Sid,  but if he d been\nbetter in some ways \n\n _Sid!_  Tom felt the glare of the old lady s eye, though he could not\nsee it.  Not a word against my Tom, now that he s gone! God ll take care\nof _him_ never you trouble _your_self, sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I don t\nknow how to give him up! I don t know how to give him up! He was such a\ncomfort to me, although he tormented my old heart out of me,  most. \n\n The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away Blessed be the name of\nthe Lord! But it s so hard Oh, it s so hard! Only last Saturday my Joe\nbusted a firecracker right under my nose and I knocked him sprawling.\nLittle did I know then, how soon Oh, if it was to do over again I d hug\nhim and bless him for it. \n\n Yes, yes, yes, I know just how you feel, Mrs. Harper, I know just\nexactly how you feel. No longer ago than yesterday noon, my Tom took\nand filled the cat full of Pain-killer, and I did think the cretur would\ntear the house down. And God forgive me, I cracked Tom s head with my\nthimble, poor boy, poor dead boy. But he s out of all his troubles now.\nAnd the last words I ever heard him say was to reproach \n\nBut this memory was too much for the old lady, and she broke entirely\ndown. Tom was snuffling, now, himself and more in pity of himself than\nanybody else. He could hear Mary crying, and putting in a kindly word\nfor him from time to time. He began to have a nobler opinion of himself\nthan ever before. Still, he was sufficiently touched by his aunt s grief\nto long to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm her with joy and\nthe theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to his\nnature, too, but he resisted and lay still.\n\nHe went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was\nconjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim;\nthen the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the missing\nlads had promised that the village should  hear something  soon; the\nwise-heads had  put this and that together  and decided that the lads\nhad gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next town below,\npresently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the\nMissouri shore some five or six miles below the village and then hope\nperished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home\nby nightfall if not sooner. It was believed that the search for the\nbodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the drowning must\nhave occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would\notherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday night. If the bodies\ncontinued missing until Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the\nfunerals would be preached on that morning. Tom shuddered.\n\nMrs. Harper gave a sobbing goodnight and turned to go. Then with a\nmutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other s\narms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly was\ntender far beyond her wont, in her goodnight to Sid and Mary. Sid\nsnuffled a bit and Mary went off crying with all her heart.\n\nAunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so appealingly,\nand with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice,\nthat he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through.\n\nHe had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making\nbroken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and\nturning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a little in her\nsleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the\ncandle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full\nof pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the\ncandle. But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering.\nHis face lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark\nhastily in his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and\nstraightway made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.\n\nHe threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large\nthere, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was\ntenantless except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and\nslept like a graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped\ninto it, and was soon rowing cautiously upstream. When he had pulled a\nmile above the village, he started quartering across and bent himself\nstoutly to his work. He hit the landing on the other side neatly, for\nthis was a familiar bit of work to him. He was moved to capture\nthe skiff, arguing that it might be considered a ship and therefore\nlegitimate prey for a pirate, but he knew a thorough search would be\nmade for it and that might end in revelations. So he stepped ashore and\nentered the woods.\n\nHe sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meanwhile to keep\nawake, and then started warily down the home-stretch. The night was far\nspent. It was broad daylight before he found himself fairly abreast the\nisland bar. He rested again until the sun was well up and gilding the\ngreat river with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream. A\nlittle later he paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp, and\nheard Joe say:\n\n No, Tom s true-blue, Huck, and he ll come back. He won t desert. He\nknows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom s too proud for that\nsort of thing. He s up to something or other. Now I wonder what? \n\n Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain t they? \n\n Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says they are if he ain t\nback here to breakfast. \n\n Which he is!  exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping\ngrandly into camp.\n\nA sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as the\nboys set to work upon it, Tom recounted (and adorned) his adventures.\nThey were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale was done.\nThen Tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till noon, and the\nother pirates got ready to fish and explore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nAfter dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the bar.\nThey went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a soft\nplace they went down on their knees and dug with their hands. Sometimes\nthey would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They were perfectly\nround white things a trifle smaller than an English walnut. They had a\nfamous fried-egg feast that night, and another on Friday morning.\n\nAfter breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and\nchased each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until\nthey were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal\nwater of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their\nlegs from under them from time to time and greatly increased the fun.\nAnd now and then they stooped in a group and splashed water in each\nother s faces with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with\naverted faces to avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and\nstruggling till the best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all\nwent under in a tangle of white legs and arms and came up blowing,\nsputtering, laughing, and gasping for breath at one and the same time.\n\nWhen they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the dry,\nhot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by and by\nbreak for the water again and go through the original performance once\nmore. Finally it occurred to them that their naked skin represented\nflesh-colored  tights  very fairly; so they drew a ring in the sand and\nhad a circus with three clowns in it, for none would yield this proudest\npost to his neighbor.\n\nNext they got their marbles and played  knucks  and  ringtaw  and\n keeps  till that amusement grew stale. Then Joe and Huck had another\nswim, but Tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off\nhis trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles off his\nankle, and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without the\nprotection of this mysterious charm. He did not venture again until he\nhad found it, and by that time the other boys were tired and ready to\nrest. They gradually wandered apart, dropped into the  dumps,  and\nfell to gazing longingly across the wide river to where the village lay\ndrowsing in the sun. Tom found himself writing  BECKY  in the sand with\nhis big toe; he scratched it out, and was angry with himself for his\nweakness. But he wrote it again, nevertheless; he could not help it. He\nerased it once more and then took himself out of temptation by driving\nthe other boys together and joining them.\n\nBut Joe s spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. He was so\nhomesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it. The tears lay\nvery near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was downhearted,\nbut tried hard not to show it. He had a secret which he was not ready\nto tell, yet, but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon, he\nwould have to bring it out. He said, with a great show of cheerfulness:\n\n I bet there s been pirates on this island before, boys. We ll explore\nit again. They ve hid treasures here somewhere. How d you feel to light\non a rotten chest full of gold and silver hey? \n\nBut it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no reply.\nTom tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too. It was\ndiscouraging work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and looking\nvery gloomy. Finally he said:\n\n Oh, boys, let s give it up. I want to go home. It s so lonesome. \n\n Oh no, Joe, you ll feel better by and by,  said Tom.  Just think of the\nfishing that s here. \n\n I don t care for fishing. I want to go home. \n\n But, Joe, there ain t such another swimming-place anywhere. \n\n Swimming s no good. I don t seem to care for it, somehow, when there\nain t anybody to say I sha n t go in. I mean to go home. \n\n Oh, shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother, I reckon. \n\n Yes, I _do_ want to see my mother and you would, too, if you had one. I\nain t any more baby than you are.  And Joe snuffled a little.\n\n Well, we ll let the crybaby go home to his mother, won t we, Huck? Poor\nthing does it want to see its mother? And so it shall. You like it here,\ndon t you, Huck? We ll stay, won t we? \n\nHuck said,  Y-e-s without any heart in it.\n\n I ll never speak to you again as long as I live,  said Joe, rising.\n There now!  And he moved moodily away and began to dress himself.\n\n Who cares!  said Tom.  Nobody wants you to. Go  long home and get\nlaughed at. Oh, you re a nice pirate. Huck and me ain t crybabies. We ll\nstay, won t we, Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we can get\nalong without him, per aps. \n\nBut Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see Joe go sullenly\non with his dressing. And then it was discomforting to see Huck eying\nJoe s preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an ominous silence.\nPresently, without a parting word, Joe began to wade off toward the\nIllinois shore. Tom s heart began to sink. He glanced at Huck. Huck\ncould not bear the look, and dropped his eyes. Then he said:\n\n I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lonesome anyway, and now\nit ll be worse. Let s us go, too, Tom. \n\n I won t! You can all go, if you want to. I mean to stay. \n\n Tom, I better go. \n\n Well, go  long who s hendering you. \n\nHuck began to pick up his scattered clothes. He said:\n\n Tom, I wisht you d come, too. Now you think it over. We ll wait for you\nwhen we get to shore. \n\n Well, you ll wait a blame long time, that s all. \n\nHuck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood looking after him, with a\nstrong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along\ntoo. He hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on. It\nsuddenly dawned on Tom that it was become very lonely and still. He made\none final struggle with his pride, and then darted after his comrades,\nyelling:\n\n Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something! \n\nThey presently stopped and turned around. When he got to where they\nwere, he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till\nat last they saw the  point  he was driving at, and then they set up a\nwarwhoop of applause and said it was  splendid!  and said if he had\ntold them at first, they wouldn t have started away. He made a plausible\nexcuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not even the secret\nwould keep them with him any very great length of time, and so he had\nmeant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction.\n\nThe lads came gayly back and went at their sports again with a will,\nchattering all the time about Tom s stupendous plan and admiring the\ngenius of it. After a dainty egg and fish dinner, Tom said he wanted to\nlearn to smoke, now. Joe caught at the idea and said he would like to\ntry, too. So Huck made pipes and filled them. These novices had never\nsmoked anything before but cigars made of grapevine, and they  bit  the\ntongue, and were not considered manly anyway.\n\nNow they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff,\ncharily, and with slender confidence. The smoke had an unpleasant taste,\nand they gagged a little, but Tom said:\n\n Why, it s just as easy! If I d a knowed this was all, I d a learnt long\nago. \n\n So would I,  said Joe.  It s just nothing. \n\n Why, many a time I ve looked at people smoking, and thought well I wish\nI could do that; but I never thought I could,  said Tom.\n\n That s just the way with me, hain t it, Huck? You ve heard me talk just\nthat way haven t you, Huck? I ll leave it to Huck if I haven t. \n\n Yes heaps of times,  said Huck.\n\n Well, I have too,  said Tom;  oh, hundreds of times. Once down by the\nslaughter-house. Don t you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and\nJohnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it. Don t you remember,\nHuck,  bout me saying that? \n\n Yes, that s so,  said Huck.  That was the day after I lost a white\nalley. No,  twas the day before. \n\n There I told you so,  said Tom.  Huck recollects it. \n\n I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day,  said Joe.  I don t feel\nsick. \n\n Neither do I,  said Tom.  I could smoke it all day. But I bet you Jeff\nThatcher couldn t. \n\n Jeff Thatcher! Why, he d keel over just with two draws. Just let him\ntry it once. _He d_ see! \n\n I bet he would. And Johnny Miller I wish could see Johnny Miller tackle\nit once. \n\n Oh, don t I!  said Joe.  Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn t any more\ndo this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch _him_. \n\n Deed it would, Joe. Say I wish the boys could see us now. \n\n So do I. \n\n Say boys, don t say anything about it, and some time when they re\naround, I ll come up to you and say,  Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke. \nAnd you ll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn t anything, you ll\nsay,  Yes, I got my _old_ pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain t\nvery good.  And I ll say,  Oh, that s all right, if it s _strong_\nenough.  And then you ll out with the pipes, and we ll light up just as\nca m, and then just see  em look! \n\n By jings, that ll be gay, Tom! I wish it was _now_! \n\n So do I! And when we tell  em we learned when we was off pirating,\nwon t they wish they d been along? \n\n Oh, I reckon not! I ll just _bet_ they will! \n\nSo the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and\ngrow disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously\nincreased. Every pore inside the boys  cheeks became a spouting\nfountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues\nfast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their\nthroats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings\nfollowed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable,\nnow. Joe s pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom s followed. Both\nfountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and\nmain. Joe said feebly:\n\n I ve lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it. \n\nTom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:\n\n I ll help you. You go over that way and I ll hunt around by the spring.\nNo, you needn t come, Huck we can find it. \n\nSo Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome,\nand went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both\nvery pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they had\nhad any trouble they had got rid of it.\n\nThey were not talkative at supper that night. They had a humble look,\nand when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare\ntheirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well something they ate\nat dinner had disagreed with them.\n\nAbout midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a brooding\noppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something. The boys\nhuddled themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of\nthe fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was\nstifling. They sat still, intent and waiting. The solemn hush continued.\nBeyond the light of the fire everything was swallowed up in the\nblackness of darkness. Presently there came a quivering glow that\nvaguely revealed the foliage for a moment and then vanished. By and by\nanother came, a little stronger. Then another. Then a faint moan came\nsighing through the branches of the forest and the boys felt a fleeting\nbreath upon their cheeks, and shuddered with the fancy that the Spirit\nof the Night had gone by. There was a pause. Now a weird flash turned\nnight into day and showed every little grassblade, separate and\ndistinct, that grew about their feet. And it showed three white,\nstartled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went rolling and tumbling\ndown the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings in the distance. A\nsweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and snowing the\nflaky ashes broadcast about the fire. Another fierce glare lit up the\nforest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the treetops\nright over the boys  heads. They clung together in terror, in the thick\ngloom that followed. A few big raindrops fell pattering upon the leaves.\n\n Quick! boys, go for the tent!  exclaimed Tom.\n\nThey sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no\ntwo plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared through\nthe trees, making everything sing as it went. One blinding flash after\nanother came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now a drenching\nrain poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets along the\nground. The boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the\nbooming thunderblasts drowned their voices utterly. However, one by one\nthey straggled in at last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared,\nand streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed something\nto be grateful for. They could not talk, the old sail flapped so\nfuriously, even if the other noises would have allowed them. The tempest\nrose higher and higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its\nfastenings and went winging away on the blast. The boys seized each\nothers  hands and fled, with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter\nof a great oak that stood upon the riverbank. Now the battle was at its\nhighest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed\nin the skies, everything below stood out in cleancut and shadowless\ndistinctness: the bending trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the\ndriving spray of spumeflakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on\nthe other side, glimpsed through the drifting cloudrack and the slanting\nveil of rain. Every little while some giant tree yielded the fight\nand fell crashing through the younger growth; and the unflagging\nthunderpeals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp,\nand unspeakably appalling. The storm culminated in one matchless effort\nthat seemed likely to tear the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to\nthe treetops, blow it away, and deafen every creature in it, all at one\nand the same moment. It was a wild night for homeless young heads to be\nout in.\n\nBut at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and\nweaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The\nboys went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still\nsomething to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter\nof their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were\nnot under it when the catastrophe happened.\n\nEverything in camp was drenched, the campfire as well; for they were but\nheedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision against\nrain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and\nchilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently\ndiscovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had\nbeen built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from\nthe ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they\npatiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under\nsides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then they\npiled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were\ngladhearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a feast,\nand after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their\nmidnight adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep\non, anywhere around.\n\nAs the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over\nthem, and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got\nscorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. After\nthe meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once\nmore. Tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as\nhe could. But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or\nanything. He reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of\ncheer. While it lasted, he got them interested in a new device. This was\nto knock off being pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change.\nThey were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were\nstripped, and striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many\nzebras all of them chiefs, of course and then they went tearing through\nthe woods to attack an English settlement.\n\nBy and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon each\nother from ambush with dreadful warwhoops, and killed and scalped each\nother by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an extremely\nsatisfactory one.\n\nThey assembled in camp toward suppertime, hungry and happy; but now\na difficulty arose hostile Indians could not break the bread of\nhospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple\nimpossibility without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other\nprocess that ever they had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished\nthey had remained pirates. However, there was no other way; so with such\nshow of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe and\ntook their whiff as it passed, in due form.\n\nAnd behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had\ngained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without\nhaving to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to\nbe seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high\npromise for lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after supper,\nwith right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They were\nprouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been\nin the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them to\nsmoke and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at\npresent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nBut there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil Saturday\nafternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly s family, were being put into\nmourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed\nthe village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience.\nThe villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked\nlittle; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to\nthe children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them\nup.\n\nIn the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted\nschoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing\nthere to comfort her. She soliloquized:\n\n Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven t got\nanything now to remember him by.  And she choked back a little sob.\n\nPresently she stopped, and said to herself:\n\n It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn t say\nthat I wouldn t say it for the whole world. But he s gone now; I ll\nnever, never, never see him any more. \n\nThis thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling\ndown her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls playmates of Tom s\nand Joe s came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking\nin reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so the last time they saw\nhim, and how Joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful\nprophecy, as they could easily see now!) and each speaker pointed out\nthe exact spot where the lost lads stood at the time, and then added\nsomething like  and I was a-standing just so just as I am now, and as if\nyou was him I was as close as that and he smiled, just this way and then\nsomething seemed to go all over me, like awful, you know and I never\nthought what it meant, of course, but I can see now! \n\nThen there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and\nmany claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or\nless tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided\nwho _did_ see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them,\nthe lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance,\nand were gaped at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had\nno other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the\nremembrance:\n\n Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once. \n\nBut that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that,\nand so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered away,\nstill recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.\n\nWhen the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell\nbegan to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still\nSabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush\nthat lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment\nin the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there\nwas no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses\nas the women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None\ncould remember when the little church had been so full before. There\nwas finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly\nentered, followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all in\ndeep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose\nreverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew.\nThere was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled\nsobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving\nhymn was sung, and the text followed:  I am the Resurrection and the\nLife. \n\nAs the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the\ngraces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that\nevery soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang\nin remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always\nbefore, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor\nboys. The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the\ndeparted, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the\npeople could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes\nwere, and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had\nseemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation\nbecame more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last\nthe whole company broke down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus\nof anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and\ncrying in the pulpit.\n\nThere was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later\nthe church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above\nhis handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then another pair\nof eyes followed the minister s, and then almost with one impulse the\ncongregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up\nthe aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of drooping rags,\nsneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery\nlistening to their own funeral sermon!\n\nAunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored\nones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while\npoor Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what\nto do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and\nstarted to slink away, but Tom seized him and said:\n\n Aunt Polly, it ain t fair. Somebody s got to be glad to see Huck. \n\n And so they shall. I m glad to see him, poor motherless thing!  And\nthe loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were the one thing\ncapable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.\n\nSuddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice:  Praise God from\nwhom all blessings flow _sing_! and put your hearts in it! \n\nAnd they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and\nwhile it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the\nenvying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was the\nproudest moment of his life.\n\nAs the  sold  congregation trooped out they said they would almost be\nwilling to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that\nonce more.\n\nTom got more cuffs and kisses that day according to Aunt Polly s varying\nmoods than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew which\nexpressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nThat was Tom s great secret the scheme to return home with his brother\npirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to the\nMissouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six miles\nbelow the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town\ntill nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys\nand finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of\ninvalided benches.\n\nAt breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to\nTom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of\ntalk. In the course of it Aunt Polly said:\n\n Well, I don t say it wasn t a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody\nsuffering  most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you\ncould be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come over\non a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a\nhint some way that you warn t dead, but only run off. \n\n Yes, you could have done that, Tom,  said Mary;  and I believe you\nwould if you had thought of it. \n\n Would you, Tom?  said Aunt Polly, her face lighting wistfully.  Say,\nnow, would you, if you d thought of it? \n\n I well, I don t know.  Twould  a  spoiled everything. \n\n Tom, I hoped you loved me that much,  said Aunt Polly, with a grieved\ntone that discomforted the boy.  It would have been something if you d\ncared enough to _think_ of it, even if you didn t _do_ it. \n\n Now, auntie, that ain t any harm,  pleaded Mary;  it s only Tom s giddy\nway he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything. \n\n More s the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and\n_done_ it, too. Tom, you ll look back, some day, when it s too late,\nand wish you d cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so\nlittle. \n\n Now, auntie, you know I do care for you,  said Tom.\n\n I d know it better if you acted more like it. \n\n I wish now I d thought,  said Tom, with a repentant tone;  but I dreamt\nabout you, anyway. That s something, ain t it? \n\n It ain t much a cat does that much but it s better than nothing. What\ndid you dream? \n\n Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the\nbed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him. \n\n Well, so we did. So we always do. I m glad your dreams could take even\nthat much trouble about us. \n\n And I dreamt that Joe Harper s mother was here. \n\n Why, she was here! Did you dream any more? \n\n Oh, lots. But it s so dim, now. \n\n Well, try to recollect can t you? \n\n Somehow it seems to me that the wind the wind blowed the the \n\n Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come! \n\nTom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then\nsaid:\n\n I ve got it now! I ve got it now! It blowed the candle! \n\n Mercy on us! Go on, Tom go on! \n\n And it seems to me that you said,  Why, I believe that that door \n\n Go _on_, Tom! \n\n Just let me study a moment just a moment. Oh, yes you said you believed\nthe door was open. \n\n As I m sitting here, I did! Didn t I, Mary! Go on! \n\n And then and then well I won t be certain, but it seems like as if you\nmade Sid go and and \n\n Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do? \n\n You made him you Oh, you made him shut it. \n\n Well, for the land s sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my\ndays! Don t tell _me_ there ain t anything in dreams, any more. Sereny\nHarper shall know of this before I m an hour older. I d like to see her\nget around _this_ with her rubbage  bout superstition. Go on, Tom! \n\n Oh, it s all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I warn t\n_bad_, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more responsible\nthan than I think it was a colt, or something. \n\n And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom! \n\n And then you began to cry. \n\n So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then \n\n Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same, and\nshe wished she hadn t whipped him for taking cream when she d throwed it\nout her own self \n\n Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying that s what you\nwas doing! Land alive, go on, Tom! \n\n Then Sid he said he said \n\n I don t think I said anything,  said Sid.\n\n Yes you did, Sid,  said Mary.\n\n Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom? \n\n He said I _think_ he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone\nto, but if I d been better sometimes \n\n _There_, d you hear that! It was his very words! \n\n And you shut him up sharp. \n\n I lay I did! There must  a  been an angel there. There _was_ an angel\nthere, somewheres! \n\n And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you\ntold about Peter and the Pain-killer \n\n Just as true as I live! \n\n And then there was a whole lot of talk  bout dragging the river for us,\nand  bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper\nhugged and cried, and she went. \n\n It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I m a-sitting in\nthese very tracks. Tom, you couldn t told it more like if you d  a  seen\nit! And then what? Go on, Tom! \n\n Then I thought you prayed for me and I could see you and hear every\nword you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and\nwrote on a piece of sycamore bark,  We ain t dead we are only off being\npirates,  and put it on the table by the candle; and then you looked\nso good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went and leaned over and\nkissed you on the lips. \n\n Did you, Tom, _did_ you! I just forgive you everything for that!  And\nshe seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the\nguiltiest of villains.\n\n It was very kind, even though it was only a dream,  Sid soliloquized\njust audibly.\n\n Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he d do if he was\nawake. Here s a big Milum apple I ve been saving for you, Tom, if you\nwas ever found again now go  long to school. I m thankful to the good\nGod and Father of us all I ve got you back, that s long-suffering and\nmerciful to them that believe on Him and keep His word, though goodness\nknows I m unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got His blessings\nand had His hand to help them over the rough places, there s few enough\nwould smile here or ever enter into His rest when the long night comes.\nGo  long Sid, Mary, Tom take yourselves off you ve hendered me long\nenough. \n\nThe children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper\nand vanquish her realism with Tom s marvellous dream. Sid had better\njudgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the\nhouse. It was this:  Pretty thin as long a dream as that, without any\nmistakes in it! \n\nWhat a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing,\nbut moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the\npublic eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see\nthe looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and\ndrink to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud\nto be seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer\nat the head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into\ntown. Boys of his own size pretended not to know he had been away at\nall; but they were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have\ngiven anything to have that swarthy sun-tanned skin of his, and his\nglittering notoriety; and Tom would not have parted with either for a\ncircus.\n\nAt school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered\nsuch eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were\nnot long in becoming insufferably  stuck-up.  They began to tell their\nadventures to hungry listeners but they only began; it was not a\nthing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish\nmaterial. And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely\npuffing around, the very summit of glory was reached.\n\nTom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory\nwas sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished,\nmaybe she would be wanting to  make up.  Well, let her she should see\nthat he could be as indifferent as some other people. Presently she\narrived. Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a group\nof boys and girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was\ntripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes,\npretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter\nwhen she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her\ncaptures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye\nin his direction at such times, too. It gratified all the vicious vanity\nthat was in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only  set him up \n the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he\nknew she was about. Presently she gave over skylarking, and moved\nirresolutely about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and\nwistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now Tom was talking more\nparticularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else. She felt a sharp pang\nand grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to go away, but her\nfeet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. She said to\na girl almost at Tom s elbow with sham vivacity:\n\n Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn t you come to Sunday-school? \n\n I did come didn t you see me? \n\n Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit? \n\n I was in Miss Peters  class, where I always go. I saw _you_. \n\n Did you? Why, it s funny I didn t see you. I wanted to tell you about\nthe picnic. \n\n Oh, that s jolly. Who s going to give it? \n\n My ma s going to let me have one. \n\n Oh, goody; I hope she ll let _me_ come. \n\n Well, she will. The picnic s for me. She ll let anybody come that I\nwant, and I want you. \n\n That s ever so nice. When is it going to be? \n\n By and by. Maybe about vacation. \n\n Oh, won t it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys? \n\n Yes, every one that s friends to me or wants to be ; and she glanced\never so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence\nabout the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the\ngreat sycamore tree  all to flinders  while he was  standing within\nthree feet of it. \n\n Oh, may I come?  said Grace Miller.\n\n Yes. \n\n And me?  said Sally Rogers.\n\n Yes. \n\n And me, too?  said Susy Harper.  And Joe? \n\n Yes. \n\nAnd so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged\nfor invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly away, still\ntalking, and took Amy with him. Becky s lips trembled and the tears\ncame to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on\nchattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of\neverything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and\nhad what her sex call  a good cry.  Then she sat moody, with wounded\npride, till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast\nin her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what\n_she d_ do.\n\nAt recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant\nself-satisfaction. And he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate\nher with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was a sudden\nfalling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind\nthe schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with Alfred Temple and so\nabsorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the book,\nthat they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides.\nJealousy ran red-hot through Tom s veins. He began to hate himself for\nthrowing away the chance Becky had offered for a reconciliation. He\ncalled himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of. He\nwanted to cry with vexation. Amy chatted happily along, as they walked,\nfor her heart was singing, but Tom s tongue had lost its function. He\ndid not hear what Amy was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly\nhe could only stammer an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced\nas otherwise. He kept drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and\nagain, to sear his eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. He could\nnot help it. And it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that\nBecky Thatcher never once suspected that he was even in the land of the\nliving. But she did see, nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her\nfight, too, and was glad to see him suffer as she had suffered.\n\nAmy s happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hinted at things he had\nto attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting. But in\nvain the girl chirped on. Tom thought,  Oh, hang her, ain t I ever going\nto get rid of her?  At last he must be attending to those things and she\nsaid artlessly that she would be  around  when school let out. And he\nhastened away, hating her for it.\n\n Any other boy!  Tom thought, grating his teeth.  Any boy in the whole\ntown but that Saint Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is\naristocracy! Oh, all right, I licked you the first day you ever saw this\ntown, mister, and I ll lick you again! You just wait till I catch you\nout! I ll just take and \n\nAnd he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary boy pummelling\nthe air, and kicking and gouging.  Oh, you do, do you? You holler\n nough, do you? Now, then, let that learn you!  And so the imaginary\nflogging was finished to his satisfaction.\n\nTom fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more of Amy s\ngrateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other\ndistress. Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred, but as the\nminutes dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph began to\ncloud and she lost interest; gravity and absentmindedness followed,\nand then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear at\na footstep, but it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she grew\nentirely miserable and wished she hadn t carried it so far. When\npoor Alfred, seeing that he was losing her, he did not know how, kept\nexclaiming:  Oh, here s a jolly one! look at this!  she lost patience at\nlast, and said,  Oh, don t bother me! I don t care for them!  and burst\ninto tears, and got up and walked away.\n\nAlfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she\nsaid:\n\n Go away and leave me alone, can t you! I hate you! \n\nSo the boy halted, wondering what he could have done for she had said\nshe would look at pictures all through the nooning and she walked on,\ncrying. Then Alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse. He was\nhumiliated and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth the girl\nhad simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer.\nHe was far from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to him.\nHe wished there was some way to get that boy into trouble without much\nrisk to himself. Tom s spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was his\nopportunity. He gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon and\npoured ink upon the page.\n\nBecky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act,\nand moved on, without discovering herself. She started homeward, now,\nintending to find Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their\ntroubles would be healed. Before she was half way home, however, she\nhad changed her mind. The thought of Tom s treatment of her when she was\ntalking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with shame.\nShe resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged spelling-book s\naccount, and to hate him forever, into the bargain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nTom arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said\nto him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising\nmarket:\n\n Tom, I ve a notion to skin you alive! \n\n Auntie, what have I done? \n\n Well, you ve done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old\nsofty, expecting I m going to make her believe all that rubbage about\nthat dream, when lo and behold you she d found out from Joe that you was\nover here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I don t know\nwhat is to become of a boy that will act like that. It makes me feel so\nbad to think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a fool\nof myself and never say a word. \n\nThis was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had\nseemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked\nmean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything to\nsay for a moment. Then he said:\n\n Auntie, I wish I hadn t done it but I didn t think. \n\n Oh, child, you never think. You never think of anything but your\nown selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from\nJackson s Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could\nthink to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn t ever think\nto pity us and save us from sorrow. \n\n Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn t mean to be mean. I didn t,\nhonest. And besides, I didn t come over here to laugh at you that\nnight. \n\n What did you come for, then? \n\n It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn t got\ndrownded. \n\n Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could\nbelieve you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never\ndid and I know it, Tom. \n\n Indeed and  deed I did, auntie I wish I may never stir if I didn t. \n\n Oh, Tom, don t lie don t do it. It only makes things a hundred times\nworse. \n\n It ain t a lie, auntie; it s the truth. I wanted to keep you from\ngrieving that was all that made me come. \n\n I d give the whole world to believe that it would cover up a power\nof sins, Tom. I d  most be glad you d run off and acted so bad. But it\nain t reasonable; because, why didn t you tell me, child? \n\n Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got all\nfull of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn t\nsomehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my pocket and\nkept mum. \n\n What bark? \n\n The bark I had wrote on to tell you we d gone pirating. I wish, now,\nyou d waked up when I kissed you I do, honest. \n\nThe hard lines in his aunt s face relaxed and a sudden tenderness dawned\nin her eyes.\n\n _Did_ you kiss me, Tom? \n\n Why, yes, I did. \n\n Are you sure you did, Tom? \n\n Why, yes, I did, auntie certain sure. \n\n What did you kiss me for, Tom? \n\n Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry. \n\nThe words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in\nher voice when she said:\n\n Kiss me again, Tom! and be off with you to school, now, and don t\nbother me any more. \n\nThe moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a\njacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her\nhand, and said to herself:\n\n No, I don t dare. Poor boy, I reckon he s lied about it but it s a\nblessed, blessed lie, there s such a comfort come from it. I hope\nthe Lord I _know_ the Lord will forgive him, because it was such\ngood-heartedness in him to tell it. But I don t want to find out it s a\nlie. I won t look. \n\nShe put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put out\nher hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more\nshe ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought:\n It s a good lie it s a good lie I won t let it grieve me.  So she\nsought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom s piece of\nbark through flowing tears and saying:  I could forgive the boy, now, if\nhe d committed a million sins! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nThere was something about Aunt Polly s manner, when she kissed Tom, that\nswept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again. He\nstarted to school and had the luck of coming upon Becky Thatcher at the\nhead of Meadow Lane. His mood always determined his manner. Without a\nmoment s hesitation he ran to her and said:\n\n I acted mighty mean today, Becky, and I m so sorry. I won t ever, ever\ndo that way again, as long as ever I live please make up, won t you? \n\nThe girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:\n\n I ll thank you to keep yourself _to_ yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I ll\nnever speak to you again. \n\nShe tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not\neven presence of mind enough to say  Who cares, Miss Smarty?  until the\nright time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a\nfine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were\na boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if she were. He presently\nencountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She hurled\none in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in\nher hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to  take in, \n she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book.\nIf she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom s\noffensive fling had driven it entirely away.\n\nPoor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself.\nThe master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied\nambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but\npoverty had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village\nschoolmaster. Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and\nabsorbed himself in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept\nthat book under lock and key. There was not an urchin in school but was\nperishing to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy\nand girl had a theory about the nature of that book; but no two theories\nwere alike, and there was no way of getting at the facts in the case.\nNow, as Becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the door, she\nnoticed that the key was in the lock! It was a precious moment. She\nglanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant she had the\nbook in her hands. The titlepage Professor Somebody s _Anatomy_ carried\nno information to her mind; so she began to turn the leaves. She came at\nonce upon a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece a human figure,\nstark naked. At that moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer\nstepped in at the door and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky\nsnatched at the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the\npictured page half down the middle. She thrust the volume into the desk,\nturned the key, and burst out crying with shame and vexation.\n\n Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a person\nand look at what they re looking at. \n\n How could I know you was looking at anything? \n\n You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you re\ngoing to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I ll be\nwhipped, and I never was whipped in school. \n\nThen she stamped her little foot and said:\n\n _Be_ so mean if you want to! I know something that s going to happen.\nYou just wait and you ll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful! and she flung\nout of the house with a new explosion of crying.\n\nTom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said\nto himself:\n\n What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in\nschool! Shucks! What s a licking! That s just like a girl they re so\nthin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain t going to tell\nold Dobbins on this little fool, because there s other ways of getting\neven on her, that ain t so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask\nwho it was tore his book. Nobody ll answer. Then he ll do just the way\nhe always does ask first one and then t other, and when he comes to the\nright girl he ll know it, without any telling. Girls  faces always tell\non them. They ain t got any backbone. She ll get licked. Well, it s a\nkind of a tight place for Becky Thatcher, because there ain t any way\nout of it.  Tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added:  All\nright, though; she d like to see me in just such a fix let her sweat it\nout! \n\nTom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the\nmaster arrived and school  took in.  Tom did not feel a strong interest\nin his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls  side of the\nroom Becky s face troubled him. Considering all things, he did not want\nto pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He could get\nup no exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently the\nspelling-book discovery was made, and Tom s mind was entirely full\nof his own matters for a while after that. Becky roused up from her\nlethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. She\ndid not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he\nspilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right. The denial only\nseemed to make the thing worse for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad\nof that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she\nwas not certain. When the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse\nto get up and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and forced\nherself to keep still because, said she to herself,  he ll tell about me\ntearing the picture sure. I wouldn t say a word, not to save his life! \n\nTom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all\nbroken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly\nupset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout he\nhad denied it for form s sake and because it was custom, and had stuck\nto the denial from principle.\n\nA whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air\nwas drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened\nhimself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book,\nbut seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the\npupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched\nhis movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently\nfor a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read!\nTom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit\nlook as she did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot\nhis quarrel with her. Quick something must be done! done in a flash,\ntoo! But the very imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention.\nGood! he had an inspiration! He would run and snatch the book, spring\nthrough the door and fly. But his resolution shook for one little\ninstant, and the chance was lost the master opened the volume. If Tom\nonly had the wasted opportunity back again! Too late. There was no help\nfor Becky now, he said. The next moment the master faced the school.\nEvery eye sank under his gaze. There was that in it which smote even\nthe innocent with fear. There was silence while one might count ten the\nmaster was gathering his wrath. Then he spoke:  Who tore this book? \n\nThere was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness\ncontinued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.\n\n Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book? \n\nA denial. Another pause.\n\n Joseph Harper, did you? \n\nAnother denial. Tom s uneasiness grew more and more intense under the\nslow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of\nboys considered a while, then turned to the girls:\n\n Amy Lawrence? \n\nA shake of the head.\n\n Gracie Miller? \n\nThe same sign.\n\n Susan Harper, did you do this? \n\nAnother negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling\nfrom head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the\nsituation.\n\n Rebecca Thatcher  [Tom glanced at her face it was white with\nterror] did you tear no, look me in the face  [her hands rose in\nappeal] did you tear this book? \n\nA thought shot like lightning through Tom s brain. He sprang to his feet\nand shouted I done it! \n\nThe school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a\nmoment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward\nto go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that\nshone upon him out of poor Becky s eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred\nfloggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without\nan outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had ever\nadministered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a\ncommand to remain two hours after school should be dismissed for he\nknew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not\ncount the tedious time as loss, either.\n\nTom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple; for\nwith shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her own\ntreachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon, to\npleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky s latest words\nlingering dreamily in his ear \n\n Tom, how _could_ you be so noble! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nVacation was approaching. The schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer\nand more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good\nshowing on  Examination  day. His rod and his ferule were seldom idle\nnow at least among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and young\nladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins  lashings\nwere very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his wig, a\nperfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there\nwas no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As the great day approached,\nall the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a\nvindictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence\nwas, that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and\ntheir nights in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do\nthe master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution\nthat followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that\nthe boys always retired from the field badly worsted. At last they\nconspired together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory.\nThey swore in the signpainter s boy, told him the scheme, and asked his\nhelp. He had his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded\nin his father s family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him.\nThe master s wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and\nthere would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always\nprepared himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and\nthe signpainter s boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper\ncondition on Examination Evening he would  manage the thing  while he\nnapped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time\nand hurried away to school.\n\nIn the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in\nthe evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with\nwreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in\nhis great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him.\nHe was looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and\nsix rows in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town\nand by the parents of the pupils. To his left, back of the rows of\ncitizens, was a spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the\nscholars who were to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of\nsmall boys, washed and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort;\nrows of gawky big boys; snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in\nlawn and muslin and conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their\ngrandmothers  ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and\nthe flowers in their hair. All the rest of the house was filled with\nnon-participating scholars.\n\nThe exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited,\n You d scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage, \n etc. accompanying himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic\ngestures which a machine might have used supposing the machine to be a\ntrifle out of order. But he got through safely, though cruelly scared,\nand got a fine round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and\nretired.\n\nA little shamefaced girl lisped,  Mary had a little lamb,  etc.,\nperformed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and\nsat down flushed and happy.\n\nTom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into\nthe unquenchable and indestructible  Give me liberty or give me death \n speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the\nmiddle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under\nhim and he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy of the\nhouse but he had the house s silence, too, which was even worse than\nits sympathy. The master frowned, and this completed the disaster. Tom\nstruggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated. There was a weak\nattempt at applause, but it died early.\n\n The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck  followed; also  The Assyrian Came\nDown,  and other declamatory gems. Then there were reading exercises,\nand a spelling fight. The meagre Latin class recited with honor. The\nprime feature of the evening was in order, now original  compositions \nby the young ladies. Each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of the\nplatform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript (tied with dainty\nribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to  expression \nand punctuation. The themes were the same that had been illuminated upon\nsimilar occasions by their mothers before them, their grandmothers, and\ndoubtless all their ancestors in the female line clear back to the\nCrusades.  Friendship  was one;  Memories of Other Days ;  Religion in\nHistory ;  Dream Land ;  The Advantages of Culture ;  Forms of Political\nGovernment Compared and Contrasted ;  Melancholy ;  Filial Love ;  Heart\nLongings,  etc., etc.\n\nA prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted\nmelancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of  fine language ;\nanother was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words\nand phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that\nconspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable\nsermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one of\nthem. No matter what the subject might be, a brainracking effort was\nmade to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and religious\nmind could contemplate with edification. The glaring insincerity of\nthese sermons was not sufficient to compass the banishment of the\nfashion from the schools, and it is not sufficient today; it never will\nbe sufficient while the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all\nour land where the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their\ncompositions with a sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the\nmost frivolous and the least religious girl in the school is always the\nlongest and the most relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely\ntruth is unpalatable.\n\nLet us return to the  Examination.  The first composition that was read\nwas one entitled  Is this, then, Life?  Perhaps the reader can endure an\nextract from it:\n\n In the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the\nyouthful mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity!\nImagination is busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the\nvoluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive throng,  the\nobserved of all observers.  Her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes,\nis whirling through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is brightest,\nher step is lightest in the gay assembly.\n\n In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour\narrives for her entrance into the Elysian world, of which she has\nhad such bright dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear to her\nenchanted vision! Each new scene is more charming than the last. But\nafter a while she finds that beneath this goodly exterior, all is\nvanity, the flattery which once charmed her soul, now grates harshly\nupon her ear; the ballroom has lost its charms; and with wasted health\nand imbittered heart, she turns away with the conviction that earthly\npleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul! \n\nAnd so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to\ntime during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of  How\nsweet!   How eloquent!   So true!  etc., and after the thing had closed\nwith a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic.\n\nThen arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the  interesting \n paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a  poem.  Two\nstanzas of it will do:\n\n A MISSOURI MAIDEN S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA\n\n Alabama, goodbye! I love thee well!\n    But yet for a while do I leave thee now!\nSad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell,\n    And burning recollections throng my brow!\nFor I have wandered through thy flowery woods;\n    Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa s stream;\nHave listened to Tallassee s warring floods,\n    And wooed on Coosa s side Aurora s beam.\n\n Yet shame I not to bear an o erfull heart,\n    Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes;\n Tis from no stranger land I now must part,\n     Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs.\nWelcome and home were mine within this State,\n    Whose vales I leave whose spires fade fast from me\nAnd cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and t te,\n    When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee! \n\nThere were very few there who knew what  _t te_  meant, but the poem\nwas very satisfactory, nevertheless.\n\nNext appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady,\nwho paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began\nto read in a measured, solemn tone:\n\n                              A VISION\n\nDark and tempestuous was night. Around the throne on high not a single\nstar quivered; but the deep intonations of the heavy thunder constantly\nvibrated upon the ear; whilst the terrific lightning revelled in angry\nmood through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming to scorn the power\nexerted over its terror by the illustrious Franklin! Even the boisterous\nwinds unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and blustered\nabout as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the scene.\n\nAt such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very spirit\nsighed; but instead thereof,\n\n      My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide \n     My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy,  came to my side.\n\nShe moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks\nof fancy s Eden by the romantic and young, a queen of beauty unadorned\nsave by her own transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it\nfailed to make even a sound, and but for the magical thrill imparted by\nher genial touch, as other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided\naway unperceived unsought. A strange sadness rested upon her features,\nlike icy tears upon the robe of December, as she pointed to the\ncontending elements without, and bade me contemplate the two beings\npresented.\n\nThis nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with a\nsermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took\nthe first prize. This composition was considered to be the very finest\neffort of the evening. The mayor of the village, in delivering the prize\nto the author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by\nfar the most  eloquent  thing he had ever listened to, and that Daniel\nWebster himself might well be proud of it.\n\nIt may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in which\nthe word  beauteous  was over-fondled, and human experience referred to\nas  life s page,  was up to the usual average.\n\nNow the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair\naside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of\nAmerica on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he\nmade a sad business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter\nrippled over the house. He knew what the matter was, and set himself to\nright it. He sponged out lines and remade them; but he only distorted\nthem more than ever, and the tittering was more pronounced. He threw his\nentire attention upon his work, now, as if determined not to be put down\nby the mirth. He felt that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined\nhe was succeeding, and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly\nincreased. And well it might. There was a garret above, pierced with\na scuttle over his head; and down through this scuttle came a cat,\nsuspended around the haunches by a string; she had a rag tied about\nher head and jaws to keep her from mewing; as she slowly descended she\ncurved upward and clawed at the string, she swung downward and clawed\nat the intangible air. The tittering rose higher and higher the cat was\nwithin six inches of the absorbed teacher s head down, down, a little\nlower, and she grabbed his wig with her desperate claws, clung to it,\nand was snatched up into the garret in an instant with her trophy still\nin her possession! And how the light did blaze abroad from the master s\nbald pate for the signpainter s boy had _gilded_ it!\n\nThat broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.\n\n[*] NOTE: The pretended  compositions  quoted in this chapter are taken\nwithout alteration from a volume entitled  Prose and Poetry, by a\nWestern Lady but they are exactly and precisely after the schoolgirl\npattern, and hence are much happier than any mere imitations could be.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nTom joined the new order of Cadets of Temperance, being attracted by the\nshowy character of their  regalia.  He promised to abstain from smoking,\nchewing, and profanity as long as he remained a member. Now he found out\na new thing namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the surest way\nin the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing. Tom soon\nfound himself tormented with a desire to drink and swear; the desire\ngrew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to display\nhimself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing from the order. Fourth\nof July was coming; but he soon gave that up gave it up before he had\nworn his shackles over forty-eight hours and fixed his hopes upon old\nJudge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was apparently on his deathbed\nand would have a big public funeral, since he was so high an official.\nDuring three days Tom was deeply concerned about the Judge s condition\nand hungry for news of it. Sometimes his hopes ran high so high that\nhe would venture to get out his regalia and practise before the\nlooking-glass. But the Judge had a most discouraging way of fluctuating.\nAt last he was pronounced upon the mend and then convalescent. Tom was\ndisgusted; and felt a sense of injury, too. He handed in his resignation\nat once and that night the Judge suffered a relapse and died. Tom\nresolved that he would never trust a man like that again.\n\nThe funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated\nto kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again,\nhowever there was something in that. He could drink and swear, now but\nfound to his surprise that he did not want to. The simple fact that he\ncould, took the desire away, and the charm of it.\n\nTom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning\nto hang a little heavily on his hands.\n\nHe attempted a diary but nothing happened during three days, and so he\nabandoned it.\n\nThe first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a\nsensation. Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were happy\nfor two days.\n\nEven the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained\nhard, there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man\nin the world (as Tom supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual United States\nSenator, proved an overwhelming disappointment for he was not\ntwenty-five feet high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.\n\nA circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in tents\nmade of rag carpeting admission, three pins for boys, two for girls and\nthen circusing was abandoned.\n\nA phrenologist and a mesmerizer came and went again and left the village\nduller and drearier than ever.\n\nThere were some boys-and-girls  parties, but they were so few and so\ndelightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.\n\nBecky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her\nparents during vacation so there was no bright side to life anywhere.\n\nThe dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very\ncancer for permanency and pain.\n\nThen came the measles.\n\nDuring two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its\nhappenings. He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got\nupon his feet at last and moved feebly downtown, a melancholy change had\ncome over everything and every creature. There had been a  revival,  and\neverybody had  got religion,  not only the adults, but even the boys and\ngirls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed\nsinful face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere. He found Joe\nHarper studying a Testament, and turned sadly away from the depressing\nspectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him visiting the poor with a\nbasket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who called his attention to\nthe precious blessing of his late measles as a warning. Every boy\nhe encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in\ndesperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn\nand was received with a Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he\ncrept home and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost,\nforever and forever.\n\nAnd that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful\nclaps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his head\nwith the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for\nhe had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him.\nHe believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the\nextremity of endurance and that this was the result. It might have\nseemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a\nbattery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incongruous about the\ngetting up such an expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from\nunder an insect like himself.\n\nBy and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its\nobject. The boy s first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His\nsecond was to wait for there might not be any more storms.\n\nThe next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks he\nspent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad\nat last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how\nlonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. He drifted\nlistlessly down the street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a\njuvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her\nvictim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a\nstolen melon. Poor lads! they like Tom had suffered a relapse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nAt last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred and vigorously: the murder\ntrial came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of village\ntalk immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every reference to\nthe murder sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience\nand fears almost persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in\nhis hearing as  feelers ; he did not see how he could be suspected of\nknowing anything about the murder, but still he could not be comfortable\nin the midst of this gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver all the time.\nHe took Huck to a lonely place to have a talk with him. It would be some\nrelief to unseal his tongue for a little while; to divide his burden of\ndistress with another sufferer. Moreover, he wanted to assure himself\nthat Huck had remained discreet.\n\n Huck, have you ever told anybody about that? \n\n Bout what? \n\n You know what. \n\n Oh course I haven t. \n\n Never a word? \n\n Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask? \n\n Well, I was afeard. \n\n Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn t be alive two days if that got found out.\n_You_ know that. \n\nTom felt more comfortable. After a pause:\n\n Huck, they couldn t anybody get you to tell, could they? \n\n Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that halfbreed devil to drownd me they\ncould get me to tell. They ain t no different way. \n\n Well, that s all right, then. I reckon we re safe as long as we keep\nmum. But let s swear again, anyway. It s more surer. \n\n I m agreed. \n\nSo they swore again with dread solemnities.\n\n What is the talk around, Huck? I ve heard a power of it. \n\n Talk? Well, it s just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the\ntime. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so s I want to hide som ers. \n\n That s just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he s a goner.\nDon t you feel sorry for him, sometimes? \n\n Most always most always. He ain t no account; but then he hain t ever\ndone anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money to\nget drunk on and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do\nthat leastways most of us preachers and such like. But he s kind of\ngood he give me half a fish, once, when there warn t enough for two; and\nlots of times he s kind of stood by me when I was out of luck. \n\n Well, he s mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my line.\nI wish we could get him out of there. \n\n My! we couldn t get him out, Tom. And besides,  twouldn t do any good;\nthey d ketch him again. \n\n Yes so they would. But I hate to hear  em abuse him so like the dickens\nwhen he never done that. \n\n I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear  em say he s the bloodiest looking villain\nin this country, and they wonder he wasn t ever hung before. \n\n Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I ve heard  em say that if he\nwas to get free they d lynch him. \n\n And they d do it, too. \n\nThe boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the\ntwilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood\nof the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that\nsomething would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But\nnothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in\nthis luckless captive.\n\nThe boys did as they had often done before went to the cell grating and\ngave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor and\nthere were no guards.\n\nHis gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences\nbefore it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and\ntreacherous to the last degree when Potter said:\n\n You ve been mighty good to me, boys better n anybody else in this town.\nAnd I don t forget it, I don t. Often I says to myself, says I,  I used\nto mend all the boys  kites and things, and show  em where the good\nfishin  places was, and befriend  em what I could, and now they ve\nall forgot old Muff when he s in trouble; but Tom don t, and Huck\ndon t _they_ don t forget him,  says I,  and I don t forget them.  Well,\nboys, I done an awful thing drunk and crazy at the time that s the only\nway I account for it and now I got to swing for it, and it s right.\nRight, and _best_, too, I reckon hope so, anyway. Well, we won t talk\nabout that. I don t want to make _you_ feel bad; you ve befriended me.\nBut what I want to say, is, don t _you_ ever get drunk then you won t\never get here. Stand a litter furder west so that s it; it s a prime\ncomfort to see faces that s friendly when a body s in such a muck\nof trouble, and there don t none come here but yourn. Good friendly\nfaces good friendly faces. Git up on one another s backs and let me\ntouch  em. That s it. Shake hands yourn ll come through the bars, but\nmine s too big. Little hands, and weak but they ve helped Muff Potter a\npower, and they d help him more if they could. \n\nTom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of horrors.\nThe next day and the day after, he hung about the courtroom, drawn by an\nalmost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to stay out.\nHuck was having the same experience. They studiously avoided each other.\nEach wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal fascination\nalways brought them back presently. Tom kept his ears open when idlers\nsauntered out of the courtroom, but invariably heard distressing\nnews the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around poor\nPotter. At the end of the second day the village talk was to the effect\nthat Injun Joe s evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there was\nnot the slightest question as to what the jury s verdict would be.\n\nTom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He\nwas in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to\nsleep. All the village flocked to the courthouse the next morning, for\nthis was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented\nin the packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed in and took\ntheir places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and\nhopeless, was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all\nthe curious eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was Injun Joe,\nstolid as ever. There was another pause, and then the judge arrived and\nthe sheriff proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whisperings\namong the lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. These\ndetails and accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation\nthat was as impressive as it was fascinating.\n\nNow a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter washing\nin the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was\ndiscovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some further\nquestioning, counsel for the prosecution said:\n\n Take the witness. \n\nThe prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when\nhis own counsel said:\n\n I have no questions to ask him. \n\nThe next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse.\nCounsel for the prosecution said:\n\n Take the witness. \n\n I have no questions to ask him,  Potter s lawyer replied.\n\nA third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter s\npossession.\n\n Take the witness. \n\nCounsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience\nbegan to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his\nclient s life without an effort?\n\nSeveral witnesses deposed concerning Potter s guilty behavior when\nbrought to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the stand\nwithout being cross-questioned.\n\nEvery detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the\ngraveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well was\nbrought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-examined\nby Potter s lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house\nexpressed itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench.\nCounsel for the prosecution now said:\n\n By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we have\nfastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question, upon the\nunhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here. \n\nA groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and\nrocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned\nin the courtroom. Many men were moved, and many women s compassion\ntestified itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said:\n\n Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we\nforeshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed\nwhile under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced\nby drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that plea.  [Then\nto the clerk:]  Call Thomas Sawyer! \n\nA puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even excepting\nPotter s. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon Tom as\nhe rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy looked wild enough,\nfor he was badly scared. The oath was administered.\n\n Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of June, about the\nhour of midnight? \n\nTom glanced at Injun Joe s iron face and his tongue failed him. The\naudience listened breathless, but the words refused to come. After a few\nmoments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed\nto put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house hear:\n\n In the graveyard! \n\n A little bit louder, please. Don t be afraid. You were \n\n In the graveyard. \n\nA contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe s face.\n\n Were you anywhere near Horse Williams  grave? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Speak up just a trifle louder. How near were you? \n\n Near as I am to you. \n\n Were you hidden, or not? \n\n I was hid. \n\n Where? \n\n Behind the elms that s on the edge of the grave. \n\nInjun Joe gave a barely perceptible start.\n\n Any one with you? \n\n Yes, sir. I went there with \n\n Wait wait a moment. Never mind mentioning your companion s name. We\nwill produce him at the proper time. Did you carry anything there with\nyou. \n\nTom hesitated and looked confused.\n\n Speak out, my boy don t be diffident. The truth is always respectable.\nWhat did you take there? \n\n Only a a dead cat. \n\nThere was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.\n\n We will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now, my boy, tell us\neverything that occurred tell it in your own way don t skip anything,\nand don t be afraid. \n\nTom began hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his\nwords flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased\nbut his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and\nbated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of time,\nrapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. The strain upon pent\nemotion reached its climax when the boy said:\n\n and as the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter fell, Injun\nJoe jumped with the knife and \n\nCrash! Quick as lightning the halfbreed sprang for a window, tore his\nway through all opposers, and was gone!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nTom was a glittering hero once more the pet of the old, the envy of the\nyoung. His name even went into immortal print, for the village paper\nmagnified him. There were some that believed he would be President, yet,\nif he escaped hanging.\n\nAs usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom\nand fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort\nof conduct is to the world s credit; therefore it is not well to find\nfault with it.\n\nTom s days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights\nwere seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always\nwith doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy\nto stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of\nwretchedness and terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer\nthe night before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid\nthat his share in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding\nInjun Joe s flight had saved him the suffering of testifying in court.\nThe poor fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of\nthat? Since Tom s harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the\nlawyer s house by night and wring a dread tale from lips that had\nbeen sealed with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths, Huck s\nconfidence in the human race was wellnigh obliterated.\n\nDaily Muff Potter s gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly\nhe wished he had sealed up his tongue.\n\nHalf the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the\nother half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw a\nsafe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.\n\nRewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun\nJoe was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a\ndetective, came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked\nwise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that\ncraft usually achieve. That is to say, he  found a clew.  But you can t\nhang a  clew  for murder, and so after that detective had got through\nand gone home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before.\n\nThe slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened\nweight of apprehension.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nThere comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy s life when he has\na raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. This desire\nsuddenly came upon Tom one day. He sallied out to find Joe Harper,\nbut failed of success. Next he sought Ben Rogers; he had gone fishing.\nPresently he stumbled upon Huck Finn the Red-Handed. Huck would\nanswer. Tom took him to a private place and opened the matter to him\nconfidentially. Huck was willing. Huck was always willing to take a hand\nin any enterprise that offered entertainment and required no capital,\nfor he had a troublesome superabundance of that sort of time which is\nnot money.  Where ll we dig?  said Huck.\n\n Oh, most anywhere. \n\n Why, is it hid all around? \n\n No, indeed it ain t. It s hid in mighty particular places,\nHuck sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of\na limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but\nmostly under the floor in ha nted houses. \n\n Who hides it? \n\n Why, robbers, of course who d you reckon? Sunday-school\nsup rintendents? \n\n I don t know. If  twas mine I wouldn t hide it; I d spend it and have a\ngood time. \n\n So would I. But robbers don t do that way. They always hide it and\nleave it there. \n\n Don t they come after it any more? \n\n No, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or else\nthey die. Anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by and\nby somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the marks a\npaper that s got to be ciphered over about a week because it s mostly\nsigns and hy roglyphics. \n\n Hyro which? \n\n Hy roglyphics pictures and things, you know, that don t seem to mean\nanything. \n\n Have you got one of them papers, Tom? \n\n No. \n\n Well then, how you going to find the marks? \n\n I don t want any marks. They always bury it under a ha nted house or on\nan island, or under a dead tree that s got one limb sticking out. Well,\nwe ve tried Jackson s Island a little, and we can try it again some\ntime; and there s the old ha nted house up the Still-House branch, and\nthere s lots of dead-limb trees dead loads of  em. \n\n Is it under all of them? \n\n How you talk! No! \n\n Then how you going to know which one to go for? \n\n Go for all of  em! \n\n Why, Tom, it ll take all summer. \n\n Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred dollars\nin it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di monds. How s\nthat? \n\nHuck s eyes glowed.\n\n That s bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the hundred\ndollars and I don t want no di monds. \n\n All right. But I bet you I ain t going to throw off on di monds. Some\nof  em s worth twenty dollars apiece there ain t any, hardly, but s\nworth six bits or a dollar. \n\n No! Is that so? \n\n Cert nly anybody ll tell you so. Hain t you ever seen one, Huck? \n\n Not as I remember. \n\n Oh, kings have slathers of them. \n\n Well, I don  know no kings, Tom. \n\n I reckon you don t. But if you was to go to Europe you d see a raft of\n em hopping around. \n\n Do they hop? \n\n Hop? your granny! No! \n\n Well, what did you say they did, for? \n\n Shucks, I only meant you d _see_  em not hopping, of course what do\nthey want to hop for? but I mean you d just see  em scattered around,\nyou know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard. \n\n Richard? What s his other name? \n\n He didn t have any other name. Kings don t have any but a given name. \n\n No? \n\n But they don t. \n\n Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don t want to be a king\nand have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say where you going\nto dig first? \n\n Well, I don t know. S pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the\nhill t other side of Still-House branch? \n\n I m agreed. \n\nSo they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their\nthree-mile tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves\ndown in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.\n\n I like this,  said Tom.\n\n So do I. \n\n Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your\nshare? \n\n Well, I ll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I ll go to every\ncircus that comes along. I bet I ll have a gay time. \n\n Well, ain t you going to save any of it? \n\n Save it? What for? \n\n Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by. \n\n Oh, that ain t any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some day\nand get his claws on it if I didn t hurry up, and I tell you he d clean\nit out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom? \n\n I m going to buy a new drum, and a sure nough sword, and a red necktie\nand a bull pup, and get married. \n\n Married! \n\n That s it. \n\n Tom, you why, you ain t in your right mind. \n\n Wait you ll see. \n\n Well, that s the foolishest thing you could do. Look at pap and my\nmother. Fight! Why, they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty\nwell. \n\n That ain t anything. The girl I m going to marry won t fight. \n\n Tom, I reckon they re all alike. They ll all comb a body. Now you\nbetter think  bout this awhile. I tell you you better. What s the name\nof the gal? \n\n It ain t a gal at all it s a girl. \n\n It s all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl both s\nright, like enough. Anyway, what s her name, Tom? \n\n I ll tell you some time not now. \n\n All right that ll do. Only if you get married I ll be more lonesomer\nthan ever. \n\n No you won t. You ll come and live with me. Now stir out of this and\nwe ll go to digging. \n\nThey worked and sweated for half an hour. No result. They toiled another\nhalfhour. Still no result. Huck said:\n\n Do they always bury it as deep as this? \n\n Sometimes not always. Not generally. I reckon we haven t got the right\nplace. \n\nSo they chose a new spot and began again. The labor dragged a little,\nbut still they made progress. They pegged away in silence for some time.\nFinally Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from his\nbrow with his sleeve, and said:\n\n Where you going to dig next, after we get this one? \n\n I reckon maybe we ll tackle the old tree that s over yonder on Cardiff\nHill back of the widow s. \n\n I reckon that ll be a good one. But won t the widow take it away from\nus, Tom? It s on her land. \n\n _She_ take it away! Maybe she d like to try it once. Whoever finds one\nof these hid treasures, it belongs to him. It don t make any difference\nwhose land it s on. \n\nThat was satisfactory. The work went on. By and by Huck said:\n\n Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again. What do you think? \n\n It is mighty curious, Huck. I don t understand it. Sometimes witches\ninterfere. I reckon maybe that s what s the trouble now. \n\n Shucks! Witches ain t got no power in the daytime. \n\n Well, that s so. I didn t think of that. Oh, I know what the matter is!\nWhat a blamed lot of fools we are! You got to find out where the shadow\nof the limb falls at midnight, and that s where you dig! \n\n Then consound it, we ve fooled away all this work for nothing. Now hang\nit all, we got to come back in the night. It s an awful long way. Can\nyou get out? \n\n I bet I will. We ve got to do it tonight, too, because if somebody sees\nthese holes they ll know in a minute what s here and they ll go for it. \n\n Well, I ll come around and maow tonight. \n\n All right. Let s hide the tools in the bushes. \n\nThe boys were there that night, about the appointed time. They sat in\nthe shadow waiting. It was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by\nold traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked\nin the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the\ndistance, an owl answered with his sepulchral note. The boys were\nsubdued by these solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged\nthat twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to\ndig. Their hopes commenced to rise. Their interest grew stronger, and\ntheir industry kept pace with it. The hole deepened and still deepened,\nbut every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon\nsomething, they only suffered a new disappointment. It was only a stone\nor a chunk. At last Tom said:\n\n It ain t any use, Huck, we re wrong again. \n\n Well, but we _can t_ be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot. \n\n I know it, but then there s another thing. \n\n What s that? \n\n Why, we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too\nearly. \n\nHuck dropped his shovel.\n\n That s it,  said he.  That s the very trouble. We got to give this one\nup. We can t ever tell the right time, and besides this kind of thing s\ntoo awful, here this time of night with witches and ghosts a-fluttering\naround so. I feel as if something s behind me all the time; and I m\nafeard to turn around, becuz maybe there s others in front a-waiting for\na chance. I been creeping all over, ever since I got here. \n\n Well, I ve been pretty much so, too, Huck. They most always put in a\ndead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it. \n\n Lordy! \n\n Yes, they do. I ve always heard that. \n\n Tom, I don t like to fool around much where there s dead people. A\nbody s bound to get into trouble with  em, sure. \n\n I don t like to stir  em up, either. S pose this one here was to stick\nhis skull out and say something! \n\n Don t Tom! It s awful. \n\n Well, it just is. Huck, I don t feel comfortable a bit. \n\n Say, Tom, let s give this place up, and try somewheres else. \n\n All right, I reckon we better. \n\n What ll it be? \n\nTom considered awhile; and then said:\n\n The ha nted house. That s it! \n\n Blame it, I don t like ha nted houses, Tom. Why, they re a dern sight\nworse n dead people. Dead people might talk, maybe, but they don t come\nsliding around in a shroud, when you ain t noticing, and peep over your\nshoulder all of a sudden and grit their teeth, the way a ghost does. I\ncouldn t stand such a thing as that, Tom nobody could. \n\n Yes, but, Huck, ghosts don t travel around only at night. They won t\nhender us from digging there in the daytime. \n\n Well, that s so. But you know mighty well people don t go about that\nha nted house in the day nor the night. \n\n Well, that s mostly because they don t like to go where a man s been\nmurdered, anyway but nothing s ever been seen around that house except\nin the night just some blue lights slipping by the windows no regular\nghosts. \n\n Well, where you see one of them blue lights flickering around, Tom,\nyou can bet there s a ghost mighty close behind it. It stands to reason.\nBecuz you know that they don t anybody but ghosts use  em. \n\n Yes, that s so. But anyway they don t come around in the daytime, so\nwhat s the use of our being afeard? \n\n Well, all right. We ll tackle the ha nted house if you say so but I\nreckon it s taking chances. \n\nThey had started down the hill by this time. There in the middle of the\nmoonlit valley below them stood the  ha nted  house, utterly isolated,\nits fences gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very doorsteps, the\nchimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a corner of the roof\ncaved in. The boys gazed awhile, half expecting to see a blue light flit\npast a window; then talking in a low tone, as befitted the time and the\ncircumstances, they struck far off to the right, to give the haunted\nhouse a wide berth, and took their way homeward through the woods that\nadorned the rearward side of Cardiff Hill.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nAbout noon the next day the boys arrived at the dead tree; they had come\nfor their tools. Tom was impatient to go to the haunted house; Huck was\nmeasurably so, also but suddenly said:\n\n Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is? \n\nTom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted his\neyes with a startled look in them \n\n My! I never once thought of it, Huck! \n\n Well, I didn t neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was\nFriday. \n\n Blame it, a body can t be too careful, Huck. We might  a  got into an\nawful scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday. \n\n _Might_! Better say we _would_! There s some lucky days, maybe, but\nFriday ain t. \n\n Any fool knows that. I don t reckon _you_ was the first that found it\nout, Huck. \n\n Well, I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain t all, neither. I had a\nrotten bad dream last night dreampt about rats. \n\n No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight? \n\n No. \n\n Well, that s good, Huck. When they don t fight it s only a sign that\nthere s trouble around, you know. All we got to do is to look mighty\nsharp and keep out of it. We ll drop this thing for today, and play. Do\nyou know Robin Hood, Huck? \n\n No. Who s Robin Hood? \n\n Why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in England and the\nbest. He was a robber. \n\n Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob? \n\n Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like. But\nhe never bothered the poor. He loved  em. He always divided up with  em\nperfectly square. \n\n Well, he must  a  been a brick. \n\n I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was.\nThey ain t any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man in\nEngland, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow\nand plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half. \n\n What s a _yew_ bow? \n\n I don t know. It s some kind of a bow, of course. And if he hit that\ndime only on the edge he would set down and cry and curse. But we ll\nplay Robin Hood it s nobby fun. I ll learn you. \n\n I m agreed. \n\nSo they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a\nyearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the\nmorrow s prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink\ninto the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows\nof the trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff\nHill.\n\nOn Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again.\nThey had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in their\nlast hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom said there were\nso many cases where people had given up a treasure after getting down\nwithin six inches of it, and then somebody else had come along and\nturned it up with a single thrust of a shovel. The thing failed this\ntime, however, so the boys shouldered their tools and went away feeling\nthat they had not trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the\nrequirements that belong to the business of treasure-hunting.\n\nWhen they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and\ngrisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun,\nand something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the\nplace, that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. Then they\ncrept to the door and took a trembling peep. They saw a weedgrown,\nfloorless room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows,\na ruinous staircase; and here, there, and everywhere hung ragged and\nabandoned cobwebs. They presently entered, softly, with quickened\npulses, talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest sound,\nand muscles tense and ready for instant retreat.\n\nIn a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the\nplace a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own\nboldness, and wondering at it, too. Next they wanted to look upstairs.\nThis was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring\neach other, and of course there could be but one result they threw their\ntools into a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the same signs of\ndecay. In one corner they found a closet that promised mystery, but the\npromise was a fraud there was nothing in it. Their courage was up now\nand well in hand. They were about to go down and begin work when \n\n Sh!  said Tom.\n\n What is it?  whispered Huck, blanching with fright.\n\n Sh!... There!... Hear it? \n\n Yes!... Oh, my! Let s run! \n\n Keep still! Don t you budge! They re coming right toward the door. \n\nThe boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to\nknotholes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear.\n\n They ve stopped.... No coming.... Here they are. Don t whisper another\nword, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this! \n\nTwo men entered. Each boy said to himself:  There s the old deaf and\ndumb Spaniard that s been about town once or twice lately never saw\nt other man before. \n\n T other  was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant\nin his face. The Spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white\nwhiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he wore\ngreen goggles. When they came in,  t other  was talking in a low voice;\nthey sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their backs to the\nwall, and the speaker continued his remarks. His manner became less\nguarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded:\n\n No,  said he,  I ve thought it all over, and I don t like it. It s\ndangerous. \n\n Dangerous!  grunted the  deaf and dumb  Spaniard to the vast surprise\nof the boys.  Milksop! \n\nThis voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe s! There was\nsilence for some time. Then Joe said:\n\n What s any more dangerous than that job up yonder but nothing s come of\nit. \n\n That s different. Away up the river so, and not another house about.\n Twon t ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn t succeed. \n\n Well, what s more dangerous than coming here in the daytime! anybody\nwould suspicion us that saw us. \n\n I know that. But there warn t any other place as handy after that fool\nof a job. I want to quit this shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only it\nwarn t any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys\nplaying over there on the hill right in full view. \n\n Those infernal boys  quaked again under the inspiration of this remark,\nand thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was Friday and\nconcluded to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they had waited a\nyear.\n\nThe two men got out some food and made a luncheon. After a long and\nthoughtful silence, Injun Joe said:\n\n Look here, lad you go back up the river where you belong. Wait there\ntill you hear from me. I ll take the chances on dropping into this town\njust once more, for a look. We ll do that  dangerous  job after I ve\nspied around a little and think things look well for it. Then for Texas!\nWe ll leg it together! \n\nThis was satisfactory. Both men presently fell to yawning, and Injun Joe\nsaid:\n\n I m dead for sleep! It s your turn to watch. \n\nHe curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore. His comrade stirred\nhim once or twice and he became quiet. Presently the watcher began to\nnod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore now.\n\nThe boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whispered:\n\n Now s our chance come! \n\nHuck said:\n\n I can t I d die if they was to wake. \n\nTom urged Huck held back. At last Tom rose slowly and softly, and\nstarted alone. But the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak\nfrom the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. He never\nmade a second attempt. The boys lay there counting the dragging moments\ntill it seemed to them that time must be done and eternity growing gray;\nand then they were grateful to note that at last the sun was setting.\n\nNow one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up, stared around smiled grimly upon\nhis comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees stirred him up with\nhis foot and said:\n\n Here! _You re_ a watchman, ain t you! All right, though nothing s\nhappened. \n\n My! have I been asleep? \n\n Oh, partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be moving, pard. What ll we\ndo with what little swag we ve got left? \n\n I don t know leave it here as we ve always done, I reckon. No use to\ntake it away till we start south. Six hundred and fifty in silver s\nsomething to carry. \n\n Well all right it won t matter to come here once more. \n\n No but I d say come in the night as we used to do it s better. \n\n Yes: but look here; it may be a good while before I get the right\nchance at that job; accidents might happen;  tain t in such a very good\nplace; we ll just regularly bury it and bury it deep. \n\n Good idea,  said the comrade, who walked across the room, knelt down,\nraised one of the rearward hearth-stones and took out a bag that jingled\npleasantly. He subtracted from it twenty or thirty dollars for himself\nand as much for Injun Joe, and passed the bag to the latter, who was on\nhis knees in the corner, now, digging with his bowie-knife.\n\nThe boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries in an instant. With\ngloating eyes they watched every movement. Luck! the splendor of it was\nbeyond all imagination! Six hundred dollars was money enough to make\nhalf a dozen boys rich! Here was treasure-hunting under the happiest\nauspices there would not be any bothersome uncertainty as to where to\ndig. They nudged each other every moment eloquent nudges and easily\nunderstood, for they simply meant Oh, but ain t you glad _now_ we re\nhere! \n\nJoe s knife struck upon something.\n\n Hello!  said he.\n\n What is it?  said his comrade.\n\n Half-rotten plank no, it s a box, I believe. Here bear a hand and we ll\nsee what it s here for. Never mind, I ve broke a hole. \n\nHe reached his hand in and drew it out \n\n Man, it s money! \n\nThe two men examined the handful of coins. They were gold. The boys\nabove were as excited as themselves, and as delighted.\n\nJoe s comrade said:\n\n We ll make quick work of this. There s an old rusty pick over amongst\nthe weeds in the corner the other side of the fireplace I saw it a\nminute ago. \n\nHe ran and brought the boys  pick and shovel. Injun Joe took the\npick, looked it over critically, shook his head, muttered something to\nhimself, and then began to use it. The box was soon unearthed. It was\nnot very large; it was iron bound and had been very strong before the\nslow years had injured it. The men contemplated the treasure awhile in\nblissful silence.\n\n Pard, there s thousands of dollars here,  said Injun Joe.\n\n Twas always said that Murrel s gang used to be around here one\nsummer,  the stranger observed.\n\n I know it,  said Injun Joe;  and this looks like it, I should say. \n\n Now you won t need to do that job. \n\nThe halfbreed frowned. Said he:\n\n You don t know me. Least you don t know all about that thing.  Tain t\nrobbery altogether it s _revenge_!  and a wicked light flamed in his\neyes.  I ll need your help in it. When it s finished then Texas. Go home\nto your Nance and your kids, and stand by till you hear from me. \n\n Well if you say so; what ll we do with this bury it again? \n\n Yes. [Ravishing delight overhead.] _No_! by the great Sachem, no!\n[Profound distress overhead.] I d nearly forgot. That pick had fresh\nearth on it! [The boys were sick with terror in a moment.] What business\nhas a pick and a shovel here? What business with fresh earth on\nthem? Who brought them here and where are they gone? Have you heard\nanybody? seen anybody? What! bury it again and leave them to come and\nsee the ground disturbed? Not exactly not exactly. We ll take it to my\nden. \n\n Why, of course! Might have thought of that before. You mean Number\nOne? \n\n No Number Two under the cross. The other place is bad too common. \n\n All right. It s nearly dark enough to start. \n\nInjun Joe got up and went about from window to window cautiously peeping\nout. Presently he said:\n\n Who could have brought those tools here? Do you reckon they can be\nupstairs? \n\nThe boys  breath forsook them. Injun Joe put his hand on his knife,\nhalted a moment, undecided, and then turned toward the stairway. The\nboys thought of the closet, but their strength was gone. The steps came\ncreaking up the stairs the intolerable distress of the situation woke\nthe stricken resolution of the lads they were about to spring for the\ncloset, when there was a crash of rotten timbers and Injun Joe landed on\nthe ground amid the debris of the ruined stairway. He gathered himself\nup cursing, and his comrade said:\n\n Now what s the use of all that? If it s anybody, and they re up there,\nlet them _stay_ there who cares? If they want to jump down, now, and get\ninto trouble, who objects? It will be dark in fifteen minutes and then\nlet them follow us if they want to. I m willing. In my opinion, whoever\nhove those things in here caught a sight of us and took us for ghosts or\ndevils or something. I ll bet they re running yet. \n\nJoe grumbled awhile; then he agreed with his friend that what daylight\nwas left ought to be economized in getting things ready for leaving.\nShortly afterward they slipped out of the house in the deepening\ntwilight, and moved toward the river with their precious box.\n\nTom and Huck rose up, weak but vastly relieved, and stared after them\nthrough the chinks between the logs of the house. Follow? Not they. They\nwere content to reach ground again without broken necks, and take the\ntownward track over the hill. They did not talk much. They were too much\nabsorbed in hating themselves hating the ill luck that made them take\nthe spade and the pick there. But for that, Injun Joe never would have\nsuspected. He would have hidden the silver with the gold to wait\nthere till his  revenge  was satisfied, and then he would have had the\nmisfortune to find that money turn up missing. Bitter, bitter luck that\nthe tools were ever brought there!\n\nThey resolved to keep a lookout for that Spaniard when he should come to\ntown spying out for chances to do his revengeful job, and follow him to\n Number Two,  wherever that might be. Then a ghastly thought occurred to\nTom.\n\n Revenge? What if he means _us_, Huck! \n\n Oh, don t!  said Huck, nearly fainting.\n\nThey talked it all over, and as they entered town they agreed to believe\nthat he might possibly mean somebody else at least that he might at\nleast mean nobody but Tom, since only Tom had testified.\n\nVery, very small comfort it was to Tom to be alone in danger! Company\nwould be a palpable improvement, he thought.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nThe adventure of the day mightily tormented Tom s dreams that night.\nFour times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times\nit wasted to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and\nwakefulness brought back the hard reality of his misfortune. As he lay\nin the early morning recalling the incidents of his great adventure, he\nnoticed that they seemed curiously subdued and far away somewhat as if\nthey had happened in another world, or in a time long gone by. Then it\noccurred to him that the great adventure itself must be a dream! There\nwas one very strong argument in favor of this idea namely, that the\nquantity of coin he had seen was too vast to be real. He had never seen\nas much as fifty dollars in one mass before, and he was like all boys of\nhis age and station in life, in that he imagined that all references to\n hundreds  and  thousands  were mere fanciful forms of speech, and that\nno such sums really existed in the world. He never had supposed for\na moment that so large a sum as a hundred dollars was to be found in\nactual money in any one s possession. If his notions of hidden treasure\nhad been analyzed, they would have been found to consist of a handful of\nreal dimes and a bushel of vague, splendid, ungraspable dollars.\n\nBut the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer\nunder the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found\nhimself leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a\ndream, after all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He would snatch a\nhurried breakfast and go and find Huck. Huck was sitting on the gunwale\nof a flatboat, listlessly dangling his feet in the water and looking\nvery melancholy. Tom concluded to let Huck lead up to the subject. If\nhe did not do it, then the adventure would be proved to have been only a\ndream.\n\n Hello, Huck! \n\n Hello, yourself. \n\nSilence, for a minute.\n\n Tom, if we d  a  left the blame tools at the dead tree, we d  a  got\nthe money. Oh, ain t it awful! \n\n Tain t a dream, then,  tain t a dream! Somehow I most wish it was.\nDog d if I don t, Huck. \n\n What ain t a dream? \n\n Oh, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it was. \n\n Dream! If them stairs hadn t broke down you d  a  seen how much dream\nit was! I ve had dreams enough all night with that patch-eyed Spanish\ndevil going for me all through  em rot him! \n\n No, not rot him. _Find_ him! Track the money! \n\n Tom, we ll never find him. A feller don t have only one chance for such\na pile and that one s lost. I d feel mighty shaky if I was to see him,\nanyway. \n\n Well, so d I; but I d like to see him, anyway and track him out to his\nNumber Two. \n\n Number Two yes, that s it. I been thinking  bout that. But I can t make\nnothing out of it. What do you reckon it is? \n\n I dono. It s too deep. Say, Huck maybe it s the number of a house! \n\n Goody!... No, Tom, that ain t it. If it is, it ain t in this one-horse\ntown. They ain t no numbers here. \n\n Well, that s so. Lemme think a minute. Here it s the number of a\nroom in a tavern, you know! \n\n Oh, that s the trick! They ain t only two taverns. We can find out\nquick. \n\n You stay here, Huck, till I come. \n\nTom was off at once. He did not care to have Huck s company in public\nplaces. He was gone half an hour. He found that in the best tavern, No.\n2 had long been occupied by a young lawyer, and was still so occupied.\nIn the less ostentatious house, No. 2 was a mystery. The tavern-keeper s\nyoung son said it was kept locked all the time, and he never saw anybody\ngo into it or come out of it except at night; he did not know any\nparticular reason for this state of things; had had some little\ncuriosity, but it was rather feeble; had made the most of the mystery\nby entertaining himself with the idea that that room was  ha nted ; had\nnoticed that there was a light in there the night before.\n\n That s what I ve found out, Huck. I reckon that s the very No. 2 we re\nafter. \n\n I reckon it is, Tom. Now what you going to do? \n\n Lemme think. \n\nTom thought a long time. Then he said:\n\n I ll tell you. The back door of that No. 2 is the door that comes out\ninto that little close alley between the tavern and the old rattle trap\nof a brick store. Now you get hold of all the doorkeys you can find, and\nI ll nip all of auntie s, and the first dark night we ll go there and\ntry  em. And mind you, keep a lookout for Injun Joe, because he said he\nwas going to drop into town and spy around once more for a chance to get\nhis revenge. If you see him, you just follow him; and if he don t go to\nthat No. 2, that ain t the place. \n\n Lordy, I don t want to foller him by myself! \n\n Why, it ll be night, sure. He mightn t ever see you and if he did,\nmaybe he d never think anything. \n\n Well, if it s pretty dark I reckon I ll track him. I dono I dono. I ll\ntry. \n\n You bet I ll follow him, if it s dark, Huck. Why, he might  a  found\nout he couldn t get his revenge, and be going right after that money. \n\n It s so, Tom, it s so. I ll foller him; I will, by jingoes! \n\n Now you re _talking_! Don t you ever weaken, Huck, and I won t. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nThat night Tom and Huck were ready for their adventure. They hung about\nthe neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching the alley\nat a distance and the other the tavern door. Nobody entered the alley or\nleft it; nobody resembling the Spaniard entered or left the tavern\ndoor. The night promised to be a fair one; so Tom went home with the\nunderstanding that if a considerable degree of darkness came on, Huck\nwas to come and  maow,  whereupon he would slip out and try the keys.\nBut the night remained clear, and Huck closed his watch and retired to\nbed in an empty sugar hogshead about twelve.\n\nTuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also Wednesday. But Thursday\nnight promised better. Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt s\nold tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He hid the\nlantern in Huck s sugar hogshead and the watch began. An hour before\nmidnight the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts)\nwere put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody had entered or left the\nalley. Everything was auspicious. The blackness of darkness reigned,\nthe perfect stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings of\ndistant thunder.\n\nTom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the\ntowel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern.\nHuck stood sentry and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then there was\na season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck s spirits like a\nmountain. He began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern it\nwould frighten him, but it would at least tell him that Tom was alive\nyet. It seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely he must have\nfainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and\nexcitement. In his uneasiness Huck found himself drawing closer\nand closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and\nmomentarily expecting some catastrophe to happen that would take away\nhis breath. There was not much to take away, for he seemed only able to\ninhale it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the\nway it was beating. Suddenly there was a flash of light and Tom came\ntearing by him:  Run!  said he;  run, for your life! \n\nHe needn t have repeated it; once was enough; Huck was making thirty or\nforty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. The boys never\nstopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house at the\nlower end of the village. Just as they got within its shelter the storm\nburst and the rain poured down. As soon as Tom got his breath he said:\n\n Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as I could;\nbut they seemed to make such a power of racket that I couldn t hardly\nget my breath I was so scared. They wouldn t turn in the lock, either.\nWell, without noticing what I was doing, I took hold of the knob, and\nopen comes the door! It warn t locked! I hopped in, and shook off the\ntowel, and, _Great Caesar s Ghost!_ \n\n What! what d you see, Tom? \n\n Huck, I most stepped onto Injun Joe s hand! \n\n No! \n\n Yes! He was lying there, sound asleep on the floor, with his old patch\non his eye and his arms spread out. \n\n Lordy, what did you do? Did he wake up? \n\n No, never budged. Drunk, I reckon. I just grabbed that towel and\nstarted! \n\n I d never  a  thought of the towel, I bet! \n\n Well, I would. My aunt would make me mighty sick if I lost it. \n\n Say, Tom, did you see that box? \n\n Huck, I didn t wait to look around. I didn t see the box, I didn t see\nthe cross. I didn t see anything but a bottle and a tin cup on the floor\nby Injun Joe; yes, I saw two barrels and lots more bottles in the room.\nDon t you see, now, what s the matter with that ha nted room? \n\n How? \n\n Why, it s ha nted with whiskey! Maybe _all_ the Temperance Taverns have\ngot a ha nted room, hey, Huck? \n\n Well, I reckon maybe that s so. Who d  a  thought such a thing? But\nsay, Tom, now s a mighty good time to get that box, if Injun Joe s\ndrunk. \n\n It is, that! You try it! \n\nHuck shuddered.\n\n Well, no I reckon not. \n\n And I reckon not, Huck. Only one bottle alongside of Injun Joe ain t\nenough. If there d been three, he d be drunk enough and I d do it. \n\nThere was a long pause for reflection, and then Tom said:\n\n Lookyhere, Huck, less not try that thing any more till we know Injun\nJoe s not in there. It s too scary. Now, if we watch every night, we ll\nbe dead sure to see him go out, some time or other, and then we ll\nsnatch that box quicker n lightning. \n\n Well, I m agreed. I ll watch the whole night long, and I ll do it every\nnight, too, if you ll do the other part of the job. \n\n All right, I will. All you got to do is to trot up Hooper Street a\nblock and maow and if I m asleep, you throw some gravel at the window\nand that ll fetch me. \n\n Agreed, and good as wheat! \n\n Now, Huck, the storm s over, and I ll go home. It ll begin to be\ndaylight in a couple of hours. You go back and watch that long, will\nyou? \n\n I said I would, Tom, and I will. I ll ha nt that tavern every night for\na year! I ll sleep all day and I ll stand watch all night. \n\n That s all right. Now, where you going to sleep? \n\n In Ben Rogers  hayloft. He lets me, and so does his pap s nigger man,\nUncle Jake. I tote water for Uncle Jake whenever he wants me to, and any\ntime I ask him he gives me a little something to eat if he can spare it.\nThat s a mighty good nigger, Tom. He likes me, becuz I don t ever act as\nif I was above him. Sometime I ve set right down and eat _with_ him. But\nyou needn t tell that. A body s got to do things when he s awful hungry\nhe wouldn t want to do as a steady thing. \n\n Well, if I don t want you in the daytime, I ll let you sleep. I won t\ncome bothering around. Any time you see something s up, in the night,\njust skip right around and maow. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nThe first thing Tom heard on Friday morning was a glad piece of\nnews Judge Thatcher s family had come back to town the night before.\nBoth Injun Joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance for a\nmoment, and Becky took the chief place in the boy s interest. He saw her\nand they had an exhausting good time playing  hispy  and  gully-keeper \n with a crowd of their schoolmates. The day was completed and crowned in\na peculiarly satisfactory way: Becky teased her mother to appoint\nthe next day for the long-promised and long-delayed picnic, and she\nconsented. The child s delight was boundless; and Tom s not more\nmoderate. The invitations were sent out before sunset, and straightway\nthe young folks of the village were thrown into a fever of preparation\nand pleasurable anticipation. Tom s excitement enabled him to keep\nawake until a pretty late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing Huck s\n maow,  and of having his treasure to astonish Becky and the picnickers\nwith, next day; but he was disappointed. No signal came that night.\n\nMorning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o clock a giddy and\nrollicking company were gathered at Judge Thatcher s, and everything was\nready for a start. It was not the custom for elderly people to mar the\npicnics with their presence. The children were considered safe enough\nunder the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young\ngentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferry-boat was\nchartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main\nstreet laden with provision-baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss\nthe fun; Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs.\nThatcher said to Becky, was:\n\n You ll not get back till late. Perhaps you d better stay all night with\nsome of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child. \n\n Then I ll stay with Susy Harper, mamma. \n\n Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don t be any trouble. \n\nPresently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky:\n\n Say I ll tell you what we ll do.  Stead of going to Joe Harper s we ll\nclimb right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas . She ll have\nice-cream! She has it most every day dead loads of it. And she ll be\nawful glad to have us. \n\n Oh, that will be fun! \n\nThen Becky reflected a moment and said:\n\n But what will mamma say? \n\n How ll she ever know? \n\nThe girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly:\n\n I reckon it s wrong but \n\n But shucks! Your mother won t know, and so what s the harm? All she\nwants is that you ll be safe; and I bet you she d  a  said go there if\nshe d  a  thought of it. I know she would! \n\nThe Widow Douglas  splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and\nTom s persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to say\nnothing to anybody about the night s programme. Presently it occurred to\nTom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give the signal. The\nthought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. Still he\ncould not bear to give up the fun at Widow Douglas . And why should he\ngive it up, he reasoned the signal did not come the night before, so\nwhy should it be any more likely to come tonight? The sure fun of the\nevening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined\nto yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of\nthe box of money another time that day.\n\nThree miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody\nhollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest\ndistances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and\nlaughter. All the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone\nthrough with, and by-and-by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified\nwith responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things\nbegan. After the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in\nthe shade of spreading oaks. By-and-by somebody shouted:\n\n Who s ready for the cave? \n\nEverybody was. Bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there\nwas a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was up the\nhillside an opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken door stood\nunbarred. Within was a small chamber, chilly as an icehouse, and walled\nby Nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was\nromantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out\nupon the green valley shining in the sun. But the impressiveness of the\nsituation quickly wore off, and the romping began again. The moment\na candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a\nstruggle and a gallant defence followed, but the candle was soon knocked\ndown or blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a\nnew chase. But all things have an end. By-and-by the procession went\nfiling down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of\nlights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of\njunction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than\neight or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and still narrower\ncrevices branched from it on either hand for McDougal s cave was but a\nvast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again\nand led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and nights\ntogether through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never\nfind the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and\nstill down, into the earth, and it was just the same labyrinth under\nlabyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man  knew  the cave. That was\nan impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it\nwas not customary to venture much beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer\nknew as much of the cave as any one.\n\nThe procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of\na mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch\navenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise\nat points where the corridors joined again. Parties were able to elude\neach other for the space of half an hour without going beyond the\n known  ground.\n\nBy-and-by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth\nof the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow\ndrippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of\nthe day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been taking\nno note of time and that night was about at hand. The clanging bell had\nbeen calling for half an hour. However, this sort of close to the day s\nadventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory. When the ferryboat\nwith her wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for\nthe wasted time but the captain of the craft.\n\nHuck was already upon his watch when the ferryboat s lights went\nglinting past the wharf. He heard no noise on board, for the young\npeople were as subdued and still as people usually are who are nearly\ntired to death. He wondered what boat it was, and why she did not\nstop at the wharf and then he dropped her out of his mind and put his\nattention upon his business. The night was growing cloudy and dark. Ten\no clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights began\nto wink out, all straggling foot-passengers disappeared, the village\nbetook itself to its slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the\nsilence and the ghosts. Eleven o clock came, and the tavern lights were\nput out; darkness everywhere, now. Huck waited what seemed a weary long\ntime, but nothing happened. His faith was weakening. Was there any use?\nWas there really any use? Why not give it up and turn in?\n\nA noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The alley\ndoor closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The next\nmoment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under\nhis arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure.\nWhy call Tom now? It would be absurd the men would get away with the box\nand never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow\nthem; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So\ncommuning with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the\nmen, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough\nahead not to be invisible.\n\nThey moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up\na crossstreet. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the\npath that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old\nWelshman s house, halfway up the hill, without hesitating, and still\nclimbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry.\nBut they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit.\nThey plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and\nwere at once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his\ndistance, now, for they would never be able to see him. He trotted along\nawhile; then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved\non a piece, then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that\nhe seemed to hear the beating of his own heart. The hooting of an\nowl came over the hill ominous sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was\neverything lost! He was about to spring with winged feet, when a man\ncleared his throat not four feet from him! Huck s heart shot into his\nthroat, but he swallowed it again; and then he stood there shaking as\nif a dozen agues had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he\nthought he must surely fall to the ground. He knew where he was. He\nknew he was within five steps of the stile leading into Widow Douglas \ngrounds. Very well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won t be hard\nto find.\n\nNow there was a voice a very low voice Injun Joe s:\n\n Damn her, maybe she s got company there s lights, late as it is. \n\n I can t see any. \n\nThis was that stranger s voice the stranger of the haunted house. A\ndeadly chill went to Huck s heart this, then, was the  revenge  job! His\nthought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas had been\nkind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder\nher. He wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn t\ndare they might come and catch him. He thought all this and more in\nthe moment that elapsed between the stranger s remark and Injun Joe s\nnext which was \n\n Because the bush is in your way. Now this way now you see, don t you? \n\n Yes. Well, there _is_ company there, I reckon. Better give it up. \n\n Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and\nmaybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I ve told you\nbefore, I don t care for her swag you may have it. But her husband was\nrough on me many times he was rough on me and mainly he was the justice\nof the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain t all. It ain t\na millionth part of it! He had me _horsewhipped_! horsewhipped in\nfront of the jail, like a nigger! with all the town looking on!\n_Horsewhipped_! do you understand? He took advantage of me and died. But\nI ll take it out of _her_. \n\n Oh, don t kill her! Don t do that! \n\n Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill _him_ if he was\nhere; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don t\nkill her bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils you notch her\nears like a sow! \n\n By God, that s \n\n Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I ll tie her\nto the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I ll not cry, if\nshe does. My friend, you ll help me in this thing for _my_ sake that s\nwhy you re here I mightn t be able alone. If you flinch, I ll kill you.\nDo you understand that? And if I have to kill you, I ll kill her and\nthen I reckon nobody ll ever know much about who done this business. \n\n Well, if it s got to be done, let s get at it. The quicker the\nbetter I m all in a shiver. \n\n Do it _now_? And company there? Look here I ll get suspicious of you,\nfirst thing you know. No we ll wait till the lights are out there s no\nhurry. \n\nHuck felt that a silence was going to ensue a thing still more awful\nthan any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped\ngingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing,\none-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one\nside and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same\nelaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and a twig\nsnapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no\nsound the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he\nturned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes turned\nhimself as carefully as if he were a ship and then stepped quickly but\ncautiously along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and\nso he picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he\nreached the Welshman s. He banged at the door, and presently the heads\nof the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.\n\n What s the row there? Who s banging? What do you want? \n\n Let me in quick! I ll tell everything. \n\n Why, who are you? \n\n Huckleberry Finn quick, let me in! \n\n Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain t a name to open many doors, I judge!\nBut let him in, lads, and let s see what s the trouble. \n\n Please don t ever tell I told you,  were Huck s first words when he got\nin.  Please don t I d be killed, sure but the widow s been good friends\nto me sometimes, and I want to tell I _will_ tell if you ll promise you\nwon t ever say it was me. \n\n By George, he _has_ got something to tell, or he wouldn t act so! \n exclaimed the old man;  out with it and nobody here ll ever tell, lad. \n\nThree minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the\nhill, and just entering the sumach path on tiptoe, their weapons in\ntheir hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great\nbowlder and fell to listening. There was a lagging, anxious silence, and\nthen all of a sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry.\n\nHuck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill as\nfast as his legs could carry him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nAs the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared on Sunday morning, Huck came\ngroping up the hill and rapped gently at the old Welshman s door. The\ninmates were asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a hair-trigger,\non account of the exciting episode of the night. A call came from a\nwindow:\n\n Who s there! \n\nHuck s scared voice answered in a low tone:\n\n Please let me in! It s only Huck Finn! \n\n It s a name that can open this door night or day, lad! and welcome! \n\nThese were strange words to the vagabond boy s ears, and the pleasantest\nhe had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing word had ever\nbeen applied in his case before. The door was quickly unlocked, and he\nentered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his brace of tall\nsons speedily dressed themselves.\n\n Now, my boy, I hope you re good and hungry, because breakfast will be\nready as soon as the sun s up, and we ll have a piping hot one, too make\nyourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you d turn up and stop\nhere last night. \n\n I was awful scared,  said Huck,  and I run. I took out when the pistols\nwent off, and I didn t stop for three mile. I ve come now becuz I wanted\nto know about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz I didn t\nwant to run across them devils, even if they was dead. \n\n Well, poor chap, you do look as if you d had a hard night of it but\nthere s a bed here for you when you ve had your breakfast. No, they\nain t dead, lad we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew right\nwhere to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along\non tiptoe till we got within fifteen feet of them dark as a cellar that\nsumach path was and just then I found I was going to sneeze. It was the\nmeanest kind of luck! I tried to keep it back, but no use twas bound to\ncome, and it did come! I was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when\nthe sneeze started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path,\nI sung out,  Fire boys!  and blazed away at the place where the rustling\nwas. So did the boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and\nwe after them, down through the woods. I judge we never touched them.\nThey fired a shot apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by\nand didn t do us any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet\nwe quit chasing, and went down and stirred up the constables. They got a\nposse together, and went off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it\nis light the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods. My boys\nwill be with them presently. I wish we had some sort of description of\nthose rascals twould help a good deal. But you couldn t see what they\nwere like, in the dark, lad, I suppose? \n\n Oh yes; I saw them downtown and follered them. \n\n Splendid! Describe them describe them, my boy! \n\n One s the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that s ben around here once or\ntwice, and t other s a mean-looking, ragged \n\n That s enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the woods back\nof the widow s one day, and they slunk away. Off with you, boys, and\ntell the sheriff get your breakfast tomorrow morning! \n\nThe Welshman s sons departed at once. As they were leaving the room Huck\nsprang up and exclaimed:\n\n Oh, please don t tell _any_body it was me that blowed on them! Oh,\nplease! \n\n All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit of what\nyou did. \n\n Oh no, no! Please don t tell! \n\nWhen the young men were gone, the old Welshman said:\n\n They won t tell and I won t. But why don t you want it known? \n\nHuck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too\nmuch about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew\nanything against him for the whole world he would be killed for knowing\nit, sure.\n\nThe old man promised secrecy once more, and said:\n\n How did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking\nsuspicious? \n\nHuck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said:\n\n Well, you see, I m a kind of a hard lot, least everybody says so, and\nI don t see nothing agin it and sometimes I can t sleep much, on account\nof thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a new way of\ndoing. That was the way of it last night. I couldn t sleep, and so I\ncome along upstreet  bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I\ngot to that old shackly brick store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed\nup agin the wall to have another think. Well, just then along comes\nthese two chaps slipping along close by me, with something under their\narm, and I reckoned they d stole it. One was a-smoking, and t other one\nwanted a light; so they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up\ntheir faces and I see that the big one was the deaf and dumb Spaniard,\nby his white whiskers and the patch on his eye, and t other one was a\nrusty, ragged-looking devil. \n\n Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars? \n\nThis staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said:\n\n Well, I don t know but somehow it seems as if I did. \n\n Then they went on, and you \n\n Follered  em yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was up they sneaked\nalong so. I dogged  em to the widder s stile, and stood in the dark and\nheard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard swear he d\nspile her looks just as I told you and your two \n\n What! The _deaf and dumb_ man said all that! \n\nHuck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep\nthe old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be,\nand yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of\nall he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape,\nbut the old man s eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder.\nPresently the Welshman said:\n\n My boy, don t be afraid of me. I wouldn t hurt a hair of your head for\nall the world. No I d protect you I d protect you. This Spaniard is\nnot deaf and dumb; you ve let that slip without intending it; you can t\ncover that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that you want\nto keep dark. Now trust me tell me what it is, and trust me I won t\nbetray you. \n\nHuck looked into the old man s honest eyes a moment, then bent over and\nwhispered in his ear:\n\n Tain t a Spaniard it s Injun Joe! \n\nThe Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said:\n\n It s all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and\nslitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because\nwhite men don t take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That s a\ndifferent matter altogether. \n\nDuring breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man\nsaid that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going\nto bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for\nmarks of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of \n\n Of _what_? \n\nIf the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more\nstunning suddenness from Huck s blanched lips. His eyes were staring\nwide, now, and his breath suspended waiting for the answer. The Welshman\nstarted stared in return three seconds five seconds ten then replied:\n\n Of burglar s tools. Why, what s the _matter_ with you? \n\nHuck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The\nWelshman eyed him gravely, curiously and presently said:\n\n Yes, burglar s tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But what\ndid give you that turn? What were _you_ expecting we d found? \n\nHuck was in a close place the inquiring eye was upon him he would have\ngiven anything for material for a plausible answer nothing suggested\nitself the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper a senseless\nreply offered there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered\nit feebly:\n\n Sunday-school books, maybe. \n\nPoor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and\njoyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to foot, and\nended by saying that such a laugh was money in a-man s pocket, because\nit cut down the doctor s bill like everything. Then he added:\n\n Poor old chap, you re white and jaded you ain t well a bit no wonder\nyou re a little flighty and off your balance. But you ll come out of it.\nRest and sleep will fetch you out all right, I hope. \n\nHuck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such\na suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel\nbrought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the\ntalk at the widow s stile. He had only thought it was not the treasure,\nhowever he had not known that it wasn t and so the suggestion of a\ncaptured bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on the whole\nhe felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all\nquestion that that bundle was not _the_ bundle, and so his mind was\nat rest and exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything seemed to be\ndrifting just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still\nin No. 2, the men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and\nTom could seize the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of\ninterruption.\n\nJust as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. Huck\njumped for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even\nremotely with the late event. The Welshman admitted several ladies and\ngentlemen, among them the Widow Douglas, and noticed that groups of\ncitizens were climbing up the hill to stare at the stile. So the news\nhad spread. The Welshman had to tell the story of the night to the\nvisitors. The widow s gratitude for her preservation was outspoken.\n\n Don t say a word about it, madam. There s another that you re more\nbeholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don t allow me\nto tell his name. We wouldn t have been there but for him. \n\nOf course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the\nmain matter but the Welshman allowed it to eat into the vitals of his\nvisitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he\nrefused to part with his secret. When all else had been learned, the\nwidow said:\n\n I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that\nnoise. Why didn t you come and wake me? \n\n We judged it warn t worth while. Those fellows warn t likely to come\nagain they hadn t any tools left to work with, and what was the use of\nwaking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro men stood guard\nat your house all the rest of the night. They ve just come back. \n\nMore visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a couple\nof hours more.\n\nThere was no Sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but everybody\nwas early at church. The stirring event was well canvassed. News came\nthat not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered. When the\nsermon was finished, Judge Thatcher s wife dropped alongside of Mrs.\nHarper as she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said:\n\n Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just expected she would be tired\nto death. \n\n Your Becky? \n\n Yes,  with a startled look didn t she stay with you last night? \n\n Why, no. \n\nMrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as Aunt Polly,\ntalking briskly with a friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said:\n\n Goodmorning, Mrs. Thatcher. Goodmorning, Mrs. Harper. I ve got a boy\nthat s turned up missing. I reckon my Tom stayed at your house last\nnight one of you. And now he s afraid to come to church. I ve got to\nsettle with him. \n\nMrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever.\n\n He didn t stay with us,  said Mrs. Harper, beginning to look uneasy. A\nmarked anxiety came into Aunt Polly s face.\n\n Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning? \n\n No m. \n\n When did you see him last? \n\nJoe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. The people had\nstopped moving out of church. Whispers passed along, and a boding\nuneasiness took possession of every countenance. Children were anxiously\nquestioned, and young teachers. They all said they had not noticed\nwhether Tom and Becky were on board the ferryboat on the homeward trip;\nit was dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing. One\nyoung man finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the cave!\nMrs. Thatcher swooned away. Aunt Polly fell to crying and wringing her\nhands.\n\nThe alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to\nstreet, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and\nthe whole town was up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank into instant\ninsignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs\nwere manned, the ferryboat ordered out, and before the horror was half\nan hour old, two hundred men were pouring down highroad and river toward\nthe cave.\n\nAll the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. Many women\nvisited Aunt Polly and Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They\ncried with them, too, and that was still better than words. All the\ntedious night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at\nlast, all the word that came was,  Send more candles and send food. \n Mrs. Thatcher was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly, also. Judge Thatcher\nsent messages of hope and encouragement from the cave, but they conveyed\nno real cheer.\n\nThe old Welshman came home toward daylight, spattered with\ncandle-grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out. He found Huck\nstill in the bed that had been provided for him, and delirious with\nfever. The physicians were all at the cave, so the Widow Douglas came\nand took charge of the patient. She said she would do her best by him,\nbecause, whether he was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the Lord s,\nand nothing that was the Lord s was a thing to be neglected. The\nWelshman said Huck had good spots in him, and the widow said:\n\n You can depend on it. That s the Lord s mark. He don t leave it off.\nHe never does. Puts it somewhere on every creature that comes from his\nhands. \n\nEarly in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the\nvillage, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching. All the\nnews that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being\nransacked that had never been visited before; that every corner and\ncrevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that wherever one wandered\nthrough the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither\nand thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistol-shots sent their\nhollow reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles. In one place,\nfar from the section usually traversed by tourists, the names  BECKY &\nTOM  had been found traced upon the rocky wall with candle-smoke, and\nnear at hand a grease-soiled bit of ribbon. Mrs. Thatcher recognized the\nribbon and cried over it. She said it was the last relic she should ever\nhave of her child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be so\nprecious, because this one parted latest from the living body before the\nawful death came. Some said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away\nspeck of light would glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst\nforth and a score of men go trooping down the echoing aisle and then a\nsickening disappointment always followed; the children were not there;\nit was only a searcher s light.\n\nThree dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along, and\nthe village sank into a hopeless stupor. No one had heart for anything.\nThe accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the\nTemperance Tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the\npublic pulse, tremendous as the fact was. In a lucid interval, Huck\nfeebly led up to the subject of taverns, and finally asked dimly\ndreading the worst if anything had been discovered at the Temperance\nTavern since he had been ill.\n\n Yes,  said the widow.\n\nHuck started up in bed, wildeyed:\n\n What? What was it? \n\n Liquor! and the place has been shut up. Lie down, child what a turn you\ndid give me! \n\n Only tell me just one thing only just one please! Was it Tom Sawyer\nthat found it? \n\nThe widow burst into tears.  Hush, hush, child, hush! I ve told you\nbefore, you must _not_ talk. You are very, very sick! \n\nThen nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great\npowwow if it had been the gold. So the treasure was gone forever gone\nforever! But what could she be crying about? Curious that she should\ncry.\n\nThese thoughts worked their dim way through Huck s mind, and under the\nweariness they gave him he fell asleep. The widow said to herself:\n\n There he s asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer find it! Pity but somebody\ncould find Tom Sawyer! Ah, there ain t many left, now, that s got hope\nenough, or strength enough, either, to go on searching. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nNow to return to Tom and Becky s share in the picnic. They tripped along\nthe murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar\nwonders of the cave wonders dubbed with rather over-descriptive names,\nsuch as  The Drawing-Room,   The Cathedral,   Aladdin s Palace,  and\nso on. Presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began, and Tom and Becky\nengaged in it with zeal until the exertion began to grow a trifle\nwearisome; then they wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their\ncandles aloft and reading the tangled webwork of names, dates,\npostoffice addresses, and mottoes with which the rocky walls had been\nfrescoed (in candle-smoke). Still drifting along and talking, they\nscarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave whose walls\nwere not frescoed. They smoked their own names under an overhanging\nshelf and moved on. Presently they came to a place where a little stream\nof water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone sediment with\nit, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced and ruffled Niagara\nin gleaming and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed his small body behind\nit in order to illuminate it for Becky s gratification. He found that\nit curtained a sort of steep natural stairway which was enclosed between\nnarrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a discoverer seized him.\n\nBecky responded to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future\nguidance, and started upon their quest. They wound this way and that,\nfar down into the secret depths of the cave, made another mark, and\nbranched off in search of novelties to tell the upper world about. In\none place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling depended a\nmultitude of shining stalactites of the length and circumference of\na man s leg; they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and\npresently left it by one of the numerous passages that opened into\nit. This shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose basin was\nincrusted with a frostwork of glittering crystals; it was in the midst\nof a cavern whose walls were supported by many fantastic pillars which\nhad been formed by the joining of great stalactites and stalagmites\ntogether, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries. Under the\nroof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a\nbunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by\nhundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. Tom knew their\nways and the danger of this sort of conduct. He seized Becky s hand and\nhurried her into the first corridor that offered; and none too soon, for\na bat struck Becky s light out with its wing while she was passing out\nof the cavern. The bats chased the children a good distance; but the\nfugitives plunged into every new passage that offered, and at last got\nrid of the perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake, shortly,\nwhich stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the\nshadows. He wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would\nbe best to sit down and rest awhile, first. Now, for the first time, the\ndeep stillness of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the\nchildren. Becky said:\n\n Why, I didn t notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard any of\nthe others. \n\n Come to think, Becky, we are away down below them and I don t know how\nfar away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn t hear\nthem here. \n\nBecky grew apprehensive.\n\n I wonder how long we ve been down here, Tom? We better start back. \n\n Yes, I reckon we better. P raps we better. \n\n Can you find the way, Tom? It s all a mixed-up crookedness to me. \n\n I reckon I could find it but then the bats. If they put our candles\nout it will be an awful fix. Let s try some other way, so as not to go\nthrough there. \n\n Well. But I hope we won t get lost. It would be so awful!  and the girl\nshuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities.\n\nThey started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long\nway, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar\nabout the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made an\nexamination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he\nwould say cheerily:\n\n Oh, it s all right. This ain t the one, but we ll come to it right\naway! \n\nBut he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently began\nto turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate hope of\nfinding the one that was wanted. He still said it was  all right,  but\nthere was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost their\nring and sounded just as if he had said,  All is lost!  Becky clung to\nhis side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears,\nbut they would come. At last she said:\n\n Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let s go back that way! We seem to get\nworse and worse off all the time. \n\n Listen!  said he.\n\nProfound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were\nconspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down\nthe empty aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that\nresembled a ripple of mocking laughter.\n\n Oh, don t do it again, Tom, it is too horrid,  said Becky.\n\n It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know,  and\nhe shouted again.\n\nThe  might  was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so\nconfessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and listened; but\nthere was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried\nhis steps. It was but a little while before a certain indecision in his\nmanner revealed another fearful fact to Becky he could not find his way\nback!\n\n Oh, Tom, you didn t make any marks! \n\n Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want to\ncome back! No I can t find the way. It s all mixed up. \n\n Tom, Tom, we re lost! we re lost! We never can get out of this awful\nplace! Oh, why _did_ we ever leave the others! \n\nShe sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom\nwas appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He\nsat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in\nhis bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing\nregrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom\nbegged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell\nto blaming and abusing himself for getting her into this miserable\nsituation; this had a better effect. She said she would try to hope\nagain, she would get up and follow wherever he might lead if only he\nwould not talk like that any more. For he was no more to blame than she,\nshe said.\n\nSo they moved on again aimlessly simply at random all they could do\nwas to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a show of\nreviving not with any reason to back it, but only because it is its\nnature to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by age and\nfamiliarity with failure.\n\nBy-and-by Tom took Becky s candle and blew it out. This economy meant so\nmuch! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died again.\nShe knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in his\npockets yet he must economize.\n\nBy-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to pay\nattention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was\ngrown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction,\nwas at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to\ninvite death and shorten its pursuit.\n\nAt last Becky s frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down.\nTom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there,\nand the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom\ntried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements\nwere grown thread-bare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore\nso heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to sleep. Tom was grateful.\nHe sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural\nunder the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and\nrested there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing\ninto his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and\ndreamy memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a\nbreezy little laugh but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan\nfollowed it.\n\n Oh, how _could_ I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No! No, I\ndon t, Tom! Don t look so! I won t say it again. \n\n I m glad you ve slept, Becky; you ll feel rested, now, and we ll find\nthe way out. \n\n We can try, Tom; but I ve seen such a beautiful country in my dream. I\nreckon we are going there. \n\n Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let s go on trying. \n\nThey rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried\nto estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was\nthat it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not\nbe, for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this they\ncould not tell how long Tom said they must go softly and listen for\ndripping water they must find a spring. They found one presently, and\nTom said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky\nsaid she thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to\nhear Tom dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom\nfastened his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought\nwas soon busy; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the\nsilence:\n\n Tom, I am so hungry! \n\nTom took something out of his pocket.\n\n Do you remember this?  said he.\n\nBecky almost smiled.\n\n It s our wedding-cake, Tom. \n\n Yes I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it s all we ve got. \n\n I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grownup\npeople do with wedding-cake but it ll be our \n\nShe dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and Becky\nate with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was\nabundance of cold water to finish the feast with. By-and-by Becky\nsuggested that they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he\nsaid:\n\n Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something? \n\nBecky s face paled, but she thought she could.\n\n Well, then, Becky, we must stay here, where there s water to drink.\nThat little piece is our last candle! \n\nBecky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to comfort\nher, but with little effect. At length Becky said:\n\n Tom! \n\n Well, Becky? \n\n They ll miss us and hunt for us! \n\n Yes, they will! Certainly they will! \n\n Maybe they re hunting for us now, Tom. \n\n Why, I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are. \n\n When would they miss us, Tom? \n\n When they get back to the boat, I reckon. \n\n Tom, it might be dark then would they notice we hadn t come? \n\n I don t know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they\ngot home. \n\nA frightened look in Becky s face brought Tom to his senses and he saw\nthat he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that night!\nThe children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new burst of\ngrief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers\nalso that the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs. Thatcher\ndiscovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper s.\n\nThe children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it\nmelt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone\nat last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of\nsmoke, linger at its top a moment, and then the horror of utter darkness\nreigned!\n\nHow long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that\nshe was crying in Tom s arms, neither could tell. All that they knew\nwas, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of\na dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said\nit might be Sunday, now maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but\nher sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said that\nthey must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going\non. He would shout and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but in\nthe darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no\nmore.\n\nThe hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A\nportion of Tom s half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But\nthey seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted\ndesire.\n\nBy-and-by Tom said:\n\n SH! Did you hear that? \n\nBoth held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the\nfaintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by\nthe hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently\nhe listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little\nnearer.\n\n It s them!  said Tom;  they re coming! Come along, Becky we re all\nright now! \n\nThe joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow,\nhowever, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded\nagainst. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three\nfeet deep, it might be a hundred there was no passing it at any rate.\nTom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No\nbottom. They must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They\nlistened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant!\na moment or two more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking\nmisery of it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He\ntalked hopefully to Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no\nsounds came again.\n\nThe children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time dragged\non; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed\nit must be Tuesday by this time.\n\nNow an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It\nwould be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the\nheavy time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to\na projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the\nline as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended\nin a  jumping-off place.  Tom got down on his knees and felt below,\nand then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands\nconveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the\nright, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding\na candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a glorious shout,\nand instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to Injun\nJoe s! Tom was paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified the\nnext moment, to see the  Spaniard  take to his heels and get himself out\nof sight. Tom wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and come\nover and killed him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have\ndisguised the voice. Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom s\nfright weakened every muscle in his body. He said to himself that if he\nhad strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay there, and\nnothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again. He\nwas careful to keep from Becky what it was he had seen. He told her he\nhad only shouted  for luck. \n\nBut hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run.\nAnother tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought\nchanges. The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed\nthat it must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now,\nand that the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another\npassage. He felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But\nBecky was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be\nroused. She said she would wait, now, where she was, and die it would\nnot be long. She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he\nchose; but she implored him to come back every little while and speak\nto her; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he would\nstay by her and hold her hand until all was over.\n\nTom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show\nof being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave;\nthen he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the\npassages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with\nbodings of coming doom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nTuesday afternoon came, and waned to the twilight. The village of St.\nPetersburg still mourned. The lost children had not been found. Public\nprayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer\nthat had the petitioner s whole heart in it; but still no good news came\nfrom the cave. The majority of the searchers had given up the quest\nand gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the\nchildren could never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a great\npart of the time delirious. People said it was heartbreaking to hear her\ncall her child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time,\nthen lay it wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into\na settled melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white. The\nvillage went to its rest on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn.\n\nAway in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village\nbells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad\npeople, who shouted,  Turn out! turn out! they re found! they re found! \n Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population massed itself\nand moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open carriage\ndrawn by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its homeward\nmarch, and swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah after\nhuzzah!\n\nThe village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the\ngreatest night the little town had ever seen. During the first half-hour\na procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher s house, seized\nthe saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher s hand, tried to\nspeak but couldn t and drifted out raining tears all over the place.\n\nAunt Polly s happiness was complete, and Mrs. Thatcher s nearly so. It\nwould be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the\ngreat news to the cave should get the word to her husband. Tom lay upon\na sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the history of the\nwonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn it\nwithal; and closed with a description of how he left Becky and went\non an exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his\nkite-line would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch\nof the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off\nspeck that looked like daylight; dropped the line and groped toward it,\npushed his head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad\nMississippi rolling by!\n\nAnd if it had only happened to be night he would not have seen that\nspeck of daylight and would not have explored that passage any more! He\ntold how he went back for Becky and broke the good news and she told\nhim not to fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was\ngoing to die, and wanted to. He described how he labored with her and\nconvinced her; and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to\nwhere she actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way\nout at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried\nfor gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them\nand told them their situation and their famished condition; how the men\ndidn t believe the wild tale at first,  because,  said they,  you are\nfive miles down the river below the valley the cave is in then took\nthem aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two\nor three hours after dark and then brought them home.\n\nBefore day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful of searchers with him\nwere tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung behind\nthem, and informed of the great news.\n\nThree days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to\nbe shaken off at once, as Tom and Becky soon discovered. They were\nbedridden all of Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more and\nmore tired and worn, all the time. Tom got about, a little, on Thursday,\nwas downtown Friday, and nearly as whole as ever Saturday; but Becky\ndid not leave her room until Sunday, and then she looked as if she had\npassed through a wasting illness.\n\nTom learned of Huck s sickness and went to see him on Friday, but could\nnot be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or Sunday.\nHe was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still about his\nadventure and introduce no exciting topic. The Widow Douglas stayed by\nto see that he obeyed. At home Tom learned of the Cardiff Hill event;\nalso that the  ragged man s  body had eventually been found in the river\nnear the ferry-landing; he had been drowned while trying to escape,\nperhaps.\n\nAbout a fortnight after Tom s rescue from the cave, he started off to\nvisit Huck, who had grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting\ntalk, and Tom had some that would interest him, he thought. Judge\nThatcher s house was on Tom s way, and he stopped to see Becky. The\nJudge and some friends set Tom to talking, and some one asked him\nironically if he wouldn t like to go to the cave again. Tom said he\nthought he wouldn t mind it. The Judge said:\n\n Well, there are others just like you, Tom, I ve not the least doubt.\nBut we have taken care of that. Nobody will get lost in that cave any\nmore. \n\n Why? \n\n Because I had its big door sheathed with boiler iron two weeks ago, and\ntriple-locked and I ve got the keys. \n\nTom turned as white as a sheet.\n\n What s the matter, boy! Here, run, somebody! Fetch a glass of water! \n\nThe water was brought and thrown into Tom s face.\n\n Ah, now you re all right. What was the matter with you, Tom? \n\n Oh, Judge, Injun Joe s in the cave! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nWithin a few minutes the news had spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of\nmen were on their way to McDougal s cave, and the ferryboat, well filled\nwith passengers, soon followed. Tom Sawyer was in the skiff that bore\nJudge Thatcher.\n\nWhen the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful sight presented itself in\nthe dim twilight of the place. Injun Joe lay stretched upon the ground,\ndead, with his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing\neyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the light and the cheer\nof the free world outside. Tom was touched, for he knew by his own\nexperience how this wretch had suffered. His pity was moved, but\nnevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and security, now,\nwhich revealed to him in a degree which he had not fully appreciated\nbefore how vast a weight of dread had been lying upon him since the day\nhe lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast.\n\nInjun Joe s bowie-knife lay close by, its blade broken in two. The great\nfoundation-beam of the door had been chipped and hacked through, with\ntedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native rock formed a\nsill outside it, and upon that stubborn material the knife had wrought\nno effect; the only damage done was to the knife itself. But if there\nhad been no stony obstruction there the labor would have been useless\nstill, for if the beam had been wholly cut away Injun Joe could not have\nsqueezed his body under the door, and he knew it. So he had only hacked\nthat place in order to be doing something in order to pass the weary\ntime in order to employ his tortured faculties. Ordinarily one could\nfind half a dozen bits of candle stuck around in the crevices of this\nvestibule, left there by tourists; but there were none now. The prisoner\nhad searched them out and eaten them. He had also contrived to catch a\nfew bats, and these, also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws. The\npoor unfortunate had starved to death. In one place, near at hand, a\nstalagmite had been slowly growing up from the ground for ages, builded\nby the water-drip from a stalactite overhead. The captive had broken off\nthe stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a stone, wherein he had\nscooped a shallow hollow to catch the precious drop that fell once\nin every three minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick a\ndessertspoonful once in four and twenty hours. That drop was falling\nwhen the Pyramids were new; when Troy fell; when the foundations of Rome\nwere laid; when Christ was crucified; when the Conqueror created the\nBritish empire; when Columbus sailed; when the massacre at Lexington was\n news. \n\nIt is falling now; it will still be falling when all these things shall\nhave sunk down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of tradition,\nand been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a\npurpose and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during five thousand\nyears to be ready for this flitting human insect s need? and has it\nanother important object to accomplish ten thousand years to come? No\nmatter. It is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed scooped\nout the stone to catch the priceless drops, but to this day the tourist\nstares longest at that pathetic stone and that slow-dropping water when\nhe comes to see the wonders of McDougal s cave. Injun Joe s cup stands\nfirst in the list of the cavern s marvels; even  Aladdin s Palace \n cannot rival it.\n\nInjun Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave; and people flocked\nthere in boats and wagons from the towns and from all the farms and\nhamlets for seven miles around; they brought their children, and\nall sorts of provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as\nsatisfactory a time at the funeral as they could have had at the\nhanging.\n\nThis funeral stopped the further growth of one thing the petition to the\ngovernor for Injun Joe s pardon. The petition had been largely signed;\nmany tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a committee of\nsappy women been appointed to go in deep mourning and wail around the\ngovernor, and implore him to be a merciful ass and trample his duty\nunder foot. Injun Joe was believed to have killed five citizens of the\nvillage, but what of that? If he had been Satan himself there would\nhave been plenty of weaklings ready to scribble their names to a\npardon-petition, and drip a tear on it from their permanently impaired\nand leaky water-works.\n\nThe morning after the funeral Tom took Huck to a private place to have\nan important talk. Huck had learned all about Tom s adventure from the\nWelshman and the Widow Douglas, by this time, but Tom said he reckoned\nthere was one thing they had not told him; that thing was what he wanted\nto talk about now. Huck s face saddened. He said:\n\n I know what it is. You got into No. 2 and never found anything but\nwhiskey. Nobody told me it was you; but I just knowed it must  a  ben\nyou, soon as I heard  bout that whiskey business; and I knowed you\nhadn t got the money becuz you d  a  got at me some way or other and\ntold me even if you was mum to everybody else. Tom, something s always\ntold me we d never get holt of that swag. \n\n Why, Huck, I never told on that tavern-keeper. _You_ know his tavern\nwas all right the Saturday I went to the picnic. Don t you remember you\nwas to watch there that night? \n\n Oh yes! Why, it seems  bout a year ago. It was that very night that I\nfollered Injun Joe to the widder s. \n\n _You_ followed him? \n\n Yes but you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe s left friends behind him, and\nI don t want  em souring on me and doing me mean tricks. If it hadn t\nben for me he d be down in Texas now, all right. \n\nThen Huck told his entire adventure in confidence to Tom, who had only\nheard of the Welshman s part of it before.\n\n Well,  said Huck, presently, coming back to the main question,  whoever\nnipped the whiskey in No. 2, nipped the money, too, I reckon anyways\nit s a goner for us, Tom. \n\n Huck, that money wasn t ever in No. 2! \n\n What!  Huck searched his comrade s face keenly.  Tom, have you got on\nthe track of that money again? \n\n Huck, it s in the cave! \n\nHuck s eyes blazed.\n\n Say it again, Tom. \n\n The money s in the cave! \n\n Tom honest injun, now is it fun, or earnest? \n\n Earnest, Huck just as earnest as ever I was in my life. Will you go in\nthere with me and help get it out? \n\n I bet I will! I will if it s where we can blaze our way to it and not\nget lost. \n\n Huck, we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the\nworld. \n\n Good as wheat! What makes you think the money s \n\n Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If we don t find it I ll\nagree to give you my drum and every thing I ve got in the world. I will,\nby jings. \n\n All right it s a whiz. When do you say? \n\n Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough? \n\n Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little, three or four days,\nnow, but I can t walk more n a mile, Tom least I don t think I could. \n\n It s about five mile into there the way anybody but me would go, Huck,\nbut there s a mighty short cut that they don t anybody but me know\nabout. Huck, I ll take you right to it in a skiff. I ll float the skiff\ndown there, and I ll pull it back again all by myself. You needn t ever\nturn your hand over. \n\n Less start right off, Tom. \n\n All right. We want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little\nbag or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled\nthings they call lucifer matches. I tell you, many s the time I wished I\nhad some when I was in there before. \n\nA trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen who\nwas absent, and got under way at once. When they were several miles\nbelow  Cave Hollow,  Tom said:\n\n Now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the way down from the\ncave hollow no houses, no wood-yards, bushes all alike. But do you see\nthat white place up yonder where there s been a landslide? Well, that s\none of my marks. We ll get ashore, now. \n\nThey landed.\n\n Now, Huck, where we re a-standing you could touch that hole I got out\nof with a fishing-pole. See if you can find it. \n\nHuck searched all the place about, and found nothing. Tom proudly\nmarched into a thick clump of sumach bushes and said:\n\n Here you are! Look at it, Huck; it s the snuggest hole in this country.\nYou just keep mum about it. All along I ve been wanting to be a robber,\nbut I knew I d got to have a thing like this, and where to run across\nit was the bother. We ve got it now, and we ll keep it quiet, only we ll\nlet Joe Harper and Ben Rogers in because of course there s got to be a\nGang, or else there wouldn t be any style about it. Tom Sawyer s Gang it\nsounds splendid, don t it, Huck? \n\n Well, it just does, Tom. And who ll we rob? \n\n Oh, most anybody. Waylay people that s mostly the way. \n\n And kill them? \n\n No, not always. Hive them in the cave till they raise a ransom. \n\n What s a ransom? \n\n Money. You make them raise all they can, off n their friends; and after\nyou ve kept them a year, if it ain t raised then you kill them. That s\nthe general way. Only you don t kill the women. You shut up the women,\nbut you don t kill them. They re always beautiful and rich, and awfully\nscared. You take their watches and things, but you always take your hat\noff and talk polite. They ain t anybody as polite as robbers you ll see\nthat in any book. Well, the women get to loving you, and after they ve\nbeen in the cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and after that\nyou couldn t get them to leave. If you drove them out they d turn right\naround and come back. It s so in all the books. \n\n Why, it s real bully, Tom. I believe it s better n to be a pirate. \n\n Yes, it s better in some ways, because it s close to home and circuses\nand all that. \n\nBy this time everything was ready and the boys entered the hole, Tom in\nthe lead. They toiled their way to the farther end of the tunnel, then\nmade their spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps brought\nthem to the spring, and Tom felt a shudder quiver all through him.\nHe showed Huck the fragment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay\nagainst the wall, and described how he and Becky had watched the flame\nstruggle and expire.\n\nThe boys began to quiet down to whispers, now, for the stillness and\ngloom of the place oppressed their spirits. They went on, and presently\nentered and followed Tom s other corridor until they reached the\n jumping-off place.  The candles revealed the fact that it was not\nreally a precipice, but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty feet\nhigh. Tom whispered:\n\n Now I ll show you something, Huck. \n\nHe held his candle aloft and said:\n\n Look as far around the corner as you can. Do you see that? There on the\nbig rock over yonder done with candle-smoke. \n\n Tom, it s a _cross_! \n\n _Now_ where s your Number Two?  _under the cross_,  hey? Right yonder s\nwhere I saw Injun Joe poke up his candle, Huck! \n\nHuck stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then said with a shaky voice:\n\n Tom, less git out of here! \n\n What! and leave the treasure? \n\n Yes leave it. Injun Joe s ghost is round about there, certain. \n\n No it ain t, Huck, no it ain t. It would ha nt the place where he\ndied away out at the mouth of the cave five mile from here. \n\n No, Tom, it wouldn t. It would hang round the money. I know the ways of\nghosts, and so do you. \n\nTom began to fear that Huck was right. Misgivings gathered in his mind.\nBut presently an idea occurred to him \n\n Lookyhere, Huck, what fools we re making of ourselves! Injun Joe s\nghost ain t a going to come around where there s a cross! \n\nThe point was well taken. It had its effect.\n\n Tom, I didn t think of that. But that s so. It s luck for us, that\ncross is. I reckon we ll climb down there and have a hunt for that box. \n\nTom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill as he descended.\nHuck followed. Four avenues opened out of the small cavern which the\ngreat rock stood in. The boys examined three of them with no result.\nThey found a small recess in the one nearest the base of the rock, with\na pallet of blankets spread down in it; also an old suspender, some\nbacon rind, and the well-gnawed bones of two or three fowls. But there\nwas no moneybox. The lads searched and researched this place, but in\nvain. Tom said:\n\n He said _under_ the cross. Well, this comes nearest to being under the\ncross. It can t be under the rock itself, because that sets solid on the\nground. \n\nThey searched everywhere once more, and then sat down discouraged. Huck\ncould suggest nothing. By-and-by Tom said:\n\n Lookyhere, Huck, there s footprints and some candle-grease on the clay\nabout one side of this rock, but not on the other sides. Now, what s\nthat for? I bet you the money _is_ under the rock. I m going to dig in\nthe clay. \n\n That ain t no bad notion, Tom!  said Huck with animation.\n\nTom s  real Barlow  was out at once, and he had not dug four inches\nbefore he struck wood.\n\n Hey, Huck! you hear that? \n\nHuck began to dig and scratch now. Some boards were soon uncovered and\nremoved. They had concealed a natural chasm which led under the rock.\nTom got into this and held his candle as far under the rock as he\ncould, but said he could not see to the end of the rift. He proposed\nto explore. He stooped and passed under; the narrow way descended\ngradually. He followed its winding course, first to the right, then to\nthe left, Huck at his heels. Tom turned a short curve, by-and-by, and\nexclaimed:\n\n My goodness, Huck, lookyhere! \n\nIt was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a snug little cavern,\nalong with an empty powder-keg, a couple of guns in leather cases, two\nor three pairs of old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish\nwell soaked with the water-drip.\n\n Got it at last!  said Huck, ploughing among the tarnished coins with\nhis hand.  My, but we re rich, Tom! \n\n Huck, I always reckoned we d get it. It s just too good to believe, but\nwe _have_ got it, sure! Say let s not fool around here. Let s snake it\nout. Lemme see if I can lift the box. \n\nIt weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it, after an awkward\nfashion, but could not carry it conveniently.\n\n I thought so,  he said;  _They_ carried it like it was heavy, that day\nat the ha nted house. I noticed that. I reckon I was right to think of\nfetching the little bags along. \n\nThe money was soon in the bags and the boys took it up to the cross\nrock.\n\n Now less fetch the guns and things,  said Huck.\n\n No, Huck leave them there. They re just the tricks to have when we\ngo to robbing. We ll keep them there all the time, and we ll hold our\norgies there, too. It s an awful snug place for orgies. \n\n What orgies? \n\n I dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of course we ve got to\nhave them, too. Come along, Huck, we ve been in here a long time. It s\ngetting late, I reckon. I m hungry, too. We ll eat and smoke when we get\nto the skiff. \n\nThey presently emerged into the clump of sumach bushes, looked warily\nout, found the coast clear, and were soon lunching and smoking in the\nskiff. As the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out and got\nunder way. Tom skimmed up the shore through the long twilight, chatting\ncheerily with Huck, and landed shortly after dark.\n\n Now, Huck,  said Tom,  we ll hide the money in the loft of the widow s\nwoodshed, and I ll come up in the morning and we ll count it and divide,\nand then we ll hunt up a place out in the woods for it where it will be\nsafe. Just you lay quiet here and watch the stuff till I run and hook\nBenny Taylor s little wagon; I won t be gone a minute. \n\nHe disappeared, and presently returned with the wagon, put the two small\nsacks into it, threw some old rags on top of them, and started off,\ndragging his cargo behind him. When the boys reached the Welshman s\nhouse, they stopped to rest. Just as they were about to move on, the\nWelshman stepped out and said:\n\n Hallo, who s that? \n\n Huck and Tom Sawyer. \n\n Good! Come along with me, boys, you are keeping everybody waiting.\nHere hurry up, trot ahead I ll haul the wagon for you. Why, it s not as\nlight as it might be. Got bricks in it? or old metal? \n\n Old metal,  said Tom.\n\n I judged so; the boys in this town will take more trouble and fool away\nmore time hunting up six bits  worth of old iron to sell to the foundry\nthan they would to make twice the money at regular work. But that s\nhuman nature hurry along, hurry along! \n\nThe boys wanted to know what the hurry was about.\n\n Never mind; you ll see, when we get to the Widow Douglas . \n\nHuck said with some apprehension for he was long used to being falsely\naccused:\n\n Mr. Jones, we haven t been doing nothing. \n\nThe Welshman laughed.\n\n Well, I don t know, Huck, my boy. I don t know about that. Ain t you\nand the widow good friends? \n\n Yes. Well, she s ben good friends to me, anyway. \n\n All right, then. What do you want to be afraid for? \n\nThis question was not entirely answered in Huck s slow mind before he\nfound himself pushed, along with Tom, into Mrs. Douglas  drawing-room.\nMr. Jones left the wagon near the door and followed.\n\nThe place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was of any consequence\nin the village was there. The Thatchers were there, the Harpers, the\nRogerses, Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the editor, and a great\nmany more, and all dressed in their best. The widow received the boys\nas heartily as any one could well receive two such looking beings. They\nwere covered with clay and candle-grease. Aunt Polly blushed crimson\nwith humiliation, and frowned and shook her head at Tom. Nobody suffered\nhalf as much as the two boys did, however. Mr. Jones said:\n\n Tom wasn t at home, yet, so I gave him up; but I stumbled on him and\nHuck right at my door, and so I just brought them along in a hurry. \n\n And you did just right,  said the widow.  Come with me, boys. \n\nShe took them to a bedchamber and said:\n\n Now wash and dress yourselves. Here are two new suits of\nclothes shirts, socks, everything complete. They re Huck s no, no\nthanks, Huck Mr. Jones bought one and I the other. But they ll fit both\nof you. Get into them. We ll wait come down when you are slicked up\nenough. \n\nThen she left.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\nHuck said:  Tom, we can slope, if we can find a rope. The window ain t\nhigh from the ground. \n\n Shucks! what do you want to slope for? \n\n Well, I ain t used to that kind of a crowd. I can t stand it. I ain t\ngoing down there, Tom. \n\n Oh, bother! It ain t anything. I don t mind it a bit. I ll take care of\nyou. \n\nSid appeared.\n\n Tom,  said he,  auntie has been waiting for you all the afternoon. Mary\ngot your Sunday clothes ready, and everybody s been fretting about you.\nSay ain t this grease and clay, on your clothes? \n\n Now, Mr. Siddy, you jist  tend to your own business. What s all this\nblowout about, anyway? \n\n It s one of the widow s parties that she s always having. This time\nit s for the Welshman and his sons, on account of that scrape they\nhelped her out of the other night. And say I can tell you something, if\nyou want to know. \n\n Well, what? \n\n Why, old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring something on the people\nhere tonight, but I overheard him tell auntie today about it, as a\nsecret, but I reckon it s not much of a secret now. Everybody knows the\nwidow, too, for all she tries to let on she don t. Mr. Jones was bound\nHuck should be here couldn t get along with his grand secret without\nHuck, you know! \n\n Secret about what, Sid? \n\n About Huck tracking the robbers to the widow s. I reckon Mr. Jones was\ngoing to make a grand time over his surprise, but I bet you it will drop\npretty flat. \n\nSid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way.\n\n Sid, was it you that told? \n\n Oh, never mind who it was. _Somebody_ told that s enough. \n\n Sid, there s only one person in this town mean enough to do that, and\nthat s you. If you had been in Huck s place you d  a  sneaked down the\nhill and never told anybody on the robbers. You can t do any but mean\nthings, and you can t bear to see anybody praised for doing good ones.\nThere no thanks, as the widow says and Tom cuffed Sid s ears and helped\nhim to the door with several kicks.  Now go and tell auntie if you\ndare and tomorrow you ll catch it! \n\nSome minutes later the widow s guests were at the supper-table, and a\ndozen children were propped up at little side-tables in the same room,\nafter the fashion of that country and that day. At the proper time Mr.\nJones made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the\nhonor she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was\nanother person whose modesty \n\nAnd so forth and so on. He sprung his secret about Huck s share in\nthe adventure in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but the\nsurprise it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous and\neffusive as it might have been under happier circumstances. However,\nthe widow made a pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many\ncompliments and so much gratitude upon Huck that he almost forgot\nthe nearly intolerable discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely\nintolerable discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody s gaze\nand everybody s laudations.\n\nThe widow said she meant to give Huck a home under her roof and have him\neducated; and that when she could spare the money she would start him in\nbusiness in a modest way. Tom s chance was come. He said:\n\n Huck don t need it. Huck s rich. \n\nNothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept\nback the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But\nthe silence was a little awkward. Tom broke it:\n\n Huck s got money. Maybe you don t believe it, but he s got lots of it.\nOh, you needn t smile I reckon I can show you. You just wait a minute. \n\nTom ran out of doors. The company looked at each other with a perplexed\ninterest and inquiringly at Huck, who was tongue-tied.\n\n Sid, what ails Tom?  said Aunt Polly.  He well, there ain t ever any\nmaking of that boy out. I never \n\nTom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and Aunt Polly\ndid not finish her sentence. Tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon the\ntable and said:\n\n There what did I tell you? Half of it s Huck s and half of it s mine! \n\nThe spectacle took the general breath away. All gazed, nobody spoke for\na moment. Then there was a unanimous call for an explanation. Tom said\nhe could furnish it, and he did. The tale was long, but brimful of\ninterest. There was scarcely an interruption from any one to break the\ncharm of its flow. When he had finished, Mr. Jones said:\n\n I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but it\ndon t amount to anything now. This one makes it sing mighty small, I m\nwilling to allow. \n\nThe money was counted. The sum amounted to a little over twelve thousand\ndollars. It was more than any one present had ever seen at one time\nbefore, though several persons were there who were worth considerably\nmore than that in property.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\n\nThe reader may rest satisfied that Tom s and Huck s windfall made a\nmighty stir in the poor little village of St. Petersburg. So vast a\nsum, all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible. It was talked\nabout, gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the citizens\ntottered under the strain of the unhealthy excitement. Every  haunted \nhouse in St. Petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected,\nplank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ransacked for hidden\ntreasure and not by boys, but men pretty grave, unromantic men, too,\nsome of them. Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they were courted, admired,\nstared at. The boys were not able to remember that their remarks had\npossessed weight before; but now their sayings were treasured and\nrepeated; everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as\nremarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing and saying\ncommonplace things; moreover, their past history was raked up and\ndiscovered to bear marks of conspicuous originality. The village paper\npublished biographical sketches of the boys.\n\nThe Widow Douglas put Huck s money out at six per cent., and Judge\nThatcher did the same with Tom s at Aunt Polly s request. Each lad had\nan income, now, that was simply prodigious a dollar for every weekday in\nthe year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the minister got no,\nit was what he was promised he generally couldn t collect it. A dollar\nand a quarter a week would board, lodge, and school a boy in those old\nsimple days and clothe him and wash him, too, for that matter.\n\nJudge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no\ncommonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. When\nBecky told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken her\nwhipping at school, the Judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded\ngrace for the mighty lie which Tom had told in order to shift that\nwhipping from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a fine\noutburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie a lie that\nwas worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast to\nbreast with George Washington s lauded Truth about the hatchet! Becky\nthought her father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he\nwalked the floor and stamped his foot and said that. She went straight\noff and told Tom about it.\n\nJudge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some\nday. He said he meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted to the\nNational Military Academy and afterward trained in the best law school\nin the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or\nboth.\n\nHuck Finn s wealth and the fact that he was now under the Widow Douglas \nprotection introduced him into society no, dragged him into it, hurled\nhim into it and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear. The\nwidow s servants kept him clean and neat, combed and brushed, and they\nbedded him nightly in unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot\nor stain which he could press to his heart and know for a friend. He had\nto eat with a knife and fork; he had to use napkin, cup, and plate;\nhe had to learn his book, he had to go to church; he had to talk so\nproperly that speech was become insipid in his mouth; whithersoever he\nturned, the bars and shackles of civilization shut him in and bound him\nhand and foot.\n\nHe bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up\nmissing. For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in\ngreat distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they searched high\nand low, they dragged the river for his body. Early the third morning\nTom Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind\nthe abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee.\nHuck had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and\nends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe. He was\nunkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made\nhim picturesque in the days when he was free and happy. Tom routed him\nout, told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged him to go home.\nHuck s face lost its tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast. He\nsaid:\n\n Don t talk about it, Tom. I ve tried it, and it don t work; it don t\nwork, Tom. It ain t for me; I ain t used to it. The widder s good to me,\nand friendly; but I can t stand them ways. She makes me get up just\nat the same time every morning; she makes me wash, they comb me all\nto thunder; she won t let me sleep in the woodshed; I got to wear them\nblamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom; they don t seem to any air\ngit through  em, somehow; and they re so rotten nice that I can t\nset down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywher s; I hain t slid on a\ncellar-door for well, it  pears to be years; I got to go to church\nand sweat and sweat I hate them ornery sermons! I can t ketch a fly in\nthere, I can t chaw. I got to wear shoes all Sunday. The widder eats by\na bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up by a bell everything s so\nawful reg lar a body can t stand it. \n\n Well, everybody does that way, Huck. \n\n Tom, it don t make no difference. I ain t everybody, and I can t\n_stand_ it. It s awful to be tied up so. And grub comes too easy I don t\ntake no interest in vittles, that way. I got to ask to go a-fishing;\nI got to ask to go in a-swimming dern d if I hain t got to ask to do\neverything. Well, I d got to talk so nice it wasn t no comfort I d got\nto go up in the attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste\nin my mouth, or I d a died, Tom. The widder wouldn t let me smoke;\nshe wouldn t let me yell, she wouldn t let me gape, nor stretch, nor\nscratch, before folks  [Then with a spasm of special irritation and\ninjury] And dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never see such a\nwoman! I _had_ to shove, Tom I just had to. And besides, that school s\ngoing to open, and I d a had to go to it well, I wouldn t stand _that_,\nTom. Looky-here, Tom, being rich ain t what it s cracked up to be. It s\njust worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead\nall the time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar l suits me, and\nI ain t ever going to shake  em any more. Tom, I wouldn t ever got into\nall this trouble if it hadn t  a  ben for that money; now you just take\nmy sheer of it along with your n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes not\nmany times, becuz I don t give a dern for a thing  thout it s tollable\nhard to git and you go and beg off for me with the widder. \n\n Oh, Huck, you know I can t do that.  Tain t fair; and besides if you ll\ntry this thing just a while longer you ll come to like it. \n\n Like it! Yes the way I d like a hot stove if I was to set on it long\nenough. No, Tom, I won t be rich, and I won t live in them cussed\nsmothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and\nI ll stick to  em, too. Blame it all! just as we d got guns, and a cave,\nand all just fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up\nand spile it all! \n\nTom saw his opportunity \n\n Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain t going to keep me back from turning\nrobber. \n\n No! Oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood earnest, Tom? \n\n Just as dead earnest as I m sitting here. But Huck, we can t let you\ninto the gang if you ain t respectable, you know. \n\nHuck s joy was quenched.\n\n Can t let me in, Tom? Didn t you let me go for a pirate? \n\n Yes, but that s different. A robber is more high-toned than what a\npirate is as a general thing. In most countries they re awful high up in\nthe nobility dukes and such. \n\n Now, Tom, hain t you always ben friendly to me? You wouldn t shet me\nout, would you, Tom? You wouldn t do that, now, _would_ you, Tom? \n\n Huck, I wouldn t want to, and I _don t_ want to but what would people\nsay? Why, they d say,  Mph! Tom Sawyer s Gang! pretty low characters in\nit!  They d mean you, Huck. You wouldn t like that, and I wouldn t. \n\nHuck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. Finally he\nsaid:\n\n Well, I ll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and see if I\ncan come to stand it, if you ll let me b long to the gang, Tom. \n\n All right, Huck, it s a whiz! Come along, old chap, and I ll ask the\nwidow to let up on you a little, Huck. \n\n Will you, Tom now will you? That s good. If she ll let up on some of\nthe roughest things, I ll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd\nthrough or bust. When you going to start the gang and turn robbers? \n\n Oh, right off. We ll get the boys together and have the initiation\ntonight, maybe. \n\n Have the which? \n\n Have the initiation. \n\n What s that? \n\n It s to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang s\nsecrets, even if you re chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody and\nall his family that hurts one of the gang. \n\n That s gay that s mighty gay, Tom, I tell you. \n\n Well, I bet it is. And all that swearing s got to be done at midnight,\nin the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find a ha nted house is the\nbest, but they re all ripped up now. \n\n Well, midnight s good, anyway, Tom. \n\n Yes, so it is. And you ve got to swear on a coffin, and sign it with\nblood. \n\n Now, that s something _like_! Why, it s a million times bullier than\npirating. I ll stick to the widder till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be\na reg lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking  bout it, I reckon\nshe ll be proud she snaked me in out of the wet. \n\nCONCLUSION\n\nSo endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a _boy_, it\nmust stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the\nhistory of a _man_. When one writes a novel about grown people, he knows\nexactly where to stop that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of\njuveniles, he must stop where he best can.\n\nMost of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are\nprosperous and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to take up the\nstory of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they\nturned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that\npart of their lives at present.\n"
    },
    {
        "title": "The Mysterious Island",
        "author": "Anthony Hope",
        "category": "Adventure",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I.\n\nTHE IMPOSSIBLE--INEVITABLE.\n\n\nIn the garden the question was settled without serious difference of\nopinion. If Sir Robert Perry really could not go on--and Lady Eynesford\nwas by no means prepared to concede even that--then Mr. Puttock,\n_bourgeois_ as he was, or Mr. Coxon, conceited and priggish though he\nmight be, must come in. At any rate, the one indisputable fact was the\nimpossibility of Mr. Medland: this was, to Lady Eynesford's mind,\naxiomatic, and, in the safe privacy of her family circle (for Miss\nScaife counted as one of the family, and Captain Heseltine and Mr.\nFlemyng did not count at all), she went so far as to declare that, let\nthe Governor do as he would (in the inconceivable case of his being so\nfoolish as to do anything of the kind), she at least would not receive\nMr. Medland. Having launched this hypothetical thunderbolt, she asked\nAlicia Derosne to give her another cup of tea. Alicia poured out the\ntea, handed it to her sister-in-law, and asked,\n\n\"But, Mary, what is there so dreadful about Mr. Medland?\"\n\n\"Everything,\" said Lady Eynesford.\n\n\"Still,\" suggested Miss Scaife, \"if the creatures are bent on having\nhim----\"\n\n\"My dear Eleanor, what is a Governor for?\" demanded Lady Eynesford.\n\n\"To do as he's told and subscribe to the Cup,\" interposed Dick Derosne.\nAnd he added, \"They are having a palaver. Old Perry's been in an hour\nand a half.\"\n\nCaptain Heseltine and Mr. Flemyng looked at their watches and nodded\ngravely.\n\n\"Poor Willie!\" murmured Lady Eynesford. \"He'll miss his ride.\"\n\nPoor Willie--that is to say, His Excellency William Delaporte, Baron\nEynesford, Governor of New Lindsey--deserved all the sympathy his wife's\nexclamation implied, and even more. For, after a vast amount of fencing\nand an elaborate disquisition on the state of parties in the colony, Sir\nRobert Perry decisively refused the dissolution the Governor offered,\nand ended by saying, with eyebrows raised and the slightest shrug of his\nshoulders,\n\n\"In fact, sir, it's my duty to advise you to send for Mr. Medland.\"\n\nThe Governor pushed his chair back from the table.\n\n\"You won't try again?\" he asked.\n\n\"Impossible, until he has failed.\"\n\n\"You think Puttock out of the question?\"\n\n\"Quite. He has not following enough: people wouldn't stand Medland being\npassed over. Really, I don't think you'll find Medland hard to get on\nwith. He's a very able man. For myself, I like him.\"\n\nThe Governor sat silent for a few minutes. Sir Robert, conceiving that\nhis interview was at an end, rose to take leave. Lord Eynesford\nexpressed much regret at being obliged to lose his services: Sir Robert\nreplied suitably, and was at the door before the Governor reverted to\nMr. Medland.\n\n\"There are queer stories about him, aren't there?\" he asked. \"I mean\nabout his private life.\"\n\n\"Well, there is some vague gossip of the kind.\"\n\n\"There now! That's very awkward. He must come here, you know, and what\nshall I say to my wife?\"\n\n\"She's been dead three or four years now,\" said Sir Robert, not\nreferring to the Governor's wife. \"And it's only rumour after all.\nNothing has ever come to light on the subject.\"\n\n\"But there's a girl.\"\n\n\"There's nothing against the girl--except of course----\"\n\n\"Oh, just so,\" said the Governor; \"but that makes it awkward. Besides,\nsomebody told me he used to get drunk.\"\n\n\"I think you may disregard that,\" said Sir Robert. \"It only means that\nhe likes his glass of wine as most of us do.\"\n\nSir Robert retired, and presently Dick Derosne, who acted as his\nbrother's private secretary, came in. The Governor was in an easy-chair,\nsmoking a cigar.\n\n\"So you've settled it,\" said Dick.\n\n\"Yes. Perry won't hear of going on.\"\n\n\"Well, he hardly could after being beaten by seventeen on his biggest\nbill. What's going to happen?\"\n\nNow the Governor thought fit to assume that the course he had, after so\nmuch hesitation, determined upon was, to every sensible man, the only\npossible course. Perhaps he fancied that he would thus be in a stronger\nposition for justifying it to a sensible woman.\n\n\"Of course,\" he said, in a tone expressive of some surprise at a\nquestion so unnecessary, \"I am sending for Medland.\"\n\nDick Derosne whistled. The Governor relapsed into sincerity.\n\n\"No help for it,\" he pleaded. \"You must back me up, old man, with Mary.\nWomen can't understand constitutional obligations.\"\n\n\"She said she wouldn't have him to the house,\" remarked Dick.\n\n\"Oh, Eleanor Scaife must persuade her. I wish you'd go and tell them,\nDick. I'm expecting Medland in half-an-hour. I wish I was out of it. I\ndistrust these fellows, both them and their policy.\"\n\n\"And yet you'll have to be civil to them.\"\n\n\"Civil! I must be just as cordial as I was with Perry. That's why it's\nso important that Mary should be----\"\n\n\"Reasonable?\" suggested Dick.\n\n\"Well, yes,\" said Lord Eynesford.\n\n\"How does Perry take it?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't think he minds much. He thinks Medland's gang will soon\nfall to pieces and he'll come back. Besides, the K.C.M.G. softens the\nblow.\"\n\n\"Ah! It's the cheap defence of nations now--_vice_ chivalry, out of\nfashion,\" laughed Dick.\n\nHitherto Lord Eynesford and his wife had enjoyed their reign. Everything\nhad gone well. The Governor agreed heartily with the measures introduced\nby Sir Robert Perry's ministry, and his relations with the members of\nthe government, and especially with its chief, had been based on\nreciprocal liking and respect: they were most of them gentlemen and all\nof them respectable men, and, what was hardly less important, their\nwives and families had afforded no excuse for the exercise of Lady\nEynesford's somewhat fastidious nicety as to manners, or her distinctly\nrigid scrutiny into morals. Under such conditions, the duty and the\ninclinations of Government House went hand-in-hand. Suddenly, in the\nmidst of an apparently peaceful session, came what the Governor\nconsidered an unhallowed combination between a discontented section of\nPerry's party, and the Opposition under Medland's leadership. The result\nwas the defeat of the Government, the resignation of Sir Robert, and the\ninevitability of Mr. Medland.\n\nEntering the Legislative Assembly as the representative of an outlying\nconstituency, Medland had speedily made himself the spokesman of the\ngrowing Labour Party, and now, after fifteen years of public life, and a\nsecret and subterranean struggle with the old middle-class element, was\nestablished as the leader of a united party, so powerful in numbers that\nthe accession of some dozen deserters had placed it in a majority. Mr.\nCoxon had led the revolt against Sir Robert Perry, and the Governor\ndisliked Coxon even more thoroughly than he distrusted Medland. Miss\nScaife said that Medland was the more dangerous, inasmuch as he was\nsincere and impetuous, while Coxon was neither; but then, the Governor\nwould reply, Coxon was a snob, and Medland, if not exactly a gentleman\naccording to the ideas of Eton and Christchurch--and Lord Eynesford\nadhered to these ideas--scorned a bad imitation where he could not\nattain the reality, and by his simplicity and freedom from pretension\nextorted the admission of good breeding. But why compare the men? He\nwould have to accept both, for Medland must offer Coxon a place, and\nbeyond doubt the offer would be accepted. The Governor was alarmed for\nthe fate of New Lindsey under such ruling, and awaited with\napprehension his next interview with his wife.\n\nDick Derosne had fulfilled his mission, and his tidings had spread\ndismay on the lawn. Lady Eynesford reiterated her edict of exclusion\nagainst the new Premier; Eleanor Scaife smiled and told her she would be\nforced to receive him. Alicia in vain sought particulars of Mr.\nMedland's misdeeds, and the _aides-de-camp_ speculated curiously on the\ncomposition of the Cabinet, Captain Heseltine betting Mr. Flemyng five\nto two that it would include Mr. Giles, the leading tailor of Kirton, to\nwhose services the captain had once been driven to resort with immense\ntrepidation and disastrous results. As a fact, the captain lost his bet;\nthe Cabinet did not include Mr. Giles, because that gentleman, albeit an\nable speaker, and a man of much greater intellect than most of his\ncustomers, was suspected of paying low wages to his employ s, though,\naccording to the captain, it was impossible that he should pay them as\nlittle as their skill deserved.\n\n\"I don't think I ever saw Mr. Medland,\" said Alicia, who had come out\nfrom England only a few months before.\n\n\"I have seen him,\" said Eleanor Scaife. \"In fact, I had a little talk\nwith him at the Jubilee Banquet.\"\n\n\"Was he sober?\" Lady Eynesford, in her bitterness of spirit, allowed\nherself to ask.\n\n\"Mary! Of course he was. He was also rather interesting. He was then in\nmourning for Mrs. Medland, and he told me he only came because his\nabsence would have been put down to disloyalty.\"\n\nThe mention of Mrs. Medland increased the downward curve of Lady\nEynesford's mouth, and she was about to speak, when Dick Derosne\nexclaimed,\n\n\"Well, you can see him now, Al. He's walking up the drive.\"\n\nThe party and their tea-table were screened by trees, and they were\nable, themselves unseen, to watch Mr. Medland, as, in obedience to the\nGovernor's summons, he walked slowly up to Government House. A girl of\nabout seventeen or eighteen accompanied him to the gate, and left him\nthere with a merry wave of her hand, and he strode on alone, his hands\nin his trousers pockets and a soft felt hat on the back of his head.\n\nJames--or, as his followers called him, \"Jimmy\"--Medland was forty-one\nyears of age, once an engineer, now a politician, by profession, a tall,\nloose-limbed, slouching man, with stiff black hair and a shaven face.\nHis features were large and had been clear-cut, but by now they had\ngrown coarser, and his deep-set eyes, under heavy lids and bushy\neyebrows, alone survived unimpaired by time and life. Deep lines ran\neither side from nose to mouth, and the like across his forehead. He had\ncut himself while shaving that morning, and a large patch of black\nplaster showed in the centre of his long, prominent chin: as he walked,\nhe now and then lifted a hand to pluck nervously at it; save in this\nunconscious gesture, he betrayed no sign of excitement or preoccupation,\nfor, as he walked, he looked about him and once, for a minute, he\nwhistled.\n\n\"Awful!\" said Lady Eynesford in a whisper.\n\n\"He wants a new coat,\" said Captain Heseltine.\n\n\"He looks rather interesting, I think,\" said Alicia.\n\nAt this moment a rare and beautiful butterfly fluttered close over Mr.\nMedland's head. He paused and watched it for a moment. Then he looked\ncarefully round him: no one was in sight: the butterfly settled for a\nmoment on a flowerbed. Mr. Medland looked round again. Then he\ncautiously lifted his soft hat from his head, wistfully eyed the\nbutterfly, looked round again, suddenly pounced down on his knees, and\npressed the hat to the ground. He was very close to the hidden tea-party\nnow, so close that Alicia's suppressed scream of laughter almost\nbetrayed its presence. Mr. Medland put his head down and, raising one\ncorner of the hat, peered under it. Alicia laughed outright, for the\nbutterfly was fluttering in the air above him. Medland did not hear her;\nhe looked up, saw the butterfly, rose to his feet, put on his hat, and\nexclaimed, in a voice audible by all the listeners----\n\n\"Missed it, by heaven!\"\n\n\"You see the sort of man he is,\" observed Lady Eynesford.\n\n\"An entomologist, I suppose,\" suggested Miss Scaife.\n\n\"He chases butterflies in the Governor's garden, and swears when he\ndoesn't catch them!\"\n\n\"He fears not God, neither regards the Governor,\" remarked Dick, with a\nsolemn shake of his head.\n\n\"Don't be flippant, Dick,\" said Lady Eynesford sharply.\n\n\"He might at least brush the knees of his trousers,\" moaned Captain\nHeseltine.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Medland walked up to the door and rang the bell. He was\nreceived by Jackson, the butler; and Jackson was flanked by two footmen.\nJackson politely concealed his surprise at not seeing a carriage and\npair, and stated that his Excellency would receive Mr. Medland at once.\n\n\"I hope I haven't kept him waiting,\" answered Medland. \"The pony's lame,\nand I had to walk.\"\n\nThe footmen, who were young, raw, and English, almost smiled. A Premier\ndependent on one pony! Jackson redoubled his obsequious attention.\n\nThe Governor used to say that he wished his wife had imbibed the\nconstitutional spirit as readily as Jackson.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nA POPULAR DEMONSTRATION.\n\n\nMiss Eleanor Scaife was _gouvernante des enfants de_ New Lindsey; but\nshe found the duty of looking after two small children, shared as it was\nwith a couple of nurses, not enough to occupy her energies. So she\norganised the hospitality of Government House, and interested herself in\nthe political problems of a young community. In the course of the latter\npursuit, a study of Mr. Medland appeared appropriate and needful, and\nMiss Scaife was minded to engage in it, in spite of the hostility of\nLady Eynesford. She had studied Sir Robert Perry for three years, but\nSir Robert was disappointing. That he was a charming old gentleman she\nfreely admitted, but he was not in any special way characteristic of a\nyoung community. He was just like half-a-hundred members of Parliament\nwhom she had known while she lived with the Eynesfords at home: in fact\nhe was irredeemably European. Accordingly she was glad to see him, but\nshe mentally transferred him to the recreative department, and talked\nto him about scenery, pictures, and light literature. Lady Eynesford\nadmired Sir Robert because there was no smack of the young community\nabout him; Miss Scaife conceded that point of view, but maintained that\nthere was another: and from that other she ranked Mr. Medland above a\nthousand Sir Roberts. All this she explained to Alicia Derosne, after\nLady Eynesford had retired in dudgeon, and while the Governor was\ncloseted with the new Premier.\n\n\"But,\" objected Alicia, \"Captain Heseltine says----\"\n\n\"Unless,\" interrupted Eleanor, \"it's something about a coat, I don't\ncare what Captain Heseltine says. He's an authority on that subject, but\non no other under the sun.\"\n\nAlicia abandoned Captain Heseltine's authority and fell back on her\nsister-in-law's; Eleanor, in spite of the unusual relations of intimate\nfriendship, dating from old school-days, between her employer and\nherself, could not treat Lady Eynesford's opinion with open disrespect.\nShe drew certain distinctions, which resulted in demonstrating that a\nclose acquaintance between Mr. Medland and Alicia was inadvisable, but\nthat as regards herself the case was different.\n\n\"In short,\" said Alicia, summarising the distinctions, \"you are thirty\nand I am twenty-two. But I don't want to know the man, only I liked him\nfor hunting that butterfly. I wonder what Miss Medland is like. Captain\nHeseltine says she's very pretty.\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Is she out? Oh, but does one come out in New Lindsey?\"\n\n\"It will be much more convenient if she isn't out,\" said Miss Scaife,\nrising and beginning to walk towards the house.\n\nAlicia accompanied her. Before they had gone far, Mr. Medland and Dick\nDerosne appeared in the drive. The interview was ended, and Dick was\nescorting Mr. Medland.\n\n\"I'm afraid we can't avoid them,\" said Miss Scaife.\n\n\"I'm afraid not,\" said Alicia. \"I wonder what they're talking about.\"\n\nMr. Medland's voice, though not loud in ordinary speech, was distinct\nand penetrating. In a moment Alicia's wonder was satisfied.\n\n\"Only be sure you get the right gin,\" he said.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" said Alicia. \"Is that characteristic of a young\ncommunity, Eleanor?\"\n\nMiss Scaife made no reply. The two parties met, and Mr. Medland was\npresented. At this instant, Alicia, glancing at the house, thought she\nsaw a disapproving face at Lady Eynesford's window; but it seemed hardly\nlikely that the Governor's wife would be watching the Premier out of the\nwindow. Alicia wondered whether they had met in the house; Miss Scaife\nfelt no doubt that they had not. She knew that Lady Eynesford's\nsurrender would be a matter of time.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"are we to congratulate you, Mr. Medland?\"\n\n\"I believe my tongue is supposed to be sealed for the time,\" he\nanswered, smiling.\n\n\"Mine isn't,\" laughed Dick, \"and I think you may offer him your\nfelicitations.\"\n\n\"You think it, yourself, a subject for congratulation?\" asked Eleanor,\ngetting to work at once.\n\n\"Oh, Eleanor!\" protested Alicia. \"Poor Mr. Medland!\"\n\nMedland glanced from one to the other, smiling again.\n\n\"Whatever may be the sacrifice of personal inclination involved,\" he\nbegan solemnly, \"when the Governor calls on me I have no----\"\n\n\"You're making fun of us,\" said Alicia, seeing the twinkle in his eye.\n\n\"I am quoting Mr.--Sir Robert Perry's speech when he last came in.\"\n\n\"Sir Robert is a great friend of mine,\" declared Alicia.\n\n\"Seriously,\" said Medland, turning to Eleanor, \"I am very pleased.\"\n\n\"Why?\" she asked. \"The responsibility must be frightful.\"\n\nAlicia and Dick laughed irreverently.\n\n\"Eleanor's always talking about responsibility,\" said the former. \"I\nhate the idea of it, don't you, Mr. Medland?\"\n\n\"Call it power and try then,\" he answered.\n\n\"Power? Oh, but I have none!\"\n\n\"No?\" he asked, with a look that made Alicia think he might have been\n\"nice\" when he was a young man.\n\n\"Oh, of course, if it's mere ambition--\" began Eleanor impatiently.\n\n\"Not altogether,\" he interposed.\n\n\"Then what else?\"\n\n\"Listen!\" he said, holding up his hand.\n\nThey were now within twenty or thirty yards of the road, and, listening,\nthey heard the murmur of many voices. Government House stood on the\nshore of the bay, about half a mile outside the town, and a broad road\nran by the gates which, on reaching Kirton, was merged in one of the\nmain thoroughfares, Victoria Street.\n\nAnother turn brought the party in the garden in sight of the road. It\nwas thronged with people for a considerable distance, people in a thick\nmass, surging up against the gate and hardly held back by a cordon of\npolice.\n\n\"Whatever can be the matter?\" exclaimed Eleanor.\n\n\"I am the matter,\" said Medland. \"They have heard about it.\"\n\nWhen the crowd saw him, cheer after cheer rang out, caps and\nhandkerchiefs were waved, and even flags made a sudden appearance.\nMoving a pace in advance of his companions, he lifted his hat, and the\nenthusiastic cries burst forth with renewed vigour. He signed to them\nto be still, but they did not heed him. Alicia caught hold of Eleanor's\nhand, her breath coming and going in sudden gasps. Eleanor looked at\nMedland. He was moistening his lips, and she saw a little quiver run\nthrough his limbs.\n\n\"By Jove!\" said Dick Derosne.\n\nMedland turned to Eleanor, and pointed to the crowd.\n\n\"Yes, I see,\" she said.\n\nHe held out his hand to bid them farewell, and walked on towards the\ngate. They stood and watched his progress. Suddenly a different cry\nrose.\n\n\"Let her pass! Let her pass! Let her through to him!\"\n\nThe crowd slowly parted, and down the middle of the road, amid the\nraising of hats and pretty rough compliments, a young girl came walking\nswiftly and proudly, with a smile on her lips.\n\n\"It's his daughter,\" whispered Alicia. \"Oh!\"\n\nMedland opened the gate and went out. The girl, her fair hair blowing\nout behind her and her cheeks glowing red, ran to meet him, and, as he\nstooped and kissed her, the crowd, having, as a crowd, but one way to\ntell its feelings, roared and cheered again. Medland, with one hand on\nhis daughter's shoulder and the other holding his hat, walked down the\nlane between human walls, and was lost to sight as the walls found\nmotion and closed in behind him.\n\nAfter some moments' silence Dick Derosne recovered himself, and remarked\nwith a cynical air,\n\n\"Neat bit of acting--kissing the girl and all that.\"\n\nBut Alicia would not have it. With a tremulous laugh, she said,\n\n\"I should like to have kissed him too. Oh, Eleanor, I didn't know it was\nlike that!\"\n\nPerhaps Eleanor did not either, but she would not admit it. What was it\nbut a lot of ignorant people cheering they knew not what? If anything,\nit was degrading. Yet, in spite of these most reasonable reflections,\nshe knew that her cheeks had flushed and her heart beat at the sight and\nthe sound.\n\nThey were still standing and watching the crowd as it retreated towards\nKirton, when the Governor, who had come out to get some fresh air after\nhis arduous labour, joined them.\n\n\"Extraordinary the popularity of the man in Kirton,\" he observed, in\nanswer to Alicia's eager description of Mr. Medland's triumph.\n\n\"What has he done for them?\" asked Eleanor.\n\n\"Done? Oh, I don't know. He's done something, I suppose; but it's what\nhe's going to do that they're so keen about.\"\n\n\"Is he a Socialist?\" inquired Alicia.\n\n\"I can't tell you,\" replied Lord Eynesford. \"I don't know what he\nis--and I'm not sure I know what a Socialist is. Ask Eleanor.\"\n\n\"A Socialist,\" began Eleanor, in an authoritative tone, \"is----\"\n\nBut this much-desired definition was unhappily lost, for a footman came\nup and told Lord Eynesford that his wife would like to see him if he\nwere disengaged.\n\nThe Governor smiled grimly, winked imperceptibly, and departed.\n\n\"It's been quite an entertaining day,\" said Miss Scaife. \"But I'm very\nsorry for Sir Robert.\"\n\n\"What was Mr. Medland talking to you about, Dick?\" asked Alicia.\n\n\"Oh, a new sort of drink. You take a long glass, and some pounded ice\nand some gin--only you must be careful to get----\"\n\n\"I don't want to hear about it.\"\n\n\"Well, you asked, you know,\" retorted Dick, with the air of a man who\nsuffers under the perpetual illogicality of woman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nHOSPITALITY _EX OFFICIO_.\n\n\n\"I confess to being very much alarmed,\" said Mr. Kilshaw, \"and I think\nCapital generally shares the feeling.\"\n\n\"If I thought he could last, I should share it myself,\" said Sir Robert\nPerry.\n\n\"He may easily last long enough to half ruin my business. Large concerns\nare delicate concerns.\"\n\n\"Come, Kilshaw, Puttock's a capitalist; he'll see Capital isn't\nwronged.\"\n\n\"Puttock is all very well in his way; but what do you say to Jewell and\nNorburn?\"\n\n\"Jewell's an old-style Radical: he won't do you much harm. You hit the\nnail on the head when you mention Norburn. Norburn would be very pleased\nto run your factory as a State work-shop for two pound a week.\"\n\n\"And pickings,\" added Mr. Kilshaw, with scornful emphasis.\n\nA third gentleman, who was sitting near in the large bow-window of the\nCentral Club, an elderly man, with short-clipped white hair and a\npleasant face, joined in the talk.\n\n\"Norburn? Why, is that the fellow I tried? Is he in Medland's\ngovernment?\"\n\n\"That's the man, Sir John,\" answered Kilshaw; and Sir Robert added,\n\n\"You gave him three months for inciting to riot in the strike at the\nCollieries two years ago. He's made Minister of Public Works; I hear the\nGovernor held out for a long while, but Medland insisted.\"\n\n\"And my works are to be Public Works, I suppose,\" grumbled Kilshaw,\nfinding some comfort in this epigrammatic statement of the unwelcome\nprospect before him.\n\n\"Red-hot, isn't he?\" asked Sir John Oakapple, who, as Chief Justice of\nthe colony, had sent the new Minister to gaol.\n\nKilshaw nodded.\n\n\"Will he and Puttock pull together?\" continued the Chief Justice.\n\n\"The hopeful part of the situation is,\" said Sir Robert, \"that Puttock\nis almost bound to fall out with somebody, either with Norburn, for the\nreason you name, or with Coxon, because Coxon will try to rule the\nroast, or with Medland himself.\"\n\n\"Why should he quarrel with Medland?\"\n\n\"Why does the heir quarrel with the king? Besides, there's the\nProhibition Question. I doubt if Medland will satisfy Puttock and his\npeople over that.\"\n\n\"Oh, I expect he will,\" said the Chief Justice. \"I asked him once--this\nis in confidence, you know--if he didn't think it a monstrous proposal,\nand he only shrugged those slouched shoulders of his, and said, 'We've\ngot Sunday Closing, and we go in the back way: if we have Prohibition\nthe drink'll go in the back way--same principle, my dear Chief\nJustice'\": and that High Officer finished his anecdote with a laugh.\n\n\"The odd thing about Medland is,\" remarked Sir Robert, \"that he's\nutterly indifferent about everything except what he's utterly mad about.\nHe has no moderate sympathies or antipathies.\"\n\n\"Therefore he's a most dangerous man,\" said Kilshaw.\n\n\"Oh, I think he sympathises, in moderation, with morality,\" laughed Sir\nJohn.\n\n\"Ay,\" rejoined Perry quickly, \"and that's all. What if Puttock raised\nthe Righteous on him?\"\n\n\"Oh, then I should stand by Medland,\" said the Chief Justice decisively.\n\"And young Coxon's to be Attorney-General. He's safe enough.\"\n\n\"A man who thinks only about himself is generally safe,\" remarked Sir\nRobert dryly; and he added, with a smile, \"That's why lawyers are such a\nvaluable class.\"\n\nThe Chief Justice laughed, and took his revenge by asking,\n\n\"How many windows did they break, Perry?\"\n\n\"Only three,\" rejoined the Ex-Premier. \"Considering the popular\nenthusiasm I got off cheap.\"\n\n\"You can't stir a people's heart for nothing. All the same, the\nreception they gave him was a fine sight.\"\n\n\"Extraordinary, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"I call it most ominous,\" said Mr. Kilshaw, and he rose and went out\ngloomily.\n\n\"I haven't had my invitation to meet them at Government House yet,\" said\nthe Chief Justice.\n\nHe referred to the banquet which the Governor was accustomed to give to\na new Ministry, when the leading officials of the colony were always\nincluded in the party.\n\nSir Robert looked round for possible eavesdroppers.\n\n\"There's a hitch,\" he said in a low voice. \"Lady Eynesford makes\ndifficulties about having Medland.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's nonsense!\"\n\n\"Utter nonsense; but it seems she does. However, I suppose you'll get\nyour card in a day or two.\"\n\n\"And renew my acquaintance with Mr. Norburn under happier\ncircumstances.\"\n\n\"Norburn will feel as one used to when one breakfasted with the\nschool-master--as a peacemaking after another sort of interview.\"\n\nSir Robert Perry proved right in supposing that Lady Eynesford's\nresistance could not last for ever. It was long enough and fierce enough\nto make the Governor very unhappy and the rest of the family very\nuncomfortable, but it was foredoomed to failure. Even the Bishop of\nKirton, whom she consulted, told her that high place had its peculiar\nduties, and that however deplorable the elevation of such a man might\nbe, if the Queen's representative invited him to join his counsels, the\nQueen's representative's wife must invite him to join her dinner-party:\nand the Bishop proved the sincerity of his constitutional doctrine by\naccepting an invitation to meet the new Ministry. Lady Eynesford,\nabandoned by Church and State alike, surrendered, thanking heaven that\nDaisy Medland's youth postponed another distasteful necessity.\n\n\"You'll have to face it in a few months' time,\" said Eleanor Scaife, who\nwas not always as comforting a companion as a lady in her position is\nsupposed to be.\n\n\"Oh, they'll be out in a month,\" answered Lady Eynesford confidently.\n\"The Bishop says they can't last. Do you know, Eleanor, Mr. Coxon is the\nonly Churchman among them?\"\n\n\"Shocking!\" said Eleanor, with no more suspicion of irony than her\nreputation as an _esprit fort_ demanded. It really startled her a\nlittle: the social significance seemed considerable.\n\nMr. Medland's invitation to dinner caused him perhaps more perturbation\nthan had his invitation to power. A natural sensitiveness of mind\nsupplied in him the place of an experience of refined society or an\nimpulse of inherited pride. He cared nothing that his advent to office\nalarmed and displeased many; but it gave him pain to be compelled to\ndine at the table of a lady who, by notorious report, did not desire his\ncompany.\n\n\"I don't want to go, and she doesn't want to have me,\" he protested to\nhis daughter; \"yet she must have me and I must go. The great god Sham\nagain, Daisy.\"\n\n\"You'll meet him everywhere now,\" said Daisy, with a melancholy shake of\nher young head.\n\n\"And rout him somewhere?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, everywhere--except at Government House.\"\n\n\"I hate going.\"\n\n\"I believe mother would have liked it. Don't you think so, dear?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. Should you?\"\n\n\"I should be terribly afraid of Lady Eynesford.\"\n\n\"Just my feeling,\" said Medland, stroking his chin.\n\nWhen he entered the drawing-room at Government House, and was presented\nto his hostess by the Governor, on whose brow rested a little pucker of\nanxiety, Lady Eynesford was talking to the Bishop and to Mr. Puttock.\nPuttock had accepted the office of Minister of Trade and Customs, but\nnot without grumbling, for he had aspired to control the finances of the\ncolony as Treasurer, and considered that Medland underrated his\ninfluence as a political leader. He was a short man, rather stout, with\nlarge whiskers; he wore a blue ribbon in the button-hole of his\ndress-coat. Lady Eynesford considered him remarkably like a grocer, and\nthe very quintessence of nonconformity; but he at least was indisputably\nrespectable, a devoted husband, and the father of a large family, behind\nwhose ranks he was in the habit of walking to chapel twice every Sunday.\nSometimes he preached when he got there. Just to his right, talking\nbriskly to Alicia Derosne, stood Mr. Coxon, the Attorney-General, very\nsmart in English-made clothes, and discussing the doings of people at\nhome whom he had known or seen in the days when he was at Cambridge, and\nhad the run of a rich uncle's house in Park Lane. In the distance the\nRoman Catholic Archbishop was talking to Eleanor Scaife, and suffering\nSir John Oakapple's jests with a polite faint smile. This mixture of the\nsects ranked high among the trials of Lady Eynesford's position, and\ncontained precious opportunities for Miss Scaife's inquiring mind.\n\nIt seems true beyond question that moral estimation counts for more in\nthe likings of women than in those of men. Medland, in spite of the\nutter insignificance, as he conceived, of the lady's judgment considered\nas an intellectual process, was too much of a politician, and perhaps a\nlittle too much of a man also, not to wish to conciliate the Governor's\nwife; but his courteous deference, his clever talk, and his search for\npoints of sympathy broke ineffectually on the barriers of Lady\nEynesford's official politeness and personal reserve. She was cruel in\nher clear indication of the footing upon which they met, and the\nGovernor's uneasy glance of appeal would produce nothing better than a\ncold interest in the scenery of the Premier's constituency. Medland was\nglad when Lady Eynesford turned to the Chief Justice and released him;\nhis relief was so great that it was hardly marred by finding Mrs.\nPuttock on his other side. Yet Mrs. Puttock and he were not congenial\nspirits.\n\n\"We are sending a deputation to you,\" said Mrs. Puttock, directly\nMedland's change of position gave her an opportunity.\n\nHe emptied his glass of champagne, and asked,\n\n\"Which of your many 'We's,' Mrs. Puttock?\"\n\n\"Why, the W.T.A.A.\"\n\n\"I won't affect ignorance--Women's--Total--Abstinence--Association.\"\n\n\"The enthusiasm this afternoon was enormous. Of course Mr. Puttock could\nnot be there; but I told them I felt sure that with the new Ministry an\nera of real hope had dawned,\" and Mrs. Puttock looked inquiringly at the\nPremier, who was in his turn looking at the foaming wine that fell into\nhis glass from Jackson's practised hand.\n\n\"A new era?\" he answered. \"Oh, well, you didn't get much out of Perry.\nWhat do you want of me?\"\n\n\"We want to strengthen your hands in dealing drastically with the\nproblem. Of course, it will be one of your first measures.\"\n\n\"We have at least six first measures already on the list,\" remarked the\nPremier, smiling.\n\n\"I saw your daughter to-day,\" Mrs. Puttock continued. \"I went to ask her\nto join us.\"\n\n\"Isn't she rather young to join things?\" pleaded Mr. Medland. \"Poor\nchild! She would hardly understand what she's giving--I mean, what she's\ngoing in for. What did she say?\"\n\n\"Well, really, Mr. Medland, I think you might speak a word to her. She\ntold me she loved champagne and tipsy-cake. The tipsy-cake doesn't\nmatter, because it can be made without alcohol.--I beg your pardon?\"\n\n\"I didn't speak,\" said the Premier.\n\n\"But champagne! At her age!\"\n\n\"She's only tasted it half-a-dozen times.\"\n\n\"Well, I hope every one will have to give it up soon. My husband says\nthat the Cabinet----\"\n\n\"Here's treason! Has he been telling you our secrets?\"\n\n\"Secrets! Why, two-thirds of the party are pledged----\"\n\nBut here Lady Eynesford again claimed the Premier's attention, and he\nwas really glad of it.\n\nDick Derosne walked home with Mr. Medland. He had intended to go only to\nthe gate, but Medland pressed him to go further, and, engrossed in\nconversation, they reached Medland's house without separating.\n\n\"Come in and see Daisy,\" said Medland. \"She's been alone all the\nevening, poor girl, and will be glad of better company than mine.\"\n\n\"Oh, come, I expect she likes your society better than any one else's.\"\n\n\"Well, that won't last long, will it?\"\n\nThey went in and found Daisy supping on the wing of a chicken, and some\nwine-and-water. Medland led the way, and, as soon as his daughter saw\nhim, she exclaimed,\n\n\"Was it very awful, father?\"\n\n\"Well, was it, Mr. Derosne?\" he asked of Dick. \"Daisy, this is the\nGovernor's brother, Mr. Derosne.\"\n\n\"It was awful!\" said Dick, executing his bow. \"Those great feeds always\nare.\"\n\n\"Why, Daisy,\" exclaimed Mr. Medland, \"you're drinking wine. How about\nMrs. Puttock?\"\n\n\"Oh, she told you? She said it was very wicked.\"\n\n\"And you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I said it wasn't, because you did it.\"\n\n\"Luckily, a conclusion may be right, though the reason for it is utterly\nwrong,\" said the Premier.\n\n\"I,\" said Dick, \"always admit things are wicked, you know, and say I do\n'em all the same. It saves a lot of argument.\"\n\nThe door opened and Mr. Norburn walked in.\n\n\"Is it too late for me to come?\" he asked.\n\n\"Of course not,\" said Daisy, greeting him with evident pleasure, and\nensconcing him in an armchair. \"We expect you to come at all the odd\ntimes. That's the part of an intimate friend, isn't it, Mr. Derosne?\"\n\nMedland was speaking to Norburn, and Dick took the opportunity of\nremarking,\n\n\"Mayn't I come at an odd time now and then?\"\n\n\"Oh do. We shall be so pleased.\"\n\n\"Mr. Norburn doesn't come at all of them, does he?\"\n\n\"At most. Do you mind that?\"\n\n\"Of course I do. Who wouldn't?\"\n\n\"I don't.\"\n\n\"No, if you did I shouldn't.\"\n\nDick was, it must be admitted, getting along very well, considering that\nhe had only been presented to the young lady ten minutes before. That\nwas Dick's way; and when the young lady is attractive, it is a way that\nhas many recommendations, only sometimes it leads to a pitfall--a cold\nanswer, or a snub.\n\n\"But why,\" asked Daisy, in apparent surprise, \"should you mind about\nwhat I thought? I'm afraid I should never think about whether you liked\nit or not, you know.\"\n\n\"Good-night,\" said Dick. And when he got outside and was lighting his\ncigar, he exclaimed, \"Confound the girl!\" And after a pause he added,\n\"Hang the fellow!\" and shook his head and went home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nWEEDING OUT THE WEAK-KNEED.\n\n\nIn a short time it happened that Lady Eynesford conceived a high opinion\nof Mr. Coxon. He was, she declared, the one bright spot in the new\nMinistry; he possessed ability, principle, sound Churchmanship, and\ngentlemanly demeanour. A young man thus equipped could hardly fail of\nsuccess, and Lady Eynesford, in spite of the Governor's decidedly\nlukewarm approbation, was pleased to take the Attorney-General under her\nspecial protection. More than once in the next week or two did Mr.\nCoxon, tall-hatted, frock-coated, and new-gloved, in obedience to\ncordial invitations, take tea in the verandah of Government House. He\nwas naturally gratified by these attentions, and, being not devoid of\nambition, soon began to look upon his position as the starting-point for\na greater prize. Lady Eynesford was, here again, with him--up to a\npoint. She thought (and thoughts are apt to put themselves with a\nbluntness which would be inexcusable in speech) that it was high time\nthat Eleanor Scaife was married, and, from an abstract point of view,\nthis could hardly be denied. Lady Eynesford took the next step. Eleanor\nand Coxon would suit one another to perfection. Hence the invitations to\ntea, and Lady Eynesford's considerate withdrawals into the house, or out\nof sight in the garden. Of course it was impossible to gauge Eleanor's\nviews at this early stage, but Lady Eynesford was assured of Mr. Coxon's\ngratitude--his bearing left no doubt of it--and she congratulated\nherself warmly on the promising and benevolent scheme which she had set\nafoot.\n\nNow the danger of encouraging ambitious young men--and this remark is\ngeneral in its scope, and not confined at all to one subject-matter--is\nthat their vaulting imaginations constantly overleap the benevolence of\ntheir patrons. Mr. Coxon would not have been very grateful for\npermission to make love to Miss Scaife; he was extremely grateful for\nthe opportunity of recommending himself to Alicia Derosne. The\nGovernor's sister--none less--became by degrees his aim and object, and\nwhen Lady Eynesford left him with Miss Scaife, hoping that Alicia would\nhave the sense not to get in the way, Mr. Coxon's soaring mind regarded\nhimself as left with Alicia, and he hoped that the necessary exercise of\ndiscretion would be forthcoming from Miss Scaife. Presently this little\ncomedy revealed itself to Eleanor, and, after an amused glance at the\nretreating figure of her misguided friend, she would bury herself in\n_Tomes on the British Colonies_, and abandon Alicia to the visitor's\nwiles. A little indignant at the idea of being \"married off\" in this\nfashion, she did not feel it incumbent on her to open Lady Eynesford's\neyes. As for Alicia--Alicia laughed, and thought that young men were\nmuch the same all the world over.\n\n\"Tomes,\" said Eleanor on one occasion, looking up from the first volume\nof that author--and perhaps she chose her passage with malice--\"clearly\nintimates his opinion that the Empire can't hold together unless the\nsocial bonds between England and the colonies are strengthened.\"\n\n\"Does he, dear?\" said Alicia, playing with the pug. \"Do look at his\ntongue, Mr. Coxon. Isn't it charming?\"\n\n\"Yes. Listen to this: 'It is on every ground to be regretted that the\ndivorce between society at home and in the colonies is so complete. The\nties of common interest and personal friendship which, impalpable though\nthey be, bind nations together more closely than constitutions and laws,\nare to a great extent wanting. Even the interchange of visits is rare;\ncloser connection by intermarriage, in a broad view, non-existent.'\"\n\n\"There's a great deal of sense in that,\" said Coxon.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Coxon,\" laughed Alicia, \"you should have thought of it when\nyou were in England.\"\n\nEleanor's eyes had dropped again to Tomes, and Mr. Coxon answered, in a\ntone not calculated to disturb the reader,\n\n\"I hope it's not altogether too late.\"\n\n\"The choice is so small out here, isn't it? Now, according to Tomes, Mr.\nMedland ought to marry a duchess--well, a dowager-duchess--but there\nisn't one.\"\n\n\"I should hardly have thought the Premier quite the man for a duchess,\"\nsaid Coxon, rather superciliously.\n\n\"Well, I like him much better than most dukes I've seen. Why do you\nshake your head?\"\n\n\"I've the greatest respect for Mr. Medland as my leader, but--come, Miss\nDerosne, he's hardly--now is he?\"\n\n\"I like him very much indeed,\" declared Alicia. \"I think he's the most\ninteresting man I've ever met.\"\n\n\"But thinking a man interesting and thinking him a man one would like to\nmarry are quite different, surely?\" suggested fastidious Mr. Coxon.\n\n\"Thinking him interesting and thinking him a man one would be _likely_\nto marry are quite different,\" corrected Eleanor, emerging from Tomes.\n\n\"By the way, who was Mrs. Medland?\" asked Alicia.\n\nCoxon hesitated for a moment: Eleanor raised her eyes.\n\n\"I believe her name was Benyon,\" he answered. \"I--I know nothing about\nher.\"\n\n\"Didn't you know her?\"\n\n\"No, I was in England, and she died a year after I came back--before I\nwent into politics at all.\"\n\n\"I wonder if she was nice.\"\n\n\"My dear Alicia, what can it matter?\" asked Eleanor.\n\n\"If you come to that, Eleanor, most of the things we talk about don't\nmatter,\" protested Alicia. \"We are not Attorney-Generals, like Mr.\nCoxon, whose words are worth--how much?\"\n\n\"Now, Miss Derosne, you're chaffing me.\"\n\n\"Come and feed the swans,\" said Alicia, rising.\n\n\"What will Mary think?\" said Eleanor, settling herself down again to\nTomes. \"And why is Alicia so curious about the Medlands?\"\n\nIt was perhaps natural that Eleanor should be puzzled to answer the\nquestion she put to herself, but in reality the interest Alicia felt\nadmitted of easy explanation. She had first encountered Medland under\nconditions which invested him with all the attraction that a visibly\ndominant character exercises over a young mind, and the impression then\ncreated had been of late much deepened by what she heard from her\nbrother. Dick felt that the Governor would be a cold, and Lady Eynesford\na thoroughly unfavourable, auditor of his views on the Medlands, but, in\nspite of Daisy's cruel indifference, he had taken advantage of her\npermission to pay her more than one visit, and he poured out his soul to\nhis sister. His outpourings consisted of enthusiastic praises of both\nfather and daughter.\n\n\"By Jove!\" he said, \"it's simply--you know, Al--simply fetching to see\nthem together. He's a splendid chap--not an ounce of side or nonsense\nabout him. And she's awfully pretty. Don't you think she's awfully\npretty, Al?\"\n\n\"I only saw her for a moment, dear.\"\n\n\"It's too bad of Mary to go on as she does. She simply ignores Miss\nMedland.\"\n\n\"Miss Medland's still very young, Dick. Is he--how does he treat her?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It's almost funny--they're always jumping up to get one\nanother things, don't you know!\" answered Dick, whose feelings outran\nhis powers of elegant description.\n\n\"Do you go there much, Dick?\"\n\n\"Now, Al, don't try to do Mary to me.\"\n\nAlicia laughed.\n\n\"I think Mary will 'do' as much 'Mary' to you as you want, if you don't\ntake care, you foolish boy. But, Dick, tell me. How do Willie and Mr.\nMedland get on?\"\n\n\"Oh, pretty well, but-- You won't tell?\"\n\nAlicia promised secrecy, and Dick, conscious of criminality, lowered his\nvoice and continued,\n\n\"I believe there's a row on in the Cabinet already. Willie said Puttock\nand Jewell were at loggerheads with Norburn, and Medland was inclined\nto back Norburn.\"\n\n\"And Mr. Coxon?\"\n\n\"He's supposed to be lying low. And then I was down at the club and met\nold Oakapple there, and he told me that Kilshaw had boasted of having\ndone a deal with Puttock.\"\n\n\"What did he mean?\"\n\n\"Why, that he and his gang--the rich capitalists, you know--were to back\nup old Puttock's temperance measures, provided Puttock (and Jewell, if\nPuttock could nobble him) prevented Medland from bringing in--what the\ndeuce was it?--some Socialistic labour legislation or other--I forget\nwhat. Anyhow the Chief Justice thought Perry would be back soon.\"\n\n\"What? That Mr. Medland would be turned out? What a shame! He hasn't had\na fair chance, has he?\"\n\nThe gossip which Dick had picked up was not very wide of the mark. It\nwas perhaps too early to talk of absolute dissensions, but it was\ntolerably well known that a struggle was likely to occur in the Cabinet,\nnominally on the question of the relative priority to be given to\ndifferent measures, more truly perhaps on the issue whether the advanced\nlabour party, represented by Norburn, or the Radicals of the older type,\nheaded by Puttock and Jewell, were to control the policy of the Premier\nand the Government. The latter section was inextricably connected, and,\nin its _personnel_, almost identical with the party who set the\nProhibition question above and before all other matters. The concrete\nform taken by this conflict of abstract principles seemed likely to\nbe--should the Government begin with a Temperance measure, or should it,\nin the first place, proceed to give to Labour that drastic Factory and\nWorkshop Act which Norburn had advocated and Medland accepted, and which\nwould, Mr. Kilshaw declared, reduce every manufacturer to the position\nof a slave of Government and a pauper to boot, would drive capital from\nthe colony, and shut up every mill in New Lindsey? Now Mr. Kilshaw\nwould, if he were reduced to choose, rather close the public-houses than\nthe mills. So he told Sir Robert Perry, who was very quiet, but very\nwatchful just now; and the story was that Sir Robert said, \"Puttock has\ngot shares in the Southern Sea Mill--and Puttock's a Prohibition man,\"\nand refused to say any more; but that was enough--so the talk ran--to\nsend Mr. Kilshaw straight to Puttock's hall-door.\n\nThese public matters gave Mr. Coxon much food for thought. His own\nattitude was, at present, considered to be one of neutrality towards the\nrival factions in the Government. He was in the habit of defining his\naim in political life as being a steady and gradual removal of obstacles\nto the progress of the colony; to attain complete truth, it was only\nnecessary to alter the definition by substituting \"Mr. Coxon\" for \"the\ncolony\"; and the question which now occupied him was how he might best\nsecure the best possible position for himself, without, as he hastened\nto protest, abandoning his principles. He disliked Puttock, and he was\nenvious of Norburn, who threatened to supplant him as the \"rising man\"\nof his party. Should he help Puttock to remove Norburn, or lend Norburn\na hand in ousting Puttock?\n\nDown to the very week before the Legislative Assembly met, Mr. Medland\nkept his own counsel, disclosing his mind not even to his colleagues.\nThen he called a Cabinet, and listened to the conflicting views set\nforth by Puttock and Norburn.\n\n\"And what do you say, Mr. Coxon?\" he asked, when Puttock's vehement\nharangue came to an end.\n\n\"I shall follow your judgment implicitly,\" replied Mr. Coxon, with\ntouching fidelity.\n\n\"I feel bound to state,\" said Mr. Puttock, \"and I believe I speak for my\nfriend Jewell also\" (Mr. Jewell nodded), \"that with us priority for\nTemperance legislation and a cautious policy in imposing hampering\nrestrictions on commercial undertakings are of vital moment. We cannot\nagree to give way on either point.\"\n\n\"And you, Norburn?\" asked Medland, turning to his devoted follower, and\nsmiling a kindly smile.\n\nNorburn was about to speak, when Puttock broke in,\n\n\"It is best that the Premier should understand our position; what we\nhave stated is absolutely essential to our continuance in the\nGovernment.\"\n\nMr. Medland thought that the function of a follower was to follow, and\nof a leader to lead. He always found it difficult to put up with\nopposition, and patience was not among whatever qualities of\nstatesmanship he possessed.\n\nDrumming gently on the table, he said,\n\n\"Oh, no Temperance this session. We'll give 'em a Labour session.\" He\npaused, and added, \"And give it 'em hot and strong.\"\n\nSo that evening Puttock and Jewell resigned, and the Cabinet, meeting\nthe House shorn and maimed, was established in power by the magnificent\nmajority of ten.\n\n    \"If so soon as this I'm done for,\n    I wonder what I was begun for!\"\n\nquoted Sir John Oakapple. \"If they never agreed at all, what did they\ntake office together for?\"\n\n\"The screw,\" suggested Captain Heseltine.\n\n\"Then why haven't they stuck to it?\"\n\nSilence met this question, and the Chief Justice turned a look of bland\ninquiry on Mr. Kilshaw.\n\nMr. Kilshaw coughed and turned the pages of the _Kirton World_.\n\nThe Chief Justice winked at Dick Derosne, and said that it was\nrefreshing to see there were still men who would sacrifice office to\nconviction.\n\n\"Oh, uncommon, Sir John,\" said Dick Derosne, and these cynics, having\ndone entire injustice to two deeply sincere men, went off and joined in\na game of pool. The Chief Justice took the pool.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nA TALK AT A DANCE.\n\n\nImmediately after the Assembly had so narrowly confirmed Mr. Medland's\nposition, it adjourned for a fortnight in order to allow time for the\nreorganisation of the Government, and the preparation of its legislative\nprojects. The Governor seized the opportunity and started on a shooting\nexpedition, accompanied by his wife. His absence somewhat diminished the\n_ clat_ of Sir John Oakapple's dance, but nevertheless it was agreed to\nbe a very brilliant affair. Everybody came, for Sir John's position\ninvited hospitality to all parties alike, and the host, as became a\nwell-to-do bachelor, provided a sumptuous entertainment. Even Mr.\nMedland was there, for it was his daughter's first public appearance,\nand he and Sir Robert Perry had interchanged some friendly remarks on\nthe existing crisis.\n\n\"I suppose I mustn't ask who you're going to give us instead of your\ndeserters,\" said Sir Robert jokingly.\n\n\"Oh,\" answered Medland, \"I'm going to fill up with Labour men. I\nhaven't quite fixed on the men yet.\"\n\n\"Then you'll be all one colour--all red? But I must congratulate you on\nyour daughter's _d but_. She and Miss Derosne are the _belles_ of the\nevening.\"\n\nThen Sir Robert, in his pretty way, must needs be led up to Daisy\nMedland and dance a quadrille with her, apologising politely to Dick\nDerosne, who had arranged to sit out the said quadrille with the same\nlady, and became a violent anti-Perryite on the spot.\n\nAlicia passed on Mr. Coxon's arm, and stopped for a moment to condole.\n\n\"I didn't know Premiers danced,\" she said, and perhaps her glance\nconveyed a shy invitation to Medland.\n\n\"If I ask you now, I shall have another secession,\" he replied, smiling\nat Coxon. \"Besides, I can't dance.\"\n\n\"You must sit out with me then,\" she said, growing bolder. \"You don't\nmind, do you, Mr. Coxon?\"\n\nCoxon and Dick were left to console one another, and Alicia sat down\nwith Medland. At first he was silent, watching his daughter. When the\nquadrille ended, he rose and said,\n\n\"Come into the garden.\"\n\n\"But my partner for the next won't be able to find me.\"\n\n\"Well, supposing he can't?\" said the Premier.\n\n\"It makes one very conceited to be a Premier,\" thought Alicia, but she\nwent into the garden.\n\nThen began what she declared to herself was the most interesting\nconversation to which she had ever listened. From silence, the Premier\npassed to a remark here and there, thence to a conversation, thence, as\nthe evening went on and they strolled further and further away from the\nhouse, into a monologue on his life and aims and hopes. Young man after\nyoung man sought her in vain, or, finding the pair, feared to intrude\nand retired in discontent, while Medland strove to draw the picture of\nthat far-off society whose bringing-near was his goal in public life.\nShe wondered if he talked to other women like that: and she found\nherself hoping that he did not. His gaunt form seemed to fill and his\nsunk eyes to spring out to meet the light, as he painted for her the\ntime when his dreams should have clothed themselves with the reality\nwhich his persuasive imagination almost gave them now.\n\nThen he suddenly turned on himself.\n\n\"And I might have done something,\" he said; \"but I've wasted most of my\nlife.\"\n\n\"Wasted it?\" she echoed in a wondering question.\n\n\"I don't know why I talk about it to-night, still less why I talk about\nit to you. I talked about it last to--to my wife.\"\n\n\"Ah! But your daughter?\"\n\n\"Daisy!\" he laughed tenderly. \"Poor little Daisy! I don't bother her\nwith it all.\" Then he added, \"Really I've no business to bother you\neither, Miss Derosne. I break out sometimes. I'm afraid I'm not 'a\nsilent, strong man.' Does it bore you?\"\n\n\"You know--you know--\" Alicia stammered.\n\n\"And now,\" he said, rising in his excitement, \"even now, what have I?\nThe place--the form--the name of power; and these creatures hold me back\nand hang on my flank and--I can do nothing.\" He sank back on the bench\nwhere she sat.\n\nAlicia put her hand out and drew it back. Then she stretched it out\nagain, and laid it on his arm.\n\n\"I am so sorry,\" she said, and her voice faltered. \"Oh, if I could--but\nhow absurd!\"\n\nMedland turned suddenly and looked her in the face.\n\n\"You will help some one,\" he answered, \"some better man. And I--I beg\nyour pardon. Come.\"\n\nAlicia asked herself afterwards if she ought to be ashamed of what she\ndid then. She caught the Premier by the arm, and said,\n\n\"But I want to stay with you.\" And then she sat trembling to hear his\nanswer.\n\nFor a moment he did not answer. He passed his hand over his brow; then\nhe smiled sadly.\n\n\"Nearly twenty years ago a woman said that to me,\" he said. \"But\nshe--well, it wasn't to talk politics.\"\n\n\"Oh, to call it _talking politics_!\" she answered, with a little gasping\nlaugh.\n\nWith another swift turn of his head, he bent his eyes on hers. She\nturned her head away, and neither spoke. Alicia played nervously with\none glove which she had stripped off, while Medland gravely watched her\nface, beautiful in its pure outline and quivering with unwonted\nemotions. With a start he roused himself.\n\n\"Come,\" he said imperiously, offering his arm. She took it, and, without\nmore words, they turned towards the house.\n\nThey had not gone far, when Eleanor Scaife met them. She was walking\nquickly, looking round as she went, as though in search. When she saw\nthem she started, and cried,\n\n\"Oh, I want you, Alicia.\"\n\nMedland immediately drew aside, and with a bow took his way. Alicia,\ncalming herself with an effort, asked what was the matter.\n\n\"Why, it's that wretched brother of yours. I really do not know what\nMary will say. I shall be afraid----\"\n\n\"But what has Dick done?\"\n\n\"Done? Why he's danced six dances out of eight with that Medland child.\nThe whole room's talking about them.\"\n\n\"Eight dances? There can't have been eight dances?\"\n\n\"Don't be silly,\" said Eleanor sharply. \"I suppose you danced? No! I\nremember I didn't see you. Where have _you_ been?\"\n\n\"I--I've been sitting out.\"\n\n\"Not--not--Alicia, with one man? Worse and----\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Mr. Coxon, then, I hope? At least he's safe.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Who then?\"\n\n\"I don't know why you should ask----\"\n\n\"Alicia! Was it--?\" exclaimed Eleanor, with a gesture towards where she\nhad found her friend.\n\n\"Mr. Medland? Yes,\" answered Alicia. And, in her effort to exclude\ntimidity, she infused into her voice a note of defiance.\n\nEleanor sat down on the nearest seat. Surprise dominated her faculties.\nDick's behaviour was reprehensible, but, given such creatures as young\nmen, natural. But Alicia? The thing was too surprising to cause\nuneasiness.\n\n\"Well, you are a queer child! Here's all the room looking for you to\ndance with you, and you go and sit in the garden with a politician of\nfive-and-forty! What in the world were you doing?\"\n\n\"Talking politics,\" said Alicia, now quite calmly.\n\n\"And you've been here since----?\"\n\n\"The first quadrille.\"\n\n\"Six mortal dances!\" said Eleanor, in an envious tone. Alicia had had a\ngrand opportunity. \"Did you remember to ask him about that description\nof the Cabinet meetings in Tomes? You remember we agreed to?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I forgot, dear.\"\n\n\"Oh, how stupid of you! If I'd been--but good gracious! I forgot Dick.\nDo come, Alicia, and get him away from her. We seem to have nothing but\nMedlands to-night!\"\n\nThe first person they met inside the ball-room was Mr. Coxon. He was\nenveloped in gloom. Alicia's conscience smote her.\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried, \"I forgot Mr. Coxon! I must go and scold him for not\ncoming for me. Nonsense, Eleanor! I can't help about Dick,\" and, shaking\noff Miss Scaife's detaining hand, she went to play the usual imposture.\n\nEleanor looked round in bewilderment. Seeing Lady Perry, she was struck\nwith an idea, crossed the room, and joined the ex-Premier's smiling,\npleasant wife. Lady Perry had noticed enough to be _au fait_ with the\nsituation at a word. She rose and went to where Medland was now leaning\nlistlessly against the wall. She spoke a word to him; he started,\nsmiled, and shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"I know you'll forgive me. One can't be too careful,\" she urged. \"No one\ncan be father and mother both.\"\n\nMr. Medland beckoned to his daughter; she came to him, Dick standing a\nfew feet off.\n\n\"Whenever, Daisy,\" said Medland, \"a thing is pleasant, one must not, in\nthis world, have much of it. Is that the gospel, Lady Perry?\"\n\n\"You'll make young Mr. Derosne too conceited, my dear,\" whispered Lady\nPerry, very kindly; but she favoured Dick, who knew well that he was a\nsinner, with a severe glance.\n\nThus Eleanor Scaife, having rid her party of the Medlands--for the\nmoment, as she impatiently added--was at liberty to listen to the\nconversation of Mrs. Puttock. Mrs. Puttock was always most civil to any\nof the Government House party, and she entertained Eleanor, who\nresolutely refused all invitations to dance, with plenty of gossip.\nAmidst their talk and the occasional interruptions of men who joined and\nleft them, the evening wore away, and Eleanor had just signed to Alicia\nto make ready to go, when Mrs. Puttock touched on the Premier, who was\nvisible across the room, chatting merrily with his host, and laughing\nheartily at the Chief Justice's stories.\n\n\"The Premier seems in good spirits,\" said Mrs. Puttock, a little acidly.\n\n\"Oh, I expect he's only bearing up in public,\" laughed Eleanor. \"But\nthere certainly is a great change in him since I first recollect him.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Miss Scaife.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Eleanor, rising, for she saw Alicia approaching under\nCaptain Heseltine's escort. \"It was about the Jubilee time. He seemed\nthen quite overcome with grief at the loss of his wife. Ah, here's\nAlicia!\"\n\n\"Wife!\" exclaimed Mrs. Puttock, bestowing on Eleanor a look of deep\nsignificance. \"It's my belief he never had a wife.\"\n\nEleanor started.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" she began, but she checked herself when she found\nthat Alicia was close beside her. She hastily bade Mrs. Puttock\ngood-night.\n\n\"I mean what I say,\" observed that lady, with an emphatic nod. Eleanor\nescaped in bewilderment.\n\n\"Who never had a wife?\" asked Alicia, with a laugh, as they were putting\non their cloaks.\n\nAfter a moment's pause, Eleanor answered,\n\n\"Sir John Oakapple,\" and she excused this deviation from truth by the\nsage reflection that girls like Alicia must not be told everything.\n\n\"We all know that,\" commented Alicia, contemptuously. \"I hoped it was\nsomething interesting.\"\n\nEleanor enjoyed a smile in the sheltering gloom of the carriage. She\nfelt very discreet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nA CANDIDATE FOR OFFICE.\n\n\nThe Premier sent his daughter home alone in a fly and walked with Coxon,\nwhose road lay the same way. As they went, they talked of plans and\nprospects, and Medland unconsciously exasperated his companion by\npraising Norburn's character and capacity.\n\n\"Depend upon it, he's the coming man of New Lindsey,\" he said. \"He\nthinks the world will get better sooner than it will, you may say. Well,\nperhaps I share that illusion. Anyhow he has enthusiasm and grit, and I\nlove his utter disinterestedness.\"\n\nCoxon acquiesced coldly in his rival's praises.\n\n\"That,\" continued Medland, \"is where we have the pull. Who is there to\nfollow Perry? Now Norburn is ready to step into my shoes the moment I'm\ngone, or--or come to grief.\"\n\nThey had reached Digby Square, a large open place, laid out with walks\nand trees, and named after Sir Jabez Digby, K.B., first Governor of New\nLindsey. The Premier paused to light a cigar. Coxon watched him with a\nmorose frown; he was angry and envious at Medland's disregard of the\npretensions which he thought his own achievements justified. Though he\nwas conscious that it would be wisest to say nothing, he could not help\nobserving,\n\n\"Well, I hope it will be a long time before I am asked to change service\nunder you for service under Norburn.\"\n\nMedland's quick ear caught the note of anger.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"it's ill prophesying. Time brings its own leaders. I\nknow Norburn and you will work loyally together anyhow, whatever\npositions you hold to one another.\"\n\nThis polite concession did not appease Coxon.\n\n\"There is much that I distrust in his methods and aims,\" he remarked.\n\n\"I mustn't listen to this, my dear fellow.\"\n\n\"Of course I say it in strict----\"\n\n\"Yes, but still--I should say the same to Norburn.\"\n\nThey walked on a few steps, and the Premier had just taken his cigar\nfrom his mouth in order to resume the conversation, when a man stepped\nup to him, appearing, as it seemed, from among the trees, and said,\n\n\"May I have a word with you, Mr. Medland?\"\n\nThe speaker was dressed smartly, but not well, in a new suit of light\nclothes. He was tall and strongly built; a full grey beard made it a\nmatter of difficulty to distinguish his features clearly in the dim\nlight.\n\n\"I beg pardon, I don't think I've the pleasure of knowing you, but I\nshall be very happy. What is it, sir?\"\n\n\"A word in private,\" said the stranger, \"if this gentleman will excuse\nme.\"\n\nIn response to a glance from his chief, Coxon said good-night and\nstrolled on, hearing Medland say,\n\n\"I seem to know your voice, but I can't lay my hand on your name.\"\n\nThe stranger drew nearer to him.\n\n\"I pass by the name of Benham now,\" he said; \"I haven't forgotten you.\nI've too good cause to remember you.\"\n\nMedland looked at him closely.\n\n\"It's only the beard that puzzles you,\" said the stranger, with a grim\nsmile.\n\n\"Benyon!\" exclaimed the Premier. \"I thought you had left the country.\nWhat do you want with me, sir?\"\n\n\"I have not left the country, and I want a good deal with you, Mr.\nPremier Medland.\"\n\n\"I lost touch of you four years ago.\"\n\n\"Yes; it ceased to matter what became of me about then, didn't it?\"\n\n\"Have you been in the same place?\"\n\n\"No; I broke. I have been up country.\"\n\n\"What brings you here? If you wanted money you could have written.\"\n\n\"I've never asked you for money. I wouldn't come to you if I wasn't hard\nput to it.\"\n\n\"What do you want then?\"\n\n\"Is that all you have to say to me? Have you no regret to express to\nme?\"\n\n\"Not an atom,\" said the Premier, puffing at his cigar. \"If I'd felt any\nregret I should have expressed it long ago.\"\n\n\"Time doesn't seem to bring repentance to you.\"\n\n\"Don't talk nonsense. What do you want with me?\"\n\n\"Well, yes, business is business. Look here! I am a respected man where\nI live. My name is known at Shepherdstown. Benham is, I say, a respected\nname.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Now, here in Kirton I'm not known. I was never here in my life before.\nNo one would recognise me as the man whose----\"\n\n\"As Benyon? I suppose not. Well?\"\n\n\"Taking all that into account, I see no reason why I shouldn't get the\nvacant Inspectorship of Railways. It's a nice place, and it's in your\ngift.\"\n\nMr. Medland raised his eyebrows and smiled.\n\n\"It involves travelling most of the time,\" pursued Benham, \"and I\nneedn't live in Kirton, if you preferred that arrangement.\"\n\n\"You are very considerate.\"\n\n\"You see you owe me something.\"\n\n\"Which I might pay out of the public purse? Is that your suggestion?\"\n\n\"Oh, come, we're men of business. You're not on a platform.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Medland meditatively. \"I am not on a platform.\nConsequently I feel at liberty to tell you--\" he paused and smiled\nagain.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"To go to the devil!\" said the Premier.\n\n\"Take care! I know a good deal about you. There are many men would be\nglad to know, definitely, what I know.\"\n\n\"Then ask them for an Inspectorship.\"\n\nBenham drew a step nearer.\n\n\"Ay, and I can hit you nearer home.\"\n\n\"You might have, once. What can you do now? She's safe from you,\"\nanswered Medland, with a frown.\n\n\"Yes, she's safe, but there's the daughter.\"\n\n\"Daisy!\"\n\n\"Yes, Daisy.\" And he added, in slow, emphatic tones--\"Yes, my daughter\nDaisy.\"\n\nMedland was about to answer violently, but he curbed his temper and said\nquietly,\n\n\"Your daughter? Come, don't talk nonsense.\"\n\n\"A daughter born to my wife in wedlock is my daughter. If I claim her,\nwhat answer is there?\"\n\n\"I can prove that she's not your daughter.\"\n\n\"Perhaps; and what an edifying sight! The Premier proving----\" Mr.\nBenham broke off with a laugh that sounded loud and harsh in the silent\nnight air.\n\nMedland ground his heel into the gravel.\n\n\"How it will please your Methodist friends, and the swells at Government\nHouse! You can tell 'em all about that trip to Meadow Beach under the\nname of--what was it?--Christie, wasn't it? And about your\nnight-flitting, and----\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's no one to hear now. You won't like proving all that, will\nyou? No, no, the girl will come to her loving father! Take a minute to\nthink it over, Medland--take just a minute. An Inspectorship's no great\nmatter to a politician, you know. You're not so mighty pure as all that!\nTake a minute. I can wait,\" and he flung himself on to a bench and lit a\ncheroot.\n\nThen, in Digby Square, at two o'clock in the morning, the devil tempted\n\"Jimmy\" Medland. The man had indeed hit him close--very close. He had\nhit him in the love he bore his daughter, and in the love he bore her\nmother and her mother's fame. He had hit him in his love of place and\npower, and his nobler joy in using them for what seemed to him good\npurposes. Love and tenderness--pride and ambition--the man shot his\narrow at all. And as Medland stood motionless in thought, across these\nabiding reflections came now and again a new one--the image of a face\nthat had been that night upturned to his almost in worship, and would,\nif this thing were done, be turned away in sorrow, shame, and scorn.\n\nWhat, after all, was an Inspectorship? It was only doing what the world\nsaid all politicians did. What, compared with losing love and power and\nfair fame, was it to--job an Inspectorship? Besides, from one point of\nview, the man had a kind of claim upon him: he had done him wrong.\n\n\"I dare say,\" interrupted Benham, \"that you're thinking there's nothing\nto prevent me 'asking for more' next month. Well, of course there isn't.\nBut I shan't. I only want a decent position and a decent income, and\nthen I'll let you alone. Come, Medland, rancour apart, you know I'm not\na common blackmailer.\"\n\nThis remark tickled Medland, and he smiled. Still, it was true in its\nway. He had known the man very well, and, harsh though he was to all\nabout him, the man had been fairly honest and had borne a decent name.\nProbably what he was doing now did not seem to him much worse than any\nother backstairs method of getting on in the world. Medland thought that\nin all likelihood, if he gained his request, he would keep his word.\nThat thought made the temptation stronger, but it forced itself on him\nwhen he remembered the number of years during which he had been even\nmore vulnerable in one respect than he was now, and yet the man had left\nhim alone. He could say neither yes nor no.\n\n\"You must give me a few days for consideration,\" he said.\n\nBenham shrugged his shoulders in amazement.\n\n\"Have you promised the berth?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, I haven't promised it.\"\n\n\"Got another candidate?\"\n\n\"Only the man who ought to have it,\" answered the Premier, and Benham's\nair so infected him that he felt the answer to be a very weak one.\n\n\"You see,\" objected Benham, \"from what I can learn you're only in office\nfrom day to day, so to speak, and where shall I be if you get turned\nout?\"\n\n\"We're safe anyhow till the Assembly meets, ten days hence.\"\n\n\"All right. I'll give you till then. And really, Jimmy Medland, little\nreason as I have to love you, I should advise you not to be a fool.\nHere's my address. You can write.\"\n\n\"I shan't write. I may send or come.\"\n\nBenham laughed.\n\n\"He's got some wits about him, after all! Good-night. Mind giving me a\nfair start? You used to be a hot-tempered fellow and--however, I suppose\nPremiers can't afford the luxury of assaults.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to say they can't,\" said Mr. Medland. \"I'll wait five minutes\nwhere I am.\"\n\n\"All right. Good-night,\" and Mr. Benham disappeared among the trees.\n\nAt the end of five minutes the Premier resumed his interrupted walk and\nsoon reached his home. His study showed signs of his daughter's\npresence. Her fan was on the table, her gloves beside it; on the\nmantelpiece lay a red rose, its stalk bound round with wire. Medland\nrecognised it as like the bud Dick Derosne had worn in his button-hole.\n\n\"The young rascal!\" he said, as he mixed himself some brandy-and-water,\nand sat down to his desk. The table was covered with drafts of his new\nbill, and he pulled the papers into shape, arranged his blotting-pad,\nand dipped his pen in the ink. Then he lit his pipe and rested his head\non the back of his chair, staring up at the ceiling. And there he stayed\ntill the servant, coming in at six o'clock, found him hastily snatching\nup the pen and seeming to make a memorandum. Being Premier, she said,\nwas killing him, and, \"for my part,\" she added, \"I don't care how soon\nwe're out.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nA COMMON SPECTACLE.\n\n\nAfter some anxious consideration, Eleanor Scaife decided to keep silence\nfor the present about Mrs. Puttock's strange remark. That lady had\ndeluged her with such a flood of gossip, that Eleanor felt that a thing\nwas not likely to be true merely because Mrs. Puttock asserted it,\nwhile, if the suggested scandal had a basis in fact, it was probable\nthat some of the men of the Governor's household, or indeed the Governor\nhimself, would be well informed on the matter. If so, Lord Eynesford\nwould use his discretion in telling his wife. Eleanor was afraid that,\nif she interfered, she might run the risk of appearing officious, and of\nreceiving the polite snub which Lady Eynesford was somewhat of an adept\nin administering. After all, the woman, whoever she was, was dead and\ngone, and Eleanor, in the absence of fuller knowledge, declined to be\nshocked. A woman, she reflected, who studies the problems of society,\nmust be prepared for everything. Still, she felt that intimacy with the\nMedlands was not to be encouraged, and began to range herself by Lady\nEynesford's side so far as the Premier was concerned.\n\n\"We had a delightful trip,\" said Lady Eynesford, on the afternoon of the\nday following the dance. \"I hope everything has been going on well here,\nEleanor. What was it like at Sir John's?\"\n\n\"They missed you and the Governor very much.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't matter, and I hope Dick represented Willie, and danced with\neverybody's wife in turn. That's poor Willie's duty.\"\n\nThis programme was so very different from that which Dick had planned\nand carried out on his own account, that Eleanor shrank from the deceit\ninvolved in acquiescence.\n\n\"I'm afraid not,\" she said. \"You see, Dick's young and hasn't got a wife\nof his own.\"\n\n\"_Tant mieux_, he'd feel the contrast less,\" replied Lady Eynesford,\nwith airy assurance. \"Who did he dance with?\"\n\nEleanor racked her memory and produced the names of four ladies with\neach of whom Dick had danced one hasty waltz.\n\n\"That's only four dances,\" objected Lady Eynesford.\n\n\"Oh, I didn't notice. I was talking to Sir John and to Mrs. Puttock.\"\n\n\"Eleanor!\"\n\n\"Well then, he danced once or twice with little Daisy Medland. It was\nher first ball, you know.\"\n\n\"He needn't have done it twice; I suppose he was bound to once. Dear me!\nWe shall have to consider what we're to do about her now.\"\n\n\"She's a pretty girl, Mary.\"\n\n\"Did Dick think so?\" asked Lady Eynesford quickly.\n\nEleanor distinguished between Mrs. Puttock's remark and Dick's conduct.\n\"Well, it looked like it,\" she answered.\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"To tell the truth, Mary, he danced with her half the evening, and, I\nthink, would have gone on all night if Lady Perry hadn't stopped it.\"\n\n\"The wretched boy!\"\n\nAt this moment the wretched boy happened to enter Lady Eynesford's\nboudoir. Dick was dressed for riding, was humming a tune, and appeared\ngenerally well pleased with himself and the world.\n\n\"You wretched boy!\" said his sister-in-law.\n\nDick gave her one glance. Then, assuming an air of trepidation, he\nmurmured reproachfully,\n\n\"_Nous sommes trahis._\"\n\n\"What have you to say for yourself? No, I'm not joking. I particularly\nwanted to avoid being mixed up with these Medlands one bit more than we\ncould help, and, directly my back is turned, you go and----\"\n\n\"Have you seen Alicia yet?\" asked Dick.\n\n\"Seen Alicia? No, not to talk to.\"\n\n\"Well then, keep some of it. Don't spend it all on me. You'll want it,\nMary.\"\n\n\"Dick, you're very impertinent. What do you mean?\"\n\nDick was about to answer, when he saw Eleanor frowning at him. He raised\nhis brows. Eleanor rapidly returned the signal.\n\n\"She flirted disgracefully with Sir John,\" he said.\n\n\"How dare you make fun of me like that? It was most foolish and--and\nwrong of you. I shall speak to Willie about it.\"\n\n\"I thought it was the constitutional thing to do,\" pleaded Dick, but\nLady Eynesford was already on her way to the door, and vanished through\nit with a scornful toss of her head.\n\n\"You gave me away,\" said Dick to Eleanor. \"Never trust a woman! And,\nEleanor, what were you nodding like an old mandarin for?\"\n\n\"I thought it just as well we shouldn't vex Mary just now by telling her\nhow--how friendly Alicia was with Mr. Medland.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see. I wish you'd thought it just as well not to vex Mary by\ntelling her how--how friendly I was with Miss Medland.\"\n\n\"It's quite different,\" said Miss Scaife coldly. \"In Alicia, it was\nmerely strange. Mr. Medland might be her father. Now, Miss Medland----\"\n\n\"I never let on about you and Coxon,\" said Dick, who wished to change\nthe subject, and made his escape under shelter of Miss Scaife's\nindignant repudiation.\n\nStill humming his tune, he mounted his horse and rode to the Public\nPark. At a particular turn of the avenue he pulled up and waited under a\ntree. Presently a pony-carriage appeared in the distance.\n\n\"Good!\" said Dick, throwing away his cigarette and feeling if his\nneck-cloth were in its place. The pony-cart drew near. Dick saw with\npleasure the figure of the driver, but he also perceived, to his great\ndisgust, that a man was sitting by her side.\n\n\"That's the way they\"--he meant women--\"let you in!\" he remarked.\n\"Anybody would have supposed she meant she drove alone. Who the deuce\nhas she got there?\"\n\nMiss Medland had Norburn with her, and Norburn was just explaining to\nher--for he did not imitate her father's forbearance--the methods by\nwhich he proposed to banish the evil monster, competition, from the\nworld. There is, however, one sort of competition, at least, which\nNorburn's methods will hardly banish, and it was into the clutches of\nthis particular form of the evil monster that Mr. Norburn was, little as\nhe thought it, about to be pushed. A long period of intimacy and favour\nexcluded from his mind the suspicion that he might have to fight for his\nposition with Daisy Medland; and, if he could have brought himself to\nentertain the thought of a successful rival--of some one who, coming\nsuddenly between, should break the strong bonds of affection well tried\nby time--he certainly would not have expected to find such a competitor\nin Dick Derosne. In fact, neither of the young men was capable of\nappreciating the attractions of the other: Dick considering Norburn very\ndoubtfully a gentleman, and very certainly what in his University days\nhe dubbed a \"smug\"; Norburn regarding him with the rather impatient\ncontempt that such a man is apt to bestow on those for whom dressing\nthemselves and amusing themselves are the chief labours of a day.\nMoreover, Norburn did not frequent dances, and young men who do not\nfrequent dances often go wrong by forgetting how much may happen between\nthe afternoon of a Tuesday and the morning of a Wednesday.\n\nNo doubt those of us who are men, having been more or less pretty\nfellows in our time, have had our triumphs, concerning which we are, as\na rule, becomingly mute, but occasionally, in the confidences of the\nsmoking-room, undesirably loquacious. For this fault there is no excuse,\nunless such a one as justifies the practice of inflicting reprisals in\ninternational quarrels; it being quite certain that our failures are no\nsecret--indeed there must be covertly (but extensively) circulating\nsomewhere a _Gazette_ wherein such occurrences are registered--there is\na kind of \"wild justice\" even in smoking-room disclosures. But whatever\nour bad or good fortune may have been, it is not to be supposed for a\nmoment that any of us enjoy such an enchanting revelation as comes to a\nyoung girl who, by nature's kind freak, has been made beautiful. Daisy\nMedland was radiant as she turned from Norburn's pale thoughtful face\nand careless garb to Dick Derosne, the outward perfection of a\nwell-born, well-made, well-dressed Englishman, bowing, smiling, and\ndebonair. Daisy liked Norburn very much--how much she never quite\nknew--but there was no doubt that two young men were a pleasant change\nfrom one, and the contrast between them increased the charm--a novel\ncharm to her--of the situation, for she was well aware that, different\nas they were from one another, strong as the contrast was, they were\nboth at this moment thinking precisely the same thought, namely, \"Who's\nthis fellow, and what does he want?\"--a coincidence which again shows\nthat Norburn's theories had much to do before they conquered the world.\n\nIt is not a very uncommon sight to see a clever man sit mum, abashed by\nthe chatter of a cheery shallow-pate, who is happily unconscious of the\noppressive triviality of his own conversation. Norburn's eager flow of\nwords froze at the contact of Dick's small-talk, and he was a\ndiscontented auditor of ball-room and club gossip. It amazed him that a\nman should know, or care, or talk about more than half the things on\nwhich Dick descanted so merrily; it astounded him that they should win\ninterest as keen and looks as bright as had ever rewarded the deepest\ntruth or the highest aspiration. All of which, however, was not really\nat all odd, if only Mr. Norburn would have considered the matter a\nlittle more closely. But then an old favourite threatened by a new\nrival is not in a mood for cool analysis.\n\n\"And they say,\" pursued Dick, \"that Puttock's coming back to your father\nbecause Sir Robert trod on Mrs. P.'s new black silk and tore it half off\nher--tore it awfully, you know.\"\n\nDaisy laughed gaily.\n\n\"You weren't there, were you, Mr. Norburn? Well, it was worth all the\nmoney only to see old Mrs. Grim eat ices--you remember, Miss Medland?\nShe bolted three while Sir John was proposing the Queen's health, and\ntwo more in the first verse of 'God save--'\" and so Dick ran on.\n\nMr. Norburn consulted his watch.\n\n\"I'm afraid I must go,\" he said. \"I'm due at the office.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" exclaimed Daisy penitently, \"I forgot. But can't I drive you\nback?\"\n\n\"I couldn't trouble you to do that. You're not going back so soon?\"\n\n\"But of course I can, Mr. Norburn; it's so far to walk.\"\n\n\"I don't mind the walk.\"\n\n\"Are you really quite sure? It is a beautiful morning to be out, isn't\nit?\"\n\nNorburn took his leave, thinking, no doubt, of his official duties and\nnothing else, and Daisy touched her pony.\n\n\"I must go on,\" she said.\n\n\"So must I,\" said Dick, \"mustn't keep my horse standing any longer.\"\n\n\"Why not? He can't catch cold to-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, he'd take root and never go away--just as I do, when I stand near\nyou, you know.\"\n\nIt is not proposed to set out the rest of their conversation. Daisy\nforgot Norburn's gloomy face, Dick forgot every face but Daisy's, and\nthe usual things were said and done. An appeal to the memory of any\nreader will probably give a result accurate enough. Imagine yourself on\na pretty morning, in a pretty place, by a pretty girl, and let her be\nkind and you not a numskull, and there's half-a-dozen pages saved.\n\nIt was, however, a little unfortunate that, at the last moment, when the\nthird good-bye was being said, Lady Eynesford should come whirling by in\nher barouche.\n\n\"The deuce!\" said Dick under his breath.\n\nLady Eynesford's features did not relax. She bowed to her brother-in-law\ngravely and stiffly; her gaze appeared to travel far over the top of the\nlow pony-carriage which contained Daisy Medland. Dick flushed with\nvexation. True, the Governor's wife did not yet know the Premier's\ndaughter, but she need not have insisted on the fact so ostentatiously.\nDick turned to his companion. She was laughing.\n\n\"Why are you laughing?\" he asked, rather offended. A man seldom likes to\nbe thought to value the opinion of the women of his family, valuable as\nit always is.\n\n\"You know very well,\" she answered. \"Oh, I dare say I've got into\ntrouble too.\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" said Dick valiantly.\n\n\"Neither do I--at least, not much.\"\n\n\"I don't see how you can have got into trouble.\"\n\n\"Ah, perhaps you don't see everything, Mr. Derosne.\"\n\n\"I say, you don't mean that Mr.----?\"\n\n\"Good-bye,\" said Daisy, whipping up her pony.\n\nDick was left wondering what she had meant, and whether anything so\npreposterous and revolting as the idea of Norburn having any business to\ncontrol her doings or her likings could possibly have any truth in it.\nAnd, as a natural result of this disturbing notion, he determined to see\nher again as soon as he could.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nFOR THE HIGHEST BIDDER.\n\n\nShepherdstown, the spot where Mr. Benham said that his was a respected\nname--and he said quite truly, for he had managed to pay his debts as\nthey fell due, and nothing was known against his character--lay in\nPuttock's constituency, and Benham thought it well to call upon his\nrepresentative. The only secret part of his enterprise had been\ntransacted with the Premier in Digby Square: for the rest, a plausible\novertness of action was plainly desirable. He obtained an interview with\nPuttock, and laid before him his hopes and his qualifications. Mr.\nPuttock was graciousness itself; he remembered, with gratitude and\nsurprising alacrity, his visitor's local services to the party; had he\nbeen still in office, it would have been his delight no less than his\nduty to press Benham's incontestable claims; he would have felt that he\nwas merely paying a small part of the debt he owed Shepherdstown and one\nof its leading men, and would, at the same time, have enjoyed the\nconviction that he was enlisting in the public service a man of tried\nintegrity and ability.\n\n\"Unhappily, however,\" said Mr. Puttock, spreading out his plump hands in\npathetic fashion, \"as you might conjecture, Mr.--\" he glanced at the\nvisitor's card--\"Benham, my influence at the present juncture is less\nthan _nil_. I am powerless. I can only look on at what I conceive to be\na course of conduct fraught with peril to the true interests of New\nLindsey, and entirely inconsistent with the best traditions of our\nparty.\"\n\n\"Your views are heartily shared at home,\" responded Benham. \"Speaking in\nconfidence, I can assure you of that, sir. Our confidence in the\nMinistry ended when you retired.\"\n\n\"As long as my constituents approve of my action, I am content. But I am\ngrieved not to be able to help you.\"\n\n\"But, in spite of present differences, surely your good word would carry\nweight. My name is, I believe, already before the Premier, and if it was\nbacked by your support----\"\n\n\"Let me recommend you,\" said Puttock sourly, \"to try to obtain Mr.\nNorburn's good word. That is, between ourselves, all-powerful.\"\n\nBenham frowned.\n\n\"Norburn! Much Norburn would do for me.\"\n\n\"Why, does he know you?\" asked Puttock. \"Have you any quarrel with him?\"\n\n\"There's no love lost between us. He organised my shearers when they\nstruck two years ago.\"\n\n\"What are you?\"\n\n\"Sheep, sir. The fellow came down and fought me, and--well, sir, he said\nthings about me that you'd hardly credit.\"\n\n\"Oh, I hope,\" said Puttock earnestly, \"that that would not influence his\njudgment. But, to be frank--well, it's common knowledge that Mr. Norburn\nand I found we could not work together.\"\n\n\"But surely, sir, the Premier will take his own line?\"\n\n\"I don't know. As likely as not, Norburn will have some Labour man to\npress.\"\n\n\"Ah, if we could see you at the head of the Government!\"\n\n\"I don't deny that I am deeply disappointed with the Premier's course of\naction--so deeply that I can give him no support.\"\n\nMr. Benham remained silent for a minute, meditating. He perceived that,\nin case Medland proved unreasonable, a second string lay ready to his\nhand. He wondered how much Puttock already knew--and what he would pay\nfor more knowledge. The worst of it was that Puttock had the reputation\nof being an uncommonly good hand at a bargain.\n\n\"Yet Mr. Medland's a very clever man,\" he observed.\n\n\"Oh, clever, yes; but I fear unstable, Mr. Benham.\"\n\n\"I suppose so. After all a man's private life is some guide, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Some guide!\" exclaimed Puttock. \"Surely you understate the case. If a\nman's private life is discreditable----\"\n\n\"But would you go so far as that about the Premier?\" inquired Benham,\nwith a pained air.\n\n\"There's no smoke without fire, I'm afraid. It's a painful subject, and\nof course only a matter of rumour, but----\"\n\n\"You see, I've been living in the country, and I'm not up in all that's\nsaid here.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't mention it to everybody, but to you I may venture. According\nto the report among those in a position to know, there was the gravest\ndoubt as to the regularity of--his domestic relations.\"\n\n\"Dear, dear!\"\n\n\"Nothing, as I say, is known or could, probably, be proved. It would\ndamage him most seriously, of course, if that sort of thing were\nproved.\"\n\n\"I should think so indeed. He could hardly remain where he is.\"\n\n\"I don't know. Well, perhaps not. A little while ago I should have\ndeeply regretted anything calculated to lessen his influence, but\nnow--well, well, we shall see.\"\n\n\"Your secession has so weakened him that he couldn't stand up against\nit,\" said Benham, with conviction. \"And then--why, we might have a real\nleader.\"\n\nMr. Benham's admiring gaze left no doubt as to the heaven-sent leader\nwho was in his mind, and he had the satisfaction of detecting a gleam of\neagerness in Mr. Puttock's eye.\n\n\"He may be of use to me, if Medland kicks,\" reflected Benham as he\nwalked away. But he hoped that the Premier would not prove recalcitrant.\nHe had counted on the sufficiency of threats, and it would be an\nannoyance if he were forced to resort to action; for he could not deny\nthat his respected name would suffer some stain in the process of\ninflicting punishment, if the victim chose to declare the terms on which\nthe chastisement might have been averted.\n\nNow this aspect of the case had presented itself to Medland also,\nreinforcing the considerations which weighed against giving Benham the\nappointment he sought. The Premier hated yielding, and he hated jobs:\nBenham asked him to acknowledge himself beaten, and, as ransom, to\nperpetrate a peculiarly dirty job. At most times of his life he would\nnot even have looked at such a proposal, but his new-won position, with\nits possibilities and its risks, made him timid: he was fearful as a\nchild of anything that would jeopardise what he had so hardly and\nnarrowly achieved; and this unwonted mood increased his dread of\nBenham's disclosures to an almost superstitious terror. Under the\ninfluence of this feeling, he was so far false to his standard of\nconduct as tentatively to mention Benham's name to Norburn as that of a\npossible candidate for the vacant post. He expected to hear in reply\nnothing more than a surprised inquiry as to the man's claims, but\nNorburn, despite his faithfulness to every wish of his leader's,\nbesought him earnestly to make no such choice.\n\n\"You don't know about him,\" he said; \"but in his own neighbourhood he's\nknown far and wide as a hard employer and a determined enemy of the\nUnions. Such an appointment would do us immense harm.\"\n\n\"I didn't know that. You're sure?\"\n\n\"I believe it might cost us a dozen votes. I couldn't defend the choice\nmyself. I fought him once, and I know all about him. Who recommended him\nto you?\"\n\n\"No one. He came himself.\"\n\nNorburn laughed.\n\n\"It needs some assurance,\" he remarked, \"for a man with his record to\ncome to you. He must have known that I could tell you all about him.\"\n\nThe Premier smiled: to tell him all about Benham was exactly what his\nzealous young colleague could not do.\n\n\"Then it's quite out of the question?\" he asked.\n\n\"If you take my opinion, quite.\"\n\nThe Premier gave a sigh of relief. He was glad to have the matter\nsettled for him, and to be saved from the temptation that had been\nbesetting him these ten days past.\n\n\"The fellow must be mad to expect such a thing,\" continued Norburn. \"Why\ndoesn't he go to the other side?\"\n\n\"Perhaps he will now,\" answered Medland. It seemed not at all unlikely.\n\nWhen his mind was finally made up, Medland found at first a reckless\npleasure in, as he expressed it to himself, \"chancing it.\" He had always\nbeen fond of a fight against odds. The odds were against him here, and\nthe stakes perilously high. His spirits rose; his mouth was set firm,\nand his eyes gleamed as they had gleamed when the crowd led him in\ntriumph to his house three weeks ago. The battle was to begin to-morrow;\nthe House met then, and all his foes, public and private, would close\nround him and his band of friends. And, when the fresh attack had been\ndelivered, how many would his friends be? Rousing himself, he got up.\n\n\"You stay with Daisy,\" he said to Norburn. \"I must go out for an hour.\"\n\nIt was nine o'clock, and he made his way swiftly to the address which\nBenham had given him. He found that gentleman in a quiet and respectable\nlodging, and was received with civility.\n\n\"You are just to your time,\" said Benham.\n\n\"I'm not behind it. I had till to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And you have brought the appointment?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"The promise of it, then?\"\n\n\"No; I can't do it.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know why I should tell you, but for two good\nreasons--it's difficult and it's dirty. Difficult because you're not\npopular with my friends--dirty, because--but you know that.\"\n\n\"You really mean to refuse?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then what are you going to do for me?\"\n\n\"I can't do anything for you.\"\n\n\"That's final?\" asked Benham, facing him squarely. \"You utterly refuse\nto do me a small favour, though you were ready enough to ruin my life?\"\n\nMedland was doubtful if he had ruined the man's life, but he only\nanswered--\n\n\"I can't job you into anything. That's what you want, and it's what I\ncan't do for you.\"\n\n\"Very well. I've got a thing of value, haven't I? Well, I shall sell it\nto the highest bidder. Ay, and I tell you what, James Medland, I'll be\nlevel with you before I die, God help me I will! You shall be sorry for\nthis, before I've done with you.\"\n\n\"I take the chance of that. If you're in want, I'll supply you with\nmoney, as far as my means allow.\"\n\n\"Your means? What are they? You won't have your salary long, if I can\nhelp it. I think I can find a better market, thank you.\"\n\nMedland turned on his heel. He had come with a vague idea of trying in\nsome way to smooth over matters between them. It was plainly impossible;\nhe had no wish to bribe, and, if he had, clearly he could not bribe high\nenough. He was still in his confident mood, and Benham's rude threats\nroused him to defiance.\n\n\"Have it your own way,\" he said; \"but people who attack me in Kirton run\nsome risks,\" and he went out with a smile on his face.\n\nAs he strolled home again, his exultant temper left him. The springiness\nof his step relaxed into a slouching gait, and his head fell forward. He\nstopped and turned half round, as though to go back; then, with a sigh,\nhe held on his way. Far off, he could see the twinkling lights of ships,\nand, in the still of evening, catch the roll of the sea as it broke on\nthe beach, and an odd fancy came over him of sailing far away with his\ndaughter over the sea--or, perhaps better still, of walking quietly into\nthe water until it closed over his head. Now and then he grew tired of\nfighting, and to him life was all fighting now.\n\n\"Meditating new resolutions, Medland?\" asked a cheery voice at his side.\n\nTurning with a start, he saw the Chief Justice, who continued,\n\n\"You'll be in the thick of it to-morrow, I suppose?\"\n\n\"I have left off thinking where I shall be to-morrow,\" he answered.\n\"To-day is enough for a Minister.\"\n\n\"And to-morrow may be too much? Young Heseltine offered just now to lay\nme six to five you'd be out in a month.\"\n\n\"Confound him! Who is he?\"\n\n\"One of the Governor's young fellows.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I remember.\"\n\n\"Talking of that, I had some very kind inquiries about you at Government\nHouse to-day.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"From Miss Derosne. She's a warm admirer of yours, and really a most\ncharming girl. Well, good-night. I shall try and get down to hear your\nstatement to-morrow.\"\n\nSir John bustled off, leaving the Premier with a new bent of thought. In\nhis mind he rehearsed his interview with Alicia Derosne, wondering, as\nmen wonder after they have been carried away by emotion into\nunrestrained disclosures of their hearts, whether she had really been\nimpressed; whether, after all, he had not been, or seemed, insincere,\ntheatrical, or absurd; wondering again in what light she would look on\nhim, when she knew what it looked likely all Kirton would know soon;\nwondering last whether, if he had not met the woman who had been his\npartner in life for so long, and had, in youth, met such a girl as\nAlicia Derosne, his fate would have been different, and he need not now\nhave trembled at his story being told. Immersed in thought he wandered\non, out of the town and down to the shores of the bay, and checked\nhimself, with a sudden laugh, only on the very brink of the sea. The\nabsurdity struck him; he laughed again, as he lit a cigar and rebuked\nhimself aloud.\n\n\"Here I am, a Premier and forty-one! and I'm going on for all the world\nlike a cross between a love-sick boy and a runaway criminal!\"\n\nHe paused and added--\n\n\"And the worst of it, I am rather like a criminal and----\"\n\nHe paused abruptly. A thought struck him and made him frown angrily at\nhis folly. It was stupid to think of himself as love-sick, even in jest.\nHe had not come to that. And to think of himself as a lover was not a\nthought that carried pleasant memories to Mr. Medland.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTWO HASTY UTTERANCES.\n\n\n\"Thank God, there's the Legislative Council, anyhow!\" exclaimed Mr.\nKilshaw.\n\nSir Robert Perry pursed up his lips. He had fought with that safeguard\nof stability behind him once or twice before, and the end had been\ndefeat. There were better things than the support of the Legislative\nCouncil.\n\n\"I'd rather,\" he remarked, \"have a dissolution and a thumping campaign\nfund. If I'd known they were at sixes and sevens like this, I'd have\ntaken the Governor's offer.\"\n\n\"Hum,\" said Mr. Kilshaw, who would be expected to subscribe largely to\nthe suggested fund. \"But how do you propose to get your dissolution now?\nBesides, I believe he'd beat us.\"\n\n\"That would depend on Puttock--and one or two more.\"\n\n\"What did you think of Puttock's explanation?\"\n\n\"The whole performance reminded me of a highly religious rattlesnake:\nit was a magnificent struggle against natural venom.\"\n\n\"I thought it very creditable.\"\n\n\"Oh, I suppose so: it would be, if you think of it, in the snake. But\nMedland will be replying soon. Come along.\"\n\nThey hurried into the House, and found the Premier already on his legs.\nThe floor and the galleries were crowded, and the space allotted to\nladies--there was no grating in New Lindsey, as Eleanor Scaife had\nalready recorded in her note-book--was bright with gay colours. Sir\nRobert and Mr. Kilshaw slipped into their places just in time to see\nMedland stoop down to Norburn, who sat next him, and whisper to him.\nNorburn nodded with a defiant air, and Medland, with a slight frown,\nproceeded. The Premier had no easy task. Puttock had fallen on his flank\nwith skill and effect, and Norburn, who followed, had increased his\nleader's difficulties by a brilliant but indiscreet series of tilts\nagainst every section except that to which he himself belonged; Jewell\nhad answered powerfully, and Coxon had coughed and fidgeted. The Premier\nwas now skilfully paring away what his lieutenant had said, and\njustifying every proposition he advanced by a reference to Mr. Puttock's\nprevious speeches. Mr. Puttock, in his turn, fidgeted, and Coxon smiled\nsardonically. The Premier, encouraged by this success, pulled himself\ntogether and approached the last and most delicate part of his task,\nwhich was to defend or palliate a phrase of Norburn's that had been\ngreeted with angry groans and protests. Mr. Norburn had in fact referred\nto the Capitalist class as a \"parasitic growth,\" and Medland was left to\nget out of this indiscretion as best he could. He referred to the\nunhappy phrase. The storm which had greeted its first appearance broke\nout again. There were cries of \"Withdraw!\" Mr. Kilshaw called out, \"Do\nyou adopt that? Yes or no;\" Norburn's followers cheered; redoubled\ngroans answered them; Eleanor made notes, and Alicia's eyes were fixed\non Medland, who stood silent and smiling.\n\nKilshaw cried again, \"Do you adopt it?\"\n\nMedland turned towards him, and in slow and measured tones began to\ndescribe a visit he had paid to Kilshaw's mill. He named no name, but\neverybody knew to whose works he referred.\n\n\"There was a man there,\" he said, \"working with a fever upon him; there\nwas a woman working--and by her, her baby, five days old; there were old\nmen who looked to no rest but the grave, and children who were always\ntoo tired to play; there were girls without innocence, boys without\nmerriment, women without joy, men without hope. And, as I walked home in\nthe evening, back to my house, I met a string of race-horses; they were\nin training, I was told, for the Kirton Cup; their owner spent, they\nsaid, ten thousand pounds a year on his stables. Their owner, Sir, owned\nthe mill--and them that worked there.\"\n\nHe paused, and then, with a gesture unusual in that place, he laid his\nhand on Norburn's shoulder, and went on in a tone of gentle apology:\n\n\"What wonder if men with hot hearts and young heads use hard words? What\nwonder if they confound the bad with the good? Yes, what wonder if, once\nagain, good and bad shall fall in a common doom?\"\n\nHe sat down suddenly, still keeping his hand on his young colleague's\nshoulder, and Sir Robert rose and prayed leave to say a few words in\nreference to the--he seemed to pause for a word--the remarkable\nutterance which had fallen from the Premier. Sir Robert's rapier flashed\nto and fro, now in grave indignation, now in satirical jest, and, at the\nend, he rose almost to eloquence in bidding the Premier remember the\nresponsibility such words, spoken by such a man, carried with them.\n\n\"You may say,\" said Sir Robert, \"that to prophesy revolution is not to\njustify it--that to excuse violence is not to advocate it. Ignorant men\nreck little of wire-drawn distinctions, and I am glad, Sir--I say, I am\nglad that not on my head rests the weight of such wild words and open\nthreats as we have heard to-day. For my head is grey, and I must soon\ngive an account of what I have done.\"\n\nThe debate ended, leaving the general impression that the Government\nstood committed to a policy which some called thorough and some\ndangerous. Mr. Kilshaw, passing Puttock in the lobby, remarked,\n\n\"You'll have some fine opportunities for your 'independent and\ndiscriminating support,' Puttock, and I hope your banking account will\nbe the fatter for it.\"\n\nPuttock made a slight grimace, and Kilshaw smiled complacently. He had\ngreat hopes of Puttock, and was pleased when the latter remarked,\n\n\"By the way, Kilshaw, here's a friend of mine who's anxious to know\nyou,\" and he introduced his influential constituent, Mr. Benham of\nShepherdstown. The three men stood talking together and saw Medland pass\nby. Kilshaw, assuming Benham loved the Premier no more than Mr. Puttock,\nremarked,\n\n\"I'd give something handsome to see that fellow smashed.\"\n\n\"Would you?\" asked Benham, with an eager smile; Kilshaw promised him a\nbetter opening than Puttock. He stepped across to Medland, raising his\nhat.\n\n\"A moment, Mr. Medland. You have not changed your mind on that little\nmatter?\"\n\n\"The appointment was made this morning,\" replied Medland, somewhat\nsurprised to see him in the lobby.\n\n\"I am here with Mr. Puttock,\" said Benham, answering his look, \"and Mr.\nKilshaw.\"\n\nMedland smiled.\n\n\"The appointment is made all the same,\" he remarked.\n\nBenham bowed and returned to his friends. The Premier, seeing Eleanor\nand Alicia in front of him, overtook and joined them.\n\n\"Are you walking home?\" he asked.\n\n\"Mr. Coxon is escorting us,\" answered Eleanor, indicating that\ngentleman, who was walking with them.\n\nPerhaps Mr. Coxon in his day-dreams looked forward to the time when he\nshould fight the Premier for his place and defeat him. He did not expect\nto have to fight with him for a position by a girl's side. Nevertheless\nhe found, to his chagrin, that Medland did not pair off with Eleanor\nScaife, but continued to walk by and talk to Alicia. Being a man of much\nassurance, he hazarded a protesting glance at Alicia: she met it with an\nimpossible intensity of unconsciousness, and Eleanor maliciously opened\nfire upon him out of the batteries with which Tomes supplied her, at the\nsame time quickening her pace and compelling him to leave the others\nbehind.\n\nAlicia glanced up at Medland.\n\n\"I thought of what you said the other night all the time,\" she began;\n\"but you did not say it so well to-day.\"\n\n\"Ah, you remember the other night?\"\n\n\"You were bold and straightforward then. I thought--I thought you fenced\nwith it a little to-day.\"\n\n\"I'm not used to be charged with that.\"\n\n\"I suppose it was only by comparison.\"\n\n\"Yes. And nobody but you could make the comparison.\"\n\n\"I shall always like best to remember you by what you said then.\"\n\n\"Ah, I had to please so many people to-day. The other night I didn't\nthink of pleasing any one--not even you! But I hope it's not coming to\n'remembering' me yet. You're not going to leave us?\"\n\n\"We're only birds of passage, you know. My brother's term will be up in\nfifteen months now.\"\n\n\"Well, Miss Derosne, I'm afraid fifteen months are likely enough to see\nan end of most of the dreams I talked about to you.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" she exclaimed eagerly. Then checking herself she added, \"But\nwhat right have I to talk to you about it?\"\n\n\"I talked to you.\"\n\n\"Oh, I happened to be there.\"\n\n\"Yes, and so I happened to talk. That's the way when people get on\ntogether.\"\n\nAlicia looked up with a smile. Short as her acquaintance had been, she\nfelt that the Premier was no longer a stranger. By opening his mind to\nher as he had done, he had claimed nothing less than friendship. He was,\nshe told herself, like an old friend. And yet he was also unlike one;\nfor, in intercourse with old friends, people are not subject alternately\nto impulses towards unrestrained intimacy and reactions to shy reserve.\nShe liked him, but she was afraid of him; in fine, she was hardly happy\nwith him, and not happy--The confession could not be finished even to\nherself.\n\n\"Shall you be glad to go home, or sorry?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, I shall be very sorry.\"\n\n\"Then,\" he suggested, smiling, \"why not stay?\"\n\nThe question came pat in tune with those thoughts that would not be\nsuppressed. Before she knew what she was doing--before she had time to\nreflect that probably his words were merely an idle civility or the\nplayful suggestion of an impossibility, she exclaimed,\n\n\"What do you----?\"\n\nShe stopped suddenly, in horror at herself; for she found him looking at\nher with surprise, and she felt her face flooded with colour.\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\" said Medland.\n\nFull of anger and shame, she could not answer him. Without a shadow of\nexcuse--she could not find a shadow of excuse--she had read into his\nwords a meaning he never thought of. She could not now conceive how she\nhad done it. If told the like about another, she knew how scornfully\nsevere her judgment would have been. He had surprised her, caught her\nunawares, and wrung from her an open expression of a wild idea that she\nhad refused to recognise even in her own heart. She felt that her cheeks\nwere red. Would the glow that burnt her never go?--and she bit her lips,\nfor she was near tears. Oh, that he might not have seen! Or had she\ncommitted the sin unpardonable to a girl such as she was? Had she\nbetrayed herself unasked?\n\n\"Nothing,\" she stammered at last. \"Nothing.\" But she felt the heat still\nin her cheeks. She would have given the world to be able to tell him not\nto look at her; but she knew his puzzled eyes still sought hers, in hope\nof light.\n\nHe might at least say something! Silently he walked by her side along\nthe road to Government House--that endless, endless road. She could not\nspeak--and he--she only knew that he did not. She felt, by a subtle\nperception, his glance turned on her now and again, but he did not break\nthe silence. The strain was too much; in spite of all her efforts, in\nspite of a hatred of her own weakness that would have made her, for the\nmoment, sooner die, a hysterical sob burst from her lips.\n\nMedland stopped.\n\n\"You must let me go,\" he said. \"I am very busy. You can overtake the\nothers. Good-bye.\"\n\nHe held out his hand, and she gave him hers. It was kind of him to go\nand make no words about the manner of his going, yet it showed that her\ndesperate hope that he had not noticed was utterly vain.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" she managed to murmur, with averted head.\n\n\"I shall see you again soon,\" he said, pressing her hand, and was gone.\n\nIn the evening, Lady Eynesford trenchantly condemned the ventilation of\nthe Houses of Parliament.\n\n\"The wretched place has given Alicia a headache. I found the poor child\ncrying with pain. I wonder you let her stay, Eleanor.\"\n\n\"I didn't notice that it was close or hot.\"\n\n\"My dear Eleanor, you're as strong as a pony,\" remarked Lady Eynesford.\n\"A very little thing upsets Alicia.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nTHE SMOKE OF HIDDEN FIRES.\n\n\n\"No, I don't like turn-down collars,\" remarked Daisy Medland.\n\n\"I'm very sorry,\" said Norburn. \"You never said so before, and they're\nso comfortable.\"\n\n\"And why don't you wear a high hat, and a frock-coat? It looks so much\nbetter. Mr.--well, Mr. Coxon always does when he goes anywhere in the\nafternoon.\"\n\n\"I didn't know Coxon was your standard of perfection, Daisy. He didn't\nuse to be in the old days.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's not only Mr. Coxon.\"\n\n\"I know it isn't,\" replied Norburn significantly.\n\n\"I wonder the Governor lets you come in that hat,\" continued Daisy,\nscornfully eyeing Norburn's unconventional headgear.\n\n\"It's very like your father's.\"\n\n\"My father's not a young man. What would you think if the Governor laid\nfoundation-stones in a short jacket and a hat like yours?\"\n\n\"I should think him a very sensible man.\"\n\n\"Well, I should think him a _guy_,\" said Miss Medland, with intense\nemphasis.\n\nThis method of treating an old friend galled Norburn excessively. When\nanger is in, the brains are out.\n\n\"I suppose Mr. Derosne is your ideal,\" he said.\n\nDaisy accepted the opening of hostilities with alacrity.\n\n\"He dresses just perfectly,\" she remarked, \"and he doesn't bore one with\npolitics.\"\n\nThis latter remark was rather shameless, for Daisy was generally a keen\npartisan of her father's, and very ready to listen to anything connected\nwith his public doings.\n\n\"You never used to say that sort of thing to me.\"\n\n\"Oh,'used!' I believe you've said 'used' six times in ten minutes! Am I\nalways to go on talking as I _used_ when I was in the nursery? I say it\nnow anyhow, Mr. Norburn.\"\n\nNorburn took up the despised hat. Looking at it now through Daisy's eyes\nhe could not maintain that it was a handsome hat.\n\n\"It's your own fault. You began it,\" said Daisy, stifling a pang of\ncompunction, for she really liked him very much, else why should she\nmind what he wore?\n\n\"I began it?\"\n\n\"Yes. By--by dragging in Mr. Derosne.\"\n\n\"I only mentioned him as an example of fashionable youth.\"\n\n\"You know you wouldn't like it if I went about in dowdy old things.\"\n\n\"I don't mind a bit what you wear. It's all the same to me.\"\n\n\"How very peculiar you are!\" exclaimed Daisy, with a look of\ncompassionate amazement. \"Most people notice what I wear. Oh, and I've\ngot a charming dress for the flower-show at Government House.\"\n\n\"You're invited, are you?\" asked Norburn, with an ill-judged exhibition\nof surprise.\n\n\"Of course I'm invited.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear it.\"\n\n\"Why, pray, Mr. Norburn? Are you going?\"\n\n\"Yes. I suppose I must.\"\n\n\"Not in that hat!\" implored Daisy.\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Norburn, though it is doubtful if he had in truth\nintended to do so, but for Daisy's taunts.\n\nA tragic silence followed. At last, Miss Medland exclaimed,\n\n\"What will Lady Eynesford think of my friends?\"\n\n\"I didn't know you cared so much for what Lady Eynesford thought.\nBesides, I need not present myself in that character.\"\n\n\"Oh, if you're going to be disagreeable!\"\n\n\"For my part, I'm sorry you're going at all.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Is that because I shall enjoy it?\"\n\n\"I don't care for that sort of society.\"\n\n\"I like it above everything.\"\n\nMatters having thus reached a direct issue, Norburn clapped the _causa\nbelli_ on his head, and walked out of the room, dimly conscious that he\nhad done himself as much harm as he possibly could in the space of a\nquarter of an hour. When he grew cool, he confessed that the momentary,\nif real, pleasure of being unpleasant was somewhat dearly bought at the\ncost of enmity with Daisy Medland. Indeed this unhappy young man, for\nall that his whole soul was by way of being absorbed in reconstructing\nsociety, would have thought most things a bad bargain at such a price.\nBut his bitterness had been too strong. It seemed as though all his\ndevotion, ay, and--he did not scruple to say to himself--all his real\ngifts were to weigh as nothing against the cut of a coat and the \"sit\"\nof a cravat--for to such elemental constituents his merciless and\njealous analysis reduced poor Dick Derosne's attractions.\n\nLittle recked Dick of Norburn's feelings in the glow of his triumph. He\nwas convinced that he alone had persuaded Lady Eynesford into including\nDaisy in her invitation to luncheon at the opening of the flower-show.\nIt would have been a pity, in the mere interests of truth, to interfere\nwith this conceit of Dick's, and Eleanor forbore to disclose her own\nshare in the matter, or to hint at that long interview between the\nGovernor and his wife.\n\n\"We shall live to regret it,\" said Lady Eynesford, \"but it shall be as\nyou wish, Willie.\"\n\nSo the Medlands came with the rest of the world to the flower-show, and\nwere received with due ceremony and regaled with suitable fare. And\nafterwards the Governor took Daisy for a stroll through the tents, and,\nhaving thus done his duty handsomely, handed her over to Dick; but she\nand Dick found the tents stuffy and crowded, and sat down under the\ntrees and enjoyed themselves very much, until Mr. Puttock espied them\nand came up to them, accompanied by a friend.\n\n\"I hope you're not very angry with me, Miss Daisy?\" said Puttock,\nthinking she might resent his desertion of the Premier.\n\n\"Oh, but I am!\" said Daisy, and truly enough, whatever the reason might\nbe.\n\n\"Well, you mustn't visit it on my friend here, who is anxious to make\nyour acquaintance. Miss Medland--Mr. Benham.\"\n\nBenham sat down and began to make himself agreeable. He had a flow of\nconversation, and seemed in no hurry to move. Captain Heseltine appeared\nwith a summons for Dick, who sulkily obeyed. Puttock caught sight of\nJewell, and, with an apology, pursued him. Benham sat talking to Daisy\nMedland. Presently he proposed they should go where they would see the\npeople better, and Daisy, who was bored, eagerly acquiesced. They took a\nseat by the side of the broad gravel walk.\n\n\"Will no one rescue me?\" thought Daisy.\n\n\"He's bound to pass soon,\" thought Benham.\n\nBenham's wish was the first to be fulfilled. Before long the Premier\ncame in sight, accompanied by Coxon.\n\n\"Ah, there's your daughter,\" said the latter. \"You were wondering where\nshe was.\"\n\nMedland looked, and saw Daisy and Benham sitting side by side. He\nquickened his pace and went up to them. Benham rose and took off his\nhat. Medland ignored him.\n\n\"I was looking for you, Daisy,\" he said. \"I want you.\"\n\nDaisy stood up, with relief.\n\n\"Good day, Mr. Medland,\" said Benham. \"I have enjoyed making\" (he\npaused, but barely perceptibly) \"Miss Medland's acquaintance.\"\n\nMedland bowed coldly.\n\n\"Mr. Puttock was good enough to introduce me.\"\n\n\"I am ready, father,\" said Daisy. \"Good-bye, Mr. Benham.\"\n\nBenham took her offered hand, and, with a smile, held it for a moment\nlonger than sufficed for an ordinary farewell. Still holding it, he\nbegan--\n\n\"I hope we shall meet often in the future and--\"\n\nMedland, in a sudden fit of anger, seized his daughter's arm and drew it\naway.\n\n\"I do not desire your acquaintance, sir,\" he said, in loud, harsh tones,\n\"for myself or my daughter.\"\n\nBenham smiled viciously; Coxon, who stood by, watched the scene closely.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Benham, \"perhaps not; but you know me--and so will she,\" and\nhe in his turn raised his voice in growing excitement.\n\nDaisy, frightened at the angry interview, clung to Medland's arm,\nlooking in wonder from him to Benham. Some half-dozen people, seeing the\ngroup, stopped for a moment in curiosity and, walking on, cast glances\nback over their shoulders. A lull in the babble of conversation warned\nMedland, and he looked round. Alicia Derosne was passing by in company\nwith the Chief Justice. Near at hand stood Kilshaw, watching the\nencounter with a sneering smile. The Chief Justice stepped up to\nMedland.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" he asked, in a low tone.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Medland. \"Only I do not wish my daughter to talk to this\ngentleman.\"\n\nThe contempt of his look and tone goaded Benham to fury.\n\n\"I don't care what you wish,\" he exclaimed. \"I have as good a right as\nanybody to talk to the young lady, considering that she's----\"\n\nBefore he could finish his sentence, Kilshaw darted up to him, and\ncaught him by the arm.\n\n\"Not yet, you fool,\" he whispered, drawing the angry man away.\n\nBenham yielded, and Kilshaw caught Medland's look of surprise.\n\n\"Come, Mr. Benham,\" he said aloud, \"you and Mr. Medland must settle\nyour differences, if you have any, elsewhere.\"\n\nMedland glanced sharply at him, but accepted the cue.\n\n\"You are right,\" he said. \"Come, Daisy,\" and he walked away with his\ndaughter on his arm, while Kilshaw led Benham off in the opposite\ndirection, talking to him urgently in a low voice. Benham shook his head\nagain and again in angry protest, seeming to ask why he had not been\nallowed his own way.\n\nThe group of people passed on, amid inquiries who Benham was, and\nconjectures as to the cause of the Premier's anger.\n\n\"Now what in the world,\" asked Sir John, fitting his _pince-nez_ more\nsecurely on his nose, \"do you make of that, Miss Derosne?\"\n\nSir John thought that he was addressing an indifferent spectator, and\nAlicia's manner did not undeceive him.\n\n\"How should I know, Sir John? It must have been politics.\"\n\n\"They wouldn't talk politics here--and, if they did, Medland would not\nquarrel about them.\"\n\n\"Did you hear what he said, Chief Justice?\" asked Coxon.\n\n\"Yes, I heard.\"\n\n\"Curious, isn't it?\"\n\n\"It's most tantalisingly curious,\" said Sir John.\n\n\"But, all the same, we mustn't forget the flowers,\" remarked Alicia,\nwith affected gaiety.\n\nThey moved on, and the onlookers, still canvassing the incident,\nscattered their various ways.\n\nIt was Coxon who told Lady Eynesford about it afterwards, and her\ncomment to the Governor that evening at dinner was,\n\n\"There, Willie! Didn't I tell you something horrid would come of having\nthose people?\"\n\nNo one answered her. The Governor knew better than to encourage a\ndiscussion. Dick swore softly under his breath at Coxon, and Alicia\nbegan to criticise Lady Perry's costume. Lady Eynesford followed up her\ntriumph.\n\n\"I hope all you Medlandites are satisfied now,\" she said.\n\nAnd Lady Eynesford was not the only person who found some satisfaction\nin this unfortunate incident, for when Daisy told Norburn about it, he\nremarked, with an extraordinary want of reason,\n\n\"I knew you'd be sorry you went.\"\n\n\"I'm not at all sorry,\" protested Daisy. \"But why was father angry?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know. Didn't he tell you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Oh, I recollect. This Benham has been worrying him about some\nappointment.\"\n\n\"That doesn't account for his saying that he had as good a right as\nanybody to talk to me. I don't understand it.\"\n\n\"Well, neither do I. But you would go.\"\n\n\"Really, you're too absurd,\" said Daisy pettishly.\n\nAnd poor Norburn knew that he was very absurd, and yet could not help\nbeing very absurd, although he despised himself for it.\n\nThe real truth was that Daisy had told him that, except for this one\noccurrence, she had had a most charming afternoon, and that Dick Derosne\nhad been kindness itself.\n\nThis was enough to make even a rising statesman angry, and, when angry,\nabsurd.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nA CONSCIENTIOUS MAN'S CONSCIENCE.\n\n\nA very few hours after its occurrence, the scene at the flower-show was\nregretted by all who took part in it. Medland realised the foolishness\nof his indiscretion and want of temper; Benham was afraid that he might\nhave set inquiring minds on the track of game which he wished to hunt\ndown for himself; Kilshaw was annoyed at having been forced into such an\nopen display of his relations with and his influence over Benham. Even\nto himself, his dealings with the man were a delicate subject. Almost\nevery one has one or two matters which he would rather not discuss with\nhis own conscience; and his bargain with Benham was one of these tabooed\ntopics to Kilshaw. For, in spite of what he had done in this instance,\nhe belonged to a class which some righteous and superior people will\nhave it does not exist. He was a conscientious politician--a man who, in\nthe main, was honest and straightforward; prone indeed to think that\nwhat he had was necessarily identical with what he ought to have, and\nthat any law not based on a recognition of this fact was an iniquitous\nlaw, but loyal to his friends, his class, his party, and his country;\nready to spend and work for his own rights' sake, but no niggard of time\nor money in larger causes; sincere in his convictions, dauntless in\naffirming and upholding them, hardly conceiving that honest men could\ndiffer from them; strong in his self-confidence, believing that the best\nmen always won, suspecting from the bottom of his heart every appeal to\nsentiment in the mouth of a politician. Such he was--a type of the man\nof success, with the hardness that success is apt to bring, but with the\nvirtues that attain it; and his defects and merits had made him, for\nyears past, Sir Robert Perry's most valued lieutenant, and a very pillar\nof the cautious conservative ideas on which that statesman's influence\nwas based.\n\nAnd now Mr. Kilshaw, impelled less by mere self-interest than by the\nrankling of a personal feud, had--dipped the end of his fingers in\npitch. He had resented fiercely Medland's hardly disguised attack on\nhim, and it had fanned into flame the wrath which the Premier's schemes,\nthreatening the profits of himself and his fellow-capitalists, and the\nPremier's principles, redolent to his nostrils of the quackery and\nhypocrisy that he hated, had set alight in his heart. Against such a man\nand such a policy, was not everything fair? Was it not even fair to use\na tool like Benham, if the tool put itself in his hand?\n\nYet he was ashamed; but, being in secret ashamed, he, as men often do,\nset his face and went on his way all the more obstinately.\n\nHe bought Mr. Benham, Mr. Benham and his secret; they were heartily at\nhis disposal, for he could pay a better price than Puttock could; and he\nlaid them by in his arsenal, for use, he carefully added to himself,\nonly in the very last emergency.\n\n\"Not yet, you fool!\" he had whispered to his tool in anger and alarm.\nThe tool did not know how dirty it seemed to the hand that was to use\nit, and yet shrank from using it until the very last. But if it came to\nthe very last--why, he would use it; and Mr. Kilshaw inspected the pitch\non the end of his fingers, and almost convinced himself that it was not\npitch at all.\n\nYet was this \"very last\" very far off? Since the flower-show, the\nPremier was displaying feverish activity. He was like a man who is\nstricken by mortal sickness, but has some work that he must finish\nbefore the time comes when he can do no more work, and know no more joy\nin the work he has done. Bill after bill was introduced embodying his\nschemes, and the popular praise of him and enthusiasm rose higher and\nhigher at the sight of a minister doing, or at least attempting, all and\nmore than he promised. The Ministry was worked to death; the Governor\nwas apprehensive and uneasy; Capital was, as Kilshaw had said, alarmed;\nonly Sir Robert Perry smiled, as he remarked to the Chief Justice at the\nClub,\n\n\"It can't last. His own men won't swallow all this. Medland must be mad\nto try it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" suggested Sir John, \"he doesn't mean business. He may only\nwant a strong platform to dissolve on.\"\n\n\"Riding for a fall, eh?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't wonder.\"\n\n\"My experience is,\" observed Captain Heseltine, looking up from the\n_Stud Book_, \"that chaps who ride for a fall come more unholy crumplers\nthan anybody else.\"\n\n\"I hope you're right,\" said Sir Robert, with a smile.\n\nAnd they discussed the matter with much acumen, and would doubtless have\narrived at a true conclusion, had they known anything about the matter.\nBut, as it happened, they were all ignorant of the real reason which\ndictated Medland's conduct. He had gauged the character of his most\nuncompromising and powerful enemy to a nicety. He knew that Kilshaw\nwould be loth to make use of Benham, and yet that he would make use of\nhim. He saw that the danger which threatened him had become great and\nimmediate. A stronger hand and a longer purse than Benham's were now\nagainst him. The chase had begun. He could not expect much law, and he\nwas riding, not for a fall, but against time. He did not despair of\nescape, but the chances were against him. He must cover as much ground\nas he could before the pack was on his heels. So he brought in his\nbills, made his speeches, fluttered the dovecote of many a prejudice and\nmany an interest, was the idol of the people, and never had a quiet\nhour.\n\nBesides its more serious effects, the Premier's absorption in public\naffairs had the result of blinding him to the change that had gradually\nbeen coming over his own house. Norburn had always been in and out every\nhour; he was in and out still, but now he came straight from the street\ndoor to the Premier's room, and went straight back thence to the street\ndoor again. The visits to Daisy, which had been wont to precede and\nfollow, perhaps even sometimes to occasion, business conferences, ceased\nalmost entirely; and the young Minister's brow bore a weight of care\nthat the precarious position of the Cabinet was not alone enough to\naccount for. It would seem as if Daisy must have noticed Norburn's\naltered ways, although her father did not; but she made no reference to\nthem, and appeared to be aware of nothing which called for explanation\nor remark. Perhaps she missed Norburn's visits less because his place\nwas so often filled by Dick Derosne, who, unable to find, or perhaps\nscorning, any pretext of business, came with the undisguised object of\nseeing the Premier's daughter, and not the Premier.\n\nWhatever differences Eleanor Scaife and other studious inquirers may\ndiscover between young communities and old, it is safe to say that there\nare many points of resemblance: one of them is that, in both, folk talk\na good deal about their neighbours' affairs. The stream of gossip, which\nDick's indiscreet behaviour at Sir John Oakapple's dance had set\na-flowing, was not diminished in current by his subsequent conduct. Some\npeople believed that he was merely amusing himself, and were very much\nor very little shocked according to their temperaments and their views\non such matters; others, with great surprise and regret, were forced to\nbelieve him serious, and wondered what he could be thinking of; a third\nclass took the line sanctioned by the eminent authority of Mr. Tomes,\nand hailed the possibility of a union of more than private importance.\nSuch a diversity of opinion powerfully promoted the interchange of\nviews, and very soon there were but few people in Kirton society,\noutside the two households most concerned, who were not watching the\nprogress of the affair.\n\nThe circulating eddies of report at last reached Mr. Kilshaw, soon after\nhe had, by his bargain with Benham, been put in possession of the facts\nthat gentleman had to dispose of. Kilshaw knew Dick Derosne very well,\nand for a time he remained quiet, expecting to see Dick's zeal slacken\nand his infatuation cease of their own accord. When the opposite\nhappened, Kilshaw's anger was stirred within him; he was ready to find,\nand in consequence at once found, a new sin and a fresh cause of\noffence in the Premier. Without considering that Medland had many things\nto do besides watching the course of flirtations or the development of\npassions, he hastily concluded that he had come upon another scheme and\ndetected another man uvre intended to strengthen the Premier's exposed\nposition. He appreciated the advantage that such an alliance would be to\na man threatened with the kind of revelation which menaced Medland; it\nwas clear to his mind that Medland had appreciated it too, and had laid\na cunning trap for Dick's innocent feet. It did not suit him to produce\nyet the public explosion which he destined for his enemy; but he lost no\ntime in determining to checkmate this last ingenious move by some\nprivate communication which would put Dick--or perhaps better still,\nDick's friends--on guard.\n\nMr. Dick Derosne perhaps was not unaware that many people in Kirton\nfrowned on him as an unprincipled deceiver, or, at best, a fickle\nlight-o'-love; he would have been much more surprised, and also more\ndispleased, to know that there was even one who thought of him as a\ndeluded innocent, and had determined to rescue him from the snares which\nwere set for his destruction. He did not feel like a deluded innocent.\nHe was not sure how he did feel. Perhaps he also, as well as the man who\nwas preparing to rescue him, had a subject which did not bear too much\nor too candid inward discussion; and he found it easier to stifle any\nattempt at importunity on the part of his conscience than Kilshaw did.\nKilshaw could only appeal to the paramount interests of the public\nwelfare as an excuse for his own doubtful dealing: Dick could and did\nlook into Daisy Medland's eyes and forget that there was any need or\noccasion for excuse at all. Supposing she were fond of him--and he could\nnot suppose anything else--what did he mean to do? Many people asked\nthat question, but Dick Derosne himself was not among them. He knew that\nhe would be very sorry to lose her, that she was the chief reason now\nwhy he found Kirton a pleasant place of residence, and that he resented\nvery highly any other man venturing to engross her conversation. Beyond\nthat he did not go; but the state of mind which these feelings indicated\nwas no doubt quite enough to justify Kilshaw in deciding to have\nrecourse to the Governor, and allow his message to Dick to filter\nthrough one who had more right than he had to offer counsel.\n\nIn a matter like this, to determine was to do. He got on his horse and\nrode through the Park towards Government House. In the Park he met\nCaptain Heseltine, also mounted and looking very hot. The Captain mopped\nhis face, and waved an accusing arm towards an inhospitable eucalyptus.\n\n\"Call that a tree!\" he said. \"The beastly thing doesn't give a ha'porth\nof shade.\"\n\n\"It's the best we've got,\" replied Kilshaw, in ironical apology for his\ncountry.\n\n\"As a rule, you know,\" the Captain continued, \"coming out for a ride\nhere, except at midnight, means standing up under a willow and wondering\nhow the deuce you'll get home.\"\n\n\"Well, you're not under a willow now.\"\n\n\"No; I was, but I had to quit. Derosne and Miss Medland turned me out.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You felt you ought to go?\"\n\n\"My tact told me so. I say, Kilshaw, what do you make of that?\"\n\n\"Nothing in it,\" answered Kilshaw confidently.\n\nCaptain Heseltine had but one test of sincerity, and it was a test to\nwhich he knew Kilshaw was, as a rule, quite ready to submit. He took out\na small note-book from one pocket and a pencil from the other.\n\n\"What'll you lay that it doesn't come off?\" he asked.\n\n\"I won't bet.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the Captain, scornfully implying that he ceased to attach\nvalue to Mr. Kilshaw's judgment.\n\n\"I won't bet, because I know.\"\n\n\"The deuce you do!\" exclaimed Heseltine, promptly re-pocketing his\napparatus.\n\n\"And, if you want another reason why I won't bet,\" continued Kilshaw,\nwho did not like the Captain's air of incredulity, \"I'll tell you. I'm\ngoing to stop it myself.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course, if _you_ object!\" said the Captain, with undisguised\nirony. \"I hope, though, that you'll let me have a shot, after Dick.\"\n\n\"You won't want it, if you're a wise man. You wait a bit, my friend,\"\nand with a grim nod of his head, Kilshaw rode on.\n\nThe Captain looked after him with a meditative stare. Then he glanced at\nhis watch.\n\n\"That beggar knows something,\" said he. \"I think I'll go and interrupt\nfriend Richard.\" And he continued, apostrophising the absent Dick--\"To\nstay out, my boy, may not be easy; but to get out when you're once in,\nis the deuce!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nAN ABSURD AMBITION.\n\n\n_Suave mari magno_--Like so many of us who quote these words, Mr. Coxon\ncould not finish the line, but the tag as it stood was enough to express\nhis feelings. If the Cabinet were going to the bottom, he was not to\nsink with it. If he had one foot in that leaky boat, the other was on\nfirm ground. He had received unmistakable intimations that, if he would\ntread the path of penitence as Puttock had, the way should be strewn\nwith roses, and the fatted calf duly forthcoming at the end of the\njourney. He had a right to plume himself on the dexterity which had\nlanded him in such a desirable position, and he was fully awake to the\nprice which that position made him worth. Now a man who commands a great\nprice, thought Mr. Coxon, is a great man. So his meditations--which, in\nthis commercial age, seem hardly open to adverse criticism--ran, as he\nwalked towards Government House, just about the same time as Mr. Kilshaw\nwas also thinking of betaking himself thither. A great man (Mr. Coxon's\nreflections continued) can aspire to the hand of any lady--more\nespecially when he depends not merely on intellectual ability (which is\nby no means everything), but is also a man of culture, of breeding, of a\nUniversity education, and of a very decent income. He forbore to throw\nhis personal attractions into the scale, but he felt that if he were in\nother respects a suitable aspirant, no failure could await him on that\nscore. Vanity apart, he could not be blind to the fact that he was in\nmany ways different from most of his compatriots, still more from most\nof his colleagues.\n\n\"In all essentials I am an Englishman, pure and simple,\" thought he, as\nhe entered the gates of Government House; but, the phrase failing quite\nto satisfy him, he substituted, as he rang the bell, \"An English\ngentleman.\"\n\n\"Shall we go into the garden?\" said Lady Eynesford, after she had bidden\nhim welcome. \"I dare say we shall find Miss Scaife there,\" and, as she\nspoke, she smiled most graciously.\n\nCoxon followed her, his brow clouded for the first time that day. He was\nnot anxious to find Miss Scaife, and he had begun to notice that Lady\nEynesford always suggested Miss Scaife as a resource; her manner almost\nimplied that he must come to see Miss Scaife.\n\n\"I can't think where she has got to,\" exclaimed Lady Eynesford, after a\nperfunctory search; \"but it's too hot to hunt. Sit down here in the\nverandah. Eleanor has probably concealed herself somewhere to read the\nlast debate. She takes such an interest in all your affairs--the\nMinistry's, I mean.\"\n\n\"I noticed she was very attentive the other day.\"\n\n\"Oh, at that wretched House! Why don't you ventilate it? It gave poor\nAlicia quite a headache.\"\n\n\"I hope Miss Derosne is not still suffering?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's nothing much. I suppose she feels this close weather. It's\nfrightful, isn't it? I wonder you had the courage to walk up. It's very\nfriendly of you, Mr. Coxon.\"\n\n\"With such an inducement, Lady Eynesford--\" Coxon began, in his\nlaboriously polite style.\n\n\"I know,\" laughed his hostess, and her air was so kind and confidential\nthat Coxon was emboldened. He did not understand why people called the\nGovernor's wife cold and \"stand-offish\"; he always insisted that no one\ncould be more cordial than she had shown herself towards him.\n\n\"What do you know?\" he asked, with a smile, and an obviously assumed\nlook of surprise.\n\n\"You don't suppose I think I'm the inducement--or even the Governor? And\nwe can't find her! Too bad!\" and Lady Eynesford shook her head in\nplayful despair.\n\n\"But,\" said Coxon, feeling now quite happy, \"isn't the--the\ninducement--at home?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, she's somewhere,\" replied Lady Eynesford, good-naturedly\nignoring her visitor's too ready acquiescence in her modest disclaimer.\n\n\"I'm afraid I'm a poor politician. I can conceal nothing.\"\n\n\"Your secret is quite safe with me, and no one else has guessed it.\"\n\n\"Not even Miss Scaife?\" asked Coxon, with a smile. Eleanor had so often\nmanaged a _t te- -t te_ for him, he remembered.\n\n\"Oh, I can't tell that--but, you know, we women never guess these things\ntill we're told. It's not correct, Mr. Coxon.\"\n\n\"But you say you guessed it.\"\n\n\"That's quite different. I might guess it--or--or anybody else (though\nnobody has)--but not Eleanor.\"\n\nA slight shade of perplexity crossed Coxon's brow. The lady, if kind and\nreassuring, was also somewhat enigmatical.\n\n\"I believe,\" he said, \"Miss Scaife has guessed it.\"\n\n\"Indeed! And is she--pleased?\"\n\n\"I hope so.\"\n\n\"So do I--for your sake.\"\n\n\"Her approbation would be a factor, would it?\"\n\n\"Really, Mr. Coxon, I suppose it would!\" exclaimed Lady Eynesford in\nsurprise.\n\n\"I mean it would be likely to weigh with--with your sister-in-law?\"\n\n\"With Alicia? Why, what has Alicia got to do with it?\"\n\n\"You mustn't chaff me, Lady Eynesford. It's too serious,\" pleaded Coxon,\nin self-complacent tones.\n\n\"What does the man mean?\" thought Lady Eynesford. Then a glance at his\nface somehow brought sudden illumination, and the illumination brought\nsuch a shock that Lady Eynesford was startled into vulgar directness of\nspeech.\n\n\"Good gracious! Surely it _is_ Eleanor you come after?\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Miss Scaife! What made you think that? Surely you've seen that it's\nMiss Derosne who----\"\n\n\"Mr. Coxon!\"\n\nAt the tone in which Lady Eynesford seemed to hurl his own name in his\nteeth, Coxon's rosy illusion vanished. He sat in gloomy silence,\ntwisting his hat in his hand and waiting for Lady Eynesford to speak\nagain.\n\n\"You astonish me!\" she said at last. \"I made sure it was Eleanor.\"\n\n\"Why is it astonishing?\" he asked. \"Surely Miss Derosne's attractions\nare sufficient to----?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so sorry, I am indeed. You must believe me, Mr. Coxon. If I had\nforeseen this I--I would have guarded against it. But now--indeed, I'm\nso sorry.\"\n\nLady Eynesford's sorrowful sympathy failed to touch Coxon's softer\nfeelings.\n\n\"What is there to be sorry about?\" he demanded, almost roughly.\n\n\"Why this--this unfortunate misunderstanding. Of course I thought it was\nEleanor; you seemed so suited to one another.\"\n\nCoxon, ignoring the natural affinity suggested, remarked,\n\n\"There's no harm done that I can see, except that I hoped I had you on\nmy side. Perhaps I shall have still.\"\n\nSympathy had failed. Lady Eynesford, recognising that, felt she had a\nduty to perform.\n\n\"I dare say I am to blame,\" she said, \"but I never thought of such a\nthing. Really, Mr. Coxon, you must see that I wasn't likely to think of\nit,\" and her tone conveyed an appeal to his calmer reason. She was quite\nunconscious of giving any reasonable cause of offence.\n\n\"Why not?\" he asked, the silky smoothness of his manner disappearing in\nhis surprise and wounded dignity.\n\n\"The--the--oh, if you don't see, I can't tell you.\"\n\n\"You appear to assume that attentions from me to your sister-in-law were\nnot to be expected.\"\n\n\"You do see that, don't you?\"\n\n\"While attentions to your governess----\"\n\n\"Miss Scaife is my friend and worthy of anybody's attentions,\"\ninterposed Lady Eynesford quickly.\n\n\"But all the same, very different from Miss Derosne,\" sneered Coxon\nsullenly, putting her thoughts into her mouth with a discrimination that\ncompleted her discomfiture.\n\n\"I don't think there is any advantage in discussing it further,\"\nremarked Lady Eynesford, rising.\n\n\"I claim to see Miss Derosne herself. I am not to be put off.\"\n\n\"I will acquaint the Governor and my sister-in-law with your wishes. No\ndoubt my husband will communicate with you. Good-morning, Mr. Coxon,\"\nand Lady Eynesford performed her stiffest bow.\n\n\"Good-morning, Lady Eynesford,\" he answered, in no less hostile tones,\nand very different was the man who slammed the gate of Government House\nbehind him from the bland and confident suitor who had entered it\nhalf-an-hour before.\n\nThe moment he was gone, Lady Eynesford ran to her husband.\n\n\"The next time you take a Governorship,\" she exclaimed, as she sank into\na chair, \"you must leave me at home.\"\n\n\"What's the matter now?\"\n\nLady Eynesford, with much indignant comment, related the tale of Coxon's\naudacity.\n\n\"Of course I meant him for Eleanor,\" she concluded. \"Did you ever hear\nof such a thing?\"\n\n\"But, my dear, he must see Alicia if he wants to. We can't turn him out\nas if he was a footman! After all, he's got a considerable position\nhere.\"\n\n\"Here!\" And the word expressed an opinion as comprehensive as, though\nfar more condensed than, any to be found in Tomes.\n\n\"I suppose, Mary, there's no danger of--of Alicia being----?\"\n\n\"Willie! I couldn't imagine it.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll just tell her, and then I'll write to Coxon and see what to\ndo.\"\n\n\"Do make her understand it's impossible,\" urged Lady Eynesford.\n\n\"We've no reason to suppose she's ever thought of it,\" the Governor\nreminded his wife.\n\n\"No, of course not,\" she said. \"I shall leave you alone with her,\nWillie.\"\n\nAlicia came down at the Governor's summons.\n\n\"Well, here's another,\" said the Governor playfully.\n\nAlicia's conquests had been somewhat numerous--such things were so hard\nto avoid, she pleaded--and it was not the first time her brother had had\nto confront her with the slain.\n\n\"Another what?\"\n\n\"Another victim. Mary has been here in a rage because a gentleman is\nready to be at your feet. Now who do you think it is?\"\n\n\"I shan't guess. When I guess, I always guess wrong,\" said Alicia, \"and\nthat----\"\n\n\"Tells tales, doesn't it? Well! it's a great man this time.\"\n\nA sudden impossible idea ran through her head. Surely it couldn't\nbe----? But nothing we think of very much seems always impossible. It\nmight be! Her air of raillery dropped from her. She sat down, blushing\nand breathing quickly.\n\n\"Who is it, Willie?\" she gasped.\n\n\"No, you must guess,\" said the Governor, over his shoulder; he was\nengaged in lighting a cigar.\n\n\"No, no; tell me, tell me,\" she could not help crying.\n\nAt the sound of her voice, he turned quickly and looked curiously at\nher.\n\n\"Why, Al, what's the matter?\" he asked uneasily.\n\nSurely she could not care for that fellow? But girls were queer\ncreatures. Lord Eynesford always doubted if they really knew a gentleman\nfrom one who was--well, very nearly a gentleman.\n\nAlicia saw his puzzled look and forced a smile.\n\n\"Don't tease me. Who is it?\"\n\n\"No less a man than a Minister.\"\n\n\"A--Willie, who is it?\" she asked, and she stretched out a hand in\nentreaty.\n\n\"My dear girl, whatever----? Well, then, it's Coxon.\"\n\n\"Mr. Coxon! Oh!\" and a sigh followed, the hand fell to her side, the\nflush vanished.\n\nShe felt a great relief; the strain was over; there was nothing to be\nfaced now, and, as happens at first, peace seemed almost so sweet as to\ndrown the taste of disappointment. Yet she could not have denied that\nthe taste of disappointment was there.\n\n\"Oh! how absurd!\"\n\n\"It's rather amusing,\" said his Excellency, much relieved in his turn.\n\"You won't chaff Mary--promise.\"\n\n\"What about? No, I promise.\"\n\n\"She thought he was sweet on Eleanor, and rather backed him up--asked\nhim here and all that, you know--and it was you all the time.\"\n\nAlicia laughed.\n\n\"I thought Mary used to leave him a lot to Eleanor.\"\n\n\"That's it.\"\n\n\"But Eleanor always passed him on to me.\"\n\n\"The deuce she did!\" laughed Lord Eynesford.\n\n\"Don't tell Mary that!\"\n\n\"Not I! Well, what shall I say? He wants to see you.\"\n\n\"How tiresome!\"\n\n\"Look here, Al, Mary seems to have given him a bit of her mind; but I\nmust be civil. We can't tell the chap that he's--well, you know. It\nwouldn't do out here. You don't mind seeing him, do you?\"\n\nAlicia said that she would do her duty.\n\n\"And shall I be safe in writing and telling him I can say nothing till\nhe has discovered your inclinations?\"\n\n\"You'll be perfectly safe,\" said Alicia with decision.\n\nThe Governor wrote his letter; it was a very civil letter indeed, and\nLord Eynesford felt that it ought in some degree to assuage the wrath\nwhich his wife's unseemly surprise had probably raised in Coxon's\nbreast.\n\n\"It's all very well,\" he pondered, \"for a man to be civil all round as I\nam; but his womankind can always give him away.\"\n\nHe closed his note, pushed the writing-pad from him, and, leaning back\nin his chair, puffed at his cigar. In the moment of reflection, the\nimpression of Alicia's unexplained agitation revived in his memory.\n\n\"I don't believe,\" he mused, \"that she expected me to say Coxon. I\nwonder if there's some one else; it looked like it. But who the deuce\ncould it be here? It can't be Heseltine or Flemyng--they're not her\nsort--and there's no one else. Ah! the mail came in this morning,\nperhaps it's some one at home. That must be it. I like that fellow's\nimpudence. Wonder who the other chap is. Perhaps I was wrong--you can't\ntell with women, they always manage to get excited about something. I\nswear there was nothing before I came out, and there's no one here,\nand----\"\n\n\"Mr. Kilshaw,\" announced Jackson.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nOUT OF HARM'S WAY.\n\n\n\"I don't see what business it is of his,\" said Dick to his brother the\nnext afternoon. \"I call it infernal impertinence.\"\n\nLord Eynesford differed.\n\n\"Well, I don't,\" he said. \"He did it with great tact, and I'm very much\nobliged to him.\"\n\n\"I wish people would leave my affairs alone,\" Dick grumbled.\n\n\"Has it gone very far?\" asked his brother, ignoring the grumble.\n\n\"Depends upon what you call far. There's nothing settled, if that's what\nyou mean.\"\n\n\"I don't know that I've any exact right to interfere, but isn't it about\ntime you made up your mind whether you want it to go any farther?\"\n\n\"What's the hurry?\"\n\n\"Because,\" pursued the Governor, \"it seems to me that going on as you're\ndoing means either that you want to marry her, or that you're making a\nfool of her.\"\n\nThis pointed statement of the case awoke Dick's dormant conscience.\n\n\"And a cad of myself, you mean?\" he asked.\n\n\"Same thing, isn't it?\" replied his brother curtly.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" Dick admitted ruefully. \"Hang it, I am a fool!\"\n\n\"I don't imagine you want to do anything a gentleman wouldn't do. Only,\nif you do, you won't do it from my house--that's all.\"\n\n\"All right, old chap. Don't be so precious down on me. I didn't mean any\nharm. A fellow gets led on, you know--no, I don't mean by her--by\ncircumstances, you know.\"\n\n\"I grant you she's pretty and pleasant, but she won't have a _sou_,\nand--well, Medland's a very clever fellow and very distinguished.\nBut----\"\n\n\"No, I know. They're not our sort.\"\n\n\"Then of course it's no use blinking the fact that there's something\nwrong. I don't know what, but something.\"\n\n\"Did Kilshaw tell you that?\"\n\n\"Yes, between ourselves, he did. He wouldn't tell me what, but said he\nknew what he was talking about, and that I'd better tell you that you\nand all of us would be very sorry before long if we had anything to do\nwith the Medlands.\"\n\n\"What the deuce does he mean?\" asked Dick fretfully.\n\n\"Well, you know the sort of gossip that's about. Compare that with what\nKilshaw said.\"\n\n\"What gossip?\"\n\n\"Nonsense! You know well enough. It's impossible to live here without\nnoticing that everybody thinks there's something wrong. I believe\nKilshaw knows what it is, and, what's more, that he means to have it out\nsome day. However that may be, rumours of the sort there are about are\nby themselves enough to stop any wise man.\"\n\n\"Old wives' scandal, I expect.\"\n\n\"Perhaps: perhaps not. Anyhow, I'd rather have no scandal, old wives' or\nany other, about my wife's family.\"\n\n\"I'm awfully fond of her,\" said Dick.\n\n\"Well, as I said, it's your look-out. I don't know what Mary'll say,\nand--you've only got six hundred a year of your own, Dick.\"\n\n\"It seems to me we're in the deuce of a hurry--\" began Dick feebly, but\nhis brother interrupted him.\n\n\"Come, Dick, do you suppose Kilshaw would have come to me, if he hadn't\nthought the matter serious? It wasn't a very pleasant interview for him.\nI expect you've been making the pace pretty warm.\"\n\nDick did not venture on a denial. He shifted about uneasily in his seat,\nand lit a cigarette with elaborate care.\n\n\"I don't want to be disagreeable,\" pursued the Governor, \"but both for\nyour sake and mine--not to speak of the girl's--I won't have anything\nthat looks like trifling with her. You must make up your mind; you must\ngo on, or you must drop it.\"\n\n\"How the devil can I drop it? I'm bound to meet her two or three times a\nweek, and I can't cut her.\"\n\n\"You needn't flirt with her.\"\n\n\"Oh, needn't I? That's all you know about it.\"\n\nThe Governor was not offended by this rudeness.\n\n\"Then,\" he said, \"if you don't mean to go on----\"\n\n\"Who said I didn't?\"\n\n\"Do you?\"\n\nDick was driven into a corner. He asked why life was so ill-arranged,\nwhy he was poor, why a man might not look at a girl without proposing to\nher, why everybody was always so down on him, why people chattered so\nmaliciously, why he was such a miserable devil, and many other\nquestions. His brother relentlessly repeated his \"Do you?\" and at last\nDick, red in the face, and with every sign of wholesome shame, blurted\nout,\n\n\"How can I marry her? You know I can't--especially after this story of\nKilshaw's.\"\n\n\"Very well. Then if you can't marry her, and yet can't help making love\nto her----\"\n\n\"I didn't say I made love to her.\"\n\n\"But you do--making love to her, I say, as often as you see her, why,\nyou mustn't see her.\"\n\n\"I'm bound to see her.\"\n\n\"As long as you stay here, yes. But you needn't stay here. We can\ngovern New Lindsey without you, Dick, for a time, anyhow.\"\n\nThis suggestion fell as a new light on Dick Derosne. He waited a moment\nbefore answering it with a long-drawn \"O-oh!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Governor, nodding emphatically. \"You might just as well\nrun home and give a look to things: most likely they're going to the\ndeuce.\"\n\n\"But what am I to say to people?\"\n\n\"Why, that you're going to look after some affairs of mine.\"\n\n\"Will she believe that?\"\n\n\"She? You said 'people!'\"\n\n\"Hang it, Willie! I don't like bolting. Besides, it's not half bad out\nhere. Do you think I've--I've behaved like a beast, Willie?\"\n\n\"It looks like it.\"\n\n\"It's no more than what lots of fellows do.\"\n\n\"Not a bit: less than a great many, thank God, Dick. Come, old chap, do\nthe square thing--the squarest thing you can do now.\"\n\n\"Give me till to-morrow,\" said Dick, and escaped in a jumble of\nconflicting feelings--smothered pride in his fascinations, honest\nreprobation of his recklessness, momentary romantic impulses, recurrent\nprudential recollections, longings to stay, impatience to get rid of the\naffair, regrets that he had ever met Daisy Medland, pangs at the notion\nof not meeting her in the future--a very hotch-pot of crossed and\njarring inclinations.\n\nSo the Governor did the right, the prudent thing, the only thing, the\nthing which he could not doubt was wise, and which all reasonable men\nmust have seen to be inevitable. Nevertheless when he met Daisy Medland\nthat afternoon in the Park, he felt much more like a pick-pocket than it\nis comfortable to feel when one is her Majesty's representative: for\nDick was with him, and Daisy's eyes, which had lightened in joy at\nseeing them, clouded with disappointment as they rode past without\nstopping. Thus, when Dick turned very red and muttered, \"I _am_ a\nbeast,\" the Governor moaned inwardly, \"So am I.\"\n\nIt is perhaps creditable to Man--and Man, as opposed to Woman, in these\ndays needs a word slipped in for him when it is reasonably\npossible--that these touches of tenderness fought against the stern\nresolve that had been taken. But of course they were only proper fruits\nof penitence, in Dick for himself, in Lord Eynesford for his kind, and\nit could not be expected that they would reproduce themselves in persons\nso entirely innocent of actual or vicarious offence as Lady Eynesford\nand Eleanor Scaife.\n\n\"I think,\" said Lady Eynesford, \"that we may congratulate ourselves on a\nvery happy way of getting out of the results of Dick's folly.\"\n\n\"I can't think that Dick said anything really serious,\" remarked\nEleanor.\n\n\"So much depends on how people understand things,\" observed Lady\nEynesford.\n\nIt was on the tip of Eleanor's tongue to add, \"Or wish to understand\nthem,\" but she recollected that she had really no basis for this\nmalicious insinuation, and made expiation for entertaining it by saying\nto Alicia,\n\n\"You think she's a nice girl, don't you?\"\n\n\"Very,\" said Alicia briefly.\n\n\"The question is not what she is, so much as who she is,\" said Lady\nEynesford.\n\n\"I expect it was all Dick's fault,\" said Alicia hastily.\n\n\"Or that man's,\" suggested the Governor's wife.\n\nA month ago Alicia would have protested strongly. Now she held her\npeace: she could not trust herself to defend the Premier. Yet she was\nfull of sympathy for his daughter, and of indignation at the tone in\nwhich her sister-in-law referred to him. Also she was indignant with\nDick: this conduct of Dick's struck her as an impertinence, and, on\nbehalf of the Medlands, she resented it. They talked, too, as if it were\na flirtation with a milliner--dangerous enough to be troublesome, yet\ntoo absurd to be really dangerous--discreditable no doubt to Dick,\nbut--she detected the underlying thought--still more discreditable to\nDaisy Medland. The injustice angered her: it would have angered her at\nany time; but her anger was forced to lie deeply hidden and secret, and\nthe suppression made it more intense. Dick's flighty fancy caricatured\nthe feeling with which she was struggling: the family attitude towards\nit faintly foreshadowed the consternation that the lightest hint of her\nunbanishable dream would raise. And, worst of all--so it seemed to\nher--what must Medland think? He must surely scorn them all--this petty\npride, their microscopic distinctions of rank, their little devices--all\nso small, yet all enough to justify the wounding of his daughter's\nheart. It gave her a sharp, almost unendurable pang to think that he\nmight confound her in his sweeping judgment. Could he after--after what\nhe had seen? He might think she also trifled--that it was in the\nfamily--that they all thought it good fun to lead people on and\nthen--draw back in scorn lest the suppliant should so much as touch\nthem.\n\nIn the haste of an unreasoning impulse, she went to Medland's house,\nfull of the idea of dissociating herself from what had been done, only\ndimly conscious of difficulties which, if they existed, she was yet\nresolute to sweep away. Convention should not stand between, nor cost\nher a single unkind thought from him.\n\nShe asked for Daisy Medland, and was shown into Daisy's little room. She\nhad not long to wait before Daisy came in. Alicia ran to meet her, but\ndared not open the subject near her heart, for the young girl's bearing\nwas calm and distant. Yet her eyes were red, for it was but two hours\nsince Dick Derosne had flung himself out of that room, and she had been\nleft alone, able at last to cast off the armour of wounded pride and\ngirlish reticence. She had assumed it again to meet her new visitor,\nand Alicia's impetuous sympathy was frozen by the fear of seeming\nimpertinence.\n\nAt last, in despair of finding words, yet set not to go with her errand\nundone, she stretched out her arms, crying--\n\n\"Daisy! Not with me, dear!\"\n\nDaisy was not proof against an assault like that. Her wounded pride--for\nDick had not been enough of a diplomatist to hide the meaning of his\nsudden flight--had borne her through her interview with him, and he had\ngone away doubting if she had really cared for him; it broke down now.\nShe sprang to Alicia's arms, and her comforter seemed to hear her own\nconfession in the young girl's broken and half-stifled words.\n\n\"Do come again,\" said Daisy, and Alicia, who after a long talk had risen\nto go, promised with a kiss.\n\nThe door opened and Medland came in. Alicia started, almost in fright.\n\n\"I came--I came--\" she began in her agitation, for she assumed that his\ndaughter had told him her story.\n\n\"It's very kind of you,\" he answered, and she, still misunderstanding,\nwent on eagerly--\n\n\"It's such a shame! Oh, you don't think I had anything to do with it?\"\n\nHe looked curiously from one to the other, but said nothing.\n\nAlicia kissed Daisy again and passed by him towards the door: he\nfollowed her, and, closing the door, said abruptly,\n\n\"What's a shame, Miss Derosne? What's the matter with Daisy?\"\n\n\"You don't know? Oh, I've no right----\"\n\n\"No; but tell me, please. Come in here,\" and he beckoned her into his\nown study.\n\n\"Is she in any trouble?\" he asked again. \"She won't tell me, you know,\nfor fear of worrying me, so you must.\"\n\nSomehow Alicia, unable to resist his request, stammered out the gist of\nthe story; she blamed Dick as severely as he deserved, and shielded\nDaisy from all suspicion of haste in giving her affection; but the story\nstood out plain.\n\n\"And--and I was so afraid,\" she ended as she had begun, \"that you would\nthink that I had anything to do with it.\"\n\n\"Poor little Daisy!\" he said softly. \"No; I'm sure you hadn't. Ah, well,\nI dare say they're right.\"\n\nHe was so calm that she was almost indignant with him.\n\n\"Can't you feel for her--you, her father?\" she exclaimed. But a moment\nlater she added, \"I didn't mean that. Forgive me! I can't bear to think\nof the way she has been treated!\"\n\nHe looked up suddenly and asked,\n\n\"Was it only--general objections--or--or anything in particular?\"\n\n\"What do you mean? I don't know of anything in particular.\"\n\n\"I'm glad. I shouldn't have liked--but you won't understand. Well,\nyou've been very kind.\"\n\nShe would not leave her doubt unsettled. His manner puzzled her.\n\n\"Do you know of anything?\" she found courage to add.\n\n\"'The fathers eat sour grapes,'\" he answered, with a bitter smile. \"Poor\nlittle Daisy!\"\n\n\"I believe you're hinting at something against yourself.\"\n\n\"Perhaps.\"\n\nHe held out his hand to bid her good-bye, adding,\n\n\"You'd better let us alone, Miss Derosne.\"\n\n\"Why should I let you alone? Why mayn't I be her friend?\"\n\nHe made no direct answer, but said,\n\n\"Your news of what has happened--I mean of your friends'\nattitude--hardly surprises me. You won't suppose I feel it less, because\nit's my fault--and my poor girl has to suffer for it.\"\n\n\"Your fault?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I don't understand,\" she murmured.\n\n\"I hope you never need,\" he answered earnestly, holding out his hand\nagain.\n\nThis time she took it, but, as she did, she looked full in his face and\nsaid,\n\n\"I will believe nothing against you, not even your own words.\nGood-bye.\"\n\nHer voice faltered in the last syllable, and she ran hastily down the\nstairs.\n\nMedland stood still for some minutes. Then he went in to his daughter\nand kissed her.\n\nBut even that night, in spite of his remorse and sorrow for her grief,\nhis daughter was not alone in his thoughts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nA FATAL SECESSION.\n\n\nThe sudden departure of Dick Derosne was, according to Kilshaw's view of\nit, a notable triumph for him over his adversary; but he was not a man\nto rest content with one victory. He had hardly achieved this success\nwhen a chance word from Captain Heseltine started him in a new\nenterprise, and a hint from Sir John Oakapple confirmed him in his\ncourse. He made up his mind not to wait for the slow growth of\ndisaffection in Coxon's mind, but to accelerate the separation of that\ngentleman from his colleagues. The Captain had been pleased to be much\namused at the cessation of Coxon's visits to Government House: Eleanor\nScaife's contempt for her supposed admirer was so strong that, when\nplayfully taxed with hardness of heart, she repelled the charge with a\nvigour that pointed the Captain straight to the real fact. Having\napprehended it, he thought himself in no way bound to observe an\nover-strict reticence as to Coxon's \"cheek\" and his deserved rebuff.\n\n\"In fact,\" he concluded, \"love's at a discount. With Coxon and Dick\nbefore one's eyes, it really isn't good enough. All a fellow gets is a\ndashed good snubbing or his marching orders.\" And he added, as if\naddressing an imaginary waiter, \"Thank you, I'm not taking it to-day.\"\n\nHis words fell on attentive ears, and the next time Kilshaw had a chance\nof conversing with Coxon at the Club, he did not forget what he had\nlearnt from Captain Heseltine.\n\n\"How d'you do, Coxon?\" said he. \"Haven't seen you for a long time. Come\nand sit here. You weren't at the Governor's party the other night?\"\n\nCoxon, gratified at this cordial greeting, joined Mr. Kilshaw. They were\nalone in the Club luncheon-room, and Coxon was always anxious to hear\nanything that Sir Robert or his friends had to say. There was always a\npossibility that it might be very well worth his while to listen.\n\n\"I wasn't there,\" he said. \"I don't go when I can help it.\"\n\n\"You used to be so regular,\" remarked Kilshaw in surprise, or seeming\nsurprise.\n\nCoxon gave a laugh of embarrassed vexation.\n\n\"I think I go as often as I'm wanted,\" he said. \"To tell you the truth,\nKilshaw, I find my lady a little high and mighty.\"\n\n\"Women can never separate politics and persons,\" observed Kilshaw, with\na tolerant smile. \"It's no secret, I suppose, that she's not devoted to\nyour chief.\"\n\nCoxon looked up quickly. His wounded vanity had long sought for an\nexplanation of the cruel rebuff he had endured.\n\n\"Well, I never put it down to that,\" he said.\n\n\"It can't be anything in yourself, can it?\" asked Kilshaw, in bland\ninnocence. \"No, no; Lady Eynesford's one of us, and there's an end of\nit--though of course I wouldn't say it openly. Look at the different way\nshe treats the Puttocks since they left you!\"\n\n\"It's highly improper,\" observed Coxon.\n\n\"I grant it; but she's fond of Perry, and sees through his glasses. And\nthen you must allow for her natural prejudices. Is Medland the sort of\nman who would suit her? Candidly now?\"\n\n\"She needn't identify us all with Medland?\"\n\n\"Come and have a cigar. Ah, there's Sir John! How are you, Chief\nJustice? Looks a bit shaky, doesn't he? Come along, Coxon.\"\n\nSo saying, Kilshaw led the way to the smoking-room, and, when the pair\nwere comfortably settled, he recurred to his topic.\n\n\"I remember her asking me--in confidence of course, and, all the same,\nperhaps not very discreetly--what in the world made you go over, and\nwhat made you stay over.\"\n\n\"And you said----?\"\n\n\"I didn't know what to say. I never did understand, and I understand\nless than ever now.\"\n\n\"Haven't I explained in the House?\"\n\n\"Oh, in the House! I tell you what it is, Coxon,--and you must stop me\nif you don't like to hear it--I shall always consider Medland got your\nsupport on false pretences.\"\n\nCoxon did not stop him. He sat and bit his finger-nail while Kilshaw\npointed out the discrepancies between what Medland had foreshadowed and\nwhat he was doing. He did not consciously exaggerate, but he made as\ngood a case as he could; and he talked to an ear inclined to listen.\n\n\"He caught you and Puttock on false pretences--utterly false pretences,\"\nKilshaw ended. \"Puttock saw it pretty soon.\"\n\n\"I was too stupid, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Well, if you like,\" said Kilshaw, with a laugh. \"I suppose when one\ndoesn't appreciate a man's game, one calls him stupid.\"\n\n\"I have no game,\" said Coxon stiffly.\n\n\"My dear fellow, I didn't mean it offensively. I'm sure you haven't, for\nif ever a man was sacrificing his position and his future on the altar\nof his convictions, you are.\"\n\nMr. Coxon looked noble, and felt uncomfortable.\n\n\"In a month or two,\" continued Kilshaw, laying his hand on his\nneighbour's arm and speaking impressively, \"Medland will be not only out\nof office, but a discredited man.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked the other uneasily, for Kilshaw's words implied some hidden\nknowledge: without that he could not have ventured on such a prophecy to\na colleague of the Premier's.\n\n\"Never mind why. You know you can't last, and time will show the rest.\nHe'll go--and all who stick to him. Well, I've said too much. Have you\nheard the news? But of course you have, Ministers hear everything.\"\n\n\"What news?\"\n\n\"The Chief Justice thinks of resigning: he told me himself that he had\nspoken to Medland about it, and Medland had asked him to wait a little.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Oh, Medland wants to get hold of a good man from England, I understood.\nHe thinks nobody here equal to it.\"\n\n\"Complimentary to my profession out here.\"\n\n\"I know. I wonder at Medland: he's generally so strong on 'Lindsey for\nthe Lindseians,' as he once said. In this matter he and Perry seem to\nhave changed places.\"\n\n\"Really? Then Sir Robert----?\"\n\n\"Yes, he's quite anxious to have one of ourselves. I must say I heartily\nagree, and of course it could easily be managed, if Medland liked. Perry\nwould do it in a minute. I really don't see why the best berth in the\ncolony is to be handed over to some hungry failure from London. But no\ndoubt you'll agree with Medland.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said Coxon. \"It seems to me rather a point where the\nBar here ought to assert itself.\"\n\n\"I know, if we were in and had a fit man, we should hear nothing more of\nan importation. The best man in the colony would be glad to have it: of\ncourse there's not the power a Minister has, or the interest of active\npolitical life, but it's well paid, very dignified, and, above all,\npermanent.\"\n\nNow neither Kilshaw nor Coxon were dull men, and by this time they very\nwell understood one another. They knew what they meant just as well as\nthough they had been indecent enough to say it. \"Help us to turn out\nMedland, and you shall be Chief Justice,\" said Kilshaw, in the name of\nSir Robert Perry,--\"Chief Justice, and once more a _persona grata_ at\nGovernment House.\" Chief Justice! Soon, perhaps, Sir Alfred! Would not\nthat soften the Eynesford heart? Mr. Coxon honestly thought it would.\nThe subtleties of English rank are not to be apprehended by a mere four\nyears' visit to our shores.\n\n\"We expect Sir John to go on for a couple of months or so,\" Kilshaw\ncontinued. \"I don't think he'll stay longer.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we shall be out by then.\"\n\n\"Not as things stand, I'm afraid,\" and Kilshaw shook his head. \"Now if\nwe could get you, Medland would be out in three weeks.\"\n\n\"I must do what I think right.\"\n\n\"My dear Coxon! Of course!\"\n\nMr. Kilshaw returned to his office well pleased. A careful computation\nshowed that Medland was supported now by a steady majority of not more\nthan eight: Coxon's defection could not fail to leave him in a minority;\nfor, although Coxon was a young man, and, as yet, of no great\nindependent weight in politics, he had acquired a factitious\nimportance, partly from the prestige of a successful University career\nin England, still more from the fact that he was the only remaining\nmember of the Ministry to whom moderate men and vested interests could\nlook with any confidence. Shorn of him, as it had been shorn of Puttock,\nthe Government would stand revealed as the organ and expression of the\nLabour Party and nothing else, and Perry and Kilshaw doubted not that\nsix or eight members of the House would be found to enter the \"cave,\" if\nCoxon showed them the way. Then,--\"Why then,\" said Mr. Kilshaw to his\nconscience, \"we need not use that brute Benham at all! There's a nice\nsop! Lie down like a good dog, and stop barking!\"\n\nIndeed, had it been quite certain that Benham's aid would not still\nprove needful, Kilshaw would have been very glad to be rid of him.\nComplete leisure and full pockets appeared not to be, in his case, a\nfavourable soil for the growth of virtue. No doubt Mr. Benham's position\nwas in some respects a hard one. All men who have money in plenty and\nnothing to do claim from the wise a lenient judgment, and, besides these\ndisadvantages, Benham laboured under the possession of a secret--a\nsecret of mighty power. What wonder if he spent much of his day in\neating-houses and drinking-houses, obscurely hinting to admiring boon\ncompanions of the thing he could do an he would? Then, having drunk his\nfill, he would swagger, sometimes not over-steadily, out to the Park,\nand amuse himself by scowling at the Premier, or smiling a smile of\nhidden meaning at Daisy Medland, as they drove by. Also, he occasionally\ngot into trouble: one zealous partisan of the Premier's rewarded an\ninsinuation with a black eye, and Mr. Kilshaw's own servant, finding his\nmaster's pensioner besieging the house in a state of drink-begotten\nnoisiness, kicked him down the street--an excess of zeal that cost Mr.\nKilshaw a cheque next day. The danger was, however, of a worse thing\nthan these. Kilshaw, suffering only what he doubtless deserved to\nsuffer, went on thorns of fear lest some day Benham should not only\nexplode his bomb prematurely, but publish to the world at whose charges\nand under whose auspices the engineer was carrying out his task. And\nwhen Mr. Kilshaw contemplated this possibility, he found it hopeless to\ndeny that there was pitch on his fingers. Publicity makes such a\ndifference in men's judgments of themselves.\n\nIn this way things hung on for a week or so, and then, one afternoon,\nthe Chief Justice rushed into the Club in a state of some excitement.\nSpying Perry and Kilshaw, he hastened to them.\n\n\"You have heard?\" he cried.\n\n\"What?\" asked Sir Robert, wiping his glasses and smiling quietly.\n\n\"No? I believe I'm the first. Coxon told me himself: he came into my\nroom when I rose to-day. He's asked Medland to accept his resignation.\"\n\nKilshaw sprang to his feet.\n\n\"What on?\" asked Sir Robert.\n\n\"The Accident-Liability Clause in the Factory Act.\"\n\n\"A very good ground,\" commented the ex-Premier. \"Very cleverly chosen.\"\n\n\"What does Medland say?\" asked Kilshaw eagerly. \"Will he give way, or\nwill he let him go?\"\n\n\"I think the man's mad,\" said the Chief Justice. \"He won't budge an\ninch. So Coxon goes--and he says a dozen will go with him.\"\n\nThen Mr. Kilshaw's feelings overcame him.\n\n\"Hurrah!\" he cried. \"By heaven, we've got him now! We shall beat him on\nthe Clause! Perry, you'll be back in a week!\"\n\n\"It looks like it,\" said Sir Robert, \"but one never knows.\"\n\n\"Puttock's solid, and now Coxon! Perry, we shall beat him by anything\nfrom six to ten! I shan't die a pauper yet!\"\n\nSir John bustled on, anxious to anticipate in other quarters the coming\nnewsvendor, and Sir Robert turned to his lieutenant.\n\n\"I suppose he must have his price,\" he remarked, with deep regret\nevident in his tone.\n\n\"I can't look him in the face if he doesn't,\" answered Kilshaw. \"By\nJove, Perry, he's earned it.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, so did Iscariot,\" said Sir Robert. \"But it wasn't a Judgeship.\"\n\n\"You won't go back on it, Perry?\"\n\nSir Robert spread out his thin white hands before him, and shook his\nhead sorrowfully.\n\n\"A bargain's a bargain, I suppose,\" said he, \"even if it happens to be\nrather an iniquitous one,\" and having enunciated this principle, on\nwhich he had often insisted in public, he took up a volume of poetry.\n\nNot so Mr. Kilshaw. He flitted from friend to friend, telling the good\nnews and exchanging congratulations. The evening papers announced the\nresignation and its impending acceptance, and further stated that the\nrumour was that the Premier had convened a meeting of his remaining\nfollowers to consider their position.\n\n\"They may consider all night,\" said Mr. Kilshaw, \"but they can't change\na minority into a majority,\" and he hailed a cab to take him home.\n\nSuddenly he was touched on the shoulder. Turning, he found Benham beside\nhim.\n\n\"Good news, eh?\" said that worthy. \"Shake hands on it, Mr. Kilshaw.\"\n\nKilshaw swallowed his first-formed words, and, after a moment's\nhesitation, put out his hand. Benham shook it warmly, saying,\n\n\"I guess we'll blow him up between us. There's my fist on it. See you\nsoon,\" and, with a lurching step and a leer over his shoulder, he walked\non.\n\nKilshaw looked at his hand.\n\n\"Thank God I had my glove on,\" he said, and got into his cab.\n\nCertainly there is no rose without a thorn.\n\nWhen the Governor announced to his household that he had accepted\nCoxon's resignation, and that it was understood that the retiring\nMinister would henceforward act with Sir Robert Perry, the news was\nvariously received. Captain Heseltine's observation was brief, but\ncomprehensive.\n\n\"Rats!\" said he.\n\nAlicia nodded to him with a smile. Eleanor Scaife began to argue the\npros and cons of the Accident-Liability Clause, as to which, she\nconsidered, there might fairly be a difference of opinion. Lady\nEynesford cut across the inchoate disquisition by remarking,\n\n\"I have never disliked Mr. Coxon, but he doesn't quite know his place,\"\nand nothing that anybody could say made her see any absurdity in this\nremark.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nAN ATTEMPT AT TERRORISM.\n\n\nAll the world was driving, riding, or walking in the great avenue of the\nPark. The Governor had just gone by on horseback, accompanied by his\nsister and his A.D.C.'s, and Lady Eynesford's carriage was drawn up by\nthe pathway. The air was full of gossip and rumours, for although it was\nan \"off-day\" at the House, and nothing important was expected to happen\nthere before the following Monday, there had been that morning a meeting\nof the Premier's principal adherents, and every one knew or professed to\nknow the decision arrived at. One said resignation, another dissolution,\na third coalition, a fourth submission, and the variety of report only\nincreased the confidence with which each man backed his opinion. Sir\nRobert Perry alone knew nothing, had heard nothing, and would guess\nnothing--by which adroit attitude he doubled his reputation for\nomniscience. And Mr. Kilshaw alone cared nothing: the Ministry was\n\"cornered,\" he said, and that was enough for him. Eleanor Scaife was\ninsatiable for information, or, failing that, conjecture, and she\neagerly questioned the throng of men who came and went, paying their\nrespects to the Governor's wife, and lingering to say a few words on the\nsituation. Sir John Oakapple fixed himself permanently by the steps of\nthe carriage, and played the part of a good-humoured though cynical\nchorus to the shifting drama.\n\nPresently, a little way off, Mr. Coxon made his appearance, showing in\nhis manner a pleased consciousness of his importance. They all wanted a\nword with him, and laid traps to catch a hint of his future action; he\nhad explained his motives and refused to explain his intentions\nhalf-a-dozen times at least. If this flattering prominence could last,\nhe must think twice before he accepted even the most dignified of\nshelves; but his cool head told him it would not, and he was glad to\nremember the provision he had made for a rainy day. Meanwhile he basked\nin the sun of notoriety, and played his _r le_ of the man of principle.\n\n\"Ah,\" exclaimed Eleanor, \"here comes the hero of the hour, the maker and\nunmaker of Ministries.\"\n\n\"As the weather-cock makes and unmakes the wind,\" said Sir John, with a\nsmile.\n\n\"What? Mr. Coxon?\" said Lady Eynesford, and, pleased to have an\nopportunity of renewing her politeness without revoking her edict, she\nmade the late Minister a very gracious bow.\n\nCoxon's face lit up as he returned the salutation. Had his reward come\nalready? He had been right then; it was not towards him as himself, but\ntowards the Medlandite that Lady Eynesford had displayed her arrogance\nand scorn. Smothering his recurrent misgivings, and ignoring the\nweakness of his theory, he laid the balm to his sore and obliterated all\ntraces of wounded dignity from his response to Lady Eynesford's advance.\n\n\"My husband tells me,\" she said, \"that I must leave my opinion of your\nexploits unspoken, Mr. Coxon. Why do you laugh, Sir John?\"\n\n\"At a wife's obedience, Lady Eynesford.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Coxon, \"I shall indulge myself by imagining that I have\nyour approbation.\"\n\n\"And what is going to happen?\" asked Eleanor, for about the twentieth\ntime that day.\n\nCoxon smiled and shook his head.\n\n\"They all do that,\" observed Sir John. \"Come, Coxon, admit you don't\nknow.\"\n\n\"We'd better suppose that it's as the Chief Justice says,\" answered\nCoxon, whose smile still hinted wilful reticence.\n\n\"But think how uninteresting it makes you!\" protested Eleanor.\n\n\"Oh, I don't agree,\" said Lady Eynesford. \"I am studying every line of\nMr. Coxon's face, and trying to find out for myself.\"\n\n\"I told you,\" he said in a lower voice, and under cover of a joke Sir\nJohn was retailing to Eleanor, \"that I was a bad hand at concealment.\"\n\n\"I hope you have not remembered all I said then as well as all you said?\nI was so surprised and--and upset. Was I very rude?\"\n\nThe implied apology disarmed Coxon of his last resentment.\n\n\"I was afraid,\" he said, \"it meant an end to our acquain----\"\n\n\"Our friendship,\" interposed the lady with swift graciousness. \"Oh,\nthen, I was much more disagreeable than I meant to be.\"\n\n\"It didn't mean that?\"\n\n\"You don't ask seriously? Now do tell me--what about the Ministry?\"\n\nHe sank his voice as he answered,\n\n\"They can't possibly last a week.\"\n\n\"You are sure?\"\n\n\"Certain, Lady Eynesford. They'll be beaten on Monday.\"\n\nLady Eynesford, with a significant smile, beat one gloved hand softly\nagainst the other.\n\n\"That can't be seen outside the carriage, can it? You mustn't tell of\nme! And we owe it all to you, Mr. Coxon!\" And for the moment Lady\nEynesford's heart really warmed to the man who had relieved her of the\nMedlands. \"When are you coming to see us?\" she went on. \"Or is it wrong\nfor you to come now? Politically wrong, I mean.\"\n\n\"I was afraid it might be wrong otherwise,\" Coxon suggested.\n\n\"Not unless you feel it so, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Miss Derosne--\" he began, but Lady Eynesford was on the alert.\n\n\"Her friendly feelings towards you have undergone no change, and if you\ncan forget--Ah, here are Alicia and my husband!\" and Lady Eynesford,\nfeeling the arrival excellently well timed, broke off the _t te- -t te_\nbefore the protests she feared could form themselves on Coxon's lips.\n\nIt might be that Alicia's feelings had undergone no change, but, if so,\nCoxon was forced to recognise that he could never have enjoyed a large\nshare of her favour, for she acknowledged his presence with the minimum\nof civility, and, when he addressed her directly, replied with the\ncoldness of pronounced displeasure.\n\nLady Eynesford, perceiving that graciousness on her part was perfectly\nsafe, redoubled her efforts to soothe the despised admirer. She had\nliked him well enough, he had served her against her enemies, and she\nwas ready and eager to do all she could to soften the blow, provided\nalways that she could rely on the blow being struck. Now, from Alicia's\nmanner it was plain that the blow had fallen from an unfaltering hand.\n\nSuddenly the Chief Justice said,\n\n\"Ah, it's settled one way or the other. Here come Medland and Miss\nDaisy.\"\n\nIn the distance the Premier appeared, walking by the pony his daughter\nrode. Lady Eynesford turned to her husband and whispered appealingly,\n\n\"Need they come here, Willie?\"\n\nHe shook his head in indulgent disapproval, and said to Alicia,\n\n\"Come, Al, we'll go and speak to them,\" and before Lady Eynesford could\ndeclare Alicia's company unnecessary, the pair had turned their horses'\nheads and were on the way to join the Medlands.\n\nLady Eynesford's eyes followed them. She saw the meeting, and presently\nshe noticed the Governor ride on with Daisy Medland, while Alicia walked\nher horse and kept pace with the Premier. They passed by her on the\nother side of the broad avenue, Medland acknowledging her salutation but\nnot crossing to speak to her. She saw Alicia's heightened colour and the\neager interest with which she bent down to catch Medland's words.\nMedland spoke quickly and earnestly. Once he laughed, and Alicia's gay\npeal struck on her sister-in-law's ear. Lady Eynesford, as she looked\nafter them, heard Sir John say to Eleanor,\n\n\"He's a wonderful man, with a very extraordinary attraction about him.\nEverybody feels it who comes into personal relations with him. I know I\ndo. And Perry has remarked the same thing to me. Lady Perry, you know,\nlike all women, openly admires him. It's very amusing to see Sir\nRobert's face when she praises him.\"\n\nLady Eynesford did not notice Eleanor's reply. A frown gathered on her\nbrow as she still gazed after the two figures. What did they mean by\ntalking about the man's attractiveness? He had never attracted her: and\nAlicia--It suddenly struck her that Alicia's former championship of the\nPremier had changed to a complete silence, and she was vaguely disturbed\nby the idea of this unnatural reticence. Alicia, she knew, was friendly,\ntoo friendly, with the girl; that did not so much matter now that Dick\nwas safe on board ship. But if the friendship were not only for the\ndaughter!\n\nShe roused herself from her reverie and turned again to Coxon. She found\nhim looking at her closely, with a bitter smile on his lips. She had not\nnoticed that Eleanor had got out and accepted Sir John's escort for a\nstroll. She and Coxon were alone.\n\n\"Miss Derosne's displeasure with me,\" he said, \"is fully explained,\nisn't it?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" she asked sharply.\n\nFor reply he pointed with his cane.\n\n\"She favours the Ministry,\" he said. \"Your views are not hers, Lady\nEynesford.\"\n\n\"Oh, she knows nothing about politics.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it isn't all politics,\" he answered, with a boldly undisguised\nsignificance.\n\nLady Eynesford turned quickly on him, a haughty rebuke on her lips, but\nhe did not quail. He smiled his bitter smile again, and she turned away\nwith her words unspoken.\n\nA silence followed. Coxon was wondering if his hint had gone too far.\nLady Eynesford wondered how far he had meant it to carry. The idea of\ndanger there was new and strange, and perhaps absurd, but infinitely\ndisagreeable and disquieting.\n\n\"Well, good-bye, Lady Eynesford,\" he began.\n\n\"No, don't go,\" she answered. But before she could say more, there was a\nsudden stir in the footpath, voices broke out in eager talk, groups\nformed, and men ran from one to the other. Women's high voices asked for\nthe news, and men's deep tones declared it in answer. Coxon turned\neagerly to look, and as he did so, Kilshaw's carriage dashed up. Kilshaw\nsat inside, with the evening paper in his hand. He hurriedly greeted\nLady Eynesford, and went on--\n\n\"Pray excuse me, but have you seen Sir Robert Perry? I am most anxious\nto find him.\"\n\n\"He's there on the path,\" answered Coxon, and Kilshaw leapt to the\nground.\n\n\"Run and listen, and come and tell me,\" cried Lady Eynesford, and Coxon,\nhastening off, overtook Kilshaw just as the latter came upon Sir Robert\nPerry.\n\nThe news soon spread. The Premier, conscious of his danger, had\ndetermined on a demonstration of his power. On the Sunday before that\neventful, much-discussed Monday, when the critical clause was to come\nbefore the Legislative Assembly, he and his followers had decided to\nconvene mass-meetings throughout the country, in every constituency\nwhose member was a waverer, or suspected of being one of \"Coxon's rats,\"\nas somebody--possibly Captain Heseltine--had nicknamed them. This was\nbad, Kilshaw declared. But far worse remained: in the capital itself, in\nthat very Park in which they were, there was to be an immense meeting:\nthe Premier himself would speak, and the thousands who listened were to\nthreaten the recreant Legislature with vengeance if it threw out the\npeople's Minister.\n\n\"It's nothing more or less than an attempt to terrorise us,\" declared\nSir Robert, in calm and deliberate tones. \"It's a most unconstitutional\nand dangerous thing.\"\n\nAnd Kilshaw endorsed his chief's views in less measured tones.\n\n\"If there's bloodshed, on his head be it! If he appeals to force, by\nJove, he shall have it!\"\n\nAmid all this ferment the Premier walked by, half hidden by Alicia\nDerosne's horse.\n\n\"What is the excitement?\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"My last shot,\" he answered, smiling. \"Good-bye. Go and hear me abused.\"\n\nLady Eynesford would have been none the happier for knowing that Alicia\nthought, and Medland found, a smile answer enough.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nA LEAKY VESSEL.\n\n\nIt was the afternoon of the next day--the Friday--and Kirton was in some\nstir of bustle and excitement. Groups of working-men gathered and\ndiscussed the coming meeting; carts had already passed by on their way\nto the Park carrying materials for platforms, and had been cheered by\nsome of the more eager spirits. The tradesmen were divided in feeling,\nsome foreseeing a brisk demand for things to eat and drink in the next\nfew days, the more timid not denying this but doubting whether payment\nmight not be dispensed with, and nervously enlarging on the cost of\nplate glass. Organisers ran busily to and fro, displaying already, some\nof them, rosettes of office, and all of them as much hurry as though the\ngreat event were fixed for a short hour ahead. Norburn was about the\nstreets, looking more cheerful than he had done for a long while--the\nscent of battle was in his nostrils--and enjoying the luxury of\nprevailing on his friends not to hiss Mr. Puttock when that worthy\nstepped across from his warehouse to the Club about five o'clock.\n\nInside the Club, also, excitement was not lacking. The Houses of\nParliament were deserted for this more central spot, and many members\nanxiously discussed their principles and their prospects, and the\nrelation between the two. Medland's followers were not there in much\nforce, being for the most part employed elsewhere, and indeed at no time\nmuch given to club-life, or suited for it, but there were many of\nPerry's, and still more of those who had followed Puttock, or were\nreported to be about to follow Coxon, and among them the members for\nseveral divisions in and near Kirton. These last, feeling that all the\nstir was largely for their benefit and on their account, were in a\nfluster of self-consciousness and apprehension, and very loud in their\ncondemnation of the Premier's unscrupulous tactics.\n\n\"Surely the Governor can't approve of this sort of thing,\" said one.\n\n\"Is it _legal_, Sir John?\" asked another of the Chief Justice, who had\ncome in from court and was taking a cup of tea.\n\n\"It's mere bullying,\" exclaimed a third, catching Kilshaw's sympathetic\neye.\n\n\"We'll not be bullied,\" answered that gentleman. \"Every right-feeling\nand respectable man is with us, from the Governor----\"\n\n\"The Governor? How do you know?\" burst from half-a-dozen mouths.\n\n\"I do know. He's furious with Medland, partly for doing the thing at\nall, partly for not telling him sooner. He thinks Medland took advantage\nof his civility yesterday and paraded him in the Park as on his side,\nwhile all the time he never said a word about this move of his.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said everybody, and Coxon, who knew nothing about the matter,\nendorsed Kilshaw's account with a significant nod.\n\n\"It's a gambler's last throw,\" declared Puttock. \"Honestly, I'm ashamed\nto have been so long in finding out his real character.\"\n\nSome one here weakly defended the Premier.\n\n\"After all,\" he said, \"there's nothing wrong in a public meeting, and\nperhaps that's all----\"\n\nPuttock overbore him with a solemnly emphasised reiteration--\n\n\"A discredited gambler's last throw.\"\n\n\"It's Jimmy Medland's last throw, anyhow,\" added Kilshaw. \"I'll see to\nthat.\"\n\n\"Look! There he is!\" called a man in the bow-window, and the company\ncrowded round to look.\n\nMedland was walking down the street side by side with a short, thick-set\nman, whose close-cut, stiff, black hair, bright black eyes, and bristly\nchin-tip gave him a foreign look. The man seemed to be giving\nexplanations or detailing arrangements, and Medland from time to time\nnodded assent.\n\n\"Who's that with him?\" asked Puttock.\n\nThe desired information came from a young fellow in the Government\nservice.\n\n\"I know him,\" he said, \"because he applied to me for a certificate of\nnaturalisation a month or two ago. Fran ois Gaspard he calls\nhimself--heaven knows if it's his real name. He's a Frenchman, anyhow,\nand, I rather fancy, not a voluntary exile.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed Kilshaw, \"what makes you think that?\"\n\n\"Oh, I had a little talk with him, and he said he'd been kept too long\nout of his country to care about going back now, although the door had\nbeen opened at last.\"\n\n\"An amnesty, you suppose?\"\n\n\"I thought so. And I happen to know he's very active among the political\nclubs here.\"\n\n\"Oh, that explains Medland being with him,\" said Kilshaw. \"Some\nCommunist or Socialist probably.\"\n\nAttention being thus directed to the stranger, one or two of the Kirton\npoliticians present recollected having encountered him in the course of\ntheir canvassings, and bore witness to the influence which he wielded\namong the extreme section of the labouring men. His presence with\nMedland was considered to increase appreciably the threatening aspect of\naffairs.\n\n\"One criminal in his Cabinet,\" said Mr. Kilshaw, with scornful reference\nto Norburn, \"and arm-in-arm down the street with another. We're getting\non, aren't we, Chief Justice?\"\n\n\"I have seen too many criminals,\" answered Sir John, \"to think badly of\na man merely because he commits an offence against the law.\" The Chief\nJustice did not intend to be drawn into any exhibition of partisanship.\n\nThe occupants of the Club window continued to watch the Premier until he\nparted from his companion with a shake of the hand, and, as it seemed, a\nlast emphatic word, and turned to Norburn, who was claiming his\nattention.\n\nNow the last emphatic word whose unknown purport stirred much curiosity\nin the Club, carried a pang of disappointment to Fran ois Gaspard, for\nit was \"Mind, no sticks,\" and it swept away Fran ois' rapturous\nimaginings of the thousands of Kirton armed with a forest of sturdy\ncudgels, wherewith to terrify the _bourgeoisie_. Still, Fran ois had\nmade up his mind to trust Jimmy Medland, in spite of sundry shortcomings\nof faith and practice, and having sworn by his _foi_--which, to tell the\ntruth, was an unsubstantial sanction--to obey his leader, he loyally,\nthough regretfully, promised that there should be no sticks; for, \"If\nsticks appear,\" the Premier had said, \"I shall not appear, that's all,\nMr. Gaspard.\"\n\nThe English illogicality which hung obstinately round even such gifted\nmen as Medland and _le jeune_ Norburn, so oppressed Fran ois--who could\nnot see why, if you might hint at cudgels in the background, you should\nnot use them--that, on his way to his next committee, he turned into a\ntavern to refresh his spirit. The room was fairly full, and he found,\nthe centre of an interested group, an acquaintance of his, Mr. Benham.\nFran ois imported no personal rancour into his politics; he hated whole\nclasses with a deadly enmity, but he was ready to talk to or drink or\ngossip with any of the individuals composing them, without prejudice of\ncourse to his right, or rather duty, of obliterating them in their\ncorporate capacity at the earliest opportunity, or even removing them\none by one, did his insatiable principles demand the sacrifice. He had\nmet Benham several times, since the latter had taken to frequenting\nmusic-halls and drinking-shops, and had enjoyed some argument with him,\nin which the loss of temper had been entirely on Benham's side. Fran ois\ngave his order, sat down, lit his cigarette, and listened to his\nfriend's denunciation of the Government and its works.\n\nPresently the company, having drunk as much as it wanted or could pay\nfor, or being weary of Benham's philippic, went its various ways, and\nFran ois was left alone with his opponent. Benham had been consuming\nmore small glasses of cognac than were good for him, and had reached the\nboastful and confidential stage of intoxication. He ranged up beside\nFran ois, besought that unbending though polite man to eschew his evil\nways, and hinted openly at the folly of those who pinned their faith on\nthe Premier.\n\n\"He does not go all my way,\" responded Fran ois, with a smile and a\nshrug, \"but he goes part. Well, we will go that part together.\"\n\nBenham leant over him and whispered huskily, bringing his fist down on\nthe counter--\n\n\"I can crush him, and I will.\"\n\n\"My dear friend!\" murmured Fran ois. \"See! Do not drink any more. It\ndestroys the generally excellent balance of your mind.\"\n\n\"Ah, you may laugh, but I can do it.\"\n\nFran ois used the permission; he laughed gaily and freely.\n\n\"All your party tries,\" said he, \"and it does not do it. And you will do\nit alone! Ah, _par exemple_!\"\n\nHis cool scepticism unloosed Benham's tongue, when an eager curiosity\nmight have revived his prudence and set a seal on his lips. He had\nchafed at being thought a nobody so long: Kilshaw's injunctions against\ngossip had been so hard to follow: he could not resist trying what\nstartling effect a hint would have.\n\n\"I know enough to ruin him,\" he whispered, and something in his look or\ntone convinced Fran ois that he believed what he said. \"Yes, and I'm\ngoing to do it. Others have got the money and'll back me--I've got the\ninformation. We shall ruin him, Mr. G-Gaspard, we shall drive him from\nthe country, and where'll your precious party, and your precious\nschemes, and your precious meetings be then? Tell me that!\"\n\n\"He would be a great loss,\" remarked Fran ois calmly. \"But, come, what\nis this great thing that is to ruin him?\"\n\n\"Wouldn't you like to know?\"\n\n\"Eh, my friend, immensely!\" smiled Fran ois, who spoke the mere truth,\nfor all he took care to speak it very carelessly.\n\n\"I'll tell you this much, it's not a political matter--it's a private\nmatter, and a public man's private character is everything.\"\n\n\"You think so? To me, it is not a great thing, so that he will do what I\nwish.\"\n\nBenham smiled knowingly as he answered, with a wink,\n\n\"At any rate, most people think so. And I'll tell you what, Gaspard, I\nhate that fellow. He's wronged me--me, I tell you, and, by God, he shall\nsmart for it!\"\n\n\"Oh, if it is a personal quarrel,\" murmured Fran ois, with the air of\nnot desiring to intrude in a matter which concerned two gentlemen alone.\n\n\"Every one'll know it in a few days,\" said Benham, \"and then Mr.\nMedland's bust up, and all the lot of you with him. Put that in your\npipe and smoke it, friend Gaspard.\"\n\n\"And at present no one knows it but you?\"\n\nIf Benham had answered truly he would have been wise, but his vaunting\nmind persuaded him not to diminish his importance by confessing that he\nshared his secret with any one. After all, it was all his secret, though\nKilshaw had bought it.\n\n\"Not a soul alive!\" he answered, rising to go.\n\n\"Ah, then yours is a life valuable to your party. Wrap up, my friend,\nwrap up. It is chilly outside.\"\n\nHe buttoned Benham's coat for him with friendly solicitude, besought him\nnot to get run over--a caution rather necessary--and started him on his\nway. Then he sat down again, ordered a cup of coffee, and smoked another\ncigarette.\n\n\"Decidedly,\" he said at last, \"it would be a thousand pities if a\ncreature like that were allowed to do any harm to the good Medland.\nSurely it would not be right to suffer that?\"\n\nAnd he sat thinking, and becoming more and more sure whither the finger\nof duty pointed, until some comrades came and carried him off to take\nthe chair at an organising committee, where he made a very temperate\nspeech, and announced that he should regard every one who carried a\nstick on Sunday as intentionally guilty of the grossest incivility to\nhim, Fran ois Gaspard, and as an enemy to the cause to boot.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nTHE TRUTH ABOUT THE MAN.\n\n\nIn arriving at the bold decision which had caused so much anger and\nalarm to his enemies, and some searchings of heart among many who still\nranked themselves as his friends, the Premier had been moved by more\nthan one motive. The sinister design of overawing the Legislature by the\nfear of physical force and armed attack did not form part of his\nintentions, but he did intend and desire what, to a man trained in the\ntraditions of Sir Robert's school, was hardly less unconstitutional and\nwrong. Through the machinery of his great gatherings, it was to be\nplainly intimated to the members what course their constituents and\nmasters willed them to follow. He proposed to take every precaution\nagainst riot--and the necessary measures fell within the sphere of his\nown official duties as Chief Secretary; but he was willing and eager\nthat every form of suasion and threat, short of the cudgels for which\nFran ois Gaspard pined, should be brought to bear on his renegade\nfollowers. And, in the second place, it was a vital object to him to\nprobe as deep as he could into the secrets of the popular mind. In six\nmonths the life of the Legislative Assembly would expire by effluxion of\ntime: at any moment before he had a right to demand a dissolution,\nprovided that he could convince the Governor of the probability of his\ncoming back with a majority; thus, if the meetings could not avert\ndefeat, they would, he hoped, teach him what course to follow in face of\nit. Lastly, he anticipated a renewal of energy and confidence in his own\nfollowers as the result of an outward manifestation of the support which\nhe believed the masses of the electors accorded to his policy. His plans\nignored the mine which was always beneath his feet. He had not forgotten\nit: it was constantly present to his mind with its menace of sudden\nexplosion, but he was driven to disregard a chance that was entirely\nincalculable. He could not discern the mind of Benham, or of the man who\npulled the strings to which Benham danced, accurately enough to forecast\nwhen the moment of attack would come. He felt sure that nothing short of\nthe surrender and renunciation of all his policy could avert the\nblow--perhaps not even that would serve; if so, the blow must fall, when\nand where it would; for, whatever its effect on his position or his\nparty, it would not leave him so powerless or so humbled in his own eyes\nas a voluntary submission to the terms his enemies chose to dictate.\n\nThe alternative of surrender would never have crossed his mind, had he\nbeen able to think only of the political side of the matter. But there\nwas another, on which Benham's threats played with equal force. The\nepisode of Dick Derosne's banishment had opened his eyes more fully to\nwhat the revelation might mean to his daughter; for, when he thought\nover the abrupt end that had been put to that romance, he could hardly\nfail to connect it with Benham or with Kilshaw. He shrank from the\nexposure to Daisy which he would have to undergo, and from the pain\nwhich he was doomed to inflict on her. Long years, no less than his own\nmode of thought, had veiled from him the character of what he would have\nto avow; the thing took on a new aspect when he forced himself to hear\nit as it would strike a daughter's ears. And, by this time, he was\nconscious--he could no longer affect to himself to be unconscious--that\nthe blow which was to fall on Daisy would strike another with equal,\nperhaps greater, severity. He might remind himself, as he did over and\nover again, of the improbability, nay, the absurdity of what had\nhappened; he might tell himself that he was no longer young, that time\nhad robbed him of anything that could catch a girl's fancy, that the\ngulf of birth, associations, and surroundings yawned wide between. His\nown experience and insight into temperament rose up and contradicted\nhim, and Alicia Derosne's face drove the truth into his mind. Seeking\nfor a hero, she had strangely, almost comically, he thought, made one\nof him. Hero-worship, shutting out all criticism, had led her on till\nshe made of him, a man whose life bore no close scrutiny, a battered\npolitician, half visionary, half demagogue (for he did not spare himself\nin his thoughts)--till she had made of him an ideal statesman and a man\nworthy of all she had to give. A swift and gentle disenchantment was the\nbest that could be wished for her: so he told himself, but he did not\nwish it. Time had not altogether changed him, and a woman's smile was to\nhim still a force in his life, as much as it had been, or almost, when\nit led the boy of twenty-three to do all those rash and wrong things\nlong ago. He could not bear to shut the door: dreaming of impossible\ntransformations of obstinate facts, he drifted on, excusing himself for\ndoing nothing by telling himself that there was nothing he could do.\n\nMr. Kilshaw's information as to the Governor's attitude had not been\nentirely incorrect, but, after an interview with the Premier, in which\nthe latter explained his action, Lord Eynesford did not feel that more\nwas required than a temperately expressed surprise and a hinted\ndisapproval of the course adopted. He declined his wife's invitation to\nregard the matter in the most serious light, or to attribute any heinous\noffence to the Premier, contenting himself with remarking that Medland\nhad a more powerful motive to maintain order than any one else; he also\nventured to suggest that the best way of considering the question was\nnot through a mist of prejudice against the Premier and all his\nbelongings.\n\n\"Whatever you may do, Mary,\" he said, \"I must keep the private and\npublic sides separate.\"\n\n\"That's just what you don't do,\" retorted his wife--let it be added that\nthey were alone. \"The man has got round you as he gets round everybody.\"\n\n\"You, at least, seem safe so far,\" laughed the Governor. \"Aren't you\ncontent with your triumph in the matter of Dick?\"\n\n\"I heard from him to-day. He wants to come back.\"\n\nDick had obtained leave to visit Australia, instead of going home, and\nwas therefore within comparatively easy distance of New Lindsey.\n\n\"Oh, I think we'll wait a bit.\"\n\n\"He seems to be having a splendid time, but he says he's lonely without\nus all.\"\n\n\"How touching!\" remarked Lord Eynesford sceptically.\n\n\"Willie, be just to him. I was thinking how nice it would be if Alicia\ncould join him for a little while. She's looking pale and wants a\nchange.\"\n\n\"Does she want to go?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know.\"\n\n\"Haven't you asked her?\"\n\n\"No, dear.\"\n\nLord Eynesford knew his wife's way. He rose and stood with his back to\nthe fireplace.\n\n\"You'll be sending me away next, Mary,\" he remarked. \"What's wrong with\nAlicia? She doesn't show signs of relenting about your friend Coxon,\ndoes she? If so, she shall go by the next boat, if I have to exert the\nprerogative.\"\n\n\"Mr. Coxon? Oh, dear, no! Poor man! There's no danger from him.\"\n\n\"What's in the wind then?\"\n\n\"She's too intimate with these Medlands.\"\n\n\"My dear Mary! Forgive me, but you're in danger of becoming a\nmonomaniac. The Medlands are not lepers.\"\n\nLady Eynesford shut her lips close and made no answer.\n\n\"What harm can they do her?\" pursued the Governor. \"Daisy's a nice girl,\nand Medland--well, the worst he can do is to make her a Radical, and it\ndoesn't matter two straws what she is.\"\n\nLady Eynesford's foot tapped on the floor.\n\n\"I suppose you'll laugh at me,\" she said. \"Indeed it's absurd enough to\nmake any one laugh, but, Willie, I'm not quite sure that Alicia isn't\ntoo much----\"\n\nThe sentence was cut short by the entrance of Alicia herself.\n\n\"Ah! Al!\" cried the Governor. \"Come here. Would you like to join Dick in\nAustralia?\"\n\nAlicia started.\n\n\"He says he's lonely, and I thought it would be such a nice trip for\nyou,\" added Lady Eynesford.\n\n\"Dick lonely! What nonsense! It only means he wants to come back, Mary.\"\n\nDick's pathos was evidently a broken reed. Lady Eynesford let it go, and\nsaid,\n\n\"Anyhow, you might take advantage of his being there to see Australia.\"\n\n\"I don't want to see Australia,\" answered Alicia. \"I much prefer New\nLindsey.\"\n\n\"You don't jump at Mary's proposal?\"\n\n\"I utterly decline,\" laughed Alicia, and, taking the book she had come\nin search of, she went out.\n\n\"You see. She won't go,\" remarked Lady Eynesford.\n\n\"I never thought she would. What were you going to say when she came\nin?\"\n\nLady Eynesford rose and stood by her husband.\n\n\"Willie,\" she said, \"what is it about the Medlands? I'm tired of not\nknowing whether there is anything or whether there isn't.\"\n\n\"I don't know, my dear. There's some gossip, I believe,\" said Lord\nEynesford discreetly.\n\n\"Do you know what Mrs. Puttock said to Eleanor? Eleanor ought to have\ntold me at once, but she only did last night. Eleanor asked something\nabout his wife, and Mrs. Puttock said, 'For my part, I don't believe he\never had a wife.'\" Lady Eynesford repeated the all-important sentence\nwith scrupulous accuracy.\n\n\"By Jove!\" exclaimed the Governor. \"That was what--\" He checked himself\nbefore Kilshaw's name could leave his lips.\n\n\"Yes? Now, Willie, if that's true or--or anything like it, you know, is\nit right for Alicia to be constantly with Daisy Medland and--and in and\nout of the house, you know?\"\n\nThe Governor looked grave. The thing was tangible enough now, and\ndemanded to be dealt with more urgently than it ever had before.\n\n\"It's a pity Eleanor didn't speak sooner,\" he said.\n\n\"She thought less of it because Mrs. Puttock is a vulgar old gossip.\"\n\n\"Yes; but I'm afraid there may be something in it. Why did Eleanor tell\nyou now?\"\n\n\"Because I was speaking to her about the way Mr. Medland monopolised\nAlicia in the Park the other afternoon.\"\n\n\"Oh, that was my fault.\"\n\n\"It makes no difference how it came about. Willie, she had eyes and ears\nfor no one else,\" and Lady Eynesford's voice became very earnest.\n\n\"But it's preposterous, Mary. You must be wrong. There couldn't possibly\nbe anything of the kind.\"\n\n\"You know the sort of girl she is,\" his wife went on. \"She's--well,\nshe's easily caught by an idea, and rather romantic, and--really, dear,\nwe ought to be careful.\"\n\n\"I can't believe it. If it's true, Medland has treated me very badly.\"\n\n\"What does he care?\" asked Lady Eynesford. \"How I wish she would go\naway! Nothing I say seems to make any impression on her.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Medland has noticed nothing, even if you're right about\nAlicia.\"\n\n\"He couldn't help noticing.\"\n\n\"What? Do you mean she makes it----?\"\n\n\"I don't want to say anything unkind, but--well, yes, I'm afraid she\ndoes.\"\n\nThe Governor took a pace along the room.\n\n\"Upon my word,\" he exclaimed impatiently, \"the way we get mixed up with\nthese people is absurdly awkward. First there's Dick----\"\n\n\"That's nothing to this. Dick was never really serious, and Alicia's\nalways serious, if she thinks about a thing at all.\"\n\n\"Well, well, of course it must be stopped. What are you going to do?\"\n\n\"She must be told,\" said Lady Eynesford.\n\n\"I won't tell her.\"\n\n\"Then I must.\"\n\n\"I wonder if you're not wrong after all.\"\n\n\"Oh, watch them!\" retorted Lady Eynesford, and, leaving her husband, she\nsought Alicia and invited her to come and have a talk in the verandah.\n\nAlicia, when thus summoned, was sitting with Eleanor Scaife, and they\nwere both watching Captain Heseltine's fox terrier jump over a\nwalking-stick under his master's tuition. It was a suitable enough\namusement for a hot day; and it was engrossing enough to prevent Eleanor\nraising her eyes at the sound of Lady Eynesford's voice. In fact, she\nwas not over and above anxious to meet that lady's glance. Eleanor had,\nin the light of recent events, grown rather doubtful of the wisdom of\nher wonderful discretion, and Lady Eynesford had intimated, with her\nusual clearness of statement, a decided opinion that not Eleanor, but\nshe herself was the proper person to judge what should and should not be\ntold to Alicia. She had enforced her moral by hinting at very\ndistressing consequences which might follow on Eleanor's unfortunate\nreticence.\n\n\"I sometimes think,\" Eleanor remarked to Heseltine, when Alicia had left\nthem, \"that perfect openness and candour are always best.\"\n\nCaptain Heseltine lowered the walking-stick and looked at her with an\nair of expectancy.\n\n\"It saves so much misunderstanding, if you tell everybody everything\nright out,\" continued Eleanor.\n\n\"For my part,\" returned Heseltine, with an earnestness which he rarely\ndisplayed, \"I differ utterly. I've never in my life told anybody\nanything without being sorry I hadn't held my tongue.\"\n\n\"Oh, you mean your private affairs.\"\n\n\"Well, and you? Oh, I see. You only mean other people's. Agreed, agreed!\nPerfect openness and candour about them by all means!\"\n\n\"I am quite serious. One never knows how much harm may be done by\nconcealing them.\"\n\n\"Got a murder on your conscience?\"\n\n\"Oh, not exactly,\" sighed Eleanor.\n\n\"You're like that chap Kilshaw. He's always talking as if he had\nsomething awful up his sleeve.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he has.\"\n\nAs Eleanor said this, she jumped up and ran to meet Alicia, whom she saw\ncoming towards her. Lady Eynesford had wasted no time over her task.\n\nThe Captain, being left alone, did the appropriate thing. He\nsoliloquised.\n\n\"She'd have told me in another half-minute,\" said he, with a chuckle.\n\"It was choking her. Yet she's a sensible one as they go.\"\n\nWhom or what class he meant by \"they\" it is merciful to his ignorant\nprejudices to leave unrevealed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nBY AN OVERSIGHT OF SOCIETY'S.\n\n\nFran ois Gaspard was a pleasant and cheerful man, good company, and\ngenial to his neighbours and comrades, but it may be doubted whether\nSociety had not made a grave mistake in not hanging him at the earliest\nopportunity. In his younger days he had lived in perpetual warfare\nagainst Society, its institutions and constitutions--a warfare that he\ncarried on without scruple and without quarter: he would have had no\ncause for complaint had he been dealt with on this basis of his own\nchoosing. Society, however, had chosen to fancy that it could reform\nFran ois, or, failing that, could keep him alive and yet harmless.\nThanks to this sanguine view, he found himself, at the age of\nforty-five, a free man in New Lindsey; and, thinking that he and his\nnative country had had about enough of one another, he had enrolled\nhimself as a subject of her Majesty, and had plunged into the affairs of\nhis new home with his usual energy. Fran ois was not indeed quite the\nman he had been in his palmy time, his nerve was not so good, and his\nlife was more comfortable, and therefore not so lightly to be risked;\nbut he had made no renunciations, and often regretted that New Lindsey\nwas a barren soil, wherein the seed he sowed bore little fruit. He could\nnot be happy without a secret society, and that he had established in\nKirton; but it was, he ruefully admitted, hardly more than a toy, a\nmockery, the merest _simulacrum_. The members displayed no alacrity;\nthey were but five all told, besides himself: a bookseller's assistant,\na watchmaker (he was a German, but the larger cause harmonised all\ndifferences), two artisans, and--what is either natural or strange,\naccording to one's estimation of parliamentary government--a doorkeeper\nin the Houses of Parliament. They used to meet at Gaspard's lodgings,\nregret, in tones as loud as prudence permitted, the abuses of the\n_status quo_, spend a social evening, and return to the outer world with\na tickling sense of mystery and potential destructiveness. Gaspard held\nthe very lowest opinion of them; he acknowledged that the \"propaganda by\naction\" took small root in New Lindsey, and when it came into his head\nthat Mr. Benham was worse than superfluous, he admitted with a shrug the\ngreat difficulties that lay in the way of removing his acquaintance. A\nman could not do everything by himself, the matter was after all not\nvery pressing, and he almost made up his mind to let Mr. Benham live.\nSuch was the chain of his reflections, and if Society had clearly\nrealised the way he looked at such things, it can hardly be supposed\nthat Gaspard would have been left unhanged.\n\nNevertheless, almost academic as the question was, Gaspard indulged his\nhumour by hinting to his associates that, in certain contingencies,\nthere might be work for their hands. He would not be more explicit, for\nhe was distrustful of them; but this vague hint was quite enough to\ncause some perturbation. The bookseller's assistant turned rather pale,\nand expressed a preference for waiting till one final, decisive, and\noverwhelming blow could be struck. He was understood to favour a\nwholesale massacre at Government House, but reminded his hearers of the\ndangers of hasty action. The watchmaker was strong on the division of\nfunctions: one man was valuable in counsel, another in the field; he\nbelonged, he said, to the former category. The artisans smiled broadly\nover their drink, and openly declared that the President must \"give 'em\na lead.\" The doorkeeper reinforced this suggestion by reminding them\nthat he was a husband and father, whereas Gaspard was a bachelor. All\nunited in asking for further information, and were annoyed when Gaspard\nreferred them to the rule governing such associations as theirs, namely,\nthat the member to carry out the deed, if resolved upon, should be\ndesignated before the nature of the deed was discussed, or its\ndesirability finally decided. If this were not so, he pointed out, a\nmember's opinion on the merits of the scheme might be biased by the\nknowledge that he would, if fate so willed, have to carry it out.\nAccording to his rule, the designated member had no vote.\n\n\"Not know who it is?\" exclaimed the doorkeeper. \"Why, a man might be\nasked to take off his own brother!\"\n\n\"Perfectly,\" smiled Gaspard. \"It is to avoid any painful conflict of\nduties that the rule exists.\" He looked round the table with a broader\nsmile, and added--\"Shall it be the lot?\"\n\nThe feeling of the meeting was against the lot. They preferred to choose\ntheir man.\n\n\"Let's vote by ballot,\" suggested the watchmaker.\n\n\"Agreed!\" cried Gaspard, and they flung folded scraps of paper into a\nhat.\n\nThere was one vote for the doorkeeper: it came out first, and the\ndoorkeeper wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. But soon he smiled\nagain; the other four were all for Gaspard, who returned thanks for the\nhonour in a few words.\n\n\"As soon as the information is complete, I will summon you again,\" he\nsaid, dismissing them, and lighting his cigarette with a chuckle of\nmockery. Really, it seemed impossible to do anything with these\ncreatures, and Gaspard did not feel quite so eager as he used to be to\nput his own neck in the noose. If he acted, he must, probably, fly from\nNew Lindsey, and he was very comfortable and doing very well there. No;\non second thoughts he doubted if the duty of removing Mr. Benham was\nabsolutely imperative.\n\nMeanwhile Benham would have been much surprised to hear that his latter\nend was a subject of dispassionate contemplation to the little\nFrenchman. No subject was more remote from his own thoughts. He was in\nhigh feather, the hour was fast approaching which was to witness his\ntriumph and his revenge; the gag would soon be taken from his mouth, and\nhis deadly disclosure would smite Medland like a sword. His sentiment\nwas satisfied with the prospect, and Kilshaw took care that his pocket\nshould have nothing to complain of. He refused indeed to provide for\nBenham in his own employ for obvious reasons; but he promised him a\nstrong, though private, recommendation to an important house, in\naddition to the agreed price of his information, which was a thousand\npounds, half to be paid in advance. The first five hundred pounds was\npaid on the day before the Premier's great meeting, for, if the Ministry\nweathered Monday's storm, the last weapon in the arsenal was to be\nbrought into use. So said Mr. Kilshaw, still hoping to avoid the\nnecessity, still resolute to face it if he must. Benham took his money\nand went his way, with one of those familiar, confidential looks and\njocular speeches which filled Kilshaw's cup of disgust to the brim.\nWhenever the man did that sort of thing, Kilshaw was within an ace of\nkicking him down-stairs and throwing away the poisoned weapon; but he\nnever did.\n\nMere chance willed that as Gaspard on Saturday evening was going home,\nhaving done a hard day's work at organising a trade procession for the\nnext day, he should fall in with Benham. He stopped to speak, feeling an\ninterest in all that concerned the man; and Benham, radiant and effusive\nfrom the process of \"moistening his luck,\" would not be satisfied till\nGaspard had agreed to sup with him and at his charges.\n\n\"Oh, if you like to do a good deed to an enemy,\" laughed the Frenchman,\nletting the other seize him by the arm and lead him off; and he thought\nto himself that he might as well spare so liberal a host. Might there\nnot be other suppers in the future? Dead men, if they told no tales,\npaid for no suppers either.\n\nAfter the meal they had another bottle of wine, and Benham called for a\npack of cards. Fran ois won, and politely apologised.\n\n\"It is too bad of me,\" he said, \"after your hospitality, _mon cher_.\"\n\n\"Oh, five pound won't hurt me, or ten either,\" cried Benham, draining\nhis glass.\n\n\"No? Happy man!\"\n\n\"I know where money comes from,\" continued Benham, with a wink.\n\n\"Ah, a man who knows what you do!\" retorted Gaspard. \"Have you forgotten\ntelling me--you know--about our good Medland?\"\n\n\"Did I tell you? Well, I had forgotten. Who cares! It's true--every\nword.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't say it isn't,\" laughed Gaspard incredulously.\n\n\"But you don't believe it is?\"\n\n\"We can't help our thoughts, but----\" and another laugh ended his\nsentence.\n\nBenham looked round. They were alone. Cautiously he drew a bag of money\nand a roll of notes from his pocket. For a moment he opened the bag and\nshowed the gleam inside; wetting his forefinger, he parted the notes for\na second.\n\n\"Some one believes it,\" he said, \"up to five hundred pound.\"\n\n\"That's the sort of belief I'd like to inspire,\" laughed Gaspard,\nwatching the money back into its pocket with a curious eye.\n\n\"Come, you're not drinking,\" urged the hospitable Benham.\n\n\"You don't show me the way,\" untruthfully answered the guest, as Benham\ncomplacently buttoned up his coat, little imagining that his neighbour\nwas weighing a question, very momentous to him, in the light of fresh\ninformation.\n\nFive hundred pounds! The duty of removing Benham began to look rather\nimperative again, but from a different point of view. Fran ois had of\nlate worked for his living, a mode of existence which seemed to him\nanomalous, and ill suited to his genius. Five hundred pounds meant, to a\nman of his frugal habits and tact in eliciting hospitality three years'\ncomfortable idleness. It was no doubt apparent now that Benham had\nalready parted with his secret, and that, if anything happened to him,\nthe secret would still remain to vex the good Medland. Gaspard regretted\nthis; he would have liked to combine public and private advantage in the\njob. But a man must not ask everything, or he may end by having to take\nnothing. Here sat a drunken fool with five hundred pounds; opposite to\nhim sat a sober sharp-wit with only five. The situation was full of\nsuggestion. If the five hundred could be got from the fool without\nviolence, well and good; but really, thought Mr. Gaspard, their\ntransference to the sharp-wit must be effected somehow, or that\nsharp-wit had no title to the name.\n\n\"Care to play any more?\" asked Benham.\n\n\"Not I, my friend, I have robbed you enough.\"\n\n\"And about time for the luck to turn, isn't it? Well, I don't care! What\nshall we do?\"\n\n\"What you will,\" answered the Frenchman absently.\n\nBenham pulled his beard, then leant forward and put a question with an\nintoxicated leer. A laugh of feigned reproof burst from Gaspard. Benham\nseemed to urge him, and at last he said,\n\n\"Oh, if you're bent on it, I can be your guide.\"\n\nThe two men left the house arm-in-arm, went down the street, and crossed\nDigby Square. It was late, and few people were about, but Gaspard saw\none acquaintance. The doorkeeper was strolling along on his way home,\nand Gaspard bade him good-night in a cheery voice as they passed him.\nThe doorkeeper stood and watched the pair for a minute as they left the\nSquare and turned down a narrow street which led to the poorer part of\nthe town, and thence to the quays. He heard Gaspard's high-pitched voice\nand shrill laughter, and, in answer, Benham's thick tones and heavy\nshout of drunken mirth. Once or twice these sounds repeated themselves,\nthen they ceased; the footsteps of the Frenchman and his companion died\naway in the distance. The doorkeeper went on his way, thinking with\nrelief that Mr. Gaspard, for all his tall talk, was more at home with a\nbottle than with a knife or a bomb.\n\nNotwithstanding his dissipation, Gaspard was afoot very early in the\nmorning. It was hardly light, and the deep scratch of finger-nails on\nhis face--it is so awkward when drunken fools wake at the wrong\nminute--attracted no attention from the few people he encountered. He\ndid not give them long to look at him, for he hurried swiftly through\nthe streets, towards the quays where the ships lay loading their\ncargoes. He seemed to have urgent business to transact down there,\nbusiness that would brook no delay, and that was, if one might guess\nfrom his uneasy glances over his shoulder, of a private nature. With one\nhand he held tight hold of something in his trousers pocket, the other\nrested on his belt, hard by a little revolver. In his business it is\nnecessary to be ready for everything.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Benham, having no affairs to trouble him, and no more\nbusiness to transact, stayed where he was.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nLAST CHANCES.\n\n\nAt an early hour on Sunday all Kirton seemed astir. The streets were\nalive with thronging people, with banners, with inchoate and still\namorphous processions, with vendors of meat, drink, and newspapers.\nAccording to the official arrangements, the proceedings were not to\nbegin till one o'clock, and, in theory, the forenoon hours were left\nundisturbed; but, what with the people who were taking part in the\ndemonstration, and those who were going to look on, and those who hoped\nto suck some profit to themselves out of the day's work, the ordinary\nduties and observances of a Sunday were largely neglected, and Mr.\nPuttock, passing on his way to chapel at the head of his family, did not\nlack material for reprobation in the temporary superseding of religious\nobligations.\n\nThe Governor and his family drove to the Cathedral, according to their\ncustom, Eleanor Scaife having pleaded in vain for leave to walk about\nthe streets instead. Lady Eynesford declined to recognise the occasion,\nand Eleanor had to content herself with stealthy glances to right and\nleft till the church doors engulfed her. The only absentee was Alicia\nDerosne, and she was not walking about the streets, but sitting under\nthe verandah, with a book unopened on her knees, and her eyes set in\nempty fixedness on the horizon. The luxuriant growth of a southern\nsummer filled her nostrils with sweet scents, and the wind, blowing off\nthe sea, tempered the heat to a fresh and balmy warmth; the waves\nsparkled in the sun, and the world was loud in boast of its own beauty;\nbut poor Alicia, like many a maid before, was wondering how long this\nwretched life was to last, and how any one was ever happy. Faith bruised\nand trust misplaced blotted out for her the joy of living and the\nexultation of youth. If these things were true, why did the sun shine,\nand how could the world be merry? If these things were true, for her the\nsun shone no more, and the merriment was stilled for ever. So she\nthought, and, if she were not right, it needed a philosopher to tell her\nso; and then she would not have believed him, but caught her woe closer\nto her heart, and nursed it with fiercer tenderness against his shallow\nprating. Perhaps he might have told her too, that it is cruel kindness\nunasked to set people on a pinnacle, and, when they cannot keep foothold\non that slippery height, to scorn their fall. Other things such an one\nmight well have said, but more wisely left unsaid; for cool reason is a\nblister to heartache, and heartache is not best cured by blisters. Never\nyet did a child stop crying for being told its pain was nought and would\nsoon be gone. Yet this prescription had been Lady Eynesford's--although\nshe was no philosopher, to her knowledge--for Alicia, and it had left\nthe patient protesting that she felt no pain at all, and yet feeling it\nall the more.\n\n\"What do you accuse me of? Why do you speak to me?\" she had burst out.\n\"What is it to me what he has done or not done? What do you mean, Mary?\"\n\nBefore this torrent of questions Lady Eynesford tactfully retreated a\nlittle way. A warning against hasty love dwindled to an appeal whether\nso much friendliness, such constant meetings, either with daughter or\nwith father, were desirable.\n\n\"I'm sure I'm sorry for the poor child,\" she said; \"but in this\nworld----\"\n\n\"Suppose it's all a slander!\"\n\n\"My dear Alicia, do they say such things about a man in his position\nunless there's something in them?\"\n\n\"It's nothing to me,\" said Alicia again.\n\n\"Of course, you can do nothing abrupt; but you'll gradually withdraw\nfrom their acquaintance, won't you?\"\n\nAlicia had escaped without a promise, pleading for time to think in the\nsame breath that she denied any concern in the matter. She was by way of\nthinking now, and all that Lady Eynesford had said repeated itself in\nher mind as she looked out on the garden and the glimpses of the town\nbeyond. She understood now Dick's banishment, her sister-in-law's\nunresting hostility to the Medlands, and the reason why she had been\npressed to go to Australia. She spared a minute to grief for Daisy, but\nher own sorrow would not be denied, and engrossed her again. In the\nsolitude she had sought, she cried to herself, \"Why didn't they tell me\nbefore? What's the use of telling me now?\" Then she would fly back to\nthe hope that the thing was not true, that her friends had clutched too\nhastily at anything which would save her from what they dreaded, and,\nshe confessed to herself, rightly dreaded. No, she would not believe it\nyet; and, if it were not true, why should she not be happy? Why should\nshe not, even though she did what Dick had not dared to do, and what,\nwhen Coxon asked her, she had laughed at for an absurdity?\n\nThere began to be more movement outside the gates. The first note of\nband-music was wafted to her ear, and the roll of wheels announced the\nreturn of the church-goers. She roused herself and went to meet them.\nThey were agog with excitement, partly about the meeting, partly about\nthe murder. While Eleanor was trying to tell her of the state of\npopular feeling, the Governor seized her arm and began to detail the\nstory of the discovery.\n\n\"You remember the man?\" he asked. \"He was at our flower-show--had a sort\nof row with Medland, you know. Well, he's been found murdered (so the\npolice think) in a low part of the town! The woman who keeps the house\nfound him. He didn't come down in the morning, and, as she couldn't make\nhim hear, she forced the door, and found him with his throat cut.\"\n\n\"Awful!\" shuddered Lady Eynesford. \"He looked such a respectable man\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Ah, I fancy he'd gone a bit to the bad lately--taken to drinking and so\non.\"\n\n\"He was a friend of Mr. Kilshaw's, wasn't he?\" asked Alicia.\n\n\"A sort of hanger-on, I think. Anyhow, there he was dead, and with his\npockets empty.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he killed himself,\" she suggested.\n\n\"They think not. They've arrested the woman, but she declares she knows\nnothing about it!\"\n\n\"Poor man!\" said Alicia; and, at another time, she might have thought a\ngood deal about the horrible end of a man whom she had known as an\nacquaintance. But, as it was, she soon forgot him again, and, leaving\nthe rest, returned to her solitary seat.\n\nIn the town, the news of the murder was but one ruffle more on the wave\nof excitement, and not a very marked one. Few people knew Benham's\nname, and when the first agitation following on the discovery of the\nbody died away and the onlookers found there was no news to be had, they\nturned away to join the processions or to stare at them. The police were\nleft to pursue their investigations in peace, and they soon reached a\nconclusion. The landlady of the house where Benham died lived alone,\nsave for the occasional presence of her son: he was away at work in an\noutlying district, and she had been the only person in the house that\nnight. She let beds to single men, she said, and the night before two\nmen had arrived, one the worse for drink. They had asked for adjoining\nrooms. As they went up-stairs, she had heard the one who had been\ndrinking say to the other, \"What are you bringing me here for? This\nisn't the place for what I want.\" His companion, the shorter of the two,\nwhom she thought she would know again, had answered--\"All in good time;\nyou go and lie down, and I'll fetch what you want.\" Soon after, the\nshort one came down and asked if she had any brandy; she gave him a\nbottle half full and he went up-stairs again. She heard voices raised as\nif in dispute for a few minutes, and one of them--she could not say\nwhich--said something which sounded like \"Well, finish the drink first,\nand then I'll go.\" Silence followed, at least she could not hear any\nmore talking; and presently, it not being her business to spy on\ngentlemen, she went to bed, and knew nothing more till she woke at\nseven o'clock. Going up-stairs, she found one door open and the room\nempty, not the room the two men had been in together, but the other. The\nsecond door was locked, and she did not knock; gentlemen often slept\nlate. At half-past ten she ventured to knock, got no answer, knocked\nagain and again, and finally, with the help of the man from next door,\nbroke the lock and found the taller of the two men dead on the bed. She\nhad at once summoned the police; and that, she concluded, was all she\nknew about the matter, and she was a respectable, hard-working woman, a\nwidow who could produce her marriage certificate in case any person\npresent desired to inspect it.\n\nThe Superintendent listened to her protestations of virtue with an\nironical smile, told her the police knew her house very well, frightened\nher wholesomely, took down her very vague description of the missing\nman, and kept her in custody; but he did not seriously doubt the truth\nof her story, and, if it were true, the man he wanted was evidently the\nsober man, the shorter man, who had introduced his friend to the house\non a pretext, had called for drink, and vanished in the early morning,\nleaving a dead man behind him. Who was this man? Where did he come from?\nHad he been missing since last night? On these inquiries the\nSuperintendent launched several intelligent men, and then was forced for\nthe time to turn his attention to the business of the day.\n\nTo search a large town for a missing man takes time, and the searchers\ndid not happen to fall in with Company B of Procession 3, which at one\no'clock had mustered in Digby Square, prepared to march to the Public\nPark. Had they done so, it might or might not have seemed to them worth\nnoticing that Company B of Procession 3, which was composed of\ncarpenters and joiners, had missed some one, namely the officer whom\nthey called their \"Marshal,\" and who was to have ordered their ranks and\nmarched at their head; and the name of their Marshal was none other than\nFran ois Gaspard. The Superintendent himself was keeping watch over\nCompany B, but, in a professionally Olympian scorn of processions, he\nwas far from asking or caring to know who the Marshal was, and indeed,\nif he had known, he would scarcely have drawn such a lightning-quick\ninference as that the missing Marshal and the missing murderer were one\nand the same. So Mr. Gaspard's absence was passed over with a few curses\non his laziness, or, from the more charitable, a surmise that there had\nbeen a misunderstanding, and Company B, having appointed a new Marshal,\nwent on its way.\n\nOne demonstration of the public will is much like another in the shape\nit takes and the incidents it produces. This Sunday's was, however, as\nfriends and foes agreed, remarkable not only for the numbers who took\npart, but still more for the spirit which animated it, and when the\nPremier and his colleagues made their appearance on the great platform\nthere was no room to doubt that somehow, by his gifts or his faults, his\npolicy or his demagogic arts, his love of humanity or his adroit wooing\nof popularity, Medland held a position in the eyes of the common people\nof the capital which had seldom or never been equalled in the history of\nthe Colony. He had caused them to be called together in order to raise\ntheir enthusiasm, and to elicit from them a visible, unmistakable pledge\nof support. But, when he stood before them, bareheaded, in vain\nbeckoning for silence, their cries and cheers told him that his task was\nrather to moderate than to stir up, and the first part of his speech was\na somewhat laboured proof of the consistency of gatherings of that\nnature with the proper independence of representative assemblies. The\npeople heard him through this argument in respectful silence, clapping\ntheir hands when, at the end of it, he paused before he passed to the\nsecond part of his speech. At the first sign of attack, at the first\nquietly drawn contrast between what the seceders had promised and what\nthey were doing, his audience was a changed one. Fierce murmurs of\nassent and groans became audible now, and when Medland, caught by the\ncontagion that spread to him from his listeners, gave rein to his\nfeelings, and launched into a passionate declaration that, to his mind,\nthe liberty claimed for members did not mean liberty to betray those\nwho had trusted them, the murmurs and groans rose into one tumult of\nsavage applause, and men raised both hands over their heads and shook\nthem, as though they would have clenched every word that fell from him\nwith a blow of the fist.\n\nDaisy Medland sat just behind her father, exulting in his triumph, and,\nat every happy stroke, glancing at Norburn, and by sharing her joy with\nhim doubling his. When the Premier had finished, and the last resolution\nhad been carried, she ran to him, crying, \"Splendid! I never heard you\nso good. Wasn't he splendid?\" and looking so completely joyful that\nMedland was sure she must quite have forgotten Dick Derosne. She took\nhis arm, and they made their way together to a carriage which was in\nwaiting. An escort of police surrounded it, to save the Premier from his\nfriends, and he, with Daisy, Norburn, and Mr. Floyd, the Treasurer, got\nin without disturbance. The coachman drove off rapidly down the main\navenue, distancing the enthusiasts who would have had the horses out of\nthe shafts. They passed a long row of carriages, belonging to people who\nhad not feared to come and look on from a distance, and at last, knowing\nthe procession would go back another way, Medland bade his driver stop\nunder the trees, and lit a cigar.\n\n\"And I wonder if it will all make any difference!\" said he, puffing\ndelightedly. He had all an old political organiser's love for a big\nmeeting, which does not exclude scepticism as to its value.\n\n\"Oh, you gave it 'em finely,\" said the Treasurer.\n\n\"I believe it'll frighten two or three anyhow,\" observed Norburn.\n\n\"I _know_ we shall win to-morrow,\" cried Daisy, squeezing her father's\narm.\n\n\"Ah! here's a special Sunday evening paper--how we encourage\nwickedness!\" said the Premier, seeing a newsvendor approaching. \"Let's\nsee what they say of us!\"\n\n\"I've seen it all for myself,\" remarked Daisy, and she went on\nchattering to the other two, who were ready to talk over every incident\nof the meeting, as people who have been to meetings ever are. On they\nwent, reminding one another of the bald man in the third row who cheered\nso lustily, of the fat woman who had somehow got into the front row and\nfanned herself all the time, of rude things shouted about Messrs.\nPuttock and Coxon, and so forth. The Premier, listening with one ear,\nopened his paper; but the first thing he saw was not about his\nprocession. He started and looked closer, then gave a sudden, covert\nglance at his companions; they were busy in talk, and, with breathless\nhaste, he devoured the meagre details of Benham's wretched death. The\nend reached, he let the paper fall on his knees, lay back, and took a\nlong pull at his cigar. He was shocked--yes, he supposed he was\nshocked. He had known the man, and it was shocking to think of his\nthroat being cut; yes, he had known him, and he didn't like to think of\nthat. But--The Premier gave a long-drawn sigh of relief. That unknown\nmurderer's hand had done great things for him. His daughter was safe\nnow--anyhow, she was safe. She could never be subject to the degradation\nthe dead man had once hinted at; and when he thought of what the man had\nthreatened, pity for him died out of Medland's heart. More--although\nKilshaw no doubt knew something--there was a chance that Benham had kept\nhis own counsel, and that his employer would be helpless without his\naid. Medland's sanguine mind caught eagerly at the chance, and in a\nmoment turned it into a hope--almost a conviction. Then the whole thing\nwould go down to the grave with the unlucky man, and not even its\nspectre survive to trouble him. For if no one had certain knowledge, if\nthere were never more than gossip, growing, as time passed, fainter and\nfainter from having no food to feed on, would not utter silence follow\nat last, so that the things that had been might be as if they had never\nbeen?\n\n\"Well, what do they say about us?\" asked the Treasurer.\n\n\"Oh, nothing much,\" he answered, thrusting the paper behind him with a\ncareless air. He did not want to discuss what the paper had told him.\n\n\"What's happened to-day,\" said Daisy, \"ought to make all the difference,\noughtn't it, father?\"\n\n\"I hope it will,\" replied the Premier; but, for once in his life, he was\nnot thinking most about political affairs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nTHE LAW _VERSUS_ RULE 3.\n\n\nAmong the many tired but satisfied lovers of liberty who sought their\nhouses that night, while an enthusiastic remnant was still parading the\nstreets, illuminations yet shining from windows, and weary police\ntreading their unending beats, was the doorkeeper, who had borne a\nbanner in Company A of Procession 1. His friend the watchmaker came with\nhim, to have a bit of supper and exchange congratulations and\nfulminations. Hardly, however, had the doorkeeper pledged the cause in a\nfirst draught when his wife broke in on his oration by handing him a\nletter, which she said a boy in a blue jersey had left for him about ten\no'clock in the morning, just after he had started to join his company.\nThe envelope was cheap and coarse; there was no direction outside. The\ndoorkeeper opened it. It was addressed to no named person and it bore no\nsignature. It was very brief, being confined to these simple words--\"You\ndid not see me last night. Remember Rule 3.\"\n\nThe doorkeeper laid the letter down, with a hurried glance at his\nfriend, whose face was buried in a mug. He knew the handwriting; he knew\nwho it was that he had not seen; he remembered Rule 3, the rule that\nsaid--\"The only and inevitable penalty of treachery is death.\" He turned\nwhite and took a hasty gulp at his liquor.\n\n\"Who brought this?\" he asked.\n\n\"I told you,\" answered his wife; \"a lad in a blue jersey; he looked as\nif he might be from the harbour.\" She put food before them, adding as\nshe did so--\"I suppose you've been too full of your politics to hear\nmuch about the murder?\"\n\n\"The murder?\" exclaimed the watchmaker. The doorkeeper crumpled up his\nletter and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat, while his wife read\nto them the story of the discovery. The watchmaker listened with\ninterest.\n\n\"Benham!\" he remarked. \"I never heard the name, did you?\"\n\n\"You know him, Ned,\" said the doorkeeper's wife; \"him as Mr. Gaspard\nused to go about with.\"\n\nBy a sudden common impulse, the eyes of the two men met; the woman went\noff to brew them a pot of tea, and left them fearfully gazing at one\nanother.\n\n\"What stuff!\" said the watchmaker uneasily. \"It was only his blow. What\nreason had he--?\" He paused and added, \"Seen him to-day, Ned?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Ned, fingering his note.\n\n\"Wasn't he in the procession?\"\n\n\"I didn't see him.\"\n\n\"When did you see him last?\"\n\nThe doorkeeper hesitated.\n\n\"Night of our last committee,\" he whispered finally.\n\n\"Oh, there's nothing in it,\" said the watchmaker reassuringly. He had\nnot a letter in his pocket.\n\nThe doorkeeper opened his mouth to speak, but seeing his wife\napproaching, he shut it again and busied himself with his meal.\n\n\"What was the letter, Ned?\"\n\n\"Oh, about the procession,\" he answered.\n\n\"Then you got it too late. Who was it from?\"\n\n\"If you'd give us the tea,\" he broke out roughly, \"and let the damned\nletter alone, it 'ud be a deal better.\"\n\n\"La, you needn't fly out at a woman so,\" said Mrs. Evans. \"It ain't the\nway to treat his wife, is it, mister?\"\n\n\"Mister\" gallantly reproved his friend, but pleaded that they were both\nweary, and weary legs made short tempers. Giving them the tea, she left\nthem to themselves; her work was not finished till three small children\nwere safely in bed.\n\nThe sensation of having one's neck for the first time within measurable\ndistance of a rope must needs be somewhat disquieting. The doorkeeper,\nin spite of his secret society doings, was a timid man, with a vastly\nrespectful fear of the law. To talk about things, to vapour idly about\nthem over the cups, is very different from being actually, even though\nremotely, mixed up in them. Ned Evans was a man of some education: he\nread the papers, accounts of crimes and reports of trials; he had heard\nof accessories after and before the fact. Was he not an accessory after\nthe fact? He fancied they did not hang such; but if they caught him, and\nall that about Gaspard and the society came out, would they not call him\nan accessory before the fact? The noose seemed really rather near, and\nin his frightened fancy, as he lay sleepless beside his snoring wife,\nthe rope dangled over his head. The poor wretch was between the devil\nand the deep sea--between stern law and cruel Rule 3. He dared not toss\nabout, his wife would ask him what ailed him; he lay as still as he\ncould, bitterly cursing his folly for mingling in such affairs, bitterly\ncursing the Frenchman who led him on into the trap and left him fast\nthere. How could he save his neck? And he restlessly rent the band of\nhis coarse night-shirt, that pressed on his throat with a horrible\nsuggestion of what might be. Where was that Gaspard? Had he fled over\nthe sea? Ah, if he could be sure of that, and sure that the dreaded man\nwould not return! Or was he lurking in some secret hole, ready to steal\nout and avenge a violation of Rule 3? The doorkeeper had always feared\nthe man; in the lurid light of this deed, Gaspard's image grew into a\nmonster of horror, threatening sudden and swift revenge for disobedience\nor treachery. No; he must stand firm. But what of the police? Well, men\nsleep somehow, and at last he fell asleep, holding the band of the\nnight-shirt away from his throat: if he fell asleep with that pressing\non him, God knew what he might dream.\n\n\"It's very lucky,\" remarked the Superintendent of Police, who had a\nhappy habit of looking at the bright side of things, to one of his\nsubordinates, \"that this Benham seems to have had no relations and\nprecious few friends.\"\n\n\"No widows coming crying about,\" observed the subordinate, with an\nassenting nod.\n\n\"Nothing known of him except that he came to Kirton a few months back,\ndid nothing, seemed to have plenty of money, took his liquor, played a\nhand at cards, hurt nobody, seemingly knew nobody.\"\n\n\"Why, I saw him with Mr. Puttock.\"\n\n\"Yes; but Mr. Puttock knows nothing of him, except that he said he came\nfrom Shepherdstown. That's why Puttock was civil to him. The place is in\nhis constituency.\"\n\n\"Got any idea, sir?\" the subordinate ventured to ask.\n\nThe Superintendent was about to answer in the negative, when a detective\nentered the room.\n\n\"Well, I've found one missing man for you,\" he said, in a satisfied\ntone.\n\n\"One missing man!\" echoed his superior, scornfully. \"In a place o' this\nsize I'd always find you twenty.\"\n\nThe sergeant went on, unperturbed,\n\n\"Fran ois Gaspard, known as politician and agitator, didn't go home to\nhis lodgings in Kettle Street last night, was to have acted as Marshal\nin Company B of Procession 3 to-day, didn't turn up, hasn't turned up\nto-night, don't owe any rent, hasn't taken any clothes.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said the Superintendent morosely. \"Left an address?\"\n\n\"Left no address, sir.\"\n\n\"How did he go, and where?\"\n\n\"Not known, sir.\"\n\n\"Good Lord!\" moaned the Superintendent, \"and what's your salary?\"\n\nThe sergeant's good-humour was impregnable.\n\n\"Give me time,\" he said, and the sentence was almost drowned in a loud\nknock at the door. An instant later Kilshaw rushed in.\n\n\"What's this, Dawson?\" he cried to the Superintendent; \"what's this\nabout the murder?\"\n\n\"You haven't heard, sir?\"\n\n\"I went out of town to avoid this infernal row to-day, and am only just\nback.\"\n\nDawson smiled discreetly. He could understand that the proceedings of\nthe day would not attract Mr. Kilshaw.\n\n\"But is it true,\" Kilshaw went on eagerly, \"that Mr. Benham has been\nmurdered?\"\n\n\"Well, it looks like it, sir,\" and Dawson gave a full account of the\ncircumstances.\n\n\"And the motive?\" asked Kilshaw.\n\n\"Robbery, I suppose. His pockets were empty, and according to our\ninformation he was generally flush of money; where he got it, I don't\nknow.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Kilshaw meditatively; \"his pockets empty! And have you no\nclue?\"\n\n\"Not what you'd call a clue. Did you know the gentleman, sir?\"\n\nKilshaw replied by saying that Mr. Puttock had introduced Benham to him\nand the acquaintance had continued--it was a political acquaintance\npurely.\n\n\"You don't know anything about him before he came here?\"\n\nKilshaw suddenly perceived that he was being questioned, whereas his\nobject had been to question.\n\n\"You say,\" he observed, \"that you haven't got what you'd call a clue.\nWhat do you mean?\"\n\n\"You can tell Mr. Kilshaw, if you like,\" said the Superintendent to the\nsergeant, who repeated his information.\n\n\"Gaspard! why that's the fellow the Premier--\" and Mr. Kilshaw stopped\nshort. After a moment, he asked abruptly, \"Were there any papers on the\nbody?\"\n\n\"None, sir.\"\n\n\"I suppose there's nothing really to connect this man Gaspard with it?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing at present, sir. Did you say you'd known the deceased\nbefore he--?\"\n\n\"If I'm called at the inquest, I shall tell all I know,\" said Kilshaw,\nrising. \"It's not much.\"\n\n\"Happen to know if he had any relations, sir?\"\n\n\"H'm. He was a widower, I believe.\"\n\n\"Children?\"\n\n\"Really,\" said Mr. Kilshaw, with a faint smile, \"I don't know.\"\n\nAnd he escaped from pertinacious Mr. Dawson with some alacrity. When he\nwas outside, he stopped suddenly. \"Shall I tell 'em to apply to\nMedland?\" he asked himself, with a malicious chuckle. \"No, I'll wait a\nbit yet,\" and he walked on, wondering whether by any chance Mr. Benham\nhad been done to death to save the Premier. This fanciful idea he soon\ndismissed with a laugh; it never entered his head, prejudiced as he was,\nto think that Medland himself had any hand in the matter. After all, he\nwas a man of common sense, and he quickly arrived at a conclusion which\nhe expressed by exclaiming,\n\n\"The poor fool's been showing his money. Who's got my five hundred now,\nI wonder?\"\n\nHis wonderings would have been satisfied, had Aladdin's carpet or other\nmagical contrivance transported him to where the steamship _Pride of the\nSouth_ was ploughing her way through the waves, bound from Kirton to San\nFrancisco, with liberty to touch at several South American ports. A\nthick-set, short man, shipped at the last moment as cook's mate, in\nsubstitution for a truant, was lying on his back, smoking a cigarette,\nlooking up at the bright stars, and ever and again gently pressing his\nhand on a little lump inside his shirt. He seemed at peace with all the\nworld, though he was ready to be at war, if need be, and his knife,\nburnished and clean, lay handy to his fingers. He turned on his side and\ncomposed himself to sleep, his chest rising and falling with regular,\nuninterrupted breathing. Once he smiled: he was thinking of Ned Evans,\nthe doorkeeper; then he gave himself a little shake, closed his eyes,\nand forgot all the troubles of this weary world. So sleep children,\nso--we are told--the just: so slept M. Fran ois Gaspard, on his way to\nseek fresh woods and pastures new.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nALL THERE WAS TO TELL.\n\n\nThe custom in New Lindsey was that every Monday during the session of\nParliament the Executive Council should meet at Government House, and,\nunder the presidency of the Governor, formally ratify and adopt the\narrangements as to the business of the coming week which its members had\ndecided upon at their Cabinet meetings. It is to be hoped that, in these\ndays, when we all take an interest in our Empire, everybody knows that\nthe Executive Council is the outward, visible, and recognised form of\nthat impalpable, unrecognised, all-powerful institution, the Cabinet,\nconsisting in fact, though not in theory, of the same persons, save that\nthe Governor is present when the meeting is of the Council, and absent\nwhen it is of the Cabinet--a difference of less moment than it sounds,\nseeing that, except in extreme cases, the Governor has little to do but\nlisten to what is going to be done. However, forms doubtless have their\nvalue, and at any rate they must be observed, so on this Monday morning\nthe Executive Council was to meet as usual, although nobody knew where\nthe Cabinet would be that time twenty-four hours. Lady Eynesford, who\nwanted her husband to drive her out, thought the meeting under the\ncircumstances mere nonsense--which it very likely was--and said so,\nwhich betrayed inexperience, and Alicia Derosne asked what time it took\nplace.\n\n\"Eleven sharp,\" said the Governor, and returned to the account of the\nmurder.\n\nTime after time in the last few days Alicia had told herself that she\ncould bear it no longer. At one moment she believed nothing, the next,\nnothing was too terrible for her to believe; now she would fly to\nAustralia, or home, or anywhere out of New Lindsey; now a\nstraightforward challenge to Medland alone would serve her turn.\nSometimes she felt as if she could put the whole thing on one side; five\nminutes later found her pinning her whole life on the issue of it. Under\nher guarded face and calm demeanour, the storm of divided and\nconflicting instincts and passions raged, and long solitary rambles\nbecame a necessary outlet for what she dared show to none. She shrank\nfrom seeing Medland, and yet longed to speak with him; she felt that to\nmention the topic to him was impossible, and yet, if they met,\ninevitable; that she would not have strength to face him, and yet could\nnot let him go without clearing up the mystery. She told herself at one\nmoment that she hardly knew him, at the next that between them nothing\ncould be too secret for utterance.\n\nWhat she hoped and feared befell her that morning. She went out for a\nwalk in the Park, and before long she met the Premier, with his daughter\nand Norburn. The two last were laughing and talking--their quarrel was\nquite forgotten now--and Medland himself, she thought, looked as though\nhis load of care were a little less heavy. The two men explained that\nthey were on their way--a roundabout way, they confessed--to the\nCouncil, and had seized the chance of some fresh air, while Daisy was\nfull of stories about yesterday's triumph, that left room only for a\npassing reference to yesterday's tragedy.\n\n\"I didn't like him at all,\" she said; \"but still it's dreadful--a man\none knew ever so slightly!\"\n\nAlicia agreed, and the next instant she found herself practically alone\nwith Medland; for Daisy ran off to pick a wild-flower that caught her\neye in the wood, and Norburn followed her. Not knowing whether to be\nglad or sorry, she made no effort to escape, and was silent while\nMedland began to speak of his prospects in that evening's division.\n\nSuddenly she paused in her walk and lifted her eyes to his.\n\n\"You look happier,\" she said.\n\nMedland's conscience smote him: he was looking happier because the man\nwas dead.\n\n\"It's at the prospect of being a free man to-morrow,\" he answered, with\na smile. \"You know, Cincinnatus was very happy.\"\n\n\"But you're not like that.\"\n\n\"No, I suppose not. Say it's----\"\n\n\"Never mind.\"\n\nAfter a pause she made another attempt.\n\n\"Mr. Medland!\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"You've been very good to me--yes, very good.\"\n\nHe turned to her with a gesture of disclaimer. She thought he was going\nto speak, but he did not.\n\n\"Whatever happens, I shall always remember that with--with deep\ngratitude.\"\n\n\"What is going to happen?\" he asked, with an uneasy smile.\n\n\"Oh, how can I?\" she burst out. \"How can I say it? How can I ask you?\"\n\nAs she spoke she stopped, and he followed her example. They stood facing\none another now, as he replied gravely,\n\n\"Whatever you ask--let it be what it will--I will answer, truthfully.\" A\npause before the last word perhaps betrayed a momentary struggle.\n\n\"What right have I? Why should you?\"\n\n\"The right my--my desire to have your regard gives you. How can I ask\nfor that, unless I am ready to tell you all you can wish to know?\"\n\n\"I have heard,\" she began falteringly, \"I have been told by--by people\nwho, I suppose, were right to tell me----\"\n\nIn a moment he understood her. A slight twitch of his mouth betrayed his\ntrouble, but he came to her rescue.\n\n\"I don't know how it reached you,\" he said. \"Perhaps I think you might\nhave been--you need not have known it. But there is only one thing you\ncan have heard, that it would distress you to speak of.\"\n\nShe said nothing, but fixed her eyes on his.\n\n\"I am right?\" he asked. \"It is about--my wife?\"\n\nShe bowed her head. He stood silent for a moment, and she cried,\n\n\"It was only gossip--a woman's gossip; I did wrong to listen to it.\"\n\n\"Gossip,\" he said, \"is often true. This is true,\" and he set his lips.\n\nThe worst often finds or makes people calm. She had flushed at first,\nbut the colour went again, and she said quietly,\n\n\"If you have time and don't mind, I should like to hear it all.\"\n\nShe had forgotten what this request must mean to him, or perhaps she\nthought the time for pretence had gone by. If so, he understood, for he\nanswered,\n\n\"It's your right.\"\n\nHer eyes sank to the ground, but she did not quarrel with his words. She\nstood motionless while he told his story. He spoke with wilful brevity\nand dryness.\n\n\"I was a young man when I met her. She was married, and I went to the\nhouse. Her husband----\"\n\n\"Did he ill-treat her?\"\n\n\"No. In his way, I suppose he was fond of her. But--she didn't like his\nway. She was very beautiful, and I fell in love with her, and she with\nme. And we ran away.\"\n\n\"Is--is that all? Is there no----?\"\n\n\"No excuse? No, I suppose, none. And I lived with her till she died four\nyears ago. And--Daisy is our daughter.\"\n\n\"And he--the husband?\"\n\n\"He did not divorce her. I don't know why not, perhaps because she asked\nhim to--anyhow he didn't. And he outlived her: so she died--as she had\nlived.\"\n\n\"And is he still alive?\"\n\n\"No; he is dead now.\" He was about to go on, but checked himself. Why\nadd that horror? How the man died was nothing between her and him.\n\n\"Have you no--nothing to say?\" she burst out, almost angrily. \"You just\ntell me that and stop!\"\n\n\"What is there to say? I have told you all there is to tell. I loved her\nvery much. I did what I could to make her happy, and I try to make up\nfor it to Daisy. But there is nothing more to say.\"\n\nShe was angry that he would not defend himself. She was ready--ah, so\nready!--to listen to his pleading. But he would not say a word for\nhimself. Instead, he went on,\n\n\"She didn't want to come, but I made her. She repented, poor girl, all\nher life; she was never quite happy. It was all my doing. Still, I think\nshe was happier with me, in spite of it.\"\n\nA movement of impatience escaped from Alicia. Seeing it he added,\n\n\"I beg your pardon. I didn't want you to think hardly of her.\"\n\n\"I don't want to think of her at all. Was she--was she like Daisy?\"\n\n\"Yes; but prettier.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you expect me to say,\" she exclaimed. \"I know--I\nsuppose some men don't think much of--of a thing like that. To me it is\nhorrible. You simply followed your-- Ah, I can't speak of it!\" and she\nseemed to put him from her with a gesture of disgust.\n\nHe walked beside her in silence, his face set in the bitter smile it\nalways wore when fate dealt hardly with him.\n\n\"I think I'll go straight home,\" she said, stopping suddenly. \"You can\njoin the others.\"\n\n\"Yes, that will be best. I'm not due at the Council just yet.\"\n\n\"I suppose I ought to thank you for telling me the truth. I--\" Her false\ncomposure suddenly gave way. With a sob she stretched out her hands\ntowards him, crying, \"Why didn't you tell me sooner?\" and before he\ncould answer her she turned and walked swiftly away, leaving him\nstanding still on the pathway.\n\nShe was hardly inside the gates of Government House when she saw Eleanor\nScaife, who hurried to meet her.\n\n\"Only think, Alicia!\" she cried. \"Dick is on his way home, and with such\ngood news. We've just had a cable from him.\"\n\n\"Coming back!\"\n\n\"Yes. He's engaged! He met the Grangers on their tour round the\nworld--you know them, the great cotton people?--at Sydney, and he's\nengaged to the youngest girl, Violet--you remember her? It all happened\nin a fortnight. Mary and Lord Eynesford are delighted. It's just\nperfect. She's very pretty, and tremendously well off. I do declare, I\nnever thought Dick would end so well! What a happy thought it was\nsending him away! Aren't you delighted?\"\n\n\"It sounds very nice, doesn't it? I don't think I knew her more than\njust to speak to.\"\n\n\"Dick'll be here in four days. I've been looking for you to tell you for\nthe last hour. Where have you been?\"\n\n\"In the Park.\"\n\n\"Alone, as usual, you hermit?\"\n\n\"Well, I met the Medlands and Mr. Norburn, and talked to them for a\nlittle while.\"\n\n\"Alicia! But it's no use talking to you. Come and find Mary.\"\n\n\"No, Eleanor, I'm tired, and--and hot. I'll go to my room.\"\n\n\"Oh, you must come and see her first.\"\n\n\"I can't.\"\n\n\"She'll be hurt, Alicia. She'll think you don't care. Come, dear.\"\n\n\"Tell her--tell her I'm coming directly. Eleanor, you must let me go,\"\nand breaking away she fled into the house.\n\nEleanor went alone to seek Lady Eynesford. Somehow Alicia's words had\nquenched her high spirits for the moment.\n\n\"Poor child! I do hope she hasn't been foolish,\" she mused. \"Surely\nafter what Mary told her--! Oh dear, I'm afraid it isn't all as happy as\nit is about Dick!\"\n\nAnd then she indulged in some very cynical meditations on the advantages\nof being a person of shallow emotions and changeful fancies, until she\nwas roused by the sight of Medland and Norburn walking up to the house,\nto attend the Executive Council. From the window she closely watched\nthe Premier as he approached; her mood wavered to and fro, but at last\nshe summed up her impressions by remarking,\n\n\"Well, I suppose one might.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nTHE STORY OF A PHOTOGRAPH.\n\n\nMr. Coxon may be forgiven for being, on this same important Monday, in a\nstate of some nervous excitement. He had a severe attack of what are\nvulgarly called \"the fidgets,\" and Sir John, who was spending the\nmorning at the Club (for his court was not sitting), glanced at him over\nhis eye-glasses with an irritated look. The ex-Attorney-General would\nnot sit still, but flitted continually from window to table, and back\nfrom table to window, taking up and putting down journal after journal.\nMuch depended, in Mr. Coxon's view, on the event of that day, for Sir\nJohn spoke openly of his approaching retirement, and an appointment\nsometimes thought worthy of a Premier's acceptance might be in Coxon's\ngrasp before many weeks were past, if only Medland and his noxious idea\nof getting a first-class man out from England could be swept together\ninto limbo.\n\n\"What's the betting about to-night?\" asked the Chief Justice, as in one\nof his restless turns the brooding politician passed near.\n\n\"We reckon to beat him by five,\" answered Coxon.\n\n\"Unless any of your men turn tail, that is? I hear Fenton's very\nwobbly--says he daren't show his face in the North-east Ward if he\nthrows Medland over.\"\n\n\"Oh, he's all right.\"\n\n\"Been promised something?\"\n\n\"You might allow some of us to have consciences, Chief Justice,\" said\nCoxon, with an attempt at geniality.\n\n\"Oh, some of you, yes. But I'll pick my men, please,\" remarked Sir John,\nwith a pleasant smile. \"Perry's got a conscience, and Kilshaw--well,\nKilshaw's got a gadfly that does instead, and of course, Coxon, I add\nyou to the list.\"\n\n\"Much obliged for your testimonial,\" said Coxon sourly.\n\n\"I add any man I'm talking to, to the list,\" continued the Chief\nJustice. \"I expect him to do the same by me. But, honestly, I add you\neven in your absence. You're not a man who puts party ties above\neverything.\"\n\nMr. Coxon darted a suspicious glance at the head of his profession, but\nthe Chief Justice's air was blandly innocent.\n\n\"My party's my party,\" he remarked, \"just so long as it carries out my\nprinciples. I don't say either party does it perfectly.\"\n\n\"I dare say not; but of course you're right to act with the one that\ndoes most for you.\"\n\nAgain the Chief Justice had hit on a somewhat ambiguous expression.\nCoxon detected a grin on the face of Captain Heseltine, who was sitting\nnear, but he could not hold Sir John's grave face guilty of the\nCaptain's grin.\n\n\"I see,\" remarked the Captain, perhaps in order to cover the retreat of\nhis grin, \"that they've discharged the woman who was arrested last night\nfor the murder.\"\n\n\"Really no evidence against her,\" said the Chief Justice. \"But,\nHeseltine, wasn't this man Benham the fellow Medland had a sort of\nshindy with at that flower-show?\"\n\n\"Yes, he was. Kilshaw seemed to know all about him.\"\n\n\"He was talking to Miss Medland.\"\n\n\"And the Premier had her away from him in no time. Queer start, Sir\nJohn?\"\n\n\"Oh, well, he seems to have been a loose fellow, and I suppose was\nmurdered for the money he had on him. But I mustn't talk about it. I may\nhave to try it.\"\n\n\"Gad! you'll be committing contempt of yourself,\" suggested the Captain.\n\n\"Like that snake that swallows itself, eh?\"\n\n\"What snake?\" asked the Captain, with interest.\n\n\"The snake in the story,\" answered the Chief Justice; and he added in an\nundertone--\"Why can't that fellow sit still?\"\n\nMr. Coxon had wandered to the window again, and was thrumming on the\npanes. He turned on hearing some one enter. It was Sir Robert Perry.\n\n\"Well,\" he began, \"I bring news of the event of the day.\"\n\n\"About to-night?\" asked Coxon eagerly.\n\n\"To-night! That's not the event of the day. Ministers are a deal\ncommoner than murders. No, last night.\"\n\nCoxon turned away disappointed.\n\n\"The murder!\" exclaimed the Captain.\n\n\"Don't talk to me about it, Perry,\" the Chief Justice requested, opening\na paper in front of his face. He did not, however, withdraw out of\nearshot.\n\n\"They've got a sort of a clue. A wretched hobbledehoy of a fellow,\nsomething in the bookseller's shop at the corner of Kettle Street, has\ncome with a rigmarole about a society that he and a few more belonged\nto, including this Fran ois Gaspard, who is missing. He protests that\nthe thing was legal, and all that--only a Radical inner ring--but he\nsays that at the last meeting this fellow was dropping hints about\nputting somebody out of the way. Dyer--that's the lad's name--swears the\nrest of them disowned him and said they'd have nothing to do with it,\nand hoped he'd given up the idea.\"\n\n\"I suppose he's in a blue funk?\" asked the Captain.\n\n\"He is no doubt alarmed,\" said Sir Robert. \"He gave the police the names\nof the rest of their precious society, and, oddly enough, Ned Evans, of\nthe House--you know him, Coxon?--was one.\"\n\n\"Heard such an awful lot of debates, poor chap,\" observed Captain\nHeseltine.\n\n\"Well, they went to Evans' and collared him. For a time he stuck out\nthat he knew nothing about it, but they threatened him with heaven knows\nwhat, and at last he confessed to having seen this Gaspard in company\nwith the murdered man in Digby Square a little before twelve on the\nnight.\"\n\n\"By Jove! That's awkward!\" said the Captain.\n\nCoxon showed more interest now, and remarked,\n\n\"Why, Gaspard was one of Medland's organisers. I saw him with both\nMedland and Norburn on Saturday.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose they were planning to murder this Benham. Indeed, I\ndon't see that the thing can have been political at all. What did it\nmatter whether Benham lived or died?\"\n\n\"I don't see that it did, except to Benham,\" assented the Captain. \"But\nwhat's become of Gaspard?\"\n\n\"Ah, that they don't know. He's supposed to have taken ship, and they've\ncabled to search all ships that left the port that morning.\"\n\n\"He'll find the man in blue--or the local equivalent--on the wharf,\"\nsaid the Captain. \"Rather a jar that, Sir Robert, when you're in from a\nvoyage. What are they doing now?\"\n\n\"Well, the Superintendent said they were going to have a thorough search\nthrough the dead man's lodgings, to see if they could find out anything\nabout him which would throw light on the motive. The police don't think\nmuch of the political theory of the crime.\"\n\n\"Dashed nonsense, _I_ should think,\" said the Captain, and he sauntered\noff to play billiards.\n\n\"That young man,\" said the Chief Justice, \"is really not a fool, though\nhe does his best to look like one.\"\n\n\"That queer conduct seems to me rather common in young men at home. I\nnoticed it when I was over.\"\n\n\"Is it meant to imply independent means?\"\n\n\"I dare say that idea may be dormant under it somewhere. My wife says\nthe girls like it.\"\n\n\"Then your wife, Perry, is a traitor to her sex to make such\nconfessions. Besides, they didn't in my time.\"\n\n\"Come, you know, you're a forlorn bachelor. What can you know about it?\"\n\n\"Bachelors, Perry, are the men who know. Which gathers most knowledge\nfrom a vivisection, the attentive student or the writhing frog?\"\n\n\"The operator, most of all.\"\n\n\"Doubtless.\"\n\n\"And that's the woman. Therefore, Oakapple, you're wrong and my wife's\nright.\"\n\n\"The deuce!\" said the Chief Justice. \"I wonder how I ever got any\nbriefs.\"\n\nIn the afternoon, when these idlers had one and all set out for the\nLegislative Assembly, some to work, others still to idle, Mr. Kilshaw\nfelt interest enough in the fate of his late henchman to drop in at the\npolice office on his way to the same destination. He was well known, and\nno one objected to his walking in and making for the door of the\nSuperintendent's room. An officer to whom he spoke told him that Ned\nEvans was in custody, and that it was rumoured that some startling\ndiscoveries had been made at Benham's lodgings.\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" said the man, \"I believe the Superintendent wished to see\nyou.\"\n\n\"Ah, I dare say,\" said Kilshaw. \"Tell him I'm here.\"\n\nWhen he was ushered into the inner room, the Superintendent confirmed\nthe officer's surmise.\n\n\"I was going to send a message to ask you to step round, sir,\" he\nremarked.\n\n\"Here I am, but don't be long. I don't want to miss the Premier's\nspeech.\"\n\n\"Mr. Medland speaking to-day?\"\n\n\"Of course. It's a great day with us at the House.\"\n\n\"I think it looks like being a great day all round. Well, Mr. Kilshaw,\nyou told me you knew the deceased.\"\n\n\"Yes, I knew Benham.\"\n\n\"Benyon,\" corrected the Superintendent.\n\n\"Yes, that was his real name,\" assented Kilshaw.\n\n\"At his lodgings there was found a packet. That's the wrapper,\" and he\nhanded a piece of brown paper to Kilshaw.\n\n\"In case,\" Kilshaw read, \"of my death or disappearance, please deliver\nthis parcel to Mr. Kilshaw, Legislative Assembly, Kirton.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to say, sir,\" said the Superintendent, \"that the detective\nsergeant conducting the search took upon him to open this packet in the\npresence of one or two persons. It ought to have been opened by no one\nbut----\"\n\n\"Myself.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, but myself,\" said the Superintendent, with a slight smile.\n\"Owing to the inexcusable blunder, I'm afraid something about what it\ncontains may leak out prematurely. Those pests, the reporters, are\neverywhere; you can't keep 'em out.\"\n\n\"Well, what does it contain?\" asked Kilshaw. He was annoyed at this\nunsought publicity, but he saw at once that he must show no sign of\nvexation.\n\n\"That, for one thing,\" and the Superintendent handed Kilshaw a\nphotograph of two persons, a young woman and a young man. \"Look at the\nback,\" he added.\n\nKilshaw looked, and read--\"My wife and M.\"\n\n\"That's the deceased's handwriting?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And you know the persons?\"\n\n\"I've no doubt about them. It's the Premier--and--and Mrs. Medland.\"\n\n\"Exactly. Now read this,\" and he gave him the copy of a certificate of\nmarriage between George Benyon and Margaret Aspland.\n\n\"Quite so,\" nodded Kilshaw.\n\n\"And this.\"\n\nKilshaw took the slip of newspaper, old and yellow. It contained a few\nlines, briefly recording that Mrs. Benyon had left her home secretly by\nnight, in her husband's absence, and could not be found.\n\nKilshaw nodded again.\n\n\"It doesn't surprise me,\" he said. \"I knew all this. I was in Mr.\nBenyon's confidence.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you can tell us how he lived?\" hazarded the Superintendent,\nwith a shrewd look.\n\nMr. Kilshaw looked doubtful.\n\n\"The inquest is fixed for to-morrow. The more we know now, the less it\nwill be necessary to protract it.\"\n\n\"I have been helping him lately,\" admitted Kilshaw; and he added, \"Look\nhere, Superintendent, I don't want that more talked about than\nnecessary.\"\n\n\"You needn't say a word to me now unless you like, sir; but I only want\nto make things as comfortable as I can. You see, the coroner is bound to\nlook into it a bit. Had you given him money lately?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Much?\"\n\nKilshaw leant forward and answered, almost in a whisper,\n\n\"Five hundred on Friday night,\" and in spite of himself he avoided the\nSuperintendent's shrewd eye. But that officer's business was not to pass\nmoral judgments. Law is one thing, morality another.\n\n\"Then the thing's as plain as a pikestaff. This Gaspard got to know\nabout the money, and murdered him to get it. We needn't look further for\na motive.\"\n\n\"I suppose all this will have to come out? I wonder if Gaspard knew who\nBenham was?\"\n\n\"It's not necessary to suppose that, unless we believe all Evans says.\nCertainly, if we trust Evans, Gaspard hinted designs on some one before\nhe could have known Benyon had this money. Could he have known he was\ngoing to have it?\"\n\n\"Benyon may have told him I had promised to help him.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, we must see about that. We shall want you at the inquest,\nsir.\"\n\n\"I suppose you will, confound you! And I should think you'd want a\ngreater man than I am, too.\"\n\nThe Superintendent looked grave.\n\n\"I am going up to try and see the Premier at the House to-day,\" he said.\n\"I think we shall have to trouble him. You see, he knew Gaspard as well\nas the deceased.\"\n\n\"I'll give you a lift. You can keep out of the way till he's at\nleisure.\"\n\nAt this moment one of the police entered, and handed the Superintendent\na copy of the _Evening Mail_.\n\n\"It's as you feared, sir,\" he remarked as he went out.\n\nThe Superintendent opened the paper, looked at it for an instant, and\nthen indicated a passage with his forefinger.\n\n\"It is rumoured,\" read Mr. Kilshaw, \"that certain very startling facts\nhave come to light regarding the identity of the deceased man Benham,\nand that the name of a very prominent politician, now holding an exalted\noffice, is likely to be introduced into the case. As the matter will be\npublic property to-morrow, we may be allowed to state that trustworthy\nreports point to the fact of the Premier being in a position to give\nsome important information as to the past life of the deceased. It is\nsaid that a photograph of two persons, one of whom is Mr. Medland, has\nbeen discovered among the papers at Mr. Benham's (or we should say\nBenyon's) lodgings. Further developments of this strange affair will be\nawaited with interest.\"\n\n\"I wish,\" commented the Superintendent grimly, \"that my men could keep a\nsecret as well as their man can sniff one out.\"\n\nBut Mr. Kilshaw was too excited to listen.\n\n\"By Jove,\" he cried, \"the news'll be at the House by now! Come along,\nman, come along!\"\n\nAnd, as they went, they read the rest; for the paper had it all--even a\ncopy of that marriage certificate.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nAN ORATOR'S RIVAL.\n\n\nThe House was crowded, and every gallery full. Lady Eynesford and\nEleanor Scaife, attended by Captain Heseltine, occupied their appointed\nseats; the members of the Legislative Council overflowed from their\nproper pen and mingled with humbler folk in the public galleries;\nreporters wrote furiously, and an endless line of boys bearing their\nslips came and went. The great hour had arrived: the battle-field was\nreached at last. Sir Robert Perry sat and smiled; Puttock played with\nthe hair chain that wandered across his broad waistcoat; Coxon\nrestlessly bit his nails; Norburn's face was pale with excitement, and\nhe twisted his hands in his lap; the determined partisans cheered or\ngroaned; the waverers looked important and felt unhappy; all eyes were\nsteadily fixed on the Premier, and all ears intent on his words.\n\nFor the moment he had forgotten everything but the fight he was\nfighting. No thought of the wretched Benham, who lay dead, no thought of\nhis daughter, who watched him as he spoke, no thought of Alicia\nDerosne, who stayed away that she might not see him, crossed his brain\nnow, or turned his ideas from the task before him. It was no ordinary\nspeech, and no ordinary occasion. He spoke only to five men out of all\nhis audience--the rest were his, or were beyond the power of his charm;\non those five important-looking, unhappy-feeling men he bent every\neffort of his will, and played every device of his mind and his tongue.\nNow and then he distantly threatened them, oftener he made as though to\nconvince their cool judgment; again he would invoke the sentiment of old\nalliance in them, or stir their pity for the men whose cause he pleaded.\nOnce he flashed out in bitter mockery at Coxon, then jested in mild\nirony at Puttock and his \"rich man's revolution.\" Returning to his text,\nhe minutely dissected his own measure, insisting on its promise,\nextenuating its fancied danger, claiming for it the merits of a\ncourageous and well-conceived scheme. Through all the changes that he\nrang, he was heard with close attention, broken only by demonstrations\nof approval or of dissent. At last one of his periods extorted a cheer\nfrom a waverer. It acted on him as a spur to fresh exertions. He raised\nhis voice till it filled the chamber, and began his last and most\nelaborate appeal.\n\nSuddenly a change came over his hearers. The breathless silence of\nengrossed attention gave place to a subdued stir; whispers were heard\nhere and there. Men were handing a newspaper about, accompanying its\ntransfer with meaning looks. He was not surprised, for members made no\nscruple of reading their papers or writing their letters in the House,\nbut he was vexed to see that he had not gripped them closer. He went on,\nbut that ever-circulating paper had half his attention now. He noticed\nKilshaw come in with it and press it on Sir Robert's notice. Sir Robert\nat first refused, but when Kilshaw urged, he read and glanced up at him,\nso Medland thought, with a look of sadness. Coxon had got a paper now,\nand left biting his nails to pore over it; he passed it to Puttock, and\nthe fat man bulged his cheeks in seeming wonder. Even his waverer, the\none who had cheered, was deep in it. Only Norburn was unconscious of it.\nAnd, when they had read, they all looked at him again, not as they had\nlooked before, but, it seemed to him, with a curious wonder, half\nmocking, half pitying, as one looks at a man who does not know the thing\nthat touches him most nearly. He glanced up at the galleries: there too\nwas the ubiquitous sheet; the Chief Justice and the President of the\nLegislative Council were cheek by jowl over it, and it fell lightly from\nLady Eynesford's slim fingers, to be caught at eagerly by Eleanor\nScaife.\n\n\"What is it?\" he whispered impatiently to Norburn; but his absorbed\ndisciple only bewilderedly murmured \"What?\" and the Premier could not\npause to tell him.\n\nNow followed what Sir Robert maintained was the greatest feat of oratory\nhe had ever witnessed. Gathering his wandering wits together, Medland\nplunged again whole-heartedly into his speech, and slowly, gradually,\nalmost, it seemed, step by step and man by man, he won back the thoughts\nof his audience. He wrestled with that strange paper rival and overthrew\nit. Man after man dropped it; its course was stayed; it fell underfoot\nor fluttered idly down the gangways. The nods ceased, the whispers were\nhushed, the stir fell and rose no more. Once again he had them, and,\ninspired by that knowledge, the surest spur of eloquence, there rang\nfrom his lips the last burning words, the picture of the vision that\nruled his life, the hope for the days that he might not see.\n\n\"Believe!\" he cried, in passionate entreaty, \"believe, and your sons\nshall surely see!\"\n\nHe sank in his seat, and the last echo of his resonant voice died away.\nFirst came silence, and then a thunder of applause. Men stood up and\nwaved what they had in their hands, hats or handkerchiefs or papers;\nwomen sat with their eyes still on him, or, with a gasp, leant back and\nclosed their lids. He sat with his head sunk on his breast, till the\ntumult died away. No one rose. The Speaker looked round once and again.\nCould it be that no one----? Slowly he began to rise. The movement\ncaught Sir Robert's attention: he signed to Puttock, who sprang heavily\nto his feet. Puttock was no favourite as a speaker, and generally his\nrising was a signal for the House to thin. He began his speech with his\nstolid deliberation. Not a man stirred. They waited for something still.\n\n\"And now,\" whispered Medland to the Treasurer, who sat by him, \"let's\nsee what it was in that infernal paper.\"\n\nThe Treasurer handed him what he asked.\n\n\"You ought to see it,\" he whispered back.\n\nMr. Puttock's voice droned on, and his sheaf of notes rustled in his\nhand. No one looked at him or listened to him. Their eyes were still on\nMedland. The Premier read--it seemed so slowly--put the paper down, and\ngazed first up at the ceiling; then he glanced round, and found all the\nattentive eyes on him: he smiled--it was just a visible smile, no\nmore--and his head fell again on his breast, while his hand idly twisted\na button on his coat.\n\nThe show was over, or had never come, and the deferred rush to the doors\nbegan. They almost tumbled over one another now in their haste to reach\nwhere their tongues could play freely. Kilshaw and Perry, the Treasurer\nand the waverers, all slipped out, and Norburn, knowing nothing but\nsimply wearied of Puttock, followed them. Scarce twenty were left in the\nHouse, and the galleries had poured half their contents into the great\nroom which served for a lobby outside. There the talk ran swift and\neager. The very name of \"Benyon\" was enough for many, who remembered\nthat it had always been said to be the maiden name of Medland's wife.\nCould any one doubt who the other person in that strangely revealed\nphotograph was, or fail to guess the relation between the man they had\nbeen listening to and the man who was dead? A few had known Benyon, more\nGaspard, all Medland--the three figures of this drama; many remembered\nthe fourth, the central character, who had not tarried for the end of\nit: the man was rare who did not spend a thought on the bright girl,\nwhose face was so familiar in these walls, and who must be dragged into\nit. Where was she? asked one. She was gone. Norburn, with rapid\ninstinct, as soon as he had read, had run to her and forced her to go\nhome. He was back from escorting her now, and walked up and down with\nhands behind him, speaking to no one among all the busily babbling\nthrong.\n\nThe waverers stood in a little group by themselves, talking earnestly in\nundertones, while men wondered whether the paper would undo what the\nspeech had done, and whether the Premier's words had won a victory, only\nfor his deeds to leap to light and rob it from him again.\n\nInside, the debate lagged on, surely the dullest, emptiest, most\nneglected debate that had ever decided the fate of a Government. The men\nwho had been set down to speak came in and spoke and went out again; a\nHouse was kept, but with little to spare. Sir Robert went in and took\nhis place, opposite Medland, who never stirred through all the hours.\nPresently Sir Robert wrote a note, twisted it, and flung it to the\nPremier. \"A splendid performance of yours, _mes compliments_,\" it said,\nand, when Medland looked across to acknowledge it, Sir Robert smiled\nkindly, and nodded his silver head, and the Premier answered him with a\nglad gleam in his deep-set eyes. These two men, who were always\nfighting, knew one another, and liked one another for what they knew.\nAnd this little episode done, Sir Robert rose and pricked and pinked the\nPremier's points, making sharp fun of his heroics, and weightily\ncriticising his proposals. Now the House did fill a little, for after\nall the debate was important, and the hour of the division drew near;\nand when the question was put and the bell rang, nearly half the House\ntrooped out with virtuous air to join the other half, persistently\ngossiping in the lobby, and, with them, decide the fateful question.\n\nOne more strange thing was to happen at that sitting.\n\nIt was not strange that the Government were beaten by three votes, that\nonly one of those wavering men voted with his old party at last, but it\nwas strange that when this result was announced, and Medland's followers\nsettled sturdily in their seats to endure the celebration of the\ntriumph, the celebration did not come. There was hardly a cheer, and\nMedland himself, whom the result seemed hardly to have roused, woke with\na start to the unwonted silence. It struck to his heart: it seemed like\na tribute of respect to a dead enemy. But he rose and briefly said that\non the next day an announcement of the Government's intentions would be\nmade by himself--he paused here a moment--or one of his colleagues. He\nsat down again. The sitting was at an end, and the House adjourned.\nMembers began to go out, but, as the Premier rose, they drew back and\nleft a path for him down the middle of the House. As he went, one or two\nthrust out their hands to him, and one honest fellow shouted in his\nrough voice--he was a labouring-man member--\"You're not done yet,\nJimmy!\"\n\nThe shout touched him, he lifted his head, looked round with a smile,\nand, just raising again the hat he had put on as he neared the door,\ntook Norburn's arm and passed out of the House.\n\nWhen Sir Robert followed, he found the Chief Justice waiting for him,\nand they walked off together. For a long while neither spoke, but at\nlast Sir Robert said peevishly,\n\n\"I wish this confounded thing hadn't happened. It spoils our win.\"\n\nThe Chief Justice nodded, and whistled a bar or two of some sad ditty.\n\n\"I'm glad she's dead, poor soul, Perry,\" he said.\n\n\"There's the girl,\" said Sir Robert.\n\n\"Ay, there's the girl.\"\n\nThey did not speak again till they were just parting, when the Chief\nJustice broke out,\n\n\"Why the deuce couldn't the fellow take his beastly photograph with\nhim?\"\n\n\"It's very absurd,\" answered Sir Robert, \"but I feel just the same about\nit.\"\n\n\"I'm hanged if you're not a gentleman, Perry,\" said the Chief Justice,\nand he hastened away, blowing his nose.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nTHREE AGAINST THE WORLD.\n\n\nThough the House had risen early that evening, the Central Club sat very\nlate. The smoking-room was crowded, and tongues wagged briskly. Every\nman had a hare to hunt; no one lacked irrefragable arguments to prove\nwhat must happen; no one knew exactly what was going to happen. The\nelder men gathered round Puttock and Jewell, and listened to a\ndemonstration that the Premier's public life was at an end; the younger\nrallied Coxon, whose premature stateliness sometimes invited this\ntreatment, dubbing him \"Kingmaker Coxon,\" and hilariously repudiating\nthe idea that he did not enjoy the title. Captain Heseltine dropped in\nabout eleven; cross-questioning drew from him the news that\ncommunications had passed, informal communications, he insisted, from\nthe Governor to Sir Robert, as well as to the Premier.\n\n\"In fact,\" he said, \"poor old Flemyng's cutting up and down all over\nthe place. Glad it's his night on duty.\"\n\nPresently Mr. Flemyng himself appeared, clamorous for cigars and drink,\nbut mighty discreet and vexatiously reticent. Yes, he had taken a letter\nto Medland; yes, and another to Perry; no, he had no idea what the\nmissives were about. He believed Medland was to see the Governor\nto-morrow, but it was beyond him to conjecture the precise object of the\ninterview. Was it resignation or dissolution? Really, he knew no more\nthan that waiter--and so forth; very likely his ignorance was real, but\nhe diffused an atmosphere of suppressed knowledge which whetted the\ncuriosity of his audience to the sharpest edge.\n\nA messenger entered and delivered a note to Puttock and another to\nCoxon. The two compared their notes for a moment, and went out together.\nThe arguments rose furiously again, some maintaining that Medland must\ndisappear altogether, others vehemently denying it, a third party\npreferring to await the disclosures at the inquest before committing\nthemselves to an opinion. An hour passed; the noise in the streets began\nto abate, and the clock of the Roman Catholic cathedral hard by struck\ntwelve. Captain Heseltine yawned, stretched, and rose to his feet.\n\n\"Come along, Flemyng,\" he said. \"The show's over for to-night.\"\n\nHe seemed to express the general feeling, but men were reluctant to\nacknowledge so disappointing a conclusion, and the preparations for\ndeparture were slow and lingering. They had not fairly begun before Mr.\nKilshaw's entrance abruptly checked them. Instantly he became the centre\nof a crowd.\n\n\"Now, Kilshaw,\" they cried, \"you know all about it. Oh, come now! Of\ncourse you do! Secret? Nonsense! Out with it!\" and one or two of his\nintimates added imploringly, \"Don't be an ass, Kilshaw.\"\n\nKilshaw flung himself into a chair.\n\n\"They resign,\" he said.\n\n\"At once?\"\n\n\"Yes. Perry's to be sent for. Medland, I'm told, insists on going. For\nmy own part, I think he's right.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said somebody sapiently, \"he doesn't want to dissolve with\nthis affair hanging over him.\"\n\n\"It comes to the same thing,\" observed Kilshaw. \"Perry will dissolve;\nthe Governor has promised to do it, if he likes.\"\n\n\"Perry dissolve!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" nodded Kilshaw. \"You see--\" He paused and added, \"Our present\nposition isn't very independent.\"\n\nEverybody understood what he hinted. Sir Robert did not care to depend\non the will of Coxon and his seceders.\n\n\"And what about Coxon and Puttock?\" was the next question.\n\n\"Haven't I been indiscreet enough?\"\n\n\"Well, what are you going to do yourself?\"\n\n\"My duty,\" answered Mr. Kilshaw, with a smile, and the throng, failing\nto extract any more from him, did at last set about the task of getting\nhome to bed in good earnest.\n\nThey could rest sooner than the man who occupied so much of their\ninterest. It had been a busy evening for the defeated Minister; he had\ncolleagues to see, letters to write, messages to send, conferences to\nhold. No doubt there was much to do, and yet Norburn, who watched him\nclosely, doubted whether he did not make work for himself, perhaps as a\nmeans of distraction, perhaps as a device for postponing an interview\nwith his daughter. He had seen her for a minute when he came in, and\ntold her he would tell her all there was to tell some time that night;\nbut the moment for it was slow in coming. Norburn had been struck with\nDaisy's composure. She had seen the _Evening Mail_, and, without\nattempting to discuss the matter with him, she expressed her conviction\nthat there could be nothing distressing behind the mysterious paragraph.\nNorburn did not know what to say to her. He felt that in a case of this\nsort a girl's mind was a closed book to him. He had himself, on the way\nback from the House, heard a brief account of the whole matter from the\nPremier's lips; it seemed to him, in the light of his ideas and\ntheories, a matter of very little moment. He was of course aware how\nwidely the judgment of many would differ from his, and when his mind was\ndirected to the political aspect of the situation, he acknowledged the\ngravity of the disclosure. But honestly he could not pretend to think it\na thing which should alter or lessen the esteem or love in which\nMedland's friends held him. And even if the original act were seriously\nworthy of blame, the lapse of years made present severity as\nunreasonable as it would be unkind. In vain Medland reminded him that,\nlet the act be as old and long past as it would, the consequences\nremained.\n\n\"What!\" Norburn cried, \"would any one think the worse of Daisy? The more\nfools they!\" and he laughed cheerfully, adding, \"I only wish she'd let\nme show her I think none the worse of her. Why, it's preposterous, sir!\"\n\n\"Preposterous or not,\" answered Medland, \"half the people in the place\nwill let her know the difference. I may agree with you--God knows how I\nshould like to be able to!--but there's no blinking the fact. Well, I\nmust tell her.\"\n\nHe recollected telling the same story to the other woman he loved, and\nhe shrank in sudden dread, lest his daughter should say what Alicia had\nsaid, \"To me it is--horrible!\" The words echoed in his brain. \"Ah, I\ncan't speak of it,\" she had cried, and the gesture of her hand as she\nrepelled him lived before his eyes again. Surely Daisy would not do that\nto him!\n\n\"I should be like Lear--without a grievance,\" he said to himself, with\na wry smile. \"The very height of tragedy!\"\n\nIt was near midnight before he put away his work. Norburn had left him\nalone two hours before, and he rose now, laid down his pipe, and went to\nlook for his daughter in her little sitting-room. His heart was very\nheavy; he must make her understand now why a man who made love to her\nshould be hastily sent away by his friends, what her father had\ncondemned her to, what manner of man he was; he must seem to destroy or\nimpair the perfect sweetness of memory wherein she held her mother.\n\nHe opened the door softly. She was sitting in a large armchair, over a\nlittle bit of bright fire; save for gleams suddenly coming and going, as\na coal blazed and died down again, the room was in darkness. He walked\nup to her and knelt by the chair, his head almost on a level with hers.\n\n\"Well, Daisy, what are you doing?\"\n\nShe put out a hand and laid it on his with a gentle pressure.\n\n\"I'm thinking,\" she said. \"Do you want a light?\"\n\n\"No, I like it dark best--best for what I have to say.\"\n\nSuddenly she threw her arms round his neck, drawing him to her and\nkissing his face.\n\n\"I'd do the same if you'd killed him yourself,\" she whispered in the\nextravagance of her love, and kissed him again.\n\n\"But, Daisy, you don't know.\"\n\n\"Yes, I do. He told me. He's been here.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Jack Norburn. He said you would hate telling me, so he did. You mustn't\nmind, dear, you mustn't mind. Oh, you didn't think it would make any\ndifference to me, dear, did you? What do I care? Mrs. Puttock may care,\nand Lady Eynesford, and all the rest, but what do I care if I have you\nand him?\"\n\n\"Me and him, Daisy?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered, smiling boldly. \"He's asked me to marry him--just\nto show he didn't mind--and I think I will, father. We three against the\nworld! What need we care? Father, we'll beat Sir Robert!\" and she seized\nhis two hands and laughed.\n\nIn vain Medland tried to tell her what he had come to say. Mighty as his\nrelief and joy were, he still felt a burden lay on him. She would not\nhear.\n\n\"Don't you see I'm happy?\" she cried. \"It can't be your duty to make me\nunhappy. Jack doesn't mind, I don't mind!\" Her voice sank a little and\nshe added, \"It can't hurt mother now. Oh, don't be unhappy about it,\ndear--don't, don't!\"\n\nThey were standing now, and his arm was about her. Looking up at him,\nshe went on,\n\n\"They shan't beat us! They shan't say they beat us. We three, father!\"\n\nHe stooped and kissed her. There is love that lies beyond the realm of\ngiving or taking, of harm or good, of wrong, or even of forgiveness.\nWith all his faults, this love he had won from his daughter, and it\nstood him in stead that night. He drew himself up to his height, and the\nair of despondency fell from him. The girl's brave love braced him to\nmeet the world again.\n\n\"No, by Jove, we're not beat yet, Daisy!\" he said, and she kissed him\nagain and laughed softly as she made him sit, and herself sat upon his\nknee.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nTHE TRUTH TOO LATE.\n\n\nBy four o'clock the next afternoon the Club had gathered ample materials\nfor fresh gossip. The formalities attendant on the change of government,\nthe composition of the new Cabinet, the prospects of the election--these\nalone would have supplied many hours, and besides them, indeed\nsupplanting them temporarily by virtue of an intenser interest, there\nwas the account of the inquest on Benyon's body. Medland had gone to it,\nalmost direct from his final interview with the Governor, and Kilshaw\nhad been there, fresh from a conference with Perry. The inquiry had\nended, as was foreseen directly Ned Evans' evidence was forthcoming, in\na verdict of murder against Gaspard; but the interest lay in the course\nof the investigation, not in its issue. Mr. Duncombe, a famous comedian,\nwho was then on tour in New Lindsey and had been made an honorary member\nof the Club, smacked his lips over the dramatic moment when the\nex-Premier, calmly and in a clear voice, had identified the person in\nthe photograph, declared the deceased man to have been Benyon, and very\nbriefly stated how he had been connected with him in old days.\n\n\"The lady,\" he said, \"is Mrs. Benyon. The other figure is that of\nmyself. I had not seen the deceased for many years.\"\n\n\"You were not on terms with him?\" asked the coroner, who, in common with\nhalf the listeners, had known the lady as Mrs. Medland.\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Medland; \"I lost sight of him.\"\n\n\"You did not hear from--from any one about him?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHe gave the dates when he had last seen Benyon in old days. Asked\nwhether he had communicated with him between that date and the dead\nman's reappearance, he answered,\n\n\"Once, about four years ago. I wrote to tell him of that lady's death,\"\nand he pointed again to the picture, and went on to tell the details of\nBenyon's subsequent application to him for a post under Government.\n\n\"You refused it?\" he was asked.\n\n\"Yes, I refused it. I spoke to him once again, when we met on a social\noccasion. We had a sort of dispute then. I never saw him again to speak\nto.\"\n\n\"It was all done,\" said Mr. Duncombe, describing the scene, \"in a\nrepressed way that was very effective--to a house that knew the\ncircumstances most effective. And the other fellow--Kilshaw--he gave\nsome sport too. The coroner (they told me he was one of Medland's men,\nand I noticed he spared Medland all he could) was inclined to be a bit\ndown on Kilshaw. Kilshaw was cool and handy in his answers, but, Lord\nlove you! his game came out pretty plain. A monkey! You don't give a man\na monkey unless there's value received! So people saw, and Mr. Kilshaw\nlooked a bit uncomfortable when he caught Medland's eye. He looked at\nhim like that,\" and Mr. Duncombe assumed the finest wronged-hero glance\nin his repertory.\n\n\"Oh, come, old chap, I bet he didn't,\" observed Captain Heseltine.\n\"We've seen him, you know.\"\n\nDuncombe laughed good-humouredly.\n\n\"At any rate he made Kilshaw look a little green, and some of the people\nbehind called out 'Shame!' and got themselves sat upon. Then they had\nMedland up again and twisted him a bit about his acquaintance with\nGaspard; but the coroner didn't seem to think there was anything in it,\nand they found murder against Gaspard, and rang down the curtain. And\nwhen we got outside there was a bit of a rumpus. They hooted Kilshaw and\ncheered Medland, and yelled like mad when a dashed pretty girl drove up\nin a pony-cart and carried him off. Altogether it wasn't half bad.\"\n\n\"Glad you enjoyed yourself,\" observed Captain Heseltine. \"If it amuses\nstrangers to see our leading celebrities mixed up in a murder and other\ndistressing affairs, it's the least we can do to see that they get it.\"\n\nThe Captain's facetiousness fell on unappreciative ears. Most of Mr.\nDuncombe's audience were too alive to the serious side of the matter to\nenjoy it. To them it was another and a very striking scene in the fight\nwhich had long gone on between Medland and Kilshaw, and had taken a\nfresh and fiercer impetus from the well-remembered day when Medland had\nspoken his words about Kilshaw and his race-horses. Nobody doubted that\nKilshaw had kept this man Benyon, or Benham, as a secret weapon, and\nthat the murder had only made the disclosure come earlier. Kilshaw's\nreputation suffered somewhat in the minds of the scrupulous, but his\npartisans would hear of no condemnation. They said, as he had said, that\nin dealing with a man like Medland it would have been folly not to use\nthe weapons fate, or the foe himself by his own misdeeds, offered. As\nfor the disapprobation of the Kirton mob, they held that in high scorn.\n\n\"They'd cheer burglary, if Medland did it,\" said one.\n\n\"Well, he wants to, pretty nearly,\" added a capitalist.\n\n\"But the country will take a very different view. Puttock'll rub it into\nall his people: _they_'ll not vote for him. What do you say, Coxon?\"\n\n\"I think we shall beat him badly,\" said that gentleman, as he rose and\nwent out.\n\nCaptain Heseltine soon followed, and was surprised to see Coxon's figure\njust ahead of him as he entered the gates of Government House.\n\n\"Hang the fellow! What does he want here?\" asked the Captain.\n\nMr. Coxon asked for Lady Eynesford. When he entered, she rose with a\nnewspaper in her hand.\n\n\"What a shocking, shameful thing this is!\" she said. \"What a blessing it\nis that the Government was beaten!\"\n\nCoxon acquiesced in both these opinions.\n\n\"I never thought well of him,\" continued the lady. \"Now everybody sees\nhim in his true colours. And it's you we have chiefly to thank for our\ndeliverance.\"\n\nCoxon murmured a modest depreciation of his services, and said,\n\n\"I hope Miss Derosne is well?\"\n\nSomething in his tones brought to his hostess one of those swift fits of\nrepentance that were apt to wait for her whenever she allowed herself to\ntreat this visitor with friendliness. He was so very prompt in\nresponding!\n\n\"She is not very well,\" she answered, rather coldly.\n\n\"I--I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing her?\"\n\nMr. Coxon's wishes were fulfilled to the moment. The door opened and\nAlicia came in. On seeing him she stopped.\n\n\"Come in, Alicia,\" said Lady Eynesford. \"Here's Mr. Coxon come to be\ncongratulated.\"\n\nCoxon stood up with a propitiatory smile.\n\n\"How do you do, Mr. Coxon?\" said Alicia, giving him a limp hand. \"Shall\nI ring for tea, Mary?\"\n\n\"They'll bring it. You haven't wished him joy.\"\n\n\"Oh, are you in the new Ministry?\"\n\n\"I have that honour, Miss Derosne. I hope you are on our side?\"\n\n\"I don't quite know which side you are on--now,\" observed Alicia, in\nslow but distinct tones.\n\nCoxon grew red.\n\n\"I--I have joined Sir Robert Perry's Ministry,\" he answered.\n\n\"Of course he has, Alicia,\" interposed Lady Eynesford hastily.\n\nAlicia seated herself on the sofa, remarking as she did so,\n\n\"Well, you do change a good deal, don't you?\"\n\n\"Really, Miss Derosne,\" he stammered, \"I don't understand you.\"\n\n\"Oh, I only mean that you were first with Sir Robert, then with Mr.\nMedland, and now with Sir Robert again! And presently with Mr. Medland\nagain, I suppose?\"\n\n\"She doesn't appreciate the political reasons,\" began Lady Eynesford,\nwith troubled brow and smiling lips; but Coxon, frowning angrily, broke\nin,\n\n\"Not the last, I promise you, anyhow, Miss Derosne.\"\n\n\"What, you think he's finally beaten then?\"\n\n\"That's not the question. Beaten or not, he is discredited, and no\nrespectable man would act with him.\"\n\n\"We needn't discuss--\" began Lady Eynesford again, but this time Alicia\nwas the interrupter. She spoke in a cold, hard way, very unlike her own.\n\n\"If he won, you would all be at his feet.\"\n\nCoxon was justified in being angry at her almost savage scorn of him;\nregardless of anything except his wrong, he struck back the sharpest\nblow he could.\n\n\"I know some people are very ready to be at his feet,\" he said, with a\nsneering smile.\n\nHis shaft hit the mark. Alicia flushed and sat speechless. A glance at\nLady Eynesford's face told him the scene had lasted too long: he rose\nand took his leave, paying Alicia the homage of a bow, but not seeking\nher hand. She took no notice of his salute, and Lady Eynesford only\ngasped \"Good-bye.\"\n\nThe two sat silent for some moments after he had gone; then Lady\nEynesford remarked,\n\n\"Were you mad, Alicia? See what you laid yourself open to! Oh, of course\na gentleman wouldn't have said it, but you yourself didn't treat him as\nif he was a gentleman. Really, I can make a great deal of allowance for\nhim. Your manner was inexcusable.\"\n\nAlicia did not attempt to defend herself.\n\n\"You are out of temper,\" continued her sister-in-law, \"and you choose to\nhit the first person within reach; if you can do that you care nothing\nfor my dignity or your own self-respect. You parade your--your interest\nin this man----\"\n\n\"I shall never speak to him again.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to hear it, and, if you come into my drawing-room, I will\nthank you to behave yourself properly and be civil to my guests,\" and\nLady Eynesford walked out of the room.\n\nAlicia huddled herself in a heap on the sofa, turning her face to the\nwall. She felt Lady Eynesford's scornful rebuke like the stroke of a\nwhip. She had descended to a vulgar wrangle, and had been worsted in it:\nthe one thing of all which it concerned her to hide had by her own act\nbeen opened to the jeer of a stranger; she had violated every rule of\ngood breeding and self-respect. No words--not even Lady\nEynesford's--were too strong to describe what she had done. Yet she\ncould not help it; she could not hear a creature like that abuse or\ncondemn a man like Medland--though all that he had said she had said,\nand more, to Medland himself. She was too miserable to think; she lay\nwith closed eyes and parted lips, breathing quickly, and restlessly\nmoving her limbs in that strange physical discomfort which great\nunhappiness brings with it.\n\nA footstep roused her; she sat up, hurriedly smoothing her hair and\nclutching at a book that lay on the table by her. The intruder was her\nbrother, and fortunately he was too intent on the tidings he brought to\nnotice her confusion.\n\n\"Great news, Al!\" he cried. \"They've offered me Ireland. We shall start\nhome in a month.\"\n\n\"Home in a month?\" she echoed.\n\n\"Yes. Splendid, isn't it?\"\n\n\"You're pleased, Willie?\"\n\nThe Governor was very pleased. He liked the promotion, he liked going\nhome; and finally, pleasant as his stay in New Lindsey had been on the\nwhole, there were features in the present position which made him not\nsorry to depart.\n\n\"I shall just see the elections through, and Perry well started--at\nleast, I suppose it'll be Perry--and then we'll be off. Shan't you be\nglad to see the old home again, Al?\"\n\n\"It's so sudden,\" she said. \"I shall be sorry to leave here.\"\n\n\"Oh, so shall I--very sorry to leave some of the people too. Still, it's\na good thing. Where's Eleanor? I must tell her. I say, Dick gets here\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm so glad.\"\n\nThe Governor hurried out again, and Alicia returned to the sofa. The\nknot of her troubles had been rudely cut. Perhaps this summary ending\nwas best. She herself would not, she knew, have had the strength to tear\nherself away from that place, but if fate tore her--perhaps well and\ngood. Nothing but unhappiness waited there for her; it seemed to her\nthat nothing but unhappiness waited anywhere now; but at least, over at\nhome, she would not have to fear the discovery of her secret, the secret\nshe herself kept so badly, nor to endure the torture of gossip, hints,\nand clumsy pity. No one, over at home, would think of Medland; they\nmight just know his name, might perhaps have heard him rumoured for a\ndangerous man and a vexatious opponent of good Sir Robert. Certainly\nthey would never think of him as the cause of bruising of heart to a\nyoung lady in fashionable society. So he would pass out of her life; she\nwould leave him to his busy, strenuous, happy-unhappy life, so full of\ntriumphs and defeats, of ups and downs, of the love of many and the hate\nof many. Perhaps she, like the rest, would read his name in the _Times_\nnow and then, unless indeed he were utterly vanquished. No, he was not\nfinally beaten. Of that she was sure. His name would be read often in\ncold print, but the glow of the life he lived would be henceforth\nunknown to her. She would go back to the old world and the old circle of\nit. What would happen after that she was too listless to think. It was\nsummed up in negations; and these again melted into one great want, the\nabsence of the man to whom her imagination and her heart blindly and\nobstinately clung.\n\nLady Eynesford had left her newspaper, and Alicia found her hand upon\nit. Taking it up, she read Medland's evidence at the inquest. A sudden\nrevulsion of feeling seized her. Was this the man she was dreaming\nabout, a man who calmly, coolly, as though caring nothing, told that\nstory in the face of all the world? Was she never to get rid of the\nspell he had cast on her before she knew what he really was? For a man\nlike this she had sacrificed her self-respect, bandied insults with a\nvulgar upstart, and brought on her head a reproach more fitting for an\nill-mannered child. She threw the paper from her and rose to her feet.\nShe would think no more of him; he might be what he would; he was no fit\nsubject for her thoughts, and he and the place where he lived and all\nthis wretched country deserved nothing better than to be forgotten,\nresolutely, utterly, soon.\n\n\"I am very sorry, Mary,\" she was saying, ten minutes later; \"I deserved\nall you said. I don't know what foolishness possessed me. See, I have\nwritten and apologised to Mr. Coxon.\"\n\nAnd Lady Eynesford kissed her and thanked heaven that they would soon\nhave done with Mr. Coxon and--all the rest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nTHE UNCLEAN THING.\n\n\nA few days later, Mr. Dick Derosne was walking in the Park at noon. He\nhad been down to the Club and found no one there. Everybody except\nhimself was at work: the politicians were scattered all over the colony,\nconducting their election campaign. Medland himself had gone to his\nconstituency: his seat was very unsafe there, and he was determined to\nkeep it if he could, although, as a precaution, he was also a candidate\nfor the North-east ward of Kirton, where his success was beyond doubt.\nHis friends and his foes had followed him out of town, and the few who\nwere left were busy in the capital itself. Such men as these when at the\nClub would talk of nothing but the crisis, and, after he had heard all\nthere was to hear about the Benyon affair, the crisis began to bore\nDick. After all, it mattered very little to him; he would be out of it\nall in a month, and the Medlands were not, when he came to think of it,\npeople of great importance. Why, the Grangers had never heard of them!\nDecidedly, he had had enough and to spare of the Medlands.\n\nNevertheless, he was to have a little more of them, for at this instant\nhe saw Daisy Medland approaching him. Escape was impossible, and Dick\nhad the grace to shrink from appearing to avoid her.\n\n\"The deuce!\" he thought, \"this is awkward. I hope she won't--\" He raised\nhis hat with elaborate politeness.\n\nDaisy stopped and greeted him with much effusion and without any\nembarrassment. Dick thought that odd.\n\n\"I was afraid,\" she said, \"we were not going to see you again before you\ndisappeared finally with the Governor.\"\n\n\"Oh, I came back just to settle things up. I hope you are all right,\nMiss Medland?\"\n\n\"Yes, thank you. Did you have a pleasant trip?\"\n\n\"Yes, very,\" he answered, wondering if she knew of his engagement.\n\n\"We missed you very much,\" she went on.\n\n\"Awfully kind of you to say so.\"\n\n\"You started so suddenly.\"\n\n\"Oh, well--yes, I suppose I did. It just struck me I ought to see\nAustralia.\"\n\n\"How funny!\" she exclaimed, with a little laugh.\n\n\"Why funny?\" asked Dick, rather stiffly.\n\n\"I mean that it should strike you just like that. However, it was very\nlucky, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"You mean I----\"\n\n\"Yes, I mean you--\" said Daisy, who had no intention of saving Dick from\nany floundering that might befall him. Mercy is all very well, but give\nus justice sometimes.\n\n\"You heard of my--my engagement?\"\n\n\"I saw it in the papers. A Miss Granger, isn't it?\"\n\n\"_A_ Miss Granger!\" thought Dick. Everybody knew the Grangers.\n\n\"I'm sure I congratulate you. You lost no time, Mr. Derosne.\"\n\nDick stammered that it was an old acquaintance renewed.\n\n\"Oh, then you've been in love with her a long while?\" asked Daisy, with\na curiosity apparently very innocent.\n\n\"Not exactly that.\"\n\n\"Then you did fall in love very quickly?\"\n\n\"Well, I suppose I did,\" admitted Dick, as if he were rather ashamed of\nhimself.\n\n\"Oh, I mustn't blame you,\" said Daisy, with a pensive sigh.\n\nDick, on the look-out for a hint of suppressed suffering, saw what he\nlooked for. She was taking it very well, and it was his duty to say\nsomething nice. Moreover, Daisy Medland was looking extremely pretty,\nand that fact alone, in Dick's view, justified and indeed necessitated\nthe saying of something nice. Violet Granger was leagues away, and a\ntouch of romance could not disquiet or hurt her.\n\n\"Indeed I am anxious to hear that you don't,\" he said, accompanying his\nremark with a glance of pathetic anxiety.\n\n\"Why should I?\" she asked.\n\nThis simple question placed Dick in a difficulty, and he was glad when\nshe went on without waiting for an answer.\n\n\"Indeed I should have no right to. Love is sudden and--and beyond our\ncontrol, isn't it?\"\n\n\"And yet,\" said Dick, \"a man is bound to consider so many things.\"\n\n\"I was thinking of a girl's love. She just gives it and thinks of\nnothing. Doesn't she?\" and she looked at him with an appeal to his\nexperience in her eyes.\n\n\"Does she?\" said Dick, who began to feel uncomfortable.\n\n\"And when she has once given it, she never changes.\"\n\nIf this last remark were a generalisation, it was certainly an audacious\none, but Dick was thinking only of a personal application. Daisy's\nwords, as he understood their meaning, were working on the better nature\nwhich lay below his frivolity. He began to suffer genuine shame and\nremorse at the idea that he had caused suffering--lasting pain--to this\npoor unsophisticated child who had loved him so readily. Moved by this\nhonourable, if tardy, compunction, he ejaculated,\n\n\"Oh, don't say that, Miss Medland. I never thought--I--I mean, surely\nyou don't mean--?\" And then he came to a dead stop for a moment; only to\nstart abruptly again the next, with--\"It would spoil my happiness, if I\nthought--you don't really mean it, do you? I don't know how I should ask\nyou to forgive me, if you do.\"\n\nDaisy's plot (which it is not sought to justify) had been crowned with\nsuccess. A mischievous smile replaced her innocent expression.\n\n\"What do you mean, Mr. Derosne? Forgive you? I was speaking of my own\nfeelings.\"\n\n\"Yes, so--so I understood, and I wanted to say that I hoped you wouldn't\nthink I had been inconsid----\"\n\n\"What does it matter to me, how long or how short your wooing is? They\nsay lovers are self-centred, but really I think you're the worst I ever\nmet. I must confess I wasn't thinking of you, Mr. Derosne.\"\n\n\"What?\" exclaimed Dick.\n\n\"Is it possible you haven't heard of my engagement?\" she asked in the\nsweetest tone.\n\n\"Your----\"\n\n\"Yes--to Mr. Norburn,\" and she watched the effect with obvious pleasure.\n\nDick pulled himself together. She had made a fool of him; that was\npretty clear now it was too late to help it.\n\n\"I hadn't heard. I congratulate you,\" he said, stiffly and awkwardly.\n\n\"Thanks. Of course that was what I meant when I said my feelings could\nnever change. How odd you must have thought it of me, if you didn't\nknow!\"\n\n\"Well, I--I didn't quite understand.\"\n\n\"You seemed puzzled and I couldn't understand why. We were both thinking\nof ourselves too much, I suppose!\"\n\n\"May I ask if you have been engaged long?\"\n\n\"Oh, not actually engaged very long, but, like yours, it's been an old\nacquaintance, and--if you won't betray me--perhaps a little more for\never so long.\"\n\nDick was not quite sure whether he believed the lady or not. He ought to\nhave wished to believe her; as a fact, he was extremely reluctant to do\nso, but Daisy's look was so candid and at the same time so naturally\nshy, in making her little avowal, that he was almost convinced that the\nsemi-tragedy of their parting scene a few weeks before had been all\nacting on her side. Alicia could have undeceived him, but, for reasons\ntolerably obvious, Dick did not rehearse this interview to Alicia or to\nany one else.\n\n\"Ah! here comes Mr. Norburn!\" cried Daisy, rosy with delight. \"You must\ncongratulate one another.\"\n\nThis very hollow ceremony was duly performed, and Dick left the lovers\ntogether. In fact he may be said to have made his exit in a somewhat\nshamefaced manner. Fortune put him at a disadvantage in that his partner\nwas far away, while Daisy stood triumphant by the side of hers and\nwatched him.\n\n\"Upon my honour,\" he exclaimed, hitting viciously at a flower, \"I\nbelieve she was humbugging me all the time!\" And from that day to this\nhe thinks Miss Medland a flirt, and is very glad, for that among other\nweighty reasons, that he had nothing more to do with her.\n\nHer behaviour towards Dick Derosne was fairly typical of Daisy Medland's\nattitude towards the world at large at this time. She made the mistake,\nnatural enough, of being defiant, of emphasising outwardly an\nindifference that she did not feel, of anticipating slights and being\nready to resent slurs which were never intended or inflicted. There are\nso many people in the world who want only an excuse for being kind, but\nyet do want that, and who are ready to give much, but must be asked.\nThere were many among the upper circles of Kirton society who would have\nbeen ready enough to act a friendly part, to overlook much, to play\nprotector to the girl, and do a favour to a man who had been and might\nagain be powerful; but they too needed to be asked--not of course in\nwords, but by a hint of gratitude waiting for them, a touch of\ndeference, some kind of appeal from the loneliness and desolation of a\ndoubtful position to the comfortable regions of unaspersed\nrespectability. They could not help feeling that Daisy, though by no\nfault of hers, was yet one who should ask and accept as favours what\namong equals are no more than courtesies. The knowledge of this point of\nview drove Daisy into strong revolt against it: she was more, not less,\noffhand than of yore; more, not less, ready to ignore people with whom\nshe was not in sympathy; more, not less, unscrupulous in outraging the\nsmall conventions of society. And, unfortunately, Norburn was a man to\nencourage instead of discouraging her in this course, for conventions\nand respectability had always been a red rag to him. In the result the\nisolation of the Medland household from most of the families of their\nown level in the town, and from all of a higher, if there were any such,\ngrew from day to day, until it seemed that Daisy's \"We three against the\nworld!\" was to come true so far as the world meant the social circle of\ntheir neighbours. Medland himself was too engrossed with larger matters\nto note the progress of this outlawry: when he did for a moment turn his\nthoughts from the campaign he was engrossed with, there was only one\nface in Kirton society whose countenance or aversion troubled him: and\nthat one was sternly and irrevocably turned away.\n\nThus Daisy, though she might be cheered in the streets, and though she\nbore herself with exuberant gaiety out of doors, passed lonely evenings,\nespecially when Norburn left her to help in the country elections. The\nChief Justice had been to see her once, and Lady Perry had left a card,\nbut she was almost always alone, and then the exuberant gaiety would\nevaporate. One evening about half-past nine, she was sitting alone,\nwishing her father or her lover would come back to her, when there was a\nknock at the door. Alicia Derosne came in, with a hasty, almost furtive,\nstep.\n\n\"You are alone, aren't you? I saw Mr. Medland was away.\"\n\n\"Yes, I am alone,\" said Daisy, doubtful whether to put on her armour or\nnot.\n\n\"Oh, Daisy, I've never been able to come and wish you joy yet. I\nwouldn't do it by letter. I'm so glad. You are happy, aren't you?\" and\nshe took Daisy's two hands and kissed her.\n\n\"Yes, I am very happy. It's sweet of you to come. How did you manage\nit?\"\n\nNeither cared to pretend that Lady Eynesford would approve of such a\nvisit.\n\n\"Oh, I slipped out,\" said Alicia, nestling beside her friend. \"Poor\nchild! What things you have been through! Still--you have Mr. Norburn.\"\n\n\"Yes; with him and father I really don't mind.\" She paused, and then\nthere slipped out, in lower tone, a tell-tale \"Much.\"\n\nAlicia answered it with a caress.\n\n\"How brave you are!\" she said. \"Does--does he mind?\"\n\n\"Mr. Norburn?\"\n\n\"I meant your father.\"\n\n\"He has no time to mind now. We are fighting,\" said Daisy.\n\n\"Ah, a man can fight, can't he?\"\n\n\"Oh, but so can a girl. I'm fighting too.\"\n\n\"I've no one to fight for.\"\n\nDaisy turned quickly towards her: there were tears in her eyes. Surely\nshe was a sorry comforter: perhaps she had come as much seeking as to\nbring comfort.\n\n\"You don't look very happy,\" remarked Daisy.\n\n\"Don't talk about me, Daisy. It will never make the least difference\nbetween you and me. I wanted to tell you. You know we are going? You\nmust write to me, dear, and some day you and Mr. Norburn must come to\nEngland and stay with me, when I have my own house. Promise now! I--I\ndon't want to lose you quite.\"\n\n\"Of course I will write, but you won't care for our news when you are\ngone.\"\n\n\"Indeed I shall care to hear of you and Mr. Norburn, and--of your father\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Will you really? Oh, then I shall have lots to say. Father always gives\none lots to say about him,\" said Daisy proudly.\n\n\"Tell him he mustn't despair.\"\n\n\"From you?\"\n\n\"No, no. From you.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course I tell him that.\"\n\n\"I--I mustn't send him any message.\"\n\n\"You're not against him too, are you, Alicia?\"\n\n\"I'm not much against him,\" whispered Alicia. \"And, if any one says I\nam, Daisy, don't believe it of me. I must go, dear. I shall be missed. I\nshall come again.\"\n\n\"Do,\" said Daisy. \"I'm just a little lonely now,\" and she nearly broke\ndown, as Alicia took her in her arms.\n\nThus they stood when Medland, suddenly returned on an urgent matter,\nopened the door, and, standing, looked at them for a moment. Alicia\nseemed to feel his presence; with a start she looked up. He crossed the\nroom, holding out his hand.\n\n\"It is like you,\" he said simply.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"I--I did not know you were here.\"\n\n\"I am not supposed to be,\" he answered, kissing his daughter.\n\nAlicia hastily said good-bye, Medland not trying to detain her. But he\nsigned to Daisy to stay in the room and escorted Alicia down-stairs.\n\nAt the hall door he kept her, laying his hand on the door.\n\n\"Yes, that was very kind. Poor child! She wants friends.\"\n\n\"I can do very little--I----\"\n\n\"Yes, I know. And you are going?\"\n\n\"Yes, in three weeks.\"\n\nHe was silent for a moment: then he looked in her eyes.\n\n\"You know the worst now,\" he said in a low voice.\n\n\"Yes,\" she murmured, trying to escape his gaze.\n\n\"And you still say what you said before?\"\n\n\"I--I say nothing. I must go.\"\n\n\"Very likely we shall never speak alone again as long as we\nlive--perhaps never at all.\"\n\n\"Isn't it best?\" she murmured.\n\n\"Best!\" he echoed. \"You are happy in it then?\"\n\n\"I happy! Ah!\"\n\nHe could not miss the meaning of her tone.\n\n\"Most people,\" he said, \"would call me a criminal for what I am going to\nsay--and you a fool if you listen. Alicia, will you face it all and come\nto me?\" and he drew nearer to her. \"I know what I ask--but I know too\nwhat I have to give.\"\n\n\"Let me go,\" she gasped, as though his hand were on her.\n\n\"Can you do it?\" he asked. \"I needn't tell you to think what it means.\"\n\n\"I don't mind that,\" she broke out suddenly. \"Don't think it's that. I\nwould face all that if--if I could----\"\n\n\"Trust me?\"\n\nShe bowed her head.\n\n\"You can never trust me again?\"\n\n\"Why make me say it?\"\n\n\"But it is so?\"\n\nAgain she bowed her head.\n\n\"It is still--horrible?\"\n\nHe drew back and opened the door, letting in the cool night air.\n\n\"Good-bye,\" he said. \"It's your last word?\"\n\nShe seemed to sway towards him and away again.\n\n\"I shan't ask again,\" he went on, still in that calm, low voice. \"I\nshall accept what you say now. You think me--unclean?\"\n\nHer silence was answer as she stepped out into the path.\n\n\"For the last time!\"\n\n\"I can't,\" she said, with a sob. \"You--you know why.\"\n\n\"And yet, if you loved me!\"\n\n\"Loved you!\" she cried. \"But no, no, no!\" and she turned and disappeared\nin the gloom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nTHE DECISION OF THE ORACLE.\n\n\n\"I see from Tomes,\" observed Eleanor Scaife to the Chief Justice, as he\nhanded her a cup of tea, \"that all the elections are on the same day in\nNew Lindsey.\"\n\n\"They are,\" he answered. \"A good thing, don't you think?\"\n\n\"But if a man wants to vote in two places?\"\n\n\"Then it's kind to prevent him, because if he does it he's sent to\nprison.\"\n\n\"Oh! And when do the results appear?\"\n\n\"Here at Kirton? Oh, any time between nine and midnight, or an hour\nlater. One or two are left over as a rule. They're published at the\nTown-hall, and it's generally rather a lively scene.\"\n\n\"And how is it going to go?\"\n\nThe Chief Justice lowered his voice.\n\n\"Medland will be beaten. He can't believe it and his friends won't, but\nhe'll be beaten badly all over the country, except here in Kirton.\nKirton he'll carry pretty solid, but that won't be enough.\"\n\n\"How many seats are there here?\"\n\n\"Oh, here and in this district, which is under Kirton influence, about\ntwo-and-twenty, and he ought to get eighteen or nineteen of them; but\nwhat's that out of eighty members?\"\n\n\"And what's the reason? Merely his policy or----?\"\n\n\"Well, his policy a good deal. All the manufacturers and capitalists are\nstraining every nerve to give him such a thrashing as will keep him out\nfor years, and they spare neither time nor money nor hard words. I don't\nblame 'em. And then, of course, the other thing counts. It hits him\nwhere he was strong--among the religious folk. Puttock's their special\nman, and Puttock never lets it alone.\"\n\n\"What, do they talk about it in public?\"\n\n\"Well, I should rather think they did. Oh, we fight with the gloves off\nin New Lindsey.\"\n\n\"After all, if it's a matter that ought to count, it ought to be talked\nabout,\" remarked Miss Scaife thoughtfully.\n\n\"I suppose so,\" answered Sir John doubtfully; \"only it always sounds a\nlittle mean, you know.\"\n\nEleanor did not attempt to reconcile this seeming contradiction.\n\n\"So Sir Robert will be back? Well, Mary will be delighted.\"\n\n\"It doesn't so much matter to her, as you're going.\"\n\n\"No, but she will. For my own part, I like Sir Robert, but his\nGovernment rather lacks variety, doesn't it? It's not exactly\nthrilling.\"\n\n\"That's very high praise.\"\n\n\"I hardly meant it to be,\" laughed Eleanor. \"However, as you say, it\ndoesn't matter much now to us.\"\n\n\"No, nor to me.\"\n\n\"Then it's true you're resigning?\"\n\n\"Yes, in a few weeks. I'm just holding on to----\"\n\n\"See this crisis through, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no. The crisis, as you call it, Miss Scaife, don't matter to\nme--nor I to it. I'm holding on to complete another year's service and\nget fifty pound more pension.\"\n\n\"You're very practical, Sir John.\"\n\n\"High praise again!\"\n\n\"Perhaps hardly meant again!\"\n\n\"I'm sure Lady Eynesford teaches her household the value of\npracticality.\"\n\n\"Well, Mary is practical; and I suppose Dick must be called so now--Miss\nGranger's an excellent match. Oh, I suppose we all pass muster pretty\nwell, except Alicia.\"\n\n\"Miss Derosne is a visionary?\"\n\n\"A little bit of one, I often tell her.\"\n\n\"It's an added grace in a pretty girl,\" said Sir John.\n\n\"I said _I_ was practical,\" observed Miss Scaife.\n\n\"But you need no added graces,\" he returned, smiling.\n\n\"A palpable evasion!\"\n\nSome days had passed since Medland's interview with Alicia. He had left\nKirton the morning after, and, as the day of the election drew nearer\nand nearer, news of him came from all parts of the colony. Wherever the\nopposition was strongest and hostility most bitter, he flung himself\ninto the fray; at moments it seemed as though he would wrest victory\nfrom an adverse fate, but when he went away, the effect of his presence\ngradually evaporated, and his work was half undone before he had been\ngone a day. In the Governor's household the accounts of his doings were\nallowed to pass in silence; they had become a forbidden topic. Alicia\nmight devour them in solitude, and the Governor himself watch them with\nan almost sympathetic interest; Lady Eynesford ignored them altogether,\nand seemed not to see Medland's colours and his watchwords that glared\nat her in the streets of Kirton. Sir Robert was quietly confident, and\nKilshaw fiercely exultant; Medland's friends hoped against hope, and,\nsecure of their position in the capital, flooded the country with eager\nmissionaries. Passion ran high, and there had been one or two disturbing\nincidents. Sir Robert was refused a hearing in the Jubilee Hall; Kilshaw\nhad been forced to escape violence by a hasty flight, when he tried to\naddress a meeting in the North-East ward; and there had been something\nlike a free fight between the factions in Kettle Street. Captain\nHeseltine stated his opinion that if Sir Robert won, there would be\n\"some fun\" in Kirton, and was understood to mean that the Queen's Peace\nwould be broken. Apparently the police authorities were of the same way\nof thinking, for at their request all preparations were made for calling\nout the Mounted Volunteers. Lord Eynesford declared that he would stand\nno nonsense, and a certain number of timid persons made arrangements to\nbe out of Kirton on the all-important day.\n\nAt last it came, and wore itself away in a fever of excitement. While\nthe poll was open there was no time to waste in quarrelling or parading,\nbut in the evening, when the ballot-boxes were giving up their secret,\nthe streets were crowded with dense throngs. The political leaders came\ndropping in from the country round. Medland was away and did not return,\nbut Kilshaw was at the Club, and Puttock, all the local politicians, and\nmost other men of note; for the Club was nearly opposite the Hall, where\nthe crowd was thickest, and where the result would soon be proclaimed.\nJust below, one Todd, a well-known mob-orator, had mounted on a large\npacking-case and was exhorting the people to stand by Medland, happen\nwhat might; the police had tried to get near him and prevent him causing\nan obstruction, but his friends formed so dense a ring and offered such\nresistance that the attempt was prudently abandoned, and the sound of\nMr. Todd's sweeping denunciations fell on the ears of the members as\nthey talked within.\n\n\"I say, Kilshaw,\" called Captain Heseltine, who was by the window, \"if\nyou want to hear what you are, you'd better come here. Todd's letting\nyou have it.\"\n\nKilshaw lounged to the window and put his head out, smiling scornfully.\n\n\"A lot of loafers and thieves,\" he remarked.\n\nThe crowd saw him. He was the especial object of their anger, ever since\nhis share in Benyon's career had become public. He was greeted with an\nangry yell; the orator, seizing the occasion, shook a huge fist at him.\nKilshaw laughed in reply, holding his cigar in his hand. There was an\nugly rush at the Club door; an answering charge from the police; some\noaths and some screams.\n\n\"You'd better vanish,\" suggested the Captain. \"Your popularity is\nmomentarily eclipsed.\"\n\n\"Damn the fellows,\" said Kilshaw. \"They may storm the place if they\nlike--I'll not move.\"\n\nMatters were indeed becoming somewhat critical, when a loud shout was\nheard from in front of the Hall. The crowd forgot Kilshaw, forgot Mr.\nTodd, and rushed across the road. The first result was up!\n\nFor the next half-hour wild exultation reigned in the streets, and gloom\npredominated in the Club. The Kirton returns came out first, and, as the\nChief Justice had prophesied, Medland swept the capital from end to end.\nA solid band of twenty members was elected in his interest, and he\nhimself had an immense majority. The crowd was beside itself; all\nthought of defeat was at an end; they began to laugh, and smoke, and\ndive into the taverns in friendly groups to drink; they even flung jests\nup at Kilshaw, and only hooted good-humouredly when he cried,\n\n\"Wait a bit, my boys!\"\n\nThus an hour passed without further news. Then the country results began\nto arrive. Among the first was that from Medland's own constituency: he\nwas beaten by above a hundred votes. Anticipated as this issue was, it\nwas greeted with a loud groan, soon changed to an exultant cheer when it\nwas declared that Coxon had lost his seat; no event, short of the defeat\nof Kilshaw himself, would have pleased the crowd so much; even in the\nClub men seemed very resigned; only Coxon's little band mourned the fall\nof their chief.\n\n\"A facer for him,\" remarked the Captain. Mr. Kilshaw smiled.\n\n\"Coxon generally falls on his feet,\" he remarked.\n\nThis victory was almost the last excuse the crowd found for cheering.\nThe figures came in thick and fast now, and the tale they told was of\nMedland's utter defeat. By twelve o'clock the issue in seventy-five\nseats was declared; of the other five, four were safe for Sir Robert;\nand Medland had only twenty-nine supporters. Puttock and Sir Robert were\nreturned, and Kilshaw had a triumphant majority. His was among the last\nannouncements, and it was greeted with an angry roar of such volume that\nthe Club window filled in a moment. The crowd, tired of their\ndisappointing watch, turned away from the Jubilee Hall, and flocked\ntogether underneath the window.\n\n\"Why don't you return thanks?\" asked Captain Heseltine.\n\nKilshaw was drinking a glass of brandy and soda-water. He jumped up,\nglass in hand, and, going to the window, bowed to the angry mob and\ndrank a toast to his own success before their eyes. Mr. Todd's gross\nbulk pushed its way to the front.\n\n\"Come down here,\" he shouted, \"and talk to us, if you dare!\"\n\nKilshaw smilingly shook his head.\n\n\"Three cheers for Sir Robert!\" he cried.\n\n\"How's your friend Benham?\" shouted one.\n\n\"We'll serve you the same,\" yelled another; \"come down;\" and a third,\nwhose partisanship outran his moral sense, proposed a cheer for Mr.\nFran ois Gaspard.\n\n\"I think you'll have to sleep here,\" said the Captain.\n\n\"Not I,\" answered Kilshaw. \"They daren't touch me.\"\n\n\"Hum!\" said the Captain, doubtfully regarding the crowd. \"I don't know\nthat I'd care to insure you, if you go down now.\"\n\n\"We'll take you through,\" cried half-a-dozen young men, the sons of\nwell-born or rich families, who were heart and soul with him, and asked\nfor nothing better than a \"row,\" with any one indeed, but above all with\nthe mob which they scorned, and which had out-voted them in their own\ntown.\n\nThe tramp of horses was heard outside. Two lines of mounted police were\nmaking their way slowly down the street. A moment later two voices\nsounded loud in altercation. The officer in command of the force was\nremonstrating with Big Todd; Big Todd was asserting that he had as much\nright as any one else to stand in the middle of Victoria Street and\nspeak to his friends; the officer, strong in the letter of the law,\nmaintained that no one, neither Big Todd nor another, had a right to\nadopt this course of action, or to do anything else than walk along the\nstreet whither his business might lead him.\n\n\"And they call this free speech!\" cried Big Todd.\n\n\"Get on with you,\" said the officer.\n\n\"Now's your time,\" remarked the Captain. \"Slip in between the two lines\nand you'll get through.\"\n\nKilshaw and his volunteer escort accepted the suggestion, and, linking\narms, walked down-stairs. The Captain, after a brief inward struggle,\nfollowed them. Their appearance at the Club door was the signal for\nfresh hoots and groans.\n\n\"Now then, are you going?\" said the officer to Big Todd.\n\nThe burly fellow cast a look round on his supporters.\n\n\"When I'm tired o' being here,\" he answered.\n\nKilshaw's band slipped in between the first and second rank. The\nofficer touched his horse with the spur, and it sprang forward. Big\nTodd, with an oath, caught the bridle, and another man seized the rider\nby the leg. He struck out sharply, and the line of police moved forward.\n\n\"Stand up to 'em, boys,\" cried Big Todd, and he aimed a blow with his\nstick at his antagonist.\n\nThe young men round Kilshaw looked at one another and began to press\nforward. They wanted to join in.\n\nA voice from behind them cried out warningly,\n\n\"None of that, gentlemen! You must leave it to us,\" and at the same\ninstant the first rank seemed to leave them. The order to advance had\nbeen given, and the _m l e_ had begun. The rear rank advancing covered\nthe members of the Club from attack.\n\n\"We seem to be spectators,\" observed Captain Heseltine, in a\ndisappointed tone. He had earnestly hoped that some one would assault\nhim.\n\nJust ahead the fight was hot round Big Todd. The police were determined\nto arrest him, and had closed round where he stood. The big man was\nfighting like a lion, and some half-dozen were trying to protect him. On\neither side of this group the line of police passed on, driving the\ncrowd before them. Their horses were trotting now, and the people ran\nbefore them or dodged into side streets and escaped. Big Todd and his\nlittle band were sore pressed. Todd was bleeding from the head and his\nright hand was numbed from a blow. He was down once, but up again in a\nsecond. As he rose, he caught sight of Kilshaw's scornful smile, and,\nswearing savagely, with a sudden rush he burst the ring round him and\nmade for the arch-enemy. Kilshaw raised his arm to shield himself,\nCaptain Heseltine stepped forward and deftly put out his foot. Big Todd,\ntripped in the manner of the old football, fell heavily to the ground,\nstriking his bullet poll on the hard road.\n\nHector was slain. The Trojans scoured over the plain. Victoria Street\nwas cleared, and Big Todd was borne on a stretcher to the police-station\nhard by.\n\n\"That fellow would have caught me a crack but for you, Heseltine,\" said\nMr. Kilshaw.\n\nA police-superintendent rode up.\n\n\"If you'd go home, gentlemen,\" he said, \"our work would be easier. The\ntrouble's not all over yet, I'm afraid. I'll send some of my men with\nyou, Mr. Kilshaw, if you please, sir.\"\n\nKilshaw made a wry face.\n\n\"I wish I had my men,\" he said. \"The Mounted Volunteers would teach\nthese fellows a lesson.\"\n\n\"Well, we may see that before we're many days older, sir,\" answered the\nofficer. \"Mr. Medland'll be here to-morrow, and heaven knows what\nthey'll be up to then.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nSTEALING A MARCH.\n\n\nAlicia Derosne had a fantastic dream that night. She saw Medland again\nchasing a butterfly, as she had seen him on the day he came to\nGovernment House to receive his office. The butterfly floated always\njust over his head, and he always came near to catching it, yet never\ncaught it. Then, by one of sleep's strange transformations, she seemed\nto be herself in spirit in the butterfly, and she knew that it flew so\nnear because desire brought it, that it longed to be caught, and yet, at\nthe last, by some sudden impulse, avoided his net. At last, as if\nwearied, he turned from her to another fluttering thing, and that he\ncaught. And she heard a great murmur of voices applauding him, and he\nsmiled and was content with his prize. Then she, the first butterfly,\ncould not be happy unless she were caught also, envying the other, and\nshe went and fluttered and spread her wings before his eyes, but he\nwould not heed her, nor stretch the net over her, but smiled in triumph\nat the bright colours of his prize and the murmur of applause. And, with\ndrooping wings, the first butterfly fell to the ground and died.\n\nIt needed no Joseph to interpret this dream. When he had called, she\nwould not come. Now he would forget her and turn to the life of ambition\nand power that he loved. He would rule men, and trouble his head or his\nheart no more with the vagaries of girls and the strict scruples of\ntheir code. And she--what was there left for her? \"The last time,\" he\nhad said. There was nothing for her to do but what the neglected\nbutterfly had done. In a few weeks more the sea would lie between them,\nand she would be no more to him, nor he to her, than a memory--a memory\nsoon to fade in him, whose days and thoughts were so full; in her, it\nseemed, always to endure, ousting everything else, reigning in\ntriumphant sorrow in an empty heart.\n\nThe news of the final result of the elections which Eleanor Scaife\nbrought her in the morning while she was still in bed, presented to her\nmind another picture of the man, which appealed to her almost more\nstrongly.\n\n\"It's a knock-down blow for Mr. Medland, isn't it?\" asked Eleanor,\nsitting on the side of the bed. \"As we're alone together, I may dare to\nsay that I'm rather sorry. I didn't want him to win, but it's very hard\non him to be crushed like this. How he must feel it!\"\n\n\"He seems to have won in Kirton.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, just the town mob is with him. Fancy coming down to that! Of\ncourse he'll be quite powerless, compared to what he was. I wonder if\nhe'll stay in politics. Captain Heseltine said some people thought that\nhe'd throw the whole thing up and retire into private life.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm sorry too,\" said Alicia, who lay all this while with her face\naway from Eleanor and towards the wall.\n\n\"And then his daughter's going to be married, and, of course, can never\nbe such a companion to him as she has been; he'll be very much alone.\nUpon my word, Alicia, I'm getting quite sentimental about the man, and\nit's all his own fault, really. Why does he make it impossible for\nrespectable people to follow him?\" After a short pause, Miss Scaife\nsuddenly laughed. \"Do you know,\" she asked, \"what that shameless Dick\nsays? He says I ought to marry Mr. Medland, because we're both\n'emancipated.' Really I'm not quite so 'emancipated' as Mr. Medland\nseems to be.\"\n\nAlicia smiled faintly.\n\n\"What an idea!\" she said, at last turning her face to her friend.\n\n\"He was only joking, of course. Assuming Mr. Medland asked me, and I'm\nsure nothing could be further from his thoughts, I'm afraid I should\nhave to decline the honour. Wasn't it impertinent of Dick? It's lucky\nMary didn't hear him. But, my dear, you must get up. All sorts of\nthings are going on. It's most exciting.\"\n\n\"I thought all the excitement was over,\" said Alicia languidly.\n\n\"Oh, no. There was a riot in the streets last night, and they arrested\nsome popular favourite and took him to prison. The mob's furious, and\nthe police are afraid of a disturbance when he's brought before the\nmagistrate this morning. Then Mr. Medland is to arrive at twelve\no'clock, and they're afraid of another riot then. Sir Robert was here at\nhalf-past eight, and at his request the Governor authorised calling out\nthe Mounted Volunteers to keep order. Lord Eynesford says he'll go with\nthem. Do get up,\" and Eleanor went off, eager to hear the latest news.\nThe present situation was justifying her tenacious opinion that new\ncommunities were interesting.\n\nIn spite of her many inquiries, her intelligence was not quite the\nlatest. The police had stolen a march on the crowd, and Big Todd had\nbeen quietly brought before the seat of justice at nine o'clock,\nremanded for a week, and carried off to the prison, which was situated\noutside the town, about half-a-mile beyond Government House. The van\ncontaining the captive had rolled unsuspected through the streets, and\nit was not till the crowd had waited an hour outside the court that the\nsecret leaked out. The outwitted men were in a fury. The mounted police\nlined the sides of the street, and their impassive demeanour seemed to\nrouse the mob to fresh anger. There had been a plan to rescue Big Todd,\nnow it was too late, and men looked at one another in sullen wrath. The\ncrowd drifted off towards the railway station, thinking to welcome\nMedland. The Mounted Volunteers were on guard there. They saw Kilshaw at\nthe head of his company and hailed him with a groan. Behind the ranks,\nthe Governor sat on his horse, flanked by his _aides-de-camp_ and\ntalking to Sir Robert Perry. No one was allowed within the station-yard,\nevery one was compelled to move about, the preparations were complete,\nto riot would be to run against a stone wall.\n\nSuddenly an idea, a suggestion, flew through the crowd. It was greeted\nwith surly smiles and emphatic nods. To the surprise of the officers and\nof the Governor, the crowd began to melt away. Splitting up in twos and\nthrees, it sauntered off, as if it had made up its mind to submit\nquietly to the inevitable. Soon only women and children were left, and\nthe Governor began to feel that the array of force was almost\nridiculously out of proportion to the need. The whole thing was, as\nCaptain Heseltine regretfully observed, \"fizzling out,\" and he proposed\nto go home to lunch.\n\nMedland's train arrived half-an-hour later, and he came out of the\nstation, looking round in surprise at the martial aspect of the scene.\nThen he smiled.\n\n\"We look rather asses,\" whispered Heseltine. \"I wonder if they did it on\npurpose.\"\n\nMedland came down the steps and found himself almost face to face with\nKilshaw. The ex-Premier was smoking a cigar, and he took it out of his\nmouth, in order to smile more freely.\n\n\"If,\" he said to Kilshaw, \"it's not dangerous to public order, I should\nlike a cab.\"\n\nKilshaw heard a shamefaced, stifled giggle from his men behind him and\nturned very red. The next minute Sir Robert came up, holding out his\nhand.\n\n\"This is a great compliment to you,\" he said, smiling.\n\n\"Evidently beyond my deserts,\" answered Medland, getting into his cab.\n\"To my house,\" he called to the man, and was driven rapidly away.\n\nThe Governor rode up to Sir Robert with a look of vexation on his face.\n\n\"The sooner we end this farce the better,\" he said. \"I'm going home. I\nsuppose you'll send the men to quarters.\"\n\n\"I really don't understand it,\" protested Sir Robert. \"They looked like\nmischief.\"\n\n\"I suppose we frightened them. Oh, no doubt you were right,\" and the\nGovernor turned his horse.\n\nSuddenly the figure of a man on horseback, going at a gallop, was seen\nin the distance. The Governor drew rein and waited. The man came nearer,\nand, as soon as he was within earshot, he shouted.\n\n\"The prison! the prison! They've all gone to the prison.\"\n\n\"What?\" cried the Governor.\n\n\"All the crowd,\" panted the messenger. \"They mean to have Big Todd out.\nWe've only got ten men there, and the people are threatening to burn the\nplace down if he's not given up.\"\n\n\"By Jove, they've jockeyed us!\" cried Captain Heseltine, and he turned\nto his chief for orders.\n\n\"We must be after them,\" exclaimed the Governor. \"Let the orders be\ngiven. You, Heseltine, go and bring up the police. This looks like\nbusiness.\"\n\nThe column was soon on the march, followed by a string of women and\nchildren, which was speedily outstripped when the word to trot was\ngiven. The outskirts of the town were reached; they met man after man\nwho told them of a gathering crowd round the prison; they overtook more\nmen, armed with cudgels, who slunk on one side and tried to hide their\nsticks. They reached the gates of Government House, and Lord Eynesford\nspied his wife and Alicia looking out of the windows of the lodge.\n\n\"Go and tell them what's up,\" he said to Flemyng. \"Say there's no\ndanger,\" and the column trotted on.\n\n\"This is what Mr. Medland has brought us to,\" observed Lady Eynesford,\nwhen Mr. Flemyng made his report. \"I'm glad we've done with him, anyhow,\naren't you, Eleanor?\"\n\n\"Perhaps we haven't,\" suggested Eleanor. \"I wonder if he's come back.\"\n\n\"No doubt he's encouraging this riot. I only hope he'll get the\ntreatment he deserves.\"\n\nAlicia stood by in silence. The little room felt close and hot. She was\ntired and worn out, for she had spent the morning writing a letter that\nseemed very hard to write.\n\n\"Mightn't we go into the garden?\" she asked. \"There's no danger to us,\nis there, Mr. Flemyng?\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no, Miss Derosne. They're only thinking of Big Todd. I'll go\non if you don't want me, Lady Eynesford.\"\n\nHe trotted off and overtook the rest just as they came in sight of the\nprison. The crowd was thick round it.\n\n\"By heaven, they've got the door open!\" cried Heseltine.\n\nThey had. The heavy door hung on its hinges, and, as the Governor drew\nnearer, he saw the prisoner, Big Todd himself, in the centre of the\ncrowd. There were near three thousand there, almost all men; most had\nsticks, here and there the sun caught the gleam of a knife or the glint\nfrom a revolver-barrel. A rude kind of rampart of the tables and chairs\nfrom the gaol formed a slight makeshift barricade, and behind it, the\ncrowd, backed by the building, stood waiting for the attack.\n\nThe Governor halted.\n\n\"It really looks rather serious,\" he said.\n\nSir Robert Perry, whose fat cob was panting with unusual exertions,\nnodded assent.\n\n\"We don't want bloodshed, if we can help it,\" he observed.\n\n\"No, but we'll have that fellow,\" said the Governor curtly, \"or I'll\nknow the reason why.\"\n\nHis old instincts were astir in him. He had been a soldier in his time,\nand he almost regretted that his first duty was to reason with these\nmen. Endeavouring to carry out this duty, he said to Heseltine,\n\n\"Go and say I'll give them three minutes to hand over Todd and\ndisperse.\"\n\nHeseltine rode forward till he came to the barricade and delivered his\nmessage, adding,\n\n\"Look sharp. There you are, Todd! Now come along, my man.\"\n\n\"Come and fetch me,\" grinned Big Todd.\n\n\"So we will,\" answered the Captain, smiling, \"but you'd better come\nquietly.\"\n\n\"Look here, sir. Say no more about what happened last night and we'll\ngive the Governor back his prison. We ain't hurt it, not to speak of.\"\n\nHeseltine laughed.\n\n\"You're an insolent scoundrel,\" he said.\n\n\"You'd better get a bit further off before you talk like that, young\nman,\" growled a fierce-looking little fellow.\n\n\"Let the gentleman alone, Tim,\" said Big Todd. \"He's a flag o' truce.\"\n\n\"Then you won't come?\" asked the Captain.\n\n\"Declined with thanks, sir,\" bowed Big Todd.\n\nHeseltine rode back and delivered the reply. An angry flush crossed Lord\nEynesford's face.\n\n\"Very well,\" he said shortly, and turned to the Colonel. \"Colonel,\" he\nsaid, \"I want your men to scatter that crowd and bring Todd here. Don't\nfire without asking me again. Use the flat of the sword unless the crowd\nuse knives or shoot; if they do, use the edge. I can't come with you, I\nwish I could.\"\n\n\"May I go, sir?\" broke simultaneously from Dick and Heseltine.\n\n\"No,\" answered Lord Eynesford shortly.\n\n\"What a damned shame!\" grumbled Dick.\n\nThe Colonel had spoken to the captains of his two companies, Kilshaw and\nanother, and they in their turn had briefly communicated the Governor's\norders to their men. Everything was ready, and the Colonel turned a last\ninquiring glance towards the Governor.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lord Eynesford; but at the same moment a loud cheer rang out\nfrom the defenders of the gaol--\n\n\"Three cheers for Jimmy Medland!\" they cried.\n\nThe Governor turned and saw the ex-Premier leaping from a cab and\nhurrying towards them.\n\n\"Stop!\" cried Medland. \"Stop!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nA BEATEN MAN'S THOUGHTS.\n\n\nOn reaching his home, Medland had found that Norburn had arrived before\nhim, and was engaged in the task of consoling Daisy for the untoward\nissue of the fight. Daisy, on her part, was full of praise for the\nvalour of Big Todd, and delighted to hear of the sort of fiasco that had\nwaited on the military display at the station. Safe from the eyes of all\nsave those who loved him, Medland did not maintain the indifferent air\nthat he had displayed in public. In vain they reminded him of the swift\nreactions in political affairs, of the sturdy band that still owned his\nleadership, and of the devotion of all Kirton to him, or bade him think\nthat he was himself almost a young man, and that this defeat was but a\ncheck and not an end to his career. For the moment the buoyancy was out\nof him; he did not care to discuss hopes or projects, and sat silent in\nhis chair, while Norburn sketched new campaigns and energetic raids on\nSir Robert's position. Daisy knew her father: these hours of\ndespondency were the penalty he paid for the glowing confidence and\nrebounding hope that had made him the man and the power he was.\n\n\"Let him alone a little while,\" she whispered to her lover. \"Something\nwill rouse him soon, and he'll be himself again.\"\n\nShe put his letters by him, and the two left him to solitude in his\nstudy. He was vaguely surprised that no crowd had assembled to escort\nhim to his house, and that the street was so quiet; he supposed that his\nadherents felt much as he did, too discouraged to make a parade, or try\nto hide their wounds under the pretence of a brave show; yet he was\nsensitive enough to every breath of popular sentiment to be hurt at the\nfirst sign of neglect. Perhaps they had had enough of him, perhaps they\nwere looking for a new leader. No; that could hardly be, or they would\nnot have elected all his friends. It was just that they felt as he did,\nbeaten, soundly beaten, and had fled to their dens to lick their sores.\n\nHe listlessly stretched out his hand towards the letters and began to\nopen them. Here were belated requests for help or advice, calculations\nof majorities and prophecies of victory, written at the last moment in\nunquenchable faith, to be read now with a weary smile of irony. Here too\nwere honest, admiring condolences. \"Better luck next time\"--\"Never\ndespair,\" and so forth--side by side with anonymous and scurrilous\ngloatings over his fall. Once he laughed out loud: a zealous student\ncompared him at length and in detail to Cleon, and ended with an ode of\ntriumph which, he said, would appear in the press the next day or so.\nMedland pushed the heap away with an impatient sigh, but one note\nremained under his hand and he took it up, for it seemed different from\nthe rest. He undid the envelope and glanced at the signature; then he\nsat up in sudden interest, for it was signed \"Alicia Derosne.\"\n\n\"You will be surprised,\" she said, \"that I should write; but I doubted\nif you understood the other night, and I can't be misunderstood by you.\nIf you were what I once thought you, I would do all you ask, whatever it\ncost me, but I can't now. It's all different now. That thing makes it\nall different. You will think it a poor reason and a strange idea--I\nknow you will; but your thinking it strange is just what makes it\nstrongest to me. You may not understand--I'm afraid you won't--but you\nmust believe that that is the only thing. Please don't try to see me,\nbut send one line to say you believe me.--ALICIA DEROSNE. Good-bye.\"\n\nAt first he thought of what he read only as a fresh defeat, another drop\nof bitterness in a brimming cup, and he let the letter fall, despising\nhimself for caring about such a matter. But he took it up again and\nre-read it, and the \"Good-bye\" at the end--the stifled cry of\npain--touched him; she had finished the letter before she wrote that,\nfor its ink was paler; the rest had dried, that had been hastily\nblotted; it was an after-impulse, a hint of the struggle with which she\nleft her tenderness unexpressed. He pictured so well how she looked\nwriting it, making her sacrifice at the altar of what she held holy in\nherself. Whether she were right or wrong seemed now to his softer mood\nto be of little moment. He could not think that she was right, and yet\nit suited her so well to be wrong on such a point that he could hardly\nwish her to have been what to his mind seemed right. With the strange\nfeeling of the end of things, of finality, that his defeat and\ndespondency had brought to him, her decision fitted well. She would not\ncome to him, but the ideal of her rested beautiful in the delicate pride\nand fastidiousness of her scruples and her purity. The sort of life he\nmust lead, no less than that he had led, must needs have soiled the\nimage and stained its spotless white. He was conscious that his\nreception of what she said was half the outcome of the moment in which\nher decision reached him; but yet he could not look before him, and the\nidea of himself, restored to his former mind, scornfully mocking what\nnow claimed reverence, angrily fighting against a merely fanciful\nhindrance, failed to dress itself like reality, though experience,\nhalf-smothered, protested that it would prove real. Now he was very\nsorry for her and for himself; but it was the sorrow of acquiescence,\nthe pain of a vision that never could have had fulfilment not the fierce\ndisappointment of well-grounded hope. Though she were passing out of\nhis life, yet she would always be in it and of it, and their unhappiness\nseemed to him a tie as close as could have been knit between them by any\nunion.\n\nHe was interrupted by the entrance of his daughter and Norburn. They\nwere troubled, as a glance at their happy faces told him, by no sense of\nthe end of things; they were at the beginning, and he was amused to find\nthat, while they deplored his defeat sincerely and resented it hotly, it\nyet had a bright side to them. It set Jack Norburn at liberty; he had\nnow no official ties and there would be a lull in politics. How should\ntwo young people use such an interval better than in getting married?\n\n\"How indeed?\" said Mr. Medland, smiling.\n\n\"Then when we're comfortably married,\" said Daisy, \"and you've had a\nlittle rest, we'll have at Sir Robert again, father! Oh, and I'm so glad\nthose tiresome Eynesfords are going--except Alicia, I mean; I like her.\nI do hope the next people won't be quite so--\" And Daisy's gesture\nindicated the inhuman exclusiveness and pride supposed to be harboured\nat Government House.\n\n\"Well, we go our way and they go theirs,\" said Norburn, with his\ngood-humoured laugh. \"We're happy in ours, I hope they're happy in\ntheirs. Then, as soon as Daisy can be ready, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, as soon as Daisy can be ready,\" assented Medland.\n\nWhen, after thanks and some more rose-coloured prophecies, they were\ngone together, he rose and, hands in pockets, paced up and down the\nnarrow room.\n\n\"Really, young Norburn has got the philosophy of it,\" he mused. \"He\ntakes my daughter, and his philosophy takes the only other woman I care\nabout! But I believe, after all, that it's bad philosophy.\"\n\nHe stretched his arms in weariness.\n\n\"Ah, I feel burnt out!\" he said, sinking back into his chair. \"I must\nanswer this,\" and he took up Alicia's note again, only to fold it up and\nput it in his pocket.\n\n\"I can't do it now. I must have some fresh air,\" he exclaimed\npetulantly. \"This place suffocates me.\"\n\nHe opened the window and hailed a hack-victoria that was crawling by.\nCalling to Daisy to tell her he was going for a drive, he ran\ndown-stairs and jumped in.\n\n\"Go to the Park,\" he said. \"You needn't hurry.\"\n\nThe air revived his spirits. He leant back, sniffing its freshness, and\nfinding the world very good. He met few people about and no one that he\nknew. The Park was empty, and the old horse jogged along peacefully.\nInsensibly he found himself thinking about what would happen when the\nnew House met, and sparing a smile for Coxon's defeat, though he was\nafraid that gentleman would be only too well provided for. It struck\nhim that a pitfall or two lay in Sir Robert's path, and he saw his way\nto giving Kilshaw a bad quarter of an hour over one of his election\nspeeches. The only thing that he could not get away from was the thought\nof Alicia Derosne. He knew that there was to be nothing more between him\nand her, and that she was going away soon, never to return to, soon in\nall probability to forget, New Lindsey; yet all his doings and\nactivities in the future--and his brain began now to be swift to plan\nthem again--presented themselves to him, not in the actual happening,\nbut as they would look when read by her. This lover's madness irritated\nhim so much that at last he took her letter from his pocket and tore it\ninto little bits, scattering them on the breeze. He could answer it well\nenough from memory, and perhaps it would be easier to be his own man\nagain when he had no tangible, material reminder of her with him. These\nthings only made a man nurse and cosset fine-drawn feelings, spying\ncuriously into a heart that might get well if it were covered up and\nleft alone.\n\nA cheery voice roused him, and his carriage stopped.\n\n\"Well, tearing up your bills, eh?\" called the Chief Justice from the\nside-walk. \"You must be glad to be out of it.\"\n\n\"Not I,\" answered Medland, smiling. \"Among other things, I wanted to\nappoint your successor.\"\n\n\"Ah, dreadful, dreadful! Young Coxon, isn't it? I've been laid up with a\ncold, and seen and heard nothing, but I fancy that's right.\"\n\n\"I suppose he'll do pretty well, but he's not the right man to come\nafter you. However, I am powerless now.\"\n\n\"Yes, order is safe again. By the way, I hear your friends made a little\ndisturbance last night.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; that headstrong fellow Todd. We can never hold him. It came to\nnothing, I suppose?\"\n\n\"They arrested him, you know. But, Medland, I doubt----\"\n\nThe driver turned round suddenly.\n\n\"Did you say Medland, sir?\" he asked the Chief Justice. \"Is this\ngentleman Mr. Medland?\"\n\n\"What, didn't you know me?\"\n\n\"No, sir; I'm only just out from England. But, if you're Mr. Medland,\ndon't you know, sir--begging your pardon--what's happened about Todd?\"\n\n\"No; what?\"\n\n\"There's a fine row up at the prison, sir. Two or three thousand of 'em\nwent up there this morning to take him out, and the Governor's up there\nwith the Volunteers, and they say there's going to be a big fight\nand----\"\n\n\"The fools!\" exclaimed Medland. \"I must go, Chief Justice.\"\n\n\"Why, what can you do?\"\n\n\"Stop it, of course. Here, drive to the prison--drive like fury.\nGood-bye, Chief Justice. Come and see me soon. Get on, man, get on!\"\n\nThe old horse was whipped up unmercifully, and the Chief Justice watched\nMedland disappear in a cloud of dust. He took off his hat to wipe his\nbrow. Two little fragments of the white paper which Medland scattered\nhad settled upon it.\n\n\"Poof!\" The Chief Justice blew them off and they fluttered down on the\ngrass. He stooped and picked up the larger bit. If he had looked at it,\nhe would have read \"Good-bye\"; but he did not. The amber end of his\ncigarette-tube was loose: he unscrewed it, twisted the little bit of\npaper round the screw, and fitted the end on again.\n\n\"Capital!\" said the Chief Justice. \"It might have been made for it. Poor\nold Medland!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nTHE END OF A TUMULT.\n\n\n\"Stop!\" he shouted; \"stop!\" and, taking advantage of the momentary\npause, he made his way to the Governor.\n\n\"Let me speak to them, sir,\" he said; \"I think I can bring them to\nreason.\"\n\nBut Lord Eynesford's spirit was roused.\n\n\"I must request you to leave the matter to me, Mr. Medland,\" he answered\nstiffly. \"They have had their opportunity of submitting to the law\npeaceably, and they have chosen to disregard it.\"\n\n\"If you will give me five minutes, sir,\" said Medland very humbly. He\nloved the rough fellows who were acting so foolishly: perhaps something\nin his words had given them an excuse. He could not bear to think of\nthem coming to harm, even through their own fault.\n\n\"I can't, sir,\" answered the Governor sharply. \"I have the dignity of\nthe Crown, which I represent, to think of. Pray stand aside, sir;\" and\nhe added to the Colonel--\"Your orders are not altered.\"\n\nMedland's quick eye measured the distance between him and the rioters.\nHe was standing near the Governor, at the side of the troops, but a\nlittle in advance of their line. A run might bring him to them before\nthe troops could reach them. If they did not resist there could be no\nbloodshed. There was yet a chance, and suddenly he dashed across in\nfront of the line, crying, \"Don't resist! don't resist!\"\n\nAt the very moment of his start the Colonel had given the word to\ncharge. No man saw clearly how it happened, but there was a forward\ndash, then an exclamation from one of the Volunteers, as he reined his\nhorse back on its haunches, a wild cry from the barricade, and a loud\nshout, \"Halt!\" from Kilshaw. The line was stopped, and Kilshaw rode\nswiftly up to where the trooper had wrenched back his horse. Medland lay\non the ground in front of the horse. The man had seen him too late to\navoid him; he had been knocked down and trampled with the hoofs. His\nface was pale, and a slight twist of the features told of pain. He held\nhis hand to his right side.\n\nKilshaw was off his horse in an instant.\n\n\"Back there, back!\" he cried. \"Don't crowd on him.\"\n\nThe Governor rode up; a group gathered round. There was no more thought\nof the charge. The rioters, after an instant, broke the barricade and\ncame out, one by one, timidly making for the spot.\n\n\"Here,\" whispered Kilshaw to Dick Derosne, \"you lift his head. He won't\nwant to see me,\" and he drew back behind the wounded man.\n\nThe Governor dismounted and stood by his brother, but before Dick could\nlift Medland's head, a rough woman, in a coarse gown, pushed through,\nelbowing him and Lord Eynesford aside.\n\n\"Let me, gentlemen,\" she said, her eyes full of tears, as she pillowed\nhis head in her lap. \"He's always been for us, Mr. Medland has,\" she\nexplained. \"Give me a clean handkerchief, one of you.\"\n\nThe Governor handed his, and she wiped the clammy moisture from the\nforehead and hands.\n\nMedland opened his eyes.\n\n\"The horse kicked me in the side,\" he murmured faintly, \"here, on the\nright--low down. I'm in pain.\"\n\nThen he saw Dick Derosne.\n\n\"Mr. Derosne!\" he called faintly, and Dick knelt down to listen. \"Tell\nyour sister I believe.\"\n\n\"What?\" asked Dick in sheer surprise.\n\n\"You heard?\" asked Medland petulantly.\n\n\"Yes--that you believe.\"\n\n\"Well, tell her,\" and he turned away his head.\n\nThere was a little bustle outside the group, and then Big Todd burst\nthrough.\n\n\"Is he killed?\" he cried.\n\nMedland saw him and stretched out his hand. Big Todd caught it, and the\ndying man pressed the fellow's knotted fist. Perhaps he saw in Todd the\ntype of the \"Great Beast,\" clumsy, often wrong-headed, but honest at\nheart, that he loved and worked for.\n\n\"What did you want to be such an infernal fool for, man?\" he said, with\na little smile. Then his eyes closed, and the woman wiped his forehead\nand kissed him.\n\nThe group round him drew back, leaving the woman and Todd near him.\nPresently some dozen of the rioters brought the top of a table from\ntheir barricade, and lifted him on to it. Then Big Todd spoke to the\nGovernor.\n\n\"There'll be no more fighting,\" he said. \"I'll give myself up, but I'd\nlike to help the chaps to take him home first.\"\n\nThe Governor nodded, and they raised the table on their shoulders and\nset out for Kirton. Behind them came the woman and a few more of the\nsame class; some children stole out from the back of the gaol and took\ntheir places. After them marched the rioters, and last of all the\nGovernor, his party, and the troops. And in this order the procession\npassed along. And some time before it had gone far, Medland bled to\ndeath inwardly; his strength failed him and he gave a convulsive shiver,\nopened his eyes for the last time to the sky, and then lay still under\nthe rough coat that Big Todd had thrown over him.\n\n\"Dick, Dick,\" whispered the Governor, when they came near Government\nHouse, \"ride on and tell them.\"\n\nLady Eynesford, Eleanor Scaife, and Alicia were standing at the gate.\nThey had hardly seen the procession turn a corner and come into sight\nbefore Dick galloped up.\n\n\"What is it, Dick?\" cried Lady Eynesford. \"Willie's not hurt?\"\n\n\"No--it's--it's Mr. Medland.\"\n\nEleanor was standing by Alicia, and she felt a sudden clutch on her arm.\n\n\"What has happened?\" she asked.\n\n\"I'm afraid he's very badly hurt,\" answered Dick, and drawing near his\nsister he whispered, \"Al, he sent you a message. I don't know what it\nmeans, but--he believes.\"\n\nOne swift glance told him she heard, then her eyes fixed themselves on\nthe advancing crowd, and the burden the men carried.\n\nThey halted a moment. The table was lowered; a man--apparently a\ndoctor--had ridden up. He looked at the burden they bore, then he spread\nthe rough coat again over the body and signed to them to go on. Dick\nstepped forward and asked a question. Returning, he said briefly,\n\n\"He's dead.\"\n\nAlicia swayed heavily against Eleanor Scaife. Eleanor threw her arm\nround her waist, and answered the moan she heard with--\"Hush, darling!\"\nwhile Alicia, with parted lips and straining eyes, watched him carried\nby.\n\nAs they had escorted him home on the day when he first became their\nruler, so they took him to his home now, the throng of mourners ever\ngrowing as the people poured out of the town to meet them, until they\nreached his house and halted before his door, waiting for some one who\nshould dare to carry the news to the fair-haired girl who had met him in\ntriumph when he came before.\n\n\nIn Kirton the name of \"Jimmy Medland\" is still remembered, and his grave\ndoes not lack continual flowers. In far-off England few remember him,\nand his name is seldom spoken, save when a very old white-haired man\ncomes to stay with a lady in one of the Midland shires. Then, when they\nare alone, when her husband has gone hunting and the children are away,\nand there is no other ear to listen, Alicia will sometimes talk to Sir\nJohn of Mr. Medland, what he was and was not, what he did and dreamed,\nhow he lived and died, and how the men of Kirton love his memory.\n\n\"It all seems like a dream now,\" she says, \"but it's a dream I can never\nforget.\"\n\nAnd Sir John presses her hand, for perhaps he guesses what she has not\ntold him.\n\nHis daughter wrote on his tomb nothing except his name; but a wandering\nEnglishman, who heard his story, and recollected the grave of another\nwho died with his work undone, has rudely scratched at the base, near\nthe ground, where the grass half hides it, an epitaph for him--_Plura\nmoliebatur_. And he told Big Todd, whom he chanced to find smoking his\nevening pipe hard by, that it meant \"He had more work in hand.\"\n\n\"Ay, trust old Jimmy!\" said Big Todd, with a curious wave of his great\nhand towards the grave. Had such a thing been at all in his way, one\nmight have thought it was a benediction.\n\n\nTHE END."
    },
    {
        "title": "Treasure Island",
        "author": "Robert Louis Stevenson",
        "category": "Adventure",
        "EN": "PART ONE--The Old Buccaneer\n\n\n\n\nI\nThe Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow\n\n\nSquire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having\nasked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from\nthe beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the\nisland, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I\ntake up my pen in the year of grace 17 , and go back to the time when\nmy father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the\nsabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof.\n\nI remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the\ninn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow--a\ntall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the\nshoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with\nblack, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid\nwhite. I remember him looking round the cove and whistling to himself\nas he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so\noften afterwards:\n\n           Fifteen men on the dead man s chest--\n             Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! \n\nin the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and\nbroken at the capstan bars. Then he rapped on the door with a bit of\nstick like a handspike that he carried, and when my father appeared,\ncalled roughly for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him,\nhe drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste and still\nlooking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard.\n\n This is a handy cove,  says he at length;  and a pleasant sittyated\ngrog-shop. Much company, mate? \n\nMy father told him no, very little company, the more was the pity.\n\n Well, then,  said he,  this is the berth for me. Here you, matey,  he\ncried to the man who trundled the barrow;  bring up alongside and help\nup my chest. I ll stay here a bit,  he continued.  I m a plain man; rum\nand bacon and eggs is what I want, and that head up there for to watch\nships off. What you mought call me? You mought call me captain. Oh, I\nsee what you re at--there ; and he threw down three or four gold pieces\non the threshold.  You can tell me when I ve worked through that,  says\nhe, looking as fierce as a commander.\n\nAnd indeed bad as his clothes were and coarsely as he spoke, he had none\nof the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast, but seemed like\na mate or skipper accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. The man who came\nwith the barrow told us the mail had set him down the morning before at\nthe Royal George, that he had inquired what inns there were along the\ncoast, and hearing ours well spoken of, I suppose, and described as\nlonely, had chosen it from the others for his place of residence. And\nthat was all we could learn of our guest.\n\nHe was a very silent man by custom. All day he hung round the cove or\nupon the cliffs with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner\nof the parlour next the fire and drank rum and water very strong. Mostly\nhe would not speak when spoken to, only look up sudden and fierce and\nblow through his nose like a fog-horn; and we and the people who came\nabout our house soon learned to let him be. Every day when he came back\nfrom his stroll he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the\nroad. At first we thought it was the want of company of his own kind\nthat made him ask this question, but at last we began to see he was\ndesirous to avoid them. When a seaman did put up at the Admiral Benbow\n(as now and then some did, making by the coast road for Bristol) he\nwould look in at him through the curtained door before he entered the\nparlour; and he was always sure to be as silent as a mouse when any such\nwas present. For me, at least, there was no secret about the matter, for\nI was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms. He had taken me aside one day\nand promised me a silver fourpenny on the first of every month if I\nwould only keep my  weather-eye open for a seafaring man with one leg \n and let him know the moment he appeared. Often enough when the first\nof the month came round and I applied to him for my wage, he would only\nblow through his nose at me and stare me down, but before the week was\nout he was sure to think better of it, bring me my four-penny piece, and\nrepeat his orders to look out for  the seafaring man with one leg. \n\nHow that personage haunted my dreams, I need scarcely tell you. On\nstormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house and\nthe surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, I would see him in a\nthousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions. Now the leg\nwould be cut off at the knee, now at the hip; now he was a monstrous\nkind of a creature who had never had but the one leg, and that in the\nmiddle of his body. To see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge and\nditch was the worst of nightmares. And altogether I paid pretty dear for\nmy monthly fourpenny piece, in the shape of these abominable fancies.\n\nBut though I was so terrified by the idea of the seafaring man with one\nleg, I was far less afraid of the captain himself than anybody else who\nknew him. There were nights when he took a deal more rum and water\nthan his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his\nwicked, old, wild sea-songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call\nfor glasses round and force all the trembling company to listen to his\nstories or bear a chorus to his singing. Often I have heard the house\nshaking with  Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum,  all the neighbours joining\nin for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, and each singing\nlouder than the other to avoid remark. For in these fits he was the most\noverriding companion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for\nsilence all round; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a question,\nor sometimes because none was put, and so he judged the company was not\nfollowing his story. Nor would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he\nhad drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed.\n\nHis stories were what frightened people worst of all. Dreadful stories\nthey were--about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and\nthe Dry Tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main. By his\nown account he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men\nthat God ever allowed upon the sea, and the language in which he told\nthese stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the\ncrimes that he described. My father was always saying the inn would be\nruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over\nand put down, and sent shivering to their beds; but I really believe his\npresence did us good. People were frightened at the time, but on looking\nback they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country\nlife, and there was even a party of the younger men who pretended to\nadmire him, calling him a  true sea-dog  and a  real old salt  and\nsuch like names, and saying there was the sort of man that made England\nterrible at sea.\n\nIn one way, indeed, he bade fair to ruin us, for he kept on staying week\nafter week, and at last month after month, so that all the money had\nbeen long exhausted, and still my father never plucked up the heart to\ninsist on having more. If ever he mentioned it, the captain blew through\nhis nose so loudly that you might say he roared, and stared my poor\nfather out of the room. I have seen him wringing his hands after such a\nrebuff, and I am sure the annoyance and the terror he lived in must have\ngreatly hastened his early and unhappy death.\n\nAll the time he lived with us the captain made no change whatever in his\ndress but to buy some stockings from a hawker. One of the cocks of his\nhat having fallen down, he let it hang from that day forth, though it\nwas a great annoyance when it blew. I remember the appearance of his\ncoat, which he patched himself upstairs in his room, and which, before\nthe end, was nothing but patches. He never wrote or received a letter,\nand he never spoke with any but the neighbours, and with these, for the\nmost part, only when drunk on rum. The great sea-chest none of us had\never seen open.\n\nHe was only once crossed, and that was towards the end, when my poor\nfather was far gone in a decline that took him off. Dr. Livesey came\nlate one afternoon to see the patient, took a bit of dinner from my\nmother, and went into the parlour to smoke a pipe until his horse should\ncome down from the hamlet, for we had no stabling at the old Benbow. I\nfollowed him in, and I remember observing the contrast the neat, bright\ndoctor, with his powder as white as snow and his bright, black eyes and\npleasant manners, made with the coltish country folk, and above all,\nwith that filthy, heavy, bleared scarecrow of a pirate of ours, sitting,\nfar gone in rum, with his arms on the table. Suddenly he--the captain,\nthat is--began to pipe up his eternal song:\n\n           Fifteen men on the dead man s chest--\n             Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!\n           Drink and the devil had done for the rest--\n             Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! \n\nAt first I had supposed  the dead man s chest  to be that identical big\nbox of his upstairs in the front room, and the thought had been mingled\nin my nightmares with that of the one-legged seafaring man. But by this\ntime we had all long ceased to pay any particular notice to the song; it\nwas new, that night, to nobody but Dr. Livesey, and on him I observed it\ndid not produce an agreeable effect, for he looked up for a moment quite\nangrily before he went on with his talk to old Taylor, the gardener, on\na new cure for the rheumatics. In the meantime, the captain gradually\nbrightened up at his own music, and at last flapped his hand upon\nthe table before him in a way we all knew to mean silence. The voices\nstopped at once, all but Dr. Livesey s; he went on as before speaking\nclear and kind and drawing briskly at his pipe between every word or\ntwo. The captain glared at him for a while, flapped his hand again,\nglared still harder, and at last broke out with a villainous, low oath,\n Silence, there, between decks! \n\n Were you addressing me, sir?  says the doctor; and when the ruffian had\ntold him, with another oath, that this was so,  I have only one thing to\nsay to you, sir,  replies the doctor,  that if you keep on drinking rum,\nthe world will soon be quit of a very dirty scoundrel! \n\nThe old fellow s fury was awful. He sprang to his feet, drew and opened\na sailor s clasp-knife, and balancing it open on the palm of his hand,\nthreatened to pin the doctor to the wall.\n\nThe doctor never so much as moved. He spoke to him as before, over his\nshoulder and in the same tone of voice, rather high, so that all the\nroom might hear, but perfectly calm and steady:  If you do not put that\nknife this instant in your pocket, I promise, upon my honour, you shall\nhang at the next assizes. \n\nThen followed a battle of looks between them, but the captain soon\nknuckled under, put up his weapon, and resumed his seat, grumbling like\na beaten dog.\n\n And now, sir,  continued the doctor,  since I now know there s such a\nfellow in my district, you may count I ll have an eye upon you day and\nnight. I m not a doctor only; I m a magistrate; and if I catch a breath\nof complaint against you, if it s only for a piece of incivility like\ntonight s, I ll take effectual means to have you hunted down and routed\nout of this. Let that suffice. \n\nSoon after, Dr. Livesey s horse came to the door and he rode away, but\nthe captain held his peace that evening, and for many evenings to come.\n\n\n\n\nII\nBlack Dog Appears and Disappears\n\n\nIt was not very long after this that there occurred the first of the\nmysterious events that rid us at last of the captain, though not, as you\nwill see, of his affairs. It was a bitter cold winter, with long, hard\nfrosts and heavy gales; and it was plain from the first that my poor\nfather was little likely to see the spring. He sank daily, and my mother\nand I had all the inn upon our hands, and were kept busy enough without\npaying much regard to our unpleasant guest.\n\nIt was one January morning, very early--a pinching, frosty morning--the\ncove all grey with hoar-frost, the ripple lapping softly on the stones,\nthe sun still low and only touching the hilltops and shining far to\nseaward. The captain had risen earlier than usual and set out down the\nbeach, his cutlass swinging under the broad skirts of the old blue coat,\nhis brass telescope under his arm, his hat tilted back upon his head. I\nremember his breath hanging like smoke in his wake as he strode off, and\nthe last sound I heard of him as he turned the big rock was a loud snort\nof indignation, as though his mind was still running upon Dr. Livesey.\n\nWell, mother was upstairs with father and I was laying the\nbreakfast-table against the captain s return when the parlour door\nopened and a man stepped in on whom I had never set my eyes before. He\nwas a pale, tallowy creature, wanting two fingers of the left hand, and\nthough he wore a cutlass, he did not look much like a fighter. I\nhad always my eye open for seafaring men, with one leg or two, and I\nremember this one puzzled me. He was not sailorly, and yet he had a\nsmack of the sea about him too.\n\nI asked him what was for his service, and he said he would take rum; but\nas I was going out of the room to fetch it, he sat down upon a table\nand motioned me to draw near. I paused where I was, with my napkin in my\nhand.\n\n Come here, sonny,  says he.  Come nearer here. \n\nI took a step nearer.\n\n Is this here table for my mate Bill?  he asked with a kind of leer.\n\nI told him I did not know his mate Bill, and this was for a person who\nstayed in our house whom we called the captain.\n\n Well,  said he,  my mate Bill would be called the captain, as like\nas not. He has a cut on one cheek and a mighty pleasant way with him,\nparticularly in drink, has my mate Bill. We ll put it, for argument\nlike, that your captain has a cut on one cheek--and we ll put it, if you\nlike, that that cheek s the right one. Ah, well! I told you. Now, is my\nmate Bill in this here house? \n\nI told him he was out walking.\n\n Which way, sonny? Which way is he gone? \n\nAnd when I had pointed out the rock and told him how the captain was\nlikely to return, and how soon, and answered a few other questions,\n Ah,  said he,  this ll be as good as drink to my mate Bill. \n\nThe expression of his face as he said these words was not at all\npleasant, and I had my own reasons for thinking that the stranger was\nmistaken, even supposing he meant what he said. But it was no affair of\nmine, I thought; and besides, it was difficult to know what to do. The\nstranger kept hanging about just inside the inn door, peering round the\ncorner like a cat waiting for a mouse. Once I stepped out myself into\nthe road, but he immediately called me back, and as I did not obey quick\nenough for his fancy, a most horrible change came over his tallowy face,\nand he ordered me in with an oath that made me jump. As soon as I\nwas back again he returned to his former manner, half fawning, half\nsneering, patted me on the shoulder, told me I was a good boy and he had\ntaken quite a fancy to me.  I have a son of my own,  said he,  as like\nyou as two blocks, and he s all the pride of my  art. But the great\nthing for boys is discipline, sonny--discipline. Now, if you had sailed\nalong of Bill, you wouldn t have stood there to be spoke to twice--not\nyou. That was never Bill s way, nor the way of sich as sailed with him.\nAnd here, sure enough, is my mate Bill, with a spy-glass under his arm,\nbless his old  art, to be sure. You and me ll just go back into the\nparlour, sonny, and get behind the door, and we ll give Bill a little\nsurprise--bless his  art, I say again. \n\nSo saying, the stranger backed along with me into the parlour and put me\nbehind him in the corner so that we were both hidden by the open door. I\nwas very uneasy and alarmed, as you may fancy, and it rather added to my\nfears to observe that the stranger was certainly frightened himself. He\ncleared the hilt of his cutlass and loosened the blade in the sheath;\nand all the time we were waiting there he kept swallowing as if he felt\nwhat we used to call a lump in the throat.\n\nAt last in strode the captain, slammed the door behind him, without\nlooking to the right or left, and marched straight across the room to\nwhere his breakfast awaited him.\n\n Bill,  said the stranger in a voice that I thought he had tried to make\nbold and big.\n\nThe captain spun round on his heel and fronted us; all the brown had\ngone out of his face, and even his nose was blue; he had the look of a\nman who sees a ghost, or the evil one, or something worse, if anything\ncan be; and upon my word, I felt sorry to see him all in a moment turn\nso old and sick.\n\n Come, Bill, you know me; you know an old shipmate, Bill, surely,  said\nthe stranger.\n\nThe captain made a sort of gasp.\n\n Black Dog!  said he.\n\n And who else?  returned the other, getting more at his ease.  Black\nDog as ever was, come for to see his old shipmate Billy, at the Admiral\nBenbow inn. Ah, Bill, Bill, we have seen a sight of times, us two, since\nI lost them two talons,  holding up his mutilated hand.\n\n Now, look here,  said the captain;  you ve run me down; here I am;\nwell, then, speak up; what is it? \n\n That s you, Bill,  returned Black Dog,  you re in the right of it,\nBilly. I ll have a glass of rum from this dear child here, as I ve took\nsuch a liking to; and we ll sit down, if you please, and talk square,\nlike old shipmates. \n\nWhen I returned with the rum, they were already seated on either side\nof the captain s breakfast-table--Black Dog next to the door and\nsitting sideways so as to have one eye on his old shipmate and one, as I\nthought, on his retreat.\n\nHe bade me go and leave the door wide open.  None of your keyholes for\nme, sonny,  he said; and I left them together and retired into the bar.\n\nFor a long time, though I certainly did my best to listen, I could hear\nnothing but a low gattling; but at last the voices began to grow higher,\nand I could pick up a word or two, mostly oaths, from the captain.\n\n No, no, no, no; and an end of it!  he cried once. And again,  If it\ncomes to swinging, swing all, say I. \n\nThen all of a sudden there was a tremendous explosion of oaths and\nother noises--the chair and table went over in a lump, a clash of steel\nfollowed, and then a cry of pain, and the next instant I saw Black\nDog in full flight, and the captain hotly pursuing, both with drawn\ncutlasses, and the former streaming blood from the left shoulder. Just\nat the door the captain aimed at the fugitive one last tremendous\ncut, which would certainly have split him to the chine had it not been\nintercepted by our big signboard of Admiral Benbow. You may see the\nnotch on the lower side of the frame to this day.\n\nThat blow was the last of the battle. Once out upon the road, Black\nDog, in spite of his wound, showed a wonderful clean pair of heels and\ndisappeared over the edge of the hill in half a minute. The captain, for\nhis part, stood staring at the signboard like a bewildered man. Then he\npassed his hand over his eyes several times and at last turned back into\nthe house.\n\n Jim,  says he,  rum ; and as he spoke, he reeled a little, and caught\nhimself with one hand against the wall.\n\n Are you hurt?  cried I.\n\n Rum,  he repeated.  I must get away from here. Rum! Rum! \n\nI ran to fetch it, but I was quite unsteadied by all that had fallen\nout, and I broke one glass and fouled the tap, and while I was still\ngetting in my own way, I heard a loud fall in the parlour, and running\nin, beheld the captain lying full length upon the floor. At the same\ninstant my mother, alarmed by the cries and fighting, came running\ndownstairs to help me. Between us we raised his head. He was breathing\nvery loud and hard, but his eyes were closed and his face a horrible\ncolour.\n\n Dear, deary me,  cried my mother,  what a disgrace upon the house! And\nyour poor father sick! \n\nIn the meantime, we had no idea what to do to help the captain, nor any\nother thought but that he had got his death-hurt in the scuffle with\nthe stranger. I got the rum, to be sure, and tried to put it down his\nthroat, but his teeth were tightly shut and his jaws as strong as iron.\nIt was a happy relief for us when the door opened and Doctor Livesey\ncame in, on his visit to my father.\n\n Oh, doctor,  we cried,  what shall we do? Where is he wounded? \n\n Wounded? A fiddle-stick s end!  said the doctor.  No more wounded than\nyou or I. The man has had a stroke, as I warned him. Now, Mrs. Hawkins,\njust you run upstairs to your husband and tell him, if possible, nothing\nabout it. For my part, I must do my best to save this fellow s trebly\nworthless life; Jim, you get me a basin. \n\nWhen I got back with the basin, the doctor had already ripped up the\ncaptain s sleeve and exposed his great sinewy arm. It was tattooed\nin several places.  Here s luck,   A fair wind,  and  Billy Bones his\nfancy,  were very neatly and clearly executed on the forearm; and up\nnear the shoulder there was a sketch of a gallows and a man hanging from\nit--done, as I thought, with great spirit.\n\n Prophetic,  said the doctor, touching this picture with his finger.\n And now, Master Billy Bones, if that be your name, we ll have a look at\nthe colour of your blood. Jim,  he said,  are you afraid of blood? \n\n No, sir,  said I.\n\n Well, then,  said he,  you hold the basin ; and with that he took his\nlancet and opened a vein.\n\nA great deal of blood was taken before the captain opened his eyes\nand looked mistily about him. First he recognized the doctor with\nan unmistakable frown; then his glance fell upon me, and he looked\nrelieved. But suddenly his colour changed, and he tried to raise\nhimself, crying,  Where s Black Dog? \n\n There is no Black Dog here,  said the doctor,  except what you have\non your own back. You have been drinking rum; you have had a stroke,\nprecisely as I told you; and I have just, very much against my own will,\ndragged you headforemost out of the grave. Now, Mr. Bones-- \n\n That s not my name,  he interrupted.\n\n Much I care,  returned the doctor.  It s the name of a buccaneer of my\nacquaintance; and I call you by it for the sake of shortness, and what I\nhave to say to you is this; one glass of rum won t kill you, but if\nyou take one you ll take another and another, and I stake my wig if you\ndon t break off short, you ll die--do you understand that?--die, and go\nto your own place, like the man in the Bible. Come, now, make an effort.\nI ll help you to your bed for once. \n\nBetween us, with much trouble, we managed to hoist him upstairs, and\nlaid him on his bed, where his head fell back on the pillow as if he\nwere almost fainting.\n\n Now, mind you,  said the doctor,  I clear my conscience--the name of\nrum for you is death. \n\nAnd with that he went off to see my father, taking me with him by the\narm.\n\n This is nothing,  he said as soon as he had closed the door.  I have\ndrawn blood enough to keep him quiet awhile; he should lie for a week\nwhere he is--that is the best thing for him and you; but another stroke\nwould settle him. \n\n\n\n\nIII\nThe Black Spot\n\n\nAbout noon I stopped at the captain s door with some cooling drinks\nand medicines. He was lying very much as we had left him, only a little\nhigher, and he seemed both weak and excited.\n\n Jim,  he said,  you re the only one here that s worth anything, and you\nknow I ve been always good to you. Never a month but I ve given you a\nsilver fourpenny for yourself. And now you see, mate, I m pretty low,\nand deserted by all; and Jim, you ll bring me one noggin of rum, now,\nwon t you, matey? \n\n The doctor--  I began.\n\nBut he broke in cursing the doctor, in a feeble voice but heartily.\n Doctors is all swabs,  he said;  and that doctor there, why, what do\nhe know about seafaring men? I been in places hot as pitch, and mates\ndropping round with Yellow Jack, and the blessed land a-heaving like the\nsea with earthquakes--what to the doctor know of lands like that?--and I\nlived on rum, I tell you. It s been meat and drink, and man and wife,\nto me; and if I m not to have my rum now I m a poor old hulk on a lee\nshore, my blood ll be on you, Jim, and that doctor swab ; and he ran on\nagain for a while with curses.  Look, Jim, how my fingers fidges, \n he continued in the pleading tone.  I can t keep  em still, not I. I\nhaven t had a drop this blessed day. That doctor s a fool, I tell you.\nIf I don t have a dram o  rum, Jim, I ll have the horrors; I seen some\non  em already. I seen old Flint in the corner there, behind you; as\nplain as print, I seen him; and if I get the horrors, I m a man that\nhas lived rough, and I ll raise Cain. Your doctor hisself said one glass\nwouldn t hurt me. I ll give you a golden guinea for a noggin, Jim. \n\nHe was growing more and more excited, and this alarmed me for my father,\nwho was very low that day and needed quiet; besides, I was reassured by\nthe doctor s words, now quoted to me, and rather offended by the offer\nof a bribe.\n\n I want none of your money,  said I,  but what you owe my father. I ll\nget you one glass, and no more. \n\nWhen I brought it to him, he seized it greedily and drank it out.\n\n Aye, aye,  said he,  that s some better, sure enough. And now, matey,\ndid that doctor say how long I was to lie here in this old berth? \n\n A week at least,  said I.\n\n Thunder!  he cried.  A week! I can t do that; they d have the black\nspot on me by then. The lubbers is going about to get the wind of me\nthis blessed moment; lubbers as couldn t keep what they got, and want to\nnail what is another s. Is that seamanly behaviour, now, I want to know?\nBut I m a saving soul. I never wasted good money of mine, nor lost it\nneither; and I ll trick  em again. I m not afraid on  em. I ll shake out\nanother reef, matey, and daddle  em again. \n\nAs he was thus speaking, he had risen from bed with great difficulty,\nholding to my shoulder with a grip that almost made me cry out, and\nmoving his legs like so much dead weight. His words, spirited as they\nwere in meaning, contrasted sadly with the weakness of the voice in\nwhich they were uttered. He paused when he had got into a sitting\nposition on the edge.\n\n That doctor s done me,  he murmured.  My ears is singing. Lay me back. \n\nBefore I could do much to help him he had fallen back again to his\nformer place, where he lay for a while silent.\n\n Jim,  he said at length,  you saw that seafaring man today? \n\n Black Dog?  I asked.\n\n Ah! Black Dog,  says he.  _He s_ a bad  un; but there s worse that put him\non. Now, if I can t get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot, mind\nyou, it s my old sea-chest they re after; you get on a horse--you can,\ncan t you? Well, then, you get on a horse, and go to--well, yes,\nI will!--to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all\nhands--magistrates and sich--and he ll lay  em aboard at the Admiral\nBenbow--all old Flint s crew, man and boy, all on  em that s left. I was\nfirst mate, I was, old Flint s first mate, and I m the on y one as knows\nthe place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as if I\nwas to now, you see. But you won t peach unless they get the black spot\non me, or unless you see that Black Dog again or a seafaring man with\none leg, Jim--him above all. \n\n But what is the black spot, captain?  I asked.\n\n That s a summons, mate. I ll tell you if they get that. But you keep\nyour weather-eye open, Jim, and I ll share with you equals, upon my\nhonour. \n\nHe wandered a little longer, his voice growing weaker; but soon after I\nhad given him his medicine, which he took like a child, with the remark,\n If ever a seaman wanted drugs, it s me,  he fell at last into a heavy,\nswoon-like sleep, in which I left him. What I should have done had all\ngone well I do not know. Probably I should have told the whole story to\nthe doctor, for I was in mortal fear lest the captain should repent of\nhis confessions and make an end of me. But as things fell out, my poor\nfather died quite suddenly that evening, which put all other matters\non one side. Our natural distress, the visits of the neighbours, the\narranging of the funeral, and all the work of the inn to be carried on\nin the meanwhile kept me so busy that I had scarcely time to think of\nthe captain, far less to be afraid of him.\n\nHe got downstairs next morning, to be sure, and had his meals as usual,\nthough he ate little and had more, I am afraid, than his usual supply of\nrum, for he helped himself out of the bar, scowling and blowing through\nhis nose, and no one dared to cross him. On the night before the funeral\nhe was as drunk as ever; and it was shocking, in that house of mourning,\nto hear him singing away at his ugly old sea-song; but weak as he was,\nwe were all in the fear of death for him, and the doctor was suddenly\ntaken up with a case many miles away and was never near the house after\nmy father s death. I have said the captain was weak, and indeed he\nseemed rather to grow weaker than regain his strength. He clambered up\nand down stairs, and went from the parlour to the bar and back again,\nand sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea, holding on to\nthe walls as he went for support and breathing hard and fast like a man\non a steep mountain. He never particularly addressed me, and it is my\nbelief he had as good as forgotten his confidences; but his temper was\nmore flighty, and allowing for his bodily weakness, more violent than\never. He had an alarming way now when he was drunk of drawing his\ncutlass and laying it bare before him on the table. But with all that,\nhe minded people less and seemed shut up in his own thoughts and rather\nwandering. Once, for instance, to our extreme wonder, he piped up to a\ndifferent air, a kind of country love-song that he must have learned in\nhis youth before he had begun to follow the sea.\n\nSo things passed until, the day after the funeral, and about three\no clock of a bitter, foggy, frosty afternoon, I was standing at the door\nfor a moment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when I saw someone\ndrawing slowly near along the road. He was plainly blind, for he tapped\nbefore him with a stick and wore a great green shade over his eyes and\nnose; and he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge\nold tattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear positively\ndeformed. I never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure.\nHe stopped a little from the inn, and raising his voice in an odd\nsing-song, addressed the air in front of him,  Will any kind friend\ninform a poor blind man, who has lost the precious sight of his eyes in\nthe gracious defence of his native country, England--and God bless King\nGeorge!--where or in what part of this country he may now be? \n\n You are at the Admiral Benbow, Black Hill Cove, my good man,  said I.\n\n I hear a voice,  said he,  a young voice. Will you give me your hand,\nmy kind young friend, and lead me in? \n\nI held out my hand, and the horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless creature\ngripped it in a moment like a vise. I was so much startled that I\nstruggled to withdraw, but the blind man pulled me close up to him with\na single action of his arm.\n\n Now, boy,  he said,  take me in to the captain. \n\n Sir,  said I,  upon my word I dare not. \n\n Oh,  he sneered,  that s it! Take me in straight or I ll break your\narm. \n\nAnd he gave it, as he spoke, a wrench that made me cry out.\n\n Sir,  said I,  it is for yourself I mean. The captain is not what he\nused to be. He sits with a drawn cutlass. Another gentleman-- \n\n Come, now, march,  interrupted he; and I never heard a voice so cruel,\nand cold, and ugly as that blind man s. It cowed me more than the pain,\nand I began to obey him at once, walking straight in at the door and\ntowards the parlour, where our sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed\nwith rum. The blind man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist\nand leaning almost more of his weight on me than I could carry.  Lead me\nstraight up to him, and when I m in view, cry out,  Here s a friend\nfor you, Bill.  If you don t, I ll do this,  and with that he gave me a\ntwitch that I thought would have made me faint. Between this and that, I\nwas so utterly terrified of the blind beggar that I forgot my terror of\nthe captain, and as I opened the parlour door, cried out the words he\nhad ordered in a trembling voice.\n\nThe poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of\nhim and left him staring sober. The expression of his face was not so\nmuch of terror as of mortal sickness. He made a movement to rise, but I\ndo not believe he had enough force left in his body.\n\n Now, Bill, sit where you are,  said the beggar.  If I can t see, I can\nhear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold out your left hand.\nBoy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right. \n\nWe both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass something from the\nhollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain s,\nwhich closed upon it instantly.\n\n And now that s done,  said the blind man; and at the words he suddenly\nleft hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness,\nskipped out of the parlour and into the road, where, as I still stood\nmotionless, I could hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance.\n\nIt was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our\nsenses, but at length, and about at the same moment, I released his\nwrist, which I was still holding, and he drew in his hand and looked\nsharply into the palm.\n\n Ten o clock!  he cried.  Six hours. We ll do them yet,  and he sprang\nto his feet.\n\nEven as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying\nfor a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole\nheight face foremost to the floor.\n\nI ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was all in vain.\nThe captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious\nthing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of\nlate I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I\nburst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and\nthe sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.\n\n\n\n\nIV\nThe Sea-chest\n\n\nI lost no time, of course, in telling my mother all that I knew, and\nperhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once\nin a difficult and dangerous position. Some of the man s money--if\nhe had any--was certainly due to us, but it was not likely that our\ncaptain s shipmates, above all the two specimens seen by me, Black\nDog and the blind beggar, would be inclined to give up their booty in\npayment of the dead man s debts. The captain s order to mount at\nonce and ride for Doctor Livesey would have left my mother alone\nand unprotected, which was not to be thought of. Indeed, it seemed\nimpossible for either of us to remain much longer in the house; the fall\nof coals in the kitchen grate, the very ticking of the clock, filled\nus with alarms. The neighbourhood, to our ears, seemed haunted by\napproaching footsteps; and what between the dead body of the captain\non the parlour floor and the thought of that detestable blind beggar\nhovering near at hand and ready to return, there were moments when, as\nthe saying goes, I jumped in my skin for terror. Something must speedily\nbe resolved upon, and it occurred to us at last to go forth together\nand seek help in the neighbouring hamlet. No sooner said than done.\nBare-headed as we were, we ran out at once in the gathering evening and\nthe frosty fog.\n\nThe hamlet lay not many hundred yards away, though out of view, on the\nother side of the next cove; and what greatly encouraged me, it was\nin an opposite direction from that whence the blind man had made his\nappearance and whither he had presumably returned. We were not many\nminutes on the road, though we sometimes stopped to lay hold of each\nother and hearken. But there was no unusual sound--nothing but the low\nwash of the ripple and the croaking of the inmates of the wood.\n\nIt was already candle-light when we reached the hamlet, and I shall\nnever forget how much I was cheered to see the yellow shine in doors and\nwindows; but that, as it proved, was the best of the help we were likely\nto get in that quarter. For--you would have thought men would have been\nashamed of themselves--no soul would consent to return with us to the\nAdmiral Benbow. The more we told of our troubles, the more--man, woman,\nand child--they clung to the shelter of their houses. The name of\nCaptain Flint, though it was strange to me, was well enough known to\nsome there and carried a great weight of terror. Some of the men who\nhad been to field-work on the far side of the Admiral Benbow remembered,\nbesides, to have seen several strangers on the road, and taking them to\nbe smugglers, to have bolted away; and one at least had seen a little\nlugger in what we called Kitt s Hole. For that matter, anyone who was a\ncomrade of the captain s was enough to frighten them to death. And the\nshort and the long of the matter was, that while we could get several\nwho were willing enough to ride to Dr. Livesey s, which lay in another\ndirection, not one would help us to defend the inn.\n\nThey say cowardice is infectious; but then argument is, on the other\nhand, a great emboldener; and so when each had said his say, my mother\nmade them a speech. She would not, she declared, lose money that\nbelonged to her fatherless boy;  If none of the rest of you dare, \n she said,  Jim and I dare. Back we will go, the way we came, and small\nthanks to you big, hulking, chicken-hearted men. We ll have that chest\nopen, if we die for it. And I ll thank you for that bag, Mrs. Crossley,\nto bring back our lawful money in. \n\nOf course I said I would go with my mother, and of course they all cried\nout at our foolhardiness, but even then not a man would go along with\nus. All they would do was to give me a loaded pistol lest we were\nattacked, and to promise to have horses ready saddled in case we were\npursued on our return, while one lad was to ride forward to the doctor s\nin search of armed assistance.\n\nMy heart was beating finely when we two set forth in the cold night upon\nthis dangerous venture. A full moon was beginning to rise and peered\nredly through the upper edges of the fog, and this increased our haste,\nfor it was plain, before we came forth again, that all would be as\nbright as day, and our departure exposed to the eyes of any watchers.\nWe slipped along the hedges, noiseless and swift, nor did we see or hear\nanything to increase our terrors, till, to our relief, the door of the\nAdmiral Benbow had closed behind us.\n\nI slipped the bolt at once, and we stood and panted for a moment in the\ndark, alone in the house with the dead captain s body. Then my mother\ngot a candle in the bar, and holding each other s hands, we advanced\ninto the parlour. He lay as we had left him, on his back, with his eyes\nopen and one arm stretched out.\n\n Draw down the blind, Jim,  whispered my mother;  they might come and\nwatch outside. And now,  said she when I had done so,  we have to get\nthe key off _that;_ and who s to touch it, I should like to know!  and she\ngave a kind of sob as she said the words.\n\nI went down on my knees at once. On the floor close to his hand there\nwas a little round of paper, blackened on the one side. I could not\ndoubt that this was the _black spot;_ and taking it up, I found written\non the other side, in a very good, clear hand, this short message:  You\nhave till ten tonight. \n\n He had till ten, Mother,  said I; and just as I said it, our old clock\nbegan striking. This sudden noise startled us shockingly; but the news\nwas good, for it was only six.\n\n Now, Jim,  she said,  that key. \n\nI felt in his pockets, one after another. A few small coins, a thimble,\nand some thread and big needles, a piece of pigtail tobacco bitten away\nat the end, his gully with the crooked handle, a pocket compass, and a\ntinder box were all that they contained, and I began to despair.\n\n Perhaps it s round his neck,  suggested my mother.\n\nOvercoming a strong repugnance, I tore open his shirt at the neck, and\nthere, sure enough, hanging to a bit of tarry string, which I cut with\nhis own gully, we found the key. At this triumph we were filled with\nhope and hurried upstairs without delay to the little room where he had\nslept so long and where his box had stood since the day of his arrival.\n\nIt was like any other seaman s chest on the outside, the initial  B \n burned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the corners somewhat\nsmashed and broken as by long, rough usage.\n\n Give me the key,  said my mother; and though the lock was very stiff,\nshe had turned it and thrown back the lid in a twinkling.\n\nA strong smell of tobacco and tar rose from the interior, but nothing\nwas to be seen on the top except a suit of very good clothes, carefully\nbrushed and folded. They had never been worn, my mother said. Under\nthat, the miscellany began--a quadrant, a tin canikin, several sticks of\ntobacco, two brace of very handsome pistols, a piece of bar silver, an\nold Spanish watch and some other trinkets of little value and mostly of\nforeign make, a pair of compasses mounted with brass, and five or six\ncurious West Indian shells. I have often wondered since why he should\nhave carried about these shells with him in his wandering, guilty, and\nhunted life.\n\nIn the meantime, we had found nothing of any value but the silver and\nthe trinkets, and neither of these were in our way. Underneath there\nwas an old boat-cloak, whitened with sea-salt on many a harbour-bar. My\nmother pulled it up with impatience, and there lay before us, the last\nthings in the chest, a bundle tied up in oilcloth, and looking like\npapers, and a canvas bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of\ngold.\n\n I ll show these rogues that I m an honest woman,  said my mother.  I ll\nhave my dues, and not a farthing over. Hold Mrs. Crossley s bag.  And\nshe began to count over the amount of the captain s score from the\nsailor s bag into the one that I was holding.\n\nIt was a long, difficult business, for the coins were of all countries\nand sizes--doubloons, and louis d ors, and guineas, and pieces of eight,\nand I know not what besides, all shaken together at random. The guineas,\ntoo, were about the scarcest, and it was with these only that my mother\nknew how to make her count.\n\nWhen we were about half-way through, I suddenly put my hand upon her\narm, for I had heard in the silent frosty air a sound that brought my\nheart into my mouth--the tap-tapping of the blind man s stick upon the\nfrozen road. It drew nearer and nearer, while we sat holding our breath.\nThen it struck sharp on the inn door, and then we could hear the handle\nbeing turned and the bolt rattling as the wretched being tried to enter;\nand then there was a long time of silence both within and without.\nAt last the tapping recommenced, and, to our indescribable joy and\ngratitude, died slowly away again until it ceased to be heard.\n\n Mother,  said I,  take the whole and let s be going,  for I was sure\nthe bolted door must have seemed suspicious and would bring the whole\nhornet s nest about our ears, though how thankful I was that I had\nbolted it, none could tell who had never met that terrible blind man.\n\nBut my mother, frightened as she was, would not consent to take a\nfraction more than was due to her and was obstinately unwilling to be\ncontent with less. It was not yet seven, she said, by a long way; she\nknew her rights and she would have them; and she was still arguing with\nme when a little low whistle sounded a good way off upon the hill. That\nwas enough, and more than enough, for both of us.\n\n I ll take what I have,  she said, jumping to her feet.\n\n And I ll take this to square the count,  said I, picking up the oilskin\npacket.\n\nNext moment we were both groping downstairs, leaving the candle by\nthe empty chest; and the next we had opened the door and were in full\nretreat. We had not started a moment too soon. The fog was rapidly\ndispersing; already the moon shone quite clear on the high ground on\neither side; and it was only in the exact bottom of the dell and round\nthe tavern door that a thin veil still hung unbroken to conceal the\nfirst steps of our escape. Far less than half-way to the hamlet, very\nlittle beyond the bottom of the hill, we must come forth into the\nmoonlight. Nor was this all, for the sound of several footsteps running\ncame already to our ears, and as we looked back in their direction, a\nlight tossing to and fro and still rapidly advancing showed that one of\nthe newcomers carried a lantern.\n\n My dear,  said my mother suddenly,  take the money and run on. I am\ngoing to faint. \n\nThis was certainly the end for both of us, I thought. How I cursed the\ncowardice of the neighbours; how I blamed my poor mother for her honesty\nand her greed, for her past foolhardiness and present weakness! We were\njust at the little bridge, by good fortune; and I helped her, tottering\nas she was, to the edge of the bank, where, sure enough, she gave a sigh\nand fell on my shoulder. I do not know how I found the strength to do it\nat all, and I am afraid it was roughly done, but I managed to drag her\ndown the bank and a little way under the arch. Farther I could not move\nher, for the bridge was too low to let me do more than crawl below it.\nSo there we had to stay--my mother almost entirely exposed and both of\nus within earshot of the inn.\n\n\n\n\nV\nThe Last of the Blind Man\n\n\nMy curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear, for I could not\nremain where I was, but crept back to the bank again, whence, sheltering\nmy head behind a bush of broom, I might command the road before our\ndoor. I was scarcely in position ere my enemies began to arrive, seven\nor eight of them, running hard, their feet beating out of time along\nthe road and the man with the lantern some paces in front. Three men ran\ntogether, hand in hand; and I made out, even through the mist, that the\nmiddle man of this trio was the blind beggar. The next moment his voice\nshowed me that I was right.\n\n Down with the door!  he cried.\n\n Aye, aye, sir!  answered two or three; and a rush was made upon the\nAdmiral Benbow, the lantern-bearer following; and then I could see\nthem pause, and hear speeches passed in a lower key, as if they were\nsurprised to find the door open. But the pause was brief, for the blind\nman again issued his commands. His voice sounded louder and higher, as\nif he were afire with eagerness and rage.\n\n In, in, in!  he shouted, and cursed them for their delay.\n\nFour or five of them obeyed at once, two remaining on the road with the\nformidable beggar. There was a pause, then a cry of surprise, and then a\nvoice shouting from the house,  Bill s dead. \n\nBut the blind man swore at them again for their delay.\n\n Search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and\nget the chest,  he cried.\n\nI could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the\nhouse must have shook with it. Promptly afterwards, fresh sounds of\nastonishment arose; the window of the captain s room was thrown open\nwith a slam and a jingle of broken glass, and a man leaned out into the\nmoonlight, head and shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the\nroad below him.\n\n Pew,  he cried,  they ve been before us. Someone s turned the chest out\nalow and aloft. \n\n Is it there?  roared Pew.\n\n The money s there. \n\nThe blind man cursed the money.\n\n Flint s fist, I mean,  he cried.\n\n We don t see it here nohow,  returned the man.\n\n Here, you below there, is it on Bill?  cried the blind man again.\n\nAt that another fellow, probably him who had remained below to search\nthe captain s body, came to the door of the inn.  Bill s been overhauled\na ready,  said he;  nothin  left. \n\n It s these people of the inn--it s that boy. I wish I had put his eyes\nout!  cried the blind man, Pew.  There were no time ago--they had the\ndoor bolted when I tried it. Scatter, lads, and find  em. \n\n Sure enough, they left their glim here,  said the fellow from the\nwindow.\n\n Scatter and find  em! Rout the house out!  reiterated Pew, striking\nwith his stick upon the road.\n\nThen there followed a great to-do through all our old inn, heavy feet\npounding to and fro, furniture thrown over, doors kicked in, until the\nvery rocks re-echoed and the men came out again, one after another, on\nthe road and declared that we were nowhere to be found. And just\nthe same whistle that had alarmed my mother and myself over the dead\ncaptain s money was once more clearly audible through the night,\nbut this time twice repeated. I had thought it to be the blind man s\ntrumpet, so to speak, summoning his crew to the assault, but I now found\nthat it was a signal from the hillside towards the hamlet, and from its\neffect upon the buccaneers, a signal to warn them of approaching danger.\n\n There s Dirk again,  said one.  Twice! We ll have to budge, mates. \n\n Budge, you skulk!  cried Pew.  Dirk was a fool and a coward from the\nfirst--you wouldn t mind him. They must be close by; they can t be far;\nyou have your hands on it. Scatter and look for them, dogs! Oh, shiver\nmy soul,  he cried,  if I had eyes! \n\nThis appeal seemed to produce some effect, for two of the fellows began\nto look here and there among the lumber, but half-heartedly, I thought,\nand with half an eye to their own danger all the time, while the rest\nstood irresolute on the road.\n\n You have your hands on thousands, you fools, and you hang a leg! You d\nbe as rich as kings if you could find it, and you know it s here, and\nyou stand there skulking. There wasn t one of you dared face Bill, and\nI did it--a blind man! And I m to lose my chance for you! I m to be a\npoor, crawling beggar, sponging for rum, when I might be rolling in a\ncoach! If you had the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit you would catch\nthem still. \n\n Hang it, Pew, we ve got the doubloons!  grumbled one.\n\n They might have hid the blessed thing,  said another.  Take the\nGeorges, Pew, and don t stand here squalling. \n\nSqualling was the word for it; Pew s anger rose so high at these\nobjections till at last, his passion completely taking the upper hand,\nhe struck at them right and left in his blindness and his stick sounded\nheavily on more than one.\n\nThese, in their turn, cursed back at the blind miscreant, threatened him\nin horrid terms, and tried in vain to catch the stick and wrest it from\nhis grasp.\n\nThis quarrel was the saving of us, for while it was still raging,\nanother sound came from the top of the hill on the side of the\nhamlet--the tramp of horses galloping. Almost at the same time a\npistol-shot, flash and report, came from the hedge side. And that was\nplainly the last signal of danger, for the buccaneers turned at once\nand ran, separating in every direction, one seaward along the cove, one\nslant across the hill, and so on, so that in half a minute not a sign of\nthem remained but Pew. Him they had deserted, whether in sheer panic\nor out of revenge for his ill words and blows I know not; but there he\nremained behind, tapping up and down the road in a frenzy, and groping\nand calling for his comrades. Finally he took a wrong turn and ran a few\nsteps past me, towards the hamlet, crying,  Johnny, Black Dog, Dirk, \n and other names,  you won t leave old Pew, mates--not old Pew! \n\nJust then the noise of horses topped the rise, and four or five riders\ncame in sight in the moonlight and swept at full gallop down the slope.\n\nAt this Pew saw his error, turned with a scream, and ran straight for\nthe ditch, into which he rolled. But he was on his feet again in a\nsecond and made another dash, now utterly bewildered, right under the\nnearest of the coming horses.\n\nThe rider tried to save him, but in vain. Down went Pew with a cry that\nrang high into the night; and the four hoofs trampled and spurned him\nand passed by. He fell on his side, then gently collapsed upon his face\nand moved no more.\n\nI leaped to my feet and hailed the riders. They were pulling up, at any\nrate, horrified at the accident; and I soon saw what they were. One,\ntailing out behind the rest, was a lad that had gone from the hamlet to\nDr. Livesey s; the rest were revenue officers, whom he had met by the\nway, and with whom he had had the intelligence to return at once. Some\nnews of the lugger in Kitt s Hole had found its way to Supervisor Dance\nand set him forth that night in our direction, and to that circumstance\nmy mother and I owed our preservation from death.\n\nPew was dead, stone dead. As for my mother, when we had carried her up\nto the hamlet, a little cold water and salts and that soon brought her\nback again, and she was none the worse for her terror, though she still\ncontinued to deplore the balance of the money. In the meantime the\nsupervisor rode on, as fast as he could, to Kitt s Hole; but his men\nhad to dismount and grope down the dingle, leading, and sometimes\nsupporting, their horses, and in continual fear of ambushes; so it was\nno great matter for surprise that when they got down to the Hole the\nlugger was already under way, though still close in. He hailed her. A\nvoice replied, telling him to keep out of the moonlight or he would get\nsome lead in him, and at the same time a bullet whistled close by his\narm. Soon after, the lugger doubled the point and disappeared. Mr. Dance\nstood there, as he said,  like a fish out of water,  and all he could do\nwas to dispatch a man to B---- to warn the cutter.  And that,  said he,\n is just about as good as nothing. They ve got off clean, and there s\nan end. Only,  he added,  I m glad I trod on Master Pew s corns,  for by\nthis time he had heard my story.\n\nI went back with him to the Admiral Benbow, and you cannot imagine a\nhouse in such a state of smash; the very clock had been thrown down\nby these fellows in their furious hunt after my mother and myself;\nand though nothing had actually been taken away except the captain s\nmoney-bag and a little silver from the till, I could see at once that we\nwere ruined. Mr. Dance could make nothing of the scene.\n\n They got the money, you say? Well, then, Hawkins, what in fortune were\nthey after? More money, I suppose? \n\n No, sir; not money, I think,  replied I.  In fact, sir, I believe I\nhave the thing in my breast pocket; and to tell you the truth, I should\nlike to get it put in safety. \n\n To be sure, boy; quite right,  said he.  I ll take it, if you like. \n\n I thought perhaps Dr. Livesey--  I began.\n\n Perfectly right,  he interrupted very cheerily,  perfectly right--a\ngentleman and a magistrate. And, now I come to think of it, I might as\nwell ride round there myself and report to him or squire. Master Pew s\ndead, when all s done; not that I regret it, but he s dead, you see, and\npeople will make it out against an officer of his Majesty s revenue,\nif make it out they can. Now, I ll tell you, Hawkins, if you like, I ll\ntake you along. \n\nI thanked him heartily for the offer, and we walked back to the hamlet\nwhere the horses were. By the time I had told mother of my purpose they\nwere all in the saddle.\n\n Dogger,  said Mr. Dance,  you have a good horse; take up this lad\nbehind you. \n\nAs soon as I was mounted, holding on to Dogger s belt, the supervisor\ngave the word, and the party struck out at a bouncing trot on the road\nto Dr. Livesey s house.\n\n\n\n\nVI\nThe Captain s Papers\n\n\nWe rode hard all the way till we drew up before Dr. Livesey s door. The\nhouse was all dark to the front.\n\nMr. Dance told me to jump down and knock, and Dogger gave me a stirrup\nto descend by. The door was opened almost at once by the maid.\n\n Is Dr. Livesey in?  I asked.\n\nNo, she said, he had come home in the afternoon but had gone up to the\nhall to dine and pass the evening with the squire.\n\n So there we go, boys,  said Mr. Dance.\n\nThis time, as the distance was short, I did not mount, but ran with\nDogger s stirrup-leather to the lodge gates and up the long, leafless,\nmoonlit avenue to where the white line of the hall buildings looked on\neither hand on great old gardens. Here Mr. Dance dismounted, and taking\nme along with him, was admitted at a word into the house.\n\nThe servant led us down a matted passage and showed us at the end into a\ngreat library, all lined with bookcases and busts upon the top of them,\nwhere the squire and Dr. Livesey sat, pipe in hand, on either side of a\nbright fire.\n\nI had never seen the squire so near at hand. He was a tall man, over six\nfeet high, and broad in proportion, and he had a bluff, rough-and-ready\nface, all roughened and reddened and lined in his long travels. His\neyebrows were very black, and moved readily, and this gave him a look of\nsome temper, not bad, you would say, but quick and high.\n\n Come in, Mr. Dance,  says he, very stately and condescending.\n\n Good evening, Dance,  says the doctor with a nod.  And good evening to\nyou, friend Jim. What good wind brings you here? \n\nThe supervisor stood up straight and stiff and told his story like a\nlesson; and you should have seen how the two gentlemen leaned forward\nand looked at each other, and forgot to smoke in their surprise and\ninterest. When they heard how my mother went back to the inn, Dr.\nLivesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried  Bravo!  and\nbroke his long pipe against the grate. Long before it was done, Mr.\nTrelawney (that, you will remember, was the squire s name) had got up\nfrom his seat and was striding about the room, and the doctor, as if to\nhear the better, had taken off his powdered wig and sat there looking\nvery strange indeed with his own close-cropped black poll.\n\nAt last Mr. Dance finished the story.\n\n Mr. Dance,  said the squire,  you are a very noble fellow. And as for\nriding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I regard it as an act of\nvirtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach. This lad Hawkins is a trump,\nI perceive. Hawkins, will you ring that bell? Mr. Dance must have some\nale. \n\n And so, Jim,  said the doctor,  you have the thing that they were\nafter, have you? \n\n Here it is, sir,  said I, and gave him the oilskin packet.\n\nThe doctor looked it all over, as if his fingers were itching to open\nit; but instead of doing that, he put it quietly in the pocket of his\ncoat.\n\n Squire,  said he,  when Dance has had his ale he must, of course, be\noff on his Majesty s service; but I mean to keep Jim Hawkins here to\nsleep at my house, and with your permission, I propose we should have up\nthe cold pie and let him sup. \n\n As you will, Livesey,  said the squire;  Hawkins has earned better than\ncold pie. \n\nSo a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a sidetable, and I made\na hearty supper, for I was as hungry as a hawk, while Mr. Dance was\nfurther complimented and at last dismissed.\n\n And now, squire,  said the doctor.\n\n And now, Livesey,  said the squire in the same breath.\n\n One at a time, one at a time,  laughed Dr. Livesey.  You have heard of\nthis Flint, I suppose? \n\n Heard of him!  cried the squire.  Heard of him, you say! He was the\nbloodthirstiest buccaneer that sailed. Blackbeard was a child to Flint.\nThe Spaniards were so prodigiously afraid of him that, I tell you, sir,\nI was sometimes proud he was an Englishman. I ve seen his top-sails with\nthese eyes, off Trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that I\nsailed with put back--put back, sir, into Port of Spain. \n\n Well, I ve heard of him myself, in England,  said the doctor.  But the\npoint is, had he money? \n\n Money!  cried the squire.  Have you heard the story? What were these\nvillains after but money? What do they care for but money? For what\nwould they risk their rascal carcasses but money? \n\n That we shall soon know,  replied the doctor.  But you are so\nconfoundedly hot-headed and exclamatory that I cannot get a word in.\nWhat I want to know is this: Supposing that I have here in my pocket\nsome clue to where Flint buried his treasure, will that treasure amount\nto much? \n\n Amount, sir!  cried the squire.  It will amount to this: If we have the\nclue you talk about, I fit out a ship in Bristol dock, and take you and\nHawkins here along, and I ll have that treasure if I search a year. \n\n Very well,  said the doctor.  Now, then, if Jim is agreeable, we ll\nopen the packet ; and he laid it before him on the table.\n\nThe bundle was sewn together, and the doctor had to get out his\ninstrument case and cut the stitches with his medical scissors. It\ncontained two things--a book and a sealed paper.\n\n First of all we ll try the book,  observed the doctor.\n\nThe squire and I were both peering over his shoulder as he opened\nit, for Dr. Livesey had kindly motioned me to come round from the\nside-table, where I had been eating, to enjoy the sport of the search.\nOn the first page there were only some scraps of writing, such as a man\nwith a pen in his hand might make for idleness or practice. One was the\nsame as the tattoo mark,  Billy Bones his fancy ; then there was  Mr. W.\nBones, mate,   No more rum,   Off Palm Key he got itt,  and some other\nsnatches, mostly single words and unintelligible. I could not help\nwondering who it was that had  got itt,  and what  itt  was that he got.\nA knife in his back as like as not.\n\n Not much instruction there,  said Dr. Livesey as he passed on.\n\nThe next ten or twelve pages were filled with a curious series of\nentries. There was a date at one end of the line and at the other a\nsum of money, as in common account-books, but instead of explanatory\nwriting, only a varying number of crosses between the two. On the 12th\nof June, 1745, for instance, a sum of seventy pounds had plainly become\ndue to someone, and there was nothing but six crosses to explain the\ncause. In a few cases, to be sure, the name of a place would be added,\nas  Offe Caraccas,  or a mere entry of latitude and longitude, as  62o\n17  20 , 19o 2  40 . \n\nThe record lasted over nearly twenty years, the amount of the separate\nentries growing larger as time went on, and at the end a grand total\nhad been made out after five or six wrong additions, and these words\nappended,  Bones, his pile. \n\n I can t make head or tail of this,  said Dr. Livesey.\n\n The thing is as clear as noonday,  cried the squire.  This is the\nblack-hearted hound s account-book. These crosses stand for the names of\nships or towns that they sank or plundered. The sums are the scoundrel s\nshare, and where he feared an ambiguity, you see he added something\nclearer.  Offe Caraccas,  now; you see, here was some unhappy vessel\nboarded off that coast. God help the poor souls that manned her--coral\nlong ago. \n\n Right!  said the doctor.  See what it is to be a traveller. Right! And\nthe amounts increase, you see, as he rose in rank. \n\nThere was little else in the volume but a few bearings of places noted\nin the blank leaves towards the end and a table for reducing French,\nEnglish, and Spanish moneys to a common value.\n\n Thrifty man!  cried the doctor.  He wasn t the one to be cheated. \n\n And now,  said the squire,  for the other. \n\nThe paper had been sealed in several places with a thimble by way of\nseal; the very thimble, perhaps, that I had found in the captain s\npocket. The doctor opened the seals with great care, and there fell out\nthe map of an island, with latitude and longitude, soundings, names of\nhills and bays and inlets, and every particular that would be needed\nto bring a ship to a safe anchorage upon its shores. It was about nine\nmiles long and five across, shaped, you might say, like a fat dragon\nstanding up, and had two fine land-locked harbours, and a hill in the\ncentre part marked  The Spy-glass.  There were several additions of a\nlater date, but above all, three crosses of red ink--two on the north\npart of the island, one in the southwest--and beside this last, in\nthe same red ink, and in a small, neat hand, very different from the\ncaptain s tottery characters, these words:  Bulk of treasure here. \n\nOver on the back the same hand had written this further information:\n\n     Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to\n     the N. of N.N.E.\n\n     Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E.\n\n     Ten feet.\n\n     The bar silver is in the north cache; you can find\n     it by the trend of the east hummock, ten fathoms\n     south of the black crag with the face on it.\n\n     The arms are easy found, in the sand-hill, N.\n     point of north inlet cape, bearing E. and a\n     quarter N.\n     J.F.\n\nThat was all; but brief as it was, and to me incomprehensible, it filled\nthe squire and Dr. Livesey with delight.\n\n Livesey,  said the squire,  you will give up this wretched practice\nat once. Tomorrow I start for Bristol. In three weeks  time--three\nweeks!--two weeks--ten days--we ll have the best ship, sir, and the\nchoicest crew in England. Hawkins shall come as cabin-boy. You ll make\na famous cabin-boy, Hawkins. You, Livesey, are ship s doctor; I am\nadmiral. We ll take Redruth, Joyce, and Hunter. We ll have favourable\nwinds, a quick passage, and not the least difficulty in finding the\nspot, and money to eat, to roll in, to play duck and drake with ever\nafter. \n\n Trelawney,  said the doctor,  I ll go with you; and I ll go bail for\nit, so will Jim, and be a credit to the undertaking. There s only one\nman I m afraid of. \n\n And who s that?  cried the squire.  Name the dog, sir! \n\n You,  replied the doctor;  for you cannot hold your tongue. We are not\nthe only men who know of this paper. These fellows who attacked the\ninn tonight--bold, desperate blades, for sure--and the rest who stayed\naboard that lugger, and more, I dare say, not far off, are, one and all,\nthrough thick and thin, bound that they ll get that money. We must none\nof us go alone till we get to sea. Jim and I shall stick together in the\nmeanwhile; you ll take Joyce and Hunter when you ride to Bristol, and\nfrom first to last, not one of us must breathe a word of what we ve\nfound. \n\n Livesey,  returned the squire,  you are always in the right of it. I ll\nbe as silent as the grave. \n\n\n\n\nPART TWO--The Sea-cook\n\n\n\n\nVII\nI Go to Bristol\n\n\nIt was longer than the squire imagined ere we were ready for the sea,\nand none of our first plans--not even Dr. Livesey s, of keeping me\nbeside him--could be carried out as we intended. The doctor had to go\nto London for a physician to take charge of his practice; the squire was\nhard at work at Bristol; and I lived on at the hall under the charge of\nold Redruth, the gamekeeper, almost a prisoner, but full of sea-dreams\nand the most charming anticipations of strange islands and adventures.\nI brooded by the hour together over the map, all the details of which\nI well remembered. Sitting by the fire in the housekeeper s room, I\napproached that island in my fancy from every possible direction; I\nexplored every acre of its surface; I climbed a thousand times to that\ntall hill they call the Spy-glass, and from the top enjoyed the most\nwonderful and changing prospects. Sometimes the isle was thick with\nsavages, with whom we fought, sometimes full of dangerous animals that\nhunted us, but in all my fancies nothing occurred to me so strange and\ntragic as our actual adventures.\n\nSo the weeks passed on, till one fine day there came a letter addressed\nto Dr. Livesey, with this addition,  To be opened, in the case of his\nabsence, by Tom Redruth or young Hawkins.  Obeying this order, we\nfound, or rather I found--for the gamekeeper was a poor hand at reading\nanything but print--the following important news:\n\n     _Old Anchor Inn, Bristol, March 1, 17--._\n\n     Dear Livesey--As I do not know whether you\n     are at the hall or still in London, I send this in\n     double to both places.\n\n     The ship is bought and fitted.  She lies at\n     anchor, ready for sea.  You never imagined a\n     sweeter schooner--a child might sail her--two\n     hundred tons; name, HISPANIOLA.\n\n     I got her through my old friend, Blandly, who\n     has proved himself throughout the most surprising\n     trump.  The admirable fellow literally slaved in\n     my interest, and so, I may say, did everyone in\n     Bristol, as soon as they got wind of the port we\n     sailed for--treasure, I mean.\n\n Redruth,  said I, interrupting the letter,  Dr. Livesey will not like\nthat. The squire has been talking, after all. \n\n Well, who s a better right?  growled the gamekeeper.  A pretty rum go\nif squire ain t to talk for Dr. Livesey, I should think. \n\nAt that I gave up all attempts at commentary and read straight on:\n\n     Blandly himself found the HISPANIOLA, and\n     by the most admirable management got her for the\n     merest trifle.  There is a class of men in Bristol\n     monstrously prejudiced against Blandly.  They go\n     the length of declaring that this honest creature\n     would do anything for money, that the HISPANIOLA\n     belonged to him, and that he sold it me absurdly\n     high--the most transparent calumnies.  None of them\n     dare, however, to deny the merits of the ship.\n\n     So far there was not a hitch.  The\n     workpeople, to be sure--riggers and what not--were\n     most annoyingly slow; but time cured that.  It was\n     the crew that troubled me.\n\n     I wished a round score of men--in case of\n     natives, buccaneers, or the odious French--and I\n     had the worry of the deuce itself to find so much\n     as half a dozen, till the most remarkable stroke\n     of fortune brought me the very man that I\n     required.\n\n     I was standing on the dock, when, by the\n     merest accident, I fell in talk with him.  I found\n     he was an old sailor, kept a public-house, knew\n     all the seafaring men in Bristol, had lost his\n     health ashore, and wanted a good berth as cook to\n     get to sea again.  He had hobbled down there that\n     morning, he said, to get a smell of the salt.\n\n     I was monstrously touched--so would you have\n     been--and, out of pure pity, I engaged him on the\n     spot to be ship s cook.  Long John Silver, he is\n     called, and has lost a leg; but that I regarded as\n     a recommendation, since he lost it in his\n     country s service, under the immortal Hawke.  He\n     has no pension, Livesey.  Imagine the abominable\n     age we live in!\n\n     Well, sir, I thought I had only found a cook,\n     but it was a crew I had discovered.  Between\n     Silver and myself we got together in a few days a\n     company of the toughest old salts imaginable--not\n     pretty to look at, but fellows, by their faces, of\n     the most indomitable spirit.  I declare we could\n     fight a frigate.\n\n     Long John even got rid of two out of the six\n     or seven I had already engaged.  He showed me in a\n     moment that they were just the sort of fresh-water\n     swabs we had to fear in an adventure of\n     importance.\n\n     I am in the most magnificent health and\n     spirits, eating like a bull, sleeping like a tree,\n     yet I shall not enjoy a moment till I hear my old\n     tarpaulins tramping round the capstan.  Seaward,\n     ho!  Hang the treasure!  It s the glory of the sea\n     that has turned my head.  So now, Livesey, come\n     post; do not lose an hour, if you respect me.\n\n     Let young Hawkins go at once to see his\n     mother, with Redruth for a guard; and then both\n     come full speed to Bristol.\n     John Trelawney\n\n     _Postscript._--I did not tell you that Blandly,\n     who, by the way, is to send a consort after us if\n     we don t turn up by the end of August, had found\n     an admirable fellow for sailing master--a stiff\n     man, which I regret, but in all other respects a\n     treasure.  Long John Silver unearthed a very\n     competent man for a mate, a man named Arrow.  I\n     have a boatswain who pipes, Livesey; so things\n     shall go man-o -war fashion on board the good ship\n     HISPANIOLA.\n\n     I forgot to tell you that Silver is a man of\n     substance; I know of my own knowledge that he has\n     a banker s account, which has never been\n     overdrawn.  He leaves his wife to manage the inn;\n     and as she is a woman of colour, a pair of old\n     bachelors like you and I may be excused for\n     guessing that it is the wife, quite as much as the\n     health, that sends him back to roving.\n     J. T.\n\n     P.P.S.--Hawkins may stay one night with his\n     mother.\n     J. T.\n\nYou can fancy the excitement into which that letter put me. I was half\nbeside myself with glee; and if ever I despised a man, it was old\nTom Redruth, who could do nothing but grumble and lament. Any of the\nunder-gamekeepers would gladly have changed places with him; but such\nwas not the squire s pleasure, and the squire s pleasure was like law\namong them all. Nobody but old Redruth would have dared so much as even\nto grumble.\n\nThe next morning he and I set out on foot for the Admiral Benbow, and\nthere I found my mother in good health and spirits. The captain, who had\nso long been a cause of so much discomfort, was gone where the wicked\ncease from troubling. The squire had had everything repaired, and the\npublic rooms and the sign repainted, and had added some furniture--above\nall a beautiful armchair for mother in the bar. He had found her a boy\nas an apprentice also so that she should not want help while I was gone.\n\nIt was on seeing that boy that I understood, for the first time, my\nsituation. I had thought up to that moment of the adventures before me,\nnot at all of the home that I was leaving; and now, at sight of this\nclumsy stranger, who was to stay here in my place beside my mother, I\nhad my first attack of tears. I am afraid I led that boy a dog s life,\nfor as he was new to the work, I had a hundred opportunities of setting\nhim right and putting him down, and I was not slow to profit by them.\n\nThe night passed, and the next day, after dinner, Redruth and I were\nafoot again and on the road. I said good-bye to Mother and the\ncove where I had lived since I was born, and the dear old Admiral\nBenbow--since he was repainted, no longer quite so dear. One of my last\nthoughts was of the captain, who had so often strode along the beach\nwith his cocked hat, his sabre-cut cheek, and his old brass telescope.\nNext moment we had turned the corner and my home was out of sight.\n\nThe mail picked us up about dusk at the Royal George on the heath. I was\nwedged in between Redruth and a stout old gentleman, and in spite of the\nswift motion and the cold night air, I must have dozed a great deal from\nthe very first, and then slept like a log up hill and down dale through\nstage after stage, for when I was awakened at last it was by a punch\nin the ribs, and I opened my eyes to find that we were standing still\nbefore a large building in a city street and that the day had already\nbroken a long time.\n\n Where are we?  I asked.\n\n Bristol,  said Tom.  Get down. \n\nMr. Trelawney had taken up his residence at an inn far down the docks to\nsuperintend the work upon the schooner. Thither we had now to walk, and\nour way, to my great delight, lay along the quays and beside the great\nmultitude of ships of all sizes and rigs and nations. In one, sailors\nwere singing at their work, in another there were men aloft, high over\nmy head, hanging to threads that seemed no thicker than a spider s.\nThough I had lived by the shore all my life, I seemed never to have been\nnear the sea till then. The smell of tar and salt was something new.\nI saw the most wonderful figureheads, that had all been far over the\nocean. I saw, besides, many old sailors, with rings in their ears, and\nwhiskers curled in ringlets, and tarry pigtails, and their swaggering,\nclumsy sea-walk; and if I had seen as many kings or archbishops I could\nnot have been more delighted.\n\nAnd I was going to sea myself, to sea in a schooner, with a piping\nboatswain and pig-tailed singing seamen, to sea, bound for an unknown\nisland, and to seek for buried treasure!\n\nWhile I was still in this delightful dream, we came suddenly in front\nof a large inn and met Squire Trelawney, all dressed out like a\nsea-officer, in stout blue cloth, coming out of the door with a smile on\nhis face and a capital imitation of a sailor s walk.\n\n Here you are,  he cried,  and the doctor came last night from London.\nBravo! The ship s company complete! \n\n Oh, sir,  cried I,  when do we sail? \n\n Sail!  says he.  We sail tomorrow! \n\n\n\n\nVIII\nAt the Sign of the Spy-glass\n\n\nWhen I had done breakfasting the squire gave me a note addressed to John\nSilver, at the sign of the Spy-glass, and told me I should easily\nfind the place by following the line of the docks and keeping a bright\nlookout for a little tavern with a large brass telescope for sign. I\nset off, overjoyed at this opportunity to see some more of the ships and\nseamen, and picked my way among a great crowd of people and carts and\nbales, for the dock was now at its busiest, until I found the tavern in\nquestion.\n\nIt was a bright enough little place of entertainment. The sign was\nnewly painted; the windows had neat red curtains; the floor was cleanly\nsanded. There was a street on each side and an open door on both, which\nmade the large, low room pretty clear to see in, in spite of clouds of\ntobacco smoke.\n\nThe customers were mostly seafaring men, and they talked so loudly that\nI hung at the door, almost afraid to enter.\n\nAs I was waiting, a man came out of a side room, and at a glance I was\nsure he must be Long John. His left leg was cut off close by the hip,\nand under the left shoulder he carried a crutch, which he managed with\nwonderful dexterity, hopping about upon it like a bird. He was very tall\nand strong, with a face as big as a ham--plain and pale, but intelligent\nand smiling. Indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits, whistling\nas he moved about among the tables, with a merry word or a slap on the\nshoulder for the more favoured of his guests.\n\nNow, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of Long John in\nSquire Trelawney s letter I had taken a fear in my mind that he might\nprove to be the very one-legged sailor whom I had watched for so long at\nthe old Benbow. But one look at the man before me was enough. I had seen\nthe captain, and Black Dog, and the blind man, Pew, and I thought I knew\nwhat a buccaneer was like--a very different creature, according to me,\nfrom this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord.\n\nI plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold, and walked right up\nto the man where he stood, propped on his crutch, talking to a customer.\n\n Mr. Silver, sir?  I asked, holding out the note.\n\n Yes, my lad,  said he;  such is my name, to be sure. And who may you\nbe?  And then as he saw the squire s letter, he seemed to me to give\nsomething almost like a start.\n\n Oh!  said he, quite loud, and offering his hand.  I see. You are our\nnew cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you. \n\nAnd he took my hand in his large firm grasp.\n\nJust then one of the customers at the far side rose suddenly and made\nfor the door. It was close by him, and he was out in the street in a\nmoment. But his hurry had attracted my notice, and I recognized him at\nglance. It was the tallow-faced man, wanting two fingers, who had come\nfirst to the Admiral Benbow.\n\n Oh,  I cried,  stop him! It s Black Dog! \n\n I don t care two coppers who he is,  cried Silver.  But he hasn t paid\nhis score. Harry, run and catch him. \n\nOne of the others who was nearest the door leaped up and started in\npursuit.\n\n If he were Admiral Hawke he shall pay his score,  cried Silver; and\nthen, relinquishing my hand,  Who did you say he was?  he asked.  Black\nwhat? \n\n Dog, sir,  said I.  Has Mr. Trelawney not told you of the buccaneers?\nHe was one of them. \n\n So?  cried Silver.  In my house! Ben, run and help Harry. One of those\nswabs, was he? Was that you drinking with him, Morgan? Step up here. \n\nThe man whom he called Morgan--an old, grey-haired, mahogany-faced\nsailor--came forward pretty sheepishly, rolling his quid.\n\n Now, Morgan,  said Long John very sternly,  you never clapped your eyes\non that Black--Black Dog before, did you, now? \n\n Not I, sir,  said Morgan with a salute.\n\n You didn t know his name, did you? \n\n No, sir. \n\n By the powers, Tom Morgan, it s as good for you!  exclaimed the\nlandlord.  If you had been mixed up with the like of that, you would\nnever have put another foot in my house, you may lay to that. And what\nwas he saying to you? \n\n I don t rightly know, sir,  answered Morgan.\n\n Do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-eye? \n cried Long John.  Don t rightly know, don t you! Perhaps you don t\nhappen to rightly know who you was speaking to, perhaps? Come, now, what\nwas he jawing--v yages, cap ns, ships? Pipe up! What was it? \n\n We was a-talkin  of keel-hauling,  answered Morgan.\n\n Keel-hauling, was you? And a mighty suitable thing, too, and you may\nlay to that. Get back to your place for a lubber, Tom. \n\nAnd then, as Morgan rolled back to his seat, Silver added to me in a\nconfidential whisper that was very flattering, as I thought,  He s\nquite an honest man, Tom Morgan, on y stupid. And now,  he ran on again,\naloud,  let s see--Black Dog? No, I don t know the name, not I. Yet I\nkind of think I ve--yes, I ve seen the swab. He used to come here with a\nblind beggar, he used. \n\n That he did, you may be sure,  said I.  I knew that blind man too. His\nname was Pew. \n\n It was!  cried Silver, now quite excited.  Pew! That were his name for\ncertain. Ah, he looked a shark, he did! If we run down this Black Dog,\nnow, there ll be news for Cap n Trelawney! Ben s a good runner; few\nseamen run better than Ben. He should run him down, hand over hand, by\nthe powers! He talked o  keel-hauling, did he? I LL keel-haul him! \n\nAll the time he was jerking out these phrases he was stumping up and\ndown the tavern on his crutch, slapping tables with his hand, and giving\nsuch a show of excitement as would have convinced an Old Bailey judge\nor a Bow Street runner. My suspicions had been thoroughly reawakened on\nfinding Black Dog at the Spy-glass, and I watched the cook narrowly. But\nhe was too deep, and too ready, and too clever for me, and by the time\nthe two men had come back out of breath and confessed that they had lost\nthe track in a crowd, and been scolded like thieves, I would have gone\nbail for the innocence of Long John Silver.\n\n See here, now, Hawkins,  said he,  here s a blessed hard thing on a\nman like me, now, ain t it? There s Cap n Trelawney--what s he to think?\nHere I have this confounded son of a Dutchman sitting in my own house\ndrinking of my own rum! Here you comes and tells me of it plain; and\nhere I let him give us all the slip before my blessed deadlights! Now,\nHawkins, you do me justice with the cap n. You re a lad, you are, but\nyou re as smart as paint. I see that when you first come in. Now, here\nit is: What could I do, with this old timber I hobble on? When I was an\nA B master mariner I d have come up alongside of him, hand over hand,\nand broached him to in a brace of old shakes, I would; but now-- \n\nAnd then, all of a sudden, he stopped, and his jaw dropped as though he\nhad remembered something.\n\n The score!  he burst out.  Three goes o  rum! Why, shiver my timbers,\nif I hadn t forgotten my score! \n\nAnd falling on a bench, he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.\nI could not help joining, and we laughed together, peal after peal,\nuntil the tavern rang again.\n\n Why, what a precious old sea-calf I am!  he said at last, wiping his\ncheeks.  You and me should get on well, Hawkins, for I ll take my davy\nI should be rated ship s boy. But come now, stand by to go about. This\nwon t do. Dooty is dooty, messmates. I ll put on my old cockerel hat,\nand step along of you to Cap n Trelawney, and report this here affair.\nFor mind you, it s serious, young Hawkins; and neither you nor me s come\nout of it with what I should make so bold as to call credit. Nor you\nneither, says you; not smart--none of the pair of us smart. But dash my\nbuttons! That was a good un about my score. \n\nAnd he began to laugh again, and that so heartily, that though I did not\nsee the joke as he did, I was again obliged to join him in his mirth.\n\nOn our little walk along the quays, he made himself the most interesting\ncompanion, telling me about the different ships that we passed by,\ntheir rig, tonnage, and nationality, explaining the work that was going\nforward--how one was discharging, another taking in cargo, and a third\nmaking ready for sea--and every now and then telling me some little\nanecdote of ships or seamen or repeating a nautical phrase till I had\nlearned it perfectly. I began to see that here was one of the best of\npossible shipmates.\n\nWhen we got to the inn, the squire and Dr. Livesey were seated together,\nfinishing a quart of ale with a toast in it, before they should go\naboard the schooner on a visit of inspection.\n\nLong John told the story from first to last, with a great deal of spirit\nand the most perfect truth.  That was how it were, now, weren t it,\nHawkins?  he would say, now and again, and I could always bear him\nentirely out.\n\nThe two gentlemen regretted that Black Dog had got away, but we all\nagreed there was nothing to be done, and after he had been complimented,\nLong John took up his crutch and departed.\n\n All hands aboard by four this afternoon,  shouted the squire after him.\n\n Aye, aye, sir,  cried the cook, in the passage.\n\n Well, squire,  said Dr. Livesey,  I don t put much faith in your\ndiscoveries, as a general thing; but I will say this, John Silver suits\nme. \n\n The man s a perfect trump,  declared the squire.\n\n And now,  added the doctor,  Jim may come on board with us, may he\nnot? \n\n To be sure he may,  says squire.  Take your hat, Hawkins, and we ll see\nthe ship. \n\n\n\n\nIX\nPowder and Arms\n\n\nThe Hispaniola lay some way out, and we went under the figureheads and\nround the sterns of many other ships, and their cables sometimes grated\nunderneath our keel, and sometimes swung above us. At last, however,\nwe got alongside, and were met and saluted as we stepped aboard by the\nmate, Mr. Arrow, a brown old sailor with earrings in his ears and a\nsquint. He and the squire were very thick and friendly, but I soon\nobserved that things were not the same between Mr. Trelawney and the\ncaptain.\n\nThis last was a sharp-looking man who seemed angry with everything on\nboard and was soon to tell us why, for we had hardly got down into the\ncabin when a sailor followed us.\n\n Captain Smollett, sir, axing to speak with you,  said he.\n\n I am always at the captain s orders. Show him in,  said the squire.\n\nThe captain, who was close behind his messenger, entered at once and\nshut the door behind him.\n\n Well, Captain Smollett, what have you to say? All well, I hope; all\nshipshape and seaworthy? \n\n Well, sir,  said the captain,  better speak plain, I believe, even at\nthe risk of offence. I don t like this cruise; I don t like the men; and\nI don t like my officer. That s short and sweet. \n\n Perhaps, sir, you don t like the ship?  inquired the squire, very\nangry, as I could see.\n\n I can t speak as to that, sir, not having seen her tried,  said the\ncaptain.  She seems a clever craft; more I can t say. \n\n Possibly, sir, you may not like your employer, either?  says the\nsquire.\n\nBut here Dr. Livesey cut in.\n\n Stay a bit,  said he,  stay a bit. No use of such questions as that but\nto produce ill feeling. The captain has said too much or he has said too\nlittle, and I m bound to say that I require an explanation of his words.\nYou don t, you say, like this cruise. Now, why? \n\n I was engaged, sir, on what we call sealed orders, to sail this ship\nfor that gentleman where he should bid me,  said the captain.  So far\nso good. But now I find that every man before the mast knows more than I\ndo. I don t call that fair, now, do you? \n\n No,  said Dr. Livesey,  I don t. \n\n Next,  said the captain,  I learn we are going after treasure--hear\nit from my own hands, mind you. Now, treasure is ticklish work; I don t\nlike treasure voyages on any account, and I don t like them, above all,\nwhen they are secret and when (begging your pardon, Mr. Trelawney) the\nsecret has been told to the parrot. \n\n Silver s parrot?  asked the squire.\n\n It s a way of speaking,  said the captain.  Blabbed, I mean. It s my\nbelief neither of you gentlemen know what you are about, but I ll tell\nyou my way of it--life or death, and a close run. \n\n That is all clear, and, I dare say, true enough,  replied Dr. Livesey.\n We take the risk, but we are not so ignorant as you believe us. Next,\nyou say you don t like the crew. Are they not good seamen? \n\n I don t like them, sir,  returned Captain Smollett.  And I think I\nshould have had the choosing of my own hands, if you go to that. \n\n Perhaps you should,  replied the doctor.  My friend should, perhaps,\nhave taken you along with him; but the slight, if there be one, was\nunintentional. And you don t like Mr. Arrow? \n\n I don t, sir. I believe he s a good seaman, but he s too free with\nthe crew to be a good officer. A mate should keep himself to\nhimself--shouldn t drink with the men before the mast! \n\n Do you mean he drinks?  cried the squire.\n\n No, sir,  replied the captain,  only that he s too familiar. \n\n Well, now, and the short and long of it, captain?  asked the doctor.\n Tell us what you want. \n\n Well, gentlemen, are you determined to go on this cruise? \n\n Like iron,  answered the squire.\n\n Very good,  said the captain.  Then, as you ve heard me very patiently,\nsaying things that I could not prove, hear me a few words more. They are\nputting the powder and the arms in the fore hold. Now, you have a good\nplace under the cabin; why not put them there?--first point. Then, you\nare bringing four of your own people with you, and they tell me some of\nthem are to be berthed forward. Why not give them the berths here beside\nthe cabin?--second point. \n\n Any more?  asked Mr. Trelawney.\n\n One more,  said the captain.  There s been too much blabbing already. \n\n Far too much,  agreed the doctor.\n\n I ll tell you what I ve heard myself,  continued Captain Smollett:\n that you have a map of an island, that there s crosses on the map to\nshow where treasure is, and that the island lies--  And then he named\nthe latitude and longitude exactly.\n\n I never told that,  cried the squire,  to a soul! \n\n The hands know it, sir,  returned the captain.\n\n Livesey, that must have been you or Hawkins,  cried the squire.\n\n It doesn t much matter who it was,  replied the doctor. And I could\nsee that neither he nor the captain paid much regard to Mr. Trelawney s\nprotestations. Neither did I, to be sure, he was so loose a talker; yet\nin this case I believe he was really right and that nobody had told the\nsituation of the island.\n\n Well, gentlemen,  continued the captain,  I don t know who has this\nmap; but I make it a point, it shall be kept secret even from me and Mr.\nArrow. Otherwise I would ask you to let me resign. \n\n I see,  said the doctor.  You wish us to keep this matter dark and to\nmake a garrison of the stern part of the ship, manned with my friend s\nown people, and provided with all the arms and powder on board. In other\nwords, you fear a mutiny. \n\n Sir,  said Captain Smollett,  with no intention to take offence, I\ndeny your right to put words into my mouth. No captain, sir, would be\njustified in going to sea at all if he had ground enough to say that. As\nfor Mr. Arrow, I believe him thoroughly honest; some of the men are the\nsame; all may be for what I know. But I am responsible for the ship s\nsafety and the life of every man Jack aboard of her. I see things going,\nas I think, not quite right. And I ask you to take certain precautions\nor let me resign my berth. And that s all. \n\n Captain Smollett,  began the doctor with a smile,  did ever you hear\nthe fable of the mountain and the mouse? You ll excuse me, I dare say,\nbut you remind me of that fable. When you came in here, I ll stake my\nwig, you meant more than this. \n\n Doctor,  said the captain,  you are smart. When I came in here I meant\nto get discharged. I had no thought that Mr. Trelawney would hear a\nword. \n\n No more I would,  cried the squire.  Had Livesey not been here I should\nhave seen you to the deuce. As it is, I have heard you. I will do as you\ndesire, but I think the worse of you. \n\n That s as you please, sir,  said the captain.  You ll find I do my\nduty. \n\nAnd with that he took his leave.\n\n Trelawney,  said the doctor,  contrary to all my notions, I believed\nyou have managed to get two honest men on board with you--that man and\nJohn Silver. \n\n Silver, if you like,  cried the squire;  but as for that intolerable\nhumbug, I declare I think his conduct unmanly, unsailorly, and downright\nun-English. \n\n Well,  says the doctor,  we shall see. \n\nWhen we came on deck, the men had begun already to take out the arms and\npowder, yo-ho-ing at their work, while the captain and Mr. Arrow stood\nby superintending.\n\nThe new arrangement was quite to my liking. The whole schooner had been\noverhauled; six berths had been made astern out of what had been the\nafter-part of the main hold; and this set of cabins was only joined to\nthe galley and forecastle by a sparred passage on the port side. It had\nbeen originally meant that the captain, Mr. Arrow, Hunter, Joyce, the\ndoctor, and the squire were to occupy these six berths. Now Redruth and\nI were to get two of them and Mr. Arrow and the captain were to sleep\non deck in the companion, which had been enlarged on each side till you\nmight almost have called it a round-house. Very low it was still, of\ncourse; but there was room to swing two hammocks, and even the mate\nseemed pleased with the arrangement. Even he, perhaps, had been doubtful\nas to the crew, but that is only guess, for as you shall hear, we had\nnot long the benefit of his opinion.\n\nWe were all hard at work, changing the powder and the berths, when\nthe last man or two, and Long John along with them, came off in a\nshore-boat.\n\nThe cook came up the side like a monkey for cleverness, and as soon as\nhe saw what was doing,  So ho, mates!  says he.  What s this? \n\n We re a-changing of the powder, Jack,  answers one.\n\n Why, by the powers,  cried Long John,  if we do, we ll miss the morning\ntide! \n\n My orders!  said the captain shortly.  You may go below, my man. Hands\nwill want supper. \n\n Aye, aye, sir,  answered the cook, and touching his forelock, he\ndisappeared at once in the direction of his galley.\n\n That s a good man, captain,  said the doctor.\n\n Very likely, sir,  replied Captain Smollett.  Easy with that,\nmen--easy,  he ran on, to the fellows who were shifting the powder; and\nthen suddenly observing me examining the swivel we carried amidships,\na long brass nine,  Here you, ship s boy,  he cried,  out o  that! Off\nwith you to the cook and get some work. \n\nAnd then as I was hurrying off I heard him say, quite loudly, to the\ndoctor,  I ll have no favourites on my ship. \n\nI assure you I was quite of the squire s way of thinking, and hated the\ncaptain deeply.\n\n\n\n\nX\nThe Voyage\n\n\nAll that night we were in a great bustle getting things stowed in their\nplace, and boatfuls of the squire s friends, Mr. Blandly and the like,\ncoming off to wish him a good voyage and a safe return. We never had\na night at the Admiral Benbow when I had half the work; and I was\ndog-tired when, a little before dawn, the boatswain sounded his pipe\nand the crew began to man the capstan-bars. I might have been twice\nas weary, yet I would not have left the deck, all was so new and\ninteresting to me--the brief commands, the shrill note of the whistle,\nthe men bustling to their places in the glimmer of the ship s lanterns.\n\n Now, Barbecue, tip us a stave,  cried one voice.\n\n The old one,  cried another.\n\n Aye, aye, mates,  said Long John, who was standing by, with his crutch\nunder his arm, and at once broke out in the air and words I knew so\nwell:\n\n Fifteen men on the dead man s chest-- \n\nAnd then the whole crew bore chorus:--\n\n Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! \n\nAnd at the third  Ho!  drove the bars before them with a will.\n\nEven at that exciting moment it carried me back to the old Admiral\nBenbow in a second, and I seemed to hear the voice of the captain piping\nin the chorus. But soon the anchor was short up; soon it was hanging\ndripping at the bows; soon the sails began to draw, and the land and\nshipping to flit by on either side; and before I could lie down to\nsnatch an hour of slumber the HISPANIOLA had begun her voyage to the\nIsle of Treasure.\n\nI am not going to relate that voyage in detail. It was fairly\nprosperous. The ship proved to be a good ship, the crew were capable\nseamen, and the captain thoroughly understood his business. But before\nwe came the length of Treasure Island, two or three things had happened\nwhich require to be known.\n\nMr. Arrow, first of all, turned out even worse than the captain had\nfeared. He had no command among the men, and people did what they\npleased with him. But that was by no means the worst of it, for after a\nday or two at sea he began to appear on deck with hazy eye, red cheeks,\nstuttering tongue, and other marks of drunkenness. Time after time\nhe was ordered below in disgrace. Sometimes he fell and cut himself;\nsometimes he lay all day long in his little bunk at one side of the\ncompanion; sometimes for a day or two he would be almost sober and\nattend to his work at least passably.\n\nIn the meantime, we could never make out where he got the drink. That\nwas the ship s mystery. Watch him as we pleased, we could do nothing to\nsolve it; and when we asked him to his face, he would only laugh if\nhe were drunk, and if he were sober deny solemnly that he ever tasted\nanything but water.\n\nHe was not only useless as an officer and a bad influence amongst\nthe men, but it was plain that at this rate he must soon kill himself\noutright, so nobody was much surprised, nor very sorry, when one dark\nnight, with a head sea, he disappeared entirely and was seen no more.\n\n Overboard!  said the captain.  Well, gentlemen, that saves the trouble\nof putting him in irons. \n\nBut there we were, without a mate; and it was necessary, of course, to\nadvance one of the men. The boatswain, Job Anderson, was the likeliest\nman aboard, and though he kept his old title, he served in a way as\nmate. Mr. Trelawney had followed the sea, and his knowledge made him\nvery useful, for he often took a watch himself in easy weather. And the\ncoxswain, Israel Hands, was a careful, wily, old, experienced seaman who\ncould be trusted at a pinch with almost anything.\n\nHe was a great confidant of Long John Silver, and so the mention of\nhis name leads me on to speak of our ship s cook, Barbecue, as the men\ncalled him.\n\nAboard ship he carried his crutch by a lanyard round his neck, to have\nboth hands as free as possible. It was something to see him wedge the\nfoot of the crutch against a bulkhead, and propped against it, yielding\nto every movement of the ship, get on with his cooking like someone safe\nashore. Still more strange was it to see him in the heaviest of weather\ncross the deck. He had a line or two rigged up to help him across the\nwidest spaces--Long John s earrings, they were called; and he would hand\nhimself from one place to another, now using the crutch, now trailing it\nalongside by the lanyard, as quickly as another man could walk. Yet some\nof the men who had sailed with him before expressed their pity to see\nhim so reduced.\n\n He s no common man, Barbecue,  said the coxswain to me.  He had good\nschooling in his young days and can speak like a book when so minded;\nand brave--a lion s nothing alongside of Long John! I seen him grapple\nfour and knock their heads together--him unarmed. \n\nAll the crew respected and even obeyed him. He had a way of talking\nto each and doing everybody some particular service. To me he was\nunweariedly kind, and always glad to see me in the galley, which he kept\nas clean as a new pin, the dishes hanging up burnished and his parrot in\na cage in one corner.\n\n Come away, Hawkins,  he would say;  come and have a yarn with John.\nNobody more welcome than yourself, my son. Sit you down and hear the\nnews. Here s Cap n Flint--I calls my parrot Cap n Flint, after the\nfamous buccaneer--here s Cap n Flint predicting success to our v yage.\nWasn t you, Cap n? \n\nAnd the parrot would say, with great rapidity,  Pieces of eight! Pieces\nof eight! Pieces of eight!  till you wondered that it was not out of\nbreath, or till John threw his handkerchief over the cage.\n\n Now, that bird,  he would say,  is, maybe, two hundred years\nold, Hawkins--they live forever mostly; and if anybody s seen more\nwickedness, it must be the devil himself. She s sailed with England,\nthe great Cap n England, the pirate. She s been at Madagascar, and at\nMalabar, and Surinam, and Providence, and Portobello. She was at the\nfishing up of the wrecked plate ships. It s there she learned  Pieces\nof eight,  and little wonder; three hundred and fifty thousand of  em,\nHawkins! She was at the boarding of the _Viceroy of the Indies_ out of\nGoa, she was; and to look at her you would think she was a babby. But\nyou smelt powder--didn t you, Cap n? \n\n Stand by to go about,  the parrot would scream.\n\n Ah, she s a handsome craft, she is,  the cook would say, and give her\nsugar from his pocket, and then the bird would peck at the bars and\nswear straight on, passing belief for wickedness.  There,  John would\nadd,  you can t touch pitch and not be mucked, lad. Here s this poor old\ninnocent bird o  mine swearing blue fire, and none the wiser, you may\nlay to that. She would swear the same, in a manner of speaking, before\nchaplain.  And John would touch his forelock with a solemn way he had\nthat made me think he was the best of men.\n\nIn the meantime, the squire and Captain Smollett were still on pretty\ndistant terms with one another. The squire made no bones about the\nmatter; he despised the captain. The captain, on his part, never spoke\nbut when he was spoken to, and then sharp and short and dry, and not a\nword wasted. He owned, when driven into a corner, that he seemed to have\nbeen wrong about the crew, that some of them were as brisk as he wanted\nto see and all had behaved fairly well. As for the ship, he had taken a\ndownright fancy to her.  She ll lie a point nearer the wind than a man\nhas a right to expect of his own married wife, sir. But,  he would add,\n all I say is, we re not home again, and I don t like the cruise. \n\nThe squire, at this, would turn away and march up and down the deck,\nchin in air.\n\n A trifle more of that man,  he would say,  and I shall explode. \n\nWe had some heavy weather, which only proved the qualities of the\nHISPANIOLA. Every man on board seemed well content, and they must have\nbeen hard to please if they had been otherwise, for it is my belief\nthere was never a ship s company so spoiled since Noah put to sea.\nDouble grog was going on the least excuse; there was duff on odd days,\nas, for instance, if the squire heard it was any man s birthday, and\nalways a barrel of apples standing broached in the waist for anyone to\nhelp himself that had a fancy.\n\n Never knew good come of it yet,  the captain said to Dr. Livesey.\n Spoil forecastle hands, make devils. That s my belief. \n\nBut good did come of the apple barrel, as you shall hear, for if it had\nnot been for that, we should have had no note of warning and might all\nhave perished by the hand of treachery.\n\nThis was how it came about.\n\nWe had run up the trades to get the wind of the island we were after--I\nam not allowed to be more plain--and now we were running down for it\nwith a bright lookout day and night. It was about the last day of our\noutward voyage by the largest computation; some time that night, or at\nlatest before noon of the morrow, we should sight the Treasure Island.\nWe were heading S.S.W. and had a steady breeze abeam and a quiet sea.\nThe HISPANIOLA rolled steadily, dipping her bowsprit now and then with\na whiff of spray. All was drawing alow and aloft; everyone was in the\nbravest spirits because we were now so near an end of the first part of\nour adventure.\n\nNow, just after sundown, when all my work was over and I was on my way\nto my berth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. I ran on\ndeck. The watch was all forward looking out for the island. The man at\nthe helm was watching the luff of the sail and whistling away gently\nto himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea\nagainst the bows and around the sides of the ship.\n\nIn I got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an\napple left; but sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of\nthe waters and the rocking movement of the ship, I had either fallen\nasleep or was on the point of doing so when a heavy man sat down with\nrather a clash close by. The barrel shook as he leaned his shoulders\nagainst it, and I was just about to jump up when the man began to speak.\nIt was Silver s voice, and before I had heard a dozen words, I would\nnot have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, trembling and\nlistening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity, for from these dozen\nwords I understood that the lives of all the honest men aboard depended\nupon me alone.\n\n\n\n\nXI\nWhat I Heard in the Apple-Barrel\n\n\n No, not I,  said Silver.  Flint was cap n; I was quartermaster, along\nof my timber leg. The same broadside I lost my leg, old Pew lost his\ndeadlights. It was a master surgeon, him that ampytated me--out of\ncollege and all--Latin by the bucket, and what not; but he was hanged\nlike a dog, and sun-dried like the rest, at Corso Castle. That was\nRoberts  men, that was, and comed of changing names to their\nships--ROYAL FORTUNE and so on. Now, what a ship was christened, so let\nher stay, I says. So it was with the CASSANDRA, as brought us all safe\nhome from Malabar, after England took the _Viceroy of the Indies;_ so\nit was with the old WALRUS, Flint s old ship, as I ve seen amuck with\nthe red blood and fit to sink with gold. \n\n Ah!  cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on board, and\nevidently full of admiration.  He was the flower of the flock, was\nFlint! \n\n Davis was a man too, by all accounts,  said Silver.  I never sailed\nalong of him; first with England, then with Flint, that s my story;\nand now here on my own account, in a manner of speaking. I laid by nine\nhundred safe, from England, and two thousand after Flint. That ain t bad\nfor a man before the mast--all safe in bank.  Tain t earning now, it s\nsaving does it, you may lay to that. Where s all England s men now? I\ndunno. Where s Flint s? Why, most on  em aboard here, and glad to get\nthe duff--been begging before that, some on  em. Old Pew, as had lost\nhis sight, and might have thought shame, spends twelve hundred pound in\na year, like a lord in Parliament. Where is he now? Well, he s dead now\nand under hatches; but for two year before that, shiver my timbers,\nthe man was starving! He begged, and he stole, and he cut throats, and\nstarved at that, by the powers! \n\n Well, it ain t much use, after all,  said the young seaman.\n\n Tain t much use for fools, you may lay to it--that, nor nothing, \n cried Silver.  But now, you look here: you re young, you are, but you re\nas smart as paint. I see that when I set my eyes on you, and I ll talk\nto you like a man. \n\nYou may imagine how I felt when I heard this abominable old rogue\naddressing another in the very same words of flattery as he had used\nto myself. I think, if I had been able, that I would have killed\nhim through the barrel. Meantime, he ran on, little supposing he was\noverheard.\n\n Here it is about gentlemen of fortune. They lives rough, and they risk\nswinging, but they eat and drink like fighting-cocks, and when a cruise\nis done, why, it s hundreds of pounds instead of hundreds of farthings\nin their pockets. Now, the most goes for rum and a good fling, and to\nsea again in their shirts. But that s not the course I lay. I puts it\nall away, some here, some there, and none too much anywheres, by reason\nof suspicion. I m fifty, mark you; once back from this cruise, I set up\ngentleman in earnest. Time enough too, says you. Ah, but I ve lived easy\nin the meantime, never denied myself o  nothing heart desires, and slep \nsoft and ate dainty all my days but when at sea. And how did I begin?\nBefore the mast, like you! \n\n Well,  said the other,  but all the other money s gone now, ain t it?\nYou daren t show face in Bristol after this. \n\n Why, where might you suppose it was?  asked Silver derisively.\n\n At Bristol, in banks and places,  answered his companion.\n\n It were,  said the cook;  it were when we weighed anchor. But my old\nmissis has it all by now. And the Spy-glass is sold, lease and goodwill\nand rigging; and the old girl s off to meet me. I would tell you where,\nfor I trust you, but it d make jealousy among the mates. \n\n And can you trust your missis?  asked the other.\n\n Gentlemen of fortune,  returned the cook,  usually trusts little among\nthemselves, and right they are, you may lay to it. But I have a way with\nme, I have. When a mate brings a slip on his cable--one as knows me, I\nmean--it won t be in the same world with old John. There was some that\nwas feared of Pew, and some that was feared of Flint; but Flint his own\nself was feared of me. Feared he was, and proud. They was the roughest\ncrew afloat, was Flint s; the devil himself would have been feared to go\nto sea with them. Well now, I tell you, I m not a boasting man, and you\nseen yourself how easy I keep company, but when I was quartermaster,\nLAMBS wasn t the word for Flint s old buccaneers. Ah, you may be sure of\nyourself in old John s ship. \n\n Well, I tell you now,  replied the lad,  I didn t half a quarter like\nthe job till I had this talk with you, John; but there s my hand on it\nnow. \n\n And a brave lad you were, and smart too,  answered Silver, shaking\nhands so heartily that all the barrel shook,  and a finer figurehead for\na gentleman of fortune I never clapped my eyes on. \n\nBy this time I had begun to understand the meaning of their terms. By a\n gentleman of fortune  they plainly meant neither more nor less than a\ncommon pirate, and the little scene that I had overheard was the last\nact in the corruption of one of the honest hands--perhaps of the last\none left aboard. But on this point I was soon to be relieved, for Silver\ngiving a little whistle, a third man strolled up and sat down by the\nparty.\n\n Dick s square,  said Silver.\n\n Oh, I know d Dick was square,  returned the voice of the coxswain,\nIsrael Hands.  He s no fool, is Dick.  And he turned his quid and spat.\n But look here,  he went on,  here s what I want to know, Barbecue: how\nlong are we a-going to stand off and on like a blessed bumboat? I ve had\na most enough o  Cap n Smollett; he s hazed me long enough, by thunder!\nI want to go into that cabin, I do. I want their pickles and wines, and\nthat. \n\n Israel,  said Silver,  your head ain t much account, nor ever was. But\nyou re able to hear, I reckon; leastways, your ears is big enough.\nNow, here s what I say: you ll berth forward, and you ll live hard, and\nyou ll speak soft, and you ll keep sober till I give the word; and you\nmay lay to that, my son. \n\n Well, I don t say no, do I?  growled the coxswain.  What I say is,\nwhen? That s what I say. \n\n When! By the powers!  cried Silver.  Well now, if you want to know,\nI ll tell you when. The last moment I can manage, and that s when.\nHere s a first-rate seaman, Cap n Smollett, sails the blessed ship for\nus. Here s this squire and doctor with a map and such--I don t know\nwhere it is, do I? No more do you, says you. Well then, I mean this\nsquire and doctor shall find the stuff, and help us to get it aboard,\nby the powers. Then we ll see. If I was sure of you all, sons of double\nDutchmen, I d have Cap n Smollett navigate us half-way back again before\nI struck. \n\n Why, we re all seamen aboard here, I should think,  said the lad Dick.\n\n We re all forecastle hands, you mean,  snapped Silver.  We can steer\na course, but who s to set one? That s what all you gentlemen split on,\nfirst and last. If I had my way, I d have Cap n Smollett work us back\ninto the trades at least; then we d have no blessed miscalculations and\na spoonful of water a day. But I know the sort you are. I ll finish with\n em at the island, as soon s the blunt s on board, and a pity it is. But\nyou re never happy till you re drunk. Split my sides, I ve a sick heart\nto sail with the likes of you! \n\n Easy all, Long John,  cried Israel.  Who s a-crossin  of you? \n\n Why, how many tall ships, think ye, now, have I seen laid aboard? And\nhow many brisk lads drying in the sun at Execution Dock?  cried Silver.\n And all for this same hurry and hurry and hurry. You hear me? I seen\na thing or two at sea, I have. If you would on y lay your course, and a\np int to windward, you would ride in carriages, you would. But not you!\nI know you. You ll have your mouthful of rum tomorrow, and go hang. \n\n Everybody knowed you was a kind of a chapling, John; but there s others\nas could hand and steer as well as you,  said Israel.  They liked a bit\no  fun, they did. They wasn t so high and dry, nohow, but took their\nfling, like jolly companions every one. \n\n So?  says Silver.  Well, and where are they now? Pew was that sort,\nand he died a beggar-man. Flint was, and he died of rum at Savannah. Ah,\nthey was a sweet crew, they was! On y, where are they? \n\n But,  asked Dick,  when we do lay  em athwart, what are we to do with\n em, anyhow? \n\n There s the man for me!  cried the cook admiringly.  That s what I call\nbusiness. Well, what would you think? Put  em ashore like maroons? That\nwould have been England s way. Or cut  em down like that much pork? That\nwould have been Flint s, or Billy Bones s. \n\n Billy was the man for that,  said Israel.  Dead men don t bite,  says\nhe. Well, he s dead now hisself; he knows the long and short on it now;\nand if ever a rough hand come to port, it was Billy. \n\n Right you are,  said Silver;  rough and ready. But mark you here,\nI m an easy man--I m quite the gentleman, says you; but this time it s\nserious. Dooty is dooty, mates. I give my vote--death. When I m in\nParlyment and riding in my coach, I don t want none of these sea-lawyers\nin the cabin a-coming home, unlooked for, like the devil at prayers.\nWait is what I say; but when the time comes, why, let her rip! \n\n John,  cries the coxswain,  you re a man! \n\n You ll say so, Israel when you see,  said Silver.  Only one thing I\nclaim--I claim Trelawney. I ll wring his calf s head off his body with\nthese hands, Dick!  he added, breaking off.  You just jump up, like a\nsweet lad, and get me an apple, to wet my pipe like. \n\nYou may fancy the terror I was in! I should have leaped out and run for\nit if I had found the strength, but my limbs and heart alike misgave me.\nI heard Dick begin to rise, and then someone seemingly stopped him, and\nthe voice of Hands exclaimed,  Oh, stow that! Don t you get sucking of\nthat bilge, John. Let s have a go of the rum. \n\n Dick,  said Silver,  I trust you. I ve a gauge on the keg, mind.\nThere s the key; you fill a pannikin and bring it up. \n\nTerrified as I was, I could not help thinking to myself that this must\nhave been how Mr. Arrow got the strong waters that destroyed him.\n\nDick was gone but a little while, and during his absence Israel spoke\nstraight on in the cook s ear. It was but a word or two that I could\ncatch, and yet I gathered some important news, for besides other scraps\nthat tended to the same purpose, this whole clause was audible:  Not\nanother man of them ll jine.  Hence there were still faithful men on\nboard.\n\nWhen Dick returned, one after another of the trio took the pannikin and\ndrank--one  To luck,  another with a  Here s to old Flint,  and Silver\nhimself saying, in a kind of song,  Here s to ourselves, and hold your\nluff, plenty of prizes and plenty of duff. \n\nJust then a sort of brightness fell upon me in the barrel, and looking\nup, I found the moon had risen and was silvering the mizzen-top and\nshining white on the luff of the fore-sail; and almost at the same time\nthe voice of the lookout shouted,  Land ho! \n\n\n\n\nXII\nCouncil of War\n\n\nThere was a great rush of feet across the deck. I could hear people\ntumbling up from the cabin and the forecastle, and slipping in an\ninstant outside my barrel, I dived behind the fore-sail, made a double\ntowards the stern, and came out upon the open deck in time to join\nHunter and Dr. Livesey in the rush for the weather bow.\n\nThere all hands were already congregated. A belt of fog had lifted\nalmost simultaneously with the appearance of the moon. Away to the\nsouth-west of us we saw two low hills, about a couple of miles apart,\nand rising behind one of them a third and higher hill, whose peak was\nstill buried in the fog. All three seemed sharp and conical in figure.\n\nSo much I saw, almost in a dream, for I had not yet recovered from my\nhorrid fear of a minute or two before. And then I heard the voice of\nCaptain Smollett issuing orders. The HISPANIOLA was laid a couple of\npoints nearer the wind and now sailed a course that would just clear the\nisland on the east.\n\n And now, men,  said the captain, when all was sheeted home,  has any\none of you ever seen that land ahead? \n\n I have, sir,  said Silver.  I ve watered there with a trader I was cook\nin. \n\n The anchorage is on the south, behind an islet, I fancy?  asked the\ncaptain.\n\n Yes, sir; Skeleton Island they calls it. It were a main place for\npirates once, and a hand we had on board knowed all their names for it.\nThat hill to the nor ard they calls the Foremast Hill; there are three\nhills in a row running south ard--fore, main, and mizzen, sir. But the\nmain--that s the big un, with the cloud on it--they usually calls\nthe Spy-glass, by reason of a lookout they kept when they was in the\nanchorage cleaning, for it s there they cleaned their ships, sir, asking\nyour pardon. \n\n I have a chart here,  says Captain Smollett.  See if that s the place. \n\nLong John s eyes burned in his head as he took the chart, but by the\nfresh look of the paper I knew he was doomed to disappointment. This\nwas not the map we found in Billy Bones s chest, but an accurate copy,\ncomplete in all things--names and heights and soundings--with the single\nexception of the red crosses and the written notes. Sharp as must have\nbeen his annoyance, Silver had the strength of mind to hide it.\n\n Yes, sir,  said he,  this is the spot, to be sure, and very prettily\ndrawed out. Who might have done that, I wonder? The pirates were too\nignorant, I reckon. Aye, here it is:  Capt. Kidd s Anchorage --just\nthe name my shipmate called it. There s a strong current runs along the\nsouth, and then away nor ard up the west coast. Right you was, sir, \n says he,  to haul your wind and keep the weather of the island.\nLeastways, if such was your intention as to enter and careen, and there\nain t no better place for that in these waters. \n\n Thank you, my man,  says Captain Smollett.  I ll ask you later on to\ngive us a help. You may go. \n\nI was surprised at the coolness with which John avowed his knowledge\nof the island, and I own I was half-frightened when I saw him drawing\nnearer to myself. He did not know, to be sure, that I had overheard his\ncouncil from the apple barrel, and yet I had by this time taken such a\nhorror of his cruelty, duplicity, and power that I could scarce conceal\na shudder when he laid his hand upon my arm.\n\n Ah,  says he,  this here is a sweet spot, this island--a sweet spot for\na lad to get ashore on. You ll bathe, and you ll climb trees, and you ll\nhunt goats, you will; and you ll get aloft on them hills like a goat\nyourself. Why, it makes me young again. I was going to forget my timber\nleg, I was. It s a pleasant thing to be young and have ten toes, and you\nmay lay to that. When you want to go a bit of exploring, you just ask\nold John, and he ll put up a snack for you to take along. \n\nAnd clapping me in the friendliest way upon the shoulder, he hobbled off\nforward and went below.\n\nCaptain Smollett, the squire, and Dr. Livesey were talking together on\nthe quarter-deck, and anxious as I was to tell them my story, I durst\nnot interrupt them openly. While I was still casting about in my\nthoughts to find some probable excuse, Dr. Livesey called me to his\nside. He had left his pipe below, and being a slave to tobacco, had\nmeant that I should fetch it; but as soon as I was near enough to speak\nand not to be overheard, I broke immediately,  Doctor, let me speak. Get\nthe captain and squire down to the cabin, and then make some pretence to\nsend for me. I have terrible news. \n\nThe doctor changed countenance a little, but next moment he was master\nof himself.\n\n Thank you, Jim,  said he quite loudly,  that was all I wanted to know, \n as if he had asked me a question.\n\nAnd with that he turned on his heel and rejoined the other two. They\nspoke together for a little, and though none of them started, or raised\nhis voice, or so much as whistled, it was plain enough that Dr. Livesey\nhad communicated my request, for the next thing that I heard was the\ncaptain giving an order to Job Anderson, and all hands were piped on\ndeck.\n\n My lads,  said Captain Smollett,  I ve a word to say to you. This\nland that we have sighted is the place we have been sailing for. Mr.\nTrelawney, being a very open-handed gentleman, as we all know, has just\nasked me a word or two, and as I was able to tell him that every man on\nboard had done his duty, alow and aloft, as I never ask to see it done\nbetter, why, he and I and the doctor are going below to the cabin to\ndrink YOUR health and luck, and you ll have grog served out for you to\ndrink OUR health and luck. I ll tell you what I think of this: I think\nit handsome. And if you think as I do, you ll give a good sea-cheer for\nthe gentleman that does it. \n\nThe cheer followed--that was a matter of course; but it rang out so full\nand hearty that I confess I could hardly believe these same men were\nplotting for our blood.\n\n One more cheer for Cap n Smollett,  cried Long John when the first had\nsubsided.\n\nAnd this also was given with a will.\n\nOn the top of that the three gentlemen went below, and not long after,\nword was sent forward that Jim Hawkins was wanted in the cabin.\n\nI found them all three seated round the table, a bottle of Spanish wine\nand some raisins before them, and the doctor smoking away, with his wig\non his lap, and that, I knew, was a sign that he was agitated. The stern\nwindow was open, for it was a warm night, and you could see the moon\nshining behind on the ship s wake.\n\n Now, Hawkins,  said the squire,  you have something to say. Speak up. \n\nI did as I was bid, and as short as I could make it, told the whole\ndetails of Silver s conversation. Nobody interrupted me till I was done,\nnor did any one of the three of them make so much as a movement, but\nthey kept their eyes upon my face from first to last.\n\n Jim,  said Dr. Livesey,  take a seat. \n\nAnd they made me sit down at table beside them, poured me out a glass of\nwine, filled my hands with raisins, and all three, one after the other,\nand each with a bow, drank my good health, and their service to me, for\nmy luck and courage.\n\n Now, captain,  said the squire,  you were right, and I was wrong. I own\nmyself an ass, and I await your orders. \n\n No more an ass than I, sir,  returned the captain.  I never heard of a\ncrew that meant to mutiny but what showed signs before, for any man that\nhad an eye in his head to see the mischief and take steps according. But\nthis crew,  he added,  beats me. \n\n Captain,  said the doctor,  with your permission, that s Silver. A very\nremarkable man. \n\n He d look remarkably well from a yard-arm, sir,  returned the captain.\n But this is talk; this don t lead to anything. I see three or four\npoints, and with Mr. Trelawney s permission, I ll name them. \n\n You, sir, are the captain. It is for you to speak,  says Mr. Trelawney\ngrandly.\n\n First point,  began Mr. Smollett.  We must go on, because we can t turn\nback. If I gave the word to go about, they would rise at once. Second\npoint, we have time before us--at least until this treasure s found.\nThird point, there are faithful hands. Now, sir, it s got to come\nto blows sooner or later, and what I propose is to take time by the\nforelock, as the saying is, and come to blows some fine day when they\nleast expect it. We can count, I take it, on your own home servants, Mr.\nTrelawney? \n\n As upon myself,  declared the squire.\n\n Three,  reckoned the captain;  ourselves make seven, counting Hawkins\nhere. Now, about the honest hands? \n\n Most likely Trelawney s own men,  said the doctor;  those he had picked\nup for himself before he lit on Silver. \n\n Nay,  replied the squire.  Hands was one of mine. \n\n I did think I could have trusted Hands,  added the captain.\n\n And to think that they re all Englishmen!  broke out the squire.  Sir,\nI could find it in my heart to blow the ship up. \n\n Well, gentlemen,  said the captain,  the best that I can say is not\nmuch. We must lay to, if you please, and keep a bright lookout. It s\ntrying on a man, I know. It would be pleasanter to come to blows. But\nthere s no help for it till we know our men. Lay to, and whistle for a\nwind, that s my view. \n\n Jim here,  said the doctor,  can help us more than anyone. The men are\nnot shy with him, and Jim is a noticing lad. \n\n Hawkins, I put prodigious faith in you,  added the squire.\n\nI began to feel pretty desperate at this, for I felt altogether\nhelpless; and yet, by an odd train of circumstances, it was indeed\nthrough me that safety came. In the meantime, talk as we pleased, there\nwere only seven out of the twenty-six on whom we knew we could rely; and\nout of these seven one was a boy, so that the grown men on our side were\nsix to their nineteen.\n\n\n\n\nPART THREE--My Shore Adventure\n\n\n\n\nXIII\nHow I Began My Shore Adventure\n\n\nThe appearance of the island when I came on deck next morning was\naltogether changed. Although the breeze had now utterly ceased, we had\nmade a great deal of way during the night and were now lying becalmed\nabout half a mile to the south-east of the low eastern coast.\nGrey-coloured woods covered a large part of the surface. This even tint\nwas indeed broken up by streaks of yellow sand-break in the lower lands,\nand by many tall trees of the pine family, out-topping the others--some\nsingly, some in clumps; but the general colouring was uniform and sad.\nThe hills ran up clear above the vegetation in spires of naked rock.\nAll were strangely shaped, and the Spy-glass, which was by three or four\nhundred feet the tallest on the island, was likewise the strangest in\nconfiguration, running up sheer from almost every side and then suddenly\ncut off at the top like a pedestal to put a statue on.\n\nThe HISPANIOLA was rolling scuppers under in the ocean swell. The booms\nwere tearing at the blocks, the rudder was banging to and fro, and the\nwhole ship creaking, groaning, and jumping like a manufactory. I had\nto cling tight to the backstay, and the world turned giddily before my\neyes, for though I was a good enough sailor when there was way on, this\nstanding still and being rolled about like a bottle was a thing I never\nlearned to stand without a qualm or so, above all in the morning, on an\nempty stomach.\n\nPerhaps it was this--perhaps it was the look of the island, with its\ngrey, melancholy woods, and wild stone spires, and the surf that we\ncould both see and hear foaming and thundering on the steep beach--at\nleast, although the sun shone bright and hot, and the shore birds were\nfishing and crying all around us, and you would have thought anyone\nwould have been glad to get to land after being so long at sea, my heart\nsank, as the saying is, into my boots; and from the first look onward, I\nhated the very thought of Treasure Island.\n\nWe had a dreary morning s work before us, for there was no sign of any\nwind, and the boats had to be got out and manned, and the ship warped\nthree or four miles round the corner of the island and up the narrow\npassage to the haven behind Skeleton Island. I volunteered for one of\nthe boats, where I had, of course, no business. The heat was sweltering,\nand the men grumbled fiercely over their work. Anderson was in command\nof my boat, and instead of keeping the crew in order, he grumbled as\nloud as the worst.\n\n Well,  he said with an oath,  it s not forever. \n\nI thought this was a very bad sign, for up to that day the men had gone\nbriskly and willingly about their business; but the very sight of the\nisland had relaxed the cords of discipline.\n\nAll the way in, Long John stood by the steersman and conned the ship.\nHe knew the passage like the palm of his hand, and though the man in the\nchains got everywhere more water than was down in the chart, John never\nhesitated once.\n\n There s a strong scour with the ebb,  he said,  and this here passage\nhas been dug out, in a manner of speaking, with a spade. \n\nWe brought up just where the anchor was in the chart, about a third of\na mile from each shore, the mainland on one side and Skeleton Island on\nthe other. The bottom was clean sand. The plunge of our anchor sent up\nclouds of birds wheeling and crying over the woods, but in less than a\nminute they were down again and all was once more silent.\n\nThe place was entirely land-locked, buried in woods, the trees coming\nright down to high-water mark, the shores mostly flat, and the hilltops\nstanding round at a distance in a sort of amphitheatre, one here, one\nthere. Two little rivers, or rather two swamps, emptied out into this\npond, as you might call it; and the foliage round that part of the shore\nhad a kind of poisonous brightness. From the ship we could see nothing\nof the house or stockade, for they were quite buried among trees; and if\nit had not been for the chart on the companion, we might have been the\nfirst that had ever anchored there since the island arose out of the\nseas.\n\nThere was not a breath of air moving, nor a sound but that of the\nsurf booming half a mile away along the beaches and against the rocks\noutside. A peculiar stagnant smell hung over the anchorage--a smell of\nsodden leaves and rotting tree trunks. I observed the doctor sniffing\nand sniffing, like someone tasting a bad egg.\n\n I don t know about treasure,  he said,  but I ll stake my wig there s\nfever here. \n\nIf the conduct of the men had been alarming in the boat, it became truly\nthreatening when they had come aboard. They lay about the deck growling\ntogether in talk. The slightest order was received with a black look and\ngrudgingly and carelessly obeyed. Even the honest hands must have caught\nthe infection, for there was not one man aboard to mend another. Mutiny,\nit was plain, hung over us like a thunder-cloud.\n\nAnd it was not only we of the cabin party who perceived the danger. Long\nJohn was hard at work going from group to group, spending himself in\ngood advice, and as for example no man could have shown a better. He\nfairly outstripped himself in willingness and civility; he was all\nsmiles to everyone. If an order were given, John would be on his crutch\nin an instant, with the cheeriest  Aye, aye, sir!  in the world; and\nwhen there was nothing else to do, he kept up one song after another, as\nif to conceal the discontent of the rest.\n\nOf all the gloomy features of that gloomy afternoon, this obvious\nanxiety on the part of Long John appeared the worst.\n\nWe held a council in the cabin.\n\n Sir,  said the captain,  if I risk another order, the whole ship ll\ncome about our ears by the run. You see, sir, here it is. I get a rough\nanswer, do I not? Well, if I speak back, pikes will be going in two\nshakes; if I don t, Silver will see there s something under that, and\nthe game s up. Now, we ve only one man to rely on. \n\n And who is that?  asked the squire.\n\n Silver, sir,  returned the captain;  he s as anxious as you and I to\nsmother things up. This is a tiff; he d soon talk  em out of it if he\nhad the chance, and what I propose to do is to give him the chance.\nLet s allow the men an afternoon ashore. If they all go, why we ll fight\nthe ship. If they none of them go, well then, we hold the cabin, and God\ndefend the right. If some go, you mark my words, sir, Silver ll bring\n em aboard again as mild as lambs. \n\nIt was so decided; loaded pistols were served out to all the sure men;\nHunter, Joyce, and Redruth were taken into our confidence and received\nthe news with less surprise and a better spirit than we had looked for,\nand then the captain went on deck and addressed the crew.\n\n My lads,  said he,  we ve had a hot day and are all tired and out of\nsorts. A turn ashore ll hurt nobody--the boats are still in the water;\nyou can take the gigs, and as many as please may go ashore for the\nafternoon. I ll fire a gun half an hour before sundown. \n\nI believe the silly fellows must have thought they would break their\nshins over treasure as soon as they were landed, for they all came out\nof their sulks in a moment and gave a cheer that started the echo in a\nfaraway hill and sent the birds once more flying and squalling round the\nanchorage.\n\nThe captain was too bright to be in the way. He whipped out of sight\nin a moment, leaving Silver to arrange the party, and I fancy it was as\nwell he did so. Had he been on deck, he could no longer so much as\nhave pretended not to understand the situation. It was as plain as day.\nSilver was the captain, and a mighty rebellious crew he had of it. The\nhonest hands--and I was soon to see it proved that there were such on\nboard--must have been very stupid fellows. Or rather, I suppose the\ntruth was this, that all hands were disaffected by the example of the\nringleaders--only some more, some less; and a few, being good fellows in\nthe main, could neither be led nor driven any further. It is one thing\nto be idle and skulk and quite another to take a ship and murder a\nnumber of innocent men.\n\nAt last, however, the party was made up. Six fellows were to stay on\nboard, and the remaining thirteen, including Silver, began to embark.\n\nThen it was that there came into my head the first of the mad notions\nthat contributed so much to save our lives. If six men were left by\nSilver, it was plain our party could not take and fight the ship; and\nsince only six were left, it was equally plain that the cabin party\nhad no present need of my assistance. It occurred to me at once to go\nashore. In a jiffy I had slipped over the side and curled up in the\nfore-sheets of the nearest boat, and almost at the same moment she\nshoved off.\n\nNo one took notice of me, only the bow oar saying,  Is that you, Jim?\nKeep your head down.  But Silver, from the other boat, looked sharply\nover and called out to know if that were me; and from that moment I\nbegan to regret what I had done.\n\nThe crews raced for the beach, but the boat I was in, having some start\nand being at once the lighter and the better manned, shot far ahead of\nher consort, and the bow had struck among the shore-side trees and I\nhad caught a branch and swung myself out and plunged into the nearest\nthicket while Silver and the rest were still a hundred yards behind.\n\n Jim, Jim!  I heard him shouting.\n\nBut you may suppose I paid no heed; jumping, ducking, and breaking\nthrough, I ran straight before my nose till I could run no longer.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\nThe First Blow\n\n\nI was so pleased at having given the slip to Long John that I began to\nenjoy myself and look around me with some interest on the strange land\nthat I was in.\n\nI had crossed a marshy tract full of willows, bulrushes, and odd,\noutlandish, swampy trees; and I had now come out upon the skirts of an\nopen piece of undulating, sandy country, about a mile long, dotted with\na few pines and a great number of contorted trees, not unlike the oak\nin growth, but pale in the foliage, like willows. On the far side of\nthe open stood one of the hills, with two quaint, craggy peaks shining\nvividly in the sun.\n\nI now felt for the first time the joy of exploration. The isle was\nuninhabited; my shipmates I had left behind, and nothing lived in front\nof me but dumb brutes and fowls. I turned hither and thither among the\ntrees. Here and there were flowering plants, unknown to me; here and\nthere I saw snakes, and one raised his head from a ledge of rock and\nhissed at me with a noise not unlike the spinning of a top. Little did\nI suppose that he was a deadly enemy and that the noise was the famous\nrattle.\n\nThen I came to a long thicket of these oaklike trees--live, or\nevergreen, oaks, I heard afterwards they should be called--which grew\nlow along the sand like brambles, the boughs curiously twisted, the\nfoliage compact, like thatch. The thicket stretched down from the top of\none of the sandy knolls, spreading and growing taller as it went, until\nit reached the margin of the broad, reedy fen, through which the nearest\nof the little rivers soaked its way into the anchorage. The marsh was\nsteaming in the strong sun, and the outline of the Spy-glass trembled\nthrough the haze.\n\nAll at once there began to go a sort of bustle among the bulrushes;\na wild duck flew up with a quack, another followed, and soon over the\nwhole surface of the marsh a great cloud of birds hung screaming and\ncircling in the air. I judged at once that some of my shipmates must be\ndrawing near along the borders of the fen. Nor was I deceived, for soon\nI heard the very distant and low tones of a human voice, which, as I\ncontinued to give ear, grew steadily louder and nearer.\n\nThis put me in a great fear, and I crawled under cover of the nearest\nlive-oak and squatted there, hearkening, as silent as a mouse.\n\nAnother voice answered, and then the first voice, which I now recognized\nto be Silver s, once more took up the story and ran on for a long while\nin a stream, only now and again interrupted by the other. By the sound\nthey must have been talking earnestly, and almost fiercely; but no\ndistinct word came to my hearing.\n\nAt last the speakers seemed to have paused and perhaps to have sat down,\nfor not only did they cease to draw any nearer, but the birds themselves\nbegan to grow more quiet and to settle again to their places in the\nswamp.\n\nAnd now I began to feel that I was neglecting my business, that since\nI had been so foolhardy as to come ashore with these desperadoes, the\nleast I could do was to overhear them at their councils, and that my\nplain and obvious duty was to draw as close as I could manage, under the\nfavourable ambush of the crouching trees.\n\nI could tell the direction of the speakers pretty exactly, not only by\nthe sound of their voices but by the behaviour of the few birds that\nstill hung in alarm above the heads of the intruders.\n\nCrawling on all fours, I made steadily but slowly towards them, till at\nlast, raising my head to an aperture among the leaves, I could see clear\ndown into a little green dell beside the marsh, and closely set about\nwith trees, where Long John Silver and another of the crew stood face to\nface in conversation.\n\nThe sun beat full upon them. Silver had thrown his hat beside him on the\nground, and his great, smooth, blond face, all shining with heat, was\nlifted to the other man s in a kind of appeal.\n\n Mate,  he was saying,  it s because I thinks gold dust of you--gold\ndust, and you may lay to that! If I hadn t took to you like pitch, do\nyou think I d have been here a-warning of you? All s up--you can t make\nnor mend; it s to save your neck that I m a-speaking, and if one of the\nwild uns knew it, where d I be, Tom--now, tell me, where d I be? \n\n Silver,  said the other man--and I observed he was not only red in the\nface, but spoke as hoarse as a crow, and his voice shook too, like a\ntaut rope-- Silver,  says he,  you re old, and you re honest, or has the\nname for it; and you ve money too, which lots of poor sailors hasn t;\nand you re brave, or I m mistook. And will you tell me you ll let\nyourself be led away with that kind of a mess of swabs? Not you! As sure\nas God sees me, I d sooner lose my hand. If I turn agin my dooty-- \n\nAnd then all of a sudden he was interrupted by a noise. I had found\none of the honest hands--well, here, at that same moment, came news of\nanother. Far away out in the marsh there arose, all of a sudden, a sound\nlike the cry of anger, then another on the back of it; and then one\nhorrid, long-drawn scream. The rocks of the Spy-glass re-echoed it a\nscore of times; the whole troop of marsh-birds rose again, darkening\nheaven, with a simultaneous whirr; and long after that death yell was\nstill ringing in my brain, silence had re-established its empire, and\nonly the rustle of the redescending birds and the boom of the distant\nsurges disturbed the languor of the afternoon.\n\nTom had leaped at the sound, like a horse at the spur, but Silver had\nnot winked an eye. He stood where he was, resting lightly on his crutch,\nwatching his companion like a snake about to spring.\n\n John!  said the sailor, stretching out his hand.\n\n Hands off!  cried Silver, leaping back a yard, as it seemed to me, with\nthe speed and security of a trained gymnast.\n\n Hands off, if you like, John Silver,  said the other.  It s a black\nconscience that can make you feared of me. But in heaven s name, tell\nme, what was that? \n\n That?  returned Silver, smiling away, but warier than ever, his eye\na mere pin-point in his big face, but gleaming like a crumb of glass.\n That? Oh, I reckon that ll be Alan. \n\nAnd at this point Tom flashed out like a hero.\n\n Alan!  he cried.  Then rest his soul for a true seaman! And as for you,\nJohn Silver, long you ve been a mate of mine, but you re mate of mine\nno more. If I die like a dog, I ll die in my dooty. You ve killed Alan,\nhave you? Kill me too, if you can. But I defies you. \n\nAnd with that, this brave fellow turned his back directly on the cook\nand set off walking for the beach. But he was not destined to go far.\nWith a cry John seized the branch of a tree, whipped the crutch out of\nhis armpit, and sent that uncouth missile hurtling through the air.\nIt struck poor Tom, point foremost, and with stunning violence, right\nbetween the shoulders in the middle of his back. His hands flew up, he\ngave a sort of gasp, and fell.\n\nWhether he were injured much or little, none could ever tell. Like\nenough, to judge from the sound, his back was broken on the spot. But he\nhad no time given him to recover. Silver, agile as a monkey even without\nleg or crutch, was on the top of him next moment and had twice buried\nhis knife up to the hilt in that defenceless body. From my place of\nambush, I could hear him pant aloud as he struck the blows.\n\nI do not know what it rightly is to faint, but I do know that for the\nnext little while the whole world swam away from before me in a whirling\nmist; Silver and the birds, and the tall Spy-glass hilltop, going\nround and round and topsy-turvy before my eyes, and all manner of bells\nringing and distant voices shouting in my ear.\n\nWhen I came again to myself the monster had pulled himself together,\nhis crutch under his arm, his hat upon his head. Just before him Tom\nlay motionless upon the sward; but the murderer minded him not a whit,\ncleansing his blood-stained knife the while upon a wisp of grass.\nEverything else was unchanged, the sun still shining mercilessly on the\nsteaming marsh and the tall pinnacle of the mountain, and I could scarce\npersuade myself that murder had been actually done and a human life\ncruelly cut short a moment since before my eyes.\n\nBut now John put his hand into his pocket, brought out a whistle, and\nblew upon it several modulated blasts that rang far across the heated\nair. I could not tell, of course, the meaning of the signal, but\nit instantly awoke my fears. More men would be coming. I might be\ndiscovered. They had already slain two of the honest people; after Tom\nand Alan, might not I come next?\n\nInstantly I began to extricate myself and crawl back again, with what\nspeed and silence I could manage, to the more open portion of the\nwood. As I did so, I could hear hails coming and going between the old\nbuccaneer and his comrades, and this sound of danger lent me wings. As\nsoon as I was clear of the thicket, I ran as I never ran before, scarce\nminding the direction of my flight, so long as it led me from the\nmurderers; and as I ran, fear grew and grew upon me until it turned into\na kind of frenzy.\n\nIndeed, could anyone be more entirely lost than I? When the gun fired,\nhow should I dare to go down to the boats among those fiends, still\nsmoking from their crime? Would not the first of them who saw me wring\nmy neck like a snipe s? Would not my absence itself be an evidence to\nthem of my alarm, and therefore of my fatal knowledge? It was all over,\nI thought. Good-bye to the HISPANIOLA; good-bye to the squire, the\ndoctor, and the captain! There was nothing left for me but death by\nstarvation or death by the hands of the mutineers.\n\nAll this while, as I say, I was still running, and without taking any\nnotice, I had drawn near to the foot of the little hill with the two\npeaks and had got into a part of the island where the live-oaks grew\nmore widely apart and seemed more like forest trees in their bearing and\ndimensions. Mingled with these were a few scattered pines, some fifty,\nsome nearer seventy, feet high. The air too smelt more freshly than down\nbeside the marsh.\n\nAnd here a fresh alarm brought me to a standstill with a thumping heart.\n\n\n\n\nXV\nThe Man of the Island\n\n\nFrom the side of the hill, which was here steep and stony, a spout of\ngravel was dislodged and fell rattling and bounding through the trees.\nMy eyes turned instinctively in that direction, and I saw a figure leap\nwith great rapidity behind the trunk of a pine. What it was, whether\nbear or man or monkey, I could in no wise tell. It seemed dark and\nshaggy; more I knew not. But the terror of this new apparition brought\nme to a stand.\n\nI was now, it seemed, cut off upon both sides; behind me the murderers,\nbefore me this lurking nondescript. And immediately I began to prefer\nthe dangers that I knew to those I knew not. Silver himself appeared\nless terrible in contrast with this creature of the woods, and I turned\non my heel, and looking sharply behind me over my shoulder, began to\nretrace my steps in the direction of the boats.\n\nInstantly the figure reappeared, and making a wide circuit, began to\nhead me off. I was tired, at any rate; but had I been as fresh as when I\nrose, I could see it was in vain for me to contend in speed with such an\nadversary. From trunk to trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running\nmanlike on two legs, but unlike any man that I had ever seen, stooping\nalmost double as it ran. Yet a man it was, I could no longer be in doubt\nabout that.\n\nI began to recall what I had heard of cannibals. I was within an ace of\ncalling for help. But the mere fact that he was a man, however wild,\nhad somewhat reassured me, and my fear of Silver began to revive in\nproportion. I stood still, therefore, and cast about for some method of\nescape; and as I was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed\ninto my mind. As soon as I remembered I was not defenceless, courage\nglowed again in my heart and I set my face resolutely for this man of\nthe island and walked briskly towards him.\n\nHe was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; but he must\nhave been watching me closely, for as soon as I began to move in his\ndirection he reappeared and took a step to meet me. Then he hesitated,\ndrew back, came forward again, and at last, to my wonder and\nconfusion, threw himself on his knees and held out his clasped hands in\nsupplication.\n\nAt that I once more stopped.\n\n Who are you?  I asked.\n\n Ben Gunn,  he answered, and his voice sounded hoarse and awkward,\nlike a rusty lock.  I m poor Ben Gunn, I am; and I haven t spoke with a\nChristian these three years. \n\nI could now see that he was a white man like myself and that his\nfeatures were even pleasing. His skin, wherever it was exposed, was\nburnt by the sun; even his lips were black, and his fair eyes looked\nquite startling in so dark a face. Of all the beggar-men that I had seen\nor fancied, he was the chief for raggedness. He was clothed with tatters\nof old ship s canvas and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork\nwas all held together by a system of the most various and incongruous\nfastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry gaskin.\nAbout his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather belt, which was the\none thing solid in his whole accoutrement.\n\n Three years!  I cried.  Were you shipwrecked? \n\n Nay, mate,  said he;  marooned. \n\nI had heard the word, and I knew it stood for a horrible kind of\npunishment common enough among the buccaneers, in which the offender\nis put ashore with a little powder and shot and left behind on some\ndesolate and distant island.\n\n Marooned three years agone,  he continued,  and lived on goats since\nthen, and berries, and oysters. Wherever a man is, says I, a man can\ndo for himself. But, mate, my heart is sore for Christian diet. You\nmightn t happen to have a piece of cheese about you, now? No? Well,\nmany s the long night I ve dreamed of cheese--toasted, mostly--and woke\nup again, and here I were. \n\n If ever I can get aboard again,  said I,  you shall have cheese by the\nstone. \n\nAll this time he had been feeling the stuff of my jacket, smoothing\nmy hands, looking at my boots, and generally, in the intervals of\nhis speech, showing a childish pleasure in the presence of a fellow\ncreature. But at my last words he perked up into a kind of startled\nslyness.\n\n If ever you can get aboard again, says you?  he repeated.  Why, now,\nwho s to hinder you? \n\n Not you, I know,  was my reply.\n\n And right you was,  he cried.  Now you--what do you call yourself,\nmate? \n\n Jim,  I told him.\n\n Jim, Jim,  says he, quite pleased apparently.  Well, now, Jim, I ve\nlived that rough as you d be ashamed to hear of. Now, for instance, you\nwouldn t think I had had a pious mother--to look at me?  he asked.\n\n Why, no, not in particular,  I answered.\n\n Ah, well,  said he,  but I had--_re_markable pious. And I was a civil,\npious boy, and could rattle off my catechism that fast, as you couldn t\ntell one word from another. And here s what it come to, Jim, and it\nbegun with chuck-farthen on the blessed grave-stones! That s what it\nbegun with, but it went further n that; and so my mother told me, and\npredicked the whole, she did, the pious woman! But it were Providence\nthat put me here. I ve thought it all out in this here lonely island,\nand I m back on piety. You don t catch me tasting rum so much, but just\na thimbleful for luck, of course, the first chance I have. I m bound\nI ll be good, and I see the way to. And, Jim --looking all round him and\nlowering his voice to a whisper-- I m rich. \n\nI now felt sure that the poor fellow had gone crazy in his solitude, and\nI suppose I must have shown the feeling in my face, for he repeated the\nstatement hotly:  Rich! Rich! I says. And I ll tell you what: I ll make\na man of you, Jim. Ah, Jim, you ll bless your stars, you will, you was\nthe first that found me! \n\nAnd at this there came suddenly a lowering shadow over his face, and he\ntightened his grasp upon my hand and raised a forefinger threateningly\nbefore my eyes.\n\n Now, Jim, you tell me true: that ain t Flint s ship?  he asked.\n\nAt this I had a happy inspiration. I began to believe that I had found\nan ally, and I answered him at once.\n\n It s not Flint s ship, and Flint is dead; but I ll tell you true, as\nyou ask me--there are some of Flint s hands aboard; worse luck for the\nrest of us. \n\n Not a man--with one--leg?  he gasped.\n\n Silver?  I asked.\n\n Ah, Silver!  says he.  That were his name. \n\n He s the cook, and the ringleader too. \n\nHe was still holding me by the wrist, and at that he give it quite a\nwring.\n\n If you was sent by Long John,  he said,  I m as good as pork, and I\nknow it. But where was you, do you suppose? \n\nI had made my mind up in a moment, and by way of answer told him\nthe whole story of our voyage and the predicament in which we found\nourselves. He heard me with the keenest interest, and when I had done he\npatted me on the head.\n\n You re a good lad, Jim,  he said;  and you re all in a clove hitch,\nain t you? Well, you just put your trust in Ben Gunn--Ben Gunn s the man\nto do it. Would you think it likely, now, that your squire would prove\na liberal-minded one in case of help--him being in a clove hitch, as you\nremark? \n\nI told him the squire was the most liberal of men.\n\n Aye, but you see,  returned Ben Gunn,  I didn t mean giving me a gate\nto keep, and a suit of livery clothes, and such; that s not my mark,\nJim. What I mean is, would he be likely to come down to the toon of, say\none thousand pounds out of money that s as good as a man s own already? \n\n I am sure he would,  said I.  As it was, all hands were to share. \n\n AND a passage home?  he added with a look of great shrewdness.\n\n Why,  I cried,  the squire s a gentleman. And besides, if we got rid of\nthe others, we should want you to help work the vessel home. \n\n Ah,  said he,  so you would.  And he seemed very much relieved.\n\n Now, I ll tell you what,  he went on.  So much I ll tell you, and no\nmore. I were in Flint s ship when he buried the treasure; he and\nsix along--six strong seamen. They was ashore nigh on a week, and us\nstanding off and on in the old WALRUS. One fine day up went the signal,\nand here come Flint by himself in a little boat, and his head done up in\na blue scarf. The sun was getting up, and mortal white he looked about\nthe cutwater. But, there he was, you mind, and the six all dead--dead\nand buried. How he done it, not a man aboard us could make out. It was\nbattle, murder, and sudden death, leastways--him against six. Billy\nBones was the mate; Long John, he was quartermaster; and they asked him\nwhere the treasure was.  Ah,  says he,  you can go ashore, if you like,\nand stay,  he says;  but as for the ship, she ll beat up for more, by\nthunder!  That s what he said.\n\n Well, I was in another ship three years back, and we sighted this\nisland.  Boys,  said I,  here s Flint s treasure; let s land and find\nit.  The cap n was displeased at that, but my messmates were all of a\nmind and landed. Twelve days they looked for it, and every day they had\nthe worse word for me, until one fine morning all hands went aboard.  As\nfor you, Benjamin Gunn,  says they,  here s a musket,  they says,  and\na spade, and pick-axe. You can stay here and find Flint s money for\nyourself,  they says.\n\n Well, Jim, three years have I been here, and not a bite of Christian\ndiet from that day to this. But now, you look here; look at me. Do I\nlook like a man before the mast? No, says you. Nor I weren t, neither, I\nsays. \n\nAnd with that he winked and pinched me hard.\n\n Just you mention them words to your squire, Jim,  he went on.  Nor he\nweren t, neither--that s the words. Three years he were the man of this\nisland, light and dark, fair and rain; and sometimes he would maybe\nthink upon a prayer (says you), and sometimes he would maybe think of\nhis old mother, so be as she s alive (you ll say); but the most part\nof Gunn s time (this is what you ll say)--the most part of his time was\ntook up with another matter. And then you ll give him a nip, like I do. \n\nAnd he pinched me again in the most confidential manner.\n\n Then,  he continued,  then you ll up, and you ll say this: Gunn is a\ngood man (you ll say), and he puts a precious sight more confidence--a\nprecious sight, mind that--in a gen leman born than in these gen leman\nof fortune, having been one hisself. \n\n Well,  I said,  I don t understand one word that you ve been saying.\nBut that s neither here nor there; for how am I to get on board? \n\n Ah,  said he,  that s the hitch, for sure. Well, there s my boat, that\nI made with my two hands. I keep her under the white rock. If the worst\ncome to the worst, we might try that after dark. Hi!  he broke out.\n What s that? \n\nFor just then, although the sun had still an hour or two to run, all the\nechoes of the island awoke and bellowed to the thunder of a cannon.\n\n They have begun to fight!  I cried.  Follow me. \n\nAnd I began to run towards the anchorage, my terrors all forgotten,\nwhile close at my side the marooned man in his goatskins trotted easily\nand lightly.\n\n Left, left,  says he;  keep to your left hand, mate Jim! Under the\ntrees with you! Theer s where I killed my first goat. They don t come\ndown here now; they re all mastheaded on them mountings for the fear\nof Benjamin Gunn. Ah! And there s the cetemery --cemetery, he must have\nmeant.  You see the mounds? I come here and prayed, nows and thens, when\nI thought maybe a Sunday would be about doo. It weren t quite a chapel,\nbut it seemed more solemn like; and then, says you, Ben Gunn was\nshort-handed--no chapling, nor so much as a Bible and a flag, you says. \n\nSo he kept talking as I ran, neither expecting nor receiving any answer.\n\nThe cannon-shot was followed after a considerable interval by a volley\nof small arms.\n\nAnother pause, and then, not a quarter of a mile in front of me, I\nbeheld the Union Jack flutter in the air above a wood.\n\n\n\n\nPART FOUR--The Stockade\n\n\n\n\nXVI\nNarrative Continued by the Doctor: How the Ship Was Abandoned\n\n\nIt was about half past one--three bells in the sea phrase--that the two\nboats went ashore from the HISPANIOLA. The captain, the squire, and I\nwere talking matters over in the cabin. Had there been a breath of wind,\nwe should have fallen on the six mutineers who were left aboard with\nus, slipped our cable, and away to sea. But the wind was wanting; and\nto complete our helplessness, down came Hunter with the news that Jim\nHawkins had slipped into a boat and was gone ashore with the rest.\n\nIt never occurred to us to doubt Jim Hawkins, but we were alarmed for\nhis safety. With the men in the temper they were in, it seemed an even\nchance if we should see the lad again. We ran on deck. The pitch was\nbubbling in the seams; the nasty stench of the place turned me sick;\nif ever a man smelt fever and dysentery, it was in that abominable\nanchorage. The six scoundrels were sitting grumbling under a sail in the\nforecastle; ashore we could see the gigs made fast and a man sitting\nin each, hard by where the river runs in. One of them was whistling\n Lillibullero. \n\nWaiting was a strain, and it was decided that Hunter and I should go\nashore with the jolly-boat in quest of information.\n\nThe gigs had leaned to their right, but Hunter and I pulled straight in,\nin the direction of the stockade upon the chart. The two who were\nleft guarding their boats seemed in a bustle at our appearance;\n Lillibullero  stopped off, and I could see the pair discussing what\nthey ought to do. Had they gone and told Silver, all might have turned\nout differently; but they had their orders, I suppose, and decided to\nsit quietly where they were and hark back again to  Lillibullero. \n\nThere was a slight bend in the coast, and I steered so as to put it\nbetween us; even before we landed we had thus lost sight of the gigs.\nI jumped out and came as near running as I durst, with a big silk\nhandkerchief under my hat for coolness  sake and a brace of pistols\nready primed for safety.\n\nI had not gone a hundred yards when I reached the stockade.\n\nThis was how it was: a spring of clear water rose almost at the top of a\nknoll. Well, on the knoll, and enclosing the spring, they had clapped a\nstout loghouse fit to hold two score of people on a pinch and loopholed\nfor musketry on either side. All round this they had cleared a wide\nspace, and then the thing was completed by a paling six feet high,\nwithout door or opening, too strong to pull down without time and labour\nand too open to shelter the besiegers. The people in the log-house had\nthem in every way; they stood quiet in shelter and shot the others like\npartridges. All they wanted was a good watch and food; for, short of a\ncomplete surprise, they might have held the place against a regiment.\n\nWhat particularly took my fancy was the spring. For though we had a good\nenough place of it in the cabin of the HISPANIOLA, with plenty of arms\nand ammunition, and things to eat, and excellent wines, there had been\none thing overlooked--we had no water. I was thinking this over when\nthere came ringing over the island the cry of a man at the point of\ndeath. I was not new to violent death--I have served his Royal Highness\nthe Duke of Cumberland, and got a wound myself at Fontenoy--but I know\nmy pulse went dot and carry one.  Jim Hawkins is gone,  was my first\nthought.\n\nIt is something to have been an old soldier, but more still to have been\na doctor. There is no time to dilly-dally in our work. And so now I made\nup my mind instantly, and with no time lost returned to the shore and\njumped on board the jolly-boat.\n\nBy good fortune Hunter pulled a good oar. We made the water fly, and the\nboat was soon alongside and I aboard the schooner.\n\nI found them all shaken, as was natural. The squire was sitting down, as\nwhite as a sheet, thinking of the harm he had led us to, the good soul!\nAnd one of the six forecastle hands was little better.\n\n There s a man,  says Captain Smollett, nodding towards him,  new to\nthis work. He came nigh-hand fainting, doctor, when he heard the cry.\nAnother touch of the rudder and that man would join us. \n\nI told my plan to the captain, and between us we settled on the details\nof its accomplishment.\n\nWe put old Redruth in the gallery between the cabin and the forecastle,\nwith three or four loaded muskets and a mattress for protection. Hunter\nbrought the boat round under the stern-port, and Joyce and I set to work\nloading her with powder tins, muskets, bags of biscuits, kegs of pork, a\ncask of cognac, and my invaluable medicine chest.\n\nIn the meantime, the squire and the captain stayed on deck, and the\nlatter hailed the coxswain, who was the principal man aboard.\n\n Mr. Hands,  he said,  here are two of us with a brace of pistols each.\nIf any one of you six make a signal of any description, that man s\ndead. \n\nThey were a good deal taken aback, and after a little consultation one\nand all tumbled down the fore companion, thinking no doubt to take us\non the rear. But when they saw Redruth waiting for them in the sparred\ngalley, they went about ship at once, and a head popped out again on\ndeck.\n\n Down, dog!  cries the captain.\n\nAnd the head popped back again; and we heard no more, for the time, of\nthese six very faint-hearted seamen.\n\nBy this time, tumbling things in as they came, we had the jolly-boat\nloaded as much as we dared. Joyce and I got out through the stern-port,\nand we made for shore again as fast as oars could take us.\n\nThis second trip fairly aroused the watchers along shore.  Lillibullero \n was dropped again; and just before we lost sight of them behind the\nlittle point, one of them whipped ashore and disappeared. I had half a\nmind to change my plan and destroy their boats, but I feared that Silver\nand the others might be close at hand, and all might very well be lost\nby trying for too much.\n\nWe had soon touched land in the same place as before and set to\nprovision the block house. All three made the first journey, heavily\nladen, and tossed our stores over the palisade. Then, leaving Joyce to\nguard them--one man, to be sure, but with half a dozen muskets--Hunter\nand I returned to the jolly-boat and loaded ourselves once more. So\nwe proceeded without pausing to take breath, till the whole cargo was\nbestowed, when the two servants took up their position in the block\nhouse, and I, with all my power, sculled back to the HISPANIOLA.\n\nThat we should have risked a second boat load seems more daring than it\nreally was. They had the advantage of numbers, of course, but we had the\nadvantage of arms. Not one of the men ashore had a musket, and before\nthey could get within range for pistol shooting, we flattered ourselves\nwe should be able to give a good account of a half-dozen at least.\n\nThe squire was waiting for me at the stern window, all his faintness\ngone from him. He caught the painter and made it fast, and we fell to\nloading the boat for our very lives. Pork, powder, and biscuit was the\ncargo, with only a musket and a cutlass apiece for the squire and me\nand Redruth and the captain. The rest of the arms and powder we dropped\noverboard in two fathoms and a half of water, so that we could see\nthe bright steel shining far below us in the sun, on the clean, sandy\nbottom.\n\nBy this time the tide was beginning to ebb, and the ship was swinging\nround to her anchor. Voices were heard faintly halloaing in the\ndirection of the two gigs; and though this reassured us for Joyce and\nHunter, who were well to the eastward, it warned our party to be off.\n\nRedruth retreated from his place in the gallery and dropped into the\nboat, which we then brought round to the ship s counter, to be handier\nfor Captain Smollett.\n\n Now, men,  said he,  do you hear me? \n\nThere was no answer from the forecastle.\n\n It s to you, Abraham Gray--it s to you I am speaking. \n\nStill no reply.\n\n Gray,  resumed Mr. Smollett, a little louder,  I am leaving this ship,\nand I order you to follow your captain. I know you are a good man at\nbottom, and I dare say not one of the lot of you s as bad as he makes\nout. I have my watch here in my hand; I give you thirty seconds to join\nme in. \n\nThere was a pause.\n\n Come, my fine fellow,  continued the captain;  don t hang so long in\nstays. I m risking my life and the lives of these good gentlemen every\nsecond. \n\nThere was a sudden scuffle, a sound of blows, and out burst Abraham\nGray with a knife cut on the side of the cheek, and came running to the\ncaptain like a dog to the whistle.\n\n I m with you, sir,  said he.\n\nAnd the next moment he and the captain had dropped aboard of us, and we\nhad shoved off and given way.\n\nWe were clear out of the ship, but not yet ashore in our stockade.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\nNarrative Continued by the Doctor: The Jolly-boat s Last Trip\n\n\nThis fifth trip was quite different from any of the others. In the\nfirst place, the little gallipot of a boat that we were in was gravely\noverloaded. Five grown men, and three of them--Trelawney, Redruth, and\nthe captain--over six feet high, was already more than she was meant\nto carry. Add to that the powder, pork, and bread-bags. The gunwale was\nlipping astern. Several times we shipped a little water, and my breeches\nand the tails of my coat were all soaking wet before we had gone a\nhundred yards.\n\nThe captain made us trim the boat, and we got her to lie a little more\nevenly. All the same, we were afraid to breathe.\n\nIn the second place, the ebb was now making--a strong rippling current\nrunning westward through the basin, and then south ard and seaward down\nthe straits by which we had entered in the morning. Even the ripples\nwere a danger to our overloaded craft, but the worst of it was that we\nwere swept out of our true course and away from our proper landing-place\nbehind the point. If we let the current have its way we should come\nashore beside the gigs, where the pirates might appear at any moment.\n\n I cannot keep her head for the stockade, sir,  said I to the captain.\nI was steering, while he and Redruth, two fresh men, were at the oars.\n The tide keeps washing her down. Could you pull a little stronger? \n\n Not without swamping the boat,  said he.  You must bear up, sir, if you\nplease--bear up until you see you re gaining. \n\nI tried and found by experiment that the tide kept sweeping us westward\nuntil I had laid her head due east, or just about right angles to the\nway we ought to go.\n\n We ll never get ashore at this rate,  said I.\n\n If it s the only course that we can lie, sir, we must even lie it, \n returned the captain.  We must keep upstream. You see, sir,  he went on,\n if once we dropped to leeward of the landing-place, it s hard to say\nwhere we should get ashore, besides the chance of being boarded by the\ngigs; whereas, the way we go the current must slacken, and then we can\ndodge back along the shore. \n\n The current s less a ready, sir,  said the man Gray, who was sitting in\nthe fore-sheets;  you can ease her off a bit. \n\n Thank you, my man,  said I, quite as if nothing had happened, for we\nhad all quietly made up our minds to treat him like one of ourselves.\n\nSuddenly the captain spoke up again, and I thought his voice was a\nlittle changed.\n\n The gun!  said he.\n\n I have thought of that,  said I, for I made sure he was thinking of a\nbombardment of the fort.  They could never get the gun ashore, and if\nthey did, they could never haul it through the woods. \n\n Look astern, doctor,  replied the captain.\n\nWe had entirely forgotten the long nine; and there, to our horror, were\nthe five rogues busy about her, getting off her jacket, as they called\nthe stout tarpaulin cover under which she sailed. Not only that, but\nit flashed into my mind at the same moment that the round-shot and the\npowder for the gun had been left behind, and a stroke with an axe would\nput it all into the possession of the evil ones abroad.\n\n Israel was Flint s gunner,  said Gray hoarsely.\n\nAt any risk, we put the boat s head direct for the landing-place. By\nthis time we had got so far out of the run of the current that we kept\nsteerage way even at our necessarily gentle rate of rowing, and I could\nkeep her steady for the goal. But the worst of it was that with the\ncourse I now held we turned our broadside instead of our stern to the\nHISPANIOLA and offered a target like a barn door.\n\nI could hear as well as see that brandy-faced rascal Israel Hands\nplumping down a round-shot on the deck.\n\n Who s the best shot?  asked the captain.\n\n Mr. Trelawney, out and away,  said I.\n\n Mr. Trelawney, will you please pick me off one of these men, sir?\nHands, if possible,  said the captain.\n\nTrelawney was as cool as steel. He looked to the priming of his gun.\n\n Now,  cried the captain,  easy with that gun, sir, or you ll swamp the\nboat. All hands stand by to trim her when he aims. \n\nThe squire raised his gun, the rowing ceased, and we leaned over to the\nother side to keep the balance, and all was so nicely contrived that we\ndid not ship a drop.\n\nThey had the gun, by this time, slewed round upon the swivel, and Hands,\nwho was at the muzzle with the rammer, was in consequence the most\nexposed. However, we had no luck, for just as Trelawney fired, down he\nstooped, the ball whistled over him, and it was one of the other four\nwho fell.\n\nThe cry he gave was echoed not only by his companions on board but by a\ngreat number of voices from the shore, and looking in that direction\nI saw the other pirates trooping out from among the trees and tumbling\ninto their places in the boats.\n\n Here come the gigs, sir,  said I.\n\n Give way, then,  cried the captain.  We mustn t mind if we swamp her\nnow. If we can t get ashore, all s up. \n\n Only one of the gigs is being manned, sir,  I added;  the crew of the\nother most likely going round by shore to cut us off. \n\n They ll have a hot run, sir,  returned the captain.  Jack ashore, you\nknow. It s not them I mind; it s the round-shot. Carpet bowls! My lady s\nmaid couldn t miss. Tell us, squire, when you see the match, and we ll\nhold water. \n\nIn the meanwhile we had been making headway at a good pace for a boat so\noverloaded, and we had shipped but little water in the process. We were\nnow close in; thirty or forty strokes and we should beach her, for the\nebb had already disclosed a narrow belt of sand below the clustering\ntrees. The gig was no longer to be feared; the little point had already\nconcealed it from our eyes. The ebb-tide, which had so cruelly delayed\nus, was now making reparation and delaying our assailants. The one\nsource of danger was the gun.\n\n If I durst,  said the captain,  I d stop and pick off another man. \n\nBut it was plain that they meant nothing should delay their shot. They\nhad never so much as looked at their fallen comrade, though he was not\ndead, and I could see him trying to crawl away.\n\n Ready!  cried the squire.\n\n Hold!  cried the captain, quick as an echo.\n\nAnd he and Redruth backed with a great heave that sent her stern bodily\nunder water. The report fell in at the same instant of time. This was\nthe first that Jim heard, the sound of the squire s shot not having\nreached him. Where the ball passed, not one of us precisely knew, but I\nfancy it must have been over our heads and that the wind of it may have\ncontributed to our disaster.\n\nAt any rate, the boat sank by the stern, quite gently, in three feet of\nwater, leaving the captain and myself, facing each other, on our feet.\nThe other three took complete headers, and came up again drenched and\nbubbling.\n\nSo far there was no great harm. No lives were lost, and we could wade\nashore in safety. But there were all our stores at the bottom, and to\nmake things worse, only two guns out of five remained in a state for\nservice. Mine I had snatched from my knees and held over my head, by\na sort of instinct. As for the captain, he had carried his over his\nshoulder by a bandoleer, and like a wise man, lock uppermost. The other\nthree had gone down with the boat.\n\nTo add to our concern, we heard voices already drawing near us in the\nwoods along shore, and we had not only the danger of being cut off from\nthe stockade in our half-crippled state but the fear before us whether,\nif Hunter and Joyce were attacked by half a dozen, they would have the\nsense and conduct to stand firm. Hunter was steady, that we knew; Joyce\nwas a doubtful case--a pleasant, polite man for a valet and to brush\none s clothes, but not entirely fitted for a man of war.\n\nWith all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as we could, leaving\nbehind us the poor jolly-boat and a good half of all our powder and\nprovisions.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\nNarrative Continued by the Doctor: End of the First Day s Fighting\n\n\nWe made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from\nthe stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers\nrang nearer. Soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran and the\ncracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket.\n\nI began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest and looked to my\npriming.\n\n Captain,  said I,  Trelawney is the dead shot. Give him your gun; his\nown is useless. \n\nThey exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool as he had been since\nthe beginning of the bustle, hung a moment on his heel to see that all\nwas fit for service. At the same time, observing Gray to be unarmed, I\nhanded him my cutlass. It did all our hearts good to see him spit in his\nhand, knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air. It was\nplain from every line of his body that our new hand was worth his salt.\n\nForty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and saw the stockade\nin front of us. We struck the enclosure about the middle of the south\nside, and almost at the same time, seven mutineers--Job Anderson, the\nboatswain, at their head--appeared in full cry at the southwestern\ncorner.\n\nThey paused as if taken aback, and before they recovered, not only the\nsquire and I, but Hunter and Joyce from the block house, had time to\nfire. The four shots came in rather a scattering volley, but they did\nthe business: one of the enemy actually fell, and the rest, without\nhesitation, turned and plunged into the trees.\n\nAfter reloading, we walked down the outside of the palisade to see to\nthe fallen enemy. He was stone dead--shot through the heart.\n\nWe began to rejoice over our good success when just at that moment a\npistol cracked in the bush, a ball whistled close past my ear, and poor\nTom Redruth stumbled and fell his length on the ground. Both the squire\nand I returned the shot, but as we had nothing to aim at, it is probable\nwe only wasted powder. Then we reloaded and turned our attention to poor\nTom.\n\nThe captain and Gray were already examining him, and I saw with half an\neye that all was over.\n\nI believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered the mutineers\nonce more, for we were suffered without further molestation to get the\npoor old gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade and carried, groaning and\nbleeding, into the log-house.\n\nPoor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, complaint,\nfear, or even acquiescence from the very beginning of our troubles till\nnow, when we had laid him down in the log-house to die. He had lain like\na Trojan behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every order\nsilently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of our party by a score\nof years; and now, sullen, old, serviceable servant, it was he that was\nto die.\n\nThe squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand,\ncrying like a child.\n\n Be I going, doctor?  he asked.\n\n Tom, my man,  said I,  you re going home. \n\n I wish I had had a lick at them with the gun first,  he replied.\n\n Tom,  said the squire,  say you forgive me, won t you? \n\n Would that be respectful like, from me to you, squire?  was the answer.\n Howsoever, so be it, amen! \n\nAfter a little while of silence, he said he thought somebody might read\na prayer.  It s the custom, sir,  he added apologetically. And not long\nafter, without another word, he passed away.\n\nIn the meantime the captain, whom I had observed to be wonderfully\nswollen about the chest and pockets, had turned out a great many various\nstores--the British colours, a Bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink,\nthe log-book, and pounds of tobacco. He had found a longish fir-tree\nlying felled and trimmed in the enclosure, and with the help of Hunter\nhe had set it up at the corner of the log-house where the trunks crossed\nand made an angle. Then, climbing on the roof, he had with his own hand\nbent and run up the colours.\n\nThis seemed mightily to relieve him. He re-entered the log-house and set\nabout counting up the stores as if nothing else existed. But he had an\neye on Tom s passage for all that, and as soon as all was over, came\nforward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.\n\n Don t you take on, sir,  he said, shaking the squire s hand.  All s\nwell with him; no fear for a hand that s been shot down in his duty to\ncaptain and owner. It mayn t be good divinity, but it s a fact. \n\nThen he pulled me aside.\n\n Dr. Livesey,  he said,  in how many weeks do you and squire expect the\nconsort? \n\nI told him it was a question not of weeks but of months, that if we\nwere not back by the end of August Blandly was to send to find us, but\nneither sooner nor later.  You can calculate for yourself,  I said.\n\n Why, yes,  returned the captain, scratching his head;  and making a\nlarge allowance, sir, for all the gifts of Providence, I should say we\nwere pretty close hauled. \n\n How do you mean?  I asked.\n\n It s a pity, sir, we lost that second load. That s what I mean, \n replied the captain.  As for powder and shot, we ll do. But the rations\nare short, very short--so short, Dr. Livesey, that we re perhaps as well\nwithout that extra mouth. \n\nAnd he pointed to the dead body under the flag.\n\nJust then, with a roar and a whistle, a round-shot passed high above the\nroof of the log-house and plumped far beyond us in the wood.\n\n Oho!  said the captain.  Blaze away! You ve little enough powder\nalready, my lads. \n\nAt the second trial, the aim was better, and the ball descended inside\nthe stockade, scattering a cloud of sand but doing no further damage.\n\n Captain,  said the squire,  the house is quite invisible from the ship.\nIt must be the flag they are aiming at. Would it not be wiser to take it\nin? \n\n Strike my colours!  cried the captain.  No, sir, not I ; and as soon\nas he had said the words, I think we all agreed with him. For it was\nnot only a piece of stout, seamanly, good feeling; it was good policy\nbesides and showed our enemies that we despised their cannonade.\n\nAll through the evening they kept thundering away. Ball after ball flew\nover or fell short or kicked up the sand in the enclosure, but they had\nto fire so high that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft\nsand. We had no ricochet to fear, and though one popped in through the\nroof of the log-house and out again through the floor, we soon got used\nto that sort of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket.\n\n There is one good thing about all this,  observed the captain;  the\nwood in front of us is likely clear. The ebb has made a good while; our\nstores should be uncovered. Volunteers to go and bring in pork. \n\nGray and Hunter were the first to come forward. Well armed, they stole\nout of the stockade, but it proved a useless mission. The mutineers were\nbolder than we fancied or they put more trust in Israel s gunnery. For\nfour or five of them were busy carrying off our stores and wading out\nwith them to one of the gigs that lay close by, pulling an oar or so to\nhold her steady against the current. Silver was in the stern-sheets in\ncommand; and every man of them was now provided with a musket from some\nsecret magazine of their own.\n\nThe captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:\n\n     Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship s\n     doctor; Abraham Gray, carpenter s mate; John\n     Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and Richard Joyce,\n     owner s servants, landsmen--being all that is left\n     faithful of the ship s company--with stores for ten\n     days at short rations, came ashore this day and flew\n     British colours on the log-house in Treasure Island.\n     Thomas Redruth, owner s servant, landsman, shot by the\n     mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin-boy--\n\nAnd at the same time, I was wondering over poor Jim Hawkins  fate.\n\nA hail on the land side.\n\n Somebody hailing us,  said Hunter, who was on guard.\n\n Doctor! Squire! Captain! Hullo, Hunter, is that you?  came the cries.\n\nAnd I ran to the door in time to see Jim Hawkins, safe and sound, come\nclimbing over the stockade.\n\n\n\n\nXIX\nNarrative Resumed by Jim Hawkins: The Garrison in the Stockade\n\n\nAs soon as Ben Gunn saw the colours he came to a halt, stopped me by the\narm, and sat down.\n\n Now,  said he,  there s your friends, sure enough. \n\n Far more likely it s the mutineers,  I answered.\n\n That!  he cried.  Why, in a place like this, where nobody puts in but\ngen lemen of fortune, Silver would fly the Jolly Roger, you don t make\nno doubt of that. No, that s your friends. There s been blows too, and I\nreckon your friends has had the best of it; and here they are ashore in\nthe old stockade, as was made years and years ago by Flint. Ah, he was\nthe man to have a headpiece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match were\nnever seen. He were afraid of none, not he; on y Silver--Silver was that\ngenteel. \n\n Well,  said I,  that may be so, and so be it; all the more reason that\nI should hurry on and join my friends. \n\n Nay, mate,  returned Ben,  not you. You re a good boy, or I m mistook;\nbut you re on y a boy, all told. Now, Ben Gunn is fly. Rum wouldn t\nbring me there, where you re going--not rum wouldn t, till I see your\nborn gen leman and gets it on his word of honour. And you won t forget\nmy words;  A precious sight (that s what you ll say), a precious sight\nmore confidence --and then nips him. \n\nAnd he pinched me the third time with the same air of cleverness.\n\n And when Ben Gunn is wanted, you know where to find him, Jim. Just\nwheer you found him today. And him that comes is to have a white thing\nin his hand, and he s to come alone. Oh! And you ll say this:  Ben\nGunn,  says you,  has reasons of his own. \n\n Well,  said I,  I believe I understand. You have something to propose,\nand you wish to see the squire or the doctor, and you re to be found\nwhere I found you. Is that all? \n\n And when? says you,  he added.  Why, from about noon observation to\nabout six bells. \n\n Good,  said I,  and now may I go? \n\n You won t forget?  he inquired anxiously.  Precious sight, and reasons\nof his own, says you. Reasons of his own; that s the mainstay; as\nbetween man and man. Well, then --still holding me-- I reckon you can\ngo, Jim. And, Jim, if you was to see Silver, you wouldn t go for to sell\nBen Gunn? Wild horses wouldn t draw it from you? No, says you. And if\nthem pirates camp ashore, Jim, what would you say but there d be widders\nin the morning? \n\nHere he was interrupted by a loud report, and a cannonball came tearing\nthrough the trees and pitched in the sand not a hundred yards from where\nwe two were talking. The next moment each of us had taken to his heels\nin a different direction.\n\nFor a good hour to come frequent reports shook the island, and\nballs kept crashing through the woods. I moved from hiding-place to\nhiding-place, always pursued, or so it seemed to me, by these terrifying\nmissiles. But towards the end of the bombardment, though still I durst\nnot venture in the direction of the stockade, where the balls fell\noftenest, I had begun, in a manner, to pluck up my heart again, and\nafter a long detour to the east, crept down among the shore-side trees.\n\nThe sun had just set, the sea breeze was rustling and tumbling in the\nwoods and ruffling the grey surface of the anchorage; the tide, too, was\nfar out, and great tracts of sand lay uncovered; the air, after the heat\nof the day, chilled me through my jacket.\n\nThe HISPANIOLA still lay where she had anchored; but, sure enough, there\nwas the Jolly Roger--the black flag of piracy--flying from her peak.\nEven as I looked, there came another red flash and another report that\nsent the echoes clattering, and one more round-shot whistled through the\nair. It was the last of the cannonade.\n\nI lay for some time watching the bustle which succeeded the attack. Men\nwere demolishing something with axes on the beach near the stockade--the\npoor jolly-boat, I afterwards discovered. Away, near the mouth of the\nriver, a great fire was glowing among the trees, and between that point\nand the ship one of the gigs kept coming and going, the men, whom I\nhad seen so gloomy, shouting at the oars like children. But there was a\nsound in their voices which suggested rum.\n\nAt length I thought I might return towards the stockade. I was pretty\nfar down on the low, sandy spit that encloses the anchorage to the east,\nand is joined at half-water to Skeleton Island; and now, as I rose to my\nfeet, I saw, some distance further down the spit and rising from among\nlow bushes, an isolated rock, pretty high, and peculiarly white in\ncolour. It occurred to me that this might be the white rock of which Ben\nGunn had spoken and that some day or other a boat might be wanted and I\nshould know where to look for one.\n\nThen I skirted among the woods until I had regained the rear, or\nshoreward side, of the stockade, and was soon warmly welcomed by the\nfaithful party.\n\nI had soon told my story and began to look about me. The log-house was\nmade of unsquared trunks of pine--roof, walls, and floor. The latter\nstood in several places as much as a foot or a foot and a half above the\nsurface of the sand. There was a porch at the door, and under this porch\nthe little spring welled up into an artificial basin of a rather odd\nkind--no other than a great ship s kettle of iron, with the bottom\nknocked out, and sunk  to her bearings,  as the captain said, among the\nsand.\n\nLittle had been left besides the framework of the house, but in one\ncorner there was a stone slab laid down by way of hearth and an old\nrusty iron basket to contain the fire.\n\nThe slopes of the knoll and all the inside of the stockade had been\ncleared of timber to build the house, and we could see by the stumps\nwhat a fine and lofty grove had been destroyed. Most of the soil had\nbeen washed away or buried in drift after the removal of the trees; only\nwhere the streamlet ran down from the kettle a thick bed of moss and\nsome ferns and little creeping bushes were still green among the sand.\nVery close around the stockade--too close for defence, they said--the\nwood still flourished high and dense, all of fir on the land side, but\ntowards the sea with a large admixture of live-oaks.\n\nThe cold evening breeze, of which I have spoken, whistled through every\nchink of the rude building and sprinkled the floor with a continual rain\nof fine sand. There was sand in our eyes, sand in our teeth, sand in our\nsuppers, sand dancing in the spring at the bottom of the kettle, for all\nthe world like porridge beginning to boil. Our chimney was a square hole\nin the roof; it was but a little part of the smoke that found its way\nout, and the rest eddied about the house and kept us coughing and piping\nthe eye.\n\nAdd to this that Gray, the new man, had his face tied up in a bandage\nfor a cut he had got in breaking away from the mutineers and that poor\nold Tom Redruth, still unburied, lay along the wall, stiff and stark,\nunder the Union Jack.\n\nIf we had been allowed to sit idle, we should all have fallen in the\nblues, but Captain Smollett was never the man for that. All hands were\ncalled up before him, and he divided us into watches. The doctor and\nGray and I for one; the squire, Hunter, and Joyce upon the other. Tired\nthough we all were, two were sent out for firewood; two more were set to\ndig a grave for Redruth; the doctor was named cook; I was put sentry at\nthe door; and the captain himself went from one to another, keeping up\nour spirits and lending a hand wherever it was wanted.\n\nFrom time to time the doctor came to the door for a little air and to\nrest his eyes, which were almost smoked out of his head, and whenever he\ndid so, he had a word for me.\n\n That man Smollett,  he said once,  is a better man than I am. And when\nI say that it means a deal, Jim. \n\nAnother time he came and was silent for a while. Then he put his head on\none side, and looked at me.\n\n Is this Ben Gunn a man?  he asked.\n\n I do not know, sir,  said I.  I am not very sure whether he s sane. \n\n If there s any doubt about the matter, he is,  returned the doctor.  A\nman who has been three years biting his nails on a desert island, Jim,\ncan t expect to appear as sane as you or me. It doesn t lie in human\nnature. Was it cheese you said he had a fancy for? \n\n Yes, sir, cheese,  I answered.\n\n Well, Jim,  says he,  just see the good that comes of being dainty in\nyour food. You ve seen my snuff-box, haven t you? And you never saw me\ntake snuff, the reason being that in my snuff-box I carry a piece of\nParmesan cheese--a cheese made in Italy, very nutritious. Well, that s\nfor Ben Gunn! \n\nBefore supper was eaten we buried old Tom in the sand and stood round\nhim for a while bare-headed in the breeze. A good deal of firewood had\nbeen got in, but not enough for the captain s fancy, and he shook his\nhead over it and told us we  must get back to this tomorrow rather\nlivelier.  Then, when we had eaten our pork and each had a good stiff\nglass of brandy grog, the three chiefs got together in a corner to\ndiscuss our prospects.\n\nIt appears they were at their wits  end what to do, the stores being so\nlow that we must have been starved into surrender long before help came.\nBut our best hope, it was decided, was to kill off the buccaneers until\nthey either hauled down their flag or ran away with the HISPANIOLA. From\nnineteen they were already reduced to fifteen, two others were wounded,\nand one at least--the man shot beside the gun--severely wounded, if he\nwere not dead. Every time we had a crack at them, we were to take it,\nsaving our own lives, with the extremest care. And besides that, we had\ntwo able allies--rum and the climate.\n\nAs for the first, though we were about half a mile away, we could hear\nthem roaring and singing late into the night; and as for the second,\nthe doctor staked his wig that, camped where they were in the marsh\nand unprovided with remedies, the half of them would be on their backs\nbefore a week.\n\n So,  he added,  if we are not all shot down first they ll be glad to\nbe packing in the schooner. It s always a ship, and they can get to\nbuccaneering again, I suppose. \n\n First ship that ever I lost,  said Captain Smollett.\n\nI was dead tired, as you may fancy; and when I got to sleep, which was\nnot till after a great deal of tossing, I slept like a log of wood.\n\nThe rest had long been up and had already breakfasted and increased the\npile of firewood by about half as much again when I was wakened by a\nbustle and the sound of voices.\n\n Flag of truce!  I heard someone say; and then, immediately after, with\na cry of surprise,  Silver himself! \n\nAnd at that, up I jumped, and rubbing my eyes, ran to a loophole in the\nwall.\n\n\n\n\nXX\nSilver s Embassy\n\n\nSure enough, there were two men just outside the stockade, one of them\nwaving a white cloth, the other, no less a person than Silver himself,\nstanding placidly by.\n\nIt was still quite early, and the coldest morning that I think I ever\nwas abroad in--a chill that pierced into the marrow. The sky was bright\nand cloudless overhead, and the tops of the trees shone rosily in\nthe sun. But where Silver stood with his lieutenant, all was still in\nshadow, and they waded knee-deep in a low white vapour that had crawled\nduring the night out of the morass. The chill and the vapour taken\ntogether told a poor tale of the island. It was plainly a damp,\nfeverish, unhealthy spot.\n\n Keep indoors, men,  said the captain.  Ten to one this is a trick. \n\nThen he hailed the buccaneer.\n\n Who goes? Stand, or we fire. \n\n Flag of truce,  cried Silver.\n\nThe captain was in the porch, keeping himself carefully out of the way\nof a treacherous shot, should any be intended. He turned and spoke to\nus,  Doctor s watch on the lookout. Dr. Livesey take the north side,\nif you please; Jim, the east; Gray, west. The watch below, all hands to\nload muskets. Lively, men, and careful. \n\nAnd then he turned again to the mutineers.\n\n And what do you want with your flag of truce?  he cried.\n\nThis time it was the other man who replied.\n\n Cap n Silver, sir, to come on board and make terms,  he shouted.\n\n Cap n Silver! Don t know him. Who s he?  cried the captain. And we\ncould hear him adding to himself,  Cap n, is it? My heart, and here s\npromotion! \n\nLong John answered for himself.  Me, sir. These poor lads have chosen me\ncap n, after your desertion, sir --laying a particular emphasis upon the\nword  desertion.   We re willing to submit, if we can come to terms,\nand no bones about it. All I ask is your word, Cap n Smollett, to let me\nsafe and sound out of this here stockade, and one minute to get out o \nshot before a gun is fired. \n\n My man,  said Captain Smollett,  I have not the slightest desire to\ntalk to you. If you wish to talk to me, you can come, that s all. If\nthere s any treachery, it ll be on your side, and the Lord help you. \n\n That s enough, Cap n,  shouted Long John cheerily.  A word from you s\nenough. I know a gentleman, and you may lay to that. \n\nWe could see the man who carried the flag of truce attempting to hold\nSilver back. Nor was that wonderful, seeing how cavalier had been the\ncaptain s answer. But Silver laughed at him aloud and slapped him on the\nback as if the idea of alarm had been absurd. Then he advanced to the\nstockade, threw over his crutch, got a leg up, and with great vigour\nand skill succeeded in surmounting the fence and dropping safely to the\nother side.\n\nI will confess that I was far too much taken up with what was going on\nto be of the slightest use as sentry; indeed, I had already deserted\nmy eastern loophole and crept up behind the captain, who had now seated\nhimself on the threshold, with his elbows on his knees, his head in his\nhands, and his eyes fixed on the water as it bubbled out of the old iron\nkettle in the sand. He was whistling  Come, Lasses and Lads. \n\nSilver had terrible hard work getting up the knoll. What with the\nsteepness of the incline, the thick tree stumps, and the soft sand, he\nand his crutch were as helpless as a ship in stays. But he stuck to it\nlike a man in silence, and at last arrived before the captain, whom\nhe saluted in the handsomest style. He was tricked out in his best;\nan immense blue coat, thick with brass buttons, hung as low as to his\nknees, and a fine laced hat was set on the back of his head.\n\n Here you are, my man,  said the captain, raising his head.  You had\nbetter sit down. \n\n You ain t a-going to let me inside, Cap n?  complained Long John.  It s\na main cold morning, to be sure, sir, to sit outside upon the sand. \n\n Why, Silver,  said the captain,  if you had pleased to be an honest\nman, you might have been sitting in your galley. It s your own doing.\nYou re either my ship s cook--and then you were treated handsome--or\nCap n Silver, a common mutineer and pirate, and then you can go hang! \n\n Well, well, Cap n,  returned the sea-cook, sitting down as he was\nbidden on the sand,  you ll have to give me a hand up again, that s all.\nA sweet pretty place you have of it here. Ah, there s Jim! The top of\nthe morning to you, Jim. Doctor, here s my service. Why, there you all\nare together like a happy family, in a manner of speaking. \n\n If you have anything to say, my man, better say it,  said the captain.\n\n Right you were, Cap n Smollett,  replied Silver.  Dooty is dooty, to be\nsure. Well now, you look here, that was a good lay of yours last\nnight. I don t deny it was a good lay. Some of you pretty handy with a\nhandspike-end. And I ll not deny neither but what some of my people was\nshook--maybe all was shook; maybe I was shook myself; maybe that s\nwhy I m here for terms. But you mark me, Cap n, it won t do twice, by\nthunder! We ll have to do sentry-go and ease off a point or so on the\nrum. Maybe you think we were all a sheet in the wind s eye. But I ll\ntell you I was sober; I was on y dog tired; and if I d awoke a second\nsooner, I d  a caught you at the act, I would. He wasn t dead when I got\nround to him, not he. \n\n Well?  says Captain Smollett as cool as can be.\n\nAll that Silver said was a riddle to him, but you would never have\nguessed it from his tone. As for me, I began to have an inkling. Ben\nGunn s last words came back to my mind. I began to suppose that he had\npaid the buccaneers a visit while they all lay drunk together round\ntheir fire, and I reckoned up with glee that we had only fourteen\nenemies to deal with.\n\n Well, here it is,  said Silver.  We want that treasure, and we ll have\nit--that s our point! You would just as soon save your lives, I reckon;\nand that s yours. You have a chart, haven t you? \n\n That s as may be,  replied the captain.\n\n Oh, well, you have, I know that,  returned Long John.  You needn t be\nso husky with a man; there ain t a particle of service in that, and you\nmay lay to it. What I mean is, we want your chart. Now, I never meant\nyou no harm, myself. \n\n That won t do with me, my man,  interrupted the captain.  We know\nexactly what you meant to do, and we don t care, for now, you see, you\ncan t do it. \n\nAnd the captain looked at him calmly and proceeded to fill a pipe.\n\n If Abe Gray--  Silver broke out.\n\n Avast there!  cried Mr. Smollett.  Gray told me nothing, and I asked\nhim nothing; and what s more, I would see you and him and this whole\nisland blown clean out of the water into blazes first. So there s my\nmind for you, my man, on that. \n\nThis little whiff of temper seemed to cool Silver down. He had been\ngrowing nettled before, but now he pulled himself together.\n\n Like enough,  said he.  I would set no limits to what gentlemen might\nconsider shipshape, or might not, as the case were. And seein  as how\nyou are about to take a pipe, Cap n, I ll make so free as do likewise. \n\nAnd he filled a pipe and lighted it; and the two men sat silently\nsmoking for quite a while, now looking each other in the face, now\nstopping their tobacco, now leaning forward to spit. It was as good as\nthe play to see them.\n\n Now,  resumed Silver,  here it is. You give us the chart to get the\ntreasure by, and drop shooting poor seamen and stoving of their heads in\nwhile asleep. You do that, and we ll offer you a choice. Either you come\naboard along of us, once the treasure shipped, and then I ll give you my\naffy-davy, upon my word of honour, to clap you somewhere safe ashore. Or\nif that ain t to your fancy, some of my hands being rough and having\nold scores on account of hazing, then you can stay here, you can. We ll\ndivide stores with you, man for man; and I ll give my affy-davy, as\nbefore to speak the first ship I sight, and send  em here to pick you\nup. Now, you ll own that s talking. Handsomer you couldn t look to get,\nnow you. And I hope --raising his voice-- that all hands in this here\nblock house will overhaul my words, for what is spoke to one is spoke to\nall. \n\nCaptain Smollett rose from his seat and knocked out the ashes of his\npipe in the palm of his left hand.\n\n Is that all?  he asked.\n\n Every last word, by thunder!  answered John.  Refuse that, and you ve\nseen the last of me but musket-balls. \n\n Very good,  said the captain.  Now you ll hear me. If you ll come up\none by one, unarmed, I ll engage to clap you all in irons and take you\nhome to a fair trial in England. If you won t, my name is Alexander\nSmollett, I ve flown my sovereign s colours, and I ll see you all\nto Davy Jones. You can t find the treasure. You can t sail the\nship--there s not a man among you fit to sail the ship. You can t fight\nus--Gray, there, got away from five of you. Your ship s in irons, Master\nSilver; you re on a lee shore, and so you ll find. I stand here and tell\nyou so; and they re the last good words you ll get from me, for in the\nname of heaven, I ll put a bullet in your back when next I meet you.\nTramp, my lad. Bundle out of this, please, hand over hand, and double\nquick. \n\nSilver s face was a picture; his eyes started in his head with wrath. He\nshook the fire out of his pipe.\n\n Give me a hand up!  he cried.\n\n Not I,  returned the captain.\n\n Who ll give me a hand up?  he roared.\n\nNot a man among us moved. Growling the foulest imprecations, he crawled\nalong the sand till he got hold of the porch and could hoist himself\nagain upon his crutch. Then he spat into the spring.\n\n There!  he cried.  That s what I think of ye. Before an hour s out,\nI ll stove in your old block house like a rum puncheon. Laugh, by\nthunder, laugh! Before an hour s out, ye ll laugh upon the other side.\nThem that die ll be the lucky ones. \n\nAnd with a dreadful oath he stumbled off, ploughed down the sand, was\nhelped across the stockade, after four or five failures, by the man with\nthe flag of truce, and disappeared in an instant afterwards among the\ntrees.\n\n\n\n\nXXI\nThe Attack\n\n\nAs soon as Silver disappeared, the captain, who had been closely\nwatching him, turned towards the interior of the house and found not a\nman of us at his post but Gray. It was the first time we had ever seen\nhim angry.\n\n Quarters!  he roared. And then, as we all slunk back to our places,\n Gray,  he said,  I ll put your name in the log; you ve stood by your\nduty like a seaman. Mr. Trelawney, I m surprised at you, sir. Doctor,\nI thought you had worn the king s coat! If that was how you served at\nFontenoy, sir, you d have been better in your berth. \n\nThe doctor s watch were all back at their loopholes, the rest were busy\nloading the spare muskets, and everyone with a red face, you may be\ncertain, and a flea in his ear, as the saying is.\n\nThe captain looked on for a while in silence. Then he spoke.\n\n My lads,  said he,  I ve given Silver a broadside. I pitched it in\nred-hot on purpose; and before the hour s out, as he said, we shall be\nboarded. We re outnumbered, I needn t tell you that, but we fight in\nshelter; and a minute ago I should have said we fought with discipline.\nI ve no manner of doubt that we can drub them, if you choose. \n\nThen he went the rounds and saw, as he said, that all was clear.\n\nOn the two short sides of the house, east and west, there were only two\nloopholes; on the south side where the porch was, two again; and on the\nnorth side, five. There was a round score of muskets for the seven\nof us; the firewood had been built into four piles--tables, you might\nsay--one about the middle of each side, and on each of these tables some\nammunition and four loaded muskets were laid ready to the hand of the\ndefenders. In the middle, the cutlasses lay ranged.\n\n Toss out the fire,  said the captain;  the chill is past, and we\nmustn t have smoke in our eyes. \n\nThe iron fire-basket was carried bodily out by Mr. Trelawney, and the\nembers smothered among sand.\n\n Hawkins hasn t had his breakfast. Hawkins, help yourself, and back to\nyour post to eat it,  continued Captain Smollett.  Lively, now, my lad;\nyou ll want it before you ve done. Hunter, serve out a round of brandy\nto all hands. \n\nAnd while this was going on, the captain completed, in his own mind, the\nplan of the defence.\n\n Doctor, you will take the door,  he resumed.  See, and don t expose\nyourself; keep within, and fire through the porch. Hunter, take the east\nside, there. Joyce, you stand by the west, my man. Mr. Trelawney, you\nare the best shot--you and Gray will take this long north side, with the\nfive loopholes; it s there the danger is. If they can get up to it and\nfire in upon us through our own ports, things would begin to look dirty.\nHawkins, neither you nor I are much account at the shooting; we ll stand\nby to load and bear a hand. \n\nAs the captain had said, the chill was past. As soon as the sun had\nclimbed above our girdle of trees, it fell with all its force upon the\nclearing and drank up the vapours at a draught. Soon the sand was baking\nand the resin melting in the logs of the block house. Jackets and coats\nwere flung aside, shirts thrown open at the neck and rolled up to the\nshoulders; and we stood there, each at his post, in a fever of heat and\nanxiety.\n\nAn hour passed away.\n\n Hang them!  said the captain.  This is as dull as the doldrums. Gray,\nwhistle for a wind. \n\nAnd just at that moment came the first news of the attack.\n\n If you please, sir,  said Joyce,  if I see anyone, am I to fire? \n\n I told you so!  cried the captain.\n\n Thank you, sir,  returned Joyce with the same quiet civility.\n\nNothing followed for a time, but the remark had set us all on the alert,\nstraining ears and eyes--the musketeers with their pieces balanced in\ntheir hands, the captain out in the middle of the block house with his\nmouth very tight and a frown on his face.\n\nSo some seconds passed, till suddenly Joyce whipped up his musket\nand fired. The report had scarcely died away ere it was repeated and\nrepeated from without in a scattering volley, shot behind shot, like\na string of geese, from every side of the enclosure. Several bullets\nstruck the log-house, but not one entered; and as the smoke cleared away\nand vanished, the stockade and the woods around it looked as quiet and\nempty as before. Not a bough waved, not the gleam of a musket-barrel\nbetrayed the presence of our foes.\n\n Did you hit your man?  asked the captain.\n\n No, sir,  replied Joyce.  I believe not, sir. \n\n Next best thing to tell the truth,  muttered Captain Smollett.  Load\nhis gun, Hawkins. How many should say there were on your side, doctor? \n\n I know precisely,  said Dr. Livesey.  Three shots were fired on this\nside. I saw the three flashes--two close together--one farther to the\nwest. \n\n Three!  repeated the captain.  And how many on yours, Mr. Trelawney? \n\nBut this was not so easily answered. There had come many from the\nnorth--seven by the squire s computation, eight or nine according to\nGray. From the east and west only a single shot had been fired. It was\nplain, therefore, that the attack would be developed from the north and\nthat on the other three sides we were only to be annoyed by a show of\nhostilities. But Captain Smollett made no change in his arrangements. If\nthe mutineers succeeded in crossing the stockade, he argued, they would\ntake possession of any unprotected loophole and shoot us down like rats\nin our own stronghold.\n\nNor had we much time left to us for thought. Suddenly, with a loud\nhuzza, a little cloud of pirates leaped from the woods on the north side\nand ran straight on the stockade. At the same moment, the fire was once\nmore opened from the woods, and a rifle ball sang through the doorway\nand knocked the doctor s musket into bits.\n\nThe boarders swarmed over the fence like monkeys. Squire and Gray fired\nagain and yet again; three men fell, one forwards into the enclosure,\ntwo back on the outside. But of these, one was evidently more frightened\nthan hurt, for he was on his feet again in a crack and instantly\ndisappeared among the trees.\n\nTwo had bit the dust, one had fled, four had made good their footing\ninside our defences, while from the shelter of the woods seven or eight\nmen, each evidently supplied with several muskets, kept up a hot though\nuseless fire on the log-house.\n\nThe four who had boarded made straight before them for the building,\nshouting as they ran, and the men among the trees shouted back to\nencourage them. Several shots were fired, but such was the hurry of the\nmarksmen that not one appears to have taken effect. In a moment, the\nfour pirates had swarmed up the mound and were upon us.\n\nThe head of Job Anderson, the boatswain, appeared at the middle\nloophole.\n\n At  em, all hands--all hands!  he roared in a voice of thunder.\n\nAt the same moment, another pirate grasped Hunter s musket by the\nmuzzle, wrenched it from his hands, plucked it through the loophole,\nand with one stunning blow, laid the poor fellow senseless on the floor.\nMeanwhile a third, running unharmed all around the house, appeared\nsuddenly in the doorway and fell with his cutlass on the doctor.\n\nOur position was utterly reversed. A moment since we were firing, under\ncover, at an exposed enemy; now it was we who lay uncovered and could\nnot return a blow.\n\nThe log-house was full of smoke, to which we owed our comparative\nsafety. Cries and confusion, the flashes and reports of pistol-shots,\nand one loud groan rang in my ears.\n\n Out, lads, out, and fight  em in the open! Cutlasses!  cried the\ncaptain.\n\nI snatched a cutlass from the pile, and someone, at the same time\nsnatching another, gave me a cut across the knuckles which I hardly\nfelt. I dashed out of the door into the clear sunlight. Someone was\nclose behind, I knew not whom. Right in front, the doctor was pursuing\nhis assailant down the hill, and just as my eyes fell upon him, beat\ndown his guard and sent him sprawling on his back with a great slash\nacross the face.\n\n Round the house, lads! Round the house!  cried the captain; and even in\nthe hurly-burly, I perceived a change in his voice.\n\nMechanically, I obeyed, turned eastwards, and with my cutlass raised,\nran round the corner of the house. Next moment I was face to face\nwith Anderson. He roared aloud, and his hanger went up above his head,\nflashing in the sunlight. I had not time to be afraid, but as the blow\nstill hung impending, leaped in a trice upon one side, and missing my\nfoot in the soft sand, rolled headlong down the slope.\n\nWhen I had first sallied from the door, the other mutineers had been\nalready swarming up the palisade to make an end of us. One man, in a red\nnight-cap, with his cutlass in his mouth, had even got upon the top and\nthrown a leg across. Well, so short had been the interval that when I\nfound my feet again all was in the same posture, the fellow with the red\nnight-cap still half-way over, another still just showing his head above\nthe top of the stockade. And yet, in this breath of time, the fight was\nover and the victory was ours.\n\nGray, following close behind me, had cut down the big boatswain ere\nhe had time to recover from his last blow. Another had been shot at a\nloophole in the very act of firing into the house and now lay in agony,\nthe pistol still smoking in his hand. A third, as I had seen, the doctor\nhad disposed of at a blow. Of the four who had scaled the palisade, one\nonly remained unaccounted for, and he, having left his cutlass on the\nfield, was now clambering out again with the fear of death upon him.\n\n Fire--fire from the house!  cried the doctor.  And you, lads, back into\ncover. \n\nBut his words were unheeded, no shot was fired, and the last boarder\nmade good his escape and disappeared with the rest into the wood. In\nthree seconds nothing remained of the attacking party but the five who\nhad fallen, four on the inside and one on the outside of the palisade.\n\nThe doctor and Gray and I ran full speed for shelter. The survivors\nwould soon be back where they had left their muskets, and at any moment\nthe fire might recommence.\n\nThe house was by this time somewhat cleared of smoke, and we saw at\na glance the price we had paid for victory. Hunter lay beside his\nloophole, stunned; Joyce by his, shot through the head, never to move\nagain; while right in the centre, the squire was supporting the captain,\none as pale as the other.\n\n The captain s wounded,  said Mr. Trelawney.\n\n Have they run?  asked Mr. Smollett.\n\n All that could, you may be bound,  returned the doctor;  but there s\nfive of them will never run again. \n\n Five!  cried the captain.  Come, that s better. Five against three\nleaves us four to nine. That s better odds than we had at starting. We\nwere seven to nineteen then, or thought we were, and that s as bad to\nbear.  *\n\n*The mutineers were soon only eight in number, for the man shot by Mr.\nTrelawney on board the schooner died that same evening of his wound. But\nthis was, of course, not known till after by the faithful party.\n\n\n\n\nPART FIVE--My Sea Adventure\n\n\n\n\nXXII\nHow I Began My Sea Adventure\n\n\nThere was no return of the mutineers--not so much as another shot out of\nthe woods. They had  got their rations for that day,  as the captain put\nit, and we had the place to ourselves and a quiet time to overhaul the\nwounded and get dinner. Squire and I cooked outside in spite of the\ndanger, and even outside we could hardly tell what we were at, for\nhorror of the loud groans that reached us from the doctor s patients.\n\nOut of the eight men who had fallen in the action, only three still\nbreathed--that one of the pirates who had been shot at the loophole,\nHunter, and Captain Smollett; and of these, the first two were as good\nas dead; the mutineer indeed died under the doctor s knife, and Hunter,\ndo what we could, never recovered consciousness in this world. He\nlingered all day, breathing loudly like the old buccaneer at home in his\napoplectic fit, but the bones of his chest had been crushed by the\nblow and his skull fractured in falling, and some time in the following\nnight, without sign or sound, he went to his Maker.\n\nAs for the captain, his wounds were grievous indeed, but not dangerous.\nNo organ was fatally injured. Anderson s ball--for it was Job that\nshot him first--had broken his shoulder-blade and touched the lung, not\nbadly; the second had only torn and displaced some muscles in the calf.\nHe was sure to recover, the doctor said, but in the meantime, and for\nweeks to come, he must not walk nor move his arm, nor so much as speak\nwhen he could help it.\n\nMy own accidental cut across the knuckles was a flea-bite. Doctor\nLivesey patched it up with plaster and pulled my ears for me into the\nbargain.\n\nAfter dinner the squire and the doctor sat by the captain s side awhile\nin consultation; and when they had talked to their hearts  content, it\nbeing then a little past noon, the doctor took up his hat and pistols,\ngirt on a cutlass, put the chart in his pocket, and with a musket over\nhis shoulder crossed the palisade on the north side and set off briskly\nthrough the trees.\n\nGray and I were sitting together at the far end of the block house, to\nbe out of earshot of our officers consulting; and Gray took his pipe out\nof his mouth and fairly forgot to put it back again, so thunder-struck\nhe was at this occurrence.\n\n Why, in the name of Davy Jones,  said he,  is Dr. Livesey mad? \n\n Why no,  says I.  He s about the last of this crew for that, I take\nit. \n\n Well, shipmate,  said Gray,  mad he may not be; but if HE S not, you\nmark my words, I am. \n\n I take it,  replied I,  the doctor has his idea; and if I am right,\nhe s going now to see Ben Gunn. \n\nI was right, as appeared later; but in the meantime, the house being\nstifling hot and the little patch of sand inside the palisade ablaze\nwith midday sun, I began to get another thought into my head, which was\nnot by any means so right. What I began to do was to envy the doctor\nwalking in the cool shadow of the woods with the birds about him and the\npleasant smell of the pines, while I sat grilling, with my clothes\nstuck to the hot resin, and so much blood about me and so many poor\ndead bodies lying all around that I took a disgust of the place that was\nalmost as strong as fear.\n\nAll the time I was washing out the block house, and then washing up\nthe things from dinner, this disgust and envy kept growing stronger\nand stronger, till at last, being near a bread-bag, and no one then\nobserving me, I took the first step towards my escapade and filled both\npockets of my coat with biscuit.\n\nI was a fool, if you like, and certainly I was going to do a foolish,\nover-bold act; but I was determined to do it with all the precautions in\nmy power. These biscuits, should anything befall me, would keep me, at\nleast, from starving till far on in the next day.\n\nThe next thing I laid hold of was a brace of pistols, and as I already\nhad a powder-horn and bullets, I felt myself well supplied with arms.\n\nAs for the scheme I had in my head, it was not a bad one in itself. I\nwas to go down the sandy spit that divides the anchorage on the east\nfrom the open sea, find the white rock I had observed last evening, and\nascertain whether it was there or not that Ben Gunn had hidden his boat,\na thing quite worth doing, as I still believe. But as I was certain I\nshould not be allowed to leave the enclosure, my only plan was to take\nFrench leave and slip out when nobody was watching, and that was so bad\na way of doing it as made the thing itself wrong. But I was only a boy,\nand I had made my mind up.\n\nWell, as things at last fell out, I found an admirable opportunity. The\nsquire and Gray were busy helping the captain with his bandages, the\ncoast was clear, I made a bolt for it over the stockade and into the\nthickest of the trees, and before my absence was observed I was out of\ncry of my companions.\n\nThis was my second folly, far worse than the first, as I left but two\nsound men to guard the house; but like the first, it was a help towards\nsaving all of us.\n\nI took my way straight for the east coast of the island, for I was\ndetermined to go down the sea side of the spit to avoid all chance of\nobservation from the anchorage. It was already late in the afternoon,\nalthough still warm and sunny. As I continued to thread the tall woods,\nI could hear from far before me not only the continuous thunder of the\nsurf, but a certain tossing of foliage and grinding of boughs which\nshowed me the sea breeze had set in higher than usual. Soon cool\ndraughts of air began to reach me, and a few steps farther I came forth\ninto the open borders of the grove, and saw the sea lying blue and sunny\nto the horizon and the surf tumbling and tossing its foam along the\nbeach.\n\nI have never seen the sea quiet round Treasure Island. The sun might\nblaze overhead, the air be without a breath, the surface smooth and\nblue, but still these great rollers would be running along all the\nexternal coast, thundering and thundering by day and night; and I scarce\nbelieve there is one spot in the island where a man would be out of\nearshot of their noise.\n\nI walked along beside the surf with great enjoyment, till, thinking\nI was now got far enough to the south, I took the cover of some thick\nbushes and crept warily up to the ridge of the spit.\n\nBehind me was the sea, in front the anchorage. The sea breeze, as though\nit had the sooner blown itself out by its unusual violence, was already\nat an end; it had been succeeded by light, variable airs from the south\nand south-east, carrying great banks of fog; and the anchorage, under\nlee of Skeleton Island, lay still and leaden as when first we entered\nit. The HISPANIOLA, in that unbroken mirror, was exactly portrayed from\nthe truck to the waterline, the Jolly Roger hanging from her peak.\n\nAlongside lay one of the gigs, Silver in the stern-sheets--him I could\nalways recognize--while a couple of men were leaning over the stern\nbulwarks, one of them with a red cap--the very rogue that I had seen\nsome hours before stride-legs upon the palisade. Apparently they were\ntalking and laughing, though at that distance--upwards of a mile--I\ncould, of course, hear no word of what was said. All at once there began\nthe most horrid, unearthly screaming, which at first startled me badly,\nthough I had soon remembered the voice of Captain Flint and even thought\nI could make out the bird by her bright plumage as she sat perched upon\nher master s wrist.\n\nSoon after, the jolly-boat shoved off and pulled for shore, and the man\nwith the red cap and his comrade went below by the cabin companion.\n\nJust about the same time, the sun had gone down behind the Spy-glass,\nand as the fog was collecting rapidly, it began to grow dark in earnest.\nI saw I must lose no time if I were to find the boat that evening.\n\nThe white rock, visible enough above the brush, was still some eighth of\na mile further down the spit, and it took me a goodish while to get up\nwith it, crawling, often on all fours, among the scrub. Night had almost\ncome when I laid my hand on its rough sides. Right below it there was\nan exceedingly small hollow of green turf, hidden by banks and a thick\nunderwood about knee-deep, that grew there very plentifully; and in the\ncentre of the dell, sure enough, a little tent of goat-skins, like what\nthe gipsies carry about with them in England.\n\nI dropped into the hollow, lifted the side of the tent, and there was\nBen Gunn s boat--home-made if ever anything was home-made; a rude,\nlop-sided framework of tough wood, and stretched upon that a covering of\ngoat-skin, with the hair inside. The thing was extremely small, even\nfor me, and I can hardly imagine that it could have floated with a\nfull-sized man. There was one thwart set as low as possible, a kind of\nstretcher in the bows, and a double paddle for propulsion.\n\nI had not then seen a coracle, such as the ancient Britons made, but\nI have seen one since, and I can give you no fairer idea of Ben Gunn s\nboat than by saying it was like the first and the worst coracle ever\nmade by man. But the great advantage of the coracle it certainly\npossessed, for it was exceedingly light and portable.\n\nWell, now that I had found the boat, you would have thought I had had\nenough of truantry for once, but in the meantime I had taken another\nnotion and become so obstinately fond of it that I would have carried\nit out, I believe, in the teeth of Captain Smollett himself. This was\nto slip out under cover of the night, cut the HISPANIOLA adrift, and let\nher go ashore where she fancied. I had quite made up my mind that the\nmutineers, after their repulse of the morning, had nothing nearer their\nhearts than to up anchor and away to sea; this, I thought, it would be\na fine thing to prevent, and now that I had seen how they left their\nwatchmen unprovided with a boat, I thought it might be done with little\nrisk.\n\nDown I sat to wait for darkness, and made a hearty meal of biscuit. It\nwas a night out of ten thousand for my purpose. The fog had now buried\nall heaven. As the last rays of daylight dwindled and disappeared,\nabsolute blackness settled down on Treasure Island. And when, at last,\nI shouldered the coracle and groped my way stumblingly out of the hollow\nwhere I had supped, there were but two points visible on the whole\nanchorage.\n\nOne was the great fire on shore, by which the defeated pirates lay\ncarousing in the swamp. The other, a mere blur of light upon the\ndarkness, indicated the position of the anchored ship. She had swung\nround to the ebb--her bow was now towards me--the only lights on board\nwere in the cabin, and what I saw was merely a reflection on the fog of\nthe strong rays that flowed from the stern window.\n\nThe ebb had already run some time, and I had to wade through a long belt\nof swampy sand, where I sank several times above the ankle, before I\ncame to the edge of the retreating water, and wading a little way in,\nwith some strength and dexterity, set my coracle, keel downwards, on the\nsurface.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\nThe Ebb-tide Runs\n\n\nThe coracle--as I had ample reason to know before I was done with\nher--was a very safe boat for a person of my height and weight, both\nbuoyant and clever in a seaway; but she was the most cross-grained,\nlop-sided craft to manage. Do as you pleased, she always made more\nleeway than anything else, and turning round and round was the manoeuvre\nshe was best at. Even Ben Gunn himself has admitted that she was  queer\nto handle till you knew her way. \n\nCertainly I did not know her way. She turned in every direction but the\none I was bound to go; the most part of the time we were broadside on,\nand I am very sure I never should have made the ship at all but for the\ntide. By good fortune, paddle as I pleased, the tide was still sweeping\nme down; and there lay the HISPANIOLA right in the fairway, hardly to be\nmissed.\n\nFirst she loomed before me like a blot of something yet blacker than\ndarkness, then her spars and hull began to take shape, and the next\nmoment, as it seemed (for, the farther I went, the brisker grew the\ncurrent of the ebb), I was alongside of her hawser and had laid hold.\n\nThe hawser was as taut as a bowstring, and the current so strong she\npulled upon her anchor. All round the hull, in the blackness, the\nrippling current bubbled and chattered like a little mountain stream.\nOne cut with my sea-gully and the HISPANIOLA would go humming down the\ntide.\n\nSo far so good, but it next occurred to my recollection that a taut\nhawser, suddenly cut, is a thing as dangerous as a kicking horse. Ten to\none, if I were so foolhardy as to cut the HISPANIOLA from her anchor, I\nand the coracle would be knocked clean out of the water.\n\nThis brought me to a full stop, and if fortune had not again\nparticularly favoured me, I should have had to abandon my design. But\nthe light airs which had begun blowing from the south-east and south\nhad hauled round after nightfall into the south-west. Just while I was\nmeditating, a puff came, caught the HISPANIOLA, and forced her up into\nthe current; and to my great joy, I felt the hawser slacken in my grasp,\nand the hand by which I held it dip for a second under water.\n\nWith that I made my mind up, took out my gully, opened it with my teeth,\nand cut one strand after another, till the vessel swung only by two.\nThen I lay quiet, waiting to sever these last when the strain should be\nonce more lightened by a breath of wind.\n\nAll this time I had heard the sound of loud voices from the cabin, but\nto say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts\nthat I had scarcely given ear. Now, however, when I had nothing else to\ndo, I began to pay more heed.\n\nOne I recognized for the coxswain s, Israel Hands, that had been Flint s\ngunner in former days. The other was, of course, my friend of the red\nnight-cap. Both men were plainly the worse of drink, and they were still\ndrinking, for even while I was listening, one of them, with a drunken\ncry, opened the stern window and threw out something, which I divined to\nbe an empty bottle. But they were not only tipsy; it was plain that they\nwere furiously angry. Oaths flew like hailstones, and every now and\nthen there came forth such an explosion as I thought was sure to end\nin blows. But each time the quarrel passed off and the voices grumbled\nlower for a while, until the next crisis came and in its turn passed\naway without result.\n\nOn shore, I could see the glow of the great camp-fire burning warmly\nthrough the shore-side trees. Someone was singing, a dull, old, droning\nsailor s song, with a droop and a quaver at the end of every verse,\nand seemingly no end to it at all but the patience of the singer. I had\nheard it on the voyage more than once and remembered these words:\n\n      But one man of her crew alive,\n     What put to sea with seventy-five. \n\nAnd I thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appropriate for a\ncompany that had met such cruel losses in the morning. But, indeed, from\nwhat I saw, all these buccaneers were as callous as the sea they sailed\non.\n\nAt last the breeze came; the schooner sidled and drew nearer in the\ndark; I felt the hawser slacken once more, and with a good, tough\neffort, cut the last fibres through.\n\nThe breeze had but little action on the coracle, and I was almost\ninstantly swept against the bows of the HISPANIOLA. At the same time,\nthe schooner began to turn upon her heel, spinning slowly, end for end,\nacross the current.\n\nI wrought like a fiend, for I expected every moment to be swamped; and\nsince I found I could not push the coracle directly off, I now shoved\nstraight astern. At length I was clear of my dangerous neighbour, and\njust as I gave the last impulsion, my hands came across a light cord\nthat was trailing overboard across the stern bulwarks. Instantly I\ngrasped it.\n\nWhy I should have done so I can hardly say. It was at first mere\ninstinct, but once I had it in my hands and found it fast, curiosity\nbegan to get the upper hand, and I determined I should have one look\nthrough the cabin window.\n\nI pulled in hand over hand on the cord, and when I judged myself near\nenough, rose at infinite risk to about half my height and thus commanded\nthe roof and a slice of the interior of the cabin.\n\nBy this time the schooner and her little consort were gliding pretty\nswiftly through the water; indeed, we had already fetched up level with\nthe camp-fire. The ship was talking, as sailors say, loudly, treading\nthe innumerable ripples with an incessant weltering splash; and until I\ngot my eye above the window-sill I could not comprehend why the watchmen\nhad taken no alarm. One glance, however, was sufficient; and it was\nonly one glance that I durst take from that unsteady skiff. It showed me\nHands and his companion locked together in deadly wrestle, each with a\nhand upon the other s throat.\n\nI dropped upon the thwart again, none too soon, for I was near\noverboard. I could see nothing for the moment but these two furious,\nencrimsoned faces swaying together under the smoky lamp, and I shut my\neyes to let them grow once more familiar with the darkness.\n\nThe endless ballad had come to an end at last, and the whole diminished\ncompany about the camp-fire had broken into the chorus I had heard so\noften:\n\n           Fifteen men on the dead man s chest--\n              Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!\n           Drink and the devil had done for the rest--\n              Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! \n\nI was just thinking how busy drink and the devil were at that very\nmoment in the cabin of the HISPANIOLA, when I was surprised by a sudden\nlurch of the coracle. At the same moment, she yawed sharply and seemed\nto change her course. The speed in the meantime had strangely increased.\n\nI opened my eyes at once. All round me were little ripples, combing\nover with a sharp, bristling sound and slightly phosphorescent. The\nHISPANIOLA herself, a few yards in whose wake I was still being whirled\nalong, seemed to stagger in her course, and I saw her spars toss a\nlittle against the blackness of the night; nay, as I looked longer, I\nmade sure she also was wheeling to the southward.\n\nI glanced over my shoulder, and my heart jumped against my ribs. There,\nright behind me, was the glow of the camp-fire. The current had turned\nat right angles, sweeping round along with it the tall schooner and\nthe little dancing coracle; ever quickening, ever bubbling higher, ever\nmuttering louder, it went spinning through the narrows for the open sea.\n\nSuddenly the schooner in front of me gave a violent yaw, turning,\nperhaps, through twenty degrees; and almost at the same moment one\nshout followed another from on board; I could hear feet pounding on\nthe companion ladder and I knew that the two drunkards had at last been\ninterrupted in their quarrel and awakened to a sense of their disaster.\n\nI lay down flat in the bottom of that wretched skiff and devoutly\nrecommended my spirit to its Maker. At the end of the straits, I\nmade sure we must fall into some bar of raging breakers, where all my\ntroubles would be ended speedily; and though I could, perhaps, bear to\ndie, I could not bear to look upon my fate as it approached.\n\nSo I must have lain for hours, continually beaten to and fro upon the\nbillows, now and again wetted with flying sprays, and never ceasing to\nexpect death at the next plunge. Gradually weariness grew upon me; a\nnumbness, an occasional stupor, fell upon my mind even in the midst of\nmy terrors, until sleep at last supervened and in my sea-tossed coracle\nI lay and dreamed of home and the old Admiral Benbow.\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\nThe Cruise of the Coracle\n\n\nIt was broad day when I awoke and found myself tossing at the south-west\nend of Treasure Island. The sun was up but was still hid from me behind\nthe great bulk of the Spy-glass, which on this side descended almost to\nthe sea in formidable cliffs.\n\nHaulbowline Head and Mizzenmast Hill were at my elbow, the hill bare\nand dark, the head bound with cliffs forty or fifty feet high and\nfringed with great masses of fallen rock. I was scarce a quarter of a\nmile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land.\n\nThat notion was soon given over. Among the fallen rocks the breakers\nspouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and\nfalling, succeeded one another from second to second; and I saw myself,\nif I ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore or spending\nmy strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.\n\nNor was that all, for crawling together on flat tables of rock or\nletting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports I beheld huge\nslimy monsters--soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness--two\nor three score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their\nbarkings.\n\nI have understood since that they were sea lions, and entirely harmless.\nBut the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the\nhigh running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me of that\nlanding-place. I felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront\nsuch perils.\n\nIn the meantime I had a better chance, as I supposed, before me. North\nof Haulbowline Head, the land runs in a long way, leaving at low tide\na long stretch of yellow sand. To the north of that, again, there comes\nanother cape--Cape of the Woods, as it was marked upon the chart--buried\nin tall green pines, which descended to the margin of the sea.\n\nI remembered what Silver had said about the current that sets northward\nalong the whole west coast of Treasure Island, and seeing from my\nposition that I was already under its influence, I preferred to leave\nHaulbowline Head behind me and reserve my strength for an attempt to\nland upon the kindlier-looking Cape of the Woods.\n\nThere was a great, smooth swell upon the sea. The wind blowing steady\nand gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the\ncurrent, and the billows rose and fell unbroken.\n\nHad it been otherwise, I must long ago have perished; but as it was,\nit is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could\nride. Often, as I still lay at the bottom and kept no more than an eye\nabove the gunwale, I would see a big blue summit heaving close above me;\nyet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and\nsubside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.\n\nI began after a little to grow very bold and sat up to try my skill at\npaddling. But even a small change in the disposition of the weight will\nproduce violent changes in the behaviour of a coracle. And I had hardly\nmoved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle dancing movement,\nran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and\nstruck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next\nwave.\n\nI was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old\nposition, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again and led\nme as softly as before among the billows. It was plain she was not to be\ninterfered with, and at that rate, since I could in no way influence her\ncourse, what hope had I left of reaching land?\n\nI began to be horribly frightened, but I kept my head, for all that.\nFirst, moving with all care, I gradually baled out the coracle with my\nsea-cap; then, getting my eye once more above the gunwale, I set myself\nto study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers.\n\nI found each wave, instead of the big, smooth glossy mountain it looks\nfrom shore or from a vessel s deck, was for all the world like any range\nof hills on dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and valleys. The\ncoracle, left to herself, turning from side to side, threaded, so to\nspeak, her way through these lower parts and avoided the steep slopes\nand higher, toppling summits of the wave.\n\n Well, now,  thought I to myself,  it is plain I must lie where I am and\nnot disturb the balance; but it is plain also that I can put the paddle\nover the side and from time to time, in smooth places, give her a shove\nor two towards land.  No sooner thought upon than done. There I lay on\nmy elbows in the most trying attitude, and every now and again gave a\nweak stroke or two to turn her head to shore.\n\nIt was very tiring and slow work, yet I did visibly gain ground; and as\nwe drew near the Cape of the Woods, though I saw I must infallibly\nmiss that point, I had still made some hundred yards of easting. I was,\nindeed, close in. I could see the cool green tree-tops swaying together\nin the breeze, and I felt sure I should make the next promontory without\nfail.\n\nIt was high time, for I now began to be tortured with thirst. The glow\nof the sun from above, its thousandfold reflection from the waves, the\nsea-water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt,\ncombined to make my throat burn and my brain ache. The sight of the\ntrees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing, but the\ncurrent had soon carried me past the point, and as the next reach of sea\nopened out, I beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.\n\nRight in front of me, not half a mile away, I beheld the HISPANIOLA\nunder sail. I made sure, of course, that I should be taken; but I was\nso distressed for want of water that I scarce knew whether to be glad\nor sorry at the thought, and long before I had come to a conclusion,\nsurprise had taken entire possession of my mind and I could do nothing\nbut stare and wonder.\n\nThe HISPANIOLA was under her main-sail and two jibs, and the beautiful\nwhite canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver. When I first\nsighted her, all her sails were drawing; she was lying a course about\nnorth-west, and I presumed the men on board were going round the island\non their way back to the anchorage. Presently she began to fetch more\nand more to the westward, so that I thought they had sighted me and were\ngoing about in chase. At last, however, she fell right into the wind s\neye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile helpless, with her\nsails shivering.\n\n Clumsy fellows,  said I;  they must still be drunk as owls.  And I\nthought how Captain Smollett would have set them skipping.\n\nMeanwhile the schooner gradually fell off and filled again upon another\ntack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead\nin the wind s eye. Again and again was this repeated. To and fro, up and\ndown, north, south, east, and west, the HISPANIOLA sailed by swoops\nand dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with idly\nflapping canvas. It became plain to me that nobody was steering. And if\nso, where were the men? Either they were dead drunk or had deserted her,\nI thought, and perhaps if I could get on board I might return the vessel\nto her captain.\n\nThe current was bearing coracle and schooner southward at an equal rate.\nAs for the latter s sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she\nhung each time so long in irons, that she certainly gained nothing, if\nshe did not even lose. If only I dared to sit up and paddle, I made\nsure that I could overhaul her. The scheme had an air of adventure\nthat inspired me, and the thought of the water breaker beside the fore\ncompanion doubled my growing courage.\n\nUp I got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but\nthis time stuck to my purpose and set myself, with all my strength and\ncaution, to paddle after the unsteered HISPANIOLA. Once I shipped a sea\nso heavy that I had to stop and bail, with my heart fluttering like\na bird, but gradually I got into the way of the thing and guided my\ncoracle among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bows and\na dash of foam in my face.\n\nI was now gaining rapidly on the schooner; I could see the brass glisten\non the tiller as it banged about, and still no soul appeared upon her\ndecks. I could not choose but suppose she was deserted. If not, the men\nwere lying drunk below, where I might batten them down, perhaps, and do\nwhat I chose with the ship.\n\nFor some time she had been doing the worse thing possible for\nme--standing still. She headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all\nthe time. Each time she fell off, her sails partly filled, and these\nbrought her in a moment right to the wind again. I have said this was\nthe worst thing possible for me, for helpless as she looked in this\nsituation, with the canvas cracking like cannon and the blocks trundling\nand banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from me, not\nonly with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of her\nleeway, which was naturally great.\n\nBut now, at last, I had my chance. The breeze fell for some seconds,\nvery low, and the current gradually turning her, the HISPANIOLA revolved\nslowly round her centre and at last presented me her stern, with the\ncabin window still gaping open and the lamp over the table still burning\non into the day. The main-sail hung drooped like a banner. She was\nstock-still but for the current.\n\nFor the last little while I had even lost, but now redoubling my\nefforts, I began once more to overhaul the chase.\n\nI was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap;\nshe filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming\nlike a swallow.\n\nMy first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy.\nRound she came, till she was broadside on to me--round still till she\nhad covered a half and then two thirds and then three quarters of the\ndistance that separated us. I could see the waves boiling white under\nher forefoot. Immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the\ncoracle.\n\nAnd then, of a sudden, I began to comprehend. I had scarce time to\nthink--scarce time to act and save myself. I was on the summit of one\nswell when the schooner came stooping over the next. The bowsprit was\nover my head. I sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under\nwater. With one hand I caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged\nbetween the stay and the brace; and as I still clung there panting, a\ndull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the\ncoracle and that I was left without retreat on the HISPANIOLA.\n\n\n\n\nXXV\nI Strike the Jolly Roger\n\n\nI had scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the flying jib\nflapped and filled upon the other tack, with a report like a gun. The\nschooner trembled to her keel under the reverse, but next moment, the\nother sails still drawing, the jib flapped back again and hung idle.\n\nThis had nearly tossed me off into the sea; and now I lost no time,\ncrawled back along the bowsprit, and tumbled head foremost on the deck.\n\nI was on the lee side of the forecastle, and the mainsail, which was\nstill drawing, concealed from me a certain portion of the after-deck.\nNot a soul was to be seen. The planks, which had not been swabbed since\nthe mutiny, bore the print of many feet, and an empty bottle, broken by\nthe neck, tumbled to and fro like a live thing in the scuppers.\n\nSuddenly the HISPANIOLA came right into the wind. The jibs behind me\ncracked aloud, the rudder slammed to, the whole ship gave a sickening\nheave and shudder, and at the same moment the main-boom swung inboard,\nthe sheet groaning in the blocks, and showed me the lee after-deck.\n\nThere were the two watchmen, sure enough: red-cap on his back, as stiff\nas a handspike, with his arms stretched out like those of a crucifix and\nhis teeth showing through his open lips; Israel Hands propped against\nthe bulwarks, his chin on his chest, his hands lying open before him on\nthe deck, his face as white, under its tan, as a tallow candle.\n\nFor a while the ship kept bucking and sidling like a vicious horse, the\nsails filling, now on one tack, now on another, and the boom swinging to\nand fro till the mast groaned aloud under the strain. Now and again too\nthere would come a cloud of light sprays over the bulwark and a heavy\nblow of the ship s bows against the swell; so much heavier weather was\nmade of it by this great rigged ship than by my home-made, lop-sided\ncoracle, now gone to the bottom of the sea.\n\nAt every jump of the schooner, red-cap slipped to and fro, but--what was\nghastly to behold--neither his attitude nor his fixed teeth-disclosing\ngrin was anyway disturbed by this rough usage. At every jump too, Hands\nappeared still more to sink into himself and settle down upon the\ndeck, his feet sliding ever the farther out, and the whole body canting\ntowards the stern, so that his face became, little by little, hid\nfrom me; and at last I could see nothing beyond his ear and the frayed\nringlet of one whisker.\n\nAt the same time, I observed, around both of them, splashes of dark\nblood upon the planks and began to feel sure that they had killed each\nother in their drunken wrath.\n\nWhile I was thus looking and wondering, in a calm moment, when the ship\nwas still, Israel Hands turned partly round and with a low moan writhed\nhimself back to the position in which I had seen him first. The moan,\nwhich told of pain and deadly weakness, and the way in which his jaw\nhung open went right to my heart. But when I remembered the talk I had\noverheard from the apple barrel, all pity left me.\n\nI walked aft until I reached the main-mast.\n\n Come aboard, Mr. Hands,  I said ironically.\n\nHe rolled his eyes round heavily, but he was too far gone to express\nsurprise. All he could do was to utter one word,  Brandy. \n\nIt occurred to me there was no time to lose, and dodging the boom as it\nonce more lurched across the deck, I slipped aft and down the companion\nstairs into the cabin.\n\nIt was such a scene of confusion as you can hardly fancy. All the\nlockfast places had been broken open in quest of the chart. The floor\nwas thick with mud where ruffians had sat down to drink or consult after\nwading in the marshes round their camp. The bulkheads, all painted in\nclear white and beaded round with gilt, bore a pattern of dirty hands.\nDozens of empty bottles clinked together in corners to the rolling of\nthe ship. One of the doctor s medical books lay open on the table, half\nof the leaves gutted out, I suppose, for pipelights. In the midst of all\nthis the lamp still cast a smoky glow, obscure and brown as umber.\n\nI went into the cellar; all the barrels were gone, and of the bottles\na most surprising number had been drunk out and thrown away. Certainly,\nsince the mutiny began, not a man of them could ever have been sober.\n\nForaging about, I found a bottle with some brandy left, for Hands; and\nfor myself I routed out some biscuit, some pickled fruits, a great bunch\nof raisins, and a piece of cheese. With these I came on deck, put down\nmy own stock behind the rudder head and well out of the coxswain s\nreach, went forward to the water-breaker, and had a good deep drink of\nwater, and then, and not till then, gave Hands the brandy.\n\nHe must have drunk a gill before he took the bottle from his mouth.\n\n Aye,  said he,  by thunder, but I wanted some o  that! \n\nI had sat down already in my own corner and begun to eat.\n\n Much hurt?  I asked him.\n\nHe grunted, or rather, I might say, he barked.\n\n If that doctor was aboard,  he said,  I d be right enough in a couple\nof turns, but I don t have no manner of luck, you see, and that s what s\nthe matter with me. As for that swab, he s good and dead, he is,  he\nadded, indicating the man with the red cap.  He warn t no seaman anyhow.\nAnd where mought you have come from? \n\n Well,  said I,  I ve come aboard to take possession of this ship,\nMr. Hands; and you ll please regard me as your captain until further\nnotice. \n\nHe looked at me sourly enough but said nothing. Some of the colour had\ncome back into his cheeks, though he still looked very sick and still\ncontinued to slip out and settle down as the ship banged about.\n\n By the by,  I continued,  I can t have these colours, Mr. Hands; and by\nyour leave, I ll strike  em. Better none than these. \n\nAnd again dodging the boom, I ran to the colour lines, handed down their\ncursed black flag, and chucked it overboard.\n\n God save the king!  said I, waving my cap.  And there s an end to\nCaptain Silver! \n\nHe watched me keenly and slyly, his chin all the while on his breast.\n\n I reckon,  he said at last,  I reckon, Cap n Hawkins, you ll kind of\nwant to get ashore now. S pose we talks. \n\n Why, yes,  says I,  with all my heart, Mr. Hands. Say on.  And I went\nback to my meal with a good appetite.\n\n This man,  he began, nodding feebly at the corpse  --O Brien were his\nname, a rank Irelander--this man and me got the canvas on her, meaning\nfor to sail her back. Well, HE S dead now, he is--as dead as bilge; and\nwho s to sail this ship, I don t see. Without I gives you a hint, you\nain t that man, as far s I can tell. Now, look here, you gives me food\nand drink and a old scarf or ankecher to tie my wound up, you do, and\nI ll tell you how to sail her, and that s about square all round, I take\nit. \n\n I ll tell you one thing,  says I:  I m not going back to Captain Kidd s\nanchorage. I mean to get into North Inlet and beach her quietly there. \n\n To be sure you did,  he cried.  Why, I ain t sich an infernal lubber\nafter all. I can see, can t I? I ve tried my fling, I have, and I ve\nlost, and it s you has the wind of me. North Inlet? Why, I haven t no\nch ice, not I! I d help you sail her up to Execution Dock, by thunder!\nSo I would. \n\nWell, as it seemed to me, there was some sense in this. We struck our\nbargain on the spot. In three minutes I had the HISPANIOLA sailing\neasily before the wind along the coast of Treasure Island, with good\nhopes of turning the northern point ere noon and beating down again as\nfar as North Inlet before high water, when we might beach her safely and\nwait till the subsiding tide permitted us to land.\n\nThen I lashed the tiller and went below to my own chest, where I got a\nsoft silk handkerchief of my mother s. With this, and with my aid, Hands\nbound up the great bleeding stab he had received in the thigh, and after\nhe had eaten a little and had a swallow or two more of the brandy, he\nbegan to pick up visibly, sat straighter up, spoke louder and clearer,\nand looked in every way another man.\n\nThe breeze served us admirably. We skimmed before it like a bird, the\ncoast of the island flashing by and the view changing every minute.\nSoon we were past the high lands and bowling beside low, sandy country,\nsparsely dotted with dwarf pines, and soon we were beyond that again\nand had turned the corner of the rocky hill that ends the island on the\nnorth.\n\nI was greatly elated with my new command, and pleased with the bright,\nsunshiny weather and these different prospects of the coast. I had now\nplenty of water and good things to eat, and my conscience, which had\nsmitten me hard for my desertion, was quieted by the great conquest I\nhad made. I should, I think, have had nothing left me to desire but for\nthe eyes of the coxswain as they followed me derisively about the deck\nand the odd smile that appeared continually on his face. It was a smile\nthat had in it something both of pain and weakness--a haggard old man s\nsmile; but there was, besides that, a grain of derision, a shadow of\ntreachery, in his expression as he craftily watched, and watched, and\nwatched me at my work.\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\nIsrael Hands\n\n\nThe wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the west. We could run\nso much the easier from the north-east corner of the island to the mouth\nof the North Inlet. Only, as we had no power to anchor and dared not\nbeach her till the tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our\nhands. The coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good many\ntrials I succeeded, and we both sat in silence over another meal.\n\n Cap n,  said he at length with that same uncomfortable smile,  here s\nmy old shipmate, O Brien; s pose you was to heave him overboard. I ain t\npartic lar as a rule, and I don t take no blame for settling his hash,\nbut I don t reckon him ornamental now, do you? \n\n I m not strong enough, and I don t like the job; and there he lies, for\nme,  said I.\n\n This here s an unlucky ship, this HISPANIOLA, Jim,  he went on,\nblinking.  There s a power of men been killed in this HISPANIOLA--a\nsight o  poor seamen dead and gone since you and me took ship to\nBristol. I never seen sich dirty luck, not I. There was this here\nO Brien now--he s dead, ain t he? Well now, I m no scholar, and you re a\nlad as can read and figure, and to put it straight, do you take it as a\ndead man is dead for good, or do he come alive again? \n\n You can kill the body, Mr. Hands, but not the spirit; you must know\nthat already,  I replied.  O Brien there is in another world, and may be\nwatching us. \n\n Ah!  says he.  Well, that s unfort nate--appears as if killing parties\nwas a waste of time. Howsomever, sperrits don t reckon for much, by what\nI ve seen. I ll chance it with the sperrits, Jim. And now, you ve spoke\nup free, and I ll take it kind if you d step down into that there cabin\nand get me a--well, a--shiver my timbers! I can t hit the name on  t;\nwell, you get me a bottle of wine, Jim--this here brandy s too strong\nfor my head. \n\nNow, the coxswain s hesitation seemed to be unnatural, and as for the\nnotion of his preferring wine to brandy, I entirely disbelieved it. The\nwhole story was a pretext. He wanted me to leave the deck--so much was\nplain; but with what purpose I could in no way imagine. His eyes never\nmet mine; they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a look\nto the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead O Brien. All the\ntime he kept smiling and putting his tongue out in the most guilty,\nembarrassed manner, so that a child could have told that he was bent on\nsome deception. I was prompt with my answer, however, for I saw where\nmy advantage lay and that with a fellow so densely stupid I could easily\nconceal my suspicions to the end.\n\n Some wine?  I said.  Far better. Will you have white or red? \n\n Well, I reckon it s about the blessed same to me, shipmate,  he\nreplied;  so it s strong, and plenty of it, what s the odds? \n\n All right,  I answered.  I ll bring you port, Mr. Hands. But I ll have\nto dig for it. \n\nWith that I scuttled down the companion with all the noise I could,\nslipped off my shoes, ran quietly along the sparred gallery, mounted the\nforecastle ladder, and popped my head out of the fore companion. I\nknew he would not expect to see me there, yet I took every precaution\npossible, and certainly the worst of my suspicions proved too true.\n\nHe had risen from his position to his hands and knees, and though his\nleg obviously hurt him pretty sharply when he moved--for I could hear\nhim stifle a groan--yet it was at a good, rattling rate that he trailed\nhimself across the deck. In half a minute he had reached the port\nscuppers and picked, out of a coil of rope, a long knife, or rather a\nshort dirk, discoloured to the hilt with blood. He looked upon it for\na moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon his hand,\nand then, hastily concealing it in the bosom of his jacket, trundled\nback again into his old place against the bulwark.\n\nThis was all that I required to know. Israel could move about, he was\nnow armed, and if he had been at so much trouble to get rid of me,\nit was plain that I was meant to be the victim. What he would do\nafterwards--whether he would try to crawl right across the island from\nNorth Inlet to the camp among the swamps or whether he would fire Long\nTom, trusting that his own comrades might come first to help him--was,\nof course, more than I could say.\n\nYet I felt sure that I could trust him in one point, since in that\nour interests jumped together, and that was in the disposition of\nthe schooner. We both desired to have her stranded safe enough, in a\nsheltered place, and so that, when the time came, she could be got off\nagain with as little labour and danger as might be; and until that was\ndone I considered that my life would certainly be spared.\n\nWhile I was thus turning the business over in my mind, I had not been\nidle with my body. I had stolen back to the cabin, slipped once more\ninto my shoes, and laid my hand at random on a bottle of wine, and now,\nwith this for an excuse, I made my reappearance on the deck.\n\nHands lay as I had left him, all fallen together in a bundle and with\nhis eyelids lowered as though he were too weak to bear the light. He\nlooked up, however, at my coming, knocked the neck off the bottle like\na man who had done the same thing often, and took a good swig, with his\nfavourite toast of  Here s luck!  Then he lay quiet for a little, and\nthen, pulling out a stick of tobacco, begged me to cut him a quid.\n\n Cut me a junk o  that,  says he,  for I haven t no knife and hardly\nstrength enough, so be as I had. Ah, Jim, Jim, I reckon I ve missed\nstays! Cut me a quid, as ll likely be the last, lad, for I m for my long\nhome, and no mistake. \n\n Well,  said I,  I ll cut you some tobacco, but if I was you and thought\nmyself so badly, I would go to my prayers like a Christian man. \n\n Why?  said he.  Now, you tell me why. \n\n Why?  I cried.  You were asking me just now about the dead. You ve\nbroken your trust; you ve lived in sin and lies and blood; there s a man\nyou killed lying at your feet this moment, and you ask me why! For God s\nmercy, Mr. Hands, that s why. \n\nI spoke with a little heat, thinking of the bloody dirk he had hidden\nin his pocket and designed, in his ill thoughts, to end me with. He,\nfor his part, took a great draught of the wine and spoke with the most\nunusual solemnity.\n\n For thirty years,  he said,  I ve sailed the seas and seen good and\nbad, better and worse, fair weather and foul, provisions running out,\nknives going, and what not. Well, now I tell you, I never seen good come\no  goodness yet. Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don t bite;\nthem s my views--amen, so be it. And now, you look here,  he added,\nsuddenly changing his tone,  we ve had about enough of this foolery. The\ntide s made good enough by now. You just take my orders, Cap n Hawkins,\nand we ll sail slap in and be done with it. \n\nAll told, we had scarce two miles to run; but the navigation was\ndelicate, the entrance to this northern anchorage was not only narrow\nand shoal, but lay east and west, so that the schooner must be nicely\nhandled to be got in. I think I was a good, prompt subaltern, and I am\nvery sure that Hands was an excellent pilot, for we went about and about\nand dodged in, shaving the banks, with a certainty and a neatness that\nwere a pleasure to behold.\n\nScarcely had we passed the heads before the land closed around us. The\nshores of North Inlet were as thickly wooded as those of the southern\nanchorage, but the space was longer and narrower and more like, what in\ntruth it was, the estuary of a river. Right before us, at the southern\nend, we saw the wreck of a ship in the last stages of dilapidation. It\nhad been a great vessel of three masts but had lain so long exposed to\nthe injuries of the weather that it was hung about with great webs of\ndripping seaweed, and on the deck of it shore bushes had taken root and\nnow flourished thick with flowers. It was a sad sight, but it showed us\nthat the anchorage was calm.\n\n Now,  said Hands,  look there; there s a pet bit for to beach a ship\nin. Fine flat sand, never a cat s paw, trees all around of it, and\nflowers a-blowing like a garding on that old ship. \n\n And once beached,  I inquired,  how shall we get her off again? \n\n Why, so,  he replied:  you take a line ashore there on the other side\nat low water, take a turn about one of them big pines; bring it back,\ntake a turn around the capstan, and lie to for the tide. Come high\nwater, all hands take a pull upon the line, and off she comes as sweet\nas natur . And now, boy, you stand by. We re near the bit now, and she s\ntoo much way on her. Starboard a little--so--steady--starboard--larboard\na little--steady--steady! \n\nSo he issued his commands, which I breathlessly obeyed, till, all of a\nsudden, he cried,  Now, my hearty, luff!  And I put the helm hard up,\nand the HISPANIOLA swung round rapidly and ran stem on for the low,\nwooded shore.\n\nThe excitement of these last manoeuvres had somewhat interfered with the\nwatch I had kept hitherto, sharply enough, upon the coxswain. Even then\nI was still so much interested, waiting for the ship to touch, that I\nhad quite forgot the peril that hung over my head and stood craning over\nthe starboard bulwarks and watching the ripples spreading wide before\nthe bows. I might have fallen without a struggle for my life had not a\nsudden disquietude seized upon me and made me turn my head. Perhaps I\nhad heard a creak or seen his shadow moving with the tail of my eye;\nperhaps it was an instinct like a cat s; but, sure enough, when I looked\nround, there was Hands, already half-way towards me, with the dirk in\nhis right hand.\n\nWe must both have cried out aloud when our eyes met, but while mine\nwas the shrill cry of terror, his was a roar of fury like a charging\nbully s. At the same instant, he threw himself forward and I leapt\nsideways towards the bows. As I did so, I let go of the tiller, which\nsprang sharp to leeward, and I think this saved my life, for it struck\nHands across the chest and stopped him, for the moment, dead.\n\nBefore he could recover, I was safe out of the corner where he had me\ntrapped, with all the deck to dodge about. Just forward of the main-mast\nI stopped, drew a pistol from my pocket, took a cool aim, though he had\nalready turned and was once more coming directly after me, and drew the\ntrigger. The hammer fell, but there followed neither flash nor sound;\nthe priming was useless with sea-water. I cursed myself for my neglect.\nWhy had not I, long before, reprimed and reloaded my only weapons? Then\nI should not have been as now, a mere fleeing sheep before this butcher.\n\nWounded as he was, it was wonderful how fast he could move, his grizzled\nhair tumbling over his face, and his face itself as red as a red ensign\nwith his haste and fury. I had no time to try my other pistol, nor\nindeed much inclination, for I was sure it would be useless. One thing I\nsaw plainly: I must not simply retreat before him, or he would speedily\nhold me boxed into the bows, as a moment since he had so nearly boxed\nme in the stern. Once so caught, and nine or ten inches of the\nblood-stained dirk would be my last experience on this side of eternity.\nI placed my palms against the main-mast, which was of a goodish bigness,\nand waited, every nerve upon the stretch.\n\nSeeing that I meant to dodge, he also paused; and a moment or two passed\nin feints on his part and corresponding movements upon mine. It was such\na game as I had often played at home about the rocks of Black Hill Cove,\nbut never before, you may be sure, with such a wildly beating heart as\nnow. Still, as I say, it was a boy s game, and I thought I could hold\nmy own at it against an elderly seaman with a wounded thigh. Indeed my\ncourage had begun to rise so high that I allowed myself a few darting\nthoughts on what would be the end of the affair, and while I saw\ncertainly that I could spin it out for long, I saw no hope of any\nultimate escape.\n\nWell, while things stood thus, suddenly the HISPANIOLA struck,\nstaggered, ground for an instant in the sand, and then, swift as a\nblow, canted over to the port side till the deck stood at an angle\nof forty-five degrees and about a puncheon of water splashed into the\nscupper holes and lay, in a pool, between the deck and bulwark.\n\nWe were both of us capsized in a second, and both of us rolled, almost\ntogether, into the scuppers, the dead red-cap, with his arms still\nspread out, tumbling stiffly after us. So near were we, indeed, that my\nhead came against the coxswain s foot with a crack that made my teeth\nrattle. Blow and all, I was the first afoot again, for Hands had got\ninvolved with the dead body. The sudden canting of the ship had made the\ndeck no place for running on; I had to find some new way of escape,\nand that upon the instant, for my foe was almost touching me. Quick as\nthought, I sprang into the mizzen shrouds, rattled up hand over hand,\nand did not draw a breath till I was seated on the cross-trees.\n\nI had been saved by being prompt; the dirk had struck not half a foot\nbelow me as I pursued my upward flight; and there stood Israel Hands\nwith his mouth open and his face upturned to mine, a perfect statue of\nsurprise and disappointment.\n\nNow that I had a moment to myself, I lost no time in changing the\npriming of my pistol, and then, having one ready for service, and to\nmake assurance doubly sure, I proceeded to draw the load of the other\nand recharge it afresh from the beginning.\n\nMy new employment struck Hands all of a heap; he began to see the dice\ngoing against him, and after an obvious hesitation, he also hauled\nhimself heavily into the shrouds, and with the dirk in his teeth, began\nslowly and painfully to mount. It cost him no end of time and groans\nto haul his wounded leg behind him, and I had quietly finished my\narrangements before he was much more than a third of the way up. Then,\nwith a pistol in either hand, I addressed him.\n\n One more step, Mr. Hands,  said I,  and I ll blow your brains out! Dead\nmen don t bite, you know,  I added with a chuckle.\n\nHe stopped instantly. I could see by the working of his face that he was\ntrying to think, and the process was so slow and laborious that, in my\nnew-found security, I laughed aloud. At last, with a swallow or two, he\nspoke, his face still wearing the same expression of extreme perplexity.\nIn order to speak he had to take the dagger from his mouth, but in all\nelse he remained unmoved.\n\n Jim,  says he,  I reckon we re fouled, you and me, and we ll have to\nsign articles. I d have had you but for that there lurch, but I don t\nhave no luck, not I; and I reckon I ll have to strike, which comes hard,\nyou see, for a master mariner to a ship s younker like you, Jim. \n\nI was drinking in his words and smiling away, as conceited as a cock\nupon a wall, when, all in a breath, back went his right hand over his\nshoulder. Something sang like an arrow through the air; I felt a blow\nand then a sharp pang, and there I was pinned by the shoulder to the\nmast. In the horrid pain and surprise of the moment--I scarce can say\nit was by my own volition, and I am sure it was without a conscious\naim--both my pistols went off, and both escaped out of my hands. They\ndid not fall alone; with a choked cry, the coxswain loosed his grasp\nupon the shrouds and plunged head first into the water.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n Pieces of Eight \n\n\nOwing to the cant of the vessel, the masts hung far out over the water,\nand from my perch on the cross-trees I had nothing below me but the\nsurface of the bay. Hands, who was not so far up, was in consequence\nnearer to the ship and fell between me and the bulwarks. He rose once to\nthe surface in a lather of foam and blood and then sank again for good.\nAs the water settled, I could see him lying huddled together on the\nclean, bright sand in the shadow of the vessel s sides. A fish or two\nwhipped past his body. Sometimes, by the quivering of the water, he\nappeared to move a little, as if he were trying to rise. But he was dead\nenough, for all that, being both shot and drowned, and was food for fish\nin the very place where he had designed my slaughter.\n\nI was no sooner certain of this than I began to feel sick, faint, and\nterrified. The hot blood was running over my back and chest. The dirk,\nwhere it had pinned my shoulder to the mast, seemed to burn like a hot\niron; yet it was not so much these real sufferings that distressed me,\nfor these, it seemed to me, I could bear without a murmur; it was the\nhorror I had upon my mind of falling from the cross-trees into that\nstill green water, beside the body of the coxswain.\n\nI clung with both hands till my nails ached, and I shut my eyes as if to\ncover up the peril. Gradually my mind came back again, my pulses quieted\ndown to a more natural time, and I was once more in possession of\nmyself.\n\nIt was my first thought to pluck forth the dirk, but either it stuck too\nhard or my nerve failed me, and I desisted with a violent shudder. Oddly\nenough, that very shudder did the business. The knife, in fact, had come\nthe nearest in the world to missing me altogether; it held me by a mere\npinch of skin, and this the shudder tore away. The blood ran down the\nfaster, to be sure, but I was my own master again and only tacked to the\nmast by my coat and shirt.\n\nThese last I broke through with a sudden jerk, and then regained the\ndeck by the starboard shrouds. For nothing in the world would I have\nagain ventured, shaken as I was, upon the overhanging port shrouds from\nwhich Israel had so lately fallen.\n\nI went below and did what I could for my wound; it pained me a good deal\nand still bled freely, but it was neither deep nor dangerous, nor did it\ngreatly gall me when I used my arm. Then I looked around me, and as the\nship was now, in a sense, my own, I began to think of clearing it from\nits last passenger--the dead man, O Brien.\n\nHe had pitched, as I have said, against the bulwarks, where he lay\nlike some horrible, ungainly sort of puppet, life-size, indeed, but how\ndifferent from life s colour or life s comeliness! In that position\nI could easily have my way with him, and as the habit of tragical\nadventures had worn off almost all my terror for the dead, I took him\nby the waist as if he had been a sack of bran and with one good heave,\ntumbled him overboard. He went in with a sounding plunge; the red cap\ncame off and remained floating on the surface; and as soon as the splash\nsubsided, I could see him and Israel lying side by side, both wavering\nwith the tremulous movement of the water. O Brien, though still quite a\nyoung man, was very bald. There he lay, with that bald head across the\nknees of the man who had killed him and the quick fishes steering to and\nfro over both.\n\nI was now alone upon the ship; the tide had just turned. The sun was\nwithin so few degrees of setting that already the shadow of the pines\nupon the western shore began to reach right across the anchorage and\nfall in patterns on the deck. The evening breeze had sprung up, and\nthough it was well warded off by the hill with the two peaks upon the\neast, the cordage had begun to sing a little softly to itself and the\nidle sails to rattle to and fro.\n\nI began to see a danger to the ship. The jibs I speedily doused and\nbrought tumbling to the deck, but the main-sail was a harder matter. Of\ncourse, when the schooner canted over, the boom had swung out-board, and\nthe cap of it and a foot or two of sail hung even under water. I thought\nthis made it still more dangerous; yet the strain was so heavy that I\nhalf feared to meddle. At last I got my knife and cut the halyards. The\npeak dropped instantly, a great belly of loose canvas floated broad upon\nthe water, and since, pull as I liked, I could not budge the downhall,\nthat was the extent of what I could accomplish. For the rest, the\nHISPANIOLA must trust to luck, like myself.\n\nBy this time the whole anchorage had fallen into shadow--the last rays,\nI remember, falling through a glade of the wood and shining bright as\njewels on the flowery mantle of the wreck. It began to be chill; the\ntide was rapidly fleeting seaward, the schooner settling more and more\non her beam-ends.\n\nI scrambled forward and looked over. It seemed shallow enough, and\nholding the cut hawser in both hands for a last security, I let myself\ndrop softly overboard. The water scarcely reached my waist; the sand was\nfirm and covered with ripple marks, and I waded ashore in great spirits,\nleaving the HISPANIOLA on her side, with her main-sail trailing wide\nupon the surface of the bay. About the same time, the sun went fairly\ndown and the breeze whistled low in the dusk among the tossing pines.\n\nAt least, and at last, I was off the sea, nor had I returned thence\nempty-handed. There lay the schooner, clear at last from buccaneers\nand ready for our own men to board and get to sea again. I had nothing\nnearer my fancy than to get home to the stockade and boast of my\nachievements. Possibly I might be blamed a bit for my truantry, but the\nrecapture of the HISPANIOLA was a clenching answer, and I hoped that\neven Captain Smollett would confess I had not lost my time.\n\nSo thinking, and in famous spirits, I began to set my face homeward for\nthe block house and my companions. I remembered that the most easterly\nof the rivers which drain into Captain Kidd s anchorage ran from the\ntwo-peaked hill upon my left, and I bent my course in that direction\nthat I might pass the stream while it was small. The wood was pretty\nopen, and keeping along the lower spurs, I had soon turned the corner\nof that hill, and not long after waded to the mid-calf across the\nwatercourse.\n\nThis brought me near to where I had encountered Ben Gunn, the maroon;\nand I walked more circumspectly, keeping an eye on every side. The dusk\nhad come nigh hand completely, and as I opened out the cleft between the\ntwo peaks, I became aware of a wavering glow against the sky, where, as\nI judged, the man of the island was cooking his supper before a roaring\nfire. And yet I wondered, in my heart, that he should show himself so\ncareless. For if I could see this radiance, might it not reach the eyes\nof Silver himself where he camped upon the shore among the marshes?\n\nGradually the night fell blacker; it was all I could do to guide myself\neven roughly towards my destination; the double hill behind me and the\nSpy-glass on my right hand loomed faint and fainter; the stars were few\nand pale; and in the low ground where I wandered I kept tripping among\nbushes and rolling into sandy pits.\n\nSuddenly a kind of brightness fell about me. I looked up; a pale glimmer\nof moonbeams had alighted on the summit of the Spy-glass, and soon after\nI saw something broad and silvery moving low down behind the trees, and\nknew the moon had risen.\n\nWith this to help me, I passed rapidly over what remained to me of my\njourney, and sometimes walking, sometimes running, impatiently drew near\nto the stockade. Yet, as I began to thread the grove that lies before\nit, I was not so thoughtless but that I slacked my pace and went a\ntrifle warily. It would have been a poor end of my adventures to get\nshot down by my own party in mistake.\n\nThe moon was climbing higher and higher, its light began to fall here\nand there in masses through the more open districts of the wood, and\nright in front of me a glow of a different colour appeared among\nthe trees. It was red and hot, and now and again it was a little\ndarkened--as it were, the embers of a bonfire smouldering.\n\nFor the life of me I could not think what it might be.\n\nAt last I came right down upon the borders of the clearing. The western\nend was already steeped in moonshine; the rest, and the block house\nitself, still lay in a black shadow chequered with long silvery streaks\nof light. On the other side of the house an immense fire had burned\nitself into clear embers and shed a steady, red reverberation,\ncontrasted strongly with the mellow paleness of the moon. There was not\na soul stirring nor a sound beside the noises of the breeze.\n\nI stopped, with much wonder in my heart, and perhaps a little terror\nalso. It had not been our way to build great fires; we were, indeed,\nby the captain s orders, somewhat niggardly of firewood, and I began to\nfear that something had gone wrong while I was absent.\n\nI stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and at a\nconvenient place, where the darkness was thickest, crossed the palisade.\n\nTo make assurance surer, I got upon my hands and knees and crawled,\nwithout a sound, towards the corner of the house. As I drew nearer, my\nheart was suddenly and greatly lightened. It is not a pleasant noise in\nitself, and I have often complained of it at other times, but just\nthen it was like music to hear my friends snoring together so loud and\npeaceful in their sleep. The sea-cry of the watch, that beautiful  All s\nwell,  never fell more reassuringly on my ear.\n\nIn the meantime, there was no doubt of one thing; they kept an infamous\nbad watch. If it had been Silver and his lads that were now creeping\nin on them, not a soul would have seen daybreak. That was what it\nwas, thought I, to have the captain wounded; and again I blamed myself\nsharply for leaving them in that danger with so few to mount guard.\n\nBy this time I had got to the door and stood up. All was dark within,\nso that I could distinguish nothing by the eye. As for sounds, there\nwas the steady drone of the snorers and a small occasional noise, a\nflickering or pecking that I could in no way account for.\n\nWith my arms before me I walked steadily in. I should lie down in my own\nplace (I thought with a silent chuckle) and enjoy their faces when they\nfound me in the morning.\n\nMy foot struck something yielding--it was a sleeper s leg; and he turned\nand groaned, but without awaking.\n\nAnd then, all of a sudden, a shrill voice broke forth out of the\ndarkness:\n\n Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!\nPieces of eight!  and so forth, without pause or change, like the\nclacking of a tiny mill.\n\nSilver s green parrot, Captain Flint! It was she whom I had heard\npecking at a piece of bark; it was she, keeping better watch than any\nhuman being, who thus announced my arrival with her wearisome refrain.\n\nI had no time left me to recover. At the sharp, clipping tone of the\nparrot, the sleepers awoke and sprang up; and with a mighty oath, the\nvoice of Silver cried,  Who goes? \n\nI turned to run, struck violently against one person, recoiled, and ran\nfull into the arms of a second, who for his part closed upon and held me\ntight.\n\n Bring a torch, Dick,  said Silver when my capture was thus assured.\n\nAnd one of the men left the log-house and presently returned with a\nlighted brand.\n\n\n\n\nPART SIX--Captain Silver\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\nIn the Enemy s Camp\n\n\nThe red glare of the torch, lighting up the interior of the block house,\nshowed me the worst of my apprehensions realized. The pirates were in\npossession of the house and stores: there was the cask of cognac,\nthere were the pork and bread, as before, and what tenfold increased\nmy horror, not a sign of any prisoner. I could only judge that all had\nperished, and my heart smote me sorely that I had not been there to\nperish with them.\n\nThere were six of the buccaneers, all told; not another man was left\nalive. Five of them were on their feet, flushed and swollen, suddenly\ncalled out of the first sleep of drunkenness. The sixth had only risen\nupon his elbow; he was deadly pale, and the blood-stained bandage round\nhis head told that he had recently been wounded, and still more recently\ndressed. I remembered the man who had been shot and had run back among\nthe woods in the great attack, and doubted not that this was he.\n\nThe parrot sat, preening her plumage, on Long John s shoulder. He\nhimself, I thought, looked somewhat paler and more stern than I was used\nto. He still wore the fine broadcloth suit in which he had fulfilled his\nmission, but it was bitterly the worse for wear, daubed with clay and\ntorn with the sharp briers of the wood.\n\n So,  said he,  here s Jim Hawkins, shiver my timbers! Dropped in, like,\neh? Well, come, I take that friendly. \n\nAnd thereupon he sat down across the brandy cask and began to fill a\npipe.\n\n Give me a loan of the link, Dick,  said he; and then, when he had a\ngood light,  That ll do, lad,  he added;  stick the glim in the wood\nheap; and you, gentlemen, bring yourselves to! You needn t stand up\nfor Mr. Hawkins; HE LL excuse you, you may lay to that. And so,\nJim --stopping the tobacco-- here you were, and quite a pleasant\nsurprise for poor old John. I see you were smart when first I set my\neyes on you, but this here gets away from me clean, it do. \n\nTo all this, as may be well supposed, I made no answer. They had set me\nwith my back against the wall, and I stood there, looking Silver in the\nface, pluckily enough, I hope, to all outward appearance, but with black\ndespair in my heart.\n\nSilver took a whiff or two of his pipe with great composure and then ran\non again.\n\n Now, you see, Jim, so be as you ARE here,  says he,  I ll give you a\npiece of my mind. I ve always liked you, I have, for a lad of spirit,\nand the picter of my own self when I was young and handsome. I always\nwanted you to jine and take your share, and die a gentleman, and now, my\ncock, you ve got to. Cap n Smollett s a fine seaman, as I ll own up to\nany day, but stiff on discipline.  Dooty is dooty,  says he, and right\nhe is. Just you keep clear of the cap n. The doctor himself is gone dead\nagain  you-- ungrateful scamp  was what he said; and the short and the\nlong of the whole story is about here: you can t go back to your own\nlot, for they won t have you; and without you start a third ship s\ncompany all by yourself, which might be lonely, you ll have to jine with\nCap n Silver. \n\nSo far so good. My friends, then, were still alive, and though I partly\nbelieved the truth of Silver s statement, that the cabin party were\nincensed at me for my desertion, I was more relieved than distressed by\nwhat I heard.\n\n I don t say nothing as to your being in our hands,  continued Silver,\n though there you are, and you may lay to it. I m all for argyment; I\nnever seen good come out o  threatening. If you like the service, well,\nyou ll jine; and if you don t, Jim, why, you re free to answer no--free\nand welcome, shipmate; and if fairer can be said by mortal seaman,\nshiver my sides! \n\n Am I to answer, then?  I asked with a very tremulous voice. Through all\nthis sneering talk, I was made to feel the threat of death that overhung\nme, and my cheeks burned and my heart beat painfully in my breast.\n\n Lad,  said Silver,  no one s a-pressing of you. Take your bearings.\nNone of us won t hurry you, mate; time goes so pleasant in your company,\nyou see. \n\n Well,  says I, growing a bit bolder,  if I m to choose, I declare I\nhave a right to know what s what, and why you re here, and where my\nfriends are. \n\n Wot s wot?  repeated one of the buccaneers in a deep growl.  Ah, he d\nbe a lucky one as knowed that! \n\n You ll perhaps batten down your hatches till you re spoke to, my\nfriend,  cried Silver truculently to this speaker. And then, in\nhis first gracious tones, he replied to me,  Yesterday morning, Mr.\nHawkins,  said he,  in the dog-watch, down came Doctor Livesey with a\nflag of truce. Says he,  Cap n Silver, you re sold out. Ship s gone. \nWell, maybe we d been taking a glass, and a song to help it round. I\nwon t say no. Leastways, none of us had looked out. We looked out, and\nby thunder, the old ship was gone! I never seen a pack o  fools look\nfishier; and you may lay to that, if I tells you that looked the\nfishiest.  Well,  says the doctor,  let s bargain.  We bargained, him\nand I, and here we are: stores, brandy, block house, the firewood you\nwas thoughtful enough to cut, and in a manner of speaking, the whole\nblessed boat, from cross-trees to kelson. As for them, they ve tramped;\nI don t know where s they are. \n\nHe drew again quietly at his pipe.\n\n And lest you should take it into that head of yours,  he went on,  that\nyou was included in the treaty, here s the last word that was said:  How\nmany are you,  says I,  to leave?   Four,  says he;  four, and one of us\nwounded. As for that boy, I don t know where he is, confound him,  says\nhe,  nor I don t much care. We re about sick of him.  These was his\nwords. \n\n Is that all?  I asked.\n\n Well, it s all that you re to hear, my son,  returned Silver.\n\n And now I am to choose? \n\n And now you are to choose, and you may lay to that,  said Silver.\n\n Well,  said I,  I am not such a fool but I know pretty well what I have\nto look for. Let the worst come to the worst, it s little I care. I ve\nseen too many die since I fell in with you. But there s a thing or two\nI have to tell you,  I said, and by this time I was quite excited;  and\nthe first is this: here you are, in a bad way--ship lost, treasure lost,\nmen lost, your whole business gone to wreck; and if you want to know who\ndid it--it was I! I was in the apple barrel the night we sighted land,\nand I heard you, John, and you, Dick Johnson, and Hands, who is now at\nthe bottom of the sea, and told every word you said before the hour was\nout. And as for the schooner, it was I who cut her cable, and it was I\nthat killed the men you had aboard of her, and it was I who brought her\nwhere you ll never see her more, not one of you. The laugh s on my side;\nI ve had the top of this business from the first; I no more fear you\nthan I fear a fly. Kill me, if you please, or spare me. But one thing\nI ll say, and no more; if you spare me, bygones are bygones, and when\nyou fellows are in court for piracy, I ll save you all I can. It is for\nyou to choose. Kill another and do yourselves no good, or spare me and\nkeep a witness to save you from the gallows. \n\nI stopped, for, I tell you, I was out of breath, and to my wonder, not\na man of them moved, but all sat staring at me like as many sheep. And\nwhile they were still staring, I broke out again,  And now, Mr. Silver, \n I said,  I believe you re the best man here, and if things go to the\nworst, I ll take it kind of you to let the doctor know the way I took\nit. \n\n I ll bear it in mind,  said Silver with an accent so curious that I\ncould not, for the life of me, decide whether he were laughing at my\nrequest or had been favourably affected by my courage.\n\n I ll put one to that,  cried the old mahogany-faced seaman--Morgan\nby name--whom I had seen in Long John s public-house upon the quays of\nBristol.  It was him that knowed Black Dog. \n\n Well, and see here,  added the sea-cook.  I ll put another again to\nthat, by thunder! For it was this same boy that faked the chart from\nBilly Bones. First and last, we ve split upon Jim Hawkins! \n\n Then here goes!  said Morgan with an oath.\n\nAnd he sprang up, drawing his knife as if he had been twenty.\n\n Avast, there!  cried Silver.  Who are you, Tom Morgan? Maybe you\nthought you was cap n here, perhaps. By the powers, but I ll teach you\nbetter! Cross me, and you ll go where many a good man s gone before you,\nfirst and last, these thirty year back--some to the yard-arm, shiver\nmy timbers, and some by the board, and all to feed the fishes. There s\nnever a man looked me between the eyes and seen a good day a terwards,\nTom Morgan, you may lay to that. \n\nMorgan paused, but a hoarse murmur rose from the others.\n\n Tom s right,  said one.\n\n I stood hazing long enough from one,  added another.  I ll be hanged if\nI ll be hazed by you, John Silver. \n\n Did any of you gentlemen want to have it out with ME?  roared Silver,\nbending far forward from his position on the keg, with his pipe still\nglowing in his right hand.  Put a name on what you re at; you ain t\ndumb, I reckon. Him that wants shall get it. Have I lived this many\nyears, and a son of a rum puncheon cock his hat athwart my hawse at the\nlatter end of it? You know the way; you re all gentlemen o  fortune, by\nyour account. Well, I m ready. Take a cutlass, him that dares, and I ll\nsee the colour of his inside, crutch and all, before that pipe s empty. \n\nNot a man stirred; not a man answered.\n\n That s your sort, is it?  he added, returning his pipe to his mouth.\n Well, you re a gay lot to look at, anyway. Not much worth to fight, you\nain t. P r aps you can understand King George s English. I m cap n here\nby  lection. I m cap n here because I m the best man by a long sea-mile.\nYou won t fight, as gentlemen o  fortune should; then, by thunder,\nyou ll obey, and you may lay to it! I like that boy, now; I never seen\na better boy than that. He s more a man than any pair of rats of you in\nthis here house, and what I say is this: let me see him that ll lay a\nhand on him--that s what I say, and you may lay to it. \n\nThere was a long pause after this. I stood straight up against the wall,\nmy heart still going like a sledge-hammer, but with a ray of hope\nnow shining in my bosom. Silver leant back against the wall, his arms\ncrossed, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, as calm as though he had\nbeen in church; yet his eye kept wandering furtively, and he kept the\ntail of it on his unruly followers. They, on their part, drew gradually\ntogether towards the far end of the block house, and the low hiss of\ntheir whispering sounded in my ear continuously, like a stream. One\nafter another, they would look up, and the red light of the torch would\nfall for a second on their nervous faces; but it was not towards me, it\nwas towards Silver that they turned their eyes.\n\n You seem to have a lot to say,  remarked Silver, spitting far into the\nair.  Pipe up and let me hear it, or lay to. \n\n Ax your pardon, sir,  returned one of the men;  you re pretty free with\nsome of the rules; maybe you ll kindly keep an eye upon the rest. This\ncrew s dissatisfied; this crew don t vally bullying a marlin-spike; this\ncrew has its rights like other crews, I ll make so free as that; and by\nyour own rules, I take it we can talk together. I ax your pardon, sir,\nacknowledging you for to be capting at this present; but I claim my\nright, and steps outside for a council. \n\nAnd with an elaborate sea-salute, this fellow, a long, ill-looking,\nyellow-eyed man of five and thirty, stepped coolly towards the door and\ndisappeared out of the house. One after another the rest followed his\nexample, each making a salute as he passed, each adding some apology.\n According to rules,  said one.  Forecastle council,  said Morgan. And\nso with one remark or another all marched out and left Silver and me\nalone with the torch.\n\nThe sea-cook instantly removed his pipe.\n\n Now, look you here, Jim Hawkins,  he said in a steady whisper that was\nno more than audible,  you re within half a plank of death, and what s\na long sight worse, of torture. They re going to throw me off. But, you\nmark, I stand by you through thick and thin. I didn t mean to; no, not\ntill you spoke up. I was about desperate to lose that much blunt, and\nbe hanged into the bargain. But I see you was the right sort. I says to\nmyself, you stand by Hawkins, John, and Hawkins ll stand by you. You re\nhis last card, and by the living thunder, John, he s yours! Back to\nback, says I. You save your witness, and he ll save your neck! \n\nI began dimly to understand.\n\n You mean all s lost?  I asked.\n\n Aye, by gum, I do!  he answered.  Ship gone, neck gone--that s the\nsize of it. Once I looked into that bay, Jim Hawkins, and seen no\nschooner--well, I m tough, but I gave out. As for that lot and their\ncouncil, mark me, they re outright fools and cowards. I ll save your\nlife--if so be as I can--from them. But, see here, Jim--tit for tat--you\nsave Long John from swinging. \n\nI was bewildered; it seemed a thing so hopeless he was asking--he, the\nold buccaneer, the ringleader throughout.\n\n What I can do, that I ll do,  I said.\n\n It s a bargain!  cried Long John.  You speak up plucky, and by thunder,\nI ve a chance! \n\nHe hobbled to the torch, where it stood propped among the firewood, and\ntook a fresh light to his pipe.\n\n Understand me, Jim,  he said, returning.  I ve a head on my shoulders,\nI have. I m on squire s side now. I know you ve got that ship safe\nsomewheres. How you done it, I don t know, but safe it is. I guess Hands\nand O Brien turned soft. I never much believed in neither of THEM. Now\nyou mark me. I ask no questions, nor I won t let others. I know when\na game s up, I do; and I know a lad that s staunch. Ah, you that s\nyoung--you and me might have done a power of good together! \n\nHe drew some cognac from the cask into a tin cannikin.\n\n Will you taste, messmate?  he asked; and when I had refused:  Well,\nI ll take a dram myself, Jim,  said he.  I need a caulker, for there s\ntrouble on hand. And talking o  trouble, why did that doctor give me the\nchart, Jim? \n\nMy face expressed a wonder so unaffected that he saw the needlessness of\nfurther questions.\n\n Ah, well, he did, though,  said he.  And there s something under that,\nno doubt--something, surely, under that, Jim--bad or good. \n\nAnd he took another swallow of the brandy, shaking his great fair head\nlike a man who looks forward to the worst.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\nThe Black Spot Again\n\n\nThe council of buccaneers had lasted some time, when one of them\nre-entered the house, and with a repetition of the same salute, which\nhad in my eyes an ironical air, begged for a moment s loan of the torch.\nSilver briefly agreed, and this emissary retired again, leaving us\ntogether in the dark.\n\n There s a breeze coming, Jim,  said Silver, who had by this time\nadopted quite a friendly and familiar tone.\n\nI turned to the loophole nearest me and looked out. The embers of the\ngreat fire had so far burned themselves out and now glowed so low and\nduskily that I understood why these conspirators desired a torch. About\nhalf-way down the slope to the stockade, they were collected in a group;\none held the light, another was on his knees in their midst, and I saw\nthe blade of an open knife shine in his hand with varying colours in\nthe moon and torchlight. The rest were all somewhat stooping, as though\nwatching the manoeuvres of this last. I could just make out that he\nhad a book as well as a knife in his hand, and was still wondering how\nanything so incongruous had come in their possession when the kneeling\nfigure rose once more to his feet and the whole party began to move\ntogether towards the house.\n\n Here they come,  said I; and I returned to my former position, for it\nseemed beneath my dignity that they should find me watching them.\n\n Well, let  em come, lad--let  em come,  said Silver cheerily.  I ve\nstill a shot in my locker. \n\nThe door opened, and the five men, standing huddled together just\ninside, pushed one of their number forward. In any other circumstances\nit would have been comical to see his slow advance, hesitating as he set\ndown each foot, but holding his closed right hand in front of him.\n\n Step up, lad,  cried Silver.  I won t eat you. Hand it over, lubber. I\nknow the rules, I do; I won t hurt a depytation. \n\nThus encouraged, the buccaneer stepped forth more briskly, and having\npassed something to Silver, from hand to hand, slipped yet more smartly\nback again to his companions.\n\nThe sea-cook looked at what had been given him.\n\n The black spot! I thought so,  he observed.  Where might you have got\nthe paper? Why, hillo! Look here, now; this ain t lucky! You ve gone and\ncut this out of a Bible. What fool s cut a Bible? \n\n Ah, there!  said Morgan.  There! Wot did I say? No good ll come o \nthat, I said. \n\n Well, you ve about fixed it now, among you,  continued Silver.  You ll\nall swing now, I reckon. What soft-headed lubber had a Bible? \n\n It was Dick,  said one.\n\n Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers,  said Silver.  He s seen\nhis slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to that. \n\nBut here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in.\n\n Belay that talk, John Silver,  he said.  This crew has tipped you the\nblack spot in full council, as in dooty bound; just you turn it over, as\nin dooty bound, and see what s wrote there. Then you can talk. \n\n Thanky, George,  replied the sea-cook.  You always was brisk for\nbusiness, and has the rules by heart, George, as I m pleased to see.\nWell, what is it, anyway? Ah!  Deposed --that s it, is it? Very pretty\nwrote, to be sure; like print, I swear. Your hand o  write, George? Why,\nyou was gettin  quite a leadin  man in this here crew. You ll be cap n\nnext, I shouldn t wonder. Just oblige me with that torch again, will\nyou? This pipe don t draw. \n\n Come, now,  said George,  you don t fool this crew no more. You re a\nfunny man, by your account; but you re over now, and you ll maybe step\ndown off that barrel and help vote. \n\n I thought you said you knowed the rules,  returned Silver\ncontemptuously.  Leastways, if you don t, I do; and I wait here--and I m\nstill your cap n, mind--till you outs with your grievances and I reply;\nin the meantime, your black spot ain t worth a biscuit. After that,\nwe ll see. \n\n Oh,  replied George,  you don t be under no kind of apprehension; WE RE\nall square, we are. First, you ve made a hash of this cruise--you ll be\na bold man to say no to that. Second, you let the enemy out o  this here\ntrap for nothing. Why did they want out? I dunno, but it s pretty plain\nthey wanted it. Third, you wouldn t let us go at them upon the march.\nOh, we see through you, John Silver; you want to play booty, that s\nwhat s wrong with you. And then, fourth, there s this here boy. \n\n Is that all?  asked Silver quietly.\n\n Enough, too,  retorted George.  We ll all swing and sun-dry for your\nbungling. \n\n Well now, look here, I ll answer these four p ints; one after another\nI ll answer  em. I made a hash o  this cruise, did I? Well now, you all\nknow what I wanted, and you all know if that had been done that we d\n a been aboard the HISPANIOLA this night as ever was, every man of us\nalive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold\nof her, by thunder! Well, who crossed me? Who forced my hand, as was the\nlawful cap n? Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed and began\nthis dance? Ah, it s a fine dance--I m with you there--and looks mighty\nlike a hornpipe in a rope s end at Execution Dock by London town, it\ndoes. But who done it? Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and you, George\nMerry! And you re the last above board of that same meddling crew;\nand you have the Davy Jones s insolence to up and stand for cap n over\nme--you, that sank the lot of us! By the powers! But this tops the\nstiffest yarn to nothing. \n\nSilver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and his late\ncomrades that these words had not been said in vain.\n\n That s for number one,  cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his\nbrow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house.\n Why, I give you my word, I m sick to speak to you. You ve neither sense\nnor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you\ncome to sea. Sea! Gentlemen o  fortune! I reckon tailors is your trade. \n\n Go on, John,  said Morgan.  Speak up to the others. \n\n Ah, the others!  returned John.  They re a nice lot, ain t they? You\nsay this cruise is bungled. Ah! By gum, if you could understand how bad\nit s bungled, you would see! We re that near the gibbet that my neck s\nstiff with thinking on it. You ve seen  em, maybe, hanged in chains,\nbirds about  em, seamen p inting  em out as they go down with the tide.\n Who s that?  says one.  That! Why, that s John Silver. I knowed him\nwell,  says another. And you can hear the chains a-jangle as you go\nabout and reach for the other buoy. Now, that s about where we are,\nevery mother s son of us, thanks to him, and Hands, and Anderson, and\nother ruination fools of you. And if you want to know about number four,\nand that boy, why, shiver my timbers, isn t he a hostage? Are we a-going\nto waste a hostage? No, not us; he might be our last chance, and I\nshouldn t wonder. Kill that boy? Not me, mates! And number three? Ah,\nwell, there s a deal to say to number three. Maybe you don t count it\nnothing to have a real college doctor to see you every day--you, John,\nwith your head broke--or you, George Merry, that had the ague shakes\nupon you not six hours agone, and has your eyes the colour of lemon peel\nto this same moment on the clock? And maybe, perhaps, you didn t know\nthere was a consort coming either? But there is, and not so long till\nthen; and we ll see who ll be glad to have a hostage when it comes to\nthat. And as for number two, and why I made a bargain--well, you came\ncrawling on your knees to me to make it--on your knees you came, you was\nthat downhearted--and you d have starved too if I hadn t--but that s a\ntrifle! You look there--that s why! \n\nAnd he cast down upon the floor a paper that I instantly\nrecognized--none other than the chart on yellow paper, with the three\nred crosses, that I had found in the oilcloth at the bottom of the\ncaptain s chest. Why the doctor had given it to him was more than I\ncould fancy.\n\nBut if it were inexplicable to me, the appearance of the chart was\nincredible to the surviving mutineers. They leaped upon it like cats\nupon a mouse. It went from hand to hand, one tearing it from another;\nand by the oaths and the cries and the childish laughter with which they\naccompanied their examination, you would have thought, not only they\nwere fingering the very gold, but were at sea with it, besides, in\nsafety.\n\n Yes,  said one,  that s Flint, sure enough. J. F., and a score below,\nwith a clove hitch to it; so he done ever. \n\n Mighty pretty,  said George.  But how are we to get away with it, and\nus no ship. \n\nSilver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a hand against\nthe wall:  Now I give you warning, George,  he cried.  One more word\nof your sauce, and I ll call you down and fight you. How? Why, how do I\nknow? You had ought to tell me that--you and the rest, that lost me my\nschooner, with your interference, burn you! But not you, you can t; you\nhain t got the invention of a cockroach. But civil you can speak, and\nshall, George Merry, you may lay to that. \n\n That s fair enow,  said the old man Morgan.\n\n Fair! I reckon so,  said the sea-cook.  You lost the ship; I found the\ntreasure. Who s the better man at that? And now I resign, by thunder!\nElect whom you please to be your cap n now; I m done with it. \n\n Silver!  they cried.  Barbecue forever! Barbecue for cap n! \n\n So that s the toon, is it?  cried the cook.  George, I reckon you ll\nhave to wait another turn, friend; and lucky for you as I m not a\nrevengeful man. But that was never my way. And now, shipmates, this\nblack spot?  Tain t much good now, is it? Dick s crossed his luck and\nspoiled his Bible, and that s about all. \n\n It ll do to kiss the book on still, won t it?  growled Dick, who was\nevidently uneasy at the curse he had brought upon himself.\n\n A Bible with a bit cut out!  returned Silver derisively.  Not it. It\ndon t bind no more n a ballad-book. \n\n Don t it, though?  cried Dick with a sort of joy.  Well, I reckon\nthat s worth having too. \n\n Here, Jim--here s a cur osity for you,  said Silver, and he tossed me\nthe paper.\n\nIt was around about the size of a crown piece. One side was blank,\nfor it had been the last leaf; the other contained a verse or two of\nRevelation--these words among the rest, which struck sharply home upon\nmy mind:  Without are dogs and murderers.  The printed side had been\nblackened with wood ash, which already began to come off and soil my\nfingers; on the blank side had been written with the same material the\none word  Depposed.  I have that curiosity beside me at this moment, but\nnot a trace of writing now remains beyond a single scratch, such as a\nman might make with his thumb-nail.\n\nThat was the end of the night s business. Soon after, with a drink all\nround, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of Silver s vengeance was\nto put George Merry up for sentinel and threaten him with death if he\nshould prove unfaithful.\n\nIt was long ere I could close an eye, and heaven knows I had matter\nenough for thought in the man whom I had slain that afternoon, in my own\nmost perilous position, and above all, in the remarkable game that I saw\nSilver now engaged upon--keeping the mutineers together with one hand\nand grasping with the other after every means, possible and impossible,\nto make his peace and save his miserable life. He himself slept\npeacefully and snored aloud, yet my heart was sore for him, wicked as he\nwas, to think on the dark perils that environed and the shameful gibbet\nthat awaited him.\n\n\n\n\nXXX\nOn Parole\n\n\nI was wakened--indeed, we were all wakened, for I could see even the\nsentinel shake himself together from where he had fallen against the\ndoor-post--by a clear, hearty voice hailing us from the margin of the\nwood:\n\n Block house, ahoy!  it cried.  Here s the doctor. \n\nAnd the doctor it was. Although I was glad to hear the sound, yet my\ngladness was not without admixture. I remembered with confusion my\ninsubordinate and stealthy conduct, and when I saw where it had brought\nme--among what companions and surrounded by what dangers--I felt ashamed\nto look him in the face.\n\nHe must have risen in the dark, for the day had hardly come; and when I\nran to a loophole and looked out, I saw him standing, like Silver once\nbefore, up to the mid-leg in creeping vapour.\n\n You, doctor! Top o  the morning to you, sir!  cried Silver, broad awake\nand beaming with good nature in a moment.  Bright and early, to be sure;\nand it s the early bird, as the saying goes, that gets the rations.\nGeorge, shake up your timbers, son, and help Dr. Livesey over the ship s\nside. All a-doin  well, your patients was--all well and merry. \n\nSo he pattered on, standing on the hilltop with his crutch under his\nelbow and one hand upon the side of the log-house--quite the old John in\nvoice, manner, and expression.\n\n We ve quite a surprise for you too, sir,  he continued.  We ve a little\nstranger here--he! he! A noo boarder and lodger, sir, and looking fit\nand taut as a fiddle; slep  like a supercargo, he did, right alongside\nof John--stem to stem we was, all night. \n\nDr. Livesey was by this time across the stockade and pretty near the\ncook, and I could hear the alteration in his voice as he said,  Not\nJim? \n\n The very same Jim as ever was,  says Silver.\n\nThe doctor stopped outright, although he did not speak, and it was some\nseconds before he seemed able to move on.\n\n Well, well,  he said at last,  duty first and pleasure afterwards, as\nyou might have said yourself, Silver. Let us overhaul these patients of\nyours. \n\nA moment afterwards he had entered the block house and with one grim\nnod to me proceeded with his work among the sick. He seemed under no\napprehension, though he must have known that his life, among these\ntreacherous demons, depended on a hair; and he rattled on to his\npatients as if he were paying an ordinary professional visit in a quiet\nEnglish family. His manner, I suppose, reacted on the men, for they\nbehaved to him as if nothing had occurred, as if he were still ship s\ndoctor and they still faithful hands before the mast.\n\n You re doing well, my friend,  he said to the fellow with the bandaged\nhead,  and if ever any person had a close shave, it was you; your head\nmust be as hard as iron. Well, George, how goes it? You re a pretty\ncolour, certainly; why, your liver, man, is upside down. Did you take\nthat medicine? Did he take that medicine, men? \n\n Aye, aye, sir, he took it, sure enough,  returned Morgan.\n\n Because, you see, since I am mutineers  doctor, or prison doctor as I\nprefer to call it,  says Doctor Livesey in his pleasantest way,  I make\nit a point of honour not to lose a man for King George (God bless him!)\nand the gallows. \n\nThe rogues looked at each other but swallowed the home-thrust in\nsilence.\n\n Dick don t feel well, sir,  said one.\n\n Don t he?  replied the doctor.  Well, step up here, Dick, and let me\nsee your tongue. No, I should be surprised if he did! The man s tongue\nis fit to frighten the French. Another fever. \n\n Ah, there,  said Morgan,  that comed of sp iling Bibles. \n\n That comes--as you call it--of being arrant asses,  retorted the\ndoctor,  and not having sense enough to know honest air from poison,\nand the dry land from a vile, pestiferous slough. I think it most\nprobable--though of course it s only an opinion--that you ll all have\nthe deuce to pay before you get that malaria out of your systems. Camp\nin a bog, would you? Silver, I m surprised at you. You re less of a fool\nthan many, take you all round; but you don t appear to me to have the\nrudiments of a notion of the rules of health.\n\n Well,  he added after he had dosed them round and they had taken\nhis prescriptions, with really laughable humility, more like charity\nschoolchildren than blood-guilty mutineers and pirates-- well, that s\ndone for today. And now I should wish to have a talk with that boy,\nplease. \n\nAnd he nodded his head in my direction carelessly.\n\nGeorge Merry was at the door, spitting and spluttering over some\nbad-tasted medicine; but at the first word of the doctor s proposal he\nswung round with a deep flush and cried  No!  and swore.\n\nSilver struck the barrel with his open hand.\n\n Si-lence!  he roared and looked about him positively like a lion.\n Doctor,  he went on in his usual tones,  I was a-thinking of that,\nknowing as how you had a fancy for the boy. We re all humbly grateful\nfor your kindness, and as you see, puts faith in you and takes the drugs\ndown like that much grog. And I take it I ve found a way as ll suit all.\nHawkins, will you give me your word of honour as a young gentleman--for\na young gentleman you are, although poor born--your word of honour not\nto slip your cable? \n\nI readily gave the pledge required.\n\n Then, doctor,  said Silver,  you just step outside o  that stockade,\nand once you re there I ll bring the boy down on the inside, and I\nreckon you can yarn through the spars. Good day to you, sir, and all our\ndooties to the squire and Cap n Smollett. \n\nThe explosion of disapproval, which nothing but Silver s black looks had\nrestrained, broke out immediately the doctor had left the house. Silver\nwas roundly accused of playing double--of trying to make a separate\npeace for himself, of sacrificing the interests of his accomplices and\nvictims, and, in one word, of the identical, exact thing that he was\ndoing. It seemed to me so obvious, in this case, that I could not\nimagine how he was to turn their anger. But he was twice the man\nthe rest were, and his last night s victory had given him a huge\npreponderance on their minds. He called them all the fools and dolts\nyou can imagine, said it was necessary I should talk to the doctor,\nfluttered the chart in their faces, asked them if they could afford to\nbreak the treaty the very day they were bound a-treasure-hunting.\n\n No, by thunder!  he cried.  It s us must break the treaty when the time\ncomes; and till then I ll gammon that doctor, if I have to ile his boots\nwith brandy. \n\nAnd then he bade them get the fire lit, and stalked out upon his crutch,\nwith his hand on my shoulder, leaving them in a disarray, and silenced\nby his volubility rather than convinced.\n\n Slow, lad, slow,  he said.  They might round upon us in a twinkle of an\neye if we was seen to hurry. \n\nVery deliberately, then, did we advance across the sand to where the\ndoctor awaited us on the other side of the stockade, and as soon as we\nwere within easy speaking distance Silver stopped.\n\n You ll make a note of this here also, doctor,  says he,  and the boy ll\ntell you how I saved his life, and were deposed for it too, and you\nmay lay to that. Doctor, when a man s steering as near the wind as\nme--playing chuck-farthing with the last breath in his body, like--you\nwouldn t think it too much, mayhap, to give him one good word? You ll\nplease bear in mind it s not my life only now--it s that boy s into the\nbargain; and you ll speak me fair, doctor, and give me a bit o  hope to\ngo on, for the sake of mercy. \n\nSilver was a changed man once he was out there and had his back to his\nfriends and the block house; his cheeks seemed to have fallen in, his\nvoice trembled; never was a soul more dead in earnest.\n\n Why, John, you re not afraid?  asked Dr. Livesey.\n\n Doctor, I m no coward; no, not I--not SO much!  and he snapped his\nfingers.  If I was I wouldn t say it. But I ll own up fairly, I ve the\nshakes upon me for the gallows. You re a good man and a true; I never\nseen a better man! And you ll not forget what I done good, not any more\nthan you ll forget the bad, I know. And I step aside--see here--and\nleave you and Jim alone. And you ll put that down for me too, for it s a\nlong stretch, is that! \n\nSo saying, he stepped back a little way, till he was out of earshot, and\nthere sat down upon a tree-stump and began to whistle, spinning round\nnow and again upon his seat so as to command a sight, sometimes of me\nand the doctor and sometimes of his unruly ruffians as they went to and\nfro in the sand between the fire--which they were busy rekindling--and\nthe house, from which they brought forth pork and bread to make the\nbreakfast.\n\n So, Jim,  said the doctor sadly,  here you are. As you have brewed, so\nshall you drink, my boy. Heaven knows, I cannot find it in my heart to\nblame you, but this much I will say, be it kind or unkind: when Captain\nSmollett was well, you dared not have gone off; and when he was ill and\ncouldn t help it, by George, it was downright cowardly! \n\nI will own that I here began to weep.  Doctor,  I said,  you might spare\nme. I have blamed myself enough; my life s forfeit anyway, and I should\nhave been dead by now if Silver hadn t stood for me; and doctor,\nbelieve this, I can die--and I dare say I deserve it--but what I fear is\ntorture. If they come to torture me-- \n\n Jim,  the doctor interrupted, and his voice was quite changed,  Jim, I\ncan t have this. Whip over, and we ll run for it. \n\n Doctor,  said I,  I passed my word. \n\n I know, I know,  he cried.  We can t help that, Jim, now. I ll take it\non my shoulders, holus bolus, blame and shame, my boy; but stay here,\nI cannot let you. Jump! One jump, and you re out, and we ll run for it\nlike antelopes. \n\n No,  I replied;  you know right well you wouldn t do the thing\nyourself--neither you nor squire nor captain; and no more will I. Silver\ntrusted me; I passed my word, and back I go. But, doctor, you did not\nlet me finish. If they come to torture me, I might let slip a word of\nwhere the ship is, for I got the ship, part by luck and part by risking,\nand she lies in North Inlet, on the southern beach, and just below high\nwater. At half tide she must be high and dry. \n\n The ship!  exclaimed the doctor.\n\nRapidly I described to him my adventures, and he heard me out in\nsilence.\n\n There is a kind of fate in this,  he observed when I had done.  Every\nstep, it s you that saves our lives; and do you suppose by any chance\nthat we are going to let you lose yours? That would be a poor return, my\nboy. You found out the plot; you found Ben Gunn--the best deed that\never you did, or will do, though you live to ninety. Oh, by Jupiter, and\ntalking of Ben Gunn! Why, this is the mischief in person. Silver!  he\ncried.  Silver! I ll give you a piece of advice,  he continued as\nthe cook drew near again;  don t you be in any great hurry after that\ntreasure. \n\n Why, sir, I do my possible, which that ain t,  said Silver.  I can\nonly, asking your pardon, save my life and the boy s by seeking for that\ntreasure; and you may lay to that. \n\n Well, Silver,  replied the doctor,  if that is so, I ll go one step\nfurther: look out for squalls when you find it. \n\n Sir,  said Silver,  as between man and man, that s too much and too\nlittle. What you re after, why you left the block house, why you given\nme that there chart, I don t know, now, do I? And yet I done your\nbidding with my eyes shut and never a word of hope! But no, this here s\ntoo much. If you won t tell me what you mean plain out, just say so and\nI ll leave the helm. \n\n No,  said the doctor musingly;  I ve no right to say more; it s not my\nsecret, you see, Silver, or, I give you my word, I d tell it you. But\nI ll go as far with you as I dare go, and a step beyond, for I ll have\nmy wig sorted by the captain or I m mistaken! And first, I ll give you a\nbit of hope; Silver, if we both get alive out of this wolf-trap, I ll do\nmy best to save you, short of perjury. \n\nSilver s face was radiant.  You couldn t say more, I m sure, sir, not if\nyou was my mother,  he cried.\n\n Well, that s my first concession,  added the doctor.  My second is a\npiece of advice: keep the boy close beside you, and when you need help,\nhalloo. I m off to seek it for you, and that itself will show you if I\nspeak at random. Good-bye, Jim. \n\nAnd Dr. Livesey shook hands with me through the stockade, nodded to\nSilver, and set off at a brisk pace into the wood.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI\nThe Treasure-hunt--Flint s Pointer\n\n\n Jim,  said Silver when we were alone,  if I saved your life, you saved\nmine; and I ll not forget it. I seen the doctor waving you to run for\nit--with the tail of my eye, I did; and I seen you say no, as plain as\nhearing. Jim, that s one to you. This is the first glint of hope I had\nsince the attack failed, and I owe it you. And now, Jim, we re to go in\nfor this here treasure-hunting, with sealed orders too, and I don t like\nit; and you and me must stick close, back to back like, and we ll save\nour necks in spite o  fate and fortune. \n\nJust then a man hailed us from the fire that breakfast was ready, and\nwe were soon seated here and there about the sand over biscuit and fried\njunk. They had lit a fire fit to roast an ox, and it was now grown so\nhot that they could only approach it from the windward, and even there\nnot without precaution. In the same wasteful spirit, they had cooked,\nI suppose, three times more than we could eat; and one of them, with an\nempty laugh, threw what was left into the fire, which blazed and roared\nagain over this unusual fuel. I never in my life saw men so careless of\nthe morrow; hand to mouth is the only word that can describe their way\nof doing; and what with wasted food and sleeping sentries, though they\nwere bold enough for a brush and be done with it, I could see their\nentire unfitness for anything like a prolonged campaign.\n\nEven Silver, eating away, with Captain Flint upon his shoulder, had not\na word of blame for their recklessness. And this the more surprised me,\nfor I thought he had never shown himself so cunning as he did then.\n\n Aye, mates,  said he,  it s lucky you have Barbecue to think for you\nwith this here head. I got what I wanted, I did. Sure enough, they have\nthe ship. Where they have it, I don t know yet; but once we hit the\ntreasure, we ll have to jump about and find out. And then, mates, us\nthat has the boats, I reckon, has the upper hand. \n\nThus he kept running on, with his mouth full of the hot bacon; thus he\nrestored their hope and confidence, and, I more than suspect, repaired\nhis own at the same time.\n\n As for hostage,  he continued,  that s his last talk, I guess, with\nthem he loves so dear. I ve got my piece o  news, and thanky to him\nfor that; but it s over and done. I ll take him in a line when we go\ntreasure-hunting, for we ll keep him like so much gold, in case of\naccidents, you mark, and in the meantime. Once we got the ship and\ntreasure both and off to sea like jolly companions, why then we ll talk\nMr. Hawkins over, we will, and we ll give him his share, to be sure, for\nall his kindness. \n\nIt was no wonder the men were in a good humour now. For my part, I\nwas horribly cast down. Should the scheme he had now sketched prove\nfeasible, Silver, already doubly a traitor, would not hesitate to adopt\nit. He had still a foot in either camp, and there was no doubt he\nwould prefer wealth and freedom with the pirates to a bare escape from\nhanging, which was the best he had to hope on our side.\n\nNay, and even if things so fell out that he was forced to keep his faith\nwith Dr. Livesey, even then what danger lay before us! What a moment\nthat would be when the suspicions of his followers turned to certainty\nand he and I should have to fight for dear life--he a cripple and I a\nboy--against five strong and active seamen!\n\nAdd to this double apprehension the mystery that still hung over the\nbehaviour of my friends, their unexplained desertion of the stockade,\ntheir inexplicable cession of the chart, or harder still to understand,\nthe doctor s last warning to Silver,  Look out for squalls when you\nfind it,  and you will readily believe how little taste I found in my\nbreakfast and with how uneasy a heart I set forth behind my captors on\nthe quest for treasure.\n\nWe made a curious figure, had anyone been there to see us--all in soiled\nsailor clothes and all but me armed to the teeth. Silver had two guns\nslung about him--one before and one behind--besides the great cutlass\nat his waist and a pistol in each pocket of his square-tailed coat.\nTo complete his strange appearance, Captain Flint sat perched upon his\nshoulder and gabbling odds and ends of purposeless sea-talk. I had a\nline about my waist and followed obediently after the sea-cook, who\nheld the loose end of the rope, now in his free hand, now between his\npowerful teeth. For all the world, I was led like a dancing bear.\n\nThe other men were variously burthened, some carrying picks and\nshovels--for that had been the very first necessary they brought ashore\nfrom the HISPANIOLA--others laden with pork, bread, and brandy for the\nmidday meal. All the stores, I observed, came from our stock, and I\ncould see the truth of Silver s words the night before. Had he not\nstruck a bargain with the doctor, he and his mutineers, deserted by the\nship, must have been driven to subsist on clear water and the proceeds\nof their hunting. Water would have been little to their taste; a sailor\nis not usually a good shot; and besides all that, when they were so\nshort of eatables, it was not likely they would be very flush of powder.\n\nWell, thus equipped, we all set out--even the fellow with the broken\nhead, who should certainly have kept in shadow--and straggled, one after\nanother, to the beach, where the two gigs awaited us. Even these bore\ntrace of the drunken folly of the pirates, one in a broken thwart, and\nboth in their muddy and unbailed condition. Both were to be carried\nalong with us for the sake of safety; and so, with our numbers divided\nbetween them, we set forth upon the bosom of the anchorage.\n\nAs we pulled over, there was some discussion on the chart. The red cross\nwas, of course, far too large to be a guide; and the terms of the note\non the back, as you will hear, admitted of some ambiguity. They ran, the\nreader may remember, thus:\n\n     Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to\n     the N. of N.N.E.\n     Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E.\n     Ten feet.\n\nA tall tree was thus the principal mark. Now, right before us the\nanchorage was bounded by a plateau from two to three hundred feet high,\nadjoining on the north the sloping southern shoulder of the Spy-glass\nand rising again towards the south into the rough, cliffy eminence\ncalled the Mizzenmast Hill. The top of the plateau was dotted thickly\nwith pine-trees of varying height. Every here and there, one of a\ndifferent species rose forty or fifty feet clear above its neighbours,\nand which of these was the particular  tall tree  of Captain Flint could\nonly be decided on the spot, and by the readings of the compass.\n\nYet, although that was the case, every man on board the boats had\npicked a favourite of his own ere we were half-way over, Long John alone\nshrugging his shoulders and bidding them wait till they were there.\n\nWe pulled easily, by Silver s directions, not to weary the hands\nprematurely, and after quite a long passage, landed at the mouth of\nthe second river--that which runs down a woody cleft of the Spy-glass.\nThence, bending to our left, we began to ascend the slope towards the\nplateau.\n\nAt the first outset, heavy, miry ground and a matted, marish vegetation\ngreatly delayed our progress; but by little and little the hill began\nto steepen and become stony under foot, and the wood to change its\ncharacter and to grow in a more open order. It was, indeed, a most\npleasant portion of the island that we were now approaching. A\nheavy-scented broom and many flowering shrubs had almost taken the place\nof grass. Thickets of green nutmeg-trees were dotted here and there with\nthe red columns and the broad shadow of the pines; and the first mingled\ntheir spice with the aroma of the others. The air, besides, was fresh\nand stirring, and this, under the sheer sunbeams, was a wonderful\nrefreshment to our senses.\n\nThe party spread itself abroad, in a fan shape, shouting and leaping to\nand fro. About the centre, and a good way behind the rest, Silver and\nI followed--I tethered by my rope, he ploughing, with deep pants, among\nthe sliding gravel. From time to time, indeed, I had to lend him a hand,\nor he must have missed his footing and fallen backward down the hill.\n\nWe had thus proceeded for about half a mile and were approaching the\nbrow of the plateau when the man upon the farthest left began to cry\naloud, as if in terror. Shout after shout came from him, and the others\nbegan to run in his direction.\n\n He can t  a found the treasure,  said old Morgan, hurrying past us from\nthe right,  for that s clean a-top. \n\nIndeed, as we found when we also reached the spot, it was something\nvery different. At the foot of a pretty big pine and involved in a green\ncreeper, which had even partly lifted some of the smaller bones, a human\nskeleton lay, with a few shreds of clothing, on the ground. I believe a\nchill struck for a moment to every heart.\n\n He was a seaman,  said George Merry, who, bolder than the rest, had\ngone up close and was examining the rags of clothing.  Leastways, this\nis good sea-cloth. \n\n Aye, aye,  said Silver;  like enough; you wouldn t look to find a\nbishop here, I reckon. But what sort of a way is that for bones to lie?\n Tain t in natur . \n\nIndeed, on a second glance, it seemed impossible to fancy that the body\nwas in a natural position. But for some disarray (the work, perhaps, of\nthe birds that had fed upon him or of the slow-growing creeper that had\ngradually enveloped his remains) the man lay perfectly straight--his\nfeet pointing in one direction, his hands, raised above his head like a\ndiver s, pointing directly in the opposite.\n\n I ve taken a notion into my old numbskull,  observed Silver.  Here s\nthe compass; there s the tip-top p int o  Skeleton Island, stickin \nout like a tooth. Just take a bearing, will you, along the line of them\nbones. \n\nIt was done. The body pointed straight in the direction of the island,\nand the compass read duly E.S.E. and by E.\n\n I thought so,  cried the cook;  this here is a p inter. Right up there\nis our line for the Pole Star and the jolly dollars. But, by thunder!\nIf it don t make me cold inside to think of Flint. This is one of HIS\njokes, and no mistake. Him and these six was alone here; he killed  em,\nevery man; and this one he hauled here and laid down by compass, shiver\nmy timbers! They re long bones, and the hair s been yellow. Aye, that\nwould be Allardyce. You mind Allardyce, Tom Morgan? \n\n Aye, aye,  returned Morgan;  I mind him; he owed me money, he did, and\ntook my knife ashore with him. \n\n Speaking of knives,  said another,  why don t we find his n lying\nround? Flint warn t the man to pick a seaman s pocket; and the birds, I\nguess, would leave it be. \n\n By the powers, and that s true!  cried Silver.\n\n There ain t a thing left here,  said Merry, still feeling round among\nthe bones;  not a copper doit nor a baccy box. It don t look nat ral to\nme. \n\n No, by gum, it don t,  agreed Silver;  not nat ral, nor not nice, says\nyou. Great guns! Messmates, but if Flint was living, this would be a hot\nspot for you and me. Six they were, and six are we; and bones is what\nthey are now. \n\n I saw him dead with these here deadlights,  said Morgan.  Billy took me\nin. There he laid, with penny-pieces on his eyes. \n\n Dead--aye, sure enough he s dead and gone below,  said the fellow with\nthe bandage;  but if ever sperrit walked, it would be Flint s. Dear\nheart, but he died bad, did Flint! \n\n Aye, that he did,  observed another;  now he raged, and now he hollered\nfor the rum, and now he sang.  Fifteen Men  were his only song, mates;\nand I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was\nmain hot, and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin  out as\nclear as clear--and the death-haul on the man already. \n\n Come, come,  said Silver;  stow this talk. He s dead, and he don t\nwalk, that I know; leastways, he won t walk by day, and you may lay to\nthat. Care killed a cat. Fetch ahead for the doubloons. \n\nWe started, certainly; but in spite of the hot sun and the staring\ndaylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shouting through the\nwood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath. The terror of\nthe dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII\nThe Treasure-hunt--The Voice Among the Trees\n\n\nPartly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to rest Silver\nand the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon as they had gained\nthe brow of the ascent.\n\nThe plateau being somewhat tilted towards the west, this spot on which\nwe had paused commanded a wide prospect on either hand. Before us,\nover the tree-tops, we beheld the Cape of the Woods fringed with surf;\nbehind, we not only looked down upon the anchorage and Skeleton Island,\nbut saw--clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands--a great field\nof open sea upon the east. Sheer above us rose the Spy-glass, here dotted\nwith single pines, there black with precipices. There was no sound but\nthat of the distant breakers, mounting from all round, and the chirp of\ncountless insects in the brush. Not a man, not a sail, upon the sea; the\nvery largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude.\n\nSilver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass.\n\n There are three  tall trees,  said he,  about in the right line from\nSkeleton Island.  Spy-glass shoulder,  I take it, means that lower p int\nthere. It s child s play to find the stuff now. I ve half a mind to dine\nfirst. \n\n I don t feel sharp,  growled Morgan.  Thinkin  o  Flint--I think it\nwere--as done me. \n\n Ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he s dead,  said Silver.\n\n He were an ugly devil,  cried a third pirate with a shudder;  that blue\nin the face too! \n\n That was how the rum took him,  added Merry.  Blue! Well, I reckon he\nwas blue. That s a true word. \n\nEver since they had found the skeleton and got upon this train of\nthought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they had almost got to\nwhispering by now, so that the sound of their talk hardly interrupted\nthe silence of the wood. All of a sudden, out of the middle of the trees\nin front of us, a thin, high, trembling voice struck up the well-known\nair and words:\n\n      Fifteen men on the dead man s chest--\n     Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! \n\nI never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the pirates. The\ncolour went from their six faces like enchantment; some leaped to their\nfeet, some clawed hold of others; Morgan grovelled on the ground.\n\n It s Flint, by ----!  cried Merry.\n\nThe song had stopped as suddenly as it began--broken off, you would have\nsaid, in the middle of a note, as though someone had laid his hand upon\nthe singer s mouth. Coming through the clear, sunny atmosphere among the\ngreen tree-tops, I thought it had sounded airily and sweetly; and the\neffect on my companions was the stranger.\n\n Come,  said Silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out;\n this won t do. Stand by to go about. This is a rum start, and I can t\nname the voice, but it s someone skylarking--someone that s flesh and\nblood, and you may lay to that. \n\nHis courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the colour to his\nface along with it. Already the others had begun to lend an ear to this\nencouragement and were coming a little to themselves, when the same\nvoice broke out again--not this time singing, but in a faint distant\nhail that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the Spy-glass.\n\n Darby M Graw,  it wailed--for that is the word that best describes the\nsound-- Darby M Graw! Darby M Graw!  again and again and again; and then\nrising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out:  Fetch aft\nthe rum, Darby! \n\nThe buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from\ntheir heads. Long after the voice had died away they still stared in\nsilence, dreadfully, before them.\n\n That fixes it!  gasped one.  Let s go. \n\n They was his last words,  moaned Morgan,  his last words above board. \n\nDick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought\nup, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.\n\nStill Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his head,\nbut he had not yet surrendered.\n\n Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby,  he muttered;  not one\nbut us that s here.  And then, making a great effort:  Shipmates, \n he cried,  I m here to get that stuff, and I ll not be beat by man or\ndevil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I ll\nface him dead. There s seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a\nmile from here. When did ever a gentleman o  fortune show his stern to\nthat much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug--and him dead\ntoo? \n\nBut there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers, rather,\nindeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.\n\n Belay there, John!  said Merry.  Don t you cross a sperrit. \n\nAnd the rest were all too terrified to reply. They would have run away\nseverally had they dared; but fear kept them together, and kept them\nclose by John, as if his daring helped them. He, on his part, had pretty\nwell fought his weakness down.\n\n Sperrit? Well, maybe,  he said.  But there s one thing not clear to me.\nThere was an echo. Now, no man ever seen a sperrit with a shadow; well\nthen, what s he doing with an echo to him, I should like to know? That\nain t in natur , surely? \n\nThis argument seemed weak enough to me. But you can never tell what will\naffect the superstitious, and to my wonder, George Merry was greatly\nrelieved.\n\n Well, that s so,  he said.  You ve a head upon your shoulders, John,\nand no mistake.  Bout ship, mates! This here crew is on a wrong tack, I\ndo believe. And come to think on it, it was like Flint s voice, I\ngrant you, but not just so clear-away like it, after all. It was liker\nsomebody else s voice now--it was liker-- \n\n By the powers, Ben Gunn!  roared Silver.\n\n Aye, and so it were,  cried Morgan, springing on his knees.  Ben Gunn\nit were! \n\n It don t make much odds, do it, now?  asked Dick.  Ben Gunn s not here\nin the body any more n Flint. \n\nBut the older hands greeted this remark with scorn.\n\n Why, nobody minds Ben Gunn,  cried Merry;  dead or alive, nobody minds\nhim. \n\nIt was extraordinary how their spirits had returned and how the natural\ncolour had revived in their faces. Soon they were chatting together,\nwith intervals of listening; and not long after, hearing no further\nsound, they shouldered the tools and set forth again, Merry walking\nfirst with Silver s compass to keep them on the right line with Skeleton\nIsland. He had said the truth: dead or alive, nobody minded Ben Gunn.\n\nDick alone still held his Bible, and looked around him as he went, with\nfearful glances; but he found no sympathy, and Silver even joked him on\nhis precautions.\n\n I told you,  said he-- I told you you had sp iled your Bible. If it\nain t no good to swear by, what do you suppose a sperrit would give for\nit? Not that!  and he snapped his big fingers, halting a moment on his\ncrutch.\n\nBut Dick was not to be comforted; indeed, it was soon plain to me that\nthe lad was falling sick; hastened by heat, exhaustion, and the shock\nof his alarm, the fever, predicted by Dr. Livesey, was evidently growing\nswiftly higher.\n\nIt was fine open walking here, upon the summit; our way lay a little\ndownhill, for, as I have said, the plateau tilted towards the west. The\npines, great and small, grew wide apart; and even between the clumps of\nnutmeg and azalea, wide open spaces baked in the hot sunshine. Striking,\nas we did, pretty near north-west across the island, we drew, on the\none hand, ever nearer under the shoulders of the Spy-glass, and on the\nother, looked ever wider over that western bay where I had once tossed\nand trembled in the coracle.\n\nThe first of the tall trees was reached, and by the bearings proved the\nwrong one. So with the second. The third rose nearly two hundred feet\ninto the air above a clump of underwood--a giant of a vegetable, with\na red column as big as a cottage, and a wide shadow around in which a\ncompany could have manoeuvred. It was conspicuous far to sea both on\nthe east and west and might have been entered as a sailing mark upon the\nchart.\n\nBut it was not its size that now impressed my companions; it was the\nknowledge that seven hundred thousand pounds in gold lay somewhere\nburied below its spreading shadow. The thought of the money, as they\ndrew nearer, swallowed up their previous terrors. Their eyes burned in\ntheir heads; their feet grew speedier and lighter; their whole soul\nwas bound up in that fortune, that whole lifetime of extravagance and\npleasure, that lay waiting there for each of them.\n\nSilver hobbled, grunting, on his crutch; his nostrils stood out and\nquivered; he cursed like a madman when the flies settled on his hot and\nshiny countenance; he plucked furiously at the line that held me to\nhim and from time to time turned his eyes upon me with a deadly look.\nCertainly he took no pains to hide his thoughts, and certainly I read\nthem like print. In the immediate nearness of the gold, all else had\nbeen forgotten: his promise and the doctor s warning were both things\nof the past, and I could not doubt that he hoped to seize upon the\ntreasure, find and board the HISPANIOLA under cover of night, cut\nevery honest throat about that island, and sail away as he had at first\nintended, laden with crimes and riches.\n\nShaken as I was with these alarms, it was hard for me to keep up with\nthe rapid pace of the treasure-hunters. Now and again I stumbled, and it\nwas then that Silver plucked so roughly at the rope and launched at me\nhis murderous glances. Dick, who had dropped behind us and now brought\nup the rear, was babbling to himself both prayers and curses as his\nfever kept rising. This also added to my wretchedness, and to crown all,\nI was haunted by the thought of the tragedy that had once been acted\non that plateau, when that ungodly buccaneer with the blue face--he who\ndied at Savannah, singing and shouting for drink--had there, with his\nown hand, cut down his six accomplices. This grove that was now so\npeaceful must then have rung with cries, I thought; and even with the\nthought I could believe I heard it ringing still.\n\nWe were now at the margin of the thicket.\n\n Huzza, mates, all together!  shouted Merry; and the foremost broke into\na run.\n\nAnd suddenly, not ten yards further, we beheld them stop. A low cry\narose. Silver doubled his pace, digging away with the foot of his crutch\nlike one possessed; and next moment he and I had come also to a dead\nhalt.\n\nBefore us was a great excavation, not very recent, for the sides had\nfallen in and grass had sprouted on the bottom. In this were the shaft\nof a pick broken in two and the boards of several packing-cases strewn\naround. On one of these boards I saw, branded with a hot iron, the name\nWALRUS--the name of Flint s ship.\n\nAll was clear to probation. The CACHE had been found and rifled; the\nseven hundred thousand pounds were gone!\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII\nThe Fall of a Chieftain\n\n\nThere never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men\nwas as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost\ninstantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a\nracer, on that money; well, he was brought up, in a single second, dead;\nand he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the\nothers had had time to realize the disappointment.\n\n Jim,  he whispered,  take that, and stand by for trouble. \n\nAnd he passed me a double-barrelled pistol.\n\nAt the same time, he began quietly moving northward, and in a few steps\nhad put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at\nme and nodded, as much as to say,  Here is a narrow corner,  as, indeed,\nI thought it was. His looks were not quite friendly, and I was so\nrevolted at these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering,\n So you ve changed sides again. \n\nThere was no time left for him to answer in. The buccaneers, with oaths\nand cries, began to leap, one after another, into the pit and to dig\nwith their fingers, throwing the boards aside as they did so. Morgan\nfound a piece of gold. He held it up with a perfect spout of oaths. It\nwas a two-guinea piece, and it went from hand to hand among them for a\nquarter of a minute.\n\n Two guineas!  roared Merry, shaking it at Silver.  That s your seven\nhundred thousand pounds, is it? You re the man for bargains, ain t you?\nYou re him that never bungled nothing, you wooden-headed lubber! \n\n Dig away, boys,  said Silver with the coolest insolence;  you ll find\nsome pig-nuts and I shouldn t wonder. \n\n Pig-nuts!  repeated Merry, in a scream.  Mates, do you hear that? I\ntell you now, that man there knew it all along. Look in the face of him\nand you ll see it wrote there. \n\n Ah, Merry,  remarked Silver,  standing for cap n again? You re a\npushing lad, to be sure. \n\nBut this time everyone was entirely in Merry s favour. They began to\nscramble out of the excavation, darting furious glances behind them. One\nthing I observed, which looked well for us: they all got out upon the\nopposite side from Silver.\n\nWell, there we stood, two on one side, five on the other, the pit\nbetween us, and nobody screwed up high enough to offer the first blow.\nSilver never moved; he watched them, very upright on his crutch, and\nlooked as cool as ever I saw him. He was brave, and no mistake.\n\nAt last Merry seemed to think a speech might help matters.\n\n Mates,  says he,  there s two of them alone there; one s the old\ncripple that brought us all here and blundered us down to this; the\nother s that cub that I mean to have the heart of. Now, mates-- \n\nHe was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to lead a\ncharge. But just then--crack! crack! crack!--three musket-shots flashed\nout of the thicket. Merry tumbled head foremost into the excavation; the\nman with the bandage spun round like a teetotum and fell all his length\nupon his side, where he lay dead, but still twitching; and the other\nthree turned and ran for it with all their might.\n\nBefore you could wink, Long John had fired two barrels of a pistol into\nthe struggling Merry, and as the man rolled up his eyes at him in the\nlast agony,  George,  said he,  I reckon I settled you. \n\nAt the same moment, the doctor, Gray, and Ben Gunn joined us, with\nsmoking muskets, from among the nutmeg-trees.\n\n Forward!  cried the doctor.  Double quick, my lads. We must head  em\noff the boats. \n\nAnd we set off at a great pace, sometimes plunging through the bushes to\nthe chest.\n\nI tell you, but Silver was anxious to keep up with us. The work that man\nwent through, leaping on his crutch till the muscles of his chest were\nfit to burst, was work no sound man ever equalled; and so thinks the\ndoctor. As it was, he was already thirty yards behind us and on the\nverge of strangling when we reached the brow of the slope.\n\n Doctor,  he hailed,  see there! No hurry! \n\nSure enough there was no hurry. In a more open part of the plateau, we\ncould see the three survivors still running in the same direction as\nthey had started, right for Mizzenmast Hill. We were already between\nthem and the boats; and so we four sat down to breathe, while Long John,\nmopping his face, came slowly up with us.\n\n Thank ye kindly, doctor,  says he.  You came in in about the nick, I\nguess, for me and Hawkins. And so it s you, Ben Gunn!  he added.  Well,\nyou re a nice one, to be sure. \n\n I m Ben Gunn, I am,  replied the maroon, wriggling like an eel in his\nembarrassment.  And,  he added, after a long pause,  how do, Mr. Silver?\nPretty well, I thank ye, says you. \n\n Ben, Ben,  murmured Silver,  to think as you ve done me! \n\nThe doctor sent back Gray for one of the pick-axes deserted, in their\nflight, by the mutineers, and then as we proceeded leisurely downhill to\nwhere the boats were lying, related in a few words what had taken place.\nIt was a story that profoundly interested Silver; and Ben Gunn, the\nhalf-idiot maroon, was the hero from beginning to end.\n\nBen, in his long, lonely wanderings about the island, had found the\nskeleton--it was he that had rifled it; he had found the treasure; he\nhad dug it up (it was the haft of his pick-axe that lay broken in the\nexcavation); he had carried it on his back, in many weary journeys, from\nthe foot of the tall pine to a cave he had on the two-pointed hill at\nthe north-east angle of the island, and there it had lain stored in\nsafety since two months before the arrival of the HISPANIOLA.\n\nWhen the doctor had wormed this secret from him on the afternoon of the\nattack, and when next morning he saw the anchorage deserted, he had gone\nto Silver, given him the chart, which was now useless--given him the\nstores, for Ben Gunn s cave was well supplied with goats  meat salted\nby himself--given anything and everything to get a chance of moving in\nsafety from the stockade to the two-pointed hill, there to be clear of\nmalaria and keep a guard upon the money.\n\n As for you, Jim,  he said,  it went against my heart, but I did what I\nthought best for those who had stood by their duty; and if you were not\none of these, whose fault was it? \n\nThat morning, finding that I was to be involved in the horrid\ndisappointment he had prepared for the mutineers, he had run all the way\nto the cave, and leaving the squire to guard the captain, had taken Gray\nand the maroon and started, making the diagonal across the island to be\nat hand beside the pine. Soon, however, he saw that our party had the\nstart of him; and Ben Gunn, being fleet of foot, had been dispatched in\nfront to do his best alone. Then it had occurred to him to work upon the\nsuperstitions of his former shipmates, and he was so far successful that\nGray and the doctor had come up and were already ambushed before the\narrival of the treasure-hunters.\n\n Ah,  said Silver,  it were fortunate for me that I had Hawkins here.\nYou would have let old John be cut to bits, and never given it a\nthought, doctor. \n\n Not a thought,  replied Dr. Livesey cheerily.\n\nAnd by this time we had reached the gigs. The doctor, with the pick-axe,\ndemolished one of them, and then we all got aboard the other and set out\nto go round by sea for North Inlet.\n\nThis was a run of eight or nine miles. Silver, though he was almost\nkilled already with fatigue, was set to an oar, like the rest of us, and\nwe were soon skimming swiftly over a smooth sea. Soon we passed out\nof the straits and doubled the south-east corner of the island, round\nwhich, four days ago, we had towed the HISPANIOLA.\n\nAs we passed the two-pointed hill, we could see the black mouth of Ben\nGunn s cave and a figure standing by it, leaning on a musket. It was the\nsquire, and we waved a handkerchief and gave him three cheers, in which\nthe voice of Silver joined as heartily as any.\n\nThree miles farther, just inside the mouth of North Inlet, what should\nwe meet but the HISPANIOLA, cruising by herself? The last flood had\nlifted her, and had there been much wind or a strong tide current, as\nin the southern anchorage, we should never have found her more, or found\nher stranded beyond help. As it was, there was little amiss beyond the\nwreck of the main-sail. Another anchor was got ready and dropped in a\nfathom and a half of water. We all pulled round again to Rum Cove,\nthe nearest point for Ben Gunn s treasure-house; and then Gray,\nsingle-handed, returned with the gig to the HISPANIOLA, where he was to\npass the night on guard.\n\nA gentle slope ran up from the beach to the entrance of the cave. At the\ntop, the squire met us. To me he was cordial and kind, saying nothing\nof my escapade either in the way of blame or praise. At Silver s polite\nsalute he somewhat flushed.\n\n John Silver,  he said,  you re a prodigious villain and imposter--a\nmonstrous imposter, sir. I am told I am not to prosecute you. Well,\nthen, I will not. But the dead men, sir, hang about your neck like\nmill-stones. \n\n Thank you kindly, sir,  replied Long John, again saluting.\n\n I dare you to thank me!  cried the squire.  It is a gross dereliction\nof my duty. Stand back. \n\nAnd thereupon we all entered the cave. It was a large, airy place, with\na little spring and a pool of clear water, overhung with ferns. The\nfloor was sand. Before a big fire lay Captain Smollett; and in a far\ncorner, only duskily flickered over by the blaze, I beheld great heaps\nof coin and quadrilaterals built of bars of gold. That was Flint s\ntreasure that we had come so far to seek and that had cost already the\nlives of seventeen men from the HISPANIOLA. How many it had cost in the\namassing, what blood and sorrow, what good ships scuttled on the deep,\nwhat brave men walking the plank blindfold, what shot of cannon, what\nshame and lies and cruelty, perhaps no man alive could tell. Yet there\nwere still three upon that island--Silver, and old Morgan, and Ben\nGunn--who had each taken his share in these crimes, as each had hoped in\nvain to share in the reward.\n\n Come in, Jim,  said the captain.  You re a good boy in your line, Jim,\nbut I don t think you and me ll go to sea again. You re too much of the\nborn favourite for me. Is that you, John Silver? What brings you here,\nman? \n\n Come back to my dooty, sir,  returned Silver.\n\n Ah!  said the captain, and that was all he said.\n\nWhat a supper I had of it that night, with all my friends around me; and\nwhat a meal it was, with Ben Gunn s salted goat and some delicacies and\na bottle of old wine from the HISPANIOLA. Never, I am sure, were people\ngayer or happier. And there was Silver, sitting back almost out of the\nfirelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when anything\nwas wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter--the same bland,\npolite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV\nAnd Last\n\n\nThe next morning we fell early to work, for the transportation of this\ngreat mass of gold near a mile by land to the beach, and thence three\nmiles by boat to the HISPANIOLA, was a considerable task for so small\na number of workmen. The three fellows still abroad upon the island did\nnot greatly trouble us; a single sentry on the shoulder of the hill was\nsufficient to ensure us against any sudden onslaught, and we thought,\nbesides, they had had more than enough of fighting.\n\nTherefore the work was pushed on briskly. Gray and Ben Gunn came and\nwent with the boat, while the rest during their absences piled treasure\non the beach. Two of the bars, slung in a rope s end, made a good load\nfor a grown man--one that he was glad to walk slowly with. For my part,\nas I was not much use at carrying, I was kept busy all day in the cave\npacking the minted money into bread-bags.\n\nIt was a strange collection, like Billy Bones s hoard for the diversity\nof coinage, but so much larger and so much more varied that I think I\nnever had more pleasure than in sorting them. English, French, Spanish,\nPortuguese, Georges, and Louises, doubloons and double guineas and\nmoidores and sequins, the pictures of all the kings of Europe for the\nlast hundred years, strange Oriental pieces stamped with what looked\nlike wisps of string or bits of spider s web, round pieces and square\npieces, and pieces bored through the middle, as if to wear them round\nyour neck--nearly every variety of money in the world must, I think,\nhave found a place in that collection; and for number, I am sure they\nwere like autumn leaves, so that my back ached with stooping and my\nfingers with sorting them out.\n\nDay after day this work went on; by every evening a fortune had been\nstowed aboard, but there was another fortune waiting for the morrow; and\nall this time we heard nothing of the three surviving mutineers.\n\nAt last--I think it was on the third night--the doctor and I were\nstrolling on the shoulder of the hill where it overlooks the lowlands of\nthe isle, when, from out the thick darkness below, the wind brought us\na noise between shrieking and singing. It was only a snatch that reached\nour ears, followed by the former silence.\n\n Heaven forgive them,  said the doctor;  tis the mutineers! \n\n All drunk, sir,  struck in the voice of Silver from behind us.\n\nSilver, I should say, was allowed his entire liberty, and in spite of\ndaily rebuffs, seemed to regard himself once more as quite a privileged\nand friendly dependent. Indeed, it was remarkable how well he bore\nthese slights and with what unwearying politeness he kept on trying to\ningratiate himself with all. Yet, I think, none treated him better than\na dog, unless it was Ben Gunn, who was still terribly afraid of his old\nquartermaster, or myself, who had really something to thank him for;\nalthough for that matter, I suppose, I had reason to think even worse of\nhim than anybody else, for I had seen him meditating a fresh treachery\nupon the plateau. Accordingly, it was pretty gruffly that the doctor\nanswered him.\n\n Drunk or raving,  said he.\n\n Right you were, sir,  replied Silver;  and precious little odds which,\nto you and me. \n\n I suppose you would hardly ask me to call you a humane man,  returned\nthe doctor with a sneer,  and so my feelings may surprise you, Master\nSilver. But if I were sure they were raving--as I am morally certain\none, at least, of them is down with fever--I should leave this camp,\nand at whatever risk to my own carcass, take them the assistance of my\nskill. \n\n Ask your pardon, sir, you would be very wrong,  quoth Silver.  You\nwould lose your precious life, and you may lay to that. I m on your side\nnow, hand and glove; and I shouldn t wish for to see the party weakened,\nlet alone yourself, seeing as I know what I owes you. But these men down\nthere, they couldn t keep their word--no, not supposing they wished to;\nand what s more, they couldn t believe as you could. \n\n No,  said the doctor.  You re the man to keep your word, we know that. \n\nWell, that was about the last news we had of the three pirates. Only\nonce we heard a gunshot a great way off and supposed them to be hunting.\nA council was held, and it was decided that we must desert them on the\nisland--to the huge glee, I must say, of Ben Gunn, and with the strong\napproval of Gray. We left a good stock of powder and shot, the bulk\nof the salt goat, a few medicines, and some other necessaries, tools,\nclothing, a spare sail, a fathom or two of rope, and by the particular\ndesire of the doctor, a handsome present of tobacco.\n\nThat was about our last doing on the island. Before that, we had got the\ntreasure stowed and had shipped enough water and the remainder of the\ngoat meat in case of any distress; and at last, one fine morning, we\nweighed anchor, which was about all that we could manage, and stood out\nof North Inlet, the same colours flying that the captain had flown and\nfought under at the palisade.\n\nThe three fellows must have been watching us closer than we thought for,\nas we soon had proved. For coming through the narrows, we had to\nlie very near the southern point, and there we saw all three of\nthem kneeling together on a spit of sand, with their arms raised in\nsupplication. It went to all our hearts, I think, to leave them in that\nwretched state; but we could not risk another mutiny; and to take them\nhome for the gibbet would have been a cruel sort of kindness. The doctor\nhailed them and told them of the stores we had left, and where they were\nto find them. But they continued to call us by name and appeal to us,\nfor God s sake, to be merciful and not leave them to die in such a\nplace.\n\nAt last, seeing the ship still bore on her course and was now swiftly\ndrawing out of earshot, one of them--I know not which it was--leapt to\nhis feet with a hoarse cry, whipped his musket to his shoulder, and sent\na shot whistling over Silver s head and through the main-sail.\n\nAfter that, we kept under cover of the bulwarks, and when next I looked\nout they had disappeared from the spit, and the spit itself had almost\nmelted out of sight in the growing distance. That was, at least, the end\nof that; and before noon, to my inexpressible joy, the highest rock of\nTreasure Island had sunk into the blue round of sea.\n\nWe were so short of men that everyone on board had to bear a hand--only\nthe captain lying on a mattress in the stern and giving his orders, for\nthough greatly recovered he was still in want of quiet. We laid her\nhead for the nearest port in Spanish America, for we could not risk the\nvoyage home without fresh hands; and as it was, what with baffling winds\nand a couple of fresh gales, we were all worn out before we reached it.\n\nIt was just at sundown when we cast anchor in a most beautiful\nland-locked gulf, and were immediately surrounded by shore boats full\nof Negroes and Mexican Indians and half-bloods selling fruits and\nvegetables and offering to dive for bits of money. The sight of so many\ngood-humoured faces (especially the blacks), the taste of the tropical\nfruits, and above all the lights that began to shine in the town made a\nmost charming contrast to our dark and bloody sojourn on the island;\nand the doctor and the squire, taking me along with them, went ashore\nto pass the early part of the night. Here they met the captain of an\nEnglish man-of-war, fell in talk with him, went on board his ship, and,\nin short, had so agreeable a time that day was breaking when we came\nalongside the HISPANIOLA.\n\nBen Gunn was on deck alone, and as soon as we came on board he began,\nwith wonderful contortions, to make us a confession. Silver was gone.\nThe maroon had connived at his escape in a shore boat some hours ago,\nand he now assured us he had only done so to preserve our lives, which\nwould certainly have been forfeit if  that man with the one leg\nhad stayed aboard.  But this was not all. The sea-cook had not gone\nempty-handed. He had cut through a bulkhead unobserved and had removed\none of the sacks of coin, worth perhaps three or four hundred guineas,\nto help him on his further wanderings.\n\nI think we were all pleased to be so cheaply quit of him.\n\nWell, to make a long story short, we got a few hands on board, made a\ngood cruise home, and the HISPANIOLA reached Bristol just as Mr. Blandly\nwas beginning to think of fitting out her consort. Five men only of\nthose who had sailed returned with her.  Drink and the devil had done\nfor the rest,  with a vengeance, although, to be sure, we were not quite\nin so bad a case as that other ship they sang about:\n\n     With one man of her crew alive,\n     What put to sea with seventy-five.\n\nAll of us had an ample share of the treasure and used it wisely or\nfoolishly, according to our natures. Captain Smollett is now retired\nfrom the sea. Gray not only saved his money, but being suddenly smit\nwith the desire to rise, also studied his profession, and he is now\nmate and part owner of a fine full-rigged ship, married besides, and the\nfather of a family. As for Ben Gunn, he got a thousand pounds, which he\nspent or lost in three weeks, or to be more exact, in nineteen days, for\nhe was back begging on the twentieth. Then he was given a lodge to keep,\nexactly as he had feared upon the island; and he still lives, a great\nfavourite, though something of a butt, with the country boys, and a\nnotable singer in church on Sundays and saints  days.\n\nOf Silver we have heard no more. That formidable seafaring man with one\nleg has at last gone clean out of my life; but I dare say he met his old\nNegress, and perhaps still lives in comfort with her and Captain Flint.\nIt is to be hoped so, I suppose, for his chances of comfort in another\nworld are very small.\n\nThe bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where\nFlint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me. Oxen and\nwain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island; and\nthe worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about\nits coasts or start upright in bed with the sharp voice of Captain Flint\nstill ringing in my ears:  Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! "
    },
    {
        "title": "The Life of James Watt",
        "author": "Edward Bellamy",
        "category": "Biographies",
        "EN": " Must you go up to that tiresome old college again to-night? \n\nPouting lips and delicate brows fretted in pretty importunity over the\ntroubled eyes enforced the pleading tones, and yet the young man to whom\nthey were addressed found strength to reply:--\n\n I 'm afraid I can't get rid of it. I particularly promised Sturgis I\nwould look in on him, and it won't do for me to cut my acquaintance\nwith the class entirely just because I 'm having such a jolly time down\nhere. \n\n Oh, no, you don't think it jolly at all, or you would n't be so eager\nto go away. I 'm sure I must be very dull company. \n\nThe hurt tone and pretended pique with which she said this were\nassuredly all that was needed to make the _petite_ teaser irresistible.\nBut the young man replied, regarding her the while with an admiration in\nwhich there was a singular expression of uneasiness:--\n\n Can't, Annie, 'pon honor. I 'm engaged, and you know--\n\n     'I could not love thee, dear, so much,\n        Loved I not honor more!' \n\nAnd transferring her hand to his lips he loosed its soft, lingering\nclasp and was gone, stopping at the gate to throw back a kiss to her as\nshe stood in the porch, by way of amends for his hasty parting.\n\n George Hunt, you 're an infernal scamp! \n\nThese were the opprobrious words he muttered to himself as he passed out\nof earshot. The beneficent common law does not condemn a man merely on\nhis own confession unless circumstances in evidence lend probability\nto his self-accusation. Before we coincide in Mr. Hunt's opinion of\nhimself, let us therefore inquire into the circumstances.\n\nHe was in the last term of senior year at ------ college. For the past\nyear he had been boarding at the Giffords', and Annie and he had fallen\nin love. The fall on his part had been quite voluntary and deliberate.\nHe had fallen in love because it was the correct thing for a young\ncollegian, engaged in the study of the humanities, to be in love, and\nmade him feel more like a man than smoking, drinking, or even sporting a\nstove-pipe hat and cane. Vanity aside, it was very jolly to have a fine,\nnice girl who thought no end of a fellow, to walk, talk, and sing with,\nand to have in mind when one sang the college songs about love and wine\nwith the fellows. And it gave him also a very agreeable sense of\nsuperior experience as he mingled in their discussions of women and the\ntender passion.\n\nBut withal he was a conscientious, kind-hearted young fellow enough,\nand had suffered occasional qualms of conscience when little words or\nincidents had impressed him with the knowledge that Annie's love for him\nwas a more serious matter than his for her. He felt that by insisting on\nexchanging the pure gold of her earnest affection for the pinchbeck of\nhis passing fancy, she was making a rogue of him. He should be in no\nposition to marry for years, nor did he want to; and if he had wanted\nto, though he felt terribly hard-hearted when he owned it to himself,\nhis feeling toward Annie was not quite so deep as to be a real wish\nto marry her. As his last year in college approached its end, he had\nthought more and more of these things, and had returned from his last\nvacation determined to begin to draw gradually away from her, and\nwithout any shock to bring their relations back to the footing of\nfriendship. The idea seemed a very plausible one, but it is scarcely\nnecessary to state that, living in the same house, and frequently alone\nwith her, it took about a week and a few dozen reproachful glances from\ngrieving eyes to melt this artificial ice with a freshet of affection,\nand when, a couple of months later, he calmly reviewed the situation, he\nfound himself involved perceptibly deeper than ever, on account of the\nattempt at extrication.\n\nOnly two or three weeks of the term remained, and it was too late to\nrepeat the unsuccessful experiment. He had tried his best and failed,\nand nothing remained but to be as happy as possible with her in the\nshort time left. Then she must get over her disappointment as other\ngirls did in like cases. No doubt some woman would hurt his feelings\nsome day, and so make it square. He took much satisfaction in this\nreflection. But such cynical philosophy did not lull his conscience,\nwhich alternately inspired his manner with an unwonted demonstrativeness\nand tenderness, and again made him so uncomfortable in her presence\nthat he was fain to tear himself away and escape from her sight on any\npretext. Her tender glances and confiding manner made him feel like a\nbrute, and when he kissed her he felt that it was the kiss of a Judas.\nSuch had been his feelings this evening, and such were the reflections\ntersely summed up in that ejaculation,-- George Hunt, you 're an\ninfernal scamp!  On arriving at Sturgis's room, he found it full of\ntobacco smoke, and the usual crowd there, who hailed him vociferously.\nFor he was one of the most popular men in college, although for a year\nor so he had been living outside the buildings. Several bottles stood on\nthe tables, but the fellows had as yet arrived only at the argumentative\nstage of exhilaration, and it so happened that the subject under\ndiscussion at once took Hunt's close attention. Mathewson had been\nreading the first volume of Goethe's autobiography, and was indulging in\nsome strictures on his course in jilting Frederica and leaving the poor\ngirl heartbroken.\n\n But, man,  said Sturgis,  he didn't want to marry her, and seeing\nhe didn't, nothing could have been crueler to her, to say nothing of\nhimself, than to have done so. \n\n Well, then,  said Mathewson,  why did he go and get her in love with\nhim? \n\n Why, he took his risk and she hers, for the fun of the game. She\nhappened to be the one who paid for it, but it might just as well have\nbeen he. Why, Mat, you must see yourself that for Goethe to have married\nthen would have knocked his art-life into a cocked hat. Your artist\nhas just two great foes,--laziness and matrimony. Each has slain\nits thousands. Hitch Pegasus to a family cart and he can't go off the\nthoroughfare. He must stick to the ruts. I admit that a bad husband\nmay be a great artist; but for a good husband, an uxorious, contented\nhusband, there's no chance at all. \n\n You are neither of you right, as usual,  said little Potts, in his\noracular way.\n\nWhen Potts first came to college, the fellows used to make no end of fun\nof the air of superior and conclusive wisdom with which he assumed\nto lay down the law on every question, this being the more laughable\nbecause he was such a little chap. Potts did not pay the least attention\nto the jeers, and finally the jeerers were constrained to admit that\nif he did have an absurdly pretentious way of talking, his talk was\nunusually well worth listening to, and the result was that they took him\nat his own valuation, and, for the sake of hearing what he had to say,\nquietly submitted to his assumption of authority as court of appeal.\nSo when he coolly declared both disputants wrong, they manifested no\nresentment, but only an interest as to what he was going to say, while\nthe other fellows also looked up curiously.\n\n It would have been a big mistake for Goethe to have married her, \n pursued Potts, in his deliberate monotone,  but he was n't justified on\nthat account in breaking her heart. It was his business, having got her\nin love with him, to get her out again and leave her where she was. \n\n Get her out again?  demanded Mathewson.  How was he to do that? \n\n Humph!  grunted Potts.  If you have n't found it much easier to lose a\nfriend than to win one, you 're luckier than most. If you asked me how\nhe was to get her in love with him, I should have to scratch my head,\nbut the other thing is as easy as unraveling a stocking. \n\n Well, but, Potts,  inquired Sturgis, with interest,  how could Goethe\nhave gone to work, for instance, to disgust Frederica with him? \n\n Depends on the kind of girl. If she is one of your high-steppers as to\ndignity and sense of honor, let him play mean and seem to do a few dirty\ntricks. If she's a stickler for manners and good taste, let him betray a\nfew traits of boorishness or Philistinism; or if she has a keen sense\nof the ridiculous, let him make an ass of himself. I should say the\nlast would be the surest cure and leave least of a sore place in her\nfeelings, but it would be hardest on his vanity. Everybody knows that a\nman would 'rather seem a scamp than a fool.' \n\n I don't believe there's a man in the world who would play the voluntary\nfool to save any woman's heart from breaking, though he might manage the\nscamp,  remarked Mathewson.  And anyhow, Potts, I believe there 's no\ngirl who would n't choose to be jilted outright, rather than be juggled\nout of her affections that way. \n\n No doubt she would say so, if you asked her,  replied the imperturbable\nPotts.  A woman always prefers a nice sentimental sorrow to a fancy-free\nstate. But it isn't best for her, and looking out for her good, you\nmust deprive her of it. Women are like children, you know, our natural\nwards. \n\nThis last sentiment impressed these beardless youths as a clincher,\nand there was a pause. But Mathewson, who was rather strong on the\nmoralities, rallied with the objection that Potts's plan would be\ndeceit.\n\n Well, now, that's what I call cheeky,  replied its author, with a drawl\nof astonishment.  I suppose it wasn't deceit when you were prancing\naround in your best clothes both literally and figuratively, trying to\nbring your good points into such absurd prominence as to delude her into\nthe idea that you had no bad ones. Oh, no, it's only deceit when you\nappear worse than you are, not when you try to appear better. Strikes me\nthat when you 'ye got a girl into a fix, it won't do at that time of\nday to plead your conscience as a reason for not getting her out of\nit. Seeing that a man is generally ready to sacrifice his character in\nreality to his own interests, he ought to be willing to sacrifice it in\nappearance to another's. \n\nMathewson was squelched, but Sturgis came to his relief with the\nsuggestion:--\n\n Would n't a little genuine heartache, which I take it is healthy\nenough, if it is n't pleasant, be better for her than the cynical\nfeeling, the disgust with human nature, which she would experience from\nfinding her ideal of excellence a scamp or a fool? \n\nThe others seemed somewhat impressed, but Potts merely ejaculated,--\n\n Bosh!  Allowing a brief pause for this ejaculation to do its work\nin demoralizing the opposition he proceeded.  Sturgis, you remember\n'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and how Titania, on the application of Puck's\nclarifying lotion to her eyes, perceives that in Bottom she has loved an\nass. Don't you suppose Titania suffered a good deal from the loss of her\nideal? \n\nThere was a general snicker at Sturgis's expense.\n\n Well, now,  continued Potts gravely,  a woman who should fall in love\nwith one of us fellows and deem him a hero would be substantially in\nTitania's plight when she adored Bottom, and about as much an object\nof pity when her hero disclosed an asininity which would be at least as\nnear to being his real character as the heroism she ascribed to him. \n\n That 's all very well,  said Merril dryly,  but it strikes me that it's\nmiddling cheeky for you fellows to be discussing how you 'll jilt your\nsweethearts with least expense to their feelings, when the chances are\nthat if you should ever get one, you 'll need all your wits to keep her\nfrom jilting you. \n\n You are, as usual, trivial and inconsequential this evening, Merril, \n replied Potts, when the laughter had subsided.  Supposing, as you\nsuggest, that we shall be the jilted and not the jilters, it will be\ncertainly for our interest that the ladies should spare our feelings by\ndisenchanting us,--saying, as it were, the charm backward that first\ncharmed us. He who would teach the ladies the method and enlist their\ntender hearts in its behalf would be, perhaps, the greatest benefactor\nhis much-jilted and heart-sore sex ever had. Then, indeed, with the\nheart-breakers of both sexes pledged to so humane a practice, there\nwould be no more any such thing as sorrow over unrequited affections,\nand the poets and novelists would beg their bread. \n\n That is a millennial dream, Potts,  responded Merril.  You may possibly\npersuade the men to make themselves disagreeable for pity's sake, but it\nis quite too much to expect that a woman would deliberately put herself\nin an unbecoming light, if it were to save a world from its sins. \n\n Perhaps it is,  said Potts pensively;  but considering what perfectly\ninexhaustible resources of disagreeableness there are in the best of us\nand the fairest of women, it seems a most gratuitous cruelty that any\nheart should suffer when a very slight revelation would heal its hurt.\nWe can't help people suffering because we are so faulty and imperfect,\nbut we might at least see that nobody ever had a pang from thinking us\nbetter than we are. \n\n Look at Hunt!  said Sturgis.  He does n't open his mouth, but drinks in\nPotts's wisdom as eagerly as if he did n't know it was a pump that never\nstops. \n\nThere was a general laugh among those who glanced up in time to catch\nthe expression of close attention on Hunt's face.\n\n Probably he 's deliberating on the application of the Potts patent\npainless cure to some recent victim of that yellow mustache and goatee, \n suggested Merril, with the envy of a smooth-faced youth for one more\nfavored.\n\nHunt, whose face had sprung back like a steel-trap to its usual\nindifferent expression, smiled nonchalantly at Merril's remark. One\nwhose reticent habit makes his secrets so absolutely secure as Hunt's\nprivate affairs always were is stirred to amusement rather than\ntrepidation by random guesses which come near the truth.\n\n If I were situated as Merril flatteringly suggests, I should enjoy\nnothing better than such an experiment,  he replied deliberately.  It\nwould be quite a novel sensation to revolutionize one's ordinary rule of\nconduct so as to make a point of seeming bad or stupid. There would be\nas much psychology in it as in an extra term, at least. A man would find\nout, for instance, how much there was in him besides personal vanity and\nlove of approbation. It would be a devilish small residue with most of\nus, I fancy. \n\nThe talk took a new turn, and the fun grew fast and furious around Hunt,\nwho sat puffing his pipe, absorbed in contemplation. At about half-past\nnine, when things were getting hilarious, he beat a retreat, followed by\nthe reproaches of the fellows. He was determined to administer the first\ndose of Potts's painless cure to his interesting patient that very\nevening, if she had not already retired. He was in high good humor.\nPotts was a brick; Potts was a genius. How lucky that he had happened to\ngo up to college that night! He felt as if an incubus were lifted off\nhis mind. No more pangs of conscience and uncomfortable sense of being a\nmean and cruel fellow, for him. Annie should be glad to be rid of him\nbefore he had ended with her. She should experience a heartfelt relief,\ninstead of a broken heart, on his departure. He could n't help\nchuckling. He had such confidence in his nerve and his reticent habit\nthat his confidence and ability to carry out the scheme were undoubting,\nand at its first suggestion he had felt almost as much relief as if he\nhad already executed it.\n\nOn arriving home, he found Annie sewing alone in the parlor, and a\nlittle offish in manner by way of indicating her sense of his offense in\nleaving her to spend the evening alone.\n\n Really, Annie,  he said, as he sat down and unfolded the evening paper,\n I try to give you all the time I can spare. If, instead of sulking,\nyou had taken a piece of paper and calculated how many hours this week\nI have managed to give you my company, you would scarcely have felt like\nrepining because you could n't see me for an hour or two this evening. \n\nThat was the first gun of the campaign. She looked up in blank surprise,\ntoo much astonished, for the moment, to be indignant at such a vulgarly\nconceited remark from him. Without giving her time to speak, he proposed\nto read the newspaper aloud, and at once began, making a point of\nselecting the dullest editorials and the flattest items and witticisms,\nenlivening them with occasional comments of studied insipidity, and\none or two stories, of which he carefully left out the  nubs.  He was\napparently making an unusual effort all the while to be entertaining,\nand Annie, finding no opening for expressing her vexation, finally\nexcused herself and went upstairs, with no very angelic expression of\ncountenance.\n\n Pretty well for a beginning,  was Hunt's muttered comment as he laid\ndown the paper.\n\nAt breakfast Mr. Gifford asked him:--\n\n Shall I give you some tongue? \n\nLooking around with the air of one saying a good thing, he replied:--\n\n Thank you, I have enough of my own. \n\nThe silence was painful. Mr. Gifford looked as if he had lost a near\nfriend. Mrs. Gifford at length, remembering that Hunt was a guest,\nforced a momentary, ghastly smile. Annie was looking melancholy enough\nbefore, but a slight compression of the lips indicated that she had\nreceived the full effect. Certain degrees of badness in jokes stamp the\njoker as a natural inferior in the eyes of even the most rabid of social\nlevelers. Scarcely any possible exhibition of depravity gives quite\nthe sickening sense of disappointment in the perpetrator imparted by a\ngenuinely bad or stale joke. Two or more similar sensations coming near\ntogether are multiplied by mutual reverberations so as to be much more\nimpressive than if they occurred at considerable intervals. Hunt's\ntongue joke not only retroacted to deepen the impression of vulgarity\nwhich his last evening's performance had given Annie, but in turn was\nmade to appear a far more significant indication of his character on\naccount of its sequence to that display.\n\nThat evening he made her a little present, having selected as a gift\na book of the day of which he had chanced to overhear her express to a\nthird person a particularly cordial detestation. It was decidedly the\nbest book of the year, he said; he had read it himself. She was obliged\nto thank him for it, and even to tell one or two polite fibs, which\nwrenched her terribly, and the memory of which lent a special spite to\nthe vehemence with which she threw the book into a corner on reaching\nher room. Then she went remorsefully and picked it up again, and after\nholding it awhile irresolutely, proceeded to hide it away in a far\ncorner of one of the least used drawers of her bureau.\n\nNot sleeping very well that night, she came downstairs next morning\njust as Hunt was leaving. He kissed his hand to her and called out\n Aw revore.  At first she was merely puzzled, and smiled, and then it\noccurred to her that it was doubtless the barbarous way he pronounced\n_au revoir_, and the smile gave place to an expression of slight nausea.\nAs Hunt well knew, her pet aversion was people who lugged mispronounced\nFrench phrases into their conversation under the impression that they\nimparted a piquant and graceful effect. It was a touch of vulgarity\nwhich inspired her with a violent contempt absurdly disproportioned to\nthe gravity of the offense. It had always been a cherished theory of\nhers that there were certain offenses in manners which were keys to\ncharacter. If persons committed them, it implied an essential strain of\nvulgarity in their dispositions. Judged by this theory, where would her\nlover come out?\n\nHunt managed to get into a political discussion with Mr. Gifford at\ntable that noon, talking in a rather supercilious tone, and purposely\nmaking several bad blunders, which Mr. Gifford corrected rather\npointedly. Annie could not help observing that her lover's conceit and\nignorance of the subjects discussed seemed about equal.\n\n How do you like your book?  he asked that evening.\n\nShe murmured something confusedly.\n\n Haven't begun it yet?  he inquired in surprise.  Well, when once you\ndo, I 'm sure you 'll not lay it down till it's finished. And, by the\nway, your judgment in literary matters is so good, I 'd like to get\nyour opinion on the essay I 'm getting up for Commencement. I think it's\nrather the best thing I 've written. \n\nHe proceeded to read what purported to be a sketch of its argument,\nwhich proved to be so flat and vapid that Annie blushed with shame\nfor his mental poverty, and was fain to cover her chagrin with a few\nmeaningless comments.\n\nHer mind was the theatre of a struggle between disgust and affection,\nwhich may be called ghastly. Had he been openly wicked, she would have\nknown how to give a good account of all disloyal suggestions to desert\nor forget him. But what could she do against such a cold, creeping\nthing as this disgust and revulsion of taste, which, like the chills\nof incipient fever, mingled with every rising pulse of tender feeling?\nFinally, out of her desperation, she concluded that the fault must be\nwith her; that she was fickle, while he was true. She tried hard to\ndespise herself, and determined to fight down her growing coldness, and\nreciprocate as it deserved the affection with which he was so lavish.\nThe result of these mental exercises was to impart a humility and\nconstrained cordiality to her air very opposite to its usual piquancy\nand impulsiveness, and, by a sense of her own shortcomings, to distract\nher mind from speculation, which she might otherwise have indulged, over\nthe sudden development of so many unpleasant qualities in her lover.\nThough, indeed, had her speculations been never so active and ingenious,\nthe actual plan on which Hunt was proceeding would probably have lain\nfar beyond the horizon of her conjecture.\n\nMeanwhile, Hunt was straitened for time; only eight or ten days of the\nterm were left, and in that time he must effect Annie's cure, if at all.\nA slow cure would be much more likely to prove a sure one, but he must\ndo the best he could in the time he had. And yet he did not dare\nto multiply startling strokes, for fear of bewildering instead of\nestranging her, and, possibly, of suggesting suspicion. Stimulated\nby the emergency, he now began to put in some very fine work, which,\nalthough it may not be very impressive in description, was probably more\neffective than any other part of his tactics. Under guise of appearing\nparticularly attentive and devoted, he managed to offend Annie's taste\nand weary her patience in every way that ingenuity could suggest.\nHis very manifestations of affection were so associated with some\naffectation or exhibition of bad taste, as always to leave an unpleasant\nimpression on her mind. He took as much pains to avoid saying tolerably\nbright or sensible things in his conversation as people generally do\nto say them. In all respects he just reversed the rules of conduct\nsuggested by the ordinary motive of a desire to ingratiate one's self\nwith others.\n\nAnd by virtue of a rather marked endowment of that delicate sympathy\nwith others' tastes and feelings which underlies good manners, he\nwas able to make himself far more unendurable to Annie than a less\nsympathetic person could have done. Evening after evening she went to\nher room feeling as if she were covered with pin-pricks, from a score of\nlittle offenses to her fastidious taste which he had managed to commit.\nHis thorough acquaintance with her, and knowledge of her aesthetic\nstandards in every respect, enabled him to operate with a perfect\nprecision that did not waste a stroke.\n\nIt must not be supposed that it was altogether without sharp twinges\nof compunction, and occassional impulses to throw off his disguise and\nenjoy the bliss of reconciliation, that he pursued this cold-blooded\npolicy. He never could have carried it so far, had he not been prepared\nby a long and painful period of self-reproach on account of his\nentanglement. It was, however, chiefly at the outset that he had felt\nlike weakening. As soon as she ceased to seem shocked or surprised at\nhis disclosures of insipidity or conceit, it became comparatively\neasy work to make them. So true is it that it is the fear of the first\nshocked surprise of others, rather than of their deliberate reprobation,\nwhich often deters us from exhibitions of unworthiness.\n\nIn connection with this mental and moral masquerade, he adopted several\nchanges in his dress, buying some clothes of very glaring patterns, and\nblossoming out in particularly gaudy neckties and flashy jewelry.\nLest Annie should be puzzled to account for such a sudden access\nof depravity, he explained that his mother had been in the habit of\nselecting some of his lighter toilet articles for him, but this term\nhe was trying for himself. Didn't she think his taste was good? He also\nslightly changed the cut of his hair and whiskers, to affect a foppish\nair, his theory being that all these external alterations would help out\nthe effect of being a quite different person from the George Hunt with\nwhom she had fallen in love.\n\nLou Roberts was Annie's confidante, older than she, much more dignified,\nand of the reticent sort to which the mercurial and loquacious naturally\ntend to reveal their secrets. She knew all that Annie knew, dreamed,\nor hoped about Hunt; but had never happened to meet him, much to the\nannoyance of Annie, who had longed inexpressibly for the time when Lou\nshould have seen him, and she herself be able to enjoy the luxury of\nhearing his praises from her lips. One evening it chanced that Lou\ncalled with a gentleman while Hunt had gone out to rest himself, after\nsome pretty arduous masquerading, by a little unconstrained intercourse\nwith the fellows up at college. As he returned home, at about half-past\nnine, he heard voices through the open windows, and guessed who the\ncallers were.\n\nAs he entered the room, despite the disenchanting experiences of the\npast week, it was with a certain pretty agitation that Annie rose to\nintroduce him, and she looked blank enough when, without waiting for her\noffices, he bowed with a foppish air to Lou and murmured a salutation.\n\n What, are you acquainted already?  exclaimed Annie.\n\n I certainly did not know that we were,  said Lou coldly, not thinking\nit possible that this flashily dressed youth, with such an enormous\nwatch-chain and insufferable manners, could be Annie's hero.\n\n Ah, very likely not,  he replied carelessly, adding with an explanatory\nsmile that took in all the group:  Ladies' faces are so much alike that,\n'pon my soul, unless there is something distinguished about them, I\ndon't know whether I know them or not. I depend on them to tell me;\nfortunately they never forget gentlemen. \n\nMiss Roberts's face elongated into a freezing stare. Annie stood there\nin a sort of stupor till Hunt said briskly:--\n\n Well, Annie, are you going to introduce this lady to me? \n\nAs she almost inaudibly pronounced their names, he effusively extended\nhis hand, which was not taken, and exclaimed:--\n\n Lou Roberts! is it possible? Excuse me if I call you Lou. Annie talks\nof you so much that I feel quite familiar. \n\n Do you know, Miss Roberts,  he continued, seating himself close beside\nher,  I 'm quite prepared to like you? \n\n Indeed!  was all that young lady could manage to articulate.\n\n Yes,  continued he, with the manner of one giving a flattering\nreassurance,  Annie has told me so much in your favor that, if half is\ntrue, we shall get on together excellently. Such girl friendships as\nyours and hers are so charming. \n\nMiss Roberts glanced at Annie, and seeing that her face glowed with\nembarrassment, smothered her indignation, and replied with a colorless\n Yes. \n\n The only drawback,  continued Hunt, who manifestly thought he was\nmaking himself very agreeable,  is that such bosom friends always tell\neach other all their affairs, which of course involve the affairs of all\ntheir friends also. Now I suppose,  he added, with a knowing grin and\nsomething like a wink,  that what you don't know about me is n't worth\nknowing. \n\n You ought to know, certainly,  said Miss Roberts.\n\n Not that I blame you,  he went on, ignoring her sarcasm.  There's no\nconfidence betrayed, for when I 'm talking with a lady, I always\nadapt my remarks to the ears of her next friend. It prevents\nmisunderstandings. \n\nMiss Roberts made no reply, and the silence attracted notice to the\npitiable little dribble of forced talk with which Annie was trying to\nkeep the other gentleman's attention from the exhibition Hunt was making\nof himself. The latter, after a pause long enough to intimate that he\nthought it was Miss Roberts's turn to say something, again took up the\nconversation, as if bound to be entertaining at any cost.\n\n Annie and I were passing your house the other day. What a queer little\nbox it is! I should think you 'd be annoyed by the howlings of that\nchurch next door. The ------ are so noisy. \n\n I am a ------ myself,  said Miss Roberts, regarding him crushingly.\n\nHunt, of course, knew that, and had advisedly selected her denomination\nfor his strictures. But he replied as if a little confused by his\nblunder:--\n\n I beg your pardon. You don't look like one. \n\n How do they usually look?  she asked sharply.\n\n Why, it is generally understood that they are rather vulgar, I believe,\nbut you, I am sure, look like a person of culture.  He said this as if\nhe thought he were conveying a rather neat compliment. Indignant as she\nwas, Miss Roberts's strongest feeling was compassion for Annie, and she\nbit her lips and made no reply.\n\nAfter a moment's silence, Hunt asked her how she liked his goatee. It\nwas a new way of cutting his whiskers, and young ladies were generally\nclose observers and therefore good judges of such matters. Annie,\nfinding it impossible to keep up even the pretense of talking any\nlonger, sat helplessly staring at the floor, and waiting in nerveless\ndespair for what he would say next, fairly hating Lou because she did\nnot go.\n\n What's come over you, Annie?  asked Hunt briskly.  Are you talked out\nso soon? I suppose she is holding back to give you a chance to make my\nacquaintance, Miss Roberts, or do let me call you Lou. You must improve\nyour opportunity, for she will want to know your opinion of me. May I\nhope it will prove not wholly unfavorable?  This last was with a killing\nsmile.\n\n I had no idea it was so late. We must be going,  said Miss Roberts,\nrising. She had been lingering, in the hope that something would happen\nto leave a more pleasant impression of Hunt's appearance, but seeing\nthat matters were drifting from bad to worse, she hastened to break\noff the painful scene. Annie rose silently without saying a word, and\navoided Lou's eyes as she kissed her good-by.\n\n Must you go?  Hunt said.  I 'm sure you would not be in such haste if\nyou knew how rarely it is that my engagements leave me free to devote\nan evening to the ladies. You might call on Annie a dozen times and not\nmeet me. \n\nAs soon as the callers had gone, Hunt picked up the evening paper and\nsat down to glance it over, remarking lightly as he did so:--\n\n Rather nice girl, your friend, though she does n't seem very\ntalkative. \n\nAnnie made no reply, and he looked up.\n\n What on earth are you staring at me in such an extraordinary manner\nfor? \n\nWas he then absolutely unconscious of the figure he had made of himself?\n\n You are not vexed because I went out and left you in the early part of\nthe evening?  he said anxiously.\n\n Oh, no, indeed,  she wearily replied.\n\nShe sat there with trembling lip and a red spot in each cheek, looking\nat him as he read the paper unconcernedly, till she could bear it no\nlonger, and then silently rose and glided out of the room. Hunt heard\nher running upstairs as fast as she could, and closing and locking her\nchamber door.\n\nNext day he did not see her till evening, when she was exceedingly cold\nand distant, and evidently very much depressed. After bombarding her\nwith grieved and reproachful glances for some time, he came over to\nher side, they two having been left alone, and said, with affectionate\nraillery:--\n\n I 'd no idea you were so susceptible to the green-eyed monster. \n\nShe looked at him, astonished quite out of her reserve.\n\n What on earth do you mean? \n\n Oh, you need n't pretend to misunderstand,  he replied, with a knowing\nnod.  Don't you suppose I saw how vexed you were last night when your\ndear friend Miss Roberts was trying to flirt with me? But you need n't\nhave minded so much. She is n't my style at all. \n\nThere was something so perfectly maddening in this cool assumption that\nher bitter chagrin on his account was a fond jealousy, that she fairly\nchoked with exasperation, and shook herself away from his caress as if\na snake had stung her. Her thin nostrils vibrated, her red lips trembled\nwith scorn, and her black eyes flashed ominously. He had only seen them\nlighten with love before, and it was a very odd sensation to see\nthem for the first time blazing with anger, and that against himself.\nAffecting an offended tone, he said:--\n\n This is really too absurd, Annie,  and left the room as if in a pet,\njust in time to escape the outburst he knew was coming. She sat in the\nparlor with firm-set lips till quite a late hour that evening, hoping\nthat he would come down and give her a chance to set him right with an\nindignant explanation. So humiliating to her did his misunderstanding\nseem, that it was intolerable he should retain it a moment longer, and\nshe felt almost desperate enough to go and knock at his door and correct\nit. Far too clever a strategist to risk an encounter that evening,\nhe sat in his room comfortably smoking and attending to arrears\nof correspondence, aware that he was supposed by her to be sulking\ndesperately all the while. He knew that her feeling was anger and not\ngrief, and while, had it been the latter, he would have been thoroughly\nuncomfortable from sympathy, he only chuckled as he figured to himself\nher indignation. At that very moment, she was undoubtedly clenching her\npretty little fists, and breathing fast with impotent wrath, in the room\nbelow. Ah, well, let her heart lie in a pickle of good strong disgust\novernight, and it would strike in a good deal more effectually than if\nshe were allowed to clear her mind by an indignant explanation on the\nspot.\n\nThe following day he bore himself toward her with the slightly distant\nair of one who considers himself aggrieved, and attempted no approaches.\nIn the evening, which was her first opportunity, she came to him and\nsaid in a tone in which, by this time, weariness and disgust had taken\nthe place of indignation:--\n\n You were absurdly mistaken in thinking that Miss Roberts was trying to\nflirt. \n\n Bless your dear, jealous heart!  interrupted Hunt laughingly, with an\nair of patronizing affection.  I'd no idea you minded it so much. There,\nthere! Let's not allude to this matter again. No, no! not another word! \n he gayly insisted, putting his hand over her mouth as she was about to\nmake another effort to be heard.\n\nHe was determined not to hear anything, and she had to leave it so.\nIt was with surprise that she observed how indifferently she finally\nacquiesced in being so cruelly misunderstood by him. In the deadened\nstate of her feelings, she was not then able to appreciate the entire\nchange in the nature of her sentiments which that indifference showed.\nLove, though rooted in the past, depends upon the surrounding atmosphere\nfor the breath of continued life, and he had surrounded her with the\nstifling vapors of disgust until her love had succumbed and withered.\nShe found that his exhibitions of conceit and insipidity did not affect\nher in the same way as before. Her sensations were no longer sharp and\npoignant, but chiefly a dull shame and sense of disgrace that she had\nloved him. She met his attentions with a coldly passive manner, which\ngave him the liveliest satisfaction. The cure was succeeding past all\nexpectation; but he had about time for one more stroke, which would make\na sure thing of it. He prepared the way by dropping hints that he had\nbeen writing some verses of late; and finally, with the evident idea\nthat she would be flattered, gave out that his favorite theme was\nher own charms, and that she might, perhaps, before long receive some\ntributes from his muse. Her protests he laughed away as the affectations\nof modesty.\n\nNow Hunt had never actually written a line of verse in his life, and had\nno intention of beginning. He was simply preparing a grand move. From\nthe poet's corner of rural newspapers, and from comic collections, he\nclipped several specimens of the crudest sort of sentimental trash in\nrhyme. These he took to the local newspaper, and arranged for their\ninsertion at double advertising rates. A few days later, he bustled into\nthe parlor, smirking in his most odious manner, and, coming up to\nAnnie, thrust an open newspaper before her, marked in one corner to call\nattention to several stanzas\n\n      Written for the 'Express.' To A--E G----D. \n\nWith sinking of heart she took the paper, after ineffectually trying\nto refuse it, and Hunt sat down before her with a supremely complacent\nexpression, to await her verdict. With a faint hope that the verses\nmight prove tolerable, she glanced down the lines. It is enough to say\nthat they were the very worst which Hunt, after great industry, had been\nable to find; and there he was waiting, just the other side the paper,\nin a glow of expectant vanity, to receive her acknowledgments.\n\n Well, what do you think of it? You need n't try to hide your blushes.\nYou deserve every word of it, you know, Miss Modesty,  he said gayly.\n\n It's very nice,  replied Annie, making a desperate effort.\n\n I thought you 'd like it,  he said, with self-satisfied assurance.\n It's queer that a fellow can't lay on the praise too thick to please a\nwoman. By the way, I sent around a copy to Miss Roberts, signed with my\ninitials. I thought you 'd like to have her see it. \n\nThis last remark he called out after her as she was leaving the\nroom, and he was not mistaken in fancying that it would complete her\ndemoralization. During the next week or two he several times brought her\ncopies of the local paper containing equally execrable effusions, till\nfinally she mustered courage to tell him that she would rather he would\nnot publish any more verses about her. He seemed rather hurt at this,\nbut respected her feelings, and after that she used to find, hid in her\nbooks and music, manuscript sonnets which he had laboriously copied out\nof his comic collections. It was considerable trouble, but on the\nwhole he was inclined to think it paid, and it did, especially when he\nculminated by fitting music to several of the most mawkish effusions,\nand insisting on her playing and singing them to him. As the poor girl,\nwho felt that out of common politeness she could not refuse, toiled\nwearily through this martyrdom, writhing with secret disgust at every\nline, Hunt, lolling in an easy-chair behind her, was generally indulging\nin a series of horrible grimaces and convulsions of silent laughter,\nwhich sometimes left tears in his eyes,--to convince Annie, when she\nturned around to him, that his sentiment was at least genuine if vulgar.\nHad she happened on one of these occasions to turn a moment before she\ndid, the resulting tableau would have been worth seeing.\n\nHunt had determined to both crown and crucially test the triumph of\nPotts's cure in Annie's case by formally offering himself to her. He\ncalculated of course that she was now certain to reject him, and that\nwas a satisfaction which he thought he fairly owed her. She would feel\nbetter for it, he argued, and be more absolutely sure not to regard\nherself as in any sense jilted, and that would make his conscience\nclearer. Yes, she should certainly have his scalp to hang at her girdle,\nfor he believed, as many do, that next to having a man's heart a woman\nenjoys having his scalp, while many prefer it. Six weeks ago he would\nhave been horrified at the audacity of the idea. His utmost ambition\nthen was to break a little the force of her disappointment at his\ndeparture. But the unexpected fortune that had attended his efforts had\nadvanced his standard of success, until nothing would now satisfy him\nbut to pop the question and be refused.\n\nAnd still, as the day approached which he had set for the desperate\nventure, he began to get very nervous. He thought he had a sure thing if\never a fellow had, but women were so cursedly unaccountable. Supposing\nshe should take it into her head to accept him! No logic could take\naccount of a woman's whimsies. Then what a pretty fix he would have got\nhimself into, just by a foolhardy freak! But there was a strain of Norse\nblood in Hunt, and in spite of occasional touches of ague, the risk of\nthe scheme had in itself a certain fascination for him. And yet he\ncould n't help wishing he had carried out a dozen desperate devices for\ndisgusting her with him, which at the time had seemed to him too gross\nto be safe from suspicion.\n\nThe trouble was that since he loved her no more he had lost the insight\nwhich love only gives into the feelings of another. Then her every touch\nand look and word was eloquent to his senses as to the precise state\nof her feeling toward him, but now he was dull and insensitive to such\ndirect intuition. He could not longer feel, but could only argue as to\nhow she might be minded toward him, and this it was which caused him so\nmuch trepidation, in spite of so many reasons why he should be confident\nof the result. Argument as to another's feelings is such a wretched\nsubstitute for the intuition of sympathy.\n\nFinally, on the evening before the day on which he was to offer himself,\nthe last of his stay at the Giffords', he got into such a panic that,\ndetermined to clinch the assurance of his safety, he asked her to play\na game of cards, and then managed that she should see him cheat two or\nthree times. The recollection of the cold disgust on her face as he bade\nher good-evening was so reassuring that he went to bed and slept like a\nchild, in the implicit confidence that four horses could n't drag that\ngirl into an engagement with him the next day.\n\nIt was not till the latter part of the afternoon that he could catch\nher alone long enough to transact his little business with her.\nAnticipating, or at least apprehending his design, she took the greatest\npains to avoid meeting him, or to have her mother with her when she did.\nShe would have given almost anything to escape his offer. Of course she\ncould reject it, but fastidious persons do not like to have unpleasant\nobjects put on their plates, even if they have not necessarily to eat\nthem. But her special reason was that the scene would freshly bring up\nand emphasize the whole wretched history of her former infatuation and\nits miserable ending,--an experience every thought of which was full\nof shame and strong desire for the cleansing of forgetfulness. He\nfinally cornered her in the parlor alone. As she saw him approaching\nand realized that there was no escape, she turned and faced him with her\nsmall figure drawn to its full height, compressed lips, pale face, and\neyes that plainly said,  Now have it over with as soon as possible.  One\nhand resting on the table was clenched over a book. The other, hanging\nby her side, tightly grasped a handkerchief.\n\n Do you know I 've been trying to get a chance to speak with you alone\nall day?  he said.\n\n Have you?  she replied in a perfectly inexpressive tone.\n\n Can't you guess what I wanted to say? \n\n I 'm not good at conundrums. \n\n I see you will not help me,  he went on, and then added quickly,  it's\na short story; will you be my wife? \n\nAs he said the words, he felt as the lion-tamer does when he puts his\nhead in the lion's jaws. He expects to take it out again, but if the\nlion should take a notion--His suspense was, however, of the shortest\npossible duration, for instantly, like a reviving sprinkle on a fainting\nface, the words fell on his ear:--\n\n I thank you for the honor, but I 'm sure we are not suited. \n\nAnnie had conned her answer on many a sleepless pillow, and had it by\nheart. It came so glibly, although in such a constrained and agitated\nvoice, that he instantly knew it must have been long cut and dried.\n\nIt was now only left for him to do a decent amount of urging, and then\nacquiesce with dignified melancholy and go off laughing in his sleeve.\nWhat is he thinking of to stand there gazing at her downcast face as if\nhe were daft?\n\nA strange thing had happened to him. The sweet familiarity of each\ndetail in the _petite_ figure before him was impressing his mind as\nnever before, now that he had achieved his purpose of putting it beyond\nthe possibility of his own possession. The little hands he had held so\noften in the old days, conning each curve and dimple, reckoning them\nmore his hands than were his own, and far more dearly so; the wavy hair\nhe had kissed so fondly and delighted to touch; the deep dark eyes under\ntheir long lashes, like forest lakes seen through environing thickets,\neyes that he had found his home in through so long and happy a time,--\nwhy, they were his! Of course he had never meant to really forfeit\nthem, to lose them, and let them go to anybody else. The idea was\npreposterous,--was laughable. It was indeed the first time it had\noccurred to him in that light. He had only thought of her as losing him;\nscarcely at all of himself as losing her. During the whole time he\nhad been putting himself in her place so constantly that he had failed\nsufficiently to fully canvass the situation from his own point of view.\nWholly absorbed in estranging her from him, he had done nothing to\nestrange himself from her.\n\nIt was rather with astonishment and even an appreciation of the absurd,\nthan any serious apprehension, that he now suddenly saw how he had\nstultified himself, and come near doing himself a fatal injury. For\nknowing that her present estrangement was wholly his work, it did not\noccur to him but that he could undo it as easily as he had done it. A\nword would serve the purpose and make it all right again. Indeed, his\nrevulsion of feeling so altered the aspect of everything that he quite\nforgot that any explanation at all was necessary, and, after gazing\nat her for a few moments while his eyes, wet with a tenderness new and\ndeliciously sweet, roved fondly from her head to her little slipper,\ndoating on each feature, he just put out his arms to take her with some\nold familiar phrase of love on his lips.\n\nShe sprang away, her eye flashing with anger.\n\nHe looked so much taken aback and discomfited that she paused in mere\nwonder, as she was about to rush from the room.\n\n Annie, what does this mean?  he stammered.  Oh, yes,--why,--my\ndarling, don't you know,--did n't you guess,--it was all a joke,--\na stupid joke? I 've just been pretending. \n\nIt was not a very lucid explanation, but she understood, though only to\nbe plunged in greater amazement.\n\n But what for?  she murmured.\n\n I did n't know I loved you,  he said slowly, as if recalling with\ndifficulty, and from a great distance, his motives,  and I thought it\nwas kind to cure you of your love for me by pretending to be a fool.\nI think I must have been crazy, don't you?  and he smiled in a dazed,\ndeprecating way.\n\nHer face from being very pale began to flush. First a red spot started\nout in either cheek; then they spread till they covered the cheeks; next\nher forehead took a roseate hue, and down her neck the tide of color\nrushed, and she stood there before him a glowing statue of outraged\nwomanhood, while in the midst her eyes sparkled with scorn.\n\n You wanted to cure me,  she said at last, in slow, concentrated tones,\n and you have succeeded. You have insulted me as no woman was ever\ninsulted before. \n\nShe paused as if to control herself; for her voice trembled with\nthe last words. She shivered, and her bosom heaved once or twice\nconvulsively. Her features quivered; scorching tears of shame rushed to\nher eyes, and she burst out hysterically:--\n\n For pity's sake never let me see you again! \n\nAnd then he found himself alone.\n"
    },
    {
        "title": "The Life of Julius Caesar",
        "author": "Herman Melville",
        "category": "Biographies",
        "EN": "I am a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations for the last\nthirty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what\nwould seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom as\nyet nothing that I know of has ever been written: I mean the\nlaw-copyists or scriveners. I have known very many of them,\nprofessionally and privately, and if I pleased, could relate divers\nhistories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental\nsouls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners\nfor a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener of the\nstrangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might\nwrite the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done.\nI believe that no materials exist for a full and satisfactory biography\nof this man. It is an irreparable loss to literature. Bartleby was one\nof those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the\noriginal sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own\nastonished eyes saw of Bartleby, _that_ is all I know of him, except,\nindeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel.\n\nEre introducing the scrivener, as he first appeared to me, it is fit I\nmake some mention of myself, my employ s, my business, my chambers, and\ngeneral surroundings; because some such description is indispensable to\nan adequate understanding of the chief character about to be presented.\n\nImprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with\na profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence,\nthough I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous,\neven to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever\nsuffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who\nnever addresses a jury, or in any way draws down public applause; but\nin the cool tranquility of a snug retreat, do a snug business among\nrich men s bonds and mortgages and title-deeds. All who know me,\nconsider me an eminently _safe_ man. The late John Jacob Astor, a\npersonage little given to poetic enthusiasm, had no hesitation in\npronouncing my first grand point to be prudence; my next, method. I do\nnot speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact, that I was not\nunemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor; a name which,\nI admit, I love to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to\nit, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add, that I was not\ninsensible to the late John Jacob Astor s good opinion.\n\nSome time prior to the period at which this little history begins, my\navocations had been largely increased. The good old office, now extinct\nin the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred\nupon me. It was not a very arduous office, but very pleasantly\nremunerative. I seldom lose my temper; much more seldom indulge in\ndangerous indignation at wrongs and outrages; but I must be permitted\nto be rash here and declare, that I consider the sudden and violent\nabrogation of the office of Master in Chancery, by the new\nConstitution, as a premature act; inasmuch as I had counted upon a\nlife-lease of the profits, whereas I only received those of a few short\nyears. But this is by the way.\n\nMy chambers were up stairs at No. Wall-street. At one end they looked\nupon the white wall of the interior of a spacious sky-light shaft,\npenetrating the building from top to bottom. This view might have been\nconsidered rather tame than otherwise, deficient in what landscape\npainters call  life.  But if so, the view from the other end of my\nchambers offered, at least, a contrast, if nothing more. In that\ndirection my windows commanded an unobstructed view of a lofty brick\nwall, black by age and everlasting shade; which wall required no\nspy-glass to bring out its lurking beauties, but for the benefit of all\nnear-sighted spectators, was pushed up to within ten feet of my window\npanes. Owing to the great height of the surrounding buildings, and my\nchambers being on the second floor, the interval between this wall and\nmine not a little resembled a huge square cistern.\n\nAt the period just preceding the advent of Bartleby, I had two persons\nas copyists in my employment, and a promising lad as an office-boy.\nFirst, Turkey; second, Nippers; third, Ginger Nut. These may seem\nnames, the like of which are not usually found in the Directory. In\ntruth they were nicknames, mutually conferred upon each other by my\nthree clerks, and were deemed expressive of their respective persons or\ncharacters. Turkey was a short, pursy Englishman of about my own age,\nthat is, somewhere not far from sixty. In the morning, one might say,\nhis face was of a fine florid hue, but after twelve o clock,\nmeridian his dinner hour it blazed like a grate full of Christmas\ncoals; and continued blazing but, as it were, with a gradual wane till\n6 o clock, P.M. or thereabouts, after which I saw no more of the\nproprietor of the face, which gaining its meridian with the sun, seemed\nto set with it, to rise, culminate, and decline the following day, with\nthe like regularity and undiminished glory. There are many singular\ncoincidences I have known in the course of my life, not the least among\nwhich was the fact, that exactly when Turkey displayed his fullest\nbeams from his red and radiant countenance, just then, too, at that\ncritical moment, began the daily period when I considered his business\ncapacities as seriously disturbed for the remainder of the twenty-four\nhours. Not that he was absolutely idle, or averse to business then; far\nfrom it. The difficulty was, he was apt to be altogether too energetic.\nThere was a strange, inflamed, flurried, flighty recklessness of\nactivity about him. He would be incautious in dipping his pen into his\ninkstand. All his blots upon my documents, were dropped there after\ntwelve o clock, meridian. Indeed, not only would he be reckless and\nsadly given to making blots in the afternoon, but some days he went\nfurther, and was rather noisy. At such times, too, his face flamed with\naugmented blazonry, as if cannel coal had been heaped on anthracite. He\nmade an unpleasant racket with his chair; spilled his sand-box; in\nmending his pens, impatiently split them all to pieces, and threw them\non the floor in a sudden passion; stood up and leaned over his table,\nboxing his papers about in a most indecorous manner, very sad to behold\nin an elderly man like him. Nevertheless, as he was in many ways a most\nvaluable person to me, and all the time before twelve o clock,\nmeridian, was the quickest, steadiest creature too, accomplishing a\ngreat deal of work in a style not easy to be matched for these reasons,\nI was willing to overlook his eccentricities, though indeed,\noccasionally, I remonstrated with him. I did this very gently, however,\nbecause, though the civilest, nay, the blandest and most reverential of\nmen in the morning, yet in the afternoon he was disposed, upon\nprovocation, to be slightly rash with his tongue, in fact, insolent.\nNow, valuing his morning services as I did, and resolved not to lose\nthem; yet, at the same time made uncomfortable by his inflamed ways\nafter twelve o clock; and being a man of peace, unwilling by my\nadmonitions to call forth unseemly retorts from him; I took upon me,\none Saturday noon (he was always worse on Saturdays), to hint to him,\nvery kindly, that perhaps now that he was growing old, it might be well\nto abridge his labors; in short, he need not come to my chambers after\ntwelve o clock, but, dinner over, had best go home to his lodgings and\nrest himself till teatime. But no; he insisted upon his afternoon\ndevotions. His countenance became intolerably fervid, as he\noratorically assured me gesticulating with a long ruler at the other\nend of the room that if his services in the morning were useful, how\nindispensable, then, in the afternoon?\n\n With submission, sir,  said Turkey on this occasion,  I consider\nmyself your right-hand man. In the morning I but marshal and deploy my\ncolumns; but in the afternoon I put myself at their head, and gallantly\ncharge the foe, thus! and he made a violent thrust with the ruler.\n\n But the blots, Turkey,  intimated I.\n\n True, but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old.\nSurely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be severely\nurged against gray hairs. Old age even if it blot the page is\nhonorable. With submission, sir, we _both_ are getting old. \n\nThis appeal to my fellow-feeling was hardly to be resisted. At all\nevents, I saw that go he would not. So I made up my mind to let him\nstay, resolving, nevertheless, to see to it, that during the afternoon\nhe had to do with my less important papers.\n\nNippers, the second on my list, was a whiskered, sallow, and, upon the\nwhole, rather piratical-looking young man of about five and twenty. I\nalways deemed him the victim of two evil powers ambition and\nindigestion. The ambition was evinced by a certain impatience of the\nduties of a mere copyist, an unwarrantable usurpation of strictly\nprofessional affairs, such as the original drawing up of legal\ndocuments. The indigestion seemed betokened in an occasional nervous\ntestiness and grinning irritability, causing the teeth to audibly grind\ntogether over mistakes committed in copying; unnecessary maledictions,\nhissed, rather than spoken, in the heat of business; and especially by\na continual discontent with the height of the table where he worked.\nThough of a very ingenious mechanical turn, Nippers could never get\nthis table to suit him. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts,\nbits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite\nadjustment by final pieces of folded blotting paper. But no invention\nwould answer. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table\nlid at a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote there like a\nman using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk: then he\ndeclared that it stopped the circulation in his arms. If now he lowered\nthe table to his waistbands, and stooped over it in writing, then there\nwas a sore aching in his back. In short, the truth of the matter was,\nNippers knew not what he wanted. Or, if he wanted any thing, it was to\nbe rid of a scrivener s table altogether. Among the manifestations of\nhis diseased ambition was a fondness he had for receiving visits from\ncertain ambiguous-looking fellows in seedy coats, whom he called his\nclients. Indeed I was aware that not only was he, at times,\nconsiderable of a ward-politician, but he occasionally did a little\nbusiness at the Justices  courts, and was not unknown on the steps of\nthe Tombs. I have good reason to believe, however, that one individual\nwho called upon him at my chambers, and who, with a grand air, he\ninsisted was his client, was no other than a dun, and the alleged\ntitle-deed, a bill. But with all his failings, and the annoyances he\ncaused me, Nippers, like his compatriot Turkey, was a very useful man\nto me; wrote a neat, swift hand; and, when he chose, was not deficient\nin a gentlemanly sort of deportment. Added to this, he always dressed\nin a gentlemanly sort of way; and so, incidentally, reflected credit\nupon my chambers. Whereas with respect to Turkey, I had much ado to\nkeep him from being a reproach to me. His clothes were apt to look oily\nand smell of eating-houses. He wore his pantaloons very loose and baggy\nin summer. His coats were execrable; his hat not to be handled. But\nwhile the hat was a thing of indifference to me, inasmuch as his\nnatural civility and deference, as a dependent Englishman, always led\nhim to doff it the moment he entered the room, yet his coat was another\nmatter. Concerning his coats, I reasoned with him; but with no effect.\nThe truth was, I suppose, that a man of so small an income, could not\nafford to sport such a lustrous face and a lustrous coat at one and the\nsame time. As Nippers once observed, Turkey s money went chiefly for\nred ink. One winter day I presented Turkey with a highly-respectable\nlooking coat of my own, a padded gray coat, of a most comfortable\nwarmth, and which buttoned straight up from the knee to the neck. I\nthought Turkey would appreciate the favor, and abate his rashness and\nobstreperousness of afternoons. But no. I verily believe that buttoning\nhimself up in so downy and blanket-like a coat had a pernicious effect\nupon him; upon the same principle that too much oats are bad for\nhorses. In fact, precisely as a rash, restive horse is said to feel his\noats, so Turkey felt his coat. It made him insolent. He was a man whom\nprosperity harmed.\n\nThough concerning the self-indulgent habits of Turkey I had my own\nprivate surmises, yet touching Nippers I was well persuaded that\nwhatever might be his faults in other respects, he was, at least, a\ntemperate young man. But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his\nvintner, and at his birth charged him so thoroughly with an irritable,\nbrandy-like disposition, that all subsequent potations were needless.\nWhen I consider how, amid the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would\nsometimes impatiently rise from his seat, and stooping over his table,\nspread his arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk\nit, with a grim, grinding motion on the floor, as if the table were a\nperverse voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him; I plainly\nperceive that for Nippers, brandy and water were altogether\nsuperfluous.\n\nIt was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar\ncause indigestion the irritability and consequent nervousness of\nNippers, were mainly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon\nhe was comparatively mild. So that Turkey s paroxysms only coming on\nabout twelve o clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities at\none time. Their fits relieved each other like guards. When Nippers  was\non, Turkey s was off; and _vice versa_. This was a good natural\narrangement under the circumstances.\n\nGinger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years old. His\nfather was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead\nof a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office as student at\nlaw, errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a\nweek. He had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon\ninspection, the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various\nsorts of nuts. Indeed, to this quick-witted youth the whole noble\nscience of the law was contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among\nthe employments of Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with\nthe most alacrity, was his duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey\nand Nippers. Copying law papers being proverbially dry, husky sort of\nbusiness, my two scriveners were fain to moisten their mouths very\noften with Spitzenbergs to be had at the numerous stalls nigh the\nCustom House and Post Office. Also, they sent Ginger Nut very\nfrequently for that peculiar cake small, flat, round, and very\nspicy after which he had been named by them. Of a cold morning when\nbusiness was but dull, Turkey would gobble up scores of these cakes, as\nif they were mere wafers indeed they sell them at the rate of six or\neight for a penny the scrape of his pen blending with the crunching of\nthe crisp particles in his mouth. Of all the fiery afternoon blunders\nand flurried rashnesses of Turkey, was his once moistening a\nginger-cake between his lips, and clapping it on to a mortgage for a\nseal. I came within an ace of dismissing him then. But he mollified me\nby making an oriental bow, and saying With submission, sir, it was\ngenerous of me to find you in stationery on my own account. \n\nNow my original business that of a conveyancer and title hunter, and\ndrawer-up of recondite documents of all sorts was considerably\nincreased by receiving the master s office. There was now great work\nfor scriveners. Not only must I push the clerks already with me, but I\nmust have additional help. In answer to my advertisement, a motionless\nyoung man one morning, stood upon my office threshold, the door being\nopen, for it was summer. I can see that figure now pallidly neat,\npitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! It was Bartleby.\n\nAfter a few words touching his qualifications, I engaged him, glad to\nhave among my corps of copyists a man of so singularly sedate an\naspect, which I thought might operate beneficially upon the flighty\ntemper of Turkey, and the fiery one of Nippers.\n\nI should have stated before that ground glass folding-doors divided my\npremises into two parts, one of which was occupied by my scriveners,\nthe other by myself. According to my humor I threw open these doors, or\nclosed them. I resolved to assign Bartleby a corner by the\nfolding-doors, but on my side of them, so as to have this quiet man\nwithin easy call, in case any trifling thing was to be done. I placed\nhis desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a\nwindow which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy\nback-yards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections,\ncommanded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within\nthree feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far\nabove, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a\ndome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured a high\ngreen folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from my\nsight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner,\nprivacy and society were conjoined.\n\nAt first Bartleby did an extraordinary quantity of writing. As if long\nfamishing for something to copy, he seemed to gorge himself on my\ndocuments. There was no pause for digestion. He ran a day and night\nline, copying by sun-light and by candle-light. I should have been\nquite delighted with his application, had he been cheerfully\nindustrious. But he wrote on silently, palely, mechanically.\n\nIt is, of course, an indispensable part of a scrivener s business to\nverify the accuracy of his copy, word by word. Where there are two or\nmore scriveners in an office, they assist each other in this\nexamination, one reading from the copy, the other holding the original.\nIt is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair. I can readily\nimagine that to some sanguine temperaments it would be altogether\nintolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet\nByron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law\ndocument of, say five hundred pages, closely written in a crimpy hand.\n\nNow and then, in the haste of business, it had been my habit to assist\nin comparing some brief document myself, calling Turkey or Nippers for\nthis purpose. One object I had in placing Bartleby so handy to me\nbehind the screen, was to avail myself of his services on such trivial\noccasions. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and\nbefore any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined,\nthat, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I\nabruptly called to Bartleby. In my haste and natural expectancy of\ninstant compliance, I sat with my head bent over the original on my\ndesk, and my right hand sideways, and somewhat nervously extended with\nthe copy, so that immediately upon emerging from his retreat, Bartleby\nmight snatch it and proceed to business without the least delay.\n\nIn this very attitude did I sit when I called to him, rapidly stating\nwhat it was I wanted him to do namely, to examine a small paper with\nme. Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving\nfrom his privacy, Bartleby in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied,\n I would prefer not to. \n\nI sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties.\nImmediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby\nhad entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the\nclearest tone I could assume. But in quite as clear a one came the\nprevious reply,  I would prefer not to. \n\n Prefer not to,  echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the\nroom with a stride.  What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you\nto help me compare this sheet here take it,  and I thrust it towards\nhim.\n\n I would prefer not to,  said he.\n\nI looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eye\ndimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the\nleast uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in\nother words, had there been any thing ordinarily human about him,\ndoubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises. But\nas it was, I should have as soon thought of turning my pale\nplaster-of-paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him\nawhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at\nmy desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do? But my\nbusiness hurried me. I concluded to forget the matter for the present,\nreserving it for my future leisure. So calling Nippers from the other\nroom, the paper was speedily examined.\n\nA few days after this, Bartleby concluded four lengthy documents, being\nquadruplicates of a week s testimony taken before me in my High Court\nof Chancery. It became necessary to examine them. It was an important\nsuit, and great accuracy was imperative. Having all things arranged I\ncalled Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut from the next room, meaning to\nplace the four copies in the hands of my four clerks, while I should\nread from the original. Accordingly Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut had\ntaken their seats in a row, each with his document in hand, when I\ncalled to Bartleby to join this interesting group.\n\n Bartleby! quick, I am waiting. \n\nI heard a slow scrape of his chair legs on the uncarpeted floor, and\nsoon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage.\n\n What is wanted?  said he mildly.\n\n The copies, the copies,  said I hurriedly.  We are going to examine\nthem. There and I held towards him the fourth quadruplicate.\n\n I would prefer not to,  he said, and gently disappeared behind the\nscreen.\n\nFor a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the\nhead of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced\ntowards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary\nconduct.\n\n _Why_ do you refuse? \n\n I would prefer not to. \n\nWith any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful\npassion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from\nmy presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only\nstrangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and\ndisconcerted me. I began to reason with him.\n\n These are your own copies we are about to examine. It is labor saving\nto you, because one examination will answer for your four papers. It is\ncommon usage. Every copyist is bound to help examine his copy. Is it\nnot so? Will you not speak? Answer! \n\n I prefer not to,  he replied in a flute-like tone. It seemed to me\nthat while I had been addressing him, he carefully revolved every\nstatement that I made; fully comprehended the meaning; could not\ngainsay the irresistible conclusions; but, at the same time, some\nparamount consideration prevailed with him to reply as he did.\n\n You are decided, then, not to comply with my request a request made\naccording to common usage and common sense? \n\nHe briefly gave me to understand that on that point my judgment was\nsound. Yes: his decision was irreversible.\n\nIt is not seldom the case that when a man is browbeaten in some\nunprecedented and violently unreasonable way, he begins to stagger in\nhis own plainest faith. He begins, as it were, vaguely to surmise that,\nwonderful as it may be, all the justice and all the reason is on the\nother side. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he\nturns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind.\n\n Turkey,  said I,  what do you think of this? Am I not right? \n\n With submission, sir,  said Turkey, with his blandest tone,  I think\nthat you are. \n\n Nippers,  said I,  what do _you_ think of it? \n\n I think I should kick him out of the office. \n\n(The reader of nice perceptions will here perceive that, it being\nmorning, Turkey s answer is couched in polite and tranquil terms, but\nNippers replies in ill-tempered ones. Or, to repeat a previous\nsentence, Nippers  ugly mood was on duty and Turkey s off.)\n\n Ginger Nut,  said I, willing to enlist the smallest suffrage in my\nbehalf,  what do you think of it? \n\n I think, sir, he s a little _luny_,  replied Ginger Nut with a grin.\n\n You hear what they say,  said I, turning towards the screen,  come\nforth and do your duty. \n\nBut he vouchsafed no reply. I pondered a moment in sore perplexity. But\nonce more business hurried me. I determined again to postpone the\nconsideration of this dilemma to my future leisure. With a little\ntrouble we made out to examine the papers without Bartleby, though at\nevery page or two, Turkey deferentially dropped his opinion that this\nproceeding was quite out of the common; while Nippers, twitching in his\nchair with a dyspeptic nervousness, ground out between his set teeth\noccasional hissing maledictions against the stubborn oaf behind the\nscreen. And for his (Nippers ) part, this was the first and the last\ntime he would do another man s business without pay.\n\nMeanwhile Bartleby sat in his hermitage, oblivious to every thing but\nhis own peculiar business there.\n\nSome days passed, the scrivener being employed upon another lengthy\nwork. His late remarkable conduct led me to regard his ways narrowly. I\nobserved that he never went to dinner; indeed that he never went any\nwhere. As yet I had never of my personal knowledge known him to be\noutside of my office. He was a perpetual sentry in the corner. At about\neleven o clock though, in the morning, I noticed that Ginger Nut would\nadvance toward the opening in Bartleby s screen, as if silently\nbeckoned thither by a gesture invisible to me where I sat. The boy\nwould then leave the office jingling a few pence, and reappear with a\nhandful of ginger-nuts which he delivered in the hermitage, receiving\ntwo of the cakes for his trouble.\n\nHe lives, then, on ginger-nuts, thought I; never eats a dinner,\nproperly speaking; he must be a vegetarian then; but no; he never eats\neven vegetables, he eats nothing but ginger-nuts. My mind then ran on\nin reveries concerning the probable effects upon the human constitution\nof living entirely on ginger-nuts. Ginger-nuts are so called because\nthey contain ginger as one of their peculiar constituents, and the\nfinal flavoring one. Now what was ginger? A hot, spicy thing. Was\nBartleby hot and spicy? Not at all. Ginger, then, had no effect upon\nBartleby. Probably he preferred it should have none.\n\nNothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive resistance. If the\nindividual so resisted be of a not inhumane temper, and the resisting\none perfectly harmless in his passivity; then, in the better moods of\nthe former, he will endeavor charitably to construe to his imagination\nwhat proves impossible to be solved by his judgment. Even so, for the\nmost part, I regarded Bartleby and his ways. Poor fellow! thought I, he\nmeans no mischief; it is plain he intends no insolence; his aspect\nsufficiently evinces that his eccentricities are involuntary. He is\nuseful to me. I can get along with him. If I turn him away, the chances\nare he will fall in with some less indulgent employer, and then he will\nbe rudely treated, and perhaps driven forth miserably to starve. Yes.\nHere I can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval. To befriend\nBartleby; to humor him in his strange willfulness, will cost me little\nor nothing, while I lay up in my soul what will eventually prove a\nsweet morsel for my conscience. But this mood was not invariable with\nme. The passiveness of Bartleby sometimes irritated me. I felt\nstrangely goaded on to encounter him in new opposition, to elicit some\nangry spark from him answerable to my own. But indeed I might as well\nhave essayed to strike fire with my knuckles against a bit of Windsor\nsoap. But one afternoon the evil impulse in me mastered me, and the\nfollowing little scene ensued:\n\n Bartleby,  said I,  when those papers are all copied, I will compare\nthem with you. \n\n I would prefer not to. \n\n How? Surely you do not mean to persist in that mulish vagary? \n\nNo answer.\n\nI threw open the folding-doors near by, and turning upon Turkey and\nNippers, exclaimed in an excited manner \n\n He says, a second time, he won t examine his papers. What do you think\nof it, Turkey? \n\nIt was afternoon, be it remembered. Turkey sat glowing like a brass\nboiler, his bald head steaming, his hands reeling among his blotted\npapers.\n\n Think of it?  roared Turkey;  I think I ll just step behind his\nscreen, and black his eyes for him! \n\nSo saying, Turkey rose to his feet and threw his arms into a pugilistic\nposition. He was hurrying away to make good his promise, when I\ndetained him, alarmed at the effect of incautiously rousing Turkey s\ncombativeness after dinner.\n\n Sit down, Turkey,  said I,  and hear what Nippers has to say. What do\nyou think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justified in immediately\ndismissing Bartleby? \n\n Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct quite\nunusual, and indeed unjust, as regards Turkey and myself. But it may\nonly be a passing whim. \n\n Ah,  exclaimed I,  you have strangely changed your mind then you speak\nvery gently of him now. \n\n All beer,  cried Turkey;  gentleness is effects of beer Nippers and I\ndined together to-day. You see how gentle _I_ am, sir. Shall I go and\nblack his eyes? \n\n You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey,  I replied;\n pray, put up your fists. \n\nI closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I felt\nadditional incentives tempting me to my fate. I burned to be rebelled\nagainst again. I remembered that Bartleby never left the office.\n\n Bartleby,  said I,  Ginger Nut is away; just step round to the Post\nOffice, won t you? (it was but a three minute walk,) and see if there\nis any thing for me. \n\n I would prefer not to. \n\n You _will_ not? \n\n I _prefer_ not. \n\nI staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study. My blind\ninveteracy returned. Was there any other thing in which I could procure\nmyself to be ignominiously repulsed by this lean, penniless wight? my\nhired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he\nwill be sure to refuse to do?\n\n Bartleby! \n\nNo answer.\n\n Bartleby,  in a louder tone.\n\nNo answer.\n\n Bartleby,  I roared.\n\nLike a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the\nthird summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.\n\n Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me. \n\n I prefer not to,  he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly\ndisappeared.\n\n Very good, Bartleby,  said I, in a quiet sort of serenely severe\nself-possessed tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some\nterrible retribution very close at hand. At the moment I half intended\nsomething of the kind. But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my\ndinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the\nday, suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind.\n\nShall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was, that\nit soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young\nscrivener, by the name of Bartleby, and a desk there; that he copied\nfor me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but\nhe was permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that\nduty being transferred to Turkey and Nippers, one of compliment\ndoubtless to their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby was\nnever on any account to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any\nsort; and that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was\ngenerally understood that he would prefer not to in other words, that\nhe would refuse pointblank.\n\nAs days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His\nsteadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry\n(except when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind\nhis screen), his great stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under\nall circumstances, made him a valuable acquisition. One prime thing was\nthis, _he was always there;_ first in the morning, continually through\nthe day, and the last at night. I had a singular confidence in his\nhonesty. I felt my most precious papers perfectly safe in his hands.\nSometimes to be sure I could not, for the very soul of me, avoid\nfalling into sudden spasmodic passions with him. For it was exceeding\ndifficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities,\nprivileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations\non Bartleby s part under which he remained in my office. Now and then,\nin the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would\ninadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his\nfinger, say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was\nabout compressing some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the\nusual answer,  I prefer not to,  was sure to come; and then, how could\na human creature with the common infirmities of our nature, refrain\nfrom bitterly exclaiming upon such perverseness such unreasonableness.\nHowever, every added repulse of this sort which I received only tended\nto lessen the probability of my repeating the inadvertence.\n\nHere it must be said, that according to the custom of most legal\ngentlemen occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, there\nwere several keys to my door. One was kept by a woman residing in the\nattic, which person weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my\napartments. Another was kept by Turkey for convenience sake. The third\nI sometimes carried in my own pocket. The fourth I knew not who had.\n\nNow, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a\ncelebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground, I\nthought I would walk around to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had\nmy key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted\nby something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out;\nwhen to my consternation a key was turned from within; and thrusting\nhis lean visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the apparition of\nBartleby appeared, in his shirt sleeves, and otherwise in a strangely\ntattered dishabille, saying quietly that he was sorry, but he was\ndeeply engaged just then, and preferred not admitting me at present. In\na brief word or two, he moreover added, that perhaps I had better walk\nround the block two or three times, and by that time he would probably\nhave concluded his affairs.\n\nNow, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my\nlaw-chambers of a Sunday morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly\n_nonchalance_, yet withal firm and self-possessed, had such a strange\neffect upon me, that incontinently I slunk away from my own door, and\ndid as desired. But not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion\nagainst the mild effrontery of this unaccountable scrivener. Indeed, it\nwas his wonderful mildness chiefly, which not only disarmed me, but\nunmanned me, as it were. For I consider that one, for the time, is a\nsort of unmanned when he tranquilly permits his hired clerk to dictate\nto him, and order him away from his own premises. Furthermore, I was\nfull of uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in my\noffice in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition\nof a Sunday morning. Was any thing amiss going on? Nay, that was out of\nthe question. It was not to be thought of for a moment that Bartleby\nwas an immoral person. But what could he be doing there? copying? Nay\nagain, whatever might be his eccentricities, Bartleby was an eminently\ndecorous person. He would be the last man to sit down to his desk in\nany state approaching to nudity. Besides, it was Sunday; and there was\nsomething about Bartleby that forbade the supposition that he would by\nany secular occupation violate the proprieties of the day.\n\nNevertheless, my mind was not pacified; and full of a restless\ncuriosity, at last I returned to the door. Without hindrance I inserted\nmy key, opened it, and entered. Bartleby was not to be seen. I looked\nround anxiously, peeped behind his screen; but it was very plain that\nhe was gone. Upon more closely examining the place, I surmised that for\nan indefinite period Bartleby must have ate, dressed, and slept in my\noffice, and that too without plate, mirror, or bed. The cushioned seat\nof a rickety old sofa in one corner bore the faint impress of a lean,\nreclining form. Rolled away under his desk, I found a blanket; under\nthe empty grate, a blacking box and brush; on a chair, a tin basin,\nwith soap and a ragged towel; in a newspaper a few crumbs of\nginger-nuts and a morsel of cheese. Yes, thought I, it is evident\nenough that Bartleby has been making his home here, keeping bachelor s\nhall all by himself. Immediately then the thought came sweeping across\nme, What miserable friendlessness and loneliness are here revealed! His\npoverty is great; but his solitude, how horrible! Think of it. Of a\nSunday, Wall-street is deserted as Petra; and every night of every day\nit is an emptiness. This building too, which of week-days hums with\nindustry and life, at nightfall echoes with sheer vacancy, and all\nthrough Sunday is forlorn. And here Bartleby makes his home; sole\nspectator of a solitude which he has seen all populous a sort of\ninnocent and transformed Marius brooding among the ruins of Carthage!\n\nFor the first time in my life a feeling of overpowering stinging\nmelancholy seized me. Before, I had never experienced aught but a\nnot-unpleasing sadness. The bond of a common humanity now drew me\nirresistibly to gloom. A fraternal melancholy! For both I and Bartleby\nwere sons of Adam. I remembered the bright silks and sparkling faces I\nhad seen that day, in gala trim, swan-like sailing down the Mississippi\nof Broadway; and I contrasted them with the pallid copyist, and thought\nto myself, Ah, happiness courts the light, so we deem the world is gay;\nbut misery hides aloof, so we deem that misery there is none. These sad\nfancyings chimeras, doubtless, of a sick and silly brain led on to\nother and more special thoughts, concerning the eccentricities of\nBartleby. Presentiments of strange discoveries hovered round me. The\nscrivener s pale form appeared to me laid out, among uncaring\nstrangers, in its shivering winding sheet.\n\nSuddenly I was attracted by Bartleby s closed desk, the key in open\nsight left in the lock.\n\nI mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity,\nthought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will\nmake bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the\npapers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the\nfiles of documents, I groped into their recesses. Presently I felt\nsomething there, and dragged it out. It was an old bandanna\nhandkerchief, heavy and knotted. I opened it, and saw it was a savings \nbank.\n\nI now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I\nremembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals\nhe had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him\nreading no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand\nlooking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick\nwall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house;\nwhile his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like\nTurkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any\nwhere in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk,\nunless indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined\ntelling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives\nin the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill\nhealth. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of\npallid how shall I call it? of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an\naustere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame\ncompliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do\nthe slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from\nhis long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be\nstanding in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.\n\nRevolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently\ndiscovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and\nhome, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these\nthings, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions\nhad been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in\nproportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my\nimagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into\nrepulsion. So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain\npoint the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but,\nin certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who\nwould assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness\nof the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of\nremedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not\nseldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot\nlead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul rid of it. What I\nsaw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of\ninnate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his\nbody did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I\ncould not reach.\n\nI did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that\nmorning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time\nfrom church-going. I walked homeward, thinking what I would do with\nBartleby. Finally, I resolved upon this; I would put certain calm\nquestions to him the next morning, touching his history, etc., and if\nhe declined to answer them openly and unreservedly (and I supposed he\nwould prefer not), then to give him a twenty dollar bill over and above\nwhatever I might owe him, and tell him his services were no longer\nrequired; but that if in any other way I could assist him, I would be\nhappy to do so, especially if he desired to return to his native place,\nwherever that might be, I would willingly help to defray the expenses.\nMoreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want\nof aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply.\n\nThe next morning came.\n\n Bartleby,  said I, gently calling to him behind his screen.\n\nNo reply.\n\n Bartleby,  said I, in a still gentler tone,  come here; I am not going\nto ask you to do any thing you would prefer not to do I simply wish to\nspeak to you. \n\nUpon this he noiselessly slid into view.\n\n Will you tell me, Bartleby, where you were born? \n\n I would prefer not to. \n\n Will you tell me _any thing_ about yourself? \n\n I would prefer not to. \n\n But what reasonable objection can you have to speak to me? I feel\nfriendly towards you. \n\nHe did not look at me while I spoke, but kept his glance fixed upon my\nbust of Cicero, which as I then sat, was directly behind me, some six\ninches above my head.\n\n What is your answer, Bartleby?  said I, after waiting a considerable\ntime for a reply, during which his countenance remained immovable, only\nthere was the faintest conceivable tremor of the white attenuated\nmouth.\n\n At present I prefer to give no answer,  he said, and retired into his\nhermitage.\n\nIt was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion\nnettled me. Not only did there seem to lurk in it a certain calm\ndisdain, but his perverseness seemed ungrateful, considering the\nundeniable good usage and indulgence he had received from me.\n\nAgain I sat ruminating what I should do. Mortified as I was at his\nbehavior, and resolved as I had been to dismiss him when I entered my\noffices, nevertheless I strangely felt something superstitious knocking\nat my heart, and forbidding me to carry out my purpose, and denouncing\nme for a villain if I dared to breathe one bitter word against this\nforlornest of mankind. At last, familiarly drawing my chair behind his\nscreen, I sat down and said:  Bartleby, never mind then about revealing\nyour history; but let me entreat you, as a friend, to comply as far as\nmay be with the usages of this office. Say now you will help to examine\npapers to-morrow or next day: in short, say now that in a day or two\nyou will begin to be a little reasonable: say so, Bartleby. \n\n At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable,  was his\nmildly cadaverous reply.\n\nJust then the folding-doors opened, and Nippers approached. He seemed\nsuffering from an unusually bad night s rest, induced by severer\nindigestion than common. He overheard those final words of Bartleby.\n\n _Prefer not_, eh?  gritted Nippers I d _prefer_ him, if I were you,\nsir,  addressing me I d _prefer_ him; I d give him preferences, the\nstubborn mule! What is it, sir, pray, that he _prefers_ not to do now? \n\nBartleby moved not a limb.\n\n Mr. Nippers,  said I,  I d prefer that you would withdraw for the\npresent. \n\nSomehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this\nword  prefer  upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I\ntrembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and\nseriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper\naberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been\nwithout efficacy in determining me to summary means.\n\nAs Nippers, looking very sour and sulky, was departing, Turkey blandly\nand deferentially approached.\n\n With submission, sir,  said he,  yesterday I was thinking about\nBartleby here, and I think that if he would but prefer to take a quart\nof good ale every day, it would do much towards mending him, and\nenabling him to assist in examining his papers. \n\n So you have got the word too,  said I, slightly excited.\n\n With submission, what word, sir,  asked Turkey, respectfully crowding\nhimself into the contracted space behind the screen, and by so doing,\nmaking me jostle the scrivener.  What word, sir? \n\n I would prefer to be left alone here,  said Bartleby, as if offended\nat being mobbed in his privacy.\n\n _That s_ the word, Turkey,  said I that s it. \n\n Oh, _prefer_? oh yes queer word. I never use it myself. But, sir, as I\nwas saying, if he would but prefer \n\n Turkey,  interrupted I,  you will please withdraw. \n\n Oh certainly, sir, if you prefer that I should. \n\nAs he opened the folding-door to retire, Nippers at his desk caught a\nglimpse of me, and asked whether I would prefer to have a certain paper\ncopied on blue paper or white. He did not in the least roguishly accent\nthe word prefer. It was plain that it involuntarily rolled from his\ntongue. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man,\nwho already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of\nmyself and clerks. But I thought it prudent not to break the dismission\nat once.\n\nThe next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his\nwindow in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write,\nhe said that he had decided upon doing no more writing.\n\n Why, how now? what next?  exclaimed I,  do no more writing? \n\n No more. \n\n And what is the reason? \n\n Do you not see the reason for yourself,  he indifferently replied.\n\nI looked steadfastly at him, and perceived that his eyes looked dull\nand glazed. Instantly it occurred to me, that his unexampled diligence\nin copying by his dim window for the first few weeks of his stay with\nme might have temporarily impaired his vision.\n\nI was touched. I said something in condolence with him. I hinted that\nof course he did wisely in abstaining from writing for a while; and\nurged him to embrace that opportunity of taking wholesome exercise in\nthe open air. This, however, he did not do. A few days after this, my\nother clerks being absent, and being in a great hurry to dispatch\ncertain letters by the mail, I thought that, having nothing else\nearthly to do, Bartleby would surely be less inflexible than usual, and\ncarry these letters to the post-office. But he blankly declined. So,\nmuch to my inconvenience, I went myself.\n\nStill added days went by. Whether Bartleby s eyes improved or not, I\ncould not say. To all appearance, I thought they did. But when I asked\nhim if they did, he vouchsafed no answer. At all events, he would do no\ncopying. At last, in reply to my urgings, he informed me that he had\npermanently given up copying.\n\n What!  exclaimed I;  suppose your eyes should get entirely well better\nthan ever before would you not copy then? \n\n I have given up copying,  he answered, and slid aside.\n\nHe remained as ever, a fixture in my chamber. Nay if that were\npossible he became still more of a fixture than before. What was to be\ndone? He would do nothing in the office: why should he stay there? In\nplain fact, he had now become a millstone to me, not only useless as a\nnecklace, but afflictive to bear. Yet I was sorry for him. I speak less\nthan truth when I say that, on his own account, he occasioned me\nuneasiness. If he would but have named a single relative or friend, I\nwould instantly have written, and urged their taking the poor fellow\naway to some convenient retreat. But he seemed alone, absolutely alone\nin the universe. A bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic. At length,\nnecessities connected with my business tyrannized over all other\nconsiderations. Decently as I could, I told Bartleby that in six days \ntime he must unconditionally leave the office. I warned him to take\nmeasures, in the interval, for procuring some other abode. I offered to\nassist him in this endeavor, if he himself would but take the first\nstep towards a removal.  And when you finally quit me, Bartleby,  added\nI,  I shall see that you go not away entirely unprovided. Six days from\nthis hour, remember. \n\nAt the expiration of that period, I peeped behind the screen, and lo!\nBartleby was there.\n\nI buttoned up my coat, balanced myself; advanced slowly towards him,\ntouched his shoulder, and said,  The time has come; you must quit this\nplace; I am sorry for you; here is money; but you must go. \n\n I would prefer not,  he replied, with his back still towards me.\n\n You _must_. \n\nHe remained silent.\n\nNow I had an unbounded confidence in this man s common honesty. He had\nfrequently restored to me sixpences and shillings carelessly dropped\nupon the floor, for I am apt to be very reckless in such shirt-button\naffairs. The proceeding then which followed will not be deemed\nextraordinary.\n\n Bartleby,  said I,  I owe you twelve dollars on account; here are\nthirty-two; the odd twenty are yours. Will you take it?  and I handed\nthe bills towards him.\n\nBut he made no motion.\n\n I will leave them here then,  putting them under a weight on the\ntable. Then taking my hat and cane and going to the door I tranquilly\nturned and added After you have removed your things from these\noffices, Bartleby, you will of course lock the door since every one is\nnow gone for the day but you and if you please, slip your key\nunderneath the mat, so that I may have it in the morning. I shall not\nsee you again; so good-bye to you. If hereafter in your new place of\nabode I can be of any service to you, do not fail to advise me by\nletter. Good-bye, Bartleby, and fare you well. \n\nBut he answered not a word; like the last column of some ruined temple,\nhe remained standing mute and solitary in the middle of the otherwise\ndeserted room.\n\nAs I walked home in a pensive mood, my vanity got the better of my\npity. I could not but highly plume myself on my masterly management in\ngetting rid of Bartleby. Masterly I call it, and such it must appear to\nany dispassionate thinker. The beauty of my procedure seemed to consist\nin its perfect quietness. There was no vulgar bullying, no bravado of\nany sort, no choleric hectoring, and striding to and fro across the\napartment, jerking out vehement commands for Bartleby to bundle himself\noff with his beggarly traps. Nothing of the kind. Without loudly\nbidding Bartleby depart as an inferior genius might have done I\n_assumed_ the ground that depart he must; and upon that assumption\nbuilt all I had to say. The more I thought over my procedure, the more\nI was charmed with it. Nevertheless, next morning, upon awakening, I\nhad my doubts, I had somehow slept off the fumes of vanity. One of the\ncoolest and wisest hours a man has, is just after he awakes in the\nmorning. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever. but only in theory.\nHow it would prove in practice there was the rub. It was truly a\nbeautiful thought to have assumed Bartleby s departure; but, after all,\nthat assumption was simply my own, and none of Bartleby s. The great\npoint was, not whether I had assumed that he would quit me, but whether\nhe would prefer so to do. He was more a man of preferences than\nassumptions.\n\nAfter breakfast, I walked down town, arguing the probabilities _pro_\nand _con_. One moment I thought it would prove a miserable failure, and\nBartleby would be found all alive at my office as usual; the next\nmoment it seemed certain that I should see his chair empty. And so I\nkept veering about. At the corner of Broadway and Canal-street, I saw\nquite an excited group of people standing in earnest conversation.\n\n I ll take odds he doesn t,  said a voice as I passed.\n\n Doesn t go? done!  said I,  put up your money. \n\nI was instinctively putting my hand in my pocket to produce my own,\nwhen I remembered that this was an election day. The words I had\noverheard bore no reference to Bartleby, but to the success or\nnon-success of some candidate for the mayoralty. In my intent frame of\nmind, I had, as it were, imagined that all Broadway shared in my\nexcitement, and were debating the same question with me. I passed on,\nvery thankful that the uproar of the street screened my momentary\nabsent-mindedness.\n\nAs I had intended, I was earlier than usual at my office door. I stood\nlistening for a moment. All was still. He must be gone. I tried the\nknob. The door was locked. Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he\nindeed must be vanished. Yet a certain melancholy mixed with this: I\nwas almost sorry for my brilliant success. I was fumbling under the\ndoor mat for the key, which Bartleby was to have left there for me,\nwhen accidentally my knee knocked against a panel, producing a\nsummoning sound, and in response a voice came to me from within Not\nyet; I am occupied. \n\nIt was Bartleby.\n\nI was thunderstruck. For an instant I stood like the man who, pipe in\nmouth, was killed one cloudless afternoon long ago in Virginia, by a\nsummer lightning; at his own warm open window he was killed, and\nremained leaning out there upon the dreamy afternoon, till some one\ntouched him, when he fell.\n\n Not gone!  I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous\nascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which\nascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly\nwent down stairs and out into the street, and while walking round the\nblock, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity.\nTurn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away\nby calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an\nunpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph\nover me, this too I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if\nnothing could be done, was there any thing further that I could\n_assume_ in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that\nBartleby would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that\ndeparted he was. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I\nmight enter my office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see\nBartleby at all, walk straight against him as if he were air. Such a\nproceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance of a\nhome-thrust. It was hardly possible that Bartleby could withstand such\nan application of the doctrine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts\nthe success of the plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the\nmatter over with him again.\n\n Bartleby,  said I, entering the office, with a quietly severe\nexpression,  I am seriously displeased. I am pained, Bartleby. I had\nthought better of you. I had imagined you of such a gentlemanly\norganization, that in any delicate dilemma a slight hint would have\nsuffice in short, an assumption. But it appears I am deceived. Why,  I\nadded, unaffectedly starting,  you have not even touched that money\nyet,  pointing to it, just where I had left it the evening previous.\n\nHe answered nothing.\n\n Will you, or will you not, quit me?  I now demanded in a sudden\npassion, advancing close to him.\n\n I would prefer _not_ to quit you,  he replied, gently emphasizing the\n_not_.\n\n What earthly right have you to stay here? Do you pay any rent? Do you\npay my taxes? Or is this property yours? \n\nHe answered nothing.\n\n Are you ready to go on and write now? Are your eyes recovered? Could\nyou copy a small paper for me this morning? or help examine a few\nlines? or step round to the post-office? In a word, will you do any\nthing at all, to give a coloring to your refusal to depart the\npremises? \n\nHe silently retired into his hermitage.\n\nI was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but\nprudent to check myself at present from further demonstrations.\nBartleby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate\nAdams and the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the\nlatter; and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and\nimprudently permitting himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares\nhurried into his fatal act an act which certainly no man could possibly\ndeplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my\nponderings upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in\nthe public street, or at a private residence, it would not have\nterminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a\nsolitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by\nhumanizing domestic associations an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a\ndusty, haggard sort of appearance; this it must have been, which\ngreatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless\nColt.\n\nBut when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me\nconcerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by\nrecalling the divine injunction:  A new commandment give I unto you,\nthat ye love one another.  Yes, this it was that saved me. Aside from\nhigher considerations, charity often operates as a vastly wise and\nprudent principle a great safeguard to its possessor. Men have\ncommitted murder for jealousy s sake, and anger s sake, and hatred s\nsake, and selfishness  sake, and spiritual pride s sake; but no man\nthat ever I heard of, ever committed a diabolical murder for sweet\ncharity s sake. Mere self-interest, then, if no better motive can be\nenlisted, should, especially with high-tempered men, prompt all beings\nto charity and philanthropy. At any rate, upon the occasion in\nquestion, I strove to drown my exasperated feelings towards the\nscrivener by benevolently construing his conduct. Poor fellow, poor\nfellow! thought I, he don t mean any thing; and besides, he has seen\nhard times, and ought to be indulged.\n\nI endeavored also immediately to occupy myself, and at the same time to\ncomfort my despondency. I tried to fancy that in the course of the\nmorning, at such time as might prove agreeable to him, Bartleby, of his\nown free accord, would emerge from his hermitage, and take up some\ndecided line of march in the direction of the door. But no. Half-past\ntwelve o clock came; Turkey began to glow in the face, overturn his\ninkstand, and become generally obstreperous; Nippers abated down into\nquietude and courtesy; Ginger Nut munched his noon apple; and Bartleby\nremained standing at his window in one of his profoundest dead-wall\nreveries. Will it be credited? Ought I to acknowledge it? That\nafternoon I left the office without saying one further word to him.\n\nSome days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a\nlittle into  Edwards on the Will,  and  Priestly on Necessity.  Under\nthe circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I\nslid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the\nscrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was\nbilleted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all-wise Providence,\nwhich it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby,\nstay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no\nmore; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in\nshort, I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I\nsee it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life.\nI am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in\nthis world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for such\nperiod as you may see fit to remain.\n\nI believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued\nwith me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks\nobtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But\nthus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears\nout at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure,\nwhen I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my\noffice should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable\nBartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations\nconcerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and\ncalling at my office and finding no one but the scrivener there, would\nundertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching\nmy whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would\nremain standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after\ncontemplating him in that position for a time, the attorney would\ndepart, no wiser than he came.\n\nAlso, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and\nwitnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal\ngentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him\nto run round to his (the legal gentleman s) office and fetch some\npapers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet\nremain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and\nturn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all\nthrough the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder\nwas running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at\nmy office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of\nhis possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my\nchambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and\nscandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom\nover the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his\nsavings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end\nperhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his\nperpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me\nmore and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless\nremarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in\nme. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me\nof this intolerable incubus.\n\nEre revolving any complicated project, however, adapted to this end, I\nfirst simply suggested to Bartleby the propriety of his permanent\ndeparture. In a calm and serious tone, I commended the idea to his\ncareful and mature consideration. But having taken three days to\nmeditate upon it, he apprised me that his original determination\nremained the same; in short, that he still preferred to abide with me.\n\nWhat shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last\nbutton. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I\n_should_ do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must;\ngo, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive\nmortal, you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door?\nyou will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I\ncannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then\nmason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your\ncoaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight\non your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to\nyou.\n\nThen something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you\nwill not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent\npallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such\na thing to be done? a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer,\nwho refuses to budge? It is because he will _not_ be a vagrant, then,\nthat you seek to count him _as_ a vagrant. That is too absurd. No\nvisible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for\nindubitably he _does_ support himself, and that is the only\nunanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so\nto do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will\nchange my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice,\nthat if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him\nas a common trespasser.\n\nActing accordingly, next day I thus addressed him:  I find these\nchambers too far from the City Hall; the air is unwholesome. In a word,\nI propose to remove my offices next week, and shall no longer require\nyour services. I tell you this now, in order that you may seek another\nplace. \n\nHe made no reply, and nothing more was said.\n\nOn the appointed day I engaged carts and men, proceeded to my chambers,\nand having but little furniture, every thing was removed in a few\nhours. Throughout, the scrivener remained standing behind the screen,\nwhich I directed to be removed the last thing. It was withdrawn; and\nbeing folded up like a huge folio, left him the motionless occupant of\na naked room. I stood in the entry watching him a moment, while\nsomething from within me upbraided me.\n\nI re-entered, with my hand in my pocket and and my heart in my mouth.\n\n Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going good-bye, and God some way bless you;\nand take that,  slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the\nfloor, and then, strange to say I tore myself from him whom I had so\nlonged to be rid of.\n\nEstablished in my new quarters, for a day or two I kept the door\nlocked, and started at every footfall in the passages. When I returned\nto my rooms after any little absence, I would pause at the threshold\nfor an instant, and attentively listen, ere applying my key. But these\nfears were needless. Bartleby never came nigh me.\n\nI thought all was going well, when a perturbed looking stranger visited\nme, inquiring whether I was the person who had recently occupied rooms\nat No. Wall-street.\n\nFull of forebodings, I replied that I was.\n\n Then sir,  said the stranger, who proved a lawyer,  you are\nresponsible for the man you left there. He refuses to do any copying;\nhe refuses to do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses\nto quit the premises. \n\n I am very sorry, sir,  said I, with assumed tranquility, but an inward\ntremor,  but, really, the man you allude to is nothing to me he is no\nrelation or apprentice of mine, that you should hold me responsible for\nhim. \n\n In mercy s name, who is he? \n\n I certainly cannot inform you. I know nothing about him. Formerly I\nemployed him as a copyist; but he has done nothing for me now for some\ntime past. \n\n I shall settle him then, good morning, sir. \n\nSeveral days passed, and I heard nothing more; and though I often felt\na charitable prompting to call at the place and see poor Bartleby, yet\na certain squeamishness of I know not what withheld me.\n\nAll is over with him, by this time, thought I at last, when through\nanother week no further intelligence reached me. But coming to my room\nthe day after, I found several persons waiting at my door in a high\nstate of nervous excitement.\n\n That s the man here he comes,  cried the foremost one, whom I\nrecognized as the lawyer who had previously called upon me alone.\n\n You must take him away, sir, at once,  cried a portly person among\nthem, advancing upon me, and whom I knew to be the landlord of\nNo. Wall-street.  These gentlemen, my tenants, cannot stand it any\nlonger; Mr. B  pointing to the lawyer,  has turned him out of his\nroom, and he now persists in haunting the building generally, sitting\nupon the banisters of the stairs by day, and sleeping in the entry by\nnight. Every body is concerned; clients are leaving the offices; some\nfears are entertained of a mob; something you must do, and that without\ndelay. \n\nAghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain have\nlocked myself in my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was\nnothing to me no more than to any one else. In vain: I was the last\nperson known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the\nterrible account. Fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as one\nperson present obscurely threatened) I considered the matter, and at\nlength said, that if the lawyer would give me a confidential interview\nwith the scrivener, in his (the lawyer s) own room, I would that\nafternoon strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained\nof.\n\nGoing up stairs to my old haunt, there was Bartleby silently sitting\nupon the banister at the landing.\n\n What are you doing here, Bartleby?  said I.\n\n Sitting upon the banister,  he mildly replied.\n\nI motioned him into the lawyer s room, who then left us.\n\n Bartleby,  said I,  are you aware that you are the cause of great\ntribulation to me, by persisting in occupying the entry after being\ndismissed from the office? \n\nNo answer.\n\n Now one of two things must take place. Either you must do something,\nor something must be done to you. Now what sort of business would you\nlike to engage in? Would you like to re-engage in copying for some\none? \n\n No; I would prefer not to make any change. \n\n Would you like a clerkship in a dry-goods store? \n\n There is too much confinement about that. No, I would not like a\nclerkship; but I am not particular. \n\n Too much confinement,  I cried,  why you keep yourself confined all\nthe time! \n\n I would prefer not to take a clerkship,  he rejoined, as if to settle\nthat little item at once.\n\n How would a bar-tender s business suit you? There is no trying of the\neyesight in that. \n\n I would not like it at all; though, as I said before, I am not\nparticular. \n\nHis unwonted wordiness inspirited me. I returned to the charge.\n\n Well then, would you like to travel through the country collecting\nbills for the merchants? That would improve your health. \n\n No, I would prefer to be doing something else. \n\n How then would going as a companion to Europe, to entertain some young\ngentleman with your conversation, how would that suit you? \n\n Not at all. It does not strike me that there is any thing definite\nabout that. I like to be stationary. But I am not particular. \n\n Stationary you shall be then,  I cried, now losing all patience, and\nfor the first time in all my exasperating connection with him fairly\nflying into a passion.  If you do not go away from these premises\nbefore night, I shall feel bound indeed I _am_ bound to to to quit the\npremises myself!  I rather absurdly concluded, knowing not with what\npossible threat to try to frighten his immobility into compliance.\nDespairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him,\nwhen a final thought occurred to me one which had not been wholly\nunindulged before.\n\n Bartleby,  said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such\nexciting circumstances,  will you go home with me now not to my office,\nbut my dwelling and remain there till we can conclude upon some\nconvenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now,\nright away. \n\n No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all. \n\nI answered nothing; but effectually dodging every one by the suddenness\nand rapidity of my flight, rushed from the building, ran up Wall-street\ntowards Broadway, and jumping into the first omnibus was soon removed\nfrom pursuit. As soon as tranquility returned I distinctly perceived\nthat I had now done all that I possibly could, both in respect to the\ndemands of the landlord and his tenants, and with regard to my own\ndesire and sense of duty, to benefit Bartleby, and shield him from rude\npersecution. I now strove to be entirely care-free and quiescent; and\nmy conscience justified me in the attempt; though indeed it was not so\nsuccessful as I could have wished. So fearful was I of being again\nhunted out by the incensed landlord and his exasperated tenants, that,\nsurrendering my business to Nippers, for a few days I drove about the\nupper part of the town and through the suburbs, in my rockaway; crossed\nover to Jersey City and Hoboken, and paid fugitive visits to\nManhattanville and Astoria. In fact I almost lived in my rockaway for\nthe time.\n\nWhen again I entered my office, lo, a note from the landlord lay upon\nthe desk. I opened it with trembling hands. It informed me that the\nwriter had sent to the police, and had Bartleby removed to the Tombs as\na vagrant. Moreover, since I knew more about him than any one else, he\nwished me to appear at that place, and make a suitable statement of the\nfacts. These tidings had a conflicting effect upon me. At first I was\nindignant; but at last almost approved. The landlord s energetic,\nsummary disposition had led him to adopt a procedure which I do not\nthink I would have decided upon myself; and yet as a last resort, under\nsuch peculiar circumstances, it seemed the only plan.\n\nAs I afterwards learned, the poor scrivener, when told that he must be\nconducted to the Tombs, offered not the slightest obstacle, but in his\npale unmoving way, silently acquiesced.\n\nSome of the compassionate and curious bystanders joined the party; and\nheaded by one of the constables arm in arm with Bartleby, the silent\nprocession filed its way through all the noise, and heat, and joy of\nthe roaring thoroughfares at noon.\n\nThe same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more\nproperly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the\npurpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described\nwas indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a\nperfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however\nunaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by\nsuggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement\nas possible till something less harsh might be done though indeed I\nhardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon,\nthe alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview.\n\nBeing under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all\nhis ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and\nespecially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found\nhim there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face\ntowards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the\njail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of\nmurderers and thieves.\n\n Bartleby! \n\n I know you,  he said, without looking round, and I want nothing to\nsay to you. \n\n It was not I that brought you here, Bartleby,  said I, keenly pained\nat his implied suspicion.  And to you, this should not be so vile a\nplace. Nothing reproachful attaches to you by being here. And see, it\nis not so sad a place as one might think. Look, there is the sky, and\nhere is the grass. \n\n I know where I am,  he replied, but would say nothing more, and so I\nleft him.\n\nAs I entered the corridor again, a broad meat-like man, in an apron,\naccosted me, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder said Is that your\nfriend? \n\n Yes. \n\n Does he want to starve? If he does, let him live on the prison fare,\nthat s all. \n\n Who are you?  asked I, not knowing what to make of such an\nunofficially speaking person in such a place.\n\n I am the grub-man. Such gentlemen as have friends here, hire me to\nprovide them with something good to eat. \n\n Is this so?  said I, turning to the turnkey.\n\nHe said it was.\n\n Well then,  said I, slipping some silver into the grub-man s hands\n(for so they called him).  I want you to give particular attention to\nmy friend there; let him have the best dinner you can get. And you must\nbe as polite to him as possible. \n\n Introduce me, will you?  said the grub-man, looking at me with an\nexpression which seemed to say he was all impatience for an opportunity\nto give a specimen of his breeding.\n\nThinking it would prove of benefit to the scrivener, I acquiesced; and\nasking the grub-man his name, went up with him to Bartleby.\n\n Bartleby, this is Mr. Cutlets; you will find him very useful to you. \n\n Your sarvant, sir, your sarvant,  said the grub-man, making a low\nsalutation behind his apron.  Hope you find it pleasant here,\nsir; spacious grounds cool apartments, sir hope you ll stay with us\nsome time try to make it agreeable. May Mrs. Cutlets and I have the\npleasure of your company to dinner, sir, in Mrs. Cutlets  private\nroom? \n\n I prefer not to dine to-day,  said Bartleby, turning away.  It would\ndisagree with me; I am unused to dinners.  So saying he slowly moved to\nthe other side of the inclosure, and took up a position fronting the\ndead-wall.\n\n How s this?  said the grub-man, addressing me with a stare of\nastonishment.  He s odd, aint he? \n\n I think he is a little deranged,  said I, sadly.\n\n Deranged? deranged is it? Well now, upon my word, I thought that\nfriend of yourn was a gentleman forger; they are always pale and\ngenteel-like, them forgers. I can t pity em can t help it, sir. Did you\nknow Monroe Edwards?  he added touchingly, and paused. Then, laying his\nhand pityingly on my shoulder, sighed,  he died of consumption at\nSing-Sing. So you weren t acquainted with Monroe? \n\n No, I was never socially acquainted with any forgers. But I cannot\nstop longer. Look to my friend yonder. You will not lose by it. I will\nsee you again. \n\nSome few days after this, I again obtained admission to the Tombs, and\nwent through the corridors in quest of Bartleby; but without finding\nhim.\n\n I saw him coming from his cell not long ago,  said a turnkey,  may be\nhe s gone to loiter in the yards. \n\nSo I went in that direction.\n\n Are you looking for the silent man?  said another turnkey passing me.\n Yonder he lies sleeping in the yard there.  Tis not twenty minutes\nsince I saw him lie down. \n\nThe yard was entirely quiet. It was not accessible to the common\nprisoners. The surrounding walls, of amazing thickness, kept off all\nsounds behind them. The Egyptian character of the masonry weighed upon\nme with its gloom. But a soft imprisoned turf grew under foot. The\nheart of the eternal pyramids, it seemed, wherein, by some strange\nmagic, through the clefts, grass-seed, dropped by birds, had sprung.\n\nStrangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and\nlying on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted\nBartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him;\nstooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed\nprofoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his\nhand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my\nfeet.\n\nThe round face of the grub-man peered upon me now.  His dinner is\nready. Won t he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining? \n\n Lives without dining,  said I, and closed his eyes.\n\n Eh! He s asleep, aint he? \n\n With kings and counselors,  murmured I.\n\n\nThere would seem little need for proceeding further in this history.\nImagination will readily supply the meager recital of poor Bartleby s\ninterment. But ere parting with the reader, let me say, that if this\nlittle narrative has sufficiently interested him, to awaken curiosity\nas to who Bartleby was, and what manner of life he led prior to the\npresent narrator s making his acquaintance, I can only reply, that in\nsuch curiosity I fully share, but am wholly unable to gratify it. Yet\nhere I hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor,\nwhich came to my ear a few months after the scrivener s decease. Upon\nwhat basis it rested, I could never ascertain; and hence, how true it\nis I cannot now tell. But inasmuch as this vague report has not been\nwithout certain strange suggestive interest to me, however sad, it may\nprove the same with some others; and so I will briefly mention it. The\nreport was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead\nLetter Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by\na change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, I cannot\nadequately express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it\nnot sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone\nto a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten\nit than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assorting\nthem for the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned.\nSometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring: the\nfinger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note\nsent in swiftest charity: he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor\nhungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those\nwho died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by\nunrelieved calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to\ndeath.\n\nAh Bartleby! Ah humanity!"
    },
    {
        "title": "Little Women",
        "author": "Louisa May Alcott",
        "category": "Children's Books",
        "EN": "PART 1\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\nPLAYING PILGRIMS\n\n\n Christmas won t be Christmas without any presents,  grumbled Jo, lying\non the rug.\n\n It s so dreadful to be poor!  sighed Meg, looking down at her old\ndress.\n\n I don t think it s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty\nthings, and other girls nothing at all,  added little Amy, with an\ninjured sniff.\n\n We ve got Father and Mother, and each other,  said Beth contentedly\nfrom her corner.\n\nThe four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the\ncheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,  We haven t got\nFather, and shall not have him for a long time.  She didn t say\n perhaps never,  but each silently added it, thinking of Father far\naway, where the fighting was.\n\nNobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone,  You know\nthe reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was\nbecause it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we\nought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in\nthe army. We can t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and\nought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don t,  and Meg shook her\nhead, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.\n\n But I don t think the little we should spend would do any good. We ve\neach got a dollar, and the army wouldn t be much helped by our giving\nthat. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want\nto buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself. I ve wanted it so long,  said\nJo, who was a bookworm.\n\n I planned to spend mine in new music,  said Beth, with a little sigh,\nwhich no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.\n\n I shall get a nice box of Faber s drawing pencils; I really need\nthem,  said Amy decidedly.\n\n Mother didn t say anything about our money, and she won t wish us to\ngive up everything. Let s each buy what we want, and have a little fun;\nI m sure we work hard enough to earn it,  cried Jo, examining the heels\nof her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.\n\n I know I do teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I m\nlonging to enjoy myself at home,  began Meg, in the complaining tone\nagain.\n\n You don t have half such a hard time as I do,  said Jo.  How would you\nlike to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps\nyou trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you re ready to\nfly out the window or cry? \n\n It s naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things\ntidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands\nget so stiff, I can t practice well at all.  And Beth looked at her\nrough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.\n\n I don t believe any of you suffer as I do,  cried Amy,  for you don t\nhave to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you\ndon t know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your\nfather if he isn t rich, and insult you when your nose isn t nice. \n\n If you mean libel, I d say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa\nwas a pickle bottle,  advised Jo, laughing.\n\n I know what I mean, and you needn t be statirical about it. It s\nproper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,  returned Amy,\nwith dignity.\n\n Don t peck at one another, children. Don t you wish we had the money\nPapa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we d be,\nif we had no worries!  said Meg, who could remember better times.\n\n You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the\nKing children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in\nspite of their money. \n\n So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work,\nwe make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say. \n\n Jo does use such slang words!  observed Amy, with a reproving look at\nthe long figure stretched on the rug.\n\nJo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to\nwhistle.\n\n Don t, Jo. It s so boyish! \n\n That s why I do it. \n\n I detest rude, unladylike girls! \n\n I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits! \n\n Birds in their little nests agree,  sang Beth, the peacemaker, with\nsuch a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the\n pecking  ended for that time.\n\n Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,  said Meg, beginning to\nlecture in her elder-sisterly fashion.  You are old enough to leave off\nboyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn t matter so\nmuch when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up\nyour hair, you should remember that you are a young lady. \n\n I m not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I ll wear it in two\ntails till I m twenty,  cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down\na chestnut mane.  I hate to think I ve got to grow up, and be Miss\nMarch, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! It s bad\nenough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy s games and work and\nmanners! I can t get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And\nit s worse than ever now, for I m dying to go and fight with Papa. And\nI can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman! \n\nAnd Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like\ncastanets, and her ball bounded across the room.\n\n Poor Jo! It s too bad, but it can t be helped. So you must try to be\ncontented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us\ngirls,  said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the\ndish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its\ntouch.\n\n As for you, Amy,  continued Meg,  you are altogether too particular\nand prim. Your airs are funny now, but you ll grow up an affected\nlittle goose, if you don t take care. I like your nice manners and\nrefined ways of speaking, when you don t try to be elegant. But your\nabsurd words are as bad as Jo s slang. \n\n If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?  asked Beth,\nready to share the lecture.\n\n You re a dear, and nothing else,  answered Meg warmly, and no one\ncontradicted her, for the  Mouse  was the pet of the family.\n\nAs young readers like to know  how people look , we will take this\nmoment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat\nknitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly\nwithout, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable\nroom, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a\ngood picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,\nchrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a\npleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.\n\nMargaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being\nplump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet\nmouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old\nJo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she\nnever seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very\nmuch in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,\ngray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,\nfunny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it\nwas usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders\nhad Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the\nuncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a\nwoman and didn t like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her,\nwas a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy\nmanner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom\ndisturbed. Her father called her  Little Miss Tranquility , and the\nname suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of\nher own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved.\nAmy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own\nopinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow\nhair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying\nherself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters\nof the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.\n\nThe clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair\nof slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good\neffect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened\nto welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got\nout of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she\nwas as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.\n\n They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair. \n\n I thought I d get her some with my dollar,  said Beth.\n\n No, I shall!  cried Amy.\n\n I m the oldest,  began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided,  I m the man\nof the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for\nhe told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone. \n\n I ll tell you what we ll do,  said Beth,  let s each get her something\nfor Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves. \n\n That s like you, dear! What will we get?  exclaimed Jo.\n\nEveryone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the\nidea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands,  I shall give\nher a nice pair of gloves. \n\n Army shoes, best to be had,  cried Jo.\n\n Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,  said Beth.\n\n I ll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won t cost\nmuch, so I ll have some left to buy my pencils,  added Amy.\n\n How will we give the things?  asked Meg.\n\n Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.\nDon t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?  answered Jo.\n\n I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair\nwith the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the\npresents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was\ndreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles, \nsaid Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same\ntime.\n\n Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then\nsurprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so\nmuch to do about the play for Christmas night,  said Jo, marching up\nand down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.\n\n I don t mean to act any more after this time. I m getting too old for\nsuch things,  observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about\n dressing-up  frolics.\n\n You won t stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown\nwith your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best\nactress we ve got, and there ll be an end of everything if you quit the\nboards,  said Jo.  We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do\nthe fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that. \n\n I can t help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don t choose to make\nmyself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down\neasily, I ll drop. If I can t, I shall fall into a chair and be\ngraceful. I don t care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,  returned\nAmy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she\nwas small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.\n\n Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,\ncrying frantically,  Roderigo! Save me! Save me!  and away went Jo,\nwith a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.\n\nAmy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and\njerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her  Ow!  was\nmore suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo\ngave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her\nbread burn as she watched the fun with interest.  It s no use! Do the\nbest you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don t\nblame me. Come on, Meg. \n\nThen things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech\nof two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful\nincantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect.\nRoderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of\nremorse and arsenic, with a wild,  Ha! Ha! \n\n It s the best we ve had yet,  said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and\nrubbed his elbows.\n\n I don t see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You re\na regular Shakespeare!  exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her\nsisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.\n\n Not quite,  replied Jo modestly.  I do think _The Witches Curse, an\nOperatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I d like to try\n_Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do\nthe killing part.  Is that a dagger that I see before me?  muttered Jo,\nrolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous\ntragedian do.\n\n No, it s the toasting fork, with Mother s shoe on it instead of the\nbread. Beth s stage-struck!  cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a\ngeneral burst of laughter.\n\n Glad to find you so merry, my girls,  said a cheery voice at the door,\nand actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a\n can I help you  look about her which was truly delightful. She was not\nelegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the\ngray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in\nthe world.\n\n Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do,\ngetting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn t come home to\ndinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look\ntired to death. Come and kiss me, baby. \n\nWhile making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things\noff, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy\nto her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The\ngirls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own\nway. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs,\ndropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth\ntrotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy\ngave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.\n\nAs they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly\nhappy face,  I ve got a treat for you after supper. \n\nA quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth\nclapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up\nher napkin, crying,  A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father! \n\n Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through\nthe cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving\nwishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,  said Mrs.\nMarch, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.\n\n Hurry and get done! Don t stop to quirk your little finger and simper\nover your plate, Amy,  cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her\nbread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the\ntreat.\n\nBeth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood\nover the delight to come, till the others were ready.\n\n I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too\nold to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,  said Meg\nwarmly.\n\n Don t I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan what s its name? Or a\nnurse, so I could be near him and help him,  exclaimed Jo, with a\ngroan.\n\n It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of\nbad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,  sighed Amy.\n\n When will he come home, Marmee?  asked Beth, with a little quiver in\nher voice.\n\n Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his\nwork faithfully as long as he can, and we won t ask for him back a\nminute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter. \n\nThey all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her\nfeet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on\nthe back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter\nshould happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those\nhard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent\nhome. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers\nfaced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful\nletter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military\nnews, and only at the end did the writer s heart over-flow with\nfatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.\n\n Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by\nday, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their\naffection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see\nthem, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these\nhard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to\nthem, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty\nfaithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves\nso beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and\nprouder than ever of my little women.  Everybody sniffed when they came\nto that part. Jo wasn t ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the\nend of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she\nhid her face on her mother s shoulder and sobbed out,  I am a selfish\ngirl! But I ll truly try to be better, so he mayn t be disappointed in\nme by-and-by. \n\n We all will,  cried Meg.  I think too much of my looks and hate to\nwork, but won t any more, if I can help it. \n\n I ll try and be what he loves to call me,  a little woman  and not be\nrough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere\nelse,  said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much\nharder task than facing a rebel or two down South.\n\nBeth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and\nbegan to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that\nlay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all\nthat Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy\ncoming home.\n\nMrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo s words, by saying in her\ncheery voice,  Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims Progress\nwhen you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me\ntie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks\nand rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the\ncellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop,\nwhere you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a\nCelestial City. \n\n What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and\npassing through the valley where the hob-goblins were,  said Jo.\n\n I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs, \nsaid Meg.\n\n I don t remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar\nand the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the\ntop. If I wasn t too old for such things, I d rather like to play it\nover again,  said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things\nat the mature age of twelve.\n\n We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are\nplaying all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our\nroad is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the\nguide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace\nwhich is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you\nbegin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can\nget before Father comes home. \n\n Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?  asked Amy, who was a very\nliteral young lady.\n\n Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather\nthink she hasn t got any,  said her mother.\n\n Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice\npianos, and being afraid of people. \n\nBeth s bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but\nnobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.\n\n Let us do it,  said Meg thoughtfully.  It is only another name for\ntrying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to\nbe good, it s hard work and we forget, and don t do our best. \n\n We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled\nus out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of\ndirections, like Christian. What shall we do about that?  asked Jo,\ndelighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull\ntask of doing her duty.\n\n Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your\nguidebook,  replied Mrs. March.\n\nThey talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then\nout came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the\ngirls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but\ntonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo s plan of dividing the long\nseams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa,\nand America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they\ntalked about the different countries as they stitched their way through\nthem.\n\nAt nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed.\nNo one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had\na way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant\naccompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a\nflute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a\ncricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always\ncoming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the\nmost pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could\nlisp...\n\nCrinkle, crinkle,  ittle  tar,\n\n\nand it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.\nThe first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the\nhouse singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same\ncheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar\nlullaby.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\nA MERRY CHRISTMAS\n\n\nJo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No\nstockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much\ndisappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down\nbecause it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her\nmother s promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a\nlittle crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that\nbeautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it\nwas a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke\nMeg with a  Merry Christmas,  and bade her see what was under her\npillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside,\nand a few words written by their mother, which made their one present\nvery precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and\nfind their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all\nsat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with\nthe coming day.\n\nIn spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature,\nwhich unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved\nher very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently\ngiven.\n\n Girls,  said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her\nto the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond,  Mother wants\nus to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We\nused to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this\nwar trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as\nyou please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a\nlittle every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good\nand help me through the day. \n\nThen she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round\nher and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression\nso seldom seen on her restless face.\n\n How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let s do as they do. I ll help you with\nthe hard words, and they ll explain things if we don t understand, \nwhispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her\nsisters  example.\n\n I m glad mine is blue,  said Amy. and then the rooms were very still\nwhile the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to\ntouch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.\n\n Where is Mother?  asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for\ntheir gifts, half an hour later.\n\n Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin , and your ma\nwent straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman\nfor givin  away vittles and drink, clothes and firin ,  replied Hannah,\nwho had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by\nthem all more as a friend than a servant.\n\n She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything\nready,  said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a\nbasket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper\ntime.  Why, where is Amy s bottle of cologne?  she added, as the little\nflask did not appear.\n\n She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on\nit, or some such notion,  replied Jo, dancing about the room to take\nthe first stiffness off the new army slippers.\n\n How nice my handkerchiefs look, don t they? Hannah washed and ironed\nthem for me, and I marked them all myself,  said Beth, looking proudly\nat the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.\n\n Bless the child! She s gone and put  Mother  on them instead of  M.\nMarch . How funny!  cried Jo, taking one up.\n\n Isn t that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg s\ninitials are M.M., and I don t want anyone to use these but Marmee, \nsaid Beth, looking troubled.\n\n It s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for\nno one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know, \nsaid Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.\n\n There s Mother. Hide the basket, quick!  cried Jo, as a door slammed\nand steps sounded in the hall.\n\nAmy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters\nall waiting for her.\n\n Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?  asked Meg,\nsurprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so\nearly.\n\n Don t laugh at me, Jo! I didn t mean anyone should know till the time\ncame. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I\ngave all my money to get it, and I m truly trying not to be selfish any\nmore. \n\nAs she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap\none, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget\nherself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her  a\ntrump , while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to\nornament the stately bottle.\n\n You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about\nbeing good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the\nminute I was up, and I m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now. \n\nAnother bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the\ngirls to the table, eager for breakfast.\n\n Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We\nread some, and mean to every day,  they all cried in chorus.\n\n Merry Christmas, little daughters! I m glad you began at once, and\nhope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down.\nNot far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby.\nSix children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they\nhave no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy\ncame to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you\ngive them your breakfast as a Christmas present? \n\nThey were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a\nminute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously,  I m\nso glad you came before we began! \n\n May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?  asked\nBeth eagerly.\n\n I shall take the cream and the muffings,  added Amy, heroically giving\nup the article she most liked.\n\nMeg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one\nbig plate.\n\n I thought you d do it,  said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied.  You\nshall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and\nmilk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime. \n\nThey were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was\nearly, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and\nno one laughed at the queer party.\n\nA poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,\nragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale,\nhungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.\n\nHow the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.\n\n Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!  said the poor woman,\ncrying for joy.\n\n Funny angels in hoods and mittens,  said Jo, and set them to laughing.\n\nIn a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work\nthere. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the\nbroken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the\nmother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while\nshe dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The\ngirls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and\nfed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to\nunderstand the funny broken English.\n\n Das ist gut!   Die Engel-kinder!  cried the poor things as they ate\nand warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had\nnever been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable,\nespecially Jo, who had been considered a  Sancho  ever since she was\nborn. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn t get any of\nit. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were\nnot in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls\nwho gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and\nmilk on Christmas morning.\n\n That s loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it,  said\nMeg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs\ncollecting clothes for the poor Hummels.\n\nNot a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in\nthe few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white\nchrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave\nquite an elegant air to the table.\n\n She s coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for\nMarmee!  cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to\nthe seat of honor.\n\nBeth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted\nescort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched,\nand smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the\nlittle notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a\nnew handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy s\ncologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were\npronounced a perfect fit.\n\nThere was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the\nsimple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at\nthe time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to\nwork.\n\nThe morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of\nthe day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being\nstill too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to\nafford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their\nwits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made\nwhatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions,\npasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats\ncovered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering\nwith tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the\nsame useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of\npreserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many\ninnocent revels.\n\nNo gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart s\ncontent and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots\ngiven her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots,\nan old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some\npicture, were Jo s chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The\nsmallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors\nto take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit\nfor the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,\nwhisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage\nbesides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless\namusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been\nidle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.\n\nOn Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the\ndress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a\nmost flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling\nand whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an\noccasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the\nexcitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew\napart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began.\n\n A gloomy wood,  according to the one playbill, was represented by a\nfew shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the\ndistance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus\nfor walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black\npot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the\nglow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued\nfrom the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed\nfor the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in\nwith a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard,\nmysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much\nagitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain,\nsinging of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing\nresolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo s\nvoice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were\nvery impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for\nbreath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he\nstole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding,\n What ho, minion! I need thee! \n\nOut came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and\nblack robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded\na potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in\na fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the\nspirit who would bring the love philter.\n\nHither, hither, from thy home,\nAiry sprite, I bid thee come!\nBorn of roses, fed on dew,\nCharms and potions canst thou brew?\nBring me here, with elfin speed,\nThe fragrant philter which I need.\nMake it sweet and swift and strong,\nSpirit, answer now my song!\n\n\nA soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave\nappeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden\nhair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang...\n\nHither I come,\nFrom my airy home,\nAfar in the silver moon.\nTake the magic spell,\nAnd use it well,\nOr its power will vanish soon!\n\n\nAnd dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch s feet, the spirit\nvanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a\nlovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having\ncroaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a\nmocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his\nboots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had\nkilled a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and\nintends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain\nfell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the\nmerits of the play.\n\nA good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but\nwhen it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been\ngot up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose\nto the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it,\nand behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver\ndress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed\ncap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course.\nKneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones.\nZara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came\nthe grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with\nfive steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend.\nTimidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo s\nshoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when  Alas! Alas for\nZara!  she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower\ntottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy\nlovers in the ruins.\n\nA universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the\nwreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming,  I told you so! I told you\nso!  With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed\nin, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside...\n\n Don t laugh! Act as if it was all right!  and, ordering Roderigo up,\nbanished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly\nshaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old\ngentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She\nalso defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons\nof the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them\naway, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech\nhe ought to have made.\n\nAct third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to\nfree the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees\nhim put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little\nservant,  Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I\nshall come anon.  The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something,\nand Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless.\nFerdinando, the  minion , carries them away, and Hagar puts back the\ncup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty\nafter a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal\nof clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him\nwhat she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.\n\nThis was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have\nthought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair\nrather marred the effect of the villain s death. He was called before\nthe curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose\nsinging was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the\nperformance put together.\n\nAct fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing\nhimself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as\nthe dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window,\ninforming him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if\nhe will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of\nrapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his\nlady love.\n\nAct fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He\nwishes her to go into a convent, but she won t hear of it, and after a\ntouching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands\nher hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and\ngesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear\naway the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter\nand a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter\ninforms the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair\nand an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn t make them happy. The bag\nis opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage\ntill it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the\nstern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus,\nand the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro s\nblessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.\n\nTumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the\ncot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and\nextinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to\nthe rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless\nwith laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared,\nwith  Mrs. March s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to\nsupper. \n\nThis was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table,\nthey looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee\nto get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was\nunheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream,\nactually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and\ndistracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great\nbouquets of hot house flowers.\n\nIt quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and\nthen at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.\n\n Is it fairies?  asked Amy.\n\n Santa Claus,  said Beth.\n\n Mother did it.  And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray\nbeard and white eyebrows.\n\n Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,  cried Jo, with a\nsudden inspiration.\n\n All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,  replied Mrs. March.\n\n The Laurence boy s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing\ninto his head? We don t know him!  exclaimed Meg.\n\n Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an\nodd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago,\nand he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would\nallow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending\nthem a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you\nhave a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk\nbreakfast. \n\n That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He s a capital fellow,\nand I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he d like to know us\nbut he s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won t let me speak to him when\nwe pass,  said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt\nout of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.\n\n You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don t you? \nasked one of the girls.  My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says\nhe s very proud and doesn t like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps\nhis grandson shut up, when he isn t riding or walking with his tutor,\nand makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he\ndidn t come. Mother says he s very nice, though he never speaks to us\ngirls. \n\n Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the\nfence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on,\nwhen he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day,\nfor he needs fun, I m sure he does,  said Jo decidedly.\n\n I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I ve no\nobjection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He\nbrought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had\nbeen sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went\naway, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own. \n\n It s a mercy you didn t, Mother!  laughed Jo, looking at her boots.\n But we ll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he ll\nhelp act. Wouldn t that be jolly? \n\n I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!  And Meg\nexamined her flowers with great interest.\n\n They are lovely. But Beth s roses are sweeter to me,  said Mrs. March,\nsmelling the half-dead posy in her belt.\n\nBeth nestled up to her, and whispered softly,  I wish I could send my\nbunch to Father. I m afraid he isn t having such a merry Christmas as\nwe are. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\nTHE LAURENCE BOY\n\n\n Jo! Jo! Where are you?  cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.\n\n Here!  answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found\nher sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped\nup in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This\nwas Jo s favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a\ndozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a\npet rat who lived near by and didn t mind her a particle. As Meg\nappeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her\ncheeks and waited to hear the news.\n\n Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner\nfor tomorrow night!  cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then\nproceeding to read it with girlish delight.\n\n Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at\na little dance on New Year s Eve.  Marmee is willing we should go, now\nwhat shall we wear? \n\n What s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our\npoplins, because we haven t got anything else?  answered Jo with her\nmouth full.\n\n If I only had a silk!  sighed Meg.  Mother says I may when I m\neighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait. \n\n I m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.\nYours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine.\nWhatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can t take any out. \n\n You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The\nfront is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee\nwill lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and\nmy gloves will do, though they aren t as nice as I d like. \n\n Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can t get any new ones, so I\nshall have to go without,  said Jo, who never troubled herself much\nabout dress.\n\n You must have gloves, or I won t go,  cried Meg decidedly.  Gloves are\nmore important than anything else. You can t dance without them, and if\nyou don t I should be so mortified. \n\n Then I ll stay still. I don t care much for company dancing. It s no\nfun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers. \n\n You can t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are\nso careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn t\nget you any more this winter. Can t you make them do? \n\n I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how\nstained they are. That s all I can do. No! I ll tell you how we can\nmanage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don t you see? \n\n Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove\ndreadfully,  began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.\n\n Then I ll go without. I don t care what people say!  cried Jo, taking\nup her book.\n\n You may have it, you may! Only don t stain it, and do behave nicely.\nDon t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say  Christopher\nColumbus!  will you? \n\n Don t worry about me. I ll be as prim as I can and not get into any\nscrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me\nfinish this splendid story. \n\nSo Meg went away to  accept with thanks , look over her dress, and sing\nblithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her\nstory, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.\n\nOn New Year s Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls\nplayed dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the\nall-important business of  getting ready for the party . Simple as the\ntoilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing\nand talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the\nhouse. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch\nthe papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.\n\n Ought they to smoke like that?  asked Beth from her perch on the bed.\n\n It s the dampness drying,  replied Jo.\n\n What a queer smell! It s like burned feathers,  observed Amy,\nsmoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.\n\n There, now I ll take off the papers and you ll see a cloud of little\nringlets,  said Jo, putting down the tongs.\n\nShe did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the\nhair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of\nlittle scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.\n\n Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I m spoiled! I can t go! My hair, oh,\nmy hair!  wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her\nforehead.\n\n Just my luck! You shouldn t have asked me to do it. I always spoil\neverything. I m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I ve made\na mess,  groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with\ntears of regret.\n\n It isn t spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends\ncome on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.\nI ve seen many girls do it so,  said Amy consolingly.\n\n Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I d let my hair alone, \ncried Meg petulantly.\n\n So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out\nagain,  said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.\n\nAfter various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the\nunited exertions of the entire family Jo s hair was got up and her\ndress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg s in silvery\ndrab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in\nmaroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white\nchrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light\nglove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect  quite\neasy and fine . Meg s high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt\nher, though she would not own it, and Jo s nineteen hairpins all seemed\nstuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but,\ndear me, let us be elegant or die.\n\n Have a good time, dearies!  said Mrs. March, as the sisters went\ndaintily down the walk.  Don t eat much supper, and come away at eleven\nwhen I send Hannah for you.  As the gate clashed behind them, a voice\ncried from a window...\n\n Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs? \n\n Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,  cried Jo, adding\nwith a laugh as they went on,  I do believe Marmee would ask that if we\nwere all running away from an earthquake. \n\n It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real\nlady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,  replied\nMeg, who had a good many little  aristocratic tastes  of her own.\n\n Now don t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash\nright? And does my hair look very bad?  said Meg, as she turned from\nthe glass in Mrs. Gardiner s dressing room after a prolonged prink.\n\n I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind\nme by a wink, will you?  returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and\nher head a hasty brush.\n\n No, winking isn t ladylike. I ll lift my eyebrows if any thing is\nwrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight,\nand take short steps, and don t shake hands if you are introduced to\nanyone. It isn t the thing. \n\n How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn t that music\ngay? \n\nDown they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to\nparties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to\nthem. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed\nthem over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was\nat her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn t care much for girls or\ngirlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall,\nand felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a\ndozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the\nroom, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the\njoys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows\nwent up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to\nher, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone.\nShe could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth\nwould show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing\nbegan. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so\nbriskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered\nsmilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and\nfearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess,\nintending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another\nbashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell\nbehind her, she found herself face to face with the  Laurence boy .\n\n Dear me, I didn t know anyone was here!  stammered Jo, preparing to\nback out as speedily as she had bounced in.\n\nBut the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little\nstartled,  Don t mind me, stay if you like. \n\n Shan t I disturb you? \n\n Not a bit. I only came here because I don t know many people and felt\nrather strange at first, you know. \n\n So did I. Don t go away, please, unless you d rather. \n\nThe boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to\nbe polite and easy,  I think I ve had the pleasure of seeing you\nbefore. You live near us, don t you? \n\n Next door.  And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo s prim\nmanner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about\ncricket when he brought the cat home.\n\nThat put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her\nheartiest way,  We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas\npresent. \n\n Grandpa sent it. \n\n But you put it into his head, didn t you, now? \n\n How is your cat, Miss March?  asked the boy, trying to look sober\nwhile his black eyes shone with fun.\n\n Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I m only\nJo,  returned the young lady.\n\n I m not Mr. Laurence, I m only Laurie. \n\n Laurie Laurence, what an odd name. \n\n My first name is Theodore, but I don t like it, for the fellows called\nme Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead. \n\n I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo\ninstead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora? \n\n I thrashed  em. \n\n I can t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it.  And\nJo resigned herself with a sigh.\n\n Don t you like to dance, Miss Jo?  asked Laurie, looking as if he\nthought the name suited her.\n\n I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is\nlively. In a place like this I m sure to upset something, tread on\npeople s toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and\nlet Meg sail about. Don t you dance? \n\n Sometimes. You see I ve been abroad a good many years, and haven t\nbeen into company enough yet to know how you do things here. \n\n Abroad!  cried Jo.  Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people\ndescribe their travels. \n\nLaurie didn t seem to know where to begin, but Jo s eager questions\nsoon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay,\nwhere the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake,\nand for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their\nteachers.\n\n Don t I wish I d been there!  cried Jo.  Did you go to Paris? \n\n We spent last winter there. \n\n Can you talk French? \n\n We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay. \n\n Do say some! I can read it, but can t pronounce. \n\n Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis? \n\n How nicely you do it! Let me see ... you said,  Who is the young lady\nin the pretty slippers , didn t you? \n\n Oui, mademoiselle. \n\n It s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is\npretty? \n\n Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and\nquiet, and dances like a lady. \n\nJo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and\nstored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted\ntill they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie s bashfulness soon wore\noff, for Jo s gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and\nJo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody\nlifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the  Laurence boy  better than\never and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him\nto the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys\nwere almost unknown creatures to them.\n\n Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine\nteeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy,\nand altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is? \n\nIt was on the tip of Jo s tongue to ask, but she checked herself in\ntime and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.\n\n I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at\nyour books, no, I mean studying hard.  And Jo blushed at the dreadful\n pegging  which had escaped her.\n\nLaurie smiled but didn t seem shocked, and answered with a shrug.  Not\nfor a year or two. I won t go before seventeen, anyway. \n\n Aren t you but fifteen?  asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she\nhad imagined seventeen already.\n\n Sixteen, next month. \n\n How I wish I was going to college! You don t look as if you liked it. \n\n I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don t like the\nway fellows do either, in this country. \n\n What do you like? \n\n To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way. \n\nJo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows\nlooked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject\nby saying, as her foot kept time,  That s a splendid polka! Why don t\nyou go and try it? \n\n If you will come too,  he answered, with a gallant little bow.\n\n I can t, for I told Meg I wouldn t, because...  There Jo stopped, and\nlooked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.\n\n Because, what? \n\n You won t tell? \n\n Never! \n\n Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my\nfrocks, and I scorched this one, and though it s nicely mended, it\nshows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may\nlaugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know. \n\nBut Laurie didn t laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the\nexpression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently,  Never mind\nthat. I ll tell you how we can manage. There s a long hall out there,\nand we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come. \n\nJo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when\nshe saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was\nempty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught\nher the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and\nspring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get\ntheir breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students \nfestival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She\nbeckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she\nfound her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.\n\n I ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad\nwrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don t know how I m ever\ngoing to get home,  she said, rocking to and fro in pain.\n\n I knew you d hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I m sorry. But I\ndon t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all\nnight,  answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.\n\n I can t have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I\ncan t get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it s a\nlong way to the stable, and no one to send. \n\n I ll go. \n\n No, indeed! It s past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can t stop here, for\nthe house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I ll rest\ntill Hannah comes, and then do the best I can. \n\n I ll ask Laurie. He will go,  said Jo, looking relieved as the idea\noccurred to her.\n\n Mercy, no! Don t ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these\nslippers with our things. I can t dance anymore, but as soon as supper\nis over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes. \n\n They are going out to supper now. I ll stay with you. I d rather. \n\n No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I m so tired I can t\nstir. \n\nSo Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away\nto the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet,\nand opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a\nlittle private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the\ncoffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of her\ndress as bad as the back.\n\n Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!  exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg s\nglove by scrubbing her gown with it.\n\n Can I help you?  said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a\nfull cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.\n\n I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone\nshook me, and here I am in a nice state,  answered Jo, glancing\ndismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.\n\n Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it to\nyour sister? \n\n Oh, thank you! I ll show you where she is. I don t offer to take it\nmyself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did. \n\nJo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a\nlittle table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for Jo,\nand was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a  nice\nboy . They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in\nthe midst of a quiet game of _Buzz_, with two or three other young\npeople who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot\nand rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an\nexclamation of pain.\n\n Hush! Don t say anything,  she whispered, adding aloud,  It s nothing.\nI turned my foot a little, that s all,  and limped upstairs to put her\nthings on.\n\nHannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits  end, till she\ndecided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down\nand, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It\nhappened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood\nand Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she\nsaid, came up and offered his grandfather s carriage, which had just\ncome for him, he said.\n\n It s so early! You can t mean to go yet?  began Jo, looking relieved\nbut hesitating to accept the offer.\n\n I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It s all\non my way, you know, and it rains, they say. \n\nThat settled it, and telling him of Meg s mishap, Jo gratefully\naccepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah\nhated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they\nrolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and\nelegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the\ngirls talked over their party in freedom.\n\n I had a capital time. Did you?  asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and\nmaking herself comfortable.\n\n Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie s friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy\nto me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does.\nShe is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be\nperfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go,  answered Meg, cheering\nup at the thought.\n\n I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he\nnice? \n\n Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I\nhad a delicious redowa with him. \n\n He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie\nand I couldn t help laughing. Did you hear us? \n\n No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden\naway there? \n\nJo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at\nhome. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to\ndisturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little\nnightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out...\n\n Tell about the party! Tell about the party! \n\nWith what Meg called  a great want of manners  Jo had saved some\nbonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the\nmost thrilling events of the evening.\n\n I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home\nfrom the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to\nwait on me,  said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed\nher hair.\n\n I don t believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we\ndo, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight\nslippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them. \nAnd I think Jo was quite right.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\nBURDENS\n\n\n Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on, \nsighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over,\nthe week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the\ntask she never liked.\n\n I wish it was Christmas or New Year s all the time. Wouldn t it be\nfun?  answered Jo, yawning dismally.\n\n We shouldn t enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does\nseem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties,\nand drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It s like other\npeople, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I m so\nfond of luxury,  said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns\nwas the least shabby.\n\n Well, we can t have it, so don t let us grumble but shoulder our\nbundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I m sure Aunt\nMarch is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I ve\nlearned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get\nso light that I shan t mind her. \n\nThis idea tickled Jo s fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg\ndidn t brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children,\nseemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself\npretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair\nin the most becoming way.\n\n Where s the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross\nmidgets, and no one cares whether I m pretty or not?  she muttered,\nshutting her drawer with a jerk.  I shall have to toil and moil all my\ndays, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly\nand sour, because I m poor and can t enjoy my life as other girls do.\nIt s a shame! \n\nSo Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn t at all agreeable\nat breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to\ncroak.\n\nBeth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with\nthe cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were\nnot learned, and she couldn t find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and\nmake a great racket getting ready.\n\nMrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at\nonce, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn t suit her.\n\n There never was such a cross family!  cried Jo, losing her temper when\nshe had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon\nher hat.\n\n You re the crossest person in it!  returned Amy, washing out the sum\nthat was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.\n\n Beth, if you don t keep these horrid cats down cellar I ll have them\ndrowned,  exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten\nwhich had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of\nreach.\n\nJo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she\ncouldn t remember how much nine times twelve was.\n\n Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early\nmail, and you drive me distracted with your worry,  cried Mrs. March,\ncrossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.\n\nThere was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two\nhot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were\nan institution, and the girls called them  muffs , for they had no\nothers and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold\nmornings.\n\nHannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she\nmight be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other\nlunch and were seldom home before two.\n\n Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee.\nWe are a set of rascals this morning, but we ll come home regular\nangels. Now then, Meg!  And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims\nwere not setting out as they ought to do.\n\nThey always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was\nalways at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.\nSomehow it seemed as if they couldn t have got through the day without\nthat, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that\nmotherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.\n\n If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would\nserve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never\nseen,  cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and\nbitter wind.\n\n Don t use such dreadful expressions,  replied Meg from the depths of\nthe veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the\nworld.\n\n I like good strong words that mean something,  replied Jo, catching\nher hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away\naltogether.\n\n Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a\nwretch and I don t choose to be called so. \n\n You re a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can t\nsit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make\nmy fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and\nhigh-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with. \n\n How ridiculous you are, Jo!  But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt\nbetter in spite of herself.\n\n Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be\ndismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can\nalways find something funny to keep me up. Don t croak any more, but\ncome home jolly, there s a dear. \n\nJo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted\nfor the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm\nturnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,\nhard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.\n\nWhen Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate\nfriend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something\ntoward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin\ntoo early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their\nparents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will\nwhich in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.\n\nMargaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her\nsmall salary. As she said, she was  fond of luxury , and her chief\ntrouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others\nbecause she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of\nease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be\nenvious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl\nshould long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a\nhappy life. At the Kings  she daily saw all she wanted, for the\nchildren s older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent\nglimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about\ntheaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds,\nand saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to\nher. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel\nbitter toward everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know\nhow rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.\n\nJo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active\nperson to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt\none of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because\nher offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had\nlost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady s will, but\nthe unworldly Marches only said...\n\n We can t give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will\nkeep together and be happy in one another. \n\nThe old lady wouldn t speak to them for a time, but happening to meet\nJo at a friend s, something in her comical face and blunt manners\nstruck the old lady s fancy, and she proposed to take her for a\ncompanion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place\nsince nothing better appeared and, to every one s surprise, got on\nremarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional\ntempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn t bear it\nlonger, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to\ncome back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her\nheart she rather liked the peppery old lady.\n\nI suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,\nwhich was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo\nremembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads\nand bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer\npictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever\nhe met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring\ndown from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of\nall, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked,\nmade the library a region of bliss to her.\n\nThe moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo\nhurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair,\ndevoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular\nbookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as\nshe had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a\nsong, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice\ncalled,  Josy-phine! Josy-phine!  and she had to leave her paradise to\nwind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham s Essays by the hour\ntogether.\n\nJo s ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had\nno idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found\nher greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn t read, run, and\nride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless\nspirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series\nof ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training\nshe received at Aunt March s was just what she needed, and the thought\nthat she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite\nof the perpetual  Josy-phine! \n\nBeth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she\nsuffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home\nwith her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to\ndevote her skill and energy to Soldiers  Aid Societies, Beth went\nfaithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She was a\nhousewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and\ncomfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be\nloved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little\nworld was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy\nbee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for\nBeth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one\nwhole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them\nin, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her\nbecause Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the\nmore tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm\ndolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words\nor blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of\nthe most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed\nwith an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of dollanity\nhad belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck\nin the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and\ntaken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat\nlittle cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these\ndeficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to\nthis chronic invalid. If anyone had known the care lavished on that\ndolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they\nlaughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out\nto breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and\nnever went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering\ntenderly,  I hope you ll have a good night, my poor dear. \n\nBeth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but\na very human little girl, she often  wept a little weep  as Jo said,\nbecause she couldn t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She\nloved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so\npatiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if\nsomeone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did,\nhowever, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that\nwouldn t keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little\nlark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and\nday after day said hopefully to herself,  I know I ll get my music some\ntime, if I m good. \n\nThere are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners\ntill needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the\nsacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and\nthe sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow\nbehind.\n\nIf anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she\nwould have answered at once,  My nose.  When she was a baby, Jo had\naccidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the\nfall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor\n Petrea s , it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world\ncould not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself,\nand it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a\nGrecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console\nherself.\n\n Little Raphael,  as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for\ndrawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing\nfairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her\nteachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her\nslate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps\non, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering\nout of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as\nwell as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of\ndeportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being\ngood-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.\nHer little airs and graces were much admired, so were her\naccomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,\ncrochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of\nthe words. She had a plaintive way of saying,  When Papa was rich we\ndid so-and-so,  which was very touching, and her long words were\nconsidered  perfectly elegant  by the girls.\n\nAmy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her\nsmall vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,\nhowever, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin s\nclothes. Now Florence s mama hadn t a particle of taste, and Amy\nsuffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,\nunbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was\ngood, well made, and little worn, but Amy s artistic eyes were much\nafflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull\npurple with yellow dots and no trimming.\n\n My only comfort,  she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes,  is that\nMother doesn t take tucks in my dresses whenever I m naughty, as Maria\nParks s mother does. My dear, it s really dreadful, for sometimes she\nis so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can t come to school.\nWhen I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my\nflat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it. \n\nMeg was Amy s confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of\nopposites Jo was gentle Beth s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her\nthoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously\nexercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls\nwere a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger\nsisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way,  playing\nmother  they called it, and put their sisters in the places of\ndiscarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.\n\n Has anybody got anything to tell? It s been such a dismal day I m\nreally dying for some amusement,  said Meg, as they sat sewing together\nthat evening.\n\n I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I ll\ntell you about it,  began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories.  I was\nreading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for\nAunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like\nfury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy, and before she\nbegan to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by\nopening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once. \n\n I wish I could, and be done with it,  said I, trying not to be saucy.\n\n Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and\nthink them over while she just  lost  herself for a moment. She never\nfinds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a\ntop-heavy dahlia, I whipped the _Vicar of Wakefield_ out of my pocket,\nand read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I d just got to\nwhere they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out\nloud. Aunt woke up and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me\nto read a bit and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy\nand instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though\nshe only said...\n\n I don t understand what it s all about. Go back and begin it,\nchild. \n\n Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.\nOnce I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,\n I m afraid it tires you, ma am. Shan t I stop now? \n\n She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave\nme a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way,  Finish\nthe chapter, and don t be impertinent, miss . \n\n Did she own she liked it?  asked Meg.\n\n Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back\nafter my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar\nthat she didn t hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall because of\nthe good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have if only she\nchose! I don t envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich\npeople have about as many worries as poor ones, I think,  added Jo.\n\n That reminds me,  said Meg,  that I ve got something to tell. It isn t\nfunny, like Jo s story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came\nhome. At the Kings  today I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the\nchildren said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and\nPapa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking\nvery loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed\nme, so I shouldn t see how red and swollen their eyes were. I didn t\nask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and was\nrather glad I hadn t any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace\nthe family. \n\n I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than\nanything bad boys can do,  said Amy, shaking her head, as if her\nexperience of life had been a deep one.  Susie Perkins came to school\ntoday with a lovely red carnelian ring. I wanted it dreadfully, and\nwished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr.\nDavis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words,  Young ladies,\nmy eye is upon you!  coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We\nwere laughing over it when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he\nordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was _parry_lized with fright,\nbut she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the\near the ear! Just fancy how horrid! and led her to the recitation\nplatform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so\neveryone could see. \n\n Didn t the girls laugh at the picture?  asked Jo, who relished the\nscrape.\n\n Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know\nshe did. I didn t envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian\nrings wouldn t have made me happy after that. I never, never should\nhave got over such a agonizing mortification.  And Amy went on with her\nwork, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance\nof two long words in a breath.\n\n I saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at\ndinner, but I forgot,  said Beth, putting Jo s topsy-turvy basket in\norder as she talked.  When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.\nLaurence was in the fish shop, but he didn t see me, for I kept behind\nthe fish barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fish-man. A poor\nwoman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would\nlet her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn t any\ndinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day s work. Mr.\nCutter was in a hurry and said  No , rather crossly, so she was going\naway, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish\nwith the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her. She was so\nglad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him\nover and over. He told her to  go along and cook it , and she hurried\noff, so happy! Wasn t it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny,\nhugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence s bed in heaven\nwould be  aisy . \n\nWhen they had laughed at Beth s story, they asked their mother for one,\nand after a moments thought, she said soberly,  As I sat cutting out\nblue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about\nFather, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if anything\nhappened to him. It was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying\ntill an old man came in with an order for some clothes. He sat down\nnear me, and I began to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired and\nanxious.\n\n Have you sons in the army?  I asked, for the note he brought was not\nto me. \n\n Yes, ma am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and\nI m going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.  he\nanswered quietly. \n\n You have done a great deal for your country, sir,  I said, feeling\nrespect now, instead of pity. \n\n Not a mite more than I ought, ma am. I d go myself, if I was any use.\nAs I ain t, I give my boys, and give  em free. \n\n He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give\nhis all, that I was ashamed of myself. I d given one man and thought it\ntoo much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls\nto comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say\ngood-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy thinking of my\nblessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and\nthanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me. \n\n Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like\nto think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy, \nsaid Jo, after a minute s silence.\n\nMrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this\nlittle audience for many years, and knew how to please them.\n\n Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and\ndrink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and\nparents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.  (Here\nthe listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew\ndiligently.)  These girls were anxious to be good and made many\nexcellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were\nconstantly saying,  If only we had this,  or  If we could only do\nthat,  quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things\nthey actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they\ncould use to make them happy, and she said,  When you feel\ndiscontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.  (Here Jo\nlooked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing\nthat the story was not done yet.)\n\n Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were\nsurprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money\ncouldn t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people s houses, another\nthat, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her\nyouth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old\nlady who couldn t enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it\nwas to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and\nthe fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good\nbehavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings\nalready possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken\naway entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never\ndisappointed or sorry that they took the old woman s advice. \n\n Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories\nagainst us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!  cried Meg.\n\n I like that kind of sermon. It s the sort Father used to tell us, \nsaid Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo s cushion.\n\n I don t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more\ncareful than ever now, for I ve had warning from Susie s downfall, \nsaid Amy morally.\n\n We needed that lesson, and we won t forget it. If we do so, you just\nsay to us, as old Chloe did in _Uncle Tom_,  Tink ob yer marcies,\nchillen!   Tink ob yer marcies!  added Jo, who could not, for the life\nof her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though\nshe took it to heart as much as any of them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\nBEING NEIGHBORLY\n\n\n What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?  asked Meg one snowy\nafternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber\nboots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the\nother.\n\n Going out for exercise,  answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her\neyes.\n\n I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough!\nIt s cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the\nfire, as I do,  said Meg with a shiver.\n\n Never take advice! Can t keep still all day, and not being a pussycat,\nI don t like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I m going to\nfind some. \n\nMeg went back to toast her feet and read _Ivanhoe_, and Jo began to dig\npaths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she\nsoon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the\nsun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden\nseparated the Marches  house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a\nsuburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and\nlawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two\nestates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and\nshabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the\nflowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately\nstone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury,\nfrom the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and\nthe glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.\n\nYet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children\nfrolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and\nfew people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.\n\nTo Jo s lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted\npalace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had\nlong wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence\nboy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to\nbegin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had\nplanned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen\nlately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied\na brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their\ngarden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another.\n\n That boy is suffering for society and fun,  she said to herself.  His\ngrandpa does not know what s good for him, and keeps him shut up all\nalone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young\nand lively. I ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman\nso! \n\nThe idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always\nscandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of  going over \nwas not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to\ntry what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then\nsallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took\na survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out\nof sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a\nthin hand at the upper window.\n\n There he is,  thought Jo,  Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal\nday. It s a shame! I ll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and\nthen say a kind word to him. \n\nUp went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a\nface which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes\nbrightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and\nflourished her broom as she called out...\n\n How do you do? Are you sick? \n\nLaurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven...\n\n Better, thank you. I ve had a bad cold, and been shut up a week. \n\n I m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with? \n\n Nothing. It s dull as tombs up here. \n\n Don t you read? \n\n Not much. They won t let me. \n\n Can t somebody read to you? \n\n Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don t interest him, and I hate to\nask Brooke all the time. \n\n Have someone come and see you then. \n\n There isn t anyone I d like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head\nis weak. \n\n Isn t there some nice girl who d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet\nand like to play nurse. \n\n Don t know any. \n\n You know us,  began Jo, then laughed and stopped.\n\n So I do! Will you come, please?  cried Laurie.\n\n I m not quiet and nice, but I ll come, if Mother will let me. I ll go\nask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come. \n\nWith that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house,\nwondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of\nexcitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready,\nfor as Mrs. March said, he was  a little gentleman , and did honor to\nthe coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh color,\nand trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen\nservants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then\na decided voice, asking for  Mr. Laurie , and a surprised-looking\nservant came running up to announce a young lady.\n\n All right, show her up, it s Miss Jo,  said Laurie, going to the door\nof his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite\nat her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth s three kittens\nin the other.\n\n Here I am, bag and baggage,  she said briskly.  Mother sent her love,\nand was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring\nsome of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her\ncats would be comforting. I knew you d laugh at them, but I couldn t\nrefuse, she was so anxious to do something. \n\nIt so happened that Beth s funny loan was just the thing, for in\nlaughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew\nsociable at once.\n\n That looks too pretty to eat,  he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo\nuncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland\nof green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy s pet geranium.\n\n It isn t anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it.\nTell the girl to put it away for your tea. It s so simple you can eat\nit, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat.\nWhat a cozy room this is! \n\n It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don t\nknow how to make them mind. It worries me though. \n\n I ll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth\nbrushed, so and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so and the\nbooks put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the\nlight, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you re fixed. \n\nAnd so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things\ninto place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched\nher in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he\nsat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully...\n\n How kind you are! Yes, that s what it wanted. Now please take the big\nchair and let me do something to amuse my company. \n\n No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?  and Jo looked\naffectionately toward some inviting books near by.\n\n Thank you! I ve read all those, and if you don t mind, I d rather\ntalk,  answered Laurie.\n\n Not a bit. I ll talk all day if you ll only set me going. Beth says I\nnever know when to stop. \n\n Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes\nout with a little basket?  asked Laurie with interest.\n\n Yes, that s Beth. She s my girl, and a regular good one she is, too. \n\n The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe? \n\n How did you find that out? \n\nLaurie colored up, but answered frankly,  Why, you see I often hear you\ncalling to one another, and when I m alone up here, I can t help\nlooking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good\ntimes. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to\nput down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the\nlamps are lighted, it s like looking at a picture to see the fire, and\nyou all around the table with your mother. Her face is right opposite,\nand it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can t help watching it. I\nhaven t got any mother, you know.  And Laurie poked the fire to hide a\nlittle twitching of the lips that he could not control.\n\nThe solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo s warm heart.\nShe had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head,\nand at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was\nsick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness,\nshe gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and\nher sharp voice unusually gentle as she said...\n\n We ll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look\nas much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you d\ncome over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she d do you heaps of\ngood, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would\ndance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties,\nand we d have jolly times. Wouldn t your grandpa let you? \n\n I think he would, if your mother asked him. He s very kind, though he\ndoes not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he s\nafraid I might be a bother to strangers,  began Laurie, brightening\nmore and more.\n\n We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn t think you d be\na bother. We want to know you, and I ve been trying to do it this ever\nso long. We haven t been here a great while, you know, but we have got\nacquainted with all our neighbors but you. \n\n You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn t mind much what\nhappens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn t stay here, you know, and\nI have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as\nI can. \n\n That s bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you\nare asked, then you ll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to\ngo to. Never mind being bashful. It won t last long if you keep going. \n\nLaurie turned red again, but wasn t offended at being accused of\nbashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible\nnot to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.\n\n Do you like your school?  asked the boy, changing the subject, after a\nlittle pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about\nher, well pleased.\n\n Don t go to school, I m a businessman girl, I mean. I go to wait on my\ngreat-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,  answered Jo.\n\nLaurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just\nin time that it wasn t manners to make too many inquiries into people s\naffairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.\n\nJo liked his good breeding, and didn t mind having a laugh at Aunt\nMarch, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady,\nher fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where\nshe reveled.\n\nLaurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old\ngentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine\nspeech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy\nlay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid\npopped her head in to see what was the matter.\n\n Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please,  he said, taking his\nface out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment.\n\nMuch elated with her success, Jo did  tell on , all about their plays\nand plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting\nevents of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to\ntalking about books, and to Jo s delight, she found that Laurie loved\nthem as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.\n\n If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out,\nso you needn t be afraid,  said Laurie, getting up.\n\n I m not afraid of anything,  returned Jo, with a toss of the head.\n\n I don t believe you are!  exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much\nadmiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to\nbe a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his\nmoods.\n\nThe atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way\nfrom room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her\nfancy. And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her\nhands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was\nlined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting\nlittle cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow\nchairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open\nfireplace with quaint tiles all round it.\n\n What richness!  sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair\nand gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction.  Theodore\nLaurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,  she added\nimpressively.\n\n A fellow can t live on books,  said Laurie, shaking his head as he\nperched on a table opposite.\n\nBefore he could say more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with\nalarm,  Mercy me! It s your grandpa! \n\n Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know, \nreturned the boy, looking wicked.\n\n I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don t know why I should\nbe. Marmee said I might come, and I don t think you re any the worse\nfor it,  said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the\ndoor.\n\n I m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I m only\nafraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I\ncouldn t bear to stop,  said Laurie gratefully.\n\n The doctor to see you, sir,  and the maid beckoned as she spoke.\n\n Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him, \nsaid Laurie.\n\n Don t mind me. I m happy as a cricket here,  answered Jo.\n\nLaurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was\nstanding before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door\nopened again, and without turning, she said decidedly,  I m sure now\nthat I shouldn t be afraid of him, for he s got kind eyes, though his\nmouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own.\nHe isn t as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him. \n\n Thank you, ma am,  said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her\ngreat dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.\n\nPoor Jo blushed till she couldn t blush any redder, and her heart began\nto beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a\nminute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly,\nand the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out\nof the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living\neyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones,\nand there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good\ndeal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said\nabruptly, after the dreadful pause,  So you re not afraid of me, hey? \n\n Not much, sir. \n\n And you don t think me as handsome as your grandfather? \n\n Not quite, sir. \n\n And I ve got a tremendous will, have I? \n\n I only said I thought so. \n\n But you like me in spite of it? \n\n Yes, I do, sir. \n\nThat answer pleased the old gentleman. He gave a short laugh, shook\nhands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her\nface, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod,  You ve\ngot your grandfather s spirit, if you haven t his face. He was a fine\nman, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and\nI was proud to be his friend. \n\n Thank you, sir,  And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it\nsuited her exactly.\n\n What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?  was the next\nquestion, sharply put.\n\n Only trying to be neighborly, sir.  And Jo told how her visit came\nabout.\n\n You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you? \n\n Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good\nperhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could,\nfor we don t forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us,  said\nJo eagerly.\n\n Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy s affair. How is the poor woman? \n\n Doing nicely, sir.  And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told\nall about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends\nthan they were.\n\n Just her father s way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother\nsome fine day. Tell her so. There s the tea bell, we have it early on\nthe boy s account. Come down and go on being neighborly. \n\n If you d like to have me, sir. \n\n Shouldn t ask you, if I didn t.  And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm\nwith old-fashioned courtesy.\n\n What would Meg say to this?  thought Jo, as she was marched away,\nwhile her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the\nstory at home.\n\n Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?  said the old\ngentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a\nstart of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his\nredoubtable grandfather.\n\n I didn t know you d come, sir,  he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant\nlittle glance.\n\n That s evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea,\nsir, and behave like a gentleman.  And having pulled the boy s hair by\nway of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a\nseries of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an\nexplosion of laughter from Jo.\n\nThe old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea,\nbut he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old\nfriends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was\ncolor, light, and life in the boy s face now, vivacity in his manner,\nand genuine merriment in his laugh.\n\n She s right, the lad is lonely. I ll see what these little girls can\ndo for him,  thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked\nJo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand\nthe boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.\n\nIf the Laurences had been what Jo called  prim and poky , she would not\nhave got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward.\nBut finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good\nimpression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had\nsomething more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory,\nwhich had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to\nJo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on\neither side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful\nvines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the\nfinest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying,\nwith the happy look Jo liked to see,  Please give these to your mother,\nand tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much. \n\nThey found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing\nroom, but Jo s attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which\nstood open.\n\n Do you play?  she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful\nexpression.\n\n Sometimes,  he answered modestly.\n\n Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth. \n\n Won t you first? \n\n Don t know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly. \n\nSo Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in\nheliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the  Laurence  boy\nincreased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn t put on\nany airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only\npraised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his\nrescue.\n\n That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not\ngood for him. His music isn t bad, but I hope he will do as well in\nmore important things. Going? well, I m much obliged to you, and I hope\nyou ll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo. \n\nHe shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him.\nWhen they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something\namiss. He shook his head.\n\n No, it was me. He doesn t like to hear me play. \n\n Why not? \n\n I ll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can t. \n\n No need of that. I am not a young lady, and it s only a step. Take\ncare of yourself, won t you? \n\n Yes, but you will come again, I hope? \n\n If you promise to come and see us after you are well. \n\n I will. \n\n Good night, Laurie! \n\n Good night, Jo, good night! \n\nWhen all the afternoon s adventures had been told, the family felt\ninclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very\nattractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March\nwanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten\nhim, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand\npiano, and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.\n\n Mother, why didn t Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?  asked Jo,\nwho was of an inquiring disposition.\n\n I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie s father,\nmarried an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who\nis very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he\ndid not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both\ndied when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him\nhome. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and\nthe old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie\ncomes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I\ndare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At\nany rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he\n glowered  as Jo said. \n\n Dear me, how romantic!  exclaimed Meg.\n\n How silly!  said Jo.  Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not\nplague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go. \n\n That s why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I\nsuppose. Italians are always nice,  said Meg, who was a little\nsentimental.\n\n What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to\nhim, hardly,  cried Jo, who was not sentimental.\n\n I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to\nbehave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent\nhim. \n\n He meant the blanc mange, I suppose. \n\n How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course. \n\n Did he?  And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her\nbefore.\n\n I never saw such a girl! You don t know a compliment when you get it, \nsaid Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.\n\n I think they are great nonsense, and I ll thank you not to be silly\nand spoil my fun. Laurie s a nice boy and I like him, and I won t have\nany sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We ll all be\ngood to him because he hasn t got any mother, and he may come over and\nsee us, mayn t he, Marmee? \n\n Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will\nremember that children should be children as long as they can. \n\n I don t call myself a child, and I m not in my teens yet,  observed\nAmy.  What do you say, Beth? \n\n I was thinking about our  _Pilgrim s Progress_ ,  answered Beth, who\nhad not heard a word.  How we got out of the Slough and through the\nWicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying,\nand that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going\nto be our Palace Beautiful. \n\n We have got to get by the lions first,  said Jo, as if she rather\nliked the prospect.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\nBETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL\n\n\nThe big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time\nfor all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old\nMr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said\nsomething funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old\ntimes with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid\nBeth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich,\nfor this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return.\nBut, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors,\nand could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March s\nmotherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in\nthat humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride and\ninterchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the\ngreater.\n\nAll sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new\nfriendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and\nhe privately informed his tutor that  the Marches were regularly\nsplendid girls.  With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the\nsolitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found\nsomething very charming in the innocent companionship of these\nsimple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was\nquick to feel the influences they brought about him, and their busy,\nlively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired\nof books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was\nobliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always\nplaying truant and running over to the Marches .\n\n Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward,  said\nthe old gentleman.  The good lady next door says he is studying too\nhard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is\nright, and that I ve been coddling the fellow as if I d been his\ngrandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can t\nget into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is\ndoing more for him than we can. \n\nWhat good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such\nsleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old\nparlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house.\nMeg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in\nbouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed\nthe old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied pictures and enjoyed\nbeauty to her heart s content, and Laurie played  lord of the manor  in\nthe most delightful style.\n\nBut Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up\ncourage to go to the  Mansion of Bliss , as Meg called it. She went\nonce with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity,\nstared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said  Hey!  so\nloud, that he frightened her so much her  feet chattered on the floor ,\nshe never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never\ngo there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or\nenticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr.\nLaurence s ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters.\nDuring one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation\nto music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine\norgans he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found\nit impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and\nnearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped and\nstood listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with\nexcitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her\nthan if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie s\nlessons and teachers. And presently, as if the idea had just occurred\nto him, he said to Mrs. March...\n\n The boy neglects his music now, and I m glad of it, for he was getting\ntoo fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn t some of\nyour girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just to\nkeep it in tune, you know, ma am? \n\nBeth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to\nkeep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and\nthe thought of practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her\nbreath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with\nan odd little nod and smile...\n\n They needn t see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For I m\nshut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a\ngreat deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine\no clock. \n\nHere he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that\nlast arrangement left nothing to be desired.  Please, tell the young\nladies what I say, and if they don t care to come, why, never mind. \nHere a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a\nface full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way...\n\n Oh sir, they do care, very very much! \n\n Are you the musical girl?  he asked, without any startling  Hey!  as\nhe looked down at her very kindly.\n\n I m Beth. I love it dearly, and I ll come, if you are quite sure\nnobody will hear me, and be disturbed,  she added, fearing to be rude,\nand trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.\n\n Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum\naway as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you. \n\n How kind you are, sir! \n\nBeth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was\nnot frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she\nhad no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The\nold gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping\ndown, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard...\n\n I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my\ndear! Good day, madam.  And away he went, in a great hurry.\n\nBeth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the\nglorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home.\nHow blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her\nbecause she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in\nher sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out\nof the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the\nside door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing\nroom where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty,\neasy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent\nstops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great\ninstrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything\nelse but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was\nlike the voice of a beloved friend.\n\nShe stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no\nappetite, and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state\nof beatitude.\n\nAfter that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly\nevery day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit\nthat came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his\nstudy door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw\nLaurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never\nsuspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the\nrack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her\nabout music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things\nthat helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found,\nwhat isn t always the case, that her granted wish was all she had\nhoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing\nthat a greater was given her. At any rate she deserved both.\n\n Mother, I m going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so\nkind to me, I must thank him, and I don t know any other way. Can I do\nit?  asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.\n\n Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking\nhim. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making\nup,  replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth s\nrequests because she so seldom asked anything for herself.\n\nAfter many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen,\nthe materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet\ncheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very\nappropriate and pretty, and Beth worked away early and late, with\noccasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needlewoman,\nand they were finished before anyone got tired of them. Then she wrote\na short, simple note, and with Laurie s help, got them smuggled onto\nthe study table one morning before the old gentleman was up.\n\nWhen this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen.\nAll day passed and a part of the next before any acknowledgement\narrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crochety\nfriend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an\nerrand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As\nshe came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads\npopping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her,\nseveral hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed...\n\n Here s a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it! \n\n Oh, Beth, he s sent you...  began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly\nenergy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down\nthe window.\n\nBeth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door her sisters\nseized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all\npointing and all saying at once,  Look there! Look there!  Beth did\nlook, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood a\nlittle cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed\nlike a sign board to  Miss Elizabeth March. \n\n For me?  gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should\ntumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.\n\n Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn t it splendid of him? Don t you\nthink he s the dearest old man in the world? Here s the key in the\nletter. We didn t open it, but we are dying to know what he says, \ncried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.\n\n You read it! I can t, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!  and Beth\nhid her face in Jo s apron, quite upset by her present.\n\nJo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first words she saw\nwere...\n\n Miss March:  Dear Madam \n\n How nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me so!  said Amy,\nwho thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.\n\n I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any\nthat suited me so well as yours,  continues Jo.  Heart s-ease is my\nfavorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle giver. I\nlike to pay my debts, so I know you will allow  the old gentleman  to\nsend you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he\nlost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain  Your grateful\nfriend and humble servant,  JAMES LAURENCE . \n\n There, Beth, that s an honor to be proud of, I m sure! Laurie told me\nhow fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept\nall her little things carefully. Just think, he s given you her piano.\nThat comes of having big blue eyes and loving music,  said Jo, trying\nto soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever\nbeen before.\n\n See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk,\npuckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and\nstool, all complete,  added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying\nits beauties.\n\n Your humble servant, James Laurence . Only think of his writing that\nto you. I ll tell the girls. They ll think it s splendid,  said Amy,\nmuch impressed by the note.\n\n Try it, honey. Let s hear the sound of the baby pianny,  said Hannah,\nwho always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.\n\nSo Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano\never heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie\norder, but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm lay in the\nhappiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly\ntouched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright\npedals.\n\n You ll have to go and thank him,  said Jo, by way of a joke, for the\nidea of the child s really going never entered her head.\n\n Yes, I mean to. I guess I ll go now, before I get frightened thinking\nabout it.  And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth\nwalked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the\nLaurences  door.\n\n Well, I wish I may die if it ain t the queerest thing I ever see! The\npianny has turned her head! She d never have gone in her right mind, \ncried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite\nspeechless by the miracle.\n\nThey would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did\nafterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study\ndoor before she gave herself time to think, and when a gruff voice\ncalled out,  come in!  she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who\nlooked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a\nsmall quaver in her voice,  I came to thank you, sir, for...  But she\ndidn t finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech\nand, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she\nput both arms round his neck and kissed him.\n\nIf the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman\nwouldn t have been more astonished. But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he\nliked it amazingly! And was so touched and pleased by that confiding\nlittle kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on\nhis knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as\nif he had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to\nfear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if\nshe had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude\ncan conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own\ngate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back\nagain, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old\ngentleman, as he was.\n\nWhen the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of\nexpressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the window in her\nsurprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands,  Well, I do believe\nthe world is coming to an end. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\nAMY S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION\n\n\n That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn t he?  said Amy one day, as Laurie\nclattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.\n\n How dare you say so, when he s got both his eyes? And very handsome\nones they are, too,  cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about\nher friend.\n\n I didn t say anything about his eyes, and I don t see why you need\nfire up when I admire his riding. \n\n Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him\na Cyclops,  exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.\n\n You needn t be so rude, it s only a  lapse of lingy , as Mr. Davis\nsays,  retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin.  I just wish I had a\nlittle of the money Laurie spends on that horse,  she added, as if to\nherself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.\n\n Why?  asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy s\nsecond blunder.\n\n I need it so much. I m dreadfully in debt, and it won t be my turn to\nhave the rag money for a month. \n\n In debt, Amy? What do you mean?  And Meg looked sober.\n\n Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can t pay them, you\nknow, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged\nat the shop. \n\n Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be\npricking bits of rubber to make balls.  And Meg tried to keep her\ncountenance, Amy looked so grave and important.\n\n Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to\nbe thought mean, you must do it too. It s nothing but limes now, for\neveryone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them\noff for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess.\nIf one girl likes another, she gives her a lime. If she s mad with her,\nshe eats one before her face, and doesn t offer even a suck. They treat\nby turns, and I ve had ever so many but haven t returned them, and I\nought for they are debts of honor, you know. \n\n How much will pay them off and restore your credit?  asked Meg, taking\nout her purse.\n\n A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a\ntreat for you. Don t you like limes? \n\n Not much. You may have my share. Here s the money. Make it last as\nlong as you can, for it isn t very plenty, you know. \n\n Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I ll have a\ngrand feast, for I haven t tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate\nabout taking any, as I couldn t return them, and I m actually suffering\nfor one. \n\nNext day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the\ntemptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper\nparcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.\nDuring the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got\ntwenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to\ntreat circulated through her  set , and the attentions of her friends\nbecame quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on\nthe spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess,\nand Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon\nher limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish\nanswers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss\nSnow s cutting remarks about  some persons whose noses were not too\nflat to smell other people s limes, and stuck-up people who were not\ntoo proud to ask for them , and she instantly crushed  that Snow\ngirl s  hopes by the withering telegram,  You needn t be so polite all\nof a sudden, for you won t get any. \n\nA distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning,\nand Amy s beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her\nfoe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume\nthe airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes\nbefore a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with\ndisastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale\ncompliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking\nan important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March\nhad pickled limes in her desk.\n\nNow Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly\nvowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the\nlaw. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum\nafter a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated\nnovels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had\nforbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done\nall that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in\norder. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but\ngirls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with\ntyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber.\nMr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of\nall sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals,\nfeelings, and examples were not considered of any particular\nimportance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and\nJenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that\nmorning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia,\nand his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved.\nTherefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a\nschoolgirl,  He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear . The\nword  limes  was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he\nrapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat\nwith unusual rapidity.\n\n Young ladies, attention, if you please! \n\nAt the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black,\ngray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.\n\n Miss March, come to the desk. \n\nAmy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed\nher, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.\n\n Bring with you the limes you have in your desk,  was the unexpected\ncommand which arrested her before she got out of her seat.\n\n Don t take all.  whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great\npresence of mind.\n\nAmy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr.\nDavis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when\nthat delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis\nparticularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust\nadded to his wrath.\n\n Is that all? \n\n Not quite,  stammered Amy.\n\n Bring the rest immediately. \n\nWith a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.\n\n You are sure there are no more? \n\n I never lie, sir. \n\n So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them\nout of the window. \n\nThere was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as\nthe last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips.\nScarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times,\nand as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from\nher reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of\nthe girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by\nthe little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This this was too\nmuch. All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable\nDavis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.\n\nAs Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous  Hem! \nand said, in his most impressive manner...\n\n Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry\nthis has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I\nnever break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand. \n\nAmy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring\nlook which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter.\nShe was rather a favorite with  old Davis , as, of course, he was\ncalled, and it s my private belief that he would have broken his word\nif the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent\nin a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible\ngentleman, and sealed the culprit s fate.\n\n Your hand, Miss March!  was the only answer her mute appeal received,\nand too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head\ndefiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her\nlittle palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no\ndifference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck,\nand the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her\ndown.\n\n You will now stand on the platform till recess,  said Mr. Davis,\nresolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.\n\nThat was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and\nsee the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few\nenemies, but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her,\nseemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop\ndown where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense\nof wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow helped her to bear it, and,\ntaking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel\nabove what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless\nand white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic\nfigure before them.\n\nDuring the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive\nlittle girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others\nit might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard\nexperience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been\ngoverned by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her\nbefore. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten\nin the sting of the thought,  I shall have to tell at home, and they\nwill be so disappointed in me! \n\nThe fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last,\nand the word  Recess!  had never seemed so welcome to her before.\n\n You can go, Miss March,  said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,\nuncomfortable.\n\nHe did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she\nwent, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched\nher things, and left the place  forever,  as she passionately declared\nto herself. She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the\nolder girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held\nat once. Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed, and\ncomforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg\nbathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even\nher beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, Jo\nwrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and\nHannah shook her fist at the  villain  and pounded potatoes for dinner\nas if she had him under her pestle.\n\nNo notice was taken of Amy s flight, except by her mates, but the\nsharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in\nthe afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo\nappeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and\ndelivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amy s property, and\ndeparted, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as\nif she shook the dust of the place off her feet.\n\n Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a\nlittle every day with Beth,  said Mrs. March that evening.  I don t\napprove of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr.\nDavis s manner of teaching and don t think the girls you associate with\nare doing you any good, so I shall ask your father s advice before I\nsend you anywhere else. \n\n That s good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old\nschool. It s perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes, \nsighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.\n\n I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved\nsome punishment for disobedience,  was the severe reply, which rather\ndisappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.\n\n Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school? \ncried Amy.\n\n I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,  replied her\nmother,  but I m not sure that it won t do you more good than a bolder\nmethod. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is\nquite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little\ngifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit\nspoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or\ngoodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of\npossessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of\nall power is modesty. \n\n So it is!  cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo.  I\nknew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she\ndidn t know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed\nwhen she was alone, and wouldn t have believed it if anyone had told\nher. \n\n I wish I d known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I m\nso stupid,  said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.\n\n You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could, \nanswered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his\nmerry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face\nin the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.\n\nJo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who\ncould not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So\nLaurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a particularly\nlively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his\ncharacter. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening,\nsaid suddenly, as if busy over some new idea,  Is Laurie an\naccomplished boy? \n\n Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will\nmake a fine man, if not spoiled by petting,  replied her mother.\n\n And he isn t conceited, is he?  asked Amy.\n\n Not in the least. That is why he is so charming and we all like him so\nmuch. \n\n I see. It s nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to\nshow off or get perked up,  said Amy thoughtfully.\n\n These things are always seen and felt in a person s manner and\nconversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display\nthem,  said Mrs. March.\n\n Any more than it s proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and\nribbons at once, that folks may know you ve got them,  added Jo, and\nthe lecture ended in a laugh.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\nJO MEETS APOLLYON\n\n\n Girls, where are you going?  asked Amy, coming into their room one\nSaturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an\nair of secrecy which excited her curiosity.\n\n Never mind. Little girls shouldn t ask questions,  returned Jo\nsharply.\n\nNow if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young,\nit is to be told that, and to be bidden to  run away, dear  is still\nmore trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to\nfind out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who\nnever refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly,  Do tell me!\nI should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her\npiano, and I haven t got anything to do, and am so lonely. \n\n I can t, dear, because you aren t invited,  began Meg, but Jo broke in\nimpatiently,  Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can t\ngo, Amy, so don t be a baby and whine about it. \n\n You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were\nwhispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you\nstopped when I came in. Aren t you going with him? \n\n Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering. \n\nAmy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her\npocket.\n\n I know! I know! You re going to the theater to see the _Seven\nCastles!_  she cried, adding resolutely,  and I shall go, for Mother\nsaid I might see it, and I ve got my rag money, and it was mean not to\ntell me in time. \n\n Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,  said Meg soothingly.\n Mother doesn t wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not\nwell enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you\ncan go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time. \n\n I don t like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please\nlet me. I ve been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I m dying\nfor some fun. Do, Meg! I ll be ever so good,  pleaded Amy, looking as\npathetic as she could.\n\n Suppose we take her. I don t believe Mother would mind, if we bundle\nher up well,  began Meg.\n\n If she goes I shan t, and if I don t, Laurie won t like it, and it\nwill be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I\nshould think she d hate to poke herself where she isn t wanted,  said\nJo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child\nwhen she wanted to enjoy herself.\n\nHer tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,\nin her most aggravating way,  I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay\nfor myself, Laurie hasn t anything to do with it. \n\n You can t sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn t sit\nalone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our\npleasure. Or he ll get another seat for you, and that isn t proper when\nyou weren t asked. You shan t stir a step, so you may just stay where\nyou are,  scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger\nin her hurry.\n\nSitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to\nreason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls\nhurried down, leaving their sister wailing. For now and then she forgot\nher grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child. Just as the party was\nsetting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone,\n You ll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain t. \n\n Fiddlesticks!  returned Jo, slamming the door.\n\nThey had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake_\nwas as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the\ncomical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and\nprincesses, Jo s pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy\nqueen s yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she\namused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her\n sorry for it . She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the\ncourse of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be\nviolent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and\nsemioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed\nafterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had\nhard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually\ngetting her into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having\nhumbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do\nbetter. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a\nfury because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately\nto be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat\nher, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.\n\nWhen they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed\nan injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or\nasked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered\nresentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing\ndescription of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo s\nfirst look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had\nsoothed her feelings by turning Jo s top drawer upside down on the\nfloor. Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance\ninto her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had\nforgiven and forgotten her wrongs.\n\nThere Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced\na tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the\nafternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding\nbreathlessly,  Has anyone taken my book? \n\nMeg and Beth said,  No.  at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the\nfire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a\nminute.\n\n Amy, you ve got it! \n\n No, I haven t. \n\n You know where it is, then! \n\n No, I don t. \n\n That s a fib!  cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking\nfierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.\n\n It isn t. I haven t got it, don t know where it is now, and don t\ncare. \n\n You know something about it, and you d better tell at once, or I ll\nmake you.  And Jo gave her a slight shake.\n\n Scold as much as you like, you ll never see your silly old book\nagain,  cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.\n\n Why not? \n\n I burned it up. \n\n What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to\nfinish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?  said Jo,\nturning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy\nnervously.\n\n Yes, I did! I told you I d make you pay for being so cross yesterday,\nand I have, so... \n\nAmy got no farther, for Jo s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy\ntill her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and\nanger...\n\n You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I ll never\nforgive you as long as I live. \n\nMeg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside\nherself, and with a parting box on her sister s ear, she rushed out of\nthe room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight\nalone.\n\nThe storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard\nthe story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her\nsister. Jo s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her\nfamily as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen\nlittle fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her\nwhole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to\nprint. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the\nold manuscript, so that Amy s bonfire had consumed the loving work of\nseveral years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a\ndreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.\nBeth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her\npet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one\nwould love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now\nregretted more than any of them.\n\nWhen the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable\nthat it took all Amy s courage to say meekly...\n\n Please forgive me, Jo. I m very, very sorry. \n\n I never shall forgive you,  was Jo s stern answer, and from that\nmoment she ignored Amy entirely.\n\nNo one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had\nlearned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted,\nand the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own\ngenerous nature, softened Jo s resentment and healed the breach. It was\nnot a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother\nread aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and\nthe sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing\ntime came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy\nbroke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts\nto be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as\nwell as usual, and all felt out of tune.\n\nAs Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently,  My\ndear, don t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other,\nhelp each other, and begin again tomorrow. \n\nJo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her\ngrief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she\nfelt so deeply injured that she really couldn t quite forgive yet. So\nshe winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was\nlistening,  It was an abominable thing, and she doesn t deserve to be\nforgiven. \n\nWith that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or\nconfidential gossip that night.\n\nAmy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed,\nand began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured\nthan ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which\nwas particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud,\nand nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she\ndropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack\nof the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful\nwhen she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were\nalways talking about being good and yet wouldn t even try when other\npeople set them a virtuous example.\n\n Everybody is so hateful, I ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always\nkind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,  said Jo to herself,\nand off she went.\n\nAmy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient\nexclamation.\n\n There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we\nshall have. But it s no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me. \n\n Don t say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the\nloss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and\nI guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,  said Meg.  Go\nafter them. Don t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with\nLaurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind\nthing, and I m sure she ll be friends again with all her heart. \n\n I ll try,  said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to\nget ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over\nthe hill.\n\nIt was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached\nthem. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for\nhe was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm\nspell had preceded the cold snap.\n\n I ll go on to the first bend, and see if it s all right before we\nbegin to race,  Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a\nyoung Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.\n\nJo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on\nher fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and\nwent slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of\nsatisfaction in her sister s troubles. She had cherished her anger till\nit grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and\nfeelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,\nhe shouted back...\n\n Keep near the shore. It isn t safe in the middle.  Jo heard, but Amy\nwas struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over\nher shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear...\n\n No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself. \n\nLaurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,\nfar behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the\nriver. For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart,\nthen she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round,\njust in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden\ncrash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo s\nheart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice\nwas gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no\nstrength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless,\nstaring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the\nblack water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie s voice cried\nout...\n\n Bring a rail. Quick, quick! \n\nHow she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked\nas if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,\nand lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged\na rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more\nfrightened than hurt.\n\n Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on\nher, while I get off these confounded skates,  cried Laurie, wrapping\nhis coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed\nso intricate before.\n\nShivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an\nexciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot\nfire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking\npale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands\ncut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was\ncomfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed,\nshe called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.\n\n Are you sure she is safe?  whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the\ngolden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever\nunder the treacherous ice.\n\n Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won t even take cold, I think,\nyou were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,  replied\nher mother cheerfully.\n\n Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it\nwould be my fault.  And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of\npenitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her\nhardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the\nheavy punishment which might have come upon her.\n\n It s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it\nbreaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I\ndo?  cried poor Jo, in despair.\n\n Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is\nimpossible to conquer your fault,  said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy\nhead to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo\ncried even harder.\n\n You don t know, you can t guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could\ndo anything when I m in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone\nand enjoy it. I m afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and\nspoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help\nme! \n\n I will, my child, I will. Don t cry so bitterly, but remember this\nday, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another\nlike it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than\nyours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think\nyour temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like\nit. \n\n Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!  And for the moment Jo forgot\nremorse in surprise.\n\n I ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded\nin controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I\nhave learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it,\nthough it may take me another forty years to do so. \n\nThe patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a\nbetter lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She\nfelt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her. The\nknowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,\nmade her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it,\nthough forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a\ngirl of fifteen.\n\n Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go\nout of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you? \nasked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.\n\n Yes, I ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and\nwhen I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away\nfor a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and\nwicked,  answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed\nand fastened up Jo s disheveled hair.\n\n How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the\nsharp words fly out before I know what I m about, and the more I say\nthe worse I get, till it s a pleasure to hurt people s feelings and say\ndreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear. \n\n My good mother used to help me... \n\n As you do us...  interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.\n\n But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years\nhad to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to\nanyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears\nover my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on.\nThen your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be\ngood. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me and we\nwere poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by\nnature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything. \n\n Poor Mother! What helped you then? \n\n Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains,\nbut always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed\nto do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me\nthat I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little\ngirls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your\nsakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you\nwhen I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done,\nand the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest\nreward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them\ncopy. \n\n Oh, Mother, if I m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied, \ncried Jo, much touched.\n\n I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch\nover your  bosom enemy , as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not\nspoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with\nheart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you\ngreater sorrow and regret than you have known today. \n\n I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and\nkeep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger\non his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you\nalways folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding you\nthen?  asked Jo softly.\n\n Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me\nfrom many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look. \n\nJo saw that her mother s eyes filled and her lips trembled as she\nspoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,\n Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn t mean to be\nrude, but it s so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so\nsafe and happy here. \n\n My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest\nhappiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how\nmuch I love them. \n\n I thought I d grieved you. \n\n No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how\nmuch I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his\nlittle daughters safe and good for him. \n\n Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn t cry when he went, and never\ncomplain now, or seem as if you needed any help,  said Jo, wondering.\n\n I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was\ngone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and\nwill surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don t seem to need\nhelp, it is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to\ncomfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your\nlife are beginning and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive\nthem all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your\nHeavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love\nand trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will\ndepend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or\nchange, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of\nlifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go\nto God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as\nfreely and confidingly as you come to your mother. \n\nJo s only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which\nfollowed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart\nwithout words. For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not only\nthe bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial\nand self-control, and led by her mother s hand, she had drawn nearer to\nthe Friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than\nthat of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.\n\nAmy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once\nto mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it\nhad never worn before.\n\n I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn t forgive her, and today,\nif it hadn t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I\nbe so wicked?  said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister\nsoftly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.\n\nAs if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a\nsmile that went straight to Jo s heart. Neither said a word, but they\nhugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was\nforgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINE\nMEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR\n\n\n I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those\nchildren should have the measles just now,  said Meg, one April day, as\nshe stood packing the  go abroady  trunk in her room, surrounded by her\nsisters.\n\n And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole\nfortnight of fun will be regularly splendid,  replied Jo, looking like\na windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.\n\n And such lovely weather, I m so glad of that,  added Beth, tidily\nsorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great\noccasion.\n\n I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice\nthings,  said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically\nreplenished her sister s cushion.\n\n I wish you were all going, but as you can t, I shall keep my\nadventures to tell you when I come back. I m sure it s the least I can\ndo when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get\nready,  said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,\nwhich seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.\n\n What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?  asked Amy, who had\nnot been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.\nMarch kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when\nthe proper time came.\n\n A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue\nsash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn t time to make it over,\nso I must be contented with my old tarlaton. \n\n\n It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it\noff beautifully. I wish I hadn t smashed my coral bracelet, for you\nmight have had it,  said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose\npossessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.\n\n There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but\nMother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,\nand Laurie promised to send me all I want,  replied Meg.  Now, let me\nsee, there s my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my\nhat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks\nheavy for spring, doesn t it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh,\ndear! \n\n Never mind, you ve got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always\nlook like an angel in white,  said Amy, brooding over the little store\nof finery in which her soul delighted.\n\n It isn t low-necked, and it doesn t sweep enough, but it will have to\ndo. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that\nI feel as if I d got a new one. My silk sacque isn t a bit the fashion,\nand my bonnet doesn t look like Sallie s. I didn t like to say\nanything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother\nblack with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a\nyellowish handle. It s strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but\nI know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie s silk one with a gold\ntop,  sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.\n\n Change it,  advised Jo.\n\n I won t be so silly, or hurt Marmee s feelings, when she took so much\npains to get my things. It s a nonsensical notion of mine, and I m not\ngoing to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves\nare my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich and\nsort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for\ncommon.  And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.\n\n Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put\nsome on mine?  she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,\nfresh from Hannah s hands.\n\n No, I wouldn t, for the smart caps won t match the plain gowns without\nany trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn t rig,  said Jo decidedly.\n\n I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my\nclothes and bows on my caps?  said Meg impatiently.\n\n You said the other day that you d be perfectly happy if you could only\ngo to Annie Moffat s,  observed Beth in her quiet way.\n\n So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won t fret, but it does seem as if\nthe more one gets the more one wants, doesn t it? There now, the trays\nare ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for\nMother to pack,  said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the\nhalf-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton,\nwhich she called her  ball dress  with an important air.\n\nThe next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of\nnovelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather\nreluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented\nthan she went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take\ngood care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a\nwinter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went\nto take her first taste of fashionable life.\n\nThe Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,\nat first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its\noccupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life\nthey led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt,\nwithout understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated\nor intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite\nconceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was\nagreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best\nfrock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her\nexactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of\nthose about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,\ncrimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as\nwell as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat s pretty things,\nthe more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and\ndismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt\nthat she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the\nnew gloves and silk stockings.\n\nShe had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls\nwere busily employed in  having a good time . They shopped, walked,\nrode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at\nhome in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to\nentertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one\nwas engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought.\nMr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and\nMrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as\nher daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and  Daisey , as they\ncalled her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.\n\nWhen the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin\nwouldn t do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses\nand making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan,\nlooking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie s crisp new\none. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her\ncheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud.\nNo one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and\nAnnie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white\narms. But in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her\nheart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others\nlaughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard,\nbitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box\nof flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all\nwere exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.\n\n It s for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are\naltogether ravishing,  cried Annie, with a great sniff.\n\n They are for Miss March, the man said. And here s a note,  put in the\nmaid, holding it to Meg.\n\n What fun! Who are they from? Didn t know you had a lover,  cried the\ngirls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.\n\n The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie,  said Meg\nsimply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.\n\n Oh, indeed!  said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note\ninto her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false\npride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers\ncheered her up by their beauty.\n\nFeeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for\nherself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the\nbreasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that\nClara, the elder sister, told her she was  the sweetest little thing\nshe ever saw , and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.\nSomehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest\nwent to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed\nface in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and\nfastened the roses in the dress that didn t strike her as so very\nshabby now.\n\nShe enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her\nheart s content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments.\nAnnie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice.\nMajor Lincoln asked who  the fresh little girl with the beautiful eyes \nwas, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she  didn t\ndawdle, but had some spring in her , as he gracefully expressed it. So\naltogether she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of\nconversation, which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just\ninside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice,\nwhen she heard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall...\n\n How old is he? \n\n Sixteen or seventeen, I should say,  replied another voice.\n\n It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn t it? Sallie\nsays they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them. \n\n Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,\nearly as it is. The girl evidently doesn t think of it yet,  said Mrs.\nMoffat.\n\n She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up\nwhen the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She d be so nice if\nshe was only got up in style. Do you think she d be offended if we\noffered to lend her a dress for Thursday?  asked another voice.\n\n She s proud, but I don t believe she d mind, for that dowdy tarlaton\nis all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good\nexcuse for offering a decent one. \n\nHere Meg s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and\nrather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for\nit helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she\nhad just heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could\nnot help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget\nit, but could not, and kept repeating to herself,  Mrs. M. has made her\nplans,   that fib about her mamma,  and  dowdy tarlaton,  till she was\nready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As\nthat was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather\nexcited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she\nwas making. She was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in\nher bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached\nand her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish,\nyet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed\nthe peace of the old one in which till now she had lived as happily as\na child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoiled by the silly\nspeeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a little shaken\nby the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged\nothers by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with the\nsimple wardrobe which suited a poor man s daughter was weakened by the\nunnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the\ngreatest calamities under heaven.\n\nPoor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half\nresentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not\nspeaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled\nthat morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even\nto take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends\nstruck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought,\ntook quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with\neyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered\nher, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from\nher writing, and said, with a sentimental air...\n\n Daisy, dear, I ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for\nThursday. We should like to know him, and it s only a proper compliment\nto you. \n\nMeg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply\ndemurely,  You are very kind, but I m afraid he won t come. \n\n Why not, Cherie?  asked Miss Belle.\n\n He s too old. \n\n My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!  cried\nMiss Clara.\n\n Nearly seventy, I believe,  answered Meg, counting stitches to hide\nthe merriment in her eyes.\n\n You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,  exclaimed Miss\nBelle, laughing.\n\n There isn t any, Laurie is only a little boy.  And Meg laughed also at\nthe queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her\nsupposed lover.\n\n About your age,  Nan said.\n\n Nearer my sister Jo s; I am seventeen in August,  returned Meg,\ntossing her head.\n\n It s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn t it?  said Annie,\nlooking wise about nothing.\n\n Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are\nso fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,\nso it is quite natural that we children should play together,  and Meg\nhoped they would say no more.\n\n It s evident Daisy isn t out yet,  said Miss Clara to Belle with a\nnod.\n\n Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round,  returned Miss Belle\nwith a shrug.\n\n I m going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do\nanything for you, young ladies?  asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like\nan elephant in silk and lace.\n\n No, thank you, ma am,  replied Sallie.  I ve got my new pink silk for\nThursday and don t want a thing. \n\n Nor I...  began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she\ndid want several things and could not have them.\n\n What shall you wear?  asked Sallie.\n\n My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly\ntorn last night,  said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling\nvery uncomfortable.\n\n Why don t you send home for another?  said Sallie, who was not an\nobserving young lady.\n\n I haven t got any other.  It cost Meg an effort to say that, but\nSallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise,  Only that?\nHow funny...  She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head\nat her and broke in, saying kindly...\n\n Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn t\nout yet? There s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a\ndozen, for I ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I ve outgrown,\nand you shall wear it to please me, won t you, dear? \n\n You are very kind, but I don t mind my old dress if you don t, it does\nwell enough for a little girl like me,  said Meg.\n\n Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to\ndo it, and you d be a regular little beauty with a touch here and\nthere. I shan t let anyone see you till you are done, and then we ll\nburst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball, \nsaid Belle in her persuasive tone.\n\nMeg couldn t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if\nshe would be  a little beauty  after touching up caused her to accept\nand forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.\n\nOn the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and\nbetween them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled\nher hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,\ntouched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense\nwould have added  a soupcon of rouge , if Meg had not rebelled. They\nlaced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly\nbreathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in\nthe mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,\nbrooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink\nsilk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and a\nruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders,\nand a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her\nheart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder\nholder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the\nsatisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.\n\n Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?  cried Hortense,\nclasping her hands in an affected rapture.\n\n Come and show yourself,  said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room\nwhere the others were waiting.\n\nAs Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings\ntinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her\nfun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that\nshe was  a little beauty . Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase\nenthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in\nthe fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like\na party of magpies.\n\n While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt\nand those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver\nbutterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,\nClara, and don t any of you disturb the charming work of my hands, \nsaid Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.\n\n You don t look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I m nowhere\nbeside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you re quite French, I\nassure you. Let your flowers hang, don t be so careful of them, and be\nsure you don t trip,  returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was\nprettier than herself.\n\nKeeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs\nand sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early\nguests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm\nabout fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures\ntheir respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her\nbefore, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young\ngentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only\nstared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but\nagreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas,\nand criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air\nof interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them...\n\n Daisy March father a colonel in the army one of our first families,\nbut reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;\nsweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her. \n\n Dear me!  said the old lady, putting up her glass for another\nobservation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been\nrather shocked at Mrs. Moffat s fibs. The  queer feeling  did not pass\naway, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so\ngot on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the\ntrain kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest\nher earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting\nher fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried\nto be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused,\nfor just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with\nundisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he\nbowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and\nwish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle\nnudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to\nsee, looked unusually boyish and shy.\n\n Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won t care for\nit, or let it change me a bit,  thought Meg, and rustled across the\nroom to shake hands with her friend.\n\n I m glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn t.  she said, with her most\ngrown-up air.\n\n Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,  answered\nLaurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her\nmaternal tone.\n\n What shall you tell her?  asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his\nopinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.\n\n I shall say I didn t know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike\nyourself, I m quite afraid of you,  he said, fumbling at his glove\nbutton.\n\n How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like\nit. Wouldn t Jo stare if she saw me?  said Meg, bent on making him say\nwhether he thought her improved or not.\n\n Yes, I think she would,  returned Laurie gravely.\n\n Don t you like me so?  asked Meg.\n\n No, I don t,  was the blunt reply.\n\n Why not?  in an anxious tone.\n\nHe glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically\ntrimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer,\nwhich had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.\n\n I don t like fuss and feathers. \n\nThat was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg\nwalked away, saying petulantly,  You are the rudest boy I ever saw. \n\nFeeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool\nher cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant\ncolor. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after\nshe heard him saying to his mother...\n\n They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her,\nbut they have spoiled her entirely. She s nothing but a doll tonight. \n\n Oh, dear!  sighed Meg.  I wish I d been sensible and worn my own\nthings, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so\nuncomfortable and ashamed of myself. \n\nShe leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the\ncurtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some\none touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he\nsaid, with his very best bow and his hand out...\n\n Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me. \n\n I m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,  said Meg, trying to\nlook offended and failing entirely.\n\n Not a bit of it, I m dying to do it. Come, I ll be good. I don t like\nyour gown, but I do think you are just splendid.  And he waved his\nhands, as if words failed to express his admiration.\n\nMeg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch\nthe time,  Take care my skirt doesn t trip you up. It s the plague of\nmy life and I was a goose to wear it. \n\n Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,  said Laurie,\nlooking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.\n\nAway they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home,\nthey were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant\nsight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more\nfriendly than ever after their small tiff.\n\n Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?  said Meg, as he stood\nfanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she\nwould not own why.\n\n Won t I!  said Laurie, with alacrity.\n\n Please don t tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won t\nunderstand the joke, and it will worry Mother. \n\n Then why did you do it?  said Laurie s eyes, so plainly that Meg\nhastily added...\n\n I shall tell them myself all about it, and  fess  to Mother how silly\nI ve been. But I d rather do it myself. So you ll not tell, will you? \n\n I give you my word I won t, only what shall I say when they ask me? \n\n Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time. \n\n I ll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You\ndon t look as if you were having a good time. Are you?  And Laurie\nlooked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper...\n\n No, not just now. Don t think I m horrid. I only wanted a little fun,\nbut this sort doesn t pay, I find, and I m getting tired of it. \n\n Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?  said Laurie, knitting his\nblack brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a\npleasant addition to the party.\n\n He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he s coming for\nthem. What a bore!  said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused\nLaurie immensely.\n\nHe did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking\nchampagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving  like a\npair of fools , as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort\nof right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a\ndefender was needed.\n\n You ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that.\nI wouldn t, Meg, your mother doesn t like it, you know,  he whispered,\nleaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher\nstooped to pick up her fan.\n\n I m not Meg tonight, I m  a doll  who does all sorts of crazy things.\nTomorrow I shall put away my  fuss and feathers  and be desperately\ngood again,  she answered with an affected little laugh.\n\n Wish tomorrow was here, then,  muttered Laurie, walking off,\nill-pleased at the change he saw in her.\n\nMeg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.\nAfter supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly\nupsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that\nscandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got\nno chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say\ngood night.\n\n Remember!  she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had\nalready begun.\n\n Silence a la mort,  replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as\nhe went away.\n\nThis little bit of byplay excited Annie s curiosity, but Meg was too\ntired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a\nmasquerade and hadn t enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was\nsick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with\nher fortnight s fun and feeling that she had  sat in the lap of luxury \nlong enough.\n\n It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all\nthe time. Home is a nice place, though it isn t splendid,  said Meg,\nlooking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother\nand Jo on the Sunday evening.\n\n I m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem\ndull and poor to you after your fine quarters,  replied her mother, who\nhad given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick\nto see any change in children s faces.\n\nMeg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a\ncharming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her\nspirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat\nthoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried. As\nthe clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair\nand, taking Beth s stool, leaned her elbows on her mother s knee,\nsaying bravely...\n\n Marmee, I want to  fess . \n\n I thought so. What is it, dear? \n\n Shall I go away?  asked Jo discreetly.\n\n Of course not. Don t I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to\nspeak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the\ndreadful things I did at the Moffats . \n\n We are prepared,  said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little\nanxious.\n\n I told you they dressed me up, but I didn t tell you that they\npowdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a\nfashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn t proper. I know he did, though he\ndidn t say so, and one man called me  a doll . I knew it was silly, but\nthey flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense,\nso I let them make a fool of me. \n\n Is that all?  asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast\nface of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to\nblame her little follies.\n\n No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was\naltogether abominable,  said Meg self-reproachfully.\n\n There is something more, I think.  And Mrs. March smoothed the soft\ncheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly...\n\n Yes. It s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have\npeople say and think such things about us and Laurie. \n\nThen she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats ,\nand as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill\npleased that such ideas should be put into Meg s innocent mind.\n\n Well, if that isn t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,  cried Jo\nindignantly.  Why didn t you pop out and tell them so on the spot? \n\n I couldn t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn t help hearing at\nfirst, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn t remember that I\nought to go away. \n\n Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I ll show you how to settle\nsuch ridiculous stuff. The idea of having  plans  and being kind to\nLaurie because he s rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won t he shout\nwhen I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children? \nAnd Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good\njoke.\n\n If you tell Laurie, I ll never forgive you! She mustn t, must she,\nMother?  said Meg, looking distressed.\n\n No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you\ncan,  said Mrs. March gravely.  I was very unwise to let you go among\npeople of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly,\nill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more\nsorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you,\nMeg. \n\n Don t be sorry, I won t let it hurt me. I ll forget all the bad and\nremember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you\nvery much for letting me go. I ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied,\nMother. I know I m a silly little girl, and I ll stay with you till I m\nfit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired,\nand I can t help saying I like it,  said Meg, looking half ashamed of\nthe confession.\n\n That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not\nbecome a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn\nto know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the\nadmiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg. \n\nMargaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind\nher, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new\nthing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and\nthings of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister\nhad grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world\nwhere she could not follow.\n\n Mother, do you have  plans , as Mrs. Moffat said?  asked Meg\nbashfully.\n\n Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ\nsomewhat from Mrs. Moffat s, I suspect. I will tell you some of them,\nfor the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and\nheart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg,\nbut not too young to understand me, and mothers  lips are the fittest\nto speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in\ntime, perhaps, so listen to my  plans  and help me carry them out, if\nthey are good. \n\nJo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they\nwere about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each,\nand watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her\nserious yet cheery way...\n\n I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be\nadmired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and\nwisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care\nand sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen\nby a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a\nwoman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful\nexperience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait\nfor it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes,\nyou may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls,\nI am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world,\nmarry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses,\nwhich are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and\nprecious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I never want you\nto think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I d rather see\nyou poor men s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than\nqueens on thrones, without self-respect and peace. \n\n Poor girls don t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put\nthemselves forward,  sighed Meg.\n\n Then we ll be old maids,  said Jo stoutly.\n\n Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly\ngirls, running about to find husbands,  said Mrs. March decidedly.\n Don t be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of\nthe best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so\nlove-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these\nthings to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes\nof your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are\nnot. One thing remember, my girls. Mother is always ready to be your\nconfidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that\nour daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort\nof our lives. \n\n We will, Marmee, we will!  cried both, with all their hearts, as she\nbade them good night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TEN\nTHE P.C. AND P.O.\n\n\nAs spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the\nlengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts.\nThe garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the\nlittle plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say,  I d know\nwhich each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see  em in Chiny,  and so\nshe might, for the girls  tastes differed as much as their characters.\nMeg s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.\nJo s bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying\nexperiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the\nseeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top\nand her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in\nher garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and\nsouthernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies.\nAmy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to\nlook at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored\nhorns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies,\ndelicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would\nconsent to blossom there.\n\nGardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine\ndays, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some\nnew, all more or less original. One of these was the  P.C. , for as\nsecret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one,\nand as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the\nPickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a\nyear, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which\noccasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in\na row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with\na big  P.C.  in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper\ncalled, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something,\nwhile Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven\no clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges\nround their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as\nthe eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus\nSnodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy,\nwho was always trying to do what she couldn t, was Nathaniel Winkle.\nPickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original\ntales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which\nthey good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short\ncomings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles\nwithout any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared\nhard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he\narranged himself properly, began to read:\n\n\n THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO \n\n\nMAY 20, 18 \n\n\nPOET S CORNER\n\n\nANNIVERSARY ODE\n\n\nAgain we meet to celebrate\n    With badge and solemn rite,\nOur fifty-second anniversary,\n    In Pickwick Hall, tonight.\n\nWe all are here in perfect health,\n    None gone from our small band:\nAgain we see each well-known face,\n    And press each friendly hand.\n\nOur Pickwick, always at his post,\n    With reverence we greet,\nAs, spectacles on nose, he reads\n    Our well-filled weekly sheet.\n\nAlthough he suffers from a cold,\n    We joy to hear him speak,\nFor words of wisdom from him fall,\n    In spite of croak or squeak.\n\nOld six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,\n    With elephantine grace,\nAnd beams upon the company,\n    With brown and jovial face.\n\nPoetic fire lights up his eye,\n    He struggles  gainst his lot.\nBehold ambition on his brow,\n    And on his nose, a blot.\n\nNext our peaceful Tupman comes,\n    So rosy, plump, and sweet,\nWho chokes with laughter at the puns,\n    And tumbles off his seat.\n\nPrim little Winkle too is here,\n    With every hair in place,\nA model of propriety,\n    Though he hates to wash his face.\n\nThe year is gone, we still unite\n    To joke and laugh and read,\nAnd tread the path of literature\n    That doth to glory lead.\n\nLong may our paper prosper well,\n    Our club unbroken be,\nAnd coming years their blessings pour\n    On the useful, gay  P. C. .\n\n\nA. SNODGRASS\n\n\nTHE MASKED MARRIAGE\n(A Tale Of Venice)\n\n\nGondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely\nload to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of\nCount Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower\ngirls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody\nfilled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on.\n Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?  asked a gallant\ntroubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm.\n\n Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad!  Her dress is well chosen, too,\nfor in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates. \n\n By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom,\nexcept the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the\nfair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows\nher hand,  returned the troubadour.\n\n Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her\nsteps, and is spurned by the old Count,  said the lady, as they joined\nthe dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and\nwithdrawing the young pair to an alcove, hung with purple velvet, he\nmotioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not\na sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves\nsleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke\nthus:\n\n My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here\nto witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services. \nAll eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went\nthrough the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks.\nCuriosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all\ntongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered\nround the count, demanding an explanation.\n\n Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the\nwhim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it.  Now, my children, let the\nplay end. Unmask and receive my blessing. \n\nBut neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone\nthat startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face\nof Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast\nwhere now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola,\nradiant with joy and beauty.\n\n My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast\nas high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more,\nfor even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De\nVere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for\nthe beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife. \n\nThe count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the\nbewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph,  To\nyou, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper\nas mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by\nthis masked marriage. \n\nS. PICKWICK\n\n\nWhy is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?\nIt is full of unruly members.\n\n\nTHE HISTORY OF A SQUASH\n\n\nOnce upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and\nafter a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One\nday in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to\nmarket. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a\nlittle girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub\nnose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up,\nand boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it with salt and butter,\nfor dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four\nspoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and\nbaked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a\nfamily named March.\n\n\nT. TUPMAN\n\n\nMr. Pickwick, _Sir:_ \n    I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man\n    named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and\n    sometimes won t write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will\n    pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can t\n    write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains\n    in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some\n    work which will be all _commy la fo_ that means all right I am in\n    haste as it is nearly school time.\n\n\nYours respectably,\nN. WINKLE\n\n\n[The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors.\nIf our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.]\n\n\nA SAD ACCIDENT\n\n\nOn Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement,\nfollowed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we\ndiscovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having\ntripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect\nscene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged\nhis head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap\nupon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from\nthis perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no\ninjury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well.\n\n\nED.\n\n\nTHE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT\n\n\nIt is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious\ndisappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This\nlovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and\nadmiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and\nvirtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the\nwhole community.\n    When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher s\n    cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms,\n    basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been\n    discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her\n    basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us\n    forever.\n\n\nA sympathizing friend sends the following gem:\n\nA LAMENT\nFOR S. B. PAT PAW\n\n\nWe mourn the loss of our little pet,\n    And sigh o er her hapless fate,\nFor never more by the fire she ll sit,\n    Nor play by the old green gate.\n\nThe little grave where her infant sleeps\n    Is  neath the chestnut tree.\nBut o er _her_ grave we may not weep,\n    We know not where it may be.\n\nHer empty bed, her idle ball,\n    Will never see her more;\nNo gentle tap, no loving purr\n    Is heard at the parlor door.\n\nAnother cat comes after her mice,\n    A cat with a dirty face,\nBut she does not hunt as our darling did,\n    Nor play with her airy grace.\n\nHer stealthy paws tread the very hall\n    Where Snowball used to play,\nBut she only spits at the dogs our pet\n    So gallantly drove away.\n\nShe is useful and mild, and does her best,\n    But she is not fair to see,\nAnd we cannot give her your place dear,\n    Nor worship her as we worship thee.\n\n\nA.S.\n\n\nADVERTISEMENTS\n\n\nMISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished strong-minded lecturer, will\ndeliver her famous lecture on  WOMAN AND HER POSITION  at Pickwick\nHall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances.\n\n\nA WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies\nhow to cook. Hannah Brown will preside, and all are invited to attend.\n\n\nTHE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the\nupper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and\nshoulder their brooms at nine precisely.\n\n\nMRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll s Millinery next\nweek. The latest Paris fashions have arrived, and orders are\nrespectfully solicited.\n\n\nA NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few\nweeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage.\n THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger,  is the name of this\nthrilling drama!!!\n\n\nHINTS\n\n\nIf S.P. didn t use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn t always be\nlate at breakfast. A.S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T.\nplease don t forget Amy s napkin. N.W. must not fret because his dress\nhas not nine tucks.\n\n\nWEEKLY REPORT\n\n\nMeg Good.\nJo Bad.\nBeth Very Good.\nAmy Middling.\n\n\nAs the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to\nassure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls\nonce upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass\nrose to make a proposition.\n\n Mr. President and gentlemen,  he began, assuming a parliamentary\nattitude and tone,  I wish to propose the admission of a new member one\nwho highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and\nwould add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of\nthe paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore\nLaurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him. \n\nJo s sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather\nanxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat.\n\n We ll put it to a vote,  said the President.  All in favor of this\nmotion please to manifest it by saying,  Aye . \n\nA loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody s surprise, by a\ntimid one from Beth.\n\n Contrary-minded say,  No . \n\nMeg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great\nelegance,  We don t wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about.\nThis is a ladies  club, and we wish to be private and proper. \n\n I m afraid he ll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward, \nobserved Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she\nalways did when doubtful.\n\nUp rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest.  Sir, I give you my word as a\ngentleman, Laurie won t do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and\nhe ll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being\nsentimental, don t you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so\nmuch for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here,\nand make him welcome if he comes. \n\nThis artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet,\nlooking as if he had quite made up his mind.\n\n Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and\nhis grandpa, too, if he likes. \n\nThis spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her\nseat to shake hands approvingly.  Now then, vote again. Everybody\nremember it s our Laurie, and say,  Aye!  cried Snodgrass excitedly.\n\n Aye! Aye! Aye!  replied three voices at once.\n\n Good! Bless you! Now, as there s nothing like  taking time by the\nfetlock , as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present\nthe new member.  And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw\nopen the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag,\nflushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.\n\n You rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?  cried the three girls, as\nSnodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a chair\nand a badge, installed him in a jiffy.\n\n The coolness of you two rascals is amazing,  began Mr. Pickwick,\ntrying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an\namiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion, and\nrising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in the most\nengaging manner,  Mr. President and ladies I beg pardon,\ngentlemen allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble\nservant of the club. \n\n Good! Good!  cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan\non which she leaned.\n\n My faithful friend and noble patron,  continued Laurie with a wave of\nthe hand,  who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed\nfor the base stratagem of tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in\nafter lots of teasing. \n\n Come now, don t lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the\ncupboard,  broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.\n\n Never mind what she says. I m the wretch that did it, sir,  said the\nnew member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick.  But on my honor, I\nnever will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest of\nthis immortal club. \n\n Hear! Hear!  cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a\ncymbal.\n\n Go on, go on!  added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed\nbenignly.\n\n I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the\nhonor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between\nadjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the\nlower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on\nthe doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I\nmay be allowed the expression. It s the old martin house, but I ve\nstopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts\nof things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and\nbundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it will\nbe uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key, and with\nmany thanks for your favor, take my seat. \n\nGreat applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and\nsubsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some\ntime before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and\neveryone came out surprising, for everyone did her best. So it was an\nunusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it\nbroke up with three shrill cheers for the new member.\n\nNo one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted,\nwell-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did\nadd  spirit  to the meetings, and  a tone  to the paper, for his\norations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent,\nbeing patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never\nsentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or\nShakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought.\n\nThe P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully,\nfor nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real\npost office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden seeds\nand long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations,\nscoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused\nhimself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny\ntelegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah s charms,\nactually sent a love letter to Jo s care. How they laughed when the\nsecret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post\noffice would hold in the years to come.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\nEXPERIMENTS\n\n\n The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and I m\nfree. Three months  vacation how I shall enjoy it!  exclaimed Meg,\ncoming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual\nstate of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy made\nlemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.\n\n Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!  said Jo.  I was\nmortally afraid she d ask me to go with her. If she had, I should have\nfelt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is about as gay as a\nchurchyard, you know, and I d rather be excused. We had a flurry\ngetting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she spoke to\nme, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly\nhelpful and sweet, and feared she d find it impossible to part from me.\nI quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright,\nfor as it drove of, she popped out her head, saying,  Josyphine, won t\nyou ?  I didn t hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did\nactually run, and whisked round the corner where I felt safe. \n\n Poor old Jo! She came in looking as if bears were after her,  said\nBeth, as she cuddled her sister s feet with a motherly air.\n\n Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?  observed Amy, tasting\nher mixture critically.\n\n She means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn t matter. It s too warm\nto be particular about one s parts of speech,  murmured Jo.\n\n What shall you do all your vacation?  asked Amy, changing the subject\nwith tact.\n\n I shall lie abed late, and do nothing,  replied Meg, from the depths\nof the rocking chair.  I ve been routed up early all winter and had to\nspend my days working for other people, so now I m going to rest and\nrevel to my heart s content. \n\n No,  said Jo,  that dozy way wouldn t suit me. I ve laid in a heap of\nbooks, and I m going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in\nthe old apple tree, when I m not having l \n\n Don t say  larks!  implored Amy, as a return snub for the  samphire \ncorrection.\n\n I ll say  nightingales  then, with Laurie. That s proper and\nappropriate, since he s a warbler. \n\n Don t let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time\nand rest, as the girls mean to,  proposed Amy.\n\n Well, I will, if Mother doesn t mind. I want to learn some new songs,\nand my children need fitting up for the summer. They are dreadfully out\nof order and really suffering for clothes. \n\n May we, Mother?  asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in\nwhat they called  Marmee s corner .\n\n You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it. I\nthink by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as\nbad as all work and no play. \n\n Oh, dear, no! It will be delicious, I m sure,  said Meg complacently.\n\n I now propose a toast, as my  friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp , says.\nFun forever, and no grubbing!  cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the\nlemonade went round.\n\nThey all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the\nrest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten o clock. Her\nsolitary breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed lonely and\nuntidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy s\nbooks lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but  Marmee s\ncorner , which looked as usual. And there Meg sat, to  rest and read ,\nwhich meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would\nget with her salary. Jo spent the morning on the river with Laurie and\nthe afternoon reading and crying over _The Wide, Wide World_, up in the\napple tree. Beth began by rummaging everything out of the big closet\nwhere her family resided, but getting tired before half done, she left\nher establishment topsy-turvy and went to her music, rejoicing that she\nhad no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white\nfrock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle,\nhoping someone would see and inquire who the young artist was. As no\none appeared but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work\nwith interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home\ndripping.\n\nAt teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a\ndelightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the\nafternoon and got a  sweet blue muslin , had discovered, after she had\ncut the breadths off, that it wouldn t wash, which mishap made her\nslightly cross. Jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a\nraging headache by reading too long. Beth was worried by the confusion\nof her closet and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at\nonce, and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy\nBrown s party was to be the next day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she\nhad  nothing to wear . But these were mere trifles, and they assured\ntheir mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, said\nnothing, and with Hannah s help did their neglected work, keeping home\npleasant and the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was\nastonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was\nproduced by the  resting and reveling  process. The days kept getting\nlonger and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were\ntempers; an unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and Satan found\nplenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height of luxury,\nMeg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily,\nthat she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to\nfurbish them up a la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out and she was\nsick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie had a\nquarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished\nshe had gone with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was\nconstantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell\nback into her old ways now and then. But something in the air affected\nher, and more than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so\nthat on one occasion she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her\nshe was  a fright . Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were\nsmall, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found\nthat accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn t\nlike dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn t draw all the\ntime. Tea parties didn t amount to much, neither did picnics, unless\nvery well conducted.  If one could have a fine house, full of nice\ngirls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay at\nhome with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try\nthe patience of a Boaz,  complained Miss Malaprop, after several days\ndevoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui.\n\nNo one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday\nnight each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was\nnearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who\nhad a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an\nappropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and let the girls\nenjoy the full effect of the play system.\n\nWhen they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen,\nno breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen.\n\n Mercy on us! What has happened?  cried Jo, staring about her in\ndismay.\n\nMeg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather\nbewildered, and a little ashamed.\n\n Mother isn t sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay\nquietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. It s a very\nqueer thing for her to do, she doesn t act a bit like herself. But she\nsays it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn t grumble but take\ncare of ourselves. \n\n That s easy enough, and I like the idea, I m aching for something to\ndo, that is, some new amusement, you know,  added Jo quickly.\n\nIn fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and\nthey took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah s\nsaying,  Housekeeping ain t no joke.  There was plenty of food in the\nlarder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast,\nwondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work.\n\n I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think\nof her, for she d take care of herself,  said Meg, who presided and\nfelt quite matronly behind the teapot.\n\nSo a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the\ncook s compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet\nscorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March\nreceived her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo\nwas gone.\n\n Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I m afraid, but they\nwon t suffer, and it will do them good,  she said, producing the more\npalatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of\nthe bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly\nlittle deception for which they were grateful.\n\nMany were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook\nat her failures.  Never mind, I ll get the dinner and be servant, you\nbe mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders,  said\nJo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs.\n\nThis obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired to the\nparlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the\nsofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble of dusting. Jo, with\nperfect faith in her own powers and a friendly desire to make up the\nquarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie to\ndinner.\n\n You d better see what you have got before you think of having\ncompany,  said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.\n\n Oh, there s corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get some\nasparagus and a lobster,  for a relish , as Hannah says. We ll have\nlettuce and make a salad. I don t know how, but the book tells. I ll\nhave blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you\nwant to be elegant. \n\n Don t try too many messes, Jo, for you can t make anything but\ngingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat. I wash my hands of the\ndinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own\nresponsibility, you may just take care of him. \n\n I don t want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the\npudding. You ll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won t you? \nasked Jo, rather hurt.\n\n Yes, but I don t know much, except about bread and a few trifles. You\nhad better ask Mother s leave before you order anything,  returned Meg\nprudently.\n\n Of course I shall. I m not a fool.  And Jo went off in a huff at the\ndoubts expressed of her powers.\n\n Get what you like, and don t disturb me. I m going out to dinner and\ncan t worry about things at home,  said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to\nher.  I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I m going to take a vacation\ntoday, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself. \n\nThe unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and\nreading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural\nphenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic\neruption would hardly have seemed stranger.\n\n Everything is out of sorts, somehow,  she said to herself, going\ndownstairs.  There s Beth crying, that s a sure sign that something is\nwrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, I ll shake her. \n\nFeeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to\nfind Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with\nhis little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for\nwant of which he had died.\n\n It s all my fault, I forgot him, there isn t a seed or a drop left.\nOh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could I be so cruel to you?  cried Beth, taking\nthe poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him.\n\nJo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding\nhim stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a\ncoffin.\n\n Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive,  said Amy\nhopefully.\n\n He s been starved, and he shan t be baked now he s dead. I ll make him\na shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I ll never have\nanother bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one,  murmured\nBeth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.\n\n The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don t\ncry, Bethy. It s a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has\nhad the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my\nbox, and after the dinner party, we ll have a nice little funeral, \nsaid Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.\n\nLeaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, which\nwas in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a big apron,\nshe fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when\nshe discovered that the fire was out.\n\n Here s a sweet prospect!  muttered Jo, slamming the stove door open,\nand poking vigorously among the cinders.\n\nHaving rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the\nwater heated. The walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself that\nshe had made good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a very\nyoung lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid\nstrawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the dinner arrived and\nthe stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had\nworked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and\nforgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor, when\nthe door flew open and a floury, crocky, flushed, and disheveled figure\nappeared, demanding tartly...\n\n I say, isn t bread  riz  enough when it runs over the pans? \n\nSallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high\nas they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and put the\nsour bread into the oven without further delay. Mrs. March went out,\nafter peeping here and there to see how matters went, also saying a\nword of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet, while the dear\ndeparted lay in state in the domino box. A strange sense of\nhelplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the\ncorner, and despair seized them when a few minutes later Miss Crocker\nappeared, and said she d come to dinner. Now this lady was a thin,\nyellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw\neverything and gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had\nbeen taught to be kind to her, simply because she was old and poor and\nhad few friends. So Meg gave her the easy chair and tried to entertain\nher, while she asked questions, criticized everything, and told stories\nof the people whom she knew.\n\nLanguage cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions\nwhich Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a\nstanding joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,\nand discovered that something more than energy and good will is\nnecessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was\ngrieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.\nThe bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that\nshe could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to\nher, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager\nproportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had to\nbe hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the\nlast. The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as\nthey looked, having been skilfully  deaconed .\n\n Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only\nit s mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing, \nthought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and\nstood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before\nLaurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose\ntattling tongue would report them far and wide.\n\nPoor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after\nanother was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed,\nMiss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all\nhis might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo s one strong\npoint was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of\nrich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew\na long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone\nlooked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of\ncream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water\nhastily. Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they\ndwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was\neating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth\nand he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate\nfare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and\nleft the table precipitately.\n\n Oh, what is it?  exclaimed Jo, trembling.\n\n Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,  replied Meg with a\ntragic gesture.\n\nJo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had\ngiven a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes\non the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the\nrefrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when\nshe met Laurie s eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic\nefforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she\nlaughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even\n Croaker  as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner\nended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.\n\n I haven t strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober\nourselves with a funeral,  said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made\nready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend s\ndinner table.\n\nThey did sober themselves for Beth s sake. Laurie dug a grave under the\nferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his\ntender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of\nviolets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,\ncomposed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner.\n\nHere lies Pip March,\nWho died the 7th of June;\nLoved and lamented sore,\nAnd not forgotten soon.\n\n\nAt the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome\nwith emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the\nbeds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up\nthe pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the\nremains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so\ntired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.\n\nLaurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour\ncream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came\nhome to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the\nafternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success\nof one part of the experiment.\n\nBefore the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was\na scramble to get ready to see them. Then tea must be got, errands\ndone, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last\nminute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on\nthe porch where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each\ngroaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.\n\n What a dreadful day this has been!  began Jo, usually the first to\nspeak.\n\n It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable,  said Meg.\n\n Not a bit like home,  added Amy.\n\n It can t seem so without Marmee and little Pip,  sighed Beth, glancing\nwith full eyes at the empty cage above her head.\n\n Here s Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you\nwant it. \n\nAs she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as\nif her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.\n\n Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another\nweek of it?  she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned\ntoward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.\n\n I don t!  cried Jo decidedly.\n\n Nor I,  echoed the others.\n\n You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a\nlittle for others, do you? \n\n Lounging and larking doesn t pay,  observed Jo, shaking her head.  I m\ntired of it and mean to go to work at something right off. \n\n Suppose you learn plain cooking. That s a useful accomplishment, which\nno woman should be without,  said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the\nrecollection of Jo s dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and\nheard her account of it.\n\n Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we d\nget on?  cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.\n\n Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing\nher share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on\npretty well, though I don t think you were very happy or amiable. So I\nthought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when\neveryone thinks only of herself. Don t you feel that it is pleasanter\nto help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when\nit comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and\nlovely to us all? \n\n We do, Mother, we do!  cried the girls.\n\n Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for\nthough they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as\nwe learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for\neveryone. It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and\nspirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than\nmoney or fashion. \n\n We ll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don t,  said Jo.\n I ll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner\nparty I have shall be a success. \n\n I ll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it,\nMarmee. I can and I will, though I m not fond of sewing. That will be\nbetter than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as\nthey are.  said Meg.\n\n I ll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music\nand dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing, \nwas Beth s resolution, while Amy followed their example by heroically\ndeclaring,  I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts\nof speech. \n\n Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy\nthat we shall not have to repeat it, only don t go to the other extreme\nand delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each\nday both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth\nof time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age\nwill bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite\nof poverty. \n\n We ll remember, Mother!  and they did.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\nCAMP LAURENCE\n\n\nBeth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it\nregularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door\nand distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands\nfull, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the\npenny post.\n\n Here s your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that,  she said,\nputting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in  Marmee s corner ,\nand was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.\n\n Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove,  continued Beth, delivering\nthe articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching\nwristbands.\n\n Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,  said Meg,\nlooking at the gray cotton glove.  Didn t you drop the other in the\ngarden? \n\n No, I m sure I didn t, for there was only one in the office. \n\n I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My\nletter is only a translation of the German song I wanted. I think Mr.\nBrooke did it, for this isn t Laurie s writing. \n\nMrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham\nmorning gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and\nvery womanly, as she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy\nwhite rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her mother s mind as she\nsewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied\nwith girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt,\nthat Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied.\n\n Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered\nthe whole post office and stuck outside,  said Beth, laughing as she\nwent into the study where Jo sat writing.\n\n What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the\nfashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said,  Why mind the\nfashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!  I said I would if I had\none, and he has sent me this, to try me. I ll wear it for fun, and show\nhim I don t care for the fashion.  And hanging the antique broad-brim\non a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.\n\nOne from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said\nto her...\n\nMy Dear:\n\n\nI write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction I watch\nyour efforts to control your temper. You say nothing about your trials,\nfailures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no one sees them but\nthe Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust the well-worn cover\nof your guidebook. I, too, have seen them all, and heartily believe in\nthe sincerity of your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go on,\ndear, patiently and bravely, and always believe that no one sympathizes\nmore tenderly with you than your loving...\n\n\nMother\n\n\n That does me good! That s worth millions of money and pecks of praise.\nOh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I\nhave you to help me. \n\nLaying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy\ntears, for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts\nto be good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging,\nbecause unexpected and from the person whose commendation she most\nvalued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she\npinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she\nbe taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready\nfor either good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote...\n\nDear Jo, What ho!\n\n\nSome English girls and boys are coming to see me tomorrow and I want to\nhave a jolly time. If it s fine, I m going to pitch my tent in\nLongmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet have a fire,\nmake messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are nice\npeople, and like such things. Brooke will go to keep us boys steady,\nand Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you all to\ncome, can t let Beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry her.\nDon t bother about rations, I ll see to that and everything else, only\ndo come, there s a good fellow!\n\n\nIn a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie.\n\n\n Here s richness!  cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.\n\n Of course we can go, Mother? It will be such a help to Laurie, for I\ncan row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some\nway. \n\n I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people. Do you know anything\nabout them, Jo?  asked Meg.\n\n Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and\nFrank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or\nten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys. I fancied, from the\nway he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn t admire\nKate much. \n\n I m so glad my French print is clean, it s just the thing and so\nbecoming!  observed Meg complacently.  Have you anything decent, Jo? \n\n Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and\ntramp about, so I don t want any starch to think of. You ll come,\nBetty? \n\n If you won t let any boys talk to me. \n\n Not a boy! \n\n I like to please Laurie, and I m not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so\nkind. But I don t want to play, or sing, or say anything. I ll work\nhard and not trouble anyone, and you ll take care of me, Jo, so I ll\ngo. \n\n That s my good girl. You do try to fight off your shyness, and I love\nyou for it. Fighting faults isn t easy, as I know, and a cheery word\nkind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother,  And Jo gave the thin cheek a\ngrateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back\nthe rosy roundness of her youth.\n\n I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy, \nsaid Amy, showing her mail.\n\n And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to\nhim tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go,  added Beth,\nwhose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.\n\n Now let s fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play\ntomorrow with free minds,  said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a\nbroom.\n\nWhen the sun peeped into the girls  room early next morning to promise\nthem a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation\nfor the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of\nlittle curlpapers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her\nafflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her\nto atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax\nby putting a clothespin on her nose to uplift the offending feature. It\nwas one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing\nboards, therefore quite appropriate and effective for the purpose it\nwas now being put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for\nhe burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up and roused her sisters\nby a hearty laugh at Amy s ornament.\n\nSunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a\nlively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept\nreporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters  toilets by\nfrequent telegrams from the window.\n\n There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch\nin a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the\nsky and the weathercock. I wish he would go too. There s Laurie,\nlooking like a sailor, nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Here s a carriage full\nof people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is\nlame, poor thing, he s got a crutch. Laurie didn t tell us that. Be\nquick, girls! It s getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do\ndeclare. Meg, isn t that the man who bowed to you one day when we were\nshopping? \n\n So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the\nmountains. There is Sallie. I m glad she got back in time. Am I all\nright, Jo?  cried Meg in a flutter.\n\n A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it\nlooks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff.\nNow then, come on! \n\n Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It s too absurd! You\nshall not make a guy of yourself,  remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down\nwith a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie had\nsent for a joke.\n\n I just will, though, for it s capital, so shady, light, and big. It\nwill make fun, and I don t mind being a guy if I m comfortable.  With\nthat Jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a bright little\nband of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy\nfaces under the jaunty hatbrims.\n\nLaurie ran to meet and present them to his friends in the most cordial\nmanner. The lawn was the reception room, and for several minutes a\nlively scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss Kate,\nthough twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls would\ndo well to imitate, and who was much flattered by Mr. Ned s assurances\nthat he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie  primmed\nup his mouth  when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a\nstandoff-don t-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free\nand easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an observation of the\nnew boys and decided that the lame one was not  dreadful , but gentle\nand feeble, and she would be kind to him on that account. Amy found\nGrace a well-mannered, merry, little person, and after staring dumbly\nat one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good\nfriends.\n\nTents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the\nparty was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving\nMr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat,\nMr. Brooke and Ned the other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did\nhis best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed\nwater bug. Jo s funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of\ngeneral utility. It broke the ice in the beginning by producing a\nlaugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as she\nrowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a\nshower came up, she said. Miss Kate decided that she was  odd , but\nrather clever, and smiled upon her from afar.\n\nMeg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with\nthe rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered their oars with\nuncommon  skill and dexterity . Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young\nman, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet\nmanners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful knowledge.\nHe never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good deal, and she\nfelt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned, being in\ncollege, of course put on all the airs which freshmen think it their\nbounden duty to assume. He was not very wise, but very good-natured,\nand altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic. Sallie\nGardiner was absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and\nchattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror\nby his pranks.\n\nIt was not far to Longmeadow, but the tent was pitched and the wickets\ndown by the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with three\nwide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for\ncroquet.\n\n Welcome to Camp Laurence!  said the young host, as they landed with\nexclamations of delight.\n\n Brooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the other\nfellows are staff officers, and you, ladies, are company. The tent is\nfor your especial benefit and that oak is your drawing room, this is\nthe messroom and the third is the camp kitchen. Now, let s have a game\nbefore it gets hot, and then we ll see about dinner. \n\nFrank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the\nother eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred. Laurie took Sallie,\nJo, and Ned. The English played well, but the Americans played better,\nand contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of\n 76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes and once narrowly\nescaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket and had missed the\nstroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close behind\nher and his turn came before hers. He gave a stroke, his ball hit the\nwicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No one was very near,\nand running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his toe, which\nput it just an inch on the right side.\n\n I m through! Now, Miss Jo, I ll settle you, and get in first,  cried\nthe young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.\n\n You pushed it. I saw you. It s my turn now,  said Jo sharply.\n\n Upon my word, I didn t move it. It rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is\nallowed. So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake. \n\n We don t cheat in America, but you can, if you choose,  said Jo\nangrily.\n\n Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go! \nreturned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.\n\nJo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time,\ncolored up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket\nwith all her might, while Fred hit the stake and declared himself out\nwith much exultation. She went off to get her ball, and was a long time\nfinding it among the bushes, but she came back, looking cool and quiet,\nand waited her turn patiently. It took several strokes to regain the\nplace she had lost, and when she got there, the other side had nearly\nwon, for Kate s ball was the last but one and lay near the stake.\n\n By George, it s all up with us! Goodbye, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one, so\nyou are finished,  cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to see\nthe finish.\n\n Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies,  said Jo,\nwith a look that made the lad redden,  especially when they beat them, \nshe added, as, leaving Kate s ball untouched, she won the game by a\nclever stroke.\n\nLaurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn t do to exult\nover the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer\nto whisper to his friend,  Good for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him.\nWe can t tell him so, but he won t do it again, take my word for it. \n\nMeg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and\nsaid approvingly,  It was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your\ntemper, and I m so glad, Jo. \n\n Don t praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should\ncertainly have boiled over if I hadn t stayed among the nettles till I\ngot my rage under control enough to hold my tongue. It s simmering now,\nso I hope he ll keep out of my way,  returned Jo, biting her lips as\nshe glowered at Fred from under her big hat.\n\n Time for lunch,  said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch.  Commissary\ngeneral, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss March, Miss\nSallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee? \n\n Jo can,  said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling that\nher late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over\nthe coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys\nmade a fire and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched and\nFrank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes to\nserve as plates.\n\nThe commander in chief and his aides soon spread the tablecloth with an\ninviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with\ngreen leaves. Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and everyone\nsettled themselves to a hearty meal, for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and\nexercise develops wholesome appetites. A very merry lunch it was, for\neverything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter\nstartled a venerable horse who fed near by. There was a pleasing\ninequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to cups and\nplates, acorns dropped in the milk, little black ants partook of the\nrefreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down\nfrom the tree to see what was going on. Three white-headed children\npeeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the\nother side of the river with all his might and main.\n\n There s salt here,  said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries.\n\n Thank you, I prefer spiders,  she replied, fishing up two unwary\nlittle ones who had gone to a creamy death.  How dare you remind me of\nthat horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?  added\nJo, as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run\nshort.\n\n I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven t got over it yet.\nThis is no credit to me, you know, I don t do anything. It s you and\nMeg and Brooke who make it all go, and I m no end obliged to you. What\nshall we do when we can t eat anymore?  asked Laurie, feeling that his\ntrump card had been played when lunch was over.\n\n Have games till it s cooler. I brought Authors, and I dare say Miss\nKate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her. She s company, and\nyou ought to stay with her more. \n\n Aren t you company too? I thought she d suit Brooke, but he keeps\ntalking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous\nglass of hers. I m going, so you needn t try to preach propriety, for\nyou can t do it, Jo. \n\nMiss Kate did know several new games, and as the girls would not, and\nthe boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing\nroom to play Rig-marole.\n\n One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long as\nhe pleases, only taking care to stop short at some exciting point, when\nthe next takes it up and does the same. It s very funny when well done,\nand makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh over.\nPlease start it, Mr. Brooke,  said Kate, with a commanding air, which\nsurprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other\ngentleman.\n\nLying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke\nobediently began the story, with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed\nupon the sunshiny river.\n\n Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his fortune,\nfor he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He traveled a long\nwhile, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of it, till\nhe came to the palace of a good old king, who had offered a reward to\nanyone who could tame and train a fine but unbroken colt, of which he\nwas very fond. The knight agreed to try, and got on slowly but surely,\nfor the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new\nmaster, though he was freakish and wild. Every day, when he gave his\nlessons to this pet of the king s, the knight rode him through the\ncity, and as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain beautiful\nface, which he had seen many times in his dreams, but never found. One\nday, as he went prancing down a quiet street, he saw at the window of a\nruinous castle the lovely face. He was delighted, inquired who lived in\nthis old castle, and was told that several captive princesses were kept\nthere by a spell, and spun all day to lay up money to buy their\nliberty. The knight wished intensely that he could free them, but he\nwas poor and could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face and\nlonging to see it out in the sunshine. At last he resolved to get into\nthe castle and ask how he could help them. He went and knocked. The\ngreat door flew open, and he beheld... \n\n A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture,  At\nlast! At last!  continued Kate, who had read French novels, and\nadmired the style.  Tis she!  cried Count Gustave, and fell at her\nfeet in an ecstasy of joy.  Oh, rise!  she said, extending a hand of\nmarble fairness.  Never! Till you tell me how I may rescue you,  swore\nthe knight, still kneeling.  Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain\nhere till my tyrant is destroyed.   Where is the villain?   In the\nmauve salon. Go, brave heart, and save me from despair.   I obey, and\nreturn victorious or dead!  With these thrilling words he rushed away,\nand flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when\nhe received... \n\n A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a\nblack gown fired at him,  said Ned.  Instantly, Sir What s-his-name\nrecovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and turned to\njoin the lady, victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the door\nlocked, tore up the curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when\nthe ladder broke, and he went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet\nbelow. Could swim like a duck, paddled round the castle till he came to\na little door guarded by two stout fellows, knocked their heads\ntogether till they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling\nexertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, went up a\npair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as\nyour fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics, Miss\nMarch. At the top of these steps he came plump upon a sight that took\nhis breath away and chilled his blood... \n\n A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in\nits wasted hand,  went on Meg.  It beckoned, gliding noiselessly before\nhim down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies in\narmor stood on either side, a dead silence reigned, the lamp burned\nblue, and the ghostly figure ever and anon turned its face toward him,\nshowing the glitter of awful eyes through its white veil. They reached\na curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music. He sprang forward\nto enter, but the specter plucked him back, and waved threateningly\nbefore him a... \n\n Snuffbox,  said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the\naudience.  Thankee,  said the knight politely, as he took a pinch and\nsneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off.  Ha! Ha! \nlaughed the ghost, and having peeped through the keyhole at the\nprincesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up her\nvictim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other\nknights packed together without their heads, like sardines, who all\nrose and began to... \n\n Dance a hornpipe,  cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath,  and, as they\ndanced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail.\n Up with the jib, reef the tops l halliards, helm hard alee, and man\nthe guns!  roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight,\nwith a flag black as ink flying from her foremast.  Go in and win, my\nhearties!  says the captain, and a tremendous fight began. Of course\nthe British beat they always do. \n\n No, they don t!  cried Jo, aside.\n\n Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the\nschooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers\nran blood, for the order had been  Cutlasses, and die hard!   Bosun s\nmate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if\nhe doesn t confess his sins double quick,  said the British captain.\nThe Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank,\nwhile the jolly tars cheered like mad. But the sly dog dived, came up\nunder the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail\nset,  To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea  where... \n\n Oh, gracious! What shall I say?  cried Sallie, as Fred ended his\nrigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases\nand facts out of one of his favorite books.  Well, they went to the\nbottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved on\nfinding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine,\nhoping to discover the mystery about them, for being a woman, she was\ncurious. By-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said,  I ll give\nyou a box of pearls if you can take it up,  for she wanted to restore\nthe poor things to life, and couldn t raise the heavy load herself. So\nthe diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to\nfind no pearls. He left it in a great lonely field, where it was found\nby a... \n\n Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field,  said\nAmy, when Sallie s invention gave out.  The little girl was sorry for\nthem, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them.  Your\ngeese will tell you, they know everything.  said the old woman. So she\nasked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost,\nand all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed... \n\n Cabbages!  continued Laurie promptly.  Just the thing,  said the\ngirl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them on,\nthe knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way\nrejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many other\nheads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it. The\nknight in whom I m interested went back to find the pretty face, and\nlearned that the princesses had spun themselves free and all gone and\nmarried, but one. He was in a great state of mind at that, and mounting\nthe colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle\nto see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of his\naffections picking flowers in her garden.  Will you give me a rose? \nsaid he.  You must come and get it. I can t come to you, it isn t\nproper,  said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge,\nbut it seemed to grow higher and higher. Then he tried to push through,\nbut it grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair. So he patiently\nbroke twig after twig till he had made a little hole through which he\npeeped, saying imploringly,  Let me in! Let me in!  But the pretty\nprincess did not seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly,\nand left him to fight his way in. Whether he did or not, Frank will\ntell you. \n\n I can t. I m not playing, I never do,  said Frank, dismayed at the\nsentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd\ncouple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep.\n\n So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?  asked\nMr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in\nhis buttonhole.\n\n I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a\nwhile,  said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his\ntutor.\n\n What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do\nsomething quite clever. Do you know Truth? \n\n I hope so,  said Meg soberly.\n\n The game, I mean? \n\n What is it?  said Fred.\n\n Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn,\nand the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question\nput by the rest. It s great fun. \n\n Let s try it,  said Jo, who liked new experiments.\n\nMiss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie, Jo,\nand Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie.\n\n Who are your heroes?  asked Jo.\n\n Grandfather and Napoleon. \n\n Which lady here do you think prettiest?  said Sallie.\n\n Margaret. \n\n Which do you like best?  from Fred.\n\n Jo, of course. \n\n What silly questions you ask!  And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the\nrest laughed at Laurie s matter-of-fact tone.\n\n Try again. Truth isn t a bad game,  said Fred.\n\n It s a very good one for you,  retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn\ncame next.\n\n What is your greatest fault?  asked Fred, by way of testing in her the\nvirtue he lacked himself.\n\n A quick temper. \n\n What do you most wish for?  said Laurie.\n\n A pair of boot lacings,  returned Jo, guessing and defeating his\npurpose.\n\n Not a true answer. You must say what you really do want most. \n\n Genius. Don t you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?  And she slyly\nsmiled in his disappointed face.\n\n What virtues do you most admire in a man?  asked Sallie.\n\n Courage and honesty. \n\n Now my turn,  said Fred, as his hand came last.\n\n Let s give it to him,  whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded and asked at\nonce...\n\n Didn t you cheat at croquet? \n\n Well, yes, a little bit. \n\n Good! Didn t you take your story out of _The Sea Lion?_  said Laurie.\n\n Rather. \n\n Don t you think the English nation perfect in every respect?  asked\nSallie.\n\n I should be ashamed of myself if I didn t. \n\n He s a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance\nwithout waiting to draw. I ll harrrow up your feelings first by asking\nif you don t think you are something of a flirt,  said Laurie, as Jo\nnodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared.\n\n You impertinent boy! Of course I m not,  exclaimed Sallie, with an air\nthat proved the contrary.\n\n What do you hate most?  asked Fred.\n\n Spiders and rice pudding. \n\n What do you like best?  asked Jo.\n\n Dancing and French gloves. \n\n Well, I think Truth is a very silly play. Let s have a sensible game\nof Authors to refresh our minds,  proposed Jo.\n\nNed, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and while it went on,\nthe three elders sat apart, talking. Miss Kate took out her sketch\nagain, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay on the grass with\na book, which he did not read.\n\n How beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw,  said Meg, with\nmingled admiration and regret in her voice.\n\n Why don t you learn? I should think you had taste and talent for it, \nreplied Miss Kate graciously.\n\n I haven t time. \n\n Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy. So did mine, but I\nproved to her that I had talent by taking a few lessons privately, and\nthen she was quite willing I should go on. Can t you do the same with\nyour governess? \n\n I have none. \n\n I forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with us. Very\nfine schools they are, too, Papa says. You go to a private one, I\nsuppose? \n\n I don t go at all. I am a governess myself. \n\n Oh, indeed!  said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said,  Dear\nme, how dreadful!  for her tone implied it, and something in her face\nmade Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.\n\nMr. Brooke looked up and said quickly,  Young ladies in America love\nindependence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and\nrespected for supporting themselves. \n\n Oh, yes, of course it s very nice and proper in them to do so. We have\nmany most respectable and worthy young women who do the same and are\nemployed by the nobility, because, being the daughters of gentlemen,\nthey are both well bred and accomplished, you know,  said Miss Kate in\na patronizing tone that hurt Meg s pride, and made her work seem not\nonly more distasteful, but degrading.\n\n Did the German song suit, Miss March?  inquired Mr. Brooke, breaking\nan awkward pause.\n\n Oh, yes! It was very sweet, and I m much obliged to whoever translated\nit for me.  And Meg s downcast face brightened as she spoke.\n\n Don t you read German?  asked Miss Kate with a look of surprise.\n\n Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I don t get on\nvery fast alone, for I ve no one to correct my pronunciation. \n\n Try a little now. Here is Schiller s Mary Stuart and a tutor who loves\nto teach.  And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an inviting\nsmile.\n\n It s so hard I m afraid to try,  said Meg, grateful, but bashful in\nthe presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.\n\n I ll read a bit to encourage you.  And Miss Kate read one of the most\nbeautiful passages in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless\nmanner.\n\nMr. Brooke made no comment as she returned the book to Meg, who said\ninnocently,  I thought it was poetry. \n\n Some of it is. Try this passage. \n\nThere was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke s mouth as he opened at poor\nMary s lament.\n\nMeg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used\nto point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of\nthe hard words by the soft intonation of her musical voice. Down the\npage went the green guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in\nthe beauty of the sad scene, Meg read as if alone, giving a little\ntouch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy queen. If she had seen the\nbrown eyes then, she would have stopped short, but she never looked up,\nand the lesson was not spoiled for her.\n\n Very well indeed!  said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her\nmany mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love to teach.\n\nMiss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little\ntableau before her, shut her sketch book, saying with condescension,\n You ve a nice accent and in time will be a clever reader. I advise you\nto learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment to teachers. I must\nlook after Grace, she is romping.  And Miss Kate strolled away, adding\nto herself with a shrug,  I didn t come to chaperone a governess,\nthough she is young and pretty. What odd people these Yankees are. I m\nafraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them. \n\n I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at governesses\nand don t treat them as we do,  said Meg, looking after the retreating\nfigure with an annoyed expression.\n\n Tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to my\nsorrow. There s no place like America for us workers, Miss Margaret. \nAnd Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that Meg was ashamed to\nlament her hard lot.\n\n I m glad I live in it then. I don t like my work, but I get a good\ndeal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won t complain. I only\nwished I liked teaching as you do. \n\n I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very sorry\nto lose him next year,  said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in the\nturf.\n\n Going to college, I suppose?  Meg s lips asked the question, but her\neyes added,  And what becomes of you? \n\n Yes, it s high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is\noff, I shall turn soldier. I am needed. \n\n I am glad of that!  exclaimed Meg.  I should think every young man\nwould want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who\nstay at home,  she added sorrowfully.\n\n I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live or die, \nsaid Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in the\nhole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave.\n\n Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all\nbe very sorry to have any harm happen to you,  said Meg heartily.\n\n Thank you, that sounds pleasant,  began Mr. Brooke, looking cheerful\nagain, but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old\nhorse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill before the\nyoung ladies, and there was no more quiet that day.\n\n Don t you love to ride?  asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting\nafter a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.\n\n I dote upon it. My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but\nwe don t keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree,  added Amy, laughing.\n\n Tell me about Ellen Tree. Is it a donkey?  asked Grace curiously.\n\n Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but we ve only got\nan old sidesaddle and no horse. Out in our garden is an apple tree that\nhas a nice low branch, so Jo put the saddle on it, fixed some reins on\nthe part that turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree whenever we\nlike. \n\n How funny!  laughed Grace.  I have a pony at home, and ride nearly\nevery day in the park with Fred and Kate. It s very nice, for my\nfriends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen. \n\n Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad some day, but I d rather\ngo to Rome than the Row,  said Amy, who had not the remotest idea what\nthe Row was and wouldn t have asked for the world.\n\nFrank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were\nsaying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient gesture\nas he watched the active lads going through all sorts of comical\ngymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered Author cards, looked\nup and said, in her shy yet friendly way,  I m afraid you are tired.\nCan I do anything for you? \n\n Talk to me, please. It s dull, sitting by myself,  answered Frank, who\nhad evidently been used to being made much of at home.\n\nIf he asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have seemed a\nmore impossible task to bashful Beth, but there was no place to run to,\nno Jo to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so wistfully at her\nthat she bravely resolved to try.\n\n What do you like to talk about?  she asked, fumbling over the cards\nand dropping half as she tried to tie them up.\n\n Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting,  said\nFrank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength.\n\nMy heart! What shall I do? I don t know anything about them, thought\nBeth, and forgetting the boy s misfortune in her flurry, she said,\nhoping to make him talk,  I never saw any hunting, but I suppose you\nknow all about it. \n\n I did once, but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a\nconfounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and hounds for\nme,  said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her\ninnocent blunder.\n\n Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes,  she said,\nturning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one\nof the boys  books in which Jo delighted.\n\nBuffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to\namuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her\nsisters  surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking\naway to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged\nprotection.\n\n Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him,  said Jo,\nbeaming at her from the croquet ground.\n\n I always said she was a little saint,  added Meg, as if there could be\nno further doubt of it.\n\n I haven t heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long,  said Grace to\nAmy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn\ncups.\n\n My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be,  said\nAmy, well pleased at Beth s success. She meant  facinating , but as\nGrace didn t know the exact meaning of either word, fastidious sounded\nwell and made a good impression.\n\nAn impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet\nfinished the afternoon. At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed,\nwickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the\nriver, singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental,\nwarbled a serenade with the pensive refrain...\n\nAlone, alone, ah! Woe, alone,\n\n\nand at the lines...\n\nWe each are young, we each have a heart,\nOh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?\n\n\nhe looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression that she laughed\noutright and spoiled his song.\n\n How can you be so cruel to me?  he whispered, under cover of a lively\nchorus.  You ve kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all day,\nand now you snub me. \n\n I didn t mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn t help it, \nreplied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for it was\nquite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and\nthe talk after it.\n\nNed was offended and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to her\nrather pettishly,  There isn t a bit of flirt in that girl, is there? \n\n Not a particle, but she s a dear,  returned Sallie, defending her\nfriend even while confessing her shortcomings.\n\n She s not a stricken deer anyway,  said Ned, trying to be witty, and\nsucceeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.\n\nOn the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with\ncordial good nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going to\nCanada. As the four sisters went home through the garden, Miss Kate\nlooked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her voice,\n In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are very nice\nwhen one knows them. \n\n I quite agree with you,  said Mr. Brooke.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\nCASTLES IN THE AIR\n\n\nLaurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock one warm\nSeptember afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too\nlazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods, for the day had\nbeen both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could\nlive it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had\nshirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke s patience to the utmost,\ndispleased his grandfather by practicing half the afternoon, frightened\nthe maidservants half out of their wits by mischievously hinting that\none of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stableman\nabout some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his\nhammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the\npeace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up\ninto the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed\ndreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the\nocean in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him\nashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw\nthe Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition.\n\n What in the world are those girls about now?  thought Laurie, opening\nhis sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather\npeculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large,\nflapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried\na long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a\nportfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little\nback gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and\nriver.\n\n Well, that s cool,  said Laurie to himself,  to have a picnic and\nnever ask me! They can t be going in the boat, for they haven t got the\nkey. Perhaps they forgot it. I ll take it to them, and see what s going\non. \n\nThough possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find\none, then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in\nhis pocket, so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped\nthe fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boathouse,\nhe waited for them to appear, but no one came, and he went up the hill\nto take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and\nfrom the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft\nsigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.\n\n Here s a landscape!  thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and\nlooking wide-awake and good-natured already.\n\nIt was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat together in\nthe shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic\nwind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the\nlittle wood people going on with their affairs as if these were no\nstrangers but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily\nwith her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose in her\npink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick\nunder the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with them. Amy\nwas sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud.\nA shadow passed over the boy s face as he watched them, feeling that he\nought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed\nvery lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his\nrestless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its\nharvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and\nskipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the\nwistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.\n\n May I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?  he asked, advancing\nslowly.\n\nMeg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and said at\nonce,  Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we\nthought you wouldn t care for such a girl s game as this. \n\n I always like your games, but if Meg doesn t want me, I ll go away. \n\n I ve no objection, if you do something. It s against the rules to be\nidle here,  replied Meg gravely but graciously.\n\n Much obliged. I ll do anything if you ll let me stop a bit, for it s\nas dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone,\ndraw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears. I m ready.  And Laurie\nsat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold.\n\n Finish this story while I set my heel,  said Jo, handing him the book.\n\n Yes m.  was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his\ngratitude for the favor of admission into the  Busy Bee Society .\n\nThe story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to\nask a few questions as a reward of merit.\n\n Please, ma am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming\ninstitution is a new one? \n\n Would you tell him?  asked Meg of her sisters.\n\n He ll laugh,  said Amy warningly.\n\n Who cares?  said Jo.\n\n I guess he ll like it,  added Beth.\n\n Of course I shall! I give you my word I won t laugh. Tell away, Jo,\nand don t be afraid. \n\n The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play\nPilgrim s Progress, and we have been going on with it in earnest, all\nwinter and summer. \n\n Yes, I know,  said Laurie, nodding wisely.\n\n Who told you?  demanded Jo.\n\n Spirits. \n\n No, I did. I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and\nhe was rather dismal. He did like it, so don t scold, Jo,  said Beth\nmeekly.\n\n You can t keep a secret. Never mind, it saves trouble now. \n\n Go on, please,  said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work,\nlooking a trifle displeased.\n\n Oh, didn t she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have\ntried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task and worked at\nit with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done,\nand we are ever so glad that we didn t dawdle. \n\n Yes, I should think so,  and Laurie thought regretfully of his own\nidle days.\n\n Mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring\nour work here and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our\nthings in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill,\nand play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the\nDelectable Mountain, for we can look far away and see the country where\nwe hope to live some time. \n\nJo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine, for through an opening in the\nwood one could look cross the wide, blue river, the meadows on the\nother side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green\nhills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens\nglowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds\nlay on the hilltops, and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery\nwhite peaks that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.\n\n How beautiful that is!  said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see\nand feel beauty of any kind.\n\n It s often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but\nalways splendid,  replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.\n\n Jo talks about the country where we hope to live sometime the real\ncountry, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking. It would be\nnice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could\never go to it,  said Beth musingly.\n\n There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go,\nby-and-by, when we are good enough,  answered Meg with her sweetest\nvoice.\n\n It seems so long to wait, so hard to do. I want to fly away at once,\nas those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate. \n\n You ll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that,  said Jo.\n I m the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and\nmaybe never get in after all. \n\n You ll have me for company, if that s any comfort. I shall have to do\na deal of traveling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I\narrive late, you ll say a good word for me, won t you, Beth? \n\nSomething in the boy s face troubled his little friend, but she said\ncheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds,  If people\nreally want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will\nget in, for I don t believe there are any locks on that door or any\nguards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture,\nwhere the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor\nChristian as he comes up from the river. \n\n Wouldn t it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could\ncome true, and we could live in them?  said Jo, after a little pause.\n\n I ve made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I d have, \nsaid Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the squirrel who had\nbetrayed him.\n\n You d have to take your favorite one. What is it?  asked Meg.\n\n If I tell mine, will you tell yours? \n\n Yes, if the girls will too. \n\n We will. Now, Laurie. \n\n After I d seen as much of the world as I want to, I d like to settle\nin Germany and have just as much music as I choose. I m to be a famous\nmusician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me. And I m never\nto be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live\nfor what I like. That s my favorite castle. What s yours, Meg? \n\nMargaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a\nbrake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she\nsaid slowly,  I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of\nluxurious things nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture,\npleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and\nmanage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a\nbit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn t be idle, but do good, and\nmake everyone love me dearly. \n\n Wouldn t you have a master for your castle in the air?  asked Laurie\nslyly.\n\n I said  pleasant people , you know,  and Meg carefully tied up her\nshoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.\n\n Why don t you say you d have a splendid, wise, good husband and some\nangelic little children? You know your castle wouldn t be perfect\nwithout,  said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather\nscorned romance, except in books.\n\n You d have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours, \nanswered Meg petulantly.\n\n Wouldn t I though? I d have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms\npiled high with books, and I d write out of a magic inkstand, so that\nmy works should be as famous as Laurie s music. I want to do something\nsplendid before I go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful that\nwon t be forgotten after I m dead. I don t know what, but I m on the\nwatch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I think I shall\nwrite books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my\nfavorite dream. \n\n Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take\ncare of the family,  said Beth contentedly.\n\n Don t you wish for anything else?  asked Laurie.\n\n Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we\nmay all keep well and be together, nothing else. \n\n I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go\nto Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole\nworld,  was Amy s modest desire.\n\n We re an ambitious set, aren t we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to\nbe rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any\nof us will ever get our wishes,  said Laurie, chewing grass like a\nmeditative calf.\n\n I ve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the\ndoor remains to be seen,  observed Jo mysteriously.\n\n I ve got the key to mine, but I m not allowed to try it. Hang\ncollege!  muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh.\n\n Here s mine!  and Amy waved her pencil.\n\n I haven t got any,  said Meg forlornly.\n\n Yes, you have,  said Laurie at once.\n\n Where? \n\n In your face. \n\n Nonsense, that s of no use. \n\n Wait and see if it doesn t bring you something worth having,  replied\nthe boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he\nfancied he knew.\n\nMeg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and looked across\nthe river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn\nwhen he told the story of the knight.\n\n If we are all alive ten years hence, let s meet, and see how many of\nus have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now,  said\nJo, always ready with a plan.\n\n Bless me! How old I shall be, twenty-seven!  exclaimed Meg, who felt\ngrown up already, having just reached seventeen.\n\n You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy\ntwenty-two. What a venerable party!  said Jo.\n\n I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time, but\nI m such a lazy dog, I m afraid I shall dawdle, Jo. \n\n You need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is sure\nyou ll work splendidly. \n\n Is she? By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!  cried Laurie,\nsitting up with sudden energy.  I ought to be satisfied to please\nGrandfather, and I do try, but it s working against the grain, you see,\nand comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I d\nrather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of\nrubbish his old ships bring, and I don t care how soon they go to the\nbottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I\ngive him four years he ought to let me off from the business. But he s\nset, and I ve got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please\nmyself, as my father did. If there was anyone left to stay with the old\ngentleman, I d do it tomorrow. \n\nLaurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into\nexecution on the slightest provocation, for he was growing up very fast\nand, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man s hatred of\nsubjection, a young man s restless longing to try the world for\nhimself.\n\n I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home\nagain till you have tried your own way,  said Jo, whose imagination was\nfired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was\nexcited by what she called  Teddy s Wrongs .\n\n That s not right, Jo. You mustn t talk in that way, and Laurie mustn t\ntake your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes,\nmy dear boy,  said Meg in her most maternal tone.  Do your best at\ncollege, and when he sees that you try to please him, I m sure he won t\nbe hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to\nstay with and love him, and you d never forgive yourself if you left\nhim without his permission. Don t be dismal or fret, but do your duty\nand you ll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected\nand loved. \n\n What do you know about him?  asked Laurie, grateful for the good\nadvice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation\nfrom himself after his unusual outbreak.\n\n Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his\nown mother till she died, and wouldn t go abroad as tutor to some nice\nperson because he wouldn t leave her. And how he provides now for an\nold woman who nursed his mother, and never tells anyone, but is just as\ngenerous and patient and good as he can be. \n\n So he is, dear old fellow!  said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused,\nlooking flushed and earnest with her story.  It s like Grandpa to find\nout all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his\ngoodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn t\nunderstand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me\nand treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just\nperfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you\nall in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I ll do\nfor Brooke. \n\n Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out,  said Meg\nsharply.\n\n How do you know I do, Miss? \n\n I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been\ngood, he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him,\nhe s sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work\nbetter. \n\n Well, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in\nBrooke s face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your\nwindow, but I didn t know you d got up a telegraph. \n\n We haven t. Don t be angry, and oh, don t tell him I said anything! It\nwas only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is\nsaid in confidence, you know,  cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought\nof what might follow from her careless speech.\n\n I don t tell tales,  replied Laurie, with his  high and mighty  air,\nas Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore.  Only if\nBrooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather\nfor him to report. \n\n Please don t be offended. I didn t mean to preach or tell tales or be\nsilly. I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you d\nbe sorry for by-and-by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were\nour brother and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly. \nAnd Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.\n\nAshamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand,\nand said frankly,  I m the one to be forgiven. I m cross and have been\nout of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be\nsisterly, so don t mind if I am grumpy sometimes. I thank you all the\nsame. \n\nBent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable\nas possible, wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook\ndown cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a\nfit person to belong to the  Busy Bee Society . In the midst of an\nanimated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those\namiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound\nof a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea  to draw , and they\nwould just have time to get home to supper.\n\n May I come again?  asked Laurie.\n\n Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer\nare told to do,  said Meg, smiling.\n\n I ll try. \n\n Then you may come, and I ll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do.\nThere s a demand for socks just now,  added Jo, waving hers like a big\nblue worsted banner as they parted at the gate.\n\nThat night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie,\nstanding in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David,\nwhose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old\nman, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts\nof the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of\nthe afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the\nsacrifice cheerfully,  I ll let my castle go, and stay with the dear\nold gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\nSECRETS\n\n\nJo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow\nchilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun\nlay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa,\nwriting busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her,\nwhile Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied\nby his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of\nhis whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the\nlast page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and\nthrew down her pen, exclaiming...\n\n There, I ve done my best! If this won t suit I shall have to wait till\nI can do better. \n\nLying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through,\nmaking dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points,\nwhich looked like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart red\nribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful\nexpression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo s\ndesk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it\nshe kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble,\nwho, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a\ncirculating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the\nleaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and\nputting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her\nfriends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.\n\nShe put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to\nthe back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung\nherself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road.\nOnce there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled\naway to town, looking very merry and mysterious.\n\nIf anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements\ndecidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till\nshe reached a certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the\nplace with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the\ndirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived\ninto the street and walked away as rapidly as she came. This maneuver\nshe repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed\nyoung gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On\nreturning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat\nover her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going\nto have all her teeth out.\n\nThere was a dentist s sign, among others, which adorned the entrance,\nand after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly\nopened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young\ngentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself\nin the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver,  It s like\nher to come alone, but if she has a bad time she ll need someone to\nhelp her home. \n\nIn ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the\ngeneral appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying\nordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked\nanything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed,\nasking with an air of sympathy,  Did you have a bad time? \n\n Not very. \n\n You got through quickly. \n\n Yes, thank goodness! \n\n Why did you go alone? \n\n Didn t want anyone to know. \n\n You re the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out? \n\nJo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to\nlaugh as if mightily amused at something.\n\n There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week. \n\n What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,  said\nLaurie, looking mystified.\n\n So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon? \n\n Begging your pardon, ma am, it wasn t a billiard saloon, but a\ngymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing. \n\n I m glad of that. \n\n Why? \n\n You can teach me, and then when we play _Hamlet_, you can be Laertes,\nand we ll make a fine thing of the fencing scene. \n\nLaurie burst out with a hearty boy s laugh, which made several\npassers-by smile in spite of themselves.\n\n I ll teach you whether we play _Hamlet_ or not. It s grand fun and\nwill straighten you up capitally. But I don t believe that was your\nonly reason for saying  I m glad  in that decided way, was it now? \n\n No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you\nnever go to such places. Do you? \n\n Not often. \n\n I wish you wouldn t. \n\n It s no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it s no fun unless you\nhave good players, so, as I m fond of it, I come sometimes and have a\ngame with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows. \n\n Oh, dear, I m so sorry, for you ll get to liking it better and better,\nand will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did\nhope you d stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends, \nsaid Jo, shaking her head.\n\n Can t a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without\nlosing his respectability?  asked Laurie, looking nettled.\n\n That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don t like Ned and his\nset, and wish you d keep out of it. Mother won t let us have him at our\nhouse, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she won t be\nwilling to have us frolic together as we do now. \n\n Won t she?  asked Laurie anxiously.\n\n No, she can t bear fashionable young men, and she d shut us all up in\nbandboxes rather than have us associate with them. \n\n Well, she needn t get out her bandboxes yet. I m not a fashionable\nparty and don t mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then,\ndon t you? \n\n Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don t get wild, will you? Or\nthere will be an end of all our good times. \n\n I ll be a double distilled saint. \n\n I can t bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and\nwe ll never desert you. I don t know what I should do if you acted like\nMr. King s son. He had plenty of money, but didn t know how to spend\nit, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father s\nname, I believe, and was altogether horrid. \n\n You think I m likely to do the same? Much obliged. \n\n No, I don t oh, dear, no! but I hear people talking about money being\nsuch a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldn t\nworry then. \n\n Do you worry about me, Jo? \n\n A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do,\nfor you ve got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I m\nafraid it would be hard to stop you. \n\nLaurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she\nhad held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled\nas if at her warnings.\n\n Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?  he asked\npresently.\n\n Of course not. Why? \n\n Because if you are, I ll take a bus. If you re not, I d like to walk\nwith you and tell you something very interesting. \n\n I won t preach any more, and I d like to hear the news immensely. \n\n Very well, then, come on. It s a secret, and if I tell you, you must\ntell me yours. \n\n I haven t got any,  began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that\nshe had.\n\n You know you have you can t hide anything, so up and  fess, or I won t\ntell,  cried Laurie.\n\n Is your secret a nice one? \n\n Oh, isn t it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to\nhear it, and I ve been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you\nbegin. \n\n You ll not say anything about it at home, will you? \n\n Not a word. \n\n And you won t tease me in private? \n\n I never tease. \n\n Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don t know\nhow you do it, but you are a born wheedler. \n\n Thank you. Fire away. \n\n Well, I ve left two stories with a newspaperman, and he s to give his\nanswer next week,  whispered Jo, in her confidant s ear.\n\n Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!  cried\nLaurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight\nof two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children,\nfor they were out of the city now.\n\n Hush! It won t come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn t rest till\nI had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn t want anyone\nelse to be disappointed. \n\n It won t fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared\nto half the rubbish that is published every day. Won t it be fun to see\nthem in print, and shan t we feel proud of our authoress? \n\nJo s eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a\nfriend s praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.\n\n Where s your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I ll never believe you\nagain,  she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed\nup at a word of encouragement.\n\n I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn t promise not to, so I\nwill, for I never feel easy in my mind till I ve told you any plummy\nbit of news I get. I know where Meg s glove is. \n\n Is that all?  said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and\ntwinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.\n\n It s quite enough for the present, as you ll agree when I tell you\nwhere it is. \n\n Tell, then. \n\nLaurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo s ear, which produced a\ncomical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both\nsurprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply,  How do you\nknow? \n\n Saw it. \n\n Where? \n\n Pocket. \n\n All this time? \n\n Yes, isn t that romantic? \n\n No, it s horrid. \n\n Don t you like it? \n\n Of course I don t. It s ridiculous, it won t be allowed. My patience!\nWhat would Meg say? \n\n You are not to tell anyone. Mind that. \n\n I didn t promise. \n\n That was understood, and I trusted you. \n\n Well, I won t for the present, anyway, but I m disgusted, and wish you\nhadn t told me. \n\n I thought you d be pleased. \n\n At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you. \n\n You ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away. \n\n I d like to see anyone try it,  cried Jo fiercely.\n\n So should I!  and Laurie chuckled at the idea.\n\n I don t think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind\nsince you told me that,  said Jo rather ungratefully.\n\n Race down this hill with me, and you ll be all right,  suggested\nLaurie.\n\nNo one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and\nfinding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat\nand comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached\nthe goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his\ntreatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright\neyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.\n\n I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air,\nand not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it s made\nme. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are,  said Jo,\ndropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with\ncrimson leaves.\n\nLaurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled\nup her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But\nsomeone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly\nladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls.\n\n What in the world are you doing here?  she asked, regarding her\ndisheveled sister with well-bred surprise.\n\n Getting leaves,  meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had\njust swept up.\n\n And hairpins,  added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo s lap.\n They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats. \n\n You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such\nromping ways?  said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and\nsmoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.\n\n Never till I m stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don t try to\nmake me grow up before my time, Meg. It s hard enough to have you\nchange all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can. \n\nAs she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her\nlips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a\nwoman, and Laurie s secret made her dread the separation which must\nsurely come some time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in\nher face and drew Meg s attention from it by asking quickly,  Where\nhave you been calling, all so fine? \n\n At the Gardiners , and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle\nMoffat s wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the\nwinter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be! \n\n Do you envy her, Meg?  said Laurie.\n\n I m afraid I do. \n\n I m glad of it!  muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.\n\n Why?  asked Meg, looking surprised.\n\n Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a\npoor man,  said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to\nmind what she said.\n\n I shall never  _go_ and marry  anyone,  observed Meg, walking on with\ngreat dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping\nstones, and  behaving like children , as Meg said to herself, though\nshe might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best\ndress on.\n\nFor a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite\nbewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to\nMr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a\nwoe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in\na very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to\none another, and talking about  Spread Eagles  till the girls declared\nthey had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out\nof the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by\nthe sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally\ncapturing her in Amy s bower. What went on there, Meg could not see,\nbut shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices\nand a great flapping of newspapers.\n\n What shall we do with that girl? She never _will_ behave like a young\nlady,  sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.\n\n I hope she won t. She is so funny and dear as she is,  said Beth, who\nhad never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo s having secrets\nwith anyone but her.\n\n It s very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_,  added Amy,\nwho sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a\nvery becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually\nelegant and ladylike.\n\nIn a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected\nto read.\n\n Have you anything interesting there?  asked Meg, with condescension.\n\n Nothing but a story, won t amount to much, I guess,  returned Jo,\ncarefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.\n\n You d better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of\nmischief,  said Amy in her most grown-up tone.\n\n What s the name?  asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind\nthe sheet.\n\n The Rival Painters. \n\n That sounds well. Read it,  said Meg.\n\nWith a loud  Hem!  and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The\ngirls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat\npathetic, as most of the characters died in the end.  I like that about\nthe splendid picture,  was Amy s approving remark, as Jo paused.\n\n I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite\nnames, isn t that queer?  said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering\npart was tragical.\n\n Who wrote it?  asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo s face.\n\nThe reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed\ncountenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement\nreplied in a loud voice,  Your sister. \n\n You?  cried Meg, dropping her work.\n\n It s very good,  said Amy critically.\n\n I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!  and Beth ran to hug\nher sister and exult over this splendid success.\n\nDear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn t\nbelieve it till she saw the words.  Miss Josephine March,  actually\nprinted in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts\nof the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately\ncouldn t be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth\ngot excited, and skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to\nexclaim,  Sakes alive, well I never!  in great astonishment at  that\nJo s doin s . How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo\nlaughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a\npeacock and done with it, and how the  Spread Eagle  might be said to\nflap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper\npassed from hand to hand.\n\n Tell us about it.   When did it come?   How much did you get for it? \n What will Father say?   Won t Laurie laugh?  cried the family, all in\none breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate\npeople made a jubilee of every little household joy.\n\n Stop jabbering, girls, and I ll tell you everything,  said Jo,\nwondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did\nover her  Rival Painters . Having told how she disposed of her tales,\nJo added,  And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them\nboth, but didn t pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and\nnoticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when the\nbeginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two\nstories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it\nand insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he said it was good, and I\nshall write more, and he s going to get the next paid for, and I am so\nhappy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls. \n\nJo s breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she\nbedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be\nindependent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest\nwishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that\nhappy end.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\nA TELEGRAM\n\n\n November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year,  said\nMargaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the\nfrostbitten garden.\n\n That s the reason I was born in it,  observed Jo pensively, quite\nunconscious of the blot on her nose.\n\n If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a\ndelightful month,  said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything,\neven November.\n\n I dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family, \nsaid Meg, who was out of sorts.  We go grubbing along day after day,\nwithout a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a\ntreadmill. \n\n My patience, how blue we are!  cried Jo.  I don t much wonder, poor\ndear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind,\ngrind, year in and year out. Oh, don t I wish I could manage things for\nyou as I do for my heroines! You re pretty enough and good enough\nalready, so I d have some rich relation leave you a fortune\nunexpectedly. Then you d dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has\nslighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze of\nsplendor and elegance. \n\n People don t have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men have\nto work and women marry for money. It s a dreadfully unjust world, \nsaid Meg bitterly.\n\n Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years,\nand see if we don t,  said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud pies, as\nHannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces.\n\n Can t wait, and I m afraid I haven t much faith in ink and dirt,\nthough I m grateful for your good intentions. \n\nMeg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again. Jo groaned and\nleaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy\nspatted away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window,\nsaid, smiling,  Two pleasant things are going to happen right away.\nMarmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the\ngarden as if he had something nice to tell. \n\nIn they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question,  Any letter from\nFather, girls?  and Laurie to say in his persuasive way,  Won t some of\nyou come for a drive? I ve been working away at mathematics till my\nhead is in a muddle, and I m going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn.\nIt s a dull day, but the air isn t bad, and I m going to take Brooke\nhome, so it will be gay inside, if it isn t out. Come, Jo, you and Beth\nwill go, won t you? \n\n Of course we will. \n\n Much obliged, but I m busy.  And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for\nshe had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not\nto drive too often with the young gentleman.\n\n We three will be ready in a minute,  cried Amy, running away to wash\nher hands.\n\n Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?  asked Laurie, leaning over\nMrs. March s chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave\nher.\n\n No, thank you, except call at the office, if you ll be so kind, dear.\nIt s our day for a letter, and the postman hasn t been. Father is as\nregular as the sun, but there s some delay on the way, perhaps. \n\nA sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a\nletter.\n\n It s one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,  she said, handling it\nas if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.\n\nAt the word  telegraph , Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it\ncontained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little\npaper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for\nwater, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a\nfrightened voice...\n\nMrs. March:\nYour husband is very ill. Come at once.\nS. HALE\nBlank Hospital, Washington.\n\n\nHow still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the\nday darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to\nchange, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the\nhappiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them.\n\nMrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over, and\nstretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never\nforgot,  I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children,\nchildren, help me to bear it! \n\nFor several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the\nroom, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help,\nand hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first\nto recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good\nexample, for with her, work was panacea for most afflictions.\n\n The Lord keep the dear man! I won t waste no time a-cryin , but git\nyour things ready right away, mum,  she said heartily, as she wiped her\nface on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her\nown hard one, and went away to work like three women in one.\n\n She s right, there s no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me\nthink. \n\nThey tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking\npale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.\n\n Where s Laurie?  she asked presently, when she had collected her\nthoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.\n\n Here, ma am. Oh, let me do something!  cried the boy, hurrying from\nthe next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow\nwas too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.\n\n Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early\nin the morning. I ll take that. \n\n What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything,  he\nsaid, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.\n\n Leave a note at Aunt March s. Jo, give me that pen and paper. \n\nTearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew\nthe table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad\njourney must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to\nadd a little to the sum for her father.\n\n Now go, dear, but don t kill yourself driving at a desperate pace.\nThere is no need of that. \n\nMrs. March s warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later\nLaurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his\nlife.\n\n Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can t come. On the way\nget these things. I ll put them down, they ll be needed and I must go\nprepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and\nask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I m not too proud\nto beg for Father. He shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell\nHannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my\nthings, for I m half bewildered. \n\nWriting, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder the\npoor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little\nwhile, and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust\nof wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if\nthe paper had been an evil spell.\n\nMr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the\nkind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest\npromises of protection for the girls during the mother s absence, which\ncomforted her very much. There was nothing he didn t offer, from his\nown dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible.\nMrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman s undertaking the long\njourney, yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it,\nfor anxiety ill fits one for traveling. He saw the look, knit his heavy\neyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he d be\nback directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran\nthrough the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea\nin the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.\n\n I m very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,  he said, in the kind,\nquiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit.  I\ncame to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has\ncommissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction\nto be of service to her there. \n\nDown dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg\nput out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke\nwould have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling\none of time and comfort which he was about to take.\n\n How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I m sure, and it will be\nsuch a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank\nyou very, very much! \n\nMeg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the\nbrown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and\nlead the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother.\n\nEverything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from\nAunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what\nshe had often said before, that she had always told them it was absurd\nfor March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come\nof it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time. Mrs.\nMarch put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on\nwith her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Jo\nwould have understood if she had been there.\n\nThe short afternoon wore away. All other errands were done, and Meg and\nher mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got\ntea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a  slap and a\nbang , but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious, and Laurie\nwent off to find her, for no one knew what freak Jo might take into her\nhead. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer\nexpression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear,\nsatisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did\nthe roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little\nchoke in her voice,  That s my contribution toward making Father\ncomfortable and bringing him home! \n\n My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you\nhaven t done anything rash? \n\n No, it s mine honestly. I didn t beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned\nit, and I don t think you ll blame me, for I only sold what was my\nown. \n\nAs she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for\nall her abundant hair was cut short.\n\n Your hair! Your beautiful hair!   Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one\nbeauty.   My dear girl, there was no need of this.   She doesn t look\nlike my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it! \n\nAs everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo\nassumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle,\nand said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked\nit,  It doesn t affect the fate of the nation, so don t wail, Beth. It\nwill be good for my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig. It will\ndo my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously\nlight and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop,\nwhich will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I m\nsatisfied, so please take the money and let s have supper. \n\n Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can t blame\nyou, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call\nit, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I m afraid\nyou will regret it one of these days,  said Mrs. March.\n\n No, I won t!  returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her\nprank was not entirely condemned.\n\n What made you do it?  asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of\ncutting off her head as her pretty hair.\n\n Well, I was wild to do something for Father,  replied Jo, as they\ngathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the\nmidst of trouble.  I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew\nAunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence.\nMeg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some\nclothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money,\nif I sold the nose off my face to get it. \n\n You needn t feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and got\nthe simplest with your own hard earnings,  said Mrs. March with a look\nthat warmed Jo s heart.\n\n I hadn t the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went\nalong I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I d like to\ndive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber s window\nI saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail, not so\nthick as mine, was forty dollars. It came to me all of a sudden that I\nhad one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, I\nwalked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for\nmine. \n\n I don t see how you dared to do it,  said Beth in a tone of awe.\n\n Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his\nhair. He rather stared at first, as if he wasn t used to having girls\nbounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn t\ncare about mine, it wasn t the fashionable color, and he never paid\nmuch for it in the first place. The work put into it made it dear, and\nso on. It was getting late, and I was afraid if it wasn t done right\naway that I shouldn t have it done at all, and you know when I start to\ndo a thing, I hate to give it up. So I begged him to take it, and told\nhim why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed\nhis mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my\ntopsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly,  Take it,\nThomas, and oblige the young lady. I d do as much for our Jimmy any day\nif I had a spire of hair worth selling. \n\n Who was Jimmy?  asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they\nwent along.\n\n Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make\nstrangers feel, don t they? She talked away all the time the man\nclipped, and diverted my mind nicely. \n\n Didn t you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?  asked Meg, with a\nshiver.\n\n I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that\nwas the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will\nconfess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on\nthe table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost\nseemed as if I d an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and\npicked out a long lock for me to keep. I ll give it to you, Marmee,\njust to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don t\nthink I shall ever have a mane again. \n\nMrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short\ngray one in her desk. She only said,  Thank you, deary,  but something\nin her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully\nas they could about Mr. Brooke s kindness, the prospect of a fine day\ntomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to\nbe nursed.\n\nNo one wanted to go to bed when at ten o clock Mrs. March put by the\nlast finished job, and said,  Come girls.  Beth went to the piano and\nplayed the father s favorite hymn. All began bravely, but broke down\none by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to\nher music was always a sweet consoler.\n\n Go to bed and don t talk, for we must be up early and shall need all\nthe sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings,  said Mrs. March, as the\nhymn ended, for no one cared to try another.\n\nThey kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear\ninvalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of\nthe great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious\nthoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and\nher sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her\nexclaim, as she touched a wet cheek...\n\n Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father? \n\n No, not now. \n\n What then? \n\n My... My hair!  burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her\nemotion in the pillow.\n\nIt did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the\nafflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.\n\n I m not sorry,  protested Jo, with a choke.  I d do it again tomorrow,\nif I could. It s only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this\nsilly way. Don t tell anyone, it s all over now. I thought you were\nasleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How\ncame you to be awake? \n\n I can t sleep, I m so anxious,  said Meg.\n\n Think about something pleasant, and you ll soon drop off. \n\n I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever. \n\n What did you think of? \n\n Handsome faces eyes particularly,  answered Meg, smiling to herself in\nthe dark.\n\n What color do you like best? \n\n Brown, that is, sometimes. Blue are lovely. \n\nJo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably\npromised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in\nher castle in the air.\n\nThe clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a\nfigure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here,\nsettling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each\nunconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to\npray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the\ncurtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from\nbehind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face,\nwhich seemed to whisper in the silence,  Be comforted, dear soul! There\nis always light behind the clouds. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\nLETTERS\n\n\nIn the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter\nwith an earnestness never felt before. For now the shadow of a real\ntrouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort, and\nas they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully,\nand send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or\ncomplaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went\ndown, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within.\nBreakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah s familiar\nface looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap\non. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother s cloak and bonnet\nlay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so\npale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it\nvery hard to keep their resolution. Meg s eyes kept filling in spite of\nherself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more\nthan once, and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as\nif sorrow was a new experience to them.\n\nNobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they sat waiting\nfor the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied\nabout her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of\nher bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up\nher travelling bag...\n\n Children, I leave you to Hannah s care and Mr. Laurence s protection.\nHannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as\nif you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you\nshould take this trouble rightly. Don t grieve and fret when I am gone,\nor think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and\ntrying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed\nsolace. Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you\nnever can be fatherless. \n\n Yes, Mother. \n\n Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in\nany perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don t get\ndespondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl,\nready to help and cheer all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music,\nand be faithful to the little home duties, and you, Amy, help all you\ncan, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home. \n\n We will, Mother! We will! \n\nThe rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen.\nThat was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well. No one cried, no\none ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very\nheavy as they sent loving messages to Father, remembering, as they\nspoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their\nmother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands\ncheerfully when she drove away.\n\nLaurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke\nlooked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him\n Mr. Greatheart  on the spot.\n\n Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!  whispered Mrs.\nMarch, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried\ninto the carriage.\n\nAs she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it\nshining on the group at the gate like a good omen. They saw it also,\nand smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she\nturned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them like a\nbodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie.\n\n How kind everyone is to us!  she said, turning to find fresh proof of\nit in the respectful sympathy of the young man s face.\n\n I don t see how they can help it,  returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so\ninfectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the journey\nbegan with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.\n\n I feel as if there had been an earthquake,  said Jo, as their\nneighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh\nthemselves.\n\n It seems as if half the house was gone,  added Meg forlornly.\n\nBeth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile\nof nicely mended hose which lay on Mother s table, showing that even in\nher last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a\nlittle thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of\ntheir brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly.\n\nHannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the\nshower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with\na coffeepot.\n\n Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don t fret.\nCome and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let s fall to work\nand be a credit to the family. \n\nCoffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that\nmorning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant\ninvitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot. They drew up to the\ntable, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes\nwere all right again.\n\n Hope and keep busy , that s the motto for us, so let s see who will\nremember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won t she\nlecture though!  said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.\n\n I shall go to my Kings, though I d much rather stay at home and attend\nto things here,  said Meg, wishing she hadn t made her eyes so red.\n\n No need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,  put in\nAmy, with an important air.\n\n Hannah will tell us what to do, and we ll have everything nice when\nyou come home,  added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without\ndelay.\n\n I think anxiety is very interesting,  observed Amy, eating sugar\npensively.\n\nThe girls couldn t help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg\nshook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar\nbowl.\n\nThe sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two went\nout to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window\nwhere they were accustomed to see their mother s face. It was gone, but\nBeth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was,\nnodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin.\n\n That s so like my Beth!  said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful\nface.  Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won t strain today. Don t fret\nabout Father, dear,  she added, as they parted.\n\n And I hope Aunt March won t croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks\nvery boyish and nice,  returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly\nhead, which looked comically small on her tall sister s shoulders.\n\n That s my only comfort.  And, touching her hat a la Laurie, away went\nJo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.\n\nNews from their father comforted the girls very much, for though\ndangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had\nalready done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as the\nhead of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew\nmore cheerful as the week passed. At first, everyone was eager to\nwrite, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by\none or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their\nWashington correspondence. As one of these packets contained\ncharacteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and\nread them.\n\nMy dearest Mother:\n\n\nIt is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for\nthe news was so good we couldn t help laughing and crying over it. How\nvery kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence s business\ndetains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father.\nThe girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and\ninsists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might\noverdo, if I didn t know her  moral fit  wouldn t last long. Beth is as\nregular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told\nher. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at\nher little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her.\nShe does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and\nmend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased\nwith her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a\nmotherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly.\nHe and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel\nlike orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint. She does\nnot scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is quite\nproper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy,\nbut we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to\nFather, and believe me, ever your own...\n\n\nMEG\n\n\nThis note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to\nthe next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper,\nornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed\nletters.\n\nMy precious Marmee:\n\n\nThree cheers for dear Father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph right\noff, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up garret when\nthe letter came, and tried to thank God for being so good to us, but I\ncould only cry, and say,  I m glad! I m glad!  Didn t that do as well\nas a regular prayer? For I felt a great many in my heart. We have such\nfunny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so desperately\ngood, it s like living in a nest of turtledoves. You d laugh to see Meg\nhead the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day,\nand I m in love with her sometimes. The children are regular\narchangels, and I well, I m Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I\nmust tell you that I came near having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my\nmind about a silly little thing, and he was offended. I was right, but\ndidn t speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn t come\nagain till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn t and got mad. It\nlasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are\nboth so proud, it s hard to beg pardon. But I thought he d come to it,\nfor I was in the right. He didn t come, and just at night I remembered\nwhat you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt\nbetter, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to\ntell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same\nthing. We both laughed, begged each other s pardon, and felt all good\nand comfortable again.\n\n\nI made a  pome  yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash, and as\nFather likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him\nmy lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for\nyour...\n\n\nTOPSY-TURVY JO\n\n\nA SONG FROM THE SUDS\n\n\nQueen of my tub, I merrily sing,\nWhile the white foam rises high,\nAnd sturdily wash and rinse and wring,\nAnd fasten the clothes to dry.\nThen out in the free fresh air they swing,\nUnder the sunny sky.\n\n\nI wish we could wash from our hearts and souls\nThe stains of the week away,\nAnd let water and air by their magic make\nOurselves as pure as they.\nThen on the earth there would be indeed,\nA glorious washing day!\n\n\nAlong the path of a useful life,\nWill heart s-ease ever bloom.\nThe busy mind has no time to think\nOf sorrow or care or gloom.\nAnd anxious thoughts may be swept away,\nAs we bravely wield a broom.\n\n\nI am glad a task to me is given,\nTo labor at day by day,\nFor it brings me health and strength and hope,\nAnd I cheerfully learn to say,\n Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,\nBut, Hand, you shall work alway! \n\n\nDear Mother,\n\n\nThere is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies\nfrom the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see.\nI read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep\nwith Father s tune. I can t sing  LAND OF THE LEAL  now, it makes me\ncry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without\nyou. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn t forget to\ncover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.\n\n\nKiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your\nloving...\n\n\nLITTLE BETH\n\n\nMa Chere Mamma,\n\n\nWe are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the\ngirls Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can\ntake the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly\nevery night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet\ntempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost\nin my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French\nto me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The\nsleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones,\nbut the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I\nfelt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah\nwould put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can t\nshe? Didn t I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my\npunchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear\nme I have so many things to do, I can t stop. Adieu, I send heaps of\nlove to Papa. Your affectionate daughter...\n\n\nAMY CURTIS MARCH\n\n\nDear Mis March,\n\n\nI jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and\nfly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good\nhousekeeper. She hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things\nsurprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don t stop to\ncal k late fust, and you never know where she s like to bring up. She\ndone out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched  em afore they\nwas wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a\ndied a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of\nhelp to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn\neverything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps\naccounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical\nso fur. I don t let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to\nyour wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well\nwithout frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr.\nLaurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down\nfrequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full swing. The\nold gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means\nwal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at\nthis time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he s seen the last of\nhis Pewmonia.\n\n\nYours respectful,\nHannah Mullet\n\n\nHead Nurse of Ward No. 2,\n\nAll serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary\ndepartment well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on\nduty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily,\nQuartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket\nduty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of\ngood news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at\nheadquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is\nheartily joined by...\n\nCOLONEL TEDDY\n\n\nDear Madam:\n\n\nThe little girls are all well. Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is\na model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine\nweather holds. Pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if\nexpenses exceed your estimate. Don t let your husband want anything.\nThank God he is mending.\n\n\nYour sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\nLITTLE FAITHFUL\n\n\nFor a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied\nthe neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a\nheavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved\nof their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed\ntheir praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old\nways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy\nseemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt\nthat Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.\n\nJo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough,\nand was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March\ndidn t like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked\nthis, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on\nthe sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that\nhousework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud\npies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at\nhome, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or\nreading the Washington dispatches over and over. Beth kept on, with\nonly slight relapses into idleness or grieving.\n\nAll the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her\nsisters  also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a\nclock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with\nlongings for Mother or fears for Father, she went away into a certain\ncloset, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made her\nlittle moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody\nknew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet\nand helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort\nor advice in their small affairs.\n\nAll were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and\nwhen the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and\ndeserved praise. So they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do\nwell, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.\n\n Meg, I wish you d go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not\nto forget them.  said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March s departure.\n\n I m too tired to go this afternoon,  replied Meg, rocking comfortably\nas she sewed.\n\n Can t you, Jo?  asked Beth.\n\n Too stormy for me with my cold. \n\n I thought it was almost well. \n\n It s well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to\ngo to the Hummels ,  said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of\nher inconsistency.\n\n Why don t you go yourself?  asked Meg.\n\n I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don t know what to\ndo for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of\nit. But it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to\ngo. \n\nBeth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.\n\n Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air\nwill do you good,  said Jo, adding apologetically,  I d go but I want\nto finish my writing. \n\n My head aches and I m tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go, \nsaid Beth.\n\n Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,  suggested\nMeg.\n\nSo Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and\nthe Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come, Meg went\nto her room to try on a new dress, Jo was absorbed in her story, and\nHannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put\non her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor\nchildren, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy head and a\ngrieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and\nno one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother s room.\nHalf an hour after, Jo went to  Mother s closet  for something, and\nthere found little Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very\ngrave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hand.\n\n Christopher Columbus! What s the matter?  cried Jo, as Beth put out\nher hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . .\n\n You ve had the scarlet fever, haven t you? \n\n Years ago, when Meg did. Why? \n\n Then I ll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby s dead! \n\n What baby? \n\n Mrs. Hummel s. It died in my lap before she got home,  cried Beth with\na sob.\n\n My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone,  said Jo,\ntaking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother s big\nchair, with a remorseful face.\n\n It wasn t dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute it was sicker,\nbut Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took Baby and\nlet Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden if gave a little\ncry and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet,\nand Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn t stir, and I knew it was\ndead. \n\n Don t cry, dear! What did you do? \n\n I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor.\nHe said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore\nthroats.  Scarlet fever, ma am. Ought to have called me before,  he\nsaid crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure\nbaby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to\nhelp the others and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and\nwas kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned\nround all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right\naway, or I d have the fever. \n\n No, you won t!  cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look.\n Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What\nshall we do? \n\n Don t be frightened, I guess I shan t have it badly. I looked in\nMother s book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and\nqueer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel\nbetter,  said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and\ntrying to look well.\n\n If Mother was only at home!  exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and\nfeeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked\nat Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely,\n You ve been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among\nthe others who are going to have it, so I m afraid you are going to\nhave it, Beth. I ll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness. \n\n Don t let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it to\nher. Can t you and Meg have it over again?  asked Beth, anxiously.\n\n I guess not. Don t care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, to let\nyou go, and stay writing rubbish myself!  muttered Jo, as she went to\nconsult Hannah.\n\nThe good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once,\nassuring that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever,\nand if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed, and felt\nmuch relieved as they went up to call Meg.\n\n Now I ll tell you what we ll do,  said Hannah, when she had examined\nand questioned Beth,  we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at\nyou, dear, and see that we start right. Then we ll send Amy off to Aunt\nMarch s for a spell, to keep her out of harm s way, and one of you\ngirls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two. \n\n I shall stay, of course, I m oldest,  began Meg, looking anxious and\nself-reproachful.\n\n I shall, because it s my fault she is sick. I told Mother I d do the\nerrands, and I haven t,  said Jo decidedly.\n\n Which will you have, Beth? There ain t no need of but one,  aid\nHannah.\n\n Jo, please.  And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a\ncontented look, which effectually settled that point.\n\n I ll go and tell Amy,  said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather\nrelieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.\n\nAmy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather\nhave the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and\ncommanded, all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg\nleft her in despair to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came\nback, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head\nin the sofa cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled, but\nLaurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room,\nwhistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he\nsat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone,  Now be a\nsensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don t cry, but hear what\na jolly plan I ve got. You go to Aunt March s, and I ll come and take\nyou out every day, driving or walking, and we ll have capital times.\nWon t that be better than moping here? \n\n I don t wish to be sent off as if I was in the way,  began Amy, in an\ninjured voice.\n\n Bless your heart, child, it s to keep you well. You don t want to be\nsick, do you? \n\n No, I m sure I don t, but I dare say I shall be, for I ve been with\nBeth all the time. \n\n That s the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may\nescape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or if\nit does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise\nyou to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss. \n\n But it s dull at Aunt March s, and she is so cross,  said Amy, looking\nrather frightened.\n\n It won t be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is,\nand take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I ll be as\nsweet as possible to her, so she won t peck at us, whatever we do. \n\n Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck? \n\n On my honor as a gentleman. \n\n And come every single day? \n\n See if I don t! \n\n And bring me back the minute Beth is well? \n\n The identical minute. \n\n And go to the theater, truly? \n\n A dozen theaters, if we may. \n\n Well I guess I will,  said Amy slowly.\n\n Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you ll give in,  said Laurie, with\nan approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the  giving in .\n\nMeg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been\nwrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised\nto go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.\n\n How is the little dear?  asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet,\nand he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.\n\n She is lying down on Mother s bed, and feels better. The baby s death\ntroubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she\nthinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,  answered\nMeg.\n\n What a trying world it is!  said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful\nway.  No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another.\nThere doesn t seem to be anything to hold on to when Mother s gone, so\nI m all at sea. \n\n Well, don t make a porcupine of yourself, it isn t becoming. Settle\nyour wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do\nanything?  asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of\nhis friend s one beauty.\n\n That is what troubles me,  said Meg.  I think we ought to tell her if\nBeth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn t, for Mother can t leave\nFather, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won t be sick long,\nand Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her,\nso I suppose we must, but it doesn t seem quite right to me. \n\n Hum, well, I can t say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor\nhas been. \n\n We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once,  commanded Meg.  We can t\ndecide anything till he has been. \n\n Stay where you are, Jo. I m errand boy to this establishment,  said\nLaurie, taking up his cap.\n\n I m afraid you are busy,  began Meg.\n\n No, I ve done my lessons for the day. \n\n Do you study in vacation time?  asked Jo.\n\n I follow the good example my neighbors set me,  was Laurie s answer,\nas he swung himself out of the room.\n\n I have great hopes for my boy,  observed Jo, watching him fly over the\nfence with an approving smile.\n\n He does very well, for a boy,  was Meg s somewhat ungracious answer,\nfor the subject did not interest her.\n\nDr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she\nwould have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story.\nAmy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off\ndanger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.\n\nAunt March received them with her usual hospitality.\n\n What do you want now?  she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles,\nwhile the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out...\n\n Go away. No boys allowed here. \n\nLaurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.\n\n No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among\npoor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn t sick,\nwhich I ve no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Don t cry, child,\nit worries me to hear people sniff. \n\nAmy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot s\ntail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out,\n Bless my boots!  in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.\n\n What do you hear from your mother?  asked the old lady gruffly.\n\n Father is much better,  replied Jo, trying to keep sober.\n\n Oh, is he? Well, that won t last long, I fancy. March never had any\nstamina,  was the cheerful reply.\n\n Ha, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye! \nsqualled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady s cap\nas Laurie tweaked him in the rear.\n\n Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you d better go\nat once. It isn t proper to be gadding about so late with a rattlepated\nboy like... \n\n Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!  cried Polly, tumbling\noff the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the  rattlepated  boy,\nwho was shaking with laughter at the last speech.\n\n I don t think I can bear it, but I ll try,  thought Amy, as she was\nleft alone with Aunt March.\n\n Get along, you fright!  screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy\ncould not restrain a sniff.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\nDARK DAYS\n\n\nBeth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and\nthe doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr.\nLaurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own\nway, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the\nexcellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings,\nand kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote\nletters in which no mention was made of Beth s illness. She could not\nthink it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind\nHannah, and Hannah wouldn t hear of  Mrs. March bein  told, and worried\njust for sech a trifle. \n\nJo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was\nvery patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could\ncontrol herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she\nbegan to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if\non her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen\nthat there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar\nfaces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called\nimploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be\nallowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she  would think of\nit, though there was no danger yet . A letter from Washington added to\ntheir trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of\ncoming home for a long while.\n\nHow dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how\nheavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while\nthe shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that\nMargaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how\nrich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could\nbuy in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life.\nThen it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering\nlittle sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding\nin her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth s\nnature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts,\nand to acknowledge the worth of Beth s unselfish ambition to live for\nothers, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues\nwhich all may possess, and which all should love and value more than\ntalent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be\nat home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service\nwould be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how\nmany neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie\nhaunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the\ngrand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young\nneighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone\nmissed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she\ndid, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to\nget a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and\ngood wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find\nhow many friends shy little Beth had made.\n\nMeanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in\nher wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for\nher cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick,\nand in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent\nloving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write\nsoon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that\nFather might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these\nintervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing\nto and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy\nsleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day,\nHannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to\nsend off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth s side.\n\nThe first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter\nwind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its\ndeath. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held\nthe hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down,\nsaying, in a low voice to Hannah,  If Mrs. March can leave her husband\nshe d better be sent for. \n\nHannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg\ndropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs\nat the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a\nminute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on\nher things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and while\nnoiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying\nthat Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy\nweight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of\nmisery that Laurie asked quickly,  What is it? Is Beth worse? \n\n I ve sent for Mother,  said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a\ntragic expression.\n\n Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?  asked\nLaurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious\nboots, seeing how her hands shook.\n\n No. The doctor told us to. \n\n Oh, Jo, it s not so bad as that?  cried Laurie, with a startled face.\n\n Yes, it is. She doesn t know us, she doesn t even talk about the\nflocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She\ndoesn t look like my Beth, and there s nobody to help us bear it.\nMother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can t find\nHim. \n\nAs the tears streamed fast down poor Jo s cheeks, she stretched out her\nhand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie\ntook it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his\nthroat,  I m here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear! \n\nShe could not speak, but she did  hold on , and the warm grasp of the\nfriendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her\nnearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.\n\nLaurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting\nwords came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as\nher mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far\nmore soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken\nsympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection\nadministers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her,\nand looked up with a grateful face.\n\n Thank you, Teddy, I m better now. I don t feel so forlorn, and will\ntry to bear it if it comes. \n\n Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother\nwill be here, and then everything will be all right. \n\n I m so glad Father is better. Now she won t feel so bad about leaving\nhim. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I\ngot the heaviest part on my shoulders,  sighed Jo, spreading her wet\nhandkerchief over her knees to dry.\n\n Doesn t Meg pull fair?  asked Laurie, looking indignant.\n\n Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can t love Bethy as I do, and she won t\nmiss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can t give her up. I\ncan t! I can t! \n\nDown went Jo s face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried\ndespairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a\ntear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he\nhad subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It\nmight be unmanly, but he couldn t help it, and I am glad of it.\nPresently, as Jo s sobs quieted, he said hopefully,  I don t think she\nwill die. She s so good, and we all love her so much, I don t believe\nGod will take her away yet. \n\n The good and dear people always do die,  groaned Jo, but she stopped\ncrying, for her friend s words cheered her up in spite of her own\ndoubts and fears.\n\n Poor girl, you re worn out. It isn t like you to be forlorn. Stop a\nbit. I ll hearten you up in a jiffy. \n\nLaurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down\non Beth s little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from\nthe table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the\nsubmissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and when\nLaurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a\nsmile, and said bravely,  I drink  Health to my Beth! You are a good\ndoctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you? \nshe added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done\nher troubled mind.\n\n I ll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I ll give you something that\nwill warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine,  said\nLaurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at\nsomething.\n\n What is it?  cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.\n\n I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she d come\nat once, and she ll be here tonight, and everything will be all right.\nAren t you glad I did it? \n\nLaurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for\nhe had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or\nharming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the\nmoment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms\nround his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry,  Oh, Laurie! Oh,\nMother! I am so glad!  She did not weep again, but laughed\nhysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a\nlittle bewildered by the sudden news.\n\nLaurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind.\nHe patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering,\nfollowed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at\nonce. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying\nbreathlessly,  Oh, don t! I didn t mean to, it was dreadful of me, but\nyou were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn t\nhelp flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don t give me wine again,\nit makes me act so. \n\n I don t mind,  laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie.  Why, you see I\ngot fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the\nauthority business, and your mother ought to know. She d never forgive\nus if Beth... Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa to\nsay it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office\nyesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head\noff when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be  lorded over ,\nso that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know,\nand the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and you ve\nonly got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till that\nblessed lady gets here. \n\n Laurie, you re an angel! How shall I ever thank you? \n\n Fly at me again. I rather liked it,  said Laurie, looking mischievous,\na thing he had not done for a fortnight.\n\n No, thank you. I ll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don t\ntease, but go home and rest, for you ll be up half the night. Bless\nyou, Teddy, bless you! \n\nJo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she\nvanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a\ndresser and told the assembled cats that she was  happy, oh, so happy! \nwhile Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of\nit.\n\n That s the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do\nhope Mrs. March is coming right away,  said Hannah, with an air of\nrelief, when Jo told the good news.\n\nMeg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set\nthe sickroom in order, and Hannah  knocked up a couple of pies in case\nof company unexpected . A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through\nthe house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet\nrooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth s bird\nbegan to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy s\nbush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness,\nand every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as\nthey hugged one another, whispering encouragingly,  Mother s coming,\ndear! Mother s coming!  Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that\nheavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It\nwas a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once\nbusy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and\nthe once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the\npillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter,\n Water!  with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word. All day\nJo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in\nGod and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and\nthe hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the\nclock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed,\nlooked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help\nnearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or\nworse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would\nreturn.\n\nHannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed s foot and fell\nfast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling\nthat he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March s countenance\nas she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring\ninto the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes\nbeautifully soft and clear.\n\nThe girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they\nkept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes\nto us in hours like those.\n\n If God spares Beth, I never will complain again,  whispered Meg\nearnestly.\n\n If God spares Beth, I ll try to love and serve Him all my life, \nanswered Jo, with equal fervor.\n\n I wish I had no heart, it aches so,  sighed Meg, after a pause.\n\n If life is often as hard as this, I don t see how we ever shall get\nthrough it,  added her sister despondently.\n\nHere the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching\nBeth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was\nstill as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep\nhush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale\nshadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and\nnothing happened except Laurie s quiet departure for the station.\nAnother hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the\nstorm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at\nWashington, haunted the girls.\n\nIt was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary\nthe world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the\nbed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother s easy\nchair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as\nshe thought,  Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me. \n\nShe was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great\nchange seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain\nwere gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in\nits utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning\nlow over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with\nher heart on her lips, and softly whispered,  Good-by, my Beth.\nGood-by! \n\nAs if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to\nthe bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and\nthen, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro,\nexclaiming, under her breath,  The fever s turned, she s sleepin \nnat ral, her skin s damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh,\nmy goodness me! \n\nBefore the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to\nconfirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite\nheavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them,  Yes,\nmy dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the\nhouse quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her... \n\nWhat they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark\nhall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with\nhearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled\nby faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her\ncheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing\nquietly, as if just fallen asleep.\n\n If Mother would only come now!  said Jo, as the winter night began to\nwane.\n\n See,  said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose,  I thought\nthis would hardly be ready to lay in Beth s hand tomorrow if she went\naway from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put\nit in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she\nsees will be the little rose, and Mother s face. \n\nNever had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed\nso lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out\nin the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.\n\n It looks like a fairy world,  said Meg, smiling to herself, as she\nstood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.\n\n Hark!  cried Jo, starting to her feet.\n\nYes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah,\nand then Laurie s voice saying in a joyful whisper,  Girls, she s come!\nShe s come! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\nAMY S WILL\n\n\nWhile these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at\nAunt March s. She felt her exile deeply, and for the first time in her\nlife, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March\nnever petted any one; she did not approve of it, but she meant to be\nkind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt\nMarch had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew s children,\nthough she didn t think it proper to confess it. She really did her\nbest to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made. Some old\npeople keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can\nsympathize with children s little cares and joys, make them feel at\nhome, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and\nreceiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this\ngift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim\nways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable\nthan her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract,\nas far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So\nshe took Amy by the hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught\nsixty years ago, a process which carried dismay to Amy s soul, and made\nher feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider.\n\nShe had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned\nspoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses till they shone. Then\nshe must dust the room, and what a trying job that was. Not a speck\nescaped Aunt March s eye, and all the furniture had claw legs and much\ncarving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly had to be fed, the\nlap dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down to get things or\ndeliver orders, for the old lady was very lame and seldom left her big\nchair. After these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was\na daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one\nhour for exercise or play, and didn t she enjoy it?\n\nLaurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March till Amy was allowed to\ngo out with him, when they walked and rode and had capital times. After\ndinner, she had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept,\nwhich she usually did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first\npage. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward\nmeekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse\nherself as she liked till teatime. The evenings were the worst of all,\nfor Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were\nso unutterably dull that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending\nto cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before she had\nsqueezed out more than a tear or two.\n\nIf it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that\nshe never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone\nwas enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not\nadmire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible.\nHe pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk\nto plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by\npecking at him while Madam dozed, called her names before company, and\nbehaved in all respects like an reprehensible old bird. Then she could\nnot endure the dog, a fat, cross beast who snarled and yelped at her\nwhen she made his toilet, and who lay on his back with all his legs in\nthe air and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted\nsomething to eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was\nbad-tempered, the old coachman was deaf, and Esther the only one who\never took any notice of the young lady.\n\nEsther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with  Madame , as she called\nher mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old\nlady, who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle,\nbut Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition\nthat she was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to\nMademoiselle, and amused her very much with odd stories of her life in\nFrance, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame s laces. She also\nallowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and\npretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests,\nfor Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy s chief delight was an Indian\ncabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeonholes, and secret places,\nin which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely\ncurious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things\ngave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel cases, in which on\nvelvet cushions reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty\nyears ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came\nout, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding day, her lover s\ndiamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with\nportraits of dead friends and weeping willows made of hair inside, the\nbaby bracelets her one little daughter had worn, Uncle March s big\nwatch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in\na box all by itself lay Aunt March s wedding ring, too small now for\nher fat finger, but put carefully away like the most precious jewel of\nthem all.\n\n Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?  asked Esther,\nwho always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.\n\n I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I m\nfond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I\nmight,  replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold\nand ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of the same.\n\n I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace. Ah, no! To me it is a\nrosary, and as such I should use it like a good catholic,  said Esther,\neyeing the handsome thing wistfully.\n\n Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads\nhanging over your glass?  asked Amy.\n\n Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one\nused so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou. \n\n You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and\nalways come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could. \n\n If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort, but as\nthat is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day to\nmeditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before\nMadame. She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much\ntrouble. \n\n Would it be right for me to do so too?  asked Amy, who in her\nloneliness felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was\napt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind\nher of it.\n\n It would be excellent and charming, and I shall gladly arrange the\nlittle dressing room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but\nwhen she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts,\nand pray the dear God preserve your sister. \n\nEsther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice, for she had an\naffectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy\nliked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her\nroom, hoping it would do her good.\n\n I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March\ndies,  she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary and shut the\njewel cases one by one.\n\n To you and your sisters. I know it, Madame confides in me. I witnessed\nher will, and it is to be so,  whispered Esther smiling.\n\n How nice! But I wish she d let us have them now. Procrastination is\nnot agreeable,  observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.\n\n It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The\nfirst one who is affianced will have the pearls, Madame has said it,\nand I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you\nwhen you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming\nmanners. \n\n Do you think so? Oh, I ll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely\nring! It s ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant s. I do like Aunt\nMarch after all.  And Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face\nand a firm resolve to earn it.\n\nFrom that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady\ncomplacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the\ncloset with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a\npicture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no\ngreat value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that\nMadame would never know it, nor care if she did. It was, however, a\nvery valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and\nAmy s beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet\nface of the Divine Mother, while her tender thoughts of her own were\nbusy at her heart. On the table she laid her little testament and\nhymnbook, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought\nher, and came every day to  sit alone  thinking good thoughts, and\npraying the dear God to preserve her sister. Esther had given her a\nrosary of black beads with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did\nnot use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers.\n\nThe little girl was very sincere in all this, for being left alone\noutside the safe home nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold\nby so sorely that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender\nFriend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds His little children.\nShe missed her mother s help to understand and rule herself, but having\nbeen taught where to look, she did her best to find the way and walk in\nit confidingly. But, Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden\nseemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and\nbe satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it.\nIn her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her\nwill, as Aunt March had done, so that if she did fall ill and die, her\npossessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang\neven to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were\nas precious as the old lady s jewels.\n\nDuring one of her play hours she wrote out the important document as\nwell as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal\nterms, and when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy\nfelt relieved and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a\nsecond witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse\nherself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for\ncompany. In this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned\ncostumes with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite\namusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and\ndown before the long mirror, making stately curtsies, and sweeping her\ntrain about with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on\nthis day that she did not hear Laurie s ring nor see his face peeping\nin at her as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and\ntossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting\noddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was\nobliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as\nLaurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along\nin her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her,\nimitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh\nor exclaim,  Ain t we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue!\nKiss me, dear! Ha! Ha! \n\nHaving with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it\nshould offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously received.\n\n Sit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want to\nconsult you about a very serious matter,  said Amy, when she had shown\nher splendor and driven Polly into a corner.  That bird is the trial of\nmy life,  she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head,\nwhile Laurie seated himself astride a chair.\n\n Yesterday, when Aunt was asleep and I was trying to be as still as a\nmouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage, so I went to\nlet him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran\nunder the bookcase. Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and\npeeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his\neye,  Come out and take a walk, my dear.  I couldn t help laughing,\nwhich made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both. \n\n Did the spider accept the old fellow s invitation?  asked Laurie,\nyawning.\n\n Yes, out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and\nscrambled up on Aunt s chair, calling out,  Catch her! Catch her! Catch\nher!  as I chased the spider. \n\n That s a lie! Oh, lor!  cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie s toes.\n\n I d wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment,  cried Laurie,\nshaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and gravely\ncroaked,  Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear! \n\n Now I m ready,  said Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a piece of\npaper out of her pocket.  I want you to read that, please, and tell me\nif it is legal and right. I felt I ought to do it, for life is\nuncertain and I don t want any ill feeling over my tomb. \n\nLaurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker,\nread the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the\nspelling:\n\nMY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT\n\n\nI, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, go give and bequeethe all\nmy earthly property viz. to wit: namely\n\n\nTo my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art,\nincluding frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.\n\n\nTo my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets also\nmy likeness, and my medal, with much love.\n\n\nTo my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it),\nalso my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for\nher neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of her  little girl .\n\n\nTo Jo I leave my breastpin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my\nbronze inkstand she lost the cover and my most precious plaster rabbit,\nbecause I am sorry I burned up her story.\n\n\nTo Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau,\nmy fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being\nthin when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that I\never made fun of old Joanna.\n\n\nTo my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper mashay\nportfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn t any\nneck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction\nany one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best.\n\n\nTo our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a\nlooking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind\nhim of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family,\nespecially Beth.\n\n\nI wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron\nand my gold-bead ring with a kiss.\n\n\nTo Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patchwork I leave\nhoping she  will remember me, when it you see .\n\n\nAnd now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be\nsatisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive everyone, and trust we may\nall meet when the trump shall sound. Amen.\n\n\nTo this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of\nNov. Anni Domino 1861.\n\n\nAmy Curtis March\n\n\nWitnesses:\n\n\nEstelle Valnor, Theodore Laurence.\n\n\nThe last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to\nrewrite it in ink and seal it up for her properly.\n\n What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth s giving\naway her things?  asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape,\nwith sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.\n\nShe explained and then asked anxiously,  What about Beth? \n\n I m sorry I spoke, but as I did, I ll tell you. She felt so ill one\nday that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to\nyou, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She\nwas sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest\nof us, and her best love to Grandpa. She never thought of a will. \n\nLaurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a\ngreat tear dropped on the paper. Amy s face was full of trouble, but\nshe only said,  Don t people put sort of postscripts to their wills,\nsometimes? \n\n Yes,  codicils , they call them. \n\n Put one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and given\nround to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done though it will\nspoil my looks. \n\nLaurie added it, smiling at Amy s last and greatest sacrifice. Then he\namused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But\nwhen he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips,\n Is there really any danger about Beth? \n\n I m afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don t cry,\ndear.  And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which\nwas very comforting.\n\nWhen he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the\ntwilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart,\nfeeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the\nloss of her gentle little sister.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\nCONFIDENTIAL\n\n\nI don t think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the\nmother and daughters. Such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard\nto describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers,\nmerely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that\nMeg s tender hope was realized, for when Beth woke from that long,\nhealing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little\nrose and Mother s face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled\nand nestled close in the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry\nlonging was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls\nwaited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which\nclung to hers even in sleep.\n\nHannah had  dished up  an astonishing breakfast for the traveler,\nfinding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way, and Meg\nand Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened\nto her whispered account of Father s state, Mr. Brooke s promise to\nstay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the\nhomeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie s hopeful face had\ngiven her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.\n\nWhat a strange yet pleasant day that was. So brilliant and gay without,\nfor all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow. So quiet and\nreposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching, and a\nSabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah\nmounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off,\nMeg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten\nboats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave\nBeth s side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at,\ntouch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered\ntreasure.\n\nLaurie meanwhile posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well\nthat Aunt March actually  sniffed  herself, and never once said  I told\nyou so . Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good\nthoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her\ntears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never\neven thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed\nin Laurie s opinion, that she behaved  like a capital little woman .\nEven Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl, blessed her\nbuttons, and begged her to  come and take a walk, dear , in his most\naffable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright\nwintry weather, but discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in\nspite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest\non the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time\nabout it, and when she returned, he was stretched out with both arms\nunder his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the\ncurtains and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.\n\nAfter a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up till\nnight, and I m not sure that he would, had he not been effectually\nroused by Amy s cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were\na good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it\nis my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in\nher mother s lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and\ncompensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They\nwere alone together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object\nwhen its purpose was explained to her.\n\n On the contrary, I like it very much, dear,  looking from the dusty\nrosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its\ngarland of evergreen.  It is an excellent plan to have some place where\nwe can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good\nmany hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we\nask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this. \n\n Yes, Mother, and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big\ncloset to put my books and the copy of that picture which I ve tried to\nmake. The woman s face is not good, it s too beautiful for me to draw,\nbut the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think\nHe was a little child once, for then I don t seem so far away, and that\nhelps me. \n\nAs Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his Mother s knee, Mrs.\nMarch saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said\nnothing, but Amy understood the look, and after a minute s pause, she\nadded gravely,  I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it.\nAunt gave me the ring today. She called me to her and kissed me, and\nput it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she d like to\nkeep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as\nit s too big. I d like to wear them Mother, can I? \n\n They are very pretty, but I think you re rather too young for such\nornaments, Amy,  said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand,\nwith the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint\nguard formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together.\n\n I ll try not to be vain,  said Amy.  I don t think I like it only\nbecause it s so pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl in the story\nwore her bracelet, to remind me of something. \n\n Do you mean Aunt March?  asked her mother, laughing.\n\n No, to remind me not to be selfish.  Amy looked so earnest and sincere\nabout it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to\nthe little plan.\n\n I ve thought a great deal lately about my  bundle of naughties , and\nbeing selfish is the largest one in it, so I m going to try hard to\ncure it, if I can. Beth isn t selfish, and that s the reason everyone\nloves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People\nwouldn t feel so bad about me if I was sick, and I don t deserve to\nhave them, but I d like to be loved and missed by a great many friends,\nso I m going to try and be like Beth all I can. I m apt to forget my\nresolutions, but if I had something always about me to remind me, I\nguess I should do better. May we try this way? \n\n Yes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your\nring, dear, and do your best. I think you will prosper, for the sincere\nwish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up\nyour heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again. \n\nThat evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the\ntraveler s safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth s room, and\nfinding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her\nfingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.\n\n What is it, deary?  asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a\nface which invited confidence.\n\n I want to tell you something, Mother. \n\n About Meg? \n\n How quickly you guessed! Yes, it s about her, and though it s a little\nthing, it fidgets me. \n\n Beth is asleep. Speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat\nhasn t been here, I hope?  asked Mrs. March rather sharply.\n\n No. I should have shut the door in his face if he had,  said Jo,\nsettling herself on the floor at her mother s feet.  Last summer Meg\nleft a pair of gloves over at the Laurences  and only one was returned.\nWe forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke owned that he\nliked Meg but didn t dare say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now,\nisn t it a dreadful state of things? \n\n Do you think Meg cares for him?  asked Mrs. March, with an anxious\nlook.\n\n Mercy me! I don t know anything about love and such nonsense!  cried\nJo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt.  In novels, the\ngirls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin,\nand acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort. She\neats and drinks and sleeps like a sensible creature, she looks straight\nin my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit\nwhen Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn t\nmind me as he ought. \n\n Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John? \n\n Who?  cried Jo, staring.\n\n Mr. Brooke. I call him  John  now. We fell into the way of doing so at\nthe hospital, and he likes it. \n\n Oh, dear! I know you ll take his part. He s been good to Father, and\nyou won t send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean\nthing! To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into\nliking him.  And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.\n\n My dear, don t get angry about it, and I will tell you how it\nhappened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence s request, and was so\ndevoted to poor Father that we couldn t help getting fond of him. He\nwas perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved\nher, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry\nhim. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the\nright to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young\nman, and we could not refuse to listen to him, but I will not consent\nto Meg s engaging herself so young. \n\n Of course not. It would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing.\nI felt it, and now it s worse than I imagined. I just wish I could\nmarry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family. \n\nThis odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said gravely,  Jo,\nI confide in you and don t wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When\nJohn comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her\nfeelings toward him. \n\n She ll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will\nbe all up with her. She s got such a soft heart, it will melt like\nbutter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentlly at her. She read the\nshort reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me\nwhen I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn t think John an\nugly name, and she ll go and fall in love, and there s an end of peace\nand fun, and cozy times together. I see it all! They ll go lovering\naround the house, and we shall have to dodge. Meg will be absorbed and\nno good to me any more. Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry\nher off, and make a hole in the family, and I shall break my heart, and\neverything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! Why weren t\nwe all boys, then there wouldn t be any bother. \n\nJo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook\nher fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up\nwith an air of relief.\n\n You don t like it, Mother? I m glad of it. Let s send him about his\nbusiness, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as\nwe always have been. \n\n I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to\nhomes of your own in time, but I do want to keep my girls as long as I\ncan, and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only\nseventeen and it will be some years before John can make a home for\nher. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in\nany way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one\nanother, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is\nconscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My\npretty, tender hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her. \n\n Hadn t you rather have her marry a rich man?  asked Jo, as her\nmother s voice faltered a little over the last words.\n\n Money is a good and useful thing, Jo, and I hope my girls will never\nfeel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should\nlike to know that John was firmly established in some good business,\nwhich gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make\nMeg comfortable. I m not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a\nfashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money\ncome with love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and\nenjoy your good fortune, but I know, by experience, how much genuine\nhappiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is\nearned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am\ncontent to see Meg begin humbly, for if I am not mistaken, she will be\nrich in the possession of a good man s heart, and that is better than a\nfortune. \n\n I understand, Mother, and quite agree, but I m disappointed about Meg,\nfor I d planned to have her marry Teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap of\nluxury all her days. Wouldn t it be nice?  asked Jo, looking up with a\nbrighter face.\n\n He is younger than she, you know,  began Mrs. March, but Jo broke\nin...\n\n Only a little, he s old for his age, and tall, and can be quite\ngrown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he s rich and generous and\ngood, and loves us all, and I say it s a pity my plan is spoiled. \n\n I m afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether\ntoo much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on. Don t make\nplans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We\ncan t meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get  romantic\nrubbish  as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship. \n\n Well, I won t, but I hate to see things going all crisscross and\ngetting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten\nit out. I wish wearing flatirons on our heads would keep us from\ngrowing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens cats, more s the pity! \n\n What s that about flatirons and cats?  asked Meg, as she crept into\nthe room with the finished letter in her hand.\n\n Only one of my stupid speeches. I m going to bed. Come, Peggy,  said\nJo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.\n\n Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love\nto John,  said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it\nback.\n\n Do you call him  John ?  asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes\nlooking down into her mother s.\n\n Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him, \nreplied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.\n\n I m glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother, dear. It is so\ninexpressibly comfortable to have you here,  was Meg s answer.\n\nThe kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went\naway, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret,  She\ndoes not love John yet, but will soon learn to. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\nLAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE\n\n\nJo s face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her,\nand she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg\nobserved it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had\nlearned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so\nshe felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was\nrather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo\nassumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in turn\nassumed an air of dignified reserve and devoted herself to her mother.\nThis left Jo to her own devices, for Mrs. March had taken her place as\nnurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long\nconfinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge, and much as\nshe enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was\nan incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax the secret from\nher.\n\nShe was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a\nmystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of\nit. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected\nindifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he\nknew, then that he didn t care; and at last, by dint of perseverance,\nhe satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling\nindignant that he was not taken into his tutor s confidence, he set his\nwits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.\n\nMeg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter and was absorbed in\npreparations for her father s return, but all of a sudden a change\nseemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike\nherself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very\nquiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her\nface. To her mother s inquiries she answered that she was quite well,\nand Jo s she silenced by begging to be let alone.\n\n She feels it in the air love, I mean and she s going very fast. She s\ngot most of the symptoms is twittery and cross, doesn t eat, lies\nawake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave\nher, and once she said  John , as you do, and then turned as red as a\npoppy. Whatever shall we do?  said Jo, looking ready for any measures,\nhowever violent.\n\n Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and Father s\ncoming will settle everything,  replied her mother.\n\n Here s a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals\nmine,  said Jo next day, as she distributed the contents of the little\npost office.\n\nMrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg\nmade them look up to see her staring at her note with a frightened\nface.\n\n My child, what is it?  cried her mother, running to her, while Jo\ntried to take the paper which had done the mischief.\n\n It s all a mistake, he didn t send it. Oh, Jo, how could you do it? \nand Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart were quite\nbroken.\n\n Me! I ve done nothing! What s she talking about?  cried Jo,\nbewildered.\n\nMeg s mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from\nher pocket and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully,  You wrote it, and\nthat bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel\nto us both? \n\nJo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note,\nwhich was written in a peculiar hand.\n\n My Dearest Margaret,\n\n\n I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before I\nreturn. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they would\nconsent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr. Laurence will help\nme to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me happy.\nI implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send one word\nof hope through Laurie to,\n\n\n Your devoted John. \n\n\n Oh, the little villain! That s the way he meant to pay me for keeping\nmy word to Mother. I ll give him a hearty scolding and bring him over\nto beg pardon,  cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her\nmother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore...\n\n Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many\npranks that I am afraid you have had a hand in this. \n\n On my word, Mother, I haven t! I never saw that note before, and don t\nknow anything about it, as true as I live!  said Jo, so earnestly that\nthey believed her.  If I had taken part in it I d have done it better\nthan this, and have written a sensible note. I should think you d have\nknown Mr. Brooke wouldn t write such stuff as that,  she added,\nscornfully tossing down the paper.\n\n It s like his writing,  faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in\nher hand.\n\n Oh, Meg, you didn t answer it?  cried Mrs. March quickly.\n\n Yes, I did!  and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.\n\n Here s a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain and\nbe lectured. I can t rest till I get hold of him.  And Jo made for the\ndoor again.\n\n Hush! Let me handle this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret,\ntell me the whole story,  commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg,\nyet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.\n\n I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn t look as if he knew\nanything about it,  began Meg, without looking up.  I was worried at\nfirst and meant to tell you, then I remembered how you liked Mr.\nBrooke, so I thought you wouldn t mind if I kept my little secret for a\nfew days. I m so silly that I liked to think no one knew, and while I\nwas deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such\nthings to do. Forgive me, Mother, I m paid for my silliness now. I\nnever can look him in the face again. \n\n What did you say to him?  asked Mrs. March.\n\n I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet, that I didn t\nwish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very\ngrateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more,\nfor a long while. \n\nMrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands,\nexclaiming, with a laugh,  You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who\nwas a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that? \n\n He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent\nany love letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo,\nshould take liberties with our names. It s very kind and respectful,\nbut think how dreadful for me! \n\nMeg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo\ntramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she\nstopped, caught up the two notes, and after looking at them closely,\nsaid decidedly,  I don t believe Brooke ever saw either of these\nletters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with because\nI wouldn t tell him my secret. \n\n Don t have any secrets, Jo. Tell it to Mother and keep out of trouble,\nas I should have done,  said Meg warningly.\n\n Bless you, child! Mother told me. \n\n That will do, Jo. I ll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I\nshall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at\nonce. \n\nAway ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke s real feelings.\n Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he\ncan make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the\npresent? \n\n I ve been so scared and worried, I don t want to have anything to do\nwith lovers for a long while, perhaps never,  answered Meg petulantly.\n If John doesn t know anything about this nonsense, don t tell him, and\nmake Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won t be deceived and plagued\nand made a fool of. It s a shame! \n\nSeeing Meg s usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by\nthis mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire\nsilence and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie s step\nwas heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received\nthe culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he\nwouldn t come, but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March s face, and\nstood twirling his hat with a guilty air which convicted him at once.\nJo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a\nsentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of\nvoices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour, but what happened\nduring that interview the girls never knew.\n\nWhen they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother with such\na penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it\nwise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much\ncomforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.\n\n I ll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shan t drag it out of\nme, so you ll forgive me, Meg, and I ll do anything to show how\nout-and-out sorry I am,  he added, looking very much ashamed of\nhimself.\n\n I ll try, but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, I didn t think\nyou could be so sly and malicious, Laurie,  replied Meg, trying to hide\nher maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.\n\n It was altogether abominable, and I don t deserve to be spoken to for\na month, but you will, though, won t you?  And Laurie folded his hands\ntogether with such and imploring gesture, as he spoke in his\nirresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him\nin spite of his scandalous behavior.\n\nMeg pardoned him, and Mrs. March s grave face relaxed, in spite of her\nefforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone\nfor his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm\nbefore the injured damsel.\n\nJo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and\nsucceeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire\ndisapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but as she showed\nno sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till\nthe others were done with him, when he made her a low bow and walked\noff without a word.\n\nAs soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving, and\nwhen Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely and longed for\nTeddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and\narmed with a book to return, went over to the big house.\n\n Is Mr. Laurence in?  asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming\ndownstairs.\n\n Yes, Miss, but I don t believe he s seeable just yet. \n\n Why not? Is he ill? \n\n La, no Miss, but he s had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of\nhis tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I\ndursn t go nigh him. \n\n Where is Laurie? \n\n Shut up in his room, and he won t answer, though I ve been a-tapping.\nI don t know what s to become of the dinner, for it s ready, and\nthere s no one to eat it. \n\n I ll go and see what the matter is. I m not afraid of either of them. \n\nUp went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie s little study.\n\n Stop that, or I ll open the door and make you!  called out the young\ngentleman in a threatening tone.\n\nJo immediately knocked again. The door flew open, and in she bounced\nbefore Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really\nwas out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite\nexpression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly,\n Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can t\ngo away till I have. \n\n It s all right. Get up, and don t be a goose, Jo,  was the cavalier\nreply to her petition.\n\n Thank you, I will. Could I ask what s the matter? You don t look\nexactly easy in your mind. \n\n I ve been shaken, and I won t bear it!  growled Laurie indignantly.\n\n Who did it?  demanded Jo.\n\n Grandfather. If it had been anyone else I d have...  And the injured\nyouth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.\n\n That s nothing. I often shake you, and you don t mind,  said Jo\nsoothingly.\n\n Pooh! You re a girl, and it s fun, but I ll allow no man to shake me! \n\n I don t think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like\na thundercloud as you do now. Why were you treated so? \n\n Just because I wouldn t say what your mother wanted me for. I d\npromised not to tell, and of course I wasn t going to break my word. \n\n Couldn t you satisfy your grandpa in any other way? \n\n No, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the\ntruth. I d have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing\nMeg in. As I couldn t, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the\nold gentleman collared me. Then I bolted, for fear I should forget\nmyself. \n\n It wasn t nice, but he s sorry, I know, so go down and make up. I ll\nhelp you. \n\n Hanged if I do! I m not going to be lectured and pummelled by\neveryone, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged\npardon like a man, but I won t do it again, when I wasn t in the\nwrong. \n\n He didn t know that. \n\n He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It s no use, Jo,\nhe s got to learn that I m able to take care of myself, and don t need\nanyone s apron string to hold on by. \n\n What pepper pots you are!  sighed Jo.  How do you mean to settle this\naffair? \n\n Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can t tell\nhim what the fuss s about. \n\n Bless you! He won t do that. \n\n I won t go down till he does. \n\n Now, Teddy, be sensible. Let it pass, and I ll explain what I can. You\ncan t stay here, so what s the use of being melodramatic? \n\n I don t intend to stay here long, anyway. I ll slip off and take a\njourney somewhere, and when Grandpa misses me he ll come round fast\nenough. \n\n I dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him. \n\n Don t preach. I ll go to Washington and see Brooke. It s gay there,\nand I ll enjoy myself after the troubles. \n\n What fun you d have! I wish I could run off too,  said Jo, forgetting\nher part of mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.\n\n Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I ll stir\nup old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke. Let s do it, Jo. We ll\nleave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I ve got\nmoney enough. It will do you good, and no harm, as you go to your\nfather. \n\nFor a moment Jo looked as if she would agree, for wild as the plan was,\nit just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for\nchange, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel\ncharms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as\nthey turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house\nopposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.\n\n If I was a boy, we d run away together, and have a capital time, but\nas I m a miserable girl, I must be proper and stop at home. Don t tempt\nme, Teddy, it s a crazy plan. \n\n That s the fun of it,  began Laurie, who had got a willful fit on him\nand was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.\n\n Hold your tongue!  cried Jo, covering her ears.  Prunes and prisms \nare my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to\nmoralize, not to hear things that make me skip to think of. \n\n I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had\nmore spirit,  began Laurie insinuatingly.\n\n Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don t go\nmaking me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the\nshaking, will you give up running away?  asked Jo seriously.\n\n Yes, but you won t do it,  answered Laurie, who wished to make up, but\nfelt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.\n\n If I can manage the young one, I can the old one,  muttered Jo, as she\nwalked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map with his head\npropped up on both hands.\n\n Come in!  and Mr. Laurence s gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as\nJo tapped at his door.\n\n It s only me, Sir, come to return a book,  she said blandly, as she\nentered.\n\n Want any more?  asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but\ntrying not to show it.\n\n Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I ll try the second\nvolume,  returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second\ndose of Boswell s Johnson, as he had recommended that lively work.\n\nThe shaggy eyebrows unbent a little as he rolled the steps toward the\nshelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and\nsitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was\nreally wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her\nvisit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her\nmind, for after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced\nround on her, speaking so abruptly that Rasselas tumbled face downward\non the floor.\n\n What has that boy been about? Don t try to shield him. I know he has\nbeen in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can t get a\nword from him, and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he\nbolted upstairs and locked himself into his room. \n\n He did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word\nto anyone,  began Jo reluctantly.\n\n That won t do. He shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you\nsofthearted girls. If he s done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg\npardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo. I won t be kept in the dark. \n\nMr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have\ngladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps,\nand he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and\nbrave it out.\n\n Indeed, Sir, I cannot tell. Mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed,\nasked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don t keep silence to\nshield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you\ninterfere. Please don t. It was partly my fault, but it s all right\nnow. So let s forget it, and talk about the _Rambler_ or something\npleasant. \n\n Hang the _Rambler!_ Come down and give me your word that this\nharum-scarum boy of mine hasn t done anything ungrateful or\nimpertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I ll thrash him\nwith my own hands. \n\nThe threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the\nirascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson,\nwhatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently descended, and\nmade as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or\nforgetting the truth.\n\n Hum... ha... well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and\nnot from obstinacy, I ll forgive him. He s a stubborn fellow and hard\nto manage,  said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if\nhe had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with\nan air of relief.\n\n So am I, but a kind word will govern me when all the king s horses and\nall the king s men couldn t,  said Jo, trying to say a kind word for\nher friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into\nanother.\n\n You think I m not kind to him, hey?  was the sharp answer.\n\n Oh, dear no, Sir. You are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a\ntrifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don t you think you are? \n\nJo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid,\nthough she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief\nand surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles onto the\ntable with a rattle and exclaimed frankly,  You re right, girl, I am! I\nlove the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I know how it\nwill end, if we go on so. \n\n I ll tell you, he ll run away.  Jo was sorry for that speech the\nminute it was made. She meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear\nmuch restraint, and hoped he would be more forebearing with the lad.\n\nMr. Laurence s ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a\ntroubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his\ntable. It was Laurie s father, who had run away in his youth, and\nmarried against the imperious old man s will. Jo fancied he remembered\nand regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.\n\n He won t do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it\nsometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like\nto, especially since my hair was cut, so if you ever miss us, you may\nadvertise for two boys and look among the ships bound for India. \n\nShe laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently\ntaking the whole as a joke.\n\n You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where s your respect for me,\nand your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments\nthey are, yet we can t do without them,  he said, pinching her cheeks\ngood-humoredly.  Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him\nit s all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his\ngrandfather. I won t bear it. \n\n He won t come, Sir. He feels badly because you didn t believe him when\nhe said he couldn t tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very\nmuch. \n\nJo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began\nto laugh, and she knew the day was won.\n\n I m sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I\nsuppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?  and the old\ngentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.\n\n If I were you, I d write him an apology, Sir. He says he won t come\ndown till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an\nabsurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and\nbring him down quite amiable. Try it. He likes fun, and this way is\nbetter than talking. I ll carry it up, and teach him his duty. \n\nMr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying\nslowly,  You re a sly puss, but I don t mind being managed by you and\nBeth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this\nnonsense. \n\nThe note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to\nanother after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top\nof Mr. Laurence s bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under\nLaurie s door, advising him through the keyhole to be submissive,\ndecorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door\nlocked again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly\naway, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for\nher at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of\ncountenance,  What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?  he\nadded, laughing.\n\n No, he was pretty mild, on the whole. \n\n Ah! I got it all round. Even you cast me off over there, and I felt\njust ready to go to the deuce,  he began apologetically.\n\n Don t talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my\nson. \n\n I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil\nmy copybooks, and I make so many beginnings there never will be an\nend,  he said dolefully.\n\n Go and eat your dinner, you ll feel better after it. Men always croak\nwhen they are hungry,  and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.\n\n That s a  label  on my  sect ,  answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he\nwent to partake of humble pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was\nquite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner all the\nrest of the day.\n\nEveryone thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over, but\nthe mischief was done, for though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She\nnever alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal,\ndreamed dreams more than ever, and once Jo, rummaging her sister s desk\nfor stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words,  Mrs.\nJohn Brooke , whereat she groaned tragically and cast it into the fire,\nfeeling that Laurie s prank had hastened the evil day for her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\nPLEASANT MEADOWS\n\n\nLike sunshine after a storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The\ninvalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning\nearly in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all\nday, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats at first, and in time\nwith doll s sewing, which had fallen sadly behind-hand. Her once active\nlimbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her for a daily airing\nabout the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burned\nher white hands cooking delicate messes for  the dear , while Amy, a\nloyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many\nof her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.\n\nAs Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house,\nand Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible\nor magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry\nChristmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had\nbonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way.\nAfter many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered\neffectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which were\nrather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.\n\nSeveral days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid\nChristmas Day. Hannah  felt in her bones  that it was going to be an\nunusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for\neverybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To\nbegin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them, then Beth\nfelt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother s\ngift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the\nwindow to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had\ndone their best to be worthy of the name, for like elves they had\nworked by night and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden\nstood a stately snow maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of\nfruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a\nperfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a\nChristmas carol issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer.\n\nTHE JUNGFRAU TO BETH\n\n\nGod bless you, dear Queen Bess!\nMay nothing you dismay,\nBut health and peace and happiness\nBe yours, this Christmas day.\n\n\nHere s fruit to feed our busy bee,\nAnd flowers for her nose.\nHere s music for her pianee,\nAn afghan for her toes,\n\n\nA portrait of Joanna, see,\nBy Raphael No. 2,\nWho laboured with great industry\nTo make it fair and true.\n\n\nAccept a ribbon red, I beg,\nFor Madam Purrer s tail,\nAnd ice cream made by lovely Peg,\nA Mont Blanc in a pail.\n\n\nTheir dearest love my makers laid\nWithin my breast of snow.\nAccept it, and the Alpine maid,\nFrom Laurie and from Jo.\n\n\nHow Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring\nin the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented\nthem.\n\n I m so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I couldn t\nhold one drop more,  said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo\ncarried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to\nrefresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the  Jungfrau  had\nsent her.\n\n So am I,  added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the\nlong-desired _Undine and Sintram_.\n\n I m sure I am,  echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the\nMadonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.\n\n Of course I am!  cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first\nsilk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it.  How can I be\notherwise?  said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her\nhusband s letter to Beth s smiling face, and her hand caressed the\nbrooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the\ngirls had just fastened on her breast.\n\nNow and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the\ndelightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is. Half an hour\nafter everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one\ndrop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door and popped his\nhead in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault\nand uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed\nexcitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped\nup, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice,  Here s another\nChristmas present for the March family. \n\nBefore the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away\nsomehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes,\nleaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and\ncouldn t. Of course there was a general stampede, and for several\nminutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things\nwere done, and no one said a word.\n\nMr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms.\nJo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by\nLaurie in the china closet. Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake,\nas he somewhat incoherently explained. And Amy, the dignified, tumbled\nover a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her\nfather s boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to\nrecover herself, and held up her hand with a warning,  Hush! Remember\nBeth. \n\nBut it was too late. The study door flew open, the little red wrapper\nappeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and\nBeth ran straight into her father s arms. Never mind what happened just\nafter that, for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness\nof the past and leaving only the sweetness of the present.\n\nIt was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight\nagain, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat\nturkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the\nkitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke\nfor his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly\nremembered that Mr. March needed rest, and seizing Laurie, he\nprecipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose,\nwhich they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard.\n\nMr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the\nfine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage\nof it, how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most\nestimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just\nthere, and after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire,\nlooked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you\nto imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head and asked,\nrather abruptly, if he wouldn t like to have something to eat. Jo saw\nand understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine and\nbeef tea, muttering to herself as she slammed the door,  I hate\nestimable young men with brown eyes! \n\nThere never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat\nturkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed,\nbrowned, and decorated. So was the plum pudding, which melted in one s\nmouth, likewise the jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a\nhoneypot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said,\n For my mind was that flustered, Mum, that it s a merrycle I didn t\nroast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin \nof it in a cloth. \n\nMr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom\nJo glowered darkly, to Laurie s infinite amusement. Two easy chairs\nstood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her\nfather, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank\nhealths, told stories, sang songs,  reminisced , as the old folks say,\nand had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the\ngirls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and\nas twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.\n\n Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected\nto have. Do you remember?  asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had\nfollowed a long conversation about many things.\n\n Rather a pleasant year on the whole!  said Meg, smiling at the fire,\nand congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.\n\n I think it s been a pretty hard one,  observed Amy, watching the light\nshine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.\n\n I m glad it s over, because we ve got you back,  whispered Beth, who\nsat on her father s knee.\n\n Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially\nthe latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the\nburdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon,  said Mr. March,\nlooking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered\nround him.\n\n How do you know? Did Mother tell you?  asked Jo.\n\n Not much. Straws show which way the wind blows, and I ve made several\ndiscoveries today. \n\n Oh, tell us what they are!  cried Meg, who sat beside him.\n\n Here is one.  And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his\nchair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and\ntwo or three little hard spots on the palm.  I remember a time when\nthis hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so.\nIt was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this\nseeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt offering has been\nmade to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something better than\nblisters, and I m sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will\nlast a long time, so much good will went into the stitches. Meg, my\ndear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white\nhands or fashionable accomplishments. I m proud to shake this good,\nindustrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it\naway. \n\nIf Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it\nin the hearty pressure of her father s hand and the approving smile he\ngave her.\n\n What about Jo? Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard\nand been so very, very good to me,  said Beth in her father s ear.\n\nHe laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an\nunusually mild expression in her face.\n\n In spite of the curly crop, I don t see the  son Jo  whom I left a\nyear ago,  said Mr. March.  I see a young lady who pins her collar\nstraight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang,\nnor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale\njust now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for it\nhas grown gentler, and her voice is lower. She doesn t bounce, but\nmoves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly\nway which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl, but if I get a\nstrong, helpful, tenderhearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite\nsatisfied. I don t know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep,\nbut I do know that in all Washington I couldn t find anything beautiful\nenough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl sent\nme. \n\nJo s keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew\nrosy in the firelight as she received her father s praise, feeling that\nshe did deserve a portion of it.\n\n Now, Beth,  said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.\n\n There s so little of her, I m afraid to say much, for fear she will\nslip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be, \nbegan their father cheerfully. But recollecting how nearly he had lost\nher, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his\nown,  I ve got you safe, my Beth, and I ll keep you so, please God. \n\nAfter a minute s silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket\nat his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair...\n\n I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her\nmother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on\nevery one with patience and good humor. I also observe that she does\nnot fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very\npretty ring which she wears, so I conclude that she has learned to\nthink of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try\nand mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay\nfigures. I am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a\ngraceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable\ndaughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and\nothers. \n\n What are you thinking of, Beth?  asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her\nfather and told about her ring.\n\n I read in _Pilgrim s Progress_ today how, after many troubles,\nChristian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies\nbloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now,\nbefore they went on to their journey s end,  answered Beth, adding, as\nshe slipped out of her father s arms and went to the instrument,  It s\nsinging time now, and I want to be in my old place. I ll try to sing\nthe song of the shepherd boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music\nfor Father, because he likes the verses. \n\nSo, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and\nin the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her\nown accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song\nfor her.\n\nHe that is down need fear no fall,\nHe that is low no pride.\nHe that is humble ever shall\nHave God to be his guide.\n\n\nI am content with what I have,\nLittle be it, or much.\nAnd, Lord! Contentment still I crave,\nBecause Thou savest such.\n\n\nFulness to them a burden is,\nThat go on pilgrimage.\nHere little, and hereafter bliss,\nIs best from age to age!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\nAUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION\n\n\nLike bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered\nabout Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait\nupon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed\nby kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth s sofa, with\nthe other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then\n to peek at the dear man , nothing seemed needed to complete their\nhappiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though\nnone confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with\nan anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits\nof sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke s umbrella,\nwhich had been left in the hall. Meg was absent-minded, shy, and\nsilent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John s name was\nmentioned. Amy said,  Everyone seemed waiting for something, and\ncouldn t settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home, \nand Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn t run over as\nusual.\n\nLaurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the window, seemed\nsuddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down on one\nknee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands\nimploringly, as if begging some boon. And when Meg told him to behave\nhimself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief,\nand staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.\n\n What does the goose mean?  said Meg, laughing and trying to look\nunconscious.\n\n He s showing you how your John will go on by-and-by. Touching, isn t\nit?  answered Jo scornfully.\n\n Don t say my John, it isn t proper or true,  but Meg s voice lingered\nover the words as if they sounded pleasant to her.  Please don t plague\nme, Jo, I ve told you I don t care much about him, and there isn t to\nbe anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before. \n\n We can t, for something has been said, and Laurie s mischief has\nspoiled you for me. I see it, and so does Mother. You are not like your\nold self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don t mean to\nplague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all\nsettled. I hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and\nhave it over quickly,  said Jo pettishly.\n\n I can t say anything till he speaks, and he won t, because Father said\nI was too young,  began Meg, bending over her work with a queer little\nsmile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on\nthat point.\n\n If he did speak, you wouldn t know what to say, but would cry or\nblush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided\nno. \n\n I m not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should say,\nfor I ve planned it all, so I needn t be taken unawares. There s no\nknowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared. \n\nJo couldn t help smiling at the important air which Meg had\nunconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color\nvarying in her cheeks.\n\n Would you mind telling me what you d say?  asked Jo more respectfully.\n\n Not at all. You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant,\nand my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own\naffairs of this sort. \n\n Don t mean to have any. It s fun to watch other people philander, but\nI should feel like a fool doing it myself,  said Jo, looking alarmed at\nthe thought.\n\n I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you.  Meg\nspoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often\nseen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.\n\n I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man,  said Jo,\nrudely shortening her sister s little reverie.\n\n Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly,  Thank you, Mr.\nBrooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young\nto enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let\nus be friends as we were. \n\n Hum, that s stiff and cool enough! I don t believe you ll ever say it,\nand I know he won t be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the\nrejected lovers in books, you ll give in, rather than hurt his\nfeelings. \n\n No, I won t. I shall tell him I ve made up my mind, and shall walk out\nof the room with dignity. \n\nMeg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified\nexit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to\nsew as fast as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam\nin a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when\nsomeone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was\nanything but hospitable.\n\n Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your\nfather finds himself today,  said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused\nas his eyes went from one telltale face to the other.\n\n It s very well, he s in the rack. I ll get him, and tell it you are\nhere.  And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in\nher reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her\nspeech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to\nsidle toward the door, murmuring...\n\n Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I ll call her. \n\n Don t go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?  and Mr. Brooke looked so\nhurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She\nblushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called\nher Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and\nsweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at\nher ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said\ngratefully...\n\n How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish\nI could thank you for it. \n\n Shall I tell you how?  asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast\nin both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown\neyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away\nand to stop and listen.\n\n Oh no, please don t, I d rather not,  she said, trying to withdraw her\nhand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.\n\n I won t trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a little,\nMeg. I love you so much, dear,  added Mr. Brooke tenderly.\n\nThis was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn t make\nit. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered,  I don t\nknow,  so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish\nlittle reply.\n\nHe seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself\nas if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in\nhis most persuasive tone,  Will you try and find out? I want to know so\nmuch, for I can t go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am\nto have my reward in the end or not. \n\n I m too young,  faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet\nrather enjoying it.\n\n I ll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me.\nWould it be a very hard lesson, dear? \n\n Not if I chose to learn it, but. . . \n\n Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than\nGerman,  broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that\nshe had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it.\n\nHis tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg\nsaw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the\nsatisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled\nher. Annie Moffat s foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and\nthe love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little\nwomen, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt\nexcited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a\ncapricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly,  I\ndon t choose. Please go away and let me be! \n\nPoor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling\nabout his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it\nrather bewildered him.\n\n Do you really mean that?  he asked anxiously, following her as she\nwalked away.\n\n Yes, I do. I don t want to be worried about such things. Father says I\nneedn t, it s too soon and I d rather not. \n\n Mayn t I hope you ll change your mind by-and-by? I ll wait and say\nnothing till you have had more time. Don t play with me, Meg. I didn t\nthink that of you. \n\n Don t think of me at all. I d rather you wouldn t,  said Meg, taking a\nnaughty satisfaction in trying her lover s patience and her own power.\n\nHe was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel\nheroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor\ntramped about the room as they did. He just stood looking at her so\nwistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of\nherself. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had\nnot come hobbling in at this interesting minute.\n\nThe old lady couldn t resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had\nmet Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March s arrival,\ndrove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back\npart of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to\nsurprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as\nif she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.\n\n Bless me, what s all this?  cried the old lady with a rap of her cane\nas she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.\n\n It s Father s friend. I m so surprised to see you!  stammered Meg,\nfeeling that she was in for a lecture now.\n\n That s evident,  returned Aunt March, sitting down.  But what is\nFather s friend saying to make you look like a peony? There s mischief\ngoing on, and I insist upon knowing what it is,  with another rap.\n\n We were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,  began Meg,\nwishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.\n\n Brooke? That boy s tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it.\nJo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Father s letters, and\nI made her tell me. You haven t gone and accepted him, child?  cried\nAunt March, looking scandalized.\n\n Hush! He ll hear. Shan t I call Mother?  said Meg, much troubled.\n\n Not yet. I ve something to say to you, and I must free my mind at\nonce. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny\nof my money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl, \nsaid the old lady impressively.\n\nNow Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of\nopposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us\nhave a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in\nlove. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would\nprobably have declared she couldn t think of it, but as she was\npreemptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind\nthat she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision\neasy, and being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with\nunusual spirit.\n\n I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money\nto anyone you like,  she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.\n\n Highty-tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, Miss? You ll be\nsorry for it by-and-by, when you ve tried love in a cottage and found\nit a failure. \n\n It can t be a worse one than some people find in big houses,  retorted\nMeg.\n\nAunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did\nnot know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so\nbrave and independent, so glad to defend John and assert her right to\nlove him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and\nafter a little pause, made a fresh start, saying as mildly as she\ncould,  Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable and take my advice. I mean it\nkindly, and don t want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake\nat the beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family. It s\nyour duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you. \n\n Father and Mother don t think so. They like John though he is poor. \n\n Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of\nbabies. \n\n I m glad of it,  cried Meg stoutly.\n\nAunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture.  This Rook is\npoor and hasn t got any rich relations, has he? \n\n No, but he has many warm friends. \n\n You can t live on friends, try it and see how cool they ll grow. He\nhasn t any business, has he? \n\n Not yet. Mr. Laurence is going to help him. \n\n That won t last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow and not\nto be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money,\nposition, or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when\nyou might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better?\nI thought you had more sense, Meg. \n\n I couldn t do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise,\nhe s got heaps of talent, he s willing to work and sure to get on, he s\nso energetic and brave. Everyone likes and respects him, and I m proud\nto think he cares for me, though I m so poor and young and silly,  said\nMeg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.\n\n He knows you have got rich relations, child. That s the secret of his\nliking, I suspect. \n\n Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such\nmeanness, and I won t listen to you a minute if you talk so,  cried Meg\nindignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady s\nsuspicions.  My John wouldn t marry for money, any more than I would.\nWe are willing to work and we mean to wait. I m not afraid of being\npoor, for I ve been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him\nbecause he loves me, and I... \n\nMeg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn t made up\nher mind, that she had told  her John  to go away, and that he might be\noverhearing her inconsistent remarks.\n\nAunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her\npretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl s happy young\nface made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.\n\n Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful child,\nand you ve lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won t\nstop. I m disappointed in you, and haven t spirits to see your father\nnow. Don t expect anything from me when you are married. Your Mr.\nBrooke s friends must take care of you. I m done with you forever. \n\nAnd slamming the door in Meg s face, Aunt March drove off in high\ndudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl s courage with her, for when\nleft alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry.\nBefore she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr.\nBrooke, who said all in one breath,  I couldn t help hearing, Meg.\nThank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care\nfor me a little bit. \n\n I didn t know how much till she abused you,  began Meg.\n\n And I needn t go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear? \n\nHere was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the\nstately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced\nherself forever in Jo s eyes by meekly whispering,  Yes, John,  and\nhiding her face on Mr. Brooke s waistcoat.\n\nFifteen minutes after Aunt March s departure, Jo came softly\ndownstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound\nwithin, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to\nherself,  She has seen him away as we planned, and that affair is\nsettled. I ll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it. \n\nBut poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the\nthreshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth\nnearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen enemy\nand to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an\nobjectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the aforesaid\nenemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strongminded sister\nenthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression of the most abject\nsubmission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower bath had\nsuddenly fallen upon her, for such an unexpected turning of the tables\nactually took her breath away. At the odd sound the lovers turned and\nsaw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy, but  that man , as\nJo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the\nastonished newcomer,  Sister Jo, congratulate us! \n\nThat was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much, and\nmaking some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a\nword. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming\ntragically as she burst into the room,  Oh, do somebody go down quick!\nJohn Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it! \n\nMr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself upon\nthe bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news\nto Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a most\nagreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them,\nso she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles\nto the rats.\n\nNobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but a great\ndeal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends\nby the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his\nplans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it.\n\nThe tea bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which\nhe meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both\nlooking so happy that Jo hadn t the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy\nwas very much impressed by John s devotion and Meg s dignity, Beth\nbeamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the\nyoung couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly\nevident Aunt March was right in calling them as  unworldly as a pair of\nbabies . No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old\nroom seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the\nfamily began there.\n\n You can t say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?  said\nAmy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch she\nwas planning to make.\n\n No, I m sure I can t. How much has happened since I said that! It\nseems a year ago,  answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far\nabove such common things as bread and butter.\n\n The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the\nchanges have begun,  said Mrs. March.  In most families there comes,\nnow and then, a year full of events. This has been such a one, but it\nends well, after all. \n\n Hope the next will end better,  muttered Jo, who found it very hard to\nsee Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved a few\npersons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost or\nlessened in any way.\n\n I hope the third year from this will end better. I mean it shall, if I\nlive to work out my plans,  said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if\neverything had become possible to him now.\n\n Doesn t it seem very long to wait?  asked Amy, who was in a hurry for\nthe wedding.\n\n I ve got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short\ntime to me,  answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never seen\nthere before.\n\n You have only to wait, I am to do the work,  said John beginning his\nlabors by picking up Meg s napkin, with an expression which caused Jo\nto shake her head, and then say to herself with an air of relief as the\nfront door banged,  Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have some sensible\nconversation. \n\nBut Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good\nspirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for  Mrs. John Brooke ,\nand evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had\nbeen brought about by his excellent management.\n\n I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does, for when\nhe makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it s done though the sky\nfalls,  said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his\ncongratulations.\n\n Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the\nfuture and invite you to my wedding on the spot,  answered Mr. Brooke,\nwho felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.\n\n I ll come if I m at the ends of the earth, for the sight of Jo s face\nalone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You don t look\nfestive, ma am, what s the matter?  asked Laurie, following her into a\ncorner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.\n\n I don t approve of the match, but I ve made up my mind to bear it, and\nshall not say a word against it,  said Jo solemnly.  You can t know how\nhard it is for me to give up Meg,  she continued with a little quiver\nin her voice.\n\n You don t give her up. You only go halves,  said Laurie consolingly.\n\n It can never be the same again. I ve lost my dearest friend,  sighed\nJo.\n\n You ve got me, anyhow. I m not good for much, I know, but I ll stand\nby you, Jo, all the days of my life. Upon my word I will!  and Laurie\nmeant what he said.\n\n I know you will, and I m ever so much obliged. You are always a great\ncomfort to me, Teddy,  returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.\n\n Well, now, don t be dismal, there s a good fellow. It s all right you\nsee. Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately,\nGrandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her\nown little house. We ll have capital times after she is gone, for I\nshall be through college before long, and then we ll go abroad on some\nnice trip or other. Wouldn t that console you? \n\n I rather think it would, but there s no knowing what may happen in\nthree years,  said Jo thoughtfully.\n\n That s true. Don t you wish you could take a look forward and see\nwhere we shall all be then? I do,  returned Laurie.\n\n I think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks so\nhappy now, I don t believe they could be much improved.  And Jo s eyes\nwent slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the\nprospect was a pleasant one.\n\nFather and Mother sat together, quietly reliving the first chapter of\nthe romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing\nthe lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light\nof which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not\ncopy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who\nheld her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead\nhim along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low\nseat, with the grave quiet look which best became her, and Laurie,\nleaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly\nhead, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long\nglass which reflected them both.\n\nSo the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it ever rises\nagain, depends upon the reception given the first act of the domestic\ndrama called _Little Women_.\n\n\n\n\nPART 2\n\n\nIn order that we may start afresh and go to Meg s wedding...\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\nGOSSIP\n\n\nIn order that we may start afresh and go to Meg s wedding with free\nminds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches.\nAnd here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too\nmuch  lovering  in the story, as I fear they may (I m not afraid the\nyoung folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March,\n What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a\ndashing young neighbor over the way? \n\nThe three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the\nquiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with\nhis books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature\nas by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better\nthan learning, the charity which calls all mankind  brother , the piety\nthat blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.\n\nThese attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which\nshut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many\nadmirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as\nnaturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard\nexperience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men found the\ngray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled\nwomen instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the\ngentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told their sins to the\npure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved. Gifted men found\na companion in him. Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions\nthan their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were\nbeautiful and true, although  they wouldn t pay .\n\nTo outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so\nthey did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his\nbooks, was still the head of the family, the household conscience,\nanchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always turned\nin troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred\nwords, husband and father.\n\nThe girls gave their hearts into their mother s keeping, their souls\ninto their father s, and to both parents, who lived and labored so\nfaithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and\nbound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and\noutlives death.\n\nMrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we\nsaw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg s affairs that the\nhospitals and homes still full of wounded  boys  and soldiers  widows,\ndecidedly miss the motherly missionary s visits.\n\nJohn Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent\nhome, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he\ndeserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love\nare very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to\nhis discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for\nbusiness, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy\nindependence that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence s more\ngenerous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better\nsatisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by running any\nrisks with borrowed money.\n\nMeg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly\nin character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for\nlove is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes,\nand felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life\nmust begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg\ncouldn t help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts,\nand splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing she could have\nthe same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she\nthought of all the patient love and labor John had put into the little\nhome awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking\nover their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright\nthat she forgot Sallie s splendor and felt herself the richest,\nhappiest girl in Christendom.\n\nJo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to\nAmy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of\nthe best teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would\nhave served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty,\nher afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo meantime devoted\nherself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the\nfever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again\nthe rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and\nserene, and busy with the quiet duties she loved, everyone s friend,\nand an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had\nlearned to know it.\n\nAs long as _The Spread Eagle_ paid her a dollar a column for her\n rubbish , as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun\nher little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy\nbrain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a\nslowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to\nplace the name of March upon the roll of fame.\n\nLaurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was\nnow getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please\nhimself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent,\nand the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to\nget other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being\nspoiled, and probably would have been, like many another promising boy,\nif he had not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the\nkind old man who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who\nwatched over him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any\nmeans, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and\nbelieved in him with all their hearts.\n\nBeing only  a glorious human boy , of course he frolicked and flirted,\ngrew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions\nordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came\nperilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the\nlove of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save\nhimself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible\npower of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he\nrather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the\ngirls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors,\ndignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The  men of my class ,\nwere heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits\nof  our fellows , and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of\nthese great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him.\n\nAmy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among\nthem, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of\nfascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in\nher private and particular John to care for any other lords of\ncreation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them and wonder how\nAmy dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite in her own element,\nand found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly\nattitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural to her than\nthe decorums prescribed for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely,\nbut never fell in love with her, though very few escaped without paying\nthe tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy s shrine. And speaking\nof sentiment brings us very naturally to the  Dovecote .\n\nThat was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for\nMeg s first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly\nappropriate to the gentle lovers who  went on together like a pair of\nturtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo . It was a tiny house,\nwith a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a pocket\nhandkerchief in the front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain,\nshrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers, though just at present\nthe fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a\ndilapidated slopbowl, the shrubbery consisted of several young larches,\nundecided whether to live or die, and the profusion of flowers was\nmerely hinted by regiments of sticks to show where seeds were planted.\nBut inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no\nfault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow it was\nfortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in\nwhole, the dining room was so small that six people were a tight fit,\nand the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of\nprecipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coalbin. But\nonce get used to these slight blemishes and nothing could be more\ncomplete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the\nfurnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no\nmarble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little\nparlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a\nstand of flowers in the bay window, and, scattered all about, the\npretty gifts which came from friendly hands and were the fairer for the\nloving messages they brought.\n\nI don t think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty\nbecause John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any upholsterer\ncould have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy s\nartistic hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided with\ngood wishes, merry words, and happy hopes than that in which Jo and her\nmother put away Meg s few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and I am morally\ncertain that the spandy new kitchen never could have looked so cozy and\nneat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over,\nand laid the fire all ready for lighting the minute  Mis. Brooke came\nhome . I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a\nsupply of dusters, holders, and piece bags, for Beth made enough to\nlast till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different\nkinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china.\n\nPeople who hire all these things done for them never know what they\nlose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them,\nand Meg found so many proofs of this that everything in her small nest,\nfrom the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was\neloquent of home love and tender forethought.\n\nWhat happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping\nexcursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter\narose over Laurie s ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this\nyoung gentleman, though nearly through college, was a much of a boy as\never. His last whim had been to bring with him on his weekly visits\nsome new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now\na bag of remarkable clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which\nfell to pieces at the first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the\nknives, or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left\nthe dirt, labor-saving soap that took the skin off one s hands,\ninfallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the\ndeluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for\nodd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own\nsteam with every prospect of exploding in the process.\n\nIn vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him\n Mr. Toodles . He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee\ningenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week\nbeheld some fresh absurdity.\n\nEverything was done at last, even to Amy s arranging different colored\nsoaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth s setting the\ntable for the first meal.\n\n Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you\nshould be happy here?  asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went\nthrough the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling\ntogether more tenderly than ever.\n\n Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that\nI can t talk about it,  with a look that was far better than words.\n\n If she only had a servant or two it would be all right,  said Amy,\ncoming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether\nthe bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece.\n\n Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try\nher way first. There will be so little to do that with Lotty to run my\nerrands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to\nkeep me from getting lazy or homesick,  answered Meg tranquilly.\n\n Sallie Moffat has four,  began Amy.\n\n If Meg had four, the house wouldn t hold them, and master and missis\nwould have to camp in the garden,  broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big\nblue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.\n\n Sallie isn t a poor man s wife, and many maids are in keeping with her\nfine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling\nthat there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in\nthe big one. It s a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave\nthemselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was\nfirst married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get\ntorn, so that I might have the pleasure of mending them, for I got\nheartily sick of doing fancywork and tending my pocket handkerchief. \n\n Why didn t you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she\ndoes to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and the servants\nlaugh at her,  said Meg.\n\n I did after a while, not to  mess  but to learn of Hannah how things\nshould be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was play\nthen, but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only\npossessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little\ngirls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You\nbegin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now will\nbe of use to you by-and-by when John is a richer man, for the mistress\nof a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if\nshe wishes to be well and honestly served. \n\n Yes, Mother, I m sure of that,  said Meg, listening respectfully to\nthe little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all\nabsorbing subject of house keeping.  Do you know I like this room most\nof all in my baby house,  added Meg, a minute after, as they went\nupstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet.\n\nBeth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves and\nexulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke, for\nthat linen closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married\n that Brooke  she shouldn t have a cent of her money, Aunt March was\nrather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and made her\nrepent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her\nmind how to get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could\nsatisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence s mamma, was ordered to buy,\nhave made, and marked a generous supply of house and table linen, and\nsend it as her present, all of which was faithfully done, but the\nsecret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family, for Aunt\nMarch tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could\ngive nothing but the old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first\nbride.\n\n That s a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young\nfriend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger\nbowls for company and that satisfied her,  said Mrs. March, patting the\ndamask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their\nfineness.\n\n I haven t a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will last me\nall my days, Hannah says.  And Meg looked quite contented, as well she\nmight.\n\nA tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt\nbasin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the road at a\ngreat pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the\ngate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out and a hearty...\n\n Here I am, Mother! Yes, it s all right. \n\nThe last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a\nkindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the\nlittle ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.\n\n For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker s congratulations and\ncompliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo.\nAmy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady. \n\nAs Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled\nBeth s hair ribbon, stared at Jo s big pinafore, and fell into an\nattitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and\neveryone began to talk.\n\n Where is John?  asked Meg anxiously.\n\n Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma am. \n\n Which side won the last match, Teddy?  inquired Jo, who persisted in\nfeeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.\n\n Ours, of course. Wish you d been there to see. \n\n How is the lovely Miss Randal?  asked Amy with a significant smile.\n\n More cruel than ever. Don t you see how I m pining away?  and Laurie\ngave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.\n\n What s the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg,  said Beth, eying\nthe knobby parcel with curiosity.\n\n It s a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves, \nobserved Laurie, as a watchman s rattle appeared, amid the laughter of\nthe girls.\n\n Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just\nswing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood\nin a jiffy. Nice thing, isn t it?  and Laurie gave them a sample of its\npowers that made them cover up their ears.\n\n There s gratitude for you! And speaking of gratitude reminds me to\nmention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from\ndestruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she\nhadn t defended it manfully I d have had a pick at it, for it looked\nlike a remarkably plummy one. \n\n I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie,  said Meg in a matronly\ntone.\n\n I m doing my best, ma am, but can t get much higher, I m afraid, as\nsix feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days,  responded\nthe young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little\nchandelier.\n\n I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this\nspick-and-span bower, so as I m tremendously hungry, I propose an\nadjournment,  he added presently.\n\n Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to\nsettle,  said Meg, bustling away.\n\n Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant s to get more flowers for\ntomorrow,  added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque\ncurls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.\n\n Come, Jo, don t desert a fellow. I m in such a state of exhaustion I\ncan t get home without help. Don t take off your apron, whatever you\ndo, it s peculiarly becoming,  said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial\naversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his\nfeeble steps.\n\n Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow,  began Jo,\nas they strolled away together.  You must promise to behave well, and\nnot cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans. \n\n Not a prank. \n\n And don t say funny things when we ought to be sober. \n\n I never do. You are the one for that. \n\n And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I shall\ncertainly laugh if you do. \n\n You won t see me, you ll be crying so hard that the thick fog round\nyou will obscure the prospect. \n\n I never cry unless for some great affliction. \n\n Such as fellows going to college, hey?  cut in Laurie, with suggestive\nlaugh.\n\n Don t be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company. \n\n Exactly. I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable? \n\n Very. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he ll take\nit?  asked Jo rather sharply.\n\n Now, Jo, do you think I d look your mother in the face and say  All\nright , if it wasn t?  and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air.\n\n No, I don t. \n\n Then don t go and be suspicious. I only want some money,  said Laurie,\nwalking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.\n\n You spend a great deal, Teddy. \n\n Bless you, I don t spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone\nbefore I know it. \n\n You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and\ncan t say  No  to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you did for\nhim. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you, \nsaid Jo warmly.\n\n Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldn t have me let\nthat fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help,\nwhen he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you? \n\n Of course not, but I don t see the use of your having seventeen\nwaistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I\nthought you d got over the dandy period, but every now and then it\nbreaks out in a new spot. Just now it s the fashion to be hideous, to\nmake your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket,\norange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots. If it was cheap\nugliness, I d say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and I\ndon t get any satisfaction out of it. \n\nLaurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack,\nthat the felt hat fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only\nafforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a\nrough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and\nstuffed it into his pocket.\n\n Don t lecture any more, there s a good soul! I have enough all through\nthe week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I ll get myself up\nregardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my friends. \n\n I ll leave you in peace if you ll only let your hair grow. I m not\naristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks\nlike a young prize fighter,  observed Jo severely.\n\n This unassuming style promotes study, that s why we adopt it, \nreturned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having\nvoluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for\nquarter-inch-long stubble.\n\n By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate\nabout Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about\nin a most suspicious manner. He d better nip his little passion in the\nbud, hadn t he?  added Laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone,\nafter a minute s silence.\n\n Of course he had. We don t want any more marrying in this family for\nyears to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?  and Jo\nlooked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in\ntheir teens.\n\n It s a fast age, and I don t know what we are coming to, ma am. You\nare a mere infant, but you ll go next, Jo, and we ll be left\nlamenting,  said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the\ntimes.\n\n Don t be alarmed. I m not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want\nme, and it s a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a\nfamily. \n\n You won t give anyone a chance,  said Laurie, with a sidelong glance\nand a little more color than before in his sunburned face.  You won t\nshow the soft side of your character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it\nby accident and can t help showing that he likes it, you treat him as\nMrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold water over him, and get so\nthorny no one dares touch or look at you. \n\n I don t like that sort of thing. I m too busy to be worried with\nnonsense, and I think it s dreadful to break up families so. Now don t\nsay any more about it. Meg s wedding has turned all our heads, and we\ntalk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don t wish to get\ncross, so let s change the subject;  and Jo looked quite ready to fling\ncold water on the slightest provocation.\n\nWhatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in\na long low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted at the\ngate,  Mark my words, Jo, you ll go next. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\nTHE FIRST WEDDING\n\n\nThe June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that\nmorning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine,\nlike friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with\nexcitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind,\nwhispering to one another what they had seen, for some peeped in at the\ndining room windows where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod\nand smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a\nwelcome to those who came and went on various errands in garden, porch,\nand hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest\nbaby bud, offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle\nmistress who had loved and tended them so long.\n\nMeg looked very like a rose herself, for all that was best and sweetest\nin heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it\nfair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk,\nlace, nor orange flowers would she have.  I don t want a fashionable\nwedding, but only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to\nlook and be my familiar self. \n\nSo she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes\nand innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her\npretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the\nvalley, which  her John  liked best of all the flowers that grew.\n\n You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely\nthat I should hug you if it wouldn t crumple your dress,  cried Amy,\nsurveying her with delight when all was done.\n\n Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and don t\nmind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it\ntoday,  and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her\nwith April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not\nchanged the old.\n\n Now I m going to tie John s cravat for him, and then to stay a few\nminutes with Father quietly in the study,  and Meg ran down to perform\nthese little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she\nwent, conscious that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there\nwas a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the\nfirst bird from the nest.\n\nAs the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their\nsimple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which\nthree years have wrought in their appearance, for all are looking their\nbest just now.\n\nJo s angles are much softened, she has learned to carry herself with\nease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil,\nmore becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a\nfresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only\ngentle words fall from her sharp tongue today.\n\nBeth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever. The beautiful,\nkind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one,\nalthough it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches\nthe young face with such pathetic patience, but Beth seldom complains\nand always speaks hopefully of  being better soon .\n\nAmy is with truth considered  the flower of the family , for at sixteen\nshe has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful, but\npossessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the\nlines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her\ndress, the droop of her hair, unconscious yet harmonious, and as\nattractive to many as beauty itself. Amy s nose still afflicted her,\nfor it never would grow Grecian, so did her mouth, being too wide, and\nhaving a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her\nwhole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her\nwonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and\nabundant than ever.\n\nAll three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the\nsummer), with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just\nwhat they were, fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in\ntheir busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the\nromance of womanhood.\n\nThere were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as\nnatural and homelike as possible, so when Aunt March arrived, she was\nscandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in,\nto find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and\nto catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a\ngrave countenance and a wine bottle under each arm.\n\n Upon my word, here s a state of things!  cried the old lady, taking\nthe seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her\nlavender moire with a great rustle.  You oughtn t to be seen till the\nlast minute, child. \n\n I m not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to\ncriticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I m too happy to\ncare what anyone says or thinks, and I m going to have my little\nwedding just as I like it. John, dear, here s your hammer.  And away\nwent Meg to help  that man  in his highly improper employment.\n\nMr. Brooke didn t even say,  Thank you,  but as he stooped for the\nunromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door,\nwith a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket handkerchief with\na sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.\n\nA crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous\nexclamation,  Jupiter Ammon! Jo s upset the cake again!  caused a\nmomentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins\narrived, and  the party came in , as Beth used to say when a child.\n\n Don t let that young giant come near me, he worries me worse than\nmosquitoes,  whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled and\nLaurie s black head towered above the rest.\n\n He has promised to be very good today, and he can be perfectly elegant\nif he likes,  returned Amy, and gliding away to warn Hercules to beware\nof the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady with a\ndevotion that nearly distracted her.\n\nThere was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room\nas Mr. March and the young couple took their places under the green\narch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up.\nThe fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the\nservice more beautiful and solemn. The bridegroom s hand trembled\nvisibly, and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up in\nher husband s eyes, and said,  I will!  with such tender trust in her\nown face and voice that her mother s heart rejoiced and Aunt March\nsniffed audibly.\n\nJo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved\nfrom a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring\nfixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his\nwicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother s shoulder,\nbut Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of\nsunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.\n\nIt wasn t at all the thing, I m afraid, but the minute she was fairly\nmarried, Meg cried,  The first kiss for Marmee!  and turning, gave it\nwith her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked\nmore like a rose than ever, for everyone availed themselves of their\nprivileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who,\nadorned with a headdress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her\nin the hall, crying with a sob and a chuckle,  Bless you, deary, a\nhundred times! The cake ain t hurt a mite, and everything looks\nlovely. \n\nEverybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried\nto, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are\nlight. There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the\nlittle house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful\nlunch of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt\nMarch shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and\ncoffee were found to be to only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes\ncarried round. No one said anything, till Laurie, who insisted on\nserving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his\nhand and a puzzled expression on his face.\n\n Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?  he whispered,  or am I\nmerely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this\nmorning? \n\n No, your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March\nactually sent some, but Father put away a little for Beth, and\ndispatched the rest to the Soldier s Home. You know he thinks that wine\nshould be used only in illness, and Mother says that neither she nor\nher daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her roof. \n\nMeg spoke seriously and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh, but he\ndid neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous\nway,  I like that! For I ve seen enough harm done to wish other women\nwould think as you do. \n\n You are not made wise by experience, I hope?  and there was an anxious\naccent in Meg s voice.\n\n No. I give you my word for it. Don t think too well of me, either,\nthis is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as\ncommon as water and almost as harmless, I don t care for it, but when a\npretty girl offers it, one doesn t like to refuse, you see. \n\n But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come,\nLaurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest\nday of my life. \n\nA demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment,\nfor ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if\nhe gave the promise he would keep it at all costs, and feeling her\npower, used it as a woman may for her friend s good. She did not speak,\nbut she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness,\nand a smile which said,  No one can refuse me anything today. \n\nLaurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile, he gave her\nhis hand, saying heartily,  I promise, Mrs. Brooke! \n\n I thank you, very, very much. \n\n And I drink  long life to your resolution , Teddy,  cried Jo,\nbaptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and\nbeamed approvingly upon him.\n\nSo the toast was drunk, the pledge made and loyally kept in spite of\nmany temptations, for with instinctive wisdom, the girls seized a happy\nmoment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his\nlife.\n\nAfter lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through the\nhouse and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and\nJohn happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass plot,\nwhen Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing\ntouch to this unfashionable wedding.\n\n All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband\nand wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in\ncouples outside!  cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy,\nwith such infectious spirit and skill that everyone else followed their\nexample without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol\nbegan it, others rapidly joined in, even Sallie Moffat, after a\nmoment s hesitation, threw her train over her arm and whisked Ned into\nthe ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March, for\nwhen the stately old gentleman chasseed solemnly up to the old lady,\nshe just tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join\nhands with the rest and dance about the bridal pair, while the young\nfolks pervaded the garden like butterflies on a midsummer day.\n\nWant of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people\nbegan to go.\n\n I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well, but I think you ll\nbe sorry for it,  said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as\nhe led her to the carriage,  You ve got a treasure, young man, see that\nyou deserve it. \n\n That is the prettiest wedding I ve been to for an age, Ned, and I\ndon t see why, for there wasn t a bit of style about it,  observed Mrs.\nMoffat to her husband, as they drove away.\n\n Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get\none of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly\nsatisfied,  said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy chair to\nrest after the excitement of the morning.\n\n I ll do my best to gratify you, Sir,  was Laurie s unusually dutiful\nreply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his buttonhole.\n\nThe little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had\nwas the quiet walk with John from the old home to the new. When she\ncame down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and\nstraw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say\n good-by , as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.\n\n Don t feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love\nyou any the less for loving John so much,  she said, clinging to her\nmother, with full eyes for a moment.  I shall come every day, Father,\nand expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I am\nmarried. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls\nwill drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank\nyou all for my happy wedding day. Good-by, good-by! \n\nThey stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender\npride as she walked away, leaning on her husband s arm, with her hands\nfull of flowers and the June sunshine brightening her happy face and so\nMeg s married life began.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\nARTISTIC ATTEMPTS\n\n\nIt takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and\ngenius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this\ndistinction through much tribulation, for mistaking enthusiasm for\ninspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity.\nFor a long time there was a lull in the  mud-pie  business, and she\ndevoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed\nsuch taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant\nand profitable. But over-strained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid\naside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted,\nthe family lived in constant fear of a conflagration, for the odor of\nburning wood pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from attic\nand shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about\npromiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and\nthe dinner bell at her door in case of fire. Raphael s face was found\nboldly executed on the underside of the moulding board, and Bacchus on\nthe head of a beer barrel. A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the\nsugar bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied\nkindling for some time.\n\nFrom fire to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers, and Amy\nfell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her\nout with his castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed\naway, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on\nland or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken\nprizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her\nvessels would have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer,\nif the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging\nhad not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys\nand dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio,\nsuggested Murillo; oily brown shadows of faces with a lurid streak in\nthe wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropiscal infants,\nRubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange\nlightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash\nin the middle, which might be the sun or a bouy, a sailor s shirt or a\nking s robe, as the spectator pleased.\n\nCharcoal portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a row,\nlooking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin. Softened\ninto crayon sketches, they did better, for the likenesses were good,\nand Amy s hair, Jo s nose, Meg s mouth, and Laurie s eyes were\npronounced  wonderfully fine . A return to clay and plaster followed,\nand ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or\ntumbled off closet shelves onto people s heads. Children were enticed\nin as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings\ncaused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her\nefforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an\nuntoward accident, which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her\nfor a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family\nwere one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and screaming and running\nto the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed\nwith her foot held fast in a pan full of plaster, which had hardened\nwith unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was\ndug out, for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated that\nher knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial\nof one artistic attempt, at least.\n\nAfter this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her\nto haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and\nsighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp\ngrass to book  a delicious bit , composed of a stone, a stump, one\nmushroom, and a broken mullein stalk, or  a heavenly mass of clouds ,\nthat looked like a choice display of featherbeds when done. She\nsacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to\nstudy light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after\n points of sight , or whatever the squint-and-string performance is\ncalled.\n\nIf  genius is eternal patience , as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had some\nclaim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all\nobstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time\nshe should do something worthy to be called  high art .\n\nShe was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she\nhad resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she\nnever became a great artist. Here she succeeded better, for she was one\nof those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends\neverywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate\nsouls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star.\nEverybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an\ninstinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the\nright thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and\nplace, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say,  If Amy\nwent to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she d know exactly what\nto do. \n\nOne of her weaknesses was a desire to move in  our best society ,\nwithout being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position,\nfashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable\nthings in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed\nthem, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not\nadmirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she\ncultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the\nopportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which\npoverty now excluded her.\n\n My lady,  as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine\nlady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy\nrefinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and\nthat true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.\n\n I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma,  Amy said, coming in with an\nimportant air one day.\n\n Well, little girl, what is it?  replied her mother, in whose eyes the\nstately young lady still remained  the baby .\n\n Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate\nfor the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to\nsee the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things\nthey admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways,\nand I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they\nnever made any difference. \n\n Why should they?  and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls\ncalled her  Maria Theresa air .\n\n You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly\neveryone, so don t ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when your\nchickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly duckling turned out a\nswan, you know.  and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a\nhappy temper and hopeful spirit.\n\nMrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,\n Well, my swan, what is your plan? \n\n I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them\nfor a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river,\nperhaps, and make a little artistic fete for them. \n\n That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches,\nfruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose? \n\n Oh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate\nand ice cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want\nmy lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living. \n\n How many young ladies are there?  asked her mother, beginning to look\nsober.\n\n Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won t all come. \n\n Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them\nabout. \n\n Why, Mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six or\neight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr.\nLaurence s cherry-bounce.  (Hannah s pronunciation of char-a-banc.)\n\n All of this will be expensive, Amy. \n\n Not very. I ve calculated the cost, and I ll pay for it myself. \n\n Don t you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things,\nand the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan\nwould be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and much\nbetter for us than buying or borrowing what we don t need, and\nattempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances? \n\n If I can t have it as I like, I don t care to have it at all. I know\nthat I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help\na little, and I don t see why I can t if I m willing to pay for it, \nsaid Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into\nobstinacy.\n\nMrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it\nwas possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she\nwould gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking\nadvice as much as they did salts and senna.\n\n Very well, Amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way\nthrough without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I ll\nsay no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide,\nI ll do my best to help you. \n\n Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind.  and away went Amy to lay her\nplan before her sisters.\n\nMeg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she\npossessed, from her little house itself to her very best saltspoons.\nBut Jo frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with\nit at first.\n\n Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and\nturn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don t care a\nsixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle\nto any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a\ncoupe,  said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel,\nwas not in the best mood for social enterprises.\n\n I don t truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do! \nreturned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions\narose.  The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there s a great\ndeal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you\ncall fashionable nonsense. You don t care to make people like you, to\ngo into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and\nI mean to make the most of every chance that comes. You can go through\nthe world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it\nindependence, if you like. That s not my way. \n\nWhen Amy had whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the\nbest of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side,\nwhile Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to\nsuch an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an\nargument. Amy s definition of Jo s idea of independence was such a good\nhit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more\namiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to\nsacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she\nregarded as  a nonsensical business .\n\nThe invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following\nMonday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor\nbecause her week s work was deranged, and prophesied that  ef the\nwashin  and ironin  warn t done reg lar, nothin  would go well\nanywheres . This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had\na bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy s motto was  Nil\ndesperandum , and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to\ndo it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah s cooking didn t\nturn out well. The chicken was tough, the tongue too salty, and the\nchocolate wouldn t froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than\nAmy expected, so did the wagon, and various other expenses, which\nseemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterward.\nBeth got a cold and took to her bed. Meg had an unusual number of\ncallers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a divided state of mind\nthat her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous,\nserious, and trying.\n\nIf it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on Tuesday,\nan arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree. On\nMonday morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more\nexasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little,\nblew a little, and didn t make up its mind till it was too late for\nanyone else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out\nof their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got\nin order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby, but\nwithout stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the\nbest of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the\ncarpet, covering stains on the walls with homemade statuary, which gave\nan artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo\nscattered about.\n\nThe lunch looked charming, and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped\nit would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver\nwould get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and\nMother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help Hannah\nbehind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an\nabsent mind, and aching head, and a very decided disapproval of\neverybody and everything would allow, and as she wearily dressed, Amy\ncheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch\nsafely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of\nartistic delights, for the  cherry bounce  and the broken bridge were\nher strong points.\n\nThen came the hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor\nto porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart\nshower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young\nladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and at two the\nexhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the\nperishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.\n\n No doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come, so we must\nfly round and be ready for them,  said Amy, as the sun woke her next\nmorning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had\nsaid nothing about Tuesday, for her interest like her cake was getting\na little stale.\n\n I can t get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad today, \nsaid Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of\nplacid despair.\n\n Use the chicken then, the toughness won t matter in a salad,  advised\nhis wife.\n\n Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at\nit. I m very sorry, Amy,  added Beth, who was still a patroness of\ncats.\n\n Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won t do,  said Amy\ndecidedly.\n\n Shall I rush into town and demand one?  asked Jo, with the magnanimity\nof a martyr.\n\n You d come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to\ntry me. I ll go myself,  answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to\nfail.\n\nShrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket, she\ndeparted, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and\nfit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her\ndesire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further\nloss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her\nown forethought.\n\nAs the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady,\nAmy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to\nfind out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card\nfull of refractory figures that she did not observe a newcomer, who\nentered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said,\n Good morning, Miss March,  and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie s\nmost elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out\nbefore she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and\ncongratulating herself that she had on her new traveling dress,\nreturned the young man s greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.\n\nThey got on excellently, for Amy s chief care was soon set at rest by\nlearning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting\naway in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In\nstumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and oh horror! the\nlobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the\nhighborn eyes of a Tudor!\n\n By Jove, she s forgotten her dinner!  cried the unconscious youth,\npoking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing\nto hand out the basket after the old lady.\n\n Please don t it s it s mine,  murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red\nas her fish.\n\n Oh, really, I beg pardon. It s an uncommonly fine one, isn t it?  said\nTudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that\ndid credit to his breeding.\n\nAmy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat,\nand said, laughing,  Don t you wish you were to have some of the salad\nhe s going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat\nit? \n\nNow that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind\nwere touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of\npleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about  the charming young ladies \ndiverted his mind from the comical mishap.\n\n I suppose he ll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan t see\nthem, that s a comfort,  thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.\n\nShe did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that,\nthanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of\ndressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the\npreparations which now seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve\no clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested\nin her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday s\nfailure by a grand success today, so she ordered the  cherry bounce ,\nand drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.\n\n There s the rumble, they re coming! I ll go onto the porch and meet\nthem. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good\ntime after all her trouble,  said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the\nword. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable\nexpression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one\nyoung lady.\n\n Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It\nwill be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl, \ncried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even\nfor a laugh.\n\nIn came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who\nhad kept her promise. The rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn,\nplayed their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most\nhilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment\nwhich possessed them. The remodeled lunch being gaily partaken of, the\nstudio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy\nordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce), and drove her\nfriend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when  the party went\nout .\n\nAs she came walking in, looking very tired but as composed as ever, she\nobserved that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had disappeared,\nexcept a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo s mouth.\n\n You ve had a loverly afternoon for your drive, dear,  said her mother,\nas respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.\n\n Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I\nthought,  observed Beth, with unusual warmth.\n\n Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so\nmuch company, and I can t make such delicious stuff as yours,  asked\nMeg soberly.\n\n Take it all. I m the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will\nmold before I can dispose of it,  answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of\nthe generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.\n\n It s a pity Laurie isn t here to help us,  began Jo, as they sat down\nto ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.\n\nA warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the\nwhole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed,\n salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn... \nHere a general explosion of laughter cut short the  history of salads ,\nto the great surprise of the learned gentleman.\n\n Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans\nlike messes. I m sick of the sight of this, and there s no reason you\nshould all die of a surfeit because I ve been a fool,  cried Amy,\nwiping her eyes.\n\n I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about\nin the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big\nnutshell, and Mother waiting in state to receive the throng,  sighed\nJo, quite spent with laughter.\n\n I m very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to\nsatisfy you,  said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.\n\n I am satisfied. I ve done what I undertook, and it s not my fault that\nit failed. I comfort myself with that,  said Amy with a little quiver\nin her voice.  I thank you all very much for helping me, and I ll thank\nyou still more if you won t allude to it for a month, at least. \n\nNo one did for several months, but the word  fete  always produced a\ngeneral smile, and Laurie s birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral\nlobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\nLITERARY LESSONS\n\n\nFortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her\npath. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would\nhave given more real happiness then did the little sum that came to her\nin this wise.\n\nEvery few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her\nscribbling suit, and  fall into a vortex , as she expressed it, writing\naway at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was\nfinished she could find no peace. Her  scribbling suit  consisted of a\nblack woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a\ncap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which\nshe bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap\nwas a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these\nperiods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads\nsemi-occasionally to ask, with interest,  Does genius burn, Jo?  They\ndid not always venture even to ask this question, but took an\nobservation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive\narticle of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that\nhard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly\naskew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off,\nand cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew,\nand not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow,\ndid anyone dare address Jo.\n\nShe did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing\nfit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a\nblissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat\nsafe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real\nand dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals\nstood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness\nwhich blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth\nliving, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually\nlasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her  vortex , hungry,\nsleepy, cross, or despondent.\n\nShe was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was\nprevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for\nher virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People s Course, the\nlecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a\nsubject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great\nsocial evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding\nthe glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy\nwith the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying\nto solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx.\n\nThey were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking,\nJo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the\nseat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads\nand bonnets to match, discussing Women s Rights and making tatting.\nBeyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the\nhand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an\nold gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On\nher right, her only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in a\nnewspaper.\n\nIt was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her,\nidly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed\nthe melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume,\ntumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two\ninfuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes,\nwere stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying\naway in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a\npage, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half\nhis paper, saying bluntly,  want to read it? That s a first-rate\nstory. \n\nJo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for\nlads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love,\nmystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light\nliterature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author s\ninvention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the\ndramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.\n\n Prime, isn t it?  asked the boy, as her eye went down the last\nparagraph of her portion.\n\n I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried,  returned Jo,\namused at his admiration of the trash.\n\n I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good\nliving out of such stories, they say.  and he pointed to the name of\nMrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.\n\n Do you know her?  asked Jo, with sudden interest.\n\n No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the\noffice where this paper is printed. \n\n Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?  and Jo\nlooked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled\nexclamation points that adorned the page.\n\n Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for\nwriting it. \n\nHere the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while\nProfessor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and\nhieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,\nand boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its\ncolumns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the\naudience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not\nthe first founded on paper), and was already deep in the concoction of\nher story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before\nthe elopement or after the murder.\n\nShe said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much\nto the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when\n genius took to burning . Jo had never tried this style before,\ncontenting herself with very mild romances for _The Spread Eagle_. Her\nexperience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave\nher some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and\ncostumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her\nlimited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to\nmake it, and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an\nearthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement. The manuscript\nwas privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that\nif the tale didn t get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect,\nshe would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.\n\nSix weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to\nkeep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all\nhope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which\nalmost took her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred\ndollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had\nbeen a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable\ngentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense\nhappiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his\nleisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the\nletter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years\nof effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do\nsomething, though it was only to write a sensation story.\n\nA prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed\nherself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the\nletter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won\nthe prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came\neveryone read and praised it, though after her father had told her that\nthe language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy\nquite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way...\n\n You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind\nthe money. \n\n I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a\nfortune?  asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a\nreverential eye.\n\n Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,  answered Jo\npromptly.\n\nTo the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didn t\ncome home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better,\nwhile Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was\nsatisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with\na cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She\ndid earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the\nhouse, for by the magic of a pen, her  rubbish  turned into comforts\nfor them all. The Duke s Daughter paid the butcher s bill, A Phantom\nHand put down a new carpet, and the Curse of the Coventrys proved the\nblessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.\n\nWealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny\nside, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine\nsatisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the\ninspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful\nblessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and\nceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that\nshe could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.\n\nLittle notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and\nencouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame\nand fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to\nall her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling\nto three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she\nwould cut it down one third, and omit all the parts which she\nparticularly admired.\n\n Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold, pay for\nprinting it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get what I can\nfor it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is\nmore convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this\nimportant subject,  said Jo, calling a family council.\n\n Don t spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know,\nand the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen,  was her\nfather s advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited\npatiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no\nhaste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.\n\n It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by\nwaiting,  said Mrs. March.  Criticism is the best test of such work,\nfor it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her\nto do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame of\noutsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money. \n\n Yes,  said Jo, knitting her brows,  that s just it. I ve been fussing\nover the thing so long, I really don t know whether it s good, bad, or\nindifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons\ntake a look at it, and tell me what they think of it. \n\n I wouldn t leave a word out of it. You ll spoil it if you do, for the\ninterest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the\npeople, and it will be all a muddle if you don t explain as you go on, \nsaid Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable\nnovel ever written.\n\n But Mr. Allen says,  Leave out the explanations, make it brief and\ndramatic, and let the characters tell the story ,  interrupted Jo,\nturning to the publisher s note.\n\n Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don t. Make a\ngood, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when\nyou ve got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical\nand metaphysical people in your novels,  said Amy, who took a strictly\npractical view of the subject.\n\n Well,  said Jo, laughing,  if my people are  philosophical and\nmetaphysical , it isn t my fault, for I know nothing about such things,\nexcept what I hear father say, sometimes. If I ve got some of his wise\nideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth,\nwhat do you say? \n\n I should so like to see it printed soon,  was all Beth said, and\nsmiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last\nword, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike\ncandor, which chilled Jo s heart for a minute with a forboding fear,\nand decided her to make her little venture  soon .\n\nSo, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on\nher table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of\npleasing everyone, she took everyone s advice, and like the old man and\nhis donkey in the fable suited nobody.\n\nHer father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got\ninto it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts about\nit. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much description.\nOut, therefore it came, and with it many necessary links in the story.\nMeg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the agony to suit her, while\nAmy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, Jo\nquenched the spritly scenes which relieved the somber character of the\nstory. Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and\nconfidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into\nthe big, busy world to try its fate.\n\nWell, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it,\nlikewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she\nexpected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it\ntook her some time to recover.\n\n You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it, when\nit s so contradictory that I don t know whether I ve written a\npromising book or broken all the ten commandments?  cried poor Jo,\nturning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with\npride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next.  This man says,\n An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.   All is\nsweet, pure, and healthy.  continued the perplexed authoress.  The\nnext,  The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies,\nspiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.  Now, as I had no\ntheory of any kind, don t believe in Spiritualism, and copied my\ncharacters from life, I don t see how this critic can be right. Another\nsays,  It s one of the best American novels which has appeared for\nyears.  (I know better than that), and the next asserts that  Though it\nis original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a\ndangerous book.   Tisn t! Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and\nnearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only\nwrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I d printed the whole\nor not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged. \n\nHer family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally.\nYet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so\nwell and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those\nwhose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an\nauthor s best education, and when the first soreness was over, she\ncould laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel\nherself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.\n\n Not being a genius, like Keats, it won t kill me,  she said stoutly,\n and I ve got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts that were\ntaken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd,\nand the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced\n charmingly natural, tender, and true . So I ll comfort myself with\nthat, and when I m ready, I ll up again and take another. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\nDOMESTIC EXPERIENCES\n\n\nLike most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the\ndetermination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a\nparadise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously\nevery day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much\nlove, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but\nsucceed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil\none, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and\nbustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too\ntired, sometimes, even to smile, John grew dyspeptic after a course of\ndainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she\nsoon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the\ncarelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself,\nand see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better\nthan hers.\n\nThey were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn t\nlive on love alone. John did not find Meg s beauty diminished, though\nshe beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss\nany of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up\nhis kiss with the tender inquiry,  Shall I send some veal or mutton for\ndinner, darling?  The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but\nit became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change\nfor the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it\nlike children. Then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares\nof the head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric\nwrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with\nmore energy than discretion.\n\nWhile the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius s\nReceipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the\nproblems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in\nto help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be\nprivately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be\nconcealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little\nHummels. An evening with John over the account books usually produced a\ntemporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would\nensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread\npudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul, although\nhe bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was\nfound, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what young\ncouples seldom get on long without, a family jar.\n\nFired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with\nhomemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John\nwas requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra\nquantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and were to be\nattended to at once. As John firmly believed that  my wife  was equal\nto anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that\nshe should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most\npleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little\npots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for\nher. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the\nelbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the\nbib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her\nsuccess, for hadn t she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array\nof pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and\nthe nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg\nresolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling,\nstraining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best, she asked\nadvice of Mrs. Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah\ndid that she left undone, she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but\nthat dreadful stuff wouldn t  jell .\n\nShe longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand,\nbut John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with\ntheir private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over\nthat last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one,\nbut they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on\nwithout help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had\nadvised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats\nall that hot summer day, and at five o clock sat down in her\ntopsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and\nwept.\n\nNow, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said,  My\nhusband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he\nlikes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no\nscolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good\ndinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please,\nand be sure of a welcome from me. \n\nHow charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear\nher say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior\nwife. But, although they had had company from time to time, it never\nhappened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to\ndistinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this vale of\ntears, there is an inevitability about such things which we can only\nwonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.\n\nIf John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have\nbeen unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the\nyear, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating\nhimself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling\nsure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant\nanticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty\nwife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his\nmansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and\nhusband.\n\nIt is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached\nthe Dovecote. The front door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was\nnot only shut, but locked, and yesterday s mud still adorned the steps.\nThe parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty\nwife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in\nher hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she\ngreeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a\nsanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes.\n\n I m afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while\nI look up Mrs. Brooke,  said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.\n\nRound the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and\nMr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused\ndiscreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see\nand hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.\n\nIn the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was\ntrickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was\nburning gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly\neating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly\nliquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat\nsobbing dismally.\n\n My dearest girl, what is the matter?  cried John, rushing in, with\nawful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret\nconsternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.\n\n Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I ve been at it\ntill I m all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!  and the\nexhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet\nwelcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized\nat the same time as the floor.\n\n What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?  asked the\nanxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was\nall askew.\n\n Yes,  sobbed Meg despairingly.\n\n Tell me quick, then. Don t cry. I can bear anything better than that.\nOut with it, love. \n\n The... The jelly won t jell and I don t know what to do! \n\nJohn Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the\nderisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which\nput the finishing stroke to poor Meg s woe.\n\n Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don t bother any more\nabout it. I ll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven s sake\ndon t have hysterics, for I ve brought Jack Scott home to dinner,\nand... \n\nJohn got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a\ntragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of\nmingled indignation, reproach, and dismay...\n\n A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you\ndo such a thing? \n\n Hush, he s in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can t\nbe helped now,  said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.\n\n You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to\nhave remembered how busy I was,  continued Meg petulantly, for even\nturtledoves will peck when ruffled.\n\n I didn t know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for\nI met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you\nhave always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang\nme if I ever do again!  added John, with an aggrieved air.\n\n I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can t see him, and there\nisn t any dinner. \n\n Well, I like that! Where s the beef and vegetables I sent home, and\nthe pudding you promised?  cried John, rushing to the larder.\n\n I hadn t time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother s. I m\nsorry, but I was so busy,  and Meg s tears began again.\n\nJohn was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day s work to\ncome home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty\ntable, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or\nmanner. He restrained himself however, and the little squall would have\nblown over, but for one unlucky word.\n\n It s a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we ll pull\nthrough and have a good time yet. Don t cry, dear, but just exert\nyourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We re both as hungry as\nhunters, so we shan t mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread\nand cheese. We won t ask for jelly. \n\nHe meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his\nfate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and\nthe last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.\n\n You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I m too used up to\n exert  myself for anyone. It s like a man to propose a bone and vulgar\nbread and cheese for company. I won t have anything of the sort in my\nhouse. Take that Scott up to Mother s, and tell him I m away, sick,\ndead, anything. I won t see him, and you two can laugh at me and my\njelly as much as you like. You won t have anything else here.  and\nhaving delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her\npinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own\nroom.\n\nWhat those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but Mr.\nScott was not taken  up to Mother s , and when Meg descended, after\nthey had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous\nlunch which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten\n a much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the\nsweet stuff, and hide the pots. \n\nMeg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own\nshort-comings, of loyalty to John,  who might be cruel, but nobody\nshould know it,  restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up, she\ndressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be\nforgiven.\n\nUnfortunately, John didn t come, not seeing the matter in that light.\nHe had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little\nwife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his\nfriend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again, but\nJohn was angry, though he did not show it, he felt that Meg had\ndeserted him in his hour of need.  It wasn t fair to tell a man to\nbring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when he took you\nat your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to\nbe laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn t! And Meg must know\nit. \n\nHe had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over\nand he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over\nhim.  Poor little thing! It was hard upon her when she tried so\nheartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was\nyoung. I must be patient and teach her.  He hoped she had not gone\nhome he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled\nagain at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry\nherself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace,\nresolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where\nshe had failed in her duty to her spouse.\n\nMeg likewise resolved to be  calm and kind, but firm , and show him his\nduty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and\ncomforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of\nthe sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally,\nas she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.\n\nJohn was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe, but feeling\nthat his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came\nleisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly\nrelevant remark,  We are going to have a new moon, my dear. \n\n I ve no objection,  was Meg s equally soothing remark. A few other\ntopics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke and\nwet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went to\none window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively\nspeaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes\nfor slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke. Both\nlooked quite  calm and firm , and both felt desperately uncomfortable.\n\n Oh, dear,  thought Meg,  married life is very trying, and does need\ninfinite patience as well as love, as Mother says.  The word  Mother \nsuggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received with\nunbelieving protests.\n\n John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see\nand bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never\nwill be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is\nvery accurate, and particular about the truth a good trait, though you\ncall him  fussy . Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will\ngive you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a\ntemper, not like ours one flash and then all over but the white, still\nanger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be\ncareful, be very careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for\npeace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be\nthe first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against the little\npiques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for\nbitter sorrow and regret. \n\nThese words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,\nespecially the last. This was the first serious disagreement, her own\nhasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her\nown anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to\nsuch a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in\nher eyes, but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up,\nthinking,  I will be the first to say,  Forgive me , but he did not\nseem to hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for pride was\nhard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a\nminute she felt as if she really couldn t do it, then came the thought,\n This is the beginning. I ll do my part, and have nothing to reproach\nmyself with,  and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the\nforehead. Of course that settled it. The penitent kiss was better than\na world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying\ntenderly...\n\n It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me,\ndear. I never will again! \n\nBut he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both\ndeclaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family\npeace was preserved in that little family jar.\n\nAfter this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and\nserved him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first\ncourse, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made\neverything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a\nlucky fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all\nthe way home.\n\nIn the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat\nrenewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at\nthe little house, or inviting  that poor dear  to come in and spend the\nday at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often\nfelt lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing\nto do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that\nMeg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing\nSallie s pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because\nshe had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the\ncoveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn t like\nit, and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked\neven worse.\n\nShe knew her husband s income, and she loved to feel that he trusted\nher, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value\nmore his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked,\nand all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay\nbills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man s wife. Till\nnow she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account\nbooks neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But that\nautumn the serpent got into Meg s paradise, and tempted her like many a\nmodern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn t like to be\npitied and made to feel poor. It irritated her, but she was ashamed to\nconfess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying\nsomething pretty, so that Sallie needn t think she had to economize.\nShe always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom\nnecessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn t worth worrying\nabout, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping\nexcursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.\n\nBut the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up\nher accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her.\nJohn was busy that month and left the bills to her, the next month he\nwas absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg\nnever forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and\nit weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg\nlonged for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties, her black\nsilk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper\nfor girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five\ndollars apiece at New Year s. That was only a month to wait, and here\nwas a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if\nshe only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers, but\nwould he think it right to spend not only the prospective\nfive-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the household fund?\nThat was the question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to\nlend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg\nbeyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely,\nshimmering folds, and said,  A bargain, I assure, you, ma am.  She\nanswered,  I ll take it,  and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie\nhad exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no\nconsequence, and driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something,\nand the police were after her.\n\nWhen she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by\nspreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn t\nbecome her, after all, and the words  fifty dollars  seemed stamped\nlike a pattern down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her,\nnot delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost\nof a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that\nnight, Meg s heart sank, and for the first time in her married life,\nshe was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they\ncould be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had\nfound her out, but didn t mean to let her know it. The house bills were\nall paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing\nthe old pocketbook which they called the  bank , when Meg, knowing that\nit was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously...\n\n You haven t seen my private expense book yet. \n\nJohn never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so,\nand used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women\nwanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning\nof a hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three\nrosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a\nbonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like\nthe fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her\nextravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent\nwife.\n\nThe little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him. Meg\ngot behind his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of\nhis tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic\nincreasing with every word...\n\n John, dear, I m ashamed to show you my book, for I ve really been\ndreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things,\nyou know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year s\nmoney will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for\nI knew you d think it wrong in me. \n\nJohn laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying goodhumoredly,\n Don t go and hide. I won t beat you if you have got a pair of killing\nboots. I m rather proud of my wife s feet, and don t mind if she does\npay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones. \n\nThat had been one of her last  trifles , and John s eye had fallen on\nit as he spoke.  Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty\ndollars!  thought Meg, with a shiver.\n\n It s worse than boots, it s a silk dress,  she said, with the calmness\nof desperation, for she wanted the worst over.\n\n Well, dear, what is the  dem d total , as Mr. Mantalini says? \n\nThat didn t sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with\nthe straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and\nanswer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at\nthe same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough\nwithout the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For\na minute the room was very still, then John said slowly but she could\nfeel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure . . .\n\n Well, I don t know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the\nfurbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days. \n\n It isn t made or trimmed,  sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden\nrecollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.\n\n Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman,\nbut I ve no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat s when she\ngets it on,  said John dryly.\n\n I know you are angry, John, but I can t help it. I don t mean to waste\nyour money, and I didn t think those little things would count up so. I\ncan t resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying\nme because I don t. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I m\ntired of being poor. \n\nThe last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but\nhe did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many\npleasures for Meg s sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the\nminute she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up,\nsaying with a little quiver in his voice,  I was afraid of this. I do\nmy best, Meg.  If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not\nhave broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him\nclose, crying, with repentant tears,  Oh, John, my dear, kind,\nhard-working boy. I didn t mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and\nungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it! \n\nHe was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach,\nbut Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be\nforgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had\npromised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had\nreproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings\nrecklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was John went on so\nquietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he\nstayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry\nherself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick, and the\ndiscovery that John had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat\nreduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had\nsimply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change,  I\ncan t afford it, my dear. \n\nMeg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with\nher face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would\nbreak.\n\nThey had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband\nbetter for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,\ngiven him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him\na tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings\nand failures of those he loved.\n\nNext day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the\ntruth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs.\nMoffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present\nof it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and\nwhen John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new\nsilk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his\npresent, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home\nearly, Meg gadded no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning\nby a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted\nlittle wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to\nMeg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman s life.\n\nLaurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday,\nwith an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals, for\nHannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the\nother.\n\n How s the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn t you tell me\nbefore I came home?  began Laurie in a loud whisper.\n\n Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of  em is upstairs a\nworshipin . We didn t want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the\nparlor, and I ll send  em down to you,  with which somewhat involved\nreply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.\n\nPresently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon\na large pillow. Jo s face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and\nthere was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.\n\n Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,  she said invitingly.\n\nLaurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him\nwith an imploring gesture.  No, thank you. I d rather not. I shall drop\nit or smash it, as sure as fate. \n\n Then you shan t see your nevvy,  said Jo decidedly, turning as if to\ngo.\n\n I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages.  and obeying\norders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into\nhis arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John\ncaused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with\ntwo babies instead of one.\n\nNo wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough\nto convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the\nunconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that\nJo sat down on the floor and screamed.\n\n Twins, by Jupiter!  was all he said for a minute, then turning to the\nwomen with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added,\n Take  em quick, somebody! I m going to laugh, and I shall drop  em. \n\nJo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm,\nas if already initiated into the mysteries of babytending, while Laurie\nlaughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.\n\n It s the best joke of the season, isn t it? I wouldn t have told you,\nfor I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I ve done\nit,  said Jo, when she got her breath.\n\n I never was more staggered in my life. Isn t it fun? Are they boys?\nWhat are you going to name them? Let s have another look. Hold me up,\nJo, for upon my life it s one too many for me,  returned Laurie,\nregarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland\nlooking at a pair of infantile kittens.\n\n Boy and girl. Aren t they beauties?  said the proud papa, beaming upon\nthe little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.\n\n Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?  and Laurie bent\nlike a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.\n\n Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French\nfashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one\nbrown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy,  said wicked Jo.\n\n I m afraid they mightn t like it,  began Laurie, with unusual timidity\nin such matters.\n\n Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir! \ncommanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.\n\nLaurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each\nlittle cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.\n\n There, I knew they didn t like it! That s the boy, see him kick, he\nhits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch\ninto a man of your own size, will you?  cried Laurie, delighted with a\npoke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.\n\n He s to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother\nand grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs,\nand I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name, \nsaid Amy, with aunt-like interest.\n\n Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short,  said Laurie.\n\n Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it,  cried Jo\nclapping her hands.\n\nTeddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were  Daisy  and\n Demi  to the end of the chapter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-NINE\nCALLS\n\n\n Come, Jo, it s time. \n\n For what? \n\n You don t mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make\nhalf a dozen calls with me today? \n\n I ve done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don t\nthink I ever was mad enough to say I d make six calls in one day, when\na single one upsets me for a week. \n\n Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon\nof Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our\nneighbors  visits. \n\n If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my\nbond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it s not fair,\nand I don t go. \n\n Now, that s shirking. It s a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you\npride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your\nduty, and then be at peace for another six months. \n\nAt that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was\nmantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself\nbecause she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking\nto be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make\ncalls in her best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the\nformal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain,\nbribe, or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and\nhaving clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she\nsmelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat\nand gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.\n\n Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don t intend\nto make calls in that state, I hope,  cried Amy, surveying her with\namazement.\n\n Why not? I m neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty\nwalk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for\nme, I don t wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant\nas you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn t for me, and\nfurbelows only worry me. \n\n Oh, dear!  sighed Amy,  now she s in a contrary fit, and will drive me\ndistracted before I can get her properly ready. I m sure it s no\npleasure to me to go today, but it s a debt we owe society, and there s\nno one to pay it but you and me. I ll do anything for you, Jo, if\nyou ll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil.\nYou can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and\nbehave so beautifully, if you try, that I m proud of you. I m afraid to\ngo alone, do come and take care of me. \n\n You re an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old\nsister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred,\nand your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don t know which is the\nmost absurd. Well, I ll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be\ncommander of the expedition, and I ll obey blindly, will that satisfy\nyou?  said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike\nsubmission.\n\n You re a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I ll\ntell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good\nimpression. I want people to like you, and they would if you d only try\nto be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the\npink rose in your bonnet. It s becoming, and you look too sober in your\nplain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief.\nWe ll stop at Meg s, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can\nhave my dove-colored one. \n\nWhile Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not\nwithout entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled\ninto her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet\nstrings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she\nput on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out\nthe handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the\npresent mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her\nhands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last\ntouch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of\ncountenance, saying meekly...\n\n I m perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die\nhappy. \n\n You re highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round, and let me get a\ncareful view.  Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then\nfell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously,  Yes,\nyou ll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the\nrose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands\neasily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There s one thing you can do\nwell, Jo, that is, wear a shawl. I can t, but it s very nice to see\nyou, and I m so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It s simple,\nbut handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the\npoint of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I\nlike to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn t. \n\n You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever,  said Jo, looking through\nher hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the\ngolden hair.  Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it\nup, please, ma am? \n\n Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style\nsuits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You\nhaven t half buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You ll never look\nfinished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make\nup the pleasing whole. \n\nJo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing\nup her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as\n pretty as picters , Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window\nto watch them.\n\n Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so\nI want you to put on your best deportment. Don t make any of your\nabrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and\nquiet, that s safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen\nminutes,  said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed\nthe white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.\n\n Let me see.  Calm, cool, and quiet , yes, I think I can promise that.\nI ve played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I ll try it\noff. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my\nchild. \n\nAmy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word, for during\nthe first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold\ncorrectly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as\nsilent as the sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her  charming\nnovel , and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera,\nand the fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a\ndemure  Yes  or  No  with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the\nword  talk , tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with\nher foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment\nlike Maud s face,  icily regular, splendidly null .\n\n What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!  was\nthe unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door\nclosed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall,\nbut Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very\nnaturally laid the blame upon Jo.\n\n How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly\ndignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and\nstone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs . Gossip as other girls do, and\nbe interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up.\nThey move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and\nI wouldn t fail to make a good impression there for anything. \n\n I ll be agreeable. I ll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and\nraptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I ll\nimitate what is called  a charming girl . I can do it, for I have May\nChester as a model, and I ll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don t\nsay,  What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is! \n\nAmy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there\nwas no knowing where she would stop. Amy s face was a study when she\nsaw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young\nladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and\njoin in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken\npossession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to\nhear a long account of Lucretia s last attack, while three delightful\nyoung gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush\nin and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who\nseemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as\nthe lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears\nto hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with\ncuriosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the\nfun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this\nsort of conversation.\n\n She rides splendidly. Who taught her? \n\n No one. She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting\nstraight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she\ndoesn t know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap\nbecause she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion\nfor it, I often tell her if everything else fails, she can be a\nhorsebreaker, and get her living so. \n\nAt this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the\nimpression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which\nwas her especial aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was\nin the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off\nagain, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful\nblunders.\n\n Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone,\nand of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that\nyou had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for\na pleasure party, wasn t it? \n\n Which did she choose?  asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who\nenjoyed the subject.\n\n None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the\nriver, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try,\nbecause he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really\npathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she\ntook the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it\nover the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the\nutter amazement of the old man! \n\n Did she ride the horse? \n\n Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her\nbrought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the\nlife of the party. \n\n Well, I call that plucky!  and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving\nglance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the\ngirl look so red and uncomfortable.\n\nShe was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a\nsudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of\nthe young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to\nthe picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was\nbought two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness,\n Oh, Amy painted it. You can t buy those soft shades, so we paint ours\nany color we like. It s a great comfort to have an artistic sister. \n\n Isn t that an original idea?  cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun.\n\n That s nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There s\nnothing the child can t do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for\nSallie s party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest\nshade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin, \nadded Jo, with an air of pride in her sister s accomplishments that\nexasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her\ncardcase at her.\n\n We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much, \nobserved the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady,\nwho did not look the character just then, it must be confessed.\n\nAny mention of her  works  always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either\ngrew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque\nremark, as now.  Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write\nthat rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you\ngoing to New York this winter? \n\nAs Miss Lamb had  enjoyed  the story, this speech was not exactly\ngrateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake,\nbut fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was\nfor her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an\nabruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their\nmouths.\n\n Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us. We are pining for\na visit. I don t dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I\ndon t think I shall have the heart to send you away. \n\nJo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester s gushing style\nthat Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong\ndesire to laugh and cry at the same time.\n\n Didn t I do well?  asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away.\n\n Nothing could have been worse,  was Amy s crushing reply.  What\npossessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and\nboots, and all the rest of it? \n\n Why, it s funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it s no\nuse pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season,\nand have things as easy and fine as they do. \n\n You needn t go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our\npoverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven t a bit of proper\npride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to\nspeak,  said Amy despairingly.\n\nPoor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with\nthe stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her\nmisdemeanors.\n\n How shall I behave here?  she asked, as they approached the third\nmansion.\n\n Just as you please. I wash my hands of you,  was Amy s short answer.\n\n Then I ll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we ll have a\ncomfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance\nhas a bad effect upon my constitution,  returned Jo gruffly, being\ndisturbed by her failure to suit.\n\nAn enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children\nspeedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the\nhostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted\nherself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She\nlistened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and\npoodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that  Tom Brown was a brick, \nregardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a\nvisit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma\nto smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left\nin a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and\ndearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an\ninspired Frenchwoman.\n\nLeaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself\nto her heart s content. Mr. Tudor s uncle had married an English lady\nwho was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole\nfamily with great respect, for in spite of her American birth and\nbreeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best\nof us that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set\nthe most democratic nation under the sun in ferment at the coming of a\nroyal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has\nsomething to do with the love the young country bears the old, like\nthat of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while\nshe could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled.\nBut even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the\nBritish nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the\nproper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from\nthis aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping\nthat her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which\nshould bring disgrace upon the name of March.\n\nIt might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad. For Jo sat on the\ngrass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog\nreposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related\none of Laurie s pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was\npoking turtles with Amy s cherished parasol, a second was eating\ngingerbread over Jo s best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her\ngloves, but all were enjoying themselves, and when Jo collected her\ndamaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come\nagain,  It was such fun to hear about Laurie s larks. \n\n Capital boys, aren t they? I feel quite young and brisk again after\nthat.  said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from\nhabit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.\n\n Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?  asked Amy, wisely refraining from\nany comment upon Jo s dilapidated appearance.\n\n Don t like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his\nfather, and doesn t speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is\nfast, and I don t consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him\nalone. \n\n You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod, and\njust now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain,\nwhose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod\nand the bow, it would have been right,  said Amy reprovingly.\n\n No, it wouldn t,  returned Jo,  I neither like, respect, nor admire\nTudor, though his grandfather s uncle s nephew s niece was a third\ncousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I\nthink well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in\nspite of the brown paper parcels. \n\n It s no use trying to argue with you,  began Amy.\n\n Not the least, my dear,  interrupted Jo,  so let us look amiable, and\ndrop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I m deeply\ngrateful. \n\nThe family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo\nuttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being\ntold that the young ladies were engaged.\n\n Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down\nthere any time, and it s really a pity to trail through the dust in our\nbest bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross. \n\n Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay her\nthe compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call. It s a\nlittle thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don t believe it\nwill hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping\nboys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your\nbonnet. \n\n What a good girl you are, Amy!  said Jo, with a repentant glance from\nher own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and\nspotless still.  I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to\nplease people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much\ntime to do them, so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and\nlet the small ones slip, but they tell best in the end, I fancy. \n\nAmy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air,\n Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they\nhave no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you d\nremember that, and practice it, you d be better liked than I am,\nbecause there is more of you. \n\n I m a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I m willing to own\nthat you are right, only it s easier for me to risk my life for a\nperson than to be pleasant to him when I don t feel like it. It s a\ngreat misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn t it? \n\n It s a greater not to be able to hide them. I don t mind saying that I\ndon t approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I m not called upon to\ntell him so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself\ndisagreeable because he is. \n\n But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and\nhow can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any\ngood, as I know to my sorrow, since I ve had Teddie to manage. But\nthere are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word,\nand I say we ought to do it to others if we can. \n\n Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can t be taken as a sample of other\nboys,  said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have\nconvulsed the  remarkable boy  if he had heard it.  If we were belles,\nor women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but\nfor us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don t approve\nof them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn t have a\nparticle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and\npuritanical. \n\n So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely\nbecause we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That s a nice sort\nof morality. \n\n I can t argue about it, I only know that it s the way of the world,\nand people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their\npains. I don t like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one. \n\n I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the\nlaughing the world would never get on without them. We can t agree\nabout that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will\nget on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should\nrather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think. \n\n Well, compose yourself now, and don t worry Aunt with your new ideas. \n\n I ll try not to, but I m always possessed to burst out with some\nparticularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her. It s\nmy doom, and I can t help it. \n\nThey found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very\ninteresting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a\nconscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their\nnieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but\nAmy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper and pleased\neverybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was\nfelt at once, and both aunts  my deared  her affectionately, looking\nwhat they afterward said emphatically,  That child improves every day. \n\n Are you going to help about the fair, dear?  asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy\nsat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well\nin the young.\n\n Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a\ntable, as I have nothing but my time to give. \n\n I m not,  put in Jo decidedly.  I hate to be patronized, and the\nChesters think it s a great favor to allow us to help with their highly\nconnected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy, they only want you to\nwork. \n\n I am willing to work. It s for the freedmen as well as the Chesters,\nand I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun.\nPatronage does not trouble me when it is well meant. \n\n Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It s a\npleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and\nthat is trying,  observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at\nJo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.\n\nIf Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance\nfor one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute, but\nunfortunately, we don t have windows in our breasts, and cannot see\nwhat goes on in the minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot\nas a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a\nsaving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of\nseveral years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of\nholding her tongue.\n\n I don t like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I d\nrather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent. \n\n Ahem!  coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.\n\n I told you so,  said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.\n\nMercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in\nthe air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.\n\n Do you speak French, dear?  asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on Amy s.\n\n Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often\nas I like,  replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old\nlady to smile affably.\n\n How are you about languages?  asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.\n\n Don t know a word. I m very stupid about studying anything, can t bear\nFrench, it s such a slippery, silly sort of language,  was the brusque\nreply.\n\nAnother look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy,\n You are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe? Eyes don t trouble\nyou any more, do they? \n\n Not at all, thank you, ma am. I m very well, and mean to do great\nthings next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that\njoyful time arrives. \n\n Good girl! You deserve to go, and I m sure you will some day,  said\nAunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her\nball for her.\n\nCrosspatch, draw the latch,\nSit by the fire and spin,\n\n\nsqualled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to\npeep into Jo s face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry\nthat it was impossible to help laughing.\n\n Most observing bird,  said the old lady.\n\n Come and take a walk, my dear?  cried Polly, hopping toward the china\ncloset, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar.\n\n Thank you, I will. Come Amy.  and Jo brought the visit to an end,\nfeeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon\nher constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy\nkissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the\nimpression of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March\nto say, as they vanished...\n\n You d better do it, Mary. I ll supply the money.  and Aunt Carrol to\nreply decidedly,  I certainly will, if her father and mother consent. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY\nCONSEQUENCES\n\n\nMrs. Chester s fair was so very elegant and select that it was\nconsidered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be\ninvited to take a table, and everyone was much interested in the\nmatter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all\nparties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her\nlife, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on\neasily. The  haughty, uninteresting creature  was let severely alone,\nbut Amy s talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the\nart table, and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate\nand valuable contributions to it.\n\nEverything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened, then\nthere occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost\nimpossible to avoid, when some five-and-twenty women, old and young,\nwith all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.\n\nMay Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater\nfavorite than herself, and just at this time several trifling\ncircumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy s dainty\npen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May s painted vases that was one\nthorn. Then the all conquering Tudor had danced four times with Amy at\na late party and only once with May that was thorn number two. But the\nchief grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave an excuse for her\nunfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had\nwhispered to her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the\nLambs . All the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her\nnaughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection, and the\nfrolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had\nreached the culprits, however, and Amy s dismay can be imagined, when,\nthe very evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches\nto her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who, of course, resented the\nsupposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in a bland tone, but with a\ncold look...\n\n I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about\nmy giving this table to anyone but my girls. As this is the most\nprominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are\nthe chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take\nthis place. I m sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in\nthe cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have\nanother table if you like. \n\nMrs. Chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver this\nlittle speech, but when the time came, she found it rather difficult to\nutter it naturally, with Amy s unsuspicious eyes looking straight at\nher full of surprise and trouble.\n\nAmy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess\nwhat, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did,\n Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all? \n\n Now, my dear, don t have any ill feeling, I beg. It s merely a matter\nof expediency, you see, my girls will naturally take the lead, and this\ntable is considered their proper place. I think it very appropriate to\nyou, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty, but\nwe must give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that you\nhave a good place elsewhere. Wouldn t you like the flower table? The\nlittle girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a\ncharming thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive you\nknow. \n\n Especially to gentlemen,  added May, with a look which enlightened Amy\nas to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but\ntook no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered with\nunexpected amiability...\n\n It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I ll give up my place here at\nonce, and attend to the flowers, if you like. \n\n You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer,  began\nMay, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty\nracks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so\ncarefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy\nmistook her meaning, and said quickly...\n\n Oh, certainly, if they are in your way,  and sweeping her\ncontributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that\nherself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.\n\n Now she s mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn t asked you to speak, Mama, \nsaid May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.\n\n Girls  quarrels are soon over,  returned her mother, feeling a trifle\nashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.\n\nThe little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which\ncordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell\nto work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically.\nBut everything seemed against her. It was late, and she was tired.\nEveryone was too busy with their own affairs to help her, and the\nlittle girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered\nlike so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless\nefforts to preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch wouldn t\nstay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble\ndown on her head when the hanging baskets were filled. Her best tile\ngot a splash of water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid s cheek.\nShe bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft,\nwhich last affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow. Any\ngirl reader who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor\nAmy and wish her well through her task.\n\nThere was great indignation at home when she told her story that\nevening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done\nright. Beth declared she wouldn t go to the fair at all, and Jo\ndemanded why she didn t take all her pretty things and leave those mean\npeople to get on without her.\n\n Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such\nthings, and though I think I ve a right to be hurt, I don t intend to\nshow it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions,\nwon t they, Marmee? \n\n That s the right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always best,\nthough it s not very easy to give it sometimes,  said her mother, with\nthe air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and\npracticing.\n\nIn spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate,\nAmy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her\nenemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that\ncame to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her\ntable that morning, while the little girls were in the anteroom filling\nthe baskets, she took up her pet production, a little book, the antique\ncover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which\non leaves of vellum she had beautifully illuminated different texts. As\nshe turned the pages rich in dainty devices with very pardonable pride,\nher eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think. Framed in a\nbrilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue and gold, with little spirits of\ngood will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers,\nwere the words,  Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. \n\n I ought, but I don t,  thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright\npage to May s discontented face behind the big vases, that could not\nhide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute,\nturning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for\nall heartburnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise and true\nsermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street,\nschool, office, or home. Even a fair table may become a pulpit, if it\ncan offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season.\nAmy s conscience preached her a little sermon from that text, then and\nthere, and she did what many of us do not always do, took the sermon to\nheart, and straightway put it in practice.\n\nA group of girls were standing about May s table, admiring the pretty\nthings, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their\nvoices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the\nstory and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit\nhad come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving it. She\nheard May say sorrowfully...\n\n It s too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don t\nwant to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete then.\nNow it s spoiled. \n\n I dare say she d put them back if you asked her,  suggested someone.\n\n How could I after all the fuss?  began May, but she did not finish,\nfor Amy s voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly...\n\n You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I\nwas just thinking I d offer to put them back, for they belong to your\ntable rather than mine. Here they are, please take them, and forgive me\nif I was hasty in carrying them away last night. \n\nAs she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile,\nand hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly\nthing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.\n\n Now, I call that lovely of her, don t you?  cried one girl.\n\nMay s answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose temper was\nevidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a\ndisagreeable laugh,  Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn t sell them\nat her own table. \n\nNow, that was hard. When we make little sacrifices we like to have them\nappreciated, at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it,\nfeeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is, as she\npresently discovered, for her spirits began to rise, and her table to\nblossom under her skillful hands, the girls were very kind, and that\none little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.\n\nIt was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat behind her\ntable, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon. Few\ncared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long\nbefore night.\n\nThe art table was the most attractive in the room. There was a crowd\nabout it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and\nfro with important faces and rattling money boxes. Amy often looked\nwistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and\nhappy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no\nhardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not\nonly tedious, but very trying, and the thought of Laurie and his\nfriends made it a real martyrdom.\n\nShe did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet\nthat they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no\ncomplaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her\nan extra cordial cup of tea. Beth helped her dress, and made a charming\nlittle wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting\nherself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the tables were\nabout to be turned.\n\n Don t do anything rude, pray Jo; I won t have any fuss made, so let it\nall pass and behave yourself,  begged Amy, as she departed early,\nhoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little\ntable.\n\n I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I\nknow, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and\nhis boys will lend a hand, and we ll have a good time yet.  returned\nJo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar\ntramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.\n\n Is that my boy? \n\n As sure as this is my girl!  and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm\nwith the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.\n\n Oh, Teddy, such doings!  and Jo told Amy s wrongs with sisterly zeal.\n\n A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by-and-by, and I ll be\nhanged if I don t make them buy every flower she s got, and camp down\nbefore her table afterward,  said Laurie, espousing her cause with\nwarmth.\n\n The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not\narrive in time. I don t wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I\nshouldn t wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean\nthing they are very likely to do another,  observed Jo in a disgusted\ntone.\n\n Didn t Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to. \n\n I didn t know that, he forgot, I suppose, and, as your grandpa was\npoorly, I didn t like to worry him by asking, though I did want some. \n\n Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking? They are\njust as much yours as mine. Don t we always go halves in everything? \nbegan Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.\n\n Gracious, I hope not! Half of some of your things wouldn t suit me at\nall. But we mustn t stand philandering here. I ve got to help Amy, so\nyou go and make yourself splendid, and if you ll be so very kind as to\nlet Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I ll bless you\nforever. \n\n Couldn t you do it now?  asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut\nthe gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the\nbars,  Go away, Teddy, I m busy. \n\nThanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night, for\nHayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket arranged in\nhis best manner for a centerpiece. Then the March family turned out en\nmasse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only\ncame, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy s taste, and\napparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie and his friends\ngallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets,\nencamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in\nthe room. Amy was in her element now, and out of gratitude, if nothing\nmore, was as spritely and gracious as possible, coming to the\nconclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all.\n\nJo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was happily\nsurrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the Hall, picking\nup various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of\nthe Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the\nill feeling and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible. She also\ndiscovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and\nconsidered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art table, she\nglanced over it for her sister s things, but saw no sign of them.\n Tucked away out of sight, I dare say,  thought Jo, who could forgive\nher own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered her family.\n\n Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?  asked May with a\nconciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be\ngenerous.\n\n She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is\nenjoying herself. The flower table is always attractive, you know,\n especially to gentlemen .  Jo couldn t resist giving that little slap,\nbut May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to\npraising the great vases, which still remained unsold.\n\n Is Amy s illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for\nFather,  said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister s work.\n\n Everything of Amy s sold long ago. I took care that the right people\nsaw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us,  returned\nMay, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy had,\nthat day.\n\nMuch gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news, and Amy looked\nboth touched and surprised by the report of May s word and manner.\n\n Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables\nas generously as you have by mine, especially the art table,  she said,\nordering out  Teddy s own , as the girls called the college friends.\n\n Charge, Chester, charge!  is the motto for that table, but do your\nduty like men, and you ll get your money s worth of art in every sense\nof the word,  said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx\nprepared to take the field.\n\n To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May,  said little\nParker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and\ngetting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said...\n\n Very well, my son, for a small boy!  and walked him off, with a\npaternal pat on the head.\n\n Buy the vases,  whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals\nof fire on her enemy s head.\n\nTo May s great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but\npervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen\nspeculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and\nwandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted\nfans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases.\n\nAunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said\nsomething to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam\nwith satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and\nanxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till\nseveral days later.\n\nThe fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy goodnight, she\ndid not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look\nwhich said  forgive and forget . That satisfied Amy, and when she got\nhome she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney piece with a\ngreat bouquet in each.  The reward of merit for a magnanimous March, \nas Laurie announced with a flourish.\n\n You ve a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character\nthan I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You ve behaved sweetly, and I\nrespect you with all my heart,  said Jo warmly, as they brushed their\nhair together late that night.\n\n Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must\nhave been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your heart\non selling your own pretty things. I don t believe I could have done it\nas kindly as you did,  added Beth from her pillow.\n\n Why, girls, you needn t praise me so. I only did as I d be done by.\nYou laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true\ngentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know\nhow. I can t explain exactly, but I want to be above the little\nmeannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I m far\nfrom it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what Mother is. \n\nAmy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug,  I understand now\nwhat you mean, and I ll never laugh at you again. You are getting on\nfaster than you think, and I ll take lessons of you in true politeness,\nfor you ve learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary, you ll get\nyour reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall. \n\nA week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be\ndelighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March s face was\nilluminated to such a degree when she read it that Jo and Beth, who\nwere with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.\n\n Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants... \n\n Me to go with her!  burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an\nuncontrollable rapture.\n\n No, dear, not you. It s Amy. \n\n Oh, Mother! She s too young, it s my turn first. I ve wanted it so\nlong. It would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid. I\nmust go! \n\n I m afraid it s impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is\nnot for us to dictate when she offers such a favor. \n\n It s always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It isn t\nfair, oh, it isn t fair!  cried Jo passionately.\n\n I m afraid it s partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the\nother day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit,\nand here she writes, as if quoting something you had said I planned at\nfirst to ask Jo, but as  favors burden her , and she  hates French , I\nthink I won t venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a\ngood companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may\ngive her. \n\n Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can t I learn to keep it\nquiet?  groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When\nshe had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said\nsorrowfully...\n\n I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so\ntry to bear it cheerfully, and don t sadden Amy s pleasure by\nreproaches or regrets. \n\n I ll try,  said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick up the\nbasket she had joyfully upset.  I ll take a leaf out of her book, and\ntry not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute\nof happiness. But it won t be easy, for it is a dreadful\ndisappointment,  and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held\nwith several very bitter tears.\n\n Jo, dear, I m very selfish, but I couldn t spare you, and I m glad you\nare not going quite yet,  whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and\nall, with such a clinging touch and loving face that Jo felt comforted\nin spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears,\nand humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how\ngratefully she would bear it.\n\nBy the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family\njubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without\nrepinings at Amy s good fortune. The young lady herself received the\nnews as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture,\nand began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving\nsuch trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in\nvisions of art than herself.\n\n It isn t a mere pleasure trip to me, girls,  she said impressively, as\nshe scraped her best palette.  It will decide my career, for if I have\nany genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove\nit. \n\n Suppose you haven t?  said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new\ncollars which were to be handed over to Amy.\n\n Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,  replied the\naspirant for fame, with philosophic composure. But she made a wry face\nat the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on\nvigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.\n\n No, you won t. You hate hard work, and you ll marry some rich man, and\ncome home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days,  said Jo.\n\n Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don t believe that one\nwill. I m sure I wish it would, for if I can t be an artist myself, I\nshould like to be able to help those who are,  said Amy, smiling, as if\nthe part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor\ndrawing teacher.\n\n Hum!  said Jo, with a sigh.  If you wish it you ll have it, for your\nwishes are always granted mine never. \n\n Would you like to go?  asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with\nher knife.\n\n Rather! \n\n Well, in a year or two I ll send for you, and we ll dig in the Forum\nfor relics, and carry out all the plans we ve made so many times. \n\n Thank you. I ll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes,\nif it ever does,  returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent\noffer as gratefully as she could.\n\nThere was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment\ntill Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue\nribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried\ntill she couldn t cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the\nsteamer sailed. Then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it\nsuddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her\nand those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last\nlingerer, saying with a sob...\n\n Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should happen... \n\n I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I ll come and comfort\nyou,  whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to\nkeep his word.\n\nSo Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always new and\nbeautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from\nthe shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall\nthe happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see\nnothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-ONE\nOUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT\n\n\nLondon\n\n\nDearest People, Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,\nPiccadilly. It s not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years\nago, and won t go anywhere else. However, we don t mean to stay long,\nso it s no great matter. Oh, I can t begin to tell you how I enjoy it\nall! I never can, so I ll only give you bits out of my notebook, for\nI ve done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.\n\n\nI sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after\nthat I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of\npleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially\nthe officers. Don t laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary\naboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have\nnothing to do, it s a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would\nsmoke themselves to death, I m afraid.\n\n\nAunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so\nwhen I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such\nwalks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost\nas exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly.\nI wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good. As\nfor Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever\nthe high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted\non the captain s speaking trumpet, she d have been in such a state of\nrapture.\n\n\nIt was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found\nit very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there,\nruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen s countryseats in the\nvalleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning,\nbut I didn t regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of\nlittle boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I\nnever shall forget it.\n\n\nAt Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when\nI said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung,\nwith a look at me...\n\n\n Oh, have you e er heard of Kate Kearney?\nShe lives on the banks of Killarney;\nFrom the glance of her eye,\nShun danger and fly,\nFor fatal s the glance of Kate Kearney. \n\n\nWasn t that nonsensical?\n\n\nWe only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It s a dirty, noisy place,\nand I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of\ndogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved\n_  la_ mutton chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he\nlooked like a true Briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned\noff his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in\nthem, and said, with a grin,  There yer har, sir. I ve given  em the\nlatest Yankee shine.  It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you\nwhat that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with\nus, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was\na lovely one, with  Robert Lennox s compliments,  on the card. Wasn t\nthat fun, girls? I like traveling.\n\n\nI never shall get to London if I don t hurry. The trip was like riding\nthrough a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The\nfarmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves,\nlatticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The\nvery cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in\nclover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got\nnervous like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw, the grass\nso green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a\nrapture all the way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to\nthe other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the\nrate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but\nUncle read his guidebook, and wouldn t be astonished at anything. This\nis the way we went on. Amy, flying up Oh, that must be Kenilworth,\nthat gray place among the trees!  Flo, darting to my window How sweet!\nWe must go there sometime, won t we Papa?  Uncle, calmly admiring his\nboots No, my dear, not unless you want beer, that s a brewery. \n\n\nA pause then Flo cried out,  Bless me, there s a gallows and a man\ngoing up.   Where, where?  shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts\nwith a crossbeam and some dangling chains.  A colliery,  remarks Uncle,\nwith a twinkle of the eye.  Here s a lovely flock of lambs all lying\ndown,  says Amy.  See, Papa, aren t they pretty?  added Flo\nsentimentally.  Geese, young ladies,  returns Uncle, in a tone that\nkeeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy the _Flirtations of\nCaptain Cavendish_, and I have the scenery all to myself.\n\n\nOf course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be\nseen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little\nbetween the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off\nin such a hurry I wasn t half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a\nmuslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping\nin Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice\nribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my\ngloves in Paris. Doesn t that sound sort of elegant and rich?\n\n\nFlo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and\nUncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that\nit wasn t the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so\ndroll! For when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so\nfast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him, but he was up\noutside behind somewhere, and I couldn t get at him. He didn t hear me\ncall, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite\nhelpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck\npace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on\npoking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said...\n\n\n Now, then, mum? \n\n\nI gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with\nan  Aye, aye, mum,  the man made his horse walk, as if going to a\nfuneral. I poked again and said,  A little faster,  then off he went,\nhelter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.\n\n\nToday was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more\naristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often\nsee his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington s\nhouse is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as\nPunch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and\nyellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet\ncoats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the\nrosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep,\ndandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and\ntall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side,\nlooking so funny I longed to sketch them.\n\n\nRotten Row means  Route de Roi , or the king s way, but now it s more\nlike a riding school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and\nthe men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are stiff, and\nbounce, which isn t according to our rules. I longed to show them a\ntearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in\ntheir scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy\nNoah s Ark. Everyone rides old men, stout ladies, little children and\nthe young folks do a deal of flirting here, I saw a pair exchange rose\nbuds, for it s the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought\nit rather a nice little idea.\n\n\nIn the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don t expect me to describe it,\nthat s impossible, so I ll only say it was sublime! This evening we are\ngoing to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest\nday of my life.\n\n\nIt s very late, but I can t let my letter go in the morning without\ntelling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we\nwere at tea? Laurie s English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so\nsurprised, for I shouldn t have known them but for the cards. Both are\ntall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and\nFrank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches.\nThey had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to\ntheir house, but Uncle won t go, so we shall return the call, and see\nthem as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we did have such\na good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked\nover past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all\nour days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her\nill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his  respectful\ncompliments to the big hat . Neither of them had forgotten Camp\nLaurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn t it?\n\n\nAunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I\nreally feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late,\nwith my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks,\ntheaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say  Ah!  and twirl\ntheir blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see\nyou all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving...\n\n\nAMY\n\n\nPARIS\n\n\nDear girls,\n\n\nIn my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns\nwere, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips\nto Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else, for\nat Hampton I saw Raphael s cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of\npictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great\ncreatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular\nEnglish picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I\ncould copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We  did \nLondon to our heart s content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry\nto go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when\nthey once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in\nhospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter,\nand I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don t, for Grace and I\nare great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred.\n\n\nWell, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he\nhad come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober\nat first, but he was so cool about it she couldn t say a word. And now\nwe get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like\na native, and I don t know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn t\nknow ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it\nwould make people understand him. Aunt s pronunciation is\nold-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we\nknew a good deal, find we don t, and are very grateful to have Fred do\nthe  _parley vooing_ , as Uncle calls it.\n\n\nSuch delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from morning till\nnight, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafes_, and meeting with\nall sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre,\nrevelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the\nfinest, because she has no soul for art, but I have, and I m\ncultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics\nof great people better, for I ve seen her Napoleon s cocked hat and\ngray coat, his baby s cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie\nAntoinette s little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne s sword,\nand many other interesting things. I ll talk for hours about them when\nI come, but haven t time to write.\n\n\nThe Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of _bijouterie_ and\nlovely things that I m nearly distracted because I can t buy them. Fred\nwanted to get me some, but of course I didn t allow it. Then the Bois\nand Champs Elysees are _tres magnifique_. I ve seen the imperial family\nseveral times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale\nand pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought purple dress, green\nhat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting\nto his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his\nfour-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted\nguard before and behind.\n\n\nWe often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the\nantique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise is very\ncurious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in,\none sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for\nthe mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.\n\n\nOur rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look\nup and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend\nour evenings talking there when too tired with our day s work to go\nout. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable\nyoung man I ever knew except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I\nwish Fred was dark, for I don t fancy light men, however, the Vaughns\nare very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won t find fault\nwith their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.\n\n\nNext week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel\nfast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary,\nand try to  remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and\nadmire , as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my\nsketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.\n\n\nAdieu, I embrace you tenderly. _ Votre Amie. _\n\n\nHEIDELBERG\n\n\nMy dear Mamma,\n\n\nHaving a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I ll try to tell you\nwhat has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see.\n\n\nThe sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with\nall my might. Get Father s old guidebooks and read about it. I haven t\nwords beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely\ntime, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the\nboat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about one\no clock Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our\nwindows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed\nus Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most\nromantic thing I ever saw the river, the bridge of boats, the great\nfortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart\nof stone.\n\n\nWhen they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble\nfor them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing\naway, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me\none of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very\nsentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn t throw it, but Flo,\nwhich seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and\nturned sensible again. I m afraid I m going to have trouble with that\nboy, it begins to look like it.\n\n\nThe baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost\nsome money, and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when\nFrank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he d marry soon, and I\nquite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was\ndelightful. I saw Goethe s house, Schiller s statue, and Dannecker s\nfamous  Ariadne.  It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more\nif I had known the story better. I didn t like to ask, as everyone knew\nit or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it. I ought\nto have read more, for I find I don t know anything, and it mortifies\nme.\n\n\nNow comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred has just\ngone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him.\nI never thought of anything but a traveling friendship till the\nserenade night. Since then I ve begun to feel that the moonlight walks,\nbalcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than\nfun. I haven t flirted, Mother, truly, but remembered what you said to\nme, and have done my very best. I can t help it if people like me. I\ndon t try to make them, and it worries me if I don t care for them,\nthough Jo says I haven t got any heart. Now I know Mother will shake\nher head, and the girls say,  Oh, the mercenary little wretch! , but\nI ve made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though\nI m not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together.\nHe is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich ever so much richer\nthan the Laurences. I don t think his family would object, and I should\nbe very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and\nthey like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I\nsuppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a fashionable\nstreet, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and\nfull of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for\nit s genuine. I ve seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants,\nand pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely\ngrounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! And I d\nrather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and\nfind nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don t\nmean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us _must_ marry\nwell. Meg didn t, Jo won t, Beth can t yet, so I shall, and make\neverything okay all round. I wouldn t marry a man I hated or despised.\nYou may be sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does\nvery well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very\nfond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I ve been turning the\nmatter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help\nseeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed\nit. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage,\ntable, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at\nanyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at dinner, when an\nAustrian officer stared at us and then said something to his friend, a\nrakish-looking baron, about  _ein wonderschones Blondchen _, Fred\nlooked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely it nearly flew\noff his plate. He isn t one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is\nrather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from\nhis bonnie blue eyes.\n\n\nWell, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all\nof us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post\nRestante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins,\nthe vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by\nthe elector long ago for his English wife. I liked the great terrace\nbest, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms\ninside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion s head on the\nwall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I d\ngot into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through\nthe valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and\nwaiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling that\nsomething was going to happen and I was ready for it. I didn t feel\nblushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little excited.\n\n\nBy-and-by I heard Fred s voice, and then he came hurrying through the\ngreat arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about\nmyself, and asked what the matter was. He said he d just got a letter\nbegging him to come home, for Frank was very ill. So he was going at\nonce on the night train and only had time to say good-by. I was very\nsorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute\nbecause he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could\nnot mistake,  I shall soon come back, you won t forget me, Amy? \n\n\nI didn t promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and\nthere was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was\noff in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to\nspeak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised\nhis father not to do anything of the sort yet a while, for he is a rash\nboy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall\nsoon meet in Rome, and then, if I don t change my mind, I ll say  Yes,\nthank you,  when he says  Will you, please? \n\n\nOf course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was\ngoing on. Don t be anxious about me, remember I am your  prudent Amy ,\nand be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you\nlike. I ll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk,\nMarmee. Love and trust me.\n\n\nEver your AMY\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-TWO\nTENDER TROUBLES\n\n\n Jo, I m anxious about Beth. \n\n Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came. \n\n It s not her health that troubles me now, it s her spirits. I m sure\nthere is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is. \n\n What makes you think so, Mother? \n\n She sits alone a good deal, and doesn t talk to her father as much as\nshe used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she\nsings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in\nher face that I don t understand. This isn t like Beth, and it worries\nme. \n\n Have you asked her about it? \n\n I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or\nlooked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children s\nconfidence, and I seldom have to wait for long. \n\nMrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed\nquite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth s, and after\nsewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,  I think she is growing up,\nand so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets,\nwithout knowing why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth s\neighteen, but we don t realize it, and treat her like a child,\nforgetting she s a woman. \n\n So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up,  returned her mother\nwith a sigh and a smile.\n\n Can t be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of\nworries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise\nnever to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you. \n\n It s a great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when you are at home,\nnow Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon,\nbut when the tug comes, you are always ready. \n\n Why, you know I don t mind hard jobs much, and there must always be\none scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works and I m not, but I\nfeel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the\nfamily fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if\nanything is amiss at home, I m your man. \n\n I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little\nheart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be very kind, and don t let\nher think anyone watches or talks about her. If she only would get\nquite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn t have a wish in the world. \n\n Happy woman! I ve got heaps. \n\n My dear, what are they? \n\n I ll settle Bethy s troubles, and then I ll tell you mine. They are\nnot very wearing, so they ll keep.  and Jo stitched away, with a wise\nnod which set her mother s heart at rest about her for the present at\nleast.\n\nWhile apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and\nafter many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which\nseemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue\nto the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the\nrest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when\nshe and Beth were alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her\neye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window,\nBeth s work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon\nher hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull,\nautumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an\noperatic blackbird, and a voice called out,  All serene! Coming in\ntonight. \n\nBeth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by\ntill his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself,  How\nstrong and well and happy that dear boy looks. \n\n Hum!  said Jo, still intent upon her sister s face, for the bright\ncolor faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a\ntear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and in her\nhalf-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill.\nFearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about\nneeding more paper.\n\n Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!  she said, sitting down in her own\nroom, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had\njust made.  I never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say? I\nwonder if her...  there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden\nthought.  If he shouldn t love back again, how dreadful it would be. He\nmust. I ll make him!  and she shook her head threateningly at the\npicture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.\n Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here s Meg married and a\nmamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I m the only\none that has sense enough to keep out of mischief.  Jo thought intently\nfor a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out\nher wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face\nopposite,  No thank you, sir, you re very charming, but you ve no more\nstability than a weathercock. So you needn t write touching notes and\nsmile in that insinuating way, for it won t do a bit of good, and I\nwon t have it. \n\nThen she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake\ntill the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which\nonly confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked\nwith Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,\nbut so was everybody s. Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he\ncared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression\nhad prevailed in the family of late that  our boy  was getting fonder\nthan ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn t hear a word upon the subject\nand scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known\nthe various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they\nwould have had the immense satisfaction of saying,  I told you so.  But\nJo hated  philandering , and wouldn t allow it, always having a joke or\na smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.\n\nWhen Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month,\nbut these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much\namused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope,\ndespair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly\nconferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at\nmany shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged\noccasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender\nsubject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,\nand gave out that he was going to  dig , intending to graduate in a\nblaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight\nconfidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the\neye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred\nimaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former\ncould be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter\nwere less manageable.\n\nThings were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo\nwatched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not\ngot the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in\nthe fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But\nhaving given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at\na great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course\nof romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth lay on\nthe sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all\nsorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly  spin , and he never\ndisappointed her. But that evening Jo fancied that Beth s eyes rested\non the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that\nshe listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting\ncricket match, though the phrases,  caught off a tice ,  stumped off\nhis ground , and  the leg hit for three , were as intelligible to her\nas Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it,\nthat she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie s manner, that\nhe dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a\nlittle absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth s feet with an\nassiduity that was really almost tender.\n\n Who knows? Stranger things have happened,  thought Jo, as she fussed\nabout the room.  She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make\nlife delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love\neach other. I don t see how he can help it, and I do believe he would\nif the rest of us were out of the way. \n\nAs everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she\nought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go?\nAnd burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she\nsat down to settle that point.\n\nNow, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa long, broad,\nwell-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the\ngirls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back,\nrode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested\ntired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young\nwomen. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner\nhad always been Jo s favorite lounging place. Among the many pillows\nthat adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with\nprickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end. This\nrepulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of\ndefense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.\n\nLaurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep\naversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when\nromping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he\nmost coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner. If  the sausage  as they\ncalled it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and\nrepose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child\nwho dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner,\nand had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form\nappeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both\nlong legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of\nsatisfaction...\n\n Now, this is filling at the price. \n\n No slang,  snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late,\nthere was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared\nin a most mysterious manner.\n\n Come, Jo, don t be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all\nthe week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it. \n\n Beth will pet you. I m busy. \n\n No, she s not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing,\nunless you ve suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate\nyour boy, and want to fire pillows at him? \n\nAnything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,\nbut Jo quenched  her boy  by turning on him with a stern query,  How\nmany bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week? \n\n Not one, upon my word. She s engaged. Now then. \n\n I m glad of it, that s one of your foolish extravagances, sending\nflowers and things to girls for whom you don t care two pins, \ncontinued Jo reprovingly.\n\n Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won t let me\nsend them  flowers and things , so what can I do? My feelings need a\n vent . \n\n Mother doesn t approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt\ndesperately, Teddy. \n\n I d give anything if I could answer,  So do you . As I can t, I ll\nmerely say that I don t see any harm in that pleasant little game, if\nall parties understand that it s only play. \n\n Well, it does look pleasant, but I can t learn how it s done. I ve\ntried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else\nis doing, but I don t seem to get on , said Jo, forgetting to play\nmentor.\n\n Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it. \n\n Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I\nsuppose it s natural to some people to please without trying, and\nothers to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place. \n\n I m glad you can t flirt. It s really refreshing to see a sensible,\nstraightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool\nof herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do\ngo on at such a rate I m ashamed of them. They don t mean any harm, I m\nsure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward,\nthey d mend their ways, I fancy. \n\n They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows\nget the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you\nbehaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they\nkeep it up, and then you blame them. \n\n Much you know about it, ma am,  said Laurie in a superior tone.  We\ndon t like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.\nThe pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,\namong gentleman. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place\nfor a month you d see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my\nword, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say\nwith our friend Cock Robin...\n\n Out upon you, fie upon you,\nBold-faced jig! \n\n\nIt was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between\nLaurie s chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very\nnatural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society\nshowed him many samples. Jo knew that  young Laurence  was regarded as\na most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their\ndaughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb\nof him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be\nspoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still\nbelieved in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone,\nshe said, dropping her voice,  If you must have a  vent , Teddy, go and\ndevote yourself to one of the  pretty, modest girls  whom you do\nrespect, and not waste your time with the silly ones. \n\n You really advise it?  and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of\nanxiety and merriment in his face.\n\n Yes, I do, but you d better wait till you are through college, on the\nwhole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You re not half\ngood enough for well, whoever the modest girl may be.  and Jo looked a\nlittle queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.\n\n That I m not!  acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite\nnew to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo s apron tassel\nround his finger.\n\n Mercy on us, this will never do,  thought Jo, adding aloud,  Go and\nsing to me. I m dying for some music, and always like yours. \n\n I d rather stay here, thank you. \n\n Well, you can t, there isn t room. Go and make yourself useful, since\nyou are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a\nwoman s apron string?  retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of\nhis own.\n\n Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!  and Laurie gave an audacious\ntweak at the tassel.\n\n Are you going?  demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.\n\nHe fled at once, and the minute it was well,  Up with the bonnets of\nbonnie Dundee,  she slipped away to return no more till the young\ngentleman departed in high dudgeon.\n\nJo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound\nof a stifled sob made her fly to Beth s bedside, with the anxious\ninquiry,  What is it, dear? \n\n I thought you were asleep,  sobbed Beth.\n\n Is it the old pain, my precious? \n\n No, it s a new one, but I can bear it,  and Beth tried to check her\ntears.\n\n Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other. \n\n You can t, there is no cure.  There Beth s voice gave way, and\nclinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was\nfrightened.\n\n Where is it? Shall I call Mother? \n\n No, no, don t call her, don t tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie\ndown here and  poor  my head. I ll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I\nwill. \n\nJo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth s hot\nforehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to\nspeak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,\ncannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she\nbelieved she knew the cause of Beth s new pain, she only said, in her\ntenderest tone,  Does anything trouble you, deary? \n\n Yes, Jo,  after a long pause.\n\n Wouldn t it comfort you to tell me what it is? \n\n Not now, not yet. \n\n Then I won t ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always\nglad to hear and help you, if they can. \n\n I know it. I ll tell you by-and-by. \n\n Is the pain better now? \n\n Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo. \n\n Go to sleep, dear. I ll stay with you. \n\nSo cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite\nherself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and\na loving word can medicine most ills.\n\nBut Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for\nsome days, she confided it to her mother.\n\n You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I ll tell you one of\nthem, Marmee,  she began, as they sat along together.  I want to go\naway somewhere this winter for a change. \n\n Why, Jo?  and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested\na double meaning.\n\nWith her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly,  I want something new. I\nfeel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I\nam. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up,\nso as I can be spared this winter, I d like to hop a little way and try\nmy wings. \n\n Where will you hop? \n\n To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know\nMrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her\nchildren and sew. It s rather hard to find just the thing, but I think\nI should suit if I tried. \n\n My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!  and Mrs.\nMarch looked surprised, but not displeased.\n\n It s not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your\nfriend the kindest soul that ever lived and would make things pleasant\nfor me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows\nme there. Don t care if they do. It s honest work, and I m not ashamed\nof it. \n\n Nor I. But your writing? \n\n All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get\nnew ideas, and even if I haven t much time there, I shall bring home\nquantities of material for my rubbish. \n\n I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden\nfancy? \n\n No, Mother. \n\n May I know the others? \n\nJo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in\nher cheeks.  It may be vain and wrong to say it, but I m afraid Laurie\nis getting too fond of me. \n\n Then you don t care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care\nfor you?  and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.\n\n Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely\nproud of him, but as for anything more, it s out of the question. \n\n I m glad of that, Jo. \n\n Why, please? \n\n Because, dear, I don t think you suited to one another. As friends you\nare very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear\nyou would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike\nand too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills,\nto get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience\nand forbearance, as well as love. \n\n That s just the feeling I had, though I couldn t express it. I m glad\nyou think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me\nsadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn t fall in love with the dear\nold fellow merely out of gratitude, could I? \n\n You are sure of his feeling for you? \n\nThe color deepened in Jo s cheeks as she answered, with the look of\nmingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking\nof first lovers,  I m afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn t said anything,\nbut he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes\nto anything. \n\n I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go. \n\nJo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling,  How Mrs. Moffat\nwould wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will\nrejoice that Annie may still hope. \n\n Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the\nsame in all the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am\ncontent with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you\ntire of it, for only then will you find that there is something\nsweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her.\nFor Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way,\nshe seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her? \n\n Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by. I\nsaid no more, for I think I know it,  and Jo told her little story.\n\nMrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the\ncase, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie s sake\nJo should go away for a time.\n\n Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I ll\nrun away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think\nI m going to please myself, as I am, for I can t talk about Laurie to\nher. But she can pet and comfort him after I m gone, and so cure him of\nthis romantic notion. He s been through so many little trials of the\nsort, he s used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity. \n\nJo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear\nthat this  little trial  would be harder than the others, and that\nLaurie would not get over his  lovelornity  as easily as heretofore.\n\nThe plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs.\nKirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.\nThe teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got\nmight be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society\nwould be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager\nto be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her restless\nnature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and\ntrembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very quietly.\nHe had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and when\njokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly,  So I\nam, and I mean this one shall stay turned. \n\nJo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on\njust then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth\nseemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.\n\n One thing I leave in your especial care,  she said, the night before\nshe left.\n\n You mean your papers?  asked Beth.\n\n No, my boy. Be very good to him, won t you? \n\n Of course I will, but I can t fill your place, and he ll miss you\nsadly. \n\n It won t hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague,\npet, and keep in order. \n\n I ll do my best, for your sake,  promised Beth, wondering why Jo\nlooked at her so queerly.\n\nWhen Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly,  It won t do a\nbit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I ll come\nand bring you home. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-THREE\nJO S JOURNAL\n\n\nNew York, November\n\n\nDear Marmee and Beth,\n\n\nI m going to write you a regular volume, for I ve got heaps to tell,\nthough I m not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I\nlost sight of Father s dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might\nhave shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small\nchildren, all crying more or less, hadn t diverted my mind, for I\namused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time\nthey opened their mouths to roar.\n\n\nSoon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up\nlikewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.\n\n\nMrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that\nbig house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky parlor all\nshe had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny\nwindow, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a\nchurch tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to\nmy den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a\npleasant room next Mrs. Kirke s private parlor, and the two little\ngirls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me\nafter telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I ve no doubt I shall make a\nmodel governess.\n\n\nI am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great\ntable, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will\nbelieve it.\n\n\n Now, my dear, make yourself at home,  said Mrs. K. in her motherly\nway,  I m on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with\nsuch a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the\nchildren are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your\nown shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant\npeople in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always\nfree. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can.\nThere s the tea bell, I must run and change my cap.  And off she\nbustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.\n\n\nAs I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights\nare very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of\nthe third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman\ncome along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand,\ncarry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away,\nsaying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent,  It goes better so. The\nlittle back is too young to haf such heaviness. \n\n\nWasn t it good of him? I like such things, for as Father says, trifles\nshow character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she\nlaughed, and said,  That must have been Professor Bhaer, he s always\ndoing things of that sort. \n\n\nMrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as\na church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little\norphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of\nhis sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it\ninterested me, and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor\nfor some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the\nnursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I ll tell you how he\nlooks. He s almost forty, so it s no harm, Marmee.\n\n\nAfter tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the\nbig workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I\nshall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and\nmore tomorrow.\n\n\nTuesday Eve\n\n\nHad a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted\nlike Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all\nround. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up\ntill they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the\ngirl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little\nMabel  with a willing mind . I was thanking my stars that I d learned\nto make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and\nsomeone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. It was\ndreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn t resist the temptation, and\nlifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in.\nProfessor Bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a\ngood look at him. A regular German rather stout, with brown hair\ntumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I\never saw, and a splendid big voice that does one s ears good, after our\nsharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands\nwere large, and he hadn t a really handsome feature in his face, except\nhis beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen\nwas very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were\noff his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in\nspite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth\nbulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old\nfriend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in\na loud, brisk tone,  Herein! \n\n\nI was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child\ncarrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on.\n\n\n Me wants me Bhaer,  said the mite, slamming down her book and running\nto meet him.\n\n\n Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my\nTina,  said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding\nher so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss\nhim.\n\n\n Now me mus tuddy my lessin,  went on the funny little thing. So he put\nher up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and\ngave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now\nand then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if\nfinding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh,\nwhile Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look\nthat made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French\nthan German.\n\n\nAnother knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my\nwork, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and\ngabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing\naffectedly, and saying,  Now Professor,  in a coquettish tone, and the\nother pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard\nfor him to keep sober.\n\n\nBoth seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him\nsay emphatically,  No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I\nsay,  and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his\nbook, followed by the despairing exclamation,  Prut! It all goes bad\nthis day. \n\n\nPoor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one\nmore peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself\nback in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the\nclock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if\nready for another lesson, and taking little Tina who had fallen asleep\non the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a\nhard life of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn t go down to the five\no clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would,\njust to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I\nmade myself respectable and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as\nshe is short and I m tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a\nfailure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I\nplucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and\nevery one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who\nseemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the\nword, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual\nassortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed\nin each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in\npolitics. I don t think I shall care to have much to do with any of\nthem, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had\nsomething in her.\n\n\nCast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting\nanswers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on\none side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy\nhad been here, she d have turned her back on him forever because, sad\nto relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a\nmanner which would have horrified  her ladyship . I didn t mind, for I\nlike  to see folks eat with a relish , as Hannah says, and the poor man\nmust have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.\n\n\nAs I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling\ntheir hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the\nother,  Who s the new party? \n\n\n Governess, or something of that sort. \n\n\n What the deuce is she at our table for? \n\n\n Friend of the old lady s. \n\n\n Handsome head, but no style. \n\n\n Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on. \n\n\nI felt angry at first, and then I didn t care, for a governess is as\ngood as a clerk, and I ve got sense, if I haven t style, which is more\nthan some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings\nwho clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!\n\n\nThursday\n\n\nYesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my\nlittle room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire. I picked up a\nfew bits of news and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that\nTina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the\nlaundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and\nfollows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which\ndelights him, as he is very fond of children, though a  bacheldore .\nKitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all\nsorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings,\nand the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems,\ncall him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of\njokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and\ntakes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his\nforeign ways.\n\n\nThe maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke\nto me at dinner today (for I went to table again, it s such fun to\nwatch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has\nfine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly,\nso I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good\nsociety, only it isn t the same sort that Amy likes.\n\n\nI was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some\nnewspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn t there, but Minnie, who is a\nlittle old woman, introduced me very prettily.  This is Mamma s friend,\nMiss March. \n\n\n Yes, and she s jolly and we like her lots,  added Kitty, who is an\n enfant terrible .\n\n\nWe both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the\nblunt addition were rather a comical contrast.\n\n\n Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so\nagain, call at me and I come,  he said, with a threatening frown that\ndelighted the little wretches.\n\n\nI promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to\nsee a good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out,\nby accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and\nthere he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand\nand a darning needle in the other. He didn t seem at all ashamed of it,\nfor when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all,\nsaying in his loud, cheerful way...\n\n\n You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle. \n\n\nI laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to\nthink of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German\ngentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing and not\nso pretty.\n\n\nSaturday\n\n\nNothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who\nhas a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she\nshowed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with\nher to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She put\nit as a favor, but I m sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she\ndoes it out of kindness to me. I m as proud as Lucifer, but such favors\nfrom such people don t burden me, and I accepted gratefully.\n\n\nWhen I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor\nthat I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees,\nwith Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie\nfeeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in\ncages built of chairs.\n\n\n We are playing nargerie,  explained Kitty.\n\n\n Dis is mine effalunt!  added Tina, holding on by the Professor s hair.\n\n\n Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when\nFranz and Emil come, doesn t she, Mr. Bhaer?  said Minnie.\n\n\nThe  effalunt  sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and\nsaid soberly to me,  I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a\nnoise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly. \n\n\nI promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much\nas they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played\ntag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they\nall piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming\nfairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little\n koblods , who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were\nas simple and natural as Germans, don t you?\n\n\nI m so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of\neconomy didn t stop me, for though I ve used thin paper and written\nfine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray\nforward Amy s as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound\nvery flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy\nstudying so hard that he can t find time to write to his friends? Take\ngood care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and\ngive heaps of love to everyone. From your faithful Jo.\n\n\nP.S. On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I\nam always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to\nwrite about. Bless you!\n\n\nDECEMBER\n\n\nMy Precious Betsey,\n\n\nAs this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it\nmay amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though\nquiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what\nAmy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral\nagriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend\nas I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the\nboys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil\nare jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of\nGerman and American spirit in them produces a constant state of\neffervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in\nthe house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a\nseminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such\nfun!\n\n\nWe are very good friends now, and I ve begun to take lessons. I really\ncouldn t help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must\ntell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as\nI passed Mr. Bhaer s room where she was rummaging.\n\n\n Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these\nbooks to rights, for I ve turned everything upside down, trying to\ndiscover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not\nlong ago. \n\n\nI went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was  a den  to\nbe sure. Books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an old\nflute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any\ntail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the\nother. Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the\nmanuscripts. Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and\ntraces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of\nhimself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three\nof the missing articles were found, one over the bird cage, one covered\nwith ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder.\n\n\n Such a man!  laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in\nthe rag bag.  I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage\ncut fingers, or make kite tails. It s dreadful, but I can t scold him.\nHe s so absent-minded and goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over him\nroughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to\ngive out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a\nsad pass sometimes. \n\n\n Let me mend them,  said I.  I don t mind it, and he needn t know. I d\nlike to, he s so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending\nbooks. \n\n\nSo I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the\nsocks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns. Nothing\nwas said, and I hoped he wouldn t find it out, but one day last week he\ncaught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested\nand amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn, for Tina runs in\nand out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near\nthis door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what\nhe said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone,\nand I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was busily gabbling\nover a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little\ncrow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing\nquietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him.\n\n\n So!  he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose,  you peep at me, I\npeep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I\nsay, haf you a wish for German? \n\n\n Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,  I blundered out,\nas red as a peony.\n\n\n Prut! We will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At\nefening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you,\nMees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay.  And he pointed to my work  Yes, \nthey say to one another, these so kind ladies,  he is a stupid old\nfellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe that his sock\nheels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new\nwhen they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.   Ah! But I\nhaf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this.\nCome, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy works for me\nand mine. \n\n\nOf course I couldn t say anything after that, and as it really is a\nsplendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four\nlessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was\nvery patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and\nthen he d look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it\nwas a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and\nwhen it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw\nthe grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself\ndisgraced and deserted forever, but didn t blame him a particle, and\nwas scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake\nmyself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I d covered\nmyself in glory.\n\n\n Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little\n_marchen_ together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the\ncorner for making us trouble. \n\n\nHe spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson s fairy tales so\ninvitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my\nlesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I\nforgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it)\nwith all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to\ninspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished\nreading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and\ncried out in his hearty way,  Das ist gut! Now we go well! My turn. I\ndo him in German, gif me your ear.  And away he went, rumbling out the\nwords with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well\nas hear. Fortunately the story was _The Constant Tin Soldier_, which is\ndroll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn t\nunderstand half he read, for I couldn t help it, he was so earnest, I\nso excited, and the whole thing so comical.\n\n\nAfter that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for\nthis way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets\ntucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it\nvery much, and he doesn t seem tired of it yet, which is very good of\nhim, isn t it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare\nnot offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.\n\n\nI m glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking\nand lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did. I m\nnot jealous, dear, do your best, only don t make a saint of him. I m\nafraid I couldn t like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read\nhim bits of my letters. I haven t time to write much, and that will do\njust as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.\n\n\nJANUARY\n\n\nA Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course\nincludes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can t tell you\nhow much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn t get it till\nnight and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you\nsaid nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was\ndisappointed, for I d had a  kind of feeling  that you wouldn t forget\nme. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea,\nand when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I\njust hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat\ndown on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in\nmy usual absurd way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the\nbetter for being made instead of bought. Beth s new  ink bib  was\ncapital, and Hannah s box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I ll\nbe sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully\nthe books Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!\n\n\nSpeaking of books reminds me that I m getting rich in that line, for on\nNew Year s Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he\nvalues much, and I ve often admired it, set up in the place of honor\nwith his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how\nI felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own\nname in it,  from my friend Friedrich Bhaer .\n\n\n You say often you wish a library. Here I gif you one, for between\nthese lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and\nhe will help you much, for the study of character in this book will\nhelp you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen. \n\n\nI thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about  my library , as\nif I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in\nShakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me.\nNow don t laugh at his horrid name. It isn t pronounced either Bear or\nBeer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only\nGermans can give it. I m glad you both like what I tell you about him,\nand hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm\nheart, Father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new\n friend Friedrich Bhaer .\n\n\nNot having much money, or knowing what he d like, I got several little\nthings, and put them about the room, where he would find them\nunexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on his\ntable, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of\ngreen in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his\nblower, so that he needn t burn up what Amy calls  mouchoirs . I made\nit like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black\nand yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy\nimmensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so\nit was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn t forget a\nservant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the French\nlaundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that.\n\n\nThey got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year s Eve. I didn t\nmean to go down, having no dress. But at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke\nremembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and\nfeathers. So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask\non. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the\nsilent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool,\nmost of them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress,\nand burst out into a  nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on\nthe banks of the Nile . I enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it\nwas fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell\nanother that he knew I d been an actress, in fact, he thought he\nremembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters. Meg will relish that\njoke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a perfect little\nfairy in his arms. To see them dance was  quite a landscape , to use a\nTeddyism.\n\n\nI had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in\nmy room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many\nfailures, for I m cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take\nmore interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory.\nBless you all! Ever your loving... Jo\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR\nFRIEND\n\n\nThough very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy\nwith the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the\neffort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now\ntook possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl,\nbut the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that\nmoney conferred power, money and power, therefore, she resolved to\nhave, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved\nmore than life. The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth\neverything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her\nbedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so\nthat she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years\nJo s most cherished castle in the air.\n\nThe prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after\nlong traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en\nEspagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for\npublic opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on\nbigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed\nawhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the\nleast lovely of the giant s treasures, if I remember rightly. But the\n up again and take another  spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so\nshe scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but\nnearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.\n\nShe took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even\nall-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a\n thrilling tale , and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor\nof the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had\na womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over\nmany than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she\ndressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she\nwas neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and\ndirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar\nsmoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels\nrather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them\ntook the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this\nreception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much\nembarrassment...\n\n Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to\nsee Mr. Dashwood. \n\nDown went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,\nand carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced\nwith a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling\nthat she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her\nmanuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,\nblundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the\noccasion.\n\n A friend of mine desired me to offer a story just as an\nexperiment would like your opinion be glad to write more if this\nsuits. \n\nWhile she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,\nand was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers,\nand casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.\n\n Not a first attempt, I take it?  observing that the pages were\nnumbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon sure\nsign of a novice.\n\n No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in\nthe _Blarneystone Banner_. \n\n Oh, did she?  and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to\ntake note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the\nbuttons on her boots.  Well, you can leave it, if you like. We ve more\nof this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present,\nbut I ll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week. \n\nNow, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn t suit her at\nall, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but\nbow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was\napt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was\nperfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the\ngentlemen that her little fiction of  my friend  was considered a good\njoke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as\nhe closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to\nreturn, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching\npinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh\nover the scene and long for next week.\n\nWhen she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr.\nDashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr.\nDashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his\nmanners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the\nfirst.\n\n We ll take this (editors never say I), if you don t object to a few\nalterations. It s too long, but omitting the passages I ve marked will\nmake it just the right length,  he said, in a businesslike tone.\n\nJo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its\npages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being\nasked to cut off her baby s legs in order that it might fit into a new\ncradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find\nthat all the moral reflections which she had carefully put in as\nballast for much romance had been stricken out.\n\n But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I\ntook care to have a few of my sinners repent. \n\nMr. Dashwoods s editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had\nforgotten her  friend , and spoken as only an author could.\n\n People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don t sell\nnowadays.  Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.\n\n You think it would do with these alterations, then? \n\n Yes, it s a new plot, and pretty well worked up language good, and so\non,  was Mr. Dashwood s affable reply.\n\n What do you that is, what compensation  began Jo, not exactly knowing\nhow to express herself.\n\n Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this\nsort. Pay when it comes out,  returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point\nhad escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.\n\n Very well, you can have it,  said Jo, handing back the story with a\nsatisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five\nseemed good pay.\n\n Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better\nthan this?  asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and\nemboldened by her success.\n\n Well, we ll look at it. Can t promise to take it. Tell her to make it\nshort and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend\nlike to put on it?  in a careless tone.\n\n None at all, if you please, she doesn t wish her name to appear and\nhas no nom de plume,  said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.\n\n Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will you\ncall for the money, or shall I send it?  asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a\nnatural desire to know who his new contributor might be.\n\n I ll call. Good morning, Sir. \n\nAs she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful\nremark,  Poor and proud, as usual, but she ll do. \n\nFollowing Mr. Dashwood s directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her\nmodel, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational\nliterature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend,\nshe came up again not much the worse for her ducking.\n\nLike most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and\nscenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared\nupon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit\nas could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such\ntrifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood\ngraciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not\nthinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his\nhospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher\nwages, had basely left him in the lurch.\n\nShe soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew\nstout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the\nmountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One\nthing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell\nthem at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not\napprove, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon\nafterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with\nher stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but\npromised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.\n\nShe thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write\nnothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of\nconscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show\nher earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.\n\nBut Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could\nnot be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers,\nhistory and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and\nlunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found\nthat her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the\ntragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business\nlight, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic\nenergy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them\noriginal in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers\nfor accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of\npublic librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in\nthe street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her.\nShe delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old\nthat they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,\nand misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought\nshe was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to\ndesecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman s character. She\nwas living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its influence\naffected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and\nunsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her\nnature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which\ncomes soon enough to all of us.\n\nShe was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of\nother people s passions and feelings set her to studying and\nspeculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young\nminds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own\npunishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it.\n\nI don t know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read\ncharacter, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,\nbrave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every\nperfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who\ninterested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one\nof their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and\nlovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a\nwriter. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and\nstudied him a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he\nknown it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.\n\nWhy everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither\nrich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called\nfascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a\ngenial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as\nabout a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving\nsomething away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer\nyoung, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face\nlooked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his\nsake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last\ndecided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any\nsorrow,  it sat with its head under its wing , and he turned only his\nsunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time\nseemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to\nothers. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many\nfriendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and\nhis big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than\nwords.\n\nHis very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the\nwearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him\ncomfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart\nunderneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets\nplainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full.\nHis very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy\nlike other people s.\n\n That s it!  said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that\ngenuine good will toward one s fellow men could beautify and dignify\neven a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own\nsocks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.\n\nJo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine\nrespect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the\nProfessor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,\nand no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much\nhonored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came\nto see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss\nNorton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it\nall the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to\nknow that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor\nlanguage-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much\nbeautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.\nAnother and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most\nunexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which\nJo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman\nfelt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many\nfavors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with\nher one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several\ncelebrities.\n\nJo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had\nworshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for\ngenius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to\nrecover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and\nwomen after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid\nadmiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on\n spirit, fire, and dew , to behold him devouring his supper with an\nardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a\nfallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her\nromantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters\nwith the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly\nwith one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at\nanother Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering\nher in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea\nJohnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady\nrendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting\ntheir mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting\nthemselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young\nmusician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked\nhorses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be\nthe most ordinary man of the party.\n\nBefore the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned,\nthat she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined\nher, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the\nphilosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an\nintellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles\nbeyond Jo s comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel\nwere unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms,\nand the only thing  evolved from her inner consciousness  was a bad\nheadache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the\nworld was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and,\naccording to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before,\nthat religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and\nintellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or\nmetaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable,\nhalf painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being\nturned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a\nholiday.\n\nShe looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him\nlooking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear.\nHe shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated\njust then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat,\ntrying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after\nthey had annihilated all the old beliefs.\n\nNow, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions,\nnot because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be\nlightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people,\nattracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit\nhis brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul\nwould be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over\nthat they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.\n\nHe bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an\nopinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion\nwith all the eloquence of truth an eloquence which made his broken\nEnglish musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for\nthe wise men argued well, but he didn t know when he was beaten and\nstood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got\nright again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed\nbetter than the new. God was not a blind force, and immortality was not\na pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid ground\nunder her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one\nwhit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.\n\nShe did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor\nher heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out\nthen and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She\nbegan to see that character is a better possession than money, rank,\nintellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man\nhas defined it to be,  truth, reverence, and good will , then her\nfriend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.\n\nThis belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his\nrespect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the\nwish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew out\nof a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her\nlesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there\nand he had forgotten to take off.\n\n It s evident he doesn t look in his glass before coming down,  thought\nJo, with a smile, as he said  Goot efening,  and sat soberly down,\nquite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his\nheadgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.\n\nShe said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big,\nhearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover\nit for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German\nread Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came\nthe lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that\nnight, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The\nProfessor didn t know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask\nwith an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .\n\n Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master s face? Haf you no\nrespect for me, that you go on so bad? \n\n How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off? \nsaid Jo.\n\nLifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt\nand removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then\nthrew back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.\n\n Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my\ncap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well,\nyou too shall wear him. \n\nBut the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer\ncaught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great\ndisgust,  I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not\nfor children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I\nhaf no patience with those who make this harm. \n\nJo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a\nlunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but the\nimpulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but fear,\nbecause for a minute she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It was not,\nhowever, and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if it had\nbeen and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name to\nbetray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush,\nfor though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more than\npeople fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the\nnewspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he\nasked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it\noccurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it\ntroubled him. He did not say to himself,  It is none of my business.\nI ve no right to say anything,  as many people would have done. He only\nremembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother s\nlove and father s care, and he was moved to help her with an impulse as\nquick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to\nsave a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a\nminute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by the time the\npaper was turned, and Jo s needle threaded, he was ready to say quite\nnaturally, but very gravely...\n\n Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young\ngirls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I\nwould more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad\ntrash. \n\n All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for\nit, I don t see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people\nmake an honest living out of what are called sensation stories,  said\nJo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits\nfollowed her pin.\n\n There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to\nsell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would\nnot feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison in\nthe sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a\nlittle, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing. \n\nMr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in\nhis hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for\nher cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and\ngone harmlessly up the chimney.\n\n I should like much to send all the rest after him,  muttered the\nProfessor, coming back with a relieved air.\n\nJo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her\nhard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.\nThen she thought consolingly to herself,  Mine are not like that, they\nare only silly, never bad, so I won t be worried,  and taking up her\nbook, she said, with a studious face,  Shall we go on, Sir? I ll be\nvery good and proper now. \n\n I shall hope so,  was all he said, but he meant more than she\nimagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the\nwords Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.\n\nAs soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully\nreread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer\nsometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see\nhow they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have\non the Professor s mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of\nthese poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.\n\n They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is\nmore sensational than the last. I ve gone blindly on, hurting myself\nand other people, for the sake of money. I know it s so, for I can t\nread this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it,\nand what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of\nthem? \n\nJo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her\nstove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.\n\n Yes, that s the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I d better\nburn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves\nup with my gunpowder,  she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura\nwhisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.\n\nBut when nothing remained of all her three month s work except a heap\nof ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the\nfloor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.\n\n I think I haven t done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my\ntime,  she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently,  I almost\nwish I hadn t any conscience, it s so inconvenient. If I didn t care\nabout doing right, and didn t feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I\nshould get on capitally. I can t help wishing sometimes, that Mother\nand Father hadn t been so particular about such things. \n\nAh, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that  Father and Mother were\nparticular , and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians\nto hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to\nimpatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build\ncharacter upon in womanhood.\n\nJo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not\npay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as\nis the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs.\nSherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale\nwhich might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so\nintensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning,\nfor her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new\nstyle as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous\ncostume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to several\nmarkets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with\nMr. Dashwood that morals didn t sell.\n\nThen she tried a child s story, which she could easily have disposed of\nif she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The\nonly person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try\njuvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to\nconvert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked\nto write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty\nboys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did\nnot go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did\ngo as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to\nescorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons\non their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo\ncorked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility...\n\n I don t know anything. I ll wait until I do before I try again, and\nmeantime,  sweep mud in the street  if I can t do better, that s\nhonest, at least.  Which decision proved that her second tumble down\nthe beanstalk had done her some good.\n\nWhile these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had\nbeen as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked\nserious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did\nit so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would\naccept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was\nsatisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she\nhad given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the\nsecond finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her\nevenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and\nstudied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on\noccupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.\n\nHe helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was\nhappy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons\nbesides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her\nown life.\n\nIt was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs.\nKirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children\nwere inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer s hair stuck straight up all over his\nhead, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.\n\n Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in,  he said,\nwhen she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner,\nwhile she held a little levee on that last evening.\n\nShe was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when\nhis turn came, she said warmly,  Now, Sir, you won t forget to come and\nsee us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I ll never forgive you if\nyou do, for I want them all to know my friend. \n\n Do you? Shall I come?  he asked, looking down at her with an eager\nexpression which she did not see.\n\n Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you d enjoy\ncommencement as something new. \n\n That is your best friend, of whom you speak?  he said in an altered\ntone.\n\n Yes, my boy Teddy. I m very proud of him and should like you to see\nhim. \n\nJo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure\nin the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr.\nBhaer s face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more\nthan a  best friend , and simply because she particularly wished not to\nlook as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush,\nand the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been\nfor Tina on her knee. She didn t know what would have become of her.\nFortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her\nface an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and\nhis own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual\nexpression, as he said cordially...\n\n I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much\nsuccess, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!  And with that, he\nshook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.\n\nBut after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the\ntired look on his face and the  heimweh , or homesickness, lying heavy\nat his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little\nchild in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head\non his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search\nof something that he could not find.\n\n It is not for me, I must not hope it now,  he said to himself, with a\nsigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the\nlonging that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled\nheads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened\nhis Plato.\n\nHe did his best and did it manfully, but I don t think he found that a\npair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very\nsatisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.\n\nEarly as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and\nthanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory\nof a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her\ncompany, and best of all, the happy thought,  Well, the winter s gone,\nand I ve written no books, earned no fortune, but I ve made a friend\nworth having and I ll try to keep him all my life. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE\nHEARTACHE\n\n\nWhatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose\nthat year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with\nthe grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his\nfriends said. They were all there, his grandfather oh, so proud Mr. and\nMrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with\nthe sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail\nto win from the world by any after-triumphs.\n\n I ve got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early\ntomorrow. You ll come and meet me as usual, girls?  Laurie said, as he\nput the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over.\nHe said  girls , but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up\nthe old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid,\nsuccessful boy anything, and answered warmly...\n\n I ll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing  Hail\nthe conquering hero comes  on a jew s-harp. \n\nLaurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic,\n Oh, deary me! I know he ll say something, and then what shall I do? \n\nEvening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and\nhaving decided that she wouldn t be vain enough to think people were\ngoing to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her\nanswer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy\nwouldn t do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at\nMeg s, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still\nfurther fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart\nfigure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about\nand run away.\n\n Where s the jew s-harp, Jo?  cried Laurie, as soon as he was within\nspeaking distance.\n\n I forgot it.  And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not\nbe called lover-like.\n\nShe always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not,\nand he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly\nabout all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road\ninto the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he\nwalked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now\nand then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one\nof the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily,\n Now you must have a good long holiday! \n\n I intend to. \n\nSomething in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him\nlooking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded\nmoment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring,  No,\nTeddy. Please don t! \n\n I will, and you must hear me. It s no use, Jo, we ve got to have it\nout, and the sooner the better for both of us,  he answered, getting\nflushed and excited all at once.\n\n Say what you like then. I ll listen,  said Jo, with a desperate sort\nof patience.\n\nLaurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to  have it\nout , if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with\ncharacteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now\nand then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady...\n\n I ve loved you ever since I ve known you, Jo, couldn t help it, you ve\nbeen so good to me. I ve tried to show it, but you wouldn t let me. Now\nI m going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can t go on so\nany longer. \n\n I wanted to save you this. I thought you d understand...  began Jo,\nfinding it a great deal harder than she expected.\n\n I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they\nmean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits\njust for the fun of it,  returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an\nundeniable fact.\n\n I don t. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to\nkeep you from it if I could. \n\n I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all\nthe more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and\neverything you didn t like, and waited and never complained, for I\nhoped you d love me, though I m not half good enough...  Here there was\na choke that couldn t be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while\nhe cleared his  confounded throat .\n\n You, you are, you re a great deal too good for me, and I m so grateful\nto you, and so proud and fond of you, I don t know why I can t love you\nas you want me to. I ve tried, but I can t change the feeling, and it\nwould be a lie to say I do when I don t. \n\n Really, truly, Jo? \n\nHe stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with\na look that she did not soon forget.\n\n Really, truly, dear. \n\nThey were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words\nfell reluctantly from Jo s lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as\nif to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him.\nSo he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still\nthat Jo was frightened.\n\n Oh, Teddy, I m sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it\nwould do any good! I wish you wouldn t take it so hard, I can t help\nit. You know it s impossible for people to make themselves love other\npeople if they don t,  cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she\nsoftly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted\nher so long ago.\n\n They do sometimes,  said a muffled voice from the post.  I don t\nbelieve it s the right sort of love, and I d rather not try it,  was\nthe decided answer.\n\nThere was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow\nby the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said\nvery soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile,  Laurie, I want\nto tell you something. \n\nHe started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in\na fierce tone,  Don t tell me that, Jo, I can t bear it now! \n\n Tell what?  she asked, wondering at his violence.\n\n That you love that old man. \n\n What old man?  demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.\n\n That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you\nlove him, I know I shall do something desperate;  and he looked as if\nhe would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark\nin his eyes.\n\nJo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she\ntoo, was getting excited with all this,  Don t swear, Teddy! He isn t\nold, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I ve got,\nnext to you. Pray, don t fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I\nknow I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven t the least\nidea of loving him or anybody else. \n\n But you will after a while, and then what will become of me? \n\n You ll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this\ntrouble. \n\n I can t love anyone else, and I ll never forget you, Jo, Never!\nNever!  with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.\n\n What shall I do with him?  sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more\nunmanagable than she expected.  You haven t heard what I wanted to tell\nyou. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you\nhappy,  she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which\nproved that she knew nothing about love.\n\nSeeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on\nthe grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile,\nand looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was\nnot conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo s part, for how\ncould she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes\nfull of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or\ntwo her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his\nhead away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed\nto grow for her sake how touching that was, to be sure!  I agree with\nMother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick\ntempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we\nwere so foolish as to...  Jo paused a little over the last word, but\nLaurie uttered it with a rapturous expression.\n\n Marry no we shouldn t! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect\nsaint, for you could make me anything you like. \n\n No, I can t. I ve tried and failed, and I won t risk our happiness by\nsuch a serious experiment. We don t agree and we never shall, so we ll\nbe good friends all our lives, but we won t go and do anything rash. \n\n Yes, we will if we get the chance,  muttered Laurie rebelliously.\n\n Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,  implored\nJo, almost at her wit s end.\n\n I won t be reasonable. I don t want to take what you call  a sensible\nview . It won t help me, and it only makes it harder. I don t believe\nyou ve got any heart. \n\n I wish I hadn t. \n\nThere was a little quiver in Jo s voice, and thinking it a good omen,\nLaurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he\nsaid, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously\nwheedlesome before,  Don t disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it.\nGrandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can t get\non without you. Say you will, and let s be happy. Do, do! \n\nNot until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength\nof mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided\nthat she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do,\nbut she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.\n\n I can t say  yes  truly, so I won t say it at all. You ll see that I m\nright, by-and-by, and thank me for it...  she began solemnly.\n\n I ll be hanged if I do!  and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning\nwith indignation at the very idea.\n\n Yes, you will!  persisted Jo.  You ll get over this after a while, and\nfind some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine\nmistress for your fine house. I shouldn t. I m homely and awkward and\nodd and old, and you d be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel we can t\nhelp it even now, you see and I shouldn t like elegant society and you\nwould, and you d hate my scribbling, and I couldn t get on without it,\nand we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn t done it, and everything\nwould be horrid! \n\n Anything more?  asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to\nthis prophetic burst.\n\n Nothing more, except that I don t believe I shall ever marry. I m\nhappy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it\nup for any mortal man. \n\n I know better!  broke in Laurie.  You think so now, but there ll come\na time when you will care for somebody, and you ll love him\ntremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it s your way,\nand I shall have to stand by and see it,  and the despairing lover cast\nhis hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical,\nif his face had not been so tragic.\n\n Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love\nhim in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!  cried Jo,\nlosing patience with poor Teddy.  I ve done my best, but you won t be\nreasonable, and it s selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can t\ngive. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but\nI ll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both\nof us so now! \n\nThat speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he\ndid not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away,\nsaying in a desperate sort of tone,  You ll be sorry some day, Jo. \n\n Oh, where are you going?  she cried, for his face frightened her.\n\n To the devil!  was the consoling answer.\n\nFor a minute Jo s heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank\ntoward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a\nyoung man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort\nwho are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a\nmelodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and\ncoat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time\nup the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and\nunclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip\nthe trouble which he carried in his heart.\n\n That will do him good, and he ll come home in such a tender, penitent\nstate of mind, that I shan t dare to see him,  she said, adding, as she\nwent slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing,\nand buried it under the leaves.  Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence\nto be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he d love Beth, perhaps he may\nin time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How\ncan girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it s dreadful. \n\nBeing sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went\nstraight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then\nbroke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind\nold gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He\nfound it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie,\nand hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo\nthat love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to\ncarry his boy out of harm s way, for Young Impetuosity s parting words\nto Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.\n\nWhen Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather\nmet him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very\nsuccessfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the\ntwilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the\nold man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to\nlisten to praises of the last year s success, which to him now seemed\nlike love s labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to\nhis piano and began to play. The windows were open, and Jo, walking in\nthe garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister,\nfor he played the  _Sonata Pathetique_ , and played it as he never did\nbefore.\n\n That s very fine, I dare say, but it s sad enough to make one cry.\nGive us something gayer, lad,  said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart\nwas full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how.\n\nLaurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several\nminutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull\nMrs. March s voice had not been heard calling,  Jo, dear, come in. I\nwant you. \n\nJust what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he\nlistened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and\nthe musician sat silent in the dark.\n\n I can t stand this,  muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his\nway to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders,\nand said, as gently as a woman,  I know, my boy, I know. \n\nNo answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply,  Who told you? \n\n Jo herself. \n\n Then there s an end of it!  And he shook off his grandfather s hands\nwith an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his\nman s pride could not bear a man s pity.\n\n Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of\nit,  returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness.  You won t care to\nstay at home now, perhaps? \n\n I don t intend to run away from a girl. Jo can t prevent my seeing\nher, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,  interrupted Laurie\nin a defiant tone.\n\n Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I m disappointed, but the\ngirl can t help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away\nfor a time. Where will you go? \n\n Anywhere. I don t care what becomes of me,  and Laurie got up with a\nreckless laugh that grated on his grandfather s ear.\n\n Take it like a man, and don t do anything rash, for God s sake. Why\nnot go abroad, as you planned, and forget it? \n\n I can t. \n\n But you ve been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got\nthrough college. \n\n Ah, but I didn t mean to go alone!  and Laurie walked fast through the\nroom with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.\n\n I don t ask you to go alone. There s someone ready and glad to go with\nyou, anywhere in the world. \n\n Who, Sir?  stopping to listen.\n\n Myself. \n\nLaurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying\nhuskily,  I m a selfish brute, but you know Grandfather \n\n Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I ve been through it all before,\nonce in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy,\njust sit quietly down and hear my plan. It s all settled, and can be\ncarried out at once,  said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man,\nas if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before\nhim.\n\n Well, sir, what is it?  and Laurie sat down, without a sign of\ninterest in face or voice.\n\n There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you\nshould attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here\nwill get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost\neverything, I m merely holding on until you take my place, and can be\noff at any time. \n\n But you hate traveling, Sir. I can t ask it of you at your age,  began\nLaurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go\nalone, if he went at all.\n\nThe old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to\nprevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him\nthat it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling\na natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave\nbehind him, he said stoutly,  Bless your soul, I m not superannuated\nyet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won t\nsuffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a\nchair. \n\nA restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy,\nor that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily,  I\ndon t mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you d feel\nhappier than if I was left behind. I don t intend to gad about with\nyou, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in\nmy own way. I ve friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit\nthem. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you\nwill, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your\nheart s content. \n\nNow, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the\nworld a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the\nold gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken\nheart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly\nappeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a\nspiritless tone,  Just as you like, Sir. It doesn t matter where I go\nor what I do. \n\n It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I\ntrust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie. \n\n Anything you like, Sir. \n\n Good,  thought the old gentleman.  You don t care now, but there ll\ncome a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I m\nmuch mistaken. \n\nBeing an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was\nhot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel,\nthey were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore\nhimself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody,\nirritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress\nand devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided\nJo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a\ntragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a\nheavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of\nhis unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to\nattempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a\nrelief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very\nuncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the  poor, dear fellow was\ngoing away to forget his trouble, and come home happy . Of course, he\nsmiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad\nsuperiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was\nunalterable.\n\nWhen the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain\ninconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This\ngaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did\nfor his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with\na whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going\nvery fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the\nafflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a\nminute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look\nround, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above\nhim, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal\neloquent and pathetic.\n\n Oh, Jo, can t you? \n\n Teddy, dear, I wish I could! \n\nThat was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself\nup, said,  It s all right, never mind,  and went away without another\nword. Ah, but it wasn t all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly\nhead lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she\nhad stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look\nbehind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SIX\nBETH S SECRET\n\n\nWhen Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in\nBeth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too\ngradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by\nabsence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo s heart as she\nsaw her sister s face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in\nthe autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if\nthe mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining\nthrough the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw\nand felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first\nimpression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one\nappeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo\nfor a time forgot her fear.\n\nBut when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety\nreturned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven,\nbut when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had\nthanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home.\nAnother little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as\nGrandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth\ndown to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and\nlet the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks.\n\nIt was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people\nthere, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another.\nBeth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care\nfor anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and\nwent, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about\nthem, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the\nfeeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long\nseparation was not far away.\n\nThey did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves\nand those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is\nvery hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her\nheart and Beth s, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there\nseemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to\nspeak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not\nseem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows\ngrew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home,\nbelieving that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She\nwondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and\nwhat thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when\nshe lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo s lap, while the winds\nblew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet.\n\nOne day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and\nputting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to\nsee signs of hope in the faint color on Beth s cheeks. But she could\nnot find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the\nhands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had\nbeen collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth\nwas slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened\ntheir hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her\neyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking\nup at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say,\n Jo, dear, I m glad you know it. I ve tried to tell you, but I\ncouldn t. \n\nThere was no answer except her sister s cheek against her own, not even\ntears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker\nthen, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about\nher and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.\n\n I ve known it for a good while, dear, and now I m used to it, it isn t\nhard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and don t be troubled\nabout me, because it s best, indeed it is. \n\n Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel\nit then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?  asked Jo, refusing\nto see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no\npart in Beth s trouble.\n\n Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn t like to own it. I tried to\nthink it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But\nwhen I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was\nhard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,\nJo. \n\n Oh, Beth, and you didn t tell me, didn t let me comfort and help you?\nHow could you shut me out, bear it all alone? \n\nJo s voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of\nthe solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say\ngoodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.\n\n Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn t sure, no one\nsaid anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish\nto frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away,\nand you so happy with Laurie at least I thought so then. \n\n And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I\ncouldn t,  cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.\n\nBeth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,\nand added softly,  Then you didn t, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and\nimagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while. \n\n Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?  asked Beth, as\ninnocently as a child.  I do love him dearly. He is so good to me, how\ncan I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I\nhope he truly will be, sometime. \n\n Not through me,  said Jo decidedly.  Amy is left for him, and they\nwould suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I\ndon t care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well. \n\n I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel\nmore sure that I shall never gain it back. It s like the tide, Jo, when\nit turns, it goes slowly, but it can t be stopped. \n\n It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too\nyoung, Beth. I can t let you go. I ll work and pray and fight against\nit. I ll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it can t\nbe too late. God won t be so cruel as to take you from me,  cried poor\nJo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than\nBeth s.\n\nSimple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows\nitself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than\nhomilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the\nfaith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and\ncheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no\nquestions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of\nus all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and\nstrengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did\nnot rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her\npassionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love,\nfrom which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He\ndraws us closer to Himself. She could not say,  I m glad to go,  for\nlife was very sweet for her. She could only sob out,  I try to be\nwilling,  while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this\ngreat sorrow broke over them together.\n\nBy and by Beth said, with recovered serenity,  You ll tell them this\nwhen we go home? \n\n I think they will see it without words,  sighed Jo, for now it seemed\nto her that Beth changed every day.\n\n Perhaps not. I ve heard that the people who love best are often\nblindest to such things. If they don t see it, you will tell them for\nme. I don t want any secrets, and it s kinder to prepare them. Meg has\nJohn and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and\nMother, won t you Jo? \n\n If I can. But, Beth, I don t give up yet. I m going to believe that it\nis a sick fancy, and not let you think it s true.  said Jo, trying to\nspeak cheerfully.\n\nBeth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,  I don t\nknow how to express myself, and shouldn t try to anyone but you,\nbecause I can t speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I\nhave a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I m not\nlike the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I d do when I\ngrew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn t\nseem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about\nat home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and\nthe hard part now is the leaving you all. I m not afraid, but it seems\nas if I should be homesick for you even in heaven. \n\nJo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the\nsigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew\nby, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it\ntill it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little\ngray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach  peeping  softly to\nitself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth,\nand looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone,\ndressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt\ncomforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and\nremind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.\n\n Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than\nthe gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy,\nconfiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and\nMother said they reminded her of me busy, quaker-colored creatures,\nalways near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song\nof theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and\nthe wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the\nturtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up\namong the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear\nlittle girl! She s so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and\nno matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I\nshall see her again, but she seems so far away. \n\n She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to\nsee and enjoy her. I m going to have you well and rosy by that time, \nbegan Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change\nwas the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought\naloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.\n\n Jo, dear, don t hope any more. It won t do any good. I m sure of that.\nWe won t be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We ll\nhave happy times, for I don t suffer much, and I think the tide will go\nout easily, if you help me. \n\nJo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss,\nshe dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.\n\nShe was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for\nFather and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from\nseeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying\nhow glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she\nwould be spared the hard task of telling Beth s secret. Her father\nstood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came\nin, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went\nto comfort her without a word.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN\nNEW IMPRESSIONS\n\n\nAt three o clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice\nmay be seen on the Promenade des Anglais a charming place, for the wide\nwalk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on\none side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels\nand villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many\nnations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and\non a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival.\nHaughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly\nRussians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or\nsaunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest\ncelebrity who has arrived Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the\nQueen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the\ncompany and attract as much attention, especially the low basket\nbarouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing\nponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the\ndiminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind.\n\nAlong this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with\nhis hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.\nHe looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the\nindependent air of an American a combination which caused sundry pairs\nof feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in\nblack velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange\nflowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy\nhim his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the\nyoung man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at\nsome blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade\nand stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and\nlisten to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach\ntoward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies  feet made him look up, as\none of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came\nrapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in\nblue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his\nhat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.\n\n Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you d never come!  cried Amy,\ndropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great\nscandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter s steps,\nlest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these\n mad English .\n\n I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,\nand here I am. \n\n How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying? \n\n Very well last night at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you\nwere out. \n\n I have so much to say, I don t know where to begin! Get in and we can\ntalk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company.\nFlo s saving up for tonight. \n\n What happens then, a ball? \n\n A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and\nthey give it in honor of the day. You ll go with us, of course? Aunt\nwill be charmed. \n\n Thank you. Where now?  asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his\narms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her\nparasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies  backs afforded her\ninfinite satisfaction.\n\n I m going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill.\nThe view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever\nbeen there? \n\n Often, years ago, but I don t mind having a look at it. \n\n Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your\ngrandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin. \n\n Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has\nsettled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse\nhim, so I go and come, and we get on capitally. \n\n That s a sociable arrangement,  said Amy, missing something in\nLaurie s manner, though she couldn t tell what.\n\n Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each\nsuit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he\nenjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see\nme when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn t it?  he\nadded, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the\nPlace Napoleon in the old city.\n\n The dirt is picturesque, so I don t mind. The river and the hills are\ndelicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my\ndelight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It s\ngoing to the Church of St. John. \n\nWhile Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their\ncanopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some\nbrotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt\na new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could\nnot find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside\nher. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but\nnow that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired\nand spiritless not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than\na year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn t\nunderstand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her\nhead and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the\narches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.\n\n Que pensez-vous?  she said, airing her French, which had improved in\nquantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.\n\n That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is\ncharming,  replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an\nadmiring look.\n\nShe blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy\nher like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he\npromenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was\n altogether jolly , with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the\nhead. She didn t like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded\nindifferent in spite of the look.\n\n If that s the way he s going to grow up, I wish he d stay a boy,  she\nthought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying\nmeantime to seem quite easy and gay.\n\nAt Avigdor s she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins\nto Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road\nbetween green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June.\n\n Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home,\nbut they all say  stay . So I do, for I shall never have another chance\nlike this,  said Amy, looking sober over one page.\n\n I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is\na great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and\nenjoying so much, my dear. \n\nHe drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said\nthat, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy s heart was lightened,\nfor the look, the act, the brotherly  my dear , seemed to assure her\nthat if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.\nPresently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her\nscribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing\nfrom her mouth the words,  Genius burns! .\n\nLaurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket  to keep it from\nblowing away , and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read\nhim.\n\n This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the\nmorning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night,  said\nAmy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of\nsplendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed.\nWhile Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs\nto the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him,\nwith a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had\nwrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and\napprove, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and\nmanner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of\nthat indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call\nelegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in\nboth carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of\nthe world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed\nitself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness\nwas unspoiled by foreign polish.\n\nLaurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,\nbut he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a\npretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine,\nwhich brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her\ncheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure\nin the pleasant scene.\n\nAs they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved\nher hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing\nhere and there,  Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the\nfishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa\nFranca, Schubert s Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far\nout to sea which they say is Corsica? \n\n I remember. It s not much changed,  he answered without enthusiasm.\n\n What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!  said Amy,\nfeeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.\n\n Yes,  was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the\nisland which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting\nin his sight.\n\n Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what\nyou have been doing with yourself all this while,  said Amy, seating\nherself, ready for a good talk.\n\nBut she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her\nquestions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the\nContinent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove\nhome again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left\nthem, promising to return in the evening.\n\nIt must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night.\nTime and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had\nseen her old friend in a new light, not as  our boy , but as a handsome\nand agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to\nfind favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of\nthem with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty\nwoman.\n\nTarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them\non such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple\ndress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh\nflowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were\nboth inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist\nsometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique\ncoiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear\nheart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon\nsuch in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep\nour hearts merry with their artless vanities.\n\n I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home,  said\nAmy to herself, as she put on Flo s old white silk ball dress, and\ncovered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white\nshoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair\nshe had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and\ncurls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.\n\n It s not the fashion, but it s becoming, and I can t afford to make a\nfright of myself,  she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or\nbraid, as the latest style commanded.\n\nHaving no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped\nher fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white\nshoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she\nsurveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and\nchasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.\n\n My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the\nreal lace on Aunt s mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only\nhad a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,  she said,\nsurveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.\n\nIn spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as\nshe glided away. She seldom ran it did not suit her style, she thought,\nfor being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the\nsportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while\nwaiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier,\nwhich had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better of it,\nand went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the\ngirlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened\nthat she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so\nquietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window,\nwith her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the\nslender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a\nwell-placed statue.\n\n Good evening, Diana!  said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she\nliked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.\n\n Good evening, Apollo!  she answered, smiling back at him, for he too\nlooked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on\nthe arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain\nMisses Davis from the bottom of her heart.\n\n Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you\ndidn t like what Hannah calls a  sot-bookay ,  said Laurie, handing her\na delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily\npassed it in Cardiglia s window.\n\n How kind you are!  she exclaimed gratefully.  If I d known you were\ncoming I d have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty\nas this, I m afraid. \n\n Thank you. It isn t what it should be, but you have improved it,  he\nadded, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.\n\n Please don t. \n\n I thought you liked that sort of thing. \n\n Not from you, it doesn t sound natural, and I like your old bluntness\nbetter. \n\n I m glad of it,  he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her\ngloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to\ndo when they went to parties together at home.\n\nThe company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was\nsuch as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans\nhad invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no\nprejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their\nChristmas ball.\n\nA Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk\nwith a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet s mother in black velvet with\na pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted\nhimself to the ladies, who pronounced him,  a fascinating dear , and a\nGerman Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely\nabout, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild s private\nsecretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the\nworld, as if his master s name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout\nFrenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing,\nand Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little\nfamily of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced\nAmerican girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few\nplain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of\ntraveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas\nof all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they\ndanced with their daughters.\n\nAny young girl can imagine Amy s state of mind when she  took the\nstage  that night, leaning on Laurie s arm. She knew she looked well,\nshe loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a\nballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when\nyoung girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to\nrule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis\ngirls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim\npapa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her\nfriendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it\npermitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who\nher distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the\nband, Amy s color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap\nthe floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know\nit. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than\ndescribed, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone,  Do you care to\ndance? \n\n One usually does at a ball. \n\nHer amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as\nfast as possible.\n\n I meant the first dance. May I have the honor? \n\n I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he\nwill excuse me, as you are an old friend,  said Amy, hoping that the\nname would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be\ntrifled with.\n\n Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support...\n\nA daughter of the gods,\nDevinely tall, and most divinely fair, \n\n\nwas all the satisfaction she got, however.\n\nThe set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy\nwas compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the\nwhile as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned\nher to the  nice little boy , and went to do his duty to Flo, without\nsecuring Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of\nforethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself\ntill supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She\nshowed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled\ninstead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka\nredowa. But his polite regrets didn t impose upon her, and when she\ngalloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with\nan actual expression of relief.\n\nThat was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long\nwhile, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between\nthe dances for a necessary pin or a moment s rest. Her anger had a good\neffect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed\nunusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie s eyes followed her with\npleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit\nand grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very\nnaturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before\nthe evening was half over, had decided that  little Amy was going to\nmake a very charming woman .\n\nIt was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took\npossession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,\nhearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and\nbanged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who\ncouldn t admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark\nwith Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes.\nThe golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a\ndashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train.\nThe serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily\nthrough the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he\ncommitted. But the Emperor s friend covered himself with glory, for he\ndanced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu\npirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that\nstout man was charming to behold, for though he  carried weight , he\ndanced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face\nglowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps\nactually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the\ndrops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French\nPickwick without glasses.\n\nAmy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more\ngraceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time\nto the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as\nindefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished\nher, with assurances that he was  desolated to leave so early , she was\nready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his\npunishment.\n\nIt had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections\nfind a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young\nblood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the\nenchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up\nlook as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring\nher some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile,  Ah, I\nthought that would do him good! \n\n You look like Balzac s  _Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_ ,  he said, as he\nfanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other.\n\n My rouge won t come off.  and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and\nshowed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh\noutright.\n\n What do you call this stuff?  he asked, touching a fold of her dress\nthat had blown over his knee.\n\n Illusion. \n\n Good name for it. It s very pretty new thing, isn t it? \n\n It s as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you\nnever found out that it was pretty till now stupide! \n\n I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you\nsee. \n\n None of that, it is forbidden. I d rather take coffee than compliments\njust now. No, don t lounge, it makes me nervous. \n\nLaurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd\nsort of pleasure in having  little Amy  order him about, for she had\nlost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him,\nas girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any\nsigns of subjection.\n\n Where did you learn all this sort of thing?  he asked with a quizzical\nlook.\n\n As  this sort of thing  is rather a vague expression, would you kindly\nexplain?  returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but\nwickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.\n\n Well the general air, the style, the self-possession,\nthe the illusion you know , laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping\nhimself out of his quandary with the new word.\n\nAmy was gratified, but of course didn t show it, and demurely answered,\n Foreign life polishes one in spite of one s self. I study as well as\nplay, and as for this with a little gesture toward her dress why,\ntulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making\nthe most of my poor little things. \n\nAmy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn t in good\ntaste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both\nadmiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of\nopportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.\nAmy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up\nher book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of\nthe evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought\nthis agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions\nwhich both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT\nON THE SHELF\n\n\nIn France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married,\nwhen  Vive la liberte!  becomes their motto. In America, as everyone\nknows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy\ntheir freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually\nabdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion\nalmost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet.\nWhether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as\nsoon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim,\nas did a very pretty woman the other day,  I m as handsome as ever, but\nno one takes any notice of me because I m married. \n\nNot being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience\nthis affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little\nworld primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired\nand beloved than ever.\n\nAs she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very\nstrong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter\nexclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded\nover them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the\ntender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the\nkitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the\nwifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored\nhis babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time,\nsupposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored.\nBut three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked\nworn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the\nhouse was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life  aisy , kept\nhim on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered\nby small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at\nnight, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a  Hush! They\nare just asleep after worrying all day.  If he proposed a little\namusement at home,  No, it would disturb the babies.  If he hinted at a\nlecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a\ndecided Leave my children for pleasure, never!  His sleep was broken\nby infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to\nand fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the\nfrequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped,\nif a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his\npaper of an evening, Demi s colic got into the shipping list and\nDaisy s fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only\ninterested in domestic news.\n\nThe poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of\nhis wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual  hushing  made\nhim feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred\nprecincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and\nwhen no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles\ndo tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone\nto housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over\nfor an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and\nhis own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott\nwas a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she\nperformed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright\nand attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay\ngossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.\n\nJohn would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so\nlonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and\nenjoyed his neighbor s society.\n\nMeg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a\nrelief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in\nthe parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But\nby-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep\nat proper hours, leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John,\nand find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite\nin his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the\nfender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because\nhe did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely\nforgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was\nnervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable\nframe of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when\ndomestic cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of\ncheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women, the\nteapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle.\n\n Yes,  she would say, looking in the glass,  I m getting old and ugly.\nJohn doesn t find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded\nwife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances.\nWell, the babies love me, they don t care if I am thin and pale and\nhaven t time to crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day John\nwill see what I ve gladly sacrificed for them, won t he, my precious? \n\nTo which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a\ncrow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which\nsoothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as\npolitics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss\ninteresting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him.\nNot a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one\nday, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg s drooping\nspirits had not escaped her observation.\n\n I wouldn t tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really do need\nadvice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well be widowed, \nreplied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy s bib with an injured\nair.\n\n Goes on how, my dear?  asked her mother anxiously.\n\n He s away all day, and at night when I want to see him, he is\ncontinually going over to the Scotts . It isn t fair that I should have\nthe hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even\nthe best of them. \n\n So are women. Don t blame John till you see where you are wrong\nyourself. \n\n But it can t be right for him to neglect me. \n\n Don t you neglect him? \n\n Why, Mother, I thought you d take my part! \n\n So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours,\nMeg. \n\n I don t see how. \n\n Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you\nmade it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only\nleisure time? \n\n No, but I can t do it now, with two babies to tend. \n\n I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite\nfreely, and will you remember that it s Mother who blames as well as\nMother who sympathizes? \n\n Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel\nas if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me\nfor everything. \n\nMeg drew her low chair beside her mother s, and with a little\ninterruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly\ntogether, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than\never.\n\n You have only made the mistake that most young wives make forgotten\nyour duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very\nnatural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be\nremedied before you take to different ways, for children should draw\nyou nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and\nJohn had nothing to do but support them. I ve seen it for some weeks,\nbut have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time. \n\n I m afraid it won t. If I ask him to stay, he ll think I m jealous,\nand I wouldn t insult him by such an idea. He doesn t see that I want\nhim, and I don t know how to tell him without words. \n\n Make it so pleasant he won t want to go away. My dear, he s longing\nfor his little home, but it isn t home without you, and you are always\nin the nursery. \n\n Oughtn t I to be there? \n\n Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you\nare unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well\nas to the babies. Don t neglect husband for children, don t shut him\nout of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there\nas well as yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has a\npart to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be\nbetter for you all. \n\n You really think so, Mother? \n\n I know it, Meg, for I ve tried it, and I seldom give advice unless\nI ve proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on\njust as you are, feeling as if I didn t do my duty unless I devoted\nmyself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had\nrefused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I\nstruggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I\nnearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about\nyou till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the rescue, quietly\nmanaged everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake,\nand never have been able to get on without him since. That is the\nsecret of our home happiness. He does not let business wean him from\nthe little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let\ndomestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part\nalone in many things, but at home we work together, always. \n\n It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and\nchildren what you have been to yours. Show me how, I ll do anything you\nsay. \n\n You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I d let\nJohn have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs\ntraining, and it s none too soon to begin. Then I d do what I have\noften proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse,\nand you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more\nhousework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John\nwould find his wife again. Go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy,\nfor you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal\nthere is no fair weather. Then I d try to take an interest in whatever\nJohn likes talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help\neach other in that way. Don t shut yourself up in a bandbox because you\nare a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to\ntake your part in the world s work, for it all affects you and yours. \n\n John is so sensible, I m afraid he will think I m stupid if I ask\nquestions about politics and things. \n\n I don t believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom\ncould you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn t\nfind your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott s suppers. \n\n I will. Poor John! I m afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I\nthought I was right, and he never said anything. \n\n He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy.\nThis is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow\napart, and the very time when they ought to be most together, for the\nfirst tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it.\nAnd no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years\nof the little lives given to them to train. Don t let John be a\nstranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and\nhappy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and\nthrough them you will learn to know and love one another as you should.\nNow, dear, good-by. Think over Mother s preachment, act upon it if it\nseems good, and God bless you all. \n\nMeg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the\nfirst attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course\nthe children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they\nfound out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted.\nMamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily\nsubjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt\nat paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a\ntrifle of his sire s firmness of character, we won t call it obstinacy,\nand when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything, all the\nking s horses and all the king s men could not change that pertinacious\nlittle mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer\nhis prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too soon to learn\nobedience. So Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook to\n wrastle  with  Parpar , he always got the worst of it, yet like the\nEnglishman, baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the\nfather whose grave  No, no,  was more impressive than all Mamma s love\npats.\n\nA few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social\nevening with John, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in\norder, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early,\nthat nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately\nDemi s most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that\nnight he decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told\nstories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all\nin vain, the big eyes wouldn t shut, and long after Daisy had gone to\nbyelow, like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was, naughty\nDemi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake\nexpression of countenance.\n\n Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives\npoor Papa his tea?  asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the\nwell-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room.\n\n Me has tea!  said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.\n\n No, but I ll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you ll go\nbye-bye like Daisy. Will you, lovey? \n\n Iss!  and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the\ndesired day.\n\nTaking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran\ndown to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow\nin her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once and\nsaid with pleased surprise,  Why, little mother, how gay we are\ntonight. Do you expect company? \n\n Only you, dear. \n\n Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything? \n\n No, I m tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always\nmake yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why\nshouldn t I when I have the time? \n\n I do it out of respect for you, my dear,  said old-fashioned John.\n\n Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke,  laughed Meg, looking young and pretty\nagain, as she nodded to him over the teapot.\n\n Well, it s altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes\nright. I drink your health, dear.  and John sipped his tea with an air\nof reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as\nhe put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little\nvoice was heard, saying impatiently...\n\n Opy doy. Me s tummin! \n\n It s that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he\nis, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas, \nsaid Meg, answering the call.\n\n Mornin  now,  announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered, with his\nlong nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing\ngayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the  cakies  with loving\nglances.\n\n No, it isn t morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor\nMamma. Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it. \n\n Me loves Parpar,  said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal\nknee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to\nMeg...\n\n If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do\nit, or he will never learn to mind you. \n\n Yes, of course. Come, Demi,  and Meg led her son away, feeling a\nstrong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her,\nlaboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as\nsoon as they reached the nursery.\n\nNor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him\na lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more\npromenades till morning.\n\n Iss!  said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and\nregarding his first attempt as eminently successful.\n\nMeg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when\nthe little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies\nby boldly demanding,  More sudar, Marmar. \n\n Now this won t do,  said John, hardening his heart against the\nengaging little sinner.  We shall never know any peace till that child\nlearns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long\nenough. Give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put\nhim in his bed and leave him, Meg. \n\n He won t stay there, he never does unless I sit by him. \n\n I ll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as Mamma\nbids you. \n\n S ant!  replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted\n cakie , and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.\n\n You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don t go\nyourself. \n\n Go  way, me don t love Parpar.  and Demi retired to his mother s\nskirts for protection.\n\nBut even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to\nthe enemy, with a  Be gentle with him, John,  which struck the culprit\nwith dismay, for when Mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at\nhand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a\nstrong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his\nwrath, but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the\nway upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out\non the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up\nby the tail of his little toga and put back again, which lively\nperformance was kept up till the young man s strength gave out, when he\ndevoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise\nusually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which is\npopularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no\nstory, even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire\nenlivened the  big dark  which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than\nfear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally\nfor  Marmar , as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his\ntender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail\nwhich succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg s heart, and she ran up\nto say beseechingly...\n\n Let me stay with him, he ll be good now, John. \n\n No, my dear. I ve told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and he\nmust, if I stay here all night. \n\n But he ll cry himself sick,  pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for\ndeserting her boy.\n\n No, he won t, he s so tired he will soon drop off and then the matter\nis settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don t\ninterfere, I ll manage him. \n\n He s my child, and I can t have his spirit broken by harshness. \n\n He s my child, and I won t have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Go\ndown, my dear, and leave the boy to me. \n\nWhen John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never\nregretted her docility.\n\n Please let me kiss him once, John? \n\n Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest, for\nshe is very tired with taking care of you all day. \n\nMeg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory, for after it\nwas given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom\nof the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.\n\n Poor little man, he s worn out with sleep and crying. I ll cover him\nup, and then go and set Meg s heart at rest,  thought John, creeping to\nthe bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.\n\nBut he wasn t, for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi s eyes\nopened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying\nwith a penitent hiccough,  Me s dood, now. \n\nSitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which\nfollowed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible\naccidents, she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi lay\nfast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued\nbunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father s arm and holding his\nfather s finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy,\nand had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby. So held, John had waited\nwith a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold, and\nwhile waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son\nthan with his whole day s work.\n\nAs Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to\nherself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone,  I\nnever need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies. He does\nknow how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting\ntoo much for me. \n\nWhen John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful\nwife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a\nbonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the\nelection, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a\nrevolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions,\nknowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn t\nkeep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon\nappear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then\nexplained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply\ninterested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from\nwandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In\nher secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as\nmathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling\neach other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and\nwhen John paused, shook her head and said with what she thought\ndiplomatic ambiguity,  Well, I really don t see what we are coming to. \n\nJohn laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty\nlittle preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it\nwith the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.\n\n She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I ll try and like\nmillinery for hers, that s only fair,  thought John the Just, adding\naloud,  That s very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap? \n\n My dear man, it s a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater\nbonnet. \n\n I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of\nthe flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on? \n\n These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so, \nand Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an\nair of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.\n\n It s a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks\nyoung and happy again,  and John kissed the smiling face, to the great\ndetriment of the rosebud under the chin.\n\n I m glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new\nconcerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will\nyou, please? \n\n Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You\nhave been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall\nenjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother? \n\n Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous\nand cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and\nless care, so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I m to see to\nthings about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just\nto keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before\nmy time. It s only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your\nsake as much as for mine, because I ve neglected you shamefully lately,\nand I m going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don t\nobject, I hope? \n\nNever mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little\nbonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is\nthat John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which\ngradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all\nParadise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of\nlabor system. The children throve under the paternal rule, for\naccurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom,\nwhile Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of\nwholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential\nconversation with her sensible husband. Home grew homelike again, and\nJohn had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts\ncame to the Brookes  now, and everyone found the little house a\ncheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love. Even\nSallie Moffatt liked to go there.  It is always so quiet and pleasant\nhere, it does me good, Meg,  she used to say, looking about her with\nwistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it\nin her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no\nriotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own,\nwhere there was no place for her.\n\nThis household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had\nfound the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to\nuse it, unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual\nhelpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy.\nThis is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent\nto be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding\nloyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them,\nundaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through\nfair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true\nsense of the good old Saxon word, the  house-band , and learning, as\nMeg learned, that a woman s happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor\nthe art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTY-NINE\nLAZY LAURENCE\n\n\nLaurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He\nwas tired of wandering about alone, and Amy s familiar presence seemed\nto give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a\npart. He rather missed the  petting  he used to receive, and enjoyed a\ntaste of it again, for no attentions, however flattering, from\nstrangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls\nat home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad\nto see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the\nrepresentative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she\nwould confess. They naturally took comfort in each other s society and\nwere much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for at Nice\nno one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while\napparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were\nhalf-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each\nother. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in\nhers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to\nplease, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he\ngave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly\nwomen know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of\nany kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible,\ntrying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word\nbecause one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous,\nand he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have\ntaken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not change the\nopinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue\neyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful\nsurprise.\n\n All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at\nhome and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to\nsketch, will you come?  said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day\nwhen he lounged in as usual, about noon.\n\n Well, yes, but isn t it rather warm for such a long walk?  he answered\nslowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without.\n\n I m going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so\nyou ll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves\nnice,  returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids,\nwhich were a weak point with Laurie.\n\n Then I ll go with pleasure.  and he put out his hand for her\nsketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp...\n\n Don t trouble yourself. It s no exertion to me, but you don t look\nequal to it. \n\nLaurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran\ndownstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took the reins\nhimself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and\nfall asleep on his perch.\n\nThe two never quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was\ntoo lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring\nair. She answered him with a smile, and they went on together in the\nmost amicable manner.\n\nIt was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque\nscenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery,\nwhence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a\nbare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket\nover one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among\nthe rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with\npanniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with a pretty girl in a\ncapaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with\na distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the\nquaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on\nthe bough. Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky\nfoliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones\nfringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the\nMaritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.\n\nValrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer\nroses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust\nthemselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to\npassers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon trees and\nfeathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where\nseats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool\ngrotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every\nfountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to\nsmile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped\nthe cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of\nthe wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean,\nand the white-walled city on its shore.\n\n This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn t it? Did you ever see such\nroses?  asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a\nluxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.\n\n No, nor felt such thorns,  returned Laurie, with his thumb in his\nmouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that\ngrew just beyond his reach.\n\n Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns,  said Amy,\ngathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall\nbehind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he\nstood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in\nthe Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and\nhe was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy,\nwhen imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food for\nromance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny\nred rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones\nlike that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were\nthe sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths,\nand for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself, but\nthe next instant his American common sense got the better of\nsentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard\nsince he came.\n\n It s good advice, you d better take it and save your fingers,  she\nsaid, thinking her speech amused him.\n\n Thank you, I will,  he answered in jest, and a few months later he did\nit in earnest.\n\n Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?  she asked presently,\nas she settled herself on a rustic seat.\n\n Very soon. \n\n You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks. \n\n I dare say, short answers save trouble. \n\n He expects you, and you really ought to go. \n\n Hospitable creature! I know it. \n\n Then why don t you do it? \n\n Natural depravity, I suppose. \n\n Natural indolence, you mean. It s really dreadful!  and Amy looked\nsevere.\n\n Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I\nmight as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it\nbetter, in fact I think it agrees with you excellently,  and Laurie\ncomposed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.\n\nAmy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of\nresignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture  that boy  and in\na minute she began again.\n\n What are you doing just now? \n\n Watching lizards. \n\n No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do? \n\n Smoke a cigarette, if you ll allow me. \n\n How provoking you are! I don t approve of cigars and I will only allow\nit on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a\nfigure. \n\n With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me, full length or\nthree-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a\nrecumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it  Dolce far\nniente . \n\n Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work hard, \nsaid Amy in her most energetic tone.\n\n What delightful enthusiasm!  and he leaned against a tall urn with an\nair of entire satisfaction.\n\n What would Jo say if she saw you now?  asked Amy impatiently, hoping\nto stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister s\nname.\n\n As usual,  Go away, Teddy. I m busy!  He laughed as he spoke, but the\nlaugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the\nutterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed\nyet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them\nbefore, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on\nLaurie s face a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and\nregret. It was gone before she could study it and the listless\nexpression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic\npleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in\nthe sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for\nhe seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie.\n\n You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb,  she\nsaid, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark\nstone.\n\n Wish I was! \n\n That s a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life. You are so\nchanged, I sometimes think  there Amy stopped, with a half-timid,\nhalf-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.\n\nLaurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated\nto express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used\nto say it to her mother,  It s all right, ma am. \n\nThat satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry\nher lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the\ncordial tone in which she said...\n\n I m glad of that! I didn t think you d been a very bad boy, but I\nfancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost\nyour heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into\nsome of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of\na foreign tour. Don t stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the\ngrass here and  let us be friendly , as Jo used to say when we got in\nthe sofa corner and told secrets. \n\nLaurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse\nhimself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy s hat, that lay\nthere.\n\n I m all ready for the secrets.  and he glanced up with a decided\nexpression of interest in his eyes.\n\n I ve none to tell. You may begin. \n\n Haven t one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you d had some\nnews from home.. \n\n You have heard all that has come lately. Don t you hear often? I\nfancied Jo would send you volumes. \n\n She s very busy. I m roving about so, it s impossible to be regular,\nyou know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?  he\nasked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he\nhad been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it.\n\n Never,  she answered, with a despondent but decided air.  Rome took\nall the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, I felt\ntoo insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair. \n\n Why should you, with so much energy and talent? \n\n That s just why, because talent isn t genius, and no amount of energy\ncan make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won t be a\ncommon-place dauber, so I don t intend to try any more. \n\n And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask? \n\n Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get\nthe chance. \n\nIt was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity\nbecomes young people, and Amy s ambition had a good foundation. Laurie\nsmiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose\nwhen a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.\n\n Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy. \n\nAmy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her\ndowncast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely,  Now I m going\nto play brother, and ask questions. May I? \n\n I don t promise to answer. \n\n Your face will, if your tongue won t. You aren t woman of the world\nenough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred\nand you last year, and it s my private opinion that if he had not been\ncalled home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come\nof it, hey? \n\n That s not for me to say,  was Amy s grim reply, but her lips would\nsmile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed\nthat she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.\n\n You are not engaged, I hope?  and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly\nand grave all of a sudden.\n\n No. \n\n But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees,\nwon t you? \n\n Very likely. \n\n Then you are fond of old Fred? \n\n I could be, if I tried. \n\n But you don t intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul,\nwhat unearthly prudence! He s a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I\nfancied you d like. \n\n He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners,  began Amy,\ntrying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of\nherself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.\n\n I understand. Queens of society can t get on without money, so you\nmean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and\nproper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of\nyour mother s girls. \n\n True, nevertheless. \n\nA short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered\ncontrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this\ninstinctively and laid himself down again, with a sense of\ndisappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as\nwell as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her\nresolve to deliver her lecture without delay.\n\n I wish you d do me the favor to rouse yourself a little,  she said\nsharply.\n\n Do it for me, there s a dear girl. \n\n I could, if I tried.  and she looked as if she would like doing it in\nthe most summary style.\n\n Try, then. I give you leave,  returned Laurie, who enjoyed having\nsomeone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.\n\n You d be angry in five minutes. \n\n I m never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire. You are\nas cool and soft as snow. \n\n You don t know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if\napplied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good\nstirring up would prove it. \n\n Stir away, it won t hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said\nwhen his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a\ncarpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees\nwith you. \n\nBeing decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the\napathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and\nbegan.\n\n Flo and I have got a new name for you. It s Lazy Laurence. How do you\nlike it? \n\nShe thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his\nhead, with an imperturbable,  That s not bad. Thank you, ladies. \n\n Do you want to know what I honestly think of you? \n\n Pining to be told. \n\n Well, I despise you. \n\nIf she had even said  I hate you  in a petulant or coquettish tone, he\nwould have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad,\naccent in her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly...\n\n Why, if you please? \n\n Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are\nfaulty, lazy, and miserable. \n\n Strong language, mademoiselle. \n\n If you like it, I ll go on. \n\n Pray do, it s quite interesting. \n\n I thought you d find it so. Selfish people always like to talk about\nthemselves. \n\n Am I selfish?  the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of\nsurprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity.\n\n Yes, very selfish,  continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as\neffective just then as an angry one.  I ll show you how, for I ve\nstudied you while we were frolicking, and I m not at all satisfied with\nyou. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but\nwaste time and money and disappoint your friends. \n\n Isn t a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind? \n\n You don t look as if you d had much. At any rate, you are none the\nbetter for it, as far as I can see. I said when we first met that you\nhad improved. Now I take it all back, for I don t think you half so\nnice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy, you\nlike gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to\nbe petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and\nrespected by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and\nbeauty, ah you like that old Vanity! But it s the truth, so I can t\nhelp saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you\ncan find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man you\nought to be, you are only...  there she stopped, with a look that had\nboth pain and pity in it.\n\n Saint Laurence on a gridiron,  added Laurie, blandly finishing the\nsentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a\nwide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured\nexpression replaced the former indifference.\n\n I supposed you d take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we\ncan make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you\ngood, you laugh at us and won t listen, which proves how much your\nflattery is worth.  Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the\nexasperating martyr at her feet.\n\nIn a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw,\nand Laurie s voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child,  I\nwill be good, oh, I will be good! \n\nBut Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the\noutspread hand with her pencil, said soberly,  Aren t you ashamed of a\nhand like that? It s as soft and white as a woman s, and looks as if it\nnever did anything but wear Jouvin s best gloves and pick flowers for\nladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I m glad to see there are\nno diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave\nyou so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me! \n\n So do I! \n\nThe hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough\nin the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with\na new thought in her mind, but he was lying with his hat half over his\nface, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his\nchest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh,\nand the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to\nhide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a\nminute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in\nAmy s mind, and told her what her sister never had confided to her. She\nremembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the\nshadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the\nwearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome\nhand. Girls are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy\nhad fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the\nalteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and when\nshe spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and\nkind when she chose to make it so.\n\n I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if you weren t\nthe sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you d be very angry with me.\nBut we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn t bear to think they\nshould be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps\nthey would understand the change better than I do. \n\n I think they would,  came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as\ntouching as a broken one.\n\n They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding,\nwhen I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did\nlike that Miss Randal and now I hate her!  said artful Amy, wishing to\nbe sure of her facts this time.\n\n Hang Miss Randal!  and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look\nthat left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.\n\n I beg pardon, I thought...  and there she paused diplomatically.\n\n No, you didn t, you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone but\nJo,  Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face\naway as he spoke.\n\n I did think so, but as they never said anything about it, and you came\naway, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn t be kind to you? Why, I\nwas sure she loved you dearly. \n\n She was kind, but not in the right way, and it s lucky for her she\ndidn t love me, if I m the good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It s\nher fault though, and you may tell her so. \n\nThe hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled\nAmy, for she did not know what balm to apply.\n\n I was wrong, I didn t know. I m very sorry I was so cross, but I can t\nhelp wishing you d bear it better, Teddy, dear. \n\n Don t, that s her name for me!  and Laurie put up his hand with a\nquick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo s half-kind,\nhalf-reproachful tone.  Wait till you ve tried it yourself,  he added\nin a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful.\n\n I d take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn t be loved,  said\nAmy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.\n\nNow, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably well,\nmaking no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live\nit down alone. Amy s lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the\nfirst time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first\nfailure, and shut himself up in moody indifference. He felt as if\nsuddenly shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go to\nsleep again. Presently he sat up and asked slowly,  Do you think Jo\nwould despise me as you do? \n\n Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don t you do\nsomething splendid, and make her love you? \n\n I did my best, but it was no use. \n\n Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have\ndone, for your grandfather s sake. It would have been shameful to fail\nafter spending so much time and money, when everyone knew that you\ncould do well. \n\n I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn t love me,  began Laurie,\nleaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.\n\n No, you didn t, and you ll say so in the end, for it did you good, and\nproved that you could do something if you tried. If you d only set\nabout another task of some sort, you d soon be your hearty, happy self\nagain, and forget your trouble. \n\n That s impossible. \n\n Try it and see. You needn t shrug your shoulders, and think,  Much she\nknows about such things . I don t pretend to be wise, but I am\nobserving, and I see a great deal more than you d imagine. I m\ninterested in other people s experiences and inconsistencies, and\nthough I can t explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit.\nLove Jo all your days, if you choose, but don t let it spoil you, for\nit s wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can t have the\none you want. There, I won t lecture any more, for I know you ll wake\nup and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl. \n\nNeither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring\non his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had\nbeen working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee,\nmerely saying,  How do you like that? \n\nHe looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it\nwas capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless\nface, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the\nlittle wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer s head.\n\n How well you draw!  he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure at\nher skill, adding, with a half-laugh,  Yes, that s me. \n\n As you are. This is as you were.  and Amy laid another sketch beside\nthe one he held.\n\nIt was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it\nwhich atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that\na sudden change swept over the young man s face as he looked. Only a\nrough sketch of Laurie taming a horse. Hat and coat were off, and every\nline of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was\nfull of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood\narching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot\nimpatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for\nthe voice that had mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the rider s\nbreezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly\narrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy that\ncontrasted sharply with the supine grace of the  _Dolce far Niente_ \nsketch. Laurie said nothing but as his eye went from one to the other,\nAmy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and\naccepted the little lesson she had given him. That satisfied her, and\nwithout waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way...\n\n Don t you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all\nlooked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced,\nand I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my\nportfolio the other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you. \n\n Much obliged. You ve improved immensely since then, and I congratulate\nyou. May I venture to suggest in  a honeymoon paradise  that five\no clock is the dinner hour at your hotel? \n\nLaurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow\nand looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures\nshould have an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent\nair, but it was an affectation now, for the rousing had been more\neffacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his\nmanner, and said to herself...\n\n Now, I ve offended him. Well, if it does him good, I m glad, if it\nmakes him hate me, I m sorry, but it s true, and I can t take back a\nword of it. \n\nThey laughed and chatted all the way home, and little Baptiste, up\nbehind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle were in charming\nspirits. But both felt ill at ease. The friendly frankness was\ndisturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their\napparent gaiety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.\n\n Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?  asked Amy, as they parted\nat her aunt s door.\n\n Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle,  and\nLaurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which\nbecame him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say\nquickly and warmly...\n\n No, be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I d\nrather have a hearty English handshake than all the sentimental\nsalutations in France. \n\n Goodbye, dear,  and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked,\nLaurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.\n\nNext morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made\nher smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.\n\nMy Dear Mentor, Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within\nyourself, for  Lazy Laurence  has gone to his grandpa, like the best of\nboys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissful\nhoneymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser. Tell\nhim so, with my congratulations.\n\n\nYours gratefully, Telemachus\n\n\n Good boy! I m glad he s gone,  said Amy, with an approving smile. The\nnext minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding,\nwith an involuntary sigh,  Yes, I am glad, but how I shall miss him. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY\nTHE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW\n\n\nWhen the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable,\nand tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased\naffection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of\ntrouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward\nmaking that last year a happy one.\n\nThe pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was\ngathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano,\nthe little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father s best books\nfound their way there, Mother s easy chair, Jo s desk, Amy s finest\nsketches, and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage,\nto make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum,\nthat he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with\nthe fruit she loved and longed for. Old Hannah never wearied of\nconcocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears\nas she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful\nletters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands\nthat know no winter.\n\nHere, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth,\ntranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet,\nunselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to\nmake it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers\nwere never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for\nthe school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens\nfrom her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small\nmother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through\nforests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner\nof pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of\nlearning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to\nregard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above\nthere, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and\nneeds. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little\nfaces always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the\ndroll little letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.\n\nThe first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look\nround, and say  How beautiful this is!  as they all sat together in her\nsunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and\nsisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from\nthe wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as\napplicable now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a\npaternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn,\ntrying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make\nresignation possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls\nof those who listened, for the father s heart was in the minister s\nreligion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence\nto the words he spoke or read.\n\nIt was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as\npreparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the\nneedle was  so heavy , and put it down forever. Talking wearied her,\nfaces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil\nspirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble\nflesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching\nhearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced\nto see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the\nbitter cry,  Help me, help me!  and to feel that there was no help. A\nsad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with\ndeath, but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion\nover, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck\nof her frail body, Beth s soul grew strong, and though she said little,\nthose about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim\ncalled was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore,\ntrying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed\nthe river.\n\nJo never left her for an hour since Beth had said  I feel stronger when\nyou are here.  She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew\nthe fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom\nasked for anything, and  tried not to be a trouble . All day she\nhaunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being\nchosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and\nhelpful hours to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it\nneeded. Lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could\nnot fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit that can\nforgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the\nhardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts\nundoubtingly.\n\nOften when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book,\nheard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her\nlean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the\ntransparent fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too\ndeep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was\ntrying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the\nlife to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music\nshe loved so well.\n\nSeeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest\nhymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter. For with\neyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest\nsorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister s life uneventful,\nunambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which  smell sweet, and\nblossom in the dust , the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on\nearth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible\nto all.\n\nOne night when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find\nsomething to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as\nhard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite,\nPilgrims s Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo s\nhand. The name caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made\nher sure that tears had fallen on it.\n\n Poor Jo! She s fast asleep, so I won t wake her to ask leave. She\nshows me all her things, and I don t think she ll mind if I look at\nthis , thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug,\nwith the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell\napart.\n\nMY BETH\n\n\nSitting patient in the shadow\nTill the blessed light shall come,\nA serene and saintly presence\nSanctifies our troubled home.\nEarthly joys and hopes and sorrows\nBreak like ripples on the strand\nOf the deep and solemn river\nWhere her willing feet now stand.\n\n\nO my sister, passing from me,\nOut of human care and strife,\nLeave me, as a gift, those virtues\nWhich have beautified your life.\nDear, bequeath me that great patience\nWhich has power to sustain\nA cheerful, uncomplaining spirit\nIn its prison-house of pain.\n\n\nGive me, for I need it sorely,\nOf that courage, wise and sweet,\nWhich has made the path of duty\nGreen beneath your willing feet.\nGive me that unselfish nature,\nThat with charity divine\nCan pardon wrong for love s dear sake \nMeek heart, forgive me mine!\n\n\nThus our parting daily loseth\nSomething of its bitter pain,\nAnd while learning this hard lesson,\nMy great loss becomes my gain.\nFor the touch of grief will render\nMy wild nature more serene,\nGive to life new aspirations,\nA new trust in the unseen.\n\n\nHenceforth, safe across the river,\nI shall see forever more\nA beloved, household spirit\nWaiting for me on the shore.\nHope and faith, born of my sorrow,\nGuardian angels shall become,\nAnd the sister gone before me\nBy their hands shall lead me home.\n\n\nBlurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought\na look of inexpressible comfort to Beth s face, for her one regret had\nbeen that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that\nher life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the\ndespair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands,\nthe charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and\ncrept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.\n\n Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew\nyou wouldn t care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?  she asked, with\nwistful, humble earnestness.\n\n _Oh_, Beth, so much, so much!  and Jo s head went down upon the pillow\nbeside her sister s.\n\n Then I don t feel as if I d wasted my life. I m not so good as you\nmake me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it s too late to\nbegin even to do better, it s such a comfort to know that someone loves\nme so much, and feels as if I d helped them. \n\n More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn t let\nyou go, but I m learning to feel that I don t lose you, that you ll be\nmore to me than ever, and death can t part us, though it seems to. \n\n I know it cannot, and I don t fear it any longer, for I m sure I shall\nbe your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take\nmy place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I m gone.\nThey will turn to you, don t fail them, and if it s hard to work alone,\nremember that I don t forget you, and that you ll be happier in doing\nthat than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is\nthe only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the\nend so easy. \n\n I ll try, Beth.  and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,\npledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of\nother desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the\nimmortality of love.\n\nSo the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth\ngreener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in\ntime to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child,\nclung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother\nguided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up\nto God.\n\nSeldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions,\nor depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many\nparting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply\nas sleep. As Beth had hoped, the  tide went out easily , and in the\ndark hour before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first\nbreath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving\nlook, one little sigh.\n\nWith tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her\nready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with\ngrateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic\npatience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent\njoy that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom\nfull of dread.\n\nWhen morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,\nJo s place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang\nblithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly\nat the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction\nover the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace\nthat those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked\nGod that Beth was well at last.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-ONE\nLEARNING TO FORGET\n\n\nAmy s lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it\ntill long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers,\nthe lords of creation don t take the advice till they have persuaded\nthemselves that it is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon\nit, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of\nit. If it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back\nto his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that\nthe old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him\nwonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the\nyoung gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have\ndragged him back after the scolding he had received. Pride forbid, and\nwhenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by\nrepeating the words that had made the deepest impression I despise\nyou.   Go and do something splendid that will make her love you. \n\nLaurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought\nhimself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a\nman has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries\ntill he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were\nquite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful\nmourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo\nwouldn t love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by\ndoing something which should prove that a girl s  No  had not spoiled\nhis life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy s advice was\nquite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted\naffections were decently interred. That being done, he felt that he was\nready to  hide his stricken heart, and still toil on .\n\nAs Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie\nresolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem\nwhich should harrow up Jo s soul and melt the heart of every hearer.\nTherefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless\nand moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical\nfriends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish\nhimself. But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music,\nor music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that\nthe Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his\nmind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for\noften in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself\nhumming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at\nNice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to\ntragic composition for the time being.\n\nThen he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning,\nbut here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his\nheroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender\nrecollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned\ntraitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would\nonly recall Jo s oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in\nthe most unsentimental aspects beating mats with her head tied up in a\nbandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold\nwater over his passion a la Gummidge and an irresistable laugh spoiled\nthe pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn t be put\ninto the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a  Bless\nthat girl, what a torment she is!  and a clutch at his hair, as became\na distracted composer.\n\nWhen he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to\nimmortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging\nreadiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,\nwas enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his\nmind s eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and\nblue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he\ntook her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might,\nfor he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted\nher, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal\nwoman.\n\nThanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but\ngradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he\nsat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new\nideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled\nstate that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and\nwas conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself.\n It s genius simmering, perhaps. I ll let it simmer, and see what comes\nof it,  he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn t\ngenius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to\nsome purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory\nlife, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and\nbody, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved\nmusic was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart s grand operas,\nsplendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own,\nplayed a few of the best parts, sat staring at the busts of\nMendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then\nsuddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last\nfluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself...\n\n She is right! Talent isn t genius, and you can t make it so. That\nmusic has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I\nwon t be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do? \n\nThat seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had\nto work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible\nopportunity for  going to the devil , as he once forcibly expressed it,\nfor he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially\nfond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow\nhad temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood\nthem pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith\nand confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire\nto be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,\nand say  All s well,  kept him safe and steady.\n\nVery likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe,  I don t believe it, boys\nwill be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not\nexpect miracles.  I dare say you don t, Mrs. Grundy, but it s true\nnevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion\nthat they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by\nrefusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the\nbetter, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must. But\nmothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one,\nand keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and\nshowing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues\nwhich make men manliest in good women s eyes. If it is a feminine\ndelusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the\nbeauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would\nembitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who\nstill love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to\nown it.\n\nLaurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb\nall his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it\ngrew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry\nwith himself, and couldn t understand it, but these hearts of ours are\ncurious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in\nspite of us. Laurie s heart wouldn t ache. The wound persisted in\nhealing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to\nforget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this\nturn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with\nhimself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture\nof disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a\ntremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost\nlove, but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a\ncomfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into\na fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish\npassion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very\ntender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass\naway in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken\nto the end.\n\nAs the word  brotherly  passed through his mind in one of his reveries,\nhe smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before\nhim...\n\n Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn t have one sister he took\nthe other, and was happy. \n\nLaurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next\ninstant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,  No, I won t! I\nhaven t forgotten, I never can. I ll try again, and if that fails, why\nthen... \n\nLeaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to\nJo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was\nthe least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn t she, wouldn t she and\nlet him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did\nnothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of\nimpatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one\npoint, for Jo decidedly couldn t and wouldn t. She was wrapped up in\nBeth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged him\nto be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of his\nheart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to\ntell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring and\nthere was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be\ntime enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not\nlet her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.\n\n So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for\nher, I m afraid,  and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had\nbeen the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks\nbefore.\n\nBut he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his\nbest paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.\nTumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and\nbusiness documents of various kinds were several of Jo s letters, and\nin another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up\nwith one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead\nroses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,\nLaurie gathered up all Jo s letters, smoothed, folded, and put them\nneatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring\nthoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the\nletters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint\nStefan s, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not\noverwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the\nrest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.\n\nThe letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy\nwas homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding\nmanner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and\nfro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold\nhis busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping\nsomebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice,\nbut would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just\nthen she was having little experiences of her own, which made her\nrather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of  our boy .\n\nFred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once\ndecided to answer,  Yes, thank you,  but now she said,  No, thank you, \nkindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her,\nand she found that something more than money and position was needed to\nsatisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes\nand fears. The words,  Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I\nfancied you would ever like,  and Laurie s face when he uttered them,\nkept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in\nlook, if not in words,  I shall marry for money.  It troubled her to\nremember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so\nunwomanly. She didn t want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly\ncreature. She didn t care to be a queen of society now half so much as\nshe did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn t hate her for\nthe dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was\nkinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters\nwere very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did\ncome. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the\npoor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in\nbeing stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love\nhim. It couldn t be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to\nhave such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other\ngirls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a\nbrother.\n\nIf all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they\nwould be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never\nlectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested\nin everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent\nhim two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences,\nand captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few\nbrothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in\ntheir sister s pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when\nshort, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that\nAmy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did\ngrow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for\nsociety, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much\nto show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while\nshe sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or\nabsently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight\ncarved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over\nhis eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a\nballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur\naccording to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether\nsatisfactory.\n\nHer aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding\ndenials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what\nshe liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to\nEgypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he\nsaid to himself, with a venerable air...\n\n I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I ve been\nthrough it all, and I can sympathize. \n\nWith that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his\nduty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy s letter\nluxuriously.\n\nWhile these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But\nthe letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when\nthe next found her the grass was green above her sister. The sad news\nmet her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and\nthey had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the\nItalian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the\nfamily decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was\ntoo late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence\nsoften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at\nhome, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for\nLaurie to come and comfort her.\n\nHe did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both,\nbut he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment\nhe read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow\npedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy\nand sorrow, hope and suspense.\n\nHe knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he\nhurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en\npension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to\ntake a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be\nin the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of\nsitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could\nnot wait even a  flash of time , and in the middle of the speech\ndeparted to find mademoiselle himself.\n\nA pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts\nrustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the\ntower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide,\nlow wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or\nconsole herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here\nthat day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy\neyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did\nnot hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the\narchway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a\nminute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen\nbefore, the tender side of Amy s character. Everything about her mutely\nsuggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black\nribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her\nface, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to\nLaurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only\nornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him,\nthey were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for\ndropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of\nunmistakable love and longing...\n\n Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you d come to me! \n\nI think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood\ntogether quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down\nprotectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and\nsustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only\nwoman in the world who could fill Jo s place and make him happy. He did\nnot tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,\nwere satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.\n\nIn a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears,\nLaurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry\nwell-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As\nhe sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the\nrecollection of her impulsive greeting.\n\n I couldn t help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to\nsee you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was\nbeginning to fear you wouldn t come,  she said, trying in vain to speak\nquite naturally.\n\n I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you\nfor the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and...  He could\nnot get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did\nnot quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy s head down on his\nshoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took\nher hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better\nthan words.\n\n You needn t say anything, this comforts me,  she said softly.  Beth is\nwell and happy, and I mustn t wish her back, but I dread the going\nhome, much as I long to see them all. We won t talk about it now, for\nit makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn t go\nright back, need you? \n\n Not if you want me, dear. \n\n I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of\nthe family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little\nwhile. \n\nAmy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that\nLaurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she\nwanted the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she\nneeded.\n\n Poor little soul, you look as if you d grieved yourself half sick! I m\ngoing to take care of you, so don t cry any more, but come and walk\nabout with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still,  he said,\nin the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied\non her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the\nsunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon\nhis legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon,\na familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully\nfor her alone.\n\nThe quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed\nexpressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but\nthe tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of\ntheir words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked\nand talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which\ngave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell\nwarned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and\nsorrow behind her in the chateau garden.\n\nThe moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl s altered face, she was illuminated\nwith a new idea, and exclaimed to herself,  Now I understand it all the\nchild has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never\nthought of such a thing! \n\nWith praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed\nno sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged\nAmy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much\nsolitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal\noccupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it\nwith more than her usual success.\n\nAt Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was\nnever idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the\nmost energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed\nhis example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was\nowing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a\nlike excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.\n\nThe invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked\nwholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get\nclearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.\nThe fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and\nmoody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring\nideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away\nthe troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly\ndown upon them saying,  Little children, love one another. \n\nIn spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that\nLaurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little\nwhile to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he\nhad firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for\nthe seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo s sister was almost the\nsame as Jo s self, and the conviction that it would have been\nimpossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His\nfirst wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon\nit as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion\nblended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one\nof the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be\ngrateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should\nbe as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene,\nhardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without\nwords and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so\nnaturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would\nbe pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been\ncrushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so\nLaurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance\nthe utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and\nsweetest part of his new romance.\n\nHe had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the\nchateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous\nmanner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was\nsettled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been\nfloating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny\nMontreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the\nDent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne\nupon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake\nbelow, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged\ngulls.\n\nThey had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of\nRousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise.\nNeither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each\nprivately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had\nbeen dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell\nbetween them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars\nwith an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for\nthe sake of saying something...\n\n You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good,\nfor since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious. \n\n I m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There s room\nenough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won t\ntrim,  returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.\n\nFeeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered\nthird of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She\nrowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both\nhands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went\nsmoothly through the water.\n\n How well we pull together, don t we?  said Amy, who objected to\nsilence just then.\n\n So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,\nAmy?  very tenderly.\n\n Yes, Laurie,  very low.\n\nThen they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little\ntableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected\nin the lake.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-TWO\nALL ALONE\n\n\nIt was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in\nanother, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when\nthe helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved\npresence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo\nfound her promise very hard to keep. How could she  comfort Father and\nMother  when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her\nsister, how could she  make the house cheerful  when all its light and\nwarmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old\nhome for the new, and where in all the world could she  find some\nuseful, happy work to do , that would take the place of the loving\nservice which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless\nway to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it\nseemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made\nheavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some\npeople seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not\nfair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward,\nonly disappointment, trouble and hard work.\n\nPoor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came\nover her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,\ndevoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that\nnever seemed to grow any easier.  I can t do it. I wasn t meant for a\nlife like this, and I know I shall break away and do something\ndesperate if somebody doesn t come and help me,  she said to herself,\nwhen her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable\nstate of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the\ninevitable.\n\nBut someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good\nangels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple\nspells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,\nthinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed\nmade her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow,  Oh, Beth,\ncome back! Come back!  she did not stretch out her yearning arms in\nvain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her\nsister s faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with\nwords only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears\nthat were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo s, and broken\nwhispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went\nhand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to\nheart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,\nwhich chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo s burden\nseemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more\nendurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother s arms.\n\nWhen aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found\nhelp, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray\nhead lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly,\n Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did,\nfor I m all wrong. \n\n My dear, nothing can comfort me like this,  he answered, with a falter\nin his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and\ndid not fear to ask for it.\n\nThen, sitting in Beth s little chair close beside him, Jo told her\ntroubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that\ndiscouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all\nthe sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire\nconfidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation\nin the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not\nonly as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to\nserve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,\nthoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called  the church of\none member , and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered\ncheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had\ntaught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach\nanother to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its\nbeautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.\n\nOther helps had Jo humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not\nbe denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to\nsee and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as\nthey once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something of\nher housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and the\nold brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself\nhumming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth s orderly ways, and\ngiving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and\ncozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she\ndidn t know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the\nhand...\n\n You thoughtful creeter, you re determined we shan t miss that dear\nlamb ef you can help it. We don t say much, but we see it, and the Lord\nwill bless you for t, see ef He don t. \n\nAs they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister\nMeg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly\nimpulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and\nchildren, and how much they were all doing for each other.\n\n Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should\nblossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always\n_ perwisin _ I could,  said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in\nthe topsy-turvy nursery.\n\n It s just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your\nnature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but\nsilky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love\nwill make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will\nfall off. \n\n Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma am, and it takes a good shake to bring\nthem down. Boys go nutting, and I don t care to be bagged by them, \nreturned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would\never carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.\n\nMeg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo s old spirit, but\nshe felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her\npower, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of\nMeg s most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.\nGrief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo s was nearly ready for\nthe bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy s\nimpatient shake, but a man s hand reached up to pick it gently from the\nburr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she\nwould have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately\nshe wasn t thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she\ndropped.\n\nNow, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at\nthis period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the\nworld, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in\nher pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn t a heroine, she was only a\nstruggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out\nher nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood\nsuggested. It s highly virtuous to say we ll be good, but we can t do\nit all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all\ntogether before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo\nhad got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if\nshe did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She\nhad often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard,\nand now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to\ndevote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to\nthem as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to increase\nthe splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless,\nambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and\ncheerfully live for others?\n\nProvidence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she\nhad expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she\ndo it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she\nfound the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she\ntook it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the\nrefreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed\nthe hill called Difficulty.\n\n Why don t you write? That always used to make you happy,  said her\nmother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.\n\n I ve no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things. \n\n We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.\nTry it, dear. I m sure it would do you good, and please us very much. \n\n Don t believe I can.  But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul\nher half-finished manuscripts.\n\nAn hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching\naway, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which\ncaused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success\nof her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got\ninto that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it,\nfor when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it,\nmuch against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her\nutter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters\nfrom several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance\nof the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as\nfriends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo\nwas more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all\nat once.\n\n I don t understand it. What can there be in a simple little story like\nthat to make people praise it so?  she said, quite bewildered.\n\n There is truth in it, Jo, that s the secret. Humor and pathos make it\nalive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no\nthoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter.\nYou have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as\nhappy as we are in your success. \n\n If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn t mine. I\nowe it all to you and Mother and Beth,  said Jo, more touched by her\nfather s words than by any amount of praise from the world.\n\nSo taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent\nthem away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very\ncharitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly\nwelcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like\ndutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.\n\nWhen Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that\nJo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon\nset at rest, for though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very\nquietly, and was full of hopes and plans for  the children  before she\nread the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each\nglorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and\nsatisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make.\n\n You like it, Mother?  said Jo, as they laid down the closely written\nsheets and looked at one another.\n\n Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused\nFred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the\n mercenary spirit  had come over her, and a hint here and there in her\nletters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day. \n\n How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to\nme. \n\n Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have\ngirls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest\nyou should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled. \n\n I m not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I m sober and\nsensible enough for anyone s confidante now. \n\n So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied\nit might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else. \n\n Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,\nafter I d refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best? \n\n I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he\ncame back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another\nanswer. Forgive me, dear, I can t help seeing that you are very lonely,\nand sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my\nheart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he\ntried now. \n\n No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I m glad Amy has learned to\nlove him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if\nTeddy had tried again, I might have said  Yes , not because I love him\nany more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away. \n\n I m glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are\nplenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother,\nsisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all\ncomes to give you your reward. \n\n Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don t mind whispering\nto Marmee that I d like to try all kinds. It s very curious, but the\nmore I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the\nmore I seem to want. I d no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine is\nso elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented\nwith my family. I don t understand it. \n\n I do,  and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the\nleaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.\n\n It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn t\nsentimental, doesn t say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he\nsays and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don t seem\nto be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and\ntender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it\nfull of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know\nit s mine. He says he feels as if he  could make a prosperous voyage\nnow with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast . I pray he\nmay, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain\nwith all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while\nGod lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven\nthis world could be, when two people love and live for one another! \n\n And that s our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work\nmiracles. How very, very happy they must be!  and Jo laid the rustling\nsheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a\nlovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he\nfinds himself alone in the workaday world again.\n\nBy-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not\nwalk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,\nnot bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one\nsister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true,\nshe knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for\naffection was strong, and Amy s happiness woke the hungry longing for\nsomeone to  love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them\nbe together . Up in the garret, where Jo s unquiet wanderings ended\nstood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners\nname, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended\nnow for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned\nher chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection,\ntill a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew them out,\nturned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs.\nKirke s. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad,\nand when she came to a little message written in the Professor s hand,\nher lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat\nlooking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched\na tender spot in her heart.\n\n Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely\ncome. \n\n Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my\ndear old Fritz. I didn t value him half enough when I had him, but now\nhow I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me,\nand I m all alone. \n\nAnd holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be\nfulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried,\nas if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.\n\nWas it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking\nup of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its\ninspirer? Who shall say?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-THREE\nSURPRISES\n\n\nJo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the\nfire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of\ndusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth s little\nred pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender\nthoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked\ntired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she\nwas thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and\nhow little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and\nnothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a good deal\nto show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.\n\n An old maid, that s what I m to be. A literary spinster, with a pen\nfor a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence\na morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I m old and can t\nenjoy it, solitary, and can t share it, independent, and don t need it.\nWell, I needn t be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say,\nold maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but...  and\nthere Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.\n\nIt seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to\nfive-and-twenty. But it s not as bad as it looks, and one can get on\nquite happily if one has something in one s self to fall back upon. At\ntwenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly\nresolve that they never will be. At thirty they say nothing about it,\nbut quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by\nremembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which\nthey may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don t laugh at the\nspinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are\nhidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns,\nand many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself,\nmake the faded faces beautiful in God s sight. Even the sad, sour\nsisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the\nsweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them with\ncompassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that\nthey too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don t last\nforever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and\nthat, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and\nadmiration now.\n\nGentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter\nhow poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that\nwhich is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble,\nand serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect\nthe good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and\npetted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out\nof, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches\nthe patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old\nfeet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little\nattentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The\nbright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all\nthe better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part\nmother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a\ntender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who\nhas kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for  the best nevvy\nin the world .\n\nJo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this\nlittle homily), for suddenly Laurie s ghost seemed to stand before her,\na substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he\nused to wear when he felt a good deal and didn t like to show it. But,\nlike Jenny in the ballad...\n\n She could not think it he, \n\nand lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and\nkissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully...\n\n Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy! \n\n Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then? \n\n Glad! My blessed boy, words can t express my gladness. Where s Amy? \n\n Your mother has got her down at Meg s. We stopped there by the way,\nand there was no getting my wife out of their clutches. \n\n Your what?  cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an\nunconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.\n\n Oh, the dickens! Now I ve done it,  and he looked so guilty that Jo\nwas down on him like a flash.\n\n You ve gone and got married! \n\n Yes, please, but I never will again,  and he went down upon his knees,\nwith a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth,\nand triumph.\n\n Actually married? \n\n Very much so, thank you. \n\n Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?  and Jo fell into\nher seat with a gasp.\n\n A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation, \nreturned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with\nsatisfaction.\n\n What can you expect, when you take one s breath away, creeping in like\na burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you\nridiculous boy, and tell me all about it. \n\n Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to\nbarricade. \n\nJo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted\nthe sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone,  The old pillow is\nup garret, and we don t need it now. So, come and  fess, Teddy. \n\n How good it sounds to hear you say  Teddy ! No one ever calls me that\nbut you,  and Laurie sat down with an air of great content.\n\n What does Amy call you? \n\n My lord. \n\n That s like her. Well, you look it,  and Jo s eye plainly betrayed\nthat she found her boy comelier than ever.\n\nThe pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural\none, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and\nfor a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a\nlittle shadow over them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie said,\nwith a vain attempt at dignity...\n\n Don t I look like a married man and the head of a family? \n\n Not a bit, and you never will. You ve grown bigger and bonnier, but\nyou are the same scapegrace as ever. \n\n Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect,  began\nLaurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.\n\n How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so\nirresistibly funny that I can t keep sober!  answered Jo, smiling all\nover her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then\nsettled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.\n\n It s no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all\ncoming up presently. I couldn t wait. I wanted to be the one to tell\nyou the grand surprise, and have  first skim  as we used to say when we\nsquabbled about the cream. \n\n Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong\nend. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I m pining to\nknow. \n\n Well, I did it to please Amy,  began Laurie, with a twinkle that made\nJo exclaim...\n\n Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth,\nif you can, sir. \n\n Now she s beginning to marm it. Isn t it jolly to hear her?  said\nLaurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite\nagreed.  It s all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned\nto come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly\nchanged their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But\nGrandpa wanted to come home. He went to please me, and I couldn t let\nhim go alone, neither could I leave Amy, and Mrs. Carrol had got\nEnglish notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn t let Amy\ncome with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying,  Let s be\nmarried, and then we can do as we like . \n\n Of course you did. You always have things to suit you. \n\n Not always,  and something in Laurie s voice made Jo say hastily...\n\n How did you ever get Aunt to agree? \n\n It was hard work, but between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps\nof good reasons on our side. There wasn t time to write and ask leave,\nbut you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only\n taking time by the fetlock , as my wife says. \n\n Aren t we proud of those two words, and don t we like to say them? \ninterrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with\ndelight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been\nso tragically gloomy when she saw them last.\n\n A trifle, perhaps, she s such a captivating little woman I can t help\nbeing proud of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were there to play\npropriety. We were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use\napart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all\nround, so we did it. \n\n When, where, how?  asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and\ncuriosity, for she could not realize it a particle.\n\n Six weeks ago, at the American consul s, in Paris, a very quiet\nwedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn t forget dear\nlittle Beth. \n\nJo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the\nlittle red pillow, which he remembered well.\n\n Why didn t you let us know afterward?  asked Jo, in a quieter tone,\nwhen they had sat quite still a minute.\n\n We wanted to surprise you. We thought we were coming directly home, at\nfirst, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he\ncouldn t be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our\nhoneymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular\nhoneymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but\nonce in their lives. My faith! Wasn t it love among the roses! \n\nLaurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the\nfact that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured\nher that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away\nher hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the\nhalf-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly\ngravity she had never seen in him before...\n\n Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we ll put it by forever.\nAs I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to\nme, I never shall stop loving you, but the love is altered, and I have\nlearned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places\nin my heart, that s all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have\ncome about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I\nnever could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then,\nheadstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my\nmistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after\nmaking a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind,\nat one time, that I didn t know which I loved best, you or Amy, and\ntried to love you both alike. But I couldn t, and when I saw her in\nSwitzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got\ninto your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the\nold love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my\nheart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you\nbelieve it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one\nanother? \n\n I ll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy\nand girl again. The happy old times can t come back, and we mustn t\nexpect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for\nplaytime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I m sure you feel\nthis. I see the change in you, and you ll find it in me. I shall miss\nmy boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because\nhe means to be what I hoped he would. We can t be little playmates any\nlonger, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another\nall our lives, won t we, Laurie? \n\nHe did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his\nface down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish\npassion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them\nboth. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn t want the coming home\nto be a sad one,  I can t make it true that you children are really\nmarried and going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday\nthat I was buttoning Amy s pinafore, and pulling your hair when you\nteased. Mercy me, how time does fly! \n\n As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn t talk so\nlike a grandma. I flatter myself I m a  gentleman growed  as Peggotty\nsaid of David, and when you see Amy, you ll find her rather a\nprecocious infant,  said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.\n\n You may be a little older in years, but I m ever so much older in\nfeeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has been such a\nhard one that I feel forty. \n\n Poor Jo! We left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You\nare older. Here s a line, and there s another. Unless you smile, your\neyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear\non it. You ve had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone.\nWhat a selfish beast I ve been!  and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a\nremorseful look.\n\nBut Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone\nwhich she tried to make more cheerful,  No, I had Father and Mother to\nhelp me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you\nand Amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear.\nI am lonely, sometimes, but I dare say it s good for me, and... \n\n You never shall be again,  broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her,\nas if to fence out every human ill.  Amy and I can t get on without\nyou, so you must come and teach  the children  to keep house, and go\nhalves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and\nall be blissfully happy and friendly together. \n\n If I shouldn t be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to\nfeel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles seemed to fly\naway when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy,  and Jo leaned\nher head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill\nand Laurie told her to hold on to him.\n\nHe looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was\nsmiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his\ncoming.\n\n You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and\nlaughing the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it, Grandma? \n\n I was wondering how you and Amy get on together. \n\n Like angels! \n\n Yes, of course, but which rules? \n\n I don t mind telling you that she does now, at least I let her think\nso, it pleases her, you know. By-and-by we shall take turns, for\nmarriage, they say, halves one s rights and doubles one s duties. \n\n You ll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your\nlife. \n\n Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don t think I shall mind\nmuch. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well. In fact, I\nrather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and\nprettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you\na favor all the while. \n\n That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying\nit!  cried Jo, with uplifted hands.\n\nIt was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with\nmasculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his  high and\nmighty  air,  Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of\nman to submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another\ntoo much ever to tyrannize or quarrel. \n\nJo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy\nseemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her\npleasure.\n\n I am sure of that. Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is\nthe sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best,\nyou remember. \n\n She can blow him up as well as shine on him,  laughed Laurie.  Such a\nlecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than\nany of your scoldings, a regular rouser. I ll tell you all about it\nsometime, she never will, because after telling me that she despised\nand was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and\nmarried the good-for-nothing. \n\n What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I ll defend\nyou. \n\n I look as if I needed it, don t I?  said Laurie, getting up and\nstriking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the\nrapturous, as Amy s voice was heard calling,  Where is she? Where s my\ndear old Jo? \n\nIn trooped the whole family, and everyone was hugged and kissed all\nover again, and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were\nset down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and\nhearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign\ntour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the\nold-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier\nthan ever. It was good to see him beam at  my children , as he called\nthe young pair. It was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly\nduty and affection which completely won his old heart, and best of all,\nto watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying\nthe pretty picture they made.\n\nThe minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own\ndress hadn t a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely\neclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that  her ladyship  was altogether\na most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair,\n How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the\nbeautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than\nclumsy old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him.  Mrs. March and\nher husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they\nsaw that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but\nthe better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness.\n\nFor Amy s face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a\npeaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool,\nprim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and\nwinning. No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of\nher manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for\nit stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true\ngentlewoman she had hoped to become.\n\n Love has done much for our little girl,  said her mother softly.\n\n She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear,  Mr.\nMarch whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head\nbeside him.\n\nDaisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her  pitty aunty , but\nattached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full of\ndelightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before\nhe compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took\nthe tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank\nmovement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew\nwhere to have him.\n\n Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you\nhit me in the face. Now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman,  and\nwith that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew\nin a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted\nhis boyish soul.\n\n Blest if she ain t in silk from head to foot; ain t it a relishin \nsight to see her settin  there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks\ncalling little Amy  Mis. Laurence!  muttered old Hannah, who could not\nresist frequent  peeks  through the slide as she set the table in a\nmost decidedly promiscuous manner.\n\nMercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all\nburst out together trying to tell the history of three years in half an\nhour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and\nprovide refreshment for they would have been hoarse and faint if they\nhad gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the\nlittle dining room! Mr. March proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs.\nMarch as proudly leaned on the arm of  my son . The old gentleman took\nJo, with a whispered,  You must be my girl now,  and a glance at the\nempty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back,  I ll try to fill\nher place, sir. \n\nThe twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for\neveryone was so busy with the newcomers that they were left to revel at\ntheir own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the\nopportunity. Didn t they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread ad\nlibitum, get a hot biscuit apiece, and as a crowning trespass, didn t\nthey each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets,\nthere to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human\nnature and a pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness\nof the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo s sharp eyes would\npierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty,\nthe little sinners attached themselves to  Dranpa , who hadn t his\nspectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to\nthe parlor on Father Laurence s arm. The others paired off as before,\nand this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the\nminute, for she lingered to answer Hannah s eager inquiry.\n\n Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver\ndishes that s stored away over yander? \n\n Shouldn t wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate,\nand wore diamonds and point lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too\ngood for her,  returned Jo with infinite satisfaction.\n\n No more there is! Will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast? \nasked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.\n\n I don t care,  and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an\nuncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party\nvanishing above, and as Demi s short plaid legs toiled up the last\nstair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she\nlooked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon,\nfor even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift\nwas coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to\nherself,  I ll weep a little weep when I go to bed. It won t do to be\ndismal now.  Then she drew her hand over her eyes, for one of her\nboyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was, and had\njust managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the porch\ndoor.\n\nShe opened with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had\ncome to surprise her, for there stood a tall bearded gentleman, beaming\non her from the darkness like a midnight sun.\n\n Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!  cried Jo, with a clutch, as\nif she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him\nin.\n\n And I to see Miss Marsch, but no, you haf a party,  and the Professor\npaused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to\nthem.\n\n No, we haven t, only the family. My sister and friends have just come\nhome, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us. \n\nThough a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously\naway, and come again another day, but how could he, when Jo shut the\ndoor behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had\nsomething to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him,\nand showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary\nman, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes.\n\n If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You\nhaf been ill, my friend? \n\nHe put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light\nfell on her face, and he saw a change in it.\n\n Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you\nlast. \n\n Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that,  and he\nshook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no\ncomfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big,\nwarm hand.\n\n Father, Mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer,  she said, with a\nface and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might\nas well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish.\n\nIf the stranger had any doubts about his reception, they were set at\nrest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Everyone greeted\nhim kindly, for Jo s sake at first, but very soon they liked him for\nhis own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens\nall hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even\nthe more friendly because he was poor. For poverty enriches those who\nlive above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr.\nBhaer sat looking about him with the air of a traveler who knocks at a\nstrange door, and when it opens, finds himself at home. The children\nwent to him like bees to a honeypot, and establishing themselves on\neach knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling\nhis beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The\nwomen telegraphed their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling\nthat he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his\nguest s benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but\nsaid not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep.\n\nIf Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie s behavior would have\namused her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like\nsuspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe\nthe newcomer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long.\nHe got interested in spite of himself, and before he knew it, was drawn\ninto the circle. For Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere,\nand did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at\nhim often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting\nhis own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his\neyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered\nthe mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to take\ncare of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept\nthem on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt.\n\nA stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water\nafter a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several\npropitious omens. Mr. Bhaer s face had lost the absent-minded\nexpression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment,\nactually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him\nwith Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment.\nThen he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of the\nancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be\nconsidered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph when\nTeddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she\nwatched her father s absorbed face,  How he would enjoy having such a\nman as my Professor to talk with every day!  Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was\ndressed in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a\ngentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed,\nbut didn t stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he rumpled it\nup in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly erect\nbetter than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a\nJove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she\nsat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even\nthe fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his\nimmaculate wristbands.\n\n Dear old fellow! He couldn t have got himself up with more care if\nhe d been going a-wooing,  said Jo to herself, and then a sudden\nthought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to\ndrop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face.\n\nThe maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however, for\nthough just in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the Professor\ndropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the\nlittle blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together,\nsaw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to\nresume their seats, wishing they had not left them.\n\nNobody knew where the evening went to, for Hannah skillfully abstracted\nthe babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr.\nLaurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking\naway, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal\nmind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of\nbed, and Demi set his nightgown afire studying the structure of\nmatches, made a move to go.\n\n We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together\nagain once more,  said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe\nand pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul.\n\nThey were not all there. But no one found the words thoughtless or\nuntrue, for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence,\ninvisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the\nhousehold league that love made dissoluble. The little chair stood in\nits old place. The tidy basket, with the bit of work she left\nunfinished when the needle grew  so heavy , was still on its accustomed\nshelf. The beloved instrument, seldom touched now had not been moved,\nand above it Beth s face, serene and smiling, as in the early days,\nlooked down upon them, seeming to say,  Be happy. I am here. \n\n Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved,  said\nLaurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.\n\nBut Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool,  Not\ntonight, dear. I can t show off tonight. \n\nBut she did show something better than brilliancy or skill, for she\nsang Beth s songs with a tender music in her voice which the best\nmaster could not have taught, and touched the listener s hearts with a\nsweeter power than any other inspiration could have given her. The room\nwas very still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line\nof Beth s favorite hymn. It was hard to say...\n\nEarth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;\n\n\nand Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that\nher welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth s kiss.\n\n Now, we must finish with Mignon s song, for Mr. Bhaer sings that, \nsaid Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his\nthroat with a gratified  Hem!  as he stepped into the corner where Jo\nstood, saying...\n\n You will sing with me? We go excellently well together. \n\nA pleasing fiction, by the way, for Jo had no more idea of music than a\ngrasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a\nwhole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune.\nIt didn t much matter, for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily\nand well, and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might\nlisten to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone.\n\nKnow st thou the land where the citron blooms,\n\n\nused to be the Professor s favorite line, for  das land  meant Germany\nto him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody,\nupon the words...\n\nThere, oh there, might I with thee,\nO, my beloved, go\n\n\nand one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she\nlonged to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither\nwhenever he liked.\n\nThe song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered\nwith laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners\nentirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet, for she had been\nintroduced simply as  my sister , and no one had called her by her new\nname since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said,\nin his most gracious manner, at parting...\n\n My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that\nthere is always a welcome waiting for you over the way. \n\nThen the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly\nilluminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most\ndelightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met.\n\n I too shall go, but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me\nleave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here\nsome days. \n\nHe spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo, and the mother s voice\ngave as cordial an assent as did the daughter s eyes, for Mrs. March\nwas not so blind to her children s interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed.\n\n I suspect that is a wise man,  remarked Mr. March, with placid\nsatisfaction, from the hearthrug, after the last guest had gone.\n\n I know he is a good one,  added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as\nshe wound up the clock.\n\n I thought you d like him,  was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her\nbed.\n\nShe wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city,\nand finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor,\nsomewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had seen\nhis face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a\nsevere and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to\nbe gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon\nthe subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the\npicture in the dark.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-FOUR\nMY LORD AND LADY\n\n\n Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The\nluggage has come, and I ve been making hay of Amy s Paris finery,\ntrying to find some things I want,  said Laurie, coming in the next day\nto find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother s lap, as if being made\n the baby  again.\n\n Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this,  and\nMrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if\nasking pardon for her maternal covetousness.\n\n I shouldn t have come over if I could have helped it, but I can t get\non without my little woman any more than a... \n\n Weathercock can without the wind,  suggested Jo, as he paused for a\nsimile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came\nhome.\n\n Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with\nonly an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven t had an\neasterly spell since I was married. Don t know anything about the\nnorth, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady? \n\n Lovely weather so far. I don t know how long it will last, but I m not\nafraid of storms, for I m learning how to sail my ship. Come home,\ndear, and I ll find your bootjack. I suppose that s what you are\nrummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother,  said\nAmy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.\n\n What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?  asked\nJo, buttoning Amy s cloak as she used to button her pinafores.\n\n We have our plans. We don t mean to say much about them yet, because\nwe are such very new brooms, but we don t intend to be idle. I m going\ninto business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove\nto him that I m not spoiled. I need something of the sort to keep me\nsteady. I m tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man. \n\n And Amy, what is she going to do?  asked Mrs. March, well pleased at\nLaurie s decision and the energy with which he spoke.\n\n After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall\nastonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant\nsociety we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall\nexert over the world at large. That s about it, isn t it, Madame\nRecamier?  asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy.\n\n Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don t shock my family by\ncalling me names before their faces,  answered Amy, resolving that\nthere should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon\nas a queen of society.\n\n How happy those children seem together!  observed Mr. March, finding\nit difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple\nhad gone.\n\n Yes, and I think it will last,  added Mrs. March, with the restful\nexpression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.\n\n I know it will. Happy Amy!  and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as\nProfessor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.\n\nLater in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the\nbootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife,  Mrs. Laurence. \n\n My Lord! \n\n That man intends to marry our Jo! \n\n I hope so, don t you, dear? \n\n Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that\nexpressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal\nricher. \n\n Now, Laurie, don t be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love\none another it doesn t matter a particle how old they are nor how poor.\nWomen never should marry for money...  Amy caught herself up short as\nthe words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with\nmalicious gravity...\n\n Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend\nto do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your\nduty to make a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a\ngood-for-nothing like me. \n\n Oh, my dearest boy, don t, don t say that! I forgot you were rich when\nI said  Yes . I d have married you if you hadn t a penny, and I\nsometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I love you. \nAnd Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private,\ngave convincing proofs of the truth of her words.\n\n You don t really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be\nonce, do you? It would break my heart if you didn t believe that I d\ngladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your\nliving by rowing on the lake. \n\n Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a\nricher man for me, and won t let me give you half I want to now, when I\nhave the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to\nthink it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and\nthough I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the\ndaughter was true to the mother s teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday,\nand she looked as glad and grateful as if I d given her a check for a\nmillion, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral\nremarks, Mrs. Laurence,  and Laurie paused, for Amy s eyes had an\nabsent look, though fixed upon his face.\n\n Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time. I\ndon t wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I m prouder of my\nhandsome husband than of all his money. Don t laugh, but your nose is\nsuch a comfort to me,  and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature\nwith artistic satisfaction.\n\nLaurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that\nsuited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his\nwife s peculiar taste, while she said slowly,  May I ask you a\nquestion, dear? \n\n Of course, you may. \n\n Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer? \n\n Oh, that s the trouble is it? I thought there was something in the\ndimple that didn t quite suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but\nthe happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo s wedding\nwith a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling? \n\nAmy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her little jealous fear\nvanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and\nconfidence.\n\n I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn t\nwe invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in\nGermany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?  said Laurie, when they\nbegan to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they\nwere fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.\n\n Jo would find us out, and spoil it all. She is very proud of him, just\nas he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful\nthing. \n\n Bless her dear heart! She won t think so when she has a literary\nhusband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We\nwon t interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in\nspite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she\nbelieves in people s paying their honest debts, so I ll get round her\nin that way. \n\n How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn t it? That was\nalways one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks\nto you, the dream has come true. \n\n Ah, we ll do quantities of good, won t we? There s one sort of poverty\nthat I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care\nof, but poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won t ask, and\npeople don t dare to offer charity. Yet there are a thousand ways of\nhelping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does\nnot offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than\na blarnerying beggar. I suppose it s wrong, but I do, though it is\nharder. \n\n Because it takes a gentleman to do it,  added the other member of the\ndomestic admiration society.\n\n Thank you, I m afraid I don t deserve that pretty compliment. But I\nwas going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good\nmany talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and\nenduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid\nfellows, some of them, working like heros, poor and friendless, but so\nfull of courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself,\nand longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it s a\nsatisfaction to help, for if they ve got genius, it s an honor to be\nallowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of\nfuel to keep the pot boiling. If they haven t, it s a pleasure to\ncomfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it\nout. \n\n Yes, indeed, and there s another class who can t ask, and who suffer\nin silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you\nmade a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old\nstory. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see\nyouth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a\nlittle help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me, and\nwhenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put\nout my hand and help them, as I was helped. \n\n And so you shall, like an angel as you are!  cried Laurie, resolving,\nwith a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution\nfor the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies.  Rich\npeople have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their\nmoney accumulate for others to waste. It s not half so sensible to\nleave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while\nalive, and enjoy making one s fellow creatures happy with it. We ll\nhave a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure\nby giving other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas,\ngoing about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with\ngood deeds? \n\n With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping as you\nride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar. \n\n It s a bargain, and we shall get the best of it! \n\nSo the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again,\nfeeling that their pleasant home was more homelike because they hoped\nto brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more\nuprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough\nways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely\nknit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest\nthan they.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-FIVE\nDAISY AND DEMI\n\n\nI cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March\nfamily, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious\nand important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of\ndiscretion, for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their\nrights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do.\nIf there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled\nby adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the\nmost remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention\nthat they walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and\nat two years they took their places at table, and behaved with a\npropriety which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a\n needler , and actually made a bag with four stitches in it. She\nlikewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a\nmicroscopic cooking stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to\nHannah s eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who\ninvented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters with\nhis arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy\nearly developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and\ndistracted his mother, for he tried to imitate every machine he saw,\nand kept the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his  sewinsheen , a\nmysterious structure of string, chairs, clothespins, and spools, for\nwheels to go  wound and wound . Also a basket hung over the back of a\nchair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who,\nwith feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till\nrescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked,  Why, Marmar,\ndat s my lellywaiter, and me s trying to pull her up. \n\nThough utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well\ntogether, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi\ntyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other\naggressor, while Daisy made a galley slave of herself, and adored her\nbrother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny\nlittle soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody s heart, and\nnestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be\nkissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and\nproduced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small\nvirtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few\nsmall naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all\nfair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the\nwindow in her little nightgown to look out, and say, no matter whether\nit rained or shone,  Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!  Everyone was a\nfriend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the\nmost inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful\nworshipers.\n\n Me loves evvybody,  she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in\none hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish\nthe whole world.\n\nAs she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dovecote would be\nblessed by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which\nhad helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be\nspared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had\nentertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her  Beth ,\nand her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if\ntrying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could\nsee.\n\nDemi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know\neverything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get\nsatisfactory answers to his perpetual  What for? \n\nHe also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his\ngrandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which\nthe precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised\nsatisfaction of the womenfolk.\n\n What makes my legs go, Dranpa?  asked the young philosopher, surveying\nthose active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting\nafter a go-to-bed frolic one night.\n\n It s your little mind, Demi,  replied the sage, stroking the yellow\nhead respectfully.\n\n What is a little mine? \n\n It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the\nwheels go in my watch when I showed it to you. \n\n Open me. I want to see it go wound. \n\n I can t do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you\nup, and you go till He stops you. \n\n Does I?  and Demi s brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the\nnew thought.  Is I wounded up like the watch? \n\n Yes, but I can t show you how, for it is done when we don t see. \n\nDemi felt his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch,\nand then gravely remarked,  I dess Dod does it when I s asleep. \n\nA careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively\nthat his anxious grandmother said,  My dear, do you think it wise to\ntalk about such things to that baby? He s getting great bumps over his\neyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions. \n\n If he is old enough to ask the question he is old enough to receive\ntrue answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping\nhim unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are,\nand I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him.\nNow, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind. \n\nIf the boy had replied like Alcibiades,  By the gods, Socrates, I\ncannot tell,  his grandfather would not have been surprised, but when,\nafter standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he\nanswered, in a tone of calm conviction,  In my little belly,  the old\ngentleman could only join in Grandma s laugh, and dismiss the class in\nmetaphysics.\n\nThere might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given\nconvincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding\nphilosopher, for often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to\nprophesy, with ominous nods,  That child ain t long for this world,  he\nwould turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with\nwhich dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their\nparent s souls.\n\nMeg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them, but what mother was\never proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the\ntranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show\nthemselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?\n\n No more raisins, Demi. They ll make you sick,  says Mamma to the young\nperson who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity\non plum-pudding day.\n\n Me likes to be sick. \n\n I don t want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty\ncakes. \n\nHe reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit, and\nby-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits Mamma\nby a shrewd bargain.\n\n Now you have been good children, and I ll play anything you like, \nsays Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding\nis safely bouncing in the pot.\n\n Truly, Marmar?  asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered\nhead.\n\n Yes, truly. Anything you say,  replies the shortsighted parent,\npreparing herself to sing,  The Three Little Kittens  half a dozen\ntimes over, or to take her family to  Buy a penny bun,  regardless of\nwind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply...\n\n Then we ll go and eat up all the raisins. \n\nAunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and the\ntrio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a\nname to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but\nAunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for\nwhich compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo\nneglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their\nlittle souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost\nher best customer and became bankrupt. Demi, with infantile\npenetration, soon discovered that Dodo like to play with  the bear-man \nbetter than she did him, but though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for\nhe hadn t the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate\ndrops in his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of\nits case and freely shaken by ardent admirers.\n\nSome persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes,\nbut Demi didn t see it in that light, and continued to patronize the\n the bear-man  with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small\naffections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her\nthrone, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures surpassing worth.\n\nGentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the\nyoung relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard, but this\ncounterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not\ndeceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer s devotion was sincere, however\nlikewise effective for honesty is the best policy in love as in law. He\nwas one of the men who are at home with children, and looked\nparticularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his\nmanly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day,\nbut evening seldom failed to bring him out to see well, he always asked\nfor Mr. March, so I suppose he was the attraction. The excellent papa\nlabored under the delusion that he was, and reveled in long discussions\nwith the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing\ngrandson suddenly enlightened him.\n\nMr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study,\nastonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay\nMr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him,\nlikewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own\nshort, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovelers so seriously absorbed\nthat they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his\nsonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face...\n\n Father, Father, here s the Professor! \n\nDown went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor\nsaid, with undisturbed dignity,  Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for\na moment. We are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter\nand tell its name. \n\n I knows him!  and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took\nthe shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil\ntriumphantly shouted,  It s a We, Dranpa, it s a We! \n\n He s a born Weller,  laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up,\nand her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of\nexpressing his satisfaction that school was over.\n\n What have you been at today, bubchen?  asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the\ngymnast.\n\n Me went to see little Mary. \n\n And what did you there? \n\n I kissed her,  began Demi, with artless frankness.\n\n Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that? \nasked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon\nthe knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket.\n\n Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don t little boys\nlike little girls?  asked Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of\nbland satisfaction.\n\n You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?  said Jo, enjoying\nthe innocent revelation as much as the Professor.\n\n Tisn t in mine head, it s in mine mouf,  answered literal Demi,\nputting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it, thinking she\nalluded to confectionery, not ideas.\n\n Thou shouldst save some for the little friend. Sweets to the sweet,\nmannling,  and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her\nwonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw\nthe smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy inquired. ..\n\n Do great boys like great girls, to,  Fessor? \n\nLike young Washington, Mr. Bhaer  couldn t tell a lie , so he gave the\nsomewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone\nthat made Mr. March put down his clothesbrush, glance at Jo s retiring\nface, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the  precocious\nchick  had put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour.\n\nWhy Dodo, when she caught him in the china closet half an hour\nafterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a\ntender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she\nfollowed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big\nslice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi\npuzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-SIX\nUNDER THE UMBRELLA\n\n\nWhile Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets,\nas they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr.\nBhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy\nroads and sodden fields.\n\n I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don t know why I should\ngive it up, just because I happen to meet the Professor on his way\nout,  said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters, for though\nthere were two paths to Meg s whichever one she took she was sure to\nmeet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and\nnever seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his\nshort-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till\nthat moment. Then, if she was going to Meg s he always had something\nfor the babies. If her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled\ndown to see the river, and was just returning, unless they were tired\nof his frequent calls.\n\nUnder the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and\ninvite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her\nweariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee\nfor supper,  as Friedrich I mean Mr. Bhaer doesn t like tea. \n\nBy the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet\neveryone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in\nJo s face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her\nhair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise.\nAnd no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer,\nwhile talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter\nlessons in love.\n\nJo couldn t even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried\nto quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated\nlife. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering,\nafter her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was\nher especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with\npraiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer  a capital old fellow \nin public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo s improved\nappearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor s\nhat on the Marches  table nearly every evening. But he exulted in\nprivate and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece\nof plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat\nof arms.\n\nFor a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like\nregularity. Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign,\na proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become\npensive, at first, and then alas for romance very cross.\n\n Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It s\nnothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid\nus goodbye like a gentleman,  she said to herself, with a despairing\nlook at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one\ndull afternoon.\n\n You d better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like rain,  said\nher mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding\nto the fact.\n\n Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? I ve got to run in and get\nsome paper,  returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the\nglass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.\n\n Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and\ntwo yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on,\nand something warm under your cloak? \n\n I believe so,  answered Jo absently.\n\n If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long\nto see the dear man,  added Mrs. March.\n\nJo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk\nrapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her\nheartache,  How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven t any\nmothers to help them through their troubles? \n\nThe dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks,\nand wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo\nfound herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand,\nloitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering\ninstruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most\nunfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by\ndescending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as\nif they wondered  how the deuce she got there . A drop of rain on her\ncheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For\nthe drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she\nfelt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her\nbonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten\nto take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and nothing\ncould be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at\nthe lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black,\nforward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind,\nat a certain grimy warehouse, with  Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.  over the\ndoor, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air...\n\n It serves me right! what business had I to put on all my best things\nand come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I m\nashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or\nfind out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do\nyour errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your\nbonnet, it s no more than you deserve. Now then! \n\nWith that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly\nescaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself\ninto the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said,  I beg pardon,\nma am,  and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted\nherself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting\ntemptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the\nankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a\nsomewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected\nbonnet attracted her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer\nlooking down.\n\n I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many\nhorse noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my\nfriend? \n\n I m shopping. \n\nMr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on one side to\nthe wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said\npolitely,  You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the\nbundles? \n\n Yes, thank you. \n\nJo s cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought\nof her, but she didn t care, for in a minute she found herself walking\naway arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly\nburst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again,\nand that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that\nday.\n\n We thought you had gone,  said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking\nat her. Her bonnet wasn t big enough to hide her face, and she feared\nhe might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.\n\n Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf\nbeen so heavenly kind to me?  he asked so reproachfully that she felt\nas if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily...\n\n No, I didn t. I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we\nrather missed you, Father and Mother especially. \n\n And you? \n\n I m always glad to see you, sir. \n\nIn her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool,\nand the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the\nProfessor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely...\n\n I thank you, and come one more time before I go. \n\n You are going, then? \n\n I haf no longer any business here, it is done. \n\n Successfully, I hope?  said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment\nwas in that short reply of his.\n\n I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make\nmy bread and gif my Junglings much help. \n\n Tell me, please! I like to know all about the the boys,  said Jo\neagerly.\n\n That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in\na college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way\nsmooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I\nnot? \n\n Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you\nlike, and be able to see you often, and the boys!  cried Jo, clinging\nto the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help\nbetraying.\n\n Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at the West. \n\n So far away!  and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn t\nmatter now what became of her clothes or herself.\n\nMr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read\nwomen yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was,\ntherefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and\nmanner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was\nin half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she\nmet him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help\nsuspecting that she had come for that express purpose. When he offered\nher his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but\nwhen he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply\nthat despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost\nclapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys? Then on hearing his\ndestination, she said,  So far away!  in a tone of despair that lifted\nhim on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him down\nagain by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter...\n\n Here s the place for my errands. Will you come in? It won t take\nlong. \n\nJo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and\nparticularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and\ndispatch with which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the\nflutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of\nneedles, forgot the silesia was to be  twilled  till it was cut off,\ngave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for\nlavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her\nblush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to\nsubside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions, women,\nlike dreams, go by contraries.\n\nWhen they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more\ncheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather\nenjoyed it on the whole.\n\n Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and\nhaf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so\npleasant home?  he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and\nflowers.\n\n What will we buy?  asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech,\nand sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they\nwent in.\n\n May they haf oranges and figs?  asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.\n\n They eat them when they can get them. \n\n Do you care for nuts? \n\n Like a squirrel. \n\n Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those? \n\nJo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn t buy\na frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done\nwith it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and\nfinished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of\nrosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of\na demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving\nher the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled\non again.\n\n Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you,  began the Professor,\nafter a moist promenade of half a block.\n\n Yes, sir?  and Jo s heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he\nwould hear it.\n\n I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time\nremains to me. \n\n Yes, sir,  and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden\nsqueeze she gave it.\n\n I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go\nalone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help? \n\n Yes, sir,  and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had\nstepped into a refrigerator.\n\n Perhaps also a shawl for Tina s mother, she is so poor and sick, and\nthe husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a\nfriendly thing to take the little mother. \n\n I ll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer.   I m going very fast, and he s\ngetting dearer every minute,  added Jo to herself, then with a mental\nshake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to\nbehold.\n\nMr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and\nthen ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man,\ncondescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be\nshopping for their family.\n\n Your lady may prefer this. It s a superior article, a most desirable\ncolor, quite chaste and genteel,  he said, shaking out a comfortable\ngray shawl, and throwing it over Jo s shoulders.\n\n Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?  she asked, turning her back to him,\nand feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.\n\n Excellently well, we will haf it,  answered the Professor, smiling to\nhimself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters\nlike a confirmed bargain-hunter.\n\n Now shall we go home?  he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to\nhim.\n\n Yes, it s late, and I m _so_ tired.  Jo s voice was more pathetic than\nshe knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came\nout, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first\ntime she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that\nher heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter.\nMr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all\na mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her\nhead, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that\nthe daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.\n\n This is not our omniboos,  said the Professor, waving the loaded\nvehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.\n\n I beg your pardon. I didn t see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can\nwalk. I m used to plodding in the mud,  returned Jo, winking hard,\nbecause she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.\n\nMr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away.\nThe sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he\nasked in a tone that meant a great deal,  Heart s dearest, why do you\ncry? \n\nNow, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said\nshe wasn t crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine\nfib proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified creature\nanswered, with an irrepressible sob,  Because you are going away. \n\n Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!  cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp\nhis hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles,  Jo, I haf nothing\nbut much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and I\nwaited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can\nyou make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?  he added, all in\none breath.\n\n Oh, yes!  said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both\nhands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that\nplainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him,\neven though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he\ncarried it.\n\nIt was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had\ndesired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on\naccount of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand, except\nfiguratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tender\nremonstrations in the open street, though he was near it. So the only\nway in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an\nexpression which glorified his face to such a degree that there\nactually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his\nbeard. If he had not loved Jo very much, I don t think he could have\ndone it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a\ndeplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her\nbonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful\nwoman living, and she found him more  Jove-like  than ever, though his\nhatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his\nshoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of\nhis gloves needed mending.\n\nPassers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they\nentirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious\nof deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for\nthey were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any\nlife, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the\nplain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of\nheaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the\nworld had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo\ntrudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and\nwondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she\nwas the first to speak intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks\nwhich followed her impetuous  Oh, yes!  were not of a coherent or\nreportable character.\n\n Friedrich, why didn t you... \n\n Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died! \ncried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful\ndelight.\n\n I always call you so to myself I forgot, but I won t unless you like\nit. \n\n Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say  thou , also, and\nI shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine. \n\n Isn t  thou  a little sentimental?  asked Jo, privately thinking it a\nlovely monosyllable.\n\n Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and\nkeep ourselves young mit it. Your English  you  is so cold, say  thou ,\nheart s dearest, it means so much to me,  pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like\na romantic student than a grave professor.\n\n Well, then, why didn t thou tell me all this sooner?  asked Jo\nbashfully.\n\n Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will,\nbecause thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo ah, the\ndear, funny little name I had a wish to tell something the day I said\ngoodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to\nthee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said  Yes , then, if I had\nspoken? \n\n I don t know. I m afraid not, for I didn t have any heart just then. \n\n Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came\nthrough the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well,  Die erste Liebe ist die\nbeste , but that I should not expect. \n\n Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had\nanother. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy, \nsaid Jo, anxious to correct the Professor s mistake.\n\n Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I\nhaf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find,\nProfessorin. \n\n I like that,  cried Jo, delighted with her new name.  Now tell me what\nbrought you, at last, just when I wanted you? \n\n This,  and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat\npocket.\n\nJo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own\ncontributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her\nsending it an occasional attempt.\n\n How could that bring you?  she asked, wondering what he meant.\n\n I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in\nit there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find\nhim. I will see that you go not in the wet. \n\nIN THE GARRET\n\n\nFour little chests all in a row,\nDim with dust, and worn by time,\nAll fashioned and filled, long ago,\nBy children now in their prime.\nFour little keys hung side by side,\nWith faded ribbons, brave and gay\nWhen fastened there, with childish pride,\nLong ago, on a rainy day.\nFour little names, one on each lid,\nCarved out by a boyish hand,\nAnd underneath there lieth hid\nHistories of the happy band\nOnce playing here, and pausing oft\nTo hear the sweet refrain,\nThat came and went on the roof aloft,\nIn the falling summer rain.\n\n\n Meg  on the first lid, smooth and fair.\nI look in with loving eyes,\nFor folded here, with well-known care,\nA goodly gathering lies,\nThe record of a peaceful life \nGifts to gentle child and girl,\nA bridal gown, lines to a wife,\nA tiny shoe, a baby curl.\nNo toys in this first chest remain,\nFor all are carried away,\nIn their old age, to join again\nIn another small Meg s play.\nAh, happy mother! Well I know\nYou hear, like a sweet refrain,\nLullabies ever soft and low\nIn the falling summer rain.\n\n\n Jo  on the next lid, scratched and worn,\nAnd within a motley store\nOf headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,\nBirds and beasts that speak no more,\nSpoils brought home from the fairy ground\nOnly trod by youthful feet,\nDreams of a future never found,\nMemories of a past still sweet,\nHalf-writ poems, stories wild,\nApril letters, warm and cold,\nDiaries of a wilful child,\nHints of a woman early old,\nA woman in a lonely home,\nHearing, like a sad refrain \n Be worthy, love, and love will come, \nIn the falling summer rain.\n\n\nMy Beth! the dust is always swept\nFrom the lid that bears your name,\nAs if by loving eyes that wept,\nBy careful hands that often came.\nDeath canonized for us one saint,\nEver less human than divine,\nAnd still we lay, with tender plaint,\nRelics in this household shrine \nThe silver bell, so seldom rung,\nThe little cap which last she wore,\nThe fair, dead Catherine that hung\nBy angels borne above her door.\nThe songs she sang, without lament,\nIn her prison-house of pain,\nForever are they sweetly blent\nWith the falling summer rain.\n\n\nUpon the last lid s polished field \nLegend now both fair and true\nA gallant knight bears on his shield,\n Amy  in letters gold and blue.\nWithin lie snoods that bound her hair,\nSlippers that have danced their last,\nFaded flowers laid by with care,\nFans whose airy toils are past,\nGay valentines, all ardent flames,\nTrifles that have borne their part\nIn girlish hopes and fears and shames,\nThe record of a maiden heart\nNow learning fairer, truer spells,\nHearing, like a blithe refrain,\nThe silver sound of bridal bells\nIn the falling summer rain.\n\n\nFour little chests all in a row,\nDim with dust, and worn by time,\nFour women, taught by weal and woe\nTo love and labor in their prime.\nFour sisters, parted for an hour,\nNone lost, one only gone before,\nMade by love s immortal power,\nNearest and dearest evermore.\nOh, when these hidden stores of ours\nLie open to the Father s sight,\nMay they be rich in golden hours,\nDeeds that show fairer for the light,\nLives whose brave music long shall ring,\nLike a spirit-stirring strain,\nSouls that shall gladly soar and sing\nIn the long sunshine after rain.\n\n\n It s very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I\nwas very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it\nwould go where it could tell tales,  said Jo, tearing up the verses the\nProfessor had treasured so long.\n\n Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I\nread all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets,  said\nMr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the\nwind.  Yes,  he added earnestly,  I read that, and I think to myself,\nShe has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I\nhaf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say,  If this is not\ntoo poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in\nGott s name? \n\n And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious\nthing I needed,  whispered Jo.\n\n I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your\nwelcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said,  I will haf\nher if I die for it,  and so I will!  cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant\nnod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he\nwas to surmount or valiantly knock down.\n\nJo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight,\nthough he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.\n\n What made you stay away so long?  she asked presently, finding it so\npleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that\nshe could not keep silent.\n\n It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that\nso happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after\nmuch time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so\nmuch for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning? \n\n I m glad you are poor. I couldn t bear a rich husband,  said Jo\ndecidedly, adding in a softer tone,  Don t fear poverty. I ve known it\nlong enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love, and\ndon t call yourself old forty is the prime of life. I couldn t help\nloving you if you were seventy! \n\nThe Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of\nhis handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he couldn t, Jo wiped\nhis eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or\ntwo...\n\n I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I m out of my sphere now,\nfor woman s special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing\nburdens. I m to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home.\nMake up your mind to that, or I ll never go,  she added resolutely, as\nhe tried to reclaim his load.\n\n We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away\nand do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you,\nI may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy\nwhile we hope and wait? \n\n Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the\nrest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn t enjoy\nmyself if I neglected them even for you, so there s no need of hurry or\nimpatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both\nbe happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God\nwills. \n\n Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif\nback but a full heart and these empty hands,  cried the Professor,\nquite overcome.\n\nJo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they\nstood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering\ntenderly,  Not empty now,  and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich\nunder the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the\nflock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings,\nfor she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything\nbut her own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that\nwas the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the\nnight and storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and\npeace waiting to receive them, with a glad  Welcome home!  Jo led her\nlover in, and shut the door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN\nHARVEST TIME\n\n\nFor a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met\noccasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the\nprice of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began\nrather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March\ndied suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over for they loved the\nold lady in spite of her sharp tongue they found they had cause for\nrejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of\njoyful things possible.\n\n It s a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course\nyou intend to sell it,  said Laurie, as they were all talking the\nmatter over some weeks later.\n\n No, I don t,  was Jo s decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle,\nwhom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.\n\n You don t mean to live there? \n\n Yes, I do. \n\n But, my dear girl, it s an immense house, and will take a power of\nmoney to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or\nthree men, and farming isn t in Bhaer s line, I take it. \n\n He ll try his hand at it there, if I propose it. \n\n And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds\nparadisiacal, but you ll find it desperate hard work. \n\n The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one,  and Jo laughed.\n\n Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma am? \n\n Boys. I want to open a school for little lads a good, happy, homelike\nschool, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them. \n\n That s a truly Joian plan for you! Isn t that just like her?  cried\nLaurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.\n\n I like it,  said Mrs. March decidedly.\n\n So do I,  added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for\ntrying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.\n\n It will be an immense care for Jo,  said Meg, stroking the head of her\none all-absorbing son.\n\n Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It s a splendid idea. Tell us all\nabout it,  cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers\na hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.\n\n I knew you d stand by me, sir. Amy does too I see it in her eyes,\nthough she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she\nspeaks. Now, my dear people,  continued Jo earnestly,  just understand\nthat this isn t a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before\nmy Fritz came, I used to think how, when I d made my fortune, and no\none needed me at home, I d hire a big house, and pick up some poor,\nforlorn little lads who hadn t any mothers, and take care of them, and\nmake life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to\nruin for want of help at the right minute, I love so to do anything for\nthem, I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles,\nand oh, I should so like to be a mother to them! \n\nMrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in\nher eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not\nseen for a long while.\n\n I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would\nlike, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he s\nbeen doing it all his life helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich,\nthat he ll never be. Money doesn t stay in his pocket long enough to\nlay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better\nthan I ever deserved, I m rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at\nPlumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It s just\nthe place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and\nplain. There s plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds\noutside. They could help in the garden and orchard. Such work is\nhealthy, isn t it, sir? Then Fritz could train and teach in his own\nway, and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold\nthem, and Mother will be my stand-by. I ve always longed for lots of\nboys, and never had enough, now I can fill the house full and revel in\nthe little dears to my heart s content. Think what luxury  Plumfield my\nown, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me. \n\nAs Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off\ninto a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought\nhe d have an apoplectic fit.\n\n I don t see anything funny,  she said gravely, when she could be\nheard.  Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my Professor\nto open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate. \n\n She is putting on airs already,  said Laurie, who regarded the idea in\nthe light of a capital joke.  But may I inquire how you intend to\nsupport the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins,\nI m afraid your crop won t be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs.\nBhaer. \n\n Now don t be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils,\nalso perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I ve got a start, I\ncan take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people s\nchildren often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I ve seen\nunfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed\nforward, when it s real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagment\nor neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get\nthrough the hobbledehoy age, and that s the very time they need most\npatience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try\nto keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from\npretty children into fine young men. They don t complain much plucky\nlittle souls but they feel it. I ve been through something of it, and I\nknow all about it. I ve a special interest in such young bears, and\nlike to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys \nhearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads.\nI ve had experience, too, for haven t I brought up one boy to be a\npride and honor to his family? \n\n I ll testify that you tried to do it,  said Laurie with a grateful\nlook.\n\n And I ve succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady,\nsensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying\nup the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not\nmerely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them\nyourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times.\nI am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone\nfeels it, though you won t let them say so. Yes, and when I have my\nflock, I ll just point to you, and say  There s your model, my lads . \n\nPoor Laurie didn t know where to look, for, man though he was,\nsomething of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise\nmade all faces turn approvingly upon him.\n\n I say, Jo, that s rather too much,  he began, just in his old boyish\nway.  You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for,\nexcept by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me\noff lately, Jo, but I ve had the best of help, nevertheless. So, if\nI ve got on at all, you may thank these two for it,  and he laid one\nhand gently on his grandfather s head, and the other on Amy s golden\none, for the three were never far apart.\n\n I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the\nworld!  burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind\njust then.  When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as\nthe three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only\nhere, it would be quite a little heaven on earth,  she added more\nquietly. And that night when she went to her room after a blissful\nevening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of\nhappiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed\nalways near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.\n\nIt was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen\nin an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew\nwhere she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then\na family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished\nsurprisingly, poor boys as well as rich, for Mr. Laurence was\ncontinually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the\nBhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for\nits support. In this way, the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and\nfurnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.\n\nOf course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but\nthe wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most\nrampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her\n wilderness of boys , and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented\nhad she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered\nPlumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of\npoetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the\nterror of the boys for miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely\non forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved,\nand played cricket in the big field where the irritable  cow with a\ncrumpled horn  used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It\nbecame a sort of boys  paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be\ncalled the  Bhaer-garten , as a compliment to its master and\nappropriate to its inhabitants.\n\nIt never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a\nfortune, but it was just what Jo intended it to be a happy, homelike\nplace for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness . Every room in\nthe big house was soon full. Every little plot in the garden soon had\nits owner. A regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet\nanimals were allowed. And three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz\nfrom the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy\nyoung faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding\nwords, and grateful hearts, full of love for  Mother Bhaer . She had\nboys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels,\nby any means, and some of them caused both Professor and Professorin\nmuch trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists\nin the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little\nragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal\nboy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as\nbenevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times\nseven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads, their\npenitent sniffs and whispers after wrongdoing, their droll or touching\nlittle confidences, their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even\ntheir misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more.\nThere were slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys and riotous boys,\nboys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a\nmerry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was\nwelcome to the  Bhaer-garten , though some people predicted that his\nadmission would ruin the school.\n\nYes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much\nanxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the\napplause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for\nnow she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers\nand admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to\nincrease her happiness Rob, named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a\nhappy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa s sunshiny\ntemper as well as his mother s lively spirit. How they ever grew up\nalive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and\naunts, but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough\nnurses loved and served them well.\n\nThere were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most\ndelightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches,\nLaurences, Brookes and Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day\nof it. Five years after Jo s wedding, one of these fruitful festivals\noccurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an\nexhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance\nhealthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire.\nGoldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped\nbriskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a\nfeast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds twittered\ntheir adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree stood ready to\nsend down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake.\nEverybody was there. Everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled\ndown. Everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day\nor such a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave themselves up to the\nsimple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things\nas care or sorrow in the world.\n\nMr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and\nColumella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying...\n\nThe gentle apple s winey juice.\n\nThe Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout\nTeutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made\na hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the\nway of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little\nones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among\nthe bird s nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs.\nMarch and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting\nthe contributions that kept pouring in, while Amy with a beautiful\nmotherly expression in her face sketched the various groups, and\nwatched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch\nbeside him.\n\nJo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned\nup, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her\narm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy\nbore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never\nfelt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad,\ngalloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by\nhis indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies\ncould digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and\ntheir own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in\ntime, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back\nwith a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.\n\nAt four o clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while\nthe apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and\nMeg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the\ngrass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day.\nThe land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for\nthe lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of\nrefreshment as they liked freedom being the sauce best beloved by the\nboyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the\nfullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk\nwhile standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by\neating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over\nthe field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of\nbird. The little girls had a private tea party, and Ted roved among the\nedibles at his own sweet will.\n\nWhen no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first\nregular toast, which was always drunk at such times Aunt March, God\nbless her!  A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot\nhow much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been\ntaught to keep her memory green.\n\n Now, Grandma s sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times\nthree! \n\nThat was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering\nonce begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody s health was proposed,\nfrom Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the\nastonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search\nof its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the\nqueen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were\ntransported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some\nof them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments\nto Grandma s for the children s gifts were all their own. Every stitch\nDaisy s patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she\nhemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March. Demi s miracle of\nmechanical skill, though the cover wouldn t shut, Rob s footstool had a\nwiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was soothing, and no page\nof the costly book Amy s child gave her was so fair as that on which\nappeared in tipsy capitals, the words To dear Grandma, from her little\nBeth. \n\nDuring the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared, and when\nMrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while\nTeddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to\nsing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and\nfrom tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys\nsang with all their hearts the little song that Jo had written, Laurie\nset to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give with the best\neffect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand\nsuccess, for Mrs. March couldn t get over her surprise, and insisted on\nshaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz\nand Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.\n\nAfter this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and\nher daughters under the festival tree.\n\n I don t think I ever ought to call myself  unlucky Jo  again, when my\ngreatest wish has been so beautifully gratified,  said Mrs. Bhaer,\ntaking Teddy s little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was\nrapturously churning.\n\n And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long\nago. Do you remember our castles in the air?  asked Amy, smiling as she\nwatched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.\n\n Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business and\nfrolic for a day,  answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all\nmankind.  Yes, I remember, but the life I wanted then seems selfish,\nlonely, and cold to me now. I haven t given up the hope that I may\nwrite a good book yet, but I can wait, and I m sure it will be all the\nbetter for such experiences and illustrations as these,  and Jo pointed\nfrom the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the\nProfessor s arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one\nof the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her\nmother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in\nher lap and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face\nwhich never could grow old to them.\n\n My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid\nthings, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I\nhad a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I ve\ngot them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world,  and\nMeg laid her hand on her tall boy s head, with a face full of tender\nand devout content.\n\n My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter\nit, though, like Jo, I don t relinquish all my artistic hopes, or\nconfine myself to helping others fulfill their dreams of beauty. I ve\nbegun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing\nI ve ever done. I think so, myself, and mean to do it in marble, so\nthat, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little\nangel. \n\nAs Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping\nchild in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little\ncreature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy s\nsunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one\nlove and sorrow bound them closely together. Amy s nature was growing\nsweeter, deeper, and more tender. Laurie was growing more serious,\nstrong, and firm, and both were learning that beauty, youth, good\nfortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow,\nfrom the most blessed for ...\n\nInto each life some rain must fall,\nSome days must be dark and sad and dreary.\n\n\n She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don t despond, but\nhope and keep happy,  said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted Daisy stooped\nfrom her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin s pale\none.\n\n I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie\nto take more than half of every burden,  replied Amy warmly.  He never\nlets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so\ndevoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can t\nlove him enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg,\n Thank God, I m a happy woman. \n\n There s no need for me to say it, for everyone can see that I m far\nhappier than I deserve,  added Jo, glancing from her good husband to\nher chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her.  Fritz is\ngetting gray and stout. I m growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty.\nWe never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that\nincorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the\nbed-clothes, though he s set himself afire three times already. But in\nspite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and\nnever was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among\nboys, I can t help using their expressions now and then. \n\n Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one,  began Mrs. March,\nfrightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of\ncountenance.\n\n Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank\nyou enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done,  cried Jo,\nwith the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.\n\n I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year,  said Amy\nsoftly.\n\n A large sheaf, but I know there s room in your heart for it, Marmee\ndear,  added Meg s tender voice.\n\nTouched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if\nto gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and\nvoice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility...\n\n Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a\ngreater happiness than this! \n"
    },
    {
        "title": "Peter Pan",
        "author": "James M. Barrie",
        "category": "Children's Books",
        "EN": "Chapter I.\nPETER BREAKS THROUGH\n\n\nAll children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow\nup, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old\nshe was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran\nwith it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather\ndelightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried,  Oh,\nwhy can t you remain like this for ever!  This was all that passed\nbetween them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must\ngrow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the\nend.\n\nOf course they lived at 14, and until Wendy came her mother was the\nchief one. She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet\nmocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within\nthe other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover\nthere is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on\nit that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly\nconspicuous in the right-hand corner.\n\nThe way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been\nboys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her,\nand they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who\ntook a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her,\nexcept the innermost box and the kiss. He never knew about the box, and\nin time he gave up trying for the kiss. Wendy thought Napoleon could\nhave got it, but I can picture him trying, and then going off in a\npassion, slamming the door.\n\nMr. Darling used to boast to Wendy that her mother not only loved him\nbut respected him. He was one of those deep ones who know about stocks\nand shares. Of course no one really knows, but he quite seemed to know,\nand he often said stocks were up and shares were down in a way that\nwould have made any woman respect him.\n\nMrs. Darling was married in white, and at first she kept the books\nperfectly, almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a\nBrussels sprout was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers dropped\nout, and instead of them there were pictures of babies without faces.\nShe drew them when she should have been totting up. They were Mrs.\nDarling s guesses.\n\nWendy came first, then John, then Michael.\n\nFor a week or two after Wendy came it was doubtful whether they would\nbe able to keep her, as she was another mouth to feed. Mr. Darling was\nfrightfully proud of her, but he was very honourable, and he sat on the\nedge of Mrs. Darling s bed, holding her hand and calculating expenses,\nwhile she looked at him imploringly. She wanted to risk it, come what\nmight, but that was not his way; his way was with a pencil and a piece\nof paper, and if she confused him with suggestions he had to begin at\nthe beginning again.\n\n Now don t interrupt,  he would beg of her.\n\n I have one pound seventeen here, and two and six at the office; I can\ncut off my coffee at the office, say ten shillings, making two nine and\nsix, with your eighteen and three makes three nine seven, with five\nnaught naught in my cheque-book makes eight nine seven who is that\nmoving? eight nine seven, dot and carry seven don t speak, my own and\nthe pound you lent to that man who came to the door quiet, child dot\nand carry child there, you ve done it! did I say nine nine seven? yes,\nI said nine nine seven; the question is, can we try it for a year on\nnine nine seven? \n\n Of course we can, George,  she cried. But she was prejudiced in\nWendy s favour, and he was really the grander character of the two.\n\n Remember mumps,  he warned her almost threateningly, and off he went\nagain.  Mumps one pound, that is what I have put down, but I daresay it\nwill be more like thirty shillings don t speak measles one five, German\nmeasles half a guinea, makes two fifteen six don t waggle your\nfinger whooping-cough, say fifteen shillings and so on it went, and it\nadded up differently each time; but at last Wendy just got through,\nwith mumps reduced to twelve six, and the two kinds of measles treated\nas one.\n\nThere was the same excitement over John, and Michael had even a\nnarrower squeak; but both were kept, and soon, you might have seen the\nthree of them going in a row to Miss Fulsom s Kindergarten school,\naccompanied by their nurse.\n\nMrs. Darling loved to have everything just so, and Mr. Darling had a\npassion for being exactly like his neighbours; so, of course, they had\na nurse. As they were poor, owing to the amount of milk the children\ndrank, this nurse was a prim Newfoundland dog, called Nana, who had\nbelonged to no one in particular until the Darlings engaged her. She\nhad always thought children important, however, and the Darlings had\nbecome acquainted with her in Kensington Gardens, where she spent most\nof her spare time peeping into perambulators, and was much hated by\ncareless nursemaids, whom she followed to their homes and complained of\nto their mistresses. She proved to be quite a treasure of a nurse. How\nthorough she was at bath-time, and up at any moment of the night if one\nof her charges made the slightest cry. Of course her kennel was in the\nnursery. She had a genius for knowing when a cough is a thing to have\nno patience with and when it needs stocking around your throat. She\nbelieved to her last day in old-fashioned remedies like rhubarb leaf,\nand made sounds of contempt over all this new-fangled talk about germs,\nand so on. It was a lesson in propriety to see her escorting the\nchildren to school, walking sedately by their side when they were well\nbehaved, and butting them back into line if they strayed. On John s\nfooter days she never once forgot his sweater, and she usually carried\nan umbrella in her mouth in case of rain. There is a room in the\nbasement of Miss Fulsom s school where the nurses wait. They sat on\nforms, while Nana lay on the floor, but that was the only difference.\nThey affected to ignore her as of an inferior social status to\nthemselves, and she despised their light talk. She resented visits to\nthe nursery from Mrs. Darling s friends, but if they did come she first\nwhipped off Michael s pinafore and put him into the one with blue\nbraiding, and smoothed out Wendy and made a dash at John s hair.\n\nNo nursery could possibly have been conducted more correctly, and Mr.\nDarling knew it, yet he sometimes wondered uneasily whether the\nneighbours talked.\n\nHe had his position in the city to consider.\n\nNana also troubled him in another way. He had sometimes a feeling that\nshe did not admire him.  I know she admires you tremendously, George, \nMrs. Darling would assure him, and then she would sign to the children\nto be specially nice to father. Lovely dances followed, in which the\nonly other servant, Liza, was sometimes allowed to join. Such a midget\nshe looked in her long skirt and maid s cap, though she had sworn, when\nengaged, that she would never see ten again. The gaiety of those romps!\nAnd gayest of all was Mrs. Darling, who would pirouette so wildly that\nall you could see of her was the kiss, and then if you had dashed at\nher you might have got it. There never was a simpler happier family\nuntil the coming of Peter Pan.\n\nMrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up her\nchildren s minds. It is the nightly custom of every good mother after\nher children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things\nstraight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many\narticles that have wandered during the day. If you could keep awake\n(but of course you can t) you would see your own mother doing this, and\nyou would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like\ntidying up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering\nhumorously over some of your contents, wondering where on earth you had\npicked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not so sweet,\npressing this to her cheek as if it were as nice as a kitten, and\nhurriedly stowing that out of sight. When you wake in the morning, the\nnaughtiness and evil passions with which you went to bed have been\nfolded up small and placed at the bottom of your mind and on the top,\nbeautifully aired, are spread out your prettier thoughts, ready for you\nto put on.\n\nI don t know whether you have ever seen a map of a person s mind.\nDoctors sometimes draw maps of other parts of you, and your own map can\nbecome intensely interesting, but catch them trying to draw a map of a\nchild s mind, which is not only confused, but keeps going round all the\ntime. There are zigzag lines on it, just like your temperature on a\ncard, and these are probably roads in the island, for the Neverland is\nalways more or less an island, with astonishing splashes of colour here\nand there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in the offing, and\nsavages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and caves\nthrough which a river runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a\nhut fast going to decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked\nnose. It would be an easy map if that were all, but there is also first\nday at school, religion, fathers, the round pond, needle-work, murders,\nhangings, verbs that take the dative, chocolate pudding day, getting\ninto braces, say ninety-nine, three-pence for pulling out your tooth\nyourself, and so on, and either these are part of the island or they\nare another map showing through, and it is all rather confusing,\nespecially as nothing will stand still.\n\nOf course the Neverlands vary a good deal. John s, for instance, had a\nlagoon with flamingoes flying over it at which John was shooting, while\nMichael, who was very small, had a flamingo with lagoons flying over\nit. John lived in a boat turned upside down on the sands, Michael in a\nwigwam, Wendy in a house of leaves deftly sewn together. John had no\nfriends, Michael had friends at night, Wendy had a pet wolf forsaken by\nits parents, but on the whole the Neverlands have a family resemblance,\nand if they stood still in a row you could say of them that they have\neach other s nose, and so forth. On these magic shores children at play\nare for ever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can\nstill hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.\n\nOf all delectable islands the Neverland is the snuggest and most\ncompact, not large and sprawly, you know, with tedious distances\nbetween one adventure and another, but nicely crammed. When you play at\nit by day with the chairs and table-cloth, it is not in the least\nalarming, but in the two minutes before you go to sleep it becomes very\nreal. That is why there are night-lights.\n\nOccasionally in her travels through her children s minds Mrs. Darling\nfound things she could not understand, and of these quite the most\nperplexing was the word Peter. She knew of no Peter, and yet he was\nhere and there in John and Michael s minds, while Wendy s began to be\nscrawled all over with him. The name stood out in bolder letters than\nany of the other words, and as Mrs. Darling gazed she felt that it had\nan oddly cocky appearance.\n\n Yes, he is rather cocky,  Wendy admitted with regret. Her mother had\nbeen questioning her.\n\n But who is he, my pet? \n\n He is Peter Pan, you know, mother. \n\nAt first Mrs. Darling did not know, but after thinking back into her\nchildhood she just remembered a Peter Pan who was said to live with the\nfairies. There were odd stories about him, as that when children died\nhe went part of the way with them, so that they should not be\nfrightened. She had believed in him at the time, but now that she was\nmarried and full of sense she quite doubted whether there was any such\nperson.\n\n Besides,  she said to Wendy,  he would be grown up by this time. \n\n Oh no, he isn t grown up,  Wendy assured her confidently,  and he is\njust my size.  She meant that he was her size in both mind and body;\nshe didn t know how she knew, she just knew it.\n\nMrs. Darling consulted Mr. Darling, but he smiled pooh-pooh.  Mark my\nwords,  he said,  it is some nonsense Nana has been putting into their\nheads; just the sort of idea a dog would have. Leave it alone, and it\nwill blow over. \n\nBut it would not blow over and soon the troublesome boy gave Mrs.\nDarling quite a shock.\n\nChildren have the strangest adventures without being troubled by them.\nFor instance, they may remember to mention, a week after the event\nhappened, that when they were in the wood they had met their dead\nfather and had a game with him. It was in this casual way that Wendy\none morning made a disquieting revelation. Some leaves of a tree had\nbeen found on the nursery floor, which certainly were not there when\nthe children went to bed, and Mrs. Darling was puzzling over them when\nWendy said with a tolerant smile:\n\n I do believe it is that Peter again! \n\n Whatever do you mean, Wendy? \n\n It is so naughty of him not to wipe his feet,  Wendy said, sighing.\nShe was a tidy child.\n\nShe explained in quite a matter-of-fact way that she thought Peter\nsometimes came to the nursery in the night and sat on the foot of her\nbed and played on his pipes to her. Unfortunately she never woke, so\nshe didn t know how she knew, she just knew.\n\n What nonsense you talk, precious. No one can get into the house\nwithout knocking. \n\n I think he comes in by the window,  she said.\n\n My love, it is three floors up. \n\n Were not the leaves at the foot of the window, mother? \n\nIt was quite true; the leaves had been found very near the window.\n\nMrs. Darling did not know what to think, for it all seemed so natural\nto Wendy that you could not dismiss it by saying she had been dreaming.\n\n My child,  the mother cried,  why did you not tell me of this before? \n\n I forgot,  said Wendy lightly. She was in a hurry to get her\nbreakfast.\n\nOh, surely she must have been dreaming.\n\nBut, on the other hand, there were the leaves. Mrs. Darling examined\nthem very carefully; they were skeleton leaves, but she was sure they\ndid not come from any tree that grew in England. She crawled about the\nfloor, peering at it with a candle for marks of a strange foot. She\nrattled the poker up the chimney and tapped the walls. She let down a\ntape from the window to the pavement, and it was a sheer drop of thirty\nfeet, without so much as a spout to climb up by.\n\nCertainly Wendy had been dreaming.\n\nBut Wendy had not been dreaming, as the very next night showed, the\nnight on which the extraordinary adventures of these children may be\nsaid to have begun.\n\nOn the night we speak of all the children were once more in bed. It\nhappened to be Nana s evening off, and Mrs. Darling had bathed them and\nsung to them till one by one they had let go her hand and slid away\ninto the land of sleep.\n\nAll were looking so safe and cosy that she smiled at her fears now and\nsat down tranquilly by the fire to sew.\n\nIt was something for Michael, who on his birthday was getting into\nshirts. The fire was warm, however, and the nursery dimly lit by three\nnight-lights, and presently the sewing lay on Mrs. Darling s lap. Then\nher head nodded, oh, so gracefully. She was asleep. Look at the four of\nthem, Wendy and Michael over there, John here, and Mrs. Darling by the\nfire. There should have been a fourth night-light.\n\nWhile she slept she had a dream. She dreamt that the Neverland had come\ntoo near and that a strange boy had broken through from it. He did not\nalarm her, for she thought she had seen him before in the faces of many\nwomen who have no children. Perhaps he is to be found in the faces of\nsome mothers also. But in her dream he had rent the film that obscures\nthe Neverland, and she saw Wendy and John and Michael peeping through\nthe gap.\n\nThe dream by itself would have been a trifle, but while she was\ndreaming the window of the nursery blew open, and a boy did drop on the\nfloor. He was accompanied by a strange light, no bigger than your fist,\nwhich darted about the room like a living thing and I think it must\nhave been this light that wakened Mrs. Darling.\n\nShe started up with a cry, and saw the boy, and somehow she knew at\nonce that he was Peter Pan. If you or I or Wendy had been there we\nshould have seen that he was very like Mrs. Darling s kiss. He was a\nlovely boy, clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out of\ntrees but the most entrancing thing about him was that he had all his\nfirst teeth. When he saw she was a grown-up, he gnashed the little\npearls at her.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II.\nTHE SHADOW\n\n\nMrs. Darling screamed, and, as if in answer to a bell, the door opened,\nand Nana entered, returned from her evening out. She growled and sprang\nat the boy, who leapt lightly through the window. Again Mrs. Darling\nscreamed, this time in distress for him, for she thought he was killed,\nand she ran down into the street to look for his little body, but it\nwas not there; and she looked up, and in the black night she could see\nnothing but what she thought was a shooting star.\n\nShe returned to the nursery, and found Nana with something in her\nmouth, which proved to be the boy s shadow. As he leapt at the window\nNana had closed it quickly, too late to catch him, but his shadow had\nnot had time to get out; slam went the window and snapped it off.\n\nYou may be sure Mrs. Darling examined the shadow carefully, but it was\nquite the ordinary kind.\n\nNana had no doubt of what was the best thing to do with this shadow.\nShe hung it out at the window, meaning  He is sure to come back for it;\nlet us put it where he can get it easily without disturbing the\nchildren. \n\nBut unfortunately Mrs. Darling could not leave it hanging out at the\nwindow, it looked so like the washing and lowered the whole tone of the\nhouse. She thought of showing it to Mr. Darling, but he was totting up\nwinter great-coats for John and Michael, with a wet towel around his\nhead to keep his brain clear, and it seemed a shame to trouble him;\nbesides, she knew exactly what he would say:  It all comes of having a\ndog for a nurse. \n\nShe decided to roll the shadow up and put it away carefully in a\ndrawer, until a fitting opportunity came for telling her husband. Ah\nme!\n\nThe opportunity came a week later, on that never-to-be-forgotten\nFriday. Of course it was a Friday.\n\n I ought to have been specially careful on a Friday,  she used to say\nafterwards to her husband, while perhaps Nana was on the other side of\nher, holding her hand.\n\n No, no,  Mr. Darling always said,  I am responsible for it all. I,\nGeorge Darling, did it. _Mea culpa, mea culpa_.  He had had a classical\neducation.\n\nThey sat thus night after night recalling that fatal Friday, till every\ndetail of it was stamped on their brains and came through on the other\nside like the faces on a bad coinage.\n\n If only I had not accepted that invitation to dine at 27,  Mrs.\nDarling said.\n\n If only I had not poured my medicine into Nana s bowl,  said Mr.\nDarling.\n\n If only I had pretended to like the medicine,  was what Nana s wet\neyes said.\n\n My liking for parties, George. \n\n My fatal gift of humour, dearest. \n\n My touchiness about trifles, dear master and mistress. \n\nThen one or more of them would break down altogether; Nana at the\nthought,  It s true, it s true, they ought not to have had a dog for a\nnurse.  Many a time it was Mr. Darling who put the handkerchief to\nNana s eyes.\n\n That fiend!  Mr. Darling would cry, and Nana s bark was the echo of\nit, but Mrs. Darling never upbraided Peter; there was something in the\nright-hand corner of her mouth that wanted her not to call Peter names.\n\nThey would sit there in the empty nursery, recalling fondly every\nsmallest detail of that dreadful evening. It had begun so uneventfully,\nso precisely like a hundred other evenings, with Nana putting on the\nwater for Michael s bath and carrying him to it on her back.\n\n I won t go to bed,  he had shouted, like one who still believed that\nhe had the last word on the subject,  I won t, I won t. Nana, it isn t\nsix o clock yet. Oh dear, oh dear, I shan t love you any more, Nana. I\ntell you I won t be bathed, I won t, I won t! \n\nThen Mrs. Darling had come in, wearing her white evening-gown. She had\ndressed early because Wendy so loved to see her in her evening-gown,\nwith the necklace George had given her. She was wearing Wendy s\nbracelet on her arm; she had asked for the loan of it. Wendy loved to\nlend her bracelet to her mother.\n\nShe had found her two older children playing at being herself and\nfather on the occasion of Wendy s birth, and John was saying:\n\n I am happy to inform you, Mrs. Darling, that you are now a mother,  in\njust such a tone as Mr. Darling himself may have used on the real\noccasion.\n\nWendy had danced with joy, just as the real Mrs. Darling must have\ndone.\n\nThen John was born, with the extra pomp that he conceived due to the\nbirth of a male, and Michael came from his bath to ask to be born also,\nbut John said brutally that they did not want any more.\n\nMichael had nearly cried.  Nobody wants me,  he said, and of course the\nlady in the evening-dress could not stand that.\n\n I do,  she said,  I so want a third child. \n\n Boy or girl?  asked Michael, not too hopefully.\n\n Boy. \n\nThen he had leapt into her arms. Such a little thing for Mr. and Mrs.\nDarling and Nana to recall now, but not so little if that was to be\nMichael s last night in the nursery.\n\nThey go on with their recollections.\n\n It was then that I rushed in like a tornado, wasn t it?  Mr. Darling\nwould say, scorning himself; and indeed he had been like a tornado.\n\nPerhaps there was some excuse for him. He, too, had been dressing for\nthe party, and all had gone well with him until he came to his tie. It\nis an astounding thing to have to tell, but this man, though he knew\nabout stocks and shares, had no real mastery of his tie. Sometimes the\nthing yielded to him without a contest, but there were occasions when\nit would have been better for the house if he had swallowed his pride\nand used a made-up tie.\n\nThis was such an occasion. He came rushing into the nursery with the\ncrumpled little brute of a tie in his hand.\n\n Why, what is the matter, father dear? \n\n Matter!  he yelled; he really yelled.  This tie, it will not tie.  He\nbecame dangerously sarcastic.  Not round my neck! Round the bed-post!\nOh yes, twenty times have I made it up round the bed-post, but round my\nneck, no! Oh dear no! begs to be excused! \n\nHe thought Mrs. Darling was not sufficiently impressed, and he went on\nsternly,  I warn you of this, mother, that unless this tie is round my\nneck we don t go out to dinner to-night, and if I don t go out to\ndinner to-night, I never go to the office again, and if I don t go to\nthe office again, you and I starve, and our children will be flung into\nthe streets. \n\nEven then Mrs. Darling was placid.  Let me try, dear,  she said, and\nindeed that was what he had come to ask her to do, and with her nice\ncool hands she tied his tie for him, while the children stood around to\nsee their fate decided. Some men would have resented her being able to\ndo it so easily, but Mr. Darling had far too fine a nature for that; he\nthanked her carelessly, at once forgot his rage, and in another moment\nwas dancing round the room with Michael on his back.\n\n How wildly we romped!  says Mrs. Darling now, recalling it.\n\n Our last romp!  Mr. Darling groaned.\n\n O George, do you remember Michael suddenly said to me,  How did you\nget to know me, mother? \n\n I remember! \n\n They were rather sweet, don t you think, George? \n\n And they were ours, ours! and now they are gone. \n\nThe romp had ended with the appearance of Nana, and most unluckily Mr.\nDarling collided against her, covering his trousers with hairs. They\nwere not only new trousers, but they were the first he had ever had\nwith braid on them, and he had had to bite his lip to prevent the tears\ncoming. Of course Mrs. Darling brushed him, but he began to talk again\nabout its being a mistake to have a dog for a nurse.\n\n George, Nana is a treasure. \n\n No doubt, but I have an uneasy feeling at times that she looks upon\nthe children as puppies. \n\n Oh no, dear one, I feel sure she knows they have souls. \n\n I wonder,  Mr. Darling said thoughtfully,  I wonder.  It was an\nopportunity, his wife felt, for telling him about the boy. At first he\npooh-poohed the story, but he became thoughtful when she showed him the\nshadow.\n\n It is nobody I know,  he said, examining it carefully,  but it does\nlook a scoundrel. \n\n We were still discussing it, you remember,  says Mr. Darling,  when\nNana came in with Michael s medicine. You will never carry the bottle\nin your mouth again, Nana, and it is all my fault. \n\nStrong man though he was, there is no doubt that he had behaved rather\nfoolishly over the medicine. If he had a weakness, it was for thinking\nthat all his life he had taken medicine boldly, and so now, when\nMichael dodged the spoon in Nana s mouth, he had said reprovingly,  Be\na man, Michael. \n\n Won t; won t!  Michael cried naughtily. Mrs. Darling left the room to\nget a chocolate for him, and Mr. Darling thought this showed want of\nfirmness.\n\n Mother, don t pamper him,  he called after her.  Michael, when I was\nyour age I took medicine without a murmur. I said,  Thank you, kind\nparents, for giving me bottles to make me well. \n\nHe really thought this was true, and Wendy, who was now in her\nnight-gown, believed it also, and she said, to encourage Michael,  That\nmedicine you sometimes take, father, is much nastier, isn t it? \n\n Ever so much nastier,  Mr. Darling said bravely,  and I would take it\nnow as an example to you, Michael, if I hadn t lost the bottle. \n\nHe had not exactly lost it; he had climbed in the dead of night to the\ntop of the wardrobe and hidden it there. What he did not know was that\nthe faithful Liza had found it, and put it back on his wash-stand.\n\n I know where it is, father,  Wendy cried, always glad to be of\nservice.  I ll bring it,  and she was off before he could stop her.\nImmediately his spirits sank in the strangest way.\n\n John,  he said, shuddering,  it s most beastly stuff. It s that nasty,\nsticky, sweet kind. \n\n It will soon be over, father,  John said cheerily, and then in rushed\nWendy with the medicine in a glass.\n\n I have been as quick as I could,  she panted.\n\n You have been wonderfully quick,  her father retorted, with a\nvindictive politeness that was quite thrown away upon her.  Michael\nfirst,  he said doggedly.\n\n Father first,  said Michael, who was of a suspicious nature.\n\n I shall be sick, you know,  Mr. Darling said threateningly.\n\n Come on, father,  said John.\n\n Hold your tongue, John,  his father rapped out.\n\nWendy was quite puzzled.  I thought you took it quite easily, father. \n\n That is not the point,  he retorted.  The point is, that there is more\nin my glass than in Michael s spoon.  His proud heart was nearly\nbursting.  And it isn t fair: I would say it though it were with my\nlast breath; it isn t fair. \n\n Father, I am waiting,  said Michael coldly.\n\n It s all very well to say you are waiting; so am I waiting. \n\n Father s a cowardly custard. \n\n So are you a cowardly custard. \n\n I m not frightened. \n\n Neither am I frightened. \n\n Well, then, take it. \n\n Well, then, you take it. \n\nWendy had a splendid idea.  Why not both take it at the same time? \n\n Certainly,  said Mr. Darling.  Are you ready, Michael? \n\nWendy gave the words, one, two, three, and Michael took his medicine,\nbut Mr. Darling slipped his behind his back.\n\nThere was a yell of rage from Michael, and  O father!  Wendy exclaimed.\n\n What do you mean by  O father ?  Mr. Darling demanded.  Stop that row,\nMichael. I meant to take mine, but I I missed it. \n\nIt was dreadful the way all the three were looking at him, just as if\nthey did not admire him.  Look here, all of you,  he said entreatingly,\nas soon as Nana had gone into the bathroom.  I have just thought of a\nsplendid joke. I shall pour my medicine into Nana s bowl, and she will\ndrink it, thinking it is milk! \n\nIt was the colour of milk; but the children did not have their father s\nsense of humour, and they looked at him reproachfully as he poured the\nmedicine into Nana s bowl.  What fun!  he said doubtfully, and they did\nnot dare expose him when Mrs. Darling and Nana returned.\n\n Nana, good dog,  he said, patting her,  I have put a little milk into\nyour bowl, Nana. \n\nNana wagged her tail, ran to the medicine, and began lapping it. Then\nshe gave Mr. Darling such a look, not an angry look: she showed him the\ngreat red tear that makes us so sorry for noble dogs, and crept into\nher kennel.\n\nMr. Darling was frightfully ashamed of himself, but he would not give\nin. In a horrid silence Mrs. Darling smelt the bowl.  O George,  she\nsaid,  it s your medicine! \n\n It was only a joke,  he roared, while she comforted her boys, and\nWendy hugged Nana.  Much good,  he said bitterly,  my wearing myself to\nthe bone trying to be funny in this house. \n\nAnd still Wendy hugged Nana.  That s right,  he shouted.  Coddle her!\nNobody coddles me. Oh dear no! I am only the breadwinner, why should I\nbe coddled why, why, why! \n\n George,  Mrs. Darling entreated him,  not so loud; the servants will\nhear you.  Somehow they had got into the way of calling Liza the\nservants.\n\n Let them!  he answered recklessly.  Bring in the whole world. But I\nrefuse to allow that dog to lord it in my nursery for an hour longer. \n\nThe children wept, and Nana ran to him beseechingly, but he waved her\nback. He felt he was a strong man again.  In vain, in vain,  he cried;\n the proper place for you is the yard, and there you go to be tied up\nthis instant. \n\n George, George,  Mrs. Darling whispered,  remember what I told you\nabout that boy. \n\nAlas, he would not listen. He was determined to show who was master in\nthat house, and when commands would not draw Nana from the kennel, he\nlured her out of it with honeyed words, and seizing her roughly,\ndragged her from the nursery. He was ashamed of himself, and yet he did\nit. It was all owing to his too affectionate nature, which craved for\nadmiration. When he had tied her up in the back-yard, the wretched\nfather went and sat in the passage, with his knuckles to his eyes.\n\nIn the meantime Mrs. Darling had put the children to bed in unwonted\nsilence and lit their night-lights. They could hear Nana barking, and\nJohn whimpered,  It is because he is chaining her up in the yard,  but\nWendy was wiser.\n\n That is not Nana s unhappy bark,  she said, little guessing what was\nabout to happen;  that is her bark when she smells danger. \n\nDanger!\n\n Are you sure, Wendy? \n\n Oh, yes. \n\nMrs. Darling quivered and went to the window. It was securely fastened.\nShe looked out, and the night was peppered with stars. They were\ncrowding round the house, as if curious to see what was to take place\nthere, but she did not notice this, nor that one or two of the smaller\nones winked at her. Yet a nameless fear clutched at her heart and made\nher cry,  Oh, how I wish that I wasn t going to a party to-night! \n\nEven Michael, already half asleep, knew that she was perturbed, and he\nasked,  Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit? \n\n Nothing, precious,  she said;  they are the eyes a mother leaves\nbehind her to guard her children. \n\nShe went from bed to bed singing enchantments over them, and little\nMichael flung his arms round her.  Mother,  he cried,  I m glad of\nyou.  They were the last words she was to hear from him for a long\ntime.\n\nNo. 27 was only a few yards distant, but there had been a slight fall\nof snow, and Father and Mother Darling picked their way over it deftly\nnot to soil their shoes. They were already the only persons in the\nstreet, and all the stars were watching them. Stars are beautiful, but\nthey may not take an active part in anything, they must just look on\nfor ever. It is a punishment put on them for something they did so long\nago that no star now knows what it was. So the older ones have become\nglassy-eyed and seldom speak (winking is the star language), but the\nlittle ones still wonder. They are not really friendly to Peter, who\nhad a mischievous way of stealing up behind them and trying to blow\nthem out; but they are so fond of fun that they were on his side\nto-night, and anxious to get the grown-ups out of the way. So as soon\nas the door of 27 closed on Mr. and Mrs. Darling there was a commotion\nin the firmament, and the smallest of all the stars in the Milky Way\nscreamed out:\n\n Now, Peter! \n\n\n\n\nChapter III.\nCOME AWAY, COME AWAY!\n\n\nFor a moment after Mr. and Mrs. Darling left the house the night-lights\nby the beds of the three children continued to burn clearly. They were\nawfully nice little night-lights, and one cannot help wishing that they\ncould have kept awake to see Peter; but Wendy s light blinked and gave\nsuch a yawn that the other two yawned also, and before they could close\ntheir mouths all the three went out.\n\nThere was another light in the room now, a thousand times brighter than\nthe night-lights, and in the time we have taken to say this, it had\nbeen in all the drawers in the nursery, looking for Peter s shadow,\nrummaged the wardrobe and turned every pocket inside out. It was not\nreally a light; it made this light by flashing about so quickly, but\nwhen it came to rest for a second you saw it was a fairy, no longer\nthan your hand, but still growing. It was a girl called Tinker Bell\nexquisitely gowned in a skeleton leaf, cut low and square, through\nwhich her figure could be seen to the best advantage. She was slightly\ninclined to _embonpoint_.\n\nA moment after the fairy s entrance the window was blown open by the\nbreathing of the little stars, and Peter dropped in. He had carried\nTinker Bell part of the way, and his hand was still messy with the\nfairy dust.\n\n Tinker Bell,  he called softly, after making sure that the children\nwere asleep,  Tink, where are you?  She was in a jug for the moment,\nand liking it extremely; she had never been in a jug before.\n\n Oh, do come out of that jug, and tell me, do you know where they put\nmy shadow? \n\nThe loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered him. It is the fairy\nlanguage. You ordinary children can never hear it, but if you were to\nhear it you would know that you had heard it once before.\n\nTink said that the shadow was in the big box. She meant the chest of\ndrawers, and Peter jumped at the drawers, scattering their contents to\nthe floor with both hands, as kings toss ha pence to the crowd. In a\nmoment he had recovered his shadow, and in his delight he forgot that\nhe had shut Tinker Bell up in the drawer.\n\nIf he thought at all, but I don t believe he ever thought, it was that\nhe and his shadow, when brought near each other, would join like drops\nof water, and when they did not he was appalled. He tried to stick it\non with soap from the bathroom, but that also failed. A shudder passed\nthrough Peter, and he sat on the floor and cried.\n\nHis sobs woke Wendy, and she sat up in bed. She was not alarmed to see\na stranger crying on the nursery floor; she was only pleasantly\ninterested.\n\n Boy,  she said courteously,  why are you crying? \n\nPeter could be exceeding polite also, having learned the grand manner\nat fairy ceremonies, and he rose and bowed to her beautifully. She was\nmuch pleased, and bowed beautifully to him from the bed.\n\n What s your name?  he asked.\n\n Wendy Moira Angela Darling,  she replied with some satisfaction.  What\nis your name? \n\n Peter Pan. \n\nShe was already sure that he must be Peter, but it did seem a\ncomparatively short name.\n\n Is that all? \n\n Yes,  he said rather sharply. He felt for the first time that it was a\nshortish name.\n\n I m so sorry,  said Wendy Moira Angela.\n\n It doesn t matter,  Peter gulped.\n\nShe asked where he lived.\n\n Second to the right,  said Peter,  and then straight on till morning. \n\n What a funny address! \n\nPeter had a sinking. For the first time he felt that perhaps it was a\nfunny address.\n\n No, it isn t,  he said.\n\n I mean,  Wendy said nicely, remembering that she was hostess,  is that\nwhat they put on the letters? \n\nHe wished she had not mentioned letters.\n\n Don t get any letters,  he said contemptuously.\n\n But your mother gets letters? \n\n Don t have a mother,  he said. Not only had he no mother, but he had\nnot the slightest desire to have one. He thought them very over-rated\npersons. Wendy, however, felt at once that she was in the presence of a\ntragedy.\n\n O Peter, no wonder you were crying,  she said, and got out of bed and\nran to him.\n\n I wasn t crying about mothers,  he said rather indignantly.  I was\ncrying because I can t get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn t\ncrying. \n\n It has come off? \n\n Yes. \n\nThen Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she\nwas frightfully sorry for Peter.  How awful!  she said, but she could\nnot help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on\nwith soap. How exactly like a boy!\n\nFortunately she knew at once what to do.  It must be sewn on,  she\nsaid, just a little patronisingly.\n\n What s sewn?  he asked.\n\n You re dreadfully ignorant. \n\n No, I m not. \n\nBut she was exulting in his ignorance.  I shall sew it on for you, my\nlittle man,  she said, though he was tall as herself, and she got out\nher housewife, and sewed the shadow on to Peter s foot.\n\n I daresay it will hurt a little,  she warned him.\n\n Oh, I shan t cry,  said Peter, who was already of the opinion that he\nhad never cried in his life. And he clenched his teeth and did not cry,\nand soon his shadow was behaving properly, though still a little\ncreased.\n\n Perhaps I should have ironed it,  Wendy said thoughtfully, but Peter,\nboylike, was indifferent to appearances, and he was now jumping about\nin the wildest glee. Alas, he had already forgotten that he owed his\nbliss to Wendy. He thought he had attached the shadow himself.  How\nclever I am!  he crowed rapturously,  oh, the cleverness of me! \n\nIt is humiliating to have to confess that this conceit of Peter was one\nof his most fascinating qualities. To put it with brutal frankness,\nthere never was a cockier boy.\n\nBut for the moment Wendy was shocked.  You conceit,  she exclaimed,\nwith frightful sarcasm;  of course I did nothing! \n\n You did a little,  Peter said carelessly, and continued to dance.\n\n A little!  she replied with hauteur;  if I am no use I can at least\nwithdraw,  and she sprang in the most dignified way into bed and\ncovered her face with the blankets.\n\nTo induce her to look up he pretended to be going away, and when this\nfailed he sat on the end of the bed and tapped her gently with his\nfoot.  Wendy,  he said,  don t withdraw. I can t help crowing, Wendy,\nwhen I m pleased with myself.  Still she would not look up, though she\nwas listening eagerly.  Wendy,  he continued, in a voice that no woman\nhas ever yet been able to resist,  Wendy, one girl is more use than\ntwenty boys. \n\nNow Wendy was every inch a woman, though there were not very many\ninches, and she peeped out of the bed-clothes.\n\n Do you really think so, Peter? \n\n Yes, I do. \n\n I think it s perfectly sweet of you,  she declared,  and I ll get up\nagain,  and she sat with him on the side of the bed. She also said she\nwould give him a kiss if he liked, but Peter did not know what she\nmeant, and he held out his hand expectantly.\n\n Surely you know what a kiss is?  she asked, aghast.\n\n I shall know when you give it to me,  he replied stiffly, and not to\nhurt his feeling she gave him a thimble.\n\n Now,  said he,  shall I give you a kiss?  and she replied with a\nslight primness,  If you please.  She made herself rather cheap by\ninclining her face toward him, but he merely dropped an acorn button\ninto her hand, so she slowly returned her face to where it had been\nbefore, and said nicely that she would wear his kiss on the chain\naround her neck. It was lucky that she did put it on that chain, for it\nwas afterwards to save her life.\n\nWhen people in our set are introduced, it is customary for them to ask\neach other s age, and so Wendy, who always liked to do the correct\nthing, asked Peter how old he was. It was not really a happy question\nto ask him; it was like an examination paper that asks grammar, when\nwhat you want to be asked is Kings of England.\n\n I don t know,  he replied uneasily,  but I am quite young.  He really\nknew nothing about it, he had merely suspicions, but he said at a\nventure,  Wendy, I ran away the day I was born. \n\nWendy was quite surprised, but interested; and she indicated in the\ncharming drawing-room manner, by a touch on her night-gown, that he\ncould sit nearer her.\n\n It was because I heard father and mother,  he explained in a low\nvoice,  talking about what I was to be when I became a man.  He was\nextraordinarily agitated now.  I don t want ever to be a man,  he said\nwith passion.  I want always to be a little boy and to have fun. So I\nran away to Kensington Gardens and lived a long long time among the\nfairies. \n\nShe gave him a look of the most intense admiration, and he thought it\nwas because he had run away, but it was really because he knew fairies.\nWendy had lived such a home life that to know fairies struck her as\nquite delightful. She poured out questions about them, to his surprise,\nfor they were rather a nuisance to him, getting in his way and so on,\nand indeed he sometimes had to give them a hiding. Still, he liked them\non the whole, and he told her about the beginning of fairies.\n\n You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed for the first time, its\nlaugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about,\nand that was the beginning of fairies. \n\nTedious talk this, but being a stay-at-home she liked it.\n\n And so,  he went on good-naturedly,  there ought to be one fairy for\nevery boy and girl. \n\n Ought to be? Isn t there? \n\n No. You see children know such a lot now, they soon don t believe in\nfairies, and every time a child says,  I don t believe in fairies, \nthere is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead. \n\nReally, he thought they had now talked enough about fairies, and it\nstruck him that Tinker Bell was keeping very quiet.  I can t think\nwhere she has gone to,  he said, rising, and he called Tink by name.\nWendy s heart went flutter with a sudden thrill.\n\n Peter,  she cried, clutching him,  you don t mean to tell me that\nthere is a fairy in this room! \n\n She was here just now,  he said a little impatiently.  You don t hear\nher, do you?  and they both listened.\n\n The only sound I hear,  said Wendy,  is like a tinkle of bells. \n\n Well, that s Tink, that s the fairy language. I think I hear her too. \n\nThe sound came from the chest of drawers, and Peter made a merry face.\nNo one could ever look quite so merry as Peter, and the loveliest of\ngurgles was his laugh. He had his first laugh still.\n\n Wendy,  he whispered gleefully,  I do believe I shut her up in the\ndrawer! \n\nHe let poor Tink out of the drawer, and she flew about the nursery\nscreaming with fury.  You shouldn t say such things,  Peter retorted.\n Of course I m very sorry, but how could I know you were in the\ndrawer? \n\nWendy was not listening to him.  O Peter,  she cried,  if she would\nonly stand still and let me see her! \n\n They hardly ever stand still,  he said, but for one moment Wendy saw\nthe romantic figure come to rest on the cuckoo clock.  O the lovely! \nshe cried, though Tink s face was still distorted with passion.\n\n Tink,  said Peter amiably,  this lady says she wishes you were her\nfairy. \n\nTinker Bell answered insolently.\n\n What does she say, Peter? \n\nHe had to translate.  She is not very polite. She says you are a great\nugly girl, and that she is my fairy. \n\nHe tried to argue with Tink.  You know you can t be my fairy, Tink,\nbecause I am an gentleman and you are a lady. \n\nTo this Tink replied in these words,  You silly ass,  and disappeared\ninto the bathroom.  She is quite a common fairy,  Peter explained\napologetically,  she is called Tinker Bell because she mends the pots\nand kettles. \n\nThey were together in the armchair by this time, and Wendy plied him\nwith more questions.\n\n If you don t live in Kensington Gardens now \n\n Sometimes I do still. \n\n But where do you live mostly now? \n\n With the lost boys. \n\n Who are they? \n\n They are the children who fall out of their perambulators when the\nnurse is looking the other way. If they are not claimed in seven days\nthey are sent far away to the Neverland to defray expenses. I m\ncaptain. \n\n What fun it must be! \n\n Yes,  said cunning Peter,  but we are rather lonely. You see we have\nno female companionship. \n\n Are none of the others girls? \n\n Oh, no; girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their\nprams. \n\nThis flattered Wendy immensely.  I think,  she said,  it is perfectly\nlovely the way you talk about girls; John there just despises us. \n\nFor reply Peter rose and kicked John out of bed, blankets and all; one\nkick. This seemed to Wendy rather forward for a first meeting, and she\ntold him with spirit that he was not captain in her house. However,\nJohn continued to sleep so placidly on the floor that she allowed him\nto remain there.  And I know you meant to be kind,  she said,\nrelenting,  so you may give me a kiss. \n\nFor the moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses.  I thought\nyou would want it back,  he said a little bitterly, and offered to\nreturn her the thimble.\n\n Oh dear,  said the nice Wendy,  I don t mean a kiss, I mean a\nthimble. \n\n What s that? \n\n It s like this.  She kissed him.\n\n Funny!  said Peter gravely.  Now shall I give you a thimble? \n\n If you wish to,  said Wendy, keeping her head erect this time.\n\nPeter thimbled her, and almost immediately she screeched.  What is it,\nWendy? \n\n It was exactly as if someone were pulling my hair. \n\n That must have been Tink. I never knew her so naughty before. \n\nAnd indeed Tink was darting about again, using offensive language.\n\n She says she will do that to you, Wendy, every time I give you a\nthimble. \n\n But why? \n\n Why, Tink? \n\nAgain Tink replied,  You silly ass.  Peter could not understand why,\nbut Wendy understood, and she was just slightly disappointed when he\nadmitted that he came to the nursery window not to see her but to\nlisten to stories.\n\n You see, I don t know any stories. None of the lost boys knows any\nstories. \n\n How perfectly awful,  Wendy said.\n\n Do you know,  Peter asked  why swallows build in the eaves of houses?\nIt is to listen to the stories. O Wendy, your mother was telling you\nsuch a lovely story. \n\n Which story was it? \n\n About the prince who couldn t find the lady who wore the glass\nslipper. \n\n Peter,  said Wendy excitedly,  that was Cinderella, and he found her,\nand they lived happily ever after. \n\nPeter was so glad that he rose from the floor, where they had been\nsitting, and hurried to the window.\n\n Where are you going?  she cried with misgiving.\n\n To tell the other boys. \n\n Don t go Peter,  she entreated,  I know such lots of stories. \n\nThose were her precise words, so there can be no denying that it was\nshe who first tempted him.\n\nHe came back, and there was a greedy look in his eyes now which ought\nto have alarmed her, but did not.\n\n Oh, the stories I could tell to the boys!  she cried, and then Peter\ngripped her and began to draw her toward the window.\n\n Let me go!  she ordered him.\n\n Wendy, do come with me and tell the other boys. \n\nOf course she was very pleased to be asked, but she said,  Oh dear, I\ncan t. Think of mummy! Besides, I can t fly. \n\n I ll teach you. \n\n Oh, how lovely to fly. \n\n I ll teach you how to jump on the wind s back, and then away we go. \n\n Oo!  she exclaimed rapturously.\n\n Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be\nflying about with me saying funny things to the stars. \n\n Oo! \n\n And, Wendy, there are mermaids. \n\n Mermaids! With tails? \n\n Such long tails. \n\n Oh,  cried Wendy,  to see a mermaid! \n\nHe had become frightfully cunning.  Wendy,  he said,  how we should all\nrespect you. \n\nShe was wriggling her body in distress. It was quite as if she were\ntrying to remain on the nursery floor.\n\nBut he had no pity for her.\n\n Wendy,  he said, the sly one,  you could tuck us in at night. \n\n Oo! \n\n None of us has ever been tucked in at night. \n\n Oo,  and her arms went out to him.\n\n And you could darn our clothes, and make pockets for us. None of us\nhas any pockets. \n\nHow could she resist.  Of course it s awfully fascinating!  she cried.\n Peter, would you teach John and Michael to fly too? \n\n If you like,  he said indifferently, and she ran to John and Michael\nand shook them.  Wake up,  she cried,  Peter Pan has come and he is to\nteach us to fly. \n\nJohn rubbed his eyes.  Then I shall get up,  he said. Of course he was\non the floor already.  Hallo,  he said,  I am up! \n\nMichael was up by this time also, looking as sharp as a knife with six\nblades and a saw, but Peter suddenly signed silence. Their faces\nassumed the awful craftiness of children listening for sounds from the\ngrown-up world. All was as still as salt. Then everything was right.\nNo, stop! Everything was wrong. Nana, who had been barking\ndistressfully all the evening, was quiet now. It was her silence they\nhad heard.\n\n Out with the light! Hide! Quick!  cried John, taking command for the\nonly time throughout the whole adventure. And thus when Liza entered,\nholding Nana, the nursery seemed quite its old self, very dark, and you\nwould have sworn you heard its three wicked inmates breathing\nangelically as they slept. They were really doing it artfully from\nbehind the window curtains.\n\nLiza was in a bad temper, for she was mixing the Christmas puddings in\nthe kitchen, and had been drawn from them, with a raisin still on her\ncheek, by Nana s absurd suspicions. She thought the best way of getting\na little quiet was to take Nana to the nursery for a moment, but in\ncustody of course.\n\n There, you suspicious brute,  she said, not sorry that Nana was in\ndisgrace.  They are perfectly safe, aren t they? Every one of the\nlittle angels sound asleep in bed. Listen to their gentle breathing. \n\nHere Michael, encouraged by his success, breathed so loudly that they\nwere nearly detected. Nana knew that kind of breathing, and she tried\nto drag herself out of Liza s clutches.\n\nBut Liza was dense.  No more of it, Nana,  she said sternly, pulling\nher out of the room.  I warn you if you bark again I shall go straight\nfor master and missus and bring them home from the party, and then, oh,\nwon t master whip you, just. \n\nShe tied the unhappy dog up again, but do you think Nana ceased to\nbark? Bring master and missus home from the party! Why, that was just\nwhat she wanted. Do you think she cared whether she was whipped so long\nas her charges were safe? Unfortunately Liza returned to her puddings,\nand Nana, seeing that no help would come from her, strained and\nstrained at the chain until at last she broke it. In another moment she\nhad burst into the dining-room of 27 and flung up her paws to heaven,\nher most expressive way of making a communication. Mr. and Mrs. Darling\nknew at once that something terrible was happening in their nursery,\nand without a good-bye to their hostess they rushed into the street.\n\nBut it was now ten minutes since three scoundrels had been breathing\nbehind the curtains, and Peter Pan can do a great deal in ten minutes.\n\nWe now return to the nursery.\n\n It s all right,  John announced, emerging from his hiding-place.  I\nsay, Peter, can you really fly? \n\nInstead of troubling to answer him Peter flew around the room, taking\nthe mantelpiece on the way.\n\n How topping!  said John and Michael.\n\n How sweet!  cried Wendy.\n\n Yes, I m sweet, oh, I am sweet!  said Peter, forgetting his manners\nagain.\n\nIt looked delightfully easy, and they tried it first from the floor and\nthen from the beds, but they always went down instead of up.\n\n I say, how do you do it?  asked John, rubbing his knee. He was quite a\npractical boy.\n\n You just think lovely wonderful thoughts,  Peter explained,  and they\nlift you up in the air. \n\nHe showed them again.\n\n You re so nippy at it,  John said,  couldn t you do it very slowly\nonce? \n\nPeter did it both slowly and quickly.  I ve got it now, Wendy!  cried\nJohn, but soon he found he had not. Not one of them could fly an inch,\nthough even Michael was in words of two syllables, and Peter did not\nknow A from Z.\n\nOf course Peter had been trifling with them, for no one can fly unless\nthe fairy dust has been blown on him. Fortunately, as we have\nmentioned, one of his hands was messy with it, and he blew some on each\nof them, with the most superb results.\n\n Now just wiggle your shoulders this way,  he said,  and let go. \n\nThey were all on their beds, and gallant Michael let go first. He did\nnot quite mean to let go, but he did it, and immediately he was borne\nacross the room.\n\n I flewed!  he screamed while still in mid-air.\n\nJohn let go and met Wendy near the bathroom.\n\n Oh, lovely! \n\n Oh, ripping! \n\n Look at me! \n\n Look at me! \n\n Look at me! \n\nThey were not nearly so elegant as Peter, they could not help kicking a\nlittle, but their heads were bobbing against the ceiling, and there is\nalmost nothing so delicious as that. Peter gave Wendy a hand at first,\nbut had to desist, Tink was so indignant.\n\nUp and down they went, and round and round. Heavenly was Wendy s word.\n\n I say,  cried John,  why shouldn t we all go out? \n\nOf course it was to this that Peter had been luring them.\n\nMichael was ready: he wanted to see how long it took him to do a\nbillion miles. But Wendy hesitated.\n\n Mermaids!  said Peter again.\n\n Oo! \n\n And there are pirates. \n\n Pirates,  cried John, seizing his Sunday hat,  let us go at once. \n\nIt was just at this moment that Mr. and Mrs. Darling hurried with Nana\nout of 27. They ran into the middle of the street to look up at the\nnursery window; and, yes, it was still shut, but the room was ablaze\nwith light, and most heart-gripping sight of all, they could see in\nshadow on the curtain three little figures in night attire circling\nround and round, not on the floor but in the air.\n\nNot three figures, four!\n\nIn a tremble they opened the street door. Mr. Darling would have rushed\nupstairs, but Mrs. Darling signed him to go softly. She even tried to\nmake her heart go softly.\n\nWill they reach the nursery in time? If so, how delightful for them,\nand we shall all breathe a sigh of relief, but there will be no story.\nOn the other hand, if they are not in time, I solemnly promise that it\nwill all come right in the end.\n\nThey would have reached the nursery in time had it not been that the\nlittle stars were watching them. Once again the stars blew the window\nopen, and that smallest star of all called out:\n\n Cave, Peter! \n\nThen Peter knew that there was not a moment to lose.  Come,  he cried\nimperiously, and soared out at once into the night, followed by John\nand Michael and Wendy.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Darling and Nana rushed into the nursery too late. The\nbirds were flown.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV.\nTHE FLIGHT\n\n\n Second to the right, and straight on till morning. \n\nThat, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland; but even\nbirds, carrying maps and consulting them at windy corners, could not\nhave sighted it with these instructions. Peter, you see, just said\nanything that came into his head.\n\nAt first his companions trusted him implicitly, and so great were the\ndelights of flying that they wasted time circling round church spires\nor any other tall objects on the way that took their fancy.\n\nJohn and Michael raced, Michael getting a start.\n\nThey recalled with contempt that not so long ago they had thought\nthemselves fine fellows for being able to fly round a room.\n\nNot long ago. But how long ago? They were flying over the sea before\nthis thought began to disturb Wendy seriously. John thought it was\ntheir second sea and their third night.\n\nSometimes it was dark and sometimes light, and now they were very cold\nand again too warm. Did they really feel hungry at times, or were they\nmerely pretending, because Peter had such a jolly new way of feeding\nthem? His way was to pursue birds who had food in their mouths suitable\nfor humans and snatch it from them; then the birds would follow and\nsnatch it back; and they would all go chasing each other gaily for\nmiles, parting at last with mutual expressions of good-will. But Wendy\nnoticed with gentle concern that Peter did not seem to know that this\nwas rather an odd way of getting your bread and butter, nor even that\nthere are other ways.\n\nCertainly they did not pretend to be sleepy, they were sleepy; and that\nwas a danger, for the moment they popped off, down they fell. The awful\nthing was that Peter thought this funny.\n\n There he goes again!  he would cry gleefully, as Michael suddenly\ndropped like a stone.\n\n Save him, save him!  cried Wendy, looking with horror at the cruel sea\nfar below. Eventually Peter would dive through the air, and catch\nMichael just before he could strike the sea, and it was lovely the way\nhe did it; but he always waited till the last moment, and you felt it\nwas his cleverness that interested him and not the saving of human\nlife. Also he was fond of variety, and the sport that engrossed him one\nmoment would suddenly cease to engage him, so there was always the\npossibility that the next time you fell he would let you go.\n\nHe could sleep in the air without falling, by merely lying on his back\nand floating, but this was, partly at least, because he was so light\nthat if you got behind him and blew he went faster.\n\n Do be more polite to him,  Wendy whispered to John, when they were\nplaying  Follow my Leader. \n\n Then tell him to stop showing off,  said John.\n\nWhen playing Follow my Leader, Peter would fly close to the water and\ntouch each shark s tail in passing, just as in the street you may run\nyour finger along an iron railing. They could not follow him in this\nwith much success, so perhaps it was rather like showing off,\nespecially as he kept looking behind to see how many tails they missed.\n\n You must be nice to him,  Wendy impressed on her brothers.  What could\nwe do if he were to leave us! \n\n We could go back,  Michael said.\n\n How could we ever find our way back without him? \n\n Well, then, we could go on,  said John.\n\n That is the awful thing, John. We should have to go on, for we don t\nknow how to stop. \n\nThis was true, Peter had forgotten to show them how to stop.\n\nJohn said that if the worst came to the worst, all they had to do was\nto go straight on, for the world was round, and so in time they must\ncome back to their own window.\n\n And who is to get food for us, John? \n\n I nipped a bit out of that eagle s mouth pretty neatly, Wendy. \n\n After the twentieth try,  Wendy reminded him.  And even though we\nbecame good at picking up food, see how we bump against clouds and\nthings if he is not near to give us a hand. \n\nIndeed they were constantly bumping. They could now fly strongly,\nthough they still kicked far too much; but if they saw a cloud in front\nof them, the more they tried to avoid it, the more certainly did they\nbump into it. If Nana had been with them, she would have had a bandage\nround Michael s forehead by this time.\n\nPeter was not with them for the moment, and they felt rather lonely up\nthere by themselves. He could go so much faster than they that he would\nsuddenly shoot out of sight, to have some adventure in which they had\nno share. He would come down laughing over something fearfully funny he\nhad been saying to a star, but he had already forgotten what it was, or\nhe would come up with mermaid scales still sticking to him, and yet not\nbe able to say for certain what had been happening. It was really\nrather irritating to children who had never seen a mermaid.\n\n And if he forgets them so quickly,  Wendy argued,  how can we expect\nthat he will go on remembering us? \n\nIndeed, sometimes when he returned he did not remember them, at least\nnot well. Wendy was sure of it. She saw recognition come into his eyes\nas he was about to pass them the time of day and go on; once even she\nhad to call him by name.\n\n I m Wendy,  she said agitatedly.\n\nHe was very sorry.  I say, Wendy,  he whispered to her,  always if you\nsee me forgetting you, just keep on saying  I m Wendy,  and then I ll\nremember. \n\nOf course this was rather unsatisfactory. However, to make amends he\nshowed them how to lie out flat on a strong wind that was going their\nway, and this was such a pleasant change that they tried it several\ntimes and found that they could sleep thus with security. Indeed they\nwould have slept longer, but Peter tired quickly of sleeping, and soon\nhe would cry in his captain voice,  We get off here.  So with\noccasional tiffs, but on the whole rollicking, they drew near the\nNeverland; for after many moons they did reach it, and, what is more,\nthey had been going pretty straight all the time, not perhaps so much\nowing to the guidance of Peter or Tink as because the island was\nlooking for them. It is only thus that any one may sight those magic\nshores.\n\n There it is,  said Peter calmly.\n\n Where, where? \n\n Where all the arrows are pointing. \n\nIndeed a million golden arrows were pointing it out to the children,\nall directed by their friend the sun, who wanted them to be sure of\ntheir way before leaving them for the night.\n\nWendy and John and Michael stood on tip-toe in the air to get their\nfirst sight of the island. Strange to say, they all recognized it at\nonce, and until fear fell upon them they hailed it, not as something\nlong dreamt of and seen at last, but as a familiar friend to whom they\nwere returning home for the holidays.\n\n John, there s the lagoon. \n\n Wendy, look at the turtles burying their eggs in the sand. \n\n I say, John, I see your flamingo with the broken leg! \n\n Look, Michael, there s your cave! \n\n John, what s that in the brushwood? \n\n It s a wolf with her whelps. Wendy, I do believe that s your little\nwhelp! \n\n There s my boat, John, with her sides stove in! \n\n No, it isn t. Why, we burned your boat. \n\n That s her, at any rate. I say, John, I see the smoke of the redskin\ncamp! \n\n Where? Show me, and I ll tell you by the way smoke curls whether they\nare on the war-path. \n\n There, just across the Mysterious River. \n\n I see now. Yes, they are on the war-path right enough. \n\nPeter was a little annoyed with them for knowing so much, but if he\nwanted to lord it over them his triumph was at hand, for have I not\ntold you that anon fear fell upon them?\n\nIt came as the arrows went, leaving the island in gloom.\n\nIn the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little\ndark and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it\nand spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts\nof prey was quite different now, and above all, you lost the certainty\nthat you would win. You were quite glad that the night-lights were on.\nYou even liked Nana to say that this was just the mantelpiece over\nhere, and that the Neverland was all make-believe.\n\nOf course the Neverland had been make-believe in those days, but it was\nreal now, and there were no night-lights, and it was getting darker\nevery moment, and where was Nana?\n\nThey had been flying apart, but they huddled close to Peter now. His\ncareless manner had gone at last, his eyes were sparkling, and a tingle\nwent through them every time they touched his body. They were now over\nthe fearsome island, flying so low that sometimes a tree grazed their\nfeet. Nothing horrid was visible in the air, yet their progress had\nbecome slow and laboured, exactly as if they were pushing their way\nthrough hostile forces. Sometimes they hung in the air until Peter had\nbeaten on it with his fists.\n\n They don t want us to land,  he explained.\n\n Who are they?  Wendy whispered, shuddering.\n\nBut he could not or would not say. Tinker Bell had been asleep on his\nshoulder, but now he wakened her and sent her on in front.\n\nSometimes he poised himself in the air, listening intently, with his\nhand to his ear, and again he would stare down with eyes so bright that\nthey seemed to bore two holes to earth. Having done these things, he\nwent on again.\n\nHis courage was almost appalling.  Would you like an adventure now,  he\nsaid casually to John,  or would you like to have your tea first? \n\nWendy said  tea first  quickly, and Michael pressed her hand in\ngratitude, but the braver John hesitated.\n\n What kind of adventure?  he asked cautiously.\n\n There s a pirate asleep in the pampas just beneath us,  Peter told\nhim.  If you like, we ll go down and kill him. \n\n I don t see him,  John said after a long pause.\n\n I do. \n\n Suppose,  John said, a little huskily,  he were to wake up. \n\nPeter spoke indignantly.  You don t think I would kill him while he was\nsleeping! I would wake him first, and then kill him. That s the way I\nalways do. \n\n I say! Do you kill many? \n\n Tons. \n\nJohn said  How ripping,  but decided to have tea first. He asked if\nthere were many pirates on the island just now, and Peter said he had\nnever known so many.\n\n Who is captain now? \n\n Hook,  answered Peter, and his face became very stern as he said that\nhated word.\n\n Jas. Hook? \n\n Ay. \n\nThen indeed Michael began to cry, and even John could speak in gulps\nonly, for they knew Hook s reputation.\n\n He was Blackbeard s bo sun,  John whispered huskily.  He is the worst\nof them all. He is the only man of whom Barbecue was afraid. \n\n That s him,  said Peter.\n\n What is he like? Is he big? \n\n He is not so big as he was. \n\n How do you mean? \n\n I cut off a bit of him. \n\n You! \n\n Yes, me,  said Peter sharply.\n\n I wasn t meaning to be disrespectful. \n\n Oh, all right. \n\n But, I say, what bit? \n\n His right hand. \n\n Then he can t fight now? \n\n Oh, can t he just! \n\n Left-hander? \n\n He has an iron hook instead of a right hand, and he claws with it. \n\n Claws! \n\n I say, John,  said Peter.\n\n Yes. \n\n Say,  Ay, ay, sir. \n\n Ay, ay, sir. \n\n There is one thing,  Peter continued,  that every boy who serves under\nme has to promise, and so must you. \n\nJohn paled.\n\n It is this, if we meet Hook in open fight, you must leave him to me. \n\n I promise,  John said loyally.\n\nFor the moment they were feeling less eerie, because Tink was flying\nwith them, and in her light they could distinguish each other.\nUnfortunately she could not fly so slowly as they, and so she had to go\nround and round them in a circle in which they moved as in a halo.\nWendy quite liked it, until Peter pointed out the drawbacks.\n\n She tells me,  he said,  that the pirates sighted us before the\ndarkness came, and got Long Tom out. \n\n The big gun? \n\n Yes. And of course they must see her light, and if they guess we are\nnear it they are sure to let fly. \n\n Wendy! \n\n John! \n\n Michael! \n\n Tell her to go away at once, Peter,  the three cried simultaneously,\nbut he refused.\n\n She thinks we have lost the way,  he replied stiffly,  and she is\nrather frightened. You don t think I would send her away all by herself\nwhen she is frightened! \n\nFor a moment the circle of light was broken, and something gave Peter a\nloving little pinch.\n\n Then tell her,  Wendy begged,  to put out her light. \n\n She can t put it out. That is about the only thing fairies can t do.\nIt just goes out of itself when she falls asleep, same as the stars. \n\n Then tell her to sleep at once,  John almost ordered.\n\n She can t sleep except when she s sleepy. It is the only other thing\nfairies can t do. \n\n Seems to me,  growled John,  these are the only two things worth\ndoing. \n\nHere he got a pinch, but not a loving one.\n\n If only one of us had a pocket,  Peter said,  we could carry her in\nit.  However, they had set off in such a hurry that there was not a\npocket between the four of them.\n\nHe had a happy idea. John s hat!\n\nTink agreed to travel by hat if it was carried in the hand. John\ncarried it, though she had hoped to be carried by Peter. Presently\nWendy took the hat, because John said it struck against his knee as he\nflew; and this, as we shall see, led to mischief, for Tinker Bell hated\nto be under an obligation to Wendy.\n\nIn the black topper the light was completely hidden, and they flew on\nin silence. It was the stillest silence they had ever known, broken\nonce by a distant lapping, which Peter explained was the wild beasts\ndrinking at the ford, and again by a rasping sound that might have been\nthe branches of trees rubbing together, but he said it was the redskins\nsharpening their knives.\n\nEven these noises ceased. To Michael the loneliness was dreadful.  If\nonly something would make a sound!  he cried.\n\nAs if in answer to his request, the air was rent by the most tremendous\ncrash he had ever heard. The pirates had fired Long Tom at them.\n\nThe roar of it echoed through the mountains, and the echoes seemed to\ncry savagely,  Where are they, where are they, where are they? \n\nThus sharply did the terrified three learn the difference between an\nisland of make-believe and the same island come true.\n\nWhen at last the heavens were steady again, John and Michael found\nthemselves alone in the darkness. John was treading the air\nmechanically, and Michael without knowing how to float was floating.\n\n Are you shot?  John whispered tremulously.\n\n I haven t tried yet,  Michael whispered back.\n\nWe know now that no one had been hit. Peter, however, had been carried\nby the wind of the shot far out to sea, while Wendy was blown upwards\nwith no companion but Tinker Bell.\n\nIt would have been well for Wendy if at that moment she had dropped the\nhat.\n\nI don t know whether the idea came suddenly to Tink, or whether she had\nplanned it on the way, but she at once popped out of the hat and began\nto lure Wendy to her destruction.\n\nTink was not all bad; or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the\nother hand, sometimes she was all good. Fairies have to be one thing or\nthe other, because being so small they unfortunately have room for one\nfeeling only at a time. They are, however, allowed to change, only it\nmust be a complete change. At present she was full of jealousy of\nWendy. What she said in her lovely tinkle Wendy could not of course\nunderstand, and I believe some of it was bad words, but it sounded\nkind, and she flew back and forward, plainly meaning  Follow me, and\nall will be well. \n\nWhat else could poor Wendy do? She called to Peter and John and\nMichael, and got only mocking echoes in reply. She did not yet know\nthat Tink hated her with the fierce hatred of a very woman. And so,\nbewildered, and now staggering in her flight, she followed Tink to her\ndoom.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V.\nTHE ISLAND COME TRUE\n\n\nFeeling that Peter was on his way back, the Neverland had again woke\ninto life. We ought to use the pluperfect and say wakened, but woke is\nbetter and was always used by Peter.\n\nIn his absence things are usually quiet on the island. The fairies take\nan hour longer in the morning, the beasts attend to their young, the\nredskins feed heavily for six days and nights, and when pirates and\nlost boys meet they merely bite their thumbs at each other. But with\nthe coming of Peter, who hates lethargy, they are under way again: if\nyou put your ear to the ground now, you would hear the whole island\nseething with life.\n\nOn this evening the chief forces of the island were disposed as\nfollows. The lost boys were out looking for Peter, the pirates were out\nlooking for the lost boys, the redskins were out looking for the\npirates, and the beasts were out looking for the redskins. They were\ngoing round and round the island, but they did not meet because all\nwere going at the same rate.\n\nAll wanted blood except the boys, who liked it as a rule, but to-night\nwere out to greet their captain. The boys on the island vary, of\ncourse, in numbers, according as they get killed and so on; and when\nthey seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins\nthem out; but at this time there were six of them, counting the twins\nas two. Let us pretend to lie here among the sugar-cane and watch them\nas they steal by in single file, each with his hand on his dagger.\n\nThey are forbidden by Peter to look in the least like him, and they\nwear the skins of the bears slain by themselves, in which they are so\nround and furry that when they fall they roll. They have therefore\nbecome very sure-footed.\n\nThe first to pass is Tootles, not the least brave but the most\nunfortunate of all that gallant band. He had been in fewer adventures\nthan any of them, because the big things constantly happened just when\nhe had stepped round the corner; all would be quiet, he would take the\nopportunity of going off to gather a few sticks for firewood, and then\nwhen he returned the others would be sweeping up the blood. This\nill-luck had given a gentle melancholy to his countenance, but instead\nof souring his nature had sweetened it, so that he was quite the\nhumblest of the boys. Poor kind Tootles, there is danger in the air for\nyou to-night. Take care lest an adventure is now offered you, which, if\naccepted, will plunge you in deepest woe. Tootles, the fairy Tink, who\nis bent on mischief this night is looking for a tool, and she thinks\nyou are the most easily tricked of the boys.  Ware Tinker Bell.\n\nWould that he could hear us, but we are not really on the island, and\nhe passes by, biting his knuckles.\n\nNext comes Nibs, the gay and debonair, followed by Slightly, who cuts\nwhistles out of the trees and dances ecstatically to his own tunes.\nSlightly is the most conceited of the boys. He thinks he remembers the\ndays before he was lost, with their manners and customs, and this has\ngiven his nose an offensive tilt. Curly is fourth; he is a pickle, and\nso often has he had to deliver up his person when Peter said sternly,\n Stand forth the one who did this thing,  that now at the command he\nstands forth automatically whether he has done it or not. Last come the\nTwins, who cannot be described because we should be sure to be\ndescribing the wrong one. Peter never quite knew what twins were, and\nhis band were not allowed to know anything he did not know, so these\ntwo were always vague about themselves, and did their best to give\nsatisfaction by keeping close together in an apologetic sort of way.\n\nThe boys vanish in the gloom, and after a pause, but not a long pause,\nfor things go briskly on the island, come the pirates on their track.\nWe hear them before they are seen, and it is always the same dreadful\nsong:\n\n Avast belay, yo ho, heave to,\n    A-pirating we go,\nAnd if we re parted by a shot\n    We re sure to meet below! \n\nA more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on Execution dock.\nHere, a little in advance, ever and again with his head to the ground\nlistening, his great arms bare, pieces of eight in his ears as\nornaments, is the handsome Italian Cecco, who cut his name in letters\nof blood on the back of the governor of the prison at Gao. That\ngigantic black behind him has had many names since he dropped the one\nwith which dusky mothers still terrify their children on the banks of\nthe Guadjo-mo. Here is Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed, the same\nBill Jukes who got six dozen on the _Walrus_ from Flint before he would\ndrop the bag of moidores; and Cookson, said to be Black Murphy s\nbrother (but this was never proved), and Gentleman Starkey, once an\nusher in a public school and still dainty in his ways of killing; and\nSkylights (Morgan s Skylights); and the Irish bo sun Smee, an oddly\ngenial man who stabbed, so to speak, without offence, and was the only\nNon-conformist in Hook s crew; and Noodler, whose hands were fixed on\nbackwards; and Robt. Mullins and Alf Mason and many another ruffian\nlong known and feared on the Spanish Main.\n\nIn the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting,\nreclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is\nsaid he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease\nin a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a\nright hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged\nthem to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and\naddressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was\ncadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls,\nwhich at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a\nsingularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes\nwere of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy,\nsave when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red\nspots appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something\nof the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up\nwith an air, and I have been told that he was a _raconteur_ of repute.\nHe was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is\nprobably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction,\neven when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his\ndemeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of\nindomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was\nthe sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour.\nIn dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of\nCharles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career\nthat he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his\nmouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke\ntwo cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest part of him was his\niron claw.\n\nLet us now kill a pirate, to show Hook s method. Skylights will do. As\nthey pass, Skylights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his lace\ncollar; the hook shoots forth, there is a tearing sound and one\nscreech, then the body is kicked aside, and the pirates pass on. He has\nnot even taken the cigars from his mouth.\n\nSuch is the terrible man against whom Peter Pan is pitted. Which will\nwin?\n\nOn the trail of the pirates, stealing noiselessly down the war-path,\nwhich is not visible to inexperienced eyes, come the redskins, every\none of them with his eyes peeled. They carry tomahawks and knives, and\ntheir naked bodies gleam with paint and oil. Strung around them are\nscalps, of boys as well as of pirates, for these are the Piccaninny\ntribe, and not to be confused with the softer-hearted Delawares or the\nHurons. In the van, on all fours, is Great Big Little Panther, a brave\nof so many scalps that in his present position they somewhat impede his\nprogress. Bringing up the rear, the place of greatest danger, comes\nTiger Lily, proudly erect, a princess in her own right. She is the most\nbeautiful of dusky Dianas and the belle of the Piccaninnies,\ncoquettish, cold and amorous by turns; there is not a brave who would\nnot have the wayward thing to wife, but she staves off the altar with a\nhatchet. Observe how they pass over fallen twigs without making the\nslightest noise. The only sound to be heard is their somewhat heavy\nbreathing. The fact is that they are all a little fat just now after\nthe heavy gorging, but in time they will work this off. For the moment,\nhowever, it constitutes their chief danger.\n\nThe redskins disappear as they have come like shadows, and soon their\nplace is taken by the beasts, a great and motley procession: lions,\ntigers, bears, and the innumerable smaller savage things that flee from\nthem, for every kind of beast, and, more particularly, all the\nman-eaters, live cheek by jowl on the favoured island. Their tongues\nare hanging out, they are hungry to-night.\n\nWhen they have passed, comes the last figure of all, a gigantic\ncrocodile. We shall see for whom she is looking presently.\n\nThe crocodile passes, but soon the boys appear again, for the\nprocession must continue indefinitely until one of the parties stops or\nchanges its pace. Then quickly they will be on top of each other.\n\nAll are keeping a sharp look-out in front, but none suspects that the\ndanger may be creeping up from behind. This shows how real the island\nwas.\n\nThe first to fall out of the moving circle was the boys. They flung\nthemselves down on the sward, close to their underground home.\n\n I do wish Peter would come back,  every one of them said nervously,\nthough in height and still more in breadth they were all larger than\ntheir captain.\n\n I am the only one who is not afraid of the pirates,  Slightly said, in\nthe tone that prevented his being a general favourite; but perhaps some\ndistant sound disturbed him, for he added hastily,  but I wish he would\ncome back, and tell us whether he has heard anything more about\nCinderella. \n\nThey talked of Cinderella, and Tootles was confident that his mother\nmust have been very like her.\n\nIt was only in Peter s absence that they could speak of mothers, the\nsubject being forbidden by him as silly.\n\n All I remember about my mother,  Nibs told them,  is that she often\nsaid to my father,  Oh, how I wish I had a cheque-book of my own!  I\ndon t know what a cheque-book is, but I should just love to give my\nmother one. \n\nWhile they talked they heard a distant sound. You or I, not being wild\nthings of the woods, would have heard nothing, but they heard it, and\nit was the grim song:\n\n Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life,\n    The flag o  skull and bones,\nA merry hour, a hempen rope,\n    And hey for Davy Jones. \n\nAt once the lost boys but where are they? They are no longer there.\nRabbits could not have disappeared more quickly.\n\nI will tell you where they are. With the exception of Nibs, who has\ndarted away to reconnoitre, they are already in their home under the\nground, a very delightful residence of which we shall see a good deal\npresently. But how have they reached it? for there is no entrance to be\nseen, not so much as a large stone, which if rolled away, would\ndisclose the mouth of a cave. Look closely, however, and you may note\nthat there are here seven large trees, each with a hole in its hollow\ntrunk as large as a boy. These are the seven entrances to the home\nunder the ground, for which Hook has been searching in vain these many\nmoons. Will he find it tonight?\n\nAs the pirates advanced, the quick eye of Starkey sighted Nibs\ndisappearing through the wood, and at once his pistol flashed out. But\nan iron claw gripped his shoulder.\n\n Captain, let go!  he cried, writhing.\n\nNow for the first time we hear the voice of Hook. It was a black voice.\n Put back that pistol first,  it said threateningly.\n\n It was one of those boys you hate. I could have shot him dead. \n\n Ay, and the sound would have brought Tiger Lily s redskins upon us. Do\nyou want to lose your scalp? \n\n Shall I after him, Captain,  asked pathetic Smee,  and tickle him with\nJohnny Corkscrew?  Smee had pleasant names for everything, and his\ncutlass was Johnny Corkscrew, because he wiggled it in the wound. One\ncould mention many lovable traits in Smee. For instance, after killing,\nit was his spectacles he wiped instead of his weapon.\n\n Johnny s a silent fellow,  he reminded Hook.\n\n Not now, Smee,  Hook said darkly.  He is only one, and I want to\nmischief all the seven. Scatter and look for them. \n\nThe pirates disappeared among the trees, and in a moment their Captain\nand Smee were alone. Hook heaved a heavy sigh, and I know not why it\nwas, perhaps it was because of the soft beauty of the evening, but\nthere came over him a desire to confide to his faithful bo sun the\nstory of his life. He spoke long and earnestly, but what it was all\nabout Smee, who was rather stupid, did not know in the least.\n\nAnon he caught the word Peter.\n\n Most of all,  Hook was saying passionately,  I want their captain,\nPeter Pan.  Twas he cut off my arm.  He brandished the hook\nthreateningly.  I ve waited long to shake his hand with this. Oh, I ll\ntear him! \n\n And yet,  said Smee,  I have often heard you say that hook was worth a\nscore of hands, for combing the hair and other homely uses. \n\n Ay,  the captain answered,  if I was a mother I would pray to have my\nchildren born with this instead of that,  and he cast a look of pride\nupon his iron hand and one of scorn upon the other. Then again he\nfrowned.\n\n Peter flung my arm,  he said, wincing,  to a crocodile that happened\nto be passing by. \n\n I have often,  said Smee,  noticed your strange dread of crocodiles. \n\n Not of crocodiles,  Hook corrected him,  but of that one crocodile. \nHe lowered his voice.  It liked my arm so much, Smee, that it has\nfollowed me ever since, from sea to sea and from land to land, licking\nits lips for the rest of me. \n\n In a way,  said Smee,  it s sort of a compliment. \n\n I want no such compliments,  Hook barked petulantly.  I want Peter\nPan, who first gave the brute its taste for me. \n\nHe sat down on a large mushroom, and now there was a quiver in his\nvoice.  Smee,  he said huskily,  that crocodile would have had me\nbefore this, but by a lucky chance it swallowed a clock which goes tick\ntick inside it, and so before it can reach me I hear the tick and\nbolt.  He laughed, but in a hollow way.\n\n Some day,  said Smee,  the clock will run down, and then he ll get\nyou. \n\nHook wetted his dry lips.  Ay,  he said,  that s the fear that haunts\nme. \n\nSince sitting down he had felt curiously warm.  Smee,  he said,  this\nseat is hot.  He jumped up.  Odds bobs, hammer and tongs I m burning. \n\nThey examined the mushroom, which was of a size and solidity unknown on\nthe mainland; they tried to pull it up, and it came away at once in\ntheir hands, for it had no root. Stranger still, smoke began at once to\nascend. The pirates looked at each other.  A chimney!  they both\nexclaimed.\n\nThey had indeed discovered the chimney of the home under the ground. It\nwas the custom of the boys to stop it with a mushroom when enemies were\nin the neighbourhood.\n\nNot only smoke came out of it. There came also children s voices, for\nso safe did the boys feel in their hiding-place that they were gaily\nchattering. The pirates listened grimly, and then replaced the\nmushroom. They looked around them and noted the holes in the seven\ntrees.\n\n Did you hear them say Peter Pan s from home?  Smee whispered,\nfidgeting with Johnny Corkscrew.\n\nHook nodded. He stood for a long time lost in thought, and at last a\ncurdling smile lit up his swarthy face. Smee had been waiting for it.\n Unrip your plan, captain,  he cried eagerly.\n\n To return to the ship,  Hook replied slowly through his teeth,  and\ncook a large rich cake of a jolly thickness with green sugar on it.\nThere can be but one room below, for there is but one chimney. The\nsilly moles had not the sense to see that they did not need a door\napiece. That shows they have no mother. We will leave the cake on the\nshore of the Mermaids  Lagoon. These boys are always swimming about\nthere, playing with the mermaids. They will find the cake and they will\ngobble it up, because, having no mother, they don t know how dangerous\n tis to eat rich damp cake.  He burst into laughter, not hollow\nlaughter now, but honest laughter.  Aha, they will die. \n\nSmee had listened with growing admiration.\n\n It s the wickedest, prettiest policy ever I heard of!  he cried, and\nin their exultation they danced and sang:\n\n Avast, belay, when I appear,\n    By fear they re overtook;\nNought s left upon your bones when you\n    Have shaken claws with Hook. \n\nThey began the verse, but they never finished it, for another sound\nbroke in and stilled them. There was at first such a tiny sound that a\nleaf might have fallen on it and smothered it, but as it came nearer it\nwas more distinct.\n\nTick tick tick tick!\n\nHook stood shuddering, one foot in the air.\n\n The crocodile!  he gasped, and bounded away, followed by his bo sun.\n\nIt was indeed the crocodile. It had passed the redskins, who were now\non the trail of the other pirates. It oozed on after Hook.\n\nOnce more the boys emerged into the open; but the dangers of the night\nwere not yet over, for presently Nibs rushed breathless into their\nmidst, pursued by a pack of wolves. The tongues of the pursuers were\nhanging out; the baying of them was horrible.\n\n Save me, save me!  cried Nibs, falling on the ground.\n\n But what can we do, what can we do? \n\nIt was a high compliment to Peter that at that dire moment their\nthoughts turned to him.\n\n What would Peter do?  they cried simultaneously.\n\nAlmost in the same breath they cried,  Peter would look at them through\nhis legs. \n\nAnd then,  Let us do what Peter would do. \n\nIt is quite the most successful way of defying wolves, and as one boy\nthey bent and looked through their legs. The next moment is the long\none, but victory came quickly, for as the boys advanced upon them in\nthe terrible attitude, the wolves dropped their tails and fled.\n\nNow Nibs rose from the ground, and the others thought that his staring\neyes still saw the wolves. But it was not wolves he saw.\n\n I have seen a wonderfuller thing,  he cried, as they gathered round\nhim eagerly.  A great white bird. It is flying this way. \n\n What kind of a bird, do you think? \n\n I don t know,  Nibs said, awestruck,  but it looks so weary, and as it\nflies it moans,  Poor Wendy. \n\n Poor Wendy? \n\n I remember,  said Slightly instantly,  there are birds called\nWendies. \n\n See, it comes!  cried Curly, pointing to Wendy in the heavens.\n\nWendy was now almost overhead, and they could hear her plaintive cry.\nBut more distinct came the shrill voice of Tinker Bell. The jealous\nfairy had now cast off all disguise of friendship, and was darting at\nher victim from every direction, pinching savagely each time she\ntouched.\n\n Hullo, Tink,  cried the wondering boys.\n\nTink s reply rang out:  Peter wants you to shoot the Wendy. \n\nIt was not in their nature to question when Peter ordered.  Let us do\nwhat Peter wishes!  cried the simple boys.  Quick, bows and arrows! \n\nAll but Tootles popped down their trees. He had a bow and arrow with\nhim, and Tink noted it, and rubbed her little hands.\n\n Quick, Tootles, quick,  she screamed.  Peter will be so pleased. \n\nTootles excitedly fitted the arrow to his bow.  Out of the way, Tink, \nhe shouted, and then he fired, and Wendy fluttered to the ground with\nan arrow in her breast.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI.\nTHE LITTLE HOUSE\n\n\nFoolish Tootles was standing like a conqueror over Wendy s body when\nthe other boys sprang, armed, from their trees.\n\n You are too late,  he cried proudly,  I have shot the Wendy. Peter\nwill be so pleased with me. \n\nOverhead Tinker Bell shouted  Silly ass!  and darted into hiding. The\nothers did not hear her. They had crowded round Wendy, and as they\nlooked a terrible silence fell upon the wood. If Wendy s heart had been\nbeating they would all have heard it.\n\nSlightly was the first to speak.  This is no bird,  he said in a scared\nvoice.  I think this must be a lady. \n\n A lady?  said Tootles, and fell a-trembling.\n\n And we have killed her,  Nibs said hoarsely.\n\nThey all whipped off their caps.\n\n Now I see,  Curly said:  Peter was bringing her to us.  He threw\nhimself sorrowfully on the ground.\n\n A lady to take care of us at last,  said one of the twins,  and you\nhave killed her! \n\nThey were sorry for him, but sorrier for themselves, and when he took a\nstep nearer them they turned from him.\n\nTootles  face was very white, but there was a dignity about him now\nthat had never been there before.\n\n I did it,  he said, reflecting.  When ladies used to come to me in\ndreams, I said,  Pretty mother, pretty mother.  But when at last she\nreally came, I shot her. \n\nHe moved slowly away.\n\n Don t go,  they called in pity.\n\n I must,  he answered, shaking;  I am so afraid of Peter. \n\nIt was at this tragic moment that they heard a sound which made the\nheart of every one of them rise to his mouth. They heard Peter crow.\n\n Peter!  they cried, for it was always thus that he signalled his\nreturn.\n\n Hide her,  they whispered, and gathered hastily around Wendy. But\nTootles stood aloof.\n\nAgain came that ringing crow, and Peter dropped in front of them.\n Greetings, boys,  he cried, and mechanically they saluted, and then\nagain was silence.\n\nHe frowned.\n\n I am back,  he said hotly,  why do you not cheer? \n\nThey opened their mouths, but the cheers would not come. He overlooked\nit in his haste to tell the glorious tidings.\n\n Great news, boys,  he cried,  I have brought at last a mother for you\nall. \n\nStill no sound, except a little thud from Tootles as he dropped on his\nknees.\n\n Have you not seen her?  asked Peter, becoming troubled.  She flew this\nway. \n\n Ah me!  one voice said, and another said,  Oh, mournful day. \n\nTootles rose.  Peter,  he said quietly,  I will show her to you,  and\nwhen the others would still have hidden her he said,  Back, twins, let\nPeter see. \n\nSo they all stood back, and let him see, and after he had looked for a\nlittle time he did not know what to do next.\n\n She is dead,  he said uncomfortably.  Perhaps she is frightened at\nbeing dead. \n\nHe thought of hopping off in a comic sort of way till he was out of\nsight of her, and then never going near the spot any more. They would\nall have been glad to follow if he had done this.\n\nBut there was the arrow. He took it from her heart and faced his band.\n\n Whose arrow?  he demanded sternly.\n\n Mine, Peter,  said Tootles on his knees.\n\n Oh, dastard hand,  Peter said, and he raised the arrow to use it as a\ndagger.\n\nTootles did not flinch. He bared his breast.  Strike, Peter,  he said\nfirmly,  strike true. \n\nTwice did Peter raise the arrow, and twice did his hand fall.  I cannot\nstrike,  he said with awe,  there is something stays my hand. \n\nAll looked at him in wonder, save Nibs, who fortunately looked at\nWendy.\n\n It is she,  he cried,  the Wendy lady, see, her arm! \n\nWonderful to relate, Wendy had raised her arm. Nibs bent over her and\nlistened reverently.  I think she said,  Poor Tootles,  he whispered.\n\n She lives,  Peter said briefly.\n\nSlightly cried instantly,  The Wendy lady lives. \n\nThen Peter knelt beside her and found his button. You remember she had\nput it on a chain that she wore round her neck.\n\n See,  he said,  the arrow struck against this. It is the kiss I gave\nher. It has saved her life. \n\n I remember kisses,  Slightly interposed quickly,  let me see it. Ay,\nthat s a kiss. \n\nPeter did not hear him. He was begging Wendy to get better quickly, so\nthat he could show her the mermaids. Of course she could not answer\nyet, being still in a frightful faint; but from overhead came a wailing\nnote.\n\n Listen to Tink,  said Curly,  she is crying because the Wendy lives. \n\nThen they had to tell Peter of Tink s crime, and almost never had they\nseen him look so stern.\n\n Listen, Tinker Bell,  he cried,  I am your friend no more. Begone from\nme for ever. \n\nShe flew on to his shoulder and pleaded, but he brushed her off. Not\nuntil Wendy again raised her arm did he relent sufficiently to say,\n Well, not for ever, but for a whole week. \n\nDo you think Tinker Bell was grateful to Wendy for raising her arm? Oh\ndear no, never wanted to pinch her so much. Fairies indeed are strange,\nand Peter, who understood them best, often cuffed them.\n\nBut what to do with Wendy in her present delicate state of health?\n\n Let us carry her down into the house,  Curly suggested.\n\n Ay,  said Slightly,  that is what one does with ladies. \n\n No, no,  Peter said,  you must not touch her. It would not be\nsufficiently respectful. \n\n That,  said Slightly,  is what I was thinking. \n\n But if she lies there,  Tootles said,  she will die. \n\n Ay, she will die,  Slightly admitted,  but there is no way out. \n\n Yes, there is,  cried Peter.  Let us build a little house round her. \n\nThey were all delighted.  Quick,  he ordered them,  bring me each of\nyou the best of what we have. Gut our house. Be sharp. \n\nIn a moment they were as busy as tailors the night before a wedding.\nThey skurried this way and that, down for bedding, up for firewood, and\nwhile they were at it, who should appear but John and Michael. As they\ndragged along the ground they fell asleep standing, stopped, woke up,\nmoved another step and slept again.\n\n John, John,  Michael would cry,  wake up! Where is Nana, John, and\nmother? \n\nAnd then John would rub his eyes and mutter,  It is true, we did fly. \n\nYou may be sure they were very relieved to find Peter.\n\n Hullo, Peter,  they said.\n\n Hullo,  replied Peter amicably, though he had quite forgotten them. He\nwas very busy at the moment measuring Wendy with his feet to see how\nlarge a house she would need. Of course he meant to leave room for\nchairs and a table. John and Michael watched him.\n\n Is Wendy asleep?  they asked.\n\n Yes. \n\n John,  Michael proposed,  let us wake her and get her to make supper\nfor us,  but as he said it some of the other boys rushed on carrying\nbranches for the building of the house.  Look at them!  he cried.\n\n Curly,  said Peter in his most captainy voice,  see that these boys\nhelp in the building of the house. \n\n Ay, ay, sir. \n\n Build a house?  exclaimed John.\n\n For the Wendy,  said Curly.\n\n For Wendy?  John said, aghast.  Why, she is only a girl! \n\n That,  explained Curly,  is why we are her servants. \n\n You? Wendy s servants! \n\n Yes,  said Peter,  and you also. Away with them. \n\nThe astounded brothers were dragged away to hack and hew and carry.\n Chairs and a fender first,  Peter ordered.  Then we shall build a\nhouse round them. \n\n Ay,  said Slightly,  that is how a house is built; it all comes back\nto me. \n\nPeter thought of everything.  Slightly,  he cried,  fetch a doctor. \n\n Ay, ay,  said Slightly at once, and disappeared, scratching his head.\nBut he knew Peter must be obeyed, and he returned in a moment, wearing\nJohn s hat and looking solemn.\n\n Please, sir,  said Peter, going to him,  are you a doctor? \n\nThe difference between him and the other boys at such a time was that\nthey knew it was make-believe, while to him make-believe and true were\nexactly the same thing. This sometimes troubled them, as when they had\nto make-believe that they had had their dinners.\n\nIf they broke down in their make-believe he rapped them on the\nknuckles.\n\n Yes, my little man,  Slightly anxiously replied, who had chapped\nknuckles.\n\n Please, sir,  Peter explained,  a lady lies very ill. \n\nShe was lying at their feet, but Slightly had the sense not to see her.\n\n Tut, tut, tut,  he said,  where does she lie? \n\n In yonder glade. \n\n I will put a glass thing in her mouth,  said Slightly, and he\nmade-believe to do it, while Peter waited. It was an anxious moment\nwhen the glass thing was withdrawn.\n\n How is she?  inquired Peter.\n\n Tut, tut, tut,  said Slightly,  this has cured her. \n\n I am glad!  Peter cried.\n\n I will call again in the evening,  Slightly said;  give her beef tea\nout of a cup with a spout to it;  but after he had returned the hat to\nJohn he blew big breaths, which was his habit on escaping from a\ndifficulty.\n\nIn the meantime the wood had been alive with the sound of axes; almost\neverything needed for a cosy dwelling already lay at Wendy s feet.\n\n If only we knew,  said one,  the kind of house she likes best. \n\n Peter,  shouted another,  she is moving in her sleep. \n\n Her mouth opens,  cried a third, looking respectfully into it.  Oh,\nlovely! \n\n Perhaps she is going to sing in her sleep,  said Peter.  Wendy, sing\nthe kind of house you would like to have. \n\nImmediately, without opening her eyes, Wendy began to sing:\n\n I wish I had a pretty house,\n    The littlest ever seen,\nWith funny little red walls\n    And roof of mossy green. \n\nThey gurgled with joy at this, for by the greatest good luck the\nbranches they had brought were sticky with red sap, and all the ground\nwas carpeted with moss. As they rattled up the little house they broke\ninto song themselves:\n\n We ve built the little walls and roof\n    And made a lovely door,\nSo tell us, mother Wendy,\n    What are you wanting more? \n\nTo this she answered greedily:\n\n Oh, really next I think I ll have\n    Gay windows all about,\nWith roses peeping in, you know,\n    And babies peeping out. \n\nWith a blow of their fists they made windows, and large yellow leaves\nwere the blinds. But roses ?\n\n Roses,  cried Peter sternly.\n\nQuickly they made-believe to grow the loveliest roses up the walls.\n\nBabies?\n\nTo prevent Peter ordering babies they hurried into song again:\n\n We ve made the roses peeping out,\n    The babes are at the door,\nWe cannot make ourselves, you know,\n     Cos we ve been made before. \n\nPeter, seeing this to be a good idea, at once pretended that it was his\nown. The house was quite beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was very cosy\nwithin, though, of course, they could no longer see her. Peter strode\nup and down, ordering finishing touches. Nothing escaped his eagle\neyes. Just when it seemed absolutely finished:\n\n There s no knocker on the door,  he said.\n\nThey were very ashamed, but Tootles gave the sole of his shoe, and it\nmade an excellent knocker.\n\nAbsolutely finished now, they thought.\n\nNot of bit of it.  There s no chimney,  Peter said;  we must have a\nchimney. \n\n It certainly does need a chimney,  said John importantly. This gave\nPeter an idea. He snatched the hat off John s head, knocked out the\nbottom, and put the hat on the roof. The little house was so pleased to\nhave such a capital chimney that, as if to say thank you, smoke\nimmediately began to come out of the hat.\n\nNow really and truly it was finished. Nothing remained to do but to\nknock.\n\n All look your best,  Peter warned them;  first impressions are awfully\nimportant. \n\nHe was glad no one asked him what first impressions are; they were all\ntoo busy looking their best.\n\nHe knocked politely, and now the wood was as still as the children, not\na sound to be heard except from Tinker Bell, who was watching from a\nbranch and openly sneering.\n\nWhat the boys were wondering was, would any one answer the knock? If a\nlady, what would she be like?\n\nThe door opened and a lady came out. It was Wendy. They all whipped off\ntheir hats.\n\nShe looked properly surprised, and this was just how they had hoped she\nwould look.\n\n Where am I?  she said.\n\nOf course Slightly was the first to get his word in.  Wendy lady,  he\nsaid rapidly,  for you we built this house. \n\n Oh, say you re pleased,  cried Nibs.\n\n Lovely, darling house,  Wendy said, and they were the very words they\nhad hoped she would say.\n\n And we are your children,  cried the twins.\n\nThen all went on their knees, and holding out their arms cried,  O\nWendy lady, be our mother. \n\n Ought I?  Wendy said, all shining.  Of course it s frightfully\nfascinating, but you see I am only a little girl. I have no real\nexperience. \n\n That doesn t matter,  said Peter, as if he were the only person\npresent who knew all about it, though he was really the one who knew\nleast.  What we need is just a nice motherly person. \n\n Oh dear!  Wendy said,  you see, I feel that is exactly what I am. \n\n It is, it is,  they all cried;  we saw it at once. \n\n Very well,  she said,  I will do my best. Come inside at once, you\nnaughty children; I am sure your feet are damp. And before I put you to\nbed I have just time to finish the story of Cinderella. \n\nIn they went; I don t know how there was room for them, but you can\nsqueeze very tight in the Neverland. And that was the first of the many\njoyous evenings they had with Wendy. By and by she tucked them up in\nthe great bed in the home under the trees, but she herself slept that\nnight in the little house, and Peter kept watch outside with drawn\nsword, for the pirates could be heard carousing far away and the wolves\nwere on the prowl. The little house looked so cosy and safe in the\ndarkness, with a bright light showing through its blinds, and the\nchimney smoking beautifully, and Peter standing on guard. After a time\nhe fell asleep, and some unsteady fairies had to climb over him on\ntheir way home from an orgy. Any of the other boys obstructing the\nfairy path at night they would have mischiefed, but they just tweaked\nPeter s nose and passed on.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII.\nTHE HOME UNDER THE GROUND\n\n\nOne of the first things Peter did next day was to measure Wendy and\nJohn and Michael for hollow trees. Hook, you remember, had sneered at\nthe boys for thinking they needed a tree apiece, but this was\nignorance, for unless your tree fitted you it was difficult to go up\nand down, and no two of the boys were quite the same size. Once you\nfitted, you drew in your breath at the top, and down you went at\nexactly the right speed, while to ascend you drew in and let out\nalternately, and so wriggled up. Of course, when you have mastered the\naction you are able to do these things without thinking of them, and\nnothing can be more graceful.\n\nBut you simply must fit, and Peter measures you for your tree as\ncarefully as for a suit of clothes: the only difference being that the\nclothes are made to fit you, while you have to be made to fit the tree.\nUsually it is done quite easily, as by your wearing too many garments\nor too few, but if you are bumpy in awkward places or the only\navailable tree is an odd shape, Peter does some things to you, and\nafter that you fit. Once you fit, great care must be taken to go on\nfitting, and this, as Wendy was to discover to her delight, keeps a\nwhole family in perfect condition.\n\nWendy and Michael fitted their trees at the first try, but John had to\nbe altered a little.\n\nAfter a few days  practice they could go up and down as gaily as\nbuckets in a well. And how ardently they grew to love their home under\nthe ground; especially Wendy. It consisted of one large room, as all\nhouses should do, with a floor in which you could dig if you wanted to\ngo fishing, and in this floor grew stout mushrooms of a charming\ncolour, which were used as stools. A Never tree tried hard to grow in\nthe centre of the room, but every morning they sawed the trunk through,\nlevel with the floor. By tea-time it was always about two feet high,\nand then they put a door on top of it, the whole thus becoming a table;\nas soon as they cleared away, they sawed off the trunk again, and thus\nthere was more room to play. There was an enormous fireplace which was\nin almost any part of the room where you cared to light it, and across\nthis Wendy stretched strings, made of fibre, from which she suspended\nher washing. The bed was tilted against the wall by day, and let down\nat 6:30, when it filled nearly half the room; and all the boys slept in\nit, except Michael, lying like sardines in a tin. There was a strict\nrule against turning round until one gave the signal, when all turned\nat once. Michael should have used it also, but Wendy would have a baby,\nand he was the littlest, and you know what women are, and the short and\nlong of it is that he was hung up in a basket.\n\nIt was rough and simple, and not unlike what baby bears would have made\nof an underground house in the same circumstances. But there was one\nrecess in the wall, no larger than a bird-cage, which was the private\napartment of Tinker Bell. It could be shut off from the rest of the\nhouse by a tiny curtain, which Tink, who was most fastidious, always\nkept drawn when dressing or undressing. No woman, however large, could\nhave had a more exquisite boudoir and bed-chamber combined. The couch,\nas she always called it, was a genuine Queen Mab, with club legs; and\nshe varied the bedspreads according to what fruit-blossom was in\nseason. Her mirror was a Puss-in-Boots, of which there are now only\nthree, unchipped, known to fairy dealers; the washstand was Pie-crust\nand reversible, the chest of drawers an authentic Charming the Sixth,\nand the carpet and rugs the best (the early) period of Margery and\nRobin. There was a chandelier from Tiddlywinks for the look of the\nthing, but of course she lit the residence herself. Tink was very\ncontemptuous of the rest of the house, as indeed was perhaps\ninevitable, and her chamber, though beautiful, looked rather conceited,\nhaving the appearance of a nose permanently turned up.\n\nI suppose it was all especially entrancing to Wendy, because those\nrampagious boys of hers gave her so much to do. Really there were whole\nweeks when, except perhaps with a stocking in the evening, she was\nnever above ground. The cooking, I can tell you, kept her nose to the\npot, and even if there was nothing in it, even if there was no pot, she\nhad to keep watching that it came aboil just the same. You never\nexactly knew whether there would be a real meal or just a make-believe,\nit all depended upon Peter s whim: he could eat, really eat, if it was\npart of a game, but he could not stodge just to feel stodgy, which is\nwhat most children like better than anything else; the next best thing\nbeing to talk about it. Make-believe was so real to him that during a\nmeal of it you could see him getting rounder. Of course it was trying,\nbut you simply had to follow his lead, and if you could prove to him\nthat you were getting loose for your tree he let you stodge.\n\nWendy s favourite time for sewing and darning was after they had all\ngone to bed. Then, as she expressed it, she had a breathing time for\nherself; and she occupied it in making new things for them, and putting\ndouble pieces on the knees, for they were all most frightfully hard on\ntheir knees.\n\nWhen she sat down to a basketful of their stockings, every heel with a\nhole in it, she would fling up her arms and exclaim,  Oh dear, I am\nsure I sometimes think spinsters are to be envied! \n\nHer face beamed when she exclaimed this.\n\nYou remember about her pet wolf. Well, it very soon discovered that she\nhad come to the island and it found her out, and they just ran into\neach other s arms. After that it followed her about everywhere.\n\nAs time wore on did she think much about the beloved parents she had\nleft behind her? This is a difficult question, because it is quite\nimpossible to say how time does wear on in the Neverland, where it is\ncalculated by moons and suns, and there are ever so many more of them\nthan on the mainland. But I am afraid that Wendy did not really worry\nabout her father and mother; she was absolutely confident that they\nwould always keep the window open for her to fly back by, and this gave\nher complete ease of mind. What did disturb her at times was that John\nremembered his parents vaguely only, as people he had once known, while\nMichael was quite willing to believe that she was really his mother.\nThese things scared her a little, and nobly anxious to do her duty, she\ntried to fix the old life in their minds by setting them examination\npapers on it, as like as possible to the ones she used to do at school.\nThe other boys thought this awfully interesting, and insisted on\njoining, and they made slates for themselves, and sat round the table,\nwriting and thinking hard about the questions she had written on\nanother slate and passed round. They were the most ordinary\nquestions What was the colour of Mother s eyes? Which was taller,\nFather or Mother? Was Mother blonde or brunette? Answer all three\nquestions if possible.   (A) Write an essay of not less than 40 words\non How I spent my last Holidays, or The Characters of Father and Mother\ncompared. Only one of these to be attempted.  Or  (1) Describe Mother s\nlaugh; (2) Describe Father s laugh; (3) Describe Mother s Party Dress;\n(4) Describe the Kennel and its Inmate. \n\nThey were just everyday questions like these, and when you could not\nanswer them you were told to make a cross; and it was really dreadful\nwhat a number of crosses even John made. Of course the only boy who\nreplied to every question was Slightly, and no one could have been more\nhopeful of coming out first, but his answers were perfectly ridiculous,\nand he really came out last: a melancholy thing.\n\nPeter did not compete. For one thing he despised all mothers except\nWendy, and for another he was the only boy on the island who could\nneither write nor spell; not the smallest word. He was above all that\nsort of thing.\n\nBy the way, the questions were all written in the past tense. What was\nthe colour of Mother s eyes, and so on. Wendy, you see, had been\nforgetting, too.\n\nAdventures, of course, as we shall see, were of daily occurrence; but\nabout this time Peter invented, with Wendy s help, a new game that\nfascinated him enormously, until he suddenly had no more interest in\nit, which, as you have been told, was what always happened with his\ngames. It consisted in pretending not to have adventures, in doing the\nsort of thing John and Michael had been doing all their lives, sitting\non stools flinging balls in the air, pushing each other, going out for\nwalks and coming back without having killed so much as a grizzly. To\nsee Peter doing nothing on a stool was a great sight; he could not help\nlooking solemn at such times, to sit still seemed to him such a comic\nthing to do. He boasted that he had gone walking for the good of his\nhealth. For several suns these were the most novel of all adventures to\nhim; and John and Michael had to pretend to be delighted also;\notherwise he would have treated them severely.\n\nHe often went out alone, and when he came back you were never\nabsolutely certain whether he had had an adventure or not. He might\nhave forgotten it so completely that he said nothing about it; and then\nwhen you went out you found the body; and, on the other hand, he might\nsay a great deal about it, and yet you could not find the body.\nSometimes he came home with his head bandaged, and then Wendy cooed\nover him and bathed it in lukewarm water, while he told a dazzling\ntale. But she was never quite sure, you know. There were, however, many\nadventures which she knew to be true because she was in them herself,\nand there were still more that were at least partly true, for the other\nboys were in them and said they were wholly true. To describe them all\nwould require a book as large as an English-Latin, Latin-English\nDictionary, and the most we can do is to give one as a specimen of an\naverage hour on the island. The difficulty is which one to choose.\nShould we take the brush with the redskins at Slightly Gulch? It was a\nsanguinary affair, and especially interesting as showing one of Peter s\npeculiarities, which was that in the middle of a fight he would\nsuddenly change sides. At the Gulch, when victory was still in the\nbalance, sometimes leaning this way and sometimes that, he called out,\n I m redskin to-day; what are you, Tootles?  And Tootles answered,\n Redskin; what are you, Nibs?  and Nibs said,  Redskin; what are you\nTwin?  and so on; and they were all redskins; and of course this would\nhave ended the fight had not the real redskins fascinated by Peter s\nmethods, agreed to be lost boys for that once, and so at it they all\nwent again, more fiercely than ever.\n\nThe extraordinary upshot of this adventure was but we have not decided\nyet that this is the adventure we are to narrate. Perhaps a better one\nwould be the night attack by the redskins on the house under the\nground, when several of them stuck in the hollow trees and had to be\npulled out like corks. Or we might tell how Peter saved Tiger Lily s\nlife in the Mermaids  Lagoon, and so made her his ally.\n\nOr we could tell of that cake the pirates cooked so that the boys might\neat it and perish; and how they placed it in one cunning spot after\nanother; but always Wendy snatched it from the hands of her children,\nso that in time it lost its succulence, and became as hard as a stone,\nand was used as a missile, and Hook fell over it in the dark.\n\nOr suppose we tell of the birds that were Peter s friends, particularly\nof the Never bird that built in a tree overhanging the lagoon, and how\nthe nest fell into the water, and still the bird sat on her eggs, and\nPeter gave orders that she was not to be disturbed. That is a pretty\nstory, and the end shows how grateful a bird can be; but if we tell it\nwe must also tell the whole adventure of the lagoon, which would of\ncourse be telling two adventures rather than just one. A shorter\nadventure, and quite as exciting, was Tinker Bell s attempt, with the\nhelp of some street fairies, to have the sleeping Wendy conveyed on a\ngreat floating leaf to the mainland. Fortunately the leaf gave way and\nWendy woke, thinking it was bath-time, and swam back. Or again, we\nmight choose Peter s defiance of the lions, when he drew a circle round\nhim on the ground with an arrow and dared them to cross it; and though\nhe waited for hours, with the other boys and Wendy looking on\nbreathlessly from trees, not one of them dared to accept his challenge.\n\nWhich of these adventures shall we choose? The best way will be to toss\nfor it.\n\nI have tossed, and the lagoon has won. This almost makes one wish that\nthe gulch or the cake or Tink s leaf had won. Of course I could do it\nagain, and make it best out of three; however, perhaps fairest to stick\nto the lagoon.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII.\nTHE MERMAIDS  LAGOON\n\n\nIf you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a\nshapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then\nif you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and\nthe colours become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on\nfire. But just before they go on fire you see the lagoon. This is the\nnearest you ever get to it on the mainland, just one heavenly moment;\nif there could be two moments you might see the surf and hear the\nmermaids singing.\n\nThe children often spent long summer days on this lagoon, swimming or\nfloating most of the time, playing the mermaid games in the water, and\nso forth. You must not think from this that the mermaids were on\nfriendly terms with them: on the contrary, it was among Wendy s lasting\nregrets that all the time she was on the island she never had a civil\nword from one of them. When she stole softly to the edge of the lagoon\nshe might see them by the score, especially on Marooners  Rock, where\nthey loved to bask, combing out their hair in a lazy way that quite\nirritated her; or she might even swim, on tiptoe as it were, to within\na yard of them, but then they saw her and dived, probably splashing her\nwith their tails, not by accident, but intentionally.\n\nThey treated all the boys in the same way, except of course Peter, who\nchatted with them on Marooners  Rock by the hour, and sat on their\ntails when they got cheeky. He gave Wendy one of their combs.\n\nThe most haunting time at which to see them is at the turn of the moon,\nwhen they utter strange wailing cries; but the lagoon is dangerous for\nmortals then, and until the evening of which we have now to tell, Wendy\nhad never seen the lagoon by moonlight, less from fear, for of course\nPeter would have accompanied her, than because she had strict rules\nabout every one being in bed by seven. She was often at the lagoon,\nhowever, on sunny days after rain, when the mermaids come up in\nextraordinary numbers to play with their bubbles. The bubbles of many\ncolours made in rainbow water they treat as balls, hitting them gaily\nfrom one to another with their tails, and trying to keep them in the\nrainbow till they burst. The goals are at each end of the rainbow, and\nthe keepers only are allowed to use their hands. Sometimes a dozen of\nthese games will be going on in the lagoon at a time, and it is quite a\npretty sight.\n\nBut the moment the children tried to join in they had to play by\nthemselves, for the mermaids immediately disappeared. Nevertheless we\nhave proof that they secretly watched the interlopers, and were not\nabove taking an idea from them; for John introduced a new way of\nhitting the bubble, with the head instead of the hand, and the mermaids\nadopted it. This is the one mark that John has left on the Neverland.\n\nIt must also have been rather pretty to see the children resting on a\nrock for half an hour after their mid-day meal. Wendy insisted on their\ndoing this, and it had to be a real rest even though the meal was\nmake-believe. So they lay there in the sun, and their bodies glistened\nin it, while she sat beside them and looked important.\n\nIt was one such day, and they were all on Marooners  Rock. The rock was\nnot much larger than their great bed, but of course they all knew how\nnot to take up much room, and they were dozing, or at least lying with\ntheir eyes shut, and pinching occasionally when they thought Wendy was\nnot looking. She was very busy, stitching.\n\nWhile she stitched a change came to the lagoon. Little shivers ran over\nit, and the sun went away and shadows stole across the water, turning\nit cold. Wendy could no longer see to thread her needle, and when she\nlooked up, the lagoon that had always hitherto been such a laughing\nplace seemed formidable and unfriendly.\n\nIt was not, she knew, that night had come, but something as dark as\nnight had come. No, worse than that. It had not come, but it had sent\nthat shiver through the sea to say that it was coming. What was it?\n\nThere crowded upon her all the stories she had been told of Marooners \nRock, so called because evil captains put sailors on it and leave them\nthere to drown. They drown when the tide rises, for then it is\nsubmerged.\n\nOf course she should have roused the children at once; not merely\nbecause of the unknown that was stalking toward them, but because it\nwas no longer good for them to sleep on a rock grown chilly. But she\nwas a young mother and she did not know this; she thought you simply\nmust stick to your rule about half an hour after the mid-day meal. So,\nthough fear was upon her, and she longed to hear male voices, she would\nnot waken them. Even when she heard the sound of muffled oars, though\nher heart was in her mouth, she did not waken them. She stood over them\nto let them have their sleep out. Was it not brave of Wendy?\n\nIt was well for those boys then that there was one among them who could\nsniff danger even in his sleep. Peter sprang erect, as wide awake at\nonce as a dog, and with one warning cry he roused the others.\n\nHe stood motionless, one hand to his ear.\n\n Pirates!  he cried. The others came closer to him. A strange smile was\nplaying about his face, and Wendy saw it and shuddered. While that\nsmile was on his face no one dared address him; all they could do was\nto stand ready to obey. The order came sharp and incisive.\n\n Dive! \n\nThere was a gleam of legs, and instantly the lagoon seemed deserted.\nMarooners  Rock stood alone in the forbidding waters as if it were\nitself marooned.\n\nThe boat drew nearer. It was the pirate dinghy, with three figures in\nher, Smee and Starkey, and the third a captive, no other than Tiger\nLily. Her hands and ankles were tied, and she knew what was to be her\nfate. She was to be left on the rock to perish, an end to one of her\nrace more terrible than death by fire or torture, for is it not written\nin the book of the tribe that there is no path through water to the\nhappy hunting-ground? Yet her face was impassive; she was the daughter\nof a chief, she must die as a chief s daughter, it is enough.\n\nThey had caught her boarding the pirate ship with a knife in her mouth.\nNo watch was kept on the ship, it being Hook s boast that the wind of\nhis name guarded the ship for a mile around. Now her fate would help to\nguard it also. One more wail would go the round in that wind by night.\n\nIn the gloom that they brought with them the two pirates did not see\nthe rock till they crashed into it.\n\n Luff, you lubber,  cried an Irish voice that was Smee s;  here s the\nrock. Now, then, what we have to do is to hoist the redskin on to it\nand leave her here to drown. \n\nIt was the work of one brutal moment to land the beautiful girl on the\nrock; she was too proud to offer a vain resistance.\n\nQuite near the rock, but out of sight, two heads were bobbing up and\ndown, Peter s and Wendy s. Wendy was crying, for it was the first\ntragedy she had seen. Peter had seen many tragedies, but he had\nforgotten them all. He was less sorry than Wendy for Tiger Lily: it was\ntwo against one that angered him, and he meant to save her. An easy way\nwould have been to wait until the pirates had gone, but he was never\none to choose the easy way.\n\nThere was almost nothing he could not do, and he now imitated the voice\nof Hook.\n\n Ahoy there, you lubbers!  he called. It was a marvellous imitation.\n\n The captain!  said the pirates, staring at each other in surprise.\n\n He must be swimming out to us,  Starkey said, when they had looked for\nhim in vain.\n\n We are putting the redskin on the rock,  Smee called out.\n\n Set her free,  came the astonishing answer.\n\n Free! \n\n Yes, cut her bonds and let her go. \n\n But, captain \n\n At once, d ye hear,  cried Peter,  or I ll plunge my hook in you. \n\n This is queer!  Smee gasped.\n\n Better do what the captain orders,  said Starkey nervously.\n\n Ay, ay,  Smee said, and he cut Tiger Lily s cords. At once like an eel\nshe slid between Starkey s legs into the water.\n\nOf course Wendy was very elated over Peter s cleverness; but she knew\nthat he would be elated also and very likely crow and thus betray\nhimself, so at once her hand went out to cover his mouth. But it was\nstayed even in the act, for  Boat ahoy!  rang over the lagoon in Hook s\nvoice, and this time it was not Peter who had spoken.\n\nPeter may have been about to crow, but his face puckered in a whistle\nof surprise instead.\n\n Boat ahoy!  again came the voice.\n\nNow Wendy understood. The real Hook was also in the water.\n\nHe was swimming to the boat, and as his men showed a light to guide him\nhe had soon reached them. In the light of the lantern Wendy saw his\nhook grip the boat s side; she saw his evil swarthy face as he rose\ndripping from the water, and, quaking, she would have liked to swim\naway, but Peter would not budge. He was tingling with life and also\ntop-heavy with conceit.  Am I not a wonder, oh, I am a wonder!  he\nwhispered to her, and though she thought so also, she was really glad\nfor the sake of his reputation that no one heard him except herself.\n\nHe signed to her to listen.\n\nThe two pirates were very curious to know what had brought their\ncaptain to them, but he sat with his head on his hook in a position of\nprofound melancholy.\n\n Captain, is all well?  they asked timidly, but he answered with a\nhollow moan.\n\n He sighs,  said Smee.\n\n He sighs again,  said Starkey.\n\n And yet a third time he sighs,  said Smee.\n\nThen at last he spoke passionately.\n\n The game s up,  he cried,  those boys have found a mother. \n\nAffrighted though she was, Wendy swelled with pride.\n\n O evil day!  cried Starkey.\n\n What s a mother?  asked the ignorant Smee.\n\nWendy was so shocked that she exclaimed.  He doesn t know!  and always\nafter this she felt that if you could have a pet pirate Smee would be\nher one.\n\nPeter pulled her beneath the water, for Hook had started up, crying,\n What was that? \n\n I heard nothing,  said Starkey, raising the lantern over the waters,\nand as the pirates looked they saw a strange sight. It was the nest I\nhave told you of, floating on the lagoon, and the Never bird was\nsitting on it.\n\n See,  said Hook in answer to Smee s question,  that is a mother. What\na lesson! The nest must have fallen into the water, but would the\nmother desert her eggs? No. \n\nThere was a break in his voice, as if for a moment he recalled innocent\ndays when but he brushed away this weakness with his hook.\n\nSmee, much impressed, gazed at the bird as the nest was borne past, but\nthe more suspicious Starkey said,  If she is a mother, perhaps she is\nhanging about here to help Peter. \n\nHook winced.  Ay,  he said,  that is the fear that haunts me. \n\nHe was roused from this dejection by Smee s eager voice.\n\n Captain,  said Smee,  could we not kidnap these boys  mother and make\nher our mother? \n\n It is a princely scheme,  cried Hook, and at once it took practical\nshape in his great brain.  We will seize the children and carry them to\nthe boat: the boys we will make walk the plank, and Wendy shall be our\nmother. \n\nAgain Wendy forgot herself.\n\n Never!  she cried, and bobbed.\n\n What was that? \n\nBut they could see nothing. They thought it must have been a leaf in\nthe wind.  Do you agree, my bullies?  asked Hook.\n\n There is my hand on it,  they both said.\n\n And there is my hook. Swear. \n\nThey all swore. By this time they were on the rock, and suddenly Hook\nremembered Tiger Lily.\n\n Where is the redskin?  he demanded abruptly.\n\nHe had a playful humour at moments, and they thought this was one of\nthe moments.\n\n That is all right, captain,  Smee answered complacently;  we let her\ngo. \n\n Let her go!  cried Hook.\n\n Twas your own orders,  the bo sun faltered.\n\n You called over the water to us to let her go,  said Starkey.\n\n Brimstone and gall,  thundered Hook,  what cozening is going on here! \nHis face had gone black with rage, but he saw that they believed their\nwords, and he was startled.  Lads,  he said, shaking a little,  I gave\nno such order. \n\n It is passing queer,  Smee said, and they all fidgeted uncomfortably.\nHook raised his voice, but there was a quiver in it.\n\n Spirit that haunts this dark lagoon to-night,  he cried,  dost hear\nme? \n\nOf course Peter should have kept quiet, but of course he did not. He\nimmediately answered in Hook s voice:\n\n Odds, bobs, hammer and tongs, I hear you. \n\nIn that supreme moment Hook did not blanch, even at the gills, but Smee\nand Starkey clung to each other in terror.\n\n Who are you, stranger? Speak!  Hook demanded.\n\n I am James Hook,  replied the voice,  captain of the _Jolly Roger_. \n\n You are not; you are not,  Hook cried hoarsely.\n\n Brimstone and gall,  the voice retorted,  say that again, and I ll\ncast anchor in you. \n\nHook tried a more ingratiating manner.  If you are Hook,  he said\nalmost humbly,  come tell me, who am I? \n\n A codfish,  replied the voice,  only a codfish. \n\n A codfish!  Hook echoed blankly, and it was then, but not till then,\nthat his proud spirit broke. He saw his men draw back from him.\n\n Have we been captained all this time by a codfish!  they muttered.  It\nis lowering to our pride. \n\nThey were his dogs snapping at him, but, tragic figure though he had\nbecome, he scarcely heeded them. Against such fearful evidence it was\nnot their belief in him that he needed, it was his own. He felt his ego\nslipping from him.  Don t desert me, bully,  he whispered hoarsely to\nit.\n\nIn his dark nature there was a touch of the feminine, as in all the\ngreat pirates, and it sometimes gave him intuitions. Suddenly he tried\nthe guessing game.\n\n Hook,  he called,  have you another voice? \n\nNow Peter could never resist a game, and he answered blithely in his\nown voice,  I have. \n\n And another name? \n\n Ay, ay. \n\n Vegetable?  asked Hook.\n\n No. \n\n Mineral? \n\n No. \n\n Animal? \n\n Yes. \n\n Man? \n\n No!  This answer rang out scornfully.\n\n Boy? \n\n Yes. \n\n Ordinary boy? \n\n No! \n\n Wonderful boy? \n\nTo Wendy s pain the answer that rang out this time was  Yes. \n\n Are you in England? \n\n No. \n\n Are you here? \n\n Yes. \n\nHook was completely puzzled.  You ask him some questions,  he said to\nthe others, wiping his damp brow.\n\nSmee reflected.  I can t think of a thing,  he said regretfully.\n\n Can t guess, can t guess!  crowed Peter.  Do you give it up? \n\nOf course in his pride he was carrying the game too far, and the\nmiscreants saw their chance.\n\n Yes, yes,  they answered eagerly.\n\n Well, then,  he cried,  I am Peter Pan. \n\nPan!\n\nIn a moment Hook was himself again, and Smee and Starkey were his\nfaithful henchmen.\n\n Now we have him,  Hook shouted.  Into the water, Smee. Starkey, mind\nthe boat. Take him dead or alive! \n\nHe leaped as he spoke, and simultaneously came the gay voice of Peter.\n\n Are you ready, boys? \n\n Ay, ay,  from various parts of the lagoon.\n\n Then lam into the pirates. \n\nThe fight was short and sharp. First to draw blood was John, who\ngallantly climbed into the boat and held Starkey. There was fierce\nstruggle, in which the cutlass was torn from the pirate s grasp. He\nwriggled overboard and John leapt after him. The dinghy drifted away.\n\nHere and there a head bobbed up in the water, and there was a flash of\nsteel followed by a cry or a whoop. In the confusion some struck at\ntheir own side. The corkscrew of Smee got Tootles in the fourth rib,\nbut he was himself pinked in turn by Curly. Farther from the rock\nStarkey was pressing Slightly and the twins hard.\n\nWhere all this time was Peter? He was seeking bigger game.\n\nThe others were all brave boys, and they must not be blamed for backing\nfrom the pirate captain. His iron claw made a circle of dead water\nround him, from which they fled like affrighted fishes.\n\nBut there was one who did not fear him: there was one prepared to enter\nthat circle.\n\nStrangely, it was not in the water that they met. Hook rose to the rock\nto breathe, and at the same moment Peter scaled it on the opposite\nside. The rock was slippery as a ball, and they had to crawl rather\nthan climb. Neither knew that the other was coming. Each feeling for a\ngrip met the other s arm: in surprise they raised their heads; their\nfaces were almost touching; so they met.\n\nSome of the greatest heroes have confessed that just before they fell\nto they had a sinking. Had it been so with Peter at that moment I would\nadmit it. After all, he was the only man that the Sea-Cook had feared.\nBut Peter had no sinking, he had one feeling only, gladness; and he\ngnashed his pretty teeth with joy. Quick as thought he snatched a knife\nfrom Hook s belt and was about to drive it home, when he saw that he\nwas higher up the rock than his foe. It would not have been fighting\nfair. He gave the pirate a hand to help him up.\n\nIt was then that Hook bit him.\n\nNot the pain of this but its unfairness was what dazed Peter. It made\nhim quite helpless. He could only stare, horrified. Every child is\naffected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he thinks he\nhas a right to when he comes to you to be yours is fairness. After you\nhave been unfair to him he will love you again, but will never\nafterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first\nunfairness; no one except Peter. He often met it, but he always forgot\nit. I suppose that was the real difference between him and all the\nrest.\n\nSo when he met it now it was like the first time; and he could just\nstare, helpless. Twice the iron hand clawed him.\n\nA few moments afterwards the other boys saw Hook in the water striking\nwildly for the ship; no elation on the pestilent face now, only white\nfear, for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him. On ordinary\noccasions the boys would have swum alongside cheering; but now they\nwere uneasy, for they had lost both Peter and Wendy, and were scouring\nthe lagoon for them, calling them by name. They found the dinghy and\nwent home in it, shouting  Peter, Wendy  as they went, but no answer\ncame save mocking laughter from the mermaids.  They must be swimming\nback or flying,  the boys concluded. They were not very anxious,\nbecause they had such faith in Peter. They chuckled, boylike, because\nthey would be late for bed; and it was all mother Wendy s fault!\n\nWhen their voices died away there came cold silence over the lagoon,\nand then a feeble cry.\n\n Help, help! \n\nTwo small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted\nand lay on the boy s arm. With a last effort Peter pulled her up the\nrock and then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted he saw that\nthe water was rising. He knew that they would soon be drowned, but he\ncould do no more.\n\nAs they lay side by side a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and began\npulling her softly into the water. Peter, feeling her slip from him,\nwoke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back. But he had to\ntell her the truth.\n\n We are on the rock, Wendy,  he said,  but it is growing smaller. Soon\nthe water will be over it. \n\nShe did not understand even now.\n\n We must go,  she said, almost brightly.\n\n Yes,  he answered faintly.\n\n Shall we swim or fly, Peter? \n\nHe had to tell her.\n\n Do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy,\nwithout my help? \n\nShe had to admit that she was too tired.\n\nHe moaned.\n\n What is it?  she asked, anxious about him at once.\n\n I can t help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim. \n\n Do you mean we shall both be drowned? \n\n Look how the water is rising. \n\nThey put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight. They\nthought they would soon be no more. As they sat thus something brushed\nagainst Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if saying\ntimidly,  Can I be of any use? \n\nIt was the tail of a kite, which Michael had made some days before. It\nhad torn itself out of his hand and floated away.\n\n Michael s kite,  Peter said without interest, but next moment he had\nseized the tail, and was pulling the kite toward him.\n\n It lifted Michael off the ground,  he cried;  why should it not carry\nyou? \n\n Both of us! \n\n It can t lift two; Michael and Curly tried. \n\n Let us draw lots,  Wendy said bravely.\n\n And you a lady; never.  Already he had tied the tail round her. She\nclung to him; she refused to go without him; but with a  Good-bye,\nWendy,  he pushed her from the rock; and in a few minutes she was borne\nout of his sight. Peter was alone on the lagoon.\n\nThe rock was very small now; soon it would be submerged. Pale rays of\nlight tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a\nsound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world:\nthe mermaids calling to the moon.\n\nPeter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last. A\ntremour ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on\nthe sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them,\nand Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on the\nrock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him.\nIt was saying,  To die will be an awfully big adventure. \n\n\n\n\nChapter IX.\nTHE NEVER BIRD\n\n\nThe last sound Peter heard before he was quite alone were the mermaids\nretiring one by one to their bedchambers under the sea. He was too far\naway to hear their doors shut; but every door in the coral caves where\nthey live rings a tiny bell when it opens or closes (as in all the\nnicest houses on the mainland), and he heard the bells.\n\nSteadily the waters rose till they were nibbling at his feet; and to\npass the time until they made their final gulp, he watched the only\nthing on the lagoon. He thought it was a piece of floating paper,\nperhaps part of the kite, and wondered idly how long it would take to\ndrift ashore.\n\nPresently he noticed as an odd thing that it was undoubtedly out upon\nthe lagoon with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the tide,\nand sometimes winning; and when it won, Peter, always sympathetic to\nthe weaker side, could not help clapping; it was such a gallant piece\nof paper.\n\nIt was not really a piece of paper; it was the Never bird, making\ndesperate efforts to reach Peter on the nest. By working her wings, in\na way she had learned since the nest fell into the water, she was able\nto some extent to guide her strange craft, but by the time Peter\nrecognised her she was very exhausted. She had come to save him, to\ngive him her nest, though there were eggs in it. I rather wonder at the\nbird, for though he had been nice to her, he had also sometimes\ntormented her. I can suppose only that, like Mrs. Darling and the rest\nof them, she was melted because he had all his first teeth.\n\nShe called out to him what she had come for, and he called out to her\nwhat she was doing there; but of course neither of them understood the\nother s language. In fanciful stories people can talk to the birds\nfreely, and I wish for the moment I could pretend that this were such a\nstory, and say that Peter replied intelligently to the Never bird; but\ntruth is best, and I want to tell you only what really happened. Well,\nnot only could they not understand each other, but they forgot their\nmanners.\n\n I want you to get into the nest,  the bird called, speaking as slowly\nand distinctly as possible,  and then you can drift ashore,\nbut I am too tired to bring it any nearer so you must try\nto swim to it. \n\n What are you quacking about?  Peter answered.  Why don t you let the\nnest drift as usual? \n\n I want you  the bird said, and repeated it all over.\n\nThen Peter tried slow and distinct.\n\n What are you quacking about?  and so on.\n\nThe Never bird became irritated; they have very short tempers.\n\n You dunderheaded little jay!  she screamed,  Why don t you do as I\ntell you? \n\nPeter felt that she was calling him names, and at a venture he retorted\nhotly:\n\n So are you! \n\nThen rather curiously they both snapped out the same remark:\n\n Shut up! \n\n Shut up! \n\nNevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and by\none last mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock. Then up\nshe flew; deserting her eggs, so as to make her meaning clear.\n\nThen at last he understood, and clutched the nest and waved his thanks\nto the bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive his\nthanks, however, that she hung there in the sky; it was not even to\nwatch him get into the nest; it was to see what he did with her eggs.\n\nThere were two large white eggs, and Peter lifted them up and\nreflected. The bird covered her face with her wings, so as not to see\nthe last of them; but she could not help peeping between the feathers.\n\nI forget whether I have told you that there was a stave on the rock,\ndriven into it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of\nburied treasure. The children had discovered the glittering hoard, and\nwhen in a mischievous mood used to fling showers of moidores, diamonds,\npearls and pieces of eight to the gulls, who pounced upon them for\nfood, and then flew away, raging at the scurvy trick that had been\nplayed upon them. The stave was still there, and on it Starkey had hung\nhis hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim. Peter put the\neggs into this hat and set it on the lagoon. It floated beautifully.\n\nThe Never bird saw at once what he was up to, and screamed her\nadmiration of him; and, alas, Peter crowed his agreement with her. Then\nhe got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, and hung up his\nshirt for a sail. At the same moment the bird fluttered down upon the\nhat and once more sat snugly on her eggs. She drifted in one direction,\nand he was borne off in another, both cheering.\n\nOf course when Peter landed he beached his barque in a place where the\nbird would easily find it; but the hat was such a great success that\nshe abandoned the nest. It drifted about till it went to pieces, and\noften Starkey came to the shore of the lagoon, and with many bitter\nfeelings watched the bird sitting on his hat. As we shall not see her\nagain, it may be worth mentioning here that all Never birds now build\nin that shape of nest, with a broad brim on which the youngsters take\nan airing.\n\nGreat were the rejoicings when Peter reached the home under the ground\nalmost as soon as Wendy, who had been carried hither and thither by the\nkite. Every boy had adventures to tell; but perhaps the biggest\nadventure of all was that they were several hours late for bed. This so\ninflated them that they did various dodgy things to get staying up\nstill longer, such as demanding bandages; but Wendy, though glorying in\nhaving them all home again safe and sound, was scandalised by the\nlateness of the hour, and cried,  To bed, to bed,  in a voice that had\nto be obeyed. Next day, however, she was awfully tender, and gave out\nbandages to every one, and they played till bed-time at limping about\nand carrying their arms in slings.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X.\nTHE HAPPY HOME\n\n\nOne important result of the brush on the lagoon was that it made the\nredskins their friends. Peter had saved Tiger Lily from a dreadful\nfate, and now there was nothing she and her braves would not do for\nhim. All night they sat above, keeping watch over the home under the\nground and awaiting the big attack by the pirates which obviously could\nnot be much longer delayed. Even by day they hung about, smoking the\npipe of peace, and looking almost as if they wanted tit-bits to eat.\n\nThey called Peter the Great White Father, prostrating themselves before\nhim; and he liked this tremendously, so that it was not really good for\nhim.\n\n The great white father,  he would say to them in a very lordly manner,\nas they grovelled at his feet,  is glad to see the Piccaninny warriors\nprotecting his wigwam from the pirates. \n\n Me Tiger Lily,  that lovely creature would reply.  Peter Pan save me,\nme his velly nice friend. Me no let pirates hurt him. \n\nShe was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but Peter thought it his\ndue, and he would answer condescendingly,  It is good. Peter Pan has\nspoken. \n\nAlways when he said,  Peter Pan has spoken,  it meant that they must\nnow shut up, and they accepted it humbly in that spirit; but they were\nby no means so respectful to the other boys, whom they looked upon as\njust ordinary braves. They said  How-do?  to them, and things like\nthat; and what annoyed the boys was that Peter seemed to think this all\nright.\n\nSecretly Wendy sympathised with them a little, but she was far too\nloyal a housewife to listen to any complaints against father.  Father\nknows best,  she always said, whatever her private opinion must be. Her\nprivate opinion was that the redskins should not call her a squaw.\n\nWe have now reached the evening that was to be known among them as the\nNight of Nights, because of its adventures and their upshot. The day,\nas if quietly gathering its forces, had been almost uneventful, and now\nthe redskins in their blankets were at their posts above, while, below,\nthe children were having their evening meal; all except Peter, who had\ngone out to get the time. The way you got the time on the island was to\nfind the crocodile, and then stay near him till the clock struck.\n\nThe meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat around the\nboard, guzzling in their greed; and really, what with their chatter and\nrecriminations, the noise, as Wendy said, was positively deafening. To\nbe sure, she did not mind noise, but she simply would not have them\ngrabbing things, and then excusing themselves by saying that Tootles\nhad pushed their elbow. There was a fixed rule that they must never hit\nback at meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to Wendy by\nraising the right arm politely and saying,  I complain of so-and-so; \nbut what usually happened was that they forgot to do this or did it too\nmuch.\n\n Silence,  cried Wendy when for the twentieth time she had told them\nthat they were not all to speak at once.  Is your mug empty, Slightly\ndarling? \n\n Not quite empty, mummy,  Slightly said, after looking into an\nimaginary mug.\n\n He hasn t even begun to drink his milk,  Nibs interposed.\n\nThis was telling, and Slightly seized his chance.\n\n I complain of Nibs,  he cried promptly.\n\nJohn, however, had held up his hand first.\n\n Well, John? \n\n May I sit in Peter s chair, as he is not here? \n\n Sit in father s chair, John!  Wendy was scandalised.  Certainly not. \n\n He is not really our father,  John answered.  He didn t even know how\na father does till I showed him. \n\nThis was grumbling.  We complain of John,  cried the twins.\n\nTootles held up his hand. He was so much the humblest of them, indeed\nhe was the only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him.\n\n I don t suppose,  Tootles said diffidently,  that I could be father. \n\n No, Tootles. \n\nOnce Tootles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way of\ngoing on.\n\n As I can t be father,  he said heavily,  I don t suppose, Michael, you\nwould let me be baby? \n\n No, I won t,  Michael rapped out. He was already in his basket.\n\n As I can t be baby,  Tootles said, getting heavier and heavier and\nheavier,  do you think I could be a twin? \n\n No, indeed,  replied the twins;  it s awfully difficult to be a twin. \n\n As I can t be anything important,  said Tootles,  would any of you\nlike to see me do a trick? \n\n No,  they all replied.\n\nThen at last he stopped.  I hadn t really any hope,  he said.\n\nThe hateful telling broke out again.\n\n Slightly is coughing on the table. \n\n The twins began with cheese-cakes. \n\n Curly is taking both butter and honey. \n\n Nibs is speaking with his mouth full. \n\n I complain of the twins. \n\n I complain of Curly. \n\n I complain of Nibs. \n\n Oh dear, oh dear,  cried Wendy,  I m sure I sometimes think that\nspinsters are to be envied. \n\nShe told them to clear away, and sat down to her work-basket, a heavy\nload of stockings and every knee with a hole in it as usual.\n\n Wendy,  remonstrated Michael,  I m too big for a cradle. \n\n I must have somebody in a cradle,  she said almost tartly,  and you\nare the littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a\nhouse. \n\nWhile she sewed they played around her; such a group of happy faces and\ndancing limbs lit up by that romantic fire. It had become a very\nfamiliar scene, this, in the home under the ground, but we are looking\non it for the last time.\n\nThere was a step above, and Wendy, you may be sure, was the first to\nrecognize it.\n\n Children, I hear your father s step. He likes you to meet him at the\ndoor. \n\nAbove, the redskins crouched before Peter.\n\n Watch well, braves. I have spoken. \n\nAnd then, as so often before, the gay children dragged him from his\ntree. As so often before, but never again.\n\nHe had brought nuts for the boys as well as the correct time for Wendy.\n\n Peter, you just spoil them, you know,  Wendy simpered.\n\n Ah, old lady,  said Peter, hanging up his gun.\n\n It was me told him mothers are called old lady,  Michael whispered to\nCurly.\n\n I complain of Michael,  said Curly instantly.\n\nThe first twin came to Peter.  Father, we want to dance. \n\n Dance away, my little man,  said Peter, who was in high good humour.\n\n But we want you to dance. \n\nPeter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be\nscandalised.\n\n Me! My old bones would rattle! \n\n And mummy too. \n\n What,  cried Wendy,  the mother of such an armful, dance! \n\n But on a Saturday night,  Slightly insinuated.\n\nIt was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for they\nhad long lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do\nanything special they said this was Saturday night, and then they did\nit.\n\n Of course it is Saturday night, Peter,  Wendy said, relenting.\n\n People of our figure, Wendy! \n\n But it is only among our own progeny. \n\n True, true. \n\nSo they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties\nfirst.\n\n Ah, old lady,  Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the fire\nand looking down at her as she sat turning a heel,  there is nothing\nmore pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day s toil is over\nthan to rest by the fire with the little ones near by. \n\n It is sweet, Peter, isn t it?  Wendy said, frightfully gratified.\n Peter, I think Curly has your nose. \n\n Michael takes after you. \n\nShe went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.\n\n Dear Peter,  she said,  with such a large family, of course, I have\nnow passed my best, but you don t want to change me, do you? \n\n No, Wendy. \n\nCertainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably,\nblinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.\n\n Peter, what is it? \n\n I was just thinking,  he said, a little scared.  It is only\nmake-believe, isn t it, that I am their father? \n\n Oh yes,  Wendy said primly.\n\n You see,  he continued apologetically,  it would make me seem so old\nto be their real father. \n\n But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine. \n\n But not really, Wendy?  he asked anxiously.\n\n Not if you don t wish it,  she replied; and she distinctly heard his\nsigh of relief.  Peter,  she asked, trying to speak firmly,  what are\nyour exact feelings to me? \n\n Those of a devoted son, Wendy. \n\n I thought so,  she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme\nend of the room.\n\n You are so queer,  he said, frankly puzzled,  and Tiger Lily is just\nthe same. There is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is\nnot my mother. \n\n No, indeed, it is not,  Wendy replied with frightful emphasis. Now we\nknow why she was prejudiced against the redskins.\n\n Then what is it? \n\n It isn t for a lady to tell. \n\n Oh, very well,  Peter said, a little nettled.  Perhaps Tinker Bell\nwill tell me. \n\n Oh yes, Tinker Bell will tell you,  Wendy retorted scornfully.  She is\nan abandoned little creature. \n\nHere Tink, who was in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked out\nsomething impudent.\n\n She says she glories in being abandoned,  Peter interpreted.\n\nHe had a sudden idea.  Perhaps Tink wants to be my mother? \n\n You silly ass!  cried Tinker Bell in a passion.\n\nShe had said it so often that Wendy needed no translation.\n\n I almost agree with her,  Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping! But she\nhad been much tried, and she little knew what was to happen before the\nnight was out. If she had known she would not have snapped.\n\nNone of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance\ngave them one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on\nthe island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it.\nThey sang and danced in their night-gowns. Such a deliciously creepy\nsong it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own\nshadows, little witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them,\nfrom whom they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously gay was the\ndance, and how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it! It\nwas a pillow fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished, the\npillows insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may\nnever meet again. The stories they told, before it was time for Wendy s\ngood-night story! Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night, but\nthe beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the\nothers but himself, and he said gloomily:\n\n Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the\nend. \n\nAnd then at last they all got into bed for Wendy s story, the story\nthey loved best, the story Peter hated. Usually when she began to tell\nthis story he left the room or put his hands over his ears; and\npossibly if he had done either of those things this time they might all\nstill be on the island. But to-night he remained on his stool; and we\nshall see what happened.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI.\nWENDY S STORY\n\n\n Listen, then,  said Wendy, settling down to her story, with Michael at\nher feet and seven boys in the bed.  There was once a gentleman \n\n I had rather he had been a lady,  Curly said.\n\n I wish he had been a white rat,  said Nibs.\n\n Quiet,  their mother admonished them.  There was a lady also, and \n\n Oh, mummy,  cried the first twin,  you mean that there is a lady also,\ndon t you? She is not dead, is she? \n\n Oh, no. \n\n I am awfully glad she isn t dead,  said Tootles.  Are you glad, John? \n\n Of course I am. \n\n Are you glad, Nibs? \n\n Rather. \n\n Are you glad, Twins? \n\n We are glad. \n\n Oh dear,  sighed Wendy.\n\n Little less noise there,  Peter called out, determined that she should\nhave fair play, however beastly a story it might be in his opinion.\n\n The gentleman s name,  Wendy continued,  was Mr. Darling, and her name\nwas Mrs. Darling. \n\n I knew them,  John said, to annoy the others.\n\n I think I knew them,  said Michael rather doubtfully.\n\n They were married, you know,  explained Wendy,  and what do you think\nthey had? \n\n White rats,  cried Nibs, inspired.\n\n No. \n\n It s awfully puzzling,  said Tootles, who knew the story by heart.\n\n Quiet, Tootles. They had three descendants. \n\n What is descendants? \n\n Well, you are one, Twin. \n\n Did you hear that, John? I am a descendant. \n\n Descendants are only children,  said John.\n\n Oh dear, oh dear,  sighed Wendy.  Now these three children had a\nfaithful nurse called Nana; but Mr. Darling was angry with her and\nchained her up in the yard, and so all the children flew away. \n\n It s an awfully good story,  said Nibs.\n\n They flew away,  Wendy continued,  to the Neverland, where the lost\nchildren are. \n\n I just thought they did,  Curly broke in excitedly.  I don t know how\nit is, but I just thought they did! \n\n O Wendy,  cried Tootles,  was one of the lost children called\nTootles? \n\n Yes, he was. \n\n I am in a story. Hurrah, I am in a story, Nibs. \n\n Hush. Now I want you to consider the feelings of the unhappy parents\nwith all their children flown away. \n\n Oo!  they all moaned, though they were not really considering the\nfeelings of the unhappy parents one jot.\n\n Think of the empty beds! \n\n Oo! \n\n It s awfully sad,  the first twin said cheerfully.\n\n I don t see how it can have a happy ending,  said the second twin.  Do\nyou, Nibs? \n\n I m frightfully anxious. \n\n If you knew how great is a mother s love,  Wendy told them\ntriumphantly,  you would have no fear.  She had now come to the part\nthat Peter hated.\n\n I do like a mother s love,  said Tootles, hitting Nibs with a pillow.\n Do you like a mother s love, Nibs? \n\n I do just,  said Nibs, hitting back.\n\n You see,  Wendy said complacently,  our heroine knew that the mother\nwould always leave the window open for her children to fly back by; so\nthey stayed away for years and had a lovely time. \n\n Did they ever go back? \n\n Let us now,  said Wendy, bracing herself up for her finest effort,\n take a peep into the future;  and they all gave themselves the twist\nthat makes peeps into the future easier.  Years have rolled by, and who\nis this elegant lady of uncertain age alighting at London Station? \n\n O Wendy, who is she?  cried Nibs, every bit as excited as if he didn t\nknow.\n\n Can it be yes no it is the fair Wendy! \n\n Oh! \n\n And who are the two noble portly figures accompanying her, now grown\nto man s estate? Can they be John and Michael? They are! \n\n Oh! \n\n See, dear brothers,  says Wendy pointing upwards,  there is the\nwindow still standing open. Ah, now we are rewarded for our sublime\nfaith in a mother s love.  So up they flew to their mummy and daddy,\nand pen cannot describe the happy scene, over which we draw a veil. \n\nThat was the story, and they were as pleased with it as the fair\nnarrator herself. Everything just as it should be, you see. Off we skip\nlike the most heartless things in the world, which is what children\nare, but so attractive; and we have an entirely selfish time, and then\nwhen we have need of special attention we nobly return for it,\nconfident that we shall be rewarded instead of smacked.\n\nSo great indeed was their faith in a mother s love that they felt they\ncould afford to be callous for a bit longer.\n\nBut there was one there who knew better, and when Wendy finished he\nuttered a hollow groan.\n\n What is it, Peter?  she cried, running to him, thinking he was ill.\nShe felt him solicitously, lower down than his chest.  Where is it,\nPeter? \n\n It isn t that kind of pain,  Peter replied darkly.\n\n Then what kind is it? \n\n Wendy, you are wrong about mothers. \n\nThey all gathered round him in affright, so alarming was his agitation;\nand with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto concealed.\n\n Long ago,  he said,  I thought like you that my mother would always\nkeep the window open for me, so I stayed away for moons and moons and\nmoons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had\nforgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my\nbed. \n\nI am not sure that this was true, but Peter thought it was true; and it\nscared them.\n\n Are you sure mothers are like that? \n\n Yes. \n\nSo this was the truth about mothers. The toads!\n\nStill it is best to be careful; and no one knows so quickly as a child\nwhen he should give in.  Wendy, let us go home,  cried John and Michael\ntogether.\n\n Yes,  she said, clutching them.\n\n Not to-night?  asked the lost boys bewildered. They knew in what they\ncalled their hearts that one can get on quite well without a mother,\nand that it is only the mothers who think you can t.\n\n At once,  Wendy replied resolutely, for the horrible thought had come\nto her:  Perhaps mother is in half mourning by this time. \n\nThis dread made her forgetful of what must be Peter s feelings, and she\nsaid to him rather sharply,  Peter, will you make the necessary\narrangements? \n\n If you wish it,  he replied, as coolly as if she had asked him to pass\nthe nuts.\n\nNot so much as a sorry-to-lose-you between them! If she did not mind\nthe parting, he was going to show her, was Peter, that neither did he.\n\nBut of course he cared very much; and he was so full of wrath against\ngrown-ups, who, as usual, were spoiling everything, that as soon as he\ngot inside his tree he breathed intentionally quick short breaths at\nthe rate of about five to a second. He did this because there is a\nsaying in the Neverland that, every time you breathe, a grown-up dies;\nand Peter was killing them off vindictively as fast as possible.\n\nThen having given the necessary instructions to the redskins he\nreturned to the home, where an unworthy scene had been enacted in his\nabsence. Panic-stricken at the thought of losing Wendy the lost boys\nhad advanced upon her threateningly.\n\n It will be worse than before she came,  they cried.\n\n We shan t let her go. \n\n Let s keep her prisoner. \n\n Ay, chain her up. \n\nIn her extremity an instinct told her to which of them to turn.\n\n Tootles,  she cried,  I appeal to you. \n\nWas it not strange? She appealed to Tootles, quite the silliest one.\n\nGrandly, however, did Tootles respond. For that one moment he dropped\nhis silliness and spoke with dignity.\n\n I am just Tootles,  he said,  and nobody minds me. But the first who\ndoes not behave to Wendy like an English gentleman I will blood him\nseverely. \n\nHe drew back his hanger; and for that instant his sun was at noon. The\nothers held back uneasily. Then Peter returned, and they saw at once\nthat they would get no support from him. He would keep no girl in the\nNeverland against her will.\n\n Wendy,  he said, striding up and down,  I have asked the redskins to\nguide you through the wood, as flying tires you so. \n\n Thank you, Peter. \n\n Then,  he continued, in the short sharp voice of one accustomed to be\nobeyed,  Tinker Bell will take you across the sea. Wake her, Nibs. \n\nNibs had to knock twice before he got an answer, though Tink had really\nbeen sitting up in bed listening for some time.\n\n Who are you? How dare you? Go away,  she cried.\n\n You are to get up, Tink,  Nibs called,  and take Wendy on a journey. \n\nOf course Tink had been delighted to hear that Wendy was going; but she\nwas jolly well determined not to be her courier, and she said so in\nstill more offensive language. Then she pretended to be asleep again.\n\n She says she won t!  Nibs exclaimed, aghast at such insubordination,\nwhereupon Peter went sternly toward the young lady s chamber.\n\n Tink,  he rapped out,  if you don t get up and dress at once I will\nopen the curtains, and then we shall all see you in your _neglig e_. \n\nThis made her leap to the floor.  Who said I wasn t getting up?  she\ncried.\n\nIn the meantime the boys were gazing very forlornly at Wendy, now\nequipped with John and Michael for the journey. By this time they were\ndejected, not merely because they were about to lose her, but also\nbecause they felt that she was going off to something nice to which\nthey had not been invited. Novelty was beckoning to them as usual.\n\nCrediting them with a nobler feeling Wendy melted.\n\n Dear ones,  she said,  if you will all come with me I feel almost sure\nI can get my father and mother to adopt you. \n\nThe invitation was meant specially for Peter, but each of the boys was\nthinking exclusively of himself, and at once they jumped with joy.\n\n But won t they think us rather a handful?  Nibs asked in the middle of\nhis jump.\n\n Oh no,  said Wendy, rapidly thinking it out,  it will only mean having\na few beds in the drawing-room; they can be hidden behind the screens\non first Thursdays. \n\n Peter, can we go?  they all cried imploringly. They took it for\ngranted that if they went he would go also, but really they scarcely\ncared. Thus children are ever ready, when novelty knocks, to desert\ntheir dearest ones.\n\n All right,  Peter replied with a bitter smile, and immediately they\nrushed to get their things.\n\n And now, Peter,  Wendy said, thinking she had put everything right,  I\nam going to give you your medicine before you go.  She loved to give\nthem medicine, and undoubtedly gave them too much. Of course it was\nonly water, but it was out of a bottle, and she always shook the bottle\nand counted the drops, which gave it a certain medicinal quality. On\nthis occasion, however, she did not give Peter his draught, for just as\nshe had prepared it, she saw a look on his face that made her heart\nsink.\n\n Get your things, Peter,  she cried, shaking.\n\n No,  he answered, pretending indifference,  I am not going with you,\nWendy. \n\n Yes, Peter. \n\n No. \n\nTo show that her departure would leave him unmoved, he skipped up and\ndown the room, playing gaily on his heartless pipes. She had to run\nabout after him, though it was rather undignified.\n\n To find your mother,  she coaxed.\n\nNow, if Peter had ever quite had a mother, he no longer missed her. He\ncould do very well without one. He had thought them out, and remembered\nonly their bad points.\n\n No, no,  he told Wendy decisively;  perhaps she would say I was old,\nand I just want always to be a little boy and to have fun. \n\n But, Peter \n\n No. \n\nAnd so the others had to be told.\n\n Peter isn t coming. \n\nPeter not coming! They gazed blankly at him, their sticks over their\nbacks, and on each stick a bundle. Their first thought was that if\nPeter was not going he had probably changed his mind about letting them\ngo.\n\nBut he was far too proud for that.  If you find your mothers,  he said\ndarkly,  I hope you will like them. \n\nThe awful cynicism of this made an uncomfortable impression, and most\nof them began to look rather doubtful. After all, their faces said,\nwere they not noodles to want to go?\n\n Now then,  cried Peter,  no fuss, no blubbering; good-bye, Wendy;  and\nhe held out his hand cheerily, quite as if they must really go now, for\nhe had something important to do.\n\nShe had to take his hand, and there was no indication that he would\nprefer a thimble.\n\n You will remember about changing your flannels, Peter?  she said,\nlingering over him. She was always so particular about their flannels.\n\n Yes. \n\n And you will take your medicine? \n\n Yes. \n\nThat seemed to be everything, and an awkward pause followed. Peter,\nhowever, was not the kind that breaks down before other people.  Are\nyou ready, Tinker Bell?  he called out.\n\n Ay, ay. \n\n Then lead the way. \n\nTink darted up the nearest tree; but no one followed her, for it was at\nthis moment that the pirates made their dreadful attack upon the\nredskins. Above, where all had been so still, the air was rent with\nshrieks and the clash of steel. Below, there was dead silence. Mouths\nopened and remained open. Wendy fell on her knees, but her arms were\nextended toward Peter. All arms were extended to him, as if suddenly\nblown in his direction; they were beseeching him mutely not to desert\nthem. As for Peter, he seized his sword, the same he thought he had\nslain Barbecue with, and the lust of battle was in his eye.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII.\nTHE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF\n\n\nThe pirate attack had been a complete surprise: a sure proof that the\nunscrupulous Hook had conducted it improperly, for to surprise redskins\nfairly is beyond the wit of the white man.\n\nBy all the unwritten laws of savage warfare it is always the redskin\nwho attacks, and with the wiliness of his race he does it just before\nthe dawn, at which time he knows the courage of the whites to be at its\nlowest ebb. The white men have in the meantime made a rude stockade on\nthe summit of yonder undulating ground, at the foot of which a stream\nruns, for it is destruction to be too far from water. There they await\nthe onslaught, the inexperienced ones clutching their revolvers and\ntreading on twigs, but the old hands sleeping tranquilly until just\nbefore the dawn. Through the long black night the savage scouts\nwriggle, snake-like, among the grass without stirring a blade. The\nbrushwood closes behind them, as silently as sand into which a mole has\ndived. Not a sound is to be heard, save when they give vent to a\nwonderful imitation of the lonely call of the coyote. The cry is\nanswered by other braves; and some of them do it even better than the\ncoyotes, who are not very good at it. So the chill hours wear on, and\nthe long suspense is horribly trying to the paleface who has to live\nthrough it for the first time; but to the trained hand those ghastly\ncalls and still ghastlier silences are but an intimation of how the\nnight is marching.\n\nThat this was the usual procedure was so well known to Hook that in\ndisregarding it he cannot be excused on the plea of ignorance.\n\nThe Piccaninnies, on their part, trusted implicitly to his honour, and\ntheir whole action of the night stands out in marked contrast to his.\nThey left nothing undone that was consistent with the reputation of\ntheir tribe. With that alertness of the senses which is at once the\nmarvel and despair of civilised peoples, they knew that the pirates\nwere on the island from the moment one of them trod on a dry stick; and\nin an incredibly short space of time the coyote cries began. Every foot\nof ground between the spot where Hook had landed his forces and the\nhome under the trees was stealthily examined by braves wearing their\nmocassins with the heels in front. They found only one hillock with a\nstream at its base, so that Hook had no choice; here he must establish\nhimself and wait for just before the dawn. Everything being thus mapped\nout with almost diabolical cunning, the main body of the redskins\nfolded their blankets around them, and in the phlegmatic manner that is\nto them, the pearl of manhood squatted above the children s home,\nawaiting the cold moment when they should deal pale death.\n\nHere dreaming, though wide-awake, of the exquisite tortures to which\nthey were to put him at break of day, those confiding savages were\nfound by the treacherous Hook. From the accounts afterwards supplied by\nsuch of the scouts as escaped the carnage, he does not seem even to\nhave paused at the rising ground, though it is certain that in that\ngrey light he must have seen it: no thought of waiting to be attacked\nappears from first to last to have visited his subtle mind; he would\nnot even hold off till the night was nearly spent; on he pounded with\nno policy but to fall to. What could the bewildered scouts do, masters\nas they were of every war-like artifice save this one, but trot\nhelplessly after him, exposing themselves fatally to view, while they\ngave pathetic utterance to the coyote cry.\n\nAround the brave Tiger Lily were a dozen of her stoutest warriors, and\nthey suddenly saw the perfidious pirates bearing down upon them. Fell\nfrom their eyes then the film through which they had looked at victory.\nNo more would they torture at the stake. For them the happy\nhunting-grounds was now. They knew it; but as their father s sons they\nacquitted themselves. Even then they had time to gather in a phalanx\nthat would have been hard to break had they risen quickly, but this\nthey were forbidden to do by the traditions of their race. It is\nwritten that the noble savage must never express surprise in the\npresence of the white. Thus terrible as the sudden appearance of the\npirates must have been to them, they remained stationary for a moment,\nnot a muscle moving; as if the foe had come by invitation. Then,\nindeed, the tradition gallantly upheld, they seized their weapons, and\nthe air was torn with the war-cry; but it was now too late.\n\nIt is no part of ours to describe what was a massacre rather than a\nfight. Thus perished many of the flower of the Piccaninny tribe. Not\nall unavenged did they die, for with Lean Wolf fell Alf Mason, to\ndisturb the Spanish Main no more, and among others who bit the dust\nwere Geo. Scourie, Chas. Turley, and the Alsatian Foggerty. Turley fell\nto the tomahawk of the terrible Panther, who ultimately cut a way\nthrough the pirates with Tiger Lily and a small remnant of the tribe.\n\nTo what extent Hook is to blame for his tactics on this occasion is for\nthe historian to decide. Had he waited on the rising ground till the\nproper hour he and his men would probably have been butchered; and in\njudging him it is only fair to take this into account. What he should\nperhaps have done was to acquaint his opponents that he proposed to\nfollow a new method. On the other hand, this, as destroying the element\nof surprise, would have made his strategy of no avail, so that the\nwhole question is beset with difficulties. One cannot at least withhold\na reluctant admiration for the wit that had conceived so bold a scheme,\nand the fell genius with which it was carried out.\n\nWhat were his own feelings about himself at that triumphant moment?\nFain would his dogs have known, as breathing heavily and wiping their\ncutlasses, they gathered at a discreet distance from his hook, and\nsquinted through their ferret eyes at this extraordinary man. Elation\nmust have been in his heart, but his face did not reflect it: ever a\ndark and solitary enigma, he stood aloof from his followers in spirit\nas in substance.\n\nThe night s work was not yet over, for it was not the redskins he had\ncome out to destroy; they were but the bees to be smoked, so that he\nshould get at the honey. It was Pan he wanted, Pan and Wendy and their\nband, but chiefly Pan.\n\nPeter was such a small boy that one tends to wonder at the man s hatred\nof him. True he had flung Hook s arm to the crocodile, but even this\nand the increased insecurity of life to which it led, owing to the\ncrocodile s pertinacity, hardly account for a vindictiveness so\nrelentless and malignant. The truth is that there was a something about\nPeter which goaded the pirate captain to frenzy. It was not his\ncourage, it was not his engaging appearance, it was not . There is no\nbeating about the bush, for we know quite well what it was, and have\ngot to tell. It was Peter s cockiness.\n\nThis had got on Hook s nerves; it made his iron claw twitch, and at\nnight it disturbed him like an insect. While Peter lived, the tortured\nman felt that he was a lion in a cage into which a sparrow had come.\n\nThe question now was how to get down the trees, or how to get his dogs\ndown? He ran his greedy eyes over them, searching for the thinnest\nones. They wriggled uncomfortably, for they knew he would not scruple\nto ram them down with poles.\n\nIn the meantime, what of the boys? We have seen them at the first clang\nof the weapons, turned as it were into stone figures, open-mouthed, all\nappealing with outstretched arms to Peter; and we return to them as\ntheir mouths close, and their arms fall to their sides. The pandemonium\nabove has ceased almost as suddenly as it arose, passed like a fierce\ngust of wind; but they know that in the passing it has determined their\nfate.\n\nWhich side had won?\n\nThe pirates, listening avidly at the mouths of the trees, heard the\nquestion put by every boy, and alas, they also heard Peter s answer.\n\n If the redskins have won,  he said,  they will beat the tom-tom; it is\nalways their sign of victory. \n\nNow Smee had found the tom-tom, and was at that moment sitting on it.\n You will never hear the tom-tom again,  he muttered, but inaudibly of\ncourse, for strict silence had been enjoined. To his amazement Hook\nsigned him to beat the tom-tom, and slowly there came to Smee an\nunderstanding of the dreadful wickedness of the order. Never, probably,\nhad this simple man admired Hook so much.\n\nTwice Smee beat upon the instrument, and then stopped to listen\ngleefully.\n\n The tom-tom,  the miscreants heard Peter cry;  an Indian victory! \n\nThe doomed children answered with a cheer that was music to the black\nhearts above, and almost immediately they repeated their good-byes to\nPeter. This puzzled the pirates, but all their other feelings were\nswallowed by a base delight that the enemy were about to come up the\ntrees. They smirked at each other and rubbed their hands. Rapidly and\nsilently Hook gave his orders: one man to each tree, and the others to\narrange themselves in a line two yards apart.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII.\nDO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?\n\n\nThe more quickly this horror is disposed of the better. The first to\nemerge from his tree was Curly. He rose out of it into the arms of\nCecco, who flung him to Smee, who flung him to Starkey, who flung him\nto Bill Jukes, who flung him to Noodler, and so he was tossed from one\nto another till he fell at the feet of the black pirate. All the boys\nwere plucked from their trees in this ruthless manner; and several of\nthem were in the air at a time, like bales of goods flung from hand to\nhand.\n\nA different treatment was accorded to Wendy, who came last. With\nironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and, offering her his\narm, escorted her to the spot where the others were being gagged. He\ndid it with such an air, he was so frightfully _distingu _, that she\nwas too fascinated to cry out. She was only a little girl.\n\nPerhaps it is tell-tale to divulge that for a moment Hook entranced\nher, and we tell on her only because her slip led to strange results.\nHad she haughtily unhanded him (and we should have loved to write it of\nher), she would have been hurled through the air like the others, and\nthen Hook would probably not have been present at the tying of the\nchildren; and had he not been at the tying he would not have discovered\nSlightly s secret, and without the secret he could not presently have\nmade his foul attempt on Peter s life.\n\nThey were tied to prevent their flying away, doubled up with their\nknees close to their ears; and for the trussing of them the black\npirate had cut a rope into nine equal pieces. All went well until\nSlightly s turn came, when he was found to be like those irritating\nparcels that use up all the string in going round and leave no tags\nwith which to tie a knot. The pirates kicked him in their rage, just as\nyou kick the parcel (though in fairness you should kick the string);\nand strange to say it was Hook who told them to belay their violence.\nHis lip was curled with malicious triumph. While his dogs were merely\nsweating because every time they tried to pack the unhappy lad tight in\none part he bulged out in another, Hook s master mind had gone far\nbeneath Slightly s surface, probing not for effects but for causes; and\nhis exultation showed that he had found them. Slightly, white to the\ngills, knew that Hook had surprised his secret, which was this, that no\nboy so blown out could use a tree wherein an average man need stick.\nPoor Slightly, most wretched of all the children now, for he was in a\npanic about Peter, bitterly regretted what he had done. Madly addicted\nto the drinking of water when he was hot, he had swelled in consequence\nto his present girth, and instead of reducing himself to fit his tree\nhe had, unknown to the others, whittled his tree to make it fit him.\n\nSufficient of this Hook guessed to persuade him that Peter at last lay\nat his mercy, but no word of the dark design that now formed in the\nsubterranean caverns of his mind crossed his lips; he merely signed\nthat the captives were to be conveyed to the ship, and that he would be\nalone.\n\nHow to convey them? Hunched up in their ropes they might indeed be\nrolled down hill like barrels, but most of the way lay through a\nmorass. Again Hook s genius surmounted difficulties. He indicated that\nthe little house must be used as a conveyance. The children were flung\ninto it, four stout pirates raised it on their shoulders, the others\nfell in behind, and singing the hateful pirate chorus the strange\nprocession set off through the wood. I don t know whether any of the\nchildren were crying; if so, the singing drowned the sound; but as the\nlittle house disappeared in the forest, a brave though tiny jet of\nsmoke issued from its chimney as if defying Hook.\n\nHook saw it, and it did Peter a bad service. It dried up any trickle of\npity for him that may have remained in the pirate s infuriated breast.\n\nThe first thing he did on finding himself alone in the fast falling\nnight was to tiptoe to Slightly s tree, and make sure that it provided\nhim with a passage. Then for long he remained brooding; his hat of ill\nomen on the sward, so that any gentle breeze which had arisen might\nplay refreshingly through his hair. Dark as were his thoughts his blue\neyes were as soft as the periwinkle. Intently he listened for any sound\nfrom the nether world, but all was as silent below as above; the house\nunder the ground seemed to be but one more empty tenement in the void.\nWas that boy asleep, or did he stand waiting at the foot of Slightly s\ntree, with his dagger in his hand?\n\nThere was no way of knowing, save by going down. Hook let his cloak\nslip softly to the ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood\nstood on them, he stepped into the tree. He was a brave man, but for a\nmoment he had to stop there and wipe his brow, which was dripping like\na candle. Then, silently, he let himself go into the unknown.\n\nHe arrived unmolested at the foot of the shaft, and stood still again,\nbiting at his breath, which had almost left him. As his eyes became\naccustomed to the dim light various objects in the home under the trees\ntook shape; but the only one on which his greedy gaze rested, long\nsought for and found at last, was the great bed. On the bed lay Peter\nfast asleep.\n\nUnaware of the tragedy being enacted above, Peter had continued, for a\nlittle time after the children left, to play gaily on his pipes: no\ndoubt rather a forlorn attempt to prove to himself that he did not\ncare. Then he decided not to take his medicine, so as to grieve Wendy.\nThen he lay down on the bed outside the coverlet, to vex her still\nmore; for she had always tucked them inside it, because you never know\nthat you may not grow chilly at the turn of the night. Then he nearly\ncried; but it struck him how indignant she would be if he laughed\ninstead; so he laughed a haughty laugh and fell asleep in the middle of\nit.\n\nSometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful\nthan the dreams of other boys. For hours he could not be separated from\nthese dreams, though he wailed piteously in them. They had to do, I\nthink, with the riddle of his existence. At such times it had been\nWendy s custom to take him out of bed and sit with him on her lap,\nsoothing him in dear ways of her own invention, and when he grew calmer\nto put him back to bed before he quite woke up, so that he should not\nknow of the indignity to which she had subjected him. But on this\noccasion he had fallen at once into a dreamless sleep. One arm dropped\nover the edge of the bed, one leg was arched, and the unfinished part\nof his laugh was stranded on his mouth, which was open, showing the\nlittle pearls.\n\nThus defenceless Hook found him. He stood silent at the foot of the\ntree looking across the chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of\ncompassion disturb his sombre breast? The man was not wholly evil; he\nloved flowers (I have been told) and sweet music (he was himself no\nmean performer on the harpsichord); and, let it be frankly admitted,\nthe idyllic nature of the scene stirred him profoundly. Mastered by his\nbetter self he would have returned reluctantly up the tree, but for one\nthing.\n\nWhat stayed him was Peter s impertinent appearance as he slept. The\nopen mouth, the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a\npersonification of cockiness as, taken together, will never again, one\nmay hope, be presented to eyes so sensitive to their offensiveness.\nThey steeled Hook s heart. If his rage had broken him into a hundred\npieces every one of them would have disregarded the incident, and leapt\nat the sleeper.\n\nThough a light from the one lamp shone dimly on the bed, Hook stood in\ndarkness himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he discovered\nan obstacle, the door of Slightly s tree. It did not entirely fill the\naperture, and he had been looking over it. Feeling for the catch, he\nfound to his fury that it was low down, beyond his reach. To his\ndisordered brain it seemed then that the irritating quality in Peter s\nface and figure visibly increased, and he rattled the door and flung\nhimself against it. Was his enemy to escape him after all?\n\nBut what was that? The red in his eye had caught sight of Peter s\nmedicine standing on a ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it was\nstraightaway, and immediately knew that the sleeper was in his power.\n\nLest he should be taken alive, Hook always carried about his person a\ndreadful drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing rings that\nhad come into his possession. These he had boiled down into a yellow\nliquid quite unknown to science, which was probably the most virulent\npoison in existence.\n\nFive drops of this he now added to Peter s cup. His hand shook, but it\nwas in exultation rather than in shame. As he did it he avoided\nglancing at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve him; merely\nto avoid spilling. Then one long gloating look he cast upon his victim,\nand turning, wormed his way with difficulty up the tree. As he emerged\nat the top he looked the very spirit of evil breaking from its hole.\nDonning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around\nhim, holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the\nnight, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to\nhimself, stole away through the trees.\n\nPeter slept on. The light guttered and went out, leaving the tenement\nin darkness; but still he slept. It must have been not less than ten\no clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his bed, wakened\nby he knew not what. It was a soft cautious tapping on the door of his\ntree.\n\nSoft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister. Peter felt\nfor his dagger till his hand gripped it. Then he spoke.\n\n Who is that? \n\nFor long there was no answer: then again the knock.\n\n Who are you? \n\nNo answer.\n\nHe was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled. In two strides he reached\nthe door. Unlike Slightly s door, it filled the aperture, so that he\ncould not see beyond it, nor could the one knocking see him.\n\n I won t open unless you speak,  Peter cried.\n\nThen at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.\n\n Let me in, Peter. \n\nIt was Tink, and quickly he unbarred to her. She flew in excitedly, her\nface flushed and her dress stained with mud.\n\n What is it? \n\n Oh, you could never guess!  she cried, and offered him three guesses.\n Out with it!  he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as long\nas the ribbons that conjurers pull from their mouths, she told of the\ncapture of Wendy and the boys.\n\nPeter s heart bobbed up and down as he listened. Wendy bound, and on\nthe pirate ship; she who loved everything to be just so!\n\n I ll rescue her!  he cried, leaping at his weapons. As he leapt he\nthought of something he could do to please her. He could take his\nmedicine.\n\nHis hand closed on the fatal draught.\n\n No!  shrieked Tinker Bell, who had heard Hook mutter about his deed as\nhe sped through the forest.\n\n Why not? \n\n It is poisoned. \n\n Poisoned? Who could have poisoned it? \n\n Hook. \n\n Don t be silly. How could Hook have got down here? \n\nAlas, Tinker Bell could not explain this, for even she did not know the\ndark secret of Slightly s tree. Nevertheless Hook s words had left no\nroom for doubt. The cup was poisoned.\n\n Besides,  said Peter, quite believing himself,  I never fell asleep. \n\nHe raised the cup. No time for words now; time for deeds; and with one\nof her lightning movements Tink got between his lips and the draught,\nand drained it to the dregs.\n\n Why, Tink, how dare you drink my medicine? \n\nBut she did not answer. Already she was reeling in the air.\n\n What is the matter with you?  cried Peter, suddenly afraid.\n\n It was poisoned, Peter,  she told him softly;  and now I am going to\nbe dead. \n\n O Tink, did you drink it to save me? \n\n Yes. \n\n But why, Tink? \n\nHer wings would scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on\nhis shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear\n You silly ass,  and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on the\nbed.\n\nHis head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room as he knelt\nnear her in distress. Every moment her light was growing fainter; and\nhe knew that if it went out she would be no more. She liked his tears\nso much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it.\n\nHer voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she said.\nThen he made it out. She was saying that she thought she could get well\nagain if children believed in fairies.\n\nPeter flung out his arms. There were no children there, and it was\nnight time; but he addressed all who might be dreaming of the\nNeverland, and who were therefore nearer to him than you think: boys\nand girls in their nighties, and naked papooses in their baskets hung\nfrom trees.\n\n Do you believe?  he cried.\n\nTink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to her fate.\n\nShe fancied she heard answers in the affirmative, and then again she\nwasn t sure.\n\n What do you think?  she asked Peter.\n\n If you believe,  he shouted to them,  clap your hands; don t let Tink\ndie. \n\nMany clapped.\n\nSome didn t.\n\nA few beasts hissed.\n\nThe clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to\ntheir nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already Tink\nwas saved. First her voice grew strong, then she popped out of bed,\nthen she was flashing through the room more merry and impudent than\never. She never thought of thanking those who believed, but she would\nhave liked to get at the ones who had hissed.\n\n And now to rescue Wendy! \n\nThe moon was riding in a cloudy heaven when Peter rose from his tree,\nbegirt with weapons and wearing little else, to set out upon his\nperilous quest. It was not such a night as he would have chosen. He had\nhoped to fly, keeping not far from the ground so that nothing unwonted\nshould escape his eyes; but in that fitful light to have flown low\nwould have meant trailing his shadow through the trees, thus disturbing\nbirds and acquainting a watchful foe that he was astir.\n\nHe regretted now that he had given the birds of the island such strange\nnames that they are very wild and difficult of approach.\n\nThere was no other course but to press forward in redskin fashion, at\nwhich happily he was an adept. But in what direction, for he could not\nbe sure that the children had been taken to the ship? A light fall of\nsnow had obliterated all footmarks; and a deathly silence pervaded the\nisland, as if for a space Nature stood still in horror of the recent\ncarnage. He had taught the children something of the forest lore that\nhe had himself learned from Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell, and knew that\nin their dire hour they were not likely to forget it. Slightly, if he\nhad an opportunity, would blaze the trees, for instance, Curly would\ndrop seeds, and Wendy would leave her handkerchief at some important\nplace. The morning was needed to search for such guidance, and he could\nnot wait. The upper world had called him, but would give no help.\n\nThe crocodile passed him, but not another living thing, not a sound,\nnot a movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at the\nnext tree, or stalking him from behind.\n\nHe swore this terrible oath:  Hook or me this time. \n\nNow he crawled forward like a snake, and again erect, he darted across\na space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip and his\ndagger at the ready. He was frightfully happy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV.\nTHE PIRATE SHIP\n\n\nOne green light squinting over Kidd s Creek, which is near the mouth of\nthe pirate river, marked where the brig, the _Jolly Roger_, lay, low in\nthe water; a rakish-looking craft foul to the hull, every beam in her\ndetestable, like ground strewn with mangled feathers. She was the\ncannibal of the seas, and scarce needed that watchful eye, for she\nfloated immune in the horror of her name.\n\nShe was wrapped in the blanket of night, through which no sound from\nher could have reached the shore. There was little sound, and none\nagreeable save the whir of the ship s sewing machine at which Smee sat,\never industrious and obliging, the essence of the commonplace, pathetic\nSmee. I know not why he was so infinitely pathetic, unless it were\nbecause he was so pathetically unaware of it; but even strong men had\nto turn hastily from looking at him, and more than once on summer\nevenings he had touched the fount of Hook s tears and made it flow. Of\nthis, as of almost everything else, Smee was quite unconscious.\n\nA few of the pirates leant over the bulwarks, drinking in the miasma of\nthe night; others sprawled by barrels over games of dice and cards; and\nthe exhausted four who had carried the little house lay prone on the\ndeck, where even in their sleep they rolled skillfully to this side or\nthat out of Hook s reach, lest he should claw them mechanically in\npassing.\n\nHook trod the deck in thought. O man unfathomable. It was his hour of\ntriumph. Peter had been removed for ever from his path, and all the\nother boys were in the brig, about to walk the plank. It was his\ngrimmest deed since the days when he had brought Barbecue to heel; and\nknowing as we do how vain a tabernacle is man, could we be surprised\nhad he now paced the deck unsteadily, bellied out by the winds of his\nsuccess?\n\nBut there was no elation in his gait, which kept pace with the action\nof his sombre mind. Hook was profoundly dejected.\n\nHe was often thus when communing with himself on board ship in the\nquietude of the night. It was because he was so terribly alone. This\ninscrutable man never felt more alone than when surrounded by his dogs.\nThey were socially inferior to him.\n\nHook was not his true name. To reveal who he really was would even at\nthis date set the country in a blaze; but as those who read between the\nlines must already have guessed, he had been at a famous public school;\nand its traditions still clung to him like garments, with which indeed\nthey are largely concerned. Thus it was offensive to him even now to\nboard a ship in the same dress in which he grappled her, and he still\nadhered in his walk to the school s distinguished slouch. But above all\nhe retained the passion for good form.\n\nGood form! However much he may have degenerated, he still knew that\nthis is all that really matters.\n\nFrom far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and\nthrough them came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night when\none cannot sleep.  Have you been good form to-day?  was their eternal\nquestion.\n\n Fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is mine,  he cried.\n\n Is it quite good form to be distinguished at anything?  the tap-tap\nfrom his school replied.\n\n I am the only man whom Barbecue feared,  he urged,  and Flint feared\nBarbecue. \n\n Barbecue, Flint what house?  came the cutting retort.\n\nMost disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about\ngood form?\n\nHis vitals were tortured by this problem. It was a claw within him\nsharper than the iron one; and as it tore him, the perspiration dripped\ndown his tallow countenance and streaked his doublet. Ofttimes he drew\nhis sleeve across his face, but there was no damming that trickle.\n\nAh, envy not Hook.\n\nThere came to him a presentiment of his early dissolution. It was as if\nPeter s terrible oath had boarded the ship. Hook felt a gloomy desire\nto make his dying speech, lest presently there should be no time for\nit.\n\n Better for Hook,  he cried,  if he had had less ambition!  It was in\nhis darkest hours only that he referred to himself in the third person.\n\n No little children to love me! \n\nStrange that he should think of this, which had never troubled him\nbefore; perhaps the sewing machine brought it to his mind. For long he\nmuttered to himself, staring at Smee, who was hemming placidly, under\nthe conviction that all children feared him.\n\nFeared him! Feared Smee! There was not a child on board the brig that\nnight who did not already love him. He had said horrid things to them\nand hit them with the palm of his hand, because he could not hit with\nhis fist, but they had only clung to him the more. Michael had tried on\nhis spectacles.\n\nTo tell poor Smee that they thought him lovable! Hook itched to do it,\nbut it seemed too brutal. Instead, he revolved this mystery in his\nmind: why do they find Smee lovable? He pursued the problem like the\nsleuth-hound that he was. If Smee was lovable, what was it that made\nhim so? A terrible answer suddenly presented itself Good form? \n\nHad the bo sun good form without knowing it, which is the best form of\nall?\n\nHe remembered that you have to prove you don t know you have it before\nyou are eligible for Pop.\n\nWith a cry of rage he raised his iron hand over Smee s head; but he did\nnot tear. What arrested him was this reflection:\n\n To claw a man because he is good form, what would that be? \n\n Bad form! \n\nThe unhappy Hook was as impotent as he was damp, and he fell forward\nlike a cut flower.\n\nHis dogs thinking him out of the way for a time, discipline instantly\nrelaxed; and they broke into a bacchanalian dance, which brought him to\nhis feet at once, all traces of human weakness gone, as if a bucket of\nwater had passed over him.\n\n Quiet, you scugs,  he cried,  or I ll cast anchor in you;  and at once\nthe din was hushed.  Are all the children chained, so that they cannot\nfly away? \n\n Ay, ay. \n\n Then hoist them up. \n\nThe wretched prisoners were dragged from the hold, all except Wendy,\nand ranged in line in front of him. For a time he seemed unconscious of\ntheir presence. He lolled at his ease, humming, not unmelodiously,\nsnatches of a rude song, and fingering a pack of cards. Ever and anon\nthe light from his cigar gave a touch of colour to his face.\n\n Now then, bullies,  he said briskly,  six of you walk the plank\nto-night, but I have room for two cabin boys. Which of you is it to\nbe? \n\n Don t irritate him unnecessarily,  had been Wendy s instructions in\nthe hold; so Tootles stepped forward politely. Tootles hated the idea\nof signing under such a man, but an instinct told him that it would be\nprudent to lay the responsibility on an absent person; and though a\nsomewhat silly boy, he knew that mothers alone are always willing to be\nthe buffer. All children know this about mothers, and despise them for\nit, but make constant use of it.\n\nSo Tootles explained prudently,  You see, sir, I don t think my mother\nwould like me to be a pirate. Would your mother like you to be a\npirate, Slightly? \n\nHe winked at Slightly, who said mournfully,  I don t think so,  as if\nhe wished things had been otherwise.  Would your mother like you to be\na pirate, Twin? \n\n I don t think so,  said the first twin, as clever as the others.\n Nibs, would \n\n Stow this gab,  roared Hook, and the spokesmen were dragged back.\n You, boy,  he said, addressing John,  you look as if you had a little\npluck in you. Didst never want to be a pirate, my hearty? \n\nNow John had sometimes experienced this hankering at maths. prep.; and\nhe was struck by Hook s picking him out.\n\n I once thought of calling myself Red-handed Jack,  he said\ndiffidently.\n\n And a good name too. We ll call you that here, bully, if you join. \n\n What do you think, Michael?  asked John.\n\n What would you call me if I join?  Michael demanded.\n\n Blackbeard Joe. \n\nMichael was naturally impressed.  What do you think, John?  He wanted\nJohn to decide, and John wanted him to decide.\n\n Shall we still be respectful subjects of the King?  John inquired.\n\nThrough Hook s teeth came the answer:  You would have to swear,  Down\nwith the King. \n\nPerhaps John had not behaved very well so far, but he shone out now.\n\n Then I refuse,  he cried, banging the barrel in front of Hook.\n\n And I refuse,  cried Michael.\n\n Rule Britannia!  squeaked Curly.\n\nThe infuriated pirates buffeted them in the mouth; and Hook roared out,\n That seals your doom. Bring up their mother. Get the plank ready. \n\nThey were only boys, and they went white as they saw Jukes and Cecco\npreparing the fatal plank. But they tried to look brave when Wendy was\nbrought up.\n\nNo words of mine can tell you how Wendy despised those pirates. To the\nboys there was at least some glamour in the pirate calling; but all\nthat she saw was that the ship had not been tidied for years. There was\nnot a porthole on the grimy glass of which you might not have written\nwith your finger  Dirty pig ; and she had already written it on\nseveral. But as the boys gathered round her she had no thought, of\ncourse, save for them.\n\n So, my beauty,  said Hook, as if he spoke in syrup,  you are to see\nyour children walk the plank. \n\nFine gentlemen though he was, the intensity of his communings had\nsoiled his ruff, and suddenly he knew that she was gazing at it. With a\nhasty gesture he tried to hide it, but he was too late.\n\n Are they to die?  asked Wendy, with a look of such frightful contempt\nthat he nearly fainted.\n\n They are,  he snarled.  Silence all,  he called gloatingly,  for a\nmother s last words to her children. \n\nAt this moment Wendy was grand.  These are my last words, dear boys, \nshe said firmly.  I feel that I have a message to you from your real\nmothers, and it is this:  We hope our sons will die like English\ngentlemen. \n\nEven the pirates were awed, and Tootles cried out hysterically,  I am\ngoing to do what my mother hopes. What are you to do, Nibs? \n\n What my mother hopes. What are you to do, Twin? \n\n What my mother hopes. John, what are \n\nBut Hook had found his voice again.\n\n Tie her up!  he shouted.\n\nIt was Smee who tied her to the mast.  See here, honey,  he whispered,\n I ll save you if you promise to be my mother. \n\nBut not even for Smee would she make such a promise.  I would almost\nrather have no children at all,  she said disdainfully.\n\nIt is sad to know that not a boy was looking at her as Smee tied her to\nthe mast; the eyes of all were on the plank: that last little walk they\nwere about to take. They were no longer able to hope that they would\nwalk it manfully, for the capacity to think had gone from them; they\ncould stare and shiver only.\n\nHook smiled on them with his teeth closed, and took a step toward\nWendy. His intention was to turn her face so that she should see the\nboys walking the plank one by one. But he never reached her, he never\nheard the cry of anguish he hoped to wring from her. He heard something\nelse instead.\n\nIt was the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile.\n\nThey all heard it pirates, boys, Wendy; and immediately every head was\nblown in one direction; not to the water whence the sound proceeded,\nbut toward Hook. All knew that what was about to happen concerned him\nalone, and that from being actors they were suddenly become spectators.\n\nVery frightful was it to see the change that came over him. It was as\nif he had been clipped at every joint. He fell in a little heap.\n\nThe sound came steadily nearer; and in advance of it came this ghastly\nthought,  The crocodile is about to board the ship! \n\nEven the iron claw hung inactive; as if knowing that it was no\nintrinsic part of what the attacking force wanted. Left so fearfully\nalone, any other man would have lain with his eyes shut where he fell:\nbut the gigantic brain of Hook was still working, and under its\nguidance he crawled on the knees along the deck as far from the sound\nas he could go. The pirates respectfully cleared a passage for him, and\nit was only when he brought up against the bulwarks that he spoke.\n\n Hide me!  he cried hoarsely.\n\nThey gathered round him, all eyes averted from the thing that was\ncoming aboard. They had no thought of fighting it. It was Fate.\n\nOnly when Hook was hidden from them did curiosity loosen the limbs of\nthe boys so that they could rush to the ship s side to see the\ncrocodile climbing it. Then they got the strangest surprise of the\nNight of Nights; for it was no crocodile that was coming to their aid.\nIt was Peter.\n\nHe signed to them not to give vent to any cry of admiration that might\nrouse suspicion. Then he went on ticking.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV.\n HOOK OR ME THIS TIME \n\n\nOdd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our\nnoticing for a time that they have happened. Thus, to take an instance,\nwe suddenly discover that we have been deaf in one ear for we don t\nknow how long, but, say, half an hour. Now such an experience had come\nthat night to Peter. When last we saw him he was stealing across the\nisland with one finger to his lips and his dagger at the ready. He had\nseen the crocodile pass by without noticing anything peculiar about it,\nbut by and by he remembered that it had not been ticking. At first he\nthought this eerie, but soon concluded rightly that the clock had run\ndown.\n\nWithout giving a thought to what might be the feelings of a\nfellow-creature thus abruptly deprived of its closest companion, Peter\nbegan to consider how he could turn the catastrophe to his own use; and\nhe decided to tick, so that wild beasts should believe he was the\ncrocodile and let him pass unmolested. He ticked superbly, but with one\nunforeseen result. The crocodile was among those who heard the sound,\nand it followed him, though whether with the purpose of regaining what\nit had lost, or merely as a friend under the belief that it was again\nticking itself, will never be certainly known, for, like slaves to a\nfixed idea, it was a stupid beast.\n\nPeter reached the shore without mishap, and went straight on, his legs\nencountering the water as if quite unaware that they had entered a new\nelement. Thus many animals pass from land to water, but no other human\nof whom I know. As he swam he had but one thought:  Hook or me this\ntime.  He had ticked so long that he now went on ticking without\nknowing that he was doing it. Had he known he would have stopped, for\nto board the brig by help of the tick, though an ingenious idea, had\nnot occurred to him.\n\nOn the contrary, he thought he had scaled her side as noiseless as a\nmouse; and he was amazed to see the pirates cowering from him, with\nHook in their midst as abject as if he had heard the crocodile.\n\nThe crocodile! No sooner did Peter remember it than he heard the\nticking. At first he thought the sound did come from the crocodile, and\nhe looked behind him swiftly. Then he realised that he was doing it\nhimself, and in a flash he understood the situation.  How clever of\nme!  he thought at once, and signed to the boys not to burst into\napplause.\n\nIt was at this moment that Ed Teynte the quartermaster emerged from the\nforecastle and came along the deck. Now, reader, time what happened by\nyour watch. Peter struck true and deep. John clapped his hands on the\nill-fated pirate s mouth to stifle the dying groan. He fell forward.\nFour boys caught him to prevent the thud. Peter gave the signal, and\nthe carrion was cast overboard. There was a splash, and then silence.\nHow long has it taken?\n\n One!  (Slightly had begun to count.)\n\nNone too soon, Peter, every inch of him on tiptoe, vanished into the\ncabin; for more than one pirate was screwing up his courage to look\nround. They could hear each other s distressed breathing now, which\nshowed them that the more terrible sound had passed.\n\n It s gone, captain,  Smee said, wiping off his spectacles.  All s\nstill again. \n\nSlowly Hook let his head emerge from his ruff, and listened so intently\nthat he could have caught the echo of the tick. There was not a sound,\nand he drew himself up firmly to his full height.\n\n Then here s to Johnny Plank!  he cried brazenly, hating the boys more\nthan ever because they had seen him unbend. He broke into the\nvillainous ditty:\n\n Yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank,\n    You walks along it so,\nTill it goes down and you goes down\n    To Davy Jones below! \n\nTo terrorise the prisoners the more, though with a certain loss of\ndignity, he danced along an imaginary plank, grimacing at them as he\nsang; and when he finished he cried,  Do you want a touch of the cat\nbefore you walk the plank? \n\nAt that they fell on their knees.  No, no!  they cried so piteously\nthat every pirate smiled.\n\n Fetch the cat, Jukes,  said Hook;  it s in the cabin. \n\nThe cabin! Peter was in the cabin! The children gazed at each other.\n\n Ay, ay,  said Jukes blithely, and he strode into the cabin. They\nfollowed him with their eyes; they scarce knew that Hook had resumed\nhis song, his dogs joining in with him:\n\n Yo ho, yo ho, the scratching cat,\n    Its tails are nine, you know,\nAnd when they re writ upon your back \n\nWhat was the last line will never be known, for of a sudden the song\nwas stayed by a dreadful screech from the cabin. It wailed through the\nship, and died away. Then was heard a crowing sound which was well\nunderstood by the boys, but to the pirates was almost more eerie than\nthe screech.\n\n What was that?  cried Hook.\n\n Two,  said Slightly solemnly.\n\nThe Italian Cecco hesitated for a moment and then swung into the cabin.\nHe tottered out, haggard.\n\n What s the matter with Bill Jukes, you dog?  hissed Hook, towering\nover him.\n\n The matter wi  him is he s dead, stabbed,  replied Cecco in a hollow\nvoice.\n\n Bill Jukes dead!  cried the startled pirates.\n\n The cabin s as black as a pit,  Cecco said, almost gibbering,  but\nthere is something terrible in there: the thing you heard crowing. \n\nThe exultation of the boys, the lowering looks of the pirates, both\nwere seen by Hook.\n\n Cecco,  he said in his most steely voice,  go back and fetch me out\nthat doodle-doo. \n\nCecco, bravest of the brave, cowered before his captain, crying  No,\nno ; but Hook was purring to his claw.\n\n Did you say you would go, Cecco?  he said musingly.\n\nCecco went, first flinging his arms despairingly. There was no more\nsinging, all listened now; and again came a death-screech and again a\ncrow.\n\nNo one spoke except Slightly.  Three,  he said.\n\nHook rallied his dogs with a gesture.  S death and odds fish,  he\nthundered,  who is to bring me that doodle-doo? \n\n Wait till Cecco comes out,  growled Starkey, and the others took up\nthe cry.\n\n I think I heard you volunteer, Starkey,  said Hook, purring again.\n\n No, by thunder!  Starkey cried.\n\n My hook thinks you did,  said Hook, crossing to him.  I wonder if it\nwould not be advisable, Starkey, to humour the hook? \n\n I ll swing before I go in there,  replied Starkey doggedly, and again\nhe had the support of the crew.\n\n Is this mutiny?  asked Hook more pleasantly than ever.  Starkey s\nringleader! \n\n Captain, mercy!  Starkey whimpered, all of a tremble now.\n\n Shake hands, Starkey,  said Hook, proffering his claw.\n\nStarkey looked round for help, but all deserted him. As he backed up\nHook advanced, and now the red spark was in his eye. With a despairing\nscream the pirate leapt upon Long Tom and precipitated himself into the\nsea.\n\n Four,  said Slightly.\n\n And now,  Hook said courteously,  did any other gentlemen say mutiny? \nSeizing a lantern and raising his claw with a menacing gesture,  I ll\nbring out that doodle-doo myself,  he said, and sped into the cabin.\n\n Five.  How Slightly longed to say it. He wetted his lips to be ready,\nbut Hook came staggering out, without his lantern.\n\n Something blew out the light,  he said a little unsteadily.\n\n Something!  echoed Mullins.\n\n What of Cecco?  demanded Noodler.\n\n He s as dead as Jukes,  said Hook shortly.\n\nHis reluctance to return to the cabin impressed them all unfavourably,\nand the mutinous sounds again broke forth. All pirates are\nsuperstitious, and Cookson cried,  They do say the surest sign a ship s\naccurst is when there s one on board more than can be accounted for. \n\n I ve heard,  muttered Mullins,  he always boards the pirate craft\nlast. Had he a tail, captain? \n\n They say,  said another, looking viciously at Hook,  that when he\ncomes it s in the likeness of the wickedest man aboard. \n\n Had he a hook, captain?  asked Cookson insolently; and one after\nanother took up the cry,  The ship s doomed!  At this the children\ncould not resist raising a cheer. Hook had well-nigh forgotten his\nprisoners, but as he swung round on them now his face lit up again.\n\n Lads,  he cried to his crew,  now here s a notion. Open the cabin door\nand drive them in. Let them fight the doodle-doo for their lives. If\nthey kill him, we re so much the better; if he kills them, we re none\nthe worse. \n\nFor the last time his dogs admired Hook, and devotedly they did his\nbidding. The boys, pretending to struggle, were pushed into the cabin\nand the door was closed on them.\n\n Now, listen!  cried Hook, and all listened. But not one dared to face\nthe door. Yes, one, Wendy, who all this time had been bound to the\nmast. It was for neither a scream nor a crow that she was watching, it\nwas for the reappearance of Peter.\n\nShe had not long to wait. In the cabin he had found the thing for which\nhe had gone in search: the key that would free the children of their\nmanacles, and now they all stole forth, armed with such weapons as they\ncould find. First signing them to hide, Peter cut Wendy s bonds, and\nthen nothing could have been easier than for them all to fly off\ntogether; but one thing barred the way, an oath,  Hook or me this\ntime.  So when he had freed Wendy, he whispered for her to conceal\nherself with the others, and himself took her place by the mast, her\ncloak around him so that he should pass for her. Then he took a great\nbreath and crowed.\n\nTo the pirates it was a voice crying that all the boys lay slain in the\ncabin; and they were panic-stricken. Hook tried to hearten them; but\nlike the dogs he had made them they showed him their fangs, and he knew\nthat if he took his eyes off them now they would leap at him.\n\n Lads,  he said, ready to cajole or strike as need be, but never\nquailing for an instant,  I ve thought it out. There s a Jonah aboard. \n\n Ay,  they snarled,  a man wi  a hook. \n\n No, lads, no, it s the girl. Never was luck on a pirate ship wi  a\nwoman on board. We ll right the ship when she s gone. \n\nSome of them remembered that this had been a saying of Flint s.  It s\nworth trying,  they said doubtfully.\n\n Fling the girl overboard,  cried Hook; and they made a rush at the\nfigure in the cloak.\n\n There s none can save you now, missy,  Mullins hissed jeeringly.\n\n There s one,  replied the figure.\n\n Who s that? \n\n Peter Pan the avenger!  came the terrible answer; and as he spoke\nPeter flung off his cloak. Then they all knew who  twas that had been\nundoing them in the cabin, and twice Hook essayed to speak and twice he\nfailed. In that frightful moment I think his fierce heart broke.\n\nAt last he cried,  Cleave him to the brisket!  but without conviction.\n\n Down, boys, and at them!  Peter s voice rang out; and in another\nmoment the clash of arms was resounding through the ship. Had the\npirates kept together it is certain that they would have won; but the\nonset came when they were still unstrung, and they ran hither and\nthither, striking wildly, each thinking himself the last survivor of\nthe crew. Man to man they were the stronger; but they fought on the\ndefensive only, which enabled the boys to hunt in pairs and choose\ntheir quarry. Some of the miscreants leapt into the sea; others hid in\ndark recesses, where they were found by Slightly, who did not fight,\nbut ran about with a lantern which he flashed in their faces, so that\nthey were half blinded and fell as an easy prey to the reeking swords\nof the other boys. There was little sound to be heard but the clang of\nweapons, an occasional screech or splash, and Slightly monotonously\ncounting five six seven eight nine ten eleven.\n\nI think all were gone when a group of savage boys surrounded Hook, who\nseemed to have a charmed life, as he kept them at bay in that circle of\nfire. They had done for his dogs, but this man alone seemed to be a\nmatch for them all. Again and again they closed upon him, and again and\nagain he hewed a clear space. He had lifted up one boy with his hook,\nand was using him as a buckler, when another, who had just passed his\nsword through Mullins, sprang into the fray.\n\n Put up your swords, boys,  cried the newcomer,  this man is mine. \n\nThus suddenly Hook found himself face to face with Peter. The others\ndrew back and formed a ring around them.\n\nFor long the two enemies looked at one another, Hook shuddering\nslightly, and Peter with the strange smile upon his face.\n\n So, Pan,  said Hook at last,  this is all your doing. \n\n Ay, James Hook,  came the stern answer,  it is all my doing. \n\n Proud and insolent youth,  said Hook,  prepare to meet thy doom. \n\n Dark and sinister man,  Peter answered,  have at thee. \n\nWithout more words they fell to, and for a space there was no advantage\nto either blade. Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with\ndazzling rapidity; ever and anon he followed up a feint with a lunge\nthat got past his foe s defence, but his shorter reach stood him in ill\nstead, and he could not drive the steel home. Hook, scarcely his\ninferior in brilliancy, but not quite so nimble in wrist play, forced\nhim back by the weight of his onset, hoping suddenly to end all with a\nfavourite thrust, taught him long ago by Barbecue at Rio; but to his\nastonishment he found this thrust turned aside again and again. Then he\nsought to close and give the quietus with his iron hook, which all this\ntime had been pawing the air; but Peter doubled under it and, lunging\nfiercely, pierced him in the ribs. At the sight of his own blood, whose\npeculiar colour, you remember, was offensive to him, the sword fell\nfrom Hook s hand, and he was at Peter s mercy.\n\n Now!  cried all the boys, but with a magnificent gesture Peter invited\nhis opponent to pick up his sword. Hook did so instantly, but with a\ntragic feeling that Peter was showing good form.\n\nHitherto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker\nsuspicions assailed him now.\n\n Pan, who and what art thou?  he cried huskily.\n\n I m youth, I m joy,  Peter answered at a venture,  I m a little bird\nthat has broken out of the egg. \n\nThis, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook\nthat Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the\nvery pinnacle of good form.\n\n To t again,  he cried despairingly.\n\nHe fought now like a human flail, and every sweep of that terrible\nsword would have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but\nPeter fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew him out of\nthe danger zone. And again and again he darted in and pricked.\n\nHook was fighting now without hope. That passionate breast no longer\nasked for life; but for one boon it craved: to see Peter show bad form\nbefore it was cold forever.\n\nAbandoning the fight he rushed into the powder magazine and fired it.\n\n In two minutes,  he cried,  the ship will be blown to pieces. \n\nNow, now, he thought, true form will show.\n\nBut Peter issued from the powder magazine with the shell in his hands,\nand calmly flung it overboard.\n\nWhat sort of form was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though he\nwas, we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he\nwas true to the traditions of his race. The other boys were flying\naround him now, flouting, scornful; and he staggered about the deck\nstriking up at them impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it\nwas slouching in the playing fields of long ago, or being sent up for\ngood, or watching the wall-game from a famous wall. And his shoes were\nright, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie was right, and his\nsocks were right.\n\nJames Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.\n\nFor we have come to his last moment.\n\nSeeing Peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger\npoised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. He\ndid not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we purposely\nstopped the clock that this knowledge might be spared him: a little\nmark of respect from us at the end.\n\nHe had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he\nstood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding through\nthe air, he invited him with a gesture to use his foot. It made Peter\nkick instead of stab.\n\nAt last Hook had got the boon for which he craved.\n\n Bad form,  he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.\n\nThus perished James Hook.\n\n Seventeen,  Slightly sang out; but he was not quite correct in his\nfigures. Fifteen paid the penalty for their crimes that night; but two\nreached the shore: Starkey to be captured by the redskins, who made him\nnurse for all their papooses, a melancholy come-down for a pirate; and\nSmee, who henceforth wandered about the world in his spectacles, making\na precarious living by saying he was the only man that Jas. Hook had\nfeared.\n\nWendy, of course, had stood by taking no part in the fight, though\nwatching Peter with glistening eyes; but now that all was over she\nbecame prominent again. She praised them equally, and shuddered\ndelightfully when Michael showed her the place where he had killed one;\nand then she took them into Hook s cabin and pointed to his watch which\nwas hanging on a nail. It said  half-past one! \n\nThe lateness of the hour was almost the biggest thing of all. She got\nthem to bed in the pirates  bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure; all\nbut Peter, who strutted up and down on the deck, until at last he fell\nasleep by the side of Long Tom. He had one of his dreams that night,\nand cried in his sleep for a long time, and Wendy held him tightly.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI.\nTHE RETURN HOME\n\n\nBy three bells that morning they were all stirring their stumps; for\nthere was a big sea running; and Tootles, the bo sun, was among them,\nwith a rope s end in his hand and chewing tobacco. They all donned\npirate clothes cut off at the knee, shaved smartly, and tumbled up,\nwith the true nautical roll and hitching their trousers.\n\nIt need not be said who was the captain. Nibs and John were first and\nsecond mate. There was a woman aboard. The rest were tars before the\nmast, and lived in the fo c sle. Peter had already lashed himself to\nthe wheel; but he piped all hands and delivered a short address to\nthem; said he hoped they would do their duty like gallant hearties, but\nthat he knew they were the scum of Rio and the Gold Coast, and if they\nsnapped at him he would tear them. The bluff strident words struck the\nnote sailors understood, and they cheered him lustily. Then a few sharp\norders were given, and they turned the ship round, and nosed her for\nthe mainland.\n\nCaptain Pan calculated, after consulting the ship s chart, that if this\nweather lasted they should strike the Azores about the 21st of June,\nafter which it would save time to fly.\n\nSome of them wanted it to be an honest ship and others were in favour\nof keeping it a pirate; but the captain treated them as dogs, and they\ndared not express their wishes to him even in a round robin. Instant\nobedience was the only safe thing. Slightly got a dozen for looking\nperplexed when told to take soundings. The general feeling was that\nPeter was honest just now to lull Wendy s suspicions, but that there\nmight be a change when the new suit was ready, which, against her will,\nshe was making for him out of some of Hook s wickedest garments. It was\nafterwards whispered among them that on the first night he wore this\nsuit he sat long in the cabin with Hook s cigar-holder in his mouth and\none hand clenched, all but for the forefinger, which he bent and held\nthreateningly aloft like a hook.\n\nInstead of watching the ship, however, we must now return to that\ndesolate home from which three of our characters had taken heartless\nflight so long ago. It seems a shame to have neglected No. 14 all this\ntime; and yet we may be sure that Mrs. Darling does not blame us. If we\nhad returned sooner to look with sorrowful sympathy at her, she would\nprobably have cried,  Don t be silly; what do I matter? Do go back and\nkeep an eye on the children.  So long as mothers are like this their\nchildren will take advantage of them; and they may lay to that.\n\nEven now we venture into that familiar nursery only because its lawful\noccupants are on their way home; we are merely hurrying on in advance\nof them to see that their beds are properly aired and that Mr. and Mrs.\nDarling do not go out for the evening. We are no more than servants.\nWhy on earth should their beds be properly aired, seeing that they left\nthem in such a thankless hurry? Would it not serve them jolly well\nright if they came back and found that their parents were spending the\nweek-end in the country? It would be the moral lesson they have been in\nneed of ever since we met them; but if we contrived things in this way\nMrs. Darling would never forgive us.\n\nOne thing I should like to do immensely, and that is to tell her, in\nthe way authors have, that the children are coming back, that indeed\nthey will be here on Thursday week. This would spoil so completely the\nsurprise to which Wendy and John and Michael are looking forward. They\nhave been planning it out on the ship: mother s rapture, father s shout\nof joy, Nana s leap through the air to embrace them first, when what\nthey ought to be prepared for is a good hiding. How delicious to spoil\nit all by breaking the news in advance; so that when they enter grandly\nMrs. Darling may not even offer Wendy her mouth, and Mr. Darling may\nexclaim pettishly,  Dash it all, here are those boys again.  However,\nwe should get no thanks even for this. We are beginning to know Mrs.\nDarling by this time, and may be sure that she would upbraid us for\ndepriving the children of their little pleasure.\n\n But, my dear madam, it is ten days till Thursday week; so that by\ntelling you what s what, we can save you ten days of unhappiness. \n\n Yes, but at what a cost! By depriving the children of ten minutes of\ndelight. \n\n Oh, if you look at it in that way! \n\n What other way is there in which to look at it? \n\nYou see, the woman had no proper spirit. I had meant to say\nextraordinarily nice things about her; but I despise her, and not one\nof them will I say now. She does not really need to be told to have\nthings ready, for they are ready. All the beds are aired, and she never\nleaves the house, and observe, the window is open. For all the use we\nare to her, we might well go back to the ship. However, as we are here\nwe may as well stay and look on. That is all we are, lookers-on. Nobody\nreally wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that\nsome of them will hurt.\n\nThe only change to be seen in the night-nursery is that between nine\nand six the kennel is no longer there. When the children flew away, Mr.\nDarling felt in his bones that all the blame was his for having chained\nNana up, and that from first to last she had been wiser than he. Of\ncourse, as we have seen, he was quite a simple man; indeed he might\nhave passed for a boy again if he had been able to take his baldness\noff; but he had also a noble sense of justice and a lion s courage to\ndo what seemed right to him; and having thought the matter out with\nanxious care after the flight of the children, he went down on all\nfours and crawled into the kennel. To all Mrs. Darling s dear\ninvitations to him to come out he replied sadly but firmly:\n\n No, my own one, this is the place for me. \n\nIn the bitterness of his remorse he swore that he would never leave the\nkennel until his children came back. Of course this was a pity; but\nwhatever Mr. Darling did he had to do in excess, otherwise he soon gave\nup doing it. And there never was a more humble man than the once proud\nGeorge Darling, as he sat in the kennel of an evening talking with his\nwife of their children and all their pretty ways.\n\nVery touching was his deference to Nana. He would not let her come into\nthe kennel, but on all other matters he followed her wishes implicitly.\n\nEvery morning the kennel was carried with Mr. Darling in it to a cab,\nwhich conveyed him to his office, and he returned home in the same way\nat six. Something of the strength of character of the man will be seen\nif we remember how sensitive he was to the opinion of neighbours: this\nman whose every movement now attracted surprised attention. Inwardly he\nmust have suffered torture; but he preserved a calm exterior even when\nthe young criticised his little home, and he always lifted his hat\ncourteously to any lady who looked inside.\n\nIt may have been Quixotic, but it was magnificent. Soon the inward\nmeaning of it leaked out, and the great heart of the public was\ntouched. Crowds followed the cab, cheering it lustily; charming girls\nscaled it to get his autograph; interviews appeared in the better class\nof papers, and society invited him to dinner and added,  Do come in the\nkennel. \n\nOn that eventful Thursday week, Mrs. Darling was in the night-nursery\nawaiting George s return home; a very sad-eyed woman. Now that we look\nat her closely and remember the gaiety of her in the old days, all gone\nnow just because she has lost her babes, I find I won t be able to say\nnasty things about her after all. If she was too fond of her rubbishy\nchildren, she couldn t help it. Look at her in her chair, where she has\nfallen asleep. The corner of her mouth, where one looks first, is\nalmost withered up. Her hand moves restlessly on her breast as if she\nhad a pain there. Some like Peter best, and some like Wendy best, but I\nlike her best. Suppose, to make her happy, we whisper to her in her\nsleep that the brats are coming back. They are really within two miles\nof the window now, and flying strong, but all we need whisper is that\nthey are on the way. Let s.\n\nIt is a pity we did it, for she has started up, calling their names;\nand there is no one in the room but Nana.\n\n O Nana, I dreamt my dear ones had come back. \n\nNana had filmy eyes, but all she could do was put her paw gently on her\nmistress s lap; and they were sitting together thus when the kennel was\nbrought back. As Mr. Darling puts his head out to kiss his wife, we see\nthat his face is more worn than of yore, but has a softer expression.\n\nHe gave his hat to Liza, who took it scornfully; for she had no\nimagination, and was quite incapable of understanding the motives of\nsuch a man. Outside, the crowd who had accompanied the cab home were\nstill cheering, and he was naturally not unmoved.\n\n Listen to them,  he said;  it is very gratifying. \n\n Lots of little boys,  sneered Liza.\n\n There were several adults to-day,  he assured her with a faint flush;\nbut when she tossed her head he had not a word of reproof for her.\nSocial success had not spoilt him; it had made him sweeter. For some\ntime he sat with his head out of the kennel, talking with Mrs. Darling\nof this success, and pressing her hand reassuringly when she said she\nhoped his head would not be turned by it.\n\n But if I had been a weak man,  he said.  Good heavens, if I had been a\nweak man! \n\n And, George,  she said timidly,  you are as full of remorse as ever,\naren t you? \n\n Full of remorse as ever, dearest! See my punishment: living in a\nkennel. \n\n But it is punishment, isn t it, George? You are sure you are not\nenjoying it? \n\n My love! \n\nYou may be sure she begged his pardon; and then, feeling drowsy, he\ncurled round in the kennel.\n\n Won t you play me to sleep,  he asked,  on the nursery piano?  and as\nshe was crossing to the day-nursery he added thoughtlessly,  And shut\nthat window. I feel a draught. \n\n O George, never ask me to do that. The window must always be left open\nfor them, always, always. \n\nNow it was his turn to beg her pardon; and she went into the\nday-nursery and played, and soon he was asleep; and while he slept,\nWendy and John and Michael flew into the room.\n\nOh no. We have written it so, because that was the charming arrangement\nplanned by them before we left the ship; but something must have\nhappened since then, for it is not they who have flown in, it is Peter\nand Tinker Bell.\n\nPeter s first words tell all.\n\n Quick Tink,  he whispered,  close the window; bar it! That s right.\nNow you and I must get away by the door; and when Wendy comes she will\nthink her mother has barred her out; and she will have to go back with\nme. \n\nNow I understand what had hitherto puzzled me, why when Peter had\nexterminated the pirates he did not return to the island and leave Tink\nto escort the children to the mainland. This trick had been in his head\nall the time.\n\nInstead of feeling that he was behaving badly he danced with glee; then\nhe peeped into the day-nursery to see who was playing. He whispered to\nTink,  It s Wendy s mother! She is a pretty lady, but not so pretty as\nmy mother. Her mouth is full of thimbles, but not so full as my\nmother s was. \n\nOf course he knew nothing whatever about his mother; but he sometimes\nbragged about her.\n\nHe did not know the tune, which was  Home, Sweet Home,  but he knew it\nwas saying,  Come back, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy ; and he cried exultantly,\n You will never see Wendy again, lady, for the window is barred! \n\nHe peeped in again to see why the music had stopped, and now he saw\nthat Mrs. Darling had laid her head on the box, and that two tears were\nsitting on her eyes.\n\n She wants me to unbar the window,  thought Peter,  but I won t, not\nI! \n\nHe peeped again, and the tears were still there, or another two had\ntaken their place.\n\n She s awfully fond of Wendy,  he said to himself. He was angry with\nher now for not seeing why she could not have Wendy.\n\nThe reason was so simple:  I m fond of her too. We can t both have her,\nlady. \n\nBut the lady would not make the best of it, and he was unhappy. He\nceased to look at her, but even then she would not let go of him. He\nskipped about and made funny faces, but when he stopped it was just as\nif she were inside him, knocking.\n\n Oh, all right,  he said at last, and gulped. Then he unbarred the\nwindow.  Come on, Tink,  he cried, with a frightful sneer at the laws\nof nature;  we don t want any silly mothers;  and he flew away.\n\nThus Wendy and John and Michael found the window open for them after\nall, which of course was more than they deserved. They alighted on the\nfloor, quite unashamed of themselves, and the youngest one had already\nforgotten his home.\n\n John,  he said, looking around him doubtfully,  I think I have been\nhere before. \n\n Of course you have, you silly. There is your old bed. \n\n So it is,  Michael said, but not with much conviction.\n\n I say,  cried John,  the kennel!  and he dashed across to look into\nit.\n\n Perhaps Nana is inside it,  Wendy said.\n\nBut John whistled.  Hullo,  he said,  there s a man inside it. \n\n It s father!  exclaimed Wendy.\n\n Let me see father,  Michael begged eagerly, and he took a good look.\n He is not so big as the pirate I killed,  he said with such frank\ndisappointment that I am glad Mr. Darling was asleep; it would have\nbeen sad if those had been the first words he heard his little Michael\nsay.\n\nWendy and John had been taken aback somewhat at finding their father in\nthe kennel.\n\n Surely,  said John, like one who had lost faith in his memory,  he\nused not to sleep in the kennel? \n\n John,  Wendy said falteringly,  perhaps we don t remember the old life\nas well as we thought we did. \n\nA chill fell upon them; and serve them right.\n\n It is very careless of mother,  said that young scoundrel John,  not\nto be here when we come back. \n\nIt was then that Mrs. Darling began playing again.\n\n It s mother!  cried Wendy, peeping.\n\n So it is!  said John.\n\n Then are you not really our mother, Wendy?  asked Michael, who was\nsurely sleepy.\n\n Oh dear!  exclaimed Wendy, with her first real twinge of remorse,  it\nwas quite time we came back. \n\n Let us creep in,  John suggested,  and put our hands over her eyes. \n\nBut Wendy, who saw that they must break the joyous news more gently,\nhad a better plan.\n\n Let us all slip into our beds, and be there when she comes in, just as\nif we had never been away. \n\nAnd so when Mrs. Darling went back to the night-nursery to see if her\nhusband was asleep, all the beds were occupied. The children waited for\nher cry of joy, but it did not come. She saw them, but she did not\nbelieve they were there. You see, she saw them in their beds so often\nin her dreams that she thought this was just the dream hanging around\nher still.\n\nShe sat down in the chair by the fire, where in the old days she had\nnursed them.\n\nThey could not understand this, and a cold fear fell upon all the three\nof them.\n\n Mother!  Wendy cried.\n\n That s Wendy,  she said, but still she was sure it was the dream.\n\n Mother! \n\n That s John,  she said.\n\n Mother!  cried Michael. He knew her now.\n\n That s Michael,  she said, and she stretched out her arms for the\nthree little selfish children they would never envelop again. Yes, they\ndid, they went round Wendy and John and Michael, who had slipped out of\nbed and run to her.\n\n George, George!  she cried when she could speak; and Mr. Darling woke\nto share her bliss, and Nana came rushing in. There could not have been\na lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who\nwas staring in at the window. He had had ecstasies innumerable that\nother children can never know; but he was looking through the window at\nthe one joy from which he must be for ever barred.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII.\nWHEN WENDY GREW UP\n\n\nI hope you want to know what became of the other boys. They were\nwaiting below to give Wendy time to explain about them; and when they\nhad counted five hundred they went up. They went up by the stair,\nbecause they thought this would make a better impression. They stood in\na row in front of Mrs. Darling, with their hats off, and wishing they\nwere not wearing their pirate clothes. They said nothing, but their\neyes asked her to have them. They ought to have looked at Mr. Darling\nalso, but they forgot about him.\n\nOf course Mrs. Darling said at once that she would have them; but Mr.\nDarling was curiously depressed, and they saw that he considered six a\nrather large number.\n\n I must say,  he said to Wendy,  that you don t do things by halves,  a\ngrudging remark which the twins thought was pointed at them.\n\nThe first twin was the proud one, and he asked, flushing,  Do you think\nwe should be too much of a handful, sir? Because, if so, we can go\naway. \n\n Father!  Wendy cried, shocked; but still the cloud was on him. He knew\nhe was behaving unworthily, but he could not help it.\n\n We could lie doubled up,  said Nibs.\n\n I always cut their hair myself,  said Wendy.\n\n George!  Mrs. Darling exclaimed, pained to see her dear one showing\nhimself in such an unfavourable light.\n\nThen he burst into tears, and the truth came out. He was as glad to\nhave them as she was, he said, but he thought they should have asked\nhis consent as well as hers, instead of treating him as a cypher in his\nown house.\n\n I don t think he is a cypher,  Tootles cried instantly.  Do you think\nhe is a cypher, Curly? \n\n No, I don t. Do you think he is a cypher, Slightly? \n\n Rather not. Twin, what do you think? \n\nIt turned out that not one of them thought him a cypher; and he was\nabsurdly gratified, and said he would find space for them all in the\ndrawing-room if they fitted in.\n\n We ll fit in, sir,  they assured him.\n\n Then follow the leader,  he cried gaily.  Mind you, I am not sure that\nwe have a drawing-room, but we pretend we have, and it s all the same.\nHoop la! \n\nHe went off dancing through the house, and they all cried  Hoop la! \nand danced after him, searching for the drawing-room; and I forget\nwhether they found it, but at any rate they found corners, and they all\nfitted in.\n\nAs for Peter, he saw Wendy once again before he flew away. He did not\nexactly come to the window, but he brushed against it in passing so\nthat she could open it if she liked and call to him. That is what she\ndid.\n\n Hullo, Wendy, good-bye,  he said.\n\n Oh dear, are you going away? \n\n Yes. \n\n You don t feel, Peter,  she said falteringly,  that you would like to\nsay anything to my parents about a very sweet subject? \n\n No. \n\n About me, Peter? \n\n No. \n\nMrs. Darling came to the window, for at present she was keeping a sharp\neye on Wendy. She told Peter that she had adopted all the other boys,\nand would like to adopt him also.\n\n Would you send me to school?  he inquired craftily.\n\n Yes. \n\n And then to an office? \n\n I suppose so. \n\n Soon I would be a man? \n\n Very soon. \n\n I don t want to go to school and learn solemn things,  he told her\npassionately.  I don t want to be a man. O Wendy s mother, if I was to\nwake up and feel there was a beard! \n\n Peter,  said Wendy the comforter,  I should love you in a beard;  and\nMrs. Darling stretched out her arms to him, but he repulsed her.\n\n Keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me and make me a man. \n\n But where are you going to live? \n\n With Tink in the house we built for Wendy. The fairies are to put it\nhigh up among the tree tops where they sleep at nights. \n\n How lovely,  cried Wendy so longingly that Mrs. Darling tightened her\ngrip.\n\n I thought all the fairies were dead,  Mrs. Darling said.\n\n There are always a lot of young ones,  explained Wendy, who was now\nquite an authority,  because you see when a new baby laughs for the\nfirst time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new babies\nthere are always new fairies. They live in nests on the tops of trees;\nand the mauve ones are boys and the white ones are girls, and the blue\nones are just little sillies who are not sure what they are. \n\n I shall have such fun,  said Peter, with eye on Wendy.\n\n It will be rather lonely in the evening,  she said,  sitting by the\nfire. \n\n I shall have Tink. \n\n Tink can t go a twentieth part of the way round,  she reminded him a\nlittle tartly.\n\n Sneaky tell-tale!  Tink called out from somewhere round the corner.\n\n It doesn t matter,  Peter said.\n\n O Peter, you know it matters. \n\n Well, then, come with me to the little house. \n\n May I, mummy? \n\n Certainly not. I have got you home again, and I mean to keep you. \n\n But he does so need a mother. \n\n So do you, my love. \n\n Oh, all right,  Peter said, as if he had asked her from politeness\nmerely; but Mrs. Darling saw his mouth twitch, and she made this\nhandsome offer: to let Wendy go to him for a week every year to do his\nspring cleaning. Wendy would have preferred a more permanent\narrangement; and it seemed to her that spring would be long in coming;\nbut this promise sent Peter away quite gay again. He had no sense of\ntime, and was so full of adventures that all I have told you about him\nis only a halfpenny-worth of them. I suppose it was because Wendy knew\nthis that her last words to him were these rather plaintive ones:\n\n You won t forget me, Peter, will you, before spring cleaning time\ncomes? \n\nOf course Peter promised; and then he flew away. He took Mrs. Darling s\nkiss with him. The kiss that had been for no one else, Peter took quite\neasily. Funny. But she seemed satisfied.\n\nOf course all the boys went to school; and most of them got into Class\nIII, but Slightly was put first into Class IV and then into Class V.\nClass I is the top class. Before they had attended school a week they\nsaw what goats they had been not to remain on the island; but it was\ntoo late now, and soon they settled down to being as ordinary as you or\nme or Jenkins minor. It is sad to have to say that the power to fly\ngradually left them. At first Nana tied their feet to the bed-posts so\nthat they should not fly away in the night; and one of their diversions\nby day was to pretend to fall off buses; but by and by they ceased to\ntug at their bonds in bed, and found that they hurt themselves when\nthey let go of the bus. In time they could not even fly after their\nhats. Want of practice, they called it; but what it really meant was\nthat they no longer believed.\n\nMichael believed longer than the other boys, though they jeered at him;\nso he was with Wendy when Peter came for her at the end of the first\nyear. She flew away with Peter in the frock she had woven from leaves\nand berries in the Neverland, and her one fear was that he might notice\nhow short it had become; but he never noticed, he had so much to say\nabout himself.\n\nShe had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but\nnew adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.\n\n Who is Captain Hook?  he asked with interest when she spoke of the\narch enemy.\n\n Don t you remember,  she asked, amazed,  how you killed him and saved\nall our lives? \n\n I forget them after I kill them,  he replied carelessly.\n\nWhen she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to\nsee her he said,  Who is Tinker Bell? \n\n O Peter,  she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not\nremember.\n\n There are such a lot of them,  he said.  I expect she is no more. \n\nI expect he was right, for fairies don t live long, but they are so\nlittle that a short time seems a good while to them.\n\nWendy was pained too to find that the past year was but as yesterday to\nPeter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her. But he was\nexactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring cleaning\nin the little house on the tree tops.\n\nNext year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock because\nthe old one simply would not meet; but he never came.\n\n Perhaps he is ill,  Michael said.\n\n You know he is never ill. \n\nMichael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver,  Perhaps there\nis no such person, Wendy!  and then Wendy would have cried if Michael\nhad not been crying.\n\nPeter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he\nnever knew he had missed a year.\n\nThat was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer\nshe tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was\nuntrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge. But the years\ncame and went without bringing the careless boy; and when they met\nagain Wendy was a married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a\nlittle dust in the box in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was grown\nup. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes\nto grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker\nthan other girls.\n\nAll the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so it is scarcely\nworth while saying anything more about them. You may see the twins and\nNibs and Curly any day going to an office, each carrying a little bag\nand an umbrella. Michael is an engine-driver. Slightly married a lady\nof title, and so he became a lord. You see that judge in a wig coming\nout at the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The bearded man who\ndoesn t know any story to tell his children was once John.\n\nWendy was married in white with a pink sash. It is strange to think\nthat Peter did not alight in the church and forbid the banns.\n\nYears rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to be\nwritten in ink but in a golden splash.\n\nShe was called Jane, and always had an odd inquiring look, as if from\nthe moment she arrived on the mainland she wanted to ask questions.\nWhen she was old enough to ask them they were mostly about Peter Pan.\nShe loved to hear of Peter, and Wendy told her all she could remember\nin the very nursery from which the famous flight had taken place. It\nwas Jane s nursery now, for her father had bought it at the three per\ncents from Wendy s father, who was no longer fond of stairs. Mrs.\nDarling was now dead and forgotten.\n\nThere were only two beds in the nursery now, Jane s and her nurse s;\nand there was no kennel, for Nana also had passed away. She died of old\nage, and at the end she had been rather difficult to get on with; being\nvery firmly convinced that no one knew how to look after children\nexcept herself.\n\nOnce a week Jane s nurse had her evening off; and then it was Wendy s\npart to put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories. It was Jane s\ninvention to raise the sheet over her mother s head and her own, thus\nmaking a tent, and in the awful darkness to whisper:\n\n What do we see now? \n\n I don t think I see anything to-night,  says Wendy, with a feeling\nthat if Nana were here she would object to further conversation.\n\n Yes, you do,  says Jane,  you see when you were a little girl. \n\n That is a long time ago, sweetheart,  says Wendy.  Ah me, how time\nflies! \n\n Does it fly,  asks the artful child,  the way you flew when you were a\nlittle girl? \n\n The way I flew? Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I ever\ndid really fly. \n\n Yes, you did. \n\n The dear old days when I could fly! \n\n Why can t you fly now, mother? \n\n Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the\nway. \n\n Why do they forget the way? \n\n Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only\nthe gay and innocent and heartless who can fly. \n\n What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I were gay and\ninnocent and heartless. \n\nOr perhaps Wendy admits she does see something.\n\n I do believe,  she says,  that it is this nursery. \n\n I do believe it is,  says Jane.  Go on. \n\nThey are now embarked on the great adventure of the night when Peter\nflew in looking for his shadow.\n\n The foolish fellow,  says Wendy,  tried to stick it on with soap, and\nwhen he could not he cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it on for\nhim. \n\n You have missed a bit,  interrupts Jane, who now knows the story\nbetter than her mother.  When you saw him sitting on the floor crying,\nwhat did you say? \n\n I sat up in bed and I said,  Boy, why are you crying? \n\n Yes, that was it,  says Jane, with a big breath.\n\n And then he flew us all away to the Neverland and the fairies and the\npirates and the redskins and the mermaids  lagoon, and the home under\nthe ground, and the little house. \n\n Yes! which did you like best of all? \n\n I think I liked the home under the ground best of all. \n\n Yes, so do I. What was the last thing Peter ever said to you? \n\n The last thing he ever said to me was,  Just always be waiting for me,\nand then some night you will hear me crowing. \n\n Yes. \n\n But, alas, he forgot all about me,  Wendy said it with a smile. She\nwas as grown up as that.\n\n What did his crow sound like?  Jane asked one evening.\n\n It was like this,  Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter s crow.\n\n No, it wasn t,  Jane said gravely,  it was like this;  and she did it\never so much better than her mother.\n\nWendy was a little startled.  My darling, how can you know? \n\n I often hear it when I am sleeping,  Jane said.\n\n Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but I was the only\none who heard it awake. \n\n Lucky you,  said Jane.\n\nAnd then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and\nthe story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her\nbed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the fire, so as to\nsee to darn, for there was no other light in the nursery; and while she\nsat darning she heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of old, and\nPeter dropped in on the floor.\n\nHe was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still\nhad all his first teeth.\n\nHe was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not\ndaring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.\n\n Hullo, Wendy,  he said, not noticing any difference, for he was\nthinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might\nhave been the nightgown in which he had seen her first.\n\n Hullo, Peter,  she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as\npossible. Something inside her was crying  Woman, Woman, let go of me. \n\n Hullo, where is John?  he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.\n\n John is not here now,  she gasped.\n\n Is Michael asleep?  he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.\n\n Yes,  she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as\nwell as to Peter.\n\n That is not Michael,  she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall on\nher.\n\nPeter looked.  Hullo, is it a new one? \n\n Yes. \n\n Boy or girl? \n\n Girl. \n\nNow surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.\n\n Peter,  she said, faltering,  are you expecting me to fly away with\nyou? \n\n Of course; that is why I have come.  He added a little sternly,  Have\nyou forgotten that this is spring cleaning time? \n\nShe knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring cleaning\ntimes pass.\n\n I can t come,  she said apologetically,  I have forgotten how to fly. \n\n I ll soon teach you again. \n\n O Peter, don t waste the fairy dust on me. \n\nShe had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him.  What is it?  he\ncried, shrinking.\n\n I will turn up the light,  she said,  and then you can see for\nyourself. \n\nFor almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was afraid.\n Don t turn up the light,  he cried.\n\nShe let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a\nlittle girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it\nall, but they were wet-eyed smiles.\n\nThen she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and\nwhen the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he\ndrew back sharply.\n\n What is it?  he cried again.\n\nShe had to tell him.\n\n I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long\nago. \n\n You promised not to! \n\n I couldn t help it. I am a married woman, Peter. \n\n No, you re not. \n\n Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby. \n\n No, she s not. \n\nBut he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child\nwith his dagger upraised. Of course he did not strike. He sat down on\nthe floor instead and sobbed; and Wendy did not know how to comfort\nhim, though she could have done it so easily once. She was only a woman\nnow, and she ran out of the room to try to think.\n\nPeter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in bed,\nand was interested at once.\n\n Boy,  she said,  why are you crying? \n\nPeter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.\n\n Hullo,  he said.\n\n Hullo,  said Jane.\n\n My name is Peter Pan,  he told her.\n\n Yes, I know. \n\n I came back for my mother,  he explained,  to take her to the\nNeverland. \n\n Yes, I know,  Jane said,  I have been waiting for you. \n\nWhen Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting on the bed-post\ncrowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying round the room\nin solemn ecstasy.\n\n She is my mother,  Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by\nhis side, with the look in her face that he liked to see on ladies when\nthey gazed at him.\n\n He does so need a mother,  Jane said.\n\n Yes, I know,  Wendy admitted rather forlornly;  no one knows it so\nwell as I. \n\n Good-bye,  said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the\nshameless Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving\nabout.\n\nWendy rushed to the window.\n\n No, no,  she cried.\n\n It is just for spring cleaning time,  Jane said,  he wants me always\nto do his spring cleaning. \n\n If only I could go with you,  Wendy sighed.\n\n You see you can t fly,  said Jane.\n\nOf course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse\nof her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky\nuntil they were as small as stars.\n\nAs you look at Wendy, you may see her hair becoming white, and her\nfigure little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a\ncommon grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and every spring\ncleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes for Margaret and\ntakes her to the Neverland, where she tells him stories about himself,\nto which he listens eagerly. When Margaret grows up she will have a\ndaughter, who is to be Peter s mother in turn; and thus it will go on,\nso long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.\n\nTHE END"
    },
    {
        "title": "The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland",
        "author": "Lewis Carroll",
        "category": "Children's Books",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I.\nDown the Rabbit-Hole\n\n\nAlice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the\nbank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into\nthe book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or\nconversations in it,  and what is the use of a book,  thought Alice\n without pictures or conversations? \n\nSo she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the\nhot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of\nmaking a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and\npicking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran\nclose by her.\n\nThere was nothing so _very_ remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it\nso _very_ much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself,  Oh\ndear! Oh dear! I shall be late!  (when she thought it over afterwards,\nit occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the\ntime it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually _took a\nwatch out of its waistcoat-pocket_, and looked at it, and then hurried\non, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she\nhad never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a\nwatch to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the\nfield after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a\nlarge rabbit-hole under the hedge.\n\nIn another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how\nin the world she was to get out again.\n\nThe rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then\ndipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think\nabout stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very\ndeep well.\n\nEither the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had\nplenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what\nwas going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out\nwhat she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she\nlooked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with\ncupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures\nhung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she\npassed; it was labelled  ORANGE MARMALADE , but to her great\ndisappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear\nof killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the\ncupboards as she fell past it.\n\n Well!  thought Alice to herself,  after such a fall as this, I shall\nthink nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they ll all think me\nat home! Why, I wouldn t say anything about it, even if I fell off the\ntop of the house!  (Which was very likely true.)\n\nDown, down, down. Would the fall _never_ come to an end?  I wonder how\nmany miles I ve fallen by this time?  she said aloud.  I must be\ngetting somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would\nbe four thousand miles down, I think  (for, you see, Alice had learnt\nseveral things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and\nthough this was not a _very_ good opportunity for showing off her\nknowledge, as there was no one to listen to her, still it was good\npractice to say it over)  yes, that s about the right distance but\nthen I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I ve got to?  (Alice had no\nidea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but thought they were nice\ngrand words to say.)\n\nPresently she began again.  I wonder if I shall fall right _through_\nthe earth! How funny it ll seem to come out among the people that walk\nwith their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think  (she was rather\nglad there _was_ no one listening, this time, as it didn t sound at all\nthe right word)  but I shall have to ask them what the name of the\ncountry is, you know. Please, Ma am, is this New Zealand or Australia? \n(and she tried to curtsey as she spoke fancy _curtseying_ as you re\nfalling through the air! Do you think you could manage it?)  And what\nan ignorant little girl she ll think me for asking! No, it ll never do\nto ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere. \n\nDown, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began\ntalking again.  Dinah ll miss me very much to-night, I should think! \n(Dinah was the cat.)  I hope they ll remember her saucer of milk at\ntea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are\nno mice in the air, I m afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that s\nvery like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?  And here\nAlice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a\ndreamy sort of way,  Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?  and\nsometimes,  Do bats eat cats?  for, you see, as she couldn t answer\neither question, it didn t much matter which way she put it. She felt\nthat she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was\nwalking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly,\n Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?  when suddenly,\nthump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and\nthe fall was over.\n\nAlice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment:\nshe looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another\nlong passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down\nit. There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind,\nand was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner,  Oh my ears\nand whiskers, how late it s getting!  She was close behind it when she\nturned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found\nherself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging\nfrom the roof.\n\nThere were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when\nAlice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every\ndoor, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to\nget out again.\n\nSuddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid\nglass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice s\nfirst thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall;\nbut, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small,\nbut at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second\ntime round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and\nbehind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the\nlittle golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!\n\nAlice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not\nmuch larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the\npassage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get\nout of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright\nflowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head\nthrough the doorway;  and even if my head would go through,  thought\npoor Alice,  it would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh,\nhow I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only\nknew how to begin.  For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had\nhappened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things\nindeed were really impossible.\n\nThere seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went\nback to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at\nany rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this\ntime she found a little bottle on it, ( which certainly was not here\nbefore,  said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper\nlabel, with the words  DRINK ME,  beautifully printed on it in large\nletters.\n\nIt was all very well to say  Drink me,  but the wise little Alice was\nnot going to do _that_ in a hurry.  No, I ll look first,  she said,\n and see whether it s marked  _poison_  or not ; for she had read\nseveral nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and\neaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they\n_would_ not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them:\nsuch as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long;\nand that if you cut your finger _very_ deeply with a knife, it usually\nbleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a\nbottle marked  poison,  it is almost certain to disagree with you,\nsooner or later.\n\nHowever, this bottle was _not_ marked  poison,  so Alice ventured to\ntaste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed\nflavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and\nhot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off.\n\n*      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n    *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n*      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n\n What a curious feeling!  said Alice;  I must be shutting up like a\ntelescope. \n\nAnd so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face\nbrightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going\nthrough the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she\nwaited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further:\nshe felt a little nervous about this;  for it might end, you know, \nsaid Alice to herself,  in my going out altogether, like a candle. I\nwonder what I should be like then?  And she tried to fancy what the\nflame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could\nnot remember ever having seen such a thing.\n\nAfter a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going\ninto the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the\ndoor, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she\nwent back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach\nit: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her\nbest to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery;\nand when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing\nsat down and cried.\n\n Come, there s no use in crying like that!  said Alice to herself,\nrather sharply;  I advise you to leave off this minute!  She generally\ngave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it),\nand sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into\nher eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having\ncheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself,\nfor this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people.\n But it s no use now,  thought poor Alice,  to pretend to be two\npeople! Why, there s hardly enough of me left to make _one_ respectable\nperson! \n\nSoon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table:\nshe opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words\n EAT ME  were beautifully marked in currants.  Well, I ll eat it,  said\nAlice,  and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it\nmakes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I ll\nget into the garden, and I don t care which happens! \n\nShe ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself,  Which way? Which\nway? , holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was\ngrowing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same\nsize: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice\nhad got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way\nthings to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go\non in the common way.\n\nSo she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.\n\n*      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n    *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n*      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nThe Pool of Tears\n\n\n Curiouser and curiouser!  cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that\nfor the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English);  now I m\nopening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Good-bye, feet! \n(for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed to be almost out of\nsight, they were getting so far off).  Oh, my poor little feet, I\nwonder who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I m\nsure _I_ shan t be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble\nmyself about you: you must manage the best way you can; but I must be\nkind to them,  thought Alice,  or perhaps they won t walk the way I\nwant to go! Let me see: I ll give them a new pair of boots every\nChristmas. \n\nAnd she went on planning to herself how she would manage it.  They must\ngo by the carrier,  she thought;  and how funny it ll seem, sending\npresents to one s own feet! And how odd the directions will look!\n\n     _Alice s Right Foot, Esq., Hearthrug, near the Fender,_ (_with\n     Alice s love_).\n\nOh dear, what nonsense I m talking! \n\nJust then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was\nnow more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden\nkey and hurried off to the garden door.\n\nPoor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to\nlook through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more\nhopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again.\n\n You ought to be ashamed of yourself,  said Alice,  a great girl like\nyou,  (she might well say this),  to go on crying in this way! Stop\nthis moment, I tell you!  But she went on all the same, shedding\ngallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about\nfour inches deep and reaching half down the hall.\n\nAfter a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and\nshe hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White\nRabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves\nin one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a\ngreat hurry, muttering to himself as he came,  Oh! the Duchess, the\nDuchess! Oh! won t she be savage if I ve kept her waiting!  Alice felt\nso desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the\nRabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice,  If you please,\nsir  The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and\nthe fan, and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go.\n\nAlice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she\nkept fanning herself all the time she went on talking:  Dear, dear! How\nqueer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual.\nI wonder if I ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the\nsame when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling\na little different. But if I m not the same, the next question is, Who\nin the world am I? Ah, _that s_ the great puzzle!  And she began\nthinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as\nherself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them.\n\n I m sure I m not Ada,  she said,  for her hair goes in such long\nringlets, and mine doesn t go in ringlets at all; and I m sure I can t\nbe Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a\nvery little! Besides, _she s_ she, and _I m_ I, and oh dear, how\npuzzling it all is! I ll try if I know all the things I used to know.\nLet me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen,\nand four times seven is oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that\nrate! However, the Multiplication Table doesn t signify: let s try\nGeography. London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of\nRome, and Rome no, _that s_ all wrong, I m certain! I must have been\nchanged for Mabel! I ll try and say  _How doth the little_  and she\ncrossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began\nto repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words\ndid not come the same as they used to do: \n\n How doth the little crocodile\n    Improve his shining tail,\nAnd pour the waters of the Nile\n    On every golden scale!\n\n How cheerfully he seems to grin,\n    How neatly spread his claws,\nAnd welcome little fishes in\n    With gently smiling jaws! \n\n\n I m sure those are not the right words,  said poor Alice, and her eyes\nfilled with tears again as she went on,  I must be Mabel after all, and\nI shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to\nno toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I ve\nmade up my mind about it; if I m Mabel, I ll stay down here! It ll be\nno use their putting their heads down and saying  Come up again, dear! \nI shall only look up and say  Who am I then? Tell me that first, and\nthen, if I like being that person, I ll come up: if not, I ll stay down\nhere till I m somebody else but, oh dear!  cried Alice, with a sudden\nburst of tears,  I do wish they _would_ put their heads down! I am so\n_very_ tired of being all alone here! \n\nAs she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see\nthat she had put on one of the Rabbit s little white kid gloves while\nshe was talking.  How _can_ I have done that?  she thought.  I must be\ngrowing small again.  She got up and went to the table to measure\nherself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was\nnow about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly: she soon\nfound out that the cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she\ndropped it hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether.\n\n That _was_ a narrow escape!  said Alice, a good deal frightened at the\nsudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence;  and\nnow for the garden!  and she ran with all speed back to the little\ndoor: but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden\nkey was lying on the glass table as before,  and things are worse than\never,  thought the poor child,  for I never was so small as this\nbefore, never! And I declare it s too bad, that it is! \n\nAs she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment,\nsplash! she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that\nshe had somehow fallen into the sea,  and in that case I can go back by\nrailway,  she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in\nher life, and had come to the general conclusion, that wherever you go\nto on the English coast you find a number of bathing machines in the\nsea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row\nof lodging houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she\nsoon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when\nshe was nine feet high.\n\n I wish I hadn t cried so much!  said Alice, as she swam about, trying\nto find her way out.  I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by\nbeing drowned in my own tears! That _will_ be a queer thing, to be\nsure! However, everything is queer to-day. \n\nJust then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way\noff, and she swam nearer to make out what it was: at first she thought\nit must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small\nshe was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had\nslipped in like herself.\n\n Would it be of any use, now,  thought Alice,  to speak to this mouse?\nEverything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very\nlikely it can talk: at any rate, there s no harm in trying.  So she\nbegan:  O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired\nof swimming about here, O Mouse!  (Alice thought this must be the right\nway of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but\nshe remembered having seen in her brother s Latin Grammar,  A mouse of\na mouse to a mouse a mouse O mouse! ) The Mouse looked at her rather\ninquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes,\nbut it said nothing.\n\n Perhaps it doesn t understand English,  thought Alice;  I daresay it s\na French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror.  (For, with all\nher knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago\nanything had happened.) So she began again:  O  est ma chatte?  which\nwas the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a\nsudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with\nfright.  Oh, I beg your pardon!  cried Alice hastily, afraid that she\nhad hurt the poor animal s feelings.  I quite forgot you didn t like\ncats. \n\n Not like cats!  cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice.  Would\n_you_ like cats if you were me? \n\n Well, perhaps not,  said Alice in a soothing tone:  don t be angry\nabout it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you d\ntake a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear\nquiet thing,  Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about\nin the pool,  and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her\npaws and washing her face and she is such a nice soft thing to\nnurse and she s such a capital one for catching mice oh, I beg your\npardon!  cried Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all\nover, and she felt certain it must be really offended.  We won t talk\nabout her any more if you d rather not. \n\n We indeed!  cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his\ntail.  As if _I_ would talk on such a subject! Our family always\n_hated_ cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don t let me hear the name\nagain! \n\n I won t indeed!  said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of\nconversation.  Are you are you fond of of dogs?  The Mouse did not\nanswer, so Alice went on eagerly:  There is such a nice little dog near\nour house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you\nknow, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it ll fetch things when\nyou throw them, and it ll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts\nof things I can t remember half of them and it belongs to a farmer, you\nknow, and he says it s so useful, it s worth a hundred pounds! He says\nit kills all the rats and oh dear!  cried Alice in a sorrowful tone,\n I m afraid I ve offended it again!  For the Mouse was swimming away\nfrom her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the\npool as it went.\n\nSo she called softly after it,  Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we\nwon t talk about cats or dogs either, if you don t like them!  When the\nMouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its face\nwas quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low\ntrembling voice,  Let us get to the shore, and then I ll tell you my\nhistory, and you ll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs. \n\nIt was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the\nbirds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a\nDodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice\nled the way, and the whole party swam to the shore.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nA Caucus-Race and a Long Tale\n\n\nThey were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank the\nbirds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close\nto them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable.\n\nThe first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a\nconsultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite\nnatural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if\nshe had known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument\nwith the Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say,  I am\nolder than you, and must know better;  and this Alice would not allow\nwithout knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to\ntell its age, there was no more to be said.\n\nAt last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them,\ncalled out,  Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! _I ll_ soon make\nyou dry enough!  They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the\nMouse in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she\nfelt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.\n\n Ahem!  said the Mouse with an important air,  are you all ready? This\nis the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please!  William\nthe Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted\nto by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much\naccustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of\nMercia and Northumbria \n\n Ugh!  said the Lory, with a shiver.\n\n I beg your pardon!  said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely:  Did\nyou speak? \n\n Not I!  said the Lory hastily.\n\n I thought you did,  said the Mouse.  I proceed.  Edwin and Morcar,\nthe earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even\nStigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable \n\n Found _what_?  said the Duck.\n\n Found _it_,  the Mouse replied rather crossly:  of course you know\nwhat  it  means. \n\n I know what  it  means well enough, when _I_ find a thing,  said the\nDuck:  it s generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the\narchbishop find? \n\nThe Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on,  found\nit advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him\nthe crown. William s conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence\nof his Normans  How are you getting on now, my dear?  it continued,\nturning to Alice as it spoke.\n\n As wet as ever,  said Alice in a melancholy tone:  it doesn t seem to\ndry me at all. \n\n In that case,  said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet,  I move\nthat the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic\nremedies \n\n Speak English!  said the Eaglet.  I don t know the meaning of half\nthose long words, and, what s more, I don t believe you do either!  And\nthe Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds\ntittered audibly.\n\n What I was going to say,  said the Dodo in an offended tone,  was,\nthat the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race. \n\n What _is_ a Caucus-race?  said Alice; not that she wanted much to\nknow, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to\nspeak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything.\n\n Why,  said the Dodo,  the best way to explain it is to do it.  (And,\nas you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will\ntell you how the Dodo managed it.)\n\nFirst it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, ( the exact\nshape doesn t matter,  it said,) and then all the party were placed\nalong the course, here and there. There was no  One, two, three, and\naway,  but they began running when they liked, and left off when they\nliked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However,\nwhen they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry\nagain, the Dodo suddenly called out  The race is over!  and they all\ncrowded round it, panting, and asking,  But who has won? \n\nThis question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of\nthought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its\nforehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the\npictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo\nsaid,  _Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes. \n\n But who is to give the prizes?  quite a chorus of voices asked.\n\n Why, _she_, of course,  said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one\nfinger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a\nconfused way,  Prizes! Prizes! \n\nAlice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her\npocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had\nnot got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly\none a-piece, all round.\n\n But she must have a prize herself, you know,  said the Mouse.\n\n Of course,  the Dodo replied very gravely.  What else have you got in\nyour pocket?  he went on, turning to Alice.\n\n Only a thimble,  said Alice sadly.\n\n Hand it over here,  said the Dodo.\n\nThen they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly\npresented the thimble, saying  We beg your acceptance of this elegant\nthimble;  and, when it had finished this short speech, they all\ncheered.\n\nAlice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave\nthat she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything\nto say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as\nshe could.\n\nThe next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and\nconfusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste\ntheirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back.\nHowever, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and\nbegged the Mouse to tell them something more.\n\n You promised to tell me your history, you know,  said Alice,  and why\nit is you hate C and D,  she added in a whisper, half afraid that it\nwould be offended again.\n\n Mine is a long and a sad tale!  said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and\nsighing.\n\n It _is_ a long tail, certainly,  said Alice, looking down with wonder\nat the Mouse s tail;  but why do you call it sad?  And she kept on\npuzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the\ntale was something like this: \n\n          Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house,  Let us both\n         go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_. Come, I ll take no\n         denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I ve\n         nothing to do.  Said the mouse to the cur,  Such a trial, dear\n         sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath. \n          I ll be judge, I ll be jury,  Said cunning old Fury:  I ll\n         try the whole cause, and condemn you to death. \n\n You are not attending!  said the Mouse to Alice severely.  What are\nyou thinking of? \n\n I beg your pardon,  said Alice very humbly:  you had got to the fifth\nbend, I think? \n\n I had _not!_  cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.\n\n A knot!  said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking\nanxiously about her.  Oh, do let me help to undo it! \n\n I shall do nothing of the sort,  said the Mouse, getting up and\nwalking away.  You insult me by talking such nonsense! \n\n I didn t mean it!  pleaded poor Alice.  But you re so easily offended,\nyou know! \n\nThe Mouse only growled in reply.\n\n Please come back and finish your story!  Alice called after it; and\nthe others all joined in chorus,  Yes, please do!  but the Mouse only\nshook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker.\n\n What a pity it wouldn t stay!  sighed the Lory, as soon as it was\nquite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to\nher daughter  Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose\n_your_ temper!   Hold your tongue, Ma!  said the young Crab, a little\nsnappishly.  You re enough to try the patience of an oyster! \n\n I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!  said Alice aloud,\naddressing nobody in particular.  She d soon fetch it back! \n\n And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?  said the\nLory.\n\nAlice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet:\n Dinah s our cat. And she s such a capital one for catching mice you\ncan t think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why,\nshe ll eat a little bird as soon as look at it! \n\nThis speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the\nbirds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very\ncarefully, remarking,  I really must be getting home; the night-air\ndoesn t suit my throat!  and a Canary called out in a trembling voice\nto its children,  Come away, my dears! It s high time you were all in\nbed!  On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left\nalone.\n\n I wish I hadn t mentioned Dinah!  she said to herself in a melancholy\ntone.  Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I m sure she s the best\ncat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you\nany more!  And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very\nlonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a\nlittle pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up\neagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was\ncoming back to finish his story.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nThe Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill\n\n\nIt was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking\nanxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard\nit muttering to itself  The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh\nmy fur and whiskers! She ll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are\nferrets! Where _can_ I have dropped them, I wonder?  Alice guessed in a\nmoment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid\ngloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but\nthey were nowhere to be seen everything seemed to have changed since\nher swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the\nlittle door, had vanished completely.\n\nVery soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and\ncalled out to her in an angry tone,  Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you\ndoing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and\na fan! Quick, now!  And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off\nat once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the\nmistake it had made.\n\n He took me for his housemaid,  she said to herself as she ran.  How\nsurprised he ll be when he finds out who I am! But I d better take him\nhis fan and gloves that is, if I can find them.  As she said this, she\ncame upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass\nplate with the name  W. RABBIT,  engraved upon it. She went in without\nknocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the\nreal Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the\nfan and gloves.\n\n How queer it seems,  Alice said to herself,  to be going messages for\na rabbit! I suppose Dinah ll be sending me on messages next!  And she\nbegan fancying the sort of thing that would happen:  Miss Alice! Come\nhere directly, and get ready for your walk!   Coming in a minute,\nnurse! But I ve got to see that the mouse doesn t get out.  Only I\ndon t think,  Alice went on,  that they d let Dinah stop in the house\nif it began ordering people about like that! \n\nBy this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table\nin the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three\npairs of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the\ngloves, and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a\nlittle bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label\nthis time with the words  DRINK ME,  but nevertheless she uncorked it\nand put it to her lips.  I know _something_ interesting is sure to\nhappen,  she said to herself,  whenever I eat or drink anything; so\nI ll just see what this bottle does. I do hope it ll make me grow large\nagain, for really I m quite tired of being such a tiny little thing! \n\nIt did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had\ndrunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling,\nand had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put\ndown the bottle, saying to herself  That s quite enough I hope I shan t\ngrow any more As it is, I can t get out at the door I do wish I hadn t\ndrunk quite so much! \n\nAlas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing,\nand very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there\nwas not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with\none elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head.\nStill she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out\nof the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself  Now I\ncan do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me? \n\nLuckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect,\nand she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there\nseemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room\nagain, no wonder she felt unhappy.\n\n It was much pleasanter at home,  thought poor Alice,  when one wasn t\nalways growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and\nrabbits. I almost wish I hadn t gone down that rabbit-hole and yet and\nyet it s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what\n_can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied\nthat kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of\none! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And\nwhen I grow up, I ll write one but I m grown up now,  she added in a\nsorrowful tone;  at least there s no room to grow up any more _here_. \n\n But then,  thought Alice,  shall I _never_ get any older than I am\nnow? That ll be a comfort, one way never to be an old woman but\nthen always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn t like _that!_ \n\n Oh, you foolish Alice!  she answered herself.  How can you learn\nlessons in here? Why, there s hardly room for _you_, and no room at all\nfor any lesson-books! \n\nAnd so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and\nmaking quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes\nshe heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen.\n\n Mary Ann! Mary Ann!  said the voice.  Fetch me my gloves this moment! \nThen came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was\nthe Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the\nhouse, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as\nlarge as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it.\n\nPresently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as\nthe door opened inwards, and Alice s elbow was pressed hard against it,\nthat attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself  Then I ll\ngo round and get in at the window. \n\n _That_ you won t!  thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied\nshe heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her\nhand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything,\nbut she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass,\nfrom which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a\ncucumber-frame, or something of the sort.\n\nNext came an angry voice the Rabbit s Pat! Pat! Where are you?  And\nthen a voice she had never heard before,  Sure then I m here! Digging\nfor apples, yer honour! \n\n Digging for apples, indeed!  said the Rabbit angrily.  Here! Come and\nhelp me out of _this!_  (Sounds of more broken glass.)\n\n Now tell me, Pat, what s that in the window? \n\n Sure, it s an arm, yer honour!  (He pronounced it  arrum. )\n\n An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole\nwindow! \n\n Sure, it does, yer honour: but it s an arm for all that. \n\n Well, it s got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away! \n\nThere was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers\nnow and then; such as,  Sure, I don t like it, yer honour, at all, at\nall!   Do as I tell you, you coward!  and at last she spread out her\nhand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were\n_two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.  What a number\nof cucumber-frames there must be!  thought Alice.  I wonder what\nthey ll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they\n_could!_ I m sure _I_ don t want to stay in here any longer! \n\nShe waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a\nrumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all\ntalking together: she made out the words:  Where s the other\nladder? Why, I hadn t to bring but one; Bill s got the other Bill!\nfetch it here, lad! Here, put  em up at this corner No, tie  em\ntogether first they don t reach half high enough yet Oh! they ll do\nwell enough; don t be particular Here, Bill! catch hold of this\nrope Will the roof bear? Mind that loose slate Oh, it s coming down!\nHeads below!  (a loud crash) Now, who did that? It was Bill, I\nfancy Who s to go down the chimney? Nay, _I_ shan t! _You_ do\nit! _That_ I won t, then! Bill s to go down Here, Bill! the master says\nyou re to go down the chimney! \n\n Oh! So Bill s got to come down the chimney, has he?  said Alice to\nherself.  Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn t be in\nBill s place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but\nI _think_ I can kick a little! \n\nShe drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till\nshe heard a little animal (she couldn t guess of what sort it was)\nscratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then,\nsaying to herself  This is Bill,  she gave one sharp kick, and waited\nto see what would happen next.\n\nThe first thing she heard was a general chorus of  There goes Bill! \nthen the Rabbit s voice along Catch him, you by the hedge!  then\nsilence, and then another confusion of voices Hold up his head Brandy\nnow Don t choke him How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell\nus all about it! \n\nLast came a little feeble, squeaking voice, ( That s Bill,  thought\nAlice,)  Well, I hardly know No more, thank ye; I m better now but I m\na deal too flustered to tell you all I know is, something comes at me\nlike a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket! \n\n So you did, old fellow!  said the others.\n\n We must burn the house down!  said the Rabbit s voice; and Alice\ncalled out as loud as she could,  If you do, I ll set Dinah at you! \n\nThere was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself,  I\nwonder what they _will_ do next! If they had any sense, they d take the\nroof off.  After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and\nAlice heard the Rabbit say,  A barrowful will do, to begin with. \n\n A barrowful of _what?_  thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt,\nfor the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the\nwindow, and some of them hit her in the face.  I ll put a stop to\nthis,  she said to herself, and shouted out,  You d better not do that\nagain!  which produced another dead silence.\n\nAlice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into\nlittle cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her\nhead.  If I eat one of these cakes,  she thought,  it s sure to make\n_some_ change in my size; and as it can t possibly make me larger, it\nmust make me smaller, I suppose. \n\nSo she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she\nbegan shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get\nthrough the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of\nlittle animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, Bill,\nwas in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it\nsomething out of a bottle. They all made a rush at Alice the moment she\nappeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself\nsafe in a thick wood.\n\n The first thing I ve got to do,  said Alice to herself, as she\nwandered about in the wood,  is to grow to my right size again; and the\nsecond thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that\nwill be the best plan. \n\nIt sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply\narranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea\nhow to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among\nthe trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a\ngreat hurry.\n\nAn enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and\nfeebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her.  Poor little\nthing!  said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to\nit; but she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it\nmight be hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in\nspite of all her coaxing.\n\nHardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and\nheld it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off\nall its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick,\nand made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle,\nto keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the\nother side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head\nover heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was\nvery like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every\nmoment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then\nthe puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very\nlittle way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely\nall the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with\nits tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut.\n\nThis seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she\nset off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath,\nand till the puppy s bark sounded quite faint in the distance.\n\n And yet what a dear little puppy it was!  said Alice, as she leant\nagainst a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the\nleaves:  I should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if if I d\nonly been the right size to do it! Oh dear! I d nearly forgotten that\nI ve got to grow up again! Let me see how _is_ it to be managed? I\nsuppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great\nquestion is, what? \n\nThe great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at\nthe flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that\nlooked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances.\nThere was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as\nherself; and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and\nbehind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what\nwas on the top of it.\n\nShe stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the\nmushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large blue\ncaterpillar, that was sitting on the top with its arms folded, quietly\nsmoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of\nanything else.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nAdvice from a Caterpillar\n\n\nThe Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in\nsilence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and\naddressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.\n\n Who are _you?_  said the Caterpillar.\n\nThis was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied,\nrather shyly,  I I hardly know, sir, just at present at least I know\nwho I _was_ when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been\nchanged several times since then. \n\n What do you mean by that?  said the Caterpillar sternly.  Explain\nyourself! \n\n I can t explain _myself_, I m afraid, sir,  said Alice,  because I m\nnot myself, you see. \n\n I don t see,  said the Caterpillar.\n\n I m afraid I can t put it more clearly,  Alice replied very politely,\n for I can t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many\ndifferent sizes in a day is very confusing. \n\n It isn t,  said the Caterpillar.\n\n Well, perhaps you haven t found it so yet,  said Alice;  but when you\nhave to turn into a chrysalis you will some day, you know and then\nafter that into a butterfly, I should think you ll feel it a little\nqueer, won t you? \n\n Not a bit,  said the Caterpillar.\n\n Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,  said Alice;  all I know\nis, it would feel very queer to _me_. \n\n You!  said the Caterpillar contemptuously.  Who are _you?_ \n\nWhich brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation.\nAlice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar s making such _very_\nshort remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely,  I\nthink, you ought to tell me who _you_ are, first. \n\n Why?  said the Caterpillar.\n\nHere was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any\ngood reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a _very_ unpleasant\nstate of mind, she turned away.\n\n Come back!  the Caterpillar called after her.  I ve something\nimportant to say! \n\nThis sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.\n\n Keep your temper,  said the Caterpillar.\n\n Is that all?  said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she\ncould.\n\n No,  said the Caterpillar.\n\nAlice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do,\nand perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For\nsome minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded\nits arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said,  So you\nthink you re changed, do you? \n\n I m afraid I am, sir,  said Alice;  I can t remember things as I\nused and I don t keep the same size for ten minutes together! \n\n Can t remember _what_ things?  said the Caterpillar.\n\n Well, I ve tried to say  How doth the little busy bee,  but it all\ncame different!  Alice replied in a very melancholy voice.\n\n Repeat,  _You are old, Father William_,  said the Caterpillar.\n\nAlice folded her hands, and began: \n\n You are old, Father William,  the young man said,\n     And your hair has become very white;\nAnd yet you incessantly stand on your head \n    Do you think, at your age, it is right? \n\n In my youth,  Father William replied to his son,\n     I feared it might injure the brain;\nBut, now that I m perfectly sure I have none,\n    Why, I do it again and again. \n\n You are old,  said the youth,  as I mentioned before,\n    And have grown most uncommonly fat;\nYet you turned a back-somersault in at the door \n    Pray, what is the reason of that? \n\n In my youth,  said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,\n     I kept all my limbs very supple\nBy the use of this ointment one shilling the box \n    Allow me to sell you a couple? \n\n You are old,  said the youth,  and your jaws are too weak\n    For anything tougher than suet;\nYet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak \n    Pray, how did you manage to do it? \n\n In my youth,  said his father,  I took to the law,\n    And argued each case with my wife;\nAnd the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,\n    Has lasted the rest of my life. \n\n You are old,  said the youth,  one would hardly suppose\n    That your eye was as steady as ever;\nYet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose \n    What made you so awfully clever? \n\n I have answered three questions, and that is enough, \n    Said his father;  don t give yourself airs!\nDo you think I can listen all day to such stuff?\n    Be off, or I ll kick you down stairs! \n\n\n That is not said right,  said the Caterpillar.\n\n Not _quite_ right, I m afraid,  said Alice, timidly;  some of the\nwords have got altered. \n\n It is wrong from beginning to end,  said the Caterpillar decidedly,\nand there was silence for some minutes.\n\nThe Caterpillar was the first to speak.\n\n What size do you want to be?  it asked.\n\n Oh, I m not particular as to size,  Alice hastily replied;  only one\ndoesn t like changing so often, you know. \n\n I _don t_ know,  said the Caterpillar.\n\nAlice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life\nbefore, and she felt that she was losing her temper.\n\n Are you content now?  said the Caterpillar.\n\n Well, I should like to be a _little_ larger, sir, if you wouldn t\nmind,  said Alice:  three inches is such a wretched height to be. \n\n It is a very good height indeed!  said the Caterpillar angrily,\nrearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high).\n\n But I m not used to it!  pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she\nthought of herself,  I wish the creatures wouldn t be so easily\noffended! \n\n You ll get used to it in time,  said the Caterpillar; and it put the\nhookah into its mouth and began smoking again.\n\nThis time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a\nminute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and\nyawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the\nmushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went,\n One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you\ngrow shorter. \n\n One side of _what?_ The other side of _what?_  thought Alice to\nherself.\n\n Of the mushroom,  said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it\naloud; and in another moment it was out of sight.\n\nAlice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute,\ntrying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was\nperfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at\nlast she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke\noff a bit of the edge with each hand.\n\n And now which is which?  she said to herself, and nibbled a little of\nthe right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a\nviolent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot!\n\nShe was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt\nthat there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she\nset to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed\nso closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her\nmouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the\nlefthand bit.\n\n*      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n    *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n*      *      *      *      *      *      *\n\n\n Come, my head s free at last!  said Alice in a tone of delight, which\nchanged into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders\nwere nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was\nan immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a\nsea of green leaves that lay far below her.\n\n What _can_ all that green stuff be?  said Alice.  And where _have_ my\nshoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can t see you? \nShe was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow,\nexcept a little shaking among the distant green leaves.\n\nAs there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head,\nshe tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that\nher neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She\nhad just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was\ngoing to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but\nthe tops of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp\nhiss made her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her\nface, and was beating her violently with its wings.\n\n Serpent!  screamed the Pigeon.\n\n I m _not_ a serpent!  said Alice indignantly.  Let me alone! \n\n Serpent, I say again!  repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued\ntone, and added with a kind of sob,  I ve tried every way, and nothing\nseems to suit them! \n\n I haven t the least idea what you re talking about,  said Alice.\n\n I ve tried the roots of trees, and I ve tried banks, and I ve tried\nhedges,  the Pigeon went on, without attending to her;  but those\nserpents! There s no pleasing them! \n\nAlice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in\nsaying anything more till the Pigeon had finished.\n\n As if it wasn t trouble enough hatching the eggs,  said the Pigeon;\n but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I\nhaven t had a wink of sleep these three weeks! \n\n I m very sorry you ve been annoyed,  said Alice, who was beginning to\nsee its meaning.\n\n And just as I d taken the highest tree in the wood,  continued the\nPigeon, raising its voice to a shriek,  and just as I was thinking I\nshould be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down\nfrom the sky! Ugh, Serpent! \n\n But I m _not_ a serpent, I tell you!  said Alice.  I m a I m a \n\n Well! _What_ are you?  said the Pigeon.  I can see you re trying to\ninvent something! \n\n I I m a little girl,  said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered\nthe number of changes she had gone through that day.\n\n A likely story indeed!  said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest\ncontempt.  I ve seen a good many little girls in my time, but never\n_one_ with such a neck as that! No, no! You re a serpent; and there s\nno use denying it. I suppose you ll be telling me next that you never\ntasted an egg! \n\n I _have_ tasted eggs, certainly,  said Alice, who was a very truthful\nchild;  but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you\nknow. \n\n I don t believe it,  said the Pigeon;  but if they do, why then\nthey re a kind of serpent, that s all I can say. \n\nThis was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a\nminute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding,  You re\nlooking for eggs, I know _that_ well enough; and what does it matter to\nme whether you re a little girl or a serpent? \n\n It matters a good deal to _me_,  said Alice hastily;  but I m not\nlooking for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn t want\n_yours_: I don t like them raw. \n\n Well, be off, then!  said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled\ndown again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well\nas she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches,\nand every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while\nshe remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands,\nand she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at\nthe other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until\nshe had succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height.\n\nIt was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it\nfelt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes,\nand began talking to herself, as usual.  Come, there s half my plan\ndone now! How puzzling all these changes are! I m never sure what I m\ngoing to be, from one minute to another! However, I ve got back to my\nright size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden how\n_is_ that to be done, I wonder?  As she said this, she came suddenly\nupon an open place, with a little house in it about four feet high.\n Whoever lives there,  thought Alice,  it ll never do to come upon them\n_this_ size: why, I should frighten them out of their wits!  So she\nbegan nibbling at the righthand bit again, and did not venture to go\nnear the house till she had brought herself down to nine inches high.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nPig and Pepper\n\n\nFor a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what\nto do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the\nwood (she considered him to be a footman because he was in livery:\notherwise, judging by his face only, she would have called him a\nfish) and rapped loudly at the door with his knuckles. It was opened by\nanother footman in livery, with a round face, and large eyes like a\nfrog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled\nall over their heads. She felt very curious to know what it was all\nabout, and crept a little way out of the wood to listen.\n\nThe Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter,\nnearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other,\nsaying, in a solemn tone,  For the Duchess. An invitation from the\nQueen to play croquet.  The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn\ntone, only changing the order of the words a little,  From the Queen.\nAn invitation for the Duchess to play croquet. \n\nThen they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together.\n\nAlice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the wood\nfor fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the\nFish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the\ndoor, staring stupidly up into the sky.\n\nAlice went timidly up to the door, and knocked.\n\n There s no sort of use in knocking,  said the Footman,  and that for\ntwo reasons. First, because I m on the same side of the door as you\nare; secondly, because they re making such a noise inside, no one could\npossibly hear you.  And certainly there _was_ a most extraordinary\nnoise going on within a constant howling and sneezing, and every now\nand then a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to\npieces.\n\n Please, then,  said Alice,  how am I to get in? \n\n There might be some sense in your knocking,  the Footman went on\nwithout attending to her,  if we had the door between us. For instance,\nif you were _inside_, you might knock, and I could let you out, you\nknow.  He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and\nthis Alice thought decidedly uncivil.  But perhaps he can t help it, \nshe said to herself;  his eyes are so _very_ nearly at the top of his\nhead. But at any rate he might answer questions. How am I to get in? \nshe repeated, aloud.\n\n I shall sit here,  the Footman remarked,  till tomorrow \n\nAt this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came\nskimming out, straight at the Footman s head: it just grazed his nose,\nand broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him.\n\n or next day, maybe,  the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly\nas if nothing had happened.\n\n How am I to get in?  asked Alice again, in a louder tone.\n\n _Are_ you to get in at all?  said the Footman.  That s the first\nquestion, you know. \n\nIt was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so.  It s really\ndreadful,  she muttered to herself,  the way all the creatures argue.\nIt s enough to drive one crazy! \n\nThe Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his\nremark, with variations.  I shall sit here,  he said,  on and off, for\ndays and days. \n\n But what am _I_ to do?  said Alice.\n\n Anything you like,  said the Footman, and began whistling.\n\n Oh, there s no use in talking to him,  said Alice desperately:  he s\nperfectly idiotic!  And she opened the door and went in.\n\nThe door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from\none end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool\nin the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire,\nstirring a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup.\n\n There s certainly too much pepper in that soup!  Alice said to\nherself, as well as she could for sneezing.\n\nThere was certainly too much of it in the air. Even the Duchess sneezed\noccasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling\nalternately without a moment s pause. The only things in the kitchen\nthat did not sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat which was sitting\non the hearth and grinning from ear to ear.\n\n Please would you tell me,  said Alice, a little timidly, for she was\nnot quite sure whether it was good manners for her to speak first,  why\nyour cat grins like that? \n\n It s a Cheshire cat,  said the Duchess,  and that s why. Pig! \n\nShe said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite\njumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the\nbaby, and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again: \n\n I didn t know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, I didn t\nknow that cats _could_ grin. \n\n They all can,  said the Duchess;  and most of  em do. \n\n I don t know of any that do,  Alice said very politely, feeling quite\npleased to have got into a conversation.\n\n You don t know much,  said the Duchess;  and that s a fact. \n\nAlice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would\nbe as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she\nwas trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the\nfire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at\nthe Duchess and the baby the fire-irons came first; then followed a\nshower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of\nthem even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already,\nthat it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not.\n\n Oh, _please_ mind what you re doing!  cried Alice, jumping up and down\nin an agony of terror.  Oh, there goes his _precious_ nose!  as an\nunusually large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it\noff.\n\n If everybody minded their own business,  the Duchess said in a hoarse\ngrowl,  the world would go round a deal faster than it does. \n\n Which would _not_ be an advantage,  said Alice, who felt very glad to\nget an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge.  Just\nthink of what work it would make with the day and night! You see the\nearth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis \n\n Talking of axes,  said the Duchess,  chop off her head! \n\nAlice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take\nthe hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to\nbe listening, so she went on again:  Twenty-four hours, I _think_; or\nis it twelve? I \n\n Oh, don t bother _me_,  said the Duchess;  I never could abide\nfigures!  And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a\nsort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at\nthe end of every line:\n\n Speak roughly to your little boy,\n    And beat him when he sneezes:\nHe only does it to annoy,\n    Because he knows it teases. \n\n\nCHORUS.\n(In which the cook and the baby joined):\n\n\n Wow! wow! wow! \n\n\nWhile the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing\nthe baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so,\nthat Alice could hardly hear the words: \n\n I speak severely to my boy,\n    I beat him when he sneezes;\nFor he can thoroughly enjoy\n    The pepper when he pleases! \n\n\nCHORUS.\n\n\n Wow! wow! wow! \n\n\n Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!  the Duchess said to Alice,\nflinging the baby at her as she spoke.  I must go and get ready to play\ncroquet with the Queen,  and she hurried out of the room. The cook\nthrew a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her.\n\nAlice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped\nlittle creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions,\n just like a star-fish,  thought Alice. The poor little thing was\nsnorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling\nitself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for\nthe first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it.\n\nAs soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to\ntwist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right\near and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it\nout into the open air.  If I don t take this child away with me, \nthought Alice,  they re sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn t it be\nmurder to leave it behind?  She said the last words out loud, and the\nlittle thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time).\n Don t grunt,  said Alice;  that s not at all a proper way of\nexpressing yourself. \n\nThe baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face\nto see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had\na _very_ turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also\nits eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did\nnot like the look of the thing at all.  But perhaps it was only\nsobbing,  she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there\nwere any tears.\n\nNo, there were no tears.  If you re going to turn into a pig, my dear, \nsaid Alice, seriously,  I ll have nothing more to do with you. Mind\nnow!  The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible\nto say which), and they went on for some while in silence.\n\nAlice was just beginning to think to herself,  Now, what am I to do\nwith this creature when I get it home?  when it grunted again, so\nviolently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time\nthere could be _no_ mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than\na pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it\nfurther.\n\nSo she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it\ntrot away quietly into the wood.  If it had grown up,  she said to\nherself,  it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes\nrather a handsome pig, I think.  And she began thinking over other\nchildren she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying\nto herself,  if one only knew the right way to change them  when she\nwas a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of\na tree a few yards off.\n\nThe Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she\nthought: still it had _very_ long claws and a great many teeth, so she\nfelt that it ought to be treated with respect.\n\n Cheshire Puss,  she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know\nwhether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little\nwider.  Come, it s pleased so far,  thought Alice, and she went on.\n Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here? \n\n That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,  said the Cat.\n\n I don t much care where  said Alice.\n\n Then it doesn t matter which way you go,  said the Cat.\n\n so long as I get _somewhere_,  Alice added as an explanation.\n\n Oh, you re sure to do that,  said the Cat,  if you only walk long\nenough. \n\nAlice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another\nquestion.  What sort of people live about here? \n\n In _that_ direction,  the Cat said, waving its right paw round,  lives\na Hatter: and in _that_ direction,  waving the other paw,  lives a\nMarch Hare. Visit either you like: they re both mad. \n\n But I don t want to go among mad people,  Alice remarked.\n\n Oh, you can t help that,  said the Cat:  we re all mad here. I m mad.\nYou re mad. \n\n How do you know I m mad?  said Alice.\n\n You must be,  said the Cat,  or you wouldn t have come here. \n\nAlice didn t think that proved it at all; however, she went on  And how\ndo you know that you re mad? \n\n To begin with,  said the Cat,  a dog s not mad. You grant that? \n\n I suppose so,  said Alice.\n\n Well, then,  the Cat went on,  you see, a dog growls when it s angry,\nand wags its tail when it s pleased. Now _I_ growl when I m pleased,\nand wag my tail when I m angry. Therefore I m mad. \n\n _I_ call it purring, not growling,  said Alice.\n\n Call it what you like,  said the Cat.  Do you play croquet with the\nQueen to-day? \n\n I should like it very much,  said Alice,  but I haven t been invited\nyet. \n\n You ll see me there,  said the Cat, and vanished.\n\nAlice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer\nthings happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been,\nit suddenly appeared again.\n\n By-the-bye, what became of the baby?  said the Cat.  I d nearly\nforgotten to ask. \n\n It turned into a pig,  Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back\nin a natural way.\n\n I thought it would,  said the Cat, and vanished again.\n\nAlice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not\nappear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in\nwhich the March Hare was said to live.  I ve seen hatters before,  she\nsaid to herself;  the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and\nperhaps as this is May it won t be raving mad at least not so mad as it\nwas in March.  As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat\nagain, sitting on a branch of a tree.\n\n Did you say pig, or fig?  said the Cat.\n\n I said pig,  replied Alice;  and I wish you wouldn t keep appearing\nand vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy. \n\n All right,  said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly,\nbeginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which\nremained some time after the rest of it had gone.\n\n Well! I ve often seen a cat without a grin,  thought Alice;  but a\ngrin without a cat! It s the most curious thing I ever saw in my life! \n\nShe had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of\nthe March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the\nchimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It\nwas so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had\nnibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself\nto about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather\ntimidly, saying to herself  Suppose it should be raving mad after all!\nI almost wish I d gone to see the Hatter instead! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nA Mad Tea-Party\n\n\nThere was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the\nMarch Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting\nbetween them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a\ncushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head.  Very\nuncomfortable for the Dormouse,  thought Alice;  only, as it s asleep,\nI suppose it doesn t mind. \n\nThe table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at\none corner of it:  No room! No room!  they cried out when they saw\nAlice coming.  There s _plenty_ of room!  said Alice indignantly, and\nshe sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.\n\n Have some wine,  the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.\n\nAlice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea.\n I don t see any wine,  she remarked.\n\n There isn t any,  said the March Hare.\n\n Then it wasn t very civil of you to offer it,  said Alice angrily.\n\n It wasn t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,  said\nthe March Hare.\n\n I didn t know it was _your_ table,  said Alice;  it s laid for a great\nmany more than three. \n\n Your hair wants cutting,  said the Hatter. He had been looking at\nAlice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first\nspeech.\n\n You should learn not to make personal remarks,  Alice said with some\nseverity;  it s very rude. \n\nThe Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_\nwas,  Why is a raven like a writing-desk? \n\n Come, we shall have some fun now!  thought Alice.  I m glad they ve\nbegun asking riddles. I believe I can guess that,  she added aloud.\n\n Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?  said\nthe March Hare.\n\n Exactly so,  said Alice.\n\n Then you should say what you mean,  the March Hare went on.\n\n I do,  Alice hastily replied;  at least at least I mean what I\nsay that s the same thing, you know. \n\n Not the same thing a bit!  said the Hatter.  You might just as well\nsay that  I see what I eat  is the same thing as  I eat what I see ! \n\n You might just as well say,  added the March Hare,  that  I like what\nI get  is the same thing as  I get what I like ! \n\n You might just as well say,  added the Dormouse, who seemed to be\ntalking in his sleep,  that  I breathe when I sleep  is the same thing\nas  I sleep when I breathe ! \n\n It _is_ the same thing with you,  said the Hatter, and here the\nconversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while\nAlice thought over all she could remember about ravens and\nwriting-desks, which wasn t much.\n\nThe Hatter was the first to break the silence.  What day of the month\nis it?  he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his\npocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then,\nand holding it to his ear.\n\nAlice considered a little, and then said  The fourth. \n\n Two days wrong!  sighed the Hatter.  I told you butter wouldn t suit\nthe works!  he added looking angrily at the March Hare.\n\n It was the _best_ butter,  the March Hare meekly replied.\n\n Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,  the Hatter grumbled:\n you shouldn t have put it in with the bread-knife. \n\nThe March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped\nit into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of\nnothing better to say than his first remark,  It was the _best_ butter,\nyou know. \n\nAlice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity.  What a\nfunny watch!  she remarked.  It tells the day of the month, and doesn t\ntell what o clock it is! \n\n Why should it?  muttered the Hatter.  Does _your_ watch tell you what\nyear it is? \n\n Of course not,  Alice replied very readily:  but that s because it\nstays the same year for such a long time together. \n\n Which is just the case with _mine_,  said the Hatter.\n\nAlice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter s remark seemed to have no\nsort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English.  I don t quite\nunderstand you,  she said, as politely as she could.\n\n The Dormouse is asleep again,  said the Hatter, and he poured a little\nhot tea upon its nose.\n\nThe Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its\neyes,  Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself. \n\n Have you guessed the riddle yet?  the Hatter said, turning to Alice\nagain.\n\n No, I give it up,  Alice replied:  what s the answer? \n\n I haven t the slightest idea,  said the Hatter.\n\n Nor I,  said the March Hare.\n\nAlice sighed wearily.  I think you might do something better with the\ntime,  she said,  than waste it in asking riddles that have no\nanswers. \n\n If you knew Time as well as I do,  said the Hatter,  you wouldn t talk\nabout wasting _it_. It s _him_. \n\n I don t know what you mean,  said Alice.\n\n Of course you don t!  the Hatter said, tossing his head\ncontemptuously.  I dare say you never even spoke to Time! \n\n Perhaps not,  Alice cautiously replied:  but I know I have to beat\ntime when I learn music. \n\n Ah! that accounts for it,  said the Hatter.  He won t stand beating.\nNow, if you only kept on good terms with him, he d do almost anything\nyou liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o clock in\nthe morning, just time to begin lessons: you d only have to whisper a\nhint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one,\ntime for dinner! \n\n( I only wish it was,  the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.)\n\n That would be grand, certainly,  said Alice thoughtfully:  but then I\nshouldn t be hungry for it, you know. \n\n Not at first, perhaps,  said the Hatter:  but you could keep it to\nhalf-past one as long as you liked. \n\n Is that the way _you_ manage?  Alice asked.\n\nThe Hatter shook his head mournfully.  Not I!  he replied.  We\nquarrelled last March just before _he_ went mad, you know  (pointing\nwith his tea spoon at the March Hare,)  it was at the great concert\ngiven by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing\n\n Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!\nHow I wonder what you re at! \n\n\nYou know the song, perhaps? \n\n I ve heard something like it,  said Alice.\n\n It goes on, you know,  the Hatter continued,  in this way: \n\n Up above the world you fly,\nLike a tea-tray in the sky.\n                    Twinkle, twinkle \n\n\nHere the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep\n _Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle_  and went on so long that they\nhad to pinch it to make it stop.\n\n Well, I d hardly finished the first verse,  said the Hatter,  when the\nQueen jumped up and bawled out,  He s murdering the time! Off with his\nhead! \n\n How dreadfully savage!  exclaimed Alice.\n\n And ever since that,  the Hatter went on in a mournful tone,  he won t\ndo a thing I ask! It s always six o clock now. \n\nA bright idea came into Alice s head.  Is that the reason so many\ntea-things are put out here?  she asked.\n\n Yes, that s it,  said the Hatter with a sigh:  it s always tea-time,\nand we ve no time to wash the things between whiles. \n\n Then you keep moving round, I suppose?  said Alice.\n\n Exactly so,  said the Hatter:  as the things get used up. \n\n But what happens when you come to the beginning again?  Alice ventured\nto ask.\n\n Suppose we change the subject,  the March Hare interrupted, yawning.\n I m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story. \n\n I m afraid I don t know one,  said Alice, rather alarmed at the\nproposal.\n\n Then the Dormouse shall!  they both cried.  Wake up, Dormouse!  And\nthey pinched it on both sides at once.\n\nThe Dormouse slowly opened his eyes.  I wasn t asleep,  he said in a\nhoarse, feeble voice:  I heard every word you fellows were saying. \n\n Tell us a story!  said the March Hare.\n\n Yes, please do!  pleaded Alice.\n\n And be quick about it,  added the Hatter,  or you ll be asleep again\nbefore it s done. \n\n Once upon a time there were three little sisters,  the Dormouse began\nin a great hurry;  and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and\nthey lived at the bottom of a well \n\n What did they live on?  said Alice, who always took a great interest\nin questions of eating and drinking.\n\n They lived on treacle,  said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or\ntwo.\n\n They couldn t have done that, you know,  Alice gently remarked;\n they d have been ill. \n\n So they were,  said the Dormouse;  _very_ ill. \n\nAlice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of\nliving would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on:  But\nwhy did they live at the bottom of a well? \n\n Take some more tea,  the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.\n\n I ve had nothing yet,  Alice replied in an offended tone,  so I can t\ntake more. \n\n You mean you can t take _less_,  said the Hatter:  it s very easy to\ntake _more_ than nothing. \n\n Nobody asked _your_ opinion,  said Alice.\n\n Who s making personal remarks now?  the Hatter asked triumphantly.\n\nAlice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to\nsome tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and\nrepeated her question.  Why did they live at the bottom of a well? \n\nThe Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then\nsaid,  It was a treacle-well. \n\n There s no such thing!  Alice was beginning very angrily, but the\nHatter and the March Hare went  Sh! sh!  and the Dormouse sulkily\nremarked,  If you can t be civil, you d better finish the story for\nyourself. \n\n No, please go on!  Alice said very humbly;  I won t interrupt again. I\ndare say there may be _one_. \n\n One, indeed!  said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to\ngo on.  And so these three little sisters they were learning to draw,\nyou know \n\n What did they draw?  said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.\n\n Treacle,  said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.\n\n I want a clean cup,  interrupted the Hatter:  let s all move one place\non. \n\nHe moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare\nmoved into the Dormouse s place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the\nplace of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any\nadvantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than\nbefore, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate.\n\nAlice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very\ncautiously:  But I don t understand. Where did they draw the treacle\nfrom? \n\n You can draw water out of a water-well,  said the Hatter;  so I should\nthink you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well eh, stupid? \n\n But they were _in_ the well,  Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing\nto notice this last remark.\n\n Of course they were,  said the Dormouse;  well in. \n\nThis answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for\nsome time without interrupting it.\n\n They were learning to draw,  the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing\nits eyes, for it was getting very sleepy;  and they drew all manner of\nthings everything that begins with an M \n\n Why with an M?  said Alice.\n\n Why not?  said the March Hare.\n\nAlice was silent.\n\nThe Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a\ndoze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a\nlittle shriek, and went on:  that begins with an M, such as\nmouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness you know you say\nthings are  much of a muchness did you ever see such a thing as a\ndrawing of a muchness? \n\n Really, now you ask me,  said Alice, very much confused,  I don t\nthink \n\n Then you shouldn t talk,  said the Hatter.\n\nThis piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in\ngreat disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and\nneither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she\nlooked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her:\nthe last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into\nthe teapot.\n\n At any rate I ll never go _there_ again!  said Alice as she picked her\nway through the wood.  It s the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in\nall my life! \n\nJust as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door\nleading right into it.  That s very curious!  she thought.  But\neverything s curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.  And\nin she went.\n\nOnce more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little\nglass table.  Now, I ll manage better this time,  she said to herself,\nand began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that\nled into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom\n(she had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot\nhigh: then she walked down the little passage: and _then_ she found\nherself at last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds\nand the cool fountains.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nThe Queen s Croquet-Ground\n\n\nA large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses\ngrowing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily\npainting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she\nwent nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard\none of them say,  Look out now, Five! Don t go splashing paint over me\nlike that! \n\n I couldn t help it,  said Five, in a sulky tone;  Seven jogged my\nelbow. \n\nOn which Seven looked up and said,  That s right, Five! Always lay the\nblame on others! \n\n _You d_ better not talk!  said Five.  I heard the Queen say only\nyesterday you deserved to be beheaded! \n\n What for?  said the one who had spoken first.\n\n That s none of _your_ business, Two!  said Seven.\n\n Yes, it _is_ his business!  said Five,  and I ll tell him it was for\nbringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions. \n\nSeven flung down his brush, and had just begun  Well, of all the unjust\nthings  when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching\nthem, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also,\nand all of them bowed low.\n\n Would you tell me,  said Alice, a little timidly,  why you are\npainting those roses? \n\nFive and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low\nvoice,  Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a\n_red_ rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen\nwas to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know. So\nyou see, Miss, we re doing our best, afore she comes, to  At this\nmoment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called\nout  The Queen! The Queen!  and the three gardeners instantly threw\nthemselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps,\nand Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen.\n\nFirst came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the\nthree gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the\ncorners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with\ndiamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came\nthe royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came\njumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all\nornamented with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens,\nand among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a\nhurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went\nby without noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying\nthe King s crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this\ngrand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS.\n\nAlice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face\nlike the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard\nof such a rule at processions;  and besides, what would be the use of a\nprocession,  thought she,  if people had all to lie down upon their\nfaces, so that they couldn t see it?  So she stood still where she was,\nand waited.\n\nWhen the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked\nat her, and the Queen said severely  Who is this?  She said it to the\nKnave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply.\n\n Idiot!  said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to\nAlice, she went on,  What s your name, child? \n\n My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,  said Alice very politely;\nbut she added, to herself,  Why, they re only a pack of cards, after\nall. I needn t be afraid of them! \n\n And who are _these?_  said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners\nwho were lying round the rose-tree; for, you see, as they were lying on\ntheir faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of\nthe pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers,\nor courtiers, or three of her own children.\n\n How should _I_ know?  said Alice, surprised at her own courage.  It s\nno business of _mine_. \n\nThe Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a\nmoment like a wild beast, screamed  Off with her head! Off \n\n Nonsense!  said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was\nsilent.\n\nThe King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said  Consider, my\ndear: she is only a child! \n\nThe Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave  Turn\nthem over! \n\nThe Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot.\n\n Get up!  said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three\ngardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen,\nthe royal children, and everybody else.\n\n Leave off that!  screamed the Queen.  You make me giddy.  And then,\nturning to the rose-tree, she went on,  What _have_ you been doing\nhere? \n\n May it please your Majesty,  said Two, in a very humble tone, going\ndown on one knee as he spoke,  we were trying \n\n _I_ see!  said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses.\n Off with their heads!  and the procession moved on, three of the\nsoldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran\nto Alice for protection.\n\n You shan t be beheaded!  said Alice, and she put them into a large\nflower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a\nminute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the\nothers.\n\n Are their heads off?  shouted the Queen.\n\n Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!  the soldiers shouted\nin reply.\n\n That s right!  shouted the Queen.  Can you play croquet? \n\nThe soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was\nevidently meant for her.\n\n Yes!  shouted Alice.\n\n Come on, then!  roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession,\nwondering very much what would happen next.\n\n It s it s a very fine day!  said a timid voice at her side. She was\nwalking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face.\n\n Very,  said Alice:  where s the Duchess? \n\n Hush! Hush!  said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked\nanxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon\ntiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered  She s under\nsentence of execution. \n\n What for?  said Alice.\n\n Did you say  What a pity! ?  the Rabbit asked.\n\n No, I didn t,  said Alice:  I don t think it s at all a pity. I said\n What for? \n\n She boxed the Queen s ears  the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little\nscream of laughter.  Oh, hush!  the Rabbit whispered in a frightened\ntone.  The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the\nQueen said \n\n Get to your places!  shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and\npeople began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each\nother; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game\nbegan. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground\nin her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live\nhedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double\nthemselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.\n\nThe chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo:\nshe succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough,\nunder her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she\nhad got its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the\nhedgehog a blow with its head, it _would_ twist itself round and look\nup in her face, with such a puzzled expression that she could not help\nbursting out laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was\ngoing to begin again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog\nhad unrolled itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all\nthis, there was generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she\nwanted to send the hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were\nalways getting up and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice\nsoon came to the conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed.\n\nThe players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling\nall the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time\nthe Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and\nshouting  Off with his head!  or  Off with her head!  about once in a\nminute.\n\nAlice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any\ndispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute,\n and then,  thought she,  what would become of me? They re dreadfully\nfond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there s any\none left alive! \n\nShe was looking about for some way of escape, and wondering whether she\ncould get away without being seen, when she noticed a curious\nappearance in the air: it puzzled her very much at first, but, after\nwatching it a minute or two, she made it out to be a grin, and she said\nto herself  It s the Cheshire Cat: now I shall have somebody to talk\nto. \n\n How are you getting on?  said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth\nenough for it to speak with.\n\nAlice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded.  It s no use\nspeaking to it,  she thought,  till its ears have come, or at least one\nof them.  In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put\ndown her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad\nshe had someone to listen to her. The Cat seemed to think that there\nwas enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared.\n\n I don t think they play at all fairly,  Alice began, in rather a\ncomplaining tone,  and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can t hear\noneself speak and they don t seem to have any rules in particular; at\nleast, if there are, nobody attends to them and you ve no idea how\nconfusing it is all the things being alive; for instance, there s the\narch I ve got to go through next walking about at the other end of the\nground and I should have croqueted the Queen s hedgehog just now, only\nit ran away when it saw mine coming! \n\n How do you like the Queen?  said the Cat in a low voice.\n\n Not at all,  said Alice:  she s so extremely  Just then she noticed\nthat the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on,\n likely to win, that it s hardly worth while finishing the game. \n\nThe Queen smiled and passed on.\n\n Who _are_ you talking to?  said the King, going up to Alice, and\nlooking at the Cat s head with great curiosity.\n\n It s a friend of mine a Cheshire Cat,  said Alice:  allow me to\nintroduce it. \n\n I don t like the look of it at all,  said the King:  however, it may\nkiss my hand if it likes. \n\n I d rather not,  the Cat remarked.\n\n Don t be impertinent,  said the King,  and don t look at me like\nthat!  He got behind Alice as he spoke.\n\n A cat may look at a king,  said Alice.  I ve read that in some book,\nbut I don t remember where. \n\n Well, it must be removed,  said the King very decidedly, and he called\nthe Queen, who was passing at the moment,  My dear! I wish you would\nhave this cat removed! \n\nThe Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or\nsmall.  Off with his head!  she said, without even looking round.\n\n I ll fetch the executioner myself,  said the King eagerly, and he\nhurried off.\n\nAlice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going\non, as she heard the Queen s voice in the distance, screaming with\npassion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be\nexecuted for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look\nof things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew\nwhether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog.\n\nThe hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed\nto Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the\nother: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to\nthe other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a\nhelpless sort of way to fly up into a tree.\n\nBy the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight\nwas over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight:  but it doesn t\nmatter much,  thought Alice,  as all the arches are gone from this side\nof the ground.  So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not\nescape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her\nfriend.\n\nWhen she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite\na large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between\nthe executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once,\nwhile all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable.\n\nThe moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle\nthe question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they\nall spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly\nwhat they said.\n\nThe executioner s argument was, that you couldn t cut off a head unless\nthere was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a\nthing before, and he wasn t going to begin at _his_ time of life.\n\nThe King s argument was, that anything that had a head could be\nbeheaded, and that you weren t to talk nonsense.\n\nThe Queen s argument was, that if something wasn t done about it in\nless than no time she d have everybody executed, all round. (It was\nthis last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and\nanxious.)\n\nAlice could think of nothing else to say but  It belongs to the\nDuchess: you d better ask _her_ about it. \n\n She s in prison,  the Queen said to the executioner:  fetch her here. \nAnd the executioner went off like an arrow.\n\nThe Cat s head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the\ntime he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so\nthe King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it,\nwhile the rest of the party went back to the game.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nThe Mock Turtle s Story\n\n\n You can t think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing! \nsaid the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice s,\nand they walked off together.\n\nAlice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought\nto herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so\nsavage when they met in the kitchen.\n\n When _I m_ a Duchess,  she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful\ntone though),  I won t have any pepper in my kitchen _at all_. Soup\ndoes very well without Maybe it s always pepper that makes people\nhot-tempered,  she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new\nkind of rule,  and vinegar that makes them sour and camomile that makes\nthem bitter and and barley-sugar and such things that make children\nsweet-tempered. I only wish people knew _that_: then they wouldn t be\nso stingy about it, you know \n\nShe had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little\nstartled when she heard her voice close to her ear.  You re thinking\nabout something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can t\ntell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in\na bit. \n\n Perhaps it hasn t one,  Alice ventured to remark.\n\n Tut, tut, child!  said the Duchess.  Everything s got a moral, if only\nyou can find it.  And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice s side as\nshe spoke.\n\nAlice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the\nDuchess was _very_ ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the\nright height to rest her chin upon Alice s shoulder, and it was an\nuncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she\nbore it as well as she could.\n\n The game s going on rather better now,  she said, by way of keeping up\nthe conversation a little.\n\n Tis so,  said the Duchess:  and the moral of that is Oh,  tis love,\n tis love, that makes the world go round! \n\n Somebody said,  Alice whispered,  that it s done by everybody minding\ntheir own business! \n\n Ah, well! It means much the same thing,  said the Duchess, digging her\nsharp little chin into Alice s shoulder as she added,  and the moral of\n_that_ is Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of\nthemselves. \n\n How fond she is of finding morals in things!  Alice thought to\nherself.\n\n I dare say you re wondering why I don t put my arm round your waist, \nthe Duchess said after a pause:  the reason is, that I m doubtful about\nthe temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment? \n\n He might bite,  Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious\nto have the experiment tried.\n\n Very true,  said the Duchess:  flamingoes and mustard both bite. And\nthe moral of that is Birds of a feather flock together. \n\n Only mustard isn t a bird,  Alice remarked.\n\n Right, as usual,  said the Duchess:  what a clear way you have of\nputting things! \n\n It s a mineral, I _think_,  said Alice.\n\n Of course it is,  said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to\neverything that Alice said;  there s a large mustard-mine near here.\nAnd the moral of that is The more there is of mine, the less there is\nof yours. \n\n Oh, I know!  exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last\nremark,  it s a vegetable. It doesn t look like one, but it is. \n\n I quite agree with you,  said the Duchess;  and the moral of that\nis Be what you would seem to be or if you d like it put more\nsimply Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might\nappear to others that what you were or might have been was not\notherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be\notherwise. \n\n I think I should understand that better,  Alice said very politely,\n if I had it written down: but I can t quite follow it as you say it. \n\n That s nothing to what I could say if I chose,  the Duchess replied,\nin a pleased tone.\n\n Pray don t trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,  said\nAlice.\n\n Oh, don t talk about trouble!  said the Duchess.  I make you a present\nof everything I ve said as yet. \n\n A cheap sort of present!  thought Alice.  I m glad they don t give\nbirthday presents like that!  But she did not venture to say it out\nloud.\n\n Thinking again?  the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp\nlittle chin.\n\n I ve a right to think,  said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to\nfeel a little worried.\n\n Just about as much right,  said the Duchess,  as pigs have to fly; and\nthe m \n\nBut here, to Alice s great surprise, the Duchess s voice died away,\neven in the middle of her favourite word  moral,  and the arm that was\nlinked into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the\nQueen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a\nthunderstorm.\n\n A fine day, your Majesty!  the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.\n\n Now, I give you fair warning,  shouted the Queen, stamping on the\nground as she spoke;  either you or your head must be off, and that in\nabout half no time! Take your choice! \n\nThe Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment.\n\n Let s go on with the game,  the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was too\nmuch frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the\ncroquet-ground.\n\nThe other guests had taken advantage of the Queen s absence, and were\nresting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried\nback to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment s delay\nwould cost them their lives.\n\nAll the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling\nwith the other players, and shouting  Off with his head!  or  Off with\nher head!  Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the\nsoldiers, who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so\nthat by the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and\nall the players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody\nand under sentence of execution.\n\nThen the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice,  Have\nyou seen the Mock Turtle yet? \n\n No,  said Alice.  I don t even know what a Mock Turtle is. \n\n It s the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,  said the Queen.\n\n I never saw one, or heard of one,  said Alice.\n\n Come on, then,  said the Queen,  and he shall tell you his history, \n\nAs they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice,\nto the company generally,  You are all pardoned.   Come, _that s_ a\ngood thing!  she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the\nnumber of executions the Queen had ordered.\n\nThey very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun. (If\nyou don t know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.)  Up, lazy\nthing!  said the Queen,  and take this young lady to see the Mock\nTurtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some\nexecutions I have ordered;  and she walked off, leaving Alice alone\nwith the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature,\nbut on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it\nas to go after that savage Queen: so she waited.\n\nThe Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till\nshe was out of sight: then it chuckled.  What fun!  said the Gryphon,\nhalf to itself, half to Alice.\n\n What _is_ the fun?  said Alice.\n\n Why, _she_,  said the Gryphon.  It s all her fancy, that: they never\nexecutes nobody, you know. Come on! \n\n Everybody says  come on!  here,  thought Alice, as she went slowly\nafter it:  I never was so ordered about in all my life, never! \n\nThey had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance,\nsitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came\nnearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She\npitied him deeply.  What is his sorrow?  she asked the Gryphon, and the\nGryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before,  It s all\nhis fancy, that: he hasn t got no sorrow, you know. Come on! \n\nSo they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes\nfull of tears, but said nothing.\n\n This here young lady,  said the Gryphon,  she wants for to know your\nhistory, she do. \n\n I ll tell it her,  said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone:  sit\ndown, both of you, and don t speak a word till I ve finished. \n\nSo they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to\nherself,  I don t see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn t begin. \nBut she waited patiently.\n\n Once,  said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh,  I was a real\nTurtle. \n\nThese words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an\noccasional exclamation of  Hjckrrh!  from the Gryphon, and the constant\nheavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and\nsaying,  Thank you, sir, for your interesting story,  but she could not\nhelp thinking there _must_ be more to come, so she sat still and said\nnothing.\n\n When we were little,  the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly,\nthough still sobbing a little now and then,  we went to school in the\nsea. The master was an old Turtle we used to call him Tortoise \n\n Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn t one?  Alice asked.\n\n We called him Tortoise because he taught us,  said the Mock Turtle\nangrily:  really you are very dull! \n\n You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple\nquestion,  added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked\nat poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the\nGryphon said to the Mock Turtle,  Drive on, old fellow! Don t be all\nday about it!  and he went on in these words:\n\n Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn t believe it \n\n I never said I didn t!  interrupted Alice.\n\n You did,  said the Mock Turtle.\n\n Hold your tongue!  added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again.\nThe Mock Turtle went on.\n\n We had the best of educations in fact, we went to school every day \n\n _I ve_ been to a day-school, too,  said Alice;  you needn t be so\nproud as all that. \n\n With extras?  asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously.\n\n Yes,  said Alice,  we learned French and music. \n\n And washing?  said the Mock Turtle.\n\n Certainly not!  said Alice indignantly.\n\n Ah! then yours wasn t a really good school,  said the Mock Turtle in a\ntone of great relief.  Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill,\n French, music, _and washing_ extra. \n\n You couldn t have wanted it much,  said Alice;  living at the bottom\nof the sea. \n\n I couldn t afford to learn it.  said the Mock Turtle with a sigh.  I\nonly took the regular course. \n\n What was that?  inquired Alice.\n\n Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,  the Mock Turtle\nreplied;  and then the different branches of Arithmetic Ambition,\nDistraction, Uglification, and Derision. \n\n I never heard of  Uglification,  Alice ventured to say.  What is it? \n\nThe Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise.  What! Never heard of\nuglifying!  it exclaimed.  You know what to beautify is, I suppose? \n\n Yes,  said Alice doubtfully:  it means to make anything prettier. \n\n Well, then,  the Gryphon went on,  if you don t know what to uglify\nis, you _are_ a simpleton. \n\nAlice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so\nshe turned to the Mock Turtle, and said  What else had you to learn? \n\n Well, there was Mystery,  the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the\nsubjects on his flappers,  Mystery, ancient and modern, with\nSeaography: then Drawling the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel,\nthat used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and\nFainting in Coils. \n\n What was _that_ like?  said Alice.\n\n Well, I can t show it you myself,  the Mock Turtle said:  I m too\nstiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it. \n\n Hadn t time,  said the Gryphon:  I went to the Classics master,\nthough. He was an old crab, _he_ was. \n\n I never went to him,  the Mock Turtle said with a sigh:  he taught\nLaughing and Grief, they used to say. \n\n So he did, so he did,  said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both\ncreatures hid their faces in their paws.\n\n And how many hours a day did you do lessons?  said Alice, in a hurry\nto change the subject.\n\n Ten hours the first day,  said the Mock Turtle:  nine the next, and so\non. \n\n What a curious plan!  exclaimed Alice.\n\n That s the reason they re called lessons,  the Gryphon remarked:\n because they lessen from day to day. \n\nThis was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little\nbefore she made her next remark.  Then the eleventh day must have been\na holiday? \n\n Of course it was,  said the Mock Turtle.\n\n And how did you manage on the twelfth?  Alice went on eagerly.\n\n That s enough about lessons,  the Gryphon interrupted in a very\ndecided tone:  tell her something about the games now. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nThe Lobster Quadrille\n\n\nThe Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across\nhis eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or\ntwo sobs choked his voice.  Same as if he had a bone in his throat, \nsaid the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in\nthe back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears\nrunning down his cheeks, he went on again: \n\n You may not have lived much under the sea  ( I haven t,  said\nAlice) and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster \n(Alice began to say  I once tasted  but checked herself hastily, and\nsaid  No, never )  so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a\nLobster Quadrille is! \n\n No, indeed,  said Alice.  What sort of a dance is it? \n\n Why,  said the Gryphon,  you first form into a line along the\nsea-shore \n\n Two lines!  cried the Mock Turtle.  Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on;\nthen, when you ve cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way \n\n _That_ generally takes some time,  interrupted the Gryphon.\n\n you advance twice \n\n Each with a lobster as a partner!  cried the Gryphon.\n\n Of course,  the Mock Turtle said:  advance twice, set to partners \n\n change lobsters, and retire in same order,  continued the Gryphon.\n\n Then, you know,  the Mock Turtle went on,  you throw the \n\n The lobsters!  shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air.\n\n as far out to sea as you can \n\n Swim after them!  screamed the Gryphon.\n\n Turn a somersault in the sea!  cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly\nabout.\n\n Change lobsters again!  yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.\n\n Back to land again, and that s all the first figure,  said the Mock\nTurtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had\nbeen jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very\nsadly and quietly, and looked at Alice.\n\n It must be a very pretty dance,  said Alice timidly.\n\n Would you like to see a little of it?  said the Mock Turtle.\n\n Very much indeed,  said Alice.\n\n Come, let s try the first figure!  said the Mock Turtle to the\nGryphon.  We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing? \n\n Oh, _you_ sing,  said the Gryphon.  I ve forgotten the words. \n\nSo they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and\nthen treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their\nforepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly\nand sadly: \n\n Will you walk a little faster?  said a whiting to a snail.\n There s a porpoise close behind us, and he s treading on my tail.\nSee how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!\nThey are waiting on the shingle will you come and join the dance?\nWill you, won t you, will you, won t you, will you join the dance?\nWill you, won t you, will you, won t you, won t you join the dance?\n\n You can really have no notion how delightful it will be\nWhen they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea! \nBut the snail replied  Too far, too far!  and gave a look askance \nSaid he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.\nWould not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.\nWould not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.\n\n What matters it how far we go?  his scaly friend replied.\n There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.\nThe further off from England the nearer is to France \nThen turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.\nWill you, won t you, will you, won t you, will you join the dance?\nWill you, won t you, will you, won t you, won t you join the dance? \n\n\n Thank you, it s a very interesting dance to watch,  said Alice,\nfeeling very glad that it was over at last:  and I do so like that\ncurious song about the whiting! \n\n Oh, as to the whiting,  said the Mock Turtle,  they you ve seen them,\nof course? \n\n Yes,  said Alice,  I ve often seen them at dinn  she checked herself\nhastily.\n\n I don t know where Dinn may be,  said the Mock Turtle,  but if you ve\nseen them so often, of course you know what they re like. \n\n I believe so,  Alice replied thoughtfully.  They have their tails in\ntheir mouths and they re all over crumbs. \n\n You re wrong about the crumbs,  said the Mock Turtle:  crumbs would\nall wash off in the sea. But they _have_ their tails in their mouths;\nand the reason is  here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his\neyes. Tell her about the reason and all that,  he said to the Gryphon.\n\n The reason is,  said the Gryphon,  that they _would_ go with the\nlobsters to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to\nfall a long way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they\ncouldn t get them out again. That s all. \n\n Thank you,  said Alice,  it s very interesting. I never knew so much\nabout a whiting before. \n\n I can tell you more than that, if you like,  said the Gryphon.  Do you\nknow why it s called a whiting? \n\n I never thought about it,  said Alice.  Why? \n\n _It does the boots and shoes_,  the Gryphon replied very solemnly.\n\nAlice was thoroughly puzzled.  Does the boots and shoes!  she repeated\nin a wondering tone.\n\n Why, what are _your_ shoes done with?  said the Gryphon.  I mean, what\nmakes them so shiny? \n\nAlice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her\nanswer.  They re done with blacking, I believe. \n\n Boots and shoes under the sea,  the Gryphon went on in a deep voice,\n are done with a whiting. Now you know. \n\n And what are they made of?  Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity.\n\n Soles and eels, of course,  the Gryphon replied rather impatiently:\n any shrimp could have told you that. \n\n If I d been the whiting,  said Alice, whose thoughts were still\nrunning on the song,  I d have said to the porpoise,  Keep back,\nplease: we don t want _you_ with us! \n\n They were obliged to have him with them,  the Mock Turtle said:  no\nwise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise. \n\n Wouldn t it really?  said Alice in a tone of great surprise.\n\n Of course not,  said the Mock Turtle:  why, if a fish came to _me_,\nand told me he was going a journey, I should say  With what porpoise? \n\n Don t you mean  purpose ?  said Alice.\n\n I mean what I say,  the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And\nthe Gryphon added  Come, let s hear some of _your_ adventures. \n\n I could tell you my adventures beginning from this morning,  said\nAlice a little timidly:  but it s no use going back to yesterday,\nbecause I was a different person then. \n\n Explain all that,  said the Mock Turtle.\n\n No, no! The adventures first,  said the Gryphon in an impatient tone:\n explanations take such a dreadful time. \n\nSo Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first\nsaw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first,\nthe two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened\ntheir eyes and mouths so _very_ wide, but she gained courage as she\nwent on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part\nabout her repeating  _You are old, Father William_,  to the\nCaterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock\nTurtle drew a long breath, and said  That s very curious. \n\n It s all about as curious as it can be,  said the Gryphon.\n\n It all came different!  the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully.  I\nshould like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to\nbegin.  He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of\nauthority over Alice.\n\n Stand up and repeat  _Tis the voice of the sluggard_,  said the\nGryphon.\n\n How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons! \nthought Alice;  I might as well be at school at once.  However, she got\nup, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster\nQuadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came\nvery queer indeed: \n\n Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,\n You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair. \nAs a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose\nTrims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. \n\n[later editions continued as follows\nWhen the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,\nAnd will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark,\nBut, when the tide rises and sharks are around,\nHis voice has a timid and tremulous sound.]\n\n\n That s different from what _I_ used to say when I was a child,  said\nthe Gryphon.\n\n Well, I never heard it before,  said the Mock Turtle;  but it sounds\nuncommon nonsense. \n\nAlice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands,\nwondering if anything would _ever_ happen in a natural way again.\n\n I should like to have it explained,  said the Mock Turtle.\n\n She can t explain it,  said the Gryphon hastily.  Go on with the next\nverse. \n\n But about his toes?  the Mock Turtle persisted.  How _could_ he turn\nthem out with his nose, you know? \n\n It s the first position in dancing.  Alice said; but was dreadfully\npuzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject.\n\n Go on with the next verse,  the Gryphon repeated impatiently:  it\nbegins  _I passed by his garden_. \n\nAlice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come\nwrong, and she went on in a trembling voice: \n\n I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,\nHow the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie \n\n[later editions continued as follows\nThe Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,\nWhile the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.\nWhen the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,\nWas kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:\nWhile the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,\nAnd concluded the banquet ]\n\n\n What _is_ the use of repeating all that stuff,  the Mock Turtle\ninterrupted,  if you don t explain it as you go on? It s by far the\nmost confusing thing _I_ ever heard! \n\n Yes, I think you d better leave off,  said the Gryphon: and Alice was\nonly too glad to do so.\n\n Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?  the Gryphon\nwent on.  Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song? \n\n Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,  Alice\nreplied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone,\n Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her  _Turtle Soup_,  will you, old\nfellow? \n\nThe Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked\nwith sobs, to sing this: \n\n Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,\nWaiting in a hot tureen!\nWho for such dainties would not stoop?\nSoup of the evening, beautiful Soup!\nSoup of the evening, beautiful Soup!\n    Beau ootiful Soo oop!\n    Beau ootiful Soo oop!\nSoo oop of the e e evening,\n    Beautiful, beautiful Soup!\n\n Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,\nGame, or any other dish?\nWho would not give all else for two p\nennyworth only of beautiful Soup?\nPennyworth only of beautiful Soup?\n    Beau ootiful Soo oop!\n    Beau ootiful Soo oop!\nSoo oop of the e e evening,\n    Beautiful, beauti FUL SOUP! \n\n\n Chorus again!  cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun\nto repeat it, when a cry of  The trial s beginning!  was heard in the\ndistance.\n\n Come on!  cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried\noff, without waiting for the end of the song.\n\n What trial is it?  Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only\nanswered  Come on!  and ran the faster, while more and more faintly\ncame, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words: \n\n Soo oop of the e e evening,\n    Beautiful, beautiful Soup! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nWho Stole the Tarts?\n\n\nThe King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they\narrived, with a great crowd assembled about them all sorts of little\nbirds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was\nstanding before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard\nhim; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one\nhand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the\ncourt was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so\ngood, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them I wish they d\nget the trial done,  she thought,  and hand round the refreshments! \nBut there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at\neverything about her, to pass away the time.\n\nAlice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read\nabout them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew\nthe name of nearly everything there.  That s the judge,  she said to\nherself,  because of his great wig. \n\nThe judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the\nwig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he\ndid not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming.\n\n And that s the jury-box,  thought Alice,  and those twelve creatures, \n(she was obliged to say  creatures,  you see, because some of them were\nanimals, and some were birds,)  I suppose they are the jurors.  She\nsaid this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather\nproud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little\ngirls of her age knew the meaning of it at all. However,  jury-men \nwould have done just as well.\n\nThe twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates.  What are\nthey doing?  Alice whispered to the Gryphon.  They can t have anything\nto put down yet, before the trial s begun. \n\n They re putting down their names,  the Gryphon whispered in reply,\n for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial. \n\n Stupid things!  Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she\nstopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out,  Silence in the\ncourt!  and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round,\nto make out who was talking.\n\nAlice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders,\nthat all the jurors were writing down  stupid things!  on their slates,\nand she could even make out that one of them didn t know how to spell\n stupid,  and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him.  A nice\nmuddle their slates ll be in before the trial s over!  thought Alice.\n\nOne of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice\ncould _not_ stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and\nvery soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly\nthat the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out\nat all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he\nwas obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this\nwas of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate.\n\n Herald, read the accusation!  said the King.\n\nOn this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then\nunrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows: \n\n The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,\n    All on a summer day:\nThe Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,\n    And took them quite away! \n\n\n Consider your verdict,  the King said to the jury.\n\n Not yet, not yet!  the Rabbit hastily interrupted.  There s a great\ndeal to come before that! \n\n Call the first witness,  said the King; and the White Rabbit blew\nthree blasts on the trumpet, and called out,  First witness! \n\nThe first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand\nand a piece of bread-and-butter in the other.  I beg pardon, your\nMajesty,  he began,  for bringing these in: but I hadn t quite finished\nmy tea when I was sent for. \n\n You ought to have finished,  said the King.  When did you begin? \n\nThe Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the\ncourt, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse.  Fourteenth of March, I _think_ it\nwas,  he said.\n\n Fifteenth,  said the March Hare.\n\n Sixteenth,  added the Dormouse.\n\n Write that down,  the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly\nwrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and\nreduced the answer to shillings and pence.\n\n Take off your hat,  the King said to the Hatter.\n\n It isn t mine,  said the Hatter.\n\n _Stolen!_  the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made\na memorandum of the fact.\n\n I keep them to sell,  the Hatter added as an explanation;  I ve none\nof my own. I m a hatter. \n\nHere the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter,\nwho turned pale and fidgeted.\n\n Give your evidence,  said the King;  and don t be nervous, or I ll\nhave you executed on the spot. \n\nThis did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting\nfrom one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his\nconfusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the\nbread-and-butter.\n\nJust at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled\nher a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to\ngrow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave\nthe court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was\nas long as there was room for her.\n\n I wish you wouldn t squeeze so.  said the Dormouse, who was sitting\nnext to her.  I can hardly breathe. \n\n I can t help it,  said Alice very meekly:  I m growing. \n\n You ve no right to grow _here_,  said the Dormouse.\n\n Don t talk nonsense,  said Alice more boldly:  you know you re growing\ntoo. \n\n Yes, but _I_ grow at a reasonable pace,  said the Dormouse:  not in\nthat ridiculous fashion.  And he got up very sulkily and crossed over\nto the other side of the court.\n\nAll this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and,\njust as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers\nof the court,  Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert! \non which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes\noff.\n\n Give your evidence,  the King repeated angrily,  or I ll have you\nexecuted, whether you re nervous or not. \n\n I m a poor man, your Majesty,  the Hatter began, in a trembling voice,\n and I hadn t begun my tea not above a week or so and what with the\nbread-and-butter getting so thin and the twinkling of the tea \n\n The twinkling of the _what?_  said the King.\n\n It _began_ with the tea,  the Hatter replied.\n\n Of course twinkling begins with a T!  said the King sharply.  Do you\ntake me for a dunce? Go on! \n\n I m a poor man,  the Hatter went on,  and most things twinkled after\nthat only the March Hare said \n\n I didn t!  the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.\n\n You did!  said the Hatter.\n\n I deny it!  said the March Hare.\n\n He denies it,  said the King:  leave out that part. \n\n Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said  the Hatter went on, looking\nanxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied\nnothing, being fast asleep.\n\n After that,  continued the Hatter,  I cut some more bread-and-butter \n\n But what did the Dormouse say?  one of the jury asked.\n\n That I can t remember,  said the Hatter.\n\n You _must_ remember,  remarked the King,  or I ll have you executed. \n\nThe miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went\ndown on one knee.  I m a poor man, your Majesty,  he began.\n\n You re a _very_ poor _speaker_,  said the King.\n\nHere one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by\nthe officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just\nexplain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied\nup at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig,\nhead first, and then sat upon it.)\n\n I m glad I ve seen that done,  thought Alice.  I ve so often read in\nthe newspapers, at the end of trials,  There was some attempts at\napplause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the\ncourt,  and I never understood what it meant till now. \n\n If that s all you know about it, you may stand down,  continued the\nKing.\n\n I can t go no lower,  said the Hatter:  I m on the floor, as it is. \n\n Then you may _sit_ down,  the King replied.\n\nHere the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed.\n\n Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!  thought Alice.  Now we shall get\non better. \n\n I d rather finish my tea,  said the Hatter, with an anxious look at\nthe Queen, who was reading the list of singers.\n\n You may go,  said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court,\nwithout even waiting to put his shoes on.\n\n and just take his head off outside,  the Queen added to one of the\nofficers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get\nto the door.\n\n Call the next witness!  said the King.\n\nThe next witness was the Duchess s cook. She carried the pepper-box in\nher hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the\ncourt, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once.\n\n Give your evidence,  said the King.\n\n Shan t,  said the cook.\n\nThe King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice,\n Your Majesty must cross-examine _this_ witness. \n\n Well, if I must, I must,  the King said, with a melancholy air, and,\nafter folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were\nnearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice,  What are tarts made of? \n\n Pepper, mostly,  said the cook.\n\n Treacle,  said a sleepy voice behind her.\n\n Collar that Dormouse,  the Queen shrieked out.  Behead that Dormouse!\nTurn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his\nwhiskers! \n\nFor some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse\nturned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had\ndisappeared.\n\n Never mind!  said the King, with an air of great relief.  Call the\nnext witness.  And he added in an undertone to the Queen,  Really, my\ndear, _you_ must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my\nforehead ache! \n\nAlice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling\nvery curious to see what the next witness would be like,  for they\nhaven t got much evidence _yet_,  she said to herself. Imagine her\nsurprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill\nlittle voice, the name  Alice! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\nAlice s Evidence\n\n\n Here!  cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how\nlarge she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such\na hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt,\nupsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there\nthey lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of\ngoldfish she had accidentally upset the week before.\n\n Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!  she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and\nbegan picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident\nof the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of\nidea that they must be collected at once and put back into the\njury-box, or they would die.\n\n The trial cannot proceed,  said the King in a very grave voice,  until\nall the jurymen are back in their proper places _all_,  he repeated\nwith great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said so.\n\nAlice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put\nthe Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its\ntail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon\ngot it out again, and put it right;  not that it signifies much,  she\nsaid to herself;  I should think it would be _quite_ as much use in the\ntrial one way up as the other. \n\nAs soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being\nupset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to\nthem, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the\naccident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do\nanything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the\ncourt.\n\n What do you know about this business?  the King said to Alice.\n\n Nothing,  said Alice.\n\n Nothing _whatever?_  persisted the King.\n\n Nothing whatever,  said Alice.\n\n That s very important,  the King said, turning to the jury. They were\njust beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White\nRabbit interrupted:  _Un_important, your Majesty means, of course,  he\nsaid in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as\nhe spoke.\n\n _Un_important, of course, I meant,  the King hastily said, and went on\nto himself in an undertone,\n\n important unimportant unimportant important  as if he were trying\nwhich word sounded best.\n\nSome of the jury wrote it down  important,  and some  unimportant. \nAlice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates;\n but it doesn t matter a bit,  she thought to herself.\n\nAt this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in\nhis note-book, cackled out  Silence!  and read out from his book,  Rule\nForty-two. _All persons more than a mile high to leave the court_. \n\nEverybody looked at Alice.\n\n _I m_ not a mile high,  said Alice.\n\n You are,  said the King.\n\n Nearly two miles high,  added the Queen.\n\n Well, I shan t go, at any rate,  said Alice:  besides, that s not a\nregular rule: you invented it just now. \n\n It s the oldest rule in the book,  said the King.\n\n Then it ought to be Number One,  said Alice.\n\nThe King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily.  Consider your\nverdict,  he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.\n\n There s more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,  said the\nWhite Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry;  this paper has just been\npicked up. \n\n What s in it?  said the Queen.\n\n I haven t opened it yet,  said the White Rabbit,  but it seems to be a\nletter, written by the prisoner to to somebody. \n\n It must have been that,  said the King,  unless it was written to\nnobody, which isn t usual, you know. \n\n Who is it directed to?  said one of the jurymen.\n\n It isn t directed at all,  said the White Rabbit;  in fact, there s\nnothing written on the _outside_.  He unfolded the paper as he spoke,\nand added  It isn t a letter, after all: it s a set of verses. \n\n Are they in the prisoner s handwriting?  asked another of the jurymen.\n\n No, they re not,  said the White Rabbit,  and that s the queerest\nthing about it.  (The jury all looked puzzled.)\n\n He must have imitated somebody else s hand,  said the King. (The jury\nall brightened up again.)\n\n Please your Majesty,  said the Knave,  I didn t write it, and they\ncan t prove I did: there s no name signed at the end. \n\n If you didn t sign it,  said the King,  that only makes the matter\nworse. You _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you d have signed\nyour name like an honest man. \n\nThere was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really\nclever thing the King had said that day.\n\n That _proves_ his guilt,  said the Queen.\n\n It proves nothing of the sort!  said Alice.  Why, you don t even know\nwhat they re about! \n\n Read them,  said the King.\n\nThe White Rabbit put on his spectacles.  Where shall I begin, please\nyour Majesty?  he asked.\n\n Begin at the beginning,  the King said gravely,  and go on till you\ncome to the end: then stop. \n\nThese were the verses the White Rabbit read: \n\n They told me you had been to her,\n    And mentioned me to him:\nShe gave me a good character,\n    But said I could not swim.\n\nHe sent them word I had not gone\n    (We know it to be true):\nIf she should push the matter on,\n    What would become of you?\n\nI gave her one, they gave him two,\n    You gave us three or more;\nThey all returned from him to you,\n    Though they were mine before.\n\nIf I or she should chance to be\n    Involved in this affair,\nHe trusts to you to set them free,\n    Exactly as we were.\n\nMy notion was that you had been\n    (Before she had this fit)\nAn obstacle that came between\n    Him, and ourselves, and it.\n\nDon t let him know she liked them best,\n    For this must ever be\nA secret, kept from all the rest,\n    Between yourself and me. \n\n\n That s the most important piece of evidence we ve heard yet,  said the\nKing, rubbing his hands;  so now let the jury \n\n If any one of them can explain it,  said Alice, (she had grown so\nlarge in the last few minutes that she wasn t a bit afraid of\ninterrupting him,)  I ll give him sixpence. _I_ don t believe there s\nan atom of meaning in it. \n\nThe jury all wrote down on their slates,  _She_ doesn t believe there s\nan atom of meaning in it,  but none of them attempted to explain the\npaper.\n\n If there s no meaning in it,  said the King,  that saves a world of\ntrouble, you know, as we needn t try to find any. And yet I don t\nknow,  he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at\nthem with one eye;  I seem to see some meaning in them, after all.\n _said I could not swim_  you can t swim, can you?  he added, turning\nto the Knave.\n\nThe Knave shook his head sadly.  Do I look like it?  he said. (Which he\ncertainly did _not_, being made entirely of cardboard.)\n\n All right, so far,  said the King, and he went on muttering over the\nverses to himself:  _We know it to be true_  that s the jury, of\ncourse _I gave her one, they gave him two_  why, that must be what he\ndid with the tarts, you know \n\n But, it goes on  _they all returned from him to you_,  said Alice.\n\n Why, there they are!  said the King triumphantly, pointing to the\ntarts on the table.  Nothing can be clearer than _that_. Then\nagain _before she had this fit_  you never had fits, my dear, I\nthink?  he said to the Queen.\n\n Never!  said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard\nas she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his\nslate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily\nbegan again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long\nas it lasted.)\n\n Then the words don t _fit_ you,  said the King, looking round the\ncourt with a smile. There was a dead silence.\n\n It s a pun!  the King added in an offended tone, and everybody\nlaughed,  Let the jury consider their verdict,  the King said, for\nabout the twentieth time that day.\n\n No, no!  said the Queen.  Sentence first verdict afterwards. \n\n Stuff and nonsense!  said Alice loudly.  The idea of having the\nsentence first! \n\n Hold your tongue!  said the Queen, turning purple.\n\n I won t!  said Alice.\n\n Off with her head!  the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody\nmoved.\n\n Who cares for you?  said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by\nthis time.)  You re nothing but a pack of cards! \n\nAt this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon\nher: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and\ntried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her\nhead in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead\nleaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.\n\n Wake up, Alice dear!  said her sister;  Why, what a long sleep you ve\nhad! \n\n Oh, I ve had such a curious dream!  said Alice, and she told her\nsister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange\nAdventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she\nhad finished, her sister kissed her, and said,  It _was_ a curious\ndream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it s getting late. \nSo Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might,\nwhat a wonderful dream it had been.\n\n\nBut her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her\nhand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all\nher wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion,\nand this was her dream: \n\nFirst, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny\nhands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were\nlooking up into hers she could hear the very tones of her voice, and\nsee that queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair\nthat _would_ always get into her eyes and still as she listened, or\nseemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the\nstrange creatures of her little sister s dream.\n\nThe long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by the\nfrightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool she\ncould hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends\nshared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen\nordering off her unfortunate guests to execution once more the pig-baby\nwas sneezing on the Duchess s knee, while plates and dishes crashed\naround it once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the\nLizard s slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs,\nfilled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock\nTurtle.\n\nSo she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in\nWonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all\nwould change to dull reality the grass would be only rustling in the\nwind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds the rattling\nteacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen s shrill\ncries to the voice of the shepherd boy and the sneeze of the baby, the\nshriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change\n(she knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard while the\nlowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock\nTurtle s heavy sobs.\n\nLastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers\nwould, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would\nkeep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her\nchildhood: and how she would gather about her other little children,\nand make _their_ eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale,\nperhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she\nwould feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all\ntheir simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer\ndays.\n\nTHE END"
    },
    {
        "title": "Anna Karenina",
        "author": "Leo Tolstoy",
        "category": "Classics",
        "EN": "PART ONE\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nHappy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its\nown way.\n\nEverything was in confusion in the Oblonskys  house. The wife had\ndiscovered that the husband was carrying on an intrigue with a French\ngirl, who had been a governess in their family, and she had announced\nto her husband that she could not go on living in the same house with\nhim. This position of affairs had now lasted three days, and not only\nthe husband and wife themselves, but all the members of their family\nand household, were painfully conscious of it. Every person in the\nhouse felt that there was no sense in their living together, and that\nthe stray people brought together by chance in any inn had more in\ncommon with one another than they, the members of the family and\nhousehold of the Oblonskys. The wife did not leave her own room, the\nhusband had not been at home for three days. The children ran wild all\nover the house; the English governess quarreled with the housekeeper,\nand wrote to a friend asking her to look out for a new situation for\nher; the man-cook had walked off the day before just at dinner time;\nthe kitchen-maid, and the coachman had given warning.\n\nThree days after the quarrel, Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch\nOblonsky Stiva, as he was called in the fashionable world woke up at\nhis usual hour, that is, at eight o clock in the morning, not in his\nwife s bedroom, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned\nover his stout, well-cared-for person on the springy sofa, as though he\nwould sink into a long sleep again; he vigorously embraced the pillow\non the other side and buried his face in it; but all at once he jumped\nup, sat up on the sofa, and opened his eyes.\n\n Yes, yes, how was it now?  he thought, going over his dream.  Now, how\nwas it? To be sure! Alabin was giving a dinner at Darmstadt; no, not\nDarmstadt, but something American. Yes, but then, Darmstadt was in\nAmerica. Yes, Alabin was giving a dinner on glass tables, and the\ntables sang, _Il mio tesoro_ not _Il mio tesoro_ though, but something\nbetter, and there were some sort of little decanters on the table, and\nthey were women, too,  he remembered.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch s eyes twinkled gaily, and he pondered with a\nsmile.  Yes, it was nice, very nice. There was a great deal more that\nwas delightful, only there s no putting it into words, or even\nexpressing it in one s thoughts awake.  And noticing a gleam of light\npeeping in beside one of the serge curtains, he cheerfully dropped his\nfeet over the edge of the sofa, and felt about with them for his\nslippers, a present on his last birthday, worked for him by his wife on\ngold-colored morocco. And, as he had done every day for the last nine\nyears, he stretched out his hand, without getting up, towards the place\nwhere his dressing-gown always hung in his bedroom. And thereupon he\nsuddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his wife s room, but in\nhis study, and why: the smile vanished from his face, he knitted his\nbrows.\n\n Ah, ah, ah! Oo!...  he muttered, recalling everything that had\nhappened. And again every detail of his quarrel with his wife was\npresent to his imagination, all the hopelessness of his position, and\nworst of all, his own fault.\n\n Yes, she won t forgive me, and she can t forgive me. And the most\nawful thing about it is that it s all my fault all my fault, though I m\nnot to blame. That s the point of the whole situation,  he reflected.\n Oh, oh, oh!  he kept repeating in despair, as he remembered the\nacutely painful sensations caused him by this quarrel.\n\nMost unpleasant of all was the first minute when, on coming, happy and\ngood-humored, from the theater, with a huge pear in his hand for his\nwife, he had not found his wife in the drawing-room, to his surprise\nhad not found her in the study either, and saw her at last in her\nbedroom with the unlucky letter that revealed everything in her hand.\n\nShe, his Dolly, forever fussing and worrying over household details,\nand limited in her ideas, as he considered, was sitting perfectly still\nwith the letter in her hand, looking at him with an expression of\nhorror, despair, and indignation.\n\n What s this? this?  she asked, pointing to the letter.\n\nAnd at this recollection, Stepan Arkadyevitch, as is so often the case,\nwas not so much annoyed at the fact itself as at the way in which he\nhad met his wife s words.\n\nThere happened to him at that instant what does happen to people when\nthey are unexpectedly caught in something very disgraceful. He did not\nsucceed in adapting his face to the position in which he was placed\ntowards his wife by the discovery of his fault. Instead of being hurt,\ndenying, defending himself, begging forgiveness, instead of remaining\nindifferent even anything would have been better than what he did\ndo his face utterly involuntarily (reflex spinal action, reflected\nStepan Arkadyevitch, who was fond of physiology) utterly involuntarily\nassumed its habitual, good-humored, and therefore idiotic smile.\n\nThis idiotic smile he could not forgive himself. Catching sight of that\nsmile, Dolly shuddered as though at physical pain, broke out with her\ncharacteristic heat into a flood of cruel words, and rushed out of the\nroom. Since then she had refused to see her husband.\n\n It s that idiotic smile that s to blame for it all,  thought Stepan\nArkadyevitch.\n\n But what s to be done? What s to be done?  he said to himself in\ndespair, and found no answer.\n\n\nChapter 2\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was a truthful man in his relations with himself.\nHe was incapable of deceiving himself and persuading himself that he\nrepented of his conduct. He could not at this date repent of the fact\nthat he, a handsome, susceptible man of thirty-four, was not in love\nwith his wife, the mother of five living and two dead children, and\nonly a year younger than himself. All he repented of was that he had\nnot succeeded better in hiding it from his wife. But he felt all the\ndifficulty of his position and was sorry for his wife, his children,\nand himself. Possibly he might have managed to conceal his sins better\nfrom his wife if he had anticipated that the knowledge of them would\nhave had such an effect on her. He had never clearly thought out the\nsubject, but he had vaguely conceived that his wife must long ago have\nsuspected him of being unfaithful to her, and shut her eyes to the\nfact. He had even supposed that she, a worn-out woman no longer young\nor good-looking, and in no way remarkable or interesting, merely a good\nmother, ought from a sense of fairness to take an indulgent view. It\nhad turned out quite the other way.\n\n Oh, it s awful! oh dear, oh dear! awful!  Stepan Arkadyevitch kept\nrepeating to himself, and he could think of nothing to be done.  And\nhow well things were going up till now! how well we got on! She was\ncontented and happy in her children; I never interfered with her in\nanything; I let her manage the children and the house just as she\nliked. It s true it s bad _her_ having been a governess in our house.\nThat s bad! There s something common, vulgar, in flirting with one s\ngoverness. But what a governess!  (He vividly recalled the roguish\nblack eyes of Mlle. Roland and her smile.)  But after all, while she\nwas in the house, I kept myself in hand. And the worst of it all is\nthat she s already ... it seems as if ill-luck would have it so! Oh,\noh! But what, what is to be done? \n\nThere was no solution, but that universal solution which life gives to\nall questions, even the most complex and insoluble. That answer is: one\nmust live in the needs of the day that is, forget oneself. To forget\nhimself in sleep was impossible now, at least till nighttime; he could\nnot go back now to the music sung by the decanter-women; so he must\nforget himself in the dream of daily life.\n\n Then we shall see,  Stepan Arkadyevitch said to himself, and getting\nup he put on a gray dressing-gown lined with blue silk, tied the\ntassels in a knot, and, drawing a deep breath of air into his broad,\nbare chest, he walked to the window with his usual confident step,\nturning out his feet that carried his full frame so easily. He pulled\nup the blind and rang the bell loudly. It was at once answered by the\nappearance of an old friend, his valet, Matvey, carrying his clothes,\nhis boots, and a telegram. Matvey was followed by the barber with all\nthe necessaries for shaving.\n\n Are there any papers from the office?  asked Stepan Arkadyevitch,\ntaking the telegram and seating himself at the looking-glass.\n\n On the table,  replied Matvey, glancing with inquiring sympathy at his\nmaster; and, after a short pause, he added with a sly smile,  They ve\nsent from the carriage-jobbers. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch made no reply, he merely glanced at Matvey in the\nlooking-glass. In the glance, in which their eyes met in the\nlooking-glass, it was clear that they understood one another. Stepan\nArkadyevitch s eyes asked:  Why do you tell me that? don t you know? \n\nMatvey put his hands in his jacket pockets, thrust out one leg, and\ngazed silently, good-humoredly, with a faint smile, at his master.\n\n I told them to come on Sunday, and till then not to trouble you or\nthemselves for nothing,  he said. He had obviously prepared the\nsentence beforehand.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch saw Matvey wanted to make a joke and attract\nattention to himself. Tearing open the telegram, he read it through,\nguessing at the words, misspelt as they always are in telegrams, and\nhis face brightened.\n\n Matvey, my sister Anna Arkadyevna will be here tomorrow,  he said,\nchecking for a minute the sleek, plump hand of the barber, cutting a\npink path through his long, curly whiskers.\n\n Thank God!  said Matvey, showing by this response that he, like his\nmaster, realized the significance of this arrival that is, that Anna\nArkadyevna, the sister he was so fond of, might bring about a\nreconciliation between husband and wife.\n\n Alone, or with her husband?  inquired Matvey.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch could not answer, as the barber was at work on his\nupper lip, and he raised one finger. Matvey nodded at the\nlooking-glass.\n\n Alone. Is the room to be got ready upstairs? \n\n Inform Darya Alexandrovna: where she orders. \n\n Darya Alexandrovna?  Matvey repeated, as though in doubt.\n\n Yes, inform her. Here, take the telegram; give it to her, and then do\nwhat she tells you. \n\n You want to try it on,  Matvey understood, but he only said,  Yes,\nsir. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was already washed and combed and ready to be\ndressed, when Matvey, stepping deliberately in his creaky boots, came\nback into the room with the telegram in his hand. The barber had gone.\n\n Darya Alexandrovna told me to inform you that she is going away. Let\nhim do that is you as he likes,  he said, laughing only with his eyes,\nand putting his hands in his pockets, he watched his master with his\nhead on one side. Stepan Arkadyevitch was silent a minute. Then a\ngood-humored and rather pitiful smile showed itself on his handsome\nface.\n\n Eh, Matvey?  he said, shaking his head.\n\n It s all right, sir; she will come round,  said Matvey.\n\n Come round? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Do you think so? Who s there?  asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, hearing the\nrustle of a woman s dress at the door.\n\n It s I,  said a firm, pleasant, woman s voice, and the stern,\npockmarked face of Matrona Philimonovna, the nurse, was thrust in at\nthe doorway.\n\n Well, what is it, Matrona?  queried Stepan Arkadyevitch, going up to\nher at the door.\n\nAlthough Stepan Arkadyevitch was completely in the wrong as regards his\nwife, and was conscious of this himself, almost everyone in the house\n(even the nurse, Darya Alexandrovna s chief ally) was on his side.\n\n Well, what now?  he asked disconsolately.\n\n Go to her, sir; own your fault again. Maybe God will aid you. She is\nsuffering so, it s sad to see her; and besides, everything in the house\nis topsy-turvy. You must have pity, sir, on the children. Beg her\nforgiveness, sir. There s no help for it! One must take the\nconsequences.... \n\n But she won t see me. \n\n You do your part. God is merciful; pray to God, sir, pray to God. \n\n Come, that ll do, you can go,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, blushing\nsuddenly.  Well now, do dress me.  He turned to Matvey and threw off\nhis dressing-gown decisively.\n\nMatvey was already holding up the shirt like a horse s collar, and,\nblowing off some invisible speck, he slipped it with obvious pleasure\nover the well-groomed body of his master.\n\n\nChapter 3\n\nWhen he was dressed, Stepan Arkadyevitch sprinkled some scent on\nhimself, pulled down his shirt-cuffs, distributed into his pockets his\ncigarettes, pocketbook, matches, and watch with its double chain and\nseals, and shaking out his handkerchief, feeling himself clean,\nfragrant, healthy, and physically at ease, in spite of his unhappiness,\nhe walked with a slight swing on each leg into the dining-room, where\ncoffee was already waiting for him, and beside the coffee, letters and\npapers from the office.\n\nHe read the letters. One was very unpleasant, from a merchant who was\nbuying a forest on his wife s property. To sell this forest was\nabsolutely essential; but at present, until he was reconciled with his\nwife, the subject could not be discussed. The most unpleasant thing of\nall was that his pecuniary interests should in this way enter into the\nquestion of his reconciliation with his wife. And the idea that he\nmight be led on by his interests, that he might seek a reconciliation\nwith his wife on account of the sale of the forest that idea hurt him.\n\nWhen he had finished his letters, Stepan Arkadyevitch moved the\noffice-papers close to him, rapidly looked through two pieces of\nbusiness, made a few notes with a big pencil, and pushing away the\npapers, turned to his coffee. As he sipped his coffee, he opened a\nstill damp morning paper, and began reading it.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch took in and read a liberal paper, not an extreme\none, but one advocating the views held by the majority. And in spite of\nthe fact that science, art, and politics had no special interest for\nhim, he firmly held those views on all these subjects which were held\nby the majority and by his paper, and he only changed them when the\nmajority changed them or, more strictly speaking, he did not change\nthem, but they imperceptibly changed of themselves within him.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch had not chosen his political opinions or his views;\nthese political opinions and views had come to him of themselves, just\nas he did not choose the shapes of his hat and coat, but simply took\nthose that were being worn. And for him, living in a certain\nsociety owing to the need, ordinarily developed at years of discretion,\nfor some degree of mental activity to have views was just as\nindispensable as to have a hat. If there was a reason for his\npreferring liberal to conservative views, which were held also by many\nof his circle, it arose not from his considering liberalism more\nrational, but from its being in closer accordance with his manner of\nlife. The liberal party said that in Russia everything is wrong, and\ncertainly Stepan Arkadyevitch had many debts and was decidedly short of\nmoney. The liberal party said that marriage is an institution quite out\nof date, and that it needs reconstruction; and family life certainly\nafforded Stepan Arkadyevitch little gratification, and forced him into\nlying and hypocrisy, which was so repulsive to his nature. The liberal\nparty said, or rather allowed it to be understood, that religion is\nonly a curb to keep in check the barbarous classes of the people; and\nStepan Arkadyevitch could not get through even a short service without\nhis legs aching from standing up, and could never make out what was the\nobject of all the terrible and high-flown language about another world\nwhen life might be so very amusing in this world. And with all this,\nStepan Arkadyevitch, who liked a joke, was fond of puzzling a plain man\nby saying that if he prided himself on his origin, he ought not to stop\nat Rurik and disown the first founder of his family the monkey. And so\nLiberalism had become a habit of Stepan Arkadyevitch s, and he liked\nhis newspaper, as he did his cigar after dinner, for the slight fog it\ndiffused in his brain. He read the leading article, in which it was\nmaintained that it was quite senseless in our day to raise an outcry\nthat radicalism was threatening to swallow up all conservative\nelements, and that the government ought to take measures to crush the\nrevolutionary hydra; that, on the contrary,  in our opinion the danger\nlies not in that fantastic revolutionary hydra, but in the obstinacy of\ntraditionalism clogging progress,  etc., etc. He read another article,\ntoo, a financial one, which alluded to Bentham and Mill, and dropped\nsome innuendoes reflecting on the ministry. With his characteristic\nquickwittedness he caught the drift of each innuendo, divined whence it\ncame, at whom and on what ground it was aimed, and that afforded him,\nas it always did, a certain satisfaction. But today that satisfaction\nwas embittered by Matrona Philimonovna s advice and the unsatisfactory\nstate of the household. He read, too, that Count Beist was rumored to\nhave left for Wiesbaden, and that one need have no more gray hair, and\nof the sale of a light carriage, and of a young person seeking a\nsituation; but these items of information did not give him, as usual, a\nquiet, ironical gratification. Having finished the paper, a second cup\nof coffee and a roll and butter, he got up, shaking the crumbs of the\nroll off his waistcoat; and, squaring his broad chest, he smiled\njoyously: not because there was anything particularly agreeable in his\nmind the joyous smile was evoked by a good digestion.\n\nBut this joyous smile at once recalled everything to him, and he grew\nthoughtful.\n\nTwo childish voices (Stepan Arkadyevitch recognized the voices of\nGrisha, his youngest boy, and Tanya, his eldest girl) were heard\noutside the door. They were carrying something, and dropped it.\n\n I told you not to sit passengers on the roof,  said the little girl in\nEnglish;  there, pick them up! \n\n Everything s in confusion,  thought Stepan Arkadyevitch;  there are\nthe children running about by themselves.  And going to the door, he\ncalled them. They threw down the box, that represented a train, and\ncame in to their father.\n\nThe little girl, her father s favorite, ran up boldly, embraced him,\nand hung laughingly on his neck, enjoying as she always did the smell\nof scent that came from his whiskers. At last the little girl kissed\nhis face, which was flushed from his stooping posture and beaming with\ntenderness, loosed her hands, and was about to run away again; but her\nfather held her back.\n\n How is mamma?  he asked, passing his hand over his daughter s smooth,\nsoft little neck.  Good morning,  he said, smiling to the boy, who had\ncome up to greet him. He was conscious that he loved the boy less, and\nalways tried to be fair; but the boy felt it, and did not respond with\na smile to his father s chilly smile.\n\n Mamma? She is up,  answered the girl.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch sighed.  That means that she s not slept again all\nnight,  he thought.\n\n Well, is she cheerful? \n\nThe little girl knew that there was a quarrel between her father and\nmother, and that her mother could not be cheerful, and that her father\nmust be aware of this, and that he was pretending when he asked about\nit so lightly. And she blushed for her father. He at once perceived it,\nand blushed too.\n\n I don t know,  she said.  She did not say we must do our lessons, but\nshe said we were to go for a walk with Miss Hoole to grandmamma s. \n\n Well, go, Tanya, my darling. Oh, wait a minute, though,  he said,\nstill holding her and stroking her soft little hand.\n\nHe took off the mantelpiece, where he had put it yesterday, a little\nbox of sweets, and gave her two, picking out her favorites, a chocolate\nand a fondant.\n\n For Grisha?  said the little girl, pointing to the chocolate.\n\n Yes, yes.  And still stroking her little shoulder, he kissed her on\nthe roots of her hair and neck, and let her go.\n\n The carriage is ready,  said Matvey;  but there s someone to see you\nwith a petition. \n\n Been here long?  asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Half an hour. \n\n How many times have I told you to tell me at once? \n\n One must let you drink your coffee in peace, at least,  said Matvey,\nin the affectionately gruff tone with which it was impossible to be\nangry.\n\n Well, show the person up at once,  said Oblonsky, frowning with\nvexation.\n\nThe petitioner, the widow of a staff captain Kalinin, came with a\nrequest impossible and unreasonable; but Stepan Arkadyevitch, as he\ngenerally did, made her sit down, heard her to the end attentively\nwithout interrupting her, and gave her detailed advice as to how and to\nwhom to apply, and even wrote her, in his large, sprawling, good and\nlegible hand, a confident and fluent little note to a personage who\nmight be of use to her. Having got rid of the staff captain s widow,\nStepan Arkadyevitch took his hat and stopped to recollect whether he\nhad forgotten anything. It appeared that he had forgotten nothing\nexcept what he wanted to forget his wife.\n\n Ah, yes!  He bowed his head, and his handsome face assumed a harassed\nexpression.  To go, or not to go!  he said to himself; and an inner\nvoice told him he must not go, that nothing could come of it but\nfalsity; that to amend, to set right their relations was impossible,\nbecause it was impossible to make her attractive again and able to\ninspire love, or to make him an old man, not susceptible to love.\nExcept deceit and lying nothing could come of it now; and deceit and\nlying were opposed to his nature.\n\n It must be some time, though: it can t go on like this,  he said,\ntrying to give himself courage. He squared his chest, took out a\ncigarette, took two whiffs at it, flung it into a mother-of-pearl\nashtray, and with rapid steps walked through the drawing-room, and\nopened the other door into his wife s bedroom.\n\n\nChapter 4\n\nDarya Alexandrovna, in a dressing jacket, and with her now scanty, once\nluxuriant and beautiful hair fastened up with hairpins on the nape of\nher neck, with a sunken, thin face and large, startled eyes, which\nlooked prominent from the thinness of her face, was standing among a\nlitter of all sorts of things scattered all over the room, before an\nopen bureau, from which she was taking something. Hearing her husband s\nsteps, she stopped, looking towards the door, and trying assiduously to\ngive her features a severe and contemptuous expression. She felt she\nwas afraid of him, and afraid of the coming interview. She was just\nattempting to do what she had attempted to do ten times already in\nthese last three days to sort out the children s things and her own, so\nas to take them to her mother s and again she could not bring herself\nto do this; but now again, as each time before, she kept saying to\nherself,  that things cannot go on like this, that she must take some\nstep  to punish him, put him to shame, avenge on him some little part\nat least of the suffering he had caused her. She still continued to\ntell herself that she should leave him, but she was conscious that this\nwas impossible; it was impossible because she could not get out of the\nhabit of regarding him as her husband and loving him. Besides this, she\nrealized that if even here in her own house she could hardly manage to\nlook after her five children properly, they would be still worse off\nwhere she was going with them all. As it was, even in the course of\nthese three days, the youngest was unwell from being given unwholesome\nsoup, and the others had almost gone without their dinner the day\nbefore. She was conscious that it was impossible to go away; but,\ncheating herself, she went on all the same sorting out her things and\npretending she was going.\n\nSeeing her husband, she dropped her hands into the drawer of the bureau\nas though looking for something, and only looked round at him when he\nhad come quite up to her. But her face, to which she tried to give a\nsevere and resolute expression, betrayed bewilderment and suffering.\n\n Dolly!  he said in a subdued and timid voice. He bent his head towards\nhis shoulder and tried to look pitiful and humble, but for all that he\nwas radiant with freshness and health. In a rapid glance she scanned\nhis figure that beamed with health and freshness.  Yes, he is happy and\ncontent!  she thought;  while I.... And that disgusting good nature,\nwhich everyone likes him for and praises I hate that good nature of\nhis,  she thought. Her mouth stiffened, the muscles of the cheek\ncontracted on the right side of her pale, nervous face.\n\n What do you want?  she said in a rapid, deep, unnatural voice.\n\n Dolly!  he repeated, with a quiver in his voice.  Anna is coming\ntoday. \n\n Well, what is that to me? I can t see her!  she cried.\n\n But you must, really, Dolly.... \n\n Go away, go away, go away!  she shrieked, not looking at him, as\nthough this shriek were called up by physical pain.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch could be calm when he thought of his wife, he could\nhope that she would _come round_, as Matvey expressed it, and could\nquietly go on reading his paper and drinking his coffee; but when he\nsaw her tortured, suffering face, heard the tone of her voice,\nsubmissive to fate and full of despair, there was a catch in his breath\nand a lump in his throat, and his eyes began to shine with tears.\n\n My God! what have I done? Dolly! For God s sake!... You know....  He\ncould not go on; there was a sob in his throat.\n\nShe shut the bureau with a slam, and glanced at him.\n\n Dolly, what can I say?... One thing: forgive.... Remember, cannot nine\nyears of my life atone for an instant.... \n\nShe dropped her eyes and listened, expecting what he would say, as it\nwere beseeching him in some way or other to make her believe\ndifferently.\n\n instant of passion?  he said, and would have gone on, but at that\nword, as at a pang of physical pain, her lips stiffened again, and\nagain the muscles of her right cheek worked.\n\n Go away, go out of the room!  she shrieked still more shrilly,  and\ndon t talk to me of your passion and your loathsomeness. \n\nShe tried to go out, but tottered, and clung to the back of a chair to\nsupport herself. His face relaxed, his lips swelled, his eyes were\nswimming with tears.\n\n Dolly!  he said, sobbing now;  for mercy s sake, think of the\nchildren; they are not to blame! I am to blame, and punish me, make me\nexpiate my fault. Anything I can do, I am ready to do anything! I am to\nblame, no words can express how much I am to blame! But, Dolly, forgive\nme! \n\nShe sat down. He listened to her hard, heavy breathing, and he was\nunutterably sorry for her. She tried several times to begin to speak,\nbut could not. He waited.\n\n You remember the children, Stiva, to play with them; but I remember\nthem, and know that this means their ruin,  she said obviously one of\nthe phrases she had more than once repeated to herself in the course of\nthe last few days.\n\nShe had called him  Stiva,  and he glanced at her with gratitude, and\nmoved to take her hand, but she drew back from him with aversion.\n\n I think of the children, and for that reason I would do anything in\nthe world to save them, but I don t myself know how to save them. By\ntaking them away from their father, or by leaving them with a vicious\nfather yes, a vicious father.... Tell me, after what ... has happened,\ncan we live together? Is that possible? Tell me, eh, is it possible? \nshe repeated, raising her voice,  after my husband, the father of my\nchildren, enters into a love affair with his own children s governess? \n\n But what could I do? what could I do?  he kept saying in a pitiful\nvoice, not knowing what he was saying, as his head sank lower and\nlower.\n\n You are loathsome to me, repulsive!  she shrieked, getting more and\nmore heated.  Your tears mean nothing! You have never loved me; you\nhave neither heart nor honorable feeling! You are hateful to me,\ndisgusting, a stranger yes, a complete stranger!  With pain and wrath\nshe uttered the word so terrible to herself _stranger_.\n\nHe looked at her, and the fury expressed in her face alarmed and amazed\nhim. He did not understand how his pity for her exasperated her. She\nsaw in him sympathy for her, but not love.  No, she hates me. She will\nnot forgive me,  he thought.\n\n It is awful! awful!  he said.\n\nAt that moment in the next room a child began to cry; probably it had\nfallen down. Darya Alexandrovna listened, and her face suddenly\nsoftened.\n\nShe seemed to be pulling herself together for a few seconds, as though\nshe did not know where she was, and what she was doing, and getting up\nrapidly, she moved towards the door.\n\n Well, she loves my child,  he thought, noticing the change of her face\nat the child s cry,  my child: how can she hate me? \n\n Dolly, one word more,  he said, following her.\n\n If you come near me, I will call in the servants, the children! They\nmay all know you are a scoundrel! I am going away at once, and you may\nlive here with your mistress! \n\nAnd she went out, slamming the door.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch sighed, wiped his face, and with a subdued tread\nwalked out of the room.  Matvey says she will come round; but how? I\ndon t see the least chance of it. Ah, oh, how horrible it is! And how\nvulgarly she shouted,  he said to himself, remembering her shriek and\nthe words scoundrel  and  mistress.   And very likely the maids were\nlistening! Horribly vulgar! horrible!  Stepan Arkadyevitch stood a few\nseconds alone, wiped his face, squared his chest, and walked out of the\nroom.\n\nIt was Friday, and in the dining-room the German watchmaker was winding\nup the clock. Stepan Arkadyevitch remembered his joke about this\npunctual, bald watchmaker,  that the German was wound up for a whole\nlifetime himself, to wind up watches,  and he smiled. Stepan\nArkadyevitch was fond of a joke:  And maybe she will come round! That s\na good expression,  _come round,_  he thought.  I must repeat that. \n\n Matvey!  he shouted.  Arrange everything with Darya in the sitting\nroom for Anna Arkadyevna,  he said to Matvey when he came in.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch put on his fur coat and went out onto the steps.\n\n You won t dine at home?  said Matvey, seeing him off.\n\n That s as it happens. But here s for the housekeeping,  he said,\ntaking ten roubles from his pocketbook.  That ll be enough. \n\n Enough or not enough, we must make it do,  said Matvey, slamming the\ncarriage door and stepping back onto the steps.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna meanwhile having pacified the child, and knowing\nfrom the sound of the carriage that he had gone off, went back again to\nher bedroom. It was her solitary refuge from the household cares which\ncrowded upon her directly she went out from it. Even now, in the short\ntime she had been in the nursery, the English governess and Matrona\nPhilimonovna had succeeded in putting several questions to her, which\ndid not admit of delay, and which only she could answer:  What were the\nchildren to put on for their walk? Should they have any milk? Should\nnot a new cook be sent for? \n\n Ah, let me alone, let me alone!  she said, and going back to her\nbedroom she sat down in the same place as she had sat when talking to\nher husband, clasping tightly her thin hands with the rings that\nslipped down on her bony fingers, and fell to going over in her memory\nall the conversation.  He has gone! But has he broken it off with her? \nshe thought.  Can it be he sees her? Why didn t I ask him! No, no,\nreconciliation is impossible. Even if we remain in the same house, we\nare strangers strangers forever!  She repeated again with special\nsignificance the word so dreadful to her.  And how I loved him! my God,\nhow I loved him!... How I loved him! And now don t I love him? Don t I\nlove him more than before? The most horrible thing is,  she began, but\ndid not finish her thought, because Matrona Philimonovna put her head\nin at the door.\n\n Let us send for my brother,  she said;  he can get a dinner anyway, or\nwe shall have the children getting nothing to eat till six again, like\nyesterday. \n\n Very well, I will come directly and see about it. But did you send for\nsome new milk? \n\nAnd Darya Alexandrovna plunged into the duties of the day, and drowned\nher grief in them for a time.\n\n\nChapter 5\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch had learned easily at school, thanks to his\nexcellent abilities, but he had been idle and mischievous, and\ntherefore was one of the lowest in his class. But in spite of his\nhabitually dissipated mode of life, his inferior grade in the service,\nand his comparative youth, he occupied the honorable and lucrative\nposition of president of one of the government boards at Moscow. This\npost he had received through his sister Anna s husband, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch Karenin, who held one of the most important positions in\nthe ministry to whose department the Moscow office belonged. But if\nKarenin had not got his brother-in-law this berth, then through a\nhundred other personages brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, and\naunts Stiva Oblonsky would have received this post, or some other\nsimilar one, together with the salary of six thousand absolutely\nneedful for him, as his affairs, in spite of his wife s considerable\nproperty, were in an embarrassed condition.\n\nHalf Moscow and Petersburg were friends and relations of Stepan\nArkadyevitch. He was born in the midst of those who had been and are\nthe powerful ones of this world. One-third of the men in the\ngovernment, the older men, had been friends of his father s, and had\nknown him in petticoats; another third were his intimate chums, and the\nremainder were friendly acquaintances. Consequently the distributors of\nearthly blessings in the shape of places, rents, shares, and such, were\nall his friends, and could not overlook one of their own set; and\nOblonsky had no need to make any special exertion to get a lucrative\npost. He had only not to refuse things, not to show jealousy, not to be\nquarrelsome or take offense, all of which from his characteristic good\nnature he never did. It would have struck him as absurd if he had been\ntold that he would not get a position with the salary he required,\nespecially as he expected nothing out of the way; he only wanted what\nthe men of his own age and standing did get, and he was no worse\nqualified for performing duties of the kind than any other man.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was not merely liked by all who knew him for his\ngood humor, but for his bright disposition, and his unquestionable\nhonesty. In him, in his handsome, radiant figure, his sparkling eyes,\nblack hair and eyebrows, and the white and red of his face, there was\nsomething which produced a physical effect of kindliness and good humor\non the people who met him.  Aha! Stiva! Oblonsky! Here he is!  was\nalmost always said with a smile of delight on meeting him. Even though\nit happened at times that after a conversation with him it seemed that\nnothing particularly delightful had happened, the next day, and the\nnext, everyone was just as delighted at meeting him again.\n\nAfter filling for three years the post of president of one of the\ngovernment boards at Moscow, Stepan Arkadyevitch had won the respect,\nas well as the liking, of his fellow-officials, subordinates, and\nsuperiors, and all who had had business with him. The principal\nqualities in Stepan Arkadyevitch which had gained him this universal\nrespect in the service consisted, in the first place, of his extreme\nindulgence for others, founded on a consciousness of his own\nshortcomings; secondly, of his perfect liberalism not the liberalism he\nread of in the papers, but the liberalism that was in his blood, in\nvirtue of which he treated all men perfectly equally and exactly the\nsame, whatever their fortune or calling might be; and thirdly the most\nimportant point his complete indifference to the business in which he\nwas engaged, in consequence of which he was never carried away, and\nnever made mistakes.\n\nOn reaching the offices of the board, Stepan Arkadyevitch, escorted by\na deferential porter with a portfolio, went into his little private\nroom, put on his uniform, and went into the boardroom. The clerks and\ncopyists all rose, greeting him with good-humored deference. Stepan\nArkadyevitch moved quickly, as ever, to his place, shook hands with his\ncolleagues, and sat down. He made a joke or two, and talked just as\nmuch as was consistent with due decorum, and began work. No one knew\nbetter than Stepan Arkadyevitch how to hit on the exact line between\nfreedom, simplicity, and official stiffness necessary for the agreeable\nconduct of business. A secretary, with the good-humored deference\ncommon to everyone in Stepan Arkadyevitch s office, came up with\npapers, and began to speak in the familiar and easy tone which had been\nintroduced by Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n We have succeeded in getting the information from the government\ndepartment of Penza. Here, would you care?... \n\n You ve got them at last?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laying his finger\non the paper.  Now, gentlemen.... \n\nAnd the sitting of the board began.\n\n If they knew,  he thought, bending his head with a significant air as\nhe listened to the report,  what a guilty little boy their president\nwas half an hour ago.  And his eyes were laughing during the reading of\nthe report. Till two o clock the sitting would go on without a break,\nand at two o clock there would be an interval and luncheon.\n\nIt was not yet two, when the large glass doors of the boardroom\nsuddenly opened and someone came in.\n\nAll the officials sitting on the further side under the portrait of the\nTsar and the eagle, delighted at any distraction, looked round at the\ndoor; but the doorkeeper standing at the door at once drove out the\nintruder, and closed the glass door after him.\n\nWhen the case had been read through, Stepan Arkadyevitch got up and\nstretched, and by way of tribute to the liberalism of the times took\nout a cigarette in the boardroom and went into his private room. Two of\nthe members of the board, the old veteran in the service, Nikitin, and\nthe _Kammerjunker_ Grinevitch, went in with him.\n\n We shall have time to finish after lunch,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n To be sure we shall!  said Nikitin.\n\n A pretty sharp fellow this Fomin must be,  said Grinevitch of one of\nthe persons taking part in the case they were examining.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch frowned at Grinevitch s words, giving him thereby\nto understand that it was improper to pass judgment prematurely, and\nmade him no reply.\n\n Who was that came in?  he asked the doorkeeper.\n\n Someone, your excellency, crept in without permission directly my back\nwas turned. He was asking for you. I told him: when the members come\nout, then.... \n\n Where is he? \n\n Maybe he s gone into the passage, but here he comes anyway. That is\nhe,  said the doorkeeper, pointing to a strongly built,\nbroad-shouldered man with a curly beard, who, without taking off his\nsheepskin cap, was running lightly and rapidly up the worn steps of the\nstone staircase. One of the members going down a lean official with a\nportfolio stood out of his way and looked disapprovingly at the legs of\nthe stranger, then glanced inquiringly at Oblonsky.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was standing at the top of the stairs. His\ngood-naturedly beaming face above the embroidered collar of his uniform\nbeamed more than ever when he recognized the man coming up.\n\n Why, it s actually you, Levin, at last!  he said with a friendly\nmocking smile, scanning Levin as he approached.  How is it you have\ndeigned to look me up in this den?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, and not\ncontent with shaking hands, he kissed his friend.  Have you been here\nlong? \n\n I have just come, and very much wanted to see you,  said Levin,\nlooking shyly and at the same time angrily and uneasily around.\n\n Well, let s go into my room,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who knew his\nfriend s sensitive and irritable shyness, and, taking his arm, he drew\nhim along, as though guiding him through dangers.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was on familiar terms with almost all his\nacquaintances, and called almost all of them by their Christian names:\nold men of sixty, boys of twenty, actors, ministers, merchants, and\nadjutant-generals, so that many of his intimate chums were to be found\nat the extreme ends of the social ladder, and would have been very much\nsurprised to learn that they had, through the medium of Oblonsky,\nsomething in common. He was the familiar friend of everyone with whom\nhe took a glass of champagne, and he took a glass of champagne with\neveryone, and when in consequence he met any of his disreputable chums,\nas he used in joke to call many of his friends, in the presence of his\nsubordinates, he well knew how, with his characteristic tact, to\ndiminish the disagreeable impression made on them. Levin was not a\ndisreputable chum, but Oblonsky, with his ready tact, felt that Levin\nfancied he might not care to show his intimacy with him before his\nsubordinates, and so he made haste to take him off into his room.\n\nLevin was almost of the same age as Oblonsky; their intimacy did not\nrest merely on champagne. Levin had been the friend and companion of\nhis early youth. They were fond of one another in spite of the\ndifference of their characters and tastes, as friends are fond of one\nanother who have been together in early youth. But in spite of this,\neach of them as is often the way with men who have selected careers of\ndifferent kinds though in discussion he would even justify the other s\ncareer, in his heart despised it. It seemed to each of them that the\nlife he led himself was the only real life, and the life led by his\nfriend was a mere phantasm. Oblonsky could not restrain a slight\nmocking smile at the sight of Levin. How often he had seen him come up\nto Moscow from the country where he was doing something, but what\nprecisely Stepan Arkadyevitch could never quite make out, and indeed he\ntook no interest in the matter. Levin arrived in Moscow always excited\nand in a hurry, rather ill at ease and irritated by his own want of\nease, and for the most part with a perfectly new, unexpected view of\nthings. Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed at this, and liked it. In the same\nway Levin in his heart despised the town mode of life of his friend,\nand his official duties, which he laughed at, and regarded as trifling.\nBut the difference was that Oblonsky, as he was doing the same as\neveryone did, laughed complacently and good-humoredly, while Levin\nlaughed without complacency and sometimes angrily.\n\n We have long been expecting you,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, going into\nhis room and letting Levin s hand go as though to show that here all\ndanger was over.  I am very, very glad to see you,  he went on.  Well,\nhow are you? Eh? When did you come? \n\nLevin was silent, looking at the unknown faces of Oblonsky s two\ncompanions, and especially at the hand of the elegant Grinevitch, which\nhad such long white fingers, such long yellow filbert-shaped nails, and\nsuch huge shining studs on the shirt-cuff, that apparently they\nabsorbed all his attention, and allowed him no freedom of thought.\nOblonsky noticed this at once, and smiled.\n\n Ah, to be sure, let me introduce you,  he said.  My colleagues: Philip\nIvanitch Nikitin, Mihail Stanislavitch Grinevitch and turning to\nLevin a district councilor, a modern district councilman, a gymnast\nwho lifts thirteen stone with one hand, a cattle-breeder and sportsman,\nand my friend, Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, the brother of Sergey\nIvanovitch Koznishev. \n\n Delighted,  said the veteran.\n\n I have the honor of knowing your brother, Sergey Ivanovitch,  said\nGrinevitch, holding out his slender hand with its long nails.\n\nLevin frowned, shook hands coldly, and at once turned to Oblonsky.\nThough he had a great respect for his half-brother, an author well\nknown to all Russia, he could not endure it when people treated him not\nas Konstantin Levin, but as the brother of the celebrated Koznishev.\n\n No, I am no longer a district councilor. I have quarreled with them\nall, and don t go to the meetings any more,  he said, turning to\nOblonsky.\n\n You ve been quick about it!  said Oblonsky with a smile.  But how?\nwhy? \n\n It s a long story. I will tell you some time,  said Levin, but he\nbegan telling him at once.  Well, to put it shortly, I was convinced\nthat nothing was really done by the district councils, or ever could\nbe,  he began, as though someone had just insulted him.  On one side\nit s a plaything; they play at being a parliament, and I m neither\nyoung enough nor old enough to find amusement in playthings; and on the\nother side  (he stammered)  it s a means for the coterie of the\ndistrict to make money. Formerly they had wardships, courts of justice,\nnow they have the district council not in the form of bribes, but in\nthe form of unearned salary,  he said, as hotly as though someone of\nthose present had opposed his opinion.\n\n Aha! You re in a new phase again, I see a conservative,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch.  However, we can go into that later. \n\n Yes, later. But I wanted to see you,  said Levin, looking with hatred\nat Grinevitch s hand.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch gave a scarcely perceptible smile.\n\n How was it you used to say you would never wear European dress again? \nhe said, scanning his new suit, obviously cut by a French tailor.  Ah!\nI see: a new phase. \n\nLevin suddenly blushed, not as grown men blush, slightly, without being\nthemselves aware of it, but as boys blush, feeling that they are\nridiculous through their shyness, and consequently ashamed of it and\nblushing still more, almost to the point of tears. And it was so\nstrange to see this sensible, manly face in such a childish plight,\nthat Oblonsky left off looking at him.\n\n Oh, where shall we meet? You know I want very much to talk to you, \nsaid Levin.\n\nOblonsky seemed to ponder.\n\n I ll tell you what: let s go to Gurin s to lunch, and there we can\ntalk. I am free till three. \n\n No,  answered Levin, after an instant s thought,  I have got to go on\nsomewhere else. \n\n All right, then, let s dine together. \n\n Dine together? But I have nothing very particular, only a few words to\nsay, and a question I want to ask you, and we can have a talk\nafterwards. \n\n Well, say the few words, then, at once, and we ll gossip after\ndinner. \n\n Well, it s this,  said Levin;  but it s of no importance, though. \n\nHis face all at once took an expression of anger from the effort he was\nmaking to surmount his shyness.\n\n What are the Shtcherbatskys doing? Everything as it used to be?  he\nsaid.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch, who had long known that Levin was in love with his\nsister-in-law, Kitty, gave a hardly perceptible smile, and his eyes\nsparkled merrily.\n\n You said a few words, but I can t answer in a few words, because....\nExcuse me a minute.... \n\nA secretary came in, with respectful familiarity and the modest\nconsciousness, characteristic of every secretary, of superiority to his\nchief in the knowledge of their business; he went up to Oblonsky with\nsome papers, and began, under pretense of asking a question, to explain\nsome objection. Stepan Arkadyevitch, without hearing him out, laid his\nhand genially on the secretary s sleeve.\n\n No, you do as I told you,  he said, softening his words with a smile,\nand with a brief explanation of his view of the matter he turned away\nfrom the papers, and said:  So do it that way, if you please, Zahar\nNikititch. \n\nThe secretary retired in confusion. During the consultation with the\nsecretary Levin had completely recovered from his embarrassment. He was\nstanding with his elbows on the back of a chair, and on his face was a\nlook of ironical attention.\n\n I don t understand it, I don t understand it,  he said.\n\n What don t you understand?  said Oblonsky, smiling as brightly as\never, and picking up a cigarette. He expected some queer outburst from\nLevin.\n\n I don t understand what you are doing,  said Levin, shrugging his\nshoulders.  How can you do it seriously? \n\n Why not? \n\n Why, because there s nothing in it. \n\n You think so, but we re overwhelmed with work. \n\n On paper. But, there, you ve a gift for it,  added Levin.\n\n That s to say, you think there s a lack of something in me? \n\n Perhaps so,  said Levin.  But all the same I admire your grandeur, and\nam proud that I ve a friend in such a great person. You ve not answered\nmy question, though,  he went on, with a desperate effort looking\nOblonsky straight in the face.\n\n Oh, that s all very well. You wait a bit, and you ll come to this\nyourself. It s very nice for you to have over six thousand acres in the\nKarazinsky district, and such muscles, and the freshness of a girl of\ntwelve; still you ll be one of us one day. Yes, as to your question,\nthere is no change, but it s a pity you ve been away so long. \n\n Oh, why so?  Levin queried, panic-stricken.\n\n Oh, nothing,  responded Oblonsky.  We ll talk it over. But what s\nbrought you up to town? \n\n Oh, we ll talk about that, too, later on,  said Levin, reddening again\nup to his ears.\n\n All right. I see,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  I should ask you to come\nto us, you know, but my wife s not quite the thing. But I tell you\nwhat; if you want to see them, they re sure now to be at the Zoological\nGardens from four to five. Kitty skates. You drive along there, and\nI ll come and fetch you, and we ll go and dine somewhere together. \n\n Capital. So good-bye till then. \n\n Now mind, you ll forget, I know you, or rush off home to the country! \nStepan Arkadyevitch called out laughing.\n\n No, truly! \n\nAnd Levin went out of the room, only when he was in the doorway\nremembering that he had forgotten to take leave of Oblonsky s\ncolleagues.\n\n That gentleman must be a man of great energy,  said Grinevitch, when\nLevin had gone away.\n\n Yes, my dear boy,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, nodding his head,  he s a\nlucky fellow! Over six thousand acres in the Karazinsky district;\neverything before him; and what youth and vigor! Not like some of us. \n\n You have a great deal to complain of, haven t you, Stepan\nArkadyevitch? \n\n Ah, yes, I m in a poor way, a bad way,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch with\na heavy sigh.\n\n\nChapter 6\n\nWhen Oblonsky asked Levin what had brought him to town, Levin blushed,\nand was furious with himself for blushing, because he could not answer,\n I have come to make your sister-in-law an offer,  though that was\nprecisely what he had come for.\n\nThe families of the Levins and the Shtcherbatskys were old, noble\nMoscow families, and had always been on intimate and friendly terms.\nThis intimacy had grown still closer during Levin s student days. He\nhad both prepared for the university with the young Prince\nShtcherbatsky, the brother of Kitty and Dolly, and had entered at the\nsame time with him. In those days Levin used often to be in the\nShtcherbatskys  house, and he was in love with the Shtcherbatsky\nhousehold. Strange as it may appear, it was with the household, the\nfamily, that Konstantin Levin was in love, especially with the feminine\nhalf of the household. Levin did not remember his own mother, and his\nonly sister was older than he was, so that it was in the\nShtcherbatskys  house that he saw for the first time that inner life of\nan old, noble, cultivated, and honorable family of which he had been\ndeprived by the death of his father and mother. All the members of that\nfamily, especially the feminine half, were pictured by him, as it were,\nwrapped about with a mysterious poetical veil, and he not only\nperceived no defects whatever in them, but under the poetical veil that\nshrouded them he assumed the existence of the loftiest sentiments and\nevery possible perfection. Why it was the three young ladies had one\nday to speak French, and the next English; why it was that at certain\nhours they played by turns on the piano, the sounds of which were\naudible in their brother s room above, where the students used to work;\nwhy they were visited by those professors of French literature, of\nmusic, of drawing, of dancing; why at certain hours all the three young\nladies, with Mademoiselle Linon, drove in the coach to the Tversky\nboulevard, dressed in their satin cloaks, Dolly in a long one, Natalia\nin a half-long one, and Kitty in one so short that her shapely legs in\ntightly-drawn red stockings were visible to all beholders; why it was\nthey had to walk about the Tversky boulevard escorted by a footman with\na gold cockade in his hat all this and much more that was done in their\nmysterious world he did not understand, but he was sure that everything\nthat was done there was very good, and he was in love precisely with\nthe mystery of the proceedings.\n\nIn his student days he had all but been in love with the eldest, Dolly,\nbut she was soon married to Oblonsky. Then he began being in love with\nthe second. He felt, as it were, that he had to be in love with one of\nthe sisters, only he could not quite make out which. But Natalia, too,\nhad hardly made her appearance in the world when she married the\ndiplomat Lvov. Kitty was still a child when Levin left the university.\nYoung Shtcherbatsky went into the navy, was drowned in the Baltic, and\nLevin s relations with the Shtcherbatskys, in spite of his friendship\nwith Oblonsky, became less intimate. But when early in the winter of\nthis year Levin came to Moscow, after a year in the country, and saw\nthe Shtcherbatskys, he realized which of the three sisters he was\nindeed destined to love.\n\nOne would have thought that nothing could be simpler than for him, a\nman of good family, rather rich than poor, and thirty-two years old, to\nmake the young Princess Shtcherbatskaya an offer of marriage; in all\nlikelihood he would at once have been looked upon as a good match. But\nLevin was in love, and so it seemed to him that Kitty was so perfect in\nevery respect that she was a creature far above everything earthly; and\nthat he was a creature so low and so earthly that it could not even be\nconceived that other people and she herself could regard him as worthy\nof her.\n\nAfter spending two months in Moscow in a state of enchantment, seeing\nKitty almost every day in society, into which he went so as to meet\nher, he abruptly decided that it could not be, and went back to the\ncountry.\n\nLevin s conviction that it could not be was founded on the idea that in\nthe eyes of her family he was a disadvantageous and worthless match for\nthe charming Kitty, and that Kitty herself could not love him. In her\nfamily s eyes he had no ordinary, definite career and position in\nsociety, while his contemporaries by this time, when he was thirty-two,\nwere already, one a colonel, and another a professor, another director\nof a bank and railways, or president of a board like Oblonsky. But he\n(he knew very well how he must appear to others) was a country\ngentleman, occupied in breeding cattle, shooting game, and building\nbarns; in other words, a fellow of no ability, who had not turned out\nwell, and who was doing just what, according to the ideas of the world,\nis done by people fit for nothing else.\n\nThe mysterious, enchanting Kitty herself could not love such an ugly\nperson as he conceived himself to be, and, above all, such an ordinary,\nin no way striking person. Moreover, his attitude to Kitty in the\npast the attitude of a grown-up person to a child, arising from his\nfriendship with her brother seemed to him yet another obstacle to love.\nAn ugly, good-natured man, as he considered himself, might, he\nsupposed, be liked as a friend; but to be loved with such a love as\nthat with which he loved Kitty, one would need to be a handsome and,\nstill more, a distinguished man.\n\nHe had heard that women often did care for ugly and ordinary men, but\nhe did not believe it, for he judged by himself, and he could not\nhimself have loved any but beautiful, mysterious, and exceptional\nwomen.\n\nBut after spending two months alone in the country, he was convinced\nthat this was not one of those passions of which he had had experience\nin his early youth; that this feeling gave him not an instant s rest;\nthat he could not live without deciding the question, would she or\nwould she not be his wife, and that his despair had arisen only from\nhis own imaginings, that he had no sort of proof that he would be\nrejected. And he had now come to Moscow with a firm determination to\nmake an offer, and get married if he were accepted. Or ... he could not\nconceive what would become of him if he were rejected.\n\n\nChapter 7\n\nOn arriving in Moscow by a morning train, Levin had put up at the house\nof his elder half-brother, Koznishev. After changing his clothes he\nwent down to his brother s study, intending to talk to him at once\nabout the object of his visit, and to ask his advice; but his brother\nwas not alone. With him there was a well-known professor of philosophy,\nwho had come from Harkov expressly to clear up a difference that had\narisen between them on a very important philosophical question. The\nprofessor was carrying on a hot crusade against materialists. Sergey\nKoznishev had been following this crusade with interest, and after\nreading the professor s last article, he had written him a letter\nstating his objections. He accused the professor of making too great\nconcessions to the materialists. And the professor had promptly\nappeared to argue the matter out. The point in discussion was the\nquestion then in vogue: Is there a line to be drawn between\npsychological and physiological phenomena in man? and if so, where?\n\nSergey Ivanovitch met his brother with the smile of chilly friendliness\nhe always had for everyone, and introducing him to the professor, went\non with the conversation.\n\nA little man in spectacles, with a narrow forehead, tore himself from\nthe discussion for an instant to greet Levin, and then went on talking\nwithout paying any further attention to him. Levin sat down to wait\ntill the professor should go, but he soon began to get interested in\nthe subject under discussion.\n\nLevin had come across the magazine articles about which they were\ndisputing, and had read them, interested in them as a development of\nthe first principles of science, familiar to him as a natural science\nstudent at the university. But he had never connected these scientific\ndeductions as to the origin of man as an animal, as to reflex action,\nbiology, and sociology, with those questions as to the meaning of life\nand death to himself, which had of late been more and more often in his\nmind.\n\nAs he listened to his brother s argument with the professor, he noticed\nthat they connected these scientific questions with those spiritual\nproblems, that at times they almost touched on the latter; but every\ntime they were close upon what seemed to him the chief point, they\npromptly beat a hasty retreat, and plunged again into a sea of subtle\ndistinctions, reservations, quotations, allusions, and appeals to\nauthorities, and it was with difficulty that he understood what they\nwere talking about.\n\n I cannot admit it,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, with his habitual\nclearness, precision of expression, and elegance of phrase.  I cannot\nin any case agree with Keiss that my whole conception of the external\nworld has been derived from perceptions. The most fundamental idea, the\nidea of existence, has not been received by me through sensation;\nindeed, there is no special sense-organ for the transmission of such an\nidea. \n\n Yes, but they Wurt, and Knaust, and Pripasov would answer that your\nconsciousness of existence is derived from the conjunction of all your\nsensations, that that consciousness of existence is the result of your\nsensations. Wurt, indeed, says plainly that, assuming there are no\nsensations, it follows that there is no idea of existence. \n\n I maintain the contrary,  began Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\nBut here it seemed to Levin that just as they were close upon the real\npoint of the matter, they were again retreating, and he made up his\nmind to put a question to the professor.\n\n According to that, if my senses are annihilated, if my body is dead, I\ncan have no existence of any sort?  he queried.\n\nThe professor, in annoyance, and, as it were, mental suffering at the\ninterruption, looked round at the strange inquirer, more like a\nbargeman than a philosopher, and turned his eyes upon Sergey\nIvanovitch, as though to ask: What s one to say to him? But Sergey\nIvanovitch, who had been talking with far less heat and one-sidedness\nthan the professor, and who had sufficient breadth of mind to answer\nthe professor, and at the same time to comprehend the simple and\nnatural point of view from which the question was put, smiled and said:\n\n That question we have no right to answer as yet. \n\n We have not the requisite data,  chimed in the professor, and he went\nback to his argument.  No,  he said;  I would point out the fact that\nif, as Pripasov directly asserts, perception is based on sensation,\nthen we are bound to distinguish sharply between these two\nconceptions. \n\nLevin listened no more, and simply waited for the professor to go.\n\n\nChapter 8\n\nWhen the professor had gone, Sergey Ivanovitch turned to his brother.\n\n Delighted that you ve come. For some time, is it? How s your farming\ngetting on? \n\nLevin knew that his elder brother took little interest in farming, and\nonly put the question in deference to him, and so he only told him\nabout the sale of his wheat and money matters.\n\nLevin had meant to tell his brother of his determination to get\nmarried, and to ask his advice; he had indeed firmly resolved to do so.\nBut after seeing his brother, listening to his conversation with the\nprofessor, hearing afterwards the unconsciously patronizing tone in\nwhich his brother questioned him about agricultural matters (their\nmother s property had not been divided, and Levin took charge of both\ntheir shares), Levin felt that he could not for some reason begin to\ntalk to him of his intention of marrying. He felt that his brother\nwould not look at it as he would have wished him to.\n\n Well, how is your district council doing?  asked Sergey Ivanovitch,\nwho was greatly interested in these local boards and attached great\nimportance to them.\n\n I really don t know. \n\n What! Why, surely you re a member of the board? \n\n No, I m not a member now; I ve resigned,  answered Levin,  and I no\nlonger attend the meetings. \n\n What a pity!  commented Sergey Ivanovitch, frowning.\n\nLevin in self-defense began to describe what took place in the meetings\nin his district.\n\n That s how it always is!  Sergey Ivanovitch interrupted him.  We\nRussians are always like that. Perhaps it s our strong point, really,\nthe faculty of seeing our own shortcomings; but we overdo it, we\ncomfort ourselves with irony which we always have on the tip of our\ntongues. All I say is, give such rights as our local self-government to\nany other European people why, the Germans or the English would have\nworked their way to freedom from them, while we simply turn them into\nridicule. \n\n But how can it be helped?  said Levin penitently.  It was my last\neffort. And I did try with all my soul. I can t. I m no good at it. \n\n It s not that you re no good at it,  said Sergey Ivanovitch;  it is\nthat you don t look at it as you should. \n\n Perhaps not,  Levin answered dejectedly.\n\n Oh! do you know brother Nikolay s turned up again? \n\nThis brother Nikolay was the elder brother of Konstantin Levin, and\nhalf-brother of Sergey Ivanovitch; a man utterly ruined, who had\ndissipated the greater part of his fortune, was living in the strangest\nand lowest company, and had quarreled with his brothers.\n\n What did you say?  Levin cried with horror.  How do you know? \n\n Prokofy saw him in the street. \n\n Here in Moscow? Where is he? Do you know?  Levin got up from his\nchair, as though on the point of starting off at once.\n\n I am sorry I told you,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, shaking his head at\nhis younger brother s excitement.  I sent to find out where he is\nliving, and sent him his IOU to Trubin, which I paid. This is the\nanswer he sent me. \n\nAnd Sergey Ivanovitch took a note from under a paper-weight and handed\nit to his brother.\n\nLevin read in the queer, familiar handwriting:  I humbly beg you to\nleave me in peace. That s the only favor I ask of my gracious\nbrothers. Nikolay Levin. \n\nLevin read it, and without raising his head stood with the note in his\nhands opposite Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\nThere was a struggle in his heart between the desire to forget his\nunhappy brother for the time, and the consciousness that it would be\nbase to do so.\n\n He obviously wants to offend me,  pursued Sergey Ivanovitch;  but he\ncannot offend me, and I should have wished with all my heart to assist\nhim, but I know it s impossible to do that. \n\n Yes, yes,  repeated Levin.  I understand and appreciate your attitude\nto him; but I shall go and see him. \n\n If you want to, do; but I shouldn t advise it,  said Sergey\nIvanovitch.  As regards myself, I have no fear of your doing so; he\nwill not make you quarrel with me; but for your own sake, I should say\nyou would do better not to go. You can t do him any good; still, do as\nyou please. \n\n Very likely I can t do any good, but I feel especially at such a\nmoment but that s another thing I feel I could not be at peace. \n\n Well, that I don t understand,  said Sergey Ivanovitch.  One thing I\ndo understand,  he added;  it s a lesson in humility. I have come to\nlook very differently and more charitably on what is called infamous\nsince brother Nikolay has become what he is ... you know what he\ndid.... \n\n Oh, it s awful, awful!  repeated Levin.\n\nAfter obtaining his brother s address from Sergey Ivanovitch s footman,\nLevin was on the point of setting off at once to see him, but on second\nthought he decided to put off his visit till the evening. The first\nthing to do to set his heart at rest was to accomplish what he had come\nto Moscow for. From his brother s Levin went to Oblonsky s office, and\non getting news of the Shtcherbatskys from him, he drove to the place\nwhere he had been told he might find Kitty.\n\n\nChapter 9\n\nAt four o clock, conscious of his throbbing heart, Levin stepped out of\na hired sledge at the Zoological Gardens, and turned along the path to\nthe frozen mounds and the skating ground, knowing that he would\ncertainly find her there, as he had seen the Shtcherbatskys  carriage\nat the entrance.\n\nIt was a bright, frosty day. Rows of carriages, sledges, drivers, and\npolicemen were standing in the approach. Crowds of well-dressed people,\nwith hats bright in the sun, swarmed about the entrance and along the\nwell-swept little paths between the little houses adorned with carving\nin the Russian style. The old curly birches of the gardens, all their\ntwigs laden with snow, looked as though freshly decked in sacred\nvestments.\n\nHe walked along the path towards the skating-ground, and kept saying to\nhimself You mustn t be excited, you must be calm. What s the matter\nwith you? What do you want? Be quiet, stupid,  he conjured his heart.\nAnd the more he tried to compose himself, the more breathless he found\nhimself. An acquaintance met him and called him by his name, but Levin\ndid not even recognize him. He went towards the mounds, whence came the\nclank of the chains of sledges as they slipped down or were dragged up,\nthe rumble of the sliding sledges, and the sounds of merry voices. He\nwalked on a few steps, and the skating-ground lay open before his eyes,\nand at once, amidst all the skaters, he knew her.\n\nHe knew she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized on his\nheart. She was standing talking to a lady at the opposite end of the\nground. There was apparently nothing striking either in her dress or\nher attitude. But for Levin she was as easy to find in that crowd as a\nrose among nettles. Everything was made bright by her. She was the\nsmile that shed light on all round her.  Is it possible I can go over\nthere on the ice, go up to her?  he thought. The place where she stood\nseemed to him a holy shrine, unapproachable, and there was one moment\nwhen he was almost retreating, so overwhelmed was he with terror. He\nhad to make an effort to master himself, and to remind himself that\npeople of all sorts were moving about her, and that he too might come\nthere to skate. He walked down, for a long while avoiding looking at\nher as at the sun, but seeing her, as one does the sun, without\nlooking.\n\nOn that day of the week and at that time of day people of one set, all\nacquainted with one another, used to meet on the ice. There were crack\nskaters there, showing off their skill, and learners clinging to chairs\nwith timid, awkward movements, boys, and elderly people skating with\nhygienic motives. They seemed to Levin an elect band of blissful beings\nbecause they were here, near her. All the skaters, it seemed, with\nperfect self-possession, skated towards her, skated by her, even spoke\nto her, and were happy, quite apart from her, enjoying the capital ice\nand the fine weather.\n\nNikolay Shtcherbatsky, Kitty s cousin, in a short jacket and tight\ntrousers, was sitting on a garden seat with his skates on. Seeing\nLevin, he shouted to him:\n\n Ah, the first skater in Russia! Been here long? First-rate ice do put\nyour skates on. \n\n I haven t got my skates,  Levin answered, marveling at this boldness\nand ease in her presence, and not for one second losing sight of her,\nthough he did not look at her. He felt as though the sun were coming\nnear him. She was in a corner, and turning out her slender feet in\ntheir high boots with obvious timidity, she skated towards him. A boy\nin Russian dress, desperately waving his arms and bowed down to the\nground, overtook her. She skated a little uncertainly; taking her hands\nout of the little muff that hung on a cord, she held them ready for\nemergency, and looking towards Levin, whom she had recognized, she\nsmiled at him, and at her own fears. When she had got round the turn,\nshe gave herself a push off with one foot, and skated straight up to\nShtcherbatsky. Clutching at his arm, she nodded smiling to Levin. She\nwas more splendid than he had imagined her.\n\nWhen he thought of her, he could call up a vivid picture of her to\nhimself, especially the charm of that little fair head, so freely set\non the shapely girlish shoulders, and so full of childish brightness\nand good humor. The childishness of her expression, together with the\ndelicate beauty of her figure, made up her special charm, and that he\nfully realized. But what always struck him in her as something unlooked\nfor, was the expression of her eyes, soft, serene, and truthful, and\nabove all, her smile, which always transported Levin to an enchanted\nworld, where he felt himself softened and tender, as he remembered\nhimself in some days of his early childhood.\n\n Have you been here long?  she said, giving him her hand.  Thank you, \nshe added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her\nmuff.\n\n I? I ve not long ... yesterday ... I mean today ... I arrived, \nanswered Levin, in his emotion not at once understanding her question.\n I was meaning to come and see you,  he said; and then, recollecting\nwith what intention he was trying to see her, he was promptly overcome\nwith confusion and blushed.\n\n I didn t know you could skate, and skate so well. \n\nShe looked at him earnestly, as though wishing to make out the cause of\nhis confusion.\n\n Your praise is worth having. The tradition is kept up here that you\nare the best of skaters,  she said, with her little black-gloved hand\nbrushing a grain of hoarfrost off her muff.\n\n Yes, I used once to skate with passion; I wanted to reach perfection. \n\n You do everything with passion, I think,  she said smiling.  I should\nso like to see how you skate. Put on skates, and let us skate\ntogether. \n\n Skate together! Can that be possible?  thought Levin, gazing at her.\n\n I ll put them on directly,  he said.\n\nAnd he went off to get skates.\n\n It s a long while since we ve seen you here, sir,  said the attendant,\nsupporting his foot, and screwing on the heel of the skate.  Except\nyou, there s none of the gentlemen first-rate skaters. Will that be all\nright?  said he, tightening the strap.\n\n Oh, yes, yes; make haste, please,  answered Levin, with difficulty\nrestraining the smile of rapture which would overspread his face.\n Yes,  he thought,  this now is life, this is happiness! _Together,_\nshe said; _let us skate together!_ Speak to her now? But that s just\nwhy I m afraid to speak because I m happy now, happy in hope,\nanyway.... And then?... But I must! I must! I must! Away with\nweakness! \n\nLevin rose to his feet, took off his overcoat, and scurrying over the\nrough ice round the hut, came out on the smooth ice and skated without\neffort, as it were, by simple exercise of will, increasing and\nslackening speed and turning his course. He approached with timidity,\nbut again her smile reassured him.\n\nShe gave him her hand, and they set off side by side, going faster and\nfaster, and the more rapidly they moved the more tightly she grasped\nhis hand.\n\n With you I should soon learn; I somehow feel confidence in you,  she\nsaid to him.\n\n And I have confidence in myself when you are leaning on me,  he said,\nbut was at once panic-stricken at what he had said, and blushed. And\nindeed, no sooner had he uttered these words, when all at once, like\nthe sun going behind a cloud, her face lost all its friendliness, and\nLevin detected the familiar change in her expression that denoted the\nworking of thought; a crease showed on her smooth brow.\n\n Is there anything troubling you? though I ve no right to ask such a\nquestion,  he added hurriedly.\n\n Oh, why so?... No, I have nothing to trouble me,  she responded\ncoldly; and she added immediately:  You haven t seen Mlle. Linon, have\nyou? \n\n Not yet. \n\n Go and speak to her, she likes you so much. \n\n What s wrong? I have offended her. Lord help me!  thought Levin, and\nhe flew towards the old Frenchwoman with the gray ringlets, who was\nsitting on a bench. Smiling and showing her false teeth, she greeted\nhim as an old friend.\n\n Yes, you see we re growing up,  she said to him, glancing towards\nKitty,  and growing old. _Tiny bear_ has grown big now!  pursued the\nFrenchwoman, laughing, and she reminded him of his joke about the three\nyoung ladies whom he had compared to the three bears in the English\nnursery tale.  Do you remember that s what you used to call them? \n\nHe remembered absolutely nothing, but she had been laughing at the joke\nfor ten years now, and was fond of it.\n\n Now, go and skate, go and skate. Our Kitty has learned to skate\nnicely, hasn t she? \n\nWhen Levin darted up to Kitty her face was no longer stern; her eyes\nlooked at him with the same sincerity and friendliness, but Levin\nfancied that in her friendliness there was a certain note of deliberate\ncomposure. And he felt depressed. After talking a little of her old\ngoverness and her peculiarities, she questioned him about his life.\n\n Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter, aren t you?  she\nsaid.\n\n No, I m not dull, I am very busy,  he said, feeling that she was\nholding him in check by her composed tone, which he would not have the\nforce to break through, just as it had been at the beginning of the\nwinter.\n\n Are you going to stay in town long?  Kitty questioned him.\n\n I don t know,  he answered, not thinking of what he was saying. The\nthought that if he were held in check by her tone of quiet friendliness\nhe would end by going back again without deciding anything came into\nhis mind, and he resolved to make a struggle against it.\n\n How is it you don t know? \n\n I don t know. It depends upon you,  he said, and was immediately\nhorror-stricken at his own words.\n\nWhether it was that she had heard his words, or that she did not want\nto hear them, she made a sort of stumble, twice struck out, and\nhurriedly skated away from him. She skated up to Mlle. Linon, said\nsomething to her, and went towards the pavilion where the ladies took\noff their skates.\n\n My God! what have I done! Merciful God! help me, guide me,  said\nLevin, praying inwardly, and at the same time, feeling a need of\nviolent exercise, he skated about describing inner and outer circles.\n\nAt that moment one of the young men, the best of the skaters of the\nday, came out of the coffee-house in his skates, with a cigarette in\nhis mouth. Taking a run, he dashed down the steps in his skates,\ncrashing and bounding up and down. He flew down, and without even\nchanging the position of his hands, skated away over the ice.\n\n Ah, that s a new trick!  said Levin, and he promptly ran up to the top\nto do this new trick.\n\n Don t break your neck! it needs practice!  Nikolay Shtcherbatsky\nshouted after him.\n\nLevin went to the steps, took a run from above as best he could, and\ndashed down, preserving his balance in this unwonted movement with his\nhands. On the last step he stumbled, but barely touching the ice with\nhis hand, with a violent effort recovered himself, and skated off,\nlaughing.\n\n How splendid, how nice he is!  Kitty was thinking at that time, as she\ncame out of the pavilion with Mlle. Linon, and looked towards him with\na smile of quiet affection, as though he were a favorite brother.  And\ncan it be my fault, can I have done anything wrong? They talk of\nflirtation. I know it s not he that I love; but still I am happy with\nhim, and he s so jolly. Only, why did he say that?...  she mused.\n\nCatching sight of Kitty going away, and her mother meeting her at the\nsteps, Levin, flushed from his rapid exercise, stood still and pondered\na minute. He took off his skates, and overtook the mother and daughter\nat the entrance of the gardens.\n\n Delighted to see you,  said Princess Shtcherbatskaya.  On Thursdays we\nare home, as always. \n\n Today, then? \n\n We shall be pleased to see you,  the princess said stiffly.\n\nThis stiffness hurt Kitty, and she could not resist the desire to\nsmooth over her mother s coldness. She turned her head, and with a\nsmile said:\n\n Good-bye till this evening. \n\nAt that moment Stepan Arkadyevitch, his hat cocked on one side, with\nbeaming face and eyes, strode into the garden like a conquering hero.\nBut as he approached his mother-in-law, he responded in a mournful and\ncrestfallen tone to her inquiries about Dolly s health. After a little\nsubdued and dejected conversation with his mother-in-law, he threw out\nhis chest again, and put his arm in Levin s.\n\n Well, shall we set off?  he asked.  I ve been thinking about you all\nthis time, and I m very, very glad you ve come,  he said, looking him\nin the face with a significant air.\n\n Yes, come along,  answered Levin in ecstasy, hearing unceasingly the\nsound of that voice saying,  Good-bye till this evening,  and seeing\nthe smile with which it was said.\n\n To the England or the Hermitage? \n\n I don t mind which. \n\n All right, then, the England,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, selecting\nthat restaurant because he owed more there than at the Hermitage, and\nconsequently considered it mean to avoid it.  Have you got a sledge?\nThat s first-rate, for I sent my carriage home. \n\nThe friends hardly spoke all the way. Levin was wondering what that\nchange in Kitty s expression had meant, and alternately assuring\nhimself that there was hope, and falling into despair, seeing clearly\nthat his hopes were insane, and yet all the while he felt himself quite\nanother man, utterly unlike what he had been before her smile and those\nwords,  Good-bye till this evening. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was absorbed during the drive in composing the menu\nof the dinner.\n\n You like turbot, don t you?  he said to Levin as they were arriving.\n\n Eh?  responded Levin.  Turbot? Yes, I m _awfully_ fond of turbot. \n\n\nChapter 10\n\nWhen Levin went into the restaurant with Oblonsky, he could not help\nnoticing a certain peculiarity of expression, as it were, a restrained\nradiance, about the face and whole figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch.\nOblonsky took off his overcoat, and with his hat over one ear walked\ninto the dining-room, giving directions to the Tatar waiters, who were\nclustered about him in evening coats, bearing napkins. Bowing to right\nand left to the people he met, and here as everywhere joyously greeting\nacquaintances, he went up to the sideboard for a preliminary appetizer\nof fish and vodka, and said to the painted Frenchwoman decked in\nribbons, lace, and ringlets, behind the counter, something so amusing\nthat even that Frenchwoman was moved to genuine laughter. Levin for his\npart refrained from taking any vodka simply because he felt such a\nloathing of that Frenchwoman, all made up, it seemed, of false hair,\n_poudre de riz,_ and _vinaigre de toilette_. He made haste to move away\nfrom her, as from a dirty place. His whole soul was filled with\nmemories of Kitty, and there was a smile of triumph and happiness\nshining in his eyes.\n\n This way, your excellency, please. Your excellency won t be disturbed\nhere,  said a particularly pertinacious, white-headed old Tatar with\nimmense hips and coat-tails gaping widely behind.  Walk in, your\nexcellency,  he said to Levin; by way of showing his respect to Stepan\nArkadyevitch, being attentive to his guest as well.\n\nInstantly flinging a fresh cloth over the round table under the bronze\nchandelier, though it already had a table cloth on it, he pushed up\nvelvet chairs, and came to a standstill before Stepan Arkadyevitch with\na napkin and a bill of fare in his hands, awaiting his commands.\n\n If you prefer it, your excellency, a private room will be free\ndirectly; Prince Golistin with a lady. Fresh oysters have come in. \n\n Ah! oysters. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch became thoughtful.\n\n How if we were to change our program, Levin?  he said, keeping his\nfinger on the bill of fare. And his face expressed serious hesitation.\n Are the oysters good? Mind now. \n\n They re Flensburg, your excellency. We ve no Ostend. \n\n Flensburg will do, but are they fresh? \n\n Only arrived yesterday. \n\n Well, then, how if we were to begin with oysters, and so change the\nwhole program? Eh? \n\n It s all the same to me. I should like cabbage soup and porridge\nbetter than anything; but of course there s nothing like that here. \n\n _Porridge   la Russe,_ your honor would like?  said the Tatar, bending\ndown to Levin, like a nurse speaking to a child.\n\n No, joking apart, whatever you choose is sure to be good. I ve been\nskating, and I m hungry. And don t imagine,  he added, detecting a look\nof dissatisfaction on Oblonsky s face,  that I shan t appreciate your\nchoice. I am fond of good things. \n\n I should hope so! After all, it s one of the pleasures of life,  said\nStepan Arkadyevitch.  Well, then, my friend, you give us two or better\nsay three dozen oysters, clear soup with vegetables.... \n\n _Printani re,_  prompted the Tatar. But Stepan Arkadyevitch apparently\ndid not care to allow him the satisfaction of giving the French names\nof the dishes.\n\n With vegetables in it, you know. Then turbot with thick sauce, then\n... roast beef; and mind it s good. Yes, and capons, perhaps, and then\nsweets. \n\nThe Tatar, recollecting that it was Stepan Arkadyevitch s way not to\ncall the dishes by the names in the French bill of fare, did not repeat\nthem after him, but could not resist rehearsing the whole menu to\nhimself according to the bill: _Soupe printani re, turbot, sauce\nBeaumarchais, poulard   l estragon, mac doine de fruits_ ... etc.,  and\nthen instantly, as though worked by springs, laying down one bound bill\nof fare, he took up another, the list of wines, and submitted it to\nStepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n What shall we drink? \n\n What you like, only not too much. Champagne,  said Levin.\n\n What! to start with? You re right though, I dare say. Do you like the\nwhite seal? \n\n _Cachet blanc,_  prompted the Tatar.\n\n Very well, then, give us that brand with the oysters, and then we ll\nsee. \n\n Yes, sir. And what table wine? \n\n You can give us Nuits. Oh, no, better the classic Chablis. \n\n Yes, sir. And _your_ cheese, your excellency? \n\n Oh, yes, Parmesan. Or would you like another? \n\n No, it s all the same to me,  said Levin, unable to suppress a smile.\n\nAnd the Tatar ran off with flying coat-tails, and in five minutes\ndarted in with a dish of opened oysters on mother-of-pearl shells, and\na bottle between his fingers.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch crushed the starchy napkin, tucked it into his\nwaistcoat, and settling his arms comfortably, started on the oysters.\n\n Not bad,  he said, stripping the oysters from the pearly shell with a\nsilver fork, and swallowing them one after another.  Not bad,  he\nrepeated, turning his dewy, brilliant eyes from Levin to the Tatar.\n\nLevin ate the oysters indeed, though white bread and cheese would have\npleased him better. But he was admiring Oblonsky. Even the Tatar,\nuncorking the bottle and pouring the sparkling wine into the delicate\nglasses, glanced at Stepan Arkadyevitch, and settled his white cravat\nwith a perceptible smile of satisfaction.\n\n You don t care much for oysters, do you?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nemptying his wine-glass,  or you re worried about something. Eh? \n\nHe wanted Levin to be in good spirits. But it was not that Levin was\nnot in good spirits; he was ill at ease. With what he had in his soul,\nhe felt sore and uncomfortable in the restaurant, in the midst of\nprivate rooms where men were dining with ladies, in all this fuss and\nbustle; the surroundings of bronzes, looking-glasses, gas, and\nwaiters all of it was offensive to him. He was afraid of sullying what\nhis soul was brimful of.\n\n I? Yes, I am; but besides, all this bothers me,  he said.  You can t\nconceive how queer it all seems to a country person like me, as queer\nas that gentleman s nails I saw at your place.... \n\n Yes, I saw how much interested you were in poor Grinevitch s nails, \nsaid Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing.\n\n It s too much for me,  responded Levin.  Do try, now, and put yourself\nin my place, take the point of view of a country person. We in the\ncountry try to bring our hands into such a state as will be most\nconvenient for working with. So we cut our nails; sometimes we turn up\nour sleeves. And here people purposely let their nails grow as long as\nthey will, and link on small saucers by way of studs, so that they can\ndo nothing with their hands. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch smiled gaily.\n\n Oh, yes, that s just a sign that he has no need to do coarse work. His\nwork is with the mind.... \n\n Maybe. But still it s queer to me, just as at this moment it seems\nqueer to me that we country folks try to get our meals over as soon as\nwe can, so as to be ready for our work, while here are we trying to\ndrag out our meal as long as possible, and with that object eating\noysters.... \n\n Why, of course,  objected Stepan Arkadyevitch.  But that s just the\naim of civilization to make everything a source of enjoyment. \n\n Well, if that s its aim, I d rather be a savage. \n\n And so you are a savage. All you Levins are savages. \n\nLevin sighed. He remembered his brother Nikolay, and felt ashamed and\nsore, and he scowled; but Oblonsky began speaking of a subject which at\nonce drew his attention.\n\n Oh, I say, are you going tonight to our people, the Shtcherbatskys , I\nmean?  he said, his eyes sparkling significantly as he pushed away the\nempty rough shells, and drew the cheese towards him.\n\n Yes, I shall certainly go,  replied Levin;  though I fancied the\nprincess was not very warm in her invitation. \n\n What nonsense! That s her manner.... Come, boy, the soup!... That s\nher manner _grande dame,_  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  I m coming, too,\nbut I have to go to the Countess Bonina s rehearsal. Come, isn t it\ntrue that you re a savage? How do you explain the sudden way in which\nyou vanished from Moscow? The Shtcherbatskys were continually asking me\nabout you, as though I ought to know. The only thing I know is that you\nalways do what no one else does. \n\n Yes,  said Levin, slowly and with emotion,  you re right. I am a\nsavage. Only, my savageness is not in having gone away, but in coming\nnow. Now I have come.... \n\n Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!  broke in Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nlooking into Levin s eyes.\n\n Why? \n\n I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,\n\nAnd by his eyes I know a youth in love, \n\n\n\ndeclaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Everything is before you. \n\n Why, is it over for you already? \n\n No; not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the present is\nmine, and the present well, it s not all that it might be. \n\n How so? \n\n Oh, things go wrong. But I don t want to talk of myself, and besides I\ncan t explain it all,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Well, why have you\ncome to Moscow, then?... Hi! take away!  he called to the Tatar.\n\n You guess?  responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells of light fixed\non Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n I guess, but I can t be the first to talk about it. You can see by\nthat whether I guess right or wrong,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, gazing\nat Levin with a subtle smile.\n\n Well, and what have you to say to me?  said Levin in a quivering\nvoice, feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering too.\n How do you look at the question? \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of Chablis, never taking\nhis eyes off Levin.\n\n I?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,  there s nothing I desire so much as\nthat nothing! It would be the best thing that could be. \n\n But you re not making a mistake? You know what we re speaking of? \nsaid Levin, piercing him with his eyes.  You think it s possible? \n\n I think it s possible. Why not possible? \n\n No! do you really think it s possible? No, tell me all you think! Oh,\nbut if ... if refusal s in store for me!... Indeed I feel sure.... \n\n Why should you think that?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling at his\nexcitement.\n\n It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for me, and for her\ntoo. \n\n Oh, well, anyway there s nothing awful in it for a girl. Every girl s\nproud of an offer. \n\n Yes, every girl, but not she. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He so well knew that feeling of Levin s,\nthat for him all the girls in the world were divided into two classes:\none class all the girls in the world except her, and those girls with\nall sorts of human weaknesses, and very ordinary girls: the other\nclass she alone, having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than all\nhumanity.\n\n Stay, take some sauce,  he said, holding back Levin s hand as it\npushed away the sauce.\n\nLevin obediently helped himself to sauce, but would not let Stepan\nArkadyevitch go on with his dinner.\n\n No, stop a minute, stop a minute,  he said.  You must understand that\nit s a question of life and death for me. I have never spoken to anyone\nof this. And there s no one I could speak of it to, except you. You\nknow we re utterly unlike each other, different tastes and views and\neverything; but I know you re fond of me and understand me, and that s\nwhy I like you awfully. But for God s sake, be quite straightforward\nwith me. \n\n I tell you what I think,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling.  But I ll\nsay more: my wife is a wonderful woman....  Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed,\nremembering his position with his wife, and, after a moment s silence,\nresumed She has a gift of foreseeing things. She sees right through\npeople; but that s not all; she knows what will come to pass,\nespecially in the way of marriages. She foretold, for instance, that\nPrincess Shahovskaya would marry Brenteln. No one would believe it, but\nit came to pass. And she s on your side. \n\n How do you mean? \n\n It s not only that she likes you she says that Kitty is certain to be\nyour wife. \n\nAt these words Levin s face suddenly lighted up with a smile, a smile\nnot far from tears of emotion.\n\n She says that!  cried Levin.  I always said she was exquisite, your\nwife. There, that s enough, enough said about it,  he said, getting up\nfrom his seat.\n\n All right, but do sit down. \n\nBut Levin could not sit down. He walked with his firm tread twice up\nand down the little cage of a room, blinked his eyelids that his tears\nmight not fall, and only then sat down to the table.\n\n You must understand,  said he,  it s not love. I ve been in love, but\nit s not that. It s not my feeling, but a sort of force outside me has\ntaken possession of me. I went away, you see, because I made up my mind\nthat it could never be, you understand, as a happiness that does not\ncome on earth; but I ve struggled with myself, I see there s no living\nwithout it. And it must be settled. \n\n What did you go away for? \n\n Ah, stop a minute! Ah, the thoughts that come crowding on one! The\nquestions one must ask oneself! Listen. You can t imagine what you ve\ndone for me by what you said. I m so happy that I ve become positively\nhateful; I ve forgotten everything. I heard today that my brother\nNikolay ... you know, he s here ... I had even forgotten him. It seems\nto me that he s happy too. It s a sort of madness. But one thing s\nawful.... Here, you ve been married, you know the feeling ... it s\nawful that we old with a past ... not of love, but of sins ... are\nbrought all at once so near to a creature pure and innocent; it s\nloathsome, and that s why one can t help feeling oneself unworthy. \n\n Oh, well, you ve not many sins on your conscience. \n\n Alas! all the same,  said Levin,  when with loathing I go over my\nlife, I shudder and curse and bitterly regret it.... Yes. \n\n What would you have? The world s made so,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n The one comfort is like that prayer, which I always liked:  Forgive me\nnot according to my unworthiness, but according to Thy\nloving-kindness.  That s the only way she can forgive me. \n\n\nChapter 11\n\nLevin emptied his glass, and they were silent for a while.\n\n There s one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you know Vronsky? \nStepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.\n\n No, I don t. Why do you ask? \n\n Give us another bottle,  Stepan Arkadyevitch directed the Tatar, who\nwas filling up their glasses and fidgeting round them just when he was\nnot wanted.\n\n Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he s one of your rivals. \n\n Who s Vronsky?  said Levin, and his face was suddenly transformed from\nthe look of childlike ecstasy which Oblonsky had just been admiring to\nan angry and unpleasant expression.\n\n Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch Vronsky, and one\nof the finest specimens of the gilded youth of Petersburg. I made his\nacquaintance in Tver when I was there on official business, and he came\nthere for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great\nconnections, an aide-de-camp, and with all that a very nice,\ngood-natured fellow. But he s more than simply a good-natured fellow,\nas I ve found out here he s a cultivated man, too, and very\nintelligent; he s a man who ll make his mark. \n\nLevin scowled and was dumb.\n\n Well, he turned up here soon after you d gone, and as I can see, he s\nover head and ears in love with Kitty, and you know that her\nmother.... \n\n Excuse me, but I know nothing,  said Levin, frowning gloomily. And\nimmediately he recollected his brother Nikolay and how hateful he was\nto have been able to forget him.\n\n You wait a bit, wait a bit,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling and\ntouching his hand.  I ve told you what I know, and I repeat that in\nthis delicate and tender matter, as far as one can conjecture, I\nbelieve the chances are in your favor. \n\nLevin dropped back in his chair; his face was pale.\n\n But I would advise you to settle the thing as soon as may be,  pursued\nOblonsky, filling up his glass.\n\n No, thanks, I can t drink any more,  said Levin, pushing away his\nglass.  I shall be drunk.... Come, tell me how are you getting on?  he\nwent on, obviously anxious to change the conversation.\n\n One word more: in any case I advise you to settle the question soon.\nTonight I don t advise you to speak,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Go\nround tomorrow morning, make an offer in due form, and God bless\nyou.... \n\n Oh, do you still think of coming to me for some shooting? Come next\nspring, do,  said Levin.\n\nNow his whole soul was full of remorse that he had begun this\nconversation with Stepan Arkadyevitch. A feeling such as his was\nprofaned by talk of the rivalry of some Petersburg officer, of the\nsuppositions and the counsels of Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He knew what was passing in Levin s soul.\n\n I ll come some day,  he said.  But women, my boy, they re the pivot\neverything turns upon. Things are in a bad way with me, very bad. And\nit s all through women. Tell me frankly now,  he pursued, picking up a\ncigar and keeping one hand on his glass;  give me your advice. \n\n Why, what is it? \n\n I ll tell you. Suppose you re married, you love your wife, but you re\nfascinated by another woman.... \n\n Excuse me, but I m absolutely unable to comprehend how ... just as I\ncan t comprehend how I could now, after my dinner, go straight to a\nbaker s shop and steal a roll. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch s eyes sparkled more than usual.\n\n Why not? A roll will sometimes smell so good one can t resist it. \n\n Himmlisch ist s, wenn ich bezwungen\n\n    Meine irdische Begier;\n\nAber doch wenn s nich gelungen\n\n    Hatt  ich auch recht h bsch Plaisir! \n\n\n\nAs he said this, Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled subtly. Levin, too, could\nnot help smiling.\n\n Yes, but joking apart,  resumed Stepan Arkadyevitch,  you must\nunderstand that the woman is a sweet, gentle loving creature, poor and\nlonely, and has sacrificed everything. Now, when the thing s done,\ndon t you see, can one possibly cast her off? Even supposing one parts\nfrom her, so as not to break up one s family life, still, can one help\nfeeling for her, setting her on her feet, softening her lot? \n\n Well, you must excuse me there. You know to me all women are divided\ninto two classes ... at least no ... truer to say: there are women and\nthere are ... I ve never seen exquisite fallen beings, and I never\nshall see them, but such creatures as that painted Frenchwoman at the\ncounter with the ringlets are vermin to my mind, and all fallen women\nare the same. \n\n But the Magdalen? \n\n Ah, drop that! Christ would never have said those words if He had\nknown how they would be abused. Of all the Gospel those words are the\nonly ones remembered. However, I m not saying so much what I think, as\nwhat I feel. I have a loathing for fallen women. You re afraid of\nspiders, and I of these vermin. Most likely you ve not made a study of\nspiders and don t know their character; and so it is with me. \n\n It s very well for you to talk like that; it s very much like that\ngentleman in Dickens who used to fling all difficult questions over his\nright shoulder. But to deny the facts is no answer. What s to be\ndone you tell me that, what s to be done? Your wife gets older, while\nyou re full of life. Before you ve time to look round, you feel that\nyou can t love your wife with love, however much you may esteem her.\nAnd then all at once love turns up, and you re done for, done for, \nStepan Arkadyevitch said with weary despair.\n\nLevin half smiled.\n\n Yes, you re done for,  resumed Oblonsky.  But what s to be done? \n\n Don t steal rolls. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch laughed outright.\n\n Oh, moralist! But you must understand, there are two women; one\ninsists only on her rights, and those rights are your love, which you\ncan t give her; and the other sacrifices everything for you and asks\nfor nothing. What are you to do? How are you to act? There s a fearful\ntragedy in it. \n\n If you care for my profession of faith as regards that, I ll tell you\nthat I don t believe there was any tragedy about it. And this is why.\nTo my mind, love ... both the sorts of love, which you remember Plato\ndefines in his Banquet, served as the test of men. Some men only\nunderstand one sort, and some only the other. And those who only know\nthe non-platonic love have no need to talk of tragedy. In such love\nthere can be no sort of tragedy.  I m much obliged for the\ngratification, my humble respects that s all the tragedy. And in\nplatonic love there can be no tragedy, because in that love all is\nclear and pure, because.... \n\nAt that instant Levin recollected his own sins and the inner conflict\nhe had lived through. And he added unexpectedly:\n\n But perhaps you are right. Very likely ... I don t know, I don t\nknow. \n\n It s this, don t you see,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,  you re very much\nall of a piece. That s your strong point and your failing. You have a\ncharacter that s all of a piece, and you want the whole of life to be\nof a piece too but that s not how it is. You despise public official\nwork because you want the reality to be invariably corresponding all\nthe while with the aim and that s not how it is. You want a man s work,\ntoo, always to have a defined aim, and love and family life always to\nbe undivided and that s not how it is. All the variety, all the charm,\nall the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow. \n\nLevin sighed and made no reply. He was thinking of his own affairs, and\ndid not hear Oblonsky.\n\nAnd suddenly both of them felt that though they were friends, though\nthey had been dining and drinking together, which should have drawn\nthem closer, yet each was thinking only of his own affairs, and they\nhad nothing to do with one another. Oblonsky had more than once\nexperienced this extreme sense of aloofness, instead of intimacy,\ncoming on after dinner, and he knew what to do in such cases.\n\n Bill!  he called, and he went into the next room where he promptly\ncame across an aide-de-camp of his acquaintance and dropped into\nconversation with him about an actress and her protector. And at once\nin the conversation with the aide-de-camp Oblonsky had a sense of\nrelaxation and relief after the conversation with Levin, which always\nput him to too great a mental and spiritual strain.\n\nWhen the Tatar appeared with a bill for twenty-six roubles and odd\nkopecks, besides a tip for himself, Levin, who would another time have\nbeen horrified, like anyone from the country, at his share of fourteen\nroubles, did not notice it, paid, and set off homewards to dress and go\nto the Shtcherbatskys  there to decide his fate.\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nThe young Princess Kitty Shtcherbatskaya was eighteen. It was the first\nwinter that she had been out in the world. Her success in society had\nbeen greater than that of either of her elder sisters, and greater even\nthan her mother had anticipated. To say nothing of the young men who\ndanced at the Moscow balls being almost all in love with Kitty, two\nserious suitors had already this first winter made their appearance:\nLevin, and immediately after his departure, Count Vronsky.\n\nLevin s appearance at the beginning of the winter, his frequent visits,\nand evident love for Kitty, had led to the first serious conversations\nbetween Kitty s parents as to her future, and to disputes between them.\nThe prince was on Levin s side; he said he wished for nothing better\nfor Kitty. The princess for her part, going round the question in the\nmanner peculiar to women, maintained that Kitty was too young, that\nLevin had done nothing to prove that he had serious intentions, that\nKitty felt no great attraction to him, and other side issues; but she\ndid not state the principal point, which was that she looked for a\nbetter match for her daughter, and that Levin was not to her liking,\nand she did not understand him. When Levin had abruptly departed, the\nprincess was delighted, and said to her husband triumphantly:  You see\nI was right.  When Vronsky appeared on the scene, she was still more\ndelighted, confirmed in her opinion that Kitty was to make not simply a\ngood, but a brilliant match.\n\nIn the mother s eyes there could be no comparison between Vronsky and\nLevin. She disliked in Levin his strange and uncompromising opinions\nand his shyness in society, founded, as she supposed, on his pride and\nhis queer sort of life, as she considered it, absorbed in cattle and\npeasants. She did not very much like it that he, who was in love with\nher daughter, had kept coming to the house for six weeks, as though he\nwere waiting for something, inspecting, as though he were afraid he\nmight be doing them too great an honor by making an offer, and did not\nrealize that a man, who continually visits at a house where there is a\nyoung unmarried girl, is bound to make his intentions clear. And\nsuddenly, without doing so, he disappeared.  It s as well he s not\nattractive enough for Kitty to have fallen in love with him,  thought\nthe mother.\n\nVronsky satisfied all the mother s desires. Very wealthy, clever, of\naristocratic family, on the highroad to a brilliant career in the army\nand at court, and a fascinating man. Nothing better could be wished\nfor.\n\nVronsky openly flirted with Kitty at balls, danced with her, and came\ncontinually to the house, consequently there could be no doubt of the\nseriousness of his intentions. But, in spite of that, the mother had\nspent the whole of that winter in a state of terrible anxiety and\nagitation.\n\nPrincess Shtcherbatskaya had herself been married thirty years ago, her\naunt arranging the match. Her husband, about whom everything was well\nknown beforehand, had come, looked at his future bride, and been looked\nat. The matchmaking aunt had ascertained and communicated their mutual\nimpression. That impression had been favorable. Afterwards, on a day\nfixed beforehand, the expected offer was made to her parents, and\naccepted. All had passed very simply and easily. So it seemed, at\nleast, to the princess. But over her own daughters she had felt how far\nfrom simple and easy is the business, apparently so commonplace, of\nmarrying off one s daughters. The panics that had been lived through,\nthe thoughts that had been brooded over, the money that had been\nwasted, and the disputes with her husband over marrying the two elder\ngirls, Darya and Natalia! Now, since the youngest had come out, she was\ngoing through the same terrors, the same doubts, and still more violent\nquarrels with her husband than she had over the elder girls. The old\nprince, like all fathers indeed, was exceedingly punctilious on the\nscore of the honor and reputation of his daughters. He was irrationally\njealous over his daughters, especially over Kitty, who was his\nfavorite. At every turn he had scenes with the princess for\ncompromising her daughter. The princess had grown accustomed to this\nalready with her other daughters, but now she felt that there was more\nground for the prince s touchiness. She saw that of late years much was\nchanged in the manners of society, that a mother s duties had become\nstill more difficult. She saw that girls of Kitty s age formed some\nsort of clubs, went to some sort of lectures, mixed freely in men s\nsociety; drove about the streets alone, many of them did not curtsey,\nand, what was the most important thing, all the girls were firmly\nconvinced that to choose their husbands was their own affair, and not\ntheir parents .  Marriages aren t made nowadays as they used to be, \nwas thought and said by all these young girls, and even by their\nelders. But how marriages were made now, the princess could not learn\nfrom anyone. The French fashion of the parents arranging their\nchildren s future was not accepted; it was condemned. The English\nfashion of the complete independence of girls was also not accepted,\nand not possible in Russian society. The Russian fashion of matchmaking\nby the offices of intermediate persons was for some reason considered\nunseemly; it was ridiculed by everyone, and by the princess herself.\nBut how girls were to be married, and how parents were to marry them,\nno one knew. Everyone with whom the princess had chanced to discuss the\nmatter said the same thing:  Mercy on us, it s high time in our day to\ncast off all that old-fashioned business. It s the young people have to\nmarry; and not their parents; and so we ought to leave the young people\nto arrange it as they choose.  It was very easy for anyone to say that\nwho had no daughters, but the princess realized that in the process of\ngetting to know each other, her daughter might fall in love, and fall\nin love with someone who did not care to marry her or who was quite\nunfit to be her husband. And, however much it was instilled into the\nprincess that in our times young people ought to arrange their lives\nfor themselves, she was unable to believe it, just as she would have\nbeen unable to believe that, at any time whatever, the most suitable\nplaythings for children five years old ought to be loaded pistols. And\nso the princess was more uneasy over Kitty than she had been over her\nelder sisters.\n\nNow she was afraid that Vronsky might confine himself to simply\nflirting with her daughter. She saw that her daughter was in love with\nhim, but tried to comfort herself with the thought that he was an\nhonorable man, and would not do this. But at the same time she knew how\neasy it is, with the freedom of manners of today, to turn a girl s\nhead, and how lightly men generally regard such a crime. The week\nbefore, Kitty had told her mother of a conversation she had with\nVronsky during a mazurka. This conversation had partly reassured the\nprincess; but perfectly at ease she could not be. Vronsky had told\nKitty that both he and his brother were so used to obeying their mother\nthat they never made up their minds to any important undertaking\nwithout consulting her.  And just now, I am impatiently awaiting my\nmother s arrival from Petersburg, as peculiarly fortunate,  he told\nher.\n\nKitty had repeated this without attaching any significance to the\nwords. But her mother saw them in a different light. She knew that the\nold lady was expected from day to day, that she would be pleased at her\nson s choice, and she felt it strange that he should not make his offer\nthrough fear of vexing his mother. However, she was so anxious for the\nmarriage itself, and still more for relief from her fears, that she\nbelieved it was so. Bitter as it was for the princess to see the\nunhappiness of her eldest daughter, Dolly, on the point of leaving her\nhusband, her anxiety over the decision of her youngest daughter s fate\nengrossed all her feelings. Today, with Levin s reappearance, a fresh\nsource of anxiety arose. She was afraid that her daughter, who had at\none time, as she fancied, a feeling for Levin, might, from extreme\nsense of honor, refuse Vronsky, and that Levin s arrival might\ngenerally complicate and delay the affair so near being concluded.\n\n Why, has he been here long?  the princess asked about Levin, as they\nreturned home.\n\n He came today, mamma. \n\n There s one thing I want to say....  began the princess, and from her\nserious and alert face, Kitty guessed what it would be.\n\n Mamma,  she said, flushing hotly and turning quickly to her,  please,\nplease don t say anything about that. I know, I know all about it. \n\nShe wished for what her mother wished for, but the motives of her\nmother s wishes wounded her.\n\n I only want to say that to raise hopes.... \n\n Mamma, darling, for goodness  sake, don t talk about it. It s so\nhorrible to talk about it. \n\n I won t,  said her mother, seeing the tears in her daughter s eyes;\n but one thing, my love; you promised me you would have no secrets from\nme. You won t? \n\n Never, mamma, none,  answered Kitty, flushing a little, and looking\nher mother straight in the face,  but there s no use in my telling you\nanything, and I ... I ... if I wanted to, I don t know what to say or\nhow.... I don t know.... \n\n No, she could not tell an untruth with those eyes,  thought the\nmother, smiling at her agitation and happiness. The princess smiled\nthat what was taking place just now in her soul seemed to the poor\nchild so immense and so important.\n\n\nChapter 13\n\nAfter dinner, and till the beginning of the evening, Kitty was feeling\na sensation akin to the sensation of a young man before a battle. Her\nheart throbbed violently, and her thoughts would not rest on anything.\n\nShe felt that this evening, when they would both meet for the first\ntime, would be a turning point in her life. And she was continually\npicturing them to herself, at one moment each separately, and then both\ntogether. When she mused on the past, she dwelt with pleasure, with\ntenderness, on the memories of her relations with Levin. The memories\nof childhood and of Levin s friendship with her dead brother gave a\nspecial poetic charm to her relations with him. His love for her, of\nwhich she felt certain, was flattering and delightful to her; and it\nwas pleasant for her to think of Levin. In her memories of Vronsky\nthere always entered a certain element of awkwardness, though he was in\nthe highest degree well-bred and at ease, as though there were some\nfalse note not in Vronsky, he was very simple and nice, but in herself,\nwhile with Levin she felt perfectly simple and clear. But, on the other\nhand, directly she thought of the future with Vronsky, there arose\nbefore her a perspective of brilliant happiness; with Levin the future\nseemed misty.\n\nWhen she went upstairs to dress, and looked into the looking-glass, she\nnoticed with joy that it was one of her good days, and that she was in\ncomplete possession of all her forces, she needed this so for what lay\nbefore her: she was conscious of external composure and free grace in\nher movements.\n\nAt half-past seven she had only just gone down into the drawing-room,\nwhen the footman announced,  Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin.  The\nprincess was still in her room, and the prince had not come in.  So it\nis to be,  thought Kitty, and all the blood seemed to rush to her\nheart. She was horrified at her paleness, as she glanced into the\nlooking-glass. At that moment she knew beyond doubt that he had come\nearly on purpose to find her alone and to make her an offer. And only\nthen for the first time the whole thing presented itself in a new,\ndifferent aspect; only then she realized that the question did not\naffect her only with whom she would be happy, and whom she loved but\nthat she would have that moment to wound a man whom she liked. And to\nwound him cruelly. What for? Because he, dear fellow, loved her, was in\nlove with her. But there was no help for it, so it must be, so it would\nhave to be.\n\n My God! shall I myself really have to say it to him?  she thought.\n Can I tell him I don t love him? That will be a lie. What am I to say\nto him? That I love someone else? No, that s impossible. I m going\naway, I m going away. \n\nShe had reached the door, when she heard his step.  No! it s not\nhonest. What have I to be afraid of? I have done nothing wrong. What is\nto be, will be! I ll tell the truth. And with him one can t be ill at\nease. Here he is,  she said to herself, seeing his powerful, shy\nfigure, with his shining eyes fixed on her. She looked straight into\nhis face, as though imploring him to spare her, and gave her hand.\n\n It s not time yet; I think I m too early,  he said glancing round the\nempty drawing-room. When he saw that his expectations were realized,\nthat there was nothing to prevent him from speaking, his face became\ngloomy.\n\n Oh, no,  said Kitty, and sat down at the table.\n\n But this was just what I wanted, to find you alone,  he began, not\nsitting down, and not looking at her, so as not to lose courage.\n\n Mamma will be down directly. She was very much tired....\nYesterday.... \n\nShe talked on, not knowing what her lips were uttering, and not taking\nher supplicating and caressing eyes off him.\n\nHe glanced at her; she blushed, and ceased speaking.\n\n I told you I did not know whether I should be here long ... that it\ndepended on you.... \n\nShe dropped her head lower and lower, not knowing herself what answer\nshe should make to what was coming.\n\n That it depended on you,  he repeated.  I meant to say ... I meant to\nsay ... I came for this ... to be my wife!  he brought out, not knowing\nwhat he was saying; but feeling that the most terrible thing was said,\nhe stopped short and looked at her....\n\nShe was breathing heavily, not looking at him. She was feeling ecstasy.\nHer soul was flooded with happiness. She had never anticipated that the\nutterance of love would produce such a powerful effect on her. But it\nlasted only an instant. She remembered Vronsky. She lifted her clear,\ntruthful eyes, and seeing his desperate face, she answered hastily:\n\n That cannot be ... forgive me. \n\nA moment ago, and how close she had been to him, of what importance in\nhis life! And how aloof and remote from him she had become now!\n\n It was bound to be so,  he said, not looking at her.\n\nHe bowed, and was meaning to retreat.\n\n\nChapter 14\n\nBut at that very moment the princess came in. There was a look of\nhorror on her face when she saw them alone, and their disturbed faces.\nLevin bowed to her, and said nothing. Kitty did not speak nor lift her\neyes.  Thank God, she has refused him,  thought the mother, and her\nface lighted up with the habitual smile with which she greeted her\nguests on Thursdays. She sat down and began questioning Levin about his\nlife in the country. He sat down again, waiting for other visitors to\narrive, in order to retreat unnoticed.\n\nFive minutes later there came in a friend of Kitty s, married the\npreceding winter, Countess Nordston.\n\nShe was a thin, sallow, sickly, and nervous woman, with brilliant black\neyes. She was fond of Kitty, and her affection for her showed itself,\nas the affection of married women for girls always does, in the desire\nto make a match for Kitty after her own ideal of married happiness; she\nwanted her to marry Vronsky. Levin she had often met at the\nShtcherbatskys  early in the winter, and she had always disliked him.\nHer invariable and favorite pursuit, when they met, consisted in making\nfun of him.\n\n I do like it when he looks down at me from the height of his grandeur,\nor breaks off his learned conversation with me because I m a fool, or\nis condescending to me. I like that so; to see him condescending! I am\nso glad he can t bear me,  she used to say of him.\n\nShe was right, for Levin actually could not bear her, and despised her\nfor what she was proud of and regarded as a fine characteristic her\nnervousness, her delicate contempt and indifference for everything\ncoarse and earthly.\n\nThe Countess Nordston and Levin got into that relation with one another\nnot seldom seen in society, when two persons, who remain externally on\nfriendly terms, despise each other to such a degree that they cannot\neven take each other seriously, and cannot even be offended by each\nother.\n\nThe Countess Nordston pounced upon Levin at once.\n\n Ah, Konstantin Dmitrievitch! So you ve come back to our corrupt\nBabylon,  she said, giving him her tiny, yellow hand, and recalling\nwhat he had chanced to say early in the winter, that Moscow was a\nBabylon.  Come, is Babylon reformed, or have you degenerated?  she\nadded, glancing with a simper at Kitty.\n\n It s very flattering for me, countess, that you remember my words so\nwell,  responded Levin, who had succeeded in recovering his composure,\nand at once from habit dropped into his tone of joking hostility to the\nCountess Nordston.  They must certainly make a great impression on\nyou. \n\n Oh, I should think so! I always note them all down. Well, Kitty, have\nyou been skating again?... \n\nAnd she began talking to Kitty. Awkward as it was for Levin to withdraw\nnow, it would still have been easier for him to perpetrate this\nawkwardness than to remain all the evening and see Kitty, who glanced\nat him now and then and avoided his eyes. He was on the point of\ngetting up, when the princess, noticing that he was silent, addressed\nhim.\n\n Shall you be long in Moscow? You re busy with the district council,\nthough, aren t you, and can t be away for long? \n\n No, princess, I m no longer a member of the council,  he said.  I have\ncome up for a few days. \n\n There s something the matter with him,  thought Countess Nordston,\nglancing at his stern, serious face.  He isn t in his old argumentative\nmood. But I ll draw him out. I do love making a fool of him before\nKitty, and I ll do it. \n\n Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  she said to him,  do explain to me, please,\nwhat s the meaning of it. You know all about such things. At home in\nour village of Kaluga all the peasants and all the women have drunk up\nall they possessed, and now they can t pay us any rent. What s the\nmeaning of that? You always praise the peasants so. \n\nAt that instant another lady came into the room, and Levin got up.\n\n Excuse me, countess, but I really know nothing about it, and can t\ntell you anything,  he said, and looked round at the officer who came\nin behind the lady.\n\n That must be Vronsky,  thought Levin, and, to be sure of it, glanced\nat Kitty. She had already had time to look at Vronsky, and looked round\nat Levin. And simply from the look in her eyes, that grew unconsciously\nbrighter, Levin knew that she loved that man, knew it as surely as if\nshe had told him so in words. But what sort of a man was he? Now,\nwhether for good or for ill, Levin could not choose but remain; he must\nfind out what the man was like whom she loved.\n\nThere are people who, on meeting a successful rival, no matter in what,\nare at once disposed to turn their backs on everything good in him, and\nto see only what is bad. There are people, on the other hand, who\ndesire above all to find in that lucky rival the qualities by which he\nhas outstripped them, and seek with a throbbing ache at heart only what\nis good. Levin belonged to the second class. But he had no difficulty\nin finding what was good and attractive in Vronsky. It was apparent at\nthe first glance. Vronsky was a squarely built, dark man, not very\ntall, with a good-humored, handsome, and exceedingly calm and resolute\nface. Everything about his face and figure, from his short-cropped\nblack hair and freshly shaven chin down to his loosely fitting,\nbrand-new uniform, was simple and at the same time elegant. Making way\nfor the lady who had come in, Vronsky went up to the princess and then\nto Kitty.\n\nAs he approached her, his beautiful eyes shone with a specially tender\nlight, and with a faint, happy, and modestly triumphant smile (so it\nseemed to Levin), bowing carefully and respectfully over her, he held\nout his small broad hand to her.\n\nGreeting and saying a few words to everyone, he sat down without once\nglancing at Levin, who had never taken his eyes off him.\n\n Let me introduce you,  said the princess, indicating Levin.\n Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, Count Alexey Kirillovitch Vronsky. \n\nVronsky got up and, looking cordially at Levin, shook hands with him.\n\n I believe I was to have dined with you this winter,  he said, smiling\nhis simple and open smile;  but you had unexpectedly left for the\ncountry. \n\n Konstantin Dmitrievitch despises and hates town and us townspeople, \nsaid Countess Nordston.\n\n My words must make a deep impression on you, since you remember them\nso well,  said Levin, and, suddenly conscious that he had said just the\nsame thing before, he reddened.\n\nVronsky looked at Levin and Countess Nordston, and smiled.\n\n Are you always in the country?  he inquired.  I should think it must\nbe dull in the winter. \n\n It s not dull if one has work to do; besides, one s not dull by\noneself,  Levin replied abruptly.\n\n I am fond of the country,  said Vronsky, noticing, and affecting not\nto notice, Levin s tone.\n\n But I hope, count, you would not consent to live in the country\nalways,  said Countess Nordston.\n\n I don t know; I have never tried for long. I experienced a queer\nfeeling once,  he went on.  I never longed so for the country, Russian\ncountry, with bast shoes and peasants, as when I was spending a winter\nwith my mother in Nice. Nice itself is dull enough, you know. And\nindeed, Naples and Sorrento are only pleasant for a short time. And\nit s just there that Russia comes back to me most vividly, and\nespecially the country. It s as though.... \n\nHe talked on, addressing both Kitty and Levin, turning his serene,\nfriendly eyes from one to the other, and saying obviously just what\ncame into his head.\n\nNoticing that Countess Nordston wanted to say something, he stopped\nshort without finishing what he had begun, and listened attentively to\nher.\n\nThe conversation did not flag for an instant, so that the princess, who\nalways kept in reserve, in case a subject should be lacking, two heavy\nguns the relative advantages of classical and of modern education, and\nuniversal military service had not to move out either of them, while\nCountess Nordston had not a chance of chaffing Levin.\n\nLevin wanted to, and could not, take part in the general conversation;\nsaying to himself every instant,  Now go,  he still did not go, as\nthough waiting for something.\n\nThe conversation fell upon table-turning and spirits, and Countess\nNordston, who believed in spiritualism, began to describe the marvels\nshe had seen.\n\n Ah, countess, you really must take me, for pity s sake do take me to\nsee them! I have never seen anything extraordinary, though I am always\non the lookout for it everywhere,  said Vronsky, smiling.\n\n Very well, next Saturday,  answered Countess Nordston.  But you,\nKonstantin Dmitrievitch, do you believe in it?  she asked Levin.\n\n Why do you ask me? You know what I shall say. \n\n But I want to hear your opinion. \n\n My opinion,  answered Levin,  is only that this table-turning simply\nproves that educated society so called is no higher than the peasants.\nThey believe in the evil eye, and in witchcraft and omens, while\nwe.... \n\n Oh, then you don t believe in it? \n\n I can t believe in it, countess. \n\n But if I ve seen it myself? \n\n The peasant women too tell us they have seen goblins. \n\n Then you think I tell a lie? \n\nAnd she laughed a mirthless laugh.\n\n Oh, no, Masha, Konstantin Dmitrievitch said he could not believe in\nit,  said Kitty, blushing for Levin, and Levin saw this, and, still\nmore exasperated, would have answered, but Vronsky with his bright\nfrank smile rushed to the support of the conversation, which was\nthreatening to become disagreeable.\n\n You do not admit the conceivability at all?  he queried.  But why not?\nWe admit the existence of electricity, of which we know nothing. Why\nshould there not be some new force, still unknown to us, which.... \n\n When electricity was discovered,  Levin interrupted hurriedly,  it was\nonly the phenomenon that was discovered, and it was unknown from what\nit proceeded and what were its effects, and ages passed before its\napplications were conceived. But the spiritualists have begun with\ntables writing for them, and spirits appearing to them, and have only\nlater started saying that it is an unknown force. \n\nVronsky listened attentively to Levin, as he always did listen,\nobviously interested in his words.\n\n Yes, but the spiritualists say we don t know at present what this\nforce is, but there is a force, and these are the conditions in which\nit acts. Let the scientific men find out what the force consists in.\nNo, I don t see why there should not be a new force, if it.... \n\n Why, because with electricity,  Levin interrupted again,  every time\nyou rub tar against wool, a recognized phenomenon is manifested, but in\nthis case it does not happen every time, and so it follows it is not a\nnatural phenomenon. \n\nFeeling probably that the conversation was taking a tone too serious\nfor a drawing-room, Vronsky made no rejoinder, but by way of trying to\nchange the conversation, he smiled brightly, and turned to the ladies.\n\n Do let us try at once, countess,  he said; but Levin would finish\nsaying what he thought.\n\n I think,  he went on,  that this attempt of the spiritualists to\nexplain their marvels as some sort of new natural force is most futile.\nThey boldly talk of spiritual force, and then try to subject it to\nmaterial experiment. \n\nEveryone was waiting for him to finish, and he felt it.\n\n And I think you would be a first-rate medium,  said Countess Nordston;\n there s something enthusiastic in you. \n\nLevin opened his mouth, was about to say something, reddened, and said\nnothing.\n\n Do let us try table-turning at once, please,  said Vronsky.  Princess,\nwill you allow it? \n\nAnd Vronsky stood up, looking for a little table.\n\nKitty got up to fetch a table, and as she passed, her eyes met Levin s.\nShe felt for him with her whole heart, the more because she was pitying\nhim for suffering of which she was herself the cause.  If you can\nforgive me, forgive me,  said her eyes,  I am so happy. \n\n I hate them all, and you, and myself,  his eyes responded, and he took\nup his hat. But he was not destined to escape. Just as they were\narranging themselves round the table, and Levin was on the point of\nretiring, the old prince came in, and after greeting the ladies,\naddressed Levin.\n\n Ah!  he began joyously.  Been here long, my boy? I didn t even know\nyou were in town. Very glad to see you.  The old prince embraced Levin,\nand talking to him did not observe Vronsky, who had risen, and was\nserenely waiting till the prince should turn to him.\n\nKitty felt how distasteful her father s warmth was to Levin after what\nhad happened. She saw, too, how coldly her father responded at last to\nVronsky s bow, and how Vronsky looked with amiable perplexity at her\nfather, as though trying and failing to understand how and why anyone\ncould be hostilely disposed towards him, and she flushed.\n\n Prince, let us have Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  said Countess Nordston;\n we want to try an experiment. \n\n What experiment? Table-turning? Well, you must excuse me, ladies and\ngentlemen, but to my mind it is better fun to play the ring game,  said\nthe old prince, looking at Vronsky, and guessing that it had been his\nsuggestion.  There s some sense in that, anyway. \n\nVronsky looked wonderingly at the prince with his resolute eyes, and,\nwith a faint smile, began immediately talking to Countess Nordston of\nthe great ball that was to come off next week.\n\n I hope you will be there?  he said to Kitty. As soon as the old prince\nturned away from him, Levin went out unnoticed, and the last impression\nhe carried away with him of that evening was the smiling, happy face of\nKitty answering Vronsky s inquiry about the ball.\n\n\nChapter 15\n\nAt the end of the evening Kitty told her mother of her conversation\nwith Levin, and in spite of all the pity she felt for Levin, she was\nglad at the thought that she had received an _offer_. She had no doubt\nthat she had acted rightly. But after she had gone to bed, for a long\nwhile she could not sleep. One impression pursued her relentlessly. It\nwas Levin s face, with his scowling brows, and his kind eyes looking\nout in dark dejection below them, as he stood listening to her father,\nand glancing at her and at Vronsky. And she felt so sorry for him that\ntears came into her eyes. But immediately she thought of the man for\nwhom she had given him up. She vividly recalled his manly, resolute\nface, his noble self-possession, and the good nature conspicuous in\neverything towards everyone. She remembered the love for her of the man\nshe loved, and once more all was gladness in her soul, and she lay on\nthe pillow, smiling with happiness.  I m sorry, I m sorry; but what\ncould I do? It s not my fault,  she said to herself; but an inner voice\ntold her something else. Whether she felt remorse at having won Levin s\nlove, or at having refused him, she did not know. But her happiness was\npoisoned by doubts.  Lord, have pity on us; Lord, have pity on us;\nLord, have pity on us!  she repeated to herself, till she fell asleep.\n\nMeanwhile there took place below, in the prince s little library, one\nof the scenes so often repeated between the parents on account of their\nfavorite daughter.\n\n What? I ll tell you what!  shouted the prince, waving his arms, and at\nonce wrapping his squirrel-lined dressing-gown round him again.  That\nyou ve no pride, no dignity; that you re disgracing, ruining your\ndaughter by this vulgar, stupid matchmaking! \n\n But, really, for mercy s sake, prince, what have I done?  said the\nprincess, almost crying.\n\nShe, pleased and happy after her conversation with her daughter, had\ngone to the prince to say good-night as usual, and though she had no\nintention of telling him of Levin s offer and Kitty s refusal, still\nshe hinted to her husband that she fancied things were practically\nsettled with Vronsky, and that he would declare himself so soon as his\nmother arrived. And thereupon, at those words, the prince had all at\nonce flown into a passion, and began to use unseemly language.\n\n What have you done? I ll tell you what. First of all, you re trying to\ncatch an eligible gentleman, and all Moscow will be talking of it, and\nwith good reason. If you have evening parties, invite everyone, don t\npick out the possible suitors. Invite all the young bucks. Engage a\npiano player, and let them dance, and not as you do things nowadays,\nhunting up good matches. It makes me sick, sick to see it, and you ve\ngone on till you ve turned the poor wench s head. Levin s a thousand\ntimes the better man. As for this little Petersburg swell, they re\nturned out by machinery, all on one pattern, and all precious rubbish.\nBut if he were a prince of the blood, my daughter need not run after\nanyone. \n\n But what have I done? \n\n Why, you ve....  The prince was crying wrathfully.\n\n I know if one were to listen to you,  interrupted the princess,  we\nshould never marry our daughter. If it s to be so, we d better go into\nthe country. \n\n Well, and we had better. \n\n But do wait a minute. Do I try and catch them? I don t try to catch\nthem in the least. A young man, and a very nice one, has fallen in love\nwith her, and she, I fancy.... \n\n Oh, yes, you fancy! And how if she really is in love, and he s no more\nthinking of marriage than I am!... Oh, that I should live to see it!\nAh! spiritualism! Ah! Nice! Ah! the ball!  And the prince, imagining\nthat he was mimicking his wife, made a mincing curtsey at each word.\n And this is how we re preparing wretchedness for Kitty; and she s\nreally got the notion into her head.... \n\n But what makes you suppose so? \n\n I don t suppose; I know. We have eyes for such things, though\nwomen-folk haven t. I see a man who has serious intentions, that s\nLevin: and I see a peacock, like this feather-head, who s only amusing\nhimself. \n\n Oh, well, when once you get an idea into your head!... \n\n Well, you ll remember my words, but too late, just as with Dolly. \n\n Well, well, we won t talk of it,  the princess stopped him,\nrecollecting her unlucky Dolly.\n\n By all means, and good-night! \n\nAnd signing each other with the cross, the husband and wife parted with\na kiss, feeling that they each remained of their own opinion.\n\nThe princess had at first been quite certain that that evening had\nsettled Kitty s future, and that there could be no doubt of Vronsky s\nintentions, but her husband s words had disturbed her. And returning to\nher own room, in terror before the unknown future, she, too, like\nKitty, repeated several times in her heart,  Lord, have pity; Lord,\nhave pity; Lord, have pity. \n\n\nChapter 16\n\nVronsky had never had a real home life. His mother had been in her\nyouth a brilliant society woman, who had had during her married life,\nand still more afterwards, many love affairs notorious in the whole\nfashionable world. His father he scarcely remembered, and he had been\neducated in the Corps of Pages.\n\nLeaving the school very young as a brilliant officer, he had at once\ngot into the circle of wealthy Petersburg army men. Although he did go\nmore or less into Petersburg society, his love affairs had always\nhitherto been outside it.\n\nIn Moscow he had for the first time felt, after his luxurious and\ncoarse life at Petersburg, all the charm of intimacy with a sweet and\ninnocent girl of his own rank, who cared for him. It never even entered\nhis head that there could be any harm in his relations with Kitty. At\nballs he danced principally with her. He was a constant visitor at\ntheir house. He talked to her as people commonly do talk in society all\nsorts of nonsense, but nonsense to which he could not help attaching a\nspecial meaning in her case. Although he said nothing to her that he\ncould not have said before everybody, he felt that she was becoming\nmore and more dependent upon him, and the more he felt this, the better\nhe liked it, and the tenderer was his feeling for her. He did not know\nthat his mode of behavior in relation to Kitty had a definite\ncharacter, that it is courting young girls with no intention of\nmarriage, and that such courting is one of the evil actions common\namong brilliant young men such as he was. It seemed to him that he was\nthe first who had discovered this pleasure, and he was enjoying his\ndiscovery.\n\nIf he could have heard what her parents were saying that evening, if he\ncould have put himself at the point of view of the family and have\nheard that Kitty would be unhappy if he did not marry her, he would\nhave been greatly astonished, and would not have believed it. He could\nnot believe that what gave such great and delicate pleasure to him, and\nabove all to her, could be wrong. Still less could he have believed\nthat he ought to marry.\n\nMarriage had never presented itself to him as a possibility. He not\nonly disliked family life, but a family, and especially a husband was,\nin accordance with the views general in the bachelor world in which he\nlived, conceived as something alien, repellant, and, above all,\nridiculous.\n\nBut though Vronsky had not the least suspicion what the parents were\nsaying, he felt on coming away from the Shtcherbatskys  that the secret\nspiritual bond which existed between him and Kitty had grown so much\nstronger that evening that some step must be taken. But what step could\nand ought to be taken he could not imagine.\n\n What is so exquisite,  he thought, as he returned from the\nShtcherbatskys , carrying away with him, as he always did, a delicious\nfeeling of purity and freshness, arising partly from the fact that he\nhad not been smoking for a whole evening, and with it a new feeling of\ntenderness at her love for him what is so exquisite is that not a word\nhas been said by me or by her, but we understand each other so well in\nthis unseen language of looks and tones, that this evening more clearly\nthan ever she told me she loves me. And how secretly, simply, and most\nof all, how trustfully! I feel myself better, purer. I feel that I have\na heart, and that there is a great deal of good in me. Those sweet,\nloving eyes! When she said:  Indeed I do.... \n\n Well, what then? Oh, nothing. It s good for me, and good for her.  And\nhe began wondering where to finish the evening.\n\nHe passed in review of the places he might go to.  Club? a game of\nbezique, champagne with Ignatov? No, I m not going. _Ch teau des\nFleurs_; there I shall find Oblonsky, songs, the cancan. No, I m sick\nof it. That s why I like the Shtcherbatskys , that I m growing better.\nI ll go home.  He went straight to his room at Dussots  Hotel, ordered\nsupper, and then undressed, and as soon as his head touched the pillow,\nfell into a sound sleep.\n\n\nChapter 17\n\nNext day at eleven o clock in the morning Vronsky drove to the station\nof the Petersburg railway to meet his mother, and the first person he\ncame across on the great flight of steps was Oblonsky, who was\nexpecting his sister by the same train.\n\n Ah! your excellency!  cried Oblonsky,  whom are you meeting? \n\n My mother,  Vronsky responded, smiling, as everyone did who met\nOblonsky. He shook hands with him, and together they ascended the\nsteps.  She is to be here from Petersburg today. \n\n I was looking out for you till two o clock last night. Where did you\ngo after the Shtcherbatskys ? \n\n Home,  answered Vronsky.  I must own I felt so well content yesterday\nafter the Shtcherbatskys  that I didn t care to go anywhere. \n\n I know a gallant steed by tokens sure,\n\nAnd by his eyes I know a youth in love, \n\n\n\ndeclaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch, just as he had done before to Levin.\n\nVronsky smiled with a look that seemed to say that he did not deny it,\nbut he promptly changed the subject.\n\n And whom are you meeting?  he asked.\n\n I? I ve come to meet a pretty woman,  said Oblonsky.\n\n You don t say so! \n\n _Honi soit qui mal y pense!_ My sister Anna. \n\n Ah! that s Madame Karenina,  said Vronsky.\n\n You know her, no doubt? \n\n I think I do. Or perhaps not ... I really am not sure,  Vronsky\nanswered heedlessly, with a vague recollection of something stiff and\ntedious evoked by the name Karenina.\n\n But Alexey Alexandrovitch, my celebrated brother-in-law, you surely\nmust know. All the world knows him. \n\n I know him by reputation and by sight. I know that he s clever,\nlearned, religious somewhat.... But you know that s not ... _not in my\nline,_  said Vronsky in English.\n\n Yes, he s a very remarkable man; rather a conservative, but a splendid\nman,  observed Stepan Arkadyevitch,  a splendid man. \n\n Oh, well, so much the better for him,  said Vronsky smiling.  Oh,\nyou ve come,  he said, addressing a tall old footman of his mother s,\nstanding at the door;  come here. \n\nBesides the charm Oblonsky had in general for everyone, Vronsky had\nfelt of late specially drawn to him by the fact that in his imagination\nhe was associated with Kitty.\n\n Well, what do you say? Shall we give a supper on Sunday for the\n_diva?_  he said to him with a smile, taking his arm.\n\n Of course. I m collecting subscriptions. Oh, did you make the\nacquaintance of my friend Levin?  asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Yes; but he left rather early. \n\n He s a capital fellow,  pursued Oblonsky.  Isn t he? \n\n I don t know why it is,  responded Vronsky,  in all Moscow\npeople present company of course excepted,  he put in jestingly,\n there s something uncompromising. They are all on the defensive, lose\ntheir tempers, as though they all want to make one feel something.... \n\n Yes, that s true, it is so,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing\ngood-humoredly.\n\n Will the train soon be in?  Vronsky asked a railway official.\n\n The train s signaled,  answered the man.\n\nThe approach of the train was more and more evident by the preparatory\nbustle in the station, the rush of porters, the movement of policemen\nand attendants, and people meeting the train. Through the frosty vapor\ncould be seen workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt boots crossing\nthe rails of the curving line. The hiss of the boiler could be heard on\nthe distant rails, and the rumble of something heavy.\n\n No,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who felt a great inclination to tell\nVronsky of Levin s intentions in regard to Kitty.  No, you ve not got a\ntrue impression of Levin. He s a very nervous man, and is sometimes out\nof humor, it s true, but then he is often very nice. He s such a true,\nhonest nature, and a heart of gold. But yesterday there were special\nreasons,  pursued Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a meaning smile, totally\noblivious of the genuine sympathy he had felt the day before for his\nfriend, and feeling the same sympathy now, only for Vronsky.  Yes,\nthere were reasons why he could not help being either particularly\nhappy or particularly unhappy. \n\nVronsky stood still and asked directly:  How so? Do you mean he made\nyour _belle-s ur_ an offer yesterday? \n\n Maybe,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  I fancied something of the sort\nyesterday. Yes, if he went away early, and was out of humor too, it\nmust mean it.... He s been so long in love, and I m very sorry for\nhim. \n\n So that s it! I should imagine, though, she might reckon on a better\nmatch,  said Vronsky, drawing himself up and walking about again,\n though I don t know him, of course,  he added.  Yes, that is a hateful\nposition! That s why most fellows prefer to have to do with Klaras. If\nyou don t succeed with them it only proves that you ve not enough cash,\nbut in this case one s dignity s at stake. But here s the train. \n\nThe engine had already whistled in the distance. A few instants later\nthe platform was quivering, and with puffs of steam hanging low in the\nair from the frost, the engine rolled up, with the lever of the middle\nwheel rhythmically moving up and down, and the stooping figure of the\nengine-driver covered with frost. Behind the tender, setting the\nplatform more and more slowly swaying, came the luggage van with a dog\nwhining in it. At last the passenger carriages rolled in, oscillating\nbefore coming to a standstill.\n\nA smart guard jumped out, giving a whistle, and after him one by one\nthe impatient passengers began to get down: an officer of the guards,\nholding himself erect, and looking severely about him; a nimble little\nmerchant with a satchel, smiling gaily; a peasant with a sack over his\nshoulder.\n\nVronsky, standing beside Oblonsky, watched the carriages and the\npassengers, totally oblivious of his mother. What he had just heard\nabout Kitty excited and delighted him. Unconsciously he arched his\nchest, and his eyes flashed. He felt himself a conqueror.\n\n Countess Vronskaya is in that compartment,  said the smart guard,\ngoing up to Vronsky.\n\nThe guard s words roused him, and forced him to think of his mother and\nhis approaching meeting with her. He did not in his heart respect his\nmother, and without acknowledging it to himself, he did not love her,\nthough in accordance with the ideas of the set in which he lived, and\nwith his own education, he could not have conceived of any behavior to\nhis mother not in the highest degree respectful and obedient, and the\nmore externally obedient and respectful his behavior, the less in his\nheart he respected and loved her.\n\n\nChapter 18\n\nVronsky followed the guard to the carriage, and at the door of the\ncompartment he stopped short to make room for a lady who was getting\nout.\n\nWith the insight of a man of the world, from one glance at this lady s\nappearance Vronsky classified her as belonging to the best society. He\nbegged pardon, and was getting into the carriage, but felt he must\nglance at her once more; not that she was very beautiful, not on\naccount of the elegance and modest grace which were apparent in her\nwhole figure, but because in the expression of her charming face, as\nshe passed close by him, there was something peculiarly caressing and\nsoft. As he looked round, she too turned her head. Her shining gray\neyes, that looked dark from the thick lashes, rested with friendly\nattention on his face, as though she were recognizing him, and then\npromptly turned away to the passing crowd, as though seeking someone.\nIn that brief look Vronsky had time to notice the suppressed eagerness\nwhich played over her face, and flitted between the brilliant eyes and\nthe faint smile that curved her red lips. It was as though her nature\nwere so brimming over with something that against her will it showed\nitself now in the flash of her eyes, and now in her smile. Deliberately\nshe shrouded the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will in\nthe faintly perceptible smile.\n\nVronsky stepped into the carriage. His mother, a dried-up old lady with\nblack eyes and ringlets, screwed up her eyes, scanning her son, and\nsmiled slightly with her thin lips. Getting up from the seat and\nhanding her maid a bag, she gave her little wrinkled hand to her son to\nkiss, and lifting his head from her hand, kissed him on the cheek.\n\n You got my telegram? Quite well? Thank God. \n\n You had a good journey?  said her son, sitting down beside her, and\ninvoluntarily listening to a woman s voice outside the door. He knew it\nwas the voice of the lady he had met at the door.\n\n All the same I don t agree with you,  said the lady s voice.\n\n It s the Petersburg view, madame. \n\n Not Petersburg, but simply feminine,  she responded.\n\n Well, well, allow me to kiss your hand. \n\n Good-bye, Ivan Petrovitch. And could you see if my brother is here,\nand send him to me?  said the lady in the doorway, and stepped back\nagain into the compartment.\n\n Well, have you found your brother?  said Countess Vronskaya,\naddressing the lady.\n\nVronsky understood now that this was Madame Karenina.\n\n Your brother is here,  he said, standing up.  Excuse me, I did not\nknow you, and, indeed, our acquaintance was so slight,  said Vronsky,\nbowing,  that no doubt you do not remember me. \n\n Oh, no,  said she,  I should have known you because your mother and I\nhave been talking, I think, of nothing but you all the way.  As she\nspoke she let the eagerness that would insist on coming out show itself\nin her smile.  And still no sign of my brother. \n\n Do call him, Alexey,  said the old countess. Vronsky stepped out onto\nthe platform and shouted:\n\n Oblonsky! Here! \n\nMadame Karenina, however, did not wait for her brother, but catching\nsight of him she stepped out with her light, resolute step. And as soon\nas her brother had reached her, with a gesture that struck Vronsky by\nits decision and its grace, she flung her left arm around his neck,\ndrew him rapidly to her, and kissed him warmly. Vronsky gazed, never\ntaking his eyes from her, and smiled, he could not have said why. But\nrecollecting that his mother was waiting for him, he went back again\ninto the carriage.\n\n She s very sweet, isn t she?  said the countess of Madame Karenina.\n Her husband put her with me, and I was delighted to have her. We ve\nbeen talking all the way. And so you, I hear ... _vous filez le parfait\namour. Tant mieux, mon cher, tant mieux._ \n\n I don t know what you are referring to, maman,  he answered coldly.\n Come, maman, let us go. \n\nMadame Karenina entered the carriage again to say good-bye to the\ncountess.\n\n Well, countess, you have met your son, and I my brother,  she said.\n And all my gossip is exhausted. I should have nothing more to tell\nyou. \n\n Oh, no,  said the countess, taking her hand.  I could go all around\nthe world with you and never be dull. You are one of those delightful\nwomen in whose company it s sweet to be silent as well as to talk. Now\nplease don t fret over your son; you can t expect never to be parted. \n\nMadame Karenina stood quite still, holding herself very erect, and her\neyes were smiling.\n\n Anna Arkadyevna,  the countess said in explanation to her son,  has a\nlittle son eight years old, I believe, and she has never been parted\nfrom him before, and she keeps fretting over leaving him. \n\n Yes, the countess and I have been talking all the time, I of my son\nand she of hers,  said Madame Karenina, and again a smile lighted up\nher face, a caressing smile intended for him.\n\n I am afraid that you must have been dreadfully bored,  he said,\npromptly catching the ball of coquetry she had flung him. But\napparently she did not care to pursue the conversation in that strain,\nand she turned to the old countess.\n\n Thank you so much. The time has passed so quickly. Good-bye,\ncountess. \n\n Good-bye, my love,  answered the countess.  Let me have a kiss of your\npretty face. I speak plainly, at my age, and I tell you simply that\nI ve lost my heart to you. \n\nStereotyped as the phrase was, Madame Karenina obviously believed it\nand was delighted by it. She flushed, bent down slightly, and put her\ncheek to the countess s lips, drew herself up again, and with the same\nsmile fluttering between her lips and her eyes, she gave her hand to\nVronsky. He pressed the little hand she gave him, and was delighted, as\nthough at something special, by the energetic squeeze with which she\nfreely and vigorously shook his hand. She went out with the rapid step\nwhich bore her rather fully-developed figure with such strange\nlightness.\n\n Very charming,  said the countess.\n\nThat was just what her son was thinking. His eyes followed her till her\ngraceful figure was out of sight, and then the smile remained on his\nface. He saw out of the window how she went up to her brother, put her\narm in his, and began telling him something eagerly, obviously\nsomething that had nothing to do with him, Vronsky, and at that he felt\nannoyed.\n\n Well, maman, are you perfectly well?  he repeated, turning to his\nmother.\n\n Everything has been delightful. Alexander has been very good, and\nMarie has grown very pretty. She s very interesting. \n\nAnd she began telling him again of what interested her most the\nchristening of her grandson, for which she had been staying in\nPetersburg, and the special favor shown her elder son by the Tsar.\n\n Here s Lavrenty,  said Vronsky, looking out of the window;  now we can\ngo, if you like. \n\nThe old butler, who had traveled with the countess, came to the\ncarriage to announce that everything was ready, and the countess got up\nto go.\n\n Come; there s not such a crowd now,  said Vronsky.\n\nThe maid took a handbag and the lap dog, the butler and a porter the\nother baggage. Vronsky gave his mother his arm; but just as they were\ngetting out of the carriage several men ran suddenly by with\npanic-stricken faces. The station-master, too, ran by in his\nextraordinary colored cap. Obviously something unusual had happened.\nThe crowd who had left the train were running back again.\n\n What?... What?... Where?... Flung himself!... Crushed!...  was heard\namong the crowd. Stepan Arkadyevitch, with his sister on his arm,\nturned back. They too looked scared, and stopped at the carriage door\nto avoid the crowd.\n\nThe ladies got in, while Vronsky and Stepan Arkadyevitch followed the\ncrowd to find out details of the disaster.\n\nA guard, either drunk or too much muffled up in the bitter frost, had\nnot heard the train moving back, and had been crushed.\n\nBefore Vronsky and Oblonsky came back the ladies heard the facts from\nthe butler.\n\nOblonsky and Vronsky had both seen the mutilated corpse. Oblonsky was\nevidently upset. He frowned and seemed ready to cry.\n\n Ah, how awful! Ah, Anna, if you had seen it! Ah, how awful!  he said.\n\nVronsky did not speak; his handsome face was serious, but perfectly\ncomposed.\n\n Oh, if you had seen it, countess,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  And his\nwife was there.... It was awful to see her!... She flung herself on the\nbody. They say he was the only support of an immense family. How\nawful! \n\n Couldn t one do anything for her?  said Madame Karenina in an agitated\nwhisper.\n\nVronsky glanced at her, and immediately got out of the carriage.\n\n I ll be back directly, maman,  he remarked, turning round in the\ndoorway.\n\nWhen he came back a few minutes later, Stepan Arkadyevitch was already\nin conversation with the countess about the new singer, while the\ncountess was impatiently looking towards the door, waiting for her son.\n\n Now let us be off,  said Vronsky, coming in. They went out together.\nVronsky was in front with his mother. Behind walked Madame Karenina\nwith her brother. Just as they were going out of the station the\nstation-master overtook Vronsky.\n\n You gave my assistant two hundred roubles. Would you kindly explain\nfor whose benefit you intend them? \n\n For the widow,  said Vronsky, shrugging his shoulders.  I should have\nthought there was no need to ask. \n\n You gave that?  cried Oblonsky, behind, and, pressing his sister s\nhand, he added:  Very nice, very nice! Isn t he a splendid fellow?\nGood-bye, countess. \n\nAnd he and his sister stood still, looking for her maid.\n\nWhen they went out the Vronsky s carriage had already driven away.\nPeople coming in were still talking of what happened.\n\n What a horrible death!  said a gentleman, passing by.  They say he was\ncut in two pieces. \n\n On the contrary, I think it s the easiest instantaneous,  observed\nanother.\n\n How is it they don t take proper precautions?  said a third.\n\nMadame Karenina seated herself in the carriage, and Stepan Arkadyevitch\nsaw with surprise that her lips were quivering, and she was with\ndifficulty restraining her tears.\n\n What is it, Anna?  he asked, when they had driven a few hundred yards.\n\n It s an omen of evil,  she said.\n\n What nonsense!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  You ve come, that s the\nchief thing. You can t conceive how I m resting my hopes on you. \n\n Have you known Vronsky long?  she asked.\n\n Yes. You know we re hoping he will marry Kitty. \n\n Yes?  said Anna softly.  Come now, let us talk of you,  she added,\ntossing her head, as though she would physically shake off something\nsuperfluous oppressing her.  Let us talk of your affairs. I got your\nletter, and here I am. \n\n Yes, all my hopes are in you,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Well, tell me all about it. \n\nAnd Stepan Arkadyevitch began to tell his story.\n\nOn reaching home Oblonsky helped his sister out, sighed, pressed her\nhand, and set off to his office.\n\n\nChapter 19\n\nWhen Anna went into the room, Dolly was sitting in the little\ndrawing-room with a white-headed fat little boy, already like his\nfather, giving him a lesson in French reading. As the boy read, he kept\ntwisting and trying to tear off a button that was nearly off his\njacket. His mother had several times taken his hand from it, but the\nfat little hand went back to the button again. His mother pulled the\nbutton off and put it in her pocket.\n\n Keep your hands still, Grisha,  she said, and she took up her work, a\ncoverlet she had long been making. She always set to work on it at\ndepressed moments, and now she knitted at it nervously, twitching her\nfingers and counting the stitches. Though she had sent word the day\nbefore to her husband that it was nothing to her whether his sister\ncame or not, she had made everything ready for her arrival, and was\nexpecting her sister-in-law with emotion.\n\nDolly was crushed by her sorrow, utterly swallowed up by it. Still she\ndid not forget that Anna, her sister-in-law, was the wife of one of the\nmost important personages in Petersburg, and was a Petersburg _grande\ndame_. And, thanks to this circumstance, she did not carry out her\nthreat to her husband that is to say, she remembered that her\nsister-in-law was coming.  And, after all, Anna is in no wise to\nblame,  thought Dolly.  I know nothing of her except the very best, and\nI have seen nothing but kindness and affection from her towards\nmyself.  It was true that as far as she could recall her impressions at\nPetersburg at the Karenins , she did not like their household itself;\nthere was something artificial in the whole framework of their family\nlife.  But why should I not receive her? If only she doesn t take it\ninto her head to console me!  thought Dolly.  All consolation and\ncounsel and Christian forgiveness, all that I have thought over a\nthousand times, and it s all no use. \n\nAll these days Dolly had been alone with her children. She did not want\nto talk of her sorrow, but with that sorrow in her heart she could not\ntalk of outside matters. She knew that in one way or another she would\ntell Anna everything, and she was alternately glad at the thought of\nspeaking freely, and angry at the necessity of speaking of her\nhumiliation with her, his sister, and of hearing her ready-made phrases\nof good advice and comfort. She had been on the lookout for her,\nglancing at her watch every minute, and, as so often happens, let slip\njust that minute when her visitor arrived, so that she did not hear the\nbell.\n\nCatching a sound of skirts and light steps at the door, she looked\nround, and her care-worn face unconsciously expressed not gladness, but\nwonder. She got up and embraced her sister-in-law.\n\n What, here already!  she said as she kissed her.\n\n Dolly, how glad I am to see you! \n\n I am glad, too,  said Dolly, faintly smiling, and trying by the\nexpression of Anna s face to find out whether she knew.  Most likely\nshe knows,  she thought, noticing the sympathy in Anna s face.  Well,\ncome along, I ll take you to your room,  she went on, trying to defer\nas long as possible the moment of confidences.\n\n Is this Grisha? Heavens, how he s grown!  said Anna; and kissing him,\nnever taking her eyes off Dolly, she stood still and flushed a little.\n No, please, let us stay here. \n\nShe took off her kerchief and her hat, and catching it in a lock of her\nblack hair, which was a mass of curls, she tossed her head and shook\nher hair down.\n\n You are radiant with health and happiness!  said Dolly, almost with\nenvy.\n\n I?... Yes,  said Anna.  Merciful heavens, Tanya! You re the same age\nas my Seryozha,  she added, addressing the little girl as she ran in.\nShe took her in her arms and kissed her.  Delightful child, delightful!\nShow me them all. \n\nShe mentioned them, not only remembering the names, but the years,\nmonths, characters, illnesses of all the children, and Dolly could not\nbut appreciate that.\n\n Very well, we will go to them,  she said.  It s a pity Vassya s\nasleep. \n\nAfter seeing the children, they sat down, alone now, in the\ndrawing-room, to coffee. Anna took the tray, and then pushed it away\nfrom her.\n\n Dolly,  she said,  he has told me. \n\nDolly looked coldly at Anna; she was waiting now for phrases of\nconventional sympathy, but Anna said nothing of the sort.\n\n Dolly, dear,  she said,  I don t want to speak for him to you, nor to\ntry to comfort you; that s impossible. But, darling, I m simply sorry,\nsorry from my heart for you! \n\nUnder the thick lashes of her shining eyes tears suddenly glittered.\nShe moved nearer to her sister-in-law and took her hand in her vigorous\nlittle hand. Dolly did not shrink away, but her face did not lose its\nfrigid expression. She said:\n\n To comfort me s impossible. Everything s lost after what has happened,\neverything s over! \n\nAnd directly she had said this, her face suddenly softened. Anna lifted\nthe wasted, thin hand of Dolly, kissed it and said:\n\n But, Dolly, what s to be done, what s to be done? How is it best to\nact in this awful position that s what you must think of. \n\n All s over, and there s nothing more,  said Dolly.  And the worst of\nall is, you see, that I can t cast him off: there are the children, I\nam tied. And I can t live with him! it s a torture to me to see him. \n\n Dolly, darling, he has spoken to me, but I want to hear it from you:\ntell me about it. \n\nDolly looked at her inquiringly.\n\nSympathy and love unfeigned were visible on Anna s face.\n\n Very well,  she said all at once.  But I will tell you it from the\nbeginning. You know how I was married. With the education mamma gave us\nI was more than innocent, I was stupid. I knew nothing. I know they say\nmen tell their wives of their former lives, but Stiva she corrected\nherself Stepan Arkadyevitch told me nothing. You ll hardly believe it,\nbut till now I imagined that I was the only woman he had known. So I\nlived eight years. You must understand that I was so far from\nsuspecting infidelity, I regarded it as impossible, and then try to\nimagine it with such ideas, to find out suddenly all the horror, all\nthe loathsomeness.... You must try and understand me. To be fully\nconvinced of one s happiness, and all at once....  continued Dolly,\nholding back her sobs,  to get a letter ... his letter to his mistress,\nmy governess. No, it s too awful!  She hastily pulled out her\nhandkerchief and hid her face in it.  I can understand being carried\naway by feeling,  she went on after a brief silence,  but deliberately,\nslyly deceiving me ... and with whom?... To go on being my husband\ntogether with her ... it s awful! You can t understand.... \n\n Oh, yes, I understand! I understand! Dolly, dearest, I do understand, \nsaid Anna, pressing her hand.\n\n And do you imagine he realizes all the awfulness of my position? \nDolly resumed.  Not the slightest! He s happy and contented. \n\n Oh, no!  Anna interposed quickly.  He s to be pitied, he s weighed\ndown by remorse.... \n\n Is he capable of remorse?  Dolly interrupted, gazing intently into her\nsister-in-law s face.\n\n Yes. I know him. I could not look at him without feeling sorry for\nhim. We both know him. He s good-hearted, but he s proud, and now he s\nso humiliated. What touched me most....  (and here Anna guessed what\nwould touch Dolly most)  he s tortured by two things: that he s ashamed\nfor the children s sake, and that, loving you yes, yes, loving you\nbeyond everything on earth,  she hurriedly interrupted Dolly, who would\nhave answered he has hurt you, pierced you to the heart.  No, no, she\ncannot forgive me,  he keeps saying. \n\nDolly looked dreamily away beyond her sister-in-law as she listened to\nher words.\n\n Yes, I can see that his position is awful; it s worse for the guilty\nthan the innocent,  she said,  if he feels that all the misery comes\nfrom his fault. But how am I to forgive him, how am I to be his wife\nagain after her? For me to live with him now would be torture, just\nbecause I love my past love for him.... \n\nAnd sobs cut short her words. But as though of set design, each time\nshe was softened she began to speak again of what exasperated her.\n\n She s young, you see, she s pretty,  she went on.  Do you know, Anna,\nmy youth and my beauty are gone, taken by whom? By him and his\nchildren. I have worked for him, and all I had has gone in his service,\nand now of course any fresh, vulgar creature has more charm for him. No\ndoubt they talked of me together, or, worse still, they were silent. Do\nyou understand? \n\nAgain her eyes glowed with hatred.\n\n And after that he will tell me.... What! can I believe him? Never! No,\neverything is over, everything that once made my comfort, the reward of\nmy work, and my sufferings.... Would you believe it, I was teaching\nGrisha just now: once this was a joy to me, now it is a torture. What\nhave I to strive and toil for? Why are the children here? What s so\nawful is that all at once my heart s turned, and instead of love and\ntenderness, I have nothing but hatred for him; yes, hatred. I could\nkill him. \n\n Darling Dolly, I understand, but don t torture yourself. You are so\ndistressed, so overwrought, that you look at many things mistakenly. \n\nDolly grew calmer, and for two minutes both were silent.\n\n What s to be done? Think for me, Anna, help me. I have thought over\neverything, and I see nothing. \n\nAnna could think of nothing, but her heart responded instantly to each\nword, to each change of expression of her sister-in-law.\n\n One thing I would say,  began Anna.  I am his sister, I know his\ncharacter, that faculty of forgetting everything, everything  (she\nwaved her hand before her forehead),  that faculty for being completely\ncarried away, but for completely repenting too. He cannot believe it,\nhe cannot comprehend now how he can have acted as he did. \n\n No; he understands, he understood!  Dolly broke in.  But I ... you are\nforgetting me ... does it make it easier for me? \n\n Wait a minute. When he told me, I will own I did not realize all the\nawfulness of your position. I saw nothing but him, and that the family\nwas broken up. I felt sorry for him, but after talking to you, I see\nit, as a woman, quite differently. I see your agony, and I can t tell\nyou how sorry I am for you! But, Dolly, darling, I fully realize your\nsufferings, only there is one thing I don t know; I don t know ... I\ndon t know how much love there is still in your heart for him. That you\nknow whether there is enough for you to be able to forgive him. If\nthere is, forgive him! \n\n No,  Dolly was beginning, but Anna cut her short, kissing her hand\nonce more.\n\n I know more of the world than you do,  she said.  I know how men like\nStiva look at it. You speak of his talking of you with her. That never\nhappened. Such men are unfaithful, but their home and wife are sacred\nto them. Somehow or other these women are still looked on with contempt\nby them, and do not touch on their feeling for their family. They draw\na sort of line that can t be crossed between them and their families. I\ndon t understand it, but it is so. \n\n Yes, but he has kissed her.... \n\n Dolly, hush, darling. I saw Stiva when he was in love with you. I\nremember the time when he came to me and cried, talking of you, and all\nthe poetry and loftiness of his feeling for you, and I know that the\nlonger he has lived with you the loftier you have been in his eyes. You\nknow we have sometimes laughed at him for putting in at every word:\n Dolly s a marvelous woman.  You have always been a divinity for him,\nand you are that still, and this has not been an infidelity of the\nheart.... \n\n But if it is repeated? \n\n It cannot be, as I understand it.... \n\n Yes, but could you forgive it? \n\n I don t know, I can t judge.... Yes, I can,  said Anna, thinking a\nmoment; and grasping the position in her thought and weighing it in her\ninner balance, she added:  Yes, I can, I can, I can. Yes, I could\nforgive it. I could not be the same, no; but I could forgive it, and\nforgive it as though it had never been, never been at all.... \n\n Oh, of course,  Dolly interposed quickly, as though saying what she\nhad more than once thought,  else it would not be forgiveness. If one\nforgives, it must be completely, completely. Come, let us go; I ll take\nyou to your room,  she said, getting up, and on the way she embraced\nAnna.  My dear, how glad I am you came. It has made things better, ever\nso much better. \n\n\nChapter 20\n\nThe whole of that day Anna spent at home, that s to say at the\nOblonskys , and received no one, though some of her acquaintances had\nalready heard of her arrival, and came to call the same day. Anna spent\nthe whole morning with Dolly and the children. She merely sent a brief\nnote to her brother to tell him that he must not fail to dine at home.\n Come, God is merciful,  she wrote.\n\nOblonsky did dine at home: the conversation was general, and his wife,\nspeaking to him, addressed him as  Stiva,  as she had not done before.\nIn the relations of the husband and wife the same estrangement still\nremained, but there was no talk now of separation, and Stepan\nArkadyevitch saw the possibility of explanation and reconciliation.\n\nImmediately after dinner Kitty came in. She knew Anna Arkadyevna, but\nonly very slightly, and she came now to her sister s with some\ntrepidation, at the prospect of meeting this fashionable Petersburg\nlady, whom everyone spoke so highly of. But she made a favorable\nimpression on Anna Arkadyevna she saw that at once. Anna was\nunmistakably admiring her loveliness and her youth: before Kitty knew\nwhere she was she found herself not merely under Anna s sway, but in\nlove with her, as young girls do fall in love with older and married\nwomen. Anna was not like a fashionable lady, nor the mother of a boy of\neight years old. In the elasticity of her movements, the freshness and\nthe unflagging eagerness which persisted in her face, and broke out in\nher smile and her glance, she would rather have passed for a girl of\ntwenty, had it not been for a serious and at times mournful look in her\neyes, which struck and attracted Kitty. Kitty felt that Anna was\nperfectly simple and was concealing nothing, but that she had another\nhigher world of interests inaccessible to her, complex and poetic.\n\nAfter dinner, when Dolly went away to her own room, Anna rose quickly\nand went up to her brother, who was just lighting a cigar.\n\n Stiva,  she said to him, winking gaily, crossing him and glancing\ntowards the door,  go, and God help you. \n\nHe threw down the cigar, understanding her, and departed through the\ndoorway.\n\nWhen Stepan Arkadyevitch had disappeared, she went back to the sofa\nwhere she had been sitting, surrounded by the children. Either because\nthe children saw that their mother was fond of this aunt, or that they\nfelt a special charm in her themselves, the two elder ones, and the\nyounger following their lead, as children so often do, had clung about\ntheir new aunt since before dinner, and would not leave her side. And\nit had become a sort of game among them to sit as close as possible to\ntheir aunt, to touch her, hold her little hand, kiss it, play with her\nring, or even touch the flounce of her skirt.\n\n Come, come, as we were sitting before,  said Anna Arkadyevna, sitting\ndown in her place.\n\nAnd again Grisha poked his little face under her arm, and nestled with\nhis head on her gown, beaming with pride and happiness.\n\n And when is your next ball?  she asked Kitty.\n\n Next week, and a splendid ball. One of those balls where one always\nenjoys oneself. \n\n Why, are there balls where one always enjoys oneself?  Anna said, with\ntender irony.\n\n It s strange, but there are. At the Bobrishtchevs  one always enjoys\noneself, and at the Nikitins  too, while at the Mezhkovs  it s always\ndull. Haven t you noticed it? \n\n No, my dear, for me there are no balls now where one enjoys oneself, \nsaid Anna, and Kitty detected in her eyes that mysterious world which\nwas not open to her.  For me there are some less dull and tiresome. \n\n How can _you_ be dull at a ball? \n\n Why should not _I_ be dull at a ball?  inquired Anna.\n\nKitty perceived that Anna knew what answer would follow.\n\n Because you always look nicer than anyone. \n\nAnna had the faculty of blushing. She blushed a little, and said:\n\n In the first place it s never so; and secondly, if it were, what\ndifference would it make to me? \n\n Are you coming to this ball?  asked Kitty.\n\n I imagine it won t be possible to avoid going. Here, take it,  she\nsaid to Tanya, who was pulling the loosely-fitting ring off her white,\nslender-tipped finger.\n\n I shall be so glad if you go. I should so like to see you at a ball. \n\n Anyway, if I do go, I shall comfort myself with the thought that it s\na pleasure to you ... Grisha, don t pull my hair. It s untidy enough\nwithout that,  she said, putting up a straying lock, which Grisha had\nbeen playing with.\n\n I imagine you at the ball in lilac. \n\n And why in lilac precisely?  asked Anna, smiling.  Now, children, run\nalong, run along. Do you hear? Miss Hoole is calling you to tea,  she\nsaid, tearing the children from her, and sending them off to the\ndining-room.\n\n I know why you press me to come to the ball. You expect a great deal\nof this ball, and you want everyone to be there to take part in it. \n\n How do you know? Yes. \n\n Oh! what a happy time you are at,  pursued Anna.  I remember, and I\nknow that blue haze like the mist on the mountains in Switzerland. That\nmist which covers everything in that blissful time when childhood is\njust ending, and out of that vast circle, happy and gay, there is a\npath growing narrower and narrower, and it is delightful and alarming\nto enter the ballroom, bright and splendid as it is.... Who has not\nbeen through it? \n\nKitty smiled without speaking.  But how did she go through it? How I\nshould like to know all her love story!  thought Kitty, recalling the\nunromantic appearance of Alexey Alexandrovitch, her husband.\n\n I know something. Stiva told me, and I congratulate you. I liked him\nso much,  Anna continued.  I met Vronsky at the railway station. \n\n Oh, was he there?  asked Kitty, blushing.  What was it Stiva told\nyou? \n\n Stiva gossiped about it all. And I should be so glad ... I traveled\nyesterday with Vronsky s mother,  she went on;  and his mother talked\nwithout a pause of him, he s her favorite. I know mothers are partial,\nbut.... \n\n What did his mother tell you? \n\n Oh, a great deal! And I know that he s her favorite; still one can see\nhow chivalrous he is.... Well, for instance, she told me that he had\nwanted to give up all his property to his brother, that he had done\nsomething extraordinary when he was quite a child, saved a woman out of\nthe water. He s a hero, in fact,  said Anna, smiling and recollecting\nthe two hundred roubles he had given at the station.\n\nBut she did not tell Kitty about the two hundred roubles. For some\nreason it was disagreeable to her to think of it. She felt that there\nwas something that had to do with her in it, and something that ought\nnot to have been.\n\n She pressed me very much to go and see her,  Anna went on;  and I\nshall be glad to go to see her tomorrow. Stiva is staying a long while\nin Dolly s room, thank God,  Anna added, changing the subject, and\ngetting up, Kitty fancied, displeased with something.\n\n No, I m first! No, I!  screamed the children, who had finished tea,\nrunning up to their Aunt Anna.\n\n All together,  said Anna, and she ran laughing to meet them, and\nembraced and swung round all the throng of swarming children, shrieking\nwith delight.\n\n\nChapter 21\n\nDolly came out of her room to the tea of the grown-up people. Stepan\nArkadyevitch did not come out. He must have left his wife s room by the\nother door.\n\n I am afraid you ll be cold upstairs,  observed Dolly, addressing Anna;\n I want to move you downstairs, and we shall be nearer. \n\n Oh, please, don t trouble about me,  answered Anna, looking intently\ninto Dolly s face, trying to make out whether there had been a\nreconciliation or not.\n\n It will be lighter for you here,  answered her sister-in-law.\n\n I assure you that I sleep everywhere, and always like a marmot. \n\n What s the question?  inquired Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming out of his\nroom and addressing his wife.\n\nFrom his tone both Kitty and Anna knew that a reconciliation had taken\nplace.\n\n I want to move Anna downstairs, but we must hang up blinds. No one\nknows how to do it; I must see to it myself,  answered Dolly addressing\nhim.\n\n God knows whether they are fully reconciled,  thought Anna, hearing\nher tone, cold and composed.\n\n Oh, nonsense, Dolly, always making difficulties,  answered her\nhusband.  Come, I ll do it all, if you like.... \n\n Yes, they must be reconciled,  thought Anna.\n\n I know how you do everything,  answered Dolly.  You tell Matvey to do\nwhat can t be done, and go away yourself, leaving him to make a muddle\nof everything,  and her habitual, mocking smile curved the corners of\nDolly s lips as she spoke.\n\n Full, full reconciliation, full,  thought Anna;  thank God!  and\nrejoicing that she was the cause of it, she went up to Dolly and kissed\nher.\n\n Not at all. Why do you always look down on me and Matvey?  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, smiling hardly perceptibly, and addressing his wife.\n\nThe whole evening Dolly was, as always, a little mocking in her tone to\nher husband, while Stepan Arkadyevitch was happy and cheerful, but not\nso as to seem as though, having been forgiven, he had forgotten his\noffense.\n\nAt half-past nine o clock a particularly joyful and pleasant family\nconversation over the tea-table at the Oblonskys  was broken up by an\napparently simple incident. But this simple incident for some reason\nstruck everyone as strange. Talking about common acquaintances in\nPetersburg, Anna got up quickly.\n\n She is in my album,  she said;  and, by the way, I ll show you my\nSeryozha,  she added, with a mother s smile of pride.\n\nTowards ten o clock, when she usually said good-night to her son, and\noften before going to a ball put him to bed herself, she felt depressed\nat being so far from him; and whatever she was talking about, she kept\ncoming back in thought to her curly-headed Seryozha. She longed to look\nat his photograph and talk of him. Seizing the first pretext, she got\nup, and with her light, resolute step went for her album. The stairs up\nto her room came out on the landing of the great warm main staircase.\n\nJust as she was leaving the drawing-room, a ring was heard in the hall.\n\n Who can that be?  said Dolly.\n\n It s early for me to be fetched, and for anyone else it s late, \nobserved Kitty.\n\n Sure to be someone with papers for me,  put in Stepan Arkadyevitch.\nWhen Anna was passing the top of the staircase, a servant was running\nup to announce the visitor, while the visitor himself was standing\nunder a lamp. Anna glancing down at once recognized Vronsky, and a\nstrange feeling of pleasure and at the same time of dread of something\nstirred in her heart. He was standing still, not taking off his coat,\npulling something out of his pocket. At the instant when she was just\nfacing the stairs, he raised his eyes, caught sight of her, and into\nthe expression of his face there passed a shade of embarrassment and\ndismay. With a slight inclination of her head she passed, hearing\nbehind her Stepan Arkadyevitch s loud voice calling him to come up, and\nthe quiet, soft, and composed voice of Vronsky refusing.\n\nWhen Anna returned with the album, he was already gone, and Stepan\nArkadyevitch was telling them that he had called to inquire about the\ndinner they were giving next day to a celebrity who had just arrived.\n And nothing would induce him to come up. What a queer fellow he is! \nadded Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\nKitty blushed. She thought that she was the only person who knew why he\nhad come, and why he would not come up.  He has been at home,  she\nthought,  and didn t find me, and thought I should be here, but he did\nnot come up because he thought it late, and Anna s here. \n\nAll of them looked at each other, saying nothing, and began to look at\nAnna s album.\n\nThere was nothing either exceptional or strange in a man s calling at\nhalf-past nine on a friend to inquire details of a proposed dinner\nparty and not coming in, but it seemed strange to all of them. Above\nall, it seemed strange and not right to Anna.\n\n\nChapter 22\n\nThe ball was only just beginning as Kitty and her mother walked up the\ngreat staircase, flooded with light, and lined with flowers and footmen\nin powder and red coats. From the rooms came a constant, steady hum, as\nfrom a hive, and the rustle of movement; and while on the landing\nbetween trees they gave last touches to their hair and dresses before\nthe mirror, they heard from the ballroom the careful, distinct notes of\nthe fiddles of the orchestra beginning the first waltz. A little old\nman in civilian dress, arranging his gray curls before another mirror,\nand diffusing an odor of scent, stumbled against them on the stairs,\nand stood aside, evidently admiring Kitty, whom he did not know. A\nbeardless youth, one of those society youths whom the old Prince\nShtcherbatsky called  young bucks,  in an exceedingly open waistcoat,\nstraightening his white tie as he went, bowed to them, and after\nrunning by, came back to ask Kitty for a quadrille. As the first\nquadrille had already been given to Vronsky, she had to promise this\nyouth the second. An officer, buttoning his glove, stood aside in the\ndoorway, and stroking his mustache, admired rosy Kitty.\n\nAlthough her dress, her coiffure, and all the preparations for the ball\nhad cost Kitty great trouble and consideration, at this moment she\nwalked into the ballroom in her elaborate tulle dress over a pink slip\nas easily and simply as though all the rosettes and lace, all the\nminute details of her attire, had not cost her or her family a moment s\nattention, as though she had been born in that tulle and lace, with her\nhair done up high on her head, and a rose and two leaves on the top of\nit.\n\nWhen, just before entering the ballroom, the princess, her mother,\ntried to turn right side out of the ribbon of her sash, Kitty had drawn\nback a little. She felt that everything must be right of itself, and\ngraceful, and nothing could need setting straight.\n\nIt was one of Kitty s best days. Her dress was not uncomfortable\nanywhere; her lace berthe did not droop anywhere; her rosettes were not\ncrushed nor torn off; her pink slippers with high, hollowed-out heels\ndid not pinch, but gladdened her feet; and the thick rolls of fair\nchignon kept up on her head as if they were her own hair. All the three\nbuttons buttoned up without tearing on the long glove that covered her\nhand without concealing its lines. The black velvet of her locket\nnestled with special softness round her neck. That velvet was\ndelicious; at home, looking at her neck in the looking-glass, Kitty had\nfelt that that velvet was speaking. About all the rest there might be a\ndoubt, but the velvet was delicious. Kitty smiled here too, at the\nball, when she glanced at it in the glass. Her bare shoulders and arms\ngave Kitty a sense of chill marble, a feeling she particularly liked.\nHer eyes sparkled, and her rosy lips could not keep from smiling from\nthe consciousness of her own attractiveness. She had scarcely entered\nthe ballroom and reached the throng of ladies, all tulle, ribbons,\nlace, and flowers, waiting to be asked to dance Kitty was never one of\nthat throng when she was asked for a waltz, and asked by the best\npartner, the first star in the hierarchy of the ballroom, a renowned\ndirector of dances, a married man, handsome and well-built, Yegorushka\nKorsunsky. He had only just left the Countess Bonina, with whom he had\ndanced the first half of the waltz, and, scanning his kingdom that is\nto say, a few couples who had started dancing he caught sight of Kitty,\nentering, and flew up to her with that peculiar, easy amble which is\nconfined to directors of balls. Without even asking her if she cared to\ndance, he put out his arm to encircle her slender waist. She looked\nround for someone to give her fan to, and their hostess, smiling to\nher, took it.\n\n How nice you ve come in good time,  he said to her, embracing her\nwaist;  such a bad habit to be late.  Bending her left hand, she laid\nit on his shoulder, and her little feet in their pink slippers began\nswiftly, lightly, and rhythmically moving over the slippery floor in\ntime to the music.\n\n It s a rest to waltz with you,  he said to her, as they fell into the\nfirst slow steps of the waltz.  It s exquisite such lightness,\nprecision.  He said to her the same thing he said to almost all his\npartners whom he knew well.\n\nShe smiled at his praise, and continued to look about the room over his\nshoulder. She was not like a girl at her first ball, for whom all faces\nin the ballroom melt into one vision of fairyland. And she was not a\ngirl who had gone the stale round of balls till every face in the\nballroom was familiar and tiresome. But she was in the middle stage\nbetween these two; she was excited, and at the same time she had\nsufficient self-possession to be able to observe. In the left corner of\nthe ballroom she saw the cream of society gathered together.\nThere incredibly naked was the beauty Lidi, Korsunsky s wife; there was\nthe lady of the house; there shone the bald head of Krivin, always to\nbe found where the best people were. In that direction gazed the young\nmen, not venturing to approach. There, too, she descried Stiva, and\nthere she saw the exquisite figure and head of Anna in a black velvet\ngown. And _he_ was there. Kitty had not seen him since the evening she\nrefused Levin. With her long-sighted eyes, she knew him at once, and\nwas even aware that he was looking at her.\n\n Another turn, eh? You re not tired?  said Korsunsky, a little out of\nbreath.\n\n No, thank you! \n\n Where shall I take you? \n\n Madame Karenina s here, I think ... take me to her. \n\n Wherever you command. \n\nAnd Korsunsky began waltzing with measured steps straight towards the\ngroup in the left corner, continually saying,  Pardon, mesdames,\npardon, pardon, mesdames ; and steering his course through the sea of\nlace, tulle, and ribbon, and not disarranging a feather, he turned his\npartner sharply round, so that her slim ankles, in light transparent\nstockings, were exposed to view, and her train floated out in fan shape\nand covered Krivin s knees. Korsunsky bowed, set straight his open\nshirt front, and gave her his arm to conduct her to Anna Arkadyevna.\nKitty, flushed, took her train from Krivin s knees, and, a little\ngiddy, looked round, seeking Anna. Anna was not in lilac, as Kitty had\nso urgently wished, but in a black, low-cut, velvet gown, showing her\nfull throat and shoulders, that looked as though carved in old ivory,\nand her rounded arms, with tiny, slender wrists. The whole gown was\ntrimmed with Venetian guipure. On her head, among her black hair her\nown, with no false additions was a little wreath of pansies, and a\nbouquet of the same in the black ribbon of her sash among white lace.\nHer coiffure was not striking. All that was noticeable was the little\nwilful tendrils of her curly hair that would always break free about\nher neck and temples. Round her well-cut, strong neck was a thread of\npearls.\n\nKitty had been seeing Anna every day; she adored her, and had pictured\nher invariably in lilac. But now seeing her in black, she felt that she\nhad not fully seen her charm. She saw her now as someone quite new and\nsurprising to her. Now she understood that Anna could not have been in\nlilac, and that her charm was just that she always stood out against\nher attire, that her dress could never be noticeable on her. And her\nblack dress, with its sumptuous lace, was not noticeable on her; it was\nonly the frame, and all that was seen was she simple, natural, elegant,\nand at the same time gay and eager.\n\nShe was standing holding herself, as always, very erect, and when Kitty\ndrew near the group she was speaking to the master of the house, her\nhead slightly turned towards him.\n\n No, I don t throw stones,  she was saying, in answer to something,\n though I can t understand it,  she went on, shrugging her shoulders,\nand she turned at once with a soft smile of protection towards Kitty.\nWith a flying, feminine glance she scanned her attire, and made a\nmovement of her head, hardly perceptible, but understood by Kitty,\nsignifying approval of her dress and her looks.  You came into the room\ndancing,  she added.\n\n This is one of my most faithful supporters,  said Korsunsky, bowing to\nAnna Arkadyevna, whom he had not yet seen.  The princess helps to make\nballs happy and successful. Anna Arkadyevna, a waltz?  he said, bending\ndown to her.\n\n Why, have you met?  inquired their host.\n\n Is there anyone we have not met? My wife and I are like white\nwolves everyone knows us,  answered Korsunsky.  A waltz, Anna\nArkadyevna? \n\n I don t dance when it s possible not to dance,  she said.\n\n But tonight it s impossible,  answered Korsunsky.\n\nAt that instant Vronsky came up.\n\n Well, since it s impossible tonight, let us start,  she said, not\nnoticing Vronsky s bow, and she hastily put her hand on Korsunsky s\nshoulder.\n\n What is she vexed with him about?  thought Kitty, discerning that Anna\nhad intentionally not responded to Vronsky s bow. Vronsky went up to\nKitty reminding her of the first quadrille, and expressing his regret\nthat he had not seen her all this time. Kitty gazed in admiration at\nAnna waltzing, and listened to him. She expected him to ask her for a\nwaltz, but he did not, and she glanced wonderingly at him. He flushed\nslightly, and hurriedly asked her to waltz, but he had only just put\nhis arm round her waist and taken the first step when the music\nsuddenly stopped. Kitty looked into his face, which was so close to her\nown, and long afterwards for several years after that look, full of\nlove, to which he made no response, cut her to the heart with an agony\nof shame.\n\n _Pardon! pardon!_ Waltz! waltz!  shouted Korsunsky from the other side\nof the room, and seizing the first young lady he came across he began\ndancing himself.\n\n\nChapter 23\n\nVronsky and Kitty waltzed several times round the room. After the first\nwaltz Kitty went to her mother, and she had hardly time to say a few\nwords to Countess Nordston when Vronsky came up again for the first\nquadrille. During the quadrille nothing of any significance was said:\nthere was disjointed talk between them of the Korsunskys, husband and\nwife, whom he described very amusingly, as delightful children at\nforty, and of the future town theater; and only once the conversation\ntouched her to the quick, when he asked her about Levin, whether he was\nhere, and added that he liked him so much. But Kitty did not expect\nmuch from the quadrille. She looked forward with a thrill at her heart\nto the mazurka. She fancied that in the mazurka everything must be\ndecided. The fact that he did not during the quadrille ask her for the\nmazurka did not trouble her. She felt sure she would dance the mazurka\nwith him as she had done at former balls, and refused five young men,\nsaying she was engaged for the mazurka. The whole ball up to the last\nquadrille was for Kitty an enchanted vision of delightful colors,\nsounds, and motions. She only sat down when she felt too tired and\nbegged for a rest. But as she was dancing the last quadrille with one\nof the tiresome young men whom she could not refuse, she chanced to be\n_vis- -vis_ with Vronsky and Anna. She had not been near Anna again\nsince the beginning of the evening, and now again she saw her suddenly\nquite new and surprising. She saw in her the signs of that excitement\nof success she knew so well in herself; she saw that she was\nintoxicated with the delighted admiration she was exciting. She knew\nthat feeling and knew its signs, and saw them in Anna; saw the\nquivering, flashing light in her eyes, and the smile of happiness and\nexcitement unconsciously playing on her lips, and the deliberate grace,\nprecision, and lightness of her movements.\n\n Who?  she asked herself.  All or one?  And not assisting the harassed\nyoung man she was dancing with in the conversation, the thread of which\nhe had lost and could not pick up again, she obeyed with external\nliveliness the peremptory shouts of Korsunsky starting them all into\nthe _grand rond_, and then into the _cha ne_, and at the same time she\nkept watch with a growing pang at her heart.  No, it s not the\nadmiration of the crowd has intoxicated her, but the adoration of one.\nAnd that one? can it be he?  Every time he spoke to Anna the joyous\nlight flashed into her eyes, and the smile of happiness curved her red\nlips. She seemed to make an effort to control herself, to try not to\nshow these signs of delight, but they came out on her face of\nthemselves.  But what of him?  Kitty looked at him and was filled with\nterror. What was pictured so clearly to Kitty in the mirror of Anna s\nface she saw in him. What had become of his always self-possessed\nresolute manner, and the carelessly serene expression of his face? Now\nevery time he turned to her, he bent his head, as though he would have\nfallen at her feet, and in his eyes there was nothing but humble\nsubmission and dread.  I would not offend you,  his eyes seemed every\ntime to be saying,  but I want to save myself, and I don t know how. \nOn his face was a look such as Kitty had never seen before.\n\nThey were speaking of common acquaintances, keeping up the most trivial\nconversation, but to Kitty it seemed that every word they said was\ndetermining their fate and hers. And strange it was that they were\nactually talking of how absurd Ivan Ivanovitch was with his French, and\nhow the Eletsky girl might have made a better match, yet these words\nhad all the while consequence for them, and they were feeling just as\nKitty did. The whole ball, the whole world, everything seemed lost in\nfog in Kitty s soul. Nothing but the stern discipline of her\nbringing-up supported her and forced her to do what was expected of\nher, that is, to dance, to answer questions, to talk, even to smile.\nBut before the mazurka, when they were beginning to rearrange the\nchairs and a few couples moved out of the smaller rooms into the big\nroom, a moment of despair and horror came for Kitty. She had refused\nfive partners, and now she was not dancing the mazurka. She had not\neven a hope of being asked for it, because she was so successful in\nsociety that the idea would never occur to anyone that she had remained\ndisengaged till now. She would have to tell her mother she felt ill and\ngo home, but she had not the strength to do this. She felt crushed. She\nwent to the furthest end of the little drawing-room and sank into a low\nchair. Her light, transparent skirts rose like a cloud about her\nslender waist; one bare, thin, soft, girlish arm, hanging listlessly,\nwas lost in the folds of her pink tunic; in the other she held her fan,\nand with rapid, short strokes fanned her burning face. But while she\nlooked like a butterfly, clinging to a blade of grass, and just about\nto open its rainbow wings for fresh flight, her heart ached with a\nhorrible despair.\n\n But perhaps I am wrong, perhaps it was not so?  And again she recalled\nall she had seen.\n\n Kitty, what is it?  said Countess Nordston, stepping noiselessly over\nthe carpet towards her.  I don t understand it. \n\nKitty s lower lip began to quiver; she got up quickly.\n\n Kitty, you re not dancing the mazurka? \n\n No, no,  said Kitty in a voice shaking with tears.\n\n He asked her for the mazurka before me,  said Countess Nordston,\nknowing Kitty would understand who were  he  and  her.   She said:\n Why, aren t you going to dance it with Princess Shtcherbatskaya? \n\n Oh, I don t care!  answered Kitty.\n\nNo one but she herself understood her position; no one knew that she\nhad just refused the man whom perhaps she loved, and refused him\nbecause she had put her faith in another.\n\nCountess Nordston found Korsunsky, with whom she was to dance the\nmazurka, and told him to ask Kitty.\n\nKitty danced in the first couple, and luckily for her she had not to\ntalk, because Korsunsky was all the time running about directing the\nfigure. Vronsky and Anna sat almost opposite her. She saw them with her\nlong-sighted eyes, and saw them, too, close by, when they met in the\nfigures, and the more she saw of them the more convinced was she that\nher unhappiness was complete. She saw that they felt themselves alone\nin that crowded room. And on Vronsky s face, always so firm and\nindependent, she saw that look that had struck her, of bewilderment and\nhumble submissiveness, like the expression of an intelligent dog when\nit has done wrong.\n\nAnna smiled, and her smile was reflected by him. She grew thoughtful,\nand he became serious. Some supernatural force drew Kitty s eyes to\nAnna s face. She was fascinating in her simple black dress, fascinating\nwere her round arms with their bracelets, fascinating was her firm neck\nwith its thread of pearls, fascinating the straying curls of her loose\nhair, fascinating the graceful, light movements of her little feet and\nhands, fascinating was that lovely face in its eagerness, but there was\nsomething terrible and cruel in her fascination.\n\nKitty admired her more than ever, and more and more acute was her\nsuffering. Kitty felt overwhelmed, and her face showed it. When Vronsky\nsaw her, coming across her in the mazurka, he did not at once recognize\nher, she was so changed.\n\n Delightful ball!  he said to her, for the sake of saying something.\n\n Yes,  she answered.\n\nIn the middle of the mazurka, repeating a complicated figure, newly\ninvented by Korsunsky, Anna came forward into the center of the circle,\nchose two gentlemen, and summoned a lady and Kitty. Kitty gazed at her\nin dismay as she went up. Anna looked at her with drooping eyelids, and\nsmiled, pressing her hand. But, noticing that Kitty only responded to\nher smile by a look of despair and amazement, she turned away from her,\nand began gaily talking to the other lady.\n\n Yes, there is something uncanny, devilish and fascinating in her, \nKitty said to herself.\n\nAnna did not mean to stay to supper, but the master of the house began\nto press her to do so.\n\n Nonsense, Anna Arkadyevna,  said Korsunsky, drawing her bare arm under\nthe sleeve of his dress coat,  I ve such an idea for a _cotillion! Un\nbijou!_ \n\nAnd he moved gradually on, trying to draw her along with him. Their\nhost smiled approvingly.\n\n No, I am not going to stay,  answered Anna, smiling, but in spite of\nher smile, both Korsunsky and the master of the house saw from her\nresolute tone that she would not stay.\n\n No; why, as it is, I have danced more at your ball in Moscow than I\nhave all the winter in Petersburg,  said Anna, looking round at\nVronsky, who stood near her.  I must rest a little before my journey. \n\n Are you certainly going tomorrow then?  asked Vronsky.\n\n Yes, I suppose so,  answered Anna, as it were wondering at the\nboldness of his question; but the irrepressible, quivering brilliance\nof her eyes and her smile set him on fire as she said it.\n\nAnna Arkadyevna did not stay to supper, but went home.\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n Yes, there is something in me hateful, repulsive,  thought Levin, as\nhe came away from the Shtcherbatskys , and walked in the direction of\nhis brother s lodgings.  And I don t get on with other people. Pride,\nthey say. No, I have no pride. If I had any pride, I should not have\nput myself in such a position.  And he pictured to himself Vronsky,\nhappy, good-natured, clever, and self-possessed, certainly never placed\nin the awful position in which he had been that evening.  Yes, she was\nbound to choose him. So it had to be, and I cannot complain of anyone\nor anything. I am myself to blame. What right had I to imagine she\nwould care to join her life to mine? Who am I and what am I? A nobody,\nnot wanted by anyone, nor of use to anybody.  And he recalled his\nbrother Nikolay, and dwelt with pleasure on the thought of him.  Isn t\nhe right that everything in the world is base and loathsome? And are we\nfair in our judgment of brother Nikolay? Of course, from the point of\nview of Prokofy, seeing him in a torn cloak and tipsy, he s a\ndespicable person. But I know him differently. I know his soul, and\nknow that we are like him. And I, instead of going to seek him out,\nwent out to dinner, and came here.  Levin walked up to a lamppost, read\nhis brother s address, which was in his pocketbook, and called a\nsledge. All the long way to his brother s, Levin vividly recalled all\nthe facts familiar to him of his brother Nikolay s life. He remembered\nhow his brother, while at the university, and for a year afterwards,\nhad, in spite of the jeers of his companions, lived like a monk,\nstrictly observing all religious rites, services, and fasts, and\navoiding every sort of pleasure, especially women. And afterwards, how\nhe had all at once broken out: he had associated with the most horrible\npeople, and rushed into the most senseless debauchery. He remembered\nlater the scandal over a boy, whom he had taken from the country to\nbring up, and, in a fit of rage, had so violently beaten that\nproceedings were brought against him for unlawfully wounding. Then he\nrecalled the scandal with a sharper, to whom he had lost money, and\ngiven a promissory note, and against whom he had himself lodged a\ncomplaint, asserting that he had cheated him. (This was the money\nSergey Ivanovitch had paid.) Then he remembered how he had spent a\nnight in the lockup for disorderly conduct in the street. He remembered\nthe shameful proceedings he had tried to get up against his brother\nSergey Ivanovitch, accusing him of not having paid him his share of his\nmother s fortune, and the last scandal, when he had gone to a western\nprovince in an official capacity, and there had got into trouble for\nassaulting a village elder.... It was all horribly disgusting, yet to\nLevin it appeared not at all in the same disgusting light as it\ninevitably would to those who did not know Nikolay, did not know all\nhis story, did not know his heart.\n\nLevin remembered that when Nikolay had been in the devout stage, the\nperiod of fasts and monks and church services, when he was seeking in\nreligion a support and a curb for his passionate temperament, everyone,\nfar from encouraging him, had jeered at him, and he, too, with the\nothers. They had teased him, called him Noah, and monk; and, when he\nhad broken out, no one had helped him, but everyone had turned away\nfrom him with horror and disgust.\n\nLevin felt that, in spite of all the ugliness of his life, his brother\nNikolay, in his soul, in the very depths of his soul, was no more in\nthe wrong than the people who despised him. He was not to blame for\nhaving been born with his unbridled temperament and his somehow limited\nintelligence. But he had always wanted to be good.  I will tell him\neverything, without reserve, and I will make him speak without reserve,\ntoo, and I ll show him that I love him, and so understand him,  Levin\nresolved to himself, as, towards eleven o clock, he reached the hotel\nof which he had the address.\n\n At the top, 12 and 13,  the porter answered Levin s inquiry.\n\n At home? \n\n Sure to be at home. \n\nThe door of No. 12 was half open, and there came out into the streak of\nlight thick fumes of cheap, poor tobacco, and the sound of a voice,\nunknown to Levin; but he knew at once that his brother was there; he\nheard his cough.\n\nAs he went in the door, the unknown voice was saying:\n\n It all depends with how much judgment and knowledge the thing s done. \n\nKonstantin Levin looked in at the door, and saw that the speaker was a\nyoung man with an immense shock of hair, wearing a Russian jerkin, and\nthat a pockmarked woman in a woolen gown, without collar or cuffs, was\nsitting on the sofa. His brother was not to be seen. Konstantin felt a\nsharp pang at his heart at the thought of the strange company in which\nhis brother spent his life. No one had heard him, and Konstantin,\ntaking off his galoshes, listened to what the gentleman in the jerkin\nwas saying. He was speaking of some enterprise.\n\n Well, the devil flay them, the privileged classes,  his brother s\nvoice responded, with a cough.  Masha! get us some supper and some wine\nif there s any left; or else go and get some. \n\nThe woman rose, came out from behind the screen, and saw Konstantin.\n\n There s some gentleman, Nikolay Dmitrievitch,  she said.\n\n Whom do you want?  said the voice of Nikolay Levin, angrily.\n\n It s I,  answered Konstantin Levin, coming forward into the light.\n\n Who s _I_?  Nikolay s voice said again, still more angrily. He could\nbe heard getting up hurriedly, stumbling against something, and Levin\nsaw, facing him in the doorway, the big, scared eyes, and the huge,\nthin, stooping figure of his brother, so familiar, and yet astonishing\nin its weirdness and sickliness.\n\nHe was even thinner than three years before, when Konstantin Levin had\nseen him last. He was wearing a short coat, and his hands and big bones\nseemed huger than ever. His hair had grown thinner, the same straight\nmustaches hid his lips, the same eyes gazed strangely and na vely at\nhis visitor.\n\n Ah, Kostya!  he exclaimed suddenly, recognizing his brother, and his\neyes lit up with joy. But the same second he looked round at the young\nman, and gave the nervous jerk of his head and neck that Konstantin\nknew so well, as if his neckband hurt him; and a quite different\nexpression, wild, suffering, and cruel, rested on his emaciated face.\n\n I wrote to you and Sergey Ivanovitch both that I don t know you and\ndon t want to know you. What is it you want? \n\nHe was not at all the same as Konstantin had been fancying him. The\nworst and most tiresome part of his character, what made all relations\nwith him so difficult, had been forgotten by Konstantin Levin when he\nthought of him, and now, when he saw his face, and especially that\nnervous twitching of his head, he remembered it all.\n\n I didn t want to see you for anything,  he answered timidly.  I ve\nsimply come to see you. \n\nHis brother s timidity obviously softened Nikolay. His lips twitched.\n\n Oh, so that s it?  he said.  Well, come in; sit down. Like some\nsupper? Masha, bring supper for three. No, stop a minute. Do you know\nwho this is?  he said, addressing his brother, and indicating the\ngentleman in the jerkin:  This is Mr. Kritsky, my friend from Kiev, a\nvery remarkable man. He s persecuted by the police, of course, because\nhe s not a scoundrel. \n\nAnd he looked round in the way he always did at everyone in the room.\nSeeing that the woman standing in the doorway was moving to go, he\nshouted to her,  Wait a minute, I said.  And with the inability to\nexpress himself, the incoherence that Konstantin knew so well, he\nbegan, with another look round at everyone, to tell his brother\nKritsky s story: how he had been expelled from the university for\nstarting a benefit society for the poor students and Sunday schools;\nand how he had afterwards been a teacher in a peasant school, and how\nhe had been driven out of that too, and had afterwards been condemned\nfor something.\n\n You re of the Kiev university?  said Konstantin Levin to Kritsky, to\nbreak the awkward silence that followed.\n\n Yes, I was of Kiev,  Kritsky replied angrily, his face darkening.\n\n And this woman,  Nikolay Levin interrupted him, pointing to her,  is\nthe partner of my life, Marya Nikolaevna. I took her out of a bad\nhouse,  and he jerked his neck saying this;  but I love her and respect\nher, and anyone who wants to know me,  he added, raising his voice and\nknitting his brows,  I beg to love her and respect her. She s just the\nsame as my wife, just the same. So now you know whom you ve to do with.\nAnd if you think you re lowering yourself, well, here s the floor,\nthere s the door. \n\nAnd again his eyes traveled inquiringly over all of them.\n\n Why I should be lowering myself, I don t understand. \n\n Then, Masha, tell them to bring supper; three portions, spirits and\nwine.... No, wait a minute.... No, it doesn t matter.... Go along. \n\n\nChapter 25\n\n So you see,  pursued Nikolay Levin, painfully wrinkling his forehead\nand twitching.\n\nIt was obviously difficult for him to think of what to say and do.\n\n Here, do you see? ... He pointed to some sort of iron bars, fastened\ntogether with strings, lying in a corner of the room.  Do you see that?\nThat s the beginning of a new thing we re going into. It s a productive\nassociation.... \n\nKonstantin scarcely heard him. He looked into his sickly, consumptive\nface, and he was more and more sorry for him, and he could not force\nhimself to listen to what his brother was telling him about the\nassociation. He saw that this association was a mere anchor to save him\nfrom self-contempt. Nikolay Levin went on talking:\n\n You know that capital oppresses the laborer. The laborers with us, the\npeasants, bear all the burden of labor, and are so placed that however\nmuch they work they can t escape from their position of beasts of\nburden. All the profits of labor, on which they might improve their\nposition, and gain leisure for themselves, and after that education,\nall the surplus values are taken from them by the capitalists. And\nsociety s so constituted that the harder they work, the greater the\nprofit of the merchants and landowners, while they stay beasts of\nburden to the end. And that state of things must be changed,  he\nfinished up, and he looked questioningly at his brother.\n\n Yes, of course,  said Konstantin, looking at the patch of red that had\ncome out on his brother s projecting cheekbones.\n\n And so we re founding a locksmiths  association, where all the\nproduction and profit and the chief instruments of production will be\nin common. \n\n Where is the association to be?  asked Konstantin Levin.\n\n In the village of Vozdrem, Kazan government. \n\n But why in a village? In the villages, I think, there is plenty of\nwork as it is. Why a locksmiths  association in a village? \n\n Why? Because the peasants are just as much slaves as they ever were,\nand that s why you and Sergey Ivanovitch don t like people to try and\nget them out of their slavery,  said Nikolay Levin, exasperated by the\nobjection.\n\nKonstantin Levin sighed, looking meanwhile about the cheerless and\ndirty room. This sigh seemed to exasperate Nikolay still more.\n\n I know your and Sergey Ivanovitch s aristocratic views. I know that he\napplies all the power of his intellect to justify existing evils. \n\n No; and what do you talk of Sergey Ivanovitch for?  said Levin,\nsmiling.\n\n Sergey Ivanovitch? I ll tell you what for!  Nikolay Levin shrieked\nsuddenly at the name of Sergey Ivanovitch.  I ll tell you what for....\nBut what s the use of talking? There s only one thing.... What did you\ncome to me for? You look down on this, and you re welcome to, and go\naway, in God s name go away!  he shrieked, getting up from his chair.\n And go away, and go away! \n\n I don t look down on it at all,  said Konstantin Levin timidly.  I\ndon t even dispute it. \n\nAt that instant Marya Nikolaevna came back. Nikolay Levin looked round\nangrily at her. She went quickly to him, and whispered something.\n\n I m not well; I ve grown irritable,  said Nikolay Levin, getting\ncalmer and breathing painfully;  and then you talk to me of Sergey\nIvanovitch and his article. It s such rubbish, such lying, such\nself-deception. What can a man write of justice who knows nothing of\nit? Have you read his article?  he asked Kritsky, sitting down again at\nthe table, and moving back off half of it the scattered cigarettes, so\nas to clear a space.\n\n I ve not read it,  Kritsky responded gloomily, obviously not desiring\nto enter into the conversation.\n\n Why not?  said Nikolay Levin, now turning with exasperation upon\nKritsky.\n\n Because I didn t see the use of wasting my time over it. \n\n Oh, but excuse me, how did you know it would be wasting your time?\nThat article s too deep for many people that s to say it s over their\nheads. But with me, it s another thing; I see through his ideas, and I\nknow where its weakness lies. \n\nEveryone was mute. Kritsky got up deliberately and reached his cap.\n\n Won t you have supper? All right, good-bye! Come round tomorrow with\nthe locksmith. \n\nKritsky had hardly gone out when Nikolay Levin smiled and winked.\n\n He s no good either,  he said.  I see, of course.... \n\nBut at that instant Kritsky, at the door, called him....\n\n What do you want now?  he said, and went out to him in the passage.\nLeft alone with Marya Nikolaevna, Levin turned to her.\n\n Have you been long with my brother?  he said to her.\n\n Yes, more than a year. Nikolay Dmitrievitch s health has become very\npoor. Nikolay Dmitrievitch drinks a great deal,  she said.\n\n That is ... how does he drink? \n\n Drinks vodka, and it s bad for him. \n\n And a great deal?  whispered Levin.\n\n Yes,  she said, looking timidly towards the doorway, where Nikolay\nLevin had reappeared.\n\n What were you talking about?  he said, knitting his brows, and turning\nhis scared eyes from one to the other.  What was it? \n\n Oh, nothing,  Konstantin answered in confusion.\n\n Oh, if you don t want to say, don t. Only it s no good your talking to\nher. She s a wench, and you re a gentleman,  he said with a jerk of the\nneck.  You understand everything, I see, and have taken stock of\neverything, and look with commiseration on my shortcomings,  he began\nagain, raising his voice.\n\n Nikolay Dmitrievitch, Nikolay Dmitrievitch,  whispered Marya\nNikolaevna, again going up to him.\n\n Oh, very well, very well!... But where s the supper? Ah, here it is, \nhe said, seeing a waiter with a tray.  Here, set it here,  he added\nangrily, and promptly seizing the vodka, he poured out a glassful and\ndrank it greedily.  Like a drink?  he turned to his brother, and at\nonce became better humored.\n\n Well, enough of Sergey Ivanovitch. I m glad to see you, anyway. After\nall s said and done, we re not strangers. Come, have a drink. Tell me\nwhat you re doing,  he went on, greedily munching a piece of bread, and\npouring out another glassful.  How are you living? \n\n I live alone in the country, as I used to. I m busy looking after the\nland,  answered Konstantin, watching with horror the greediness with\nwhich his brother ate and drank, and trying to conceal that he noticed\nit.\n\n Why don t you get married? \n\n It hasn t happened so,  Konstantin answered, reddening a little.\n\n Why not? For me now ... everything s at an end! I ve made a mess of my\nlife. But this I ve said, and I say still, that if my share had been\ngiven me when I needed it, my whole life would have been different. \n\nKonstantin made haste to change the conversation.\n\n Do you know your little Vanya s with me, a clerk in the countinghouse\nat Pokrovskoe. \n\nNikolay jerked his neck, and sank into thought.\n\n Yes, tell me what s going on at Pokrovskoe. Is the house standing\nstill, and the birch trees, and our schoolroom? And Philip the\ngardener, is he living? How I remember the arbor and the seat! Now mind\nand don t alter anything in the house, but make haste and get married,\nand make everything as it used to be again. Then I ll come and see you,\nif your wife is nice. \n\n But come to me now,  said Levin.  How nicely we would arrange it! \n\n I d come and see you if I were sure I should not find Sergey\nIvanovitch. \n\n You wouldn t find him there. I live quite independently of him. \n\n Yes, but say what you like, you will have to choose between me and\nhim,  he said, looking timidly into his brother s face.\n\nThis timidity touched Konstantin.\n\n If you want to hear my confession of faith on the subject, I tell you\nthat in your quarrel with Sergey Ivanovitch I take neither side. You re\nboth wrong. You re more wrong externally, and he inwardly. \n\n Ah, ah! You see that, you see that!  Nikolay shouted joyfully.\n\n But I personally value friendly relations with you more because.... \n\n Why, why? \n\nKonstantin could not say that he valued it more because Nikolay was\nunhappy, and needed affection. But Nikolay knew that this was just what\nhe meant to say, and scowling he took up the vodka again.\n\n Enough, Nikolay Dmitrievitch!  said Marya Nikolaevna, stretching out\nher plump, bare arm towards the decanter.\n\n Let it be! Don t insist! I ll beat you!  he shouted.\n\nMarya Nikolaevna smiled a sweet and good-humored smile, which was at\nonce reflected on Nikolay s face, and she took the bottle.\n\n And do you suppose she understands nothing?  said Nikolay.  She\nunderstands it all better than any of us. Isn t it true there s\nsomething good and sweet in her? \n\n Were you never before in Moscow?  Konstantin said to her, for the sake\nof saying something.\n\n Only you mustn t be polite and stiff with her. It frightens her. No\none ever spoke to her so but the justices of the peace who tried her\nfor trying to get out of a house of ill-fame. Mercy on us, the\nsenselessness in the world!  he cried suddenly.  These new\ninstitutions, these justices of the peace, rural councils, what\nhideousness it all is! \n\nAnd he began to enlarge on his encounters with the new institutions.\n\nKonstantin Levin heard him, and the disbelief in the sense of all\npublic institutions, which he shared with him, and often expressed, was\ndistasteful to him now from his brother s lips.\n\n In another world we shall understand it all,  he said lightly.\n\n In another world! Ah, I don t like that other world! I don t like it, \nhe said, letting his scared eyes rest on his brother s eyes.  Here one\nwould think that to get out of all the baseness and the mess, one s own\nand other people s, would be a good thing, and yet I m afraid of death,\nawfully afraid of death.  He shuddered.  But do drink something. Would\nyou like some champagne? Or shall we go somewhere? Let s go to the\nGypsies! Do you know I have got so fond of the Gypsies and Russian\nsongs. \n\nHis speech had begun to falter, and he passed abruptly from one subject\nto another. Konstantin with the help of Masha persuaded him not to go\nout anywhere, and got him to bed hopelessly drunk.\n\nMasha promised to write to Konstantin in case of need, and to persuade\nNikolay Levin to go and stay with his brother.\n\n\nChapter 26\n\nIn the morning Konstantin Levin left Moscow, and towards evening he\nreached home. On the journey in the train he talked to his neighbors\nabout politics and the new railways, and, just as in Moscow, he was\novercome by a sense of confusion of ideas, dissatisfaction with\nhimself, shame of something or other. But when he got out at his own\nstation, when he saw his one-eyed coachman, Ignat, with the collar of\nhis coat turned up; when, in the dim light reflected by the station\nfires, he saw his own sledge, his own horses with their tails tied up,\nin their harness trimmed with rings and tassels; when the coachman\nIgnat, as he put in his luggage, told him the village news, that the\ncontractor had arrived, and that Pava had calved, he felt that little\nby little the confusion was clearing up, and the shame and\nself-dissatisfaction were passing away. He felt this at the mere sight\nof Ignat and the horses; but when he had put on the sheepskin brought\nfor him, had sat down wrapped up in the sledge, and had driven off\npondering on the work that lay before him in the village, and staring\nat the side-horse, that had been his saddle-horse, past his prime now,\nbut a spirited beast from the Don, he began to see what had happened to\nhim in quite a different light. He felt himself, and did not want to be\nanyone else. All he wanted now was to be better than before. In the\nfirst place he resolved that from that day he would give up hoping for\nany extraordinary happiness, such as marriage must have given him, and\nconsequently he would not so disdain what he really had. Secondly, he\nwould never again let himself give way to low passion, the memory of\nwhich had so tortured him when he had been making up his mind to make\nan offer. Then remembering his brother Nikolay, he resolved to himself\nthat he would never allow himself to forget him, that he would follow\nhim up, and not lose sight of him, so as to be ready to help when\nthings should go ill with him. And that would be soon, he felt. Then,\ntoo, his brother s talk of communism, which he had treated so lightly\nat the time, now made him think. He considered a revolution in economic\nconditions nonsense. But he always felt the injustice of his own\nabundance in comparison with the poverty of the peasants, and now he\ndetermined that so as to feel quite in the right, though he had worked\nhard and lived by no means luxuriously before, he would now work still\nharder, and would allow himself even less luxury. And all this seemed\nto him so easy a conquest over himself that he spent the whole drive in\nthe pleasantest daydreams. With a resolute feeling of hope in a new,\nbetter life, he reached home before nine o clock at night.\n\nThe snow of the little quadrangle before the house was lit up by a\nlight in the bedroom windows of his old nurse, Agafea Mihalovna, who\nperformed the duties of housekeeper in his house. She was not yet\nasleep. Kouzma, waked up by her, came sidling sleepily out onto the\nsteps. A setter bitch, Laska, ran out too, almost upsetting Kouzma, and\nwhining, turned round about Levin s knees, jumping up and longing, but\nnot daring, to put her forepaws on his chest.\n\n You re soon back again, sir,  said Agafea Mihalovna.\n\n I got tired of it, Agafea Mihalovna. With friends, one is well; but at\nhome, one is better,  he answered, and went into his study.\n\nThe study was slowly lit up as the candle was brought in. The familiar\ndetails came out: the stag s horns, the bookshelves, the looking-glass,\nthe stove with its ventilator, which had long wanted mending, his\nfather s sofa, a large table, on the table an open book, a broken\nashtray, a manuscript book with his handwriting. As he saw all this,\nthere came over him for an instant a doubt of the possibility of\narranging the new life, of which he had been dreaming on the road. All\nthese traces of his life seemed to clutch him, and to say to him:  No,\nyou re not going to get away from us, and you re not going to be\ndifferent, but you re going to be the same as you ve always been; with\ndoubts, everlasting dissatisfaction with yourself, vain efforts to\namend, and falls, and everlasting expectation, of a happiness which you\nwon t get, and which isn t possible for you. \n\nThis the things said to him, but another voice in his heart was telling\nhim that he must not fall under the sway of the past, and that one can\ndo anything with oneself. And hearing that voice, he went into the\ncorner where stood his two heavy dumbbells, and began brandishing them\nlike a gymnast, trying to restore his confident temper. There was a\ncreak of steps at the door. He hastily put down the dumbbells.\n\nThe bailiff came in, and said everything, thank God, was doing well;\nbut informed him that the buckwheat in the new drying machine had been\na little scorched. This piece of news irritated Levin. The new drying\nmachine had been constructed and partly invented by Levin. The bailiff\nhad always been against the drying machine, and now it was with\nsuppressed triumph that he announced that the buckwheat had been\nscorched. Levin was firmly convinced that if the buckwheat had been\nscorched, it was only because the precautions had not been taken, for\nwhich he had hundreds of times given orders. He was annoyed, and\nreprimanded the bailiff. But there had been an important and joyful\nevent: Pava, his best cow, an expensive beast, bought at a show, had\ncalved.\n\n Kouzma, give me my sheepskin. And you tell them to take a lantern.\nI ll come and look at her,  he said to the bailiff.\n\nThe cowhouse for the more valuable cows was just behind the house.\nWalking across the yard, passing a snowdrift by the lilac tree, he went\ninto the cowhouse. There was the warm, steamy smell of dung when the\nfrozen door was opened, and the cows, astonished at the unfamiliar\nlight of the lantern, stirred on the fresh straw. He caught a glimpse\nof the broad, smooth, black and piebald back of Hollandka. Berkoot, the\nbull, was lying down with his ring in his lip, and seemed about to get\nup, but thought better of it, and only gave two snorts as they passed\nby him. Pava, a perfect beauty, huge as a hippopotamus, with her back\nturned to them, prevented their seeing the calf, as she sniffed her all\nover.\n\nLevin went into the pen, looked Pava over, and lifted the red and\nspotted calf onto her long, tottering legs. Pava, uneasy, began lowing,\nbut when Levin put the calf close to her she was soothed, and, sighing\nheavily, began licking her with her rough tongue. The calf, fumbling,\npoked her nose under her mother s udder, and stiffened her tail out\nstraight.\n\n Here, bring the light, Fyodor, this way,  said Levin, examining the\ncalf.  Like the mother! though the color takes after the father; but\nthat s nothing. Very good. Long and broad in the haunch. Vassily\nFedorovitch, isn t she splendid?  he said to the bailiff, quite\nforgiving him for the buckwheat under the influence of his delight in\nthe calf.\n\n How could she fail to be? Oh, Semyon the contractor came the day after\nyou left. You must settle with him, Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  said the\nbailiff.  I did inform you about the machine. \n\nThis question was enough to take Levin back to all the details of his\nwork on the estate, which was on a large scale, and complicated. He\nwent straight from the cowhouse to the counting house, and after a\nlittle conversation with the bailiff and Semyon the contractor, he went\nback to the house and straight upstairs to the drawing-room.\n\n\nChapter 27\n\nThe house was big and old-fashioned, and Levin, though he lived alone,\nhad the whole house heated and used. He knew that this was stupid, he\nknew that it was positively not right, and contrary to his present new\nplans, but this house was a whole world to Levin. It was the world in\nwhich his father and mother had lived and died. They had lived just the\nlife that to Levin seemed the ideal of perfection, and that he had\ndreamed of beginning with his wife, his family.\n\nLevin scarcely remembered his mother. His conception of her was for him\na sacred memory, and his future wife was bound to be in his imagination\na repetition of that exquisite, holy ideal of a woman that his mother\nhad been.\n\nHe was so far from conceiving of love for woman apart from marriage\nthat he positively pictured to himself first the family, and only\nsecondarily the woman who would give him a family. His ideas of\nmarriage were, consequently, quite unlike those of the great majority\nof his acquaintances, for whom getting married was one of the numerous\nfacts of social life. For Levin it was the chief affair of life, on\nwhich its whole happiness turned. And now he had to give up that.\n\nWhen he had gone into the little drawing-room, where he always had tea,\nand had settled himself in his armchair with a book, and Agafea\nMihalovna had brought him tea, and with her usual,  Well, I ll stay a\nwhile, sir,  had taken a chair in the window, he felt that, however\nstrange it might be, he had not parted from his daydreams, and that he\ncould not live without them. Whether with her, or with another, still\nit would be. He was reading a book, and thinking of what he was\nreading, and stopping to listen to Agafea Mihalovna, who gossiped away\nwithout flagging, and yet with all that, all sorts of pictures of\nfamily life and work in the future rose disconnectedly before his\nimagination. He felt that in the depth of his soul something had been\nput in its place, settled down, and laid to rest.\n\nHe heard Agafea Mihalovna talking of how Prohor had forgotten his duty\nto God, and with the money Levin had given him to buy a horse, had been\ndrinking without stopping, and had beaten his wife till he d half\nkilled her. He listened, and read his book, and recalled the whole\ntrain of ideas suggested by his reading. It was Tyndall s _Treatise on\nHeat_. He recalled his own criticisms of Tyndall of his complacent\nsatisfaction in the cleverness of his experiments, and for his lack of\nphilosophic insight. And suddenly there floated into his mind the\njoyful thought:  In two years  time I shall have two Dutch cows; Pava\nherself will perhaps still be alive, a dozen young daughters of Berkoot\nand the three others how lovely! \n\nHe took up his book again.  Very good, electricity and heat are the\nsame thing; but is it possible to substitute the one quantity for the\nother in the equation for the solution of any problem? No. Well, then\nwhat of it? The connection between all the forces of nature is felt\ninstinctively.... It s particulary nice if Pava s daughter should be a\nred-spotted cow, and all the herd will take after her, and the other\nthree, too! Splendid! To go out with my wife and visitors to meet the\nherd.... My wife says,  Kostya and I looked after that calf like a\nchild.   How can it interest you so much?  says a visitor.  Everything\nthat interests him, interests me.  But who will she be?  And he\nremembered what had happened at Moscow....  Well, there s nothing to be\ndone.... It s not my fault. But now everything shall go on in a new\nway. It s nonsense to pretend that life won t let one, that the past\nwon t let one. One must struggle to live better, much better. ... He\nraised his head, and fell to dreaming. Old Laska, who had not yet fully\ndigested her delight at his return, and had run out into the yard to\nbark, came back wagging her tail, and crept up to him, bringing in the\nscent of fresh air, put her head under his hand, and whined\nplaintively, asking to be stroked.\n\n There, who d have thought it?  said Agafea Mihalovna.  The dog now ...\nwhy, she understands that her master s come home, and that he s\nlow-spirited. \n\n Why low-spirited? \n\n Do you suppose I don t see it, sir? It s high time I should know the\ngentry. Why, I ve grown up from a little thing with them. It s nothing,\nsir, so long as there s health and a clear conscience. \n\nLevin looked intently at her, surprised at how well she knew his\nthought.\n\n Shall I fetch you another cup?  said she, and taking his cup she went\nout.\n\nLaska kept poking her head under his hand. He stroked her, and she\npromptly curled up at his feet, laying her head on a hindpaw. And in\ntoken of all now being well and satisfactory, she opened her mouth a\nlittle, smacked her lips, and settling her sticky lips more comfortably\nabout her old teeth, she sank into blissful repose. Levin watched all\nher movements attentively.\n\n That s what I ll do,  he said to himself;  that s what I ll do!\nNothing s amiss.... All s well. \n\n\nChapter 28\n\nAfter the ball, early next morning, Anna Arkadyevna sent her husband a\ntelegram that she was leaving Moscow the same day.\n\n No, I must go, I must go ; she explained to her sister-in-law the\nchange in her plans in a tone that suggested that she had to remember\nso many things that there was no enumerating them:  no, it had really\nbetter be today! \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was not dining at home, but he promised to come and\nsee his sister off at seven o clock.\n\nKitty, too, did not come, sending a note that she had a headache. Dolly\nand Anna dined alone with the children and the English governess.\nWhether it was that the children were fickle, or that they had acute\nsenses, and felt that Anna was quite different that day from what she\nhad been when they had taken such a fancy to her, that she was not now\ninterested in them, but they had abruptly dropped their play with their\naunt, and their love for her, and were quite indifferent that she was\ngoing away. Anna was absorbed the whole morning in preparations for her\ndeparture. She wrote notes to her Moscow acquaintances, put down her\naccounts, and packed. Altogether Dolly fancied she was not in a placid\nstate of mind, but in that worried mood, which Dolly knew well with\nherself, and which does not come without cause, and for the most part\ncovers dissatisfaction with self. After dinner, Anna went up to her\nroom to dress, and Dolly followed her.\n\n How queer you are today!  Dolly said to her.\n\n I? Do you think so? I m not queer, but I m nasty. I am like that\nsometimes. I keep feeling as if I could cry. It s very stupid, but\nit ll pass off,  said Anna quickly, and she bent her flushed face over\na tiny bag in which she was packing a nightcap and some cambric\nhandkerchiefs. Her eyes were particularly bright, and were continually\nswimming with tears.  In the same way I didn t want to leave\nPetersburg, and now I don t want to go away from here. \n\n You came here and did a good deed,  said Dolly, looking intently at\nher.\n\nAnna looked at her with eyes wet with tears.\n\n Don t say that, Dolly. I ve done nothing, and could do nothing. I\noften wonder why people are all in league to spoil me. What have I\ndone, and what could I do? In your heart there was found love enough to\nforgive.... \n\n If it had not been for you, God knows what would have happened! How\nhappy you are, Anna!  said Dolly.  Everything is clear and good in your\nheart. \n\n Every heart has its own _skeletons_, as the English say. \n\n You have no sort of _skeleton_, have you? Everything is so clear in\nyou. \n\n I have!  said Anna suddenly, and, unexpectedly after her tears, a sly,\nironical smile curved her lips.\n\n Come, he s amusing, anyway, your _skeleton_, and not depressing,  said\nDolly, smiling.\n\n No, he s depressing. Do you know why I m going today instead of\ntomorrow? It s a confession that weighs on me; I want to make it to\nyou,  said Anna, letting herself drop definitely into an armchair, and\nlooking straight into Dolly s face.\n\nAnd to her surprise Dolly saw that Anna was blushing up to her ears, up\nto the curly black ringlets on her neck.\n\n Yes,  Anna went on.  Do you know why Kitty didn t come to dinner?\nShe s jealous of me. I have spoiled ... I ve been the cause of that\nball being a torture to her instead of a pleasure. But truly, truly,\nit s not my fault, or only my fault a little bit,  she said, daintily\ndrawling the words  a little bit. \n\n Oh, how like Stiva you said that!  said Dolly, laughing.\n\nAnna was hurt.\n\n Oh no, oh no! I m not Stiva,  she said, knitting her brows.  That s\nwhy I m telling you, just because I could never let myself doubt myself\nfor an instant,  said Anna.\n\nBut at the very moment she was uttering the words, she felt that they\nwere not true. She was not merely doubting herself, she felt emotion at\nthe thought of Vronsky, and was going away sooner than she had meant,\nsimply to avoid meeting him.\n\n Yes, Stiva told me you danced the mazurka with him, and that he.... \n\n You can t imagine how absurdly it all came about. I only meant to be\nmatchmaking, and all at once it turned out quite differently. Possibly\nagainst my own will.... \n\nShe crimsoned and stopped.\n\n Oh, they feel it directly?  said Dolly.\n\n But I should be in despair if there were anything serious in it on his\nside,  Anna interrupted her.  And I am certain it will all be\nforgotten, and Kitty will leave off hating me. \n\n All the same, Anna, to tell you the truth, I m not very anxious for\nthis marriage for Kitty. And it s better it should come to nothing, if\nhe, Vronsky, is capable of falling in love with you in a single day. \n\n Oh, heavens, that would be too silly!  said Anna, and again a deep\nflush of pleasure came out on her face, when she heard the idea, that\nabsorbed her, put into words.  And so here I am going away, having made\nan enemy of Kitty, whom I liked so much! Ah, how sweet she is! But\nyou ll make it right, Dolly? Eh? \n\nDolly could scarcely suppress a smile. She loved Anna, but she enjoyed\nseeing that she too had her weaknesses.\n\n An enemy? That can t be. \n\n I did so want you all to care for me, as I do for you, and now I care\nfor you more than ever,  said Anna, with tears in her eyes.  Ah, how\nsilly I am today! \n\nShe passed her handkerchief over her face and began dressing.\n\nAt the very moment of starting Stepan Arkadyevitch arrived, late, rosy\nand good-humored, smelling of wine and cigars.\n\nAnna s emotionalism infected Dolly, and when she embraced her\nsister-in-law for the last time, she whispered:  Remember, Anna, what\nyou ve done for me I shall never forget. And remember that I love you,\nand shall always love you as my dearest friend! \n\n I don t know why,  said Anna, kissing her and hiding her tears.\n\n You understood me, and you understand. Good-bye, my darling! \n\n\nChapter 29\n\n Come, it s all over, and thank God!  was the first thought that came\nto Anna Arkadyevna, when she had said good-bye for the last time to her\nbrother, who had stood blocking up the entrance to the carriage till\nthe third bell rang. She sat down on her lounge beside Annushka, and\nlooked about her in the twilight of the sleeping-carriage.  Thank God!\ntomorrow I shall see Seryozha and Alexey Alexandrovitch, and my life\nwill go on in the old way, all nice and as usual. \n\nStill in the same anxious frame of mind, as she had been all that day,\nAnna took pleasure in arranging herself for the journey with great\ncare. With her little deft hands she opened and shut her little red\nbag, took out a cushion, laid it on her knees, and carefully wrapping\nup her feet, settled herself comfortably. An invalid lady had already\nlain down to sleep. Two other ladies began talking to Anna, and a stout\nelderly lady tucked up her feet, and made observations about the\nheating of the train. Anna answered a few words, but not foreseeing any\nentertainment from the conversation, she asked Annushka to get a lamp,\nhooked it onto the arm of her seat, and took from her bag a paper-knife\nand an English novel. At first her reading made no progress. The fuss\nand bustle were disturbing; then when the train had started, she could\nnot help listening to the noises; then the snow beating on the left\nwindow and sticking to the pane, and the sight of the muffled guard\npassing by, covered with snow on one side, and the conversations about\nthe terrible snowstorm raging outside, distracted her attention.\nFarther on, it was continually the same again and again: the same\nshaking and rattling, the same snow on the window, the same rapid\ntransitions from steaming heat to cold, and back again to heat, the\nsame passing glimpses of the same figures in the twilight, and the same\nvoices, and Anna began to read and to understand what she read.\nAnnushka was already dozing, the red bag on her lap, clutched by her\nbroad hands, in gloves, of which one was torn. Anna Arkadyevna read and\nunderstood, but it was distasteful to her to read, that is, to follow\nthe reflection of other people s lives. She had too great a desire to\nlive herself. If she read that the heroine of the novel was nursing a\nsick man, she longed to move with noiseless steps about the room of a\nsick man; if she read of a member of Parliament making a speech, she\nlonged to be delivering the speech; if she read of how Lady Mary had\nridden after the hounds, and had provoked her sister-in-law, and had\nsurprised everyone by her boldness, she too wished to be doing the\nsame. But there was no chance of doing anything; and twisting the\nsmooth paper-knife in her little hands, she forced herself to read.\n\nThe hero of the novel was already almost reaching his English\nhappiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna was feeling a desire to\ngo with him to the estate, when she suddenly felt that _he_ ought to\nfeel ashamed, and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But what had\nhe to be ashamed of?  What have I to be ashamed of?  she asked herself\nin injured surprise. She laid down the book and sank against the back\nof the chair, tightly gripping the paper-cutter in both hands. There\nwas nothing. She went over all her Moscow recollections. All were good,\npleasant. She remembered the ball, remembered Vronsky and his face of\nslavish adoration, remembered all her conduct with him: there was\nnothing shameful. And for all that, at the same point in her memories,\nthe feeling of shame was intensified, as though some inner voice, just\nat the point when she thought of Vronsky, were saying to her,  Warm,\nvery warm, hot.   Well, what is it?  she said to herself resolutely,\nshifting her seat in the lounge.  What does it mean? Am I afraid to\nlook it straight in the face? Why, what is it? Can it be that between\nme and this officer boy there exist, or can exist, any other relations\nthan such as are common with every acquaintance?  She laughed\ncontemptuously and took up her book again; but now she was definitely\nunable to follow what she read. She passed the paper-knife over the\nwindow pane, then laid its smooth, cool surface to her cheek, and\nalmost laughed aloud at the feeling of delight that all at once without\ncause came over her. She felt as though her nerves were strings being\nstrained tighter and tighter on some sort of screwing peg. She felt her\neyes opening wider and wider, her fingers and toes twitching nervously,\nsomething within oppressing her breathing, while all shapes and sounds\nseemed in the uncertain half-light to strike her with unaccustomed\nvividness. Moments of doubt were continually coming upon her, when she\nwas uncertain whether the train were going forwards or backwards, or\nwere standing still altogether; whether it were Annushka at her side or\na stranger.  What s that on the arm of the chair, a fur cloak or some\nbeast? And what am I myself? Myself or some other woman?  She was\nafraid of giving way to this delirium. But something drew her towards\nit, and she could yield to it or resist it at will. She got up to rouse\nherself, and slipped off her plaid and the cape of her warm dress. For\na moment she regained her self-possession, and realized that the thin\npeasant who had come in wearing a long overcoat, with buttons missing\nfrom it, was the stoveheater, that he was looking at the thermometer,\nthat it was the wind and snow bursting in after him at the door; but\nthen everything grew blurred again.... That peasant with the long waist\nseemed to be gnawing something on the wall, the old lady began\nstretching her legs the whole length of the carriage, and filling it\nwith a black cloud; then there was a fearful shrieking and banging, as\nthough someone were being torn to pieces; then there was a blinding\ndazzle of red fire before her eyes and a wall seemed to rise up and\nhide everything. Anna felt as though she were sinking down. But it was\nnot terrible, but delightful. The voice of a man muffled up and covered\nwith snow shouted something in her ear. She got up and pulled herself\ntogether; she realized that they had reached a station and that this\nwas the guard. She asked Annushka to hand her the cape she had taken\noff and her shawl, put them on and moved towards the door.\n\n Do you wish to get out?  asked Annushka.\n\n Yes, I want a little air. It s very hot in here.  And she opened the\ndoor. The driving snow and the wind rushed to meet her and struggled\nwith her over the door. But she enjoyed the struggle.\n\nShe opened the door and went out. The wind seemed as though lying in\nwait for her; with gleeful whistle it tried to snatch her up and bear\nher off, but she clung to the cold door post, and holding her skirt got\ndown onto the platform and under the shelter of the carriages. The wind\nhad been powerful on the steps, but on the platform, under the lee of\nthe carriages, there was a lull. With enjoyment she drew deep breaths\nof the frozen, snowy air, and standing near the carriage looked about\nthe platform and the lighted station.\n\n\nChapter 30\n\nThe raging tempest rushed whistling between the wheels of the\ncarriages, about the scaffolding, and round the corner of the station.\nThe carriages, posts, people, everything that was to be seen was\ncovered with snow on one side, and was getting more and more thickly\ncovered. For a moment there would come a lull in the storm, but then it\nwould swoop down again with such onslaughts that it seemed impossible\nto stand against it. Meanwhile men ran to and fro, talking merrily\ntogether, their steps crackling on the platform as they continually\nopened and closed the big doors. The bent shadow of a man glided by at\nher feet, and she heard sounds of a hammer upon iron.  Hand over that\ntelegram!  came an angry voice out of the stormy darkness on the other\nside.  This way! No. 28!  several different voices shouted again, and\nmuffled figures ran by covered with snow. Two gentlemen with lighted\ncigarettes passed by her. She drew one more deep breath of the fresh\nair, and had just put her hand out of her muff to take hold of the door\npost and get back into the carriage, when another man in a military\novercoat, quite close beside her, stepped between her and the\nflickering light of the lamp post. She looked round, and the same\ninstant recognized Vronsky s face. Putting his hand to the peak of his\ncap, he bowed to her and asked, Was there anything she wanted? Could he\nbe of any service to her? She gazed rather a long while at him without\nanswering, and, in spite of the shadow in which he was standing, she\nsaw, or fancied she saw, both the expression of his face and his eyes.\nIt was again that expression of reverential ecstasy which had so worked\nupon her the day before. More than once she had told herself during the\npast few days, and again only a few moments before, that Vronsky was\nfor her only one of the hundreds of young men, forever exactly the\nsame, that are met everywhere, that she would never allow herself to\nbestow a thought upon him. But now at the first instant of meeting him,\nshe was seized by a feeling of joyful pride. She had no need to ask why\nhe had come. She knew as certainly as if he had told her that he was\nhere to be where she was.\n\n I didn t know you were going. What are you coming for?  she said,\nletting fall the hand with which she had grasped the door post. And\nirrepressible delight and eagerness shone in her face.\n\n What am I coming for?  he repeated, looking straight into her eyes.\n You know that I have come to be where you are,  he said;  I can t help\nit. \n\nAt that moment the wind, as it were, surmounting all obstacles, sent\nthe snow flying from the carriage roofs, and clanked some sheet of iron\nit had torn off, while the hoarse whistle of the engine roared in\nfront, plaintively and gloomily. All the awfulness of the storm seemed\nto her more splendid now. He had said what her soul longed to hear,\nthough she feared it with her reason. She made no answer, and in her\nface he saw conflict.\n\n Forgive me, if you dislike what I said,  he said humbly.\n\nHe had spoken courteously, deferentially, yet so firmly, so stubbornly,\nthat for a long while she could make no answer.\n\n It s wrong, what you say, and I beg you, if you re a good man, to\nforget what you ve said, as I forget it,  she said at last.\n\n Not one word, not one gesture of yours shall I, could I, ever\nforget.... \n\n Enough, enough!  she cried trying assiduously to give a stern\nexpression to her face, into which he was gazing greedily. And\nclutching at the cold door post, she clambered up the steps and got\nrapidly into the corridor of the carriage. But in the little corridor\nshe paused, going over in her imagination what had happened. Though she\ncould not recall her own words or his, she realized instinctively that\nthe momentary conversation had brought them fearfully closer; and she\nwas panic-stricken and blissful at it. After standing still a few\nseconds, she went into the carriage and sat down in her place. The\noverstrained condition which had tormented her before did not only come\nback, but was intensified, and reached such a pitch that she was afraid\nevery minute that something would snap within her from the excessive\ntension. She did not sleep all night. But in that nervous tension, and\nin the visions that filled her imagination, there was nothing\ndisagreeable or gloomy: on the contrary there was something blissful,\nglowing, and exhilarating. Towards morning Anna sank into a doze,\nsitting in her place, and when she waked it was daylight and the train\nwas near Petersburg. At once thoughts of home, of husband and of son,\nand the details of that day and the following came upon her.\n\nAt Petersburg, as soon as the train stopped and she got out, the first\nperson that attracted her attention was her husband.  Oh, mercy! why do\nhis ears look like that?  she thought, looking at his frigid and\nimposing figure, and especially the ears that struck her at the moment\nas propping up the brim of his round hat. Catching sight of her, he\ncame to meet her, his lips falling into their habitual sarcastic smile,\nand his big, tired eyes looking straight at her. An unpleasant\nsensation gripped at her heart when she met his obstinate and weary\nglance, as though she had expected to see him different. She was\nespecially struck by the feeling of dissatisfaction with herself that\nshe experienced on meeting him. That feeling was an intimate, familiar\nfeeling, like a consciousness of hypocrisy, which she experienced in\nher relations with her husband. But hitherto she had not taken note of\nthe feeling, now she was clearly and painfully aware of it.\n\n Yes, as you see, your tender spouse, as devoted as the first year\nafter marriage, burned with impatience to see you,  he said in his\ndeliberate, high-pitched voice, and in that tone which he almost always\ntook with her, a tone of jeering at anyone who should say in earnest\nwhat he said.\n\n Is Seryozha quite well?  she asked.\n\n And is this all the reward,  said he,  for my ardor? He s quite\nwell.... \n\n\nChapter 31\n\nVronsky had not even tried to sleep all that night. He sat in his\narmchair, looking straight before him or scanning the people who got in\nand out. If he had indeed on previous occasions struck and impressed\npeople who did not know him by his air of unhesitating composure, he\nseemed now more haughty and self-possessed than ever. He looked at\npeople as if they were things. A nervous young man, a clerk in a law\ncourt, sitting opposite him, hated him for that look. The young man\nasked him for a light, and entered into conversation with him, and even\npushed against him, to make him feel that he was not a thing, but a\nperson. But Vronsky gazed at him exactly as he did at the lamp, and the\nyoung man made a wry face, feeling that he was losing his\nself-possession under the oppression of this refusal to recognize him\nas a person.\n\nVronsky saw nothing and no one. He felt himself a king, not because he\nbelieved that he had made an impression on Anna he did not yet believe\nthat, but because the impression she had made on him gave him happiness\nand pride.\n\nWhat would come of it all he did not know, he did not even think. He\nfelt that all his forces, hitherto dissipated, wasted, were centered on\none thing, and bent with fearful energy on one blissful goal. And he\nwas happy at it. He knew only that he had told her the truth, that he\nhad come where she was, that all the happiness of his life, the only\nmeaning in life for him, now lay in seeing and hearing her. And when he\ngot out of the carriage at Bologova to get some seltzer water, and\ncaught sight of Anna, involuntarily his first word had told her just\nwhat he thought. And he was glad he had told her it, that she knew it\nnow and was thinking of it. He did not sleep all night. When he was\nback in the carriage, he kept unceasingly going over every position in\nwhich he had seen her, every word she had uttered, and before his\nfancy, making his heart faint with emotion, floated pictures of a\npossible future.\n\nWhen he got out of the train at Petersburg, he felt after his sleepless\nnight as keen and fresh as after a cold bath. He paused near his\ncompartment, waiting for her to get out.  Once more,  he said to\nhimself, smiling unconsciously,  once more I shall see her walk, her\nface; she will say something, turn her head, glance, smile, maybe.  But\nbefore he caught sight of her, he saw her husband, whom the\nstation-master was deferentially escorting through the crowd.  Ah, yes!\nThe husband.  Only now for the first time did Vronsky realize clearly\nthe fact that there was a person attached to her, a husband. He knew\nthat she had a husband, but had hardly believed in his existence, and\nonly now fully believed in him, with his head and shoulders, and his\nlegs clad in black trousers; especially when he saw this husband calmly\ntake her arm with a sense of property.\n\nSeeing Alexey Alexandrovitch with his Petersburg face and severely\nself-confident figure, in his round hat, with his rather prominent\nspine, he believed in him, and was aware of a disagreeable sensation,\nsuch as a man might feel tortured by thirst, who, on reaching a spring,\nshould find a dog, a sheep, or a pig, who has drunk of it and muddied\nthe water. Alexey Alexandrovitch s manner of walking, with a swing of\nthe hips and flat feet, particularly annoyed Vronsky. He could\nrecognize in no one but himself an indubitable right to love her. But\nshe was still the same, and the sight of her affected him the same way,\nphysically reviving him, stirring him, and filling his soul with\nrapture. He told his German valet, who ran up to him from the second\nclass, to take his things and go on, and he himself went up to her. He\nsaw the first meeting between the husband and wife, and noted with a\nlover s insight the signs of slight reserve with which she spoke to her\nhusband.  No, she does not love him and cannot love him,  he decided to\nhimself.\n\nAt the moment when he was approaching Anna Arkadyevna he noticed too\nwith joy that she was conscious of his being near, and looked round,\nand seeing him, turned again to her husband.\n\n Have you passed a good night?  he asked, bowing to her and her husband\ntogether, and leaving it up to Alexey Alexandrovitch to accept the bow\non his own account, and to recognize it or not, as he might see fit.\n\n Thank you, very good,  she answered.\n\nHer face looked weary, and there was not that play of eagerness in it,\npeeping out in her smile and her eyes; but for a single instant, as she\nglanced at him, there was a flash of something in her eyes, and\nalthough the flash died away at once, he was happy for that moment. She\nglanced at her husband to find out whether he knew Vronsky. Alexey\nAlexandrovitch looked at Vronsky with displeasure, vaguely recalling\nwho this was. Vronsky s composure and self-confidence here struck, like\na scythe against a stone, upon the cold self-confidence of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.\n\n Count Vronsky,  said Anna.\n\n Ah! We are acquainted, I believe,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch\nindifferently, giving his hand.\n\n You set off with the mother and you return with the son,  he said,\narticulating each syllable, as though each were a separate favor he was\nbestowing.\n\n You re back from leave, I suppose?  he said, and without waiting for a\nreply, he turned to his wife in his jesting tone:  Well, were a great\nmany tears shed at Moscow at parting? \n\nBy addressing his wife like this he gave Vronsky to understand that he\nwished to be left alone, and, turning slightly towards him, he touched\nhis hat; but Vronsky turned to Anna Arkadyevna.\n\n I hope I may have the honor of calling on you,  he said.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch glanced with his weary eyes at Vronsky.\n\n Delighted,  he said coldly.  On Mondays we re at home. Most\nfortunate,  he said to his wife, dismissing Vronsky altogether,  that I\nshould just have half an hour to meet you, so that I can prove my\ndevotion,  he went on in the same jesting tone.\n\n You lay too much stress on your devotion for me to value it much,  she\nresponded in the same jesting tone, involuntarily listening to the\nsound of Vronsky s steps behind them.  But what has it to do with me? \nshe said to herself, and she began asking her husband how Seryozha had\ngot on without her.\n\n Oh, capitally! Mariette says he has been very good, And ... I must\ndisappoint you ... but he has not missed you as your husband has. But\nonce more _merci,_ my dear, for giving me a day. Our dear _Samovar_\nwill be delighted.  (He used to call the Countess Lidia Ivanovna, well\nknown in society, a samovar, because she was always bubbling over with\nexcitement.)  She has been continually asking after you. And, do you\nknow, if I may venture to advise you, you should go and see her today.\nYou know how she takes everything to heart. Just now, with all her own\ncares, she s anxious about the Oblonskys being brought together. \n\nThe Countess Lidia Ivanovna was a friend of her husband s, and the\ncenter of that one of the coteries of the Petersburg world with which\nAnna was, through her husband, in the closest relations.\n\n But you know I wrote to her? \n\n Still she ll want to hear details. Go and see her, if you re not too\ntired, my dear. Well, Kondraty will take you in the carriage, while I\ngo to my committee. I shall not be alone at dinner again,  Alexey\nAlexandrovitch went on, no longer in a sarcastic tone.  You wouldn t\nbelieve how I ve missed....  And with a long pressure of her hand and a\nmeaning smile, he put her in her carriage.\n\n\nChapter 32\n\nThe first person to meet Anna at home was her son. He dashed down the\nstairs to her, in spite of the governess s call, and with desperate joy\nshrieked:  Mother! mother!  Running up to her, he hung on her neck.\n\n I told you it was mother!  he shouted to the governess.  I knew! \n\nAnd her son, like her husband, aroused in Anna a feeling akin to\ndisappointment. She had imagined him better than he was in reality. She\nhad to let herself drop down to the reality to enjoy him as he really\nwas. But even as he was, he was charming, with his fair curls, his blue\neyes, and his plump, graceful little legs in tightly pulled-up\nstockings. Anna experienced almost physical pleasure in the sensation\nof his nearness, and his caresses, and moral soothing, when she met his\nsimple, confiding, and loving glance, and heard his na ve questions.\nAnna took out the presents Dolly s children had sent him, and told her\nson what sort of little girl was Tanya at Moscow, and how Tanya could\nread, and even taught the other children.\n\n Why, am I not so nice as she?  asked Seryozha.\n\n To me you re nicer than anyone in the world. \n\n I know that,  said Seryozha, smiling.\n\nAnna had not had time to drink her coffee when the Countess Lidia\nIvanovna was announced. The Countess Lidia Ivanovna was a tall, stout\nwoman, with an unhealthily sallow face and splendid, pensive black\neyes. Anna liked her, but today she seemed to be seeing her for the\nfirst time with all her defects.\n\n Well, my dear, so you took the olive branch?  inquired Countess Lidia\nIvanovna, as soon as she came into the room.\n\n Yes, it s all over, but it was all much less serious than we had\nsupposed,  answered Anna.  My _belle-s ur_ is in general too hasty. \n\nBut Countess Lidia Ivanovna, though she was interested in everything\nthat did not concern her, had a habit of never listening to what\ninterested her; she interrupted Anna:\n\n Yes, there s plenty of sorrow and evil in the world. I am so worried\ntoday. \n\n Oh, why?  asked Anna, trying to suppress a smile.\n\n I m beginning to be weary of fruitlessly championing the truth, and\nsometimes I m quite unhinged by it. The Society of the Little Sisters \n(this was a religiously-patriotic, philanthropic institution)  was\ngoing splendidly, but with these gentlemen it s impossible to do\nanything,  added Countess Lidia Ivanovna in a tone of ironical\nsubmission to destiny.  They pounce on the idea, and distort it, and\nthen work it out so pettily and unworthily. Two or three people, your\nhusband among them, understand all the importance of the thing, but the\nothers simply drag it down. Yesterday Pravdin wrote to me.... \n\nPravdin was a well-known Panslavist abroad, and Countess Lidia Ivanovna\ndescribed the purport of his letter.\n\nThen the countess told her of more disagreements and intrigues against\nthe work of the unification of the churches, and departed in haste, as\nshe had that day to be at the meeting of some society and also at the\nSlavonic committee.\n\n It was all the same before, of course; but why was it I didn t notice\nit before?  Anna asked herself.  Or has she been very much irritated\ntoday? It s really ludicrous; her object is doing good; she a\nChristian, yet she s always angry; and she always has enemies, and\nalways enemies in the name of Christianity and doing good. \n\nAfter Countess Lidia Ivanovna another friend came, the wife of a chief\nsecretary, who told her all the news of the town. At three o clock she\ntoo went away, promising to come to dinner. Alexey Alexandrovitch was\nat the ministry. Anna, left alone, spent the time till dinner in\nassisting at her son s dinner (he dined apart from his parents) and in\nputting her things in order, and in reading and answering the notes and\nletters which had accumulated on her table.\n\nThe feeling of causeless shame, which she had felt on the journey, and\nher excitement, too, had completely vanished. In the habitual\nconditions of her life she felt again resolute and irreproachable.\n\nShe recalled with wonder her state of mind on the previous day.  What\nwas it? Nothing. Vronsky said something silly, which it was easy to put\na stop to, and I answered as I ought to have done. To speak of it to my\nhusband would be unnecessary and out of the question. To speak of it\nwould be to attach importance to what has no importance.  She\nremembered how she had told her husband of what was almost a\ndeclaration made her at Petersburg by a young man, one of her husband s\nsubordinates, and how Alexey Alexandrovitch had answered that every\nwoman living in the world was exposed to such incidents, but that he\nhad the fullest confidence in her tact, and could never lower her and\nhimself by jealousy.  So then there s no reason to speak of it? And\nindeed, thank God, there s nothing to speak of,  she told herself.\n\n\nChapter 33\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch came back from the meeting of the ministers at\nfour o clock, but as often happened, he had not time to come in to her.\nHe went into his study to see the people waiting for him with\npetitions, and to sign some papers brought him by his chief secretary.\nAt dinner time (there were always a few people dining with the\nKarenins) there arrived an old lady, a cousin of Alexey Alexandrovitch,\nthe chief secretary of the department and his wife, and a young man who\nhad been recommended to Alexey Alexandrovitch for the service. Anna\nwent into the drawing-room to receive these guests. Precisely at five\no clock, before the bronze Peter the First clock had struck the fifth\nstroke, Alexey Alexandrovitch came in, wearing a white tie and evening\ncoat with two stars, as he had to go out directly after dinner. Every\nminute of Alexey Alexandrovitch s life was portioned out and occupied.\nAnd to make time to get through all that lay before him every day, he\nadhered to the strictest punctuality.  Unhasting and unresting,  was\nhis motto. He came into the dining hall, greeted everyone, and\nhurriedly sat down, smiling to his wife.\n\n Yes, my solitude is over. You wouldn t believe how uncomfortable  (he\nlaid stress on the word _uncomfortable_)  it is to dine alone. \n\nAt dinner he talked a little to his wife about Moscow matters, and,\nwith a sarcastic smile, asked her after Stepan Arkadyevitch; but the\nconversation was for the most part general, dealing with Petersburg\nofficial and public news. After dinner he spent half an hour with his\nguests, and again, with a smile, pressed his wife s hand, withdrew, and\ndrove off to the council. Anna did not go out that evening either to\nthe Princess Betsy Tverskaya, who, hearing of her return, had invited\nher, nor to the theater, where she had a box for that evening. She did\nnot go out principally because the dress she had reckoned upon was not\nready. Altogether, Anna, on turning, after the departure of her guests,\nto the consideration of her attire, was very much annoyed. She was\ngenerally a mistress of the art of dressing well without great expense,\nand before leaving Moscow she had given her dressmaker three dresses to\ntransform. The dresses had to be altered so that they could not be\nrecognized, and they ought to have been ready three days before. It\nappeared that two dresses had not been done at all, while the other one\nhad not been altered as Anna had intended. The dressmaker came to\nexplain, declaring that it would be better as she had done it, and Anna\nwas so furious that she felt ashamed when she thought of it afterwards.\nTo regain her serenity completely she went into the nursery, and spent\nthe whole evening with her son, put him to bed herself, signed him with\nthe cross, and tucked him up. She was glad she had not gone out\nanywhere, and had spent the evening so well. She felt so light-hearted\nand serene, she saw so clearly that all that had seemed to her so\nimportant on her railway journey was only one of the common trivial\nincidents of fashionable life, and that she had no reason to feel\nashamed before anyone else or before herself. Anna sat down at the\nhearth with an English novel and waited for her husband. Exactly at\nhalf-past nine she heard his ring, and he came into the room.\n\n Here you are at last!  she observed, holding out her hand to him.\n\nHe kissed her hand and sat down beside her.\n\n Altogether then, I see your visit was a success,  he said to her.\n\n Oh, yes,  she said, and she began telling him about everything from\nthe beginning: her journey with Countess Vronskaya, her arrival, the\naccident at the station. Then she described the pity she had felt,\nfirst for her brother, and afterwards for Dolly.\n\n I imagine one cannot exonerate such a man from blame, though he is\nyour brother,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch severely.\n\nAnna smiled. She knew that he said that simply to show that family\nconsiderations could not prevent him from expressing his genuine\nopinion. She knew that characteristic in her husband, and liked it.\n\n I am glad it has all ended so satisfactorily, and that you are back\nagain,  he went on.  Come, what do they say about the new act I have\ngot passed in the council? \n\nAnna had heard nothing of this act, and she felt conscience-stricken at\nhaving been able so readily to forget what was to him of such\nimportance.\n\n Here, on the other hand, it has made a great sensation,  he said, with\na complacent smile.\n\nShe saw that Alexey Alexandrovitch wanted to tell her something\npleasant to him about it, and she brought him by questions to telling\nit. With the same complacent smile he told her of the ovations he had\nreceived in consequence of the act he had passed.\n\n I was very, very glad. It shows that at last a reasonable and steady\nview of the matter is becoming prevalent among us. \n\nHaving drunk his second cup of tea with cream, and bread, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch got up, and was going towards his study.\n\n And you ve not been anywhere this evening? You ve been dull, I\nexpect?  he said.\n\n Oh, no!  she answered, getting up after him and accompanying him\nacross the room to his study.  What are you reading now?  she asked.\n\n Just now I m reading Duc de Lille, _Po sie des Enfers,_  he answered.\n A very remarkable book. \n\nAnna smiled, as people smile at the weaknesses of those they love, and,\nputting her hand under his, she escorted him to the door of the study.\nShe knew his habit, that had grown into a necessity, of reading in the\nevening. She knew, too, that in spite of his official duties, which\nswallowed up almost the whole of his time, he considered it his duty to\nkeep up with everything of note that appeared in the intellectual\nworld. She knew, too, that he was really interested in books dealing\nwith politics, philosophy, and theology, that art was utterly foreign\nto his nature; but, in spite of this, or rather, in consequence of it,\nAlexey Alexandrovitch never passed over anything in the world of art,\nbut made it his duty to read everything. She knew that in politics, in\nphilosophy, in theology, Alexey Alexandrovitch often had doubts, and\nmade investigations; but on questions of art and poetry, and, above\nall, of music, of which he was totally devoid of understanding, he had\nthe most distinct and decided opinions. He was fond of talking about\nShakespeare, Raphael, Beethoven, of the significance of new schools of\npoetry and music, all of which were classified by him with very\nconspicuous consistency.\n\n Well, God be with you,  she said at the door of the study, where a\nshaded candle and a decanter of water were already put by his armchair.\n And I ll write to Moscow. \n\nHe pressed her hand, and again kissed it.\n\n All the same he s a good man; truthful, good-hearted, and remarkable\nin his own line,  Anna said to herself going back to her room, as\nthough she were defending him to someone who had attacked him and said\nthat one could not love him.  But why is it his ears stick out so\nstrangely? Or has he had his hair cut? \n\nPrecisely at twelve o clock, when Anna was still sitting at her\nwriting-table, finishing a letter to Dolly, she heard the sound of\nmeasured steps in slippers, and Alexey Alexandrovitch, freshly washed\nand combed, with a book under his arm, came in to her.\n\n It s time, it s time,  said he, with a meaning smile, and he went into\ntheir bedroom.\n\n And what right had he to look at him like that?  thought Anna,\nrecalling Vronsky s glance at Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\nUndressing, she went into the bedroom; but her face had none of the\neagerness which, during her stay in Moscow, had fairly flashed from her\neyes and her smile; on the contrary, now the fire seemed quenched in\nher, hidden somewhere far away.\n\n\nChapter 34\n\nWhen Vronsky went to Moscow from Petersburg, he had left his large set\nof rooms in Morskaia to his friend and favorite comrade Petritsky.\n\nPetritsky was a young lieutenant, not particularly well-connected, and\nnot merely not wealthy, but always hopelessly in debt. Towards evening\nhe was always drunk, and he had often been locked up after all sorts of\nludicrous and disgraceful scandals, but he was a favorite both of his\ncomrades and his superior officers. On arriving at twelve o clock from\nthe station at his flat, Vronsky saw, at the outer door, a hired\ncarriage familiar to him. While still outside his own door, as he rang,\nhe heard masculine laughter, the lisp of a feminine voice, and\nPetritsky s voice.  If that s one of the villains, don t let him in! \nVronsky told the servant not to announce him, and slipped quietly into\nthe first room. Baroness Shilton, a friend of Petritsky s, with a rosy\nlittle face and flaxen hair, resplendent in a lilac satin gown, and\nfilling the whole room, like a canary, with her Parisian chatter, sat\nat the round table making coffee. Petritsky, in his overcoat, and the\ncavalry captain Kamerovsky, in full uniform, probably just come from\nduty, were sitting each side of her.\n\n Bravo! Vronsky!  shouted Petritsky, jumping up, scraping his chair.\n Our host himself! Baroness, some coffee for him out of the new coffee\npot. Why, we didn t expect you! Hope you re satisfied with the ornament\nof your study,  he said, indicating the baroness.  You know each other,\nof course? \n\n I should think so,  said Vronsky, with a bright smile, pressing the\nbaroness s little hand.  What next! I m an old friend. \n\n You re home after a journey,  said the baroness,  so I m flying. Oh,\nI ll be off this minute, if I m in the way. \n\n You re home, wherever you are, baroness,  said Vronsky.  How do you\ndo, Kamerovsky?  he added, coldly shaking hands with Kamerovsky.\n\n There, you never know how to say such pretty things,  said the\nbaroness, turning to Petritsky.\n\n No; what s that for? After dinner I say things quite as good. \n\n After dinner there s no credit in them? Well, then, I ll make you some\ncoffee, so go and wash and get ready,  said the baroness, sitting down\nagain, and anxiously turning the screw in the new coffee pot.  Pierre,\ngive me the coffee,  she said, addressing Petritsky, whom she called\nPierre as a contraction of his surname, making no secret of her\nrelations with him.  I ll put it in. \n\n You ll spoil it! \n\n No, I won t spoil it! Well, and your wife?  said the baroness\nsuddenly, interrupting Vronsky s conversation with his comrade.  We ve\nbeen marrying you here. Have you brought your wife? \n\n No, baroness. I was born a Bohemian, and a Bohemian I shall die. \n\n So much the better, so much the better. Shake hands on it. \n\nAnd the baroness, detaining Vronsky, began telling him, with many\njokes, about her last new plans of life, asking his advice.\n\n He persists in refusing to give me a divorce! Well, what am I to do? \n(_He_ was her husband.)  Now I want to begin a suit against him. What\ndo you advise? Kamerovsky, look after the coffee; it s boiling over.\nYou see, I m engrossed with business! I want a lawsuit, because I must\nhave my property. Do you understand the folly of it, that on the\npretext of my being unfaithful to him,  she said contemptuously,  he\nwants to get the benefit of my fortune. \n\nVronsky heard with pleasure this light-hearted prattle of a pretty\nwoman, agreed with her, gave her half-joking counsel, and altogether\ndropped at once into the tone habitual to him in talking to such women.\nIn his Petersburg world all people were divided into utterly opposed\nclasses. One, the lower class, vulgar, stupid, and, above all,\nridiculous people, who believe that one husband ought to live with the\none wife whom he has lawfully married; that a girl should be innocent,\na woman modest, and a man manly, self-controlled, and strong; that one\nought to bring up one s children, earn one s bread, and pay one s\ndebts; and various similar absurdities. This was the class of\nold-fashioned and ridiculous people. But there was another class of\npeople, the real people. To this class they all belonged, and in it the\ngreat thing was to be elegant, generous, plucky, gay, to abandon\noneself without a blush to every passion, and to laugh at everything\nelse.\n\nFor the first moment only, Vronsky was startled after the impression of\na quite different world that he had brought with him from Moscow. But\nimmediately as though slipping his feet into old slippers, he dropped\nback into the light-hearted, pleasant world he had always lived in.\n\nThe coffee was never really made, but spluttered over everyone, and\nboiled away, doing just what was required of it that is, providing much\ncause for much noise and laughter, and spoiling a costly rug and the\nbaroness s gown.\n\n Well now, good-bye, or you ll never get washed, and I shall have on my\nconscience the worst sin a gentleman can commit. So you would advise a\nknife to his throat? \n\n To be sure, and manage that your hand may not be far from his lips.\nHe ll kiss your hand, and all will end satisfactorily,  answered\nVronsky.\n\n So at the Fran ais!  and, with a rustle of her skirts, she vanished.\n\nKamerovsky got up too, and Vronsky, not waiting for him to go, shook\nhands and went off to his dressing-room.\n\nWhile he was washing, Petritsky described to him in brief outlines his\nposition, as far as it had changed since Vronsky had left Petersburg.\nNo money at all. His father said he wouldn t give him any and pay his\ndebts. His tailor was trying to get him locked up, and another fellow,\ntoo, was threatening to get him locked up. The colonel of the regiment\nhad announced that if these scandals did not cease he would have to\nleave. As for the baroness, he was sick to death of her, especially\nsince she d taken to offering continually to lend him money. But he had\nfound a girl he d show her to Vronsky a marvel, exquisite, in the\nstrict Oriental style,  genre of the slave Rebecca, don t you know. \nHe d had a row, too, with Berkoshov, and was going to send seconds to\nhim, but of course it would come to nothing. Altogether everything was\nsupremely amusing and jolly. And, not letting his comrade enter into\nfurther details of his position, Petritsky proceeded to tell him all\nthe interesting news. As he listened to Petritsky s familiar stories in\nthe familiar setting of the rooms he had spent the last three years in,\nVronsky felt a delightful sense of coming back to the careless\nPetersburg life that he was used to.\n\n Impossible!  he cried, letting down the pedal of the washing basin in\nwhich he had been sousing his healthy red neck.  Impossible!  he cried,\nat the news that Laura had flung over Fertinghof and had made up to\nMileev.  And is he as stupid and pleased as ever? Well, and how s\nBuzulukov? \n\n Oh, there is a tale about Buzulukov simply lovely!  cried Petritsky.\n You know his weakness for balls, and he never misses a single court\nball. He went to a big ball in a new helmet. Have you seen the new\nhelmets? Very nice, lighter. Well, so he s standing.... No, I say, do\nlisten. \n\n I am listening,  answered Vronsky, rubbing himself with a rough towel.\n\n Up comes the Grand Duchess with some ambassador or other, and, as\nill-luck would have it, she begins talking to him about the new\nhelmets. The Grand Duchess positively wanted to show the new helmet to\nthe ambassador. They see our friend standing there.  (Petritsky\nmimicked how he was standing with the helmet.)  The Grand Duchess asked\nhim to give her the helmet; he doesn t give it to her. What do you\nthink of that? Well, everyone s winking at him, nodding, frowning give\nit to her, do! He doesn t give it to her. He s mute as a fish. Only\npicture it!... Well, the ... what s his name, whatever he was ... tries\nto take the helmet from him ... he won t give it up!... He pulls it\nfrom him, and hands it to the Grand Duchess.  Here, your Highness, \nsays he,  is the new helmet.  She turned the helmet the other side up,\nAnd just picture it! plop went a pear and sweetmeats out of it, two\npounds of sweetmeats!... He d been storing them up, the darling! \n\nVronsky burst into roars of laughter. And long afterwards, when he was\ntalking of other things, he broke out into his healthy laugh, showing\nhis strong, close rows of teeth, when he thought of the helmet.\n\nHaving heard all the news, Vronsky, with the assistance of his valet,\ngot into his uniform, and went off to report himself. He intended, when\nhe had done that, to drive to his brother s and to Betsy s and to pay\nseveral visits with a view to beginning to go into that society where\nhe might meet Madame Karenina. As he always did in Petersburg, he left\nhome not meaning to return till late at night.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\nChapter 1\n\nAt the end of the winter, in the Shtcherbatskys  house, a consultation\nwas being held, which was to pronounce on the state of Kitty s health\nand the measures to be taken to restore her failing strength. She had\nbeen ill, and as spring came on she grew worse. The family doctor gave\nher cod liver oil, then iron, then nitrate of silver, but as the first\nand the second and the third were alike in doing no good, and as his\nadvice when spring came was to go abroad, a celebrated physician was\ncalled in. The celebrated physician, a very handsome man, still\nyoungish, asked to examine the patient. He maintained, with peculiar\nsatisfaction, it seemed, that maiden modesty is a mere relic of\nbarbarism, and that nothing could be more natural than for a man still\nyoungish to handle a young girl naked. He thought it natural because he\ndid it every day, and felt and thought, as it seemed to him, no harm as\nhe did it and consequently he considered modesty in the girl not merely\nas a relic of barbarism, but also as an insult to himself.\n\nThere was nothing for it but to submit, since, although all the doctors\nhad studied in the same school, had read the same books, and learned\nthe same science, and though some people said this celebrated doctor\nwas a bad doctor, in the princess s household and circle it was for\nsome reason accepted that this celebrated doctor alone had some special\nknowledge, and that he alone could save Kitty. After a careful\nexamination and sounding of the bewildered patient, dazed with shame,\nthe celebrated doctor, having scrupulously washed his hands, was\nstanding in the drawing-room talking to the prince. The prince frowned\nand coughed, listening to the doctor. As a man who had seen something\nof life, and neither a fool nor an invalid, he had no faith in\nmedicine, and in his heart was furious at the whole farce, specially as\nhe was perhaps the only one who fully comprehended the cause of Kitty s\nillness.  Conceited blockhead!  he thought, as he listened to the\ncelebrated doctor s chatter about his daughter s symptoms. The doctor\nwas meantime with difficulty restraining the expression of his contempt\nfor this old gentleman, and with difficulty condescending to the level\nof his intelligence. He perceived that it was no good talking to the\nold man, and that the principal person in the house was the mother.\nBefore her he decided to scatter his pearls. At that instant the\nprincess came into the drawing-room with the family doctor. The prince\nwithdrew, trying not to show how ridiculous he thought the whole\nperformance. The princess was distracted, and did not know what to do.\nShe felt she had sinned against Kitty.\n\n Well, doctor, decide our fate,  said the princess.  Tell me\neverything. \n\n Is there hope?  she meant to say, but her lips quivered, and she could\nnot utter the question.  Well, doctor? \n\n Immediately, princess. I will talk it over with my colleague, and then\nI will have the honor of laying my opinion before you. \n\n So we had better leave you? \n\n As you please. \n\nThe princess went out with a sigh.\n\nWhen the doctors were left alone, the family doctor began timidly\nexplaining his opinion, that there was a commencement of tuberculous\ntrouble, but ... and so on. The celebrated doctor listened to him, and\nin the middle of his sentence looked at his big gold watch.\n\n Yes,  said he.  But.... \n\nThe family doctor respectfully ceased in the middle of his\nobservations.\n\n The commencement of the tuberculous process we are not, as you are\naware, able to define; till there are cavities, there is nothing\ndefinite. But we may suspect it. And there are indications;\nmalnutrition, nervous excitability, and so on. The question stands\nthus: in presence of indications of tuberculous process, what is to be\ndone to maintain nutrition? \n\n But, you know, there are always moral, spiritual causes at the back in\nthese cases,  the family doctor permitted himself to interpolate with a\nsubtle smile.\n\n Yes, that s an understood thing,  responded the celebrated physician,\nagain glancing at his watch.  Beg pardon, is the Yausky bridge done\nyet, or shall I have to drive around?  he asked.  Ah! it is. Oh, well,\nthen I can do it in twenty minutes. So we were saying the problem may\nbe put thus: to maintain nutrition and to give tone to the nerves. The\none is in close connection with the other, one must attack both sides\nat once. \n\n And how about a tour abroad?  asked the family doctor.\n\n I ve no liking for foreign tours. And take note: if there is an early\nstage of tuberculous process, of which we cannot be certain, a foreign\ntour will be of no use. What is wanted is means of improving nutrition,\nand not for lowering it.  And the celebrated doctor expounded his plan\nof treatment with Soden waters, a remedy obviously prescribed primarily\non the ground that they could do no harm.\n\nThe family doctor listened attentively and respectfully.\n\n But in favor of foreign travel I would urge the change of habits, the\nremoval from conditions calling up reminiscences. And then the mother\nwishes it,  he added.\n\n Ah! Well, in that case, to be sure, let them go. Only, those German\nquacks are mischievous.... They ought to be persuaded.... Well, let\nthem go then. \n\nHe glanced once more at his watch.\n\n Oh! time s up already,  And he went to the door. The celebrated doctor\nannounced to the princess (a feeling of what was due from him dictated\nhis doing so) that he ought to see the patient once more.\n\n What! another examination!  cried the mother, with horror.\n\n Oh, no, only a few details, princess. \n\n Come this way. \n\nAnd the mother, accompanied by the doctor, went into the drawing-room\nto Kitty. Wasted and flushed, with a peculiar glitter in her eyes, left\nthere by the agony of shame she had been put through, Kitty stood in\nthe middle of the room. When the doctor came in she flushed crimson,\nand her eyes filled with tears. All her illness and treatment struck\nher as a thing so stupid, ludicrous even! Doctoring her seemed to her\nas absurd as putting together the pieces of a broken vase. Her heart\nwas broken. Why would they try to cure her with pills and powders? But\nshe could not grieve her mother, especially as her mother considered\nherself to blame.\n\n May I trouble you to sit down, princess?  the celebrated doctor said\nto her.\n\nHe sat down with a smile, facing her, felt her pulse, and again began\nasking her tiresome questions. She answered him, and all at once got\nup, furious.\n\n Excuse me, doctor, but there is really no object in this. This is the\nthird time you ve asked me the same thing. \n\nThe celebrated doctor did not take offense.\n\n Nervous irritability,  he said to the princess, when Kitty had left\nthe room.  However, I had finished.... \n\nAnd the doctor began scientifically explaining to the princess, as an\nexceptionally intelligent woman, the condition of the young princess,\nand concluded by insisting on the drinking of the waters, which were\ncertainly harmless. At the question: Should they go abroad? the doctor\nplunged into deep meditation, as though resolving a weighty problem.\nFinally his decision was pronounced: they were to go abroad, but to put\nno faith in foreign quacks, and to apply to him in any need.\n\nIt seemed as though some piece of good fortune had come to pass after\nthe doctor had gone. The mother was much more cheerful when she went\nback to her daughter, and Kitty pretended to be more cheerful. She had\noften, almost always, to be pretending now.\n\n Really, I m quite well, mamma. But if you want to go abroad, let s\ngo!  she said, and trying to appear interested in the proposed tour,\nshe began talking of the preparations for the journey.\n\n\nChapter 2\n\nSoon after the doctor, Dolly had arrived. She knew that there was to be\na consultation that day, and though she was only just up after her\nconfinement (she had another baby, a little girl, born at the end of\nthe winter), though she had trouble and anxiety enough of her own, she\nhad left her tiny baby and a sick child, to come and hear Kitty s fate,\nwhich was to be decided that day.\n\n Well, well?  she said, coming into the drawing-room, without taking\noff her hat.  You re all in good spirits. Good news, then? \n\nThey tried to tell her what the doctor had said, but it appeared that\nthough the doctor had talked distinctly enough and at great length, it\nwas utterly impossible to report what he had said. The only point of\ninterest was that it was settled they should go abroad.\n\nDolly could not help sighing. Her dearest friend, her sister, was going\naway. And her life was not a cheerful one. Her relations with Stepan\nArkadyevitch after their reconciliation had become humiliating. The\nunion Anna had cemented turned out to be of no solid character, and\nfamily harmony was breaking down again at the same point. There had\nbeen nothing definite, but Stepan Arkadyevitch was hardly ever at home;\nmoney, too, was hardly ever forthcoming, and Dolly was continually\ntortured by suspicions of infidelity, which she tried to dismiss,\ndreading the agonies of jealousy she had been through already. The\nfirst onslaught of jealousy, once lived through, could never come back\nagain, and even the discovery of infidelities could never now affect\nher as it had the first time. Such a discovery now would only mean\nbreaking up family habits, and she let herself be deceived, despising\nhim and still more herself, for the weakness. Besides this, the care of\nher large family was a constant worry to her: first, the nursing of her\nyoung baby did not go well, then the nurse had gone away, now one of\nthe children had fallen ill.\n\n Well, how are all of you?  asked her mother.\n\n Ah, mamma, we have plenty of troubles of our own. Lili is ill, and I m\nafraid it s scarlatina. I have come here now to hear about Kitty, and\nthen I shall shut myself up entirely, if God forbid it should be\nscarlatina. \n\nThe old prince too had come in from his study after the doctor s\ndeparture, and after presenting his cheek to Dolly, and saying a few\nwords to her, he turned to his wife:\n\n How have you settled it? you re going? Well, and what do you mean to\ndo with me? \n\n I suppose you had better stay here, Alexander,  said his wife.\n\n That s as you like. \n\n Mamma, why shouldn t father come with us?  said Kitty.  It would be\nnicer for him and for us too. \n\nThe old prince got up and stroked Kitty s hair. She lifted her head and\nlooked at him with a forced smile. It always seemed to her that he\nunderstood her better than anyone in the family, though he did not say\nmuch about her. Being the youngest, she was her father s favorite, and\nshe fancied that his love gave him insight. When now her glance met his\nblue kindly eyes looking intently at her, it seemed to her that he saw\nright through her, and understood all that was not good that was\npassing within her. Reddening, she stretched out towards him expecting\na kiss, but he only patted her hair and said:\n\n These stupid chignons! There s no getting at the real daughter. One\nsimply strokes the bristles of dead women. Well, Dolinka,  he turned to\nhis elder daughter,  what s your young buck about, hey? \n\n Nothing, father,  answered Dolly, understanding that her husband was\nmeant.  He s always out; I scarcely ever see him,  she could not resist\nadding with a sarcastic smile.\n\n Why, hasn t he gone into the country yet to see about selling that\nforest? \n\n No, he s still getting ready for the journey. \n\n Oh, that s it!  said the prince.  And so am I to be getting ready for\na journey too? At your service,  he said to his wife, sitting down.\n And I tell you what, Katia,  he went on to his younger daughter,  you\nmust wake up one fine day and say to yourself: Why, I m quite well, and\nmerry, and going out again with father for an early morning walk in the\nfrost. Hey? \n\nWhat her father said seemed simple enough, yet at these words Kitty\nbecame confused and overcome like a detected criminal.  Yes, he sees it\nall, he understands it all, and in these words he s telling me that\nthough I m ashamed, I must get over my shame.  She could not pluck up\nspirit to make any answer. She tried to begin, and all at once burst\ninto tears, and rushed out of the room.\n\n See what comes of your jokes!  the princess pounced down on her\nhusband.  You re always....  she began a string of reproaches.\n\nThe prince listened to the princess s scolding rather a long while\nwithout speaking, but his face was more and more frowning.\n\n She s so much to be pitied, poor child, so much to be pitied, and you\ndon t feel how it hurts her to hear the slightest reference to the\ncause of it. Ah! to be so mistaken in people!  said the princess, and\nby the change in her tone both Dolly and the prince knew she was\nspeaking of Vronsky.  I don t know why there aren t laws against such\nbase, dishonorable people. \n\n Ah, I can t bear to hear you!  said the prince gloomily, getting up\nfrom his low chair, and seeming anxious to get away, yet stopping in\nthe doorway.  There are laws, madam, and since you ve challenged me to\nit, I ll tell you who s to blame for it all: you and you, you and\nnobody else. Laws against such young gallants there have always been,\nand there still are! Yes, if there has been nothing that ought not to\nhave been, old as I am, I d have called him out to the barrier, the\nyoung dandy. Yes, and now you physic her and call in these quacks. \n\nThe prince apparently had plenty more to say, but as soon as the\nprincess heard his tone she subsided at once, and became penitent, as\nshe always did on serious occasions.\n\n Alexander, Alexander,  she whispered, moving to him and beginning to\nweep.\n\nAs soon as she began to cry the prince too calmed down. He went up to\nher.\n\n There, that s enough, that s enough! You re wretched too, I know. It\ncan t be helped. There s no great harm done. God is merciful ...\nthanks....  he said, not knowing what he was saying, as he responded to\nthe tearful kiss of the princess that he felt on his hand. And the\nprince went out of the room.\n\nBefore this, as soon as Kitty went out of the room in tears, Dolly,\nwith her motherly, family instincts, had promptly perceived that here a\nwoman s work lay before her, and she prepared to do it. She took off\nher hat, and, morally speaking, tucked up her sleeves and prepared for\naction. While her mother was attacking her father, she tried to\nrestrain her mother, so far as filial reverence would allow. During the\nprince s outburst she was silent; she felt ashamed for her mother, and\ntender towards her father for so quickly being kind again. But when her\nfather left them she made ready for what was the chief thing needful to\ngo to Kitty and console her.\n\n I d been meaning to tell you something for a long while, mamma: did\nyou know that Levin meant to make Kitty an offer when he was here the\nlast time? He told Stiva so. \n\n Well, what then? I don t understand.... \n\n So did Kitty perhaps refuse him?... She didn t tell you so? \n\n No, she has said nothing to me either of one or the other; she s too\nproud. But I know it s all on account of the other. \n\n Yes, but suppose she has refused Levin, and she wouldn t have refused\nhim if it hadn t been for the other, I know. And then, he has deceived\nher so horribly. \n\nIt was too terrible for the princess to think how she had sinned\nagainst her daughter, and she broke out angrily.\n\n Oh, I really don t understand! Nowadays they will all go their own\nway, and mothers haven t a word to say in anything, and then.... \n\n Mamma, I ll go up to her. \n\n Well, do. Did I tell you not to?  said her mother.\n\n\nChapter 3\n\nWhen she went into Kitty s little room, a pretty, pink little room,\nfull of knick-knacks in _vieux saxe,_ as fresh, and pink, and white,\nand gay as Kitty herself had been two months ago, Dolly remembered how\nthey had decorated the room the year before together, with what love\nand gaiety. Her heart turned cold when she saw Kitty sitting on a low\nchair near the door, her eyes fixed immovably on a corner of the rug.\nKitty glanced at her sister, and the cold, rather ill-tempered\nexpression of her face did not change.\n\n I m just going now, and I shall have to keep in and you won t be able\nto come to see me,  said Dolly, sitting down beside her.  I want to\ntalk to you. \n\n What about?  Kitty asked swiftly, lifting her head in dismay.\n\n What should it be, but your trouble? \n\n I have no trouble. \n\n Nonsense, Kitty. Do you suppose I could help knowing? I know all about\nit. And believe me, it s of so little consequence.... We ve all been\nthrough it. \n\nKitty did not speak, and her face had a stern expression.\n\n He s not worth your grieving over him,  pursued Darya Alexandrovna,\ncoming straight to the point.\n\n No, because he has treated me with contempt,  said Kitty, in a\nbreaking voice.  Don t talk of it! Please, don t talk of it! \n\n But who can have told you so? No one has said that. I m certain he was\nin love with you, and would still be in love with you, if it\nhadn t.... \n\n Oh, the most awful thing of all for me is this sympathizing!  shrieked\nKitty, suddenly flying into a passion. She turned round on her chair,\nflushed crimson, and rapidly moving her fingers, pinched the clasp of\nher belt first with one hand and then with the other. Dolly knew this\ntrick her sister had of clenching her hands when she was much excited;\nshe knew, too, that in moments of excitement Kitty was capable of\nforgetting herself and saying a great deal too much, and Dolly would\nhave soothed her, but it was too late.\n\n What, what is it you want to make me feel, eh?  said Kitty quickly.\n That I ve been in love with a man who didn t care a straw for me, and\nthat I m dying of love for him? And this is said to me by my own\nsister, who imagines that ... that ... that she s sympathizing with\nme!... I don t want these condolences and humbug! \n\n Kitty, you re unjust. \n\n Why are you tormenting me? \n\n But I ... quite the contrary ... I see you re unhappy.... \n\nBut Kitty in her fury did not hear her.\n\n I ve nothing to grieve over and be comforted about. I am too proud\never to allow myself to care for a man who does not love me. \n\n Yes, I don t say so either.... Only one thing. Tell me the truth, \nsaid Darya Alexandrovna, taking her by the hand:  tell me, did Levin\nspeak to you?... \n\nThe mention of Levin s name seemed to deprive Kitty of the last vestige\nof self-control. She leaped up from her chair, and flinging her clasp\non the ground, she gesticulated rapidly with her hands and said:\n\n Why bring Levin in too? I can t understand what you want to torment me\nfor. I ve told you, and I say it again, that I have some pride, and\nnever, _never_ would I do as you re doing go back to a man who s\ndeceived you, who has cared for another woman. I can t understand it!\nYou may, but I can t! \n\nAnd saying these words she glanced at her sister, and seeing that Dolly\nsat silent, her head mournfully bowed, Kitty, instead of running out of\nthe room as she had meant to do, sat down near the door, and hid her\nface in her handkerchief.\n\nThe silence lasted for two minutes: Dolly was thinking of herself. That\nhumiliation of which she was always conscious came back to her with a\npeculiar bitterness when her sister reminded her of it. She had not\nlooked for such cruelty in her sister, and she was angry with her. But\nsuddenly she heard the rustle of a skirt, and with it the sound of\nheart-rending, smothered sobbing, and felt arms about her neck. Kitty\nwas on her knees before her.\n\n Dolinka, I am so, so wretched!  she whispered penitently. And the\nsweet face covered with tears hid itself in Darya Alexandrovna s skirt.\n\nAs though tears were the indispensable oil, without which the machinery\nof mutual confidence could not run smoothly between the two sisters,\nthe sisters after their tears talked, not of what was uppermost in\ntheir minds, but, though they talked of outside matters, they\nunderstood each other. Kitty knew that the words she had uttered in\nanger about her husband s infidelity and her humiliating position had\ncut her poor sister to the heart, but that she had forgiven her. Dolly\nfor her part knew all she had wanted to find out. She felt certain that\nher surmises were correct; that Kitty s misery, her inconsolable\nmisery, was due precisely to the fact that Levin had made her an offer\nand she had refused him, and Vronsky had deceived her, and that she was\nfully prepared to love Levin and to detest Vronsky. Kitty said not a\nword of that; she talked of nothing but her spiritual condition.\n\n I have nothing to make me miserable,  she said, getting calmer;  but\ncan you understand that everything has become hateful, loathsome,\ncoarse to me, and I myself most of all? You can t imagine what\nloathsome thoughts I have about everything. \n\n Why, whatever loathsome thoughts can you have?  asked Dolly, smiling.\n\n The most utterly loathsome and coarse: I can t tell you. It s not\nunhappiness, or low spirits, but much worse. As though everything that\nwas good in me was all hidden away, and nothing was left but the most\nloathsome. Come, how am I to tell you?  she went on, seeing the puzzled\nlook in her sister s eyes.  Father began saying something to me just\nnow.... It seems to me he thinks all I want is to be married. Mother\ntakes me to a ball: it seems to me she only takes me to get me married\noff as soon as may be, and be rid of me. I know it s not the truth, but\nI can t drive away such thoughts. Eligible suitors, as they call them I\ncan t bear to see them. It seems to me they re taking stock of me and\nsumming me up. In old days to go anywhere in a ball dress was a simple\njoy to me, I admired myself; now I feel ashamed and awkward. And then!\nThe doctor.... Then....  Kitty hesitated; she wanted to say further\nthat ever since this change had taken place in her, Stepan Arkadyevitch\nhad become insufferably repulsive to her, and that she could not see\nhim without the grossest and most hideous conceptions rising before her\nimagination.\n\n Oh, well, everything presents itself to me, in the coarsest, most\nloathsome light,  she went on.  That s my illness. Perhaps it will pass\noff. \n\n But you mustn t think about it. \n\n I can t help it. I m never happy except with the children at your\nhouse. \n\n What a pity you can t be with me! \n\n Oh, yes, I m coming. I ve had scarlatina, and I ll persuade mamma to\nlet me. \n\nKitty insisted on having her way, and went to stay at her sister s and\nnursed the children all through the scarlatina, for scarlatina it\nturned out to be. The two sisters brought all the six children\nsuccessfully through it, but Kitty was no better in health, and in Lent\nthe Shtcherbatskys went abroad.\n\n\nChapter 4\n\nThe highest Petersburg society is essentially one: in it everyone knows\neveryone else, everyone even visits everyone else. But this great set\nhas its subdivisions. Anna Arkadyevna Karenina had friends and close\nties in three different circles of this highest society. One circle was\nher husband s government official set, consisting of his colleagues and\nsubordinates, brought together in the most various and capricious\nmanner, and belonging to different social strata. Anna found it\ndifficult now to recall the feeling of almost awe-stricken reverence\nwhich she had at first entertained for these persons. Now she knew all\nof them as people know one another in a country town; she knew their\nhabits and weaknesses, and where the shoe pinched each one of them. She\nknew their relations with one another and with the head authorities,\nknew who was for whom, and how each one maintained his position, and\nwhere they agreed and disagreed. But the circle of political, masculine\ninterests had never interested her, in spite of countess Lidia\nIvanovna s influence, and she avoided it.\n\nAnother little set with which Anna was in close relations was the one\nby means of which Alexey Alexandrovitch had made his career. The center\nof this circle was the Countess Lidia Ivanovna. It was a set made up of\nelderly, ugly, benevolent, and godly women, and clever, learned, and\nambitious men. One of the clever people belonging to the set had called\nit  the conscience of Petersburg society.  Alexey Alexandrovitch had\nthe highest esteem for this circle, and Anna with her special gift for\ngetting on with everyone, had in the early days of her life in\nPetersburg made friends in this circle also. Now, since her return from\nMoscow, she had come to feel this set insufferable. It seemed to her\nthat both she and all of them were insincere, and she felt so bored and\nill at ease in that world that she went to see the Countess Lidia\nIvanovna as little as possible.\n\nThe third circle with which Anna had ties was preeminently the\nfashionable world the world of balls, of dinners, of sumptuous dresses,\nthe world that hung on to the court with one hand, so as to avoid\nsinking to the level of the demi-monde. For the demi-monde the members\nof that fashionable world believed that they despised, though their\ntastes were not merely similar, but in fact identical. Her connection\nwith this circle was kept up through Princess Betsy Tverskaya, her\ncousin s wife, who had an income of a hundred and twenty thousand\nroubles, and who had taken a great fancy to Anna ever since she first\ncame out, showed her much attention, and drew her into her set, making\nfun of Countess Lidia Ivanovna s coterie.\n\n When I m old and ugly I ll be the same,  Betsy used to say;  but for a\npretty young woman like you it s early days for that house of charity. \n\nAnna had at first avoided as far as she could Princess Tverskaya s\nworld, because it necessitated an expenditure beyond her means, and\nbesides in her heart she preferred the first circle. But since her\nvisit to Moscow she had done quite the contrary. She avoided her\nserious-minded friends, and went out into the fashionable world. There\nshe met Vronsky, and experienced an agitating joy at those meetings.\nShe met Vronsky specially often at Betsy s for Betsy was a Vronsky by\nbirth and his cousin. Vronsky was everywhere where he had any chance of\nmeeting Anna, and speaking to her, when he could, of his love. She gave\nhim no encouragement, but every time she met him there surged up in her\nheart that same feeling of quickened life that had come upon her that\nday in the railway carriage when she saw him for the first time. She\nwas conscious herself that her delight sparkled in her eyes and curved\nher lips into a smile, and she could not quench the expression of this\ndelight.\n\nAt first Anna sincerely believed that she was displeased with him for\ndaring to pursue her. Soon after her return from Moscow, on arriving at\na _soir e_ where she had expected to meet him, and not finding him\nthere, she realized distinctly from the rush of disappointment that she\nhad been deceiving herself, and that this pursuit was not merely not\ndistasteful to her, but that it made the whole interest of her life.\n\n\n\nThe celebrated singer was singing for the second time, and all the\nfashionable world was in the theater. Vronsky, seeing his cousin from\nhis stall in the front row, did not wait till the _entr acte_, but went\nto her box.\n\n Why didn t you come to dinner?  she said to him.  I marvel at the\nsecond sight of lovers,  she added with a smile, so that no one but he\ncould hear;  _she wasn t there_. But come after the opera. \n\nVronsky looked inquiringly at her. She nodded. He thanked her by a\nsmile, and sat down beside her.\n\n But how I remember your jeers!  continued Princess Betsy, who took a\npeculiar pleasure in following up this passion to a successful issue.\n What s become of all that? You re caught, my dear boy. \n\n That s my one desire, to be caught,  answered Vronsky, with his\nserene, good-humored smile.  If I complain of anything it s only that\nI m not caught enough, to tell the truth. I begin to lose hope. \n\n Why, whatever hope can you have?  said Betsy, offended on behalf of\nher friend.  _Entendons nous...._  But in her eyes there were gleams of\nlight that betrayed that she understood perfectly and precisely as he\ndid what hope he might have.\n\n None whatever,  said Vronsky, laughing and showing his even rows of\nteeth.  Excuse me,  he added, taking an opera-glass out of her hand,\nand proceeding to scrutinize, over her bare shoulder, the row of boxes\nfacing them.  I m afraid I m becoming ridiculous. \n\nHe was very well aware that he ran no risk of being ridiculous in the\neyes of Betsy or any other fashionable people. He was very well aware\nthat in their eyes the position of an unsuccessful lover of a girl, or\nof any woman free to marry, might be ridiculous. But the position of a\nman pursuing a married woman, and, regardless of everything, staking\nhis life on drawing her into adultery, has something fine and grand\nabout it, and can never be ridiculous; and so it was with a proud and\ngay smile under his mustaches that he lowered the opera-glass and\nlooked at his cousin.\n\n But why was it you didn t come to dinner?  she said, admiring him.\n\n I must tell you about that. I was busily employed, and doing what, do\nyou suppose? I ll give you a hundred guesses, a thousand ... you d\nnever guess. I ve been reconciling a husband with a man who d insulted\nhis wife. Yes, really! \n\n Well, did you succeed? \n\n Almost. \n\n You really must tell me about it,  she said, getting up.  Come to me\nin the next _entr acte._ \n\n I can t; I m going to the French theater. \n\n From Nilsson?  Betsy queried in horror, though she could not herself\nhave distinguished Nilsson s voice from any chorus girl s.\n\n Can t help it. I ve an appointment there, all to do with my mission of\npeace. \n\n Blessed are the peacemakers; theirs is the kingdom of heaven,  said\nBetsy, vaguely recollecting she had heard some similar saying from\nsomeone.  Very well, then, sit down, and tell me what it s all about. \n\nAnd she sat down again.\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n This is rather indiscreet, but it s so good it s an awful temptation\nto tell the story,  said Vronsky, looking at her with his laughing\neyes.  I m not going to mention any names. \n\n But I shall guess, so much the better. \n\n Well, listen: two festive young men were driving \n\n Officers of your regiment, of course? \n\n I didn t say they were officers, two young men who had been lunching. \n\n In other words, drinking. \n\n Possibly. They were driving on their way to dinner with a friend in\nthe most festive state of mind. And they beheld a pretty woman in a\nhired sledge; she overtakes them, looks round at them, and, so they\nfancy anyway, nods to them and laughs. They, of course, follow her.\nThey gallop at full speed. To their amazement, the fair one alights at\nthe entrance of the very house to which they were going. The fair one\ndarts upstairs to the top story. They get a glimpse of red lips under a\nshort veil, and exquisite little feet. \n\n You describe it with such feeling that I fancy you must be one of the\ntwo. \n\n And after what you said, just now! Well, the young men go in to their\ncomrade s; he was giving a farewell dinner. There they certainly did\ndrink a little too much, as one always does at farewell dinners. And at\ndinner they inquire who lives at the top in that house. No one knows;\nonly their host s valet, in answer to their inquiry whether any  young\nladies  are living on the top floor, answered that there were a great\nmany of them about there. After dinner the two young men go into their\nhost s study, and write a letter to the unknown fair one. They compose\nan ardent epistle, a declaration in fact, and they carry the letter\nupstairs themselves, so as to elucidate whatever might appear not\nperfectly intelligible in the letter. \n\n Why are you telling me these horrible stories? Well? \n\n They ring. A maid-servant opens the door, they hand her the letter,\nand assure the maid that they re both so in love that they ll die on\nthe spot at the door. The maid, stupefied, carries in their messages.\nAll at once a gentleman appears with whiskers like sausages, as red as\na lobster, announces that there is no one living in the flat except his\nwife, and sends them both about their business. \n\n How do you know he had whiskers like sausages, as you say? \n\n Ah, you shall hear. I ve just been to make peace between them. \n\n Well, and what then? \n\n That s the most interesting part of the story. It appears that it s a\nhappy couple, a government clerk and his lady. The government clerk\nlodges a complaint, and I became a mediator, and such a mediator!... I\nassure you Talleyrand couldn t hold a candle to me. \n\n Why, where was the difficulty? \n\n Ah, you shall hear.... We apologize in due form: we are in despair, we\nentreat forgiveness for the unfortunate misunderstanding. The\ngovernment clerk with the sausages begins to melt, but he, too, desires\nto express his sentiments, and as soon as ever he begins to express\nthem, he begins to get hot and say nasty things, and again I m obliged\nto trot out all my diplomatic talents. I allowed that their conduct was\nbad, but I urged him to take into consideration their heedlessness,\ntheir youth; then, too, the young men had only just been lunching\ntogether.  You understand. They regret it deeply, and beg you to\noverlook their misbehavior.  The government clerk was softened once\nmore.  I consent, count, and am ready to overlook it; but you perceive\nthat my wife my wife s a respectable woman has been exposed to the\npersecution, and insults, and effrontery of young upstarts,\nscoundrels....  And you must understand, the young upstarts are present\nall the while, and I have to keep the peace between them. Again I call\nout all my diplomacy, and again as soon as the thing was about at an\nend, our friend the government clerk gets hot and red, and his sausages\nstand on end with wrath, and once more I launch out into diplomatic\nwiles. \n\n Ah, he must tell you this story!  said Betsy, laughing, to a lady who\ncame into her box.  He has been making me laugh so. \n\n Well, _bonne chance_!  she added, giving Vronsky one finger of the\nhand in which she held her fan, and with a shrug of her shoulders she\ntwitched down the bodice of her gown that had worked up, so as to be\nduly naked as she moved forward towards the footlights into the light\nof the gas, and the sight of all eyes.\n\nVronsky drove to the French theater, where he really had to see the\ncolonel of his regiment, who never missed a single performance there.\nHe wanted to see him, to report on the result of his mediation, which\nhad occupied and amused him for the last three days. Petritsky, whom he\nliked, was implicated in the affair, and the other culprit was a\ncapital fellow and first-rate comrade, who had lately joined the\nregiment, the young Prince Kedrov. And what was most important, the\ninterests of the regiment were involved in it too.\n\nBoth the young men were in Vronsky s company. The colonel of the\nregiment was waited upon by the government clerk, Venden, with a\ncomplaint against his officers, who had insulted his wife. His young\nwife, so Venden told the story he had been married half a year was at\nchurch with her mother, and suddenly overcome by indisposition, arising\nfrom her interesting condition, she could not remain standing, she\ndrove home in the first sledge, a smart-looking one, she came across.\nOn the spot the officers set off in pursuit of her; she was alarmed,\nand feeling still more unwell, ran up the staircase home. Venden\nhimself, on returning from his office, heard a ring at their bell and\nvoices, went out, and seeing the intoxicated officers with a letter, he\nhad turned them out. He asked for exemplary punishment.\n\n Yes, it s all very well,  said the colonel to Vronsky, whom he had\ninvited to come and see him.  Petritsky s becoming impossible. Not a\nweek goes by without some scandal. This government clerk won t let it\ndrop, he ll go on with the thing. \n\nVronsky saw all the thanklessness of the business, and that there could\nbe no question of a duel in it, that everything must be done to soften\nthe government clerk, and hush the matter up. The colonel had called in\nVronsky just because he knew him to be an honorable and intelligent\nman, and, more than all, a man who cared for the honor of the regiment.\nThey talked it over, and decided that Petritsky and Kedrov must go with\nVronsky to Venden s to apologize. The colonel and Vronsky were both\nfully aware that Vronsky s name and rank would be sure to contribute\ngreatly to the softening of the injured husband s feelings.\n\nAnd these two influences were not in fact without effect; though the\nresult remained, as Vronsky had described, uncertain.\n\nOn reaching the French theater, Vronsky retired to the foyer with the\ncolonel, and reported to him his success, or non-success. The colonel,\nthinking it all over, made up his mind not to pursue the matter\nfurther, but then for his own satisfaction proceeded to cross-examine\nVronsky about his interview; and it was a long while before he could\nrestrain his laughter, as Vronsky described how the government clerk,\nafter subsiding for a while, would suddenly flare up again, as he\nrecalled the details, and how Vronsky, at the last half word of\nconciliation, skillfully man uvered a retreat, shoving Petritsky out\nbefore him.\n\n It s a disgraceful story, but killing. Kedrov really can t fight the\ngentleman! Was he so awfully hot?  he commented, laughing.  But what do\nyou say to Claire today? She s marvelous,  he went on, speaking of a\nnew French actress.  However often you see her, every day she s\ndifferent. It s only the French who can do that. \n\n\nChapter 6\n\nPrincess Betsy drove home from the theater, without waiting for the end\nof the last act. She had only just time to go into her dressing-room,\nsprinkle her long, pale face with powder, rub it, set her dress to\nrights, and order tea in the big drawing-room, when one after another\ncarriages drove up to her huge house in Bolshaia Morskaia. Her guests\nstepped out at the wide entrance, and the stout porter, who used to\nread the newspapers in the mornings behind the glass door, to the\nedification of the passers-by, noiselessly opened the immense door,\nletting the visitors pass by him into the house.\n\nAlmost at the same instant the hostess, with freshly arranged coiffure\nand freshened face, walked in at one door and her guests at the other\ndoor of the drawing-room, a large room with dark walls, downy rugs, and\na brightly lighted table, gleaming with the light of candles, white\ncloth, silver samovar, and transparent china tea-things.\n\nThe hostess sat down at the table and took off her gloves. Chairs were\nset with the aid of footmen, moving almost imperceptibly about the\nroom; the party settled itself, divided into two groups: one round the\nsamovar near the hostess, the other at the opposite end of the\ndrawing-room, round the handsome wife of an ambassador, in black\nvelvet, with sharply defined black eyebrows. In both groups\nconversation wavered, as it always does, for the first few minutes,\nbroken up by meetings, greetings, offers of tea, and as it were,\nfeeling about for something to rest upon.\n\n She s exceptionally good as an actress; one can see she s studied\nKaulbach,  said a diplomatic attach  in the group round the\nambassador s wife.  Did you notice how she fell down?... \n\n Oh, please, don t let us talk about Nilsson! No one can possibly say\nanything new about her,  said a fat, red-faced, flaxen-headed lady,\nwithout eyebrows and chignon, wearing an old silk dress. This was\nPrincess Myakaya, noted for her simplicity and the roughness of her\nmanners, and nicknamed _enfant terrible_. Princess Myakaya, sitting in\nthe middle between the two groups, and listening to both, took part in\nthe conversation first of one and then of the other.  Three people have\nused that very phrase about Kaulbach to me today already, just as\nthough they had made a compact about it. And I can t see why they liked\nthat remark so. \n\nThe conversation was cut short by this observation, and a new subject\nhad to be thought of again.\n\n Do tell me something amusing but not spiteful,  said the ambassador s\nwife, a great proficient in the art of that elegant conversation called\nby the English _small talk_. She addressed the attach , who was at a\nloss now what to begin upon.\n\n They say that that s a difficult task, that nothing s amusing that\nisn t spiteful,  he began with a smile.  But I ll try. Get me a\nsubject. It all lies in the subject. If a subject s given me, it s easy\nto spin something round it. I often think that the celebrated talkers\nof the last century would have found it difficult to talk cleverly now.\nEverything clever is so stale.... \n\n That has been said long ago,  the ambassador s wife interrupted him,\nlaughing.\n\nThe conversation began amiably, but just because it was too amiable, it\ncame to a stop again. They had to have recourse to the sure,\nnever-failing topic gossip.\n\n Don t you think there s something Louis Quinze about Tushkevitch?  he\nsaid, glancing towards a handsome, fair-haired young man, standing at\nthe table.\n\n Oh, yes! He s in the same style as the drawing-room and that s why it\nis he s so often here. \n\nThis conversation was maintained, since it rested on allusions to what\ncould not be talked of in that room that is to say, of the relations of\nTushkevitch with their hostess.\n\nRound the samovar and the hostess the conversation had been meanwhile\nvacillating in just the same way between three inevitable topics: the\nlatest piece of public news, the theater, and scandal. It, too, came\nfinally to rest on the last topic, that is, ill-natured gossip.\n\n Have you heard the Maltishtcheva woman the mother, not the\ndaughter has ordered a costume in _diable rose_ color? \n\n Nonsense! No, that s too lovely! \n\n I wonder that with her sense for she s not a fool, you know that she\ndoesn t see how funny she is. \n\nEveryone had something to say in censure or ridicule of the luckless\nMadame Maltishtcheva, and the conversation crackled merrily, like a\nburning faggot-stack.\n\nThe husband of Princess Betsy, a good-natured fat man, an ardent\ncollector of engravings, hearing that his wife had visitors, came into\nthe drawing-room before going to his club. Stepping noiselessly over\nthe thick rugs, he went up to Princess Myakaya.\n\n How did you like Nilsson?  he asked.\n\n Oh, how can you steal upon anyone like that! How you startled me!  she\nresponded.  Please don t talk to me about the opera; you know nothing\nabout music. I d better meet you on your own ground, and talk about\nyour majolica and engravings. Come now, what treasure have you been\nbuying lately at the old curiosity shops? \n\n Would you like me to show you? But you don t understand such things. \n\n Oh, do show me! I ve been learning about them at those what s their\nnames?... the bankers ... they ve some splendid engravings. They showed\nthem to us. \n\n Why, have you been at the Sch tzburgs?  asked the hostess from the\nsamovar.\n\n Yes, _ma ch re_. They asked my husband and me to dinner, and told us\nthe sauce at that dinner cost a hundred pounds,  Princess Myakaya said,\nspeaking loudly, and conscious everyone was listening;  and very nasty\nsauce it was, some green mess. We had to ask them, and I made them\nsauce for eighteen pence, and everybody was very much pleased with it.\nI can t run to hundred-pound sauces. \n\n She s unique!  said the lady of the house.\n\n Marvelous!  said someone.\n\nThe sensation produced by Princess Myakaya s speeches was always\nunique, and the secret of the sensation she produced lay in the fact\nthat though she spoke not always appropriately, as now, she said simple\nthings with some sense in them. In the society in which she lived such\nplain statements produced the effect of the wittiest epigram. Princess\nMyakaya could never see why it had that effect, but she knew it had,\nand took advantage of it.\n\nAs everyone had been listening while Princess Myakaya spoke, and so the\nconversation around the ambassador s wife had dropped, Princess Betsy\ntried to bring the whole party together, and turned to the ambassador s\nwife.\n\n Will you really not have tea? You should come over here by us. \n\n No, we re very happy here,  the ambassador s wife responded with a\nsmile, and she went on with the conversation that had been begun.\n\nIt was a very agreeable conversation. They were criticizing the\nKarenins, husband and wife.\n\n Anna is quite changed since her stay in Moscow. There s something\nstrange about her,  said her friend.\n\n The great change is that she brought back with her the shadow of\nAlexey Vronsky,  said the ambassador s wife.\n\n Well, what of it? There s a fable of Grimm s about a man without a\nshadow, a man who s lost his shadow. And that s his punishment for\nsomething. I never could understand how it was a punishment. But a\nwoman must dislike being without a shadow. \n\n Yes, but women with a shadow usually come to a bad end,  said Anna s\nfriend.\n\n Bad luck to your tongue!  said Princess Myakaya suddenly.  Madame\nKarenina s a splendid woman. I don t like her husband, but I like her\nvery much. \n\n Why don t you like her husband? He s such a remarkable man,  said the\nambassador s wife.  My husband says there are few statesmen like him in\nEurope. \n\n And my husband tells me just the same, but I don t believe it,  said\nPrincess Myakaya.  If our husbands didn t talk to us, we should see the\nfacts as they are. Alexey Alexandrovitch, to my thinking, is simply a\nfool. I say it in a whisper ... but doesn t it really make everything\nclear? Before, when I was told to consider him clever, I kept looking\nfor his ability, and thought myself a fool for not seeing it; but\ndirectly I said, _he s a fool,_ though only in a whisper, everything s\nexplained, isn t it? \n\n How spiteful you are today! \n\n Not a bit. I d no other way out of it. One of the two had to be a\nfool. And, well, you know one can t say that of oneself. \n\n No one is satisfied with his fortune, and everyone is satisfied with\nhis wit.  The attach  repeated the French saying.\n\n That s just it, just it,  Princess Myakaya turned to him.  But the\npoint is that I won t abandon Anna to your mercies. She s so nice, so\ncharming. How can she help it if they re all in love with her, and\nfollow her about like shadows? \n\n Oh, I had no idea of blaming her for it,  Anna s friend said in\nself-defense.\n\n If no one follows us about like a shadow, that s no proof that we ve\nany right to blame her. \n\nAnd having duly disposed of Anna s friend, the Princess Myakaya got up,\nand together with the ambassador s wife, joined the group at the table,\nwhere the conversation was dealing with the king of Prussia.\n\n What wicked gossip were you talking over there?  asked Betsy.\n\n About the Karenins. The princess gave us a sketch of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch,  said the ambassador s wife with a smile, as she sat\ndown at the table.\n\n Pity we didn t hear it!  said Princess Betsy, glancing towards the\ndoor.  Ah, here you are at last!  she said, turning with a smile to\nVronsky, as he came in.\n\nVronsky was not merely acquainted with all the persons whom he was\nmeeting here; he saw them all every day; and so he came in with the\nquiet manner with which one enters a room full of people from whom one\nhas only just parted.\n\n Where do I come from?  he said, in answer to a question from the\nambassador s wife.  Well, there s no help for it, I must confess. From\nthe _opera bouffe_. I do believe I ve seen it a hundred times, and\nalways with fresh enjoyment. It s exquisite! I know it s disgraceful,\nbut I go to sleep at the opera, and I sit out the _opera bouffe_ to the\nlast minute, and enjoy it. This evening.... \n\nHe mentioned a French actress, and was going to tell something about\nher; but the ambassador s wife, with playful horror, cut him short.\n\n Please don t tell us about that horror. \n\n All right, I won t especially as everyone knows those horrors. \n\n And we should all go to see them if it were accepted as the correct\nthing, like the opera,  chimed in Princess Myakaya.\n\n\nChapter 7\n\nSteps were heard at the door, and Princess Betsy, knowing it was Madame\nKarenina, glanced at Vronsky. He was looking towards the door, and his\nface wore a strange new expression. Joyfully, intently, and at the same\ntime timidly, he gazed at the approaching figure, and slowly he rose to\nhis feet. Anna walked into the drawing-room. Holding herself extremely\nerect, as always, looking straight before her, and moving with her\nswift, resolute, and light step, that distinguished her from all other\nsociety women, she crossed the short space to her hostess, shook hands\nwith her, smiled, and with the same smile looked around at Vronsky.\nVronsky bowed low and pushed a chair up for her.\n\nShe acknowledged this only by a slight nod, flushed a little, and\nfrowned. But immediately, while rapidly greeting her acquaintances, and\nshaking the hands proffered to her, she addressed Princess Betsy:\n\n I have been at Countess Lidia s, and meant to have come here earlier,\nbut I stayed on. Sir John was there. He s very interesting. \n\n Oh, that s this missionary? \n\n Yes; he told us about the life in India, most interesting things. \n\nThe conversation, interrupted by her coming in, flickered up again like\nthe light of a lamp being blown out.\n\n Sir John! Yes, Sir John; I ve seen him. He speaks well. The Vlassieva\ngirl s quite in love with him. \n\n And is it true the younger Vlassieva girl s to marry Topov? \n\n Yes, they say it s quite a settled thing. \n\n I wonder at the parents! They say it s a marriage for love. \n\n For love? What antediluvian notions you have! Can one talk of love in\nthese days?  said the ambassador s wife.\n\n What s to be done? It s a foolish old fashion that s kept up still, \nsaid Vronsky.\n\n So much the worse for those who keep up the fashion. The only happy\nmarriages I know are marriages of prudence. \n\n Yes, but then how often the happiness of these prudent marriages flies\naway like dust just because that passion turns up that they have\nrefused to recognize,  said Vronsky.\n\n But by marriages of prudence we mean those in which both parties have\nsown their wild oats already. That s like scarlatina one has to go\nthrough it and get it over. \n\n Then they ought to find out how to vaccinate for love, like smallpox. \n\n I was in love in my young days with a deacon,  said the Princess\nMyakaya.  I don t know that it did me any good. \n\n No; I imagine, joking apart, that to know love, one must make mistakes\nand then correct them,  said Princess Betsy.\n\n Even after marriage?  said the ambassador s wife playfully.\n\n It s never too late to mend.  The attach  repeated the English\nproverb.\n\n Just so,  Betsy agreed;  one must make mistakes and correct them. What\ndo you think about it?  she turned to Anna, who, with a faintly\nperceptible resolute smile on her lips, was listening in silence to the\nconversation.\n\n I think,  said Anna, playing with the glove she had taken off,  I\nthink ... of so many men, so many minds, certainly so many hearts, so\nmany kinds of love. \n\nVronsky was gazing at Anna, and with a fainting heart waiting for what\nshe would say. He sighed as after a danger escaped when she uttered\nthese words.\n\nAnna suddenly turned to him.\n\n Oh, I have had a letter from Moscow. They write me that Kitty\nShtcherbatskaya s very ill. \n\n Really?  said Vronsky, knitting his brows.\n\nAnna looked sternly at him.\n\n That doesn t interest you? \n\n On the contrary, it does, very much. What was it exactly they told\nyou, if I may know?  he questioned.\n\nAnna got up and went to Betsy.\n\n Give me a cup of tea,  she said, standing at her table.\n\nWhile Betsy was pouring out the tea, Vronsky went up to Anna.\n\n What is it they write to you?  he repeated.\n\n I often think men have no understanding of what s not honorable though\nthey re always talking of it,  said Anna, without answering him.  I ve\nwanted to tell you so a long while,  she added, and moving a few steps\naway, she sat down at a table in a corner covered with albums.\n\n I don t quite understand the meaning of your words,  he said, handing\nher the cup.\n\nShe glanced towards the sofa beside her, and he instantly sat down.\n\n Yes, I have been wanting to tell you,  she said, not looking at him.\n You behaved wrongly, very wrongly. \n\n Do you suppose I don t know that I ve acted wrongly? But who was the\ncause of my doing so? \n\n What do you say that to me for?  she said, glancing severely at him.\n\n You know what for,  he answered boldly and joyfully, meeting her\nglance and not dropping his eyes.\n\nNot he, but she, was confused.\n\n That only shows you have no heart,  she said. But her eyes said that\nshe knew he had a heart, and that was why she was afraid of him.\n\n What you spoke of just now was a mistake, and not love. \n\n Remember that I have forbidden you to utter that word, that hateful\nword,  said Anna, with a shudder. But at once she felt that by that\nvery word  forbidden  she had shown that she acknowledged certain\nrights over him, and by that very fact was encouraging him to speak of\nlove.  I have long meant to tell you this,  she went on, looking\nresolutely into his eyes, and hot all over from the burning flush on\nher cheeks.  I ve come on purpose this evening, knowing I should meet\nyou. I have come to tell you that this must end. I have never blushed\nbefore anyone, and you force me to feel to blame for something. \n\nHe looked at her and was struck by a new spiritual beauty in her face.\n\n What do you wish of me?  he said simply and seriously.\n\n I want you to go to Moscow and ask for Kitty s forgiveness,  she said.\n\n You don t wish that?  he said.\n\nHe saw she was saying what she forced herself to say, not what she\nwanted to say.\n\n If you love me, as you say,  she whispered,  do so that I may be at\npeace. \n\nHis face grew radiant.\n\n Don t you know that you re all my life to me? But I know no peace, and\nI can t give it to you; all myself and love ... yes. I can t think of\nyou and myself apart. You and I are one to me. And I see no chance\nbefore us of peace for me or for you. I see a chance of despair, of\nwretchedness ... or I see a chance of bliss, what bliss!... Can it be\nthere s no chance of it?  he murmured with his lips; but she heard.\n\nShe strained every effort of her mind to say what ought to be said. But\ninstead of that she let her eyes rest on him, full of love, and made no\nanswer.\n\n It s come!  he thought in ecstasy.  When I was beginning to despair,\nand it seemed there would be no end it s come! She loves me! She owns\nit! \n\n Then do this for me: never say such things to me, and let us be\nfriends,  she said in words; but her eyes spoke quite differently.\n\n Friends we shall never be, you know that yourself. Whether we shall be\nthe happiest or the wretchedest of people that s in your hands. \n\nShe would have said something, but he interrupted her.\n\n I ask one thing only: I ask for the right to hope, to suffer as I do.\nBut if even that cannot be, command me to disappear, and I disappear.\nYou shall not see me if my presence is distasteful to you. \n\n I don t want to drive you away. \n\n Only don t change anything, leave everything as it is,  he said in a\nshaky voice.  Here s your husband. \n\nAt that instant Alexey Alexandrovitch did in fact walk into the room\nwith his calm, awkward gait.\n\nGlancing at his wife and Vronsky, he went up to the lady of the house,\nand sitting down for a cup of tea, began talking in his deliberate,\nalways audible voice, in his habitual tone of banter, ridiculing\nsomeone.\n\n Your Rambouillet is in full conclave,  he said, looking round at all\nthe party;  the graces and the muses. \n\nBut Princess Betsy could not endure that tone of his sneering,  as she\ncalled it, using the English word, and like a skillful hostess she at\nonce brought him into a serious conversation on the subject of\nuniversal conscription. Alexey Alexandrovitch was immediately\ninterested in the subject, and began seriously defending the new\nimperial decree against Princess Betsy, who had attacked it.\n\nVronsky and Anna still sat at the little table.\n\n This is getting indecorous,  whispered one lady, with an expressive\nglance at Madame Karenina, Vronsky, and her husband.\n\n What did I tell you?  said Anna s friend.\n\nBut not only those ladies, almost everyone in the room, even the\nPrincess Myakaya and Betsy herself, looked several times in the\ndirection of the two who had withdrawn from the general circle, as\nthough that were a disturbing fact. Alexey Alexandrovitch was the only\nperson who did not once look in that direction, and was not diverted\nfrom the interesting discussion he had entered upon.\n\nNoticing the disagreeable impression that was being made on everyone,\nPrincess Betsy slipped someone else into her place to listen to Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, and went up to Anna.\n\n I m always amazed at the clearness and precision of your husband s\nlanguage,  she said.  The most transcendental ideas seem to be within\nmy grasp when he s speaking. \n\n Oh, yes!  said Anna, radiant with a smile of happiness, and not\nunderstanding a word of what Betsy had said. She crossed over to the\nbig table and took part in the general conversation.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, after staying half an hour, went up to his wife\nand suggested that they should go home together. But she answered, not\nlooking at him, that she was staying to supper. Alexey Alexandrovitch\nmade his bows and withdrew.\n\nThe fat old Tatar, Madame Karenina s coachman, was with difficulty\nholding one of her pair of grays, chilled with the cold and rearing at\nthe entrance. A footman stood opening the carriage door. The\nhall-porter stood holding open the great door of the house. Anna\nArkadyevna, with her quick little hand, was unfastening the lace of her\nsleeve, caught in the hook of her fur cloak, and with bent head\nlistening to the words Vronsky murmured as he escorted her down.\n\n You ve said nothing, of course, and I ask nothing,  he was saying;\n but you know that friendship s not what I want: that there s only one\nhappiness in life for me, that word that you dislike so ... yes,\nlove!... \n\n Love,  she repeated slowly, in an inner voice, and suddenly, at the\nvery instant she unhooked the lace, she added,  Why I don t like the\nword is that it means too much to me, far more than you can\nunderstand,  and she glanced into his face.  _Au revoir!_ \n\nShe gave him her hand, and with her rapid, springy step she passed by\nthe porter and vanished into the carriage.\n\nHer glance, the touch of her hand, set him aflame. He kissed the palm\nof his hand where she had touched it, and went home, happy in the sense\nthat he had got nearer to the attainment of his aims that evening than\nduring the last two months.\n\n\nChapter 8\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had seen nothing striking or improper in the fact\nthat his wife was sitting with Vronsky at a table apart, in eager\nconversation with him about something. But he noticed that to the rest\nof the party this appeared something striking and improper, and for\nthat reason it seemed to him too to be improper. He made up his mind\nthat he must speak of it to his wife.\n\nOn reaching home Alexey Alexandrovitch went to his study, as he usually\ndid, seated himself in his low chair, opened a book on the Papacy at\nthe place where he had laid the paper-knife in it, and read till one\no clock, just as he usually did. But from time to time he rubbed his\nhigh forehead and shook his head, as though to drive away something. At\nhis usual time he got up and made his toilet for the night. Anna\nArkadyevna had not yet come in. With a book under his arm he went\nupstairs. But this evening, instead of his usual thoughts and\nmeditations upon official details, his thoughts were absorbed by his\nwife and something disagreeable connected with her. Contrary to his\nusual habit, he did not get into bed, but fell to walking up and down\nthe rooms with his hands clasped behind his back. He could not go to\nbed, feeling that it was absolutely needful for him first to think\nthoroughly over the position that had just arisen.\n\nWhen Alexey Alexandrovitch had made up his mind that he must talk to\nhis wife about it, it had seemed a very easy and simple matter. But\nnow, when he began to think over the question that had just presented\nitself, it seemed to him very complicated and difficult.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch was not jealous. Jealousy according to his\nnotions was an insult to one s wife, and one ought to have confidence\nin one s wife. Why one ought to have confidence that is to say,\ncomplete conviction that his young wife would always love him he did\nnot ask himself. But he had no experience of lack of confidence,\nbecause he had confidence in her, and told himself that he ought to\nhave it. Now, though his conviction that jealousy was a shameful\nfeeling and that one ought to feel confidence, had not broken down, he\nfelt that he was standing face to face with something illogical and\nirrational, and did not know what was to be done. Alexey Alexandrovitch\nwas standing face to face with life, with the possibility of his wife s\nloving someone other than himself, and this seemed to him very\nirrational and incomprehensible because it was life itself. All his\nlife Alexey Alexandrovitch had lived and worked in official spheres,\nhaving to do with the reflection of life. And every time he had\nstumbled against life itself he had shrunk away from it. Now he\nexperienced a feeling akin to that of a man who, while calmly crossing\na precipice by a bridge, should suddenly discover that the bridge is\nbroken, and that there is a chasm below. That chasm was life itself,\nthe bridge that artificial life in which Alexey Alexandrovitch had\nlived. For the first time the question presented itself to him of the\npossibility of his wife s loving someone else, and he was horrified at\nit.\n\nHe did not undress, but walked up and down with his regular tread over\nthe resounding parquet of the dining-room, where one lamp was burning,\nover the carpet of the dark drawing-room, in which the light was\nreflected on the big new portrait of himself hanging over the sofa, and\nacross her boudoir, where two candles burned, lighting up the portraits\nof her parents and woman friends, and the pretty knick-knacks of her\nwriting-table, that he knew so well. He walked across her boudoir to\nthe bedroom door, and turned back again. At each turn in his walk,\nespecially at the parquet of the lighted dining-room, he halted and\nsaid to himself,  Yes, this I must decide and put a stop to; I must\nexpress my view of it and my decision.  And he turned back again.  But\nexpress what what decision?  he said to himself in the drawing-room,\nand he found no reply.  But after all,  he asked himself before turning\ninto the boudoir,  what has occurred? Nothing. She was talking a long\nwhile with him. But what of that? Surely women in society can talk to\nwhom they please. And then, jealousy means lowering both myself and\nher,  he told himself as he went into her boudoir; but this dictum,\nwhich had always had such weight with him before, had now no weight and\nno meaning at all. And from the bedroom door he turned back again; but\nas he entered the dark drawing-room some inner voice told him that it\nwas not so, and that if others noticed it that showed that there was\nsomething. And he said to himself again in the dining-room,  Yes, I\nmust decide and put a stop to it, and express my view of it....  And\nagain at the turn in the drawing-room he asked himself,  Decide how? \nAnd again he asked himself,  What had occurred?  and answered,\n Nothing,  and recollected that jealousy was a feeling insulting to his\nwife; but again in the drawing-room he was convinced that something had\nhappened. His thoughts, like his body, went round a complete circle,\nwithout coming upon anything new. He noticed this, rubbed his forehead,\nand sat down in her boudoir.\n\nThere, looking at her table, with the malachite blotting case lying at\nthe top and an unfinished letter, his thoughts suddenly changed. He\nbegan to think of her, of what she was thinking and feeling. For the\nfirst time he pictured vividly to himself her personal life, her ideas,\nher desires, and the idea that she could and should have a separate\nlife of her own seemed to him so alarming that he made haste to dispel\nit. It was the chasm which he was afraid to peep into. To put himself\nin thought and feeling in another person s place was a spiritual\nexercise not natural to Alexey Alexandrovitch. He looked on this\nspiritual exercise as a harmful and dangerous abuse of the fancy.\n\n And the worst of it all,  thought he,  is that just now, at the very\nmoment when my great work is approaching completion  (he was thinking\nof the project he was bringing forward at the time),  when I stand in\nneed of all my mental peace and all my energies, just now this stupid\nworry should fall foul of me. But what s to be done? I m not one of\nthose men who submit to uneasiness and worry without having the force\nof character to face them.\n\n I must think it over, come to a decision, and put it out of my mind, \nhe said aloud.\n\n The question of her feelings, of what has passed and may be passing in\nher soul, that s not my affair; that s the affair of her conscience,\nand falls under the head of religion,  he said to himself, feeling\nconsolation in the sense that he had found to which division of\nregulating principles this new circumstance could be properly referred.\n\n And so,  Alexey Alexandrovitch said to himself,  questions as to her\nfeelings, and so on, are questions for her conscience, with which I can\nhave nothing to do. My duty is clearly defined. As the head of the\nfamily, I am a person bound in duty to guide her, and consequently, in\npart the person responsible; I am bound to point out the danger I\nperceive, to warn her, even to use my authority. I ought to speak\nplainly to her.  And everything that he would say tonight to his wife\ntook clear shape in Alexey Alexandrovitch s head. Thinking over what he\nwould say, he somewhat regretted that he should have to use his time\nand mental powers for domestic consumption, with so little to show for\nit, but, in spite of that, the form and contents of the speech before\nhim shaped itself as clearly and distinctly in his head as a\nministerial report.\n\n I must say and express fully the following points: first, exposition\nof the value to be attached to public opinion and to decorum; secondly,\nexposition of religious significance of marriage; thirdly, if need be,\nreference to the calamity possibly ensuing to our son; fourthly,\nreference to the unhappiness likely to result to herself.  And,\ninterlacing his fingers, Alexey Alexandrovitch stretched them, and the\njoints of the fingers cracked. This trick, a bad habit, the cracking of\nhis fingers, always soothed him, and gave precision to his thoughts, so\nneedful to him at this juncture.\n\nThere was the sound of a carriage driving up to the front door. Alexey\nAlexandrovitch halted in the middle of the room.\n\nA woman s step was heard mounting the stairs. Alexey Alexandrovitch,\nready for his speech, stood compressing his crossed fingers, waiting to\nsee if the crack would not come again. One joint cracked.\n\nAlready, from the sound of light steps on the stairs, he was aware that\nshe was close, and though he was satisfied with his speech, he felt\nfrightened of the explanation confronting him....\n\n\nChapter 9\n\nAnna came in with hanging head, playing with the tassels of her hood.\nHer face was brilliant and glowing; but this glow was not one of\nbrightness; it suggested the fearful glow of a conflagration in the\nmidst of a dark night. On seeing her husband, Anna raised her head and\nsmiled, as though she had just waked up.\n\n You re not in bed? What a wonder!  she said, letting fall her hood,\nand without stopping, she went on into the dressing-room.  It s late,\nAlexey Alexandrovitch,  she said, when she had gone through the\ndoorway.\n\n Anna, it s necessary for me to have a talk with you. \n\n With me?  she said, wonderingly. She came out from behind the door of\nthe dressing-room, and looked at him.  Why, what is it? What about? \nshe asked, sitting down.  Well, let s talk, if it s so necessary. But\nit would be better to get to sleep. \n\nAnna said what came to her lips, and marveled, hearing herself, at her\nown capacity for lying. How simple and natural were her words, and how\nlikely that she was simply sleepy! She felt herself clad in an\nimpenetrable armor of falsehood. She felt that some unseen force had\ncome to her aid and was supporting her.\n\n Anna, I must warn you,  he began.\n\n Warn me?  she said.  Of what? \n\nShe looked at him so simply, so brightly, that anyone who did not know\nher as her husband knew her could not have noticed anything unnatural,\neither in the sound or the sense of her words. But to him, knowing her,\nknowing that whenever he went to bed five minutes later than usual, she\nnoticed it, and asked him the reason; to him, knowing that every joy,\nevery pleasure and pain that she felt she communicated to him at once;\nto him, now to see that she did not care to notice his state of mind,\nthat she did not care to say a word about herself, meant a great deal.\nHe saw that the inmost recesses of her soul, that had always hitherto\nlain open before him, were closed against him. More than that, he saw\nfrom her tone that she was not even perturbed at that, but as it were\nsaid straight out to him:  Yes, it s shut up, and so it must be, and\nwill be in future.  Now he experienced a feeling such as a man might\nhave, returning home and finding his own house locked up.  But perhaps\nthe key may yet be found,  thought Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n I want to warn you,  he said in a low voice,  that through\nthoughtlessness and lack of caution you may cause yourself to be talked\nabout in society. Your too animated conversation this evening with\nCount Vronsky  (he enunciated the name firmly and with deliberate\nemphasis)  attracted attention. \n\nHe talked and looked at her laughing eyes, which frightened him now\nwith their impenetrable look, and, as he talked, he felt all the\nuselessness and idleness of his words.\n\n You re always like that,  she answered, as though completely\nmisapprehending him, and of all he had said only taking in the last\nphrase.  One time you don t like my being dull, and another time you\ndon t like my being lively. I wasn t dull. Does that offend you? \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch shivered, and bent his hands to make the joints\ncrack.\n\n Oh, please, don t do that, I do so dislike it,  she said.\n\n Anna, is this you?  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, quietly making an\neffort over himself, and restraining the motion of his fingers.\n\n But what is it all about?  she said, with such genuine and droll\nwonder.  What do you want of me? \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch paused, and rubbed his forehead and his eyes. He\nsaw that instead of doing as he had intended that is to say, warning\nhis wife against a mistake in the eyes of the world he had\nunconsciously become agitated over what was the affair of her\nconscience, and was struggling against the barrier he fancied between\nthem.\n\n This is what I meant to say to you,  he went on coldly and composedly,\n and I beg you to listen to it. I consider jealousy, as you know, a\nhumiliating and degrading feeling, and I shall never allow myself to be\ninfluenced by it; but there are certain rules of decorum which cannot\nbe disregarded with impunity. This evening it was not I observed it,\nbut judging by the impression made on the company, everyone observed\nthat your conduct and deportment were not altogether what could be\ndesired. \n\n I positively don t understand,  said Anna, shrugging her shoulders He\ndoesn t care,  she thought.  But other people noticed it, and that s\nwhat upsets him. You re not well, Alexey Alexandrovitch,  she added,\nand she got up, and would have gone towards the door; but he moved\nforward as though he would stop her.\n\nHis face was ugly and forbidding, as Anna had never seen him. She\nstopped, and bending her head back and on one side, began with her\nrapid hand taking out her hairpins.\n\n Well, I m listening to what s to come,  she said, calmly and\nironically;  and indeed I listen with interest, for I should like to\nunderstand what s the matter. \n\nShe spoke, and marveled at the confident, calm, and natural tone in\nwhich she was speaking, and the choice of the words she used.\n\n To enter into all the details of your feelings I have no right, and\nbesides, I regard that as useless and even harmful,  began Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.  Ferreting in one s soul, one often ferrets out\nsomething that might have lain there unnoticed. Your feelings are an\naffair of your own conscience; but I am in duty bound to you, to\nmyself, and to God, to point out to you your duties. Our life has been\njoined, not by man, but by God. That union can only be severed by a\ncrime, and a crime of that nature brings its own chastisement. \n\n I don t understand a word. And, oh dear! how sleepy I am, unluckily, \nshe said, rapidly passing her hand through her hair, feeling for the\nremaining hairpins.\n\n Anna, for God s sake don t speak like that!  he said gently.  Perhaps\nI am mistaken, but believe me, what I say, I say as much for myself as\nfor you. I am your husband, and I love you. \n\nFor an instant her face fell, and the mocking gleam in her eyes died\naway; but the word _love_ threw her into revolt again. She thought:\n Love? Can he love? If he hadn t heard there was such a thing as love,\nhe would never have used the word. He doesn t even know what love is. \n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch, really I don t understand,  she said.  Define\nwhat it is you find.... \n\n Pardon, let me say all I have to say. I love you. But I am not\nspeaking of myself; the most important persons in this matter are our\nson and yourself. It may very well be, I repeat, that my words seem to\nyou utterly unnecessary and out of place; it may be that they are\ncalled forth by my mistaken impression. In that case, I beg you to\nforgive me. But if you are conscious yourself of even the smallest\nfoundation for them, then I beg you to think a little, and if your\nheart prompts you, to speak out to me.... \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch was unconsciously saying something utterly unlike\nwhat he had prepared.\n\n I have nothing to say. And besides,  she said hurriedly, with\ndifficulty repressing a smile,  it s really time to be in bed. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch sighed, and, without saying more, went into the\nbedroom.\n\nWhen she came into the bedroom, he was already in bed. His lips were\nsternly compressed, and his eyes looked away from her. Anna got into\nher bed, and lay expecting every minute that he would begin to speak to\nher again. She both feared his speaking and wished for it. But he was\nsilent. She waited for a long while without moving, and had forgotten\nabout him. She thought of that other; she pictured him, and felt how\nher heart was flooded with emotion and guilty delight at the thought of\nhim. Suddenly she heard an even, tranquil snore. For the first instant\nAlexey Alexandrovitch seemed, as it were, appalled at his own snoring,\nand ceased; but after an interval of two breathings the snore sounded\nagain, with a new tranquil rhythm.\n\n It s late, it s late,  she whispered with a smile. A long while she\nlay, not moving, with open eyes, whose brilliance she almost fancied\nshe could herself see in the darkness.\n\n\nChapter 10\n\nFrom that time a new life began for Alexey Alexandrovitch and for his\nwife. Nothing special happened. Anna went out into society, as she had\nalways done, was particularly often at Princess Betsy s, and met\nVronsky everywhere. Alexey Alexandrovitch saw this, but could do\nnothing. All his efforts to draw her into open discussion she\nconfronted with a barrier which he could not penetrate, made up of a\nsort of amused perplexity. Outwardly everything was the same, but their\ninner relations were completely changed. Alexey Alexandrovitch, a man\nof great power in the world of politics, felt himself helpless in this.\nLike an ox with head bent, submissively he awaited the blow which he\nfelt was lifted over him. Every time he began to think about it, he\nfelt that he must try once more, that by kindness, tenderness, and\npersuasion there was still hope of saving her, of bringing her back to\nherself, and every day he made ready to talk to her. But every time he\nbegan talking to her, he felt that the spirit of evil and deceit, which\nhad taken possession of her, had possession of him too, and he talked\nto her in a tone quite unlike that in which he had meant to talk.\nInvoluntarily he talked to her in his habitual tone of jeering at\nanyone who should say what he was saying. And in that tone it was\nimpossible to say what needed to be said to her.\n\n\nChapter 11\n\nThat which for Vronsky had been almost a whole year the one absorbing\ndesire of his life, replacing all his old desires; that which for Anna\nhad been an impossible, terrible, and even for that reason more\nentrancing dream of bliss, that desire had been fulfilled. He stood\nbefore her, pale, his lower jaw quivering, and besought her to be calm,\nnot knowing how or why.\n\n Anna! Anna!  he said with a choking voice,  Anna, for pity s sake!... \n\nBut the louder he spoke, the lower she dropped her once proud and gay,\nnow shame-stricken head, and she bowed down and sank from the sofa\nwhere she was sitting, down on the floor, at his feet; she would have\nfallen on the carpet if he had not held her.\n\n My God! Forgive me!  she said, sobbing, pressing his hands to her\nbosom.\n\nShe felt so sinful, so guilty, that nothing was left her but to\nhumiliate herself and beg forgiveness; and as now there was no one in\nher life but him, to him she addressed her prayer for forgiveness.\nLooking at him, she had a physical sense of her humiliation, and she\ncould say nothing more. He felt what a murderer must feel, when he sees\nthe body he has robbed of life. That body, robbed by him of life, was\ntheir love, the first stage of their love. There was something awful\nand revolting in the memory of what had been bought at this fearful\nprice of shame. Shame at their spiritual nakedness crushed her and\ninfected him. But in spite of all the murderer s horror before the body\nof his victim, he must hack it to pieces, hide the body, must use what\nhe has gained by his murder.\n\nAnd with fury, as it were with passion, the murderer falls on the body,\nand drags it and hacks at it; so he covered her face and shoulders with\nkisses. She held his hand, and did not stir.  Yes, these kisses that is\nwhat has been bought by this shame. Yes, and one hand, which will\nalways be mine the hand of my accomplice.  She lifted up that hand and\nkissed it. He sank on his knees and tried to see her face; but she hid\nit, and said nothing. At last, as though making an effort over herself,\nshe got up and pushed him away. Her face was still as beautiful, but it\nwas only the more pitiful for that.\n\n All is over,  she said;  I have nothing but you. Remember that. \n\n I can never forget what is my whole life. For one instant of this\nhappiness.... \n\n Happiness!  she said with horror and loathing and her horror\nunconsciously infected him.  For pity s sake, not a word, not a word\nmore. \n\nShe rose quickly and moved away from him.\n\n Not a word more,  she repeated, and with a look of chill despair,\nincomprehensible to him, she parted from him. She felt that at that\nmoment she could not put into words the sense of shame, of rapture, and\nof horror at this stepping into a new life, and she did not want to\nspeak of it, to vulgarize this feeling by inappropriate words. But\nlater too, and the next day and the third day, she still found no words\nin which she could express the complexity of her feelings; indeed, she\ncould not even find thoughts in which she could clearly think out all\nthat was in her soul.\n\nShe said to herself:  No, just now I can t think of it, later on, when\nI am calmer.  But this calm for thought never came; every time the\nthought rose of what she had done and what would happen to her, and\nwhat she ought to do, a horror came over her and she drove those\nthoughts away.\n\n Later, later,  she said when I am calmer. \n\nBut in dreams, when she had no control over her thoughts, her position\npresented itself to her in all its hideous nakedness. One dream haunted\nher almost every night. She dreamed that both were her husbands at\nonce, that both were lavishing caresses on her. Alexey Alexandrovitch\nwas weeping, kissing her hands, and saying,  How happy we are now!  And\nAlexey Vronsky was there too, and he too was her husband. And she was\nmarveling that it had once seemed impossible to her, was explaining to\nthem, laughing, that this was ever so much simpler, and that now both\nof them were happy and contented. But this dream weighed on her like a\nnightmare, and she awoke from it in terror.\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nIn the early days after his return from Moscow, whenever Levin\nshuddered and grew red, remembering the disgrace of his rejection, he\nsaid to himself:  This was just how I used to shudder and blush,\nthinking myself utterly lost, when I was plucked in physics and did not\nget my remove; and how I thought myself utterly ruined after I had\nmismanaged that affair of my sister s that was entrusted to me. And\nyet, now that years have passed, I recall it and wonder that it could\ndistress me so much. It will be the same thing too with this trouble.\nTime will go by and I shall not mind about this either. \n\nBut three months had passed and he had not left off minding about it;\nand it was as painful for him to think of it as it had been those first\ndays. He could not be at peace because after dreaming so long of family\nlife, and feeling himself so ripe for it, he was still not married, and\nwas further than ever from marriage. He was painfully conscious\nhimself, as were all about him, that at his years it is not well for\nman to be alone. He remembered how before starting for Moscow he had\nonce said to his cowman Nikolay, a simple-hearted peasant, whom he\nliked talking to:  Well, Nikolay! I mean to get married,  and how\nNikolay had promptly answered, as of a matter on which there could be\nno possible doubt:  And high time too, Konstantin Dmitrievitch.  But\nmarriage had now become further off than ever. The place was taken, and\nwhenever he tried to imagine any of the girls he knew in that place, he\nfelt that it was utterly impossible. Moreover, the recollection of the\nrejection and the part he had played in the affair tortured him with\nshame. However often he told himself that he was in no wise to blame in\nit, that recollection, like other humiliating reminiscences of a\nsimilar kind, made him twinge and blush. There had been in his past, as\nin every man s, actions, recognized by him as bad, for which his\nconscience ought to have tormented him; but the memory of these evil\nactions was far from causing him so much suffering as those trivial but\nhumiliating reminiscences. These wounds never healed. And with these\nmemories was now ranged his rejection and the pitiful position in which\nhe must have appeared to others that evening. But time and work did\ntheir part. Bitter memories were more and more covered up by the\nincidents paltry in his eyes, but really important of his country life.\nEvery week he thought less often of Kitty. He was impatiently looking\nforward to the news that she was married, or just going to be married,\nhoping that such news would, like having a tooth out, completely cure\nhim.\n\nMeanwhile spring came on, beautiful and kindly, without the delays and\ntreacheries of spring, one of those rare springs in which plants,\nbeasts, and man rejoice alike. This lovely spring roused Levin still\nmore, and strengthened him in his resolution of renouncing all his past\nand building up his lonely life firmly and independently. Though many\nof the plans with which he had returned to the country had not been\ncarried out, still his most important resolution that of purity had\nbeen kept by him. He was free from that shame, which had usually\nharassed him after a fall; and he could look everyone straight in the\nface. In February he had received a letter from Marya Nikolaevna\ntelling him that his brother Nikolay s health was getting worse, but\nthat he would not take advice, and in consequence of this letter Levin\nwent to Moscow to his brother s and succeeded in persuading him to see\na doctor and to go to a watering-place abroad. He succeeded so well in\npersuading his brother, and in lending him money for the journey\nwithout irritating him, that he was satisfied with himself in that\nmatter. In addition to his farming, which called for special attention\nin spring, and in addition to reading, Levin had begun that winter a\nwork on agriculture, the plan of which turned on taking into account\nthe character of the laborer on the land as one of the unalterable data\nof the question, like the climate and the soil, and consequently\ndeducing all the principles of scientific culture, not simply from the\ndata of soil and climate, but from the data of soil, climate, and a\ncertain unalterable character of the laborer. Thus, in spite of his\nsolitude, or in consequence of his solitude, his life was exceedingly\nfull. Only rarely he suffered from an unsatisfied desire to communicate\nhis stray ideas to someone besides Agafea Mihalovna. With her indeed he\nnot infrequently fell into discussion upon physics, the theory of\nagriculture, and especially philosophy; philosophy was Agafea\nMihalovna s favorite subject.\n\nSpring was slow in unfolding. For the last few weeks it had been\nsteadily fine frosty weather. In the daytime it thawed in the sun, but\nat night there were even seven degrees of frost. There was such a\nfrozen surface on the snow that they drove the wagons anywhere off the\nroads. Easter came in the snow. Then all of a sudden, on Easter Monday,\na warm wind sprang up, storm clouds swooped down, and for three days\nand three nights the warm, driving rain fell in streams. On Thursday\nthe wind dropped, and a thick gray fog brooded over the land as though\nhiding the mysteries of the transformations that were being wrought in\nnature. Behind the fog there was the flowing of water, the cracking and\nfloating of ice, the swift rush of turbid, foaming torrents; and on the\nfollowing Monday, in the evening, the fog parted, the storm clouds\nsplit up into little curling crests of cloud, the sky cleared, and the\nreal spring had come. In the morning the sun rose brilliant and quickly\nwore away the thin layer of ice that covered the water, and all the\nwarm air was quivering with the steam that rose up from the quickened\nearth. The old grass looked greener, and the young grass thrust up its\ntiny blades; the buds of the guelder-rose and of the currant and the\nsticky birch-buds were swollen with sap, and an exploring bee was\nhumming about the golden blossoms that studded the willow. Larks\ntrilled unseen above the velvety green fields and the ice-covered\nstubble-land; peewits wailed over the low lands and marshes flooded by\nthe pools; cranes and wild geese flew high across the sky uttering\ntheir spring calls. The cattle, bald in patches where the new hair had\nnot grown yet, lowed in the pastures; the bowlegged lambs frisked round\ntheir bleating mothers. Nimble children ran about the drying paths,\ncovered with the prints of bare feet. There was a merry chatter of\npeasant women over their linen at the pond, and the ring of axes in the\nyard, where the peasants were repairing ploughs and harrows. The real\nspring had come.\n\n\nChapter 13\n\nLevin put on his big boots, and, for the first time, a cloth jacket,\ninstead of his fur cloak, and went out to look after his farm, stepping\nover streams of water that flashed in the sunshine and dazzled his\neyes, and treading one minute on ice and the next into sticky mud.\n\nSpring is the time of plans and projects. And, as he came out into the\nfarmyard, Levin, like a tree in spring that knows not what form will be\ntaken by the young shoots and twigs imprisoned in its swelling buds,\nhardly knew what undertakings he was going to begin upon now in the\nfarm work that was so dear to him. But he felt that he was full of the\nmost splendid plans and projects. First of all he went to the cattle.\nThe cows had been let out into their paddock, and their smooth sides\nwere already shining with their new, sleek, spring coats; they basked\nin the sunshine and lowed to go to the meadow. Levin gazed admiringly\nat the cows he knew so intimately to the minutest detail of their\ncondition, and gave orders for them to be driven out into the meadow,\nand the calves to be let into the paddock. The herdsman ran gaily to\nget ready for the meadow. The cowherd girls, picking up their\npetticoats, ran splashing through the mud with bare legs, still white,\nnot yet brown from the sun, waving brush wood in their hands, chasing\nthe calves that frolicked in the mirth of spring.\n\nAfter admiring the young ones of that year, who were particularly\nfine the early calves were the size of a peasant s cow, and Pava s\ndaughter, at three months old, was as big as a yearling Levin gave\norders for a trough to be brought out and for them to be fed in the\npaddock. But it appeared that as the paddock had not been used during\nthe winter, the hurdles made in the autumn for it were broken. He sent\nfor the carpenter, who, according to his orders, ought to have been at\nwork at the thrashing machine. But it appeared that the carpenter was\nrepairing the harrows, which ought to have been repaired before Lent.\nThis was very annoying to Levin. It was annoying to come upon that\neverlasting slovenliness in the farm work against which he had been\nstriving with all his might for so many years. The hurdles, as he\nascertained, being not wanted in winter, had been carried to the\ncart-horses  stable; and there broken, as they were of light\nconstruction, only meant for feeding calves. Moreover, it was apparent\nalso that the harrows and all the agricultural implements, which he had\ndirected to be looked over and repaired in the winter, for which very\npurpose he had hired three carpenters, had not been put into repair,\nand the harrows were being repaired when they ought to have been\nharrowing the field. Levin sent for his bailiff, but immediately went\noff himself to look for him. The bailiff, beaming all over, like\neveryone that day, in a sheepskin bordered with astrachan, came out of\nthe barn, twisting a bit of straw in his hands.\n\n Why isn t the carpenter at the thrashing machine? \n\n Oh, I meant to tell you yesterday, the harrows want repairing. Here\nit s time they got to work in the fields. \n\n But what were they doing in the winter, then? \n\n But what did you want the carpenter for? \n\n Where are the hurdles for the calves  paddock? \n\n I ordered them to be got ready. What would you have with those\npeasants!  said the bailiff, with a wave of his hand.\n\n It s not those peasants but this bailiff!  said Levin, getting angry.\n Why, what do I keep you for?  he cried. But, bethinking himself that\nthis would not help matters, he stopped short in the middle of a\nsentence, and merely sighed.  Well, what do you say? Can sowing begin? \nhe asked, after a pause.\n\n Behind Turkin tomorrow or the next day they might begin. \n\n And the clover? \n\n I ve sent Vassily and Mishka; they re sowing. Only I don t know if\nthey ll manage to get through; it s so slushy. \n\n How many acres? \n\n About fifteen. \n\n Why not sow all?  cried Levin.\n\nThat they were only sowing the clover on fifteen acres, not on all the\nforty-five, was still more annoying to him. Clover, as he knew, both\nfrom books and from his own experience, never did well except when it\nwas sown as early as possible, almost in the snow. And yet Levin could\nnever get this done.\n\n There s no one to send. What would you have with such a set of\npeasants? Three haven t turned up. And there s Semyon.... \n\n Well, you should have taken some men from the thatching. \n\n And so I have, as it is. \n\n Where are the peasants, then? \n\n Five are making comp te  (which meant compost),  four are shifting the\noats for fear of a touch of mildew, Konstantin Dmitrievitch. \n\nLevin knew very well that  a touch of mildew  meant that his English\nseed oats were already ruined. Again they had not done as he had\nordered.\n\n Why, but I told you during Lent to put in pipes,  he cried.\n\n Don t put yourself out; we shall get it all done in time. \n\nLevin waved his hand angrily, went into the granary to glance at the\noats, and then to the stable. The oats were not yet spoiled. But the\npeasants were carrying the oats in spades when they might simply let\nthem slide down into the lower granary; and arranging for this to be\ndone, and taking two workmen from there for sowing clover, Levin got\nover his vexation with the bailiff. Indeed, it was such a lovely day\nthat one could not be angry.\n\n Ignat!  he called to the coachman, who, with his sleeves tucked up,\nwas washing the carriage wheels,  saddle me.... \n\n Which, sir? \n\n Well, let it be Kolpik. \n\n Yes, sir. \n\nWhile they were saddling his horse, Levin again called up the bailiff,\nwho was hanging about in sight, to make it up with him, and began\ntalking to him about the spring operations before them, and his plans\nfor the farm.\n\nThe wagons were to begin carting manure earlier, so as to get all done\nbefore the early mowing. And the ploughing of the further land to go on\nwithout a break so as to let it ripen lying fallow. And the mowing to\nbe all done by hired labor, not on half-profits. The bailiff listened\nattentively, and obviously made an effort to approve of his employer s\nprojects. But still he had that look Levin knew so well that always\nirritated him, a look of hopelessness and despondency. That look said:\n That s all very well, but as God wills. \n\nNothing mortified Levin so much as that tone. But it was the tone\ncommon to all the bailiffs he had ever had. They had all taken up that\nattitude to his plans, and so now he was not angered by it, but\nmortified, and felt all the more roused to struggle against this, as it\nseemed, elemental force continually ranged against him, for which he\ncould find no other expression than  as God wills. \n\n If we can manage it, Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  said the bailiff.\n\n Why ever shouldn t you manage it? \n\n We positively must have another fifteen laborers. And they don t turn\nup. There were some here today asking seventy roubles for the summer. \n\nLevin was silent. Again he was brought face to face with that opposing\nforce. He knew that however much they tried, they could not hire more\nthan forty thirty-seven perhaps or thirty-eight laborers for a\nreasonable sum. Some forty had been taken on, and there were no more.\nBut still he could not help struggling against it.\n\n Send to Sury, to Tchefirovka; if they don t come we must look for\nthem. \n\n Oh, I ll send, to be sure,  said Vassily Fedorovitch despondently.\n But there are the horses, too, they re not good for much. \n\n We ll get some more. I know, of course,  Levin added laughing,  you\nalways want to do with as little and as poor quality as possible; but\nthis year I m not going to let you have things your own way. I ll see\nto everything myself. \n\n Why, I don t think you take much rest as it is. It cheers us up to\nwork under the master s eye.... \n\n So they re sowing clover behind the Birch Dale? I ll go and have a\nlook at them,  he said, getting on to the little bay cob, Kolpik, who\nwas led up by the coachman.\n\n You can t get across the streams, Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  the\ncoachman shouted.\n\n All right, I ll go by the forest. \n\nAnd Levin rode through the slush of the farmyard to the gate and out\ninto the open country, his good little horse, after his long\ninactivity, stepping out gallantly, snorting over the pools, and\nasking, as it were, for guidance. If Levin had felt happy before in the\ncattle pens and farmyard, he felt happier yet in the open country.\nSwaying rhythmically with the ambling paces of his good little cob,\ndrinking in the warm yet fresh scent of the snow and the air, as he\nrode through his forest over the crumbling, wasted snow, still left in\nparts, and covered with dissolving tracks, he rejoiced over every tree,\nwith the moss reviving on its bark and the buds swelling on its shoots.\nWhen he came out of the forest, in the immense plain before him, his\ngrass fields stretched in an unbroken carpet of green, without one bare\nplace or swamp, only spotted here and there in the hollows with patches\nof melting snow. He was not put out of temper even by the sight of the\npeasants  horses and colts trampling down his young grass (he told a\npeasant he met to drive them out), nor by the sarcastic and stupid\nreply of the peasant Ipat, whom he met on the way, and asked,  Well,\nIpat, shall we soon be sowing?   We must get the ploughing done first,\nKonstantin Dmitrievitch,  answered Ipat. The further he rode, the\nhappier he became, and plans for the land rose to his mind each better\nthan the last; to plant all his fields with hedges along the southern\nborders, so that the snow should not lie under them; to divide them up\ninto six fields of arable and three of pasture and hay; to build a\ncattle yard at the further end of the estate, and to dig a pond and to\nconstruct movable pens for the cattle as a means of manuring the land.\nAnd then eight hundred acres of wheat, three hundred of potatoes, and\nfour hundred of clover, and not one acre exhausted.\n\nAbsorbed in such dreams, carefully keeping his horse by the hedges, so\nas not to trample his young crops, he rode up to the laborers who had\nbeen sent to sow clover. A cart with the seed in it was standing, not\nat the edge, but in the middle of the crop, and the winter corn had\nbeen torn up by the wheels and trampled by the horse. Both the laborers\nwere sitting in the hedge, probably smoking a pipe together. The earth\nin the cart, with which the seed was mixed, was not crushed to powder,\nbut crusted together or adhering in clods. Seeing the master, the\nlaborer, Vassily, went towards the cart, while Mishka set to work\nsowing. This was not as it should be, but with the laborers Levin\nseldom lost his temper. When Vassily came up, Levin told him to lead\nthe horse to the hedge.\n\n It s all right, sir, it ll spring up again,  responded Vassily.\n\n Please don t argue,  said Levin,  but do as you re told. \n\n Yes, sir,  answered Vassily, and he took the horse s head.  What a\nsowing, Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  he said, hesitating;  first rate.\nOnly it s a work to get about! You drag a ton of earth on your shoes. \n\n Why is it you have earth that s not sifted?  said Levin.\n\n Well, we crumble it up,  answered Vassily, taking up some seed and\nrolling the earth in his palms.\n\nVassily was not to blame for their having filled up his cart with\nunsifted earth, but still it was annoying.\n\nLevin had more than once already tried a way he knew for stifling his\nanger, and turning all that seemed dark right again, and he tried that\nway now. He watched how Mishka strode along, swinging the huge clods of\nearth that clung to each foot; and getting off his horse, he took the\nsieve from Vassily and started sowing himself.\n\n Where did you stop? \n\nVassily pointed to the mark with his foot, and Levin went forward as\nbest he could, scattering the seed on the land. Walking was as\ndifficult as on a bog, and by the time Levin had ended the row he was\nin a great heat, and he stopped and gave up the sieve to Vassily.\n\n Well, master, when summer s here, mind you don t scold me for these\nrows,  said Vassily.\n\n Eh?  said Levin cheerily, already feeling the effect of his method.\n\n Why, you ll see in the summer time. It ll look different. Look you\nwhere I sowed last spring. How I did work at it! I do my best,\nKonstantin Dmitrievitch, d ye see, as I would for my own father. I\ndon t like bad work myself, nor would I let another man do it. What s\ngood for the master s good for us too. To look out yonder now,  said\nVassily, pointing,  it does one s heart good. \n\n It s a lovely spring, Vassily. \n\n Why, it s a spring such as the old men don t remember the like of. I\nwas up home; an old man up there has sown wheat too, about an acre of\nit. He was saying you wouldn t know it from rye. \n\n Have you been sowing wheat long? \n\n Why, sir, it was you taught us the year before last. You gave me two\nmeasures. We sold about eight bushels and sowed a rood. \n\n Well, mind you crumble up the clods,  said Levin, going towards his\nhorse,  and keep an eye on Mishka. And if there s a good crop you shall\nhave half a rouble for every acre. \n\n Humbly thankful. We are very well content, sir, as it is. \n\nLevin got on his horse and rode towards the field where was last year s\nclover, and the one which was ploughed ready for the spring corn.\n\nThe crop of clover coming up in the stubble was magnificent. It had\nsurvived everything, and stood up vividly green through the broken\nstalks of last year s wheat. The horse sank in up to the pasterns, and\nhe drew each hoof with a sucking sound out of the half-thawed ground.\nOver the ploughland riding was utterly impossible; the horse could only\nkeep a foothold where there was ice, and in the thawing furrows he sank\ndeep in at each step. The ploughland was in splendid condition; in a\ncouple of days it would be fit for harrowing and sowing. Everything was\ncapital, everything was cheering. Levin rode back across the streams,\nhoping the water would have gone down. And he did in fact get across,\nand startled two ducks.  There must be snipe too,  he thought, and just\nas he reached the turning homewards he met the forest keeper, who\nconfirmed his theory about the snipe.\n\nLevin went home at a trot, so as to have time to eat his dinner and get\nhis gun ready for the evening.\n\n\nChapter 14\n\nAs he rode up to the house in the happiest frame of mind, Levin heard\nthe bell ring at the side of the principal entrance of the house.\n\n Yes, that s someone from the railway station,  he thought,  just the\ntime to be here from the Moscow train ... Who could it be? What if it s\nbrother Nikolay? He did say:  Maybe I ll go to the waters, or maybe\nI ll come down to you.  He felt dismayed and vexed for the first\nminute, that his brother Nikolay s presence should come to disturb his\nhappy mood of spring. But he felt ashamed of the feeling, and at once\nhe opened, as it were, the arms of his soul, and with a softened\nfeeling of joy and expectation, now he hoped with all his heart that it\nwas his brother. He pricked up his horse, and riding out from behind\nthe acacias he saw a hired three-horse sledge from the railway station,\nand a gentleman in a fur coat. It was not his brother.  Oh, if it were\nonly some nice person one could talk to a little!  he thought.\n\n Ah,  cried Levin joyfully, flinging up both his hands.  Here s a\ndelightful visitor! Ah, how glad I am to see you!  he shouted,\nrecognizing Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n I shall find out for certain whether she s married, or when she s\ngoing to be married,  he thought. And on that delicious spring day he\nfelt that the thought of her did not hurt him at all.\n\n Well, you didn t expect me, eh?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, getting out\nof the sledge, splashed with mud on the bridge of his nose, on his\ncheek, and on his eyebrows, but radiant with health and good spirits.\n I ve come to see you in the first place,  he said, embracing and\nkissing him,  to have some stand-shooting second, and to sell the\nforest at Ergushovo third. \n\n Delightful! What a spring we re having! How ever did you get along in\na sledge? \n\n In a cart it would have been worse still, Konstantin Dmitrievitch, \nanswered the driver, who knew him.\n\n Well, I m very, very glad to see you,  said Levin, with a genuine\nsmile of childlike delight.\n\nLevin led his friend to the room set apart for visitors, where Stepan\nArkadyevitch s things were carried also a bag, a gun in a case, a\nsatchel for cigars. Leaving him there to wash and change his clothes,\nLevin went off to the counting house to speak about the ploughing and\nclover. Agafea Mihalovna, always very anxious for the credit of the\nhouse, met him in the hall with inquiries about dinner.\n\n Do just as you like, only let it be as soon as possible,  he said, and\nwent to the bailiff.\n\nWhen he came back, Stepan Arkadyevitch, washed and combed, came out of\nhis room with a beaming smile, and they went upstairs together.\n\n Well, I am glad I managed to get away to you! Now I shall understand\nwhat the mysterious business is that you are always absorbed in here.\nNo, really, I envy you. What a house, how nice it all is! So bright, so\ncheerful!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, forgetting that it was not always\nspring and fine weather like that day.  And your nurse is simply\ncharming! A pretty maid in an apron might be even more agreeable,\nperhaps; but for your severe monastic style it does very well. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch told him many interesting pieces of news;\nespecially interesting to Levin was the news that his brother, Sergey\nIvanovitch, was intending to pay him a visit in the summer.\n\nNot one word did Stepan Arkadyevitch say in reference to Kitty and the\nShtcherbatskys; he merely gave him greetings from his wife. Levin was\ngrateful to him for his delicacy and was very glad of his visitor. As\nalways happened with him during his solitude, a mass of ideas and\nfeelings had been accumulating within him, which he could not\ncommunicate to those about him. And now he poured out upon Stepan\nArkadyevitch his poetic joy in the spring, and his failures and plans\nfor the land, and his thoughts and criticisms on the books he had been\nreading, and the idea of his own book, the basis of which really was,\nthough he was unaware of it himself, a criticism of all the old books\non agriculture. Stepan Arkadyevitch, always charming, understanding\neverything at the slightest reference, was particularly charming on\nthis visit, and Levin noticed in him a special tenderness, as it were,\nand a new tone of respect that flattered him.\n\nThe efforts of Agafea Mihalovna and the cook, that the dinner should be\nparticularly good, only ended in the two famished friends attacking the\npreliminary course, eating a great deal of bread and butter, salt goose\nand salted mushrooms, and in Levin s finally ordering the soup to be\nserved without the accompaniment of little pies, with which the cook\nhad particularly meant to impress their visitor. But though Stepan\nArkadyevitch was accustomed to very different dinners, he thought\neverything excellent: the herb brandy, and the bread, and the butter,\nand above all the salt goose and the mushrooms, and the nettle soup,\nand the chicken in white sauce, and the white Crimean wine everything\nwas superb and delicious.\n\n Splendid, splendid!  he said, lighting a fat cigar after the roast.  I\nfeel as if, coming to you, I had landed on a peaceful shore after the\nnoise and jolting of a steamer. And so you maintain that the laborer\nhimself is an element to be studied and to regulate the choice of\nmethods in agriculture. Of course, I m an ignorant outsider; but I\nshould fancy theory and its application will have its influence on the\nlaborer too. \n\n Yes, but wait a bit. I m not talking of political economy, I m talking\nof the science of agriculture. It ought to be like the natural\nsciences, and to observe given phenomena and the laborer in his\neconomic, ethnographical.... \n\nAt that instant Agafea Mihalovna came in with jam.\n\n Oh, Agafea Mihalovna,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, kissing the tips of\nhis plump fingers,  what salt goose, what herb brandy!... What do you\nthink, isn t it time to start, Kostya?  he added.\n\nLevin looked out of the window at the sun sinking behind the bare\ntree-tops of the forest.\n\n Yes, it s time,  he said.  Kouzma, get ready the trap,  and he ran\ndownstairs.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch, going down, carefully took the canvas cover off\nhis varnished gun case with his own hands, and opening it, began to get\nready his expensive new-fashioned gun. Kouzma, who already scented a\nbig tip, never left Stepan Arkadyevitch s side, and put on him both his\nstockings and boots, a task which Stepan Arkadyevitch readily left him.\n\n Kostya, give orders that if the merchant Ryabinin comes ... I told him\nto come today, he s to be brought in and to wait for me.... \n\n Why, do you mean to say you re selling the forest to Ryabinin? \n\n Yes. Do you know him? \n\n To be sure I do. I have had to do business with him,  positively and\nconclusively. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch laughed.  Positively and conclusively  were the\nmerchant s favorite words.\n\n Yes, it s wonderfully funny the way he talks. She knows where her\nmaster s going!  he added, patting Laska, who hung about Levin, whining\nand licking his hands, his boots, and his gun.\n\nThe trap was already at the steps when they went out.\n\n I told them to bring the trap round; or would you rather walk? \n\n No, we d better drive,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, getting into the\ntrap. He sat down, tucked the tiger-skin rug round him, and lighted a\ncigar.  How is it you don t smoke? A cigar is a sort of thing, not\nexactly a pleasure, but the crown and outward sign of pleasure. Come,\nthis is life! How splendid it is! This is how I should like to live! \n\n Why, who prevents you?  said Levin, smiling.\n\n No, you re a lucky man! You ve got everything you like. You like\nhorses and you have them; dogs you have them; shooting you have it;\nfarming you have it. \n\n Perhaps because I rejoice in what I have, and don t fret for what I\nhaven t,  said Levin, thinking of Kitty.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch comprehended, looked at him, but said nothing.\n\nLevin was grateful to Oblonsky for noticing, with his never-failing\ntact, that he dreaded conversation about the Shtcherbatskys, and so\nsaying nothing about them. But now Levin was longing to find out what\nwas tormenting him so, yet he had not the courage to begin.\n\n Come, tell me how things are going with you,  said Levin, bethinking\nhimself that it was not nice of him to think only of himself.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch s eyes sparkled merrily.\n\n You don t admit, I know, that one can be fond of new rolls when one\nhas had one s rations of bread to your mind it s a crime; but I don t\ncount life as life without love,  he said, taking Levin s question his\nown way.  What am I to do? I m made that way. And really, one does so\nlittle harm to anyone, and gives oneself so much pleasure.... \n\n What! is there something new, then?  queried Levin.\n\n Yes, my boy, there is! There, do you see, you know the type of\nOssian s women.... Women, such as one sees in dreams.... Well, these\nwomen are sometimes to be met in reality ... and these women are\nterrible. Woman, don t you know, is such a subject that however much\nyou study it, it s always perfectly new. \n\n Well, then, it would be better not to study it. \n\n No. Some mathematician has said that enjoyment lies in the search for\ntruth, not in the finding it. \n\nLevin listened in silence, and in spite of all the efforts he made, he\ncould not in the least enter into the feelings of his friend and\nunderstand his sentiments and the charm of studying such women.\n\n\nChapter 15\n\nThe place fixed on for the stand-shooting was not far above a stream in\na little aspen copse. On reaching the copse, Levin got out of the trap\nand led Oblonsky to a corner of a mossy, swampy glade, already quite\nfree from snow. He went back himself to a double birch tree on the\nother side, and leaning his gun on the fork of a dead lower branch, he\ntook off his full overcoat, fastened his belt again, and worked his\narms to see if they were free.\n\nGray old Laska, who had followed them, sat down warily opposite him and\npricked up her ears. The sun was setting behind a thick forest, and in\nthe glow of sunset the birch trees, dotted about in the aspen copse,\nstood out clearly with their hanging twigs, and their buds swollen\nalmost to bursting.\n\nFrom the thickest parts of the copse, where the snow still remained,\ncame the faint sound of narrow winding threads of water running away.\nTiny birds twittered, and now and then fluttered from tree to tree.\n\nIn the pauses of complete stillness there came the rustle of last\nyear s leaves, stirred by the thawing of the earth and the growth of\nthe grass.\n\n Imagine! One can hear and see the grass growing!  Levin said to\nhimself, noticing a wet, slate-colored aspen leaf moving beside a blade\nof young grass. He stood, listened, and gazed sometimes down at the wet\nmossy ground, sometimes at Laska listening all alert, sometimes at the\nsea of bare tree tops that stretched on the slope below him, sometimes\nat the darkening sky, covered with white streaks of cloud.\n\nA hawk flew high over a forest far away with slow sweep of its wings;\nanother flew with exactly the same motion in the same direction and\nvanished. The birds twittered more and more loudly and busily in the\nthicket. An owl hooted not far off, and Laska, starting, stepped\ncautiously a few steps forward, and putting her head on one side, began\nto listen intently. Beyond the stream was heard the cuckoo. Twice she\nuttered her usual cuckoo call, and then gave a hoarse, hurried call and\nbroke down.\n\n Imagine! the cuckoo already!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming out\nfrom behind a bush.\n\n Yes, I hear it,  answered Levin, reluctantly breaking the stillness\nwith his voice, which sounded disagreeable to himself.  Now it s\ncoming! \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch s figure again went behind the bush, and Levin saw\nnothing but the bright flash of a match, followed by the red glow and\nblue smoke of a cigarette.\n\n Tchk! tchk!  came the snapping sound of Stepan Arkadyevitch cocking\nhis gun.\n\n What s that cry?  asked Oblonsky, drawing Levin s attention to a\nprolonged cry, as though a colt were whinnying in a high voice, in\nplay.\n\n Oh, don t you know it? That s the hare. But enough talking! Listen,\nit s flying!  almost shrieked Levin, cocking his gun.\n\nThey heard a shrill whistle in the distance, and in the exact time, so\nwell known to the sportsman, two seconds later another, a third, and\nafter the third whistle the hoarse, guttural cry could be heard.\n\nLevin looked about him to right and to left, and there, just facing him\nagainst the dusky blue sky above the confused mass of tender shoots of\nthe aspens, he saw the flying bird. It was flying straight towards him;\nthe guttural cry, like the even tearing of some strong stuff, sounded\nclose to his ear; the long beak and neck of the bird could be seen, and\nat the very instant when Levin was taking aim, behind the bush where\nOblonsky stood, there was a flash of red lightning: the bird dropped\nlike an arrow, and darted upwards again. Again came the red flash and\nthe sound of a blow, and fluttering its wings as though trying to keep\nup in the air, the bird halted, stopped still an instant, and fell with\na heavy splash on the slushy ground.\n\n Can I have missed it?  shouted Stepan Arkadyevitch, who could not see\nfor the smoke.\n\n Here it is!  said Levin, pointing to Laska, who with one ear raised,\nwagging the end of her shaggy tail, came slowly back as though she\nwould prolong the pleasure, and as it were smiling, brought the dead\nbird to her master.  Well, I m glad you were successful,  said Levin,\nwho, at the same time, had a sense of envy that he had not succeeded in\nshooting the snipe.\n\n It was a bad shot from the right barrel,  responded Stepan\nArkadyevitch, loading his gun.  Sh... it s flying! \n\nThe shrill whistles rapidly following one another were heard again. Two\nsnipe, playing and chasing one another, and only whistling, not crying,\nflew straight at the very heads of the sportsmen. There was the report\nof four shots, and like swallows the snipe turned swift somersaults in\nthe air and vanished from sight.\n\n\n\nThe stand-shooting was capital. Stepan Arkadyevitch shot two more birds\nand Levin two, of which one was not found. It began to get dark. Venus,\nbright and silvery, shone with her soft light low down in the west\nbehind the birch trees, and high up in the east twinkled the red lights\nof Arcturus. Over his head Levin made out the stars of the Great Bear\nand lost them again. The snipe had ceased flying; but Levin resolved to\nstay a little longer, till Venus, which he saw below a branch of birch,\nshould be above it, and the stars of the Great Bear should be perfectly\nplain. Venus had risen above the branch, and the ear of the Great Bear\nwith its shaft was now all plainly visible against the dark blue sky,\nyet still he waited.\n\n Isn t it time to go home?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\nIt was quite still now in the copse, and not a bird was stirring.\n\n Let s stay a little while,  answered Levin.\n\n As you like. \n\nThey were standing now about fifteen paces from one another.\n\n Stiva!  said Levin unexpectedly;  how is it you don t tell me whether\nyour sister-in-law s married yet, or when she s going to be? \n\nLevin felt so resolute and serene that no answer, he fancied, could\naffect him. But he had never dreamed of what Stepan Arkadyevitch\nreplied.\n\n She s never thought of being married, and isn t thinking of it; but\nshe s very ill, and the doctors have sent her abroad. They re\npositively afraid she may not live. \n\n What!  cried Levin.  Very ill? What is wrong with her? How has\nshe...? \n\nWhile they were saying this, Laska, with ears pricked up, was looking\nupwards at the sky, and reproachfully at them.\n\n They have chosen a time to talk,  she was thinking.  It s on the\nwing.... Here it is, yes, it is. They ll miss it,  thought Laska.\n\nBut at that very instant both suddenly heard a shrill whistle which, as\nit were, smote on their ears, and both suddenly seized their guns and\ntwo flashes gleamed, and two bangs sounded at the very same instant.\nThe snipe flying high above instantly folded its wings and fell into a\nthicket, bending down the delicate shoots.\n\n Splendid! Together!  cried Levin, and he ran with Laska into the\nthicket to look for the snipe.\n\n Oh, yes, what was it that was unpleasant?  he wondered.  Yes, Kitty s\nill.... Well, it can t be helped; I m very sorry,  he thought.\n\n She s found it! Isn t she a clever thing?  he said, taking the warm\nbird from Laska s mouth and packing it into the almost full game bag.\n I ve got it, Stiva!  he shouted.\n\n\nChapter 16\n\nOn the way home Levin asked all details of Kitty s illness and the\nShtcherbatskys  plans, and though he would have been ashamed to admit\nit, he was pleased at what he heard. He was pleased that there was\nstill hope, and still more pleased that she should be suffering who had\nmade him suffer so much. But when Stepan Arkadyevitch began to speak of\nthe causes of Kitty s illness, and mentioned Vronsky s name, Levin cut\nhim short.\n\n I have no right whatever to know family matters, and, to tell the\ntruth, no interest in them either. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch smiled hardly perceptibly, catching the\ninstantaneous change he knew so well in Levin s face, which had become\nas gloomy as it had been bright a minute before.\n\n Have you quite settled about the forest with Ryabinin?  asked Levin.\n\n Yes, it s settled. The price is magnificent; thirty-eight thousand.\nEight straight away, and the rest in six years. I ve been bothering\nabout it for ever so long. No one would give more. \n\n Then you ve as good as given away your forest for nothing,  said Levin\ngloomily.\n\n How do you mean for nothing?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch with a\ngood-humored smile, knowing that nothing would be right in Levin s eyes\nnow.\n\n Because the forest is worth at least a hundred and fifty roubles the\nacre,  answered Levin.\n\n Oh, these farmers!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch playfully.  Your tone of\ncontempt for us poor townsfolk!... But when it comes to business, we do\nit better than anyone. I assure you I have reckoned it all out,  he\nsaid,  and the forest is fetching a very good price so much so that I m\nafraid of this fellow s crying off, in fact. You know it s not\n timber,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, hoping by this distinction to\nconvince Levin completely of the unfairness of his doubts.  And it\nwon t run to more than twenty-five yards of fagots per acre, and he s\ngiving me at the rate of seventy roubles the acre. \n\nLevin smiled contemptuously.  I know,  he thought,  that fashion not\nonly in him, but in all city people, who, after being twice in ten\nyears in the country, pick up two or three phrases and use them in\nseason and out of season, firmly persuaded that they know all about it.\n _Timber, run to so many yards the acre._  He says those words without\nunderstanding them himself. \n\n I wouldn t attempt to teach you what you write about in your office, \nsaid he,  and if need arose, I should come to you to ask about it. But\nyou re so positive you know all the lore of the forest. It s difficult.\nHave you counted the trees? \n\n How count the trees?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing, still trying\nto draw his friend out of his ill-temper.  Count the sands of the sea,\nnumber the stars. Some higher power might do it. \n\n Oh, well, the higher power of Ryabinin can. Not a single merchant ever\nbuys a forest without counting the trees, unless they get it given them\nfor nothing, as you re doing now. I know your forest. I go there every\nyear shooting, and your forest s worth a hundred and fifty roubles an\nacre paid down, while he s giving you sixty by installments. So that in\nfact you re making him a present of thirty thousand. \n\n Come, don t let your imagination run away with you,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch piteously.  Why was it none would give it, then? \n\n Why, because he has an understanding with the merchants; he s bought\nthem off. I ve had to do with all of them; I know them. They re not\nmerchants, you know: they re speculators. He wouldn t look at a bargain\nthat gave him ten, fifteen per cent. profit, but holds back to buy a\nrouble s worth for twenty kopecks. \n\n Well, enough of it! You re out of temper. \n\n Not the least,  said Levin gloomily, as they drove up to the house.\n\nAt the steps there stood a trap tightly covered with iron and leather,\nwith a sleek horse tightly harnessed with broad collar-straps. In the\ntrap sat the chubby, tightly belted clerk who served Ryabinin as\ncoachman. Ryabinin himself was already in the house, and met the\nfriends in the hall. Ryabinin was a tall, thinnish, middle-aged man,\nwith mustache and a projecting clean-shaven chin, and prominent\nmuddy-looking eyes. He was dressed in a long-skirted blue coat, with\nbuttons below the waist at the back, and wore high boots wrinkled over\nthe ankles and straight over the calf, with big galoshes drawn over\nthem. He rubbed his face with his handkerchief, and wrapping round him\nhis coat, which sat extremely well as it was, he greeted them with a\nsmile, holding out his hand to Stepan Arkadyevitch, as though he wanted\nto catch something.\n\n So here you are,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, giving him his hand.\n That s capital. \n\n I did not venture to disregard your excellency s commands, though the\nroad was extremely bad. I positively walked the whole way, but I am\nhere at my time. Konstantin Dmitrievitch, my respects ; he turned to\nLevin, trying to seize his hand too. But Levin, scowling, made as\nthough he did not notice his hand, and took out the snipe.  Your honors\nhave been diverting yourselves with the chase? What kind of bird may it\nbe, pray?  added Ryabinin, looking contemptuously at the snipe:  a\ngreat delicacy, I suppose.  And he shook his head disapprovingly, as\nthough he had grave doubts whether this game were worth the candle.\n\n Would you like to go into my study?  Levin said in French to Stepan\nArkadyevitch, scowling morosely.  Go into my study; you can talk\nthere. \n\n Quite so, where you please,  said Ryabinin with contemptuous dignity,\nas though wishing to make it felt that others might be in difficulties\nas to how to behave, but that he could never be in any difficulty about\nanything.\n\nOn entering the study Ryabinin looked about, as his habit was, as\nthough seeking the holy picture, but when he had found it, he did not\ncross himself. He scanned the bookcases and bookshelves, and with the\nsame dubious air with which he had regarded the snipe, he smiled\ncontemptuously and shook his head disapprovingly, as though by no means\nwilling to allow that this game were worth the candle.\n\n Well, have you brought the money?  asked Oblonsky.  Sit down. \n\n Oh, don t trouble about the money. I ve come to see you to talk it\nover. \n\n What is there to talk over? But do sit down. \n\n I don t mind if I do,  said Ryabinin, sitting down and leaning his\nelbows on the back of his chair in a position of the intensest\ndiscomfort to himself.  You must knock it down a bit, prince. It would\nbe too bad. The money is ready conclusively to the last farthing. As to\npaying the money down, there ll be no hitch there. \n\nLevin, who had meanwhile been putting his gun away in the cupboard, was\njust going out of the door, but catching the merchant s words, he\nstopped.\n\n Why, you ve got the forest for nothing as it is,  he said.  He came to\nme too late, or I d have fixed the price for him. \n\nRyabinin got up, and in silence, with a smile, he looked Levin down and\nup.\n\n Very close about money is Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  he said with a\nsmile, turning to Stepan Arkadyevitch;  there s positively no dealing\nwith him. I was bargaining for some wheat of him, and a pretty price I\noffered too. \n\n Why should I give you my goods for nothing? I didn t pick it up on the\nground, nor steal it either. \n\n Mercy on us! nowadays there s no chance at all of stealing. With the\nopen courts and everything done in style, nowadays there s no question\nof stealing. We are just talking things over like gentlemen. His\nexcellency s asking too much for the forest. I can t make both ends\nmeet over it. I must ask for a little concession. \n\n But is the thing settled between you or not? If it s settled, it s\nuseless haggling; but if it s not,  said Levin,  I ll buy the forest. \n\nThe smile vanished at once from Ryabinin s face. A hawklike, greedy,\ncruel expression was left upon it. With rapid, bony fingers he\nunbuttoned his coat, revealing a shirt, bronze waistcoat buttons, and a\nwatch chain, and quickly pulled out a fat old pocketbook.\n\n Here you are, the forest is mine,  he said, crossing himself quickly,\nand holding out his hand.  Take the money; it s my forest. That s\nRyabinin s way of doing business; he doesn t haggle over every\nhalf-penny,  he added, scowling and waving the pocketbook.\n\n I wouldn t be in a hurry if I were you,  said Levin.\n\n Come, really,  said Oblonsky in surprise.  I ve given my word, you\nknow. \n\nLevin went out of the room, slamming the door. Ryabinin looked towards\nthe door and shook his head with a smile.\n\n It s all youthfulness positively nothing but boyishness. Why, I m\nbuying it, upon my honor, simply, believe me, for the glory of it, that\nRyabinin, and no one else, should have bought the copse of Oblonsky.\nAnd as to the profits, why, I must make what God gives. In God s name.\nIf you would kindly sign the title-deed.... \n\nWithin an hour the merchant, stroking his big overcoat neatly down, and\nhooking up his jacket, with the agreement in his pocket, seated himself\nin his tightly covered trap, and drove homewards.\n\n Ugh, these gentlefolks!  he said to the clerk.  They they re a nice\nlot! \n\n That s so,  responded the clerk, handing him the reins and buttoning\nthe leather apron.  But I can congratulate you on the purchase, Mihail\nIgnatitch? \n\n Well, well.... \n\n\nChapter 17\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch went upstairs with his pocket bulging with notes,\nwhich the merchant had paid him for three months in advance. The\nbusiness of the forest was over, the money in his pocket; their\nshooting had been excellent, and Stepan Arkadyevitch was in the\nhappiest frame of mind, and so he felt specially anxious to dissipate\nthe ill-humor that had come upon Levin. He wanted to finish the day at\nsupper as pleasantly as it had been begun.\n\nLevin certainly was out of humor, and in spite of all his desire to be\naffectionate and cordial to his charming visitor, he could not control\nhis mood. The intoxication of the news that Kitty was not married had\ngradually begun to work upon him.\n\nKitty was not married, but ill, and ill from love for a man who had\nslighted her. This slight, as it were, rebounded upon him. Vronsky had\nslighted her, and she had slighted him, Levin. Consequently Vronsky had\nthe right to despise Levin, and therefore he was his enemy. But all\nthis Levin did not think out. He vaguely felt that there was something\nin it insulting to him, and he was not angry now at what had disturbed\nhim, but he fell foul of everything that presented itself. The stupid\nsale of the forest, the fraud practiced upon Oblonsky and concluded in\nhis house, exasperated him.\n\n Well, finished?  he said, meeting Stepan Arkadyevitch upstairs.  Would\nyou like supper? \n\n Well, I wouldn t say no to it. What an appetite I get in the country!\nWonderful! Why didn t you offer Ryabinin something? \n\n Oh, damn him! \n\n Still, how you do treat him!  said Oblonsky.  You didn t even shake\nhands with him. Why not shake hands with him? \n\n Because I don t shake hands with a waiter, and a waiter s a hundred\ntimes better than he is. \n\n What a reactionist you are, really! What about the amalgamation of\nclasses?  said Oblonsky.\n\n Anyone who likes amalgamating is welcome to it, but it sickens me. \n\n You re a regular reactionist, I see. \n\n Really, I have never considered what I am. I am Konstantin Levin, and\nnothing else. \n\n And Konstantin Levin very much out of temper,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, smiling.\n\n Yes, I am out of temper, and do you know why? Because excuse me of\nyour stupid sale.... \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch frowned good-humoredly, like one who feels himself\nteased and attacked for no fault of his own.\n\n Come, enough about it!  he said.  When did anybody ever sell anything\nwithout being told immediately after the sale,  It was worth much\nmore ? But when one wants to sell, no one will give anything.... No, I\nsee you ve a grudge against that unlucky Ryabinin. \n\n Maybe I have. And do you know why? You ll say again that I m a\nreactionist, or some other terrible word; but all the same it does\nannoy and anger me to see on all sides the impoverishing of the\nnobility to which I belong, and, in spite of the amalgamation of\nclasses, I m glad to belong. And their impoverishment is not due to\nextravagance that would be nothing; living in good style that s the\nproper thing for noblemen; it s only the nobles who know how to do it.\nNow the peasants about us buy land, and I don t mind that. The\ngentleman does nothing, while the peasant works and supplants the idle\nman. That s as it ought to be. And I m very glad for the peasant. But I\ndo mind seeing the process of impoverishment from a sort of I don t\nknow what to call it innocence. Here a Polish speculator bought for\nhalf its value a magnificent estate from a young lady who lives in\nNice. And there a merchant will get three acres of land, worth ten\nroubles, as security for the loan of one rouble. Here, for no kind of\nreason, you ve made that rascal a present of thirty thousand roubles. \n\n Well, what should I have done? Counted every tree? \n\n Of course, they must be counted. You didn t count them, but Ryabinin\ndid. Ryabinin s children will have means of livelihood and education,\nwhile yours maybe will not! \n\n Well, you must excuse me, but there s something mean in this counting.\nWe have our business and they have theirs, and they must make their\nprofit. Anyway, the thing s done, and there s an end of it. And here\ncome some poached eggs, my favorite dish. And Agafea Mihalovna will\ngive us that marvelous herb-brandy.... \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch sat down at the table and began joking with Agafea\nMihalovna, assuring her that it was long since he had tasted such a\ndinner and such a supper.\n\n Well, you do praise it, anyway,  said Agafea Mihalovna,  but\nKonstantin Dmitrievitch, give him what you will a crust of bread he ll\neat it and walk away. \n\nThough Levin tried to control himself, he was gloomy and silent. He\nwanted to put one question to Stepan Arkadyevitch, but he could not\nbring himself to the point, and could not find the words or the moment\nin which to put it. Stepan Arkadyevitch had gone down to his room,\nundressed, again washed, and attired in a nightshirt with goffered\nfrills, he had got into bed, but Levin still lingered in his room,\ntalking of various trifling matters, and not daring to ask what he\nwanted to know.\n\n How wonderfully they make this soap,  he said gazing at a piece of\nsoap he was handling, which Agafea Mihalovna had put ready for the\nvisitor but Oblonsky had not used.  Only look; why, it s a work of\nart. \n\n Yes, everything s brought to such a pitch of perfection nowadays, \nsaid Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a moist and blissful yawn.  The theater,\nfor instance, and the entertainments ... a a a!  he yawned.  The\nelectric light everywhere ... a a a! \n\n Yes, the electric light,  said Levin.  Yes. Oh, and where s Vronsky\nnow?  he asked suddenly, laying down the soap.\n\n Vronsky?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, checking his yawn;  he s in\nPetersburg. He left soon after you did, and he s not once been in\nMoscow since. And do you know, Kostya, I ll tell you the truth,  he\nwent on, leaning his elbow on the table, and propping on his hand his\nhandsome ruddy face, in which his moist, good-natured, sleepy eyes\nshone like stars.  It s your own fault. You took fright at the sight of\nyour rival. But, as I told you at the time, I couldn t say which had\nthe better chance. Why didn t you fight it out? I told you at the time\nthat....  He yawned inwardly, without opening his mouth.\n\n Does he know, or doesn t he, that I did make an offer?  Levin\nwondered, gazing at him.  Yes, there s something humbugging, diplomatic\nin his face,  and feeling he was blushing, he looked Stepan\nArkadyevitch straight in the face without speaking.\n\n If there was anything on her side at the time, it was nothing but a\nsuperficial attraction,  pursued Oblonsky.  His being such a perfect\naristocrat, don t you know, and his future position in society, had an\ninfluence not with her, but with her mother. \n\nLevin scowled. The humiliation of his rejection stung him to the heart,\nas though it were a fresh wound he had only just received. But he was\nat home, and the walls of home are a support.\n\n Stay, stay,  he began, interrupting Oblonsky.  You talk of his being\nan aristocrat. But allow me to ask what it consists in, that\naristocracy of Vronsky or of anybody else, beside which I can be looked\ndown upon? You consider Vronsky an aristocrat, but I don t. A man whose\nfather crawled up from nothing at all by intrigue, and whose mother God\nknows whom she wasn t mixed up with.... No, excuse me, but I consider\nmyself aristocratic, and people like me, who can point back in the past\nto three or four honorable generations of their family, of the highest\ndegree of breeding (talent and intellect, of course that s another\nmatter), and have never curried favor with anyone, never depended on\nanyone for anything, like my father and my grandfather. And I know many\nsuch. You think it mean of me to count the trees in my forest, while\nyou make Ryabinin a present of thirty thousand; but you get rents from\nyour lands and I don t know what, while I don t and so I prize what s\ncome to me from my ancestors or been won by hard work.... We are\naristocrats, and not those who can only exist by favor of the powerful\nof this world, and who can be bought for twopence halfpenny. \n\n Well, but whom are you attacking? I agree with you,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, sincerely and genially; though he was aware that in the\nclass of those who could be bought for twopence halfpenny Levin was\nreckoning him too. Levin s warmth gave him genuine pleasure.  Whom are\nyou attacking? Though a good deal is not true that you say about\nVronsky, but I won t talk about that. I tell you straight out, if I\nwere you, I should go back with me to Moscow, and.... \n\n No; I don t know whether you know it or not, but I don t care. And I\ntell you I did make an offer and was rejected, and Katerina\nAlexandrovna is nothing now to me but a painful and humiliating\nreminiscence. \n\n What ever for? What nonsense! \n\n But we won t talk about it. Please forgive me, if I ve been nasty, \nsaid Levin. Now that he had opened his heart, he became as he had been\nin the morning.  You re not angry with me, Stiva? Please don t be\nangry,  he said, and smiling, he took his hand.\n\n Of course not; not a bit, and no reason to be. I m glad we ve spoken\nopenly. And do you know, stand-shooting in the morning is unusually\ngood why not go? I couldn t sleep the night anyway, but I might go\nstraight from shooting to the station. \n\n Capital. \n\n\nChapter 18\n\nAlthough all Vronsky s inner life was absorbed in his passion, his\nexternal life unalterably and inevitably followed along the old\naccustomed lines of his social and regimental ties and interests. The\ninterests of his regiment took an important place in Vronsky s life,\nboth because he was fond of the regiment, and because the regiment was\nfond of him. They were not only fond of Vronsky in his regiment, they\nrespected him too, and were proud of him; proud that this man, with his\nimmense wealth, his brilliant education and abilities, and the path\nopen before him to every kind of success, distinction, and ambition,\nhad disregarded all that, and of all the interests of life had the\ninterests of his regiment and his comrades nearest to his heart.\nVronsky was aware of his comrades  view of him, and in addition to his\nliking for the life, he felt bound to keep up that reputation.\n\nIt need not be said that he did not speak of his love to any of his\ncomrades, nor did he betray his secret even in the wildest drinking\nbouts (though indeed he was never so drunk as to lose all control of\nhimself). And he shut up any of his thoughtless comrades who attempted\nto allude to his connection. But in spite of that, his love was known\nto all the town; everyone guessed with more or less confidence at his\nrelations with Madame Karenina. The majority of the younger men envied\nhim for just what was the most irksome factor in his love the exalted\nposition of Karenin, and the consequent publicity of their connection\nin society.\n\nThe greater number of the young women, who envied Anna and had long\nbeen weary of hearing her called _virtuous_, rejoiced at the\nfulfillment of their predictions, and were only waiting for a decisive\nturn in public opinion to fall upon her with all the weight of their\nscorn. They were already making ready their handfuls of mud to fling at\nher when the right moment arrived. The greater number of the\nmiddle-aged people and certain great personages were displeased at the\nprospect of the impending scandal in society.\n\nVronsky s mother, on hearing of his connection, was at first pleased at\nit, because nothing to her mind gave such a finishing touch to a\nbrilliant young man as a _liaison_ in the highest society; she was\npleased, too, that Madame Karenina, who had so taken her fancy, and had\ntalked so much of her son, was, after all, just like all other pretty\nand well-bred women, at least according to the Countess Vronskaya s\nideas. But she had heard of late that her son had refused a position\noffered him of great importance to his career, simply in order to\nremain in the regiment, where he could be constantly seeing Madame\nKarenina. She learned that great personages were displeased with him on\nthis account, and she changed her opinion. She was vexed, too, that\nfrom all she could learn of this connection it was not that brilliant,\ngraceful, worldly _liaison_ which she would have welcomed, but a sort\nof Wertherish, desperate passion, so she was told, which might well\nlead him into imprudence. She had not seen him since his abrupt\ndeparture from Moscow, and she sent her elder son to bid him come to\nsee her.\n\nThis elder son, too, was displeased with his younger brother. He did\nnot distinguish what sort of love his might be, big or little,\npassionate or passionless, lasting or passing (he kept a ballet girl\nhimself, though he was the father of a family, so he was lenient in\nthese matters), but he knew that this love affair was viewed with\ndispleasure by those whom it was necessary to please, and therefore he\ndid not approve of his brother s conduct.\n\nBesides the service and society, Vronsky had another great\ninterest horses; he was passionately fond of horses.\n\nThat year races and a steeplechase had been arranged for the officers.\nVronsky had put his name down, bought a thoroughbred English mare, and\nin spite of his love affair, he was looking forward to the races with\nintense, though reserved, excitement....\n\nThese two passions did not interfere with one another. On the contrary,\nhe needed occupation and distraction quite apart from his love, so as\nto recruit and rest himself from the violent emotions that agitated\nhim.\n\n\nChapter 19\n\nOn the day of the races at Krasnoe Selo, Vronsky had come earlier than\nusual to eat beefsteak in the common messroom of the regiment. He had\nno need to be strict with himself, as he had very quickly been brought\ndown to the required light weight; but still he had to avoid gaining\nflesh, and so he eschewed farinaceous and sweet dishes. He sat with his\ncoat unbuttoned over a white waistcoat, resting both elbows on the\ntable, and while waiting for the steak he had ordered he looked at a\nFrench novel that lay open on his plate. He was only looking at the\nbook to avoid conversation with the officers coming in and out; he was\nthinking.\n\nHe was thinking of Anna s promise to see him that day after the races.\nBut he had not seen her for three days, and as her husband had just\nreturned from abroad, he did not know whether she would be able to meet\nhim today or not, and he did not know how to find out. He had had his\nlast interview with her at his cousin Betsy s summer villa. He visited\nthe Karenins  summer villa as rarely as possible. Now he wanted to go\nthere, and he pondered the question how to do it.\n\n Of course I shall say Betsy has sent me to ask whether she s coming to\nthe races. Of course, I ll go,  he decided, lifting his head from the\nbook. And as he vividly pictured the happiness of seeing her, his face\nlighted up.\n\n Send to my house, and tell them to have out the carriage and three\nhorses as quick as they can,  he said to the servant, who handed him\nthe steak on a hot silver dish, and moving the dish up he began eating.\n\nFrom the billiard room next door came the sound of balls knocking, of\ntalk and laughter. Two officers appeared at the entrance-door: one, a\nyoung fellow, with a feeble, delicate face, who had lately joined the\nregiment from the Corps of Pages; the other, a plump, elderly officer,\nwith a bracelet on his wrist, and little eyes, lost in fat.\n\nVronsky glanced at them, frowned, and looking down at his book as\nthough he had not noticed them, he proceeded to eat and read at the\nsame time.\n\n What? Fortifying yourself for your work?  said the plump officer,\nsitting down beside him.\n\n As you see,  responded Vronsky, knitting his brows, wiping his mouth,\nand not looking at the officer.\n\n So you re not afraid of getting fat?  said the latter, turning a chair\nround for the young officer.\n\n What?  said Vronsky angrily, making a wry face of disgust, and showing\nhis even teeth.\n\n You re not afraid of getting fat? \n\n Waiter, sherry!  said Vronsky, without replying, and moving the book\nto the other side of him, he went on reading.\n\nThe plump officer took up the list of wines and turned to the young\nofficer.\n\n You choose what we re to drink,  he said, handing him the card, and\nlooking at him.\n\n Rhine wine, please,  said the young officer, stealing a timid glance\nat Vronsky, and trying to pull his scarcely visible mustache. Seeing\nthat Vronsky did not turn round, the young officer got up.\n\n Let s go into the billiard room,  he said.\n\nThe plump officer rose submissively, and they moved towards the door.\n\nAt that moment there walked into the room the tall and well-built\nCaptain Yashvin. Nodding with an air of lofty contempt to the two\nofficers, he went up to Vronsky.\n\n Ah! here he is!  he cried, bringing his big hand down heavily on his\nepaulet. Vronsky looked round angrily, but his face lighted up\nimmediately with his characteristic expression of genial and manly\nserenity.\n\n That s it, Alexey,  said the captain, in his loud baritone.  You must\njust eat a mouthful, now, and drink only one tiny glass. \n\n Oh, I m not hungry. \n\n There go the inseparables,  Yashvin dropped, glancing sarcastically at\nthe two officers who were at that instant leaving the room. And he bent\nhis long legs, swathed in tight riding breeches, and sat down in the\nchair, too low for him, so that his knees were cramped up in a sharp\nangle.\n\n Why didn t you turn up at the Red Theater yesterday? Numerova wasn t\nat all bad. Where were you? \n\n I was late at the Tverskoys ,  said Vronsky.\n\n Ah!  responded Yashvin.\n\nYashvin, a gambler and a rake, a man not merely without moral\nprinciples, but of immoral principles, Yashvin was Vronsky s greatest\nfriend in the regiment. Vronsky liked him both for his exceptional\nphysical strength, which he showed for the most part by being able to\ndrink like a fish, and do without sleep without being in the slightest\ndegree affected by it; and for his great strength of character, which\nhe showed in his relations with his comrades and superior officers,\ncommanding both fear and respect, and also at cards, when he would play\nfor tens of thousands and however much he might have drunk, always with\nsuch skill and decision that he was reckoned the best player in the\nEnglish Club. Vronsky respected and liked Yashvin particularly because\nhe felt Yashvin liked him, not for his name and his money, but for\nhimself. And of all men he was the only one with whom Vronsky would\nhave liked to speak of his love. He felt that Yashvin, in spite of his\napparent contempt for every sort of feeling, was the only man who\ncould, so he fancied, comprehend the intense passion which now filled\nhis whole life. Moreover, he felt certain that Yashvin, as it was, took\nno delight in gossip and scandal, and interpreted his feeling rightly,\nthat is to say, knew and believed that this passion was not a jest, not\na pastime, but something more serious and important.\n\nVronsky had never spoken to him of his passion, but he was aware that\nhe knew all about it, and that he put the right interpretation on it,\nand he was glad to see that in his eyes.\n\n Ah! yes,  he said, to the announcement that Vronsky had been at the\nTverskoys ; and his black eyes shining, he plucked at his left\nmustache, and began twisting it into his mouth, a bad habit he had.\n\n Well, and what did you do yesterday? Win anything?  asked Vronsky.\n\n Eight thousand. But three don t count; he won t pay up. \n\n Oh, then you can afford to lose over me,  said Vronsky, laughing.\n(Yashvin had bet heavily on Vronsky in the races.)\n\n No chance of my losing. Mahotin s the only one that s risky. \n\nAnd the conversation passed to forecasts of the coming race, the only\nthing Vronsky could think of just now.\n\n Come along, I ve finished,  said Vronsky, and getting up he went to\nthe door. Yashvin got up too, stretching his long legs and his long\nback.\n\n It s too early for me to dine, but I must have a drink. I ll come\nalong directly. Hi, wine!  he shouted, in his rich voice, that always\nrang out so loudly at drill, and set the windows shaking now.\n\n No, all right,  he shouted again immediately after.  You re going\nhome, so I ll go with you. \n\nAnd he walked out with Vronsky.\n\n\nChapter 20\n\nVronsky was staying in a roomy, clean, Finnish hut, divided into two by\na partition. Petritsky lived with him in camp too. Petritsky was asleep\nwhen Vronsky and Yashvin came into the hut.\n\n Get up, don t go on sleeping,  said Yashvin, going behind the\npartition and giving Petritsky, who was lying with ruffled hair and\nwith his nose in the pillow, a prod on the shoulder.\n\nPetritsky jumped up suddenly onto his knees and looked round.\n\n Your brother s been here,  he said to Vronsky.  He waked me up, damn\nhim, and said he d look in again.  And pulling up the rug he flung\nhimself back on the pillow.  Oh, do shut up, Yashvin!  he said, getting\nfurious with Yashvin, who was pulling the rug off him.  Shut up!  He\nturned over and opened his eyes.  You d better tell me what to drink;\nsuch a nasty taste in my mouth, that.... \n\n Brandy s better than anything,  boomed Yashvin.  Tereshtchenko! brandy\nfor your master and cucumbers,  he shouted, obviously taking pleasure\nin the sound of his own voice.\n\n Brandy, do you think? Eh?  queried Petritsky, blinking and rubbing his\neyes.  And you ll drink something? All right then, we ll have a drink\ntogether! Vronsky, have a drink?  said Petritsky, getting up and\nwrapping the tiger-skin rug round him. He went to the door of the\npartition wall, raised his hands, and hummed in French,  There was a\nking in Thule.   Vronsky, will you have a drink? \n\n Go along,  said Vronsky, putting on the coat his valet handed to him.\n\n Where are you off to?  asked Yashvin.  Oh, here are your three\nhorses,  he added, seeing the carriage drive up.\n\n To the stables, and I ve got to see Bryansky, too, about the horses, \nsaid Vronsky.\n\nVronsky had as a fact promised to call at Bryansky s, some eight miles\nfrom Peterhof, and to bring him some money owing for some horses; and\nhe hoped to have time to get that in too. But his comrades were at once\naware that he was not only going there.\n\nPetritsky, still humming, winked and made a pout with his lips, as\nthough he would say:  Oh, yes, we know your Bryansky. \n\n Mind you re not late!  was Yashvin s only comment; and to change the\nconversation:  How s my roan? is he doing all right?  he inquired,\nlooking out of the window at the middle one of the three horses, which\nhe had sold Vronsky.\n\n Stop!  cried Petritsky to Vronsky as he was just going out.  Your\nbrother left a letter and a note for you. Wait a bit; where are they? \n\nVronsky stopped.\n\n Well, where are they? \n\n Where are they? That s just the question!  said Petritsky solemnly,\nmoving his forefinger upwards from his nose.\n\n Come, tell me; this is silly!  said Vronsky smiling.\n\n I have not lighted the fire. Here somewhere about. \n\n Come, enough fooling! Where is the letter? \n\n No, I ve forgotten really. Or was it a dream? Wait a bit, wait a bit!\nBut what s the use of getting in a rage. If you d drunk four bottles\nyesterday as I did you d forget where you were lying. Wait a bit, I ll\nremember! \n\nPetritsky went behind the partition and lay down on his bed.\n\n Wait a bit! This was how I was lying, and this was how he was\nstanding. Yes yes yes.... Here it is! and Petritsky pulled a letter\nout from under the mattress, where he had hidden it.\n\nVronsky took the letter and his brother s note. It was the letter he\nwas expecting from his mother, reproaching him for not having been to\nsee her and the note was from his brother to say that he must have a\nlittle talk with him. Vronsky knew that it was all about the same\nthing.  What business is it of theirs!  thought Vronsky, and crumpling\nup the letters he thrust them between the buttons of his coat so as to\nread them carefully on the road. In the porch of the hut he was met by\ntwo officers; one of his regiment and one of another.\n\nVronsky s quarters were always a meeting place for all the officers.\n\n Where are you off to? \n\n I must go to Peterhof. \n\n Has the mare come from Tsarskoe? \n\n Yes, but I ve not seen her yet. \n\n They say Mahotin s Gladiator s lame. \n\n Nonsense! But however are you going to race in this mud?  said the\nother.\n\n Here are my saviors!  cried Petritsky, seeing them come in. Before him\nstood the orderly with a tray of brandy and salted cucumbers.  Here s\nYashvin ordering me to drink a pick-me-up. \n\n Well, you did give it to us yesterday,  said one of those who had come\nin;  you didn t let us get a wink of sleep all night. \n\n Oh, didn t we make a pretty finish!  said Petritsky.  Volkov climbed\nonto the roof and began telling us how sad he was. I said:  Let s have\nmusic, the funeral march!  He fairly dropped asleep on the roof over\nthe funeral march. \n\n Drink it up; you positively must drink the brandy, and then seltzer\nwater and a lot of lemon,  said Yashvin, standing over Petritsky like a\nmother making a child take medicine,  and then a little champagne just\na small bottle. \n\n Come, there s some sense in that. Stop a bit, Vronsky. We ll all have\na drink. \n\n No; good-bye all of you. I m not going to drink today. \n\n Why, are you gaining weight? All right, then we must have it alone.\nGive us the seltzer water and lemon. \n\n Vronsky!  shouted someone when he was already outside.\n\n Well? \n\n You d better get your hair cut, it ll weigh you down, especially at\nthe top. \n\nVronsky was in fact beginning, prematurely, to get a little bald. He\nlaughed gaily, showing his even teeth, and pulling his cap over the\nthin place, went out and got into his carriage.\n\n To the stables!  he said, and was just pulling out the letters to read\nthem through, but he thought better of it, and put off reading them so\nas not to distract his attention before looking at the mare.  Later! \n\n\nChapter 21\n\nThe temporary stable, a wooden shed, had been put up close to the race\ncourse, and there his mare was to have been taken the previous day. He\nhad not yet seen her there.\n\nDuring the last few days he had not ridden her out for exercise\nhimself, but had put her in the charge of the trainer, and so now he\npositively did not know in what condition his mare had arrived\nyesterday and was today. He had scarcely got out of his carriage when\nhis groom, the so-called  stable boy,  recognizing the carriage some\nway off, called the trainer. A dry-looking Englishman, in high boots\nand a short jacket, clean-shaven, except for a tuft below his chin,\ncame to meet him, walking with the uncouth gait of jockey, turning his\nelbows out and swaying from side to side.\n\n Well, how s Frou-Frou?  Vronsky asked in English.\n\n All right, sir,  the Englishman s voice responded somewhere in the\ninside of his throat.  Better not go in,  he added, touching his hat.\n I ve put a muzzle on her, and the mare s fidgety. Better not go in,\nit ll excite the mare. \n\n No, I m going in. I want to look at her. \n\n Come along, then,  said the Englishman, frowning, and speaking with\nhis mouth shut, and, with swinging elbows, he went on in front with his\ndisjointed gait.\n\nThey went into the little yard in front of the shed. A stable boy,\nspruce and smart in his holiday attire, met them with a broom in his\nhand, and followed them. In the shed there were five horses in their\nseparate stalls, and Vronsky knew that his chief rival, Gladiator, a\nvery tall chestnut horse, had been brought there, and must be standing\namong them. Even more than his mare, Vronsky longed to see Gladiator,\nwhom he had never seen. But he knew that by the etiquette of the race\ncourse it was not merely impossible for him to see the horse, but\nimproper even to ask questions about him. Just as he was passing along\nthe passage, the boy opened the door into the second horse-box on the\nleft, and Vronsky caught a glimpse of a big chestnut horse with white\nlegs. He knew that this was Gladiator, but, with the feeling of a man\nturning away from the sight of another man s open letter, he turned\nround and went into Frou-Frou s stall.\n\n The horse is here belonging to Mak... Mak... I never can say the\nname,  said the Englishman, over his shoulder, pointing his big finger\nand dirty nail towards Gladiator s stall.\n\n Mahotin? Yes, he s my most serious rival,  said Vronsky.\n\n If you were riding him,  said the Englishman,  I d bet on you. \n\n Frou-Frou s more nervous; he s stronger,  said Vronsky, smiling at the\ncompliment to his riding.\n\n In a steeplechase it all depends on riding and on pluck,  said the\nEnglishman.\n\nOf pluck that is, energy and courage Vronsky did not merely feel that\nhe had enough; what was of far more importance, he was firmly convinced\nthat no one in the world could have more of this  pluck  than he had.\n\n Don t you think I want more thinning down? \n\n Oh, no,  answered the Englishman.  Please, don t speak loud. The\nmare s fidgety,  he added, nodding towards the horse-box, before which\nthey were standing, and from which came the sound of restless stamping\nin the straw.\n\nHe opened the door, and Vronsky went into the horse-box, dimly lighted\nby one little window. In the horse-box stood a dark bay mare, with a\nmuzzle on, picking at the fresh straw with her hoofs. Looking round him\nin the twilight of the horse-box, Vronsky unconsciously took in once\nmore in a comprehensive glance all the points of his favorite mare.\nFrou-Frou was a beast of medium size, not altogether free from\nreproach, from a breeder s point of view. She was small-boned all over;\nthough her chest was extremely prominent in front, it was narrow. Her\nhind-quarters were a little drooping, and in her fore-legs, and still\nmore in her hind-legs, there was a noticeable curvature. The muscles of\nboth hind- and fore-legs were not very thick; but across her shoulders\nthe mare was exceptionally broad, a peculiarity specially striking now\nthat she was lean from training. The bones of her legs below the knees\nlooked no thicker than a finger from in front, but were extraordinarily\nthick seen from the side. She looked altogether, except across the\nshoulders, as it were, pinched in at the sides and pressed out in\ndepth. But she had in the highest degree the quality that makes all\ndefects forgotten: that quality was _blood_, the blood _that tells_, as\nthe English expression has it. The muscles stood up sharply under the\nnetwork of sinews, covered with the delicate, mobile skin, soft as\nsatin, and they were hard as bone. Her clean-cut head, with prominent,\nbright, spirited eyes, broadened out at the open nostrils, that showed\nthe red blood in the cartilage within. About all her figure, and\nespecially her head, there was a certain expression of energy, and, at\nthe same time, of softness. She was one of those creatures which seem\nonly not to speak because the mechanism of their mouth does not allow\nthem to.\n\nTo Vronsky, at any rate, it seemed that she understood all he felt at\nthat moment, looking at her.\n\nDirectly Vronsky went towards her, she drew in a deep breath, and,\nturning back her prominent eye till the white looked bloodshot, she\nstarted at the approaching figures from the opposite side, shaking her\nmuzzle, and shifting lightly from one leg to the other.\n\n There, you see how fidgety she is,  said the Englishman.\n\n There, darling! There!  said Vronsky, going up to the mare and\nspeaking soothingly to her.\n\nBut the nearer he came, the more excited she grew. Only when he stood\nby her head, she was suddenly quieter, while the muscles quivered under\nher soft, delicate coat. Vronsky patted her strong neck, straightened\nover her sharp withers a stray lock of her mane that had fallen on the\nother side, and moved his face near her dilated nostrils, transparent\nas a bat s wing. She drew a loud breath and snorted out through her\ntense nostrils, started, pricked up her sharp ear, and put out her\nstrong, black lip towards Vronsky, as though she would nip hold of his\nsleeve. But remembering the muzzle, she shook it and again began\nrestlessly stamping one after the other her shapely legs.\n\n Quiet, darling, quiet!  he said, patting her again over her\nhind-quarters; and with a glad sense that his mare was in the best\npossible condition, he went out of the horse-box.\n\nThe mare s excitement had infected Vronsky. He felt that his heart was\nthrobbing, and that he, too, like the mare, longed to move, to bite; it\nwas both dreadful and delicious.\n\n Well, I rely on you, then,  he said to the Englishman;  half-past six\non the ground. \n\n All right,  said the Englishman.  Oh, where are you going, my lord? \nhe asked suddenly, using the title  my lord,  which he had scarcely\never used before.\n\nVronsky in amazement raised his head, and stared, as he knew how to\nstare, not into the Englishman s eyes, but at his forehead, astounded\nat the impertinence of his question. But realizing that in asking this\nthe Englishman had been looking at him not as an employer, but as a\njockey, he answered:\n\n I ve got to go to Bryansky s; I shall be home within an hour. \n\n How often I m asked that question today!  he said to himself, and he\nblushed, a thing which rarely happened to him. The Englishman looked\ngravely at him; and, as though he, too, knew where Vronsky was going,\nhe added:\n\n The great thing s to keep quiet before a race,  said he;  don t get\nout of temper or upset about anything. \n\n All right,  answered Vronsky, smiling; and jumping into his carriage,\nhe told the man to drive to Peterhof.\n\nBefore he had driven many paces away, the dark clouds that had been\nthreatening rain all day broke, and there was a heavy downpour of rain.\n\n What a pity!  thought Vronsky, putting up the roof of the carriage.\n It was muddy before, now it will be a perfect swamp.  As he sat in\nsolitude in the closed carriage, he took out his mother s letter and\nhis brother s note, and read them through.\n\nYes, it was the same thing over and over again. Everyone, his mother,\nhis brother, everyone thought fit to interfere in the affairs of his\nheart. This interference aroused in him a feeling of angry hatred a\nfeeling he had rarely known before.  What business is it of theirs? Why\ndoes everybody feel called upon to concern himself about me? And why do\nthey worry me so? Just because they see that this is something they\ncan t understand. If it were a common, vulgar, worldly intrigue, they\nwould have left me alone. They feel that this is something different,\nthat this is not a mere pastime, that this woman is dearer to me than\nlife. And this is incomprehensible, and that s why it annoys them.\nWhatever our destiny is or may be, we have made it ourselves, and we do\nnot complain of it,  he said, in the word _we_ linking himself with\nAnna.  No, they must needs teach us how to live. They haven t an idea\nof what happiness is; they don t know that without our love, for us\nthere is neither happiness nor unhappiness no life at all,  he thought.\n\nHe was angry with all of them for their interference just because he\nfelt in his soul that they, all these people, were right. He felt that\nthe love that bound him to Anna was not a momentary impulse, which\nwould pass, as worldly intrigues do pass, leaving no other traces in\nthe life of either but pleasant or unpleasant memories. He felt all the\ntorture of his own and her position, all the difficulty there was for\nthem, conspicuous as they were in the eye of all the world, in\nconcealing their love, in lying and deceiving; and in lying, deceiving,\nfeigning, and continually thinking of others, when the passion that\nunited them was so intense that they were both oblivious of everything\nelse but their love.\n\nHe vividly recalled all the constantly recurring instances of\ninevitable necessity for lying and deceit, which were so against his\nnatural bent. He recalled particularly vividly the shame he had more\nthan once detected in her at this necessity for lying and deceit. And\nhe experienced the strange feeling that had sometimes come upon him\nsince his secret love for Anna. This was a feeling of loathing for\nsomething whether for Alexey Alexandrovitch, or for himself, or for the\nwhole world, he could not have said. But he always drove away this\nstrange feeling. Now, too, he shook it off and continued the thread of\nhis thoughts.\n\n Yes, she was unhappy before, but proud and at peace; and now she\ncannot be at peace and feel secure in her dignity, though she does not\nshow it. Yes, we must put an end to it,  he decided.\n\nAnd for the first time the idea clearly presented itself that it was\nessential to put an end to this false position, and the sooner the\nbetter.  Throw up everything, she and I, and hide ourselves somewhere\nalone with our love,  he said to himself.\n\n\nChapter 22\n\nThe rain did not last long, and by the time Vronsky arrived, his\nshaft-horse trotting at full speed and dragging the trace-horses\ngalloping through the mud, with their reins hanging loose, the sun had\npeeped out again, the roofs of the summer villas and the old limetrees\nin the gardens on both sides of the principal streets sparkled with wet\nbrilliance, and from the twigs came a pleasant drip and from the roofs\nrushing streams of water. He thought no more of the shower spoiling the\nrace course, but was rejoicing now that thanks to the rain he would be\nsure to find her at home and alone, as he knew that Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, who had lately returned from a foreign watering place,\nhad not moved from Petersburg.\n\nHoping to find her alone, Vronsky alighted, as he always did, to avoid\nattracting attention, before crossing the bridge, and walked to the\nhouse. He did not go up the steps to the street door, but went into the\ncourt.\n\n Has your master come?  he asked a gardener.\n\n No, sir. The mistress is at home. But will you please go to the front\ndoor; there are servants there,  the gardener answered.  They ll open\nthe door. \n\n No, I ll go in from the garden. \n\nAnd feeling satisfied that she was alone, and wanting to take her by\nsurprise, since he had not promised to be there today, and she would\ncertainly not expect him to come before the races, he walked, holding\nhis sword and stepping cautiously over the sandy path, bordered with\nflowers, to the terrace that looked out upon the garden. Vronsky forgot\nnow all that he had thought on the way of the hardships and\ndifficulties of their position. He thought of nothing but that he would\nsee her directly, not in imagination, but living, all of her, as she\nwas in reality. He was just going in, stepping on his whole foot so as\nnot to creak, up the worn steps of the terrace, when he suddenly\nremembered what he always forgot, and what caused the most torturing\nside of his relations with her, her son with his questioning hostile,\nas he fancied eyes.\n\nThis boy was more often than anyone else a check upon their freedom.\nWhen he was present, both Vronsky and Anna did not merely avoid\nspeaking of anything that they could not have repeated before everyone;\nthey did not even allow themselves to refer by hints to anything the\nboy did not understand. They had made no agreement about this, it had\nsettled itself. They would have felt it wounding themselves to deceive\nthe child. In his presence they talked like acquaintances. But in spite\nof this caution, Vronsky often saw the child s intent, bewildered\nglance fixed upon him, and a strange shyness, uncertainty, at one time\nfriendliness, at another, coldness and reserve, in the boy s manner to\nhim; as though the child felt that between this man and his mother\nthere existed some important bond, the significance of which he could\nnot understand.\n\nAs a fact, the boy did feel that he could not understand this relation,\nand he tried painfully, and was not able to make clear to himself what\nfeeling he ought to have for this man. With a child s keen instinct for\nevery manifestation of feeling, he saw distinctly that his father, his\ngoverness, his nurse, all did not merely dislike Vronsky, but looked on\nhim with horror and aversion, though they never said anything about\nhim, while his mother looked on him as her greatest friend.\n\n What does it mean? Who is he? How ought I to love him? If I don t\nknow, it s my fault; either I m stupid or a naughty boy,  thought the\nchild. And this was what caused his dubious, inquiring, sometimes\nhostile, expression, and the shyness and uncertainty which Vronsky\nfound so irksome. This child s presence always and infallibly called up\nin Vronsky that strange feeling of inexplicable loathing which he had\nexperienced of late. This child s presence called up both in Vronsky\nand in Anna a feeling akin to the feeling of a sailor who sees by the\ncompass that the direction in which he is swiftly moving is far from\nthe right one, but that to arrest his motion is not in his power, that\nevery instant is carrying him further and further away, and that to\nadmit to himself his deviation from the right direction is the same as\nadmitting his certain ruin.\n\nThis child, with his innocent outlook upon life, was the compass that\nshowed them the point to which they had departed from what they knew,\nbut did not want to know.\n\nThis time Seryozha was not at home, and she was completely alone. She\nwas sitting on the terrace waiting for the return of her son, who had\ngone out for his walk and been caught in the rain. She had sent a\nmanservant and a maid out to look for him. Dressed in a white gown,\ndeeply embroidered, she was sitting in a corner of the terrace behind\nsome flowers, and did not hear him. Bending her curly black head, she\npressed her forehead against a cool watering pot that stood on the\nparapet, and both her lovely hands, with the rings he knew so well,\nclasped the pot. The beauty of her whole figure, her head, her neck,\nher hands, struck Vronsky every time as something new and unexpected.\nHe stood still, gazing at her in ecstasy. But, directly he would have\nmade a step to come nearer to her, she was aware of his presence,\npushed away the watering pot, and turned her flushed face towards him.\n\n What s the matter? You are ill?  he said to her in French, going up to\nher. He would have run to her, but remembering that there might be\nspectators, he looked round towards the balcony door, and reddened a\nlittle, as he always reddened, feeling that he had to be afraid and be\non his guard.\n\n No, I m quite well,  she said, getting up and pressing his\noutstretched hand tightly.  I did not expect ... thee. \n\n Mercy! what cold hands!  he said.\n\n You startled me,  she said.  I m alone, and expecting Seryozha; he s\nout for a walk; they ll come in from this side. \n\nBut, in spite of her efforts to be calm, her lips were quivering.\n\n Forgive me for coming, but I couldn t pass the day without seeing\nyou,  he went on, speaking French, as he always did to avoid using the\nstiff Russian plural form, so impossibly frigid between them, and the\ndangerously intimate singular.\n\n Forgive you? I m so glad! \n\n But you re ill or worried,  he went on, not letting go her hands and\nbending over her.  What were you thinking of? \n\n Always the same thing,  she said, with a smile.\n\nShe spoke the truth. If ever at any moment she had been asked what she\nwas thinking of, she could have answered truly: of the same thing, of\nher happiness and her unhappiness. She was thinking, just when he came\nupon her, of this: why was it, she wondered, that to others, to Betsy\n(she knew of her secret connection with Tushkevitch) it was all easy,\nwhile to her it was such torture? Today this thought gained special\npoignancy from certain other considerations. She asked him about the\nraces. He answered her questions, and, seeing that she was agitated,\ntrying to calm her, he began telling her in the simplest tone the\ndetails of his preparations for the races.\n\n Tell him or not tell him?  she thought, looking into his quiet,\naffectionate eyes.  He is so happy, so absorbed in his races that he\nwon t understand as he ought, he won t understand all the gravity of\nthis fact to us. \n\n But you haven t told me what you were thinking of when I came in,  he\nsaid, interrupting his narrative;  please tell me! \n\nShe did not answer, and, bending her head a little, she looked\ninquiringly at him from under her brows, her eyes shining under their\nlong lashes. Her hand shook as it played with a leaf she had picked. He\nsaw it, and his face expressed that utter subjection, that slavish\ndevotion, which had done so much to win her.\n\n I see something has happened. Do you suppose I can be at peace,\nknowing you have a trouble I am not sharing? Tell me, for God s sake, \nhe repeated imploringly.\n\n Yes, I shan t be able to forgive him if he does not realize all the\ngravity of it. Better not tell; why put him to the proof?  she thought,\nstill staring at him in the same way, and feeling the hand that held\nthe leaf was trembling more and more.\n\n For God s sake!  he repeated, taking her hand.\n\n Shall I tell you? \n\n Yes, yes, yes.... \n\n I m with child,  she said, softly and deliberately. The leaf in her\nhand shook more violently, but she did not take her eyes off him,\nwatching how he would take it. He turned white, would have said\nsomething, but stopped; he dropped her hand, and his head sank on his\nbreast.  Yes, he realizes all the gravity of it,  she thought, and\ngratefully she pressed his hand.\n\nBut she was mistaken in thinking he realized the gravity of the fact as\nshe, a woman, realized it. On hearing it, he felt come upon him with\ntenfold intensity that strange feeling of loathing of someone. But at\nthe same time, he felt that the turning-point he had been longing for\nhad come now; that it was impossible to go on concealing things from\nher husband, and it was inevitable in one way or another that they\nshould soon put an end to their unnatural position. But, besides that,\nher emotion physically affected him in the same way. He looked at her\nwith a look of submissive tenderness, kissed her hand, got up, and, in\nsilence, paced up and down the terrace.\n\n Yes,  he said, going up to her resolutely.  Neither you nor I have\nlooked on our relations as a passing amusement, and now our fate is\nsealed. It is absolutely necessary to put an end he looked round as he\nspoke to the deception in which we are living. \n\n Put an end? How put an end, Alexey?  she said softly.\n\nShe was calmer now, and her face lighted up with a tender smile.\n\n Leave your husband and make our life one. \n\n It is one as it is,  she answered, scarcely audibly.\n\n Yes, but altogether; altogether. \n\n But how, Alexey, tell me how?  she said in melancholy mockery at the\nhopelessness of her own position.  Is there any way out of such a\nposition? Am I not the wife of my husband? \n\n There is a way out of every position. We must take our line,  he said.\n Anything s better than the position in which you re living. Of course,\nI see how you torture yourself over everything the world and your son\nand your husband. \n\n Oh, not over my husband,  she said, with a quiet smile.  I don t know\nhim, I don t think of him. He doesn t exist. \n\n You re not speaking sincerely. I know you. You worry about him too. \n\n Oh, he doesn t even know,  she said, and suddenly a hot flush came\nover her face; her cheeks, her brow, her neck crimsoned, and tears of\nshame came into her eyes.  But we won t talk of him. \n\n\nChapter 23\n\nVronsky had several times already, though not so resolutely as now,\ntried to bring her to consider their position, and every time he had\nbeen confronted by the same superficiality and triviality with which\nshe met his appeal now. It was as though there were something in this\nwhich she could not or would not face, as though directly she began to\nspeak of this, she, the real Anna, retreated somehow into herself, and\nanother strange and unaccountable woman came out, whom he did not love,\nand whom he feared, and who was in opposition to him. But today he was\nresolved to have it out.\n\n Whether he knows or not,  said Vronsky, in his usual quiet and\nresolute tone,  that s nothing to do with us. We cannot ... you cannot\nstay like this, especially now. \n\n What s to be done, according to you?  she asked with the same\nfrivolous irony. She who had so feared he would take her condition too\nlightly was now vexed with him for deducing from it the necessity of\ntaking some step.\n\n Tell him everything, and leave him. \n\n Very well, let us suppose I do that,  she said.  Do you know what the\nresult of that would be? I can tell you it all beforehand,  and a\nwicked light gleamed in her eyes, that had been so soft a minute\nbefore.  Eh, you love another man, and have entered into criminal\nintrigues with him?  (Mimicking her husband, she threw an emphasis on\nthe word  criminal,  as Alexey Alexandrovitch did.)  I warned you of\nthe results in the religious, the civil, and the domestic relation. You\nhave not listened to me. Now I cannot let you disgrace my name,   and\nmy son,  she had meant to say, but about her son she could not\njest, disgrace my name, and and more in the same style,  she added.\n In general terms, he ll say in his official manner, and with all\ndistinctness and precision, that he cannot let me go, but will take all\nmeasures in his power to prevent scandal. And he will calmly and\npunctually act in accordance with his words. That s what will happen.\nHe s not a man, but a machine, and a spiteful machine when he s angry, \nshe added, recalling Alexey Alexandrovitch as she spoke, with all the\npeculiarities of his figure and manner of speaking, and reckoning\nagainst him every defect she could find in him, softening nothing for\nthe great wrong she herself was doing him.\n\n But, Anna,  said Vronsky, in a soft and persuasive voice, trying to\nsoothe her,  we absolutely must, anyway, tell him, and then be guided\nby the line he takes. \n\n What, run away? \n\n And why not run away? I don t see how we can keep on like this. And\nnot for my sake I see that you suffer. \n\n Yes, run away, and become your mistress,  she said angrily.\n\n Anna,  he said, with reproachful tenderness.\n\n Yes,  she went on,  become your mistress, and complete the ruin\nof.... \n\nAgain she would have said  my son,  but she could not utter that word.\n\nVronsky could not understand how she, with her strong and truthful\nnature, could endure this state of deceit, and not long to get out of\nit. But he did not suspect that the chief cause of it was the\nword _son_, which she could not bring herself to pronounce. When she\nthought of her son, and his future attitude to his mother, who had\nabandoned his father, she felt such terror at what she had done, that\nshe could not face it; but, like a woman, could only try to comfort\nherself with lying assurances that everything would remain as it always\nhad been, and that it was possible to forget the fearful question of\nhow it would be with her son.\n\n I beg you, I entreat you,  she said suddenly, taking his hand, and\nspeaking in quite a different tone, sincere and tender,  never speak to\nme of that! \n\n But, Anna.... \n\n Never. Leave it to me. I know all the baseness, all the horror of my\nposition; but it s not so easy to arrange as you think. And leave it to\nme, and do what I say. Never speak to me of it. Do you promise me?...\nNo, no, promise!... \n\n I promise everything, but I can t be at peace, especially after what\nyou have told me. I can t be at peace, when you can t be at peace.... \n\n I?  she repeated.  Yes, I am worried sometimes; but that will pass, if\nyou will never talk about this. When you talk about it it s only then\nit worries me. \n\n I don t understand,  he said.\n\n I know,  she interrupted him,  how hard it is for your truthful nature\nto lie, and I grieve for you. I often think that you have ruined your\nwhole life for me. \n\n I was just thinking the very same thing,  he said;  how could you\nsacrifice everything for my sake? I can t forgive myself that you re\nunhappy! \n\n I unhappy?  she said, coming closer to him, and looking at him with an\necstatic smile of love.  I am like a hungry man who has been given\nfood. He may be cold, and dressed in rags, and ashamed, but he is not\nunhappy. I unhappy? No, this is my unhappiness.... \n\nShe could hear the sound of her son s voice coming towards them, and\nglancing swiftly round the terrace, she got up impulsively. Her eyes\nglowed with the fire he knew so well; with a rapid movement she raised\nher lovely hands, covered with rings, took his head, looked a long look\ninto his face, and, putting up her face with smiling, parted lips,\nswiftly kissed his mouth and both eyes, and pushed him away. She would\nhave gone, but he held her back.\n\n When?  he murmured in a whisper, gazing in ecstasy at her.\n\n Tonight, at one o clock,  she whispered, and, with a heavy sigh, she\nwalked with her light, swift step to meet her son.\n\nSeryozha had been caught by the rain in the big garden, and he and his\nnurse had taken shelter in an arbor.\n\n Well, _au revoir_,  she said to Vronsky.  I must soon be getting ready\nfor the races. Betsy promised to fetch me. \n\nVronsky, looking at his watch, went away hurriedly.\n\n\nChapter 24\n\nWhen Vronsky looked at his watch on the Karenins  balcony, he was so\ngreatly agitated and lost in his thoughts that he saw the figures on\nthe watch s face, but could not take in what time it was. He came out\non to the highroad and walked, picking his way carefully through the\nmud, to his carriage. He was so completely absorbed in his feeling for\nAnna, that he did not even think what o clock it was, and whether he\nhad time to go to Bryansky s. He had left him, as often happens, only\nthe external faculty of memory, that points out each step one has to\ntake, one after the other. He went up to his coachman, who was dozing\non the box in the shadow, already lengthening, of a thick limetree; he\nadmired the shifting clouds of midges circling over the hot horses,\nand, waking the coachman, he jumped into the carriage, and told him to\ndrive to Bryansky s. It was only after driving nearly five miles that\nhe had sufficiently recovered himself to look at his watch, and realize\nthat it was half-past five, and he was late.\n\nThere were several races fixed for that day: the Mounted Guards  race,\nthen the officers  mile-and-a-half race, then the three-mile race, and\nthen the race for which he was entered. He could still be in time for\nhis race, but if he went to Bryansky s he could only just be in time,\nand he would arrive when the whole of the court would be in their\nplaces. That would be a pity. But he had promised Bryansky to come, and\nso he decided to drive on, telling the coachman not to spare the\nhorses.\n\nHe reached Bryansky s, spent five minutes there, and galloped back.\nThis rapid drive calmed him. All that was painful in his relations with\nAnna, all the feeling of indefiniteness left by their conversation, had\nslipped out of his mind. He was thinking now with pleasure and\nexcitement of the race, of his being anyhow, in time, and now and then\nthe thought of the blissful interview awaiting him that night flashed\nacross his imagination like a flaming light.\n\nThe excitement of the approaching race gained upon him as he drove\nfurther and further into the atmosphere of the races, overtaking\ncarriages driving up from the summer villas or out of Petersburg.\n\nAt his quarters no one was left at home; all were at the races, and his\nvalet was looking out for him at the gate. While he was changing his\nclothes, his valet told him that the second race had begun already,\nthat a lot of gentlemen had been to ask for him, and a boy had twice\nrun up from the stables. Dressing without hurry (he never hurried\nhimself, and never lost his self-possession), Vronsky drove to the\nsheds. From the sheds he could see a perfect sea of carriages, and\npeople on foot, soldiers surrounding the race course, and pavilions\nswarming with people. The second race was apparently going on, for just\nas he went into the sheds he heard a bell ringing. Going towards the\nstable, he met the white-legged chestnut, Mahotin s Gladiator, being\nled to the race-course in a blue forage horsecloth, with what looked\nlike huge ears edged with blue.\n\n Where s Cord?  he asked the stable-boy.\n\n In the stable, putting on the saddle. \n\nIn the open horse-box stood Frou-Frou, saddled ready. They were just\ngoing to lead her out.\n\n I m not too late? \n\n All right! All right!  said the Englishman;  don t upset yourself! \n\nVronsky once more took in in one glance the exquisite lines of his\nfavorite mare; who was quivering all over, and with an effort he tore\nhimself from the sight of her, and went out of the stable. He went\ntowards the pavilions at the most favorable moment for escaping\nattention. The mile-and-a-half race was just finishing, and all eyes\nwere fixed on the horse-guard in front and the light hussar behind,\nurging their horses on with a last effort close to the winning post.\nFrom the center and outside of the ring all were crowding to the\nwinning post, and a group of soldiers and officers of the horse-guards\nwere shouting loudly their delight at the expected triumph of their\nofficer and comrade. Vronsky moved into the middle of the crowd\nunnoticed, almost at the very moment when the bell rang at the finish\nof the race, and the tall, mudspattered horse-guard who came in first,\nbending over the saddle, let go the reins of his panting gray horse\nthat looked dark with sweat.\n\nThe horse, stiffening out its legs, with an effort stopped its rapid\ncourse, and the officer of the horse-guards looked round him like a man\nwaking up from a heavy sleep, and just managed to smile. A crowd of\nfriends and outsiders pressed round him.\n\nVronsky intentionally avoided that select crowd of the upper world,\nwhich was moving and talking with discreet freedom before the\npavilions. He knew that Madame Karenina was there, and Betsy, and his\nbrother s wife, and he purposely did not go near them for fear of\nsomething distracting his attention. But he was continually met and\nstopped by acquaintances, who told him about the previous races, and\nkept asking him why he was so late.\n\nAt the time when the racers had to go to the pavilion to receive the\nprizes, and all attention was directed to that point, Vronsky s elder\nbrother, Alexander, a colonel with heavy fringed epaulets, came up to\nhim. He was not tall, though as broadly built as Alexey, and handsomer\nand rosier than he; he had a red nose, and an open, drunken-looking\nface.\n\n Did you get my note?  he said.  There s never any finding you. \n\nAlexander Vronsky, in spite of the dissolute life, and in especial the\ndrunken habits, for which he was notorious, was quite one of the court\ncircle.\n\nNow, as he talked to his brother of a matter bound to be exceedingly\ndisagreeable to him, knowing that the eyes of many people might be\nfixed upon him, he kept a smiling countenance, as though he were\njesting with his brother about something of little moment.\n\n I got it, and I really can t make out what _you_ are worrying yourself\nabout,  said Alexey.\n\n I m worrying myself because the remark has just been made to me that\nyou weren t here, and that you were seen in Peterhof on Monday. \n\n There are matters which only concern those directly interested in\nthem, and the matter you are so worried about is.... \n\n Yes, but if so, you may as well cut the service.... \n\n I beg you not to meddle, and that s all I have to say. \n\nAlexey Vronsky s frowning face turned white, and his prominent lower\njaw quivered, which happened rarely with him. Being a man of very warm\nheart, he was seldom angry; but when he was angry, and when his chin\nquivered, then, as Alexander Vronsky knew, he was dangerous. Alexander\nVronsky smiled gaily.\n\n I only wanted to give you Mother s letter. Answer it, and don t worry\nabout anything just before the race. _Bonne chance,_  he added, smiling\nand he moved away from him. But after him another friendly greeting\nbrought Vronsky to a standstill.\n\n So you won t recognize your friends! How are you, _mon cher?_  said\nStepan Arkadyevitch, as conspicuously brilliant in the midst of all the\nPetersburg brilliance as he was in Moscow, his face rosy, and his\nwhiskers sleek and glossy.  I came up yesterday, and I m delighted that\nI shall see your triumph. When shall we meet? \n\n Come tomorrow to the messroom,  said Vronsky, and squeezing him by the\nsleeve of his coat, with apologies, he moved away to the center of the\nrace course, where the horses were being led for the great\nsteeplechase.\n\nThe horses who had run in the last race were being led home, steaming\nand exhausted, by the stable-boys, and one after another the fresh\nhorses for the coming race made their appearance, for the most part\nEnglish racers, wearing horsecloths, and looking with their drawn-up\nbellies like strange, huge birds. On the right was led in Frou-Frou,\nlean and beautiful, lifting up her elastic, rather long pasterns, as\nthough moved by springs. Not far from her they were taking the rug off\nthe lop-eared Gladiator. The strong, exquisite, perfectly correct lines\nof the stallion, with his superb hind-quarters and excessively short\npasterns almost over his hoofs, attracted Vronsky s attention in spite\nof himself. He would have gone up to his mare, but he was again\ndetained by an acquaintance.\n\n Oh, there s Karenin!  said the acquaintance with whom he was chatting.\n He s looking for his wife, and she s in the middle of the pavilion.\nDidn t you see her? \n\n No,  answered Vronsky, and without even glancing round towards the\npavilion where his friend was pointing out Madame Karenina, he went up\nto his mare.\n\nVronsky had not had time to look at the saddle, about which he had to\ngive some direction, when the competitors were summoned to the pavilion\nto receive their numbers and places in the row at starting. Seventeen\nofficers, looking serious and severe, many with pale faces, met\ntogether in the pavilion and drew the numbers. Vronsky drew the number\nseven. The cry was heard:  Mount! \n\nFeeling that with the others riding in the race, he was the center upon\nwhich all eyes were fastened, Vronsky walked up to his mare in that\nstate of nervous tension in which he usually became deliberate and\ncomposed in his movements. Cord, in honor of the races, had put on his\nbest clothes, a black coat buttoned up, a stiffly starched collar,\nwhich propped up his cheeks, a round black hat, and top boots. He was\ncalm and dignified as ever, and was with his own hands holding\nFrou-Frou by both reins, standing straight in front of her. Frou-Frou\nwas still trembling as though in a fever. Her eye, full of fire,\nglanced sideways at Vronsky. Vronsky slipped his finger under the\nsaddle-girth. The mare glanced aslant at him, drew up her lip, and\ntwitched her ear. The Englishman puckered up his lips, intending to\nindicate a smile that anyone should verify his saddling.\n\n Get up; you won t feel so excited. \n\nVronsky looked round for the last time at his rivals. He knew that he\nwould not see them during the race. Two were already riding forward to\nthe point from which they were to start. Galtsin, a friend of Vronsky s\nand one of his more formidable rivals, was moving round a bay horse\nthat would not let him mount. A little light hussar in tight riding\nbreeches rode off at a gallop, crouched up like a cat on the saddle, in\nimitation of English jockeys. Prince Kuzovlev sat with a white face on\nhis thoroughbred mare from the Grabovsky stud, while an English groom\nled her by the bridle. Vronsky and all his comrades knew Kuzovlev and\nhis peculiarity of  weak nerves  and terrible vanity. They knew that he\nwas afraid of everything, afraid of riding a spirited horse. But now,\njust because it was terrible, because people broke their necks, and\nthere was a doctor standing at each obstacle, and an ambulance with a\ncross on it, and a sister of mercy, he had made up his mind to take\npart in the race. Their eyes met, and Vronsky gave him a friendly and\nencouraging nod. Only one he did not see, his chief rival, Mahotin on\nGladiator.\n\n Don t be in a hurry,  said Cord to Vronsky,  and remember one thing:\ndon t hold her in at the fences, and don t urge her on; let her go as\nshe likes. \n\n All right, all right,  said Vronsky, taking the reins.\n\n If you can, lead the race; but don t lose heart till the last minute,\neven if you re behind. \n\nBefore the mare had time to move, Vronsky stepped with an agile,\nvigorous movement into the steel-toothed stirrup, and lightly and\nfirmly seated himself on the creaking leather of the saddle. Getting\nhis right foot in the stirrup, he smoothed the double reins, as he\nalways did, between his fingers, and Cord let go.\n\nAs though she did not know which foot to put first, Frou-Frou started,\ndragging at the reins with her long neck, and as though she were on\nsprings, shaking her rider from side to side. Cord quickened his step,\nfollowing him. The excited mare, trying to shake off her rider first on\none side and then the other, pulled at the reins, and Vronsky tried in\nvain with voice and hand to soothe her.\n\nThey were just reaching the dammed-up stream on their way to the\nstarting point. Several of the riders were in front and several behind,\nwhen suddenly Vronsky heard the sound of a horse galloping in the mud\nbehind him, and he was overtaken by Mahotin on his white-legged,\nlop-eared Gladiator. Mahotin smiled, showing his long teeth, but\nVronsky looked angrily at him. He did not like him, and regarded him\nnow as his most formidable rival. He was angry with him for galloping\npast and exciting his mare. Frou-Frou started into a gallop, her left\nfoot forward, made two bounds, and fretting at the tightened reins,\npassed into a jolting trot, bumping her rider up and down. Cord, too,\nscowled, and followed Vronsky almost at a trot.\n\n\nChapter 25\n\nThere were seventeen officers in all riding in this race. The race\ncourse was a large three-mile ring of the form of an ellipse in front\nof the pavilion. On this course nine obstacles had been arranged: the\nstream, a big and solid barrier five feet high, just before the\npavilion, a dry ditch, a ditch full of water, a precipitous slope, an\nIrish barricade (one of the most difficult obstacles, consisting of a\nmound fenced with brushwood, beyond which was a ditch out of sight for\nthe horses, so that the horse had to clear both obstacles or might be\nkilled); then two more ditches filled with water, and one dry one; and\nthe end of the race was just facing the pavilion. But the race began\nnot in the ring, but two hundred yards away from it, and in that part\nof the course was the first obstacle, a dammed-up stream, seven feet in\nbreadth, which the racers could leap or wade through as they preferred.\n\nThree times they were ranged ready to start, but each time some horse\nthrust itself out of line, and they had to begin again. The umpire who\nwas starting them, Colonel Sestrin, was beginning to lose his temper,\nwhen at last for the fourth time he shouted  Away!  and the racers\nstarted.\n\nEvery eye, every opera-glass, was turned on the brightly colored group\nof riders at the moment they were in line to start.\n\n They re off! They re starting!  was heard on all sides after the hush\nof expectation.\n\nAnd little groups and solitary figures among the public began running\nfrom place to place to get a better view. In the very first minute the\nclose group of horsemen drew out, and it could be seen that they were\napproaching the stream in twos and threes and one behind another. To\nthe spectators it seemed as though they had all started simultaneously,\nbut to the racers there were seconds of difference that had great value\nto them.\n\nFrou-Frou, excited and over-nervous, had lost the first moment, and\nseveral horses had started before her, but before reaching the stream,\nVronsky, who was holding in the mare with all his force as she tugged\nat the bridle, easily overtook three, and there were left in front of\nhim Mahotin s chestnut Gladiator, whose hind-quarters were moving\nlightly and rhythmically up and down exactly in front of Vronsky, and\nin front of all, the dainty mare Diana bearing Kuzovlev more dead than\nalive.\n\nFor the first instant Vronsky was not master either of himself or his\nmare. Up to the first obstacle, the stream, he could not guide the\nmotions of his mare.\n\nGladiator and Diana came up to it together and almost at the same\ninstant; simultaneously they rose above the stream and flew across to\nthe other side; Frou-Frou darted after them, as if flying; but at the\nvery moment when Vronsky felt himself in the air, he suddenly saw\nalmost under his mare s hoofs Kuzovlev, who was floundering with Diana\non the further side of the stream. (Kuzovlev had let go the reins as he\ntook the leap, and the mare had sent him flying over her head.) Those\ndetails Vronsky learned later; at the moment all he saw was that just\nunder him, where Frou-Frou must alight, Diana s legs or head might be\nin the way. But Frou-Frou drew up her legs and back in the very act of\nleaping, like a falling cat, and, clearing the other mare, alighted\nbeyond her.\n\n O the darling!  thought Vronsky.\n\nAfter crossing the stream Vronsky had complete control of his mare, and\nbegan holding her in, intending to cross the great barrier behind\nMahotin, and to try to overtake him in the clear ground of about five\nhundred yards that followed it.\n\nThe great barrier stood just in front of the imperial pavilion. The\nTsar and the whole court and crowds of people were all gazing at\nthem at him, and Mahotin a length ahead of him, as they drew near the\n devil,  as the solid barrier was called. Vronsky was aware of those\neyes fastened upon him from all sides, but he saw nothing except the\nears and neck of his own mare, the ground racing to meet him, and the\nback and white legs of Gladiator beating time swiftly before him, and\nkeeping always the same distance ahead. Gladiator rose, with no sound\nof knocking against anything. With a wave of his short tail he\ndisappeared from Vronsky s sight.\n\n Bravo!  cried a voice.\n\nAt the same instant, under Vronsky s eyes, right before him flashed the\npalings of the barrier. Without the slightest change in her action his\nmare flew over it; the palings vanished, and he heard only a crash\nbehind him. The mare, excited by Gladiator s keeping ahead, had risen\ntoo soon before the barrier, and grazed it with her hind hoofs. But her\npace never changed, and Vronsky, feeling a spatter of mud in his face,\nrealized that he was once more the same distance from Gladiator. Once\nmore he perceived in front of him the same back and short tail, and\nagain the same swiftly moving white legs that got no further away.\n\nAt the very moment when Vronsky thought that now was the time to\novertake Mahotin, Frou-Frou herself, understanding his thoughts,\nwithout any incitement on his part, gained ground considerably, and\nbegan getting alongside of Mahotin on the most favorable side, close to\nthe inner cord. Mahotin would not let her pass that side. Vronsky had\nhardly formed the thought that he could perhaps pass on the outer side,\nwhen Frou-Frou shifted her pace and began overtaking him on the other\nside. Frou-Frou s shoulder, beginning by now to be dark with sweat, was\neven with Gladiator s back. For a few lengths they moved evenly. But\nbefore the obstacle they were approaching, Vronsky began working at the\nreins, anxious to avoid having to take the outer circle, and swiftly\npassed Mahotin just upon the declivity. He caught a glimpse of his\nmud-stained face as he flashed by. He even fancied that he smiled.\nVronsky passed Mahotin, but he was immediately aware of him close upon\nhim, and he never ceased hearing the even-thudding hoofs and the rapid\nand still quite fresh breathing of Gladiator.\n\nThe next two obstacles, the water course and the barrier, were easily\ncrossed, but Vronsky began to hear the snorting and thud of Gladiator\ncloser upon him. He urged on his mare, and to his delight felt that she\neasily quickened her pace, and the thud of Gladiator s hoofs was again\nheard at the same distance away.\n\nVronsky was at the head of the race, just as he wanted to be and as\nCord had advised, and now he felt sure of being the winner. His\nexcitement, his delight, and his tenderness for Frou-Frou grew keener\nand keener. He longed to look round again, but he did not dare do this,\nand tried to be cool and not to urge on his mare so to keep the same\nreserve of force in her as he felt that Gladiator still kept. There\nremained only one obstacle, the most difficult; if he could cross it\nahead of the others he would come in first. He was flying towards the\nIrish barricade, Frou-Frou and he both together saw the barricade in\nthe distance, and both the man and the mare had a moment s hesitation.\nHe saw the uncertainty in the mare s ears and lifted the whip, but at\nthe same time felt that his fears were groundless; the mare knew what\nwas wanted. She quickened her pace and rose smoothly, just as he had\nfancied she would, and as she left the ground gave herself up to the\nforce of her rush, which carried her far beyond the ditch; and with the\nsame rhythm, without effort, with the same leg forward, Frou-Frou fell\nback into her pace again.\n\n Bravo, Vronsky!  he heard shouts from a knot of men he knew they were\nhis friends in the regiment who were standing at the obstacle. He could\nnot fail to recognize Yashvin s voice though he did not see him.\n\n O my sweet!  he said inwardly to Frou-Frou, as he listened for what\nwas happening behind.  He s cleared it!  he thought, catching the thud\nof Gladiator s hoofs behind him. There remained only the last ditch,\nfilled with water and five feet wide. Vronsky did not even look at it,\nbut anxious to get in a long way first began sawing away at the reins,\nlifting the mare s head and letting it go in time with her paces. He\nfelt that the mare was at her very last reserve of strength; not her\nneck and shoulders merely were wet, but the sweat was standing in drops\non her mane, her head, her sharp ears, and her breath came in short,\nsharp gasps. But he knew that she had strength left more than enough\nfor the remaining five hundred yards. It was only from feeling himself\nnearer the ground and from the peculiar smoothness of his motion that\nVronsky knew how greatly the mare had quickened her pace. She flew over\nthe ditch as though not noticing it. She flew over it like a bird; but\nat the same instant Vronsky, to his horror, felt that he had failed to\nkeep up with the mare s pace, that he had, he did not know how, made a\nfearful, unpardonable mistake, in recovering his seat in the saddle.\nAll at once his position had shifted and he knew that something awful\nhad happened. He could not yet make out what had happened, when the\nwhite legs of a chestnut horse flashed by close to him, and Mahotin\npassed at a swift gallop. Vronsky was touching the ground with one\nfoot, and his mare was sinking on that foot. He just had time to free\nhis leg when she fell on one side, gasping painfully, and, making vain\nefforts to rise with her delicate, soaking neck, she fluttered on the\nground at his feet like a shot bird. The clumsy movement made by\nVronsky had broken her back. But that he only knew much later. At that\nmoment he knew only that Mahotin had flown swiftly by, while he stood\nstaggering alone on the muddy, motionless ground, and Frou-Frou lay\ngasping before him, bending her head back and gazing at him with her\nexquisite eyes. Still unable to realize what had happened, Vronsky\ntugged at his mare s reins. Again she struggled all over like a fish,\nand her shoulders setting the saddle heaving, she rose on her front\nlegs but unable to lift her back, she quivered all over and again fell\non her side. With a face hideous with passion, his lower jaw trembling,\nand his cheeks white, Vronsky kicked her with his heel in the stomach\nand again fell to tugging at the rein. She did not stir, but thrusting\nher nose into the ground, she simply gazed at her master with her\nspeaking eyes.\n\n A a a!  groaned Vronsky, clutching at his head.  Ah! what have I\ndone!  he cried.  The race lost! And my fault! shameful, unpardonable!\nAnd the poor darling, ruined mare! Ah! what have I done! \n\nA crowd of men, a doctor and his assistant, the officers of his\nregiment, ran up to him. To his misery he felt that he was whole and\nunhurt. The mare had broken her back, and it was decided to shoot her.\nVronsky could not answer questions, could not speak to anyone. He\nturned, and without picking up his cap that had fallen off, walked away\nfrom the race course, not knowing where he was going. He felt utterly\nwretched. For the first time in his life he knew the bitterest sort of\nmisfortune, misfortune beyond remedy, and caused by his own fault.\n\nYashvin overtook him with his cap, and led him home, and half an hour\nlater Vronsky had regained his self-possession. But the memory of that\nrace remained for long in his heart, the cruelest and bitterest memory\nof his life.\n\n\nChapter 26\n\nThe external relations of Alexey Alexandrovitch and his wife had\nremained unchanged. The sole difference lay in the fact that he was\nmore busily occupied than ever. As in former years, at the beginning of\nthe spring he had gone to a foreign watering-place for the sake of his\nhealth, deranged by the winter s work that every year grew heavier. And\njust as always he returned in July and at once fell to work as usual\nwith increased energy. As usual, too, his wife had moved for the summer\nto a villa out of town, while he remained in Petersburg. From the date\nof their conversation after the party at Princess Tverskaya s he had\nnever spoken again to Anna of his suspicions and his jealousies, and\nthat habitual tone of his bantering mimicry was the most convenient\ntone possible for his present attitude to his wife. He was a little\ncolder to his wife. He simply seemed to be slightly displeased with her\nfor that first midnight conversation, which she had repelled. In his\nattitude to her there was a shade of vexation, but nothing more.  You\nwould not be open with me,  he seemed to say, mentally addressing her;\n so much the worse for you. Now you may beg as you please, but I won t\nbe open with you. So much the worse for you!  he said mentally, like a\nman who, after vainly attempting to extinguish a fire, should fly in a\nrage with his vain efforts and say,  Oh, very well then! you shall burn\nfor this!  This man, so subtle and astute in official life, did not\nrealize all the senselessness of such an attitude to his wife. He did\nnot realize it, because it was too terrible to him to realize his\nactual position, and he shut down and locked and sealed up in his heart\nthat secret place where lay hid his feelings towards his family, that\nis, his wife and son. He who had been such a careful father, had from\nthe end of that winter become peculiarly frigid to his son, and adopted\nto him just the same bantering tone he used with his wife.  Aha, young\nman!  was the greeting with which he met him.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch asserted and believed that he had never in any\nprevious year had so much official business as that year. But he was\nnot aware that he sought work for himself that year, that this was one\nof the means for keeping shut that secret place where lay hid his\nfeelings towards his wife and son and his thoughts about them, which\nbecame more terrible the longer they lay there. If anyone had had the\nright to ask Alexey Alexandrovitch what he thought of his wife s\nbehavior, the mild and peaceable Alexey Alexandrovitch would have made\nno answer, but he would have been greatly angered with any man who\nshould question him on that subject. For this reason there positively\ncame into Alexey Alexandrovitch s face a look of haughtiness and\nseverity whenever anyone inquired after his wife s health. Alexey\nAlexandrovitch did not want to think at all about his wife s behavior,\nand he actually succeeded in not thinking about it at all.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch s permanent summer villa was in Peterhof, and the\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna used as a rule to spend the summer there, close\nto Anna, and constantly seeing her. That year Countess Lidia Ivanovna\ndeclined to settle in Peterhof, was not once at Anna Arkadyevna s, and\nin conversation with Alexey Alexandrovitch hinted at the unsuitability\nof Anna s close intimacy with Betsy and Vronsky. Alexey Alexandrovitch\nsternly cut her short, roundly declaring his wife to be above\nsuspicion, and from that time began to avoid Countess Lidia Ivanovna.\nHe did not want to see, and did not see, that many people in society\ncast dubious glances on his wife; he did not want to understand, and\ndid not understand, why his wife had so particularly insisted on\nstaying at Tsarskoe, where Betsy was staying, and not far from the camp\nof Vronsky s regiment. He did not allow himself to think about it, and\nhe did not think about it; but all the same though he never admitted it\nto himself, and had no proofs, not even suspicious evidence, in the\nbottom of his heart he knew beyond all doubt that he was a deceived\nhusband, and he was profoundly miserable about it.\n\nHow often during those eight years of happy life with his wife Alexey\nAlexandrovitch had looked at other men s faithless wives and other\ndeceived husbands and asked himself:  How can people descend to that?\nhow is it they don t put an end to such a hideous position?  But now,\nwhen the misfortune had come upon himself, he was so far from thinking\nof putting an end to the position that he would not recognize it at\nall, would not recognize it just because it was too awful, too\nunnatural.\n\nSince his return from abroad Alexey Alexandrovitch had twice been at\ntheir country villa. Once he dined there, another time he spent the\nevening there with a party of friends, but he had not once stayed the\nnight there, as it had been his habit to do in previous years.\n\nThe day of the races had been a very busy day for Alexey\nAlexandrovitch; but when mentally sketching out the day in the morning,\nhe made up his mind to go to their country house to see his wife\nimmediately after dinner, and from there to the races, which all the\nCourt were to witness, and at which he was bound to be present. He was\ngoing to see his wife, because he had determined to see her once a week\nto keep up appearances. And besides, on that day, as it was the\nfifteenth, he had to give his wife some money for her expenses,\naccording to their usual arrangement.\n\nWith his habitual control over his thoughts, though he thought all this\nabout his wife, he did not let his thoughts stray further in regard to\nher.\n\nThat morning was a very full one for Alexey Alexandrovitch. The evening\nbefore, Countess Lidia Ivanovna had sent him a pamphlet by a celebrated\ntraveler in China, who was staying in Petersburg, and with it she\nenclosed a note begging him to see the traveler himself, as he was an\nextremely interesting person from various points of view, and likely to\nbe useful. Alexey Alexandrovitch had not had time to read the pamphlet\nthrough in the evening, and finished it in the morning. Then people\nbegan arriving with petitions, and there came the reports, interviews,\nappointments, dismissals, apportionment of rewards, pensions, grants,\nnotes, the workaday round, as Alexey Alexandrovitch called it, that\nalways took up so much time. Then there was private business of his\nown, a visit from the doctor and the steward who managed his property.\nThe steward did not take up much time. He simply gave Alexey\nAlexandrovitch the money he needed together with a brief statement of\nthe position of his affairs, which was not altogether satisfactory, as\nit had happened that during that year, owing to increased expenses,\nmore had been paid out than usual, and there was a deficit. But the\ndoctor, a celebrated Petersburg doctor, who was an intimate\nacquaintance of Alexey Alexandrovitch, took up a great deal of time.\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had not expected him that day, and was surprised\nat his visit, and still more so when the doctor questioned him very\ncarefully about his health, listened to his breathing, and tapped at\nhis liver. Alexey Alexandrovitch did not know that his friend Lidia\nIvanovna, noticing that he was not as well as usual that year, had\nbegged the doctor to go and examine him.  Do this for my sake,  the\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna had said to him.\n\n I will do it for the sake of Russia, countess,  replied the doctor.\n\n A priceless man!  said the Countess Lidia Ivanovna.\n\nThe doctor was extremely dissatisfied with Alexey Alexandrovitch. He\nfound the liver considerably enlarged, and the digestive powers\nweakened, while the course of mineral waters had been quite without\neffect. He prescribed more physical exercise as far as possible, and as\nfar as possible less mental strain, and above all no worry in other\nwords, just what was as much out of Alexey Alexandrovitch s power as\nabstaining from breathing. Then he withdrew, leaving in Alexey\nAlexandrovitch an unpleasant sense that something was wrong with him,\nand that there was no chance of curing it.\n\nAs he was coming away, the doctor chanced to meet on the staircase an\nacquaintance of his, Sludin, who was secretary of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch s department. They had been comrades at the university,\nand though they rarely met, they thought highly of each other and were\nexcellent friends, and so there was no one to whom the doctor would\nhave given his opinion of a patient so freely as to Sludin.\n\n How glad I am you ve been seeing him!  said Sludin.  He s not well,\nand I fancy.... Well, what do you think of him? \n\n I ll tell you,  said the doctor, beckoning over Sludin s head to his\ncoachman to bring the carriage round.  It s just this,  said the\ndoctor, taking a finger of his kid glove in his white hands and pulling\nit,  if you don t strain the strings, and then try to break them,\nyou ll find it a difficult job; but strain a string to its very utmost,\nand the mere weight of one finger on the strained string will snap it.\nAnd with his close assiduity, his conscientious devotion to his work,\nhe s strained to the utmost; and there s some outside burden weighing\non him, and not a light one,  concluded the doctor, raising his\neyebrows significantly.  Will you be at the races?  he added, as he\nsank into his seat in the carriage.\n\n Yes, yes, to be sure; it does waste a lot of time,  the doctor\nresponded vaguely to some reply of Sludin s he had not caught.\n\nDirectly after the doctor, who had taken up so much time, came the\ncelebrated traveler, and Alexey Alexandrovitch, by means of the\npamphlet he had only just finished reading and his previous\nacquaintance with the subject, impressed the traveler by the depth of\nhis knowledge of the subject and the breadth and enlightenment of his\nview of it.\n\nAt the same time as the traveler there was announced a provincial\nmarshal of nobility on a visit to Petersburg, with whom Alexey\nAlexandrovitch had to have some conversation. After his departure, he\nhad to finish the daily routine of business with his secretary, and\nthen he still had to drive round to call on a certain great personage\non a matter of grave and serious import. Alexey Alexandrovitch only\njust managed to be back by five o clock, his dinner-hour, and after\ndining with his secretary, he invited him to drive with him to his\ncountry villa and to the races.\n\nThough he did not acknowledge it to himself, Alexey Alexandrovitch\nalways tried nowadays to secure the presence of a third person in his\ninterviews with his wife.\n\n\nChapter 27\n\nAnna was upstairs, standing before the looking-glass, and, with\nAnnushka s assistance, pinning the last ribbon on her gown when she\nheard carriage wheels crunching the gravel at the entrance.\n\n It s too early for Betsy,  she thought, and glancing out of the window\nshe caught sight of the carriage and the black hat of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, and the ears that she knew so well sticking up each\nside of it.  How unlucky! Can he be going to stay the night?  she\nwondered, and the thought of all that might come of such a chance\nstruck her as so awful and terrible that, without dwelling on it for a\nmoment, she went down to meet him with a bright and radiant face; and\nconscious of the presence of that spirit of falsehood and deceit in\nherself that she had come to know of late, she abandoned herself to\nthat spirit and began talking, hardly knowing what she was saying.\n\n Ah, how nice of you!  she said, giving her husband her hand, and\ngreeting Sludin, who was like one of the family, with a smile.  You re\nstaying the night, I hope?  was the first word the spirit of falsehood\nprompted her to utter;  and now we ll go together. Only it s a pity\nI ve promised Betsy. She s coming for me. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch knit his brows at Betsy s name.\n\n Oh, I m not going to separate the inseparables,  he said in his usual\nbantering tone.  I m going with Mihail Vassilievitch. I m ordered\nexercise by the doctors too. I ll walk, and fancy myself at the springs\nagain. \n\n There s no hurry,  said Anna.  Would you like tea? \n\nShe rang.\n\n Bring in tea, and tell Seryozha that Alexey Alexandrovitch is here.\nWell, tell me, how have you been? Mihail Vassilievitch, you ve not been\nto see me before. Look how lovely it is out on the terrace,  she said,\nturning first to one and then to the other.\n\nShe spoke very simply and naturally, but too much and too fast. She was\nthe more aware of this from noticing in the inquisitive look Mihail\nVassilievitch turned on her that he was, as it were, keeping watch on\nher.\n\nMihail Vassilievitch promptly went out on the terrace.\n\nShe sat down beside her husband.\n\n You don t look quite well,  she said.\n\n Yes,  he said;  the doctor s been with me today and wasted an hour of\nmy time. I feel that someone of our friends must have sent him: my\nhealth s so precious, it seems. \n\n No; what did he say? \n\nShe questioned him about his health and what he had been doing, and\ntried to persuade him to take a rest and come out to her.\n\nAll this she said brightly, rapidly, and with a peculiar brilliance in\nher eyes. But Alexey Alexandrovitch did not now attach any special\nsignificance to this tone of hers. He heard only her words and gave\nthem only the direct sense they bore. And he answered simply, though\njestingly. There was nothing remarkable in all this conversation, but\nnever after could Anna recall this brief scene without an agonizing\npang of shame.\n\nSeryozha came in preceded by his governess. If Alexey Alexandrovitch\nhad allowed himself to observe he would have noticed the timid and\nbewildered eyes with which Seryozha glanced first at his father and\nthen at his mother. But he would not see anything, and he did not see\nit.\n\n Ah, the young man! He s grown. Really, he s getting quite a man. How\nare you, young man? \n\nAnd he gave his hand to the scared child. Seryozha had been shy of his\nfather before, and now, ever since Alexey Alexandrovitch had taken to\ncalling him young man, and since that insoluble question had occurred\nto him whether Vronsky were a friend or a foe, he avoided his father.\nHe looked round towards his mother as though seeking shelter. It was\nonly with his mother that he was at ease. Meanwhile, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch was holding his son by the shoulder while he was\nspeaking to the governess, and Seryozha was so miserably uncomfortable\nthat Anna saw he was on the point of tears.\n\nAnna, who had flushed a little the instant her son came in, noticing\nthat Seryozha was uncomfortable, got up hurriedly, took Alexey\nAlexandrovitch s hand from her son s shoulder, and kissing the boy, led\nhim out onto the terrace, and quickly came back.\n\n It s time to start, though,  said she, glancing at her watch.  How is\nit Betsy doesn t come?... \n\n Yes,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, and getting up, he folded his hands\nand cracked his fingers.  I ve come to bring you some money, too, for\nnightingales, we know, can t live on fairy tales,  he said.  You want\nit, I expect? \n\n No, I don t ... yes, I do,  she said, not looking at him, and\ncrimsoning to the roots of her hair.  But you ll come back here after\nthe races, I suppose? \n\n Oh, yes!  answered Alexey Alexandrovitch.  And here s the glory of\nPeterhof, Princess Tverskaya,  he added, looking out of the window at\nthe elegant English carriage with the tiny seats placed extremely high.\n What elegance! Charming! Well, let us be starting too, then. \n\nPrincess Tverskaya did not get out of her carriage, but her groom, in\nhigh boots, a cape, and black hat, darted out at the entrance.\n\n I m going; good-bye!  said Anna, and kissing her son, she went up to\nAlexey Alexandrovitch and held out her hand to him.  It was ever so\nnice of you to come. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch kissed her hand.\n\n Well, _au revoir_, then! You ll come back for some tea; that s\ndelightful!  she said, and went out, gay and radiant. But as soon as\nshe no longer saw him, she was aware of the spot on her hand that his\nlips had touched, and she shuddered with repulsion.\n\n\nChapter 28\n\nWhen Alexey Alexandrovitch reached the race-course, Anna was already\nsitting in the pavilion beside Betsy, in that pavilion where all the\nhighest society had gathered. She caught sight of her husband in the\ndistance. Two men, her husband and her lover, were the two centers of\nher existence, and unaided by her external senses she was aware of\ntheir nearness. She was aware of her husband approaching a long way\noff, and she could not help following him in the surging crowd in the\nmidst of which he was moving. She watched his progress towards the\npavilion, saw him now responding condescendingly to an ingratiating\nbow, now exchanging friendly, nonchalant greetings with his equals, now\nassiduously trying to catch the eye of some great one of this world,\nand taking off his big round hat that squeezed the tips of his ears.\nAll these ways of his she knew, and all were hateful to her.  Nothing\nbut ambition, nothing but the desire to get on, that s all there is in\nhis soul,  she thought;  as for these lofty ideals, love of culture,\nreligion, they are only so many tools for getting on. \n\nFrom his glances towards the ladies  pavilion (he was staring straight\nat her, but did not distinguish his wife in the sea of muslin, ribbons,\nfeathers, parasols and flowers) she saw that he was looking for her,\nbut she purposely avoided noticing him.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch!  Princess Betsy called to him;  I m sure you\ndon t see your wife: here she is. \n\nHe smiled his chilly smile.\n\n There s so much splendor here that one s eyes are dazzled,  he said,\nand he went into the pavilion. He smiled to his wife as a man should\nsmile on meeting his wife after only just parting from her, and greeted\nthe princess and other acquaintances, giving to each what was due that\nis to say, jesting with the ladies and dealing out friendly greetings\namong the men. Below, near the pavilion, was standing an\nadjutant-general of whom Alexey Alexandrovitch had a high opinion,\nnoted for his intelligence and culture. Alexey Alexandrovitch entered\ninto conversation with him.\n\nThere was an interval between the races, and so nothing hindered\nconversation. The adjutant-general expressed his disapproval of races.\nAlexey Alexandrovitch replied defending them. Anna heard his high,\nmeasured tones, not losing one word, and every word struck her as\nfalse, and stabbed her ears with pain.\n\nWhen the three-mile steeplechase was beginning, she bent forward and\ngazed with fixed eyes at Vronsky as he went up to his horse and\nmounted, and at the same time she heard that loathsome, never-ceasing\nvoice of her husband. She was in an agony of terror for Vronsky, but a\nstill greater agony was the never-ceasing, as it seemed to her, stream\nof her husband s shrill voice with its familiar intonations.\n\n I m a wicked woman, a lost woman,  she thought;  but I don t like\nlying, I can t endure falsehood, while as for _him_ (her husband) it s\nthe breath of his life falsehood. He knows all about it, he sees it\nall; what does he care if he can talk so calmly? If he were to kill me,\nif he were to kill Vronsky, I might respect him. No, all he wants is\nfalsehood and propriety,  Anna said to herself, not considering exactly\nwhat it was she wanted of her husband, and how she would have liked to\nsee him behave. She did not understand either that Alexey\nAlexandrovitch s peculiar loquacity that day, so exasperating to her,\nwas merely the expression of his inward distress and uneasiness. As a\nchild that has been hurt skips about, putting all his muscles into\nmovement to drown the pain, in the same way Alexey Alexandrovitch\nneeded mental exercise to drown the thoughts of his wife that in her\npresence and in Vronsky s, and with the continual iteration of his\nname, would force themselves on his attention. And it was as natural\nfor him to talk well and cleverly, as it is natural for a child to skip\nabout. He was saying:\n\n Danger in the races of officers, of cavalry men, is an essential\nelement in the race. If England can point to the most brilliant feats\nof cavalry in military history, it is simply owing to the fact that she\nhas historically developed this force both in beasts and in men. Sport\nhas, in my opinion, a great value, and as is always the case, we see\nnothing but what is most superficial. \n\n It s not superficial,  said Princess Tverskaya.  One of the officers,\nthey say, has broken two ribs. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch smiled his smile, which uncovered his teeth, but\nrevealed nothing more.\n\n We ll admit, princess, that that s not superficial,  he said,  but\ninternal. But that s not the point,  and he turned again to the general\nwith whom he was talking seriously;  we mustn t forget that those who\nare taking part in the race are military men, who have chosen that\ncareer, and one must allow that every calling has its disagreeable\nside. It forms an integral part of the duties of an officer. Low\nsports, such as prize-fighting or Spanish bull-fights, are a sign of\nbarbarity. But specialized trials of skill are a sign of development. \n\n No, I shan t come another time; it s too upsetting,  said Princess\nBetsy.  Isn t it, Anna? \n\n It is upsetting, but one can t tear oneself away,  said another lady.\n If I d been a Roman woman I should never have missed a single circus. \n\nAnna said nothing, and keeping her opera-glass up, gazed always at the\nsame spot.\n\nAt that moment a tall general walked through the pavilion. Breaking off\nwhat he was saying, Alexey Alexandrovitch got up hurriedly, though with\ndignity, and bowed low to the general.\n\n You re not racing?  the officer asked, chaffing him.\n\n My race is a harder one,  Alexey Alexandrovitch responded\ndeferentially.\n\nAnd though the answer meant nothing, the general looked as though he\nhad heard a witty remark from a witty man, and fully relished _la\npointe de la sauce_.\n\n There are two aspects,  Alexey Alexandrovitch resumed:  those who take\npart and those who look on; and love for such spectacles is an\nunmistakable proof of a low degree of development in the spectator, I\nadmit, but.... \n\n Princess, bets!  sounded Stepan Arkadyevitch s voice from below,\naddressing Betsy.  Who s your favorite? \n\n Anna and I are for Kuzovlev,  replied Betsy.\n\n I m for Vronsky. A pair of gloves? \n\n Done! \n\n But it is a pretty sight, isn t it? \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch paused while there was talking about him, but he\nbegan again directly.\n\n I admit that manly sports do not....  he was continuing.\n\nBut at that moment the racers started, and all conversation ceased.\nAlexey Alexandrovitch too was silent, and everyone stood up and turned\ntowards the stream. Alexey Alexandrovitch took no interest in the race,\nand so he did not watch the racers, but fell listlessly to scanning the\nspectators with his weary eyes. His eyes rested upon Anna.\n\nHer face was white and set. She was obviously seeing nothing and no one\nbut one man. Her hand had convulsively clutched her fan, and she held\nher breath. He looked at her and hastily turned away, scrutinizing\nother faces.\n\n But here s this lady too, and others very much moved as well; it s\nvery natural,  Alexey Alexandrovitch told himself. He tried not to look\nat her, but unconsciously his eyes were drawn to her. He examined that\nface again, trying not to read what was so plainly written on it, and\nagainst his own will, with horror read on it what he did not want to\nknow.\n\nThe first fall Kuzovlev s, at the stream agitated everyone, but Alexey\nAlexandrovitch saw distinctly on Anna s pale, triumphant face that the\nman she was watching had not fallen. When, after Mahotin and Vronsky\nhad cleared the worst barrier, the next officer had been thrown\nstraight on his head at it and fatally injured, and a shudder of horror\npassed over the whole public, Alexey Alexandrovitch saw that Anna did\nnot even notice it, and had some difficulty in realizing what they were\ntalking of about her. But more and more often, and with greater\npersistence, he watched her. Anna, wholly engrossed as she was with the\nrace, became aware of her husband s cold eyes fixed upon her from one\nside.\n\nShe glanced round for an instant, looked inquiringly at him, and with a\nslight frown turned away again.\n\n Ah, I don t care!  she seemed to say to him, and she did not once\nglance at him again.\n\nThe race was an unlucky one, and of the seventeen officers who rode in\nit more than half were thrown and hurt. Towards the end of the race\neveryone was in a state of agitation, which was intensified by the fact\nthat the Tsar was displeased.\n\n\nChapter 29\n\nEveryone was loudly expressing disapprobation, everyone was repeating a\nphrase someone had uttered The lions and gladiators will be the next\nthing,  and everyone was feeling horrified; so that when Vronsky fell\nto the ground, and Anna moaned aloud, there was nothing very out of the\nway in it. But afterwards a change came over Anna s face which really\nwas beyond decorum. She utterly lost her head. She began fluttering\nlike a caged bird, at one moment would have got up and moved away, at\nthe next turned to Betsy.\n\n Let us go, let us go!  she said.\n\nBut Betsy did not hear her. She was bending down, talking to a general\nwho had come up to her.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch went up to Anna and courteously offered her his\narm.\n\n Let us go, if you like,  he said in French, but Anna was listening to\nthe general and did not notice her husband.\n\n He s broken his leg too, so they say,  the general was saying.  This\nis beyond everything. \n\nWithout answering her husband, Anna lifted her opera-glass and gazed\ntowards the place where Vronsky had fallen; but it was so far off, and\nthere was such a crowd of people about it, that she could make out\nnothing. She laid down the opera-glass, and would have moved away, but\nat that moment an officer galloped up and made some announcement to the\nTsar. Anna craned forward, listening.\n\n Stiva! Stiva!  she cried to her brother.\n\nBut her brother did not hear her. Again she would have moved away.\n\n Once more I offer you my arm if you want to be going,  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, reaching towards her hand.\n\nShe drew back from him with aversion, and without looking in his face\nanswered:\n\n No, no, let me be, I ll stay. \n\nShe saw now that from the place of Vronsky s accident an officer was\nrunning across the course towards the pavilion. Betsy waved her\nhandkerchief to him. The officer brought the news that the rider was\nnot killed, but the horse had broken its back.\n\nOn hearing this Anna sat down hurriedly, and hid her face in her fan.\nAlexey Alexandrovitch saw that she was weeping, and could not control\nher tears, nor even the sobs that were shaking her bosom. Alexey\nAlexandrovitch stood so as to screen her, giving her time to recover\nherself.\n\n For the third time I offer you my arm,  he said to her after a little\ntime, turning to her. Anna gazed at him and did not know what to say.\nPrincess Betsy came to her rescue.\n\n No, Alexey Alexandrovitch; I brought Anna and I promised to take her\nhome,  put in Betsy.\n\n Excuse me, princess,  he said, smiling courteously but looking her\nvery firmly in the face,  but I see that Anna s not very well, and I\nwish her to come home with me. \n\nAnna looked about her in a frightened way, got up submissively, and\nlaid her hand on her husband s arm.\n\n I ll send to him and find out, and let you know,  Betsy whispered to\nher.\n\nAs they left the pavilion, Alexey Alexandrovitch, as always, talked to\nthose he met, and Anna had, as always, to talk and answer; but she was\nutterly beside herself, and moved hanging on her husband s arm as\nthough in a dream.\n\n Is he killed or not? Is it true? Will he come or not? Shall I see him\ntoday?  she was thinking.\n\nShe took her seat in her husband s carriage in silence, and in silence\ndrove out of the crowd of carriages. In spite of all he had seen,\nAlexey Alexandrovitch still did not allow himself to consider his\nwife s real condition. He merely saw the outward symptoms. He saw that\nshe was behaving unbecomingly, and considered it his duty to tell her\nso. But it was very difficult for him not to say more, to tell her\nnothing but that. He opened his mouth to tell her she had behaved\nunbecomingly, but he could not help saying something utterly different.\n\n What an inclination we all have, though, for these cruel spectacles, \nhe said.  I observe.... \n\n Eh? I don t understand,  said Anna contemptuously.\n\nHe was offended, and at once began to say what he had meant to say.\n\n I am obliged to tell you,  he began.\n\n So now we are to have it out,  she thought, and she felt frightened.\n\n I am obliged to tell you that your behavior has been unbecoming\ntoday,  he said to her in French.\n\n In what way has my behavior been unbecoming?  she said aloud, turning\nher head swiftly and looking him straight in the face, not with the\nbright expression that seemed covering something, but with a look of\ndetermination, under which she concealed with difficulty the dismay she\nwas feeling.\n\n Mind,  he said, pointing to the open window opposite the coachman.\n\nHe got up and pulled up the window.\n\n What did you consider unbecoming?  she repeated.\n\n The despair you were unable to conceal at the accident to one of the\nriders. \n\nHe waited for her to answer, but she was silent, looking straight\nbefore her.\n\n I have already begged you so to conduct yourself in society that even\nmalicious tongues can find nothing to say against you. There was a time\nwhen I spoke of your inward attitude, but I am not speaking of that\nnow. Now I speak only of your external attitude. You have behaved\nimproperly, and I would wish it not to occur again. \n\nShe did not hear half of what he was saying; she felt panic-stricken\nbefore him, and was thinking whether it was true that Vronsky was not\nkilled. Was it of him they were speaking when they said the rider was\nunhurt, but the horse had broken its back? She merely smiled with a\npretense of irony when he finished, and made no reply, because she had\nnot heard what he said. Alexey Alexandrovitch had begun to speak\nboldly, but as he realized plainly what he was speaking of, the dismay\nshe was feeling infected him too. He saw the smile, and a strange\nmisapprehension came over him.\n\n She is smiling at my suspicions. Yes, she will tell me directly what\nshe told me before; that there is no foundation for my suspicions, that\nit s absurd. \n\nAt that moment, when the revelation of everything was hanging over him,\nthere was nothing he expected so much as that she would answer\nmockingly as before that his suspicions were absurd and utterly\ngroundless. So terrible to him was what he knew that now he was ready\nto believe anything. But the expression of her face, scared and gloomy,\ndid not now promise even deception.\n\n Possibly I was mistaken,  said he.  If so, I beg your pardon. \n\n No, you were not mistaken,  she said deliberately, looking desperately\ninto his cold face.  You were not mistaken. I was, and I could not help\nbeing in despair. I hear you, but I am thinking of him. I love him, I\nam his mistress; I can t bear you; I m afraid of you, and I hate\nyou.... You can do what you like to me. \n\nAnd dropping back into the corner of the carriage, she broke into sobs,\nhiding her face in her hands. Alexey Alexandrovitch did not stir, and\nkept looking straight before him. But his whole face suddenly bore the\nsolemn rigidity of the dead, and his expression did not change during\nthe whole time of the drive home. On reaching the house he turned his\nhead to her, still with the same expression.\n\n Very well! But I expect a strict observance of the external forms of\npropriety till such time his voice shook as I may take measures to\nsecure my honor and communicate them to you. \n\nHe got out first and helped her to get out. Before the servants he\npressed her hand, took his seat in the carriage, and drove back to\nPetersburg. Immediately afterwards a footman came from Princess Betsy\nand brought Anna a note.\n\n I sent to Alexey to find out how he is, and he writes me he is quite\nwell and unhurt, but in despair. \n\n So _he_ will be here,  she thought.  What a good thing I told him\nall! \n\nShe glanced at her watch. She had still three hours to wait, and the\nmemories of their last meeting set her blood in flame.\n\n My God, how light it is! It s dreadful, but I do love to see his face,\nand I do love this fantastic light.... My husband! Oh! yes.... Well,\nthank God! everything s over with him. \n\n\nChapter 30\n\nIn the little German watering-place to which the Shtcherbatskys had\nbetaken themselves, as in all places indeed where people are gathered\ntogether, the usual process, as it were, of the crystallization of\nsociety went on, assigning to each member of that society a definite\nand unalterable place. Just as the particle of water in frost,\ndefinitely and unalterably, takes the special form of the crystal of\nsnow, so each new person that arrived at the springs was at once placed\nin his special place.\n\n_F rst_ Shtcherbatsky, _sammt Gemahlin und Tochter_, by the apartments\nthey took, and from their name and from the friends they made, were\nimmediately crystallized into a definite place marked out for them.\n\nThere was visiting the watering-place that year a real German F rstin,\nin consequence of which the crystallizing process went on more\nvigorously than ever. Princess Shtcherbatskaya wished, above\neverything, to present her daughter to this German princess, and the\nday after their arrival she duly performed this rite. Kitty made a low\nand graceful curtsey in the _very simple_, that is to say, very elegant\nfrock that had been ordered her from Paris. The German princess said,\n I hope the roses will soon come back to this pretty little face,  and\nfor the Shtcherbatskys certain definite lines of existence were at once\nlaid down from which there was no departing. The Shtcherbatskys made\nthe acquaintance too of the family of an English Lady Somebody, and of\na German countess and her son, wounded in the last war, and of a\nlearned Swede, and of M. Canut and his sister. But yet inevitably the\nShtcherbatskys were thrown most into the society of a Moscow lady,\nMarya Yevgenyevna Rtishtcheva and her daughter, whom Kitty disliked,\nbecause she had fallen ill, like herself, over a love affair, and a\nMoscow colonel, whom Kitty had known from childhood, and always seen in\nuniform and epaulets, and who now, with his little eyes and his open\nneck and flowered cravat, was uncommonly ridiculous and tedious,\nbecause there was no getting rid of him. When all this was so firmly\nestablished, Kitty began to be very much bored, especially as the\nprince went away to Carlsbad and she was left alone with her mother.\nShe took no interest in the people she knew, feeling that nothing fresh\nwould come of them. Her chief mental interest in the watering-place\nconsisted in watching and making theories about the people she did not\nknow. It was characteristic of Kitty that she always imagined\neverything in people in the most favorable light possible, especially\nso in those she did not know. And now as she made surmises as to who\npeople were, what were their relations to one another, and what they\nwere like, Kitty endowed them with the most marvelous and noble\ncharacters, and found confirmation of her idea in her observations.\n\nOf these people the one that attracted her most was a Russian girl who\nhad come to the watering-place with an invalid Russian lady, Madame\nStahl, as everyone called her. Madame Stahl belonged to the highest\nsociety, but she was so ill that she could not walk, and only on\nexceptionally fine days made her appearance at the springs in an\ninvalid carriage. But it was not so much from ill-health as from\npride so Princess Shtcherbatskaya interpreted it that Madame Stahl had\nnot made the acquaintance of anyone among the Russians there. The\nRussian girl looked after Madame Stahl, and besides that, she was, as\nKitty observed, on friendly terms with all the invalids who were\nseriously ill, and there were many of them at the springs, and looked\nafter them in the most natural way. This Russian girl was not, as Kitty\ngathered, related to Madame Stahl, nor was she a paid attendant. Madame\nStahl called her Varenka, and other people called her  Mademoiselle\nVarenka.  Apart from the interest Kitty took in this girl s relations\nwith Madame Stahl and with other unknown persons, Kitty, as often\nhappened, felt an inexplicable attraction to Mademoiselle Varenka, and\nwas aware when their eyes met that she too liked her.\n\nOf Mademoiselle Varenka one would not say that she had passed her first\nyouth, but she was, as it were, a creature without youth; she might\nhave been taken for nineteen or for thirty. If her features were\ncriticized separately, she was handsome rather than plain, in spite of\nthe sickly hue of her face. She would have been a good figure, too, if\nit had not been for her extreme thinness and the size of her head,\nwhich was too large for her medium height. But she was not likely to be\nattractive to men. She was like a fine flower, already past its bloom\nand without fragrance, though the petals were still unwithered.\nMoreover, she would have been unattractive to men also from the lack of\njust what Kitty had too much of of the suppressed fire of vitality, and\nthe consciousness of her own attractiveness.\n\nShe always seemed absorbed in work about which there could be no doubt,\nand so it seemed she could not take interest in anything outside it. It\nwas just this contrast with her own position that was for Kitty the\ngreat attraction of Mademoiselle Varenka. Kitty felt that in her, in\nher manner of life, she would find an example of what she was now so\npainfully seeking: interest in life, a dignity in life apart from the\nworldly relations of girls with men, which so revolted Kitty, and\nappeared to her now as a shameful hawking about of goods in search of a\npurchaser. The more attentively Kitty watched her unknown friend, the\nmore convinced she was this girl was the perfect creature she fancied\nher, and the more eagerly she wished to make her acquaintance.\n\nThe two girls used to meet several times a day, and every time they\nmet, Kitty s eyes said:  Who are you? What are you? Are you really the\nexquisite creature I imagine you to be? But for goodness  sake don t\nsuppose,  her eyes added,  that I would force my acquaintance on you, I\nsimply admire you and like you.   I like you too, and you re very, very\nsweet. And I should like you better still, if I had time,  answered the\neyes of the unknown girl. Kitty saw indeed, that she was always busy.\nEither she was taking the children of a Russian family home from the\nsprings, or fetching a shawl for a sick lady, and wrapping her up in\nit, or trying to interest an irritable invalid, or selecting and buying\ncakes for tea for someone.\n\nSoon after the arrival of the Shtcherbatskys there appeared in the\nmorning crowd at the springs two persons who attracted universal and\nunfavorable attention. These were a tall man with a stooping figure,\nand huge hands, in an old coat too short for him, with black, simple,\nand yet terrible eyes, and a pockmarked, kind-looking woman, very badly\nand tastelessly dressed. Recognizing these persons as Russians, Kitty\nhad already in her imagination begun constructing a delightful and\ntouching romance about them. But the princess, having ascertained from\nthe visitors  list that this was Nikolay Levin and Marya Nikolaevna,\nexplained to Kitty what a bad man this Levin was, and all her fancies\nabout these two people vanished. Not so much from what her mother told\nher, as from the fact that it was Konstantin s brother, this pair\nsuddenly seemed to Kitty intensely unpleasant. This Levin, with his\ncontinual twitching of his head, aroused in her now an irrepressible\nfeeling of disgust.\n\nIt seemed to her that his big, terrible eyes, which persistently\npursued her, expressed a feeling of hatred and contempt, and she tried\nto avoid meeting him.\n\n\nChapter 31\n\nIt was a wet day; it had been raining all the morning, and the\ninvalids, with their parasols, had flocked into the arcades.\n\nKitty was walking there with her mother and the Moscow colonel, smart\nand jaunty in his European coat, bought ready-made at Frankfort. They\nwere walking on one side of the arcade, trying to avoid Levin, who was\nwalking on the other side. Varenka, in her dark dress, in a black hat\nwith a turn-down brim, was walking up and down the whole length of the\narcade with a blind Frenchwoman, and, every time she met Kitty, they\nexchanged friendly glances.\n\n Mamma, couldn t I speak to her?  said Kitty, watching her unknown\nfriend, and noticing that she was going up to the spring, and that they\nmight come there together.\n\n Oh, if you want to so much, I ll find out about her first and make her\nacquaintance myself,  answered her mother.  What do you see in her out\nof the way? A companion, she must be. If you like, I ll make\nacquaintance with Madame Stahl; I used to know her _belle-s ur_,  added\nthe princess, lifting her head haughtily.\n\nKitty knew that the princess was offended that Madame Stahl had seemed\nto avoid making her acquaintance. Kitty did not insist.\n\n How wonderfully sweet she is!  she said, gazing at Varenka just as she\nhanded a glass to the Frenchwoman.  Look how natural and sweet it all\nis. \n\n It s so funny to see your _engouements_,  said the princess.  No, we d\nbetter go back,  she added, noticing Levin coming towards them with his\ncompanion and a German doctor, to whom he was talking very noisily and\nangrily.\n\nThey turned to go back, when suddenly they heard, not noisy talk, but\nshouting. Levin, stopping short, was shouting at the doctor, and the\ndoctor, too, was excited. A crowd gathered about them. The princess and\nKitty beat a hasty retreat, while the colonel joined the crowd to find\nout what was the matter.\n\nA few minutes later the colonel overtook them.\n\n What was it?  inquired the princess.\n\n Scandalous and disgraceful!  answered the colonel.  The one thing to\nbe dreaded is meeting Russians abroad. That tall gentleman was abusing\nthe doctor, flinging all sorts of insults at him because he wasn t\ntreating him quite as he liked, and he began waving his stick at him.\nIt s simply a scandal! \n\n Oh, how unpleasant!  said the princess.  Well, and how did it end? \n\n Luckily at that point that ... the one in the mushroom hat ...\nintervened. A Russian lady, I think she is,  said the colonel.\n\n Mademoiselle Varenka?  asked Kitty.\n\n Yes, yes. She came to the rescue before anyone; she took the man by\nthe arm and led him away. \n\n There, mamma,  said Kitty;  you wonder that I m enthusiastic about\nher. \n\nThe next day, as she watched her unknown friend, Kitty noticed that\nMademoiselle Varenka was already on the same terms with Levin and his\ncompanion as with her other _prot g s_. She went up to them, entered\ninto conversation with them, and served as interpreter for the woman,\nwho could not speak any foreign language.\n\nKitty began to entreat her mother still more urgently to let her make\nfriends with Varenka. And, disagreeable as it was to the princess to\nseem to take the first step in wishing to make the acquaintance of\nMadame Stahl, who thought fit to give herself airs, she made inquiries\nabout Varenka, and, having ascertained particulars about her tending to\nprove that there could be no harm though little good in the\nacquaintance, she herself approached Varenka and made acquaintance with\nher.\n\nChoosing a time when her daughter had gone to the spring, while Varenka\nhad stopped outside the baker s, the princess went up to her.\n\n Allow me to make your acquaintance,  she said, with her dignified\nsmile.  My daughter has lost her heart to you,  she said.  Possibly you\ndo not know me. I am.... \n\n That feeling is more than reciprocal, princess,  Varenka answered\nhurriedly.\n\n What a good deed you did yesterday to our poor compatriot!  said the\nprincess.\n\nVarenka flushed a little.  I don t remember. I don t think I did\nanything,  she said.\n\n Why, you saved that Levin from disagreeable consequences. \n\n Yes, _sa compagne_ called me, and I tried to pacify him, he s very\nill, and was dissatisfied with the doctor. I m used to looking after\nsuch invalids. \n\n Yes, I ve heard you live at Mentone with your aunt I think Madame\nStahl: I used to know her _belle-s ur_. \n\n No, she s not my aunt. I call her mamma, but I am not related to her;\nI was brought up by her,  answered Varenka, flushing a little again.\n\nThis was so simply said, and so sweet was the truthful and candid\nexpression of her face, that the princess saw why Kitty had taken such\na fancy to Varenka.\n\n Well, and what s this Levin going to do?  asked the princess.\n\n He s going away,  answered Varenka.\n\nAt that instant Kitty came up from the spring beaming with delight that\nher mother had become acquainted with her unknown friend.\n\n Well, see, Kitty, your intense desire to make friends with\nMademoiselle.... \n\n Varenka,  Varenka put in smiling,  that s what everyone calls me. \n\nKitty blushed with pleasure, and slowly, without speaking, pressed her\nnew friend s hand, which did not respond to her pressure, but lay\nmotionless in her hand. The hand did not respond to her pressure, but\nthe face of Mademoiselle Varenka glowed with a soft, glad, though\nrather mournful smile, that showed large but handsome teeth.\n\n I have long wished for this too,  she said.\n\n But you are so busy. \n\n Oh, no, I m not at all busy,  answered Varenka, but at that moment she\nhad to leave her new friends because two little Russian girls, children\nof an invalid, ran up to her.\n\n Varenka, mamma s calling!  they cried.\n\nAnd Varenka went after them.\n\n\nChapter 32\n\nThe particulars which the princess had learned in regard to Varenka s\npast and her relations with Madame Stahl were as follows:\n\nMadame Stahl, of whom some people said that she had worried her husband\nout of his life, while others said it was he who had made her wretched\nby his immoral behavior, had always been a woman of weak health and\nenthusiastic temperament. When, after her separation from her husband,\nshe gave birth to her only child, the child had died almost\nimmediately, and the family of Madame Stahl, knowing her sensibility,\nand fearing the news would kill her, had substituted another child, a\nbaby born the same night and in the same house in Petersburg, the\ndaughter of the chief cook of the Imperial Household. This was Varenka.\nMadame Stahl learned later on that Varenka was not her own child, but\nshe went on bringing her up, especially as very soon afterwards Varenka\nhad not a relation of her own living. Madame Stahl had now been living\nmore than ten years continuously abroad, in the south, never leaving\nher couch. And some people said that Madame Stahl had made her social\nposition as a philanthropic, highly religious woman; other people said\nshe really was at heart the highly ethical being, living for nothing\nbut the good of her fellow creatures, which she represented herself to\nbe. No one knew what her faith was Catholic, Protestant, or Orthodox.\nBut one fact was indubitable she was in amicable relations with the\nhighest dignitaries of all the churches and sects.\n\nVarenka lived with her all the while abroad, and everyone who knew\nMadame Stahl knew and liked Mademoiselle Varenka, as everyone called\nher.\n\nHaving learned all these facts, the princess found nothing to object to\nin her daughter s intimacy with Varenka, more especially as Varenka s\nbreeding and education were of the best she spoke French and English\nextremely well and what was of the most weight, brought a message from\nMadame Stahl expressing her regret that she was prevented by her ill\nhealth from making the acquaintance of the princess.\n\nAfter getting to know Varenka, Kitty became more and more fascinated by\nher friend, and every day she discovered new virtues in her.\n\nThe princess, hearing that Varenka had a good voice, asked her to come\nand sing to them in the evening.\n\n Kitty plays, and we have a piano; not a good one, it s true, but you\nwill give us so much pleasure,  said the princess with her affected\nsmile, which Kitty disliked particularly just then, because she noticed\nthat Varenka had no inclination to sing. Varenka came, however, in the\nevening and brought a roll of music with her. The princess had invited\nMarya Yevgenyevna and her daughter and the colonel.\n\nVarenka seemed quite unaffected by there being persons present she did\nnot know, and she went directly to the piano. She could not accompany\nherself, but she could sing music at sight very well. Kitty, who played\nwell, accompanied her.\n\n You have an extraordinary talent,  the princess said to her after\nVarenka had sung the first song extremely well.\n\nMarya Yevgenyevna and her daughter expressed their thanks and\nadmiration.\n\n Look,  said the colonel, looking out of the window,  what an audience\nhas collected to listen to you.  There actually was quite a\nconsiderable crowd under the windows.\n\n I am very glad it gives you pleasure,  Varenka answered simply.\n\nKitty looked with pride at her friend. She was enchanted by her talent,\nand her voice, and her face, but most of all by her manner, by the way\nVarenka obviously thought nothing of her singing and was quite unmoved\nby their praises. She seemed only to be asking:  Am I to sing again, or\nis that enough? \n\n If it had been I,  thought Kitty,  how proud I should have been! How\ndelighted I should have been to see that crowd under the windows! But\nshe s utterly unmoved by it. Her only motive is to avoid refusing and\nto please mamma. What is there in her? What is it gives her the power\nto look down on everything, to be calm independently of everything? How\nI should like to know it and to learn it of her!  thought Kitty, gazing\ninto her serene face. The princess asked Varenka to sing again, and\nVarenka sang another song, also smoothly, distinctly, and well,\nstanding erect at the piano and beating time on it with her thin,\ndark-skinned hand.\n\nThe next song in the book was an Italian one. Kitty played the opening\nbars, and looked round at Varenka.\n\n Let s skip that,  said Varenka, flushing a little. Kitty let her eyes\nrest on Varenka s face, with a look of dismay and inquiry.\n\n Very well, the next one,  she said hurriedly, turning over the pages,\nand at once feeling that there was something connected with the song.\n\n No,  answered Varenka with a smile, laying her hand on the music,  no,\nlet s have that one.  And she sang it just as quietly, as coolly, and\nas well as the others.\n\nWhen she had finished, they all thanked her again, and went off to tea.\nKitty and Varenka went out into the little garden that adjoined the\nhouse.\n\n Am I right, that you have some reminiscences connected with that\nsong?  said Kitty.  Don t tell me,  she added hastily,  only say if I m\nright. \n\n No, why not? I ll tell you simply,  said Varenka, and, without waiting\nfor a reply, she went on:  Yes, it brings up memories, once painful\nones. I cared for someone once, and I used to sing him that song. \n\nKitty with big, wide-open eyes gazed silently, sympathetically at\nVarenka.\n\n I cared for him, and he cared for me; but his mother did not wish it,\nand he married another girl. He s living now not far from us, and I see\nhim sometimes. You didn t think I had a love story too,  she said, and\nthere was a faint gleam in her handsome face of that fire which Kitty\nfelt must once have glowed all over her.\n\n I didn t think so? Why, if I were a man, I could never care for anyone\nelse after knowing you. Only I can t understand how he could, to please\nhis mother, forget you and make you unhappy; he had no heart. \n\n Oh, no, he s a very good man, and I m not unhappy; quite the contrary,\nI m very happy. Well, so we shan t be singing any more now,  she added,\nturning towards the house.\n\n How good you are! how good you are!  cried Kitty, and stopping her,\nshe kissed her.  If I could only be even a little like you! \n\n Why should you be like anyone? You re nice as you are,  said Varenka,\nsmiling her gentle, weary smile.\n\n No, I m not nice at all. Come, tell me.... Stop a minute, let s sit\ndown,  said Kitty, making her sit down again beside her.  Tell me,\nisn t it humiliating to think that a man has disdained your love, that\nhe hasn t cared for it?... \n\n But he didn t disdain it; I believe he cared for me, but he was a\ndutiful son.... \n\n Yes, but if it hadn t been on account of his mother, if it had been\nhis own doing?...  said Kitty, feeling she was giving away her secret,\nand that her face, burning with the flush of shame, had betrayed her\nalready.\n\n In that case he would have done wrong, and I should not have regretted\nhim,  answered Varenka, evidently realizing that they were now talking\nnot of her, but of Kitty.\n\n But the humiliation,  said Kitty,  the humiliation one can never\nforget, can never forget,  she said, remembering her look at the last\nball during the pause in the music.\n\n Where is the humiliation? Why, you did nothing wrong? \n\n Worse than wrong shameful. \n\nVarenka shook her head and laid her hand on Kitty s hand.\n\n Why, what is there shameful?  she said.  You didn t tell a man, who\ndidn t care for you, that you loved him, did you? \n\n Of course not; I never said a word, but he knew it. No, no, there are\nlooks, there are ways; I can t forget it, if I live a hundred years. \n\n Why so? I don t understand. The whole point is whether you love him\nnow or not,  said Varenka, who called everything by its name.\n\n I hate him; I can t forgive myself. \n\n Why, what for? \n\n The shame, the humiliation! \n\n Oh! if everyone were as sensitive as you are!  said Varenka.  There\nisn t a girl who hasn t been through the same. And it s all so\nunimportant. \n\n Why, what is important?  said Kitty, looking into her face with\ninquisitive wonder.\n\n Oh, there s so much that s important,  said Varenka, smiling.\n\n Why, what? \n\n Oh, so much that s more important,  answered Varenka, not knowing what\nto say. But at that instant they heard the princess s voice from the\nwindow.  Kitty, it s cold! Either get a shawl, or come indoors. \n\n It really is time to go in!  said Varenka, getting up.  I have to go\non to Madame Berthe s; she asked me to. \n\nKitty held her by the hand, and with passionate curiosity and entreaty\nher eyes asked her:  What is it, what is this of such importance that\ngives you such tranquillity? You know, tell me!  But Varenka did not\neven know what Kitty s eyes were asking her. She merely thought that\nshe had to go to see Madame Berthe too that evening, and to make haste\nhome in time for _maman s_ tea at twelve o clock. She went indoors,\ncollected her music, and saying good-bye to everyone, was about to go.\n\n Allow me to see you home,  said the colonel.\n\n Yes, how can you go alone at night like this?  chimed in the princess.\n Anyway, I ll send Parasha. \n\nKitty saw that Varenka could hardly restrain a smile at the idea that\nshe needed an escort.\n\n No, I always go about alone and nothing ever happens to me,  she said,\ntaking her hat. And kissing Kitty once more, without saying what was\nimportant, she stepped out courageously with the music under her arm\nand vanished into the twilight of the summer night, bearing away with\nher her secret of what was important and what gave her the calm and\ndignity so much to be envied.\n\n\nChapter 33\n\nKitty made the acquaintance of Madame Stahl too, and this acquaintance,\ntogether with her friendship with Varenka, did not merely exercise a\ngreat influence on her, it also comforted her in her mental distress.\nShe found this comfort through a completely new world being opened to\nher by means of this acquaintance, a world having nothing in common\nwith her past, an exalted, noble world, from the height of which she\ncould contemplate her past calmly. It was revealed to her that besides\nthe instinctive life to which Kitty had given herself up hitherto there\nwas a spiritual life. This life was disclosed in religion, but a\nreligion having nothing in common with that one which Kitty had known\nfrom childhood, and which found expression in litanies and all-night\nservices at the Widow s Home, where one might meet one s friends, and\nin learning by heart Slavonic texts with the priest. This was a lofty,\nmysterious religion connected with a whole series of noble thoughts and\nfeelings, which one could do more than merely believe because one was\ntold to, which one could love.\n\nKitty found all this out not from words. Madame Stahl talked to Kitty\nas to a charming child that one looks on with pleasure as on the memory\nof one s youth, and only once she said in passing that in all human\nsorrows nothing gives comfort but love and faith, and that in the sight\nof Christ s compassion for us no sorrow is trifling and immediately\ntalked of other things. But in every gesture of Madame Stahl, in every\nword, in every heavenly as Kitty called it look, and above all in the\nwhole story of her life, which she heard from Varenka, Kitty recognized\nthat something  that was important,  of which, till then, she had known\nnothing.\n\nYet, elevated as Madame Stahl s character was, touching as was her\nstory, and exalted and moving as was her speech, Kitty could not help\ndetecting in her some traits which perplexed her. She noticed that when\nquestioning her about her family, Madame Stahl had smiled\ncontemptuously, which was not in accord with Christian meekness. She\nnoticed, too, that when she had found a Catholic priest with her,\nMadame Stahl had studiously kept her face in the shadow of the\nlamp-shade and had smiled in a peculiar way. Trivial as these two\nobservations were, they perplexed her, and she had her doubts as to\nMadame Stahl. But on the other hand Varenka, alone in the world,\nwithout friends or relations, with a melancholy disappointment in the\npast, desiring nothing, regretting nothing, was just that perfection of\nwhich Kitty dared hardly dream. In Varenka she realized that one has\nbut to forget oneself and love others, and one will be calm, happy, and\nnoble. And that was what Kitty longed to be. Seeing now clearly what\nwas _the most important_, Kitty was not satisfied with being\nenthusiastic over it; she at once gave herself up with her whole soul\nto the new life that was opening to her. From Varenka s accounts of the\ndoings of Madame Stahl and other people whom she mentioned, Kitty had\nalready constructed the plan of her own future life. She would, like\nMadame Stahl s niece, Aline, of whom Varenka had talked to her a great\ndeal, seek out those who were in trouble, wherever she might be living,\nhelp them as far as she could, give them the Gospel, read the Gospel to\nthe sick, to criminals, to the dying. The idea of reading the Gospel to\ncriminals, as Aline did, particularly fascinated Kitty. But all these\nwere secret dreams, of which Kitty did not talk either to her mother or\nto Varenka.\n\nWhile awaiting the time for carrying out her plans on a large scale,\nhowever, Kitty, even then at the springs, where there were so many\npeople ill and unhappy, readily found a chance for practicing her new\nprinciples in imitation of Varenka.\n\nAt first the princess noticed nothing but that Kitty was much under the\ninfluence of her _engouement_, as she called it, for Madame Stahl, and\nstill more for Varenka. She saw that Kitty did not merely imitate\nVarenka in her conduct, but unconsciously imitated her in her manner of\nwalking, of talking, of blinking her eyes. But later on the princess\nnoticed that, apart from this adoration, some kind of serious spiritual\nchange was taking place in her daughter.\n\nThe princess saw that in the evenings Kitty read a French testament\nthat Madame Stahl had given her a thing she had never done before; that\nshe avoided society acquaintances and associated with the sick people\nwho were under Varenka s protection, and especially one poor family,\nthat of a sick painter, Petrov. Kitty was unmistakably proud of playing\nthe part of a sister of mercy in that family. All this was well enough,\nand the princess had nothing to say against it, especially as Petrov s\nwife was a perfectly nice sort of woman, and that the German princess,\nnoticing Kitty s devotion, praised her, calling her an angel of\nconsolation. All this would have been very well, if there had been no\nexaggeration. But the princess saw that her daughter was rushing into\nextremes, and so indeed she told her.\n\n _Il ne faut jamais rien outrer_,  she said to her.\n\nHer daughter made her no reply, only in her heart she thought that one\ncould not talk about exaggeration where Christianity was concerned.\nWhat exaggeration could there be in the practice of a doctrine wherein\none was bidden to turn the other cheek when one was smitten, and give\none s cloak if one s coat were taken? But the princess disliked this\nexaggeration, and disliked even more the fact that she felt her\ndaughter did not care to show her all her heart. Kitty did in fact\nconceal her new views and feelings from her mother. She concealed them\nnot because she did not respect or did not love her mother, but simply\nbecause she was her mother. She would have revealed them to anyone\nsooner than to her mother.\n\n How is it Anna Pavlovna s not been to see us for so long?  the\nprincess said one day of Madame Petrova.  I ve asked her, but she seems\nput out about something. \n\n No, I ve not noticed it, maman,  said Kitty, flushing hotly.\n\n Is it long since you went to see them? \n\n We re meaning to make an expedition to the mountains tomorrow, \nanswered Kitty.\n\n Well, you can go,  answered the princess, gazing at her daughter s\nembarrassed face and trying to guess the cause of her embarrassment.\n\nThat day Varenka came to dinner and told them that Anna Pavlovna had\nchanged her mind and given up the expedition for the morrow. And the\nprincess noticed again that Kitty reddened.\n\n Kitty, haven t you had some misunderstanding with the Petrovs?  said\nthe princess, when they were left alone.  Why has she given up sending\nthe children and coming to see us? \n\nKitty answered that nothing had happened between them, and that she\ncould not tell why Anna Pavlovna seemed displeased with her. Kitty\nanswered perfectly truly. She did not know the reason Anna Pavlovna had\nchanged to her, but she guessed it. She guessed at something which she\ncould not tell her mother, which she did not put into words to herself.\nIt was one of those things which one knows but which one can never\nspeak of even to oneself, so terrible and shameful would it be to be\nmistaken.\n\nAgain and again she went over in her memory all her relations with the\nfamily. She remembered the simple delight expressed on the round,\ngood-humored face of Anna Pavlovna at their meetings; she remembered\ntheir secret confabulations about the invalid, their plots to draw him\naway from the work which was forbidden him, and to get him\nout-of-doors; the devotion of the youngest boy, who used to call her\n my Kitty,  and would not go to bed without her. How nice it all was!\nThen she recalled the thin, terribly thin figure of Petrov, with his\nlong neck, in his brown coat, his scant, curly hair, his questioning\nblue eyes that were so terrible to Kitty at first, and his painful\nattempts to seem hearty and lively in her presence. She recalled the\nefforts she had made at first to overcome the repugnance she felt for\nhim, as for all consumptive people, and the pains it had cost her to\nthink of things to say to him. She recalled the timid, softened look\nwith which he gazed at her, and the strange feeling of compassion and\nawkwardness, and later of a sense of her own goodness, which she had\nfelt at it. How nice it all was! But all that was at first. Now, a few\ndays ago, everything was suddenly spoiled. Anna Pavlovna had met Kitty\nwith affected cordiality, and had kept continual watch on her and on\nher husband.\n\nCould that touching pleasure he showed when she came near be the cause\nof Anna Pavlovna s coolness?\n\n Yes,  she mused,  there was something unnatural about Anna Pavlovna,\nand utterly unlike her good nature, when she said angrily the day\nbefore yesterday:  There, he will keep waiting for you; he wouldn t\ndrink his coffee without you, though he s grown so dreadfully weak. \n\n Yes, perhaps, too, she didn t like it when I gave him the rug. It was\nall so simple, but he took it so awkwardly, and was so long thanking\nme, that I felt awkward too. And then that portrait of me he did so\nwell. And most of all that look of confusion and tenderness! Yes, yes,\nthat s it!  Kitty repeated to herself with horror.  No, it can t be, it\noughtn t to be! He s so much to be pitied!  she said to herself\ndirectly after.\n\nThis doubt poisoned the charm of her new life.\n\n\nChapter 34\n\nBefore the end of the course of drinking the waters, Prince\nShtcherbatsky, who had gone on from Carlsbad to Baden and Kissingen to\nRussian friends to get a breath of Russian air, as he said came back to\nhis wife and daughter.\n\nThe views of the prince and of the princess on life abroad were\ncompletely opposed. The princess thought everything delightful, and in\nspite of her established position in Russian society, she tried abroad\nto be like a European fashionable lady, which she was not for the\nsimple reason that she was a typical Russian gentlewoman; and so she\nwas affected, which did not altogether suit her. The prince, on the\ncontrary, thought everything foreign detestable, got sick of European\nlife, kept to his Russian habits, and purposely tried to show himself\nabroad less European than he was in reality.\n\nThe prince returned thinner, with the skin hanging in loose bags on his\ncheeks, but in the most cheerful frame of mind. His good humor was even\ngreater when he saw Kitty completely recovered. The news of Kitty s\nfriendship with Madame Stahl and Varenka, and the reports the princess\ngave him of some kind of change she had noticed in Kitty, troubled the\nprince and aroused his habitual feeling of jealousy of everything that\ndrew his daughter away from him, and a dread that his daughter might\nhave got out of the reach of his influence into regions inaccessible to\nhim. But these unpleasant matters were all drowned in the sea of\nkindliness and good humor which was always within him, and more so than\never since his course of Carlsbad waters.\n\nThe day after his arrival the prince, in his long overcoat, with his\nRussian wrinkles and baggy cheeks propped up by a starched collar, set\noff with his daughter to the spring in the greatest good humor.\n\nIt was a lovely morning: the bright, cheerful houses with their little\ngardens, the sight of the red-faced, red-armed, beer-drinking German\nwaitresses, working away merrily, did the heart good. But the nearer\nthey got to the springs the oftener they met sick people; and their\nappearance seemed more pitiable than ever among the everyday conditions\nof prosperous German life. Kitty was no longer struck by this contrast.\nThe bright sun, the brilliant green of the foliage, the strains of the\nmusic were for her the natural setting of all these familiar faces,\nwith their changes to greater emaciation or to convalescence, for which\nshe watched. But to the prince the brightness and gaiety of the June\nmorning, and the sound of the orchestra playing a gay waltz then in\nfashion, and above all, the appearance of the healthy attendants,\nseemed something unseemly and monstrous, in conjunction with these\nslowly moving, dying figures gathered together from all parts of\nEurope. In spite of his feeling of pride and, as it were, of the return\nof youth, with his favorite daughter on his arm, he felt awkward, and\nalmost ashamed of his vigorous step and his sturdy, stout limbs. He\nfelt almost like a man not dressed in a crowd.\n\n Present me to your new friends,  he said to his daughter, squeezing\nher hand with his elbow.  I like even your horrid Soden for making you\nso well again. Only it s melancholy, very melancholy here. Who s that? \n\nKitty mentioned the names of all the people they met, with some of whom\nshe was acquainted and some not. At the entrance of the garden they met\nthe blind lady, Madame Berthe, with her guide, and the prince was\ndelighted to see the old Frenchwoman s face light up when she heard\nKitty s voice. She at once began talking to him with French exaggerated\npoliteness, applauding him for having such a delightful daughter,\nextolling Kitty to the skies before her face, and calling her a\ntreasure, a pearl, and a consoling angel.\n\n Well, she s the second angel, then,  said the prince, smiling.  she\ncalls Mademoiselle Varenka angel number one. \n\n Oh! Mademoiselle Varenka, she s a real angel, allez,  Madame Berthe\nassented.\n\nIn the arcade they met Varenka herself. She was walking rapidly towards\nthem carrying an elegant red bag.\n\n Here is papa come,  Kitty said to her.\n\nVarenka made simply and naturally as she did everything a movement\nbetween a bow and a curtsey, and immediately began talking to the\nprince, without shyness, naturally, as she talked to everyone.\n\n Of course I know you; I know you very well,  the prince said to her\nwith a smile, in which Kitty detected with joy that her father liked\nher friend.  Where are you off to in such haste? \n\n Maman s here,  she said, turning to Kitty.  She has not slept all\nnight, and the doctor advised her to go out. I m taking her her work. \n\n So that s angel number one?  said the prince when Varenka had gone on.\n\nKitty saw that her father had meant to make fun of Varenka, but that he\ncould not do it because he liked her.\n\n Come, so we shall see all your friends,  he went on,  even Madame\nStahl, if she deigns to recognize me. \n\n Why, did you know her, papa?  Kitty asked apprehensively, catching the\ngleam of irony that kindled in the prince s eyes at the mention of\nMadame Stahl.\n\n I used to know her husband, and her too a little, before she d joined\nthe Pietists. \n\n What is a Pietist, papa?  asked Kitty, dismayed to find that what she\nprized so highly in Madame Stahl had a name.\n\n I don t quite know myself. I only know that she thanks God for\neverything, for every misfortune, and thanks God too that her husband\ndied. And that s rather droll, as they didn t get on together. \n\n Who s that? What a piteous face!  he asked, noticing a sick man of\nmedium height sitting on a bench, wearing a brown overcoat and white\ntrousers that fell in strange folds about his long, fleshless legs.\nThis man lifted his straw hat, showed his scanty curly hair and high\nforehead, painfully reddened by the pressure of the hat.\n\n That s Petrov, an artist,  answered Kitty, blushing.  And that s his\nwife,  she added, indicating Anna Pavlovna, who, as though on purpose,\nat the very instant they approached walked away after a child that had\nrun off along a path.\n\n Poor fellow! and what a nice face he has!  said the prince.  Why don t\nyou go up to him? He wanted to speak to you. \n\n Well, let us go, then,  said Kitty, turning round resolutely.  How are\nyou feeling today?  she asked Petrov.\n\nPetrov got up, leaning on his stick, and looked shyly at the prince.\n\n This is my daughter,  said the prince.  Let me introduce myself. \n\nThe painter bowed and smiled, showing his strangely dazzling white\nteeth.\n\n We expected you yesterday, princess,  he said to Kitty. He staggered\nas he said this, and then repeated the motion, trying to make it seem\nas if it had been intentional.\n\n I meant to come, but Varenka said that Anna Pavlovna sent word you\nwere not going. \n\n Not going!  said Petrov, blushing, and immediately beginning to cough,\nand his eyes sought his wife.  Anita! Anita!  he said loudly, and the\nswollen veins stood out like cords on his thin white neck.\n\nAnna Pavlovna came up.\n\n So you sent word to the princess that we weren t going!  he whispered\nto her angrily, losing his voice.\n\n Good morning, princess,  said Anna Pavlovna, with an assumed smile\nutterly unlike her former manner.  Very glad to make your\nacquaintance,  she said to the prince.  You ve long been expected,\nprince. \n\n What did you send word to the princess that we weren t going for?  the\nartist whispered hoarsely once more, still more angrily, obviously\nexasperated that his voice failed him so that he could not give his\nwords the expression he would have liked to.\n\n Oh, mercy on us! I thought we weren t going,  his wife answered\ncrossly.\n\n What, when....  He coughed and waved his hand. The prince took off his\nhat and moved away with his daughter.\n\n Ah! ah!  he sighed deeply.  Oh, poor things! \n\n Yes, papa,  answered Kitty.  And you must know they ve three children,\nno servant, and scarcely any means. He gets something from the\nAcademy,  she went on briskly, trying to drown the distress that the\nqueer change in Anna Pavlovna s manner to her had aroused in her.\n\n Oh, here s Madame Stahl,  said Kitty, indicating an invalid carriage,\nwhere, propped on pillows, something in gray and blue was lying under a\nsunshade. This was Madame Stahl. Behind her stood the gloomy,\nhealthy-looking German workman who pushed the carriage. Close by was\nstanding a flaxen-headed Swedish count, whom Kitty knew by name.\nSeveral invalids were lingering near the low carriage, staring at the\nlady as though she were some curiosity.\n\nThe prince went up to her, and Kitty detected that disconcerting gleam\nof irony in his eyes. He went up to Madame Stahl, and addressed her\nwith extreme courtesy and affability in that excellent French that so\nfew speak nowadays.\n\n I don t know if you remember me, but I must recall myself to thank you\nfor your kindness to my daughter,  he said, taking off his hat and not\nputting it on again.\n\n Prince Alexander Shtcherbatsky,  said Madame Stahl, lifting upon him\nher heavenly eyes, in which Kitty discerned a look of annoyance.\n Delighted! I have taken a great fancy to your daughter. \n\n You are still in weak health? \n\n Yes; I m used to it,  said Madame Stahl, and she introduced the prince\nto the Swedish count.\n\n You are scarcely changed at all,  the prince said to her.  It s ten or\neleven years since I had the honor of seeing you. \n\n Yes; God sends the cross and sends the strength to bear it. Often one\nwonders what is the goal of this life?... The other side!  she said\nangrily to Varenka, who had rearranged the rug over her feet not to her\nsatisfaction.\n\n To do good, probably,  said the prince with a twinkle in his eye.\n\n That is not for us to judge,  said Madame Stahl, perceiving the shade\nof expression on the prince s face.  So you will send me that book,\ndear count? I m very grateful to you,  she said to the young Swede.\n\n Ah!  cried the prince, catching sight of the Moscow colonel standing\nnear, and with a bow to Madame Stahl he walked away with his daughter\nand the Moscow colonel, who joined them.\n\n That s our aristocracy, prince!  the Moscow colonel said with ironical\nintention. He cherished a grudge against Madame Stahl for not making\nhis acquaintance.\n\n She s just the same,  replied the prince.\n\n Did you know her before her illness, prince that s to say before she\ntook to her bed? \n\n Yes. She took to her bed before my eyes,  said the prince.\n\n They say it s ten years since she has stood on her feet. \n\n She doesn t stand up because her legs are too short. She s a very bad\nfigure. \n\n Papa, it s not possible!  cried Kitty.\n\n That s what wicked tongues say, my darling. And your Varenka catches\nit too,  he added.  Oh, these invalid ladies! \n\n Oh, no, papa!  Kitty objected warmly.  Varenka worships her. And then\nshe does so much good! Ask anyone! Everyone knows her and Aline Stahl. \n\n Perhaps so,  said the prince, squeezing her hand with his elbow;  but\nit s better when one does good so that you may ask everyone and no one\nknows. \n\nKitty did not answer, not because she had nothing to say, but because\nshe did not care to reveal her secret thoughts even to her father. But,\nstrange to say, although she had so made up her mind not to be\ninfluenced by her father s views, not to let him into her inmost\nsanctuary, she felt that the heavenly image of Madame Stahl, which she\nhad carried for a whole month in her heart, had vanished, never to\nreturn, just as the fantastic figure made up of some clothes thrown\ndown at random vanishes when one sees that it is only some garment\nlying there. All that was left was a woman with short legs, who lay\ndown because she had a bad figure, and worried patient Varenka for not\narranging her rug to her liking. And by no effort of the imagination\ncould Kitty bring back the former Madame Stahl.\n\n\nChapter 35\n\nThe prince communicated his good humor to his own family and his\nfriends, and even to the German landlord in whose rooms the\nShtcherbatskys were staying.\n\nOn coming back with Kitty from the springs, the prince, who had asked\nthe colonel, and Marya Yevgenyevna, and Varenka all to come and have\ncoffee with them, gave orders for a table and chairs to be taken into\nthe garden under the chestnut tree, and lunch to be laid there. The\nlandlord and the servants, too, grew brisker under the influence of his\ngood spirits. They knew his open-handedness; and half an hour later the\ninvalid doctor from Hamburg, who lived on the top floor, looked\nenviously out of the window at the merry party of healthy Russians\nassembled under the chestnut tree. In the trembling circles of shadow\ncast by the leaves, at a table, covered with a white cloth, and set\nwith coffeepot, bread-and-butter, cheese, and cold game, sat the\nprincess in a high cap with lilac ribbons, distributing cups and\nbread-and-butter. At the other end sat the prince, eating heartily, and\ntalking loudly and merrily. The prince had spread out near him his\npurchases, carved boxes, and knick-knacks, paper-knives of all sorts,\nof which he bought a heap at every watering-place, and bestowed them\nupon everyone, including Lieschen, the servant girl, and the landlord,\nwith whom he jested in his comically bad German, assuring him that it\nwas not the water had cured Kitty, but his splendid cookery, especially\nhis plum soup. The princess laughed at her husband for his Russian\nways, but she was more lively and good-humored than she had been all\nthe while she had been at the waters. The colonel smiled, as he always\ndid, at the prince s jokes, but as far as regards Europe, of which he\nbelieved himself to be making a careful study, he took the princess s\nside. The simple-hearted Marya Yevgenyevna simply roared with laughter\nat everything absurd the prince said, and his jokes made Varenka\nhelpless with feeble but infectious laughter, which was something Kitty\nhad never seen before.\n\nKitty was glad of all this, but she could not be light-hearted. She\ncould not solve the problem her father had unconsciously set her by his\ngood-humored view of her friends, and of the life that had so attracted\nher. To this doubt there was joined the change in her relations with\nthe Petrovs, which had been so conspicuously and unpleasantly marked\nthat morning. Everyone was good-humored, but Kitty could not feel\ngood-humored, and this increased her distress. She felt a feeling such\nas she had known in childhood, when she had been shut in her room as a\npunishment, and had heard her sisters  merry laughter outside.\n\n Well, but what did you buy this mass of things for?  said the\nprincess, smiling, and handing her husband a cup of coffee.\n\n One goes for a walk, one looks in a shop, and they ask you to buy.\n _Erlaucht, Durchlaucht?_  Directly they say  _Durchlaucht_,  I can t\nhold out. I lose ten thalers. \n\n It s simply from boredom,  said the princess.\n\n Of course it is. Such boredom, my dear, that one doesn t know what to\ndo with oneself. \n\n How can you be bored, prince? There s so much that s interesting now\nin Germany,  said Marya Yevgenyevna.\n\n But I know everything that s interesting: the plum soup I know, and\nthe pea sausages I know. I know everything. \n\n No, you may say what you like, prince, there s the interest of their\ninstitutions,  said the colonel.\n\n But what is there interesting about it? They re all as pleased as\nbrass halfpence. They ve conquered everybody, and why am I to be\npleased at that? I haven t conquered anyone; and I m obliged to take\noff my own boots, yes, and put them away too; in the morning, get up\nand dress at once, and go to the dining-room to drink bad tea! How\ndifferent it is at home! You get up in no haste, you get cross, grumble\na little, and come round again. You ve time to think things over, and\nno hurry. \n\n But time s money, you forget that,  said the colonel.\n\n Time, indeed, that depends! Why, there s time one would give a month\nof for sixpence, and time you wouldn t give half an hour of for any\nmoney. Isn t that so, Katinka? What is it? why are you so depressed? \n\n I m not depressed. \n\n Where are you off to? Stay a little longer,  he said to Varenka.\n\n I must be going home,  said Varenka, getting up, and again she went\noff into a giggle. When she had recovered, she said good-bye, and went\ninto the house to get her hat.\n\nKitty followed her. Even Varenka struck her as different. She was not\nworse, but different from what she had fancied her before.\n\n Oh, dear! it s a long while since I ve laughed so much!  said Varenka,\ngathering up her parasol and her bag.  How nice he is, your father! \n\nKitty did not speak.\n\n When shall I see you again?  asked Varenka.\n\n Mamma meant to go and see the Petrovs. Won t you be there?  said\nKitty, to try Varenka.\n\n Yes,  answered Varenka.  They re getting ready to go away, so I\npromised to help them pack. \n\n Well, I ll come too, then. \n\n No, why should you? \n\n Why not? why not? why not?  said Kitty, opening her eyes wide, and\nclutching at Varenka s parasol, so as not to let her go.  No, wait a\nminute; why not? \n\n Oh, nothing; your father has come, and besides, they will feel awkward\nat your helping. \n\n No, tell me why you don t want me to be often at the Petrovs . You\ndon t want me to why not? \n\n I didn t say that,  said Varenka quietly.\n\n No, please tell me! \n\n Tell you everything?  asked Varenka.\n\n Everything, everything!  Kitty assented.\n\n Well, there s really nothing of any consequence; only that Mihail\nAlexeyevitch  (that was the artist s name)  had meant to leave earlier,\nand now he doesn t want to go away,  said Varenka, smiling.\n\n Well, well!  Kitty urged impatiently, looking darkly at Varenka.\n\n Well, and for some reason Anna Pavlovna told him that he didn t want\nto go because you are here. Of course, that was nonsense; but there was\na dispute over it over you. You know how irritable these sick people\nare. \n\nKitty, scowling more than ever, kept silent, and Varenka went on\nspeaking alone, trying to soften or soothe her, and seeing a storm\ncoming she did not know whether of tears or of words.\n\n So you d better not go.... You understand; you won t be offended?... \n\n And it serves me right! And it serves me right!  Kitty cried quickly,\nsnatching the parasol out of Varenka s hand, and looking past her\nfriend s face.\n\nVarenka felt inclined to smile, looking at her childish fury, but she\nwas afraid of wounding her.\n\n How does it serve you right? I don t understand,  she said.\n\n It serves me right, because it was all sham; because it was all done\non purpose, and not from the heart. What business had I to interfere\nwith outsiders? And so it s come about that I m a cause of quarrel, and\nthat I ve done what nobody asked me to do. Because it was all a sham! a\nsham! a sham!... \n\n A sham! with what object?  said Varenka gently.\n\n Oh, it s so idiotic! so hateful! There was no need whatever for me....\nNothing but sham!  she said, opening and shutting the parasol.\n\n But with what object? \n\n To seem better to people, to myself, to God; to deceive everyone. No!\nnow I won t descend to that. I ll be bad; but anyway not a liar, a\ncheat. \n\n But who is a cheat?  said Varenka reproachfully.  You speak as if.... \n\nBut Kitty was in one of her gusts of fury, and she would not let her\nfinish.\n\n I don t talk about you, not about you at all. You re perfection. Yes,\nyes, I know you re all perfection; but what am I to do if I m bad? This\nwould never have been if I weren t bad. So let me be what I am. I won t\nbe a sham. What have I to do with Anna Pavlovna? Let them go their way,\nand me go mine. I can t be different.... And yet it s not that, it s\nnot that. \n\n What is not that?  asked Varenka in bewilderment.\n\n Everything. I can t act except from the heart, and you act from\nprinciple. I liked you simply, but you most likely only wanted to save\nme, to improve me. \n\n You are unjust,  said Varenka.\n\n But I m not speaking of other people, I m speaking of myself. \n\n Kitty,  they heard her mother s voice,  come here, show papa your\nnecklace. \n\nKitty, with a haughty air, without making peace with her friend, took\nthe necklace in a little box from the table and went to her mother.\n\n What s the matter? Why are you so red?  her mother and father said to\nher with one voice.\n\n Nothing,  she answered.  I ll be back directly,  and she ran back.\n\n She s still here,  she thought.  What am I to say to her? Oh, dear!\nwhat have I done, what have I said? Why was I rude to her? What am I to\ndo? What am I to say to her?  thought Kitty, and she stopped in the\ndoorway.\n\nVarenka in her hat and with the parasol in her hands was sitting at the\ntable examining the spring which Kitty had broken. She lifted her head.\n\n Varenka, forgive me, do forgive me,  whispered Kitty, going up to her.\n I don t remember what I said. I.... \n\n I really didn t mean to hurt you,  said Varenka, smiling.\n\nPeace was made. But with her father s coming all the world in which she\nhad been living was transformed for Kitty. She did not give up\neverything she had learned, but she became aware that she had deceived\nherself in supposing she could be what she wanted to be. Her eyes were,\nit seemed, opened; she felt all the difficulty of maintaining herself\nwithout hypocrisy and self-conceit on the pinnacle to which she had\nwished to mount. Moreover, she became aware of all the dreariness of\nthe world of sorrow, of sick and dying people, in which she had been\nliving. The efforts she had made to like it seemed to her intolerable,\nand she felt a longing to get back quickly into the fresh air, to\nRussia, to Ergushovo, where, as she knew from letters, her sister Dolly\nhad already gone with her children.\n\nBut her affection for Varenka did not wane. As she said good-bye, Kitty\nbegged her to come to them in Russia.\n\n I ll come when you get married,  said Varenka.\n\n I shall never marry. \n\n Well, then, I shall never come. \n\n Well, then, I shall be married simply for that. Mind now, remember\nyour promise,  said Kitty.\n\nThe doctor s prediction was fulfilled. Kitty returned home to Russia\ncured. She was not so gay and thoughtless as before, but she was\nserene. Her Moscow troubles had become a memory to her.\n\n\n\n\nPART THREE\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nSergey Ivanovitch Koznishev wanted a rest from mental work, and instead\nof going abroad as he usually did, he came towards the end of May to\nstay in the country with his brother. In his judgment the best sort of\nlife was a country life. He had come now to enjoy such a life at his\nbrother s. Konstantin Levin was very glad to have him, especially as he\ndid not expect his brother Nikolay that summer. But in spite of his\naffection and respect for Sergey Ivanovitch, Konstantin Levin was\nuncomfortable with his brother in the country. It made him\nuncomfortable, and it positively annoyed him to see his brother s\nattitude to the country. To Konstantin Levin the country was the\nbackground of life, that is of pleasures, endeavors, labor. To Sergey\nIvanovitch the country meant on one hand rest from work, on the other a\nvaluable antidote to the corrupt influences of town, which he took with\nsatisfaction and a sense of its utility. To Konstantin Levin the\ncountry was good first because it afforded a field for labor, of the\nusefulness of which there could be no doubt. To Sergey Ivanovitch the\ncountry was particularly good, because there it was possible and\nfitting to do nothing. Moreover, Sergey Ivanovitch s attitude to the\npeasants rather piqued Konstantin. Sergey Ivanovitch used to say that\nhe knew and liked the peasantry, and he often talked to the peasants,\nwhich he knew how to do without affectation or condescension, and from\nevery such conversation he would deduce general conclusions in favor of\nthe peasantry and in confirmation of his knowing them. Konstantin Levin\ndid not like such an attitude to the peasants. To Konstantin the\npeasant was simply the chief partner in their common labor, and in\nspite of all the respect and the love, almost like that of kinship, he\nhad for the peasant sucked in probably, as he said himself, with the\nmilk of his peasant nurse still as a fellow-worker with him, while\nsometimes enthusiastic over the vigor, gentleness, and justice of these\nmen, he was very often, when their common labors called for other\nqualities, exasperated with the peasant for his carelessness, lack of\nmethod, drunkenness, and lying. If he had been asked whether he liked\nor didn t like the peasants, Konstantin Levin would have been\nabsolutely at a loss what to reply. He liked and did not like the\npeasants, just as he liked and did not like men in general. Of course,\nbeing a good-hearted man, he liked men rather than he disliked them,\nand so too with the peasants. But like or dislike  the people  as\nsomething apart he could not, not only because he lived with  the\npeople,  and all his interests were bound up with theirs, but also\nbecause he regarded himself as a part of  the people,  did not see any\nspecial qualities or failings distinguishing himself and  the people, \nand could not contrast himself with them. Moreover, although he had\nlived so long in the closest relations with the peasants, as farmer and\narbitrator, and what was more, as adviser (the peasants trusted him,\nand for thirty miles round they would come to ask his advice), he had\nno definite views of  the people,  and would have been as much at a\nloss to answer the question whether he knew  the people  as the\nquestion whether he liked them. For him to say he knew the peasantry\nwould have been the same as to say he knew men. He was continually\nwatching and getting to know people of all sorts, and among them\npeasants, whom he regarded as good and interesting people, and he was\ncontinually observing new points in them, altering his former views of\nthem and forming new ones. With Sergey Ivanovitch it was quite the\ncontrary. Just as he liked and praised a country life in comparison\nwith the life he did not like, so too he liked the peasantry in\ncontradistinction to the class of men he did not like, and so too he\nknew the peasantry as something distinct from and opposed to men\ngenerally. In his methodical brain there were distinctly formulated\ncertain aspects of peasant life, deduced partly from that life itself,\nbut chiefly from contrast with other modes of life. He never changed\nhis opinion of the peasantry and his sympathetic attitude towards them.\n\nIn the discussions that arose between the brothers on their views of\nthe peasantry, Sergey Ivanovitch always got the better of his brother,\nprecisely because Sergey Ivanovitch had definite ideas about the\npeasant his character, his qualities, and his tastes. Konstantin Levin\nhad no definite and unalterable idea on the subject, and so in their\narguments Konstantin was readily convicted of contradicting himself.\n\nIn Sergey Ivanovitch s eyes his younger brother was a capital fellow,\n_with his heart in the right place_ (as he expressed it in French), but\nwith a mind which, though fairly quick, was too much influenced by the\nimpressions of the moment, and consequently filled with contradictions.\nWith all the condescension of an elder brother he sometimes explained\nto him the true import of things, but he derived little satisfaction\nfrom arguing with him because he got the better of him too easily.\n\nKonstantin Levin regarded his brother as a man of immense intellect and\nculture, as generous in the highest sense of the word, and possessed of\na special faculty for working for the public good. But in the depths of\nhis heart, the older he became, and the more intimately he knew his\nbrother, the more and more frequently the thought struck him that this\nfaculty of working for the public good, of which he felt himself\nutterly devoid, was possibly not so much a quality as a lack of\nsomething not a lack of good, honest, noble desires and tastes, but a\nlack of vital force, of what is called heart, of that impulse which\ndrives a man to choose someone out of the innumerable paths of life,\nand to care only for that one. The better he knew his brother, the more\nhe noticed that Sergey Ivanovitch, and many other people who worked for\nthe public welfare, were not led by an impulse of the heart to care for\nthe public good, but reasoned from intellectual considerations that it\nwas a right thing to take interest in public affairs, and consequently\ntook interest in them. Levin was confirmed in this generalization by\nobserving that his brother did not take questions affecting the public\nwelfare or the question of the immortality of the soul a bit more to\nheart than he did chess problems, or the ingenious construction of a\nnew machine.\n\nBesides this, Konstantin Levin was not at his ease with his brother,\nbecause in summer in the country Levin was continually busy with work\non the land, and the long summer day was not long enough for him to get\nthrough all he had to do, while Sergey Ivanovitch was taking a holiday.\nBut though he was taking a holiday now, that is to say, he was doing no\nwriting, he was so used to intellectual activity that he liked to put\ninto concise and eloquent shape the ideas that occurred to him, and\nliked to have someone to listen to him. His most usual and natural\nlistener was his brother. And so in spite of the friendliness and\ndirectness of their relations, Konstantin felt an awkwardness in\nleaving him alone. Sergey Ivanovitch liked to stretch himself on the\ngrass in the sun, and to lie so, basking and chatting lazily.\n\n You wouldn t believe,  he would say to his brother,  what a pleasure\nthis rural laziness is to me. Not an idea in one s brain, as empty as a\ndrum! \n\nBut Konstantin Levin found it dull sitting and listening to him,\nespecially when he knew that while he was away they would be carting\ndung onto the fields not ploughed ready for it, and heaping it all up\nanyhow; and would not screw the shares in the ploughs, but would let\nthem come off and then say that the new ploughs were a silly invention,\nand there was nothing like the old Andreevna plough, and so on.\n\n Come, you ve done enough trudging about in the heat,  Sergey\nIvanovitch would say to him.\n\n No, I must just run round to the counting-house for a minute,  Levin\nwould answer, and he would run off to the fields.\n\n\nChapter 2\n\nEarly in June it happened that Agafea Mihalovna, the old nurse and\nhousekeeper, in carrying to the cellar a jar of mushrooms she had just\npickled, slipped, fell, and sprained her wrist. The district doctor, a\ntalkative young medical student, who had just finished his studies,\ncame to see her. He examined the wrist, said it was not broken, was\ndelighted at a chance of talking to the celebrated Sergey Ivanovitch\nKoznishev, and to show his advanced views of things told him all the\nscandal of the district, complaining of the poor state into which the\ndistrict council had fallen. Sergey Ivanovitch listened attentively,\nasked him questions, and, roused by a new listener, he talked fluently,\nuttered a few keen and weighty observations, respectfully appreciated\nby the young doctor, and was soon in that eager frame of mind his\nbrother knew so well, which always, with him, followed a brilliant and\neager conversation. After the departure of the doctor, he wanted to go\nwith a fishing rod to the river. Sergey Ivanovitch was fond of angling,\nand was, it seemed, proud of being able to care for such a stupid\noccupation.\n\nKonstantin Levin, whose presence was needed in the plough land and\nmeadows, had come to take his brother in the trap.\n\nIt was that time of the year, the turning-point of summer, when the\ncrops of the present year are a certainty, when one begins to think of\nthe sowing for next year, and the mowing is at hand; when the rye is\nall in ear, though its ears are still light, not yet full, and it waves\nin gray-green billows in the wind; when the green oats, with tufts of\nyellow grass scattered here and there among it, droop irregularly over\nthe late-sown fields; when the early buckwheat is already out and\nhiding the ground; when the fallow lands, trodden hard as stone by the\ncattle, are half ploughed over, with paths left untouched by the\nplough; when from the dry dung-heaps carted onto the fields there comes\nat sunset a smell of manure mixed with meadow-sweet, and on the\nlow-lying lands the riverside meadows are a thick sea of grass waiting\nfor the mowing, with blackened heaps of the stalks of sorrel among it.\n\nIt was the time when there comes a brief pause in the toil of the\nfields before the beginning of the labors of harvest every year\nrecurring, every year straining every nerve of the peasants. The crop\nwas a splendid one, and bright, hot summer days had set in with short,\ndewy nights.\n\nThe brothers had to drive through the woods to reach the meadows.\nSergey Ivanovitch was all the while admiring the beauty of the woods,\nwhich were a tangled mass of leaves, pointing out to his brother now an\nold lime tree on the point of flowering, dark on the shady side, and\nbrightly spotted with yellow stipules, now the young shoots of this\nyear s saplings brilliant with emerald. Konstantin Levin did not like\ntalking and hearing about the beauty of nature. Words for him took away\nthe beauty of what he saw. He assented to what his brother said, but he\ncould not help beginning to think of other things. When they came out\nof the woods, all his attention was engrossed by the view of the fallow\nland on the upland, in parts yellow with grass, in parts trampled and\ncheckered with furrows, in parts dotted with ridges of dung, and in\nparts even ploughed. A string of carts was moving across it. Levin\ncounted the carts, and was pleased that all that were wanted had been\nbrought, and at the sight of the meadows his thoughts passed to the\nmowing. He always felt something special moving him to the quick at the\nhay-making. On reaching the meadow Levin stopped the horse.\n\nThe morning dew was still lying on the thick undergrowth of the grass,\nand that he might not get his feet wet, Sergey Ivanovitch asked his\nbrother to drive him in the trap up to the willow tree from which the\ncarp was caught. Sorry as Konstantin Levin was to crush down his mowing\ngrass, he drove him into the meadow. The high grass softly turned about\nthe wheels and the horse s legs, leaving its seeds clinging to the wet\naxles and spokes of the wheels. His brother seated himself under a\nbush, arranging his tackle, while Levin led the horse away, fastened\nhim up, and walked into the vast gray-green sea of grass unstirred by\nthe wind. The silky grass with its ripe seeds came almost to his waist\nin the dampest spots.\n\nCrossing the meadow, Konstantin Levin came out onto the road, and met\nan old man with a swollen eye, carrying a skep on his shoulder.\n\n What? taken a stray swarm, Fomitch?  he asked.\n\n No, indeed, Konstantin Dmitrich! All we can do to keep our own! This\nis the second swarm that has flown away.... Luckily the lads caught\nthem. They were ploughing your field. They unyoked the horses and\ngalloped after them. \n\n Well, what do you say, Fomitch start mowing or wait a bit? \n\n Eh, well. Our way s to wait till St. Peter s Day. But you always mow\nsooner. Well, to be sure, please God, the hay s good. There ll be\nplenty for the beasts. \n\n What do you think about the weather? \n\n That s in God s hands. Maybe it will be fine. \n\nLevin went up to his brother.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch had caught nothing, but he was not bored, and seemed\nin the most cheerful frame of mind. Levin saw that, stimulated by his\nconversation with the doctor, he wanted to talk. Levin, on the other\nhand, would have liked to get home as soon as possible to give orders\nabout getting together the mowers for next day, and to set at rest his\ndoubts about the mowing, which greatly absorbed him.\n\n Well, let s be going,  he said.\n\n Why be in such a hurry? Let s stay a little. But how wet you are! Even\nthough one catches nothing, it s nice. That s the best thing about\nevery part of sport, that one has to do with nature. How exquisite this\nsteely water is!  said Sergey Ivanovitch.  These riverside banks always\nremind me of the riddle do you know it?  The grass says to the water:\nwe quiver and we quiver. \n\n I don t know the riddle,  answered Levin wearily.\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n Do you know, I ve been thinking about you,  said Sergey Ivanovitch.\n It s beyond everything what s being done in the district, according to\nwhat this doctor tells me. He s a very intelligent fellow. And as I ve\ntold you before, I tell you again: it s not right for you not to go to\nthe meetings, and altogether to keep out of the district business. If\ndecent people won t go into it, of course it s bound to go all wrong.\nWe pay the money, and it all goes in salaries, and there are no\nschools, nor district nurses, nor midwives, nor drugstores nothing. \n\n Well, I did try, you know,  Levin said slowly and unwillingly.  I\ncan t! and so there s no help for it. \n\n But why can t you? I must own I can t make it out. Indifference,\nincapacity I won t admit; surely it s not simply laziness? \n\n None of those things. I ve tried, and I see I can do nothing,  said\nLevin.\n\nHe had hardly grasped what his brother was saying. Looking towards the\nplough land across the river, he made out something black, but he could\nnot distinguish whether it was a horse or the bailiff on horseback.\n\n Why is it you can do nothing? You made an attempt and didn t succeed,\nas you think, and you give in. How can you have so little\nself-respect? \n\n Self-respect!  said Levin, stung to the quick by his brother s words;\n I don t understand. If they d told me at college that other people\nunderstood the integral calculus, and I didn t, then pride would have\ncome in. But in this case one wants first to be convinced that one has\ncertain qualifications for this sort of business, and especially that\nall this business is of great importance. \n\n What! do you mean to say it s not of importance?  said Sergey\nIvanovitch, stung to the quick too at his brother s considering\nanything of no importance that interested him, and still more at his\nobviously paying little attention to what he was saying.\n\n I don t think it important; it does not take hold of me, I can t help\nit,  answered Levin, making out that what he saw was the bailiff, and\nthat the bailiff seemed to be letting the peasants go off the ploughed\nland. They were turning the plough over.  Can they have finished\nploughing?  he wondered.\n\n Come, really though,  said the elder brother, with a frown on his\nhandsome, clever face,  there s a limit to everything. It s very well\nto be original and genuine, and to dislike everything conventional I\nknow all about that; but really, what you re saying either has no\nmeaning, or it has a very wrong meaning. How can you think it a matter\nof no importance whether the peasant, whom you love as you assert.... \n\n I never did assert it,  thought Konstantin Levin.\n\n ...dies without help? The ignorant peasant-women starve the children,\nand the people stagnate in darkness, and are helpless in the hands of\nevery village clerk, while you have at your disposal a means of helping\nthem, and don t help them because to your mind it s of no importance. \n\nAnd Sergey Ivanovitch put before him the alternative: either you are so\nundeveloped that you can t see all that you can do, or you won t\nsacrifice your ease, your vanity, or whatever it is, to do it.\n\nKonstantin Levin felt that there was no course open to him but to\nsubmit, or to confess to a lack of zeal for the public good. And this\nmortified him and hurt his feelings.\n\n It s both,  he said resolutely:  I don t see that it was possible.... \n\n What! was it impossible, if the money were properly laid out, to\nprovide medical aid? \n\n Impossible, as it seems to me.... For the three thousand square miles\nof our district, what with our thaws, and the storms, and the work in\nthe fields, I don t see how it is possible to provide medical aid all\nover. And besides, I don t believe in medicine. \n\n Oh, well, that s unfair ... I can quote to you thousands of\ninstances.... But the schools, anyway. \n\n Why have schools? \n\n What do you mean? Can there be two opinions of the advantage of\neducation? If it s a good thing for you, it s a good thing for\neveryone. \n\nKonstantin Levin felt himself morally pinned against a wall, and so he\ngot hot, and unconsciously blurted out the chief cause of his\nindifference to public business.\n\n Perhaps it may all be very good; but why should I worry myself about\nestablishing dispensaries which I shall never make use of, and schools\nto which I shall never send my children, to which even the peasants\ndon t want to send their children, and to which I ve no very firm faith\nthat they ought to send them?  said he.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch was for a minute surprised at this unexpected view of\nthe subject; but he promptly made a new plan of attack. He was silent\nfor a little, drew out a hook, threw it in again, and turned to his\nbrother smiling.\n\n Come, now.... In the first place, the dispensary is needed. We\nourselves sent for the district doctor for Agafea Mihalovna. \n\n Oh, well, but I fancy her wrist will never be straight again. \n\n That remains to be proved.... Next, the peasant who can read and write\nis as a workman of more use and value to you. \n\n No, you can ask anyone you like,  Konstantin Levin answered with\ndecision,  the man that can read and write is much inferior as a\nworkman. And mending the highroads is an impossibility; and as soon as\nthey put up bridges they re stolen. \n\n Still, that s not the point,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, frowning. He\ndisliked contradiction, and still more, arguments that were continually\nskipping from one thing to another, introducing new and disconnected\npoints, so that there was no knowing to which to reply.  Do you admit\nthat education is a benefit for the people? \n\n Yes, I admit it,  said Levin without thinking, and he was conscious\nimmediately that he had said what he did not think. He felt that if he\nadmitted that, it would be proved that he had been talking meaningless\nrubbish. How it would be proved he could not tell, but he knew that\nthis would inevitably be logically proved to him, and he awaited the\nproofs.\n\nThe argument turned out to be far simpler than he had expected.\n\n If you admit that it is a benefit,  said Sergey Ivanovitch,  then, as\nan honest man, you cannot help caring about it and sympathizing with\nthe movement, and so wishing to work for it. \n\n But I still do not admit this movement to be just,  said Konstantin\nLevin, reddening a little.\n\n What! But you said just now.... \n\n That s to say, I don t admit it s being either good or possible. \n\n That you can t tell without making the trial. \n\n Well, supposing that s so,  said Levin, though he did not suppose so\nat all,  supposing that is so, still I don t see, all the same, what\nI m to worry myself about it for. \n\n How so? \n\n No; since we are talking, explain it to me from the philosophical\npoint of view,  said Levin.\n\n I can t see where philosophy comes in,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, in a\ntone, Levin fancied, as though he did not admit his brother s right to\ntalk about philosophy. And that irritated Levin.\n\n I ll tell you, then,  he said with heat,  I imagine the mainspring of\nall our actions is, after all, self-interest. Now in the local\ninstitutions I, as a nobleman, see nothing that could conduce to my\nprosperity, and the roads are not better and could not be better; my\nhorses carry me well enough over bad ones. Doctors and dispensaries are\nno use to me. An arbitrator of disputes is no use to me. I never appeal\nto him, and never shall appeal to him. The schools are no good to me,\nbut positively harmful, as I told you. For me the district institutions\nsimply mean the liability to pay fourpence halfpenny for every three\nacres, to drive into the town, sleep with bugs, and listen to all sorts\nof idiocy and loathsomeness, and self-interest offers me no\ninducement. \n\n Excuse me,  Sergey Ivanovitch interposed with a smile,  self-interest\ndid not induce us to work for the emancipation of the serfs, but we did\nwork for it. \n\n No!  Konstantin Levin broke in with still greater heat;  the\nemancipation of the serfs was a different matter. There self-interest\ndid come in. One longed to throw off that yoke that crushed us, all\ndecent people among us. But to be a town councilor and discuss how many\ndustmen are needed, and how chimneys shall be constructed in the town\nin which I don t live to serve on a jury and try a peasant who s stolen\na flitch of bacon, and listen for six hours at a stretch to all sorts\nof jabber from the counsel for the defense and the prosecution, and the\npresident cross-examining my old half-witted Alioshka,  Do you admit,\nprisoner in the dock, the fact of the removal of the bacon?   Eh? \n\nKonstantin Levin had warmed to his subject, and began mimicking the\npresident and the half-witted Alioshka: it seemed to him that it was\nall to the point.\n\nBut Sergey Ivanovitch shrugged his shoulders.\n\n Well, what do you mean to say, then? \n\n I simply mean to say that those rights that touch me ... my interest,\nI shall always defend to the best of my ability; that when they made\nraids on us students, and the police read our letters, I was ready to\ndefend those rights to the utmost, to defend my rights to education and\nfreedom. I can understand compulsory military service, which affects my\nchildren, my brothers, and myself, I am ready to deliberate on what\nconcerns me; but deliberating on how to spend forty thousand roubles of\ndistrict council money, or judging the half-witted Alioshka I don t\nunderstand, and I can t do it. \n\nKonstantin Levin spoke as though the floodgates of his speech had burst\nopen. Sergey Ivanovitch smiled.\n\n But tomorrow it ll be your turn to be tried; would it have suited your\ntastes better to be tried in the old criminal tribunal? \n\n I m not going to be tried. I shan t murder anybody, and I ve no need\nof it. Well, I tell you what,  he went on, flying off again to a\nsubject quite beside the point,  our district self-government and all\nthe rest of it it s just like the birch branches we stick in the ground\non Trinity Day, for instance, to look like a copse which has grown up\nof itself in Europe, and I can t gush over these birch branches and\nbelieve in them. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch merely shrugged his shoulders, as though to express\nhis wonder how the birch branches had come into their argument at that\npoint, though he did really understand at once what his brother meant.\n\n Excuse me, but you know one really can t argue in that way,  he\nobserved.\n\nBut Konstantin Levin wanted to justify himself for the failing, of\nwhich he was conscious, of lack of zeal for the public welfare, and he\nwent on.\n\n I imagine,  he said,  that no sort of activity is likely to be lasting\nif it is not founded on self-interest, that s a universal principle, a\nphilosophical principle,  he said, repeating the word  philosophical \nwith determination, as though wishing to show that he had as much right\nas anyone else to talk of philosophy.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch smiled.  He too has a philosophy of his own at the\nservice of his natural tendencies,  he thought.\n\n Come, you d better let philosophy alone,  he said.  The chief problem\nof the philosophy of all ages consists just in finding the\nindispensable connection which exists between individual and social\ninterests. But that s not to the point; what is to the point is a\ncorrection I must make in your comparison. The birches are not simply\nstuck in, but some are sown and some are planted, and one must deal\ncarefully with them. It s only those peoples that have an intuitive\nsense of what s of importance and significance in their institutions,\nand know how to value them, that have a future before them it s only\nthose peoples that one can truly call historical. \n\nAnd Sergey Ivanovitch carried the subject into the regions of\nphilosophical history where Konstantin Levin could not follow him, and\nshowed him all the incorrectness of his view.\n\n As for your dislike of it, excuse my saying so, that s simply our\nRussian sloth and old serf-owner s ways, and I m convinced that in you\nit s a temporary error and will pass. \n\nKonstantin was silent. He felt himself vanquished on all sides, but he\nfelt at the same time that what he wanted to say was unintelligible to\nhis brother. Only he could not make up his mind whether it was\nunintelligible because he was not capable of expressing his meaning\nclearly, or because his brother would not or could not understand him.\nBut he did not pursue the speculation, and without replying, he fell to\nmusing on a quite different and personal matter.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch wound up the last line, untied the horse, and they\ndrove off.\n\n\nChapter 4\n\nThe personal matter that absorbed Levin during his conversation with\nhis brother was this. Once in a previous year he had gone to look at\nthe mowing, and being made very angry by the bailiff he had recourse to\nhis favorite means for regaining his temper, he took a scythe from a\npeasant and began mowing.\n\nHe liked the work so much that he had several times tried his hand at\nmowing since. He had cut the whole of the meadow in front of his house,\nand this year ever since the early spring he had cherished a plan for\nmowing for whole days together with the peasants. Ever since his\nbrother s arrival, he had been in doubt whether to mow or not. He was\nloath to leave his brother alone all day long, and he was afraid his\nbrother would laugh at him about it. But as he drove into the meadow,\nand recalled the sensations of mowing, he came near deciding that he\nwould go mowing. After the irritating discussion with his brother, he\npondered over this intention again.\n\n I must have physical exercise, or my temper ll certainly be ruined, \nhe thought, and he determined he would go mowing, however awkward he\nmight feel about it with his brother or the peasants.\n\nTowards evening Konstantin Levin went to his counting house, gave\ndirections as to the work to be done, and sent about the village to\nsummon the mowers for the morrow, to cut the hay in Kalinov meadow, the\nlargest and best of his grass lands.\n\n And send my scythe, please, to Tit, for him to set it, and bring it\nround tomorrow. I shall maybe do some mowing myself too,  he said,\ntrying not to be embarrassed.\n\nThe bailiff smiled and said:  Yes, sir. \n\nAt tea the same evening Levin said to his brother:\n\n I fancy the fine weather will last. Tomorrow I shall start mowing. \n\n I m so fond of that form of field labor,  said Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n I m awfully fond of it. I sometimes mow myself with the peasants, and\ntomorrow I want to try mowing the whole day. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch lifted his head, and looked with interest at his\nbrother.\n\n How do you mean? Just like one of the peasants, all day long? \n\n Yes, it s very pleasant,  said Levin.\n\n It s splendid as exercise, only you ll hardly be able to stand it, \nsaid Sergey Ivanovitch, without a shade of irony.\n\n I ve tried it. It s hard work at first, but you get into it. I dare\nsay I shall manage to keep it up.... \n\n Really! what an idea! But tell me, how do the peasants look at it? I\nsuppose they laugh in their sleeves at their master s being such a\nqueer fish? \n\n No, I don t think so; but it s so delightful, and at the same time\nsuch hard work, that one has no time to think about it. \n\n But how will you do about dining with them? To send you a bottle of\nLafitte and roast turkey out there would be a little awkward. \n\n No, I ll simply come home at the time of their noonday rest. \n\nNext morning Konstantin Levin got up earlier than usual, but he was\ndetained giving directions on the farm, and when he reached the mowing\ngrass the mowers were already at their second row.\n\nFrom the uplands he could get a view of the shaded cut part of the\nmeadow below, with its grayish ridges of cut grass, and the black heaps\nof coats, taken off by the mowers at the place from which they had\nstarted cutting.\n\nGradually, as he rode towards the meadow, the peasants came into sight,\nsome in coats, some in their shirts mowing, one behind another in a\nlong string, swinging their scythes differently. He counted forty-two\nof them.\n\nThey were mowing slowly over the uneven, low-lying parts of the meadow,\nwhere there had been an old dam. Levin recognized some of his own men.\nHere was old Yermil in a very long white smock, bending forward to\nswing a scythe; there was a young fellow, Vaska, who had been a\ncoachman of Levin s, taking every row with a wide sweep. Here, too, was\nTit, Levin s preceptor in the art of mowing, a thin little peasant. He\nwas in front of all, and cut his wide row without bending, as though\nplaying with the scythe.\n\nLevin got off his mare, and fastening her up by the roadside went to\nmeet Tit, who took a second scythe out of a bush and gave it to him.\n\n It s ready, sir; it s like a razor, cuts of itself,  said Tit, taking\noff his cap with a smile and giving him the scythe.\n\nLevin took the scythe, and began trying it. As they finished their\nrows, the mowers, hot and good-humored, came out into the road one\nafter another, and, laughing a little, greeted the master. They all\nstared at him, but no one made any remark, till a tall old man, with a\nwrinkled, beardless face, wearing a short sheepskin jacket, came out\ninto the road and accosted him.\n\n Look ee now, master, once take hold of the rope there s no letting it\ngo!  he said, and Levin heard smothered laughter among the mowers.\n\n I ll try not to let it go,  he said, taking his stand behind Tit, and\nwaiting for the time to begin.\n\n Mind ee,  repeated the old man.\n\nTit made room, and Levin started behind him. The grass was short close\nto the road, and Levin, who had not done any mowing for a long while,\nand was disconcerted by the eyes fastened upon him, cut badly for the\nfirst moments, though he swung his scythe vigorously. Behind him he\nheard voices:\n\n It s not set right; handle s too high; see how he has to stoop to it, \nsaid one.\n\n Press more on the heel,  said another.\n\n Never mind, he ll get on all right,  the old man resumed.\n\n He s made a start.... You swing it too wide, you ll tire yourself\nout.... The master, sure, does his best for himself! But see the grass\nmissed out! For such work us fellows would catch it! \n\nThe grass became softer, and Levin, listening without answering,\nfollowed Tit, trying to do the best he could. They moved a hundred\npaces. Tit kept moving on, without stopping, not showing the slightest\nweariness, but Levin was already beginning to be afraid he would not be\nable to keep it up: he was so tired.\n\nHe felt as he swung his scythe that he was at the very end of his\nstrength, and was making up his mind to ask Tit to stop. But at that\nvery moment Tit stopped of his own accord, and stooping down picked up\nsome grass, rubbed his scythe, and began whetting it. Levin\nstraightened himself, and drawing a deep breath looked round. Behind\nhim came a peasant, and he too was evidently tired, for he stopped at\nonce without waiting to mow up to Levin, and began whetting his scythe.\nTit sharpened his scythe and Levin s, and they went on. The next time\nit was just the same. Tit moved on with sweep after sweep of his\nscythe, not stopping nor showing signs of weariness. Levin followed\nhim, trying not to get left behind, and he found it harder and harder:\nthe moment came when he felt he had no strength left, but at that very\nmoment Tit stopped and whetted the scythes.\n\nSo they mowed the first row. And this long row seemed particularly hard\nwork to Levin; but when the end was reached and Tit, shouldering his\nscythe, began with deliberate stride returning on the tracks left by\nhis heels in the cut grass, and Levin walked back in the same way over\nthe space he had cut, in spite of the sweat that ran in streams over\nhis face and fell in drops down his nose, and drenched his back as\nthough he had been soaked in water, he felt very happy. What delighted\nhim particularly was that now he knew he would be able to hold out.\n\nHis pleasure was only disturbed by his row not being well cut.  I will\nswing less with my arm and more with my whole body,  he thought,\ncomparing Tit s row, which looked as if it had been cut with a line,\nwith his own unevenly and irregularly lying grass.\n\nThe first row, as Levin noticed, Tit had mowed specially quickly,\nprobably wishing to put his master to the test, and the row happened to\nbe a long one. The next rows were easier, but still Levin had to strain\nevery nerve not to drop behind the peasants.\n\nHe thought of nothing, wished for nothing, but not to be left behind\nthe peasants, and to do his work as well as possible. He heard nothing\nbut the swish of scythes, and saw before him Tit s upright figure\nmowing away, the crescent-shaped curve of the cut grass, the grass and\nflower heads slowly and rhythmically falling before the blade of his\nscythe, and ahead of him the end of the row, where would come the rest.\n\nSuddenly, in the midst of his toil, without understanding what it was\nor whence it came, he felt a pleasant sensation of chill on his hot,\nmoist shoulders. He glanced at the sky in the interval for whetting the\nscythes. A heavy, lowering storm cloud had blown up, and big raindrops\nwere falling. Some of the peasants went to their coats and put them on;\nothers just like Levin himself merely shrugged their shoulders,\nenjoying the pleasant coolness of it.\n\nAnother row, and yet another row, followed long rows and short rows,\nwith good grass and with poor grass. Levin lost all sense of time, and\ncould not have told whether it was late or early now. A change began to\ncome over his work, which gave him immense satisfaction. In the midst\nof his toil there were moments during which he forgot what he was\ndoing, and it came all easy to him, and at those same moments his row\nwas almost as smooth and well cut as Tit s. But so soon as he\nrecollected what he was doing, and began trying to do better, he was at\nonce conscious of all the difficulty of his task, and the row was badly\nmown.\n\nOn finishing yet another row he would have gone back to the top of the\nmeadow again to begin the next, but Tit stopped, and going up to the\nold man said something in a low voice to him. They both looked at the\nsun.  What are they talking about, and why doesn t he go back?  thought\nLevin, not guessing that the peasants had been mowing no less than four\nhours without stopping, and it was time for their lunch.\n\n Lunch, sir,  said the old man.\n\n Is it really time? That s right; lunch, then. \n\nLevin gave his scythe to Tit, and together with the peasants, who were\ncrossing the long stretch of mown grass, slightly sprinkled with rain,\nto get their bread from the heap of coats, he went towards his house.\nOnly then he suddenly awoke to the fact that he had been wrong about\nthe weather and the rain was drenching his hay.\n\n The hay will be spoiled,  he said.\n\n Not a bit of it, sir; mow in the rain, and you ll rake in fine\nweather!  said the old man.\n\nLevin untied his horse and rode home to his coffee. Sergey Ivanovitch\nwas only just getting up. When he had drunk his coffee, Levin rode back\nagain to the mowing before Sergey Ivanovitch had had time to dress and\ncome down to the dining-room.\n\n\nChapter 5\n\nAfter lunch Levin was not in the same place in the string of mowers as\nbefore, but stood between the old man who had accosted him jocosely,\nand now invited him to be his neighbor, and a young peasant, who had\nonly been married in the autumn, and who was mowing this summer for the\nfirst time.\n\nThe old man, holding himself erect, moved in front, with his feet\nturned out, taking long, regular strides, and with a precise and\nregular action which seemed to cost him no more effort than swinging\none s arms in walking, as though it were in play, he laid down the\nhigh, even row of grass. It was as though it were not he but the sharp\nscythe of itself swishing through the juicy grass.\n\nBehind Levin came the lad Mishka. His pretty, boyish face, with a twist\nof fresh grass bound round his hair, was all working with effort; but\nwhenever anyone looked at him he smiled. He would clearly have died\nsooner than own it was hard work for him.\n\nLevin kept between them. In the very heat of the day the mowing did not\nseem such hard work to him. The perspiration with which he was drenched\ncooled him, while the sun, that burned his back, his head, and his\narms, bare to the elbow, gave a vigor and dogged energy to his labor;\nand more and more often now came those moments of unconsciousness, when\nit was possible not to think what one was doing. The scythe cut of\nitself. These were happy moments. Still more delightful were the\nmoments when they reached the stream where the rows ended, and the old\nman rubbed his scythe with the wet, thick grass, rinsed its blade in\nthe fresh water of the stream, ladled out a little in a tin dipper, and\noffered Levin a drink.\n\n What do you say to my home-brew, eh? Good, eh?  said he, winking.\n\nAnd truly Levin had never drunk any liquor so good as this warm water\nwith green bits floating in it, and a taste of rust from the tin\ndipper. And immediately after this came the delicious, slow saunter,\nwith his hand on the scythe, during which he could wipe away the\nstreaming sweat, take deep breaths of air, and look about at the long\nstring of mowers and at what was happening around in the forest and the\ncountry.\n\nThe longer Levin mowed, the oftener he felt the moments of\nunconsciousness in which it seemed not his hands that swung the scythe,\nbut the scythe mowing of itself, a body full of life and consciousness\nof its own, and as though by magic, without thinking of it, the work\nturned out regular and well-finished of itself. These were the most\nblissful moments.\n\nIt was only hard work when he had to break off the motion, which had\nbecome unconscious, and to think; when he had to mow round a hillock or\na tuft of sorrel. The old man did this easily. When a hillock came he\nchanged his action, and at one time with the heel, and at another with\nthe tip of his scythe, clipped the hillock round both sides with short\nstrokes. And while he did this he kept looking about and watching what\ncame into his view: at one moment he picked a wild berry and ate it or\noffered it to Levin, then he flung away a twig with the blade of the\nscythe, then he looked at a quail s nest, from which the bird flew just\nunder the scythe, or caught a snake that crossed his path, and lifting\nit on the scythe as though on a fork showed it to Levin and threw it\naway.\n\nFor both Levin and the young peasant behind him, such changes of\nposition were difficult. Both of them, repeating over and over again\nthe same strained movement, were in a perfect frenzy of toil, and were\nincapable of shifting their position and at the same time watching what\nwas before them.\n\nLevin did not notice how time was passing. If he had been asked how\nlong he had been working he would have said half an hour and it was\ngetting on for dinner time. As they were walking back over the cut\ngrass, the old man called Levin s attention to the little girls and\nboys who were coming from different directions, hardly visible through\nthe long grass, and along the road towards the mowers, carrying sacks\nof bread dragging at their little hands and pitchers of the sour\nrye-beer, with cloths wrapped round them.\n\n Look ee, the little emmets crawling!  he said, pointing to them, and\nhe shaded his eyes with his hand to look at the sun. They mowed two\nmore rows; the old man stopped.\n\n Come, master, dinner time!  he said briskly. And on reaching the\nstream the mowers moved off across the lines of cut grass towards their\npile of coats, where the children who had brought their dinners were\nsitting waiting for them. The peasants gathered into groups those\nfurther away under a cart, those nearer under a willow bush.\n\nLevin sat down by them; he felt disinclined to go away.\n\nAll constraint with the master had disappeared long ago. The peasants\ngot ready for dinner. Some washed, the young lads bathed in the stream,\nothers made a place comfortable for a rest, untied their sacks of\nbread, and uncovered the pitchers of rye-beer. The old man crumbled up\nsome bread in a cup, stirred it with the handle of a spoon, poured\nwater on it from the dipper, broke up some more bread, and having\nseasoned it with salt, he turned to the east to say his prayer.\n\n Come, master, taste my sop,  said he, kneeling down before the cup.\n\nThe sop was so good that Levin gave up the idea of going home. He dined\nwith the old man, and talked to him about his family affairs, taking\nthe keenest interest in them, and told him about his own affairs and\nall the circumstances that could be of interest to the old man. He felt\nmuch nearer to him than to his brother, and could not help smiling at\nthe affection he felt for this man. When the old man got up again, said\nhis prayer, and lay down under a bush, putting some grass under his\nhead for a pillow, Levin did the same, and in spite of the clinging\nflies that were so persistent in the sunshine, and the midges that\ntickled his hot face and body, he fell asleep at once and only waked\nwhen the sun had passed to the other side of the bush and reached him.\nThe old man had been awake a long while, and was sitting up whetting\nthe scythes of the younger lads.\n\nLevin looked about him and hardly recognized the place, everything was\nso changed. The immense stretch of meadow had been mown and was\nsparkling with a peculiar fresh brilliance, with its lines of already\nsweet-smelling grass in the slanting rays of the evening sun. And the\nbushes about the river had been cut down, and the river itself, not\nvisible before, now gleaming like steel in its bends, and the moving,\nascending, peasants, and the sharp wall of grass of the unmown part of\nthe meadow, and the hawks hovering over the stripped meadow all was\nperfectly new. Raising himself, Levin began considering how much had\nbeen cut and how much more could still be done that day.\n\nThe work done was exceptionally much for forty-two men. They had cut\nthe whole of the big meadow, which had, in the years of serf labor,\ntaken thirty scythes two days to mow. Only the corners remained to do,\nwhere the rows were short. But Levin felt a longing to get as much\nmowing done that day as possible, and was vexed with the sun sinking so\nquickly in the sky. He felt no weariness; all he wanted was to get his\nwork done more and more quickly and as much done as possible.\n\n Could you cut Mashkin Upland too? what do you think?  he said to the\nold man.\n\n As God wills, the sun s not high. A little vodka for the lads? \n\nAt the afternoon rest, when they were sitting down again, and those who\nsmoked had lighted their pipes, the old man told the men that  Mashkin\nUpland s to be cut there ll be some vodka. \n\n Why not cut it? Come on, Tit! We ll look sharp! We can eat at night.\nCome on!  cried voices, and eating up their bread, the mowers went back\nto work.\n\n Come, lads, keep it up!  said Tit, and ran on ahead almost at a trot.\n\n Get along, get along!  said the old man, hurrying after him and easily\novertaking him,  I ll mow you down, look out! \n\nAnd young and old mowed away, as though they were racing with one\nanother. But however fast they worked, they did not spoil the grass,\nand the rows were laid just as neatly and exactly. The little piece\nleft uncut in the corner was mown in five minutes. The last of the\nmowers were just ending their rows while the foremost snatched up their\ncoats onto their shoulders, and crossed the road towards Mashkin\nUpland.\n\nThe sun was already sinking into the trees when they went with their\njingling dippers into the wooded ravine of Mashkin Upland. The grass\nwas up to their waists in the middle of the hollow, soft, tender, and\nfeathery, spotted here and there among the trees with wild\nheart s-ease.\n\nAfter a brief consultation whether to take the rows lengthwise or\ndiagonally Prohor Yermilin, also a renowned mower, a huge, black-haired\npeasant, went on ahead. He went up to the top, turned back again and\nstarted mowing, and they all proceeded to form in line behind him,\ngoing downhill through the hollow and uphill right up to the edge of\nthe forest. The sun sank behind the forest. The dew was falling by now;\nthe mowers were in the sun only on the hillside, but below, where a\nmist was rising, and on the opposite side, they mowed into the fresh,\ndewy shade. The work went rapidly. The grass cut with a juicy sound,\nand was at once laid in high, fragrant rows. The mowers from all sides,\nbrought closer together in the short row, kept urging one another on to\nthe sound of jingling dippers and clanging scythes, and the hiss of the\nwhetstones sharpening them, and good-humored shouts.\n\nLevin still kept between the young peasant and the old man. The old\nman, who had put on his short sheepskin jacket, was just as\ngood-humored, jocose, and free in his movements. Among the trees they\nwere continually cutting with their scythes the so-called  birch\nmushrooms,  swollen fat in the succulent grass. But the old man bent\ndown every time he came across a mushroom, picked it up and put it in\nhis bosom.  Another present for my old woman,  he said as he did so.\n\nEasy as it was to mow the wet, soft grass, it was hard work going up\nand down the steep sides of the ravine. But this did not trouble the\nold man. Swinging his scythe just as ever, and moving his feet in their\nbig, plaited shoes with firm, little steps, he climbed slowly up the\nsteep place, and though his breeches hanging out below his smock, and\nhis whole frame trembled with effort, he did not miss one blade of\ngrass or one mushroom on his way, and kept making jokes with the\npeasants and Levin. Levin walked after him and often thought he must\nfall, as he climbed with a scythe up a steep cliff where it would have\nbeen hard work to clamber without anything. But he climbed up and did\nwhat he had to do. He felt as though some external force were moving\nhim.\n\n\nChapter 6\n\nMashkin Upland was mown, the last row finished, the peasants had put on\ntheir coats and were gaily trudging home. Levin got on his horse and,\nparting regretfully from the peasants, rode homewards. On the hillside\nhe looked back; he could not see them in the mist that had risen from\nthe valley; he could only hear rough, good-humored voices, laughter,\nand the sound of clanking scythes.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch had long ago finished dinner, and was drinking iced\nlemon and water in his own room, looking through the reviews and papers\nwhich he had only just received by post, when Levin rushed into the\nroom, talking merrily, with his wet and matted hair sticking to his\nforehead, and his back and chest grimed and moist.\n\n We mowed the whole meadow! Oh, it is nice, delicious! And how have you\nbeen getting on?  said Levin, completely forgetting the disagreeable\nconversation of the previous day.\n\n Mercy! what do you look like!  said Sergey Ivanovitch, for the first\nmoment looking round with some dissatisfaction.  And the door, do shut\nthe door!  he cried.  You must have let in a dozen at least. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch could not endure flies, and in his own room he never\nopened the window except at night, and carefully kept the door shut.\n\n Not one, on my honor. But if I have, I ll catch them. You wouldn t\nbelieve what a pleasure it is! How have you spent the day? \n\n Very well. But have you really been mowing the whole day? I expect\nyou re as hungry as a wolf. Kouzma has got everything ready for you. \n\n No, I don t feel hungry even. I had something to eat there. But I ll\ngo and wash. \n\n Yes, go along, go along, and I ll come to you directly,  said Sergey\nIvanovitch, shaking his head as he looked at his brother.  Go along,\nmake haste,  he added smiling, and gathering up his books, he prepared\nto go too. He, too, felt suddenly good-humored and disinclined to leave\nhis brother s side.  But what did you do while it was raining? \n\n Rain? Why, there was scarcely a drop. I ll come directly. So you had a\nnice day too? That s first-rate.  And Levin went off to change his\nclothes.\n\nFive minutes later the brothers met in the dining-room. Although it\nseemed to Levin that he was not hungry, and he sat down to dinner\nsimply so as not to hurt Kouzma s feelings, yet when he began to eat\nthe dinner struck him as extraordinarily good. Sergey Ivanovitch\nwatched him with a smile.\n\n Oh, by the way, there s a letter for you,  said he.  Kouzma, bring it\ndown, please. And mind you shut the doors. \n\nThe letter was from Oblonsky. Levin read it aloud. Oblonsky wrote to\nhim from Petersburg:  I have had a letter from Dolly; she s at\nErgushovo, and everything seems going wrong there. Do ride over and see\nher, please; help her with advice; you know all about it. She will be\nso glad to see you. She s quite alone, poor thing. My mother-in-law and\nall of them are still abroad. \n\n That s capital! I will certainly ride over to her,  said Levin.  Or\nwe ll go together. She s such a splendid woman, isn t she? \n\n They re not far from here, then? \n\n Twenty-five miles. Or perhaps it is thirty. But a capital road.\nCapital, we ll drive over. \n\n I shall be delighted,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, still smiling. The\nsight of his younger brother s appearance had immediately put him in a\ngood humor.\n\n Well, you have an appetite!  he said, looking at his dark-red,\nsunburnt face and neck bent over the plate.\n\n Splendid! You can t imagine what an effectual remedy it is for every\nsort of foolishness. I want to enrich medicine with a new word:\n_Arbeitskur_. \n\n Well, but you don t need it, I should fancy. \n\n No, but for all sorts of nervous invalids. \n\n Yes, it ought to be tried. I had meant to come to the mowing to look\nat you, but it was so unbearably hot that I got no further than the\nforest. I sat there a little, and went on by the forest to the village,\nmet your old nurse, and sounded her as to the peasants  view of you. As\nfar as I can make out, they don t approve of this. She said:  It s not\na gentleman s work.  Altogether, I fancy that in the people s ideas\nthere are very clear and definite notions of certain, as they call it,\n gentlemanly  lines of action. And they don t sanction the gentry s\nmoving outside bounds clearly laid down in their ideas. \n\n Maybe so; but anyway it s a pleasure such as I have never known in my\nlife. And there s no harm in it, you know. Is there?  answered Levin.\n I can t help it if they don t like it. Though I do believe it s all\nright. Eh? \n\n Altogether,  pursued Sergey Ivanovitch,  you re satisfied with your\nday? \n\n Quite satisfied. We cut the whole meadow. And such a splendid old man\nI made friends with there! You can t fancy how delightful he was! \n\n Well, so you re content with your day. And so am I. First, I solved\ntwo chess problems, and one a very pretty one a pawn opening. I ll show\nit you. And then I thought over our conversation yesterday. \n\n Eh! our conversation yesterday?  said Levin, blissfully dropping his\neyelids and drawing deep breaths after finishing his dinner, and\nabsolutely incapable of recalling what their conversation yesterday was\nabout.\n\n I think you are partly right. Our difference of opinion amounts to\nthis, that you make the mainspring self-interest, while I suppose that\ninterest in the common weal is bound to exist in every man of a certain\ndegree of advancement. Possibly you are right too, that action founded\non material interest would be more desirable. You are altogether, as\nthe French say, too _primesauti re_ a nature; you must have intense,\nenergetic action, or nothing. \n\nLevin listened to his brother and did not understand a single word, and\ndid not want to understand. He was only afraid his brother might ask\nhim some question which would make it evident he had not heard.\n\n So that s what I think it is, my dear boy,  said Sergey Ivanovitch,\ntouching him on the shoulder.\n\n Yes, of course. But, do you know? I won t stand up for my view, \nanswered Levin, with a guilty, childlike smile.  Whatever was it I was\ndisputing about?  he wondered.  Of course, I m right, and he s right,\nand it s all first-rate. Only I must go round to the counting house and\nsee to things.  He got up, stretching and smiling. Sergey Ivanovitch\nsmiled too.\n\n If you want to go out, let s go together,  he said, disinclined to be\nparted from his brother, who seemed positively breathing out freshness\nand energy.  Come, we ll go to the counting house, if you have to go\nthere. \n\n Oh, heavens!  shouted Levin, so loudly that Sergey Ivanovitch was\nquite frightened.\n\n What, what is the matter? \n\n How s Agafea Mihalovna s hand?  said Levin, slapping himself on the\nhead.  I d positively forgotten her even. \n\n It s much better. \n\n Well, anyway I ll run down to her. Before you ve time to get your hat\non, I ll be back. \n\nAnd he ran downstairs, clattering with his heels like a spring-rattle.\n\n\nChapter 7\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch had gone to Petersburg to perform the most natural\nand essential official duty so familiar to everyone in the government\nservice, though incomprehensible to outsiders that duty, but for which\none could hardly be in government service, of reminding the ministry of\nhis existence and having, for the due performance of this rite, taken\nall the available cash from home, was gaily and agreeably spending his\ndays at the races and in the summer villas. Meanwhile Dolly and the\nchildren had moved into the country, to cut down expenses as much as\npossible. She had gone to Ergushovo, the estate that had been her\ndowry, and the one where in spring the forest had been sold. It was\nnearly forty miles from Levin s Pokrovskoe. The big, old house at\nErgushovo had been pulled down long ago, and the old prince had had the\nlodge done up and built on to. Twenty years before, when Dolly was a\nchild, the lodge had been roomy and comfortable, though, like all\nlodges, it stood sideways to the entrance avenue, and faced the south.\nBut by now this lodge was old and dilapidated. When Stepan Arkadyevitch\nhad gone down in the spring to sell the forest, Dolly had begged him to\nlook over the house and order what repairs might be needed. Stepan\nArkadyevitch, like all unfaithful husbands indeed, was very solicitous\nfor his wife s comfort, and he had himself looked over the house, and\ngiven instructions about everything that he considered necessary. What\nhe considered necessary was to cover all the furniture with cretonne,\nto put up curtains, to weed the garden, to make a little bridge on the\npond, and to plant flowers. But he forgot many other essential matters,\nthe want of which greatly distressed Darya Alexandrovna later on.\n\nIn spite of Stepan Arkadyevitch s efforts to be an attentive father and\nhusband, he never could keep in his mind that he had a wife and\nchildren. He had bachelor tastes, and it was in accordance with them\nthat he shaped his life. On his return to Moscow he informed his wife\nwith pride that everything was ready, that the house would be a little\nparadise, and that he advised her most certainly to go. His wife s\nstaying away in the country was very agreeable to Stepan Arkadyevitch\nfrom every point of view: it did the children good, it decreased\nexpenses, and it left him more at liberty. Darya Alexandrovna regarded\nstaying in the country for the summer as essential for the children,\nespecially for the little girl, who had not succeeded in regaining her\nstrength after the scarlatina, and also as a means of escaping the\npetty humiliations, the little bills owing to the wood-merchant, the\nfishmonger, the shoemaker, which made her miserable. Besides this, she\nwas pleased to go away to the country because she was dreaming of\ngetting her sister Kitty to stay with her there. Kitty was to be back\nfrom abroad in the middle of the summer, and bathing had been\nprescribed for her. Kitty wrote that no prospect was so alluring as to\nspend the summer with Dolly at Ergushovo, full of childish associations\nfor both of them.\n\nThe first days of her existence in the country were very hard for\nDolly. She used to stay in the country as a child, and the impression\nshe had retained of it was that the country was a refuge from all the\nunpleasantness of the town, that life there, though not luxurious Dolly\ncould easily make up her mind to that was cheap and comfortable; that\nthere was plenty of everything, everything was cheap, everything could\nbe got, and children were happy. But now coming to the country as the\nhead of a family, she perceived that it was all utterly unlike what she\nhad fancied.\n\nThe day after their arrival there was a heavy fall of rain, and in the\nnight the water came through in the corridor and in the nursery, so\nthat the beds had to be carried into the drawing-room. There was no\nkitchen maid to be found; of the nine cows, it appeared from the words\nof the cowherd-woman that some were about to calve, others had just\ncalved, others were old, and others again hard-uddered; there was not\nbutter nor milk enough even for the children. There were no eggs. They\ncould get no fowls; old, purplish, stringy cocks were all they had for\nroasting and boiling. Impossible to get women to scrub the floors all\nwere potato-hoeing. Driving was out of the question, because one of the\nhorses was restive, and bolted in the shafts. There was no place where\nthey could bathe; the whole of the river-bank was trampled by the\ncattle and open to the road; even walks were impossible, for the cattle\nstrayed into the garden through a gap in the hedge, and there was one\nterrible bull, who bellowed, and therefore might be expected to gore\nsomebody. There were no proper cupboards for their clothes; what\ncupboards there were either would not close at all, or burst open\nwhenever anyone passed by them. There were no pots and pans; there was\nno copper in the washhouse, nor even an ironing-board in the maids \nroom.\n\nFinding instead of peace and rest all these, from her point of view,\nfearful calamities, Darya Alexandrovna was at first in despair. She\nexerted herself to the utmost, felt the hopelessness of the position,\nand was every instant suppressing the tears that started into her eyes.\nThe bailiff, a retired quartermaster, whom Stepan Arkadyevitch had\ntaken a fancy to and had appointed bailiff on account of his handsome\nand respectful appearance as a hall-porter, showed no sympathy for\nDarya Alexandrovna s woes. He said respectfully,  nothing can be done,\nthe peasants are such a wretched lot,  and did nothing to help her.\n\nThe position seemed hopeless. But in the Oblonskys  household, as in\nall families indeed, there was one inconspicuous but most valuable and\nuseful person, Marya Philimonovna. She soothed her mistress, assured\nher that everything would _come round_ (it was her expression, and\nMatvey had borrowed it from her), and without fuss or hurry proceeded\nto set to work herself. She had immediately made friends with the\nbailiff s wife, and on the very first day she drank tea with her and\nthe bailiff under the acacias, and reviewed all the circumstances of\nthe position. Very soon Marya Philimonovna had established her club, so\nto say, under the acacias, and there it was, in this club, consisting\nof the bailiff s wife, the village elder, and the counting-house clerk,\nthat the difficulties of existence were gradually smoothed away, and in\na week s time everything actually had come round. The roof was mended,\na kitchen maid was found a crony of the village elder s hens were\nbought, the cows began giving milk, the garden hedge was stopped up\nwith stakes, the carpenter made a mangle, hooks were put in the\ncupboards, and they ceased to burst open spontaneously, and an\nironing-board covered with army cloth was placed across from the arm of\na chair to the chest of drawers, and there was a smell of flatirons in\nthe maids  room.\n\n Just see, now, and you were quite in despair,  said Marya\nPhilimonovna, pointing to the ironing-board. They even rigged up a\nbathing-shed of straw hurdles. Lily began to bathe, and Darya\nAlexandrovna began to realize, if only in part, her expectations, if\nnot of a peaceful, at least of a comfortable, life in the country.\nPeaceful with six children Darya Alexandrovna could not be. One would\nfall ill, another might easily become so, a third would be without\nsomething necessary, a fourth would show symptoms of a bad disposition,\nand so on. Rare indeed were the brief periods of peace. But these cares\nand anxieties were for Darya Alexandrovna the sole happiness possible.\nHad it not been for them, she would have been left alone to brood over\nher husband who did not love her. And besides, hard though it was for\nthe mother to bear the dread of illness, the illnesses themselves, and\nthe grief of seeing signs of evil propensities in her children the\nchildren themselves were even now repaying her in small joys for her\nsufferings. Those joys were so small that they passed unnoticed, like\ngold in sand, and at bad moments she could see nothing but the pain,\nnothing but sand; but there were good moments too when she saw nothing\nbut the joy, nothing but gold.\n\nNow in the solitude of the country, she began to be more and more\nfrequently aware of those joys. Often, looking at them, she would make\nevery possible effort to persuade herself that she was mistaken, that\nshe as a mother was partial to her children. All the same, she could\nnot help saying to herself that she had charming children, all six of\nthem in different ways, but a set of children such as is not often to\nbe met with, and she was happy in them, and proud of them.\n\n\nChapter 8\n\nTowards the end of May, when everything had been more or less\nsatisfactorily arranged, she received her husband s answer to her\ncomplaints of the disorganized state of things in the country. He wrote\nbegging her forgiveness for not having thought of everything before,\nand promised to come down at the first chance. This chance did not\npresent itself, and till the beginning of June Darya Alexandrovna\nstayed alone in the country.\n\nOn the Sunday in St. Peter s week Darya Alexandrovna drove to mass for\nall her children to take the sacrament. Darya Alexandrovna in her\nintimate, philosophical talks with her sister, her mother, and her\nfriends very often astonished them by the freedom of her views in\nregard to religion. She had a strange religion of transmigration of\nsouls all her own, in which she had firm faith, troubling herself\nlittle about the dogmas of the Church. But in her family she was strict\nin carrying out all that was required by the Church and not merely in\norder to set an example, but with all her heart in it. The fact that\nthe children had not been at the sacrament for nearly a year worried\nher extremely, and with the full approval and sympathy of Marya\nPhilimonovna she decided that this should take place now in the summer.\n\nFor several days before, Darya Alexandrovna was busily deliberating on\nhow to dress all the children. Frocks were made or altered and washed,\nseams and flounces were let out, buttons were sewn on, and ribbons got\nready. One dress, Tanya s, which the English governess had undertaken,\ncost Darya Alexandrovna much loss of temper. The English governess in\naltering it had made the seams in the wrong place, had taken up the\nsleeves too much, and altogether spoilt the dress. It was so narrow on\nTanya s shoulders that it was quite painful to look at her. But Marya\nPhilimonovna had the happy thought of putting in gussets, and adding a\nlittle shoulder-cape. The dress was set right, but there was nearly a\nquarrel with the English governess. On the morning, however, all was\nhappily arranged, and towards ten o clock the time at which they had\nasked the priest to wait for them for the mass the children in their\nnew dresses, with beaming faces, stood on the step before the carriage\nwaiting for their mother.\n\nTo the carriage, instead of the restive Raven, they had harnessed,\nthanks to the representations of Marya Philimonovna, the bailiff s\nhorse, Brownie, and Darya Alexandrovna, delayed by anxiety over her own\nattire, came out and got in, dressed in a white muslin gown.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna had done her hair, and dressed with care and\nexcitement. In the old days she had dressed for her own sake to look\npretty and be admired. Later on, as she got older, dress became more\nand more distasteful to her. She saw that she was losing her good\nlooks. But now she began to feel pleasure and interest in dress again.\nNow she did not dress for her own sake, not for the sake of her own\nbeauty, but simply that as the mother of those exquisite creatures she\nmight not spoil the general effect. And looking at herself for the last\ntime in the looking-glass she was satisfied with herself. She looked\nnice. Not nice as she would have wished to look nice in old days at a\nball, but nice for the object which she now had in view.\n\nIn the church there was no one but the peasants, the servants and their\nwomen-folk. But Darya Alexandrovna saw, or fancied she saw, the\nsensation produced by her children and her. The children were not only\nbeautiful to look at in their smart little dresses, but they were\ncharming in the way they behaved. Aliosha, it is true, did not stand\nquite correctly; he kept turning round, trying to look at his little\njacket from behind; but all the same he was wonderfully sweet. Tanya\nbehaved like a grown-up person, and looked after the little ones. And\nthe smallest, Lily, was bewitching in her na ve astonishment at\neverything, and it was difficult not to smile when, after taking the\nsacrament, she said in English,  Please, some more. \n\nOn the way home the children felt that something solemn had happened,\nand were very sedate.\n\nEverything went happily at home too; but at lunch Grisha began\nwhistling, and, what was worse, was disobedient to the English\ngoverness, and was forbidden to have any tart. Darya Alexandrovna would\nnot have let things go so far on such a day had she been present; but\nshe had to support the English governess s authority, and she upheld\nher decision that Grisha should have no tart. This rather spoiled the\ngeneral good humor. Grisha cried, declaring that Nikolinka had whistled\ntoo, and he was not punished, and that he wasn t crying for the tart he\ndidn t care but at being unjustly treated. This was really too tragic,\nand Darya Alexandrovna made up her mind to persuade the English\ngoverness to forgive Grisha, and she went to speak to her. But on the\nway, as she passed the drawing-room, she beheld a scene, filling her\nheart with such pleasure that the tears came into her eyes, and she\nforgave the delinquent herself.\n\nThe culprit was sitting at the window in the corner of the\ndrawing-room; beside him was standing Tanya with a plate. On the\npretext of wanting to give some dinner to her dolls, she had asked the\ngoverness s permission to take her share of tart to the nursery, and\nhad taken it instead to her brother. While still weeping over the\ninjustice of his punishment, he was eating the tart, and kept saying\nthrough his sobs,  Eat yourself; let s eat it together ... together. \n\nTanya had at first been under the influence of her pity for Grisha,\nthen of a sense of her noble action, and tears were standing in her\neyes too; but she did not refuse, and ate her share.\n\nOn catching sight of their mother they were dismayed, but, looking into\nher face, they saw they were not doing wrong. They burst out laughing,\nand, with their mouths full of tart, they began wiping their smiling\nlips with their hands, and smearing their radiant faces all over with\ntears and jam.\n\n Mercy! Your new white frock! Tanya! Grisha!  said their mother, trying\nto save the frock, but with tears in her eyes, smiling a blissful,\nrapturous smile.\n\nThe new frocks were taken off, and orders were given for the little\ngirls to have their blouses put on, and the boys their old jackets, and\nthe wagonette to be harnessed; with Brownie, to the bailiff s\nannoyance, again in the shafts, to drive out for mushroom picking and\nbathing. A roar of delighted shrieks arose in the nursery, and never\nceased till they had set off for the bathing-place.\n\nThey gathered a whole basketful of mushrooms; even Lily found a birch\nmushroom. It had always happened before that Miss Hoole found them and\npointed them out to her; but this time she found a big one quite of\nherself, and there was a general scream of delight,  Lily has found a\nmushroom! \n\nThen they reached the river, put the horses under the birch trees, and\nwent to the bathing-place. The coachman, Terenty, fastened the horses,\nwho kept whisking away the flies, to a tree, and, treading down the\ngrass, lay down in the shade of a birch and smoked his shag, while the\nnever-ceasing shrieks of delight of the children floated across to him\nfrom the bathing-place.\n\nThough it was hard work to look after all the children and restrain\ntheir wild pranks, though it was difficult too to keep in one s head\nand not mix up all the stockings, little breeches, and shoes for the\ndifferent legs, and to undo and to do up again all the tapes and\nbuttons, Darya Alexandrovna, who had always liked bathing herself, and\nbelieved it to be very good for the children, enjoyed nothing so much\nas bathing with all the children. To go over all those fat little legs,\npulling on their stockings, to take in her arms and dip those little\nnaked bodies, and to hear their screams of delight and alarm, to see\nthe breathless faces with wide-open, scared, and happy eyes of all her\nsplashing cherubs, was a great pleasure to her.\n\nWhen half the children had been dressed, some peasant women in holiday\ndress, out picking herbs, came up to the bathing-shed and stopped\nshyly. Marya Philimonovna called one of them and handed her a sheet and\na shirt that had dropped into the water for her to dry them, and Darya\nAlexandrovna began to talk to the women. At first they laughed behind\ntheir hands and did not understand her questions, but soon they grew\nbolder and began to talk, winning Darya Alexandrovna s heart at once by\nthe genuine admiration of the children that they showed.\n\n My, what a beauty! as white as sugar,  said one, admiring Tanitchka,\nand shaking her head;  but thin.... \n\n Yes, she has been ill. \n\n And so they ve been bathing you too,  said another to the baby.\n\n No; he s only three months old,  answered Darya Alexandrovna with\npride.\n\n You don t say so! \n\n And have you any children? \n\n I ve had four; I ve two living a boy and a girl. I weaned her last\ncarnival. \n\n How old is she? \n\n Why, two years old. \n\n Why did you nurse her so long? \n\n It s our custom; for three fasts.... \n\nAnd the conversation became most interesting to Darya Alexandrovna.\nWhat sort of time did she have? What was the matter with the boy? Where\nwas her husband? Did it often happen?\n\nDarya Alexandrovna felt disinclined to leave the peasant women, so\ninteresting to her was their conversation, so completely identical were\nall their interests. What pleased her most of all was that she saw\nclearly what all the women admired more than anything was her having so\nmany children, and such fine ones. The peasant women even made Darya\nAlexandrovna laugh, and offended the English governess, because she was\nthe cause of the laughter she did not understand. One of the younger\nwomen kept staring at the Englishwoman, who was dressing after all the\nrest, and when she put on her third petticoat she could not refrain\nfrom the remark,  My, she keeps putting on and putting on, and she ll\nnever have done!  she said, and they all went off into roars.\n\n\nChapter 9\n\nOn the drive home, as Darya Alexandrovna, with all her children round\nher, their heads still wet from their bath, and a kerchief tied over\nher own head, was getting near the house, the coachman said,  There s\nsome gentleman coming: the master of Pokrovskoe, I do believe. \n\nDarya Alexandrovna peeped out in front, and was delighted when she\nrecognized in the gray hat and gray coat the familiar figure of Levin\nwalking to meet them. She was glad to see him at any time, but at this\nmoment she was specially glad he should see her in all her glory. No\none was better able to appreciate her grandeur than Levin.\n\nSeeing her, he found himself face to face with one of the pictures of\nhis daydream of family life.\n\n You re like a hen with your chickens, Darya Alexandrovna. \n\n Ah, how glad I am to see you!  she said, holding out her hand to him.\n\n Glad to see me, but you didn t let me know. My brother s staying with\nme. I got a note from Stiva that you were here. \n\n From Stiva?  Darya Alexandrovna asked with surprise.\n\n Yes; he writes that you are here, and that he thinks you might allow\nme to be of use to you,  said Levin, and as he said it he became\nsuddenly embarrassed, and, stopping abruptly, he walked on in silence\nby the wagonette, snapping off the buds of the lime trees and nibbling\nthem. He was embarrassed through a sense that Darya Alexandrovna would\nbe annoyed by receiving from an outsider help that should by rights\nhave come from her own husband. Darya Alexandrovna certainly did not\nlike this little way of Stepan Arkadyevitch s of foisting his domestic\nduties on others. And she was at once aware that Levin was aware of\nthis. It was just for this fineness of perception, for this delicacy,\nthat Darya Alexandrovna liked Levin.\n\n I know, of course,  said Levin,  that that simply means that you would\nlike to see me, and I m exceedingly glad. Though I can fancy that, used\nto town housekeeping as you are, you must feel in the wilds here, and\nif there s anything wanted, I m altogether at your disposal. \n\n Oh, no!  said Dolly.  At first things were rather uncomfortable, but\nnow we ve settled everything capitally thanks to my old nurse,  she\nsaid, indicating Marya Philimonovna, who, seeing that they were\nspeaking of her, smiled brightly and cordially to Levin. She knew him,\nand knew that he would be a good match for her young lady, and was very\nkeen to see the matter settled.\n\n Won t you get in, sir, we ll make room this side!  she said to him.\n\n No, I ll walk. Children, who d like to race the horses with me?  The\nchildren knew Levin very little, and could not remember when they had\nseen him, but they experienced in regard to him none of that strange\nfeeling of shyness and hostility which children so often experience\ntowards hypocritical, grown-up people, and for which they are so often\nand miserably punished. Hypocrisy in anything whatever may deceive the\ncleverest and most penetrating man, but the least wide-awake of\nchildren recognizes it, and is revolted by it, however ingeniously it\nmay be disguised. Whatever faults Levin had, there was not a trace of\nhypocrisy in him, and so the children showed him the same friendliness\nthat they saw in their mother s face. On his invitation, the two elder\nones at once jumped out to him and ran with him as simply as they would\nhave done with their nurse or Miss Hoole or their mother. Lily, too,\nbegan begging to go to him, and her mother handed her to him; he sat\nher on his shoulder and ran along with her.\n\n Don t be afraid, don t be afraid, Darya Alexandrovna!  he said,\nsmiling good-humoredly to the mother;  there s no chance of my hurting\nor dropping her. \n\nAnd, looking at his strong, agile, assiduously careful and needlessly\nwary movements, the mother felt her mind at rest, and smiled gaily and\napprovingly as she watched him.\n\nHere, in the country, with children, and with Darya Alexandrovna, with\nwhom he was in sympathy, Levin was in a mood not infrequent with him,\nof childlike light-heartedness that she particularly liked in him. As\nhe ran with the children, he taught them gymnastic feats, set Miss\nHoole laughing with his queer English accent, and talked to Darya\nAlexandrovna of his pursuits in the country.\n\nAfter dinner, Darya Alexandrovna, sitting alone with him on the\nbalcony, began to speak of Kitty.\n\n You know, Kitty s coming here, and is going to spend the summer with\nme. \n\n Really,  he said, flushing, and at once, to change the conversation,\nhe said:  Then I ll send you two cows, shall I? If you insist on a bill\nyou shall pay me five roubles a month; but it s really too bad of you. \n\n No, thank you. We can manage very well now. \n\n Oh, well, then, I ll have a look at your cows, and if you ll allow me,\nI ll give directions about their food. Everything depends on their\nfood. \n\nAnd Levin, to turn the conversation, explained to Darya Alexandrovna\nthe theory of cow-keeping, based on the principle that the cow is\nsimply a machine for the transformation of food into milk, and so on.\n\nHe talked of this, and passionately longed to hear more of Kitty, and,\nat the same time, was afraid of hearing it. He dreaded the breaking up\nof the inward peace he had gained with such effort.\n\n Yes, but still all this has to be looked after, and who is there to\nlook after it?  Darya Alexandrovna responded, without interest.\n\nShe had by now got her household matters so satisfactorily arranged,\nthanks to Marya Philimonovna, that she was disinclined to make any\nchange in them; besides, she had no faith in Levin s knowledge of\nfarming. General principles, as to the cow being a machine for the\nproduction of milk, she looked on with suspicion. It seemed to her that\nsuch principles could only be a hindrance in farm management. It all\nseemed to her a far simpler matter: all that was needed, as Marya\nPhilimonovna had explained, was to give Brindle and Whitebreast more\nfood and drink, and not to let the cook carry all the kitchen slops to\nthe laundry maid s cow. That was clear. But general propositions as to\nfeeding on meal and on grass were doubtful and obscure. And, what was\nmost important, she wanted to talk about Kitty.\n\n\nChapter 10\n\n Kitty writes to me that there s nothing she longs for so much as quiet\nand solitude,  Dolly said after the silence that had followed.\n\n And how is she better?  Levin asked in agitation.\n\n Thank God, she s quite well again. I never believed her lungs were\naffected. \n\n Oh, I m very glad!  said Levin, and Dolly fancied she saw something\ntouching, helpless, in his face as he said this and looked silently\ninto her face.\n\n Let me ask you, Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  said Darya Alexandrovna,\nsmiling her kindly and rather mocking smile,  why is it you are angry\nwith Kitty? \n\n I? I m not angry with her,  said Levin.\n\n Yes, you are angry. Why was it you did not come to see us nor them\nwhen you were in Moscow? \n\n Darya Alexandrovna,  he said, blushing up to the roots of his hair,  I\nwonder really that with your kind heart you don t feel this. How it is\nyou feel no pity for me, if nothing else, when you know.... \n\n What do I know? \n\n You know I made an offer and that I was refused,  said Levin, and all\nthe tenderness he had been feeling for Kitty a minute before was\nreplaced by a feeling of anger for the slight he had suffered.\n\n What makes you suppose I know? \n\n Because everybody knows it.... \n\n That s just where you are mistaken; I did not know it, though I had\nguessed it was so. \n\n Well, now you know it. \n\n All I knew was that something had happened that made her dreadfully\nmiserable, and that she begged me never to speak of it. And if she\nwould not tell me, she would certainly not speak of it to anyone else.\nBut what did pass between you? Tell me. \n\n I have told you. \n\n When was it? \n\n When I was at their house the last time. \n\n Do you know that,  said Darya Alexandrovna,  I am awfully, awfully\nsorry for her. You suffer only from pride.... \n\n Perhaps so,  said Levin,  but.... \n\nShe interrupted him.\n\n But she, poor girl ... I am awfully, awfully sorry for her. Now I see\nit all. \n\n Well, Darya Alexandrovna, you must excuse me,  he said, getting up.\n Good-bye, Darya Alexandrovna, till we meet again. \n\n No, wait a minute,  she said, clutching him by the sleeve.  Wait a\nminute, sit down. \n\n Please, please, don t let us talk of this,  he said, sitting down, and\nat the same time feeling rise up and stir within his heart a hope he\nhad believed to be buried.\n\n If I did not like you,  she said, and tears came into her eyes;  if I\ndid not know you, as I do know you.... \n\nThe feeling that had seemed dead revived more and more, rose up and\ntook possession of Levin s heart.\n\n Yes, I understand it all now,  said Darya Alexandrovna.  You can t\nunderstand it; for you men, who are free and make your own choice, it s\nalways clear whom you love. But a girl s in a position of suspense,\nwith all a woman s or maiden s modesty, a girl who sees you men from\nafar, who takes everything on trust, a girl may have, and often has,\nsuch a feeling that she cannot tell what to say. \n\n Yes, if the heart does not speak.... \n\n No, the heart does speak; but just consider: you men have views about\na girl, you come to the house, you make friends, you criticize, you\nwait to see if you have found what you love, and then, when you are\nsure you love her, you make an offer.... \n\n Well, that s not quite it. \n\n Anyway you make an offer, when your love is ripe or when the balance\nhas completely turned between the two you are choosing from. But a girl\nis not asked. She is expected to make her choice, and yet she cannot\nchoose, she can only answer  yes  or  no. \n\n Yes, to choose between me and Vronsky,  thought Levin, and the dead\nthing that had come to life within him died again, and only weighed on\nhis heart and set it aching.\n\n Darya Alexandrovna,  he said,  that s how one chooses a new dress or\nsome purchase or other, not love. The choice has been made, and so much\nthe better.... And there can be no repeating it. \n\n Ah, pride, pride!  said Darya Alexandrovna, as though despising him\nfor the baseness of this feeling in comparison with that other feeling\nwhich only women know.  At the time when you made Kitty an offer she\nwas just in a position in which she could not answer. She was in doubt.\nDoubt between you and Vronsky. Him she was seeing every day, and you\nshe had not seen for a long while. Supposing she had been older ... I,\nfor instance, in her place could have felt no doubt. I always disliked\nhim, and so it has turned out. \n\nLevin recalled Kitty s answer. She had said:  _No, that cannot be_.... \n\n Darya Alexandrovna,  he said dryly,  I appreciate your confidence in\nme; I believe you are making a mistake. But whether I am right or\nwrong, that pride you so despise makes any thought of Katerina\nAlexandrovna out of the question for me, you understand, utterly out of\nthe question. \n\n I will only say one thing more: you know that I am speaking of my\nsister, whom I love as I love my own children. I don t say she cared\nfor you, all I meant to say is that her refusal at that moment proves\nnothing. \n\n I don t know!  said Levin, jumping up.  If you only knew how you are\nhurting me. It s just as if a child of yours were dead, and they were\nto say to you: He would have been like this and like that, and he might\nhave lived, and how happy you would have been in him. But he s dead,\ndead, dead!... \n\n How absurd you are!  said Darya Alexandrovna, looking with mournful\ntenderness at Levin s excitement.  Yes, I see it all more and more\nclearly,  she went on musingly.  So you won t come to see us, then,\nwhen Kitty s here? \n\n No, I shan t come. Of course I won t avoid meeting Katerina\nAlexandrovna, but as far as I can, I will try to save her the annoyance\nof my presence. \n\n You are very, very absurd,  repeated Darya Alexandrovna, looking with\ntenderness into his face.  Very well then, let it be as though we had\nnot spoken of this. What have you come for, Tanya?  she said in French\nto the little girl who had come in.\n\n Where s my spade, mamma? \n\n I speak French, and you must too. \n\nThe little girl tried to say it in French, but could not remember the\nFrench for spade; the mother prompted her, and then told her in French\nwhere to look for the spade. And this made a disagreeable impression on\nLevin.\n\nEverything in Darya Alexandrovna s house and children struck him now as\nby no means so charming as a little while before.  And what does she\ntalk French with the children for?  he thought;  how unnatural and\nfalse it is! And the children feel it so: Learning French and\nunlearning sincerity,  he thought to himself, unaware that Darya\nAlexandrovna had thought all that over twenty times already, and yet,\neven at the cost of some loss of sincerity, believed it necessary to\nteach her children French in that way.\n\n But why are you going? Do stay a little. \n\nLevin stayed to tea; but his good-humor had vanished, and he felt ill\nat ease.\n\nAfter tea he went out into the hall to order his horses to be put in,\nand, when he came back, he found Darya Alexandrovna greatly disturbed,\nwith a troubled face, and tears in her eyes. While Levin had been\noutside, an incident had occurred which had utterly shattered all the\nhappiness she had been feeling that day, and her pride in her children.\nGrisha and Tanya had been fighting over a ball. Darya Alexandrovna,\nhearing a scream in the nursery, ran in and saw a terrible sight. Tanya\nwas pulling Grisha s hair, while he, with a face hideous with rage, was\nbeating her with his fists wherever he could get at her. Something\nsnapped in Darya Alexandrovna s heart when she saw this. It was as if\ndarkness had swooped down upon her life; she felt that these children\nof hers, that she was so proud of, were not merely most ordinary, but\npositively bad, ill-bred children, with coarse, brutal\npropensities wicked children.\n\nShe could not talk or think of anything else, and she could not speak\nto Levin of her misery.\n\nLevin saw she was unhappy and tried to comfort her, saying that it\nshowed nothing bad, that all children fight; but, even as he said it,\nhe was thinking in his heart:  No, I won t be artificial and talk\nFrench with my children; but my children won t be like that. All one\nhas to do is not spoil children, not to distort their nature, and\nthey ll be delightful. No, my children won t be like that. \n\nHe said good-bye and drove away, and she did not try to keep him.\n\n\nChapter 11\n\nIn the middle of July the elder of the village on Levin s sister s\nestate, about fifteen miles from Pokrovskoe, came to Levin to report on\nhow things were going there and on the hay. The chief source of income\non his sister s estate was from the riverside meadows. In former years\nthe hay had been bought by the peasants for twenty roubles the three\nacres. When Levin took over the management of the estate, he thought on\nexamining the grasslands that they were worth more, and he fixed the\nprice at twenty-five roubles the three acres. The peasants would not\ngive that price, and, as Levin suspected, kept off other purchasers.\nThen Levin had driven over himself, and arranged to have the grass cut,\npartly by hired labor, partly at a payment of a certain proportion of\nthe crop. His own peasants put every hindrance they could in the way of\nthis new arrangement, but it was carried out, and the first year the\nmeadows had yielded a profit almost double. The previous year which was\nthe third year the peasants had maintained the same opposition to the\narrangement, and the hay had been cut on the same system. This year the\npeasants were doing all the mowing for a third of the hay crop, and the\nvillage elder had come now to announce that the hay had been cut, and\nthat, fearing rain, they had invited the counting-house clerk over, had\ndivided the crop in his presence, and had raked together eleven stacks\nas the owner s share. From the vague answers to his question how much\nhay had been cut on the principal meadow, from the hurry of the village\nelder who had made the division, not asking leave, from the whole tone\nof the peasant, Levin perceived that there was something wrong in the\ndivision of the hay, and made up his mind to drive over himself to look\ninto the matter.\n\nArriving for dinner at the village, and leaving his horse at the\ncottage of an old friend of his, the husband of his brother s\nwet-nurse, Levin went to see the old man in his bee-house, wanting to\nfind out from him the truth about the hay. Parmenitch, a talkative,\ncomely old man, gave Levin a very warm welcome, showed him all he was\ndoing, told him everything about his bees and the swarms of that year;\nbut gave vague and unwilling answers to Levin s inquiries about the\nmowing. This confirmed Levin still more in his suspicions. He went to\nthe hay fields and examined the stacks. The haystacks could not\npossibly contain fifty wagon-loads each, and to convict the peasants\nLevin ordered the wagons that had carried the hay to be brought up\ndirectly, to lift one stack, and carry it into the barn. There turned\nout to be only thirty-two loads in the stack. In spite of the village\nelder s assertions about the compressibility of hay, and its having\nsettled down in the stacks, and his swearing that everything had been\ndone in the fear of God, Levin stuck to his point that the hay had been\ndivided without his orders, and that, therefore, he would not accept\nthat hay as fifty loads to a stack. After a prolonged dispute the\nmatter was decided by the peasants taking these eleven stacks,\nreckoning them as fifty loads each. The arguments and the division of\nthe haycocks lasted the whole afternoon. When the last of the hay had\nbeen divided, Levin, intrusting the superintendence of the rest to the\ncounting-house clerk, sat down on a haycock marked off by a stake of\nwillow, and looked admiringly at the meadow swarming with peasants.\n\nIn front of him, in the bend of the river beyond the marsh, moved a\nbright-colored line of peasant women, and the scattered hay was being\nrapidly formed into gray winding rows over the pale green stubble.\nAfter the women came the men with pitchforks, and from the gray rows\nthere were growing up broad, high, soft haycocks. To the left, carts\nwere rumbling over the meadow that had been already cleared, and one\nafter another the haycocks vanished, flung up in huge forkfuls, and in\ntheir place there were rising heavy cartloads of fragrant hay hanging\nover the horses  hind-quarters.\n\n What weather for haying! What hay it ll be!  said an old man,\nsquatting down beside Levin.  It s tea, not hay! It s like scattering\ngrain to the ducks, the way they pick it up!  he added, pointing to the\ngrowing haycocks.  Since dinner time they ve carried a good half of\nit. \n\n The last load, eh?  he shouted to a young peasant, who drove by,\nstanding in the front of an empty cart, shaking the cord reins.\n\n The last, dad!  the lad shouted back, pulling in the horse, and,\nsmiling, he looked round at a bright, rosy-cheeked peasant girl who sat\nin the cart smiling too, and drove on.\n\n Who s that? Your son?  asked Levin.\n\n My baby,  said the old man with a tender smile.\n\n What a fine fellow! \n\n The lad s all right. \n\n Married already? \n\n Yes, it s two years last St. Philip s day. \n\n Any children? \n\n Children indeed! Why, for over a year he was innocent as a babe\nhimself, and bashful too,  answered the old man.  Well, the hay! It s\nas fragrant as tea!  he repeated, wishing to change the subject.\n\nLevin looked more attentively at Ivan Parmenov and his wife. They were\nloading a haycock onto the cart not far from him. Ivan Parmenov was\nstanding on the cart, taking, laying in place, and stamping down the\nhuge bundles of hay, which his pretty young wife deftly handed up to\nhim, at first in armfuls, and then on the pitchfork. The young wife\nworked easily, merrily, and dexterously. The close-packed hay did not\nonce break away off her fork. First she gathered it together, stuck the\nfork into it, then with a rapid, supple movement leaned the whole\nweight of her body on it, and at once with a bend of her back under the\nred belt she drew herself up, and arching her full bosom under the\nwhite smock, with a smart turn swung the fork in her arms, and flung\nthe bundle of hay high onto the cart. Ivan, obviously doing his best to\nsave her every minute of unnecessary labor, made haste, opening his\narms to clutch the bundle and lay it in the cart. As she raked together\nwhat was left of the hay, the young wife shook off the bits of hay that\nhad fallen on her neck, and straightening the red kerchief that had\ndropped forward over her white brow, not browned like her face by the\nsun, she crept under the cart to tie up the load. Ivan directed her how\nto fasten the cord to the cross-piece, and at something she said he\nlaughed aloud. In the expressions of both faces was to be seen\nvigorous, young, freshly awakened love.\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nThe load was tied on. Ivan jumped down and took the quiet, sleek horse\nby the bridle. The young wife flung the rake up on the load, and with a\nbold step, swinging her arms, she went to join the women, who were\nforming a ring for the haymakers  dance. Ivan drove off to the road and\nfell into line with the other loaded carts. The peasant women, with\ntheir rakes on their shoulders, gay with bright flowers, and chattering\nwith ringing, merry voices, walked behind the hay cart. One wild\nuntrained female voice broke into a song, and sang it alone through a\nverse, and then the same verse was taken up and repeated by half a\nhundred strong healthy voices, of all sorts, coarse and fine, singing\nin unison.\n\nThe women, all singing, began to come close to Levin, and he felt as\nthough a storm were swooping down upon him with a thunder of merriment.\nThe storm swooped down, enveloped him and the haycock on which he was\nlying, and the other haycocks, and the wagon-loads, and the whole\nmeadow and distant fields all seemed to be shaking and singing to the\nmeasures of this wild merry song with its shouts and whistles and\nclapping. Levin felt envious of this health and mirthfulness; he longed\nto take part in the expression of this joy of life. But he could do\nnothing, and had to lie and look on and listen. When the peasants, with\ntheir singing, had vanished out of sight and hearing, a weary feeling\nof despondency at his own isolation, his physical inactivity, his\nalienation from this world, came over Levin.\n\nSome of the very peasants who had been most active in wrangling with\nhim over the hay, some whom he had treated with contumely, and who had\ntried to cheat him, those very peasants had greeted him good-humoredly,\nand evidently had not, were incapable of having any feeling of rancor\nagainst him, any regret, any recollection even of having tried to\ndeceive him. All that was drowned in a sea of merry common labor. God\ngave the day, God gave the strength. And the day and the strength were\nconsecrated to labor, and that labor was its own reward. For whom the\nlabor? What would be its fruits? These were idle considerations beside\nthe point.\n\nOften Levin had admired this life, often he had a sense of envy of the\nmen who led this life; but today for the first time, especially under\nthe influence of what he had seen in the attitude of Ivan Parmenov to\nhis young wife, the idea presented itself definitely to his mind that\nit was in his power to exchange the dreary, artificial, idle, and\nindividualistic life he was leading for this laborious, pure, and\nsocially delightful life.\n\nThe old man who had been sitting beside him had long ago gone home; the\npeople had all separated. Those who lived near had gone home, while\nthose who came from far were gathered into a group for supper, and to\nspend the night in the meadow. Levin, unobserved by the peasants, still\nlay on the haycock, and still looked on and listened and mused. The\npeasants who remained for the night in the meadow scarcely slept all\nthe short summer night. At first there was the sound of merry talk and\nlaughing all together over the supper, then singing again and laughter.\n\nAll the long day of toil had left no trace in them but lightness of\nheart. Before the early dawn all was hushed. Nothing was to be heard\nbut the night sounds of the frogs that never ceased in the marsh, and\nthe horses snorting in the mist that rose over the meadow before the\nmorning. Rousing himself, Levin got up from the haycock, and looking at\nthe stars, he saw that the night was over.\n\n Well, what am I going to do? How am I to set about it?  he said to\nhimself, trying to express to himself all the thoughts and feelings he\nhad passed through in that brief night. All the thoughts and feelings\nhe had passed through fell into three separate trains of thought. One\nwas the renunciation of his old life, of his utterly useless education.\nThis renunciation gave him satisfaction, and was easy and simple.\nAnother series of thoughts and mental images related to the life he\nlonged to live now. The simplicity, the purity, the sanity of this life\nhe felt clearly, and he was convinced he would find in it the content,\nthe peace, and the dignity, of the lack of which he was so miserably\nconscious. But a third series of ideas turned upon the question how to\neffect this transition from the old life to the new. And there nothing\ntook clear shape for him.  Have a wife? Have work and the necessity of\nwork? Leave Pokrovskoe? Buy land? Become a member of a peasant\ncommunity? Marry a peasant girl? How am I to set about it?  he asked\nhimself again, and could not find an answer.  I haven t slept all\nnight, though, and I can t think it out clearly,  he said to himself.\n I ll work it out later. One thing s certain, this night has decided my\nfate. All my old dreams of home life were absurd, not the real thing, \nhe told himself.  It s all ever so much simpler and better.... \n\n How beautiful!  he thought, looking at the strange, as it were,\nmother-of-pearl shell of white fleecy cloudlets resting right over his\nhead in the middle of the sky.  How exquisite it all is in this\nexquisite night! And when was there time for that cloud-shell to form?\nJust now I looked at the sky, and there was nothing in it only two\nwhite streaks. Yes, and so imperceptibly too my views of life changed! \n\nHe went out of the meadow and walked along the highroad towards the\nvillage. A slight wind arose, and the sky looked gray and sullen. The\ngloomy moment had come that usually precedes the dawn, the full triumph\nof light over darkness.\n\nShrinking from the cold, Levin walked rapidly, looking at the ground.\n What s that? Someone coming,  he thought, catching the tinkle of\nbells, and lifting his head. Forty paces from him a carriage with four\nhorses harnessed abreast was driving towards him along the grassy road\non which he was walking. The shaft-horses were tilted against the\nshafts by the ruts, but the dexterous driver sitting on the box held\nthe shaft over the ruts, so that the wheels ran on the smooth part of\nthe road.\n\nThis was all Levin noticed, and without wondering who it could be, he\ngazed absently at the coach.\n\nIn the coach was an old lady dozing in one corner, and at the window,\nevidently only just awake, sat a young girl holding in both hands the\nribbons of a white cap. With a face full of light and thought, full of\na subtle, complex inner life, that was remote from Levin, she was\ngazing beyond him at the glow of the sunrise.\n\nAt the very instant when this apparition was vanishing, the truthful\neyes glanced at him. She recognized him, and her face lighted up with\nwondering delight.\n\nHe could not be mistaken. There were no other eyes like those in the\nworld. There was only one creature in the world that could concentrate\nfor him all the brightness and meaning of life. It was she. It was\nKitty. He understood that she was driving to Ergushovo from the railway\nstation. And everything that had been stirring Levin during that\nsleepless night, all the resolutions he had made, all vanished at once.\nHe recalled with horror his dreams of marrying a peasant girl. There\nonly, in the carriage that had crossed over to the other side of the\nroad, and was rapidly disappearing, there only could he find the\nsolution of the riddle of his life, which had weighed so agonizingly\nupon him of late.\n\nShe did not look out again. The sound of the carriage-springs was no\nlonger audible, the bells could scarcely be heard. The barking of dogs\nshowed the carriage had reached the village, and all that was left was\nthe empty fields all round, the village in front, and he himself\nisolated and apart from it all, wandering lonely along the deserted\nhighroad.\n\nHe glanced at the sky, expecting to find there the cloud shell he had\nbeen admiring and taking as the symbol of the ideas and feelings of\nthat night. There was nothing in the sky in the least like a shell.\nThere, in the remote heights above, a mysterious change had been\naccomplished. There was no trace of shell, and there was stretched over\nfully half the sky an even cover of tiny and ever tinier cloudlets. The\nsky had grown blue and bright; and with the same softness, but with the\nsame remoteness, it met his questioning gaze.\n\n No,  he said to himself,  however good that life of simplicity and\ntoil may be, I cannot go back to it. I love _her_. \n\n\nChapter 13\n\nNone but those who were most intimate with Alexey Alexandrovitch knew\nthat, while on the surface the coldest and most reasonable of men, he\nhad one weakness quite opposed to the general trend of his character.\nAlexey Alexandrovitch could not hear or see a child or woman crying\nwithout being moved. The sight of tears threw him into a state of\nnervous agitation, and he utterly lost all power of reflection. The\nchief secretary of his department and his private secretary were aware\nof this, and used to warn women who came with petitions on no account\nto give way to tears, if they did not want to ruin their chances.  He\nwill get angry, and will not listen to you,  they used to say. And as a\nfact, in such cases the emotional disturbance set up in Alexey\nAlexandrovitch by the sight of tears found expression in hasty anger.\n I can do nothing. Kindly leave the room!  he would commonly cry in\nsuch cases.\n\nWhen returning from the races Anna had informed him of her relations\nwith Vronsky, and immediately afterwards had burst into tears, hiding\nher face in her hands, Alexey Alexandrovitch, for all the fury aroused\nin him against her, was aware at the same time of a rush of that\nemotional disturbance always produced in him by tears. Conscious of it,\nand conscious that any expression of his feelings at that minute would\nbe out of keeping with the position, he tried to suppress every\nmanifestation of life in himself, and so neither stirred nor looked at\nher. This was what had caused that strange expression of deathlike\nrigidity in his face which had so impressed Anna.\n\nWhen they reached the house he helped her to get out of the carriage,\nand making an effort to master himself, took leave of her with his\nusual urbanity, and uttered that phrase that bound him to nothing; he\nsaid that tomorrow he would let her know his decision.\n\nHis wife s words, confirming his worst suspicions, had sent a cruel\npang to the heart of Alexey Alexandrovitch. That pang was intensified\nby the strange feeling of physical pity for her set up by her tears.\nBut when he was all alone in the carriage Alexey Alexandrovitch, to his\nsurprise and delight, felt complete relief both from this pity and from\nthe doubts and agonies of jealousy.\n\nHe experienced the sensations of a man who has had a tooth out after\nsuffering long from toothache. After a fearful agony and a sense of\nsomething huge, bigger than the head itself, being torn out of his jaw,\nthe sufferer, hardly able to believe in his own good luck, feels all at\nonce that what has so long poisoned his existence and enchained his\nattention, exists no longer, and that he can live and think again, and\ntake interest in other things besides his tooth. This feeling Alexey\nAlexandrovitch was experiencing. The agony had been strange and\nterrible, but now it was over; he felt that he could live again and\nthink of something other than his wife.\n\n No honor, no heart, no religion; a corrupt woman. I always knew it and\nalways saw it, though I tried to deceive myself to spare her,  he said\nto himself. And it actually seemed to him that he always had seen it:\nhe recalled incidents of their past life, in which he had never seen\nanything wrong before now these incidents proved clearly that she had\nalways been a corrupt woman.  I made a mistake in linking my life to\nhers; but there was nothing wrong in my mistake, and so I cannot be\nunhappy. It s not I that am to blame,  he told himself,  but she. But I\nhave nothing to do with her. She does not exist for me.... \n\nEverything relating to her and her son, towards whom his sentiments\nwere as much changed as towards her, ceased to interest him. The only\nthing that interested him now was the question of in what way he could\nbest, with most propriety and comfort for himself, and thus with most\njustice, extricate himself from the mud with which she had spattered\nhim in her fall, and then proceed along his path of active, honorable,\nand useful existence.\n\n I cannot be made unhappy by the fact that a contemptible woman has\ncommitted a crime. I have only to find the best way out of the\ndifficult position in which she has placed me. And I shall find it,  he\nsaid to himself, frowning more and more.  I m not the first nor the\nlast.  And to say nothing of historical instances dating from the  Fair\nHelen  of Menelaus, recently revived in the memory of all, a whole list\nof contemporary examples of husbands with unfaithful wives in the\nhighest society rose before Alexey Alexandrovitch s imagination.\n Daryalov, Poltavsky, Prince Karibanov, Count Paskudin, Dram.... Yes,\neven Dram, such an honest, capable fellow ... Semyonov, Tchagin,\nSigonin,  Alexey Alexandrovitch remembered.  Admitting that a certain\nquite irrational _ridicule_ falls to the lot of these men, yet I never\nsaw anything but a misfortune in it, and always felt sympathy for it, \nAlexey Alexandrovitch said to himself, though indeed this was not the\nfact, and he had never felt sympathy for misfortunes of that kind, but\nthe more frequently he had heard of instances of unfaithful wives\nbetraying their husbands, the more highly he had thought of himself.\n It is a misfortune which may befall anyone. And this misfortune has\nbefallen me. The only thing to be done is to make the best of the\nposition. \n\nAnd he began passing in review the methods of proceeding of men who had\nbeen in the same position that he was in.\n\n Daryalov fought a duel.... \n\nThe duel had particularly fascinated the thoughts of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch in his youth, just because he was physically a coward,\nand was himself well aware of the fact. Alexey Alexandrovitch could not\nwithout horror contemplate the idea of a pistol aimed at himself, and\nhad never made use of any weapon in his life. This horror had in his\nyouth set him pondering on dueling, and picturing himself in a position\nin which he would have to expose his life to danger. Having attained\nsuccess and an established position in the world, he had long ago\nforgotten this feeling; but the habitual bent of feeling reasserted\nitself, and dread of his own cowardice proved even now so strong that\nAlexey Alexandrovitch spent a long while thinking over the question of\ndueling in all its aspects, and hugging the idea of a duel, though he\nwas fully aware beforehand that he would never under any circumstances\nfight one.\n\n There s no doubt our society is still so barbarous (it s not the same\nin England) that very many and among these were those whose opinion\nAlexey Alexandrovitch particularly valued look favorably on the duel;\nbut what result is attained by it? Suppose I call him out,  Alexey\nAlexandrovitch went on to himself, and vividly picturing the night he\nwould spend after the challenge, and the pistol aimed at him, he\nshuddered, and knew that he never would do it suppose I call him out.\nSuppose I am taught,  he went on musing,  to shoot; I press the\ntrigger,  he said to himself, closing his eyes,  and it turns out I\nhave killed him,  Alexey Alexandrovitch said to himself, and he shook\nhis head as though to dispel such silly ideas.  What sense is there in\nmurdering a man in order to define one s relation to a guilty wife and\nson? I should still just as much have to decide what I ought to do with\nher. But what is more probable and what would doubtless occur I should\nbe killed or wounded. I, the innocent person, should be the\nvictim killed or wounded. It s even more senseless. But apart from\nthat, a challenge to fight would be an act hardly honest on my side.\nDon t I know perfectly well that my friends would never allow me to\nfight a duel would never allow the life of a statesman, needed by\nRussia, to be exposed to danger? Knowing perfectly well beforehand that\nthe matter would never come to real danger, it would amount to my\nsimply trying to gain a certain sham reputation by such a challenge.\nThat would be dishonest, that would be false, that would be deceiving\nmyself and others. A duel is quite irrational, and no one expects it of\nme. My aim is simply to safeguard my reputation, which is essential for\nthe uninterrupted pursuit of my public duties.  Official duties, which\nhad always been of great consequence in Alexey Alexandrovitch s eyes,\nseemed of special importance to his mind at this moment. Considering\nand rejecting the duel, Alexey Alexandrovitch turned to divorce another\nsolution selected by several of the husbands he remembered. Passing in\nmental review all the instances he knew of divorces (there were plenty\nof them in the very highest society with which he was very familiar),\nAlexey Alexandrovitch could not find a single example in which the\nobject of divorce was that which he had in view. In all these instances\nthe husband had practically ceded or sold his unfaithful wife, and the\nvery party which, being in fault, had not the right to contract a fresh\nmarriage, had formed counterfeit, pseudo-matrimonial ties with a\nself-styled husband. In his own case, Alexey Alexandrovitch saw that a\nlegal divorce, that is to say, one in which only the guilty wife would\nbe repudiated, was impossible of attainment. He saw that the complex\nconditions of the life they led made the coarse proofs of his wife s\nguilt, required by the law, out of the question; he saw that a certain\nrefinement in that life would not admit of such proofs being brought\nforward, even if he had them, and that to bring forward such proofs\nwould damage him in the public estimation more than it would her.\n\nAn attempt at divorce could lead to nothing but a public scandal, which\nwould be a perfect godsend to his enemies for calumny and attacks on\nhis high position in society. His chief object, to define the position\nwith the least amount of disturbance possible, would not be attained by\ndivorce either. Moreover, in the event of divorce, or even of an\nattempt to obtain a divorce, it was obvious that the wife broke off all\nrelations with the husband and threw in her lot with the lover. And in\nspite of the complete, as he supposed, contempt and indifference he now\nfelt for his wife, at the bottom of his heart Alexey Alexandrovitch\nstill had one feeling left in regard to her a disinclination to see her\nfree to throw in her lot with Vronsky, so that her crime would be to\nher advantage. The mere notion of this so exasperated Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, that directly it rose to his mind he groaned with\ninward agony, and got up and changed his place in the carriage, and for\na long while after, he sat with scowling brows, wrapping his numbed and\nbony legs in the fleecy rug.\n\n Apart from formal divorce, One might still do like Karibanov,\nPaskudin, and that good fellow Dram that is, separate from one s wife, \nhe went on thinking, when he had regained his composure. But this step\ntoo presented the same drawback of public scandal as a divorce, and\nwhat was more, a separation, quite as much as a regular divorce, flung\nhis wife into the arms of Vronsky.  No, it s out of the question, out\nof the question!  he said again, twisting his rug about him again.  I\ncannot be unhappy, but neither she nor he ought to be happy. \n\nThe feeling of jealousy, which had tortured him during the period of\nuncertainty, had passed away at the instant when the tooth had been\nwith agony extracted by his wife s words. But that feeling had been\nreplaced by another, the desire, not merely that she should not be\ntriumphant, but that she should get due punishment for her crime. He\ndid not acknowledge this feeling, but at the bottom of his heart he\nlonged for her to suffer for having destroyed his peace of mind his\nhonor. And going once again over the conditions inseparable from a\nduel, a divorce, a separation, and once again rejecting them, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch felt convinced that there was only one solution, to keep\nher with him, concealing what had happened from the world, and using\nevery measure in his power to break off the intrigue, and still\nmore though this he did not admit to himself to punish her.  I must\ninform her of my conclusion, that thinking over the terrible position\nin which she has placed her family, all other solutions will be worse\nfor both sides than an external _status quo_, and that such I agree to\nretain, on the strict condition of obedience on her part to my wishes,\nthat is to say, cessation of all intercourse with her lover.  When this\ndecision had been finally adopted, another weighty consideration\noccurred to Alexey Alexandrovitch in support of it.  By such a course\nonly shall I be acting in accordance with the dictates of religion,  he\ntold himself.  In adopting this course, I am not casting off a guilty\nwife, but giving her a chance of amendment; and, indeed, difficult as\nthe task will be to me, I shall devote part of my energies to her\nreformation and salvation. \n\nThough Alexey Alexandrovitch was perfectly aware that he could not\nexert any moral influence over his wife, that such an attempt at\nreformation could lead to nothing but falsity; though in passing\nthrough these difficult moments he had not once thought of seeking\nguidance in religion, yet now, when his conclusion corresponded, as it\nseemed to him, with the requirements of religion, this religious\nsanction to his decision gave him complete satisfaction, and to some\nextent restored his peace of mind. He was pleased to think that, even\nin such an important crisis in life, no one would be able to say that\nhe had not acted in accordance with the principles of that religion\nwhose banner he had always held aloft amid the general coolness and\nindifference. As he pondered over subsequent developments, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch did not see, indeed, why his relations with his wife\nshould not remain practically the same as before. No doubt, she could\nnever regain his esteem, but there was not, and there could not be, any\nsort of reason that his existence should be troubled, and that he\nshould suffer because she was a bad and faithless wife.  Yes, time will\npass; time, which arranges all things, and the old relations will be\nreestablished,  Alexey Alexandrovitch told himself;  so far\nreestablished, that is, that I shall not be sensible of a break in the\ncontinuity of my life. She is bound to be unhappy, but I am not to\nblame, and so I cannot be unhappy. \n\n\nChapter 14\n\nAs he neared Petersburg, Alexey Alexandrovitch not only adhered\nentirely to his decision, but was even composing in his head the letter\nhe would write to his wife. Going into the porter s room, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch glanced at the letters and papers brought from his\noffice, and directed that they should be brought to him in his study.\n\n The horses can be taken out and I will see no one,  he said in answer\nto the porter, with a certain pleasure, indicative of his agreeable\nframe of mind, emphasizing the words,  see no one. \n\nIn his study Alexey Alexandrovitch walked up and down twice, and\nstopped at an immense writing-table, on which six candles had already\nbeen lighted by the valet who had preceded him. He cracked his knuckles\nand sat down, sorting out his writing appurtenances. Putting his elbows\non the table, he bent his head on one side, thought a minute, and began\nto write, without pausing for a second. He wrote without using any form\nof address to her, and wrote in French, making use of the plural\n _vous_,  which has not the same note of coldness as the corresponding\nRussian form.\n\n\n\n\n\n At our last conversation, I notified you of my intention to\ncommunicate to you my decision in regard to the subject of that\nconversation. Having carefully considered everything, I am writing now\nwith the object of fulfilling that promise. My decision is as follows.\nWhatever your conduct may have been, I do not consider myself justified\nin breaking the ties in which we are bound by a Higher Power. The\nfamily cannot be broken up by a whim, a caprice, or even by the sin of\none of the partners in the marriage, and our life must go on as it has\ndone in the past. This is essential for me, for you, and for our son. I\nam fully persuaded that you have repented and do repent of what has\ncalled forth the present letter, and that you will cooperate with me in\neradicating the cause of our estrangement, and forgetting the past. In\nthe contrary event, you can conjecture what awaits you and your son.\nAll this I hope to discuss more in detail in a personal interview. As\nthe season is drawing to a close, I would beg you to return to\nPetersburg as quickly as possible, not later than Tuesday. All\nnecessary preparations shall be made for your arrival here. I beg you\nto note that I attach particular significance to compliance with this\nrequest.\n\nA. Karenin\n\n _P.S._ I enclose the money which may be needed for your expenses. \n\n\n\n\n\nHe read the letter through and felt pleased with it, and especially\nthat he had remembered to enclose money: there was not a harsh word,\nnot a reproach in it, nor was there undue indulgence. Most of all, it\nwas a golden bridge for return. Folding the letter and smoothing it\nwith a massive ivory knife, and putting it in an envelope with the\nmoney, he rang the bell with the gratification it always afforded him\nto use the well arranged appointments of his writing-table.\n\n Give this to the courier to be delivered to Anna Arkadyevna tomorrow\nat the summer villa,  he said, getting up.\n\n Certainly, your excellency; tea to be served in the study? \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch ordered tea to be brought to the study, and\nplaying with the massive paper-knife, he moved to his easy chair, near\nwhich there had been placed ready for him a lamp and the French work on\nEgyptian hieroglyphics that he had begun. Over the easy chair there\nhung in a gold frame an oval portrait of Anna, a fine painting by a\ncelebrated artist. Alexey Alexandrovitch glanced at it. The\nunfathomable eyes gazed ironically and insolently at him. Insufferably\ninsolent and challenging was the effect in Alexey Alexandrovitch s eyes\nof the black lace about the head, admirably touched in by the painter,\nthe black hair and handsome white hand with one finger lifted, covered\nwith rings. After looking at the portrait for a minute, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch shuddered so that his lips quivered and he uttered the\nsound  brrr,  and turned away. He made haste to sit down in his easy\nchair and opened the book. He tried to read, but he could not revive\nthe very vivid interest he had felt before in Egyptian hieroglyphics.\nHe looked at the book and thought of something else. He thought not of\nhis wife, but of a complication that had arisen in his official life,\nwhich at the time constituted the chief interest of it. He felt that he\nhad penetrated more deeply than ever before into this intricate affair,\nand that he had originated a leading idea he could say it without\nself-flattery calculated to clear up the whole business, to strengthen\nhim in his official career, to discomfit his enemies, and thereby to be\nof the greatest benefit to the government. Directly the servant had set\nthe tea and left the room, Alexey Alexandrovitch got up and went to the\nwriting-table. Moving into the middle of the table a portfolio of\npapers, with a scarcely perceptible smile of self-satisfaction, he took\na pencil from a rack and plunged into the perusal of a complex report\nrelating to the present complication. The complication was of this\nnature: Alexey Alexandrovitch s characteristic quality as a politician,\nthat special individual qualification that every rising functionary\npossesses, the qualification that with his unflagging ambition, his\nreserve, his honesty, and with his self-confidence had made his career,\nwas his contempt for red tape, his cutting down of correspondence, his\ndirect contact, wherever possible, with the living fact, and his\neconomy. It happened that the famous Commission of the 2nd of June had\nset on foot an inquiry into the irrigation of lands in the Zaraisky\nprovince, which fell under Alexey Alexandrovitch s department, and was\na glaring example of fruitless expenditure and paper reforms. Alexey\nAlexandrovitch was aware of the truth of this. The irrigation of these\nlands in the Zaraisky province had been initiated by the predecessor of\nAlexey Alexandrovitch s predecessor. And vast sums of money had\nactually been spent and were still being spent on this business, and\nutterly unproductively, and the whole business could obviously lead to\nnothing whatever. Alexey Alexandrovitch had perceived this at once on\nentering office, and would have liked to lay hands on the Board of\nIrrigation. But at first, when he did not yet feel secure in his\nposition, he knew it would affect too many interests, and would be\ninjudicious. Later on he had been engrossed in other questions, and had\nsimply forgotten the Board of Irrigation. It went of itself, like all\nsuch boards, by the mere force of inertia. (Many people gained their\nlivelihood by the Board of Irrigation, especially one highly\nconscientious and musical family: all the daughters played on stringed\ninstruments, and Alexey Alexandrovitch knew the family and had stood\ngodfather to one of the elder daughters.) The raising of this question\nby a hostile department was in Alexey Alexandrovitch s opinion a\ndishonorable proceeding, seeing that in every department there were\nthings similar and worse, which no one inquired into, for well-known\nreasons of official etiquette. However, now that the glove had been\nthrown down to him, he had boldly picked it up and demanded the\nappointment of a special commission to investigate and verify the\nworking of the Board of Irrigation of the lands in the Zaraisky\nprovince. But in compensation he gave no quarter to the enemy either.\nHe demanded the appointment of another special commission to inquire\ninto the question of the Native Tribes Organization Committee. The\nquestion of the Native Tribes had been brought up incidentally in the\nCommission of the 2nd of June, and had been pressed forward actively by\nAlexey Alexandrovitch as one admitting of no delay on account of the\ndeplorable condition of the native tribes. In the commission this\nquestion had been a ground of contention between several departments.\nThe department hostile to Alexey Alexandrovitch proved that the\ncondition of the native tribes was exceedingly flourishing, that the\nproposed reconstruction might be the ruin of their prosperity, and that\nif there were anything wrong, it arose mainly from the failure on the\npart of Alexey Alexandrovitch s department to carry out the measures\nprescribed by law. Now Alexey Alexandrovitch intended to demand: First,\nthat a new commission should be formed which should be empowered to\ninvestigate the condition of the native tribes on the spot; secondly,\nif it should appear that the condition of the native tribes actually\nwas such as it appeared to be from the official documents in the hands\nof the committee, that another new scientific commission should be\nappointed to investigate the deplorable condition of the native tribes\nfrom the (1) political, (2) administrative, (3) economic, (4)\nethnographical, (5) material, and (6) religious points of view;\nthirdly, that evidence should be required from the rival department of\nthe measures that had been taken during the last ten years by that\ndepartment for averting the disastrous conditions in which the native\ntribes were now placed; and fourthly and finally, that that department\nexplain why it had, as appeared from the evidence before the committee,\nfrom No. 17,015 and 18,038, from December 5, 1863, and June 7, 1864,\nacted in direct contravention of the intent of the law T... Act 18, and\nthe note to Act 36. A flash of eagerness suffused the face of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch as he rapidly wrote out a synopsis of these ideas for\nhis own benefit. Having filled a sheet of paper, he got up, rang, and\nsent a note to the chief secretary of his department to look up certain\nnecessary facts for him. Getting up and walking about the room, he\nglanced again at the portrait, frowned, and smiled contemptuously.\nAfter reading a little more of the book on Egyptian hieroglyphics, and\nrenewing his interest in it, Alexey Alexandrovitch went to bed at\neleven o clock, and recollecting as he lay in bed the incident with his\nwife, he saw it now in by no means such a gloomy light.\n\n\nChapter 15\n\nThough Anna had obstinately and with exasperation contradicted Vronsky\nwhen he told her their position was impossible, at the bottom of her\nheart she regarded her own position as false and dishonorable, and she\nlonged with her whole soul to change it. On the way home from the races\nshe had told her husband the truth in a moment of excitement, and in\nspite of the agony she had suffered in doing so, she was glad of it.\nAfter her husband had left her, she told herself that she was glad,\nthat now everything was made clear, and at least there would be no more\nlying and deception. It seemed to her beyond doubt that her position\nwas now made clear forever. It might be bad, this new position, but it\nwould be clear; there would be no indefiniteness or falsehood about it.\nThe pain she had caused herself and her husband in uttering those words\nwould be rewarded now by everything being made clear, she thought. That\nevening she saw Vronsky, but she did not tell him of what had passed\nbetween her and her husband, though, to make the position definite, it\nwas necessary to tell him.\n\nWhen she woke up next morning the first thing that rose to her mind was\nwhat she had said to her husband, and those words seemed to her so\nawful that she could not conceive now how she could have brought\nherself to utter those strange, coarse words, and could not imagine\nwhat would come of it. But the words were spoken, and Alexey\nAlexandrovitch had gone away without saying anything.  I saw Vronsky\nand did not tell him. At the very instant he was going away I would\nhave turned him back and told him, but I changed my mind, because it\nwas strange that I had not told him the first minute. Why was it I\nwanted to tell him and did not tell him?  And in answer to this\nquestion a burning blush of shame spread over her face. She knew what\nhad kept her from it, she knew that she had been ashamed. Her position,\nwhich had seemed to her simplified the night before, suddenly struck\nher now as not only not simple, but as absolutely hopeless. She felt\nterrified at the disgrace, of which she had not ever thought before.\nDirectly she thought of what her husband would do, the most terrible\nideas came to her mind. She had a vision of being turned out of the\nhouse, of her shame being proclaimed to all the world. She asked\nherself where she should go when she was turned out of the house, and\nshe could not find an answer.\n\nWhen she thought of Vronsky, it seemed to her that he did not love her,\nthat he was already beginning to be tired of her, that she could not\noffer herself to him, and she felt bitter against him for it. It seemed\nto her that the words that she had spoken to her husband, and had\ncontinually repeated in her imagination, she had said to everyone, and\neveryone had heard them. She could not bring herself to look those of\nher own household in the face. She could not bring herself to call her\nmaid, and still less go downstairs and see her son and his governess.\n\nThe maid, who had been listening at her door for a long while, came\ninto her room of her own accord. Anna glanced inquiringly into her\nface, and blushed with a scared look. The maid begged her pardon for\ncoming in, saying that she had fancied the bell rang. She brought her\nclothes and a note. The note was from Betsy. Betsy reminded her that\nLiza Merkalova and Baroness Shtoltz were coming to play croquet with\nher that morning with their adorers, Kaluzhsky and old Stremov.  Come,\nif only as a study in morals. I shall expect you,  she finished.\n\nAnna read the note and heaved a deep sigh.\n\n Nothing, I need nothing,  she said to Annushka, who was rearranging\nthe bottles and brushes on the dressing table.  You can go. I ll dress\nat once and come down. I need nothing. \n\nAnnushka went out, but Anna did not begin dressing, and sat in the same\nposition, her head and hands hanging listlessly, and every now and then\nshe shivered all over, seemed as though she would make some gesture,\nutter some word, and sank back into lifelessness again. She repeated\ncontinually,  My God! my God!  But neither  God  nor  my  had any\nmeaning to her. The idea of seeking help in her difficulty in religion\nwas as remote from her as seeking help from Alexey Alexandrovitch\nhimself, although she had never had doubts of the faith in which she\nhad been brought up. She knew that the support of religion was possible\nonly upon condition of renouncing what made up for her the whole\nmeaning of life. She was not simply miserable, she began to feel alarm\nat the new spiritual condition, never experienced before, in which she\nfound herself. She felt as though everything were beginning to be\ndouble in her soul, just as objects sometimes appear double to\nover-tired eyes. She hardly knew at times what it was she feared, and\nwhat she hoped for. Whether she feared or desired what had happened, or\nwhat was going to happen, and exactly what she longed for, she could\nnot have said.\n\n Ah, what am I doing!  she said to herself, feeling a sudden thrill of\npain in both sides of her head. When she came to herself, she saw that\nshe was holding her hair in both hands, each side of her temples, and\npulling it. She jumped up, and began walking about.\n\n The coffee is ready, and mademoiselle and Seryozha are waiting,  said\nAnnushka, coming back again and finding Anna in the same position.\n\n Seryozha? What about Seryozha?  Anna asked, with sudden eagerness,\nrecollecting her son s existence for the first time that morning.\n\n He s been naughty, I think,  answered Annushka with a smile.\n\n In what way? \n\n Some peaches were lying on the table in the corner room. I think he\nslipped in and ate one of them on the sly. \n\nThe recollection of her son suddenly roused Anna from the helpless\ncondition in which she found herself. She recalled the partly sincere,\nthough greatly exaggerated, r le of the mother living for her child,\nwhich she had taken up of late years, and she felt with joy that in the\nplight in which she found herself she had a support, quite apart from\nher relation to her husband or to Vronsky. This support was her son. In\nwhatever position she might be placed, she could not lose her son. Her\nhusband might put her to shame and turn her out, Vronsky might grow\ncold to her and go on living his own life apart (she thought of him\nagain with bitterness and reproach); she could not leave her son. She\nhad an aim in life. And she must act; act to secure this relation to\nher son, so that he might not be taken from her. Quickly indeed, as\nquickly as possible, she must take action before he was taken from her.\nShe must take her son and go away. Here was the one thing she had to do\nnow. She needed consolation. She must be calm, and get out of this\ninsufferable position. The thought of immediate action binding her to\nher son, of going away somewhere with him, gave her this consolation.\n\nShe dressed quickly, went downstairs, and with resolute steps walked\ninto the drawing-room, where she found, as usual, waiting for her, the\ncoffee, Seryozha, and his governess. Seryozha, all in white, with his\nback and head bent, was standing at a table under a looking-glass, and\nwith an expression of intense concentration which she knew well, and in\nwhich he resembled his father, he was doing something to the flowers he\ncarried.\n\nThe governess had a particularly severe expression. Seryozha screamed\nshrilly, as he often did,  Ah, mamma!  and stopped, hesitating whether\nto go to greet his mother and put down the flowers, or to finish making\nthe wreath and go with the flowers.\n\nThe governess, after saying good-morning, began a long and detailed\naccount of Seryozha s naughtiness, but Anna did not hear her; she was\nconsidering whether she would take her with her or not.  No, I won t\ntake her,  she decided.  I ll go alone with my child. \n\n Yes, it s very wrong,  said Anna, and taking her son by the shoulder\nshe looked at him, not severely, but with a timid glance that\nbewildered and delighted the boy, and she kissed him.  Leave him to\nme,  she said to the astonished governess, and not letting go of her\nson, she sat down at the table, where coffee was set ready for her.\n\n Mamma! I ... I ... didn t....  he said, trying to make out from her\nexpression what was in store for him in regard to the peaches.\n\n Seryozha,  she said, as soon as the governess had left the room,  that\nwas wrong, but you ll never do it again, will you?... You love me? \n\nShe felt that the tears were coming into her eyes.  Can I help loving\nhim?  she said to herself, looking deeply into his scared and at the\nsame time delighted eyes.  And can he ever join his father in punishing\nme? Is it possible he will not feel for me?  Tears were already flowing\ndown her face, and to hide them she got up abruptly and almost ran out\non to the terrace.\n\nAfter the thunder showers of the last few days, cold, bright weather\nhad set in. The air was cold in the bright sun that filtered through\nthe freshly washed leaves.\n\nShe shivered, both from the cold and from the inward horror which had\nclutched her with fresh force in the open air.\n\n Run along, run along to Mariette,  she said to Seryozha, who had\nfollowed her out, and she began walking up and down on the straw\nmatting of the terrace.  Can it be that they won t forgive me, won t\nunderstand how it all couldn t be helped?  she said to herself.\n\nStanding still, and looking at the tops of the aspen trees waving in\nthe wind, with their freshly washed, brightly shining leaves in the\ncold sunshine, she knew that they would not forgive her, that everyone\nand everything would be merciless to her now as was that sky, that\ngreen. And again she felt that everything was split in two in her soul.\n I mustn t, mustn t think,  she said to herself.  I must get ready. To\ngo where? When? Whom to take with me? Yes, to Moscow by the evening\ntrain. Annushka and Seryozha, and only the most necessary things. But\nfirst I must write to them both.  She went quickly indoors into her\nboudoir, sat down at the table, and wrote to her husband: After what\nhas happened, I cannot remain any longer in your house. I am going\naway, and taking my son with me. I don t know the law, and so I don t\nknow with which of the parents the son should remain; but I take him\nwith me because I cannot live without him. Be generous, leave him to\nme. \n\nUp to this point she wrote rapidly and naturally, but the appeal to his\ngenerosity, a quality she did not recognize in him, and the necessity\nof winding up the letter with something touching, pulled her up.  Of my\nfault and my remorse I cannot speak, because.... \n\nShe stopped again, finding no connection in her ideas.  No,  she said\nto herself,  there s no need of anything,  and tearing up the letter,\nshe wrote it again, leaving out the allusion to generosity, and sealed\nit up.\n\nAnother letter had to be written to Vronsky.  I have told my husband, \nshe wrote, and she sat a long while unable to write more. It was so\ncoarse, so unfeminine.  And what more am I to write to him?  she said\nto herself. Again a flush of shame spread over her face; she recalled\nhis composure, and a feeling of anger against him impelled her to tear\nthe sheet with the phrase she had written into tiny bits.  No need of\nanything,  she said to herself, and closing her blotting-case she went\nupstairs, told the governess and the servants that she was going that\nday to Moscow, and at once set to work to pack up her things.\n\n\nChapter 16\n\nAll the rooms of the summer villa were full of porters, gardeners, and\nfootmen going to and fro carrying out things. Cupboards and chests were\nopen; twice they had sent to the shop for cord; pieces of newspaper\nwere tossing about on the floor. Two trunks, some bags and strapped-up\nrugs, had been carried down into the hall. The carriage and two hired\ncabs were waiting at the steps. Anna, forgetting her inward agitation\nin the work of packing, was standing at a table in her boudoir, packing\nher traveling bag, when Annushka called her attention to the rattle of\nsome carriage driving up. Anna looked out of the window and saw Alexey\nAlexandrovitch s courier on the steps, ringing at the front door bell.\n\n Run and find out what it is,  she said, and with a calm sense of being\nprepared for anything, she sat down in a low chair, folding her hands\non her knees. A footman brought in a thick packet directed in Alexey\nAlexandrovitch s hand.\n\n The courier has orders to wait for an answer,  he said.\n\n Very well,  she said, and as soon as he had left the room she tore\nopen the letter with trembling fingers. A roll of unfolded notes done\nup in a wrapper fell out of it. She disengaged the letter and began\nreading it at the end.  Preparations shall be made for your arrival\nhere ... I attach particular significance to compliance....  she read.\nShe ran on, then back, read it all through, and once more read the\nletter all through again from the beginning. When she had finished, she\nfelt that she was cold all over, and that a fearful calamity, such as\nshe had not expected, had burst upon her.\n\nIn the morning she had regretted that she had spoken to her husband,\nand wished for nothing so much as that those words could be unspoken.\nAnd here this letter regarded them as unspoken, and gave her what she\nhad wanted. But now this letter seemed to her more awful than anything\nshe had been able to conceive.\n\n He s right!  she said;  of course, he s always right; he s a\nChristian, he s generous! Yes, vile, base creature! And no one\nunderstands it except me, and no one ever will; and I can t explain it.\nThey say he s so religious, so high-principled, so upright, so clever;\nbut they don t see what I ve seen. They don t know how he has crushed\nmy life for eight years, crushed everything that was living in me he\nhas not once even thought that I m a live woman who must have love.\nThey don t know how at every step he s humiliated me, and been just as\npleased with himself. Haven t I striven, striven with all my strength,\nto find something to give meaning to my life? Haven t I struggled to\nlove him, to love my son when I could not love my husband? But the time\ncame when I knew that I couldn t cheat myself any longer, that I was\nalive, that I was not to blame, that God has made me so that I must\nlove and live. And now what does he do? If he d killed me, if he d\nkilled him, I could have borne anything, I could have forgiven\nanything; but, no, he.... How was it I didn t guess what he would do?\nHe s doing just what s characteristic of his mean character. He ll keep\nhimself in the right, while me, in my ruin, he ll drive still lower to\nworse ruin yet.... \n\nShe recalled the words from the letter.  You can conjecture what awaits\nyou and your son....   That s a threat to take away my child, and most\nlikely by their stupid law he can. But I know very well why he says it.\nHe doesn t believe even in my love for my child, or he despises it\n(just as he always used to ridicule it). He despises that feeling in\nme, but he knows that I won t abandon my child, that I can t abandon my\nchild, that there could be no life for me without my child, even with\nhim whom I love; but that if I abandoned my child and ran away from\nhim, I should be acting like the most infamous, basest of women. He\nknows that, and knows that I am incapable of doing that. \n\nShe recalled another sentence in the letter.  Our life must go on as it\nhas done in the past....   That life was miserable enough in the old\ndays; it has been awful of late. What will it be now? And he knows all\nthat; he knows that I can t repent that I breathe, that I love; he\nknows that it can lead to nothing but lying and deceit; but he wants to\ngo on torturing me. I know him; I know that he s at home and is happy\nin deceit, like a fish swimming in the water. No, I won t give him that\nhappiness. I ll break through the spiderweb of lies in which he wants\nto catch me, come what may. Anything s better than lying and deceit. \n\n But how? My God! my God! Was ever a woman so miserable as I am?... \n\n No; I will break through it, I will break through it!  she cried,\njumping up and keeping back her tears. And she went to the\nwriting-table to write him another letter. But at the bottom of her\nheart she felt that she was not strong enough to break through\nanything, that she was not strong enough to get out of her old\nposition, however false and dishonorable it might be.\n\nShe sat down at the writing-table, but instead of writing she clasped\nher hands on the table, and, laying her head on them, burst into tears,\nwith sobs and heaving breast like a child crying. She was weeping that\nher dream of her position being made clear and definite had been\nannihilated forever. She knew beforehand that everything would go on in\nthe old way, and far worse, indeed, than in the old way. She felt that\nthe position in the world that she enjoyed, and that had seemed to her\nof so little consequence in the morning, that this position was\nprecious to her, that she would not have the strength to exchange it\nfor the shameful position of a woman who has abandoned husband and\nchild to join her lover; that however much she might struggle, she\ncould not be stronger than herself. She would never know freedom in\nlove, but would remain forever a guilty wife, with the menace of\ndetection hanging over her at every instant; deceiving her husband for\nthe sake of a shameful connection with a man living apart and away from\nher, whose life she could never share. She knew that this was how it\nwould be, and at the same time it was so awful that she could not even\nconceive what it would end in. And she cried without restraint, as\nchildren cry when they are punished.\n\nThe sound of the footman s steps forced her to rouse herself, and,\nhiding her face from him, she pretended to be writing.\n\n The courier asks if there s an answer,  the footman announced.\n\n An answer? Yes,  said Anna.  Let him wait. I ll ring. \n\n What can I write?  she thought.  What can I decide upon alone? What do\nI know? What do I want? What is there I care for?  Again she felt that\nher soul was beginning to be split in two. She was terrified again at\nthis feeling, and clutched at the first pretext for doing something\nwhich might divert her thoughts from herself.  I ought to see Alexey \n(so she called Vronsky in her thoughts);  no one but he can tell me\nwhat I ought to do. I ll go to Betsy s, perhaps I shall see him there, \nshe said to herself, completely forgetting that when she had told him\nthe day before that she was not going to Princess Tverskaya s, he had\nsaid that in that case he should not go either. She went up to the\ntable, wrote to her husband,  I have received your letter. A. ; and,\nringing the bell, gave it to the footman.\n\n We are not going,  she said to Annushka, as she came in.\n\n Not going at all? \n\n No; don t unpack till tomorrow, and let the carriage wait. I m going\nto the princess s. \n\n Which dress am I to get ready? \n\n\nChapter 17\n\nThe croquet party to which the Princess Tverskaya had invited Anna was\nto consist of two ladies and their adorers. These two ladies were the\nchief representatives of a select new Petersburg circle, nicknamed, in\nimitation of some imitation, _les sept merveilles du monde_. These\nladies belonged to a circle which, though of the highest society, was\nutterly hostile to that in which Anna moved. Moreover, Stremov, one of\nthe most influential people in Petersburg, and the elderly admirer of\nLiza Merkalova, was Alexey Alexandrovitch s enemy in the political\nworld. From all these considerations Anna had not meant to go, and the\nhints in Princess Tverskaya s note referred to her refusal. But now\nAnna was eager to go, in the hope of seeing Vronsky.\n\nAnna arrived at Princess Tverskaya s earlier than the other guests.\n\nAt the same moment as she entered, Vronsky s footman, with\nside-whiskers combed out like a _Kammerjunker_, went in too. He stopped\nat the door, and, taking off his cap, let her pass. Anna recognized\nhim, and only then recalled that Vronsky had told her the day before\nthat he would not come. Most likely he was sending a note to say so.\n\nAs she took off her outer garment in the hall, she heard the footman,\npronouncing his  _r s_  even like a _Kammerjunker_, say,  From the\ncount for the princess,  and hand the note.\n\nShe longed to question him as to where his master was. She longed to\nturn back and send him a letter to come and see her, or to go herself\nto see him. But neither the first nor the second nor the third course\nwas possible. Already she heard bells ringing to announce her arrival\nahead of her, and Princess Tverskaya s footman was standing at the open\ndoor waiting for her to go forward into the inner rooms.\n\n The princess is in the garden; they will inform her immediately. Would\nyou be pleased to walk into the garden?  announced another footman in\nanother room.\n\nThe position of uncertainty, of indecision, was still the same as at\nhome worse, in fact, since it was impossible to take any step,\nimpossible to see Vronsky, and she had to remain here among outsiders,\nin company so uncongenial to her present mood. But she was wearing a\ndress that she knew suited her. She was not alone; all around was that\nluxurious setting of idleness that she was used to, and she felt less\nwretched than at home. She was not forced to think what she was to do.\nEverything would be done of itself. On meeting Betsy coming towards her\nin a white gown that struck her by its elegance, Anna smiled at her\njust as she always did. Princess Tverskaya was walking with Tushkevitch\nand a young lady, a relation, who, to the great joy of her parents in\nthe provinces, was spending the summer with the fashionable princess.\n\nThere was probably something unusual about Anna, for Betsy noticed it\nat once.\n\n I slept badly,  answered Anna, looking intently at the footman who\ncame to meet them, and, as she supposed, brought Vronsky s note.\n\n How glad I am you ve come!  said Betsy.  I m tired, and was just\nlonging to have some tea before they come. You might go she turned to\nTushkevitch with Masha, and try the croquet ground over there where\nthey ve been cutting it. We shall have time to talk a little over tea;\nwe ll have a cozy chat, eh?  she said in English to Anna, with a smile,\npressing the hand with which she held a parasol.\n\n Yes, especially as I can t stay very long with you. I m forced to go\non to old Madame Vrede. I ve been promising to go for a century,  said\nAnna, to whom lying, alien as it was to her nature, had become not\nmerely simple and natural in society, but a positive source of\nsatisfaction. Why she said this, which she had not thought of a second\nbefore, she could not have explained. She had said it simply from the\nreflection that as Vronsky would not be here, she had better secure her\nown freedom, and try to see him somehow. But why she had spoken of old\nMadame Vrede, whom she had to go and see, as she had to see many other\npeople, she could not have explained; and yet, as it afterwards turned\nout, had she contrived the most cunning devices to meet Vronsky, she\ncould have thought of nothing better.\n\n No. I m not going to let you go for anything,  answered Betsy, looking\nintently into Anna s face.  Really, if I were not fond of you, I should\nfeel offended. One would think you were afraid my society would\ncompromise you. Tea in the little dining-room, please,  she said, half\nclosing her eyes, as she always did when addressing the footman.\n\nTaking the note from him, she read it.\n\n Alexey s playing us false,  she said in French;  he writes that he\ncan t come,  she added in a tone as simple and natural as though it\ncould never enter her head that Vronsky could mean anything more to\nAnna than a game of croquet. Anna knew that Betsy knew everything, but,\nhearing how she spoke of Vronsky before her, she almost felt persuaded\nfor a minute that she knew nothing.\n\n Ah!  said Anna indifferently, as though not greatly interested in the\nmatter, and she went on smiling:  How can you or your friends\ncompromise anyone? \n\nThis playing with words, this hiding of a secret, had a great\nfascination for Anna, as, indeed, it has for all women. And it was not\nthe necessity of concealment, not the aim with which the concealment\nwas contrived, but the process of concealment itself which attracted\nher.\n\n I can t be more Catholic than the Pope,  she said.  Stremov and Liza\nMerkalova, why, they re the cream of the cream of society. Besides,\nthey re received everywhere, and _I_ she laid special stress on the\nI have never been strict and intolerant. It s simply that I haven t\nthe time. \n\n No; you don t care, perhaps, to meet Stremov? Let him and Alexey\nAlexandrovitch tilt at each other in the committee that s no affair of\nours. But in the world, he s the most amiable man I know, and a devoted\ncroquet player. You shall see. And, in spite of his absurd position as\nLiza s lovesick swain at his age, you ought to see how he carries off\nthe absurd position. He s very nice. Sappho Shtoltz you don t know? Oh,\nthat s a new type, quite new. \n\nBetsy said all this, and, at the same time, from her good-humored,\nshrewd glance, Anna felt that she partly guessed her plight, and was\nhatching something for her benefit. They were in the little boudoir.\n\n I must write to Alexey though,  and Betsy sat down to the table,\nscribbled a few lines, and put the note in an envelope.\n\n I m telling him to come to dinner. I ve one lady extra to dinner with\nme, and no man to take her in. Look what I ve said, will that persuade\nhim? Excuse me, I must leave you for a minute. Would you seal it up,\nplease, and send it off?  she said from the door;  I have to give some\ndirections. \n\nWithout a moment s thought, Anna sat down to the table with Betsy s\nletter, and, without reading it, wrote below:  It s essential for me to\nsee you. Come to the Vrede garden. I shall be there at six o clock. \nShe sealed it up, and, Betsy coming back, in her presence handed the\nnote to be taken.\n\nAt tea, which was brought them on a little tea-table in the cool little\ndrawing-room, the cozy chat promised by Princess Tverskaya before the\narrival of her visitors really did come off between the two women. They\ncriticized the people they were expecting, and the conversation fell\nupon Liza Merkalova.\n\n She s very sweet, and I always liked her,  said Anna.\n\n You ought to like her. She raves about you. Yesterday she came up to\nme after the races and was in despair at not finding you. She says\nyou re a real heroine of romance, and that if she were a man she would\ndo all sorts of mad things for your sake. Stremov says she does that as\nit is. \n\n But do tell me, please, I never could make it out,  said Anna, after\nbeing silent for some time, speaking in a tone that showed she was not\nasking an idle question, but that what she was asking was of more\nimportance to her than it should have been;  do tell me, please, what\nare her relations with Prince Kaluzhsky, Mishka, as he s called? I ve\nmet them so little. What does it mean? \n\nBetsy smiled with her eyes, and looked intently at Anna.\n\n It s a new manner,  she said.  They ve all adopted that manner.\nThey ve flung their caps over the windmills. But there are ways and\nways of flinging them. \n\n Yes, but what are her relations precisely with Kaluzhsky? \n\nBetsy broke into unexpectedly mirthful and irrepressible laughter, a\nthing which rarely happened with her.\n\n You re encroaching on Princess Myakaya s special domain now. That s\nthe question of an _enfant terrible_,  and Betsy obviously tried to\nrestrain herself, but could not, and went off into peals of that\ninfectious laughter that people laugh who do not laugh often.  You d\nbetter ask them,  she brought out, between tears of laughter.\n\n No; you laugh,  said Anna, laughing too in spite of herself,  but I\nnever could understand it. I can t understand the husband s r le in\nit. \n\n The husband? Liza Merkalova s husband carries her shawl, and is always\nready to be of use. But anything more than that in reality, no one\ncares to inquire. You know in decent society one doesn t talk or think\neven of certain details of the toilet. That s how it is with this. \n\n Will you be at Madame Rolandak s f te?  asked Anna, to change the\nconversation.\n\n I don t think so,  answered Betsy, and, without looking at her friend,\nshe began filling the little transparent cups with fragrant tea.\nPutting a cup before Anna, she took out a cigarette, and, fitting it\ninto a silver holder, she lighted it.\n\n It s like this, you see: I m in a fortunate position,  she began,\nquite serious now, as she took up her cup.  I understand you, and I\nunderstand Liza. Liza now is one of those na ve natures that, like\nchildren, don t know what s good and what s bad. Anyway, she didn t\ncomprehend it when she was very young. And now she s aware that the\nlack of comprehension suits her. Now, perhaps, she doesn t know on\npurpose,  said Betsy, with a subtle smile.  But, anyway, it suits her.\nThe very same thing, don t you see, may be looked at tragically, and\nturned into a misery, or it may be looked at simply and even\nhumorously. Possibly you are inclined to look at things too\ntragically. \n\n How I should like to know other people just as I know myself!  said\nAnna, seriously and dreamily.  Am I worse than other people, or better?\nI think I m worse. \n\n _Enfant terrible, enfant terrible!_  repeated Betsy.  But here they\nare. \n\n\nChapter 18\n\nThey heard the sound of steps and a man s voice, then a woman s voice\nand laughter, and immediately thereafter there walked in the expected\nguests: Sappho Shtoltz, and a young man beaming with excess of health,\nthe so-called Vaska. It was evident that ample supplies of beefsteak,\ntruffles, and Burgundy never failed to reach him at the fitting hour.\nVaska bowed to the two ladies, and glanced at them, but only for one\nsecond. He walked after Sappho into the drawing-room, and followed her\nabout as though he were chained to her, keeping his sparkling eyes\nfixed on her as though he wanted to eat her. Sappho Shtoltz was a\nblonde beauty with black eyes. She walked with smart little steps in\nhigh-heeled shoes, and shook hands with the ladies vigorously like a\nman.\n\nAnna had never met this new star of fashion, and was struck by her\nbeauty, the exaggerated extreme to which her dress was carried, and the\nboldness of her manners. On her head there was such a superstructure of\nsoft, golden hair her own and false mixed that her head was equal in\nsize to the elegantly rounded bust, of which so much was exposed in\nfront. The impulsive abruptness of her movements was such that at every\nstep the lines of her knees and the upper part of her legs were\ndistinctly marked under her dress, and the question involuntarily rose\nto the mind where in the undulating, piled-up mountain of material at\nthe back the real body of the woman, so small and slender, so naked in\nfront, and so hidden behind and below, really came to an end.\n\nBetsy made haste to introduce her to Anna.\n\n Only fancy, we all but ran over two soldiers,  she began telling them\nat once, using her eyes, smiling and twitching away her tail, which she\nflung back at one stroke all on one side.  I drove here with Vaska....\nAh, to be sure, you don t know each other.  And mentioning his surname\nshe introduced the young man, and reddening a little, broke into a\nringing laugh at her mistake that is, at her having called him Vaska to\na stranger. Vaska bowed once more to Anna, but he said nothing to her.\nHe addressed Sappho:  You ve lost your bet. We got here first. Pay up, \nsaid he, smiling.\n\nSappho laughed still more festively.\n\n Not just now,  said she.\n\n Oh, all right, I ll have it later. \n\n Very well, very well. Oh, yes.  She turned suddenly to Princess Betsy:\n I am a nice person ... I positively forgot it ... I ve brought you a\nvisitor. And here he comes.  The unexpected young visitor, whom Sappho\nhad invited, and whom she had forgotten, was, however, a personage of\nsuch consequence that, in spite of his youth, both the ladies rose on\nhis entrance.\n\nHe was a new admirer of Sappho s. He now dogged her footsteps, like\nVaska.\n\nSoon after Prince Kaluzhsky arrived, and Liza Merkalova with Stremov.\nLiza Merkalova was a thin brunette, with an Oriental, languid type of\nface, and as everyone used to say exquisite enigmatic eyes. The tone of\nher dark dress (Anna immediately observed and appreciated the fact) was\nin perfect harmony with her style of beauty. Liza was as soft and\nenervated as Sappho was smart and abrupt.\n\nBut to Anna s taste Liza was far more attractive. Betsy had said to\nAnna that she had adopted the pose of an innocent child, but when Anna\nsaw her, she felt that this was not the truth. She really was both\ninnocent and corrupt, but a sweet and passive woman. It is true that\nher tone was the same as Sappho s; that like Sappho, she had two men,\none young and one old, tacked onto her, and devouring her with their\neyes. But there was something in her higher than what surrounded her.\nThere was in her the glow of the real diamond among glass imitations.\nThis glow shone out in her exquisite, truly enigmatic eyes. The weary,\nand at the same time passionate, glance of those eyes, encircled by\ndark rings, impressed one by its perfect sincerity. Everyone looking\ninto those eyes fancied he knew her wholly, and knowing her, could not\nbut love her. At the sight of Anna, her whole face lighted up at once\nwith a smile of delight.\n\n Ah, how glad I am to see you!  she said, going up to her.  Yesterday\nat the races all I wanted was to get to you, but you d gone away. I did\nso want to see you, yesterday especially. Wasn t it awful?  she said,\nlooking at Anna with eyes that seemed to lay bare all her soul.\n\n Yes; I had no idea it would be so thrilling,  said Anna, blushing.\n\nThe company got up at this moment to go into the garden.\n\n I m not going,  said Liza, smiling and settling herself close to Anna.\n You won t go either, will you? Who wants to play croquet? \n\n Oh, I like it,  said Anna.\n\n There, how do you manage never to be bored by things? It s delightful\nto look at you. You re alive, but I m bored. \n\n How can you be bored? Why, you live in the liveliest set in\nPetersburg,  said Anna.\n\n Possibly the people who are not of our set are even more bored; but\nwe I certainly are not happy, but awfully, awfully bored. \n\nSappho smoking a cigarette went off into the garden with the two young\nmen. Betsy and Stremov remained at the tea-table.\n\n What, bored!  said Betsy.  Sappho says they did enjoy themselves\ntremendously at your house last night. \n\n Ah, how dreary it all was!  said Liza Merkalova.  We all drove back to\nmy place after the races. And always the same people, always the same.\nAlways the same thing. We lounged about on sofas all the evening. What\nis there to enjoy in that? No; do tell me how you manage never to be\nbored?  she said, addressing Anna again.  One has but to look at you\nand one sees, here s a woman who may be happy or unhappy, but isn t\nbored. Tell me how you do it? \n\n I do nothing,  answered Anna, blushing at these searching questions.\n\n That s the best way,  Stremov put in. Stremov was a man of fifty,\npartly gray, but still vigorous-looking, very ugly, but with a\ncharacteristic and intelligent face. Liza Merkalova was his wife s\nniece, and he spent all his leisure hours with her. On meeting Anna\nKarenina, as he was Alexey Alexandrovitch s enemy in the government, he\ntried, like a shrewd man and a man of the world, to be particularly\ncordial with her, the wife of his enemy.\n\n Nothing,  he put in with a subtle smile,  that s the very best way.\nI told you long ago,  he said, turning to Liza Merkalova,  that if you\ndon t want to be bored, you mustn t think you re going to be bored.\nIt s just as you mustn t be afraid of not being able to fall asleep, if\nyou re afraid of sleeplessness. That s just what Anna Arkadyevna has\njust said. \n\n I should be very glad if I had said it, for it s not only clever but\ntrue,  said Anna, smiling.\n\n No, do tell me why it is one can t go to sleep, and one can t help\nbeing bored? \n\n To sleep well one ought to work, and to enjoy oneself one ought to\nwork too. \n\n What am I to work for when my work is no use to anybody? And I can t\nand won t knowingly make a pretense about it. \n\n You re incorrigible,  said Stremov, not looking at her, and he spoke\nagain to Anna. As he rarely met Anna, he could say nothing but\ncommonplaces to her, but he said those commonplaces as to when she was\nreturning to Petersburg, and how fond Countess Lidia Ivanovna was of\nher, with an expression which suggested that he longed with his whole\nsoul to please her and show his regard for her and even more than that.\n\nTushkevitch came in, announcing that the party were awaiting the other\nplayers to begin croquet.\n\n No, don t go away, please don t,  pleaded Liza Merkalova, hearing that\nAnna was going. Stremov joined in her entreaties.\n\n It s too violent a transition,  he said,  to go from such company to\nold Madame Vrede. And besides, you will only give her a chance for\ntalking scandal, while here you arouse none but such different feelings\nof the highest and most opposite kind,  he said to her.\n\nAnna pondered for an instant in uncertainty. This shrewd man s\nflattering words, the na ve, childlike affection shown her by Liza\nMerkalova, and all the social atmosphere she was used to, it was all so\neasy, and what was in store for her was so difficult, that she was for\na minute in uncertainty whether to remain, whether to put off a little\nlonger the painful moment of explanation. But remembering what was in\nstore for her alone at home, if she did not come to some decision,\nremembering that gesture terrible even in memory when she had clutched\nher hair in both hands she said good-bye and went away.\n\n\nChapter 19\n\nIn spite of Vronsky s apparently frivolous life in society, he was a\nman who hated irregularity. In early youth in the Corps of Pages, he\nhad experienced the humiliation of a refusal, when he had tried, being\nin difficulties, to borrow money, and since then he had never once put\nhimself in the same position again.\n\nIn order to keep his affairs in some sort of order, he used about five\ntimes a year (more or less frequently, according to circumstances) to\nshut himself up alone and put all his affairs into definite shape. This\nhe used to call his day of reckoning or _faire la lessive_.\n\nOn waking up the day after the races, Vronsky put on a white linen\ncoat, and without shaving or taking his bath, he distributed about the\ntable moneys, bills, and letters, and set to work. Petritsky, who knew\nhe was ill-tempered on such occasions, on waking up and seeing his\ncomrade at the writing-table, quietly dressed and went out without\ngetting in his way.\n\nEvery man who knows to the minutest details all the complexity of the\nconditions surrounding him, cannot help imagining that the complexity\nof these conditions, and the difficulty of making them clear, is\nsomething exceptional and personal, peculiar to himself, and never\nsupposes that others are surrounded by just as complicated an array of\npersonal affairs as he is. So indeed it seemed to Vronsky. And not\nwithout inward pride, and not without reason, he thought that any other\nman would long ago have been in difficulties, would have been forced to\nsome dishonorable course, if he had found himself in such a difficult\nposition. But Vronsky felt that now especially it was essential for him\nto clear up and define his position if he were to avoid getting into\ndifficulties.\n\nWhat Vronsky attacked first as being the easiest was his pecuniary\nposition. Writing out on note paper in his minute hand all that he\nowed, he added up the amount and found that his debts amounted to\nseventeen thousand and some odd hundreds, which he left out for the\nsake of clearness. Reckoning up his money and his bank book, he found\nthat he had left one thousand eight hundred roubles, and nothing coming\nin before the New Year. Reckoning over again his list of debts, Vronsky\ncopied it, dividing it into three classes. In the first class he put\nthe debts which he would have to pay at once, or for which he must in\nany case have the money ready so that on demand for payment there could\nnot be a moment s delay in paying. Such debts amounted to about four\nthousand: one thousand five hundred for a horse, and two thousand five\nhundred as surety for a young comrade, Venovsky, who had lost that sum\nto a cardsharper in Vronsky s presence. Vronsky had wanted to pay the\nmoney at the time (he had that amount then), but Venovsky and Yashvin\nhad insisted that they would pay and not Vronsky, who had not played.\nThat was so far well, but Vronsky knew that in this dirty business,\nthough his only share in it was undertaking by word of mouth to be\nsurety for Venovsky, it was absolutely necessary for him to have the\ntwo thousand five hundred roubles so as to be able to fling it at the\nswindler, and have no more words with him. And so for this first and\nmost important division he must have four thousand roubles. The second\nclass eight thousand roubles consisted of less important debts. These\nwere principally accounts owing in connection with his race horses, to\nthe purveyor of oats and hay, the English saddler, and so on. He would\nhave to pay some two thousand roubles on these debts too, in order to\nbe quite free from anxiety. The last class of debts to shops, to\nhotels, to his tailor were such as need not be considered. So that he\nneeded at least six thousand roubles for current expenses, and he only\nhad one thousand eight hundred. For a man with one hundred thousand\nroubles of revenue, which was what everyone fixed as Vronsky s income,\nsuch debts, one would suppose, could hardly be embarrassing; but the\nfact was that he was far from having one hundred thousand. His father s\nimmense property, which alone yielded a yearly income of two hundred\nthousand, was left undivided between the brothers. At the time when the\nelder brother, with a mass of debts, married Princess Varya Tchirkova,\nthe daughter of a Decembrist without any fortune whatever, Alexey had\ngiven up to his elder brother almost the whole income from his father s\nestate, reserving for himself only twenty-five thousand a year from it.\nAlexey had said at the time to his brother that that sum would be\nsufficient for him until he married, which he probably never would do.\nAnd his brother, who was in command of one of the most expensive\nregiments, and was only just married, could not decline the gift. His\nmother, who had her own separate property, had allowed Alexey every\nyear twenty thousand in addition to the twenty-five thousand he had\nreserved, and Alexey had spent it all. Of late his mother, incensed\nwith him on account of his love affair and his leaving Moscow, had\ngiven up sending him the money. And in consequence of this, Vronsky,\nwho had been in the habit of living on the scale of forty-five thousand\na year, having only received twenty thousand that year, found himself\nnow in difficulties. To get out of these difficulties, he could not\napply to his mother for money. Her last letter, which he had received\nthe day before, had particularly exasperated him by the hints in it\nthat she was quite ready to help him to succeed in the world and in the\narmy, but not to lead a life which was a scandal to all good society.\nHis mother s attempt to buy him stung him to the quick and made him\nfeel colder than ever to her. But he could not draw back from the\ngenerous word when it was once uttered, even though he felt now,\nvaguely foreseeing certain eventualities in his intrigue with Madame\nKarenina, that this generous word had been spoken thoughtlessly, and\nthat even though he were not married he might need all the hundred\nthousand of income. But it was impossible to draw back. He had only to\nrecall his brother s wife, to remember how that sweet, delightful Varya\nsought, at every convenient opportunity, to remind him that she\nremembered his generosity and appreciated it, to grasp the\nimpossibility of taking back his gift. It was as impossible as beating\na woman, stealing, or lying. One thing only could and ought to be done,\nand Vronsky determined upon it without an instant s hesitation: to\nborrow money from a money-lender, ten thousand roubles, a proceeding\nwhich presented no difficulty, to cut down his expenses generally, and\nto sell his race horses. Resolving on this, he promptly wrote a note to\nRolandak, who had more than once sent to him with offers to buy horses\nfrom him. Then he sent for the Englishman and the money-lender, and\ndivided what money he had according to the accounts he intended to pay.\nHaving finished this business, he wrote a cold and cutting answer to\nhis mother. Then he took out of his notebook three notes of Anna s,\nread them again, burned them, and remembering their conversation on the\nprevious day, he sank into meditation.\n\n\nChapter 20\n\nVronsky s life was particularly happy in that he had a code of\nprinciples, which defined with unfailing certitude what he ought and\nwhat he ought not to do. This code of principles covered only a very\nsmall circle of contingencies, but then the principles were never\ndoubtful, and Vronsky, as he never went outside that circle, had never\nhad a moment s hesitation about doing what he ought to do. These\nprinciples laid down as invariable rules: that one must pay a\ncardsharper, but need not pay a tailor; that one must never tell a lie\nto a man, but one may to a woman; that one must never cheat anyone, but\none may a husband; that one must never pardon an insult, but one may\ngive one and so on. These principles were possibly not reasonable and\nnot good, but they were of unfailing certainty, and so long as he\nadhered to them, Vronsky felt that his heart was at peace and he could\nhold his head up. Only quite lately in regard to his relations with\nAnna, Vronsky had begun to feel that his code of principles did not\nfully cover all possible contingencies, and to foresee in the future\ndifficulties and perplexities for which he could find no guiding clue.\n\nHis present relation to Anna and to her husband was to his mind clear\nand simple. It was clearly and precisely defined in the code of\nprinciples by which he was guided.\n\nShe was an honorable woman who had bestowed her love upon him, and he\nloved her, and therefore she was in his eyes a woman who had a right to\nthe same, or even more, respect than a lawful wife. He would have had\nhis hand chopped off before he would have allowed himself by a word, by\na hint, to humiliate her, or even to fall short of the fullest respect\na woman could look for.\n\nHis attitude to society, too, was clear. Everyone might know, might\nsuspect it, but no one might dare to speak of it. If any did so, he was\nready to force all who might speak to be silent and to respect the\nnon-existent honor of the woman he loved.\n\nHis attitude to the husband was the clearest of all. From the moment\nthat Anna loved Vronsky, he had regarded his own right over her as the\none thing unassailable. Her husband was simply a superfluous and\ntiresome person. No doubt he was in a pitiable position, but how could\nthat be helped? The one thing the husband had a right to was to demand\nsatisfaction with a weapon in his hand, and Vronsky was prepared for\nthis at any minute.\n\nBut of late new inner relations had arisen between him and her, which\nfrightened Vronsky by their indefiniteness. Only the day before she had\ntold him that she was with child. And he felt that this fact and what\nshe expected of him called for something not fully defined in that code\nof principles by which he had hitherto steered his course in life. And\nhe had been indeed caught unawares, and at the first moment when she\nspoke to him of her position, his heart had prompted him to beg her to\nleave her husband. He had said that, but now thinking things over he\nsaw clearly that it would be better to manage to avoid that; and at the\nsame time, as he told himself so, he was afraid whether it was not\nwrong.\n\n If I told her to leave her husband, that must mean uniting her life\nwith mine; am I prepared for that? How can I take her away now, when I\nhave no money? Supposing I could arrange.... But how can I take her\naway while I m in the service? If I say that I ought to be prepared to\ndo it, that is, I ought to have the money and to retire from the army. \n\nAnd he grew thoughtful. The question whether to retire from the service\nor not brought him to the other and perhaps the chief though hidden\ninterest of his life, of which none knew but he.\n\nAmbition was the old dream of his youth and childhood, a dream which he\ndid not confess even to himself, though it was so strong that now this\npassion was even doing battle with his love. His first steps in the\nworld and in the service had been successful, but two years before he\nhad made a great mistake. Anxious to show his independence and to\nadvance, he had refused a post that had been offered him, hoping that\nthis refusal would heighten his value; but it turned out that he had\nbeen too bold, and he was passed over. And having, whether he liked or\nnot, taken up for himself the position of an independent man, he\ncarried it off with great tact and good sense, behaving as though he\nbore no grudge against anyone, did not regard himself as injured in any\nway, and cared for nothing but to be left alone since he was enjoying\nhimself. In reality he had ceased to enjoy himself as long ago as the\nyear before, when he went away to Moscow. He felt that this independent\nattitude of a man who might have done anything, but cared to do\nnothing, was already beginning to pall, that many people were beginning\nto fancy that he was not really capable of anything but being a\nstraightforward, good-natured fellow. His connection with Madame\nKarenina, by creating so much sensation and attracting general\nattention, had given him a fresh distinction which soothed his gnawing\nworm of ambition for a while, but a week before that worm had been\nroused up again with fresh force. The friend of his childhood, a man of\nthe same set, of the same coterie, his comrade in the Corps of Pages,\nSerpuhovskoy, who had left school with him and had been his rival in\nclass, in gymnastics, in their scrapes and their dreams of glory, had\ncome back a few days before from Central Asia, where he had gained two\nsteps up in rank, and an order rarely bestowed upon generals so young.\n\nAs soon as he arrived in Petersburg, people began to talk about him as\na newly risen star of the first magnitude. A schoolfellow of Vronsky s\nand of the same age, he was a general and was expecting a command,\nwhich might have influence on the course of political events; while\nVronsky, independent and brilliant and beloved by a charming woman\nthough he was, was simply a cavalry captain who was readily allowed to\nbe as independent as ever he liked.  Of course I don t envy\nSerpuhovskoy and never could envy him; but his advancement shows me\nthat one has only to watch one s opportunity, and the career of a man\nlike me may be very rapidly made. Three years ago he was in just the\nsame position as I am. If I retire, I burn my ships. If I remain in the\narmy, I lose nothing. She said herself she did not wish to change her\nposition. And with her love I cannot feel envious of Serpuhovskoy.  And\nslowly twirling his mustaches, he got up from the table and walked\nabout the room. His eyes shone particularly brightly, and he felt in\nthat confident, calm, and happy frame of mind which always came after\nhe had thoroughly faced his position. Everything was straight and\nclear, just as after former days of reckoning. He shaved, took a cold\nbath, dressed and went out.\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n We ve come to fetch you. Your _lessive_ lasted a good time today, \nsaid Petritsky.  Well, is it over? \n\n It is over,  answered Vronsky, smiling with his eyes only, and\ntwirling the tips of his mustaches as circumspectly as though after the\nperfect order into which his affairs had been brought any over-bold or\nrapid movement might disturb it.\n\n You re always just as if you d come out of a bath after it,  said\nPetritsky.  I ve come from Gritsky s  (that was what they called the\ncolonel);  they re expecting you. \n\nVronsky, without answering, looked at his comrade, thinking of\nsomething else.\n\n Yes; is that music at his place?  he said, listening to the familiar\nsounds of polkas and waltzes floating across to him.  What s the f te? \n\n Serpuhovskoy s come. \n\n Aha!  said Vronsky,  why, I didn t know. \n\nThe smile in his eyes gleamed more brightly than ever.\n\nHaving once made up his mind that he was happy in his love, that he\nsacrificed his ambition to it having anyway taken up this position,\nVronsky was incapable of feeling either envious of Serpuhovskoy or hurt\nwith him for not coming first to him when he came to the regiment.\nSerpuhovskoy was a good friend, and he was delighted he had come.\n\n Ah, I m very glad! \n\nThe colonel, Demin, had taken a large country house. The whole party\nwere in the wide lower balcony. In the courtyard the first objects that\nmet Vronsky s eyes were a band of singers in white linen coats,\nstanding near a barrel of vodka, and the robust, good-humored figure of\nthe colonel surrounded by officers. He had gone out as far as the first\nstep of the balcony and was loudly shouting across the band that played\nOffenbach s quadrille, waving his arms and giving some orders to a few\nsoldiers standing on one side. A group of soldiers, a quartermaster,\nand several subalterns came up to the balcony with Vronsky. The colonel\nreturned to the table, went out again onto the steps with a tumbler in\nhis hand, and proposed the toast,  To the health of our former comrade,\nthe gallant general, Prince Serpuhovskoy. Hurrah! \n\nThe colonel was followed by Serpuhovskoy, who came out onto the steps\nsmiling, with a glass in his hand.\n\n You always get younger, Bondarenko,  he said to the rosy-cheeked,\nsmart-looking quartermaster standing just before him, still youngish\nlooking though doing his second term of service.\n\nIt was three years since Vronsky had seen Serpuhovskoy. He looked more\nrobust, had let his whiskers grow, but was still the same graceful\ncreature, whose face and figure were even more striking from their\nsoftness and nobility than their beauty. The only change Vronsky\ndetected in him was that subdued, continual radiance of beaming content\nwhich settles on the faces of men who are successful and are sure of\nthe recognition of their success by everyone. Vronsky knew that radiant\nair, and immediately observed it in Serpuhovskoy.\n\nAs Serpuhovskoy came down the steps he saw Vronsky. A smile of pleasure\nlighted up his face. He tossed his head upwards and waved the glass in\nhis hand, greeting Vronsky, and showing him by the gesture that he\ncould not come to him before the quartermaster, who stood craning\nforward his lips ready to be kissed.\n\n Here he is!  shouted the colonel.  Yashvin told me you were in one of\nyour gloomy tempers. \n\nSerpuhovskoy kissed the moist, fresh lips of the gallant-looking\nquartermaster, and wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, went up to\nVronsky.\n\n How glad I am!  he said, squeezing his hand and drawing him on one\nside.\n\n You look after him,  the colonel shouted to Yashvin, pointing to\nVronsky; and he went down below to the soldiers.\n\n Why weren t you at the races yesterday? I expected to see you there, \nsaid Vronsky, scrutinizing Serpuhovskoy.\n\n I did go, but late. I beg your pardon,  he added, and he turned to the\nadjutant:  Please have this divided from me, each man as much as it\nruns to.  And he hurriedly took notes for three hundred roubles from\nhis pocketbook, blushing a little.\n\n Vronsky! Have anything to eat or drink?  asked Yashvin.  Hi, something\nfor the count to eat! Ah, here it is: have a glass! \n\nThe f te at the colonel s lasted a long while. There was a great deal\nof drinking. They tossed Serpuhovskoy in the air and caught him again\nseveral times. Then they did the same to the colonel. Then, to the\naccompaniment of the band, the colonel himself danced with Petritsky.\nThen the colonel, who began to show signs of feebleness, sat down on a\nbench in the courtyard and began demonstrating to Yashvin the\nsuperiority of Russia over Prussia, especially in cavalry attack, and\nthere was a lull in the revelry for a moment. Serpuhovskoy went into\nthe house to the bathroom to wash his hands and found Vronsky there;\nVronsky was drenching his head with water. He had taken off his coat\nand put his sunburnt, hairy neck under the tap, and was rubbing it and\nhis head with his hands. When he had finished, Vronsky sat down by\nSerpuhovskoy. They both sat down in the bathroom on a lounge, and a\nconversation began which was very interesting to both of them.\n\n I ve always been hearing about you through my wife,  said\nSerpuhovskoy.  I m glad you ve been seeing her pretty often. \n\n She s friendly with Varya, and they re the only women in Petersburg I\ncare about seeing,  answered Vronsky, smiling. He smiled because he\nforesaw the topic the conversation would turn on, and he was glad of\nit.\n\n The only ones?  Serpuhovskoy queried, smiling.\n\n Yes; and I heard news of you, but not only through your wife,  said\nVronsky, checking his hint by a stern expression of face.  I was\ngreatly delighted to hear of your success, but not a bit surprised. I\nexpected even more. \n\nSerpuhovskoy smiled. Such an opinion of him was obviously agreeable to\nhim, and he did not think it necessary to conceal it.\n\n Well, I on the contrary expected less I ll own frankly. But I m glad,\nvery glad. I m ambitious; that s my weakness, and I confess to it. \n\n Perhaps you wouldn t confess to it if you hadn t been successful, \nsaid Vronsky.\n\n I don t suppose so,  said Serpuhovskoy, smiling again.  I won t say\nlife wouldn t be worth living without it, but it would be dull. Of\ncourse I may be mistaken, but I fancy I have a certain capacity for the\nline I ve chosen, and that power of any sort in my hands, if it is to\nbe, will be better than in the hands of a good many people I know, \nsaid Serpuhovskoy, with beaming consciousness of success;  and so the\nnearer I get to it, the better pleased I am. \n\n Perhaps that is true for you, but not for everyone. I used to think so\ntoo, but here I live and think life worth living not only for that. \n\n There it s out! here it comes!  said Serpuhovskoy, laughing.  Ever\nsince I heard about you, about your refusal, I began.... Of course, I\napproved of what you did. But there are ways of doing everything. And I\nthink your action was good in itself, but you didn t do it quite in the\nway you ought to have done. \n\n What s done can t be undone, and you know I never go back on what I ve\ndone. And besides, I m very well off. \n\n Very well off for the time. But you re not satisfied with that. I\nwouldn t say this to your brother. He s a nice child, like our host\nhere. There he goes!  he added, listening to the roar of  hurrah! and\nhe s happy, but that does not satisfy you. \n\n I didn t say it did satisfy me. \n\n Yes, but that s not the only thing. Such men as you are wanted. \n\n By whom? \n\n By whom? By society, by Russia. Russia needs men; she needs a party,\nor else everything goes and will go to the dogs. \n\n How do you mean? Bertenev s party against the Russian communists? \n\n No,  said Serpuhovskoy, frowning with vexation at being suspected of\nsuch an absurdity.  _Tout  a est une blague_. That s always been and\nalways will be. There are no communists. But intriguing people have to\ninvent a noxious, dangerous party. It s an old trick. No, what s wanted\nis a powerful party of independent men like you and me. \n\n But why so?  Vronsky mentioned a few men who were in power.  Why\naren t they independent men? \n\n Simply because they have not, or have not had from birth, an\nindependent fortune; they ve not had a name, they ve not been close to\nthe sun and center as we have. They can be bought either by money or by\nfavor. And they have to find a support for themselves in inventing a\npolicy. And they bring forward some notion, some policy that they don t\nbelieve in, that does harm; and the whole policy is really only a means\nto a government house and so much income. _Cela n est pas plus fin que\n a_, when you get a peep at their cards. I may be inferior to them,\nstupider perhaps, though I don t see why I should be inferior to them.\nBut you and I have one important advantage over them for certain, in\nbeing more difficult to buy. And such men are more needed than ever. \n\nVronsky listened attentively, but he was not so much interested by the\nmeaning of the words as by the attitude of Serpuhovskoy who was already\ncontemplating a struggle with the existing powers, and already had his\nlikes and dislikes in that higher world, while his own interest in the\ngoverning world did not go beyond the interests of his regiment.\nVronsky felt, too, how powerful Serpuhovskoy might become through his\nunmistakable faculty for thinking things out and for taking things in,\nthrough his intelligence and gift of words, so rarely met with in the\nworld in which he moved. And, ashamed as he was of the feeling, he felt\nenvious.\n\n Still I haven t the one thing of most importance for that,  he\nanswered;  I haven t the desire for power. I had it once, but it s\ngone. \n\n Excuse me, that s not true,  said Serpuhovskoy, smiling.\n\n Yes, it is true, it is true ... now!  Vronsky added, to be truthful.\n\n Yes, it s true now, that s another thing; but that _now_ won t last\nforever. \n\n Perhaps,  answered Vronsky.\n\n You say _perhaps_,  Serpuhovskoy went on, as though guessing his\nthoughts,  but I say _for certain_. And that s what I wanted to see you\nfor. Your action was just what it should have been. I see that, but you\nought not to keep it up. I only ask you to give me _carte blanche_. I m\nnot going to offer you my protection ... though, indeed, why shouldn t\nI protect you? you ve protected me often enough! I should hope our\nfriendship rises above all that sort of thing. Yes,  he said, smiling\nto him as tenderly as a woman,  give me _carte blanche_, retire from\nthe regiment, and I ll draw you upwards imperceptibly. \n\n But you must understand that I want nothing,  said Vronsky,  except\nthat all should be as it is. \n\nSerpuhovskoy got up and stood facing him.\n\n You say that all should be as it is. I understand what that means. But\nlisten: we re the same age, you ve known a greater number of women\nperhaps than I have.  Serpohovskoy s smile and gestures told Vronsky\nthat he mustn t be afraid, that he would be tender and careful in\ntouching the sore place.  But I m married, and believe me, in getting\nto know thoroughly one s wife, if one loves her, as someone has said,\none gets to know all women better than if one knew thousands of them. \n\n We re coming directly!  Vronsky shouted to an officer, who looked into\nthe room and called them to the colonel.\n\nVronsky was longing now to hear to the end and know what Serpuhovskey\nwould say to him.\n\n And here s my opinion for you. Women are the chief stumbling block in\na man s career. It s hard to love a woman and do anything. There s only\none way of having love conveniently without its being a\nhindrance that s marriage. How, how am I to tell you what I mean?  said\nSerpuhovskoy, who liked similes.  Wait a minute, wait a minute! Yes,\njust as you can only carry a _fardeau_ and do something with your\nhands, when the _fardeau_ is tied on your back, and that s marriage.\nAnd that s what I felt when I was married. My hands were suddenly set\nfree. But to drag that _fardeau_ about with you without marriage, your\nhands will always be so full that you can do nothing. Look at Mazankov,\nat Krupov. They ve ruined their careers for the sake of women. \n\n What women!  said Vronsky, recalling the Frenchwoman and the actress\nwith whom the two men he had mentioned were connected.\n\n The firmer the woman s footing in society, the worse it is. That s\nmuch the same as not merely carrying the _fardeau_ in your arms but\ntearing it away from someone else. \n\n You have never loved,  Vronsky said softly, looking straight before\nhim and thinking of Anna.\n\n Perhaps. But you remember what I ve said to you. And another thing,\nwomen are all more materialistic than men. We make something immense\nout of love, but they are always _terre- -terre_. \n\n Directly, directly!  he cried to a footman who came in. But the\nfootman had not come to call them again, as he supposed. The footman\nbrought Vronsky a note.\n\n A man brought it from Princess Tverskaya. \n\nVronsky opened the letter, and flushed crimson.\n\n My head s begun to ache; I m going home,  he said to Serpuhovskoy.\n\n Oh, good-bye then. You give me _carte blanche!_ \n\n We ll talk about it later on; I ll look you up in Petersburg. \n\n\nChapter 22\n\nIt was six o clock already, and so, in order to be there quickly, and\nat the same time not to drive with his own horses, known to everyone,\nVronsky got into Yashvin s hired fly, and told the driver to drive as\nquickly as possible. It was a roomy, old-fashioned fly, with seats for\nfour. He sat in one corner, stretched his legs out on the front seat,\nand sank into meditation.\n\nA vague sense of the order into which his affairs had been brought, a\nvague recollection of the friendliness and flattery of Serpuhovskoy,\nwho had considered him a man that was needed, and most of all, the\nanticipation of the interview before him all blended into a general,\njoyous sense of life. This feeling was so strong that he could not help\nsmiling. He dropped his legs, crossed one leg over the other knee, and\ntaking it in his hand, felt the springy muscle of the calf, where it\nhad been grazed the day before by his fall, and leaning back he drew\nseveral deep breaths.\n\n I m happy, very happy!  he said to himself. He had often before had\nthis sense of physical joy in his own body, but he had never felt so\nfond of himself, of his own body, as at that moment. He enjoyed the\nslight ache in his strong leg, he enjoyed the muscular sensation of\nmovement in his chest as he breathed. The bright, cold August day,\nwhich had made Anna feel so hopeless, seemed to him keenly stimulating,\nand refreshed his face and neck that still tingled from the cold water.\nThe scent of brilliantine on his whiskers struck him as particularly\npleasant in the fresh air. Everything he saw from the carriage window,\neverything in that cold pure air, in the pale light of the sunset, was\nas fresh, and gay, and strong as he was himself: the roofs of the\nhouses shining in the rays of the setting sun, the sharp outlines of\nfences and angles of buildings, the figures of passers-by, the\ncarriages that met him now and then, the motionless green of the trees\nand grass, the fields with evenly drawn furrows of potatoes, and the\nslanting shadows that fell from the houses, and trees, and bushes, and\neven from the rows of potatoes everything was bright like a pretty\nlandscape just finished and freshly varnished.\n\n Get on, get on!  he said to the driver, putting his head out of the\nwindow, and pulling a three-rouble note out of his pocket he handed it\nto the man as he looked round. The driver s hand fumbled with something\nat the lamp, the whip cracked, and the carriage rolled rapidly along\nthe smooth highroad.\n\n I want nothing, nothing but this happiness,  he thought, staring at\nthe bone button of the bell in the space between the windows, and\npicturing to himself Anna just as he had seen her last time.  And as I\ngo on, I love her more and more. Here s the garden of the Vrede Villa.\nWhereabouts will she be? Where? How? Why did she fix on this place to\nmeet me, and why does she write in Betsy s letter?  he thought,\nwondering now for the first time at it. But there was now no time for\nwonder. He called to the driver to stop before reaching the avenue, and\nopening the door, jumped out of the carriage as it was moving, and went\ninto the avenue that led up to the house. There was no one in the\navenue; but looking round to the right he caught sight of her. Her face\nwas hidden by a veil, but he drank in with glad eyes the special\nmovement in walking, peculiar to her alone, the slope of the shoulders,\nand the setting of the head, and at once a sort of electric shock ran\nall over him. With fresh force, he felt conscious of himself from the\nspringy motions of his legs to the movements of his lungs as he\nbreathed, and something set his lips twitching.\n\nJoining him, she pressed his hand tightly.\n\n You re not angry that I sent for you? I absolutely had to see you, \nshe said; and the serious and set line of her lips, which he saw under\nthe veil, transformed his mood at once.\n\n I angry! But how have you come, where from? \n\n Never mind,  she said, laying her hand on his,  come along, I must\ntalk to you. \n\nHe saw that something had happened, and that the interview would not be\na joyous one. In her presence he had no will of his own: without\nknowing the grounds of her distress, he already felt the same distress\nunconsciously passing over him.\n\n What is it? what?  he asked her, squeezing her hand with his elbow,\nand trying to read her thoughts in her face.\n\nShe walked on a few steps in silence, gathering up her courage; then\nsuddenly she stopped.\n\n I did not tell you yesterday,  she began, breathing quickly and\npainfully,  that coming home with Alexey Alexandrovitch I told him\neverything ... told him I could not be his wife, that ... and told him\neverything. \n\nHe heard her, unconsciously bending his whole figure down to her as\nthough hoping in this way to soften the hardness of her position for\nher. But directly she had said this he suddenly drew himself up, and a\nproud and hard expression came over his face.\n\n Yes, yes, that s better, a thousand times better! I know how painful\nit was,  he said. But she was not listening to his words, she was\nreading his thoughts from the expression of his face. She could not\nguess that that expression arose from the first idea that presented\nitself to Vronsky that a duel was now inevitable. The idea of a duel\nhad never crossed her mind, and so she put a different interpretation\non this passing expression of hardness.\n\nWhen she got her husband s letter, she knew then at the bottom of her\nheart that everything would go on in the old way, that she would not\nhave the strength of will to forego her position, to abandon her son,\nand to join her lover. The morning spent at Princess Tverskaya s had\nconfirmed her still more in this. But this interview was still of the\nutmost gravity for her. She hoped that this interview would transform\nher position, and save her. If on hearing this news he were to say to\nher resolutely, passionately, without an instant s wavering:  Throw up\neverything and come with me!  she would give up her son and go away\nwith him. But this news had not produced what she had expected in him;\nhe simply seemed as though he were resenting some affront.\n\n It was not in the least painful to me. It happened of itself,  she\nsaid irritably;  and see....  she pulled her husband s letter out of\nher glove.\n\n I understand, I understand,  he interrupted her, taking the letter,\nbut not reading it, and trying to soothe her.  The one thing I longed\nfor, the one thing I prayed for, was to cut short this position, so as\nto devote my life to your happiness. \n\n Why do you tell me that?  she said.  Do you suppose I can doubt it? If\nI doubted.... \n\n Who s that coming?  said Vronsky suddenly, pointing to two ladies\nwalking towards them.  Perhaps they know us!  and he hurriedly turned\noff, drawing her after him into a side path.\n\n Oh, I don t care!  she said. Her lips were quivering. And he fancied\nthat her eyes looked with strange fury at him from under the veil.  I\ntell you that s not the point I can t doubt that; but see what he\nwrites to me. Read it.  She stood still again.\n\nAgain, just as at the first moment of hearing of her rupture with her\nhusband, Vronsky, on reading the letter, was unconsciously carried away\nby the natural sensation aroused in him by his own relation to the\nbetrayed husband. Now while he held his letter in his hands, he could\nnot help picturing the challenge, which he would most likely find at\nhome today or tomorrow, and the duel itself, in which, with the same\ncold and haughty expression that his face was assuming at this moment\nhe would await the injured husband s shot, after having himself fired\ninto the air. And at that instant there flashed across his mind the\nthought of what Serpuhovskoy had just said to him, and what he had\nhimself been thinking in the morning that it was better not to bind\nhimself and he knew that this thought he could not tell her.\n\nHaving read the letter, he raised his eyes to her, and there was no\ndetermination in them. She saw at once that he had been thinking about\nit before by himself. She knew that whatever he might say to her, he\nwould not say all he thought. And she knew that her last hope had\nfailed her. This was not what she had been reckoning on.\n\n You see the sort of man he is,  she said, with a shaking voice;\n he.... \n\n Forgive me, but I rejoice at it,  Vronsky interrupted.  For God s\nsake, let me finish!  he added, his eyes imploring her to give him time\nto explain his words.  I rejoice, because things cannot, cannot\npossibly remain as he supposes. \n\n Why can t they?  Anna said, restraining her tears, and obviously\nattaching no sort of consequence to what he said. She felt that her\nfate was sealed.\n\nVronsky meant that after the duel inevitable, he thought things could\nnot go on as before, but he said something different.\n\n It can t go on. I hope that now you will leave him. I hope he was\nconfused, and reddened that you will let me arrange and plan our life.\nTomorrow....  he was beginning.\n\nShe did not let him go on.\n\n But my child!  she shrieked.  You see what he writes! I should have to\nleave him, and I can t and won t do that. \n\n But, for God s sake, which is better? leave your child, or keep up\nthis degrading position? \n\n To whom is it degrading? \n\n To all, and most of all to you. \n\n You say degrading ... don t say that. Those words have no meaning for\nme,  she said in a shaking voice. She did not want him now to say what\nwas untrue. She had nothing left her but his love, and she wanted to\nlove him.  Don t you understand that from the day I loved you\neverything has changed for me? For me there is one thing, and one thing\nonly your love. If that s mine, I feel so exalted, so strong, that\nnothing can be humiliating to me. I am proud of my position, because\n... proud of being ... proud....  She could not say what she was proud\nof. Tears of shame and despair choked her utterance. She stood still\nand sobbed.\n\nHe felt, too, something swelling in his throat and twitching in his\nnose, and for the first time in his life he felt on the point of\nweeping. He could not have said exactly what it was touched him so. He\nfelt sorry for her, and he felt he could not help her, and with that he\nknew that he was to blame for her wretchedness, and that he had done\nsomething wrong.\n\n Is not a divorce possible?  he said feebly. She shook her head, not\nanswering.  Couldn t you take your son, and still leave him? \n\n Yes; but it all depends on him. Now I must go to him,  she said\nshortly. Her presentiment that all would again go on in the old way had\nnot deceived her.\n\n On Tuesday I shall be in Petersburg, and everything can be settled. \n\n Yes,  she said.  But don t let us talk any more of it. \n\nAnna s carriage, which she had sent away, and ordered to come back to\nthe little gate of the Vrede garden, drove up. Anna said good-bye to\nVronsky, and drove home.\n\n\nChapter 23\n\nOn Monday there was the usual sitting of the Commission of the 2nd of\nJune. Alexey Alexandrovitch walked into the hall where the sitting was\nheld, greeted the members and the president, as usual, and sat down in\nhis place, putting his hand on the papers laid ready before him. Among\nthese papers lay the necessary evidence and a rough outline of the\nspeech he intended to make. But he did not really need these documents.\nHe remembered every point, and did not think it necessary to go over in\nhis memory what he would say. He knew that when the time came, and when\nhe saw his enemy facing him, and studiously endeavoring to assume an\nexpression of indifference, his speech would flow of itself better than\nhe could prepare it now. He felt that the import of his speech was of\nsuch magnitude that every word of it would have weight. Meantime, as he\nlistened to the usual report, he had the most innocent and inoffensive\nair. No one, looking at his white hands, with their swollen veins and\nlong fingers, so softly stroking the edges of the white paper that lay\nbefore him, and at the air of weariness with which his head drooped on\none side, would have suspected that in a few minutes a torrent of words\nwould flow from his lips that would arouse a fearful storm, set the\nmembers shouting and attacking one another, and force the president to\ncall for order. When the report was over, Alexey Alexandrovitch\nannounced in his subdued, delicate voice that he had several points to\nbring before the meeting in regard to the Commission for the\nReorganization of the Native Tribes. All attention was turned upon him.\nAlexey Alexandrovitch cleared his throat, and not looking at his\nopponent, but selecting, as he always did while he was delivering his\nspeeches, the first person sitting opposite him, an inoffensive little\nold man, who never had an opinion of any sort in the Commission, began\nto expound his views. When he reached the point about the fundamental\nand radical law, his opponent jumped up and began to protest. Stremov,\nwho was also a member of the Commission, and also stung to the quick,\nbegan defending himself, and altogether a stormy sitting followed; but\nAlexey Alexandrovitch triumphed, and his motion was carried, three new\ncommissions were appointed, and the next day in a certain Petersburg\ncircle nothing else was talked of but this sitting. Alexey\nAlexandrovitch s success had been even greater than he had anticipated.\n\nNext morning, Tuesday, Alexey Alexandrovitch, on waking up, recollected\nwith pleasure his triumph of the previous day, and he could not help\nsmiling, though he tried to appear indifferent, when the chief\nsecretary of his department, anxious to flatter him, informed him of\nthe rumors that had reached him concerning what had happened in the\nCommission.\n\nAbsorbed in business with the chief secretary, Alexey Alexandrovitch\nhad completely forgotten that it was Tuesday, the day fixed by him for\nthe return of Anna Arkadyevna, and he was surprised and received a\nshock of annoyance when a servant came in to inform him of her arrival.\n\nAnna had arrived in Petersburg early in the morning; the carriage had\nbeen sent to meet her in accordance with her telegram, and so Alexey\nAlexandrovitch might have known of her arrival. But when she arrived,\nhe did not meet her. She was told that he had not yet gone out, but was\nbusy with his secretary. She sent word to her husband that she had\ncome, went to her own room, and occupied herself in sorting out her\nthings, expecting he would come to her. But an hour passed; he did not\ncome. She went into the dining-room on the pretext of giving some\ndirections, and spoke loudly on purpose, expecting him to come out\nthere; but he did not come, though she heard him go to the door of his\nstudy as he parted from the chief secretary. She knew that he usually\nwent out quickly to his office, and she wanted to see him before that,\nso that their attitude to one another might be defined.\n\nShe walked across the drawing-room and went resolutely to him. When she\nwent into his study he was in official uniform, obviously ready to go\nout, sitting at a little table on which he rested his elbows, looking\ndejectedly before him. She saw him before he saw her, and she saw that\nhe was thinking of her.\n\nOn seeing her, he would have risen, but changed his mind, then his face\nflushed hotly a thing Anna had never seen before, and he got up quickly\nand went to meet her, looking not at her eyes, but above them at her\nforehead and hair. He went up to her, took her by the hand, and asked\nher to sit down.\n\n I am very glad you have come,  he said, sitting down beside her, and\nobviously wishing to say something, he stuttered. Several times he\ntried to begin to speak, but stopped. In spite of the fact that,\npreparing herself for meeting him, she had schooled herself to despise\nand reproach him, she did not know what to say to him, and she felt\nsorry for him. And so the silence lasted for some time.  Is Seryozha\nquite well?  he said, and not waiting for an answer, he added:  I\nshan t be dining at home today, and I have got to go out directly. \n\n I had thought of going to Moscow,  she said.\n\n No, you did quite, quite right to come,  he said, and was silent\nagain.\n\nSeeing that he was powerless to begin the conversation, she began\nherself.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch,  she said, looking at him and not dropping her\neyes under his persistent gaze at her hair,  I m a guilty woman, I m a\nbad woman, but I am the same as I was, as I told you then, and I have\ncome to tell you that I can change nothing. \n\n I have asked you no question about that,  he said, all at once,\nresolutely and with hatred looking her straight in the face;  that was\nas I had supposed.  Under the influence of anger he apparently regained\ncomplete possession of all his faculties.  But as I told you then, and\nhave written to you,  he said in a thin, shrill voice,  I repeat now,\nthat I am not bound to know this. I ignore it. Not all wives are so\nkind as you, to be in such a hurry to communicate such agreeable news\nto their husbands.  He laid special emphasis on the word  agreeable. \n I shall ignore it so long as the world knows nothing of it, so long as\nmy name is not disgraced. And so I simply inform you that our relations\nmust be just as they have always been, and that only in the event of\nyour compromising me I shall be obliged to take steps to secure my\nhonor. \n\n But our relations cannot be the same as always,  Anna began in a timid\nvoice, looking at him with dismay.\n\nWhen she saw once more those composed gestures, heard that shrill,\nchildish, and sarcastic voice, her aversion for him extinguished her\npity for him, and she felt only afraid, but at all costs she wanted to\nmake clear her position.\n\n I cannot be your wife while I....  she began.\n\nHe laughed a cold and malignant laugh.\n\n The manner of life you have chosen is reflected, I suppose, in your\nideas. I have too much respect or contempt, or both ... I respect your\npast and despise your present ... that I was far from the\ninterpretation you put on my words. \n\nAnna sighed and bowed her head.\n\n Though indeed I fail to comprehend how, with the independence you\nshow,  he went on, getting hot,  announcing your infidelity to your\nhusband and seeing nothing reprehensible in it, apparently you can see\nanything reprehensible in performing a wife s duties in relation to\nyour husband. \n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch! What is it you want of me? \n\n I want you not to meet that man here, and to conduct yourself so that\nneither the world nor the servants can reproach you ... not to see him.\nThat s not much, I think. And in return you will enjoy all the\nprivileges of a faithful wife without fulfilling her duties. That s all\nI have to say to you. Now it s time for me to go. I m not dining at\nhome.  He got up and moved towards the door.\n\nAnna got up too. Bowing in silence, he let her pass before him.\n\n\nChapter 24\n\nThe night spent by Levin on the haycock did not pass without result for\nhim. The way in which he had been managing his land revolted him and\nhad lost all attraction for him. In spite of the magnificent harvest,\nnever had there been, or, at least, never it seemed to him, had there\nbeen so many hindrances and so many quarrels between him and the\npeasants as that year, and the origin of these failures and this\nhostility was now perfectly comprehensible to him. The delight he had\nexperienced in the work itself, and the consequent greater intimacy\nwith the peasants, the envy he felt of them, of their life, the desire\nto adopt that life, which had been to him that night not a dream but an\nintention, the execution of which he had thought out in detail all this\nhad so transformed his view of the farming of the land as he had\nmanaged it, that he could not take his former interest in it, and could\nnot help seeing that unpleasant relation between him and the workpeople\nwhich was the foundation of it all. The herd of improved cows such as\nPava, the whole land ploughed over and enriched, the nine level fields\nsurrounded with hedges, the two hundred and forty acres heavily\nmanured, the seed sown in drills, and all the rest of it it was all\nsplendid if only the work had been done for themselves, or for\nthemselves and comrades people in sympathy with them. But he saw\nclearly now (his work on a book of agriculture, in which the chief\nelement in husbandry was to have been the laborer, greatly assisted him\nin this) that the sort of farming he was carrying on was nothing but a\ncruel and stubborn struggle between him and the laborers, in which\nthere was on one side his side a continual intense effort to change\neverything to a pattern he considered better; on the other side, the\nnatural order of things. And in this struggle he saw that with immense\nexpenditure of force on his side, and with no effort or even intention\non the other side, all that was attained was that the work did not go\nto the liking of either side, and that splendid tools, splendid cattle\nand land were spoiled with no good to anyone. Worst of all, the energy\nexpended on this work was not simply wasted. He could not help feeling\nnow, since the meaning of this system had become clear to him, that the\naim of his energy was a most unworthy one. In reality, what was the\nstruggle about? He was struggling for every farthing of his share (and\nhe could not help it, for he had only to relax his efforts, and he\nwould not have had the money to pay his laborers  wages), while they\nwere only struggling to be able to do their work easily and agreeably,\nthat is to say, as they were used to doing it. It was for his interests\nthat every laborer should work as hard as possible, and that while\ndoing so he should keep his wits about him, so as to try not to break\nthe winnowing machines, the horse rakes, the thrashing machines, that\nhe should attend to what he was doing. What the laborer wanted was to\nwork as pleasantly as possible, with rests, and above all, carelessly\nand heedlessly, without thinking. That summer Levin saw this at every\nstep. He sent the men to mow some clover for hay, picking out the worst\npatches where the clover was overgrown with grass and weeds and of no\nuse for seed; again and again they mowed the best acres of clover,\njustifying themselves by the pretense that the bailiff had told them\nto, and trying to pacify him with the assurance that it would be\nsplendid hay; but he knew that it was owing to those acres being so\nmuch easier to mow. He sent out a hay machine for pitching the hay it\nwas broken at the first row because it was dull work for a peasant to\nsit on the seat in front with the great wings waving above him. And he\nwas told,  Don t trouble, your honor, sure, the womenfolks will pitch\nit quick enough.  The ploughs were practically useless, because it\nnever occurred to the laborer to raise the share when he turned the\nplough, and forcing it round, he strained the horses and tore up the\nground, and Levin was begged not to mind about it. The horses were\nallowed to stray into the wheat because not a single laborer would\nconsent to be night-watchman, and in spite of orders to the contrary,\nthe laborers insisted on taking turns for night duty, and Ivan, after\nworking all day long, fell asleep, and was very penitent for his fault,\nsaying,  Do what you will to me, your honor. \n\nThey killed three of the best calves by letting them into the clover\naftermath without care as to their drinking, and nothing would make the\nmen believe that they had been blown out by the clover, but they told\nhim, by way of consolation, that one of his neighbors had lost a\nhundred and twelve head of cattle in three days. All this happened, not\nbecause anyone felt ill-will to Levin or his farm; on the contrary, he\nknew that they liked him, thought him a simple gentleman (their highest\npraise); but it happened simply because all they wanted was to work\nmerrily and carelessly, and his interests were not only remote and\nincomprehensible to them, but fatally opposed to their most just\nclaims. Long before, Levin had felt dissatisfaction with his own\nposition in regard to the land. He saw where his boat leaked, but he\ndid not look for the leak, perhaps purposely deceiving himself.\n(Nothing would be left him if he lost faith in it.) But now he could\ndeceive himself no longer. The farming of the land, as he was managing\nit, had become not merely unattractive but revolting to him, and he\ncould take no further interest in it.\n\nTo this now was joined the presence, only twenty-five miles off, of\nKitty Shtcherbatskaya, whom he longed to see and could not see. Darya\nAlexandrovna Oblonskaya had invited him, when he was over there, to\ncome; to come with the object of renewing his offer to her sister, who\nwould, so she gave him to understand, accept him now. Levin himself had\nfelt on seeing Kitty Shtcherbatskaya that he had never ceased to love\nher; but he could not go over to the Oblonskys , knowing she was there.\nThe fact that he had made her an offer, and she had refused him, had\nplaced an insuperable barrier between her and him.  I can t ask her to\nbe my wife merely because she can t be the wife of the man she wanted\nto marry,  he said to himself. The thought of this made him cold and\nhostile to her.  I should not be able to speak to her without a feeling\nof reproach; I could not look at her without resentment; and she will\nonly hate me all the more, as she s bound to. And besides, how can I\nnow, after what Darya Alexandrovna told me, go to see them? Can I help\nshowing that I know what she told me? And me to go magnanimously to\nforgive her, and have pity on her! Me go through a performance before\nher of forgiving, and deigning to bestow my love on her!... What\ninduced Darya Alexandrovna to tell me that? By chance I might have seen\nher, then everything would have happened of itself; but, as it is, it s\nout of the question, out of the question! \n\nDarya Alexandrovna sent him a letter, asking him for a side-saddle for\nKitty s use.  I m told you have a side-saddle,  she wrote to him;  I\nhope you will bring it over yourself. \n\nThis was more than he could stand. How could a woman of any\nintelligence, of any delicacy, put her sister in such a humiliating\nposition! He wrote ten notes, and tore them all up, and sent the saddle\nwithout any reply. To write that he would go was impossible, because he\ncould not go; to write that he could not come because something\nprevented him, or that he would be away, that was still worse. He sent\nthe saddle without an answer, and with a sense of having done something\nshameful; he handed over all the now revolting business of the estate\nto the bailiff, and set off next day to a remote district to see his\nfriend Sviazhsky, who had splendid marshes for grouse in his\nneighborhood, and had lately written to ask him to keep a long-standing\npromise to stay with him. The grouse-marsh, in the Surovsky district,\nhad long tempted Levin, but he had continually put off this visit on\naccount of his work on the estate. Now he was glad to get away from the\nneighborhood of the Shtcherbatskys, and still more from his farm work,\nespecially on a shooting expedition, which always in trouble served as\nthe best consolation.\n\n\nChapter 25\n\nIn the Surovsky district there was no railway nor service of post\nhorses, and Levin drove there with his own horses in his big,\nold-fashioned carriage.\n\nHe stopped halfway at a well-to-do peasant s to feed his horses. A\nbald, well-preserved old man, with a broad, red beard, gray on his\ncheeks, opened the gate, squeezing against the gatepost to let the\nthree horses pass. Directing the coachman to a place under the shed in\nthe big, clean, tidy yard, with charred, old-fashioned ploughs in it,\nthe old man asked Levin to come into the parlor. A cleanly dressed\nyoung woman, with clogs on her bare feet, was scrubbing the floor in\nthe new outer room. She was frightened of the dog, that ran in after\nLevin, and uttered a shriek, but began laughing at her own fright at\nonce when she was told the dog would not hurt her. Pointing Levin with\nher bare arm to the door into the parlor, she bent down again, hiding\nher handsome face, and went on scrubbing.\n\n Would you like the samovar?  she asked.\n\n Yes, please. \n\nThe parlor was a big room, with a Dutch stove, and a screen dividing it\ninto two. Under the holy pictures stood a table painted in patterns, a\nbench, and two chairs. Near the entrance was a dresser full of\ncrockery. The shutters were closed, there were few flies, and it was so\nclean that Levin was anxious that Laska, who had been running along the\nroad and bathing in puddles, should not muddy the floor, and ordered\nher to a place in the corner by the door. After looking round the\nparlor, Levin went out in the back yard. The good-looking young woman\nin clogs, swinging the empty pails on the yoke, ran on before him to\nthe well for water.\n\n Look sharp, my girl!  the old man shouted after her, good-humoredly,\nand he went up to Levin.  Well, sir, are you going to Nikolay\nIvanovitch Sviazhsky? His honor comes to us too,  he began, chatting,\nleaning his elbows on the railing of the steps. In the middle of the\nold man s account of his acquaintance with Sviazhsky, the gates creaked\nagain, and laborers came into the yard from the fields, with wooden\nploughs and harrows. The horses harnessed to the ploughs and harrows\nwere sleek and fat. The laborers were obviously of the household: two\nwere young men in cotton shirts and caps, the two others were hired\nlaborers in homespun shirts, one an old man, the other a young fellow.\nMoving off from the steps, the old man went up to the horses and began\nunharnessing them.\n\n What have they been ploughing?  asked Levin.\n\n Ploughing up the potatoes. We rent a bit of land too. Fedot, don t let\nout the gelding, but take it to the trough, and we ll put the other in\nharness. \n\n Oh, father, the ploughshares I ordered, has he brought them along? \nasked the big, healthy-looking fellow, obviously the old man s son.\n\n There ... in the outer room,  answered the old man, bundling together\nthe harness he had taken off, and flinging it on the ground.  You can\nput them on, while they have dinner. \n\nThe good-looking young woman came into the outer room with the full\npails dragging at her shoulders. More women came on the scene from\nsomewhere, young and handsome, middle-aged, old and ugly, with children\nand without children.\n\nThe samovar was beginning to sing; the laborers and the family, having\ndisposed of the horses, came in to dinner. Levin, getting his\nprovisions out of his carriage, invited the old man to take tea with\nhim.\n\n Well, I have had some today already,  said the old man, obviously\naccepting the invitation with pleasure.  But just a glass for company. \n\nOver their tea Levin heard all about the old man s farming. Ten years\nbefore, the old man had rented three hundred acres from the lady who\nowned them, and a year ago he had bought them and rented another three\nhundred from a neighboring landowner. A small part of the land the\nworst part he let out for rent, while a hundred acres of arable land he\ncultivated himself with his family and two hired laborers. The old man\ncomplained that things were doing badly. But Levin saw that he simply\ndid so from a feeling of propriety, and that his farm was in a\nflourishing condition. If it had been unsuccessful he would not have\nbought land at thirty-five roubles the acre, he would not have married\nhis three sons and a nephew, he would not have rebuilt twice after\nfires, and each time on a larger scale. In spite of the old man s\ncomplaints, it was evident that he was proud, and justly proud, of his\nprosperity, proud of his sons, his nephew, his sons  wives, his horses\nand his cows, and especially of the fact that he was keeping all this\nfarming going. From his conversation with the old man, Levin thought he\nwas not averse to new methods either. He had planted a great many\npotatoes, and his potatoes, as Levin had seen driving past, were\nalready past flowering and beginning to die down, while Levin s were\nonly just coming into flower. He earthed up his potatoes with a modern\nplough borrowed from a neighboring landowner. He sowed wheat. The\ntrifling fact that, thinning out his rye, the old man used the rye he\nthinned out for his horses, specially struck Levin. How many times had\nLevin seen this splendid fodder wasted, and tried to get it saved; but\nalways it had turned out to be impossible. The peasant got this done,\nand he could not say enough in praise of it as food for the beasts.\n\n What have the wenches to do? They carry it out in bundles to the\nroadside, and the cart brings it away. \n\n Well, we landowners can t manage well with our laborers,  said Levin,\nhanding him a glass of tea.\n\n Thank you,  said the old man, and he took the glass, but refused\nsugar, pointing to a lump he had left.  They re simple destruction, \nsaid he.  Look at Sviazhsky s, for instance. We know what the land s\nlike first-rate, yet there s not much of a crop to boast of. It s not\nlooked after enough that s all it is! \n\n But you work your land with hired laborers? \n\n We re all peasants together. We go into everything ourselves. If a\nman s no use, he can go, and we can manage by ourselves. \n\n Father, Finogen wants some tar,  said the young woman in the clogs,\ncoming in.\n\n Yes, yes, that s how it is, sir!  said the old man, getting up, and\ncrossing himself deliberately, he thanked Levin and went out.\n\nWhen Levin went into the kitchen to call his coachman he saw the whole\nfamily at dinner. The women were standing up waiting on them. The\nyoung, sturdy-looking son was telling something funny with his mouth\nfull of pudding, and they were all laughing, the woman in the clogs,\nwho was pouring cabbage soup into a bowl, laughing most merrily of all.\n\nVery probably the good-looking face of the young woman in the clogs had\na good deal to do with the impression of well-being this peasant\nhousehold made upon Levin, but the impression was so strong that Levin\ncould never get rid of it. And all the way from the old peasant s to\nSviazhsky s he kept recalling this peasant farm as though there were\nsomething in this impression that demanded his special attention.\n\n\nChapter 26\n\nSviazhsky was the marshal of his district. He was five years older than\nLevin, and had long been married. His sister-in-law, a young girl Levin\nliked very much, lived in his house; and Levin knew that Sviazhsky and\nhis wife would have greatly liked to marry the girl to him. He knew\nthis with certainty, as so-called eligible young men always know it,\nthough he could never have brought himself to speak of it to anyone;\nand he knew too that, although he wanted to get married, and although\nby every token this very attractive girl would make an excellent wife,\nhe could no more have married her, even if he had not been in love with\nKitty Shtcherbatskaya, than he could have flown up to the sky. And this\nknowledge poisoned the pleasure he had hoped to find in the visit to\nSviazhsky.\n\nOn getting Sviazhsky s letter with the invitation for shooting, Levin\nhad immediately thought of this; but in spite of it he had made up his\nmind that Sviazhsky s having such views for him was simply his own\ngroundless supposition, and so he would go, all the same. Besides, at\nthe bottom of his heart he had a desire to try himself, put himself to\nthe test in regard to this girl. The Sviazhskys  home-life was\nexceedingly pleasant, and Sviazhsky himself, the best type of man\ntaking part in local affairs that Levin knew, was very interesting to\nhim.\n\nSviazhsky was one of those people, always a source of wonder to Levin,\nwhose convictions, very logical though never original, go one way by\nthemselves, while their life, exceedingly definite and firm in its\ndirection, goes its way quite apart and almost always in direct\ncontradiction to their convictions. Sviazhsky was an extremely advanced\nman. He despised the nobility, and believed the mass of the nobility to\nbe secretly in favor of serfdom, and only concealing their views from\ncowardice. He regarded Russia as a ruined country, rather after the\nstyle of Turkey, and the government of Russia as so bad that he never\npermitted himself to criticize its doings seriously, and yet he was a\nfunctionary of that government and a model marshal of nobility, and\nwhen he drove about he always wore the cockade of office and the cap\nwith the red band. He considered human life only tolerable abroad, and\nwent abroad to stay at every opportunity, and at the same time he\ncarried on a complex and improved system of agriculture in Russia, and\nwith extreme interest followed everything and knew everything that was\nbeing done in Russia. He considered the Russian peasant as occupying a\nstage of development intermediate between the ape and the man, and at\nthe same time in the local assemblies no one was readier to shake hands\nwith the peasants and listen to their opinion. He believed neither in\nGod nor the devil, but was much concerned about the question of the\nimprovement of the clergy and the maintenance of their revenues, and\ntook special trouble to keep up the church in his village.\n\nOn the woman question he was on the side of the extreme advocates of\ncomplete liberty for women, and especially their right to labor. But he\nlived with his wife on such terms that their affectionate childless\nhome life was the admiration of everyone, and arranged his wife s life\nso that she did nothing and could do nothing but share her husband s\nefforts that her time should pass as happily and as agreeably as\npossible.\n\nIf it had not been a characteristic of Levin s to put the most\nfavorable interpretation on people, Sviazhsky s character would have\npresented no doubt or difficulty to him: he would have said to himself,\n a fool or a knave,  and everything would have seemed clear. But he\ncould not say  a fool,  because Sviazhsky was unmistakably clever, and\nmoreover, a highly cultivated man, who was exceptionally modest over\nhis culture. There was not a subject he knew nothing of. But he did not\ndisplay his knowledge except when he was compelled to do so. Still less\ncould Levin say that he was a knave, as Sviazhsky was unmistakably an\nhonest, good-hearted, sensible man, who worked good-humoredly, keenly,\nand perseveringly at his work; he was held in high honor by everyone\nabout him, and certainly he had never consciously done, and was indeed\nincapable of doing, anything base.\n\nLevin tried to understand him, and could not understand him, and looked\nat him and his life as at a living enigma.\n\nLevin and he were very friendly, and so Levin used to venture to sound\nSviazhsky, to try to get at the very foundation of his view of life;\nbut it was always in vain. Every time Levin tried to penetrate beyond\nthe outer chambers of Sviazhsky s mind, which were hospitably open to\nall, he noticed that Sviazhsky was slightly disconcerted; faint signs\nof alarm were visible in his eyes, as though he were afraid Levin would\nunderstand him, and he would give him a kindly, good-humored repulse.\n\nJust now, since his disenchantment with farming, Levin was particularly\nglad to stay with Sviazhsky. Apart from the fact that the sight of this\nhappy and affectionate couple, so pleased with themselves and everyone\nelse, and their well-ordered home had always a cheering effect on\nLevin, he felt a longing, now that he was so dissatisfied with his own\nlife, to get at that secret in Sviazhsky that gave him such clearness,\ndefiniteness, and good courage in life. Moreover, Levin knew that at\nSviazhsky s he should meet the landowners of the neighborhood, and it\nwas particularly interesting for him just now to hear and take part in\nthose rural conversations concerning crops, laborers  wages, and so on,\nwhich, he was aware, are conventionally regarded as something very low,\nbut which seemed to him just now to constitute the one subject of\nimportance.  It was not, perhaps, of importance in the days of serfdom,\nand it may not be of importance in England. In both cases the\nconditions of agriculture are firmly established; but among us now,\nwhen everything has been turned upside down and is only just taking\nshape, the question what form these conditions will take is the one\nquestion of importance in Russia,  thought Levin.\n\nThe shooting turned out to be worse than Levin had expected. The marsh\nwas dry and there were no grouse at all. He walked about the whole day\nand only brought back three birds, but to make up for that he brought\nback, as he always did from shooting, an excellent appetite, excellent\nspirits, and that keen, intellectual mood which with him always\naccompanied violent physical exertion. And while out shooting, when he\nseemed to be thinking of nothing at all, suddenly the old man and his\nfamily kept coming back to his mind, and the impression of them seemed\nto claim not merely his attention, but the solution of some question\nconnected with them.\n\nIn the evening at tea, two landowners who had come about some business\nconnected with a wardship were of the party, and the interesting\nconversation Levin had been looking forward to sprang up.\n\nLevin was sitting beside his hostess at the tea table, and was obliged\nto keep up a conversation with her and her sister, who was sitting\nopposite him. Madame Sviazhskaya was a round-faced, fair-haired, rather\nshort woman, all smiles and dimples. Levin tried through her to get a\nsolution of the weighty enigma her husband presented to his mind; but\nhe had not complete freedom of ideas, because he was in an agony of\nembarrassment. This agony of embarrassment was due to the fact that the\nsister-in-law was sitting opposite to him, in a dress, specially put\non, as he fancied, for his benefit, cut particularly open, in the shape\nof a trapeze, on her white bosom. This quadrangular opening, in spite\nof the bosom s being very white, or just because it was very white,\ndeprived Levin of the full use of his faculties. He imagined, probably\nmistakenly, that this low-necked bodice had been made on his account,\nand felt that he had no right to look at it, and tried not to look at\nit; but he felt that he was to blame for the very fact of the\nlow-necked bodice having been made. It seemed to Levin that he had\ndeceived someone, that he ought to explain something, but that to\nexplain it was impossible, and for that reason he was continually\nblushing, was ill at ease and awkward. His awkwardness infected the\npretty sister-in-law too. But their hostess appeared not to observe\nthis, and kept purposely drawing her into the conversation.\n\n You say,  she said, pursuing the subject that had been started,  that\nmy husband cannot be interested in what s Russian. It s quite the\ncontrary; he is always in cheerful spirits abroad, but not as he is\nhere. Here, he feels in his proper place. He has so much to do, and he\nhas the faculty of interesting himself in everything. Oh, you ve not\nbeen to see our school, have you? \n\n I ve seen it.... The little house covered with ivy, isn t it? \n\n Yes; that s Nastia s work,  she said, indicating her sister.\n\n You teach in it yourself?  asked Levin, trying to look above the open\nneck, but feeling that wherever he looked in that direction he should\nsee it.\n\n Yes; I used to teach in it myself, and do teach still, but we have a\nfirst-rate schoolmistress now. And we ve started gymnastic exercises. \n\n No, thank you, I won t have any more tea,  said Levin, and conscious\nof doing a rude thing, but incapable of continuing the conversation, he\ngot up, blushing.  I hear a very interesting conversation,  he added,\nand walked to the other end of the table, where Sviazhsky was sitting\nwith the two gentlemen of the neighborhood. Sviazhsky was sitting\nsideways, with one elbow on the table, and a cup in one hand, while\nwith the other hand he gathered up his beard, held it to his nose and\nlet it drop again, as though he were smelling it. His brilliant black\neyes were looking straight at the excited country gentleman with gray\nwhiskers, and apparently he derived amusement from his remarks. The\ngentleman was complaining of the peasants. It was evident to Levin that\nSviazhsky knew an answer to this gentleman s complaints, which would at\nonce demolish his whole contention, but that in his position he could\nnot give utterance to this answer, and listened, not without pleasure,\nto the landowner s comic speeches.\n\nThe gentleman with the gray whiskers was obviously an inveterate\nadherent of serfdom and a devoted agriculturist, who had lived all his\nlife in the country. Levin saw proofs of this in his dress, in the\nold-fashioned threadbare coat, obviously not his everyday attire, in\nhis shrewd, deep-set eyes, in his idiomatic, fluent Russian, in the\nimperious tone that had become habitual from long use, and in the\nresolute gestures of his large, red, sunburnt hands, with an old\nbetrothal ring on the little finger.\n\n\nChapter 27\n\n If I d only the heart to throw up what s been set going ... such a lot\nof trouble wasted ... I d turn my back on the whole business, sell up,\ngo off like Nikolay Ivanovitch ... to hear _La Belle H l ne_,  said the\nlandowner, a pleasant smile lighting up his shrewd old face.\n\n But you see you don t throw it up,  said Nikolay Ivanovitch Sviazhsky;\n so there must be something gained. \n\n The only gain is that I live in my own house, neither bought nor\nhired. Besides, one keeps hoping the people will learn sense. Though,\ninstead of that, you d never believe it the drunkenness, the\nimmorality! They keep chopping and changing their bits of land. Not a\nsight of a horse or a cow. The peasant s dying of hunger, but just go\nand take him on as a laborer, he ll do his best to do you a mischief,\nand then bring you up before the justice of the peace. \n\n But then you make complaints to the justice too,  said Sviazhsky.\n\n I lodge complaints? Not for anything in the world! Such a talking, and\nsuch a to-do, that one would have cause to regret it. At the works, for\ninstance, they pocketed the advance-money and made off. What did the\njustice do? Why, acquitted them. Nothing keeps them in order but their\nown communal court and their village elder. He ll flog them in the good\nold style! But for that there d be nothing for it but to give it all up\nand run away. \n\nObviously the landowner was chaffing Sviazhsky, who, far from resenting\nit, was apparently amused by it.\n\n But you see we manage our land without such extreme measures,  said\nhe, smiling:  Levin and I and this gentleman. \n\nHe indicated the other landowner.\n\n Yes, the thing s done at Mihail Petrovitch s, but ask him how it s\ndone. Do you call that a rational system?  said the landowner,\nobviously rather proud of the word  rational. \n\n My system s very simple,  said Mihail Petrovitch,  thank God. All my\nmanagement rests on getting the money ready for the autumn taxes, and\nthe peasants come to me,  Father, master, help us!  Well, the peasants\nare all one s neighbors; one feels for them. So one advances them a\nthird, but one says:  Remember, lads, I have helped you, and you must\nhelp me when I need it whether it s the sowing of the oats, or the\nhaycutting, or the harvest ; and well, one agrees, so much for each\ntaxpayer though there are dishonest ones among them too, it s true. \n\nLevin, who had long been familiar with these patriarchal methods,\nexchanged glances with Sviazhsky and interrupted Mihail Petrovitch,\nturning again to the gentleman with the gray whiskers.\n\n Then what do you think?  he asked;  what system is one to adopt\nnowadays? \n\n Why, manage like Mihail Petrovitch, or let the land for half the crop\nor for rent to the peasants; that one can do only that s just how the\ngeneral prosperity of the country is being ruined. Where the land with\nserf-labor and good management gave a yield of nine to one, on the\nhalf-crop system it yields three to one. Russia has been ruined by the\nemancipation! \n\nSviazhsky looked with smiling eyes at Levin, and even made a faint\ngesture of irony to him; but Levin did not think the landowner s words\nabsurd, he understood them better than he did Sviazhsky. A great deal\nmore of what the gentleman with the gray whiskers said to show in what\nway Russia was ruined by the emancipation struck him indeed as very\ntrue, new to him, and quite incontestable. The landowner unmistakably\nspoke his own individual thought a thing that very rarely happens and a\nthought to which he had been brought not by a desire of finding some\nexercise for an idle brain, but a thought which had grown up out of the\nconditions of his life, which he had brooded over in the solitude of\nhis village, and had considered in every aspect.\n\n The point is, don t you see, that progress of every sort is only made\nby the use of authority,  he said, evidently wishing to show he was not\nwithout culture.  Take the reforms of Peter, of Catherine, of\nAlexander. Take European history. And progress in agriculture more than\nanything else the potato, for instance, that was introduced among us by\nforce. The wooden plough too wasn t always used. It was introduced\nmaybe in the days before the Empire, but it was probably brought in by\nforce. Now, in our own day, we landowners in the serf times used\nvarious improvements in our husbandry: drying machines and thrashing\nmachines, and carting manure and all the modern implements all that we\nbrought into use by our authority, and the peasants opposed it at\nfirst, and ended by imitating us. Now, by the abolition of serfdom we\nhave been deprived of our authority; and so our husbandry, where it had\nbeen raised to a high level, is bound to sink to the most savage\nprimitive condition. That s how I see it. \n\n But why so? If it s rational, you ll be able to keep up the same\nsystem with hired labor,  said Sviazhsky.\n\n We ve no power over them. With whom am I going to work the system,\nallow me to ask? \n\n There it is the labor force the chief element in agriculture,  thought\nLevin.\n\n With laborers. \n\n The laborers won t work well, and won t work with good implements. Our\nlaborer can do nothing but get drunk like a pig, and when he s drunk he\nruins everything you give him. He makes the horses ill with too much\nwater, cuts good harness, barters the tires of the wheels for drink,\ndrops bits of iron into the thrashing machine, so as to break it. He\nloathes the sight of anything that s not after his fashion. And that s\nhow it is the whole level of husbandry has fallen. Lands gone out of\ncultivation, overgrown with weeds, or divided among the peasants, and\nwhere millions of bushels were raised you get a hundred thousand; the\nwealth of the country has decreased. If the same thing had been done,\nbut with care that.... \n\nAnd he proceeded to unfold his own scheme of emancipation by means of\nwhich these drawbacks might have been avoided.\n\nThis did not interest Levin, but when he had finished, Levin went back\nto his first position, and, addressing Sviazhsky, and trying to draw\nhim into expressing his serious opinion: \n\n That the standard of culture is falling, and that with our present\nrelations to the peasants there is no possibility of farming on a\nrational system to yield a profit that s perfectly true,  said he.\n\n I don t believe it,  Sviazhsky replied quite seriously;  all I see is\nthat we don t know how to cultivate the land, and that our system of\nagriculture in the serf days was by no means too high, but too low. We\nhave no machines, no good stock, no efficient supervision; we don t\neven know how to keep accounts. Ask any landowner; he won t be able to\ntell you what crop s profitable, and what s not. \n\n Italian bookkeeping,  said the gentleman of the gray whiskers\nironically.  You may keep your books as you like, but if they spoil\neverything for you, there won t be any profit. \n\n Why do they spoil things? A poor thrashing machine, or your Russian\npresser, they will break, but my steam press they don t break. A\nwretched Russian nag they ll ruin, but keep good dray-horses they won t\nruin them. And so it is all round. We must raise our farming to a\nhigher level. \n\n Oh, if one only had the means to do it, Nikolay Ivanovitch! It s all\nvery well for you; but for me, with a son to keep at the university,\nlads to be educated at the high school how am I going to buy these\ndray-horses? \n\n Well, that s what the land banks are for. \n\n To get what s left me sold by auction? No, thank you. \n\n I don t agree that it s necessary or possible to raise the level of\nagriculture still higher,  said Levin.  I devote myself to it, and I\nhave means, but I can do nothing. As to the banks, I don t know to whom\nthey re any good. For my part, anyway, whatever I ve spent money on in\nthe way of husbandry, it has been a loss: stock a loss, machinery a\nloss. \n\n That s true enough,  the gentleman with the gray whiskers chimed in,\npositively laughing with satisfaction.\n\n And I m not the only one,  pursued Levin.  I mix with all the\nneighboring landowners, who are cultivating their land on a rational\nsystem; they all, with rare exceptions, are doing so at a loss. Come,\ntell us how does your land do does it pay?  said Levin, and at once in\nSviazhsky s eyes he detected that fleeting expression of alarm which he\nhad noticed whenever he had tried to penetrate beyond the outer\nchambers of Sviazhsky s mind.\n\nMoreover, this question on Levin s part was not quite in good faith.\nMadame Sviazhskaya had just told him at tea that they had that summer\ninvited a German expert in bookkeeping from Moscow, who for a\nconsideration of five hundred roubles had investigated the management\nof their property, and found that it was costing them a loss of three\nthousand odd roubles. She did not remember the precise sum, but it\nappeared that the German had worked it out to the fraction of a\nfarthing.\n\nThe gray-whiskered landowner smiled at the mention of the profits of\nSviazhsky s farming, obviously aware how much gain his neighbor and\nmarshal was likely to be making.\n\n Possibly it does not pay,  answered Sviazhsky.  That merely proves\neither that I m a bad manager, or that I ve sunk my capital for the\nincrease of my rents. \n\n Oh, rent!  Levin cried with horror.  Rent there may be in Europe,\nwhere land has been improved by the labor put into it, but with us all\nthe land is deteriorating from the labor put into it in other words\nthey re working it out; so there s no question of rent. \n\n How no rent? It s a law. \n\n Then we re outside the law; rent explains nothing for us, but simply\nmuddles us. No, tell me how there can be a theory of rent?... \n\n Will you have some junket? Masha, pass us some junket or raspberries. \nHe turned to his wife.  Extraordinarily late the raspberries are\nlasting this year. \n\nAnd in the happiest frame of mind Sviazhsky got up and walked off,\napparently supposing the conversation to have ended at the very point\nwhen to Levin it seemed that it was only just beginning.\n\nHaving lost his antagonist, Levin continued the conversation with the\ngray-whiskered landowner, trying to prove to him that all the\ndifficulty arises from the fact that we don t find out the\npeculiarities and habits of our laborer; but the landowner, like all\nmen who think independently and in isolation, was slow in taking in any\nother person s idea, and particularly partial to his own. He stuck to\nit that the Russian peasant is a swine and likes swinishness, and that\nto get him out of his swinishness one must have authority, and there is\nnone; one must have the stick, and we have become so liberal that we\nhave all of a sudden replaced the stick that served us for a thousand\nyears by lawyers and model prisons, where the worthless, stinking\npeasant is fed on good soup and has a fixed allowance of cubic feet of\nair.\n\n What makes you think,  said Levin, trying to get back to the question,\n that it s impossible to find some relation to the laborer in which the\nlabor would become productive? \n\n That never could be so with the Russian peasantry; we ve no power over\nthem,  answered the landowner.\n\n How can new conditions be found?  said Sviazhsky. Having eaten some\njunket and lighted a cigarette, he came back to the discussion.  All\npossible relations to the labor force have been defined and studied, \nhe said.  The relic of barbarism, the primitive commune with each\nguarantee for all, will disappear of itself; serfdom has been\nabolished there remains nothing but free labor, and its forms are fixed\nand ready made, and must be adopted. Permanent hands, day-laborers,\nrammers you can t get out of those forms. \n\n But Europe is dissatisfied with these forms. \n\n Dissatisfied, and seeking new ones. And will find them, in all\nprobability. \n\n That s just what I was meaning,  answered Levin.  Why shouldn t we\nseek them for ourselves? \n\n Because it would be just like inventing afresh the means for\nconstructing railways. They are ready, invented. \n\n But if they don t do for us, if they re stupid?  said Levin.\n\nAnd again he detected the expression of alarm in the eyes of Sviazhsky.\n\n Oh, yes; we ll bury the world under our caps! We ve found the secret\nEurope was seeking for! I ve heard all that; but, excuse me, do you\nknow all that s been done in Europe on the question of the organization\nof labor? \n\n No, very little. \n\n That question is now absorbing the best minds in Europe. The\nSchulze-Delitsch movement.... And then all this enormous literature of\nthe labor question, the most liberal Lassalle movement ... the\nMulhausen experiment? That s a fact by now, as you re probably aware. \n\n I have some idea of it, but very vague. \n\n No, you only say that; no doubt you know all about it as well as I do.\nI m not a professor of sociology, of course, but it interested me, and\nreally, if it interests you, you ought to study it. \n\n But what conclusion have they come to? \n\n Excuse me.... \n\nThe two neighbors had risen, and Sviazhsky, once more checking Levin in\nhis inconvenient habit of peeping into what was beyond the outer\nchambers of his mind, went to see his guests out.\n\n\nChapter 28\n\nLevin was insufferably bored that evening with the ladies; he was\nstirred as he had never been before by the idea that the\ndissatisfaction he was feeling with his system of managing his land was\nnot an exceptional case, but the general condition of things in Russia;\nthat the organization of some relation of the laborers to the soil in\nwhich they would work, as with the peasant he had met half-way to the\nSviazhskys , was not a dream, but a problem which must be solved. And\nit seemed to him that the problem could be solved, and that he ought to\ntry and solve it.\n\nAfter saying good-night to the ladies, and promising to stay the whole\nof the next day, so as to make an expedition on horseback with them to\nsee an interesting ruin in the crown forest, Levin went, before going\nto bed, into his host s study to get the books on the labor question\nthat Sviazhsky had offered him. Sviazhsky s study was a huge room,\nsurrounded by bookcases and with two tables in it one a massive\nwriting-table, standing in the middle of the room, and the other a\nround table, covered with recent numbers of reviews and journals in\ndifferent languages, ranged like the rays of a star round the lamp. On\nthe writing-table was a stand of drawers marked with gold lettering,\nand full of papers of various sorts.\n\nSviazhsky took out the books, and sat down in a rocking-chair.\n\n What are you looking at there?  he said to Levin, who was standing at\nthe round table looking through the reviews.\n\n Oh, yes, there s a very interesting article here,  said Sviazhsky of\nthe review Levin was holding in his hand.  It appears,  he went on,\nwith eager interest,  that Friedrich was not, after all, the person\nchiefly responsible for the partition of Poland. It is proved.... \n\nAnd with his characteristic clearness, he summed up those new, very\nimportant, and interesting revelations. Although Levin was engrossed at\nthe moment by his ideas about the problem of the land, he wondered, as\nhe heard Sviazhsky:  What is there inside of him? And why, why is he\ninterested in the partition of Poland?  When Sviazhsky had finished,\nLevin could not help asking:  Well, and what then?  But there was\nnothing to follow. It was simply interesting that it had been proved to\nbe so and so. But Sviazhsky did not explain, and saw no need to explain\nwhy it was interesting to him.\n\n Yes, but I was very much interested by your irritable neighbor,  said\nLevin, sighing.  He s a clever fellow, and said a lot that was true. \n\n Oh, get along with you! An inveterate supporter of serfdom at heart,\nlike all of them!  said Sviazhsky.\n\n Whose marshal you are. \n\n Yes, only I marshal them in the other direction,  said Sviazhsky,\nlaughing.\n\n I ll tell you what interests me very much,  said Levin.  He s right\nthat our system, that s to say of rational farming, doesn t answer,\nthat the only thing that answers is the money-lender system, like that\nmeek-looking gentleman s, or else the very simplest.... Whose fault is\nit? \n\n Our own, of course. Besides, it s not true that it doesn t answer. It\nanswers with Vassiltchikov. \n\n A factory.... \n\n But I really don t know what it is you are surprised at. The people\nare at such a low stage of rational and moral development, that it s\nobvious they re bound to oppose everything that s strange to them. In\nEurope, a rational system answers because the people are educated; it\nfollows that we must educate the people that s all. \n\n But how are we to educate the people? \n\n To educate the people three things are needed: schools, and schools,\nand schools. \n\n But you said yourself the people are at such a low stage of material\ndevelopment: what help are schools for that? \n\n Do you know, you remind me of the story of the advice given to the\nsick man You should try purgative medicine. Taken: worse. Try leeches.\nTried them: worse. Well, then, there s nothing left but to pray to God.\nTried it: worse. That s just how it is with us. I say political\neconomy; you say worse. I say socialism: worse. Education: worse. \n\n But how do schools help matters? \n\n They give the peasant fresh wants. \n\n Well, that s a thing I ve never understood,  Levin replied with heat.\n In what way are schools going to help the people to improve their\nmaterial position? You say schools, education, will give them fresh\nwants. So much the worse, since they won t be capable of satisfying\nthem. And in what way a knowledge of addition and subtraction and the\ncatechism is going to improve their material condition, I never could\nmake out. The day before yesterday, I met a peasant woman in the\nevening with a little baby, and asked her where she was going. She said\nshe was going to the wise woman; her boy had screaming fits, so she was\ntaking him to be doctored. I asked,  Why, how does the wise woman cure\nscreaming fits?   She puts the child on the hen-roost and repeats some\ncharm.... \n\n Well, you re saying it yourself! What s wanted to prevent her taking\nher child to the hen-roost to cure it of screaming fits is just.... \nSviazhsky said, smiling good-humoredly.\n\n Oh, no!  said Levin with annoyance;  that method of doctoring I merely\nmeant as a simile for doctoring the people with schools. The people are\npoor and ignorant that we see as surely as the peasant woman sees the\nbaby is ill because it screams. But in what way this trouble of poverty\nand ignorance is to be cured by schools is as incomprehensible as how\nthe hen-roost affects the screaming. What has to be cured is what makes\nhim poor. \n\n Well, in that, at least, you re in agreement with Spencer, whom you\ndislike so much. He says, too, that education may be the consequence of\ngreater prosperity and comfort, of more frequent washing, as he says,\nbut not of being able to read and write.... \n\n Well, then, I m very glad or the contrary, very sorry, that I m in\nagreement with Spencer; only I ve known it a long while. Schools can do\nno good; what will do good is an economic organization in which the\npeople will become richer, will have more leisure and then there will\nbe schools. \n\n Still, all over Europe now schools are obligatory. \n\n And how far do you agree with Spencer yourself about it?  asked Levin.\n\nBut there was a gleam of alarm in Sviazhsky s eyes, and he said\nsmiling:\n\n No; that screaming story is positively capital! Did you really hear it\nyourself? \n\nLevin saw that he was not to discover the connection between this man s\nlife and his thoughts. Obviously he did not care in the least what his\nreasoning led him to; all he wanted was the process of reasoning. And\nhe did not like it when the process of reasoning brought him into a\nblind alley. That was the only thing he disliked, and avoided by\nchanging the conversation to something agreeable and amusing.\n\nAll the impressions of the day, beginning with the impression made by\nthe old peasant, which served, as it were, as the fundamental basis of\nall the conceptions and ideas of the day, threw Levin into violent\nexcitement. This dear good Sviazhsky, keeping a stock of ideas simply\nfor social purposes, and obviously having some other principles hidden\nfrom Levin, while with the crowd, whose name is legion, he guided\npublic opinion by ideas he did not share; that irascible country\ngentleman, perfectly correct in the conclusions that he had been\nworried into by life, but wrong in his exasperation against a whole\nclass, and that the best class in Russia; his own dissatisfaction with\nthe work he had been doing, and the vague hope of finding a remedy for\nall this all was blended in a sense of inward turmoil, and anticipation\nof some solution near at hand.\n\nLeft alone in the room assigned him, lying on a spring mattress that\nyielded unexpectedly at every movement of his arm or his leg, Levin did\nnot fall asleep for a long while. Not one conversation with Sviazhsky,\nthough he had said a great deal that was clever, had interested Levin;\nbut the conclusions of the irascible landowner required consideration.\nLevin could not help recalling every word he had said, and in\nimagination amending his own replies.\n\n Yes, I ought to have said to him: You say that our husbandry does not\nanswer because the peasant hates improvements, and that they must be\nforced on him by authority. If no system of husbandry answered at all\nwithout these improvements, you would be quite right. But the only\nsystem that does answer is where laborer is working in accordance with\nhis habits, just as on the old peasant s land half-way here. Your and\nour general dissatisfaction with the system shows that either we are to\nblame or the laborers. We have gone our way the European way a long\nwhile, without asking ourselves about the qualities of our labor force.\nLet us try to look upon the labor force not as an abstract force, but\nas the _Russian peasant_ with his instincts, and we shall arrange our\nsystem of culture in accordance with that. Imagine, I ought to have\nsaid to him, that you have the same system as the old peasant has, that\nyou have found means of making your laborers take an interest in the\nsuccess of the work, and have found the happy mean in the way of\nimprovements which they will admit, and you will, without exhausting\nthe soil, get twice or three times the yield you got before. Divide it\nin halves, give half as the share of labor, the surplus left you will\nbe greater, and the share of labor will be greater too. And to do this\none must lower the standard of husbandry and interest the laborers in\nits success. How to do this? that s a matter of detail; but undoubtedly\nit can be done. \n\nThis idea threw Levin into a great excitement. He did not sleep half\nthe night, thinking over in detail the putting of his idea into\npractice. He had not intended to go away next day, but he now\ndetermined to go home early in the morning. Besides, the sister-in-law\nwith her low-necked bodice aroused in him a feeling akin to shame and\nremorse for some utterly base action. Most important of all he must get\nback without delay: he would have to make haste to put his new project\nto the peasants before the sowing of the winter wheat, so that the\nsowing might be undertaken on a new basis. He had made up his mind to\nrevolutionize his whole system.\n\n\nChapter 29\n\nThe carrying out of Levin s plan presented many difficulties; but he\nstruggled on, doing his utmost, and attained a result which, though not\nwhat he desired, was enough to enable him, without self-deception, to\nbelieve that the attempt was worth the trouble. One of the chief\ndifficulties was that the process of cultivating the land was in full\nswing, that it was impossible to stop everything and begin it all again\nfrom the beginning, and the machine had to be mended while in motion.\n\nWhen on the evening that he arrived home he informed the bailiff of his\nplans, the latter with visible pleasure agreed with what he said so\nlong as he was pointing out that all that had been done up to that time\nwas stupid and useless. The bailiff said that he had said so a long\nwhile ago, but no heed had been paid him. But as for the proposal made\nby Levin to take a part as shareholder with his laborers in each\nagricultural undertaking at this the bailiff simply expressed a\nprofound despondency, and offered no definite opinion, but began\nimmediately talking of the urgent necessity of carrying the remaining\nsheaves of rye the next day, and of sending the men out for the second\nploughing, so that Levin felt that this was not the time for discussing\nit.\n\nOn beginning to talk to the peasants about it, and making a proposition\nto cede them the land on new terms, he came into collision with the\nsame great difficulty that they were so much absorbed by the current\nwork of the day, that they had not time to consider the advantages and\ndisadvantages of the proposed scheme.\n\nThe simple-hearted Ivan, the cowherd, seemed completely to grasp\nLevin s proposal that he should with his family take a share of the\nprofits of the cattle-yard and he was in complete sympathy with the\nplan. But when Levin hinted at the future advantages, Ivan s face\nexpressed alarm and regret that he could not hear all he had to say,\nand he made haste to find himself some task that would admit of no\ndelay: he either snatched up the fork to pitch the hay out of the pens,\nor ran to get water or to clear out the dung.\n\nAnother difficulty lay in the invincible disbelief of the peasant that\na landowner s object could be anything else than a desire to squeeze\nall he could out of them. They were firmly convinced that his real aim\n(whatever he might say to them) would always be in what he did not say\nto them. And they themselves, in giving their opinion, said a great\ndeal but never said what was their real object. Moreover (Levin felt\nthat the irascible landowner had been right) the peasants made their\nfirst and unalterable condition of any agreement whatever that they\nshould not be forced to any new methods of tillage of any kind, nor to\nuse new implements. They agreed that the modern plough ploughed better,\nthat the scarifier did the work more quickly, but they found thousands\nof reasons that made it out of the question for them to use either of\nthem; and though he had accepted the conviction that he would have to\nlower the standard of cultivation, he felt sorry to give up improved\nmethods, the advantages of which were so obvious. But in spite of all\nthese difficulties he got his way, and by autumn the system was\nworking, or at least so it seemed to him.\n\nAt first Levin had thought of giving up the whole farming of the land\njust as it was to the peasants, the laborers, and the bailiff on new\nconditions of partnership; but he was very soon convinced that this was\nimpossible, and determined to divide it up. The cattle-yard, the\ngarden, hay fields, and arable land, divided into several parts, had to\nbe made into separate lots. The simple-hearted cowherd, Ivan, who,\nLevin fancied, understood the matter better than any of them,\ncollecting together a gang of workers to help him, principally of his\nown family, became a partner in the cattle-yard. A distant part of the\nestate, a tract of waste land that had lain fallow for eight years, was\nwith the help of the clever carpenter, Fyodor Ryezunov, taken by six\nfamilies of peasants on new conditions of partnership, and the peasant\nShuraev took the management of all the vegetable gardens on the same\nterms. The remainder of the land was still worked on the old system,\nbut these three associated partnerships were the first step to a new\norganization of the whole, and they completely took up Levin s time.\n\nIt is true that in the cattle-yard things went no better than before,\nand Ivan strenuously opposed warm housing for the cows and butter made\nof fresh cream, affirming that cows require less food if kept cold, and\nthat butter is more profitable made from sour cream, and he asked for\nwages just as under the old system, and took not the slightest interest\nin the fact that the money he received was not wages but an advance out\nof his future share in the profits.\n\nIt is true that Fyodor Ryezunov s company did not plough over the\nground twice before sowing, as had been agreed, justifying themselves\non the plea that the time was too short. It is true that the peasants\nof the same company, though they had agreed to work the land on new\nconditions, always spoke of the land, not as held in partnership, but\nas rented for half the crop, and more than once the peasants and\nRyezunov himself said to Levin,  If you would take a rent for the land,\nit would save you trouble, and we should be more free.  Moreover the\nsame peasants kept putting off, on various excuses, the building of a\ncattleyard and barn on the land as agreed upon, and delayed doing it\ntill the winter.\n\nIt is true that Shuraev would have liked to let out the kitchen gardens\nhe had undertaken in small lots to the peasants. He evidently quite\nmisunderstood, and apparently intentionally misunderstood, the\nconditions upon which the land had been given to him.\n\nOften, too, talking to the peasants and explaining to them all the\nadvantages of the plan, Levin felt that the peasants heard nothing but\nthe sound of his voice, and were firmly resolved, whatever he might\nsay, not to let themselves be taken in. He felt this especially when he\ntalked to the cleverest of the peasants, Ryezunov, and detected the\ngleam in Ryezunov s eyes which showed so plainly both ironical\namusement at Levin, and the firm conviction that, if anyone were to be\ntaken in, it would not be he, Ryezunov. But in spite of all this Levin\nthought the system worked, and that by keeping accounts strictly and\ninsisting on his own way, he would prove to them in the future the\nadvantages of the arrangement, and then the system would go of itself.\n\nThese matters, together with the management of the land still left on\nhis hands, and the indoor work over his book, so engrossed Levin the\nwhole summer that he scarcely ever went out shooting. At the end of\nAugust he heard that the Oblonskys had gone away to Moscow, from their\nservant who brought back the side-saddle. He felt that in not answering\nDarya Alexandrovna s letter he had by his rudeness, of which he could\nnot think without a flush of shame, burned his ships, and that he would\nnever go and see them again. He had been just as rude with the\nSviazhskys, leaving them without saying good-bye. But he would never go\nto see them again either. He did not care about that now. The business\nof reorganizing the farming of his land absorbed him as completely as\nthough there would never be anything else in his life. He read the\nbooks lent him by Sviazhsky, and copying out what he had not got, he\nread both the economic and socialistic books on the subject, but, as he\nhad anticipated, found nothing bearing on the scheme he had undertaken.\nIn the books on political economy in Mill, for instance, whom he\nstudied first with great ardor, hoping every minute to find an answer\nto the questions that were engrossing him he found laws deduced from\nthe condition of land culture in Europe; but he did not see why these\nlaws, which did not apply in Russia, must be general. He saw just the\nsame thing in the socialistic books: either they were the beautiful but\nimpracticable fantasies which had fascinated him when he was a student,\nor they were attempts at improving, rectifying the economic position in\nwhich Europe was placed, with which the system of land tenure in Russia\nhad nothing in common. Political economy told him that the laws by\nwhich the wealth of Europe had been developed, and was developing, were\nuniversal and unvarying. Socialism told him that development along\nthese lines leads to ruin. And neither of them gave an answer, or even\na hint, in reply to the question what he, Levin, and all the Russian\npeasants and landowners, were to do with their millions of hands and\nmillions of acres, to make them as productive as possible for the\ncommon weal.\n\nHaving once taken the subject up, he read conscientiously everything\nbearing on it, and intended in the autumn to go abroad to study land\nsystems on the spot, in order that he might not on this question be\nconfronted with what so often met him on various subjects. Often, just\nas he was beginning to understand the idea in the mind of anyone he was\ntalking to, and was beginning to explain his own, he would suddenly be\ntold:  But Kauffmann, but Jones, but Dubois, but Michelli? You haven t\nread them: they ve thrashed that question out thoroughly. \n\nHe saw now distinctly that Kauffmann and Michelli had nothing to tell\nhim. He knew what he wanted. He saw that Russia has splendid land,\nsplendid laborers, and that in certain cases, as at the peasant s on\nthe way to Sviazhsky s, the produce raised by the laborers and the land\nis great in the majority of cases when capital is applied in the\nEuropean way the produce is small, and that this simply arises from the\nfact that the laborers want to work and work well only in their own\npeculiar way, and that this antagonism is not incidental but\ninvariable, and has its roots in the national spirit. He thought that\nthe Russian people whose task it was to colonize and cultivate vast\ntracts of unoccupied land, consciously adhered, till all their land was\noccupied, to the methods suitable to their purpose, and that their\nmethods were by no means so bad as was generally supposed. And he\nwanted to prove this theoretically in his book and practically on his\nland.\n\n\nChapter 30\n\nAt the end of September the timber had been carted for building the\ncattleyard on the land that had been allotted to the association of\npeasants, and the butter from the cows was sold and the profits\ndivided. In practice the system worked capitally, or, at least, so it\nseemed to Levin. In order to work out the whole subject theoretically\nand to complete his book, which, in Levin s daydreams, was not merely\nto effect a revolution in political economy, but to annihilate that\nscience entirely and to lay the foundation of a new science of the\nrelation of the people to the soil, all that was left to do was to make\na tour abroad, and to study on the spot all that had been done in the\nsame direction, and to collect conclusive evidence that all that had\nbeen done there was not what was wanted. Levin was only waiting for the\ndelivery of his wheat to receive the money for it and go abroad. But\nthe rains began, preventing the harvesting of the corn and potatoes\nleft in the fields, and putting a stop to all work, even to the\ndelivery of the wheat.\n\nThe mud was impassable along the roads; two mills were carried away,\nand the weather got worse and worse.\n\nOn the 30th of September the sun came out in the morning, and hoping\nfor fine weather, Levin began making final preparations for his\njourney. He gave orders for the wheat to be delivered, sent the bailiff\nto the merchant to get the money owing him, and went out himself to\ngive some final directions on the estate before setting off.\n\nHaving finished all his business, soaked through with the streams of\nwater which kept running down the leather behind his neck and his\ngaiters, but in the keenest and most confident temper, Levin returned\nhomewards in the evening. The weather had become worse than ever\ntowards evening; the hail lashed the drenched mare so cruelly that she\nwent along sideways, shaking her head and ears; but Levin was all right\nunder his hood, and he looked cheerfully about him at the muddy streams\nrunning under the wheels, at the drops hanging on every bare twig, at\nthe whiteness of the patch of unmelted hailstones on the planks of the\nbridge, at the thick layer of still juicy, fleshy leaves that lay\nheaped up about the stripped elm-tree. In spite of the gloominess of\nnature around him, he felt peculiarly eager. The talks he had been\nhaving with the peasants in the further village had shown that they\nwere beginning to get used to their new position. The old servant to\nwhose hut he had gone to get dry evidently approved of Levin s plan,\nand of his own accord proposed to enter the partnership by the purchase\nof cattle.\n\n I have only to go stubbornly on towards my aim, and I shall attain my\nend,  thought Levin;  and it s something to work and take trouble for.\nThis is not a matter of myself individually; the question of the public\nwelfare comes into it. The whole system of culture, the chief element\nin the condition of the people, must be completely transformed. Instead\nof poverty, general prosperity and content; instead of hostility,\nharmony and unity of interests. In short, a bloodless revolution, but a\nrevolution of the greatest magnitude, beginning in the little circle of\nour district, then the province, then Russia, the whole world. Because\na just idea cannot but be fruitful. Yes, it s an aim worth working for.\nAnd its being me, Kostya Levin, who went to a ball in a black tie, and\nwas refused by the Shtcherbatskaya girl, and who was intrinsically such\na pitiful, worthless creature that proves nothing; I feel sure Franklin\nfelt just as worthless, and he too had no faith in himself, thinking of\nhimself as a whole. That means nothing. And he too, most likely, had an\nAgafea Mihalovna to whom he confided his secrets. \n\nMusing on such thoughts Levin reached home in the darkness.\n\nThe bailiff, who had been to the merchant, had come back and brought\npart of the money for the wheat. An agreement had been made with the\nold servant, and on the road the bailiff had learned that everywhere\nthe corn was still standing in the fields, so that his one hundred and\nsixty shocks that had not been carried were nothing in comparison with\nthe losses of others.\n\nAfter dinner Levin was sitting, as he usually did, in an easy chair\nwith a book, and as he read he went on thinking of the journey before\nhim in connection with his book. Today all the significance of his book\nrose before him with special distinctness, and whole periods ranged\nthemselves in his mind in illustration of his theories.  I must write\nthat down,  he thought.  That ought to form a brief introduction, which\nI thought unnecessary before.  He got up to go to his writing-table,\nand Laska, lying at his feet, got up too, stretching and looking at him\nas though to inquire where to go. But he had not time to write it down,\nfor the head peasants had come round, and Levin went out into the hall\nto them.\n\nAfter his levee, that is to say, giving directions about the labors of\nthe next day, and seeing all the peasants who had business with him,\nLevin went back to his study and sat down to work.\n\nLaska lay under the table; Agafea Mihalovna settled herself in her\nplace with her stocking.\n\nAfter writing for a little while, Levin suddenly thought with\nexceptional vividness of Kitty, her refusal, and their last meeting. He\ngot up and began walking about the room.\n\n What s the use of being dreary?  said Agafea Mihalovna.  Come, why do\nyou stay on at home? You ought to go to some warm springs, especially\nnow you re ready for the journey. \n\n Well, I am going away the day after tomorrow, Agafea Mihalovna; I must\nfinish my work. \n\n There, there, your work, you say! As if you hadn t done enough for the\npeasants! Why, as  tis, they re saying,  Your master will be getting\nsome honor from the Tsar for it.  Indeed and it is a strange thing; why\nneed you worry about the peasants? \n\n I m not worrying about them; I m doing it for my own good. \n\nAgafea Mihalovna knew every detail of Levin s plans for his land. Levin\noften put his views before her in all their complexity, and not\nuncommonly he argued with her and did not agree with her comments. But\non this occasion she entirely misinterpreted what he had said.\n\n Of one s soul s salvation we all know and must think before all else, \nshe said with a sigh.  Parfen Denisitch now, for all he was no scholar,\nhe died a death that God grant everyone of us the like,  she said,\nreferring to a servant who had died recently.  Took the sacrament and\nall. \n\n That s not what I mean,  said he.  I mean that I m acting for my own\nadvantage. It s all the better for me if the peasants do their work\nbetter. \n\n Well, whatever you do, if he s a lazy good-for-nought, everything ll\nbe at sixes and sevens. If he has a conscience, he ll work, and if not,\nthere s no doing anything. \n\n Oh, come, you say yourself Ivan has begun looking after the cattle\nbetter. \n\n All I say is,  answered Agafea Mihalovna, evidently not speaking at\nrandom, but in strict sequence of idea,  that you ought to get married,\nthat s what I say. \n\nAgafea Mihalovna s allusion to the very subject he had only just been\nthinking about, hurt and stung him. Levin scowled, and without\nanswering her, he sat down again to his work, repeating to himself all\nthat he had been thinking of the real significance of that work. Only\nat intervals he listened in the stillness to the click of Agafea\nMihalovna s needles, and recollecting what he did not want to remember,\nhe frowned again.\n\nAt nine o clock they heard the bell and the faint vibration of a\ncarriage over the mud.\n\n Well, here s visitors come to us, and you won t be dull,  said Agafea\nMihalovna, getting up and going to the door. But Levin overtook her.\nHis work was not going well now, and he was glad of a visitor, whoever\nit might be.\n\n\nChapter 31\n\nRunning halfway down the staircase, Levin caught a sound he knew, a\nfamiliar cough in the hall. But he heard it indistinctly through the\nsound of his own footsteps, and hoped he was mistaken. Then he caught\nsight of a long, bony, familiar figure, and now it seemed there was no\npossibility of mistake; and yet he still went on hoping that this tall\nman taking off his fur cloak and coughing was not his brother Nikolay.\n\nLevin loved his brother, but being with him was always a torture. Just\nnow, when Levin, under the influence of the thoughts that had come to\nhim, and Agafea Mihalovna s hint, was in a troubled and uncertain\nhumor, the meeting with his brother that he had to face seemed\nparticularly difficult. Instead of a lively, healthy visitor, some\noutsider who would, he hoped, cheer him up in his uncertain humor, he\nhad to see his brother, who knew him through and through, who would\ncall forth all the thoughts nearest his heart, would force him to show\nhimself fully. And that he was not disposed to do.\n\nAngry with himself for so base a feeling, Levin ran into the hall; as\nsoon as he had seen his brother close, this feeling of selfish\ndisappointment vanished instantly and was replaced by pity. Terrible as\nhis brother Nikolay had been before in his emaciation and sickliness,\nnow he looked still more emaciated, still more wasted. He was a\nskeleton covered with skin.\n\nHe stood in the hall, jerking his long thin neck, and pulling the scarf\noff it, and smiled a strange and pitiful smile. When he saw that smile,\nsubmissive and humble, Levin felt something clutching at his throat.\n\n You see, I ve come to you,  said Nikolay in a thick voice, never for\none second taking his eyes off his brother s face.  I ve been meaning\nto a long while, but I ve been unwell all the time. Now I m ever so\nmuch better,  he said, rubbing his beard with his big thin hands.\n\n Yes, yes!  answered Levin. And he felt still more frightened when,\nkissing him, he felt with his lips the dryness of his brother s skin\nand saw close to him his big eyes, full of a strange light.\n\nA few weeks before, Konstantin Levin had written to his brother that\nthrough the sale of the small part of the property, that had remained\nundivided, there was a sum of about two thousand roubles to come to him\nas his share.\n\nNikolay said that he had come now to take this money and, what was more\nimportant, to stay a while in the old nest, to get in touch with the\nearth, so as to renew his strength like the heroes of old for the work\nthat lay before him. In spite of his exaggerated stoop, and the\nemaciation that was so striking from his height, his movements were as\nrapid and abrupt as ever. Levin led him into his study.\n\nHis brother dressed with particular care a thing he never used to\ndo combed his scanty, lank hair, and, smiling, went upstairs.\n\nHe was in the most affectionate and good-humored mood, just as Levin\noften remembered him in childhood. He even referred to Sergey\nIvanovitch without rancor. When he saw Agafea Mihalovna, he made jokes\nwith her and asked after the old servants. The news of the death of\nParfen Denisitch made a painful impression on him. A look of fear\ncrossed his face, but he regained his serenity immediately.\n\n Of course he was quite old,  he said, and changed the subject.  Well,\nI ll spend a month or two with you, and then I m off to Moscow. Do you\nknow, Myakov has promised me a place there, and I m going into the\nservice. Now I m going to arrange my life quite differently,  he went\non.  You know I got rid of that woman. \n\n Marya Nikolaevna? Why, what for? \n\n Oh, she was a horrid woman! She caused me all sorts of worries.  But\nhe did not say what the annoyances were. He could not say that he had\ncast off Marya Nikolaevna because the tea was weak, and, above all,\nbecause she would look after him, as though he were an invalid.\n\n Besides, I want to turn over a new leaf completely now. I ve done\nsilly things, of course, like everyone else, but money s the last\nconsideration; I don t regret it. So long as there s health, and my\nhealth, thank God, is quite restored. \n\nLevin listened and racked his brains, but could think of nothing to\nsay. Nikolay probably felt the same; he began questioning his brother\nabout his affairs; and Levin was glad to talk about himself, because\nthen he could speak without hypocrisy. He told his brother of his plans\nand his doings.\n\nHis brother listened, but evidently he was not interested by it.\n\nThese two men were so akin, so near each other, that the slightest\ngesture, the tone of voice, told both more than could be said in words.\n\nBoth of them now had only one thought the illness of Nikolay and the\nnearness of his death which stifled all else. But neither of them dared\nto speak of it, and so whatever they said not uttering the one thought\nthat filled their minds was all falsehood. Never had Levin been so glad\nwhen the evening was over and it was time to go to bed. Never with any\noutside person, never on any official visit had he been so unnatural\nand false as he was that evening. And the consciousness of this\nunnaturalness, and the remorse he felt at it, made him even more\nunnatural. He wanted to weep over his dying, dearly loved brother, and\nhe had to listen and keep on talking of how he meant to live.\n\nAs the house was damp, and only one bedroom had been kept heated, Levin\nput his brother to sleep in his own bedroom behind a screen.\n\nHis brother got into bed, and whether he slept or did not sleep, tossed\nabout like a sick man, coughed, and when he could not get his throat\nclear, mumbled something. Sometimes when his breathing was painful, he\nsaid,  Oh, my God!  Sometimes when he was choking he muttered angrily,\n Ah, the devil!  Levin could not sleep for a long while, hearing him.\nHis thoughts were of the most various, but the end of all his thoughts\nwas the same death. Death, the inevitable end of all, for the first\ntime presented itself to him with irresistible force. And death, which\nwas here in this loved brother, groaning half asleep and from habit\ncalling without distinction on God and the devil, was not so remote as\nit had hitherto seemed to him. It was in himself too, he felt that. If\nnot today, tomorrow, if not tomorrow, in thirty years, wasn t it all\nthe same! And what was this inevitable death he did not know, had never\nthought about it, and what was more, had not the power, had not the\ncourage to think about it.\n\n I work, I want to do something, but I had forgotten it must all end; I\nhad forgotten death. \n\nHe sat on his bed in the darkness, crouched up, hugging his knees, and\nholding his breath from the strain of thought, he pondered. But the\nmore intensely he thought, the clearer it became to him that it was\nindubitably so, that in reality, looking upon life, he had forgotten\none little fact that death will come, and all ends; that nothing was\neven worth beginning, and that there was no helping it anyway. Yes, it\nwas awful, but it was so.\n\n But I am alive still. Now what s to be done? what s to be done?  he\nsaid in despair. He lighted a candle, got up cautiously and went to the\nlooking-glass, and began looking at his face and hair. Yes, there were\ngray hairs about his temples. He opened his mouth. His back teeth were\nbeginning to decay. He bared his muscular arms. Yes, there was strength\nin them. But Nikolay, who lay there breathing with what was left of\nlungs, had had a strong, healthy body too. And suddenly he recalled how\nthey used to go to bed together as children, and how they only waited\ntill Fyodor Bogdanitch was out of the room to fling pillows at each\nother and laugh, laugh irrepressibly, so that even their awe of Fyodor\nBogdanitch could not check the effervescing, overbrimming sense of life\nand happiness.  And now that bent, hollow chest ... and I, not knowing\nwhat will become of me, or wherefore.... \n\n K...ha! K...ha! Damnation! Why do you keep fidgeting, why don t you go\nto sleep?  his brother s voice called to him.\n\n Oh, I don t know, I m not sleepy. \n\n I have had a good sleep, I m not in a sweat now. Just see, feel my\nshirt; it s not wet, is it? \n\nLevin felt, withdrew behind the screen, and put out the candle, but for\na long while he could not sleep. The question how to live had hardly\nbegun to grow a little clearer to him, when a new, insoluble question\npresented itself death.\n\n Why, he s dying yes, he ll die in the spring, and how help him? What\ncan I say to him? What do I know about it? I d even forgotten that it\nwas at all. \n\n\nChapter 32\n\nLevin had long before made the observation that when one is\nuncomfortable with people from their being excessively amenable and\nmeek, one is apt very soon after to find things intolerable from their\ntouchiness and irritability. He felt that this was how it would be with\nhis brother. And his brother Nikolay s gentleness did in fact not last\nout for long. The very next morning he began to be irritable, and\nseemed doing his best to find fault with his brother, attacking him on\nhis tenderest points.\n\nLevin felt himself to blame, and could not set things right. He felt\nthat if they had both not kept up appearances, but had spoken, as it is\ncalled, from the heart that is to say, had said only just what they\nwere thinking and feeling they would simply have looked into each\nother s faces, and Konstantin could only have said,  You re dying,\nyou re dying!  and Nikolay could only have answered,  I know I m dying,\nbut I m afraid, I m afraid, I m afraid!  And they could have said\nnothing more, if they had said only what was in their hearts. But life\nlike that was impossible, and so Konstantin tried to do what he had\nbeen trying to do all his life, and never could learn to do, though, as\nfar as he could observe, many people knew so well how to do it, and\nwithout it there was no living at all. He tried to say what he was not\nthinking, but he felt continually that it had a ring of falsehood, that\nhis brother detected him in it, and was exasperated at it.\n\nThe third day Nikolay induced his brother to explain his plan to him\nagain, and began not merely attacking it, but intentionally confounding\nit with communism.\n\n You ve simply borrowed an idea that s not your own, but you ve\ndistorted it, and are trying to apply it where it s not applicable. \n\n But I tell you it s nothing to do with it. They deny the justice of\nproperty, of capital, of inheritance, while I do not deny this chief\nstimulus.  (Levin felt disgusted himself at using such expressions, but\never since he had been engrossed by his work, he had unconsciously come\nmore and more frequently to use words not Russian.)  All I want is to\nregulate labor. \n\n Which means, you ve borrowed an idea, stripped it of all that gave it\nits force, and want to make believe that it s something new,  said\nNikolay, angrily tugging at his necktie.\n\n But my idea has nothing in common.... \n\n That, anyway,  said Nikolay Levin, with an ironical smile, his eyes\nflashing malignantly,  has the charm of what s one to call\nit? geometrical symmetry, of clearness, of definiteness. It may be a\nUtopia. But if once one allows the possibility of making of all the\npast a _tabula rasa_ no property, no family then labor would organize\nitself. But you gain nothing.... \n\n Why do you mix things up? I ve never been a communist. \n\n But I have, and I consider it s premature, but rational, and it has a\nfuture, just like Christianity in its first ages. \n\n All that I maintain is that the labor force ought to be investigated\nfrom the point of view of natural science; that is to say, it ought to\nbe studied, its qualities ascertained.... \n\n But that s utter waste of time. That force finds a certain form of\nactivity of itself, according to the stage of its development. There\nhave been slaves first everywhere, then metayers; and we have the\nhalf-crop system, rent, and day laborers. What are you trying to find? \n\nLevin suddenly lost his temper at these words, because at the bottom of\nhis heart he was afraid that it was true true that he was trying to\nhold the balance even between communism and the familiar forms, and\nthat this was hardly possible.\n\n I am trying to find means of working productively for myself and for\nthe laborers. I want to organize....  he answered hotly.\n\n You don t want to organize anything; it s simply just as you ve been\nall your life, that you want to be original to pose as not exploiting\nthe peasants simply, but with some idea in view. \n\n Oh, all right, that s what you think and let me alone!  answered\nLevin, feeling the muscles of his left cheek twitching uncontrollably.\n\n You ve never had, and never have, convictions; all you want is to\nplease your vanity. \n\n Oh, very well; then let me alone! \n\n And I will let you alone! and it s high time I did, and go to the\ndevil with you! and I m very sorry I ever came! \n\nIn spite of all Levin s efforts to soothe his brother afterwards,\nNikolay would listen to nothing he said, declaring that it was better\nto part, and Konstantin saw that it simply was that life was unbearable\nto him.\n\nNikolay was just getting ready to go, when Konstantin went in to him\nagain and begged him, rather unnaturally, to forgive him if he had hurt\nhis feelings in any way.\n\n Ah, generosity!  said Nikolay, and he smiled.  If you want to be\nright, I can give you that satisfaction. You re in the right; but I m\ngoing all the same. \n\nIt was only just at parting that Nikolay kissed him, and said, looking\nwith sudden strangeness and seriousness at his brother:\n\n Anyway, don t remember evil against me, Kostya!  and his voice\nquivered. These were the only words that had been spoken sincerely\nbetween them. Levin knew that those words meant,  You see, and you\nknow, that I m in a bad way, and maybe we shall not see each other\nagain.  Levin knew this, and the tears gushed from his eyes. He kissed\nhis brother once more, but he could not speak, and knew not what to\nsay.\n\nThree days after his brother s departure, Levin too set off for his\nforeign tour. Happening to meet Shtcherbatsky, Kitty s cousin, in the\nrailway train, Levin greatly astonished him by his depression.\n\n What s the matter with you?  Shtcherbatsky asked him.\n\n Oh, nothing; there s not much happiness in life. \n\n Not much? You come with me to Paris instead of to Mulhausen. You shall\nsee how to be happy. \n\n No, I ve done with it all. It s time I was dead. \n\n Well, that s a good one!  said Shtcherbatsky, laughing;  why, I m only\njust getting ready to begin. \n\n Yes, I thought the same not long ago, but now I know I shall soon be\ndead. \n\nLevin said what he had genuinely been thinking of late. He saw nothing\nbut death or the advance towards death in everything. But his cherished\nscheme only engrossed him the more. Life had to be got through somehow\ntill death did come. Darkness had fallen upon everything for him; but\njust because of this darkness he felt that the one guiding clue in the\ndarkness was his work, and he clutched it and clung to it with all his\nstrength.\n\n\n\n\nPART FOUR\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nThe Karenins, husband and wife, continued living in the same house, met\nevery day, but were complete strangers to one another. Alexey\nAlexandrovitch made it a rule to see his wife every day, so that the\nservants might have no grounds for suppositions, but avoided dining at\nhome. Vronsky was never at Alexey Alexandrovitch s house, but Anna saw\nhim away from home, and her husband was aware of it.\n\nThe position was one of misery for all three; and not one of them would\nhave been equal to enduring this position for a single day, if it had\nnot been for the expectation that it would change, that it was merely a\ntemporary painful ordeal which would pass over. Alexey Alexandrovitch\nhoped that this passion would pass, as everything does pass, that\neveryone would forget about it, and his name would remain unsullied.\nAnna, on whom the position depended, and for whom it was more miserable\nthan for anyone, endured it because she not merely hoped, but firmly\nbelieved, that it would all very soon be settled and come right. She\nhad not the least idea what would settle the position, but she firmly\nbelieved that something would very soon turn up now. Vronsky, against\nhis own will or wishes, followed her lead, hoped too that something,\napart from his own action, would be sure to solve all difficulties.\n\nIn the middle of the winter Vronsky spent a very tiresome week. A\nforeign prince, who had come on a visit to Petersburg, was put under\nhis charge, and he had to show him the sights worth seeing. Vronsky was\nof distinguished appearance; he possessed, moreover, the art of\nbehaving with respectful dignity, and was used to having to do with\nsuch grand personages that was how he came to be put in charge of the\nprince. But he felt his duties very irksome. The prince was anxious to\nmiss nothing of which he would be asked at home, had he seen that in\nRussia? And on his own account he was anxious to enjoy to the utmost\nall Russian forms of amusement. Vronsky was obliged to be his guide in\nsatisfying both these inclinations. The mornings they spent driving to\nlook at places of interest; the evenings they passed enjoying the\nnational entertainments. The prince rejoiced in health exceptional even\namong princes. By gymnastics and careful attention to his health he had\nbrought himself to such a point that in spite of his excess in pleasure\nhe looked as fresh as a big glossy green Dutch cucumber. The prince had\ntraveled a great deal, and considered one of the chief advantages of\nmodern facilities of communication was the accessibility of the\npleasures of all nations.\n\nHe had been in Spain, and there had indulged in serenades and had made\nfriends with a Spanish girl who played the mandolin. In Switzerland he\nhad killed chamois. In England he had galloped in a red coat over\nhedges and killed two hundred pheasants for a bet. In Turkey he had got\ninto a harem; in India he had hunted on an elephant, and now in Russia\nhe wished to taste all the specially Russian forms of pleasure.\n\nVronsky, who was, as it were, chief master of the ceremonies to him,\nwas at great pains to arrange all the Russian amusements suggested by\nvarious persons to the prince. They had race horses, and Russian\npancakes and bear hunts and three-horse sledges, and gypsies and\ndrinking feasts, with the Russian accompaniment of broken crockery. And\nthe prince with surprising ease fell in with the Russian spirit,\nsmashed trays full of crockery, sat with a gypsy girl on his knee, and\nseemed to be asking what more, and does the whole Russian spirit\nconsist in just this?\n\nIn reality, of all the Russian entertainments the prince liked best\nFrench actresses and ballet dancers and white-seal champagne. Vronsky\nwas used to princes, but, either because he had himself changed of\nlate, or that he was in too close proximity to the prince, that week\nseemed fearfully wearisome to him. The whole of that week he\nexperienced a sensation such as a man might have set in charge of a\ndangerous madman, afraid of the madman, and at the same time, from\nbeing with him, fearing for his own reason. Vronsky was continually\nconscious of the necessity of never for a second relaxing the tone of\nstern official respectfulness, that he might not himself be insulted.\nThe prince s manner of treating the very people who, to Vronsky s\nsurprise, were ready to descend to any depths to provide him with\nRussian amusements, was contemptuous. His criticisms of Russian women,\nwhom he wished to study, more than once made Vronsky crimson with\nindignation. The chief reason why the prince was so particularly\ndisagreeable to Vronsky was that he could not help seeing himself in\nhim. And what he saw in this mirror did not gratify his self-esteem. He\nwas a very stupid and very self-satisfied and very healthy and very\nwell-washed man, and nothing else. He was a gentleman that was true,\nand Vronsky could not deny it. He was equable and not cringing with his\nsuperiors, was free and ingratiating in his behavior with his equals,\nand was contemptuously indulgent with his inferiors. Vronsky was\nhimself the same, and regarded it as a great merit to be so. But for\nthis prince he was an inferior, and his contemptuous and indulgent\nattitude to him revolted him.\n\n Brainless beef! can I be like that?  he thought.\n\nBe that as it might, when, on the seventh day, he parted from the\nprince, who was starting for Moscow, and received his thanks, he was\nhappy to be rid of his uncomfortable position and the unpleasant\nreflection of himself. He said good-bye to him at the station on their\nreturn from a bear hunt, at which they had had a display of Russian\nprowess kept up all night.\n\n\nChapter 2\n\nWhen he got home, Vronsky found there a note from Anna. She wrote,  I\nam ill and unhappy. I cannot come out, but I cannot go on longer\nwithout seeing you. Come in this evening. Alexey Alexandrovitch goes to\nthe council at seven and will be there till ten.  Thinking for an\ninstant of the strangeness of her bidding him come straight to her, in\nspite of her husband s insisting on her not receiving him, he decided\nto go.\n\nVronsky had that winter got his promotion, was now a colonel, had left\nthe regimental quarters, and was living alone. After having some lunch,\nhe lay down on the sofa immediately, and in five minutes memories of\nthe hideous scenes he had witnessed during the last few days were\nconfused together and joined on to a mental image of Anna and of the\npeasant who had played an important part in the bear hunt, and Vronsky\nfell asleep. He waked up in the dark, trembling with horror, and made\nhaste to light a candle.  What was it? What? What was the dreadful\nthing I dreamed? Yes, yes; I think a little dirty man with a disheveled\nbeard was stooping down doing something, and all of a sudden he began\nsaying some strange words in French. Yes, there was nothing else in the\ndream,  he said to himself.  But why was it so awful?  He vividly\nrecalled the peasant again and those incomprehensible French words the\npeasant had uttered, and a chill of horror ran down his spine.\n\n What nonsense!  thought Vronsky, and glanced at his watch.\n\nIt was half-past eight already. He rang up his servant, dressed in\nhaste, and went out onto the steps, completely forgetting the dream and\nonly worried at being late. As he drove up to the Karenins  entrance he\nlooked at his watch and saw it was ten minutes to nine. A high, narrow\ncarriage with a pair of grays was standing at the entrance. He\nrecognized Anna s carriage.  She is coming to me,  thought Vronsky,\n and better she should. I don t like going into that house. But no\nmatter; I can t hide myself,  he thought, and with that manner peculiar\nto him from childhood, as of a man who has nothing to be ashamed of,\nVronsky got out of his sledge and went to the door. The door opened,\nand the hall-porter with a rug on his arm called the carriage. Vronsky,\nthough he did not usually notice details, noticed at this moment the\namazed expression with which the porter glanced at him. In the very\ndoorway Vronsky almost ran up against Alexey Alexandrovitch. The gas\njet threw its full light on the bloodless, sunken face under the black\nhat and on the white cravat, brilliant against the beaver of the coat.\nKarenin s fixed, dull eyes were fastened upon Vronsky s face. Vronsky\nbowed, and Alexey Alexandrovitch, chewing his lips, lifted his hand to\nhis hat and went on. Vronsky saw him without looking round get into the\ncarriage, pick up the rug and the opera-glass at the window and\ndisappear. Vronsky went into the hall. His brows were scowling, and his\neyes gleamed with a proud and angry light in them.\n\n What a position!  he thought.  If he would fight, would stand up for\nhis honor, I could act, could express my feelings; but this weakness or\nbaseness.... He puts me in the position of playing false, which I never\nmeant and never mean to do. \n\nVronsky s ideas had changed since the day of his conversation with Anna\nin the Vrede garden. Unconsciously yielding to the weakness of Anna who\nhad surrendered herself up to him utterly, and simply looked to him to\ndecide her fate, ready to submit to anything he had long ceased to\nthink that their tie might end as he had thought then. His ambitious\nplans had retreated into the background again, and feeling that he had\ngot out of that circle of activity in which everything was definite, he\nhad given himself entirely to his passion, and that passion was binding\nhim more and more closely to her.\n\nHe was still in the hall when he caught the sound of her retreating\nfootsteps. He knew she had been expecting him, had listened for him,\nand was now going back to the drawing-room.\n\n No,  she cried, on seeing him, and at the first sound of her voice the\ntears came into her eyes.  No; if things are to go on like this, the\nend will come much, much too soon. \n\n What is it, dear one? \n\n What? I ve been waiting in agony for an hour, two hours ... No, I\nwon t ... I can t quarrel with you. Of course you couldn t come. No, I\nwon t.  She laid her two hands on his shoulders, and looked a long\nwhile at him with a profound, passionate, and at the same time\nsearching look. She was studying his face to make up for the time she\nhad not seen him. She was, every time she saw him, making the picture\nof him in her imagination (incomparably superior, impossible in\nreality) fit with him as he really was.\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n You met him?  she asked, when they had sat down at the table in the\nlamplight.  You re punished, you see, for being late. \n\n Yes; but how was it? Wasn t he to be at the council? \n\n He had been and come back, and was going out somewhere again. But\nthat s no matter. Don t talk about it. Where have you been? With the\nprince still? \n\nShe knew every detail of his existence. He was going to say that he had\nbeen up all night and had dropped asleep, but looking at her thrilled\nand rapturous face, he was ashamed. And he said he had had to go to\nreport on the prince s departure.\n\n But it s over now? He is gone? \n\n Thank God it s over! You wouldn t believe how insufferable it s been\nfor me. \n\n Why so? Isn t it the life all of you, all young men, always lead?  she\nsaid, knitting her brows; and taking up the crochet work that was lying\non the table, she began drawing the hook out of it, without looking at\nVronsky.\n\n I gave that life up long ago,  said he, wondering at the change in her\nface, and trying to divine its meaning.  And I confess,  he said, with\na smile, showing his thick, white teeth,  this week I ve been, as it\nwere, looking at myself in a glass, seeing that life, and I didn t like\nit. \n\nShe held the work in her hands, but did not crochet, and looked at him\nwith strange, shining, and hostile eyes.\n\n This morning Liza came to see me they re not afraid to call on me, in\nspite of the Countess Lidia Ivanovna,  she put in and she told me\nabout your Athenian evening. How loathsome! \n\n I was just going to say.... \n\nShe interrupted him.  It was that Th r se you used to know? \n\n I was just saying.... \n\n How disgusting you are, you men! How is it you can t understand that a\nwoman can never forget that,  she said, getting more and more angry,\nand so letting him see the cause of her irritation,  especially a woman\nwho cannot know your life? What do I know? What have I ever known?  she\nsaid,  what you tell me. And how do I know whether you tell me the\ntruth?... \n\n Anna, you hurt me. Don t you trust me? Haven t I told you that I\nhaven t a thought I wouldn t lay bare to you? \n\n Yes, yes,  she said, evidently trying to suppress her jealous\nthoughts.  But if only you knew how wretched I am! I believe you, I\nbelieve you.... What were you saying? \n\nBut he could not at once recall what he had been going to say. These\nfits of jealousy, which of late had been more and more frequent with\nher, horrified him, and however much he tried to disguise the fact,\nmade him feel cold to her, although he knew the cause of her jealousy\nwas her love for him. How often he had told himself that her love was\nhappiness; and now she loved him as a woman can love when love has\noutweighed for her all the good things of life and he was much further\nfrom happiness than when he had followed her from Moscow. Then he had\nthought himself unhappy, but happiness was before him; now he felt that\nthe best happiness was already left behind. She was utterly unlike what\nshe had been when he first saw her. Both morally and physically she had\nchanged for the worse. She had broadened out all over, and in her face\nat the time when she was speaking of the actress there was an evil\nexpression of hatred that distorted it. He looked at her as a man looks\nat a faded flower he has gathered, with difficulty recognizing in it\nthe beauty for which he picked and ruined it. And in spite of this he\nfelt that then, when his love was stronger, he could, if he had greatly\nwished it, have torn that love out of his heart; but now, when as at\nthat moment it seemed to him he felt no love for her, he knew that what\nbound him to her could not be broken.\n\n Well, well, what was it you were going to say about the prince? I have\ndriven away the fiend,  she added. The fiend was the name they had\ngiven her jealousy.  What did you begin to tell me about the prince?\nWhy did you find it so tiresome? \n\n Oh, it was intolerable!  he said, trying to pick up the thread of his\ninterrupted thought.  He does not improve on closer acquaintance. If\nyou want him defined, here he is: a prime, well-fed beast such as takes\nmedals at the cattle shows, and nothing more,  he said, with a tone of\nvexation that interested her.\n\n No; how so?  she replied.  He s seen a great deal, anyway; he s\ncultured? \n\n It s an utterly different culture their culture. He s cultivated, one\nsees, simply to be able to despise culture, as they despise everything\nbut animal pleasures. \n\n But don t you all care for these animal pleasures?  she said, and\nagain he noticed a dark look in her eyes that avoided him.\n\n How is it you re defending him?  he said, smiling.\n\n I m not defending him, it s nothing to me; but I imagine, if you had\nnot cared for those pleasures yourself, you might have got out of them.\nBut if it affords you satisfaction to gaze at Th r se in the attire of\nEve.... \n\n Again, the devil again,  Vronsky said, taking the hand she had laid on\nthe table and kissing it.\n\n Yes; but I can t help it. You don t know what I have suffered waiting\nfor you. I believe I m not jealous. I m not jealous: I believe you when\nyou re here; but when you re away somewhere leading your life, so\nincomprehensible to me.... \n\nShe turned away from him, pulled the hook at last out of the crochet\nwork, and rapidly, with the help of her forefinger, began working loop\nafter loop of the wool that was dazzling white in the lamplight, while\nthe slender wrist moved swiftly, nervously in the embroidered cuff.\n\n How was it, then? Where did you meet Alexey Alexandrovitch?  Her voice\nsounded in an unnatural and jarring tone.\n\n We ran up against each other in the doorway. \n\n And he bowed to you like this? \n\nShe drew a long face, and half-closing her eyes, quickly transformed\nher expression, folded her hands, and Vronsky suddenly saw in her\nbeautiful face the very expression with which Alexey Alexandrovitch had\nbowed to him. He smiled, while she laughed gaily, with that sweet, deep\nlaugh, which was one of her greatest charms.\n\n I don t understand him in the least,  said Vronsky.  If after your\navowal to him at your country house he had broken with you, if he had\ncalled me out but this I can t understand. How can he put up with such\na position? He feels it, that s evident. \n\n He?  she said sneeringly.  He s perfectly satisfied. \n\n What are we all miserable for, when everything might be so happy? \n\n Only not he. Don t I know him, the falsity in which he s utterly\nsteeped?... Could one, with any feeling, live as he is living with me?\nHe understands nothing, and feels nothing. Could a man of any feeling\nlive in the same house with his unfaithful wife? Could he talk to her,\ncall her  my dear ? \n\nAnd again she could not help mimicking him:  Anna, _ma ch re_; Anna,\ndear! \n\n He s not a man, not a human being he s a doll! No one knows him; but I\nknow him. Oh, if I d been in his place, I d long ago have killed, have\ntorn to pieces a wife like me. I wouldn t have said,  Anna, _ma\nch re_ ! He s not a man, he s an official machine. He doesn t\nunderstand that I m your wife, that he s outside, that he s\nsuperfluous.... Don t let s talk of him!... \n\n You re unfair, very unfair, dearest,  said Vronsky, trying to soothe\nher.  But never mind, don t let s talk of him. Tell me what you ve been\ndoing? What is the matter? What has been wrong with you, and what did\nthe doctor say? \n\nShe looked at him with mocking amusement. Evidently she had hit on\nother absurd and grotesque aspects in her husband and was awaiting the\nmoment to give expression to them.\n\nBut he went on:\n\n I imagine that it s not illness, but your condition. When will it be? \n\nThe ironical light died away in her eyes, but a different smile, a\nconsciousness of something, he did not know what, and of quiet\nmelancholy, came over her face.\n\n Soon, soon. You say that our position is miserable, that we must put\nan end to it. If you knew how terrible it is to me, what I would give\nto be able to love you freely and boldly! I should not torture myself\nand torture you with my jealousy.... And it will come soon, but not as\nwe expect. \n\nAnd at the thought of how it would come, she seemed so pitiable to\nherself that tears came into her eyes, and she could not go on. She\nlaid her hand on his sleeve, dazzling and white with its rings in the\nlamplight.\n\n It won t come as we suppose. I didn t mean to say this to you, but\nyou ve made me. Soon, soon, all will be over, and we shall all, all be\nat peace, and suffer no more. \n\n I don t understand,  he said, understanding her.\n\n You asked when? Soon. And I shan t live through it. Don t interrupt\nme!  and she made haste to speak.  I know it; I know for certain. I\nshall die; and I m very glad I shall die, and release myself and you. \n\nTears dropped from her eyes; he bent down over her hand and began\nkissing it, trying to hide his emotion, which, he knew, had no sort of\ngrounds, though he could not control it.\n\n Yes, it s better so,  she said, tightly gripping his hand.  That s the\nonly way, the only way left us. \n\nHe had recovered himself, and lifted his head.\n\n How absurd! What absurd nonsense you are talking! \n\n No, it s the truth. \n\n What, what s the truth? \n\n That I shall die. I have had a dream. \n\n A dream?  repeated Vronsky, and instantly he recalled the peasant of\nhis dream.\n\n Yes, a dream,  she said.  It s a long while since I dreamed it. I\ndreamed that I ran into my bedroom, that I had to get something there,\nto find out something; you know how it is in dreams,  she said, her\neyes wide with horror;  and in the bedroom, in the corner, stood\nsomething. \n\n Oh, what nonsense! How can you believe.... \n\nBut she would not let him interrupt her. What she was saying was too\nimportant to her.\n\n And the something turned round, and I saw it was a peasant with a\ndisheveled beard, little, and dreadful looking. I wanted to run away,\nbut he bent down over a sack, and was fumbling there with his\nhands.... \n\nShe showed how he had moved his hands. There was terror in her face.\nAnd Vronsky, remembering his dream, felt the same terror filling his\nsoul.\n\n He was fumbling and kept talking quickly, quickly in French, you know:\n_Il faut le battre, le fer, le broyer, le p trir_.... And in my horror\nI tried to wake up, and woke up ... but woke up in the dream. And I\nbegan asking myself what it meant. And Korney said to me:  In\nchildbirth you ll die, ma am, you ll die....  And I woke up. \n\n What nonsense, what nonsense!  said Vronsky; but he felt himself that\nthere was no conviction in his voice.\n\n But don t let s talk of it. Ring the bell, I ll have tea. And stay a\nlittle now; it s not long I shall.... \n\nBut all at once she stopped. The expression of her face instantaneously\nchanged. Horror and excitement were suddenly replaced by a look of\nsoft, solemn, blissful attention. He could not comprehend the meaning\nof the change. She was listening to the stirring of the new life within\nher.\n\n\nChapter 4\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, after meeting Vronsky on his own steps, drove,\nas he had intended, to the Italian opera. He sat through two acts\nthere, and saw everyone he had wanted to see. On returning home, he\ncarefully scrutinized the hat stand, and noticing that there was not a\nmilitary overcoat there, he went, as usual, to his own room. But,\ncontrary to his usual habit, he did not go to bed, he walked up and\ndown his study till three o clock in the morning. The feeling of\nfurious anger with his wife, who would not observe the proprieties and\nkeep to the one stipulation he had laid on her, not to receive her\nlover in her own home, gave him no peace. She had not complied with his\nrequest, and he was bound to punish her and carry out his threat obtain\na divorce and take away his son. He knew all the difficulties connected\nwith this course, but he had said he would do it, and now he must carry\nout his threat. Countess Lidia Ivanovna had hinted that this was the\nbest way out of his position, and of late the obtaining of divorces had\nbeen brought to such perfection that Alexey Alexandrovitch saw a\npossibility of overcoming the formal difficulties. Misfortunes never\ncome singly, and the affairs of the reorganization of the native\ntribes, and of the irrigation of the lands of the Zaraisky province,\nhad brought such official worries upon Alexey Alexandrovitch that he\nhad been of late in a continual condition of extreme irritability.\n\nHe did not sleep the whole night, and his fury, growing in a sort of\nvast, arithmetical progression, reached its highest limits in the\nmorning. He dressed in haste, and as though carrying his cup full of\nwrath, and fearing to spill any over, fearing to lose with his wrath\nthe energy necessary for the interview with his wife, he went into her\nroom directly he heard she was up.\n\nAnna, who had thought she knew her husband so well, was amazed at his\nappearance when he went in to her. His brow was lowering, and his eyes\nstared darkly before him, avoiding her eyes; his mouth was tightly and\ncontemptuously shut. In his walk, in his gestures, in the sound of his\nvoice there was a determination and firmness such as his wife had never\nseen in him. He went into her room, and without greeting her, walked\nstraight up to her writing-table, and taking her keys, opened a drawer.\n\n What do you want?  she cried.\n\n Your lover s letters,  he said.\n\n They re not here,  she said, shutting the drawer; but from that action\nhe saw he had guessed right, and roughly pushing away her hand, he\nquickly snatched a portfolio in which he knew she used to put her most\nimportant papers. She tried to pull the portfolio away, but he pushed\nher back.\n\n Sit down! I have to speak to you,  he said, putting the portfolio\nunder his arm, and squeezing it so tightly with his elbow that his\nshoulder stood up. Amazed and intimidated, she gazed at him in silence.\n\n I told you that I would not allow you to receive your lover in this\nhouse. \n\n I had to see him to.... \n\nShe stopped, not finding a reason.\n\n I do not enter into the details of why a woman wants to see her\nlover. \n\n I meant, I only....  she said, flushing hotly. This coarseness of his\nangered her, and gave her courage.  Surely you must feel how easy it is\nfor you to insult me?  she said.\n\n An honest man and an honest woman may be insulted, but to tell a thief\nhe s a thief is simply _la constatation d un fait_. \n\n This cruelty is something new I did not know in you. \n\n You call it cruelty for a husband to give his wife liberty, giving her\nthe honorable protection of his name, simply on the condition of\nobserving the proprieties: is that cruelty? \n\n It s worse than cruel it s base, if you want to know!  Anna cried, in\na rush of hatred, and getting up, she was going away.\n\n No!  he shrieked, in his shrill voice, which pitched a note higher\nthan usual even, and his big hands clutching her by the arm so\nviolently that red marks were left from the bracelet he was squeezing,\nhe forcibly sat her down in her place.\n\n Base! If you care to use that word, what is base is to forsake husband\nand child for a lover, while you eat your husband s bread! \n\nShe bowed her head. She did not say what she had said the evening\nbefore to her lover, that _he_ was her husband, and her husband was\nsuperfluous; she did not even think that. She felt all the justice of\nhis words, and only said softly:\n\n You cannot describe my position as worse than I feel it to be myself;\nbut what are you saying all this for? \n\n What am I saying it for? what for?  he went on, as angrily.  That you\nmay know that since you have not carried out my wishes in regard to\nobserving outward decorum, I will take measures to put an end to this\nstate of things. \n\n Soon, very soon, it will end, anyway,  she said; and again, at the\nthought of death near at hand and now desired, tears came into her\neyes.\n\n It will end sooner than you and your lover have planned! If you must\nhave the satisfaction of animal passion.... \n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch! I won t say it s not generous, but it s not\nlike a gentleman to strike anyone who s down. \n\n Yes, you only think of yourself! But the sufferings of a man who was\nyour husband have no interest for you. You don t care that his whole\nlife is ruined, that he is thuff ... thuff.... \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch was speaking so quickly that he stammered, and\nwas utterly unable to articulate the word  suffering.  In the end he\npronounced it  thuffering.  She wanted to laugh, and was immediately\nashamed that anything could amuse her at such a moment. And for the\nfirst time, for an instant, she felt for him, put herself in his place,\nand was sorry for him. But what could she say or do? Her head sank, and\nshe sat silent. He too was silent for some time, and then began\nspeaking in a frigid, less shrill voice, emphasizing random words that\nhad no special significance.\n\n I came to tell you....  he said.\n\nShe glanced at him.  No, it was my fancy,  she thought, recalling the\nexpression of his face when he stumbled over the word  suffering.   No;\ncan a man with those dull eyes, with that self-satisfied complacency,\nfeel anything? \n\n I cannot change anything,  she whispered.\n\n I have come to tell you that I am going tomorrow to Moscow, and shall\nnot return again to this house, and you will receive notice of what I\ndecide through the lawyer into whose hands I shall intrust the task of\ngetting a divorce. My son is going to my sister s,  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, with an effort recalling what he had meant to say about\nhis son.\n\n You take Seryozha to hurt me,  she said, looking at him from under her\nbrows.  You do not love him.... Leave me Seryozha! \n\n Yes, I have lost even my affection for my son, because he is\nassociated with the repulsion I feel for you. But still I shall take\nhim. Good-bye! \n\nAnd he was going away, but now she detained him.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch, leave me Seryozha!  she whispered once more.  I\nhave nothing else to say. Leave Seryozha till my ... I shall soon be\nconfined; leave him! \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch flew into a rage, and, snatching his hand from\nher, he went out of the room without a word.\n\n\nChapter 5\n\nThe waiting-room of the celebrated Petersburg lawyer was full when\nAlexey Alexandrovitch entered it. Three ladies an old lady, a young\nlady, and a merchant s wife and three gentlemen one a German banker\nwith a ring on his finger, the second a merchant with a beard, and the\nthird a wrathful-looking government clerk in official uniform, with a\ncross on his neck had obviously been waiting a long while already. Two\nclerks were writing at tables with scratching pens. The appurtenances\nof the writing-tables, about which Alexey Alexandrovitch was himself\nvery fastidious, were exceptionally good. He could not help observing\nthis. One of the clerks, without getting up, turned wrathfully to\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, half closing his eyes.  What are you wanting? \n\nHe replied that he had to see the lawyer on some business.\n\n He is engaged,  the clerk responded severely, and he pointed with his\npen at the persons waiting, and went on writing.\n\n Can t he spare time to see me?  said Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n He has no time free; he is always busy. Kindly wait your turn. \n\n Then I must trouble you to give him my card,  Alexey Alexandrovitch\nsaid with dignity, seeing the impossibility of preserving his\nincognito.\n\nThe clerk took the card and, obviously not approving of what he read on\nit, went to the door.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch was in principle in favor of the publicity of\nlegal proceedings, though for some higher official considerations he\ndisliked the application of the principle in Russia, and disapproved of\nit, as far as he could disapprove of anything instituted by authority\nof the Emperor. His whole life had been spent in administrative work,\nand consequently, when he did not approve of anything, his disapproval\nwas softened by the recognition of the inevitability of mistakes and\nthe possibility of reform in every department. In the new public law\ncourts he disliked the restrictions laid on the lawyers conducting\ncases. But till then he had had nothing to do with the law courts, and\nso had disapproved of their publicity simply in theory; now his\ndisapprobation was strengthened by the unpleasant impression made on\nhim in the lawyer s waiting room.\n\n Coming immediately,  said the clerk; and two minutes later there did\nactually appear in the doorway the large figure of an old solicitor who\nhad been consulting with the lawyer himself.\n\nThe lawyer was a little, squat, bald man, with a dark, reddish beard,\nlight-colored long eyebrows, and an overhanging brow. He was attired as\nthough for a wedding, from his cravat to his double watch-chain and\nvarnished boots. His face was clever and manly, but his dress was\ndandified and in bad taste.\n\n Pray walk in,  said the lawyer, addressing Alexey Alexandrovitch; and,\ngloomily ushering Karenin in before him, he closed the door.\n\n Won t you sit down?  He indicated an armchair at a writing-table\ncovered with papers. He sat down himself, and, rubbing his little hands\nwith short fingers covered with white hairs, he bent his head on one\nside. But as soon as he was settled in this position a moth flew over\nthe table. The lawyer, with a swiftness that could never have been\nexpected of him, opened his hands, caught the moth, and resumed his\nformer attitude.\n\n Before beginning to speak of my business,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch,\nfollowing the lawyer s movements with wondering eyes,  I ought to\nobserve that the business about which I have to speak to you is to be\nstrictly private. \n\nThe lawyer s overhanging reddish mustaches were parted in a scarcely\nperceptible smile.\n\n I should not be a lawyer if I could not keep the secrets confided to\nme. But if you would like proof.... \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch glanced at his face, and saw that the shrewd,\ngray eyes were laughing, and seemed to know all about it already.\n\n You know my name?  Alexey Alexandrovitch resumed.\n\n I know you and the good again he caught a moth work you are doing,\nlike every Russian,  said the lawyer, bowing.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch sighed, plucking up his courage. But having once\nmade up his mind he went on in his shrill voice, without timidity or\nhesitation, accentuating here and there a word.\n\n I have the misfortune,  Alexey Alexandrovitch began,  to have been\ndeceived in my married life, and I desire to break off all relations\nwith my wife by legal means that is, to be divorced, but to do this so\nthat my son may not remain with his mother. \n\nThe lawyer s gray eyes tried not to laugh, but they were dancing with\nirrepressible glee, and Alexey Alexandrovitch saw that it was not\nsimply the delight of a man who has just got a profitable job: there\nwas triumph and joy, there was a gleam like the malignant gleam he saw\nin his wife s eyes.\n\n You desire my assistance in securing a divorce? \n\n Yes, precisely so; but I ought to warn you that I may be wasting your\ntime and attention. I have come simply to consult you as a preliminary\nstep. I want a divorce, but the form in which it is possible is of\ngreat consequence to me. It is very possible that if that form does not\ncorrespond with my requirements I may give up a legal divorce. \n\n Oh, that s always the case,  said the lawyer,  and that s always for\nyou to decide. \n\nHe let his eyes rest on Alexey Alexandrovitch s feet, feeling that he\nmight offend his client by the sight of his irrepressible amusement. He\nlooked at a moth that flew before his nose, and moved his hands, but\ndid not catch it from regard for Alexey Alexandrovitch s position.\n\n Though in their general features our laws on this subject are known to\nme,  pursued Alexey Alexandrovitch,  I should be glad to have an idea\nof the forms in which such things are done in practice. \n\n You would be glad,  the lawyer, without lifting his eyes, responded,\nadopting, with a certain satisfaction, the tone of his client s\nremarks,  for me to lay before you all the methods by which you could\nsecure what you desire? \n\nAnd on receiving an assuring nod from Alexey Alexandrovitch, he went\non, stealing a glance now and then at Alexey Alexandrovitch s face,\nwhich was growing red in patches.\n\n Divorce by our laws,  he said, with a slight shade of disapprobation\nof our laws,  is possible, as you are aware, in the following cases....\nWait a little!  he called to a clerk who put his head in at the door,\nbut he got up all the same, said a few words to him, and sat down\nagain.  ... In the following cases: physical defect in the married\nparties, desertion without communication for five years,  he said,\ncrooking a short finger covered with hair,  adultery  (this word he\npronounced with obvious satisfaction),  subdivided as follows  (he\ncontinued to crook his fat fingers, though the three cases and their\nsubdivisions could obviously not be classified together):  physical\ndefect of the husband or of the wife, adultery of the husband or of the\nwife.  As by now all his fingers were used up, he uncrooked all his\nfingers and went on:  This is the theoretical view; but I imagine you\nhave done me the honor to apply to me in order to learn its application\nin practice. And therefore, guided by precedents, I must inform you\nthat in practice cases of divorce may all be reduced to the\nfollowing there s no physical defect, I may assume, nor desertion?... \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch bowed his head in assent.\n\n May be reduced to the following: adultery of one of the married\nparties, and the detection in the fact of the guilty party by mutual\nagreement, and failing such agreement, accidental detection. It must be\nadmitted that the latter case is rarely met with in practice,  said the\nlawyer, and stealing a glance at Alexey Alexandrovitch he paused, as a\nman selling pistols, after enlarging on the advantages of each weapon,\nmight await his customer s choice. But Alexey Alexandrovitch said\nnothing, and therefore the lawyer went on:  The most usual and simple,\nthe sensible course, I consider, is adultery by mutual consent. I\nshould not permit myself to express it so, speaking with a man of no\neducation,  he said,  but I imagine that to you this is\ncomprehensible. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch was, however, so perturbed that he did not\nimmediately comprehend all the good sense of adultery by mutual\nconsent, and his eyes expressed this uncertainty; but the lawyer\npromptly came to his assistance.\n\n People cannot go on living together here you have a fact. And if both\nare agreed about it, the details and formalities become a matter of no\nimportance. And at the same time this is the simplest and most certain\nmethod. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch fully understood now. But he had religious\nscruples, which hindered the execution of such a plan.\n\n That is out of the question in the present case,  he said.  Only one\nalternative is possible: undesigned detection, supported by letters\nwhich I have. \n\nAt the mention of letters the lawyer pursed up his lips, and gave\nutterance to a thin little compassionate and contemptuous sound.\n\n Kindly consider,  he began,  cases of that kind are, as you are aware,\nunder ecclesiastical jurisdiction; the reverend fathers are fond of\ngoing into the minutest details in cases of that kind,  he said with a\nsmile, which betrayed his sympathy with the reverend fathers  taste.\n Letters may, of course, be a partial confirmation; but detection in\nthe fact there must be of the most direct kind, that is, by\neyewitnesses. In fact, if you do me the honor to intrust your\nconfidence to me, you will do well to leave me the choice of the\nmeasures to be employed. If one wants the result, one must admit the\nmeans. \n\n If it is so....  Alexey Alexandrovitch began, suddenly turning white;\nbut at that moment the lawyer rose and again went to the door to speak\nto the intruding clerk.\n\n Tell her we don t haggle over fees!  he said, and returned to Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.\n\nOn his way back he caught unobserved another moth.  Nice state my rep\ncurtains will be in by the summer!  he thought, frowning.\n\n And so you were saying?...  he said.\n\n I will communicate my decision to you by letter,  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, getting up, and he clutched at the table. After\nstanding a moment in silence, he said:  From your words I may\nconsequently conclude that a divorce may be obtained? I would ask you\nto let me know what are your terms. \n\n It may be obtained if you give me complete liberty of action,  said\nthe lawyer, not answering his question.  When can I reckon on receiving\ninformation from you?  he asked, moving towards the door, his eyes and\nhis varnished boots shining.\n\n In a week s time. Your answer as to whether you will undertake to\nconduct the case, and on what terms, you will be so good as to\ncommunicate to me. \n\n Very good. \n\nThe lawyer bowed respectfully, let his client out of the door, and,\nleft alone, gave himself up to his sense of amusement. He felt so\nmirthful that, contrary to his rules, he made a reduction in his terms\nto the haggling lady, and gave up catching moths, finally deciding that\nnext winter he must have the furniture covered with velvet, like\nSigonin s.\n\n\nChapter 6\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had gained a brilliant victory at the sitting of\nthe Commission of the 17th of August, but in the sequel this victory\ncut the ground from under his feet. The new commission for the inquiry\ninto the condition of the native tribes in all its branches had been\nformed and despatched to its destination with an unusual speed and\nenergy inspired by Alexey Alexandrovitch. Within three months a report\nwas presented. The condition of the native tribes was investigated in\nits political, administrative, economic, ethnographic, material, and\nreligious aspects. To all these questions there were answers admirably\nstated, and answers admitting no shade of doubt, since they were not a\nproduct of human thought, always liable to error, but were all the\nproduct of official activity. The answers were all based on official\ndata furnished by governors and heads of churches, and founded on the\nreports of district magistrates and ecclesiastical superintendents,\nfounded in their turn on the reports of parochial overseers and parish\npriests; and so all of these answers were unhesitating and certain. All\nsuch questions as, for instance, of the cause of failure of crops, of\nthe adherence of certain tribes to their ancient beliefs,\netc. questions which, but for the convenient intervention of the\nofficial machine, are not, and cannot be solved for ages received full,\nunhesitating solution. And this solution was in favor of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch s contention. But Stremov, who had felt stung to the\nquick at the last sitting, had, on the reception of the commission s\nreport, resorted to tactics which Alexey Alexandrovitch had not\nanticipated. Stremov, carrying with him several members, went over to\nAlexey Alexandrovitch s side, and not contenting himself with warmly\ndefending the measure proposed by Karenin, proposed other more extreme\nmeasures in the same direction. These measures, still further\nexaggerated in opposition to what was Alexey Alexandrovitch s\nfundamental idea, were passed by the commission, and then the aim of\nStremov s tactics became apparent. Carried to an extreme, the measures\nseemed at once to be so absurd that the highest authorities, and public\nopinion, and intellectual ladies, and the newspapers, all at the same\ntime fell foul of them, expressing their indignation both with the\nmeasures and their nominal father, Alexey Alexandrovitch. Stremov drew\nback, affecting to have blindly followed Karenin, and to be astounded\nand distressed at what had been done. This meant the defeat of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch. But in spite of failing health, in spite of his\ndomestic griefs, he did not give in. There was a split in the\ncommission. Some members, with Stremov at their head, justified their\nmistake on the ground that they had put faith in the commission of\nrevision, instituted by Alexey Alexandrovitch, and maintained that the\nreport of the commission was rubbish, and simply so much waste paper.\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, with a following of those who saw the danger of\nso revolutionary an attitude to official documents, persisted in\nupholding the statements obtained by the revising commission. In\nconsequence of this, in the higher spheres, and even in society, all\nwas chaos, and although everyone was interested, no one could tell\nwhether the native tribes really were becoming impoverished and ruined,\nor whether they were in a flourishing condition. The position of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, owing to this, and partly owing to the contempt\nlavished on him for his wife s infidelity, became very precarious. And\nin this position he took an important resolution. To the astonishment\nof the commission, he announced that he should ask permission to go\nhimself to investigate the question on the spot. And having obtained\npermission, Alexey Alexandrovitch prepared to set off to these remote\nprovinces.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch s departure made a great sensation, the more so\nas just before he started he officially returned the posting-fares\nallowed him for twelve horses, to drive to his destination.\n\n I think it very noble,  Betsy said about this to the Princess Myakaya.\n Why take money for posting-horses when everyone knows that there are\nrailways everywhere now? \n\nBut Princess Myakaya did not agree, and the Princess Tverskaya s\nopinion annoyed her indeed.\n\n It s all very well for you to talk,  said she,  when you have I don t\nknow how many millions; but I am very glad when my husband goes on a\nrevising tour in the summer. It s very good for him and pleasant\ntraveling about, and it s a settled arrangement for me to keep a\ncarriage and coachman on the money. \n\nOn his way to the remote provinces Alexey Alexandrovitch stopped for\nthree days at Moscow.\n\nThe day after his arrival he was driving back from calling on the\ngovernor-general. At the crossroads by Gazetoy Place, where there are\nalways crowds of carriages and sledges, Alexey Alexandrovitch suddenly\nheard his name called out in such a loud and cheerful voice that he\ncould not help looking round. At the corner of the pavement, in a\nshort, stylish overcoat and a low-crowned fashionable hat, jauntily\naskew, with a smile that showed a gleam of white teeth and red lips,\nstood Stepan Arkadyevitch, radiant, young, and beaming. He called him\nvigorously and urgently, and insisted on his stopping. He had one arm\non the window of a carriage that was stopping at the corner, and out of\nthe window were thrust the heads of a lady in a velvet hat, and two\nchildren. Stepan Arkadyevitch was smiling and beckoning to his\nbrother-in-law. The lady smiled a kindly smile too, and she too waved\nher hand to Alexey Alexandrovitch. It was Dolly with her children.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch did not want to see anyone in Moscow, and least\nof all his wife s brother. He raised his hat and would have driven on,\nbut Stepan Arkadyevitch told his coachman to stop, and ran across the\nsnow to him.\n\n Well, what a shame not to have let us know! Been here long? I was at\nDussots  yesterday and saw  Karenin  on the visitors  list, but it\nnever entered my head that it was you,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nsticking his head in at the window of the carriage,  or I should have\nlooked you up. I am glad to see you!  he said, knocking one foot\nagainst the other to shake the snow off.  What a shame of you not to\nlet us know!  he repeated.\n\n I had no time; I am very busy,  Alexey Alexandrovitch responded dryly.\n\n Come to my wife, she does so want to see you. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch unfolded the rug in which his frozen feet were\nwrapped, and getting out of his carriage made his way over the snow to\nDarya Alexandrovna.\n\n Why, Alexey Alexandrovitch, what are you cutting us like this for? \nsaid Dolly, smiling.\n\n I was very busy. Delighted to see you!  he said in a tone clearly\nindicating that he was annoyed by it.  How are you? \n\n Tell me, how is my darling Anna? \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch mumbled something and would have gone on. But\nStepan Arkadyevitch stopped him.\n\n I tell you what we ll do tomorrow. Dolly, ask him to dinner. We ll ask\nKoznishev and Pestsov, so as to entertain him with our Moscow\ncelebrities. \n\n Yes, please, do come,  said Dolly;  we will expect you at five, or six\no clock, if you like. How is my darling Anna? How long.... \n\n She is quite well,  Alexey Alexandrovitch mumbled, frowning.\n Delighted!  and he moved away towards his carriage.\n\n You will come?  Dolly called after him.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch said something which Dolly could not catch in the\nnoise of the moving carriages.\n\n I shall come round tomorrow!  Stepan Arkadyevitch shouted to him.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch got into his carriage, and buried himself in it\nso as neither to see nor be seen.\n\n Queer fish!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch to his wife, and glancing at his\nwatch, he made a motion of his hand before his face, indicating a\ncaress to his wife and children, and walked jauntily along the\npavement.\n\n Stiva! Stiva!  Dolly called, reddening.\n\nHe turned round.\n\n I must get coats, you know, for Grisha and Tanya. Give me the money. \n\n Never mind; you tell them I ll pay the bill!  and he vanished, nodding\ngenially to an acquaintance who drove by.\n\n\nChapter 7\n\nThe next day was Sunday. Stepan Arkadyevitch went to the Grand Theater\nto a rehearsal of the ballet, and gave Masha Tchibisova, a pretty\ndancing-girl whom he had just taken under his protection, the coral\nnecklace he had promised her the evening before, and behind the scenes\nin the dim daylight of the theater, managed to kiss her pretty little\nface, radiant over her present. Besides the gift of the necklace he\nwanted to arrange with her about meeting after the ballet. After\nexplaining that he could not come at the beginning of the ballet, he\npromised he would come for the last act and take her to supper. From\nthe theater Stepan Arkadyevitch drove to Ohotny Row, selected himself\nthe fish and asparagus for dinner, and by twelve o clock was at\nDussots , where he had to see three people, luckily all staying at the\nsame hotel: Levin, who had recently come back from abroad and was\nstaying there; the new head of his department, who had just been\npromoted to that position, and had come on a tour of revision to\nMoscow; and his brother-in-law, Karenin, whom he must see, so as to be\nsure of bringing him to dinner.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch liked dining, but still better he liked to give a\ndinner, small, but very choice, both as regards the food and drink and\nas regards the selection of guests. He particularly liked the program\nof that day s dinner. There would be fresh perch, asparagus, and _la\npi ce de resistance_ first-rate, but quite plain, roast beef, and wines\nto suit: so much for the eating and drinking. Kitty and Levin would be\nof the party, and that this might not be obtrusively evident, there\nwould be a girl cousin too, and young Shtcherbatsky, and _la pi ce de\nresistance_ among the guests Sergey Koznishev and Alexey\nAlexandrovitch. Sergey Ivanovitch was a Moscow man, and a philosopher;\nAlexey Alexandrovitch a Petersburger, and a practical politician. He\nwas asking, too, the well-known eccentric enthusiast, Pestsov, a\nliberal, a great talker, a musician, an historian, and the most\ndelightfully youthful person of fifty, who would be a sauce or garnish\nfor Koznishev and Karenin. He would provoke them and set them off.\n\nThe second installment for the forest had been received from the\nmerchant and was not yet exhausted; Dolly had been very amiable and\ngood-humored of late, and the idea of the dinner pleased Stepan\nArkadyevitch from every point of view. He was in the most light-hearted\nmood. There were two circumstances a little unpleasant, but these two\ncircumstances were drowned in the sea of good-humored gaiety which\nflooded the soul of Stepan Arkadyevitch. These two circumstances were:\nfirst, that on meeting Alexey Alexandrovitch the day before in the\nstreet he had noticed that he was cold and reserved with him, and\nputting the expression of Alexey Alexandrovitch s face and the fact\nthat he had not come to see them or let them know of his arrival with\nthe rumors he had heard about Anna and Vronsky, Stepan Arkadyevitch\nguessed that something was wrong between the husband and wife.\n\nThat was one disagreeable thing. The other slightly disagreeable fact\nwas that the new head of his department, like all new heads, had the\nreputation already of a terrible person, who got up at six o clock in\nthe morning, worked like a horse, and insisted on his subordinates\nworking in the same way. Moreover, this new head had the further\nreputation of being a bear in his manners, and was, according to all\nreports, a man of a class in all respects the opposite of that to which\nhis predecessor had belonged, and to which Stepan Arkadyevitch had\nhitherto belonged himself. On the previous day Stepan Arkadyevitch had\nappeared at the office in a uniform, and the new chief had been very\naffable and had talked to him as to an acquaintance. Consequently\nStepan Arkadyevitch deemed it his duty to call upon him in his\nnon-official dress. The thought that the new chief might not tender him\na warm reception was the other unpleasant thing. But Stepan\nArkadyevitch instinctively felt that everything would _come round_ all\nright.  They re all people, all men, like us poor sinners; why be nasty\nand quarrelsome?  he thought as he went into the hotel.\n\n Good-day, Vassily,  he said, walking into the corridor with his hat\ncocked on one side, and addressing a footman he knew;  why, you ve let\nyour whiskers grow! Levin, number seven, eh? Take me up, please. And\nfind out whether Count Anitchkin  (this was the new head)  is\nreceiving. \n\n Yes, sir,  Vassily responded, smiling.  You ve not been to see us for\na long while. \n\n I was here yesterday, but at the other entrance. Is this number\nseven? \n\nLevin was standing with a peasant from Tver in the middle of the room,\nmeasuring a fresh bearskin, when Stepan Arkadyevitch went in.\n\n What! you killed him?  cried Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Well done! A\nshe-bear? How are you, Arhip! \n\nHe shook hands with the peasant and sat down on the edge of a chair,\nwithout taking off his coat and hat.\n\n Come, take off your coat and stay a little,  said Levin, taking his\nhat.\n\n No, I haven t time; I ve only looked in for a tiny second,  answered\nStepan Arkadyevitch. He threw open his coat, but afterwards did take it\noff, and sat on for a whole hour, talking to Levin about hunting and\nthe most intimate subjects.\n\n Come, tell me, please, what you did abroad? Where have you been?  said\nStepan Arkadyevitch, when the peasant had gone.\n\n Oh, I stayed in Germany, in Prussia, in France, and in England not in\nthe capitals, but in the manufacturing towns, and saw a great deal that\nwas new to me. And I m glad I went. \n\n Yes, I knew your idea of the solution of the labor question. \n\n Not a bit: in Russia there can be no labor question. In Russia the\nquestion is that of the relation of the working people to the land;\nthough the question exists there too but there it s a matter of\nrepairing what s been ruined, while with us.... \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch listened attentively to Levin.\n\n Yes, yes!  he said,  it s very possible you re right. But I m glad\nyou re in good spirits, and are hunting bears, and working, and\ninterested. Shtcherbatsky told me another story he met you that you\nwere in such a depressed state, talking of nothing but death.... \n\n Well, what of it? I ve not given up thinking of death,  said Levin.\n It s true that it s high time I was dead; and that all this is\nnonsense. It s the truth I m telling you. I do value my idea and my\nwork awfully; but in reality only consider this: all this world of ours\nis nothing but a speck of mildew, which has grown up on a tiny planet.\nAnd for us to suppose we can have something great ideas, work it s all\ndust and ashes. \n\n But all that s as old as the hills, my boy! \n\n It is old; but do you know, when you grasp this fully, then somehow\neverything becomes of no consequence. When you understand that you will\ndie tomorrow, if not today, and nothing will be left, then everything\nis so unimportant! And I consider my idea very important, but it turns\nout really to be as unimportant too, even if it were carried out, as\ndoing for that bear. So one goes on living, amusing oneself with\nhunting, with work anything so as not to think of death! \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch smiled a subtle affectionate smile as he listened\nto Levin.\n\n Well, of course! Here you ve come round to my point. Do you remember\nyou attacked me for seeking enjoyment in life? Don t be so severe, O\nmoralist! \n\n No; all the same, what s fine in life is....  Levin hesitated oh, I\ndon t know. All I know is that we shall soon be dead. \n\n Why so soon? \n\n And do you know, there s less charm in life, when one thinks of death,\nbut there s more peace. \n\n On the contrary, the finish is always the best. But I must be going, \nsaid Stepan Arkadyevitch, getting up for the tenth time.\n\n Oh, no, stay a bit!  said Levin, keeping him.  Now, when shall we see\neach other again? I m going tomorrow. \n\n I m a nice person! Why, that s just what I came for! You simply must\ncome to dinner with us today. Your brother s coming, and Karenin, my\nbrother-in-law. \n\n You don t mean to say he s here?  said Levin, and he wanted to inquire\nabout Kitty. He had heard at the beginning of the winter that she was\nat Petersburg with her sister, the wife of the diplomat, and he did not\nknow whether she had come back or not; but he changed his mind and did\nnot ask.  Whether she s coming or not, I don t care,  he said to\nhimself.\n\n So you ll come? \n\n Of course. \n\n At five o clock, then, and not evening dress. \n\nAnd Stepan Arkadyevitch got up and went down below to the new head of\nhis department. Instinct had not misled Stepan Arkadyevitch. The\nterrible new head turned out to be an extremely amenable person, and\nStepan Arkadyevitch lunched with him and stayed on, so that it was four\no clock before he got to Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n\nChapter 8\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, on coming back from church service, had spent\nthe whole morning indoors. He had two pieces of business before him\nthat morning; first, to receive and send on a deputation from the\nnative tribes which was on its way to Petersburg, and now at Moscow;\nsecondly, to write the promised letter to the lawyer. The deputation,\nthough it had been summoned at Alexey Alexandrovitch s instigation, was\nnot without its discomforting and even dangerous aspect, and he was\nglad he had found it in Moscow. The members of this deputation had not\nthe slightest conception of their duty and the part they were to play.\nThey na vely believed that it was their business to lay before the\ncommission their needs and the actual condition of things, and to ask\nassistance of the government, and utterly failed to grasp that some of\ntheir statements and requests supported the contention of the enemy s\nside, and so spoiled the whole business. Alexey Alexandrovitch was\nbusily engaged with them for a long while, drew up a program for them\nfrom which they were not to depart, and on dismissing them wrote a\nletter to Petersburg for the guidance of the deputation. He had his\nchief support in this affair in the Countess Lidia Ivanovna. She was a\nspecialist in the matter of deputations, and no one knew better than\nshe how to manage them, and put them in the way they should go. Having\ncompleted this task, Alexey Alexandrovitch wrote the letter to the\nlawyer. Without the slightest hesitation he gave him permission to act\nas he might judge best. In the letter he enclosed three of Vronsky s\nnotes to Anna, which were in the portfolio he had taken away.\n\nSince Alexey Alexandrovitch had left home with the intention of not\nreturning to his family again, and since he had been at the lawyer s\nand had spoken, though only to one man, of his intention, since\nespecially he had translated the matter from the world of real life to\nthe world of ink and paper, he had grown more and more used to his own\nintention, and by now distinctly perceived the feasibility of its\nexecution.\n\nHe was sealing the envelope to the lawyer, when he heard the loud tones\nof Stepan Arkadyevitch s voice. Stepan Arkadyevitch was disputing with\nAlexey Alexandrovitch s servant, and insisting on being announced.\n\n No matter,  thought Alexey Alexandrovitch,  so much the better. I will\ninform him at once of my position in regard to his sister, and explain\nwhy it is I can t dine with him. \n\n Come in!  he said aloud, collecting his papers, and putting them in\nthe blotting-paper.\n\n There, you see, you re talking nonsense, and he s at home!  responded\nStepan Arkadyevitch s voice, addressing the servant, who had refused to\nlet him in, and taking off his coat as he went, Oblonsky walked into\nthe room.  Well, I m awfully glad I ve found you! So I hope....  Stepan\nArkadyevitch began cheerfully.\n\n I cannot come,  Alexey Alexandrovitch said coldly, standing and not\nasking his visitor to sit down.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had thought to pass at once into those frigid\nrelations in which he ought to stand with the brother of a wife against\nwhom he was beginning a suit for divorce. But he had not taken into\naccount the ocean of kindliness brimming over in the heart of Stepan\nArkadyevitch.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch opened wide his clear, shining eyes.\n\n Why can t you? What do you mean?  he asked in perplexity, speaking in\nFrench.  Oh, but it s a promise. And we re all counting on you. \n\n I want to tell you that I can t dine at your house, because the terms\nof relationship which have existed between us must cease. \n\n How? How do you mean? What for?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch with a\nsmile.\n\n Because I am beginning an action for divorce against your sister, my\nwife. I ought to have.... \n\nBut, before Alexey Alexandrovitch had time to finish his sentence,\nStepan Arkadyevitch was behaving not at all as he had expected. He\ngroaned and sank into an armchair.\n\n No, Alexey Alexandrovitch! What are you saying?  cried Oblonsky, and\nhis suffering was apparent in his face.\n\n It is so. \n\n Excuse me, I can t, I can t believe it! \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch sat down, feeling that his words had not had the\neffect he anticipated, and that it would be unavoidable for him to\nexplain his position, and that, whatever explanations he might make,\nhis relations with his brother-in-law would remain unchanged.\n\n Yes, I am brought to the painful necessity of seeking a divorce,  he\nsaid.\n\n I will say one thing, Alexey Alexandrovitch. I know you for an\nexcellent, upright man; I know Anna excuse me, I can t change my\nopinion of her for a good, an excellent woman; and so, excuse me, I\ncannot believe it. There is some misunderstanding,  said he.\n\n Oh, if it were merely a misunderstanding!... \n\n Pardon, I understand,  interposed Stepan Arkadyevitch.  But of\ncourse.... One thing: you must not act in haste. You must not, you must\nnot act in haste! \n\n I am not acting in haste,  Alexey Alexandrovitch said coldly,  but one\ncannot ask advice of anyone in such a matter. I have quite made up my\nmind. \n\n This is awful!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  I would do one thing,\nAlexey Alexandrovitch. I beseech you, do it!  he said.  No action has\nyet been taken, if I understand rightly. Before you take advice, see my\nwife, talk to her. She loves Anna like a sister, she loves you, and\nshe s a wonderful woman. For God s sake, talk to her! Do me that favor,\nI beseech you! \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch pondered, and Stepan Arkadyevitch looked at him\nsympathetically, without interrupting his silence.\n\n You will go to see her? \n\n I don t know. That was just why I have not been to see you. I imagine\nour relations must change. \n\n Why so? I don t see that. Allow me to believe that apart from our\nconnection you have for me, at least in part, the same friendly feeling\nI have always had for you ... and sincere esteem,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, pressing his hand.  Even if your worst suppositions were\ncorrect, I don t and never would take on myself to judge either side,\nand I see no reason why our relations should be affected. But now, do\nthis, come and see my wife. \n\n Well, we look at the matter differently,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch\ncoldly.  However, we won t discuss it. \n\n No; why shouldn t you come today to dine, anyway? My wife s expecting\nyou. Please, do come. And, above all, talk it over with her. She s a\nwonderful woman. For God s sake, on my knees, I implore you! \n\n If you so much wish it, I will come,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch,\nsighing.\n\nAnd, anxious to change the conversation, he inquired about what\ninterested them both the new head of Stepan Arkadyevitch s department,\na man not yet old, who had suddenly been promoted to so high a\nposition.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had previously felt no liking for Count\nAnitchkin, and had always differed from him in his opinions. But now,\nfrom a feeling readily comprehensible to officials that hatred felt by\none who has suffered a defeat in the service for one who has received a\npromotion, he could not endure him.\n\n Well, have you seen him?  said Alexey Alexandrovitch with a malignant\nsmile.\n\n Of course; he was at our sitting yesterday. He seems to know his work\ncapitally, and to be very energetic. \n\n Yes, but what is his energy directed to?  said Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n Is he aiming at doing anything, or simply undoing what s been done?\nIt s the great misfortune of our government this paper administration,\nof which he s a worthy representative. \n\n Really, I don t know what fault one could find with him. His policy I\ndon t know, but one thing he s a very nice fellow,  answered Stepan\nArkadyevitch.  I ve just been seeing him, and he s really a capital\nfellow. We lunched together, and I taught him how to make, you know\nthat drink, wine and oranges. It s so cooling. And it s a wonder he\ndidn t know it. He liked it awfully. No, really he s a capital fellow. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch glanced at his watch.\n\n Why, good heavens, it s four already, and I ve still to go to\nDolgovushin s! So please come round to dinner. You can t imagine how\nyou will grieve my wife and me. \n\nThe way in which Alexey Alexandrovitch saw his brother-in-law out was\nvery different from the manner in which he had met him.\n\n I ve promised, and I ll come,  he answered wearily.\n\n Believe me, I appreciate it, and I hope you won t regret it,  answered\nStepan Arkadyevitch, smiling.\n\nAnd, putting on his coat as he went, he patted the footman on the head,\nchuckled, and went out.\n\n At five o clock, and not evening dress, please,  he shouted once more,\nturning at the door.\n\n\nChapter 9\n\nIt was past five, and several guests had already arrived, before the\nhost himself got home. He went in together with Sergey Ivanovitch\nKoznishev and Pestsov, who had reached the street door at the same\nmoment. These were the two leading representatives of the Moscow\nintellectuals, as Oblonsky had called them. Both were men respected for\ntheir character and their intelligence. They respected each other, but\nwere in complete and hopeless disagreement upon almost every subject,\nnot because they belonged to opposite parties, but precisely because\nthey were of the same party (their enemies refused to see any\ndistinction between their views); but, in that party, each had his own\nspecial shade of opinion. And since no difference is less easily\novercome than the difference of opinion about semi-abstract questions,\nthey never agreed in any opinion, and had long, indeed, been accustomed\nto jeer without anger, each at the other s incorrigible aberrations.\n\nThey were just going in at the door, talking of the weather, when\nStepan Arkadyevitch overtook them. In the drawing-room there were\nalready sitting Prince Alexander Dmitrievitch Shtcherbatsky, young\nShtcherbatsky, Turovtsin, Kitty, and Karenin.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch saw immediately that things were not going well in\nthe drawing-room without him. Darya Alexandrovna, in her best gray silk\ngown, obviously worried about the children, who were to have their\ndinner by themselves in the nursery, and by her husband s absence, was\nnot equal to the task of making the party mix without him. All were\nsitting like so many priests  wives on a visit (so the old prince\nexpressed it), obviously wondering why they were there, and pumping up\nremarks simply to avoid being silent. Turovtsin good, simple man felt\nunmistakably a fish out of water, and the smile with which his thick\nlips greeted Stepan Arkadyevitch said, as plainly as words:  Well, old\nboy, you have popped me down in a learned set! A drinking party now, or\nthe _Ch teau des Fleurs_, would be more in my line!  The old prince sat\nin silence, his bright little eyes watching Karenin from one side, and\nStepan Arkadyevitch saw that he had already formed a phrase to sum up\nthat politician of whom guests were invited to partake as though he\nwere a sturgeon. Kitty was looking at the door, calling up all her\nenergies to keep her from blushing at the entrance of Konstantin Levin.\nYoung Shtcherbatsky, who had not been introduced to Karenin, was trying\nto look as though he were not in the least conscious of it. Karenin\nhimself had followed the Petersburg fashion for a dinner with ladies\nand was wearing evening dress and a white tie. Stepan Arkadyevitch saw\nby his face that he had come simply to keep his promise, and was\nperforming a disagreeable duty in being present at this gathering. He\nwas indeed the person chiefly responsible for the chill benumbing all\nthe guests before Stepan Arkadyevitch came in.\n\nOn entering the drawing-room Stepan Arkadyevitch apologized, explaining\nthat he had been detained by that prince, who was always the scapegoat\nfor all his absences and unpunctualities, and in one moment he had made\nall the guests acquainted with each other, and, bringing together\nAlexey Alexandrovitch and Sergey Koznishev, started them on a\ndiscussion of the Russification of Poland, into which they immediately\nplunged with Pestsov. Slapping Turovtsin on the shoulder, he whispered\nsomething comic in his ear, and set him down by his wife and the old\nprince. Then he told Kitty she was looking very pretty that evening,\nand presented Shtcherbatsky to Karenin. In a moment he had so kneaded\ntogether the social dough that the drawing-room became very lively, and\nthere was a merry buzz of voices. Konstantin Levin was the only person\nwho had not arrived. But this was so much the better, as going into the\ndining-room, Stepan Arkadyevitch found to his horror that the port and\nsherry had been procured from Depr , and not from Levy, and, directing\nthat the coachman should be sent off as speedily as possible to Levy s,\nhe was going back to the drawing-room.\n\nIn the dining-room he was met by Konstantin Levin.\n\n I m not late? \n\n You can never help being late!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, taking his\narm.\n\n Have you a lot of people? Who s here?  asked Levin, unable to help\nblushing, as he knocked the snow off his cap with his glove.\n\n All our own set. Kitty s here. Come along, I ll introduce you to\nKarenin. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch, for all his liberal views, was well aware that to\nmeet Karenin was sure to be felt a flattering distinction, and so\ntreated his best friends to this honor. But at that instant Konstantin\nLevin was not in a condition to feel all the gratification of making\nsuch an acquaintance. He had not seen Kitty since that memorable\nevening when he met Vronsky, not counting, that is, the moment when he\nhad had a glimpse of her on the highroad. He had known at the bottom of\nhis heart that he would see her here today. But to keep his thoughts\nfree, he had tried to persuade himself that he did not know it. Now\nwhen he heard that she was here, he was suddenly conscious of such\ndelight, and at the same time of such dread, that his breath failed him\nand he could not utter what he wanted to say.\n\n What is she like, what is she like? Like what she used to be, or like\nwhat she was in the carriage? What if Darya Alexandrovna told the\ntruth? Why shouldn t it be the truth?  he thought.\n\n Oh, please, introduce me to Karenin,  he brought out with an effort,\nand with a desperately determined step he walked into the drawing-room\nand beheld her.\n\nShe was not the same as she used to be, nor was she as she had been in\nthe carriage; she was quite different.\n\nShe was scared, shy, shame-faced, and still more charming from it. She\nsaw him the very instant he walked into the room. She had been\nexpecting him. She was delighted, and so confused at her own delight\nthat there was a moment, the moment when he went up to her sister and\nglanced again at her, when she, and he, and Dolly, who saw it all,\nthought she would break down and would begin to cry. She crimsoned,\nturned white, crimsoned again, and grew faint, waiting with quivering\nlips for him to come to her. He went up to her, bowed, and held out his\nhand without speaking. Except for the slight quiver of her lips and the\nmoisture in her eyes that made them brighter, her smile was almost calm\nas she said:\n\n How long it is since we ve seen each other!  and with desperate\ndetermination she pressed his hand with her cold hand.\n\n You ve not seen me, but I ve seen you,  said Levin, with a radiant\nsmile of happiness.  I saw you when you were driving from the railway\nstation to Ergushovo. \n\n When?  she asked, wondering.\n\n You were driving to Ergushovo,  said Levin, feeling as if he would sob\nwith the rapture that was flooding his heart.  And how dared I\nassociate a thought of anything not innocent with this touching\ncreature? And, yes, I do believe it s true what Darya Alexandrovna told\nme,  he thought.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch took him by the arm and led him away to Karenin.\n\n Let me introduce you.  He mentioned their names.\n\n Very glad to meet you again,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch coldly,\nshaking hands with Levin.\n\n You are acquainted?  Stepan Arkadyevitch asked in surprise.\n\n We spent three hours together in the train,  said Levin smiling,  but\ngot out, just as in a masquerade, quite mystified at least I was. \n\n Nonsense! Come along, please,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, pointing in\nthe direction of the dining-room.\n\nThe men went into the dining-room and went up to a table, laid with six\nsorts of spirits and as many kinds of cheese, some with little silver\nspades and some without, caviar, herrings, preserves of various kinds,\nand plates with slices of French bread.\n\nThe men stood round the strong-smelling spirits and salt delicacies,\nand the discussion of the Russification of Poland between Koznishev,\nKarenin, and Pestsov died down in anticipation of dinner.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch was unequaled in his skill in winding up the most\nheated and serious argument by some unexpected pinch of Attic salt that\nchanged the disposition of his opponent. He did this now.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had been maintaining that the Russification of\nPoland could only be accomplished as a result of larger measures which\nought to be introduced by the Russian government.\n\nPestsov insisted that one country can only absorb another when it is\nthe more densely populated.\n\nKoznishev admitted both points, but with limitations. As they were\ngoing out of the drawing-room to conclude the argument, Koznishev said,\nsmiling:\n\n So, then, for the Russification of our foreign populations there is\nbut one method to bring up as many children as one can. My brother and\nI are terribly in fault, I see. You married men, especially you, Stepan\nArkadyevitch, are the real patriots: what number have you reached?  he\nsaid, smiling genially at their host and holding out a tiny wine-glass\nto him.\n\nEveryone laughed, and Stepan Arkadyevitch with particular good humor.\n\n Oh, yes, that s the best method!  he said, munching cheese and filling\nthe wine-glass with a special sort of spirit. The conversation dropped\nat the jest.\n\n This cheese is not bad. Shall I give you some?  said the master of the\nhouse.  Why, have you been going in for gymnastics again?  he asked\nLevin, pinching his muscle with his left hand. Levin smiled, bent his\narm, and under Stepan Arkadyevitch s fingers the muscles swelled up\nlike a sound cheese, hard as a knob of iron, through the fine cloth of\nthe coat.\n\n What biceps! A perfect Samson! \n\n I imagine great strength is needed for hunting bears,  observed Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, who had the mistiest notions about the chase. He cut\noff and spread with cheese a wafer of bread fine as a spider-web.\n\nLevin smiled.\n\n Not at all. Quite the contrary; a child can kill a bear,  he said,\nwith a slight bow moving aside for the ladies, who were approaching the\ntable.\n\n You have killed a bear, I ve been told!  said Kitty, trying\nassiduously to catch with her fork a perverse mushroom that would slip\naway, and setting the lace quivering over her white arm.  Are there\nbears on your place?  she added, turning her charming little head to\nhim and smiling.\n\nThere was apparently nothing extraordinary in what she said, but what\nunutterable meaning there was for him in every sound, in every turn of\nher lips, her eyes, her hand as she said it! There was entreaty for\nforgiveness, and trust in him, and tenderness soft, timid\ntenderness and promise and hope and love for him, which he could not\nbut believe in and which choked him with happiness.\n\n No, we ve been hunting in the Tver province. It was coming back from\nthere that I met your _beau-fr re_ in the train, or your _beau-fr re s_\nbrother-in-law,  he said with a smile.  It was an amusing meeting. \n\nAnd he began telling with droll good-humor how, after not sleeping all\nnight, he had, wearing an old fur-lined, full-skirted coat, got into\nAlexey Alexandrovitch s compartment.\n\n The conductor, forgetting the proverb, would have chucked me out on\naccount of my attire; but thereupon I began expressing my feelings in\nelevated language, and ... you, too,  he said, addressing Karenin and\nforgetting his name,  at first would have ejected me on the ground of\nthe old coat, but afterwards you took my part, for which I am extremely\ngrateful. \n\n The rights of passengers generally to choose their seats are too\nill-defined,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, rubbing the tips of his\nfingers on his handkerchief.\n\n I saw you were in uncertainty about me,  said Levin, smiling\ngood-naturedly,  but I made haste to plunge into intellectual\nconversation to smooth over the defects of my attire.  Sergey\nIvanovitch, while he kept up a conversation with their hostess, had one\near for his brother, and he glanced askance at him.  What is the matter\nwith him today? Why such a conquering hero?  he thought. He did not\nknow that Levin was feeling as though he had grown wings. Levin knew\nshe was listening to his words and that she was glad to listen to him.\nAnd this was the only thing that interested him. Not in that room only,\nbut in the whole world, there existed for him only himself, with\nenormously increased importance and dignity in his own eyes, and she.\nHe felt himself on a pinnacle that made him giddy, and far away down\nbelow were all those nice excellent Karenins, Oblonskys, and all the\nworld.\n\nQuite without attracting notice, without glancing at them, as though\nthere were no other places left, Stepan Arkadyevitch put Levin and\nKitty side by side.\n\n Oh, you may as well sit there,  he said to Levin.\n\nThe dinner was as choice as the china, in which Stepan Arkadyevitch was\na connoisseur. The _soupe Marie-Louise_ was a splendid success; the\ntiny pies eaten with it melted in the mouth and were irreproachable.\nThe two footmen and Matvey, in white cravats, did their duty with the\ndishes and wines unobtrusively, quietly, and swiftly. On the material\nside the dinner was a success; it was no less so on the immaterial. The\nconversation, at times general and at times between individuals, never\npaused, and towards the end the company was so lively that the men rose\nfrom the table, without stopping speaking, and even Alexey\nAlexandrovitch thawed.\n\n\nChapter 10\n\nPestsov liked thrashing an argument out to the end, and was not\nsatisfied with Sergey Ivanovitch s words, especially as he felt the\ninjustice of his view.\n\n I did not mean,  he said over the soup, addressing Alexey\nAlexandrovitch,  mere density of population alone, but in conjunction\nwith fundamental ideas, and not by means of principles. \n\n It seems to me,  Alexey Alexandrovitch said languidly, and with no\nhaste,  that that s the same thing. In my opinion, influence over\nanother people is only possible to the people which has the higher\ndevelopment, which.... \n\n But that s just the question,  Pestsov broke in in his bass. He was\nalways in a hurry to speak, and seemed always to put his whole soul\ninto what he was saying.  In what are we to make higher development\nconsist? The English, the French, the Germans, which is at the highest\nstage of development? Which of them will nationalize the other? We see\nthe Rhine provinces have been turned French, but the Germans are not at\na lower stage!  he shouted.  There is another law at work there. \n\n I fancy that the greater influence is always on the side of true\ncivilization,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, slightly lifting his\neyebrows.\n\n But what are we to lay down as the outward signs of true\ncivilization?  said Pestsov.\n\n I imagine such signs are generally very well known,  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.\n\n But are they fully known?  Sergey Ivanovitch put in with a subtle\nsmile.  It is the accepted view now that real culture must be purely\nclassical; but we see most intense disputes on each side of the\nquestion, and there is no denying that the opposite camp has strong\npoints in its favor. \n\n You are for classics, Sergey Ivanovitch. Will you take red wine?  said\nStepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n I am not expressing my own opinion of either form of culture,  Sergey\nIvanovitch said, holding out his glass with a smile of condescension,\nas to a child.  I only say that both sides have strong arguments to\nsupport them,  he went on, addressing Alexey Alexandrovitch.  My\nsympathies are classical from education, but in this discussion I am\npersonally unable to arrive at a conclusion. I see no distinct grounds\nfor classical studies being given a preeminence over scientific\nstudies. \n\n The natural sciences have just as great an educational value,  put in\nPestsov.  Take astronomy, take botany, or zoology with its system of\ngeneral principles. \n\n I cannot quite agree with that,  responded Alexey Alexandrovitch.  It\nseems to me that one must admit that the very process of studying the\nforms of language has a peculiarly favorable influence on intellectual\ndevelopment. Moreover, it cannot be denied that the influence of the\nclassical authors is in the highest degree moral, while, unfortunately,\nwith the study of the natural sciences are associated the false and\nnoxious doctrines which are the curse of our day. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch would have said something, but Pestsov interrupted\nhim in his rich bass. He began warmly contesting the justice of this\nview. Sergey Ivanovitch waited serenely to speak, obviously with a\nconvincing reply ready.\n\n But,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, smiling subtly, and addressing Karenin,\n One must allow that to weigh all the advantages and disadvantages of\nclassical and scientific studies is a difficult task, and the question\nwhich form of education was to be preferred would not have been so\nquickly and conclusively decided if there had not been in favor of\nclassical education, as you expressed it just now, its moral _disons le\nmot_ anti-nihilist influence. \n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n If it had not been for the distinctive property of anti-nihilistic\ninfluence on the side of classical studies, we should have considered\nthe subject more, have weighed the arguments on both sides,  said\nSergey Ivanovitch with a subtle smile,  we should have given elbow-room\nto both tendencies. But now we know that these little pills of\nclassical learning possess the medicinal property of anti-nihilism, and\nwe boldly prescribe them to our patients.... But what if they had no\nsuch medicinal property?  he wound up humorously.\n\nAt Sergey Ivanovitch s little pills, everyone laughed; Turovtsin in\nespecial roared loudly and jovially, glad at last to have found\nsomething to laugh at, all he ever looked for in listening to\nconversation.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch had not made a mistake in inviting Pestsov. With\nPestsov intellectual conversation never flagged for an instant.\nDirectly Sergey Ivanovitch had concluded the conversation with his\njest, Pestsov promptly started a new one.\n\n I can t agree even,  said he,  that the government had that aim. The\ngovernment obviously is guided by abstract considerations, and remains\nindifferent to the influence its measures may exercise. The education\nof women, for instance, would naturally be regarded as likely to be\nharmful, but the government opens schools and universities for women. \n\nAnd the conversation at once passed to the new subject of the education\nof women.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch expressed the idea that the education of women is\napt to be confounded with the emancipation of women, and that it is\nonly so that it can be considered dangerous.\n\n I consider, on the contrary, that the two questions are inseparably\nconnected together,  said Pestsov;  it is a vicious circle. Woman is\ndeprived of rights from lack of education, and the lack of education\nresults from the absence of rights. We must not forget that the\nsubjection of women is so complete, and dates from such ages back that\nwe are often unwilling to recognize the gulf that separates them from\nus,  said he.\n\n You said rights,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, waiting till Pestsov had\nfinished,  meaning the right of sitting on juries, of voting, of\npresiding at official meetings, the right of entering the civil\nservice, of sitting in parliament.... \n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n But if women, as a rare exception, can occupy such positions, it seems\nto me you are wrong in using the expression  rights.  It would be more\ncorrect to say duties. Every man will agree that in doing the duty of a\njuryman, a witness, a telegraph clerk, we feel we are performing\nduties. And therefore it would be correct to say that women are seeking\nduties, and quite legitimately. And one can but sympathize with this\ndesire to assist in the general labor of man. \n\n Quite so,  Alexey Alexandrovitch assented.  The question, I imagine,\nis simply whether they are fitted for such duties. \n\n They will most likely be perfectly fitted,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\n when education has become general among them. We see this.... \n\n How about the proverb?  said the prince, who had a long while been\nintent on the conversation, his little comical eyes twinkling.  I can\nsay it before my daughter: her hair is long, because her wit is.... \n\n Just what they thought of the negroes before their emancipation!  said\nPestsov angrily.\n\n What seems strange to me is that women should seek fresh duties,  said\nSergey Ivanovitch,  while we see, unhappily, that men usually try to\navoid them. \n\n Duties are bound up with rights power, money, honor; those are what\nwomen are seeking,  said Pestsov.\n\n Just as though I should seek the right to be a wet-nurse and feel\ninjured because women are paid for the work, while no one will take\nme,  said the old prince.\n\nTurovtsin exploded in a loud roar of laughter and Sergey Ivanovitch\nregretted that he had not made this comparison. Even Alexey\nAlexandrovitch smiled.\n\n Yes, but a man can t nurse a baby,  said Pestsov,  while a woman.... \n\n No, there was an Englishman who did suckle his baby on board ship, \nsaid the old prince, feeling this freedom in conversation permissible\nbefore his own daughters.\n\n There are as many such Englishmen as there would be women officials, \nsaid Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n Yes, but what is a girl to do who has no family?  put in Stepan\nArkadyevitch, thinking of Masha Tchibisova, whom he had had in his mind\nall along, in sympathizing with Pestsov and supporting him.\n\n If the story of such a girl were thoroughly sifted, you would find she\nhad abandoned a family her own or a sister s, where she might have\nfound a woman s duties,  Darya Alexandrovna broke in unexpectedly in a\ntone of exasperation, probably suspecting what sort of girl Stepan\nArkadyevitch was thinking of.\n\n But we take our stand on principle as the ideal,  replied Pestsov in\nhis mellow bass.  Woman desires to have rights, to be independent,\neducated. She is oppressed, humiliated by the consciousness of her\ndisabilities. \n\n And I m oppressed and humiliated that they won t engage me at the\nFoundling,  the old prince said again, to the huge delight of\nTurovtsin, who in his mirth dropped his asparagus with the thick end in\nthe sauce.\n\n\nChapter 11\n\nEveryone took part in the conversation except Kitty and Levin. At\nfirst, when they were talking of the influence that one people has on\nanother, there rose to Levin s mind what he had to say on the subject.\nBut these ideas, once of such importance in his eyes, seemed to come\ninto his brain as in a dream, and had now not the slightest interest\nfor him. It even struck him as strange that they should be so eager to\ntalk of what was of no use to anyone. Kitty, too, should, one would\nhave supposed, have been interested in what they were saying of the\nrights and education of women. How often she had mused on the subject,\nthinking of her friend abroad, Varenka, of her painful state of\ndependence, how often she had wondered about herself what would become\nof her if she did not marry, and how often she had argued with her\nsister about it! But it did not interest her at all. She and Levin had\na conversation of their own, yet not a conversation, but some sort of\nmysterious communication, which brought them every moment nearer, and\nstirred in both a sense of glad terror before the unknown into which\nthey were entering.\n\nAt first Levin, in answer to Kitty s question how he could have seen\nher last year in the carriage, told her how he had been coming home\nfrom the mowing along the highroad and had met her.\n\n It was very, very early in the morning. You were probably only just\nawake. Your mother was asleep in the corner. It was an exquisite\nmorning. I was walking along wondering who it could be in a\nfour-in-hand? It was a splendid set of four horses with bells, and in a\nsecond you flashed by, and I saw you at the window you were sitting\nlike this, holding the strings of your cap in both hands, and thinking\nawfully deeply about something,  he said, smiling.  How I should like\nto know what you were thinking about then! Something important? \n\n Wasn t I dreadfully untidy?  she wondered, but seeing the smile of\necstasy these reminiscences called up, she felt that the impression she\nhad made had been very good. She blushed and laughed with delight;\n Really I don t remember. \n\n How nicely Turovtsin laughs!  said Levin, admiring his moist eyes and\nshaking chest.\n\n Have you known him long?  asked Kitty.\n\n Oh, everyone knows him! \n\n And I see you think he s a horrid man? \n\n Not horrid, but nothing in him. \n\n Oh, you re wrong! And you must give up thinking so directly!  said\nKitty.  I used to have a very poor opinion of him too, but he, he s an\nawfully nice and wonderfully good-hearted man. He has a heart of gold. \n\n How could you find out what sort of heart he has? \n\n We are great friends. I know him very well. Last winter, soon after\n... you came to see us,  she said, with a guilty and at the same time\nconfiding smile,  all Dolly s children had scarlet fever, and he\nhappened to come and see her. And only fancy,  she said in a whisper,\n he felt so sorry for her that he stayed and began to help her look\nafter the children. Yes, and for three weeks he stopped with them, and\nlooked after the children like a nurse. \n\n I am telling Konstantin Dmitrievitch about Turovtsin in the scarlet\nfever,  she said, bending over to her sister.\n\n Yes, it was wonderful, noble!  said Dolly, glancing towards Turovtsin,\nwho had become aware they were talking of him, and smiling gently to\nhim. Levin glanced once more at Turovtsin, and wondered how it was he\nhad not realized all this man s goodness before.\n\n I m sorry, I m sorry, and I ll never think ill of people again!  he\nsaid gaily, genuinely expressing what he felt at the moment.\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nConnected with the conversation that had sprung up on the rights of\nwomen there were certain questions as to the inequality of rights in\nmarriage improper to discuss before the ladies. Pestsov had several\ntimes during dinner touched upon these questions, but Sergey Ivanovitch\nand Stepan Arkadyevitch carefully drew him off them.\n\nWhen they rose from the table and the ladies had gone out, Pestsov did\nnot follow them, but addressing Alexey Alexandrovitch, began to expound\nthe chief ground of inequality. The inequality in marriage, in his\nopinion, lay in the fact that the infidelity of the wife and the\ninfidelity of the husband are punished unequally, both by the law and\nby public opinion. Stepan Arkadyevitch went hurriedly up to Alexey\nAlexandrovitch and offered him a cigar.\n\n No, I don t smoke,  Alexey Alexandrovitch answered calmly, and as\nthough purposely wishing to show that he was not afraid of the subject,\nhe turned to Pestsov with a chilly smile.\n\n I imagine that such a view has a foundation in the very nature of\nthings,  he said, and would have gone on to the drawing-room. But at\nthis point Turovtsin broke suddenly and unexpectedly into the\nconversation, addressing Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n You heard, perhaps, about Pryatchnikov?  said Turovtsin, warmed up by\nthe champagne he had drunk, and long waiting for an opportunity to\nbreak the silence that had weighed on him.  Vasya Pryatchnikov,  he\nsaid, with a good-natured smile on his damp, red lips, addressing\nhimself principally to the most important guest, Alexey Alexandrovitch,\n they told me today he fought a duel with Kvitsky at Tver, and has\nkilled him. \n\nJust as it always seems that one bruises oneself on a sore place, so\nStepan Arkadyevitch felt now that the conversation would by ill luck\nfall every moment on Alexey Alexandrovitch s sore spot. He would again\nhave got his brother-in-law away, but Alexey Alexandrovitch himself\ninquired, with curiosity:\n\n What did Pryatchnikov fight about? \n\n His wife. Acted like a man, he did! Called him out and shot him! \n\n Ah!  said Alexey Alexandrovitch indifferently, and lifting his\neyebrows, he went into the drawing-room.\n\n How glad I am you have come,  Dolly said with a frightened smile,\nmeeting him in the outer drawing-room.  I must talk to you. Let s sit\nhere. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, with the same expression of indifference, given\nhim by his lifted eyebrows, sat down beside Darya Alexandrovna, and\nsmiled affectedly.\n\n It s fortunate,  said he,  especially as I was meaning to ask you to\nexcuse me, and to be taking leave. I have to start tomorrow. \n\nDarya Alexandrovna was firmly convinced of Anna s innocence, and she\nfelt herself growing pale and her lips quivering with anger at this\nfrigid, unfeeling man, who was so calmly intending to ruin her innocent\nfriend.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch,  she said, with desperate resolution looking\nhim in the face,  I asked you about Anna, you made me no answer. How is\nshe? \n\n She is, I believe, quite well, Darya Alexandrovna,  replied Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, not looking at her.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch, forgive me, I have no right ... but I love Anna\nas a sister, and esteem her; I beg, I beseech you to tell me what is\nwrong between you? what fault do you find with her? \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch frowned, and almost closing his eyes, dropped his\nhead.\n\n I presume that your husband has told you the grounds on which I\nconsider it necessary to change my attitude to Anna Arkadyevna?  he\nsaid, not looking her in the face, but eyeing with displeasure\nShtcherbatsky, who was walking across the drawing-room.\n\n I don t believe it, I don t believe it, I can t believe it!  Dolly\nsaid, clasping her bony hands before her with a vigorous gesture. She\nrose quickly, and laid her hand on Alexey Alexandrovitch s sleeve.  We\nshall be disturbed here. Come this way, please. \n\nDolly s agitation had an effect on Alexey Alexandrovitch. He got up and\nsubmissively followed her to the schoolroom. They sat down to a table\ncovered with an oilcloth cut in slits by penknives.\n\n I don t, I don t believe it!  Dolly said, trying to catch his glance\nthat avoided her.\n\n One cannot disbelieve facts, Darya Alexandrovna,  said he, with an\nemphasis on the word  facts. \n\n But what has she done?  said Darya Alexandrovna.  What precisely has\nshe done? \n\n She has forsaken her duty, and deceived her husband. That s what she\nhas done,  said he.\n\n No, no, it can t be! No, for God s sake, you are mistaken,  said\nDolly, putting her hands to her temples and closing her eyes.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch smiled coldly, with his lips alone, meaning to\nsignify to her and to himself the firmness of his conviction; but this\nwarm defense, though it could not shake him, reopened his wound. He\nbegan to speak with greater heat.\n\n It is extremely difficult to be mistaken when a wife herself informs\nher husband of the fact informs him that eight years of her life, and a\nson, all that s a mistake, and that she wants to begin life again,  he\nsaid angrily, with a snort.\n\n Anna and sin I cannot connect them, I cannot believe it! \n\n Darya Alexandrovna,  he said, now looking straight into Dolly s\nkindly, troubled face, and feeling that his tongue was being loosened\nin spite of himself,  I would give a great deal for doubt to be still\npossible. When I doubted, I was miserable, but it was better than now.\nWhen I doubted, I had hope; but now there is no hope, and still I doubt\nof everything. I am in such doubt of everything that I even hate my\nson, and sometimes do not believe he is my son. I am very unhappy. \n\nHe had no need to say that. Darya Alexandrovna had seen that as soon as\nhe glanced into her face; and she felt sorry for him, and her faith in\nthe innocence of her friend began to totter.\n\n Oh, this is awful, awful! But can it be true that you are resolved on\na divorce? \n\n I am resolved on extreme measures. There is nothing else for me to\ndo. \n\n Nothing else to do, nothing else to do....  she replied, with tears in\nher eyes.  Oh no, don t say nothing else to do!  she said.\n\n What is horrible in a trouble of this kind is that one cannot, as in\nany other in loss, in death bear one s trouble in peace, but that one\nmust act,  said he, as though guessing her thought.  One must get out\nof the humiliating position in which one is placed; one can t live _ \ntrois_. \n\n I understand, I quite understand that,  said Dolly, and her head sank.\nShe was silent for a little, thinking of herself, of her own grief in\nher family, and all at once, with an impulsive movement, she raised her\nhead and clasped her hands with an imploring gesture.  But wait a\nlittle! You are a Christian. Think of her! What will become of her, if\nyou cast her off? \n\n I have thought, Darya Alexandrovna, I have thought a great deal,  said\nAlexey Alexandrovitch. His face turned red in patches, and his dim eyes\nlooked straight before him. Darya Alexandrovna at that moment pitied\nhim with all her heart.  That was what I did indeed when she herself\nmade known to me my humiliation; I left everything as of old. I gave\nher a chance to reform, I tried to save her. And with what result? She\nwould not regard the slightest request that she should observe\ndecorum,  he said, getting heated.  One may save anyone who does not\nwant to be ruined; but if the whole nature is so corrupt, so depraved,\nthat ruin itself seems to be her salvation, what s to be done? \n\n Anything, only not divorce!  answered Darya Alexandrovna\n\n But what is anything? \n\n No, it is awful! She will be no one s wife, she will be lost! \n\n What can I do?  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, raising his shoulders and\nhis eyebrows. The recollection of his wife s last act had so incensed\nhim that he had become frigid, as at the beginning of the conversation.\n I am very grateful for your sympathy, but I must be going,  he said,\ngetting up.\n\n No, wait a minute. You must not ruin her. Wait a little; I will tell\nyou about myself. I was married, and my husband deceived me; in anger\nand jealousy, I would have thrown up everything, I would myself.... But\nI came to myself again; and who did it? Anna saved me. And here I am\nliving on. The children are growing up, my husband has come back to his\nfamily, and feels his fault, is growing purer, better, and I live\non.... I have forgiven it, and you ought to forgive! \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch heard her, but her words had no effect on him\nnow. All the hatred of that day when he had resolved on a divorce had\nsprung up again in his soul. He shook himself, and said in a shrill,\nloud voice:\n\n Forgive I cannot, and do not wish to, and I regard it as wrong. I have\ndone everything for this woman, and she has trodden it all in the mud\nto which she is akin. I am not a spiteful man, I have never hated\nanyone, but I hate her with my whole soul, and I cannot even forgive\nher, because I hate her too much for all the wrong she has done me!  he\nsaid, with tones of hatred in his voice.\n\n Love those that hate you....  Darya Alexandrovna whispered timorously.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch smiled contemptuously. That he knew long ago, but\nit could not be applied to his case.\n\n Love those that hate you, but to love those one hates is impossible.\nForgive me for having troubled you. Everyone has enough to bear in his\nown grief!  And regaining his self-possession, Alexey Alexandrovitch\nquietly took leave and went away.\n\n\nChapter 13\n\nWhen they rose from table, Levin would have liked to follow Kitty into\nthe drawing-room; but he was afraid she might dislike this, as too\nobviously paying her attention. He remained in the little ring of men,\ntaking part in the general conversation, and without looking at Kitty,\nhe was aware of her movements, her looks, and the place where she was\nin the drawing-room.\n\nHe did at once, and without the smallest effort, keep the promise he\nhad made her always to think well of all men, and to like everyone\nalways. The conversation fell on the village commune, in which Pestsov\nsaw a sort of special principle, called by him the  choral  principle.\nLevin did not agree with Pestsov, nor with his brother, who had a\nspecial attitude of his own, both admitting and not admitting the\nsignificance of the Russian commune. But he talked to them, simply\ntrying to reconcile and soften their differences. He was not in the\nleast interested in what he said himself, and even less so in what they\nsaid; all he wanted was that they and everyone should be happy and\ncontented. He knew now the one thing of importance; and that one thing\nwas at first there, in the drawing-room, and then began moving across\nand came to a standstill at the door. Without turning round he felt the\neyes fixed on him, and the smile, and he could not help turning round.\nShe was standing in the doorway with Shtcherbatsky, looking at him.\n\n I thought you were going towards the piano,  said he, going up to her.\n That s something I miss in the country music. \n\n No; we only came to fetch you and thank you,  she said, rewarding him\nwith a smile that was like a gift,  for coming. What do they want to\nargue for? No one ever convinces anyone, you know. \n\n Yes; that s true,  said Levin;  it generally happens that one argues\nwarmly simply because one can t make out what one s opponent wants to\nprove. \n\nLevin had often noticed in discussions between the most intelligent\npeople that after enormous efforts, and an enormous expenditure of\nlogical subtleties and words, the disputants finally arrived at being\naware that what they had so long been struggling to prove to one\nanother had long ago, from the beginning of the argument, been known to\nboth, but that they liked different things, and would not define what\nthey liked for fear of its being attacked. He had often had the\nexperience of suddenly in a discussion grasping what it was his\nopponent liked and at once liking it too, and immediately he found\nhimself agreeing, and then all arguments fell away as useless.\nSometimes, too, he had experienced the opposite, expressing at last\nwhat he liked himself, which he was devising arguments to defend, and,\nchancing to express it well and genuinely, he had found his opponent at\nonce agreeing and ceasing to dispute his position. He tried to say\nthis.\n\nShe knitted her brow, trying to understand. But directly he began to\nillustrate his meaning, she understood at once.\n\n I know: one must find out what he is arguing for, what is precious to\nhim, then one can.... \n\nShe had completely guessed and expressed his badly expressed idea.\nLevin smiled joyfully; he was struck by this transition from the\nconfused, verbose discussion with Pestsov and his brother to this\nlaconic, clear, almost wordless communication of the most complex\nideas.\n\nShtcherbatsky moved away from them, and Kitty, going up to a\ncard-table, sat down, and, taking up the chalk, began drawing diverging\ncircles over the new green cloth.\n\nThey began again on the subject that had been started at dinner the\nliberty and occupations of women. Levin was of the opinion of Darya\nAlexandrovna that a girl who did not marry should find a woman s duties\nin a family. He supported this view by the fact that no family can get\non without women to help; that in every family, poor or rich, there are\nand must be nurses, either relations or hired.\n\n No,  said Kitty, blushing, but looking at him all the more boldly with\nher truthful eyes;  a girl may be so circumstanced that she cannot live\nin the family without humiliation, while she herself.... \n\nAt the hint he understood her.\n\n Oh, yes,  he said.  Yes, yes, yes you re right; you re right! \n\nAnd he saw all that Pestsov had been maintaining at dinner of the\nliberty of woman, simply from getting a glimpse of the terror of an old\nmaid s existence and its humiliation in Kitty s heart; and loving her,\nhe felt that terror and humiliation, and at once gave up his arguments.\n\nA silence followed. She was still drawing with the chalk on the table.\nHer eyes were shining with a soft light. Under the influence of her\nmood he felt in all his being a continually growing tension of\nhappiness.\n\n Ah! I ve scribbled all over the table!  she said, and, laying down the\nchalk, she made a movement as though to get up.\n\n What! shall I be left alone without her?  he thought with horror, and\nhe took the chalk.  Wait a minute,  he said, sitting down to the table.\n I ve long wanted to ask you one thing. \n\nHe looked straight into her caressing, though frightened eyes.\n\n Please, ask it. \n\n Here,  he said; and he wrote the initial letters, _w, y, t, m, i, c,\nn, b, d, t, m, n, o, t_. These letters meant,  When you told me it\ncould never be, did that mean never, or then?  There seemed no\nlikelihood that she could make out this complicated sentence; but he\nlooked at her as though his life depended on her understanding the\nwords. She glanced at him seriously, then leaned her puckered brow on\nher hands and began to read. Once or twice she stole a look at him, as\nthough asking him,  Is it what I think? \n\n I understand,  she said, flushing a little.\n\n What is this word?  he said, pointing to the _n_ that stood for\n_never_.\n\n It means _never_,  she said;  but that s not true! \n\nHe quickly rubbed out what he had written, gave her the chalk, and\nstood up. She wrote, _t, i, c, n, a, d_.\n\nDolly was completely comforted in the depression caused by her\nconversation with Alexey Alexandrovitch when she caught sight of the\ntwo figures: Kitty with the chalk in her hand, with a shy and happy\nsmile looking upwards at Levin, and his handsome figure bending over\nthe table with glowing eyes fastened one minute on the table and the\nnext on her. He was suddenly radiant: he had understood. It meant,\n Then I could not answer differently. \n\nHe glanced at her questioningly, timidly.\n\n Only then? \n\n Yes,  her smile answered.\n\n And n... and now?  he asked.\n\n Well, read this. I ll tell you what I should like should like so\nmuch!  she wrote the initial letters, _i, y, c, f, a, f, w, h._ This\nmeant,  If you could forget and forgive what happened. \n\nHe snatched the chalk with nervous, trembling fingers, and breaking it,\nwrote the initial letters of the following phrase,  I have nothing to\nforget and to forgive; I have never ceased to love you. \n\nShe glanced at him with a smile that did not waver.\n\n I understand,  she said in a whisper.\n\nHe sat down and wrote a long phrase. She understood it all, and without\nasking him,  Is it this?  took the chalk and at once answered.\n\nFor a long while he could not understand what she had written, and\noften looked into her eyes. He was stupefied with happiness. He could\nnot supply the word she had meant; but in her charming eyes, beaming\nwith happiness, he saw all he needed to know. And he wrote three\nletters. But he had hardly finished writing when she read them over her\narm, and herself finished and wrote the answer,  Yes. \n\n You re playing _secr taire_?  said the old prince.  But we must really\nbe getting along if you want to be in time at the theater. \n\nLevin got up and escorted Kitty to the door.\n\nIn their conversation everything had been said; it had been said that\nshe loved him, and that she would tell her father and mother that he\nwould come tomorrow morning.\n\n\nChapter 14\n\nWhen Kitty had gone and Levin was left alone, he felt such uneasiness\nwithout her, and such an impatient longing to get as quickly, as\nquickly as possible, to tomorrow morning, when he would see her again\nand be plighted to her forever, that he felt afraid, as though of\ndeath, of those fourteen hours that he had to get through without her.\nIt was essential for him to be with someone to talk to, so as not to be\nleft alone, to kill time. Stepan Arkadyevitch would have been the\ncompanion most congenial to him, but he was going out, he said, to a\n_soir e_, in reality to the ballet. Levin only had time to tell him he\nwas happy, and that he loved him, and would never, never forget what he\nhad done for him. The eyes and the smile of Stepan Arkadyevitch showed\nLevin that he comprehended that feeling fittingly.\n\n Oh, so it s not time to die yet?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, pressing\nLevin s hand with emotion.\n\n N-n-no!  said Levin.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna too, as she said good-bye to him, gave him a sort of\ncongratulation, saying,  How glad I am you have met Kitty again! One\nmust value old friends.  Levin did not like these words of Darya\nAlexandrovna s. She could not understand how lofty and beyond her it\nall was, and she ought not to have dared to allude to it. Levin said\ngood-bye to them, but, not to be left alone, he attached himself to his\nbrother.\n\n Where are you going? \n\n I m going to a meeting. \n\n Well, I ll come with you. May I? \n\n What for? Yes, come along,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, smiling.  What is\nthe matter with you today? \n\n With me? Happiness is the matter with me!  said Levin, letting down\nthe window of the carriage they were driving in.  You don t mind? it s\nso stifling. It s happiness is the matter with me! Why is it you have\nnever married? \n\nSergey Ivanovitch smiled.\n\n I am very glad, she seems a nice gi....  Sergey Ivanovitch was\nbeginning.\n\n Don t say it! don t say it!  shouted Levin, clutching at the collar of\nhis fur coat with both hands, and muffling him up in it.  She s a nice\ngirl  were such simple, humble words, so out of harmony with his\nfeeling.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch laughed outright a merry laugh, which was rare with\nhim.  Well, anyway, I may say that I m very glad of it. \n\n That you may do tomorrow, tomorrow and nothing more! Nothing, nothing,\nsilence,  said Levin, and muffling him once more in his fur coat, he\nadded:  I do like you so! Well, is it possible for me to be present at\nthe meeting? \n\n Of course it is. \n\n What is your discussion about today?  asked Levin, never ceasing\nsmiling.\n\nThey arrived at the meeting. Levin heard the secretary hesitatingly\nread the minutes which he obviously did not himself understand; but\nLevin saw from this secretary s face what a good, nice, kind-hearted\nperson he was. This was evident from his confusion and embarrassment in\nreading the minutes. Then the discussion began. They were disputing\nabout the misappropriation of certain sums and the laying of certain\npipes, and Sergey Ivanovitch was very cutting to two members, and said\nsomething at great length with an air of triumph; and another member,\nscribbling something on a bit of paper, began timidly at first, but\nafterwards answered him very viciously and delightfully. And then\nSviazhsky (he was there too) said something too, very handsomely and\nnobly. Levin listened to them, and saw clearly that these missing sums\nand these pipes were not anything real, and that they were not at all\nangry, but were all the nicest, kindest people, and everything was as\nhappy and charming as possible among them. They did no harm to anyone,\nand were all enjoying it. What struck Levin was that he could see\nthrough them all today, and from little, almost imperceptible signs\nknew the soul of each, and saw distinctly that they were all good at\nheart. And Levin himself in particular they were all extremely fond of\nthat day. That was evident from the way they spoke to him, from the\nfriendly, affectionate way even those he did not know looked at him.\n\n Well, did you like it?  Sergey Ivanovitch asked him.\n\n Very much. I never supposed it was so interesting! Capital! Splendid! \n\nSviazhsky went up to Levin and invited him to come round to tea with\nhim. Levin was utterly at a loss to comprehend or recall what it was he\nhad disliked in Sviazhsky, what he had failed to find in him. He was a\nclever and wonderfully good-hearted man.\n\n Most delighted,  he said, and asked after his wife and sister-in-law.\nAnd from a queer association of ideas, because in his imagination the\nidea of Sviazhsky s sister-in-law was connected with marriage, it\noccurred to him that there was no one to whom he could more suitably\nspeak of his happiness, and he was very glad to go and see them.\n\nSviazhsky questioned him about his improvements on his estate,\npresupposing, as he always did, that there was no possibility of doing\nanything not done already in Europe, and now this did not in the least\nannoy Levin. On the contrary, he felt that Sviazhsky was right, that\nthe whole business was of little value, and he saw the wonderful\nsoftness and consideration with which Sviazhsky avoided fully\nexpressing his correct view. The ladies of the Sviazhsky household were\nparticularly delightful. It seemed to Levin that they knew all about it\nalready and sympathized with him, saying nothing merely from delicacy.\nHe stayed with them one hour, two, three, talking of all sorts of\nsubjects but the one thing that filled his heart, and did not observe\nthat he was boring them dreadfully, and that it was long past their\nbedtime.\n\nSviazhsky went with him into the hall, yawning and wondering at the\nstrange humor his friend was in. It was past one o clock. Levin went\nback to his hotel, and was dismayed at the thought that all alone now\nwith his impatience he had ten hours still left to get through. The\nservant, whose turn it was to be up all night, lighted his candles, and\nwould have gone away, but Levin stopped him. This servant, Yegor, whom\nLevin had noticed before, struck him as a very intelligent, excellent,\nand, above all, good-hearted man.\n\n Well, Yegor, it s hard work not sleeping, isn t it? \n\n One s got to put up with it! It s part of our work, you see. In a\ngentleman s house it s easier; but then here one makes more. \n\nIt appeared that Yegor had a family, three boys and a daughter, a\nsempstress, whom he wanted to marry to a cashier in a saddler s shop.\n\nLevin, on hearing this, informed Yegor that, in his opinion, in\nmarriage the great thing was love, and that with love one would always\nbe happy, for happiness rests only on oneself.\n\nYegor listened attentively, and obviously quite took in Levin s idea,\nbut by way of assent to it he enunciated, greatly to Levin s surprise,\nthe observation that when he had lived with good masters he had always\nbeen satisfied with his masters, and now was perfectly satisfied with\nhis employer, though he was a Frenchman.\n\n Wonderfully good-hearted fellow!  thought Levin.\n\n Well, but you yourself, Yegor, when you got married, did you love your\nwife? \n\n Ay! and why not?  responded Yegor.\n\nAnd Levin saw that Yegor too was in an excited state and intending to\nexpress all his most heartfelt emotions.\n\n My life, too, has been a wonderful one. From a child up....  he was\nbeginning with flashing eyes, apparently catching Levin s enthusiasm,\njust as people catch yawning.\n\nBut at that moment a ring was heard. Yegor departed, and Levin was left\nalone. He had eaten scarcely anything at dinner, had refused tea and\nsupper at Sviazhsky s, but he was incapable of thinking of supper. He\nhad not slept the previous night, but was incapable of thinking of\nsleep either. His room was cold, but he was oppressed by heat. He\nopened both the movable panes in his window and sat down to the table\nopposite the open panes. Over the snow-covered roofs could be seen a\ndecorated cross with chains, and above it the rising triangle of\nCharles s Wain with the yellowish light of Capella. He gazed at the\ncross, then at the stars, drank in the fresh freezing air that flowed\nevenly into the room, and followed as though in a dream the images and\nmemories that rose in his imagination. At four o clock he heard steps\nin the passage and peeped out at the door. It was the gambler Myaskin,\nwhom he knew, coming from the club. He walked gloomily, frowning and\ncoughing.  Poor, unlucky fellow!  thought Levin, and tears came into\nhis eyes from love and pity for this man. He would have talked with\nhim, and tried to comfort him, but remembering that he had nothing but\nhis shirt on, he changed his mind and sat down again at the open pane\nto bathe in the cold air and gaze at the exquisite lines of the cross,\nsilent, but full of meaning for him, and the mounting lurid yellow\nstar. At seven o clock there was a noise of people polishing the\nfloors, and bells ringing in some servants  department, and Levin felt\nthat he was beginning to get frozen. He closed the pane, washed,\ndressed, and went out into the street.\n\n\nChapter 15\n\nThe streets were still empty. Levin went to the house of the\nShtcherbatskys. The visitors  doors were closed and everything was\nasleep. He walked back, went into his room again, and asked for coffee.\nThe day servant, not Yegor this time, brought it to him. Levin would\nhave entered into conversation with him, but a bell rang for the\nservant, and he went out. Levin tried to drink coffee and put some roll\nin his mouth, but his mouth was quite at a loss what to do with the\nroll. Levin, rejecting the roll, put on his coat and went out again for\na walk. It was nine o clock when he reached the Shtcherbatskys  steps\nthe second time. In the house they were only just up, and the cook came\nout to go marketing. He had to get through at least two hours more.\n\nAll that night and morning Levin lived perfectly unconsciously, and\nfelt perfectly lifted out of the conditions of material life. He had\neaten nothing for a whole day, he had not slept for two nights, had\nspent several hours undressed in the frozen air, and felt not simply\nfresher and stronger than ever, but felt utterly independent of his\nbody; he moved without muscular effort, and felt as if he could do\nanything. He was convinced he could fly upwards or lift the corner of\nthe house, if need be. He spent the remainder of the time in the\nstreet, incessantly looking at his watch and gazing about him.\n\nAnd what he saw then, he never saw again after. The children especially\ngoing to school, the bluish doves flying down from the roofs to the\npavement, and the little loaves covered with flour, thrust out by an\nunseen hand, touched him. Those loaves, those doves, and those two boys\nwere not earthly creatures. It all happened at the same time: a boy ran\ntowards a dove and glanced smiling at Levin; the dove, with a whir of\nher wings, darted away, flashing in the sun, amid grains of snow that\nquivered in the air, while from a little window there came a smell of\nfresh-baked bread, and the loaves were put out. All of this together\nwas so extraordinarily nice that Levin laughed and cried with delight.\nGoing a long way round by Gazetny Place and Kislovka, he went back\nagain to the hotel, and putting his watch before him, he sat down to\nwait for twelve o clock. In the next room they were talking about some\nsort of machines, and swindling, and coughing their morning coughs.\nThey did not realize that the hand was near twelve. The hand reached\nit. Levin went out onto the steps. The sledge-drivers clearly knew all\nabout it. They crowded round Levin with happy faces, quarreling among\nthemselves, and offering their services. Trying not to offend the other\nsledge drivers, and promising to drive with them too, Levin took one\nand told him to drive to the Shtcherbatskys . The sledge-driver was\nsplendid in a white shirt-collar sticking out over his overcoat and\ninto his strong, full-blooded red neck. The sledge was high and\ncomfortable, and altogether such a one as Levin never drove in after,\nand the horse was a good one, and tried to gallop but didn t seem to\nmove. The driver knew the Shtcherbatskys  house, and drew up at the\nentrance with a curve of his arm and a  Wo!  especially indicative of\nrespect for his fare. The Shtcherbatskys  hall-porter certainly knew\nall about it. This was evident from the smile in his eyes and the way\nhe said:\n\n Well, it s a long while since you ve been to see us, Konstantin\nDmitrievitch! \n\nNot only he knew all about it, but he was unmistakably delighted and\nmaking efforts to conceal his joy. Looking into his kindly old eyes,\nLevin realized even something new in his happiness.\n\n Are they up? \n\n Pray walk in! Leave it here,  said he, smiling, as Levin would have\ncome back to take his hat. That meant something.\n\n To whom shall I announce your honor?  asked the footman.\n\nThe footman, though a young man, and one of the new school of footmen,\na dandy, was a very kind-hearted, good fellow, and he too knew all\nabout it.\n\n The princess ... the prince ... the young princess....  said Levin.\n\nThe first person he saw was Mademoiselle Linon. She walked across the\nroom, and her ringlets and her face were beaming. He had only just\nspoken to her, when suddenly he heard the rustle of a skirt at the\ndoor, and Mademoiselle Linon vanished from Levin s eyes, and a joyful\nterror came over him at the nearness of his happiness. Mademoiselle\nLinon was in great haste, and leaving him, went out at the other door.\nDirectly she had gone out, swift, swift light steps sounded on the\nparquet, and his bliss, his life, himself what was best in himself,\nwhat he had so long sought and longed for was quickly, so quickly\napproaching him. She did not walk, but seemed, by some unseen force, to\nfloat to him. He saw nothing but her clear, truthful eyes, frightened\nby the same bliss of love that flooded his heart. Those eyes were\nshining nearer and nearer, blinding him with their light of love. She\nstopped still close to him, touching him. Her hands rose and dropped\nonto his shoulders.\n\nShe had done all she could she had run up to him and given herself up\nentirely, shy and happy. He put his arms round her and pressed his lips\nto her mouth that sought his kiss.\n\nShe too had not slept all night, and had been expecting him all the\nmorning.\n\nHer mother and father had consented without demur, and were happy in\nher happiness. She had been waiting for him. She wanted to be the first\nto tell him her happiness and his. She had got ready to see him alone,\nand had been delighted at the idea, and had been shy and ashamed, and\ndid not know herself what she was doing. She had heard his steps and\nvoice, and had waited at the door for Mademoiselle Linon to go.\nMademoiselle Linon had gone away. Without thinking, without asking\nherself how and what, she had gone up to him, and did as she was doing.\n\n Let us go to mamma!  she said, taking him by the hand. For a long\nwhile he could say nothing, not so much because he was afraid of\ndesecrating the loftiness of his emotion by a word, as that every time\nhe tried to say something, instead of words he felt that tears of\nhappiness were welling up. He took her hand and kissed it.\n\n Can it be true?  he said at last in a choked voice.  I can t believe\nyou love me, dear! \n\nShe smiled at that  dear,  and at the timidity with which he glanced at\nher.\n\n Yes!  she said significantly, deliberately.  I am so happy! \n\nNot letting go his hands, she went into the drawing-room. The princess,\nseeing them, breathed quickly, and immediately began to cry and then\nimmediately began to laugh, and with a vigorous step Levin had not\nexpected, ran up to him, and hugging his head, kissed him, wetting his\ncheeks with her tears.\n\n So it is all settled! I am glad. Love her. I am glad.... Kitty! \n\n You ve not been long settling things,  said the old prince, trying to\nseem unmoved; but Levin noticed that his eyes were wet when he turned\nto him.\n\n I ve long, always wished for this!  said the prince, taking Levin by\nthe arm and drawing him towards himself.  Even when this little\nfeather-head fancied.... \n\n Papa!  shrieked Kitty, and shut his mouth with her hands.\n\n Well, I won t!  he said.  I m very, very ... plea... Oh, what a fool I\nam.... \n\nHe embraced Kitty, kissed her face, her hand, her face again, and made\nthe sign of the cross over her.\n\nAnd there came over Levin a new feeling of love for this man, till then\nso little known to him, when he saw how slowly and tenderly Kitty\nkissed his muscular hand.\n\n\nChapter 16\n\nThe princess sat in her armchair, silent and smiling; the prince sat\ndown beside her. Kitty stood by her father s chair, still holding his\nhand. All were silent.\n\nThe princess was the first to put everything into words, and to\ntranslate all thoughts and feelings into practical questions. And all\nequally felt this strange and painful for the first minute.\n\n When is it to be? We must have the benediction and announcement. And\nwhen s the wedding to be? What do you think, Alexander? \n\n Here he is,  said the old prince, pointing to Levin he s the\nprincipal person in the matter. \n\n When?  said Levin blushing.  Tomorrow. If you ask me, I should say,\nthe benediction today and the wedding tomorrow. \n\n Come, _mon cher_, that s nonsense! \n\n Well, in a week. \n\n He s quite mad. \n\n No, why so? \n\n Well, upon my word!  said the mother, smiling, delighted at this\nhaste.  How about the trousseau? \n\n Will there really be a trousseau and all that?  Levin thought with\nhorror.  But can the trousseau and the benediction and all that can it\nspoil my happiness? Nothing can spoil it!  He glanced at Kitty, and\nnoticed that she was not in the least, not in the very least, disturbed\nby the idea of the trousseau.  Then it must be all right,  he thought.\n\n Oh, I know nothing about it; I only said what I should like,  he said\napologetically.\n\n We ll talk it over, then. The benediction and announcement can take\nplace now. That s very well. \n\nThe princess went up to her husband, kissed him, and would have gone\naway, but he kept her, embraced her, and, tenderly as a young lover,\nkissed her several times, smiling. The old people were obviously\nmuddled for a moment, and did not quite know whether it was they who\nwere in love again or their daughter. When the prince and the princess\nhad gone, Levin went up to his betrothed and took her hand. He was\nself-possessed now and could speak, and he had a great deal he wanted\nto tell her. But he said not at all what he had to say.\n\n How I knew it would be so! I never hoped for it; and yet in my heart I\nwas always sure,  he said.  I believe that it was ordained. \n\n And I!  she said.  Even when....  She stopped and went on again,\nlooking at him resolutely with her truthful eyes,  Even when I thrust\nfrom me my happiness. I always loved you alone, but I was carried away.\nI ought to tell you.... Can you forgive that? \n\n Perhaps it was for the best. You will have to forgive me so much. I\nought to tell you.... \n\nThis was one of the things he had meant to speak about. He had resolved\nfrom the first to tell her two things that he was not chaste as she\nwas, and that he was not a believer. It was agonizing, but he\nconsidered he ought to tell her both these facts.\n\n No, not now, later!  he said.\n\n Very well, later, but you must certainly tell me. I m not afraid of\nanything. I want to know everything. Now it is settled. \n\nHe added:  Settled that you ll take me whatever I may be you won t give\nme up? Yes? \n\n Yes, yes. \n\nTheir conversation was interrupted by Mademoiselle Linon, who with an\naffected but tender smile came to congratulate her favorite pupil.\nBefore she had gone, the servants came in with their congratulations.\nThen relations arrived, and there began that state of blissful\nabsurdity from which Levin did not emerge till the day after his\nwedding. Levin was in a continual state of awkwardness and discomfort,\nbut the intensity of his happiness went on all the while increasing. He\nfelt continually that a great deal was being expected of him what, he\ndid not know; and he did everything he was told, and it all gave him\nhappiness. He had thought his engagement would have nothing about it\nlike others, that the ordinary conditions of engaged couples would\nspoil his special happiness; but it ended in his doing exactly as other\npeople did, and his happiness being only increased thereby and becoming\nmore and more special, more and more unlike anything that had ever\nhappened.\n\n Now we shall have sweetmeats to eat,  said Mademoiselle Linon and\nLevin drove off to buy sweetmeats.\n\n Well, I m very glad,  said Sviazhsky.  I advise you to get the\nbouquets from Fomin s. \n\n Oh, are they wanted?  And he drove to Fomin s.\n\nHis brother offered to lend him money, as he would have so many\nexpenses, presents to give....\n\n Oh, are presents wanted?  And he galloped to Foulde s.\n\nAnd at the confectioner s, and at Fomin s, and at Foulde s he saw that\nhe was expected; that they were pleased to see him, and prided\nthemselves on his happiness, just as everyone whom he had to do with\nduring those days. What was extraordinary was that everyone not only\nliked him, but even people previously unsympathetic, cold, and callous,\nwere enthusiastic over him, gave way to him in everything, treated his\nfeeling with tenderness and delicacy, and shared his conviction that he\nwas the happiest man in the world because his betrothed was beyond\nperfection. Kitty too felt the same thing. When Countess Nordston\nventured to hint that she had hoped for something better, Kitty was so\nangry and proved so conclusively that nothing in the world could be\nbetter than Levin, that Countess Nordston had to admit it, and in\nKitty s presence never met Levin without a smile of ecstatic\nadmiration.\n\nThe confession he had promised was the one painful incident of this\ntime. He consulted the old prince, and with his sanction gave Kitty his\ndiary, in which there was written the confession that tortured him. He\nhad written this diary at the time with a view to his future wife. Two\nthings caused him anguish: his lack of purity and his lack of faith.\nHis confession of unbelief passed unnoticed. She was religious, had\nnever doubted the truths of religion, but his external unbelief did not\naffect her in the least. Through love she knew all his soul, and in his\nsoul she saw what she wanted, and that such a state of soul should be\ncalled unbelieving was to her a matter of no account. The other\nconfession set her weeping bitterly.\n\nLevin, not without an inner struggle, handed her his diary. He knew\nthat between him and her there could not be, and should not be,\nsecrets, and so he had decided that so it must be. But he had not\nrealized what an effect it would have on her, he had not put himself in\nher place. It was only when the same evening he came to their house\nbefore the theater, went into her room and saw her tear-stained,\npitiful, sweet face, miserable with suffering he had caused and nothing\ncould undo, he felt the abyss that separated his shameful past from her\ndovelike purity, and was appalled at what he had done.\n\n Take them, take these dreadful books!  she said, pushing away the\nnotebooks lying before her on the table.  Why did you give them me? No,\nit was better anyway,  she added, touched by his despairing face.  But\nit s awful, awful! \n\nHis head sank, and he was silent. He could say nothing.\n\n You can t forgive me,  he whispered.\n\n Yes, I forgive you; but it s terrible! \n\nBut his happiness was so immense that this confession did not shatter\nit, it only added another shade to it. She forgave him; but from that\ntime more than ever he considered himself unworthy of her, morally\nbowed down lower than ever before her, and prized more highly than ever\nhis undeserved happiness.\n\n\nChapter 17\n\nUnconsciously going over in his memory the conversations that had taken\nplace during and after dinner, Alexey Alexandrovitch returned to his\nsolitary room. Darya Alexandrovna s words about forgiveness had aroused\nin him nothing but annoyance. The applicability or non-applicability of\nthe Christian precept to his own case was too difficult a question to\nbe discussed lightly, and this question had long ago been answered by\nAlexey Alexandrovitch in the negative. Of all that had been said, what\nstuck most in his memory was the phrase of stupid, good-natured\nTurovtsin _Acted like a man, he did! Called him out and shot him!_ \nEveryone had apparently shared this feeling, though from politeness\nthey had not expressed it.\n\n But the matter is settled, it s useless thinking about it,  Alexey\nAlexandrovitch told himself. And thinking of nothing but the journey\nbefore him, and the revision work he had to do, he went into his room\nand asked the porter who escorted him where his man was. The porter\nsaid that the man had only just gone out. Alexey Alexandrovitch ordered\ntea to be sent him, sat down to the table, and taking the guidebook,\nbegan considering the route of his journey.\n\n Two telegrams,  said his manservant, coming into the room.  I beg your\npardon, your excellency; I d only just that minute gone out. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch took the telegrams and opened them. The first\ntelegram was the announcement of Stremov s appointment to the very post\nKarenin had coveted. Alexey Alexandrovitch flung the telegram down, and\nflushing a little, got up and began to pace up and down the room.\n _Quos vult perdere dementat_,  he said, meaning by _quos_ the persons\nresponsible for this appointment. He was not so much annoyed that he\nhad not received the post, that he had been conspicuously passed over;\nbut it was incomprehensible, amazing to him that they did not see that\nthe wordy phrase-monger Stremov was the last man fit for it. How could\nthey fail to see how they were ruining themselves, lowering their\n_prestige_ by this appointment?\n\n Something else in the same line,  he said to himself bitterly, opening\nthe second telegram. The telegram was from his wife. Her name, written\nin blue pencil,  Anna,  was the first thing that caught his eye.  I am\ndying; I beg, I implore you to come. I shall die easier with your\nforgiveness,  he read. He smiled contemptuously, and flung down the\ntelegram. That this was a trick and a fraud, of that, he thought for\nthe first minute, there could be no doubt.\n\n There is no deceit she would stick at. She was near her confinement.\nPerhaps it is the confinement. But what can be their aim? To legitimize\nthe child, to compromise me, and prevent a divorce,  he thought.  But\nsomething was said in it: I am dying....  He read the telegram again,\nand suddenly the plain meaning of what was said in it struck him.\n\n And if it is true?  he said to himself.  If it is true that in the\nmoment of agony and nearness to death she is genuinely penitent, and I,\ntaking it for a trick, refuse to go? That would not only be cruel, and\neveryone would blame me, but it would be stupid on my part. \n\n Piotr, call a coach; I am going to Petersburg,  he said to his\nservant.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch decided that he would go to Petersburg and see\nhis wife. If her illness was a trick, he would say nothing and go away\nagain. If she was really in danger, and wished to see him before her\ndeath, he would forgive her if he found her alive, and pay her the last\nduties if he came too late.\n\nAll the way he thought no more of what he ought to do.\n\nWith a sense of weariness and uncleanness from the night spent in the\ntrain, in the early fog of Petersburg Alexey Alexandrovitch drove\nthrough the deserted Nevsky and stared straight before him, not\nthinking of what was awaiting him. He could not think about it, because\nin picturing what would happen, he could not drive away the reflection\nthat her death would at once remove all the difficulty of his position.\nBakers, closed shops, night-cabmen, porters sweeping the pavements\nflashed past his eyes, and he watched it all, trying to smother the\nthought of what was awaiting him, and what he dared not hope for, and\nyet was hoping for. He drove up to the steps. A sledge and a carriage\nwith the coachman asleep stood at the entrance. As he went into the\nentry, Alexey Alexandrovitch, as it were, got out his resolution from\nthe remotest corner of his brain, and mastered it thoroughly. Its\nmeaning ran:  If it s a trick, then calm contempt and departure. If\ntruth, do what is proper. \n\nThe porter opened the door before Alexey Alexandrovitch rang. The\nporter, Kapitonitch, looked queer in an old coat, without a tie, and in\nslippers.\n\n How is your mistress? \n\n A successful confinement yesterday. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch stopped short and turned white. He felt\ndistinctly now how intensely he had longed for her death.\n\n And how is she? \n\nKorney in his morning apron ran downstairs.\n\n Very ill,  he answered.  There was a consultation yesterday, and the\ndoctor s here now. \n\n Take my things,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, and feeling some relief\nat the news that there was still hope of her death, he went into the\nhall.\n\nOn the hatstand there was a military overcoat. Alexey Alexandrovitch\nnoticed it and asked:\n\n Who is here? \n\n The doctor, the midwife, and Count Vronsky. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch went into the inner rooms.\n\nIn the drawing-room there was no one; at the sound of his steps there\ncame out of her boudoir the midwife in a cap with lilac ribbons.\n\nShe went up to Alexey Alexandrovitch, and with the familiarity given by\nthe approach of death took him by the arm and drew him towards the\nbedroom.\n\n Thank God you ve come! She keeps on about you and nothing but you, \nshe said.\n\n Make haste with the ice!  the doctor s peremptory voice said from the\nbedroom.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch went into her boudoir.\n\nAt the table, sitting sideways in a low chair, was Vronsky, his face\nhidden in his hands, weeping. He jumped up at the doctor s voice, took\nhis hands from his face, and saw Alexey Alexandrovitch. Seeing the\nhusband, he was so overwhelmed that he sat down again, drawing his head\ndown to his shoulders, as if he wanted to disappear; but he made an\neffort over himself, got up and said:\n\n She is dying. The doctors say there is no hope. I am entirely in your\npower, only let me be here ... though I am at your disposal. I.... \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, seeing Vronsky s tears, felt a rush of that\nnervous emotion always produced in him by the sight of other people s\nsuffering, and turning away his face, he moved hurriedly to the door,\nwithout hearing the rest of his words. From the bedroom came the sound\nof Anna s voice saying something. Her voice was lively, eager, with\nexceedingly distinct intonations. Alexey Alexandrovitch went into the\nbedroom, and went up to the bed. She was lying turned with her face\ntowards him. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, her eyes glittered, her\nlittle white hands thrust out from the sleeves of her dressing gown\nwere playing with the quilt, twisting it about. It seemed as though she\nwere not only well and blooming, but in the happiest frame of mind. She\nwas talking rapidly, musically, and with exceptionally correct\narticulation and expressive intonation.\n\n For Alexey I am speaking of Alexey Alexandrovitch (what a strange and\nawful thing that both are Alexey, isn t it?) Alexey would not refuse\nme. I should forget, he would forgive.... But why doesn t he come? He s\nso good he doesn t know himself how good he is. Ah, my God, what agony!\nGive me some water, quick! Oh, that will be bad for her, my little\ngirl! Oh, very well then, give her to a nurse. Yes, I agree, it s\nbetter in fact. He ll be coming; it will hurt him to see her. Give her\nto the nurse. \n\n Anna Arkadyevna, he has come. Here he is!  said the midwife, trying to\nattract her attention to Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n Oh, what nonsense!  Anna went on, not seeing her husband.  No, give\nher to me; give me my little one! He has not come yet. You say he won t\nforgive me, because you don t know him. No one knows him. I m the only\none, and it was hard for me even. His eyes I ought to know Seryozha has\njust the same eyes and I can t bear to see them because of it. Has\nSeryozha had his dinner? I know everyone will forget him. He would not\nforget. Seryozha must be moved into the corner room, and Mariette must\nbe asked to sleep with him. \n\nAll of a sudden she shrank back, was silent; and in terror, as though\nexpecting a blow, as though to defend herself, she raised her hands to\nher face. She had seen her husband.\n\n No, no!  she began.  I am not afraid of him; I am afraid of death.\nAlexey, come here. I am in a hurry, because I ve no time, I ve not long\nleft to live; the fever will begin directly and I shall understand\nnothing more. Now I understand, I understand it all, I see it all! \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch s wrinkled face wore an expression of agony; he\ntook her by the hand and tried to say something, but he could not utter\nit; his lower lip quivered, but he still went on struggling with his\nemotion, and only now and then glanced at her. And each time he glanced\nat her, he saw her eyes gazing at him with such passionate and\ntriumphant tenderness as he had never seen in them.\n\n Wait a minute, you don t know ... stay a little, stay!...  She\nstopped, as though collecting her ideas.  Yes,  she began;  yes, yes,\nyes. This is what I wanted to say. Don t be surprised at me. I m still\nthe same.... But there is another woman in me, I m afraid of her: she\nloved that man, and I tried to hate you, and could not forget about her\nthat used to be. I m not that woman. Now I m my real self, all myself.\nI m dying now, I know I shall die, ask him. Even now I feel see here,\nthe weights on my feet, on my hands, on my fingers. My fingers see how\nhuge they are! But this will soon all be over.... Only one thing I\nwant: forgive me, forgive me quite. I m terrible, but my nurse used to\ntell me; the holy martyr what was her name? She was worse. And I ll go\nto Rome; there s a wilderness, and there I shall be no trouble to\nanyone, only I ll take Seryozha and the little one.... No, you can t\nforgive me! I know, it can t be forgiven! No, no, go away, you re too\ngood!  She held his hand in one burning hand, while she pushed him away\nwith the other.\n\nThe nervous agitation of Alexey Alexandrovitch kept increasing, and had\nby now reached such a point that he ceased to struggle with it. He\nsuddenly felt that what he had regarded as nervous agitation was on the\ncontrary a blissful spiritual condition that gave him all at once a new\nhappiness he had never known. He did not think that the Christian law\nthat he had been all his life trying to follow, enjoined on him to\nforgive and love his enemies; but a glad feeling of love and\nforgiveness for his enemies filled his heart. He knelt down, and laying\nhis head in the curve of her arm, which burned him as with fire through\nthe sleeve, he sobbed like a little child. She put her arm around his\nhead, moved towards him, and with defiant pride lifted up her eyes.\n\n That is he. I knew him! Now, forgive me, everyone, forgive me!...\nThey ve come again; why don t they go away?... Oh, take these cloaks\noff me! \n\nThe doctor unloosed her hands, carefully laying her on the pillow, and\ncovered her up to the shoulders. She lay back submissively, and looked\nbefore her with beaming eyes.\n\n Remember one thing, that I needed nothing but forgiveness, and I want\nnothing more.... Why doesn t _he_ come?  she said, turning to the door\ntowards Vronsky.  Do come, do come! Give him your hand. \n\nVronsky came to the side of the bed, and seeing Anna, again hid his\nface in his hands.\n\n Uncover your face look at him! He s a saint,  she said.  Oh! uncover\nyour face, do uncover it!  she said angrily.  Alexey Alexandrovitch, do\nuncover his face! I want to see him. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch took Vronsky s hands and drew them away from his\nface, which was awful with the expression of agony and shame upon it.\n\n Give him your hand. Forgive him. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch gave him his hand, not attempting to restrain the\ntears that streamed from his eyes.\n\n Thank God, thank God!  she said,  now everything is ready. Only to\nstretch my legs a little. There, that s capital. How badly these\nflowers are done not a bit like a violet,  she said, pointing to the\nhangings.  My God, my God! when will it end? Give me some morphine.\nDoctor, give me some morphine! Oh, my God, my God! \n\nAnd she tossed about on the bed.\n\nThe doctors said that it was puerperal fever, and that it was\nninety-nine chances in a hundred it would end in death. The whole day\nlong there was fever, delirium, and unconsciousness. At midnight the\npatient lay without consciousness, and almost without pulse.\n\nThe end was expected every minute.\n\nVronsky had gone home, but in the morning he came to inquire, and\nAlexey Alexandrovitch meeting him in the hall, said:  Better stay, she\nmight ask for you,  and himself led him to his wife s boudoir. Towards\nmorning, there was a return again of excitement, rapid thought and\ntalk, and again it ended in unconsciousness. On the third day it was\nthe same thing, and the doctors said there was hope. That day Alexey\nAlexandrovitch went into the boudoir where Vronsky was sitting, and\nclosing the door sat down opposite him.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch,  said Vronsky, feeling that a statement of the\nposition was coming,  I can t speak, I can t understand. Spare me!\nHowever hard it is for you, believe me, it is more terrible for me. \n\nHe would have risen; but Alexey Alexandrovitch took him by the hand and\nsaid:\n\n I beg you to hear me out; it is necessary. I must explain my feelings,\nthe feelings that have guided me and will guide me, so that you may not\nbe in error regarding me. You know I had resolved on a divorce, and had\neven begun to take proceedings. I won t conceal from you that in\nbeginning this I was in uncertainty, I was in misery; I will confess\nthat I was pursued by a desire to revenge myself on you and on her.\nWhen I got the telegram, I came here with the same feelings; I will say\nmore, I longed for her death. But....  He paused, pondering whether to\ndisclose or not to disclose his feeling to him.  But I saw her and\nforgave her. And the happiness of forgiveness has revealed to me my\nduty. I forgive completely. I would offer the other cheek, I would give\nmy cloak if my coat be taken. I pray to God only not to take from me\nthe bliss of forgiveness! \n\nTears stood in his eyes, and the luminous, serene look in them\nimpressed Vronsky.\n\n This is my position: you can trample me in the mud, make me the\nlaughing-stock of the world, I will not abandon her, and I will never\nutter a word of reproach to you,  Alexey Alexandrovitch went on.  My\nduty is clearly marked for me; I ought to be with her, and I will be.\nIf she wishes to see you, I will let you know, but now I suppose it\nwould be better for you to go away. \n\nHe got up, and sobs cut short his words. Vronsky too was getting up,\nand in a stooping, not yet erect posture, looked up at him from under\nhis brows. He did not understand Alexey Alexandrovitch s feeling, but\nhe felt that it was something higher and even unattainable for him with\nhis view of life.\n\n\nChapter 18\n\nAfter the conversation with Alexey Alexandrovitch, Vronsky went out\nonto the steps of the Karenins  house and stood still, with difficulty\nremembering where he was, and where he ought to walk or drive. He felt\ndisgraced, humiliated, guilty, and deprived of all possibility of\nwashing away his humiliation. He felt thrust out of the beaten track\nalong which he had so proudly and lightly walked till then. All the\nhabits and rules of his life that had seemed so firm, had turned out\nsuddenly false and inapplicable. The betrayed husband, who had figured\ntill that time as a pitiful creature, an incidental and somewhat\nludicrous obstacle to his happiness, had suddenly been summoned by her\nherself, elevated to an awe-inspiring pinnacle, and on the pinnacle\nthat husband had shown himself, not malignant, not false, not\nludicrous, but kind and straightforward and large. Vronsky could not\nbut feel this, and the parts were suddenly reversed. Vronsky felt his\nelevation and his own abasement, his truth and his own falsehood. He\nfelt that the husband was magnanimous even in his sorrow, while he had\nbeen base and petty in his deceit. But this sense of his own\nhumiliation before the man he had unjustly despised made up only a\nsmall part of his misery. He felt unutterably wretched now, for his\npassion for Anna, which had seemed to him of late to be growing cooler,\nnow that he knew he had lost her forever, was stronger than ever it had\nbeen. He had seen all of her in her illness, had come to know her very\nsoul, and it seemed to him that he had never loved her till then. And\nnow when he had learned to know her, to love her as she should be\nloved, he had been humiliated before her, and had lost her forever,\nleaving with her nothing of himself but a shameful memory. Most\nterrible of all had been his ludicrous, shameful position when Alexey\nAlexandrovitch had pulled his hands away from his humiliated face. He\nstood on the steps of the Karenins  house like one distraught, and did\nnot know what to do.\n\n A sledge, sir?  asked the porter.\n\n Yes, a sledge. \n\nOn getting home, after three sleepless nights, Vronsky, without\nundressing, lay down flat on the sofa, clasping his hands and laying\nhis head on them. His head was heavy. Images, memories, and ideas of\nthe strangest description followed one another with extraordinary\nrapidity and vividness. First it was the medicine he had poured out for\nthe patient and spilt over the spoon, then the midwife s white hands,\nthen the queer posture of Alexey Alexandrovitch on the floor beside the\nbed.\n\n To sleep! To forget!  he said to himself with the serene confidence of\na healthy man that if he is tired and sleepy, he will go to sleep at\nonce. And the same instant his head did begin to feel drowsy and he\nbegan to drop off into forgetfulness. The waves of the sea of\nunconsciousness had begun to meet over his head, when all at once it\nwas as though a violent shock of electricity had passed over him. He\nstarted so that he leaped up on the springs of the sofa, and leaning on\nhis arms got in a panic onto his knees. His eyes were wide open as\nthough he had never been asleep. The heaviness in his head and the\nweariness in his limbs that he had felt a minute before had suddenly\ngone.\n\n You may trample me in the mud,  he heard Alexey Alexandrovitch s words\nand saw him standing before him, and saw Anna s face with its burning\nflush and glittering eyes, gazing with love and tenderness not at him\nbut at Alexey Alexandrovitch; he saw his own, as he fancied, foolish\nand ludicrous figure when Alexey Alexandrovitch took his hands away\nfrom his face. He stretched out his legs again and flung himself on the\nsofa in the same position and shut his eyes.\n\n To sleep! To forget!  he repeated to himself. But with his eyes shut\nhe saw more distinctly than ever Anna s face as it had been on the\nmemorable evening before the races.\n\n That is not and will not be, and she wants to wipe it out of her\nmemory. But I cannot live without it. How can we be reconciled? how can\nwe be reconciled?  he said aloud, and unconsciously began to repeat\nthese words. This repetition checked the rising up of fresh images and\nmemories, which he felt were thronging in his brain. But repeating\nwords did not check his imagination for long. Again in extraordinarily\nrapid succession his best moments rose before his mind, and then his\nrecent humiliation.  Take away his hands,  Anna s voice says. He takes\naway his hands and feels the shamestruck and idiotic expression of his\nface.\n\nHe still lay down, trying to sleep, though he felt there was not the\nsmallest hope of it, and kept repeating stray words from some chain of\nthought, trying by this to check the rising flood of fresh images. He\nlistened, and heard in a strange, mad whisper words repeated:  I did\nnot appreciate it, did not make enough of it. I did not appreciate it,\ndid not make enough of it. \n\n What s this? Am I going out of my mind?  he said to himself.  Perhaps.\nWhat makes men go out of their minds; what makes men shoot themselves? \nhe answered himself, and opening his eyes, he saw with wonder an\nembroidered cushion beside him, worked by Varya, his brother s wife. He\ntouched the tassel of the cushion, and tried to think of Varya, of when\nhe had seen her last. But to think of anything extraneous was an\nagonizing effort.  No, I must sleep!  He moved the cushion up, and\npressed his head into it, but he had to make an effort to keep his eyes\nshut. He jumped up and sat down.  That s all over for me,  he said to\nhimself.  I must think what to do. What is left?  His mind rapidly ran\nthrough his life apart from his love of Anna.\n\n Ambition? Serpuhovskoy? Society? The court?  He could not come to a\npause anywhere. All of it had had meaning before, but now there was no\nreality in it. He got up from the sofa, took off his coat, undid his\nbelt, and uncovering his hairy chest to breathe more freely, walked up\nand down the room.  This is how people go mad,  he repeated,  and how\nthey shoot themselves ... to escape humiliation,  he added slowly.\n\nHe went to the door and closed it, then with fixed eyes and clenched\nteeth he went up to the table, took a revolver, looked round him,\nturned it to a loaded barrel, and sank into thought. For two minutes,\nhis head bent forward with an expression of an intense effort of\nthought, he stood with the revolver in his hand, motionless, thinking.\n\n Of course,  he said to himself, as though a logical, continuous, and\nclear chain of reasoning had brought him to an indubitable conclusion.\nIn reality this  of course,  that seemed convincing to him, was simply\nthe result of exactly the same circle of memories and images through\nwhich he had passed ten times already during the last hour memories of\nhappiness lost forever. There was the same conception of the\nsenselessness of everything to come in life, the same consciousness of\nhumiliation. Even the sequence of these images and emotions was the\nsame.\n\n Of course,  he repeated, when for the third time his thought passed\nagain round the same spellbound circle of memories and images, and\npulling the revolver to the left side of his chest, and clutching it\nvigorously with his whole hand, as it were, squeezing it in his fist,\nhe pulled the trigger. He did not hear the sound of the shot, but a\nviolent blow on his chest sent him reeling. He tried to clutch at the\nedge of the table, dropped the revolver, staggered, and sat down on the\nground, looking about him in astonishment. He did not recognize his\nroom, looking up from the ground, at the bent legs of the table, at the\nwastepaper basket, and the tiger-skin rug. The hurried, creaking steps\nof his servant coming through the drawing-room brought him to his\nsenses. He made an effort at thought, and was aware that he was on the\nfloor; and seeing blood on the tiger-skin rug and on his arm, he knew\nhe had shot himself.\n\n Idiotic! Missed!  he said, fumbling after the revolver. The revolver\nwas close beside him he sought further off. Still feeling for it, he\nstretched out to the other side, and not being strong enough to keep\nhis balance, fell over, streaming with blood.\n\nThe elegant, whiskered manservant, who used to be continually\ncomplaining to his acquaintances of the delicacy of his nerves, was so\npanic-stricken on seeing his master lying on the floor, that he left\nhim losing blood while he ran for assistance. An hour later Varya, his\nbrother s wife, had arrived, and with the assistance of three doctors,\nwhom she had sent for in all directions, and who all appeared at the\nsame moment, she got the wounded man to bed, and remained to nurse him.\n\n\nChapter 19\n\nThe mistake made by Alexey Alexandrovitch in that, when preparing for\nseeing his wife, he had overlooked the possibility that her repentance\nmight be sincere, and he might forgive her, and she might not die this\nmistake was two months after his return from Moscow brought home to him\nin all its significance. But the mistake made by him had arisen not\nsimply from his having overlooked that contingency, but also from the\nfact that until that day of his interview with his dying wife, he had\nnot known his own heart. At his sick wife s bedside he had for the\nfirst time in his life given way to that feeling of sympathetic\nsuffering always roused in him by the sufferings of others, and\nhitherto looked on by him with shame as a harmful weakness. And pity\nfor her, and remorse for having desired her death, and most of all, the\njoy of forgiveness, made him at once conscious, not simply of the\nrelief of his own sufferings, but of a spiritual peace he had never\nexperienced before. He suddenly felt that the very thing that was the\nsource of his sufferings had become the source of his spiritual joy;\nthat what had seemed insoluble while he was judging, blaming, and\nhating, had become clear and simple when he forgave and loved.\n\nHe forgave his wife and pitied her for her sufferings and her remorse.\nHe forgave Vronsky, and pitied him, especially after reports reached\nhim of his despairing action. He felt more for his son than before. And\nhe blamed himself now for having taken too little interest in him. But\nfor the little newborn baby he felt a quite peculiar sentiment, not of\npity, only, but of tenderness. At first, from a feeling of compassion\nalone, he had been interested in the delicate little creature, who was\nnot his child, and who was cast on one side during her mother s\nillness, and would certainly have died if he had not troubled about\nher, and he did not himself observe how fond he became of her. He would\ngo into the nursery several times a day, and sit there for a long\nwhile, so that the nurses, who were at first afraid of him, got quite\nused to his presence. Sometimes for half an hour at a stretch he would\nsit silently gazing at the saffron-red, downy, wrinkled face of the\nsleeping baby, watching the movements of the frowning brows, and the\nfat little hands, with clenched fingers, that rubbed the little eyes\nand nose. At such moments particularly, Alexey Alexandrovitch had a\nsense of perfect peace and inward harmony, and saw nothing\nextraordinary in his position, nothing that ought to be changed.\n\nBut as time went on, he saw more and more distinctly that however\nnatural the position now seemed to him, he would not long be allowed to\nremain in it. He felt that besides the blessed spiritual force\ncontrolling his soul, there was another, a brutal force, as powerful,\nor more powerful, which controlled his life, and that this force would\nnot allow him that humble peace he longed for. He felt that everyone\nwas looking at him with inquiring wonder, that he was not understood,\nand that something was expected of him. Above all, he felt the\ninstability and unnaturalness of his relations with his wife.\n\nWhen the softening effect of the near approach of death had passed\naway, Alexey Alexandrovitch began to notice that Anna was afraid of\nhim, ill at ease with him, and could not look him straight in the face.\nShe seemed to be wanting, and not daring, to tell him something; and as\nthough foreseeing their present relations could not continue, she\nseemed to be expecting something from him.\n\nTowards the end of February it happened that Anna s baby daughter, who\nhad been named Anna too, fell ill. Alexey Alexandrovitch was in the\nnursery in the morning, and leaving orders for the doctor to be sent\nfor, he went to his office. On finishing his work, he returned home at\nfour. Going into the hall he saw a handsome groom, in a braided livery\nand a bear fur cape, holding a white fur cloak.\n\n Who is here?  asked Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n Princess Elizaveta Federovna Tverskaya,  the groom answered, and it\nseemed to Alexey Alexandrovitch that he grinned.\n\nDuring all this difficult time Alexey Alexandrovitch had noticed that\nhis worldly acquaintances, especially women, took a peculiar interest\nin him and his wife. All these acquaintances he observed with\ndifficulty concealing their mirth at something; the same mirth that he\nhad perceived in the lawyer s eyes, and just now in the eyes of this\ngroom. Everyone seemed, somehow, hugely delighted, as though they had\njust been at a wedding. When they met him, with ill-disguised enjoyment\nthey inquired after his wife s health. The presence of Princess\nTverskaya was unpleasant to Alexey Alexandrovitch from the memories\nassociated with her, and also because he disliked her, and he went\nstraight to the nursery. In the day nursery Seryozha, leaning on the\ntable with his legs on a chair, was drawing and chatting away merrily.\nThe English governess, who had during Anna s illness replaced the\nFrench one, was sitting near the boy knitting a shawl. She hurriedly\ngot up, curtseyed, and pulled Seryozha.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch stroked his son s hair, answered the governess s\ninquiries about his wife, and asked what the doctor had said of the\nbaby.\n\n The doctor said it was nothing serious, and he ordered a bath, sir. \n\n But she is still in pain,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, listening to\nthe baby s screaming in the next room.\n\n I think it s the wet-nurse, sir,  the Englishwoman said firmly.\n\n What makes you think so?  he asked, stopping short.\n\n It s just as it was at Countess Paul s, sir. They gave the baby\nmedicine, and it turned out that the baby was simply hungry: the nurse\nhad no milk, sir. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch pondered, and after standing still a few seconds\nhe went in at the other door. The baby was lying with its head thrown\nback, stiffening itself in the nurse s arms, and would not take the\nplump breast offered it; and it never ceased screaming in spite of the\ndouble hushing of the wet-nurse and the other nurse, who was bending\nover her.\n\n Still no better?  said Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n She s very restless,  answered the nurse in a whisper.\n\n Miss Edwarde says that perhaps the wet-nurse has no milk,  he said.\n\n I think so too, Alexey Alexandrovitch. \n\n Then why didn t you say so? \n\n Who s one to say it to? Anna Arkadyevna still ill....  said the nurse\ndiscontentedly.\n\nThe nurse was an old servant of the family. And in her simple words\nthere seemed to Alexey Alexandrovitch an allusion to his position.\n\nThe baby screamed louder than ever, struggling and sobbing. The nurse,\nwith a gesture of despair, went to it, took it from the wet-nurse s\narms, and began walking up and down, rocking it.\n\n You must ask the doctor to examine the wet-nurse,  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch. The smartly dressed and healthy-looking nurse,\nfrightened at the idea of losing her place, muttered something to\nherself, and covering her bosom, smiled contemptuously at the idea of\ndoubts being cast on her abundance of milk. In that smile, too, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch saw a sneer at his position.\n\n Luckless child!  said the nurse, hushing the baby, and still walking\nup and down with it.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch sat down, and with a despondent and suffering\nface watched the nurse walking to and fro.\n\nWhen the child at last was still, and had been put in a deep bed, and\nthe nurse, after smoothing the little pillow, had left her, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch got up, and walking awkwardly on tiptoe, approached the\nbaby. For a minute he was still, and with the same despondent face\ngazed at the baby; but all at once a smile, that moved his hair and the\nskin of his forehead, came out on his face, and he went as softly out\nof the room.\n\nIn the dining-room he rang the bell, and told the servant who came in\nto send again for the doctor. He felt vexed with his wife for not being\nanxious about this exquisite baby, and in this vexed humor he had no\nwish to go to her; he had no wish, either, to see Princess Betsy. But\nhis wife might wonder why he did not go to her as usual; and so,\novercoming his disinclination, he went towards the bedroom. As he\nwalked over the soft rug towards the door, he could not help\noverhearing a conversation he did not want to hear.\n\n If he hadn t been going away, I could have understood your answer and\nhis too. But your husband ought to be above that,  Betsy was saying.\n\n It s not for my husband; for myself I don t wish it. Don t say that! \nanswered Anna s excited voice.\n\n Yes, but you must care to say good-bye to a man who has shot himself\non your account.... \n\n That s just why I don t want to. \n\nWith a dismayed and guilty expression, Alexey Alexandrovitch stopped\nand would have gone back unobserved. But reflecting that this would be\nundignified, he turned back again, and clearing his throat, he went up\nto the bedroom. The voices were silent, and he went in.\n\nAnna, in a gray dressing gown, with a crop of short clustering black\ncurls on her round head, was sitting on a settee. The eagerness died\nout of her face, as it always did, at the sight of her husband; she\ndropped her head and looked round uneasily at Betsy. Betsy, dressed in\nthe height of the latest fashion, in a hat that towered somewhere over\nher head like a shade on a lamp, in a blue dress with violet crossway\nstripes slanting one way on the bodice and the other way on the skirt,\nwas sitting beside Anna, her tall flat figure held erect. Bowing her\nhead, she greeted Alexey Alexandrovitch with an ironical smile.\n\n Ah!  she said, as though surprised.  I m very glad you re at home. You\nnever put in an appearance anywhere, and I haven t seen you ever since\nAnna has been ill. I have heard all about it your anxiety. Yes, you re\na wonderful husband!  she said, with a meaning and affable air, as\nthough she were bestowing an order of magnanimity on him for his\nconduct to his wife.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch bowed frigidly, and kissing his wife s hand,\nasked how she was.\n\n Better, I think,  she said, avoiding his eyes.\n\n But you ve rather a feverish-looking color,  he said, laying stress on\nthe word  feverish. \n\n We ve been talking too much,  said Betsy.  I feel it s selfishness on\nmy part, and I am going away. \n\nShe got up, but Anna, suddenly flushing, quickly caught at her hand.\n\n No, wait a minute, please. I must tell you ... no, you.  she turned to\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, and her neck and brow were suffused with\ncrimson.  I won t and can t keep anything secret from you,  she said.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch cracked his fingers and bowed his head.\n\n Betsy s been telling me that Count Vronsky wants to come here to say\ngood-bye before his departure for Tashkend.  She did not look at her\nhusband, and was evidently in haste to have everything out, however\nhard it might be for her.  I told her I could not receive him. \n\n You said, my dear, that it would depend on Alexey Alexandrovitch, \nBetsy corrected her.\n\n Oh, no, I can t receive him; and what object would there....  She\nstopped suddenly, and glanced inquiringly at her husband (he did not\nlook at her).  In short, I don t wish it.... \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch advanced and would have taken her hand.\n\nHer first impulse was to jerk back her hand from the damp hand with big\nswollen veins that sought hers, but with an obvious effort to control\nherself she pressed his hand.\n\n I am very grateful to you for your confidence, but....  he said,\nfeeling with confusion and annoyance that what he could decide easily\nand clearly by himself, he could not discuss before Princess Tverskaya,\nwho to him stood for the incarnation of that brute force which would\ninevitably control him in the life he led in the eyes of the world, and\nhinder him from giving way to his feeling of love and forgiveness. He\nstopped short, looking at Princess Tverskaya.\n\n Well, good-bye, my darling,  said Betsy, getting up. She kissed Anna,\nand went out. Alexey Alexandrovitch escorted her out.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch! I know you are a truly magnanimous man,  said\nBetsy, stopping in the little drawing-room, and with special warmth\nshaking hands with him once more.  I am an outsider, but I so love her\nand respect you that I venture to advise. Receive him. Alexey Vronsky\nis the soul of honor, and he is going away to Tashkend. \n\n Thank you, princess, for your sympathy and advice. But the question of\nwhether my wife can or cannot see anyone she must decide herself. \n\nHe said this from habit, lifting his brows with dignity, and reflected\nimmediately that whatever his words might be, there could be no dignity\nin his position. And he saw this by the suppressed, malicious, and\nironical smile with which Betsy glanced at him after this phrase.\n\n\nChapter 20\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch took leave of Betsy in the drawing-room, and went\nto his wife. She was lying down, but hearing his steps she sat up\nhastily in her former attitude, and looked in a scared way at him. He\nsaw she had been crying.\n\n I am very grateful for your confidence in me.  He repeated gently in\nRussian the phrase he had said in Betsy s presence in French, and sat\ndown beside her. When he spoke to her in Russian, using the Russian\n thou  of intimacy and affection, it was insufferably irritating to\nAnna.  And I am very grateful for your decision. I, too, imagine that\nsince he is going away, there is no sort of necessity for Count Vronsky\nto come here. However, if.... \n\n But I ve said so already, so why repeat it?  Anna suddenly interrupted\nhim with an irritation she could not succeed in repressing.  No sort of\nnecessity,  she thought,  for a man to come and say good-bye to the\nwoman he loves, for whom he was ready to ruin himself, and has ruined\nhimself, and who cannot live without him. No sort of necessity!  she\ncompressed her lips, and dropped her burning eyes to his hands with\ntheir swollen veins. They were rubbing each other.\n\n Let us never speak of it,  she added more calmly.\n\n I have left this question to you to decide, and I am very glad to\nsee....  Alexey Alexandrovitch was beginning.\n\n That my wish coincides with your own,  she finished quickly,\nexasperated at his talking so slowly while she knew beforehand all he\nwould say.\n\n Yes,  he assented;  and Princess Tverskaya s interference in the most\ndifficult private affairs is utterly uncalled for. She especially.... \n\n I don t believe a word of what s said about her,  said Anna quickly.\n I know she really cares for me. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch sighed and said nothing. She played nervously\nwith the tassel of her dressing-gown, glancing at him with that\ntorturing sensation of physical repulsion for which she blamed herself,\nthough she could not control it. Her only desire now was to be rid of\nhis oppressive presence.\n\n I have just sent for the doctor,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n I am very well; what do I want the doctor for? \n\n No, the little one cries, and they say the nurse hasn t enough milk. \n\n Why didn t you let me nurse her, when I begged to? Anyway  (Alexey\nAlexandrovitch knew what was meant by that  anyway ),  she s a baby,\nand they re killing her.  She rang the bell and ordered the baby to be\nbrought her.  I begged to nurse her, I wasn t allowed to, and now I m\nblamed for it. \n\n I don t blame.... \n\n Yes, you do blame me! My God! why didn t I die!  And she broke into\nsobs.  Forgive me, I m nervous, I m unjust,  she said, controlling\nherself,  but do go away.... \n\n No, it can t go on like this,  Alexey Alexandrovitch said to himself\ndecidedly as he left his wife s room.\n\nNever had the impossibility of his position in the world s eyes, and\nhis wife s hatred of him, and altogether the might of that mysterious\nbrutal force that guided his life against his spiritual inclinations,\nand exacted conformity with its decrees and change in his attitude to\nhis wife, been presented to him with such distinctness as that day. He\nsaw clearly that all the world and his wife expected of him something,\nbut what exactly, he could not make out. He felt that this was rousing\nin his soul a feeling of anger destructive of his peace of mind and of\nall the good of his achievement. He believed that for Anna herself it\nwould be better to break off all relations with Vronsky; but if they\nall thought this out of the question, he was even ready to allow these\nrelations to be renewed, so long as the children were not disgraced,\nand he was not deprived of them nor forced to change his position. Bad\nas this might be, it was anyway better than a rupture, which would put\nher in a hopeless and shameful position, and deprive him of everything\nhe cared for. But he felt helpless; he knew beforehand that everyone\nwas against him, and that he would not be allowed to do what seemed to\nhim now so natural and right, but would be forced to do what was wrong,\nthough it seemed the proper thing to them.\n\n\nChapter 21\n\nBefore Betsy had time to walk out of the drawing-room, she was met in\nthe doorway by Stepan Arkadyevitch, who had just come from Yeliseev s,\nwhere a consignment of fresh oysters had been received.\n\n Ah! princess! what a delightful meeting!  he began.  I ve been to see\nyou. \n\n A meeting for one minute, for I m going,  said Betsy, smiling and\nputting on her glove.\n\n Don t put on your glove yet, princess; let me kiss your hand. There s\nnothing I m so thankful to the revival of the old fashions for as the\nkissing the hand.  He kissed Betsy s hand.  When shall we see each\nother? \n\n You don t deserve it,  answered Betsy, smiling.\n\n Oh, yes, I deserve a great deal, for I ve become a most serious\nperson. I don t only manage my own affairs, but other people s too,  he\nsaid, with a significant expression.\n\n Oh, I m so glad!  answered Betsy, at once understanding that he was\nspeaking of Anna. And going back into the drawing-room, they stood in a\ncorner.  He s killing her,  said Betsy in a whisper full of meaning.\n It s impossible, impossible.... \n\n I m so glad you think so,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, shaking his head\nwith a serious and sympathetically distressed expression,  that s what\nI ve come to Petersburg for. \n\n The whole town s talking of it,  she said.  It s an impossible\nposition. She pines and pines away. He doesn t understand that she s\none of those women who can t trifle with their feelings. One of two\nthings: either let him take her away, act with energy, or give her a\ndivorce. This is stifling her. \n\n Yes, yes ... just so....  Oblonsky said, sighing.  That s what I ve\ncome for. At least not solely for that ... I ve been made a\n_Kammerherr_; of course, one has to say thank you. But the chief thing\nwas having to settle this. \n\n Well, God help you!  said Betsy.\n\nAfter accompanying Betsy to the outside hall, once more kissing her\nhand above the glove, at the point where the pulse beats, and murmuring\nto her such unseemly nonsense that she did not know whether to laugh or\nbe angry, Stepan Arkadyevitch went to his sister. He found her in\ntears.\n\nAlthough he happened to be bubbling over with good spirits, Stepan\nArkadyevitch immediately and quite naturally fell into the sympathetic,\npoetically emotional tone which harmonized with her mood. He asked her\nhow she was, and how she had spent the morning.\n\n Very, very miserably. Today and this morning and all past days and\ndays to come,  she said.\n\n I think you re giving way to pessimism. You must rouse yourself, you\nmust look life in the face. I know it s hard, but.... \n\n I have heard it said that women love men even for their vices,  Anna\nbegan suddenly,  but I hate him for his virtues. I can t live with him.\nDo you understand? the sight of him has a physical effect on me, it\nmakes me beside myself. I can t, I can t live with him. What am I to\ndo? I have been unhappy, and used to think one couldn t be more\nunhappy, but the awful state of things I am going through now, I could\nnever have conceived. Would you believe it, that knowing he s a good\nman, a splendid man, that I m not worth his little finger, still I hate\nhim. I hate him for his generosity. And there s nothing left for me\nbut.... \n\nShe would have said death, but Stepan Arkadyevitch would not let her\nfinish.\n\n You are ill and overwrought,  he said;  believe me, you re\nexaggerating dreadfully. There s nothing so terrible in it. \n\nAnd Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. No one else in Stepan Arkadyevitch s\nplace, having to do with such despair, would have ventured to smile\n(the smile would have seemed brutal); but in his smile there was so\nmuch of sweetness and almost feminine tenderness that his smile did not\nwound, but softened and soothed. His gentle, soothing words and smiles\nwere as soothing and softening as almond oil. And Anna soon felt this.\n\n No, Stiva,  she said,  I m lost, lost! worse than lost! I can t say\nyet that all is over; on the contrary, I feel that it s not over. I m\nan overstrained string that must snap. But it s not ended yet ... and\nit will have a fearful end. \n\n No matter, we must let the string be loosened, little by little.\nThere s no position from which there is no way of escape. \n\n I have thought, and thought. Only one.... \n\nAgain he knew from her terrified eyes that this one way of escape in\nher thought was death, and he would not let her say it.\n\n Not at all,  he said.  Listen to me. You can t see your own position\nas I can. Let me tell you candidly my opinion.  Again he smiled\ndiscreetly his almond-oil smile.  I ll begin from the beginning. You\nmarried a man twenty years older than yourself. You married him without\nlove and not knowing what love was. It was a mistake, let s admit. \n\n A fearful mistake!  said Anna.\n\n But I repeat, it s an accomplished fact. Then you had, let us say, the\nmisfortune to love a man not your husband. That was a misfortune; but\nthat, too, is an accomplished fact. And your husband knew it and\nforgave it.  He stopped at each sentence, waiting for her to object,\nbut she made no answer.  That s so. Now the question is: can you go on\nliving with your husband? Do you wish it? Does he wish it? \n\n I know nothing, nothing. \n\n But you said yourself that you can t endure him. \n\n No, I didn t say so. I deny it. I can t tell, I don t know anything\nabout it. \n\n Yes, but let.... \n\n You can t understand. I feel I m lying head downwards in a sort of\npit, but I ought not to save myself. And I can t.... \n\n Never mind, we ll slip something under and pull you out. I understand\nyou: I understand that you can t take it on yourself to express your\nwishes, your feelings. \n\n There s nothing, nothing I wish ... except for it to be all over. \n\n But he sees this and knows it. And do you suppose it weighs on him any\nless than on you? You re wretched, he s wretched, and what good can\ncome of it? while divorce would solve the difficulty completely.  With\nsome effort Stepan Arkadyevitch brought out his central idea, and\nlooked significantly at her.\n\nShe said nothing, and shook her cropped head in dissent. But from the\nlook in her face, that suddenly brightened into its old beauty, he saw\nthat if she did not desire this, it was simply because it seemed to her\nunattainable happiness.\n\n I m awfully sorry for you! And how happy I should be if I could\narrange things!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling more boldly.  Don t\nspeak, don t say a word! God grant only that I may speak as I feel. I m\ngoing to him. \n\nAnna looked at him with dreamy, shining eyes, and said nothing.\n\n\nChapter 22\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch, with the same somewhat solemn expression with\nwhich he used to take his presidential chair at his board, walked into\nAlexey Alexandrovitch s room. Alexey Alexandrovitch was walking about\nhis room with his hands behind his back, thinking of just what Stepan\nArkadyevitch had been discussing with his wife.\n\n I m not interrupting you?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, on the sight of\nhis brother-in-law becoming suddenly aware of a sense of embarrassment\nunusual with him. To conceal this embarrassment he took out a cigarette\ncase he had just bought that opened in a new way, and sniffing the\nleather, took a cigarette out of it.\n\n No. Do you want anything?  Alexey Alexandrovitch asked without\neagerness.\n\n Yes, I wished ... I wanted ... yes, I wanted to talk to you,  said\nStepan Arkadyevitch, with surprise aware of an unaccustomed timidity.\n\nThis feeling was so unexpected and so strange that he did not believe\nit was the voice of conscience telling him that what he was meaning to\ndo was wrong.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch made an effort and struggled with the timidity that\nhad come over him.\n\n I hope you believe in my love for my sister and my sincere affection\nand respect for you,  he said, reddening.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch stood still and said nothing, but his face struck\nStepan Arkadyevitch by its expression of an unresisting sacrifice.\n\n I intended ... I wanted to have a little talk with you about my sister\nand your mutual position,  he said, still struggling with an\nunaccustomed constraint.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch smiled mournfully, looked at his brother-in-law,\nand without answering went up to the table, took from it an unfinished\nletter, and handed it to his brother-in-law.\n\n I think unceasingly of the same thing. And here is what I had begun\nwriting, thinking I could say it better by letter, and that my presence\nirritates her,  he said, as he gave him the letter.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch took the letter, looked with incredulous surprise\nat the lusterless eyes fixed so immovably on him, and began to read.\n\n I see that my presence is irksome to you. Painful as it is to me to\nbelieve it, I see that it is so, and cannot be otherwise. I don t blame\nyou, and God is my witness that on seeing you at the time of your\nillness I resolved with my whole heart to forget all that had passed\nbetween us and to begin a new life. I do not regret, and shall never\nregret, what I have done; but I have desired one thing your good, the\ngood of your soul and now I see I have not attained that. Tell me\nyourself what will give you true happiness and peace to your soul. I\nput myself entirely in your hands, and trust to your feeling of what s\nright. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch handed back the letter, and with the same surprise\ncontinued looking at his brother-in-law, not knowing what to say. This\nsilence was so awkward for both of them that Stepan Arkadyevitch s lips\nbegan twitching nervously, while he still gazed without speaking at\nKarenin s face.\n\n That s what I wanted to say to her,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch,\nturning away.\n\n Yes, yes....  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, not able to answer for the\ntears that were choking him.\n\n Yes, yes, I understand you,  he brought out at last.\n\n I want to know what she would like,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n I am afraid she does not understand her own position. She is not a\njudge,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, recovering himself.  She is crushed,\nsimply crushed by your generosity. If she were to read this letter, she\nwould be incapable of saying anything, she would only hang her head\nlower than ever. \n\n Yes, but what s to be done in that case? how explain, how find out her\nwishes? \n\n If you will allow me to give my opinion, I think that it lies with you\nto point out directly the steps you consider necessary to end the\nposition. \n\n So you consider it must be ended?  Alexey Alexandrovitch interrupted\nhim.  But how?  he added, with a gesture of his hands before his eyes\nnot usual with him.  I see no possible way out of it. \n\n There is some way of getting out of every position,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, standing up and becoming more cheerful.  There was a time\nwhen you thought of breaking off.... If you are convinced now that you\ncannot make each other happy.... \n\n Happiness may be variously understood. But suppose that I agree to\neverything, that I want nothing: what way is there of getting out of\nour position? \n\n If you care to know my opinion,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch with the\nsame smile of softening, almond-oil tenderness with which he had been\ntalking to Anna. His kindly smile was so winning that Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, feeling his own weakness and unconsciously swayed by\nit, was ready to believe what Stepan Arkadyevitch was saying.\n\n She will never speak out about it. But one thing is possible, one\nthing she might desire,  he went on,  that is the cessation of your\nrelations and all memories associated with them. To my thinking, in\nyour position what s essential is the formation of a new attitude to\none another. And that can only rest on a basis of freedom on both\nsides. \n\n Divorce,  Alexey Alexandrovitch interrupted, in a tone of aversion.\n\n Yes, I imagine that divorce yes, divorce,  Stepan Arkadyevitch\nrepeated, reddening.  That is from every point of view the most\nrational course for married people who find themselves in the position\nyou are in. What can be done if married people find that life is\nimpossible for them together? That may always happen. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch sighed heavily and closed his eyes.\n\n There s only one point to be considered: is either of the parties\ndesirous of forming new ties? If not, it is very simple,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, feeling more and more free from constraint.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, scowling with emotion, muttered something to\nhimself, and made no answer. All that seemed so simple to Stepan\nArkadyevitch, Alexey Alexandrovitch had thought over thousands of\ntimes. And, so far from being simple, it all seemed to him utterly\nimpossible. Divorce, the details of which he knew by this time, seemed\nto him now out of the question, because the sense of his own dignity\nand respect for religion forbade his taking upon himself a fictitious\ncharge of adultery, and still more suffering his wife, pardoned and\nbeloved by him, to be caught in the fact and put to public shame.\nDivorce appeared to him impossible also on other still more weighty\ngrounds.\n\nWhat would become of his son in case of a divorce? To leave him with\nhis mother was out of the question. The divorced mother would have her\nown illegitimate family, in which his position as a stepson and his\neducation would not be good. Keep him with him? He knew that would be\nan act of vengeance on his part, and that he did not want. But apart\nfrom this, what more than all made divorce seem impossible to Alexey\nAlexandrovitch was, that by consenting to a divorce he would be\ncompletely ruining Anna. The saying of Darya Alexandrovna at Moscow,\nthat in deciding on a divorce he was thinking of himself, and not\nconsidering that by this he would be ruining her irrevocably, had sunk\ninto his heart. And connecting this saying with his forgiveness of her,\nwith his devotion to the children, he understood it now in his own way.\nTo consent to a divorce, to give her her freedom, meant in his thoughts\nto take from himself the last tie that bound him to life the children\nwhom he loved; and to take from her the last prop that stayed her on\nthe path of right, to thrust her down to her ruin. If she were\ndivorced, he knew she would join her life to Vronsky s, and their tie\nwould be an illegitimate and criminal one, since a wife, by the\ninterpretation of the ecclesiastical law, could not marry while her\nhusband was living.  She will join him, and in a year or two he will\nthrow her over, or she will form a new tie,  thought Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.  And I, by agreeing to an unlawful divorce, shall be to\nblame for her ruin.  He had thought it all over hundreds of times, and\nwas convinced that a divorce was not at all simple, as Stepan\nArkadyevitch had said, but was utterly impossible. He did not believe a\nsingle word Stepan Arkadyevitch said to him; to every word he had a\nthousand objections to make, but he listened to him, feeling that his\nwords were the expression of that mighty brutal force which controlled\nhis life and to which he would have to submit.\n\n The only question is on what terms you agree to give her a divorce.\nShe does not want anything, does not dare ask you for anything, she\nleaves it all to your generosity. \n\n My God, my God! what for?  thought Alexey Alexandrovitch, remembering\nthe details of divorce proceedings in which the husband took the blame\non himself, and with just the same gesture with which Vronsky had done\nthe same, he hid his face for shame in his hands.\n\n You are distressed, I understand that. But if you think it over.... \n\n Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other\nalso; and if any man take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also, \nthought Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n Yes, yes!  he cried in a shrill voice.  I will take the disgrace on\nmyself, I will give up even my son, but ... but wouldn t it be better\nto let it alone? Still you may do as you like.... \n\nAnd turning away so that his brother-in-law could not see him, he sat\ndown on a chair at the window. There was bitterness, there was shame in\nhis heart, but with bitterness and shame he felt joy and emotion at the\nheight of his own meekness.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was touched. He was silent for a space.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch, believe me, she appreciates your generosity, \nhe said.  But it seems it was the will of God,  he added, and as he\nsaid it felt how foolish a remark it was, and with difficulty repressed\na smile at his own foolishness.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch would have made some reply, but tears stopped\nhim.\n\n This is an unhappy fatality, and one must accept it as such. I accept\nthe calamity as an accomplished fact, and am doing my best to help both\nher and you,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\nWhen he went out of his brother-in-law s room he was touched, but that\ndid not prevent him from being glad he had successfully brought the\nmatter to a conclusion, for he felt certain Alexey Alexandrovitch would\nnot go back on his words. To this satisfaction was added the fact that\nan idea had just struck him for a riddle turning on his successful\nachievement, that when the affair was over he would ask his wife and\nmost intimate friends. He put this riddle into two or three different\nways.  But I ll work it out better than that,  he said to himself with\na smile.\n\n\nChapter 23\n\nVronsky s wound had been a dangerous one, though it did not touch the\nheart, and for several days he had lain between life and death. The\nfirst time he was able to speak, Varya, his brother s wife, was alone\nin the room.\n\n Varya,  he said, looking sternly at her,  I shot myself by accident.\nAnd please never speak of it, and tell everyone so. Or else it s too\nridiculous. \n\nWithout answering his words, Varya bent over him, and with a delighted\nsmile gazed into his face. His eyes were clear, not feverish; but their\nexpression was stern.\n\n Thank God!  she said.  You re not in pain? \n\n A little here.  He pointed to his breast.\n\n Then let me change your bandages. \n\nIn silence, stiffening his broad jaws, he looked at her while she\nbandaged him up. When she had finished he said:\n\n I m not delirious. Please manage that there may be no talk of my\nhaving shot myself on purpose. \n\n No one does say so. Only I hope you won t shoot yourself by accident\nany more,  she said, with a questioning smile.\n\n Of course I won t, but it would have been better.... \n\nAnd he smiled gloomily.\n\nIn spite of these words and this smile, which so frightened Varya, when\nthe inflammation was over and he began to recover, he felt that he was\ncompletely free from one part of his misery. By his action he had, as\nit were, washed away the shame and humiliation he had felt before. He\ncould now think calmly of Alexey Alexandrovitch. He recognized all his\nmagnanimity, but he did not now feel himself humiliated by it. Besides,\nhe got back again into the beaten track of his life. He saw the\npossibility of looking men in the face again without shame, and he\ncould live in accordance with his own habits. One thing he could not\npluck out of his heart, though he never ceased struggling with it, was\nthe regret, amounting to despair, that he had lost her forever. That\nnow, having expiated his sin against the husband, he was bound to\nrenounce her, and never in future to stand between her with her\nrepentance and her husband, he had firmly decided in his heart; but he\ncould not tear out of his heart his regret at the loss of her love, he\ncould not erase from his memory those moments of happiness that he had\nso little prized at the time, and that haunted him in all their charm.\n\nSerpuhovskoy had planned his appointment at Tashkend, and Vronsky\nagreed to the proposition without the slightest hesitation. But the\nnearer the time of departure came, the bitterer was the sacrifice he\nwas making to what he thought his duty.\n\nHis wound had healed, and he was driving about making preparations for\nhis departure for Tashkend.\n\n To see her once and then to bury myself, to die,  he thought, and as\nhe was paying farewell visits, he uttered this thought to Betsy.\nCharged with this commission, Betsy had gone to Anna, and brought him\nback a negative reply.\n\n So much the better,  thought Vronsky, when he received the news.  It\nwas a weakness, which would have shattered what strength I have left. \n\nNext day Betsy herself came to him in the morning, and announced that\nshe had heard through Oblonsky as a positive fact that Alexey\nAlexandrovitch had agreed to a divorce, and that therefore Vronsky\ncould see Anna.\n\nWithout even troubling himself to see Betsy out of his flat, forgetting\nall his resolutions, without asking when he could see her, where her\nhusband was, Vronsky drove straight to the Karenins . He ran up the\nstairs seeing no one and nothing, and with a rapid step, almost\nbreaking into a run, he went into her room. And without considering,\nwithout noticing whether there was anyone in the room or not, he flung\nhis arms round her, and began to cover her face, her hands, her neck\nwith kisses.\n\nAnna had been preparing herself for this meeting, had thought what she\nwould say to him, but she did not succeed in saying anything of it; his\npassion mastered her. She tried to calm him, to calm herself, but it\nwas too late. His feeling infected her. Her lips trembled so that for a\nlong while she could say nothing.\n\n Yes, you have conquered me, and I am yours,  she said at last,\npressing his hands to her bosom.\n\n So it had to be,  he said.  So long as we live, it must be so. I know\nit now. \n\n That s true,  she said, getting whiter and whiter, and embracing his\nhead.  Still there is something terrible in it after all that has\nhappened. \n\n It will all pass, it will all pass; we shall be so happy. Our love, if\nit could be stronger, will be strengthened by there being something\nterrible in it,  he said, lifting his head and parting his strong teeth\nin a smile.\n\nAnd she could not but respond with a smile not to his words, but to the\nlove in his eyes. She took his hand and stroked her chilled cheeks and\ncropped head with it.\n\n I don t know you with this short hair. You ve grown so pretty. A boy.\nBut how pale you are! \n\n Yes, I m very weak,  she said, smiling. And her lips began trembling\nagain.\n\n We ll go to Italy; you will get strong,  he said.\n\n Can it be possible we could be like husband and wife, alone, your\nfamily with you?  she said, looking close into his eyes.\n\n It only seems strange to me that it can ever have been otherwise. \n\n Stiva says that _he_ has agreed to everything, but I can t accept\n_his_ generosity,  she said, looking dreamily past Vronsky s face.  I\ndon t want a divorce; it s all the same to me now. Only I don t know\nwhat he will decide about Seryozha. \n\nHe could not conceive how at this moment of their meeting she could\nremember and think of her son, of divorce. What did it all matter?\n\n Don t speak of that, don t think of it,  he said, turning her hand in\nhis, and trying to draw her attention to him; but still she did not\nlook at him.\n\n Oh, why didn t I die! it would have been better,  she said, and silent\ntears flowed down both her cheeks; but she tried to smile, so as not to\nwound him.\n\nTo decline the flattering and dangerous appointment at Tashkend would\nhave been, Vronsky had till then considered, disgraceful and\nimpossible. But now, without an instant s consideration, he declined\nit, and observing dissatisfaction in the most exalted quarters at this\nstep, he immediately retired from the army.\n\nA month later Alexey Alexandrovitch was left alone with his son in his\nhouse at Petersburg, while Anna and Vronsky had gone abroad, not having\nobtained a divorce, but having absolutely declined all idea of one.\n\n\n\n\nPART FIVE\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nPrincess Shtcherbatskaya considered that it was out of the question for\nthe wedding to take place before Lent, just five weeks off, since not\nhalf the trousseau could possibly be ready by that time. But she could\nnot but agree with Levin that to fix it for after Lent would be putting\nit off too late, as an old aunt of Prince Shtcherbatsky s was seriously\nill and might die, and then the mourning would delay the wedding still\nlonger. And therefore, deciding to divide the trousseau into two\nparts a larger and smaller trousseau the princess consented to have the\nwedding before Lent. She determined that she would get the smaller part\nof the trousseau all ready now, and the larger part should be made\nlater, and she was much vexed with Levin because he was incapable of\ngiving her a serious answer to the question whether he agreed to this\narrangement or not. The arrangement was the more suitable as,\nimmediately after the wedding, the young people were to go to the\ncountry, where the more important part of the trousseau would not be\nwanted.\n\nLevin still continued in the same delirious condition in which it\nseemed to him that he and his happiness constituted the chief and sole\naim of all existence, and that he need not now think or care about\nanything, that everything was being done and would be done for him by\nothers. He had not even plans and aims for the future, he left its\narrangement to others, knowing that everything would be delightful. His\nbrother Sergey Ivanovitch, Stepan Arkadyevitch, and the princess guided\nhim in doing what he had to do. All he did was to agree entirely with\neverything suggested to him. His brother raised money for him, the\nprincess advised him to leave Moscow after the wedding. Stepan\nArkadyevitch advised him to go abroad. He agreed to everything.  Do\nwhat you choose, if it amuses you. I m happy, and my happiness can be\nno greater and no less for anything you do,  he thought. When he told\nKitty of Stepan Arkadyevitch s advice that they should go abroad, he\nwas much surprised that she did not agree to this, and had some\ndefinite requirements of her own in regard to their future. She knew\nLevin had work he loved in the country. She did not, as he saw,\nunderstand this work, she did not even care to understand it. But that\ndid not prevent her from regarding it as a matter of great importance.\nAnd then she knew their home would be in the country, and she wanted to\ngo, not abroad where she was not going to live, but to the place where\ntheir home would be. This definitely expressed purpose astonished\nLevin. But since he did not care either way, he immediately asked\nStepan Arkadyevitch, as though it were his duty, to go down to the\ncountry and to arrange everything there to the best of his ability with\nthe taste of which he had so much.\n\n But I say,  Stepan Arkadyevitch said to him one day after he had come\nback from the country, where he had got everything ready for the young\npeople s arrival,  have you a certificate of having been at\nconfession? \n\n No. But what of it? \n\n You can t be married without it. \n\n _A e, a e, a e!_  cried Levin.  Why, I believe it s nine years since\nI ve taken the sacrament! I never thought of it. \n\n You re a pretty fellow!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch laughing,  and you\ncall me a Nihilist! But this won t do, you know. You must take the\nsacrament. \n\n When? There are four days left now. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch arranged this also, and Levin had to go to\nconfession. To Levin, as to any unbeliever who respects the beliefs of\nothers, it was exceedingly disagreeable to be present at and take part\nin church ceremonies. At this moment, in his present softened state of\nfeeling, sensitive to everything, this inevitable act of hypocrisy was\nnot merely painful to Levin, it seemed to him utterly impossible. Now,\nin the heyday of his highest glory, his fullest flower, he would have\nto be a liar or a scoffer. He felt incapable of being either. But\nthough he repeatedly plied Stepan Arkadyevitch with questions as to the\npossibility of obtaining a certificate without actually communicating,\nStepan Arkadyevitch maintained that it was out of the question.\n\n Besides, what is it to you two days? And he s an awfully nice clever\nold fellow. He ll pull the tooth out for you so gently, you won t\nnotice it. \n\nStanding at the first litany, Levin attempted to revive in himself his\nyouthful recollections of the intense religious emotion he had passed\nthrough between the ages of sixteen and seventeen.\n\nBut he was at once convinced that it was utterly impossible to him. He\nattempted to look at it all as an empty custom, having no sort of\nmeaning, like the custom of paying calls. But he felt that he could not\ndo that either. Levin found himself, like the majority of his\ncontemporaries, in the vaguest position in regard to religion. Believe\nhe could not, and at the same time he had no firm conviction that it\nwas all wrong. And consequently, not being able to believe in the\nsignificance of what he was doing nor to regard it with indifference as\nan empty formality, during the whole period of preparing for the\nsacrament he was conscious of a feeling of discomfort and shame at\ndoing what he did not himself understand, and what, as an inner voice\ntold him, was therefore false and wrong.\n\nDuring the service he would first listen to the prayers, trying to\nattach some meaning to them not discordant with his own views; then\nfeeling that he could not understand and must condemn them, he tried\nnot to listen to them, but to attend to the thoughts, observations, and\nmemories which floated through his brain with extreme vividness during\nthis idle time of standing in church.\n\nHe had stood through the litany, the evening service and the midnight\nservice, and the next day he got up earlier than usual, and without\nhaving tea went at eight o clock in the morning to the church for the\nmorning service and the confession.\n\nThere was no one in the church but a beggar soldier, two old women, and\nthe church officials. A young deacon, whose long back showed in two\ndistinct halves through his thin undercassock, met him, and at once\ngoing to a little table at the wall read the exhortation. During the\nreading, especially at the frequent and rapid repetition of the same\nwords,  Lord, have mercy on us!  which resounded with an echo, Levin\nfelt that thought was shut and sealed up, and that it must not be\ntouched or stirred now or confusion would be the result; and so\nstanding behind the deacon he went on thinking of his own affairs,\nneither listening nor examining what was said.  It s wonderful what\nexpression there is in her hand,  he thought, remembering how they had\nbeen sitting the day before at a corner table. They had nothing to talk\nabout, as was almost always the case at this time, and laying her hand\non the table she kept opening and shutting it, and laughed herself as\nshe watched her action. He remembered how he had kissed it and then had\nexamined the lines on the pink palm.  Have mercy on us again!  thought\nLevin, crossing himself, bowing, and looking at the supple spring of\nthe deacon s back bowing before him.  She took my hand then and\nexamined the lines.  You ve got a splendid hand,  she said.  And he\nlooked at his own hand and the short hand of the deacon.  Yes, now it\nwill soon be over,  he thought.  No, it seems to be beginning again, \nhe thought, listening to the prayers.  No, it s just ending: there he\nis bowing down to the ground. That s always at the end. \n\nThe deacon s hand in a plush cuff accepted a three-rouble note\nunobtrusively, and the deacon said he would put it down in the\nregister, and his new boots creaking jauntily over the flagstones of\nthe empty church, he went to the altar. A moment later he peeped out\nthence and beckoned to Levin. Thought, till then locked up, began to\nstir in Levin s head, but he made haste to drive it away.  It will come\nright somehow,  he thought, and went towards the altar-rails. He went\nup the steps, and turning to the right saw the priest. The priest, a\nlittle old man with a scanty grizzled beard and weary, good-natured\neyes, was standing at the altar-rails, turning over the pages of a\nmissal. With a slight bow to Levin he began immediately reading prayers\nin the official voice. When he had finished them he bowed down to the\nground and turned, facing Levin.\n\n Christ is present here unseen, receiving your confession,  he said,\npointing to the crucifix.  Do you believe in all the doctrines of the\nHoly Apostolic Church?  the priest went on, turning his eyes away from\nLevin s face and folding his hands under his stole.\n\n I have doubted, I doubt everything,  said Levin in a voice that jarred\non himself, and he ceased speaking.\n\nThe priest waited a few seconds to see if he would not say more, and\nclosing his eyes he said quickly, with a broad, Vladimirsky accent:\n\n Doubt is natural to the weakness of mankind, but we must pray that God\nin His mercy will strengthen us. What are your special sins?  he added,\nwithout the slightest interval, as though anxious not to waste time.\n\n My chief sin is doubt. I have doubts of everything, and for the most\npart I am in doubt. \n\n Doubt is natural to the weakness of mankind,  the priest repeated the\nsame words.  What do you doubt about principally? \n\n I doubt of everything. I sometimes even have doubts of the existence\nof God,  Levin could not help saying, and he was horrified at the\nimpropriety of what he was saying. But Levin s words did not, it\nseemed, make much impression on the priest.\n\n What sort of doubt can there be of the existence of God?  he said\nhurriedly, with a just perceptible smile.\n\nLevin did not speak.\n\n What doubt can you have of the Creator when you behold His creation? \nthe priest went on in the rapid customary jargon.  Who has decked the\nheavenly firmament with its lights? Who has clothed the earth in its\nbeauty? How explain it without the Creator?  he said, looking\ninquiringly at Levin.\n\nLevin felt that it would be improper to enter upon a metaphysical\ndiscussion with the priest, and so he said in reply merely what was a\ndirect answer to the question.\n\n I don t know,  he said.\n\n You don t know! Then how can you doubt that God created all?  the\npriest said, with good-humored perplexity.\n\n I don t understand it at all,  said Levin, blushing, and feeling that\nhis words were stupid, and that they could not be anything but stupid\nin such a position.\n\n Pray to God and beseech Him. Even the holy fathers had doubts, and\nprayed to God to strengthen their faith. The devil has great power, and\nwe must resist him. Pray to God, beseech Him. Pray to God,  he repeated\nhurriedly.\n\nThe priest paused for some time, as though meditating.\n\n You re about, I hear, to marry the daughter of my parishioner and son\nin the spirit, Prince Shtcherbatsky?  he resumed, with a smile.  An\nexcellent young lady. \n\n Yes,  answered Levin, blushing for the priest.  What does he want to\nask me about this at confession for?  he thought.\n\nAnd, as though answering his thought, the priest said to him:\n\n You are about to enter into holy matrimony, and God may bless you with\noffspring. Well, what sort of bringing-up can you give your babes if\nyou do not overcome the temptation of the devil, enticing you to\ninfidelity?  he said, with gentle reproachfulness.  If you love your\nchild as a good father, you will not desire only wealth, luxury, honor\nfor your infant; you will be anxious for his salvation, his spiritual\nenlightenment with the light of truth. Eh? What answer will you make\nhim when the innocent babe asks you:  Papa! who made all that enchants\nme in this world the earth, the waters, the sun, the flowers, the\ngrass?  Can you say to him:  I don t know ? You cannot but know, since\nthe Lord God in His infinite mercy has revealed it to us. Or your child\nwill ask you:  What awaits me in the life beyond the tomb?  What will\nyou say to him when you know nothing? How will you answer him? Will you\nleave him to the allurements of the world and the devil? That s not\nright,  he said, and he stopped, putting his head on one side and\nlooking at Levin with his kindly, gentle eyes.\n\nLevin made no answer this time, not because he did not want to enter\nupon a discussion with the priest, but because, so far, no one had ever\nasked him such questions, and when his babes did ask him those\nquestions, it would be time enough to think about answering them.\n\n You are entering upon a time of life,  pursued the priest,  when you\nmust choose your path and keep to it. Pray to God that He may in His\nmercy aid you and have mercy on you!  he concluded.  Our Lord and God,\nJesus Christ, in the abundance and riches of His loving-kindness,\nforgives this child....  and, finishing the prayer of absolution, the\npriest blessed him and dismissed him.\n\nOn getting home that day, Levin had a delightful sense of relief at the\nawkward position being over and having been got through without his\nhaving to tell a lie. Apart from this, there remained a vague memory\nthat what the kind, nice old fellow had said had not been at all so\nstupid as he had fancied at first, and that there was something in it\nthat must be cleared up.\n\n Of course, not now,  thought Levin,  but some day later on.  Levin\nfelt more than ever now that there was something not clear and not\nclean in his soul, and that, in regard to religion, he was in the same\nposition which he perceived so clearly and disliked in others, and for\nwhich he blamed his friend Sviazhsky.\n\nLevin spent that evening with his betrothed at Dolly s, and was in very\nhigh spirits. To explain to Stepan Arkadyevitch the state of excitement\nin which he found himself, he said that he was happy like a dog being\ntrained to jump through a hoop, who, having at last caught the idea,\nand done what was required of him, whines and wags its tail, and jumps\nup to the table and the windows in its delight.\n\n\nChapter 2\n\nOn the day of the wedding, according to the Russian custom (the\nprincess and Darya Alexandrovna insisted on strictly keeping all the\ncustoms), Levin did not see his betrothed, and dined at his hotel with\nthree bachelor friends, casually brought together at his rooms. These\nwere Sergey Ivanovitch, Katavasov, a university friend, now professor\nof natural science, whom Levin had met in the street and insisted on\ntaking home with him, and Tchirikov, his best man, a Moscow\nconciliation-board judge, Levin s companion in his bear-hunts. The\ndinner was a very merry one: Sergey Ivanovitch was in his happiest\nmood, and was much amused by Katavasov s originality. Katavasov,\nfeeling his originality was appreciated and understood, made the most\nof it. Tchirikov always gave a lively and good-humored support to\nconversation of any sort.\n\n See, now,  said Katavasov, drawling his words from a habit acquired in\nthe lecture-room,  what a capable fellow was our friend Konstantin\nDmitrievitch. I m not speaking of present company, for he s absent. At\nthe time he left the university he was fond of science, took an\ninterest in humanity; now one-half of his abilities is devoted to\ndeceiving himself, and the other to justifying the deceit. \n\n A more determined enemy of matrimony than you I never saw,  said\nSergey Ivanovitch.\n\n Oh, no, I m not an enemy of matrimony. I m in favor of division of\nlabor. People who can do nothing else ought to rear people while the\nrest work for their happiness and enlightenment. That s how I look at\nit. To muddle up two trades is the error of the amateur; I m not one of\ntheir number. \n\n How happy I shall be when I hear that you re in love!  said Levin.\n Please invite me to the wedding. \n\n I m in love now. \n\n Yes, with a cuttlefish! You know,  Levin turned to his brother,\n Mihail Semyonovitch is writing a work on the digestive organs of\nthe.... \n\n Now, make a muddle of it! It doesn t matter what about. And the fact\nis, I certainly do love cuttlefish. \n\n But that s no hindrance to your loving your wife. \n\n The cuttlefish is no hindrance. The wife is the hindrance. \n\n Why so? \n\n Oh, you ll see! You care about farming, hunting, well, you d better\nlook out! \n\n Arhip was here today; he said there were a lot of elks in Prudno, and\ntwo bears,  said Tchirikov.\n\n Well, you must go and get them without me. \n\n Ah, that s the truth,  said Sergey Ivanovitch.  And you may say\ngood-bye to bear-hunting for the future your wife won t allow it! \n\nLevin smiled. The picture of his wife not letting him go was so\npleasant that he was ready to renounce the delights of looking upon\nbears forever.\n\n Still, it s a pity they should get those two bears without you. Do you\nremember last time at Hapilovo? That was a delightful hunt!  said\nTchirikov.\n\nLevin had not the heart to disillusion him of the notion that there\ncould be something delightful apart from her, and so said nothing.\n\n There s some sense in this custom of saying good-bye to bachelor\nlife,  said Sergey Ivanovitch.  However happy you may be, you must\nregret your freedom. \n\n And confess there is a feeling that you want to jump out of the\nwindow, like Gogol s bridegroom? \n\n Of course there is, but it isn t confessed,  said Katavasov, and he\nbroke into loud laughter.\n\n Oh, well, the window s open. Let s start off this instant to Tver!\nThere s a big she-bear; one can go right up to the lair. Seriously,\nlet s go by the five o clock! And here let them do what they like, \nsaid Tchirikov, smiling.\n\n Well, now, on my honor,  said Levin, smiling,  I can t find in my\nheart that feeling of regret for my freedom. \n\n Yes, there s such a chaos in your heart just now that you can t find\nanything there,  said Katavasov.  Wait a bit, when you set it to rights\na little, you ll find it! \n\n No; if so, I should have felt a little, apart from my feeling  (he\ncould not say love before them)  and happiness, a certain regret at\nlosing my freedom.... On the contrary, I am glad at the very loss of my\nfreedom. \n\n Awful! It s a hopeless case!  said Katavasov.  Well, let s drink to\nhis recovery, or wish that a hundredth part of his dreams may be\nrealized and that would be happiness such as never has been seen on\nearth! \n\nSoon after dinner the guests went away to be in time to be dressed for\nthe wedding.\n\nWhen he was left alone, and recalled the conversation of these bachelor\nfriends, Levin asked himself: had he in his heart that regret for his\nfreedom of which they had spoken? He smiled at the question.  Freedom!\nWhat is freedom for? Happiness is only in loving and wishing her\nwishes, thinking her thoughts, that is to say, not freedom at\nall that s happiness! \n\n But do I know her ideas, her wishes, her feelings?  some voice\nsuddenly whispered to him. The smile died away from his face, and he\ngrew thoughtful. And suddenly a strange feeling came upon him. There\ncame over him a dread and doubt doubt of everything.\n\n What if she does not love me? What if she s marrying me simply to be\nmarried? What if she doesn t see herself what she s doing?  he asked\nhimself.  She may come to her senses, and only when she is being\nmarried realize that she does not and cannot love me.  And strange,\nmost evil thoughts of her began to come to him. He was jealous of\nVronsky, as he had been a year ago, as though the evening he had seen\nher with Vronsky had been yesterday. He suspected she had not told him\neverything.\n\nHe jumped up quickly.  No, this can t go on!  he said to himself in\ndespair.  I ll go to her; I ll ask her; I ll say for the last time: we\nare free, and hadn t we better stay so? Anything s better than endless\nmisery, disgrace, unfaithfulness!  With despair in his heart and bitter\nanger against all men, against himself, against her, he went out of the\nhotel and drove to her house.\n\nHe found her in one of the back rooms. She was sitting on a chest and\nmaking some arrangements with her maid, sorting over heaps of dresses\nof different colors, spread on the backs of chairs and on the floor.\n\n Ah!  she cried, seeing him, and beaming with delight.  Kostya!\nKonstantin Dmitrievitch!  (These latter days she used these names\nalmost alternately.)  I didn t expect you! I m going through my\nwardrobe to see what s for whom.... \n\n Oh! that s very nice!  he said gloomily, looking at the maid.\n\n You can go, Dunyasha, I ll call you presently,  said Kitty.  Kostya,\nwhat s the matter?  she asked, definitely adopting this familiar name\nas soon as the maid had gone out. She noticed his strange face,\nagitated and gloomy, and a panic came over her.\n\n Kitty! I m in torture. I can t suffer alone,  he said with despair in\nhis voice, standing before her and looking imploringly into her eyes.\nHe saw already from her loving, truthful face, that nothing could come\nof what he had meant to say, but yet he wanted her to reassure him\nherself.  I ve come to say that there s still time. This can all be\nstopped and set right. \n\n What? I don t understand. What is the matter? \n\n What I have said a thousand times over, and can t help thinking ...\nthat I m not worthy of you. You couldn t consent to marry me. Think a\nlittle. You ve made a mistake. Think it over thoroughly. You can t love\nme.... If ... better say so,  he said, not looking at her.  I shall be\nwretched. Let people say what they like; anything s better than\nmisery.... Far better now while there s still time.... \n\n I don t understand,  she answered, panic-stricken;  you mean you want\nto give it up ... don t want it? \n\n Yes, if you don t love me. \n\n You re out of your mind!  she cried, turning crimson with vexation.\nBut his face was so piteous, that she restrained her vexation, and\nflinging some clothes off an armchair, she sat down beside him.  What\nare you thinking? tell me all. \n\n I am thinking you can t love me. What can you love me for? \n\n My God! what can I do?...  she said, and burst into tears.\n\n Oh! what have I done?  he cried, and kneeling before her, he fell to\nkissing her hands.\n\nWhen the princess came into the room five minutes later, she found them\ncompletely reconciled. Kitty had not simply assured him that she loved\nhim, but had gone so far in answer to his question, what she loved him\nfor as to explain what for. She told him that she loved him because she\nunderstood him completely, because she knew what he would like, and\nbecause everything he liked was good. And this seemed to him perfectly\nclear. When the princess came to them, they were sitting side by side\non the chest, sorting the dresses and disputing over Kitty s wanting to\ngive Dunyasha the brown dress she had been wearing when Levin proposed\nto her, while he insisted that that dress must never be given away, but\nDunyasha must have the blue one.\n\n How is it you don t see? She s a brunette, and it won t suit her....\nI ve worked it all out. \n\nHearing why he had come, the princess was half humorously, half\nseriously angry with him, and sent him home to dress and not to hinder\nKitty s hair-dressing, as Charles the hair-dresser was just coming.\n\n As it is, she s been eating nothing lately and is losing her looks,\nand then you must come and upset her with your nonsense,  she said to\nhim.  Get along with you, my dear! \n\nLevin, guilty and shamefaced, but pacified, went back to his hotel. His\nbrother, Darya Alexandrovna, and Stepan Arkadyevitch, all in full\ndress, were waiting for him to bless him with the holy picture. There\nwas no time to lose. Darya Alexandrovna had to drive home again to\nfetch her curled and pomaded son, who was to carry the holy pictures\nafter the bride. Then a carriage had to be sent for the best man, and\nanother that would take Sergey Ivanovitch away would have to be sent\nback.... Altogether there were a great many most complicated matters to\nbe considered and arranged. One thing was unmistakable, that there must\nbe no delay, as it was already half-past six.\n\nNothing special happened at the ceremony of benediction with the holy\npicture. Stepan Arkadyevitch stood in a comically solemn pose beside\nhis wife, took the holy picture, and telling Levin to bow down to the\nground, he blessed him with his kindly, ironical smile, and kissed him\nthree times; Darya Alexandrovna did the same, and immediately was in a\nhurry to get off, and again plunged into the intricate question of the\ndestinations of the various carriages.\n\n Come, I ll tell you how we ll manage: you drive in our carriage to\nfetch him, and Sergey Ivanovitch, if he ll be so good, will drive there\nand then send his carriage. \n\n Of course; I shall be delighted. \n\n We ll come on directly with him. Are your things sent off?  said\nStepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Yes,  answered Levin, and he told Kouzma to put out his clothes for\nhim to dress.\n\n\nChapter 3\n\nA crowd of people, principally women, was thronging round the church\nlighted up for the wedding. Those who had not succeeded in getting into\nthe main entrance were crowding about the windows, pushing, wrangling,\nand peeping through the gratings.\n\nMore than twenty carriages had already been drawn up in ranks along the\nstreet by the police. A police officer, regardless of the frost, stood\nat the entrance, gorgeous in his uniform. More carriages were\ncontinually driving up, and ladies wearing flowers and carrying their\ntrains, and men taking off their helmets or black hats kept walking\ninto the church. Inside the church both lusters were already lighted,\nand all the candles before the holy pictures. The gilt on the red\nground of the holy picture-stand, and the gilt relief on the pictures,\nand the silver of the lusters and candlesticks, and the stones of the\nfloor, and the rugs, and the banners above in the choir, and the steps\nof the altar, and the old blackened books, and the cassocks and\nsurplices all were flooded with light. On the right side of the warm\nchurch, in the crowd of frock coats and white ties, uniforms and\nbroadcloth, velvet, satin, hair and flowers, bare shoulders and arms\nand long gloves, there was discreet but lively conversation that echoed\nstrangely in the high cupola. Every time there was heard the creak of\nthe opened door the conversation in the crowd died away, and everybody\nlooked round expecting to see the bride and bridegroom come in. But the\ndoor had opened more than ten times, and each time it was either a\nbelated guest or guests, who joined the circle of the invited on the\nright, or a spectator, who had eluded or softened the police officer,\nand went to join the crowd of outsiders on the left. Both the guests\nand the outside public had by now passed through all the phases of\nanticipation.\n\nAt first they imagined that the bride and bridegroom would arrive\nimmediately, and attached no importance at all to their being late.\nThen they began to look more and more often towards the door, and to\ntalk of whether anything could have happened. Then the long delay began\nto be positively discomforting, and relations and guests tried to look\nas if they were not thinking of the bridegroom but were engrossed in\nconversation.\n\nThe head deacon, as though to remind them of the value of his time,\ncoughed impatiently, making the window-panes quiver in their frames. In\nthe choir the bored choristers could be heard trying their voices and\nblowing their noses. The priest was continually sending first the\nbeadle and then the deacon to find out whether the bridegroom had not\ncome, more and more often he went himself, in a lilac vestment and an\nembroidered sash, to the side door, expecting to see the bridegroom. At\nlast one of the ladies, glancing at her watch, said,  It really is\nstrange, though!  and all the guests became uneasy and began loudly\nexpressing their wonder and dissatisfaction. One of the bridegroom s\nbest men went to find out what had happened. Kitty meanwhile had long\nago been quite ready, and in her white dress and long veil and wreath\nof orange blossoms she was standing in the drawing-room of the\nShtcherbatskys  house with her sister, Madame Lvova, who was her\nbridal-mother. She was looking out of the window, and had been for over\nhalf an hour anxiously expecting to hear from the best man that her\nbridegroom was at the church.\n\nLevin meanwhile, in his trousers, but without his coat and waistcoat,\nwas walking to and fro in his room at the hotel, continually putting\nhis head out of the door and looking up and down the corridor. But in\nthe corridor there was no sign of the person he was looking for and he\ncame back in despair, and frantically waving his hands addressed Stepan\nArkadyevitch, who was smoking serenely.\n\n Was ever a man in such a fearful fool s position?  he said.\n\n Yes, it is stupid,  Stepan Arkadyevitch assented, smiling soothingly.\n But don t worry, it ll be brought directly. \n\n No, what is to be done!  said Levin, with smothered fury.  And these\nfools of open waistcoats! Out of the question!  he said, looking at the\ncrumpled front of his shirt.  And what if the things have been taken on\nto the railway station!  he roared in desperation.\n\n Then you must put on mine. \n\n I ought to have done so long ago, if at all. \n\n It s not nice to look ridiculous.... Wait a bit! it will _come\nround_. \n\nThe point was that when Levin asked for his evening suit, Kouzma, his\nold servant, had brought him the coat, waistcoat, and everything that\nwas wanted.\n\n But the shirt!  cried Levin.\n\n You ve got a shirt on,  Kouzma answered, with a placid smile.\n\nKouzma had not thought of leaving out a clean shirt, and on receiving\ninstructions to pack up everything and send it round to the\nShtcherbatskys  house, from which the young people were to set out the\nsame evening, he had done so, packing everything but the dress suit.\nThe shirt worn since the morning was crumpled and out of the question\nwith the fashionable open waistcoat. It was a long way to send to the\nShtcherbatskys . They sent out to buy a shirt. The servant came back;\neverything was shut up it was Sunday. They sent to Stepan\nArkadyevitch s and brought a shirt it was impossibly wide and short.\nThey sent finally to the Shtcherbatskys  to unpack the things. The\nbridegroom was expected at the church while he was pacing up and down\nhis room like a wild beast in a cage, peeping out into the corridor,\nand with horror and despair recalling what absurd things he had said to\nKitty and what she might be thinking now.\n\nAt last the guilty Kouzma flew panting into the room with the shirt.\n\n Only just in time. They were just lifting it into the van,  said\nKouzma.\n\nThree minutes later Levin ran full speed into the corridor, not looking\nat his watch for fear of aggravating his sufferings.\n\n You won t help matters like this,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch with a\nsmile, hurrying with more deliberation after him.  It will come round,\nit will come round ... I tell you. \n\n\nChapter 4\n\n They ve come!   Here he is!   Which one?   Rather young, eh?   Why, my\ndear soul, she looks more dead than alive!  were the comments in the\ncrowd, when Levin, meeting his bride in the entrance, walked with her\ninto the church.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch told his wife the cause of the delay, and the\nguests were whispering it with smiles to one another. Levin saw nothing\nand no one; he did not take his eyes off his bride.\n\nEveryone said she had lost her looks dreadfully of late, and was not\nnearly so pretty on her wedding day as usual; but Levin did not think\nso. He looked at her hair done up high, with the long white veil and\nwhite flowers and the high, stand-up, scalloped collar, that in such a\nmaidenly fashion hid her long neck at the sides and only showed it in\nfront, her strikingly slender figure, and it seemed to him that she\nlooked better than ever not because these flowers, this veil, this gown\nfrom Paris added anything to her beauty; but because, in spite of the\nelaborate sumptuousness of her attire, the expression of her sweet\nface, of her eyes, of her lips was still her own characteristic\nexpression of guileless truthfulness.\n\n I was beginning to think you meant to run away,  she said, and smiled\nto him.\n\n It s so stupid, what happened to me, I m ashamed to speak of it!  he\nsaid, reddening, and he was obliged to turn to Sergey Ivanovitch, who\ncame up to him.\n\n This is a pretty story of yours about the shirt!  said Sergey\nIvanovitch, shaking his head and smiling.\n\n Yes, yes!  answered Levin, without an idea of what they were talking\nabout.\n\n Now, Kostya, you have to decide,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch with an air\nof mock dismay,  a weighty question. You are at this moment just in the\nhumor to appreciate all its gravity. They ask me, are they to light the\ncandles that have been lighted before or candles that have never been\nlighted? It s a matter of ten roubles,  he added, relaxing his lips\ninto a smile.  I have decided, but I was afraid you might not agree. \n\nLevin saw it was a joke, but he could not smile.\n\n Well, how s it to be then? unlighted or lighted candles? that s the\nquestion. \n\n Yes, yes, unlighted. \n\n Oh, I m very glad. The question s decided!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nsmiling.  How silly men are, though, in this position,  he said to\nTchirikov, when Levin, after looking absently at him, had moved back to\nhis bride.\n\n Kitty, mind you re the first to step on the carpet,  said Countess\nNordston, coming up.  You re a nice person!  she said to Levin.\n\n Aren t you frightened, eh?  said Marya Dmitrievna, an old aunt.\n\n Are you cold? You re pale. Stop a minute, stoop down,  said Kitty s\nsister, Madame Lvova, and with her plump, handsome arms she smilingly\nset straight the flowers on her head.\n\nDolly came up, tried to say something, but could not speak, cried, and\nthen laughed unnaturally.\n\nKitty looked at all of them with the same absent eyes as Levin.\n\nMeanwhile the officiating clergy had got into their vestments, and the\npriest and deacon came out to the lectern, which stood in the forepart\nof the church. The priest turned to Levin saying something. Levin did\nnot hear what the priest said.\n\n Take the bride s hand and lead her up,  the best man said to Levin.\n\nIt was a long while before Levin could make out what was expected of\nhim. For a long time they tried to set him right and made him begin\nagain because he kept taking Kitty by the wrong arm or with the wrong\narm till he understood at last that what he had to do was, without\nchanging his position, to take her right hand in his right hand. When\nat last he had taken the bride s hand in the correct way, the priest\nwalked a few paces in front of them and stopped at the lectern. The\ncrowd of friends and relations moved after them, with a buzz of talk\nand a rustle of skirts. Someone stooped down and pulled out the bride s\ntrain. The church became so still that the drops of wax could be heard\nfalling from the candles.\n\nThe little old priest in his ecclesiastical cap, with his long\nsilvery-gray locks of hair parted behind his ears, was fumbling with\nsomething at the lectern, putting out his little old hands from under\nthe heavy silver vestment with the gold cross on the back of it.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch approached him cautiously, whispered something, and\nmaking a sign to Levin, walked back again.\n\nThe priest lighted two candles, wreathed with flowers, and holding them\nsideways so that the wax dropped slowly from them he turned, facing the\nbridal pair. The priest was the same old man that had confessed Levin.\nHe looked with weary and melancholy eyes at the bride and bridegroom,\nsighed, and putting his right hand out from his vestment, blessed the\nbridegroom with it, and also with a shade of solicitous tenderness laid\nthe crossed fingers on the bowed head of Kitty. Then he gave them the\ncandles, and taking the censer, moved slowly away from them.\n\n Can it be true?  thought Levin, and he looked round at his bride.\nLooking down at her he saw her face in profile, and from the scarcely\nperceptible quiver of her lips and eyelashes he knew she was aware of\nhis eyes upon her. She did not look round, but the high scalloped\ncollar, that reached her little pink ear, trembled faintly. He saw that\na sigh was held back in her throat, and the little hand in the long\nglove shook as it held the candle.\n\nAll the fuss of the shirt, of being late, all the talk of friends and\nrelations, their annoyance, his ludicrous position all suddenly passed\naway and he was filled with joy and dread.\n\nThe handsome, stately head-deacon wearing a silver robe and his curly\nlocks standing out at each side of his head, stepped smartly forward,\nand lifting his stole on two fingers, stood opposite the priest.\n\n Blessed be the name of the Lord,  the solemn syllables rang out slowly\none after another, setting the air quivering with waves of sound.\n\n Blessed is the name of our God, from the beginning, is now, and ever\nshall be,  the little old priest answered in a submissive, piping\nvoice, still fingering something at the lectern. And the full chorus of\nthe unseen choir rose up, filling the whole church, from the windows to\nthe vaulted roof, with broad waves of melody. It grew stronger, rested\nfor an instant, and slowly died away.\n\nThey prayed, as they always do, for peace from on high and for\nsalvation, for the Holy Synod, and for the Tsar; they prayed, too, for\nthe servants of God, Konstantin and Ekaterina, now plighting their\ntroth.\n\n Vouchsafe to them love made perfect, peace and help, O Lord, we\nbeseech Thee,  the whole church seemed to breathe with the voice of the\nhead deacon.\n\nLevin heard the words, and they impressed him.  How did they guess that\nit is help, just help that one wants?  he thought, recalling all his\nfears and doubts of late.  What do I know? what can I do in this\nfearful business,  he thought,  without help? Yes, it is help I want\nnow. \n\nWhen the deacon had finished the prayer for the Imperial family, the\npriest turned to the bridal pair with a book:  Eternal God, that\njoinest together in love them that were separate,  he read in a gentle,\npiping voice:  who hast ordained the union of holy wedlock that cannot\nbe set asunder, Thou who didst bless Isaac and Rebecca and their\ndescendants, according to Thy Holy Covenant; bless Thy servants,\nKonstantin and Ekaterina, leading them in the path of all good works.\nFor gracious and merciful art Thou, our Lord, and glory be to Thee, the\nFather, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, now and ever shall be. \n\n Amen!  the unseen choir sent rolling again upon the air.\n\n Joinest together in love them that were separate.  What deep meaning\nin those words, and how they correspond with what one feels at this\nmoment,  thought Levin.  Is she feeling the same as I? \n\nAnd looking round, he met her eyes, and from their expression he\nconcluded that she was understanding it just as he was. But this was a\nmistake; she almost completely missed the meaning of the words of the\nservice; she had not heard them, in fact. She could not listen to them\nand take them in, so strong was the one feeling that filled her breast\nand grew stronger and stronger. That feeling was joy at the completion\nof the process that for the last month and a half had been going on in\nher soul, and had during those six weeks been a joy and a torture to\nher. On the day when in the drawing-room of the house in Arbaty Street\nshe had gone up to him in her brown dress, and given herself to him\nwithout a word on that day, at that hour, there took place in her heart\na complete severance from all her old life, and a quite different, new,\nutterly strange life had begun for her, while the old life was actually\ngoing on as before. Those six weeks had for her been a time of the\nutmost bliss and the utmost misery. All her life, all her desires and\nhopes were concentrated on this one man, still uncomprehended by her,\nto whom she was bound by a feeling of alternate attraction and\nrepulsion, even less comprehended than the man himself, and all the\nwhile she was going on living in the outward conditions of her old\nlife. Living the old life, she was horrified at herself, at her utter\ninsurmountable callousness to all her own past, to things, to habits,\nto the people she had loved, who loved her to her mother, who was\nwounded by her indifference, to her kind, tender father, till then\ndearer than all the world. At one moment she was horrified at this\nindifference, at another she rejoiced at what had brought her to this\nindifference. She could not frame a thought, not a wish apart from life\nwith this man; but this new life was not yet, and she could not even\npicture it clearly to herself. There was only anticipation, the dread\nand joy of the new and the unknown. And now behold anticipation and\nuncertainty and remorse at the abandonment of the old life all was\nending, and the new was beginning. This new life could not but have\nterrors for her inexperience; but, terrible or not, the change had been\nwrought six weeks before in her soul, and this was merely the final\nsanction of what had long been completed in her heart.\n\nTurning again to the lectern, the priest with some difficulty took\nKitty s little ring, and asking Levin for his hand, put it on the first\njoint of his finger.  The servant of God, Konstantin, plights his troth\nto the servant of God, Ekaterina.  And putting his big ring on Kitty s\ntouchingly weak, pink little finger, the priest said the same thing.\n\nAnd the bridal pair tried several times to understand what they had to\ndo, and each time made some mistake and were corrected by the priest in\na whisper. At last, having duly performed the ceremony, having signed\nthe rings with the cross, the priest handed Kitty the big ring, and\nLevin the little one. Again they were puzzled, and passed the rings\nfrom hand to hand, still without doing what was expected.\n\nDolly, Tchirikov, and Stepan Arkadyevitch stepped forward to set them\nright. There was an interval of hesitation, whispering, and smiles; but\nthe expression of solemn emotion on the faces of the betrothed pair did\nnot change: on the contrary, in their perplexity over their hands they\nlooked more grave and deeply moved than before, and the smile with\nwhich Stepan Arkadyevitch whispered to them that now they would each\nput on their own ring died away on his lips. He had a feeling that any\nsmile would jar on them.\n\n Thou who didst from the beginning create male and female,  the priest\nread after the exchange of rings,  from Thee woman was given to man to\nbe a helpmeet to him, and for the procreation of children. O Lord, our\nGod, who hast poured down the blessings of Thy Truth according to Thy\nHoly Covenant upon Thy chosen servants, our fathers, from generation to\ngeneration, bless Thy servants Konstantin and Ekaterina, and make their\ntroth fast in faith, and union of hearts, and truth, and love.... \n\nLevin felt more and more that all his ideas of marriage, all his dreams\nof how he would order his life, were mere childishness, and that it was\nsomething he had not understood hitherto, and now understood less than\never, though it was being performed upon him. The lump in his throat\nrose higher and higher, tears that would not be checked came into his\neyes.\n\n\nChapter 5\n\nIn the church there was all Moscow, all the friends and relations; and\nduring the ceremony of plighting troth, in the brilliantly lighted\nchurch, there was an incessant flow of discreetly subdued talk in the\ncircle of gaily dressed women and girls, and men in white ties,\nfrockcoats, and uniforms. The talk was principally kept up by the men,\nwhile the women were absorbed in watching every detail of the ceremony,\nwhich always means so much to them.\n\nIn the little group nearest to the bride were her two sisters: Dolly,\nand the other one, the self-possessed beauty, Madame Lvova, who had\njust arrived from abroad.\n\n Why is it Marie s in lilac, as bad as black, at a wedding?  said\nMadame Korsunskaya.\n\n With her complexion, it s the one salvation,  responded Madame\nTrubetskaya.  I wonder why they had the wedding in the evening? It s\nlike shop-people.... \n\n So much prettier. I was married in the evening too....  answered\nMadame Korsunskaya, and she sighed, remembering how charming she had\nbeen that day, and how absurdly in love her husband was, and how\ndifferent it all was now.\n\n They say if anyone s best man more than ten times, he ll never be\nmarried. I wanted to be for the tenth time, but the post was taken, \nsaid Count Siniavin to the pretty Princess Tcharskaya, who had designs\non him.\n\nPrincess Tcharskaya only answered with a smile. She looked at Kitty,\nthinking how and when she would stand with Count Siniavin in Kitty s\nplace, and how she would remind him then of his joke today.\n\nShtcherbatsky told the old maid of honor, Madame Nikolaeva, that he\nmeant to put the crown on Kitty s chignon for luck.\n\n She ought not to have worn a chignon,  answered Madame Nikolaeva, who\nhad long ago made up her mind that if the elderly widower she was\nangling for married her, the wedding should be of the simplest.  I\ndon t like such grandeur. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch was talking to Darya Dmitrievna, jestingly assuring\nher that the custom of going away after the wedding was becoming common\nbecause newly married people always felt a little ashamed of\nthemselves.\n\n Your brother may feel proud of himself. She s a marvel of sweetness. I\nbelieve you re envious. \n\n Oh, I ve got over that, Darya Dmitrievna,  he answered, and a\nmelancholy and serious expression suddenly came over his face.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was telling his sister-in-law his joke about\ndivorce.\n\n The wreath wants setting straight,  she answered, not hearing him.\n\n What a pity she s lost her looks so,  Countess Nordston said to Madame\nLvova.  Still he s not worth her little finger, is he? \n\n Oh, I like him so not because he s my future _beau-fr re_,  answered\nMadame Lvova.  And how well he s behaving! It s so difficult, too, to\nlook well in such a position, not to be ridiculous. And he s not\nridiculous, and not affected; one can see he s moved. \n\n You expected it, I suppose? \n\n Almost. She always cared for him. \n\n Well, we shall see which of them will step on the rug first. I warned\nKitty. \n\n It will make no difference,  said Madame Lvova;  we re all obedient\nwives; it s in our family. \n\n Oh, I stepped on the rug before Vassily on purpose. And you, Dolly? \n\nDolly stood beside them; she heard them, but she did not answer. She\nwas deeply moved. The tears stood in her eyes, and she could not have\nspoken without crying. She was rejoicing over Kitty and Levin; going\nback in thought to her own wedding, she glanced at the radiant figure\nof Stepan Arkadyevitch, forgot all the present, and remembered only her\nown innocent love. She recalled not herself only, but all her\nwomen-friends and acquaintances. She thought of them on the one day of\ntheir triumph, when they had stood like Kitty under the wedding crown,\nwith love and hope and dread in their hearts, renouncing the past, and\nstepping forward into the mysterious future. Among the brides that came\nback to her memory, she thought too of her darling Anna, of whose\nproposed divorce she had just been hearing. And she had stood just as\ninnocent in orange flowers and bridal veil. And now?  It s terribly\nstrange,  she said to herself. It was not merely the sisters, the\nwomen-friends and female relations of the bride who were following\nevery detail of the ceremony. Women who were quite strangers, mere\nspectators, were watching it excitedly, holding their breath, in fear\nof losing a single movement or expression of the bride and bridegroom,\nand angrily not answering, often not hearing, the remarks of the\ncallous men, who kept making joking or irrelevant observations.\n\n Why has she been crying? Is she being married against her will? \n\n Against her will to a fine fellow like that? A prince, isn t he? \n\n Is that her sister in the white satin? Just listen how the deacon\nbooms out,  And fearing her husband. \n\n Are the choristers from Tchudovo? \n\n No, from the Synod. \n\n I asked the footman. He says he s going to take her home to his\ncountry place at once. Awfully rich, they say. That s why she s being\nmarried to him. \n\n No, they re a well-matched pair. \n\n I say, Marya Vassilievna, you were making out those fly-away\ncrinolines were not being worn. Just look at her in the puce dress an\nambassador s wife they say she is how her skirt bounces out from side\nto side! \n\n What a pretty dear the bride is like a lamb decked with flowers! Well,\nsay what you will, we women feel for our sister. \n\nSuch were the comments in the crowd of gazing women who had succeeded\nin slipping in at the church doors.\n\n\nChapter 6\n\nWhen the ceremony of plighting troth was over, the beadle spread before\nthe lectern in the middle of the church a piece of pink silken stuff,\nthe choir sang a complicated and elaborate psalm, in which the bass and\ntenor sang responses to one another, and the priest turning round\npointed the bridal pair to the pink silk rug. Though both had often\nheard a great deal about the saying that the one who steps first on the\nrug will be the head of the house, neither Levin nor Kitty were capable\nof recollecting it, as they took the few steps towards it. They did not\nhear the loud remarks and disputes that followed, some maintaining he\nhad stepped on first, and others that both had stepped on together.\n\nAfter the customary questions, whether they desired to enter upon\nmatrimony, and whether they were pledged to anyone else, and their\nanswers, which sounded strange to themselves, a new ceremony began.\nKitty listened to the words of the prayer, trying to make out their\nmeaning, but she could not. The feeling of triumph and radiant\nhappiness flooded her soul more and more as the ceremony went on, and\ndeprived her of all power of attention.\n\nThey prayed:  Endow them with continence and fruitfulness, and\nvouchsafe that their hearts may rejoice looking upon their sons and\ndaughters.  They alluded to God s creation of a wife from Adam s rib\n and for this cause a man shall leave father and mother, and cleave\nunto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh,  and that  this is a\ngreat mystery ; they prayed that God would make them fruitful and bless\nthem, like Isaac and Rebecca, Joseph, Moses and Zipporah, and that they\nmight look upon their children s children.  That s all splendid, \nthought Kitty, catching the words,  all that s just as it should be, \nand a smile of happiness, unconsciously reflected in everyone who\nlooked at her, beamed on her radiant face.\n\n Put it on quite,  voices were heard urging when the priest had put on\nthe wedding crowns and Shtcherbatsky, his hand shaking in its\nthree-button glove, held the crown high above her head.\n\n Put it on!  she whispered, smiling.\n\nLevin looked round at her, and was struck by the joyful radiance on her\nface, and unconsciously her feeling infected him. He too, like her felt\nglad and happy.\n\nThey enjoyed hearing the epistle read, and the roll of the head\ndeacon s voice at the last verse, awaited with such impatience by the\noutside public. They enjoyed drinking out of the shallow cup of warm\nred wine and water, and they were still more pleased when the priest,\nflinging back his stole and taking both their hands in his, led them\nround the lectern to the accompaniment of bass voices chanting  Glory\nto God. \n\nShtcherbatsky and Tchirikov, supporting the crowns and stumbling over\nthe bride s train, smiling too and seeming delighted at something, were\nat one moment left behind, at the next treading on the bridal pair as\nthe priest came to a halt. The spark of joy kindled in Kitty seemed to\nhave infected everyone in the church. It seemed to Levin that the\npriest and the deacon too wanted to smile just as he did.\n\nTaking the crowns off their heads the priest read the last prayer and\ncongratulated the young people. Levin looked at Kitty, and he had never\nbefore seen her look as she did. She was charming with the new radiance\nof happiness in her face. Levin longed to say something to her, but he\ndid not know whether it was all over. The priest got him out of his\ndifficulty. He smiled his kindly smile and said gently,  Kiss your\nwife, and you kiss your husband,  and took the candles out of their\nhands.\n\nLevin kissed her smiling lips with timid care, gave her his arm, and\nwith a new strange sense of closeness, walked out of the church. He did\nnot believe, he could not believe, that it was true. It was only when\ntheir wondering and timid eyes met that he believed in it, because he\nfelt that they were one.\n\nAfter supper, the same night, the young people left for the country.\n\n\nChapter 7\n\nVronsky and Anna had been traveling for three months together in\nEurope. They had visited Venice, Rome, and Naples, and had just arrived\nat a small Italian town where they meant to stay some time. A handsome\nhead waiter, with thick pomaded hair parted from the neck upwards, an\nevening coat, a broad white cambric shirt front, and a bunch of\ntrinkets hanging above his rounded stomach, stood with his hands in the\nfull curve of his pockets, looking contemptuously from under his\neyelids while he gave some frigid reply to a gentleman who had stopped\nhim. Catching the sound of footsteps coming from the other side of the\nentry towards the staircase, the head waiter turned round, and seeing\nthe Russian count, who had taken their best rooms, he took his hands\nout of his pockets deferentially, and with a bow informed him that a\ncourier had been, and that the business about the palazzo had been\narranged. The steward was prepared to sign the agreement.\n\n Ah! I m glad to hear it,  said Vronsky.  Is madame at home or not? \n\n Madame has been out for a walk but has returned now,  answered the\nwaiter.\n\nVronsky took off his soft, wide-brimmed hat and passed his handkerchief\nover his heated brow and hair, which had grown half over his ears, and\nwas brushed back covering the bald patch on his head. And glancing\ncasually at the gentleman, who still stood there gazing intently at\nhim, he would have gone on.\n\n This gentleman is a Russian, and was inquiring after you,  said the\nhead waiter.\n\nWith mingled feelings of annoyance at never being able to get away from\nacquaintances anywhere, and longing to find some sort of diversion from\nthe monotony of his life, Vronsky looked once more at the gentleman,\nwho had retreated and stood still again, and at the same moment a light\ncame into the eyes of both.\n\n Golenishtchev! \n\n Vronsky! \n\nIt really was Golenishtchev, a comrade of Vronsky s in the Corps of\nPages. In the corps Golenishtchev had belonged to the liberal party; he\nleft the corps without entering the army, and had never taken office\nunder the government. Vronsky and he had gone completely different ways\non leaving the corps, and had only met once since.\n\nAt that meeting Vronsky perceived that Golenishtchev had taken up a\nsort of lofty, intellectually liberal line, and was consequently\ndisposed to look down upon Vronsky s interests and calling in life.\nHence Vronsky had met him with the chilling and haughty manner he so\nwell knew how to assume, the meaning of which was:  You may like or\ndislike my way of life, that s a matter of the most perfect\nindifference to me; you will have to treat me with respect if you want\nto know me.  Golenishtchev had been contemptuously indifferent to the\ntone taken by Vronsky. This second meeting might have been expected,\none would have supposed, to estrange them still more. But now they\nbeamed and exclaimed with delight on recognizing one another. Vronsky\nwould never have expected to be so pleased to see Golenishtchev, but\nprobably he was not himself aware how bored he was. He forgot the\ndisagreeable impression of their last meeting, and with a face of frank\ndelight held out his hand to his old comrade. The same expression of\ndelight replaced the look of uneasiness on Golenishtchev s face.\n\n How glad I am to meet you!  said Vronsky, showing his strong white\nteeth in a friendly smile.\n\n I heard the name Vronsky, but I didn t know which one. I m very, very\nglad! \n\n Let s go in. Come, tell me what you re doing. \n\n I ve been living here for two years. I m working. \n\n Ah!  said Vronsky, with sympathy;  let s go in.  And with the habit\ncommon with Russians, instead of saying in Russian what he wanted to\nkeep from the servants, he began to speak in French.\n\n Do you know Madame Karenina? We are traveling together. I am going to\nsee her now,  he said in French, carefully scrutinizing Golenishtchev s\nface.\n\n Ah! I did not know  (though he did know), Golenishtchev answered\ncarelessly.  Have you been here long?  he added.\n\n Four days,  Vronsky answered, once more scrutinizing his friend s face\nintently.\n\n Yes, he s a decent fellow, and will look at the thing properly, \nVronsky said to himself, catching the significance of Golenishtchev s\nface and the change of subject.  I can introduce him to Anna, he looks\nat it properly. \n\nDuring those three months that Vronsky had spent abroad with Anna, he\nhad always on meeting new people asked himself how the new person would\nlook at his relations with Anna, and for the most part, in men, he had\nmet with the  proper  way of looking at it. But if he had been asked,\nand those who looked at it  properly  had been asked, exactly how they\ndid look at it, both he and they would have been greatly puzzled to\nanswer.\n\nIn reality, those who in Vronsky s opinion had the  proper  view had no\nsort of view at all, but behaved in general as well-bred persons do\nbehave in regard to all the complex and insoluble problems with which\nlife is encompassed on all sides; they behaved with propriety, avoiding\nallusions and unpleasant questions. They assumed an air of fully\ncomprehending the import and force of the situation, of accepting and\neven approving of it, but of considering it superfluous and uncalled\nfor to put all this into words.\n\nVronsky at once divined that Golenishtchev was of this class, and\ntherefore was doubly pleased to see him. And in fact, Golenishtchev s\nmanner to Madame Karenina, when he was taken to call on her, was all\nthat Vronsky could have desired. Obviously without the slightest effort\nhe steered clear of all subjects which might lead to embarrassment.\n\nHe had never met Anna before, and was struck by her beauty, and still\nmore by the frankness with which she accepted her position. She blushed\nwhen Vronsky brought in Golenishtchev, and he was extremely charmed by\nthis childish blush overspreading her candid and handsome face. But\nwhat he liked particularly was the way in which at once, as though on\npurpose that there might be no misunderstanding with an outsider, she\ncalled Vronsky simply Alexey, and said they were moving into a house\nthey had just taken, what was here called a palazzo. Golenishtchev\nliked this direct and simple attitude to her own position. Looking at\nAnna s manner of simple-hearted, spirited gaiety, and knowing Alexey\nAlexandrovitch and Vronsky, Golenishtchev fancied that he understood\nher perfectly. He fancied that he understood what she was utterly\nunable to understand: how it was that, having made her husband\nwretched, having abandoned him and her son and lost her good name, she\nyet felt full of spirits, gaiety, and happiness.\n\n It s in the guide-book,  said Golenishtchev, referring to the palazzo\nVronsky had taken.  There s a first-rate Tintoretto there. One of his\nlatest period. \n\n I tell you what: it s a lovely day, let s go and have another look at\nit,  said Vronsky, addressing Anna.\n\n I shall be very glad to; I ll go and put on my hat. Would you say it s\nhot?  she said, stopping short in the doorway and looking inquiringly\nat Vronsky. And again a vivid flush overspread her face.\n\nVronsky saw from her eyes that she did not know on what terms he cared\nto be with Golenishtchev, and so was afraid of not behaving as he would\nwish.\n\nHe looked a long, tender look at her.\n\n No, not very,  he said.\n\nAnd it seemed to her that she understood everything, most of all, that\nhe was pleased with her; and smiling to him, she walked with her rapid\nstep out at the door.\n\nThe friends glanced at one another, and a look of hesitation came into\nboth faces, as though Golenishtchev, unmistakably admiring her, would\nhave liked to say something about her, and could not find the right\nthing to say, while Vronsky desired and dreaded his doing so.\n\n Well then,  Vronsky began to start a conversation of some sort;  so\nyou re settled here? You re still at the same work, then?  he went on,\nrecalling that he had been told Golenishtchev was writing something.\n\n Yes, I m writing the second part of the _Two Elements_,  said\nGolenishtchev, coloring with pleasure at the question that is, to be\nexact, I am not writing it yet; I am preparing, collecting materials.\nIt will be of far wider scope, and will touch on almost all questions.\nWe in Russia refuse to see that we are the heirs of Byzantium,  and he\nlaunched into a long and heated explanation of his views.\n\nVronsky at the first moment felt embarrassed at not even knowing of the\nfirst part of the _Two Elements_, of which the author spoke as\nsomething well known. But as Golenishtchev began to lay down his\nopinions and Vronsky was able to follow them even without knowing the\n_Two Elements_, he listened to him with some interest, for\nGolenishtchev spoke well. But Vronsky was startled and annoyed by the\nnervous irascibility with which Golenishtchev talked of the subject\nthat engrossed him. As he went on talking, his eyes glittered more and\nmore angrily; he was more and more hurried in his replies to imaginary\nopponents, and his face grew more and more excited and worried.\nRemembering Golenishtchev, a thin, lively, good-natured and well-bred\nboy, always at the head of the class, Vronsky could not make out the\nreason of his irritability, and he did not like it. What he\nparticularly disliked was that Golenishtchev, a man belonging to a good\nset, should put himself on a level with some scribbling fellows, with\nwhom he was irritated and angry. Was it worth it? Vronsky disliked it,\nyet he felt that Golenishtchev was unhappy, and was sorry for him.\nUnhappiness, almost mental derangement, was visible on his mobile,\nrather handsome face, while without even noticing Anna s coming in, he\nwent on hurriedly and hotly expressing his views.\n\nWhen Anna came in in her hat and cape, and her lovely hand rapidly\nswinging her parasol, and stood beside him, it was with a feeling of\nrelief that Vronsky broke away from the plaintive eyes of Golenishtchev\nwhich fastened persistently upon him, and with a fresh rush of love\nlooked at his charming companion, full of life and happiness.\nGolenishtchev recovered himself with an effort, and at first was\ndejected and gloomy, but Anna, disposed to feel friendly with everyone\nas she was at that time, soon revived his spirits by her direct and\nlively manner. After trying various subjects of conversation, she got\nhim upon painting, of which he talked very well, and she listened to\nhim attentively. They walked to the house they had taken, and looked\nover it.\n\n I am very glad of one thing,  said Anna to Golenishtchev when they\nwere on their way back,  Alexey will have a capital _atelier_. You must\ncertainly take that room,  she said to Vronsky in Russian, using the\naffectionately familiar form as though she saw that Golenishtchev would\nbecome intimate with them in their isolation, and that there was no\nneed of reserve before him.\n\n Do you paint?  said Golenishtchev, turning round quickly to Vronsky.\n\n Yes, I used to study long ago, and now I have begun to do a little, \nsaid Vronsky, reddening.\n\n He has great talent,  said Anna with a delighted smile.  I m no judge,\nof course. But good judges have said the same. \n\n\nChapter 8\n\nAnna, in that first period of her emancipation and rapid return to\nhealth, felt herself unpardonably happy and full of the joy of life.\nThe thought of her husband s unhappiness did not poison her happiness.\nOn one side that memory was too awful to be thought of. On the other\nside her husband s unhappiness had given her too much happiness to be\nregretted. The memory of all that had happened after her illness: her\nreconciliation with her husband, its breakdown, the news of Vronsky s\nwound, his visit, the preparations for divorce, the departure from her\nhusband s house, the parting from her son all that seemed to her like a\ndelirious dream, from which she had waked up alone with Vronsky abroad.\nThe thought of the harm caused to her husband aroused in her a feeling\nlike repulsion, and akin to what a drowning man might feel who has\nshaken off another man clinging to him. That man did drown. It was an\nevil action, of course, but it was the sole means of escape, and better\nnot to brood over these fearful facts.\n\nOne consolatory reflection upon her conduct had occurred to her at the\nfirst moment of the final rupture, and when now she recalled all the\npast, she remembered that one reflection.  I have inevitably made that\nman wretched,  she thought;  but I don t want to profit by his misery.\nI too am suffering, and shall suffer; I am losing what I prized above\neverything I am losing my good name and my son. I have done wrong, and\nso I don t want happiness, I don t want a divorce, and shall suffer\nfrom my shame and the separation from my child.  But, however sincerely\nAnna had meant to suffer, she was not suffering. Shame there was not.\nWith the tact of which both had such a large share, they had succeeded\nin avoiding Russian ladies abroad, and so had never placed themselves\nin a false position, and everywhere they had met people who pretended\nthat they perfectly understood their position, far better indeed than\nthey did themselves. Separation from the son she loved even that did\nnot cause her anguish in these early days. The baby girl _his_\nchild was so sweet, and had so won Anna s heart, since she was all that\nwas left her, that Anna rarely thought of her son.\n\nThe desire for life, waxing stronger with recovered health, was so\nintense, and the conditions of life were so new and pleasant, that Anna\nfelt unpardonably happy. The more she got to know Vronsky, the more she\nloved him. She loved him for himself, and for his love for her. Her\ncomplete ownership of him was a continual joy to her. His presence was\nalways sweet to her. All the traits of his character, which she learned\nto know better and better, were unutterably dear to her. His\nappearance, changed by his civilian dress, was as fascinating to her as\nthough she were some young girl in love. In everything he said,\nthought, and did, she saw something particularly noble and elevated.\nHer adoration of him alarmed her indeed; she sought and could not find\nin him anything not fine. She dared not show him her sense of her own\ninsignificance beside him. It seemed to her that, knowing this, he\nmight sooner cease to love her; and she dreaded nothing now so much as\nlosing his love, though she had no grounds for fearing it. But she\ncould not help being grateful to him for his attitude to her, and\nshowing that she appreciated it. He, who had in her opinion such a\nmarked aptitude for a political career, in which he would have been\ncertain to play a leading part he had sacrificed his ambition for her\nsake, and never betrayed the slightest regret. He was more lovingly\nrespectful to her than ever, and the constant care that she should not\nfeel the awkwardness of her position never deserted him for a single\ninstant. He, so manly a man, never opposed her, had indeed, with her,\nno will of his own, and was anxious, it seemed, for nothing but to\nanticipate her wishes. And she could not but appreciate this, even\nthough the very intensity of his solicitude for her, the atmosphere of\ncare with which he surrounded her, sometimes weighed upon her.\n\nVronsky, meanwhile, in spite of the complete realization of what he had\nso long desired, was not perfectly happy. He soon felt that the\nrealization of his desires gave him no more than a grain of sand out of\nthe mountain of happiness he had expected. It showed him the mistake\nmen make in picturing to themselves happiness as the realization of\ntheir desires. For a time after joining his life to hers, and putting\non civilian dress, he had felt all the delight of freedom in general of\nwhich he had known nothing before, and of freedom in his love, and he\nwas content, but not for long. He was soon aware that there was\nspringing up in his heart a desire for desires _ennui_. Without\nconscious intention he began to clutch at every passing caprice, taking\nit for a desire and an object. Sixteen hours of the day must be\noccupied in some way, since they were living abroad in complete\nfreedom, outside the conditions of social life which filled up time in\nPetersburg. As for the amusements of bachelor existence, which had\nprovided Vronsky with entertainment on previous tours abroad, they\ncould not be thought of, since the sole attempt of the sort had led to\na sudden attack of depression in Anna, quite out of proportion with the\ncause a late supper with bachelor friends. Relations with the society\nof the place foreign and Russian were equally out of the question owing\nto the irregularity of their position. The inspection of objects of\ninterest, apart from the fact that everything had been seen already,\nhad not for Vronsky, a Russian and a sensible man, the immense\nsignificance Englishmen are able to attach to that pursuit.\n\nAnd just as the hungry stomach eagerly accepts every object it can get,\nhoping to find nourishment in it, Vronsky quite unconsciously clutched\nfirst at politics, then at new books, and then at pictures.\n\nAs he had from a child a taste for painting, and as, not knowing what\nto spend his money on, he had begun collecting engravings, he came to a\nstop at painting, began to take interest in it, and concentrated upon\nit the unoccupied mass of desires which demanded satisfaction.\n\nHe had a ready appreciation of art, and probably, with a taste for\nimitating art, he supposed himself to have the real thing essential for\nan artist, and after hesitating for some time which style of painting\nto select religious, historical, realistic, or genre painting he set to\nwork to paint. He appreciated all kinds, and could have felt inspired\nby anyone of them; but he had no conception of the possibility of\nknowing nothing at all of any school of painting, and of being inspired\ndirectly by what is within the soul, without caring whether what is\npainted will belong to any recognized school. Since he knew nothing of\nthis, and drew his inspiration, not directly from life, but indirectly\nfrom life embodied in art, his inspiration came very quickly and\neasily, and as quickly and easily came his success in painting\nsomething very similar to the sort of painting he was trying to\nimitate.\n\nMore than any other style he liked the French graceful and\neffective and in that style he began to paint Anna s portrait in\nItalian costume, and the portrait seemed to him, and to everyone who\nsaw it, extremely successful.\n\n\nChapter 9\n\nThe old neglected palazzo, with its lofty carved ceilings and frescoes\non the walls, with its floors of mosaic, with its heavy yellow stuff\ncurtains on the windows, with its vases on pedestals, and its open\nfireplaces, its carved doors and gloomy reception rooms, hung with\npictures this palazzo did much, by its very appearance after they had\nmoved into it, to confirm in Vronsky the agreeable illusion that he was\nnot so much a Russian country gentleman, a retired army officer, as an\nenlightened amateur and patron of the arts, himself a modest artist who\nhad renounced the world, his connections, and his ambition for the sake\nof the woman he loved.\n\nThe pose chosen by Vronsky with their removal into the palazzo was\ncompletely successful, and having, through Golenishtchev, made\nacquaintance with a few interesting people, for a time he was\nsatisfied. He painted studies from nature under the guidance of an\nItalian professor of painting, and studied medi val Italian life.\nMedi val Italian life so fascinated Vronsky that he even wore a hat and\nflung a cloak over his shoulder in the medi val style, which, indeed,\nwas extremely becoming to him.\n\n Here we live, and know nothing of what s going on,  Vronsky said to\nGolenishtchev as he came to see him one morning.  Have you seen\nMihailov s picture?  he said, handing him a Russian gazette he had\nreceived that morning, and pointing to an article on a Russian artist,\nliving in the very same town, and just finishing a picture which had\nlong been talked about, and had been bought beforehand. The article\nreproached the government and the academy for letting so remarkable an\nartist be left without encouragement and support.\n\n I ve seen it,  answered Golenishtchev.  Of course, he s not without\ntalent, but it s all in a wrong direction. It s all the\nIvanov-Strauss-Renan attitude to Christ and to religious painting. \n\n What is the subject of the picture?  asked Anna.\n\n Christ before Pilate. Christ is represented as a Jew with all the\nrealism of the new school. \n\nAnd the question of the subject of the picture having brought him to\none of his favorite theories, Golenishtchev launched forth into a\ndisquisition on it.\n\n I can t understand how they can fall into such a gross mistake. Christ\nalways has His definite embodiment in the art of the great masters. And\ntherefore, if they want to depict, not God, but a revolutionist or a\nsage, let them take from history a Socrates, a Franklin, a Charlotte\nCorday, but not Christ. They take the very figure which cannot be taken\nfor their art, and then.... \n\n And is it true that this Mihailov is in such poverty?  asked Vronsky,\nthinking that, as a Russian M cenas, it was his duty to assist the\nartist regardless of whether the picture were good or bad.\n\n I should say not. He s a remarkable portrait-painter. Have you ever\nseen his portrait of Madame Vassiltchikova? But I believe he doesn t\ncare about painting any more portraits, and so very likely he is in\nwant. I maintain that.... \n\n Couldn t we ask him to paint a portrait of Anna Arkadyevna?  said\nVronsky.\n\n Why mine?  said Anna.  After yours I don t want another portrait.\nBetter have one of Annie  (so she called her baby girl).  Here she is, \nshe added, looking out of the window at the handsome Italian nurse, who\nwas carrying the child out into the garden, and immediately glancing\nunnoticed at Vronsky. The handsome nurse, from whom Vronsky was\npainting a head for his picture, was the one hidden grief in Anna s\nlife. He painted with her as his model, admired her beauty and\nmedi valism, and Anna dared not confess to herself that she was afraid\nof becoming jealous of this nurse, and was for that reason particularly\ngracious and condescending both to her and her little son. Vronsky,\ntoo, glanced out of the window and into Anna s eyes, and, turning at\nonce to Golenishtchev, he said:\n\n Do you know this Mihailov? \n\n I have met him. But he s a queer fish, and quite without breeding. You\nknow, one of those uncouth new people one s so often coming across\nnowadays, one of those free-thinkers you know, who are reared\n_d embl e_ in theories of atheism, scepticism, and materialism. In\nformer days,  said Golenishtchev, not observing, or not willing to\nobserve, that both Anna and Vronsky wanted to speak,  in former days\nthe free-thinker was a man who had been brought up in ideas of\nreligion, law, and morality, and only through conflict and struggle\ncame to free-thought; but now there has sprung up a new type of born\nfree-thinkers who grow up without even having heard of principles of\nmorality or of religion, of the existence of authorities, who grow up\ndirectly in ideas of negation in everything, that is to say, savages.\nWell, he s of that class. He s the son, it appears, of some Moscow\nbutler, and has never had any sort of bringing-up. When he got into the\nacademy and made his reputation he tried, as he s no fool, to educate\nhimself. And he turned to what seemed to him the very source of\nculture the magazines. In old times, you see, a man who wanted to\neducate himself a Frenchman, for instance would have set to work to\nstudy all the classics and theologians and tragedians and historians\nand philosophers, and, you know, all the intellectual work that came in\nhis way. But in our day he goes straight for the literature of\nnegation, very quickly assimilates all the extracts of the science of\nnegation, and he s ready. And that s not all twenty years ago he would\nhave found in that literature traces of conflict with authorities, with\nthe creeds of the ages; he would have perceived from this conflict that\nthere was something else; but now he comes at once upon a literature in\nwhich the old creeds do not even furnish matter for discussion, but it\nis stated baldly that there is nothing else evolution, natural\nselection, struggle for existence and that s all. In my article\nI ve.... \n\n I tell you what,  said Anna, who had for a long while been exchanging\nwary glances with Vronsky, and knew that he was not in the least\ninterested in the education of this artist, but was simply absorbed by\nthe idea of assisting him, and ordering a portrait of him;  I tell you\nwhat,  she said, resolutely interrupting Golenishtchev, who was still\ntalking away,  let s go and see him! \n\nGolenishtchev recovered his self-possession and readily agreed. But as\nthe artist lived in a remote suburb, it was decided to take the\ncarriage.\n\nAn hour later Anna, with Golenishtchev by her side and Vronsky on the\nfront seat of the carriage, facing them, drove up to a new ugly house\nin the remote suburb. On learning from the porter s wife, who came out\nto them, that Mihailov saw visitors at his studio, but that at that\nmoment he was in his lodging only a couple of steps off, they sent her\nto him with their cards, asking permission to see his picture.\n\n\nChapter 10\n\nThe artist Mihailov was, as always, at work when the cards of Count\nVronsky and Golenishtchev were brought to him. In the morning he had\nbeen working in his studio at his big picture. On getting home he flew\ninto a rage with his wife for not having managed to put off the\nlandlady, who had been asking for money.\n\n I ve said it to you twenty times, don t enter into details. You re\nfool enough at all times, and when you start explaining things in\nItalian you re a fool three times as foolish,  he said after a long\ndispute.\n\n Don t let it run so long; it s not my fault. If I had the money.... \n\n Leave me in peace, for God s sake!  Mihailov shrieked, with tears in\nhis voice, and, stopping his ears, he went off into his working room,\nthe other side of a partition wall, and closed the door after him.\n Idiotic woman!  he said to himself, sat down to the table, and,\nopening a portfolio, he set to work at once with peculiar fervor at a\nsketch he had begun.\n\nNever did he work with such fervor and success as when things went ill\nwith him, and especially when he quarreled with his wife.  Oh! damn\nthem all!  he thought as he went on working. He was making a sketch for\nthe figure of a man in a violent rage. A sketch had been made before,\nbut he was dissatisfied with it.  No, that one was better ... where is\nit?  He went back to his wife, and scowling, and not looking at her,\nasked his eldest little girl, where was that piece of paper he had\ngiven them? The paper with the discarded sketch on it was found, but it\nwas dirty, and spotted with candle-grease. Still, he took the sketch,\nlaid it on his table, and, moving a little away, screwing up his eyes,\nhe fell to gazing at it. All at once he smiled and gesticulated\ngleefully.\n\n That s it! that s it!  he said, and, at once picking up the pencil, he\nbegan rapidly drawing. The spot of tallow had given the man a new pose.\n\nHe had sketched this new pose, when all at once he recalled the face of\na shopkeeper of whom he had bought cigars, a vigorous face with a\nprominent chin, and he sketched this very face, this chin on to the\nfigure of the man. He laughed aloud with delight. The figure from a\nlifeless imagined thing had become living, and such that it could never\nbe changed. That figure lived, and was clearly and unmistakably\ndefined. The sketch might be corrected in accordance with the\nrequirements of the figure, the legs, indeed, could and must be put\ndifferently, and the position of the left hand must be quite altered;\nthe hair too might be thrown back. But in making these corrections he\nwas not altering the figure but simply getting rid of what concealed\nthe figure. He was, as it were, stripping off the wrappings which\nhindered it from being distinctly seen. Each new feature only brought\nout the whole figure in all its force and vigor, as it had suddenly\ncome to him from the spot of tallow. He was carefully finishing the\nfigure when the cards were brought him.\n\n Coming, coming! \n\nHe went in to his wife.\n\n Come, Sasha, don t be cross!  he said, smiling timidly and\naffectionately at her.  You were to blame. I was to blame. I ll make it\nall right.  And having made peace with his wife he put on an\nolive-green overcoat with a velvet collar and a hat, and went towards\nhis studio. The successful figure he had already forgotten. Now he was\ndelighted and excited at the visit of these people of consequence,\nRussians, who had come in their carriage.\n\nOf his picture, the one that stood now on his easel, he had at the\nbottom of his heart one conviction that no one had ever painted a\npicture like it. He did not believe that his picture was better than\nall the pictures of Raphael, but he knew that what he tried to convey\nin that picture, no one ever had conveyed. This he knew positively, and\nhad known a long while, ever since he had begun to paint it. But other\npeople s criticisms, whatever they might be, had yet immense\nconsequence in his eyes, and they agitated him to the depths of his\nsoul. Any remark, the most insignificant, that showed that the critic\nsaw even the tiniest part of what he saw in the picture, agitated him\nto the depths of his soul. He always attributed to his critics a more\nprofound comprehension than he had himself, and always expected from\nthem something he did not himself see in the picture. And often in\ntheir criticisms he fancied that he had found this.\n\nHe walked rapidly to the door of his studio, and in spite of his\nexcitement he was struck by the soft light on Anna s figure as she\nstood in the shade of the entrance listening to Golenishtchev, who was\neagerly telling her something, while she evidently wanted to look round\nat the artist. He was himself unconscious how, as he approached them,\nhe seized on this impression and absorbed it, as he had the chin of the\nshopkeeper who had sold him the cigars, and put it away somewhere to be\nbrought out when he wanted it. The visitors, not agreeably impressed\nbeforehand by Golenishtchev s account of the artist, were still less so\nby his personal appearance. Thick-set and of middle height, with nimble\nmovements, with his brown hat, olive-green coat and narrow\ntrousers though wide trousers had been a long while in fashion, most of\nall, with the ordinariness of his broad face, and the combined\nexpression of timidity and anxiety to keep up his dignity, Mihailov\nmade an unpleasant impression.\n\n Please step in,  he said, trying to look indifferent, and going into\nthe passage he took a key out of his pocket and opened the door.\n\n\nChapter 11\n\nOn entering the studio, Mihailov once more scanned his visitors and\nnoted down in his imagination Vronsky s expression too, and especially\nhis jaws. Although his artistic sense was unceasingly at work\ncollecting materials, although he felt a continually increasing\nexcitement as the moment of criticizing his work drew nearer, he\nrapidly and subtly formed, from imperceptible signs, a mental image of\nthese three persons.\n\nThat fellow (Golenishtchev) was a Russian living here. Mihailov did not\nremember his surname nor where he had met him, nor what he had said to\nhim. He only remembered his face as he remembered all the faces he had\never seen; but he remembered, too, that it was one of the faces laid by\nin his memory in the immense class of the falsely consequential and\npoor in expression. The abundant hair and very open forehead gave an\nappearance of consequence to the face, which had only one expression a\npetty, childish, peevish expression, concentrated just above the bridge\nof the narrow nose. Vronsky and Madame Karenina must be, Mihailov\nsupposed, distinguished and wealthy Russians, knowing nothing about\nart, like all those wealthy Russians, but posing as amateurs and\nconnoisseurs.  Most likely they ve already looked at all the antiques,\nand now they re making the round of the studios of the new people, the\nGerman humbug, and the cracked Pre-Raphaelite English fellow, and have\nonly come to me to make the point of view complete,  he thought. He was\nwell acquainted with the way dilettanti have (the cleverer they were\nthe worse he found them) of looking at the works of contemporary\nartists with the sole object of being in a position to say that art is\na thing of the past, and that the more one sees of the new men the more\none sees how inimitable the works of the great old masters have\nremained. He expected all this; he saw it all in their faces, he saw it\nin the careless indifference with which they talked among themselves,\nstared at the lay figures and busts, and walked about in leisurely\nfashion, waiting for him to uncover his picture. But in spite of this,\nwhile he was turning over his studies, pulling up the blinds and taking\noff the sheet, he was in intense excitement, especially as, in spite of\nhis conviction that all distinguished and wealthy Russians were certain\nto be beasts and fools, he liked Vronsky, and still more Anna.\n\n Here, if you please,  he said, moving on one side with his nimble gait\nand pointing to his picture,  it s the exhortation to Pilate. Matthew,\nchapter xxvii,  he said, feeling his lips were beginning to tremble\nwith emotion. He moved away and stood behind them.\n\nFor the few seconds during which the visitors were gazing at the\npicture in silence Mihailov too gazed at it with the indifferent eye of\nan outsider. For those few seconds he was sure in anticipation that a\nhigher, juster criticism would be uttered by them, by those very\nvisitors whom he had been so despising a moment before. He forgot all\nhe had thought about his picture before during the three years he had\nbeen painting it; he forgot all its qualities which had been absolutely\ncertain to him he saw the picture with their indifferent, new, outside\neyes, and saw nothing good in it. He saw in the foreground Pilate s\nirritated face and the serene face of Christ, and in the background the\nfigures of Pilate s retinue and the face of John watching what was\nhappening. Every face that, with such agony, such blunders and\ncorrections had grown up within him with its special character, every\nface that had given him such torments and such raptures, and all these\nfaces so many times transposed for the sake of the harmony of the\nwhole, all the shades of color and tones that he had attained with such\nlabor all of this together seemed to him now, looking at it with their\neyes, the merest vulgarity, something that had been done a thousand\ntimes over. The face dearest to him, the face of Christ, the center of\nthe picture, which had given him such ecstasy as it unfolded itself to\nhim, was utterly lost to him when he glanced at the picture with their\neyes. He saw a well-painted (no, not even that he distinctly saw now a\nmass of defects) repetition of those endless Christs of Titian,\nRaphael, Rubens, and the same soldiers and Pilate. It was all common,\npoor, and stale, and positively badly painted weak and unequal. They\nwould be justified in repeating hypocritically civil speeches in the\npresence of the painter, and pitying him and laughing at him when they\nwere alone again.\n\nThe silence (though it lasted no more than a minute) became too\nintolerable to him. To break it, and to show he was not agitated, he\nmade an effort and addressed Golenishtchev.\n\n I think I ve had the pleasure of meeting you,  he said, looking\nuneasily first at Anna, then at Vronsky, in fear of losing any shade of\ntheir expression.\n\n To be sure! We met at Rossi s, do you remember, at that _soir e_ when\nthat Italian lady recited the new Rachel?  Golenishtchev answered\neasily, removing his eyes without the slightest regret from the picture\nand turning to the artist.\n\nNoticing, however, that Mihailov was expecting a criticism of the\npicture, he said:\n\n Your picture has got on a great deal since I saw it last time; and\nwhat strikes me particularly now, as it did then, is the figure of\nPilate. One so knows the man: a good-natured, capital fellow, but an\nofficial through and through, who does not know what it is he s doing.\nBut I fancy.... \n\nAll Mihailov s mobile face beamed at once; his eyes sparkled. He tried\nto say something, but he could not speak for excitement, and pretended\nto be coughing. Low as was his opinion of Golenishtchev s capacity for\nunderstanding art, trifling as was the true remark upon the fidelity of\nthe expression of Pilate as an official, and offensive as might have\nseemed the utterance of so unimportant an observation while nothing was\nsaid of more serious points, Mihailov was in an ecstasy of delight at\nthis observation. He had himself thought about Pilate s figure just\nwhat Golenishtchev said. The fact that this reflection was but one of\nmillions of reflections, which as Mihailov knew for certain would be\ntrue, did not diminish for him the significance of Golenishtchev s\nremark. His heart warmed to Golenishtchev for this remark, and from a\nstate of depression he suddenly passed to ecstasy. At once the whole of\nhis picture lived before him in all the indescribable complexity of\neverything living. Mihailov again tried to say that that was how he\nunderstood Pilate, but his lips quivered intractably, and he could not\npronounce the words. Vronsky and Anna too said something in that\nsubdued voice in which, partly to avoid hurting the artist s feelings\nand partly to avoid saying out loud something silly so easily said when\ntalking of art people usually speak at exhibitions of pictures.\nMihailov fancied that the picture had made an impression on them too.\nHe went up to them.\n\n How marvelous Christ s expression is!  said Anna. Of all she saw she\nliked that expression most of all, and she felt that it was the center\nof the picture, and so praise of it would be pleasant to the artist.\n One can see that He is pitying Pilate. \n\nThis again was one of the million true reflections that could be found\nin his picture and in the figure of Christ. She said that He was\npitying Pilate. In Christ s expression there ought to be indeed an\nexpression of pity, since there is an expression of love, of heavenly\npeace, of readiness for death, and a sense of the vanity of words. Of\ncourse there is the expression of an official in Pilate and of pity in\nChrist, seeing that one is the incarnation of the fleshly and the other\nof the spiritual life. All this and much more flashed into Mihailov s\nthoughts.\n\n Yes, and how that figure is done what atmosphere! One can walk round\nit,  said Golenishtchev, unmistakably betraying by this remark that he\ndid not approve of the meaning and idea of the figure.\n\n Yes, there s a wonderful mastery!  said Vronsky.  How those figures in\nthe background stand out! There you have technique,  he said,\naddressing Golenishtchev, alluding to a conversation between them about\nVronsky s despair of attaining this technique.\n\n Yes, yes, marvelous!  Golenishtchev and Anna assented. In spite of the\nexcited condition in which he was, the sentence about technique had\nsent a pang to Mihailov s heart, and looking angrily at Vronsky he\nsuddenly scowled. He had often heard this word technique, and was\nutterly unable to understand what was understood by it. He knew that by\nthis term was understood a mechanical facility for painting or drawing,\nentirely apart from its subject. He had noticed often that even in\nactual praise technique was opposed to essential quality, as though one\ncould paint well something that was bad. He knew that a great deal of\nattention and care was necessary in taking off the coverings, to avoid\ninjuring the creation itself, and to take off all the coverings; but\nthere was no art of painting no technique of any sort about it. If to a\nlittle child or to his cook were revealed what he saw, it or she would\nhave been able to peel the wrappings off what was seen. And the most\nexperienced and adroit painter could not by mere mechanical facility\npaint anything if the lines of the subject were not revealed to him\nfirst. Besides, he saw that if it came to talking about technique, it\nwas impossible to praise him for it. In all he had painted and\nrepainted he saw faults that hurt his eyes, coming from want of care in\ntaking off the wrappings faults he could not correct now without\nspoiling the whole. And in almost all the figures and faces he saw,\ntoo, remnants of the wrappings not perfectly removed that spoiled the\npicture.\n\n One thing might be said, if you will allow me to make the remark.... \nobserved Golenishtchev.\n\n Oh, I shall be delighted, I beg you,  said Mihailov with a forced\nsmile.\n\n That is, that you make Him the man-god, and not the God-man. But I\nknow that was what you meant to do. \n\n I cannot paint a Christ that is not in my heart,  said Mihailov\ngloomily.\n\n Yes; but in that case, if you will allow me to say what I think....\nYour picture is so fine that my observation cannot detract from it,\nand, besides, it is only my personal opinion. With you it is different.\nYour very motive is different. But let us take Ivanov. I imagine that\nif Christ is brought down to the level of an historical character, it\nwould have been better for Ivanov to select some other historical\nsubject, fresh, untouched. \n\n But if this is the greatest subject presented to art? \n\n If one looked one would find others. But the point is that art cannot\nsuffer doubt and discussion. And before the picture of Ivanov the\nquestion arises for the believer and the unbeliever alike,  Is it God,\nor is it not God?  and the unity of the impression is destroyed. \n\n Why so? I think that for educated people,  said Mihailov,  the\nquestion cannot exist. \n\nGolenishtchev did not agree with this, and confounded Mihailov by his\nsupport of his first idea of the unity of the impression being\nessential to art.\n\nMihailov was greatly perturbed, but he could say nothing in defense of\nhis own idea.\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nAnna and Vronsky had long been exchanging glances, regretting their\nfriend s flow of cleverness. At last Vronsky, without waiting for the\nartist, walked away to another small picture.\n\n Oh, how exquisite! What a lovely thing! A gem! How exquisite!  they\ncried with one voice.\n\n What is it they re so pleased with?  thought Mihailov. He had\npositively forgotten that picture he had painted three years ago. He\nhad forgotten all the agonies and the ecstasies he had lived through\nwith that picture when for several months it had been the one thought\nhaunting him day and night. He had forgotten, as he always forgot, the\npictures he had finished. He did not even like to look at it, and had\nonly brought it out because he was expecting an Englishman who wanted\nto buy it.\n\n Oh, that s only an old study,  he said.\n\n How fine!  said Golenishtchev, he too, with unmistakable sincerity,\nfalling under the spell of the picture.\n\nTwo boys were angling in the shade of a willow-tree. The elder had just\ndropped in the hook, and was carefully pulling the float from behind a\nbush, entirely absorbed in what he was doing. The other, a little\nyounger, was lying in the grass leaning on his elbows, with his\ntangled, flaxen head in his hands, staring at the water with his dreamy\nblue eyes. What was he thinking of?\n\nThe enthusiasm over this picture stirred some of the old feeling for it\nin Mihailov, but he feared and disliked this waste of feeling for\nthings past, and so, even though this praise was grateful to him, he\ntried to draw his visitors away to a third picture.\n\nBut Vronsky asked whether the picture was for sale. To Mihailov at that\nmoment, excited by visitors, it was extremely distasteful to speak of\nmoney matters.\n\n It is put up there to be sold,  he answered, scowling gloomily.\n\nWhen the visitors had gone, Mihailov sat down opposite the picture of\nPilate and Christ, and in his mind went over what had been said, and\nwhat, though not said, had been implied by those visitors. And, strange\nto say, what had had such weight with him, while they were there and\nwhile he mentally put himself at their point of view, suddenly lost all\nimportance for him. He began to look at his picture with all his own\nfull artist vision, and was soon in that mood of conviction of the\nperfectibility, and so of the significance, of his picture a conviction\nessential to the most intense fervor, excluding all other interests in\nwhich alone he could work.\n\nChrist s foreshortened leg was not right, though. He took his palette\nand began to work. As he corrected the leg he looked continually at the\nfigure of John in the background, which his visitors had not even\nnoticed, but which he knew was beyond perfection. When he had finished\nthe leg he wanted to touch that figure, but he felt too much excited\nfor it. He was equally unable to work when he was cold and when he was\ntoo much affected and saw everything too much. There was only one stage\nin the transition from coldness to inspiration, at which work was\npossible. Today he was too much agitated. He would have covered the\npicture, but he stopped, holding the cloth in his hand, and, smiling\nblissfully, gazed a long while at the figure of John. At last, as it\nwere regretfully tearing himself away, he dropped the cloth, and,\nexhausted but happy, went home.\n\nVronsky, Anna, and Golenishtchev, on their way home, were particularly\nlively and cheerful. They talked of Mihailov and his pictures. The word\n_talent_, by which they meant an inborn, almost physical, aptitude\napart from brain and heart, and in which they tried to find an\nexpression for all the artist had gained from life, recurred\nparticularly often in their talk, as though it were necessary for them\nto sum up what they had no conception of, though they wanted to talk of\nit. They said that there was no denying his talent, but that his talent\ncould not develop for want of education the common defect of our\nRussian artists. But the picture of the boys had imprinted itself on\ntheir memories, and they were continually coming back to it.  What an\nexquisite thing! How he has succeeded in it, and how simply! He doesn t\neven comprehend how good it is. Yes, I mustn t let it slip; I must buy\nit,  said Vronsky.\n\n\nChapter 13\n\nMihailov sold Vronsky his picture, and agreed to paint a portrait of\nAnna. On the day fixed he came and began the work.\n\nFrom the fifth sitting the portrait impressed everyone, especially\nVronsky, not only by its resemblance, but by its characteristic beauty.\nIt was strange how Mihailov could have discovered just her\ncharacteristic beauty.  One needs to know and love her as I have loved\nher to discover the very sweetest expression of her soul,  Vronsky\nthought, though it was only from this portrait that he had himself\nlearned this sweetest expression of her soul. But the expression was so\ntrue that he, and others too, fancied they had long known it.\n\n I have been struggling on for ever so long without doing anything,  he\nsaid of his own portrait of her,  and he just looked and painted it.\nThat s where technique comes in. \n\n That will come,  was the consoling reassurance given him by\nGolenishtchev, in whose view Vronsky had both talent, and what was most\nimportant, culture, giving him a wider outlook on art. Golenishtchev s\nfaith in Vronsky s talent was propped up by his own need of Vronsky s\nsympathy and approval for his own articles and ideas, and he felt that\nthe praise and support must be mutual.\n\nIn another man s house, and especially in Vronsky s palazzo, Mihailov\nwas quite a different man from what he was in his studio. He behaved\nwith hostile courtesy, as though he were afraid of coming closer to\npeople he did not respect. He called Vronsky  your excellency,  and\nnotwithstanding Anna s and Vronsky s invitations, he would never stay\nto dinner, nor come except for the sittings. Anna was even more\nfriendly to him than to other people, and was very grateful for her\nportrait. Vronsky was more than cordial with him, and was obviously\ninterested to know the artist s opinion of his picture. Golenishtchev\nnever let slip an opportunity of instilling sound ideas about art into\nMihailov. But Mihailov remained equally chilly to all of them. Anna was\naware from his eyes that he liked looking at her, but he avoided\nconversation with her. Vronsky s talk about his painting he met with\nstubborn silence, and he was as stubbornly silent when he was shown\nVronsky s picture. He was unmistakably bored by Golenishtchev s\nconversation, and he did not attempt to oppose him.\n\nAltogether Mihailov, with his reserved and disagreeable, as it were,\nhostile attitude, was quite disliked by them as they got to know him\nbetter; and they were glad when the sittings were over, and they were\nleft with a magnificent portrait in their possession, and he gave up\ncoming. Golenishtchev was the first to give expression to an idea that\nhad occurred to all of them, which was that Mihailov was simply jealous\nof Vronsky.\n\n Not envious, let us say, since he has _talent_; but it annoys him that\na wealthy man of the highest society, and a count, too (you know they\nall detest a title), can, without any particular trouble, do as well,\nif not better, than he who has devoted all his life to it. And more\nthan all, it s a question of culture, which he is without. \n\nVronsky defended Mihailov, but at the bottom of his heart he believed\nit, because in his view a man of a different, lower world would be sure\nto be envious.\n\nAnna s portrait the same subject painted from nature both by him and by\nMihailov ought to have shown Vronsky the difference between him and\nMihailov; but he did not see it. Only after Mihailov s portrait was\npainted he left off painting his portrait of Anna, deciding that it was\nnow not needed. His picture of medi val life he went on with. And he\nhimself, and Golenishtchev, and still more Anna, thought it very good,\nbecause it was far more like the celebrated pictures they knew than\nMihailov s picture.\n\nMihailov meanwhile, although Anna s portrait greatly fascinated him,\nwas even more glad than they were when the sittings were over, and he\nhad no longer to listen to Golenishtchev s disquisitions upon art, and\ncould forget about Vronsky s painting. He knew that Vronsky could not\nbe prevented from amusing himself with painting; he knew that he and\nall dilettanti had a perfect right to paint what they liked, but it was\ndistasteful to him. A man could not be prevented from making himself a\nbig wax doll, and kissing it. But if the man were to come with the doll\nand sit before a man in love, and begin caressing his doll as the lover\ncaressed the woman he loved, it would be distasteful to the lover. Just\nsuch a distasteful sensation was what Mihailov felt at the sight of\nVronsky s painting: he felt it both ludicrous and irritating, both\npitiable and offensive.\n\nVronsky s interest in painting and the Middle Ages did not last long.\nHe had enough taste for painting to be unable to finish his picture.\nThe picture came to a standstill. He was vaguely aware that its\ndefects, inconspicuous at first, would be glaring if he were to go on\nwith it. The same experience befell him as Golenishtchev, who felt that\nhe had nothing to say, and continually deceived himself with the theory\nthat his idea was not yet mature, that he was working it out and\ncollecting materials. This exasperated and tortured Golenishtchev, but\nVronsky was incapable of deceiving and torturing himself, and even more\nincapable of exasperation. With his characteristic decision, without\nexplanation or apology, he simply ceased working at painting.\n\nBut without this occupation, the life of Vronsky and of Anna, who\nwondered at his loss of interest in it, struck them as intolerably\ntedious in an Italian town. The palazzo suddenly seemed so obtrusively\nold and dirty, the spots on the curtains, the cracks in the floors, the\nbroken plaster on the cornices became so disagreeably obvious, and the\neverlasting sameness of Golenishtchev, and the Italian professor and\nthe German traveler became so wearisome, that they had to make some\nchange. They resolved to go to Russia, to the country. In Petersburg\nVronsky intended to arrange a partition of the land with his brother,\nwhile Anna meant to see her son. The summer they intended to spend on\nVronsky s great family estate.\n\n\nChapter 14\n\nLevin had been married three months. He was happy, but not at all in\nthe way he had expected to be. At every step he found his former dreams\ndisappointed, and new, unexpected surprises of happiness. He was happy;\nbut on entering upon family life he saw at every step that it was\nutterly different from what he had imagined. At every step he\nexperienced what a man would experience who, after admiring the smooth,\nhappy course of a little boat on a lake, should get himself into that\nlittle boat. He saw that it was not all sitting still, floating\nsmoothly; that one had to think too, not for an instant to forget where\none was floating; and that there was water under one, and that one must\nrow; and that his unaccustomed hands would be sore; and that it was\nonly to look at it that was easy; but that doing it, though very\ndelightful, was very difficult.\n\nAs a bachelor, when he had watched other people s married life, seen\nthe petty cares, the squabbles, the jealousy, he had only smiled\ncontemptuously in his heart. In his future married life there could be,\nhe was convinced, nothing of that sort; even the external forms,\nindeed, he fancied, must be utterly unlike the life of others in\neverything. And all of a sudden, instead of his life with his wife\nbeing made on an individual pattern, it was, on the contrary, entirely\nmade up of the pettiest details, which he had so despised before, but\nwhich now, by no will of his own, had gained an extraordinary\nimportance that it was useless to contend against. And Levin saw that\nthe organization of all these details was by no means so easy as he had\nfancied before. Although Levin believed himself to have the most exact\nconceptions of domestic life, unconsciously, like all men, he pictured\ndomestic life as the happiest enjoyment of love, with nothing to hinder\nand no petty cares to distract. He ought, as he conceived the position,\nto do his work, and to find repose from it in the happiness of love.\nShe ought to be beloved, and nothing more. But, like all men, he forgot\nthat she too would want work. And he was surprised that she, his\npoetic, exquisite Kitty, could, not merely in the first weeks, but even\nin the first days of their married life, think, remember, and busy\nherself about tablecloths, and furniture, about mattresses for\nvisitors, about a tray, about the cook, and the dinner, and so on.\nWhile they were still engaged, he had been struck by the definiteness\nwith which she had declined the tour abroad and decided to go into the\ncountry, as though she knew of something she wanted, and could still\nthink of something outside her love. This had jarred upon him then, and\nnow her trivial cares and anxieties jarred upon him several times. But\nhe saw that this was essential for her. And, loving her as he did,\nthough he did not understand the reason of them, and jeered at these\ndomestic pursuits, he could not help admiring them. He jeered at the\nway in which she arranged the furniture they had brought from Moscow;\nrearranged their room; hung up curtains; prepared rooms for visitors; a\nroom for Dolly; saw after an abode for her new maid; ordered dinner of\nthe old cook; came into collision with Agafea Mihalovna, taking from\nher the charge of the stores. He saw how the old cook smiled, admiring\nher, and listening to her inexperienced, impossible orders, how\nmournfully and tenderly Agafea Mihalovna shook her head over the young\nmistress s new arrangements. He saw that Kitty was extraordinarily\nsweet when, laughing and crying, she came to tell him that her maid,\nMasha, was used to looking upon her as her young lady, and so no one\nobeyed her. It seemed to him sweet, but strange, and he thought it\nwould have been better without this.\n\nHe did not know how great a sense of change she was experiencing; she,\nwho at home had sometimes wanted some favorite dish, or sweets, without\nthe possibility of getting either, now could order what she liked, buy\npounds of sweets, spend as much money as she liked, and order any\npuddings she pleased.\n\nShe was dreaming with delight now of Dolly s coming to them with her\nchildren, especially because she would order for the children their\nfavorite puddings and Dolly would appreciate all her new housekeeping.\nShe did not know herself why and wherefore, but the arranging of her\nhouse had an irresistible attraction for her. Instinctively feeling the\napproach of spring, and knowing that there would be days of rough\nweather too, she built her nest as best she could, and was in haste at\nthe same time to build it and to learn how to do it.\n\nThis care for domestic details in Kitty, so opposed to Levin s ideal of\nexalted happiness, was at first one of the disappointments; and this\nsweet care of her household, the aim of which he did not understand,\nbut could not help loving, was one of the new happy surprises.\n\nAnother disappointment and happy surprise came in their quarrels. Levin\ncould never have conceived that between him and his wife any relations\ncould arise other than tender, respectful and loving, and all at once\nin the very early days they quarreled, so that she said he did not care\nfor her, that he cared for no one but himself, burst into tears, and\nwrung her arms.\n\nThis first quarrel arose from Levin s having gone out to a new\nfarmhouse and having been away half an hour too long, because he had\ntried to get home by a short cut and had lost his way. He drove home\nthinking of nothing but her, of her love, of his own happiness, and the\nnearer he drew to home, the warmer was his tenderness for her. He ran\ninto the room with the same feeling, with an even stronger feeling than\nhe had had when he reached the Shtcherbatskys  house to make his offer.\nAnd suddenly he was met by a lowering expression he had never seen in\nher. He would have kissed her; she pushed him away.\n\n What is it? \n\n You ve been enjoying yourself,  she began, trying to be calm and\nspiteful. But as soon as she opened her mouth, a stream of reproach, of\nsenseless jealousy, of all that had been torturing her during that half\nhour which she had spent sitting motionless at the window, burst from\nher. It was only then, for the first time, that he clearly understood\nwhat he had not understood when he led her out of the church after the\nwedding. He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he\ndid not know where he ended and she began. He felt this from the\nagonizing sensation of division that he experienced at that instant. He\nwas offended for the first instant, but the very same second he felt\nthat he could not be offended by her, that she was himself. He felt for\nthe first moment as a man feels when, having suddenly received a\nviolent blow from behind, he turns round, angry and eager to avenge\nhimself, to look for his antagonist, and finds that it is he himself\nwho has accidentally struck himself, that there is no one to be angry\nwith, and that he must put up with and try to soothe the pain.\n\nNever afterwards did he feel it with such intensity, but this first\ntime he could not for a long while get over it. His natural feeling\nurged him to defend himself, to prove to her she was wrong; but to\nprove her wrong would mean irritating her still more and making the\nrupture greater that was the cause of all his suffering. One habitual\nfeeling impelled him to get rid of the blame and to pass it on to her.\nAnother feeling, even stronger, impelled him as quickly as possible to\nsmooth over the rupture without letting it grow greater. To remain\nunder such undeserved reproach was wretched, but to make her suffer by\njustifying himself was worse still. Like a man half-awake in an agony\nof pain, he wanted to tear out, to fling away the aching place, and\ncoming to his senses, he felt that the aching place was himself. He\ncould do nothing but try to help the aching place to bear it, and this\nhe tried to do.\n\nThey made peace. She, recognizing that she was wrong, though she did\nnot say so, became tenderer to him, and they experienced new, redoubled\nhappiness in their love. But that did not prevent such quarrels from\nhappening again, and exceedingly often too, on the most unexpected and\ntrivial grounds. These quarrels frequently arose from the fact that\nthey did not yet know what was of importance to each other and that all\nthis early period they were both often in a bad temper. When one was in\na good temper, and the other in a bad temper, the peace was not broken;\nbut when both happened to be in an ill-humor, quarrels sprang up from\nsuch incomprehensibly trifling causes, that they could never remember\nafterwards what they had quarreled about. It is true that when they\nwere both in a good temper their enjoyment of life was redoubled. But\nstill this first period of their married life was a difficult time for\nthem.\n\nDuring all this early time they had a peculiarly vivid sense of\ntension, as it were, a tugging in opposite directions of the chain by\nwhich they were bound. Altogether their honeymoon that is to say, the\nmonth after their wedding from which from tradition Levin expected so\nmuch, was not merely not a time of sweetness, but remained in the\nmemories of both as the bitterest and most humiliating period in their\nlives. They both alike tried in later life to blot out from their\nmemories all the monstrous, shameful incidents of that morbid period,\nwhen both were rarely in a normal frame of mind, both were rarely quite\nthemselves.\n\nIt was only in the third month of their married life, after their\nreturn from Moscow, where they had been staying for a month, that their\nlife began to go more smoothly.\n\n\nChapter 15\n\nThey had just come back from Moscow, and were glad to be alone. He was\nsitting at the writing-table in his study, writing. She, wearing the\ndark lilac dress she had worn during the first days of their married\nlife, and put on again today, a dress particularly remembered and loved\nby him, was sitting on the sofa, the same old-fashioned leather sofa\nwhich had always stood in the study in Levin s father s and\ngrandfather s days. She was sewing at _broderie anglaise_. He thought\nand wrote, never losing the happy consciousness of her presence. His\nwork, both on the land and on the book, in which the principles of the\nnew land system were to be laid down, had not been abandoned; but just\nas formerly these pursuits and ideas had seemed to him petty and\ntrivial in comparison with the darkness that overspread all life, now\nthey seemed as unimportant and petty in comparison with the life that\nlay before him suffused with the brilliant light of happiness. He went\non with his work, but he felt now that the center of gravity of his\nattention had passed to something else, and that consequently he looked\nat his work quite differently and more clearly. Formerly this work had\nbeen for him an escape from life. Formerly he had felt that without\nthis work his life would be too gloomy. Now these pursuits were\nnecessary for him that life might not be too uniformly bright. Taking\nup his manuscript, reading through what he had written, he found with\npleasure that the work was worth his working at. Many of his old ideas\nseemed to him superfluous and extreme, but many blanks became distinct\nto him when he reviewed the whole thing in his memory. He was writing\nnow a new chapter on the causes of the present disastrous condition of\nagriculture in Russia. He maintained that the poverty of Russia arises\nnot merely from the anomalous distribution of landed property and\nmisdirected reforms, but that what had contributed of late years to\nthis result was the civilization from without abnormally grafted upon\nRussia, especially facilities of communication, as railways, leading to\ncentralization in towns, the development of luxury, and the consequent\ndevelopment of manufactures, credit and its accompaniment of\nspeculation all to the detriment of agriculture. It seemed to him that\nin a normal development of wealth in a state all these phenomena would\narise only when a considerable amount of labor had been put into\nagriculture, when it had come under regular, or at least definite,\nconditions; that the wealth of a country ought to increase\nproportionally, and especially in such a way that other sources of\nwealth should not outstrip agriculture; that in harmony with a certain\nstage of agriculture there should be means of communication\ncorresponding to it, and that in our unsettled condition of the land,\nrailways, called into being by political and not by economic needs,\nwere premature, and instead of promoting agriculture, as was expected\nof them, they were competing with agriculture and promoting the\ndevelopment of manufactures and credit, and so arresting its progress;\nand that just as the one-sided and premature development of one organ\nin an animal would hinder its general development, so in the general\ndevelopment of wealth in Russia, credit, facilities of communication,\nmanufacturing activity, indubitably necessary in Europe, where they had\narisen in their proper time, had with us only done harm, by throwing\ninto the background the chief question calling for settlement the\nquestion of the organization of agriculture.\n\nWhile he was writing his ideas she was thinking how unnaturally cordial\nher husband had been to young Prince Tcharsky, who had, with great want\nof tact, flirted with her the day before they left Moscow.  He s\njealous,  she thought.  Goodness! how sweet and silly he is! He s\njealous of me! If he knew that I think no more of them than of Piotr\nthe cook,  she thought, looking at his head and red neck with a feeling\nof possession strange to herself.  Though it s a pity to take him from\nhis work (but he has plenty of time!), I must look at his face; will he\nfeel I m looking at him? I wish he d turn round ... I ll _will_ him\nto!  and she opened her eyes wide, as though to intensify the influence\nof her gaze.\n\n Yes, they draw away all the sap and give a false appearance of\nprosperity,  he muttered, stopping to write, and, feeling that she was\nlooking at him and smiling, he looked round.\n\n Well?  he queried, smiling, and getting up.\n\n He looked round,  she thought.\n\n It s nothing; I wanted you to look round,  she said, watching him, and\ntrying to guess whether he was vexed at being interrupted or not.\n\n How happy we are alone together! I am, that is,  he said, going up to\nher with a radiant smile of happiness.\n\n I m just as happy. I ll never go anywhere, especially not to Moscow. \n\n And what were you thinking about? \n\n I? I was thinking.... No, no, go along, go on writing; don t break\noff,  she said, pursing up her lips,  and I must cut out these little\nholes now, do you see? \n\nShe took up her scissors and began cutting them out.\n\n No; tell me, what was it?  he said, sitting down beside her and\nwatching the tiny scissors moving round.\n\n Oh! what was I thinking about? I was thinking about Moscow, about the\nback of your head. \n\n Why should I, of all people, have such happiness! It s unnatural, too\ngood,  he said, kissing her hand.\n\n I feel quite the opposite; the better things are, the more natural it\nseems to me. \n\n And you ve got a little curl loose,  he said, carefully turning her\nhead round.\n\n A little curl, oh yes. No, no, we are busy at our work! \n\nWork did not progress further, and they darted apart from one another\nlike culprits when Kouzma came in to announce that tea was ready.\n\n Have they come from the town?  Levin asked Kouzma.\n\n They ve just come; they re unpacking the things. \n\n Come quickly,  she said to him as she went out of the study,  or else\nI shall read your letters without you. \n\nLeft alone, after putting his manuscripts together in the new portfolio\nbought by her, he washed his hands at the new washstand with the\nelegant fittings, that had all made their appearance with her. Levin\nsmiled at his own thoughts, and shook his head disapprovingly at those\nthoughts; a feeling akin to remorse fretted him. There was something\nshameful, effeminate, Capuan, as he called it to himself, in his\npresent mode of life.  It s not right to go on like this,  he thought.\n It ll soon be three months, and I m doing next to nothing. Today,\nalmost for the first time, I set to work seriously, and what happened?\nI did nothing but begin and throw it aside. Even my ordinary pursuits I\nhave almost given up. On the land I scarcely walk or drive about at all\nto look after things. Either I am loath to leave her, or I see she s\ndull alone. And I used to think that, before marriage, life was nothing\nmuch, somehow didn t count, but that after marriage, life began in\nearnest. And here almost three months have passed, and I have spent my\ntime so idly and unprofitably. No, this won t do; I must begin. Of\ncourse, it s not her fault. She s not to blame in any way. I ought\nmyself to be firmer, to maintain my masculine independence of action;\nor else I shall get into such ways, and she ll get used to them too....\nOf course she s not to blame,  he told himself.\n\nBut it is hard for anyone who is dissatisfied not to blame someone\nelse, and especially the person nearest of all to him, for the ground\nof his dissatisfaction. And it vaguely came into Levin s mind that she\nherself was not to blame (she could not be to blame for anything), but\nwhat was to blame was her education, too superficial and frivolous.\n( That fool Tcharsky: she wanted, I know, to stop him, but didn t know\nhow to. )  Yes, apart from her interest in the house (that she has),\napart from dress and _broderie anglaise_, she has no serious interests.\nNo interest in her work, in the estate, in the peasants, nor in music,\nthough she s rather good at it, nor in reading. She does nothing, and\nis perfectly satisfied.  Levin, in his heart, censured this, and did\nnot as yet understand that she was preparing for that period of\nactivity which was to come for her when she would at once be the wife\nof her husband and mistress of the house, and would bear, and nurse,\nand bring up children. He knew not that she was instinctively aware of\nthis, and preparing herself for this time of terrible toil, did not\nreproach herself for the moments of carelessness and happiness in her\nlove that she enjoyed now while gaily building her nest for the future.\n\n\nChapter 16\n\nWhen Levin went upstairs, his wife was sitting near the new silver\nsamovar behind the new tea service, and, having settled old Agafea\nMihalovna at a little table with a full cup of tea, was reading a\nletter from Dolly, with whom they were in continual and frequent\ncorrespondence.\n\n You see, your good lady s settled me here, told me to sit a bit with\nher,  said Agafea Mihalovna, smiling affectionately at Kitty.\n\nIn these words of Agafea Mihalovna, Levin read the final act of the\ndrama which had been enacted of late between her and Kitty. He saw\nthat, in spite of Agafea Mihalovna s feelings being hurt by a new\nmistress taking the reins of government out of her hands, Kitty had yet\nconquered her and made her love her.\n\n Here, I opened your letter too,  said Kitty, handing him an illiterate\nletter.  It s from that woman, I think, your brother s....  she said.\n I did not read it through. This is from my people and from Dolly.\nFancy! Dolly took Tanya and Grisha to a children s ball at the\nSarmatskys : Tanya was a French marquise. \n\nBut Levin did not hear her. Flushing, he took the letter from Marya\nNikolaevna, his brother s former mistress, and began to read it. This\nwas the second letter he had received from Marya Nikolaevna. In the\nfirst letter, Marya Nikolaevna wrote that his brother had sent her away\nfor no fault of hers, and, with touching simplicity, added that though\nshe was in want again, she asked for nothing, and wished for nothing,\nbut was only tormented by the thought that Nikolay Dmitrievitch would\ncome to grief without her, owing to the weak state of his health, and\nbegged his brother to look after him. Now she wrote quite differently.\nShe had found Nikolay Dmitrievitch, had again made it up with him in\nMoscow, and had moved with him to a provincial town, where he had\nreceived a post in the government service. But that he had quarreled\nwith the head official, and was on his way back to Moscow, only he had\nbeen taken so ill on the road that it was doubtful if he would ever\nleave his bed again, she wrote.  It s always of you he has talked, and,\nbesides, he has no more money left. \n\n Read this; Dolly writes about you,  Kitty was beginning, with a smile;\nbut she stopped suddenly, noticing the changed expression on her\nhusband s face.\n\n What is it? What s the matter? \n\n She writes to me that Nikolay, my brother, is at death s door. I shall\ngo to him. \n\nKitty s face changed at once. Thoughts of Tanya as a marquise, of\nDolly, all had vanished.\n\n When are you going?  she said.\n\n Tomorrow. \n\n And I will go with you, can I?  she said.\n\n Kitty! What are you thinking of?  he said reproachfully.\n\n How do you mean?  offended that he should seem to take her suggestion\nunwillingly and with vexation.  Why shouldn t I go? I shan t be in your\nway. I.... \n\n I m going because my brother is dying,  said Levin.  Why should\nyou.... \n\n Why? For the same reason as you. \n\n And, at a moment of such gravity for me, she only thinks of her being\ndull by herself,  thought Levin. And this lack of candor in a matter of\nsuch gravity infuriated him.\n\n It s out of the question,  he said sternly.\n\nAgafea Mihalovna, seeing that it was coming to a quarrel, gently put\ndown her cup and withdrew. Kitty did not even notice her. The tone in\nwhich her husband had said the last words wounded her, especially\nbecause he evidently did not believe what she had said.\n\n I tell you, that if you go, I shall come with you; I shall certainly\ncome,  she said hastily and wrathfully.  Why out of the question? Why\ndo you say it s out of the question? \n\n Because it ll be going God knows where, by all sorts of roads and to\nall sorts of hotels. You would be a hindrance to me,  said Levin,\ntrying to be cool.\n\n Not at all. I don t want anything. Where you can go, I can.... \n\n Well, for one thing then, because this woman s there whom you can t\nmeet. \n\n I don t know and don t care to know who s there and what. I know that\nmy husband s brother is dying and my husband is going to him, and I go\nwith my husband too.... \n\n Kitty! Don t get angry. But just think a little: this is a matter of\nsuch importance that I can t bear to think that you should bring in a\nfeeling of weakness, of dislike to being left alone. Come, you ll be\ndull alone, so go and stay at Moscow a little. \n\n There, you always ascribe base, vile motives to me,  she said with\ntears of wounded pride and fury.  I didn t mean, it wasn t weakness, it\nwasn t ... I feel that it s my duty to be with my husband when he s in\ntrouble, but you try on purpose to hurt me, you try on purpose not to\nunderstand.... \n\n No; this is awful! To be such a slave!  cried Levin, getting up, and\nunable to restrain his anger any longer. But at the same second he felt\nthat he was beating himself.\n\n Then why did you marry? You could have been free. Why did you, if you\nregret it?  she said, getting up and running away into the\ndrawing-room.\n\nWhen he went to her, she was sobbing.\n\nHe began to speak, trying to find words not to dissuade but simply to\nsoothe her. But she did not heed him, and would not agree to anything.\nHe bent down to her and took her hand, which resisted him. He kissed\nher hand, kissed her hair, kissed her hand again still she was silent.\nBut when he took her face in both his hands and said  Kitty!  she\nsuddenly recovered herself, and began to cry, and they were reconciled.\n\nIt was decided that they should go together the next day. Levin told\nhis wife that he believed she wanted to go simply in order to be of\nuse, agreed that Marya Nikolaevna s being with his brother did not make\nher going improper, but he set off at the bottom of his heart\ndissatisfied both with her and with himself. He was dissatisfied with\nher for being unable to make up her mind to let him go when it was\nnecessary (and how strange it was for him to think that he, so lately\nhardly daring to believe in such happiness as that she could love\nhim now was unhappy because she loved him too much!), and he was\ndissatisfied with himself for not showing more strength of will. Even\ngreater was the feeling of disagreement at the bottom of his heart as\nto her not needing to consider the woman who was with his brother, and\nhe thought with horror of all the contingencies they might meet with.\nThe mere idea of his wife, his Kitty, being in the same room with a\ncommon wench, set him shuddering with horror and loathing.\n\n\nChapter 17\n\nThe hotel of the provincial town where Nikolay Levin was lying ill was\none of those provincial hotels which are constructed on the newest\nmodel of modern improvements, with the best intentions of cleanliness,\ncomfort, and even elegance, but owing to the public that patronizes\nthem, are with astounding rapidity transformed into filthy taverns with\na pretension of modern improvement that only makes them worse than the\nold-fashioned, honestly filthy hotels. This hotel had already reached\nthat stage, and the soldier in a filthy uniform smoking in the entry,\nsupposed to stand for a hall-porter, and the cast-iron, slippery, dark,\nand disagreeable staircase, and the free and easy waiter in a filthy\nfrock coat, and the common dining-room with a dusty bouquet of wax\nflowers adorning the table, and filth, dust, and disorder everywhere,\nand at the same time the sort of modern up-to-date self-complacent\nrailway uneasiness of this hotel, aroused a most painful feeling in\nLevin after their fresh young life, especially because the impression\nof falsity made by the hotel was so out of keeping with what awaited\nthem.\n\nAs is invariably the case, after they had been asked at what price they\nwanted rooms, it appeared that there was not one decent room for them;\none decent room had been taken by the inspector of railroads, another\nby a lawyer from Moscow, a third by Princess Astafieva from the\ncountry. There remained only one filthy room, next to which they\npromised that another should be empty by the evening. Feeling angry\nwith his wife because what he had expected had come to pass, which was\nthat at the moment of arrival, when his heart throbbed with emotion and\nanxiety to know how his brother was getting on, he should have to be\nseeing after her, instead of rushing straight to his brother, Levin\nconducted her to the room assigned them.\n\n Go, do go!  she said, looking at him with timid and guilty eyes.\n\nHe went out of the door without a word, and at once stumbled over Marya\nNikolaevna, who had heard of his arrival and had not dared to go in to\nsee him. She was just the same as when he saw her in Moscow; the same\nwoolen gown, and bare arms and neck, and the same good-naturedly\nstupid, pockmarked face, only a little plumper.\n\n Well, how is he? how is he? \n\n Very bad. He can t get up. He has kept expecting you. He.... Are you\n... with your wife? \n\nLevin did not for the first moment understand what it was confused her,\nbut she immediately enlightened him.\n\n I ll go away. I ll go down to the kitchen,  she brought out.  Nikolay\nDmitrievitch will be delighted. He heard about it, and knows your lady,\nand remembers her abroad. \n\nLevin realized that she meant his wife, and did not know what answer to\nmake.\n\n Come along, come along to him!  he said.\n\nBut as soon as he moved, the door of his room opened and Kitty peeped\nout. Levin crimsoned both from shame and anger with his wife, who had\nput herself and him in such a difficult position; but Marya Nikolaevna\ncrimsoned still more. She positively shrank together and flushed to the\npoint of tears, and clutching the ends of her apron in both hands,\ntwisted them in her red fingers without knowing what to say and what to\ndo.\n\nFor the first instant Levin saw an expression of eager curiosity in the\neyes with which Kitty looked at this awful woman, so incomprehensible\nto her; but it lasted only a single instant.\n\n Well! how is he?  she turned to her husband and then to her.\n\n But one can t go on talking in the passage like this!  Levin said,\nlooking angrily at a gentleman who walked jauntily at that instant\nacross the corridor, as though about his affairs.\n\n Well then, come in,  said Kitty, turning to Marya Nikolaevna, who had\nrecovered herself, but noticing her husband s face of dismay,  or go\non; go, and then come for me,  she said, and went back into the room.\n\nLevin went to his brother s room. He had not in the least expected what\nhe saw and felt in his brother s room. He had expected to find him in\nthe same state of self-deception which he had heard was so frequent\nwith the consumptive, and which had struck him so much during his\nbrother s visit in the autumn. He had expected to find the physical\nsigns of the approach of death more marked greater weakness, greater\nemaciation, but still almost the same condition of things. He had\nexpected himself to feel the same distress at the loss of the brother\nhe loved and the same horror in face of death as he had felt then, only\nin a greater degree. And he had prepared himself for this; but he found\nsomething utterly different.\n\nIn a little dirty room with the painted panels of its walls filthy with\nspittle, and conversation audible through the thin partition from the\nnext room, in a stifling atmosphere saturated with impurities, on a\nbedstead moved away from the wall, there lay covered with a quilt, a\nbody. One arm of this body was above the quilt, and the wrist, huge as\na rake-handle, was attached, inconceivably it seemed, to the thin, long\nbone of the arm smooth from the beginning to the middle. The head lay\nsideways on the pillow. Levin could see the scanty locks wet with sweat\non the temples and tense, transparent-looking forehead.\n\n It cannot be that that fearful body was my brother Nikolay?  thought\nLevin. But he went closer, saw the face, and doubt became impossible.\nIn spite of the terrible change in the face, Levin had only to glance\nat those eager eyes raised at his approach, only to catch the faint\nmovement of the mouth under the sticky mustache, to realize the\nterrible truth that this death-like body was his living brother.\n\nThe glittering eyes looked sternly and reproachfully at his brother as\nhe drew near. And immediately this glance established a living\nrelationship between living men. Levin immediately felt the reproach in\nthe eyes fixed on him, and felt remorse at his own happiness.\n\nWhen Konstantin took him by the hand, Nikolay smiled. The smile was\nfaint, scarcely perceptible, and in spite of the smile the stern\nexpression of the eyes was unchanged.\n\n You did not expect to find me like this,  he articulated with effort.\n\n Yes ... no,  said Levin, hesitating over his words.  How was it you\ndidn t let me know before, that is, at the time of my wedding? I made\ninquiries in all directions. \n\nHe had to talk so as not to be silent, and he did not know what to say,\nespecially as his brother made no reply, and simply stared without\ndropping his eyes, and evidently penetrated to the inner meaning of\neach word. Levin told his brother that his wife had come with him.\nNikolay expressed pleasure, but said he was afraid of frightening her\nby his condition. A silence followed. Suddenly Nikolay stirred, and\nbegan to say something. Levin expected something of peculiar gravity\nand importance from the expression of his face, but Nikolay began\nspeaking of his health. He found fault with the doctor, regretting he\nhad not a celebrated Moscow doctor. Levin saw that he still hoped.\n\nSeizing the first moment of silence, Levin got up, anxious to escape,\nif only for an instant, from his agonizing emotion, and said that he\nwould go and fetch his wife.\n\n Very well, and I ll tell her to tidy up here. It s dirty and stinking\nhere, I expect. Marya! clear up the room,  the sick man said with\neffort.  Oh, and when you ve cleared up, go away yourself,  he added,\nlooking inquiringly at his brother.\n\nLevin made no answer. Going out into the corridor, he stopped short. He\nhad said he would fetch his wife, but now, taking stock of the emotion\nhe was feeling, he decided that he would try on the contrary to\npersuade her not to go in to the sick man.  Why should she suffer as I\nam suffering?  he thought.\n\n Well, how is he?  Kitty asked with a frightened face.\n\n Oh, it s awful, it s awful! What did you come for?  said Levin.\n\nKitty was silent for a few seconds, looking timidly and ruefully at her\nhusband; then she went up and took him by the elbow with both hands.\n\n Kostya! take me to him; it will be easier for us to bear it together.\nYou only take me, take me to him, please, and go away,  she said.  You\nmust understand that for me to see you, and not to see him, is far more\npainful. There I might be a help to you and to him. Please, let me! \nshe besought her husband, as though the happiness of her life depended\non it.\n\nLevin was obliged to agree, and regaining his composure, and completely\nforgetting about Marya Nikolaevna by now, he went again in to his\nbrother with Kitty.\n\nStepping lightly, and continually glancing at her husband, showing him\na valorous and sympathetic face, Kitty went into the sick-room, and,\nturning without haste, noiselessly closed the door. With inaudible\nsteps she went quickly to the sick man s bedside, and going up so that\nhe had not to turn his head, she immediately clasped in her fresh young\nhand the skeleton of his huge hand, pressed it, and began speaking with\nthat soft eagerness, sympathetic and not jarring, which is peculiar to\nwomen.\n\n We have met, though we were not acquainted, at Soden,  she said.  You\nnever thought I was to be your sister? \n\n You would not have recognized me?  he said, with a radiant smile at\nher entrance.\n\n Yes, I should. What a good thing you let us know! Not a day has passed\nthat Kostya has not mentioned you, and been anxious. \n\nBut the sick man s interest did not last long.\n\nBefore she had finished speaking, there had come back into his face the\nstern, reproachful expression of the dying man s envy of the living.\n\n I am afraid you are not quite comfortable here,  she said, turning\naway from his fixed stare, and looking about the room.  We must ask\nabout another room,  she said to her husband,  so that we might be\nnearer. \n\n\nChapter 18\n\nLevin could not look calmly at his brother; he could not himself be\nnatural and calm in his presence. When he went in to the sick man, his\neyes and his attention were unconsciously dimmed, and he did not see\nand did not distinguish the details of his brother s position. He smelt\nthe awful odor, saw the dirt, disorder, and miserable condition, and\nheard the groans, and felt that nothing could be done to help. It never\nentered his head to analyze the details of the sick man s situation, to\nconsider how that body was lying under the quilt, how those emaciated\nlegs and thighs and spine were lying huddled up, and whether they could\nnot be made more comfortable, whether anything could not be done to\nmake things, if not better, at least less bad. It made his blood run\ncold when he began to think of all these details. He was absolutely\nconvinced that nothing could be done to prolong his brother s life or\nto relieve his suffering. But a sense of his regarding all aid as out\nof the question was felt by the sick man, and exasperated him. And this\nmade it still more painful for Levin. To be in the sick-room was agony\nto him, not to be there still worse. And he was continually, on various\npretexts, going out of the room, and coming in again, because he was\nunable to remain alone.\n\nBut Kitty thought, and felt, and acted quite differently. On seeing the\nsick man, she pitied him. And pity in her womanly heart did not arouse\nat all that feeling of horror and loathing that it aroused in her\nhusband, but a desire to act, to find out all the details of his state,\nand to remedy them. And since she had not the slightest doubt that it\nwas her duty to help him, she had no doubt either that it was possible,\nand immediately set to work. The very details, the mere thought of\nwhich reduced her husband to terror, immediately engaged her attention.\nShe sent for the doctor, sent to the chemist s, set the maid who had\ncome with her and Marya Nikolaevna to sweep and dust and scrub; she\nherself washed up something, washed out something else, laid something\nunder the quilt. Something was by her directions brought into the\nsick-room, something else was carried out. She herself went several\ntimes to her room, regardless of the men she met in the corridor, got\nout and brought in sheets, pillow cases, towels, and shirts.\n\nThe waiter, who was busy with a party of engineers dining in the dining\nhall, came several times with an irate countenance in answer to her\nsummons, and could not avoid carrying out her orders, as she gave them\nwith such gracious insistence that there was no evading her. Levin did\nnot approve of all this; he did not believe it would be of any good to\nthe patient. Above all, he feared the patient would be angry at it. But\nthe sick man, though he seemed and was indifferent about it, was not\nangry, but only abashed, and on the whole as it were interested in what\nshe was doing with him. Coming back from the doctor to whom Kitty had\nsent him, Levin, on opening the door, came upon the sick man at the\ninstant when, by Kitty s directions, they were changing his linen. The\nlong white ridge of his spine, with the huge, prominent shoulder blades\nand jutting ribs and vertebrae, was bare, and Marya Nikolaevna and the\nwaiter were struggling with the sleeve of the night shirt, and could\nnot get the long, limp arm into it. Kitty, hurriedly closing the door\nafter Levin, was not looking that way; but the sick man groaned, and\nshe moved rapidly towards him.\n\n Make haste,  she said.\n\n Oh, don t you come,  said the sick man angrily.  I ll do it my\nmyself.... \n\n What say?  queried Marya Nikolaevna. But Kitty heard and saw he was\nashamed and uncomfortable at being naked before her.\n\n I m not looking, I m not looking!  she said, putting the arm in.\n Marya Nikolaevna, you come this side, you do it,  she added.\n\n Please go for me, there s a little bottle in my small bag,  she said,\nturning to her husband,  you know, in the side pocket; bring it,\nplease, and meanwhile they ll finish clearing up here. \n\nReturning with the bottle, Levin found the sick man settled comfortably\nand everything about him completely changed. The heavy smell was\nreplaced by the smell of aromatic vinegar, which Kitty with pouting\nlips and puffed-out, rosy cheeks was squirting through a little pipe.\nThere was no dust visible anywhere, a rug was laid by the bedside. On\nthe table stood medicine bottles and decanters tidily arranged, and the\nlinen needed was folded up there, and Kitty s _broderie anglaise_. On\nthe other table by the patient s bed there were candles and drink and\npowders. The sick man himself, washed and combed, lay in clean sheets\non high raised pillows, in a clean night-shirt with a white collar\nabout his astoundingly thin neck, and with a new expression of hope\nlooked fixedly at Kitty.\n\nThe doctor brought by Levin, and found by him at the club, was not the\none who had been attending Nikolay Levin, as the patient was\ndissatisfied with him. The new doctor took up a stethoscope and sounded\nthe patient, shook his head, prescribed medicine, and with extreme\nminuteness explained first how to take the medicine and then what diet\nwas to be kept to. He advised eggs, raw or hardly cooked, and seltzer\nwater, with warm milk at a certain temperature. When the doctor had\ngone away the sick man said something to his brother, of which Levin\ncould distinguish only the last words:  Your Katya.  By the expression\nwith which he gazed at her, Levin saw that he was praising her. He\ncalled indeed to Katya, as he called her.\n\n I m much better already,  he said.  Why, with you I should have got\nwell long ago. How nice it is!  he took her hand and drew it towards\nhis lips, but as though afraid she would dislike it he changed his\nmind, let it go, and only stroked it. Kitty took his hand in both hers\nand pressed it.\n\n Now turn me over on the left side and go to bed,  he said.\n\nNo one could make out what he said but Kitty; she alone understood. She\nunderstood because she was all the while mentally keeping watch on what\nhe needed.\n\n On the other side,  she said to her husband,  he always sleeps on that\nside. Turn him over, it s so disagreeable calling the servants. I m not\nstrong enough. Can you?  she said to Marya Nikolaevna.\n\n I m afraid not,  answered Marya Nikolaevna.\n\nTerrible as it was to Levin to put his arms round that terrible body,\nto take hold of that under the quilt, of which he preferred to know\nnothing, under his wife s influence he made his resolute face that she\nknew so well, and putting his arms into the bed took hold of the body,\nbut in spite of his own strength he was struck by the strange heaviness\nof those powerless limbs. While he was turning him over, conscious of\nthe huge emaciated arm about his neck, Kitty swiftly and noiselessly\nturned the pillow, beat it up and settled in it the sick man s head,\nsmoothing back his hair, which was sticking again to his moist brow.\n\nThe sick man kept his brother s hand in his own. Levin felt that he\nmeant to do something with his hand and was pulling it somewhere. Levin\nyielded with a sinking heart: yes, he drew it to his mouth and kissed\nit. Levin, shaking with sobs and unable to articulate a word, went out\nof the room.\n\n\nChapter 19\n\n Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast\nrevealed them unto babes.  So Levin thought about his wife as he talked\nto her that evening.\n\nLevin thought of the text, not because he considered himself  wise and\nprudent.  He did not so consider himself, but he could not help knowing\nthat he had more intellect than his wife and Agafea Mihalovna, and he\ncould not help knowing that when he thought of death, he thought with\nall the force of his intellect. He knew too that the brains of many\ngreat men, whose thoughts he had read, had brooded over death and yet\nknew not a hundredth part of what his wife and Agafea Mihalovna knew\nabout it. Different as those two women were, Agafea Mihalovna and\nKatya, as his brother Nikolay had called her, and as Levin particularly\nliked to call her now, they were quite alike in this. Both knew,\nwithout a shade of doubt, what sort of thing life was and what was\ndeath, and though neither of them could have answered, and would even\nnot have understood the questions that presented themselves to Levin,\nboth had no doubt of the significance of this event, and were precisely\nalike in their way of looking at it, which they shared with millions of\npeople. The proof that they knew for a certainty the nature of death\nlay in the fact that they knew without a second of hesitation how to\ndeal with the dying, and were not frightened of them. Levin and other\nmen like him, though they could have said a great deal about death,\nobviously did not know this since they were afraid of death, and were\nabsolutely at a loss what to do when people were dying. If Levin had\nbeen alone now with his brother Nikolay, he would have looked at him\nwith terror, and with still greater terror waited, and would not have\nknown what else to do.\n\nMore than that, he did not know what to say, how to look, how to move.\nTo talk of outside things seemed to him shocking, impossible, to talk\nof death and depressing subjects also impossible. To be silent, also\nimpossible.  If I look at him he will think I am studying him, I am\nafraid; if I don t look at him, he ll think I m thinking of other\nthings. If I walk on tiptoe, he will be vexed; to tread firmly, I m\nashamed.  Kitty evidently did not think of herself, and had no time to\nthink about herself: she was thinking about him because she knew\nsomething, and all went well. She told him about herself even and about\nher wedding, and smiled and sympathized with him and petted him, and\ntalked of cases of recovery and all went well; so then she must know.\nThe proof that her behavior and Agafea Mihalovna s was not instinctive,\nanimal, irrational, was that apart from the physical treatment, the\nrelief of suffering, both Agafea Mihalovna and Kitty required for the\ndying man something else more important than the physical treatment,\nand something which had nothing in common with physical conditions.\nAgafea Mihalovna, speaking of the man just dead, had said:  Well, thank\nGod, he took the sacrament and received absolution; God grant each one\nof us such a death.  Katya in just the same way, besides all her care\nabout linen, bedsores, drink, found time the very first day to persuade\nthe sick man of the necessity of taking the sacrament and receiving\nabsolution.\n\nOn getting back from the sick-room to their own two rooms for the\nnight, Levin sat with hanging head not knowing what to do. Not to speak\nof supper, of preparing for bed, of considering what they were going to\ndo, he could not even talk to his wife; he was ashamed to. Kitty, on\nthe contrary, was more active than usual. She was even livelier than\nusual. She ordered supper to be brought, herself unpacked their things,\nand herself helped to make the beds, and did not even forget to\nsprinkle them with Persian powder. She showed that alertness, that\nswiftness of reflection which comes out in men before a battle, in\nconflict, in the dangerous and decisive moments of life those moments\nwhen a man shows once and for all his value, and that all his past has\nnot been wasted but has been a preparation for these moments.\n\nEverything went rapidly in her hands, and before it was twelve o clock\nall their things were arranged cleanly and tidily in her rooms, in such\na way that the hotel rooms seemed like home: the beds were made,\nbrushes, combs, looking-glasses were put out, table napkins were\nspread.\n\nLevin felt that it was unpardonable to eat, to sleep, to talk even now,\nand it seemed to him that every movement he made was unseemly. She\narranged the brushes, but she did it all so that there was nothing\nshocking in it.\n\nThey could neither of them eat, however, and for a long while they\ncould not sleep, and did not even go to bed.\n\n I am very glad I persuaded him to receive extreme unction tomorrow, \nshe said, sitting in her dressing jacket before her folding\nlooking-glass, combing her soft, fragrant hair with a fine comb.  I\nhave never seen it, but I know, mamma has told me, there are prayers\nsaid for recovery. \n\n Do you suppose he can possibly recover?  said Levin, watching a\nslender tress at the back of her round little head that was continually\nhidden when she passed the comb through the front.\n\n I asked the doctor; he said he couldn t live more than three days. But\ncan they be sure? I m very glad, anyway, that I persuaded him,  she\nsaid, looking askance at her husband through her hair.  Anything is\npossible,  she added with that peculiar, rather sly expression that was\nalways in her face when she spoke of religion.\n\nSince their conversation about religion when they were engaged neither\nof them had ever started a discussion of the subject, but she performed\nall the ceremonies of going to church, saying her prayers, and so on,\nalways with the unvarying conviction that this ought to be so. In spite\nof his assertion to the contrary, she was firmly persuaded that he was\nas much a Christian as she, and indeed a far better one; and all that\nhe said about it was simply one of his absurd masculine freaks, just as\nhe would say about her _broderie anglaise_ that good people patch\nholes, but that she cut them on purpose, and so on.\n\n Yes, you see this woman, Marya Nikolaevna, did not know how to manage\nall this,  said Levin.  And ... I must own I m very, very glad you\ncame. You are such purity that....  He took her hand and did not kiss\nit (to kiss her hand in such closeness to death seemed to him\nimproper); he merely squeezed it with a penitent air, looking at her\nbrightening eyes.\n\n It would have been miserable for you to be alone,  she said, and\nlifting her hands which hid her cheeks flushing with pleasure, twisted\nher coil of hair on the nape of her neck and pinned it there.  No,  she\nwent on,  she did not know how.... Luckily, I learned a lot at Soden. \n\n Surely there are not people there so ill? \n\n Worse. \n\n What s so awful to me is that I can t see him as he was when he was\nyoung. You would not believe how charming he was as a youth, but I did\nnot understand him then. \n\n I can quite, quite believe it. How I feel that we might have been\nfriends!  she said; and, distressed at what she had said, she looked\nround at her husband, and tears came into her eyes.\n\n Yes, _might have been_,  he said mournfully.  He s just one of those\npeople of whom they say they re not for this world. \n\n But we have many days before us; we must go to bed,  said Kitty,\nglancing at her tiny watch.\n\n\nChapter 20\n\nThe next day the sick man received the sacrament and extreme unction.\nDuring the ceremony Nikolay Levin prayed fervently. His great eyes,\nfastened on the holy image that was set out on a card-table covered\nwith a colored napkin, expressed such passionate prayer and hope that\nit was awful to Levin to see it. Levin knew that this passionate prayer\nand hope would only make him feel more bitterly parting from the life\nhe so loved. Levin knew his brother and the workings of his intellect:\nhe knew that his unbelief came not from life being easier for him\nwithout faith, but had grown up because step by step the contemporary\nscientific interpretation of natural phenomena crushed out the\npossibility of faith; and so he knew that his present return was not a\nlegitimate one, brought about by way of the same working of his\nintellect, but simply a temporary, interested return to faith in a\ndesperate hope of recovery. Levin knew too that Kitty had strengthened\nhis hope by accounts of the marvelous recoveries she had heard of.\nLevin knew all this; and it was agonizingly painful to him to behold\nthe supplicating, hopeful eyes and the emaciated wrist, lifted with\ndifficulty, making the sign of the cross on the tense brow, and the\nprominent shoulders and hollow, gasping chest, which one could not feel\nconsistent with the life the sick man was praying for. During the\nsacrament Levin did what he, an unbeliever, had done a thousand times.\nHe said, addressing God,  If Thou dost exist, make this man to recover \n(of course this same thing has been repeated many times),  and Thou\nwilt save him and me. \n\nAfter extreme unction the sick man became suddenly much better. He did\nnot cough once in the course of an hour, smiled, kissed Kitty s hand,\nthanking her with tears, and said he was comfortable, free from pain,\nand that he felt strong and had an appetite. He even raised himself\nwhen his soup was brought, and asked for a cutlet as well. Hopelessly\nill as he was, obvious as it was at the first glance that he could not\nrecover, Levin and Kitty were for that hour both in the same state of\nexcitement, happy, though fearful of being mistaken.\n\n Is he better? \n\n Yes, much. \n\n It s wonderful. \n\n There s nothing wonderful in it. \n\n Anyway, he s better,  they said in a whisper, smiling to one another.\n\nThis self-deception was not of long duration. The sick man fell into a\nquiet sleep, but he was waked up half an hour later by his cough. And\nall at once every hope vanished in those about him and in himself. The\nreality of his suffering crushed all hopes in Levin and Kitty and in\nthe sick man himself, leaving no doubt, no memory even of past hopes.\n\nWithout referring to what he had believed in half an hour before, as\nthough ashamed even to recall it, he asked for iodine to inhale in a\nbottle covered with perforated paper. Levin gave him the bottle, and\nthe same look of passionate hope with which he had taken the sacrament\nwas now fastened on his brother, demanding from him the confirmation of\nthe doctor s words that inhaling iodine worked wonders.\n\n Is Katya not here?  he gasped, looking round while Levin reluctantly\nassented to the doctor s words.  No; so I can say it.... It was for her\nsake I went through that farce. She s so sweet; but you and I can t\ndeceive ourselves. This is what I believe in,  he said, and, squeezing\nthe bottle in his bony hand, he began breathing over it.\n\nAt eight o clock in the evening Levin and his wife were drinking tea in\ntheir room when Marya Nikolaevna ran in to them breathlessly. She was\npale, and her lips were quivering.  He is dying!  she whispered.  I m\nafraid will die this minute. \n\nBoth of them ran to him. He was sitting raised up with one elbow on the\nbed, his long back bent, and his head hanging low.\n\n How do you feel?  Levin asked in a whisper, after a silence.\n\n I feel I m setting off,  Nikolay said with difficulty, but with\nextreme distinctness, screwing the words out of himself. He did not\nraise his head, but simply turned his eyes upwards, without their\nreaching his brother s face.  Katya, go away!  he added.\n\nLevin jumped up, and with a peremptory whisper made her go out.\n\n I m setting off,  he said again.\n\n Why do you think so?  said Levin, so as to say something.\n\n Because I m setting off,  he repeated, as though he had a liking for\nthe phrase.  It s the end. \n\nMarya Nikolaevna went up to him.\n\n You had better lie down; you d be easier,  she said.\n\n I shall lie down soon enough,  he pronounced slowly,  when I m dead, \nhe said sarcastically, wrathfully.  Well, you can lay me down if you\nlike. \n\nLevin laid his brother on his back, sat down beside him, and gazed at\nhis face, holding his breath. The dying man lay with closed eyes, but\nthe muscles twitched from time to time on his forehead, as with one\nthinking deeply and intensely. Levin involuntarily thought with him of\nwhat it was that was happening to him now, but in spite of all his\nmental efforts to go along with him he saw by the expression of that\ncalm, stern face that for the dying man all was growing clearer and\nclearer that was still as dark as ever for Levin.\n\n Yes, yes, so,  the dying man articulated slowly at intervals.  Wait a\nlittle.  He was silent.  Right!  he pronounced all at once\nreassuringly, as though all were solved for him.  O Lord!  he murmured,\nand sighed deeply.\n\nMarya Nikolaevna felt his feet.  They re getting cold,  she whispered.\n\nFor a long while, a very long while it seemed to Levin, the sick man\nlay motionless. But he was still alive, and from time to time he\nsighed. Levin by now was exhausted from mental strain. He felt that,\nwith no mental effort, could he understand what it was that was\n_right_. He could not even think of the problem of death itself, but\nwith no will of his own thoughts kept coming to him of what he had to\ndo next; closing the dead man s eyes, dressing him, ordering the\ncoffin. And, strange to say, he felt utterly cold, and was not\nconscious of sorrow nor of loss, less still of pity for his brother. If\nhe had any feeling for his brother at that moment, it was envy for the\nknowledge the dying man had now that he could not have.\n\nA long time more he sat over him so, continually expecting the end. But\nthe end did not come. The door opened and Kitty appeared. Levin got up\nto stop her. But at the moment he was getting up, he caught the sound\nof the dying man stirring.\n\n Don t go away,  said Nikolay and held out his hand. Levin gave him\nhis, and angrily waved to his wife to go away.\n\nWith the dying man s hand in his hand, he sat for half an hour, an\nhour, another hour. He did not think of death at all now. He wondered\nwhat Kitty was doing; who lived in the next room; whether the doctor\nlived in a house of his own. He longed for food and for sleep. He\ncautiously drew away his hand and felt the feet. The feet were cold,\nbut the sick man was still breathing. Levin tried again to move away on\ntiptoe, but the sick man stirred again and said:  Don t go. \n\nThe dawn came; the sick man s condition was unchanged. Levin stealthily\nwithdrew his hand, and without looking at the dying man, went off to\nhis own room and went to sleep. When he woke up, instead of news of his\nbrother s death which he expected, he learned that the sick man had\nreturned to his earlier condition. He had begun sitting up again,\ncoughing, had begun eating again, talking again, and again had ceased\nto talk of death, again had begun to express hope of his recovery, and\nhad become more irritable and more gloomy than ever. No one, neither\nhis brother nor Kitty, could soothe him. He was angry with everyone,\nand said nasty things to everyone, reproached everyone for his\nsufferings, and insisted that they should get him a celebrated doctor\nfrom Moscow. To all inquiries made him as to how he felt, he made the\nsame answer with an expression of vindictive reproachfulness,  I m\nsuffering horribly, intolerably! \n\nThe sick man was suffering more and more, especially from bedsores,\nwhich it was impossible now to remedy, and grew more and more angry\nwith everyone about him, blaming them for everything, and especially\nfor not having brought him a doctor from Moscow. Kitty tried in every\npossible way to relieve him, to soothe him; but it was all in vain, and\nLevin saw that she herself was exhausted both physically and morally,\nthough she would not admit it. The sense of death, which had been\nevoked in all by his taking leave of life on the night when he had sent\nfor his brother, was broken up. Everyone knew that he must inevitably\ndie soon, that he was half dead already. Everyone wished for nothing\nbut that he should die as soon as possible, and everyone, concealing\nthis, gave him medicines, tried to find remedies and doctors, and\ndeceived him and themselves and each other. All this was falsehood,\ndisgusting, irreverent deceit. And owing to the bent of his character,\nand because he loved the dying man more than anyone else did, Levin was\nmost painfully conscious of this deceit.\n\nLevin, who had long been possessed by the idea of reconciling his\nbrothers, at least in face of death, had written to his brother, Sergey\nIvanovitch, and having received an answer from him, he read this letter\nto the sick man. Sergey Ivanovitch wrote that he could not come\nhimself, and in touching terms he begged his brother s forgiveness.\n\nThe sick man said nothing.\n\n What am I to write to him?  said Levin.  I hope you are not angry with\nhim? \n\n No, not the least!  Nikolay answered, vexed at the question.  Tell him\nto send me a doctor. \n\nThree more days of agony followed; the sick man was still in the same\ncondition. The sense of longing for his death was felt by everyone now\nat the mere sight of him, by the waiters and the hotel-keeper and all\nthe people staying in the hotel, and the doctor and Marya Nikolaevna\nand Levin and Kitty. The sick man alone did not express this feeling,\nbut on the contrary was furious at their not getting him doctors, and\nwent on taking medicine and talking of life. Only at rare moments, when\nthe opium gave him an instant s relief from the never-ceasing pain, he\nwould sometimes, half asleep, utter what was ever more intense in his\nheart than in all the others:  Oh, if it were only the end!  or:  When\nwill it be over? \n\nHis sufferings, steadily growing more intense, did their work and\nprepared him for death. There was no position in which he was not in\npain, there was not a minute in which he was unconscious of it, not a\nlimb, not a part of his body that did not ache and cause him agony.\nEven the memories, the impressions, the thoughts of this body awakened\nin him now the same aversion as the body itself. The sight of other\npeople, their remarks, his own reminiscences, everything was for him a\nsource of agony. Those about him felt this, and instinctively did not\nallow themselves to move freely, to talk, to express their wishes\nbefore him. All his life was merged in the one feeling of suffering and\ndesire to be rid of it.\n\nThere was evidently coming over him that revulsion that would make him\nlook upon death as the goal of his desires, as happiness. Hitherto each\nindividual desire, aroused by suffering or privation, such as hunger,\nfatigue, thirst, had been satisfied by some bodily function giving\npleasure. But now no physical craving or suffering received relief, and\nthe effort to relieve them only caused fresh suffering. And so all\ndesires were merged in one the desire to be rid of all his sufferings\nand their source, the body. But he had no words to express this desire\nof deliverance, and so he did not speak of it, and from habit asked for\nthe satisfaction of desires which could not now be satisfied.  Turn me\nover on the other side,  he would say, and immediately after he would\nask to be turned back again as before.  Give me some broth. Take away\nthe broth. Talk of something: why are you silent?  And directly they\nbegan to talk he would close his eyes, and would show weariness,\nindifference, and loathing.\n\nOn the tenth day from their arrival at the town, Kitty was unwell. She\nsuffered from headache and sickness, and she could not get up all the\nmorning.\n\nThe doctor opined that the indisposition arose from fatigue and\nexcitement, and prescribed rest.\n\nAfter dinner, however, Kitty got up and went as usual with her work to\nthe sick man. He looked at her sternly when she came in, and smiled\ncontemptuously when she said she had been unwell. That day he was\ncontinually blowing his nose, and groaning piteously.\n\n How do you feel?  she asked him.\n\n Worse,  he articulated with difficulty.  In pain! \n\n In pain, where? \n\n Everywhere. \n\n It will be over today, you will see,  said Marya Nikolaevna. Though it\nwas said in a whisper, the sick man, whose hearing Levin had noticed\nwas very keen, must have heard. Levin said hush to her, and looked\nround at the sick man. Nikolay had heard; but these words produced no\neffect on him. His eyes had still the same intense, reproachful look.\n\n Why do you think so?  Levin asked her, when she had followed him into\nthe corridor.\n\n He has begun picking at himself,  said Marya Nikolaevna.\n\n How do you mean? \n\n Like this,  she said, tugging at the folds of her woolen skirt. Levin\nnoticed, indeed, that all that day the patient pulled at himself, as it\nwere, trying to snatch something away.\n\nMarya Nikolaevna s prediction came true. Towards night the sick man was\nnot able to lift his hands, and could only gaze before him with the\nsame intensely concentrated expression in his eyes. Even when his\nbrother or Kitty bent over him, so that he could see them, he looked\njust the same. Kitty sent for the priest to read the prayer for the\ndying.\n\nWhile the priest was reading it, the dying man did not show any sign of\nlife; his eyes were closed. Levin, Kitty, and Marya Nikolaevna stood at\nthe bedside. The priest had not quite finished reading the prayer when\nthe dying man stretched, sighed, and opened his eyes. The priest, on\nfinishing the prayer, put the cross to the cold forehead, then slowly\nreturned it to the stand, and after standing for two minutes more in\nsilence, he touched the huge, bloodless hand that was turning cold.\n\n He is gone,  said the priest, and would have moved away; but suddenly\nthere was a faint stir in the mustaches of the dead man that seemed\nglued together, and quite distinctly in the hush they heard from the\nbottom of the chest the sharply defined sounds:\n\n Not quite ... soon. \n\nAnd a minute later the face brightened, a smile came out under the\nmustaches, and the women who had gathered round began carefully laying\nout the corpse.\n\nThe sight of his brother, and the nearness of death, revived in Levin\nthat sense of horror in face of the insoluble enigma, together with the\nnearness and inevitability of death, that had come upon him that autumn\nevening when his brother had come to him. This feeling was now even\nstronger than before; even less than before did he feel capable of\napprehending the meaning of death, and its inevitability rose up before\nhim more terrible than ever. But now, thanks to his wife s presence,\nthat feeling did not reduce him to despair. In spite of death, he felt\nthe need of life and love. He felt that love saved him from despair,\nand that this love, under the menace of despair, had become still\nstronger and purer. The one mystery of death, still unsolved, had\nscarcely passed before his eyes, when another mystery had arisen, as\ninsoluble, urging him to love and to life.\n\nThe doctor confirmed his suppositions in regard to Kitty. Her\nindisposition was a symptom that she was with child.\n\n\nChapter 21\n\nFrom the moment when Alexey Alexandrovitch understood from his\ninterviews with Betsy and with Stepan Arkadyevitch that all that was\nexpected of him was to leave his wife in peace, without burdening her\nwith his presence, and that his wife herself desired this, he felt so\ndistraught that he could come to no decision of himself; he did not\nknow himself what he wanted now, and putting himself in the hands of\nthose who were so pleased to interest themselves in his affairs, he met\neverything with unqualified assent. It was only when Anna had left his\nhouse, and the English governess sent to ask him whether she should\ndine with him or separately, that for the first time he clearly\ncomprehended his position, and was appalled by it. Most difficult of\nall in this position was the fact that he could not in any way connect\nand reconcile his past with what was now. It was not the past when he\nhad lived happily with his wife that troubled him. The transition from\nthat past to a knowledge of his wife s unfaithfulness he had lived\nthrough miserably already; that state was painful, but he could\nunderstand it. If his wife had then, on declaring to him her\nunfaithfulness, left him, he would have been wounded, unhappy, but he\nwould not have been in the hopeless position incomprehensible to\nhimself in which he felt himself now. He could not now reconcile his\nimmediate past, his tenderness, his love for his sick wife, and for the\nother man s child with what was now the case, that is with the fact\nthat, as it were, in return for all this he now found himself alone,\nput to shame, a laughing-stock, needed by no one, and despised by\neveryone.\n\nFor the first two days after his wife s departure Alexey Alexandrovitch\nreceived applicants for assistance and his chief secretary, drove to\nthe committee, and went down to dinner in the dining-room as usual.\nWithout giving himself a reason for what he was doing, he strained\nevery nerve of his being for those two days, simply to preserve an\nappearance of composure, and even of indifference. Answering inquiries\nabout the disposition of Anna Arkadyevna s rooms and belongings, he had\nexercised immense self-control to appear like a man in whose eyes what\nhad occurred was not unforeseen nor out of the ordinary course of\nevents, and he attained his aim: no one could have detected in him\nsigns of despair. But on the second day after her departure, when\nKorney gave him a bill from a fashionable draper s shop, which Anna had\nforgotten to pay, and announced that the clerk from the shop was\nwaiting, Alexey Alexandrovitch told him to show the clerk up.\n\n Excuse me, your excellency, for venturing to trouble you. But if you\ndirect us to apply to her excellency, would you graciously oblige us\nwith her address? \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch pondered, as it seemed to the clerk, and all at\nonce, turning round, he sat down at the table. Letting his head sink\ninto his hands, he sat for a long while in that position, several times\nattempted to speak and stopped short. Korney, perceiving his master s\nemotion, asked the clerk to call another time. Left alone, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch recognized that he had not the strength to keep up the\nline of firmness and composure any longer. He gave orders for the\ncarriage that was awaiting him to be taken back, and for no one to be\nadmitted, and he did not go down to dinner.\n\nHe felt that he could not endure the weight of universal contempt and\nexasperation, which he had distinctly seen in the face of the clerk and\nof Korney, and of everyone, without exception, whom he had met during\nthose two days. He felt that he could not turn aside from himself the\nhatred of men, because that hatred did not come from his being bad (in\nthat case he could have tried to be better), but from his being\nshamefully and repulsively unhappy. He knew that for this, for the very\nfact that his heart was torn with grief, they would be merciless to\nhim. He felt that men would crush him as dogs strangle a torn dog\nyelping with pain. He knew that his sole means of security against\npeople was to hide his wounds from them, and instinctively he tried to\ndo this for two days, but now he felt incapable of keeping up the\nunequal struggle.\n\nHis despair was even intensified by the consciousness that he was\nutterly alone in his sorrow. In all Petersburg there was not a human\nbeing to whom he could express what he was feeling, who would feel for\nhim, not as a high official, not as a member of society, but simply as\na suffering man; indeed he had not such a one in the whole world.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch grew up an orphan. There were two brothers. They\ndid not remember their father, and their mother died when Alexey\nAlexandrovitch was ten years old. The property was a small one. Their\nuncle, Karenin, a government official of high standing, at one time a\nfavorite of the late Tsar, had brought them up.\n\nOn completing his high school and university courses with medals,\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had, with his uncle s aid, immediately started in\na prominent position in the service, and from that time forward he had\ndevoted himself exclusively to political ambition. In the high school\nand the university, and afterwards in the service, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch had never formed a close friendship with anyone. His\nbrother had been the person nearest to his heart, but he had a post in\nthe Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and was always abroad, where he had\ndied shortly after Alexey Alexandrovitch s marriage.\n\nWhile he was governor of a province, Anna s aunt, a wealthy provincial\nlady, had thrown him middle-aged as he was, though young for a\ngovernor with her niece, and had succeeded in putting him in such a\nposition that he had either to declare himself or to leave the town.\nAlexey Alexandrovitch was not long in hesitation. There were at the\ntime as many reasons for the step as against it, and there was no\noverbalancing consideration to outweigh his invariable rule of\nabstaining when in doubt. But Anna s aunt had through a common\nacquaintance insinuated that he had already compromised the girl, and\nthat he was in honor bound to make her an offer. He made the offer, and\nconcentrated on his betrothed and his wife all the feeling of which he\nwas capable.\n\nThe attachment he felt to Anna precluded in his heart every need of\nintimate relations with others. And now among all his acquaintances he\nhad not one friend. He had plenty of so-called connections, but no\nfriendships. Alexey Alexandrovitch had plenty of people whom he could\ninvite to dinner, to whose sympathy he could appeal in any public\naffair he was concerned about, whose interest he could reckon upon for\nanyone he wished to help, with whom he could candidly discuss other\npeople s business and affairs of state. But his relations with these\npeople were confined to one clearly defined channel, and had a certain\nroutine from which it was impossible to depart. There was one man, a\ncomrade of his at the university, with whom he had made friends later,\nand with whom he could have spoken of a personal sorrow; but this\nfriend had a post in the Department of Education in a remote part of\nRussia. Of the people in Petersburg the most intimate and most possible\nwere his chief secretary and his doctor.\n\nMihail Vassilievitch Sludin, the chief secretary, was a\nstraightforward, intelligent, good-hearted, and conscientious man, and\nAlexey Alexandrovitch was aware of his personal goodwill. But their\nfive years of official work together seemed to have put a barrier\nbetween them that cut off warmer relations.\n\nAfter signing the papers brought him, Alexey Alexandrovitch had sat for\na long while in silence, glancing at Mihail Vassilievitch, and several\ntimes he attempted to speak, but could not. He had already prepared the\nphrase:  You have heard of my trouble?  But he ended by saying, as\nusual:  So you ll get this ready for me?  and with that dismissed him.\n\nThe other person was the doctor, who had also a kindly feeling for him;\nbut there had long existed a taciturn understanding between them that\nboth were weighed down by work, and always in a hurry.\n\nOf his women friends, foremost amongst them Countess Lidia Ivanovna,\nAlexey Alexandrovitch never thought. All women, simply as women, were\nterrible and distasteful to him.\n\n\nChapter 22\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had forgotten the Countess Lidia Ivanovna, but\nshe had not forgotten him. At the bitterest moment of his lonely\ndespair she came to him, and without waiting to be announced, walked\nstraight into his study. She found him as he was sitting with his head\nin both hands.\n\n _J ai forc  la consigne_,  she said, walking in with rapid steps and\nbreathing hard with excitement and rapid exercise.  I have heard all!\nAlexey Alexandrovitch! Dear friend!  she went on, warmly squeezing his\nhand in both of hers and gazing with her fine pensive eyes into his.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, frowning, got up, and disengaging his hand,\nmoved her a chair.\n\n Won t you sit down, countess? I m seeing no one because I m unwell,\ncountess,  he said, and his lips twitched.\n\n Dear friend!  repeated Countess Lidia Ivanovna, never taking her eyes\noff his, and suddenly her eyebrows rose at the inner corners,\ndescribing a triangle on her forehead, her ugly yellow face became\nstill uglier, but Alexey Alexandrovitch felt that she was sorry for him\nand was preparing to cry. And he too was softened; he snatched her\nplump hand and proceeded to kiss it.\n\n Dear friend!  she said in a voice breaking with emotion.  You ought\nnot to give way to grief. Your sorrow is a great one, but you ought to\nfind consolation. \n\n I am crushed, I am annihilated, I am no longer a man!  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, letting go her hand, but still gazing into her brimming\neyes.  My position is so awful because I can find nowhere, I cannot\nfind within me strength to support me. \n\n You will find support; seek it not in me, though I beseech you to\nbelieve in my friendship,  she said, with a sigh.  Our support is love,\nthat love that He has vouchsafed us. His burden is light,  she said,\nwith the look of ecstasy Alexey Alexandrovitch knew so well.  He will\nbe your support and your succor. \n\nAlthough there was in these words a flavor of that sentimental emotion\nat her own lofty feelings, and that new mystical fervor which had\nlately gained ground in Petersburg, and which seemed to Alexey\nAlexandrovitch disproportionate, still it was pleasant to him to hear\nthis now.\n\n I am weak. I am crushed. I foresaw nothing, and now I understand\nnothing. \n\n Dear friend,  repeated Lidia Ivanovna.\n\n It s not the loss of what I have not now, it s not that!  pursued\nAlexey Alexandrovitch.  I do not grieve for that. But I cannot help\nfeeling humiliated before other people for the position I am placed in.\nIt is wrong, but I can t help it, I can t help it. \n\n Not you it was performed that noble act of forgiveness, at which I was\nmoved to ecstasy, and everyone else too, but He, working within your\nheart,  said Countess Lidia Ivanovna, raising her eyes rapturously,\n and so you cannot be ashamed of your act. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch knitted his brows, and crooking his hands, he\ncracked his fingers.\n\n One must know all the facts,  he said in his thin voice.  A man s\nstrength has its limits, countess, and I have reached my limits. The\nwhole day I have had to be making arrangements, arrangements about\nhousehold matters arising  (he emphasized the word _arising_)  from my\nnew, solitary position. The servants, the governess, the accounts....\nThese pinpricks have stabbed me to the heart, and I have not the\nstrength to bear it. At dinner ... yesterday, I was almost getting up\nfrom the dinner-table. I could not bear the way my son looked at me. He\ndid not ask me the meaning of it all, but he wanted to ask, and I could\nnot bear the look in his eyes. He was afraid to look at me, but that is\nnot all....  Alexey Alexandrovitch would have referred to the bill that\nhad been brought him, but his voice shook, and he stopped. That bill on\nblue paper, for a hat and ribbons, he could not recall without a rush\nof self-pity.\n\n I understand, dear friend,  said Lidia Ivanovna.  I understand it all.\nSuccor and comfort you will find not in me, though I have come only to\naid you if I can. If I could take from off you all these petty,\nhumiliating cares ... I understand that a woman s word, a woman s\nsuperintendence is needed. You will intrust it to me? \n\nSilently and gratefully Alexey Alexandrovitch pressed her hand.\n\n Together we will take care of Seryozha. Practical affairs are not my\nstrong point. But I will set to work. I will be your housekeeper. Don t\nthank me. I do it not from myself.... \n\n I cannot help thanking you. \n\n But, dear friend, do not give way to the feeling of which you\nspoke being ashamed of what is the Christian s highest glory: _he who\nhumbles himself shall be exalted_. And you cannot thank me. You must\nthank Him, and pray to Him for succor. In Him alone we find peace,\nconsolation, salvation, and love,  she said, and turning her eyes\nheavenwards, she began praying, as Alexey Alexandrovitch gathered from\nher silence.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch listened to her now, and those expressions which\nhad seemed to him, if not distasteful, at least exaggerated, now seemed\nto him natural and consolatory. Alexey Alexandrovitch had disliked this\nnew enthusiastic fervor. He was a believer, who was interested in\nreligion primarily in its political aspect, and the new doctrine which\nventured upon several new interpretations, just because it paved the\nway to discussion and analysis, was in principle disagreeable to him.\nHe had hitherto taken up a cold and even antagonistic attitude to this\nnew doctrine, and with Countess Lidia Ivanovna, who had been carried\naway by it, he had never argued, but by silence had assiduously parried\nher attempts to provoke him into argument. Now for the first time he\nheard her words with pleasure, and did not inwardly oppose them.\n\n I am very, very grateful to you, both for your deeds and for your\nwords,  he said, when she had finished praying.\n\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna once more pressed both her friend s hands.\n\n Now I will enter upon my duties,  she said with a smile after a pause,\nas she wiped away the traces of tears.  I am going to Seryozha. Only in\nthe last extremity shall I apply to you.  And she got up and went out.\n\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna went into Seryozha s part of the house, and\ndropping tears on the scared child s cheeks, she told him that his\nfather was a saint and his mother was dead.\n\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna kept her promise. She did actually take upon\nherself the care of the organization and management of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch s household. But she had not overstated the case when\nsaying that practical affairs were not her strong point. All her\narrangements had to be modified because they could not be carried out,\nand they were modified by Korney, Alexey Alexandrovitch s valet, who,\nthough no one was aware of the fact, now managed Karenin s household,\nand quietly and discreetly reported to his master while he was dressing\nall it was necessary for him to know. But Lidia Ivanovna s help was\nnone the less real; she gave Alexey Alexandrovitch moral support in the\nconsciousness of her love and respect for him, and still more, as it\nwas soothing to her to believe, in that she almost turned him to\nChristianity that is, from an indifferent and apathetic believer she\nturned him into an ardent and steadfast adherent of the new\ninterpretation of Christian doctrine, which had been gaining ground of\nlate in Petersburg. It was easy for Alexey Alexandrovitch to believe in\nthis teaching. Alexey Alexandrovitch, like Lidia Ivanovna indeed, and\nothers who shared their views, was completely devoid of vividness of\nimagination, that spiritual faculty in virtue of which the conceptions\nevoked by the imagination become so vivid that they must needs be in\nharmony with other conceptions, and with actual fact. He saw nothing\nimpossible and inconceivable in the idea that death, though existing\nfor unbelievers, did not exist for him, and that, as he was possessed\nof the most perfect faith, of the measure of which he was himself the\njudge, therefore there was no sin in his soul, and he was experiencing\ncomplete salvation here on earth.\n\nIt is true that the erroneousness and shallowness of this conception of\nhis faith was dimly perceptible to Alexey Alexandrovitch, and he knew\nthat when, without the slightest idea that his forgiveness was the\naction of a higher power, he had surrendered directly to the feeling of\nforgiveness, he had felt more happiness than now when he was thinking\nevery instant that Christ was in his heart, and that in signing\nofficial papers he was doing His will. But for Alexey Alexandrovitch it\nwas a necessity to think in that way; it was such a necessity for him\nin his humiliation to have some elevated standpoint, however imaginary,\nfrom which, looked down upon by all, he could look down on others, that\nhe clung, as to his one salvation, to his delusion of salvation.\n\n\nChapter 23\n\nThe Countess Lidia Ivanovna had, as a very young and sentimental girl,\nbeen married to a wealthy man of high rank, an extremely good-natured,\njovial, and extremely dissipated rake. Two months after marriage her\nhusband abandoned her, and her impassioned protestations of affection\nhe met with a sarcasm and even hostility that people knowing the\ncount s good heart, and seeing no defects in the sentimental Lidia,\nwere at a loss to explain. Though they were divorced and lived apart,\nyet whenever the husband met the wife, he invariably behaved to her\nwith the same malignant irony, the cause of which was incomprehensible.\n\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna had long given up being in love with her\nhusband, but from that time she had never given up being in love with\nsomeone. She was in love with several people at once, both men and\nwomen; she had been in love with almost everyone who had been\nparticularly distinguished in any way. She was in love with all the new\nprinces and princesses who married into the imperial family; she had\nbeen in love with a high dignitary of the Church, a vicar, and a parish\npriest; she had been in love with a journalist, three Slavophiles, with\nKomissarov, with a minister, a doctor, an English missionary and\nKarenin. All these passions constantly waning or growing more ardent,\ndid not prevent her from keeping up the most extended and complicated\nrelations with the court and fashionable society. But from the time\nthat after Karenin s trouble she took him under her special protection,\nfrom the time that she set to work in Karenin s household looking after\nhis welfare, she felt that all her other attachments were not the real\nthing, and that she was now genuinely in love, and with no one but\nKarenin. The feeling she now experienced for him seemed to her stronger\nthan any of her former feelings. Analyzing her feeling, and comparing\nit with former passions, she distinctly perceived that she would not\nhave been in love with Komissarov if he had not saved the life of the\nTsar, that she would not have been in love with Ristitch-Kudzhitsky if\nthere had been no Slavonic question, but that she loved Karenin for\nhimself, for his lofty, uncomprehended soul, for the sweet to her high\nnotes of his voice, for his drawling intonation, his weary eyes, his\ncharacter, and his soft white hands with their swollen veins. She was\nnot simply overjoyed at meeting him, but she sought in his face signs\nof the impression she was making on him. She tried to please him, not\nby her words only, but in her whole person. For his sake it was that\nshe now lavished more care on her dress than before. She caught herself\nin reveries on what might have been, if she had not been married and he\nhad been free. She blushed with emotion when he came into the room, she\ncould not repress a smile of rapture when he said anything amiable to\nher.\n\nFor several days now Countess Lidia Ivanovna had been in a state of\nintense excitement. She had learned that Anna and Vronsky were in\nPetersburg. Alexey Alexandrovitch must be saved from seeing her, he\nmust be saved even from the torturing knowledge that that awful woman\nwas in the same town with him, and that he might meet her any minute.\n\nLidia Ivanovna made inquiries through her friends as to what those\n_infamous people_, as she called Anna and Vronsky, intended doing, and\nshe endeavored so to guide every movement of her friend during those\ndays that he could not come across them. The young adjutant, an\nacquaintance of Vronsky, through whom she obtained her information, and\nwho hoped through Countess Lidia Ivanovna to obtain a concession, told\nher that they had finished their business and were going away next day.\nLidia Ivanovna had already begun to calm down, when the next morning a\nnote was brought her, the handwriting of which she recognized with\nhorror. It was the handwriting of Anna Karenina. The envelope was of\npaper as thick as bark; on the oblong yellow paper there was a huge\nmonogram, and the letter smelt of agreeable scent.\n\n Who brought it? \n\n A commissionaire from the hotel. \n\nIt was some time before Countess Lidia Ivanovna could sit down to read\nthe letter. Her excitement brought on an attack of asthma, to which she\nwas subject. When she had recovered her composure, she read the\nfollowing letter in French:\n\n\n\n\n\n Madame la Comtesse,\n\n The Christian feelings with which your heart is filled give me the, I\nfeel, unpardonable boldness to write to you. I am miserable at being\nseparated from my son. I entreat permission to see him once before my\ndeparture. Forgive me for recalling myself to your memory. I apply to\nyou and not to Alexey Alexandrovitch, simply because I do not wish to\ncause that generous man to suffer in remembering me. Knowing your\nfriendship for him, I know you will understand me. Could you send\nSeryozha to me, or should I come to the house at some fixed hour, or\nwill you let me know when and where I could see him away from home? I\ndo not anticipate a refusal, knowing the magnanimity of him with whom\nit rests. You cannot conceive the craving I have to see him, and so\ncannot conceive the gratitude your help will arouse in me.\n\n Anna. \n\n\n\nEverything in this letter exasperated Countess Lidia Ivanovna: its\ncontents and the allusion to magnanimity, and especially its free and\neasy as she considered tone.\n\n Say that there is no answer,  said Countess Lidia Ivanovna, and\nimmediately opening her blotting-book, she wrote to Alexey\nAlexandrovitch that she hoped to see him at one o clock at the levee.\n\n I must talk with you of a grave and painful subject. There we will\narrange where to meet. Best of all at my house, where I will order tea\n_as you like it_. Urgent. He lays the cross, but He gives the strength\nto bear it,  she added, so as to give him some slight preparation.\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna usually wrote some two or three letters a day\nto Alexey Alexandrovitch. She enjoyed that form of communication, which\ngave opportunity for a refinement and air of mystery not afforded by\ntheir personal interviews.\n\n\nChapter 24\n\nThe levee was drawing to a close. People met as they were going away,\nand gossiped of the latest news, of the newly bestowed honors and the\nchanges in the positions of the higher functionaries.\n\n If only Countess Marya Borissovna were Minister of War, and Princess\nVatkovskaya were Commander-in-Chief,  said a gray-headed, little old\nman in a gold-embroidered uniform, addressing a tall, handsome maid of\nhonor who had questioned him about the new appointments.\n\n And me among the adjutants,  said the maid of honor, smiling.\n\n You have an appointment already. You re over the ecclesiastical\ndepartment. And your assistant s Karenin. \n\n Good-day, prince!  said the little old man to a man who came up to\nhim.\n\n What were you saying of Karenin?  said the prince.\n\n He and Putyatov have received the Alexander Nevsky. \n\n I thought he had it already. \n\n No. Just look at him,  said the little old man, pointing with his\nembroidered hat to Karenin in a court uniform with the new red ribbon\nacross his shoulders, standing in the doorway of the hall with an\ninfluential member of the Imperial Council.  Pleased and happy as a\nbrass farthing,  he added, stopping to shake hands with a handsome\ngentleman of the bedchamber of colossal proportions.\n\n No; he s looking older,  said the gentleman of the bedchamber.\n\n From overwork. He s always drawing up projects nowadays. He won t let\na poor devil go nowadays till he s explained it all to him under\nheads. \n\n Looking older, did you say? _Il fait des passions_. I believe Countess\nLidia Ivanovna s jealous now of his wife. \n\n Oh, come now, please don t say any harm of Countess Lidia Ivanovna. \n\n Why, is there any harm in her being in love with Karenin? \n\n But is it true Madame Karenina s here? \n\n Well, not here in the palace, but in Petersburg. I met her yesterday\nwith Alexey Vronsky, _bras dessous, bras dessous_, in the Morsky. \n\n _C est un homme qui n a pas_,...  the gentleman of the bedchamber was\nbeginning, but he stopped to make room, bowing, for a member of the\nImperial family to pass.\n\nThus people talked incessantly of Alexey Alexandrovitch, finding fault\nwith him and laughing at him, while he, blocking up the way of the\nmember of the Imperial Council he had captured, was explaining to him\npoint by point his new financial project, never interrupting his\ndiscourse for an instant for fear he should escape.\n\nAlmost at the same time that his wife left Alexey Alexandrovitch there\nhad come to him that bitterest moment in the life of an official the\nmoment when his upward career comes to a full stop. This full stop had\narrived and everyone perceived it, but Alexey Alexandrovitch himself\nwas not yet aware that his career was over. Whether it was due to his\nfeud with Stremov, or his misfortune with his wife, or simply that\nAlexey Alexandrovitch had reached his destined limits, it had become\nevident to everyone in the course of that year that his career was at\nan end. He still filled a position of consequence, he sat on many\ncommissions and committees, but he was a man whose day was over, and\nfrom whom nothing was expected. Whatever he said, whatever he proposed,\nwas heard as though it were something long familiar, and the very thing\nthat was not needed. But Alexey Alexandrovitch was not aware of this,\nand, on the contrary, being cut off from direct participation in\ngovernmental activity, he saw more clearly than ever the errors and\ndefects in the action of others, and thought it his duty to point out\nmeans for their correction. Shortly after his separation from his wife,\nhe began writing his first note on the new judicial procedure, the\nfirst of the endless series of notes he was destined to write in the\nfuture.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch did not merely fail to observe his hopeless\nposition in the official world, he was not merely free from anxiety on\nthis head, he was positively more satisfied than ever with his own\nactivity.\n\n He that is unmarried careth for the things that belong to the Lord,\nhow he may please the Lord: but he that is married careth for the\nthings that are of the world, how he may please his wife,  says the\nApostle Paul, and Alexey Alexandrovitch, who was now guided in every\naction by Scripture, often recalled this text. It seemed to him that\never since he had been left without a wife, he had in these very\nprojects of reform been serving the Lord more zealously than before.\n\nThe unmistakable impatience of the member of the Council trying to get\naway from him did not trouble Alexey Alexandrovitch; he gave up his\nexposition only when the member of the Council, seizing his chance when\none of the Imperial family was passing, slipped away from him.\n\nLeft alone, Alexey Alexandrovitch looked down, collecting his thoughts,\nthen looked casually about him and walked towards the door, where he\nhoped to meet Countess Lidia Ivanovna.\n\n And how strong they all are, how sound physically,  thought Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, looking at the powerfully built gentleman of the\nbedchamber with his well-combed, perfumed whiskers, and at the red neck\nof the prince, pinched by his tight uniform. He had to pass them on his\nway.  Truly is it said that all the world is evil,  he thought, with\nanother sidelong glance at the calves of the gentleman of the\nbedchamber.\n\nMoving forward deliberately, Alexey Alexandrovitch bowed with his\ncustomary air of weariness and dignity to the gentleman who had been\ntalking about him, and looking towards the door, his eyes sought\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna.\n\n Ah! Alexey Alexandrovitch!  said the little old man, with a malicious\nlight in his eyes, at the moment when Karenin was on a level with them,\nand was nodding with a frigid gesture,  I haven t congratulated you\nyet,  said the old man, pointing to his newly received ribbon.\n\n Thank you,  answered Alexey Alexandrovitch.  What an _exquisite_ day\ntoday,  he added, laying emphasis in his peculiar way on the word\n_exquisite_.\n\nThat they laughed at him he was well aware, but he did not expect\nanything but hostility from them; he was used to that by now.\n\nCatching sight of the yellow shoulders of Lidia Ivanovna jutting out\nabove her corset, and her fine pensive eyes bidding him to her, Alexey\nAlexandrovitch smiled, revealing untarnished white teeth, and went\ntowards her.\n\nLidia Ivanovna s dress had cost her great pains, as indeed all her\ndresses had done of late. Her aim in dress was now quite the reverse of\nthat she had pursued thirty years before. Then her desire had been to\nadorn herself with something, and the more adorned the better. Now, on\nthe contrary, she was perforce decked out in a way so inconsistent with\nher age and her figure, that her one anxiety was to contrive that the\ncontrast between these adornments and her own exterior should not be\ntoo appalling. And as far as Alexey Alexandrovitch was concerned she\nsucceeded, and was in his eyes attractive. For him she was the one\nisland not only of goodwill to him, but of love in the midst of the sea\nof hostility and jeering that surrounded him.\n\nPassing through rows of ironical eyes, he was drawn as naturally to her\nloving glance as a plant to the sun.\n\n I congratulate you,  she said to him, her eyes on his ribbon.\n\nSuppressing a smile of pleasure, he shrugged his shoulders, closing his\neyes, as though to say that that could not be a source of joy to him.\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna was very well aware that it was one of his\nchief sources of satisfaction, though he never admitted it.\n\n How is our angel?  said Countess Lidia Ivanovna, meaning Seryozha.\n\n I can t say I was quite pleased with him,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch,\nraising his eyebrows and opening his eyes.  And Sitnikov is not\nsatisfied with him.  (Sitnikov was the tutor to whom Seryozha s secular\neducation had been intrusted.)  As I have mentioned to you, there s a\nsort of coldness in him towards the most important questions which\nought to touch the heart of every man and every child....  Alexey\nAlexandrovitch began expounding his views on the sole question that\ninterested him besides the service the education of his son.\n\nWhen Alexey Alexandrovitch with Lidia Ivanovna s help had been brought\nback anew to life and activity, he felt it his duty to undertake the\neducation of the son left on his hands. Having never before taken any\ninterest in educational questions, Alexey Alexandrovitch devoted some\ntime to the theoretical study of the subject. After reading several\nbooks on anthropology, education, and didactics, Alexey Alexandrovitch\ndrew up a plan of education, and engaging the best tutor in Petersburg\nto superintend it, he set to work, and the subject continually absorbed\nhim.\n\n Yes, but the heart. I see in him his father s heart, and with such a\nheart a child cannot go far wrong,  said Lidia Ivanovna with\nenthusiasm.\n\n Yes, perhaps.... As for me, I do my duty. It s all I can do. \n\n You re coming to me,  said Countess Lidia Ivanovna, after a pause;  we\nhave to speak of a subject painful for you. I would give anything to\nhave spared you certain memories, but others are not of the same mind.\nI have received a letter from _her_. _She_ is here in Petersburg. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch shuddered at the allusion to his wife, but\nimmediately his face assumed the deathlike rigidity which expressed\nutter helplessness in the matter.\n\n I was expecting it,  he said.\n\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna looked at him ecstatically, and tears of\nrapture at the greatness of his soul came into her eyes.\n\n\nChapter 25\n\nWhen Alexey Alexandrovitch came into the Countess Lidia Ivanovna s snug\nlittle boudoir, decorated with old china and hung with portraits, the\nlady herself had not yet made her appearance.\n\nShe was changing her dress.\n\nA cloth was laid on a round table, and on it stood a china tea service\nand a silver spirit-lamp and tea kettle. Alexey Alexandrovitch looked\nidly about at the endless familiar portraits which adorned the room,\nand sitting down to the table, he opened a New Testament lying upon it.\nThe rustle of the countess s silk skirt drew his attention off.\n\n Well now, we can sit quietly,  said Countess Lidia Ivanovna, slipping\nhurriedly with an agitated smile between the table and the sofa,  and\ntalk over our tea. \n\nAfter some words of preparation, Countess Lidia Ivanovna, breathing\nhard and flushing crimson, gave into Alexey Alexandrovitch s hands the\nletter she had received.\n\nAfter reading the letter, he sat a long while in silence.\n\n I don t think I have the right to refuse her,  he said, timidly\nlifting his eyes.\n\n Dear friend, you never see evil in anyone! \n\n On the contrary, I see that all is evil. But whether it is just.... \n\nHis face showed irresolution, and a seeking for counsel, support, and\nguidance in a matter he did not understand.\n\n No,  Countess Lidia Ivanovna interrupted him;  there are limits to\neverything. I can understand immorality,  she said, not quite\ntruthfully, since she never could understand that which leads women to\nimmorality;  but I don t understand cruelty: to whom? to you! How can\nshe stay in the town where you are? No, the longer one lives the more\none learns. And I m learning to understand your loftiness and her\nbaseness. \n\n Who is to throw a stone?  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, unmistakably\npleased with the part he had to play.  I have forgiven all, and so I\ncannot deprive her of what is exacted by love in her by her love for\nher son.... \n\n But is that love, my friend? Is it sincere? Admitting that you have\nforgiven that you forgive have we the right to work on the feelings of\nthat angel? He looks on her as dead. He prays for her, and beseeches\nGod to have mercy on her sins. And it is better so. But now what will\nhe think? \n\n I had not thought of that,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, evidently\nagreeing.\n\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna hid her face in her hands and was silent. She\nwas praying.\n\n If you ask my advice,  she said, having finished her prayer and\nuncovered her face,  I do not advise you to do this. Do you suppose I\ndon t see how you are suffering, how this has torn open your wounds?\nBut supposing that, as always, you don t think of yourself, what can it\nlead to? to fresh suffering for you, to torture for the child. If there\nwere a trace of humanity left in her, she ought not to wish for it\nherself. No, I have no hesitation in saying I advise not, and if you\nwill intrust it to me, I will write to her. \n\nAnd Alexey Alexandrovitch consented, and Countess Lidia Ivanovna sent\nthe following letter in French:\n\n\n Dear Madame,\n\n To be reminded of you might have results for your son in leading to\nquestions on his part which could not be answered without implanting in\nthe child s soul a spirit of censure towards what should be for him\nsacred, and therefore I beg you to interpret your husband s refusal in\nthe spirit of Christian love. I pray to Almighty God to have mercy on\nyou.\n\n Countess Lidia. \n\n\nThis letter attained the secret object which Countess Lidia Ivanovna\nhad concealed from herself. It wounded Anna to the quick.\n\nFor his part, Alexey Alexandrovitch, on returning home from Lidia\nIvanovna s, could not all that day concentrate himself on his usual\npursuits, and find that spiritual peace of one saved and believing\nwhich he had felt of late.\n\nThe thought of his wife, who had so greatly sinned against him, and\ntowards whom he had been so saintly, as Countess Lidia Ivanovna had so\njustly told him, ought not to have troubled him; but he was not easy;\nhe could not understand the book he was reading; he could not drive\naway harassing recollections of his relations with her, of the mistake\nwhich, as it now seemed, he had made in regard to her. The memory of\nhow he had received her confession of infidelity on their way home from\nthe races (especially that he had insisted only on the observance of\nexternal decorum, and had not sent a challenge) tortured him like a\nremorse. He was tortured too by the thought of the letter he had\nwritten her; and most of all, his forgiveness, which nobody wanted, and\nhis care of the other man s child made his heart burn with shame and\nremorse.\n\nAnd just the same feeling of shame and regret he felt now, as he\nreviewed all his past with her, recalling the awkward words in which,\nafter long wavering, he had made her an offer.\n\n But how have I been to blame?  he said to himself. And this question\nalways excited another question in him whether they felt differently,\ndid their loving and marrying differently, these Vronskys and Oblonskys\n... these gentlemen of the bedchamber, with their fine calves. And\nthere passed before his mind a whole series of these mettlesome,\nvigorous, self-confident men, who always and everywhere drew his\ninquisitive attention in spite of himself. He tried to dispel these\nthoughts, he tried to persuade himself that he was not living for this\ntransient life, but for the life of eternity, and that there was peace\nand love in his heart.\n\nBut the fact that he had in this transient, trivial life made, as it\nseemed to him, a few trivial mistakes tortured him as though the\neternal salvation in which he believed had no existence. But this\ntemptation did not last long, and soon there was reestablished once\nmore in Alexey Alexandrovitch s soul the peace and the elevation by\nvirtue of which he could forget what he did not want to remember.\n\n\nChapter 26\n\n Well, Kapitonitch?  said Seryozha, coming back rosy and good-humored\nfrom his walk the day before his birthday, and giving his overcoat to\nthe tall old hall-porter, who smiled down at the little person from the\nheight of his long figure.  Well, has the bandaged clerk been here\ntoday? Did papa see him? \n\n He saw him. The minute the chief secretary came out, I announced him, \nsaid the hall-porter with a good-humored wink.  Here, I ll take it\noff. \n\n Seryozha!  said the tutor, stopping in the doorway leading to the\ninner rooms.  Take it off yourself.  But Seryozha, though he heard his\ntutor s feeble voice, did not pay attention to it. He stood keeping\nhold of the hall-porter s belt, and gazing into his face.\n\n Well, and did papa do what he wanted for him? \n\nThe hall-porter nodded his head affirmatively. The clerk with his face\ntied up, who had already been seven times to ask some favor of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, interested both Seryozha and the hall-porter. Seryozha\nhad come upon him in the hall, and had heard him plaintively beg the\nhall-porter to announce him, saying that he and his children had death\nstaring them in the face.\n\nSince then Seryozha, having met him a second time in the hall, took\ngreat interest in him.\n\n Well, was he very glad?  he asked.\n\n Glad? I should think so! Almost dancing as he walked away. \n\n And has anything been left?  asked Seryozha, after a pause.\n\n Come, sir,  said the hall-porter; then with a shake of his head he\nwhispered,  Something from the countess. \n\nSeryozha understood at once that what the hall-porter was speaking of\nwas a present from Countess Lidia Ivanovna for his birthday.\n\n What do you say? Where? \n\n Korney took it to your papa. A fine plaything it must be too! \n\n How big? Like this? \n\n Rather small, but a fine thing. \n\n A book. \n\n No, a thing. Run along, run along, Vassily Lukitch is calling you, \nsaid the porter, hearing the tutor s steps approaching, and carefully\ntaking away from his belt the little hand in the glove half pulled off,\nhe signed with his head towards the tutor.\n\n Vassily Lukitch, in a tiny minute!  answered Seryozha with that gay\nand loving smile which always won over the conscientious Vassily\nLukitch.\n\nSeryozha was too happy, everything was too delightful for him to be\nable to help sharing with his friend the porter the family good fortune\nof which he had heard during his walk in the public gardens from Lidia\nIvanovna s niece. This piece of good news seemed to him particularly\nimportant from its coming at the same time with the gladness of the\nbandaged clerk and his own gladness at toys having come for him. It\nseemed to Seryozha that this was a day on which everyone ought to be\nglad and happy.\n\n You know papa s received the Alexander Nevsky today? \n\n To be sure I do! People have been already to congratulate him. \n\n And is he glad? \n\n Glad at the Tsar s gracious favor! I should think so! It s a proof\nhe s deserved it,  said the porter severely and seriously.\n\nSeryozha fell to dreaming, gazing up at the face of the porter, which\nhe had thoroughly studied in every detail, especially the chin that\nhung down between the gray whiskers, never seen by anyone but Seryozha,\nwho saw him only from below.\n\n Well, and has your daughter been to see you lately? \n\nThe porter s daughter was a ballet dancer.\n\n When is she to come on week-days? They ve their lessons to learn too.\nAnd you ve your lesson, sir; run along. \n\nOn coming into the room, Seryozha, instead of sitting down to his\nlessons, told his tutor of his supposition that what had been brought\nhim must be a machine.  What do you think?  he inquired.\n\nBut Vassily Lukitch was thinking of nothing but the necessity of\nlearning the grammar lesson for the teacher, who was coming at two.\n\n No, do just tell me, Vassily Lukitch,  he asked suddenly, when he was\nseated at their work table with the book in his hands,  what is greater\nthan the Alexander Nevsky? You know papa s received the Alexander\nNevsky? \n\nVassily Lukitch replied that the Vladimir was greater than the\nAlexander Nevsky.\n\n And higher still? \n\n Well, highest of all is the Andrey Pervozvanny. \n\n And higher than the Andrey? \n\n I don t know. \n\n What, you don t know?  and Seryozha, leaning on his elbows, sank into\ndeep meditation.\n\nHis meditations were of the most complex and diverse character. He\nimagined his father s having suddenly been presented with both the\nVladimir and the Andrey today, and in consequence being much better\ntempered at his lesson, and dreamed how, when he was grown up, he would\nhimself receive all the orders, and what they might invent higher than\nthe Andrey. Directly any higher order were invented, he would win it.\nThey would make a higher one still, and he would immediately win that\ntoo.\n\nThe time passed in such meditations, and when the teacher came, the\nlesson about the adverbs of place and time and manner of action was not\nready, and the teacher was not only displeased, but hurt. This touched\nSeryozha. He felt he was not to blame for not having learned the\nlesson; however much he tried, he was utterly unable to do that. As\nlong as the teacher was explaining to him, he believed him and seemed\nto comprehend, but as soon as he was left alone, he was positively\nunable to recollect and to understand that the short and familiar word\n suddenly  is an adverb of manner of action. Still he was sorry that he\nhad disappointed the teacher.\n\nHe chose a moment when the teacher was looking in silence at the book.\n\n Mihail Ivanitch, when is your birthday?  he asked all, of a sudden.\n\n You d much better be thinking about your work. Birthdays are of no\nimportance to a rational being. It s a day like any other on which one\nhas to do one s work. \n\nSeryozha looked intently at the teacher, at his scanty beard, at his\nspectacles, which had slipped down below the ridge on his nose, and\nfell into so deep a reverie that he heard nothing of what the teacher\nwas explaining to him. He knew that the teacher did not think what he\nsaid; he felt it from the tone in which it was said.  But why have they\nall agreed to speak just in the same manner always the dreariest and\nmost useless stuff? Why does he keep me off; why doesn t he love me? \nhe asked himself mournfully, and could not think of an answer.\n\n\nChapter 27\n\nAfter the lesson with the grammar teacher came his father s lesson.\nWhile waiting for his father, Seryozha sat at the table playing with a\npenknife, and fell to dreaming. Among Seryozha s favorite occupations\nwas searching for his mother during his walks. He did not believe in\ndeath generally, and in her death in particular, in spite of what Lidia\nIvanovna had told him and his father had confirmed, and it was just\nbecause of that, and after he had been told she was dead, that he had\nbegun looking for her when out for a walk. Every woman of full,\ngraceful figure with dark hair was his mother. At the sight of such a\nwoman such a feeling of tenderness was stirred within him that his\nbreath failed him, and tears came into his eyes. And he was on the\ntiptoe of expectation that she would come up to him, would lift her\nveil. All her face would be visible, she would smile, she would hug\nhim, he would sniff her fragrance, feel the softness of her arms, and\ncry with happiness, just as he had one evening lain on her lap while\nshe tickled him, and he laughed and bit her white, ring-covered\nfingers. Later, when he accidentally learned from his old nurse that\nhis mother was not dead, and his father and Lidia Ivanovna had\nexplained to him that she was dead to him because she was wicked (which\nhe could not possibly believe, because he loved her), he went on\nseeking her and expecting her in the same way. That day in the public\ngardens there had been a lady in a lilac veil, whom he had watched with\na throbbing heart, believing it to be she as she came towards them\nalong the path. The lady had not come up to them, but had disappeared\nsomewhere. That day, more intensely than ever, Seryozha felt a rush of\nlove for her, and now, waiting for his father, he forgot everything,\nand cut all round the edge of the table with his penknife, staring\nstraight before him with sparkling eyes and dreaming of her.\n\n Here is your papa!  said Vassily Lukitch, rousing him.\n\nSeryozha jumped up and went up to his father, and kissing his hand,\nlooked at him intently, trying to discover signs of his joy at\nreceiving the Alexander Nevsky.\n\n Did you have a nice walk?  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, sitting down in\nhis easy chair, pulling the volume of the Old Testament to him and\nopening it. Although Alexey Alexandrovitch had more than once told\nSeryozha that every Christian ought to know Scripture history\nthoroughly, he often referred to the Bible himself during the lesson,\nand Seryozha observed this.\n\n Yes, it was very nice indeed, papa,  said Seryozha, sitting sideways\non his chair and rocking it, which was forbidden.  I saw Nadinka \n(Nadinka was a niece of Lidia Ivanovna s who was being brought up in\nher house).  She told me you d been given a new star. Are you glad,\npapa? \n\n First of all, don t rock your chair, please,  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.  And secondly, it s not the reward that s precious, but\nthe work itself. And I could have wished you understood that. If you\nnow are going to work, to study in order to win a reward, then the work\nwill seem hard to you; but when you work  (Alexey Alexandrovitch, as he\nspoke, thought of how he had been sustained by a sense of duty through\nthe wearisome labor of the morning, consisting of signing one hundred\nand eighty papers),  loving your work, you will find your reward in\nit. \n\nSeryozha s eyes, that had been shining with gaiety and tenderness, grew\ndull and dropped before his father s gaze. This was the same\nlong-familiar tone his father always took with him, and Seryozha had\nlearned by now to fall in with it. His father always talked to him so\nSeryozha felt as though he were addressing some boy of his own\nimagination, one of those boys that exist in books, utterly unlike\nhimself. And Seryozha always tried with his father to act being the\nstory-book boy.\n\n You understand that, I hope?  said his father.\n\n Yes, papa,  answered Seryozha, acting the part of the imaginary boy.\n\nThe lesson consisted of learning by heart several verses out of the\nGospel and the repetition of the beginning of the Old Testament. The\nverses from the Gospel Seryozha knew fairly well, but at the moment\nwhen he was saying them he became so absorbed in watching the sharply\nprotruding, bony knobbiness of his father s forehead, that he lost the\nthread, and he transposed the end of one verse and the beginning of\nanother. So it was evident to Alexey Alexandrovitch that he did not\nunderstand what he was saying, and that irritated him.\n\nHe frowned, and began explaining what Seryozha had heard many times\nbefore and never could remember, because he understood it too well,\njust as that  suddenly  is an adverb of manner of action. Seryozha\nlooked with scared eyes at his father, and could think of nothing but\nwhether his father would make him repeat what he had said, as he\nsometimes did. And this thought so alarmed Seryozha that he now\nunderstood nothing. But his father did not make him repeat it, and\npassed on to the lesson out of the Old Testament. Seryozha recounted\nthe events themselves well enough, but when he had to answer questions\nas to what certain events prefigured, he knew nothing, though he had\nalready been punished over this lesson. The passage at which he was\nutterly unable to say anything, and began fidgeting and cutting the\ntable and swinging his chair, was where he had to repeat the patriarchs\nbefore the Flood. He did not know one of them, except Enoch, who had\nbeen taken up alive to heaven. Last time he had remembered their names,\nbut now he had forgotten them utterly, chiefly because Enoch was the\npersonage he liked best in the whole of the Old Testament, and Enoch s\ntranslation to heaven was connected in his mind with a whole long train\nof thought, in which he became absorbed now while he gazed with\nfascinated eyes at his father s watch-chain and a half-unbuttoned\nbutton on his waistcoat.\n\nIn death, of which they talked to him so often, Seryozha disbelieved\nentirely. He did not believe that those he loved could die, above all\nthat he himself would die. That was to him something utterly\ninconceivable and impossible. But he had been told that all men die; he\nhad asked people, indeed, whom he trusted, and they too, had confirmed\nit; his old nurse, too, said the same, though reluctantly. But Enoch\nhad not died, and so it followed that everyone did not die.  And why\ncannot anyone else so serve God and be taken alive to heaven?  thought\nSeryozha. Bad people, that is those Seryozha did not like, they might\ndie, but the good might all be like Enoch.\n\n Well, what are the names of the patriarchs? \n\n Enoch, Enos \n\n But you have said that already. This is bad, Seryozha, very bad. If\nyou don t try to learn what is more necessary than anything for a\nChristian,  said his father, getting up,  whatever can interest you? I\nam displeased with you, and Piotr Ignatitch  (this was the most\nimportant of his teachers)  is displeased with you.... I shall have to\npunish you. \n\nHis father and his teacher were both displeased with Seryozha, and he\ncertainly did learn his lessons very badly. But still it could not be\nsaid he was a stupid boy. On the contrary, he was far cleverer than the\nboys his teacher held up as examples to Seryozha. In his father s\nopinion, he did not want to learn what he was taught. In reality he\ncould not learn that. He could not, because the claims of his own soul\nwere more binding on him than those claims his father and his teacher\nmade upon him. Those claims were in opposition, and he was in direct\nconflict with his education. He was nine years old; he was a child; but\nhe knew his own soul, it was precious to him, he guarded it as the\neyelid guards the eye, and without the key of love he let no one into\nhis soul. His teachers complained that he would not learn, while his\nsoul was brimming over with thirst for knowledge. And he learned from\nKapitonitch, from his nurse, from Nadinka, from Vassily Lukitch, but\nnot from his teachers. The spring his father and his teachers reckoned\nupon to turn their mill-wheels had long dried up at the source, but its\nwaters did their work in another channel.\n\nHis father punished Seryozha by not letting him go to see Nadinka,\nLidia Ivanovna s niece; but this punishment turned out happily for\nSeryozha. Vassily Lukitch was in a good humor, and showed him how to\nmake windmills. The whole evening passed over this work and in dreaming\nhow to make a windmill on which he could turn himself clutching at the\nsails or tying himself on and whirling round. Of his mother Seryozha\ndid not think all the evening, but when he had gone to bed, he suddenly\nremembered her, and prayed in his own words that his mother tomorrow\nfor his birthday might leave off hiding herself and come to him.\n\n Vassily Lukitch, do you know what I prayed for tonight extra besides\nthe regular things? \n\n That you might learn your lessons better? \n\n No. \n\n Toys? \n\n No. You ll never guess. A splendid thing; but it s a secret! When it\ncomes to pass I ll tell you. Can t you guess! \n\n No, I can t guess. You tell me,  said Vassily Lukitch with a smile,\nwhich was rare with him.  Come, lie down, I m putting out the candle. \n\n Without the candle I can see better what I see and what I prayed for.\nThere! I was almost telling the secret!  said Seryozha, laughing gaily.\n\nWhen the candle was taken away, Seryozha heard and felt his mother. She\nstood over him, and with loving eyes caressed him. But then came\nwindmills, a knife, everything began to be mixed up, and he fell\nasleep.\n\n\nChapter 28\n\nOn arriving in Petersburg, Vronsky and Anna stayed at one of the best\nhotels; Vronsky apart in a lower story, Anna above with her child, its\nnurse, and her maid, in a large suite of four rooms.\n\nOn the day of his arrival Vronsky went to his brother s. There he found\nhis mother, who had come from Moscow on business. His mother and\nsister-in-law greeted him as usual: they asked him about his stay\nabroad, and talked of their common acquaintances, but did not let drop\na single word in allusion to his connection with Anna. His brother came\nthe next morning to see Vronsky, and of his own accord asked him about\nher, and Alexey Vronsky told him directly that he looked upon his\nconnection with Madame Karenina as marriage; that he hoped to arrange a\ndivorce, and then to marry her, and until then he considered her as\nmuch a wife as any other wife, and he begged him to tell their mother\nand his wife so.\n\n If the world disapproves, I don t care,  said Vronsky;  but if my\nrelations want to be on terms of relationship with me, they will have\nto be on the same terms with my wife. \n\nThe elder brother, who had always a respect for his younger brother s\njudgment, could not well tell whether he was right or not till the\nworld had decided the question; for his part he had nothing against it,\nand with Alexey he went up to see Anna.\n\nBefore his brother, as before everyone, Vronsky addressed Anna with a\ncertain formality, treating her as he might a very intimate friend, but\nit was understood that his brother knew their real relations, and they\ntalked about Anna s going to Vronsky s estate.\n\nIn spite of all his social experience Vronsky was, in consequence of\nthe new position in which he was placed, laboring under a strange\nmisapprehension. One would have thought he must have understood that\nsociety was closed for him and Anna; but now some vague ideas had\nsprung up in his brain that this was only the case in old-fashioned\ndays, and that now with the rapidity of modern progress (he had\nunconsciously become by now a partisan of every sort of progress) the\nviews of society had changed, and that the question whether they would\nbe received in society was not a foregone conclusion.  Of course,  he\nthought,  she would not be received at court, but intimate friends can\nand must look at it in the proper light.  One may sit for several hours\nat a stretch with one s legs crossed in the same position, if one knows\nthat there s nothing to prevent one s changing one s position; but if a\nman knows that he must remain sitting so with crossed legs, then cramps\ncome on, the legs begin to twitch and to strain towards the spot to\nwhich one would like to draw them. This was what Vronsky was\nexperiencing in regard to the world. Though at the bottom of his heart\nhe knew that the world was shut on them, he put it to the test whether\nthe world had not changed by now and would not receive them. But he\nvery quickly perceived that though the world was open for him\npersonally, it was closed for Anna. Just as in the game of cat and\nmouse, the hands raised for him were dropped to bar the way for Anna.\n\nOne of the first ladies of Petersburg society whom Vronsky saw was his\ncousin Betsy.\n\n At last!  she greeted him joyfully.  And Anna? How glad I am! Where\nare you stopping? I can fancy after your delightful travels you must\nfind our poor Petersburg horrid. I can fancy your honeymoon in Rome.\nHow about the divorce? Is that all over? \n\nVronsky noticed that Betsy s enthusiasm waned when she learned that no\ndivorce had as yet taken place.\n\n People will throw stones at me, I know,  she said,  but I shall come\nand see Anna; yes, I shall certainly come. You won t be here long, I\nsuppose? \n\nAnd she did certainly come to see Anna the same day, but her tone was\nnot at all the same as in former days. She unmistakably prided herself\non her courage, and wished Anna to appreciate the fidelity of her\nfriendship. She only stayed ten minutes, talking of society gossip, and\non leaving she said:\n\n You ve never told me when the divorce is to be? Supposing I m ready to\nfling my cap over the mill, other starchy people will give you the cold\nshoulder until you re married. And that s so simple nowadays. _ a se\nfait_. So you re going on Friday? Sorry we shan t see each other\nagain. \n\nFrom Betsy s tone Vronsky might have grasped what he had to expect from\nthe world; but he made another effort in his own family. His mother he\ndid not reckon upon. He knew that his mother, who had been so\nenthusiastic over Anna at their first acquaintance, would have no mercy\non her now for having ruined her son s career. But he had more hope of\nVarya, his brother s wife. He fancied she would not throw stones, and\nwould go simply and directly to see Anna, and would receive her in her\nown house.\n\nThe day after his arrival Vronsky went to her, and finding her alone,\nexpressed his wishes directly.\n\n You know, Alexey,  she said after hearing him,  how fond I am of you,\nand how ready I am to do anything for you; but I have not spoken,\nbecause I knew I could be of no use to you and to Anna Arkadyevna,  she\nsaid, articulating the name  Anna Arkadyevna  with particular care.\n Don t suppose, please, that I judge her. Never; perhaps in her place I\nshould have done the same. I don t and can t enter into that,  she\nsaid, glancing timidly at his gloomy face.  But one must call things by\ntheir names. You want me to go and see her, to ask her here, and to\nrehabilitate her in society; but do understand that _I cannot_ do so. I\nhave daughters growing up, and I must live in the world for my\nhusband s sake. Well, I m ready to come and see Anna Arkadyevna: she\nwill understand that I can t ask her here, or I should have to do so in\nsuch a way that she would not meet people who look at things\ndifferently; that would offend her. I can t raise her.... \n\n Oh, I don t regard her as fallen more than hundreds of women you do\nreceive!  Vronsky interrupted her still more gloomily, and he got up in\nsilence, understanding that his sister-in-law s decision was not to be\nshaken.\n\n Alexey! don t be angry with me. Please understand that I m not to\nblame,  began Varya, looking at him with a timid smile.\n\n I m not angry with you,  he said still as gloomily;  but I m sorry in\ntwo ways. I m sorry, too, that this means breaking up our friendship if\nnot breaking up, at least weakening it. You will understand that for\nme, too, it cannot be otherwise. \n\nAnd with that he left her.\n\nVronsky knew that further efforts were useless, and that he had to\nspend these few days in Petersburg as though in a strange town,\navoiding every sort of relation with his own old circle in order not to\nbe exposed to the annoyances and humiliations which were so intolerable\nto him. One of the most unpleasant features of his position in\nPetersburg was that Alexey Alexandrovitch and his name seemed to meet\nhim everywhere. He could not begin to talk of anything without the\nconversation turning on Alexey Alexandrovitch; he could not go anywhere\nwithout risk of meeting him. So at least it seemed to Vronsky, just as\nit seems to a man with a sore finger that he is continually, as though\non purpose, grazing his sore finger on everything.\n\nTheir stay in Petersburg was the more painful to Vronsky that he\nperceived all the time a sort of new mood that he could not understand\nin Anna. At one time she would seem in love with him, and then she\nwould become cold, irritable, and impenetrable. She was worrying over\nsomething, and keeping something back from him, and did not seem to\nnotice the humiliations which poisoned his existence, and for her, with\nher delicate intuition, must have been still more unbearable.\n\n\nChapter 29\n\nOne of Anna s objects in coming back to Russia had been to see her son.\nFrom the day she left Italy the thought of it had never ceased to\nagitate her. And as she got nearer to Petersburg, the delight and\nimportance of this meeting grew ever greater in her imagination. She\ndid not even put to herself the question how to arrange it. It seemed\nto her natural and simple to see her son when she should be in the same\ntown with him. But on her arrival in Petersburg she was suddenly made\ndistinctly aware of her present position in society, and she grasped\nthe fact that to arrange this meeting was no easy matter.\n\nShe had now been two days in Petersburg. The thought of her son never\nleft her for a single instant, but she had not yet seen him. To go\nstraight to the house, where she might meet Alexey Alexandrovitch, that\nshe felt she had no right to do. She might be refused admittance and\ninsulted. To write and so enter into relations with her husband that it\nmade her miserable to think of doing; she could only be at peace when\nshe did not think of her husband. To get a glimpse of her son out\nwalking, finding out where and when he went out, was not enough for\nher; she had so looked forward to this meeting, she had so much she\nmust say to him, she so longed to embrace him, to kiss him. Seryozha s\nold nurse might be a help to her and show her what to do. But the nurse\nwas not now living in Alexey Alexandrovitch s house. In this\nuncertainty, and in efforts to find the nurse, two days had slipped by.\n\nHearing of the close intimacy between Alexey Alexandrovitch and\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna, Anna decided on the third day to write to her\na letter, which cost her great pains, and in which she intentionally\nsaid that permission to see her son must depend on her husband s\ngenerosity. She knew that if the letter were shown to her husband, he\nwould keep up his character of magnanimity, and would not refuse her\nrequest.\n\nThe commissionaire who took the letter had brought her back the most\ncruel and unexpected answer, that there was no answer. She had never\nfelt so humiliated as at the moment when, sending for the\ncommissionaire, she heard from him the exact account of how he had\nwaited, and how afterwards he had been told there was no answer. Anna\nfelt humiliated, insulted, but she saw that from her point of view\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna was right. Her suffering was the more poignant\nthat she had to bear it in solitude. She could not and would not share\nit with Vronsky. She knew that to him, although he was the primary\ncause of her distress, the question of her seeing her son would seem a\nmatter of very little consequence. She knew that he would never be\ncapable of understanding all the depth of her suffering, that for his\ncool tone at any allusion to it she would begin to hate him. And she\ndreaded that more than anything in the world, and so she hid from him\neverything that related to her son. Spending the whole day at home she\nconsidered ways of seeing her son, and had reached a decision to write\nto her husband. She was just composing this letter when she was handed\nthe letter from Lidia Ivanovna. The countess s silence had subdued and\ndepressed her, but the letter, all that she read between the lines in\nit, so exasperated her, this malice was so revolting beside her\npassionate, legitimate tenderness for her son, that she turned against\nother people and left off blaming herself.\n\n This coldness this pretense of feeling!  she said to herself.  They\nmust needs insult me and torture the child, and I am to submit to it!\nNot on any consideration! She is worse than I am. I don t lie, anyway. \nAnd she decided on the spot that next day, Seryozha s birthday, she\nwould go straight to her husband s house, bribe or deceive the\nservants, but at any cost see her son and overturn the hideous\ndeception with which they were encompassing the unhappy child.\n\nShe went to a toy shop, bought toys and thought over a plan of action.\nShe would go early in the morning at eight o clock, when Alexey\nAlexandrovitch would be certain not to be up. She would have money in\nher hand to give the hall-porter and the footman, so that they should\nlet her in, and not raising her veil, she would say that she had come\nfrom Seryozha s godfather to congratulate him, and that she had been\ncharged to leave the toys at his bedside. She had prepared everything\nbut the words she should say to her son. Often as she had dreamed of\nit, she could never think of anything.\n\nThe next day, at eight o clock in the morning, Anna got out of a hired\nsledge and rang at the front entrance of her former home.\n\n Run and see what s wanted. Some lady,  said Kapitonitch, who, not yet\ndressed, in his overcoat and galoshes, had peeped out of the window and\nseen a lady in a veil standing close up to the door. His assistant, a\nlad Anna did not know, had no sooner opened the door to her than she\ncame in, and pulling a three-rouble note out of her muff put it\nhurriedly into his hand.\n\n Seryozha Sergey Alexeitch,  she said, and was going on. Scrutinizing\nthe note, the porter s assistant stopped her at the second glass door.\n\n Whom do you want?  he asked.\n\nShe did not hear his words and made no answer.\n\nNoticing the embarrassment of the unknown lady, Kapitonitch went out to\nher, opened the second door for her, and asked her what she was pleased\nto want.\n\n From Prince Skorodumov for Sergey Alexeitch,  she said.\n\n His honor s not up yet,  said the porter, looking at her attentively.\n\nAnna had not anticipated that the absolutely unchanged hall of the\nhouse where she had lived for nine years would so greatly affect her.\nMemories sweet and painful rose one after another in her heart, and for\na moment she forgot what she was here for.\n\n Would you kindly wait?  said Kapitonitch, taking off her fur cloak.\n\nAs he took off the cloak, Kapitonitch glanced at her face, recognized\nher, and made her a low bow in silence.\n\n Please walk in, your excellency,  he said to her.\n\nShe tried to say something, but her voice refused to utter any sound;\nwith a guilty and imploring glance at the old man she went with light,\nswift steps up the stairs. Bent double, and his galoshes catching in\nthe steps, Kapitonitch ran after her, trying to overtake her.\n\n The tutor s there; maybe he s not dressed. I ll let him know. \n\nAnna still mounted the familiar staircase, not understanding what the\nold man was saying.\n\n This way, to the left, if you please. Excuse its not being tidy. His\nhonor s in the old parlor now,  the hall-porter said, panting.  Excuse\nme, wait a little, your excellency; I ll just see,  he said, and\novertaking her, he opened the high door and disappeared behind it. Anna\nstood still waiting.  He s only just awake,  said the hall-porter,\ncoming out. And at the very instant the porter said this, Anna caught\nthe sound of a childish yawn. From the sound of this yawn alone she\nknew her son and seemed to see him living before her eyes.\n\n Let me in; go away!  she said, and went in through the high doorway.\nOn the right of the door stood a bed, and sitting up in the bed was the\nboy. His little body bent forward with his nightshirt unbuttoned, he\nwas stretching and still yawning. The instant his lips came together\nthey curved into a blissfully sleepy smile, and with that smile he\nslowly and deliciously rolled back again.\n\n Seryozha!  she whispered, going noiselessly up to him.\n\nWhen she was parted from him, and all this latter time when she had\nbeen feeling a fresh rush of love for him, she had pictured him as he\nwas at four years old, when she had loved him most of all. Now he was\nnot even the same as when she had left him; he was still further from\nthe four-year-old baby, more grown and thinner. How thin his face was,\nhow short his hair was! What long hands! How he had changed since she\nleft him! But it was he with his head, his lips, his soft neck and\nbroad little shoulders.\n\n Seryozha!  she repeated just in the child s ear.\n\nHe raised himself again on his elbow, turned his tangled head from side\nto side as though looking for something, and opened his eyes. Slowly\nand inquiringly he looked for several seconds at his mother standing\nmotionless before him, then all at once he smiled a blissful smile, and\nshutting his eyes, rolled not backwards but towards her into her arms.\n\n Seryozha! my darling boy!  she said, breathing hard and putting her\narms round his plump little body.  Mother!  he said, wriggling about in\nher arms so as to touch her hands with different parts of him.\n\nSmiling sleepily still with closed eyes, he flung fat little arms round\nher shoulders, rolled towards her, with the delicious sleepy warmth and\nfragrance that is only found in children, and began rubbing his face\nagainst her neck and shoulders.\n\n I know,  he said, opening his eyes;  it s my birthday today. I knew\nyou d come. I ll get up directly. \n\nAnd saying that he dropped asleep.\n\nAnna looked at him hungrily; she saw how he had grown and changed in\nher absence. She knew, and did not know, the bare legs so long now,\nthat were thrust out below the quilt, those short-cropped curls on his\nneck in which she had so often kissed him. She touched all this and\ncould say nothing; tears choked her.\n\n What are you crying for, mother?  he said, waking completely up.\n Mother, what are you crying for?  he cried in a tearful voice.\n\n I won t cry ... I m crying for joy. It s so long since I ve seen you.\nI won t, I won t,  she said, gulping down her tears and turning away.\n Come, it s time for you to dress now,  she added, after a pause, and,\nnever letting go his hands, she sat down by his bedside on the chair,\nwhere his clothes were put ready for him.\n\n How do you dress without me? How....  she tried to begin talking\nsimply and cheerfully, but she could not, and again she turned away.\n\n I don t have a cold bath, papa didn t order it. And you ve not seen\nVassily Lukitch? He ll come in soon. Why, you re sitting on my\nclothes! \n\nAnd Seryozha went off into a peal of laughter. She looked at him and\nsmiled.\n\n Mother, darling, sweet one!  he shouted, flinging himself on her again\nand hugging her. It was as though only now, on seeing her smile, he\nfully grasped what had happened.\n\n I don t want that on,  he said, taking off her hat. And as it were,\nseeing her afresh without her hat, he fell to kissing her again.\n\n But what did you think about me? You didn t think I was dead? \n\n I never believed it. \n\n You didn t believe it, my sweet? \n\n I knew, I knew!  he repeated his favorite phrase, and snatching the\nhand that was stroking his hair, he pressed the open palm to his mouth\nand kissed it.\n\n\nChapter 30\n\nMeanwhile Vassily Lukitch had not at first understood who this lady\nwas, and had learned from their conversation that it was no other\nperson than the mother who had left her husband, and whom he had not\nseen, as he had entered the house after her departure. He was in doubt\nwhether to go in or not, or whether to communicate with Alexey\nAlexandrovitch. Reflecting finally that his duty was to get Seryozha up\nat the hour fixed, and that it was therefore not his business to\nconsider who was there, the mother or anyone else, but simply to do his\nduty, he finished dressing, went to the door and opened it.\n\nBut the embraces of the mother and child, the sound of their voices,\nand what they were saying, made him change his mind.\n\nHe shook his head, and with a sigh he closed the door.  I ll wait\nanother ten minutes,  he said to himself, clearing his throat and\nwiping away tears.\n\nAmong the servants of the household there was intense excitement all\nthis time. All had heard that their mistress had come, and that\nKapitonitch had let her in, and that she was even now in the nursery,\nand that their master always went in person to the nursery at nine\no clock, and everyone fully comprehended that it was impossible for the\nhusband and wife to meet, and that they must prevent it. Korney, the\nvalet, going down to the hall-porter s room, asked who had let her in,\nand how it was he had done so, and ascertaining that Kapitonitch had\nadmitted her and shown her up, he gave the old man a talking-to. The\nhall-porter was doggedly silent, but when Korney told him he ought to\nbe sent away, Kapitonitch darted up to him, and waving his hands in\nKorney s face, began:\n\n Oh yes, to be sure you d not have let her in! After ten years \nservice, and never a word but of kindness, and there you d up and say,\n Be off, go along, get away with you!  Oh yes, you re a shrewd one at\npolitics, I dare say! You don t need to be taught how to swindle the\nmaster, and to filch fur coats! \n\n Soldier!  said Korney contemptuously, and he turned to the nurse who\nwas coming in.  Here, what do you think, Marya Efimovna: he let her in\nwithout a word to anyone,  Korney said addressing her.  Alexey\nAlexandrovitch will be down immediately and go into the nursery! \n\n A pretty business, a pretty business!  said the nurse.  You, Korney\nVassilievitch, you d best keep him some way or other, the master, while\nI ll run and get her away somehow. A pretty business! \n\nWhen the nurse went into the nursery, Seryozha was telling his mother\nhow he and Nadinka had had a fall in sledging downhill, and had turned\nover three times. She was listening to the sound of his voice, watching\nhis face and the play of expression on it, touching his hand, but she\ndid not follow what he was saying. She must go, she must leave\nhim, this was the only thing she was thinking and feeling. She heard\nthe steps of Vassily Lukitch coming up to the door and coughing; she\nheard, too, the steps of the nurse as she came near; but she sat like\none turned to stone, incapable of beginning to speak or to get up.\n\n Mistress, darling!  began the nurse, going up to Anna and kissing her\nhands and shoulders.  God has brought joy indeed to our boy on his\nbirthday. You aren t changed one bit. \n\n Oh, nurse dear, I didn t know you were in the house,  said Anna,\nrousing herself for a moment.\n\n I m not living here, I m living with my daughter. I came for the\nbirthday, Anna Arkadyevna, darling! \n\nThe nurse suddenly burst into tears, and began kissing her hand again.\n\nSeryozha, with radiant eyes and smiles, holding his mother by one hand\nand his nurse by the other, pattered on the rug with his fat little\nbare feet. The tenderness shown by his beloved nurse to his mother\nthrew him into an ecstasy.\n\n Mother! She often comes to see me, and when she comes....  he was\nbeginning, but he stopped, noticing that the nurse was saying something\nin a whisper to his mother, and that in his mother s face there was a\nlook of dread and something like shame, which was so strangely\nunbecoming to her.\n\nShe went up to him.\n\n My sweet!  she said.\n\nShe could not say _good-bye_, but the expression on her face said it,\nand he understood.  Darling, darling Kootik!  she used the name by\nwhich she had called him when he was little,  you won t forget me?\nYou....  but she could not say more.\n\nHow often afterwards she thought of words she might have said. But now\nshe did not know how to say it, and could say nothing. But Seryozha\nknew all she wanted to say to him. He understood that she was unhappy\nand loved him. He understood even what the nurse had whispered. He had\ncaught the words  always at nine o clock,  and he knew that this was\nsaid of his father, and that his father and mother could not meet. That\nhe understood, but one thing he could not understand why there should\nbe a look of dread and shame in her face?... She was not in fault, but\nshe was afraid of him and ashamed of something. He would have liked to\nput a question that would have set at rest this doubt, but he did not\ndare; he saw that she was miserable, and he felt for her. Silently he\npressed close to her and whispered,  Don t go yet. He won t come just\nyet. \n\nThe mother held him away from her to see what he was thinking, what to\nsay to him, and in his frightened face she read not only that he was\nspeaking of his father, but, as it were, asking her what he ought to\nthink about his father.\n\n Seryozha, my darling,  she said,  love him; he s better and kinder\nthan I am, and I have done him wrong. When you grow up you will judge. \n\n There s no one better than you!...  he cried in despair through his\ntears, and, clutching her by the shoulders, he began squeezing her with\nall his force to him, his arms trembling with the strain.\n\n My sweet, my little one!  said Anna, and she cried as weakly and\nchildishly as he.\n\nAt that moment the door opened. Vassily Lukitch came in.\n\nAt the other door there was the sound of steps, and the nurse in a\nscared whisper said,  He s coming,  and gave Anna her hat.\n\nSeryozha sank onto the bed and sobbed, hiding his face in his hands.\nAnna removed his hands, once more kissed his wet face, and with rapid\nsteps went to the door. Alexey Alexandrovitch walked in, meeting her.\nSeeing her, he stopped short and bowed his head.\n\nAlthough she had just said he was better and kinder than she, in the\nrapid glance she flung at him, taking in his whole figure in all its\ndetails, feelings of repulsion and hatred for him and jealousy over her\nson took possession of her. With a swift gesture she put down her veil,\nand, quickening her pace, almost ran out of the room.\n\nShe had not time to undo, and so carried back with her, the parcel of\ntoys she had chosen the day before in a toy shop with such love and\nsorrow.\n\n\nChapter 31\n\nAs intensely as Anna had longed to see her son, and long as she had\nbeen thinking of it and preparing herself for it, she had not in the\nleast expected that seeing him would affect her so deeply. On getting\nback to her lonely rooms in the hotel she could not for a long while\nunderstand why she was there.  Yes, it s all over, and I am again\nalone,  she said to herself, and without taking off her hat she sat\ndown in a low chair by the hearth. Fixing her eyes on a bronze clock\nstanding on a table between the windows, she tried to think.\n\nThe French maid brought from abroad came in to suggest she should\ndress. She gazed at her wonderingly and said,  Presently.  A footman\noffered her coffee.  Later on,  she said.\n\nThe Italian nurse, after having taken the baby out in her best, came in\nwith her, and brought her to Anna. The plump, well-fed little baby, on\nseeing her mother, as she always did, held out her fat little hands,\nand with a smile on her toothless mouth, began, like a fish with a\nfloat, bobbing her fingers up and down the starched folds of her\nembroidered skirt, making them rustle. It was impossible not to smile,\nnot to kiss the baby, impossible not to hold out a finger for her to\nclutch, crowing and prancing all over; impossible not to offer her a\nlip which she sucked into her little mouth by way of a kiss. And all\nthis Anna did, and took her in her arms and made her dance, and kissed\nher fresh little cheek and bare little elbows; but at the sight of this\nchild it was plainer than ever to her that the feeling she had for her\ncould not be called love in comparison with what she felt for Seryozha.\nEverything in this baby was charming, but for some reason all this did\nnot go deep to her heart. On her first child, though the child of an\nunloved father, had been concentrated all the love that had never found\nsatisfaction. Her baby girl had been born in the most painful\ncircumstances and had not had a hundredth part of the care and thought\nwhich had been concentrated on her first child. Besides, in the little\ngirl everything was still in the future, while Seryozha was by now\nalmost a personality, and a personality dearly loved. In him there was\na conflict of thought and feeling; he understood her, he loved her, he\njudged her, she thought, recalling his words and his eyes. And she was\nforever not physically only but spiritually divided from him, and it\nwas impossible to set this right.\n\nShe gave the baby back to the nurse, let her go, and opened the locket\nin which there was Seryozha s portrait when he was almost of the same\nage as the girl. She got up, and, taking off her hat, took up from a\nlittle table an album in which there were photographs of her son at\ndifferent ages. She wanted to compare them, and began taking them out\nof the album. She took them all out except one, the latest and best\nphotograph. In it he was in a white smock, sitting astride a chair,\nwith frowning eyes and smiling lips. It was his best, most\ncharacteristic expression. With her little supple hands, her white,\ndelicate fingers, that moved with a peculiar intensity today, she\npulled at a corner of the photograph, but the photograph had caught\nsomewhere, and she could not get it out. There was no paper-knife on\nthe table, and so, pulling out the photograph that was next to her\nson s (it was a photograph of Vronsky taken at Rome in a round hat and\nwith long hair), she used it to push out her son s photograph.  Oh,\nhere is he!  she said, glancing at the portrait of Vronsky, and she\nsuddenly recalled that he was the cause of her present misery. She had\nnot once thought of him all the morning. But now, coming all at once\nupon that manly, noble face, so familiar and so dear to her, she felt a\nsudden rush of love for him.\n\n But where is he? How is it he leaves me alone in my misery?  she\nthought all at once with a feeling of reproach, forgetting she had\nherself kept from him everything concerning her son. She sent to ask\nhim to come to her immediately; with a throbbing heart she awaited him,\nrehearsing to herself the words in which she would tell him all, and\nthe expressions of love with which he would console her. The messenger\nreturned with the answer that he had a visitor with him, but that he\nwould come immediately, and that he asked whether she would let him\nbring with him Prince Yashvin, who had just arrived in Petersburg.\n He s not coming alone, and since dinner yesterday he has not seen me, \nshe thought;  he s not coming so that I could tell him everything, but\ncoming with Yashvin.  And all at once a strange idea came to her: what\nif he had ceased to love her?\n\nAnd going over the events of the last few days, it seemed to her that\nshe saw in everything a confirmation of this terrible idea. The fact\nthat he had not dined at home yesterday, and the fact that he had\ninsisted on their taking separate sets of rooms in Petersburg, and that\neven now he was not coming to her alone, as though he were trying to\navoid meeting her face to face.\n\n But he ought to tell me so. I must know that it is so. If I knew it,\nthen I know what I should do,  she said to herself, utterly unable to\npicture to herself the position she would be in if she were convinced\nof his not caring for her. She thought he had ceased to love her, she\nfelt close upon despair, and consequently she felt exceptionally alert.\nShe rang for her maid and went to her dressing-room. As she dressed,\nshe took more care over her appearance than she had done all those\ndays, as though he might, if he had grown cold to her, fall in love\nwith her again because she had dressed and arranged her hair in the way\nmost becoming to her.\n\nShe heard the bell ring before she was ready. When she went into the\ndrawing-room it was not he, but Yashvin, who met her eyes. Vronsky was\nlooking through the photographs of her son, which she had forgotten on\nthe table, and he made no haste to look round at her.\n\n We have met already,  she said, putting her little hand into the huge\nhand of Yashvin, whose bashfulness was so queerly out of keeping with\nhis immense frame and coarse face.  We met last year at the races. Give\nthem to me,  she said, with a rapid movement snatching from Vronsky the\nphotographs of her son, and glancing significantly at him with flashing\neyes.  Were the races good this year? Instead of them I saw the races\nin the Corso in Rome. But you don t care for life abroad,  she said\nwith a cordial smile.  I know you and all your tastes, though I have\nseen so little of you. \n\n I m awfully sorry for that, for my tastes are mostly bad,  said\nYashvin, gnawing at his left mustache.\n\nHaving talked a little while, and noticing that Vronsky glanced at the\nclock, Yashvin asked her whether she would be staying much longer in\nPetersburg, and unbending his huge figure reached after his cap.\n\n Not long, I think,  she said hesitatingly, glancing at Vronsky.\n\n So then we shan t meet again? \n\n Come and dine with me,  said Anna resolutely, angry it seemed with\nherself for her embarrassment, but flushing as she always did when she\ndefined her position before a fresh person.  The dinner here is not\ngood, but at least you will see him. There is no one of his old friends\nin the regiment Alexey cares for as he does for you. \n\n Delighted,  said Yashvin with a smile, from which Vronsky could see\nthat he liked Anna very much.\n\nYashvin said good-bye and went away; Vronsky stayed behind.\n\n Are you going too?  she said to him.\n\n I m late already,  he answered.  Run along! I ll catch you up in a\nmoment,  he called to Yashvin.\n\nShe took him by the hand, and without taking her eyes off him, gazed at\nhim while she ransacked her mind for the words to say that would keep\nhim.\n\n Wait a minute, there s something I want to say to you,  and taking his\nbroad hand she pressed it on her neck.  Oh, was it right my asking him\nto dinner? \n\n You did quite right,  he said with a serene smile that showed his even\nteeth, and he kissed her hand.\n\n Alexey, you have not changed to me?  she said, pressing his hand in\nboth of hers.  Alexey, I am miserable here. When are we going away? \n\n Soon, soon. You wouldn t believe how disagreeable our way of living\nhere is to me too,  he said, and he drew away his hand.\n\n Well, go, go!  she said in a tone of offense, and she walked quickly\naway from him.\n\n\nChapter 32\n\nWhen Vronsky returned home, Anna was not yet home. Soon after he had\nleft, some lady, so they told him, had come to see her, and she had\ngone out with her. That she had gone out without leaving word where she\nwas going, that she had not yet come back, and that all the morning she\nhad been going about somewhere without a word to him all this, together\nwith the strange look of excitement in her face in the morning, and the\nrecollection of the hostile tone with which she had before Yashvin\nalmost snatched her son s photographs out of his hands, made him\nserious. He decided he absolutely must speak openly with her. And he\nwaited for her in her drawing-room. But Anna did not return alone, but\nbrought with her her old unmarried aunt, Princess Oblonskaya. This was\nthe lady who had come in the morning, and with whom Anna had gone out\nshopping. Anna appeared not to notice Vronsky s worried and inquiring\nexpression, and began a lively account of her morning s shopping. He\nsaw that there was something working within her; in her flashing eyes,\nwhen they rested for a moment on him, there was an intense\nconcentration, and in her words and movements there was that nervous\nrapidity and grace which, during the early period of their intimacy,\nhad so fascinated him, but which now so disturbed and alarmed him.\n\nThe dinner was laid for four. All were gathered together and about to\ngo into the little dining-room when Tushkevitch made his appearance\nwith a message from Princess Betsy. Princess Betsy begged her to excuse\nher not having come to say good-bye; she had been indisposed, but\nbegged Anna to come to her between half-past six and nine o clock.\nVronsky glanced at Anna at the precise limit of time, so suggestive of\nsteps having been taken that she should meet no one; but Anna appeared\nnot to notice it.\n\n Very sorry that I can t come just between half-past six and nine,  she\nsaid with a faint smile.\n\n The princess will be very sorry. \n\n And so am I. \n\n You re going, no doubt, to hear Patti?  said Tushkevitch.\n\n Patti? You suggest the idea to me. I would go if it were possible to\nget a box. \n\n I can get one,  Tushkevitch offered his services.\n\n I should be very, very grateful to you,  said Anna.  But won t you\ndine with us? \n\nVronsky gave a hardly perceptible shrug. He was at a complete loss to\nunderstand what Anna was about. What had she brought the old Princess\nOblonskaya home for, what had she made Tushkevitch stay to dinner for,\nand, most amazing of all, why was she sending him for a box? Could she\npossibly think in her position of going to Patti s benefit, where all\nthe circle of her acquaintances would be? He looked at her with serious\neyes, but she responded with that defiant, half-mirthful,\nhalf-desperate look, the meaning of which he could not comprehend. At\ndinner Anna was in aggressively high spirits she almost flirted both\nwith Tushkevitch and with Yashvin. When they got up from dinner and\nTushkevitch had gone to get a box at the opera, Yashvin went to smoke,\nand Vronsky went down with him to his own rooms. After sitting there\nfor some time he ran upstairs. Anna was already dressed in a low-necked\ngown of light silk and velvet that she had had made in Paris, and with\ncostly white lace on her head, framing her face, and particularly\nbecoming, showing up her dazzling beauty.\n\n Are you really going to the theater?  he said, trying not to look at\nher.\n\n Why do you ask with such alarm?  she said, wounded again at his not\nlooking at her.  Why shouldn t I go? \n\nShe appeared not to understand the motive of his words.\n\n Oh, of course, there s no reason whatever,  he said, frowning.\n\n That s just what I say,  she said, willfully refusing to see the irony\nof his tone, and quietly turning back her long, perfumed glove.\n\n Anna, for God s sake! what is the matter with you?  he said, appealing\nto her exactly as once her husband had done.\n\n I don t understand what you are asking. \n\n You know that it s out of the question to go. \n\n Why so? I m not going alone. Princess Varvara has gone to dress, she\nis going with me. \n\nHe shrugged his shoulders with an air of perplexity and despair.\n\n But do you mean to say you don t know?...  he began.\n\n But I don t care to know!  she almost shrieked.  I don t care to. Do I\nregret what I have done? No, no, no! If it were all to do again from\nthe beginning, it would be the same. For us, for you and for me, there\nis only one thing that matters, whether we love each other. Other\npeople we need not consider. Why are we living here apart and not\nseeing each other? Why can t I go? I love you, and I don t care for\nanything,  she said in Russian, glancing at him with a peculiar gleam\nin her eyes that he could not understand.  If you have not changed to\nme, why don t you look at me? \n\nHe looked at her. He saw all the beauty of her face and full dress,\nalways so becoming to her. But now her beauty and elegance were just\nwhat irritated him.\n\n My feeling cannot change, you know, but I beg you, I entreat you,  he\nsaid again in French, with a note of tender supplication in his voice,\nbut with coldness in his eyes.\n\nShe did not hear his words, but she saw the coldness of his eyes, and\nanswered with irritation:\n\n And I beg you to explain why I should not go. \n\n Because it might cause you....  he hesitated.\n\n I don t understand. Yashvin _n est pas compromettant_, and Princess\nVarvara is no worse than others. Oh, here she is! \n\n\nChapter 33\n\nVronsky for the first time experienced a feeling of anger against Anna,\nalmost a hatred for her willfully refusing to understand her own\nposition. This feeling was aggravated by his being unable to tell her\nplainly the cause of his anger. If he had told her directly what he was\nthinking, he would have said:\n\n In that dress, with a princess only too well known to everyone, to\nshow yourself at the theater is equivalent not merely to acknowledging\nyour position as a fallen woman, but is flinging down a challenge to\nsociety, that is to say, cutting yourself off from it forever. \n\nHe could not say that to her.  But how can she fail to see it, and what\nis going on in her?  he said to himself. He felt at the same time that\nhis respect for her was diminished while his sense of her beauty was\nintensified.\n\nHe went back scowling to his rooms, and sitting down beside Yashvin,\nwho, with his long legs stretched out on a chair, was drinking brandy\nand seltzer water, he ordered a glass of the same for himself.\n\n You were talking of Lankovsky s Powerful. That s a fine horse, and I\nwould advise you to buy him,  said Yashvin, glancing at his comrade s\ngloomy face.  His hind-quarters aren t quite first-rate, but the legs\nand head one couldn t wish for anything better. \n\n I think I will take him,  answered Vronsky.\n\nTheir conversation about horses interested him, but he did not for an\ninstant forget Anna, and could not help listening to the sound of steps\nin the corridor and looking at the clock on the chimney piece.\n\n Anna Arkadyevna gave orders to announce that she has gone to the\ntheater. \n\nYashvin, tipping another glass of brandy into the bubbling water, drank\nit and got up, buttoning his coat.\n\n Well, let s go,  he said, faintly smiling under his mustache, and\nshowing by this smile that he knew the cause of Vronsky s gloominess,\nand did not attach any significance to it.\n\n I m not going,  Vronsky answered gloomily.\n\n Well, I must, I promised to. Good-bye, then. If you do, come to the\nstalls; you can take Kruzin s stall,  added Yashvin as he went out.\n\n No, I m busy. \n\n A wife is a care, but it s worse when she s not a wife,  thought\nYashvin, as he walked out of the hotel.\n\nVronsky, left alone, got up from his chair and began pacing up and down\nthe room.\n\n And what s today? The fourth night.... Yegor and his wife are there,\nand my mother, most likely. Of course all Petersburg s there. Now she s\ngone in, taken off her cloak and come into the light. Tushkevitch,\nYashvin, Princess Varvara,  he pictured them to himself....  What about\nme? Either that I m frightened or have given up to Tushkevitch the\nright to protect her? From every point of view stupid, stupid!... And\nwhy is she putting me in such a position?  he said with a gesture of\ndespair.\n\nWith that gesture he knocked against the table, on which there was\nstanding the seltzer water and the decanter of brandy, and almost upset\nit. He tried to catch it, let it slip, and angrily kicked the table\nover and rang.\n\n If you care to be in my service,  he said to the valet who came in,\n you had better remember your duties. This shouldn t be here. You ought\nto have cleared away. \n\nThe valet, conscious of his own innocence, would have defended himself,\nbut glancing at his master, he saw from his face that the only thing to\ndo was to be silent, and hurriedly threading his way in and out,\ndropped down on the carpet and began gathering up the whole and broken\nglasses and bottles.\n\n That s not your duty; send the waiter to clear away, and get my dress\ncoat out. \n\nVronsky went into the theater at half-past eight. The performance was\nin full swing. The little old box-keeper, recognizing Vronsky as he\nhelped him off with his fur coat, called him  Your Excellency,  and\nsuggested he should not take a number but should simply call Fyodor. In\nthe brightly lighted corridor there was no one but the box-opener and\ntwo attendants with fur cloaks on their arms listening at the doors.\nThrough the closed doors came the sounds of the discreet _staccato_\naccompaniment of the orchestra, and a single female voice rendering\ndistinctly a musical phrase. The door opened to let the box-opener slip\nthrough, and the phrase drawing to the end reached Vronsky s hearing\nclearly. But the doors were closed again at once, and Vronsky did not\nhear the end of the phrase and the cadence of the accompaniment, though\nhe knew from the thunder of applause that it was over. When he entered\nthe hall, brilliantly lighted with chandeliers and gas jets, the noise\nwas still going on. On the stage the singer, bowing and smiling, with\nbare shoulders flashing with diamonds, was, with the help of the tenor\nwho had given her his arm, gathering up the bouquets that were flying\nawkwardly over the footlights. Then she went up to a gentleman with\nglossy pomaded hair parted down the center, who was stretching across\nthe footlights holding out something to her, and all the public in the\nstalls as well as in the boxes was in excitement, craning forward,\nshouting and clapping. The conductor in his high chair assisted in\npassing the offering, and straightened his white tie. Vronsky walked\ninto the middle of the stalls, and, standing still, began looking about\nhim. That day less than ever was his attention turned upon the\nfamiliar, habitual surroundings, the stage, the noise, all the\nfamiliar, uninteresting, particolored herd of spectators in the packed\ntheater.\n\nThere were, as always, the same ladies of some sort with officers of\nsome sort in the back of the boxes; the same gaily dressed women God\nknows who and uniforms and black coats; the same dirty crowd in the\nupper gallery; and among the crowd, in the boxes and in the front rows,\nwere some forty of the _real_ people. And to those oases Vronsky at\nonce directed his attention, and with them he entered at once into\nrelation.\n\nThe act was over when he went in, and so he did not go straight to his\nbrother s box, but going up to the first row of stalls stopped at the\nfootlights with Serpuhovskoy, who, standing with one knee raised and\nhis heel on the footlights, caught sight of him in the distance and\nbeckoned to him, smiling.\n\nVronsky had not yet seen Anna. He purposely avoided looking in her\ndirection. But he knew by the direction of people s eyes where she was.\nHe looked round discreetly, but he was not seeking her; expecting the\nworst, his eyes sought for Alexey Alexandrovitch. To his relief Alexey\nAlexandrovitch was not in the theater that evening.\n\n How little of the military man there is left in you!  Serpuhovskoy was\nsaying to him.  A diplomat, an artist, something of that sort, one\nwould say. \n\n Yes, it was like going back home when I put on a black coat,  answered\nVronsky, smiling and slowly taking out his opera-glass.\n\n Well, I ll own I envy you there. When I come back from abroad and put\non this,  he touched his epaulets,  I regret my freedom. \n\nSerpuhovskoy had long given up all hope of Vronsky s career, but he\nliked him as before, and was now particularly cordial to him.\n\n What a pity you were not in time for the first act! \n\nVronsky, listening with one ear, moved his opera-glass from the stalls\nand scanned the boxes. Near a lady in a turban and a bald old man, who\nseemed to wave angrily in the moving opera-glass, Vronsky suddenly\ncaught sight of Anna s head, proud, strikingly beautiful, and smiling\nin the frame of lace. She was in the fifth box, twenty paces from him.\nShe was sitting in front, and slightly turning, was saying something to\nYashvin. The setting of her head on her handsome, broad shoulders, and\nthe restrained excitement and brilliance of her eyes and her whole face\nreminded him of her just as he had seen her at the ball in Moscow. But\nhe felt utterly different towards her beauty now. In his feeling for\nher now there was no element of mystery, and so her beauty, though it\nattracted him even more intensely than before, gave him now a sense of\ninjury. She was not looking in his direction, but Vronsky felt that she\nhad seen him already.\n\nWhen Vronsky turned the opera-glass again in that direction, he noticed\nthat Princess Varvara was particularly red, and kept laughing\nunnaturally and looking round at the next box. Anna, folding her fan\nand tapping it on the red velvet, was gazing away and did not see, and\nobviously did not wish to see, what was taking place in the next box.\nYashvin s face wore the expression which was common when he was losing\nat cards. Scowling, he sucked the left end of his mustache further and\nfurther into his mouth, and cast sidelong glances at the next box.\n\nIn that box on the left were the Kartasovs. Vronsky knew them, and knew\nthat Anna was acquainted with them. Madame Kartasova, a thin little\nwoman, was standing up in her box, and, her back turned upon Anna, she\nwas putting on a mantle that her husband was holding for her. Her face\nwas pale and angry, and she was talking excitedly. Kartasov, a fat,\nbald man, was continually looking round at Anna, while he attempted to\nsoothe his wife. When the wife had gone out, the husband lingered a\nlong while, and tried to catch Anna s eye, obviously anxious to bow to\nher. But Anna, with unmistakable intention, avoided noticing him, and\ntalked to Yashvin, whose cropped head was bent down to her. Kartasov\nwent out without making his salutation, and the box was left empty.\n\nVronsky could not understand exactly what had passed between the\nKartasovs and Anna, but he saw that something humiliating for Anna had\nhappened. He knew this both from what he had seen, and most of all from\nthe face of Anna, who, he could see, was taxing every nerve to carry\nthrough the part she had taken up. And in maintaining this attitude of\nexternal composure she was completely successful. Anyone who did not\nknow her and her circle, who had not heard all the utterances of the\nwomen expressive of commiseration, indignation, and amazement, that she\nshould show herself in society, and show herself so conspicuously with\nher lace and her beauty, would have admired the serenity and loveliness\nof this woman without a suspicion that she was undergoing the\nsensations of a man in the stocks.\n\nKnowing that something had happened, but not knowing precisely what,\nVronsky felt a thrill of agonizing anxiety, and hoping to find out\nsomething, he went towards his brother s box. Purposely choosing the\nway round furthest from Anna s box, he jostled as he came out against\nthe colonel of his old regiment talking to two acquaintances. Vronsky\nheard the name of Madame Karenina, and noticed how the colonel hastened\nto address Vronsky loudly by name, with a meaning glance at his\ncompanions.\n\n Ah, Vronsky! When are you coming to the regiment? We can t let you off\nwithout a supper. You re one of the old set,  said the colonel of his\nregiment.\n\n I can t stop, awfully sorry, another time,  said Vronsky, and he ran\nupstairs towards his brother s box.\n\nThe old countess, Vronsky s mother, with her steel-gray curls, was in\nhis brother s box. Varya with the young Princess Sorokina met him in\nthe corridor.\n\nLeaving the Princess Sorokina with her mother, Varya held out her hand\nto her brother-in-law, and began immediately to speak of what\ninterested him. She was more excited than he had ever seen her.\n\n I think it s mean and hateful, and Madame Kartasova had no right to do\nit. Madame Karenina....  she began.\n\n But what is it? I don t know. \n\n What? you ve not heard? \n\n You know I should be the last person to hear of it. \n\n There isn t a more spiteful creature than that Madame Kartasova! \n\n But what did she do? \n\n My husband told me.... She has insulted Madame Karenina. Her husband\nbegan talking to her across the box, and Madame Kartasova made a scene.\nShe said something aloud, he says, something insulting, and went away. \n\n Count, your maman is asking for you,  said the young Princess\nSorokina, peeping out of the door of the box.\n\n I ve been expecting you all the while,  said his mother, smiling\nsarcastically.  You were nowhere to be seen. \n\nHer son saw that she could not suppress a smile of delight.\n\n Good evening, maman. I have come to you,  he said coldly.\n\n Why aren t you going to _faire la cour   Madame Karenina?_  she went\non, when Princess Sorokina had moved away.  _Elle fait sensation. On\noublie la Patti pour elle_. \n\n Maman, I have asked you not to say anything to me of that,  he\nanswered, scowling.\n\n I m only saying what everyone s saying. \n\nVronsky made no reply, and saying a few words to Princess Sorokina, he\nwent away. At the door he met his brother.\n\n Ah, Alexey!  said his brother.  How disgusting! Idiot of a woman,\nnothing else.... I wanted to go straight to her. Let s go together. \n\nVronsky did not hear him. With rapid steps he went downstairs; he felt\nthat he must do something, but he did not know what. Anger with her for\nhaving put herself and him in such a false position, together with pity\nfor her suffering, filled his heart. He went down, and made straight\nfor Anna s box. At her box stood Stremov, talking to her.\n\n There are no more tenors. _Le moule en est bris !_ \n\nVronsky bowed to her and stopped to greet Stremov.\n\n You came in late, I think, and have missed the best song,  Anna said\nto Vronsky, glancing ironically, he thought, at him.\n\n I am a poor judge of music,  he said, looking sternly at her.\n\n Like Prince Yashvin,  she said smiling,  who considers that Patti\nsings too loud. \n\n Thank you,  she said, her little hand in its long glove taking the\nplaybill Vronsky picked up, and suddenly at that instant her lovely\nface quivered. She got up and went into the interior of the box.\n\nNoticing in the next act that her box was empty, Vronsky, rousing\nindignant  hushes  in the silent audience, went out in the middle of a\nsolo and drove home.\n\nAnna was already at home. When Vronsky went up to her, she was in the\nsame dress as she had worn at the theater. She was sitting in the first\narmchair against the wall, looking straight before her. She looked at\nhim, and at once resumed her former position.\n\n Anna,  he said.\n\n You, you are to blame for everything!  she cried, with tears of\ndespair and hatred in her voice, getting up.\n\n I begged, I implored you not to go, I knew it would be unpleasant.... \n\n Unpleasant!  she cried hideous! As long as I live I shall never\nforget it. She said it was a disgrace to sit beside me. \n\n A silly woman s chatter,  he said:  but why risk it, why provoke?... \n\n I hate your calm. You ought not to have brought me to this. If you had\nloved me.... \n\n Anna! How does the question of my love come in? \n\n Oh, if you loved me, as I love, if you were tortured as I am!...  she\nsaid, looking at him with an expression of terror.\n\nHe was sorry for her, and angry notwithstanding. He assured her of his\nlove because he saw that this was the only means of soothing her, and\nhe did not reproach her in words, but in his heart he reproached her.\n\nAnd the asseverations of his love, which seemed to him so vulgar that\nhe was ashamed to utter them, she drank in eagerly, and gradually\nbecame calmer. The next day, completely reconciled, they left for the\ncountry.\n\n\n\n\nPART SIX\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nDarya Alexandrovna spent the summer with her children at Pokrovskoe, at\nher sister Kitty Levin s. The house on her own estate was quite in\nruins, and Levin and his wife had persuaded her to spend the summer\nwith them. Stepan Arkadyevitch greatly approved of the arrangement. He\nsaid he was very sorry his official duties prevented him from spending\nthe summer in the country with his family, which would have been the\ngreatest happiness for him; and remaining in Moscow, he came down to\nthe country from time to time for a day or two. Besides the Oblonskys,\nwith all their children and their governess, the old princess too came\nto stay that summer with the Levins, as she considered it her duty to\nwatch over her inexperienced daughter in her _interesting condition_.\nMoreover, Varenka, Kitty s friend abroad, kept her promise to come to\nKitty when she was married, and stayed with her friend. All of these\nwere friends or relations of Levin s wife. And though he liked them\nall, he rather regretted his own Levin world and ways, which was\nsmothered by this influx of the  Shtcherbatsky element,  as he called\nit to himself. Of his own relations there stayed with him only Sergey\nIvanovitch, but he too was a man of the Koznishev and not the Levin\nstamp, so that the Levin spirit was utterly obliterated.\n\nIn the Levins  house, so long deserted, there were now so many people\nthat almost all the rooms were occupied, and almost every day it\nhappened that the old princess, sitting down to table, counted them all\nover, and put the thirteenth grandson or granddaughter at a separate\ntable. And Kitty, with her careful housekeeping, had no little trouble\nto get all the chickens, turkeys, and geese, of which so many were\nneeded to satisfy the summer appetites of the visitors and children.\n\nThe whole family were sitting at dinner. Dolly s children, with their\ngoverness and Varenka, were making plans for going to look for\nmushrooms. Sergey Ivanovitch, who was looked up to by all the party for\nhis intellect and learning, with a respect that almost amounted to awe,\nsurprised everyone by joining in the conversation about mushrooms.\n\n Take me with you. I am very fond of picking mushrooms,  he said,\nlooking at Varenka;  I think it s a very nice occupation. \n\n Oh, we shall be delighted,  answered Varenka, coloring a little. Kitty\nexchanged meaningful glances with Dolly. The proposal of the learned\nand intellectual Sergey Ivanovitch to go looking for mushrooms with\nVarenka confirmed certain theories of Kitty s with which her mind had\nbeen very busy of late. She made haste to address some remark to her\nmother, so that her look should not be noticed. After dinner Sergey\nIvanovitch sat with his cup of coffee at the drawing-room window, and\nwhile he took part in a conversation he had begun with his brother, he\nwatched the door through which the children would start on the\nmushroom-picking expedition. Levin was sitting in the window near his\nbrother.\n\nKitty stood beside her husband, evidently awaiting the end of a\nconversation that had no interest for her, in order to tell him\nsomething.\n\n You have changed in many respects since your marriage, and for the\nbetter,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, smiling to Kitty, and obviously little\ninterested in the conversation,  but you have remained true to your\npassion for defending the most paradoxical theories. \n\n Katya, it s not good for you to stand,  her husband said to her,\nputting a chair for her and looking significantly at her.\n\n Oh, and there s no time either,  added Sergey Ivanovitch, seeing the\nchildren running out.\n\nAt the head of them all Tanya galloped sideways, in her tightly-drawn\nstockings, and waving a basket and Sergey Ivanovitch s hat, she ran\nstraight up to him.\n\nBoldly running up to Sergey Ivanovitch with shining eyes, so like her\nfather s fine eyes, she handed him his hat and made as though she would\nput it on for him, softening her freedom by a shy and friendly smile.\n\n Varenka s waiting,  she said, carefully putting his hat on, seeing\nfrom Sergey Ivanovitch s smile that she might do so.\n\nVarenka was standing at the door, dressed in a yellow print gown, with\na white kerchief on her head.\n\n I m coming, I m coming, Varvara Andreevna,  said Sergey Ivanovitch,\nfinishing his cup of coffee, and putting into their separate pockets\nhis handkerchief and cigar-case.\n\n And how sweet my Varenka is! eh?  said Kitty to her husband, as soon\nas Sergey Ivanovitch rose. She spoke so that Sergey Ivanovitch could\nhear, and it was clear that she meant him to do so.  And how\ngood-looking she is such a refined beauty! Varenka!  Kitty shouted.\n Shall you be in the mill copse? We ll come out to you. \n\n You certainly forget your condition, Kitty,  said the old princess,\nhurriedly coming out at the door.  You mustn t shout like that. \n\nVarenka, hearing Kitty s voice and her mother s reprimand, went with\nlight, rapid steps up to Kitty. The rapidity of her movement, her\nflushed and eager face, everything betrayed that something out of the\ncommon was going on in her. Kitty knew what this was, and had been\nwatching her intently. She called Varenka at that moment merely in\norder mentally to give her a blessing for the important event which, as\nKitty fancied, was bound to come to pass that day after dinner in the\nwood.\n\n Varenka, I should be very happy if a certain something were to\nhappen,  she whispered as she kissed her.\n\n And are you coming with us?  Varenka said to Levin in confusion,\npretending not to have heard what had been said.\n\n I am coming, but only as far as the threshing-floor, and there I shall\nstop. \n\n Why, what do you want there?  said Kitty.\n\n I must go to have a look at the new wagons, and to check the invoice, \nsaid Levin;  and where will you be? \n\n On the terrace. \n\n\nChapter 2\n\nOn the terrace were assembled all the ladies of the party. They always\nliked sitting there after dinner, and that day they had work to do\nthere too. Besides the sewing and knitting of baby clothes, with which\nall of them were busy, that afternoon jam was being made on the terrace\nby a method new to Agafea Mihalovna, without the addition of water.\nKitty had introduced this new method, which had been in use in her\nhome. Agafea Mihalovna, to whom the task of jam-making had always been\nintrusted, considering that what had been done in the Levin household\ncould not be amiss, had nevertheless put water with the strawberries,\nmaintaining that the jam could not be made without it. She had been\ncaught in the act, and was now making jam before everyone, and it was\nto be proved to her conclusively that jam could be very well made\nwithout water.\n\nAgafea Mihalovna, her face heated and angry, her hair untidy, and her\nthin arms bare to the elbows, was turning the preserving-pan over the\ncharcoal stove, looking darkly at the raspberries and devoutly hoping\nthey would stick and not cook properly. The princess, conscious that\nAgafea Mihalovna s wrath must be chiefly directed against her, as the\nperson responsible for the raspberry jam-making, tried to appear to be\nabsorbed in other things and not interested in the jam, talked of other\nmatters, but cast stealthy glances in the direction of the stove.\n\n I always buy my maids  dresses myself, of some cheap material,  the\nprincess said, continuing the previous conversation.  Isn t it time to\nskim it, my dear?  she added, addressing Agafea Mihalovna.  There s not\nthe slightest need for you to do it, and it s hot for you,  she said,\nstopping Kitty.\n\n I ll do it,  said Dolly, and getting up, she carefully passed the\nspoon over the frothing sugar, and from time to time shook off the\nclinging jam from the spoon by knocking it on a plate that was covered\nwith yellow-red scum and blood-colored syrup.  How they ll enjoy this\nat tea-time!  she thought of her children, remembering how she herself\nas a child had wondered how it was the grown-up people did not eat what\nwas best of all the scum of the jam.\n\n Stiva says it s much better to give money.  Dolly took up meanwhile\nthe weighty subject under discussion, what presents should be made to\nservants.  But.... \n\n Money s out of the question!  the princess and Kitty exclaimed with\none voice.  They appreciate a present.... \n\n Well, last year, for instance, I bought our Matrona Semyenovna, not a\npoplin, but something of that sort,  said the princess.\n\n I remember she was wearing it on your nameday. \n\n A charming pattern so simple and refined, I should have liked it\nmyself, if she hadn t had it. Something like Varenka s. So pretty and\ninexpensive. \n\n Well, now I think it s done,  said Dolly, dropping the syrup from the\nspoon.\n\n When it sets as it drops, it s ready. Cook it a little longer, Agafea\nMihalovna. \n\n The flies!  said Agafea Mihalovna angrily.  It ll be just the same, \nshe added.\n\n Ah! how sweet it is! don t frighten it!  Kitty said suddenly, looking\nat a sparrow that had settled on the step and was pecking at the center\nof a raspberry.\n\n Yes, but you keep a little further from the stove,  said her mother.\n\n _  propos de Varenka_,  said Kitty, speaking in French, as they had\nbeen doing all the while, so that Agafea Mihalovna should not\nunderstand them,  you know, mamma, I somehow expect things to be\nsettled today. You know what I mean. How splendid it would be! \n\n But what a famous matchmaker she is!  said Dolly.  How carefully and\ncleverly she throws them together!... \n\n No; tell me, mamma, what do you think? \n\n Why, what is one to think? He  (_he_ meant Sergey Ivanovitch)  might\nat any time have been a match for anyone in Russia; now, of course,\nhe s not quite a young man, still I know ever so many girls would be\nglad to marry him even now.... She s a very nice girl, but he\nmight.... \n\n Oh, no, mamma, do understand why, for him and for her too, nothing\nbetter could be imagined. In the first place, she s charming!  said\nKitty, crooking one of her fingers.\n\n He thinks her very attractive, that s certain,  assented Dolly.\n\n Then he occupies such a position in society that he has no need to\nlook for either fortune or position in his wife. All he needs is a\ngood, sweet wife a restful one. \n\n Well, with her he would certainly be restful,  Dolly assented.\n\n Thirdly, that she should love him. And so it is ... that is, it would\nbe so splendid!... I look forward to seeing them coming out of the\nforest and everything settled. I shall see at once by their eyes. I\nshould be so delighted! What do you think, Dolly? \n\n But don t excite yourself. It s not at all the thing for you to be\nexcited,  said her mother.\n\n Oh, I m not excited, mamma. I fancy he will make her an offer today. \n\n Ah, that s so strange, how and when a man makes an offer!... There is\na sort of barrier, and all at once it s broken down,  said Dolly,\nsmiling pensively and recalling her past with Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Mamma, how did papa make you an offer?  Kitty asked suddenly.\n\n There was nothing out of the way, it was very simple,  answered the\nprincess, but her face beamed all over at the recollection.\n\n Oh, but how was it? You loved him, anyway, before you were allowed to\nspeak? \n\nKitty felt a peculiar pleasure in being able now to talk to her mother\non equal terms about those questions of such paramount interest in a\nwoman s life.\n\n Of course I did; he had come to stay with us in the country. \n\n But how was it settled between you, mamma? \n\n You imagine, I dare say, that you invented something quite new? It s\nalways just the same: it was settled by the eyes, by smiles.... \n\n How nicely you said that, mamma! It s just by the eyes, by smiles that\nit s done,  Dolly assented.\n\n But what words did he say? \n\n What did Kostya say to you? \n\n He wrote it in chalk. It was wonderful.... How long ago it seems!  she\nsaid.\n\nAnd the three women all fell to musing on the same thing. Kitty was the\nfirst to break the silence. She remembered all that last winter before\nher marriage, and her passion for Vronsky.\n\n There s one thing ... that old love affair of Varenka s,  she said, a\nnatural chain of ideas bringing her to this point.  I should have liked\nto say something to Sergey Ivanovitch, to prepare him. They re all all\nmen, I mean,  she added,  awfully jealous over our past. \n\n Not all,  said Dolly.  You judge by your own husband. It makes him\nmiserable even now to remember Vronsky. Eh? that s true, isn t it? \n\n Yes,  Kitty answered, a pensive smile in her eyes.\n\n But I really don t know,  the mother put in in defense of her motherly\ncare of her daughter,  what there was in your past that could worry\nhim? That Vronsky paid you attentions that happens to every girl. \n\n Oh, yes, but we didn t mean that,  Kitty said, flushing a little.\n\n No, let me speak,  her mother went on,  why, you yourself would not\nlet me have a talk to Vronsky. Don t you remember? \n\n Oh, mamma!  said Kitty, with an expression of suffering.\n\n There s no keeping you young people in check nowadays.... Your\nfriendship could not have gone beyond what was suitable. I should\nmyself have called upon him to explain himself. But, my darling, it s\nnot right for you to be agitated. Please remember that, and calm\nyourself. \n\n I m perfectly calm, maman. \n\n How happy it was for Kitty that Anna came then,  said Dolly,  and how\nunhappy for her. It turned out quite the opposite,  she said, struck by\nher own ideas.  Then Anna was so happy, and Kitty thought herself\nunhappy. Now it is just the opposite. I often think of her. \n\n A nice person to think about! Horrid, repulsive woman no heart,  said\nher mother, who could not forget that Kitty had married not Vronsky,\nbut Levin.\n\n What do you want to talk of it for?  Kitty said with annoyance.  I\nnever think about it, and I don t want to think of it.... And I don t\nwant to think of it,  she said, catching the sound of her husband s\nwell-known step on the steps of the terrace.\n\n What s that you don t want to think about?  inquired Levin, coming\nonto the terrace.\n\nBut no one answered him, and he did not repeat the question.\n\n I m sorry I ve broken in on your feminine parliament,  he said,\nlooking round on everyone discontentedly, and perceiving that they had\nbeen talking of something which they would not talk about before him.\n\nFor a second he felt that he was sharing the feeling of Agafea\nMihalovna, vexation at their making jam without water, and altogether\nat the outside Shtcherbatsky element. He smiled, however, and went up\nto Kitty.\n\n Well, how are you?  he asked her, looking at her with the expression\nwith which everyone looked at her now.\n\n Oh, very well,  said Kitty, smiling,  and how have things gone with\nyou? \n\n The wagons held three times as much as the old carts did. Well, are we\ngoing for the children? I ve ordered the horses to be put in. \n\n What! you want to take Kitty in the wagonette?  her mother said\nreproachfully.\n\n Yes, at a walking pace, princess. \n\nLevin never called the princess  maman  as men often do call their\nmothers-in-law, and the princess disliked his not doing so. But though\nhe liked and respected the princess, Levin could not call her so\nwithout a sense of profaning his feeling for his dead mother.\n\n Come with us, maman,  said Kitty.\n\n I don t like to see such imprudence. \n\n Well, I ll walk then, I m so well.  Kitty got up and went to her\nhusband and took his hand.\n\n You may be well, but everything in moderation,  said the princess.\n\n Well, Agafea Mihalovna, is the jam done?  said Levin, smiling to\nAgafea Mihalovna, and trying to cheer her up.  Is it all right in the\nnew way? \n\n I suppose it s all right. For our notions it s boiled too long. \n\n It ll be all the better, Agafea Mihalovna, it won t mildew, even\nthough our ice has begun to thaw already, so that we ve no cool cellar\nto store it,  said Kitty, at once divining her husband s motive, and\naddressing the old housekeeper with the same feeling;  but your\npickle s so good, that mamma says she never tasted any like it,  she\nadded, smiling, and putting her kerchief straight.\n\nAgafea Mihalovna looked angrily at Kitty.\n\n You needn t try to console me, mistress. I need only to look at you\nwith him, and I feel happy,  she said, and something in the rough\nfamiliarity of that _with him_ touched Kitty.\n\n Come along with us to look for mushrooms, you will show us the best\nplaces.  Agafea Mihalovna smiled and shook her head, as though to say:\n I should like to be angry with you too, but I can t. \n\n Do it, please, by my receipt,  said the princess;  put some paper over\nthe jam, and moisten it with a little rum, and without even ice, it\nwill never go mildewy. \n\n\nChapter 3\n\nKitty was particularly glad of a chance of being alone with her\nhusband, for she had noticed the shade of mortification that had passed\nover his face always so quick to reflect every feeling at the moment\nwhen he had come onto the terrace and asked what they were talking of,\nand had got no answer.\n\nWhen they had set off on foot ahead of the others, and had come out of\nsight of the house onto the beaten dusty road, marked with rusty wheels\nand sprinkled with grains of corn, she clung faster to his arm and\npressed it closer to her. He had quite forgotten the momentary\nunpleasant impression, and alone with her he felt, now that the thought\nof her approaching motherhood was never for a moment absent from his\nmind, a new and delicious bliss, quite pure from all alloy of sense, in\nthe being near to the woman he loved. There was no need of speech, yet\nhe longed to hear the sound of her voice, which like her eyes had\nchanged since she had been with child. In her voice, as in her eyes,\nthere was that softness and gravity which is found in people\ncontinually concentrated on some cherished pursuit.\n\n So you re not tired? Lean more on me,  said he.\n\n No, I m so glad of a chance of being alone with you, and I must own,\nthough I m happy with them, I do regret our winter evenings alone. \n\n That was good, but this is even better. Both are better,  he said,\nsqueezing her hand.\n\n Do you know what we were talking about when you came in? \n\n About jam? \n\n Oh, yes, about jam too; but afterwards, about how men make offers. \n\n Ah!  said Levin, listening more to the sound of her voice than to the\nwords she was saying, and all the while paying attention to the road,\nwhich passed now through the forest, and avoiding places where she\nmight make a false step.\n\n And about Sergey Ivanovitch and Varenka. You ve noticed?... I m very\nanxious for it,  she went on.  What do you think about it?  And she\npeeped into his face.\n\n I don t know what to think,  Levin answered, smiling.  Sergey seems\nvery strange to me in that way. I told you, you know.... \n\n Yes, that he was in love with that girl who died.... \n\n That was when I was a child; I know about it from hearsay and\ntradition. I remember him then. He was wonderfully sweet. But I ve\nwatched him since with women; he is friendly, some of them he likes,\nbut one feels that to him they re simply people, not women. \n\n Yes, but now with Varenka ... I fancy there s something.... \n\n Perhaps there is.... But one has to know him.... He s a peculiar,\nwonderful person. He lives a spiritual life only. He s too pure, too\nexalted a nature. \n\n Why? Would this lower him, then? \n\n No, but he s so used to a spiritual life that he can t reconcile\nhimself with actual fact, and Varenka is after all fact. \n\nLevin had grown used by now to uttering his thought boldly, without\ntaking the trouble of clothing it in exact language. He knew that his\nwife, in such moments of loving tenderness as now, would understand\nwhat he meant to say from a hint, and she did understand him.\n\n Yes, but there s not so much of that actual fact about her as about\nme. I can see that he would never have cared for me. She is altogether\nspiritual. \n\n Oh, no, he is so fond of you, and I am always so glad when my people\nlike you.... \n\n Yes, he s very nice to me; but.... \n\n It s not as it was with poor Nikolay ... you really cared for each\nother,  Levin finished.  Why not speak of him?  he added.  I sometimes\nblame myself for not; it ends in one s forgetting. Ah, how terrible and\ndear he was!... Yes, what were we talking about?  Levin said, after a\npause.\n\n You think he can t fall in love,  said Kitty, translating into her own\nlanguage.\n\n It s not so much that he can t fall in love,  Levin said, smiling,\n but he has not the weakness necessary.... I ve always envied him, and\neven now, when I m so happy, I still envy him. \n\n You envy him for not being able to fall in love? \n\n I envy him for being better than I,  said Levin.  He does not live for\nhimself. His whole life is subordinated to his duty. And that s why he\ncan be calm and contented. \n\n And you?  Kitty asked, with an ironical and loving smile.\n\nShe could never have explained the chain of thought that made her\nsmile; but the last link in it was that her husband, in exalting his\nbrother and abasing himself, was not quite sincere. Kitty knew that\nthis insincerity came from his love for his brother, from his sense of\nshame at being too happy, and above all from his unflagging craving to\nbe better she loved it in him, and so she smiled.\n\n And you? What are you dissatisfied with?  she asked, with the same\nsmile.\n\nHer disbelief in his self-dissatisfaction delighted him, and\nunconsciously he tried to draw her into giving utterance to the grounds\nof her disbelief.\n\n I am happy, but dissatisfied with myself....  he said.\n\n Why, how can you be dissatisfied with yourself if you are happy? \n\n Well, how shall I say?... In my heart I really care for nothing\nwhatever but that you should not stumble see? Oh, but really you\nmustn t skip about like that!  he cried, breaking off to scold her for\ntoo agile a movement in stepping over a branch that lay in the path.\n But when I think about myself, and compare myself with others,\nespecially with my brother, I feel I m a poor creature. \n\n But in what way?  Kitty pursued with the same smile.  Don t you too\nwork for others? What about your co-operative settlement, and your work\non the estate, and your book?... \n\n Oh, but I feel, and particularly just now it s your fault,  he said,\npressing her hand that all that doesn t count. I do it in a way\nhalfheartedly. If I could care for all that as I care for you!...\nInstead of that, I do it in these days like a task that is set me. \n\n Well, what would you say about papa?  asked Kitty.  Is he a poor\ncreature then, as he does nothing for the public good? \n\n He? no! But then one must have the simplicity, the\nstraightforwardness, the goodness of your father: and I haven t got\nthat. I do nothing, and I fret about it. It s all your doing. Before\nthere was you and _this_ too,  he added with a glance towards her waist\nthat she understood I put all my energies into work; now I can t, and\nI m ashamed; I do it just as though it were a task set me, I m\npretending.... \n\n Well, but would you like to change this minute with Sergey\nIvanovitch?  said Kitty.  Would you like to do this work for the\ngeneral good, and to love the task set you, as he does, and nothing\nelse? \n\n Of course not,  said Levin.  But I m so happy that I don t understand\nanything. So you think he ll make her an offer today?  he added after a\nbrief silence.\n\n I think so, and I don t think so. Only, I m awfully anxious for it.\nHere, wait a minute.  She stooped down and picked a wild camomile at\nthe edge of the path.  Come, count: he does propose, he doesn t,  she\nsaid, giving him the flower.\n\n He does, he doesn t,  said Levin, tearing off the white petals.\n\n No, no!  Kitty, snatching at his hand, stopped him. She had been\nwatching his fingers with interest.  You picked off two. \n\n Oh, but see, this little one shan t count to make up,  said Levin,\ntearing off a little half-grown petal.  Here s the wagonette overtaking\nus. \n\n Aren t you tired, Kitty?  called the princess.\n\n Not in the least. \n\n If you are you can get in, as the horses are quiet and walking. \n\nBut it was not worth while to get in, they were quite near the place,\nand all walked on together.\n\n\nChapter 4\n\nVarenka, with her white kerchief on her black hair, surrounded by the\nchildren, gaily and good-humoredly looking after them, and at the same\ntime visibly excited at the possibility of receiving a declaration from\nthe man she cared for, was very attractive. Sergey Ivanovitch walked\nbeside her, and never left off admiring her. Looking at her, he\nrecalled all the delightful things he had heard from her lips, all the\ngood he knew about her, and became more and more conscious that the\nfeeling he had for her was something special that he had felt long,\nlong ago, and only once, in his early youth. The feeling of happiness\nin being near her continually grew, and at last reached such a point\nthat, as he put a huge, slender-stalked agaric fungus in her basket, he\nlooked straight into her face, and noticing the flush of glad and\nalarmed excitement that overspread her face, he was confused himself,\nand smiled to her in silence a smile that said too much.\n\n If so,  he said to himself,  I ought to think it over and make up my\nmind, and not give way like a boy to the impulse of a moment. \n\n I m going to pick by myself apart from all the rest, or else my\nefforts will make no show,  he said, and he left the edge of the forest\nwhere they were walking on low silky grass between old birch trees\nstanding far apart, and went more into the heart of the wood, where\nbetween the white birch trunks there were gray trunks of aspen and dark\nbushes of hazel. Walking some forty paces away, Sergey Ivanovitch,\nknowing he was out of sight, stood still behind a bushy spindle-tree in\nfull flower with its rosy red catkins. It was perfectly still all round\nhim. Only overhead in the birches under which he stood, the flies, like\na swarm of bees, buzzed unceasingly, and from time to time the\nchildren s voices were floated across to him. All at once he heard, not\nfar from the edge of the wood, the sound of Varenka s contralto voice,\ncalling Grisha, and a smile of delight passed over Sergey Ivanovitch s\nface. Conscious of this smile, he shook his head disapprovingly at his\nown condition, and taking out a cigar, he began lighting it. For a long\nwhile he could not get a match to light against the trunk of a birch\ntree. The soft scales of the white bark rubbed off the phosphorus, and\nthe light went out. At last one of the matches burned, and the fragrant\ncigar smoke, hovering uncertainly in flat, wide coils, stretched away\nforwards and upwards over a bush under the overhanging branches of a\nbirch tree. Watching the streak of smoke, Sergey Ivanovitch walked\ngently on, deliberating on his position.\n\n Why not?  he thought.  If it were only a passing fancy or a passion,\nif it were only this attraction this mutual attraction (I can call it a\n_mutual_ attraction), but if I felt that it was in contradiction with\nthe whole bent of my life if I felt that in giving way to this\nattraction I should be false to my vocation and my duty ... but it s\nnot so. The only thing I can say against it is that, when I lost Marie,\nI said to myself that I would remain faithful to her memory. That s the\nonly thing I can say against my feeling.... That s a great thing, \nSergey Ivanovitch said to himself, feeling at the same time that this\nconsideration had not the slightest importance for him personally, but\nwould only perhaps detract from his romantic character in the eyes of\nothers.  But apart from that, however much I searched, I should never\nfind anything to say against my feeling. If I were choosing by\nconsiderations of suitability alone, I could not have found anything\nbetter. \n\nHowever many women and girls he thought of whom he knew, he could not\nthink of a girl who united to such a degree all, positively all, the\nqualities he would wish to see in his wife. She had all the charm and\nfreshness of youth, but she was not a child; and if she loved him, she\nloved him consciously as a woman ought to love; that was one thing.\nAnother point: she was not only far from being worldly, but had an\nunmistakable distaste for worldly society, and at the same time she\nknew the world, and had all the ways of a woman of the best society,\nwhich were absolutely essential to Sergey Ivanovitch s conception of\nthe woman who was to share his life. Thirdly: she was religious, and\nnot like a child, unconsciously religious and good, as Kitty, for\nexample, was, but her life was founded on religious principles. Even in\ntrifling matters, Sergey Ivanovitch found in her all that he wanted in\nhis wife: she was poor and alone in the world, so she would not bring\nwith her a mass of relations and their influence into her husband s\nhouse, as he saw now in Kitty s case. She would owe everything to her\nhusband, which was what he had always desired too for his future family\nlife. And this girl, who united all these qualities, loved him. He was\na modest man, but he could not help seeing it. And he loved her. There\nwas one consideration against it his age. But he came of a long-lived\nfamily, he had not a single gray hair, no one would have taken him for\nforty, and he remembered Varenka s saying that it was only in Russia\nthat men of fifty thought themselves old, and that in France a man of\nfifty considers himself _dans la force de l ge_, while a man of forty\nis _un jeune homme_. But what did the mere reckoning of years matter\nwhen he felt as young in heart as he had been twenty years ago? Was it\nnot youth to feel as he felt now, when coming from the other side to\nthe edge of the wood he saw in the glowing light of the slanting\nsunbeams the gracious figure of Varenka in her yellow gown with her\nbasket, walking lightly by the trunk of an old birch tree, and when\nthis impression of the sight of Varenka blended so harmoniously with\nthe beauty of the view, of the yellow oatfield lying bathed in the\nslanting sunshine, and beyond it the distant ancient forest flecked\nwith yellow and melting into the blue of the distance? His heart\nthrobbed joyously. A softened feeling came over him. He felt that he\nhad made up his mind. Varenka, who had just crouched down to pick a\nmushroom, rose with a supple movement and looked round. Flinging away\nthe cigar, Sergey Ivanovitch advanced with resolute steps towards her.\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n Varvara Andreevna, when I was very young, I set before myself the\nideal of the woman I loved and should be happy to call my wife. I have\nlived through a long life, and now for the first time I have met what I\nsought in you. I love you, and offer you my hand. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch was saying this to himself while he was ten paces\nfrom Varvara. Kneeling down, with her hands over the mushrooms to guard\nthem from Grisha, she was calling little Masha.\n\n Come here, little ones! There are so many!  she was saying in her\nsweet, deep voice.\n\nSeeing Sergey Ivanovitch approaching, she did not get up and did not\nchange her position, but everything told him that she felt his presence\nand was glad of it.\n\n Well, did you find some?  she asked from under the white kerchief,\nturning her handsome, gently smiling face to him.\n\n Not one,  said Sergey Ivanovitch.  Did you? \n\nShe did not answer, busy with the children who thronged about her.\n\n That one too, near the twig,  she pointed out to little Masha a little\nfungus, split in half across its rosy cap by the dry grass from under\nwhich it thrust itself. Varenka got up while Masha picked the fungus,\nbreaking it into two white halves.  This brings back my childhood,  she\nadded, moving apart from the children beside Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\nThey walked on for some steps in silence. Varenka saw that he wanted to\nspeak; she guessed of what, and felt faint with joy and panic. They had\nwalked so far away that no one could hear them now, but still he did\nnot begin to speak. It would have been better for Varenka to be silent.\nAfter a silence it would have been easier for them to say what they\nwanted to say than after talking about mushrooms. But against her own\nwill, as it were accidentally, Varenka said:\n\n So you found nothing? In the middle of the wood there are always\nfewer, though.  Sergey Ivanovitch sighed and made no answer. He was\nannoyed that she had spoken about the mushrooms. He wanted to bring her\nback to the first words she had uttered about her childhood; but after\na pause of some length, as though against his own will, he made an\nobservation in response to her last words.\n\n I have heard that the white edible funguses are found principally at\nthe edge of the wood, though I can t tell them apart. \n\nSome minutes more passed, they moved still further away from the\nchildren, and were quite alone. Varenka s heart throbbed so that she\nheard it beating, and felt that she was turning red and pale and red\nagain.\n\nTo be the wife of a man like Koznishev, after her position with Madame\nStahl, was to her imagination the height of happiness. Besides, she was\nalmost certain that she was in love with him. And this moment it would\nhave to be decided. She felt frightened. She dreaded both his speaking\nand his not speaking.\n\nNow or never it must be said that Sergey Ivanovitch felt too.\nEverything in the expression, the flushed cheeks and the downcast eyes\nof Varenka betrayed a painful suspense. Sergey Ivanovitch saw it and\nfelt sorry for her. He felt even that to say nothing now would be a\nslight to her. Rapidly in his own mind he ran over all the arguments in\nsupport of his decision. He even said over to himself the words in\nwhich he meant to put his offer, but instead of those words, some\nutterly unexpected reflection that occurred to him made him ask:\n\n What is the difference between the  birch  mushroom and the  white \nmushroom? \n\nVarenka s lips quivered with emotion as she answered:\n\n In the top part there is scarcely any difference, it s in the stalk. \n\nAnd as soon as these words were uttered, both he and she felt that it\nwas over, that what was to have been said would not be said; and their\nemotion, which had up to then been continually growing more intense,\nbegan to subside.\n\n The birch mushroom s stalk suggests a dark man s chin after two days\nwithout shaving,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, speaking quite calmly now.\n\n Yes, that s true,  answered Varenka smiling, and unconsciously the\ndirection of their walk changed. They began to turn towards the\nchildren. Varenka felt both sore and ashamed; at the same time she had\na sense of relief.\n\nWhen he had got home again and went over the whole subject, Sergey\nIvanovitch thought his previous decision had been a mistaken one. He\ncould not be false to the memory of Marie.\n\n Gently, children, gently!  Levin shouted quite angrily to the\nchildren, standing before his wife to protect her when the crowd of\nchildren flew with shrieks of delight to meet them.\n\nBehind the children Sergey Ivanovitch and Varenka walked out of the\nwood. Kitty had no need to ask Varenka; she saw from the calm and\nsomewhat crestfallen faces of both that her plans had not come off.\n\n Well?  her husband questioned her as they were going home again.\n\n It doesn t bite,  said Kitty, her smile and manner of speaking\nrecalling her father, a likeness Levin often noticed with pleasure.\n\n How doesn t bite? \n\n I ll show you,  she said, taking her husband s hand, lifting it to her\nmouth, and just faintly brushing it with closed lips.  Like a kiss on a\npriest s hand. \n\n Which didn t it bite with?  he said, laughing.\n\n Both. But it should have been like this.... \n\n There are some peasants coming.... \n\n Oh, they didn t see. \n\n\nChapter 6\n\nDuring the time of the children s tea the grown-up people sat in the\nbalcony and talked as though nothing had happened, though they all,\nespecially Sergey Ivanovitch and Varenka, were very well aware that\nthere had happened an event which, though negative, was of very great\nimportance. They both had the same feeling, rather like that of a\nschoolboy after an examination, which has left him in the same class or\nshut him out of the school forever. Everyone present, feeling too that\nsomething had happened, talked eagerly about extraneous subjects. Levin\nand Kitty were particularly happy and conscious of their love that\nevening. And their happiness in their love seemed to imply a\ndisagreeable slur on those who would have liked to feel the same and\ncould not and they felt a prick of conscience.\n\n Mark my words, Alexander will not come,  said the old princess.\n\nThat evening they were expecting Stepan Arkadyevitch to come down by\ntrain, and the old prince had written that possibly he might come too.\n\n And I know why,  the princess went on;  he says that young people\nought to be left alone for a while at first. \n\n But papa has left us alone. We ve never seen him,  said Kitty.\n Besides, we re not young people! we re old, married people by now. \n\n Only if he doesn t come, I shall say good-bye to you children,  said\nthe princess, sighing mournfully.\n\n What nonsense, mamma!  both the daughters fell upon her at once.\n\n How do you suppose he is feeling? Why, now.... \n\nAnd suddenly there was an unexpected quiver in the princess s voice.\nHer daughters were silent, and looked at one another.  Maman always\nfinds something to be miserable about,  they said in that glance. They\ndid not know that happy as the princess was in her daughter s house,\nand useful as she felt herself to be there, she had been extremely\nmiserable, both on her own account and her husband s, ever since they\nhad married their last and favorite daughter, and the old home had been\nleft empty.\n\n What is it, Agafea Mihalovna?  Kitty asked suddenly of Agafea\nMihalovna, who was standing with a mysterious air, and a face full of\nmeaning.\n\n About supper. \n\n Well, that s right,  said Dolly;  you go and arrange about it, and\nI ll go and hear Grisha repeat his lesson, or else he will have nothing\ndone all day. \n\n That s my lesson! No, Dolly, I m going,  said Levin, jumping up.\n\nGrisha, who was by now at a high school, had to go over the lessons of\nthe term in the summer holidays. Darya Alexandrovna, who had been\nstudying Latin with her son in Moscow before, had made it a rule on\ncoming to the Levins  to go over with him, at least once a day, the\nmost difficult lessons of Latin and arithmetic. Levin had offered to\ntake her place, but the mother, having once overheard Levin s lesson,\nand noticing that it was not given exactly as the teacher in Moscow had\ngiven it, said resolutely, though with much embarrassment and anxiety\nnot to mortify Levin, that they must keep strictly to the book as the\nteacher had done, and that she had better undertake it again herself.\nLevin was amazed both at Stepan Arkadyevitch, who, by neglecting his\nduty, threw upon the mother the supervision of studies of which she had\nno comprehension, and at the teachers for teaching the children so\nbadly. But he promised his sister-in-law to give the lessons exactly as\nshe wished. And he went on teaching Grisha, not in his own way, but by\nthe book, and so took little interest in it, and often forgot the hour\nof the lesson. So it had been today.\n\n No, I m going, Dolly, you sit still,  he said.  We ll do it all\nproperly, like the book. Only when Stiva comes, and we go out shooting,\nthen we shall have to miss it. \n\nAnd Levin went to Grisha.\n\nVarenka was saying the same thing to Kitty. Even in the happy,\nwell-ordered household of the Levins Varenka had succeeded in making\nherself useful.\n\n I ll see to the supper, you sit still,  she said, and got up to go to\nAgafea Mihalovna.\n\n Yes, yes, most likely they ve not been able to get chickens. If so,\nours.... \n\n Agafea Mihalovna and I will see about it,  and Varenka vanished with\nher.\n\n What a nice girl!  said the princess.\n\n Not nice, maman; she s an exquisite girl; there s no one else like\nher. \n\n So you are expecting Stepan Arkadyevitch today?  said Sergey\nIvanovitch, evidently not disposed to pursue the conversation about\nVarenka.  It would be difficult to find two sons-in-law more unlike\nthan yours,  he said with a subtle smile.  One all movement, only\nliving in society, like a fish in water; the other our Kostya, lively,\nalert, quick in everything, but as soon as he is in society, he either\nsinks into apathy, or struggles helplessly like a fish on land. \n\n Yes, he s very heedless,  said the princess, addressing Sergey\nIvanovitch.  I ve been meaning, indeed, to ask you to tell him that\nit s out of the question for her  (she indicated Kitty)  to stay here;\nthat she positively must come to Moscow. He talks of getting a doctor\ndown.... \n\n Maman, he ll do everything; he has agreed to everything,  Kitty said,\nangry with her mother for appealing to Sergey Ivanovitch to judge in\nsuch a matter.\n\nIn the middle of their conversation they heard the snorting of horses\nand the sound of wheels on the gravel. Dolly had not time to get up to\ngo and meet her husband, when from the window of the room below, where\nGrisha was having his lesson, Levin leaped out and helped Grisha out\nafter him.\n\n It s Stiva!  Levin shouted from under the balcony.  We ve finished,\nDolly, don t be afraid!  he added, and started running like a boy to\nmeet the carriage.\n\n _Is ea id, ejus, ejus, ejus!_  shouted Grisha, skipping along the\navenue.\n\n And someone else too! Papa, of course!  cried Levin, stopping at the\nentrance of the avenue.  Kitty, don t come down the steep staircase, go\nround. \n\nBut Levin had been mistaken in taking the person sitting in the\ncarriage for the old prince. As he got nearer to the carriage he saw\nbeside Stepan Arkadyevitch not the prince but a handsome, stout young\nman in a Scotch cap, with long ends of ribbon behind. This was Vassenka\nVeslovsky, a distant cousin of the Shtcherbatskys, a brilliant young\ngentleman in Petersburg and Moscow society.  A capital fellow, and a\nkeen sportsman,  as Stepan Arkadyevitch said, introducing him.\n\nNot a whit abashed by the disappointment caused by his having come in\nplace of the old prince, Veslovsky greeted Levin gaily, claiming\nacquaintance with him in the past, and snatching up Grisha into the\ncarriage, lifted him over the pointer that Stepan Arkadyevitch had\nbrought with him.\n\nLevin did not get into the carriage, but walked behind. He was rather\nvexed at the non-arrival of the old prince, whom he liked more and more\nthe more he saw of him, and also at the arrival of this Vassenka\nVeslovsky, a quite uncongenial and superfluous person. He seemed to him\nstill more uncongenial and superfluous when, on approaching the steps\nwhere the whole party, children and grown-up, were gathered together in\nmuch excitement, Levin saw Vassenka Veslovsky, with a particularly warm\nand gallant air, kissing Kitty s hand.\n\n Your wife and I are cousins and very old friends,  said Vassenka\nVeslovsky, once more shaking Levin s hand with great warmth.\n\n Well, are there plenty of birds?  Stepan Arkadyevitch said to Levin,\nhardly leaving time for everyone to utter their greetings.  We ve come\nwith the most savage intentions. Why, maman, they ve not been in Moscow\nsince! Look, Tanya, here s something for you! Get it, please, it s in\nthe carriage, behind!  he talked in all directions.  How pretty you ve\ngrown, Dolly,  he said to his wife, once more kissing her hand, holding\nit in one of his, and patting it with the other.\n\nLevin, who a minute before had been in the happiest frame of mind, now\nlooked darkly at everyone, and everything displeased him.\n\n Who was it he kissed yesterday with those lips?  he thought, looking\nat Stepan Arkadyevitch s tender demonstrations to his wife. He looked\nat Dolly, and he did not like her either.\n\n She doesn t believe in his love. So what is she so pleased about?\nRevolting!  thought Levin.\n\nHe looked at the princess, who had been so dear to him a minute before,\nand he did not like the manner in which she welcomed this Vassenka,\nwith his ribbons, just as though she were in her own house.\n\nEven Sergey Ivanovitch, who had come out too onto the steps, seemed to\nhim unpleasant with the show of cordiality with which he met Stepan\nArkadyevitch, though Levin knew that his brother neither liked nor\nrespected Oblonsky.\n\nAnd Varenka, even she seemed hateful, with her air _sainte nitouche_\nmaking the acquaintance of this gentleman, while all the while she was\nthinking of nothing but getting married.\n\nAnd more hateful than anyone was Kitty for falling in with the tone of\ngaiety with which this gentleman regarded his visit in the country, as\nthough it were a holiday for himself and everyone else. And, above all,\nunpleasant was that particular smile with which she responded to his\nsmile.\n\nNoisily talking, they all went into the house; but as soon as they were\nall seated, Levin turned and went out.\n\nKitty saw something was wrong with her husband. She tried to seize a\nmoment to speak to him alone, but he made haste to get away from her,\nsaying he was wanted at the counting-house. It was long since his own\nwork on the estate had seemed to him so important as at that moment.\n It s all holiday for them,  he thought;  but these are no holiday\nmatters, they won t wait, and there s no living without them. \n\n\nChapter 7\n\nLevin came back to the house only when they sent to summon him to\nsupper. On the stairs were standing Kitty and Agafea Mihalovna,\nconsulting about wines for supper.\n\n But why are you making all this fuss? Have what we usually do. \n\n No, Stiva doesn t drink ... Kostya, stop, what s the matter?  Kitty\nbegan, hurrying after him, but he strode ruthlessly away to the\ndining-room without waiting for her, and at once joined in the lively\ngeneral conversation which was being maintained there by Vassenka\nVeslovsky and Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Well, what do you say, are we going shooting tomorrow?  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch.\n\n Please, do let s go,  said Veslovsky, moving to another chair, where\nhe sat down sideways, with one fat leg crossed under him.\n\n I shall be delighted, we will go. And have you had any shooting yet\nthis year?  said Levin to Veslovsky, looking intently at his leg, but\nspeaking with that forced amiability that Kitty knew so well in him,\nand that was so out of keeping with him.  I can t answer for our\nfinding grouse, but there are plenty of snipe. Only we ought to start\nearly. You re not tired? Aren t you tired, Stiva? \n\n Me tired? I ve never been tired yet. Suppose we stay up all night.\nLet s go for a walk! \n\n Yes, really, let s not go to bed at all! Capital!  Veslovsky chimed\nin.\n\n Oh, we all know you can do without sleep, and keep other people up\ntoo,  Dolly said to her husband, with that faint note of irony in her\nvoice which she almost always had now with her husband.  But to my\nthinking, it s time for bed now.... I m going, I don t want supper. \n\n No, do stay a little, Dolly,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, going round to\nher side behind the table where they were having supper.  I ve so much\nstill to tell you. \n\n Nothing really, I suppose. \n\n Do you know Veslovsky has been at Anna s, and he s going to them\nagain? You know they re hardly fifty miles from you, and I too must\ncertainly go over there. Veslovsky, come here! \n\nVassenka crossed over to the ladies, and sat down beside Kitty.\n\n Ah, do tell me, please; you have stayed with her? How was she?  Darya\nAlexandrovna appealed to him.\n\nLevin was left at the other end of the table, and though never pausing\nin his conversation with the princess and Varenka, he saw that there\nwas an eager and mysterious conversation going on between Stepan\nArkadyevitch, Dolly, Kitty, and Veslovsky. And that was not all. He saw\non his wife s face an expression of real feeling as she gazed with\nfixed eyes on the handsome face of Vassenka, who was telling them\nsomething with great animation.\n\n It s exceedingly nice at their place,  Veslovsky was telling them\nabout Vronsky and Anna.  I can t, of course, take it upon myself to\njudge, but in their house you feel the real feeling of home. \n\n What do they intend doing? \n\n I believe they think of going to Moscow. \n\n How jolly it would be for us all to go over to them together! When are\nyou going there?  Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Vassenka.\n\n I m spending July there. \n\n Will you go?  Stepan Arkadyevitch said to his wife.\n\n I ve been wanting to a long while; I shall certainly go,  said Dolly.\n I am sorry for her, and I know her. She s a splendid woman. I will go\nalone, when you go back, and then I shall be in no one s way. And it\nwill be better indeed without you. \n\n To be sure,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  And you, Kitty? \n\n I? Why should I go?  Kitty said, flushing all over, and she glanced\nround at her husband.\n\n Do you know Anna Arkadyevna, then?  Veslovsky asked her.  She s a very\nfascinating woman. \n\n Yes,  she answered Veslovsky, crimsoning still more. She got up and\nwalked across to her husband.\n\n Are you going shooting, then, tomorrow?  she said.\n\nHis jealousy had in these few moments, especially at the flush that had\noverspread her cheeks while she was talking to Veslovsky, gone far\nindeed. Now as he heard her words, he construed them in his own\nfashion. Strange as it was to him afterwards to recall it, it seemed to\nhim at the moment clear that in asking whether he was going shooting,\nall she cared to know was whether he would give that pleasure to\nVassenka Veslovsky, with whom, as he fancied, she was in love.\n\n Yes, I m going,  he answered her in an unnatural voice, disagreeable\nto himself.\n\n No, better spend the day here tomorrow, or Dolly won t see anything of\nher husband, and set off the day after,  said Kitty.\n\nThe motive of Kitty s words was interpreted by Levin thus:  Don t\nseparate me from _him_. I don t care about _your_ going, but do let me\nenjoy the society of this delightful young man. \n\n Oh, if you wish, we ll stay here tomorrow,  Levin answered, with\npeculiar amiability.\n\nVassenka meanwhile, utterly unsuspecting the misery his presence had\noccasioned, got up from the table after Kitty, and watching her with\nsmiling and admiring eyes, he followed her.\n\nLevin saw that look. He turned white, and for a minute he could hardly\nbreathe.  How dare he look at my wife like that!  was the feeling that\nboiled within him.\n\n Tomorrow, then? Do, please, let us go,  said Vassenka, sitting down on\na chair, and again crossing his leg as his habit was.\n\nLevin s jealousy went further still. Already he saw himself a deceived\nhusband, looked upon by his wife and her lover as simply necessary to\nprovide them with the conveniences and pleasures of life.... But in\nspite of that he made polite and hospitable inquiries of Vassenka about\nhis shooting, his gun, and his boots, and agreed to go shooting next\nday.\n\nHappily for Levin, the old princess cut short his agonies by getting up\nherself and advising Kitty to go to bed. But even at this point Levin\ncould not escape another agony. As he said good-night to his hostess,\nVassenka would again have kissed her hand, but Kitty, reddening, drew\nback her hand and said with a na ve bluntness, for which the old\nprincess scolded her afterwards:\n\n We don t like that fashion. \n\nIn Levin s eyes she was to blame for having allowed such relations to\narise, and still more to blame for showing so awkwardly that she did\nnot like them.\n\n Why, how can one want to go to bed!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who,\nafter drinking several glasses of wine at supper, was now in his most\ncharming and sentimental humor.  Look, Kitty,  he said, pointing to the\nmoon, which had just risen behind the lime trees how exquisite!\nVeslovsky, this is the time for a serenade. You know, he has a splendid\nvoice; we practiced songs together along the road. He has brought some\nlovely songs with him, two new ones. Varvara Andreevna and he must sing\nsome duets. \n\nWhen the party had broken up, Stepan Arkadyevitch walked a long while\nabout the avenue with Veslovsky; their voices could be heard singing\none of the new songs.\n\nLevin hearing these voices sat scowling in an easy-chair in his wife s\nbedroom, and maintained an obstinate silence when she asked him what\nwas wrong. But when at last with a timid glance she hazarded the\nquestion:  Was there perhaps something you disliked about\nVeslovsky? it all burst out, and he told her all. He was humiliated\nhimself at what he was saying, and that exasperated him all the more.\n\nHe stood facing her with his eyes glittering menacingly under his\nscowling brows, and he squeezed his strong arms across his chest, as\nthough he were straining every nerve to hold himself in. The expression\nof his face would have been grim, and even cruel, if it had not at the\nsame time had a look of suffering which touched her. His jaws were\ntwitching, and his voice kept breaking.\n\n You must understand that I m not jealous, that s a nasty word. I can t\nbe jealous, and believe that.... I can t say what I feel, but this is\nawful.... I m not jealous, but I m wounded, humiliated that anybody\ndare think, that anybody dare look at you with eyes like that. \n\n Eyes like what?  said Kitty, trying as conscientiously as possible to\nrecall every word and gesture of that evening and every shade implied\nin them.\n\nAt the very bottom of her heart she did think there had been something\nprecisely at the moment when he had crossed over after her to the other\nend of the table; but she dared not own it even to herself, and would\nhave been even more unable to bring herself to say so to him, and so\nincrease his suffering.\n\n And what can there possibly be attractive about me as I am now?... \n\n Ah!  he cried, clutching at his head,  you shouldn t say that!... If\nyou had been attractive then.... \n\n Oh, no, Kostya, oh, wait a minute, oh, do listen!  she said, looking\nat him with an expression of pained commiseration.  Why, what can you\nbe thinking about! When for me there s no one in the world, no one, no\none!... Would you like me never to see anyone? \n\nFor the first minute she had been offended at his jealousy; she was\nangry that the slightest amusement, even the most innocent, should be\nforbidden her; but now she would readily have sacrificed, not merely\nsuch trifles, but everything, for his peace of mind, to save him from\nthe agony he was suffering.\n\n You must understand the horror and comedy of my position,  he went on\nin a desperate whisper;  that he s in my house, that he s done nothing\nimproper positively except his free and easy airs and the way he sits\non his legs. He thinks it s the best possible form, and so I m obliged\nto be civil to him. \n\n But, Kostya, you re exaggerating,  said Kitty, at the bottom of her\nheart rejoicing at the depth of his love for her, shown now in his\njealousy.\n\n The most awful part of it all is that you re just as you always are,\nand especially now when to me you re something sacred, and we re so\nhappy, so particularly happy and all of a sudden a little wretch....\nHe s not a little wretch; why should I abuse him? I have nothing to do\nwith him. But why should my, and your, happiness.... \n\n Do you know, I understand now what it s all come from,  Kitty was\nbeginning.\n\n Well, what? what? \n\n I saw how you looked while we were talking at supper. \n\n Well, well!  Levin said in dismay.\n\nShe told him what they had been talking about. And as she told him, she\nwas breathless with emotion. Levin was silent for a space, then he\nscanned her pale and distressed face, and suddenly he clutched at his\nhead.\n\n Katya, I ve been worrying you! Darling, forgive me! It s madness!\nKatya, I m a criminal. And how could you be so distressed at such\nidiocy? \n\n Oh, I was sorry for you. \n\n For me? for me? How mad I am!... But why make you miserable? It s\nawful to think that any outsider can shatter our happiness. \n\n It s humiliating too, of course. \n\n Oh, then I ll keep him here all the summer, and will overwhelm him\nwith civility,  said Levin, kissing her hands.  You shall see.\nTomorrow.... Oh, yes, we are going tomorrow. \n\n\nChapter 8\n\nNext day, before the ladies were up, the wagonette and a trap for the\nshooting party were at the door, and Laska, aware since early morning\nthat they were going shooting, after much whining and darting to and\nfro, had sat herself down in the wagonette beside the coachman, and,\ndisapproving of the delay, was excitedly watching the door from which\nthe sportsmen still did not come out. The first to come out was\nVassenka Veslovsky, in new high boots that reached half-way up his\nthick thighs, in a green blouse, with a new Russian leather\ncartridge-belt, and in his Scotch cap with ribbons, with a brand-new\nEnglish gun without a sling. Laska flew up to him, welcomed him, and\njumping up, asked him in her own way whether the others were coming\nsoon, but getting no answer from him, she returned to her post of\nobservation and sank into repose again, her head on one side, and one\near pricked up to listen. At last the door opened with a creak, and\nStepan Arkadyevitch s spot-and-tan pointer Krak flew out, running round\nand round and turning over in the air. Stepan Arkadyevitch himself\nfollowed with a gun in his hand and a cigar in his mouth.\n\n Good dog, good dog, Krak!  he cried encouragingly to the dog, who put\nhis paws up on his chest, catching at his game bag. Stepan Arkadyevitch\nwas dressed in rough leggings and spats, in torn trousers and a short\ncoat. On his head there was a wreck of a hat of indefinite form, but\nhis gun of a new patent was a perfect gem, and his game bag and\ncartridge belt, though worn, were of the very best quality.\n\nVassenka Veslovsky had had no notion before that it was truly _chic_\nfor a sportsman to be in tatters, but to have his shooting outfit of\nthe best quality. He saw it now as he looked at Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nradiant in his rags, graceful, well-fed, and joyous, a typical Russian\nnobleman. And he made up his mind that next time he went shooting he\nwould certainly adopt the same get-up.\n\n Well, and what about our host?  he asked.\n\n A young wife,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling.\n\n Yes, and such a charming one! \n\n He came down dressed. No doubt he s run up to her again. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch guessed right. Levin had run up again to his wife\nto ask her once more if she forgave him for his idiocy yesterday, and,\nmoreover, to beg her for Christ s sake to be more careful. The great\nthing was for her to keep away from the children they might any minute\npush against her. Then he had once more to hear her declare that she\nwas not angry with him for going away for two days, and to beg her to\nbe sure to send him a note next morning by a servant on horseback, to\nwrite him, if it were but two words only, to let him know that all was\nwell with her.\n\nKitty was distressed, as she always was, at parting for a couple of\ndays from her husband, but when she saw his eager figure, looking big\nand strong in his shooting-boots and his white blouse, and a sort of\nsportsman elation and excitement incomprehensible to her, she forgot\nher own chagrin for the sake of his pleasure, and said good-bye to him\ncheerfully.\n\n Pardon, gentlemen!  he said, running out onto the steps.  Have you put\nthe lunch in? Why is the chestnut on the right? Well, it doesn t\nmatter. Laska, down; go and lie down! \n\n Put it with the herd of oxen,  he said to the herdsman, who was\nwaiting for him at the steps with some question.  Excuse me, here comes\nanother villain. \n\nLevin jumped out of the wagonette, in which he had already taken his\nseat, to meet the carpenter, who came towards the steps with a rule in\nhis hand.\n\n You didn t come to the counting house yesterday, and now you re\ndetaining me. Well, what is it? \n\n Would your honor let me make another turning? It s only three steps to\nadd. And we make it just fit at the same time. It will be much more\nconvenient. \n\n You should have listened to me,  Levin answered with annoyance.  I\nsaid: Put the lines and then fit in the steps. Now there s no setting\nit right. Do as I told you, and make a new staircase. \n\nThe point was that in the lodge that was being built the carpenter had\nspoiled the staircase, fitting it together without calculating the\nspace it was to fill, so that the steps were all sloping when it was\nput in place. Now the carpenter wanted, keeping the same staircase, to\nadd three steps.\n\n It will be much better. \n\n But where s your staircase coming out with its three steps? \n\n Why, upon my word, sir,  the carpenter said with a contemptuous smile.\n It comes out right at the very spot. It starts, so to speak,  he said,\nwith a persuasive gesture;  it comes down, and comes down, and comes\nout. \n\n But three steps will add to the length too ... where is it to come\nout? \n\n Why, to be sure, it ll start from the bottom and go up and go up, and\ncome out so,  the carpenter said obstinately and convincingly.\n\n It ll reach the ceiling and the wall. \n\n Upon my word! Why, it ll go up, and up, and come out like this. \n\nLevin took out a ramrod and began sketching him the staircase in the\ndust.\n\n There, do you see? \n\n As your honor likes,  said the carpenter, with a sudden gleam in his\neyes, obviously understanding the thing at last.  It seems it ll be\nbest to make a new one. \n\n Well, then, do it as you re told,  Levin shouted, seating himself in\nthe wagonette.  Down! Hold the dogs, Philip! \n\nLevin felt now at leaving behind all his family and household cares\nsuch an eager sense of joy in life and expectation that he was not\ndisposed to talk. Besides that, he had that feeling of concentrated\nexcitement that every sportsman experiences as he approaches the scene\nof action. If he had anything on his mind at that moment, it was only\nthe doubt whether they would start anything in the Kolpensky marsh,\nwhether Laska would show to advantage in comparison with Krak, and\nwhether he would shoot well that day himself. Not to disgrace himself\nbefore a new spectator not to be outdone by Oblonsky that too was a\nthought that crossed his brain.\n\nOblonsky was feeling the same, and he too was not talkative. Vassenka\nVeslovsky kept up alone a ceaseless flow of cheerful chatter. As he\nlistened to him now, Levin felt ashamed to think how unfair he had been\nto him the day before. Vassenka was really a nice fellow, simple,\ngood-hearted, and very good-humored. If Levin had met him before he was\nmarried, he would have made friends with him. Levin rather disliked his\nholiday attitude to life and a sort of free and easy assumption of\nelegance. It was as though he assumed a high degree of importance in\nhimself that could not be disputed, because he had long nails and a\nstylish cap, and everything else to correspond; but this could be\nforgiven for the sake of his good nature and good breeding. Levin liked\nhim for his good education, for speaking French and English with such\nan excellent accent, and for being a man of his world.\n\nVassenka was extremely delighted with the left horse, a horse of the\nDon Steppes. He kept praising him enthusiastically.  How fine it must\nbe galloping over the steppes on a steppe horse! Eh? isn t it?  he\nsaid. He had imagined riding on a steppe horse as something wild and\nromantic, and it turned out nothing of the sort. But his simplicity,\nparticularly in conjunction with his good looks, his amiable smile, and\nthe grace of his movements, was very attractive. Either because his\nnature was sympathetic to Levin, or because Levin was trying to atone\nfor his sins of the previous evening by seeing nothing but what was\ngood in him, anyway he liked his society.\n\nAfter they had driven over two miles from home, Veslovsky all at once\nfelt for a cigar and his pocketbook, and did not know whether he had\nlost them or left them on the table. In the pocketbook there were\nthirty-seven pounds, and so the matter could not be left in\nuncertainty.\n\n Do you know what, Levin, I ll gallop home on that left trace-horse.\nThat will be splendid. Eh?  he said, preparing to get out.\n\n No, why should you?  answered Levin, calculating that Vassenka could\nhardly weigh less than seventeen stone.  I ll send the coachman. \n\nThe coachman rode back on the trace-horse, and Levin himself drove the\nremaining pair.\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n Well, now what s our plan of campaign? Tell us all about it,  said\nStepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Our plan is this. Now we re driving to Gvozdyov. In Gvozdyov there s a\ngrouse marsh on this side, and beyond Gvozdyov come some magnificent\nsnipe marshes where there are grouse too. It s hot now, and we ll get\nthere it s fifteen miles or so towards evening and have some evening\nshooting; we ll spend the night there and go on tomorrow to the bigger\nmoors. \n\n And is there nothing on the way? \n\n Yes; but we ll reserve ourselves; besides it s hot. There are two nice\nlittle places, but I doubt there being anything to shoot. \n\nLevin would himself have liked to go into these little places, but they\nwere near home; he could shoot them over any time, and they were only\nlittle places there would hardly be room for three to shoot. And so,\nwith some insincerity, he said that he doubted there being anything to\nshoot. When they reached a little marsh Levin would have driven by, but\nStepan Arkadyevitch, with the experienced eye of a sportsman, at once\ndetected reeds visible from the road.\n\n Shan t we try that?  he said, pointing to the little marsh.\n\n Levin, do, please! how delightful!  Vassenka Veslovsky began begging,\nand Levin could but consent.\n\nBefore they had time to stop, the dogs had flown one before the other\ninto the marsh.\n\n Krak! Laska!... \n\nThe dogs came back.\n\n There won t be room for three. I ll stay here,  said Levin, hoping\nthey would find nothing but peewits, who had been startled by the dogs,\nand turning over in their flight, were plaintively wailing over the\nmarsh.\n\n No! Come along, Levin, let s go together!  Veslovsky called.\n\n Really, there s not room. Laska, back, Laska! You won t want another\ndog, will you? \n\nLevin remained with the wagonette, and looked enviously at the\nsportsmen. They walked right across the marsh. Except little birds and\npeewits, of which Vassenka killed one, there was nothing in the marsh.\n\n Come, you see now that it was not that I grudged the marsh,  said\nLevin,  only it s wasting time. \n\n Oh, no, it was jolly all the same. Did you see us?  said Vassenka\nVeslovsky, clambering awkwardly into the wagonette with his gun and his\npeewit in his hands.  How splendidly I shot this bird! Didn t I? Well,\nshall we soon be getting to the real place? \n\nThe horses started off suddenly, Levin knocked his head against the\nstock of someone s gun, and there was the report of a shot. The gun did\nactually go off first, but that was how it seemed to Levin. It appeared\nthat Vassenka Veslovsky had pulled only one trigger, and had left the\nother hammer still cocked. The charge flew into the ground without\ndoing harm to anyone. Stepan Arkadyevitch shook his head and laughed\nreprovingly at Veslovsky. But Levin had not the heart to reprove him.\nIn the first place, any reproach would have seemed to be called forth\nby the danger he had incurred and the bump that had come up on Levin s\nforehead. And besides, Veslovsky was at first so na vely distressed,\nand then laughed so good-humoredly and infectiously at their general\ndismay, that one could not but laugh with him.\n\nWhen they reached the second marsh, which was fairly large, and would\ninevitably take some time to shoot over, Levin tried to persuade them\nto pass it by. But Veslovsky again overpersuaded him. Again, as the\nmarsh was narrow, Levin, like a good host, remained with the carriage.\n\nKrak made straight for some clumps of sedge. Vassenka Veslovsky was the\nfirst to run after the dog. Before Stepan Arkadyevitch had time to come\nup, a grouse flew out. Veslovsky missed it and it flew into an unmown\nmeadow. This grouse was left for Veslovsky to follow up. Krak found it\nagain and pointed, and Veslovsky shot it and went back to the carriage.\n Now you go and I ll stay with the horses,  he said.\n\nLevin had begun to feel the pangs of a sportsman s envy. He handed the\nreins to Veslovsky and walked into the marsh.\n\nLaska, who had been plaintively whining and fretting against the\ninjustice of her treatment, flew straight ahead to a hopeful place that\nLevin knew well, and that Krak had not yet come upon.\n\n Why don t you stop her?  shouted Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n She won t scare them,  answered Levin, sympathizing with his bitch s\npleasure and hurrying after her.\n\nAs she came nearer and nearer to the familiar breeding places there was\nmore and more earnestness in Laska s exploration. A little marsh bird\ndid not divert her attention for more than an instant. She made one\ncircuit round the clump of reeds, was beginning a second, and suddenly\nquivered with excitement and became motionless.\n\n Come, come, Stiva!  shouted Levin, feeling his heart beginning to beat\nmore violently; and all of a sudden, as though some sort of shutter had\nbeen drawn back from his straining ears, all sounds, confused but loud,\nbegan to beat on his hearing, losing all sense of distance. He heard\nthe steps of Stepan Arkadyevitch, mistaking them for the tramp of the\nhorses in the distance; he heard the brittle sound of the twigs on\nwhich he had trodden, taking this sound for the flying of a grouse. He\nheard too, not far behind him, a splashing in the water, which he could\nnot explain to himself.\n\nPicking his steps, he moved up to the dog.\n\n Fetch it! \n\nNot a grouse but a snipe flew up from beside the dog. Levin had lifted\nhis gun, but at the very instant when he was taking aim, the sound of\nsplashing grew louder, came closer, and was joined with the sound of\nVeslovsky s voice, shouting something with strange loudness. Levin saw\nhe had his gun pointed behind the snipe, but still he fired.\n\nWhen he had made sure he had missed, Levin looked round and saw the\nhorses and the wagonette not on the road but in the marsh.\n\nVeslovsky, eager to see the shooting, had driven into the marsh, and\ngot the horses stuck in the mud.\n\n Damn the fellow!  Levin said to himself, as he went back to the\ncarriage that had sunk in the mire.  What did you drive in for?  he\nsaid to him dryly, and calling the coachman, he began pulling the\nhorses out.\n\nLevin was vexed both at being hindered from shooting and at his horses\ngetting stuck in the mud, and still more at the fact that neither\nStepan Arkadyevitch nor Veslovsky helped him and the coachman to\nunharness the horses and get them out, since neither of them had the\nslightest notion of harnessing. Without vouchsafing a syllable in reply\nto Vassenka s protestations that it had been quite dry there, Levin\nworked in silence with the coachman at extricating the horses. But\nthen, as he got warm at the work and saw how assiduously Veslovsky was\ntugging at the wagonette by one of the mud-guards, so that he broke it\nindeed, Levin blamed himself for having under the influence of\nyesterday s feelings been too cold to Veslovsky, and tried to be\nparticularly genial so as to smooth over his chilliness. When\neverything had been put right, and the carriage had been brought back\nto the road, Levin had the lunch served.\n\n _Bon app tit bonne conscience! Ce poulet va tomber jusqu au fond de\nmes bottes_,  Vassenka, who had recovered his spirits, quoted the\nFrench saying as he finished his second chicken.  Well, now our\ntroubles are over, now everything s going to go well. Only, to atone\nfor my sins, I m bound to sit on the box. That s so? eh? No, no! I ll\nbe your Automedon. You shall see how I ll get you along,  he answered,\nnot letting go the rein, when Levin begged him to let the coachman\ndrive.  No, I must atone for my sins, and I m very comfortable on the\nbox.  And he drove.\n\nLevin was a little afraid he would exhaust the horses, especially the\nchestnut, whom he did not know how to hold in; but unconsciously he\nfell under the influence of his gaiety and listened to the songs he\nsang all the way on the box, or the descriptions and representations he\ngave of driving in the English fashion, four-in-hand; and it was in the\nvery best of spirits that after lunch they drove to the Gvozdyov marsh.\n\n\nChapter 10\n\nVassenka drove the horses so smartly that they reached the marsh too\nearly, while it was still hot.\n\nAs they drew near this more important marsh, the chief aim of their\nexpedition, Levin could not help considering how he could get rid of\nVassenka and be free in his movements. Stepan Arkadyevitch evidently\nhad the same desire, and on his face Levin saw the look of anxiety\nalways present in a true sportsman when beginning shooting, together\nwith a certain good-humored slyness peculiar to him.\n\n How shall we go? It s a splendid marsh, I see, and there are hawks, \nsaid Stepan Arkadyevitch, pointing to two great birds hovering over the\nreeds.  Where there are hawks, there is sure to be game. \n\n Now, gentlemen,  said Levin, pulling up his boots and examining the\nlock of his gun with rather a gloomy expression,  do you see those\nreeds?  He pointed to an oasis of blackish green in the huge half-mown\nwet meadow that stretched along the right bank of the river.  The marsh\nbegins here, straight in front of us, do you see where it is greener?\nFrom here it runs to the right where the horses are; there are breeding\nplaces there, and grouse, and all round those reeds as far as that\nalder, and right up to the mill. Over there, do you see, where the\npools are? That s the best place. There I once shot seventeen snipe.\nWe ll separate with the dogs and go in different directions, and then\nmeet over there at the mill. \n\n Well, which shall go to left and which to right?  asked Stepan\nArkadyevitch.  It s wider to the right; you two go that way and I ll\ntake the left,  he said with apparent carelessness.\n\n Capital! we ll make the bigger bag! Yes, come along, come along! \nVassenka exclaimed.\n\nLevin could do nothing but agree, and they divided.\n\nAs soon as they entered the marsh, the two dogs began hunting about\ntogether and made towards the green, slime-covered pool. Levin knew\nLaska s method, wary and indefinite; he knew the place too and expected\na whole covey of snipe.\n\n Veslovsky, beside me, walk beside me!  he said in a faint voice to his\ncompanion splashing in the water behind him. Levin could not help\nfeeling an interest in the direction his gun was pointed, after that\ncasual shot near the Kolpensky marsh.\n\n Oh, I won t get in your way, don t trouble about me. \n\nBut Levin could not help troubling, and recalled Kitty s words at\nparting:  Mind you don t shoot one another.  The dogs came nearer and\nnearer, passed each other, each pursuing its own scent. The expectation\nof snipe was so intense that to Levin the squelching sound of his own\nheel, as he drew it up out of the mire, seemed to be the call of a\nsnipe, and he clutched and pressed the lock of his gun.\n\n Bang! bang!  sounded almost in his ear. Vassenka had fired at a flock\nof ducks which was hovering over the marsh and flying at that moment\ntowards the sportsmen, far out of range. Before Levin had time to look\nround, there was the whir of one snipe, another, a third, and some\neight more rose one after another.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch hit one at the very moment when it was beginning\nits zigzag movements, and the snipe fell in a heap into the mud.\nOblonsky aimed deliberately at another, still flying low in the reeds,\nand together with the report of the shot, that snipe too fell, and it\ncould be seen fluttering out where the sedge had been cut, its unhurt\nwing showing white beneath.\n\nLevin was not so lucky: he aimed at his first bird too low, and missed;\nhe aimed at it again, just as it was rising, but at that instant\nanother snipe flew up at his very feet, distracting him so that he\nmissed again.\n\nWhile they were loading their guns, another snipe rose, and Veslovsky,\nwho had had time to load again, sent two charges of small-shot into the\nwater. Stepan Arkadyevitch picked up his snipe, and with sparkling eyes\nlooked at Levin.\n\n Well, now let us separate,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, and limping on\nhis left foot, holding his gun in readiness and whistling to his dog,\nhe walked off in one direction. Levin and Veslovsky walked in the\nother.\n\nIt always happened with Levin that when his first shots were a failure\nhe got hot and out of temper, and shot badly the whole day. So it was\nthat day. The snipe showed themselves in numbers. They kept flying up\nfrom just under the dogs, from under the sportsmen s legs, and Levin\nmight have retrieved his ill luck. But the more he shot, the more he\nfelt disgraced in the eyes of Veslovsky, who kept popping away merrily\nand indiscriminately, killing nothing, and not in the slightest abashed\nby his ill success. Levin, in feverish haste, could not restrain\nhimself, got more and more out of temper, and ended by shooting almost\nwithout a hope of hitting. Laska, indeed, seemed to understand this.\nShe began looking more languidly, and gazed back at the sportsmen, as\nit were, with perplexity or reproach in her eyes. Shots followed shots\nin rapid succession. The smoke of the powder hung about the sportsmen,\nwhile in the great roomy net of the game bag there were only three\nlight little snipe. And of these one had been killed by Veslovsky\nalone, and one by both of them together. Meanwhile from the other side\nof the marsh came the sound of Stepan Arkadyevitch s shots, not\nfrequent, but, as Levin fancied, well-directed, for almost after each\nthey heard  Krak, Krak, _apporte_! \n\nThis excited Levin still more. The snipe were floating continually in\nthe air over the reeds. Their whirring wings close to the earth, and\ntheir harsh cries high in the air, could be heard on all sides; the\nsnipe that had risen first and flown up into the air, settled again\nbefore the sportsmen. Instead of two hawks there were now dozens of\nthem hovering with shrill cries over the marsh.\n\nAfter walking through the larger half of the marsh, Levin and Veslovsky\nreached the place where the peasants  mowing-grass was divided into\nlong strips reaching to the reeds, marked off in one place by the\ntrampled grass, in another by a path mown through it. Half of these\nstrips had already been mown.\n\nThough there was not so much hope of finding birds in the uncut part as\nthe cut part, Levin had promised Stepan Arkadyevitch to meet him, and\nso he walked on with his companion through the cut and uncut patches.\n\n Hi, sportsmen!  shouted one of a group of peasants, sitting on an\nunharnessed cart;  come and have some lunch with us! Have a drop of\nwine! \n\nLevin looked round.\n\n Come along, it s all right!  shouted a good-humored-looking bearded\npeasant with a red face, showing his white teeth in a grin, and holding\nup a greenish bottle that flashed in the sunlight.\n\n _Qu est-ce qu ils disent_?  asked Veslovsky.\n\n They invite you to have some vodka. Most likely they ve been dividing\nthe meadow into lots. I should have some,  said Levin, not without some\nguile, hoping Veslovsky would be tempted by the vodka, and would go\naway to them.\n\n Why do they offer it? \n\n Oh, they re merry-making. Really, you should join them. You would be\ninterested. \n\n _Allons, c est curieux_. \n\n You go, you go, you ll find the way to the mill!  cried Levin, and\nlooking round he perceived with satisfaction that Veslovsky, bent and\nstumbling with weariness, holding his gun out at arm s length, was\nmaking his way out of the marsh towards the peasants.\n\n You come too!  the peasants shouted to Levin.  Never fear! You taste\nour cake! \n\nLevin felt a strong inclination to drink a little vodka and to eat some\nbread. He was exhausted, and felt it a great effort to drag his\nstaggering legs out of the mire, and for a minute he hesitated. But\nLaska was setting. And immediately all his weariness vanished, and he\nwalked lightly through the swamp towards the dog. A snipe flew up at\nhis feet; he fired and killed it. Laska still pointed. Fetch it! \nAnother bird flew up close to the dog. Levin fired. But it was an\nunlucky day for him; he missed it, and when he went to look for the one\nhe had shot, he could not find that either. He wandered all about the\nreeds, but Laska did not believe he had shot it, and when he sent her\nto find it, she pretended to hunt for it, but did not really. And in\nthe absence of Vassenka, on whom Levin threw the blame of his failure,\nthings went no better. There were plenty of snipe still, but Levin made\none miss after another.\n\nThe slanting rays of the sun were still hot; his clothes, soaked\nthrough with perspiration, stuck to his body; his left boot full of\nwater weighed heavily on his leg and squeaked at every step; the sweat\nran in drops down his powder-grimed face, his mouth was full of the\nbitter taste, his nose of the smell of powder and stagnant water, his\nears were ringing with the incessant whir of the snipe; he could not\ntouch the stock of his gun, it was so hot; his heart beat with short,\nrapid throbs; his hands shook with excitement, and his weary legs\nstumbled and staggered over the hillocks and in the swamp, but still he\nwalked on and still he shot. At last, after a disgraceful miss, he\nflung his gun and his hat on the ground.\n\n No, I must control myself,  he said to himself. Picking up his gun and\nhis hat, he called Laska, and went out of the swamp. When he got on to\ndry ground he sat down, pulled off his boot and emptied it, then walked\nto the marsh, drank some stagnant-tasting water, moistened his burning\nhot gun, and washed his face and hands. Feeling refreshed, he went back\nto the spot where a snipe had settled, firmly resolved to keep cool.\n\nHe tried to be calm, but it was the same again. His finger pressed the\ncock before he had taken a good aim at the bird. It got worse and\nworse.\n\nHe had only five birds in his game-bag when he walked out of the marsh\ntowards the alders where he was to rejoin Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\nBefore he caught sight of Stepan Arkadyevitch he saw his dog. Krak\ndarted out from behind the twisted root of an alder, black all over\nwith the stinking mire of the marsh, and with the air of a conqueror\nsniffed at Laska. Behind Krak there came into view in the shade of the\nalder tree the shapely figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch. He came to meet\nhim, red and perspiring, with unbuttoned neckband, still limping in the\nsame way.\n\n Well? You have been popping away!  he said, smiling good-humoredly.\n\n How have you got on?  queried Levin. But there was no need to ask, for\nhe had already seen the full game bag.\n\n Oh, pretty fair. \n\nHe had fourteen birds.\n\n A splendid marsh! I ve no doubt Veslovsky got in your way. It s\nawkward too, shooting with one dog,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, to\nsoften his triumph.\n\n\nChapter 11\n\nWhen Levin and Stepan Arkadyevitch reached the peasant s hut where\nLevin always used to stay, Veslovsky was already there. He was sitting\nin the middle of the hut, clinging with both hands to the bench from\nwhich he was being pulled by a soldier, the brother of the peasant s\nwife, who was helping him off with his miry boots. Veslovsky was\nlaughing his infectious, good-humored laugh.\n\n I ve only just come. _Ils ont  t  charmants_. Just fancy, they gave me\ndrink, fed me! Such bread, it was exquisite! _D licieux!_ And the\nvodka, I never tasted any better. And they would not take a penny for\nanything. And they kept saying:  Excuse our homely ways. \n\n What should they take anything for? They were entertaining you, to be\nsure. Do you suppose they keep vodka for sale?  said the soldier,\nsucceeding at last in pulling the soaked boot off the blackened\nstocking.\n\nIn spite of the dirtiness of the hut, which was all muddied by their\nboots and the filthy dogs licking themselves clean, and the smell of\nmarsh mud and powder that filled the room, and the absence of knives\nand forks, the party drank their tea and ate their supper with a relish\nonly known to sportsmen. Washed and clean, they went into a hay-barn\nswept ready for them, where the coachman had been making up beds for\nthe gentlemen.\n\nThough it was dusk, not one of them wanted to go to sleep.\n\nAfter wavering among reminiscences and anecdotes of guns, of dogs, and\nof former shooting parties, the conversation rested on a topic that\ninterested all of them. After Vassenka had several times over expressed\nhis appreciation of this delightful sleeping place among the fragrant\nhay, this delightful broken cart (he supposed it to be broken because\nthe shafts had been taken out), of the good nature of the peasants that\nhad treated him to vodka, of the dogs who lay at the feet of their\nrespective masters, Oblonsky began telling them of a delightful\nshooting party at Malthus s, where he had stayed the previous summer.\n\nMalthus was a well-known capitalist, who had made his money by\nspeculation in railway shares. Stepan Arkadyevitch described what\ngrouse moors this Malthus had bought in the Tver province, and how they\nwere preserved, and of the carriages and dogcarts in which the shooting\nparty had been driven, and the luncheon pavilion that had been rigged\nup at the marsh.\n\n I don t understand you,  said Levin, sitting up in the hay;  how is it\nsuch people don t disgust you? I can understand a lunch with Lafitte is\nall very pleasant, but don t you dislike just that very sumptuousness?\nAll these people, just like our spirit monopolists in old days, get\ntheir money in a way that gains them the contempt of everyone. They\ndon t care for their contempt, and then they use their dishonest gains\nto buy off the contempt they have deserved. \n\n Perfectly true!  chimed in Vassenka Veslovsky.  Perfectly! Oblonsky,\nof course, goes out of _bonhomie_, but other people say:  Well,\nOblonsky stays with them. ... \n\n Not a bit of it.  Levin could hear that Oblonsky was smiling as he\nspoke.  I simply don t consider him more dishonest than any other\nwealthy merchant or nobleman. They ve all made their money alike by\ntheir work and their intelligence. \n\n Oh, by what work? Do you call it work to get hold of concessions and\nspeculate with them? \n\n Of course it s work. Work in this sense, that if it were not for him\nand others like him, there would have been no railways. \n\n But that s not work, like the work of a peasant or a learned\nprofession. \n\n Granted, but it s work in the sense that his activity produces a\nresult the railways. But of course you think the railways useless. \n\n No, that s another question; I am prepared to admit that they re\nuseful. But all profit that is out of proportion to the labor expended\nis dishonest. \n\n But who is to define what is proportionate? \n\n Making profit by dishonest means, by trickery,  said Levin, conscious\nthat he could not draw a distinct line between honesty and dishonesty.\n Such as banking, for instance,  he went on.  It s an evil the amassing\nof huge fortunes without labor, just the same thing as with the spirit\nmonopolies, it s only the form that s changed. _Le roi est mort, vive\nle roi_. No sooner were the spirit monopolies abolished than the\nrailways came up, and banking companies; that, too, is profit without\nwork. \n\n Yes, that may all be very true and clever.... Lie down, Krak!  Stepan\nArkadyevitch called to his dog, who was scratching and turning over all\nthe hay. He was obviously convinced of the correctness of his position,\nand so talked serenely and without haste.  But you have not drawn the\nline between honest and dishonest work. That I receive a bigger salary\nthan my chief clerk, though he knows more about the work than I\ndo that s dishonest, I suppose? \n\n I can t say. \n\n Well, but I can tell you: your receiving some five thousand, let s\nsay, for your work on the land, while our host, the peasant here,\nhowever hard he works, can never get more than fifty roubles, is just\nas dishonest as my earning more than my chief clerk, and Malthus\ngetting more than a station-master. No, quite the contrary; I see that\nsociety takes up a sort of antagonistic attitude to these people, which\nis utterly baseless, and I fancy there s envy at the bottom of it.... \n\n No, that s unfair,  said Veslovsky;  how could envy come in? There is\nsomething not nice about that sort of business. \n\n You say,  Levin went on,  that it s unjust for me to receive five\nthousand, while the peasant has fifty; that s true. It is unfair, and I\nfeel it, but.... \n\n It really is. Why is it we spend our time riding, drinking, shooting,\ndoing nothing, while they are forever at work?  said Vassenka\nVeslovsky, obviously for the first time in his life reflecting on the\nquestion, and consequently considering it with perfect sincerity.\n\n Yes, you feel it, but you don t give him your property,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, intentionally, as it seemed, provoking Levin.\n\nThere had arisen of late something like a secret antagonism between the\ntwo brothers-in-law; as though, since they had married sisters, a kind\nof rivalry had sprung up between them as to which was ordering his life\nbest, and now this hostility showed itself in the conversation, as it\nbegan to take a personal note.\n\n I don t give it away, because no one demands that from me, and if I\nwanted to, I could not give it away,  answered Levin,  and have no one\nto give it to. \n\n Give it to this peasant, he would not refuse it. \n\n Yes, but how am I to give it up? Am I to go to him and make a deed of\nconveyance? \n\n I don t know; but if you are convinced that you have no right.... \n\n I m not at all convinced. On the contrary, I feel I have no right to\ngive it up, that I have duties both to the land and to my family. \n\n No, excuse me, but if you consider this inequality is unjust, why is\nit you don t act accordingly?... \n\n Well, I do act negatively on that idea, so far as not trying to\nincrease the difference of position existing between him and me. \n\n No, excuse me, that s a paradox. \n\n Yes, there s something of a sophistry about that,  Veslovsky agreed.\n Ah! our host; so you re not asleep yet?  he said to the peasant who\ncame into the barn, opening the creaking door.  How is it you re not\nasleep? \n\n No, how s one to sleep! I thought our gentlemen would be asleep, but I\nheard them chattering. I want to get a hook from here. She won t bite? \nhe added, stepping cautiously with his bare feet.\n\n And where are you going to sleep? \n\n We are going out for the night with the beasts. \n\n Ah, what a night!  said Veslovsky, looking out at the edge of the hut\nand the unharnessed wagonette that could be seen in the faint light of\nthe evening glow in the great frame of the open doors.  But listen,\nthere are women s voices singing, and, on my word, not badly too. Who s\nthat singing, my friend? \n\n That s the maids from hard by here. \n\n Let s go, let s have a walk! We shan t go to sleep, you know.\nOblonsky, come along! \n\n If one could only do both, lie here and go,  answered Oblonsky,\nstretching.  It s capital lying here. \n\n Well, I shall go by myself,  said Veslovsky, getting up eagerly, and\nputting on his shoes and stockings.  Good-bye, gentlemen. If it s fun,\nI ll fetch you. You ve treated me to some good sport, and I won t\nforget you. \n\n He really is a capital fellow, isn t he?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nwhen Veslovsky had gone out and the peasant had closed the door after\nhim.\n\n Yes, capital,  answered Levin, still thinking of the subject of their\nconversation just before. It seemed to him that he had clearly\nexpressed his thoughts and feelings to the best of his capacity, and\nyet both of them, straightforward men and not fools, had said with one\nvoice that he was comforting himself with sophistries. This\ndisconcerted him.\n\n It s just this, my dear boy. One must do one of two things: either\nadmit that the existing order of society is just, and then stick up for\none s rights in it; or acknowledge that you are enjoying unjust\nprivileges, as I do, and then enjoy them and be satisfied. \n\n No, if it were unjust, you could not enjoy these advantages and be\nsatisfied at least I could not. The great thing for me is to feel that\nI m not to blame. \n\n What do you say, why not go after all?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nevidently weary of the strain of thought.  We shan t go to sleep, you\nknow. Come, let s go! \n\nLevin did not answer. What they had said in the conversation, that he\nacted justly only in a negative sense, absorbed his thoughts.  Can it\nbe that it s only possible to be just negatively?  he was asking\nhimself.\n\n How strong the smell of the fresh hay is, though,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, getting up.  There s not a chance of sleeping. Vassenka\nhas been getting up some fun there. Do you hear the laughing and his\nvoice? Hadn t we better go? Come along! \n\n No, I m not coming,  answered Levin.\n\n Surely that s not a matter of principle too,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, smiling, as he felt about in the dark for his cap.\n\n It s not a matter of principle, but why should I go? \n\n But do you know you are preparing trouble for yourself,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, finding his cap and getting up.\n\n How so? \n\n Do you suppose I don t see the line you ve taken up with your wife? I\nheard how it s a question of the greatest consequence, whether or not\nyou re to be away for a couple of days  shooting. That s all very well\nas an idyllic episode, but for your whole life that won t answer. A man\nmust be independent; he has his masculine interests. A man has to be\nmanly,  said Oblonsky, opening the door.\n\n In what way? To go running after servant girls?  said Levin.\n\n Why not, if it amuses him? _ a ne tire pas   cons quence_. It won t do\nmy wife any harm, and it ll amuse me. The great thing is to respect the\nsanctity of the home. There should be nothing in the home. But don t\ntie your own hands. \n\n Perhaps so,  said Levin dryly, and he turned on his side.  Tomorrow,\nearly, I want to go shooting, and I won t wake anyone, and shall set\noff at daybreak. \n\n _Messieurs, venez vite!_  they heard the voice of Veslovsky coming\nback.  _Charmante!_ I ve made such a discovery. _Charmante!_ a perfect\nGretchen, and I ve already made friends with her. Really, exceedingly\npretty,  he declared in a tone of approval, as though she had been made\npretty entirely on his account, and he was expressing his satisfaction\nwith the entertainment that had been provided for him.\n\nLevin pretended to be asleep, while Oblonsky, putting on his slippers,\nand lighting a cigar, walked out of the barn, and soon their voices\nwere lost.\n\nFor a long while Levin could not get to sleep. He heard the horses\nmunching hay, then he heard the peasant and his elder boy getting ready\nfor the night, and going off for the night watch with the beasts, then\nhe heard the soldier arranging his bed on the other side of the barn,\nwith his nephew, the younger son of their peasant host. He heard the\nboy in his shrill little voice telling his uncle what he thought about\nthe dogs, who seemed to him huge and terrible creatures, and asking\nwhat the dogs were going to hunt next day, and the soldier in a husky,\nsleepy voice, telling him the sportsmen were going in the morning to\nthe marsh, and would shoot with their guns; and then, to check the\nboy s questions, he said,  Go to sleep, Vaska; go to sleep, or you ll\ncatch it,  and soon after he began snoring himself, and everything was\nstill. He could only hear the snort of the horses, and the guttural cry\nof a snipe.\n\n Is it really only negative?  he repeated to himself.  Well, what of\nit? It s not my fault.  And he began thinking about the next day.\n\n Tomorrow I ll go out early, and I ll make a point of keeping cool.\nThere are lots of snipe; and there are grouse too. When I come back\nthere ll be the note from Kitty. Yes, Stiva may be right, I m not manly\nwith her, I m tied to her apron-strings.... Well, it can t be helped!\nNegative again.... \n\nHalf asleep, he heard the laughter and mirthful talk of Veslovsky and\nStepan Arkadyevitch. For an instant he opened his eyes: the moon was\nup, and in the open doorway, brightly lighted up by the moonlight, they\nwere standing talking. Stepan Arkadyevitch was saying something of the\nfreshness of one girl, comparing her to a freshly peeled nut, and\nVeslovsky with his infectious laugh was repeating some words, probably\nsaid to him by a peasant:  Ah, you do your best to get round her! \nLevin, half asleep, said:\n\n Gentlemen, tomorrow before daylight!  and fell asleep.\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nWaking up at earliest dawn, Levin tried to wake his companions.\nVassenka, lying on his stomach, with one leg in a stocking thrust out,\nwas sleeping so soundly that he could elicit no response. Oblonsky,\nhalf asleep, declined to get up so early. Even Laska, who was asleep,\ncurled up in the hay, got up unwillingly, and lazily stretched out and\nstraightened her hind legs one after the other. Getting on his boots\nand stockings, taking his gun, and carefully opening the creaking door\nof the barn, Levin went out into the road. The coachmen were sleeping\nin their carriages, the horses were dozing. Only one was lazily eating\noats, dipping its nose into the manger. It was still gray out-of-doors.\n\n Why are you up so early, my dear?  the old woman, their hostess, said,\ncoming out of the hut and addressing him affectionately as an old\nfriend.\n\n Going shooting, granny. Do I go this way to the marsh? \n\n Straight out at the back; by our threshing floor, my dear, and hemp\npatches; there s a little footpath.  Stepping carefully with her\nsunburnt, bare feet, the old woman conducted Levin, and moved back the\nfence for him by the threshing floor.\n\n Straight on and you ll come to the marsh. Our lads drove the cattle\nthere yesterday evening. \n\nLaska ran eagerly forward along the little path. Levin followed her\nwith a light, rapid step, continually looking at the sky. He hoped the\nsun would not be up before he reached the marsh. But the sun did not\ndelay. The moon, which had been bright when he went out, by now shone\nonly like a crescent of quicksilver. The pink flush of dawn, which one\ncould not help seeing before, now had to be sought to be discerned at\nall. What were before undefined, vague blurs in the distant countryside\ncould now be distinctly seen. They were sheaves of rye. The dew, not\nvisible till the sun was up, wetted Levin s legs and his blouse above\nhis belt in the high growing, fragrant hemp patch, from which the\npollen had already fallen out. In the transparent stillness of morning\nthe smallest sounds were audible. A bee flew by Levin s ear with the\nwhizzing sound of a bullet. He looked carefully, and saw a second and a\nthird. They were all flying from the beehives behind the hedge, and\nthey disappeared over the hemp patch in the direction of the marsh. The\npath led straight to the marsh. The marsh could be recognized by the\nmist which rose from it, thicker in one place and thinner in another,\nso that the reeds and willow bushes swayed like islands in this mist.\nAt the edge of the marsh and the road, peasant boys and men, who had\nbeen herding for the night, were lying, and in the dawn all were asleep\nunder their coats. Not far from them were three hobbled horses. One of\nthem clanked a chain. Laska walked beside her master, pressing a little\nforward and looking round. Passing the sleeping peasants and reaching\nthe first reeds, Levin examined his pistols and let his dog off. One of\nthe horses, a sleek, dark-brown three-year-old, seeing the dog, started\naway, switched its tail and snorted. The other horses too were\nfrightened, and splashing through the water with their hobbled legs,\nand drawing their hoofs out of the thick mud with a squelching sound,\nthey bounded out of the marsh. Laska stopped, looking ironically at the\nhorses and inquiringly at Levin. Levin patted Laska, and whistled as a\nsign that she might begin.\n\nLaska ran joyfully and anxiously through the slush that swayed under\nher.\n\nRunning into the marsh among the familiar scents of roots, marsh\nplants, and slime, and the extraneous smell of horse dung, Laska\ndetected at once a smell that pervaded the whole marsh, the scent of\nthat strong-smelling bird that always excited her more than any other.\nHere and there among the moss and marsh plants this scent was very\nstrong, but it was impossible to determine in which direction it grew\nstronger or fainter. To find the direction, she had to go farther away\nfrom the wind. Not feeling the motion of her legs, Laska bounded with a\nstiff gallop, so that at each bound she could stop short, to the right,\naway from the wind that blew from the east before sunrise, and turned\nfacing the wind. Sniffing in the air with dilated nostrils, she felt at\nonce that not their tracks only but they themselves were here before\nher, and not one, but many. Laska slackened her speed. They were here,\nbut where precisely she could not yet determine. To find the very spot,\nshe began to make a circle, when suddenly her master s voice drew her\noff.  Laska! here?  he asked, pointing her to a different direction.\nShe stopped, asking him if she had better not go on doing as she had\nbegun. But he repeated his command in an angry voice, pointing to a\nspot covered with water, where there could not be anything. She obeyed\nhim, pretending she was looking, so as to please him, went round it,\nand went back to her former position, and was at once aware of the\nscent again. Now when he was not hindering her, she knew what to do,\nand without looking at what was under her feet, and to her vexation\nstumbling over a high stump into the water, but righting herself with\nher strong, supple legs, she began making the circle which was to make\nall clear to her. The scent of them reached her, stronger and stronger,\nand more and more defined, and all at once it became perfectly clear to\nher that one of them was here, behind this tuft of reeds, five paces in\nfront of her; she stopped, and her whole body was still and rigid. On\nher short legs she could see nothing in front of her, but by the scent\nshe knew it was sitting not more than five paces off. She stood still,\nfeeling more and more conscious of it, and enjoying it in anticipation.\nHer tail was stretched straight and tense, and only wagging at the\nextreme end. Her mouth was slightly open, her ears raised. One ear had\nbeen turned wrong side out as she ran up, and she breathed heavily but\nwarily, and still more warily looked round, but more with her eyes than\nher head, to her master. He was coming along with the face she knew so\nwell, though the eyes were always terrible to her. He stumbled over the\nstump as he came, and moved, as she thought, extraordinarily slowly.\nShe thought he came slowly, but he was running.\n\nNoticing Laska s special attitude as she crouched on the ground, as it\nwere, scratching big prints with her hind paws, and with her mouth\nslightly open, Levin knew she was pointing at grouse, and with an\ninward prayer for luck, especially with the first bird, he ran up to\nher. Coming quite close up to her, he could from his height look beyond\nher, and he saw with his eyes what she was seeing with her nose. In a\nspace between two little thickets, at a couple of yards  distance, he\ncould see a grouse. Turning its head, it was listening. Then lightly\npreening and folding its wings, it disappeared round a corner with a\nclumsy wag of its tail.\n\n Fetch it, fetch it!  shouted Levin, giving Laska a shove from behind.\n\n But I can t go,  thought Laska.  Where am I to go? From here I feel\nthem, but if I move forward I shall know nothing of where they are or\nwho they are.  But then he shoved her with his knee, and in an excited\nwhisper said,  Fetch it, Laska. \n\n Well, if that s what he wishes, I ll do it, but I can t answer for\nmyself now,  she thought, and darted forward as fast as her legs would\ncarry her between the thick bushes. She scented nothing now; she could\nonly see and hear, without understanding anything.\n\nTen paces from her former place a grouse rose with a guttural cry and\nthe peculiar round sound of its wings. And immediately after the shot\nit splashed heavily with its white breast on the wet mire. Another bird\ndid not linger, but rose behind Levin without the dog. When Levin\nturned towards it, it was already some way off. But his shot caught it.\nFlying twenty paces further, the second grouse rose upwards, and\nwhirling round like a ball, dropped heavily on a dry place.\n\n Come, this is going to be some good!  thought Levin, packing the warm\nand fat grouse into his game bag.  Eh, Laska, will it be good? \n\nWhen Levin, after loading his gun, moved on, the sun had fully risen,\nthough unseen behind the storm-clouds. The moon had lost all of its\nluster, and was like a white cloud in the sky. Not a single star could\nbe seen. The sedge, silvery with dew before, now shone like gold. The\nstagnant pools were all like amber. The blue of the grass had changed\nto yellow-green. The marsh birds twittered and swarmed about the brook\nand upon the bushes that glittered with dew and cast long shadows. A\nhawk woke up and settled on a haycock, turning its head from side to\nside and looking discontentedly at the marsh. Crows were flying about\nthe field, and a bare-legged boy was driving the horses to an old man,\nwho had got up from under his long coat and was combing his hair. The\nsmoke from the gun was white as milk over the green of the grass.\n\nOne of the boys ran up to Levin.\n\n Uncle, there were ducks here yesterday!  he shouted to him, and he\nwalked a little way off behind him.\n\nAnd Levin was doubly pleased, in sight of the boy, who expressed his\napproval, at killing three snipe, one after another, straight off.\n\n\nChapter 13\n\nThe sportsman s saying, that if the first beast or the first bird is\nnot missed, the day will be lucky, turned out correct.\n\nAt ten o clock Levin, weary, hungry, and happy after a tramp of twenty\nmiles, returned to his night s lodging with nineteen head of fine game\nand one duck, which he tied to his belt, as it would not go into the\ngame bag. His companions had long been awake, and had had time to get\nhungry and have breakfast.\n\n Wait a bit, wait a bit, I know there are nineteen,  said Levin,\ncounting a second time over the grouse and snipe, that looked so much\nless important now, bent and dry and bloodstained, with heads crooked\naside, than they did when they were flying.\n\nThe number was verified, and Stepan Arkadyevitch s envy pleased Levin.\nHe was pleased too on returning to find the man sent by Kitty with a\nnote was already there.\n\n I am perfectly well and happy. If you were uneasy about me, you can\nfeel easier than ever. I ve a new bodyguard, Marya Vlasyevna, this was\nthe midwife, a new and important personage in Levin s domestic life.\n She has come to have a look at me. She found me perfectly well, and we\nhave kept her till you are back. All are happy and well, and please,\ndon t be in a hurry to come back, but, if the sport is good, stay\nanother day. \n\nThese two pleasures, his lucky shooting and the letter from his wife,\nwere so great that two slightly disagreeable incidents passed lightly\nover Levin. One was that the chestnut trace horse, who had been\nunmistakably overworked on the previous day, was off his feed and out\nof sorts. The coachman said he was  Overdriven yesterday, Konstantin\nDmitrievitch. Yes, indeed! driven ten miles with no sense! \n\nThe other unpleasant incident, which for the first minute destroyed his\ngood humor, though later he laughed at it a great deal, was to find\nthat of all the provisions Kitty had provided in such abundance that\none would have thought there was enough for a week, nothing was left.\nOn his way back, tired and hungry from shooting, Levin had so distinct\na vision of meat-pies that as he approached the hut he seemed to smell\nand taste them, as Laska had smelt the game, and he immediately told\nPhilip to give him some. It appeared that there were no pies left, nor\neven any chicken.\n\n Well, this fellow s appetite!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing and\npointing at Vassenka Veslovsky.  I never suffer from loss of appetite,\nbut he s really marvelous!... \n\n Well, it can t be helped,  said Levin, looking gloomily at Veslovsky.\n Well, Philip, give me some beef, then. \n\n The beef s been eaten, and the bones given to the dogs,  answered\nPhilip.\n\nLevin was so hurt that he said, in a tone of vexation,  You might have\nleft me something!  and he felt ready to cry.\n\n Then put away the game,  he said in a shaking voice to Philip, trying\nnot to look at Vassenka,  and cover them with some nettles. And you\nmight at least ask for some milk for me. \n\nBut when he had drunk some milk, he felt ashamed immediately at having\nshown his annoyance to a stranger, and he began to laugh at his hungry\nmortification.\n\nIn the evening they went shooting again, and Veslovsky had several\nsuccessful shots, and in the night they drove home.\n\nTheir homeward journey was as lively as their drive out had been.\nVeslovsky sang songs and related with enjoyment his adventures with the\npeasants, who had regaled him with vodka, and said to him,  Excuse our\nhomely ways,  and his night s adventures with kiss-in-the-ring and the\nservant-girl and the peasant, who had asked him was he married, and on\nlearning that he was not, said to him,  Well, mind you don t run after\nother men s wives you d better get one of your own.  These words had\nparticularly amused Veslovsky.\n\n Altogether, I ve enjoyed our outing awfully. And you, Levin? \n\n I have, very much,  Levin said quite sincerely. It was particularly\ndelightful to him to have got rid of the hostility he had been feeling\ntowards Vassenka Veslovsky at home, and to feel instead the most\nfriendly disposition to him.\n\n\nChapter 14\n\nNext day at ten o clock Levin, who had already gone his rounds, knocked\nat the room where Vassenka had been put for the night.\n\n _Entrez!_  Veslovsky called to him.  Excuse me, I ve only just\nfinished my ablutions,  he said, smiling, standing before him in his\nunderclothes only.\n\n Don t mind me, please.  Levin sat down in the window.  Have you slept\nwell? \n\n Like the dead. What sort of day is it for shooting? \n\n What will you take, tea or coffee? \n\n Neither. I ll wait till lunch. I m really ashamed. I suppose the\nladies are down? A walk now would be capital. You show me your horses. \n\nAfter walking about the garden, visiting the stable, and even doing\nsome gymnastic exercises together on the parallel bars, Levin returned\nto the house with his guest, and went with him into the drawing-room.\n\n We had splendid shooting, and so many delightful experiences!  said\nVeslovsky, going up to Kitty, who was sitting at the samovar.  What a\npity ladies are cut off from these delights! \n\n Well, I suppose he must say something to the lady of the house,  Levin\nsaid to himself. Again he fancied something in the smile, in the\nall-conquering air with which their guest addressed Kitty....\n\nThe princess, sitting on the other side of the table with Marya\nVlasyevna and Stepan Arkadyevitch, called Levin to her side, and began\nto talk to him about moving to Moscow for Kitty s confinement, and\ngetting ready rooms for them. Just as Levin had disliked all the\ntrivial preparations for his wedding, as derogatory to the grandeur of\nthe event, now he felt still more offensive the preparations for the\napproaching birth, the date of which they reckoned, it seemed, on their\nfingers. He tried to turn a deaf ear to these discussions of the best\npatterns of long clothes for the coming baby; tried to turn away and\navoid seeing the mysterious, endless strips of knitting, the triangles\nof linen, and so on, to which Dolly attached special importance. The\nbirth of a son (he was certain it would be a son) which was promised\nhim, but which he still could not believe in so marvelous it\nseemed presented itself to his mind, on one hand, as a happiness so\nimmense, and therefore so incredible; on the other, as an event so\nmysterious, that this assumption of a definite knowledge of what would\nbe, and consequent preparation for it, as for something ordinary that\ndid happen to people, jarred on him as confusing and humiliating.\n\nBut the princess did not understand his feelings, and put down his\nreluctance to think and talk about it to carelessness and indifference,\nand so she gave him no peace. She had commissioned Stepan Arkadyevitch\nto look at a flat, and now she called Levin up.\n\n I know nothing about it, princess. Do as you think fit,  he said.\n\n You must decide when you will move. \n\n I really don t know. I know millions of children are born away from\nMoscow, and doctors ... why.... \n\n But if so.... \n\n Oh, no, as Kitty wishes. \n\n We can t talk to Kitty about it! Do you want me to frighten her? Why,\nthis spring Natalia Golitzina died from having an ignorant doctor. \n\n I will do just what you say,  he said gloomily.\n\nThe princess began talking to him, but he did not hear her. Though the\nconversation with the princess had indeed jarred upon him, he was\ngloomy, not on account of that conversation, but from what he saw at\nthe samovar.\n\n No, it s impossible,  he thought, glancing now and then at Vassenka\nbending over Kitty, telling her something with his charming smile, and\nat her, flushed and disturbed.\n\nThere was something not nice in Vassenka s attitude, in his eyes, in\nhis smile. Levin even saw something not nice in Kitty s attitude and\nlook. And again the light died away in his eyes. Again, as before, all\nof a sudden, without the slightest transition, he felt cast down from a\npinnacle of happiness, peace, and dignity, into an abyss of despair,\nrage, and humiliation. Again everything and everyone had become hateful\nto him.\n\n You do just as you think best, princess,  he said again, looking\nround.\n\n Heavy is the cap of Monomach,  Stepan Arkadyevitch said playfully,\nhinting, evidently, not simply at the princess s conversation, but at\nthe cause of Levin s agitation, which he had noticed.\n\n How late you are today, Dolly! \n\nEveryone got up to greet Darya Alexandrovna. Vassenka only rose for an\ninstant, and with the lack of courtesy to ladies characteristic of the\nmodern young man, he scarcely bowed, and resumed his conversation\nagain, laughing at something.\n\n I ve been worried about Masha. She did not sleep well, and is\ndreadfully tiresome today,  said Dolly.\n\nThe conversation Vassenka had started with Kitty was running on the\nsame lines as on the previous evening, discussing Anna, and whether\nlove is to be put higher than worldly considerations. Kitty disliked\nthe conversation, and she was disturbed both by the subject and the\ntone in which it was conducted, and also by the knowledge of the effect\nit would have on her husband. But she was too simple and innocent to\nknow how to cut short this conversation, or even to conceal the\nsuperficial pleasure afforded her by the young man s very obvious\nadmiration. She wanted to stop it, but she did not know what to do.\nWhatever she did she knew would be observed by her husband, and the\nworst interpretation put on it. And, in fact, when she asked Dolly what\nwas wrong with Masha, and Vassenka, waiting till this uninteresting\nconversation was over, began to gaze indifferently at Dolly, the\nquestion struck Levin as an unnatural and disgusting piece of\nhypocrisy.\n\n What do you say, shall we go and look for mushrooms today?  said\nDolly.\n\n By all means, please, and I shall come too,  said Kitty, and she\nblushed. She wanted from politeness to ask Vassenka whether he would\ncome, and she did not ask him.  Where are you going, Kostya?  she asked\nher husband with a guilty face, as he passed by her with a resolute\nstep. This guilty air confirmed all his suspicions.\n\n The mechanician came when I was away; I haven t seen him yet,  he\nsaid, not looking at her.\n\nHe went downstairs, but before he had time to leave his study he heard\nhis wife s familiar footsteps running with reckless speed to him.\n\n What do you want?  he said to her shortly.  We are busy. \n\n I beg your pardon,  she said to the German mechanician;  I want a few\nwords with my husband. \n\nThe German would have left the room, but Levin said to him:\n\n Don t disturb yourself. \n\n The train is at three?  queried the German.  I mustn t be late. \n\nLevin did not answer him, but walked out himself with his wife.\n\n Well, what have you to say to me?  he said to her in French.\n\nHe did not look her in the face, and did not care to see that she in\nher condition was trembling all over, and had a piteous, crushed look.\n\n I ... I want to say that we can t go on like this; that this is\nmisery....  she said.\n\n The servants are here at the sideboard,  he said angrily;  don t make\na scene. \n\n Well, let s go in here! \n\nThey were standing in the passage. Kitty would have gone into the next\nroom, but there the English governess was giving Tanya a lesson.\n\n Well, come into the garden. \n\nIn the garden they came upon a peasant weeding the path. And no longer\nconsidering that the peasant could see her tear-stained and his\nagitated face, that they looked like people fleeing from some disaster,\nthey went on with rapid steps, feeling that they must speak out and\nclear up misunderstandings, must be alone together, and so get rid of\nthe misery they were both feeling.\n\n We can t go on like this! It s misery! I am wretched; you are\nwretched. What for?  she said, when they had at last reached a solitary\ngarden seat at a turn in the lime tree avenue.\n\n But tell me one thing: was there in his tone anything unseemly, not\nnice, humiliatingly horrible?  he said, standing before her again in\nthe same position with his clenched fists on his chest, as he had stood\nbefore her that night.\n\n Yes,  she said in a shaking voice;  but, Kostya, surely you see I m\nnot to blame? All the morning I ve been trying to take a tone ... but\nsuch people.... Why did he come? How happy we were!  she said,\nbreathless with the sobs that shook her.\n\nAlthough nothing had been pursuing them, and there was nothing to run\naway from, and they could not possibly have found anything very\ndelightful on that garden seat, the gardener saw with astonishment that\nthey passed him on their way home with comforted and radiant faces.\n\n\nChapter 15\n\nAfter escorting his wife upstairs, Levin went to Dolly s part of the\nhouse. Darya Alexandrovna, for her part, was in great distress too that\nday. She was walking about the room, talking angrily to a little girl,\nwho stood in the corner roaring.\n\n And you shall stand all day in the corner, and have your dinner all\nalone, and not see one of your dolls, and I won t make you a new\nfrock,  she said, not knowing how to punish her.\n\n Oh, she is a disgusting child!  she turned to Levin.  Where does she\nget such wicked propensities? \n\n Why, what has she done?  Levin said without much interest, for he had\nwanted to ask her advice, and so was annoyed that he had come at an\nunlucky moment.\n\n Grisha and she went into the raspberries, and there ... I can t tell\nyou really what she did. It s a thousand pities Miss Elliot s not with\nus. This one sees to nothing she s a machine.... _Figurez-vous que la\npetite_?... \n\nAnd Darya Alexandrovna described Masha s crime.\n\n That proves nothing; it s not a question of evil propensities at all,\nit s simply mischief,  Levin assured her.\n\n But you are upset about something? What have you come for?  asked\nDolly.  What s going on there? \n\nAnd in the tone of her question Levin heard that it would be easy for\nhim to say what he had meant to say.\n\n I ve not been in there, I ve been alone in the garden with Kitty.\nWe ve had a quarrel for the second time since ... Stiva came. \n\nDolly looked at him with her shrewd, comprehending eyes.\n\n Come, tell me, honor bright, has there been ... not in Kitty, but in\nthat gentleman s behavior, a tone which might be unpleasant not\nunpleasant, but horrible, offensive to a husband? \n\n You mean, how shall I say.... Stay, stay in the corner!  she said to\nMasha, who, detecting a faint smile in her mother s face, had been\nturning round.  The opinion of the world would be that he is behaving\nas young men do behave. _Il fait la cour   une jeune et jolie femme_,\nand a husband who s a man of the world should only be flattered by it. \n\n Yes, yes,  said Levin gloomily;  but you noticed it? \n\n Not only I, but Stiva noticed it. Just after breakfast he said to me\nin so many words, _Je crois que Veslovsky fait un petit brin de cour  \nKitty_. \n\n Well, that s all right then; now I m satisfied. I ll send him away, \nsaid Levin.\n\n What do you mean! Are you crazy?  Dolly cried in horror;  nonsense,\nKostya, only think!  she said, laughing.  You can go now to Fanny,  she\nsaid to Masha.  No, if you wish it, I ll speak to Stiva. He ll take him\naway. He can say you re expecting visitors. Altogether he doesn t fit\ninto the house. \n\n No, no, I ll do it myself. \n\n But you ll quarrel with him? \n\n Not a bit. I shall so enjoy it,  Levin said, his eyes flashing with\nreal enjoyment.  Come, forgive her, Dolly, she won t do it again,  he\nsaid of the little sinner, who had not gone to Fanny, but was standing\nirresolutely before her mother, waiting and looking up from under her\nbrows to catch her mother s eye.\n\nThe mother glanced at her. The child broke into sobs, hid her face on\nher mother s lap, and Dolly laid her thin, tender hand on her head.\n\n And what is there in common between us and him?  thought Levin, and he\nwent off to look for Veslovsky.\n\nAs he passed through the passage he gave orders for the carriage to be\ngot ready to drive to the station.\n\n The spring was broken yesterday,  said the footman.\n\n Well, the covered trap, then, and make haste. Where s the visitor? \n\n The gentleman s gone to his room. \n\nLevin came upon Veslovsky at the moment when the latter, having\nunpacked his things from his trunk, and laid out some new songs, was\nputting on his gaiters to go out riding.\n\nWhether there was something exceptional in Levin s face, or that\nVassenka was himself conscious that _ce petit brin de cour_ he was\nmaking was out of place in this family, but he was somewhat (as much as\na young man in society can be) disconcerted at Levin s entrance.\n\n You ride in gaiters? \n\n Yes, it s much cleaner,  said Vassenka, putting his fat leg on a\nchair, fastening the bottom hook, and smiling with simple-hearted good\nhumor.\n\nHe was undoubtedly a good-natured fellow, and Levin felt sorry for him\nand ashamed of himself, as his host, when he saw the shy look on\nVassenka s face.\n\nOn the table lay a piece of stick which they had broken together that\nmorning, trying their strength. Levin took the fragment in his hands\nand began smashing it up, breaking bits off the stick, not knowing how\nto begin.\n\n I wanted....  He paused, but suddenly, remembering Kitty and\neverything that had happened, he said, looking him resolutely in the\nface:  I have ordered the horses to be put-to for you. \n\n How so?  Vassenka began in surprise.  To drive where? \n\n For you to drive to the station,  Levin said gloomily.\n\n Are you going away, or has something happened? \n\n It happens that I expect visitors,  said Levin, his strong fingers\nmore and more rapidly breaking off the ends of the split stick.  And\nI m not expecting visitors, and nothing has happened, but I beg you to\ngo away. You can explain my rudeness as you like. \n\nVassenka drew himself up.\n\n I beg you to explain....  he said with dignity, understanding at last.\n\n I can t explain,  Levin said softly and deliberately, trying to\ncontrol the trembling of his jaw;  and you d better not ask. \n\nAnd as the split ends were all broken off, Levin clutched the thick\nends in his finger, broke the stick in two, and carefully caught the\nend as it fell.\n\nProbably the sight of those nervous fingers, of the muscles he had\nproved that morning at gymnastics, of the glittering eyes, the soft\nvoice, and quivering jaws, convinced Vassenka better than any words. He\nbowed, shrugging his shoulders, and smiling contemptuously.\n\n Can I not see Oblonsky? \n\nThe shrug and the smile did not irritate Levin.\n\n What else was there for him to do?  he thought.\n\n I ll send him to you at once. \n\n What madness is this?  Stepan Arkadyevitch said when, after hearing\nfrom his friend that he was being turned out of the house, he found\nLevin in the garden, where he was walking about waiting for his guest s\ndeparture.  _Mais c est ridicule!_ What fly has stung you? _Mais c est\ndu dernier ridicule!_ What did you think, if a young man.... \n\nBut the place where Levin had been stung was evidently still sore, for\nhe turned pale again, when Stepan Arkadyevitch would have enlarged on\nthe reason, and he himself cut him short.\n\n Please don t go into it! I can t help it. I feel ashamed of how I m\ntreating you and him. But it won t be, I imagine, a great grief to him\nto go, and his presence was distasteful to me and to my wife. \n\n But it s insulting to him! _Et puis c est ridicule_. \n\n And to me it s both insulting and distressing! And I m not at fault in\nany way, and there s no need for me to suffer. \n\n Well, this I didn t expect of you! _On peut  tre jaloux, mais   ce\npoint, c est du dernier ridicule!_ \n\nLevin turned quickly, and walked away from him into the depths of the\navenue, and he went on walking up and down alone. Soon he heard the\nrumble of the trap, and saw from behind the trees how Vassenka, sitting\nin the hay (unluckily there was no seat in the trap) in his Scotch cap,\nwas driven along the avenue, jolting up and down over the ruts.\n\n What s this?  Levin thought, when a footman ran out of the house and\nstopped the trap. It was the mechanician, whom Levin had totally\nforgotten. The mechanician, bowing low, said something to Veslovsky,\nthen clambered into the trap, and they drove off together.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch and the princess were much upset by Levin s action.\nAnd he himself felt not only in the highest degree _ridicule_, but also\nutterly guilty and disgraced. But remembering what sufferings he and\nhis wife had been through, when he asked himself how he should act\nanother time, he answered that he should do just the same again.\n\nIn spite of all this, towards the end of that day, everyone except the\nprincess, who could not pardon Levin s action, became extraordinarily\nlively and good-humored, like children after a punishment or grown-up\npeople after a dreary, ceremonious reception, so that by the evening\nVassenka s dismissal was spoken of, in the absence of the princess, as\nthough it were some remote event. And Dolly, who had inherited her\nfather s gift of humorous storytelling, made Varenka helpless with\nlaughter as she related for the third and fourth time, always with\nfresh humorous additions, how she had only just put on her new shoes\nfor the benefit of the visitor, and on going into the drawing-room,\nheard suddenly the rumble of the trap. And who should be in the trap\nbut Vassenka himself, with his Scotch cap, and his songs and his\ngaiters, and all, sitting in the hay.\n\n If only you d ordered out the carriage! But no! and then I hear:\n Stop!  Oh, I thought they ve relented. I look out, and behold a fat\nGerman being sat down by him and driving away.... And my new shoes all\nfor nothing!... \n\n\nChapter 16\n\nDarya Alexandrovna carried out her intention and went to see Anna. She\nwas sorry to annoy her sister and to do anything Levin disliked. She\nquite understood how right the Levins were in not wishing to have\nanything to do with Vronsky. But she felt she must go and see Anna, and\nshow her that her feelings could not be changed, in spite of the change\nin her position. That she might be independent of the Levins in this\nexpedition, Darya Alexandrovna sent to the village to hire horses for\nthe drive; but Levin learning of it went to her to protest.\n\n What makes you suppose that I dislike your going? But, even if I did\ndislike it, I should still more dislike your not taking my horses,  he\nsaid.  You never told me that you were going for certain. Hiring horses\nin the village is disagreeable to me, and, what s of more importance,\nthey ll undertake the job and never get you there. I have horses. And\nif you don t want to wound me, you ll take mine. \n\nDarya Alexandrovna had to consent, and on the day fixed Levin had ready\nfor his sister-in-law a set of four horses and relays, getting them\ntogether from the farm and saddle-horses not at all a smart-looking\nset, but capable of taking Darya Alexandrovna the whole distance in a\nsingle day. At that moment, when horses were wanted for the princess,\nwho was going, and for the midwife, it was a difficult matter for Levin\nto make up the number, but the duties of hospitality would not let him\nallow Darya Alexandrovna to hire horses when staying in his house.\nMoreover, he was well aware that the twenty roubles that would be asked\nfor the journey were a serious matter for her; Darya Alexandrovna s\npecuniary affairs, which were in a very unsatisfactory state, were\ntaken to heart by the Levins as if they were their own.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna, by Levin s advice, started before daybreak. The\nroad was good, the carriage comfortable, the horses trotted along\nmerrily, and on the box, besides the coachman, sat the counting-house\nclerk, whom Levin was sending instead of a groom for greater security.\nDarya Alexandrovna dozed and waked up only on reaching the inn where\nthe horses were to be changed.\n\nAfter drinking tea at the same well-to-do peasant s with whom Levin had\nstayed on the way to Sviazhsky s, and chatting with the women about\ntheir children, and with the old man about Count Vronsky, whom the\nlatter praised very highly, Darya Alexandrovna, at ten o clock, went on\nagain. At home, looking after her children, she had no time to think.\nSo now, after this journey of four hours, all the thoughts she had\nsuppressed before rushed swarming into her brain, and she thought over\nall her life as she never had before, and from the most different\npoints of view. Her thoughts seemed strange even to herself. At first\nshe thought about the children, about whom she was uneasy, although the\nprincess and Kitty (she reckoned more upon her) had promised to look\nafter them.  If only Masha does not begin her naughty tricks, if Grisha\nisn t kicked by a horse, and Lily s stomach isn t upset again!  she\nthought. But these questions of the present were succeeded by questions\nof the immediate future. She began thinking how she had to get a new\nflat in Moscow for the coming winter, to renew the drawing-room\nfurniture, and to make her elder girl a cloak. Then questions of the\nmore remote future occurred to her: how she was to place her children\nin the world.  The girls are all right,  she thought;  but the boys? \n\n It s very well that I m teaching Grisha, but of course that s only\nbecause I am free myself now, I m not with child. Stiva, of course,\nthere s no counting on. And with the help of good-natured friends I can\nbring them up; but if there s another baby coming?...  And the thought\nstruck her how untruly it was said that the curse laid on woman was\nthat in sorrow she should bring forth children.\n\n The birth itself, that s nothing; but the months of carrying the\nchild that s what s so intolerable,  she thought, picturing to herself\nher last pregnancy, and the death of the last baby. And she recalled\nthe conversation she had just had with the young woman at the inn. On\nbeing asked whether she had any children, the handsome young woman had\nanswered cheerfully:\n\n I had a girl baby, but God set me free; I buried her last Lent. \n\n Well, did you grieve very much for her?  asked Darya Alexandrovna.\n\n Why grieve? The old man has grandchildren enough as it is. It was only\na trouble. No working, nor nothing. Only a tie. \n\nThis answer had struck Darya Alexandrovna as revolting in spite of the\ngood-natured and pleasing face of the young woman; but now she could\nnot help recalling these words. In those cynical words there was indeed\na grain of truth.\n\n Yes, altogether,  thought Darya Alexandrovna, looking back over her\nwhole existence during those fifteen years of her married life,\n pregnancy, sickness, mental incapacity, indifference to everything,\nand most of all hideousness. Kitty, young and pretty as she is, even\nKitty has lost her looks; and I when I m with child become hideous, I\nknow it. The birth, the agony, the hideous agonies, that last moment\n... then the nursing, the sleepless nights, the fearful pains.... \n\nDarya Alexandrovna shuddered at the mere recollection of the pain from\nsore breasts which she had suffered with almost every child.  Then the\nchildren s illnesses, that everlasting apprehension; then bringing them\nup; evil propensities  (she thought of little Masha s crime among the\nraspberries),  education, Latin it s all so incomprehensible and\ndifficult. And on the top of it all, the death of these children.  And\nthere rose again before her imagination the cruel memory, that always\ntore her mother s heart, of the death of her last little baby, who had\ndied of croup; his funeral, the callous indifference of all at the\nlittle pink coffin, and her own torn heart, and her lonely anguish at\nthe sight of the pale little brow with its projecting temples, and the\nopen, wondering little mouth seen in the coffin at the moment when it\nwas being covered with the little pink lid with a cross braided on it.\n\n And all this, what s it for? What is to come of it all? That I m\nwasting my life, never having a moment s peace, either with child, or\nnursing a child, forever irritable, peevish, wretched myself and\nworrying others, repulsive to my husband, while the children are\ngrowing up unhappy, badly educated, and penniless. Even now, if it\nweren t for spending the summer at the Levins , I don t know how we\nshould be managing to live. Of course Kostya and Kitty have so much\ntact that we don t feel it; but it can t go on. They ll have children,\nthey won t be able to keep us; it s a drag on them as it is. How is\npapa, who has hardly anything left for himself, to help us? So that I\ncan t even bring the children up by myself, and may find it hard with\nthe help of other people, at the cost of humiliation. Why, even if we\nsuppose the greatest good luck, that the children don t die, and I\nbring them up somehow. At the very best they ll simply be decent\npeople. That s all I can hope for. And to gain simply that what\nagonies, what toil!... One s whole life ruined!  Again she recalled\nwhat the young peasant woman had said, and again she was revolted at\nthe thought; but she could not help admitting that there was a grain of\nbrutal truth in the words.\n\n Is it far now, Mihail?  Darya Alexandrovna asked the counting-house\nclerk, to turn her mind from thoughts that were frightening her.\n\n From this village, they say, it s five miles.  The carriage drove\nalong the village street and onto a bridge. On the bridge was a crowd\nof peasant women with coils of ties for the sheaves on their shoulders,\ngaily and noisily chattering. They stood still on the bridge, staring\ninquisitively at the carriage. All the faces turned to Darya\nAlexandrovna looked to her healthy and happy, making her envious of\ntheir enjoyment of life.  They re all living, they re all enjoying\nlife,  Darya Alexandrovna still mused when she had passed the peasant\nwomen and was driving uphill again at a trot, seated comfortably on the\nsoft springs of the old carriage,  while I, let out, as it were from\nprison, from the world of worries that fret me to death, am only\nlooking about me now for an instant. They all live; those peasant women\nand my sister Natalia and Varenka and Anna, whom I am going to see all,\nbut not I.\n\n And they attack Anna. What for? am I any better? I have, anyway, a\nhusband I love not as I should like to love him, still I do love him,\nwhile Anna never loved hers. How is she to blame? She wants to live.\nGod has put that in our hearts. Very likely I should have done the\nsame. Even to this day I don t feel sure I did right in listening to\nher at that terrible time when she came to me in Moscow. I ought then\nto have cast off my husband and have begun my life fresh. I might have\nloved and have been loved in reality. And is it any better as it is? I\ndon t respect him. He s necessary to me,  she thought about her\nhusband,  and I put up with him. Is that any better? At that time I\ncould still have been admired, I had beauty left me still,  Darya\nAlexandrovna pursued her thoughts, and she would have liked to look at\nherself in the looking-glass. She had a traveling looking-glass in her\nhandbag, and she wanted to take it out; but looking at the backs of the\ncoachman and the swaying counting-house clerk, she felt that she would\nbe ashamed if either of them were to look round, and she did not take\nout the glass.\n\nBut without looking in the glass, she thought that even now it was not\ntoo late; and she thought of Sergey Ivanovitch, who was always\nparticularly attentive to her, of Stiva s good-hearted friend,\nTurovtsin, who had helped her nurse her children through the\nscarlatina, and was in love with her. And there was someone else, a\nquite young man, who her husband had told her it as a joke thought her\nmore beautiful than either of her sisters. And the most passionate and\nimpossible romances rose before Darya Alexandrovna s imagination.  Anna\ndid quite right, and certainly I shall never reproach her for it. She\nis happy, she makes another person happy, and she s not broken down as\nI am, but most likely just as she always was, bright, clever, open to\nevery impression,  thought Darya Alexandrovna, and a sly smile curved\nher lips, for, as she pondered on Anna s love affair, Darya\nAlexandrovna constructed on parallel lines an almost identical love\naffair for herself, with an imaginary composite figure, the ideal man\nwho was in love with her. She, like Anna, confessed the whole affair to\nher husband. And the amazement and perplexity of Stepan Arkadyevitch at\nthis avowal made her smile.\n\nIn such daydreams she reached the turning of the highroad that led to\nVozdvizhenskoe.\n\n\nChapter 17\n\nThe coachman pulled up his four horses and looked round to the right,\nto a field of rye, where some peasants were sitting on a cart. The\ncounting-house clerk was just going to jump down, but on second\nthoughts he shouted peremptorily to the peasants instead, and beckoned\nto them to come up. The wind, that seemed to blow as they drove,\ndropped when the carriage stood still; gadflies settled on the steaming\nhorses that angrily shook them off. The metallic clank of a whetstone\nagainst a scythe, that came to them from the cart, ceased. One of the\npeasants got up and came towards the carriage.\n\n Well, you are slow!  the counting-house clerk shouted angrily to the\npeasant who was stepping slowly with his bare feet over the ruts of the\nrough dry road.  Come along, do! \n\nA curly-headed old man with a bit of bast tied round his hair, and his\nbent back dark with perspiration, came towards the carriage, quickening\nhis steps, and took hold of the mud-guard with his sunburnt hand.\n\n Vozdvizhenskoe, the manor house? the count s?  he repeated;  go on to\nthe end of this track. Then turn to the left. Straight along the avenue\nand you ll come right upon it. But whom do you want? The count\nhimself? \n\n Well, are they at home, my good man?  Darya Alexandrovna said vaguely,\nnot knowing how to ask about Anna, even of this peasant.\n\n At home for sure,  said the peasant, shifting from one bare foot to\nthe other, and leaving a distinct print of five toes and a heel in the\ndust.  Sure to be at home,  he repeated, evidently eager to talk.  Only\nyesterday visitors arrived. There s a sight of visitors come. What do\nyou want?  He turned round and called to a lad, who was shouting\nsomething to him from the cart.  Oh! They all rode by here not long\nsince, to look at a reaping machine. They ll be home by now. And who\nwill you be belonging to?... \n\n We ve come a long way,  said the coachman, climbing onto the box.  So\nit s not far? \n\n I tell you, it s just here. As soon as you get out....  he said,\nkeeping hold all the while of the carriage.\n\nA healthy-looking, broad-shouldered young fellow came up too.\n\n What, is it laborers they want for the harvest?  he asked.\n\n I don t know, my boy. \n\n So you keep to the left, and you ll come right on it,  said the\npeasant, unmistakably loth to let the travelers go, and eager to\nconverse.\n\nThe coachman started the horses, but they were only just turning off\nwhen the peasant shouted:  Stop! Hi, friend! Stop!  called the two\nvoices. The coachman stopped.\n\n They re coming! They re yonder!  shouted the peasant.  See what a\nturn-out!  he said, pointing to four persons on horseback, and two in a\n_char- -banc_, coming along the road.\n\nThey were Vronsky with a jockey, Veslovsky and Anna on horseback, and\nPrincess Varvara and Sviazhsky in the _char- -banc_. They had gone out\nto look at the working of a new reaping machine.\n\nWhen the carriage stopped, the party on horseback were coming at a\nwalking pace. Anna was in front beside Veslovsky. Anna, quietly walking\nher horse, a sturdy English cob with cropped mane and short tail, her\nbeautiful head with her black hair straying loose under her high hat,\nher full shoulders, her slender waist in her black riding habit, and\nall the ease and grace of her deportment, impressed Dolly.\n\nFor the first minute it seemed to her unsuitable for Anna to be on\nhorseback. The conception of riding on horseback for a lady was, in\nDarya Alexandrovna s mind, associated with ideas of youthful flirtation\nand frivolity, which, in her opinion, was unbecoming in Anna s\nposition. But when she had scrutinized her, seeing her closer, she was\nat once reconciled to her riding. In spite of her elegance, everything\nwas so simple, quiet, and dignified in the attitude, the dress and the\nmovements of Anna, that nothing could have been more natural.\n\nBeside Anna, on a hot-looking gray cavalry horse, was Vassenka\nVeslovsky in his Scotch cap with floating ribbons, his stout legs\nstretched out in front, obviously pleased with his own appearance.\nDarya Alexandrovna could not suppress a good-humored smile as she\nrecognized him. Behind rode Vronsky on a dark bay mare, obviously\nheated from galloping. He was holding her in, pulling at the reins.\n\nAfter him rode a little man in the dress of a jockey. Sviazhsky and\nPrincess Varvara in a new _char- -banc_ with a big, raven-black\ntrotting horse, overtook the party on horseback.\n\nAnna s face suddenly beamed with a joyful smile at the instant when, in\nthe little figure huddled in a corner of the old carriage, she\nrecognized Dolly. She uttered a cry, started in the saddle, and set her\nhorse into a gallop. On reaching the carriage she jumped off without\nassistance, and holding up her riding habit, she ran up to greet Dolly.\n\n I thought it was you and dared not think it. How delightful! You can t\nfancy how glad I am!  she said, at one moment pressing her face against\nDolly and kissing her, and at the next holding her off and examining\nher with a smile.\n\n Here s a delightful surprise, Alexey!  she said, looking round at\nVronsky, who had dismounted, and was walking towards them.\n\nVronsky, taking off his tall gray hat, went up to Dolly.\n\n You wouldn t believe how glad we are to see you,  he said, giving\npeculiar significance to the words, and showing his strong white teeth\nin a smile.\n\nVassenka Veslovsky, without getting off his horse, took off his cap and\ngreeted the visitor by gleefully waving the ribbons over his head.\n\n That s Princess Varvara,  Anna said in reply to a glance of inquiry\nfrom Dolly as the _char- -banc_ drove up.\n\n Ah!  said Darya Alexandrovna, and unconsciously her face betrayed her\ndissatisfaction.\n\nPrincess Varvara was her husband s aunt, and she had long known her,\nand did not respect her. She knew that Princess Varvara had passed her\nwhole life toadying on her rich relations, but that she should now be\nsponging on Vronsky, a man who was nothing to her, mortified Dolly on\naccount of her kinship with her husband. Anna noticed Dolly s\nexpression, and was disconcerted by it. She blushed, dropped her riding\nhabit, and stumbled over it.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna went up to the _char- -banc_ and coldly greeted\nPrincess Varvara. Sviazhsky too she knew. He inquired how his queer\nfriend with the young wife was, and running his eyes over the\nill-matched horses and the carriage with its patched mud-guards,\nproposed to the ladies that they should get into the _char- -banc_.\n\n And I ll get into this vehicle,  he said.  The horse is quiet, and the\nprincess drives capitally. \n\n No, stay as you were,  said Anna, coming up,  and we ll go in the\ncarriage,  and taking Dolly s arm, she drew her away.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna s eyes were fairly dazzled by the elegant carriage\nof a pattern she had never seen before, the splendid horses, and the\nelegant and gorgeous people surrounding her. But what struck her most\nof all was the change that had taken place in Anna, whom she knew so\nwell and loved. Any other woman, a less close observer, not knowing\nAnna before, or not having thought as Darya Alexandrovna had been\nthinking on the road, would not have noticed anything special in Anna.\nBut now Dolly was struck by that temporary beauty, which is only found\nin women during the moments of love, and which she saw now in Anna s\nface. Everything in her face, the clearly marked dimples in her cheeks\nand chin, the line of her lips, the smile which, as it were, fluttered\nabout her face, the brilliance of her eyes, the grace and rapidity of\nher movements, the fulness of the notes of her voice, even the manner\nin which, with a sort of angry friendliness, she answered Veslovsky\nwhen he asked permission to get on her cob, so as to teach it to gallop\nwith the right leg foremost it was all peculiarly fascinating, and it\nseemed as if she were herself aware of it, and rejoicing in it.\n\nWhen both the women were seated in the carriage, a sudden embarrassment\ncame over both of them. Anna was disconcerted by the intent look of\ninquiry Dolly fixed upon her. Dolly was embarrassed because after\nSviazhsky s phrase about  this vehicle,  she could not help feeling\nashamed of the dirty old carriage in which Anna was sitting with her.\nThe coachman Philip and the counting-house clerk were experiencing the\nsame sensation. The counting-house clerk, to conceal his confusion,\nbusied himself settling the ladies, but Philip the coachman became\nsullen, and was bracing himself not to be overawed in future by this\nexternal superiority. He smiled ironically, looking at the raven horse,\nand was already deciding in his own mind that this smart trotter in the\n_char- -banc_ was only good for _promenage_, and wouldn t do thirty\nmiles straight off in the heat.\n\nThe peasants had all got up from the cart and were inquisitively and\nmirthfully staring at the meeting of the friends, making their comments\non it.\n\n They re pleased, too; haven t seen each other for a long while,  said\nthe curly-headed old man with the bast round his hair.\n\n I say, Uncle Gerasim, if we could take that raven horse now, to cart\nthe corn, that  ud be quick work! \n\n Look-ee! Is that a woman in breeches?  said one of them, pointing to\nVassenka Veslovsky sitting in a side saddle.\n\n Nay, a man! See how smartly he s going it! \n\n Eh, lads! seems we re not going to sleep, then? \n\n What chance of sleep today!  said the old man, with a sidelong look at\nthe sun.  Midday s past, look-ee! Get your hooks, and come along! \n\n\nChapter 18\n\nAnna looked at Dolly s thin, care-worn face, with its wrinkles filled\nwith dust from the road, and she was on the point of saying what she\nwas thinking, that is, that Dolly had got thinner. But, conscious that\nshe herself had grown handsomer, and that Dolly s eyes were telling her\nso, she sighed and began to speak about herself.\n\n You are looking at me,  she said,  and wondering how I can be happy in\nmy position? Well! it s shameful to confess, but I ... I m inexcusably\nhappy. Something magical has happened to me, like a dream, when you re\nfrightened, panic-stricken, and all of a sudden you wake up and all the\nhorrors are no more. I have waked up. I have lived through the misery,\nthe dread, and now for a long while past, especially since we ve been\nhere, I ve been so happy!...  she said, with a timid smile of inquiry\nlooking at Dolly.\n\n How glad I am!  said Dolly smiling, involuntarily speaking more coldly\nthan she wanted to.  I m very glad for you. Why haven t you written to\nme? \n\n Why?... Because I hadn t the courage.... You forget my position.... \n\n To me? Hadn t the courage? If you knew how I ... I look at.... \n\nDarya Alexandrovna wanted to express her thoughts of the morning, but\nfor some reason it seemed to her now out of place to do so.\n\n But of that we ll talk later. What s this, what are all these\nbuildings?  she asked, wanting to change the conversation and pointing\nto the red and green roofs that came into view behind the green hedges\nof acacia and lilac.  Quite a little town. \n\nBut Anna did not answer.\n\n No, no! How do you look at my position, what do you think of it?  she\nasked.\n\n I consider....  Darya Alexandrovna was beginning, but at that instant\nVassenka Veslovsky, having brought the cob to gallop with the right leg\nforemost, galloped past them, bumping heavily up and down in his short\njacket on the chamois leather of the side saddle.  He s doing it, Anna\nArkadyevna!  he shouted.\n\nAnna did not even glance at him; but again it seemed to Darya\nAlexandrovna out of place to enter upon such a long conversation in the\ncarriage, and so she cut short her thought.\n\n I don t think anything,  she said,  but I always loved you, and if one\nloves anyone, one loves the whole person, just as they are and not as\none would like them to be.... \n\nAnna, taking her eyes off her friend s face and dropping her eyelids\n(this was a new habit Dolly had not seen in her before), pondered,\ntrying to penetrate the full significance of the words. And obviously\ninterpreting them as she would have wished, she glanced at Dolly.\n\n If you had any sins,  she said,  they would all be forgiven you for\nyour coming to see me and these words. \n\nAnd Dolly saw that tears stood in her eyes. She pressed Anna s hand in\nsilence.\n\n Well, what are these buildings? How many there are of them!  After a\nmoment s silence she repeated her question.\n\n These are the servants  houses, barns, and stables,  answered Anna.\n And there the park begins. It had all gone to ruin, but Alexey had\neverything renewed. He is very fond of this place, and, what I never\nexpected, he has become intensely interested in looking after it. But\nhis is such a rich nature! Whatever he takes up, he does splendidly. So\nfar from being bored by it, he works with passionate interest. He with\nhis temperament as I know it he has become careful and businesslike, a\nfirst-rate manager, he positively reckons every penny in his management\nof the land. But only in that. When it s a question of tens of\nthousands, he doesn t think of money.  She spoke with that gleefully\nsly smile with which women often talk of the secret characteristics\nonly known to them of those they love.  Do you see that big building?\nthat s the new hospital. I believe it will cost over a hundred\nthousand; that s his hobby just now. And do you know how it all came\nabout? The peasants asked him for some meadowland, I think it was, at a\ncheaper rate, and he refused, and I accused him of being miserly. Of\ncourse it was not really because of that, but everything together, he\nbegan this hospital to prove, do you see, that he was not miserly about\nmoney. _C est une petitesse_, if you like, but I love him all the more\nfor it. And now you ll see the house in a moment. It was his\ngrandfather s house, and he has had nothing changed outside. \n\n How beautiful!  said Dolly, looking with involuntary admiration at the\nhandsome house with columns, standing out among the different-colored\ngreens of the old trees in the garden.\n\n Isn t it fine? And from the house, from the top, the view is\nwonderful. \n\nThey drove into a courtyard strewn with gravel and bright with flowers,\nin which two laborers were at work putting an edging of stones round\nthe light mould of a flower bed, and drew up in a covered entry.\n\n Ah, they re here already!  said Anna, looking at the saddle horses,\nwhich were just being led away from the steps.  It is a nice horse,\nisn t it? It s my cob; my favorite. Lead him here and bring me some\nsugar. Where is the count?  she inquired of two smart footmen who\ndarted out.  Ah, there he is!  she said, seeing Vronsky coming to meet\nher with Veslovsky.\n\n Where are you going to put the princess?  said Vronsky in French,\naddressing Anna, and without waiting for a reply, he once more greeted\nDarya Alexandrovna, and this time he kissed her hand.  I think the big\nbalcony room. \n\n Oh, no, that s too far off! Better in the corner room, we shall see\neach other more. Come, let s go up,  said Anna, as she gave her\nfavorite horse the sugar the footman had brought her.\n\n _Et vous oubliez votre devoir_,  she said to Veslovsky, who came out\ntoo on the steps.\n\n _Pardon, j en ai tout plein les poches_,  he answered, smiling,\nputting his fingers in his waistcoat pocket.\n\n _Mais vous venez trop tard_,  she said, rubbing her handkerchief on\nher hand, which the horse had made wet in taking the sugar.\n\nAnna turned to Dolly.  You can stay some time? For one day only? That s\nimpossible! \n\n I promised to be back, and the children....  said Dolly, feeling\nembarrassed both because she had to get her bag out of the carriage,\nand because she knew her face must be covered with dust.\n\n No, Dolly, darling!... Well, we ll see. Come along, come along!  and\nAnna led Dolly to her room.\n\nThat room was not the smart guest chamber Vronsky had suggested, but\nthe one of which Anna had said that Dolly would excuse it. And this\nroom, for which excuse was needed, was more full of luxury than any in\nwhich Dolly had ever stayed, a luxury that reminded her of the best\nhotels abroad.\n\n Well, darling, how happy I am!  Anna said, sitting down in her riding\nhabit for a moment beside Dolly.  Tell me about all of you. Stiva I had\nonly a glimpse of, and he cannot tell one about the children. How is my\nfavorite, Tanya? Quite a big girl, I expect? \n\n Yes, she s very tall,  Darya Alexandrovna answered shortly, surprised\nherself that she should respond so coolly about her children.  We are\nhaving a delightful stay at the Levins ,  she added.\n\n Oh, if I had known,  said Anna,  that you do not despise me!... You\nmight have all come to us. Stiva s an old friend and a great friend of\nAlexey s, you know,  she added, and suddenly she blushed.\n\n Yes, but we are all....  Dolly answered in confusion.\n\n But in my delight I m talking nonsense. The one thing, darling, is\nthat I am so glad to have you!  said Anna, kissing her again.  You\nhaven t told me yet how and what you think about me, and I keep wanting\nto know. But I m glad you will see me as I am. The chief thing I\nshouldn t like would be for people to imagine I want to prove anything.\nI don t want to prove anything; I merely want to live, to do no one\nharm but myself. I have the right to do that, haven t I? But it is a\nbig subject, and we ll talk over everything properly later. Now I ll go\nand dress and send a maid to you. \n\n\nChapter 19\n\nLeft alone, Darya Alexandrovna, with a good housewife s eye, scanned\nher room. All she had seen in entering the house and walking through\nit, and all she saw now in her room, gave her an impression of wealth\nand sumptuousness and of that modern European luxury of which she had\nonly read in English novels, but had never seen in Russia and in the\ncountry. Everything was new from the new French hangings on the walls\nto the carpet which covered the whole floor. The bed had a spring\nmattress, and a special sort of bolster and silk pillowcases on the\nlittle pillows. The marble washstand, the dressing table, the little\nsofa, the tables, the bronze clock on the chimney piece, the window\ncurtains, and the _porti res_ were all new and expensive.\n\nThe smart maid, who came in to offer her services, with her hair done\nup high, and a gown more fashionable than Dolly s, was as new and\nexpensive as the whole room. Darya Alexandrovna liked her neatness, her\ndeferential and obliging manners, but she felt ill at ease with her.\nShe felt ashamed of her seeing the patched dressing jacket that had\nunluckily been packed by mistake for her. She was ashamed of the very\npatches and darned places of which she had been so proud at home. At\nhome it had been so clear that for six dressing jackets there would be\nneeded twenty-four yards of nainsook at sixteen pence the yard, which\nwas a matter of thirty shillings besides the cutting-out and making,\nand these thirty shillings had been saved. But before the maid she\nfelt, if not exactly ashamed, at least uncomfortable.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna had a great sense of relief when Annushka, whom she\nhad known for years, walked in. The smart maid was sent for to go to\nher mistress, and Annushka remained with Darya Alexandrovna.\n\nAnnushka was obviously much pleased at that lady s arrival, and began\nto chatter away without a pause. Dolly observed that she was longing to\nexpress her opinion in regard to her mistress s position, especially as\nto the love and devotion of the count to Anna Arkadyevna, but Dolly\ncarefully interrupted her whenever she began to speak about this.\n\n I grew up with Anna Arkadyevna; my lady s dearer to me than anything.\nWell, it s not for us to judge. And, to be sure, there seems so much\nlove.... \n\n Kindly pour out the water for me to wash now, please,  Darya\nAlexandrovna cut her short.\n\n Certainly. We ve two women kept specially for washing small things,\nbut most of the linen s done by machinery. The count goes into\neverything himself. Ah, what a husband!... \n\nDolly was glad when Anna came in, and by her entrance put a stop to\nAnnushka s gossip.\n\nAnna had put on a very simple batiste gown. Dolly scrutinized that\nsimple gown attentively. She knew what it meant, and the price at which\nsuch simplicity was obtained.\n\n An old friend,  said Anna of Annushka.\n\nAnna was not embarrassed now. She was perfectly composed and at ease.\nDolly saw that she had now completely recovered from the impression her\narrival had made on her, and had assumed that superficial, careless\ntone which, as it were, closed the door on that compartment in which\nher deeper feelings and ideas were kept.\n\n Well, Anna, and how is your little girl?  asked Dolly.\n\n Annie?  (This was what she called her little daughter Anna.)  Very\nwell. She has got on wonderfully. Would you like to see her? Come, I ll\nshow her to you. We had a terrible bother,  she began telling her,\n over nurses. We had an Italian wet-nurse. A good creature, but so\nstupid! We wanted to get rid of her, but the baby is so used to her\nthat we ve gone on keeping her still. \n\n But how have you managed?...  Dolly was beginning a question as to\nwhat name the little girl would have; but noticing a sudden frown on\nAnna s face, she changed the drift of her question.\n\n How did you manage? have you weaned her yet? \n\nBut Anna had understood.\n\n You didn t mean to ask that? You meant to ask about her surname. Yes?\nThat worries Alexey. She has no name that is, she s a Karenina,  said\nAnna, dropping her eyelids till nothing could be seen but the eyelashes\nmeeting.  But we ll talk about all that later,  her face suddenly\nbrightening.  Come, I ll show you her. _Elle est tr s gentille_. She\ncrawls now. \n\nIn the nursery the luxury which had impressed Dolly in the whole house\nstruck her still more. There were little go-carts ordered from England,\nand appliances for learning to walk, and a sofa after the fashion of a\nbilliard table, purposely constructed for crawling, and swings and\nbaths, all of special pattern, and modern. They were all English,\nsolid, and of good make, and obviously very expensive. The room was\nlarge, and very light and lofty.\n\nWhen they went in, the baby, with nothing on but her little smock, was\nsitting in a little elbow chair at the table, having her dinner of\nbroth, which she was spilling all over her little chest. The baby was\nbeing fed, and the Russian nursery maid was evidently sharing her meal.\nNeither the wet-nurse nor the head-nurse were there; they were in the\nnext room, from which came the sound of their conversation in the queer\nFrench which was their only means of communication.\n\nHearing Anna s voice, a smart, tall, English nurse with a disagreeable\nface and a dissolute expression walked in at the door, hurriedly\nshaking her fair curls, and immediately began to defend herself though\nAnna had not found fault with her. At every word Anna said, the English\nnurse said hurriedly several times,  Yes, my lady. \n\nThe rosy baby with her black eyebrows and hair, her sturdy red little\nbody with tight goose-flesh skin, delighted Darya Alexandrovna in spite\nof the cross expression with which she stared at the stranger. She\npositively envied the baby s healthy appearance. She was delighted,\ntoo, at the baby s crawling. Not one of her own children had crawled\nlike that. When the baby was put on the carpet and its little dress\ntucked up behind, it was wonderfully charming. Looking round like some\nlittle wild animal at the grown-up big people with her bright black\neyes, she smiled, unmistakably pleased at their admiring her, and\nholding her legs sideways, she pressed vigorously on her arms, and\nrapidly drew her whole back up after, and then made another step\nforward with her little arms.\n\nBut the whole atmosphere of the nursery, and especially the English\nnurse, Darya Alexandrovna did not like at all. It was only on the\nsupposition that no good nurse would have entered so irregular a\nhousehold as Anna s that Darya Alexandrovna could explain to herself\nhow Anna with her insight into people could take such an\nunprepossessing, disreputable-looking woman as nurse to her child.\n\nBesides, from a few words that were dropped, Darya Alexandrovna saw at\nonce that Anna, the two nurses, and the child had no common existence,\nand that the mother s visit was something exceptional. Anna wanted to\nget the baby her plaything, and could not find it.\n\nMost amazing of all was the fact that on being asked how many teeth the\nbaby had, Anna answered wrong, and knew nothing about the two last\nteeth.\n\n I sometimes feel sorry I m so superfluous here,  said Anna, going out\nof the nursery and holding up her skirt so as to escape the plaything\nstanding in the doorway.  It was very different with my first child. \n\n I expected it to be the other way,  said Darya Alexandrovna shyly.\n\n Oh, no! By the way, do you know I saw Seryozha?  said Anna, screwing\nup her eyes, as though looking at something far away.  But we ll talk\nabout that later. You wouldn t believe it, I m like a hungry beggar\nwoman when a full dinner is set before her, and she does not know what\nto begin on first. The dinner is you, and the talks I have before me\nwith you, which I could never have with anyone else; and I don t know\nwhich subject to begin upon first. _Mais je ne vous ferai gr ce de\nrien_. I must have everything out with you. \n\n Oh, I ought to give you a sketch of the company you will meet with\nus,  she went on.  I ll begin with the ladies. Princess Varvara you\nknow her, and I know your opinion and Stiva s about her. Stiva says the\nwhole aim of her existence is to prove her superiority over Auntie\nKaterina Pavlovna: that s all true; but she s a good-natured woman, and\nI am so grateful to her. In Petersburg there was a moment when a\nchaperon was absolutely essential for me. Then she turned up. But\nreally she is good-natured. She did a great deal to alleviate my\nposition. I see you don t understand all the difficulty of my position\n... there in Petersburg,  she added.  Here I m perfectly at ease and\nhappy. Well, of that later on, though. Then Sviazhsky he s the marshal\nof the district, and he s a very good sort of a man, but he wants to\nget something out of Alexey. You understand, with his property, now\nthat we are settled in the country, Alexey can exercise great\ninfluence. Then there s Tushkevitch you have seen him, you know Betsy s\nadmirer. Now he s been thrown over and he s come to see us. As Alexey\nsays, he s one of those people who are very pleasant if one accepts\nthem for what they try to appear to be, _et puis il est comme il faut_,\nas Princess Varvara says. Then Veslovsky ... you know him. A very nice\nboy,  she said, and a sly smile curved her lips.  What s this wild\nstory about him and the Levins? Veslovsky told Alexey about it, and we\ndon t believe it. _Il est tr s gentil et na f_,  she said again with\nthe same smile.  Men need occupation, and Alexey needs a circle, so I\nvalue all these people. We have to have the house lively and gay, so\nthat Alexey may not long for any novelty. Then you ll see the steward a\nGerman, a very good fellow, and he understands his work. Alexey has a\nvery high opinion of him. Then the doctor, a young man, not quite a\nNihilist perhaps, but you know, eats with his knife ... but a very good\ndoctor. Then the architect.... _Une petite cour!_ \n\n\nChapter 20\n\n Here s Dolly for you, princess, you were so anxious to see her,  said\nAnna, coming out with Darya Alexandrovna onto the stone terrace where\nPrincess Varvara was sitting in the shade at an embroidery frame,\nworking at a cover for Count Alexey Kirillovitch s easy chair.  She\nsays she doesn t want anything before dinner, but please order some\nlunch for her, and I ll go and look for Alexey and bring them all in. \n\nPrincess Varvara gave Dolly a cordial and rather patronizing reception,\nand began at once explaining to her that she was living with Anna\nbecause she had always cared more for her than her sister Katerina\nPavlovna, the aunt that had brought Anna up, and that now, when\neveryone had abandoned Anna, she thought it her duty to help her in\nthis most difficult period of transition.\n\n Her husband will give her a divorce, and then I shall go back to my\nsolitude; but now I can be of use, and I am doing my duty, however\ndifficult it may be for me not like some other people. And how sweet it\nis of you, how right of you to have come! They live like the best of\nmarried couples; it s for God to judge them, not for us. And didn t\nBiryuzovsky and Madame Avenieva ... and Sam Nikandrov, and Vassiliev\nand Madame Mamonova, and Liza Neptunova.... Did no one say anything\nabout them? And it has ended by their being received by everyone. And\nthen, _c est un int rieur si joli, si comme il faut. Tout- -fait  \nl anglaise. On se r unit le matin au breakfast, et puis on se s pare._\nEveryone does as he pleases till dinner time. Dinner at seven o clock.\nStiva did very rightly to send you. He needs their support. You know\nthat through his mother and brother he can do anything. And then they\ndo so much good. He didn t tell you about his hospital? _Ce sera\nadmirable_ everything from Paris. \n\nTheir conversation was interrupted by Anna, who had found the men of\nthe party in the billiard room, and returned with them to the terrace.\nThere was still a long time before the dinner-hour, it was exquisite\nweather, and so several different methods of spending the next two\nhours were proposed. There were very many methods of passing the time\nat Vozdvizhenskoe, and these were all unlike those in use at\nPokrovskoe.\n\n _Une partie de lawn-tennis,_  Veslovsky proposed, with his handsome\nsmile.  We ll be partners again, Anna Arkadyevna. \n\n No, it s too hot; better stroll about the garden and have a row in the\nboat, show Darya Alexandrovna the river banks.  Vronsky proposed.\n\n I agree to anything,  said Sviazhsky.\n\n I imagine that what Dolly would like best would be a stroll wouldn t\nyou? And then the boat, perhaps,  said Anna.\n\nSo it was decided. Veslovsky and Tushkevitch went off to the bathing\nplace, promising to get the boat ready and to wait there for them.\n\nThey walked along the path in two couples, Anna with Sviazhsky, and\nDolly with Vronsky. Dolly was a little embarrassed and anxious in the\nnew surroundings in which she found herself. Abstractly, theoretically,\nshe did not merely justify, she positively approved of Anna s conduct.\nAs is indeed not unfrequent with women of unimpeachable virtue, weary\nof the monotony of respectable existence, at a distance she not only\nexcused illicit love, she positively envied it. Besides, she loved Anna\nwith all her heart. But seeing Anna in actual life among these\nstrangers, with this fashionable tone that was so new to Darya\nAlexandrovna, she felt ill at ease. What she disliked particularly was\nseeing Princess Varvara ready to overlook everything for the sake of\nthe comforts she enjoyed.\n\nAs a general principle, abstractly, Dolly approved of Anna s action;\nbut to see the man for whose sake her action had been taken was\ndisagreeable to her. Moreover, she had never liked Vronsky. She thought\nhim very proud, and saw nothing in him of which he could be proud\nexcept his wealth. But against her own will, here in his own house, he\noverawed her more than ever, and she could not be at ease with him. She\nfelt with him the same feeling she had had with the maid about her\ndressing jacket. Just as with the maid she had felt not exactly\nashamed, but embarrassed at her darns, so she felt with him not exactly\nashamed, but embarrassed at herself.\n\nDolly was ill at ease, and tried to find a subject of conversation.\nEven though she supposed that, through his pride, praise of his house\nand garden would be sure to be disagreeable to him, she did all the\nsame tell him how much she liked his house.\n\n Yes, it s a very fine building, and in the good old-fashioned style, \nhe said.\n\n I like so much the court in front of the steps. Was that always so? \n\n Oh, no!  he said, and his face beamed with pleasure.  If you could\nonly have seen that court last spring! \n\nAnd he began, at first rather diffidently, but more and more carried\naway by the subject as he went on, to draw her attention to the various\ndetails of the decoration of his house and garden. It was evident that,\nhaving devoted a great deal of trouble to improve and beautify his\nhome, Vronsky felt a need to show off the improvements to a new person,\nand was genuinely delighted at Darya Alexandrovna s praise.\n\n If you would care to look at the hospital, and are not tired, indeed,\nit s not far. Shall we go?  he said, glancing into her face to convince\nhimself that she was not bored.  Are you coming, Anna?  he turned to\nher.\n\n We will come, won t we?  she said, addressing Sviazhsky.  _Mais il ne\nfaut pas laisser le pauvre Veslovsky et Tushkevitch se morfondre l \ndans le bateau._ We must send and tell them. \n\n Yes, this is a monument he is setting up here,  said Anna, turning to\nDolly with that sly smile of comprehension with which she had\npreviously talked about the hospital.\n\n Oh, it s a work of real importance!  said Sviazhsky. But to show he\nwas not trying to ingratiate himself with Vronsky, he promptly added\nsome slightly critical remarks.\n\n I wonder, though, count,  he said,  that while you do so much for the\nhealth of the peasants, you take so little interest in the schools. \n\n _C est devenu tellement commun les  coles,_  said Vronsky.  You\nunderstand it s not on that account, but it just happens so, my\ninterest has been diverted elsewhere. This way then to the hospital, \nhe said to Darya Alexandrovna, pointing to a turning out of the avenue.\n\nThe ladies put up their parasols and turned into the side path. After\ngoing down several turnings, and going through a little gate, Darya\nAlexandrovna saw standing on rising ground before her a large\npretentious-looking red building, almost finished. The iron roof, which\nwas not yet painted, shone with dazzling brightness in the sunshine.\nBeside the finished building another had been begun, surrounded by\nscaffolding. Workmen in aprons, standing on scaffolds, were laying\nbricks, pouring mortar out of vats, and smoothing it with trowels.\n\n How quickly work gets done with you!  said Sviazhsky.  When I was here\nlast time the roof was not on. \n\n By the autumn it will all be ready. Inside almost everything is done, \nsaid Anna.\n\n And what s this new building? \n\n That s the house for the doctor and the dispensary,  answered Vronsky,\nseeing the architect in a short jacket coming towards him; and excusing\nhimself to the ladies, he went to meet him.\n\nGoing round a hole where the workmen were slaking lime, he stood still\nwith the architect and began talking rather warmly.\n\n The front is still too low,  he said to Anna, who had asked what was\nthe matter.\n\n I said the foundation ought to be raised,  said Anna.\n\n Yes, of course it would have been much better, Anna Arkadyevna,  said\nthe architect,  but now it s too late. \n\n Yes, I take a great interest in it,  Anna answered Sviazhsky, who was\nexpressing his surprise at her knowledge of architecture.  This new\nbuilding ought to have been in harmony with the hospital. It was an\nafterthought, and was begun without a plan. \n\nVronsky, having finished his talk with the architect, joined the\nladies, and led them inside the hospital.\n\nAlthough they were still at work on the cornices outside and were\npainting on the ground floor, upstairs almost all the rooms were\nfinished. Going up the broad cast-iron staircase to the landing, they\nwalked into the first large room. The walls were stuccoed to look like\nmarble, the huge plate-glass windows were already in, only the parquet\nfloor was not yet finished, and the carpenters, who were planing a\nblock of it, left their work, taking off the bands that fastened their\nhair, to greet the gentry.\n\n This is the reception room,  said Vronsky.  Here there will be a desk,\ntables, and benches, and nothing more. \n\n This way; let us go in here. Don t go near the window,  said Anna,\ntrying the paint to see if it were dry.  Alexey, the paint s dry\nalready,  she added.\n\nFrom the reception room they went into the corridor. Here Vronsky\nshowed them the mechanism for ventilation on a novel system. Then he\nshowed them marble baths, and beds with extraordinary springs. Then he\nshowed them the wards one after another, the storeroom, the linen room,\nthen the heating stove of a new pattern, then the trolleys, which would\nmake no noise as they carried everything needed along the corridors,\nand many other things. Sviazhsky, as a connoisseur in the latest\nmechanical improvements, appreciated everything fully. Dolly simply\nwondered at all she had not seen before, and, anxious to understand it\nall, made minute inquiries about everything, which gave Vronsky great\nsatisfaction.\n\n Yes, I imagine that this will be the solitary example of a properly\nfitted hospital in Russia,  said Sviazhsky.\n\n And won t you have a lying-in ward?  asked Dolly.  That s so much\nneeded in the country. I have often.... \n\nIn spite of his usual courtesy, Vronsky interrupted her.\n\n This is not a lying-in home, but a hospital for the sick, and is\nintended for all diseases, except infectious complaints,  he said.  Ah!\nlook at this,  and he rolled up to Darya Alexandrovna an invalid chair\nthat had just been ordered for the convalescents.  Look.  He sat down\nin the chair and began moving it.  The patient can t walk still too\nweak, perhaps, or something wrong with his legs, but he must have air,\nand he moves, rolls himself along.... \n\nDarya Alexandrovna was interested by everything. She liked everything\nvery much, but most of all she liked Vronsky himself with his natural,\nsimple-hearted eagerness.  Yes, he s a very nice, good man,  she\nthought several times, not hearing what he said, but looking at him and\npenetrating into his expression, while she mentally put herself in\nAnna s place. She liked him so much just now with his eager interest\nthat she saw how Anna could be in love with him.\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n No, I think the princess is tired, and horses don t interest her, \nVronsky said to Anna, who wanted to go on to the stables, where\nSviazhsky wished to see the new stallion.  You go on, while I escort\nthe princess home, and we ll have a little talk,  he said,  if you\nwould like that?  he added, turning to her.\n\n I know nothing about horses, and I shall be delighted,  answered Darya\nAlexandrovna, rather astonished.\n\nShe saw by Vronsky s face that he wanted something from her. She was\nnot mistaken. As soon as they had passed through the little gate back\ninto the garden, he looked in the direction Anna had taken, and having\nmade sure that she could neither hear nor see them, he began:\n\n You guess that I have something I want to say to you,  he said,\nlooking at her with laughing eyes.  I am not wrong in believing you to\nbe a friend of Anna s.  He took off his hat, and taking out his\nhandkerchief, wiped his head, which was growing bald.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna made no answer, and merely stared at him with\ndismay. When she was left alone with him, she suddenly felt afraid; his\nlaughing eyes and stern expression scared her.\n\nThe most diverse suppositions as to what he was about to speak of to\nher flashed into her brain.  He is going to beg me to come to stay with\nthem with the children, and I shall have to refuse; or to create a set\nthat will receive Anna in Moscow.... Or isn t it Vassenka Veslovsky and\nhis relations with Anna? Or perhaps about Kitty, that he feels he was\nto blame?  All her conjectures were unpleasant, but she did not guess\nwhat he really wanted to talk about to her.\n\n You have so much influence with Anna, she is so fond of you,  he said;\n do help me. \n\nDarya Alexandrovna looked with timid inquiry into his energetic face,\nwhich under the lime-trees was continually being lighted up in patches\nby the sunshine, and then passing into complete shadow again. She\nwaited for him to say more, but he walked in silence beside her,\nscratching with his cane in the gravel.\n\n You have come to see us, you, the only woman of Anna s former\nfriends I don t count Princess Varvara but I know that you have done\nthis not because you regard our position as normal, but because,\nunderstanding all the difficulty of the position, you still love her\nand want to be a help to her. Have I understood you rightly?  he asked,\nlooking round at her.\n\n Oh, yes,  answered Darya Alexandrovna, putting down her sunshade,\n but.... \n\n No,  he broke in, and unconsciously, oblivious of the awkward position\ninto which he was putting his companion, he stopped abruptly, so that\nshe had to stop short too.  No one feels more deeply and intensely than\nI do all the difficulty of Anna s position; and that you may well\nunderstand, if you do me the honor of supposing I have any heart. I am\nto blame for that position, and that is why I feel it. \n\n I understand,  said Darya Alexandrovna, involuntarily admiring the\nsincerity and firmness with which he said this.  But just because you\nfeel yourself responsible, you exaggerate it, I am afraid,  she said.\n Her position in the world is difficult, I can well understand. \n\n In the world it is hell!  he brought out quickly, frowning darkly.\n You can t imagine moral sufferings greater than what she went through\nin Petersburg in that fortnight ... and I beg you to believe it. \n\n Yes, but here, so long as neither Anna ... nor you miss society.... \n\n Society!  he said contemptuously,  how could I miss society? \n\n So far and it may be so always you are happy and at peace. I see in\nAnna that she is happy, perfectly happy, she has had time to tell me so\nmuch already,  said Darya Alexandrovna, smiling; and involuntarily, as\nshe said this, at the same moment a doubt entered her mind whether Anna\nreally were happy.\n\nBut Vronsky, it appeared, had no doubts on that score.\n\n Yes, yes,  he said,  I know that she has revived after all her\nsufferings; she is happy. She is happy in the present. But I?... I am\nafraid of what is before us ... I beg your pardon, you would like to\nwalk on? \n\n No, I don t mind. \n\n Well, then, let us sit here. \n\nDarya Alexandrovna sat down on a garden seat in a corner of the avenue.\nHe stood up facing her.\n\n I see that she is happy,  he repeated, and the doubt whether she were\nhappy sank more deeply into Darya Alexandrovna s mind.  But can it\nlast? Whether we have acted rightly or wrongly is another question, but\nthe die is cast,  he said, passing from Russian to French,  and we are\nbound together for life. We are united by all the ties of love that we\nhold most sacred. We have a child, we may have other children. But the\nlaw and all the conditions of our position are such that thousands of\ncomplications arise which she does not see and does not want to see.\nAnd that one can well understand. But I can t help seeing them. My\ndaughter is by law not my daughter, but Karenin s. I cannot bear this\nfalsity!  he said, with a vigorous gesture of refusal, and he looked\nwith gloomy inquiry towards Darya Alexandrovna.\n\nShe made no answer, but simply gazed at him. He went on:\n\n One day a son may be born, my son, and he will be legally a Karenin;\nhe will not be the heir of my name nor of my property, and however\nhappy we may be in our home life and however many children we may have,\nthere will be no real tie between us. They will be Karenins. You can\nunderstand the bitterness and horror of this position! I have tried to\nspeak of this to Anna. It irritates her. She does not understand, and\nto her I cannot speak plainly of all this. Now look at another side. I\nam happy, happy in her love, but I must have occupation. I have found\noccupation, and am proud of what I am doing and consider it nobler than\nthe pursuits of my former companions at court and in the army. And most\ncertainly I would not change the work I am doing for theirs. I am\nworking here, settled in my own place, and I am happy and contented,\nand we need nothing more to make us happy. I love my work here. _Ce\nn est pas un pis-aller,_ on the contrary.... \n\nDarya Alexandrovna noticed that at this point in his explanation he\ngrew confused, and she did not quite understand this digression, but\nshe felt that having once begun to speak of matters near his heart, of\nwhich he could not speak to Anna, he was now making a clean breast of\neverything, and that the question of his pursuits in the country fell\ninto the same category of matters near his heart, as the question of\nhis relations with Anna.\n\n Well, I will go on,  he said, collecting himself.  The great thing is\nthat as I work I want to have a conviction that what I am doing will\nnot die with me, that I shall have heirs to come after me, and this I\nhave not. Conceive the position of a man who knows that his children,\nthe children of the woman he loves, will not be his, but will belong to\nsomeone who hates them and cares nothing about them! It is awful! \n\nHe paused, evidently much moved.\n\n Yes, indeed, I see that. But what can Anna do?  queried Darya\nAlexandrovna.\n\n Yes, that brings me to the object of my conversation,  he said,\ncalming himself with an effort.  Anna can, it depends on her.... Even\nto petition the Tsar for legitimization, a divorce is essential. And\nthat depends on Anna. Her husband agreed to a divorce at that time your\nhusband had arranged it completely. And now, I know, he would not\nrefuse it. It is only a matter of writing to him. He said plainly at\nthat time that if she expressed the desire, he would not refuse. Of\ncourse,  he said gloomily,  it is one of those Pharisaical cruelties of\nwhich only such heartless men are capable. He knows what agony any\nrecollection of him must give her, and knowing her, he must have a\nletter from her. I can understand that it is agony to her. But the\nmatter is of such importance, that one must _passer par-dessus toutes\nces finesses de sentiment. Il y va du bonheur et de l existence d Anne\net de ses enfants._ I won t speak of myself, though it s hard for me,\nvery hard,  he said, with an expression as though he were threatening\nsomeone for its being hard for him.  And so it is, princess, that I am\nshamelessly clutching at you as an anchor of salvation. Help me to\npersuade her to write to him and ask for a divorce. \n\n Yes, of course,  Darya Alexandrovna said dreamily, as she vividly\nrecalled her last interview with Alexey Alexandrovitch.  Yes, of\ncourse,  she repeated with decision, thinking of Anna.\n\n Use your influence with her, make her write. I don t like I m almost\nunable to speak about this to her. \n\n Very well, I will talk to her. But how is it she does not think of it\nherself?  said Darya Alexandrovna, and for some reason she suddenly at\nthat point recalled Anna s strange new habit of half-closing her eyes.\nAnd she remembered that Anna drooped her eyelids just when the deeper\nquestions of life were touched upon.  Just as though she half-shut her\neyes to her own life, so as not to see everything,  thought Dolly.\n Yes, indeed, for my own sake and for hers I will talk to her,  Dolly\nsaid in reply to his look of gratitude.\n\nThey got up and walked to the house.\n\n\nChapter 22\n\nWhen Anna found Dolly at home before her, she looked intently in her\neyes, as though questioning her about the talk she had had with\nVronsky, but she made no inquiry in words.\n\n I believe it s dinner time,  she said.  We ve not seen each other at\nall yet. I am reckoning on the evening. Now I want to go and dress. I\nexpect you do too; we all got splashed at the buildings. \n\nDolly went to her room and she felt amused. To change her dress was\nimpossible, for she had already put on her best dress. But in order to\nsignify in some way her preparation for dinner, she asked the maid to\nbrush her dress, changed her cuffs and tie, and put some lace on her\nhead.\n\n This is all I can do,  she said with a smile to Anna, who came in to\nher in a third dress, again of extreme simplicity.\n\n Yes, we are too formal here,  she said, as it were apologizing for her\nmagnificence.  Alexey is delighted at your visit, as he rarely is at\nanything. He has completely lost his heart to you,  she added.  You re\nnot tired? \n\nThere was no time for talking about anything before dinner. Going into\nthe drawing-room they found Princess Varvara already there, and the\ngentlemen of the party in black frock-coats. The architect wore a\nswallow-tail coat. Vronsky presented the doctor and the steward to his\nguest. The architect he had already introduced to her at the hospital.\n\nA stout butler, resplendent with a smoothly shaven round chin and a\nstarched white cravat, announced that dinner was ready, and the ladies\ngot up. Vronsky asked Sviazhsky to take in Anna Arkadyevna, and himself\noffered his arm to Dolly. Veslovsky was before Tushkevitch in offering\nhis arm to Princess Varvara, so that Tushkevitch with the steward and\nthe doctor walked in alone.\n\nThe dinner, the dining-room, the service, the waiting at table, the\nwine, and the food, were not simply in keeping with the general tone of\nmodern luxury throughout all the house, but seemed even more sumptuous\nand modern. Darya Alexandrovna watched this luxury which was novel to\nher, and as a good housekeeper used to managing a household although\nshe never dreamed of adapting anything she saw to her own household, as\nit was all in a style of luxury far above her own manner of living she\ncould not help scrutinizing every detail, and wondering how and by whom\nit was all done. Vassenka Veslovsky, her husband, and even Sviazhsky,\nand many other people she knew, would never have considered this\nquestion, and would have readily believed what every well-bred host\ntries to make his guests feel, that is, that all that is well-ordered\nin his house has cost him, the host, no trouble whatever, but comes of\nitself. Darya Alexandrovna was well aware that even porridge for the\nchildren s breakfast does not come of itself, and that therefore, where\nso complicated and magnificent a style of luxury was maintained,\nsomeone must give earnest attention to its organization. And from the\nglance with which Alexey Kirillovitch scanned the table, from the way\nhe nodded to the butler, and offered Darya Alexandrovna her choice\nbetween cold soup and hot soup, she saw that it was all organized and\nmaintained by the care of the master of the house himself. It was\nevident that it all rested no more upon Anna than upon Veslovsky. She,\nSviazhsky, the princess, and Veslovsky, were equally guests, with light\nhearts enjoying what had been arranged for them.\n\nAnna was the hostess only in conducting the conversation. The\nconversation was a difficult one for the lady of the house at a small\ntable with persons present, like the steward and the architect,\nbelonging to a completely different world, struggling not to be\noverawed by an elegance to which they were unaccustomed, and unable to\nsustain a large share in the general conversation. But this difficult\nconversation Anna directed with her usual tact and naturalness, and\nindeed she did so with actual enjoyment, as Darya Alexandrovna\nobserved. The conversation began about the row Tushkevitch and\nVeslovsky had taken alone together in the boat, and Tushkevitch began\ndescribing the last boat races in Petersburg at the Yacht Club. But\nAnna, seizing the first pause, at once turned to the architect to draw\nhim out of his silence.\n\n Nikolay Ivanitch was struck,  she said, meaning Sviazhsky,  at the\nprogress the new building had made since he was here last; but I am\nthere every day, and every day I wonder at the rate at which it grows. \n\n It s first-rate working with his excellency,  said the architect with\na smile (he was respectful and composed, though with a sense of his own\ndignity).  It s a very different matter to have to do with the district\nauthorities. Where one would have to write out sheaves of papers, here\nI call upon the count, and in three words we settle the business. \n\n The American way of doing business,  said Sviazhsky, with a smile.\n\n Yes, there they build in a rational fashion.... \n\nThe conversation passed to the misuse of political power in the United\nStates, but Anna quickly brought it round to another topic, so as to\ndraw the steward into talk.\n\n Have you ever seen a reaping machine?  she said, addressing Darya\nAlexandrovna.  We had just ridden over to look at one when we met. It s\nthe first time I ever saw one. \n\n How do they work?  asked Dolly.\n\n Exactly like little scissors. A plank and a lot of little scissors.\nLike this. \n\nAnna took a knife and fork in her beautiful white hands covered with\nrings, and began showing how the machine worked. It was clear that she\nsaw nothing would be understood from her explanation; but aware that\nher talk was pleasant and her hands beautiful she went on explaining.\n\n More like little penknives,  Veslovsky said playfully, never taking\nhis eyes off her.\n\nAnna gave a just perceptible smile, but made no answer.  Isn t it true,\nKarl Fedoritch, that it s just like little scissors?  she said to the\nsteward.\n\n _Oh, ja,_  answered the German. _ Es ist ein ganz einfaches Ding, _\nand he began to explain the construction of the machine.\n\n It s a pity it doesn t bind too. I saw one at the Vienna exhibition,\nwhich binds with a wire,  said Sviazhsky.  They would be more\nprofitable in use. \n\n_ Es kommt drauf an.... Der Preis vom Draht muss ausgerechnet werden. _\nAnd the German, roused from his taciturnity, turned to Vronsky. _ Das\nl sst sich ausrechnen, Erlaucht. _ The German was just feeling in the\npocket where were his pencil and the notebook he always wrote in, but\nrecollecting that he was at a dinner, and observing Vronsky s chilly\nglance, he checked himself. _ Zu compliziert, macht zu viel Klopot, _\nhe concluded.\n\n_ W nscht man Dochots, so hat man auch Klopots, _ said Vassenka\nVeslovsky, mimicking the German. _ J adore l allemand, _ he addressed\nAnna again with the same smile.\n\n_ Cessez, _ she said with playful severity.\n\n We expected to find you in the fields, Vassily Semyonitch,  she said\nto the doctor, a sickly-looking man;  have you been there? \n\n I went there, but I had taken flight,  the doctor answered with gloomy\njocoseness.\n\n Then you ve taken a good constitutional? \n\n Splendid! \n\n Well, and how was the old woman? I hope it s not typhus? \n\n Typhus it is not, but it s taking a bad turn. \n\n What a pity!  said Anna, and having thus paid the dues of civility to\nher domestic circle, she turned to her own friends.\n\n It would be a hard task, though, to construct a machine from your\ndescription, Anna Arkadyevna,  Sviazhsky said jestingly.\n\n Oh, no, why so?  said Anna with a smile that betrayed that she knew\nthere was something charming in her disquisitions upon the machine that\nhad been noticed by Sviazhsky. This new trait of girlish coquettishness\nmade an unpleasant impression on Dolly.\n\n But Anna Arkadyevna s knowledge of architecture is marvelous,  said\nTushkevitch.\n\n To be sure, I heard Anna Arkadyevna talking yesterday about plinths\nand damp-courses,  said Veslovsky.  Have I got it right? \n\n There s nothing marvelous about it, when one sees and hears so much of\nit,  said Anna.  But, I dare say, you don t even know what houses are\nmade of? \n\nDarya Alexandrovna saw that Anna disliked the tone of raillery that\nexisted between her and Veslovsky, but fell in with it against her\nwill.\n\nVronsky acted in this matter quite differently from Levin. He obviously\nattached no significance to Veslovsky s chattering; on the contrary, he\nencouraged his jests.\n\n Come now, tell us, Veslovsky, how are the stones held together? \n\n By cement, of course. \n\n Bravo! And what is cement? \n\n Oh, some sort of paste ... no, putty,  said Veslovsky, raising a\ngeneral laugh.\n\nThe company at dinner, with the exception of the doctor, the architect,\nand the steward, who remained plunged in gloomy silence, kept up a\nconversation that never paused, glancing off one subject, fastening on\nanother, and at times stinging one or the other to the quick. Once\nDarya Alexandrovna felt wounded to the quick, and got so hot that she\npositively flushed and wondered afterwards whether she had said\nanything extreme or unpleasant. Sviazhsky began talking of Levin,\ndescribing his strange view that machinery is simply pernicious in its\neffects on Russian agriculture.\n\n I have not the pleasure of knowing this M. Levin,  Vronsky said,\nsmiling,  but most likely he has never seen the machines he condemns;\nor if he has seen and tried any, it must have been after a queer\nfashion, some Russian imitation, not a machine from abroad. What sort\nof views can anyone have on such a subject? \n\n Turkish views, in general,  Veslovsky said, turning to Anna with a\nsmile.\n\n I can t defend his opinions,  Darya Alexandrovna said, firing up;  but\nI can say that he s a highly cultivated man, and if he were here he\nwould know very well how to answer you, though I am not capable of\ndoing so. \n\n I like him extremely, and we are great friends,  Sviazhsky said,\nsmiling good-naturedly.  _Mais pardon, il est un petit peu toqu ;_ he\nmaintains, for instance, that district councils and arbitration boards\nare all of no use, and he is unwilling to take part in anything. \n\n It s our Russian apathy,  said Vronsky, pouring water from an iced\ndecanter into a delicate glass on a high stem;  we ve no sense of the\nduties our privileges impose upon us, and so we refuse to recognize\nthese duties. \n\n I know no man more strict in the performance of his duties,  said\nDarya Alexandrovna, irritated by Vronsky s tone of superiority.\n\n For my part,  pursued Vronsky, who was evidently for some reason or\nother keenly affected by this conversation,  such as I am, I am, on the\ncontrary, extremely grateful for the honor they have done me, thanks to\nNikolay Ivanitch  (he indicated Sviazhsky),  in electing me a justice\nof the peace. I consider that for me the duty of being present at the\nsession, of judging some peasants  quarrel about a horse, is as\nimportant as anything I can do. And I shall regard it as an honor if\nthey elect me for the district council. It s only in that way I can pay\nfor the advantages I enjoy as a landowner. Unluckily they don t\nunderstand the weight that the big landowners ought to have in the\nstate. \n\nIt was strange to Darya Alexandrovna to hear how serenely confident he\nwas of being right at his own table. She thought how Levin, who\nbelieved the opposite, was just as positive in his opinions at his own\ntable. But she loved Levin, and so she was on his side.\n\n So we can reckon upon you, count, for the coming elections?  said\nSviazhsky.  But you must come a little beforehand, so as to be on the\nspot by the eighth. If you would do me the honor to stop with me. \n\n I rather agree with your _beau-fr re_,  said Anna,  though not quite\non the same ground as he,  she added with a smile.  I m afraid that we\nhave too many of these public duties in these latter days. Just as in\nold days there were so many government functionaries that one had to\ncall in a functionary for every single thing, so now everyone s doing\nsome sort of public duty. Alexey has been here now six months, and he s\na member, I do believe, of five or six different public bodies. _Du\ntrain que cela va,_ the whole time will be wasted on it. And I m afraid\nthat with such a multiplicity of these bodies, they ll end in being a\nmere form. How many are you a member of, Nikolay Ivanitch?  she turned\nto Sviazhsky over twenty, I fancy. \n\nAnna spoke lightly, but irritation could be discerned in her tone.\nDarya Alexandrovna, watching Anna and Vronsky attentively, detected it\ninstantly. She noticed, too, that as she spoke Vronsky s face had\nimmediately taken a serious and obstinate expression. Noticing this,\nand that Princess Varvara at once made haste to change the conversation\nby talking of Petersburg acquaintances, and remembering what Vronsky\nhad without apparent connection said in the garden of his work in the\ncountry, Dolly surmised that this question of public activity was\nconnected with some deep private disagreement between Anna and Vronsky.\n\nThe dinner, the wine, the decoration of the table were all very good;\nbut it was all like what Darya Alexandrovna had seen at formal dinners\nand balls which of late years had become quite unfamiliar to her; it\nall had the same impersonal and constrained character, and so on an\nordinary day and in a little circle of friends it made a disagreeable\nimpression on her.\n\nAfter dinner they sat on the terrace, then they proceeded to play lawn\ntennis. The players, divided into two parties, stood on opposite sides\nof a tightly drawn net with gilt poles on the carefully leveled and\nrolled croquet-ground. Darya Alexandrovna made an attempt to play, but\nit was a long time before she could understand the game, and by the\ntime she did understand it, she was so tired that she sat down with\nPrincess Varvara and simply looked on at the players. Her partner,\nTushkevitch, gave up playing too, but the others kept the game up for a\nlong time. Sviazhsky and Vronsky both played very well and seriously.\nThey kept a sharp lookout on the balls served to them, and without\nhaste or getting in each other s way, they ran adroitly up to them,\nwaited for the rebound, and neatly and accurately returned them over\nthe net. Veslovsky played worse than the others. He was too eager, but\nhe kept the players lively with his high spirits. His laughter and\noutcries never paused. Like the other men of the party, with the\nladies  permission, he took off his coat, and his solid, comely figure\nin his white shirt-sleeves, with his red perspiring face and his\nimpulsive movements, made a picture that imprinted itself vividly on\nthe memory.\n\nWhen Darya Alexandrovna lay in bed that night, as soon as she closed\nher eyes, she saw Vassenka Veslovsky flying about the croquet ground.\n\nDuring the game Darya Alexandrovna was not enjoying herself. She did\nnot like the light tone of raillery that was kept up all the time\nbetween Vassenka Veslovsky and Anna, and the unnaturalness altogether\nof grown-up people, all alone without children, playing at a child s\ngame. But to avoid breaking up the party and to get through the time\nsomehow, after a rest she joined the game again, and pretended to be\nenjoying it. All that day it seemed to her as though she were acting in\na theater with actors cleverer than she, and that her bad acting was\nspoiling the whole performance. She had come with the intention of\nstaying two days, if all went well. But in the evening, during the\ngame, she made up her mind that she would go home next day. The\nmaternal cares and worries, which she had so hated on the way, now,\nafter a day spent without them, struck her in quite another light, and\ntempted her back to them.\n\nWhen, after evening tea and a row by night in the boat, Darya\nAlexandrovna went alone to her room, took off her dress, and began\narranging her thin hair for the night, she had a great sense of relief.\n\nIt was positively disagreeable to her to think that Anna was coming to\nsee her immediately. She longed to be alone with her own thoughts.\n\n\nChapter 23\n\nDolly was wanting to go to bed when Anna came in to see her, attired\nfor the night. In the course of the day Anna had several times begun to\nspeak of matters near her heart, and every time after a few words she\nhad stopped:  Afterwards, by ourselves, we ll talk about everything.\nI ve got so much I want to tell you,  she said.\n\nNow they were by themselves, and Anna did not know what to talk about.\nShe sat in the window looking at Dolly, and going over in her own mind\nall the stores of intimate talk which had seemed so inexhaustible\nbeforehand, and she found nothing. At that moment it seemed to her that\neverything had been said already.\n\n Well, what of Kitty?  she said with a heavy sigh, looking penitently\nat Dolly.  Tell me the truth, Dolly: isn t she angry with me? \n\n Angry? Oh, no!  said Darya Alexandrovna, smiling.\n\n But she hates me, despises me? \n\n Oh, no! But you know that sort of thing isn t forgiven. \n\n Yes, yes,  said Anna, turning away and looking out of the open window.\n But I was not to blame. And who is to blame? What s the meaning of\nbeing to blame? Could it have been otherwise? What do you think? Could\nit possibly have happened that you didn t become the wife of Stiva? \n\n Really, I don t know. But this is what I want you to tell me.... \n\n Yes, yes, but we ve not finished about Kitty. Is she happy? He s a\nvery nice man, they say. \n\n He s much more than very nice. I don t know a better man. \n\n Ah, how glad I am! I m so glad! Much more than very nice,  she\nrepeated.\n\nDolly smiled.\n\n But tell me about yourself. We ve a great deal to talk about. And I ve\nhad a talk with....  Dolly did not know what to call him. She felt it\nawkward to call him either the count or Alexey Kirillovitch.\n\n With Alexey,  said Anna,  I know what you talked about. But I wanted\nto ask you directly what you think of me, of my life? \n\n How am I to say like that straight off? I really don t know. \n\n No, tell me all the same.... You see my life. But you mustn t forget\nthat you re seeing us in the summer, when you have come to us and we\nare not alone.... But we came here early in the spring, lived quite\nalone, and shall be alone again, and I desire nothing better. But\nimagine me living alone without him, alone, and that will be ... I see\nby everything that it will often be repeated, that he will be half the\ntime away from home,  she said, getting up and sitting down close by\nDolly.\n\n Of course,  she interrupted Dolly, who would have answered,  of course\nI won t try to keep him by force. I don t keep him indeed. The races\nare just coming, his horses are running, he will go. I m very glad. But\nthink of me, fancy my position.... But what s the use of talking about\nit?  She smiled.  Well, what did he talk about with you? \n\n He spoke of what I want to speak about of myself, and it s easy for me\nto be his advocate; of whether there is not a possibility ... whether\nyou could not....  (Darya Alexandrovna hesitated)  correct, improve\nyour position.... You know how I look at it.... But all the same, if\npossible, you should get married.... \n\n Divorce, you mean?  said Anna.  Do you know, the only woman who came\nto see me in Petersburg was Betsy Tverskaya? You know her, of course?\n_Au fond, c est la femme la plus deprav e qui existe._ She had an\nintrigue with Tushkevitch, deceiving her husband in the basest way. And\nshe told me that she did not care to know me so long as my position was\nirregular. Don t imagine I would compare ... I know you, darling. But I\ncould not help remembering.... Well, so what did he say to you?  she\nrepeated.\n\n He said that he was unhappy on your account and his own. Perhaps you\nwill say that it s egoism, but what a legitimate and noble egoism. He\nwants first of all to legitimize his daughter, and to be your husband,\nto have a legal right to you. \n\n What wife, what slave can be so utterly a slave as I, in my position? \nshe put in gloomily.\n\n The chief thing he desires ... he desires that you should not suffer. \n\n That s impossible. Well? \n\n Well, and the most legitimate desire he wishes that your children\nshould have a name. \n\n What children?  Anna said, not looking at Dolly, and half closing her\neyes.\n\n Annie and those to come.... \n\n He need not trouble on that score; I shall have no more children. \n\n How can you tell that you won t? \n\n I shall not, because I don t wish it.  And, in spite of all her\nemotion, Anna smiled, as she caught the na ve expression of curiosity,\nwonder, and horror on Dolly s face.\n\n The doctor told me after my illness.... \n\n Impossible!  said Dolly, opening her eyes wide.\n\nFor her this was one of those discoveries the consequences and\ndeductions from which are so immense that all that one feels for the\nfirst instant is that it is impossible to take it all in, and that one\nwill have to reflect a great, great deal upon it.\n\nThis discovery, suddenly throwing light on all those families of one or\ntwo children, which had hitherto been so incomprehensible to her,\naroused so many ideas, reflections, and contradictory emotions, that\nshe had nothing to say, and simply gazed with wide-open eyes of wonder\nat Anna. This was the very thing she had been dreaming of, but now\nlearning that it was possible, she was horrified. She felt that it was\ntoo simple a solution of too complicated a problem.\n\n_ N est-ce pas immoral? _ was all she said, after a brief pause.\n\n Why so? Think, I have a choice between two alternatives: either to be\nwith child, that is an invalid, or to be the friend and companion of my\nhusband practically my husband,  Anna said in a tone intentionally\nsuperficial and frivolous.\n\n Yes, yes,  said Darya Alexandrovna, hearing the very arguments she had\nused to herself, and not finding the same force in them as before.\n\n For you, for other people,  said Anna, as though divining her\nthoughts,  there may be reason to hesitate; but for me.... You must\nconsider, I am not his wife; he loves me as long as he loves me. And\nhow am I to keep his love? Not like this! \n\nShe moved her white hands in a curve before her waist with\nextraordinary rapidity, as happens during moments of excitement; ideas\nand memories rushed into Darya Alexandrovna s head.  I,  she thought,\n did not keep my attraction for Stiva; he left me for others, and the\nfirst woman for whom he betrayed me did not keep him by being always\npretty and lively. He deserted her and took another. And can Anna\nattract and keep Count Vronsky in that way? If that is what he looks\nfor, he will find dresses and manners still more attractive and\ncharming. And however white and beautiful her bare arms are, however\nbeautiful her full figure and her eager face under her black curls, he\nwill find something better still, just as my disgusting, pitiful, and\ncharming husband does. \n\nDolly made no answer, she merely sighed. Anna noticed this sigh,\nindicating dissent, and she went on. In her armory she had other\narguments so strong that no answer could be made to them.\n\n Do you say that it s not right? But you must consider,  she went on;\n you forget my position. How can I desire children? I m not speaking of\nthe suffering, I m not afraid of that. Think only, what are my children\nto be? Ill-fated children, who will have to bear a stranger s name. For\nthe very fact of their birth they will be forced to be ashamed of their\nmother, their father, their birth. \n\n But that is just why a divorce is necessary.  But Anna did not hear\nher. She longed to give utterance to all the arguments with which she\nhad so many times convinced herself.\n\n What is reason given me for, if I am not to use it to avoid bringing\nunhappy beings into the world!  She looked at Dolly, but without\nwaiting for a reply she went on:\n\n I should always feel I had wronged these unhappy children,  she said.\n If they are not, at any rate they are not unhappy; while if they are\nunhappy, I alone should be to blame for it. \n\nThese were the very arguments Darya Alexandrovna had used in her own\nreflections; but she heard them without understanding them.  How can\none wrong creatures that don t exist?  she thought. And all at once the\nidea struck her: could it possibly, under any circumstances, have been\nbetter for her favorite Grisha if he had never existed? And this seemed\nto her so wild, so strange, that she shook her head to drive away this\ntangle of whirling, mad ideas.\n\n No, I don t know; it s not right,  was all she said, with an\nexpression of disgust on her face.\n\n Yes, but you mustn t forget that you and I.... And besides that, \nadded Anna, in spite of the wealth of her arguments and the poverty of\nDolly s objections, seeming still to admit that it was not right,\n don t forget the chief point, that I am not now in the same position\nas you. For you the question is: do you desire not to have any more\nchildren; while for me it is: do I desire to have them? And that s a\ngreat difference. You must see that I can t desire it in my position. \n\nDarya Alexandrovna made no reply. She suddenly felt that she had got\nfar away from Anna; that there lay between them a barrier of questions\non which they could never agree, and about which it was better not to\nspeak.\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n Then there is all the more reason for you to legalize your position,\nif possible,  said Dolly.\n\n Yes, if possible,  said Anna, speaking all at once in an utterly\ndifferent tone, subdued and mournful.\n\n Surely you don t mean a divorce is impossible? I was told your husband\nhad consented to it. \n\n Dolly, I don t want to talk about that. \n\n Oh, we won t then,  Darya Alexandrovna hastened to say, noticing the\nexpression of suffering on Anna s face.  All I see is that you take too\ngloomy a view of things. \n\n I? Not at all! I m always bright and happy. You see, _je fais des\npassions._ Veslovsky.... \n\n Yes, to tell the truth, I don t like Veslovsky s tone,  said Darya\nAlexandrovna, anxious to change the subject.\n\n Oh, that s nonsense! It amuses Alexey, and that s all; but he s a boy,\nand quite under my control. You know, I turn him as I please. It s just\nas it might be with your Grisha.... Dolly! she suddenly changed the\nsubject you say I take too gloomy a view of things. You can t\nunderstand. It s too awful! I try not to take any view of it at all. \n\n But I think you ought to. You ought to do all you can. \n\n But what can I do? Nothing. You tell me to marry Alexey, and say I\ndon t think about it. I don t think about it!  she repeated, and a\nflush rose into her face. She got up, straightening her chest, and\nsighed heavily. With her light step she began pacing up and down the\nroom, stopping now and then.  I don t think of it? Not a day, not an\nhour passes that I don t think of it, and blame myself for thinking of\nit ... because thinking of that may drive me mad. Drive me mad!  she\nrepeated.  When I think of it, I can t sleep without morphine. But\nnever mind. Let us talk quietly. They tell me, divorce. In the first\nplace, he won t give me a divorce. He s under the influence of Countess\nLidia Ivanovna now. \n\nDarya Alexandrovna, sitting erect on a chair, turned her head,\nfollowing Anna with a face of sympathetic suffering.\n\n You ought to make the attempt,  she said softly.\n\n Suppose I make the attempt. What does it mean?  she said, evidently\ngiving utterance to a thought, a thousand times thought over and\nlearned by heart.  It means that I, hating him, but still recognizing\nthat I have wronged him and I consider him magnanimous that I humiliate\nmyself to write to him.... Well, suppose I make the effort; I do it.\nEither I receive a humiliating refusal or consent.... Well, I have\nreceived his consent, say....  Anna was at that moment at the furthest\nend of the room, and she stopped there, doing something to the curtain\nat the window.  I receive his consent, but my ... my son? They won t\ngive him up to me. He will grow up despising me, with his father, whom\nI ve abandoned. Do you see, I love ... equally, I think, but both more\nthan myself two creatures, Seryozha and Alexey. \n\nShe came out into the middle of the room and stood facing Dolly, with\nher arms pressed tightly across her chest. In her white dressing gown\nher figure seemed more than usually grand and broad. She bent her head,\nand with shining, wet eyes looked from under her brows at Dolly, a thin\nlittle pitiful figure in her patched dressing jacket and nightcap,\nshaking all over with emotion.\n\n It is only those two creatures that I love, and one excludes the\nother. I can t have them together, and that s the only thing I want.\nAnd since I can t have that, I don t care about the rest. I don t care\nabout anything, anything. And it will end one way or another, and so I\ncan t, I don t like to talk of it. So don t blame me, don t judge me\nfor anything. You can t with your pure heart understand all that I m\nsuffering.  She went up, sat down beside Dolly, and with a guilty look,\npeeped into her face and took her hand.\n\n What are you thinking? What are you thinking about me? Don t despise\nme. I don t deserve contempt. I m simply unhappy. If anyone is unhappy,\nI am,  she articulated, and turning away, she burst into tears.\n\nLeft alone, Darya Alexandrovna said her prayers and went to bed. She\nhad felt for Anna with all her heart while she was speaking to her, but\nnow she could not force herself to think of her. The memories of home\nand of her children rose up in her imagination with a peculiar charm\nquite new to her, with a sort of new brilliance. That world of her own\nseemed to her now so sweet and precious that she would not on any\naccount spend an extra day outside it, and she made up her mind that\nshe would certainly go back next day.\n\nAnna meantime went back to her boudoir, took a wine-glass and dropped\ninto it several drops of a medicine, of which the principal ingredient\nwas morphine. After drinking it off and sitting still a little while,\nshe went into her bedroom in a soothed and more cheerful frame of mind.\n\nWhen she went into the bedroom, Vronsky looked intently at her. He was\nlooking for traces of the conversation which he knew that, staying so\nlong in Dolly s room, she must have had with her. But in her expression\nof restrained excitement, and of a sort of reserve, he could find\nnothing but the beauty that always bewitched him afresh though he was\nused to it, the consciousness of it, and the desire that it should\naffect him. He did not want to ask her what they had been talking of,\nbut he hoped that she would tell him something of her own accord. But\nshe only said:\n\n I am so glad you like Dolly. You do, don t you? \n\n Oh, I ve known her a long while, you know. She s very good-hearted, I\nsuppose, _mais excessivement terre- -terre._ Still, I m very glad to\nsee her. \n\nHe took Anna s hand and looked inquiringly into her eyes.\n\nMisinterpreting the look, she smiled to him. Next morning, in spite of\nthe protests of her hosts, Darya Alexandrovna prepared for her homeward\njourney. Levin s coachman, in his by no means new coat and shabby hat,\nwith his ill-matched horses and his coach with the patched mud-guards,\ndrove with gloomy determination into the covered gravel approach.\n\nDarya Alexandrovna disliked taking leave of Princess Varvara and the\ngentlemen of the party. After a day spent together, both she and her\nhosts were distinctly aware that they did not get on together, and that\nit was better for them not to meet. Only Anna was sad. She knew that\nnow, from Dolly s departure, no one again would stir up within her soul\nthe feelings that had been roused by their conversation. It hurt her to\nstir up these feelings, but yet she knew that that was the best part of\nher soul, and that that part of her soul would quickly be smothered in\nthe life she was leading.\n\nAs she drove out into the open country, Darya Alexandrovna had a\ndelightful sense of relief, and she felt tempted to ask the two men how\nthey had liked being at Vronsky s, when suddenly the coachman, Philip,\nexpressed himself unasked:\n\n Rolling in wealth they may be, but three pots of oats was all they\ngave us. Everything cleared up till there wasn t a grain left by\ncockcrow. What are three pots? A mere mouthful! And oats now down to\nforty-five kopecks. At our place, no fear, all comers may have as much\nas they can eat. \n\n The master s a screw,  put in the counting-house clerk.\n\n Well, did you like their horses?  asked Dolly.\n\n The horses! there s no two opinions about them. And the food was good.\nBut it seemed to me sort of dreary there, Darya Alexandrovna. I don t\nknow what you thought,  he said, turning his handsome, good-natured\nface to her.\n\n I thought so too. Well, shall we get home by evening? \n\n Eh, we must! \n\nOn reaching home and finding everyone entirely satisfactory and\nparticularly charming, Darya Alexandrovna began with great liveliness\ntelling them how she had arrived, how warmly they had received her, of\nthe luxury and good taste in which the Vronskys lived, and of their\nrecreations, and she would not allow a word to be said against them.\n\n One has to know Anna and Vronsky I have got to know him better now to\nsee how nice they are, and how touching,  she said, speaking now with\nperfect sincerity, and forgetting the vague feeling of dissatisfaction\nand awkwardness she had experienced there.\n\n\nChapter 25\n\nVronsky and Anna spent the whole summer and part of the winter in the\ncountry, living in just the same condition, and still taking no steps\nto obtain a divorce. It was an understood thing between them that they\nshould not go away anywhere; but both felt, the longer they lived\nalone, especially in the autumn, without guests in the house, that they\ncould not stand this existence, and that they would have to alter it.\n\nTheir life was apparently such that nothing better could be desired.\nThey had the fullest abundance of everything; they had a child, and\nboth had occupation. Anna devoted just as much care to her appearance\nwhen they had no visitors, and she did a great deal of reading, both of\nnovels and of what serious literature was in fashion. She ordered all\nthe books that were praised in the foreign papers and reviews she\nreceived, and read them with that concentrated attention which is only\ngiven to what is read in seclusion. Moreover, every subject that was of\ninterest to Vronsky, she studied in books and special journals, so that\nhe often went straight to her with questions relating to agriculture or\narchitecture, sometimes even with questions relating to horse-breeding\nor sport. He was amazed at her knowledge, her memory, and at first was\ndisposed to doubt it, to ask for confirmation of her facts; and she\nwould find what he asked for in some book, and show it to him.\n\nThe building of the hospital, too, interested her. She did not merely\nassist, but planned and suggested a great deal herself. But her chief\nthought was still of herself how far she was dear to Vronsky, how far\nshe could make up to him for all he had given up. Vronsky appreciated\nthis desire not only to please, but to serve him, which had become the\nsole aim of her existence, but at the same time he wearied of the\nloving snares in which she tried to hold him fast. As time went on, and\nhe saw himself more and more often held fast in these snares, he had an\never growing desire, not so much to escape from them, as to try whether\nthey hindered his freedom. Had it not been for this growing desire to\nbe free, not to have scenes every time he wanted to go to the town to a\nmeeting or a race, Vronsky would have been perfectly satisfied with his\nlife. The r le he had taken up, the r le of a wealthy landowner, one of\nthat class which ought to be the very heart of the Russian aristocracy,\nwas entirely to his taste; and now, after spending six months in that\ncharacter, he derived even greater satisfaction from it. And his\nmanagement of his estate, which occupied and absorbed him more and\nmore, was most successful. In spite of the immense sums cost him by the\nhospital, by machinery, by cows ordered from Switzerland, and many\nother things, he was convinced that he was not wasting, but increasing\nhis substance. In all matters affecting income, the sales of timber,\nwheat, and wool, the letting of lands, Vronsky was hard as a rock, and\nknew well how to keep up prices. In all operations on a large scale on\nthis and his other estates, he kept to the simplest methods involving\nno risk, and in trifling details he was careful and exacting to an\nextreme degree. In spite of all the cunning and ingenuity of the German\nsteward, who would try to tempt him into purchases by making his\noriginal estimate always far larger than really required, and then\nrepresenting to Vronsky that he might get the thing cheaper, and so\nmake a profit, Vronsky did not give in. He listened to his steward,\ncross-examined him, and only agreed to his suggestions when the\nimplement to be ordered or constructed was the very newest, not yet\nknown in Russia, and likely to excite wonder. Apart from such\nexceptions, he resolved upon an increased outlay only where there was a\nsurplus, and in making such an outlay he went into the minutest\ndetails, and insisted on getting the very best for his money; so that\nby the method on which he managed his affairs, it was clear that he was\nnot wasting, but increasing his substance.\n\nIn October there were the provincial elections in the Kashinsky\nprovince, where were the estates of Vronsky, Sviazhsky, Koznishev,\nOblonsky, and a small part of Levin s land.\n\nThese elections were attracting public attention from several\ncircumstances connected with them, and also from the people taking part\nin them. There had been a great deal of talk about them, and great\npreparations were being made for them. Persons who never attended the\nelections were coming from Moscow, from Petersburg, and from abroad to\nattend these. Vronsky had long before promised Sviazhsky to go to them.\nBefore the elections Sviazhsky, who often visited Vozdvizhenskoe, drove\nover to fetch Vronsky. On the day before there had been almost a\nquarrel between Vronsky and Anna over this proposed expedition. It was\nthe very dullest autumn weather, which is so dreary in the country, and\nso, preparing himself for a struggle, Vronsky, with a hard and cold\nexpression, informed Anna of his departure as he had never spoken to\nher before. But, to his surprise, Anna accepted the information with\ngreat composure, and merely asked when he would be back. He looked\nintently at her, at a loss to explain this composure. She smiled at his\nlook. He knew that way she had of withdrawing into herself, and knew\nthat it only happened when she had determined upon something without\nletting him know her plans. He was afraid of this; but he was so\nanxious to avoid a scene that he kept up appearances, and half\nsincerely believed in what he longed to believe in her reasonableness.\n\n I hope you won t be dull? \n\n I hope not,  said Anna.  I got a box of books yesterday from\nGautier s. No, I shan t be dull. \n\n She s trying to take that tone, and so much the better,  he thought,\n or else it would be the same thing over and over again. \n\nAnd he set off for the elections without appealing to her for a candid\nexplanation. It was the first time since the beginning of their\nintimacy that he had parted from her without a full explanation. From\none point of view this troubled him, but on the other side he felt that\nit was better so.  At first there will be, as this time, something\nundefined kept back, and then she will get used to it. In any case I\ncan give up anything for her, but not my masculine independence,  he\nthought.\n\n\nChapter 26\n\nIn September Levin moved to Moscow for Kitty s confinement. He had\nspent a whole month in Moscow with nothing to do, when Sergey\nIvanovitch, who had property in the Kashinsky province, and took great\ninterest in the question of the approaching elections, made ready to\nset off to the elections. He invited his brother, who had a vote in the\nSeleznevsky district, to come with him. Levin had, moreover, to\ntransact in Kashin some extremely important business relating to the\nwardship of land and to the receiving of certain redemption money for\nhis sister, who was abroad.\n\nLevin still hesitated, but Kitty, who saw that he was bored in Moscow,\nand urged him to go, on her own authority ordered him the proper\nnobleman s uniform, costing seven pounds. And that seven pounds paid\nfor the uniform was the chief cause that finally decided Levin to go.\nHe went to Kashin....\n\nLevin had been six days in Kashin, visiting the assembly each day, and\nbusily engaged about his sister s business, which still dragged on. The\ndistrict marshals of nobility were all occupied with the elections, and\nit was impossible to get the simplest thing done that depended upon the\ncourt of wardship. The other matter, the payment of the sums due, was\nmet too by difficulties. After long negotiations over the legal\ndetails, the money was at last ready to be paid; but the notary, a most\nobliging person, could not hand over the order, because it must have\nthe signature of the president, and the president, though he had not\ngiven over his duties to a deputy, was at the elections. All these\nworrying negotiations, this endless going from place to place, and\ntalking with pleasant and excellent people, who quite saw the\nunpleasantness of the petitioner s position, but were powerless to\nassist him all these efforts that yielded no result, led to a feeling\nof misery in Levin akin to the mortifying helplessness one experiences\nin dreams when one tries to use physical force. He felt this frequently\nas he talked to his most good-natured solicitor. This solicitor did, it\nseemed, everything possible, and strained every nerve to get him out of\nhis difficulties.  I tell you what you might try,  he said more than\nonce;  go to so-and-so and so-and-so,  and the solicitor drew up a\nregular plan for getting round the fatal point that hindered\neverything. But he would add immediately,  It ll mean some delay,\nanyway, but you might try it.  And Levin did try, and did go. Everyone\nwas kind and civil, but the point evaded seemed to crop up again in the\nend, and again to bar the way. What was particularly trying, was that\nLevin could not make out with whom he was struggling, to whose interest\nit was that his business should not be done. That no one seemed to\nknow; the solicitor certainly did not know. If Levin could have\nunderstood why, just as he saw why one can only approach the booking\noffice of a railway station in single file, it would not have been so\nvexatious and tiresome to him. But with the hindrances that confronted\nhim in his business, no one could explain why they existed.\n\nBut Levin had changed a good deal since his marriage; he was patient,\nand if he could not see why it was all arranged like this, he told\nhimself that he could not judge without knowing all about it, and that\nmost likely it must be so, and he tried not to fret.\n\nIn attending the elections, too, and taking part in them, he tried now\nnot to judge, not to fall foul of them, but to comprehend as fully as\nhe could the question which was so earnestly and ardently absorbing\nhonest and excellent men whom he respected. Since his marriage there\nhad been revealed to Levin so many new and serious aspects of life that\nhad previously, through his frivolous attitude to them, seemed of no\nimportance, that in the question of the elections too he assumed and\ntried to find some serious significance.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch explained to him the meaning and object of the\nproposed revolution at the elections. The marshal of the province in\nwhose hands the law had placed the control of so many important public\nfunctions the guardianship of wards (the very department which was\ngiving Levin so much trouble just now), the disposal of large sums\nsubscribed by the nobility of the province, the high schools, female,\nmale, and military, and popular instruction on the new model, and\nfinally, the district council the marshal of the province, Snetkov, was\na nobleman of the old school, dissipating an immense fortune, a\ngood-hearted man, honest after his own fashion, but utterly without any\ncomprehension of the needs of modern days. He always took, in every\nquestion, the side of the nobility; he was positively antagonistic to\nthe spread of popular education, and he succeeded in giving a purely\nparty character to the district council which ought by rights to be of\nsuch an immense importance. What was needed was to put in his place a\nfresh, capable, perfectly modern man, of contemporary ideas, and to\nframe their policy so as from the rights conferred upon the nobles, not\nas the nobility, but as an element of the district council, to extract\nall the powers of self-government that could possibly be derived from\nthem. In the wealthy Kashinsky province, which always took the lead of\nother provinces in everything, there was now such a preponderance of\nforces that this policy, once carried through properly there, might\nserve as a model for other provinces for all Russia. And hence the\nwhole question was of the greatest importance. It was proposed to elect\nas marshal in place of Snetkov either Sviazhsky, or, better still,\nNevyedovsky, a former university professor, a man of remarkable\nintelligence and a great friend of Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\nThe meeting was opened by the governor, who made a speech to the\nnobles, urging them to elect the public functionaries, not from regard\nfor persons, but for the service and welfare of their fatherland, and\nhoping that the honorable nobility of the Kashinsky province would, as\nat all former elections, hold their duty as sacred, and vindicate the\nexalted confidence of the monarch.\n\nWhen he had finished with his speech, the governor walked out of the\nhall, and the noblemen noisily and eagerly some even\nenthusiastically followed him and thronged round him while he put on\nhis fur coat and conversed amicably with the marshal of the province.\nLevin, anxious to see into everything and not to miss anything, stood\nthere too in the crowd, and heard the governor say:  Please tell Marya\nIvanovna my wife is very sorry she couldn t come to the Home.  And\nthereupon the nobles in high good-humor sorted out their fur coats and\nall drove off to the cathedral.\n\nIn the cathedral Levin, lifting his hand like the rest and repeating\nthe words of the archdeacon, swore with most terrible oaths to do all\nthe governor had hoped they would do. Church services always affected\nLevin, and as he uttered the words  I kiss the cross,  and glanced\nround at the crowd of young and old men repeating the same, he felt\ntouched.\n\nOn the second and third days there was business relating to the\nfinances of the nobility and the female high school, of no importance\nwhatever, as Sergey Ivanovitch explained, and Levin, busy seeing after\nhis own affairs, did not attend the meetings. On the fourth day the\nauditing of the marshal s accounts took place at the high table of the\nmarshal of the province. And then there occurred the first skirmish\nbetween the new party and the old. The committee who had been deputed\nto verify the accounts reported to the meeting that all was in order.\nThe marshal of the province got up, thanked the nobility for their\nconfidence, and shed tears. The nobles gave him a loud welcome, and\nshook hands with him. But at that instant a nobleman of Sergey\nIvanovitch s party said that he had heard that the committee had not\nverified the accounts, considering such a verification an insult to the\nmarshal of the province. One of the members of the committee\nincautiously admitted this. Then a small gentleman, very young-looking\nbut very malignant, began to say that it would probably be agreeable to\nthe marshal of the province to give an account of his expenditures of\nthe public moneys, and that the misplaced delicacy of the members of\nthe committee was depriving him of this moral satisfaction. Then the\nmembers of the committee tried to withdraw their admission, and Sergey\nIvanovitch began to prove that they must logically admit either that\nthey had verified the accounts or that they had not, and he developed\nthis dilemma in detail. Sergey Ivanovitch was answered by the spokesman\nof the opposite party. Then Sviazhsky spoke, and then the malignant\ngentleman again. The discussion lasted a long time and ended in\nnothing. Levin was surprised that they should dispute upon this subject\nso long, especially as, when he asked Sergey Ivanovitch whether he\nsupposed that money had been misappropriated, Sergey Ivanovitch\nanswered:\n\n Oh, no! He s an honest man. But those old-fashioned methods of\npaternal family arrangements in the management of provincial affairs\nmust be broken down. \n\nOn the fifth day came the elections of the district marshals. It was\nrather a stormy day in several districts. In the Seleznevsky district\nSviazhsky was elected unanimously without a ballot, and he gave a\ndinner that evening.\n\n\nChapter 27\n\nThe sixth day was fixed for the election of the marshal of the\nprovince.\n\nThe rooms, large and small, were full of noblemen in all sorts of\nuniforms. Many had come only for that day. Men who had not seen each\nother for years, some from the Crimea, some from Petersburg, some from\nabroad, met in the rooms of the Hall of Nobility. There was much\ndiscussion around the governor s table under the portrait of the Tsar.\n\nThe nobles, both in the larger and the smaller rooms, grouped\nthemselves in camps, and from their hostile and suspicious glances,\nfrom the silence that fell upon them when outsiders approached a group,\nand from the way that some, whispering together, retreated to the\nfarther corridor, it was evident that each side had secrets from the\nother. In appearance the noblemen were sharply divided into two\nclasses: the old and the new. The old were for the most part either in\nold uniforms of the nobility, buttoned up closely, with spurs and hats,\nor in their own special naval, cavalry, infantry, or official uniforms.\nThe uniforms of the older men were embroidered in the old-fashioned way\nwith epaulets on their shoulders; they were unmistakably tight and\nshort in the waist, as though their wearers had grown out of them. The\nyounger men wore the uniform of the nobility with long waists and broad\nshoulders, unbuttoned over white waistcoats, or uniforms with black\ncollars and with the embroidered badges of justices of the peace. To\nthe younger men belonged the court uniforms that here and there\nbrightened up the crowd.\n\nBut the division into young and old did not correspond with the\ndivision of parties. Some of the young men, as Levin observed, belonged\nto the old party; and some of the very oldest noblemen, on the\ncontrary, were whispering with Sviazhsky, and were evidently ardent\npartisans of the new party.\n\nLevin stood in the smaller room, where they were smoking and taking\nlight refreshments, close to his own friends, and listening to what\nthey were saying, he conscientiously exerted all his intelligence\ntrying to understand what was said. Sergey Ivanovitch was the center\nround which the others grouped themselves. He was listening at that\nmoment to Sviazhsky and Hliustov, the marshal of another district, who\nbelonged to their party. Hliustov would not agree to go with his\ndistrict to ask Snetkov to stand, while Sviazhsky was persuading him to\ndo so, and Sergey Ivanovitch was approving of the plan. Levin could not\nmake out why the opposition was to ask the marshal to stand whom they\nwanted to supersede.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch, who had just been drinking and taking some lunch,\ncame up to them in his uniform of a gentleman of the bedchamber, wiping\nhis lips with a perfumed handkerchief of bordered batiste.\n\n We are placing our forces,  he said, pulling out his whiskers,  Sergey\nIvanovitch! \n\nAnd listening to the conversation, he supported Sviazhsky s contention.\n\n One district s enough, and Sviazhsky s obviously of the opposition, \nhe said, words evidently intelligible to all except Levin.\n\n Why, Kostya, you here too! I suppose you re converted, eh?  he added,\nturning to Levin and drawing his arm through his. Levin would have been\nglad indeed to be converted, but could not make out what the point was,\nand retreating a few steps from the speakers, he explained to Stepan\nArkadyevitch his inability to understand why the marshal of the\nprovince should be asked to stand.\n\n_ O sancta simplicitas! _ said Stepan Arkadyevitch, and briefly and\nclearly he explained it to Levin. If, as at previous elections, all the\ndistricts asked the marshal of the province to stand, then he would be\nelected without a ballot. That must not be. Now eight districts had\nagreed to call upon him: if two refused to do so, Snetkov might decline\nto stand at all; and then the old party might choose another of their\nparty, which would throw them completely out in their reckoning. But if\nonly one district, Sviazhsky s, did not call upon him to stand, Snetkov\nwould let himself be balloted for. They were even, some of them, going\nto vote for him, and purposely to let him get a good many votes, so\nthat the enemy might be thrown off the scent, and when a candidate of\nthe other side was put up, they too might give him some votes. Levin\nunderstood to some extent, but not fully, and would have put a few more\nquestions, when suddenly everyone began talking and making a noise and\nthey moved towards the big room.\n\n What is it? eh? whom?   No guarantee? whose? what?   They won t pass\nhim?   No guarantee?   They won t let Flerov in?   Eh, because of the\ncharge against him?   Why, at this rate, they won t admit anyone. It s\na swindle!   The law!  Levin heard exclamations on all sides, and he\nmoved into the big room together with the others, all hurrying\nsomewhere and afraid of missing something. Squeezed by the crowding\nnoblemen, he drew near the high table where the marshal of the\nprovince, Sviazhsky, and the other leaders were hotly disputing about\nsomething.\n\n\nChapter 28\n\nLevin was standing rather far off. A nobleman breathing heavily and\nhoarsely at his side, and another whose thick boots were creaking,\nprevented him from hearing distinctly. He could only hear the soft\nvoice of the marshal faintly, then the shrill voice of the malignant\ngentleman, and then the voice of Sviazhsky. They were disputing, as far\nas he could make out, as to the interpretation to be put on the act and\nthe exact meaning of the words:  liable to be called up for trial. \n\nThe crowd parted to make way for Sergey Ivanovitch approaching the\ntable. Sergey Ivanovitch, waiting till the malignant gentleman had\nfinished speaking, said that he thought the best solution would be to\nrefer to the act itself, and asked the secretary to find the act. The\nact said that in case of difference of opinion, there must be a ballot.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch read the act and began to explain its meaning, but at\nthat point a tall, stout, round-shouldered landowner, with dyed\nwhiskers, in a tight uniform that cut the back of his neck, interrupted\nhim. He went up to the table, and striking it with his finger ring, he\nshouted loudly:  A ballot! Put it to the vote! No need for more\ntalking!  Then several voices began to talk all at once, and the tall\nnobleman with the ring, getting more and more exasperated, shouted more\nand more loudly. But it was impossible to make out what he said.\n\nHe was shouting for the very course Sergey Ivanovitch had proposed; but\nit was evident that he hated him and all his party, and this feeling of\nhatred spread through the whole party and roused in opposition to it\nthe same vindictiveness, though in a more seemly form, on the other\nside. Shouts were raised, and for a moment all was confusion, so that\nthe marshal of the province had to call for order.\n\n A ballot! A ballot! Every nobleman sees it! We shed our blood for our\ncountry!... The confidence of the monarch.... No checking the accounts\nof the marshal; he s not a cashier.... But that s not the point....\nVotes, please! Beastly!...  shouted furious and violent voices on all\nsides. Looks and faces were even more violent and furious than their\nwords. They expressed the most implacable hatred. Levin did not in the\nleast understand what was the matter, and he marveled at the passion\nwith which it was disputed whether or not the decision about Flerov\nshould be put to the vote. He forgot, as Sergey Ivanovitch explained to\nhim afterwards, this syllogism: that it was necessary for the public\ngood to get rid of the marshal of the province; that to get rid of the\nmarshal it was necessary to have a majority of votes; that to get a\nmajority of votes it was necessary to secure Flerov s right to vote;\nthat to secure the recognition of Flerov s right to vote they must\ndecide on the interpretation to be put on the act.\n\n And one vote may decide the whole question, and one must be serious\nand consecutive, if one wants to be of use in public life,  concluded\nSergey Ivanovitch. But Levin forgot all that, and it was painful to him\nto see all these excellent persons, for whom he had a respect, in such\nan unpleasant and vicious state of excitement. To escape from this\npainful feeling he went away into the other room where there was nobody\nexcept the waiters at the refreshment bar. Seeing the waiters busy over\nwashing up the crockery and setting in order their plates and\nwine-glasses, seeing their calm and cheerful faces, Levin felt an\nunexpected sense of relief as though he had come out of a stuffy room\ninto the fresh air. He began walking up and down, looking with pleasure\nat the waiters. He particularly liked the way one gray-whiskered\nwaiter, who showed his scorn for the other younger ones and was jeered\nat by them, was teaching them how to fold up napkins properly. Levin\nwas just about to enter into conversation with the old waiter, when the\nsecretary of the court of wardship, a little old man whose specialty it\nwas to know all the noblemen of the province by name and patronymic,\ndrew him away.\n\n Please come, Konstantin Dmitrievitch,  he said,  your brother s\nlooking for you. They are voting on the legal point. \n\nLevin walked into the room, received a white ball, and followed his\nbrother, Sergey Ivanovitch, to the table where Sviazhsky was standing\nwith a significant and ironical face, holding his beard in his fist and\nsniffing at it. Sergey Ivanovitch put his hand into the box, put the\nball somewhere, and making room for Levin, stopped. Levin advanced, but\nutterly forgetting what he was to do, and much embarrassed, he turned\nto Sergey Ivanovitch with the question,  Where am I to put it?  He\nasked this softly, at a moment when there was talking going on near, so\nthat he had hoped his question would not be overheard. But the persons\nspeaking paused, and his improper question was overheard. Sergey\nIvanovitch frowned.\n\n That is a matter for each man s own decision,  he said severely.\n\nSeveral people smiled. Levin crimsoned, hurriedly thrust his hand under\nthe cloth, and put the ball to the right as it was in his right hand.\nHaving put it in, he recollected that he ought to have thrust his left\nhand too, and so he thrust it in though too late, and, still more\novercome with confusion, he beat a hasty retreat into the background.\n\n A hundred and twenty-six for admission! Ninety-eight against!  sang\nout the voice of the secretary, who could not pronounce the letter _r_.\nThen there was a laugh; a button and two nuts were found in the box.\nThe nobleman was allowed the right to vote, and the new party had\nconquered.\n\nBut the old party did not consider themselves conquered. Levin heard\nthat they were asking Snetkov to stand, and he saw that a crowd of\nnoblemen was surrounding the marshal, who was saying something. Levin\nwent nearer. In reply Snetkov spoke of the trust the noblemen of the\nprovince had placed in him, the affection they had shown him, which he\ndid not deserve, as his only merit had been his attachment to the\nnobility, to whom he had devoted twelve years of service. Several times\nhe repeated the words:  I have served to the best of my powers with\ntruth and good faith, I value your goodness and thank you,  and\nsuddenly he stopped short from the tears that choked him, and went out\nof the room. Whether these tears came from a sense of the injustice\nbeing done him, from his love for the nobility, or from the strain of\nthe position he was placed in, feeling himself surrounded by enemies,\nhis emotion infected the assembly, the majority were touched, and Levin\nfelt a tenderness for Snetkov.\n\nIn the doorway the marshal of the province jostled against Levin.\n\n Beg pardon, excuse me, please,  he said as to a stranger, but\nrecognizing Levin, he smiled timidly. It seemed to Levin that he would\nhave liked to say something, but could not speak for emotion. His face\nand his whole figure in his uniform with the crosses, and white\ntrousers striped with braid, as he moved hurriedly along, reminded\nLevin of some hunted beast who sees that he is in evil case. This\nexpression in the marshal s face was particularly touching to Levin,\nbecause, only the day before, he had been at his house about his\ntrustee business and had seen him in all his grandeur, a kind-hearted,\nfatherly man. The big house with the old family furniture; the rather\ndirty, far from stylish, but respectful footmen, unmistakably old house\nserfs who had stuck to their master; the stout, good-natured wife in a\ncap with lace and a Turkish shawl, petting her pretty grandchild, her\ndaughter s daughter; the young son, a sixth form high school boy,\ncoming home from school, and greeting his father, kissing his big hand;\nthe genuine, cordial words and gestures of the old man all this had the\nday before roused an instinctive feeling of respect and sympathy in\nLevin. This old man was a touching and pathetic figure to Levin now,\nand he longed to say something pleasant to him.\n\n So you re sure to be our marshal again,  he said.\n\n It s not likely,  said the marshal, looking round with a scared\nexpression.  I m worn out, I m old. If there are men younger and more\ndeserving than I, let them serve. \n\nAnd the marshal disappeared through a side door.\n\nThe most solemn moment was at hand. They were to proceed immediately to\nthe election. The leaders of both parties were reckoning white and\nblack on their fingers.\n\nThe discussion upon Flerov had given the new party not only Flerov s\nvote, but had also gained time for them, so that they could send to\nfetch three noblemen who had been rendered unable to take part in the\nelections by the wiles of the other party. Two noble gentlemen, who had\na weakness for strong drink, had been made drunk by the partisans of\nSnetkov, and a third had been robbed of his uniform.\n\nOn learning this, the new party had made haste, during the dispute\nabout Flerov, to send some of their men in a sledge to clothe the\nstripped gentleman, and to bring along one of the intoxicated to the\nmeeting.\n\n I ve brought one, drenched him with water,  said the landowner, who\nhad gone on this errand, to Sviazhsky.  He s all right? he ll do. \n\n Not too drunk, he won t fall down?  said Sviazhsky, shaking his head.\n\n No, he s first-rate. If only they don t give him any more here....\nI ve told the waiter not to give him anything on any account. \n\n\nChapter 29\n\nThe narrow room, in which they were smoking and taking refreshments,\nwas full of noblemen. The excitement grew more intense, and every face\nbetrayed some uneasiness. The excitement was specially keen for the\nleaders of each party, who knew every detail, and had reckoned up every\nvote. They were the generals organizing the approaching battle. The\nrest, like the rank and file before an engagement, though they were\ngetting ready for the fight, sought for other distractions in the\ninterval. Some were lunching, standing at the bar, or sitting at the\ntable; others were walking up and down the long room, smoking\ncigarettes, and talking with friends whom they had not seen for a long\nwhile.\n\nLevin did not care to eat, and he was not smoking; he did not want to\njoin his own friends, that is Sergey Ivanovitch, Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nSviazhsky and the rest, because Vronsky in his equerry s uniform was\nstanding with them in eager conversation. Levin had seen him already at\nthe meeting on the previous day, and he had studiously avoided him, not\ncaring to greet him. He went to the window and sat down, scanning the\ngroups, and listening to what was being said around him. He felt\ndepressed, especially because everyone else was, as he saw, eager,\nanxious, and interested, and he alone, with an old, toothless little\nman with mumbling lips wearing a naval uniform, sitting beside him, had\nno interest in it and nothing to do.\n\n He s such a blackguard! I have told him so, but it makes no\ndifference. Only think of it! He couldn t collect it in three years! \nhe heard vigorously uttered by a round-shouldered, short, country\ngentleman, who had pomaded hair hanging on his embroidered collar, and\nnew boots obviously put on for the occasion, with heels that tapped\nenergetically as he spoke. Casting a displeased glance at Levin, this\ngentleman sharply turned his back.\n\n Yes, it s a dirty business, there s no denying,  a small gentleman\nassented in a high voice.\n\nNext, a whole crowd of country gentlemen, surrounding a stout general,\nhurriedly came near Levin. These persons were unmistakably seeking a\nplace where they could talk without being overheard.\n\n How dare he say I had his breeches stolen! Pawned them for drink, I\nexpect. Damn the fellow, prince indeed! He d better not say it, the\nbeast! \n\n But excuse me! They take their stand on the act,  was being said in\nanother group;  the wife must be registered as noble. \n\n Oh, damn your acts! I speak from my heart. We re all gentlemen, aren t\nwe? Above suspicion. \n\n Shall we go on, your excellency, _fine champagne?_ \n\nAnother group was following a nobleman, who was shouting something in a\nloud voice; it was one of the three intoxicated gentlemen.\n\n I always advised Marya Semyonovna to let for a fair rent, for she can\nnever save a profit,  he heard a pleasant voice say. The speaker was a\ncountry gentleman with gray whiskers, wearing the regimental uniform of\nan old general staff-officer. It was the very landowner Levin had met\nat Sviazhsky s. He knew him at once. The landowner too stared at Levin,\nand they exchanged greetings.\n\n Very glad to see you! To be sure! I remember you very well. Last year\nat our district marshal, Nikolay Ivanovitch s. \n\n Well, and how is your land doing?  asked Levin.\n\n Oh, still just the same, always at a loss,  the landowner answered\nwith a resigned smile, but with an expression of serenity and\nconviction that so it must be.  And how do you come to be in our\nprovince?  he asked.  Come to take part in our _coup d tat?_  he said,\nconfidently pronouncing the French words with a bad accent.  All\nRussia s here gentlemen of the bedchamber, and everything short of the\nministry.  He pointed to the imposing figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch in\nwhite trousers and his court uniform, walking by with a general.\n\n I ought to own that I don t very well understand the drift of the\nprovincial elections,  said Levin.\n\nThe landowner looked at him.\n\n Why, what is there to understand? There s no meaning in it at all.\nIt s a decaying institution that goes on running only by the force of\ninertia. Just look, the very uniforms tell you that it s an assembly of\njustices of the peace, permanent members of the court, and so on, but\nnot of noblemen. \n\n Then why do you come?  asked Levin.\n\n From habit, nothing else. Then, too, one must keep up connections.\nIt s a moral obligation of a sort. And then, to tell the truth, there s\none s own interests. My son-in-law wants to stand as a permanent\nmember; they re not rich people, and he must be brought forward. These\ngentlemen, now, what do they come for?  he said, pointing to the\nmalignant gentleman, who was talking at the high table.\n\n That s the new generation of nobility. \n\n New it may be, but nobility it isn t. They re proprietors of a sort,\nbut we re the landowners. As noblemen, they re cutting their own\nthroats. \n\n But you say it s an institution that s served its time. \n\n That it may be, but still it ought to be treated a little more\nrespectfully. Snetkov, now.... We may be of use, or we may not, but\nwe re the growth of a thousand years. If we re laying out a garden,\nplanning one before the house, you know, and there you ve a tree that s\nstood for centuries in the very spot.... Old and gnarled it may be, and\nyet you don t cut down the old fellow to make room for the flowerbeds,\nbut lay out your beds so as to take advantage of the tree. You won t\ngrow him again in a year,  he said cautiously, and he immediately\nchanged the conversation.  Well, and how is your land doing? \n\n Oh, not very well. I make five per cent. \n\n Yes, but you don t reckon your own work. Aren t you worth something\ntoo? I ll tell you my own case. Before I took to seeing after the land,\nI had a salary of three hundred pounds from the service. Now I do more\nwork than I did in the service, and like you I get five per cent. on\nthe land, and thank God for that. But one s work is thrown in for\nnothing. \n\n Then why do you do it, if it s a clear loss? \n\n Oh, well, one does it! What would you have? It s habit, and one knows\nit s how it should be. And what s more,  the landowner went on, leaning\nhis elbows on the window and chatting on,  my son, I must tell you, has\nno taste for it. There s no doubt he ll be a scientific man. So\nthere ll be no one to keep it up. And yet one does it. Here this year\nI ve planted an orchard. \n\n Yes, yes,  said Levin,  that s perfectly true. I always feel there s\nno real balance of gain in my work on the land, and yet one does it....\nIt s a sort of duty one feels to the land. \n\n But I tell you what,  the landowner pursued;  a neighbor of mine, a\nmerchant, was at my place. We walked about the fields and the garden.\n No,  said he,  Stepan Vassilievitch, everything s well looked after,\nbut your garden s neglected.  But, as a fact, it s well kept up.  To my\nthinking, I d cut down that lime-tree. Here you ve thousands of limes,\nand each would make two good bundles of bark. And nowadays that bark s\nworth something. I d cut down the lot. \n\n And with what he made he d increase his stock, or buy some land for a\ntrifle, and let it out in lots to the peasants,  Levin added, smiling.\nHe had evidently more than once come across those commercial\ncalculations.  And he d make his fortune. But you and I must thank God\nif we keep what we ve got and leave it to our children. \n\n You re married, I ve heard?  said the landowner.\n\n Yes,  Levin answered, with proud satisfaction.  Yes, it s rather\nstrange,  he went on.  So we live without making anything, as though we\nwere ancient vestals set to keep in a fire. \n\nThe landowner chuckled under his white mustaches.\n\n There are some among us, too, like our friend Nikolay Ivanovitch, or\nCount Vronsky, that s settled here lately, who try to carry on their\nhusbandry as though it were a factory; but so far it leads to nothing\nbut making away with capital on it. \n\n But why is it we don t do like the merchants? Why don t we cut down\nour parks for timber?  said Levin, returning to a thought that had\nstruck him.\n\n Why, as you said, to keep the fire in. Besides that s not work for a\nnobleman. And our work as noblemen isn t done here at the elections,\nbut yonder, each in our corner. There s a class instinct, too, of what\none ought and oughtn t to do. There s the peasants, too, I wonder at\nthem sometimes; any good peasant tries to take all the land he can.\nHowever bad the land is, he ll work it. Without a return too. At a\nsimple loss. \n\n Just as we do,  said Levin.  Very, very glad to have met you,  he\nadded, seeing Sviazhsky approaching him.\n\n And here we ve met for the first time since we met at your place, \nsaid the landowner to Sviazhsky,  and we ve had a good talk too. \n\n Well, have you been attacking the new order of things?  said Sviazhsky\nwith a smile.\n\n That we re bound to do. \n\n You ve relieved your feelings? \n\n\nChapter 30\n\nSviazhsky took Levin s arm, and went with him to his own friends.\n\nThis time there was no avoiding Vronsky. He was standing with Stepan\nArkadyevitch and Sergey Ivanovitch, and looking straight at Levin as he\ndrew near.\n\n Delighted! I believe I ve had the pleasure of meeting you ... at\nPrincess Shtcherbatskaya s,  he said, giving Levin his hand.\n\n Yes, I quite remember our meeting,  said Levin, and blushing crimson,\nhe turned away immediately, and began talking to his brother.\n\nWith a slight smile Vronsky went on talking to Sviazhsky, obviously\nwithout the slightest inclination to enter into conversation with\nLevin. But Levin, as he talked to his brother, was continually looking\nround at Vronsky, trying to think of something to say to him to gloss\nover his rudeness.\n\n What are we waiting for now?  asked Levin, looking at Sviazhsky and\nVronsky.\n\n For Snetkov. He has to refuse or to consent to stand,  answered\nSviazhsky.\n\n Well, and what has he done, consented or not? \n\n That s the point, that he s done neither,  said Vronsky.\n\n And if he refuses, who will stand then?  asked Levin, looking at\nVronsky.\n\n Whoever chooses to,  said Sviazhsky.\n\n Shall you?  asked Levin.\n\n Certainly not I,  said Sviazhsky, looking confused, and turning an\nalarmed glance at the malignant gentleman, who was standing beside\nSergey Ivanovitch.\n\n Who then? Nevyedovsky?  said Levin, feeling he was putting his foot\ninto it.\n\nBut this was worse still. Nevyedovsky and Sviazhsky were the two\ncandidates.\n\n I certainly shall not, under any circumstances,  answered the\nmalignant gentleman.\n\nThis was Nevyedovsky himself. Sviazhsky introduced him to Levin.\n\n Well, you find it exciting too?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, winking at\nVronsky.  It s something like a race. One might bet on it. \n\n Yes, it is keenly exciting,  said Vronsky.  And once taking the thing\nup, one s eager to see it through. It s a fight!  he said, scowling and\nsetting his powerful jaws.\n\n What a capable fellow Sviazhsky is! Sees it all so clearly. \n\n Oh, yes!  Vronsky assented indifferently.\n\nA silence followed, during which Vronsky since he had to look at\nsomething looked at Levin, at his feet, at his uniform, then at his\nface, and noticing his gloomy eyes fixed upon him, he said, in order to\nsay something:\n\n How is it that you, living constantly in the country, are not a\njustice of the peace? You are not in the uniform of one. \n\n It s because I consider that the justice of the peace is a silly\ninstitution,  Levin answered gloomily. He had been all the time looking\nfor an opportunity to enter into conversation with Vronsky, so as to\nsmooth over his rudeness at their first meeting.\n\n I don t think so, quite the contrary,  Vronsky said, with quiet\nsurprise.\n\n It s a plaything,  Levin cut him short.  We don t want justices of the\npeace. I ve never had a single thing to do with them during eight\nyears. And what I have had was decided wrongly by them. The justice of\nthe peace is over thirty miles from me. For some matter of two roubles\nI should have to send a lawyer, who costs me fifteen. \n\nAnd he related how a peasant had stolen some flour from the miller, and\nwhen the miller told him of it, had lodged a complaint for slander. All\nthis was utterly uncalled for and stupid, and Levin felt it himself as\nhe said it.\n\n Oh, this is such an original fellow!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch with\nhis most soothing, almond-oil smile.  But come along; I think they re\nvoting.... \n\nAnd they separated.\n\n I can t understand,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, who had observed his\nbrother s clumsiness,  I can t understand how anyone can be so\nabsolutely devoid of political tact. That s where we Russians are so\ndeficient. The marshal of the province is our opponent, and with him\nyou re _ami cochon_, and you beg him to stand. Count Vronsky, now ...\nI m not making a friend of him; he s asked me to dinner, and I m not\ngoing; but he s one of our side why make an enemy of him? Then you ask\nNevyedovsky if he s going to stand. That s not a thing to do. \n\n Oh, I don t understand it at all! And it s all such nonsense,  Levin\nanswered gloomily.\n\n You say it s all such nonsense, but as soon as you have anything to do\nwith it, you make a muddle. \n\nLevin did not answer, and they walked together into the big room.\n\nThe marshal of the province, though he was vaguely conscious in the air\nof some trap being prepared for him, and though he had not been called\nupon by all to stand, had still made up his mind to stand. All was\nsilence in the room. The secretary announced in a loud voice that the\ncaptain of the guards, Mihail Stepanovitch Snetkov, would now be\nballoted for as marshal of the province.\n\nThe district marshals walked carrying plates, on which were balls, from\ntheir tables to the high table, and the election began.\n\n Put it in the right side,  whispered Stepan Arkadyevitch, as with his\nbrother Levin followed the marshal of his district to the table. But\nLevin had forgotten by now the calculations that had been explained to\nhim, and was afraid Stepan Arkadyevitch might be mistaken in saying\n the right side.  Surely Snetkov was the enemy. As he went up, he held\nthe ball in his right hand, but thinking he was wrong, just at the box\nhe changed to the left hand, and undoubtedly put the ball to the left.\nAn adept in the business, standing at the box and seeing by the mere\naction of the elbow where each put his ball, scowled with annoyance. It\nwas no good for him to use his insight.\n\nEverything was still, and the counting of the balls was heard. Then a\nsingle voice rose and proclaimed the numbers for and against. The\nmarshal had been voted for by a considerable majority. All was noise\nand eager movement towards the doors. Snetkov came in, and the nobles\nthronged round him, congratulating him.\n\n Well, now is it over?  Levin asked Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n It s only just beginning,  Sviazhsky said, replying for Sergey\nIvanovitch with a smile.  Some other candidate may receive more votes\nthan the marshal. \n\nLevin had quite forgotten about that. Now he could only remember that\nthere was some sort of trickery in it, but he was too bored to think\nwhat it was exactly. He felt depressed, and longed to get out of the\ncrowd.\n\nAs no one was paying any attention to him, and no one apparently needed\nhim, he quietly slipped away into the little room where the\nrefreshments were, and again had a great sense of comfort when he saw\nthe waiters. The little old waiter pressed him to have something, and\nLevin agreed. After eating a cutlet with beans and talking to the\nwaiters of their former masters, Levin, not wishing to go back to the\nhall, where it was all so distasteful to him, proceeded to walk through\nthe galleries. The galleries were full of fashionably dressed ladies,\nleaning over the balustrade and trying not to lose a single word of\nwhat was being said below. With the ladies were sitting and standing\nsmart lawyers, high school teachers in spectacles, and officers.\nEverywhere they were talking of the election, and of how worried the\nmarshal was, and how splendid the discussions had been. In one group\nLevin heard his brother s praises. One lady was telling a lawyer:\n\n How glad I am I heard Koznishev! It s worth losing one s dinner. He s\nexquisite! So clear and distinct all of it! There s not one of you in\nthe law courts that speaks like that. The only one is Meidel, and he s\nnot so eloquent by a long way. \n\nFinding a free place, Levin leaned over the balustrade and began\nlooking and listening.\n\nAll the noblemen were sitting railed off behind barriers according to\ntheir districts. In the middle of the room stood a man in a uniform,\nwho shouted in a loud, high voice:\n\n As a candidate for the marshalship of the nobility of the province we\ncall upon staff-captain Yevgeney Ivanovitch Apuhtin!  A dead silence\nfollowed, and then a weak old voice was heard:  Declined! \n\n We call upon the privy councilor Pyotr Petrovitch Bol,  the voice\nbegan again.\n\n Declined!  a high boyish voice replied.\n\nAgain it began, and again  Declined.  And so it went on for about an\nhour. Levin, with his elbows on the balustrade, looked and listened. At\nfirst he wondered and wanted to know what it meant; then feeling sure\nthat he could not make it out he began to be bored. Then recalling all\nthe excitement and vindictiveness he had seen on all the faces, he felt\nsad; he made up his mind to go, and went downstairs. As he passed\nthrough the entry to the galleries he met a dejected high school boy\nwalking up and down with tired-looking eyes. On the stairs he met a\ncouple a lady running quickly on her high heels and the jaunty deputy\nprosecutor.\n\n I told you you weren t late,  the deputy prosecutor was saying at the\nmoment when Levin moved aside to let the lady pass.\n\nLevin was on the stairs to the way out, and was just feeling in his\nwaistcoat pocket for the number of his overcoat, when the secretary\novertook him.\n\n This way, please, Konstantin Dmitrievitch; they are voting. \n\nThe candidate who was being voted on was Nevyedovsky, who had so\nstoutly denied all idea of standing. Levin went up to the door of the\nroom; it was locked. The secretary knocked, the door opened, and Levin\nwas met by two red-faced gentlemen, who darted out.\n\n I can t stand any more of it,  said one red-faced gentleman.\n\nAfter them the face of the marshal of the province was poked out. His\nface was dreadful-looking from exhaustion and dismay.\n\n I told you not to let anyone out!  he cried to the doorkeeper.\n\n I let someone in, your excellency! \n\n Mercy on us!  and with a heavy sigh the marshal of the province walked\nwith downcast head to the high table in the middle of the room, his\nlegs staggering in his white trousers.\n\nNevyedovsky had scored a higher majority, as they had planned, and he\nwas the new marshal of the province. Many people were amused, many were\npleased and happy, many were in ecstasies, many were disgusted and\nunhappy. The former marshal of the province was in a state of despair,\nwhich he could not conceal. When Nevyedovsky went out of the room, the\ncrowd thronged round him and followed him enthusiastically, just as\nthey had followed the governor who had opened the meetings, and just as\nthey had followed Snetkov when he was elected.\n\n\nChapter 31\n\nThe newly elected marshal and many of the successful party dined that\nday with Vronsky.\n\nVronsky had come to the elections partly because he was bored in the\ncountry and wanted to show Anna his right to independence, and also to\nrepay Sviazhsky by his support at the election for all the trouble he\nhad taken for Vronsky at the district council election, but chiefly in\norder strictly to perform all those duties of a nobleman and landowner\nwhich he had taken upon himself. But he had not in the least expected\nthat the election would so interest him, so keenly excite him, and that\nhe would be so good at this kind of thing. He was quite a new man in\nthe circle of the nobility of the province, but his success was\nunmistakable, and he was not wrong in supposing that he had already\nobtained a certain influence. This influence was due to his wealth and\nreputation, the capital house in the town lent him by his old friend\nShirkov, who had a post in the department of finances and was director\nof a flourishing bank in Kashin; the excellent cook Vronsky had brought\nfrom the country, and his friendship with the governor, who was a\nschoolfellow of Vronsky s a schoolfellow he had patronized and\nprotected indeed. But what contributed more than all to his success was\nhis direct, equable manner with everyone, which very quickly made the\nmajority of the noblemen reverse the current opinion of his supposed\nhaughtiness. He was himself conscious that, except that whimsical\ngentleman married to Kitty Shtcherbatskaya, who had _  propos de\nbottes_ poured out a stream of irrelevant absurdities with such\nspiteful fury, every nobleman with whom he had made acquaintance had\nbecome his adherent. He saw clearly, and other people recognized it,\ntoo, that he had done a great deal to secure the success of\nNevyedovsky. And now at his own table, celebrating Nevyedovsky s\nelection, he was experiencing an agreeable sense of triumph over the\nsuccess of his candidate. The election itself had so fascinated him\nthat, if he could succeed in getting married during the next three\nyears, he began to think of standing himself much as after winning a\nrace ridden by a jockey, he had longed to ride a race himself.\n\nToday he was celebrating the success of his jockey. Vronsky sat at the\nhead of the table, on his right hand sat the young governor, a general\nof high rank. To all the rest he was the chief man in the province, who\nhad solemnly opened the elections with his speech, and aroused a\nfeeling of respect and even of awe in many people, as Vronsky saw; to\nVronsky he was little Katka Maslov that had been his nickname in the\nPages  Corps whom he felt to be shy and tried to _mettre   son aise_.\nOn the left hand sat Nevyedovsky with his youthful, stubborn, and\nmalignant face. With him Vronsky was simple and deferential.\n\nSviazhsky took his failure very light-heartedly. It was indeed no\nfailure in his eyes, as he said himself, turning, glass in hand, to\nNevyedovsky; they could not have found a better representative of the\nnew movement, which the nobility ought to follow. And so every honest\nperson, as he said, was on the side of today s success and was\nrejoicing over it.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was glad, too, that he was having a good time, and\nthat everyone was pleased. The episode of the elections served as a\ngood occasion for a capital dinner. Sviazhsky comically imitated the\ntearful discourse of the marshal, and observed, addressing Nevyedovsky,\nthat his excellency would have to select another more complicated\nmethod of auditing the accounts than tears. Another nobleman jocosely\ndescribed how footmen in stockings had been ordered for the marshal s\nball, and how now they would have to be sent back unless the new\nmarshal would give a ball with footmen in stockings.\n\nContinually during dinner they said of Nevyedovsky:  our marshal,  and\n your excellency. \n\nThis was said with the same pleasure with which a bride is called\n Madame  and her husband s name. Nevyedovsky affected to be not merely\nindifferent but scornful of this appellation, but it was obvious that\nhe was highly delighted, and had to keep a curb on himself not to\nbetray the triumph which was unsuitable to their new liberal tone.\n\nAfter dinner several telegrams were sent to people interested in the\nresult of the election. And Stepan Arkadyevitch, who was in high good\nhumor, sent Darya Alexandrovna a telegram:  Nevyedovsky elected by\ntwenty votes. Congratulations. Tell people.  He dictated it aloud,\nsaying:  We must let them share our rejoicing.  Darya Alexandrovna,\ngetting the message, simply sighed over the rouble wasted on it, and\nunderstood that it was an after-dinner affair. She knew Stiva had a\nweakness after dining for _faire jouer le t l graphe._\n\n\n\nEverything, together with the excellent dinner and the wine, not from\nRussian merchants, but imported direct from abroad, was extremely\ndignified, simple, and enjoyable. The party some twenty had been\nselected by Sviazhsky from among the more active new liberals, all of\nthe same way of thinking, who were at the same time clever and well\nbred. They drank, also half in jest, to the health of the new marshal\nof the province, of the governor, of the bank director, and of  our\namiable host. \n\nVronsky was satisfied. He had never expected to find so pleasant a tone\nin the provinces.\n\nTowards the end of dinner it was still more lively. The governor asked\nVronsky to come to a concert for the benefit of the Servians which his\nwife, who was anxious to make his acquaintance, had been getting up.\n\n There ll be a ball, and you ll see the belle of the province. Worth\nseeing, really. \n\n Not in my line,  Vronsky answered. He liked that English phrase. But\nhe smiled, and promised to come.\n\nBefore they rose from the table, when all of them were smoking,\nVronsky s valet went up to him with a letter on a tray.\n\n From Vozdvizhenskoe by special messenger,  he said with a significant\nexpression.\n\n Astonishing! how like he is to the deputy prosecutor Sventitsky,  said\none of the guests in French of the valet, while Vronsky, frowning, read\nthe letter.\n\nThe letter was from Anna. Before he read the letter, he knew its\ncontents. Expecting the elections to be over in five days, he had\npromised to be back on Friday. Today was Saturday, and he knew that the\nletter contained reproaches for not being back at the time fixed. The\nletter he had sent the previous evening had probably not reached her\nyet.\n\nThe letter was what he had expected, but the form of it was unexpected,\nand particularly disagreeable to him.  Annie is very ill, the doctor\nsays it may be inflammation. I am losing my head all alone. Princess\nVarvara is no help, but a hindrance. I expected you the day before\nyesterday, and yesterday, and now I am sending to find out where you\nare and what you are doing. I wanted to come myself, but thought better\nof it, knowing you would dislike it. Send some answer, that I may know\nwhat to do. \n\nThe child ill, yet she had thought of coming herself. Their daughter\nill, and this hostile tone.\n\nThe innocent festivities over the election, and this gloomy, burdensome\nlove to which he had to return struck Vronsky by their contrast. But he\nhad to go, and by the first train that night he set off home.\n\n\nChapter 32\n\nBefore Vronsky s departure for the elections, Anna had reflected that\nthe scenes constantly repeated between them each time he left home,\nmight only make him cold to her instead of attaching him to her, and\nresolved to do all she could to control herself so as to bear the\nparting with composure. But the cold, severe glance with which he had\nlooked at her when he came to tell her he was going had wounded her,\nand before he had started her peace of mind was destroyed.\n\nIn solitude afterwards, thinking over that glance which had expressed\nhis right to freedom, she came, as she always did, to the same\npoint the sense of her own humiliation.  He has the right to go away\nwhen and where he chooses. Not simply to go away, but to leave me. He\nhas every right, and I have none. But knowing that, he ought not to do\nit. What has he done, though?... He looked at me with a cold, severe\nexpression. Of course that is something indefinable, impalpable, but it\nhas never been so before, and that glance means a great deal,  she\nthought.  That glance shows the beginning of indifference. \n\nAnd though she felt sure that a coldness was beginning, there was\nnothing she could do, she could not in any way alter her relations to\nhim. Just as before, only by love and by charm could she keep him. And\nso, just as before, only by occupation in the day, by morphine at\nnight, could she stifle the fearful thought of what would be if he\nceased to love her. It is true there was still one means; not to keep\nhim for that she wanted nothing more than his love but to be nearer to\nhim, to be in such a position that he would not leave her. That means\nwas divorce and marriage. And she began to long for that, and made up\nher mind to agree to it the first time he or Stiva approached her on\nthe subject.\n\nAbsorbed in such thoughts, she passed five days without him, the five\ndays that he was to be at the elections.\n\nWalks, conversation with Princess Varvara, visits to the hospital, and,\nmost of all, reading reading of one book after another filled up her\ntime. But on the sixth day, when the coachman came back without him,\nshe felt that now she was utterly incapable of stifling the thought of\nhim and of what he was doing there, just at that time her little girl\nwas taken ill. Anna began to look after her, but even that did not\ndistract her mind, especially as the illness was not serious. However\nhard she tried, she could not love this little child, and to feign love\nwas beyond her powers. Towards the evening of that day, still alone,\nAnna was in such a panic about him that she decided to start for the\ntown, but on second thoughts wrote him the contradictory letter that\nVronsky received, and without reading it through, sent it off by a\nspecial messenger. The next morning she received his letter and\nregretted her own. She dreaded a repetition of the severe look he had\nflung at her at parting, especially when he knew that the baby was not\ndangerously ill. But still she was glad she had written to him. At this\nmoment Anna was positively admitting to herself that she was a burden\nto him, that he would relinquish his freedom regretfully to return to\nher, and in spite of that she was glad he was coming. Let him weary of\nher, but he would be here with her, so that she would see him, would\nknow of every action he took.\n\nShe was sitting in the drawing-room near a lamp, with a new volume of\nTaine, and as she read, listening to the sound of the wind outside, and\nevery minute expecting the carriage to arrive. Several times she had\nfancied she heard the sound of wheels, but she had been mistaken. At\nlast she heard not the sound of wheels, but the coachman s shout and\nthe dull rumble in the covered entry. Even Princess Varvara, playing\npatience, confirmed this, and Anna, flushing hotly, got up; but instead\nof going down, as she had done twice before, she stood still. She\nsuddenly felt ashamed of her duplicity, but even more she dreaded how\nhe might meet her. All feeling of wounded pride had passed now; she was\nonly afraid of the expression of his displeasure. She remembered that\nher child had been perfectly well again for the last two days. She felt\npositively vexed with her for getting better from the very moment her\nletter was sent off. Then she thought of him, that he was here, all of\nhim, with his hands, his eyes. She heard his voice. And forgetting\neverything, she ran joyfully to meet him.\n\n Well, how is Annie?  he said timidly from below, looking up to Anna as\nshe ran down to him.\n\nHe was sitting on a chair, and a footman was pulling off his warm\nover-boot.\n\n Oh, she is better. \n\n And you?  he said, shaking himself.\n\nShe took his hand in both of hers, and drew it to her waist, never\ntaking her eyes off him.\n\n Well, I m glad,  he said, coldly scanning her, her hair, her dress,\nwhich he knew she had put on for him. All was charming, but how many\ntimes it had charmed him! And the stern, stony expression that she so\ndreaded settled upon his face.\n\n Well, I m glad. And are you well?  he said, wiping his damp beard with\nhis handkerchief and kissing her hand.\n\n Never mind,  she thought,  only let him be here, and so long as he s\nhere he cannot, he dare not, cease to love me. \n\nThe evening was spent happily and gaily in the presence of Princess\nVarvara, who complained to him that Anna had been taking morphine in\nhis absence.\n\n What am I to do? I couldn t sleep.... My thoughts prevented me. When\nhe s here I never take it hardly ever. \n\nHe told her about the election, and Anna knew how by adroit questions\nto bring him to what gave him most pleasure his own success. She told\nhim of everything that interested him at home; and all that she told\nhim was of the most cheerful description.\n\nBut late in the evening, when they were alone, Anna, seeing that she\nhad regained complete possession of him, wanted to erase the painful\nimpression of the glance he had given her for her letter. She said:\n\n Tell me frankly, you were vexed at getting my letter, and you didn t\nbelieve me? \n\nAs soon as she had said it, she felt that however warm his feelings\nwere to her, he had not forgiven her for that.\n\n Yes,  he said,  the letter was so strange. First, Annie ill, and then\nyou thought of coming yourself. \n\n It was all the truth. \n\n Oh, I don t doubt it. \n\n Yes, you do doubt it. You are vexed, I see. \n\n Not for one moment. I m only vexed, that s true, that you seem somehow\nunwilling to admit that there are duties.... \n\n The duty of going to a concert.... \n\n But we won t talk about it,  he said.\n\n Why not talk about it?  she said.\n\n I only meant to say that matters of real importance may turn up. Now,\nfor instance, I shall have to go to Moscow to arrange about the\nhouse.... Oh, Anna, why are you so irritable? Don t you know that I\ncan t live without you? \n\n If so,  said Anna, her voice suddenly changing,  it means that you are\nsick of this life.... Yes, you will come for a day and go away, as men\ndo.... \n\n Anna, that s cruel. I am ready to give up my whole life. \n\nBut she did not hear him.\n\n If you go to Moscow, I will go too. I will not stay here. Either we\nmust separate or else live together. \n\n Why, you know, that s my one desire. But for that.... \n\n We must get a divorce. I will write to him. I see I cannot go on like\nthis.... But I will come with you to Moscow. \n\n You talk as if you were threatening me. But I desire nothing so much\nas never to be parted from you,  said Vronsky, smiling.\n\nBut as he said these words there gleamed in his eyes not merely a cold\nlook, but the vindictive look of a man persecuted and made cruel.\n\nShe saw the look and correctly divined its meaning.\n\n If so, it s a calamity!  that glance told her. It was a moment s\nimpression, but she never forgot it.\n\nAnna wrote to her husband asking him about a divorce, and towards the\nend of November, taking leave of Princess Varvara, who wanted to go to\nPetersburg, she went with Vronsky to Moscow. Expecting every day an\nanswer from Alexey Alexandrovitch, and after that the divorce, they now\nestablished themselves together like married people.\n\n\n\n\nPART SEVEN\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nThe Levins had been three months in Moscow. The date had long passed on\nwhich, according to the most trustworthy calculations of people learned\nin such matters, Kitty should have been confined. But she was still\nabout, and there was nothing to show that her time was any nearer than\ntwo months ago. The doctor, the monthly nurse, and Dolly and her\nmother, and most of all Levin, who could not think of the approaching\nevent without terror, began to be impatient and uneasy. Kitty was the\nonly person who felt perfectly calm and happy.\n\nShe was distinctly conscious now of the birth of a new feeling of love\nfor the future child, for her to some extent actually existing already,\nand she brooded blissfully over this feeling. He was not by now\naltogether a part of herself, but sometimes lived his own life\nindependently of her. Often this separate being gave her pain, but at\nthe same time she wanted to laugh with a strange new joy.\n\nAll the people she loved were with her, and all were so good to her, so\nattentively caring for her, so entirely pleasant was everything\npresented to her, that if she had not known and felt that it must all\nsoon be over, she could not have wished for a better and pleasanter\nlife. The only thing that spoiled the charm of this manner of life was\nthat her husband was not here as she loved him to be, and as he was in\nthe country.\n\nShe liked his serene, friendly, and hospitable manner in the country.\nIn the town he seemed continually uneasy and on his guard, as though he\nwere afraid someone would be rude to him, and still more to her. At\nhome in the country, knowing himself distinctly to be in his right\nplace, he was never in haste to be off elsewhere. He was never\nunoccupied. Here in town he was in a continual hurry, as though afraid\nof missing something, and yet he had nothing to do. And she felt sorry\nfor him. To others, she knew, he did not appear an object of pity. On\nthe contrary, when Kitty looked at him in society, as one sometimes\nlooks at those one loves, trying to see him as if he were a stranger,\nso as to catch the impression he must make on others, she saw with a\npanic even of jealous fear that he was far indeed from being a pitiable\nfigure, that he was very attractive with his fine breeding, his rather\nold-fashioned, reserved courtesy with women, his powerful figure, and\nstriking, as she thought, and expressive face. But she saw him not from\nwithout, but from within; she saw that here he was not himself; that\nwas the only way she could define his condition to herself. Sometimes\nshe inwardly reproached him for his inability to live in the town;\nsometimes she recognized that it was really hard for him to order his\nlife here so that he could be satisfied with it.\n\nWhat had he to do, indeed? He did not care for cards; he did not go to\na club. Spending the time with jovial gentlemen of Oblonsky s type she\nknew now what that meant ... it meant drinking and going somewhere\nafter drinking. She could not think without horror of where men went on\nsuch occasions. Was he to go into society? But she knew he could only\nfind satisfaction in that if he took pleasure in the society of young\nwomen, and that she could not wish for. Should he stay at home with\nher, her mother and her sisters? But much as she liked and enjoyed\ntheir conversations forever on the same subjects Aline-Nadine,  as the\nold prince called the sisters  talks she knew it must bore him. What\nwas there left for him to do? To go on writing at his book he had\nindeed attempted, and at first he used to go to the library and make\nextracts and look up references for his book. But, as he told her, the\nmore he did nothing, the less time he had to do anything. And besides,\nhe complained that he had talked too much about his book here, and that\nconsequently all his ideas about it were muddled and had lost their\ninterest for him.\n\nOne advantage in this town life was that quarrels hardly ever happened\nbetween them here in town. Whether it was that their conditions were\ndifferent, or that they had both become more careful and sensible in\nthat respect, they had no quarrels in Moscow from jealousy, which they\nhad so dreaded when they moved from the country.\n\nOne event, an event of great importance to both from that point of\nview, did indeed happen that was Kitty s meeting with Vronsky.\n\nThe old Princess Marya Borissovna, Kitty s godmother, who had always\nbeen very fond of her, had insisted on seeing her. Kitty, though she\ndid not go into society at all on account of her condition, went with\nher father to see the venerable old lady, and there met Vronsky.\n\nThe only thing Kitty could reproach herself for at this meeting was\nthat at the instant when she recognized in his civilian dress the\nfeatures once so familiar to her, her breath failed her, the blood\nrushed to her heart, and a vivid blush she felt it overspread her face.\nBut this lasted only a few seconds. Before her father, who purposely\nbegan talking in a loud voice to Vronsky, had finished, she was\nperfectly ready to look at Vronsky, to speak to him, if necessary,\nexactly as she spoke to Princess Marya Borissovna, and more than that,\nto do so in such a way that everything to the faintest intonation and\nsmile would have been approved by her husband, whose unseen presence\nshe seemed to feel about her at that instant.\n\nShe said a few words to him, even smiled serenely at his joke about the\nelections, which he called  our parliament.  (She had to smile to show\nshe saw the joke.) But she turned away immediately to Princess Marya\nBorissovna, and did not once glance at him till he got up to go; then\nshe looked at him, but evidently only because it would be uncivil not\nto look at a man when he is saying good-bye.\n\nShe was grateful to her father for saying nothing to her about their\nmeeting Vronsky, but she saw by his special warmth to her after the\nvisit during their usual walk that he was pleased with her. She was\npleased with herself. She had not expected she would have had the\npower, while keeping somewhere in the bottom of her heart all the\nmemories of her old feeling for Vronsky, not only to seem but to be\nperfectly indifferent and composed with him.\n\nLevin flushed a great deal more than she when she told him she had met\nVronsky at Princess Marya Borissovna s. It was very hard for her to\ntell him this, but still harder to go on speaking of the details of the\nmeeting, as he did not question her, but simply gazed at her with a\nfrown.\n\n I am very sorry you weren t there,  she said.  Not that you weren t in\nthe room ... I couldn t have been so natural in your presence ... I am\nblushing now much more, much, much more,  she said, blushing till the\ntears came into her eyes.  But that you couldn t see through a crack. \n\nThe truthful eyes told Levin that she was satisfied with herself, and\nin spite of her blushing he was quickly reassured and began questioning\nher, which was all she wanted. When he had heard everything, even to\nthe detail that for the first second she could not help flushing, but\nthat afterwards she was just as direct and as much at her ease as with\nany chance acquaintance, Levin was quite happy again and said he was\nglad of it, and would not now behave as stupidly as he had done at the\nelection, but would try the first time he met Vronsky to be as friendly\nas possible.\n\n It s so wretched to feel that there s a man almost an enemy whom it s\npainful to meet,  said Levin.  I m very, very glad. \n\n\nChapter 2\n\n Go, please, go then and call on the Bols,  Kitty said to her husband,\nwhen he came in to see her at eleven o clock before going out.  I know\nyou are dining at the club; papa put down your name. But what are you\ngoing to do in the morning? \n\n I am only going to Katavasov,  answered Levin.\n\n Why so early? \n\n He promised to introduce me to Metrov. I wanted to talk to him about\nmy work. He s a distinguished scientific man from Petersburg,  said\nLevin.\n\n Yes; wasn t it his article you were praising so? Well, and after\nthat?  said Kitty.\n\n I shall go to the court, perhaps, about my sister s business. \n\n And the concert?  she queried.\n\n I shan t go there all alone. \n\n No? do go; there are going to be some new things.... That interested\nyou so. I should certainly go. \n\n Well, anyway, I shall come home before dinner,  he said, looking at\nhis watch.\n\n Put on your frock coat, so that you can go straight to call on\nCountess Bola. \n\n But is it absolutely necessary? \n\n Oh, absolutely! He has been to see us. Come, what is it? You go in,\nsit down, talk for five minutes of the weather, get up and go away. \n\n Oh, you wouldn t believe it! I ve got so out of the way of all this\nthat it makes me feel positively ashamed. It s such a horrible thing to\ndo! A complete outsider walks in, sits down, stays on with nothing to\ndo, wastes their time and worries himself, and walks away! \n\nKitty laughed.\n\n Why, I suppose you used to pay calls before you were married, didn t\nyou? \n\n Yes, I did, but I always felt ashamed, and now I m so out of the way\nof it that, by Jove! I d sooner go two days running without my dinner\nthan pay this call! One s so ashamed! I feel all the while that they re\nannoyed, that they re saying,  What has he come for? \n\n No, they won t. I ll answer for that,  said Kitty, looking into his\nface with a laugh. She took his hand.  Well, good-bye.... Do go,\nplease. \n\nHe was just going out after kissing his wife s hand, when she stopped\nhim.\n\n Kostya, do you know I ve only fifty roubles left? \n\n Oh, all right, I ll go to the bank and get some. How much?  he said,\nwith the expression of dissatisfaction she knew so well.\n\n No, wait a minute.  She held his hand.  Let s talk about it, it\nworries me. I seem to spend nothing unnecessary, but money seems to fly\naway simply. We don t manage well, somehow. \n\n Oh, it s all right,  he said with a little cough, looking at her from\nunder his brows.\n\nThat cough she knew well. It was a sign of intense dissatisfaction, not\nwith her, but with himself. He certainly was displeased not at so much\nmoney being spent, but at being reminded of what he, knowing something\nwas unsatisfactory, wanted to forget.\n\n I have told Sokolov to sell the wheat, and to borrow an advance on the\nmill. We shall have money enough in any case. \n\n Yes, but I m afraid that altogether.... \n\n Oh, it s all right, all right,  he repeated.  Well, good-bye,\ndarling. \n\n No, I m really sorry sometimes that I listened to mamma. How nice it\nwould have been in the country! As it is, I m worrying you all, and\nwe re wasting our money. \n\n Not at all, not at all. Not once since I ve been married have I said\nthat things could have been better than they are.... \n\n Truly?  she said, looking into his eyes.\n\nHe had said it without thinking, simply to console her. But when he\nglanced at her and saw those sweet truthful eyes fastened questioningly\non him, he repeated it with his whole heart.  I was positively\nforgetting her,  he thought. And he remembered what was before them, so\nsoon to come.\n\n Will it be soon? How do you feel?  he whispered, taking her two hands.\n\n I have so often thought so, that now I don t think about it or know\nanything about it. \n\n And you re not frightened? \n\nShe smiled contemptuously.\n\n Not the least little bit,  she said.\n\n Well, if anything happens, I shall be at Katavasov s. \n\n No, nothing will happen, and don t think about it. I m going for a\nwalk on the boulevard with papa. We re going to see Dolly. I shall\nexpect you before dinner. Oh, yes! Do you know that Dolly s position is\nbecoming utterly impossible? She s in debt all round; she hasn t a\npenny. We were talking yesterday with mamma and Arseny  (this was her\nsister s husband Lvov),  and we determined to send you with him to talk\nto Stiva. It s really unbearable. One can t speak to papa about it....\nBut if you and he.... \n\n Why, what can we do?  said Levin.\n\n You ll be at Arseny s, anyway; talk to him, he will tell what we\ndecided. \n\n Oh, I agree to everything Arseny thinks beforehand. I ll go and see\nhim. By the way, if I do go to the concert, I ll go with Natalia. Well,\ngood-bye. \n\nOn the steps Levin was stopped by his old servant Kouzma, who had been\nwith him before his marriage, and now looked after their household in\ntown.\n\n Beauty  (that was the left shaft-horse brought up from the country)\n has been badly shod and is quite lame,  he said.  What does your honor\nwish to be done? \n\nDuring the first part of their stay in Moscow, Levin had used his own\nhorses brought up from the country. He had tried to arrange this part\nof their expenses in the best and cheapest way possible; but it\nappeared that their own horses came dearer than hired horses, and they\nstill hired too.\n\n Send for the veterinary, there may be a bruise. \n\n And for Katerina Alexandrovna?  asked Kouzma.\n\nLevin was not by now struck as he had been at first by the fact that to\nget from one end of Moscow to the other he had to have two powerful\nhorses put into a heavy carriage, to take the carriage three miles\nthrough the snowy slush and to keep it standing there four hours,\npaying five roubles every time.\n\nNow it seemed quite natural.\n\n Hire a pair for our carriage from the jobmaster,  said he.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\nAnd so, simply and easily, thanks to the facilities of town life, Levin\nsettled a question which, in the country, would have called for so much\npersonal trouble and exertion, and going out onto the steps, he called\na sledge, sat down, and drove to Nikitsky. On the way he thought no\nmore of money, but mused on the introduction that awaited him to the\nPetersburg savant, a writer on sociology, and what he would say to him\nabout his book.\n\nOnly during the first days of his stay in Moscow Levin had been struck\nby the expenditure, strange to one living in the country, unproductive\nbut inevitable, that was expected of him on every side. But by now he\nhad grown used to it. That had happened to him in this matter which is\nsaid to happen to drunkards the first glass sticks in the throat, the\nsecond flies down like a hawk, but after the third they re like tiny\nlittle birds. When Levin had changed his first hundred-rouble note to\npay for liveries for his footmen and hall-porter he could not help\nreflecting that these liveries were of no use to anyone but they were\nindubitably necessary, to judge by the amazement of the princess and\nKitty when he suggested that they might do without liveries, that these\nliveries would cost the wages of two laborers for the summer, that is,\nwould pay for about three hundred working days from Easter to Ash\nWednesday, and each a day of hard work from early morning to late\nevening and that hundred-rouble note did stick in his throat. But the\nnext note, changed to pay for providing a dinner for their relations,\nthat cost twenty-eight roubles, though it did excite in Levin the\nreflection that twenty-eight roubles meant nine measures of oats, which\nmen would with groans and sweat have reaped and bound and thrashed and\nwinnowed and sifted and sown, this next one he parted with more easily.\nAnd now the notes he changed no longer aroused such reflections, and\nthey flew off like little birds. Whether the labor devoted to obtaining\nthe money corresponded to the pleasure given by what was bought with\nit, was a consideration he had long ago dismissed. His business\ncalculation that there was a certain price below which he could not\nsell certain grain was forgotten too. The rye, for the price of which\nhe had so long held out, had been sold for fifty kopecks a measure\ncheaper than it had been fetching a month ago. Even the consideration\nthat with such an expenditure he could not go on living for a year\nwithout debt, that even had no force. Only one thing was essential: to\nhave money in the bank, without inquiring where it came from, so as to\nknow that one had the wherewithal to buy meat for tomorrow. And this\ncondition had hitherto been fulfilled; he had always had the money in\nthe bank. But now the money in the bank had gone, and he could not\nquite tell where to get the next installment. And this it was which, at\nthe moment when Kitty had mentioned money, had disturbed him; but he\nhad no time to think about it. He drove off, thinking of Katavasov and\nthe meeting with Metrov that was before him.\n\n\nChapter 3\n\nLevin had on this visit to town seen a great deal of his old friend at\nthe university, Professor Katavasov, whom he had not seen since his\nmarriage. He liked in Katavasov the clearness and simplicity of his\nconception of life. Levin thought that the clearness of Katavasov s\nconception of life was due to the poverty of his nature; Katavasov\nthought that the disconnectedness of Levin s ideas was due to his lack\nof intellectual discipline; but Levin enjoyed Katavasov s clearness,\nand Katavasov enjoyed the abundance of Levin s untrained ideas, and\nthey liked to meet and to discuss.\n\nLevin had read Katavasov some parts of his book, and he had liked them.\nOn the previous day Katavasov had met Levin at a public lecture and\ntold him that the celebrated Metrov, whose article Levin had so much\nliked, was in Moscow, that he had been much interested by what\nKatavasov had told him about Levin s work, and that he was coming to\nsee him tomorrow at eleven, and would be very glad to make Levin s\nacquaintance.\n\n You re positively a reformed character, I m glad to see,  said\nKatavasov, meeting Levin in the little drawing-room.  I heard the bell\nand thought: Impossible that it can be he at the exact time!... Well,\nwhat do you say to the Montenegrins now? They re a race of warriors. \n\n Why, what s happened?  asked Levin.\n\nKatavasov in a few words told him the last piece of news from the war,\nand going into his study, introduced Levin to a short, thick-set man of\npleasant appearance. This was Metrov. The conversation touched for a\nbrief space on politics and on how recent events were looked at in the\nhigher spheres in Petersburg. Metrov repeated a saying that had reached\nhim through a most trustworthy source, reported as having been uttered\non this subject by the Tsar and one of the ministers. Katavasov had\nheard also on excellent authority that the Tsar had said something\nquite different. Levin tried to imagine circumstances in which both\nsayings might have been uttered, and the conversation on that topic\ndropped.\n\n Yes, here he s written almost a book on the natural conditions of the\nlaborer in relation to the land,  said Katavasov;  I m not a\nspecialist, but I, as a natural science man, was pleased at his not\ntaking mankind as something outside biological laws; but, on the\ncontrary, seeing his dependence on his surroundings, and in that\ndependence seeking the laws of his development. \n\n That s very interesting,  said Metrov.\n\n What I began precisely was to write a book on agriculture; but\nstudying the chief instrument of agriculture, the laborer,  said Levin,\nreddening,  I could not help coming to quite unexpected results. \n\nAnd Levin began carefully, as it were, feeling his ground, to expound\nhis views. He knew Metrov had written an article against the generally\naccepted theory of political economy, but to what extent he could\nreckon on his sympathy with his own new views he did not know and could\nnot guess from the clever and serene face of the learned man.\n\n But in what do you see the special characteristics of the Russian\nlaborer?  said Metrov;  in his biological characteristics, so to speak,\nor in the condition in which he is placed? \n\nLevin saw that there was an idea underlying this question with which he\ndid not agree. But he went on explaining his own idea that the Russian\nlaborer has a quite special view of the land, different from that of\nother people; and to support this proposition he made haste to add that\nin his opinion this attitude of the Russian peasant was due to the\nconsciousness of his vocation to people vast unoccupied expanses in the\nEast.\n\n One may easily be led into error in basing any conclusion on the\ngeneral vocation of a people,  said Metrov, interrupting Levin.  The\ncondition of the laborer will always depend on his relation to the land\nand to capital. \n\nAnd without letting Levin finish explaining his idea, Metrov began\nexpounding to him the special point of his own theory.\n\nIn what the point of his theory lay, Levin did not understand, because\nhe did not take the trouble to understand. He saw that Metrov, like\nother people, in spite of his own article, in which he had attacked the\ncurrent theory of political economy, looked at the position of the\nRussian peasant simply from the point of view of capital, wages, and\nrent. He would indeed have been obliged to admit that in the\neastern much the larger part of Russia rent was as yet nil, that for\nnine-tenths of the eighty millions of the Russian peasants wages took\nthe form simply of food provided for themselves, and that capital does\nnot so far exist except in the form of the most primitive tools. Yet it\nwas only from that point of view that he considered every laborer,\nthough in many points he differed from the economists and had his own\ntheory of the wage-fund, which he expounded to Levin.\n\nLevin listened reluctantly, and at first made objections. He would have\nliked to interrupt Metrov, to explain his own thought, which in his\nopinion would have rendered further exposition of Metrov s theories\nsuperfluous. But later on, feeling convinced that they looked at the\nmatter so differently, that they could never understand one another, he\ndid not even oppose his statements, but simply listened. Although what\nMetrov was saying was by now utterly devoid of interest for him, he yet\nexperienced a certain satisfaction in listening to him. It flattered\nhis vanity that such a learned man should explain his ideas to him so\neagerly, with such intensity and confidence in Levin s understanding of\nthe subject, sometimes with a mere hint referring him to a whole aspect\nof the subject. He put this down to his own credit, unaware that\nMetrov, who had already discussed his theory over and over again with\nall his intimate friends, talked of it with special eagerness to every\nnew person, and in general was eager to talk to anyone of any subject\nthat interested him, even if still obscure to himself.\n\n We are late though,  said Katavasov, looking at his watch directly\nMetrov had finished his discourse.\n\n Yes, there s a meeting of the Society of Amateurs today in\ncommemoration of the jubilee of Svintitch,  said Katavasov in answer to\nLevin s inquiry.  Pyotr Ivanovitch and I were going. I ve promised to\ndeliver an address on his labors in zoology. Come along with us, it s\nvery interesting. \n\n Yes, and indeed it s time to start,  said Metrov.  Come with us, and\nfrom there, if you care to, come to my place. I should very much like\nto hear your work. \n\n Oh, no! It s no good yet, it s unfinished. But I shall be very glad to\ngo to the meeting. \n\n I say, friends, have you heard? He has handed in the separate report, \nKatavasov called from the other room, where he was putting on his frock\ncoat.\n\nAnd a conversation sprang up upon the university question, which was a\nvery important event that winter in Moscow. Three old professors in the\ncouncil had not accepted the opinion of the younger professors. The\nyoung ones had registered a separate resolution. This, in the judgment\nof some people, was monstrous, in the judgment of others it was the\nsimplest and most just thing to do, and the professors were split up\ninto two parties.\n\nOne party, to which Katavasov belonged, saw in the opposite party a\nscoundrelly betrayal and treachery, while the opposite party saw in\nthem childishness and lack of respect for the authorities. Levin,\nthough he did not belong to the university, had several times already\nduring his stay in Moscow heard and talked about this matter, and had\nhis own opinion on the subject. He took part in the conversation that\nwas continued in the street, as they all three walked to the buildings\nof the old university.\n\nThe meeting had already begun. Round the cloth-covered table, at which\nKatavasov and Metrov seated themselves, there were some half-dozen\npersons, and one of these was bending close over a manuscript, reading\nsomething aloud. Levin sat down in one of the empty chairs that were\nstanding round the table, and in a whisper asked a student sitting near\nwhat was being read. The student, eyeing Levin with displeasure, said:\n\n Biography. \n\nThough Levin was not interested in the biography, he could not help\nlistening, and learned some new and interesting facts about the life of\nthe distinguished man of science.\n\nWhen the reader had finished, the chairman thanked him and read some\nverses of the poet Ment sent him on the jubilee, and said a few words\nby way of thanks to the poet. Then Katavasov in his loud, ringing voice\nread his address on the scientific labors of the man whose jubilee was\nbeing kept.\n\nWhen Katavasov had finished, Levin looked at his watch, saw it was past\none, and thought that there would not be time before the concert to\nread Metrov his book, and indeed, he did not now care to do so. During\nthe reading he had thought over their conversation. He saw distinctly\nnow that though Metrov s ideas might perhaps have value, his own ideas\nhad a value too, and their ideas could only be made clear and lead to\nsomething if each worked separately in his chosen path, and that\nnothing would be gained by putting their ideas together. And having\nmade up his mind to refuse Metrov s invitation, Levin went up to him at\nthe end of the meeting. Metrov introduced Levin to the chairman, with\nwhom he was talking of the political news. Metrov told the chairman\nwhat he had already told Levin, and Levin made the same remarks on his\nnews that he had already made that morning, but for the sake of variety\nhe expressed also a new opinion which had only just struck him. After\nthat the conversation turned again on the university question. As Levin\nhad already heard it all, he made haste to tell Metrov that he was\nsorry he could not take advantage of his invitation, took leave, and\ndrove to Lvov s.\n\n\nChapter 4\n\nLvov, the husband of Natalia, Kitty s sister, had spent all his life in\nforeign capitals, where he had been educated, and had been in the\ndiplomatic service.\n\nDuring the previous year he had left the diplomatic service, not owing\nto any  unpleasantness  (he never had any  unpleasantness  with\nanyone), and was transferred to the department of the court of the\npalace in Moscow, in order to give his two boys the best education\npossible.\n\nIn spite of the striking contrast in their habits and views and the\nfact that Lvov was older than Levin, they had seen a great deal of one\nanother that winter, and had taken a great liking to each other.\n\nLvov was at home, and Levin went in to him unannounced.\n\nLvov, in a house coat with a belt and in chamois leather shoes, was\nsitting in an armchair, and with a pince-nez with blue glasses he was\nreading a book that stood on a reading desk, while in his beautiful\nhand he held a half-burned cigarette daintily away from him.\n\nHis handsome, delicate, and still youthful-looking face, to which his\ncurly, glistening silvery hair gave a still more aristocratic air,\nlighted up with a smile when he saw Levin.\n\n Capital! I was meaning to send to you. How s Kitty? Sit here, it s\nmore comfortable.  He got up and pushed up a rocking chair.  Have you\nread the last circular in the _Journal de St. P tersbourg?_ I think\nit s excellent,  he said, with a slight French accent.\n\nLevin told him what he had heard from Katavasov was being said in\nPetersburg, and after talking a little about politics, he told him of\nhis interview with Metrov, and the learned society s meeting. To Lvov\nit was very interesting.\n\n That s what I envy you, that you are able to mix in these interesting\nscientific circles,  he said. And as he talked, he passed as usual into\nFrench, which was easier to him.  It s true I haven t the time for it.\nMy official work and the children leave me no time; and then I m not\nashamed to own that my education has been too defective. \n\n That I don t believe,  said Levin with a smile, feeling, as he always\ndid, touched at Lvov s low opinion of himself, which was not in the\nleast put on from a desire to seem or to be modest, but was absolutely\nsincere.\n\n Oh, yes, indeed! I feel now how badly educated I am. To educate my\nchildren I positively have to look up a great deal, and in fact simply\nto study myself. For it s not enough to have teachers, there must be\nsomeone to look after them, just as on your land you want laborers and\nan overseer. See what I m reading he pointed to Buslaev s _Grammar_ on\nthe desk it s expected of Misha, and it s so difficult.... Come,\nexplain to me.... Here he says.... \n\nLevin tried to explain to him that it couldn t be understood, but that\nit had to be taught; but Lvov would not agree with him.\n\n Oh, you re laughing at it! \n\n On the contrary, you can t imagine how, when I look at you, I m always\nlearning the task that lies before me, that is the education of one s\nchildren. \n\n Well, there s nothing for you to learn,  said Lvov.\n\n All I know,  said Levin,  is that I have never seen better brought-up\nchildren than yours, and I wouldn t wish for children better than\nyours. \n\nLvov visibly tried to restrain the expression of his delight, but he\nwas positively radiant with smiles.\n\n If only they re better than I! That s all I desire. You don t know yet\nall the work,  he said,  with boys who ve been left like mine to run\nwild abroad. \n\n You ll catch all that up. They re such clever children. The great\nthing is the education of character. That s what I learn when I look at\nyour children. \n\n You talk of the education of character. You can t imagine how\ndifficult that is! You have hardly succeeded in combating one tendency\nwhen others crop up, and the struggle begins again. If one had not a\nsupport in religion you remember we talked about that no father could\nbring children up relying on his own strength alone without that help. \n\nThis subject, which always interested Levin, was cut short by the\nentrance of the beauty Natalia Alexandrovna, dressed to go out.\n\n I didn t know you were here,  she said, unmistakably feeling no\nregret, but a positive pleasure, in interrupting this conversation on a\ntopic she had heard so much of that she was by now weary of it.  Well,\nhow is Kitty? I am dining with you today. I tell you what, Arseny,  she\nturned to her husband,  you take the carriage. \n\nAnd the husband and wife began to discuss their arrangements for the\nday. As the husband had to drive to meet someone on official business,\nwhile the wife had to go to the concert and some public meeting of a\ncommittee on the Eastern Question, there was a great deal to consider\nand settle. Levin had to take part in their plans as one of themselves.\nIt was settled that Levin should go with Natalia to the concert and the\nmeeting, and that from there they should send the carriage to the\noffice for Arseny, and he should call for her and take her to Kitty s;\nor that, if he had not finished his work, he should send the carriage\nback and Levin would go with her.\n\n He s spoiling me,  Lvov said to his wife;  he assures me that our\nchildren are splendid, when I know how much that s bad there is in\nthem. \n\n Arseny goes to extremes, I always say,  said his wife.  If you look\nfor perfection, you will never be satisfied. And it s true, as papa\nsays, that when we were brought up there was one extreme we were kept\nin the basement, while our parents lived in the best rooms; now it s\njust the other way the parents are in the wash house, while the\nchildren are in the best rooms. Parents now are not expected to live at\nall, but to exist altogether for their children. \n\n Well, what if they like it better?  Lvov said, with his beautiful\nsmile, touching her hand.  Anyone who didn t know you would think you\nwere a stepmother, not a true mother. \n\n No, extremes are not good in anything,  Natalia said serenely, putting\nhis paper-knife straight in its proper place on the table.\n\n Well, come here, you perfect children,  Lvov said to the two handsome\nboys who came in, and after bowing to Levin, went up to their father,\nobviously wishing to ask him about something.\n\nLevin would have liked to talk to them, to hear what they would say to\ntheir father, but Natalia began talking to him, and then Lvov s\ncolleague in the service, Mahotin, walked in, wearing his court\nuniform, to go with him to meet someone, and a conversation was kept up\nwithout a break upon Herzegovina, Princess Korzinskaya, the town\ncouncil, and the sudden death of Madame Apraksina.\n\nLevin even forgot the commission intrusted to him. He recollected it as\nhe was going into the hall.\n\n Oh, Kitty told me to talk to you about Oblonsky,  he said, as Lvov was\nstanding on the stairs, seeing his wife and Levin off.\n\n Yes, yes, maman wants us, _les beaux-fr res,_ to attack him,  he said,\nblushing.  But why should I? \n\n Well, then, I will attack him,  said Madame Lvova, with a smile,\nstanding in her white sheepskin cape, waiting till they had finished\nspeaking.  Come, let us go. \n\n\nChapter 5\n\nAt the concert in the afternoon two very interesting things were\nperformed. One was a fantasia, _King Lear;_ the other was a quartette\ndedicated to the memory of Bach. Both were new and in the new style,\nand Levin was eager to form an opinion of them. After escorting his\nsister-in-law to her stall, he stood against a column and tried to\nlisten as attentively and conscientiously as possible. He tried not to\nlet his attention be distracted, and not to spoil his impression by\nlooking at the conductor in a white tie, waving his arms, which always\ndisturbed his enjoyment of music so much, or the ladies in bonnets,\nwith strings carefully tied over their ears, and all these people\neither thinking of nothing at all or thinking of all sorts of things\nexcept the music. He tried to avoid meeting musical connoisseurs or\ntalkative acquaintances, and stood looking at the floor straight before\nhim, listening.\n\nBut the more he listened to the fantasia of _King Lear_ the further he\nfelt from forming any definite opinion of it. There was, as it were, a\ncontinual beginning, a preparation of the musical expression of some\nfeeling, but it fell to pieces again directly, breaking into new\nmusical motives, or simply nothing but the whims of the composer,\nexceedingly complex but disconnected sounds. And these fragmentary\nmusical expressions, though sometimes beautiful, were disagreeable,\nbecause they were utterly unexpected and not led up to by anything.\nGaiety and grief and despair and tenderness and triumph followed one\nanother without any connection, like the emotions of a madman. And\nthose emotions, like a madman s, sprang up quite unexpectedly.\n\nDuring the whole of the performance Levin felt like a deaf man watching\npeople dancing, and was in a state of complete bewilderment when the\nfantasia was over, and felt a great weariness from the fruitless strain\non his attention. Loud applause resounded on all sides. Everyone got\nup, moved about, and began talking. Anxious to throw some light on his\nown perplexity from the impressions of others, Levin began to walk\nabout, looking for connoisseurs, and was glad to see a well-known\nmusical amateur in conversation with Pestsov, whom he knew.\n\n Marvelous!  Pestsov was saying in his mellow bass.  How are you,\nKonstantin Dmitrievitch? Particularly sculpturesque and plastic, so to\nsay, and richly colored is that passage where you feel Cordelia s\napproach, where woman, _das ewig Weibliche,_ enters into conflict with\nfate. Isn t it? \n\n You mean ... what has Cordelia to do with it?  Levin asked timidly,\nforgetting that the fantasia was supposed to represent King Lear.\n\n Cordelia comes in ... see here!  said Pestsov, tapping his finger on\nthe satiny surface of the program he held in his hand and passing it to\nLevin.\n\nOnly then Levin recollected the title of the fantasia, and made haste\nto read in the Russian translation the lines from Shakespeare that were\nprinted on the back of the program.\n\n You can t follow it without that,  said Pestsov, addressing Levin, as\nthe person he had been speaking to had gone away, and he had no one to\ntalk to.\n\nIn the _entr acte_ Levin and Pestsov fell into an argument upon the\nmerits and defects of music of the Wagner school. Levin maintained that\nthe mistake of Wagner and all his followers lay in their trying to take\nmusic into the sphere of another art, just as poetry goes wrong when it\ntries to paint a face as the art of painting ought to do, and as an\ninstance of this mistake he cited the sculptor who carved in marble\ncertain poetic phantasms flitting round the figure of the poet on the\npedestal.  These phantoms were so far from being phantoms that they\nwere positively clinging on the ladder,  said Levin. The comparison\npleased him, but he could not remember whether he had not used the same\nphrase before, and to Pestsov, too, and as he said it he felt confused.\n\nPestsov maintained that art is one, and that it can attain its highest\nmanifestations only by conjunction with all kinds of art.\n\nThe second piece that was performed Levin could not hear. Pestsov, who\nwas standing beside him, was talking to him almost all the time,\ncondemning the music for its excessive affected assumption of\nsimplicity, and comparing it with the simplicity of the Pre-Raphaelites\nin painting. As he went out Levin met many more acquaintances, with\nwhom he talked of politics, of music, and of common acquaintances.\nAmong others he met Count Bol, whom he had utterly forgotten to call\nupon.\n\n Well, go at once then,  Madame Lvova said, when he told her;  perhaps\nthey ll not be at home, and then you can come to the meeting to fetch\nme. You ll find me still there. \n\n\nChapter 6\n\n Perhaps they re not at home?  said Levin, as he went into the hall of\nCountess Bola s house.\n\n At home; please walk in,  said the porter, resolutely removing his\novercoat.\n\n How annoying!  thought Levin with a sigh, taking off one glove and\nstroking his hat.  What did I come for? What have I to say to them? \n\nAs he passed through the first drawing-room Levin met in the doorway\nCountess Bola, giving some order to a servant with a care-worn and\nsevere face. On seeing Levin she smiled, and asked him to come into the\nlittle drawing-room, where he heard voices. In this room there were\nsitting in armchairs the two daughters of the countess, and a Moscow\ncolonel, whom Levin knew. Levin went up, greeted them, and sat down\nbeside the sofa with his hat on his knees.\n\n How is your wife? Have you been at the concert? We couldn t go. Mamma\nhad to be at the funeral service. \n\n Yes, I heard.... What a sudden death!  said Levin.\n\nThe countess came in, sat down on the sofa, and she too asked after his\nwife and inquired about the concert.\n\nLevin answered, and repeated an inquiry about Madame Apraksina s sudden\ndeath.\n\n But she was always in weak health. \n\n Were you at the opera yesterday? \n\n Yes, I was. \n\n Lucca was very good. \n\n Yes, very good,  he said, and as it was utterly of no consequence to\nhim what they thought of him, he began repeating what they had heard a\nhundred times about the characteristics of the singer s talent.\nCountess Bola pretended to be listening. Then, when he had said enough\nand paused, the colonel, who had been silent till then, began to talk.\nThe colonel too talked of the opera, and about culture. At last, after\nspeaking of the proposed _folle journ e_ at Turin s, the colonel\nlaughed, got up noisily, and went away. Levin too rose, but he saw by\nthe face of the countess that it was not yet time for him to go. He\nmust stay two minutes longer. He sat down.\n\nBut as he was thinking all the while how stupid it was, he could not\nfind a subject for conversation, and sat silent.\n\n You are not going to the public meeting? They say it will be very\ninteresting,  began the countess.\n\n No, I promised my _belle-s ur_ to fetch her from it,  said Levin.\n\nA silence followed. The mother once more exchanged glances with a\ndaughter.\n\n Well, now I think the time has come,  thought Levin, and he got up.\nThe ladies shook hands with him, and begged him to say _mille choses_\nto his wife for them.\n\nThe porter asked him, as he gave him his coat,  Where is your honor\nstaying?  and immediately wrote down his address in a big handsomely\nbound book.\n\n Of course I don t care, but still I feel ashamed and awfully stupid, \nthought Levin, consoling himself with the reflection that everyone does\nit. He drove to the public meeting, where he was to find his\nsister-in-law, so as to drive home with her.\n\nAt the public meeting of the committee there were a great many people,\nand almost all the highest society. Levin was in time for the report\nwhich, as everyone said, was very interesting. When the reading of the\nreport was over, people moved about, and Levin met Sviazhsky, who\ninvited him very pressingly to come that evening to a meeting of the\nSociety of Agriculture, where a celebrated lecture was to be delivered,\nand Stepan Arkadyevitch, who had only just come from the races, and\nmany other acquaintances; and Levin heard and uttered various\ncriticisms on the meeting, on the new fantasia, and on a public trial.\nBut, probably from the mental fatigue he was beginning to feel, he made\na blunder in speaking of the trial, and this blunder he recalled\nseveral times with vexation. Speaking of the sentence upon a foreigner\nwho had been condemned in Russia, and of how unfair it would be to\npunish him by exile abroad, Levin repeated what he had heard the day\nbefore in conversation from an acquaintance.\n\n I think sending him abroad is much the same as punishing a carp by\nputting it into the water,  said Levin. Then he recollected that this\nidea, which he had heard from an acquaintance and uttered as his own,\ncame from a fable of Krilov s, and that the acquaintance had picked it\nup from a newspaper article.\n\nAfter driving home with his sister-in-law, and finding Kitty in good\nspirits and quite well, Levin drove to the club.\n\n\nChapter 7\n\nLevin reached the club just at the right time. Members and visitors\nwere driving up as he arrived. Levin had not been at the club for a\nvery long while not since he lived in Moscow, when he was leaving the\nuniversity and going into society. He remembered the club, the external\ndetails of its arrangement, but he had completely forgotten the\nimpression it had made on him in old days. But as soon as, driving into\nthe wide semicircular court and getting out of the sledge, he mounted\nthe steps, and the hall-porter, adorned with a crossway scarf,\nnoiselessly opened the door to him with a bow; as soon as he saw in the\nporter s room the cloaks and galoshes of members who thought it less\ntrouble to take them off downstairs; as soon as he heard the mysterious\nringing bell that preceded him as he ascended the easy, carpeted\nstaircase, and saw the statue on the landing, and the third porter at\nthe top doors, a familiar figure grown older, in the club livery,\nopening the door without haste or delay, and scanning the visitors as\nthey passed in Levin felt the old impression of the club come back in a\nrush, an impression of repose, comfort, and propriety.\n\n Your hat, please,  the porter said to Levin, who forgot the club rule\nto leave his hat in the porter s room.  Long time since you ve been.\nThe prince put your name down yesterday. Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch is\nnot here yet. \n\nThe porter did not only know Levin, but also all his ties and\nrelationships, and so immediately mentioned his intimate friends.\n\nPassing through the outer hall, divided up by screens, and the room\npartitioned on the right, where a man sits at the fruit buffet, Levin\novertook an old man walking slowly in, and entered the dining-room full\nof noise and people.\n\nHe walked along the tables, almost all full, and looked at the\nvisitors. He saw people of all sorts, old and young; some he knew a\nlittle, some intimate friends. There was not a single cross or\nworried-looking face. All seemed to have left their cares and anxieties\nin the porter s room with their hats, and were all deliberately getting\nready to enjoy the material blessings of life. Sviazhsky was here and\nShtcherbatsky, Nevyedovsky and the old prince, and Vronsky and Sergey\nIvanovitch.\n\n Ah! why are you late?  the prince said smiling, and giving him his\nhand over his own shoulder.  How s Kitty?  he added, smoothing out the\nnapkin he had tucked in at his waistcoat buttons.\n\n All right; they are dining at home, all the three of them. \n\n Ah,  Aline-Nadine,  to be sure! There s no room with us. Go to that\ntable, and make haste and take a seat,  said the prince, and turning\naway he carefully took a plate of eel soup.\n\n Levin, this way!  a good-natured voice shouted a little farther on. It\nwas Turovtsin. He was sitting with a young officer, and beside them\nwere two chairs turned upside down. Levin gladly went up to them. He\nhad always liked the good-hearted rake, Turovtsin he was associated in\nhis mind with memories of his courtship and at that moment, after the\nstrain of intellectual conversation, the sight of Turovtsin s\ngood-natured face was particularly welcome.\n\n For you and Oblonsky. He ll be here directly. \n\nThe young man, holding himself very erect, with eyes forever twinkling\nwith enjoyment, was an officer from Petersburg, Gagin. Turovtsin\nintroduced them.\n\n Oblonsky s always late. \n\n Ah, here he is! \n\n Have you only just come?  said Oblonsky, coming quickly towards them.\n Good day. Had some vodka? Well, come along then. \n\nLevin got up and went with him to the big table spread with spirits and\nappetizers of the most various kinds. One would have thought that out\nof two dozen delicacies one might find something to one s taste, but\nStepan Arkadyevitch asked for something special, and one of the\nliveried waiters standing by immediately brought what was required.\nThey drank a wine-glassful and returned to their table.\n\nAt once, while they were still at the soup, Gagin was served with\nchampagne, and told the waiter to fill four glasses. Levin did not\nrefuse the wine, and asked for a second bottle. He was very hungry, and\nate and drank with great enjoyment, and with still greater enjoyment\ntook part in the lively and simple conversation of his companions.\nGagin, dropping his voice, told the last good story from Petersburg,\nand the story, though improper and stupid, was so ludicrous that Levin\nbroke into roars of laughter so loud that those near looked round.\n\n That s in the same style as,  that s a thing I can t endure!  You know\nthe story?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Ah, that s exquisite! Another\nbottle,  he said to the waiter, and he began to relate his good story.\n\n Pyotr Illyitch Vinovsky invites you to drink with him,  a little old\nwaiter interrupted Stepan Arkadyevitch, bringing two delicate glasses\nof sparkling champagne, and addressing Stepan Arkadyevitch and Levin.\nStepan Arkadyevitch took the glass, and looking towards a bald man with\nred mustaches at the other end of the table, he nodded to him, smiling.\n\n Who s that?  asked Levin.\n\n You met him once at my place, don t you remember? A good-natured\nfellow. \n\nLevin did the same as Stepan Arkadyevitch and took the glass.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch s anecdote too was very amusing. Levin told his\nstory, and that too was successful. Then they talked of horses, of the\nraces, of what they had been doing that day, and of how smartly\nVronsky s Atlas had won the first prize. Levin did not notice how the\ntime passed at dinner.\n\n Ah! and here they are!  Stepan Arkadyevitch said towards the end of\ndinner, leaning over the back of his chair and holding out his hand to\nVronsky, who came up with a tall officer of the Guards. Vronsky s face\ntoo beamed with the look of good-humored enjoyment that was general in\nthe club. He propped his elbow playfully on Stepan Arkadyevitch s\nshoulder, whispering something to him, and he held out his hand to\nLevin with the same good-humored smile.\n\n Very glad to meet you,  he said.  I looked out for you at the\nelection, but I was told you had gone away. \n\n Yes, I left the same day. We ve just been talking of your horse. I\ncongratulate you,  said Levin.  It was very rapidly run. \n\n Yes; you ve race horses too, haven t you? \n\n No, my father had; but I remember and know something about it. \n\n Where have you dined?  asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n We were at the second table, behind the columns. \n\n We ve been celebrating his success,  said the tall colonel.  It s his\nsecond Imperial prize. I wish I might have the luck at cards he has\nwith horses. Well, why waste the precious time? I m going to the\n infernal regions,  added the colonel, and he walked away.\n\n That s Yashvin,  Vronsky said in answer to Turovtsin, and he sat down\nin the vacated seat beside them. He drank the glass offered him, and\nordered a bottle of wine. Under the influence of the club atmosphere or\nthe wine he had drunk, Levin chatted away to Vronsky of the best breeds\nof cattle, and was very glad not to feel the slightest hostility to\nthis man. He even told him, among other things, that he had heard from\nhis wife that she had met him at Princess Marya Borissovna s.\n\n Ah, Princess Marya Borissovna, she s exquisite!  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, and he told an anecdote about her which set them all\nlaughing. Vronsky particularly laughed with such simplehearted\namusement that Levin felt quite reconciled to him.\n\n Well, have we finished?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, getting up with a\nsmile.  Let us go. \n\n\nChapter 8\n\nGetting up from the table, Levin walked with Gagin through the lofty\nroom to the billiard room, feeling his arms swing as he walked with a\npeculiar lightness and ease. As he crossed the big room, he came upon\nhis father-in-law.\n\n Well, how do you like our Temple of Indolence?  said the prince,\ntaking his arm.  Come along, come along! \n\n Yes, I wanted to walk about and look at everything. It s interesting. \n\n Yes, it s interesting for you. But its interest for me is quite\ndifferent. You look at those little old men now,  he said, pointing to\na club member with bent back and projecting lip, shuffling towards them\nin his soft boots,  and imagine that they were _shlupiks_ like that\nfrom their birth up. \n\n How _shlupiks_? \n\n I see you don t know that name. That s our club designation. You know\nthe game of rolling eggs: when one s rolled a long while it becomes a\n_shlupik_. So it is with us; one goes on coming and coming to the club,\nand ends by becoming a _shlupik_. Ah, you laugh! but we look out, for\nfear of dropping into it ourselves. You know Prince Tchetchensky? \ninquired the prince; and Levin saw by his face that he was just going\nto relate something funny.\n\n No, I don t know him. \n\n You don t say so! Well, Prince Tchetchensky is a well-known figure. No\nmatter, though. He s always playing billiards here. Only three years\nago he was not a _shlupik_ and kept up his spirits and even used to\ncall other people _shlupiks_. But one day he turns up, and our porter\n... you know Vassily? Why, that fat one; he s famous for his _bon\nmots_. And so Prince Tchetchensky asks him,  Come, Vassily, who s here?\nAny _shlupiks_ here yet?  And he says,  You re the third.  Yes, my dear\nboy, that he did! \n\nTalking and greeting the friends they met, Levin and the prince walked\nthrough all the rooms: the great room where tables had already been\nset, and the usual partners were playing for small stakes; the divan\nroom, where they were playing chess, and Sergey Ivanovitch was sitting\ntalking to somebody; the billiard room, where, about a sofa in a\nrecess, there was a lively party drinking champagne Gagin was one of\nthem. They peeped into the  infernal regions,  where a good many men\nwere crowding round one table, at which Yashvin was sitting. Trying not\nto make a noise, they walked into the dark reading room, where under\nthe shaded lamps there sat a young man with a wrathful countenance,\nturning over one journal after another, and a bald general buried in a\nbook. They went, too, into what the prince called the intellectual\nroom, where three gentlemen were engaged in a heated discussion of the\nlatest political news.\n\n Prince, please come, we re ready,  said one of his card party, who had\ncome to look for him, and the prince went off. Levin sat down and\nlistened, but recalling all the conversation of the morning he felt all\nof a sudden fearfully bored. He got up hurriedly, and went to look for\nOblonsky and Turovtsin, with whom it had been so pleasant.\n\nTurovtsin was one of the circle drinking in the billiard room, and\nStepan Arkadyevitch was talking with Vronsky near the door at the\nfarther corner of the room.\n\n It s not that she s dull; but this undefined, this unsettled\nposition,  Levin caught, and he was hurrying away, but Stepan\nArkadyevitch called to him.\n\n Levin,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, and Levin noticed that his eyes were\nnot full of tears exactly, but moist, which always happened when he had\nbeen drinking, or when he was touched. Just now it was due to both\ncauses.  Levin, don t go,  he said, and he warmly squeezed his arm\nabove the elbow, obviously not at all wishing to let him go.\n\n This is a true friend of mine almost my greatest friend,  he said to\nVronsky.  You have become even closer and dearer to me. And I want you,\nand I know you ought, to be friends, and great friends, because you re\nboth splendid fellows. \n\n Well, there s nothing for us now but to kiss and be friends,  Vronsky\nsaid, with good-natured playfulness, holding out his hand.\n\nLevin quickly took the offered hand, and pressed it warmly.\n\n I m very, very glad,  said Levin.\n\n Waiter, a bottle of champagne,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n And I m very glad,  said Vronsky.\n\nBut in spite of Stepan Arkadyevitch s desire, and their own desire,\nthey had nothing to talk about, and both felt it.\n\n Do you know, he has never met Anna?  Stepan Arkadyevitch said to\nVronsky.  And I want above everything to take him to see her. Let us\ngo, Levin! \n\n Really?  said Vronsky.  She will be very glad to see you. I should be\ngoing home at once,  he added,  but I m worried about Yashvin, and I\nwant to stay on till he finishes. \n\n Why, is he losing? \n\n He keeps losing, and I m the only friend that can restrain him. \n\n Well, what do you say to pyramids? Levin, will you play? Capital! \nsaid Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Get the table ready,  he said to the marker.\n\n It has been ready a long while,  answered the marker, who had already\nset the balls in a triangle, and was knocking the red one about for his\nown diversion.\n\n Well, let us begin. \n\nAfter the game Vronsky and Levin sat down at Gagin s table, and at\nStepan Arkadyevitch s suggestion Levin took a hand in the game.\n\nVronsky sat down at the table, surrounded by friends, who were\nincessantly coming up to him. Every now and then he went to the\n infernal  to keep an eye on Yashvin. Levin was enjoying a delightful\nsense of repose after the mental fatigue of the morning. He was glad\nthat all hostility was at an end with Vronsky, and the sense of peace,\ndecorum, and comfort never left him.\n\nWhen the game was over, Stepan Arkadyevitch took Levin s arm.\n\n Well, let us go to Anna s, then. At once? Eh? She is at home. I\npromised her long ago to bring you. Where were you meaning to spend the\nevening? \n\n Oh, nowhere specially. I promised Sviazhsky to go to the Society of\nAgriculture. By all means, let us go,  said Levin.\n\n Very good; come along. Find out if my carriage is here,  Stepan\nArkadyevitch said to the waiter.\n\nLevin went up to the table, paid the forty roubles he had lost; paid\nhis bill, the amount of which was in some mysterious way ascertained by\nthe little old waiter who stood at the counter, and swinging his arms\nhe walked through all the rooms to the way out.\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n Oblonsky s carriage!  the porter shouted in an angry bass. The\ncarriage drove up and both got in. It was only for the first few\nmoments, while the carriage was driving out of the clubhouse gates,\nthat Levin was still under the influence of the club atmosphere of\nrepose, comfort, and unimpeachable good form. But as soon as the\ncarriage drove out into the street, and he felt it jolting over the\nuneven road, heard the angry shout of a sledge driver coming towards\nthem, saw in the uncertain light the red blind of a tavern and the\nshops, this impression was dissipated, and he began to think over his\nactions, and to wonder whether he was doing right in going to see Anna.\nWhat would Kitty say? But Stepan Arkadyevitch gave him no time for\nreflection, and, as though divining his doubts, he scattered them.\n\n How glad I am,  he said,  that you should know her! You know Dolly has\nlong wished for it. And Lvov s been to see her, and often goes. Though\nshe is my sister,  Stepan Arkadyevitch pursued,  I don t hesitate to\nsay that she s a remarkable woman. But you will see. Her position is\nvery painful, especially now. \n\n Why especially now? \n\n We are carrying on negotiations with her husband about a divorce. And\nhe s agreed; but there are difficulties in regard to the son, and the\nbusiness, which ought to have been arranged long ago, has been dragging\non for three months past. As soon as the divorce is over, she will\nmarry Vronsky. How stupid these old ceremonies are, that no one\nbelieves in, and which only prevent people being comfortable!  Stepan\nArkadyevitch put in.  Well, then their position will be as regular as\nmine, as yours. \n\n What is the difficulty?  said Levin.\n\n Oh, it s a long and tedious story! The whole business is in such an\nanomalous position with us. But the point is she has been for three\nmonths in Moscow, where everyone knows her, waiting for the divorce;\nshe goes out nowhere, sees no woman except Dolly, because, do you\nunderstand, she doesn t care to have people come as a favor. That fool\nPrincess Varvara, even she has left her, considering this a breach of\npropriety. Well, you see, in such a position any other woman would not\nhave found resources in herself. But you ll see how she has arranged\nher life how calm, how dignified she is. To the left, in the crescent\nopposite the church!  shouted Stepan Arkadyevitch, leaning out of the\nwindow.  Phew! how hot it is!  he said, in spite of twelve degrees of\nfrost, flinging his open overcoat still wider open.\n\n But she has a daughter: no doubt she s busy looking after her?  said\nLevin.\n\n I believe you picture every woman simply as a female, _une couveuse,_ \nsaid Stepan Arkadyevitch.  If she s occupied, it must be with her\nchildren. No, she brings her up capitally, I believe, but one doesn t\nhear about her. She s busy, in the first place, with what she writes. I\nsee you re smiling ironically, but you re wrong. She s writing a\nchildren s book, and doesn t talk about it to anyone, but she read it\nto me and I gave the manuscript to Vorkuev ... you know the publisher\n... and he s an author himself too, I fancy. He understands those\nthings, and he says it s a remarkable piece of work. But are you\nfancying she s an authoress? not a bit of it. She s a woman with a\nheart, before everything, but you ll see. Now she has a little English\ngirl with her, and a whole family she s looking after. \n\n Oh, something in a philanthropic way? \n\n Why, you will look at everything in the worst light. It s not from\nphilanthropy, it s from the heart. They that is, Vronsky had a trainer,\nan Englishman, first-rate in his own line, but a drunkard. He s\ncompletely given up to drink delirium tremens and the family were cast\non the world. She saw them, helped them, got more and more interested\nin them, and now the whole family is on her hands. But not by way of\npatronage, you know, helping with money; she s herself preparing the\nboys in Russian for the high school, and she s taken the little girl to\nlive with her. But you ll see her for yourself. \n\nThe carriage drove into the courtyard, and Stepan Arkadyevitch rang\nloudly at the entrance where sledges were standing.\n\nAnd without asking the servant who opened the door whether the lady\nwere at home, Stepan Arkadyevitch walked into the hall. Levin followed\nhim, more and more doubtful whether he was doing right or wrong.\n\nLooking at himself in the glass, Levin noticed that he was red in the\nface, but he felt certain he was not drunk, and he followed Stepan\nArkadyevitch up the carpeted stairs. At the top Stepan Arkadyevitch\ninquired of the footman, who bowed to him as to an intimate friend, who\nwas with Anna Arkadyevna, and received the answer that it was M.\nVorkuev.\n\n Where are they? \n\n In the study. \n\nPassing through the dining-room, a room not very large, with dark,\npaneled walls, Stepan Arkadyevitch and Levin walked over the soft\ncarpet to the half-dark study, lighted up by a single lamp with a big\ndark shade. Another lamp with a reflector was hanging on the wall,\nlighting up a big full-length portrait of a woman, which Levin could\nnot help looking at. It was the portrait of Anna, painted in Italy by\nMihailov. While Stepan Arkadyevitch went behind the _treillage_, and\nthe man s voice which had been speaking paused, Levin gazed at the\nportrait, which stood out from the frame in the brilliant light thrown\non it, and he could not tear himself away from it. He positively forgot\nwhere he was, and not even hearing what was said, he could not take his\neyes off the marvelous portrait. It was not a picture, but a living,\ncharming woman, with black curling hair, with bare arms and shoulders,\nwith a pensive smile on the lips, covered with soft down; triumphantly\nand softly she looked at him with eyes that baffled him. She was not\nliving only because she was more beautiful than a living woman can be.\n\n I am delighted!  He heard suddenly near him a voice, unmistakably\naddressing him, the voice of the very woman he had been admiring in the\nportrait. Anna had come from behind the _treillage_ to meet him, and\nLevin saw in the dim light of the study the very woman of the portrait,\nin a dark blue shot gown, not in the same position nor with the same\nexpression, but with the same perfection of beauty which the artist had\ncaught in the portrait. She was less dazzling in reality, but, on the\nother hand, there was something fresh and seductive in the living woman\nwhich was not in the portrait.\n\n\nChapter 10\n\nShe had risen to meet him, not concealing her pleasure at seeing him;\nand in the quiet ease with which she held out her little vigorous hand,\nintroduced him to Vorkuev and indicated a red-haired, pretty little\ngirl who was sitting at work, calling her her pupil, Levin recognized\nand liked the manners of a woman of the great world, always\nself-possessed and natural.\n\n I am delighted, delighted,  she repeated, and on her lips these simple\nwords took for Levin s ears a special significance.  I have known you\nand liked you for a long while, both from your friendship with Stiva\nand for your wife s sake.... I knew her for a very short time, but she\nleft on me the impression of an exquisite flower, simply a flower. And\nto think she will soon be a mother! \n\nShe spoke easily and without haste, looking now and then from Levin to\nher brother, and Levin felt that the impression he was making was good,\nand he felt immediately at home, simple and happy with her, as though\nhe had known her from childhood.\n\n Ivan Petrovitch and I settled in Alexey s study,  she said in answer\nto Stepan Arkadyevitch s question whether he might smoke,  just so as\nto be able to smoke and glancing at Levin, instead of asking whether\nhe would smoke, she pulled closer a tortoise-shell cigar-case and took\na cigarette.\n\n How are you feeling today?  her brother asked her.\n\n Oh, nothing. Nerves, as usual. \n\n Yes, isn t it extraordinarily fine?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nnoticing that Levin was scrutinizing the picture.\n\n I have never seen a better portrait. \n\n And extraordinarily like, isn t it?  said Vorkuev.\n\nLevin looked from the portrait to the original. A peculiar brilliance\nlighted up Anna s face when she felt his eyes on her. Levin flushed,\nand to cover his confusion would have asked whether she had seen Darya\nAlexandrovna lately; but at that moment Anna spoke.  We were just\ntalking, Ivan Petrovitch and I, of Vashtchenkov s last pictures. Have\nyou seen them? \n\n Yes, I have seen them,  answered Levin.\n\n But, I beg your pardon, I interrupted you ... you were saying?... \n\nLevin asked if she had seen Dolly lately.\n\n She was here yesterday. She was very indignant with the high school\npeople on Grisha s account. The Latin teacher, it seems, had been\nunfair to him. \n\n Yes, I have seen his pictures. I didn t care for them very much, \nLevin went back to the subject she had started.\n\nLevin talked now not at all with that purely businesslike attitude to\nthe subject with which he had been talking all the morning. Every word\nin his conversation with her had a special significance. And talking to\nher was pleasant; still pleasanter it was to listen to her.\n\nAnna talked not merely naturally and cleverly, but cleverly and\ncarelessly, attaching no value to her own ideas and giving great weight\nto the ideas of the person she was talking to.\n\nThe conversation turned on the new movement in art, on the new\nillustrations of the Bible by a French artist. Vorkuev attacked the\nartist for a realism carried to the point of coarseness.\n\nLevin said that the French had carried conventionality further than\nanyone, and that consequently they see a great merit in the return to\nrealism. In the fact of not lying they see poetry.\n\nNever had anything clever said by Levin given him so much pleasure as\nthis remark. Anna s face lighted up at once, as at once she appreciated\nthe thought. She laughed.\n\n I laugh,  she said,  as one laughs when one sees a very true portrait.\nWhat you said so perfectly hits off French art now, painting and\nliterature too, indeed Zola, Daudet. But perhaps it is always so, that\nmen form their conceptions from fictitious, conventional types, and\nthen all the _combinaisons_ made they are tired of the fictitious\nfigures and begin to invent more natural, true figures. \n\n That s perfectly true,  said Vorknev.\n\n So you ve been at the club?  she said to her brother.\n\n Yes, yes, this is a woman!  Levin thought, forgetting himself and\nstaring persistently at her lovely, mobile face, which at that moment\nwas all at once completely transformed. Levin did not hear what she was\ntalking of as she leaned over to her brother, but he was struck by the\nchange of her expression. Her face so handsome a moment before in its\nrepose suddenly wore a look of strange curiosity, anger, and pride. But\nthis lasted only an instant. She dropped her eyelids, as though\nrecollecting something.\n\n Oh, well, but that s of no interest to anyone,  she said, and she\nturned to the English girl.\n\n Please order the tea in the drawing-room,  she said in English.\n\nThe girl got up and went out.\n\n Well, how did she get through her examination?  asked Stepan\nArkadyevitch.\n\n Splendidly! She s a very gifted child and a sweet character. \n\n It will end in your loving her more than your own. \n\n There a man speaks. In love there s no more nor less. I love my\ndaughter with one love, and her with another. \n\n I was just telling Anna Arkadyevna,  said Vorkuev,  that if she were\nto put a hundredth part of the energy she devotes to this English girl\nto the public question of the education of Russian children, she would\nbe doing a great and useful work. \n\n Yes, but I can t help it; I couldn t do it. Count Alexey Kirillovitch\nurged me very much  (as she uttered the words _Count Alexey\nKirillovitch_ she glanced with appealing timidity at Levin, and he\nunconsciously responded with a respectful and reassuring look);  he\nurged me to take up the school in the village. I visited it several\ntimes. The children were very nice, but I could not feel drawn to the\nwork. You speak of energy. Energy rests upon love; and come as it will,\nthere s no forcing it. I took to this child I could not myself say\nwhy. \n\nAnd she glanced again at Levin. And her smile and her glance all told\nhim that it was to him only she was addressing her words, valuing his\ngood opinion, and at the same time sure beforehand that they understood\neach other.\n\n I quite understand that,  Levin answered.  It s impossible to give\none s heart to a school or such institutions in general, and I believe\nthat s just why philanthropic institutions always give such poor\nresults. \n\nShe was silent for a while, then she smiled.\n\n Yes, yes,  she agreed;  I never could. _Je n ai pas le c ur assez_\nlarge to love a whole asylum of horrid little girls. _Cela ne m a\njamais r ussi._ There are so many women who have made themselves _une\nposition sociale_ in that way. And now more than ever,  she said with a\nmournful, confiding expression, ostensibly addressing her brother, but\nunmistakably intending her words only for Levin,  now when I have such\nneed of some occupation, I cannot.  And suddenly frowning (Levin saw\nthat she was frowning at herself for talking about herself) she changed\nthe subject.  I know about you,  she said to Levin;  that you re not a\npublic-spirited citizen, and I have defended you to the best of my\nability. \n\n How have you defended me? \n\n Oh, according to the attacks made on you. But won t you have some\ntea?  She rose and took up a book bound in morocco.\n\n Give it to me, Anna Arkadyevna,  said Vorkuev, indicating the book.\n It s well worth taking up. \n\n Oh, no, it s all so sketchy. \n\n I told him about it,  Stepan Arkadyevitch said to his sister, nodding\nat Levin.\n\n You shouldn t have. My writing is something after the fashion of those\nlittle baskets and carving which Liza Mertsalova used to sell me from\nthe prisons. She had the direction of the prison department in that\nsociety,  she turned to Levin;  and they were miracles of patience, the\nwork of those poor wretches. \n\nAnd Levin saw a new trait in this woman, who attracted him so\nextraordinarily. Besides wit, grace, and beauty, she had truth. She had\nno wish to hide from him all the bitterness of her position. As she\nsaid that she sighed, and her face suddenly taking a hard expression,\nlooked as it were turned to stone. With that expression on her face she\nwas more beautiful than ever; but the expression was new; it was\nutterly unlike that expression, radiant with happiness and creating\nhappiness, which had been caught by the painter in her portrait. Levin\nlooked more than once at the portrait and at her figure, as taking her\nbrother s arm she walked with him to the high doors and he felt for her\na tenderness and pity at which he wondered himself.\n\nShe asked Levin and Vorkuev to go into the drawing-room, while she\nstayed behind to say a few words to her brother.  About her divorce,\nabout Vronsky, and what he s doing at the club, about me?  wondered\nLevin. And he was so keenly interested by the question of what she was\nsaying to Stepan Arkadyevitch, that he scarcely heard what Vorkuev was\ntelling him of the qualities of the story for children Anna Arkadyevna\nhad written.\n\nAt tea the same pleasant sort of talk, full of interesting matter,\ncontinued. There was not a single instant when a subject for\nconversation was to seek; on the contrary, it was felt that one had\nhardly time to say what one had to say, and eagerly held back to hear\nwhat the others were saying. And all that was said, not only by her,\nbut by Vorkuev and Stepan Arkadyevitch all, so it seemed to Levin,\ngained peculiar significance from her appreciation and her criticism.\nWhile he followed this interesting conversation, Levin was all the time\nadmiring her her beauty, her intelligence, her culture, and at the same\ntime her directness and genuine depth of feeling. He listened and\ntalked, and all the while he was thinking of her inner life, trying to\ndivine her feelings. And though he had judged her so severely hitherto,\nnow by some strange chain of reasoning he was justifying her and was\nalso sorry for her, and afraid that Vronsky did not fully understand\nher. At eleven o clock, when Stepan Arkadyevitch got up to go (Vorkuev\nhad left earlier), it seemed to Levin that he had only just come.\nRegretfully Levin too rose.\n\n Good-bye,  she said, holding his hand and glancing into his face with\na winning look.  I am very glad _que la glace est rompue._ \n\nShe dropped his hand, and half closed her eyes.\n\n Tell your wife that I love her as before, and that if she cannot\npardon me my position, then my wish for her is that she may never\npardon it. To pardon it, one must go through what I have gone through,\nand may God spare her that. \n\n Certainly, yes, I will tell her....  Levin said, blushing.\n\n\nChapter 11\n\n What a marvelous, sweet and unhappy woman!  he was thinking, as he\nstepped out into the frosty air with Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Well, didn t I tell you?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, seeing that Levin\nhad been completely won over.\n\n Yes,  said Levin dreamily,  an extraordinary woman! It s not her\ncleverness, but she has such wonderful depth of feeling. I m awfully\nsorry for her! \n\n Now, please God, everything will soon be settled. Well, well, don t be\nhard on people in future,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, opening the\ncarriage door.  Good-bye; we don t go the same way. \n\nStill thinking of Anna, of everything, even the simplest phrase in\ntheir conversation with her, and recalling the minutest changes in her\nexpression, entering more and more into her position, and feeling\nsympathy for her, Levin reached home.\n\n\n\nAt home Kouzma told Levin that Katerina Alexandrovna was quite well,\nand that her sisters had not long been gone, and he handed him two\nletters. Levin read them at once in the hall, that he might not\noverlook them later. One was from Sokolov, his bailiff. Sokolov wrote\nthat the corn could not be sold, that it was fetching only five and a\nhalf roubles, and that more than that could not be got for it. The\nother letter was from his sister. She scolded him for her business\nbeing still unsettled.\n\n Well, we must sell it at five and a half if we can t get more,  Levin\ndecided the first question, which had always before seemed such a\nweighty one, with extraordinary facility on the spot.  It s\nextraordinary how all one s time is taken up here,  he thought,\nconsidering the second letter. He felt himself to blame for not having\ngot done what his sister had asked him to do for her.  Today, again,\nI ve not been to the court, but today I ve certainly not had time.  And\nresolving that he would not fail to do it next day, he went up to his\nwife. As he went in, Levin rapidly ran through mentally the day he had\nspent. All the events of the day were conversations, conversations he\nhad heard and taken part in. All the conversations were upon subjects\nwhich, if he had been alone at home, he would never have taken up, but\nhere they were very interesting. And all these conversations were right\nenough, only in two places there was something not quite right. One was\nwhat he had said about the carp, the other was something not  quite the\nthing  in the tender sympathy he was feeling for Anna.\n\nLevin found his wife low-spirited and dull. The dinner of the three\nsisters had gone off very well, but then they had waited and waited for\nhim, all of them had felt dull, the sisters had departed, and she had\nbeen left alone.\n\n Well, and what have you been doing?  she asked him, looking straight\ninto his eyes, which shone with rather a suspicious brightness. But\nthat she might not prevent his telling her everything, she concealed\nher close scrutiny of him, and with an approving smile listened to his\naccount of how he had spent the evening.\n\n Well, I m very glad I met Vronsky. I felt quite at ease and natural\nwith him. You understand, I shall try not to see him, but I m glad that\nthis awkwardness is all over,  he said, and remembering that by way of\ntrying not to see him, he had immediately gone to call on Anna, he\nblushed.  We talk about the peasants drinking; I don t know which\ndrinks most, the peasantry or our own class; the peasants do on\nholidays, but.... \n\nBut Kitty took not the slightest interest in discussing the drinking\nhabits of the peasants. She saw that he blushed, and she wanted to know\nwhy.\n\n Well, and then where did you go? \n\n Stiva urged me awfully to go and see Anna Arkadyevna. \n\nAnd as he said this, Levin blushed even more, and his doubts as to\nwhether he had done right in going to see Anna were settled once for\nall. He knew now that he ought not to have done so.\n\nKitty s eyes opened in a curious way and gleamed at Anna s name, but\ncontrolling herself with an effort, she concealed her emotion and\ndeceived him.\n\n Oh!  was all she said.\n\n I m sure you won t be angry at my going. Stiva begged me to, and Dolly\nwished it,  Levin went on.\n\n Oh, no!  she said, but he saw in her eyes a constraint that boded him\nno good.\n\n She is a very sweet, very, very unhappy, good woman,  he said, telling\nher about Anna, her occupations, and what she had told him to say to\nher.\n\n Yes, of course, she is very much to be pitied,  said Kitty, when he\nhad finished.  Whom was your letter from? \n\nHe told her, and believing in her calm tone, he went to change his\ncoat.\n\nComing back, he found Kitty in the same easy chair. When he went up to\nher, she glanced at him and broke into sobs.\n\n What? what is it?  he asked, knowing beforehand what.\n\n You re in love with that hateful woman; she has bewitched you! I saw\nit in your eyes. Yes, yes! What can it all lead to? You were drinking\nat the club, drinking and gambling, and then you went ... to her of all\npeople! No, we must go away.... I shall go away tomorrow. \n\nIt was a long while before Levin could soothe his wife. At last he\nsucceeded in calming her, only by confessing that a feeling of pity, in\nconjunction with the wine he had drunk, had been too much for him, that\nhe had succumbed to Anna s artful influence, and that he would avoid\nher. One thing he did with more sincerity confess to was that living so\nlong in Moscow, a life of nothing but conversation, eating and\ndrinking, he was degenerating. They talked till three o clock in the\nmorning. Only at three o clock were they sufficiently reconciled to be\nable to go to sleep.\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nAfter taking leave of her guests, Anna did not sit down, but began\nwalking up and down the room. She had unconsciously the whole evening\ndone her utmost to arouse in Levin a feeling of love as of late she had\nfallen into doing with all young men and she knew she had attained her\naim, as far as was possible in one evening, with a married and\nconscientious man. She liked him indeed extremely, and, in spite of the\nstriking difference, from the masculine point of view, between Vronsky\nand Levin, as a woman she saw something they had in common, which had\nmade Kitty able to love both. Yet as soon as he was out of the room,\nshe ceased to think of him.\n\nOne thought, and one only, pursued her in different forms, and refused\nto be shaken off.  If I have so much effect on others, on this man, who\nloves his home and his wife, why is it _he_ is so cold to me?... not\ncold exactly, he loves me, I know that! But something new is drawing us\napart now. Why wasn t he here all the evening? He told Stiva to say he\ncould not leave Yashvin, and must watch over his play. Is Yashvin a\nchild? But supposing it s true. He never tells a lie. But there s\nsomething else in it if it s true. He is glad of an opportunity of\nshowing me that he has other duties; I know that, I submit to that. But\nwhy prove that to me? He wants to show me that his love for me is not\nto interfere with his freedom. But I need no proofs, I need love. He\nought to understand all the bitterness of this life for me here in\nMoscow. Is this life? I am not living, but waiting for an event, which\nis continually put off and put off. No answer again! And Stiva says he\ncannot go to Alexey Alexandrovitch. And I can t write again. I can do\nnothing, can begin nothing, can alter nothing; I hold myself in, I\nwait, inventing amusements for myself the English family, writing,\nreading but it s all nothing but a sham, it s all the same as morphine.\nHe ought to feel for me,  she said, feeling tears of self-pity coming\ninto her eyes.\n\nShe heard Vronsky s abrupt ring and hurriedly dried her tears not only\ndried her tears, but sat down by a lamp and opened a book, affecting\ncomposure. She wanted to show him that she was displeased that he had\nnot come home as he had promised displeased only, and not on any\naccount to let him see her distress, and least of all, her self-pity.\nShe might pity herself, but he must not pity her. She did not want\nstrife, she blamed him for wanting to quarrel, but unconsciously put\nherself into an attitude of antagonism.\n\n Well, you ve not been dull?  he said, eagerly and good-humoredly,\ngoing up to her.  What a terrible passion it is gambling! \n\n No, I ve not been dull; I ve learned long ago not to be dull. Stiva\nhas been here and Levin. \n\n Yes, they meant to come and see you. Well, how did you like Levin?  he\nsaid, sitting down beside her.\n\n Very much. They have not long been gone. What was Yashvin doing? \n\n He was winning seventeen thousand. I got him away. He had really\nstarted home, but he went back again, and now he s losing. \n\n Then what did you stay for?  she asked, suddenly lifting her eyes to\nhim. The expression of her face was cold and ungracious.  You told\nStiva you were staying on to get Yashvin away. And you have left him\nthere. \n\nThe same expression of cold readiness for the conflict appeared on his\nface too.\n\n In the first place, I did not ask him to give you any message; and\nsecondly, I never tell lies. But what s the chief point, I wanted to\nstay, and I stayed,  he said, frowning.  Anna, what is it for, why will\nyou?  he said after a moment s silence, bending over towards her, and\nhe opened his hand, hoping she would lay hers in it.\n\nShe was glad of this appeal for tenderness. But some strange force of\nevil would not let her give herself up to her feelings, as though the\nrules of warfare would not permit her to surrender.\n\n Of course you wanted to stay, and you stayed. You do everything you\nwant to. But what do you tell me that for? With what object?  she said,\ngetting more and more excited.  Does anyone contest your rights? But\nyou want to be right, and you re welcome to be right. \n\nHis hand closed, he turned away, and his face wore a still more\nobstinate expression.\n\n For you it s a matter of obstinacy,  she said, watching him intently\nand suddenly finding the right word for that expression that irritated\nher,  simply obstinacy. For you it s a question of whether you keep the\nupper hand of me, while for me....  Again she felt sorry for herself,\nand she almost burst into tears.  If you knew what it is for me! When I\nfeel as I do now that you are hostile, yes, hostile to me, if you knew\nwhat this means for me! If you knew how I feel on the brink of calamity\nat this instant, how afraid I am of myself!  And she turned away,\nhiding her sobs.\n\n But what are you talking about?  he said, horrified at her expression\nof despair, and again bending over her, he took her hand and kissed it.\n What is it for? Do I seek amusements outside our home? Don t I avoid\nthe society of women? \n\n Well, yes! If that were all!  she said.\n\n Come, tell me what I ought to do to give you peace of mind? I am ready\nto do anything to make you happy,  he said, touched by her expression\nof despair;  what wouldn t I do to save you from distress of any sort,\nas now, Anna!  he said.\n\n It s nothing, nothing!  she said.  I don t know myself whether it s\nthe solitary life, my nerves.... Come, don t let us talk of it. What\nabout the race? You haven t told me!  she inquired, trying to conceal\nher triumph at the victory, which had anyway been on her side.\n\nHe asked for supper, and began telling her about the races; but in his\ntone, in his eyes, which became more and more cold, she saw that he did\nnot forgive her for her victory, that the feeling of obstinacy with\nwhich she had been struggling had asserted itself again in him. He was\ncolder to her than before, as though he were regretting his surrender.\nAnd she, remembering the words that had given her the victory,  how I\nfeel on the brink of calamity, how afraid I am of myself,  saw that\nthis weapon was a dangerous one, and that it could not be used a second\ntime. And she felt that beside the love that bound them together there\nhad grown up between them some evil spirit of strife, which she could\nnot exorcise from his, and still less from her own heart.\n\n\nChapter 13\n\nThere are no conditions to which a man cannot become used, especially\nif he sees that all around him are living in the same way. Levin could\nnot have believed three months before that he could have gone quietly\nto sleep in the condition in which he was that day, that leading an\naimless, irrational life, living too beyond his means, after drinking\nto excess (he could not call what happened at the club anything else),\nforming inappropriately friendly relations with a man with whom his\nwife had once been in love, and a still more inappropriate call upon a\nwoman who could only be called a lost woman, after being fascinated by\nthat woman and causing his wife distress he could still go quietly to\nsleep. But under the influence of fatigue, a sleepless night, and the\nwine he had drunk, his sleep was sound and untroubled.\n\nAt five o clock the creak of a door opening waked him. He jumped up and\nlooked round. Kitty was not in bed beside him. But there was a light\nmoving behind the screen, and he heard her steps.\n\n What is it?... what is it?  he said, half-asleep.  Kitty! What is it? \n\n Nothing,  she said, coming from behind the screen with a candle in her\nhand.  I felt unwell,  she said, smiling a particularly sweet and\nmeaning smile.\n\n What? has it begun?  he said in terror.  We ought to send....  and\nhurriedly he reached after his clothes.\n\n No, no,  she said, smiling and holding his hand.  It s sure to be\nnothing. I was rather unwell, only a little. It s all over now. \n\nAnd getting into bed, she blew out the candle, lay down and was still.\nThough he thought her stillness suspicious, as though she were holding\nher breath, and still more suspicious the expression of peculiar\ntenderness and excitement with which, as she came from behind the\nscreen, she said  nothing,  he was so sleepy that he fell asleep at\nonce. Only later he remembered the stillness of her breathing, and\nunderstood all that must have been passing in her sweet, precious heart\nwhile she lay beside him, not stirring, in anticipation of the greatest\nevent in a woman s life. At seven o clock he was waked by the touch of\nher hand on his shoulder, and a gentle whisper. She seemed struggling\nbetween regret at waking him, and the desire to talk to him.\n\n Kostya, don t be frightened. It s all right. But I fancy.... We ought\nto send for Lizaveta Petrovna. \n\nThe candle was lighted again. She was sitting up in bed, holding some\nknitting, which she had been busy upon during the last few days.\n\n Please, don t be frightened, it s all right. I m not a bit afraid, \nshe said, seeing his scared face, and she pressed his hand to her bosom\nand then to her lips.\n\nHe hurriedly jumped up, hardly awake, and kept his eyes fixed on her,\nas he put on his dressing gown; then he stopped, still looking at her.\nHe had to go, but he could not tear himself from her eyes. He thought\nhe loved her face, knew her expression, her eyes, but never had he seen\nit like this. How hateful and horrible he seemed to himself, thinking\nof the distress he had caused her yesterday. Her flushed face, fringed\nwith soft curling hair under her night cap, was radiant with joy and\ncourage.\n\nThough there was so little that was complex or artificial in Kitty s\ncharacter in general, Levin was struck by what was revealed now, when\nsuddenly all disguises were thrown off and the very kernel of her soul\nshone in her eyes. And in this simplicity and nakedness of her soul,\nshe, the very woman he loved in her, was more manifest than ever. She\nlooked at him, smiling; but all at once her brows twitched, she threw\nup her head, and going quickly up to him, clutched his hand and pressed\nclose up to him, breathing her hot breath upon him. She was in pain and\nwas, as it were, complaining to him of her suffering. And for the first\nminute, from habit, it seemed to him that he was to blame. But in her\neyes there was a tenderness that told him that she was far from\nreproaching him, that she loved him for her sufferings.  If not I, who\nis to blame for it?  he thought unconsciously, seeking someone\nresponsible for this suffering for him to punish; but there was no one\nresponsible. She was suffering, complaining, and triumphing in her\nsufferings, and rejoicing in them, and loving them. He saw that\nsomething sublime was being accomplished in her soul, but what? He\ncould not make it out. It was beyond his understanding.\n\n I have sent to mamma. You go quickly to fetch Lizaveta Petrovna ...\nKostya!... Nothing, it s over. \n\nShe moved away from him and rang the bell.\n\n Well, go now; Pasha s coming. I am all right. \n\nAnd Levin saw with astonishment that she had taken up the knitting she\nhad brought in in the night and begun working at it again.\n\nAs Levin was going out of one door, he heard the maid-servant come in\nat the other. He stood at the door and heard Kitty giving exact\ndirections to the maid, and beginning to help her move the bedstead.\n\nHe dressed, and while they were putting in his horses, as a hired\nsledge was not to be seen yet, he ran again up to the bedroom, not on\ntiptoe, it seemed to him, but on wings. Two maid-servants were\ncarefully moving something in the bedroom.\n\nKitty was walking about knitting rapidly and giving directions.\n\n I m going for the doctor. They have sent for Lizaveta Petrovna, but\nI ll go on there too. Isn t there anything wanted? Yes, shall I go to\nDolly s? \n\nShe looked at him, obviously not hearing what he was saying.\n\n Yes, yes. Do go,  she said quickly, frowning and waving her hand to\nhim.\n\nHe had just gone into the drawing-room, when suddenly a plaintive moan\nsounded from the bedroom, smothered instantly. He stood still, and for\na long while he could not understand.\n\n Yes, that is she,  he said to himself, and clutching at his head he\nran downstairs.\n\n Lord have mercy on us! pardon us! aid us!  he repeated the words that\nfor some reason came suddenly to his lips. And he, an unbeliever,\nrepeated these words not with his lips only. At that instant he knew\nthat all his doubts, even the impossibility of believing with his\nreason, of which he was aware in himself, did not in the least hinder\nhis turning to God. All of that now floated out of his soul like dust.\nTo whom was he to turn if not to Him in whose hands he felt himself,\nhis soul, and his love?\n\nThe horse was not yet ready, but feeling a peculiar concentration of\nhis physical forces and his intellect on what he had to do, he started\noff on foot without waiting for the horse, and told Kouzma to overtake\nhim.\n\nAt the corner he met a night cabman driving hurriedly. In the little\nsledge, wrapped in a velvet cloak, sat Lizaveta Petrovna with a\nkerchief round her head.  Thank God! thank God!  he said, overjoyed to\nrecognize her little fair face which wore a peculiarly serious, even\nstern expression. Telling the driver not to stop, he ran along beside\nher.\n\n For two hours, then? Not more?  she inquired.  You should let Pyotr\nDmitrievitch know, but don t hurry him. And get some opium at the\nchemist s. \n\n So you think that it may go on well? Lord have mercy on us and help\nus!  Levin said, seeing his own horse driving out of the gate. Jumping\ninto the sledge beside Kouzma, he told him to drive to the doctor s.\n\n\nChapter 14\n\nThe doctor was not yet up, and the footman said that  he had been up\nlate, and had given orders not to be waked, but would get up soon.  The\nfootman was cleaning the lamp-chimneys, and seemed very busy about\nthem. This concentration of the footman upon his lamps, and his\nindifference to what was passing in Levin, at first astounded him, but\nimmediately on considering the question he realized that no one knew or\nwas bound to know his feelings, and that it was all the more necessary\nto act calmly, sensibly, and resolutely to get through this wall of\nindifference and attain his aim.\n\n Don t be in a hurry or let anything slip,  Levin said to himself,\nfeeling a greater and greater flow of physical energy and attention to\nall that lay before him to do.\n\nHaving ascertained that the doctor was not getting up, Levin considered\nvarious plans, and decided on the following one: that Kouzma should go\nfor another doctor, while he himself should go to the chemist s for\nopium, and if when he came back the doctor had not yet begun to get up,\nhe would either by tipping the footman, or by force, wake the doctor at\nall hazards.\n\nAt the chemist s the lank shopman sealed up a packet of powders for a\ncoachman who stood waiting, and refused him opium with the same\ncallousness with which the doctor s footman had cleaned his lamp\nchimneys. Trying not to get flurried or out of temper, Levin mentioned\nthe names of the doctor and midwife, and explaining what the opium was\nneeded for, tried to persuade him. The assistant inquired in German\nwhether he should give it, and receiving an affirmative reply from\nbehind the partition, he took out a bottle and a funnel, deliberately\npoured the opium from a bigger bottle into a little one, stuck on a\nlabel, sealed it up, in spite of Levin s request that he would not do\nso, and was about to wrap it up too. This was more than Levin could\nstand; he took the bottle firmly out of his hands, and ran to the big\nglass doors. The doctor was not even now getting up, and the footman,\nbusy now in putting down the rugs, refused to wake him. Levin\ndeliberately took out a ten rouble note, and, careful to speak slowly,\nthough losing no time over the business, he handed him the note, and\nexplained that Pyotr Dmitrievitch (what a great and important personage\nhe seemed to Levin now, this Pyotr Dmitrievitch, who had been of so\nlittle consequence in his eyes before!) had promised to come at any\ntime; that he would certainly not be angry! and that he must therefore\nwake him at once.\n\nThe footman agreed, and went upstairs, taking Levin into the waiting\nroom.\n\nLevin could hear through the door the doctor coughing, moving about,\nwashing, and saying something. Three minutes passed; it seemed to Levin\nthat more than an hour had gone by. He could not wait any longer.\n\n Pyotr Dmitrievitch, Pyotr Dmitrievitch!  he said in an imploring voice\nat the open door.  For God s sake, forgive me! See me as you are. It s\nbeen going on more than two hours already. \n\n In a minute; in a minute!  answered a voice, and to his amazement\nLevin heard that the doctor was smiling as he spoke.\n\n For one instant. \n\n In a minute. \n\nTwo minutes more passed while the doctor was putting on his boots, and\ntwo minutes more while the doctor put on his coat and combed his hair.\n\n Pyotr Dmitrievitch!  Levin was beginning again in a plaintive voice,\njust as the doctor came in dressed and ready.  These people have no\nconscience,  thought Levin.  Combing his hair, while we re dying! \n\n Good morning!  the doctor said to him, shaking hands, and, as it were,\nteasing him with his composure.  There s no hurry. Well now? \n\nTrying to be as accurate as possible, Levin began to tell him every\nunnecessary detail of his wife s condition, interrupting his account\nrepeatedly with entreaties that the doctor would come with him at once.\n\n Oh, you needn t be in any hurry. You don t understand, you know. I m\ncertain I m not wanted, still I ve promised, and if you like, I ll\ncome. But there s no hurry. Please sit down; won t you have some\ncoffee? \n\nLevin stared at him with eyes that asked whether he was laughing at\nhim; but the doctor had no notion of making fun of him.\n\n I know, I know,  the doctor said, smiling;  I m a married man myself;\nand at these moments we husbands are very much to be pitied. I ve a\npatient whose husband always takes refuge in the stables on such\noccasions. \n\n But what do you think, Pyotr Dmitrievitch? Do you suppose it may go\nall right? \n\n Everything points to a favorable issue. \n\n So you ll come immediately?  said Levin, looking wrathfully at the\nservant who was bringing in the coffee.\n\n In an hour s time. \n\n Oh, for mercy s sake! \n\n Well, let me drink my coffee, anyway. \n\nThe doctor started upon his coffee. Both were silent.\n\n The Turks are really getting beaten, though. Did you read yesterday s\ntelegrams?  said the doctor, munching some roll.\n\n No, I can t stand it!  said Levin, jumping up.  So you ll be with us\nin a quarter of an hour. \n\n In half an hour. \n\n On your honor? \n\nWhen Levin got home, he drove up at the same time as the princess, and\nthey went up to the bedroom door together. The princess had tears in\nher eyes, and her hands were shaking. Seeing Levin, she embraced him,\nand burst into tears.\n\n Well, my dear Lizaveta Petrovna?  she queried, clasping the hand of\nthe midwife, who came out to meet them with a beaming and anxious face.\n\n She s going on well,  she said;  persuade her to lie down. She will be\neasier so. \n\nFrom the moment when he had waked up and understood what was going on,\nLevin had prepared his mind to bear resolutely what was before him, and\nwithout considering or anticipating anything, to avoid upsetting his\nwife, and on the contrary to soothe her and keep up her courage.\nWithout allowing himself even to think of what was to come, of how it\nwould end, judging from his inquiries as to the usual duration of these\nordeals, Levin had in his imagination braced himself to bear up and to\nkeep a tight rein on his feelings for five hours, and it had seemed to\nhim he could do this. But when he came back from the doctor s and saw\nher sufferings again, he fell to repeating more and more frequently:\n Lord, have mercy on us, and succor us!  He sighed, and flung his head\nup, and began to feel afraid he could not bear it, that he would burst\ninto tears or run away. Such agony it was to him. And only one hour had\npassed.\n\nBut after that hour there passed another hour, two hours, three, the\nfull five hours he had fixed as the furthest limit of his sufferings,\nand the position was still unchanged; and he was still bearing it\nbecause there was nothing to be done but bear it; every instant feeling\nthat he had reached the utmost limits of his endurance, and that his\nheart would break with sympathy and pain.\n\nBut still the minutes passed by and the hours, and still hours more,\nand his misery and horror grew and were more and more intense.\n\nAll the ordinary conditions of life, without which one can form no\nconception of anything, had ceased to exist for Levin. He lost all\nsense of time. Minutes those minutes when she sent for him and he held\nher moist hand, that would squeeze his hand with extraordinary violence\nand then push it away seemed to him hours, and hours seemed to him\nminutes. He was surprised when Lizaveta Petrovna asked him to light a\ncandle behind a screen, and he found that it was five o clock in the\nafternoon. If he had been told it was only ten o clock in the morning,\nhe would not have been more surprised. Where he was all this time, he\nknew as little as the time of anything. He saw her swollen face,\nsometimes bewildered and in agony, sometimes smiling and trying to\nreassure him. He saw the old princess too, flushed and overwrought,\nwith her gray curls in disorder, forcing herself to gulp down her\ntears, biting her lips; he saw Dolly too and the doctor, smoking fat\ncigarettes, and Lizaveta Petrovna with a firm, resolute, reassuring\nface, and the old prince walking up and down the hall with a frowning\nface. But why they came in and went out, where they were, he did not\nknow. The princess was with the doctor in the bedroom, then in the\nstudy, where a table set for dinner suddenly appeared; then she was not\nthere, but Dolly was. Then Levin remembered he had been sent somewhere.\nOnce he had been sent to move a table and sofa. He had done this\neagerly, thinking it had to be done for her sake, and only later on he\nfound it was his own bed he had been getting ready. Then he had been\nsent to the study to ask the doctor something. The doctor had answered\nand then had said something about the irregularities in the municipal\ncouncil. Then he had been sent to the bedroom to help the old princess\nto move the holy picture in its silver and gold setting, and with the\nprincess s old waiting maid he had clambered on a shelf to reach it and\nhad broken the little lamp, and the old servant had tried to reassure\nhim about the lamp and about his wife, and he carried the holy picture\nand set it at Kitty s head, carefully tucking it in behind the pillow.\nBut where, when, and why all this had happened, he could not tell. He\ndid not understand why the old princess took his hand, and looking\ncompassionately at him, begged him not to worry himself, and Dolly\npersuaded him to eat something and led him out of the room, and even\nthe doctor looked seriously and with commiseration at him and offered\nhim a drop of something.\n\nAll he knew and felt was that what was happening was what had happened\nnearly a year before in the hotel of the country town at the deathbed\nof his brother Nikolay. But that had been grief this was joy. Yet that\ngrief and this joy were alike outside all the ordinary conditions of\nlife; they were loop-holes, as it were, in that ordinary life through\nwhich there came glimpses of something sublime. And in the\ncontemplation of this sublime something the soul was exalted to\ninconceivable heights of which it had before had no conception, while\nreason lagged behind, unable to keep up with it.\n\n Lord, have mercy on us, and succor us!  he repeated to himself\nincessantly, feeling, in spite of his long and, as it seemed, complete\nalienation from religion, that he turned to God just as trustfully and\nsimply as he had in his childhood and first youth.\n\nAll this time he had two distinct spiritual conditions. One was away\nfrom her, with the doctor, who kept smoking one fat cigarette after\nanother and extinguishing them on the edge of a full ashtray, with\nDolly, and with the old prince, where there was talk about dinner,\nabout politics, about Marya Petrovna s illness, and where Levin\nsuddenly forgot for a minute what was happening, and felt as though he\nhad waked up from sleep; the other was in her presence, at her pillow,\nwhere his heart seemed breaking and still did not break from\nsympathetic suffering, and he prayed to God without ceasing. And every\ntime he was brought back from a moment of oblivion by a scream reaching\nhim from the bedroom, he fell into the same strange terror that had\ncome upon him the first minute. Every time he heard a shriek, he jumped\nup, ran to justify himself, remembered on the way that he was not to\nblame, and he longed to defend her, to help her. But as he looked at\nher, he saw again that help was impossible, and he was filled with\nterror and prayed:  Lord, have mercy on us, and help us!  And as time\nwent on, both these conditions became more intense; the calmer he\nbecame away from her, completely forgetting her, the more agonizing\nbecame both her sufferings and his feeling of helplessness before them.\nHe jumped up, would have liked to run away, but ran to her.\n\nSometimes, when again and again she called upon him, he blamed her; but\nseeing her patient, smiling face, and hearing the words,  I am worrying\nyou,  he threw the blame on God; but thinking of God, at once he fell\nto beseeching God to forgive him and have mercy.\n\n\nChapter 15\n\nHe did not know whether it was late or early. The candles had all\nburned out. Dolly had just been in the study and had suggested to the\ndoctor that he should lie down. Levin sat listening to the doctor s\nstories of a quack mesmerizer and looking at the ashes of his\ncigarette. There had been a period of repose, and he had sunk into\noblivion. He had completely forgotten what was going on now. He heard\nthe doctor s chat and understood it. Suddenly there came an unearthly\nshriek. The shriek was so awful that Levin did not even jump up, but\nholding his breath, gazed in terrified inquiry at the doctor. The\ndoctor put his head on one side, listened, and smiled approvingly.\nEverything was so extraordinary that nothing could strike Levin as\nstrange.  I suppose it must be so,  he thought, and still sat where he\nwas. Whose scream was this? He jumped up, ran on tiptoe to the bedroom,\nedged round Lizaveta Petrovna and the princess, and took up his\nposition at Kitty s pillow. The scream had subsided, but there was some\nchange now. What it was he did not see and did not comprehend, and he\nhad no wish to see or comprehend. But he saw it by the face of Lizaveta\nPetrovna. Lizaveta Petrovna s face was stern and pale, and still as\nresolute, though her jaws were twitching, and her eyes were fixed\nintently on Kitty. Kitty s swollen and agonized face, a tress of hair\nclinging to her moist brow, was turned to him and sought his eyes. Her\nlifted hands asked for his hands. Clutching his chill hands in her\nmoist ones, she began squeezing them to her face.\n\n Don t go, don t go! I m not afraid, I m not afraid!  she said rapidly.\n Mamma, take my earrings. They bother me. You re not afraid? Quick,\nquick, Lizaveta Petrovna.... \n\nShe spoke quickly, very quickly, and tried to smile. But suddenly her\nface was drawn, she pushed him away.\n\n Oh, this is awful! I m dying, I m dying! Go away!  she shrieked, and\nagain he heard that unearthly scream.\n\nLevin clutched at his head and ran out of the room.\n\n It s nothing, it s nothing, it s all right,  Dolly called after him.\n\nBut they might say what they liked, he knew now that all was over. He\nstood in the next room, his head leaning against the door post, and\nheard shrieks, howls such as he had never heard before, and he knew\nthat what had been Kitty was uttering these shrieks. He had long ago\nceased to wish for the child. By now he loathed this child. He did not\neven wish for her life now, all he longed for was the end of this awful\nanguish.\n\n Doctor! What is it? What is it? By God!  he said, snatching at the\ndoctor s hand as he came up.\n\n It s the end,  said the doctor. And the doctor s face was so grave as\nhe said it that Levin took _the end_ as meaning her death.\n\nBeside himself, he ran into the bedroom. The first thing he saw was the\nface of Lizaveta Petrovna. It was even more frowning and stern. Kitty s\nface he did not know. In the place where it had been was something that\nwas fearful in its strained distortion and in the sounds that came from\nit. He fell down with his head on the wooden framework of the bed,\nfeeling that his heart was bursting. The awful scream never paused, it\nbecame still more awful, and as though it had reached the utmost limit\nof terror, suddenly it ceased. Levin could not believe his ears, but\nthere could be no doubt; the scream had ceased and he heard a subdued\nstir and bustle, and hurried breathing, and her voice, gasping, alive,\ntender, and blissful, uttered softly,  It s over! \n\nHe lifted his head. With her hands hanging exhausted on the quilt,\nlooking extraordinarily lovely and serene, she looked at him in silence\nand tried to smile, and could not.\n\nAnd suddenly, from the mysterious and awful far-away world in which he\nhad been living for the last twenty-two hours, Levin felt himself all\nin an instant borne back to the old every-day world, glorified though\nnow, by such a radiance of happiness that he could not bear it. The\nstrained chords snapped, sobs and tears of joy which he had never\nforeseen rose up with such violence that his whole body shook, that for\nlong they prevented him from speaking.\n\nFalling on his knees before the bed, he held his wife s hand before his\nlips and kissed it, and the hand, with a weak movement of the fingers,\nresponded to his kiss. And meanwhile, there at the foot of the bed, in\nthe deft hands of Lizaveta Petrovna, like a flickering light in a lamp,\nlay the life of a human creature, which had never existed before, and\nwhich would now with the same right, with the same importance to\nitself, live and create in its own image.\n\n Alive! alive! And a boy too! Set your mind at rest!  Levin heard\nLizaveta Petrovna saying, as she slapped the baby s back with a shaking\nhand.\n\n Mamma, is it true?  said Kitty s voice.\n\nThe princess s sobs were all the answers she could make. And in the\nmidst of the silence there came in unmistakable reply to the mother s\nquestion, a voice quite unlike the subdued voices speaking in the room.\nIt was the bold, clamorous, self-assertive squall of the new human\nbeing, who had so incomprehensibly appeared.\n\nIf Levin had been told before that Kitty was dead, and that he had died\nwith her, and that their children were angels, and that God was\nstanding before him, he would have been surprised at nothing. But now,\ncoming back to the world of reality, he had to make great mental\nefforts to take in that she was alive and well, and that the creature\nsqualling so desperately was his son. Kitty was alive, her agony was\nover. And he was unutterably happy. That he understood; he was\ncompletely happy in it. But the baby? Whence, why, who was he?... He\ncould not get used to the idea. It seemed to him something extraneous,\nsuperfluous, to which he could not accustom himself.\n\n\nChapter 16\n\nAt ten o clock the old prince, Sergey Ivanovitch, and Stepan\nArkadyevitch were sitting at Levin s. Having inquired after Kitty, they\nhad dropped into conversation upon other subjects. Levin heard them,\nand unconsciously, as they talked, going over the past, over what had\nbeen up to that morning, he thought of himself as he had been yesterday\ntill that point. It was as though a hundred years had passed since\nthen. He felt himself exalted to unattainable heights, from which he\nstudiously lowered himself so as not to wound the people he was talking\nto. He talked, and was all the time thinking of his wife, of her\ncondition now, of his son, in whose existence he tried to school\nhimself into believing. The whole world of woman, which had taken for\nhim since his marriage a new value he had never suspected before, was\nnow so exalted that he could not take it in in his imagination. He\nheard them talk of yesterday s dinner at the club, and thought:  What\nis happening with her now? Is she asleep? How is she? What is she\nthinking of? Is he crying, my son Dmitri?  And in the middle of the\nconversation, in the middle of a sentence, he jumped up and went out of\nthe room.\n\n Send me word if I can see her,  said the prince.\n\n Very well, in a minute,  answered Levin, and without stopping, he went\nto her room.\n\nShe was not asleep, she was talking gently with her mother, making\nplans about the christening.\n\nCarefully set to rights, with hair well-brushed, in a smart little cap\nwith some blue in it, her arms out on the quilt, she was lying on her\nback. Meeting his eyes, her eyes drew him to her. Her face, bright\nbefore, brightened still more as he drew near her. There was the same\nchange in it from earthly to unearthly that is seen in the face of the\ndead. But then it means farewell, here it meant welcome. Again a rush\nof emotion, such as he had felt at the moment of the child s birth,\nflooded his heart. She took his hand and asked him if he had slept. He\ncould not answer, and turned away, struggling with his weakness.\n\n I have had a nap, Kostya!  she said to him;  and I am so comfortable\nnow. \n\nShe looked at him, but suddenly her expression changed.\n\n Give him to me,  she said, hearing the baby s cry.  Give him to me,\nLizaveta Petrovna, and he shall look at him. \n\n To be sure, his papa shall look at him,  said Lizaveta Petrovna,\ngetting up and bringing something red, and queer, and wriggling.  Wait\na minute, we ll make him tidy first,  and Lizaveta Petrovna laid the\nred wobbling thing on the bed, began untrussing and trussing up the\nbaby, lifting it up and turning it over with one finger and powdering\nit with something.\n\nLevin, looking at the tiny, pitiful creature, made strenuous efforts to\ndiscover in his heart some traces of fatherly feeling for it. He felt\nnothing towards it but disgust. But when it was undressed and he caught\na glimpse of wee, wee, little hands, little feet, saffron-colored, with\nlittle toes, too, and positively with a little big toe different from\nthe rest, and when he saw Lizaveta Petrovna closing the wide-open\nlittle hands, as though they were soft springs, and putting them into\nlinen garments, such pity for the little creature came upon him, and\nsuch terror that she would hurt it, that he held her hand back.\n\nLizaveta Petrovna laughed.\n\n Don t be frightened, don t be frightened! \n\nWhen the baby had been put to rights and transformed into a firm doll,\nLizaveta Petrovna dandled it as though proud of her handiwork, and\nstood a little away so that Levin might see his son in all his glory.\n\nKitty looked sideways in the same direction, never taking her eyes off\nthe baby.  Give him to me! give him to me!  she said, and even made as\nthough she would sit up.\n\n What are you thinking of, Katerina Alexandrovna, you mustn t move like\nthat! Wait a minute. I ll give him to you. Here we re showing papa what\na fine fellow we are! \n\nAnd Lizaveta Petrovna, with one hand supporting the wobbling head,\nlifted up on the other arm the strange, limp, red creature, whose head\nwas lost in its swaddling clothes. But it had a nose, too, and slanting\neyes and smacking lips.\n\n A splendid baby!  said Lizaveta Petrovna.\n\nLevin sighed with mortification. This splendid baby excited in him no\nfeeling but disgust and compassion. It was not at all the feeling he\nhad looked forward to.\n\nHe turned away while Lizaveta Petrovna put the baby to the unaccustomed\nbreast.\n\nSuddenly laughter made him look round. The baby had taken the breast.\n\n Come, that s enough, that s enough!  said Lizaveta Petrovna, but Kitty\nwould not let the baby go. He fell asleep in her arms.\n\n Look, now,  said Kitty, turning the baby so that he could see it. The\naged-looking little face suddenly puckered up still more and the baby\nsneezed.\n\nSmiling, hardly able to restrain his tears, Levin kissed his wife and\nwent out of the dark room. What he felt towards this little creature\nwas utterly unlike what he had expected. There was nothing cheerful and\njoyous in the feeling; on the contrary, it was a new torture of\napprehension. It was the consciousness of a new sphere of liability to\npain. And this sense was so painful at first, the apprehension lest\nthis helpless creature should suffer was so intense, that it prevented\nhim from noticing the strange thrill of senseless joy and even pride\nthat he had felt when the baby sneezed.\n\n\nChapter 17\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch s affairs were in a very bad way.\n\nThe money for two-thirds of the forest had all been spent already, and\nhe had borrowed from the merchant in advance at ten per cent discount,\nalmost all the remaining third. The merchant would not give more,\nespecially as Darya Alexandrovna, for the first time that winter\ninsisting on her right to her own property, had refused to sign the\nreceipt for the payment of the last third of the forest. All his salary\nwent on household expenses and in payment of petty debts that could not\nbe put off. There was positively no money.\n\nThis was unpleasant and awkward, and in Stepan Arkadyevitch s opinion\nthings could not go on like this. The explanation of the position was,\nin his view, to be found in the fact that his salary was too small. The\npost he filled had been unmistakably very good five years ago, but it\nwas so no longer.\n\nPetrov, the bank director, had twelve thousand; Sventitsky, a company\ndirector, had seventeen thousand; Mitin, who had founded a bank,\nreceived fifty thousand.\n\n Clearly I ve been napping, and they ve overlooked me,  Stepan\nArkadyevitch thought about himself. And he began keeping his eyes and\nears open, and towards the end of the winter he had discovered a very\ngood berth and had formed a plan of attack upon it, at first from\nMoscow through aunts, uncles, and friends, and then, when the matter\nwas well advanced, in the spring, he went himself to Petersburg. It was\none of those snug, lucrative berths of which there are so many more\nnowadays than there used to be, with incomes ranging from one thousand\nto fifty thousand roubles. It was the post of secretary of the\ncommittee of the amalgamated agency of the southern railways, and of\ncertain banking companies. This position, like all such appointments,\ncalled for such immense energy and such varied qualifications, that it\nwas difficult for them to be found united in any one man. And since a\nman combining all the qualifications was not to be found, it was at\nleast better that the post be filled by an honest than by a dishonest\nman. And Stepan Arkadyevitch was not merely an honest\nman unemphatically in the common acceptation of the words, he was an\nhonest man emphatically in that special sense which the word has in\nMoscow, when they talk of an  honest  politician, an  honest  writer,\nan  honest  newspaper, an  honest  institution, an  honest  tendency,\nmeaning not simply that the man or the institution is not dishonest,\nbut that they are capable on occasion of taking a line of their own in\nopposition to the authorities.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch moved in those circles in Moscow in which that\nexpression had come into use, was regarded there as an honest man, and\nso had more right to this appointment than others.\n\nThe appointment yielded an income of from seven to ten thousand a year,\nand Oblonsky could fill it without giving up his government position.\nIt was in the hands of two ministers, one lady, and two Jews, and all\nthese people, though the way had been paved already with them, Stepan\nArkadyevitch had to see in Petersburg. Besides this business, Stepan\nArkadyevitch had promised his sister Anna to obtain from Karenin a\ndefinite answer on the question of divorce. And begging fifty roubles\nfrom Dolly, he set off for Petersburg.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch sat in Karenin s study listening to his report on\nthe causes of the unsatisfactory position of Russian finance, and only\nwaiting for the moment when he would finish to speak about his own\nbusiness or about Anna.\n\n Yes, that s very true,  he said, when Alexey Alexandrovitch took off\nthe pince-nez, without which he could not read now, and looked\ninquiringly at his former brother-in-law,  that s very true in\nparticular cases, but still the principle of our day is freedom. \n\n Yes, but I lay down another principle, embracing the principle of\nfreedom,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, with emphasis on the word\n embracing,  and he put on his pince-nez again, so as to read the\npassage in which this statement was made. And turning over the\nbeautifully written, wide-margined manuscript, Alexey Alexandrovitch\nread aloud over again the conclusive passage.\n\n I don t advocate protection for the sake of private interests, but for\nthe public weal, and for the lower and upper classes equally,  he said,\nlooking over his pince-nez at Oblonsky.  But _they_ cannot grasp that,\n_they_ are taken up now with personal interests, and carried away by\nphrases. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch knew that when Karenin began to talk of what _they_\nwere doing and thinking, the persons who would not accept his report\nand were the cause of everything wrong in Russia, that it was coming\nnear the end. And so now he eagerly abandoned the principle of\nfree-trade, and fully agreed. Alexey Alexandrovitch paused,\nthoughtfully turning over the pages of his manuscript.\n\n Oh, by the way,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,  I wanted to ask you, some\ntime when you see Pomorsky, to drop him a hint that I should be very\nglad to get that new appointment of secretary of the committee of the\namalgamated agency of the southern railways and banking companies. \nStepan Arkadyevitch was familiar by now with the title of the post he\ncoveted, and he brought it out rapidly without mistake.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch questioned him as to the duties of this new\ncommittee, and pondered. He was considering whether the new committee\nwould not be acting in some way contrary to the views he had been\nadvocating. But as the influence of the new committee was of a very\ncomplex nature, and his views were of very wide application, he could\nnot decide this straight off, and taking off his pince-nez, he said:\n\n Of course, I can mention it to him; but what is your reason precisely\nfor wishing to obtain the appointment? \n\n It s a good salary, rising to nine thousand, and my means.... \n\n Nine thousand!  repeated Alexey Alexandrovitch, and he frowned. The\nhigh figure of the salary made him reflect that on that side Stepan\nArkadyevitch s proposed position ran counter to the main tendency of\nhis own projects of reform, which always leaned towards economy.\n\n I consider, and I have embodied my views in a note on the subject,\nthat in our day these immense salaries are evidence of the unsound\neconomic _assiette_ of our finances. \n\n But what s to be done?  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Suppose a bank\ndirector gets ten thousand well, he s worth it; or an engineer gets\ntwenty thousand after all, it s a growing thing, you know! \n\n I assume that a salary is the price paid for a commodity, and it ought\nto conform with the law of supply and demand. If the salary is fixed\nwithout any regard for that law, as, for instance, when I see two\nengineers leaving college together, both equally well trained and\nefficient, and one getting forty thousand while the other is satisfied\nwith two; or when I see lawyers and hussars, having no special\nqualifications, appointed directors of banking companies with immense\nsalaries, I conclude that the salary is not fixed in accordance with\nthe law of supply and demand, but simply through personal interest. And\nthis is an abuse of great gravity in itself, and one that reacts\ninjuriously on the government service. I consider.... \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch made haste to interrupt his brother-in-law.\n\n Yes; but you must agree that it s a new institution of undoubted\nutility that s being started. After all, you know, it s a growing\nthing! What they lay particular stress on is the thing being carried on\nhonestly,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch with emphasis.\n\nBut the Moscow significance of the word  honest  was lost on Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.\n\n Honesty is only a negative qualification,  he said.\n\n Well, you ll do me a great service, anyway,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\n by putting in a word to Pomorsky just in the way of conversation.... \n\n But I fancy it s more in Volgarinov s hands,  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.\n\n Volgarinov has fully assented, as far as he s concerned,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, turning red. Stepan Arkadyevitch reddened at the mention\nof that name, because he had been that morning at the Jew Volgarinov s,\nand the visit had left an unpleasant recollection.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch believed most positively that the committee in\nwhich he was trying to get an appointment was a new, genuine, and\nhonest public body, but that morning when Volgarinov had intentionally,\nbeyond a doubt kept him two hours waiting with other petitioners in his\nwaiting room, he had suddenly felt uneasy.\n\nWhether he was uncomfortable that he, a descendant of Rurik, Prince\nOblonsky, had been kept for two hours waiting to see a Jew, or that for\nthe first time in his life he was not following the example of his\nancestors in serving the government, but was turning off into a new\ncareer, anyway he was very uncomfortable. During those two hours in\nVolgarinov s waiting room Stepan Arkadyevitch, stepping jauntily about\nthe room, pulling his whiskers, entering into conversation with the\nother petitioners, and inventing an epigram on his position,\nassiduously concealed from others, and even from himself, the feeling\nhe was experiencing.\n\nBut all the time he was uncomfortable and angry, he could not have said\nwhy whether because he could not get his epigram just right, or from\nsome other reason. When at last Volgarinov had received him with\nexaggerated politeness and unmistakable triumph at his humiliation, and\nhad all but refused the favor asked of him, Stepan Arkadyevitch had\nmade haste to forget it all as soon as possible. And now, at the mere\nrecollection, he blushed.\n\n\nChapter 18\n\n Now there is something I want to talk about, and you know what it is.\nAbout Anna,  Stepan Arkadyevitch said, pausing for a brief space, and\nshaking off the unpleasant impression.\n\nAs soon as Oblonsky uttered Anna s name, the face of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch was completely transformed; all the life was gone out of\nit, and it looked weary and dead.\n\n What is it exactly that you want from me?  he said, moving in his\nchair and snapping his pince-nez.\n\n A definite settlement, Alexey Alexandrovitch, some settlement of the\nposition. I m appealing to you  ( not as an injured husband,  Stepan\nArkadyevitch was going to say, but afraid of wrecking his negotiation\nby this, he changed the words)  not as a statesman  (which did not\nsound _  propos_),  but simply as a man, and a good-hearted man and a\nChristian. You must have pity on her,  he said.\n\n That is, in what way precisely?  Karenin said softly.\n\n Yes, pity on her. If you had seen her as I have! I have been spending\nall the winter with her you would have pity on her. Her position is\nawful, simply awful! \n\n I had imagined,  answered Alexey Alexandrovitch in a higher, almost\nshrill voice,  that Anna Arkadyevna had everything she had desired for\nherself. \n\n Oh, Alexey Alexandrovitch, for heaven s sake, don t let us indulge in\nrecriminations! What is past is past, and you know what she wants and\nis waiting for divorce. \n\n But I believe Anna Arkadyevna refuses a divorce, if I make it a\ncondition to leave me my son. I replied in that sense, and supposed\nthat the matter was ended. I consider it at an end,  shrieked Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.\n\n But, for heaven s sake, don t get hot!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\ntouching his brother-in-law s knee.  The matter is not ended. If you\nwill allow me to recapitulate, it was like this: when you parted, you\nwere as magnanimous as could possibly be; you were ready to give her\neverything freedom, divorce even. She appreciated that. No, don t think\nthat. She did appreciate it to such a degree that at the first moment,\nfeeling how she had wronged you, she did not consider and could not\nconsider everything. She gave up everything. But experience, time, have\nshown that her position is unbearable, impossible. \n\n The life of Anna Arkadyevna can have no interest for me,  Alexey\nAlexandrovitch put in, lifting his eyebrows.\n\n Allow me to disbelieve that,  Stepan Arkadyevitch replied gently.  Her\nposition is intolerable for her, and of no benefit to anyone whatever.\nShe has deserved it, you will say. She knows that and asks you for\nnothing; she says plainly that she dare not ask you. But I, all of us,\nher relatives, all who love her, beg you, entreat you. Why should she\nsuffer? Who is any the better for it? \n\n Excuse me, you seem to put me in the position of the guilty party, \nobserved Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n Oh, no, oh, no, not at all! please understand me,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, touching his hand again, as though feeling sure this\nphysical contact would soften his brother-in-law.  All I say is this:\nher position is intolerable, and it might be alleviated by you, and you\nwill lose nothing by it. I will arrange it all for you, so that you ll\nnot notice it. You did promise it, you know. \n\n The promise was given before. And I had supposed that the question of\nmy son had settled the matter. Besides, I had hoped that Anna\nArkadyevna had enough generosity....  Alexey Alexandrovitch articulated\nwith difficulty, his lips twitching and his face white.\n\n She leaves it all to your generosity. She begs, she implores one thing\nof you to extricate her from the impossible position in which she is\nplaced. She does not ask for her son now. Alexey Alexandrovitch, you\nare a good man. Put yourself in her position for a minute. The question\nof divorce for her in her position is a question of life and death. If\nyou had not promised it once, she would have reconciled herself to her\nposition, she would have gone on living in the country. But you\npromised it, and she wrote to you, and moved to Moscow. And here she s\nbeen for six months in Moscow, where every chance meeting cuts her to\nthe heart, every day expecting an answer. Why, it s like keeping a\ncondemned criminal for six months with the rope round his neck,\npromising him perhaps death, perhaps mercy. Have pity on her, and I\nwill undertake to arrange everything. _Vos scrupules_.... \n\n I am not talking about that, about that....  Alexey Alexandrovitch\ninterrupted with disgust.  But, perhaps, I promised what I had no right\nto promise. \n\n So you go back from your promise? \n\n I have never refused to do all that is possible, but I want time to\nconsider how much of what I promised is possible. \n\n No, Alexey Alexandrovitch!  cried Oblonsky, jumping up,  I won t\nbelieve that! She s unhappy as only an unhappy woman can be, and you\ncannot refuse in such.... \n\n As much of what I promised as is possible. _Vous professez d tre\nlibre penseur._ But I as a believer cannot, in a matter of such\ngravity, act in opposition to the Christian law. \n\n But in Christian societies and among us, as far as I m aware, divorce\nis allowed,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Divorce is sanctioned even by\nour church. And we see.... \n\n It is allowed, but not in the sense.... \n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch, you are not like yourself,  said Oblonsky,\nafter a brief pause.  Wasn t it you (and didn t we all appreciate it in\nyou?) who forgave everything, and moved simply by Christian feeling was\nready to make any sacrifice? You said yourself: if a man take thy coat,\ngive him thy cloak also, and now.... \n\n I beg,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch shrilly, getting suddenly onto his\nfeet, his face white and his jaws twitching,  I beg you to drop this\n... to drop ... this subject! \n\n Oh, no! Oh, forgive me, forgive me if I have wounded you,  said Stepan\nArkadyevitch, holding out his hand with a smile of embarrassment;  but\nlike a messenger I have simply performed the commission given me. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch gave him his hand, pondered a little, and said:\n\n I must think it over and seek for guidance. The day after tomorrow I\nwill give you a final answer,  he said, after considering a moment.\n\n\nChapter 19\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was about to go away when Korney came in to\nannounce:\n\n Sergey Alexyevitch! \n\n Who s Sergey Alexyevitch?  Stepan Arkadyevitch was beginning, but he\nremembered immediately.\n\n Ah, Seryozha!  he said aloud.  Sergey Alexyevitch! I thought it was\nthe director of a department. Anna asked me to see him too,  he\nthought.\n\nAnd he recalled the timid, piteous expression with which Anna had said\nto him at parting:  Anyway, you will see him. Find out exactly where he\nis, who is looking after him. And Stiva ... if it were possible! Could\nit be possible?  Stepan Arkadyevitch knew what was meant by that  if it\nwere possible, if it were possible to arrange the divorce so as to let\nher have her son.... Stepan Arkadyevitch saw now that it was no good to\ndream of that, but still he was glad to see his nephew.\n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch reminded his brother-in-law that they never spoke\nto the boy of his mother, and he begged him not to mention a single\nword about her.\n\n He was very ill after that interview with his mother, which we had not\nforeseen,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch.  Indeed, we feared for his life.\nBut with rational treatment, and sea-bathing in the summer, he regained\nhis strength, and now, by the doctor s advice, I have let him go to\nschool. And certainly the companionship of school has had a good effect\non him, and he is perfectly well, and making good progress. \n\n What a fine fellow he s grown! He s not Seryozha now, but quite\nfull-fledged Sergey Alexyevitch!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling, as\nhe looked at the handsome, broad-shouldered lad in blue coat and long\ntrousers, who walked in alertly and confidently. The boy looked healthy\nand good-humored. He bowed to his uncle as to a stranger, but\nrecognizing him, he blushed and turned hurriedly away from him, as\nthough offended and irritated at something. The boy went up to his\nfather and handed him a note of the marks he had gained in school.\n\n Well, that s very fair,  said his father,  you can go. \n\n He s thinner and taller, and has grown out of being a child into a\nboy; I like that,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Do you remember me? \n\nThe boy looked back quickly at his uncle.\n\n Yes, _mon oncle_,  he answered, glancing at his father, and again he\nlooked downcast.\n\nHis uncle called him to him, and took his hand.\n\n Well, and how are you getting on?  he said, wanting to talk to him,\nand not knowing what to say.\n\nThe boy, blushing and making no answer, cautiously drew his hand away.\nAs soon as Stepan Arkadyevitch let go his hand, he glanced doubtfully\nat his father, and like a bird set free, he darted out of the room.\n\nA year had passed since the last time Seryozha had seen his mother.\nSince then he had heard nothing more of her. And in the course of that\nyear he had gone to school, and made friends among his schoolfellows.\nThe dreams and memories of his mother, which had made him ill after\nseeing her, did not occupy his thoughts now. When they came back to\nhim, he studiously drove them away, regarding them as shameful and\ngirlish, below the dignity of a boy and a schoolboy. He knew that his\nfather and mother were separated by some quarrel, he knew that he had\nto remain with his father, and he tried to get used to that idea.\n\nHe disliked seeing his uncle, so like his mother, for it called up\nthose memories of which he was ashamed. He disliked it all the more as\nfrom some words he had caught as he waited at the study door, and still\nmore from the faces of his father and uncle, he guessed that they must\nhave been talking of his mother. And to avoid condemning the father\nwith whom he lived and on whom he was dependent, and, above all, to\navoid giving way to sentimentality, which he considered so degrading,\nSeryozha tried not to look at his uncle who had come to disturb his\npeace of mind, and not to think of what he recalled to him.\n\nBut when Stepan Arkadyevitch, going out after him, saw him on the\nstairs, and calling to him, asked him how he spent his playtime at\nschool, Seryozha talked more freely to him away from his father s\npresence.\n\n We have a railway now,  he said in answer to his uncle s question.\n It s like this, do you see: two sit on a bench they re the passengers;\nand one stands up straight on the bench. And all are harnessed to it by\ntheir arms or by their belts, and they run through all the rooms the\ndoors are left open beforehand. Well, and it s pretty hard work being\nthe conductor! \n\n That s the one that stands?  Stepan Arkadyevitch inquired, smiling.\n\n Yes, you want pluck for it, and cleverness too, especially when they\nstop all of a sudden, or someone falls down. \n\n Yes, that must be a serious matter,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nwatching with mournful interest the eager eyes, like his mother s; not\nchildish now no longer fully innocent. And though he had promised\nAlexey Alexandrovitch not to speak of Anna, he could not restrain\nhimself.\n\n Do you remember your mother?  he asked suddenly.\n\n No, I don t,  Seryozha said quickly. He blushed crimson, and his face\nclouded over. And his uncle could get nothing more out of him. His\ntutor found his pupil on the staircase half an hour later, and for a\nlong while he could not make out whether he was ill-tempered or crying.\n\n What is it? I expect you hurt yourself when you fell down?  said the\ntutor.  I told you it was a dangerous game. And we shall have to speak\nto the director. \n\n If I had hurt myself, nobody should have found it out, that s\ncertain. \n\n Well, what is it, then? \n\n Leave me alone! If I remember, or if I don t remember?... what\nbusiness is it of his? Why should I remember? Leave me in peace!  he\nsaid, addressing not his tutor, but the whole world.\n\n\nChapter 20\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch, as usual, did not waste his time in Petersburg. In\nPetersburg, besides business, his sister s divorce, and his coveted\nappointment, he wanted, as he always did, to freshen himself up, as he\nsaid, after the mustiness of Moscow.\n\nIn spite of its _caf s chantants_ and its omnibuses, Moscow was yet a\nstagnant bog. Stepan Arkadyevitch always felt it. After living for some\ntime in Moscow, especially in close relations with his family, he was\nconscious of a depression of spirits. After being a long time in Moscow\nwithout a change, he reached a point when he positively began to be\nworrying himself over his wife s ill-humor and reproaches, over his\nchildren s health and education, and the petty details of his official\nwork; even the fact of being in debt worried him. But he had only to go\nand stay a little while in Petersburg, in the circle there in which he\nmoved, where people lived really lived instead of vegetating as in\nMoscow, and all such ideas vanished and melted away at once, like wax\nbefore the fire. His wife?... Only that day he had been talking to\nPrince Tchetchensky. Prince Tchetchensky had a wife and family,\ngrown-up pages in the corps, ... and he had another illegitimate family\nof children also. Though the first family was very nice too, Prince\nTchetchensky felt happier in his second family; and he used to take his\neldest son with him to his second family, and told Stepan Arkadyevitch\nthat he thought it good for his son, enlarging his ideas. What would\nhave been said to that in Moscow?\n\nHis children? In Petersburg children did not prevent their parents from\nenjoying life. The children were brought up in schools, and there was\nno trace of the wild idea that prevailed in Moscow, in Lvov s\nhousehold, for instance, that all the luxuries of life were for the\nchildren, while the parents have nothing but work and anxiety. Here\npeople understood that a man is in duty bound to live for himself, as\nevery man of culture should live.\n\nHis official duties? Official work here was not the stiff, hopeless\ndrudgery that it was in Moscow. Here there was some interest in\nofficial life. A chance meeting, a service rendered, a happy phrase, a\nknack of facetious mimicry, and a man s career might be made in a\ntrice. So it had been with Bryantsev, whom Stepan Arkadyevitch had met\nthe previous day, and who was one of the highest functionaries in\ngovernment now. There was some interest in official work like that.\n\nThe Petersburg attitude on pecuniary matters had an especially soothing\neffect on Stepan Arkadyevitch. Bartnyansky, who must spend at least\nfifty thousand to judge by the style he lived in, had made an\ninteresting comment the day before on that subject.\n\nAs they were talking before dinner, Stepan Arkadyevitch said to\nBartnyansky:\n\n You re friendly, I fancy, with Mordvinsky; you might do me a favor:\nsay a word to him, please, for me. There s an appointment I should like\nto get secretary of the agency.... \n\n Oh, I shan t remember all that, if you tell it to me.... But what\npossesses you to have to do with railways and Jews?... Take it as you\nwill, it s a low business. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch did not say to Bartnyansky that it was a  growing\nthing Bartnyansky would not have understood that.\n\n I want the money, I ve nothing to live on. \n\n You re living, aren t you? \n\n Yes, but in debt. \n\n Are you, though? Heavily?  said Bartnyansky sympathetically.\n\n Very heavily: twenty thousand. \n\nBartnyansky broke into good-humored laughter.\n\n Oh, lucky fellow!  said he.  My debts mount up to a million and a\nhalf, and I ve nothing, and still I can live, as you see! \n\nAnd Stepan Arkadyevitch saw the correctness of this view not in words\nonly but in actual fact. Zhivahov owed three hundred thousand, and\nhadn t a farthing to bless himself with, and he lived, and in style\ntoo! Count Krivtsov was considered a hopeless case by everyone, and yet\nhe kept two mistresses. Petrovsky had run through five millions, and\nstill lived in just the same style, and was even a manager in the\nfinancial department with a salary of twenty thousand. But besides\nthis, Petersburg had physically an agreeable effect on Stepan\nArkadyevitch. It made him younger. In Moscow he sometimes found a gray\nhair in his head, dropped asleep after dinner, stretched, walked slowly\nupstairs, breathing heavily, was bored by the society of young women,\nand did not dance at balls. In Petersburg he always felt ten years\nyounger.\n\nHis experience in Petersburg was exactly what had been described to him\non the previous day by Prince Pyotr Oblonsky, a man of sixty, who had\njust come back from abroad:\n\n We don t know the way to live here,  said Pyotr Oblonsky.  I spent the\nsummer in Baden, and you wouldn t believe it, I felt quite a young man.\nAt a glimpse of a pretty woman, my thoughts.... One dines and drinks a\nglass of wine, and feels strong and ready for anything. I came home to\nRussia had to see my wife, and, what s more, go to my country place;\nand there, you d hardly believe it, in a fortnight I d got into a\ndressing gown and given up dressing for dinner. Needn t say I had no\nthoughts left for pretty women. I became quite an old gentleman. There\nwas nothing left for me but to think of my eternal salvation. I went\noff to Paris I was as right as could be at once. \n\nStepan Arkadyevitch felt exactly the difference that Pyotr Oblonsky\ndescribed. In Moscow he degenerated so much that if he had had to be\nthere for long together, he might in good earnest have come to\nconsidering his salvation; in Petersburg he felt himself a man of the\nworld again.\n\nBetween Princess Betsy Tverskaya and Stepan Arkadyevitch there had long\nexisted rather curious relations. Stepan Arkadyevitch always flirted\nwith her in jest, and used to say to her, also in jest, the most\nunseemly things, knowing that nothing delighted her so much. The day\nafter his conversation with Karenin, Stepan Arkadyevitch went to see\nher, and felt so youthful that in this jesting flirtation and nonsense\nhe recklessly went so far that he did not know how to extricate\nhimself, as unluckily he was so far from being attracted by her that he\nthought her positively disagreeable. What made it hard to change the\nconversation was the fact that he was very attractive to her. So that\nhe was considerably relieved at the arrival of Princess Myakaya, which\ncut short their _t te- -t te_.\n\n Ah, so you re here!  said she when she saw him.  Well, and what news\nof your poor sister? You needn t look at me like that,  she added.\n Ever since they ve all turned against her, all those who re a thousand\ntimes worse than she, I ve thought she did a very fine thing. I can t\nforgive Vronsky for not letting me know when she was in Petersburg. I d\nhave gone to see her and gone about with her everywhere. Please give\nher my love. Come, tell me about her. \n\n Yes, her position is very difficult; she....  began Stepan\nArkadyevitch, in the simplicity of his heart accepting as sterling coin\nPrincess Myakaya s words  tell me about her.  Princess Myakaya\ninterrupted him immediately, as she always did, and began talking\nherself.\n\n She s done what they all do, except me only they hide it. But she\nwouldn t be deceitful, and she did a fine thing. And she did better\nstill in throwing up that crazy brother-in-law of yours. You must\nexcuse me. Everybody used to say he was so clever, so very clever; I\nwas the only one that said he was a fool. Now that he s so thick with\nLidia Ivanovna and Landau, they all say he s crazy, and I should prefer\nnot to agree with everybody, but this time I can t help it. \n\n Oh, do please explain,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch;  what does it mean?\nYesterday I was seeing him on my sister s behalf, and I asked him to\ngive me a final answer. He gave me no answer, and said he would think\nit over. But this morning, instead of an answer, I received an\ninvitation from Countess Lidia Ivanovna for this evening. \n\n Ah, so that s it, that s it!  said Princess Myakaya gleefully,\n they re going to ask Landau what he s to say. \n\n Ask Landau? What for? Who or what s Landau? \n\n What! you don t know Jules Landau, _le fameux Jules Landau, le\nclairvoyant_? He s crazy too, but on him your sister s fate depends.\nSee what comes of living in the provinces you know nothing about\nanything. Landau, do you see, was a _commis_ in a shop in Paris, and he\nwent to a doctor s; and in the doctor s waiting room he fell asleep,\nand in his sleep he began giving advice to all the patients. And\nwonderful advice it was! Then the wife of Yury Meledinsky you know, the\ninvalid? heard of this Landau, and had him to see her husband. And he\ncured her husband, though I can t say that I see he did him much good,\nfor he s just as feeble a creature as ever he was, but they believed in\nhim, and took him along with them and brought him to Russia. Here\nthere s been a general rush to him, and he s begun doctoring everyone.\nHe cured Countess Bezzubova, and she took such a fancy to him that she\nadopted him. \n\n Adopted him? \n\n Yes, as her son. He s not Landau any more now, but Count Bezzubov.\nThat s neither here nor there, though; but Lidia I m very fond of her,\nbut she has a screw loose somewhere has lost her heart to this Landau\nnow, and nothing is settled now in her house or Alexey Alexandrovitch s\nwithout him, and so your sister s fate is now in the hands of Landau,\n_alias_ Count Bezzubov. \n\n\nChapter 21\n\nAfter a capital dinner and a great deal of cognac drunk at\nBartnyansky s, Stepan Arkadyevitch, only a little later than the\nappointed time, went in to Countess Lidia Ivanovna s.\n\n Who else is with the countess? a Frenchman?  Stepan Arkadyevitch asked\nthe hall-porter, as he glanced at the familiar overcoat of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch and a queer, rather artless-looking overcoat with\nclasps.\n\n Alexey Alexandrovitch Karenin and Count Bezzubov,  the porter answered\nseverely.\n\n Princess Myakaya guessed right,  thought Stepan Arkadyevitch, as he\nwent upstairs.  Curious! It would be quite as well, though, to get on\nfriendly terms with her. She has immense influence. If she would say a\nword to Pomorsky, the thing would be a certainty. \n\nIt was still quite light out-of-doors, but in Countess Lidia Ivanovna s\nlittle drawing-room the blinds were drawn and the lamps lighted. At a\nround table under a lamp sat the countess and Alexey Alexandrovitch,\ntalking softly. A short, thinnish man, very pale and handsome, with\nfeminine hips and knock-kneed legs, with fine brilliant eyes and long\nhair lying on the collar of his coat, was standing at the end of the\nroom gazing at the portraits on the wall. After greeting the lady of\nthe house and Alexey Alexandrovitch, Stepan Arkadyevitch could not\nresist glancing once more at the unknown man.\n\n Monsieur Landau!  the countess addressed him with a softness and\ncaution that impressed Oblonsky. And she introduced them.\n\nLandau looked round hurriedly, came up, and smiling, laid his moist,\nlifeless hand in Stepan Arkadyevitch s outstretched hand and\nimmediately walked away and fell to gazing at the portraits again. The\ncountess and Alexey Alexandrovitch looked at each other significantly.\n\n I am very glad to see you, particularly today,  said Countess Lidia\nIvanovna, pointing Stepan Arkadyevitch to a seat beside Karenin.\n\n I introduced you to him as Landau,  she said in a soft voice, glancing\nat the Frenchman and again immediately after at Alexey Alexandrovitch,\n but he is really Count Bezzubov, as you re probably aware. Only he\ndoes not like the title. \n\n Yes, I heard so,  answered Stepan Arkadyevitch;  they say he\ncompletely cured Countess Bezzubova. \n\n She was here today, poor thing!  the countess said, turning to Alexey\nAlexandrovitch.  This separation is awful for her. It s such a blow to\nher! \n\n And he positively is going?  queried Alexey Alexandrovitch.\n\n Yes, he s going to Paris. He heard a voice yesterday,  said Countess\nLidia Ivanovna, looking at Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n Ah, a voice!  repeated Oblonsky, feeling that he must be as\ncircumspect as he possibly could in this society, where something\npeculiar was going on, or was to go on, to which he had not the key.\n\nA moment s silence followed, after which Countess Lidia Ivanovna, as\nthough approaching the main topic of conversation, said with a fine\nsmile to Oblonsky:\n\n I ve known you for a long while, and am very glad to make a closer\nacquaintance with you. _Les amis de nos amis sont nos amis._ But to be\na true friend, one must enter into the spiritual state of one s friend,\nand I fear that you are not doing so in the case of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch. You understand what I mean?  she said, lifting her fine\npensive eyes.\n\n In part, countess, I understand the position of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch....  said Oblonsky. Having no clear idea what they were\ntalking about, he wanted to confine himself to generalities.\n\n The change is not in his external position,  Countess Lidia Ivanovna\nsaid sternly, following with eyes of love the figure of Alexey\nAlexandrovitch as he got up and crossed over to Landau;  his heart is\nchanged, a new heart has been vouchsafed him, and I fear you don t\nfully apprehend the change that has taken place in him. \n\n Oh, well, in general outlines I can conceive the change. We have\nalways been friendly, and now....  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, responding\nwith a sympathetic glance to the expression of the countess, and\nmentally balancing the question with which of the two ministers she was\nmost intimate, so as to know about which to ask her to speak for him.\n\n The change that has taken place in him cannot lessen his love for his\nneighbors; on the contrary, that change can only intensify love in his\nheart. But I am afraid you do not understand me. Won t you have some\ntea?  she said, with her eyes indicating the footman, who was handing\nround tea on a tray.\n\n Not quite, countess. Of course, his misfortune.... \n\n Yes, a misfortune which has proved the highest happiness, when his\nheart was made new, was filled full of it,  she said, gazing with eyes\nfull of love at Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n I do believe I might ask her to speak to both of them,  thought Stepan\nArkadyevitch.\n\n Oh, of course, countess,  he said;  but I imagine such changes are a\nmatter so private that no one, even the most intimate friend, would\ncare to speak of them. \n\n On the contrary! We ought to speak freely and help one another. \n\n Yes, undoubtedly so, but there is such a difference of convictions,\nand besides....  said Oblonsky with a soft smile.\n\n There can be no difference where it is a question of holy truth. \n\n Oh, no, of course; but....  and Stepan Arkadyevitch paused in\nconfusion. He understood at last that they were talking of religion.\n\n I fancy he will fall asleep immediately,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch\nin a whisper full of meaning, going up to Lidia Ivanovna.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch looked round. Landau was sitting at the window,\nleaning on his elbow and the back of his chair, his head drooping.\nNoticing that all eyes were turned on him he raised his head and smiled\na smile of childlike artlessness.\n\n Don t take any notice,  said Lidia Ivanovna, and she lightly moved a\nchair up for Alexey Alexandrovitch.  I have observed....  she was\nbeginning, when a footman came into the room with a letter. Lidia\nIvanovna rapidly ran her eyes over the note, and excusing herself,\nwrote an answer with extraordinary rapidity, handed it to the man, and\ncame back to the table.  I have observed,  she went on,  that Moscow\npeople, especially the men, are more indifferent to religion than\nanyone. \n\n Oh, no, countess, I thought Moscow people had the reputation of being\nthe firmest in the faith,  answered Stepan Arkadyevitch.\n\n But as far as I can make out, you are unfortunately one of the\nindifferent ones,  said Alexey Alexandrovitch, turning to him with a\nweary smile.\n\n How anyone can be indifferent!  said Lidia Ivanovna.\n\n I am not so much indifferent on that subject as I am waiting in\nsuspense,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, with his most deprecating smile.\n I hardly think that the time for such questions has come yet for me. \n\nAlexey Alexandrovitch and Lidia Ivanovna looked at each other.\n\n We can never tell whether the time has come for us or not,  said\nAlexey Alexandrovitch severely.  We ought not to think whether we are\nready or not ready. God s grace is not guided by human considerations:\nsometimes it comes not to those that strive for it, and comes to those\nthat are unprepared, like Saul. \n\n No, I believe it won t be just yet,  said Lidia Ivanovna, who had been\nmeanwhile watching the movements of the Frenchman. Landau got up and\ncame to them.\n\n Do you allow me to listen?  he asked.\n\n Oh, yes; I did not want to disturb you,  said Lidia Ivanovna, gazing\ntenderly at him;  sit here with us. \n\n One has only not to close one s eyes to shut out the light,  Alexey\nAlexandrovitch went on.\n\n Ah, if you knew the happiness we know, feeling His presence ever in\nour hearts!  said Countess Lidia Ivanovna with a rapturous smile.\n\n But a man may feel himself unworthy sometimes to rise to that height, \nsaid Stepan Arkadyevitch, conscious of hypocrisy in admitting this\nreligious height, but at the same time unable to bring himself to\nacknowledge his free-thinking views before a person who, by a single\nword to Pomorsky, might procure him the coveted appointment.\n\n That is, you mean that sin keeps him back?  said Lidia Ivanovna.  But\nthat is a false idea. There is no sin for believers, their sin has been\natoned for. _Pardon,_  she added, looking at the footman, who came in\nagain with another letter. She read it and gave a verbal answer:\n Tomorrow at the Grand Duchess s, say.   For the believer sin is not, \nshe went on.\n\n Yes, but faith without works is dead,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nrecalling the phrase from the catechism, and only by his smile clinging\nto his independence.\n\n There you have it from the epistle of St. James,  said Alexey\nAlexandrovitch, addressing Lidia Ivanovna, with a certain\nreproachfulness in his tone. It was unmistakably a subject they had\ndiscussed more than once before.  What harm has been done by the false\ninterpretation of that passage! Nothing holds men back from belief like\nthat misinterpretation.  I have not works, so I cannot believe,  though\nall the while that is not said. But the very opposite is said. \n\n Striving for God, saving the soul by fasting,  said Countess Lidia\nIvanovna, with disgusted contempt,  those are the crude ideas of our\nmonks.... Yet that is nowhere said. It is far simpler and easier,  she\nadded, looking at Oblonsky with the same encouraging smile with which\nat court she encouraged youthful maids of honor, disconcerted by the\nnew surroundings of the court.\n\n We are saved by Christ who suffered for us. We are saved by faith, \nAlexey Alexandrovitch chimed in, with a glance of approval at her\nwords.\n\n_ Vous comprenez l anglais? _ asked Lidia Ivanovna, and receiving a\nreply in the affirmative, she got up and began looking through a shelf\nof books.\n\n I want to read him  Safe and Happy,  or  Under the Wing,  she said,\nlooking inquiringly at Karenin. And finding the book, and sitting down\nagain in her place, she opened it.  It s very short. In it is described\nthe way by which faith can be reached, and the happiness, above all\nearthly bliss, with which it fills the soul. The believer cannot be\nunhappy because he is not alone. But you will see.  She was just\nsettling herself to read when the footman came in again.  Madame\nBorozdina? Tell her, tomorrow at two o clock. Yes,  she said, putting\nher finger in the place in the book, and gazing before her with her\nfine pensive eyes,  that is how true faith acts. You know Marie Sanina?\nYou know about her trouble? She lost her only child. She was in\ndespair. And what happened? She found this comforter, and she thanks\nGod now for the death of her child. Such is the happiness faith\nbrings! \n\n Oh, yes, that is most....  said Stepan Arkadyevitch, glad they were\ngoing to read, and let him have a chance to collect his faculties.  No,\nI see I d better not ask her about anything today,  he thought.  If\nonly I can get out of this without putting my foot in it! \n\n It will be dull for you,  said Countess Lidia Ivanovna, addressing\nLandau;  you don t know English, but it s short. \n\n Oh, I shall understand,  said Landau, with the same smile, and he\nclosed his eyes. Alexey Alexandrovitch and Lidia Ivanovna exchanged\nmeaningful glances, and the reading began.\n\n\nChapter 22\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch felt completely nonplussed by the strange talk\nwhich he was hearing for the first time. The complexity of Petersburg,\nas a rule, had a stimulating effect on him, rousing him out of his\nMoscow stagnation. But he liked these complications, and understood\nthem only in the circles he knew and was at home in. In these\nunfamiliar surroundings he was puzzled and disconcerted, and could not\nget his bearings. As he listened to Countess Lidia Ivanovna, aware of\nthe beautiful, artless or perhaps artful, he could not decide\nwhich eyes of Landau fixed upon him, Stepan Arkadyevitch began to be\nconscious of a peculiar heaviness in his head.\n\nThe most incongruous ideas were in confusion in his head.  Marie Sanina\nis glad her child s dead.... How good a smoke would be now!... To be\nsaved, one need only believe, and the monks don t know how the thing s\nto be done, but Countess Lidia Ivanovna does know.... And why is my\nhead so heavy? Is it the cognac, or all this being so queer? Anyway, I\nfancy I ve done nothing unsuitable so far. But anyway, it won t do to\nask her now. They say they make one say one s prayers. I only hope they\nwon t make me! That ll be too imbecile. And what stuff it is she s\nreading! but she has a good accent. Landau Bezzubov what s he Bezzubov\nfor?  All at once Stepan Arkadyevitch became aware that his lower jaw\nwas uncontrollably forming a yawn. He pulled his whiskers to cover the\nyawn, and shook himself together. But soon after he became aware that\nhe was dropping asleep and on the very point of snoring. He recovered\nhimself at the very moment when the voice of Countess Lidia Ivanovna\nwas saying  he s asleep.  Stepan Arkadyevitch started with dismay,\nfeeling guilty and caught. But he was reassured at once by seeing that\nthe words  he s asleep  referred not to him, but to Landau. The\nFrenchman was asleep as well as Stepan Arkadyevitch. But Stepan\nArkadyevitch s being asleep would have offended them, as he thought\n(though even this, he thought, might not be so, as everything seemed so\nqueer), while Landau s being asleep delighted them extremely,\nespecially Countess Lidia Ivanovna.\n\n_ Mon ami, _ said Lidia Ivanovna, carefully holding the folds of her\nsilk gown so as not to rustle, and in her excitement calling Karenin\nnot Alexey Alexandrovitch, but _ mon ami,   donnez-lui la main. Vous\nvoyez?_ Sh!  she hissed at the footman as he came in again.  Not at\nhome. \n\nThe Frenchman was asleep, or pretending to be asleep, with his head on\nthe back of his chair, and his moist hand, as it lay on his knee, made\nfaint movements, as though trying to catch something. Alexey\nAlexandrovitch got up, tried to move carefully, but stumbled against\nthe table, went up and laid his hand in the Frenchman s hand. Stepan\nArkadyevitch got up too, and opening his eyes wide, trying to wake\nhimself up if he were asleep, he looked first at one and then at the\nother. It was all real. Stepan Arkadyevitch felt that his head was\ngetting worse and worse.\n\n _Que la personne qui est arriv e la derni re, celle qui demande,\nqu elle sorte! Qu elle sorte!_  articulated the Frenchman, without\nopening his eyes.\n\n _Vous m excuserez, mais vous voyez.... Revenez vers dix heures, encore\nmieux demain._ \n\n _Qu elle sorte!_  repeated the Frenchman impatiently.\n\n _C est moi, n est-ce pas?_  And receiving an answer in the\naffirmative, Stepan Arkadyevitch, forgetting the favor he had meant to\nask of Lidia Ivanovna, and forgetting his sister s affairs, caring for\nnothing, but filled with the sole desire to get away as soon as\npossible, went out on tiptoe and ran out into the street as though from\na plague-stricken house. For a long while he chatted and joked with his\ncab-driver, trying to recover his spirits.\n\nAt the French theater where he arrived for the last act, and afterwards\nat the Tatar restaurant after his champagne, Stepan Arkadyevitch felt a\nlittle refreshed in the atmosphere he was used to. But still he felt\nquite unlike himself all that evening.\n\nOn getting home to Pyotr Oblonsky s, where he was staying, Stepan\nArkadyevitch found a note from Betsy. She wrote to him that she was\nvery anxious to finish their interrupted conversation, and begged him\nto come next day. He had scarcely read this note, and frowned at its\ncontents, when he heard below the ponderous tramp of the servants,\ncarrying something heavy.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch went out to look. It was the rejuvenated Pyotr\nOblonsky. He was so drunk that he could not walk upstairs; but he told\nthem to set him on his legs when he saw Stepan Arkadyevitch, and\nclinging to him, walked with him into his room and there began telling\nhim how he had spent the evening, and fell asleep doing so.\n\nStepan Arkadyevitch was in very low spirits, which happened rarely with\nhim, and for a long while he could not go to sleep. Everything he could\nrecall to his mind, everything was disgusting; but most disgusting of\nall, as if it were something shameful, was the memory of the evening he\nhad spent at Countess Lidia Ivanovna s.\n\nNext day he received from Alexey Alexandrovitch a final answer,\nrefusing to grant Anna s divorce, and he understood that this decision\nwas based on what the Frenchman had said in his real or pretended\ntrance.\n\n\nChapter 23\n\nIn order to carry through any undertaking in family life, there must\nnecessarily be either complete division between the husband and wife,\nor loving agreement. When the relations of a couple are vacillating and\nneither one thing nor the other, no sort of enterprise can be\nundertaken.\n\nMany families remain for years in the same place, though both husband\nand wife are sick of it, simply because there is neither complete\ndivision nor agreement between them.\n\nBoth Vronsky and Anna felt life in Moscow insupportable in the heat and\ndust, when the spring sunshine was followed by the glare of summer, and\nall the trees in the boulevards had long since been in full leaf, and\nthe leaves were covered with dust. But they did not go back to\nVozdvizhenskoe, as they had arranged to do long before; they went on\nstaying in Moscow, though they both loathed it, because of late there\nhad been no agreement between them.\n\nThe irritability that kept them apart had no external cause, and all\nefforts to come to an understanding intensified it, instead of removing\nit. It was an inner irritation, grounded in her mind on the conviction\nthat his love had grown less; in his, on regret that he had put himself\nfor her sake in a difficult position, which she, instead of lightening,\nmade still more difficult. Neither of them gave full utterance to their\nsense of grievance, but they considered each other in the wrong, and\ntried on every pretext to prove this to one another.\n\nIn her eyes the whole of him, with all his habits, ideas, desires, with\nall his spiritual and physical temperament, was one thing love for\nwomen, and that love, she felt, ought to be entirely concentrated on\nher alone. That love was less; consequently, as she reasoned, he must\nhave transferred part of his love to other women or to another\nwoman and she was jealous. She was jealous not of any particular woman\nbut of the decrease of his love. Not having got an object for her\njealousy, she was on the lookout for it. At the slightest hint she\ntransferred her jealousy from one object to another. At one time she\nwas jealous of those low women with whom he might so easily renew his\nold bachelor ties; then she was jealous of the society women he might\nmeet; then she was jealous of the imaginary girl whom he might want to\nmarry, for whose sake he would break with her. And this last form of\njealousy tortured her most of all, especially as he had unwarily told\nher, in a moment of frankness, that his mother knew him so little that\nshe had had the audacity to try and persuade him to marry the young\nPrincess Sorokina.\n\nAnd being jealous of him, Anna was indignant against him and found\ngrounds for indignation in everything. For everything that was\ndifficult in her position she blamed him. The agonizing condition of\nsuspense she had passed in Moscow, the tardiness and indecision of\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, her solitude she put it all down to him. If he\nhad loved her he would have seen all the bitterness of her position,\nand would have rescued her from it. For her being in Moscow and not in\nthe country, he was to blame too. He could not live buried in the\ncountry as she would have liked to do. He must have society, and he had\nput her in this awful position, the bitterness of which he would not\nsee. And again, it was his fault that she was forever separated from\nher son.\n\nEven the rare moments of tenderness that came from time to time did not\nsoothe her; in his tenderness now she saw a shade of complacency, of\nself-confidence, which had not been of old, and which exasperated her.\n\nIt was dusk. Anna was alone, and waiting for him to come back from a\nbachelor dinner. She walked up and down in his study (the room where\nthe noise from the street was least heard), and thought over every\ndetail of their yesterday s quarrel. Going back from the\nwell-remembered, offensive words of the quarrel to what had been the\nground of it, she arrived at last at its origin. For a long while she\ncould hardly believe that their dissension had arisen from a\nconversation so inoffensive, of so little moment to either. But so it\nactually had been. It all arose from his laughing at the girls  high\nschools, declaring they were useless, while she defended them. He had\nspoken slightingly of women s education in general, and had said that\nHannah, Anna s English prot g e, had not the slightest need to know\nanything of physics.\n\nThis irritated Anna. She saw in this a contemptuous reference to her\noccupations. And she bethought her of a phrase to pay him back for the\npain he had given her.  I don t expect you to understand me, my\nfeelings, as anyone who loved me might, but simple delicacy I did\nexpect,  she said.\n\nAnd he had actually flushed with vexation, and had said something\nunpleasant. She could not recall her answer, but at that point, with an\nunmistakable desire to wound her too, he had said:\n\n I feel no interest in your infatuation over this girl, that s true,\nbecause I see it s unnatural. \n\nThe cruelty with which he shattered the world she had built up for\nherself so laboriously to enable her to endure her hard life, the\ninjustice with which he had accused her of affectation, of\nartificiality, aroused her.\n\n I am very sorry that nothing but what s coarse and material is\ncomprehensible and natural to you,  she said and walked out of the\nroom.\n\nWhen he had come in to her yesterday evening, they had not referred to\nthe quarrel, but both felt that the quarrel had been smoothed over, but\nwas not at an end.\n\nToday he had not been at home all day, and she felt so lonely and\nwretched in being on bad terms with him that she wanted to forget it\nall, to forgive him, and be reconciled with him; she wanted to throw\nthe blame on herself and to justify him.\n\n I am myself to blame. I m irritable, I m insanely jealous. I will make\nit up with him, and we ll go away to the country; there I shall be more\nat peace. \n\n Unnatural!  She suddenly recalled the word that had stung her most of\nall, not so much the word itself as the intent to wound her with which\nit was said.  I know what he meant; he meant unnatural, not loving my\nown daughter, to love another person s child. What does he know of love\nfor children, of my love for Seryozha, whom I ve sacrificed for him?\nBut that wish to wound me! No, he loves another woman, it must be so. \n\nAnd perceiving that, while trying to regain her peace of mind, she had\ngone round the same circle that she had been round so often before, and\nhad come back to her former state of exasperation, she was horrified at\nherself.  Can it be impossible? Can it be beyond me to control myself? \nshe said to herself, and began again from the beginning.  He s\ntruthful, he s honest, he loves me. I love him, and in a few days the\ndivorce will come. What more do I want? I want peace of mind and trust,\nand I will take the blame on myself. Yes, now when he comes in, I will\ntell him I was wrong, though I was not wrong, and we will go away\ntomorrow. \n\nAnd to escape thinking any more, and being overcome by irritability,\nshe rang, and ordered the boxes to be brought up for packing their\nthings for the country.\n\nAt ten o clock Vronsky came in.\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n Well, was it nice?  she asked, coming out to meet him with a penitent\nand meek expression.\n\n Just as usual,  he answered, seeing at a glance that she was in one of\nher good moods. He was used by now to these transitions, and he was\nparticularly glad to see it today, as he was in a specially good humor\nhimself.\n\n What do I see? Come, that s good!  he said, pointing to the boxes in\nthe passage.\n\n Yes, we must go. I went out for a drive, and it was so fine I longed\nto be in the country. There s nothing to keep you, is there? \n\n It s the one thing I desire. I ll be back directly, and we ll talk it\nover; I only want to change my coat. Order some tea. \n\nAnd he went into his room.\n\nThere was something mortifying in the way he had said  Come, that s\ngood,  as one says to a child when it leaves off being naughty, and\nstill more mortifying was the contrast between her penitent and his\nself-confident tone; and for one instant she felt the lust of strife\nrising up in her again, but making an effort she conquered it, and met\nVronsky as good-humoredly as before.\n\nWhen he came in she told him, partly repeating phrases she had prepared\nbeforehand, how she had spent the day, and her plans for going away.\n\n You know it came to me almost like an inspiration,  she said.  Why\nwait here for the divorce? Won t it be just the same in the country? I\ncan t wait any longer! I don t want to go on hoping, I don t want to\nhear anything about the divorce. I have made up my mind it shall not\nhave any more influence on my life. Do you agree? \n\n Oh, yes!  he said, glancing uneasily at her excited face.\n\n What did you do? Who was there?  she said, after a pause.\n\nVronsky mentioned the names of the guests.  The dinner was first rate,\nand the boat race, and it was all pleasant enough, but in Moscow they\ncan never do anything without something _ridicule_. A lady of a sort\nappeared on the scene, teacher of swimming to the Queen of Sweden, and\ngave us an exhibition of her skill. \n\n How? did she swim?  asked Anna, frowning.\n\n In an absurd red _costume de natation;_ she was old and hideous too.\nSo when shall we go? \n\n What an absurd fancy! Why, did she swim in some special way, then? \nsaid Anna, not answering.\n\n There was absolutely nothing in it. That s just what I say, it was\nawfully stupid. Well, then, when do you think of going? \n\nAnna shook her head as though trying to drive away some unpleasant\nidea.\n\n When? Why, the sooner the better! By tomorrow we shan t be ready. The\nday after tomorrow. \n\n Yes ... oh, no, wait a minute! The day after tomorrow s Sunday, I have\nto be at maman s,  said Vronsky, embarrassed, because as soon as he\nuttered his mother s name he was aware of her intent, suspicious eyes.\nHis embarrassment confirmed her suspicion. She flushed hotly and drew\naway from him. It was now not the Queen of Sweden s swimming-mistress\nwho filled Anna s imagination, but the young Princess Sorokina. She was\nstaying in a village near Moscow with Countess Vronskaya.\n\n Can t you go tomorrow?  she said.\n\n Well, no! The deeds and the money for the business I m going there for\nI can t get by tomorrow,  he answered.\n\n If so, we won t go at all. \n\n But why so? \n\n I shall not go later. Monday or never! \n\n What for?  said Vronsky, as though in amazement.  Why, there s no\nmeaning in it! \n\n There s no meaning in it to you, because you care nothing for me. You\ndon t care to understand my life. The one thing that I cared for here\nwas Hannah. You say it s affectation. Why, you said yesterday that I\ndon t love my daughter, that I love this English girl, that it s\nunnatural. I should like to know what life there is for me that could\nbe natural! \n\nFor an instant she had a clear vision of what she was doing, and was\nhorrified at how she had fallen away from her resolution. But even\nthough she knew it was her own ruin, she could not restrain herself,\ncould not keep herself from proving to him that he was wrong, could not\ngive way to him.\n\n I never said that; I said I did not sympathize with this sudden\npassion. \n\n How is it, though you boast of your straightforwardness, you don t\ntell the truth? \n\n I never boast, and I never tell lies,  he said slowly, restraining his\nrising anger.  It s a great pity if you can t respect.... \n\n Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be.\nAnd if you don t love me any more, it would be better and more honest\nto say so. \n\n No, this is becoming unbearable!  cried Vronsky, getting up from his\nchair; and stopping short, facing her, he said, speaking deliberately:\n What do you try my patience for?  looking as though he might have said\nmuch more, but was restraining himself.  It has limits. \n\n What do you mean by that?  she cried, looking with terror at the\nundisguised hatred in his whole face, and especially in his cruel,\nmenacing eyes.\n\n I mean to say....  he was beginning, but he checked himself.  I must\nask what it is you want of me? \n\n What can I want? All I can want is that you should not desert me, as\nyou think of doing,  she said, understanding all he had not uttered.\n But that I don t want; that s secondary. I want love, and there is\nnone. So then all is over. \n\nShe turned towards the door.\n\n Stop! sto-op!  said Vronsky, with no change in the gloomy lines of his\nbrows, though he held her by the hand.  What is it all about? I said\nthat we must put off going for three days, and on that you told me I\nwas lying, that I was not an honorable man. \n\n Yes, and I repeat that the man who reproaches me with having\nsacrificed everything for me,  she said, recalling the words of a still\nearlier quarrel,  that he s worse than a dishonorable man he s a\nheartless man. \n\n Oh, there are limits to endurance!  he cried, and hastily let go her\nhand.\n\n He hates me, that s clear,  she thought, and in silence, without\nlooking round, she walked with faltering steps out of the room.  He\nloves another woman, that s even clearer,  she said to herself as she\nwent into her own room.  I want love, and there is none. So, then, all\nis over.  She repeated the words she had said,  and it must be ended. \n\n But how?  she asked herself, and she sat down in a low chair before\nthe looking-glass.\n\nThoughts of where she would go now, whether to the aunt who had brought\nher up, to Dolly, or simply alone abroad, and of what _he_ was doing\nnow alone in his study; whether this was the final quarrel, or whether\nreconciliation were still possible; and of what all her old friends at\nPetersburg would say of her now; and of how Alexey Alexandrovitch would\nlook at it, and many other ideas of what would happen now after this\nrupture, came into her head; but she did not give herself up to them\nwith all her heart. At the bottom of her heart was some obscure idea\nthat alone interested her, but she could not get clear sight of it.\nThinking once more of Alexey Alexandrovitch, she recalled the time of\nher illness after her confinement, and the feeling which never left her\nat that time.  Why didn t I die?  and the words and the feeling of that\ntime came back to her. And all at once she knew what was in her soul.\nYes, it was that idea which alone solved all.  Yes, to die!... And the\nshame and disgrace of Alexey Alexandrovitch and of Seryozha, and my\nawful shame, it will all be saved by death. To die! and he will feel\nremorse; will be sorry; will love me; he will suffer on my account. \nWith the trace of a smile of commiseration for herself she sat down in\nthe armchair, taking off and putting on the rings on her left hand,\nvividly picturing from different sides his feelings after her death.\n\nApproaching footsteps his steps distracted her attention. As though\nabsorbed in the arrangement of her rings, she did not even turn to him.\n\nHe went up to her, and taking her by the hand, said softly:\n\n Anna, we ll go the day after tomorrow, if you like. I agree to\neverything. \n\nShe did not speak.\n\n What is it?  he urged.\n\n You know,  she said, and at the same instant, unable to restrain\nherself any longer, she burst into sobs.\n\n Cast me off!  she articulated between her sobs.  I ll go away tomorrow\n... I ll do more. What am I? An immoral woman! A stone round your neck.\nI don t want to make you wretched, I don t want to! I ll set you free.\nYou don t love me; you love someone else! \n\nVronsky besought her to be calm, and declared that there was no trace\nof foundation for her jealousy; that he had never ceased, and never\nwould cease, to love her; that he loved her more than ever.\n\n Anna, why distress yourself and me so?  he said to her, kissing her\nhands. There was tenderness now in his face, and she fancied she caught\nthe sound of tears in his voice, and she felt them wet on her hand. And\ninstantly Anna s despairing jealousy changed to a despairing passion of\ntenderness. She put her arms round him, and covered with kisses his\nhead, his neck, his hands.\n\n\nChapter 25\n\nFeeling that the reconciliation was complete, Anna set eagerly to work\nin the morning preparing for their departure. Though it was not settled\nwhether they should go on Monday or Tuesday, as they had each given way\nto the other, Anna packed busily, feeling absolutely indifferent\nwhether they went a day earlier or later. She was standing in her room\nover an open box, taking things out of it, when he came in to see her\nearlier than usual, dressed to go out.\n\n I m going off at once to see maman; she can send me the money by\nYegorov. And I shall be ready to go tomorrow,  he said.\n\nThough she was in such a good mood, the thought of his visit to his\nmother s gave her a pang.\n\n No, I shan t be ready by then myself,  she said; and at once\nreflected,  so then it was possible to arrange to do as I wished.   No,\ndo as you meant to do. Go into the dining-room, I m coming directly.\nIt s only to turn out those things that aren t wanted,  she said,\nputting something more on the heap of frippery that lay in Annushka s\narms.\n\nVronsky was eating his beefsteak when she came into the dining-room.\n\n You wouldn t believe how distasteful these rooms have become to me, \nshe said, sitting down beside him to her coffee.  There s nothing more\nawful than these _chambres garnies_. There s no individuality in them,\nno soul. These clocks, and curtains, and, worst of all, the\nwallpapers they re a nightmare. I think of Vozdvizhenskoe as the\npromised land. You re not sending the horses off yet? \n\n No, they will come after us. Where are you going to? \n\n I wanted to go to Wilson s to take some dresses to her. So it s really\nto be tomorrow?  she said in a cheerful voice; but suddenly her face\nchanged.\n\nVronsky s valet came in to ask him to sign a receipt for a telegram\nfrom Petersburg. There was nothing out of the way in Vronsky s getting\na telegram, but he said, as though anxious to conceal something from\nher, that the receipt was in his study, and he turned hurriedly to her.\n\n By tomorrow, without fail, I will finish it all. \n\n From whom is the telegram?  she asked, not hearing him.\n\n From Stiva,  he answered reluctantly.\n\n Why didn t you show it to me? What secret can there be between Stiva\nand me? \n\nVronsky called the valet back, and told him to bring the telegram.\n\n I didn t want to show it to you, because Stiva has such a passion for\ntelegraphing: why telegraph when nothing is settled? \n\n About the divorce? \n\n Yes; but he says he has not been able to come at anything yet. He has\npromised a decisive answer in a day or two. But here it is; read it. \n\nWith trembling hands Anna took the telegram, and read what Vronsky had\ntold her. At the end was added:  Little hope; but I will do everything\npossible and impossible. \n\n I said yesterday that it s absolutely nothing to me when I get, or\nwhether I never get, a divorce,  she said, flushing crimson.  There was\nnot the slightest necessity to hide it from me.   So he may hide and\ndoes hide his correspondence with women from me,  she thought.\n\n Yashvin meant to come this morning with Voytov,  said Vronsky;  I\nbelieve he s won from Pyevtsov all and more than he can pay, about\nsixty thousand. \n\n No,  she said, irritated by his so obviously showing by this change of\nsubject that he was irritated,  why did you suppose that this news\nwould affect me so, that you must even try to hide it? I said I don t\nwant to consider it, and I should have liked you to care as little\nabout it as I do. \n\n I care about it because I like definiteness,  he said.\n\n Definiteness is not in the form but the love,  she said, more and more\nirritated, not by his words, but by the tone of cool composure in which\nhe spoke.  What do you want it for? \n\n My God! love again,  he thought, frowning.\n\n Oh, you know what for; for your sake and your children s in the\nfuture. \n\n There won t be children in the future. \n\n That s a great pity,  he said.\n\n You want it for the children s sake, but you don t think of me?  she\nsaid, quite forgetting or not having heard that he had said,  _For your\nsake_ and the children s. \n\nThe question of the possibility of having children had long been a\nsubject of dispute and irritation to her. His desire to have children\nshe interpreted as a proof he did not prize her beauty.\n\n Oh, I said: for your sake. Above all for your sake,  he repeated,\nfrowning as though in pain,  because I am certain that the greater part\nof your irritability comes from the indefiniteness of the position. \n\n Yes, now he has laid aside all pretense, and all his cold hatred for\nme is apparent,  she thought, not hearing his words, but watching with\nterror the cold, cruel judge who looked mocking her out of his eyes.\n\n The cause is not that,  she said,  and, indeed, I don t see how the\ncause of my irritability, as you call it, can be that I am completely\nin your power. What indefiniteness is there in the position? on the\ncontrary.... \n\n I am very sorry that you don t care to understand,  he interrupted,\nobstinately anxious to give utterance to his thought.  The\nindefiniteness consists in your imagining that I am free. \n\n On that score you can set your mind quite at rest,  she said, and\nturning away from him, she began drinking her coffee.\n\nShe lifted her cup, with her little finger held apart, and put it to\nher lips. After drinking a few sips she glanced at him, and by his\nexpression, she saw clearly that he was repelled by her hand, and her\ngesture, and the sound made by her lips.\n\n I don t care in the least what your mother thinks, and what match she\nwants to make for you,  she said, putting the cup down with a shaking\nhand.\n\n But we are not talking about that. \n\n Yes, that s just what we are talking about. And let me tell you that a\nheartless woman, whether she s old or not old, your mother or anyone\nelse, is of no consequence to me, and I would not consent to know her. \n\n Anna, I beg you not to speak disrespectfully of my mother. \n\n A woman whose heart does not tell her where her son s happiness and\nhonor lie has no heart. \n\n I repeat my request that you will not speak disrespectfully of my\nmother, whom I respect,  he said, raising his voice and looking sternly\nat her.\n\nShe did not answer. Looking intently at him, at his face, his hands,\nshe recalled all the details of their reconciliation the previous day,\nand his passionate caresses.  There, just such caresses he has\nlavished, and will lavish, and longs to lavish on other women!  she\nthought.\n\n You don t love your mother. That s all talk, and talk, and talk!  she\nsaid, looking at him with hatred in her eyes.\n\n Even if so, you must.... \n\n Must decide, and I have decided,  she said, and she would have gone\naway, but at that moment Yashvin walked into the room. Anna greeted him\nand remained.\n\nWhy, when there was a tempest in her soul, and she felt she was\nstanding at a turning point in her life, which might have fearful\nconsequences why, at that minute, she had to keep up appearances before\nan outsider, who sooner or later must know it all she did not know. But\nat once quelling the storm within her, she sat down and began talking\nto their guest.\n\n Well, how are you getting on? Has your debt been paid you?  she asked\nYashvin.\n\n Oh, pretty fair; I fancy I shan t get it all, but I shall get a good\nhalf. And when are you off?  said Yashvin, looking at Vronsky, and\nunmistakably guessing at a quarrel.\n\n The day after tomorrow, I think,  said Vronsky.\n\n You ve been meaning to go so long, though. \n\n But now it s quite decided,  said Anna, looking Vronsky straight in\nthe face with a look which told him not to dream of the possibility of\nreconciliation.\n\n Don t you feel sorry for that unlucky Pyevtsov?  she went on, talking\nto Yashvin.\n\n I ve never asked myself the question, Anna Arkadyevna, whether I m\nsorry for him or not. You see, all my fortune s here he touched his\nbreast pocket and just now I m a wealthy man. But today I m going to\nthe club, and I may come out a beggar. You see, whoever sits down to\nplay with me he wants to leave me without a shirt to my back, and so do\nI him. And so we fight it out, and that s the pleasure of it. \n\n Well, but suppose you were married,  said Anna,  how would it be for\nyour wife? \n\nYashvin laughed.\n\n That s why I m not married, and never mean to be. \n\n And Helsingfors?  said Vronsky, entering into the conversation and\nglancing at Anna s smiling face. Meeting his eyes, Anna s face\ninstantly took a coldly severe expression as though she were saying to\nhim:  It s not forgotten. It s all the same. \n\n Were you really in love?  she said to Yashvin.\n\n Oh heavens! ever so many times! But you see, some men can play but\nonly so that they can always lay down their cards when the hour of a\n_rendezvous_ comes, while I can take up love, but only so as not to be\nlate for my cards in the evening. That s how I manage things. \n\n No, I didn t mean that, but the real thing.  She would have said\n_Helsingfors_, but would not repeat the word used by Vronsky.\n\nVoytov, who was buying the horse, came in. Anna got up and went out of\nthe room.\n\nBefore leaving the house, Vronsky went into her room. She would have\npretended to be looking for something on the table, but ashamed of\nmaking a pretense, she looked straight in his face with cold eyes.\n\n What do you want?  she asked in French.\n\n To get the guarantee for Gambetta, I ve sold him,  he said, in a tone\nwhich said more clearly than words,  I ve no time for discussing\nthings, and it would lead to nothing. \n\n I m not to blame in any way,  he thought.  If she will punish herself,\n_tant pis pour elle._ But as he was going he fancied that she said\nsomething, and his heart suddenly ached with pity for her.\n\n Eh, Anna?  he queried.\n\n I said nothing,  she answered just as coldly and calmly.\n\n Oh, nothing, _tant pis_ then,  he thought, feeling cold again, and he\nturned and went out. As he was going out he caught a glimpse in the\nlooking-glass of her face, white, with quivering lips. He even wanted\nto stop and to say some comforting word to her, but his legs carried\nhim out of the room before he could think what to say. The whole of\nthat day he spent away from home, and when he came in late in the\nevening the maid told him that Anna Arkadyevna had a headache and\nbegged him not to go in to her.\n\n\nChapter 26\n\nNever before had a day been passed in quarrel. Today was the first\ntime. And this was not a quarrel. It was the open acknowledgment of\ncomplete coldness. Was it possible to glance at her as he had glanced\nwhen he came into the room for the guarantee? to look at her, see her\nheart was breaking with despair, and go out without a word with that\nface of callous composure? He was not merely cold to her, he hated her\nbecause he loved another woman that was clear.\n\nAnd remembering all the cruel words he had said, Anna supplied, too,\nthe words that he had unmistakably wished to say and could have said to\nher, and she grew more and more exasperated.\n\n I won t prevent you,  he might say.  You can go where you like. You\nwere unwilling to be divorced from your husband, no doubt so that you\nmight go back to him. Go back to him. If you want money, I ll give it\nto you. How many roubles do you want? \n\nAll the most cruel words that a brutal man could say, he said to her in\nher imagination, and she could not forgive him for them, as though he\nhad actually said them.\n\n But didn t he only yesterday swear he loved me, he, a truthful and\nsincere man? Haven t I despaired for nothing many times already?  she\nsaid to herself afterwards.\n\nAll that day, except for the visit to Wilson s, which occupied two\nhours, Anna spent in doubts whether everything were over or whether\nthere were still hope of reconciliation, whether she should go away at\nonce or see him once more. She was expecting him the whole day, and in\nthe evening, as she went to her own room, leaving a message for him\nthat her head ached, she said to herself,  If he comes in spite of what\nthe maid says, it means that he loves me still. If not, it means that\nall is over, and then I will decide what I m to do!... \n\nIn the evening she heard the rumbling of his carriage stop at the\nentrance, his ring, his steps and his conversation with the servant; he\nbelieved what was told him, did not care to find out more, and went to\nhis own room. So then everything was over.\n\nAnd death rose clearly and vividly before her mind as the sole means of\nbringing back love for her in his heart, of punishing him and of\ngaining the victory in that strife which the evil spirit in possession\nof her heart was waging with him.\n\nNow nothing mattered: going or not going to Vozdvizhenskoe, getting or\nnot getting a divorce from her husband all that did not matter. The one\nthing that mattered was punishing him. When she poured herself out her\nusual dose of opium, and thought that she had only to drink off the\nwhole bottle to die, it seemed to her so simple and easy, that she\nbegan musing with enjoyment on how he would suffer, and repent and love\nher memory when it would be too late. She lay in bed with open eyes, by\nthe light of a single burned-down candle, gazing at the carved cornice\nof the ceiling and at the shadow of the screen that covered part of it,\nwhile she vividly pictured to herself how he would feel when she would\nbe no more, when she would be only a memory to him.  How could I say\nsuch cruel things to her?  he would say.  How could I go out of the\nroom without saying anything to her? But now she is no more. She has\ngone away from us forever. She is....  Suddenly the shadow of the\nscreen wavered, pounced on the whole cornice, the whole ceiling; other\nshadows from the other side swooped to meet it, for an instant the\nshadows flitted back, but then with fresh swiftness they darted\nforward, wavered, commingled, and all was darkness.  Death!  she\nthought. And such horror came upon her that for a long while she could\nnot realize where she was, and for a long while her trembling hands\ncould not find the matches and light another candle, instead of the one\nthat had burned down and gone out.  No, anything only to live! Why, I\nlove him! Why, he loves me! This has been before and will pass,  she\nsaid, feeling that tears of joy at the return to life were trickling\ndown her cheeks. And to escape from her panic she went hurriedly to his\nroom.\n\nHe was asleep there, and sleeping soundly. She went up to him, and\nholding the light above his face, she gazed a long while at him. Now\nwhen he was asleep, she loved him so that at the sight of him she could\nnot keep back tears of tenderness. But she knew that if he waked up he\nwould look at her with cold eyes, convinced that he was right, and that\nbefore telling him of her love, she would have to prove to him that he\nhad been wrong in his treatment of her. Without waking him, she went\nback, and after a second dose of opium she fell towards morning into a\nheavy, incomplete sleep, during which she never quite lost\nconsciousness.\n\nIn the morning she was waked by a horrible nightmare, which had\nrecurred several times in her dreams, even before her connection with\nVronsky. A little old man with unkempt beard was doing something bent\ndown over some iron, muttering meaningless French words, and she, as\nshe always did in this nightmare (it was what made the horror of it),\nfelt that this peasant was taking no notice of her, but was doing\nsomething horrible with the iron over her. And she waked up in a cold\nsweat.\n\nWhen she got up, the previous day came back to her as though veiled in\nmist.\n\n There was a quarrel. Just what has happened several times. I said I\nhad a headache, and he did not come in to see me. Tomorrow we re going\naway; I must see him and get ready for the journey,  she said to\nherself. And learning that he was in his study, she went down to him.\nAs she passed through the drawing-room she heard a carriage stop at the\nentrance, and looking out of the window she saw the carriage, from\nwhich a young girl in a lilac hat was leaning out giving some direction\nto the footman ringing the bell. After a parley in the hall, someone\ncame upstairs, and Vronsky s steps could be heard passing the\ndrawing-room. He went rapidly downstairs. Anna went again to the\nwindow. She saw him come out onto the steps without his hat and go up\nto the carriage. The young girl in the lilac hat handed him a parcel.\nVronsky, smiling, said something to her. The carriage drove away, he\nran rapidly upstairs again.\n\nThe mists that had shrouded everything in her soul parted suddenly. The\nfeelings of yesterday pierced the sick heart with a fresh pang. She\ncould not understand now how she could have lowered herself by spending\na whole day with him in his house. She went into his room to announce\nher determination.\n\n That was Madame Sorokina and her daughter. They came and brought me\nthe money and the deeds from maman. I couldn t get them yesterday. How\nis your head, better?  he said quietly, not wishing to see and to\nunderstand the gloomy and solemn expression of her face.\n\nShe looked silently, intently at him, standing in the middle of the\nroom. He glanced at her, frowned for a moment, and went on reading a\nletter. She turned, and went deliberately out of the room. He still\nmight have turned her back, but she had reached the door, he was still\nsilent, and the only sound audible was the rustling of the note paper\nas he turned it.\n\n Oh, by the way,  he said at the very moment she was in the doorway,\n we re going tomorrow for certain, aren t we? \n\n You, but not I,  she said, turning round to him.\n\n Anna, we can t go on like this.... \n\n You, but not I,  she repeated.\n\n This is getting unbearable! \n\n You ... you will be sorry for this,  she said, and went out.\n\nFrightened by the desperate expression with which these words were\nuttered, he jumped up and would have run after her, but on second\nthoughts he sat down and scowled, setting his teeth. This vulgar as he\nthought it threat of something vague exasperated him.  I ve tried\neverything,  he thought;  the only thing left is not to pay attention, \nand he began to get ready to drive into town, and again to his mother s\nto get her signature to the deeds.\n\nShe heard the sound of his steps about the study and the dining-room.\nAt the drawing-room he stood still. But he did not turn in to see her,\nhe merely gave an order that the horse should be given to Voytov if he\ncame while he was away. Then she heard the carriage brought round, the\ndoor opened, and he came out again. But he went back into the porch\nagain, and someone was running upstairs. It was the valet running up\nfor his gloves that had been forgotten. She went to the window and saw\nhim take the gloves without looking, and touching the coachman on the\nback he said something to him. Then without looking up at the window he\nsettled himself in his usual attitude in the carriage, with his legs\ncrossed, and drawing on his gloves he vanished round the corner.\n\n\nChapter 27\n\n He has gone! It is over!  Anna said to herself, standing at the\nwindow; and in answer to this statement the impression of the darkness\nwhen the candle had flickered out, and of her fearful dream mingling\ninto one, filled her heart with cold terror.\n\n No, that cannot be!  she cried, and crossing the room she rang the\nbell. She was so afraid now of being alone, that without waiting for\nthe servant to come in, she went out to meet him.\n\n Inquire where the count has gone,  she said. The servant answered that\nthe count had gone to the stable.\n\n His honor left word that if you cared to drive out, the carriage would\nbe back immediately. \n\n Very good. Wait a minute. I ll write a note at once. Send Mihail with\nthe note to the stables. Make haste. \n\nShe sat down and wrote:\n\n I was wrong. Come back home; I must explain. For God s sake come! I m\nafraid. \n\nShe sealed it up and gave it to the servant.\n\nShe was afraid of being left alone now; she followed the servant out of\nthe room, and went to the nursery.\n\n Why, this isn t it, this isn t he! Where are his blue eyes, his sweet,\nshy smile?  was her first thought when she saw her chubby, rosy little\ngirl with her black, curly hair instead of Seryozha, whom in the tangle\nof her ideas she had expected to see in the nursery. The little girl\nsitting at the table was obstinately and violently battering on it with\na cork, and staring aimlessly at her mother with her pitch-black eyes.\nAnswering the English nurse that she was quite well, and that she was\ngoing to the country tomorrow, Anna sat down by the little girl and\nbegan spinning the cork to show her. But the child s loud, ringing\nlaugh, and the motion of her eyebrows, recalled Vronsky so vividly that\nshe got up hurriedly, restraining her sobs, and went away.  Can it be\nall over? No, it cannot be!  she thought.  He will come back. But how\ncan he explain that smile, that excitement after he had been talking to\nher? But even if he doesn t explain, I will believe. If I don t\nbelieve, there s only one thing left for me, and I can t. \n\nShe looked at her watch. Twenty minutes had passed.  By now he has\nreceived the note and is coming back. Not long, ten minutes more....\nBut what if he doesn t come? No, that cannot be. He mustn t see me with\ntear-stained eyes. I ll go and wash. Yes, yes; did I do my hair or\nnot?  she asked herself. And she could not remember. She felt her head\nwith her hand.  Yes, my hair has been done, but when I did it I can t\nin the least remember.  She could not believe the evidence of her hand,\nand went up to the pier-glass to see whether she really had done her\nhair. She certainly had, but she could not think when she had done it.\n Who s that?  she thought, looking in the looking-glass at the swollen\nface with strangely glittering eyes, that looked in a scared way at\nher.  Why, it s I!  she suddenly understood, and looking round, she\nseemed all at once to feel his kisses on her, and twitched her\nshoulders, shuddering. Then she lifted her hand to her lips and kissed\nit.\n\n What is it? Why, I m going out of my mind!  and she went into her\nbedroom, where Annushka was tidying the room.\n\n Annushka,  she said, coming to a standstill before her, and she stared\nat the maid, not knowing what to say to her.\n\n You meant to go and see Darya Alexandrovna,  said the girl, as though\nshe understood.\n\n Darya Alexandrovna? Yes, I ll go. \n\n Fifteen minutes there, fifteen minutes back. He s coming, he ll be\nhere soon.  She took out her watch and looked at it.  But how could he\ngo away, leaving me in such a state? How can he live, without making it\nup with me?  She went to the window and began looking into the street.\nJudging by the time, he might be back now. But her calculations might\nbe wrong, and she began once more to recall when he had started and to\ncount the minutes.\n\nAt the moment when she had moved away to the big clock to compare it\nwith her watch, someone drove up. Glancing out of the window, she saw\nhis carriage. But no one came upstairs, and voices could be heard\nbelow. It was the messenger who had come back in the carriage. She went\ndown to him.\n\n We didn t catch the count. The count had driven off on the lower city\nroad. \n\n What do you say? What!...  she said to the rosy, good-humored Mihail,\nas he handed her back her note.\n\n Why, then, he has never received it!  she thought.\n\n Go with this note to Countess Vronskaya s place, you know? and bring\nan answer back immediately,  she said to the messenger.\n\n And I, what am I going to do?  she thought.  Yes, I m going to\nDolly s, that s true or else I shall go out of my mind. Yes, and I can\ntelegraph, too.  And she wrote a telegram.  I absolutely must talk to\nyou; come at once.  After sending off the telegram, she went to dress.\nWhen she was dressed and in her hat, she glanced again into the eyes of\nthe plump, comfortable-looking Annushka. There was unmistakable\nsympathy in those good-natured little gray eyes.\n\n Annushka, dear, what am I to do?  said Anna, sobbing and sinking\nhelplessly into a chair.\n\n Why fret yourself so, Anna Arkadyevna? Why, there s nothing out of the\nway. You drive out a little, and it ll cheer you up,  said the maid.\n\n Yes, I m going,  said Anna, rousing herself and getting up.  And if\nthere s a telegram while I m away, send it on to Darya Alexandrovna s\n... but no, I shall be back myself. \n\n Yes, I mustn t think, I must do something, drive somewhere, and most\nof all, get out of this house,  she said, feeling with terror the\nstrange turmoil going on in her own heart, and she made haste to go out\nand get into the carriage.\n\n Where to?  asked Pyotr before getting onto the box.\n\n To Znamenka, the Oblonskys . \n\n\nChapter 28\n\nIt was bright and sunny. A fine rain had been falling all the morning,\nand now it had not long cleared up. The iron roofs, the flags of the\nroads, the flints of the pavements, the wheels and leather, the brass\nand the tinplate of the carriages all glistened brightly in the May\nsunshine. It was three o clock, and the very liveliest time in the\nstreets.\n\nAs she sat in a corner of the comfortable carriage, that hardly swayed\non its supple springs, while the grays trotted swiftly, in the midst of\nthe unceasing rattle of wheels and the changing impressions in the pure\nair, Anna ran over the events of the last days, and she saw her\nposition quite differently from how it had seemed at home. Now the\nthought of death seemed no longer so terrible and so clear to her, and\ndeath itself no longer seemed so inevitable. Now she blamed herself for\nthe humiliation to which she had lowered herself.  I entreat him to\nforgive me. I have given in to him. I have owned myself in fault. What\nfor? Can t I live without him?  And leaving unanswered the question how\nshe was going to live without him, she fell to reading the signs on the\nshops.  Office and warehouse. Dental surgeon. Yes, I ll tell Dolly all\nabout it. She doesn t like Vronsky. I shall be sick and ashamed, but\nI ll tell her. She loves me, and I ll follow her advice. I won t give\nin to him; I won t let him train me as he pleases. Filippov, bun shop.\nThey say they send their dough to Petersburg. The Moscow water is so\ngood for it. Ah, the springs at Mitishtchen, and the pancakes! \n\nAnd she remembered how, long, long ago, when she was a girl of\nseventeen, she had gone with her aunt to Troitsa.  Riding, too. Was\nthat really me, with red hands? How much that seemed to me then\nsplendid and out of reach has become worthless, while what I had then\nhas gone out of my reach forever! Could I ever have believed then that\nI could come to such humiliation? How conceited and self-satisfied he\nwill be when he gets my note! But I will show him.... How horrid that\npaint smells! Why is it they re always painting and building? _Modes et\nrobes_, she read. A man bowed to her. It was Annushka s husband.  Our\nparasites ; she remembered how Vronsky had said that.  Our? Why our?\nWhat s so awful is that one can t tear up the past by its roots. One\ncan t tear it out, but one can hide one s memory of it. And I ll hide\nit.  And then she thought of her past with Alexey Alexandrovitch, of\nhow she had blotted the memory of it out of her life.  Dolly will think\nI m leaving my second husband, and so I certainly must be in the wrong.\nAs if I cared to be right! I can t help it!  she said, and she wanted\nto cry. But at once she fell to wondering what those two girls could be\nsmiling about.  Love, most likely. They don t know how dreary it is,\nhow low.... The boulevard and the children. Three boys running, playing\nat horses. Seryozha! And I m losing everything and not getting him\nback. Yes, I m losing everything, if he doesn t return. Perhaps he was\nlate for the train and has come back by now. Longing for humiliation\nagain!  she said to herself.  No, I ll go to Dolly, and say straight\nout to her, I m unhappy, I deserve this, I m to blame, but still I m\nunhappy, help me. These horses, this carriage how loathsome I am to\nmyself in this carriage all his; but I won t see them again. \n\nThinking over the words in which she would tell Dolly, and mentally\nworking her heart up to great bitterness, Anna went upstairs.\n\n Is there anyone with her?  she asked in the hall.\n\n Katerina Alexandrovna Levin,  answered the footman.\n\n Kitty! Kitty, whom Vronsky was in love with!  thought Anna,  the girl\nhe thinks of with love. He s sorry he didn t marry her. But me he\nthinks of with hatred, and is sorry he had anything to do with me. \n\nThe sisters were having a consultation about nursing when Anna called.\nDolly went down alone to see the visitor who had interrupted their\nconversation.\n\n Well, so you ve not gone away yet? I meant to have come to you,  she\nsaid;  I had a letter from Stiva today. \n\n We had a telegram too,  answered Anna, looking round for Kitty.\n\n He writes that he can t make out quite what Alexey Alexandrovitch\nwants, but he won t go away without a decisive answer. \n\n I thought you had someone with you. Can I see the letter? \n\n Yes; Kitty,  said Dolly, embarrassed.  She stayed in the nursery. She\nhas been very ill. \n\n So I heard. May I see the letter? \n\n I ll get it directly. But he doesn t refuse; on the contrary, Stiva\nhas hopes,  said Dolly, stopping in the doorway.\n\n I haven t, and indeed I don t wish it,  said Anna.\n\n What s this? Does Kitty consider it degrading to meet me?  thought\nAnna when she was alone.  Perhaps she s right, too. But it s not for\nher, the girl who was in love with Vronsky, it s not for her to show me\nthat, even if it is true. I know that in my position I can t be\nreceived by any decent woman. I knew that from the first moment I\nsacrificed everything to him. And this is my reward! Oh, how I hate\nhim! And what did I come here for? I m worse here, more miserable.  She\nheard from the next room the sisters  voices in consultation.  And what\nam I going to say to Dolly now? Amuse Kitty by the sight of my\nwretchedness, submit to her patronizing? No; and besides, Dolly\nwouldn t understand. And it would be no good my telling her. It would\nonly be interesting to see Kitty, to show her how I despise everyone\nand everything, how nothing matters to me now. \n\nDolly came in with the letter. Anna read it and handed it back in\nsilence.\n\n I knew all that,  she said,  and it doesn t interest me in the least. \n\n Oh, why so? On the contrary, I have hopes,  said Dolly, looking\ninquisitively at Anna. She had never seen her in such a strangely\nirritable condition.  When are you going away?  she asked.\n\nAnna, half-closing her eyes, looked straight before her and did not\nanswer.\n\n Why does Kitty shrink from me?  she said, looking at the door and\nflushing red.\n\n Oh, what nonsense! She s nursing, and things aren t going right with\nher, and I ve been advising her.... She s delighted. She ll be here in\na minute,  said Dolly awkwardly, not clever at lying.  Yes, here she\nis. \n\nHearing that Anna had called, Kitty had wanted not to appear, but Dolly\npersuaded her. Rallying her forces, Kitty went in, walked up to her,\nblushing, and shook hands.\n\n I am so glad to see you,  she said with a trembling voice.\n\nKitty had been thrown into confusion by the inward conflict between her\nantagonism to this bad woman and her desire to be nice to her. But as\nsoon as she saw Anna s lovely and attractive face, all feeling of\nantagonism disappeared.\n\n I should not have been surprised if you had not cared to meet me. I m\nused to everything. You have been ill? Yes, you are changed,  said\nAnna.\n\nKitty felt that Anna was looking at her with hostile eyes. She ascribed\nthis hostility to the awkward position in which Anna, who had once\npatronized her, must feel with her now, and she felt sorry for her.\n\nThey talked of Kitty s illness, of the baby, of Stiva, but it was\nobvious that nothing interested Anna.\n\n I came to say good-bye to you,  she said, getting up.\n\n Oh, when are you going? \n\nBut again not answering, Anna turned to Kitty.\n\n Yes, I am very glad to have seen you,  she said with a smile.  I have\nheard so much of you from everyone, even from your husband. He came to\nsee me, and I liked him exceedingly,  she said, unmistakably with\nmalicious intent.  Where is he? \n\n He has gone back to the country,  said Kitty, blushing.\n\n Remember me to him, be sure you do. \n\n I ll be sure to!  Kitty said na vely, looking compassionately into her\neyes.\n\n So good-bye, Dolly.  And kissing Dolly and shaking hands with Kitty,\nAnna went out hurriedly.\n\n She s just the same and just as charming! She s very lovely!  said\nKitty, when she was alone with her sister.  But there s something\npiteous about her. Awfully piteous! \n\n Yes, there s something unusual about her today,  said Dolly.  When I\nwent with her into the hall, I fancied she was almost crying. \n\n\nChapter 29\n\nAnna got into the carriage again in an even worse frame of mind than\nwhen she set out from home. To her previous tortures was added now that\nsense of mortification and of being an outcast which she had felt so\ndistinctly on meeting Kitty.\n\n Where to? Home?  asked Pyotr.\n\n Yes, home,  she said, not even thinking now where she was going.\n\n How they looked at me as something dreadful, incomprehensible, and\ncurious! What can he be telling the other with such warmth?  she\nthought, staring at two men who walked by.  Can one ever tell anyone\nwhat one is feeling? I meant to tell Dolly, and it s a good thing I\ndidn t tell her. How pleased she would have been at my misery! She\nwould have concealed it, but her chief feeling would have been delight\nat my being punished for the happiness she envied me for. Kitty, she\nwould have been even more pleased. How I can see through her! She knows\nI was more than usually sweet to her husband. And she s jealous and\nhates me. And she despises me. In her eyes I m an immoral woman. If I\nwere an immoral woman I could have made her husband fall in love with\nme ... if I d cared to. And, indeed, I did care to. There s someone\nwho s pleased with himself,  she thought, as she saw a fat, rubicund\ngentleman coming towards her. He took her for an acquaintance, and\nlifted his glossy hat above his bald, glossy head, and then perceived\nhis mistake.  He thought he knew me. Well, he knows me as well as\nanyone in the world knows me. I don t know myself. I know my appetites,\nas the French say. They want that dirty ice cream, that they do know\nfor certain,  she thought, looking at two boys stopping an ice cream\nseller, who took a barrel off his head and began wiping his perspiring\nface with a towel.  We all want what is sweet and nice. If not\nsweetmeats, then a dirty ice. And Kitty s the same if not Vronsky, then\nLevin. And she envies me, and hates me. And we all hate each other. I\nKitty, Kitty me. Yes, that s the truth.  _Tiutkin, coiffeur._  _Je me\nfais coiffer par Tiutkin...._ I ll tell him that when he comes,  she\nthought and smiled. But the same instant she remembered that she had no\none now to tell anything amusing to.  And there s nothing amusing,\nnothing mirthful, really. It s all hateful. They re singing for\nvespers, and how carefully that merchant crosses himself! as if he were\nafraid of missing something. Why these churches and this singing and\nthis humbug? Simply to conceal that we all hate each other like these\ncab drivers who are abusing each other so angrily. Yashvin says,  He\nwants to strip me of my shirt, and I him of his.  Yes, that s the\ntruth! \n\nShe was plunged in these thoughts, which so engrossed her that she left\noff thinking of her own position, when the carriage drew up at the\nsteps of her house. It was only when she saw the porter running out to\nmeet her that she remembered she had sent the note and the telegram.\n\n Is there an answer?  she inquired.\n\n I ll see this minute,  answered the porter, and glancing into his\nroom, he took out and gave her the thin square envelope of a telegram.\n I can t come before ten o clock. Vronsky,  she read.\n\n And hasn t the messenger come back? \n\n No,  answered the porter.\n\n Then, since it s so, I know what I must do,  she said, and feeling a\nvague fury and craving for revenge rising up within her, she ran\nupstairs.  I ll go to him myself. Before going away forever, I ll tell\nhim all. Never have I hated anyone as I hate that man!  she thought.\nSeeing his hat on the rack, she shuddered with aversion. She did not\nconsider that his telegram was an answer to her telegram and that he\nhad not yet received her note. She pictured him to herself as talking\ncalmly to his mother and Princess Sorokina and rejoicing at her\nsufferings.  Yes, I must go quickly,  she said, not knowing yet where\nshe was going. She longed to get away as quickly as possible from the\nfeelings she had gone through in that awful house. The servants, the\nwalls, the things in that house all aroused repulsion and hatred in her\nand lay like a weight upon her.\n\n Yes, I must go to the railway station, and if he s not there, then go\nthere and catch him.  Anna looked at the railway timetable in the\nnewspapers. An evening train went at two minutes past eight.  Yes, I\nshall be in time.  She gave orders for the other horses to be put in\nthe carriage, and packed in a traveling-bag the things needed for a few\ndays. She knew she would never come back here again.\n\nAmong the plans that came into her head she vaguely determined that\nafter what would happen at the station or at the countess s house, she\nwould go as far as the first town on the Nizhni road and stop there.\n\nDinner was on the table; she went up, but the smell of the bread and\ncheese was enough to make her feel that all food was disgusting. She\nordered the carriage and went out. The house threw a shadow now right\nacross the street, but it was a bright evening and still warm in the\nsunshine. Annushka, who came down with her things, and Pyotr, who put\nthe things in the carriage, and the coachman, evidently out of humor,\nwere all hateful to her, and irritated her by their words and actions.\n\n I don t want you, Pyotr. \n\n But how about the ticket? \n\n Well, as you like, it doesn t matter,  she said crossly.\n\nPyotr jumped on the box, and putting his arms akimbo, told the coachman\nto drive to the booking-office.\n\n\nChapter 30\n\n Here it is again! Again I understand it all!  Anna said to herself, as\nsoon as the carriage had started and swaying lightly, rumbled over the\ntiny cobbles of the paved road, and again one impression followed\nrapidly upon another.\n\n Yes; what was the last thing I thought of so clearly?  she tried to\nrecall it.  _Tiutkin, coiffeur?_ no, not that. Yes, of what Yashvin\nsays, the struggle for existence and hatred is the one thing that holds\nmen together. No, it s a useless journey you re making,  she said,\nmentally addressing a party in a coach and four, evidently going for an\nexcursion into the country.  And the dog you re taking with you will be\nno help to you. You can t get away from yourselves.  Turning her eyes\nin the direction Pyotr had turned to look, she saw a factory-hand\nalmost dead-drunk, with hanging head, being led away by a policeman.\n Come, he s found a quicker way,  she thought.  Count Vronsky and I did\nnot find that happiness either, though we expected so much from it. \nAnd now for the first time Anna turned that glaring light in which she\nwas seeing everything on to her relations with him, which she had\nhitherto avoided thinking about.  What was it he sought in me? Not love\nso much as the satisfaction of vanity.  She remembered his words, the\nexpression of his face, that recalled an abject setter-dog, in the\nearly days of their connection. And everything now confirmed this.\n Yes, there was the triumph of success in him. Of course there was love\ntoo, but the chief element was the pride of success. He boasted of me.\nNow that s over. There s nothing to be proud of. Not to be proud of,\nbut to be ashamed of. He has taken from me all he could, and now I am\nno use to him. He is weary of me and is trying not to be dishonorable\nin his behavior to me. He let that out yesterday he wants divorce and\nmarriage so as to burn his ships. He loves me, but how? The zest is\ngone, as the English say. That fellow wants everyone to admire him and\nis very much pleased with himself,  she thought, looking at a red-faced\nclerk, riding on a riding-school horse.  Yes, there s not the same\nflavor about me for him now. If I go away from him, at the bottom of\nhis heart he will be glad. \n\nThis was not mere supposition, she saw it distinctly in the piercing\nlight, which revealed to her now the meaning of life and human\nrelations.\n\n My love keeps growing more passionate and egoistic, while his is\nwaning and waning, and that s why we re drifting apart.  She went on\nmusing.  And there s no help for it. He is everything for me, and I\nwant him more and more to give himself up to me entirely. And he wants\nmore and more to get away from me. We walked to meet each other up to\nthe time of our love, and then we have been irresistibly drifting in\ndifferent directions. And there s no altering that. He tells me I m\ninsanely jealous, and I have told myself that I am insanely jealous;\nbut it s not true. I m not jealous, but I m unsatisfied. But....  she\nopened her lips, and shifted her place in the carriage in the\nexcitement, aroused by the thought that suddenly struck her.  If I\ncould be anything but a mistress, passionately caring for nothing but\nhis caresses; but I can t and I don t care to be anything else. And by\nthat desire I rouse aversion in him, and he rouses fury in me, and it\ncannot be different. Don t I know that he wouldn t deceive me, that he\nhas no schemes about Princess Sorokina, that he s not in love with\nKitty, that he won t desert me! I know all that, but it makes it no\nbetter for me. If without loving me, from _duty_ he ll be good and kind\nto me, without what I want, that s a thousand times worse than\nunkindness! That s hell! And that s just how it is. For a long while\nnow he hasn t loved me. And where love ends, hate begins. I don t know\nthese streets at all. Hills it seems, and still houses, and houses....\nAnd in the houses always people and people.... How many of them, no\nend, and all hating each other! Come, let me try and think what I want,\nto make me happy. Well? Suppose I am divorced, and Alexey\nAlexandrovitch lets me have Seryozha, and I marry Vronsky.  Thinking of\nAlexey Alexandrovitch, she at once pictured him with extraordinary\nvividness as though he were alive before her, with his mild, lifeless,\ndull eyes, the blue veins in his white hands, his intonations and the\ncracking of his fingers, and remembering the feeling which had existed\nbetween them, and which was also called love, she shuddered with\nloathing.  Well, I m divorced, and become Vronsky s wife. Well, will\nKitty cease looking at me as she looked at me today? No. And will\nSeryozha leave off asking and wondering about my two husbands? And is\nthere any new feeling I can awaken between Vronsky and me? Is there\npossible, if not happiness, some sort of ease from misery? No, no!  she\nanswered now without the slightest hesitation.  Impossible! We are\ndrawn apart by life, and I make his unhappiness, and he mine, and\nthere s no altering him or me. Every attempt has been made, the screw\nhas come unscrewed. Oh, a beggar woman with a baby. She thinks I m\nsorry for her. Aren t we all flung into the world only to hate each\nother, and so to torture ourselves and each other? Schoolboys\ncoming laughing Seryozha?  she thought.  I thought, too, that I loved\nhim, and used to be touched by my own tenderness. But I have lived\nwithout him, I gave him up for another love, and did not regret the\nexchange till that love was satisfied.  And with loathing she thought\nof what she meant by that love. And the clearness with which she saw\nlife now, her own and all men s, was a pleasure to her.  It s so with\nme and Pyotr, and the coachman, Fyodor, and that merchant, and all the\npeople living along the Volga, where those placards invite one to go,\nand everywhere and always,  she thought when she had driven under the\nlow-pitched roof of the Nizhigorod station, and the porters ran to meet\nher.\n\n A ticket to Obiralovka?  said Pyotr.\n\nShe had utterly forgotten where and why she was going, and only by a\ngreat effort she understood the question.\n\n Yes,  she said, handing him her purse, and taking a little red bag in\nher hand, she got out of the carriage.\n\nMaking her way through the crowd to the first-class waiting-room, she\ngradually recollected all the details of her position, and the plans\nbetween which she was hesitating. And again at the old sore places,\nhope and then despair poisoned the wounds of her tortured, fearfully\nthrobbing heart. As she sat on the star-shaped sofa waiting for the\ntrain, she gazed with aversion at the people coming and going (they\nwere all hateful to her), and thought how she would arrive at the\nstation, would write him a note, and what she would write to him, and\nhow he was at this moment complaining to his mother of his position,\nnot understanding her sufferings, and how she would go into the room,\nand what she would say to him. Then she thought that life might still\nbe happy, and how miserably she loved and hated him, and how fearfully\nher heart was beating.\n\n\nChapter 31\n\nA bell rang, some young men, ugly and impudent, and at the same time\ncareful of the impression they were making, hurried by. Pyotr, too,\ncrossed the room in his livery and top-boots, with his dull, animal\nface, and came up to her to take her to the train. Some noisy men were\nquiet as she passed them on the platform, and one whispered something\nabout her to another something vile, no doubt. She stepped up on the\nhigh step, and sat down in a carriage by herself on a dirty seat that\nhad been white. Her bag lay beside her, shaken up and down by the\nspringiness of the seat. With a foolish smile Pyotr raised his hat,\nwith its colored band, at the window, in token of farewell; an impudent\nconductor slammed the door and the latch. A grotesque-looking lady\nwearing a bustle (Anna mentally undressed the woman, and was appalled\nat her hideousness), and a little girl laughing affectedly ran down the\nplatform.\n\n Katerina Andreevna, she s got them all, _ma tante!_  cried the girl.\n\n Even the child s hideous and affected,  thought Anna. To avoid seeing\nanyone, she got up quickly and seated herself at the opposite window of\nthe empty carriage. A misshapen-looking peasant covered with dirt, in a\ncap from which his tangled hair stuck out all round, passed by that\nwindow, stooping down to the carriage wheels.  There s something\nfamiliar about that hideous peasant,  thought Anna. And remembering her\ndream, she moved away to the opposite door, shaking with terror. The\nconductor opened the door and let in a man and his wife.\n\n Do you wish to get out? \n\nAnna made no answer. The conductor and her two fellow-passengers did\nnot notice under her veil her panic-stricken face. She went back to her\ncorner and sat down. The couple seated themselves on the opposite side,\nand intently but surreptitiously scrutinized her clothes. Both husband\nand wife seemed repulsive to Anna. The husband asked, would she allow\nhim to smoke, obviously not with a view to smoking but to getting into\nconversation with her. Receiving her assent, he said to his wife in\nFrench something about caring less to smoke than to talk. They made\ninane and affected remarks to one another, entirely for her benefit.\nAnna saw clearly that they were sick of each other, and hated each\nother. And no one could have helped hating such miserable\nmonstrosities.\n\nA second bell sounded, and was followed by moving of luggage, noise,\nshouting and laughter. It was so clear to Anna that there was nothing\nfor anyone to be glad of, that this laughter irritated her agonizingly,\nand she would have liked to stop up her ears not to hear it. At last\nthe third bell rang, there was a whistle and a hiss of steam, and a\nclank of chains, and the man in her carriage crossed himself.  It would\nbe interesting to ask him what meaning he attaches to that,  thought\nAnna, looking angrily at him. She looked past the lady out of the\nwindow at the people who seemed whirling by as they ran beside the\ntrain or stood on the platform. The train, jerking at regular intervals\nat the junctions of the rails, rolled by the platform, past a stone\nwall, a signal-box, past other trains; the wheels, moving more smoothly\nand evenly, resounded with a slight clang on the rails. The window was\nlighted up by the bright evening sun, and a slight breeze fluttered the\ncurtain. Anna forgot her fellow passengers, and to the light swaying of\nthe train she fell to thinking again, as she breathed the fresh air.\n\n Yes, what did I stop at? That I couldn t conceive a position in which\nlife would not be a misery, that we are all created to be miserable,\nand that we all know it, and all invent means of deceiving each other.\nAnd when one sees the truth, what is one to do? \n\n That s what reason is given man for, to escape from what worries him, \nsaid the lady in French, lisping affectedly, and obviously pleased with\nher phrase.\n\nThe words seemed an answer to Anna s thoughts.\n\n To escape from what worries him,  repeated Anna. And glancing at the\nred-cheeked husband and the thin wife, she saw that the sickly wife\nconsidered herself misunderstood, and the husband deceived her and\nencouraged her in that idea of herself. Anna seemed to see all their\nhistory and all the crannies of their souls, as it were turning a light\nupon them. But there was nothing interesting in them, and she pursued\nher thought.\n\n Yes, I m very much worried, and that s what reason was given me for,\nto escape; so then one must escape: why not put out the light when\nthere s nothing more to look at, when it s sickening to look at it all?\nBut how? Why did the conductor run along the footboard, why are they\nshrieking, those young men in that train? why are they talking, why are\nthey laughing? It s all falsehood, all lying, all humbug, all\ncruelty!... \n\nWhen the train came into the station, Anna got out into the crowd of\npassengers, and moving apart from them as if they were lepers, she\nstood on the platform, trying to think what she had come here for, and\nwhat she meant to do. Everything that had seemed to her possible before\nwas now so difficult to consider, especially in this noisy crowd of\nhideous people who would not leave her alone. One moment porters ran up\nto her proffering their services, then young men, clacking their heels\non the planks of the platform and talking loudly, stared at her; people\nmeeting her dodged past on the wrong side. Remembering that she had\nmeant to go on further if there were no answer, she stopped a porter\nand asked if her coachman were not here with a note from Count Vronsky.\n\n Count Vronsky? They sent up here from the Vronskys just this minute,\nto meet Princess Sorokina and her daughter. And what is the coachman\nlike? \n\nJust as she was talking to the porter, the coachman Mihail, red and\ncheerful in his smart blue coat and chain, evidently proud of having so\nsuccessfully performed his commission, came up to her and gave her a\nletter. She broke it open, and her heart ached before she had read it.\n\n I am very sorry your note did not reach me. I will be home at ten, \nVronsky had written carelessly....\n\n Yes, that s what I expected!  she said to herself with an evil smile.\n\n Very good, you can go home then,  she said softly, addressing Mihail.\nShe spoke softly because the rapidity of her heart s beating hindered\nher breathing.  No, I won t let you make me miserable,  she thought\nmenacingly, addressing not him, not herself, but the power that made\nher suffer, and she walked along the platform.\n\nTwo maid-servants walking along the platform turned their heads,\nstaring at her and making some remarks about her dress.  Real,  they\nsaid of the lace she was wearing. The young men would not leave her in\npeace. Again they passed by, peering into her face, and with a laugh\nshouting something in an unnatural voice. The station-master coming up\nasked her whether she was going by train. A boy selling kvas never took\nhis eyes off her.  My God! where am I to go?  she thought, going\nfarther and farther along the platform. At the end she stopped. Some\nladies and children, who had come to meet a gentleman in spectacles,\npaused in their loud laughter and talking, and stared at her as she\nreached them. She quickened her pace and walked away from them to the\nedge of the platform. A luggage train was coming in. The platform began\nto sway, and she fancied she was in the train again.\n\nAnd all at once she thought of the man crushed by the train the day she\nhad first met Vronsky, and she knew what she had to do. With a rapid,\nlight step she went down the steps that led from the tank to the rails\nand stopped quite near the approaching train.\n\nShe looked at the lower part of the carriages, at the screws and chains\nand the tall cast-iron wheel of the first carriage slowly moving up,\nand trying to measure the middle between the front and back wheels, and\nthe very minute when that middle point would be opposite her.\n\n There,  she said to herself, looking into the shadow of the carriage,\nat the sand and coal dust which covered the sleepers there, in the\nvery middle, and I will punish him and escape from everyone and from\nmyself. \n\nShe tried to fling herself below the wheels of the first carriage as it\nreached her; but the red bag which she tried to drop out of her hand\ndelayed her, and she was too late; she missed the moment. She had to\nwait for the next carriage. A feeling such as she had known when about\nto take the first plunge in bathing came upon her, and she crossed\nherself. That familiar gesture brought back into her soul a whole\nseries of girlish and childish memories, and suddenly the darkness that\nhad covered everything for her was torn apart, and life rose up before\nher for an instant with all its bright past joys. But she did not take\nher eyes from the wheels of the second carriage. And exactly at the\nmoment when the space between the wheels came opposite her, she dropped\nthe red bag, and drawing her head back into her shoulders, fell on her\nhands under the carriage, and lightly, as though she would rise again\nat once, dropped on to her knees. And at the same instant she was\nterror-stricken at what she was doing.  Where am I? What am I doing?\nWhat for?  She tried to get up, to drop backwards; but something huge\nand merciless struck her on the head and rolled her on her back.  Lord,\nforgive me all!  she said, feeling it impossible to struggle. A peasant\nmuttering something was working at the iron above her. And the light by\nwhich she had read the book filled with troubles, falsehoods, sorrow,\nand evil, flared up more brightly than ever before, lighted up for her\nall that had been in darkness, flickered, began to grow dim, and was\nquenched forever.\n\n\n\n\nPART EIGHT\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nAlmost two months had passed. The hot summer was half over, but Sergey\nIvanovitch was only just preparing to leave Moscow.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch s life had not been uneventful during this time. A\nyear ago he had finished his book, the fruit of six years  labor,\n Sketch of a Survey of the Principles and Forms of Government in Europe\nand Russia.  Several sections of this book and its introduction had\nappeared in periodical publications, and other parts had been read by\nSergey Ivanovitch to persons of his circle, so that the leading ideas\nof the work could not be completely novel to the public. But still\nSergey Ivanovitch had expected that on its appearance his book would be\nsure to make a serious impression on society, and if it did not cause a\nrevolution in social science it would, at any rate, make a great stir\nin the scientific world.\n\nAfter the most conscientious revision the book had last year been\npublished, and had been distributed among the booksellers.\n\nThough he asked no one about it, reluctantly and with feigned\nindifference answered his friends  inquiries as to how the book was\ngoing, and did not even inquire of the booksellers how the book was\nselling, Sergey Ivanovitch was all on the alert, with strained\nattention, watching for the first impression his book would make in the\nworld and in literature.\n\nBut a week passed, a second, a third, and in society no impression\nwhatever could be detected. His friends who were specialists and\nsavants, occasionally unmistakably from politeness alluded to it. The\nrest of his acquaintances, not interested in a book on a learned\nsubject, did not talk of it at all. And society generally just now\nespecially absorbed in other things was absolutely indifferent. In the\npress, too, for a whole month there was not a word about his book.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch had calculated to a nicety the time necessary for\nwriting a review, but a month passed, and a second, and still there was\nsilence.\n\nOnly in the _Northern Beetle_, in a comic article on the singer\nDrabanti, who had lost his voice, there was a contemptuous allusion to\nKoznishev s book, suggesting that the book had been long ago seen\nthrough by everyone, and was a subject of general ridicule.\n\nAt last in the third month a critical article appeared in a serious\nreview. Sergey Ivanovitch knew the author of the article. He had met\nhim once at Golubtsov s.\n\nThe author of the article was a young man, an invalid, very bold as a\nwriter, but extremely deficient in breeding and shy in personal\nrelations.\n\nIn spite of his absolute contempt for the author, it was with complete\nrespect that Sergey Ivanovitch set about reading the article. The\narticle was awful.\n\nThe critic had undoubtedly put an interpretation upon the book which\ncould not possibly be put on it. But he had selected quotations so\nadroitly that for people who had not read the book (and obviously\nscarcely anyone had read it) it seemed absolutely clear that the whole\nbook was nothing but a medley of high-flown phrases, not even as\nsuggested by marks of interrogation used appropriately, and that the\nauthor of the book was a person absolutely without knowledge of the\nsubject. And all this was so wittily done that Sergey Ivanovitch would\nnot have disowned such wit himself. But that was just what was so\nawful.\n\nIn spite of the scrupulous conscientiousness with which Sergey\nIvanovitch verified the correctness of the critic s arguments, he did\nnot for a minute stop to ponder over the faults and mistakes which were\nridiculed; but unconsciously he began immediately trying to recall\nevery detail of his meeting and conversation with the author of the\narticle.\n\n Didn t I offend him in some way?  Sergey Ivanovitch wondered.\n\nAnd remembering that when they met he had corrected the young man about\nsomething he had said that betrayed ignorance, Sergey Ivanovitch found\nthe clue to explain the article.\n\nThis article was followed by a deadly silence about the book both in\nthe press and in conversation, and Sergey Ivanovitch saw that his six\nyears  task, toiled at with such love and labor, had gone, leaving no\ntrace.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch s position was still more difficult from the fact\nthat, since he had finished his book, he had had no more literary work\nto do, such as had hitherto occupied the greater part of his time.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch was clever, cultivated, healthy, and energetic, and\nhe did not know what use to make of his energy. Conversations in\ndrawing-rooms, in meetings, assemblies, and committees everywhere where\ntalk was possible took up part of his time. But being used for years to\ntown life, he did not waste all his energies in talk, as his less\nexperienced younger brother did, when he was in Moscow. He had a great\ndeal of leisure and intellectual energy still to dispose of.\n\nFortunately for him, at this period so difficult for him from the\nfailure of his book, the various public questions of the dissenting\nsects, of the American alliance, of the Samara famine, of exhibitions,\nand of spiritualism, were definitely replaced in public interest by the\nSlavonic question, which had hitherto rather languidly interested\nsociety, and Sergey Ivanovitch, who had been one of the first to raise\nthis subject, threw himself into it heart and soul.\n\nIn the circle to which Sergey Ivanovitch belonged, nothing was talked\nof or written about just now but the Servian War. Everything that the\nidle crowd usually does to kill time was done now for the benefit of\nthe Slavonic States. Balls, concerts, dinners, matchboxes, ladies \ndresses, beer, restaurants everything testified to sympathy with the\nSlavonic peoples.\n\nFrom much of what was spoken and written on the subject, Sergey\nIvanovitch differed on various points. He saw that the Slavonic\nquestion had become one of those fashionable distractions which succeed\none another in providing society with an object and an occupation. He\nsaw, too, that a great many people were taking up the subject from\nmotives of self-interest and self-advertisement. He recognized that the\nnewspapers published a great deal that was superfluous and exaggerated,\nwith the sole aim of attracting attention and outbidding one another.\nHe saw that in this general movement those who thrust themselves most\nforward and shouted the loudest were men who had failed and were\nsmarting under a sense of injury generals without armies, ministers not\nin the ministry, journalists not on any paper, party leaders without\nfollowers. He saw that there was a great deal in it that was frivolous\nand absurd. But he saw and recognized an unmistakable growing\nenthusiasm, uniting all classes, with which it was impossible not to\nsympathize. The massacre of men who were fellow Christians, and of the\nsame Slavonic race, excited sympathy for the sufferers and indignation\nagainst the oppressors. And the heroism of the Servians and\nMontenegrins struggling for a great cause begot in the whole people a\nlonging to help their brothers not in word but in deed.\n\nBut in this there was another aspect that rejoiced Sergey Ivanovitch.\nThat was the manifestation of public opinion. The public had definitely\nexpressed its desire. The soul of the people had, as Sergey Ivanovitch\nsaid, found expression. And the more he worked in this cause, the more\nincontestable it seemed to him that it was a cause destined to assume\nvast dimensions, to create an epoch.\n\nHe threw himself heart and soul into the service of this great cause,\nand forgot to think about his book. His whole time now was engrossed by\nit, so that he could scarcely manage to answer all the letters and\nappeals addressed to him. He worked the whole spring and part of the\nsummer, and it was only in July that he prepared to go away to his\nbrother s in the country.\n\nHe was going both to rest for a fortnight, and in the very heart of the\npeople, in the farthest wilds of the country, to enjoy the sight of\nthat uplifting of the spirit of the people, of which, like all\nresidents in the capital and big towns, he was fully persuaded.\nKatavasov had long been meaning to carry out his promise to stay with\nLevin, and so he was going with him.\n\nChapter 2\n\nSergey Ivanovitch and Katavasov had only just reached the station of\nthe Kursk line, which was particularly busy and full of people that\nday, when, looking round for the groom who was following with their\nthings, they saw a party of volunteers driving up in four cabs. Ladies\nmet them with bouquets of flowers, and followed by the rushing crowd\nthey went into the station.\n\nOne of the ladies, who had met the volunteers, came out of the hall and\naddressed Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n You too come to see them off?  she asked in French.\n\n No, I m going away myself, princess. To my brother s for a holiday. Do\nyou always see them off?  said Sergey Ivanovitch with a hardly\nperceptible smile.\n\n Oh, that would be impossible!  answered the princess.  Is it true that\neight hundred have been sent from us already? Malvinsky wouldn t\nbelieve me. \n\n More than eight hundred. If you reckon those who have been sent not\ndirectly from Moscow, over a thousand,  answered Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n There! That s just what I said!  exclaimed the lady.  And it s true\ntoo, I suppose, that more than a million has been subscribed? \n\n Yes, princess. \n\n What do you say to today s telegram? Beaten the Turks again. \n\n Yes, so I saw,  answered Sergey Ivanovitch. They were speaking of the\nlast telegram stating that the Turks had been for three days in\nsuccession beaten at all points and put to flight, and that tomorrow a\ndecisive engagement was expected.\n\n Ah, by the way, a splendid young fellow has asked leave to go, and\nthey ve made some difficulty, I don t know why. I meant to ask you; I\nknow him; please write a note about his case. He s being sent by\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch asked for all the details the princess knew about the\nyoung man, and going into the first-class waiting-room, wrote a note to\nthe person on whom the granting of leave of absence depended, and\nhanded it to the princess.\n\n You know Count Vronsky, the notorious one ... is going by this train? \nsaid the princess with a smile full of triumph and meaning, when he\nfound her again and gave her the letter.\n\n I had heard he was going, but I did not know when. By this train? \n\n I ve seen him. He s here: there s only his mother seeing him off. It s\nthe best thing, anyway, that he could do. \n\n Oh, yes, of course. \n\nWhile they were talking the crowd streamed by them into the\ndining-room. They went forward too, and heard a gentleman with a glass\nin his hand delivering a loud discourse to the volunteers.  In the\nservice of religion, humanity, and our brothers,  the gentleman said,\nhis voice growing louder and louder;  to this great cause mother Moscow\ndedicates you with her blessing. _Jivio!_  he concluded, loudly and\ntearfully.\n\nEveryone shouted _Jivio!_ and a fresh crowd dashed into the hall,\nalmost carrying the princess off her legs.\n\n Ah, princess! that was something like!  said Stepan Arkadyevitch,\nsuddenly appearing in the middle of the crowd and beaming upon them\nwith a delighted smile.  Capitally, warmly said, wasn t it? Bravo! And\nSergey Ivanovitch! Why, you ought to have said something just a few\nwords, you know, to encourage them; you do that so well,  he added with\na soft, respectful, and discreet smile, moving Sergey Ivanovitch\nforward a little by the arm.\n\n No, I m just off. \n\n Where to? \n\n To the country, to my brother s,  answered Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n Then you ll see my wife. I ve written to her, but you ll see her\nfirst. Please tell her that they ve seen me and that it s  all right, \nas the English say. She ll understand. Oh, and be so good as to tell\nher I m appointed secretary of the committee.... But she ll understand!\nYou know, _les petites mis res de la vie humaine,_  he said, as it were\napologizing to the princess.  And Princess Myakaya not Liza, but\nBibish is sending a thousand guns and twelve nurses. Did I tell you? \n\n Yes, I heard so,  answered Koznishev indifferently.\n\n It s a pity you re going away,  said Stepan Arkadyevitch.  Tomorrow\nwe re giving a dinner to two who re setting off Dimer-Bartnyansky from\nPetersburg and our Veslovsky, Grisha. They re both going. Veslovsky s\nonly lately married. There s a fine fellow for you! Eh, princess?  he\nturned to the lady.\n\nThe princess looked at Koznishev without replying. But the fact that\nSergey Ivanovitch and the princess seemed anxious to get rid of him did\nnot in the least disconcert Stepan Arkadyevitch. Smiling, he stared at\nthe feather in the princess s hat, and then about him as though he were\ngoing to pick something up. Seeing a lady approaching with a collecting\nbox, he beckoned her up and put in a five-rouble note.\n\n I can never see these collecting boxes unmoved while I ve money in my\npocket,  he said.  And how about today s telegram? Fine chaps those\nMontenegrins! \n\n You don t say so!  he cried, when the princess told him that Vronsky\nwas going by this train. For an instant Stepan Arkadyevitch s face\nlooked sad, but a minute later, when, stroking his mustaches and\nswinging as he walked, he went into the hall where Vronsky was, he had\ncompletely forgotten his own despairing sobs over his sister s corpse,\nand he saw in Vronsky only a hero and an old friend.\n\n With all his faults one can t refuse to do him justice,  said the\nprincess to Sergey Ivanovitch as soon as Stepan Arkadyevitch had left\nthem.  What a typically Russian, Slav nature! Only, I m afraid it won t\nbe pleasant for Vronsky to see him. Say what you will, I m touched by\nthat man s fate. Do talk to him a little on the way,  said the\nprincess.\n\n Yes, perhaps, if it happens so. \n\n I never liked him. But this atones for a great deal. He s not merely\ngoing himself, he s taking a squadron at his own expense. \n\n Yes, so I heard. \n\nA bell sounded. Everyone crowded to the doors.  Here he is!  said the\nprincess, indicating Vronsky, who with his mother on his arm walked by,\nwearing a long overcoat and wide-brimmed black hat. Oblonsky was\nwalking beside him, talking eagerly of something.\n\nVronsky was frowning and looking straight before him, as though he did\nnot hear what Stepan Arkadyevitch was saying.\n\nProbably on Oblonsky s pointing them out, he looked round in the\ndirection where the princess and Sergey Ivanovitch were standing, and\nwithout speaking lifted his hat. His face, aged and worn by suffering,\nlooked stony.\n\nGoing onto the platform, Vronsky left his mother and disappeared into a\ncompartment.\n\nOn the platform there rang out  God save the Tsar,  then shouts of\n hurrah!  and _ jivio! _ One of the volunteers, a tall, very young man\nwith a hollow chest, was particularly conspicuous, bowing and waving\nhis felt hat and a nosegay over his head. Then two officers emerged,\nbowing too, and a stout man with a big beard, wearing a greasy forage\ncap.\n\n\nChapter 3\n\nSaying good-bye to the princess, Sergey Ivanovitch was joined by\nKatavasov; together they got into a carriage full to overflowing, and\nthe train started.\n\nAt Tsaritsino station the train was met by a chorus of young men\nsinging  Hail to Thee!  Again the volunteers bowed and poked their\nheads out, but Sergey Ivanovitch paid no attention to them. He had had\nso much to do with the volunteers that the type was familiar to him and\ndid not interest him. Katavasov, whose scientific work had prevented\nhis having a chance of observing them hitherto, was very much\ninterested in them and questioned Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch advised him to go into the second-class and talk to\nthem himself. At the next station Katavasov acted on this suggestion.\n\nAt the first stop he moved into the second-class and made the\nacquaintance of the volunteers. They were sitting in a corner of the\ncarriage, talking loudly and obviously aware that the attention of the\npassengers and Katavasov as he got in was concentrated upon them. More\nloudly than all talked the tall, hollow-chested young man. He was\nunmistakably tipsy, and was relating some story that had occurred at\nhis school. Facing him sat a middle-aged officer in the Austrian\nmilitary jacket of the Guards uniform. He was listening with a smile to\nthe hollow-chested youth, and occasionally pulling him up. The third,\nin an artillery uniform, was sitting on a box beside them. A fourth was\nasleep.\n\nEntering into conversation with the youth, Katavasov learned that he\nwas a wealthy Moscow merchant who had run through a large fortune\nbefore he was two-and-twenty. Katavasov did not like him, because he\nwas unmanly and effeminate and sickly. He was obviously convinced,\nespecially now after drinking, that he was performing a heroic action,\nand he bragged of it in the most unpleasant way.\n\nThe second, the retired officer, made an unpleasant impression too upon\nKatavasov. He was, it seemed, a man who had tried everything. He had\nbeen on a railway, had been a land-steward, and had started factories,\nand he talked, quite without necessity, of all he had done, and used\nlearned expressions quite inappropriately.\n\nThe third, the artilleryman, on the contrary, struck Katavasov very\nfavorably. He was a quiet, modest fellow, unmistakably impressed by the\nknowledge of the officer and the heroic self-sacrifice of the merchant\nand saying nothing about himself. When Katavasov asked him what had\nimpelled him to go to Servia, he answered modestly:\n\n Oh, well, everyone s going. The Servians want help, too. I m sorry for\nthem. \n\n Yes, you artillerymen especially are scarce there,  said Katavasov.\n\n Oh, I wasn t long in the artillery, maybe they ll put me into the\ninfantry or the cavalry. \n\n Into the infantry when they need artillery more than anything?  said\nKatavasov, fancying from the artilleryman s apparent age that he must\nhave reached a fairly high grade.\n\n I wasn t long in the artillery; I m a cadet retired,  he said, and he\nbegan to explain how he had failed in his examination.\n\nAll of this together made a disagreeable impression on Katavasov, and\nwhen the volunteers got out at a station for a drink, Katavasov would\nhave liked to compare his unfavorable impression in conversation with\nsomeone. There was an old man in the carriage, wearing a military\novercoat, who had been listening all the while to Katavasov s\nconversation with the volunteers. When they were left alone, Katavasov\naddressed him.\n\n What different positions they come from, all those fellows who are\ngoing off there,  Katavasov said vaguely, not wishing to express his\nown opinion, and at the same time anxious to find out the old man s\nviews.\n\nThe old man was an officer who had served on two campaigns. He knew\nwhat makes a soldier, and judging by the appearance and the talk of\nthose persons, by the swagger with which they had recourse to the\nbottle on the journey, he considered them poor soldiers. Moreover, he\nlived in a district town, and he was longing to tell how one soldier\nhad volunteered from his town, a drunkard and a thief whom no one would\nemploy as a laborer. But knowing by experience that in the present\ncondition of the public temper it was dangerous to express an opinion\nopposed to the general one, and especially to criticize the volunteers\nunfavorably, he too watched Katavasov without committing himself.\n\n Well, men are wanted there,  he said, laughing with his eyes. And they\nfell to talking of the last war news, and each concealed from the other\nhis perplexity as to the engagement expected next day, since the Turks\nhad been beaten, according to the latest news, at all points. And so\nthey parted, neither giving expression to his opinion.\n\nKatavasov went back to his own carriage, and with reluctant hypocrisy\nreported to Sergey Ivanovitch his observations of the volunteers, from\nwhich it would appear that they were capital fellows.\n\nAt a big station at a town the volunteers were again greeted with\nshouts and singing, again men and women with collecting boxes appeared,\nand provincial ladies brought bouquets to the volunteers and followed\nthem into the refreshment room; but all this was on a much smaller and\nfeebler scale than in Moscow.\n\n\nChapter 4\n\nWhile the train was stopping at the provincial town, Sergey Ivanovitch\ndid not go to the refreshment room, but walked up and down the\nplatform.\n\nThe first time he passed Vronsky s compartment he noticed that the\ncurtain was drawn over the window; but as he passed it the second time\nhe saw the old countess at the window. She beckoned to Koznishev.\n\n I m going, you see, taking him as far as Kursk,  she said.\n\n Yes, so I heard,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, standing at her window and\npeeping in.  What a noble act on his part!  he added, noticing that\nVronsky was not in the compartment.\n\n Yes, after his misfortune, what was there for him to do? \n\n What a terrible thing it was!  said Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n Ah, what I have been through! But do get in.... Ah, what I have been\nthrough!  she repeated, when Sergey Ivanovitch had got in and sat down\nbeside her.  You can t conceive it! For six weeks he did not speak to\nanyone, and would not touch food except when I implored him. And not\nfor one minute could we leave him alone. We took away everything he\ncould have used against himself. We lived on the ground floor, but\nthere was no reckoning on anything. You know, of course, that he had\nshot himself once already on her account,  she said, and the old lady s\neyelashes twitched at the recollection.  Yes, hers was the fitting end\nfor such a woman. Even the death she chose was low and vulgar. \n\n It s not for us to judge, countess,  said Sergey Ivanovitch;  but I\ncan understand that it has been very hard for you. \n\n Ah, don t speak of it! I was staying on my estate, and he was with me.\nA note was brought him. He wrote an answer and sent it off. We hadn t\nan idea that she was close by at the station. In the evening I had only\njust gone to my room, when my Mary told me a lady had thrown herself\nunder the train. Something seemed to strike me at once. I knew it was\nshe. The first thing I said was, he was not to be told. But they d told\nhim already. His coachman was there and saw it all. When I ran into his\nroom, he was beside himself it was fearful to see him. He didn t say a\nword, but galloped off there. I don t know to this day what happened\nthere, but he was brought back at death s door. I shouldn t have known\nhim. _Prostration compl te,_ the doctor said. And that was followed\nalmost by madness. Oh, why talk of it!  said the countess with a wave\nof her hand.  It was an awful time! No, say what you will, she was a\nbad woman. Why, what is the meaning of such desperate passions? It was\nall to show herself something out of the way. Well, and that she did\ndo. She brought herself to ruin and two good men her husband and my\nunhappy son. \n\n And what did her husband do?  asked Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n He has taken her daughter. Alexey was ready to agree to anything at\nfirst. Now it worries him terribly that he should have given his own\nchild away to another man. But he can t take back his word. Karenin\ncame to the funeral. But we tried to prevent his meeting Alexey. For\nhim, for her husband, it was easier, anyway. She had set him free. But\nmy poor son was utterly given up to her. He had thrown up everything,\nhis career, me, and even then she had no mercy on him, but of set\npurpose she made his ruin complete. No, say what you will, her very\ndeath was the death of a vile woman, of no religious feeling. God\nforgive me, but I can t help hating the memory of her, when I look at\nmy son s misery! \n\n But how is he now? \n\n It was a blessing from Providence for us this Servian war. I m old,\nand I don t understand the rights and wrongs of it, but it s come as a\nprovidential blessing to him. Of course for me, as his mother, it s\nterrible; and what s worse, they say, _ce n est pas tr s bien vu  \nP tersbourg_. But it can t be helped! It was the one thing that could\nrouse him. Yashvin a friend of his he had lost all he had at cards and\nhe was going to Servia. He came to see him and persuaded him to go. Now\nit s an interest for him. Do please talk to him a little. I want to\ndistract his mind. He s so low-spirited. And as bad luck would have it,\nhe has toothache too. But he ll be delighted to see you. Please do talk\nto him; he s walking up and down on that side. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch said he would be very glad to, and crossed over to\nthe other side of the station.\n\n\nChapter 5\n\nIn the slanting evening shadows cast by the baggage piled up on the\nplatform, Vronsky in his long overcoat and slouch hat, with his hands\nin his pockets, strode up and down, like a wild beast in a cage,\nturning sharply after twenty paces. Sergey Ivanovitch fancied, as he\napproached him, that Vronsky saw him but was pretending not to see.\nThis did not affect Sergey Ivanovitch in the slightest. He was above\nall personal considerations with Vronsky.\n\nAt that moment Sergey Ivanovitch looked upon Vronsky as a man taking an\nimportant part in a great cause, and Koznishev thought it his duty to\nencourage him and express his approval. He went up to him.\n\nVronsky stood still, looked intently at him, recognized him, and going\na few steps forward to meet him, shook hands with him very warmly.\n\n Possibly you didn t wish to see me,  said Sergey Ivanovitch,  but\ncouldn t I be of use to you? \n\n There s no one I should less dislike seeing than you,  said Vronsky.\n Excuse me; and there s nothing in life for me to like. \n\n I quite understand, and I merely meant to offer you my services,  said\nSergey Ivanovitch, scanning Vronsky s face, full of unmistakable\nsuffering.  Wouldn t it be of use to you to have a letter to\nRistitch to Milan? \n\n Oh, no!  Vronsky said, seeming to understand him with difficulty.  If\nyou don t mind, let s walk on. It s so stuffy among the carriages. A\nletter? No, thank you; to meet death one needs no letters of\nintroduction. Nor for the Turks....  he said, with a smile that was\nmerely of the lips. His eyes still kept their look of angry suffering.\n\n Yes; but you might find it easier to get into relations, which are\nafter all essential, with anyone prepared to see you. But that s as you\nlike. I was very glad to hear of your intention. There have been so\nmany attacks made on the volunteers, and a man like you raises them in\npublic estimation. \n\n My use as a man,  said Vronsky,  is that life s worth nothing to me.\nAnd that I ve enough bodily energy to cut my way into their ranks, and\nto trample on them or fall I know that. I m glad there s something to\ngive my life for, for it s not simply useless but loathsome to me.\nAnyone s welcome to it.  And his jaw twitched impatiently from the\nincessant gnawing toothache, that prevented him from even speaking with\na natural expression.\n\n You will become another man, I predict,  said Sergey Ivanovitch,\nfeeling touched.  To deliver one s brother-men from bondage is an aim\nworth death and life. God grant you success outwardly and inwardly\npeace,  he added, and he held out his hand. Vronsky warmly pressed his\noutstretched hand.\n\n Yes, as a weapon I may be of some use. But as a man, I m a wreck,  he\njerked out.\n\nHe could hardly speak for the throbbing ache in his strong teeth, that\nwere like rows of ivory in his mouth. He was silent, and his eyes\nrested on the wheels of the tender, slowly and smoothly rolling along\nthe rails.\n\nAnd all at once a different pain, not an ache, but an inner trouble,\nthat set his whole being in anguish, made him for an instant forget his\ntoothache. As he glanced at the tender and the rails, under the\ninfluence of the conversation with a friend he had not met since his\nmisfortune, he suddenly recalled _her_ that is, what was left of her\nwhen he had run like one distraught into the cloak room of the railway\nstation on the table, shamelessly sprawling out among strangers, the\nbloodstained body so lately full of life; the head unhurt dropping back\nwith its weight of hair, and the curling tresses about the temples, and\nthe exquisite face, with red, half-opened mouth, the strange, fixed\nexpression, piteous on the lips and awful in the still open eyes, that\nseemed to utter that fearful phrase that he would be sorry for it that\nshe had said when they were quarreling.\n\nAnd he tried to think of her as she was when he met her the first time,\nat a railway station too, mysterious, exquisite, loving, seeking and\ngiving happiness, and not cruelly revengeful as he remembered her on\nthat last moment. He tried to recall his best moments with her, but\nthose moments were poisoned forever. He could only think of her as\ntriumphant, successful in her menace of a wholly useless remorse never\nto be effaced. He lost all consciousness of toothache, and his face\nworked with sobs.\n\nPassing twice up and down beside the baggage in silence and regaining\nhis self-possession, he addressed Sergey Ivanovitch calmly:\n\n You have had no telegrams since yesterday s? Yes, driven back for a\nthird time, but a decisive engagement expected for tomorrow. \n\nAnd after talking a little more of King Milan s proclamation, and the\nimmense effect it might have, they parted, going to their carriages on\nhearing the second bell.\n\n\nChapter 6\n\nSergey Ivanovitch had not telegraphed to his brother to send to meet\nhim, as he did not know when he should be able to leave Moscow. Levin\nwas not at home when Katavasov and Sergey Ivanovitch in a fly hired at\nthe station drove up to the steps of the Pokrovskoe house, as black as\nMoors from the dust of the road. Kitty, sitting on the balcony with her\nfather and sister, recognized her brother-in-law, and ran down to meet\nhim.\n\n What a shame not to have let us know,  she said, giving her hand to\nSergey Ivanovitch, and putting her forehead up for him to kiss.\n\n We drove here capitally, and have not put you out,  answered Sergey\nIvanovitch.  I m so dirty. I m afraid to touch you. I ve been so busy,\nI didn t know when I should be able to tear myself away. And so you re\nstill as ever enjoying your peaceful, quiet happiness,  he said,\nsmiling,  out of the reach of the current in your peaceful backwater.\nHere s our friend Fyodor Vassilievitch who has succeeded in getting\nhere at last. \n\n But I m not a negro, I shall look like a human being when I wash, \nsaid Katavasov in his jesting fashion, and he shook hands and smiled,\nhis teeth flashing white in his black face.\n\n Kostya will be delighted. He has gone to his settlement. It s time he\nshould be home. \n\n Busy as ever with his farming. It really is a peaceful backwater, \nsaid Katavasov;  while we in town think of nothing but the Servian war.\nWell, how does our friend look at it? He s sure not to think like other\npeople. \n\n Oh, I don t know, like everybody else,  Kitty answered, a little\nembarrassed, looking round at Sergey Ivanovitch.  I ll send to fetch\nhim. Papa s staying with us. He s only just come home from abroad. \n\nAnd making arrangements to send for Levin and for the guests to wash,\none in his room and the other in what had been Dolly s, and giving\norders for their luncheon, Kitty ran out onto the balcony, enjoying the\nfreedom, and rapidity of movement, of which she had been deprived\nduring the months of her pregnancy.\n\n It s Sergey Ivanovitch and Katavasov, a professor,  she said.\n\n Oh, that s a bore in this heat,  said the prince.\n\n No, papa, he s very nice, and Kostya s very fond of him,  Kitty said,\nwith a deprecating smile, noticing the irony on her father s face.\n\n Oh, I didn t say anything. \n\n You go to them, darling,  said Kitty to her sister,  and entertain\nthem. They saw Stiva at the station; he was quite well. And I must run\nto Mitya. As ill-luck would have it, I haven t fed him since tea. He s\nawake now, and sure to be screaming.  And feeling a rush of milk, she\nhurried to the nursery.\n\nThis was not a mere guess; her connection with the child was still so\nclose, that she could gauge by the flow of her milk his need of food,\nand knew for certain he was hungry.\n\nShe knew he was crying before she reached the nursery. And he was\nindeed crying. She heard him and hastened. But the faster she went, the\nlouder he screamed. It was a fine healthy scream, hungry and impatient.\n\n Has he been screaming long, nurse, very long?  said Kitty hurriedly,\nseating herself on a chair, and preparing to give the baby the breast.\n But give me him quickly. Oh, nurse, how tiresome you are! There, tie\nthe cap afterwards, do! \n\nThe baby s greedy scream was passing into sobs.\n\n But you can t manage so, ma am,  said Agafea Mihalovna, who was almost\nalways to be found in the nursery.  He must be put straight. A-oo!\na-oo!  she chanted over him, paying no attention to the mother.\n\nThe nurse brought the baby to his mother. Agafea Mihalovna followed him\nwith a face dissolving with tenderness.\n\n He knows me, he knows me. In God s faith, Katerina Alexandrovna,\nma am, he knew me!  Agafea Mihalovna cried above the baby s screams.\n\nBut Kitty did not hear her words. Her impatience kept growing, like the\nbaby s.\n\nTheir impatience hindered things for a while. The baby could not get\nhold of the breast right, and was furious.\n\nAt last, after despairing, breathless screaming, and vain sucking,\nthings went right, and mother and child felt simultaneously soothed,\nand both subsided into calm.\n\n But poor darling, he s all in perspiration!  said Kitty in a whisper,\ntouching the baby.\n\n What makes you think he knows you?  she added, with a sidelong glance\nat the baby s eyes, that peered roguishly, as she fancied, from under\nhis cap, at his rhythmically puffing cheeks, and the little red-palmed\nhand he was waving.\n\n Impossible! If he knew anyone, he would have known me,  said Kitty, in\nresponse to Agafea Mihalovna s statement, and she smiled.\n\nShe smiled because, though she said he could not know her, in her heart\nshe was sure that he knew not merely Agafea Mihalovna, but that he knew\nand understood everything, and knew and understood a great deal too\nthat no one else knew, and that she, his mother, had learned and come\nto understand only through him. To Agafea Mihalovna, to the nurse, to\nhis grandfather, to his father even, Mitya was a living being,\nrequiring only material care, but for his mother he had long been a\nmortal being, with whom there had been a whole series of spiritual\nrelations already.\n\n When he wakes up, please God, you shall see for yourself. Then when I\ndo like this, he simply beams on me, the darling! Simply beams like a\nsunny day!  said Agafea Mihalovna.\n\n Well, well; then we shall see,  whispered Kitty.  But now go away,\nhe s going to sleep. \n\n\nChapter 7\n\nAgafea Mihalovna went out on tiptoe; the nurse let down the blind,\nchased a fly out from under the muslin canopy of the crib, and a\nbumblebee struggling on the window-frame, and sat down waving a faded\nbranch of birch over the mother and the baby.\n\n How hot it is! if God would send a drop of rain,  she said.\n\n Yes, yes, sh sh sh  was all Kitty answered, rocking a little, and\ntenderly squeezing the plump little arm, with rolls of fat at the\nwrist, which Mitya still waved feebly as he opened and shut his eyes.\nThat hand worried Kitty; she longed to kiss the little hand, but was\nafraid to for fear of waking the baby. At last the little hand ceased\nwaving, and the eyes closed. Only from time to time, as he went on\nsucking, the baby raised his long, curly eyelashes and peeped at his\nmother with wet eyes, that looked black in the twilight. The nurse had\nleft off fanning, and was dozing. From above came the peals of the old\nprince s voice, and the chuckle of Katavasov.\n\n They have got into talk without me,  thought Kitty,  but still it s\nvexing that Kostya s out. He s sure to have gone to the bee-house\nagain. Though it s a pity he s there so often, still I m glad. It\ndistracts his mind. He s become altogether happier and better now than\nin the spring. He used to be so gloomy and worried that I felt\nfrightened for him. And how absurd he is!  she whispered, smiling.\n\nShe knew what worried her husband. It was his unbelief. Although, if\nshe had been asked whether she supposed that in the future life, if he\ndid not believe, he would be damned, she would have had to admit that\nhe would be damned, his unbelief did not cause her unhappiness. And\nshe, confessing that for an unbeliever there can be no salvation, and\nloving her husband s soul more than anything in the world, thought with\na smile of his unbelief, and told herself that he was absurd.\n\n What does he keep reading philosophy of some sort for all this year? \nshe wondered.  If it s all written in those books, he can understand\nthem. If it s all wrong, why does he read them? He says himself that he\nwould like to believe. Then why is it he doesn t believe? Surely from\nhis thinking so much? And he thinks so much from being solitary. He s\nalways alone, alone. He can t talk about it all to us. I fancy he ll be\nglad of these visitors, especially Katavasov. He likes discussions with\nthem,  she thought, and passed instantly to the consideration of where\nit would be more convenient to put Katavasov, to sleep alone or to\nshare Sergey Ivanovitch s room. And then an idea suddenly struck her,\nwhich made her shudder and even disturb Mitya, who glanced severely at\nher.  I do believe the laundress hasn t sent the washing yet, and all\nthe best sheets are in use. If I don t see to it, Agafea Mihalovna will\ngive Sergey Ivanovitch the wrong sheets,  and at the very idea of this\nthe blood rushed to Kitty s face.\n\n Yes, I will arrange it,  she decided, and going back to her former\nthoughts, she remembered that some spiritual question of importance had\nbeen interrupted, and she began to recall what.  Yes, Kostya, an\nunbeliever,  she thought again with a smile.\n\n Well, an unbeliever then! Better let him always be one than like\nMadame Stahl, or what I tried to be in those days abroad. No, he won t\never sham anything. \n\nAnd a recent instance of his goodness rose vividly to her mind. A\nfortnight ago a penitent letter had come from Stepan Arkadyevitch to\nDolly. He besought her to save his honor, to sell her estate to pay his\ndebts. Dolly was in despair, she detested her husband, despised him,\npitied him, resolved on a separation, resolved to refuse, but ended by\nagreeing to sell part of her property. After that, with an\nirrepressible smile of tenderness, Kitty recalled her husband s\nshamefaced embarrassment, his repeated awkward efforts to approach the\nsubject, and how at last, having thought of the one means of helping\nDolly without wounding her pride, he had suggested to Kitty what had\nnot occurred to her before that she should give up her share of the\nproperty.\n\n He an unbeliever indeed! With his heart, his dread of offending\nanyone, even a child! Everything for others, nothing for himself.\nSergey Ivanovitch simply considers it as Kostya s duty to be his\nsteward. And it s the same with his sister. Now Dolly and her children\nare under his guardianship; all these peasants who come to him every\nday, as though he were bound to be at their service. \n\n Yes, only be like your father, only like him,  she said, handing Mitya\nover to the nurse, and putting her lips to his cheek.\n\nChapter 8\n\nEver since, by his beloved brother s deathbed, Levin had first glanced\ninto the questions of life and death in the light of these new\nconvictions, as he called them, which had during the period from his\ntwentieth to his thirty-fourth year imperceptibly replaced his childish\nand youthful beliefs he had been stricken with horror, not so much of\ndeath, as of life, without any knowledge of whence, and why, and how,\nand what it was. The physical organization, its decay, the\nindestructibility of matter, the law of the conservation of energy,\nevolution, were the words which usurped the place of his old belief.\nThese words and the ideas associated with them were very well for\nintellectual purposes. But for life they yielded nothing, and Levin\nfelt suddenly like a man who has changed his warm fur cloak for a\nmuslin garment, and going for the first time into the frost is\nimmediately convinced, not by reason, but by his whole nature that he\nis as good as naked, and that he must infallibly perish miserably.\n\nFrom that moment, though he did not distinctly face it, and still went\non living as before, Levin had never lost this sense of terror at his\nlack of knowledge.\n\nHe vaguely felt, too, that what he called his new convictions were not\nmerely lack of knowledge, but that they were part of a whole order of\nideas, in which no knowledge of what he needed was possible.\n\nAt first, marriage, with the new joys and duties bound up with it, had\ncompletely crowded out these thoughts. But of late, while he was\nstaying in Moscow after his wife s confinement, with nothing to do, the\nquestion that clamored for solution had more and more often, more and\nmore insistently, haunted Levin s mind.\n\nThe question was summed up for him thus:  If I do not accept the\nanswers Christianity gives to the problems of my life, what answers do\nI accept?  And in the whole arsenal of his convictions, so far from\nfinding any satisfactory answers, he was utterly unable to find\nanything at all like an answer.\n\nHe was in the position of a man seeking food in toy shops and tool\nshops.\n\nInstinctively, unconsciously, with every book, with every conversation,\nwith every man he met, he was on the lookout for light on these\nquestions and their solution.\n\nWhat puzzled and distracted him above everything was that the majority\nof men of his age and circle had, like him, exchanged their old beliefs\nfor the same new convictions, and yet saw nothing to lament in this,\nand were perfectly satisfied and serene. So that, apart from the\nprincipal question, Levin was tortured by other questions too. Were\nthese people sincere? he asked himself, or were they playing a part? or\nwas it that they understood the answers science gave to these problems\nin some different, clearer sense than he did? And he assiduously\nstudied both these men s opinions and the books which treated of these\nscientific explanations.\n\nOne fact he had found out since these questions had engrossed his mind,\nwas that he had been quite wrong in supposing from the recollections of\nthe circle of his young days at college, that religion had outlived its\nday, and that it was now practically non-existent. All the people\nnearest to him who were good in their lives were believers. The old\nprince, and Lvov, whom he liked so much, and Sergey Ivanovitch, and all\nthe women believed, and his wife believed as simply as he had believed\nin his earliest childhood, and ninety-nine hundredths of the Russian\npeople, all the working people for whose life he felt the deepest\nrespect, believed.\n\nAnother fact of which he became convinced, after reading many\nscientific books, was that the men who shared his views had no other\nconstruction to put on them, and that they gave no explanation of the\nquestions which he felt he could not live without answering, but simply\nignored their existence and attempted to explain other questions of no\npossible interest to him, such as the evolution of organisms, the\nmaterialistic theory of consciousness, and so forth.\n\nMoreover, during his wife s confinement, something had happened that\nseemed extraordinary to him. He, an unbeliever, had fallen into\npraying, and at the moment he prayed, he believed. But that moment had\npassed, and he could not make his state of mind at that moment fit into\nthe rest of his life.\n\nHe could not admit that at that moment he knew the truth, and that now\nhe was wrong; for as soon as he began thinking calmly about it, it all\nfell to pieces. He could not admit that he was mistaken then, for his\nspiritual condition then was precious to him, and to admit that it was\na proof of weakness would have been to desecrate those moments. He was\nmiserably divided against himself, and strained all his spiritual\nforces to the utmost to escape from this condition.\n\nChapter 9\n\nThese doubts fretted and harassed him, growing weaker or stronger from\ntime to time, but never leaving him. He read and thought, and the more\nhe read and the more he thought, the further he felt from the aim he\nwas pursuing.\n\nOf late in Moscow and in the country, since he had become convinced\nthat he would find no solution in the materialists, he had read and\nre-read thoroughly Plato, Spinoza, Kant, Schelling, Hegel, and\nSchopenhauer, the philosophers who gave a non-materialistic explanation\nof life.\n\nTheir ideas seemed to him fruitful when he was reading or was himself\nseeking arguments to refute other theories, especially those of the\nmaterialists; but as soon as he began to read or sought for himself a\nsolution of problems, the same thing always happened. As long as he\nfollowed the fixed definition of obscure words such as _spirit, will,\nfreedom, essence,_ purposely letting himself go into the snare of words\nthe philosophers set for him, he seemed to comprehend something. But he\nhad only to forget the artificial train of reasoning, and to turn from\nlife itself to what had satisfied him while thinking in accordance with\nthe fixed definitions, and all this artificial edifice fell to pieces\nat once like a house of cards, and it became clear that the edifice had\nbeen built up out of those transposed words, apart from anything in\nlife more important than reason.\n\nAt one time, reading Schopenhauer, he put in place of his _will_ the\nword _love_, and for a couple of days this new philosophy charmed him,\ntill he removed a little away from it. But then, when he turned from\nlife itself to glance at it again, it fell away too, and proved to be\nthe same muslin garment with no warmth in it.\n\nHis brother Sergey Ivanovitch advised him to read the theological works\nof Homiakov. Levin read the second volume of Homiakov s works, and in\nspite of the elegant, epigrammatic, argumentative style which at first\nrepelled him, he was impressed by the doctrine of the church he found\nin them. He was struck at first by the idea that the apprehension of\ndivine truths had not been vouchsafed to man, but to a corporation of\nmen bound together by love to the church. What delighted him was the\nthought how much easier it was to believe in a still existing living\nchurch, embracing all the beliefs of men, and having God at its head,\nand therefore holy and infallible, and from it to accept the faith in\nGod, in the creation, the fall, the redemption, than to begin with God,\na mysterious, far-away God, the creation, etc. But afterwards, on\nreading a Catholic writer s history of the church, and then a Greek\northodox writer s history of the church, and seeing that the two\nchurches, in their very conception infallible, each deny the authority\nof the other, Homiakov s doctrine of the church lost all its charm for\nhim, and this edifice crumbled into dust like the philosophers \nedifices.\n\nAll that spring he was not himself, and went through fearful moments of\nhorror.\n\n Without knowing what I am and why I am here, life s impossible; and\nthat I can t know, and so I can t live,  Levin said to himself.\n\n In infinite time, in infinite matter, in infinite space, is formed a\nbubble-organism, and that bubble lasts a while and bursts, and that\nbubble is Me. \n\nIt was an agonizing error, but it was the sole logical result of ages\nof human thought in that direction.\n\nThis was the ultimate belief on which all the systems elaborated by\nhuman thought in almost all their ramifications rested. It was the\nprevalent conviction, and of all other explanations Levin had\nunconsciously, not knowing when or how, chosen it, as anyway the\nclearest, and made it his own.\n\nBut it was not merely a falsehood, it was the cruel jeer of some wicked\npower, some evil, hateful power, to whom one could not submit.\n\nHe must escape from this power. And the means of escape every man had\nin his own hands. He had but to cut short this dependence on evil. And\nthere was one means death.\n\nAnd Levin, a happy father and husband, in perfect health, was several\ntimes so near suicide that he hid the cord that he might not be tempted\nto hang himself, and was afraid to go out with his gun for fear of\nshooting himself.\n\nBut Levin did not shoot himself, and did not hang himself; he went on\nliving.\n\n\nChapter 10\n\nWhen Levin thought what he was and what he was living for, he could\nfind no answer to the questions and was reduced to despair, but he left\noff questioning himself about it. It seemed as though he knew both what\nhe was and for what he was living, for he acted and lived resolutely\nand without hesitation. Indeed, in these latter days he was far more\ndecided and unhesitating in life than he had ever been.\n\nWhen he went back to the country at the beginning of June, he went back\nalso to his usual pursuits. The management of the estate, his relations\nwith the peasants and the neighbors, the care of his household, the\nmanagement of his sister s and brother s property, of which he had the\ndirection, his relations with his wife and kindred, the care of his\nchild, and the new bee-keeping hobby he had taken up that spring,\nfilled all his time.\n\nThese things occupied him now, not because he justified them to himself\nby any sort of general principles, as he had done in former days; on\nthe contrary, disappointed by the failure of his former efforts for the\ngeneral welfare, and too much occupied with his own thought and the\nmass of business with which he was burdened from all sides, he had\ncompletely given up thinking of the general good, and he busied himself\nwith all this work simply because it seemed to him that he must do what\nhe was doing that he could not do otherwise. In former days almost from\nchildhood, and increasingly up to full manhood when he had tried to do\nanything that would be good for all, for humanity, for Russia, for the\nwhole village, he had noticed that the idea of it had been pleasant,\nbut the work itself had always been incoherent, that then he had never\nhad a full conviction of its absolute necessity, and that the work that\nhad begun by seeming so great, had grown less and less, till it\nvanished into nothing. But now, since his marriage, when he had begun\nto confine himself more and more to living for himself, though he\nexperienced no delight at all at the thought of the work he was doing,\nhe felt a complete conviction of its necessity, saw that it succeeded\nfar better than in old days, and that it kept on growing more and more.\n\nNow, involuntarily it seemed, he cut more and more deeply into the soil\nlike a plough, so that he could not be drawn out without turning aside\nthe furrow.\n\nTo live the same family life as his father and forefathers that is, in\nthe same condition of culture and to bring up his children in the same,\nwas incontestably necessary. It was as necessary as dining when one was\nhungry. And to do this, just as it was necessary to cook dinner, it was\nnecessary to keep the mechanism of agriculture at Pokrovskoe going so\nas to yield an income. Just as incontestably as it was necessary to\nrepay a debt was it necessary to keep the property in such a condition\nthat his son, when he received it as a heritage, would say  thank you \nto his father as Levin had said  thank you  to his grandfather for all\nhe built and planted. And to do this it was necessary to look after the\nland himself, not to let it, and to breed cattle, manure the fields,\nand plant timber.\n\nIt was impossible not to look after the affairs of Sergey Ivanovitch,\nof his sister, of the peasants who came to him for advice and were\naccustomed to do so as impossible as to fling down a child one is\ncarrying in one s arms. It was necessary to look after the comfort of\nhis sister-in-law and her children, and of his wife and baby, and it\nwas impossible not to spend with them at least a short time each day.\n\nAnd all this, together with shooting and his new bee-keeping, filled up\nthe whole of Levin s life, which had no meaning at all for him, when he\nbegan to think.\n\nBut besides knowing thoroughly what he had to do, Levin knew in just\nthe same way _how_ he had to do it all, and what was more important\nthan the rest.\n\nHe knew he must hire laborers as cheaply as possible; but to hire men\nunder bond, paying them in advance at less than the current rate of\nwages, was what he must not do, even though it was very profitable.\nSelling straw to the peasants in times of scarcity of provender was\nwhat he might do, even though he felt sorry for them; but the tavern\nand the pothouse must be put down, though they were a source of income.\nFelling timber must be punished as severely as possible, but he could\nnot exact forfeits for cattle being driven onto his fields; and though\nit annoyed the keeper and made the peasants not afraid to graze their\ncattle on his land, he could not keep their cattle as a punishment.\n\nTo Pyotr, who was paying a money-lender ten per cent. a month, he must\nlend a sum of money to set him free. But he could not let off peasants\nwho did not pay their rent, nor let them fall into arrears. It was\nimpossible to overlook the bailiff s not having mown the meadows and\nletting the hay spoil; and it was equally impossible to mow those acres\nwhere a young copse had been planted. It was impossible to excuse a\nlaborer who had gone home in the busy season because his father was\ndying, however sorry he might feel for him, and he must subtract from\nhis pay those costly months of idleness. But it was impossible not to\nallow monthly rations to the old servants who were of no use for\nanything.\n\nLevin knew that when he got home he must first of all go to his wife,\nwho was unwell, and that the peasants who had been waiting for three\nhours to see him could wait a little longer. He knew too that,\nregardless of all the pleasure he felt in taking a swarm, he must\nforego that pleasure, and leave the old man to see to the bees alone,\nwhile he talked to the peasants who had come after him to the\nbee-house.\n\nWhether he were acting rightly or wrongly he did not know, and far from\ntrying to prove that he was, nowadays he avoided all thought or talk\nabout it.\n\nReasoning had brought him to doubt, and prevented him from seeing what\nhe ought to do and what he ought not. When he did not think, but simply\nlived, he was continually aware of the presence of an infallible judge\nin his soul, determining which of two possible courses of action was\nthe better and which was the worse, and as soon as he did not act\nrightly, he was at once aware of it.\n\nSo he lived, not knowing and not seeing any chance of knowing what he\nwas and what he was living for, and harassed at this lack of knowledge\nto such a point that he was afraid of suicide, and yet firmly laying\ndown his own individual definite path in life.\n\n\nChapter 11\n\nThe day on which Sergey Ivanovitch came to Pokrovskoe was one of\nLevin s most painful days. It was the very busiest working time, when\nall the peasantry show an extraordinary intensity of self-sacrifice in\nlabor, such as is never shown in any other conditions of life, and\nwould be highly esteemed if the men who showed these qualities\nthemselves thought highly of them, and if it were not repeated every\nyear, and if the results of this intense labor were not so simple.\n\nTo reap and bind the rye and oats and to carry it, to mow the meadows,\nturn over the fallows, thrash the seed and sow the winter corn all this\nseems so simple and ordinary; but to succeed in getting through it all\neveryone in the village, from the old man to the young child, must toil\nincessantly for three or four weeks, three times as hard as usual,\nliving on rye-beer, onions, and black bread, thrashing and carrying the\nsheaves at night, and not giving more than two or three hours in the\ntwenty-four to sleep. And every year this is done all over Russia.\n\nHaving lived the greater part of his life in the country and in the\nclosest relations with the peasants, Levin always felt in this busy\ntime that he was infected by this general quickening of energy in the\npeople.\n\nIn the early morning he rode over to the first sowing of the rye, and\nto the oats, which were being carried to the stacks, and returning home\nat the time his wife and sister-in-law were getting up, he drank coffee\nwith them and walked to the farm, where a new thrashing machine was to\nbe set working to get ready the seed-corn.\n\nHe was standing in the cool granary, still fragrant with the leaves of\nthe hazel branches interlaced on the freshly peeled aspen beams of the\nnew thatch roof. He gazed through the open door in which the dry bitter\ndust of the thrashing whirled and played, at the grass of the thrashing\nfloor in the sunlight and the fresh straw that had been brought in from\nthe barn, then at the speckly-headed, white-breasted swallows that flew\nchirping in under the roof and, fluttering their wings, settled in the\ncrevices of the doorway, then at the peasants bustling in the dark,\ndusty barn, and he thought strange thoughts.\n\n Why is it all being done?  he thought.  Why am I standing here, making\nthem work? What are they all so busy for, trying to show their zeal\nbefore me? What is that old Matrona, my old friend, toiling for? (I\ndoctored her, when the beam fell on her in the fire)  he thought,\nlooking at a thin old woman who was raking up the grain, moving\npainfully with her bare, sun-blackened feet over the uneven, rough\nfloor.  Then she recovered, but today or tomorrow or in ten years she\nwon t; they ll bury her, and nothing will be left either of her or of\nthat smart girl in the red jacket, who with that skillful, soft action\nshakes the ears out of their husks. They ll bury her and this piebald\nhorse, and very soon too,  he thought, gazing at the heavily moving,\npanting horse that kept walking up the wheel that turned under him.\n And they will bury her and Fyodor the thrasher with his curly beard\nfull of chaff and his shirt torn on his white shoulders they will bury\nhim. He s untying the sheaves, and giving orders, and shouting to the\nwomen, and quickly setting straight the strap on the moving wheel. And\nwhat s more, it s not them alone me they ll bury too, and nothing will\nbe left. What for? \n\nHe thought this, and at the same time looked at his watch to reckon how\nmuch they thrashed in an hour. He wanted to know this so as to judge by\nit the task to set for the day.\n\n It ll soon be one, and they re only beginning the third sheaf, \nthought Levin. He went up to the man that was feeding the machine, and\nshouting over the roar of the machine he told him to put it in more\nslowly.  You put in too much at a time, Fyodor. Do you see it gets\nchoked, that s why it isn t getting on. Do it evenly. \n\nFyodor, black with the dust that clung to his moist face, shouted\nsomething in response, but still went on doing it as Levin did not want\nhim to.\n\nLevin, going up to the machine, moved Fyodor aside, and began feeding\nthe corn in himself. Working on till the peasants  dinner hour, which\nwas not long in coming, he went out of the barn with Fyodor and fell\ninto talk with him, stopping beside a neat yellow sheaf of rye laid on\nthe thrashing floor for seed.\n\nFyodor came from a village at some distance from the one in which Levin\nhad once allotted land to his cooperative association. Now it had been\nlet to a former house porter.\n\nLevin talked to Fyodor about this land and asked whether Platon, a\nwell-to-do peasant of good character belonging to the same village,\nwould not take the land for the coming year.\n\n It s a high rent; it wouldn t pay Platon, Konstantin Dmitrievitch, \nanswered the peasant, picking the ears off his sweat-drenched shirt.\n\n But how does Kirillov make it pay? \n\n Mituh!  (so the peasant called the house porter, in a tone of\ncontempt),  you may be sure he ll make it pay, Konstantin Dmitrievitch!\nHe ll get his share, however he has to squeeze to get it! He s no mercy\non a Christian. But Uncle Fokanitch  (so he called the old peasant\nPlaton),  do you suppose he d flay the skin off a man? Where there s\ndebt, he ll let anyone off. And he ll not wring the last penny out.\nHe s a man too. \n\n But why will he let anyone off? \n\n Oh, well, of course, folks are different. One man lives for his own\nwants and nothing else, like Mituh, he only thinks of filling his\nbelly, but Fokanitch is a righteous man. He lives for his soul. He does\nnot forget God. \n\n How thinks of God? How does he live for his soul?  Levin almost\nshouted.\n\n Why, to be sure, in truth, in God s way. Folks are different. Take you\nnow, you wouldn t wrong a man.... \n\n Yes, yes, good-bye!  said Levin, breathless with excitement, and\nturning round he took his stick and walked quickly away towards home.\nAt the peasant s words that Fokanitch lived for his soul, in truth, in\nGod s way, undefined but significant ideas seemed to burst out as\nthough they had been locked up, and all striving towards one goal, they\nthronged whirling through his head, blinding him with their light.\n\n\nChapter 12\n\nLevin strode along the highroad, absorbed not so much in his thoughts\n(he could not yet disentangle them) as in his spiritual condition,\nunlike anything he had experienced before.\n\nThe words uttered by the peasant had acted on his soul like an electric\nshock, suddenly transforming and combining into a single whole the\nwhole swarm of disjointed, impotent, separate thoughts that incessantly\noccupied his mind. These thoughts had unconsciously been in his mind\neven when he was talking about the land.\n\nHe was aware of something new in his soul, and joyfully tested this new\nthing, not yet knowing what it was.\n\n Not living for his own wants, but for God? For what God? And could one\nsay anything more senseless than what he said? He said that one must\nnot live for one s own wants, that is, that one must not live for what\nwe understand, what we are attracted by, what we desire, but must live\nfor something incomprehensible, for God, whom no one can understand nor\neven define. What of it? Didn t I understand those senseless words of\nFyodor s? And understanding them, did I doubt of their truth? Did I\nthink them stupid, obscure, inexact? No, I understood him, and exactly\nas he understands the words. I understood them more fully and clearly\nthan I understand anything in life, and never in my life have I doubted\nnor can I doubt about it. And not only I, but everyone, the whole world\nunderstands nothing fully but this, and about this only they have no\ndoubt and are always agreed.\n\n And I looked out for miracles, complained that I did not see a miracle\nwhich would convince me. A material miracle would have persuaded me.\nAnd here is a miracle, the sole miracle possible, continually existing,\nsurrounding me on all sides, and I never noticed it!\n\n Fyodor says that Kirillov lives for his belly. That s comprehensible\nand rational. All of us as rational beings can t do anything else but\nlive for our belly. And all of a sudden the same Fyodor says that one\nmustn t live for one s belly, but must live for truth, for God, and at\na hint I understand him! And I and millions of men, men who lived ages\nago and men living now peasants, the poor in spirit and the learned,\nwho have thought and written about it, in their obscure words saying\nthe same thing we are all agreed about this one thing: what we must\nlive for and what is good. I and all men have only one firm,\nincontestable, clear knowledge, and that knowledge cannot be explained\nby the reason it is outside it, and has no causes and can have no\neffects.\n\n If goodness has causes, it is not goodness; if it has effects, a\nreward, it is not goodness either. So goodness is outside the chain of\ncause and effect.\n\n And yet I know it, and we all know it.\n\n What could be a greater miracle than that?\n\n Can I have found the solution of it all? can my sufferings be over? \nthought Levin, striding along the dusty road, not noticing the heat nor\nhis weariness, and experiencing a sense of relief from prolonged\nsuffering. This feeling was so delicious that it seemed to him\nincredible. He was breathless with emotion and incapable of going\nfarther; he turned off the road into the forest and lay down in the\nshade of an aspen on the uncut grass. He took his hat off his hot head\nand lay propped on his elbow in the lush, feathery, woodland grass.\n\n Yes, I must make it clear to myself and understand,  he thought,\nlooking intently at the untrampled grass before him, and following the\nmovements of a green beetle, advancing along a blade of couch-grass and\nlifting up in its progress a leaf of goat-weed.  What have I\ndiscovered?  he asked himself, bending aside the leaf of goat-weed out\nof the beetle s way and twisting another blade of grass above for the\nbeetle to cross over onto it.  What is it makes me glad? What have I\ndiscovered?\n\n I have discovered nothing. I have only found out what I knew. I\nunderstand the force that in the past gave me life, and now too gives\nme life. I have been set free from falsity, I have found the Master.\n\n Of old I used to say that in my body, that in the body of this grass\nand of this beetle (there, she didn t care for the grass, she s opened\nher wings and flown away), there was going on a transformation of\nmatter in accordance with physical, chemical, and physiological laws.\nAnd in all of us, as well as in the aspens and the clouds and the misty\npatches, there was a process of evolution. Evolution from what? into\nwhat? Eternal evolution and struggle.... As though there could be any\nsort of tendency and struggle in the eternal! And I was astonished that\nin spite of the utmost effort of thought along that road I could not\ndiscover the meaning of life, the meaning of my impulses and yearnings.\nNow I say that I know the meaning of my life:  To live for God, for my\nsoul.  And this meaning, in spite of its clearness, is mysterious and\nmarvelous. Such, indeed, is the meaning of everything existing. Yes,\npride,  he said to himself, turning over on his stomach and beginning\nto tie a noose of blades of grass, trying not to break them.\n\n And not merely pride of intellect, but dulness of intellect. And most\nof all, the deceitfulness; yes, the deceitfulness of intellect. The\ncheating knavishness of intellect, that s it,  he said to himself.\n\nAnd he briefly went through, mentally, the whole course of his ideas\nduring the last two years, the beginning of which was the clear\nconfronting of death at the sight of his dear brother hopelessly ill.\n\nThen, for the first time, grasping that for every man, and himself too,\nthere was nothing in store but suffering, death, and forgetfulness, he\nhad made up his mind that life was impossible like that, and that he\nmust either interpret life so that it would not present itself to him\nas the evil jest of some devil, or shoot himself.\n\nBut he had not done either, but had gone on living, thinking, and\nfeeling, and had even at that very time married, and had had many joys\nand had been happy, when he was not thinking of the meaning of his\nlife.\n\nWhat did this mean? It meant that he had been living rightly, but\nthinking wrongly.\n\nHe had lived (without being aware of it) on those spiritual truths that\nhe had sucked in with his mother s milk, but he had thought, not merely\nwithout recognition of these truths, but studiously ignoring them.\n\nNow it was clear to him that he could only live by virtue of the\nbeliefs in which he had been brought up.\n\n What should I have been, and how should I have spent my life, if I had\nnot had these beliefs, if I had not known that I must live for God and\nnot for my own desires? I should have robbed and lied and killed.\nNothing of what makes the chief happiness of my life would have existed\nfor me.  And with the utmost stretch of imagination he could not\nconceive the brutal creature he would have been himself, if he had not\nknown what he was living for.\n\n I looked for an answer to my question. And thought could not give an\nanswer to my question it is incommensurable with my question. The\nanswer has been given me by life itself, in my knowledge of what is\nright and what is wrong. And that knowledge I did not arrive at in any\nway, it was given to me as to all men, _given_, because I could not\nhave got it from anywhere.\n\n Where could I have got it? By reason could I have arrived at knowing\nthat I must love my neighbor and not oppress him? I was told that in my\nchildhood, and I believed it gladly, for they told me what was already\nin my soul. But who discovered it? Not reason. Reason discovered the\nstruggle for existence, and the law that requires us to oppress all who\nhinder the satisfaction of our desires. That is the deduction of\nreason. But loving one s neighbor reason could never discover, because\nit s irrational. \n\nChapter 13\n\nAnd Levin remembered a scene he had lately witnessed between Dolly and\nher children. The children, left to themselves, had begun cooking\nraspberries over the candles and squirting milk into each other s\nmouths with a syringe. Their mother, catching them at these pranks,\nbegan reminding them in Levin s presence of the trouble their mischief\ngave to the grown-up people, and that this trouble was all for their\nsake, and that if they smashed the cups they would have nothing to\ndrink their tea out of, and that if they wasted the milk, they would\nhave nothing to eat, and die of hunger.\n\nAnd Levin had been struck by the passive, weary incredulity with which\nthe children heard what their mother said to them. They were simply\nannoyed that their amusing play had been interrupted, and did not\nbelieve a word of what their mother was saying. They could not believe\nit indeed, for they could not take in the immensity of all they\nhabitually enjoyed, and so could not conceive that what they were\ndestroying was the very thing they lived by.\n\n That all comes of itself,  they thought,  and there s nothing\ninteresting or important about it because it has always been so, and\nalways will be so. And it s all always the same. We ve no need to think\nabout that, it s all ready. But we want to invent something of our own,\nand new. So we thought of putting raspberries in a cup, and cooking\nthem over a candle, and squirting milk straight into each other s\nmouths. That s fun, and something new, and not a bit worse than\ndrinking out of cups. \n\n Isn t it just the same that we do, that I did, searching by the aid of\nreason for the significance of the forces of nature and the meaning of\nthe life of man?  he thought.\n\n And don t all the theories of philosophy do the same, trying by the\npath of thought, which is strange and not natural to man, to bring him\nto a knowledge of what he has known long ago, and knows so certainly\nthat he could not live at all without it? Isn t it distinctly to be\nseen in the development of each philosopher s theory, that he knows\nwhat is the chief significance of life beforehand, just as positively\nas the peasant Fyodor, and not a bit more clearly than he, and is\nsimply trying by a dubious intellectual path to come back to what\neveryone knows?\n\n Now then, leave the children to themselves to get things alone and\nmake their crockery, get the milk from the cows, and so on. Would they\nbe naughty then? Why, they d die of hunger! Well, then, leave us with\nour passions and thoughts, without any idea of the one God, of the\nCreator, or without any idea of what is right, without any idea of\nmoral evil.\n\n Just try and build up anything without those ideas!\n\n We only try to destroy them, because we re spiritually provided for.\nExactly like the children!\n\n Whence have I that joyful knowledge, shared with the peasant, that\nalone gives peace to my soul? Whence did I get it?\n\n Brought up with an idea of God, a Christian, my whole life filled with\nthe spiritual blessings Christianity has given me, full of them, and\nliving on those blessings, like the children I did not understand them,\nand destroy, that is try to destroy, what I live by. And as soon as an\nimportant moment of life comes, like the children when they are cold\nand hungry, I turn to Him, and even less than the children when their\nmother scolds them for their childish mischief, do I feel that my\nchildish efforts at wanton madness are reckoned against me.\n\n Yes, what I know, I know not by reason, but it has been given to me,\nrevealed to me, and I know it with my heart, by faith in the chief\nthing taught by the church.\n\n The church! the church!  Levin repeated to himself. He turned over on\nthe other side, and leaning on his elbow, fell to gazing into the\ndistance at a herd of cattle crossing over to the river.\n\n But can I believe in all the church teaches?  he thought, trying\nhimself, and thinking of everything that could destroy his present\npeace of mind. Intentionally he recalled all those doctrines of the\nchurch which had always seemed most strange and had always been a\nstumbling block to him.\n\n The Creation? But how did I explain existence? By existence? By\nnothing? The devil and sin. But how do I explain evil?... The\natonement?...\n\n But I know nothing, nothing, and I can know nothing but what has been\ntold to me and all men. \n\nAnd it seemed to him that there was not a single article of faith of\nthe church which could destroy the chief thing faith in God, in\ngoodness, as the one goal of man s destiny.\n\nUnder every article of faith of the church could be put the faith in\nthe service of truth instead of one s desires. And each doctrine did\nnot simply leave that faith unshaken, each doctrine seemed essential to\ncomplete that great miracle, continually manifest upon earth, that made\nit possible for each man and millions of different sorts of men, wise\nmen and imbeciles, old men and children all men, peasants, Lvov, Kitty,\nbeggars and kings to understand perfectly the same one thing, and to\nbuild up thereby that life of the soul which alone is worth living, and\nwhich alone is precious to us.\n\nLying on his back, he gazed up now into the high, cloudless sky.  Do I\nnot know that that is infinite space, and that it is not a round arch?\nBut, however I screw up my eyes and strain my sight, I cannot see it\nnot round and not bounded, and in spite of my knowing about infinite\nspace, I am incontestably right when I see a solid blue dome, and more\nright than when I strain my eyes to see beyond it. \n\nLevin ceased thinking, and only, as it were, listened to mysterious\nvoices that seemed talking joyfully and earnestly within him.\n\n Can this be faith?  he thought, afraid to believe in his happiness.\n My God, I thank Thee!  he said, gulping down his sobs, and with both\nhands brushing away the tears that filled his eyes.\n\n\nChapter 14\n\nLevin looked before him and saw a herd of cattle, then he caught sight\nof his trap with Raven in the shafts, and the coachman, who, driving up\nto the herd, said something to the herdsman. Then he heard the rattle\nof the wheels and the snort of the sleek horse close by him. But he was\nso buried in his thoughts that he did not even wonder why the coachman\nhad come for him.\n\nHe only thought of that when the coachman had driven quite up to him\nand shouted to him.  The mistress sent me. Your brother has come, and\nsome gentleman with him. \n\nLevin got into the trap and took the reins. As though just roused out\nof sleep, for a long while Levin could not collect his faculties. He\nstared at the sleek horse flecked with lather between his haunches and\non his neck, where the harness rubbed, stared at Ivan the coachman\nsitting beside him, and remembered that he was expecting his brother,\nthought that his wife was most likely uneasy at his long absence, and\ntried to guess who was the visitor who had come with his brother. And\nhis brother and his wife and the unknown guest seemed to him now quite\ndifferent from before. He fancied that now his relations with all men\nwould be different.\n\n With my brother there will be none of that aloofness there always used\nto be between us, there will be no disputes; with Kitty there shall\nnever be quarrels; with the visitor, whoever he may be, I will be\nfriendly and nice; with the servants, with Ivan, it will all be\ndifferent. \n\nPulling the stiff rein and holding in the good horse that snorted with\nimpatience and seemed begging to be let go, Levin looked round at Ivan\nsitting beside him, not knowing what to do with his unoccupied hand,\ncontinually pressing down his shirt as it puffed out, and he tried to\nfind something to start a conversation about with him. He would have\nsaid that Ivan had pulled the saddle-girth up too high, but that was\nlike blame, and he longed for friendly, warm talk. Nothing else\noccurred to him.\n\n Your honor must keep to the right and mind that stump,  said the\ncoachman, pulling the rein Levin held.\n\n Please don t touch and don t teach me!  said Levin, angered by this\ninterference. Now, as always, interference made him angry, and he felt\nsorrowfully at once how mistaken had been his supposition that his\nspiritual condition could immediately change him in contact with\nreality.\n\nHe was not a quarter of a mile from home when he saw Grisha and Tanya\nrunning to meet him.\n\n Uncle Kostya! mamma s coming, and grandfather, and Sergey Ivanovitch,\nand someone else,  they said, clambering up into the trap.\n\n Who is he? \n\n An awfully terrible person! And he does like this with his arms,  said\nTanya, getting up in the trap and mimicking Katavasov.\n\n Old or young?  asked Levin, laughing, reminded of someone, he did not\nknow whom, by Tanya s performance.\n\n Oh, I hope it s not a tiresome person!  thought Levin.\n\nAs soon as he turned, at a bend in the road, and saw the party coming,\nLevin recognized Katavasov in a straw hat, walking along swinging his\narms just as Tanya had shown him. Katavasov was very fond of discussing\nmetaphysics, having derived his notions from natural science writers\nwho had never studied metaphysics, and in Moscow Levin had had many\narguments with him of late.\n\nAnd one of these arguments, in which Katavasov had obviously considered\nthat he came off victorious, was the first thing Levin thought of as he\nrecognized him.\n\n No, whatever I do, I won t argue and give utterance to my ideas\nlightly,  he thought.\n\nGetting out of the trap and greeting his brother and Katavasov, Levin\nasked about his wife.\n\n She has taken Mitya to Kolok  (a copse near the house).  She meant to\nhave him out there because it s so hot indoors,  said Dolly. Levin had\nalways advised his wife not to take the baby to the wood, thinking it\nunsafe, and he was not pleased to hear this.\n\n She rushes about from place to place with him,  said the prince,\nsmiling.  I advised her to try putting him in the ice cellar. \n\n She meant to come to the bee-house. She thought you would be there. We\nare going there,  said Dolly.\n\n Well, and what are you doing?  said Sergey Ivanovitch, falling back\nfrom the rest and walking beside him.\n\n Oh, nothing special. Busy as usual with the land,  answered Levin.\n Well, and what about you? Come for long? We have been expecting you\nfor such a long time. \n\n Only for a fortnight. I ve a great deal to do in Moscow. \n\nAt these words the brothers  eyes met, and Levin, in spite of the\ndesire he always had, stronger than ever just now, to be on\naffectionate and still more open terms with his brother, felt an\nawkwardness in looking at him. He dropped his eyes and did not know\nwhat to say.\n\nCasting over the subjects of conversation that would be pleasant to\nSergey Ivanovitch, and would keep him off the subject of the Servian\nwar and the Slavonic question, at which he had hinted by the allusion\nto what he had to do in Moscow, Levin began to talk of Sergey\nIvanovitch s book.\n\n Well, have there been reviews of your book?  he asked.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch smiled at the intentional character of the question.\n\n No one is interested in that now, and I less than anyone,  he said.\n Just look, Darya Alexandrovna, we shall have a shower,  he added,\npointing with a sunshade at the white rain clouds that showed above the\naspen tree-tops.\n\nAnd these words were enough to re-establish again between the brothers\nthat tone hardly hostile, but chilly which Levin had been so longing to\navoid.\n\nLevin went up to Katavasov.\n\n It was jolly of you to make up your mind to come,  he said to him.\n\n I ve been meaning to a long while. Now we shall have some discussion,\nwe ll see to that. Have you been reading Spencer? \n\n No, I ve not finished reading him,  said Levin.  But I don t need him\nnow. \n\n How s that? that s interesting. Why so? \n\n I mean that I m fully convinced that the solution of the problems that\ninterest me I shall never find in him and his like. Now.... \n\nBut Katavasov s serene and good-humored expression suddenly struck him,\nand he felt such tenderness for his own happy mood, which he was\nunmistakably disturbing by this conversation, that he remembered his\nresolution and stopped short.\n\n But we ll talk later on,  he added.  If we re going to the bee-house,\nit s this way, along this little path,  he said, addressing them all.\n\nGoing along the narrow path to a little uncut meadow covered on one\nside with thick clumps of brilliant heart s-ease among which stood up\nhere and there tall, dark green tufts of hellebore, Levin settled his\nguests in the dense, cool shade of the young aspens on a bench and some\nstumps purposely put there for visitors to the bee-house who might be\nafraid of the bees, and he went off himself to the hut to get bread,\ncucumbers, and fresh honey, to regale them with.\n\nTrying to make his movements as deliberate as possible, and listening\nto the bees that buzzed more and more frequently past him, he walked\nalong the little path to the hut. In the very entry one bee hummed\nangrily, caught in his beard, but he carefully extricated it. Going\ninto the shady outer room, he took down from the wall his veil, that\nhung on a peg, and putting it on, and thrusting his hands into his\npockets, he went into the fenced-in bee-garden, where there stood in\nthe midst of a closely mown space in regular rows, fastened with bast\non posts, all the hives he knew so well, the old stocks, each with its\nown history, and along the fences the younger swarms hived that year.\nIn front of the openings of the hives, it made his eyes giddy to watch\nthe bees and drones whirling round and round about the same spot, while\namong them the working bees flew in and out with spoils or in search of\nthem, always in the same direction into the wood to the flowering lime\ntrees and back to the hives.\n\nHis ears were filled with the incessant hum in various notes, now the\nbusy hum of the working bee flying quickly off, then the blaring of the\nlazy drone, and the excited buzz of the bees on guard protecting their\nproperty from the enemy and preparing to sting. On the farther side of\nthe fence the old bee-keeper was shaving a hoop for a tub, and he did\nnot see Levin. Levin stood still in the midst of the beehives and did\nnot call him.\n\nHe was glad of a chance to be alone to recover from the influence of\nordinary actual life, which had already depressed his happy mood. He\nthought that he had already had time to lose his temper with Ivan, to\nshow coolness to his brother, and to talk flippantly with Katavasov.\n\n Can it have been only a momentary mood, and will it pass and leave no\ntrace?  he thought. But the same instant, going back to his mood, he\nfelt with delight that something new and important had happened to him.\nReal life had only for a time overcast the spiritual peace he had\nfound, but it was still untouched within him.\n\nJust as the bees, whirling round him, now menacing him and distracting\nhis attention, prevented him from enjoying complete physical peace,\nforced him to restrain his movements to avoid them, so had the petty\ncares that had swarmed about him from the moment he got into the trap\nrestricted his spiritual freedom; but that lasted only so long as he\nwas among them. Just as his bodily strength was still unaffected, in\nspite of the bees, so too was the spiritual strength that he had just\nbecome aware of.\n\nChapter 15\n\n Do you know, Kostya, with whom Sergey Ivanovitch traveled on his way\nhere?  said Dolly, doling out cucumbers and honey to the children;\n with Vronsky! He s going to Servia. \n\n And not alone; he s taking a squadron out with him at his own\nexpense,  said Katavasov.\n\n That s the right thing for him,  said Levin.  Are volunteers still\ngoing out then?  he added, glancing at Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\nSergey Ivanovitch did not answer. He was carefully with a blunt knife\ngetting a live bee covered with sticky honey out of a cup full of white\nhoneycomb.\n\n I should think so! You should have seen what was going on at the\nstation yesterday!  said Katavasov, biting with a juicy sound into a\ncucumber.\n\n Well, what is one to make of it? For mercy s sake, do explain to me,\nSergey Ivanovitch, where are all those volunteers going, whom are they\nfighting with?  asked the old prince, unmistakably taking up a\nconversation that had sprung up in Levin s absence.\n\n With the Turks,  Sergey Ivanovitch answered, smiling serenely, as he\nextricated the bee, dark with honey and helplessly kicking, and put it\nwith the knife on a stout aspen leaf.\n\n But who has declared war on the Turks? Ivan Ivanovitch Ragozov and\nCountess Lidia Ivanovna, assisted by Madame Stahl? \n\n No one has declared war, but people sympathize with their neighbors \nsufferings and are eager to help them,  said Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n But the prince is not speaking of help,  said Levin, coming to the\nassistance of his father-in-law,  but of war. The prince says that\nprivate persons cannot take part in war without the permission of the\ngovernment. \n\n Kostya, mind, that s a bee! Really, they ll sting us!  said Dolly,\nwaving away a wasp.\n\n But that s not a bee, it s a wasp,  said Levin.\n\n Well now, well, what s your own theory?  Katavasov said to Levin with\na smile, distinctly challenging him to a discussion.  Why have not\nprivate persons the right to do so? \n\n Oh, my theory s this: war is on one side such a beastly, cruel, and\nawful thing, that no one man, not to speak of a Christian, can\nindividually take upon himself the responsibility of beginning wars;\nthat can only be done by a government, which is called upon to do this,\nand is driven inevitably into war. On the other hand, both political\nscience and common sense teach us that in matters of state, and\nespecially in the matter of war, private citizens must forego their\npersonal individual will. \n\nSergey Ivanovitch and Katavasov had their replies ready, and both began\nspeaking at the same time.\n\n But the point is, my dear fellow, that there may be cases when the\ngovernment does not carry out the will of the citizens and then the\npublic asserts its will,  said Katavasov.\n\nBut evidently Sergey Ivanovitch did not approve of this answer. His\nbrows contracted at Katavasov s words and he said something else.\n\n You don t put the matter in its true light. There is no question here\nof a declaration of war, but simply the expression of a human Christian\nfeeling. Our brothers, one with us in religion and in race, are being\nmassacred. Even supposing they were not our brothers nor\nfellow-Christians, but simply children, women, old people, feeling is\naroused and Russians go eagerly to help in stopping these atrocities.\nFancy, if you were going along the street and saw drunken men beating a\nwoman or a child I imagine you would not stop to inquire whether war\nhad been declared on the men, but would throw yourself on them, and\nprotect the victim. \n\n But I should not kill them,  said Levin.\n\n Yes, you would kill them. \n\n I don t know. If I saw that, I might give way to my impulse of the\nmoment, but I can t say beforehand. And such a momentary impulse there\nis not, and there cannot be, in the case of the oppression of the\nSlavonic peoples. \n\n Possibly for you there is not; but for others there is,  said Sergey\nIvanovitch, frowning with displeasure.  There are traditions still\nextant among the people of Slavs of the true faith suffering under the\nyoke of the  unclean sons of Hagar.  The people have heard of the\nsufferings of their brethren and have spoken. \n\n Perhaps so,  said Levin evasively;  but I don t see it. I m one of the\npeople myself, and I don t feel it. \n\n Here am I too,  said the old prince.  I ve been staying abroad and\nreading the papers, and I must own, up to the time of the Bulgarian\natrocities, I couldn t make out why it was all the Russians were all of\na sudden so fond of their Slavonic brethren, while I didn t feel the\nslightest affection for them. I was very much upset, thought I was a\nmonster, or that it was the influence of Carlsbad on me. But since I\nhave been here, my mind s been set at rest. I see that there are people\nbesides me who re only interested in Russia, and not in their Slavonic\nbrethren. Here s Konstantin too. \n\n Personal opinions mean nothing in such a case,  said Sergey\nIvanovitch;  it s not a matter of personal opinions when all Russia the\nwhole people has expressed its will. \n\n But excuse me, I don t see that. The people don t know anything about\nit, if you come to that,  said the old prince.\n\n Oh, papa!... how can you say that? And last Sunday in church?  said\nDolly, listening to the conversation.  Please give me a cloth,  she\nsaid to the old man, who was looking at the children with a smile.\n Why, it s not possible that all.... \n\n But what was it in church on Sunday? The priest had been told to read\nthat. He read it. They didn t understand a word of it. Then they were\ntold that there was to be a collection for a pious object in church;\nwell, they pulled out their halfpence and gave them, but what for they\ncouldn t say. \n\n The people cannot help knowing; the sense of their own destinies is\nalways in the people, and at such moments as the present that sense\nfinds utterance,  said Sergey Ivanovitch with conviction, glancing at\nthe old bee-keeper.\n\nThe handsome old man, with black grizzled beard and thick silvery hair,\nstood motionless, holding a cup of honey, looking down from the height\nof his tall figure with friendly serenity at the gentlefolk, obviously\nunderstanding nothing of their conversation and not caring to\nunderstand it.\n\n That s so, no doubt,  he said, with a significant shake of his head at\nSergey Ivanovitch s words.\n\n Here, then, ask him. He knows nothing about it and thinks nothing, \nsaid Levin.  Have you heard about the war, Mihalitch?  he said, turning\nto him.  What they read in the church? What do you think about it?\nOught we to fight for the Christians? \n\n What should we think? Alexander Nikolaevitch our Emperor has thought\nfor us; he thinks for us indeed in all things. It s clearer for him to\nsee. Shall I bring a bit more bread? Give the little lad some more?  he\nsaid addressing Darya Alexandrovna and pointing to Grisha, who had\nfinished his crust.\n\n I don t need to ask,  said Sergey Ivanovitch,  we have seen and are\nseeing hundreds and hundreds of people who give up everything to serve\na just cause, come from every part of Russia, and directly and clearly\nexpress their thought and aim. They bring their halfpence or go\nthemselves and say directly what for. What does it mean? \n\n It means, to my thinking,  said Levin, who was beginning to get warm,\n that among eighty millions of people there can always be found not\nhundreds, as now, but tens of thousands of people who have lost caste,\nne er-do-wells, who are always ready to go anywhere to Pogatchev s\nbands, to Khiva, to Servia.... \n\n I tell you that it s not a case of hundreds or of ne er-do-wells, but\nthe best representatives of the people!  said Sergey Ivanovitch, with\nas much irritation as if he were defending the last penny of his\nfortune.  And what of the subscriptions? In this case it is a whole\npeople directly expressing their will. \n\n That word  people  is so vague,  said Levin.  Parish clerks, teachers,\nand one in a thousand of the peasants, maybe, know what it s all about.\nThe rest of the eighty millions, like Mihalitch, far from expressing\ntheir will, haven t the faintest idea what there is for them to express\ntheir will about. What right have we to say that this is the people s\nwill? \n\nChapter 16\n\nSergey Ivanovitch, being practiced in argument, did not reply, but at\nonce turned the conversation to another aspect of the subject.\n\n Oh, if you want to learn the spirit of the people by arithmetical\ncomputation, of course it s very difficult to arrive at it. And voting\nhas not been introduced among us and cannot be introduced, for it does\nnot express the will of the people; but there are other ways of\nreaching that. It is felt in the air, it is felt by the heart. I won t\nspeak of those deep currents which are astir in the still ocean of the\npeople, and which are evident to every unprejudiced man; let us look at\nsociety in the narrow sense. All the most diverse sections of the\neducated public, hostile before, are merged in one. Every division is\nat an end, all the public organs say the same thing over and over\nagain, all feel the mighty torrent that has overtaken them and is\ncarrying them in one direction. \n\n Yes, all the newspapers do say the same thing,  said the prince.\n That s true. But so it is the same thing that all the frogs croak\nbefore a storm. One can hear nothing for them. \n\n Frogs or no frogs, I m not the editor of a paper and I don t want to\ndefend them; but I am speaking of the unanimity in the intellectual\nworld,  said Sergey Ivanovitch, addressing his brother. Levin would\nhave answered, but the old prince interrupted him.\n\n Well, about that unanimity, that s another thing, one may say,  said\nthe prince.  There s my son-in-law, Stepan Arkadyevitch, you know him.\nHe s got a place now on the committee of a commission and something or\nother, I don t remember. Only there s nothing to do in it why, Dolly,\nit s no secret! and a salary of eight thousand. You try asking him\nwhether his post is of use, he ll prove to you that it s most\nnecessary. And he s a truthful man too, but there s no refusing to\nbelieve in the utility of eight thousand roubles. \n\n Yes, he asked me to give a message to Darya Alexandrovna about the\npost,  said Sergey Ivanovitch reluctantly, feeling the prince s remark\nto be ill-timed.\n\n So it is with the unanimity of the press. That s been explained to me:\nas soon as there s war their incomes are doubled. How can they help\nbelieving in the destinies of the people and the Slavonic races ... and\nall that? \n\n I don t care for many of the papers, but that s unjust,  said Sergey\nIvanovitch.\n\n I would only make one condition,  pursued the old prince.  Alphonse\nKarr said a capital thing before the war with Prussia:  You consider\nwar to be inevitable? Very good. Let everyone who advocates war be\nenrolled in a special regiment of advance-guards, for the front of\nevery storm, of every attack, to lead them all! \n\n A nice lot the editors would make!  said Katavasov, with a loud roar,\nas he pictured the editors he knew in this picked legion.\n\n But they d run,  said Dolly,  they d only be in the way. \n\n Oh, if they ran away, then we d have grape-shot or Cossacks with whips\nbehind them,  said the prince.\n\n But that s a joke, and a poor one too, if you ll excuse my saying so,\nprince,  said Sergey Ivanovitch.\n\n I don t see that it was a joke, that....  Levin was beginning, but\nSergey Ivanovitch interrupted him.\n\n Every member of society is called upon to do his own special work, \nsaid he.  And men of thought are doing their work when they express\npublic opinion. And the single-hearted and full expression of public\nopinion is the service of the press and a phenomenon to rejoice us at\nthe same time. Twenty years ago we should have been silent, but now we\nhave heard the voice of the Russian people, which is ready to rise as\none man and ready to sacrifice itself for its oppressed brethren; that\nis a great step and a proof of strength. \n\n But it s not only making a sacrifice, but killing Turks,  said Levin\ntimidly.  The people make sacrifices and are ready to make sacrifices\nfor their soul, but not for murder,  he added, instinctively connecting\nthe conversation with the ideas that had been absorbing his mind.\n\n For their soul? That s a most puzzling expression for a natural\nscience man, do you understand? What sort of thing is the soul?  said\nKatavasov, smiling.\n\n Oh, you know! \n\n No, by God, I haven t the faintest idea!  said Katavasov with a loud\nroar of laughter.\n\n I bring not peace, but a sword,  says Christ,  Sergey Ivanovitch\nrejoined for his part, quoting as simply as though it were the easiest\nthing to understand the very passage that had always puzzled Levin\nmost.\n\n That s so, no doubt,  the old man repeated again. He was standing near\nthem and responded to a chance glance turned in his direction.\n\n Ah, my dear fellow, you re defeated, utterly defeated!  cried\nKatavasov good-humoredly.\n\nLevin reddened with vexation, not at being defeated, but at having\nfailed to control himself and being drawn into argument.\n\n No, I can t argue with them,  he thought;  they wear impenetrable\narmor, while I m naked. \n\nHe saw that it was impossible to convince his brother and Katavasov,\nand he saw even less possibility of himself agreeing with them. What\nthey advocated was the very pride of intellect that had almost been his\nruin. He could not admit that some dozens of men, among them his\nbrother, had the right, on the ground of what they were told by some\nhundreds of glib volunteers swarming to the capital, to say that they\nand the newspapers were expressing the will and feeling of the people,\nand a feeling which was expressed in vengeance and murder. He could not\nadmit this, because he neither saw the expression of such feelings in\nthe people among whom he was living, nor found them in himself (and he\ncould not but consider himself one of the persons making up the Russian\npeople), and most of all because he, like the people, did not know and\ncould not know what is for the general good, though he knew beyond a\ndoubt that this general good could be attained only by the strict\nobservance of that law of right and wrong which has been revealed to\nevery man, and therefore he could not wish for war or advocate war for\nany general objects whatever. He said as Mihalitch did and the people,\nwho had expressed their feeling in the traditional invitations of the\nVaryagi:  Be princes and rule over us. Gladly we promise complete\nsubmission. All the labor, all humiliations, all sacrifices we take\nupon ourselves; but we will not judge and decide.  And now, according\nto Sergey Ivanovitch s account, the people had foregone this privilege\nthey had bought at such a costly price.\n\nHe wanted to say too that if public opinion were an infallible guide,\nthen why were not revolutions and the commune as lawful as the movement\nin favor of the Slavonic peoples? But these were merely thoughts that\ncould settle nothing. One thing could be seen beyond doubt that was\nthat at the actual moment the discussion was irritating Sergey\nIvanovitch, and so it was wrong to continue it. And Levin ceased\nspeaking and then called the attention of his guests to the fact that\nthe storm clouds were gathering, and that they had better be going home\nbefore it rained.\n\n\nChapter 17\n\nThe old prince and Sergey Ivanovitch got into the trap and drove off;\nthe rest of the party hastened homewards on foot.\n\nBut the storm-clouds, turning white and then black, moved down so\nquickly that they had to quicken their pace to get home before the\nrain. The foremost clouds, lowering and black as soot-laden smoke,\nrushed with extraordinary swiftness over the sky. They were still two\nhundred paces from home and a gust of wind had already blown up, and\nevery second the downpour might be looked for.\n\nThe children ran ahead with frightened and gleeful shrieks. Darya\nAlexandrovna, struggling painfully with her skirts that clung round her\nlegs, was not walking, but running, her eyes fixed on the children. The\nmen of the party, holding their hats on, strode with long steps beside\nher. They were just at the steps when a big drop fell splashing on the\nedge of the iron guttering. The children and their elders after them\nran into the shelter of the house, talking merrily.\n\n Katerina Alexandrovna?  Levin asked of Agafea Mihalovna, who met them\nwith kerchiefs and rugs in the hall.\n\n We thought she was with you,  she said.\n\n And Mitya? \n\n In the copse, he must be, and the nurse with him. \n\nLevin snatched up the rugs and ran towards the copse.\n\nIn that brief interval of time the storm clouds had moved on, covering\nthe sun so completely that it was dark as an eclipse. Stubbornly, as\nthough insisting on its rights, the wind stopped Levin, and tearing the\nleaves and flowers off the lime trees and stripping the white birch\nbranches into strange unseemly nakedness, it twisted everything on one\nside acacias, flowers, burdocks, long grass, and tall tree-tops. The\npeasant girls working in the garden ran shrieking into shelter in the\nservants  quarters. The streaming rain had already flung its white veil\nover all the distant forest and half the fields close by, and was\nrapidly swooping down upon the copse. The wet of the rain spurting up\nin tiny drops could be smelt in the air.\n\nHolding his head bent down before him, and struggling with the wind\nthat strove to tear the wraps away from him, Levin was moving up to the\ncopse and had just caught sight of something white behind the oak tree,\nwhen there was a sudden flash, the whole earth seemed on fire, and the\nvault of heaven seemed crashing overhead. Opening his blinded eyes,\nLevin gazed through the thick veil of rain that separated him now from\nthe copse, and to his horror the first thing he saw was the green crest\nof the familiar oak-tree in the middle of the copse uncannily changing\nits position.  Can it have been struck?  Levin hardly had time to think\nwhen, moving more and more rapidly, the oak tree vanished behind the\nother trees, and he heard the crash of the great tree falling upon the\nothers.\n\nThe flash of lightning, the crash of thunder, and the instantaneous\nchill that ran through him were all merged for Levin in one sense of\nterror.\n\n My God! my God! not on them!  he said.\n\nAnd though he thought at once how senseless was his prayer that they\nshould not have been killed by the oak which had fallen now, he\nrepeated it, knowing that he could do nothing better than utter this\nsenseless prayer.\n\nRunning up to the place where they usually went, he did not find them\nthere.\n\nThey were at the other end of the copse under an old lime-tree; they\nwere calling him. Two figures in dark dresses (they had been light\nsummer dresses when they started out) were standing bending over\nsomething. It was Kitty with the nurse. The rain was already ceasing,\nand it was beginning to get light when Levin reached them. The nurse\nwas not wet on the lower part of her dress, but Kitty was drenched\nthrough, and her soaked clothes clung to her. Though the rain was over,\nthey still stood in the same position in which they had been standing\nwhen the storm broke. Both stood bending over a perambulator with a\ngreen umbrella.\n\n Alive? Unhurt? Thank God!  he said, splashing with his soaked boots\nthrough the standing water and running up to them.\n\nKitty s rosy wet face was turned towards him, and she smiled timidly\nunder her shapeless sopped hat.\n\n Aren t you ashamed of yourself? I can t think how you can be so\nreckless!  he said angrily to his wife.\n\n It wasn t my fault, really. We were just meaning to go, when he made\nsuch a to-do that we had to change him. We were just....  Kitty began\ndefending herself.\n\nMitya was unharmed, dry, and still fast asleep.\n\n Well, thank God! I don t know what I m saying! \n\nThey gathered up the baby s wet belongings; the nurse picked up the\nbaby and carried it. Levin walked beside his wife, and, penitent for\nhaving been angry, he squeezed her hand when the nurse was not looking.\n\n\nChapter 18\n\nDuring the whole of that day, in the extremely different conversations\nin which he took part, only as it were with the top layer of his mind,\nin spite of the disappointment of not finding the change he expected in\nhimself, Levin had been all the while joyfully conscious of the fulness\nof his heart.\n\nAfter the rain it was too wet to go for a walk; besides, the storm\nclouds still hung about the horizon, and gathered here and there, black\nand thundery, on the rim of the sky. The whole party spent the rest of\nthe day in the house.\n\nNo more discussions sprang up; on the contrary, after dinner everyone\nwas in the most amiable frame of mind.\n\nAt first Katavasov amused the ladies by his original jokes, which\nalways pleased people on their first acquaintance with him. Then Sergey\nIvanovitch induced him to tell them about the very interesting\nobservations he had made on the habits and characteristics of common\nhouseflies, and their life. Sergey Ivanovitch, too, was in good\nspirits, and at tea his brother drew him on to explain his views of the\nfuture of the Eastern question, and he spoke so simply and so well,\nthat everyone listened eagerly.\n\nKitty was the only one who did not hear it all she was summoned to give\nMitya his bath.\n\nA few minutes after Kitty had left the room she sent for Levin to come\nto the nursery.\n\nLeaving his tea, and regretfully interrupting the interesting\nconversation, and at the same time uneasily wondering why he had been\nsent for, as this only happened on important occasions, Levin went to\nthe nursery.\n\nAlthough he had been much interested by Sergey Ivanovitch s views of\nthe new epoch in history that would be created by the emancipation of\nforty millions of men of Slavonic race acting with Russia, a conception\nquite new to him, and although he was disturbed by uneasy wonder at\nbeing sent for by Kitty, as soon as he came out of the drawing-room and\nwas alone, his mind reverted at once to the thoughts of the morning.\nAnd all the theories of the significance of the Slav element in the\nhistory of the world seemed to him so trivial compared with what was\npassing in his own soul, that he instantly forgot it all and dropped\nback into the same frame of mind that he had been in that morning.\n\nHe did not, as he had done at other times, recall the whole train of\nthought that he did not need. He fell back at once into the feeling\nwhich had guided him, which was connected with those thoughts, and he\nfound that feeling in his soul even stronger and more definite than\nbefore. He did not, as he had had to do with previous attempts to find\ncomforting arguments, need to revive a whole chain of thought to find\nthe feeling. Now, on the contrary, the feeling of joy and peace was\nkeener than ever, and thought could not keep pace with feeling.\n\nHe walked across the terrace and looked at two stars that had come out\nin the darkening sky, and suddenly he remembered.  Yes, looking at the\nsky, I thought that the dome that I see is not a deception, and then I\nthought something, I shirked facing something,  he mused.  But whatever\nit was, there can be no disproving it! I have but to think, and all\nwill come clear! \n\nJust as he was going into the nursery he remembered what it was he had\nshirked facing. It was that if the chief proof of the Divinity was His\nrevelation of what is right, how is it this revelation is confined to\nthe Christian church alone? What relation to this revelation have the\nbeliefs of the Buddhists, Mohammedans, who preached and did good too?\n\nIt seemed to him that he had an answer to this question; but he had not\ntime to formulate it to himself before he went into the nursery.\n\nKitty was standing with her sleeves tucked up over the baby in the\nbath. Hearing her husband s footstep, she turned towards him, summoning\nhim to her with her smile. With one hand she was supporting the fat\nbaby that lay floating and sprawling on its back, while with the other\nshe squeezed the sponge over him.\n\n Come, look, look!  she said, when her husband came up to her.  Agafea\nMihalovna s right. He knows us! \n\nMitya had on that day given unmistakable, incontestable signs of\nrecognizing all his friends.\n\nAs soon as Levin approached the bath, the experiment was tried, and it\nwas completely successful. The cook, sent for with this object, bent\nover the baby. He frowned and shook his head disapprovingly. Kitty bent\ndown to him, he gave her a beaming smile, propped his little hands on\nthe sponge and chirruped, making such a queer little contented sound\nwith his lips, that Kitty and the nurse were not alone in their\nadmiration. Levin, too, was surprised and delighted.\n\nThe baby was taken out of the bath, drenched with water, wrapped in\ntowels, dried, and after a piercing scream, handed to his mother.\n\n Well, I am glad you are beginning to love him,  said Kitty to her\nhusband, when she had settled herself comfortably in her usual place,\nwith the baby at her breast.  I am so glad! It had begun to distress\nme. You said you had no feeling for him. \n\n No; did I say that? I only said I was disappointed. \n\n What! disappointed in him? \n\n Not disappointed in him, but in my own feeling; I had expected more. I\nhad expected a rush of new delightful emotion to come as a surprise.\nAnd then instead of that disgust, pity.... \n\nShe listened attentively, looking at him over the baby, while she put\nback on her slender fingers the rings she had taken off while giving\nMitya his bath.\n\n And most of all, at there being far more apprehension and pity than\npleasure. Today, after that fright during the storm, I understand how I\nlove him. \n\nKitty s smile was radiant.\n\n Were you very much frightened?  she said.  So was I too, but I feel it\nmore now that it s over. I m going to look at the oak. How nice\nKatavasov is! And what a happy day we ve had altogether. And you re so\nnice with Sergey Ivanovitch, when you care to be.... Well, go back to\nthem. It s always so hot and steamy here after the bath. \n\n\nChapter 19\n\nGoing out of the nursery and being again alone, Levin went back at once\nto the thought, in which there was something not clear.\n\nInstead of going into the drawing-room, where he heard voices, he\nstopped on the terrace, and leaning his elbows on the parapet, he gazed\nup at the sky.\n\nIt was quite dark now, and in the south, where he was looking, there\nwere no clouds. The storm had drifted on to the opposite side of the\nsky, and there were flashes of lightning and distant thunder from that\nquarter. Levin listened to the monotonous drip from the lime trees in\nthe garden, and looked at the triangle of stars he knew so well, and\nthe Milky Way with its branches that ran through its midst. At each\nflash of lightning the Milky Way, and even the bright stars, vanished,\nbut as soon as the lightning died away, they reappeared in their places\nas though some hand had flung them back with careful aim.\n\n Well, what is it perplexes me?  Levin said to himself, feeling\nbeforehand that the solution of his difficulties was ready in his soul,\nthough he did not know it yet.  Yes, the one unmistakable,\nincontestable manifestation of the Divinity is the law of right and\nwrong, which has come into the world by revelation, and which I feel in\nmyself, and in the recognition of which I don t make myself, but\nwhether I will or not I am made one with other men in one body of\nbelievers, which is called the church. Well, but the Jews, the\nMohammedans, the Confucians, the Buddhists what of them?  he put to\nhimself the question he had feared to face.  Can these hundreds of\nmillions of men be deprived of that highest blessing without which life\nhas no meaning?  He pondered a moment, but immediately corrected\nhimself.  But what am I questioning?  he said to himself.  I am\nquestioning the relation to Divinity of all the different religions of\nall mankind. I am questioning the universal manifestation of God to all\nthe world with all those misty blurs. What am I about? To me\nindividually, to my heart has been revealed a knowledge beyond all\ndoubt, and unattainable by reason, and here I am obstinately trying to\nexpress that knowledge in reason and words.\n\n Don t I know that the stars don t move?  he asked himself, gazing at\nthe bright planet which had shifted its position up to the topmost twig\nof the birch-tree.  But looking at the movements of the stars, I can t\npicture to myself the rotation of the earth, and I m right in saying\nthat the stars move.\n\n And could the astronomers have understood and calculated anything, if\nthey had taken into account all the complicated and varied motions of\nthe earth? All the marvelous conclusions they have reached about the\ndistances, weights, movements, and deflections of the heavenly bodies\nare only founded on the apparent motions of the heavenly bodies about a\nstationary earth, on that very motion I see before me now, which has\nbeen so for millions of men during long ages, and was and will be\nalways alike, and can always be trusted. And just as the conclusions of\nthe astronomers would have been vain and uncertain if not founded on\nobservations of the seen heavens, in relation to a single meridian and\na single horizon, so would my conclusions be vain and uncertain if not\nfounded on that conception of right, which has been and will be always\nalike for all men, which has been revealed to me as a Christian, and\nwhich can always be trusted in my soul. The question of other religions\nand their relations to Divinity I have no right to decide, and no\npossibility of deciding. \n\n Oh, you haven t gone in then?  he heard Kitty s voice all at once, as\nshe came by the same way to the drawing-room.\n\n What is it? you re not worried about anything?  she said, looking\nintently at his face in the starlight.\n\nBut she could not have seen his face if a flash of lightning had not\nhidden the stars and revealed it. In that flash she saw his face\ndistinctly, and seeing him calm and happy, she smiled at him.\n\n She understands,  he thought;  she knows what I m thinking about.\nShall I tell her or not? Yes, I ll tell her.  But at the moment he was\nabout to speak, she began speaking.\n\n Kostya! do something for me,  she said;  go into the corner room and\nsee if they ve made it all right for Sergey Ivanovitch. I can t very\nwell. See if they ve put the new wash stand in it. \n\n Very well, I ll go directly,  said Levin, standing up and kissing her.\n\n No, I d better not speak of it,  he thought, when she had gone in\nbefore him.  It is a secret for me alone, of vital importance for me,\nand not to be put into words.\n\n This new feeling has not changed me, has not made me happy and\nenlightened all of a sudden, as I had dreamed, just like the feeling\nfor my child. There was no surprise in this either. Faith or not\nfaith I don t know what it is but this feeling has come just as\nimperceptibly through suffering, and has taken firm root in my soul.\n\n I shall go on in the same way, losing my temper with Ivan the\ncoachman, falling into angry discussions, expressing my opinions\ntactlessly; there will be still the same wall between the holy of\nholies of my soul and other people, even my wife; I shall still go on\nscolding her for my own terror, and being remorseful for it; I shall\nstill be as unable to understand with my reason why I pray, and I shall\nstill go on praying; but my life now, my whole life apart from anything\nthat can happen to me, every minute of it is no more meaningless, as it\nwas before, but it has the positive meaning of goodness, which I have\nthe power to put into it. "
    },
    {
        "title": "Great Expectations",
        "author": "Charles Dickens",
        "category": "Classics",
        "EN": "Chapter I.\n\n\nMy father s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my\ninfant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit\nthan Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.\n\nI give Pirrip as my father s family name, on the authority of his\ntombstone and my sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith.\nAs I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of\neither of them (for their days were long before the days of\nphotographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like were\nunreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on\nmy father s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man,\nwith curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription,\n _Also Georgiana Wife of the Above_,  I drew a childish conclusion that\nmy mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each\nabout a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside\ntheir grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of\nmine, who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that\nuniversal struggle, I am indebted for a belief I religiously\nentertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands\nin their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state\nof existence.\n\nOurs was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river\nwound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad\nimpression of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on\na memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out\nfor certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the\nchurchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also\nGeorgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander,\nBartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the\naforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness\nbeyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates,\nwith scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low\nleaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair from\nwhich the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of\nshivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.\n\n Hold your noise!  cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from\namong the graves at the side of the church porch.  Keep still, you\nlittle devil, or I ll cut your throat! \n\nA fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A man\nwith no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his\nhead. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and\nlamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by\nbriars; who limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whose\nteeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.\n\n Oh! Don t cut my throat, sir,  I pleaded in terror.  Pray don t do it,\nsir. \n\n Tell us your name!  said the man.  Quick! \n\n Pip, sir. \n\n Once more,  said the man, staring at me.  Give it mouth! \n\n Pip. Pip, sir. \n\n Show us where you live,  said the man.  Pint out the place! \n\nI pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the\nalder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.\n\nThe man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and\nemptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread.\nWhen the church came to itself, for he was so sudden and strong that he\nmade it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my\nfeet, when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high\ntombstone, trembling while he ate the bread ravenously.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n You young dog,  said the man, licking his lips,  what fat cheeks you\nha  got. \n\nI believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my\nyears, and not strong.\n\n Darn me if I couldn t eat  em,  said the man, with a threatening shake\nof his head,  and if I han t half a mind to t! \n\nI earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn t, and held tighter to the\ntombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it;\npartly, to keep myself from crying.\n\n Now lookee here!  said the man.  Where s your mother? \n\n There, sir!  said I.\n\nHe started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.\n\n There, sir!  I timidly explained.  Also Georgiana. That s my mother. \n\n Oh!  said he, coming back.  And is that your father alonger your\nmother? \n\n Yes, sir,  said I;  him too; late of this parish. \n\n Ha!  he muttered then, considering.  Who d ye live with, supposin \nyou re kindly let to live, which I han t made up my mind about? \n\n My sister, sir, Mrs. Joe Gargery, wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith,\nsir. \n\n Blacksmith, eh?  said he. And looked down at his leg.\n\nAfter darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to\nmy tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he\ncould hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine,\nand mine looked most helplessly up into his.\n\n Now lookee here,  he said,  the question being whether you re to be\nlet to live. You know what a file is? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And you know what wittles is? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\nAfter each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a\ngreater sense of helplessness and danger.\n\n You get me a file.  He tilted me again.  And you get me wittles.  He\ntilted me again.  You bring  em both to me.  He tilted me again.  Or\nI ll have your heart and liver out.  He tilted me again.\n\nI was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both\nhands, and said,  If you would kindly please to let me keep upright,\nsir, perhaps I shouldn t be sick, and perhaps I could attend more. \n\nHe gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped\nover its own weathercock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright\nposition on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms: \n\n You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You\nbring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and\nyou never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your\nhaving seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall\nbe let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no\nmatter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be tore\nout, roasted, and ate. Now, I ain t alone, as you may think I am.\nThere s a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man I\nam a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man has\na secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his\nheart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide\nhimself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in\nbed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think\nhimself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and\ncreep his way to him and tear him open. I am a keeping that young man\nfrom harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. I\nfind it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, what\ndo you say? \n\nI said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken\nbits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in\nthe morning.\n\n Say Lord strike you dead if you don t!  said the man.\n\nI said so, and he took me down.\n\n Now,  he pursued,  you remember what you ve undertook, and you\nremember that young man, and you get home! \n\n Goo-good night, sir,  I faltered.\n\n Much of that!  said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat.  I\nwish I was a frog. Or a eel! \n\nAt the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both his\narms, clasping himself, as if to hold himself together, and limped\ntowards the low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among the\nnettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he looked\nin my young eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people,\nstretching up cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his\nankle and pull him in.\n\nWhen he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose\nlegs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. When\nI saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use of\nmy legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going on\nagain towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms, and\npicking his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into\nthe marshes here and there, for stepping-places when the rains were\nheavy or the tide was in.\n\nThe marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stopped\nto look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, not\nnearly so broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of long\nangry red lines and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of the\nriver I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the\nprospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was the\nbeacon by which the sailors steered, like an unhooped cask upon a\npole, an ugly thing when you were near it; the other, a gibbet, with\nsome chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man was\nlimping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life,\nand come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me a\nterrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting their\nheads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I\nlooked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of\nhim. But now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II.\n\n\nMy sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I,\nand had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbours\nbecause she had brought me up  by hand.  Having at that time to find\nout for myself what the expression meant, and knowing her to have a\nhard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her\nhusband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both\nbrought up by hand.\n\nShe was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general\nimpression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe\nwas a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth\nface, and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to\nhave somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild,\ngood-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow, a sort\nof Hercules in strength, and also in weakness.\n\nMy sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing\nredness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible\nshe washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall\nand bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened over her\nfigure behind with two loops, and having a square impregnable bib in\nfront, that was stuck full of pins and needles. She made it a powerful\nmerit in herself, and a strong reproach against Joe, that she wore this\napron so much. Though I really see no reason why she should have worn\nit at all; or why, if she did wear it at all, she should not have taken\nit off, every day of her life.\n\nJoe s forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of\nthe dwellings in our country were, most of them, at that time. When I\nran home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up, and Joe was\nsitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and\nhaving confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me, the moment\nI raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it,\nsitting in the chimney corner.\n\n Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip. And she s\nout now, making it a baker s dozen. \n\n Is she? \n\n Yes, Pip,  said Joe;  and what s worse, she s got Tickler with her. \n\nAt this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat\nround and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler\nwas a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled\nframe.\n\n She sot down,  said Joe,  and she got up, and she made a grab at\nTickler, and she Ram-paged out. That s what she did,  said Joe, slowly\nclearing the fire between the lower bars with the poker, and looking at\nit;  she Ram-paged out, Pip. \n\n Has she been gone long, Joe?  I always treated him as a larger species\nof child, and as no more than my equal.\n\n Well,  said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock,  she s been on the\nRam-page, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She s a-coming! Get\nbehind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you. \n\nI took the advice. My sister, Mrs. Joe, throwing the door wide open,\nand finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause,\nand applied Tickler to its further investigation. She concluded by\nthrowing me I often served as a connubial missile at Joe, who, glad to\nget hold of me on any terms, passed me on into the chimney and quietly\nfenced me up there with his great leg.\n\n Where have you been, you young monkey?  said Mrs. Joe, stamping her\nfoot.  Tell me directly what you ve been doing to wear me away with\nfret and fright and worrit, or I d have you out of that corner if you\nwas fifty Pips, and he was five hundred Gargerys. \n\n I have only been to the churchyard,  said I, from my stool, crying and\nrubbing myself.\n\n Churchyard!  repeated my sister.  If it warn t for me you d have been\nto the churchyard long ago, and stayed there. Who brought you up by\nhand? \n\n You did,  said I.\n\n And why did I do it, I should like to know?  exclaimed my sister.\n\nI whimpered,  I don t know. \n\n _I_ don t!  said my sister.  I d never do it again! I know that. I may\ntruly say I ve never had this apron of mine off since born you were.\nIt s bad enough to be a blacksmith s wife (and him a Gargery) without\nbeing your mother. \n\nMy thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at\nthe fire. For the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the\nmysterious young man, the file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was\nunder to commit a larceny on those sheltering premises, rose before me\nin the avenging coals.\n\n Hah!  said Mrs. Joe, restoring Tickler to his station.  Churchyard,\nindeed! You may well say churchyard, you two.  One of us, by the by,\nhad not said it at all.  You ll drive _me_ to the churchyard betwixt\nyou, one of these days, and O, a pr-r-recious pair you d be without\nme! \n\nAs she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me\nover his leg, as if he were mentally casting me and himself up, and\ncalculating what kind of pair we practically should make, under the\ngrievous circumstances foreshadowed. After that, he sat feeling his\nright-side flaxen curls and whisker, and following Mrs. Joe about with\nhis blue eyes, as his manner always was at squally times.\n\nMy sister had a trenchant way of cutting our bread and butter for us,\nthat never varied. First, with her left hand she jammed the loaf hard\nand fast against her bib, where it sometimes got a pin into it, and\nsometimes a needle, which we afterwards got into our mouths. Then she\ntook some butter (not too much) on a knife and spread it on the loaf,\nin an apothecary kind of way, as if she were making a plaster, using\nboth sides of the knife with a slapping dexterity, and trimming and\nmoulding the butter off round the crust. Then, she gave the knife a\nfinal smart wipe on the edge of the plaster, and then sawed a very\nthick round off the loaf: which she finally, before separating from the\nloaf, hewed into two halves, of which Joe got one, and I the other.\n\nOn the present occasion, though I was hungry, I dared not eat my slice.\nI felt that I must have something in reserve for my dreadful\nacquaintance, and his ally the still more dreadful young man. I knew\nMrs. Joe s housekeeping to be of the strictest kind, and that my\nlarcenous researches might find nothing available in the safe.\nTherefore I resolved to put my hunk of bread and butter down the leg of\nmy trousers.\n\nThe effort of resolution necessary to the achievement of this purpose I\nfound to be quite awful. It was as if I had to make up my mind to leap\nfrom the top of a high house, or plunge into a great depth of water.\nAnd it was made the more difficult by the unconscious Joe. In our\nalready-mentioned freemasonry as fellow-sufferers, and in his\ngood-natured companionship with me, it was our evening habit to compare\nthe way we bit through our slices, by silently holding them up to each\nother s admiration now and then, which stimulated us to new exertions.\nTo-night, Joe several times invited me, by the display of his fast\ndiminishing slice, to enter upon our usual friendly competition; but he\nfound me, each time, with my yellow mug of tea on one knee, and my\nuntouched bread and butter on the other. At last, I desperately\nconsidered that the thing I contemplated must be done, and that it had\nbest be done in the least improbable manner consistent with the\ncircumstances. I took advantage of a moment when Joe had just looked at\nme, and got my bread and butter down my leg.\n\nJoe was evidently made uncomfortable by what he supposed to be my loss\nof appetite, and took a thoughtful bite out of his slice, which he\ndidn t seem to enjoy. He turned it about in his mouth much longer than\nusual, pondering over it a good deal, and after all gulped it down like\na pill. He was about to take another bite, and had just got his head on\none side for a good purchase on it, when his eye fell on me, and he saw\nthat my bread and butter was gone.\n\nThe wonder and consternation with which Joe stopped on the threshold of\nhis bite and stared at me, were too evident to escape my sister s\nobservation.\n\n What s the matter _now_?  said she, smartly, as she put down her cup.\n\n I say, you know!  muttered Joe, shaking his head at me in very serious\nremonstrance.  Pip, old chap! You ll do yourself a mischief. It ll\nstick somewhere. You can t have chawed it, Pip. \n\n What s the matter now?  repeated my sister, more sharply than before.\n\n If you can cough any trifle on it up, Pip, I d recommend you to do\nit,  said Joe, all aghast.  Manners is manners, but still your elth s\nyour elth. \n\nBy this time, my sister was quite desperate, so she pounced on Joe,\nand, taking him by the two whiskers, knocked his head for a little\nwhile against the wall behind him, while I sat in the corner, looking\nguiltily on.\n\n Now, perhaps you ll mention what s the matter,  said my sister, out of\nbreath,  you staring great stuck pig. \n\nJoe looked at her in a helpless way, then took a helpless bite, and\nlooked at me again.\n\n You know, Pip,  said Joe, solemnly, with his last bite in his cheek,\nand speaking in a confidential voice, as if we two were quite alone,\n you and me is always friends, and I d be the last to tell upon you,\nany time. But such a  he moved his chair and looked about the floor\nbetween us, and then again at me such a most oncommon Bolt as that! \n\n Been bolting his food, has he?  cried my sister.\n\n You know, old chap,  said Joe, looking at me, and not at Mrs. Joe,\nwith his bite still in his cheek,  I Bolted, myself, when I was your\nage frequent and as a boy I ve been among a many Bolters; but I never\nsee your Bolting equal yet, Pip, and it s a mercy you ain t Bolted\ndead. \n\nMy sister made a dive at me, and fished me up by the hair, saying\nnothing more than the awful words,  You come along and be dosed. \n\nSome medical beast had revived Tar-water in those days as a fine\nmedicine, and Mrs. Joe always kept a supply of it in the cupboard;\nhaving a belief in its virtues correspondent to its nastiness. At the\nbest of times, so much of this elixir was administered to me as a\nchoice restorative, that I was conscious of going about, smelling like\na new fence. On this particular evening the urgency of my case demanded\na pint of this mixture, which was poured down my throat, for my greater\ncomfort, while Mrs. Joe held my head under her arm, as a boot would be\nheld in a bootjack. Joe got off with half a pint; but was made to\nswallow that (much to his disturbance, as he sat slowly munching and\nmeditating before the fire),  because he had had a turn.  Judging from\nmyself, I should say he certainly had a turn afterwards, if he had had\nnone before.\n\nConscience is a dreadful thing when it accuses man or boy; but when, in\nthe case of a boy, that secret burden co-operates with another secret\nburden down the leg of his trousers, it is (as I can testify) a great\npunishment. The guilty knowledge that I was going to rob Mrs. Joe I\nnever thought I was going to rob Joe, for I never thought of any of the\nhousekeeping property as his united to the necessity of always keeping\none hand on my bread and butter as I sat, or when I was ordered about\nthe kitchen on any small errand, almost drove me out of my mind. Then,\nas the marsh winds made the fire glow and flare, I thought I heard the\nvoice outside, of the man with the iron on his leg who had sworn me to\nsecrecy, declaring that he couldn t and wouldn t starve until\nto-morrow, but must be fed now. At other times, I thought, What if the\nyoung man who was with so much difficulty restrained from imbruing his\nhands in me should yield to a constitutional impatience, or should\nmistake the time, and should think himself accredited to my heart and\nliver to-night, instead of to-morrow! If ever anybody s hair stood on\nend with terror, mine must have done so then. But, perhaps, nobody s\never did?\n\nIt was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day, with\na copper-stick, from seven to eight by the Dutch clock. I tried it with\nthe load upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the\nload on _his_ leg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the\nbread and butter out at my ankle, quite unmanageable. Happily I slipped\naway, and deposited that part of my conscience in my garret bedroom.\n\n Hark!  said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final\nwarm in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed;  was that great\nguns, Joe? \n\n Ah!  said Joe.  There s another conwict off. \n\n What does that mean, Joe?  said I.\n\nMrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said, snappishly,\n Escaped. Escaped.  Administering the definition like Tar-water.\n\nWhile Mrs. Joe sat with her head bending over her needlework, I put my\nmouth into the forms of saying to Joe,  What s a convict?  Joe put\n_his_ mouth into the forms of returning such a highly elaborate answer,\nthat I could make out nothing of it but the single word  Pip. \n\n There was a conwict off last night,  said Joe, aloud,  after\nsunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they re\nfiring warning of another. \n\n _Who s_ firing?  said I.\n\n Drat that boy,  interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work,\n what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you ll be told no\nlies. \n\nIt was not very polite to herself, I thought, to imply that I should be\ntold lies by her even if I did ask questions. But she never was polite\nunless there was company.\n\nAt this point Joe greatly augmented my curiosity by taking the utmost\npains to open his mouth very wide, and to put it into the form of a\nword that looked to me like  sulks.  Therefore, I naturally pointed to\nMrs. Joe, and put my mouth into the form of saying,  her?  But Joe\nwouldn t hear of that, at all, and again opened his mouth very wide,\nand shook the form of a most emphatic word out of it. But I could make\nnothing of the word.\n\n Mrs. Joe,  said I, as a last resort,  I should like to know if you\nwouldn t much mind where the firing comes from? \n\n Lord bless the boy!  exclaimed my sister, as if she didn t quite mean\nthat but rather the contrary.  From the Hulks! \n\n Oh-h!  said I, looking at Joe.  Hulks! \n\nJoe gave a reproachful cough, as much as to say,  Well, I told you so. \n\n And please, what s Hulks?  said I.\n\n That s the way with this boy!  exclaimed my sister, pointing me out\nwith her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me.  Answer him one\nquestion, and he ll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are prison-ships,\nright  cross th  meshes.  We always used that name for marshes, in our\ncountry.\n\n I wonder who s put into prison-ships, and why they re put there?  said\nI, in a general way, and with quiet desperation.\n\nIt was too much for Mrs. Joe, who immediately rose.  I tell you what,\nyoung fellow,  said she,  I didn t bring you up by hand to badger\npeople s lives out. It would be blame to me and not praise, if I had.\nPeople are put in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob,\nand forge, and do all sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking\nquestions. Now, you get along to bed! \n\nI was never allowed a candle to light me to bed, and, as I went\nupstairs in the dark, with my head tingling, from Mrs. Joe s thimble\nhaving played the tambourine upon it, to accompany her last words, I\nfelt fearfully sensible of the great convenience that the hulks were\nhandy for me. I was clearly on my way there. I had begun by asking\nquestions, and I was going to rob Mrs. Joe.\n\nSince that time, which is far enough away now, I have often thought\nthat few people know what secrecy there is in the young under terror.\nNo matter how unreasonable the terror, so that it be terror. I was in\nmortal terror of the young man who wanted my heart and liver; I was in\nmortal terror of my interlocutor with the iron leg; I was in mortal\nterror of myself, from whom an awful promise had been extracted; I had\nno hope of deliverance through my all-powerful sister, who repulsed me\nat every turn; I am afraid to think of what I might have done on\nrequirement, in the secrecy of my terror.\n\nIf I slept at all that night, it was only to imagine myself drifting\ndown the river on a strong spring-tide, to the Hulks; a ghostly pirate\ncalling out to me through a speaking-trumpet, as I passed the\ngibbet-station, that I had better come ashore and be hanged there at\nonce, and not put it off. I was afraid to sleep, even if I had been\ninclined, for I knew that at the first faint dawn of morning I must rob\nthe pantry. There was no doing it in the night, for there was no\ngetting a light by easy friction then; to have got one I must have\nstruck it out of flint and steel, and have made a noise like the very\npirate himself rattling his chains.\n\nAs soon as the great black velvet pall outside my little window was\nshot with grey, I got up and went downstairs; every board upon the way,\nand every crack in every board calling after me,  Stop thief!  and  Get\nup, Mrs. Joe!  In the pantry, which was far more abundantly supplied\nthan usual, owing to the season, I was very much alarmed by a hare\nhanging up by the heels, whom I rather thought I caught, when my back\nwas half turned, winking. I had no time for verification, no time for\nselection, no time for anything, for I had no time to spare. I stole\nsome bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I\ntied up in my pocket-handkerchief with my last night s slice), some\nbrandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into a glass bottle I had\nsecretly used for making that intoxicating fluid,\nSpanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the stone bottle from\na jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little on it, and\na beautiful round compact pork pie. I was nearly going away without the\npie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it was that\nwas put away so carefully in a covered earthenware dish in a corner,\nand I found it was the pie, and I took it in the hope that it was not\nintended for early use, and would not be missed for some time.\n\nThere was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I\nunlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe s tools.\nThen I put the fastenings as I had found them, opened the door at which\nI had entered when I ran home last night, shut it, and ran for the\nmisty marshes.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III.\n\n\nIt was a rimy morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the\noutside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there\nall night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. Now, I saw\nthe damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort\nof spiders  webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade.\nOn every rail and gate, wet lay clammy, and the marsh mist was so\nthick, that the wooden finger on the post directing people to our\nvillage a direction which they never accepted, for they never came\nthere was invisible to me until I was quite close under it. Then, as I\nlooked up at it, while it dripped, it seemed to my oppressed conscience\nlike a phantom devoting me to the Hulks.\n\nThe mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes, so that\ninstead of my running at everything, everything seemed to run at me.\nThis was very disagreeable to a guilty mind. The gates and dikes and\nbanks came bursting at me through the mist, as if they cried as plainly\nas could be,  A boy with somebody else s pork pie! Stop him!  The\ncattle came upon me with like suddenness, staring out of their eyes,\nand steaming out of their nostrils,  Halloa, young thief!  One black\nox, with a white cravat on, who even had to my awakened conscience\nsomething of a clerical air, fixed me so obstinately with his eyes, and\nmoved his blunt head round in such an accusatory manner as I moved\nround, that I blubbered out to him,  I couldn t help it, sir! It wasn t\nfor myself I took it!  Upon which he put down his head, blew a cloud of\nsmoke out of his nose, and vanished with a kick-up of his hind-legs and\na flourish of his tail.\n\nAll this time, I was getting on towards the river; but however fast I\nwent, I couldn t warm my feet, to which the damp cold seemed riveted,\nas the iron was riveted to the leg of the man I was running to meet. I\nknew my way to the Battery, pretty straight, for I had been down there\non a Sunday with Joe, and Joe, sitting on an old gun, had told me that\nwhen I was  prentice to him, regularly bound, we would have such Larks\nthere! However, in the confusion of the mist, I found myself at last\ntoo far to the right, and consequently had to try back along the\nriver-side, on the bank of loose stones above the mud and the stakes\nthat staked the tide out. Making my way along here with all despatch, I\nhad just crossed a ditch which I knew to be very near the Battery, and\nhad just scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch, when I saw the man\nsitting before me. His back was towards me, and he had his arms folded,\nand was nodding forward, heavy with sleep.\n\nI thought he would be more glad if I came upon him with his breakfast,\nin that unexpected manner, so I went forward softly and touched him on\nthe shoulder. He instantly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but\nanother man!\n\nAnd yet this man was dressed in coarse grey, too, and had a great iron\non his leg, and was lame, and hoarse, and cold, and was everything that\nthe other man was; except that he had not the same face, and had a flat\nbroad-brimmed low-crowned felt hat on. All this I saw in a moment, for\nI had only a moment to see it in: he swore an oath at me, made a hit at\nme, it was a round weak blow that missed me and almost knocked himself\ndown, for it made him stumble, and then he ran into the mist, stumbling\ntwice as he went, and I lost him.\n\n It s the young man!  I thought, feeling my heart shoot as I identified\nhim. I dare say I should have felt a pain in my liver, too, if I had\nknown where it was.\n\nI was soon at the Battery after that, and there was the right\nman, hugging himself and limping to and fro, as if he had never all\nnight left off hugging and limping, waiting for me. He was awfully\ncold, to be sure. I half expected to see him drop down before my face\nand die of deadly cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry too, that\nwhen I handed him the file and he laid it down on the grass, it\noccurred to me he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my\nbundle. He did not turn me upside down this time to get at what I had,\nbut left me right side upwards while I opened the bundle and emptied my\npockets.\n\n What s in the bottle, boy?  said he.\n\n Brandy,  said I.\n\nHe was already handing mincemeat down his throat in the most curious\nmanner, more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent\nhurry, than a man who was eating it, but he left off to take some of\nthe liquor. He shivered all the while so violently, that it was quite\nas much as he could do to keep the neck of the bottle between his\nteeth, without biting it off.\n\n I think you have got the ague,  said I.\n\n I m much of your opinion, boy,  said he.\n\n It s bad about here,  I told him.  You ve been lying out on the\nmeshes, and they re dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too. \n\n I ll eat my breakfast afore they re the death of me,  said he.  I d do\nthat, if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is\nover there, directly afterwards. I ll beat the shivers so far, I ll bet\nyou. \n\nHe was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all\nat once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round\nus, and often stopping even stopping his jaws to listen. Some real or\nfancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the\nmarsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly, \n\n You re not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you? \n\n No, sir! No! \n\n Nor giv  no one the office to follow you? \n\n No! \n\n Well,  said he,  I believe you. You d be but a fierce young hound\nindeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched\nwarmint hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint\nis! \n\nSomething clicked in his throat as if he had works in him like a clock,\nand was going to strike. And he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over\nhis eyes.\n\nPitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down\nupon the pie, I made bold to say,  I am glad you enjoy it. \n\n Did you speak? \n\n I said I was glad you enjoyed it. \n\n Thankee, my boy. I do. \n\nI had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now\nnoticed a decided similarity between the dog s way of eating, and the\nman s. The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog. He\nswallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast;\nand he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought\nthere was danger in every direction of somebody s coming to take the\npie away. He was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it, to\nappreciate it comfortably I thought, or to have anybody to dine with\nhim, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor. In all of\nwhich particulars he was very like the dog.\n\n I am afraid you won t leave any of it for him,  said I, timidly; after\na silence during which I had hesitated as to the politeness of making\nthe remark.  There s no more to be got where that came from.  It was\nthe certainty of this fact that impelled me to offer the hint.\n\n Leave any for him? Who s him?  said my friend, stopping in his\ncrunching of pie-crust.\n\n The young man. That you spoke of. That was hid with you. \n\n Oh ah!  he returned, with something like a gruff laugh.  Him? Yes,\nyes! _He_ don t want no wittles. \n\n I thought he looked as if he did,  said I.\n\nThe man stopped eating, and regarded me with the keenest scrutiny and\nthe greatest surprise.\n\n Looked? When? \n\n Just now. \n\n Where? \n\n Yonder,  said I, pointing;  over there, where I found him nodding\nasleep, and thought it was you. \n\nHe held me by the collar and stared at me so, that I began to think his\nfirst idea about cutting my throat had revived.\n\n Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat,  I explained, trembling;\n and and I was very anxious to put this delicately and with the same\nreason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn t you hear the cannon last\nnight? \n\n Then there _was_ firing!  he said to himself.\n\n I wonder you shouldn t have been sure of that,  I returned,  for we\nheard it up at home, and that s farther away, and we were shut in\nbesides. \n\n Why, see now!  said he.  When a man s alone on these flats, with a\nlight head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears\nnothin  all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. Hears? He sees\nthe soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried\nafore, closing in round him. Hears his number called, hears himself\nchallenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders  Make\nready! Present! Cover him steady, men!  and is laid hands on and\nthere s nothin ! Why, if I see one pursuing party last night coming up\nin order, Damn  em, with their tramp, tramp I see a hundred. And as to\nfiring! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon, arter it was broad\nday, But this man ; he had said all the rest, as if he had forgotten my\nbeing there;  did you notice anything in him? \n\n He had a badly bruised face,  said I, recalling what I hardly knew I\nknew.\n\n Not here?  exclaimed the man, striking his left cheek mercilessly,\nwith the flat of his hand.\n\n Yes, there! \n\n Where is he?  He crammed what little food was left, into the breast of\nhis grey jacket.  Show me the way he went. I ll pull him down, like a\nbloodhound. Curse this iron on my sore leg! Give us hold of the file,\nboy. \n\nI indicated in what direction the mist had shrouded the other man, and\nhe looked up at it for an instant. But he was down on the rank wet\ngrass, filing at his iron like a madman, and not minding me or minding\nhis own leg, which had an old chafe upon it and was bloody, but which\nhe handled as roughly as if it had no more feeling in it than the file.\nI was very much afraid of him again, now that he had worked himself\ninto this fierce hurry, and I was likewise very much afraid of keeping\naway from home any longer. I told him I must go, but he took no notice,\nso I thought the best thing I could do was to slip off. The last I saw\nof him, his head was bent over his knee and he was working hard at his\nfetter, muttering impatient imprecations at it and at his leg. The last\nI heard of him, I stopped in the mist to listen, and the file was still\ngoing.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV.\n\n\nI fully expected to find a Constable in the kitchen, waiting to take me\nup. But not only was there no Constable there, but no discovery had yet\nbeen made of the robbery. Mrs. Joe was prodigiously busy in getting the\nhouse ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put upon\nthe kitchen doorstep to keep him out of the dust-pan, an article into\nwhich his destiny always led him, sooner or later, when my sister was\nvigorously reaping the floors of her establishment.\n\n And where the deuce ha  _you_ been?  was Mrs. Joe s Christmas\nsalutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.\n\nI said I had been down to hear the Carols.  Ah! well!  observed Mrs.\nJoe.  You might ha  done worse.  Not a doubt of that I thought.\n\n Perhaps if I warn t a blacksmith s wife, and (what s the same thing) a\nslave with her apron never off, _I_ should have been to hear the\nCarols,  said Mrs. Joe.  I m rather partial to Carols, myself, and\nthat s the best of reasons for my never hearing any. \n\nJoe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the dustpan had\nretired before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with a\nconciliatory air, when Mrs. Joe darted a look at him, and, when her\neyes were withdrawn, secretly crossed his two forefingers, and\nexhibited them to me, as our token that Mrs. Joe was in a cross temper.\nThis was so much her normal state, that Joe and I would often, for\nweeks together, be, as to our fingers, like monumental Crusaders as to\ntheir legs.\n\nWe were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork\nand greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had\nbeen made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not\nbeing missed), and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive\narrangements occasioned us to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of\nbreakfast;  for I ain t,  said Mrs. Joe, I ain t a-going to have no\nformal cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I ve got\nbefore me, I promise you! \n\nSo, we had our slices served out, as if we were two thousand troops on\na forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took gulps of\nmilk and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the\ndresser. In the meantime, Mrs. Joe put clean white curtains up, and\ntacked a new flowered flounce across the wide chimney to replace the\nold one, and uncovered the little state parlour across the passage,\nwhich was never uncovered at any other time, but passed the rest of the\nyear in a cool haze of silver paper, which even extended to the four\nlittle white crockery poodles on the mantel-shelf, each with a black\nnose and a basket of flowers in his mouth, and each the counterpart of\nthe other. Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite\nart of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than\ndirt itself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some people do the\nsame by their religion.\n\nMy sister, having so much to do, was going to church vicariously, that\nis to say, Joe and I were going. In his working-clothes, Joe was a\nwell-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he\nwas more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else.\nNothing that he wore then fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and\neverything that he wore then grazed him. On the present festive\noccasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were going,\nthe picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me,\nI think my sister must have had some general idea that I was a young\noffender whom an Accoucheur Policeman had taken up (on my birthday) and\ndelivered over to her, to be dealt with according to the outraged\nmajesty of the law. I was always treated as if I had insisted on being\nborn in opposition to the dictates of reason, religion, and morality,\nand against the dissuading arguments of my best friends. Even when I\nwas taken to have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make\nthem like a kind of Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the\nfree use of my limbs.\n\nJoe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle\nfor compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to\nwhat I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs.\nJoe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be\nequalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had\ndone. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the\nChurch would be powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the\nterrible young man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived\nthe idea that the time when the banns were read and when the clergyman\nsaid,  Ye are now to declare it!  would be the time for me to rise and\npropose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure\nthat I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to\nthis extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.\n\nMr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble\nthe wheelwright and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe s uncle,\nbut Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in\nthe nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was\nhalf-past one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and\nMrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked\n(it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and\neverything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.\n\nThe time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and\nthe company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large\nshining bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud\nof; indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could\nonly give him his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he\nhimself confessed that if the Church was  thrown open,  meaning to\ncompetition, he would not despair of making his mark in it. The Church\nnot being  thrown open,  he was, as I have said, our clerk. But he\npunished the Amens tremendously; and when he gave out the psalm, always\ngiving the whole verse, he looked all round the congregation first, as\nmuch as to say,  You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with your\nopinion of this style! \n\nI opened the door to the company, making believe that it was a habit of\nours to open that door, and I opened it first to Mr. Wopsle, next to\nMr. and Mrs. Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B. _I_ was\nnot allowed to call him uncle, under the severest penalties.\n\n Mrs. Joe,  said Uncle Pumblechook, a large hard-breathing middle-aged\nslow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair\nstanding upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been\nall but choked, and had that moment come to,  I have brought you as the\ncompliments of the season I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry\nwine and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine. \n\nEvery Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with\nexactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells.\nEvery Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as she now replied,  O, Un cle\nPum-ble chook! This _is_ kind!  Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he\nnow retorted,  It s no more than your merits. And now are you all\nbobbish, and how s Sixpennorth of halfpence?  meaning me.\n\nWe dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and adjourned, for the nuts\nand oranges and apples to the parlour; which was a change very like\nJoe s change from his working-clothes to his Sunday dress. My sister\nwas uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally\nmore gracious in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other company. I\nremember Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue,\nwho held a conventionally juvenile position, because she had married\nMr. Hubble, I don t know at what remote period, when she was much\nyounger than he. I remember Mr Hubble as a tough, high-shouldered,\nstooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance, with his legs\nextraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw some\nmiles of open country between them when I met him coming up the lane.\n\nAmong this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn t\nrobbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in\nat an acute angle of the tablecloth, with the table in my chest, and\nthe Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to\nspeak (I didn t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the\nscaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure\ncorners of pork of which the pig, when living, had had the least reason\nto be vain. No; I should not have minded that, if they would only have\nleft me alone. But they wouldn t leave me alone. They seemed to think\nthe opportunity lost, if they failed to point the conversation at me,\nevery now and then, and stick the point into me. I might have been an\nunfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched\nup by these moral goads.\n\nIt began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr. Wopsle said grace with\ntheatrical declamation, as it now appears to me, something like a\nreligious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third, and\nended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful.\nUpon which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low\nreproachful voice,  Do you hear that? Be grateful. \n\n Especially,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  be grateful, boy, to them which\nbrought you up by hand. \n\nMrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful\npresentiment that I should come to no good, asked,  Why is it that the\nyoung are never grateful?  This moral mystery seemed too much for the\ncompany until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying,  Naterally\nwicious.  Everybody then murmured  True!  and looked at me in a\nparticularly unpleasant and personal manner.\n\nJoe s station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when\nthere was company than when there was none. But he always aided and\ncomforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did\nso at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being\nplenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about\nhalf a pint.\n\nA little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed the sermon with\nsome severity, and intimated in the usual hypothetical case of the\nChurch being  thrown open what kind of sermon _he_ would have given\nthem. After favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he\nremarked that he considered the subject of the day s homily, ill\nchosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when there were so many\nsubjects  going about. \n\n True again,  said Uncle Pumblechook.  You ve hit it, sir! Plenty of\nsubjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their\ntails. That s what s wanted. A man needn t go far to find a subject, if\nhe s ready with his salt-box.  Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short\ninterval of reflection,  Look at Pork alone. There s a subject! If you\nwant a subject, look at Pork! \n\n True, sir. Many a moral for the young,  returned Mr. Wopsle, and I\nknew he was going to lug me in, before he said it;  might be deduced\nfrom that text. \n\n( You listen to this,  said my sister to me, in a severe parenthesis.)\n\nJoe gave me some more gravy.\n\n Swine,  pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and pointing his\nfork at my blushes, as if he were mentioning my Christian name, swine\nwere the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put\nbefore us, as an example to the young.  (I thought this pretty well in\nhim who had been praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.)\n What is detestable in a pig is more detestable in a boy. \n\n Or girl,  suggested Mr. Hubble.\n\n Of course, or girl, Mr. Hubble,  assented Mr. Wopsle, rather\nirritably,  but there is no girl present. \n\n Besides,  said Mr. Pumblechook, turning sharp on me,  think what\nyou ve got to be grateful for. If you d been born a Squeaker \n\n He _was_, if ever a child was,  said my sister, most emphatically.\n\nJoe gave me some more gravy.\n\n Well, but I mean a four-footed Squeaker,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  If\nyou had been born such, would you have been here now? Not you \n\n Unless in that form,  said Mr. Wopsle, nodding towards the dish.\n\n But I don t mean in that form, sir,  returned Mr. Pumblechook, who had\nan objection to being interrupted;  I mean, enjoying himself with his\nelders and betters, and improving himself with their conversation, and\nrolling in the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that? No, he\nwouldn t. And what would have been your destination?  turning on me\nagain.  You would have been disposed of for so many shillings according\nto the market price of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would\nhave come up to you as you lay in your straw, and he would have whipped\nyou under his left arm, and with his right he would have tucked up his\nfrock to get a penknife from out of his waistcoat-pocket, and he would\nhave shed your blood and had your life. No bringing up by hand then.\nNot a bit of it! \n\nJoe offered me more gravy, which I was afraid to take.\n\n He was a world of trouble to you, ma am,  said Mrs. Hubble,\ncommiserating my sister.\n\n Trouble?  echoed my sister;  trouble?  and then entered on a fearful\ncatalogue of all the illnesses I had been guilty of, and all the acts\nof sleeplessness I had committed, and all the high places I had tumbled\nfrom, and all the low places I had tumbled into, and all the injuries I\nhad done myself, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and I\nhad contumaciously refused to go there.\n\nI think the Romans must have aggravated one another very much, with\ntheir noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they were, in\nconsequence. Anyhow, Mr. Wopsle s Roman nose so aggravated me, during\nthe recital of my misdemeanours, that I should have liked to pull it\nuntil he howled. But, all I had endured up to this time was nothing in\ncomparison with the awful feelings that took possession of me when the\npause was broken which ensued upon my sister s recital, and in which\npause everybody had looked at me (as I felt painfully conscious) with\nindignation and abhorrence.\n\n Yet,  said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the\ntheme from which they had strayed,  Pork regarded as biled is rich,\ntoo; ain t it? \n\n Have a little brandy, uncle,  said my sister.\n\nO Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, he would say\nit was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table under\nthe cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.\n\nMy sister went for the stone bottle, came back with the stone bottle,\nand poured his brandy out: no one else taking any. The wretched man\ntrifled with his glass, took it up, looked at it through the light, put\nit down, prolonged my misery. All this time Mrs. Joe and Joe were\nbriskly clearing the table for the pie and pudding.\n\nI couldn t keep my eyes off him. Always holding tight by the leg of the\ntable with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his\nglass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the\nbrandy off. Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with\nunspeakable consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning\nround several times in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and\nrushing out at the door; he then became visible through the window,\nviolently plunging and expectorating, making the most hideous faces,\nand apparently out of his mind.\n\nI held on tight, while Mrs. Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn t know how I\nhad done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my\ndreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and\nsurveying the company all round as if _they_ had disagreed with him,\nsank down into his chair with the one significant gasp,  Tar! \n\nI had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I knew he would be\nworse by and by. I moved the table, like a Medium of the present day,\nby the vigor of my unseen hold upon it.\n\n Tar!  cried my sister, in amazement.  Why, how ever could Tar come\nthere? \n\nBut, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn t\nhear the word, wouldn t hear of the subject, imperiously waved it all\naway with his hand, and asked for hot gin and water. My sister, who had\nbegun to be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself actively in\ngetting the gin, the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon-peel, and\nmixing them. For the time being at least, I was saved. I still held on\nto the leg of the table, but clutched it now with the fervor of\ngratitude.\n\nBy degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp and partake of\npudding. Mr. Pumblechook partook of pudding. All partook of pudding.\nThe course terminated, and Mr. Pumblechook had begun to beam under the\ngenial influence of gin and water. I began to think I should get over\nthe day, when my sister said to Joe,  Clean plates, cold. \n\nI clutched the leg of the table again immediately, and pressed it to my\nbosom as if it had been the companion of my youth and friend of my\nsoul. I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I really was\ngone.\n\n You must taste,  said my sister, addressing the guests with her best\ngrace you must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious\npresent of Uncle Pumblechook s! \n\nMust they! Let them not hope to taste it!\n\n You must know,  said my sister, rising,  it s a pie; a savory pork\npie. \n\nThe company murmured their compliments. Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of\nhaving deserved well of his fellow-creatures, said, quite vivaciously,\nall things considered, Well, Mrs. Joe, we ll do our best endeavours;\nlet us have a cut at this same pie. \n\nMy sister went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry.\nI saw Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw reawakening appetite in\nthe Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle. I heard Mr. Hubble remark that  a bit\nof savory pork pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do\nno harm,  and I heard Joe say,  You shall have some, Pip.  I have never\nbeen absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror,\nmerely in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that\nI could bear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of\nthe table, and ran for my life.\n\nBut I ran no farther than the house door, for there I ran head-foremost\ninto a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a\npair of handcuffs to me, saying,  Here you are, look sharp, come on! \n\n\n\n\nChapter V.\n\n\nThe apparition of a file of soldiers ringing down the but-ends of their\nloaded muskets on our door-step, caused the dinner-party to rise from\ntable in confusion, and caused Mrs. Joe re-entering the kitchen\nempty-handed, to stop short and stare, in her wondering lament of\n Gracious goodness gracious me, what s gone with the pie! \n\nThe sergeant and I were in the kitchen when Mrs. Joe stood staring; at\nwhich crisis I partially recovered the use of my senses. It was the\nsergeant who had spoken to me, and he was now looking round at the\ncompany, with his handcuffs invitingly extended towards them in his\nright hand, and his left on my shoulder.\n\n Excuse me, ladies and gentleman,  said the sergeant,  but as I have\nmentioned at the door to this smart young shaver,  (which he hadn t),\n I am on a chase in the name of the king, and I want the blacksmith. \n\n And pray what might you want with _him_?  retorted my sister, quick to\nresent his being wanted at all.\n\n Missis,  returned the gallant sergeant,  speaking for myself, I should\nreply, the honour and pleasure of his fine wife s acquaintance;\nspeaking for the king, I answer, a little job done. \n\nThis was received as rather neat in the sergeant; insomuch that Mr.\nPumblechook cried audibly,  Good again! \n\n You see, blacksmith,  said the sergeant, who had by this time picked\nout Joe with his eye,  we have had an accident with these, and I find\nthe lock of one of  em goes wrong, and the coupling don t act pretty.\nAs they are wanted for immediate service, will you throw your eye over\nthem? \n\nJoe threw his eye over them, and pronounced that the job would\nnecessitate the lighting of his forge fire, and would take nearer two\nhours than one.  Will it? Then will you set about it at once,\nblacksmith?  said the off-hand sergeant,  as it s on his Majesty s\nservice. And if my men can bear a hand anywhere, they ll make\nthemselves useful.  With that, he called to his men, who came trooping\ninto the kitchen one after another, and piled their arms in a corner.\nAnd then they stood about, as soldiers do; now, with their hands\nloosely clasped before them; now, resting a knee or a shoulder; now,\neasing a belt or a pouch; now, opening the door to spit stiffly over\ntheir high stocks, out into the yard.\n\nAll these things I saw without then knowing that I saw them, for I was\nin an agony of apprehension. But beginning to perceive that the\nhandcuffs were not for me, and that the military had so far got the\nbetter of the pie as to put it in the background, I collected a little\nmore of my scattered wits.\n\n Would you give me the time?  said the sergeant, addressing himself to\nMr. Pumblechook, as to a man whose appreciative powers justified the\ninference that he was equal to the time.\n\n It s just gone half past two. \n\n That s not so bad,  said the sergeant, reflecting;  even if I was\nforced to halt here nigh two hours, that ll do. How far might you call\nyourselves from the marshes, hereabouts? Not above a mile, I reckon? \n\n Just a mile,  said Mrs. Joe.\n\n That ll do. We begin to close in upon  em about dusk. A little before\ndusk, my orders are. That ll do. \n\n Convicts, sergeant?  asked Mr. Wopsle, in a matter-of-course way.\n\n Ay!  returned the sergeant,  two. They re pretty well known to be out\non the marshes still, and they won t try to get clear of  em before\ndusk. Anybody here seen anything of any such game? \n\nEverybody, myself excepted, said no, with confidence. Nobody thought of\nme.\n\n Well!  said the sergeant,  they ll find themselves trapped in a\ncircle, I expect, sooner than they count on. Now, blacksmith! If you re\nready, his Majesty the King is. \n\nJoe had got his coat and waistcoat and cravat off, and his leather\napron on, and passed into the forge. One of the soldiers opened its\nwooden windows, another lighted the fire, another turned to at the\nbellows, the rest stood round the blaze, which was soon roaring. Then\nJoe began to hammer and clink, hammer and clink, and we all looked on.\n\nThe interest of the impending pursuit not only absorbed the general\nattention, but even made my sister liberal. She drew a pitcher of beer\nfrom the cask for the soldiers, and invited the sergeant to take a\nglass of brandy. But Mr. Pumblechook said, sharply,  Give him wine,\nMum. I ll engage there s no tar in that:  so, the sergeant thanked him\nand said that as he preferred his drink without tar, he would take\nwine, if it was equally convenient. When it was given him, he drank his\nMajesty s health and compliments of the season, and took it all at a\nmouthful and smacked his lips.\n\n Good stuff, eh, sergeant?  said Mr. Pumblechook.\n\n I ll tell you something,  returned the sergeant;  I suspect that\nstuff s of _your_ providing. \n\nMr. Pumblechook, with a fat sort of laugh, said,  Ay, ay? Why? \n\n Because,  returned the sergeant, clapping him on the shoulder,  you re\na man that knows what s what. \n\n D ye think so?  said Mr. Pumblechook, with his former laugh.  Have\nanother glass! \n\n With you. Hob and nob,  returned the sergeant.  The top of mine to the\nfoot of yours, the foot of yours to the top of mine, Ring once, ring\ntwice, the best tune on the Musical Glasses! Your health. May you live\na thousand years, and never be a worse judge of the right sort than you\nare at the present moment of your life! \n\nThe sergeant tossed off his glass again and seemed quite ready for\nanother glass. I noticed that Mr. Pumblechook in his hospitality\nappeared to forget that he had made a present of the wine, but took the\nbottle from Mrs. Joe and had all the credit of handing it about in a\ngush of joviality. Even I got some. And he was so very free of the wine\nthat he even called for the other bottle, and handed that about with\nthe same liberality, when the first was gone.\n\nAs I watched them while they all stood clustering about the forge,\nenjoying themselves so much, I thought what terrible good sauce for a\ndinner my fugitive friend on the marshes was. They had not enjoyed\nthemselves a quarter so much, before the entertainment was brightened\nwith the excitement he furnished. And now, when they were all in lively\nanticipation of  the two villains  being taken, and when the bellows\nseemed to roar for the fugitives, the fire to flare for them, the smoke\nto hurry away in pursuit of them, Joe to hammer and clink for them, and\nall the murky shadows on the wall to shake at them in menace as the\nblaze rose and sank, and the red-hot sparks dropped and died, the pale\nafternoon outside almost seemed in my pitying young fancy to have\nturned pale on their account, poor wretches.\n\nAt last, Joe s job was done, and the ringing and roaring stopped. As\nJoe got on his coat, he mustered courage to propose that some of us\nshould go down with the soldiers and see what came of the hunt. Mr.\nPumblechook and Mr. Hubble declined, on the plea of a pipe and ladies \nsociety; but Mr. Wopsle said he would go, if Joe would. Joe said he was\nagreeable, and would take me, if Mrs. Joe approved. We never should\nhave got leave to go, I am sure, but for Mrs. Joe s curiosity to know\nall about it and how it ended. As it was, she merely stipulated,  If\nyou bring the boy back with his head blown to bits by a musket, don t\nlook to me to put it together again. \n\nThe sergeant took a polite leave of the ladies, and parted from Mr.\nPumblechook as from a comrade; though I doubt if he were quite as fully\nsensible of that gentleman s merits under arid conditions, as when\nsomething moist was going. His men resumed their muskets and fell in.\nMr. Wopsle, Joe, and I, received strict charge to keep in the rear, and\nto speak no word after we reached the marshes. When we were all out in\nthe raw air and were steadily moving towards our business, I\ntreasonably whispered to Joe,  I hope, Joe, we shan t find them.  and\nJoe whispered to me,  I d give a shilling if they had cut and run,\nPip. \n\nWe were joined by no stragglers from the village, for the weather was\ncold and threatening, the way dreary, the footing bad, darkness coming\non, and the people had good fires in-doors and were keeping the day. A\nfew faces hurried to glowing windows and looked after us, but none came\nout. We passed the finger-post, and held straight on to the churchyard.\nThere we were stopped a few minutes by a signal from the sergeant s\nhand, while two or three of his men dispersed themselves among the\ngraves, and also examined the porch. They came in again without finding\nanything, and then we struck out on the open marshes, through the gate\nat the side of the churchyard. A bitter sleet came rattling against us\nhere on the east wind, and Joe took me on his back.\n\nNow that we were out upon the dismal wilderness where they little\nthought I had been within eight or nine hours and had seen both men\nhiding, I considered for the first time, with great dread, if we should\ncome upon them, would my particular convict suppose that it was I who\nhad brought the soldiers there? He had asked me if I was a deceiving\nimp, and he had said I should be a fierce young hound if I joined the\nhunt against him. Would he believe that I was both imp and hound in\ntreacherous earnest, and had betrayed him?\n\nIt was of no use asking myself this question now. There I was, on Joe s\nback, and there was Joe beneath me, charging at the ditches like a\nhunter, and stimulating Mr. Wopsle not to tumble on his Roman nose, and\nto keep up with us. The soldiers were in front of us, extending into a\npretty wide line with an interval between man and man. We were taking\nthe course I had begun with, and from which I had diverged in the mist.\nEither the mist was not out again yet, or the wind had dispelled it.\nUnder the low red glare of sunset, the beacon, and the gibbet, and the\nmound of the Battery, and the opposite shore of the river, were plain,\nthough all of a watery lead colour.\n\nWith my heart thumping like a blacksmith at Joe s broad shoulder, I\nlooked all about for any sign of the convicts. I could see none, I\ncould hear none. Mr. Wopsle had greatly alarmed me more than once, by\nhis blowing and hard breathing; but I knew the sounds by this time, and\ncould dissociate them from the object of pursuit. I got a dreadful\nstart, when I thought I heard the file still going; but it was only a\nsheep-bell. The sheep stopped in their eating and looked timidly at us;\nand the cattle, their heads turned from the wind and sleet, stared\nangrily as if they held us responsible for both annoyances; but, except\nthese things, and the shudder of the dying day in every blade of grass,\nthere was no break in the bleak stillness of the marshes.\n\nThe soldiers were moving on in the direction of the old Battery, and we\nwere moving on a little way behind them, when, all of a sudden, we all\nstopped. For there had reached us on the wings of the wind and rain, a\nlong shout. It was repeated. It was at a distance towards the east, but\nit was long and loud. Nay, there seemed to be two or more shouts raised\ntogether, if one might judge from a confusion in the sound.\n\nTo this effect the sergeant and the nearest men were speaking under\ntheir breath, when Joe and I came up. After another moment s listening,\nJoe (who was a good judge) agreed, and Mr. Wopsle (who was a bad judge)\nagreed. The sergeant, a decisive man, ordered that the sound should not\nbe answered, but that the course should be changed, and that his men\nshould make towards it  at the double.  So we slanted to the right\n(where the East was), and Joe pounded away so wonderfully, that I had\nto hold on tight to keep my seat.\n\nIt was a run indeed now, and what Joe called, in the only two words he\nspoke all the time,  a Winder.  Down banks and up banks, and over\ngates, and splashing into dikes, and breaking among coarse rushes: no\nman cared where he went. As we came nearer to the shouting, it became\nmore and more apparent that it was made by more than one voice.\nSometimes, it seemed to stop altogether, and then the soldiers stopped.\nWhen it broke out again, the soldiers made for it at a greater rate\nthan ever, and we after them. After a while, we had so run it down,\nthat we could hear one voice calling  Murder!  and another voice,\n Convicts! Runaways! Guard! This way for the runaway convicts!  Then\nboth voices would seem to be stifled in a struggle, and then would\nbreak out again. And when it had come to this, the soldiers ran like\ndeer, and Joe too.\n\nThe sergeant ran in first, when we had run the noise quite down, and\ntwo of his men ran in close upon him. Their pieces were cocked and\nlevelled when we all ran in.\n\n Here are both men!  panted the sergeant, struggling at the bottom of a\nditch.  Surrender, you two! and confound you for two wild beasts! Come\nasunder! \n\nWater was splashing, and mud was flying, and oaths were being sworn,\nand blows were being struck, when some more men went down into the\nditch to help the sergeant, and dragged out, separately, my convict and\nthe other one. Both were bleeding and panting and execrating and\nstruggling; but of course I knew them both directly.\n\n Mind!  said my convict, wiping blood from his face with his ragged\nsleeves, and shaking torn hair from his fingers:  _I_ took him! _I_\ngive him up to you! Mind that! \n\n It s not much to be particular about,  said the sergeant;  it ll do\nyou small good, my man, being in the same plight yourself. Handcuffs\nthere! \n\n I don t expect it to do me any good. I don t want it to do me more\ngood than it does now,  said my convict, with a greedy laugh.  I took\nhim. He knows it. That s enough for me. \n\nThe other convict was livid to look at, and, in addition to the old\nbruised left side of his face, seemed to be bruised and torn all over.\nHe could not so much as get his breath to speak, until they were both\nseparately handcuffed, but leaned upon a soldier to keep himself from\nfalling.\n\n Take notice, guard, he tried to murder me,  were his first words.\n\n Tried to murder him?  said my convict, disdainfully.  Try, and not do\nit? I took him, and giv  him up; that s what I done. I not only\nprevented him getting off the marshes, but I dragged him here, dragged\nhim this far on his way back. He s a gentleman, if you please, this\nvillain. Now, the Hulks has got its gentleman again, through me. Murder\nhim? Worth my while, too, to murder him, when I could do worse and drag\nhim back! \n\nThe other one still gasped,  He tried he tried-to murder me. Bear bear\nwitness. \n\n Lookee here!  said my convict to the sergeant.  Single-handed I got\nclear of the prison-ship; I made a dash and I done it. I could ha  got\nclear of these death-cold flats likewise look at my leg: you won t find\nmuch iron on it if I hadn t made the discovery that _he_ was here. Let\n_him_ go free? Let _him_ profit by the means as I found out? Let _him_\nmake a tool of me afresh and again? Once more? No, no, no. If I had\ndied at the bottom there,  and he made an emphatic swing at the ditch\nwith his manacled hands,  I d have held to him with that grip, that you\nshould have been safe to find him in my hold. \n\nThe other fugitive, who was evidently in extreme horror of his\ncompanion, repeated,  He tried to murder me. I should have been a dead\nman if you had not come up. \n\n He lies!  said my convict, with fierce energy.  He s a liar born, and\nhe ll die a liar. Look at his face; ain t it written there? Let him\nturn those eyes of his on me. I defy him to do it. \n\nThe other, with an effort at a scornful smile, which could not,\nhowever, collect the nervous working of his mouth into any set\nexpression, looked at the soldiers, and looked about at the marshes and\nat the sky, but certainly did not look at the speaker.\n\n Do you see him?  pursued my convict.  Do you see what a villain he is?\nDo you see those grovelling and wandering eyes? That s how he looked\nwhen we were tried together. He never looked at me. \n\nThe other, always working and working his dry lips and turning his eyes\nrestlessly about him far and near, did at last turn them for a moment\non the speaker, with the words,  You are not much to look at,  and with\na half-taunting glance at the bound hands. At that point, my convict\nbecame so frantically exasperated, that he would have rushed upon him\nbut for the interposition of the soldiers.  Didn t I tell you,  said\nthe other convict then,  that he would murder me, if he could?  And any\none could see that he shook with fear, and that there broke out upon\nhis lips curious white flakes, like thin snow.\n\n Enough of this parley,  said the sergeant.  Light those torches. \n\nAs one of the soldiers, who carried a basket in lieu of a gun, went\ndown on his knee to open it, my convict looked round him for the first\ntime, and saw me. I had alighted from Joe s back on the brink of the\nditch when we came up, and had not moved since. I looked at him eagerly\nwhen he looked at me, and slightly moved my hands and shook my head. I\nhad been waiting for him to see me that I might try to assure him of my\ninnocence. It was not at all expressed to me that he even comprehended\nmy intention, for he gave me a look that I did not understand, and it\nall passed in a moment. But if he had looked at me for an hour or for a\nday, I could not have remembered his face ever afterwards, as having\nbeen more attentive.\n\nThe soldier with the basket soon got a light, and lighted three or four\ntorches, and took one himself and distributed the others. It had been\nalmost dark before, but now it seemed quite dark, and soon afterwards\nvery dark. Before we departed from that spot, four soldiers standing in\na ring, fired twice into the air. Presently we saw other torches\nkindled at some distance behind us, and others on the marshes on the\nopposite bank of the river.  All right,  said the sergeant.  March. \n\nWe had not gone far when three cannon were fired ahead of us with a\nsound that seemed to burst something inside my ear.  You are expected\non board,  said the sergeant to my convict;  they know you are coming.\nDon t straggle, my man. Close up here. \n\nThe two were kept apart, and each walked surrounded by a separate\nguard. I had hold of Joe s hand now, and Joe carried one of the\ntorches. Mr. Wopsle had been for going back, but Joe was resolved to\nsee it out, so we went on with the party. There was a reasonably good\npath now, mostly on the edge of the river, with a divergence here and\nthere where a dike came, with a miniature windmill on it and a muddy\nsluice-gate. When I looked round, I could see the other lights coming\nin after us. The torches we carried dropped great blotches of fire upon\nthe track, and I could see those, too, lying smoking and flaring. I\ncould see nothing else but black darkness. Our lights warmed the air\nabout us with their pitchy blaze, and the two prisoners seemed rather\nto like that, as they limped along in the midst of the muskets. We\ncould not go fast, because of their lameness; and they were so spent,\nthat two or three times we had to halt while they rested.\n\nAfter an hour or so of this travelling, we came to a rough wooden hut\nand a landing-place. There was a guard in the hut, and they challenged,\nand the sergeant answered. Then, we went into the hut, where there was\na smell of tobacco and whitewash, and a bright fire, and a lamp, and a\nstand of muskets, and a drum, and a low wooden bedstead, like an\novergrown mangle without the machinery, capable of holding about a\ndozen soldiers all at once. Three or four soldiers who lay upon it in\ntheir great-coats were not much interested in us, but just lifted their\nheads and took a sleepy stare, and then lay down again. The sergeant\nmade some kind of report, and some entry in a book, and then the\nconvict whom I call the other convict was drafted off with his guard,\nto go on board first.\n\nMy convict never looked at me, except that once. While we stood in the\nhut, he stood before the fire looking thoughtfully at it, or putting up\nhis feet by turns upon the hob, and looking thoughtfully at them as if\nhe pitied them for their recent adventures. Suddenly, he turned to the\nsergeant, and remarked, \n\n I wish to say something respecting this escape. It may prevent some\npersons laying under suspicion alonger me. \n\n You can say what you like,  returned the sergeant, standing coolly\nlooking at him with his arms folded,  but you have no call to say it\nhere. You ll have opportunity enough to say about it, and hear about\nit, before it s done with, you know. \n\n I know, but this is another pint, a separate matter. A man can t\nstarve; at least _I_ can t. I took some wittles, up at the willage over\nyonder, where the church stands a most out on the marshes. \n\n You mean stole,  said the sergeant.\n\n And I ll tell you where from. From the blacksmith s. \n\n Halloa!  said the sergeant, staring at Joe.\n\n Halloa, Pip!  said Joe, staring at me.\n\n It was some broken wittles that s what it was and a dram of liquor,\nand a pie. \n\n Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?  asked\nthe sergeant, confidentially.\n\n My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don t you know,\nPip? \n\n So,  said my convict, turning his eyes on Joe in a moody manner, and\nwithout the least glance at me, so you re the blacksmith, are you?\nThan I m sorry to say, I ve eat your pie. \n\n God knows you re welcome to it, so far as it was ever mine,  returned\nJoe, with a saving remembrance of Mrs. Joe.  We don t know what you\nhave done, but we wouldn t have you starved to death for it, poor\nmiserable fellow-creatur. Would us, Pip? \n\nThe something that I had noticed before, clicked in the man s throat\nagain, and he turned his back. The boat had returned, and his guard\nwere ready, so we followed him to the landing-place made of rough\nstakes and stones, and saw him put into the boat, which was rowed by a\ncrew of convicts like himself. No one seemed surprised to see him, or\ninterested in seeing him, or glad to see him, or sorry to see him, or\nspoke a word, except that somebody in the boat growled as if to dogs,\n Give way, you!  which was the signal for the dip of the oars. By the\nlight of the torches, we saw the black Hulk lying out a little way from\nthe mud of the shore, like a wicked Noah s ark. Cribbed and barred and\nmoored by massive rusty chains, the prison-ship seemed in my young eyes\nto be ironed like the prisoners. We saw the boat go alongside, and we\nsaw him taken up the side and disappear. Then, the ends of the torches\nwere flung hissing into the water, and went out, as if it were all over\nwith him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI.\n\n\nMy state of mind regarding the pilfering from which I had been so\nunexpectedly exonerated did not impel me to frank disclosure; but I\nhope it had some dregs of good at the bottom of it.\n\nI do not recall that I felt any tenderness of conscience in reference\nto Mrs. Joe, when the fear of being found out was lifted off me. But I\nloved Joe, perhaps for no better reason in those early days than\nbecause the dear fellow let me love him, and, as to him, my inner self\nwas not so easily composed. It was much upon my mind (particularly when\nI first saw him looking about for his file) that I ought to tell Joe\nthe whole truth. Yet I did not, and for the reason that I mistrusted\nthat if I did, he would think me worse than I was. The fear of losing\nJoe s confidence, and of thenceforth sitting in the chimney corner at\nnight staring drearily at my forever lost companion and friend, tied up\nmy tongue. I morbidly represented to myself that if Joe knew it, I\nnever afterwards could see him at the fireside feeling his fair\nwhisker, without thinking that he was meditating on it. That, if Joe\nknew it, I never afterwards could see him glance, however casually, at\nyesterday s meat or pudding when it came on to-day s table, without\nthinking that he was debating whether I had been in the pantry. That,\nif Joe knew it, and at any subsequent period of our joint domestic life\nremarked that his beer was flat or thick, the conviction that he\nsuspected tar in it, would bring a rush of blood to my face. In a word,\nI was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too\ncowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong. I had had no\nintercourse with the world at that time, and I imitated none of its\nmany inhabitants who act in this manner. Quite an untaught genius, I\nmade the discovery of the line of action for myself.\n\nAs I was sleepy before we were far away from the prison-ship, Joe took\nme on his back again and carried me home. He must have had a tiresome\njourney of it, for Mr. Wopsle, being knocked up, was in such a very bad\ntemper that if the Church had been thrown open, he would probably have\nexcommunicated the whole expedition, beginning with Joe and myself. In\nhis lay capacity, he persisted in sitting down in the damp to such an\ninsane extent, that when his coat was taken off to be dried at the\nkitchen fire, the circumstantial evidence on his trousers would have\nhanged him, if it had been a capital offence.\n\nBy that time, I was staggering on the kitchen floor like a little\ndrunkard, through having been newly set upon my feet, and through\nhaving been fast asleep, and through waking in the heat and lights and\nnoise of tongues. As I came to myself (with the aid of a heavy thump\nbetween the shoulders, and the restorative exclamation  Yah! Was there\never such a boy as this!  from my sister,) I found Joe telling them\nabout the convict s confession, and all the visitors suggesting\ndifferent ways by which he had got into the pantry. Mr. Pumblechook\nmade out, after carefully surveying the premises, that he had first got\nupon the roof of the forge, and had then got upon the roof of the\nhouse, and had then let himself down the kitchen chimney by a rope made\nof his bedding cut into strips; and as Mr. Pumblechook was very\npositive and drove his own chaise-cart over everybody it was agreed\nthat it must be so. Mr. Wopsle, indeed, wildly cried out,  No!  with\nthe feeble malice of a tired man; but, as he had no theory, and no coat\non, he was unanimously set at naught, not to mention his smoking hard\nbehind, as he stood with his back to the kitchen fire to draw the damp\nout: which was not calculated to inspire confidence.\n\nThis was all I heard that night before my sister clutched me, as a\nslumberous offence to the company s eyesight, and assisted me up to bed\nwith such a strong hand that I seemed to have fifty boots on, and to be\ndangling them all against the edges of the stairs. My state of mind, as\nI have described it, began before I was up in the morning, and lasted\nlong after the subject had died out, and had ceased to be mentioned\nsaving on exceptional occasions.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII.\n\n\nAt the time when I stood in the churchyard reading the family\ntombstones, I had just enough learning to be able to spell them out. My\nconstruction even of their simple meaning was not very correct, for I\nread  wife of the Above  as a complimentary reference to my father s\nexaltation to a better world; and if any one of my deceased relations\nhad been referred to as  Below,  I have no doubt I should have formed\nthe worst opinions of that member of the family. Neither were my\nnotions of the theological positions to which my Catechism bound me, at\nall accurate; for, I have a lively remembrance that I supposed my\ndeclaration that I was to  walk in the same all the days of my life, \nlaid me under an obligation always to go through the village from our\nhouse in one particular direction, and never to vary it by turning down\nby the wheelwright s or up by the mill.\n\nWhen I was old enough, I was to be apprenticed to Joe, and until I\ncould assume that dignity I was not to be what Mrs. Joe called\n Pompeyed,  or (as I render it) pampered. Therefore, I was not only\nodd-boy about the forge, but if any neighbour happened to want an extra\nboy to frighten birds, or pick up stones, or do any such job, I was\nfavoured with the employment. In order, however, that our superior\nposition might not be compromised thereby, a money-box was kept on the\nkitchen mantel-shelf, into which it was publicly made known that all my\nearnings were dropped. I have an impression that they were to be\ncontributed eventually towards the liquidation of the National Debt,\nbut I know I had no hope of any personal participation in the treasure.\n\nMr. Wopsle s great-aunt kept an evening school in the village; that is\nto say, she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited\ninfirmity, who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening, in\nthe society of youth who paid two pence per week each, for the\nimproving opportunity of seeing her do it. She rented a small cottage,\nand Mr. Wopsle had the room upstairs, where we students used to\noverhear him reading aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner, and\noccasionally bumping on the ceiling. There was a fiction that Mr.\nWopsle  examined  the scholars once a quarter. What he did on those\noccasions was to turn up his cuffs, stick up his hair, and give us Mark\nAntony s oration over the body of Caesar. This was always followed by\nCollins s Ode on the Passions, wherein I particularly venerated Mr.\nWopsle as Revenge throwing his blood-stained sword in thunder down, and\ntaking the War-denouncing trumpet with a withering look. It was not\nwith me then, as it was in later life, when I fell into the society of\nthe Passions, and compared them with Collins and Wopsle, rather to the\ndisadvantage of both gentlemen.\n\nMr. Wopsle s great-aunt, besides keeping this Educational Institution,\nkept in the same room a little general shop. She had no idea what stock\nshe had, or what the price of anything in it was; but there was a\nlittle greasy memorandum-book kept in a drawer, which served as a\nCatalogue of Prices, and by this oracle Biddy arranged all the shop\ntransactions. Biddy was Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s granddaughter; I\nconfess myself quite unequal to the working out of the problem, what\nrelation she was to Mr. Wopsle. She was an orphan like myself; like me,\ntoo, had been brought up by hand. She was most noticeable, I thought,\nin respect of her extremities; for, her hair always wanted brushing,\nher hands always wanted washing, and her shoes always wanted mending\nand pulling up at heel. This description must be received with a\nweek-day limitation. On Sundays, she went to church elaborated.\n\nMuch of my unassisted self, and more by the help of Biddy than of Mr.\nWopsle s great-aunt, I struggled through the alphabet as if it had been\na bramble-bush; getting considerably worried and scratched by every\nletter. After that I fell among those thieves, the nine figures, who\nseemed every evening to do something new to disguise themselves and\nbaffle recognition. But, at last I began, in a purblind groping way, to\nread, write, and cipher, on the very smallest scale.\n\nOne night I was sitting in the chimney corner with my slate, expending\ngreat efforts on the production of a letter to Joe. I think it must\nhave been a full year after our hunt upon the marshes, for it was a\nlong time after, and it was winter and a hard frost. With an alphabet\non the hearth at my feet for reference, I contrived in an hour or two\nto print and smear this epistle: \n\n MI DEER JO i OPE U R KRWITE WELL i OPE i SHAL SON B HABELL 4 2 TEEDGE\nU JO AN THEN WE SHORL B SO GLODD AN WEN i M PRENGTD 2 U JO WOT LARX AN\nBLEVE ME INF XN PIP. \n\n\nThere was no indispensable necessity for my communicating with Joe by\nletter, inasmuch as he sat beside me and we were alone. But I delivered\nthis written communication (slate and all) with my own hand, and Joe\nreceived it as a miracle of erudition.\n\n I say, Pip, old chap!  cried Joe, opening his blue eyes wide,  what a\nscholar you are! An t you? \n\n I should like to be,  said I, glancing at the slate as he held it;\nwith a misgiving that the writing was rather hilly.\n\n Why, here s a J,  said Joe,  and a O equal to anythink! Here s a J and\na O, Pip, and a J-O, Joe. \n\n[Illustration]\n\nI had never heard Joe read aloud to any greater extent than this\nmonosyllable, and I had observed at church last Sunday, when I\naccidentally held our Prayer-Book upside down, that it seemed to suit\nhis convenience quite as well as if it had been all right. Wishing to\nembrace the present occasion of finding out whether in teaching Joe, I\nshould have to begin quite at the beginning, I said,  Ah! But read the\nrest, Jo. \n\n The rest, eh, Pip?  said Joe, looking at it with a slow, searching\neye,  One, two, three. Why, here s three Js, and three Os, and three\nJ-O, Joes in it, Pip! \n\nI leaned over Joe, and, with the aid of my forefinger read him the\nwhole letter.\n\n Astonishing!  said Joe, when I had finished.  You ARE a scholar. \n\n How do you spell Gargery, Joe?  I asked him, with a modest patronage.\n\n I don t spell it at all,  said Joe.\n\n But supposing you did? \n\n It _can t_ be supposed,  said Joe.  Tho  I m uncommon fond of reading,\ntoo. \n\n Are you, Joe? \n\n On-common. Give me,  said Joe,  a good book, or a good newspaper, and\nsit me down afore a good fire, and I ask no better. Lord!  he\ncontinued, after rubbing his knees a little,  when you _do_ come to a J\nand a O, and says you,  Here, at last, is a J-O, Joe,  how interesting\nreading is! \n\nI derived from this, that Joe s education, like Steam, was yet in its\ninfancy. Pursuing the subject, I inquired, \n\n Didn t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me? \n\n No, Pip. \n\n Why didn t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me? \n\n Well, Pip,  said Joe, taking up the poker, and settling himself to his\nusual occupation when he was thoughtful, of slowly raking the fire\nbetween the lower bars;  I ll tell you. My father, Pip, he were given\nto drink, and when he were overtook with drink, he hammered away at my\nmother, most onmerciful. It were a most the only hammering he did,\nindeed,  xcepting at myself. And he hammered at me with a wigor only to\nbe equalled by the wigor with which he didn t hammer at his\nanwil. You re a listening and understanding, Pip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n Consequence, my mother and me we ran away from my father several\ntimes; and then my mother she d go out to work, and she d say,  Joe, \nshe d say,  now, please God, you shall have some schooling, child,  and\nshe d put me to school. But my father were that good in his hart that\nhe couldn t abear to be without us. So, he d come with a most\ntremenjous crowd and make such a row at the doors of the houses where\nwe was, that they used to be obligated to have no more to do with us\nand to give us up to him. And then he took us home and hammered us.\nWhich, you see, Pip,  said Joe, pausing in his meditative raking of the\nfire, and looking at me,  were a drawback on my learning. \n\n Certainly, poor Joe! \n\n Though mind you, Pip,  said Joe, with a judicial touch or two of the\npoker on the top bar,  rendering unto all their doo, and maintaining\nequal justice betwixt man and man, my father were that good in his\nhart, don t you see? \n\nI didn t see; but I didn t say so.\n\n Well!  Joe pursued,  somebody must keep the pot a-biling, Pip, or the\npot won t bile, don t you know? \n\nI saw that, and said so.\n\n Consequence, my father didn t make objections to my going to work; so\nI went to work at my present calling, which were his too, if he would\nhave followed it, and I worked tolerable hard, I assure _you_, Pip. In\ntime I were able to keep him, and I kep him till he went off in a\npurple leptic fit. And it were my intentions to have had put upon his\ntombstone that, Whatsume er the failings on his part, Remember reader\nhe were that good in his heart. \n\nJoe recited this couplet with such manifest pride and careful\nperspicuity, that I asked him if he had made it himself.\n\n I made it,  said Joe,  my own self. I made it in a moment. It was like\nstriking out a horseshoe complete, in a single blow. I never was so\nmuch surprised in all my life, couldn t credit my own ed, to tell you\nthe truth, hardly believed it _were_ my own ed. As I was saying, Pip,\nit were my intentions to have had it cut over him; but poetry costs\nmoney, cut it how you will, small or large, and it were not done. Not\nto mention bearers, all the money that could be spared were wanted for\nmy mother. She were in poor elth, and quite broke. She weren t long of\nfollowing, poor soul, and her share of peace come round at last. \n\nJoe s blue eyes turned a little watery; he rubbed first one of them,\nand then the other, in a most uncongenial and uncomfortable manner,\nwith the round knob on the top of the poker.\n\n It were but lonesome then,  said Joe,  living here alone, and I got\nacquainted with your sister. Now, Pip, Joe looked firmly at me as if\nhe knew I was not going to agree with him; your sister is a fine\nfigure of a woman. \n\nI could not help looking at the fire, in an obvious state of doubt.\n\n Whatever family opinions, or whatever the world s opinions, on that\nsubject may be, Pip, your sister is,  Joe tapped the top bar with the\npoker after every word following,  a-fine-figure of a woman! \n\nI could think of nothing better to say than  I am glad you think so,\nJoe. \n\n So am I,  returned Joe, catching me up.  _I_ am glad I think so, Pip.\nA little redness or a little matter of Bone, here or there, what does\nit signify to Me? \n\nI sagaciously observed, if it didn t signify to him, to whom did it\nsignify?\n\n Certainly!  assented Joe.  That s it. You re right, old chap! When I\ngot acquainted with your sister, it were the talk how she was bringing\nyou up by hand. Very kind of her too, all the folks said, and I said,\nalong with all the folks. As to you,  Joe pursued with a countenance\nexpressive of seeing something very nasty indeed,  if you could have\nbeen aware how small and flabby and mean you was, dear me, you d have\nformed the most contemptible opinion of yourself! \n\nNot exactly relishing this, I said,  Never mind me, Joe. \n\n But I did mind you, Pip,  he returned with tender simplicity.  When I\noffered to your sister to keep company, and to be asked in church at\nsuch times as she was willing and ready to come to the forge, I said to\nher,  And bring the poor little child. God bless the poor little\nchild,  I said to your sister,  there s room for _him_ at the forge! \n\nI broke out crying and begging pardon, and hugged Joe round the neck:\nwho dropped the poker to hug me, and to say,  Ever the best of friends;\nan t us, Pip? Don t cry, old chap! \n\nWhen this little interruption was over, Joe resumed: \n\n Well, you see, Pip, and here we are! That s about where it lights;\nhere we are! Now, when you take me in hand in my learning, Pip (and I\ntell you beforehand I am awful dull, most awful dull), Mrs. Joe mustn t\nsee too much of what we re up to. It must be done, as I may say, on the\nsly. And why on the sly? I ll tell you why, Pip. \n\nHe had taken up the poker again; without which, I doubt if he could\nhave proceeded in his demonstration.\n\n Your sister is given to government. \n\n Given to government, Joe?  I was startled, for I had some shadowy idea\n(and I am afraid I must add, hope) that Joe had divorced her in a\nfavour of the Lords of the Admiralty, or Treasury.\n\n Given to government,  said Joe.  Which I meantersay the government of\nyou and myself. \n\n Oh! \n\n And she an t over partial to having scholars on the premises,  Joe\ncontinued,  and in partickler would not be over partial to my being a\nscholar, for fear as I might rise. Like a sort of rebel, don t you\nsee? \n\nI was going to retort with an inquiry, and had got as far as  Why \nwhen Joe stopped me.\n\n Stay a bit. I know what you re a-going to say, Pip; stay a bit! I\ndon t deny that your sister comes the Mo-gul over us, now and again. I\ndon t deny that she do throw us back-falls, and that she do drop down\nupon us heavy. At such times as when your sister is on the Ram-page,\nPip,  Joe sank his voice to a whisper and glanced at the door,  candour\ncompels fur to admit that she is a Buster. \n\nJoe pronounced this word, as if it began with at least twelve capital\nBs.\n\n Why don t I rise? That were your observation when I broke it off,\nPip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n Well,  said Joe, passing the poker into his left hand, that he might\nfeel his whisker; and I had no hope of him whenever he took to that\nplacid occupation;  your sister s a master-mind. A master-mind. \n\n What s that?  I asked, in some hope of bringing him to a stand. But\nJoe was readier with his definition than I had expected, and completely\nstopped me by arguing circularly, and answering with a fixed look,\n Her. \n\n And I ain t a master-mind,  Joe resumed, when he had unfixed his look,\nand got back to his whisker.  And last of all, Pip, and this I want to\nsay very serious to you, old chap, I see so much in my poor mother, of\na woman drudging and slaving and breaking her honest hart and never\ngetting no peace in her mortal days, that I m dead afeerd of going\nwrong in the way of not doing what s right by a woman, and I d fur\nrather of the two go wrong the t other way, and be a little\nill-conwenienced myself. I wish it was only me that got put out, Pip; I\nwish there warn t no Tickler for you, old chap; I wish I could take it\nall on myself; but this is the up-and-down-and-straight on it, Pip, and\nI hope you ll overlook shortcomings. \n\nYoung as I was, I believe that I dated a new admiration of Joe from\nthat night. We were equals afterwards, as we had been before; but,\nafterwards at quiet times when I sat looking at Joe and thinking about\nhim, I had a new sensation of feeling conscious that I was looking up\nto Joe in my heart.\n\n However,  said Joe, rising to replenish the fire;  here s the\nDutch-clock a-working himself up to being equal to strike Eight of  em,\nand she s not come home yet! I hope Uncle Pumblechook s mare mayn t\nhave set a forefoot on a piece o  ice, and gone down. \n\nMrs. Joe made occasional trips with Uncle Pumblechook on market-days,\nto assist him in buying such household stuffs and goods as required a\nwoman s judgment; Uncle Pumblechook being a bachelor and reposing no\nconfidences in his domestic servant. This was market-day, and Mrs. Joe\nwas out on one of these expeditions.\n\nJoe made the fire and swept the hearth, and then we went to the door to\nlisten for the chaise-cart. It was a dry cold night, and the wind blew\nkeenly, and the frost was white and hard. A man would die to-night of\nlying out on the marshes, I thought. And then I looked at the stars,\nand considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to\nthem as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the\nglittering multitude.\n\n Here comes the mare,  said Joe,  ringing like a peal of bells! \n\nThe sound of her iron shoes upon the hard road was quite musical, as\nshe came along at a much brisker trot than usual. We got a chair out,\nready for Mrs. Joe s alighting, and stirred up the fire that they might\nsee a bright window, and took a final survey of the kitchen that\nnothing might be out of its place. When we had completed these\npreparations, they drove up, wrapped to the eyes. Mrs. Joe was soon\nlanded, and Uncle Pumblechook was soon down too, covering the mare with\na cloth, and we were soon all in the kitchen, carrying so much cold air\nin with us that it seemed to drive all the heat out of the fire.\n\n Now,  said Mrs. Joe, unwrapping herself with haste and excitement, and\nthrowing her bonnet back on her shoulders where it hung by the strings,\n if this boy ain t grateful this night, he never will be! \n\nI looked as grateful as any boy possibly could, who was wholly\nuninformed why he ought to assume that expression.\n\n It s only to be hoped,  said my sister,  that he won t be Pompeyed.\nBut I have my fears. \n\n She ain t in that line, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  She knows\nbetter. \n\nShe? I looked at Joe, making the motion with my lips and eyebrows,\n She?  Joe looked at me, making the motion with _his_ lips and\neyebrows,  She?  My sister catching him in the act, he drew the back of\nhis hand across his nose with his usual conciliatory air on such\noccasions, and looked at her.\n\n Well?  said my sister, in her snappish way.  What are you staring at?\nIs the house afire? \n\n Which some individual,  Joe politely hinted,  mentioned she. \n\n And she is a she, I suppose?  said my sister.  Unless you call Miss\nHavisham a he. And I doubt if even you ll go so far as that. \n\n Miss Havisham, up town?  said Joe.\n\n Is there any Miss Havisham down town?  returned my sister.\n\n She wants this boy to go and play there. And of course he s going. And\nhe had better play there,  said my sister, shaking her head at me as an\nencouragement to be extremely light and sportive,  or I ll work him. \n\nI had heard of Miss Havisham up town, everybody for miles round had\nheard of Miss Havisham up town, as an immensely rich and grim lady who\nlived in a large and dismal house barricaded against robbers, and who\nled a life of seclusion.\n\n Well to be sure!  said Joe, astounded.  I wonder how she come to know\nPip! \n\n Noodle!  cried my sister.  Who said she knew him? \n\n Which some individual,  Joe again politely hinted,  mentioned that\nshe wanted him to go and play there. \n\n And couldn t she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and\nplay there? Isn t it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be\na tenant of hers, and that he may sometimes we won t say quarterly or\nhalf-yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you but\nsometimes go there to pay his rent? And couldn t she then ask Uncle\nPumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn t\nUncle Pumblechook, being always considerate and thoughtful for\nus though you may not think it, Joseph,  in a tone of the deepest\nreproach, as if he were the most callous of nephews,  then mention this\nboy, standing Prancing here which I solemnly declare I was not\ndoing that I have for ever been a willing slave to? \n\n Good again!  cried Uncle Pumblechook.  Well put! Prettily pointed!\nGood indeed! Now Joseph, you know the case. \n\n No, Joseph,  said my sister, still in a reproachful manner, while Joe\napologetically drew the back of his hand across and across his nose,\n you do not yet though you may not think it know the case. You may\nconsider that you do, but you do _not_, Joseph. For you do not know\nthat Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell,\nthis boy s fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havisham s, has\noffered to take him into town to-night in his own chaise-cart, and to\nkeep him to-night, and to take him with his own hands to Miss\nHavisham s to-morrow morning. And Lor-a-mussy me!  cried my sister,\ncasting off her bonnet in sudden desperation,  here I stand talking to\nmere Mooncalfs, with Uncle Pumblechook waiting, and the mare catching\ncold at the door, and the boy grimed with crock and dirt from the hair\nof his head to the sole of his foot! \n\nWith that, she pounced upon me, like an eagle on a lamb, and my face\nwas squeezed into wooden bowls in sinks, and my head was put under taps\nof water-butts, and I was soaped, and kneaded, and towelled, and\nthumped, and harrowed, and rasped, until I really was quite beside\nmyself. (I may here remark that I suppose myself to be better\nacquainted than any living authority, with the ridgy effect of a\nwedding-ring, passing unsympathetically over the human countenance.)\n\nWhen my ablutions were completed, I was put into clean linen of the\nstiffest character, like a young penitent into sackcloth, and was\ntrussed up in my tightest and fearfullest suit. I was then delivered\nover to Mr. Pumblechook, who formally received me as if he were the\nSheriff, and who let off upon me the speech that I knew he had been\ndying to make all along:  Boy, be forever grateful to all friends, but\nespecially unto them which brought you up by hand! \n\n Good-bye, Joe! \n\n God bless you, Pip, old chap! \n\nI had never parted from him before, and what with my feelings and what\nwith soapsuds, I could at first see no stars from the chaise-cart. But\nthey twinkled out one by one, without throwing any light on the\nquestions why on earth I was going to play at Miss Havisham s, and what\non earth I was expected to play at.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII.\n\n\nMr. Pumblechook s premises in the High Street of the market town, were\nof a peppercorny and farinaceous character, as the premises of a\ncornchandler and seedsman should be. It appeared to me that he must be\na very happy man indeed, to have so many little drawers in his shop;\nand I wondered when I peeped into one or two on the lower tiers, and\nsaw the tied-up brown paper packets inside, whether the flower-seeds\nand bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of those jails, and\nbloom.\n\nIt was in the early morning after my arrival that I entertained this\nspeculation. On the previous night, I had been sent straight to bed in\nan attic with a sloping roof, which was so low in the corner where the\nbedstead was, that I calculated the tiles as being within a foot of my\neyebrows. In the same early morning, I discovered a singular affinity\nbetween seeds and corduroys. Mr. Pumblechook wore corduroys, and so did\nhis shopman; and somehow, there was a general air and flavour about the\ncorduroys, so much in the nature of seeds, and a general air and\nflavour about the seeds, so much in the nature of corduroys, that I\nhardly knew which was which. The same opportunity served me for\nnoticing that Mr. Pumblechook appeared to conduct his business by\nlooking across the street at the saddler, who appeared to transact\n_his_ business by keeping his eye on the coachmaker, who appeared to\nget on in life by putting his hands in his pockets and contemplating\nthe baker, who in his turn folded his arms and stared at the grocer,\nwho stood at his door and yawned at the chemist. The watchmaker, always\nporing over a little desk with a magnifying-glass at his eye, and\nalways inspected by a group of smock-frocks poring over him through the\nglass of his shop-window, seemed to be about the only person in the\nHigh Street whose trade engaged his attention.\n\nMr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight o clock in the parlour\nbehind the shop, while the shopman took his mug of tea and hunch of\nbread and butter on a sack of peas in the front premises. I considered\nMr. Pumblechook wretched company. Besides being possessed by my\nsister s idea that a mortifying and penitential character ought to be\nimparted to my diet, besides giving me as much crumb as possible in\ncombination with as little butter, and putting such a quantity of warm\nwater into my milk that it would have been more candid to have left the\nmilk out altogether, his conversation consisted of nothing but\narithmetic. On my politely bidding him Good-morning, he said,\npompously,  Seven times nine, boy?  And how should _I_ be able to\nanswer, dodged in that way, in a strange place, on an empty stomach! I\nwas hungry, but before I had swallowed a morsel, he began a running sum\nthat lasted all through the breakfast.  Seven?   And four?   And\neight?   And six?   And two?   And ten?  And so on. And after each\nfigure was disposed of, it was as much as I could do to get a bite or a\nsup, before the next came; while he sat at his ease guessing nothing,\nand eating bacon and hot roll, in (if I may be allowed the expression)\na gorging and gormandizing manner.\n\nFor such reasons, I was very glad when ten o clock came and we started\nfor Miss Havisham s; though I was not at all at my ease regarding the\nmanner in which I should acquit myself under that lady s roof. Within a\nquarter of an hour we came to Miss Havisham s house, which was of old\nbrick, and dismal, and had a great many iron bars to it. Some of the\nwindows had been walled up; of those that remained, all the lower were\nrustily barred. There was a courtyard in front, and that was barred; so\nwe had to wait, after ringing the bell, until some one should come to\nopen it. While we waited at the gate, I peeped in (even then Mr.\nPumblechook said,  And fourteen?  but I pretended not to hear him), and\nsaw that at the side of the house there was a large brewery. No brewing\nwas going on in it, and none seemed to have gone on for a long long\ntime.\n\nA window was raised, and a clear voice demanded  What name?  To which\nmy conductor replied,  Pumblechook.  The voice returned,  Quite right, \nand the window was shut again, and a young lady came across the\ncourt-yard, with keys in her hand.\n\n This,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  is Pip. \n\n This is Pip, is it?  returned the young lady, who was very pretty and\nseemed very proud;  come in, Pip. \n\nMr. Pumblechook was coming in also, when she stopped him with the gate.\n\n Oh!  she said.  Did you wish to see Miss Havisham? \n\n If Miss Havisham wished to see me,  returned Mr. Pumblechook,\ndiscomfited.\n\n Ah!  said the girl;  but you see she don t. \n\nShe said it so finally, and in such an undiscussible way, that Mr.\nPumblechook, though in a condition of ruffled dignity, could not\nprotest. But he eyed me severely, as if _I_ had done anything to\nhim! and departed with the words reproachfully delivered:  Boy! Let\nyour behaviour here be a credit unto them which brought you up by\nhand!  I was not free from apprehension that he would come back to\npropound through the gate,  And sixteen?  But he didn t.\n\nMy young conductress locked the gate, and we went across the courtyard.\nIt was paved and clean, but grass was growing in every crevice. The\nbrewery buildings had a little lane of communication with it, and the\nwooden gates of that lane stood open, and all the brewery beyond stood\nopen, away to the high enclosing wall; and all was empty and disused.\nThe cold wind seemed to blow colder there than outside the gate; and it\nmade a shrill noise in howling in and out at the open sides of the\nbrewery, like the noise of wind in the rigging of a ship at sea.\n\nShe saw me looking at it, and she said,  You could drink without hurt\nall the strong beer that s brewed there now, boy. \n\n I should think I could, miss,  said I, in a shy way.\n\n Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, boy;\ndon t you think so? \n\n It looks like it, miss. \n\n Not that anybody means to try,  she added,  for that s all done with,\nand the place will stand as idle as it is till it falls. As to strong\nbeer, there s enough of it in the cellars already, to drown the Manor\nHouse. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n Is that the name of this house, miss? \n\n One of its names, boy. \n\n It has more than one, then, miss? \n\n One more. Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or\nHebrew, or all three or all one to me for enough. \n\n Enough House,  said I;  that s a curious name, miss. \n\n Yes,  she replied;  but it meant more than it said. It meant, when it\nwas given, that whoever had this house could want nothing else. They\nmust have been easily satisfied in those days, I should think. But\ndon t loiter, boy. \n\nThough she called me  boy  so often, and with a carelessness that was\nfar from complimentary, she was of about my own age. She seemed much\nolder than I, of course, being a girl, and beautiful and\nself-possessed; and she was as scornful of me as if she had been\none-and-twenty, and a queen.\n\nWe went into the house by a side door, the great front entrance had two\nchains across it outside, and the first thing I noticed was, that the\npassages were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there.\nShe took it up, and we went through more passages and up a staircase,\nand still it was all dark, and only the candle lighted us.\n\nAt last we came to the door of a room, and she said,  Go in. \n\nI answered, more in shyness than politeness,  After you, miss. \n\nTo this she returned:  Don t be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in. \nAnd scornfully walked away, and what was worse took the candle with\nher.\n\nThis was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid. However, the only\nthing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told\nfrom within to enter. I entered, therefore, and found myself in a\npretty large room, well lighted with wax candles. No glimpse of\ndaylight was to be seen in it. It was a dressing-room, as I supposed\nfrom the furniture, though much of it was of forms and uses then quite\nunknown to me. But prominent in it was a draped table with a gilded\nlooking-glass, and that I made out at first sight to be a fine lady s\ndressing-table.\n\nWhether I should have made out this object so soon if there had been no\nfine lady sitting at it, I cannot say. In an arm-chair, with an elbow\nresting on the table and her head leaning on that hand, sat the\nstrangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever see.\n\nShe was dressed in rich materials, satins, and lace, and silks, all of\nwhite. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent\nfrom her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was\nwhite. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and\nsome other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid\nthan the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about.\nShe had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on, the\nother was on the table near her hand, her veil was but half arranged,\nher watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay\nwith those trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some\nflowers, and a Prayer-Book all confusedly heaped about the\nlooking-glass.\n\nIt was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though\nI saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But I\nsaw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been\nwhite long ago, and had lost its lustre and was faded and yellow. I saw\nthat the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and\nlike the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her\nsunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure\nof a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose had\nshrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly\nwaxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what impossible personage\nlying in state. Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches\nto see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress that had been dug out of\na vault under the church pavement. Now, waxwork and skeleton seemed to\nhave dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if\nI could.\n\n Who is it?  said the lady at the table.\n\n Pip, ma am. \n\n Pip? \n\n Mr. Pumblechook s boy, ma am. Come to play. \n\n Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close. \n\nIt was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of\nthe surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped\nat twenty minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at\ntwenty minutes to nine.\n\n Look at me,  said Miss Havisham.  You are not afraid of a woman who\nhas never seen the sun since you were born? \n\nI regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie\ncomprehended in the answer  No. \n\n Do you know what I touch here?  she said, laying her hands, one upon\nthe other, on her left side.\n\n Yes, ma am.  (It made me think of the young man.)\n\n What do I touch? \n\n Your heart. \n\n Broken! \n\nShe uttered the word with an eager look, and with strong emphasis, and\nwith a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it. Afterwards she kept\nher hands there for a little while, and slowly took them away as if\nthey were heavy.\n\n I am tired,  said Miss Havisham.  I want diversion, and I have done\nwith men and women. Play. \n\nI think it will be conceded by my most disputatious reader, that she\ncould hardly have directed an unfortunate boy to do anything in the\nwide world more difficult to be done under the circumstances.\n\n I sometimes have sick fancies,  she went on,  and I have a sick fancy\nthat I want to see some play. There, there!  with an impatient movement\nof the fingers of her right hand;  play, play, play! \n\nFor a moment, with the fear of my sister s working me before my eyes, I\nhad a desperate idea of starting round the room in the assumed\ncharacter of Mr. Pumblechook s chaise-cart. But I felt myself so\nunequal to the performance that I gave it up, and stood looking at Miss\nHavisham in what I suppose she took for a dogged manner, inasmuch as\nshe said, when we had taken a good look at each other, \n\n Are you sullen and obstinate? \n\n No, ma am, I am very sorry for you, and very sorry I can t play just\nnow. If you complain of me I shall get into trouble with my sister, so\nI would do it if I could; but it s so new here, and so strange, and so\nfine, and melancholy .  I stopped, fearing I might say too much, or had\nalready said it, and we took another look at each other.\n\nBefore she spoke again, she turned her eyes from me, and looked at the\ndress she wore, and at the dressing-table, and finally at herself in\nthe looking-glass.\n\n So new to him,  she muttered,  so old to me; so strange to him, so\nfamiliar to me; so melancholy to both of us! Call Estella. \n\nAs she was still looking at the reflection of herself, I thought she\nwas still talking to herself, and kept quiet.\n\n Call Estella,  she repeated, flashing a look at me.  You can do that.\nCall Estella. At the door. \n\nTo stand in the dark in a mysterious passage of an unknown house,\nbawling Estella to a scornful young lady neither visible nor\nresponsive, and feeling it a dreadful liberty so to roar out her name,\nwas almost as bad as playing to order. But she answered at last, and\nher light came along the dark passage like a star.\n\nMiss Havisham beckoned her to come close, and took up a jewel from the\ntable, and tried its effect upon her fair young bosom and against her\npretty brown hair.  Your own, one day, my dear, and you will use it\nwell. Let me see you play cards with this boy. \n\n With this boy? Why, he is a common labouring-boy! \n\nI thought I overheard Miss Havisham answer, only it seemed so\nunlikely, Well? You can break his heart. \n\n What do you play, boy?  asked Estella of myself, with the greatest\ndisdain.\n\n Nothing but beggar my neighbour, miss. \n\n Beggar him,  said Miss Havisham to Estella. So we sat down to cards.\n\nIt was then I began to understand that everything in the room had\nstopped, like the watch and the clock, a long time ago. I noticed that\nMiss Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had\ntaken it up. As Estella dealt the cards, I glanced at the\ndressing-table again, and saw that the shoe upon it, once white, now\nyellow, had never been worn. I glanced down at the foot from which the\nshoe was absent, and saw that the silk stocking on it, once white, now\nyellow, had been trodden ragged. Without this arrest of everything,\nthis standing still of all the pale decayed objects, not even the\nwithered bridal dress on the collapsed form could have looked so like\ngrave-clothes, or the long veil so like a shroud.\n\nSo she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards; the frillings and\ntrimmings on her bridal dress, looking like earthy paper. I knew\nnothing then of the discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies\nburied in ancient times, which fall to powder in the moment of being\ndistinctly seen; but, I have often thought since, that she must have\nlooked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have\nstruck her to dust.\n\n He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy!  said Estella with disdain,\nbefore our first game was out.  And what coarse hands he has! And what\nthick boots! \n\nI had never thought of being ashamed of my hands before; but I began to\nconsider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so\nstrong, that it became infectious, and I caught it.\n\nShe won the game, and I dealt. I misdealt, as was only natural, when I\nknew she was lying in wait for me to do wrong; and she denounced me for\na stupid, clumsy labouring-boy.\n\n You say nothing of her,  remarked Miss Havisham to me, as she looked\non.  She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What\ndo you think of her? \n\n I don t like to say,  I stammered.\n\n Tell me in my ear,  said Miss Havisham, bending down.\n\n I think she is very proud,  I replied, in a whisper.\n\n Anything else? \n\n I think she is very pretty. \n\n Anything else? \n\n I think she is very insulting.  (She was looking at me then with a\nlook of supreme aversion.)\n\n Anything else? \n\n I think I should like to go home. \n\n And never see her again, though she is so pretty? \n\n I am not sure that I shouldn t like to see her again, but I should\nlike to go home now. \n\n You shall go soon,  said Miss Havisham, aloud.  Play the game out. \n\nSaving for the one weird smile at first, I should have felt almost sure\nthat Miss Havisham s face could not smile. It had dropped into a\nwatchful and brooding expression, most likely when all the things about\nher had become transfixed, and it looked as if nothing could ever lift\nit up again. Her chest had dropped, so that she stooped; and her voice\nhad dropped, so that she spoke low, and with a dead lull upon her;\naltogether, she had the appearance of having dropped body and soul,\nwithin and without, under the weight of a crushing blow.\n\nI played the game to an end with Estella, and she beggared me. She\nthrew the cards down on the table when she had won them all, as if she\ndespised them for having been won of me.\n\n When shall I have you here again?  said Miss Havisham.  Let me think. \n\nI was beginning to remind her that to-day was Wednesday, when she\nchecked me with her former impatient movement of the fingers of her\nright hand.\n\n There, there! I know nothing of days of the week; I know nothing of\nweeks of the year. Come again after six days. You hear? \n\n Yes, ma am. \n\n Estella, take him down. Let him have something to eat, and let him\nroam and look about him while he eats. Go, Pip. \n\nI followed the candle down, as I had followed the candle up, and she\nstood it in the place where we had found it. Until she opened the side\nentrance, I had fancied, without thinking about it, that it must\nnecessarily be night-time. The rush of the daylight quite confounded\nme, and made me feel as if I had been in the candlelight of the strange\nroom many hours.\n\n You are to wait here, you boy,  said Estella; and disappeared and\nclosed the door.\n\nI took the opportunity of being alone in the courtyard to look at my\ncoarse hands and my common boots. My opinion of those accessories was\nnot favourable. They had never troubled me before, but they troubled me\nnow, as vulgar appendages. I determined to ask Joe why he had ever\ntaught me to call those picture-cards Jacks, which ought to be called\nknaves. I wished Joe had been rather more genteelly brought up, and\nthen I should have been so too.\n\nShe came back, with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer. She\nput the mug down on the stones of the yard, and gave me the bread and\nmeat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in\ndisgrace. I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry, I\ncannot hit upon the right name for the smart God knows what its name\nwas, that tears started to my eyes. The moment they sprang there, the\ngirl looked at me with a quick delight in having been the cause of\nthem. This gave me power to keep them back and to look at her: so, she\ngave a contemptuous toss but with a sense, I thought, of having made\ntoo sure that I was so wounded and left me.\n\nBut when she was gone, I looked about me for a place to hide my face\nin, and got behind one of the gates in the brewery-lane, and leaned my\nsleeve against the wall there, and leaned my forehead on it and cried.\nAs I cried, I kicked the wall, and took a hard twist at my hair; so\nbitter were my feelings, and so sharp was the smart without a name,\nthat needed counteraction.\n\nMy sister s bringing up had made me sensitive. In the little world in\nwhich children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is\nnothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice. It may be\nonly small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is\nsmall, and its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many\nhands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter. Within\nmyself, I had sustained, from my babyhood, a perpetual conflict with\ninjustice. I had known, from the time when I could speak, that my\nsister, in her capricious and violent coercion, was unjust to me. I had\ncherished a profound conviction that her bringing me up by hand gave\nher no right to bring me up by jerks. Through all my punishments,\ndisgraces, fasts, and vigils, and other penitential performances, I had\nnursed this assurance; and to my communing so much with it, in a\nsolitary and unprotected way, I in great part refer the fact that I was\nmorally timid and very sensitive.\n\nI got rid of my injured feelings for the time by kicking them into the\nbrewery wall, and twisting them out of my hair, and then I smoothed my\nface with my sleeve, and came from behind the gate. The bread and meat\nwere acceptable, and the beer was warming and tingling, and I was soon\nin spirits to look about me.\n\nTo be sure, it was a deserted place, down to the pigeon-house in the\nbrewery-yard, which had been blown crooked on its pole by some high\nwind, and would have made the pigeons think themselves at sea, if there\nhad been any pigeons there to be rocked by it. But there were no\npigeons in the dove-cot, no horses in the stable, no pigs in the sty,\nno malt in the storehouse, no smells of grains and beer in the copper\nor the vat. All the uses and scents of the brewery might have\nevaporated with its last reek of smoke. In a by-yard, there was a\nwilderness of empty casks, which had a certain sour remembrance of\nbetter days lingering about them; but it was too sour to be accepted as\na sample of the beer that was gone, and in this respect I remember\nthose recluses as being like most others.\n\nBehind the furthest end of the brewery, was a rank garden with an old\nwall; not so high but that I could struggle up and hold on long enough\nto look over it, and see that the rank garden was the garden of the\nhouse, and that it was overgrown with tangled weeds, but that there was\na track upon the green and yellow paths, as if some one sometimes\nwalked there, and that Estella was walking away from me even then. But\nshe seemed to be everywhere. For when I yielded to the temptation\npresented by the casks, and began to walk on them, I saw _her_ walking\non them at the end of the yard of casks. She had her back towards me,\nand held her pretty brown hair spread out in her two hands, and never\nlooked round, and passed out of my view directly. So, in the brewery\nitself, by which I mean the large paved lofty place in which they used\nto make the beer, and where the brewing utensils still were. When I\nfirst went into it, and, rather oppressed by its gloom, stood near the\ndoor looking about me, I saw her pass among the extinguished fires, and\nascend some light iron stairs, and go out by a gallery high overhead,\nas if she were going out into the sky.\n\nIt was in this place, and at this moment, that a strange thing happened\nto my fancy. I thought it a strange thing then, and I thought it a\nstranger thing long afterwards. I turned my eyes a little dimmed by\nlooking up at the frosty light towards a great wooden beam in a low\nnook of the building near me on my right hand, and I saw a figure\nhanging there by the neck. A figure all in yellow white, with but one\nshoe to the feet; and it hung so, that I could see that the faded\ntrimmings of the dress were like earthy paper, and that the face was\nMiss Havisham s, with a movement going over the whole countenance as if\nshe were trying to call to me. In the terror of seeing the figure, and\nin the terror of being certain that it had not been there a moment\nbefore, I at first ran from it, and then ran towards it. And my terror\nwas greatest of all when I found no figure there.\n\nNothing less than the frosty light of the cheerful sky, the sight of\npeople passing beyond the bars of the court-yard gate, and the reviving\ninfluence of the rest of the bread and meat and beer, would have\nbrought me round. Even with those aids, I might not have come to myself\nas soon as I did, but that I saw Estella approaching with the keys, to\nlet me out. She would have some fair reason for looking down upon me, I\nthought, if she saw me frightened; and she would have no fair reason.\n\nShe gave me a triumphant glance in passing me, as if she rejoiced that\nmy hands were so coarse and my boots were so thick, and she opened the\ngate, and stood holding it. I was passing out without looking at her,\nwhen she touched me with a taunting hand.\n\n Why don t you cry? \n\n Because I don t want to. \n\n You do,  said she.  You have been crying till you are half blind, and\nyou are near crying again now. \n\nShe laughed contemptuously, pushed me out, and locked the gate upon me.\nI went straight to Mr. Pumblechook s, and was immensely relieved to\nfind him not at home. So, leaving word with the shopman on what day I\nwas wanted at Miss Havisham s again, I set off on the four-mile walk to\nour forge; pondering, as I went along, on all I had seen, and deeply\nrevolving that I was a common labouring-boy; that my hands were coarse;\nthat my boots were thick; that I had fallen into a despicable habit of\ncalling knaves Jacks; that I was much more ignorant than I had\nconsidered myself last night, and generally that I was in a low-lived\nbad way.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX.\n\n\nWhen I reached home, my sister was very curious to know all about Miss\nHavisham s, and asked a number of questions. And I soon found myself\ngetting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of the neck and the\nsmall of the back, and having my face ignominiously shoved against the\nkitchen wall, because I did not answer those questions at sufficient\nlength.\n\nIf a dread of not being understood be hidden in the breasts of other\nyoung people to anything like the extent to which it used to be hidden\nin mine, which I consider probable, as I have no particular reason to\nsuspect myself of having been a monstrosity, it is the key to many\nreservations. I felt convinced that if I described Miss Havisham s as\nmy eyes had seen it, I should not be understood. Not only that, but I\nfelt convinced that Miss Havisham too would not be understood; and\nalthough she was perfectly incomprehensible to me, I entertained an\nimpression that there would be something coarse and treacherous in my\ndragging her as she really was (to say nothing of Miss Estella) before\nthe contemplation of Mrs. Joe. Consequently, I said as little as I\ncould, and had my face shoved against the kitchen wall.\n\nThe worst of it was that that bullying old Pumblechook, preyed upon by\na devouring curiosity to be informed of all I had seen and heard, came\ngaping over in his chaise-cart at tea-time, to have the details\ndivulged to him. And the mere sight of the torment, with his fishy eyes\nand mouth open, his sandy hair inquisitively on end, and his waistcoat\nheaving with windy arithmetic, made me vicious in my reticence.\n\n Well, boy,  Uncle Pumblechook began, as soon as he was seated in the\nchair of honour by the fire.  How did you get on up town? \n\nI answered,  Pretty well, sir,  and my sister shook her fist at me.\n\n Pretty well?  Mr. Pumblechook repeated.  Pretty well is no answer.\nTell us what you mean by pretty well, boy? \n\nWhitewash on the forehead hardens the brain into a state of obstinacy\nperhaps. Anyhow, with whitewash from the wall on my forehead, my\nobstinacy was adamantine. I reflected for some time, and then answered\nas if I had discovered a new idea,  I mean pretty well. \n\nMy sister with an exclamation of impatience was going to fly at me, I\nhad no shadow of defence, for Joe was busy in the forge, when Mr.\nPumblechook interposed with  No! Don t lose your temper. Leave this lad\nto me, ma am; leave this lad to me.  Mr. Pumblechook then turned me\ntowards him, as if he were going to cut my hair, and said, \n\n First (to get our thoughts in order): Forty-three pence? \n\nI calculated the consequences of replying  Four Hundred Pound,  and\nfinding them against me, went as near the answer as I could which was\nsomewhere about eightpence off. Mr. Pumblechook then put me through my\npence-table from  twelve pence make one shilling,  up to  forty pence\nmake three and fourpence,  and then triumphantly demanded, as if he had\ndone for me,  _Now!_ How much is forty-three pence?  To which I\nreplied, after a long interval of reflection,  I don t know.  And I was\nso aggravated that I almost doubt if I did know.\n\nMr. Pumblechook worked his head like a screw to screw it out of me, and\nsaid,  Is forty-three pence seven and sixpence three fardens, for\ninstance? \n\n Yes!  said I. And although my sister instantly boxed my ears, it was\nhighly gratifying to me to see that the answer spoilt his joke, and\nbrought him to a dead stop.\n\n Boy! What like is Miss Havisham?  Mr. Pumblechook began again when he\nhad recovered; folding his arms tight on his chest and applying the\nscrew.\n\n Very tall and dark,  I told him.\n\n Is she, uncle?  asked my sister.\n\nMr. Pumblechook winked assent; from which I at once inferred that he\nhad never seen Miss Havisham, for she was nothing of the kind.\n\n Good!  said Mr. Pumblechook conceitedly. ( This is the way to have\nhim! We are beginning to hold our own, I think, Mum? )\n\n I am sure, uncle,  returned Mrs. Joe,  I wish you had him always; you\nknow so well how to deal with him. \n\n Now, boy! What was she a-doing of, when you went in today?  asked Mr.\nPumblechook.\n\n She was sitting,  I answered,  in a black velvet coach. \n\nMr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another as they well\nmight and both repeated,  In a black velvet coach? \n\n Yes,  said I.  And Miss Estella that s her niece, I think handed her\nin cake and wine at the coach-window, on a gold plate. And we all had\ncake and wine on gold plates. And I got up behind the coach to eat\nmine, because she told me to. \n\n Was anybody else there?  asked Mr. Pumblechook.\n\n Four dogs,  said I.\n\n Large or small? \n\n Immense,  said I.  And they fought for veal-cutlets out of a silver\nbasket. \n\nMr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another again, in utter\namazement. I was perfectly frantic, a reckless witness under the\ntorture, and would have told them anything.\n\n Where _was_ this coach, in the name of gracious?  asked my sister.\n\n In Miss Havisham s room.  They stared again.  But there weren t any\nhorses to it.  I added this saving clause, in the moment of rejecting\nfour richly caparisoned coursers which I had had wild thoughts of\nharnessing.\n\n Can this be possible, uncle?  asked Mrs. Joe.  What can the boy mean? \n\n I ll tell you, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  My opinion is, it s a\nsedan-chair. She s flighty, you know, very flighty, quite flighty\nenough to pass her days in a sedan-chair. \n\n Did you ever see her in it, uncle?  asked Mrs. Joe.\n\n How could I,  he returned, forced to the admission,  when I never see\nher in my life? Never clapped eyes upon her! \n\n Goodness, uncle! And yet you have spoken to her? \n\n Why, don t you know,  said Mr. Pumblechook, testily,  that when I have\nbeen there, I have been took up to the outside of her door, and the\ndoor has stood ajar, and she has spoke to me that way. Don t say you\ndon t know _that_, Mum. Howsever, the boy went there to play. What did\nyou play at, boy? \n\n We played with flags,  I said. (I beg to observe that I think of\nmyself with amazement, when I recall the lies I told on this occasion.)\n\n Flags!  echoed my sister.\n\n Yes,  said I.  Estella waved a blue flag, and I waved a red one, and\nMiss Havisham waved one sprinkled all over with little gold stars, out\nat the coach-window. And then we all waved our swords and hurrahed. \n\n Swords!  repeated my sister.  Where did you get swords from? \n\n Out of a cupboard,  said I.  And I saw pistols in it, and jam, and\npills. And there was no daylight in the room, but it was all lighted up\nwith candles. \n\n That s true, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook, with a grave nod.  That s the\nstate of the case, for that much I ve seen myself.  And then they both\nstared at me, and I, with an obtrusive show of artlessness on my\ncountenance, stared at them, and plaited the right leg of my trousers\nwith my right hand.\n\nIf they had asked me any more questions, I should undoubtedly have\nbetrayed myself, for I was even then on the point of mentioning that\nthere was a balloon in the yard, and should have hazarded the statement\nbut for my invention being divided between that phenomenon and a bear\nin the brewery. They were so much occupied, however, in discussing the\nmarvels I had already presented for their consideration, that I\nescaped. The subject still held them when Joe came in from his work to\nhave a cup of tea. To whom my sister, more for the relief of her own\nmind than for the gratification of his, related my pretended\nexperiences.\n\nNow, when I saw Joe open his blue eyes and roll them all round the\nkitchen in helpless amazement, I was overtaken by penitence; but only\nas regarded him, not in the least as regarded the other two. Towards\nJoe, and Joe only, I considered myself a young monster, while they sat\ndebating what results would come to me from Miss Havisham s\nacquaintance and favour. They had no doubt that Miss Havisham would  do\nsomething  for me; their doubts related to the form that something\nwould take. My sister stood out for  property.  Mr. Pumblechook was in\nfavour of a handsome premium for binding me apprentice to some genteel\ntrade, say, the corn and seed trade, for instance. Joe fell into the\ndeepest disgrace with both, for offering the bright suggestion that I\nmight only be presented with one of the dogs who had fought for the\nveal-cutlets.  If a fool s head can t express better opinions than\nthat,  said my sister,  and you have got any work to do, you had better\ngo and do it.  So he went.\n\nAfter Mr. Pumblechook had driven off, and when my sister was washing\nup, I stole into the forge to Joe, and remained by him until he had\ndone for the night. Then I said,  Before the fire goes out, Joe, I\nshould like to tell you something. \n\n Should you, Pip?  said Joe, drawing his shoeing-stool near the forge.\n Then tell us. What is it, Pip? \n\n Joe,  said I, taking hold of his rolled-up shirt sleeve, and twisting\nit between my finger and thumb,  you remember all that about Miss\nHavisham s? \n\n Remember?  said Joe.  I believe you! Wonderful! \n\n It s a terrible thing, Joe; it ain t true. \n\n What are you telling of, Pip?  cried Joe, falling back in the greatest\namazement.  You don t mean to say it s \n\n Yes I do; it s lies, Joe. \n\n But not all of it? Why sure you don t mean to say, Pip, that there was\nno black welwet co eh?  For, I stood shaking my head.  But at least\nthere was dogs, Pip? Come, Pip,  said Joe, persuasively,  if there\nwarn t no weal-cutlets, at least there was dogs? \n\n No, Joe. \n\n A dog?  said Joe.  A puppy? Come? \n\n No, Joe, there was nothing at all of the kind. \n\nAs I fixed my eyes hopelessly on Joe, Joe contemplated me in dismay.\n Pip, old chap! This won t do, old fellow! I say! Where do you expect\nto go to? \n\n It s terrible, Joe; ain t it? \n\n Terrible?  cried Joe.  Awful! What possessed you? \n\n I don t know what possessed me, Joe,  I replied, letting his shirt\nsleeve go, and sitting down in the ashes at his feet, hanging my head;\n but I wish you hadn t taught me to call Knaves at cards Jacks; and I\nwish my boots weren t so thick nor my hands so coarse. \n\nAnd then I told Joe that I felt very miserable, and that I hadn t been\nable to explain myself to Mrs. Joe and Pumblechook, who were so rude to\nme, and that there had been a beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham s\nwho was dreadfully proud, and that she had said I was common, and that\nI knew I was common, and that I wished I was not common, and that the\nlies had come of it somehow, though I didn t know how.\n\nThis was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal\nwith as for me. But Joe took the case altogether out of the region of\nmetaphysics, and by that means vanquished it.\n\n There s one thing you may be sure of, Pip,  said Joe, after some\nrumination,  namely, that lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn t\nought to come, and they come from the father of lies, and work round to\nthe same. Don t you tell no more of  em, Pip. _That_ ain t the way to\nget out of being common, old chap. And as to being common, I don t make\nit out at all clear. You are oncommon in some things. You re oncommon\nsmall. Likewise you re a oncommon scholar. \n\n No, I am ignorant and backward, Joe. \n\n Why, see what a letter you wrote last night! Wrote in print even! I ve\nseen letters Ah! and from gentlefolks! that I ll swear weren t wrote in\nprint,  said Joe.\n\n I have learnt next to nothing, Joe. You think much of me. It s only\nthat. \n\n Well, Pip,  said Joe,  be it so or be it son t, you must be a common\nscholar afore you can be a oncommon one, I should hope! The king upon\nhis throne, with his crown upon his ed, can t sit and write his acts of\nParliament in print, without having begun, when he were a unpromoted\nPrince, with the alphabet. Ah!  added Joe, with a shake of the head\nthat was full of meaning,  and begun at A too, and worked his way to Z.\nAnd _I_ know what that is to do, though I can t say I ve exactly done\nit. \n\nThere was some hope in this piece of wisdom, and it rather encouraged\nme.\n\n Whether common ones as to callings and earnings,  pursued Joe,\nreflectively,  mightn t be the better of continuing for to keep company\nwith common ones, instead of going out to play with oncommon\nones, which reminds me to hope that there were a flag, perhaps? \n\n No, Joe. \n\n (I m sorry there weren t a flag, Pip). Whether that might be or\nmightn t be, is a thing as can t be looked into now, without putting\nyour sister on the Rampage; and that s a thing not to be thought of as\nbeing done intentional. Lookee here, Pip, at what is said to you by a\ntrue friend. Which this to you the true friend say. If you can t get to\nbe oncommon through going straight, you ll never get to do it through\ngoing crooked. So don t tell no more on  em, Pip, and live well and die\nhappy. \n\n You are not angry with me, Joe? \n\n No, old chap. But bearing in mind that them were which I meantersay of\na stunning and outdacious sort, alluding to them which bordered on\nweal-cutlets and dog-fighting, a sincere well-wisher would adwise, Pip,\ntheir being dropped into your meditations, when you go upstairs to bed.\nThat s all, old chap, and don t never do it no more. \n\nWhen I got up to my little room and said my prayers, I did not forget\nJoe s recommendation, and yet my young mind was in that disturbed and\nunthankful state, that I thought long after I laid me down, how common\nEstella would consider Joe, a mere blacksmith; how thick his boots, and\nhow coarse his hands. I thought how Joe and my sister were then sitting\nin the kitchen, and how I had come up to bed from the kitchen, and how\nMiss Havisham and Estella never sat in a kitchen, but were far above\nthe level of such common doings. I fell asleep recalling what I  used\nto do  when I was at Miss Havisham s; as though I had been there weeks\nor months, instead of hours; and as though it were quite an old subject\nof remembrance, instead of one that had arisen only that day.\n\nThat was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it\nis the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it,\nand think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read\nthis, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of\nthorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the\nformation of the first link on one memorable day.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X.\n\n\nThe felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I woke,\nthat the best step I could take towards making myself uncommon was to\nget out of Biddy everything she knew. In pursuance of this luminous\nconception I mentioned to Biddy when I went to Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt s at night, that I had a particular reason for wishing to\nget on in life, and that I should feel very much obliged to her if she\nwould impart all her learning to me. Biddy, who was the most obliging\nof girls, immediately said she would, and indeed began to carry out her\npromise within five minutes.\n\nThe Educational scheme or Course established by Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt\nmay be resolved into the following synopsis. The pupils ate apples and\nput straws down one another s backs, until Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt\ncollected her energies, and made an indiscriminate totter at them with\na birch-rod. After receiving the charge with every mark of derision,\nthe pupils formed in line and buzzingly passed a ragged book from hand\nto hand. The book had an alphabet in it, some figures and tables, and a\nlittle spelling, that is to say, it had had once. As soon as this\nvolume began to circulate, Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt fell into a state of\ncoma, arising either from sleep or a rheumatic paroxysm. The pupils\nthen entered among themselves upon a competitive examination on the\nsubject of Boots, with the view of ascertaining who could tread the\nhardest upon whose toes. This mental exercise lasted until Biddy made a\nrush at them and distributed three defaced Bibles (shaped as if they\nhad been unskilfully cut off the chump end of something), more\nillegibly printed at the best than any curiosities of literature I have\nsince met with, speckled all over with ironmould, and having various\nspecimens of the insect world smashed between their leaves. This part\nof the Course was usually lightened by several single combats between\nBiddy and refractory students. When the fights were over, Biddy gave\nout the number of a page, and then we all read aloud what we could, or\nwhat we couldn t in a frightful chorus; Biddy leading with a high,\nshrill, monotonous voice, and none of us having the least notion of, or\nreverence for, what we were reading about. When this horrible din had\nlasted a certain time, it mechanically awoke Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt,\nwho staggered at a boy fortuitously, and pulled his ears. This was\nunderstood to terminate the Course for the evening, and we emerged into\nthe air with shrieks of intellectual victory. It is fair to remark that\nthere was no prohibition against any pupil s entertaining himself with\na slate or even with the ink (when there was any), but that it was not\neasy to pursue that branch of study in the winter season, on account of\nthe little general shop in which the classes were holden and which was\nalso Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s sitting-room and bedchamber being but\nfaintly illuminated through the agency of one low-spirited dip-candle\nand no snuffers.\n\nIt appeared to me that it would take time to become uncommon, under\nthese circumstances: nevertheless, I resolved to try it, and that very\nevening Biddy entered on our special agreement, by imparting some\ninformation from her little catalogue of Prices, under the head of\nmoist sugar, and lending me, to copy at home, a large old English D\nwhich she had imitated from the heading of some newspaper, and which I\nsupposed, until she told me what it was, to be a design for a buckle.\n\nOf course there was a public-house in the village, and of course Joe\nliked sometimes to smoke his pipe there. I had received strict orders\nfrom my sister to call for him at the Three Jolly Bargemen, that\nevening, on my way from school, and bring him home at my peril. To the\nThree Jolly Bargemen, therefore, I directed my steps.\n\nThere was a bar at the Jolly Bargemen, with some alarmingly long chalk\nscores in it on the wall at the side of the door, which seemed to me to\nbe never paid off. They had been there ever since I could remember, and\nhad grown more than I had. But there was a quantity of chalk about our\ncountry, and perhaps the people neglected no opportunity of turning it\nto account.\n\nIt being Saturday night, I found the landlord looking rather grimly at\nthese records; but as my business was with Joe and not with him, I\nmerely wished him good evening, and passed into the common room at the\nend of the passage, where there was a bright large kitchen fire, and\nwhere Joe was smoking his pipe in company with Mr. Wopsle and a\nstranger. Joe greeted me as usual with  Halloa, Pip, old chap!  and the\nmoment he said that, the stranger turned his head and looked at me.\n\nHe was a secret-looking man whom I had never seen before. His head was\nall on one side, and one of his eyes was half shut up, as if he were\ntaking aim at something with an invisible gun. He had a pipe in his\nmouth, and he took it out, and, after slowly blowing all his smoke away\nand looking hard at me all the time, nodded. So, I nodded, and then he\nnodded again, and made room on the settle beside him that I might sit\ndown there.\n\nBut as I was used to sit beside Joe whenever I entered that place of\nresort, I said  No, thank you, sir,  and fell into the space Joe made\nfor me on the opposite settle. The strange man, after glancing at Joe,\nand seeing that his attention was otherwise engaged, nodded to me again\nwhen I had taken my seat, and then rubbed his leg in a very odd way, as\nit struck me.\n\n You was saying,  said the strange man, turning to Joe,  that you was a\nblacksmith. \n\n Yes. I said it, you know,  said Joe.\n\n What ll you drink, Mr. ? You didn t mention your name, by the bye. \n\nJoe mentioned it now, and the strange man called him by it.  What ll\nyou drink, Mr. Gargery? At my expense? To top up with? \n\n Well,  said Joe,  to tell you the truth, I ain t much in the habit of\ndrinking at anybody s expense but my own. \n\n Habit? No,  returned the stranger,  but once and away, and on a\nSaturday night too. Come! Put a name to it, Mr. Gargery. \n\n I wouldn t wish to be stiff company,  said Joe.  Rum. \n\n Rum,  repeated the stranger.  And will the other gentleman originate a\nsentiment. \n\n Rum,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Three Rums!  cried the stranger, calling to the landlord.  Glasses\nround! \n\n This other gentleman,  observed Joe, by way of introducing Mr. Wopsle,\n is a gentleman that you would like to hear give it out. Our clerk at\nchurch. \n\n Aha!  said the stranger, quickly, and cocking his eye at me.  The\nlonely church, right out on the marshes, with graves round it! \n\n That s it,  said Joe.\n\nThe stranger, with a comfortable kind of grunt over his pipe, put his\nlegs up on the settle that he had to himself. He wore a flapping\nbroad-brimmed traveller s hat, and under it a handkerchief tied over\nhis head in the manner of a cap: so that he showed no hair. As he\nlooked at the fire, I thought I saw a cunning expression, followed by a\nhalf-laugh, come into his face.\n\n I am not acquainted with this country, gentlemen, but it seems a\nsolitary country towards the river. \n\n Most marshes is solitary,  said Joe.\n\n No doubt, no doubt. Do you find any gypsies, now, or tramps, or\nvagrants of any sort, out there? \n\n No,  said Joe;  none but a runaway convict now and then. And we don t\nfind _them_, easy. Eh, Mr. Wopsle? \n\nMr. Wopsle, with a majestic remembrance of old discomfiture, assented;\nbut not warmly.\n\n Seems you have been out after such?  asked the stranger.\n\n Once,  returned Joe.  Not that we wanted to take them, you understand;\nwe went out as lookers on; me, and Mr. Wopsle, and Pip. Didn t us,\nPip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\nThe stranger looked at me again, still cocking his eye, as if he were\nexpressly taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and said,  He s a\nlikely young parcel of bones that. What is it you call him? \n\n Pip,  said Joe.\n\n Christened Pip? \n\n No, not christened Pip. \n\n Surname Pip? \n\n No,  said Joe,  it s a kind of family name what he gave himself when a\ninfant, and is called by. \n\n Son of yours? \n\n Well,  said Joe, meditatively, not, of course, that it could be in\nanywise necessary to consider about it, but because it was the way at\nthe Jolly Bargemen to seem to consider deeply about everything that was\ndiscussed over pipes, well no. No, he ain t. \n\n Nevvy?  said the strange man.\n\n Well,  said Joe, with the same appearance of profound cogitation,  he\nis not no, not to deceive you, he is _not_ my nevvy. \n\n What the Blue Blazes is he?  asked the stranger. Which appeared to me\nto be an inquiry of unnecessary strength.\n\nMr. Wopsle struck in upon that; as one who knew all about\nrelationships, having professional occasion to bear in mind what female\nrelations a man might not marry; and expounded the ties between me and\nJoe. Having his hand in, Mr. Wopsle finished off with a most\nterrifically snarling passage from Richard the Third, and seemed to\nthink he had done quite enough to account for it when he added,  as\nthe poet says. \n\nAnd here I may remark that when Mr. Wopsle referred to me, he\nconsidered it a necessary part of such reference to rumple my hair and\npoke it into my eyes. I cannot conceive why everybody of his standing\nwho visited at our house should always have put me through the same\ninflammatory process under similar circumstances. Yet I do not call to\nmind that I was ever in my earlier youth the subject of remark in our\nsocial family circle, but some large-handed person took some such\nophthalmic steps to patronise me.\n\nAll this while, the strange man looked at nobody but me, and looked at\nme as if he were determined to have a shot at me at last, and bring me\ndown. But he said nothing after offering his Blue Blazes observation,\nuntil the glasses of rum and water were brought; and then he made his\nshot, and a most extraordinary shot it was.\n\nIt was not a verbal remark, but a proceeding in dumb-show, and was\npointedly addressed to me. He stirred his rum and water pointedly at\nme, and he tasted his rum and water pointedly at me. And he stirred it\nand he tasted it; not with a spoon that was brought to him, but _with a\nfile_.\n\nHe did this so that nobody but I saw the file; and when he had done it\nhe wiped the file and put it in a breast-pocket. I knew it to be Joe s\nfile, and I knew that he knew my convict, the moment I saw the\ninstrument. I sat gazing at him, spell-bound. But he now reclined on\nhis settle, taking very little notice of me, and talking principally\nabout turnips.\n\nThere was a delicious sense of cleaning-up and making a quiet pause\nbefore going on in life afresh, in our village on Saturday nights,\nwhich stimulated Joe to dare to stay out half an hour longer on\nSaturdays than at other times. The half-hour and the rum and water\nrunning out together, Joe got up to go, and took me by the hand.\n\n Stop half a moment, Mr. Gargery,  said the strange man.  I think I ve\ngot a bright new shilling somewhere in my pocket, and if I have, the\nboy shall have it. \n\nHe looked it out from a handful of small change, folded it in some\ncrumpled paper, and gave it to me.  Yours!  said he.  Mind! Your own. \n\nI thanked him, staring at him far beyond the bounds of good manners,\nand holding tight to Joe. He gave Joe good-night, and he gave Mr.\nWopsle good-night (who went out with us), and he gave me only a look\nwith his aiming eye, no, not a look, for he shut it up, but wonders may\nbe done with an eye by hiding it.\n\nOn the way home, if I had been in a humour for talking, the talk must\nhave been all on my side, for Mr. Wopsle parted from us at the door of\nthe Jolly Bargemen, and Joe went all the way home with his mouth wide\nopen, to rinse the rum out with as much air as possible. But I was in a\nmanner stupefied by this turning up of my old misdeed and old\nacquaintance, and could think of nothing else.\n\nMy sister was not in a very bad temper when we presented ourselves in\nthe kitchen, and Joe was encouraged by that unusual circumstance to\ntell her about the bright shilling.  A bad un, I ll be bound,  said\nMrs. Joe triumphantly,  or he wouldn t have given it to the boy! Let s\nlook at it. \n\nI took it out of the paper, and it proved to be a good one.  But what s\nthis?  said Mrs. Joe, throwing down the shilling and catching up the\npaper.  Two One-Pound notes? \n\nNothing less than two fat sweltering one-pound notes that seemed to\nhave been on terms of the warmest intimacy with all the cattle-markets\nin the county. Joe caught up his hat again, and ran with them to the\nJolly Bargemen to restore them to their owner. While he was gone, I sat\ndown on my usual stool and looked vacantly at my sister, feeling pretty\nsure that the man would not be there.\n\nPresently, Joe came back, saying that the man was gone, but that he,\nJoe, had left word at the Three Jolly Bargemen concerning the notes.\nThen my sister sealed them up in a piece of paper, and put them under\nsome dried rose-leaves in an ornamental teapot on the top of a press in\nthe state parlour. There they remained, a nightmare to me, many and\nmany a night and day.\n\nI had sadly broken sleep when I got to bed, through thinking of the\nstrange man taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and of the\nguiltily coarse and common thing it was, to be on secret terms of\nconspiracy with convicts, a feature in my low career that I had\npreviously forgotten. I was haunted by the file too. A dread possessed\nme that when I least expected it, the file would reappear. I coaxed\nmyself to sleep by thinking of Miss Havisham s, next Wednesday; and in\nmy sleep I saw the file coming at me out of a door, without seeing who\nheld it, and I screamed myself awake.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI.\n\n\nAt the appointed time I returned to Miss Havisham s, and my hesitating\nring at the gate brought out Estella. She locked it after admitting me,\nas she had done before, and again preceded me into the dark passage\nwhere her candle stood. She took no notice of me until she had the\ncandle in her hand, when she looked over her shoulder, superciliously\nsaying,  You are to come this way to-day,  and took me to quite another\npart of the house.\n\nThe passage was a long one, and seemed to pervade the whole square\nbasement of the Manor House. We traversed but one side of the square,\nhowever, and at the end of it she stopped, and put her candle down and\nopened a door. Here, the daylight reappeared, and I found myself in a\nsmall paved courtyard, the opposite side of which was formed by a\ndetached dwelling-house, that looked as if it had once belonged to the\nmanager or head clerk of the extinct brewery. There was a clock in the\nouter wall of this house. Like the clock in Miss Havisham s room, and\nlike Miss Havisham s watch, it had stopped at twenty minutes to nine.\n\nWe went in at the door, which stood open, and into a gloomy room with a\nlow ceiling, on the ground-floor at the back. There was some company in\nthe room, and Estella said to me as she joined it,  You are to go and\nstand there boy, till you are wanted.   There , being the window, I\ncrossed to it, and stood  there,  in a very uncomfortable state of\nmind, looking out.\n\nIt opened to the ground, and looked into a most miserable corner of the\nneglected garden, upon a rank ruin of cabbage-stalks, and one box-tree\nthat had been clipped round long ago, like a pudding, and had a new\ngrowth at the top of it, out of shape and of a different colour, as if\nthat part of the pudding had stuck to the saucepan and got burnt. This\nwas my homely thought, as I contemplated the box-tree. There had been\nsome light snow, overnight, and it lay nowhere else to my knowledge;\nbut, it had not quite melted from the cold shadow of this bit of\ngarden, and the wind caught it up in little eddies and threw it at the\nwindow, as if it pelted me for coming there.\n\nI divined that my coming had stopped conversation in the room, and that\nits other occupants were looking at me. I could see nothing of the room\nexcept the shining of the fire in the window-glass, but I stiffened in\nall my joints with the consciousness that I was under close inspection.\n\nThere were three ladies in the room and one gentleman. Before I had\nbeen standing at the window five minutes, they somehow conveyed to me\nthat they were all toadies and humbugs, but that each of them pretended\nnot to know that the others were toadies and humbugs: because the\nadmission that he or she did know it, would have made him or her out to\nbe a toady and humbug.\n\nThey all had a listless and dreary air of waiting somebody s pleasure,\nand the most talkative of the ladies had to speak quite rigidly to\nrepress a yawn. This lady, whose name was Camilla, very much reminded\nme of my sister, with the difference that she was older, and (as I\nfound when I caught sight of her) of a blunter cast of features.\nIndeed, when I knew her better I began to think it was a Mercy she had\nany features at all, so very blank and high was the dead wall of her\nface.\n\n Poor dear soul!  said this lady, with an abruptness of manner quite my\nsister s.  Nobody s enemy but his own! \n\n It would be much more commendable to be somebody else s enemy,  said\nthe gentleman;  far more natural. \n\n Cousin Raymond,  observed another lady,  we are to love our\nneighbour. \n\n Sarah Pocket,  returned Cousin Raymond,  if a man is not his own\nneighbour, who is? \n\nMiss Pocket laughed, and Camilla laughed and said (checking a yawn),\n The idea!  But I thought they seemed to think it rather a good idea\ntoo. The other lady, who had not spoken yet, said gravely and\nemphatically,  _Very_ true! \n\n Poor soul!  Camilla presently went on (I knew they had all been\nlooking at me in the mean time),  he is so very strange! Would anyone\nbelieve that when Tom s wife died, he actually could not be induced to\nsee the importance of the children s having the deepest of trimmings to\ntheir mourning?  Good Lord!  says he,  Camilla, what can it signify so\nlong as the poor bereaved little things are in black?  So like Matthew!\nThe idea! \n\n Good points in him, good points in him,  said Cousin Raymond;  Heaven\nforbid I should deny good points in him; but he never had, and he never\nwill have, any sense of the proprieties. \n\n You know I was obliged,  said Camilla, I was obliged to be firm. I\nsaid,  It WILL NOT DO, for the credit of the family.  I told him that,\nwithout deep trimmings, the family was disgraced. I cried about it from\nbreakfast till dinner. I injured my digestion. And at last he flung out\nin his violent way, and said, with a D,  Then do as you like.  Thank\nGoodness it will always be a consolation to me to know that I instantly\nwent out in a pouring rain and bought the things. \n\n _He_ paid for them, did he not?  asked Estella.\n\n It s not the question, my dear child, who paid for them,  returned\nCamilla.  _I_ bought them. And I shall often think of that with peace,\nwhen I wake up in the night. \n\nThe ringing of a distant bell, combined with the echoing of some cry or\ncall along the passage by which I had come, interrupted the\nconversation and caused Estella to say to me,  Now, boy!  On my turning\nround, they all looked at me with the utmost contempt, and, as I went\nout, I heard Sarah Pocket say,  Well I am sure! What next!  and Camilla\nadd, with indignation,  Was there ever such a fancy! The i-d_e_-a! \n\nAs we were going with our candle along the dark passage, Estella\nstopped all of a sudden, and, facing round, said in her taunting\nmanner, with her face quite close to mine, \n\n Well? \n\n Well, miss?  I answered, almost falling over her and checking myself.\n\nShe stood looking at me, and, of course, I stood looking at her.\n\n Am I pretty? \n\n Yes; I think you are very pretty. \n\n Am I insulting? \n\n Not so much so as you were last time,  said I.\n\n Not so much so? \n\n No. \n\nShe fired when she asked the last question, and she slapped my face\nwith such force as she had, when I answered it.\n\n Now?  said she.  You little coarse monster, what do you think of me\nnow? \n\n I shall not tell you. \n\n Because you are going to tell upstairs. Is that it? \n\n No,  said I,  that s not it. \n\n Why don t you cry again, you little wretch? \n\n Because I ll never cry for you again,  said I. Which was, I suppose,\nas false a declaration as ever was made; for I was inwardly crying for\nher then, and I know what I know of the pain she cost me afterwards.\n\nWe went on our way upstairs after this episode; and, as we were going\nup, we met a gentleman groping his way down.\n\n Whom have we here?  asked the gentleman, stopping and looking at me.\n\n A boy,  said Estella.\n\nHe was a burly man of an exceedingly dark complexion, with an\nexceedingly large head, and a corresponding large hand. He took my chin\nin his large hand and turned up my face to have a look at me by the\nlight of the candle. He was prematurely bald on the top of his head,\nand had bushy black eyebrows that wouldn t lie down but stood up\nbristling. His eyes were set very deep in his head, and were\ndisagreeably sharp and suspicious. He had a large watch-chain, and\nstrong black dots where his beard and whiskers would have been if he\nhad let them. He was nothing to me, and I could have had no foresight\nthen, that he ever would be anything to me, but it happened that I had\nthis opportunity of observing him well.\n\n Boy of the neighbourhood? Hey?  said he.\n\n Yes, sir,  said I.\n\n How do _you_ come here? \n\n Miss Havisham sent for me, sir,  I explained.\n\n Well! Behave yourself. I have a pretty large experience of boys, and\nyou re a bad set of fellows. Now mind!  said he, biting the side of his\ngreat forefinger as he frowned at me,  you behave yourself! \n\nWith those words, he released me which I was glad of, for his hand\nsmelt of scented soap and went his way downstairs. I wondered whether\nhe could be a doctor; but no, I thought; he couldn t be a doctor, or he\nwould have a quieter and more persuasive manner. There was not much\ntime to consider the subject, for we were soon in Miss Havisham s room,\nwhere she and everything else were just as I had left them. Estella\nleft me standing near the door, and I stood there until Miss Havisham\ncast her eyes upon me from the dressing-table.\n\n So!  she said, without being startled or surprised:  the days have\nworn away, have they? \n\n Yes, ma am. To-day is \n\n There, there, there!  with the impatient movement of her fingers.  I\ndon t want to know. Are you ready to play? \n\nI was obliged to answer in some confusion,  I don t think I am, ma am. \n\n Not at cards again?  she demanded, with a searching look.\n\n Yes, ma am; I could do that, if I was wanted. \n\n Since this house strikes you old and grave, boy,  said Miss Havisham,\nimpatiently,  and you are unwilling to play, are you willing to work? \n\nI could answer this inquiry with a better heart than I had been able to\nfind for the other question, and I said I was quite willing.\n\n Then go into that opposite room,  said she, pointing at the door\nbehind me with her withered hand,  and wait there till I come. \n\nI crossed the staircase landing, and entered the room she indicated.\nFrom that room, too, the daylight was completely excluded, and it had\nan airless smell that was oppressive. A fire had been lately kindled in\nthe damp old-fashioned grate, and it was more disposed to go out than\nto burn up, and the reluctant smoke which hung in the room seemed\ncolder than the clearer air, like our own marsh mist. Certain wintry\nbranches of candles on the high chimney-piece faintly lighted the\nchamber; or it would be more expressive to say, faintly troubled its\ndarkness. It was spacious, and I dare say had once been handsome, but\nevery discernible thing in it was covered with dust and mould, and\ndropping to pieces. The most prominent object was a long table with a\ntablecloth spread on it, as if a feast had been in preparation when the\nhouse and the clocks all stopped together. An epergne or centre-piece\nof some kind was in the middle of this cloth; it was so heavily\noverhung with cobwebs that its form was quite undistinguishable; and,\nas I looked along the yellow expanse out of which I remember its\nseeming to grow, like a black fungus, I saw speckle-legged spiders with\nblotchy bodies running home to it, and running out from it, as if some\ncircumstances of the greatest public importance had just transpired in\nthe spider community.\n\nI heard the mice too, rattling behind the panels, as if the same\noccurrence were important to their interests. But the black beetles\ntook no notice of the agitation, and groped about the hearth in a\nponderous elderly way, as if they were short-sighted and hard of\nhearing, and not on terms with one another.\n\nThese crawling things had fascinated my attention, and I was watching\nthem from a distance, when Miss Havisham laid a hand upon my shoulder.\nIn her other hand she had a crutch-headed stick on which she leaned,\nand she looked like the Witch of the place.\n\n This,  said she, pointing to the long table with her stick,  is where\nI will be laid when I am dead. They shall come and look at me here. \n\nWith some vague misgiving that she might get upon the table then and\nthere and die at once, the complete realisation of the ghastly waxwork\nat the Fair, I shrank under her touch.\n\n What do you think that is?  she asked me, again pointing with her\nstick;  that, where those cobwebs are? \n\n I can t guess what it is, ma am. \n\n It s a great cake. A bride-cake. Mine! \n\nShe looked all round the room in a glaring manner, and then said,\nleaning on me while her hand twitched my shoulder,  Come, come, come!\nWalk me, walk me! \n\nI made out from this, that the work I had to do, was to walk Miss\nHavisham round and round the room. Accordingly, I started at once, and\nshe leaned upon my shoulder, and we went away at a pace that might have\nbeen an imitation (founded on my first impulse under that roof) of Mr.\nPumblechook s chaise-cart.\n\nShe was not physically strong, and after a little time said,  Slower! \nStill, we went at an impatient fitful speed, and as we went, she\ntwitched the hand upon my shoulder, and worked her mouth, and led me to\nbelieve that we were going fast because her thoughts went fast. After a\nwhile she said,  Call Estella!  so I went out on the landing and roared\nthat name as I had done on the previous occasion. When her light\nappeared, I returned to Miss Havisham, and we started away again round\nand round the room.\n\nIf only Estella had come to be a spectator of our proceedings, I should\nhave felt sufficiently discontented; but as she brought with her the\nthree ladies and the gentleman whom I had seen below, I didn t know\nwhat to do. In my politeness, I would have stopped; but Miss Havisham\ntwitched my shoulder, and we posted on, with a shame-faced\nconsciousness on my part that they would think it was all my doing.\n\n Dear Miss Havisham,  said Miss Sarah Pocket.  How well you look! \n\n I do not,  returned Miss Havisham.  I am yellow skin and bone. \n\nCamilla brightened when Miss Pocket met with this rebuff; and she\nmurmured, as she plaintively contemplated Miss Havisham,  Poor dear\nsoul! Certainly not to be expected to look well, poor thing. The idea! \n\n And how are _you_?  said Miss Havisham to Camilla. As we were close to\nCamilla then, I would have stopped as a matter of course, only Miss\nHavisham wouldn t stop. We swept on, and I felt that I was highly\nobnoxious to Camilla.\n\n Thank you, Miss Havisham,  she returned,  I am as well as can be\nexpected. \n\n Why, what s the matter with you?  asked Miss Havisham, with exceeding\nsharpness.\n\n Nothing worth mentioning,  replied Camilla.  I don t wish to make a\ndisplay of my feelings, but I have habitually thought of you more in\nthe night than I am quite equal to. \n\n Then don t think of me,  retorted Miss Havisham.\n\n Very easily said!  remarked Camilla, amiably repressing a sob, while a\nhitch came into her upper lip, and her tears overflowed.  Raymond is a\nwitness what ginger and sal volatile I am obliged to take in the night.\nRaymond is a witness what nervous jerkings I have in my legs. Chokings\nand nervous jerkings, however, are nothing new to me when I think with\nanxiety of those I love. If I could be less affectionate and sensitive,\nI should have a better digestion and an iron set of nerves. I am sure I\nwish it could be so. But as to not thinking of you in the night The\nidea!  Here, a burst of tears.\n\nThe Raymond referred to, I understood to be the gentleman present, and\nhim I understood to be Mr. Camilla. He came to the rescue at this\npoint, and said in a consolatory and complimentary voice,  Camilla, my\ndear, it is well known that your family feelings are gradually\nundermining you to the extent of making one of your legs shorter than\nthe other. \n\n I am not aware,  observed the grave lady whose voice I had heard but\nonce,  that to think of any person is to make a great claim upon that\nperson, my dear. \n\nMiss Sarah Pocket, whom I now saw to be a little dry, brown, corrugated\nold woman, with a small face that might have been made of\nwalnut-shells, and a large mouth like a cat s without the whiskers,\nsupported this position by saying,  No, indeed, my dear. Hem! \n\n Thinking is easy enough,  said the grave lady.\n\n What is easier, you know?  assented Miss Sarah Pocket.\n\n Oh, yes, yes!  cried Camilla, whose fermenting feelings appeared to\nrise from her legs to her bosom.  It s all very true! It s a weakness\nto be so affectionate, but I can t help it. No doubt my health would be\nmuch better if it was otherwise, still I wouldn t change my disposition\nif I could. It s the cause of much suffering, but it s a consolation to\nknow I possess it, when I wake up in the night.  Here another burst of\nfeeling.\n\nMiss Havisham and I had never stopped all this time, but kept going\nround and round the room; now brushing against the skirts of the\nvisitors, now giving them the whole length of the dismal chamber.\n\n There s Matthew!  said Camilla.  Never mixing with any natural ties,\nnever coming here to see how Miss Havisham is! I have taken to the sofa\nwith my staylace cut, and have lain there hours insensible, with my\nhead over the side, and my hair all down, and my feet I don t know\nwhere \n\n( Much higher than your head, my love,  said Mr. Camilla.)\n\n I have gone off into that state, hours and hours, on account of\nMatthew s strange and inexplicable conduct, and nobody has thanked me. \n\n Really I must say I should think not!  interposed the grave lady.\n\n You see, my dear,  added Miss Sarah Pocket (a blandly vicious\npersonage),  the question to put to yourself is, who did you expect to\nthank you, my love? \n\n Without expecting any thanks, or anything of the sort,  resumed\nCamilla,  I have remained in that state, hours and hours, and Raymond\nis a witness of the extent to which I have choked, and what the total\ninefficacy of ginger has been, and I have been heard at the piano-forte\ntuner s across the street, where the poor mistaken children have even\nsupposed it to be pigeons cooing at a distance, and now to be told \nHere Camilla put her hand to her throat, and began to be quite chemical\nas to the formation of new combinations there.\n\nWhen this same Matthew was mentioned, Miss Havisham stopped me and\nherself, and stood looking at the speaker. This change had a great\ninfluence in bringing Camilla s chemistry to a sudden end.\n\n Matthew will come and see me at last,  said Miss Havisham, sternly,\n when I am laid on that table. That will be his place, there,  striking\nthe table with her stick,  at my head! And yours will be there! And\nyour husband s there! And Sarah Pocket s there! And Georgiana s there!\nNow you all know where to take your stations when you come to feast\nupon me. And now go! \n\nAt the mention of each name, she had struck the table with her stick in\na new place. She now said,  Walk me, walk me!  and we went on again.\n\n I suppose there s nothing to be done,  exclaimed Camilla,  but comply\nand depart. It s something to have seen the object of one s love and\nduty for even so short a time. I shall think of it with a melancholy\nsatisfaction when I wake up in the night. I wish Matthew could have\nthat comfort, but he sets it at defiance. I am determined not to make a\ndisplay of my feelings, but it s very hard to be told one wants to\nfeast on one s relations, as if one was a Giant, and to be told to go.\nThe bare idea! \n\nMr. Camilla interposing, as Mrs. Camilla laid her hand upon her heaving\nbosom, that lady assumed an unnatural fortitude of manner which I\nsupposed to be expressive of an intention to drop and choke when out of\nview, and kissing her hand to Miss Havisham, was escorted forth. Sarah\nPocket and Georgiana contended who should remain last; but Sarah was\ntoo knowing to be outdone, and ambled round Georgiana with that artful\nslipperiness that the latter was obliged to take precedence. Sarah\nPocket then made her separate effect of departing with,  Bless you,\nMiss Havisham dear!  and with a smile of forgiving pity on her\nwalnut-shell countenance for the weaknesses of the rest.\n\nWhile Estella was away lighting them down, Miss Havisham still walked\nwith her hand on my shoulder, but more and more slowly. At last she\nstopped before the fire, and said, after muttering and looking at it\nsome seconds, \n\n This is my birthday, Pip. \n\nI was going to wish her many happy returns, when she lifted her stick.\n\n I don t suffer it to be spoken of. I don t suffer those who were here\njust now, or any one to speak of it. They come here on the day, but\nthey dare not refer to it. \n\nOf course _I_ made no further effort to refer to it.\n\n On this day of the year, long before you were born, this heap of\ndecay,  stabbing with her crutched stick at the pile of cobwebs on the\ntable, but not touching it,  was brought here. It and I have worn away\ntogether. The mice have gnawed at it, and sharper teeth than teeth of\nmice have gnawed at me. \n\nShe held the head of her stick against her heart as she stood looking\nat the table; she in her once white dress, all yellow and withered; the\nonce white cloth all yellow and withered; everything around in a state\nto crumble under a touch.\n\n When the ruin is complete,  said she, with a ghastly look,  and when\nthey lay me dead, in my bride s dress on the bride s table, which shall\nbe done, and which will be the finished curse upon him, so much the\nbetter if it is done on this day! \n\nShe stood looking at the table as if she stood looking at her own\nfigure lying there. I remained quiet. Estella returned, and she too\nremained quiet. It seemed to me that we continued thus for a long time.\nIn the heavy air of the room, and the heavy darkness that brooded in\nits remoter corners, I even had an alarming fancy that Estella and I\nmight presently begin to decay.\n\nAt length, not coming out of her distraught state by degrees, but in an\ninstant, Miss Havisham said,  Let me see you two play cards; why have\nyou not begun?  With that, we returned to her room, and sat down as\nbefore; I was beggared, as before; and again, as before, Miss Havisham\nwatched us all the time, directed my attention to Estella s beauty, and\nmade me notice it the more by trying her jewels on Estella s breast and\nhair.\n\nEstella, for her part, likewise treated me as before, except that she\ndid not condescend to speak. When we had played some half-dozen games,\na day was appointed for my return, and I was taken down into the yard\nto be fed in the former dog-like manner. There, too, I was again left\nto wander about as I liked.\n\nIt is not much to the purpose whether a gate in that garden wall which\nI had scrambled up to peep over on the last occasion was, on that last\noccasion, open or shut. Enough that I saw no gate then, and that I saw\none now. As it stood open, and as I knew that Estella had let the\nvisitors out, for she had returned with the keys in her hand, I\nstrolled into the garden, and strolled all over it. It was quite a\nwilderness, and there were old melon-frames and cucumber-frames in it,\nwhich seemed in their decline to have produced a spontaneous growth of\nweak attempts at pieces of old hats and boots, with now and then a\nweedy offshoot into the likeness of a battered saucepan.\n\nWhen I had exhausted the garden and a greenhouse with nothing in it but\na fallen-down grape-vine and some bottles, I found myself in the dismal\ncorner upon which I had looked out of the window. Never questioning for\na moment that the house was now empty, I looked in at another window,\nand found myself, to my great surprise, exchanging a broad stare with a\npale young gentleman with red eyelids and light hair.\n\nThis pale young gentleman quickly disappeared, and reappeared beside\nme. He had been at his books when I had found myself staring at him,\nand I now saw that he was inky.\n\n Halloa!  said he,  young fellow! \n\nHalloa being a general observation which I had usually observed to be\nbest answered by itself, _I_ said,  Halloa!  politely omitting young\nfellow.\n\n Who let _you_ in?  said he.\n\n Miss Estella. \n\n Who gave you leave to prowl about? \n\n Miss Estella. \n\n Come and fight,  said the pale young gentleman.\n\nWhat could I do but follow him? I have often asked myself the question\nsince; but what else could I do? His manner was so final, and I was so\nastonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a\nspell.\n\n Stop a minute, though,  he said, wheeling round before we had gone\nmany paces.  I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it\nis!  In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against\none another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my\nhair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my\nstomach.\n\nThe bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was\nunquestionably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was\nparticularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit\nout at him and was going to hit out again, when he said,  Aha! Would\nyou?  and began dancing backwards and forwards in a manner quite\nunparalleled within my limited experience.\n\n Laws of the game!  said he. Here, he skipped from his left leg on to\nhis right.  Regular rules!  Here, he skipped from his right leg on to\nhis left.  Come to the ground, and go through the preliminaries!  Here,\nhe dodged backwards and forwards, and did all sorts of things while I\nlooked helplessly at him.\n\nI was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt\nmorally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have\nhad no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to\nconsider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I\nfollowed him without a word, to a retired nook of the garden, formed by\nthe junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking\nme if I was satisfied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he\nbegged my leave to absent himself for a moment, and quickly returned\nwith a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar.  Available for\nboth,  he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to\npulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a\nmanner at once light-hearted, business-like, and bloodthirsty.\n\nAlthough he did not look very healthy, having pimples on his face, and\na breaking out at his mouth, these dreadful preparations quite appalled\nme. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he\nhad a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For\nthe rest, he was a young gentleman in a grey suit (when not denuded for\nbattle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in\nadvance of the rest of him as to development.\n\nMy heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every\ndemonstration of mechanical nicety, and eyeing my anatomy as if he were\nminutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my life,\nas I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back,\nlooking up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly\nfore-shortened.\n\nBut, he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a\ngreat show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest\nsurprise I have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again,\nlooking up at me out of a black eye.\n\nHis spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no\nstrength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked\ndown; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or\ndrinking out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in\nseconding himself according to form, and then came at me with an air\nand a show that made me believe he really was going to do for me at\nlast. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I\nhit him, the harder I hit him; but he came up again and again and\nagain, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head\nagainst the wall. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and\nturned round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was;\nbut finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up: at the\nsame time panting out,  That means you have won. \n\nHe seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the\ncontest, I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go\nso far as to hope that I regarded myself while dressing as a species of\nsavage young wolf or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly\nwiping my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said,  Can I help you? \nand he said  No thankee,  and I said  Good afternoon,  and _he_ said\n Same to you. \n\nWhen I got into the courtyard, I found Estella waiting with the keys.\nBut she neither asked me where I had been, nor why I had kept her\nwaiting; and there was a bright flush upon her face, as though\nsomething had happened to delight her. Instead of going straight to the\ngate, too, she stepped back into the passage, and beckoned me.\n\n Come here! You may kiss me, if you like. \n\nI kissed her cheek as she turned it to me. I think I would have gone\nthrough a great deal to kiss her cheek. But I felt that the kiss was\ngiven to the coarse common boy as a piece of money might have been, and\nthat it was worth nothing.\n\nWhat with the birthday visitors, and what with the cards, and what with\nthe fight, my stay had lasted so long, that when I neared home the\nlight on the spit of sand off the point on the marshes was gleaming\nagainst a black night-sky, and Joe s furnace was flinging a path of\nfire across the road.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII.\n\n\nMy mind grew very uneasy on the subject of the pale young gentleman.\nThe more I thought of the fight, and recalled the pale young gentleman\non his back in various stages of puffy and incrimsoned countenance, the\nmore certain it appeared that something would be done to me. I felt\nthat the pale young gentleman s blood was on my head, and that the Law\nwould avenge it. Without having any definite idea of the penalties I\nhad incurred, it was clear to me that village boys could not go\nstalking about the country, ravaging the houses of gentlefolks and\npitching into the studious youth of England, without laying themselves\nopen to severe punishment. For some days, I even kept close at home,\nand looked out at the kitchen door with the greatest caution and\ntrepidation before going on an errand, lest the officers of the County\nJail should pounce upon me. The pale young gentleman s nose had stained\nmy trousers, and I tried to wash out that evidence of my guilt in the\ndead of night. I had cut my knuckles against the pale young gentleman s\nteeth, and I twisted my imagination into a thousand tangles, as I\ndevised incredible ways of accounting for that damnatory circumstance\nwhen I should be haled before the Judges.\n\nWhen the day came round for my return to the scene of the deed of\nviolence, my terrors reached their height. Whether myrmidons of\nJustice, especially sent down from London, would be lying in ambush\nbehind the gate; whether Miss Havisham, preferring to take personal\nvengeance for an outrage done to her house, might rise in those\ngrave-clothes of hers, draw a pistol, and shoot me dead: whether\nsuborned boys a numerous band of mercenaries might be engaged to fall\nupon me in the brewery, and cuff me until I was no more; it was high\ntestimony to my confidence in the spirit of the pale young gentleman,\nthat I never imagined _him_ accessory to these retaliations; they\nalways came into my mind as the acts of injudicious relatives of his,\ngoaded on by the state of his visage and an indignant sympathy with the\nfamily features.\n\nHowever, go to Miss Havisham s I must, and go I did. And behold!\nnothing came of the late struggle. It was not alluded to in any way,\nand no pale young gentleman was to be discovered on the premises. I\nfound the same gate open, and I explored the garden, and even looked in\nat the windows of the detached house; but my view was suddenly stopped\nby the closed shutters within, and all was lifeless. Only in the corner\nwhere the combat had taken place could I detect any evidence of the\nyoung gentleman s existence. There were traces of his gore in that\nspot, and I covered them with garden-mould from the eye of man.\n\nOn the broad landing between Miss Havisham s own room and that other\nroom in which the long table was laid out, I saw a garden-chair, a\nlight chair on wheels, that you pushed from behind. It had been placed\nthere since my last visit, and I entered, that same day, on a regular\noccupation of pushing Miss Havisham in this chair (when she was tired\nof walking with her hand upon my shoulder) round her own room, and\nacross the landing, and round the other room. Over and over and over\nagain, we would make these journeys, and sometimes they would last as\nlong as three hours at a stretch. I insensibly fall into a general\nmention of these journeys as numerous, because it was at once settled\nthat I should return every alternate day at noon for these purposes,\nand because I am now going to sum up a period of at least eight or ten\nmonths.\n\nAs we began to be more used to one another, Miss Havisham talked more\nto me, and asked me such questions as what had I learnt and what was I\ngoing to be? I told her I was going to be apprenticed to Joe, I\nbelieved; and I enlarged upon my knowing nothing and wanting to know\neverything, in the hope that she might offer some help towards that\ndesirable end. But she did not; on the contrary, she seemed to prefer\nmy being ignorant. Neither did she ever give me any money, or anything\nbut my daily dinner, nor ever stipulate that I should be paid for my\nservices.\n\nEstella was always about, and always let me in and out, but never told\nme I might kiss her again. Sometimes, she would coldly tolerate me;\nsometimes, she would condescend to me; sometimes, she would be quite\nfamiliar with me; sometimes, she would tell me energetically that she\nhated me. Miss Havisham would often ask me in a whisper, or when we\nwere alone,  Does she grow prettier and prettier, Pip?  And when I said\nyes (for indeed she did), would seem to enjoy it greedily. Also, when\nwe played at cards Miss Havisham would look on, with a miserly relish\nof Estella s moods, whatever they were. And sometimes, when her moods\nwere so many and so contradictory of one another that I was puzzled\nwhat to say or do, Miss Havisham would embrace her with lavish\nfondness, murmuring something in her ear that sounded like  Break their\nhearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy! \n\nThere was a song Joe used to hum fragments of at the forge, of which\nthe burden was Old Clem. This was not a very ceremonious way of\nrendering homage to a patron saint, but I believe Old Clem stood in\nthat relation towards smiths. It was a song that imitated the measure\nof beating upon iron, and was a mere lyrical excuse for the\nintroduction of Old Clem s respected name. Thus, you were to hammer\nboys round Old Clem! With a thump and a sound Old Clem! Beat it out,\nbeat it out Old Clem! With a clink for the stout Old Clem! Blow the\nfire, blow the fire Old Clem! Roaring dryer, soaring higher Old Clem!\nOne day soon after the appearance of the chair, Miss Havisham suddenly\nsaying to me, with the impatient movement of her fingers,  There,\nthere, there! Sing!  I was surprised into crooning this ditty as I\npushed her over the floor. It happened so to catch her fancy that she\ntook it up in a low brooding voice as if she were singing in her sleep.\nAfter that, it became customary with us to have it as we moved about,\nand Estella would often join in; though the whole strain was so\nsubdued, even when there were three of us, that it made less noise in\nthe grim old house than the lightest breath of wind.\n\nWhat could I become with these surroundings? How could my character\nfail to be influenced by them? Is it to be wondered at if my thoughts\nwere dazed, as my eyes were, when I came out into the natural light\nfrom the misty yellow rooms?\n\nPerhaps I might have told Joe about the pale young gentleman, if I had\nnot previously been betrayed into those enormous inventions to which I\nhad confessed. Under the circumstances, I felt that Joe could hardly\nfail to discern in the pale young gentleman, an appropriate passenger\nto be put into the black velvet coach; therefore, I said nothing of\nhim. Besides, that shrinking from having Miss Havisham and Estella\ndiscussed, which had come upon me in the beginning, grew much more\npotent as time went on. I reposed complete confidence in no one but\nBiddy; but I told poor Biddy everything. Why it came natural to me to\ndo so, and why Biddy had a deep concern in everything I told her, I did\nnot know then, though I think I know now.\n\nMeanwhile, councils went on in the kitchen at home, fraught with almost\ninsupportable aggravation to my exasperated spirit. That ass,\nPumblechook, used often to come over of a night for the purpose of\ndiscussing my prospects with my sister; and I really do believe (to\nthis hour with less penitence than I ought to feel), that if these\nhands could have taken a linchpin out of his chaise-cart, they would\nhave done it. The miserable man was a man of that confined stolidity of\nmind, that he could not discuss my prospects without having me before\nhim, as it were, to operate upon, and he would drag me up from my stool\n(usually by the collar) where I was quiet in a corner, and, putting me\nbefore the fire as if I were going to be cooked, would begin by saying,\n Now, Mum, here is this boy! Here is this boy which you brought up by\nhand. Hold up your head, boy, and be forever grateful unto them which\nso did do. Now, Mum, with respections to this boy!  And then he would\nrumple my hair the wrong way, which from my earliest remembrance, as\nalready hinted, I have in my soul denied the right of any\nfellow-creature to do, and would hold me before him by the sleeve, a\nspectacle of imbecility only to be equalled by himself.\n\nThen, he and my sister would pair off in such nonsensical speculations\nabout Miss Havisham, and about what she would do with me and for me,\nthat I used to want quite painfully to burst into spiteful tears, fly\nat Pumblechook, and pummel him all over. In these dialogues, my sister\nspoke to me as if she were morally wrenching one of my teeth out at\nevery reference; while Pumblechook himself, self-constituted my patron,\nwould sit supervising me with a depreciatory eye, like the architect of\nmy fortunes who thought himself engaged on a very unremunerative job.\n\nIn these discussions, Joe bore no part. But he was often talked at,\nwhile they were in progress, by reason of Mrs. Joe s perceiving that he\nwas not favourable to my being taken from the forge. I was fully old\nenough now to be apprenticed to Joe; and when Joe sat with the poker on\nhis knees thoughtfully raking out the ashes between the lower bars, my\nsister would so distinctly construe that innocent action into\nopposition on his part, that she would dive at him, take the poker out\nof his hands, shake him, and put it away. There was a most irritating\nend to every one of these debates. All in a moment, with nothing to\nlead up to it, my sister would stop herself in a yawn, and catching\nsight of me as it were incidentally, would swoop upon me with,  Come!\nthere s enough of _you_! _You_ get along to bed; _you_ ve given trouble\nenough for one night, I hope!  As if I had besought them as a favour to\nbother my life out.\n\nWe went on in this way for a long time, and it seemed likely that we\nshould continue to go on in this way for a long time, when one day Miss\nHavisham stopped short as she and I were walking, she leaning on my\nshoulder; and said with some displeasure, \n\n You are growing tall, Pip! \n\nI thought it best to hint, through the medium of a meditative look,\nthat this might be occasioned by circumstances over which I had no\ncontrol.\n\nShe said no more at the time; but she presently stopped and looked at\nme again; and presently again; and after that, looked frowning and\nmoody. On the next day of my attendance, when our usual exercise was\nover, and I had landed her at her dressing-table, she stayed me with a\nmovement of her impatient fingers: \n\n Tell me the name again of that blacksmith of yours. \n\n Joe Gargery, ma am. \n\n Meaning the master you were to be apprenticed to? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n You had better be apprenticed at once. Would Gargery come here with\nyou, and bring your indentures, do you think? \n\nI signified that I had no doubt he would take it as an honour to be\nasked.\n\n Then let him come. \n\n At any particular time, Miss Havisham? \n\n There, there! I know nothing about times. Let him come soon, and come\nalong with you. \n\nWhen I got home at night, and delivered this message for Joe, my sister\n went on the Rampage,  in a more alarming degree than at any previous\nperiod. She asked me and Joe whether we supposed she was door-mats\nunder our feet, and how we dared to use her so, and what company we\ngraciously thought she _was_ fit for? When she had exhausted a torrent\nof such inquiries, she threw a candlestick at Joe, burst into a loud\nsobbing, got out the dustpan, which was always a very bad sign, put on\nher coarse apron, and began cleaning up to a terrible extent. Not\nsatisfied with a dry cleaning, she took to a pail and scrubbing-brush,\nand cleaned us out of house and home, so that we stood shivering in the\nback-yard. It was ten o clock at night before we ventured to creep in\nagain, and then she asked Joe why he hadn t married a Negress Slave at\nonce? Joe offered no answer, poor fellow, but stood feeling his whisker\nand looking dejectedly at me, as if he thought it really might have\nbeen a better speculation.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII.\n\n\nIt was a trial to my feelings, on the next day but one, to see Joe\narraying himself in his Sunday clothes to accompany me to Miss\nHavisham s. However, as he thought his court-suit necessary to the\noccasion, it was not for me to tell him that he looked far better in\nhis working-dress; the rather, because I knew he made himself so\ndreadfully uncomfortable, entirely on my account, and that it was for\nme he pulled up his shirt-collar so very high behind, that it made the\nhair on the crown of his head stand up like a tuft of feathers.\n\nAt breakfast-time my sister declared her intention of going to town\nwith us, and being left at Uncle Pumblechook s and called for  when we\nhad done with our fine ladies a way of putting the case, from which\nJoe appeared inclined to augur the worst. The forge was shut up for the\nday, and Joe inscribed in chalk upon the door (as it was his custom to\ndo on the very rare occasions when he was not at work) the monosyllable\nHOUT, accompanied by a sketch of an arrow supposed to be flying in the\ndirection he had taken.\n\nWe walked to town, my sister leading the way in a very large beaver\nbonnet, and carrying a basket like the Great Seal of England in plaited\nStraw, a pair of pattens, a spare shawl, and an umbrella, though it was\na fine bright day. I am not quite clear whether these articles were\ncarried penitentially or ostentatiously; but I rather think they were\ndisplayed as articles of property, much as Cleopatra or any other\nsovereign lady on the Rampage might exhibit her wealth in a pageant or\nprocession.\n\nWhen we came to Pumblechook s, my sister bounced in and left us. As it\nwas almost noon, Joe and I held straight on to Miss Havisham s house.\nEstella opened the gate as usual, and, the moment she appeared, Joe\ntook his hat off and stood weighing it by the brim in both his hands;\nas if he had some urgent reason in his mind for being particular to\nhalf a quarter of an ounce.\n\nEstella took no notice of either of us, but led us the way that I knew\nso well. I followed next to her, and Joe came last. When I looked back\nat Joe in the long passage, he was still weighing his hat with the\ngreatest care, and was coming after us in long strides on the tips of\nhis toes.\n\nEstella told me we were both to go in, so I took Joe by the coat-cuff\nand conducted him into Miss Havisham s presence. She was seated at her\ndressing-table, and looked round at us immediately.\n\n Oh!  said she to Joe.  You are the husband of the sister of this boy? \n\nI could hardly have imagined dear old Joe looking so unlike himself or\nso like some extraordinary bird; standing as he did speechless, with\nhis tuft of feathers ruffled, and his mouth open as if he wanted a\nworm.\n\n You are the husband,  repeated Miss Havisham,  of the sister of this\nboy? \n\nIt was very aggravating; but, throughout the interview, Joe persisted\nin addressing Me instead of Miss Havisham.\n\n Which I meantersay, Pip,  Joe now observed in a manner that was at\nonce expressive of forcible argumentation, strict confidence, and great\npoliteness,  as I hup and married your sister, and I were at the time\nwhat you might call (if you was anyways inclined) a single man. \n\n Well!  said Miss Havisham.  And you have reared the boy, with the\nintention of taking him for your apprentice; is that so, Mr. Gargery? \n\n You know, Pip,  replied Joe,  as you and me were ever friends, and it\nwere looked for ard to betwixt us, as being calc lated to lead to\nlarks. Not but what, Pip, if you had ever made objections to the\nbusiness, such as its being open to black and sut, or such-like, not\nbut what they would have been attended to, don t you see? \n\n Has the boy,  said Miss Havisham,  ever made any objection? Does he\nlike the trade? \n\n Which it is well beknown to yourself, Pip,  returned Joe,\nstrengthening his former mixture of argumentation, confidence, and\npoliteness,  that it were the wish of your own hart.  (I saw the idea\nsuddenly break upon him that he would adapt his epitaph to the\noccasion, before he went on to say)  And there weren t no objection on\nyour part, and Pip it were the great wish of your hart! \n\nIt was quite in vain for me to endeavour to make him sensible that he\nought to speak to Miss Havisham. The more I made faces and gestures to\nhim to do it, the more confidential, argumentative, and polite, he\npersisted in being to Me.\n\n Have you brought his indentures with you?  asked Miss Havisham.\n\n Well, Pip, you know,  replied Joe, as if that were a little\nunreasonable,  you yourself see me put  em in my  at, and therefore you\nknow as they are here.  With which he took them out, and gave them, not\nto Miss Havisham, but to me. I am afraid I was ashamed of the dear good\nfellow, I _know_ I was ashamed of him, when I saw that Estella stood at\nthe back of Miss Havisham s chair, and that her eyes laughed\nmischievously. I took the indentures out of his hand and gave them to\nMiss Havisham.\n\n You expected,  said Miss Havisham, as she looked them over,  no\npremium with the boy? \n\n Joe!  I remonstrated, for he made no reply at all.  Why don t you\nanswer \n\n Pip,  returned Joe, cutting me short as if he were hurt,  which I\nmeantersay that were not a question requiring a answer betwixt yourself\nand me, and which you know the answer to be full well No. You know it\nto be No, Pip, and wherefore should I say it? \n\nMiss Havisham glanced at him as if she understood what he really was\nbetter than I had thought possible, seeing what he was there; and took\nup a little bag from the table beside her.\n\n Pip has earned a premium here,  she said,  and here it is. There are\nfive-and-twenty guineas in this bag. Give it to your master, Pip. \n\nAs if he were absolutely out of his mind with the wonder awakened in\nhim by her strange figure and the strange room, Joe, even at this pass,\npersisted in addressing me.\n\n This is wery liberal on your part, Pip,  said Joe,  and it is as such\nreceived and grateful welcome, though never looked for, far nor near,\nnor nowheres. And now, old chap,  said Joe, conveying to me a\nsensation, first of burning and then of freezing, for I felt as if that\nfamiliar expression were applied to Miss Havisham, and now, old chap,\nmay we do our duty! May you and me do our duty, both on us, by one and\nanother, and by them which your liberal present have-conweyed to be for\nthe satisfaction of mind-of them as never  here Joe showed that he\nfelt he had fallen into frightful difficulties, until he triumphantly\nrescued himself with the words,  and from myself far be it!  These\nwords had such a round and convincing sound for him that he said them\ntwice.\n\n Good-bye, Pip!  said Miss Havisham.  Let them out, Estella. \n\n Am I to come again, Miss Havisham?  I asked.\n\n No. Gargery is your master now. Gargery! One word! \n\nThus calling him back as I went out of the door, I heard her say to Joe\nin a distinct emphatic voice,  The boy has been a good boy here, and\nthat is his reward. Of course, as an honest man, you will expect no\nother and no more. \n\nHow Joe got out of the room, I have never been able to determine; but I\nknow that when he did get out he was steadily proceeding upstairs\ninstead of coming down, and was deaf to all remonstrances until I went\nafter him and laid hold of him. In another minute we were outside the\ngate, and it was locked, and Estella was gone. When we stood in the\ndaylight alone again, Joe backed up against a wall, and said to me,\n Astonishing!  And there he remained so long saying,  Astonishing  at\nintervals, so often, that I began to think his senses were never coming\nback. At length he prolonged his remark into  Pip, I do assure _you_\nthis is as-TON-ishing!  and so, by degrees, became conversational and\nable to walk away.\n\nI have reason to think that Joe s intellects were brightened by the\nencounter they had passed through, and that on our way to Pumblechook s\nhe invented a subtle and deep design. My reason is to be found in what\ntook place in Mr. Pumblechook s parlour: where, on our presenting\nourselves, my sister sat in conference with that detested seedsman.\n\n Well?  cried my sister, addressing us both at once.  And what s\nhappened to _you_? I wonder you condescend to come back to such poor\nsociety as this, I am sure I do! \n\n Miss Havisham,  said Joe, with a fixed look at me, like an effort of\nremembrance,  made it wery partick ler that we should give her were it\ncompliments or respects, Pip? \n\n Compliments,  I said.\n\n Which that were my own belief,  answered Joe;  her compliments to Mrs.\nJ. Gargery \n\n Much good they ll do me!  observed my sister; but rather gratified\ntoo.\n\n And wishing,  pursued Joe, with another fixed look at me, like another\neffort of remembrance,  that the state of Miss Havisham s elth were\nsitch as would have allowed, were it, Pip? \n\n Of her having the pleasure,  I added.\n\n Of ladies  company,  said Joe. And drew a long breath.\n\n Well!  cried my sister, with a mollified glance at Mr. Pumblechook.\n She might have had the politeness to send that message at first, but\nit s better late than never. And what did she give young Rantipole\nhere? \n\n She giv  him,  said Joe,  nothing. \n\nMrs. Joe was going to break out, but Joe went on.\n\n What she giv ,  said Joe,  she giv  to his friends.  And by his\nfriends,  were her explanation,  I mean into the hands of his sister\nMrs. J. Gargery.  Them were her words;  Mrs. J. Gargery.  She mayn t\nhave know d,  added Joe, with an appearance of reflection,  whether it\nwere Joe, or Jorge. \n\nMy sister looked at Pumblechook: who smoothed the elbows of his wooden\narm-chair, and nodded at her and at the fire, as if he had known all\nabout it beforehand.\n\n And how much have you got?  asked my sister, laughing. Positively\nlaughing!\n\n What would present company say to ten pound?  demanded Joe.\n\n They d say,  returned my sister, curtly,  pretty well. Not too much,\nbut pretty well. \n\n It s more than that, then,  said Joe.\n\nThat fearful Impostor, Pumblechook, immediately nodded, and said, as he\nrubbed the arms of his chair,  It s more than that, Mum. \n\n Why, you don t mean to say  began my sister.\n\n Yes I do, Mum,  said Pumblechook;  but wait a bit. Go on, Joseph. Good\nin you! Go on! \n\n What would present company say,  proceeded Joe,  to twenty pound? \n\n Handsome would be the word,  returned my sister.\n\n Well, then,  said Joe,  It s more than twenty pound. \n\nThat abject hypocrite, Pumblechook, nodded again, and said, with a\npatronizing laugh,  It s more than that, Mum. Good again! Follow her\nup, Joseph! \n\n Then to make an end of it,  said Joe, delightedly handing the bag to\nmy sister;  it s five-and-twenty pound. \n\n It s five-and-twenty pound, Mum,  echoed that basest of swindlers,\nPumblechook, rising to shake hands with her;  and it s no more than\nyour merits (as I said when my opinion was asked), and I wish you joy\nof the money! \n\nIf the villain had stopped here, his case would have been sufficiently\nawful, but he blackened his guilt by proceeding to take me into\ncustody, with a right of patronage that left all his former criminality\nfar behind.\n\n Now you see, Joseph and wife,  said Pumblechook, as he took me by the\narm above the elbow,  I am one of them that always go right through\nwith what they ve begun. This boy must be bound, out of hand. That s\n_my_ way. Bound out of hand. \n\n Goodness knows, Uncle Pumblechook,  said my sister (grasping the\nmoney),  we re deeply beholden to you. \n\n Never mind me, Mum,  returned that diabolical cornchandler.  A\npleasure s a pleasure all the world over. But this boy, you know; we\nmust have him bound. I said I d see to it to tell you the truth. \n\nThe Justices were sitting in the Town Hall near at hand, and we at once\nwent over to have me bound apprentice to Joe in the Magisterial\npresence. I say we went over, but I was pushed over by Pumblechook,\nexactly as if I had that moment picked a pocket or fired a rick;\nindeed, it was the general impression in Court that I had been taken\nred-handed; for, as Pumblechook shoved me before him through the crowd,\nI heard some people say,  What s he done?  and others,  He s a young\n un, too, but looks bad, don t he?  One person of mild and benevolent\naspect even gave me a tract ornamented with a woodcut of a malevolent\nyoung man fitted up with a perfect sausage-shop of fetters, and\nentitled TO BE READ IN MY CELL.\n\nThe Hall was a queer place, I thought, with higher pews in it than a\nchurch, and with people hanging over the pews looking on, and with\nmighty Justices (one with a powdered head) leaning back in chairs, with\nfolded arms, or taking snuff, or going to sleep, or writing, or reading\nthe newspapers, and with some shining black portraits on the walls,\nwhich my unartistic eye regarded as a composition of hardbake and\nsticking-plaster. Here, in a corner my indentures were duly signed and\nattested, and I was  bound ; Mr. Pumblechook holding me all the while\nas if we had looked in on our way to the scaffold, to have those little\npreliminaries disposed of.\n\nWhen we had come out again, and had got rid of the boys who had been\nput into great spirits by the expectation of seeing me publicly\ntortured, and who were much disappointed to find that my friends were\nmerely rallying round me, we went back to Pumblechook s. And there my\nsister became so excited by the twenty-five guineas, that nothing would\nserve her but we must have a dinner out of that windfall at the Blue\nBoar, and that Pumblechook must go over in his chaise-cart, and bring\nthe Hubbles and Mr. Wopsle.\n\nIt was agreed to be done; and a most melancholy day I passed. For, it\ninscrutably appeared to stand to reason, in the minds of the whole\ncompany, that I was an excrescence on the entertainment. And to make it\nworse, they all asked me from time to time, in short, whenever they had\nnothing else to do, why I didn t enjoy myself? And what could I\npossibly do then, but say I _was_ enjoying myself, when I wasn t!\n\nHowever, they were grown up and had their own way, and they made the\nmost of it. That swindling Pumblechook, exalted into the beneficent\ncontriver of the whole occasion, actually took the top of the table;\nand, when he addressed them on the subject of my being bound, and had\nfiendishly congratulated them on my being liable to imprisonment if I\nplayed at cards, drank strong liquors, kept late hours or bad company,\nor indulged in other vagaries which the form of my indentures appeared\nto contemplate as next to inevitable, he placed me standing on a chair\nbeside him to illustrate his remarks.\n\nMy only other remembrances of the great festival are, That they\nwouldn t let me go to sleep, but whenever they saw me dropping off,\nwoke me up and told me to enjoy myself. That, rather late in the\nevening Mr. Wopsle gave us Collins s ode, and threw his bloodstained\nsword in thunder down, with such effect, that a waiter came in and\nsaid,  The Commercials underneath sent up their compliments, and it\nwasn t the Tumblers  Arms.  That, they were all in excellent spirits on\nthe road home, and sang, O Lady Fair! Mr. Wopsle taking the bass, and\nasserting with a tremendously strong voice (in reply to the inquisitive\nbore who leads that piece of music in a most impertinent manner, by\nwanting to know all about everybody s private affairs) that _he_ was\nthe man with his white locks flowing, and that he was upon the whole\nthe weakest pilgrim going.\n\nFinally, I remember that when I got into my little bedroom, I was truly\nwretched, and had a strong conviction on me that I should never like\nJoe s trade. I had liked it once, but once was not now.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV.\n\n\nIt is a most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home. There may be\nblack ingratitude in the thing, and the punishment may be retributive\nand well deserved; but that it is a miserable thing, I can testify.\n\nHome had never been a very pleasant place to me, because of my sister s\ntemper. But, Joe had sanctified it, and I had believed in it. I had\nbelieved in the best parlour as a most elegant saloon; I had believed\nin the front door, as a mysterious portal of the Temple of State whose\nsolemn opening was attended with a sacrifice of roast fowls; I had\nbelieved in the kitchen as a chaste though not magnificent apartment; I\nhad believed in the forge as the glowing road to manhood and\nindependence. Within a single year all this was changed. Now it was all\ncoarse and common, and I would not have had Miss Havisham and Estella\nsee it on any account.\n\nHow much of my ungracious condition of mind may have been my own fault,\nhow much Miss Havisham s, how much my sister s, is now of no moment to\nme or to any one. The change was made in me; the thing was done. Well\nor ill done, excusably or inexcusably, it was done.\n\nOnce, it had seemed to me that when I should at last roll up my\nshirt-sleeves and go into the forge, Joe s  prentice, I should be\ndistinguished and happy. Now the reality was in my hold, I only felt\nthat I was dusty with the dust of small-coal, and that I had a weight\nupon my daily remembrance to which the anvil was a feather. There have\nbeen occasions in my later life (I suppose as in most lives) when I\nhave felt for a time as if a thick curtain had fallen on all its\ninterest and romance, to shut me out from anything save dull endurance\nany more. Never has that curtain dropped so heavy and blank, as when my\nway in life lay stretched out straight before me through the newly\nentered road of apprenticeship to Joe.\n\nI remember that at a later period of my  time,  I used to stand about\nthe churchyard on Sunday evenings when night was falling, comparing my\nown perspective with the windy marsh view, and making out some likeness\nbetween them by thinking how flat and low both were, and how on both\nthere came an unknown way and a dark mist and then the sea. I was quite\nas dejected on the first working-day of my apprenticeship as in that\nafter-time; but I am glad to know that I never breathed a murmur to Joe\nwhile my indentures lasted. It is about the only thing I _am_ glad to\nknow of myself in that connection.\n\nFor, though it includes what I proceed to add, all the merit of what I\nproceed to add was Joe s. It was not because I was faithful, but\nbecause Joe was faithful, that I never ran away and went for a soldier\nor a sailor. It was not because I had a strong sense of the virtue of\nindustry, but because Joe had a strong sense of the virtue of industry,\nthat I worked with tolerable zeal against the grain. It is not possible\nto know how far the influence of any amiable honest-hearted duty-doing\nman flies out into the world; but it is very possible to know how it\nhas touched one s self in going by, and I know right well that any good\nthat intermixed itself with my apprenticeship came of plain contented\nJoe, and not of restlessly aspiring discontented me.\n\nWhat I wanted, who can say? How can _I_ say, when I never knew? What I\ndreaded was, that in some unlucky hour I, being at my grimiest and\ncommonest, should lift up my eyes and see Estella looking in at one of\nthe wooden windows of the forge. I was haunted by the fear that she\nwould, sooner or later, find me out, with a black face and hands, doing\nthe coarsest part of my work, and would exult over me and despise me.\nOften after dark, when I was pulling the bellows for Joe, and we were\nsinging Old Clem, and when the thought how we used to sing it at Miss\nHavisham s would seem to show me Estella s face in the fire, with her\npretty hair fluttering in the wind and her eyes scorning me, often at\nsuch a time I would look towards those panels of black night in the\nwall which the wooden windows then were, and would fancy that I saw her\njust drawing her face away, and would believe that she had come at\nlast.\n\nAfter that, when we went in to supper, the place and the meal would\nhave a more homely look than ever, and I would feel more ashamed of\nhome than ever, in my own ungracious breast.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV.\n\n\nAs I was getting too big for Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s room, my\neducation under that preposterous female terminated. Not, however,\nuntil Biddy had imparted to me everything she knew, from the little\ncatalogue of prices, to a comic song she had once bought for a\nhalf-penny. Although the only coherent part of the latter piece of\nliterature were the opening lines,\n\n     When I went to Lunnon town sirs,\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Wasn t I done very brown sirs?\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Too rul loo rul\n\n\n still, in my desire to be wiser, I got this composition by heart with\nthe utmost gravity; nor do I recollect that I questioned its merit,\nexcept that I thought (as I still do) the amount of Too rul somewhat in\nexcess of the poetry. In my hunger for information, I made proposals to\nMr. Wopsle to bestow some intellectual crumbs upon me, with which he\nkindly complied. As it turned out, however, that he only wanted me for\na dramatic lay-figure, to be contradicted and embraced and wept over\nand bullied and clutched and stabbed and knocked about in a variety of\nways, I soon declined that course of instruction; though not until Mr.\nWopsle in his poetic fury had severely mauled me.\n\nWhatever I acquired, I tried to impart to Joe. This statement sounds so\nwell, that I cannot in my conscience let it pass unexplained. I wanted\nto make Joe less ignorant and common, that he might be worthier of my\nsociety and less open to Estella s reproach.\n\nThe old Battery out on the marshes was our place of study, and a broken\nslate and a short piece of slate-pencil were our educational\nimplements: to which Joe always added a pipe of tobacco. I never knew\nJoe to remember anything from one Sunday to another, or to acquire,\nunder my tuition, any piece of information whatever. Yet he would smoke\nhis pipe at the Battery with a far more sagacious air than anywhere\nelse, even with a learned air, as if he considered himself to be\nadvancing immensely. Dear fellow, I hope he did.\n\nIt was pleasant and quiet, out there with the sails on the river\npassing beyond the earthwork, and sometimes, when the tide was low,\nlooking as if they belonged to sunken ships that were still sailing on\nat the bottom of the water. Whenever I watched the vessels standing out\nto sea with their white sails spread, I somehow thought of Miss\nHavisham and Estella; and whenever the light struck aslant, afar off,\nupon a cloud or sail or green hillside or water-line, it was just the\nsame. Miss Havisham and Estella and the strange house and the strange\nlife appeared to have something to do with everything that was\npicturesque.\n\nOne Sunday when Joe, greatly enjoying his pipe, had so plumed himself\non being  most awful dull,  that I had given him up for the day, I lay\non the earthwork for some time with my chin on my hand, descrying\ntraces of Miss Havisham and Estella all over the prospect, in the sky\nand in the water, until at last I resolved to mention a thought\nconcerning them that had been much in my head.\n\n Joe,  said I;  don t you think I ought to make Miss Havisham a visit? \n\n Well, Pip,  returned Joe, slowly considering.  What for? \n\n What for, Joe? What is any visit made for? \n\n There is some wisits p r aps,  said Joe,  as for ever remains open to\nthe question, Pip. But in regard to wisiting Miss Havisham. She might\nthink you wanted something, expected something of her. \n\n Don t you think I might say that I did not, Joe? \n\n You might, old chap,  said Joe.  And she might credit it. Similarly\nshe mightn t. \n\nJoe felt, as I did, that he had made a point there, and he pulled hard\nat his pipe to keep himself from weakening it by repetition.\n\n You see, Pip,  Joe pursued, as soon as he was past that danger,  Miss\nHavisham done the handsome thing by you. When Miss Havisham done the\nhandsome thing by you, she called me back to say to me as that were\nall. \n\n Yes, Joe. I heard her. \n\n ALL,  Joe repeated, very emphatically.\n\n Yes, Joe. I tell you, I heard her. \n\n Which I meantersay, Pip, it might be that her meaning were, Make a end\non it! As you was! Me to the North, and you to the South! Keep in\nsunders! \n\nI had thought of that too, and it was very far from comforting to me to\nfind that he had thought of it; for it seemed to render it more\nprobable.\n\n But, Joe. \n\n Yes, old chap. \n\n Here am I, getting on in the first year of my time, and, since the day\nof my being bound, I have never thanked Miss Havisham, or asked after\nher, or shown that I remember her. \n\n That s true, Pip; and unless you was to turn her out a set of shoes\nall four round, and which I meantersay as even a set of shoes all four\nround might not be acceptable as a present, in a total wacancy of\nhoofs \n\n I don t mean that sort of remembrance, Joe; I don t mean a present. \n\nBut Joe had got the idea of a present in his head and must harp upon\nit.  Or even,  said he,  if you was helped to knocking her up a new\nchain for the front door, or say a gross or two of shark-headed screws\nfor general use, or some light fancy article, such as a toasting-fork\nwhen she took her muffins, or a gridiron when she took a sprat or such\nlike \n\n I don t mean any present at all, Joe,  I interposed.\n\n Well,  said Joe, still harping on it as though I had particularly\npressed it,  if I was yourself, Pip, I wouldn t. No, I would _not_. For\nwhat s a door-chain when she s got one always up? And shark-headers is\nopen to misrepresentations. And if it was a toasting-fork, you d go\ninto brass and do yourself no credit. And the oncommonest workman can t\nshow himself oncommon in a gridiron, for a gridiron IS a gridiron, \nsaid Joe, steadfastly impressing it upon me, as if he were endeavouring\nto rouse me from a fixed delusion,  and you may haim at what you like,\nbut a gridiron it will come out, either by your leave or again your\nleave, and you can t help yourself \n\n My dear Joe,  I cried, in desperation, taking hold of his coat,  don t\ngo on in that way. I never thought of making Miss Havisham any\npresent. \n\n No, Pip,  Joe assented, as if he had been contending for that, all\nalong;  and what I say to you is, you are right, Pip. \n\n Yes, Joe; but what I wanted to say, was, that as we are rather slack\njust now, if you would give me a half-holiday to-morrow, I think I\nwould go uptown and make a call on Miss Est Havisham. \n\n Which her name,  said Joe, gravely,  ain t Estavisham, Pip, unless she\nhave been rechris ened. \n\n I know, Joe, I know. It was a slip of mine. What do you think of it,\nJoe? \n\nIn brief, Joe thought that if I thought well of it, he thought well of\nit. But, he was particular in stipulating that if I were not received\nwith cordiality, or if I were not encouraged to repeat my visit as a\nvisit which had no ulterior object but was simply one of gratitude for\na favour received, then this experimental trip should have no\nsuccessor. By these conditions I promised to abide.\n\nNow, Joe kept a journeyman at weekly wages whose name was Orlick. He\npretended that his Christian name was Dolge, a clear Impossibility, but\nhe was a fellow of that obstinate disposition that I believe him to\nhave been the prey of no delusion in this particular, but wilfully to\nhave imposed that name upon the village as an affront to its\nunderstanding. He was a broadshouldered loose-limbed swarthy fellow of\ngreat strength, never in a hurry, and always slouching. He never even\nseemed to come to his work on purpose, but would slouch in as if by\nmere accident; and when he went to the Jolly Bargemen to eat his\ndinner, or went away at night, he would slouch out, like Cain or the\nWandering Jew, as if he had no idea where he was going and no intention\nof ever coming back. He lodged at a sluice-keeper s out on the marshes,\nand on working-days would come slouching from his hermitage, with his\nhands in his pockets and his dinner loosely tied in a bundle round his\nneck and dangling on his back. On Sundays he mostly lay all day on the\nsluice-gates, or stood against ricks and barns. He always slouched,\nlocomotively, with his eyes on the ground; and, when accosted or\notherwise required to raise them, he looked up in a half-resentful,\nhalf-puzzled way, as though the only thought he ever had was, that it\nwas rather an odd and injurious fact that he should never be thinking.\n\nThis morose journeyman had no liking for me. When I was very small and\ntimid, he gave me to understand that the Devil lived in a black corner\nof the forge, and that he knew the fiend very well: also that it was\nnecessary to make up the fire, once in seven years, with a live boy,\nand that I might consider myself fuel. When I became Joe s  prentice,\nOrlick was perhaps confirmed in some suspicion that I should displace\nhim; howbeit, he liked me still less. Not that he ever said anything,\nor did anything, openly importing hostility; I only noticed that he\nalways beat his sparks in my direction, and that whenever I sang Old\nClem, he came in out of time.\n\nDolge Orlick was at work and present, next day, when I reminded Joe of\nmy half-holiday. He said nothing at the moment, for he and Joe had just\ngot a piece of hot iron between them, and I was at the bellows; but by\nand by he said, leaning on his hammer, \n\n Now, master! Sure you re not a-going to favour only one of us. If\nYoung Pip has a half-holiday, do as much for Old Orlick.  I suppose he\nwas about five-and-twenty, but he usually spoke of himself as an\nancient person.\n\n Why, what ll you do with a half-holiday, if you get it?  said Joe.\n\n What ll _I_ do with it! What ll _he_ do with it? I ll do as much with\nit as _him_,  said Orlick.\n\n As to Pip, he s going up town,  said Joe.\n\n Well then, as to Old Orlick, _he_ s a-going up town,  retorted that\nworthy.  Two can go up town. Tain t only one wot can go up town.\n\n Don t lose your temper,  said Joe.\n\n Shall if I like,  growled Orlick.  Some and their uptowning! Now,\nmaster! Come. No favouring in this shop. Be a man! \n\nThe master refusing to entertain the subject until the journeyman was\nin a better temper, Orlick plunged at the furnace, drew out a red-hot\nbar, made at me with it as if he were going to run it through my body,\nwhisked it round my head, laid it on the anvil, hammered it out, as if\nit were I, I thought, and the sparks were my spirting blood, and\nfinally said, when he had hammered himself hot and the iron cold, and\nhe again leaned on his hammer, \n\n Now, master! \n\n Are you all right now?  demanded Joe.\n\n Ah! I am all right,  said gruff Old Orlick.\n\n Then, as in general you stick to your work as well as most men,  said\nJoe,  let it be a half-holiday for all. \n\nMy sister had been standing silent in the yard, within hearing, she was\na most unscrupulous spy and listener, and she instantly looked in at\none of the windows.\n\n Like you, you fool!  said she to Joe,  giving holidays to great idle\nhulkers like that. You are a rich man, upon my life, to waste wages in\nthat way. I wish _I_ was his master! \n\n You d be everybody s master, if you durst,  retorted Orlick, with an\nill-favoured grin.\n\n( Let her alone,  said Joe.)\n\n I d be a match for all noodles and all rogues,  returned my sister,\nbeginning to work herself into a mighty rage.  And I couldn t be a\nmatch for the noodles, without being a match for your master, who s the\ndunder-headed king of the noodles. And I couldn t be a match for the\nrogues, without being a match for you, who are the blackest-looking and\nthe worst rogue between this and France. Now! \n\n You re a foul shrew, Mother Gargery,  growled the journeyman.  If that\nmakes a judge of rogues, you ought to be a good un. \n\n( Let her alone, will you?  said Joe.)\n\n What did you say?  cried my sister, beginning to scream.  What did you\nsay? What did that fellow Orlick say to me, Pip? What did he call me,\nwith my husband standing by? Oh! oh! oh!  Each of these exclamations\nwas a shriek; and I must remark of my sister, what is equally true of\nall the violent women I have ever seen, that passion was no excuse for\nher, because it is undeniable that instead of lapsing into passion, she\nconsciously and deliberately took extraordinary pains to force herself\ninto it, and became blindly furious by regular stages;  what was the\nname he gave me before the base man who swore to defend me? Oh! Hold\nme! Oh! \n\n Ah-h-h!  growled the journeyman, between his teeth,  I d hold you, if\nyou was my wife. I d hold you under the pump, and choke it out of you. \n\n( I tell you, let her alone,  said Joe.)\n\n Oh! To hear him!  cried my sister, with a clap of her hands and a\nscream together, which was her next stage.  To hear the names he s\ngiving me! That Orlick! In my own house! Me, a married woman! With my\nhusband standing by! Oh! Oh!  Here my sister, after a fit of clappings\nand screamings, beat her hands upon her bosom and upon her knees, and\nthrew her cap off, and pulled her hair down, which were the last stages\non her road to frenzy. Being by this time a perfect Fury and a complete\nsuccess, she made a dash at the door which I had fortunately locked.\n\nWhat could the wretched Joe do now, after his disregarded parenthetical\ninterruptions, but stand up to his journeyman, and ask him what he\nmeant by interfering betwixt himself and Mrs. Joe; and further whether\nhe was man enough to come on? Old Orlick felt that the situation\nadmitted of nothing less than coming on, and was on his defence\nstraightway; so, without so much as pulling off their singed and burnt\naprons, they went at one another, like two giants. But, if any man in\nthat neighbourhood could stand uplong against Joe, I never saw the man.\nOrlick, as if he had been of no more account than the pale young\ngentleman, was very soon among the coal-dust, and in no hurry to come\nout of it. Then Joe unlocked the door and picked up my sister, who had\ndropped insensible at the window (but who had seen the fight first, I\nthink), and who was carried into the house and laid down, and who was\nrecommended to revive, and would do nothing but struggle and clench her\nhands in Joe s hair. Then came that singular calm and silence which\nsucceed all uproars; and then, with the vague sensation which I have\nalways connected with such a lull, namely, that it was Sunday, and\nsomebody was dead, I went upstairs to dress myself.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhen I came down again, I found Joe and Orlick sweeping up, without any\nother traces of discomposure than a slit in one of Orlick s nostrils,\nwhich was neither expressive nor ornamental. A pot of beer had appeared\nfrom the Jolly Bargemen, and they were sharing it by turns in a\npeaceable manner. The lull had a sedative and philosophical influence\non Joe, who followed me out into the road to say, as a parting\nobservation that might do me good,  On the Rampage, Pip, and off the\nRampage, Pip: such is Life! \n\nWith what absurd emotions (for we think the feelings that are very\nserious in a man quite comical in a boy) I found myself again going to\nMiss Havisham s, matters little here. Nor, how I passed and repassed\nthe gate many times before I could make up my mind to ring. Nor, how I\ndebated whether I should go away without ringing; nor, how I should\nundoubtedly have gone, if my time had been my own, to come back.\n\nMiss Sarah Pocket came to the gate. No Estella.\n\n How, then? You here again?  said Miss Pocket.  What do you want? \n\nWhen I said that I only came to see how Miss Havisham was, Sarah\nevidently deliberated whether or no she should send me about my\nbusiness. But unwilling to hazard the responsibility, she let me in,\nand presently brought the sharp message that I was to  come up. \n\nEverything was unchanged, and Miss Havisham was alone.\n\n Well?  said she, fixing her eyes upon me.  I hope you want nothing?\nYou ll get nothing. \n\n No indeed, Miss Havisham. I only wanted you to know that I am doing\nvery well in my apprenticeship, and am always much obliged to you. \n\n There, there!  with the old restless fingers.  Come now and then; come\non your birthday. Ay!  she cried suddenly, turning herself and her\nchair towards me,  You are looking round for Estella? Hey? \n\nI had been looking round, in fact, for Estella, and I stammered that I\nhoped she was well.\n\n Abroad,  said Miss Havisham;  educating for a lady; far out of reach;\nprettier than ever; admired by all who see her. Do you feel that you\nhave lost her? \n\nThere was such a malignant enjoyment in her utterance of the last\nwords, and she broke into such a disagreeable laugh, that I was at a\nloss what to say. She spared me the trouble of considering, by\ndismissing me. When the gate was closed upon me by Sarah of the\nwalnut-shell countenance, I felt more than ever dissatisfied with my\nhome and with my trade and with everything; and that was all I took by\n_that_ motion.\n\nAs I was loitering along the High Street, looking in disconsolately at\nthe shop windows, and thinking what I would buy if I were a gentleman,\nwho should come out of the bookshop but Mr. Wopsle. Mr. Wopsle had in\nhis hand the affecting tragedy of George Barnwell, in which he had that\nmoment invested sixpence, with the view of heaping every word of it on\nthe head of Pumblechook, with whom he was going to drink tea. No sooner\ndid he see me, than he appeared to consider that a special Providence\nhad put a  prentice in his way to be read at; and he laid hold of me,\nand insisted on my accompanying him to the Pumblechookian parlour. As I\nknew it would be miserable at home, and as the nights were dark and the\nway was dreary, and almost any companionship on the road was better\nthan none, I made no great resistance; consequently, we turned into\nPumblechook s just as the street and the shops were lighting up.\n\nAs I never assisted at any other representation of George Barnwell, I\ndon t know how long it may usually take; but I know very well that it\ntook until half-past nine o  clock that night, and that when Mr. Wopsle\ngot into Newgate, I thought he never would go to the scaffold, he\nbecame so much slower than at any former period of his disgraceful\ncareer. I thought it a little too much that he should complain of being\ncut short in his flower after all, as if he had not been running to\nseed, leaf after leaf, ever since his course began. This, however, was\na mere question of length and wearisomeness. What stung me, was the\nidentification of the whole affair with my unoffending self. When\nBarnwell began to go wrong, I declare that I felt positively\napologetic, Pumblechook s indignant stare so taxed me with it. Wopsle,\ntoo, took pains to present me in the worst light. At once ferocious and\nmaudlin, I was made to murder my uncle with no extenuating\ncircumstances whatever; Millwood put me down in argument, on every\noccasion; it became sheer monomania in my master s daughter to care a\nbutton for me; and all I can say for my gasping and procrastinating\nconduct on the fatal morning, is, that it was worthy of the general\nfeebleness of my character. Even after I was happily hanged and Wopsle\nhad closed the book, Pumblechook sat staring at me, and shaking his\nhead, and saying,  Take warning, boy, take warning!  as if it were a\nwell-known fact that I contemplated murdering a near relation, provided\nI could only induce one to have the weakness to become my benefactor.\n\nIt was a very dark night when it was all over, and when I set out with\nMr. Wopsle on the walk home. Beyond town, we found a heavy mist out,\nand it fell wet and thick. The turnpike lamp was a blur, quite out of\nthe lamp s usual place apparently, and its rays looked solid substance\non the fog. We were noticing this, and saying how that the mist rose\nwith a change of wind from a certain quarter of our marshes, when we\ncame upon a man, slouching under the lee of the turnpike house.\n\n Halloa!  we said, stopping.  Orlick there? \n\n Ah!  he answered, slouching out.  I was standing by a minute, on the\nchance of company. \n\n You are late,  I remarked.\n\nOrlick not unnaturally answered,  Well? And _you_ re late. \n\n We have been,  said Mr. Wopsle, exalted with his late performance, we\nhave been indulging, Mr. Orlick, in an intellectual evening. \n\nOld Orlick growled, as if he had nothing to say about that, and we all\nwent on together. I asked him presently whether he had been spending\nhis half-holiday up and down town?\n\n Yes,  said he,  all of it. I come in behind yourself. I didn t see\nyou, but I must have been pretty close behind you. By the by, the guns\nis going again. \n\n At the Hulks?  said I.\n\n Ay! There s some of the birds flown from the cages. The guns have been\ngoing since dark, about. You ll hear one presently. \n\nIn effect, we had not walked many yards further, when the\nwell-remembered boom came towards us, deadened by the mist, and heavily\nrolled away along the low grounds by the river, as if it were pursuing\nand threatening the fugitives.\n\n A good night for cutting off in,  said Orlick.  We d be puzzled how to\nbring down a jail-bird on the wing, to-night. \n\nThe subject was a suggestive one to me, and I thought about it in\nsilence. Mr. Wopsle, as the ill-requited uncle of the evening s\ntragedy, fell to meditating aloud in his garden at Camberwell. Orlick,\nwith his hands in his pockets, slouched heavily at my side. It was very\ndark, very wet, very muddy, and so we splashed along. Now and then, the\nsound of the signal cannon broke upon us again, and again rolled\nsulkily along the course of the river. I kept myself to myself and my\nthoughts. Mr. Wopsle died amiably at Camberwell, and exceedingly game\non Bosworth Field, and in the greatest agonies at Glastonbury. Orlick\nsometimes growled,  Beat it out, beat it out, Old Clem! With a clink\nfor the stout, Old Clem!  I thought he had been drinking, but he was\nnot drunk.\n\nThus, we came to the village. The way by which we approached it took us\npast the Three Jolly Bargemen, which we were surprised to find it being\neleven o clock in a state of commotion, with the door wide open, and\nunwonted lights that had been hastily caught up and put down scattered\nabout. Mr. Wopsle dropped in to ask what was the matter (surmising that\na convict had been taken), but came running out in a great hurry.\n\n There s something wrong,  said he, without stopping,  up at your\nplace, Pip. Run all! \n\n What is it?  I asked, keeping up with him. So did Orlick, at my side.\n\n I can t quite understand. The house seems to have been violently\nentered when Joe Gargery was out. Supposed by convicts. Somebody has\nbeen attacked and hurt. \n\nWe were running too fast to admit of more being said, and we made no\nstop until we got into our kitchen. It was full of people; the whole\nvillage was there, or in the yard; and there was a surgeon, and there\nwas Joe, and there were a group of women, all on the floor in the midst\nof the kitchen. The unemployed bystanders drew back when they saw me,\nand so I became aware of my sister, lying without sense or movement on\nthe bare boards where she had been knocked down by a tremendous blow on\nthe back of the head, dealt by some unknown hand when her face was\nturned towards the fire, destined never to be on the Rampage again,\nwhile she was the wife of Joe.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI.\n\n\nWith my head full of George Barnwell, I was at first disposed to\nbelieve that _I_ must have had some hand in the attack upon my sister,\nor at all events that as her near relation, popularly known to be under\nobligations to her, I was a more legitimate object of suspicion than\nany one else. But when, in the clearer light of next morning, I began\nto reconsider the matter and to hear it discussed around me on all\nsides, I took another view of the case, which was more reasonable.\n\nJoe had been at the Three Jolly Bargemen, smoking his pipe, from a\nquarter after eight o clock to a quarter before ten. While he was\nthere, my sister had been seen standing at the kitchen door, and had\nexchanged Good Night with a farm-labourer going home. The man could not\nbe more particular as to the time at which he saw her (he got into\ndense confusion when he tried to be), than that it must have been\nbefore nine. When Joe went home at five minutes before ten, he found\nher struck down on the floor, and promptly called in assistance. The\nfire had not then burnt unusually low, nor was the snuff of the candle\nvery long; the candle, however, had been blown out.\n\nNothing had been taken away from any part of the house. Neither, beyond\nthe blowing out of the candle, which stood on a table between the door\nand my sister, and was behind her when she stood facing the fire and\nwas struck, was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such\nas she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one\nremarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with\nsomething blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were\ndealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable\nviolence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when\nJoe picked her up, was a convict s leg-iron which had been filed\nasunder.\n\nNow, Joe, examining this iron with a smith s eye, declared it to have\nbeen filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the\nHulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe s opinion was\ncorroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the\nprison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they\nclaimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been\nworn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further,\none of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his\niron.\n\nKnowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed\nthe iron to be my convict s iron, the iron I had seen and heard him\nfiling at, on the marshes, but my mind did not accuse him of having put\nit to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have\nbecome possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account.\nEither Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file.\n\nNow, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we\npicked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the\nevening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and\nhe had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against\nhim, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with\neverybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if\nhe had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no\ndispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore\nthem. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in\nso silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could\nlook round.\n\nIt was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however\nundesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered\nunspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I\nshould at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the\nstory. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally\nin the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The\ncontention came, after all, to this; the secret was such an old one\nnow, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not\ntear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much\nmischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me\nif he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not\nbelieve it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets\nas a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of\ncourse for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing\nis always done? and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see\nany such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of\nthe assailant.\n\nThe Constables and the Bow Street men from London for, this happened in\nthe days of the extinct red-waistcoated police were about the house for\na week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like\nauthorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously\nwrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas,\nand persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead\nof trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood\nabout the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks\nthat filled the whole neighbourhood with admiration; and they had a\nmysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as\ntaking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it.\n\nLong after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay\nvery ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects\nmultiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of\nthe realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and\nher speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as\nto be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always\nby her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate\nin speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than\nindifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader,\nextraordinary complications arose between them which I was always\ncalled in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine,\nthe substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among\nthe mildest of my own mistakes.\n\nHowever, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A\ntremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part\nof her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three\nmonths, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then\nremain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We\nwere at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a\ncircumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had\nfallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment.\n\nIt may have been about a month after my sister s reappearance in the\nkitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the\nwhole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household.\nAbove all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly\ncut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had\nbeen accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me\nevery now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened,  Such a fine\nfigure of a woman as she once were, Pip!  Biddy instantly taking the\ncleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe\nbecame able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life,\nand to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that\ndid him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had\nall more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that\nthey had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest\nspirits they had ever encountered.\n\nBiddy s first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that\nhad completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made\nnothing of it. Thus it was: \n\nAgain and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a\ncharacter that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost\neagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly\nwanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T,\nfrom tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the\nsign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my\nsister s ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a\nqualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one\nafter another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the\nshape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and\ndisplayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook\nher head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified\nlest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck.\n\nWhen my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this\nmysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at\nit, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked\nthoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his\ninitial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me.\n\n Why, of course!  cried Biddy, with an exultant face.  Don t you see?\nIt s _him_! \n\nOrlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify\nhim by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the\nkitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his\narm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out,\nwith a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly\ndistinguished him.\n\nI confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was\ndisappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest\nanxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his\nbeing at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given\nsomething to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were\nparticularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his\nreception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and\nthere was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have\nseen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that\nday, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate,\nand without Orlick s slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as\nif he knew no more than I did what to make of it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII.\n\n\nI now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was\nvaried beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more\nremarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying\nanother visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty\nat the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she\nspoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words.\nThe interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I\nwas going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention\nat once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking\nthe guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than\ncausing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after\nthat, I took it.\n\nSo unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened\nroom, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that\nI felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that\nmysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew\nolder, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my\nthoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact.\nIt bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate\nmy trade and to be ashamed of home.\n\nImperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her\nshoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands\nwere always clean. She was not beautiful, she was common, and could not\nbe like Estella, but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered.\nShe had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly\nout of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself\none evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes\nthat were very pretty and very good.\n\nIt came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring\nat writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at\nonce by a sort of stratagem and seeing Biddy observant of what I was\nabout. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without\nlaying it down.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you\nare very clever. \n\n What is it that I manage? I don t know,  returned Biddy, smiling.\n\nShe managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not\nmean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising.\n\n How do you manage, Biddy,  said I,  to learn everything that I learn,\nand always to keep up with me?  I was beginning to be rather vain of my\nknowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the\ngreater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have\nno doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price.\n\n I might as well ask you,  said Biddy,  how _you_ manage? \n\n No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see\nme turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy. \n\n I suppose I must catch it like a cough,  said Biddy, quietly; and went\non with her sewing.\n\nPursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at\nBiddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her\nrather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was\nequally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our\ndifferent sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I\nknew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith\nas I, or better.\n\n You are one of those, Biddy,  said I,  who make the most of every\nchance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how\nimproved you are! \n\nBiddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing.  I was\nyour first teacher though; wasn t I?  said she, as she sewed.\n\n Biddy!  I exclaimed, in amazement.  Why, you are crying! \n\n No I am not,  said Biddy, looking up and laughing.  What put that in\nyour head? \n\nWhat could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it\ndropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been\nuntil Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of\nliving, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled\nthe hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the\nmiserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school,\nwith that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and\nshouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must\nhave been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first\nuneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of\ncourse. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I\nlooked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps\nI had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too\nreserved, and should have patronised her more (though I did not use\nthat precise word in my meditations) with my confidence.\n\n Yes, Biddy,  I observed, when I had done turning it over,  you were my\nfirst teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being\ntogether like this, in this kitchen. \n\n Ah, poor thing!  replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to\ntransfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her,\nmaking her more comfortable;  that s sadly true! \n\n Well!  said I,  we must talk together a little more, as we used to do.\nAnd I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a\nquiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat. \n\nMy sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook\nthe care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out\ntogether. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed\nthe village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the\nmarshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I\nbegan to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my\nusual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank,\nwith the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it\nwould have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time\nand place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence.\n\n Biddy,  said I, after binding her to secrecy,  I want to be a\ngentleman. \n\n O, I wouldn t, if I was you!  she returned.  I don t think it would\nanswer. \n\n Biddy,  said I, with some severity,  I have particular reasons for\nwanting to be a gentleman. \n\n You know best, Pip; but don t you think you are happier as you are? \n\n Biddy,  I exclaimed, impatiently,  I am not at all happy as I am. I am\ndisgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to\neither, since I was bound. Don t be absurd. \n\n Was I absurd?  said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows;  I am sorry\nfor that; I didn t mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be\ncomfortable. \n\n Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be\ncomfortable or anything but miserable there, Biddy! unless I can lead a\nvery different sort of life from the life I lead now. \n\n That s a pity!  said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air.\n\nNow, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind\nof quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half\ninclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave\nutterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I\nknew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped.\n\n If I could have settled down,  I said to Biddy, plucking up the short\ngrass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings\nout of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall, if I could have\nsettled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was\nlittle, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe\nwould have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone\npartners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to\nkeep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a\nfine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for\n_you_; shouldn t I, Biddy? \n\nBiddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for\nanswer,  Yes; I am not over-particular.  It scarcely sounded\nflattering, but I knew she meant well.\n\n Instead of that,  said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade\nor two,  see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable,\nand what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had\ntold me so! \n\nBiddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more\nattentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships.\n\n It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say,  she\nremarked, directing her eyes to the ships again.  Who said it? \n\nI was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I\nwas going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I\nanswered,  The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham s, and she s more\nbeautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I\nwant to be a gentleman on her account.  Having made this lunatic\nconfession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I\nhad some thoughts of following it.\n\n Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over? \nBiddy quietly asked me, after a pause.\n\n I don t know,  I moodily answered.\n\n Because, if it is to spite her,  Biddy pursued,  I should think but\nyou know best that might be better and more independently done by\ncaring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should\nthink but you know best she was not worth gaining over. \n\nExactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was\nperfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed\nvillage lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and\nwisest of men fall every day?\n\n It may be all quite true,  said I to Biddy,  but I admire her\ndreadfully. \n\nIn short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good\ngrasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All\nthe while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and\nmisplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face\nright, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the\npebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot.\n\nBiddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me.\nShe put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by\nwork, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my\nhair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with\nmy face upon my sleeve I cried a little, exactly as I had done in the\nbrewery yard, and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used\nby somebody, or by everybody; I can t say which.\n\n I am glad of one thing,  said Biddy,  and that is, that you have felt\nyou could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing,\nand that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it\nand always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a\npoor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your\nteacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would\nset. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her,\nand it s of no use now.  So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from\nthe bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice,  Shall\nwe walk a little farther, or go home? \n\n Biddy,  I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving\nher a kiss,  I shall always tell you everything. \n\n Till you re a gentleman,  said Biddy.\n\n You know I never shall be, so that s always. Not that I have any\noccasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know, as I\ntold you at home the other night. \n\n Ah!  said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships.\nAnd then repeated, with her former pleasant change,  shall we walk a\nlittle farther, or go home? \n\nI said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the\nsummer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very\nbeautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and\nwholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing\nbeggar my neighbour by candle-light in the room with the stopped\nclocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good\nfor me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those\nremembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish\nwhat I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked\nmyself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were\nbeside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable?\nI was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said\nto myself,  Pip, what a fool you are! \n\nWe talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed\nright. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and\nsomebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no\npleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her\nown breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her\nmuch the better of the two?\n\n Biddy,  said I, when we were walking homeward,  I wish you could put\nme right. \n\n I wish I could!  said Biddy.\n\n If I could only get myself to fall in love with you, you don t mind my\nspeaking so openly to such an old acquaintance? \n\n Oh dear, not at all!  said Biddy.  Don t mind me. \n\n If I could only get myself to do it, _that_ would be the thing for\nme. \n\n But you never will, you see,  said Biddy.\n\nIt did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would\nhave done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore\nobserved I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she _was_, and\nshe said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet\nI took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point.\n\nWhen we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and\nget over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate,\nor from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant\nway), Old Orlick.\n\n Halloa!  he growled,  where are you two going? \n\n Where should we be going, but home? \n\n Well, then,  said he,  I m jiggered if I don t see you home! \n\nThis penalty of being jiggered was a favourite supposititious case of\nhis. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of,\nbut used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind,\nand convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger,\nI had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he\nwould have done it with a sharp and twisted hook.\n\nBiddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper,\n Don t let him come; I don t like him.  As I did not like him either, I\ntook the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn t want\nseeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of\nlaughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little\ndistance.\n\nCurious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in\nthat murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give\nany account, I asked her why she did not like him.\n\n Oh!  she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us,\n because I I am afraid he likes me. \n\n Did he ever tell you he liked you?  I asked indignantly.\n\n No,  said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again,  he never told me\nso; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye. \n\nHowever novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not\ndoubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon\nOld Orlick s daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on\nmyself.\n\n But it makes no difference to you, you know,  said Biddy, calmly.\n\n No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don t like it; I don t\napprove of it. \n\n Nor I neither,  said Biddy.  Though _that_ makes no difference to\nyou. \n\n Exactly,  said I;  but I must tell you I should have no opinion of\nyou, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent. \n\nI kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances\nwere favourable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that\ndemonstration. He had struck root in Joe s establishment, by reason of\nmy sister s sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him\ndismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as\nI had reason to know thereafter.\n\nAnd now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated\nits confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I\nwas clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the\nplain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be\nashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and\nhappiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my\ndisaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was\ngrowing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company\nwith Biddy, when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the\nHavisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and\nscatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and\noften before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in\nall directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss\nHavisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out.\n\nIf my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my\nperplexities, I dare say. It never did run out, however, but was\nbrought to a premature end, as I proceed to relate.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII.\n\n\nIt was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to Joe, and it was a\nSaturday night. There was a group assembled round the fire at the Three\nJolly Bargemen, attentive to Mr. Wopsle as he read the newspaper aloud.\nOf that group I was one.\n\nA highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr. Wopsle was imbrued\nin blood to the eyebrows. He gloated over every abhorrent adjective in\nthe description, and identified himself with every witness at the\nInquest. He faintly moaned,  I am done for,  as the victim, and he\nbarbarously bellowed,  I ll serve you out,  as the murderer. He gave\nthe medical testimony, in pointed imitation of our local practitioner;\nand he piped and shook, as the aged turnpike-keeper who had heard\nblows, to an extent so very paralytic as to suggest a doubt regarding\nthe mental competency of that witness. The coroner, in Mr. Wopsle s\nhands, became Timon of Athens; the beadle, Coriolanus. He enjoyed\nhimself thoroughly, and we all enjoyed ourselves, and were delightfully\ncomfortable. In this cosey state of mind we came to the verdict Wilful\nMurder.\n\nThen, and not sooner, I became aware of a strange gentleman leaning\nover the back of the settle opposite me, looking on. There was an\nexpression of contempt on his face, and he bit the side of a great\nforefinger as he watched the group of faces.\n\n Well!  said the stranger to Mr. Wopsle, when the reading was done,\n you have settled it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt? \n\nEverybody started and looked up, as if it were the murderer. He looked\nat everybody coldly and sarcastically.\n\n Guilty, of course?  said he.  Out with it. Come! \n\n Sir,  returned Mr. Wopsle,  without having the honour of your\nacquaintance, I do say Guilty.  Upon this we all took courage to unite\nin a confirmatory murmur.\n\n I know you do,  said the stranger;  I knew you would. I told you so.\nBut now I ll ask you a question. Do you know, or do you not know, that\nthe law of England supposes every man to be innocent, until he is\nproved proved to be guilty? \n\n Sir,  Mr. Wopsle began to reply,  as an Englishman myself, I \n\n Come!  said the stranger, biting his forefinger at him.  Don t evade\nthe question. Either you know it, or you don t know it. Which is it to\nbe? \n\nHe stood with his head on one side and himself on one side, in a\nbullying, interrogative manner, and he threw his forefinger at Mr.\nWopsle, as it were to mark him out before biting it again.\n\n Now!  said he.  Do you know it, or don t you know it? \n\n Certainly I know it,  replied Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Certainly you know it. Then why didn t you say so at first? Now, I ll\nask you another question, taking possession of Mr. Wopsle, as if he\nhad a right to him, _do_ you know that none of these witnesses have\nyet been cross-examined? \n\nMr. Wopsle was beginning,  I can only say  when the stranger stopped\nhim.\n\n What? You won t answer the question, yes or no? Now, I ll try you\nagain.  Throwing his finger at him again.  Attend to me. Are you aware,\nor are you not aware, that none of these witnesses have yet been\ncross-examined? Come, I only want one word from you. Yes, or no? \n\nMr. Wopsle hesitated, and we all began to conceive rather a poor\nopinion of him.\n\n Come!  said the stranger,  I ll help you. You don t deserve help, but\nI ll help you. Look at that paper you hold in your hand. What is it? \n\n What is it?  repeated Mr. Wopsle, eyeing it, much at a loss.\n\n Is it,  pursued the stranger in his most sarcastic and suspicious\nmanner,  the printed paper you have just been reading from? \n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n Undoubtedly. Now, turn to that paper, and tell me whether it\ndistinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that his legal\nadvisers instructed him altogether to reserve his defence? \n\n I read that just now,  Mr. Wopsle pleaded.\n\n Never mind what you read just now, sir; I don t ask you what you read\njust now. You may read the Lord s Prayer backwards, if you like, and,\nperhaps, have done it before to-day. Turn to the paper. No, no, no my\nfriend; not to the top of the column; you know better than that; to the\nbottom, to the bottom.  (We all began to think Mr. Wopsle full of\nsubterfuge.)  Well? Have you found it? \n\n Here it is,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Now, follow that passage with your eye, and tell me whether it\ndistinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that he was\ninstructed by his legal advisers wholly to reserve his defence? Come!\nDo you make that of it? \n\nMr. Wopsle answered,  Those are not the exact words. \n\n Not the exact words!  repeated the gentleman bitterly.  Is that the\nexact substance? \n\n Yes,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Yes,  repeated the stranger, looking round at the rest of the company\nwith his right hand extended towards the witness, Wopsle.  And now I\nask you what you say to the conscience of that man who, with that\npassage before his eyes, can lay his head upon his pillow after having\npronounced a fellow-creature guilty, unheard? \n\nWe all began to suspect that Mr. Wopsle was not the man we had thought\nhim, and that he was beginning to be found out.\n\n And that same man, remember,  pursued the gentleman, throwing his\nfinger at Mr. Wopsle heavily, that same man might be summoned as a\njuryman upon this very trial, and, having thus deeply committed\nhimself, might return to the bosom of his family and lay his head upon\nhis pillow, after deliberately swearing that he would well and truly\ntry the issue joined between Our Sovereign Lord the King and the\nprisoner at the bar, and would a true verdict give according to the\nevidence, so help him God! \n\nWe were all deeply persuaded that the unfortunate Wopsle had gone too\nfar, and had better stop in his reckless career while there was yet\ntime.\n\nThe strange gentleman, with an air of authority not to be disputed, and\nwith a manner expressive of knowing something secret about every one of\nus that would effectually do for each individual if he chose to\ndisclose it, left the back of the settle, and came into the space\nbetween the two settles, in front of the fire, where he remained\nstanding, his left hand in his pocket, and he biting the forefinger of\nhis right.\n\n From information I have received,  said he, looking round at us as we\nall quailed before him,  I have reason to believe there is a blacksmith\namong you, by name Joseph or Joe Gargery. Which is the man? \n\n Here is the man,  said Joe.\n\nThe strange gentleman beckoned him out of his place, and Joe went.\n\n You have an apprentice,  pursued the stranger,  commonly known as Pip?\nIs he here? \n\n I am here!  I cried.\n\nThe stranger did not recognise me, but I recognised him as the\ngentleman I had met on the stairs, on the occasion of my second visit\nto Miss Havisham. I had known him the moment I saw him looking over the\nsettle, and now that I stood confronting him with his hand upon my\nshoulder, I checked off again in detail his large head, his dark\ncomplexion, his deep-set eyes, his bushy black eyebrows, his large\nwatch-chain, his strong black dots of beard and whisker, and even the\nsmell of scented soap on his great hand.\n\n I wish to have a private conference with you two,  said he, when he\nhad surveyed me at his leisure.  It will take a little time. Perhaps we\nhad better go to your place of residence. I prefer not to anticipate my\ncommunication here; you will impart as much or as little of it as you\nplease to your friends afterwards; I have nothing to do with that. \n\nAmidst a wondering silence, we three walked out of the Jolly Bargemen,\nand in a wondering silence walked home. While going along, the strange\ngentleman occasionally looked at me, and occasionally bit the side of\nhis finger. As we neared home, Joe vaguely acknowledging the occasion\nas an impressive and ceremonious one, went on ahead to open the front\ndoor. Our conference was held in the state parlour, which was feebly\nlighted by one candle.\n\nIt began with the strange gentleman s sitting down at the table,\ndrawing the candle to him, and looking over some entries in his\npocket-book. He then put up the pocket-book and set the candle a little\naside, after peering round it into the darkness at Joe and me, to\nascertain which was which.\n\n My name,  he said,  is Jaggers, and I am a lawyer in London. I am\npretty well known. I have unusual business to transact with you, and I\ncommence by explaining that it is not of my originating. If my advice\nhad been asked, I should not have been here. It was not asked, and you\nsee me here. What I have to do as the confidential agent of another, I\ndo. No less, no more. \n\nFinding that he could not see us very well from where he sat, he got\nup, and threw one leg over the back of a chair and leaned upon it; thus\nhaving one foot on the seat of the chair, and one foot on the ground.\n\n Now, Joseph Gargery, I am the bearer of an offer to relieve you of\nthis young fellow your apprentice. You would not object to cancel his\nindentures at his request and for his good? You would want nothing for\nso doing? \n\n Lord forbid that I should want anything for not standing in Pip s\nway,  said Joe, staring.\n\n Lord forbidding is pious, but not to the purpose,  returned Mr.\nJaggers.  The question is, Would you want anything? Do you want\nanything? \n\n The answer is,  returned Joe, sternly,  No. \n\nI thought Mr. Jaggers glanced at Joe, as if he considered him a fool\nfor his disinterestedness. But I was too much bewildered between\nbreathless curiosity and surprise, to be sure of it.\n\n Very well,  said Mr. Jaggers.  Recollect the admission you have made,\nand don t try to go from it presently. \n\n Who s a-going to try?  retorted Joe.\n\n I don t say anybody is. Do you keep a dog? \n\n Yes, I do keep a dog. \n\n Bear in mind then, that Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better.\nBear that in mind, will you?  repeated Mr. Jaggers, shutting his eyes\nand nodding his head at Joe, as if he were forgiving him something.\n Now, I return to this young fellow. And the communication I have got\nto make is, that he has great expectations. \n\nJoe and I gasped, and looked at one another.\n\n I am instructed to communicate to him,  said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his\nfinger at me sideways,  that he will come into a handsome property.\nFurther, that it is the desire of the present possessor of that\nproperty, that he be immediately removed from his present sphere of\nlife and from this place, and be brought up as a gentleman, in a word,\nas a young fellow of great expectations. \n\nMy dream was out; my wild fancy was surpassed by sober reality; Miss\nHavisham was going to make my fortune on a grand scale.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip,  pursued the lawyer,  I address the rest of what I have\nto say, to you. You are to understand, first, that it is the request of\nthe person from whom I take my instructions that you always bear the\nname of Pip. You will have no objection, I dare say, to your great\nexpectations being encumbered with that easy condition. But if you have\nany objection, this is the time to mention it. \n\nMy heart was beating so fast, and there was such a singing in my ears,\nthat I could scarcely stammer I had no objection.\n\n I should think not! Now you are to understand, secondly, Mr. Pip, that\nthe name of the person who is your liberal benefactor remains a\nprofound secret, until the person chooses to reveal it. I am empowered\nto mention that it is the intention of the person to reveal it at first\nhand by word of mouth to yourself. When or where that intention may be\ncarried out, I cannot say; no one can say. It may be years hence. Now,\nyou are distinctly to understand that you are most positively\nprohibited from making any inquiry on this head, or any allusion or\nreference, however distant, to any individual whomsoever as _the_\nindividual, in all the communications you may have with me. If you have\na suspicion in your own breast, keep that suspicion in your own breast.\nIt is not the least to the purpose what the reasons of this prohibition\nare; they may be the strongest and gravest reasons, or they may be mere\nwhim. This is not for you to inquire into. The condition is laid down.\nYour acceptance of it, and your observance of it as binding, is the\nonly remaining condition that I am charged with, by the person from\nwhom I take my instructions, and for whom I am not otherwise\nresponsible. That person is the person from whom you derive your\nexpectations, and the secret is solely held by that person and by me.\nAgain, not a very difficult condition with which to encumber such a\nrise in fortune; but if you have any objection to it, this is the time\nto mention it. Speak out. \n\nOnce more, I stammered with difficulty that I had no objection.\n\n I should think not! Now, Mr. Pip, I have done with stipulations. \nThough he called me Mr. Pip, and began rather to make up to me, he\nstill could not get rid of a certain air of bullying suspicion; and\neven now he occasionally shut his eyes and threw his finger at me while\nhe spoke, as much as to express that he knew all kinds of things to my\ndisparagement, if he only chose to mention them.  We come next, to mere\ndetails of arrangement. You must know that, although I have used the\nterm  expectations  more than once, you are not endowed with\nexpectations only. There is already lodged in my hands a sum of money\namply sufficient for your suitable education and maintenance. You will\nplease consider me your guardian. Oh!  for I was going to thank him,  I\ntell you at once, I am paid for my services, or I shouldn t render\nthem. It is considered that you must be better educated, in accordance\nwith your altered position, and that you will be alive to the\nimportance and necessity of at once entering on that advantage. \n\nI said I had always longed for it.\n\n Never mind what you have always longed for, Mr. Pip,  he retorted;\n keep to the record. If you long for it now, that s enough. Am I\nanswered that you are ready to be placed at once under some proper\ntutor? Is that it? \n\nI stammered yes, that was it.\n\n Good. Now, your inclinations are to be consulted. I don t think that\nwise, mind, but it s my trust. Have you ever heard of any tutor whom\nyou would prefer to another? \n\nI had never heard of any tutor but Biddy and Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt;\nso, I replied in the negative.\n\n There is a certain tutor, of whom I have some knowledge, who I think\nmight suit the purpose,  said Mr. Jaggers.  I don t recommend him,\nobserve; because I never recommend anybody. The gentleman I speak of is\none Mr. Matthew Pocket. \n\nAh! I caught at the name directly. Miss Havisham s relation. The\nMatthew whom Mr. and Mrs. Camilla had spoken of. The Matthew whose\nplace was to be at Miss Havisham s head, when she lay dead, in her\nbride s dress on the bride s table.\n\n You know the name?  said Mr. Jaggers, looking shrewdly at me, and then\nshutting up his eyes while he waited for my answer.\n\nMy answer was, that I had heard of the name.\n\n Oh!  said he.  You have heard of the name. But the question is, what\ndo you say of it? \n\nI said, or tried to say, that I was much obliged to him for his\nrecommendation \n\n No, my young friend!  he interrupted, shaking his great head very\nslowly.  Recollect yourself! \n\nNot recollecting myself, I began again that I was much obliged to him\nfor his recommendation \n\n No, my young friend,  he interrupted, shaking his head and frowning\nand smiling both at once, no, no, no; it s very well done, but it\nwon t do; you are too young to fix me with it. Recommendation is not\nthe word, Mr. Pip. Try another. \n\nCorrecting myself, I said that I was much obliged to him for his\nmention of Mr. Matthew Pocket \n\n _That_ s more like it!  cried Mr. Jaggers. And (I added), I would\ngladly try that gentleman.\n\n Good. You had better try him in his own house. The way shall be\nprepared for you, and you can see his son first, who is in London. When\nwill you come to London? \n\nI said (glancing at Joe, who stood looking on, motionless), that I\nsupposed I could come directly.\n\n First,  said Mr. Jaggers,  you should have some new clothes to come\nin, and they should not be working-clothes. Say this day week. You ll\nwant some money. Shall I leave you twenty guineas? \n\nHe produced a long purse, with the greatest coolness, and counted them\nout on the table and pushed them over to me. This was the first time he\nhad taken his leg from the chair. He sat astride of the chair when he\nhad pushed the money over, and sat swinging his purse and eyeing Joe.\n\n Well, Joseph Gargery? You look dumbfoundered? \n\n I _am_!  said Joe, in a very decided manner.\n\n It was understood that you wanted nothing for yourself, remember? \n\n It were understood,  said Joe.  And it are understood. And it ever\nwill be similar according. \n\n But what,  said Mr. Jaggers, swinging his purse, what if it was in my\ninstructions to make you a present, as compensation? \n\n As compensation what for?  Joe demanded.\n\n For the loss of his services. \n\nJoe laid his hand upon my shoulder with the touch of a woman. I have\noften thought him since, like the steam-hammer that can crush a man or\npat an egg-shell, in his combination of strength with gentleness.  Pip\nis that hearty welcome,  said Joe,  to go free with his services, to\nhonour and fortun , as no words can tell him. But if you think as Money\ncan make compensation to me for the loss of the little child what come\nto the forge and ever the best of friends! \n\nO dear good Joe, whom I was so ready to leave and so unthankful to, I\nsee you again, with your muscular blacksmith s arm before your eyes,\nand your broad chest heaving, and your voice dying away. O dear good\nfaithful tender Joe, I feel the loving tremble of your hand upon my\narm, as solemnly this day as if it had been the rustle of an angel s\nwing!\n\nBut I encouraged Joe at the time. I was lost in the mazes of my future\nfortunes, and could not retrace the by-paths we had trodden together. I\nbegged Joe to be comforted, for (as he said) we had ever been the best\nof friends, and (as I said) we ever would be so. Joe scooped his eyes\nwith his disengaged wrist, as if he were bent on gouging himself, but\nsaid not another word.\n\nMr. Jaggers had looked on at this, as one who recognised in Joe the\nvillage idiot, and in me his keeper. When it was over, he said,\nweighing in his hand the purse he had ceased to swing: \n\n Now, Joseph Gargery, I warn you this is your last chance. No half\nmeasures with me. If you mean to take a present that I have it in\ncharge to make you, speak out, and you shall have it. If on the\ncontrary you mean to say  Here, to his great amazement, he was stopped\nby Joe s suddenly working round him with every demonstration of a fell\npugilistic purpose.\n\n Which I meantersay,  cried Joe,  that if you come into my place\nbull-baiting and badgering me, come out! Which I meantersay as sech if\nyou re a man, come on! Which I meantersay that what I say, I meantersay\nand stand or fall by! \n\nI drew Joe away, and he immediately became placable; merely stating to\nme, in an obliging manner and as a polite expostulatory notice to any\none whom it might happen to concern, that he were not a-going to be\nbull-baited and badgered in his own place. Mr. Jaggers had risen when\nJoe demonstrated, and had backed near the door. Without evincing any\ninclination to come in again, he there delivered his valedictory\nremarks. They were these.\n\n Well, Mr. Pip, I think the sooner you leave here as you are to be a\ngentleman the better. Let it stand for this day week, and you shall\nreceive my printed address in the meantime. You can take a\nhackney-coach at the stage-coach office in London, and come straight to\nme. Understand, that I express no opinion, one way or other, on the\ntrust I undertake. I am paid for undertaking it, and I do so. Now,\nunderstand that, finally. Understand that! \n\nHe was throwing his finger at both of us, and I think would have gone\non, but for his seeming to think Joe dangerous, and going off.\n\nSomething came into my head which induced me to run after him, as he\nwas going down to the Jolly Bargemen, where he had left a hired\ncarriage.\n\n I beg your pardon, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Halloa!  said he, facing round,  what s the matter? \n\n I wish to be quite right, Mr. Jaggers, and to keep to your directions;\nso I thought I had better ask. Would there be any objection to my\ntaking leave of any one I know, about here, before I go away? \n\n No,  said he, looking as if he hardly understood me.\n\n I don t mean in the village only, but up town? \n\n No,  said he.  No objection. \n\nI thanked him and ran home again, and there I found that Joe had\nalready locked the front door and vacated the state parlour, and was\nseated by the kitchen fire with a hand on each knee, gazing intently at\nthe burning coals. I too sat down before the fire and gazed at the\ncoals, and nothing was said for a long time.\n\nMy sister was in her cushioned chair in her corner, and Biddy sat at\nher needle-work before the fire, and Joe sat next Biddy, and I sat next\nJoe in the corner opposite my sister. The more I looked into the\nglowing coals, the more incapable I became of looking at Joe; the\nlonger the silence lasted, the more unable I felt to speak.\n\nAt length I got out,  Joe, have you told Biddy? \n\n No, Pip,  returned Joe, still looking at the fire, and holding his\nknees tight, as if he had private information that they intended to\nmake off somewhere,  which I left it to yourself, Pip. \n\n I would rather you told, Joe. \n\n Pip s a gentleman of fortun  then,  said Joe,  and God bless him in\nit! \n\nBiddy dropped her work, and looked at me. Joe held his knees and looked\nat me. I looked at both of them. After a pause, they both heartily\ncongratulated me; but there was a certain touch of sadness in their\ncongratulations that I rather resented.\n\nI took it upon myself to impress Biddy (and through Biddy, Joe) with\nthe grave obligation I considered my friends under, to know nothing and\nsay nothing about the maker of my fortune. It would all come out in\ngood time, I observed, and in the meanwhile nothing was to be said,\nsave that I had come into great expectations from a mysterious patron.\nBiddy nodded her head thoughtfully at the fire as she took up her work\nagain, and said she would be very particular; and Joe, still detaining\nhis knees, said,  Ay, ay, I ll be ekervally partickler, Pip;  and then\nthey congratulated me again, and went on to express so much wonder at\nthe notion of my being a gentleman that I didn t half like it.\n\nInfinite pains were then taken by Biddy to convey to my sister some\nidea of what had happened. To the best of my belief, those efforts\nentirely failed. She laughed and nodded her head a great many times,\nand even repeated after Biddy, the words  Pip  and  Property.  But I\ndoubt if they had more meaning in them than an election cry, and I\ncannot suggest a darker picture of her state of mind.\n\nI never could have believed it without experience, but as Joe and Biddy\nbecame more at their cheerful ease again, I became quite gloomy.\nDissatisfied with my fortune, of course I could not be; but it is\npossible that I may have been, without quite knowing it, dissatisfied\nwith myself.\n\nAnyhow, I sat with my elbow on my knee and my face upon my hand,\nlooking into the fire, as those two talked about my going away, and\nabout what they should do without me, and all that. And whenever I\ncaught one of them looking at me, though never so pleasantly (and they\noften looked at me, particularly Biddy), I felt offended: as if they\nwere expressing some mistrust of me. Though Heaven knows they never did\nby word or sign.\n\nAt those times I would get up and look out at the door; for our kitchen\ndoor opened at once upon the night, and stood open on summer evenings\nto air the room. The very stars to which I then raised my eyes, I am\nafraid I took to be but poor and humble stars for glittering on the\nrustic objects among which I had passed my life.\n\n Saturday night,  said I, when we sat at our supper of bread and cheese\nand beer.  Five more days, and then the day before _the_ day! They ll\nsoon go. \n\n Yes, Pip,  observed Joe, whose voice sounded hollow in his beer-mug.\n They ll soon go. \n\n Soon, soon go,  said Biddy.\n\n I have been thinking, Joe, that when I go down town on Monday, and\norder my new clothes, I shall tell the tailor that I ll come and put\nthem on there, or that I ll have them sent to Mr. Pumblechook s. It\nwould be very disagreeable to be stared at by all the people here. \n\n Mr. and Mrs. Hubble might like to see you in your new gen-teel figure\ntoo, Pip,  said Joe, industriously cutting his bread, with his cheese\non it, in the palm of his left hand, and glancing at my untasted supper\nas if he thought of the time when we used to compare slices.  So might\nWopsle. And the Jolly Bargemen might take it as a compliment. \n\n That s just what I don t want, Joe. They would make such a business of\nit, such a coarse and common business, that I couldn t bear myself. \n\n Ah, that indeed, Pip!  said Joe.  If you couldn t abear yourself \n\nBiddy asked me here, as she sat holding my sister s plate,  Have you\nthought about when you ll show yourself to Mr. Gargery, and your sister\nand me? You will show yourself to us; won t you? \n\n Biddy,  I returned with some resentment,  you are so exceedingly quick\nthat it s difficult to keep up with you. \n\n( She always were quick,  observed Joe.)\n\n If you had waited another moment, Biddy, you would have heard me say\nthat I shall bring my clothes here in a bundle one evening, most likely\non the evening before I go away. \n\nBiddy said no more. Handsomely forgiving her, I soon exchanged an\naffectionate good night with her and Joe, and went up to bed. When I\ngot into my little room, I sat down and took a long look at it, as a\nmean little room that I should soon be parted from and raised above,\nfor ever. It was furnished with fresh young remembrances too, and even\nat the same moment I fell into much the same confused division of mind\nbetween it and the better rooms to which I was going, as I had been in\nso often between the forge and Miss Havisham s, and Biddy and Estella.\n\nThe sun had been shining brightly all day on the roof of my attic, and\nthe room was warm. As I put the window open and stood looking out, I\nsaw Joe come slowly forth at the dark door, below, and take a turn or\ntwo in the air; and then I saw Biddy come, and bring him a pipe and\nlight it for him. He never smoked so late, and it seemed to hint to me\nthat he wanted comforting, for some reason or other.\n\nHe presently stood at the door immediately beneath me, smoking his\npipe, and Biddy stood there too, quietly talking to him, and I knew\nthat they talked of me, for I heard my name mentioned in an endearing\ntone by both of them more than once. I would not have listened for\nmore, if I could have heard more; so I drew away from the window, and\nsat down in my one chair by the bedside, feeling it very sorrowful and\nstrange that this first night of my bright fortunes should be the\nloneliest I had ever known.\n\nLooking towards the open window, I saw light wreaths from Joe s pipe\nfloating there, and I fancied it was like a blessing from Joe, not\nobtruded on me or paraded before me, but pervading the air we shared\ntogether. I put my light out, and crept into bed; and it was an uneasy\nbed now, and I never slept the old sound sleep in it any more.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX.\n\n\nMorning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life,\nand brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same. What lay\nheaviest on my mind was, the consideration that six days intervened\nbetween me and the day of departure; for I could not divest myself of a\nmisgiving that something might happen to London in the meanwhile, and\nthat, when I got there, it would be either greatly deteriorated or\nclean gone.\n\nJoe and Biddy were very sympathetic and pleasant when I spoke of our\napproaching separation; but they only referred to it when I did. After\nbreakfast, Joe brought out my indentures from the press in the best\nparlour, and we put them in the fire, and I felt that I was free. With\nall the novelty of my emancipation on me, I went to church with Joe,\nand thought perhaps the clergyman wouldn t have read that about the\nrich man and the kingdom of Heaven, if he had known all.\n\nAfter our early dinner, I strolled out alone, purposing to finish off\nthe marshes at once, and get them done with. As I passed the church, I\nfelt (as I had felt during service in the morning) a sublime compassion\nfor the poor creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after\nSunday, all their lives through, and to lie obscurely at last among the\nlow green mounds. I promised myself that I would do something for them\none of these days, and formed a plan in outline for bestowing a dinner\nof roast-beef and plum-pudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of\ncondescension, upon everybody in the village.\n\nIf I had often thought before, with something allied to shame, of my\ncompanionship with the fugitive whom I had once seen limping among\nthose graves, what were my thoughts on this Sunday, when the place\nrecalled the wretch, ragged and shivering, with his felon iron and\nbadge! My comfort was, that it happened a long time ago, and that he\nhad doubtless been transported a long way off, and that he was dead to\nme, and might be veritably dead into the bargain.\n\nNo more low, wet grounds, no more dikes and sluices, no more of these\ngrazing cattle, though they seemed, in their dull manner, to wear a\nmore respectful air now, and to face round, in order that they might\nstare as long as possible at the possessor of such great\nexpectations, farewell, monotonous acquaintances of my childhood,\nhenceforth I was for London and greatness; not for smith s work in\ngeneral, and for you! I made my exultant way to the old Battery, and,\nlying down there to consider the question whether Miss Havisham\nintended me for Estella, fell asleep.\n\nWhen I awoke, I was much surprised to find Joe sitting beside me,\nsmoking his pipe. He greeted me with a cheerful smile on my opening my\neyes, and said, \n\n As being the last time, Pip, I thought I d foller. \n\n And Joe, I am very glad you did so. \n\n Thankee, Pip. \n\n You may be sure, dear Joe,  I went on, after we had shaken hands,\n that I shall never forget you. \n\n No, no, Pip!  said Joe, in a comfortable tone,  _I_ m sure of that.\nAy, ay, old chap! Bless you, it were only necessary to get it well\nround in a man s mind, to be certain on it. But it took a bit of time\nto get it well round, the change come so oncommon plump; didn t it? \n\nSomehow, I was not best pleased with Joe s being so mightily secure of\nme. I should have liked him to have betrayed emotion, or to have said,\n It does you credit, Pip,  or something of that sort. Therefore, I made\nno remark on Joe s first head; merely saying as to his second, that the\ntidings had indeed come suddenly, but that I had always wanted to be a\ngentleman, and had often and often speculated on what I would do, if I\nwere one.\n\n Have you though?  said Joe.  Astonishing! \n\n It s a pity now, Joe,  said I,  that you did not get on a little more,\nwhen we had our lessons here; isn t it? \n\n Well, I don t know,  returned Joe.  I m so awful dull. I m only master\nof my own trade. It were always a pity as I was so awful dull; but it s\nno more of a pity now, than it was this day twelvemonth don t you see? \n\nWhat I had meant was, that when I came into my property and was able to\ndo something for Joe, it would have been much more agreeable if he had\nbeen better qualified for a rise in station. He was so perfectly\ninnocent of my meaning, however, that I thought I would mention it to\nBiddy in preference.\n\nSo, when we had walked home and had had tea, I took Biddy into our\nlittle garden by the side of the lane, and, after throwing out in a\ngeneral way for the elevation of her spirits, that I should never\nforget her, said I had a favour to ask of her.\n\n And it is, Biddy,  said I,  that you will not omit any opportunity of\nhelping Joe on, a little. \n\n How helping him on?  asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance.\n\n Well! Joe is a dear good fellow, in fact, I think he is the dearest\nfellow that ever lived, but he is rather backward in some things. For\ninstance, Biddy, in his learning and his manners. \n\nAlthough I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her\neyes very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me.\n\n O, his manners! won t his manners do then?  asked Biddy, plucking a\nblack-currant leaf.\n\n My dear Biddy, they do very well here \n\n O! they _do_ very well here?  interrupted Biddy, looking closely at\nthe leaf in her hand.\n\n Hear me out, but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I\nshall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would\nhardly do him justice. \n\n And don t you think he knows that?  asked Biddy.\n\nIt was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most\ndistant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly, \n\n Biddy, what do you mean? \n\nBiddy, having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands, and the\nsmell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that\nevening in the little garden by the side of the lane, said,  Have you\nnever considered that he may be proud? \n\n Proud?  I repeated, with disdainful emphasis.\n\n O! there are many kinds of pride,  said Biddy, looking full at me and\nshaking her head;  pride is not all of one kind \n\n Well? What are you stopping for?  said I.\n\n Not all of one kind,  resumed Biddy.  He may be too proud to let any\none take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills\nwell and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is; though it\nsounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far better than I\ndo. \n\n Now, Biddy,  said I,  I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not\nexpect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You\nare dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can t help\nshowing it. \n\n If you have the heart to think so,  returned Biddy,  say so. Say so\nover and over again, if you have the heart to think so. \n\n If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy,  said I, in a\nvirtuous and superior tone;  don t put it off upon me. I am very sorry\nto see it, and it s a it s a bad side of human nature. I did intend to\nask you to use any little opportunities you might have after I was\ngone, of improving dear Joe. But after this I ask you nothing. I am\nextremely sorry to see this in you, Biddy,  I repeated.  It s a it s a\nbad side of human nature. \n\n Whether you scold me or approve of me,  returned poor Biddy,  you may\nequally depend upon my trying to do all that lies in my power, here, at\nall times. And whatever opinion you take away of me, shall make no\ndifference in my remembrance of you. Yet a gentleman should not be\nunjust neither,  said Biddy, turning away her head.\n\nI again warmly repeated that it was a bad side of human nature (in\nwhich sentiment, waiving its application, I have since seen reason to\nthink I was right), and I walked down the little path away from Biddy,\nand Biddy went into the house, and I went out at the garden gate and\ntook a dejected stroll until supper-time; again feeling it very\nsorrowful and strange that this, the second night of my bright\nfortunes, should be as lonely and unsatisfactory as the first.\n\nBut, morning once more brightened my view, and I extended my clemency\nto Biddy, and we dropped the subject. Putting on the best clothes I\nhad, I went into town as early as I could hope to find the shops open,\nand presented myself before Mr. Trabb, the tailor, who was having his\nbreakfast in the parlour behind his shop, and who did not think it\nworth his while to come out to me, but called me in to him.\n\n Well!  said Mr. Trabb, in a hail-fellow-well-met kind of way.  How are\nyou, and what can I do for you? \n\nMr. Trabb had sliced his hot roll into three feather-beds, and was\nslipping butter in between the blankets, and covering it up. He was a\nprosperous old bachelor, and his open window looked into a prosperous\nlittle garden and orchard, and there was a prosperous iron safe let\ninto the wall at the side of his fireplace, and I did not doubt that\nheaps of his prosperity were put away in it in bags.\n\n Mr. Trabb,  said I,  it s an unpleasant thing to have to mention,\nbecause it looks like boasting; but I have come into a handsome\nproperty. \n\nA change passed over Mr. Trabb. He forgot the butter in bed, got up\nfrom the bedside, and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth, exclaiming,\n Lord bless my soul! \n\n I am going up to my guardian in London,  said I, casually drawing some\nguineas out of my pocket and looking at them;  and I want a fashionable\nsuit of clothes to go in. I wish to pay for them,  I added otherwise I\nthought he might only pretend to make them,  with ready money. \n\n My dear sir,  said Mr. Trabb, as he respectfully bent his body, opened\nhis arms, and took the liberty of touching me on the outside of each\nelbow,  don t hurt me by mentioning that. May I venture to congratulate\nyou? Would you do me the favour of stepping into the shop? \n\nMr. Trabb s boy was the most audacious boy in all that country-side.\nWhen I had entered he was sweeping the shop, and he had sweetened his\nlabours by sweeping over me. He was still sweeping when I came out into\nthe shop with Mr. Trabb, and he knocked the broom against all possible\ncorners and obstacles, to express (as I understood it) equality with\nany blacksmith, alive or dead.\n\n Hold that noise,  said Mr. Trabb, with the greatest sternness,  or\nI ll knock your head off! Do me the favour to be seated, sir. Now,\nthis,  said Mr. Trabb, taking down a roll of cloth, and tiding it out\nin a flowing manner over the counter, preparatory to getting his hand\nunder it to show the gloss,  is a very sweet article. I can recommend\nit for your purpose, sir, because it really is extra super. But you\nshall see some others. Give me Number Four, you!  (To the boy, and with\na dreadfully severe stare; foreseeing the danger of that miscreant s\nbrushing me with it, or making some other sign of familiarity.)\n\nMr. Trabb never removed his stern eye from the boy until he had\ndeposited number four on the counter and was at a safe distance again.\nThen he commanded him to bring number five, and number eight.  And let\nme have none of your tricks here,  said Mr. Trabb,  or you shall repent\nit, you young scoundrel, the longest day you have to live. \n\nMr. Trabb then bent over number four, and in a sort of deferential\nconfidence recommended it to me as a light article for summer wear, an\narticle much in vogue among the nobility and gentry, an article that it\nwould ever be an honour to him to reflect upon a distinguished\nfellow-townsman s (if he might claim me for a fellow-townsman) having\nworn.  Are you bringing numbers five and eight, you vagabond,  said Mr.\nTrabb to the boy after that,  or shall I kick you out of the shop and\nbring them myself? \n\nI selected the materials for a suit, with the assistance of Mr. Trabb s\njudgment, and re-entered the parlour to be measured. For although Mr.\nTrabb had my measure already, and had previously been quite contented\nwith it, he said apologetically that it  wouldn t do under existing\ncircumstances, sir, wouldn t do at all.  So, Mr. Trabb measured and\ncalculated me in the parlour, as if I were an estate and he the finest\nspecies of surveyor, and gave himself such a world of trouble that I\nfelt that no suit of clothes could possibly remunerate him for his\npains. When he had at last done and had appointed to send the articles\nto Mr. Pumblechook s on the Thursday evening, he said, with his hand\nupon the parlour lock,  I know, sir, that London gentlemen cannot be\nexpected to patronise local work, as a rule; but if you would give me a\nturn now and then in the quality of a townsman, I should greatly esteem\nit. Good-morning, sir, much obliged. Door! \n\nThe last word was flung at the boy, who had not the least notion what\nit meant. But I saw him collapse as his master rubbed me out with his\nhands, and my first decided experience of the stupendous power of money\nwas, that it had morally laid upon his back Trabb s boy.\n\nAfter this memorable event, I went to the hatter s, and the\nbootmaker s, and the hosier s, and felt rather like Mother Hubbard s\ndog whose outfit required the services of so many trades. I also went\nto the coach-office and took my place for seven o clock on Saturday\nmorning. It was not necessary to explain everywhere that I had come\ninto a handsome property; but whenever I said anything to that effect,\nit followed that the officiating tradesman ceased to have his attention\ndiverted through the window by the High Street, and concentrated his\nmind upon me. When I had ordered everything I wanted, I directed my\nsteps towards Pumblechook s, and, as I approached that gentleman s\nplace of business, I saw him standing at his door.\n\nHe was waiting for me with great impatience. He had been out early with\nthe chaise-cart, and had called at the forge and heard the news. He had\nprepared a collation for me in the Barnwell parlour, and he too ordered\nhis shopman to  come out of the gangway  as my sacred person passed.\n\n My dear friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook, taking me by both hands, when\nhe and I and the collation were alone,  I give you joy of your good\nfortune. Well deserved, well deserved! \n\nThis was coming to the point, and I thought it a sensible way of\nexpressing himself.\n\n To think,  said Mr. Pumblechook, after snorting admiration at me for\nsome moments,  that I should have been the humble instrument of leading\nup to this, is a proud reward. \n\nI begged Mr. Pumblechook to remember that nothing was to be ever said\nor hinted, on that point.\n\n My dear young friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook;  if you will allow me to\ncall you so \n\nI murmured  Certainly,  and Mr. Pumblechook took me by both hands\nagain, and communicated a movement to his waistcoat, which had an\nemotional appearance, though it was rather low down,  My dear young\nfriend, rely upon my doing my little all in your absence, by keeping\nthe fact before the mind of Joseph. Joseph!  said Mr. Pumblechook, in\nthe way of a compassionate adjuration.  Joseph!! Joseph!!!  Thereupon\nhe shook his head and tapped it, expressing his sense of deficiency in\nJoseph.\n\n But my dear young friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  you must be hungry,\nyou must be exhausted. Be seated. Here is a chicken had round from the\nBoar, here is a tongue had round from the Boar, here s one or two\nlittle things had round from the Boar, that I hope you may not despise.\nBut do I,  said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again the moment after he\nhad sat down,  see afore me, him as I ever sported with in his times of\nhappy infancy? And may I _may_ I ? \n\nThis May I, meant might he shake hands? I consented, and he was\nfervent, and then sat down again.\n\n Here is wine,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  Let us drink, Thanks to Fortune,\nand may she ever pick out her favourites with equal judgment! And yet I\ncannot,  said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again,  see afore me One and\nlikewise drink to One without again expressing May I _may_ I ? \n\nI said he might, and he shook hands with me again, and emptied his\nglass and turned it upside down. I did the same; and if I had turned\nmyself upside down before drinking, the wine could not have gone more\ndirect to my head.\n\nMr. Pumblechook helped me to the liver wing, and to the best slice of\ntongue (none of those out-of-the-way No Thoroughfares of Pork now), and\ntook, comparatively speaking, no care of himself at all.  Ah! poultry,\npoultry! You little thought,  said Mr. Pumblechook, apostrophising the\nfowl in the dish,  when you was a young fledgling, what was in store\nfor you. You little thought you was to be refreshment beneath this\nhumble roof for one as Call it a weakness, if you will,  said Mr.\nPumblechook, getting up again,  but may I? _may_ I ? \n\nIt began to be unnecessary to repeat the form of saying he might, so he\ndid it at once. How he ever did it so often without wounding himself\nwith my knife, I don t know.\n\n And your sister,  he resumed, after a little steady eating,  which had\nthe honour of bringing you up by hand! It s a sad picter, to reflect\nthat she s no longer equal to fully understanding the honour. May \n\nI saw he was about to come at me again, and I stopped him.\n\n We ll drink her health,  said I.\n\n Ah!  cried Mr. Pumblechook, leaning back in his chair, quite flaccid\nwith admiration,  that s the way you know  em, sir!  (I don t know who\nSir was, but he certainly was not I, and there was no third person\npresent);  that s the way you know the noble-minded, sir! Ever\nforgiving and ever affable. It might,  said the servile Pumblechook,\nputting down his untasted glass in a hurry and getting up again,  to a\ncommon person, have the appearance of repeating but _may_ I ? \n\nWhen he had done it, he resumed his seat and drank to my sister.  Let\nus never be blind,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  to her faults of temper, but\nit is to be hoped she meant well. \n\nAt about this time, I began to observe that he was getting flushed in\nthe face; as to myself, I felt all face, steeped in wine and smarting.\n\nI mentioned to Mr. Pumblechook that I wished to have my new clothes\nsent to his house, and he was ecstatic on my so distinguishing him. I\nmentioned my reason for desiring to avoid observation in the village,\nand he lauded it to the skies. There was nobody but himself, he\nintimated, worthy of my confidence, and in short, might he? Then he\nasked me tenderly if I remembered our boyish games at sums, and how we\nhad gone together to have me bound apprentice, and, in effect, how he\nhad ever been my favourite fancy and my chosen friend? If I had taken\nten times as many glasses of wine as I had, I should have known that he\nnever had stood in that relation towards me, and should in my heart of\nhearts have repudiated the idea. Yet for all that, I remember feeling\nconvinced that I had been much mistaken in him, and that he was a\nsensible, practical, good-hearted prime fellow.\n\nBy degrees he fell to reposing such great confidence in me, as to ask\nmy advice in reference to his own affairs. He mentioned that there was\nan opportunity for a great amalgamation and monopoly of the corn and\nseed trade on those premises, if enlarged, such as had never occurred\nbefore in that or any other neighbourhood. What alone was wanting to\nthe realisation of a vast fortune, he considered to be More Capital.\nThose were the two little words, more capital. Now it appeared to him\n(Pumblechook) that if that capital were got into the business, through\na sleeping partner, sir, which sleeping partner would have nothing to\ndo but walk in, by self or deputy, whenever he pleased, and examine the\nbooks, and walk in twice a year and take his profits away in his\npocket, to the tune of fifty per cent, it appeared to him that that\nmight be an opening for a young gentleman of spirit combined with\nproperty, which would be worthy of his attention. But what did I think?\nHe had great confidence in my opinion, and what did I think? I gave it\nas my opinion.  Wait a bit!  The united vastness and distinctness of\nthis view so struck him, that he no longer asked if he might shake\nhands with me, but said he really must, and did.\n\nWe drank all the wine, and Mr. Pumblechook pledged himself over and\nover again to keep Joseph up to the mark (I don t know what mark), and\nto render me efficient and constant service (I don t know what\nservice). He also made known to me for the first time in my life, and\ncertainly after having kept his secret wonderfully well, that he had\nalways said of me,  That boy is no common boy, and mark me, his fortun \nwill be no common fortun .  He said with a tearful smile that it was a\nsingular thing to think of now, and I said so too. Finally, I went out\ninto the air, with a dim perception that there was something unwonted\nin the conduct of the sunshine, and found that I had slumberously got\nto the turnpike without having taken any account of the road.\n\nThere, I was roused by Mr. Pumblechook s hailing me. He was a long way\ndown the sunny street, and was making expressive gestures for me to\nstop. I stopped, and he came up breathless.\n\n No, my dear friend,  said he, when he had recovered wind for speech.\n Not if I can help it. This occasion shall not entirely pass without\nthat affability on your part. May I, as an old friend and well-wisher?\n_May_ I? \n\nWe shook hands for the hundredth time at least, and he ordered a young\ncarter out of my way with the greatest indignation. Then, he blessed me\nand stood waving his hand to me until I had passed the crook in the\nroad; and then I turned into a field and had a long nap under a hedge\nbefore I pursued my way home.\n\nI had scant luggage to take with me to London, for little of the little\nI possessed was adapted to my new station. But I began packing that\nsame afternoon, and wildly packed up things that I knew I should want\nnext morning, in a fiction that there was not a moment to be lost.\n\nSo, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, passed; and on Friday morning I\nwent to Mr. Pumblechook s, to put on my new clothes and pay my visit to\nMiss Havisham. Mr. Pumblechook s own room was given up to me to dress\nin, and was decorated with clean towels expressly for the event. My\nclothes were rather a disappointment, of course. Probably every new and\neagerly expected garment ever put on since clothes came in, fell a\ntrifle short of the wearer s expectation. But after I had had my new\nsuit on some half an hour, and had gone through an immensity of\nposturing with Mr. Pumblechook s very limited dressing-glass, in the\nfutile endeavour to see my legs, it seemed to fit me better. It being\nmarket morning at a neighbouring town some ten miles off, Mr.\nPumblechook was not at home. I had not told him exactly when I meant to\nleave, and was not likely to shake hands with him again before\ndeparting. This was all as it should be, and I went out in my new\narray, fearfully ashamed of having to pass the shopman, and suspicious\nafter all that I was at a personal disadvantage, something like Joe s\nin his Sunday suit.\n\nI went circuitously to Miss Havisham s by all the back ways, and rang\nat the bell constrainedly, on account of the stiff long fingers of my\ngloves. Sarah Pocket came to the gate, and positively reeled back when\nshe saw me so changed; her walnut-shell countenance likewise turned\nfrom brown to green and yellow.\n\n You?  said she.  You? Good gracious! What do you want? \n\n I am going to London, Miss Pocket,  said I,  and want to say good-bye\nto Miss Havisham. \n\nI was not expected, for she left me locked in the yard, while she went\nto ask if I were to be admitted. After a very short delay, she returned\nand took me up, staring at me all the way.\n\nMiss Havisham was taking exercise in the room with the long spread\ntable, leaning on her crutch stick. The room was lighted as of yore,\nand at the sound of our entrance, she stopped and turned. She was then\njust abreast of the rotted bride-cake.\n\n Don t go, Sarah,  she said.  Well, Pip? \n\n I start for London, Miss Havisham, to-morrow,  I was exceedingly\ncareful what I said,  and I thought you would kindly not mind my taking\nleave of you. \n\n This is a gay figure, Pip,  said she, making her crutch stick play\nround me, as if she, the fairy godmother who had changed me, were\nbestowing the finishing gift.\n\n I have come into such good fortune since I saw you last, Miss\nHavisham,  I murmured.  And I am so grateful for it, Miss Havisham! \n\n Ay, ay!  said she, looking at the discomfited and envious Sarah, with\ndelight.  I have seen Mr. Jaggers. _I_ have heard about it, Pip. So you\ngo to-morrow? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n And you are adopted by a rich person? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n Not named? \n\n No, Miss Havisham. \n\n And Mr. Jaggers is made your guardian? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\nShe quite gloated on these questions and answers, so keen was her\nenjoyment of Sarah Pocket s jealous dismay.  Well!  she went on;  you\nhave a promising career before you. Be good deserve it and abide by Mr.\nJaggers s instructions.  She looked at me, and looked at Sarah, and\nSarah s countenance wrung out of her watchful face a cruel smile.\n Good-bye, Pip! you will always keep the name of Pip, you know. \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n Good-bye, Pip! \n\nShe stretched out her hand, and I went down on my knee and put it to my\nlips. I had not considered how I should take leave of her; it came\nnaturally to me at the moment to do this. She looked at Sarah Pocket\nwith triumph in her weird eyes, and so I left my fairy godmother, with\nboth her hands on her crutch stick, standing in the midst of the dimly\nlighted room beside the rotten bride-cake that was hidden in cobwebs.\n\nSarah Pocket conducted me down, as if I were a ghost who must be seen\nout. She could not get over my appearance, and was in the last degree\nconfounded. I said  Good-bye, Miss Pocket;  but she merely stared, and\ndid not seem collected enough to know that I had spoken. Clear of the\nhouse, I made the best of my way back to Pumblechook s, took off my new\nclothes, made them into a bundle, and went back home in my older dress,\ncarrying it to speak the truth much more at my ease too, though I had\nthe bundle to carry.\n\nAnd now, those six days which were to have run out so slowly, had run\nout fast and were gone, and to-morrow looked me in the face more\nsteadily than I could look at it. As the six evenings had dwindled\naway, to five, to four, to three, to two, I had become more and more\nappreciative of the society of Joe and Biddy. On this last evening, I\ndressed myself out in my new clothes for their delight, and sat in my\nsplendour\t until bedtime. We had a hot supper on the occasion,\ngraced by the inevitable roast fowl, and we had some flip to finish\nwith. We were all very low, and none the higher for pretending to be in\nspirits.\n\nI was to leave our village at five in the morning, carrying my little\nhand-portmanteau, and I had told Joe that I wished to walk away all\nalone. I am afraid sore afraid that this purpose originated in my sense\nof the contrast there would be between me and Joe, if we went to the\ncoach together. I had pretended with myself that there was nothing of\nthis taint in the arrangement; but when I went up to my little room on\nthis last night, I felt compelled to admit that it might be so, and had\nan impulse upon me to go down again and entreat Joe to walk with me in\nthe morning. I did not.\n\nAll night there were coaches in my broken sleep, going to wrong places\ninstead of to London, and having in the traces, now dogs, now cats, now\npigs, now men, never horses. Fantastic failures of journeys occupied me\nuntil the day dawned and the birds were singing. Then, I got up and\npartly dressed, and sat at the window to take a last look out, and in\ntaking it fell asleep.\n\nBiddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did not\nsleep at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen fire when\nI started up with a terrible idea that it must be late in the\nafternoon. But long after that, and long after I had heard the clinking\nof the teacups and was quite ready, I wanted the resolution to go\ndownstairs. After all, I remained up there, repeatedly unlocking and\nunstrapping my small portmanteau and locking and strapping it up again,\nuntil Biddy called to me that I was late.\n\nIt was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal,\nsaying with a sort of briskness, as if it had only just occurred to me,\n Well! I suppose I must be off!  and then I kissed my sister who was\nlaughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair, and kissed Biddy,\nand threw my arms around Joe s neck. Then I took up my little\nportmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them was, when I\npresently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back, saw Joe throwing\nan old shoe after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped\nthen, to wave my hat, and dear old Joe waved his strong right arm above\nhis head, crying huskily  Hooroar!  and Biddy put her apron to her\nface.\n\nI walked away at a good pace, thinking it was easier to go than I had\nsupposed it would be, and reflecting that it would never have done to\nhave had an old shoe thrown after the coach, in sight of all the High\nStreet. I whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very\npeaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to\nshow me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all\nbeyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment with a strong heave\nand sob I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the\nvillage, and I laid my hand upon it, and said,  Good-bye, O my dear,\ndear friend! \n\nHeaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain\nupon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was\nbetter after I had cried than before, more sorry, more aware of my own\ningratitude, more gentle. If I had cried before, I should have had Joe\nwith me then.\n\nSo subdued I was by those tears, and by their breaking out again in the\ncourse of the quiet walk, that when I was on the coach, and it was\nclear of the town, I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would\nnot get down when we changed horses and walk back, and have another\nevening at home, and a better parting. We changed, and I had not made\nup my mind, and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite\npracticable to get down and walk back, when we changed again. And while\nI was occupied with these deliberations, I would fancy an exact\nresemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us, and my\nheart would beat high. As if he could possibly be there!\n\nWe changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to\ngo back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and\nthe world lay spread before me.\n\nThis is the end of the first stage of Pip s expectations.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XX.\n\n\nThe journey from our town to the metropolis was a journey of about five\nhours. It was a little past midday when the four-horse stage-coach by\nwhich I was a passenger, got into the ravel of traffic frayed out about\nthe Cross Keys, Wood Street, Cheapside, London.\n\nWe Britons had at that time particularly settled that it was\ntreasonable to doubt our having and our being the best of everything:\notherwise, while I was scared by the immensity of London, I think I\nmight have had some faint doubts whether it was not rather ugly,\ncrooked, narrow, and dirty.\n\nMr. Jaggers had duly sent me his address; it was, Little Britain, and\nhe had written after it on his card,  just out of Smithfield, and close\nby the coach-office.  Nevertheless, a hackney-coachman, who seemed to\nhave as many capes to his greasy great-coat as he was years old, packed\nme up in his coach and hemmed me in with a folding and jingling barrier\nof steps, as if he were going to take me fifty miles. His getting on\nhis box, which I remember to have been decorated with an old\nweather-stained pea-green hammercloth moth-eaten into rags, was quite a\nwork of time. It was a wonderful equipage, with six great coronets\noutside, and ragged things behind for I don t know how many footmen to\nhold on by, and a harrow below them, to prevent amateur footmen from\nyielding to the temptation.\n\nI had scarcely had time to enjoy the coach and to think how like a\nstraw-yard it was, and yet how like a rag-shop, and to wonder why the\nhorses  nose-bags were kept inside, when I observed the coachman\nbeginning to get down, as if we were going to stop presently. And stop\nwe presently did, in a gloomy street, at certain offices with an open\ndoor, whereon was painted MR. JAGGERS.\n\n How much?  I asked the coachman.\n\nThe coachman answered,  A shilling unless you wish to make it more. \n\nI naturally said I had no wish to make it more.\n\n Then it must be a shilling,  observed the coachman.  I don t want to\nget into trouble. _I_ know _him_!  He darkly closed an eye at Mr.\nJaggers s name, and shook his head.\n\nWhen he had got his shilling, and had in course of time completed the\nascent to his box, and had got away (which appeared to relieve his\nmind), I went into the front office with my little portmanteau in my\nhand and asked, Was Mr. Jaggers at home?\n\n He is not,  returned the clerk.  He is in Court at present. Am I\naddressing Mr. Pip? \n\nI signified that he was addressing Mr. Pip.\n\n Mr. Jaggers left word, would you wait in his room. He couldn t say how\nlong he might be, having a case on. But it stands to reason, his time\nbeing valuable, that he won t be longer than he can help. \n\nWith those words, the clerk opened a door, and ushered me into an inner\nchamber at the back. Here, we found a gentleman with one eye, in a\nvelveteen suit and knee-breeches, who wiped his nose with his sleeve on\nbeing interrupted in the perusal of the newspaper.\n\n Go and wait outside, Mike,  said the clerk.\n\nI began to say that I hoped I was not interrupting, when the clerk\nshoved this gentleman out with as little ceremony as I ever saw used,\nand tossing his fur cap out after him, left me alone.\n\nMr. Jaggers s room was lighted by a skylight only, and was a most\ndismal place; the skylight, eccentrically pitched like a broken head,\nand the distorted adjoining houses looking as if they had twisted\nthemselves to peep down at me through it. There were not so many papers\nabout, as I should have expected to see; and there were some odd\nobjects about, that I should not have expected to see, such as an old\nrusty pistol, a sword in a scabbard, several strange-looking boxes and\npackages, and two dreadful casts on a shelf, of faces peculiarly\nswollen, and twitchy about the nose. Mr. Jaggers s own high-backed\nchair was of deadly black horsehair, with rows of brass nails round it,\nlike a coffin; and I fancied I could see how he leaned back in it, and\nbit his forefinger at the clients. The room was but small, and the\nclients seemed to have had a habit of backing up against the wall; the\nwall, especially opposite to Mr. Jaggers s chair, being greasy with\nshoulders. I recalled, too, that the one-eyed gentleman had shuffled\nforth against the wall when I was the innocent cause of his being\nturned out.\n\nI sat down in the cliental chair placed over against Mr. Jaggers s\nchair, and became fascinated by the dismal atmosphere of the place. I\ncalled to mind that the clerk had the same air of knowing something to\neverybody else s disadvantage, as his master had. I wondered how many\nother clerks there were upstairs, and whether they all claimed to have\nthe same detrimental mastery of their fellow-creatures. I wondered what\nwas the history of all the odd litter about the room, and how it came\nthere. I wondered whether the two swollen faces were of Mr. Jaggers s\nfamily, and, if he were so unfortunate as to have had a pair of such\nill-looking relations, why he stuck them on that dusty perch for the\nblacks and flies to settle on, instead of giving them a place at home.\nOf course I had no experience of a London summer day, and my spirits\nmay have been oppressed by the hot exhausted air, and by the dust and\ngrit that lay thick on everything. But I sat wondering and waiting in\nMr. Jaggers s close room, until I really could not bear the two casts\non the shelf above Mr. Jaggers s chair, and got up and went out.\n\nWhen I told the clerk that I would take a turn in the air while I\nwaited, he advised me to go round the corner and I should come into\nSmithfield. So I came into Smithfield; and the shameful place, being\nall asmear with filth and fat and blood and foam, seemed to stick to\nme. So, I rubbed it off with all possible speed by turning into a\nstreet where I saw the great black dome of Saint Paul s bulging at me\nfrom behind a grim stone building which a bystander said was Newgate\nPrison. Following the wall of the jail, I found the roadway covered\nwith straw to deaden the noise of passing vehicles; and from this, and\nfrom the quantity of people standing about smelling strongly of spirits\nand beer, I inferred that the trials were on.\n\nWhile I looked about me here, an exceedingly dirty and partially drunk\nminister of justice asked me if I would like to step in and hear a\ntrial or so: informing me that he could give me a front place for half\na crown, whence I should command a full view of the Lord Chief Justice\nin his wig and robes, mentioning that awful personage like waxwork, and\npresently offering him at the reduced price of eighteen-pence. As I\ndeclined the proposal on the plea of an appointment, he was so good as\nto take me into a yard and show me where the gallows was kept, and also\nwhere people were publicly whipped, and then he showed me the Debtors \nDoor, out of which culprits came to be hanged; heightening the interest\nof that dreadful portal by giving me to understand that  four on  em \nwould come out at that door the day after to-morrow at eight in the\nmorning, to be killed in a row. This was horrible, and gave me a\nsickening idea of London; the more so as the Lord Chief Justice s\nproprietor wore (from his hat down to his boots and up again to his\npocket-handkerchief inclusive) mildewed clothes which had evidently not\nbelonged to him originally, and which I took it into my head he had\nbought cheap of the executioner. Under these circumstances I thought\nmyself well rid of him for a shilling.\n\nI dropped into the office to ask if Mr. Jaggers had come in yet, and I\nfound he had not, and I strolled out again. This time, I made the tour\nof Little Britain, and turned into Bartholomew Close; and now I became\naware that other people were waiting about for Mr. Jaggers, as well as\nI. There were two men of secret appearance lounging in Bartholomew\nClose, and thoughtfully fitting their feet into the cracks of the\npavement as they talked together, one of whom said to the other when\nthey first passed me, that  Jaggers would do it if it was to be done. \nThere was a knot of three men and two women standing at a corner, and\none of the women was crying on her dirty shawl, and the other comforted\nher by saying, as she pulled her own shawl over her shoulders,  Jaggers\nis for him,  Melia, and what more _could_ you have?  There was a\nred-eyed little Jew who came into the Close while I was loitering\nthere, in company with a second little Jew whom he sent upon an errand;\nand while the messenger was gone, I remarked this Jew, who was of a\nhighly excitable temperament, performing a jig of anxiety under a\nlamp-post and accompanying himself, in a kind of frenzy, with the\nwords,  O Jaggerth, Jaggerth, Jaggerth! all otherth ith Cag-Maggerth,\ngive me Jaggerth!  These testimonies to the popularity of my guardian\nmade a deep impression on me, and I admired and wondered more than\never.\n\nAt length, as I was looking out at the iron gate of Bartholomew Close\ninto Little Britain, I saw Mr. Jaggers coming across the road towards\nme. All the others who were waiting saw him at the same time, and there\nwas quite a rush at him. Mr. Jaggers, putting a hand on my shoulder and\nwalking me on at his side without saying anything to me, addressed\nhimself to his followers.\n\nFirst, he took the two secret men.\n\n Now, I have nothing to say to _you_,  said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his\nfinger at them.  I want to know no more than I know. As to the result,\nit s a toss-up. I told you from the first it was a toss-up. Have you\npaid Wemmick? \n\n We made the money up this morning, sir,  said one of the men,\nsubmissively, while the other perused Mr. Jaggers s face.\n\n I don t ask you when you made it up, or where, or whether you made it\nup at all. Has Wemmick got it? \n\n Yes, sir,  said both the men together.\n\n Very well; then you may go. Now, I won t have it!  said Mr Jaggers,\nwaving his hand at them to put them behind him.  If you say a word to\nme, I ll throw up the case. \n\n We thought, Mr. Jaggers  one of the men began, pulling off his hat.\n\n That s what I told you not to do,  said Mr. Jaggers.  _You_ thought! I\nthink for you; that s enough for you. If I want you, I know where to\nfind you; I don t want you to find me. Now I won t have it. I won t\nhear a word. \n\nThe two men looked at one another as Mr. Jaggers waved them behind\nagain, and humbly fell back and were heard no more.\n\n And now _you_!  said Mr. Jaggers, suddenly stopping, and turning on\nthe two women with the shawls, from whom the three men had meekly\nseparated, Oh! Amelia, is it? \n\n Yes, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n And do you remember,  retorted Mr. Jaggers,  that but for me you\nwouldn t be here and couldn t be here? \n\n O yes, sir!  exclaimed both women together.  Lord bless you, sir, well\nwe knows that! \n\n Then why,  said Mr. Jaggers,  do you come here? \n\n My Bill, sir!  the crying woman pleaded.\n\n Now, I tell you what!  said Mr. Jaggers.  Once for all. If you don t\nknow that your Bill s in good hands, I know it. And if you come here\nbothering about your Bill, I ll make an example of both your Bill and\nyou, and let him slip through my fingers. Have you paid Wemmick? \n\n O yes, sir! Every farden. \n\n Very well. Then you have done all you have got to do. Say another\nword one single word and Wemmick shall give you your money back. \n\nThis terrible threat caused the two women to fall off immediately. No\none remained now but the excitable Jew, who had already raised the\nskirts of Mr. Jaggers s coat to his lips several times.\n\n I don t know this man!  said Mr. Jaggers, in the same devastating\nstrain:  What does this fellow want? \n\n Ma thear Mithter Jaggerth. Hown brother to Habraham Latharuth? \n\n Who s he?  said Mr. Jaggers.  Let go of my coat. \n\nThe suitor, kissing the hem of the garment again before relinquishing\nit, replied,  Habraham Latharuth, on thuthpithion of plate. \n\n You re too late,  said Mr. Jaggers.  I am over the way. \n\n Holy father, Mithter Jaggerth!  cried my excitable acquaintance,\nturning white,  don t thay you re again Habraham Latharuth! \n\n I am,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and there s an end of it. Get out of the\nway. \n\n Mithter Jaggerth! Half a moment! My hown cuthen th gone to Mithter\nWemmick at thith prethent minute, to hoffer him hany termth. Mithter\nJaggerth! Half a quarter of a moment! If you d have the condethenthun\nto be bought off from the t other thide at hany thuperior prithe! money\nno object! Mithter Jaggerth Mithter ! \n\nMy guardian threw his supplicant off with supreme indifference, and\nleft him dancing on the pavement as if it were red hot. Without further\ninterruption, we reached the front office, where we found the clerk and\nthe man in velveteen with the fur cap.\n\n Here s Mike,  said the clerk, getting down from his stool, and\napproaching Mr. Jaggers confidentially.\n\n Oh!  said Mr. Jaggers, turning to the man, who was pulling a lock of\nhair in the middle of his forehead, like the Bull in Cock Robin pulling\nat the bell-rope;  your man comes on this afternoon. Well? \n\n Well, Mas r Jaggers,  returned Mike, in the voice of a sufferer from a\nconstitutional cold;  arter a deal o  trouble, I ve found one, sir, as\nmight do. \n\n What is he prepared to swear? \n\n Well, Mas r Jaggers,  said Mike, wiping his nose on his fur cap this\ntime;  in a general way, anythink. \n\nMr. Jaggers suddenly became most irate.  Now, I warned you before, \nsaid he, throwing his forefinger at the terrified client,  that if you\never presumed to talk in that way here, I d make an example of you. You\ninfernal scoundrel, how dare you tell ME that? \n\nThe client looked scared, but bewildered too, as if he were unconscious\nwhat he had done.\n\n Spooney!  said the clerk, in a low voice, giving him a stir with his\nelbow.  Soft Head! Need you say it face to face? \n\n Now, I ask you, you blundering booby,  said my guardian, very sternly,\n once more and for the last time, what the man you have brought here is\nprepared to swear? \n\nMike looked hard at my guardian, as if he were trying to learn a lesson\nfrom his face, and slowly replied,  Ayther to character, or to having\nbeen in his company and never left him all the night in question. \n\n Now, be careful. In what station of life is this man? \n\nMike looked at his cap, and looked at the floor, and looked at the\nceiling, and looked at the clerk, and even looked at me, before\nbeginning to reply in a nervous manner,  We ve dressed him up like \nwhen my guardian blustered out, \n\n What? You WILL, will you? \n\n( Spooney!  added the clerk again, with another stir.)\n\nAfter some helpless casting about, Mike brightened and began again: \n\n He is dressed like a  spectable pieman. A sort of a pastry-cook. \n\n Is he here?  asked my guardian.\n\n I left him,  said Mike,  a setting on some doorsteps round the\ncorner. \n\n Take him past that window, and let me see him. \n\nThe window indicated was the office window. We all three went to it,\nbehind the wire blind, and presently saw the client go by in an\naccidental manner, with a murderous-looking tall individual, in a short\nsuit of white linen and a paper cap. This guileless confectioner was\nnot by any means sober, and had a black eye in the green stage of\nrecovery, which was painted over.\n\n Tell him to take his witness away directly,  said my guardian to the\nclerk, in extreme disgust,  and ask him what he means by bringing such\na fellow as that. \n\nMy guardian then took me into his own room, and while he lunched,\nstanding, from a sandwich-box and a pocket-flask of sherry (he seemed\nto bully his very sandwich as he ate it), informed me what arrangements\nhe had made for me. I was to go to  Barnard s Inn,  to young Mr.\nPocket s rooms, where a bed had been sent in for my accommodation; I\nwas to remain with young Mr. Pocket until Monday; on Monday I was to go\nwith him to his father s house on a visit, that I might try how I liked\nit. Also, I was told what my allowance was to be, it was a very liberal\none, and had handed to me from one of my guardian s drawers, the cards\nof certain tradesmen with whom I was to deal for all kinds of clothes,\nand such other things as I could in reason want.  You will find your\ncredit good, Mr. Pip,  said my guardian, whose flask of sherry smelt\nlike a whole caskful, as he hastily refreshed himself,  but I shall by\nthis means be able to check your bills, and to pull you up if I find\nyou outrunning the constable. Of course you ll go wrong somehow, but\nthat s no fault of mine. \n\nAfter I had pondered a little over this encouraging sentiment, I asked\nMr. Jaggers if I could send for a coach? He said it was not worth\nwhile, I was so near my destination; Wemmick should walk round with me,\nif I pleased.\n\nI then found that Wemmick was the clerk in the next room. Another clerk\nwas rung down from upstairs to take his place while he was out, and I\naccompanied him into the street, after shaking hands with my guardian.\nWe found a new set of people lingering outside, but Wemmick made a way\namong them by saying coolly yet decisively,  I tell you it s no use; he\nwon t have a word to say to one of you;  and we soon got clear of them,\nand went on side by side.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXI.\n\n\nCasting my eyes on Mr. Wemmick as we went along, to see what he was\nlike in the light of day, I found him to be a dry man, rather short in\nstature, with a square wooden face, whose expression seemed to have\nbeen imperfectly chipped out with a dull-edged chisel. There were some\nmarks in it that might have been dimples, if the material had been\nsofter and the instrument finer, but which, as it was, were only dints.\nThe chisel had made three or four of these attempts at embellishment\nover his nose, but had given them up without an effort to smooth them\noff. I judged him to be a bachelor from the frayed condition of his\nlinen, and he appeared to have sustained a good many bereavements; for\nhe wore at least four mourning rings, besides a brooch representing a\nlady and a weeping willow at a tomb with an urn on it. I noticed, too,\nthat several rings and seals hung at his watch-chain, as if he were\nquite laden with remembrances of departed friends. He had glittering\neyes, small, keen, and black, and thin wide mottled lips. He had had\nthem, to the best of my belief, from forty to fifty years.\n\n So you were never in London before?  said Mr. Wemmick to me.\n\n No,  said I.\n\n _I_ was new here once,  said Mr. Wemmick.  Rum to think of now! \n\n You are well acquainted with it now? \n\n Why, yes,  said Mr. Wemmick.  I know the moves of it. \n\n Is it a very wicked place?  I asked, more for the sake of saying\nsomething than for information.\n\n You may get cheated, robbed, and murdered in London. But there are\nplenty of people anywhere, who ll do that for you. \n\n If there is bad blood between you and them,  said I, to soften it off\na little.\n\n O! I don t know about bad blood,  returned Mr. Wemmick;  there s not\nmuch bad blood about. They ll do it, if there s anything to be got by\nit. \n\n That makes it worse. \n\n You think so?  returned Mr. Wemmick.  Much about the same, I should\nsay. \n\nHe wore his hat on the back of his head, and looked straight before\nhim: walking in a self-contained way as if there were nothing in the\nstreets to claim his attention. His mouth was such a post-office of a\nmouth that he had a mechanical appearance of smiling. We had got to the\ntop of Holborn Hill before I knew that it was merely a mechanical\nappearance, and that he was not smiling at all.\n\n Do you know where Mr. Matthew Pocket lives?  I asked Mr. Wemmick.\n\n Yes,  said he, nodding in the direction.  At Hammersmith, west of\nLondon. \n\n Is that far? \n\n Well! Say five miles. \n\n Do you know him? \n\n Why, you re a regular cross-examiner!  said Mr. Wemmick, looking at me\nwith an approving air.  Yes, I know him. _I_ know him! \n\nThere was an air of toleration or depreciation about his utterance of\nthese words that rather depressed me; and I was still looking sideways\nat his block of a face in search of any encouraging note to the text,\nwhen he said here we were at Barnard s Inn. My depression was not\nalleviated by the announcement, for, I had supposed that establishment\nto be an hotel kept by Mr. Barnard, to which the Blue Boar in our town\nwas a mere public-house. Whereas I now found Barnard to be a\ndisembodied spirit, or a fiction, and his inn the dingiest collection\nof shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a rank corner as a club\nfor Tom-cats.\n\nWe entered this haven through a wicket-gate, and were disgorged by an\nintroductory passage into a melancholy little square that looked to me\nlike a flat burying-ground. I thought it had the most dismal trees in\nit, and the most dismal sparrows, and the most dismal cats, and the\nmost dismal houses (in number half a dozen or so), that I had ever\nseen. I thought the windows of the sets of chambers into which those\nhouses were divided were in every stage of dilapidated blind and\ncurtain, crippled flower-pot, cracked glass, dusty decay, and miserable\nmakeshift; while To Let, To Let, To Let, glared at me from empty rooms,\nas if no new wretches ever came there, and the vengeance of the soul of\nBarnard were being slowly appeased by the gradual suicide of the\npresent occupants and their unholy interment under the gravel. A frowzy\nmourning of soot and smoke attired this forlorn creation of Barnard,\nand it had strewn ashes on its head, and was undergoing penance and\nhumiliation as a mere dust-hole. Thus far my sense of sight; while dry\nrot and wet rot and all the silent rots that rot in neglected roof and\ncellar, rot of rat and mouse and bug and coaching-stables near at hand\nbesides addressed themselves faintly to my sense of smell, and moaned,\n Try Barnard s Mixture. \n\nSo imperfect was this realisation of the first of my great\nexpectations, that I looked in dismay at Mr. Wemmick.  Ah!  said he,\nmistaking me;  the retirement reminds you of the country. So it does\nme. \n\nHe led me into a corner and conducted me up a flight of stairs, which\nappeared to me to be slowly collapsing into sawdust, so that one of\nthose days the upper lodgers would look out at their doors and find\nthemselves without the means of coming down, to a set of chambers on\nthe top floor. MR. POCKET, JUN., was painted on the door, and there was\na label on the letter-box,  Return shortly. \n\n He hardly thought you d come so soon,  Mr. Wemmick explained.  You\ndon t want me any more? \n\n No, thank you,  said I.\n\n As I keep the cash,  Mr. Wemmick observed,  we shall most likely meet\npretty often. Good day. \n\n Good day. \n\nI put out my hand, and Mr. Wemmick at first looked at it as if he\nthought I wanted something. Then he looked at me, and said, correcting\nhimself, \n\n To be sure! Yes. You re in the habit of shaking hands? \n\nI was rather confused, thinking it must be out of the London fashion,\nbut said yes.\n\n I have got so out of it!  said Mr. Wemmick, except at last. Very\nglad, I m sure, to make your acquaintance. Good day! \n\nWhen we had shaken hands and he was gone, I opened the staircase window\nand had nearly beheaded myself, for, the lines had rotted away, and it\ncame down like the guillotine. Happily it was so quick that I had not\nput my head out. After this escape, I was content to take a foggy view\nof the Inn through the window s encrusting dirt, and to stand dolefully\nlooking out, saying to myself that London was decidedly overrated.\n\nMr. Pocket, Junior s, idea of Shortly was not mine, for I had nearly\nmaddened myself with looking out for half an hour, and had written my\nname with my finger several times in the dirt of every pane in the\nwindow, before I heard footsteps on the stairs. Gradually there arose\nbefore me the hat, head, neckcloth, waistcoat, trousers, boots, of a\nmember of society of about my own standing. He had a paper-bag under\neach arm and a pottle of strawberries in one hand, and was out of\nbreath.\n\n Mr. Pip?  said he.\n\n Mr. Pocket?  said I.\n\n Dear me!  he exclaimed.  I am extremely sorry; but I knew there was a\ncoach from your part of the country at midday, and I thought you would\ncome by that one. The fact is, I have been out on your account, not\nthat that is any excuse, for I thought, coming from the country, you\nmight like a little fruit after dinner, and I went to Covent Garden\nMarket to get it good. \n\nFor a reason that I had, I felt as if my eyes would start out of my\nhead. I acknowledged his attention incoherently, and began to think\nthis was a dream.\n\n Dear me!  said Mr. Pocket, Junior.  This door sticks so! \n\nAs he was fast making jam of his fruit by wrestling with the door while\nthe paper-bags were under his arms, I begged him to allow me to hold\nthem. He relinquished them with an agreeable smile, and combated with\nthe door as if it were a wild beast. It yielded so suddenly at last,\nthat he staggered back upon me, and I staggered back upon the opposite\ndoor, and we both laughed. But still I felt as if my eyes must start\nout of my head, and as if this must be a dream.\n\n Pray come in,  said Mr. Pocket, Junior.  Allow me to lead the way. I\nam rather bare here, but I hope you ll be able to make out tolerably\nwell till Monday. My father thought you would get on more agreeably\nthrough to-morrow with me than with him, and might like to take a walk\nabout London. I am sure I shall be very happy to show London to you. As\nto our table, you won t find that bad, I hope, for it will be supplied\nfrom our coffee-house here, and (it is only right I should add) at your\nexpense, such being Mr. Jaggers s directions. As to our lodging, it s\nnot by any means splendid, because I have my own bread to earn, and my\nfather hasn t anything to give me, and I shouldn t be willing to take\nit, if he had. This is our sitting-room, just such chairs and tables\nand carpet and so forth, you see, as they could spare from home. You\nmustn t give me credit for the tablecloth and spoons and castors,\nbecause they come for you from the coffee-house. This is my little\nbedroom; rather musty, but Barnard s _is_ musty. This is your bedroom;\nthe furniture s hired for the occasion, but I trust it will answer the\npurpose; if you should want anything, I ll go and fetch it. The\nchambers are retired, and we shall be alone together, but we shan t\nfight, I dare say. But dear me, I beg your pardon, you re holding the\nfruit all this time. Pray let me take these bags from you. I am quite\nashamed. \n\nAs I stood opposite to Mr. Pocket, Junior, delivering him the bags,\nOne, Two, I saw the starting appearance come into his own eyes that I\nknew to be in mine, and he said, falling back, \n\n Lord bless me, you re the prowling boy! \n\n And you,  said I,  are the pale young gentleman! \n\n\n\n\nChapter XXII.\n\n\nThe pale young gentleman and I stood contemplating one another in\nBarnard s Inn, until we both burst out laughing.  The idea of its being\nyou!  said he.  The idea of its being _you_!  said I. And then we\ncontemplated one another afresh, and laughed again.  Well!  said the\npale young gentleman, reaching out his hand good-humouredly,  it s all\nover now, I hope, and it will be magnanimous in you if you ll forgive\nme for having knocked you about so. \n\nI derived from this speech that Mr. Herbert Pocket (for Herbert was the\npale young gentleman s name) still rather confounded his intention with\nhis execution. But I made a modest reply, and we shook hands warmly.\n\n You hadn t come into your good fortune at that time?  said Herbert\nPocket.\n\n No,  said I.\n\n No,  he acquiesced:  I heard it had happened very lately. _I_ was\nrather on the lookout for good fortune then. \n\n Indeed? \n\n Yes. Miss Havisham had sent for me, to see if she could take a fancy\nto me. But she couldn t, at all events, she didn t. \n\nI thought it polite to remark that I was surprised to hear that.\n\n Bad taste,  said Herbert, laughing,  but a fact. Yes, she had sent for\nme on a trial visit, and if I had come out of it successfully, I\nsuppose I should have been provided for; perhaps I should have been\nwhat-you-may-called it to Estella. \n\n What s that?  I asked, with sudden gravity.\n\nHe was arranging his fruit in plates while we talked, which divided his\nattention, and was the cause of his having made this lapse of a word.\n Affianced,  he explained, still busy with the fruit.  Betrothed.\nEngaged. What s-his-named. Any word of that sort. \n\n How did you bear your disappointment?  I asked.\n\n Pooh!  said he,  I didn t care much for it. _She s_ a Tartar. \n\n Miss Havisham? \n\n I don t say no to that, but I meant Estella. That girl s hard and\nhaughty and capricious to the last degree, and has been brought up by\nMiss Havisham to wreak revenge on all the male sex. \n\n What relation is she to Miss Havisham? \n\n None,  said he.  Only adopted. \n\n Why should she wreak revenge on all the male sex? What revenge? \n\n Lord, Mr. Pip!  said he.  Don t you know? \n\n No,  said I.\n\n Dear me! It s quite a story, and shall be saved till dinner-time. And\nnow let me take the liberty of asking you a question. How did you come\nthere, that day? \n\nI told him, and he was attentive until I had finished, and then burst\nout laughing again, and asked me if I was sore afterwards? I didn t ask\nhim if _he_ was, for my conviction on that point was perfectly\nestablished.\n\n Mr. Jaggers is your guardian, I understand?  he went on.\n\n Yes. \n\n You know he is Miss Havisham s man of business and solicitor, and has\nher confidence when nobody else has? \n\nThis was bringing me (I felt) towards dangerous ground. I answered with\na constraint I made no attempt to disguise, that I had seen Mr. Jaggers\nin Miss Havisham s house on the very day of our combat, but never at\nany other time, and that I believed he had no recollection of having\never seen me there.\n\n He was so obliging as to suggest my father for your tutor, and he\ncalled on my father to propose it. Of course he knew about my father\nfrom his connection with Miss Havisham. My father is Miss Havisham s\ncousin; not that that implies familiar intercourse between them, for he\nis a bad courtier and will not propitiate her. \n\nHerbert Pocket had a frank and easy way with him that was very taking.\nI had never seen any one then, and I have never seen any one since, who\nmore strongly expressed to me, in every look and tone, a natural\nincapacity to do anything secret and mean. There was something\nwonderfully hopeful about his general air, and something that at the\nsame time whispered to me he would never be very successful or rich. I\ndon t know how this was. I became imbued with the notion on that first\noccasion before we sat down to dinner, but I cannot define by what\nmeans.\n\nHe was still a pale young gentleman, and had a certain conquered\nlanguor about him in the midst of his spirits and briskness, that did\nnot seem indicative of natural strength. He had not a handsome face,\nbut it was better than handsome: being extremely amiable and cheerful.\nHis figure was a little ungainly, as in the days when my knuckles had\ntaken such liberties with it, but it looked as if it would always be\nlight and young. Whether Mr. Trabb s local work would have sat more\ngracefully on him than on me, may be a question; but I am conscious\nthat he carried off his rather old clothes much better than I carried\noff my new suit.\n\nAs he was so communicative, I felt that reserve on my part would be a\nbad return unsuited to our years. I therefore told him my small story,\nand laid stress on my being forbidden to inquire who my benefactor was.\nI further mentioned that as I had been brought up a blacksmith in a\ncountry place, and knew very little of the ways of politeness, I would\ntake it as a great kindness in him if he would give me a hint whenever\nhe saw me at a loss or going wrong.\n\n With pleasure,  said he,  though I venture to prophesy that you ll\nwant very few hints. I dare say we shall be often together, and I\nshould like to banish any needless restraint between us. Will you do me\nthe favour to begin at once to call me by my Christian name, Herbert? \n\nI thanked him and said I would. I informed him in exchange that my\nChristian name was Philip.\n\n I don t take to Philip,  said he, smiling,  for it sounds like a moral\nboy out of the spelling-book, who was so lazy that he fell into a pond,\nor so fat that he couldn t see out of his eyes, or so avaricious that\nhe locked up his cake till the mice ate it, or so determined to go a\nbird s-nesting that he got himself eaten by bears who lived handy in\nthe neighbourhood. I tell you what I should like. We are so harmonious,\nand you have been a blacksmith, would you mind it? \n\n I shouldn t mind anything that you propose,  I answered,  but I don t\nunderstand you. \n\n Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There s a charming piece of\nmusic by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith. \n\n I should like it very much. \n\n Then, my dear Handel,  said he, turning round as the door opened,\n here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the\ntable, because the dinner is of your providing. \n\nThis I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him. It was a\nnice little dinner, seemed to me then a very Lord Mayor s Feast, and it\nacquired additional relish from being eaten under those independent\ncircumstances, with no old people by, and with London all around us.\nThis again was heightened by a certain gypsy character that set the\nbanquet off; for while the table was, as Mr. Pumblechook might have\nsaid, the lap of luxury, being entirely furnished forth from the\ncoffee-house, the circumjacent region of sitting-room was of a\ncomparatively pastureless and shifty character; imposing on the waiter\nthe wandering habits of putting the covers on the floor (where he fell\nover them), the melted butter in the arm-chair, the bread on the\nbookshelves, the cheese in the coal-scuttle, and the boiled fowl into\nmy bed in the next room, where I found much of its parsley and butter\nin a state of congelation when I retired for the night. All this made\nthe feast delightful, and when the waiter was not there to watch me, my\npleasure was without alloy.\n\nWe had made some progress in the dinner, when I reminded Herbert of his\npromise to tell me about Miss Havisham.\n\n True,  he replied.  I ll redeem it at once. Let me introduce the\ntopic, Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to put\nthe knife in the mouth, for fear of accidents, and that while the fork\nis reserved for that use, it is not put further in than necessary. It\nis scarcely worth mentioning, only it s as well to do as other people\ndo. Also, the spoon is not generally used over-hand, but under. This\nhas two advantages. You get at your mouth better (which after all is\nthe object), and you save a good deal of the attitude of opening\noysters, on the part of the right elbow. \n\nHe offered these friendly suggestions in such a lively way, that we\nboth laughed and I scarcely blushed.\n\n Now,  he pursued,  concerning Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham, you must\nknow, was a spoilt child. Her mother died when she was a baby, and her\nfather denied her nothing. Her father was a country gentleman down in\nyour part of the world, and was a brewer. I don t know why it should be\na crack thing to be a brewer; but it is indisputable that while you\ncannot possibly be genteel and bake, you may be as genteel as never was\nand brew. You see it every day. \n\n Yet a gentleman may not keep a public-house; may he?  said I.\n\n Not on any account,  returned Herbert;  but a public-house may keep a\ngentleman. Well! Mr. Havisham was very rich and very proud. So was his\ndaughter. \n\n Miss Havisham was an only child?  I hazarded.\n\n Stop a moment, I am coming to that. No, she was not an only child; she\nhad a half-brother. Her father privately married again his cook, I\nrather think. \n\n I thought he was proud,  said I.\n\n My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife privately,\nbecause he was proud, and in course of time _she_ died. When she was\ndead, I apprehend he first told his daughter what he had done, and then\nthe son became a part of the family, residing in the house you are\nacquainted with. As the son grew a young man, he turned out riotous,\nextravagant, undutiful, altogether bad. At last his father disinherited\nhim; but he softened when he was dying, and left him well off, though\nnot nearly so well off as Miss Havisham. Take another glass of wine,\nand excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one to\nbe so strictly conscientious in emptying one s glass, as to turn it\nbottom upwards with the rim on one s nose. \n\nI had been doing this, in an excess of attention to his recital. I\nthanked him, and apologised. He said,  Not at all,  and resumed.\n\n Miss Havisham was now an heiress, and you may suppose was looked after\nas a great match. Her half-brother had now ample means again, but what\nwith debts and what with new madness wasted them most fearfully again.\nThere were stronger differences between him and her than there had been\nbetween him and his father, and it is suspected that he cherished a\ndeep and mortal grudge against her as having influenced the father s\nanger. Now, I come to the cruel part of the story, merely breaking off,\nmy dear Handel, to remark that a dinner-napkin will not go into a\ntumbler. \n\nWhy I was trying to pack mine into my tumbler, I am wholly unable to\nsay. I only know that I found myself, with a perseverance worthy of a\nmuch better cause, making the most strenuous exertions to compress it\nwithin those limits. Again I thanked him and apologised, and again he\nsaid in the cheerfullest manner,  Not at all, I am sure!  and resumed.\n\n There appeared upon the scene say at the races, or the public balls,\nor anywhere else you like a certain man, who made love to Miss\nHavisham. I never saw him (for this happened five-and-twenty years ago,\nbefore you and I were, Handel), but I have heard my father mention that\nhe was a showy man, and the kind of man for the purpose. But that he\nwas not to be, without ignorance or prejudice, mistaken for a\ngentleman, my father most strongly asseverates; because it is a\nprinciple of his that no man who was not a true gentleman at heart ever\nwas, since the world began, a true gentleman in manner. He says, no\nvarnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you\nput on, the more the grain will express itself. Well! This man pursued\nMiss Havisham closely, and professed to be devoted to her. I believe\nshe had not shown much susceptibility up to that time; but all the\nsusceptibility she possessed certainly came out then, and she\npassionately loved him. There is no doubt that she perfectly idolized\nhim. He practised on her affection in that systematic way, that he got\ngreat sums of money from her, and he induced her to buy her brother out\nof a share in the brewery (which had been weakly left him by his\nfather) at an immense price, on the plea that when he was her husband\nhe must hold and manage it all. Your guardian was not at that time in\nMiss Havisham s counsels, and she was too haughty and too much in love\nto be advised by any one. Her relations were poor and scheming, with\nthe exception of my father; he was poor enough, but not time-serving or\njealous. The only independent one among them, he warned her that she\nwas doing too much for this man, and was placing herself too\nunreservedly in his power. She took the first opportunity of angrily\nordering my father out of the house, in his presence, and my father has\nnever seen her since. \n\nI thought of her having said,  Matthew will come and see me at last\nwhen I am laid dead upon that table;  and I asked Herbert whether his\nfather was so inveterate against her?\n\n It s not that,  said he,  but she charged him, in the presence of her\nintended husband, with being disappointed in the hope of fawning upon\nher for his own advancement, and, if he were to go to her now, it would\nlook true even to him and even to her. To return to the man and make an\nend of him. The marriage day was fixed, the wedding dresses were\nbought, the wedding tour was planned out, the wedding guests were\ninvited. The day came, but not the bridegroom. He wrote her a letter \n\n Which she received,  I struck in,  when she was dressing for her\nmarriage? At twenty minutes to nine? \n\n At the hour and minute,  said Herbert, nodding,  at which she\nafterwards stopped all the clocks. What was in it, further than that it\nmost heartlessly broke the marriage off, I can t tell you, because I\ndon t know. When she recovered from a bad illness that she had, she\nlaid the whole place waste, as you have seen it, and she has never\nsince looked upon the light of day. \n\n Is that all the story?  I asked, after considering it.\n\n All I know of it; and indeed I only know so much, through piecing it\nout for myself; for my father always avoids it, and, even when Miss\nHavisham invited me to go there, told me no more of it than it was\nabsolutely requisite I should understand. But I have forgotten one\nthing. It has been supposed that the man to whom she gave her misplaced\nconfidence acted throughout in concert with her half-brother; that it\nwas a conspiracy between them; and that they shared the profits. \n\n I wonder he didn t marry her and get all the property,  said I.\n\n He may have been married already, and her cruel mortification may have\nbeen a part of her half-brother s scheme,  said Herbert.  Mind! I don t\nknow that. \n\n What became of the two men?  I asked, after again considering the\nsubject.\n\n They fell into deeper shame and degradation if there can be deeper and\nruin. \n\n Are they alive now? \n\n I don t know. \n\n You said just now that Estella was not related to Miss Havisham, but\nadopted. When adopted? \n\nHerbert shrugged his shoulders.  There has always been an Estella,\nsince I have heard of a Miss Havisham. I know no more. And now,\nHandel,  said he, finally throwing off the story as it were,  there is\na perfectly open understanding between us. All that I know about Miss\nHavisham, you know. \n\n And all that I know,  I retorted,  you know. \n\n I fully believe it. So there can be no competition or perplexity\nbetween you and me. And as to the condition on which you hold your\nadvancement in life, namely, that you are not to inquire or discuss to\nwhom you owe it, you may be very sure that it will never be encroached\nupon, or even approached, by me, or by any one belonging to me. \n\nIn truth, he said this with so much delicacy, that I felt the subject\ndone with, even though I should be under his father s roof for years\nand years to come. Yet he said it with so much meaning, too, that I\nfelt he as perfectly understood Miss Havisham to be my benefactress, as\nI understood the fact myself.\n\nIt had not occurred to me before, that he had led up to the theme for\nthe purpose of clearing it out of our way; but we were so much the\nlighter and easier for having broached it, that I now perceived this to\nbe the case. We were very gay and sociable, and I asked him, in the\ncourse of conversation, what he was? He replied,  A capitalist, an\nInsurer of Ships.  I suppose he saw me glancing about the room in\nsearch of some tokens of Shipping, or capital, for he added,  In the\nCity. \n\nI had grand ideas of the wealth and importance of Insurers of Ships in\nthe City, and I began to think with awe of having laid a young Insurer\non his back, blackened his enterprising eye, and cut his responsible\nhead open. But again there came upon me, for my relief, that odd\nimpression that Herbert Pocket would never be very successful or rich.\n\n I shall not rest satisfied with merely employing my capital in\ninsuring ships. I shall buy up some good Life Assurance shares, and cut\ninto the Direction. I shall also do a little in the mining way. None of\nthese things will interfere with my chartering a few thousand tons on\nmy own account. I think I shall trade,  said he, leaning back in his\nchair,  to the East Indies, for silks, shawls, spices, dyes, drugs, and\nprecious woods. It s an interesting trade. \n\n And the profits are large?  said I.\n\n Tremendous!  said he.\n\nI wavered again, and began to think here were greater expectations than\nmy own.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n I think I shall trade, also,  said he, putting his thumbs in his\nwaist-coat pockets,  to the West Indies, for sugar, tobacco, and rum.\nAlso to Ceylon, especially for elephants  tusks. \n\n You will want a good many ships,  said I.\n\n A perfect fleet,  said he.\n\nQuite overpowered by the magnificence of these transactions, I asked\nhim where the ships he insured mostly traded to at present?\n\n I haven t begun insuring yet,  he replied.  I am looking about me. \n\nSomehow, that pursuit seemed more in keeping with Barnard s Inn. I said\n(in a tone of conviction),  Ah-h! \n\n Yes. I am in a counting-house, and looking about me. \n\n Is a counting-house profitable?  I asked.\n\n To do you mean to the young fellow who s in it?  he asked, in reply.\n\n Yes; to you. \n\n Why, n-no; not to me.  He said this with the air of one carefully\nreckoning up and striking a balance.  Not directly profitable. That is,\nit doesn t pay me anything, and I have to keep myself. \n\nThis certainly had not a profitable appearance, and I shook my head as\nif I would imply that it would be difficult to lay by much accumulative\ncapital from such a source of income.\n\n But the thing is,  said Herbert Pocket,  that you look about you.\n_That s_ the grand thing. You are in a counting-house, you know, and\nyou look about you. \n\nIt struck me as a singular implication that you couldn t be out of a\ncounting-house, you know, and look about you; but I silently deferred\nto his experience.\n\n Then the time comes,  said Herbert,  when you see your opening. And\nyou go in, and you swoop upon it and you make your capital, and then\nthere you are! When you have once made your capital, you have nothing\nto do but employ it. \n\nThis was very like his way of conducting that encounter in the garden;\nvery like. His manner of bearing his poverty, too, exactly corresponded\nto his manner of bearing that defeat. It seemed to me that he took all\nblows and buffets now with just the same air as he had taken mine then.\nIt was evident that he had nothing around him but the simplest\nnecessaries, for everything that I remarked upon turned out to have\nbeen sent in on my account from the coffee-house or somewhere else.\n\nYet, having already made his fortune in his own mind, he was so\nunassuming with it that I felt quite grateful to him for not being\npuffed up. It was a pleasant addition to his naturally pleasant ways,\nand we got on famously. In the evening we went out for a walk in the\nstreets, and went half-price to the Theatre; and next day we went to\nchurch at Westminster Abbey, and in the afternoon we walked in the\nParks; and I wondered who shod all the horses there, and wished Joe\ndid.\n\nOn a moderate computation, it was many months, that Sunday, since I had\nleft Joe and Biddy. The space interposed between myself and them\npartook of that expansion, and our marshes were any distance off. That\nI could have been at our old church in my old church-going clothes, on\nthe very last Sunday that ever was, seemed a combination of\nimpossibilities, geographical and social, solar and lunar. Yet in the\nLondon streets so crowded with people and so brilliantly lighted in the\ndusk of evening, there were depressing hints of reproaches for that I\nhad put the poor old kitchen at home so far away; and in the dead of\nnight, the footsteps of some incapable impostor of a porter mooning\nabout Barnard s Inn, under pretence of watching it, fell hollow on my\nheart.\n\nOn the Monday morning at a quarter before nine, Herbert went to the\ncounting-house to report himself, to look about him, too, I\nsuppose, and I bore him company. He was to come away in an hour or two\nto attend me to Hammersmith, and I was to wait about for him. It\nappeared to me that the eggs from which young Insurers were hatched\nwere incubated in dust and heat, like the eggs of ostriches, judging\nfrom the places to which those incipient giants repaired on a Monday\nmorning. Nor did the counting-house where Herbert assisted, show in my\neyes as at all a good Observatory; being a back second floor up a yard,\nof a grimy presence in all particulars, and with a look into another\nback second floor, rather than a look out.\n\nI waited about until it was noon, and I went upon  Change, and I saw\nfluey men sitting there under the bills about shipping, whom I took to\nbe great merchants, though I couldn t understand why they should all be\nout of spirits. When Herbert came, we went and had lunch at a\ncelebrated house which I then quite venerated, but now believe to have\nbeen the most abject superstition in Europe, and where I could not help\nnoticing, even then, that there was much more gravy on the tablecloths\nand knives and waiters  clothes, than in the steaks. This collation\ndisposed of at a moderate price (considering the grease, which was not\ncharged for), we went back to Barnard s Inn and got my little\nportmanteau, and then took coach for Hammersmith. We arrived there at\ntwo or three o clock in the afternoon, and had very little way to walk\nto Mr. Pocket s house. Lifting the latch of a gate, we passed direct\ninto a little garden overlooking the river, where Mr. Pocket s children\nwere playing about. And unless I deceive myself on a point where my\ninterests or prepossessions are certainly not concerned, I saw that Mr.\nand Mrs. Pocket s children were not growing up or being brought up, but\nwere tumbling up.\n\nMrs. Pocket was sitting on a garden chair under a tree, reading, with\nher legs upon another garden chair; and Mrs. Pocket s two nurse-maids\nwere looking about them while the children played.  Mamma,  said\nHerbert,  this is young Mr. Pip.  Upon which Mrs. Pocket received me\nwith an appearance of amiable dignity.\n\n Master Alick and Miss Jane,  cried one of the nurses to two of the\nchildren,  if you go a bouncing up against them bushes you ll fall over\ninto the river and be drownded, and what ll your pa say then? \n\nAt the same time this nurse picked up Mrs. Pocket s handkerchief, and\nsaid,  If that don t make six times you ve dropped it, Mum!  Upon which\nMrs. Pocket laughed and said,  Thank you, Flopson,  and settling\nherself in one chair only, resumed her book. Her countenance\nimmediately assumed a knitted and intent expression as if she had been\nreading for a week, but before she could have read half a dozen lines,\nshe fixed her eyes upon me, and said,  I hope your mamma is quite\nwell?  This unexpected inquiry put me into such a difficulty that I\nbegan saying in the absurdest way that if there had been any such\nperson I had no doubt she would have been quite well and would have\nbeen very much obliged and would have sent her compliments, when the\nnurse came to my rescue.\n\n Well!  she cried, picking up the pocket-handkerchief,  if that don t\nmake seven times! What ARE you a-doing of this afternoon, Mum!  Mrs.\nPocket received her property, at first with a look of unutterable\nsurprise as if she had never seen it before, and then with a laugh of\nrecognition, and said,  Thank you, Flopson,  and forgot me, and went on\nreading.\n\nI found, now I had leisure to count them, that there were no fewer than\nsix little Pockets present, in various stages of tumbling up. I had\nscarcely arrived at the total when a seventh was heard, as in the\nregion of air, wailing dolefully.\n\n If there ain t Baby!  said Flopson, appearing to think it most\nsurprising.  Make haste up, Millers. \n\nMillers, who was the other nurse, retired into the house, and by\ndegrees the child s wailing was hushed and stopped, as if it were a\nyoung ventriloquist with something in its mouth. Mrs. Pocket read all\nthe time, and I was curious to know what the book could be.\n\nWe were waiting, I supposed, for Mr. Pocket to come out to us; at any\nrate we waited there, and so I had an opportunity of observing the\nremarkable family phenomenon that whenever any of the children strayed\nnear Mrs. Pocket in their play, they always tripped themselves up and\ntumbled over her, always very much to her momentary astonishment, and\ntheir own more enduring lamentation. I was at a loss to account for\nthis surprising circumstance, and could not help giving my mind to\nspeculations about it, until by and by Millers came down with the baby,\nwhich baby was handed to Flopson, which Flopson was handing it to Mrs.\nPocket, when she too went fairly head foremost over Mrs. Pocket, baby\nand all, and was caught by Herbert and myself.\n\n Gracious me, Flopson!  said Mrs. Pocket, looking off her book for a\nmoment,  everybody s tumbling! \n\n Gracious you, indeed, Mum!  returned Flopson, very red in the face;\n what have you got there? \n\n _I_ got here, Flopson?  asked Mrs. Pocket.\n\n Why, if it ain t your footstool!  cried Flopson.  And if you keep it\nunder your skirts like that, who s to help tumbling? Here! Take the\nbaby, Mum, and give me your book. \n\nMrs. Pocket acted on the advice, and inexpertly danced the infant a\nlittle in her lap, while the other children played about it. This had\nlasted but a very short time, when Mrs. Pocket issued summary orders\nthat they were all to be taken into the house for a nap. Thus I made\nthe second discovery on that first occasion, that the nurture of the\nlittle Pockets consisted of alternately tumbling up and lying down.\n\nUnder these circumstances, when Flopson and Millers had got the\nchildren into the house, like a little flock of sheep, and Mr. Pocket\ncame out of it to make my acquaintance, I was not much surprised to\nfind that Mr. Pocket was a gentleman with a rather perplexed expression\nof face, and with his very grey hair disordered on his head, as if he\ndidn t quite see his way to putting anything straight.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII.\n\n\nMr. Pocket said he was glad to see me, and he hoped I was not sorry to\nsee him.  For, I really am not,  he added, with his son s smile,  an\nalarming personage.  He was a young-looking man, in spite of his\nperplexities and his very grey hair, and his manner seemed quite\nnatural. I use the word natural, in the sense of its being unaffected;\nthere was something comic in his distraught way, as though it would\nhave been downright ludicrous but for his own perception that it was\nvery near being so. When he had talked with me a little, he said to\nMrs. Pocket, with a rather anxious contraction of his eyebrows, which\nwere black and handsome,  Belinda, I hope you have welcomed Mr. Pip? \nAnd she looked up from her book, and said,  Yes.  She then smiled upon\nme in an absent state of mind, and asked me if I liked the taste of\norange-flower water? As the question had no bearing, near or remote, on\nany foregone or subsequent transaction, I consider it to have been\nthrown out, like her previous approaches, in general conversational\ncondescension.\n\nI found out within a few hours, and may mention at once, that Mrs.\nPocket was the only daughter of a certain quite accidental deceased\nKnight, who had invented for himself a conviction that his deceased\nfather would have been made a Baronet but for somebody s determined\nopposition arising out of entirely personal motives, I forget whose, if\nI ever knew, the Sovereign s, the Prime Minister s, the Lord\nChancellor s, the Archbishop of Canterbury s, anybody s, and had tacked\nhimself on to the nobles of the earth in right of this quite\nsupposititious fact. I believe he had been knighted himself for\nstorming the English grammar at the point of the pen, in a desperate\naddress engrossed on vellum, on the occasion of the laying of the first\nstone of some building or other, and for handing some Royal Personage\neither the trowel or the mortar. Be that as it may, he had directed\nMrs. Pocket to be brought up from her cradle as one who in the nature\nof things must marry a title, and who was to be guarded from the\nacquisition of plebeian domestic knowledge.\n\nSo successful a watch and ward had been established over the young lady\nby this judicious parent, that she had grown up highly ornamental, but\nperfectly helpless and useless. With her character thus happily formed,\nin the first bloom of her youth she had encountered Mr. Pocket: who was\nalso in the first bloom of youth, and not quite decided whether to\nmount to the Woolsack, or to roof himself in with a mitre. As his doing\nthe one or the other was a mere question of time, he and Mrs. Pocket\nhad taken Time by the forelock (when, to judge from its length, it\nwould seem to have wanted cutting), and had married without the\nknowledge of the judicious parent. The judicious parent, having nothing\nto bestow or withhold but his blessing, had handsomely settled that\ndower upon them after a short struggle, and had informed Mr. Pocket\nthat his wife was  a treasure for a Prince.  Mr. Pocket had invested\nthe Prince s treasure in the ways of the world ever since, and it was\nsupposed to have brought him in but indifferent interest. Still, Mrs.\nPocket was in general the object of a queer sort of respectful pity,\nbecause she had not married a title; while Mr. Pocket was the object of\na queer sort of forgiving reproach, because he had never got one.\n\nMr. Pocket took me into the house and showed me my room: which was a\npleasant one, and so furnished as that I could use it with comfort for\nmy own private sitting-room. He then knocked at the doors of two other\nsimilar rooms, and introduced me to their occupants, by name Drummle\nand Startop. Drummle, an old-looking young man of a heavy order of\narchitecture, was whistling. Startop, younger in years and appearance,\nwas reading and holding his head, as if he thought himself in danger of\nexploding it with too strong a charge of knowledge.\n\nBoth Mr. and Mrs. Pocket had such a noticeable air of being in somebody\nelse s hands, that I wondered who really was in possession of the house\nand let them live there, until I found this unknown power to be the\nservants. It was a smooth way of going on, perhaps, in respect of\nsaving trouble; but it had the appearance of being expensive, for the\nservants felt it a duty they owed to themselves to be nice in their\neating and drinking, and to keep a deal of company downstairs. They\nallowed a very liberal table to Mr. and Mrs. Pocket, yet it always\nappeared to me that by far the best part of the house to have boarded\nin would have been the kitchen, always supposing the boarder capable of\nself-defence, for, before I had been there a week, a neighbouring lady\nwith whom the family were personally unacquainted, wrote in to say that\nshe had seen Millers slapping the baby. This greatly distressed Mrs.\nPocket, who burst into tears on receiving the note, and said that it\nwas an extraordinary thing that the neighbours couldn t mind their own\nbusiness.\n\nBy degrees I learnt, and chiefly from Herbert, that Mr. Pocket had been\neducated at Harrow and at Cambridge, where he had distinguished\nhimself; but that when he had had the happiness of marrying Mrs. Pocket\nvery early in life, he had impaired his prospects and taken up the\ncalling of a Grinder. After grinding a number of dull blades, of whom\nit was remarkable that their fathers, when influential, were always\ngoing to help him to preferment, but always forgot to do it when the\nblades had left the Grindstone, he had wearied of that poor work and\nhad come to London. Here, after gradually failing in loftier hopes, he\nhad  read  with divers who had lacked opportunities or neglected them,\nand had refurbished divers others for special occasions, and had turned\nhis acquirements to the account of literary compilation and correction,\nand on such means, added to some very moderate private resources, still\nmaintained the house I saw.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Pocket had a toady neighbour; a widow lady of that highly\nsympathetic nature that she agreed with everybody, blessed everybody,\nand shed smiles and tears on everybody, according to circumstances.\nThis lady s name was Mrs. Coiler, and I had the honour of taking her\ndown to dinner on the day of my installation. She gave me to understand\non the stairs, that it was a blow to dear Mrs. Pocket that dear Mr.\nPocket should be under the necessity of receiving gentlemen to read\nwith him. That did not extend to me, she told me in a gush of love and\nconfidence (at that time, I had known her something less than five\nminutes); if they were all like Me, it would be quite another thing.\n\n But dear Mrs. Pocket,  said Mrs. Coiler,  after her early\ndisappointment (not that dear Mr. Pocket was to blame in that),\nrequires so much luxury and elegance \n\n Yes, ma am,  I said, to stop her, for I was afraid she was going to\ncry.\n\n And she is of so aristocratic a disposition \n\n Yes, ma am,  I said again, with the same object as before.\n\n That it _is_ hard,  said Mrs. Coiler,  to have dear Mr. Pocket s time\nand attention diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket. \n\nI could not help thinking that it might be harder if the butcher s time\nand attention were diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket; but I said nothing,\nand indeed had enough to do in keeping a bashful watch upon my company\nmanners.\n\nIt came to my knowledge, through what passed between Mrs. Pocket and\nDrummle while I was attentive to my knife and fork, spoon, glasses, and\nother instruments of self-destruction, that Drummle, whose Christian\nname was Bentley, was actually the next heir but one to a baronetcy. It\nfurther appeared that the book I had seen Mrs. Pocket reading in the\ngarden was all about titles, and that she knew the exact date at which\nher grandpapa would have come into the book, if he ever had come at\nall. Drummle didn t say much, but in his limited way (he struck me as a\nsulky kind of fellow) he spoke as one of the elect, and recognised Mrs.\nPocket as a woman and a sister. No one but themselves and Mrs. Coiler\nthe toady neighbour showed any interest in this part of the\nconversation, and it appeared to me that it was painful to Herbert; but\nit promised to last a long time, when the page came in with the\nannouncement of a domestic affliction. It was, in effect, that the cook\nhad mislaid the beef. To my unutterable amazement, I now, for the first\ntime, saw Mr. Pocket relieve his mind by going through a performance\nthat struck me as very extraordinary, but which made no impression on\nanybody else, and with which I soon became as familiar as the rest. He\nlaid down the carving-knife and fork, being engaged in carving, at the\nmoment, put his two hands into his disturbed hair, and appeared to make\nan extraordinary effort to lift himself up by it. When he had done\nthis, and had not lifted himself up at all, he quietly went on with\nwhat he was about.\n\nMrs. Coiler then changed the subject and began to flatter me. I liked\nit for a few moments, but she flattered me so very grossly that the\npleasure was soon over. She had a serpentine way of coming close at me\nwhen she pretended to be vitally interested in the friends and\nlocalities I had left, which was altogether snaky and fork-tongued; and\nwhen she made an occasional bounce upon Startop (who said very little\nto her), or upon Drummle (who said less), I rather envied them for\nbeing on the opposite side of the table.\n\nAfter dinner the children were introduced, and Mrs. Coiler made\nadmiring comments on their eyes, noses, and legs, a sagacious way of\nimproving their minds. There were four little girls, and two little\nboys, besides the baby who might have been either, and the baby s next\nsuccessor who was as yet neither. They were brought in by Flopson and\nMillers, much as though those two non-commissioned officers had been\nrecruiting somewhere for children and had enlisted these, while Mrs.\nPocket looked at the young Nobles that ought to have been as if she\nrather thought she had had the pleasure of inspecting them before, but\ndidn t quite know what to make of them.\n\n Here! Give me your fork, Mum, and take the baby,  said Flopson.  Don t\ntake it that way, or you ll get its head under the table. \n\nThus advised, Mrs. Pocket took it the other way, and got its head upon\nthe table; which was announced to all present by a prodigious\nconcussion.\n\n Dear, dear! Give it me back, Mum,  said Flopson;  and Miss Jane, come\nand dance to baby, do! \n\nOne of the little girls, a mere mite who seemed to have prematurely\ntaken upon herself some charge of the others, stepped out of her place\nby me, and danced to and from the baby until it left off crying, and\nlaughed. Then, all the children laughed, and Mr. Pocket (who in the\nmeantime had twice endeavoured to lift himself up by the hair) laughed,\nand we all laughed and were glad.\n\nFlopson, by dint of doubling the baby at the joints like a Dutch doll,\nthen got it safely into Mrs. Pocket s lap, and gave it the nut-crackers\nto play with; at the same time recommending Mrs. Pocket to take notice\nthat the handles of that instrument were not likely to agree with its\neyes, and sharply charging Miss Jane to look after the same. Then, the\ntwo nurses left the room, and had a lively scuffle on the staircase\nwith a dissipated page who had waited at dinner, and who had clearly\nlost half his buttons at the gaming-table.\n\nI was made very uneasy in my mind by Mrs. Pocket s falling into a\ndiscussion with Drummle respecting two baronetcies, while she ate a\nsliced orange steeped in sugar and wine, and, forgetting all about the\nbaby on her lap, who did most appalling things with the nut-crackers.\nAt length little Jane, perceiving its young brains to be imperilled,\nsoftly left her place, and with many small artifices coaxed the\ndangerous weapon away. Mrs. Pocket finishing her orange at about the\nsame time, and not approving of this, said to Jane, \n\n You naughty child, how dare you? Go and sit down this instant! \n\n Mamma dear,  lisped the little girl,  baby ood have put hith eyeth\nout. \n\n How dare you tell me so?  retorted Mrs. Pocket.  Go and sit down in\nyour chair this moment! \n\nMrs. Pocket s dignity was so crushing, that I felt quite abashed, as if\nI myself had done something to rouse it.\n\n Belinda,  remonstrated Mr. Pocket, from the other end of the table,\n how can you be so unreasonable? Jane only interfered for the\nprotection of baby. \n\n I will not allow anybody to interfere,  said Mrs. Pocket.  I am\nsurprised, Matthew, that you should expose me to the affront of\ninterference. \n\n Good God!  cried Mr. Pocket, in an outbreak of desolate desperation.\n Are infants to be nut-crackered into their tombs, and is nobody to\nsave them? \n\n I will not be interfered with by Jane,  said Mrs. Pocket, with a\nmajestic glance at that innocent little offender.  I hope I know my\npoor grandpapa s position. Jane, indeed! \n\nMr. Pocket got his hands in his hair again, and this time really did\nlift himself some inches out of his chair.  Hear this!  he helplessly\nexclaimed to the elements.  Babies are to be nut-crackered dead, for\npeople s poor grandpapa s positions!  Then he let himself down again,\nand became silent.\n\nWe all looked awkwardly at the tablecloth while this was going on. A\npause succeeded, during which the honest and irrepressible baby made a\nseries of leaps and crows at little Jane, who appeared to me to be the\nonly member of the family (irrespective of servants) with whom it had\nany decided acquaintance.\n\n Mr. Drummle,  said Mrs. Pocket,  will you ring for Flopson? Jane, you\nundutiful little thing, go and lie down. Now, baby darling, come with\nma! \n\nThe baby was the soul of honour, and protested with all its might. It\ndoubled itself up the wrong way over Mrs. Pocket s arm, exhibited a\npair of knitted shoes and dimpled ankles to the company in lieu of its\nsoft face, and was carried out in the highest state of mutiny. And it\ngained its point after all, for I saw it through the window within a\nfew minutes, being nursed by little Jane.\n\nIt happened that the other five children were left behind at the\ndinner-table, through Flopson s having some private engagement, and\ntheir not being anybody else s business. I thus became aware of the\nmutual relations between them and Mr. Pocket, which were exemplified in\nthe following manner. Mr. Pocket, with the normal perplexity of his\nface heightened and his hair rumpled, looked at them for some minutes,\nas if he couldn t make out how they came to be boarding and lodging in\nthat establishment, and why they hadn t been billeted by Nature on\nsomebody else. Then, in a distant Missionary way he asked them certain\nquestions, as why little Joe had that hole in his frill, who said, Pa,\nFlopson was going to mend it when she had time, and how little Fanny\ncame by that whitlow, who said, Pa, Millers was going to poultice it\nwhen she didn t forget. Then, he melted into parental tenderness, and\ngave them a shilling apiece and told them to go and play; and then as\nthey went out, with one very strong effort to lift himself up by the\nhair he dismissed the hopeless subject.\n\nIn the evening there was rowing on the river. As Drummle and Startop\nhad each a boat, I resolved to set up mine, and to cut them both out. I\nwas pretty good at most exercises in which country boys are adepts, but\nas I was conscious of wanting elegance of style for the Thames, not to\nsay for other waters, I at once engaged to place myself under the\ntuition of the winner of a prize-wherry who plied at our stairs, and to\nwhom I was introduced by my new allies. This practical authority\nconfused me very much by saying I had the arm of a blacksmith. If he\ncould have known how nearly the compliment lost him his pupil, I doubt\nif he would have paid it.\n\nThere was a supper-tray after we got home at night, and I think we\nshould all have enjoyed ourselves, but for a rather disagreeable\ndomestic occurrence. Mr. Pocket was in good spirits, when a housemaid\ncame in, and said,  If you please, sir, I should wish to speak to you. \n\n Speak to your master?  said Mrs. Pocket, whose dignity was roused\nagain.  How can you think of such a thing? Go and speak to Flopson. Or\nspeak to me at some other time. \n\n Begging your pardon, ma am,  returned the housemaid,  I should wish to\nspeak at once, and to speak to master. \n\nHereupon, Mr. Pocket went out of the room, and we made the best of\nourselves until he came back.\n\n This is a pretty thing, Belinda!  said Mr. Pocket, returning with a\ncountenance expressive of grief and despair.  Here s the cook lying\ninsensibly drunk on the kitchen floor, with a large bundle of fresh\nbutter made up in the cupboard ready to sell for grease! \n\nMrs. Pocket instantly showed much amiable emotion, and said,  This is\nthat odious Sophia s doing! \n\n What do you mean, Belinda?  demanded Mr. Pocket.\n\n Sophia has told you,  said Mrs. Pocket.  Did I not see her with my own\neyes and hear her with my own ears, come into the room just now and ask\nto speak to you? \n\n But has she not taken me downstairs, Belinda,  returned Mr. Pocket,\n and shown me the woman, and the bundle too? \n\n And do you defend her, Matthew,  said Mrs. Pocket,  for making\nmischief? \n\nMr. Pocket uttered a dismal groan.\n\n Am I, grandpapa s granddaughter, to be nothing in the house?  said\nMrs. Pocket.  Besides, the cook has always been a very nice respectful\nwoman, and said in the most natural manner when she came to look after\nthe situation, that she felt I was born to be a Duchess. \n\nThere was a sofa where Mr. Pocket stood, and he dropped upon it in the\nattitude of the Dying Gladiator. Still in that attitude he said, with a\nhollow voice,  Good night, Mr. Pip,  when I deemed it advisable to go\nto bed and leave him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV.\n\n\nAfter two or three days, when I had established myself in my room and\nhad gone backwards and forwards to London several times, and had\nordered all I wanted of my tradesmen, Mr. Pocket and I had a long talk\ntogether. He knew more of my intended career than I knew myself, for he\nreferred to his having been told by Mr. Jaggers that I was not designed\nfor any profession, and that I should be well enough educated for my\ndestiny if I could  hold my own  with the average of young men in\nprosperous circumstances. I acquiesced, of course, knowing nothing to\nthe contrary.\n\nHe advised my attending certain places in London, for the acquisition\nof such mere rudiments as I wanted, and my investing him with the\nfunctions of explainer and director of all my studies. He hoped that\nwith intelligent assistance I should meet with little to discourage me,\nand should soon be able to dispense with any aid but his. Through his\nway of saying this, and much more to similar purpose, he placed himself\non confidential terms with me in an admirable manner; and I may state\nat once that he was always so zealous and honourable in fulfilling his\ncompact with me, that he made me zealous and honourable in fulfilling\nmine with him. If he had shown indifference as a master, I have no\ndoubt I should have returned the compliment as a pupil; he gave me no\nsuch excuse, and each of us did the other justice. Nor did I ever\nregard him as having anything ludicrous about him or anything but what\nwas serious, honest, and good in his tutor communication with me.\n\nWhen these points were settled, and so far carried out as that I had\nbegun to work in earnest, it occurred to me that if I could retain my\nbedroom in Barnard s Inn, my life would be agreeably varied, while my\nmanners would be none the worse for Herbert s society. Mr. Pocket did\nnot object to this arrangement, but urged that before any step could\npossibly be taken in it, it must be submitted to my guardian. I felt\nthat this delicacy arose out of the consideration that the plan would\nsave Herbert some expense, so I went off to Little Britain and imparted\nmy wish to Mr. Jaggers.\n\n If I could buy the furniture now hired for me,  said I,  and one or\ntwo other little things, I should be quite at home there. \n\n Go it!  said Mr. Jaggers, with a short laugh.  I told you you d get\non. Well! How much do you want? \n\nI said I didn t know how much.\n\n Come!  retorted Mr. Jaggers.  How much? Fifty pounds? \n\n O, not nearly so much. \n\n Five pounds?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\nThis was such a great fall, that I said in discomfiture,  O, more than\nthat. \n\n More than that, eh!  retorted Mr. Jaggers, lying in wait for me, with\nhis hands in his pockets, his head on one side, and his eyes on the\nwall behind me;  how much more? \n\n It is so difficult to fix a sum,  said I, hesitating.\n\n Come!  said Mr. Jaggers.  Let s get at it. Twice five; will that do?\nThree times five; will that do? Four times five; will that do? \n\nI said I thought that would do handsomely.\n\n Four times five will do handsomely, will it?  said Mr. Jaggers,\nknitting his brows.  Now, what do you make of four times five? \n\n What do I make of it? \n\n Ah!  said Mr. Jaggers;  how much? \n\n I suppose you make it twenty pounds,  said I, smiling.\n\n Never mind what _I_ make it, my friend,  observed Mr. Jaggers, with a\nknowing and contradictory toss of his head.  I want to know what _you_\nmake it. \n\n Twenty pounds, of course. \n\n Wemmick!  said Mr. Jaggers, opening his office door.  Take Mr. Pip s\nwritten order, and pay him twenty pounds. \n\nThis strongly marked way of doing business made a strongly marked\nimpression on me, and that not of an agreeable kind. Mr. Jaggers never\nlaughed; but he wore great bright creaking boots, and, in poising\nhimself on these boots, with his large head bent down and his eyebrows\njoined together, awaiting an answer, he sometimes caused the boots to\ncreak, as if _they_ laughed in a dry and suspicious way. As he happened\nto go out now, and as Wemmick was brisk and talkative, I said to\nWemmick that I hardly knew what to make of Mr. Jaggers s manner.\n\n Tell him that, and he ll take it as a compliment,  answered Wemmick;\n he don t mean that you _should_ know what to make of it. Oh!  for I\nlooked surprised,  it s not personal; it s professional: only\nprofessional. \n\nWemmick was at his desk, lunching and crunching on a dry hard biscuit;\npieces of which he threw from time to time into his slit of a mouth, as\nif he were posting them.\n\n Always seems to me,  said Wemmick,  as if he had set a man-trap and\nwas watching it. Suddenly click you re caught! \n\nWithout remarking that man-traps were not among the amenities of life,\nI said I supposed he was very skilful?\n\n Deep,  said Wemmick,  as Australia.  Pointing with his pen at the\noffice floor, to express that Australia was understood, for the\npurposes of the figure, to be symmetrically on the opposite spot of the\nglobe.  If there was anything deeper,  added Wemmick, bringing his pen\nto paper,  he d be it. \n\nThen, I said I supposed he had a fine business, and Wemmick said,\n Ca-pi-tal!  Then I asked if there were many clerks? to which he\nreplied, \n\n We don t run much into clerks, because there s only one Jaggers, and\npeople won t have him at second hand. There are only four of us. Would\nyou like to see  em? You are one of us, as I may say. \n\nI accepted the offer. When Mr. Wemmick had put all the biscuit into the\npost, and had paid me my money from a cash-box in a safe, the key of\nwhich safe he kept somewhere down his back and produced from his\ncoat-collar like an iron-pigtail, we went upstairs. The house was dark\nand shabby, and the greasy shoulders that had left their mark in Mr.\nJaggers s room seemed to have been shuffling up and down the staircase\nfor years. In the front first floor, a clerk who looked something\nbetween a publican and a rat-catcher a large pale, puffed, swollen\nman was attentively engaged with three or four people of shabby\nappearance, whom he treated as unceremoniously as everybody seemed to\nbe treated who contributed to Mr. Jaggers s coffers.  Getting evidence\ntogether,  said Mr. Wemmick, as we came out,  for the Bailey.  In the\nroom over that, a little flabby terrier of a clerk with dangling hair\n(his cropping seemed to have been forgotten when he was a puppy) was\nsimilarly engaged with a man with weak eyes, whom Mr. Wemmick presented\nto me as a smelter who kept his pot always boiling, and who would melt\nme anything I pleased, and who was in an excessive white-perspiration,\nas if he had been trying his art on himself. In a back room, a\nhigh-shouldered man with a face-ache tied up in dirty flannel, who was\ndressed in old black clothes that bore the appearance of having been\nwaxed, was stooping over his work of making fair copies of the notes of\nthe other two gentlemen, for Mr. Jaggers s own use.\n\nThis was all the establishment. When we went downstairs again, Wemmick\nled me into my guardian s room, and said,  This you ve seen already. \n\n Pray,  said I, as the two odious casts with the twitchy leer upon them\ncaught my sight again,  whose likenesses are those? \n\n These?  said Wemmick, getting upon a chair, and blowing the dust off\nthe horrible heads before bringing them down.  These are two celebrated\nones. Famous clients of ours that got us a world of credit. This chap\n(why you must have come down in the night and been peeping into the\ninkstand, to get this blot upon your eyebrow, you old rascal!) murdered\nhis master, and, considering that he wasn t brought up to evidence,\ndidn t plan it badly. \n\n Is it like him?  I asked, recoiling from the brute, as Wemmick spat\nupon his eyebrow and gave it a rub with his sleeve.\n\n Like him? It s himself, you know. The cast was made in Newgate,\ndirectly after he was taken down. You had a particular fancy for me,\nhadn t you, Old Artful?  said Wemmick. He then explained this\naffectionate apostrophe, by touching his brooch representing the lady\nand the weeping willow at the tomb with the urn upon it, and saying,\n Had it made for me, express! \n\n Is the lady anybody?  said I.\n\n No,  returned Wemmick.  Only his game. (You liked your bit of game,\ndidn t you?) No; deuce a bit of a lady in the case, Mr. Pip, except\none, and she wasn t of this slender lady-like sort, and you wouldn t\nhave caught _her_ looking after this urn, unless there was something to\ndrink in it.  Wemmick s attention being thus directed to his brooch, he\nput down the cast, and polished the brooch with his\npocket-handkerchief.\n\n Did that other creature come to the same end?  I asked.  He has the\nsame look. \n\n You re right,  said Wemmick;  it s the genuine look. Much as if one\nnostril was caught up with a horse-hair and a little fish-hook. Yes, he\ncame to the same end; quite the natural end here, I assure you. He\nforged wills, this blade did, if he didn t also put the supposed\ntestators to sleep too. You were a gentlemanly Cove, though  (Mr.\nWemmick was again apostrophising),  and you said you could write Greek.\nYah, Bounceable! What a liar you were! I never met such a liar as you! \nBefore putting his late friend on his shelf again, Wemmick touched the\nlargest of his mourning rings and said,  Sent out to buy it for me,\nonly the day before. \n\nWhile he was putting up the other cast and coming down from the chair,\nthe thought crossed my mind that all his personal jewelry was derived\nfrom like sources. As he had shown no diffidence on the subject, I\nventured on the liberty of asking him the question, when he stood\nbefore me, dusting his hands.\n\n O yes,  he returned,  these are all gifts of that kind. One brings\nanother, you see; that s the way of it. I always take  em. They re\ncuriosities. And they re property. They may not be worth much, but,\nafter all, they re property and portable. It don t signify to you with\nyour brilliant lookout, but as to myself, my guiding-star always is,\n Get hold of portable property . \n\nWhen I had rendered homage to this light, he went on to say, in a\nfriendly manner: \n\n If at any odd time when you have nothing better to do, you wouldn t\nmind coming over to see me at Walworth, I could offer you a bed, and I\nshould consider it an honour. I have not much to show you; but such two\nor three curiosities as I have got you might like to look over; and I\nam fond of a bit of garden and a summer-house. \n\nI said I should be delighted to accept his hospitality.\n\n Thankee,  said he;  then we ll consider that it s to come off, when\nconvenient to you. Have you dined with Mr. Jaggers yet? \n\n Not yet. \n\n Well,  said Wemmick,  he ll give you wine, and good wine. I ll give\nyou punch, and not bad punch. And now I ll tell you something. When you\ngo to dine with Mr. Jaggers, look at his housekeeper. \n\n Shall I see something very uncommon? \n\n Well,  said Wemmick,  you ll see a wild beast tamed. Not so very\nuncommon, you ll tell me. I reply, that depends on the original\nwildness of the beast, and the amount of taming. It won t lower your\nopinion of Mr. Jaggers s powers. Keep your eye on it. \n\nI told him I would do so, with all the interest and curiosity that his\npreparation awakened. As I was taking my departure, he asked me if I\nwould like to devote five minutes to seeing Mr. Jaggers  at it? \n\nFor several reasons, and not least because I didn t clearly know what\nMr. Jaggers would be found to be  at,  I replied in the affirmative. We\ndived into the City, and came up in a crowded police-court, where a\nblood-relation (in the murderous sense) of the deceased, with the\nfanciful taste in brooches, was standing at the bar, uncomfortably\nchewing something; while my guardian had a woman under examination or\ncross-examination, I don t know which, and was striking her, and the\nbench, and everybody present, with awe. If anybody, of whatsoever\ndegree, said a word that he didn t approve of, he instantly required to\nhave it  taken down.  If anybody wouldn t make an admission, he said,\n I ll have it out of you!  and if anybody made an admission, he said,\n Now I have got you!  The magistrates shivered under a single bite of\nhis finger. Thieves and thief-takers hung in dread rapture on his\nwords, and shrank when a hair of his eyebrows turned in their\ndirection. Which side he was on I couldn t make out, for he seemed to\nme to be grinding the whole place in a mill; I only know that when I\nstole out on tiptoe, he was not on the side of the bench; for, he was\nmaking the legs of the old gentleman who presided, quite convulsive\nunder the table, by his denunciations of his conduct as the\nrepresentative of British law and justice in that chair that day.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXV.\n\n\nBentley Drummle, who was so sulky a fellow that he even took up a book\nas if its writer had done him an injury, did not take up an\nacquaintance in a more agreeable spirit. Heavy in figure, movement, and\ncomprehension, in the sluggish complexion of his face, and in the\nlarge, awkward tongue that seemed to loll about in his mouth as he\nhimself lolled about in a room, he was idle, proud, niggardly,\nreserved, and suspicious. He came of rich people down in Somersetshire,\nwho had nursed this combination of qualities until they made the\ndiscovery that it was just of age and a blockhead. Thus, Bentley\nDrummle had come to Mr. Pocket when he was a head taller than that\ngentleman, and half a dozen heads thicker than most gentlemen.\n\nStartop had been spoilt by a weak mother and kept at home when he ought\nto have been at school, but he was devotedly attached to her, and\nadmired her beyond measure. He had a woman s delicacy of feature, and\nwas as you may see, though you never saw her,  said Herbert to\nme exactly like his mother.  It was but natural that I should take to\nhim much more kindly than to Drummle, and that, even in the earliest\nevenings of our boating, he and I should pull homeward abreast of one\nanother, conversing from boat to boat, while Bentley Drummle came up in\nour wake alone, under the overhanging banks and among the rushes. He\nwould always creep in-shore like some uncomfortable amphibious\ncreature, even when the tide would have sent him fast upon his way; and\nI always think of him as coming after us in the dark or by the\nback-water, when our own two boats were breaking the sunset or the\nmoonlight in mid-stream.\n\nHerbert was my intimate companion and friend. I presented him with a\nhalf-share in my boat, which was the occasion of his often coming down\nto Hammersmith; and my possession of a half-share in his chambers often\ntook me up to London. We used to walk between the two places at all\nhours. I have an affection for the road yet (though it is not so\npleasant a road as it was then), formed in the impressibility of\nuntried youth and hope.\n\nWhen I had been in Mr. Pocket s family a month or two, Mr. and Mrs.\nCamilla turned up. Camilla was Mr. Pocket s sister. Georgiana, whom I\nhad seen at Miss Havisham s on the same occasion, also turned up. She\nwas a cousin, an indigestive single woman, who called her rigidity\nreligion, and her liver love. These people hated me with the hatred of\ncupidity and disappointment. As a matter of course, they fawned upon me\nin my prosperity with the basest meanness. Towards Mr. Pocket, as a\ngrown-up infant with no notion of his own interests, they showed the\ncomplacent forbearance I had heard them express. Mrs. Pocket they held\nin contempt; but they allowed the poor soul to have been heavily\ndisappointed in life, because that shed a feeble reflected light upon\nthemselves.\n\nThese were the surroundings among which I settled down, and applied\nmyself to my education. I soon contracted expensive habits, and began\nto spend an amount of money that within a few short months I should\nhave thought almost fabulous; but through good and evil I stuck to my\nbooks. There was no other merit in this, than my having sense enough to\nfeel my deficiencies. Between Mr. Pocket and Herbert I got on fast;\nand, with one or the other always at my elbow to give me the start I\nwanted, and clear obstructions out of my road, I must have been as\ngreat a dolt as Drummle if I had done less.\n\nI had not seen Mr. Wemmick for some weeks, when I thought I would write\nhim a note and propose to go home with him on a certain evening. He\nreplied that it would give him much pleasure, and that he would expect\nme at the office at six o clock. Thither I went, and there I found him,\nputting the key of his safe down his back as the clock struck.\n\n Did you think of walking down to Walworth?  said he.\n\n Certainly,  said I,  if you approve. \n\n Very much,  was Wemmick s reply,  for I have had my legs under the\ndesk all day, and shall be glad to stretch them. Now, I ll tell you\nwhat I have got for supper, Mr. Pip. I have got a stewed steak, which\nis of home preparation, and a cold roast fowl, which is from the\ncook s-shop. I think it s tender, because the master of the shop was a\nJuryman in some cases of ours the other day, and we let him down easy.\nI reminded him of it when I bought the fowl, and I said,  Pick us out a\ngood one, old Briton, because if we had chosen to keep you in the box\nanother day or two, we could easily have done it.  He said to that,\n Let me make you a present of the best fowl in the shop.  I let him, of\ncourse. As far as it goes, it s property and portable. You don t object\nto an aged parent, I hope? \n\nI really thought he was still speaking of the fowl, until he added,\n Because I have got an aged parent at my place.  I then said what\npoliteness required.\n\n So, you haven t dined with Mr. Jaggers yet?  he pursued, as we walked\nalong.\n\n Not yet. \n\n He told me so this afternoon when he heard you were coming. I expect\nyou ll have an invitation to-morrow. He s going to ask your pals, too.\nThree of  em; ain t there? \n\nAlthough I was not in the habit of counting Drummle as one of my\nintimate associates, I answered,  Yes. \n\n Well, he s going to ask the whole gang, I hardly felt complimented by\nthe word, and whatever he gives you, he ll give you good. Don t look\nforward to variety, but you ll have excellence. And there s another rum\nthing in his house,  proceeded Wemmick, after a moment s pause, as if\nthe remark followed on the housekeeper understood;  he never lets a\ndoor or window be fastened at night. \n\n Is he never robbed? \n\n That s it!  returned Wemmick.  He says, and gives it out publicly,  I\nwant to see the man who ll rob _me_.  Lord bless you, I have heard him,\na hundred times, if I have heard him once, say to regular cracksmen in\nour front office,  You know where I live; now, no bolt is ever drawn\nthere; why don t you do a stroke of business with me? Come; can t I\ntempt you?  Not a man of them, sir, would be bold enough to try it on,\nfor love or money. \n\n They dread him so much?  said I.\n\n Dread him,  said Wemmick.  I believe you they dread him. Not but what\nhe s artful, even in his defiance of them. No silver, sir. Britannia\nmetal, every spoon. \n\n So they wouldn t have much,  I observed,  even if they \n\n Ah! But _he_ would have much,  said Wemmick, cutting me short,  and\nthey know it. He d have their lives, and the lives of scores of  em.\nHe d have all he could get. And it s impossible to say what he couldn t\nget, if he gave his mind to it. \n\nI was falling into meditation on my guardian s greatness, when Wemmick\nremarked: \n\n As to the absence of plate, that s only his natural depth, you know. A\nriver s its natural depth, and he s his natural depth. Look at his\nwatch-chain. That s real enough. \n\n It s very massive,  said I.\n\n Massive?  repeated Wemmick.  I think so. And his watch is a gold\nrepeater, and worth a hundred pound if it s worth a penny. Mr. Pip,\nthere are about seven hundred thieves in this town who know all about\nthat watch; there s not a man, a woman, or a child, among them, who\nwouldn t identify the smallest link in that chain, and drop it as if it\nwas red hot, if inveigled into touching it. \n\nAt first with such discourse, and afterwards with conversation of a\nmore general nature, did Mr. Wemmick and I beguile the time and the\nroad, until he gave me to understand that we had arrived in the\ndistrict of Walworth.\n\nIt appeared to be a collection of back lanes, ditches, and little\ngardens, and to present the aspect of a rather dull retirement.\nWemmick s house was a little wooden cottage in the midst of plots of\ngarden, and the top of it was cut out and painted like a battery\nmounted with guns.\n\n My own doing,  said Wemmick.  Looks pretty; don t it? \n\nI highly commended it, I think it was the smallest house I ever saw;\nwith the queerest gothic windows (by far the greater part of them\nsham), and a gothic door almost too small to get in at.\n\n That s a real flagstaff, you see,  said Wemmick,  and on Sundays I run\nup a real flag. Then look here. After I have crossed this bridge, I\nhoist it up so and cut off the communication. \n\nThe bridge was a plank, and it crossed a chasm about four feet wide and\ntwo deep. But it was very pleasant to see the pride with which he\nhoisted it up and made it fast; smiling as he did so, with a relish and\nnot merely mechanically.\n\n At nine o clock every night, Greenwich time,  said Wemmick,  the gun\nfires. There he is, you see! And when you hear him go, I think you ll\nsay he s a Stinger. \n\nThe piece of ordnance referred to, was mounted in a separate fortress,\nconstructed of lattice-work. It was protected from the weather by an\ningenious little tarpaulin contrivance in the nature of an umbrella.\n\n Then, at the back,  said Wemmick,  out of sight, so as not to impede\nthe idea of fortifications, for it s a principle with me, if you have\nan idea, carry it out and keep it up, I don t know whether that s your\nopinion \n\nI said, decidedly.\n\n At the back, there s a pig, and there are fowls and rabbits; then, I\nknock together my own little frame, you see, and grow cucumbers; and\nyou ll judge at supper what sort of a salad I can raise. So, sir,  said\nWemmick, smiling again, but seriously too, as he shook his head,  if\nyou can suppose the little place besieged, it would hold out a devil of\na time in point of provisions. \n\nThen, he conducted me to a bower about a dozen yards off, but which was\napproached by such ingenious twists of path that it took quite a long\ntime to get at; and in this retreat our glasses were already set forth.\nOur punch was cooling in an ornamental lake, on whose margin the bower\nwas raised. This piece of water (with an island in the middle which\nmight have been the salad for supper) was of a circular form, and he\nhad constructed a fountain in it, which, when you set a little mill\ngoing and took a cork out of a pipe, played to that powerful extent\nthat it made the back of your hand quite wet.\n\n I am my own engineer, and my own carpenter, and my own plumber, and my\nown gardener, and my own Jack of all Trades,  said Wemmick, in\nacknowledging my compliments.  Well; it s a good thing, you know. It\nbrushes the Newgate cobwebs away, and pleases the Aged. You wouldn t\nmind being at once introduced to the Aged, would you? It wouldn t put\nyou out? \n\nI expressed the readiness I felt, and we went into the castle. There we\nfound, sitting by a fire, a very old man in a flannel coat: clean,\ncheerful, comfortable, and well cared for, but intensely deaf.\n\n Well aged parent,  said Wemmick, shaking hands with him in a cordial\nand jocose way,  how am you? \n\n All right, John; all right!  replied the old man.\n\n Here s Mr. Pip, aged parent,  said Wemmick,  and I wish you could hear\nhis name. Nod away at him, Mr. Pip; that s what he likes. Nod away at\nhim, if you please, like winking! \n\n This is a fine place of my son s, sir,  cried the old man, while I\nnodded as hard as I possibly could.  This is a pretty pleasure-ground,\nsir. This spot and these beautiful works upon it ought to be kept\ntogether by the Nation, after my son s time, for the people s\nenjoyment. \n\n You re as proud of it as Punch; ain t you, Aged?  said Wemmick,\ncontemplating the old man, with his hard face really softened;\n _there s_ a nod for you;  giving him a tremendous one;  _there s_\nanother for you;  giving him a still more tremendous one;  you like\nthat, don t you? If you re not tired, Mr. Pip though I know it s tiring\nto strangers will you tip him one more? You can t think how it pleases\nhim. \n\nI tipped him several more, and he was in great spirits. We left him\nbestirring himself to feed the fowls, and we sat down to our punch in\nthe arbour; where Wemmick told me, as he smoked a pipe, that it had\ntaken him a good many years to bring the property up to its present\npitch of perfection.\n\n Is it your own, Mr. Wemmick? \n\n O yes,  said Wemmick,  I have got hold of it, a bit at a time. It s a\nfreehold, by George! \n\n Is it indeed? I hope Mr. Jaggers admires it? \n\n Never seen it,  said Wemmick.  Never heard of it. Never seen the Aged.\nNever heard of him. No; the office is one thing, and private life is\nanother. When I go into the office, I leave the Castle behind me, and\nwhen I come into the Castle, I leave the office behind me. If it s not\nin any way disagreeable to you, you ll oblige me by doing the same. I\ndon t wish it professionally spoken about. \n\nOf course I felt my good faith involved in the observance of his\nrequest. The punch being very nice, we sat there drinking it and\ntalking, until it was almost nine o clock.  Getting near gun-fire, \nsaid Wemmick then, as he laid down his pipe;  it s the Aged s treat. \n\nProceeding into the Castle again, we found the Aged heating the poker,\nwith expectant eyes, as a preliminary to the performance of this great\nnightly ceremony. Wemmick stood with his watch in his hand until the\nmoment was come for him to take the red-hot poker from the Aged, and\nrepair to the battery. He took it, and went out, and presently the\nStinger went off with a Bang that shook the crazy little box of a\ncottage as if it must fall to pieces, and made every glass and teacup\nin it ring. Upon this, the Aged who I believe would have been blown out\nof his arm-chair but for holding on by the elbows cried out exultingly,\n He s fired! I heerd him!  and I nodded at the old gentleman until it\nis no figure of speech to declare that I absolutely could not see him.\n\nThe interval between that time and supper Wemmick devoted to showing me\nhis collection of curiosities. They were mostly of a felonious\ncharacter; comprising the pen with which a celebrated forgery had been\ncommitted, a distinguished razor or two, some locks of hair, and\nseveral manuscript confessions written under condemnation, upon which\nMr. Wemmick set particular value as being, to use his own words,  every\none of  em Lies, sir.  These were agreeably dispersed among small\nspecimens of china and glass, various neat trifles made by the\nproprietor of the museum, and some tobacco-stoppers carved by the Aged.\nThey were all displayed in that chamber of the Castle into which I had\nbeen first inducted, and which served, not only as the general\nsitting-room but as the kitchen too, if I might judge from a saucepan\non the hob, and a brazen bijou over the fireplace designed for the\nsuspension of a roasting-jack.\n\nThere was a neat little girl in attendance, who looked after the Aged\nin the day. When she had laid the supper-cloth, the bridge was lowered\nto give her means of egress, and she withdrew for the night. The supper\nwas excellent; and though the Castle was rather subject to dry-rot\ninsomuch that it tasted like a bad nut, and though the pig might have\nbeen farther off, I was heartily pleased with my whole entertainment.\nNor was there any drawback on my little turret bedroom, beyond there\nbeing such a very thin ceiling between me and the flagstaff, that when\nI lay down on my back in bed, it seemed as if I had to balance that\npole on my forehead all night.\n\nWemmick was up early in the morning, and I am afraid I heard him\ncleaning my boots. After that, he fell to gardening, and I saw him from\nmy gothic window pretending to employ the Aged, and nodding at him in a\nmost devoted manner. Our breakfast was as good as the supper, and at\nhalf-past eight precisely we started for Little Britain. By degrees,\nWemmick got dryer and harder as we went along, and his mouth tightened\ninto a post-office again. At last, when we got to his place of business\nand he pulled out his key from his coat-collar, he looked as\nunconscious of his Walworth property as if the Castle and the\ndrawbridge and the arbour and the lake and the fountain and the Aged,\nhad all been blown into space together by the last discharge of the\nStinger.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVI.\n\n\nIt fell out as Wemmick had told me it would, that I had an early\nopportunity of comparing my guardian s establishment with that of his\ncashier and clerk. My guardian was in his room, washing his hands with\nhis scented soap, when I went into the office from Walworth; and he\ncalled me to him, and gave me the invitation for myself and friends\nwhich Wemmick had prepared me to receive.  No ceremony,  he stipulated,\n and no dinner dress, and say to-morrow.  I asked him where we should\ncome to (for I had no idea where he lived), and I believe it was in his\ngeneral objection to make anything like an admission, that he replied,\n Come here, and I ll take you home with me.  I embrace this opportunity\nof remarking that he washed his clients off, as if he were a surgeon or\na dentist. He had a closet in his room, fitted up for the purpose,\nwhich smelt of the scented soap like a perfumer s shop. It had an\nunusually large jack-towel on a roller inside the door, and he would\nwash his hands, and wipe them and dry them all over this towel,\nwhenever he came in from a police court or dismissed a client from his\nroom. When I and my friends repaired to him at six o clock next day, he\nseemed to have been engaged on a case of a darker complexion than\nusual, for we found him with his head butted into this closet, not only\nwashing his hands, but laving his face and gargling his throat. And\neven when he had done all that, and had gone all round the jack-towel,\nhe took out his penknife and scraped the case out of his nails before\nhe put his coat on.\n\nThere were some people slinking about as usual when we passed out into\nthe street, who were evidently anxious to speak with him; but there was\nsomething so conclusive in the halo of scented soap which encircled his\npresence, that they gave it up for that day. As we walked along\nwestward, he was recognised ever and again by some face in the crowd of\nthe streets, and whenever that happened he talked louder to me; but he\nnever otherwise recognised anybody, or took notice that anybody\nrecognised him.\n\nHe conducted us to Gerrard Street, Soho, to a house on the south side\nof that street. Rather a stately house of its kind, but dolefully in\nwant of painting, and with dirty windows. He took out his key and\nopened the door, and we all went into a stone hall, bare, gloomy, and\nlittle used. So, up a dark brown staircase into a series of three dark\nbrown rooms on the first floor. There were carved garlands on the\npanelled walls, and as he stood among them giving us welcome, I know\nwhat kind of loops I thought they looked like.\n\nDinner was laid in the best of these rooms; the second was his\ndressing-room; the third, his bedroom. He told us that he held the\nwhole house, but rarely used more of it than we saw. The table was\ncomfortably laid no silver in the service, of course and at the side of\nhis chair was a capacious dumb-waiter, with a variety of bottles and\ndecanters on it, and four dishes of fruit for dessert. I noticed\nthroughout, that he kept everything under his own hand, and distributed\neverything himself.\n\nThere was a bookcase in the room; I saw from the backs of the books,\nthat they were about evidence, criminal law, criminal biography,\ntrials, acts of Parliament, and such things. The furniture was all very\nsolid and good, like his watch-chain. It had an official look, however,\nand there was nothing merely ornamental to be seen. In a corner was a\nlittle table of papers with a shaded lamp: so that he seemed to bring\nthe office home with him in that respect too, and to wheel it out of an\nevening and fall to work.\n\nAs he had scarcely seen my three companions until now, for he and I had\nwalked together, he stood on the hearth-rug, after ringing the bell,\nand took a searching look at them. To my surprise, he seemed at once to\nbe principally if not solely interested in Drummle.\n\n Pip,  said he, putting his large hand on my shoulder and moving me to\nthe window,  I don t know one from the other. Who s the Spider? \n\n The spider?  said I.\n\n The blotchy, sprawly, sulky fellow. \n\n That s Bentley Drummle,  I replied;  the one with the delicate face is\nStartop. \n\nNot making the least account of  the one with the delicate face,  he\nreturned,  Bentley Drummle is his name, is it? I like the look of that\nfellow. \n\nHe immediately began to talk to Drummle: not at all deterred by his\nreplying in his heavy reticent way, but apparently led on by it to\nscrew discourse out of him. I was looking at the two, when there came\nbetween me and them the housekeeper, with the first dish for the table.\n\nShe was a woman of about forty, I supposed, but I may have thought her\nyounger than she was. Rather tall, of a lithe nimble figure, extremely\npale, with large faded eyes, and a quantity of streaming hair. I cannot\nsay whether any diseased affection of the heart caused her lips to be\nparted as if she were panting, and her face to bear a curious\nexpression of suddenness and flutter; but I know that I had been to see\nMacbeth at the theatre, a night or two before, and that her face looked\nto me as if it were all disturbed by fiery air, like the faces I had\nseen rise out of the Witches  caldron.\n\nShe set the dish on, touched my guardian quietly on the arm with a\nfinger to notify that dinner was ready, and vanished. We took our seats\nat the round table, and my guardian kept Drummle on one side of him,\nwhile Startop sat on the other. It was a noble dish of fish that the\nhousekeeper had put on table, and we had a joint of equally choice\nmutton afterwards, and then an equally choice bird. Sauces, wines, all\nthe accessories we wanted, and all of the best, were given out by our\nhost from his dumb-waiter; and when they had made the circuit of the\ntable, he always put them back again. Similarly, he dealt us clean\nplates and knives and forks, for each course, and dropped those just\ndisused into two baskets on the ground by his chair. No other attendant\nthan the housekeeper appeared. She set on every dish; and I always saw\nin her face, a face rising out of the caldron. Years afterwards, I made\na dreadful likeness of that woman, by causing a face that had no other\nnatural resemblance to it than it derived from flowing hair to pass\nbehind a bowl of flaming spirits in a dark room.\n\nInduced to take particular notice of the housekeeper, both by her own\nstriking appearance and by Wemmick s preparation, I observed that\nwhenever she was in the room she kept her eyes attentively on my\nguardian, and that she would remove her hands from any dish she put\nbefore him, hesitatingly, as if she dreaded his calling her back, and\nwanted him to speak when she was nigh, if he had anything to say. I\nfancied that I could detect in his manner a consciousness of this, and\na purpose of always holding her in suspense.\n\nDinner went off gayly, and although my guardian seemed to follow rather\nthan originate subjects, I knew that he wrenched the weakest part of\nour dispositions out of us. For myself, I found that I was expressing\nmy tendency to lavish expenditure, and to patronise Herbert, and to\nboast of my great prospects, before I quite knew that I had opened my\nlips. It was so with all of us, but with no one more than Drummle: the\ndevelopment of whose inclination to gird in a grudging and suspicious\nway at the rest, was screwed out of him before the fish was taken off.\n\nIt was not then, but when we had got to the cheese, that our\nconversation turned upon our rowing feats, and that Drummle was rallied\nfor coming up behind of a night in that slow amphibious way of his.\nDrummle upon this, informed our host that he much preferred our room to\nour company, and that as to skill he was more than our master, and that\nas to strength he could scatter us like chaff. By some invisible\nagency, my guardian wound him up to a pitch little short of ferocity\nabout this trifle; and he fell to baring and spanning his arm to show\nhow muscular it was, and we all fell to baring and spanning our arms in\na ridiculous manner.\n\nNow the housekeeper was at that time clearing the table; my guardian,\ntaking no heed of her, but with the side of his face turned from her,\nwas leaning back in his chair biting the side of his forefinger and\nshowing an interest in Drummle, that, to me, was quite inexplicable.\nSuddenly, he clapped his large hand on the housekeeper s, like a trap,\nas she stretched it across the table. So suddenly and smartly did he do\nthis, that we all stopped in our foolish contention.\n\n If you talk of strength,  said Mr. Jaggers,  _I_ ll show you a wrist.\nMolly, let them see your wrist. \n\nHer entrapped hand was on the table, but she had already put her other\nhand behind her waist.  Master,  she said, in a low voice, with her\neyes attentively and entreatingly fixed upon him.  Don t. \n\n _I_ ll show you a wrist,  repeated Mr. Jaggers, with an immovable\ndetermination to show it.  Molly, let them see your wrist. \n\n Master,  she again murmured.  Please! \n\n Molly,  said Mr. Jaggers, not looking at her, but obstinately looking\nat the opposite side of the room,  let them see _both_ your wrists.\nShow them. Come! \n\nHe took his hand from hers, and turned that wrist up on the table. She\nbrought her other hand from behind her, and held the two out side by\nside. The last wrist was much disfigured, deeply scarred and scarred\nacross and across. When she held her hands out she took her eyes from\nMr. Jaggers, and turned them watchfully on every one of the rest of us\nin succession.\n\n There s power here,  said Mr. Jaggers, coolly tracing out the sinews\nwith his forefinger.  Very few men have the power of wrist that this\nwoman has. It s remarkable what mere force of grip there is in these\nhands. I have had occasion to notice many hands; but I never saw\nstronger in that respect, man s or woman s, than these. \n\nWhile he said these words in a leisurely, critical style, she continued\nto look at every one of us in regular succession as we sat. The moment\nhe ceased, she looked at him again.  That ll do, Molly,  said Mr.\nJaggers, giving her a slight nod;  you have been admired, and can go. \nShe withdrew her hands and went out of the room, and Mr. Jaggers,\nputting the decanters on from his dumb-waiter, filled his glass and\npassed round the wine.\n\n At half-past nine, gentlemen,  said he,  we must break up. Pray make\nthe best use of your time. I am glad to see you all. Mr. Drummle, I\ndrink to you. \n\nIf his object in singling out Drummle were to bring him out still more,\nit perfectly succeeded. In a sulky triumph, Drummle showed his morose\ndepreciation of the rest of us, in a more and more offensive degree,\nuntil he became downright intolerable. Through all his stages, Mr.\nJaggers followed him with the same strange interest. He actually seemed\nto serve as a zest to Mr. Jaggers s wine.\n\nIn our boyish want of discretion I dare say we took too much to drink,\nand I know we talked too much. We became particularly hot upon some\nboorish sneer of Drummle s, to the effect that we were too free with\nour money. It led to my remarking, with more zeal than discretion, that\nit came with a bad grace from him, to whom Startop had lent money in my\npresence but a week or so before.\n\n Well,  retorted Drummle;  he ll be paid. \n\n I don t mean to imply that he won t,  said I,  but it might make you\nhold your tongue about us and our money, I should think. \n\n _You_ should think!  retorted Drummle.  Oh Lord! \n\n I dare say,  I went on, meaning to be very severe,  that you wouldn t\nlend money to any of us if we wanted it. \n\n You are right,  said Drummle.  I wouldn t lend one of you a sixpence.\nI wouldn t lend anybody a sixpence. \n\n Rather mean to borrow under those circumstances, I should say. \n\n _You_ should say,  repeated Drummle.  Oh Lord! \n\nThis was so very aggravating the more especially as I found myself\nmaking no way against his surly obtuseness that I said, disregarding\nHerbert s efforts to check me, \n\n Come, Mr. Drummle, since we are on the subject, I ll tell you what\npassed between Herbert here and me, when you borrowed that money. \n\n _I_ don t want to know what passed between Herbert there and you, \ngrowled Drummle. And I think he added in a lower growl, that we might\nboth go to the devil and shake ourselves.\n\n I ll tell you, however,  said I,  whether you want to know or not. We\nsaid that as you put it in your pocket very glad to get it, you seemed\nto be immensely amused at his being so weak as to lend it. \n\nDrummle laughed outright, and sat laughing in our faces, with his hands\nin his pockets and his round shoulders raised; plainly signifying that\nit was quite true, and that he despised us as asses all.\n\nHereupon Startop took him in hand, though with a much better grace than\nI had shown, and exhorted him to be a little more agreeable. Startop,\nbeing a lively, bright young fellow, and Drummle being the exact\nopposite, the latter was always disposed to resent him as a direct\npersonal affront. He now retorted in a coarse, lumpish way, and Startop\ntried to turn the discussion aside with some small pleasantry that made\nus all laugh. Resenting this little success more than anything,\nDrummle, without any threat or warning, pulled his hands out of his\npockets, dropped his round shoulders, swore, took up a large glass, and\nwould have flung it at his adversary s head, but for our entertainer s\ndexterously seizing it at the instant when it was raised for that\npurpose.\n\n Gentlemen,  said Mr. Jaggers, deliberately putting down the glass, and\nhauling out his gold repeater by its massive chain,  I am exceedingly\nsorry to announce that it s half past nine. \n\nOn this hint we all rose to depart. Before we got to the street door,\nStartop was cheerily calling Drummle  old boy,  as if nothing had\nhappened. But the old boy was so far from responding, that he would not\neven walk to Hammersmith on the same side of the way; so Herbert and I,\nwho remained in town, saw them going down the street on opposite sides;\nStartop leading, and Drummle lagging behind in the shadow of the\nhouses, much as he was wont to follow in his boat.\n\nAs the door was not yet shut, I thought I would leave Herbert there for\na moment, and run upstairs again to say a word to my guardian. I found\nhim in his dressing-room surrounded by his stock of boots, already hard\nat it, washing his hands of us.\n\nI told him I had come up again to say how sorry I was that anything\ndisagreeable should have occurred, and that I hoped he would not blame\nme much.\n\n Pooh!  said he, sluicing his face, and speaking through the\nwater-drops;  it s nothing, Pip. I like that Spider though. \n\nHe had turned towards me now, and was shaking his head, and blowing,\nand towelling himself.\n\n I am glad you like him, sir,  said I but I don t. \n\n No, no,  my guardian assented;  don t have too much to do with him.\nKeep as clear of him as you can. But I like the fellow, Pip; he is one\nof the true sort. Why, if I was a fortune-teller \n\nLooking out of the towel, he caught my eye.\n\n But I am not a fortune-teller,  he said, letting his head drop into a\nfestoon of towel, and towelling away at his two ears.  You know what I\nam, don t you? Good night, Pip. \n\n Good night, sir. \n\nIn about a month after that, the Spider s time with Mr. Pocket was up\nfor good, and, to the great relief of all the house but Mrs. Pocket, he\nwent home to the family hole.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVII.\n\n\n MY DEAR MR PIP: \n\n I write this by request of Mr. Gargery, for to let you know that he is\ngoing to London in company with Mr. Wopsle and would be glad if\nagreeable to be allowed to see you. He would call at Barnard s Hotel\nTuesday morning at nine o clock, when if not agreeable please leave\nword. Your poor sister is much the same as when you left. We talk of\nyou in the kitchen every night, and wonder what you are saying and\ndoing. If now considered in the light of a liberty, excuse it for the\nlove of poor old days. No more, dear Mr. Pip, from\n\n Your ever obliged, and affectionate servant,\n BIDDY. \n\n\n P.S. He wishes me most particular to write _what larks_. He says you\nwill understand. I hope and do not doubt it will be agreeable to see\nhim, even though a gentleman, for you had ever a good heart, and he is\na worthy, worthy man. I have read him all, excepting only the last\nlittle sentence, and he wishes me most particular to write again _what\nlarks_. \n\nI received this letter by the post on Monday morning, and therefore its\nappointment was for next day. Let me confess exactly with what feelings\nI looked forward to Joe s coming.\n\nNot with pleasure, though I was bound to him by so many ties; no; with\nconsiderable disturbance, some mortification, and a keen sense of\nincongruity. If I could have kept him away by paying money, I certainly\nwould have paid money. My greatest reassurance was that he was coming\nto Barnard s Inn, not to Hammersmith, and consequently would not fall\nin Bentley Drummle s way. I had little objection to his being seen by\nHerbert or his father, for both of whom I had a respect; but I had the\nsharpest sensitiveness as to his being seen by Drummle, whom I held in\ncontempt. So, throughout life, our worst weaknesses and meannesses are\nusually committed for the sake of the people whom we most despise.\n\nI had begun to be always decorating the chambers in some quite\nunnecessary and inappropriate way or other, and very expensive those\nwrestles with Barnard proved to be. By this time, the rooms were vastly\ndifferent from what I had found them, and I enjoyed the honour of\noccupying a few prominent pages in the books of a neighbouring\nupholsterer. I had got on so fast of late, that I had even started a\nboy in boots, top boots, in bondage and slavery to whom I might have\nbeen said to pass my days. For, after I had made the monster (out of\nthe refuse of my washerwoman s family), and had clothed him with a blue\ncoat, canary waistcoat, white cravat, creamy breeches, and the boots\nalready mentioned, I had to find him a little to do and a great deal to\neat; and with both of those horrible requirements he haunted my\nexistence.\n\nThis avenging phantom was ordered to be on duty at eight on Tuesday\nmorning in the hall, (it was two feet square, as charged for\nfloorcloth,) and Herbert suggested certain things for breakfast that he\nthought Joe would like. While I felt sincerely obliged to him for being\nso interested and considerate, I had an odd half-provoked sense of\nsuspicion upon me, that if Joe had been coming to see _him_, he\nwouldn t have been quite so brisk about it.\n\nHowever, I came into town on the Monday night to be ready for Joe, and\nI got up early in the morning, and caused the sitting-room and\nbreakfast-table to assume their most splendid appearance. Unfortunately\nthe morning was drizzly, and an angel could not have concealed the fact\nthat Barnard was shedding sooty tears outside the window, like some\nweak giant of a Sweep.\n\nAs the time approached I should have liked to run away, but the Avenger\npursuant to orders was in the hall, and presently I heard Joe on the\nstaircase. I knew it was Joe, by his clumsy manner of coming\nupstairs, his state boots being always too big for him, and by the time\nit took him to read the names on the other floors in the course of his\nascent. When at last he stopped outside our door, I could hear his\nfinger tracing over the painted letters of my name, and I afterwards\ndistinctly heard him breathing in at the keyhole. Finally he gave a\nfaint single rap, and Pepper such was the compromising name of the\navenging boy announced  Mr. Gargery!  I thought he never would have\ndone wiping his feet, and that I must have gone out to lift him off the\nmat, but at last he came in.\n\n Joe, how are you, Joe? \n\n Pip, how AIR you, Pip? \n\nWith his good honest face all glowing and shining, and his hat put down\non the floor between us, he caught both my hands and worked them\nstraight up and down, as if I had been the last-patented Pump.\n\n I am glad to see you, Joe. Give me your hat. \n\nBut Joe, taking it up carefully with both hands, like a bird s-nest\nwith eggs in it, wouldn t hear of parting with that piece of property,\nand persisted in standing talking over it in a most uncomfortable way.\n\n Which you have that growed,  said Joe,  and that swelled, and that\ngentle-folked;  Joe considered a little before he discovered this word;\n as to be sure you are a honour to your king and country. \n\n And you, Joe, look wonderfully well. \n\n Thank God,  said Joe,  I m ekerval to most. And your sister, she s no\nworse than she were. And Biddy, she s ever right and ready. And all\nfriends is no backerder, if not no forarder.  Ceptin Wopsle; he s had a\ndrop. \n\nAll this time (still with both hands taking great care of the\nbird s-nest), Joe was rolling his eyes round and round the room, and\nround and round the flowered pattern of my dressing-gown.\n\n Had a drop, Joe? \n\n Why yes,  said Joe, lowering his voice,  he s left the Church and went\ninto the playacting. Which the playacting have likeways brought him to\nLondon along with me. And his wish were,  said Joe, getting the\nbird s-nest under his left arm for the moment, and groping in it for an\negg with his right;  if no offence, as I would  and you that. \n\nI took what Joe gave me, and found it to be the crumpled play-bill of a\nsmall metropolitan theatre, announcing the first appearance, in that\nvery week, of  the celebrated Provincial Amateur of Roscian renown,\nwhose unique performance in the highest tragic walk of our National\nBard has lately occasioned so great a sensation in local dramatic\ncircles. \n\n Were you at his performance, Joe?  I inquired.\n\n I _were_,  said Joe, with emphasis and solemnity.\n\n Was there a great sensation? \n\n Why,  said Joe,  yes, there certainly were a peck of orange-peel.\nPartickler when he see the ghost. Though I put it to yourself, sir,\nwhether it were calc lated to keep a man up to his work with a good\nhart, to be continiwally cutting in betwixt him and the Ghost with\n Amen!  A man may have had a misfortun  and been in the Church,  said\nJoe, lowering his voice to an argumentative and feeling tone,  but that\nis no reason why you should put him out at such a time. Which I\nmeantersay, if the ghost of a man s own father cannot be allowed to\nclaim his attention, what can, Sir? Still more, when his mourning  at\nis unfortunately made so small as that the weight of the black feathers\nbrings it off, try to keep it on how you may. \n\nA ghost-seeing effect in Joe s own countenance informed me that Herbert\nhad entered the room. So, I presented Joe to Herbert, who held out his\nhand; but Joe backed from it, and held on by the bird s-nest.\n\n Your servant, Sir,  said Joe,  which I hope as you and Pip here his\neye fell on the Avenger, who was putting some toast on table, and so\nplainly denoted an intention to make that young gentleman one of the\nfamily, that I frowned it down and confused him more I meantersay, you\ntwo gentlemen, which I hope as you get your elths in this close spot?\nFor the present may be a werry good inn, according to London opinions, \nsaid Joe, confidentially,  and I believe its character do stand it; but\nI wouldn t keep a pig in it myself, not in the case that I wished him\nto fatten wholesome and to eat with a meller flavour on him. \n\nHaving borne this flattering testimony to the merits of our\ndwelling-place, and having incidentally shown this tendency to call me\n sir,  Joe, being invited to sit down to table, looked all round the\nroom for a suitable spot on which to deposit his hat, as if it were\nonly on some very few rare substances in nature that it could find a\nresting place, and ultimately stood it on an extreme corner of the\nchimney-piece, from which it ever afterwards fell off at intervals.\n\n Do you take tea, or coffee, Mr. Gargery?  asked Herbert, who always\npresided of a morning.\n\n Thankee, Sir,  said Joe, stiff from head to foot,  I ll take whichever\nis most agreeable to yourself. \n\n What do you say to coffee? \n\n Thankee, Sir,  returned Joe, evidently dispirited by the proposal,\n since you _are_ so kind as make chice of coffee, I will not run\ncontrairy to your own opinions. But don t you never find it a little\n eating? \n\n Say tea then,  said Herbert, pouring it out.\n\nHere Joe s hat tumbled off the mantel-piece, and he started out of his\nchair and picked it up, and fitted it to the same exact spot. As if it\nwere an absolute point of good breeding that it should tumble off again\nsoon.\n\n When did you come to town, Mr. Gargery? \n\n Were it yesterday afternoon?  said Joe, after coughing behind his\nhand, as if he had had time to catch the whooping-cough since he came.\n No it were not. Yes it were. Yes. It were yesterday afternoon  (with\nan appearance of mingled wisdom, relief, and strict impartiality).\n\n Have you seen anything of London yet? \n\n Why, yes, Sir,  said Joe,  me and Wopsle went off straight to look at\nthe Blacking Ware us. But we didn t find that it come up to its\nlikeness in the red bills at the shop doors; which I meantersay,  added\nJoe, in an explanatory manner,  as it is there drawd too\narchitectooralooral. \n\nI really believe Joe would have prolonged this word (mightily\nexpressive to my mind of some architecture that I know) into a perfect\nChorus, but for his attention being providentially attracted by his\nhat, which was toppling. Indeed, it demanded from him a constant\nattention, and a quickness of eye and hand, very like that exacted by\nwicket-keeping. He made extraordinary play with it, and showed the\ngreatest skill; now, rushing at it and catching it neatly as it\ndropped; now, merely stopping it midway, beating it up, and humouring\nit in various parts of the room and against a good deal of the pattern\nof the paper on the wall, before he felt it safe to close with it;\nfinally splashing it into the slop-basin, where I took the liberty of\nlaying hands upon it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAs to his shirt-collar, and his coat-collar, they were perplexing to\nreflect upon, insoluble mysteries both. Why should a man scrape himself\nto that extent, before he could consider himself full dressed? Why\nshould he suppose it necessary to be purified by suffering for his\nholiday clothes? Then he fell into such unaccountable fits of\nmeditation, with his fork midway between his plate and his mouth; had\nhis eyes attracted in such strange directions; was afflicted with such\nremarkable coughs; sat so far from the table, and dropped so much more\nthan he ate, and pretended that he hadn t dropped it; that I was\nheartily glad when Herbert left us for the City.\n\nI had neither the good sense nor the good feeling to know that this was\nall my fault, and that if I had been easier with Joe, Joe would have\nbeen easier with me. I felt impatient of him and out of temper with\nhim; in which condition he heaped coals of fire on my head.\n\n Us two being now alone, sir, began Joe.\n\n Joe,  I interrupted, pettishly,  how can you call me, sir? \n\nJoe looked at me for a single instant with something faintly like\nreproach. Utterly preposterous as his cravat was, and as his collars\nwere, I was conscious of a sort of dignity in the look.\n\n Us two being now alone,  resumed Joe,  and me having the intentions\nand abilities to stay not many minutes more, I will now\nconclude leastways begin to mention what have led to my having had the\npresent honour. For was it not,  said Joe, with his old air of lucid\nexposition,  that my only wish were to be useful to you, I should not\nhave had the honour of breaking wittles in the company and abode of\ngentlemen. \n\nI was so unwilling to see the look again, that I made no remonstrance\nagainst this tone.\n\n Well, sir,  pursued Joe,  this is how it were. I were at the Bargemen\nt other night, Pip; whenever he subsided into affection, he called me\nPip, and whenever he relapsed into politeness he called me sir;  when\nthere come up in his shay-cart, Pumblechook. Which that same\nidentical,  said Joe, going down a new track,  do comb my  air the\nwrong way sometimes, awful, by giving out up and down town as it were\nhim which ever had your infant companionation and were looked upon as a\nplayfellow by yourself. \n\n Nonsense. It was you, Joe. \n\n Which I fully believed it were, Pip,  said Joe, slightly tossing his\nhead,  though it signify little now, sir. Well, Pip; this same\nidentical, which his manners is given to blusterous, come to me at the\nBargemen (wot a pipe and a pint of beer do give refreshment to the\nworkingman, sir, and do not over stimilate), and his word were,\n Joseph, Miss Havisham she wish to speak to you. \n\n Miss Havisham, Joe? \n\n She wish,  were Pumblechook s word,  to speak to you.  Joe sat and\nrolled his eyes at the ceiling.\n\n Yes, Joe? Go on, please. \n\n Next day, sir,  said Joe, looking at me as if I were a long way off,\n having cleaned myself, I go and I see Miss A. \n\n Miss A., Joe? Miss Havisham? \n\n Which I say, sir,  replied Joe, with an air of legal formality, as if\nhe were making his will,  Miss A., or otherways Havisham. Her\nexpression air then as follering:  Mr. Gargery. You air in\ncorrespondence with Mr. Pip?  Having had a letter from you, I were able\nto say  I am.  (When I married your sister, sir, I said  I will;  and\nwhen I answered your friend, Pip, I said  I am. )  Would you tell him,\nthen,  said she,  that which Estella has come home and would be glad to\nsee him. \n\nI felt my face fire up as I looked at Joe. I hope one remote cause of\nits firing may have been my consciousness that if I had known his\nerrand, I should have given him more encouragement.\n\n Biddy,  pursued Joe,  when I got home and asked her fur to write the\nmessage to you, a little hung back. Biddy says,  I know he will be very\nglad to have it by word of mouth, it is holiday time, you want to see\nhim, go!  I have now concluded, sir,  said Joe, rising from his chair,\n and, Pip, I wish you ever well and ever prospering to a greater and a\ngreater height. \n\n But you are not going now, Joe? \n\n Yes I am,  said Joe.\n\n But you are coming back to dinner, Joe? \n\n No I am not,  said Joe.\n\nOur eyes met, and all the  Sir  melted out of that manly heart as he\ngave me his hand.\n\n Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded\ntogether, as I may say, and one man s a blacksmith, and one s a\nwhitesmith, and one s a goldsmith, and one s a coppersmith. Diwisions\namong such must come, and must be met as they come. If there s been any\nfault at all to-day, it s mine. You and me is not two figures to be\ntogether in London; nor yet anywheres else but what is private, and\nbeknown, and understood among friends. It ain t that I am proud, but\nthat I want to be right, as you shall never see me no more in these\nclothes. I m wrong in these clothes. I m wrong out of the forge, the\nkitchen, or off th  meshes. You won t find half so much fault in me if\nyou think of me in my forge dress, with my hammer in my hand, or even\nmy pipe. You won t find half so much fault in me if, supposing as you\nshould ever wish to see me, you come and put your head in at the forge\nwindow and see Joe the blacksmith, there, at the old anvil, in the old\nburnt apron, sticking to the old work. I m awful dull, but I hope I ve\nbeat out something nigh the rights of this at last. And so GOD bless\nyou, dear old Pip, old chap, GOD bless you! \n\nI had not been mistaken in my fancy that there was a simple dignity in\nhim. The fashion of his dress could no more come in its way when he\nspoke these words than it could come in its way in Heaven. He touched\nme gently on the forehead, and went out. As soon as I could recover\nmyself sufficiently, I hurried out after him and looked for him in the\nneighbouring streets; but he was gone.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVIII.\n\n\nIt was clear that I must repair to our town next day, and in the first\nflow of my repentance, it was equally clear that I must stay at Joe s.\nBut, when I had secured my box-place by to-morrow s coach, and had been\ndown to Mr. Pocket s and back, I was not by any means convinced on the\nlast point, and began to invent reasons and make excuses for putting up\nat the Blue Boar. I should be an inconvenience at Joe s; I was not\nexpected, and my bed would not be ready; I should be too far from Miss\nHavisham s, and she was exacting and mightn t like it. All other\nswindlers upon earth are nothing to the self-swindlers, and with such\npretences did I cheat myself. Surely a curious thing. That I should\ninnocently take a bad half-crown of somebody else s manufacture is\nreasonable enough; but that I should knowingly reckon the spurious coin\nof my own make as good money! An obliging stranger, under pretence of\ncompactly folding up my bank-notes for security s sake, abstracts the\nnotes and gives me nutshells; but what is his sleight of hand to mine,\nwhen I fold up my own nutshells and pass them on myself as notes!\n\nHaving settled that I must go to the Blue Boar, my mind was much\ndisturbed by indecision whether or not to take the Avenger. It was\ntempting to think of that expensive Mercenary publicly airing his boots\nin the archway of the Blue Boar s posting-yard; it was almost solemn to\nimagine him casually produced in the tailor s shop, and confounding the\ndisrespectful senses of Trabb s boy. On the other hand, Trabb s boy\nmight worm himself into his intimacy and tell him things; or, reckless\nand desperate wretch as I knew he could be, might hoot him in the High\nStreet. My patroness, too, might hear of him, and not approve. On the\nwhole, I resolved to leave the Avenger behind.\n\nIt was the afternoon coach by which I had taken my place, and, as\nwinter had now come round, I should not arrive at my destination until\ntwo or three hours after dark. Our time of starting from the Cross Keys\nwas two o clock. I arrived on the ground with a quarter of an hour to\nspare, attended by the Avenger, if I may connect that expression with\none who never attended on me if he could possibly help it.\n\nAt that time it was customary to carry Convicts down to the dock-yards\nby stage-coach. As I had often heard of them in the capacity of outside\npassengers, and had more than once seen them on the high road dangling\ntheir ironed legs over the coach roof, I had no cause to be surprised\nwhen Herbert, meeting me in the yard, came up and told me there were\ntwo convicts going down with me. But I had a reason that was an old\nreason now for constitutionally faltering whenever I heard the word\n convict. \n\n You don t mind them, Handel?  said Herbert.\n\n O no! \n\n I thought you seemed as if you didn t like them? \n\n I can t pretend that I do like them, and I suppose you don t\nparticularly. But I don t mind them. \n\n See! There they are,  said Herbert,  coming out of the Tap. What a\ndegraded and vile sight it is! \n\nThey had been treating their guard, I suppose, for they had a gaoler\nwith them, and all three came out wiping their mouths on their hands.\nThe two convicts were handcuffed together, and had irons on their\nlegs, irons of a pattern that I knew well. They wore the dress that I\nlikewise knew well. Their keeper had a brace of pistols, and carried a\nthick-knobbed bludgeon under his arm; but he was on terms of good\nunderstanding with them, and stood with them beside him, looking on at\nthe putting-to of the horses, rather with an air as if the convicts\nwere an interesting Exhibition not formally open at the moment, and he\nthe Curator. One was a taller and stouter man than the other, and\nappeared as a matter of course, according to the mysterious ways of the\nworld, both convict and free, to have had allotted to him the smaller\nsuit of clothes. His arms and legs were like great pincushions of those\nshapes, and his attire disguised him absurdly; but I knew his\nhalf-closed eye at one glance. There stood the man whom I had seen on\nthe settle at the Three Jolly Bargemen on a Saturday night, and who had\nbrought me down with his invisible gun!\n\nIt was easy to make sure that as yet he knew me no more than if he had\nnever seen me in his life. He looked across at me, and his eye\nappraised my watch-chain, and then he incidentally spat and said\nsomething to the other convict, and they laughed and slued themselves\nround with a clink of their coupling manacle, and looked at something\nelse. The great numbers on their backs, as if they were street doors;\ntheir coarse mangy ungainly outer surface, as if they were lower\nanimals; their ironed legs, apologetically garlanded with\npocket-handkerchiefs; and the way in which all present looked at them\nand kept from them; made them (as Herbert had said) a most disagreeable\nand degraded spectacle.\n\nBut this was not the worst of it. It came out that the whole of the\nback of the coach had been taken by a family removing from London, and\nthat there were no places for the two prisoners but on the seat in\nfront behind the coachman. Hereupon, a choleric gentleman, who had\ntaken the fourth place on that seat, flew into a most violent passion,\nand said that it was a breach of contract to mix him up with such\nvillainous company, and that it was poisonous, and pernicious, and\ninfamous, and shameful, and I don t know what else. At this time the\ncoach was ready and the coachman impatient, and we were all preparing\nto get up, and the prisoners had come over with their keeper, bringing\nwith them that curious flavour of bread-poultice, baize, rope-yarn, and\nhearthstone, which attends the convict presence.\n\n Don t take it so much amiss, sir,  pleaded the keeper to the angry\npassenger;  I ll sit next you myself. I ll put  em on the outside of\nthe row. They won t interfere with you, sir. You needn t know they re\nthere. \n\n And don t blame _me_,  growled the convict I had recognised.  _I_\ndon t want to go. _I_ am quite ready to stay behind. As fur as I am\nconcerned any one s welcome to _my_ place. \n\n Or mine,  said the other, gruffly.  _I_ wouldn t have incommoded none\nof you, if I d had _my_ way.  Then they both laughed, and began\ncracking nuts, and spitting the shells about. As I really think I\nshould have liked to do myself, if I had been in their place and so\ndespised.\n\nAt length, it was voted that there was no help for the angry gentleman,\nand that he must either go in his chance company or remain behind. So\nhe got into his place, still making complaints, and the keeper got into\nthe place next him, and the convicts hauled themselves up as well as\nthey could, and the convict I had recognised sat behind me with his\nbreath on the hair of my head.\n\n Good-bye, Handel!  Herbert called out as we started. I thought what a\nblessed fortune it was, that he had found another name for me than Pip.\n\nIt is impossible to express with what acuteness I felt the convict s\nbreathing, not only on the back of my head, but all along my spine. The\nsensation was like being touched in the marrow with some pungent and\nsearching acid, it set my very teeth on edge. He seemed to have more\nbreathing business to do than another man, and to make more noise in\ndoing it; and I was conscious of growing high-shouldered on one side,\nin my shrinking endeavours to fend him off.\n\nThe weather was miserably raw, and the two cursed the cold. It made us\nall lethargic before we had gone far, and when we had left the Half-way\nHouse behind, we habitually dozed and shivered and were silent. I dozed\noff, myself, in considering the question whether I ought to restore a\ncouple of pounds sterling to this creature before losing sight of him,\nand how it could best be done. In the act of dipping forward as if I\nwere going to bathe among the horses, I woke in a fright and took the\nquestion up again.\n\nBut I must have lost it longer than I had thought, since, although I\ncould recognise nothing in the darkness and the fitful lights and\nshadows of our lamps, I traced marsh country in the cold damp wind that\nblew at us. Cowering forward for warmth and to make me a screen against\nthe wind, the convicts were closer to me than before. The very first\nwords I heard them interchange as I became conscious, were the words of\nmy own thought,  Two One Pound notes. \n\n How did he get  em?  said the convict I had never seen.\n\n How should I know?  returned the other.  He had  em stowed away\nsomehows. Giv him by friends, I expect. \n\n I wish,  said the other, with a bitter curse upon the cold,  that I\nhad  em here. \n\n Two one pound notes, or friends? \n\n Two one pound notes. I d sell all the friends I ever had for one, and\nthink it a blessed good bargain. Well? So he says ? \n\n So he says,  resumed the convict I had recognised, it was all said\nand done in half a minute, behind a pile of timber in the\nDock-yard, You re a-going to be discharged?  Yes, I was. Would I find\nout that boy that had fed him and kep his secret, and give him them two\none pound notes? Yes, I would. And I did. \n\n More fool you,  growled the other.  I d have spent  em on a Man, in\nwittles and drink. He must have been a green one. Mean to say he knowed\nnothing of you? \n\n Not a ha porth. Different gangs and different ships. He was tried\nagain for prison breaking, and got made a Lifer. \n\n And was that Honour! the only time you worked out, in this part of the\ncountry? \n\n The only time. \n\n What might have been your opinion of the place? \n\n A most beastly place. Mudbank, mist, swamp, and work; work, swamp,\nmist, and mudbank. \n\nThey both execrated the place in very strong language, and gradually\ngrowled themselves out, and had nothing left to say.\n\nAfter overhearing this dialogue, I should assuredly have got down and\nbeen left in the solitude and darkness of the highway, but for feeling\ncertain that the man had no suspicion of my identity. Indeed, I was not\nonly so changed in the course of nature, but so differently dressed and\nso differently circumstanced, that it was not at all likely he could\nhave known me without accidental help. Still, the coincidence of our\nbeing together on the coach, was sufficiently strange to fill me with a\ndread that some other coincidence might at any moment connect me, in\nhis hearing, with my name. For this reason, I resolved to alight as\nsoon as we touched the town, and put myself out of his hearing. This\ndevice I executed successfully. My little portmanteau was in the boot\nunder my feet; I had but to turn a hinge to get it out; I threw it down\nbefore me, got down after it, and was left at the first lamp on the\nfirst stones of the town pavement. As to the convicts, they went their\nway with the coach, and I knew at what point they would be spirited off\nto the river. In my fancy, I saw the boat with its convict crew waiting\nfor them at the slime-washed stairs, again heard the gruff  Give way,\nyou!  like and order to dogs, again saw the wicked Noah s Ark lying out\non the black water.\n\nI could not have said what I was afraid of, for my fear was altogether\nundefined and vague, but there was great fear upon me. As I walked on\nto the hotel, I felt that a dread, much exceeding the mere apprehension\nof a painful or disagreeable recognition, made me tremble. I am\nconfident that it took no distinctness of shape, and that it was the\nrevival for a few minutes of the terror of childhood.\n\nThe coffee-room at the Blue Boar was empty, and I had not only ordered\nmy dinner there, but had sat down to it, before the waiter knew me. As\nsoon as he had apologised for the remissness of his memory, he asked me\nif he should send Boots for Mr. Pumblechook?\n\n No,  said I,  certainly not. \n\nThe waiter (it was he who had brought up the Great Remonstrance from\nthe Commercials, on the day when I was bound) appeared surprised, and\ntook the earliest opportunity of putting a dirty old copy of a local\nnewspaper so directly in my way, that I took it up and read this\nparagraph: \n\nOur readers will learn, not altogether without interest, in reference\nto the recent romantic rise in fortune of a young artificer in iron of\nthis neighbourhood (what a theme, by the way, for the magic pen of our\nas yet not universally acknowledged townsman TOOBY, the poet of our\ncolumns!) that the youth s earliest patron, companion, and friend, was\na highly respected individual not entirely unconnected with the corn\nand seed trade, and whose eminently convenient and commodious business\npremises are situate within a hundred miles of the High Street. It is\nnot wholly irrespective of our personal feelings that we record HIM as\nthe Mentor of our young Telemachus, for it is good to know that our\ntown produced the founder of the latter s fortunes. Does the\nthought-contracted brow of the local Sage or the lustrous eye of local\nBeauty inquire whose fortunes? We believe that Quintin Matsys was the\nBLACKSMITH of Antwerp. VERB. SAP.\n\nI entertain a conviction, based upon large experience, that if in the\ndays of my prosperity I had gone to the North Pole, I should have met\nsomebody there, wandering Esquimaux or civilized man, who would have\ntold me that Pumblechook was my earliest patron and the founder of my\nfortunes.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIX.\n\n\nBetimes in the morning I was up and out. It was too early yet to go to\nMiss Havisham s, so I loitered into the country on Miss Havisham s side\nof town, which was not Joe s side; I could go there to-morrow, thinking\nabout my patroness, and painting brilliant pictures of her plans for\nme.\n\nShe had adopted Estella, she had as good as adopted me, and it could\nnot fail to be her intention to bring us together. She reserved it for\nme to restore the desolate house, admit the sunshine into the dark\nrooms, set the clocks a-going and the cold hearths a-blazing, tear down\nthe cobwebs, destroy the vermin, in short, do all the shining deeds of\nthe young Knight of romance, and marry the Princess. I had stopped to\nlook at the house as I passed; and its seared red brick walls, blocked\nwindows, and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with\nits twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy old arms, had made up a rich\nattractive mystery, of which I was the hero. Estella was the\ninspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course. But, though she had\ntaken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so\nset upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had\nbeen all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her\nwith any attributes save those she possessed. I mention this in this\nplace, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be\nfollowed into my poor labyrinth. According to my experience, the\nconventional notion of a lover cannot be always true. The unqualified\ntruth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her\nsimply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my\nsorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against\nreason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against\nhappiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I\nloved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence\nin restraining me than if I had devoutly believed her to be human\nperfection.\n\nI so shaped out my walk as to arrive at the gate at my old time. When I\nhad rung at the bell with an unsteady hand, I turned my back upon the\ngate, while I tried to get my breath and keep the beating of my heart\nmoderately quiet. I heard the side-door open, and steps come across the\ncourtyard; but I pretended not to hear, even when the gate swung on its\nrusty hinges.\n\nBeing at last touched on the shoulder, I started and turned. I started\nmuch more naturally then, to find myself confronted by a man in a sober\ngrey dress. The last man I should have expected to see in that place of\nporter at Miss Havisham s door.\n\n Orlick! \n\n Ah, young master, there s more changes than yours. But come in, come\nin. It s opposed to my orders to hold the gate open. \n\nI entered and he swung it, and locked it, and took the key out.  Yes! \nsaid he, facing round, after doggedly preceding me a few steps towards\nthe house.  Here I am! \n\n How did you come here? \n\n I come here,  he retorted,  on my legs. I had my box brought alongside\nme in a barrow. \n\n Are you here for good? \n\n I ain t here for harm, young master, I suppose? \n\nI was not so sure of that. I had leisure to entertain the retort in my\nmind, while he slowly lifted his heavy glance from the pavement, up my\nlegs and arms, to my face.\n\n Then you have left the forge?  I said.\n\n Do this look like a forge?  replied Orlick, sending his glance all\nround him with an air of injury.  Now, do it look like it? \n\nI asked him how long he had left Gargery s forge?\n\n One day is so like another here,  he replied,  that I don t know\nwithout casting it up. However, I come here some time since you left. \n\n I could have told you that, Orlick. \n\n Ah!  said he, dryly.  But then you ve got to be a scholar. \n\nBy this time we had come to the house, where I found his room to be one\njust within the side-door, with a little window in it looking on the\ncourtyard. In its small proportions, it was not unlike the kind of\nplace usually assigned to a gate-porter in Paris. Certain keys were\nhanging on the wall, to which he now added the gate key; and his\npatchwork-covered bed was in a little inner division or recess. The\nwhole had a slovenly, confined, and sleepy look, like a cage for a\nhuman dormouse; while he, looming dark and heavy in the shadow of a\ncorner by the window, looked like the human dormouse for whom it was\nfitted up, as indeed he was.\n\n I never saw this room before,  I remarked;  but there used to be no\nPorter here. \n\n No,  said he;  not till it got about that there was no protection on\nthe premises, and it come to be considered dangerous, with convicts and\nTag and Rag and Bobtail going up and down. And then I was recommended\nto the place as a man who could give another man as good as he brought,\nand I took it. It s easier than bellowsing and hammering. That s\nloaded, that is. \n\nMy eye had been caught by a gun with a brass-bound stock over the\nchimney-piece, and his eye had followed mine.\n\n Well,  said I, not desirous of more conversation,  shall I go up to\nMiss Havisham? \n\n Burn me, if I know!  he retorted, first stretching himself and then\nshaking himself;  my orders ends here, young master. I give this here\nbell a rap with this here hammer, and you go on along the passage till\nyou meet somebody. \n\n I am expected, I believe? \n\n Burn me twice over, if I can say!  said he.\n\nUpon that, I turned down the long passage which I had first trodden in\nmy thick boots, and he made his bell sound. At the end of the passage,\nwhile the bell was still reverberating, I found Sarah Pocket, who\nappeared to have now become constitutionally green and yellow by reason\nof me.\n\n Oh!  said she.  You, is it, Mr. Pip? \n\n It is, Miss Pocket. I am glad to tell you that Mr. Pocket and family\nare all well. \n\n Are they any wiser?  said Sarah, with a dismal shake of the head;\n they had better be wiser, than well. Ah, Matthew, Matthew! You know\nyour way, sir? \n\nTolerably, for I had gone up the staircase in the dark, many a time. I\nascended it now, in lighter boots than of yore, and tapped in my old\nway at the door of Miss Havisham s room.  Pip s rap,  I heard her say,\nimmediately;  come in, Pip. \n\nShe was in her chair near the old table, in the old dress, with her two\nhands crossed on her stick, her chin resting on them, and her eyes on\nthe fire. Sitting near her, with the white shoe, that had never been\nworn, in her hand, and her head bent as she looked at it, was an\nelegant lady whom I had never seen.\n\n Come in, Pip,  Miss Havisham continued to mutter, without looking\nround or up;  come in, Pip, how do you do, Pip? so you kiss my hand as\nif I were a queen, eh? Well? \n\nShe looked up at me suddenly, only moving her eyes, and repeated in a\ngrimly playful manner, \n\n Well? \n\n I heard, Miss Havisham,  said I, rather at a loss,  that you were so\nkind as to wish me to come and see you, and I came directly. \n\n Well? \n\nThe lady whom I had never seen before, lifted up her eyes and looked\narchly at me, and then I saw that the eyes were Estella s eyes. But she\nwas so much changed, was so much more beautiful, so much more womanly,\nin all things winning admiration, had made such wonderful advance, that\nI seemed to have made none. I fancied, as I looked at her, that I\nslipped hopelessly back into the coarse and common boy again. O the\nsense of distance and disparity that came upon me, and the\ninaccessibility that came about her!\n\nShe gave me her hand. I stammered something about the pleasure I felt\nin seeing her again, and about my having looked forward to it, for a\nlong, long time.\n\n Do you find her much changed, Pip?  asked Miss Havisham, with her\ngreedy look, and striking her stick upon a chair that stood between\nthem, as a sign to me to sit down there.\n\n When I came in, Miss Havisham, I thought there was nothing of Estella\nin the face or figure; but now it all settles down so curiously into\nthe old \n\n What? You are not going to say into the old Estella?  Miss Havisham\ninterrupted.  She was proud and insulting, and you wanted to go away\nfrom her. Don t you remember? \n\nI said confusedly that that was long ago, and that I knew no better\nthen, and the like. Estella smiled with perfect composure, and said she\nhad no doubt of my having been quite right, and of her having been very\ndisagreeable.\n\n Is _he_ changed?  Miss Havisham asked her.\n\n Very much,  said Estella, looking at me.\n\n Less coarse and common?  said Miss Havisham, playing with Estella s\nhair.\n\nEstella laughed, and looked at the shoe in her hand, and laughed again,\nand looked at me, and put the shoe down. She treated me as a boy still,\nbut she lured me on.\n\nWe sat in the dreamy room among the old strange influences which had so\nwrought upon me, and I learnt that she had but just come home from\nFrance, and that she was going to London. Proud and wilful as of old,\nshe had brought those qualities into such subjection to her beauty that\nit was impossible and out of nature or I thought so to separate them\nfrom her beauty. Truly it was impossible to dissociate her presence\nfrom all those wretched hankerings after money and gentility that had\ndisturbed my boyhood, from all those ill-regulated aspirations that had\nfirst made me ashamed of home and Joe, from all those visions that had\nraised her face in the glowing fire, struck it out of the iron on the\nanvil, extracted it from the darkness of night to look in at the wooden\nwindow of the forge, and flit away. In a word, it was impossible for me\nto separate her, in the past or in the present, from the innermost life\nof my life.\n\nIt was settled that I should stay there all the rest of the day, and\nreturn to the hotel at night, and to London to-morrow. When we had\nconversed for a while, Miss Havisham sent us two out to walk in the\nneglected garden: on our coming in by and by, she said, I should wheel\nher about a little, as in times of yore.\n\nSo, Estella and I went out into the garden by the gate through which I\nhad strayed to my encounter with the pale young gentleman, now Herbert;\nI, trembling in spirit and worshipping the very hem of her dress; she,\nquite composed and most decidedly not worshipping the hem of mine. As\nwe drew near to the place of encounter, she stopped and said, \n\n I must have been a singular little creature to hide and see that fight\nthat day; but I did, and I enjoyed it very much. \n\n You rewarded me very much. \n\n Did I?  she replied, in an incidental and forgetful way.  I remember I\nentertained a great objection to your adversary, because I took it ill\nthat he should be brought here to pester me with his company. \n\n He and I are great friends now. \n\n Are you? I think I recollect though, that you read with his father? \n\n Yes. \n\nI made the admission with reluctance, for it seemed to have a boyish\nlook, and she already treated me more than enough like a boy.\n\n Since your change of fortune and prospects, you have changed your\ncompanions,  said Estella.\n\n Naturally,  said I.\n\n And necessarily,  she added, in a haughty tone;  what was fit company\nfor you once, would be quite unfit company for you now. \n\nIn my conscience, I doubt very much whether I had any lingering\nintention left of going to see Joe; but if I had, this observation put\nit to flight.\n\n You had no idea of your impending good fortune, in those times?  said\nEstella, with a slight wave of her hand, signifying in the fighting\ntimes.\n\n Not the least. \n\nThe air of completeness and superiority with which she walked at my\nside, and the air of youthfulness and submission with which I walked at\nhers, made a contrast that I strongly felt. It would have rankled in me\nmore than it did, if I had not regarded myself as eliciting it by being\nso set apart for her and assigned to her.\n\nThe garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and\nafter we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out again\ninto the brewery yard. I showed her to a nicety where I had seen her\nwalking on the casks, that first old day, and she said, with a cold and\ncareless look in that direction,  Did I?  I reminded her where she had\ncome out of the house and given me my meat and drink, and she said,  I\ndon t remember.   Not remember that you made me cry?  said I.  No, \nsaid she, and shook her head and looked about her. I verily believe\nthat her not remembering and not minding in the least, made me cry\nagain, inwardly, and that is the sharpest crying of all.\n\n You must know,  said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and\nbeautiful woman might,  that I have no heart, if that has anything to\ndo with my memory. \n\nI got through some jargon to the effect that I took the liberty of\ndoubting that. That I knew better. That there could be no such beauty\nwithout it.\n\n Oh! I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt,  said\nEstella,  and of course if it ceased to beat I should cease to be. But\nyou know what I mean. I have no softness there,\nno sympathy sentiment nonsense. \n\nWhat _was_ it that was borne in upon my mind when she stood still and\nlooked attentively at me? Anything that I had seen in Miss Havisham?\nNo. In some of her looks and gestures there was that tinge of\nresemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to have been\nacquired by children, from grown person with whom they have been much\nassociated and secluded, and which, when childhood is passed, will\nproduce a remarkable occasional likeness of expression between faces\nthat are otherwise quite different. And yet I could not trace this to\nMiss Havisham. I looked again, and though she was still looking at me,\nthe suggestion was gone.\n\nWhat _was_ it?\n\n I am serious,  said Estella, not so much with a frown (for her brow\nwas smooth) as with a darkening of her face;  if we are to be thrown\nmuch together, you had better believe it at once. No!  imperiously\nstopping me as I opened my lips.  I have not bestowed my tenderness\nanywhere. I have never had any such thing. \n\nIn another moment we were in the brewery, so long disused, and she\npointed to the high gallery where I had seen her going out on that same\nfirst day, and told me she remembered to have been up there, and to\nhave seen me standing scared below. As my eyes followed her white hand,\nagain the same dim suggestion that I could not possibly grasp crossed\nme. My involuntary start occasioned her to lay her hand upon my arm.\nInstantly the ghost passed once more and was gone.\n\nWhat _was_ it?\n\n What is the matter?  asked Estella.  Are you scared again? \n\n I should be, if I believed what you said just now,  I replied, to turn\nit off.\n\n Then you don t? Very well. It is said, at any rate. Miss Havisham will\nsoon be expecting you at your old post, though I think that might be\nlaid aside now, with other old belongings. Let us make one more round\nof the garden, and then go in. Come! You shall not shed tears for my\ncruelty to-day; you shall be my Page, and give me your shoulder. \n\nHer handsome dress had trailed upon the ground. She held it in one hand\nnow, and with the other lightly touched my shoulder as we walked. We\nwalked round the ruined garden twice or thrice more, and it was all in\nbloom for me. If the green and yellow growth of weed in the chinks of\nthe old wall had been the most precious flowers that ever blew, it\ncould not have been more cherished in my remembrance.\n\nThere was no discrepancy of years between us to remove her far from me;\nwe were of nearly the same age, though of course the age told for more\nin her case than in mine; but the air of inaccessibility which her\nbeauty and her manner gave her, tormented me in the midst of my\ndelight, and at the height of the assurance I felt that our patroness\nhad chosen us for one another. Wretched boy!\n\nAt last we went back into the house, and there I heard, with surprise,\nthat my guardian had come down to see Miss Havisham on business, and\nwould come back to dinner. The old wintry branches of chandeliers in\nthe room where the mouldering table was spread had been lighted while\nwe were out, and Miss Havisham was in her chair and waiting for me.\n\nIt was like pushing the chair itself back into the past, when we began\nthe old slow circuit round about the ashes of the bridal feast. But, in\nthe funereal room, with that figure of the grave fallen back in the\nchair fixing its eyes upon her, Estella looked more bright and\nbeautiful than before, and I was under stronger enchantment.\n\nThe time so melted away, that our early dinner-hour drew close at hand,\nand Estella left us to prepare herself. We had stopped near the centre\nof the long table, and Miss Havisham, with one of her withered arms\nstretched out of the chair, rested that clenched hand upon the yellow\ncloth. As Estella looked back over her shoulder before going out at the\ndoor, Miss Havisham kissed that hand to her, with a ravenous intensity\nthat was of its kind quite dreadful.\n\nThen, Estella being gone and we two left alone, she turned to me, and\nsaid in a whisper, \n\n Is she beautiful, graceful, well-grown? Do you admire her? \n\n Everybody must who sees her, Miss Havisham. \n\nShe drew an arm round my neck, and drew my head close down to hers as\nshe sat in the chair.  Love her, love her, love her! How does she use\nyou? \n\nBefore I could answer (if I could have answered so difficult a question\nat all) she repeated,  Love her, love her, love her! If she favours\nyou, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to\npieces, and as it gets older and stronger it will tear deeper, love\nher, love her, love her! \n\nNever had I seen such passionate eagerness as was joined to her\nutterance of these words. I could feel the muscles of the thin arm\nround my neck swell with the vehemence that possessed her.\n\n Hear me, Pip! I adopted her, to be loved. I bred her and educated her,\nto be loved. I developed her into what she is, that she might be loved.\nLove her! \n\nShe said the word often enough, and there could be no doubt that she\nmeant to say it; but if the often repeated word had been hate instead\nof love despair revenge dire death it could not have sounded from her\nlips more like a curse.\n\n I ll tell you,  said she, in the same hurried passionate whisper,\n what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning\nself-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself\nand against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the\nsmiter as I did! \n\nWhen she came to that, and to a wild cry that followed that, I caught\nher round the waist. For she rose up in the chair, in her shroud of a\ndress, and struck at the air as if she would as soon have struck\nherself against the wall and fallen dead.\n\nAll this passed in a few seconds. As I drew her down into her chair, I\nwas conscious of a scent that I knew, and turning, saw my guardian in\nthe room.\n\nHe always carried (I have not yet mentioned it, I think) a\npocket-handkerchief of rich silk and of imposing proportions, which was\nof great value to him in his profession. I have seen him so terrify a\nclient or a witness by ceremoniously unfolding this pocket-handkerchief\nas if he were immediately going to blow his nose, and then pausing, as\nif he knew he should not have time to do it before such client or\nwitness committed himself, that the self-committal has followed\ndirectly, quite as a matter of course. When I saw him in the room he\nhad this expressive pocket-handkerchief in both hands, and was looking\nat us. On meeting my eye, he said plainly, by a momentary and silent\npause in that attitude,  Indeed? Singular!  and then put the\nhandkerchief to its right use with wonderful effect.\n\nMiss Havisham had seen him as soon as I, and was (like everybody else)\nafraid of him. She made a strong attempt to compose herself, and\nstammered that he was as punctual as ever.\n\n As punctual as ever,  he repeated, coming up to us.  (How do you do,\nPip? Shall I give you a ride, Miss Havisham? Once round?) And so you\nare here, Pip? \n\nI told him when I had arrived, and how Miss Havisham had wished me to\ncome and see Estella. To which he replied,  Ah! Very fine young lady! \nThen he pushed Miss Havisham in her chair before him, with one of his\nlarge hands, and put the other in his trousers-pocket as if the pocket\nwere full of secrets.\n\n Well, Pip! How often have you seen Miss Estella before?  said he, when\nhe came to a stop.\n\n How often? \n\n Ah! How many times? Ten thousand times? \n\n Oh! Certainly not so many. \n\n Twice? \n\n Jaggers,  interposed Miss Havisham, much to my relief,  leave my Pip\nalone, and go with him to your dinner. \n\nHe complied, and we groped our way down the dark stairs together. While\nwe were still on our way to those detached apartments across the paved\nyard at the back, he asked me how often I had seen Miss Havisham eat\nand drink; offering me a breadth of choice, as usual, between a hundred\ntimes and once.\n\nI considered, and said,  Never. \n\n And never will, Pip,  he retorted, with a frowning smile.  She has\nnever allowed herself to be seen doing either, since she lived this\npresent life of hers. She wanders about in the night, and then lays\nhands on such food as she takes. \n\n Pray, sir,  said I,  may I ask you a question? \n\n You may,  said he,  and I may decline to answer it. Put your\nquestion. \n\n Estella s name. Is it Havisham or ?  I had nothing to add.\n\n Or what?  said he.\n\n Is it Havisham? \n\n It is Havisham. \n\nThis brought us to the dinner-table, where she and Sarah Pocket awaited\nus. Mr. Jaggers presided, Estella sat opposite to him, I faced my green\nand yellow friend. We dined very well, and were waited on by a\nmaid-servant whom I had never seen in all my comings and goings, but\nwho, for anything I know, had been in that mysterious house the whole\ntime. After dinner a bottle of choice old port was placed before my\nguardian (he was evidently well acquainted with the vintage), and the\ntwo ladies left us.\n\nAnything to equal the determined reticence of Mr. Jaggers under that\nroof I never saw elsewhere, even in him. He kept his very looks to\nhimself, and scarcely directed his eyes to Estella s face once during\ndinner. When she spoke to him, he listened, and in due course answered,\nbut never looked at her, that I could see. On the other hand, she often\nlooked at him, with interest and curiosity, if not distrust, but his\nface never showed the least consciousness. Throughout dinner he took a\ndry delight in making Sarah Pocket greener and yellower, by often\nreferring in conversation with me to my expectations; but here, again,\nhe showed no consciousness, and even made it appear that he\nextorted and even did extort, though I don t know how those references\nout of my innocent self.\n\nAnd when he and I were left alone together, he sat with an air upon him\nof general lying by in consequence of information he possessed, that\nreally was too much for me. He cross-examined his very wine when he had\nnothing else in hand. He held it between himself and the candle, tasted\nthe port, rolled it in his mouth, swallowed it, looked at his glass\nagain, smelt the port, tried it, drank it, filled again, and\ncross-examined the glass again, until I was as nervous as if I had\nknown the wine to be telling him something to my disadvantage. Three or\nfour times I feebly thought I would start conversation; but whenever he\nsaw me going to ask him anything, he looked at me with his glass in his\nhand, and rolling his wine about in his mouth, as if requesting me to\ntake notice that it was of no use, for he couldn t answer.\n\nI think Miss Pocket was conscious that the sight of me involved her in\nthe danger of being goaded to madness, and perhaps tearing off her\ncap, which was a very hideous one, in the nature of a muslin mop, and\nstrewing the ground with her hair, which assuredly had never grown on\n_her_ head. She did not appear when we afterwards went up to Miss\nHavisham s room, and we four played at whist. In the interval, Miss\nHavisham, in a fantastic way, had put some of the most beautiful jewels\nfrom her dressing-table into Estella s hair, and about her bosom and\narms; and I saw even my guardian look at her from under his thick\neyebrows, and raise them a little, when her loveliness was before him,\nwith those rich flushes of glitter and colour in it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOf the manner and extent to which he took our trumps into custody, and\ncame out with mean little cards at the ends of hands, before which the\nglory of our Kings and Queens was utterly abased, I say nothing; nor,\nof the feeling that I had, respecting his looking upon us personally in\nthe light of three very obvious and poor riddles that he had found out\nlong ago. What I suffered from, was the incompatibility between his\ncold presence and my feelings towards Estella. It was not that I knew I\ncould never bear to speak to him about her, that I knew I could never\nbear to hear him creak his boots at her, that I knew I could never bear\nto see him wash his hands of her; it was, that my admiration should be\nwithin a foot or two of him, it was, that my feelings should be in the\nsame place with him, _that_, was the agonizing circumstance.\n\nWe played until nine o clock, and then it was arranged that when\nEstella came to London I should be forewarned of her coming and should\nmeet her at the coach; and then I took leave of her, and touched her\nand left her.\n\nMy guardian lay at the Boar in the next room to mine. Far into the\nnight, Miss Havisham s words,  Love her, love her, love her!  sounded\nin my ears. I adapted them for my own repetition, and said to my\npillow,  I love her, I love her, I love her!  hundreds of times. Then,\na burst of gratitude came upon me, that she should be destined for me,\nonce the blacksmith s boy. Then I thought if she were, as I feared, by\nno means rapturously grateful for that destiny yet, when would she\nbegin to be interested in me? When should I awaken the heart within her\nthat was mute and sleeping now?\n\nAh me! I thought those were high and great emotions. But I never\nthought there was anything low and small in my keeping away from Joe,\nbecause I knew she would be contemptuous of him. It was but a day gone,\nand Joe had brought the tears into my eyes; they had soon dried, God\nforgive me! soon dried.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXX.\n\n\nAfter well considering the matter while I was dressing at the Blue Boar\nin the morning, I resolved to tell my guardian that I doubted Orlick s\nbeing the right sort of man to fill a post of trust at Miss Havisham s.\n Why of course he is not the right sort of man, Pip,  said my guardian,\ncomfortably satisfied beforehand on the general head,  because the man\nwho fills the post of trust never is the right sort of man.  It seemed\nquite to put him into spirits to find that this particular post was not\nexceptionally held by the right sort of man, and he listened in a\nsatisfied manner while I told him what knowledge I had of Orlick.  Very\ngood, Pip,  he observed, when I had concluded,  I ll go round\npresently, and pay our friend off.  Rather alarmed by this summary\naction, I was for a little delay, and even hinted that our friend\nhimself might be difficult to deal with.  Oh no he won t,  said my\nguardian, making his pocket-handkerchief-point, with perfect\nconfidence;  I should like to see him argue the question with _me_. \n\nAs we were going back together to London by the midday coach, and as I\nbreakfasted under such terrors of Pumblechook that I could scarcely\nhold my cup, this gave me an opportunity of saying that I wanted a\nwalk, and that I would go on along the London road while Mr. Jaggers\nwas occupied, if he would let the coachman know that I would get into\nmy place when overtaken. I was thus enabled to fly from the Blue Boar\nimmediately after breakfast. By then making a loop of about a couple of\nmiles into the open country at the back of Pumblechook s premises, I\ngot round into the High Street again, a little beyond that pitfall, and\nfelt myself in comparative security.\n\nIt was interesting to be in the quiet old town once more, and it was\nnot disagreeable to be here and there suddenly recognised and stared\nafter. One or two of the tradespeople even darted out of their shops\nand went a little way down the street before me, that they might turn,\nas if they had forgotten something, and pass me face to face, on which\noccasions I don t know whether they or I made the worse pretence; they\nof not doing it, or I of not seeing it. Still my position was a\ndistinguished one, and I was not at all dissatisfied with it, until\nFate threw me in the way of that unlimited miscreant, Trabb s boy.\n\nCasting my eyes along the street at a certain point of my progress, I\nbeheld Trabb s boy approaching, lashing himself with an empty blue bag.\nDeeming that a serene and unconscious contemplation of him would best\nbeseem me, and would be most likely to quell his evil mind, I advanced\nwith that expression of countenance, and was rather congratulating\nmyself on my success, when suddenly the knees of Trabb s boy smote\ntogether, his hair uprose, his cap fell off, he trembled violently in\nevery limb, staggered out into the road, and crying to the populace,\n Hold me! I m so frightened!  feigned to be in a paroxysm of terror and\ncontrition, occasioned by the dignity of my appearance. As I passed\nhim, his teeth loudly chattered in his head, and with every mark of\nextreme humiliation, he prostrated himself in the dust.\n\nThis was a hard thing to bear, but this was nothing. I had not advanced\nanother two hundred yards when, to my inexpressible terror, amazement,\nand indignation, I again beheld Trabb s boy approaching. He was coming\nround a narrow corner. His blue bag was slung over his shoulder, honest\nindustry beamed in his eyes, a determination to proceed to Trabb s with\ncheerful briskness was indicated in his gait. With a shock he became\naware of me, and was severely visited as before; but this time his\nmotion was rotatory, and he staggered round and round me with knees\nmore afflicted, and with uplifted hands as if beseeching for mercy. His\nsufferings were hailed with the greatest joy by a knot of spectators,\nand I felt utterly confounded.\n\nI had not got as much further down the street as the post-office, when\nI again beheld Trabb s boy shooting round by a back way. This time, he\nwas entirely changed. He wore the blue bag in the manner of my\ngreat-coat, and was strutting along the pavement towards me on the\nopposite side of the street, attended by a company of delighted young\nfriends to whom he from time to time exclaimed, with a wave of his\nhand,  Don t know yah!  Words cannot state the amount of aggravation\nand injury wreaked upon me by Trabb s boy, when passing abreast of me,\nhe pulled up his shirt-collar, twined his side-hair, stuck an arm\nakimbo, and smirked extravagantly by, wriggling his elbows and body,\nand drawling to his attendants,  Don t know yah, don t know yah,  pon\nmy soul don t know yah!  The disgrace attendant on his immediately\nafterwards taking to crowing and pursuing me across the bridge with\ncrows, as from an exceedingly dejected fowl who had known me when I was\na blacksmith, culminated the disgrace with which I left the town, and\nwas, so to speak, ejected by it into the open country.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBut unless I had taken the life of Trabb s boy on that occasion, I\nreally do not even now see what I could have done save endure. To have\nstruggled with him in the street, or to have exacted any lower\nrecompense from him than his heart s best blood, would have been futile\nand degrading. Moreover, he was a boy whom no man could hurt; an\ninvulnerable and dodging serpent who, when chased into a corner, flew\nout again between his captor s legs, scornfully yelping. I wrote,\nhowever, to Mr. Trabb by next day s post, to say that Mr. Pip must\ndecline to deal further with one who could so far forget what he owed\nto the best interests of society, as to employ a boy who excited\nLoathing in every respectable mind.\n\nThe coach, with Mr. Jaggers inside, came up in due time, and I took my\nbox-seat again, and arrived in London safe, but not sound, for my heart\nwas gone. As soon as I arrived, I sent a penitential codfish and barrel\nof oysters to Joe (as reparation for not having gone myself), and then\nwent on to Barnard s Inn.\n\nI found Herbert dining on cold meat, and delighted to welcome me back.\nHaving despatched The Avenger to the coffee-house for an addition to\nthe dinner, I felt that I must open my breast that very evening to my\nfriend and chum. As confidence was out of the question with The Avenger\nin the hall, which could merely be regarded in the light of an\nantechamber to the keyhole, I sent him to the Play. A better proof of\nthe severity of my bondage to that taskmaster could scarcely be\nafforded, than the degrading shifts to which I was constantly driven to\nfind him employment. So mean is extremity, that I sometimes sent him to\nHyde Park corner to see what o clock it was.\n\nDinner done and we sitting with our feet upon the fender, I said to\nHerbert,  My dear Herbert, I have something very particular to tell\nyou. \n\n My dear Handel,  he returned,  I shall esteem and respect your\nconfidence. \n\n It concerns myself, Herbert,  said I,  and one other person. \n\nHerbert crossed his feet, looked at the fire with his head on one side,\nand having looked at it in vain for some time, looked at me because I\ndidn t go on.\n\n Herbert,  said I, laying my hand upon his knee,  I love I\nadore Estella. \n\nInstead of being transfixed, Herbert replied in an easy\nmatter-of-course way,  Exactly. Well? \n\n Well, Herbert? Is that all you say? Well? \n\n What next, I mean?  said Herbert.  Of course I know _that_. \n\n How do you know it?  said I.\n\n How do I know it, Handel? Why, from you. \n\n I never told you. \n\n Told me! You have never told me when you have got your hair cut, but I\nhave had senses to perceive it. You have always adored her, ever since\nI have known you. You brought your adoration and your portmanteau here\ntogether. Told me! Why, you have always told me all day long. When you\ntold me your own story, you told me plainly that you began adoring her\nthe first time you saw her, when you were very young indeed. \n\n Very well, then,  said I, to whom this was a new and not unwelcome\nlight,  I have never left off adoring her. And she has come back, a\nmost beautiful and most elegant creature. And I saw her yesterday. And\nif I adored her before, I now doubly adore her. \n\n Lucky for you then, Handel,  said Herbert,  that you are picked out\nfor her and allotted to her. Without encroaching on forbidden ground,\nwe may venture to say that there can be no doubt between ourselves of\nthat fact. Have you any idea yet, of Estella s views on the adoration\nquestion? \n\nI shook my head gloomily.  Oh! She is thousands of miles away, from\nme,  said I.\n\n Patience, my dear Handel: time enough, time enough. But you have\nsomething more to say? \n\n I am ashamed to say it,  I returned,  and yet it s no worse to say it\nthan to think it. You call me a lucky fellow. Of course, I am. I was a\nblacksmith s boy but yesterday; I am what shall I say I am to-day? \n\n Say a good fellow, if you want a phrase,  returned Herbert, smiling,\nand clapping his hand on the back of mine a good fellow, with\nimpetuosity and hesitation, boldness and diffidence, action and\ndreaming, curiously mixed in him. \n\nI stopped for a moment to consider whether there really was this\nmixture in my character. On the whole, I by no means recognised the\nanalysis, but thought it not worth disputing.\n\n When I ask what I am to call myself to-day, Herbert,  I went on,  I\nsuggest what I have in my thoughts. You say I am lucky. I know I have\ndone nothing to raise myself in life, and that Fortune alone has raised\nme; that is being very lucky. And yet, when I think of Estella \n\n( And when don t you, you know?  Herbert threw in, with his eyes on the\nfire; which I thought kind and sympathetic of him.)\n\n Then, my dear Herbert, I cannot tell you how dependent and uncertain\nI feel, and how exposed to hundreds of chances. Avoiding forbidden\nground, as you did just now, I may still say that on the constancy of\none person (naming no person) all my expectations depend. And at the\nbest, how indefinite and unsatisfactory, only to know so vaguely what\nthey are!  In saying this, I relieved my mind of what had always been\nthere, more or less, though no doubt most since yesterday.\n\n Now, Handel,  Herbert replied, in his gay, hopeful way,  it seems to\nme that in the despondency of the tender passion, we are looking into\nour gift-horse s mouth with a magnifying-glass. Likewise, it seems to\nme that, concentrating our attention on the examination, we altogether\noverlook one of the best points of the animal. Didn t you tell me that\nyour guardian, Mr. Jaggers, told you in the beginning, that you were\nnot endowed with expectations only? And even if he had not told you\nso, though that is a very large If, I grant, could you believe that of\nall men in London, Mr. Jaggers is the man to hold his present relations\ntowards you unless he were sure of his ground? \n\nI said I could not deny that this was a strong point. I said it (people\noften do so, in such cases) like a rather reluctant concession to truth\nand justice; as if I wanted to deny it!\n\n I should think it _was_ a strong point,  said Herbert,  and I should\nthink you would be puzzled to imagine a stronger; as to the rest, you\nmust bide your guardian s time, and he must bide his client s time.\nYou ll be one-and-twenty before you know where you are, and then\nperhaps you ll get some further enlightenment. At all events, you ll be\nnearer getting it, for it must come at last. \n\n What a hopeful disposition you have!  said I, gratefully admiring his\ncheery ways.\n\n I ought to have,  said Herbert,  for I have not much else. I must\nacknowledge, by the by, that the good sense of what I have just said is\nnot my own, but my father s. The only remark I ever heard him make on\nyour story, was the final one,  The thing is settled and done, or Mr.\nJaggers would not be in it.  And now before I say anything more about\nmy father, or my father s son, and repay confidence with confidence, I\nwant to make myself seriously disagreeable to you for a\nmoment, positively repulsive. \n\n You won t succeed,  said I.\n\n O yes I shall!  said he.  One, two, three, and now I am in for it.\nHandel, my good fellow; though he spoke in this light tone, he was\nvery much in earnest, I have been thinking since we have been talking\nwith our feet on this fender, that Estella surely cannot be a condition\nof your inheritance, if she was never referred to by your guardian. Am\nI right in so understanding what you have told me, as that he never\nreferred to her, directly or indirectly, in any way? Never even hinted,\nfor instance, that your patron might have views as to your marriage\nultimately? \n\n Never. \n\n Now, Handel, I am quite free from the flavour of sour grapes, upon my\nsoul and honour! Not being bound to her, can you not detach yourself\nfrom her? I told you I should be disagreeable. \n\nI turned my head aside, for, with a rush and a sweep, like the old\nmarsh winds coming up from the sea, a feeling like that which had\nsubdued me on the morning when I left the forge, when the mists were\nsolemnly rising, and when I laid my hand upon the village finger-post,\nsmote upon my heart again. There was silence between us for a little\nwhile.\n\n Yes; but my dear Handel,  Herbert went on, as if we had been talking,\ninstead of silent,  its having been so strongly rooted in the breast of\na boy whom nature and circumstances made so romantic, renders it very\nserious. Think of her bringing-up, and think of Miss Havisham. Think of\nwhat she is herself (now I am repulsive and you abominate me). This may\nlead to miserable things. \n\n I know it, Herbert,  said I, with my head still turned away,  but I\ncan t help it. \n\n You can t detach yourself? \n\n No. Impossible! \n\n You can t try, Handel? \n\n No. Impossible! \n\n Well!  said Herbert, getting up with a lively shake as if he had been\nasleep, and stirring the fire,  now I ll endeavour to make myself\nagreeable again! \n\nSo he went round the room and shook the curtains out, put the chairs in\ntheir places, tidied the books and so forth that were lying about,\nlooked into the hall, peeped into the letter-box, shut the door, and\ncame back to his chair by the fire: where he sat down, nursing his left\nleg in both arms.\n\n I was going to say a word or two, Handel, concerning my father and my\nfather s son. I am afraid it is scarcely necessary for my father s son\nto remark that my father s establishment is not particularly brilliant\nin its housekeeping. \n\n There is always plenty, Herbert,  said I, to say something\nencouraging.\n\n O yes! and so the dustman says, I believe, with the strongest\napproval, and so does the marine-store shop in the back street.\nGravely, Handel, for the subject is grave enough, you know how it is as\nwell as I do. I suppose there was a time once when my father had not\ngiven matters up; but if ever there was, the time is gone. May I ask\nyou if you have ever had an opportunity of remarking, down in your part\nof the country, that the children of not exactly suitable marriages are\nalways most particularly anxious to be married? \n\nThis was such a singular question, that I asked him in return,  Is it\nso? \n\n I don t know,  said Herbert,  that s what I want to know. Because it\nis decidedly the case with us. My poor sister Charlotte, who was next\nme and died before she was fourteen, was a striking example. Little\nJane is the same. In her desire to be matrimonially established, you\nmight suppose her to have passed her short existence in the perpetual\ncontemplation of domestic bliss. Little Alick in a frock has already\nmade arrangements for his union with a suitable young person at Kew.\nAnd indeed, I think we are all engaged, except the baby. \n\n Then you are?  said I.\n\n I am,  said Herbert;  but it s a secret. \n\nI assured him of my keeping the secret, and begged to be favoured with\nfurther particulars. He had spoken so sensibly and feelingly of my\nweakness that I wanted to know something about his strength.\n\n May I ask the name?  I said.\n\n Name of Clara,  said Herbert.\n\n Live in London? \n\n Yes, perhaps I ought to mention,  said Herbert, who had become\ncuriously crestfallen and meek, since we entered on the interesting\ntheme,  that she is rather below my mother s nonsensical family\nnotions. Her father had to do with the victualling of passenger-ships.\nI think he was a species of purser. \n\n What is he now?  said I.\n\n He s an invalid now,  replied Herbert.\n\n Living on ? \n\n On the first floor,  said Herbert. Which was not at all what I meant,\nfor I had intended my question to apply to his means.  I have never\nseen him, for he has always kept his room overhead, since I have known\nClara. But I have heard him constantly. He makes tremendous\nrows, roars, and pegs at the floor with some frightful instrument.  In\nlooking at me and then laughing heartily, Herbert for the time\nrecovered his usual lively manner.\n\n Don t you expect to see him?  said I.\n\n O yes, I constantly expect to see him,  returned Herbert,  because I\nnever hear him, without expecting him to come tumbling through the\nceiling. But I don t know how long the rafters may hold. \n\nWhen he had once more laughed heartily, he became meek again, and told\nme that the moment he began to realise Capital, it was his intention to\nmarry this young lady. He added as a self-evident proposition,\nengendering low spirits,  But you _can t_ marry, you know, while you re\nlooking about you. \n\nAs we contemplated the fire, and as I thought what a difficult vision\nto realise this same Capital sometimes was, I put my hands in my\npockets. A folded piece of paper in one of them attracting my\nattention, I opened it and found it to be the play-bill I had received\nfrom Joe, relative to the celebrated provincial amateur of Roscian\nrenown.  And bless my heart,  I involuntarily added aloud,  it s\nto-night! \n\nThis changed the subject in an instant, and made us hurriedly resolve\nto go to the play. So, when I had pledged myself to comfort and abet\nHerbert in the affair of his heart by all practicable and impracticable\nmeans, and when Herbert had told me that his affianced already knew me\nby reputation and that I should be presented to her, and when we had\nwarmly shaken hands upon our mutual confidence, we blew out our\ncandles, made up our fire, locked our door, and issued forth in quest\nof Mr. Wopsle and Denmark.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXI.\n\n\nOn our arrival in Denmark, we found the king and queen of that country\nelevated in two arm-chairs on a kitchen-table, holding a Court. The\nwhole of the Danish nobility were in attendance; consisting of a noble\nboy in the wash-leather boots of a gigantic ancestor, a venerable Peer\nwith a dirty face who seemed to have risen from the people late in\nlife, and the Danish chivalry with a comb in its hair and a pair of\nwhite silk legs, and presenting on the whole a feminine appearance. My\ngifted townsman stood gloomily apart, with folded arms, and I could\nhave wished that his curls and forehead had been more probable.\n\nSeveral curious little circumstances transpired as the action\nproceeded. The late king of the country not only appeared to have been\ntroubled with a cough at the time of his decease, but to have taken it\nwith him to the tomb, and to have brought it back. The royal phantom\nalso carried a ghostly manuscript round its truncheon, to which it had\nthe appearance of occasionally referring, and that too, with an air of\nanxiety and a tendency to lose the place of reference which were\nsuggestive of a state of mortality. It was this, I conceive, which led\nto the Shade s being advised by the gallery to  turn over! a\nrecommendation which it took extremely ill. It was likewise to be noted\nof this majestic spirit, that whereas it always appeared with an air of\nhaving been out a long time and walked an immense distance, it\nperceptibly came from a closely contiguous wall. This occasioned its\nterrors to be received derisively. The Queen of Denmark, a very buxom\nlady, though no doubt historically brazen, was considered by the public\nto have too much brass about her; her chin being attached to her diadem\nby a broad band of that metal (as if she had a gorgeous toothache), her\nwaist being encircled by another, and each of her arms by another, so\nthat she was openly mentioned as  the kettle-drum.  The noble boy in\nthe ancestral boots was inconsistent, representing himself, as it were\nin one breath, as an able seaman, a strolling actor, a grave-digger, a\nclergyman, and a person of the utmost importance at a Court\nfencing-match, on the authority of whose practised eye and nice\ndiscrimination the finest strokes were judged. This gradually led to a\nwant of toleration for him, and even on his being detected in holy\norders, and declining to perform the funeral service to the general\nindignation taking the form of nuts. Lastly, Ophelia was a prey to such\nslow musical madness, that when, in course of time, she had taken off\nher white muslin scarf, folded it up, and buried it, a sulky man who\nhad been long cooling his impatient nose against an iron bar in the\nfront row of the gallery, growled,  Now the baby s put to bed let s\nhave supper!  Which, to say the least of it, was out of keeping.\n\nUpon my unfortunate townsman all these incidents accumulated with\nplayful effect. Whenever that undecided Prince had to ask a question or\nstate a doubt, the public helped him out with it. As for example; on\nthe question whether  twas nobler in the mind to suffer, some roared\nyes, and some no, and some inclining to both opinions said  Toss up for\nit;  and quite a Debating Society arose. When he asked what should such\nfellows as he do crawling between earth and heaven, he was encouraged\nwith loud cries of  Hear, hear!  When he appeared with his stocking\ndisordered (its disorder expressed, according to usage, by one very\nneat fold in the top, which I suppose to be always got up with a flat\niron), a conversation took place in the gallery respecting the paleness\nof his leg, and whether it was occasioned by the turn the ghost had\ngiven him. On his taking the recorders, very like a little black flute\nthat had just been played in the orchestra and handed out at the\ndoor, he was called upon unanimously for Rule Britannia. When he\nrecommended the player not to saw the air thus, the sulky man said,\n And don t _you_ do it, neither; you re a deal worse than _him_!  And I\ngrieve to add that peals of laughter greeted Mr. Wopsle on every one of\nthese occasions.\n\nBut his greatest trials were in the churchyard, which had the\nappearance of a primeval forest, with a kind of small ecclesiastical\nwash-house on one side, and a turnpike gate on the other. Mr. Wopsle in\na comprehensive black cloak, being descried entering at the turnpike,\nthe gravedigger was admonished in a friendly way,  Look out! Here s the\nundertaker a coming, to see how you re a getting on with your work!  I\nbelieve it is well known in a constitutional country that Mr. Wopsle\ncould not possibly have returned the skull, after moralizing over it,\nwithout dusting his fingers on a white napkin taken from his breast;\nbut even that innocent and indispensable action did not pass without\nthe comment,  Wai-ter!  The arrival of the body for interment (in an\nempty black box with the lid tumbling open), was the signal for a\ngeneral joy, which was much enhanced by the discovery, among the\nbearers, of an individual obnoxious to identification. The joy attended\nMr. Wopsle through his struggle with Laertes on the brink of the\norchestra and the grave, and slackened no more until he had tumbled the\nking off the kitchen-table, and had died by inches from the ankles\nupward.\n\nWe had made some pale efforts in the beginning to applaud Mr. Wopsle;\nbut they were too hopeless to be persisted in. Therefore we had sat,\nfeeling keenly for him, but laughing, nevertheless, from ear to ear. I\nlaughed in spite of myself all the time, the whole thing was so droll;\nand yet I had a latent impression that there was something decidedly\nfine in Mr. Wopsle s elocution, not for old associations  sake, I am\nafraid, but because it was very slow, very dreary, very uphill and\ndownhill, and very unlike any way in which any man in any natural\ncircumstances of life or death ever expressed himself about anything.\nWhen the tragedy was over, and he had been called for and hooted, I\nsaid to Herbert,  Let us go at once, or perhaps we shall meet him. \n\nWe made all the haste we could downstairs, but we were not quick enough\neither. Standing at the door was a Jewish man with an unnatural heavy\nsmear of eyebrow, who caught my eyes as we advanced, and said, when we\ncame up with him, \n\n Mr. Pip and friend? \n\nIdentity of Mr. Pip and friend confessed.\n\n Mr. Waldengarver,  said the man,  would be glad to have the honour. \n\n Waldengarver?  I repeated when Herbert murmured in my ear,  Probably\nWopsle. \n\n Oh!  said I.  Yes. Shall we follow you? \n\n A few steps, please.  When we were in a side alley, he turned and\nasked,  How did you think he looked? I dressed him. \n\nI don t know what he had looked like, except a funeral; with the\naddition of a large Danish sun or star hanging round his neck by a blue\nribbon, that had given him the appearance of being insured in some\nextraordinary Fire Office. But I said he had looked very nice.\n\n When he come to the grave,  said our conductor,  he showed his cloak\nbeautiful. But, judging from the wing, it looked to me that when he see\nthe ghost in the queen s apartment, he might have made more of his\nstockings. \n\nI modestly assented, and we all fell through a little dirty swing door,\ninto a sort of hot packing-case immediately behind it. Here Mr. Wopsle\nwas divesting himself of his Danish garments, and here there was just\nroom for us to look at him over one another s shoulders, by keeping the\npacking-case door, or lid, wide open.\n\n Gentlemen,  said Mr. Wopsle,  I am proud to see you. I hope, Mr. Pip,\nyou will excuse my sending round. I had the happiness to know you in\nformer times, and the Drama has ever had a claim which has ever been\nacknowledged, on the noble and the affluent. \n\nMeanwhile, Mr. Waldengarver, in a frightful perspiration, was trying to\nget himself out of his princely sables.\n\n Skin the stockings off Mr. Waldengarver,  said the owner of that\nproperty,  or you ll bust  em. Bust  em, and you ll bust\nfive-and-thirty shillings. Shakspeare never was complimented with a\nfiner pair. Keep quiet in your chair now, and leave  em to me. \n\nWith that, he went upon his knees, and began to flay his victim; who,\non the first stocking coming off, would certainly have fallen over\nbackward with his chair, but for there being no room to fall anyhow.\n\nI had been afraid until then to say a word about the play. But then,\nMr. Waldengarver looked up at us complacently, and said, \n\n Gentlemen, how did it seem to you, to go, in front? \n\nHerbert said from behind (at the same time poking me),  Capitally.  So\nI said  Capitally. \n\n How did you like my reading of the character, gentlemen?  said Mr.\nWaldengarver, almost, if not quite, with patronage.\n\nHerbert said from behind (again poking me),  Massive and concrete.  So\nI said boldly, as if I had originated it, and must beg to insist upon\nit,  Massive and concrete. \n\n I am glad to have your approbation, gentlemen,  said Mr. Waldengarver,\nwith an air of dignity, in spite of his being ground against the wall\nat the time, and holding on by the seat of the chair.\n\n But I ll tell you one thing, Mr. Waldengarver,  said the man who was\non his knees,  in which you re out in your reading. Now mind! I don t\ncare who says contrairy; I tell you so. You re out in your reading of\nHamlet when you get your legs in profile. The last Hamlet as I dressed,\nmade the same mistakes in his reading at rehearsal, till I got him to\nput a large red wafer on each of his shins, and then at that rehearsal\n(which was the last) I went in front, sir, to the back of the pit, and\nwhenever his reading brought him into profile, I called out  I don t\nsee no wafers!  And at night his reading was lovely. \n\nMr. Waldengarver smiled at me, as much as to say  a faithful\nDependent I overlook his folly;  and then said aloud,  My view is a\nlittle classic and thoughtful for them here; but they will improve,\nthey will improve. \n\nHerbert and I said together, O, no doubt they would improve.\n\n Did you observe, gentlemen,  said Mr. Waldengarver,  that there was a\nman in the gallery who endeavoured to cast derision on the service, I\nmean, the representation? \n\nWe basely replied that we rather thought we had noticed such a man. I\nadded,  He was drunk, no doubt. \n\n O dear no, sir,  said Mr. Wopsle,  not drunk. His employer would see\nto that, sir. His employer would not allow him to be drunk. \n\n You know his employer?  said I.\n\nMr. Wopsle shut his eyes, and opened them again; performing both\nceremonies very slowly.  You must have observed, gentlemen,  said he,\n an ignorant and a blatant ass, with a rasping throat and a countenance\nexpressive of low malignity, who went through I will not say\nsustained the r le (if I may use a French expression) of Claudius, King\nof Denmark. That is his employer, gentlemen. Such is the profession! \n\nWithout distinctly knowing whether I should have been more sorry for\nMr. Wopsle if he had been in despair, I was so sorry for him as it was,\nthat I took the opportunity of his turning round to have his braces put\non, which jostled us out at the doorway, to ask Herbert what he thought\nof having him home to supper? Herbert said he thought it would be kind\nto do so; therefore I invited him, and he went to Barnard s with us,\nwrapped up to the eyes, and we did our best for him, and he sat until\ntwo o clock in the morning, reviewing his success and developing his\nplans. I forget in detail what they were, but I have a general\nrecollection that he was to begin with reviving the Drama, and to end\nwith crushing it; inasmuch as his decease would leave it utterly bereft\nand without a chance or hope.\n\nMiserably I went to bed after all, and miserably thought of Estella,\nand miserably dreamed that my expectations were all cancelled, and that\nI had to give my hand in marriage to Herbert s Clara, or play Hamlet to\nMiss Havisham s Ghost, before twenty thousand people, without knowing\ntwenty words of it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXII.\n\n\nOne day when I was busy with my books and Mr. Pocket, I received a note\nby the post, the mere outside of which threw me into a great flutter;\nfor, though I had never seen the handwriting in which it was addressed,\nI divined whose hand it was. It had no set beginning, as Dear Mr. Pip,\nor Dear Pip, or Dear Sir, or Dear Anything, but ran thus: \n\n I am to come to London the day after to-morrow by the midday coach. I\nbelieve it was settled you should meet me? At all events Miss Havisham\nhas that impression, and I write in obedience to it. She sends you her\nregard.\n\n\n Yours, ESTELLA. \n\n\nIf there had been time, I should probably have ordered several suits of\nclothes for this occasion; but as there was not, I was fain to be\ncontent with those I had. My appetite vanished instantly, and I knew no\npeace or rest until the day arrived. Not that its arrival brought me\neither; for, then I was worse than ever, and began haunting the\ncoach-office in Wood Street, Cheapside, before the coach had left the\nBlue Boar in our town. For all that I knew this perfectly well, I still\nfelt as if it were not safe to let the coach-office be out of my sight\nlonger than five minutes at a time; and in this condition of unreason I\nhad performed the first half-hour of a watch of four or five hours,\nwhen Wemmick ran against me.\n\n Halloa, Mr. Pip,  said he;  how do you do? I should hardly have\nthought this was _your_ beat. \n\nI explained that I was waiting to meet somebody who was coming up by\ncoach, and I inquired after the Castle and the Aged.\n\n Both flourishing thankye,  said Wemmick,  and particularly the Aged.\nHe s in wonderful feather. He ll be eighty-two next birthday. I have a\nnotion of firing eighty-two times, if the neighbourhood shouldn t\ncomplain, and that cannon of mine should prove equal to the pressure.\nHowever, this is not London talk. Where do you think I am going to? \n\n To the office?  said I, for he was tending in that direction.\n\n Next thing to it,  returned Wemmick,  I am going to Newgate. We are in\na banker s-parcel case just at present, and I have been down the road\ntaking a squint at the scene of action, and thereupon must have a word\nor two with our client. \n\n Did your client commit the robbery?  I asked.\n\n Bless your soul and body, no,  answered Wemmick, very drily.  But he\nis accused of it. So might you or I be. Either of us might be accused\nof it, you know. \n\n Only neither of us is,  I remarked.\n\n Yah!  said Wemmick, touching me on the breast with his forefinger;\n you re a deep one, Mr. Pip! Would you like to have a look at Newgate?\nHave you time to spare? \n\nI had so much time to spare, that the proposal came as a relief,\nnotwithstanding its irreconcilability with my latent desire to keep my\neye on the coach-office. Muttering that I would make the inquiry\nwhether I had time to walk with him, I went into the office, and\nascertained from the clerk with the nicest precision and much to the\ntrying of his temper, the earliest moment at which the coach could be\nexpected, which I knew beforehand, quite as well as he. I then rejoined\nMr. Wemmick, and affecting to consult my watch, and to be surprised by\nthe information I had received, accepted his offer.\n\nWe were at Newgate in a few minutes, and we passed through the lodge\nwhere some fetters were hanging up on the bare walls among the prison\nrules, into the interior of the jail. At that time jails were much\nneglected, and the period of exaggerated reaction consequent on all\npublic wrongdoing and which is always its heaviest and longest\npunishment was still far off. So, felons were not lodged and fed better\nthan soldiers (to say nothing of paupers), and seldom set fire to their\nprisons with the excusable object of improving the flavour of their\nsoup. It was visiting time when Wemmick took me in, and a potman was\ngoing his rounds with beer; and the prisoners, behind bars in yards,\nwere buying beer, and talking to friends; and a frowzy, ugly,\ndisorderly, depressing scene it was.\n\nIt struck me that Wemmick walked among the prisoners much as a gardener\nmight walk among his plants. This was first put into my head by his\nseeing a shoot that had come up in the night, and saying,  What,\nCaptain Tom? Are _you_ there? Ah, indeed!  and also,  Is that Black\nBill behind the cistern? Why I didn t look for you these two months;\nhow do you find yourself?  Equally in his stopping at the bars and\nattending to anxious whisperers, always singly, Wemmick with his\npost-office in an immovable state, looked at them while in conference,\nas if he were taking particular notice of the advance they had made,\nsince last observed, towards coming out in full blow at their trial.\n\nHe was highly popular, and I found that he took the familiar department\nof Mr. Jaggers s business; though something of the state of Mr. Jaggers\nhung about him too, forbidding approach beyond certain limits. His\npersonal recognition of each successive client was comprised in a nod,\nand in his settling his hat a little easier on his head with both\nhands, and then tightening the post-office, and putting his hands in\nhis pockets. In one or two instances there was a difficulty respecting\nthe raising of fees, and then Mr. Wemmick, backing as far as possible\nfrom the insufficient money produced, said,  it s no use, my boy. I m\nonly a subordinate. I can t take it. Don t go on in that way with a\nsubordinate. If you are unable to make up your quantum, my boy, you had\nbetter address yourself to a principal; there are plenty of principals\nin the profession, you know, and what is not worth the while of one,\nmay be worth the while of another; that s my recommendation to you,\nspeaking as a subordinate. Don t try on useless measures. Why should\nyou? Now, who s next? \n\nThus, we walked through Wemmick s greenhouse, until he turned to me and\nsaid,  Notice the man I shall shake hands with.  I should have done so,\nwithout the preparation, as he had shaken hands with no one yet.\n\nAlmost as soon as he had spoken, a portly upright man (whom I can see\nnow, as I write) in a well-worn olive-coloured frock-coat, with a\npeculiar pallor overspreading the red in his complexion, and eyes that\nwent wandering about when he tried to fix them, came up to a corner of\nthe bars, and put his hand to his hat which had a greasy and fatty\nsurface like cold broth with a half-serious and half-jocose military\nsalute.\n\n Colonel, to you!  said Wemmick;  how are you, Colonel? \n\n All right, Mr. Wemmick. \n\n Everything was done that could be done, but the evidence was too\nstrong for us, Colonel. \n\n Yes, it was too strong, sir, but _I_ don t care. \n\n No, no,  said Wemmick, coolly,  _you_ don t care.  Then, turning to\nme,  Served His Majesty this man. Was a soldier in the line and bought\nhis discharge. \n\nI said,  Indeed?  and the man s eyes looked at me, and then looked over\nmy head, and then looked all round me, and then he drew his hand across\nhis lips and laughed.\n\n I think I shall be out of this on Monday, sir,  he said to Wemmick.\n\n Perhaps,  returned my friend,  but there s no knowing. \n\n I am glad to have the chance of bidding you good-bye, Mr. Wemmick, \nsaid the man, stretching out his hand between two bars.\n\n Thankye,  said Wemmick, shaking hands with him.  Same to you,\nColonel. \n\n If what I had upon me when taken had been real, Mr. Wemmick,  said the\nman, unwilling to let his hand go,  I should have asked the favour of\nyour wearing another ring in acknowledgment of your attentions. \n\n I ll accept the will for the deed,  said Wemmick.  By the by; you were\nquite a pigeon-fancier.  The man looked up at the sky.  I am told you\nhad a remarkable breed of tumblers. _Could_ you commission any friend\nof yours to bring me a pair, if you ve no further use for  em? \n\n It shall be done, sir. \n\n All right,  said Wemmick,  they shall be taken care of.\nGood-afternoon, Colonel. Good-bye!  They shook hands again, and as we\nwalked away Wemmick said to me,  A Coiner, a very good workman. The\nRecorder s report is made to-day, and he is sure to be executed on\nMonday. Still you see, as far as it goes, a pair of pigeons are\nportable property all the same.  With that, he looked back, and nodded\nat this dead plant, and then cast his eyes about him in walking out of\nthe yard, as if he were considering what other pot would go best in its\nplace.\n\nAs we came out of the prison through the lodge, I found that the great\nimportance of my guardian was appreciated by the turnkeys, no less than\nby those whom they held in charge.  Well, Mr. Wemmick,  said the\nturnkey, who kept us between the two studded and spiked lodge gates,\nand who carefully locked one before he unlocked the other,  what s Mr.\nJaggers going to do with that water-side murder? Is he going to make it\nmanslaughter, or what s he going to make of it? \n\n Why don t you ask him?  returned Wemmick.\n\n O yes, I dare say!  said the turnkey.\n\n Now, that s the way with them here, Mr. Pip,  remarked Wemmick,\nturning to me with his post-office elongated.  They don t mind what\nthey ask of me, the subordinate; but you ll never catch  em asking any\nquestions of my principal. \n\n Is this young gentleman one of the  prentices or articled ones of your\noffice?  asked the turnkey, with a grin at Mr. Wemmick s humour.\n\n There he goes again, you see!  cried Wemmick,  I told you so! Asks\nanother question of the subordinate before his first is dry! Well,\nsupposing Mr. Pip is one of them? \n\n Why then,  said the turnkey, grinning again,  he knows what Mr.\nJaggers is. \n\n Yah!  cried Wemmick, suddenly hitting out at the turnkey in a\nfacetious way,  you re dumb as one of your own keys when you have to do\nwith my principal, you know you are. Let us out, you old fox, or I ll\nget him to bring an action against you for false imprisonment. \n\nThe turnkey laughed, and gave us good day, and stood laughing at us\nover the spikes of the wicket when we descended the steps into the\nstreet.\n\n Mind you, Mr. Pip,  said Wemmick, gravely in my ear, as he took my arm\nto be more confidential;  I don t know that Mr. Jaggers does a better\nthing than the way in which he keeps himself so high. He s always so\nhigh. His constant height is of a piece with his immense abilities.\nThat Colonel durst no more take leave of _him_, than that turnkey durst\nask him his intentions respecting a case. Then, between his height and\nthem, he slips in his subordinate, don t you see? and so he has  em,\nsoul and body. \n\nI was very much impressed, and not for the first time, by my guardian s\nsubtlety. To confess the truth, I very heartily wished, and not for the\nfirst time, that I had had some other guardian of minor abilities.\n\nMr. Wemmick and I parted at the office in Little Britain, where\nsuppliants for Mr. Jaggers s notice were lingering about as usual, and\nI returned to my watch in the street of the coach-office, with some\nthree hours on hand. I consumed the whole time in thinking how strange\nit was that I should be encompassed by all this taint of prison and\ncrime; that, in my childhood out on our lonely marshes on a winter\nevening, I should have first encountered it; that, it should have\nreappeared on two occasions, starting out like a stain that was faded\nbut not gone; that, it should in this new way pervade my fortune and\nadvancement. While my mind was thus engaged, I thought of the beautiful\nyoung Estella, proud and refined, coming towards me, and I thought with\nabsolute abhorrence of the contrast between the jail and her. I wished\nthat Wemmick had not met me, or that I had not yielded to him and gone\nwith him, so that, of all days in the year on this day, I might not\nhave had Newgate in my breath and on my clothes. I beat the prison dust\noff my feet as I sauntered to and fro, and I shook it out of my dress,\nand I exhaled its air from my lungs. So contaminated did I feel,\nremembering who was coming, that the coach came quickly after all, and\nI was not yet free from the soiling consciousness of Mr. Wemmick s\nconservatory, when I saw her face at the coach window and her hand\nwaving to me.\n\nWhat _was_ the nameless shadow which again in that one instant had\npassed?\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIII.\n\n\nIn her furred travelling-dress, Estella seemed more delicately\nbeautiful than she had ever seemed yet, even in my eyes. Her manner was\nmore winning than she had cared to let it be to me before, and I\nthought I saw Miss Havisham s influence in the change.\n\nWe stood in the Inn Yard while she pointed out her luggage to me, and\nwhen it was all collected I remembered having forgotten everything but\nherself in the meanwhile that I knew nothing of her destination.\n\n I am going to Richmond,  she told me.  Our lesson is, that there are\ntwo Richmonds, one in Surrey and one in Yorkshire, and that mine is the\nSurrey Richmond. The distance is ten miles. I am to have a carriage,\nand you are to take me. This is my purse, and you are to pay my charges\nout of it. O, you must take the purse! We have no choice, you and I,\nbut to obey our instructions. We are not free to follow our own\ndevices, you and I. \n\nAs she looked at me in giving me the purse, I hoped there was an inner\nmeaning in her words. She said them slightingly, but not with\ndispleasure.\n\n A carriage will have to be sent for, Estella. Will you rest here a\nlittle? \n\n Yes, I am to rest here a little, and I am to drink some tea, and you\nare to take care of me the while. \n\nShe drew her arm through mine, as if it must be done, and I requested a\nwaiter who had been staring at the coach like a man who had never seen\nsuch a thing in his life, to show us a private sitting-room. Upon that,\nhe pulled out a napkin, as if it were a magic clue without which he\ncouldn t find the way upstairs, and led us to the black hole of the\nestablishment, fitted up with a diminishing mirror (quite a superfluous\narticle, considering the hole s proportions), an anchovy sauce-cruet,\nand somebody s pattens. On my objecting to this retreat, he took us\ninto another room with a dinner-table for thirty, and in the grate a\nscorched leaf of a copy-book under a bushel of coal-dust. Having looked\nat this extinct conflagration and shaken his head, he took my order;\nwhich, proving to be merely,  Some tea for the lady,  sent him out of\nthe room in a very low state of mind.\n\nI was, and I am, sensible that the air of this chamber, in its strong\ncombination of stable with soup-stock, might have led one to infer that\nthe coaching department was not doing well, and that the enterprising\nproprietor was boiling down the horses for the refreshment department.\nYet the room was all in all to me, Estella being in it. I thought that\nwith her I could have been happy there for life. (I was not at all\nhappy there at the time, observe, and I knew it well.)\n\n Where are you going to, at Richmond?  I asked Estella.\n\n I am going to live,  said she,  at a great expense, with a lady there,\nwho has the power or says she has of taking me about, and introducing\nme, and showing people to me and showing me to people. \n\n I suppose you will be glad of variety and admiration? \n\n Yes, I suppose so. \n\nShe answered so carelessly, that I said,  You speak of yourself as if\nyou were some one else. \n\n Where did you learn how I speak of others? Come, come,  said Estella,\nsmiling delightfully,  you must not expect me to go to school to _you_;\nI must talk in my own way. How do you thrive with Mr. Pocket? \n\n I live quite pleasantly there; at least  It appeared to me that I was\nlosing a chance.\n\n At least?  repeated Estella.\n\n As pleasantly as I could anywhere, away from you. \n\n You silly boy,  said Estella, quite composedly,  how can you talk such\nnonsense? Your friend Mr. Matthew, I believe, is superior to the rest\nof his family? \n\n Very superior indeed. He is nobody s enemy \n\n Don t add but his own,  interposed Estella,  for I hate that class of\nman. But he really is disinterested, and above small jealousy and\nspite, I have heard? \n\n I am sure I have every reason to say so. \n\n You have not every reason to say so of the rest of his people,  said\nEstella, nodding at me with an expression of face that was at once\ngrave and rallying,  for they beset Miss Havisham with reports and\ninsinuations to your disadvantage. They watch you, misrepresent you,\nwrite letters about you (anonymous sometimes), and you are the torment\nand the occupation of their lives. You can scarcely realise to yourself\nthe hatred those people feel for you. \n\n They do me no harm, I hope? \n\nInstead of answering, Estella burst out laughing. This was very\nsingular to me, and I looked at her in considerable perplexity. When\nshe left off and she had not laughed languidly, but with real\nenjoyment I said, in my diffident way with her, \n\n I hope I may suppose that you would not be amused if they did me any\nharm. \n\n No, no you may be sure of that,  said Estella.  You may be certain\nthat I laugh because they fail. O, those people with Miss Havisham, and\nthe tortures they undergo!  She laughed again, and even now when she\nhad told me why, her laughter was very singular to me, for I could not\ndoubt its being genuine, and yet it seemed too much for the occasion. I\nthought there must really be something more here than I knew; she saw\nthe thought in my mind, and answered it.\n\n It is not easy for even you.  said Estella,  to know what satisfaction\nit gives me to see those people thwarted, or what an enjoyable sense of\nthe ridiculous I have when they are made ridiculous. For you were not\nbrought up in that strange house from a mere baby. I was. You had not\nyour little wits sharpened by their intriguing against you, suppressed\nand defenceless, under the mask of sympathy and pity and what not that\nis soft and soothing. I had. You did not gradually open your round\nchildish eyes wider and wider to the discovery of that impostor of a\nwoman who calculates her stores of peace of mind for when she wakes up\nin the night. I did. \n\nIt was no laughing matter with Estella now, nor was she summoning these\nremembrances from any shallow place. I would not have been the cause of\nthat look of hers for all my expectations in a heap.\n\n Two things I can tell you,  said Estella.  First, notwithstanding the\nproverb that constant dropping will wear away a stone, you may set your\nmind at rest that these people never will never would in a hundred\nyears impair your ground with Miss Havisham, in any particular, great\nor small. Second, I am beholden to you as the cause of their being so\nbusy and so mean in vain, and there is my hand upon it. \n\nAs she gave it to me playfully, for her darker mood had been but\nmomentary I held it and put it to my lips.  You ridiculous boy,  said\nEstella,  will you never take warning? Or do you kiss my hand in the\nsame spirit in which I once let you kiss my cheek? \n\n What spirit was that?  said I.\n\n I must think a moment. A spirit of contempt for the fawners and\nplotters. \n\n If I say yes, may I kiss the cheek again? \n\n You should have asked before you touched the hand. But, yes, if you\nlike. \n\nI leaned down, and her calm face was like a statue s.  Now,  said\nEstella, gliding away the instant I touched her cheek,  you are to take\ncare that I have some tea, and you are to take me to Richmond. \n\nHer reverting to this tone as if our association were forced upon us,\nand we were mere puppets, gave me pain; but everything in our\nintercourse did give me pain. Whatever her tone with me happened to be,\nI could put no trust in it, and build no hope on it; and yet I went on\nagainst trust and against hope. Why repeat it a thousand times? So it\nalways was.\n\nI rang for the tea, and the waiter, reappearing with his magic clue,\nbrought in by degrees some fifty adjuncts to that refreshment, but of\ntea not a glimpse. A teaboard, cups and saucers, plates, knives and\nforks (including carvers), spoons (various), salt-cellars, a meek\nlittle muffin confined with the utmost precaution under a strong iron\ncover, Moses in the bulrushes typified by a soft bit of butter in a\nquantity of parsley, a pale loaf with a powdered head, two proof\nimpressions of the bars of the kitchen fireplace on triangular bits of\nbread, and ultimately a fat family urn; which the waiter staggered in\nwith, expressing in his countenance burden and suffering. After a\nprolonged absence at this stage of the entertainment, he at length came\nback with a casket of precious appearance containing twigs. These I\nsteeped in hot water, and so from the whole of these appliances\nextracted one cup of I don t know what for Estella.\n\nThe bill paid, and the waiter remembered, and the ostler not forgotten,\nand the chambermaid taken into consideration, in a word, the whole\nhouse bribed into a state of contempt and animosity, and Estella s\npurse much lightened, we got into our post-coach and drove away.\nTurning into Cheapside and rattling up Newgate Street, we were soon\nunder the walls of which I was so ashamed.\n\n What place is that?  Estella asked me.\n\nI made a foolish pretence of not at first recognising it, and then told\nher. As she looked at it, and drew in her head again, murmuring,\n Wretches!  I would not have confessed to my visit for any\nconsideration.\n\n Mr. Jaggers,  said I, by way of putting it neatly on somebody else,\n has the reputation of being more in the secrets of that dismal place\nthan any man in London. \n\n He is more in the secrets of every place, I think,  said Estella, in a\nlow voice.\n\n You have been accustomed to see him often, I suppose? \n\n I have been accustomed to see him at uncertain intervals, ever since I\ncan remember. But I know him no better now, than I did before I could\nspeak plainly. What is your own experience of him? Do you advance with\nhim? \n\n Once habituated to his distrustful manner,  said I,  I have done very\nwell. \n\n Are you intimate? \n\n I have dined with him at his private house. \n\n I fancy,  said Estella, shrinking  that must be a curious place. \n\n It is a curious place. \n\nI should have been chary of discussing my guardian too freely even with\nher; but I should have gone on with the subject so far as to describe\nthe dinner in Gerrard Street, if we had not then come into a sudden\nglare of gas. It seemed, while it lasted, to be all alight and alive\nwith that inexplicable feeling I had had before; and when we were out\nof it, I was as much dazed for a few moments as if I had been in\nlightning.\n\nSo we fell into other talk, and it was principally about the way by\nwhich we were travelling, and about what parts of London lay on this\nside of it, and what on that. The great city was almost new to her, she\ntold me, for she had never left Miss Havisham s neighbourhood until she\nhad gone to France, and she had merely passed through London then in\ngoing and returning. I asked her if my guardian had any charge of her\nwhile she remained here? To that she emphatically said  God forbid! \nand no more.\n\nIt was impossible for me to avoid seeing that she cared to attract me;\nthat she made herself winning, and would have won me even if the task\nhad needed pains. Yet this made me none the happier, for even if she\nhad not taken that tone of our being disposed of by others, I should\nhave felt that she held my heart in her hand because she wilfully chose\nto do it, and not because it would have wrung any tenderness in her to\ncrush it and throw it away.\n\nWhen we passed through Hammersmith, I showed her where Mr. Matthew\nPocket lived, and said it was no great way from Richmond, and that I\nhoped I should see her sometimes.\n\n O yes, you are to see me; you are to come when you think proper; you\nare to be mentioned to the family; indeed you are already mentioned. \n\nI inquired was it a large household she was going to be a member of?\n\n No; there are only two; mother and daughter. The mother is a lady of\nsome station, though not averse to increasing her income. \n\n I wonder Miss Havisham could part with you again so soon. \n\n It is a part of Miss Havisham s plans for me, Pip,  said Estella, with\na sigh, as if she were tired;  I am to write to her constantly and see\nher regularly and report how I go on, I and the jewels, for they are\nnearly all mine now. \n\nIt was the first time she had ever called me by my name. Of course she\ndid so purposely, and knew that I should treasure it up.\n\nWe came to Richmond all too soon, and our destination there was a house\nby the green, a staid old house, where hoops and powder and patches,\nembroidered coats, rolled stockings, ruffles and swords, had had their\ncourt days many a time. Some ancient trees before the house were still\ncut into fashions as formal and unnatural as the hoops and wigs and\nstiff skirts; but their own allotted places in the great procession of\nthe dead were not far off, and they would soon drop into them and go\nthe silent way of the rest.\n\nA bell with an old voice which I dare say in its time had often said to\nthe house, Here is the green farthingale, Here is the diamond-hilted\nsword, Here are the shoes with red heels and the blue solitaire sounded\ngravely in the moonlight, and two cherry-coloured maids came fluttering\nout to receive Estella. The doorway soon absorbed her boxes, and she\ngave me her hand and a smile, and said good-night, and was absorbed\nlikewise. And still I stood looking at the house, thinking how happy I\nshould be if I lived there with her, and knowing that I never was happy\nwith her, but always miserable.\n\nI got into the carriage to be taken back to Hammersmith, and I got in\nwith a bad heart-ache, and I got out with a worse heart-ache. At our\nown door, I found little Jane Pocket coming home from a little party\nescorted by her little lover; and I envied her little lover, in spite\nof his being subject to Flopson.\n\nMr. Pocket was out lecturing; for, he was a most delightful lecturer on\ndomestic economy, and his treatises on the management of children and\nservants were considered the very best text-books on those themes. But\nMrs. Pocket was at home, and was in a little difficulty, on account of\nthe baby s having been accommodated with a needle-case to keep him\nquiet during the unaccountable absence (with a relative in the Foot\nGuards) of Millers. And more needles were missing than it could be\nregarded as quite wholesome for a patient of such tender years either\nto apply externally or to take as a tonic.\n\nMr. Pocket being justly celebrated for giving most excellent practical\nadvice, and for having a clear and sound perception of things and a\nhighly judicious mind, I had some notion in my heart-ache of begging\nhim to accept my confidence. But happening to look up at Mrs. Pocket as\nshe sat reading her book of dignities after prescribing Bed as a\nsovereign remedy for baby, I thought Well No, I wouldn t.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIV.\n\n\nAs I had grown accustomed to my expectations, I had insensibly begun to\nnotice their effect upon myself and those around me. Their influence on\nmy own character I disguised from my recognition as much as possible,\nbut I knew very well that it was not all good. I lived in a state of\nchronic uneasiness respecting my behaviour to Joe. My conscience was\nnot by any means comfortable about Biddy. When I woke up in the\nnight, like Camilla, I used to think, with a weariness on my spirits,\nthat I should have been happier and better if I had never seen Miss\nHavisham s face, and had risen to manhood content to be partners with\nJoe in the honest old forge. Many a time of an evening, when I sat\nalone looking at the fire, I thought, after all there was no fire like\nthe forge fire and the kitchen fire at home.\n\nYet Estella was so inseparable from all my restlessness and disquiet of\nmind, that I really fell into confusion as to the limits of my own part\nin its production. That is to say, supposing I had had no expectations,\nand yet had had Estella to think of, I could not make out to my\nsatisfaction that I should have done much better. Now, concerning the\ninfluence of my position on others, I was in no such difficulty, and so\nI perceived though dimly enough perhaps that it was not beneficial to\nanybody, and, above all, that it was not beneficial to Herbert. My\nlavish habits led his easy nature into expenses that he could not\nafford, corrupted the simplicity of his life, and disturbed his peace\nwith anxieties and regrets. I was not at all remorseful for having\nunwittingly set those other branches of the Pocket family to the poor\narts they practised; because such littlenesses were their natural bent,\nand would have been evoked by anybody else, if I had left them\nslumbering. But Herbert s was a very different case, and it often\ncaused me a twinge to think that I had done him evil service in\ncrowding his sparely furnished chambers with incongruous upholstery\nwork, and placing the Canary-breasted Avenger at his disposal.\n\nSo now, as an infallible way of making little ease great ease, I began\nto contract a quantity of debt. I could hardly begin but Herbert must\nbegin too, so he soon followed. At Startop s suggestion, we put\nourselves down for election into a club called The Finches of the\nGrove: the object of which institution I have never divined, if it were\nnot that the members should dine expensively once a fortnight, to\nquarrel among themselves as much as possible after dinner, and to cause\nsix waiters to get drunk on the stairs. I know that these gratifying\nsocial ends were so invariably accomplished, that Herbert and I\nunderstood nothing else to be referred to in the first standing toast\nof the society: which ran  Gentlemen, may the present promotion of good\nfeeling ever reign predominant among the Finches of the Grove. \n\nThe Finches spent their money foolishly (the Hotel we dined at was in\nCovent Garden), and the first Finch I saw when I had the honour of\njoining the Grove was Bentley Drummle, at that time floundering about\ntown in a cab of his own, and doing a great deal of damage to the posts\nat the street corners. Occasionally, he shot himself out of his\nequipage headforemost over the apron; and I saw him on one occasion\ndeliver himself at the door of the Grove in this unintentional way like\ncoals. But here I anticipate a little, for I was not a Finch, and could\nnot be, according to the sacred laws of the society, until I came of\nage.\n\nIn my confidence in my own resources, I would willingly have taken\nHerbert s expenses on myself; but Herbert was proud, and I could make\nno such proposal to him. So he got into difficulties in every\ndirection, and continued to look about him. When we gradually fell into\nkeeping late hours and late company, I noticed that he looked about him\nwith a desponding eye at breakfast-time; that he began to look about\nhim more hopefully about midday; that he drooped when he came into\ndinner; that he seemed to descry Capital in the distance, rather\nclearly, after dinner; that he all but realised Capital towards\nmidnight; and that at about two o clock in the morning, he became so\ndeeply despondent again as to talk of buying a rifle and going to\nAmerica, with a general purpose of compelling buffaloes to make his\nfortune.\n\nI was usually at Hammersmith about half the week, and when I was at\nHammersmith I haunted Richmond, whereof separately by and by. Herbert\nwould often come to Hammersmith when I was there, and I think at those\nseasons his father would occasionally have some passing perception that\nthe opening he was looking for, had not appeared yet. But in the\ngeneral tumbling up of the family, his tumbling out in life somewhere,\nwas a thing to transact itself somehow. In the meantime Mr. Pocket grew\ngreyer, and tried oftener to lift himself out of his perplexities by\nthe hair. While Mrs. Pocket tripped up the family with her footstool,\nread her book of dignities, lost her pocket-handkerchief, told us about\nher grandpapa, and taught the young idea how to shoot, by shooting it\ninto bed whenever it attracted her notice.\n\nAs I am now generalising a period of my life with the object of\nclearing my way before me, I can scarcely do so better than by at once\ncompleting the description of our usual manners and customs at\nBarnard s Inn.\n\nWe spent as much money as we could, and got as little for it as people\ncould make up their minds to give us. We were always more or less\nmiserable, and most of our acquaintance were in the same condition.\nThere was a gay fiction among us that we were constantly enjoying\nourselves, and a skeleton truth that we never did. To the best of my\nbelief, our case was in the last aspect a rather common one.\n\nEvery morning, with an air ever new, Herbert went into the City to look\nabout him. I often paid him a visit in the dark back-room in which he\nconsorted with an ink-jar, a hat-peg, a coal-box, a string-box, an\nalmanac, a desk and stool, and a ruler; and I do not remember that I\never saw him do anything else but look about him. If we all did what we\nundertake to do, as faithfully as Herbert did, we might live in a\nRepublic of the Virtues. He had nothing else to do, poor fellow, except\nat a certain hour of every afternoon to  go to Lloyd s in observance\nof a ceremony of seeing his principal, I think. He never did anything\nelse in connection with Lloyd s that I could find out, except come back\nagain. When he felt his case unusually serious, and that he positively\nmust find an opening, he would go on  Change at a busy time, and walk\nin and out, in a kind of gloomy country dance figure, among the\nassembled magnates.  For,  says Herbert to me, coming home to dinner on\none of those special occasions,  I find the truth to be, Handel, that\nan opening won t come to one, but one must go to it, so I have been. \n\nIf we had been less attached to one another, I think we must have hated\none another regularly every morning. I detested the chambers beyond\nexpression at that period of repentance, and could not endure the sight\nof the Avenger s livery; which had a more expensive and a less\nremunerative appearance then than at any other time in the\nfour-and-twenty hours. As we got more and more into debt, breakfast\nbecame a hollower and hollower form, and, being on one occasion at\nbreakfast-time threatened (by letter) with legal proceedings,  not\nunwholly unconnected,  as my local paper might put it,  with jewelery, \nI went so far as to seize the Avenger by his blue collar and shake him\noff his feet, so that he was actually in the air, like a booted\nCupid, for presuming to suppose that we wanted a roll.\n\nAt certain times meaning at uncertain times, for they depended on our\nhumour I would say to Herbert, as if it were a remarkable discovery, \n\n My dear Herbert, we are getting on badly. \n\n My dear Handel,  Herbert would say to me, in all sincerity,  if you\nwill believe me, those very words were on my lips, by a strange\ncoincidence. \n\n Then, Herbert,  I would respond,  let us look into our affairs. \n\nWe always derived profound satisfaction from making an appointment for\nthis purpose. I always thought this was business, this was the way to\nconfront the thing, this was the way to take the foe by the throat. And\nI know Herbert thought so too.\n\nWe ordered something rather special for dinner, with a bottle of\nsomething similarly out of the common way, in order that our minds\nmight be fortified for the occasion, and we might come well up to the\nmark. Dinner over, we produced a bundle of pens, a copious supply of\nink, and a goodly show of writing and blotting paper. For there was\nsomething very comfortable in having plenty of stationery.\n\nI would then take a sheet of paper, and write across the top of it, in\na neat hand, the heading,  Memorandum of Pip s debts ; with Barnard s\nInn and the date very carefully added. Herbert would also take a sheet\nof paper, and write across it with similar formalities,  Memorandum of\nHerbert s debts. \n\nEach of us would then refer to a confused heap of papers at his side,\nwhich had been thrown into drawers, worn into holes in pockets, half\nburnt in lighting candles, stuck for weeks into the looking-glass, and\notherwise damaged. The sound of our pens going refreshed us\nexceedingly, insomuch that I sometimes found it difficult to\ndistinguish between this edifying business proceeding and actually\npaying the money. In point of meritorious character, the two things\nseemed about equal.\n\nWhen we had written a little while, I would ask Herbert how he got on?\nHerbert probably would have been scratching his head in a most rueful\nmanner at the sight of his accumulating figures.\n\n They are mounting up, Handel,  Herbert would say;  upon my life, they\nare mounting up. \n\n Be firm, Herbert,  I would retort, plying my own pen with great\nassiduity.  Look the thing in the face. Look into your affairs. Stare\nthem out of countenance. \n\n So I would, Handel, only they are staring _me_ out of countenance. \n\nHowever, my determined manner would have its effect, and Herbert would\nfall to work again. After a time he would give up once more, on the\nplea that he had not got Cobbs s bill, or Lobbs s, or Nobbs s, as the\ncase might be.\n\n Then, Herbert, estimate; estimate it in round numbers, and put it\ndown. \n\n What a fellow of resource you are!  my friend would reply, with\nadmiration.  Really your business powers are very remarkable. \n\nI thought so too. I established with myself, on these occasions, the\nreputation of a first-rate man of business, prompt, decisive,\nenergetic, clear, cool-headed. When I had got all my responsibilities\ndown upon my list, I compared each with the bill, and ticked it off. My\nself-approval when I ticked an entry was quite a luxurious sensation.\nWhen I had no more ticks to make, I folded all my bills up uniformly,\ndocketed each on the back, and tied the whole into a symmetrical\nbundle. Then I did the same for Herbert (who modestly said he had not\nmy administrative genius), and felt that I had brought his affairs into\na focus for him.\n\nMy business habits had one other bright feature, which I called\n leaving a Margin.  For example; supposing Herbert s debts to be one\nhundred and sixty-four pounds four-and-twopence, I would say,  Leave a\nmargin, and put them down at two hundred.  Or, supposing my own to be\nfour times as much, I would leave a margin, and put them down at seven\nhundred. I had the highest opinion of the wisdom of this same Margin,\nbut I am bound to acknowledge that on looking back, I deem it to have\nbeen an expensive device. For, we always ran into new debt immediately,\nto the full extent of the margin, and sometimes, in the sense of\nfreedom and solvency it imparted, got pretty far on into another\nmargin.\n\nBut there was a calm, a rest, a virtuous hush, consequent on these\nexaminations of our affairs that gave me, for the time, an admirable\nopinion of myself. Soothed by my exertions, my method, and Herbert s\ncompliments, I would sit with his symmetrical bundle and my own on the\ntable before me among the stationery, and feel like a Bank of some\nsort, rather than a private individual.\n\nWe shut our outer door on these solemn occasions, in order that we\nmight not be interrupted. I had fallen into my serene state one\nevening, when we heard a letter dropped through the slit in the said\ndoor, and fall on the ground.  It s for you, Handel,  said Herbert,\ngoing out and coming back with it,  and I hope there is nothing the\nmatter.  This was in allusion to its heavy black seal and border.\n\nThe letter was signed Trabb & Co., and its contents were simply, that I\nwas an honoured sir, and that they begged to inform me that Mrs. J.\nGargery had departed this life on Monday last at twenty minutes past\nsix in the evening, and that my attendance was requested at the\ninterment on Monday next at three o clock in the afternoon.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXV.\n\n\nIt was the first time that a grave had opened in my road of life, and\nthe gap it made in the smooth ground was wonderful. The figure of my\nsister in her chair by the kitchen fire, haunted me night and day. That\nthe place could possibly be, without her, was something my mind seemed\nunable to compass; and whereas she had seldom or never been in my\nthoughts of late, I had now the strangest ideas that she was coming\ntowards me in the street, or that she would presently knock at the\ndoor. In my rooms too, with which she had never been at all associated,\nthere was at once the blankness of death and a perpetual suggestion of\nthe sound of her voice or the turn of her face or figure, as if she\nwere still alive and had been often there.\n\nWhatever my fortunes might have been, I could scarcely have recalled my\nsister with much tenderness. But I suppose there is a shock of regret\nwhich may exist without much tenderness. Under its influence (and\nperhaps to make up for the want of the softer feeling) I was seized\nwith a violent indignation against the assailant from whom she had\nsuffered so much; and I felt that on sufficient proof I could have\nrevengefully pursued Orlick, or any one else, to the last extremity.\n\nHaving written to Joe, to offer him consolation, and to assure him that\nI would come to the funeral, I passed the intermediate days in the\ncurious state of mind I have glanced at. I went down early in the\nmorning, and alighted at the Blue Boar in good time to walk over to the\nforge.\n\nIt was fine summer weather again, and, as I walked along, the times\nwhen I was a little helpless creature, and my sister did not spare me,\nvividly returned. But they returned with a gentle tone upon them that\nsoftened even the edge of Tickler. For now, the very breath of the\nbeans and clover whispered to my heart that the day must come when it\nwould be well for my memory that others walking in the sunshine should\nbe softened as they thought of me.\n\nAt last I came within sight of the house, and saw that Trabb and Co.\nhad put in a funereal execution and taken possession. Two dismally\nabsurd persons, each ostentatiously exhibiting a crutch done up in a\nblack bandage, as if that instrument could possibly communicate any\ncomfort to anybody, were posted at the front door; and in one of them I\nrecognised a postboy discharged from the Boar for turning a young\ncouple into a sawpit on their bridal morning, in consequence of\nintoxication rendering it necessary for him to ride his horse clasped\nround the neck with both arms. All the children of the village, and\nmost of the women, were admiring these sable warders and the closed\nwindows of the house and forge; and as I came up, one of the two\nwarders (the postboy) knocked at the door, implying that I was far too\nmuch exhausted by grief to have strength remaining to knock for myself.\n\nAnother sable warder (a carpenter, who had once eaten two geese for a\nwager) opened the door, and showed me into the best parlour. Here, Mr.\nTrabb had taken unto himself the best table, and had got all the leaves\nup, and was holding a kind of black Bazaar, with the aid of a quantity\nof black pins. At the moment of my arrival, he had just finished\nputting somebody s hat into black long-clothes, like an African baby;\nso he held out his hand for mine. But I, misled by the action, and\nconfused by the occasion, shook hands with him with every testimony of\nwarm affection.\n\nPoor dear Joe, entangled in a little black cloak tied in a large bow\nunder his chin, was seated apart at the upper end of the room; where,\nas chief mourner, he had evidently been stationed by Trabb. When I bent\ndown and said to him,  Dear Joe, how are you?  he said,  Pip, old chap,\nyou knowed her when she were a fine figure of a  and clasped my hand\nand said no more.\n\nBiddy, looking very neat and modest in her black dress, went quietly\nhere and there, and was very helpful. When I had spoken to Biddy, as I\nthought it not a time for talking I went and sat down near Joe, and\nthere began to wonder in what part of the house it she my sister was.\nThe air of the parlour being faint with the smell of sweet-cake, I\nlooked about for the table of refreshments; it was scarcely visible\nuntil one had got accustomed to the gloom, but there was a cut-up plum\ncake upon it, and there were cut-up oranges, and sandwiches, and\nbiscuits, and two decanters that I knew very well as ornaments, but had\nnever seen used in all my life; one full of port, and one of sherry.\nStanding at this table, I became conscious of the servile Pumblechook\nin a black cloak and several yards of hatband, who was alternately\nstuffing himself, and making obsequious movements to catch my\nattention. The moment he succeeded, he came over to me (breathing\nsherry and crumbs), and said in a subdued voice,  May I, dear sir?  and\ndid. I then descried Mr. and Mrs. Hubble; the last-named in a decent\nspeechless paroxysm in a corner. We were all going to  follow,  and\nwere all in course of being tied up separately (by Trabb) into\nridiculous bundles.\n\n Which I meantersay, Pip,  Joe whispered me, as we were being what Mr.\nTrabb called  formed  in the parlour, two and two, and it was\ndreadfully like a preparation for some grim kind of dance;  which I\nmeantersay, sir, as I would in preference have carried her to the\nchurch myself, along with three or four friendly ones wot come to it\nwith willing harts and arms, but it were considered wot the neighbours\nwould look down on such and would be of opinions as it were wanting in\nrespect. \n\n Pocket-handkerchiefs out, all!  cried Mr. Trabb at this point, in a\ndepressed business-like voice.  Pocket-handkerchiefs out! We are\nready! \n\nSo we all put our pocket-handkerchiefs to our faces, as if our noses\nwere bleeding, and filed out two and two; Joe and I; Biddy and\nPumblechook; Mr. and Mrs. Hubble. The remains of my poor sister had\nbeen brought round by the kitchen door, and, it being a point of\nUndertaking ceremony that the six bearers must be stifled and blinded\nunder a horrible black velvet housing with a white border, the whole\nlooked like a blind monster with twelve human legs, shuffling and\nblundering along, under the guidance of two keepers, the postboy and\nhis comrade.\n\nThe neighbourhood, however, highly approved of these arrangements, and\nwe were much admired as we went through the village; the more youthful\nand vigorous part of the community making dashes now and then to cut us\noff, and lying in wait to intercept us at points of vantage. At such\ntimes the more exuberant among them called out in an excited manner on\nour emergence round some corner of expectancy,  _Here_ they come! \n _Here_ they are!  and we were all but cheered. In this progress I was\nmuch annoyed by the abject Pumblechook, who, being behind me, persisted\nall the way as a delicate attention in arranging my streaming hatband,\nand smoothing my cloak. My thoughts were further distracted by the\nexcessive pride of Mr. and Mrs. Hubble, who were surpassingly conceited\nand vainglorious in being members of so distinguished a procession.\n\nAnd now the range of marshes lay clear before us, with the sails of the\nships on the river growing out of it; and we went into the churchyard,\nclose to the graves of my unknown parents, Philip Pirrip, late of this\nparish, and Also Georgiana, Wife of the Above. And there, my sister was\nlaid quietly in the earth, while the larks sang high above it, and the\nlight wind strewed it with beautiful shadows of clouds and trees.\n\nOf the conduct of the worldly minded Pumblechook while this was doing,\nI desire to say no more than it was all addressed to me; and that even\nwhen those noble passages were read which remind humanity how it\nbrought nothing into the world and can take nothing out, and how it\nfleeth like a shadow and never continueth long in one stay, I heard him\ncough a reservation of the case of a young gentleman who came\nunexpectedly into large property. When we got back, he had the\nhardihood to tell me that he wished my sister could have known I had\ndone her so much honour, and to hint that she would have considered it\nreasonably purchased at the price of her death. After that, he drank\nall the rest of the sherry, and Mr. Hubble drank the port, and the two\ntalked (which I have since observed to be customary in such cases) as\nif they were of quite another race from the deceased, and were\nnotoriously immortal. Finally, he went away with Mr. and Mrs.\nHubble, to make an evening of it, I felt sure, and to tell the Jolly\nBargemen that he was the founder of my fortunes and my earliest\nbenefactor.\n\nWhen they were all gone, and when Trabb and his men but not his Boy; I\nlooked for him had crammed their mummery into bags, and were gone too,\nthe house felt wholesomer. Soon afterwards, Biddy, Joe, and I, had a\ncold dinner together; but we dined in the best parlour, not in the old\nkitchen, and Joe was so exceedingly particular what he did with his\nknife and fork and the saltcellar and what not, that there was great\nrestraint upon us. But after dinner, when I made him take his pipe, and\nwhen I had loitered with him about the forge, and when we sat down\ntogether on the great block of stone outside it, we got on better. I\nnoticed that after the funeral Joe changed his clothes so far, as to\nmake a compromise between his Sunday dress and working dress; in which\nthe dear fellow looked natural, and like the Man he was.\n\nHe was very much pleased by my asking if I might sleep in my own little\nroom, and I was pleased too; for I felt that I had done rather a great\nthing in making the request. When the shadows of evening were closing\nin, I took an opportunity of getting into the garden with Biddy for a\nlittle talk.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  I think you might have written to me about these sad\nmatters. \n\n Do you, Mr. Pip?  said Biddy.  I should have written if I had thought\nthat. \n\n Don t suppose that I mean to be unkind, Biddy, when I say I consider\nthat you ought to have thought that. \n\n Do you, Mr. Pip? \n\nShe was so quiet, and had such an orderly, good, and pretty way with\nher, that I did not like the thought of making her cry again. After\nlooking a little at her downcast eyes as she walked beside me, I gave\nup that point.\n\n I suppose it will be difficult for you to remain here now, Biddy\ndear? \n\n Oh! I can t do so, Mr. Pip,  said Biddy, in a tone of regret but still\nof quiet conviction.  I have been speaking to Mrs. Hubble, and I am\ngoing to her to-morrow. I hope we shall be able to take some care of\nMr. Gargery, together, until he settles down. \n\n How are you going to live, Biddy? If you want any mo \n\n How am I going to live?  repeated Biddy, striking in, with a momentary\nflush upon her face.  I ll tell you, Mr. Pip. I am going to try to get\nthe place of mistress in the new school nearly finished here. I can be\nwell recommended by all the neighbours, and I hope I can be industrious\nand patient, and teach myself while I teach others. You know, Mr. Pip, \npursued Biddy, with a smile, as she raised her eyes to my face,  the\nnew schools are not like the old, but I learnt a good deal from you\nafter that time, and have had time since then to improve. \n\n I think you would always improve, Biddy, under any circumstances. \n\n Ah! Except in my bad side of human nature,  murmured Biddy.\n\nIt was not so much a reproach as an irresistible thinking aloud. Well!\nI thought I would give up that point too. So, I walked a little further\nwith Biddy, looking silently at her downcast eyes.\n\n I have not heard the particulars of my sister s death, Biddy. \n\n They are very slight, poor thing. She had been in one of her bad\nstates though they had got better of late, rather than worse for four\ndays, when she came out of it in the evening, just at tea-time, and\nsaid quite plainly,  Joe.  As she had never said any word for a long\nwhile, I ran and fetched in Mr. Gargery from the forge. She made signs\nto me that she wanted him to sit down close to her, and wanted me to\nput her arms round his neck. So I put them round his neck, and she laid\nher head down on his shoulder quite content and satisfied. And so she\npresently said  Joe  again, and once  Pardon,  and once  Pip.  And so\nshe never lifted her head up any more, and it was just an hour later\nwhen we laid it down on her own bed, because we found she was gone. \n\nBiddy cried; the darkening garden, and the lane, and the stars that\nwere coming out, were blurred in my own sight.\n\n Nothing was ever discovered, Biddy? \n\n Nothing. \n\n Do you know what is become of Orlick? \n\n I should think from the colour of his clothes that he is working in\nthe quarries. \n\n Of course you have seen him then? Why are you looking at that dark\ntree in the lane? \n\n I saw him there, on the night she died. \n\n That was not the last time either, Biddy? \n\n No; I have seen him there, since we have been walking here. It is of\nno use,  said Biddy, laying her hand upon my arm, as I was for running\nout,  you know I would not deceive you; he was not there a minute, and\nhe is gone. \n\nIt revived my utmost indignation to find that she was still pursued by\nthis fellow, and I felt inveterate against him. I told her so, and told\nher that I would spend any money or take any pains to drive him out of\nthat country. By degrees she led me into more temperate talk, and she\ntold me how Joe loved me, and how Joe never complained of anything, she\ndidn t say, of me; she had no need; I knew what she meant, but ever did\nhis duty in his way of life, with a strong hand, a quiet tongue, and a\ngentle heart.\n\n Indeed, it would be hard to say too much for him,  said I;  and Biddy,\nwe must often speak of these things, for of course I shall be often\ndown here now. I am not going to leave poor Joe alone. \n\nBiddy said never a single word.\n\n Biddy, don t you hear me? \n\n Yes, Mr. Pip. \n\n Not to mention your calling me Mr. Pip, which appears to me to be in\nbad taste, Biddy, what do you mean? \n\n What do I mean?  asked Biddy, timidly.\n\n Biddy,  said I, in a virtuously self-asserting manner,  I must request\nto know what you mean by this? \n\n By this?  said Biddy.\n\n Now, don t echo,  I retorted.  You used not to echo, Biddy. \n\n Used not!  said Biddy.  O Mr. Pip! Used! \n\nWell! I rather thought I would give up that point too. After another\nsilent turn in the garden, I fell back on the main position.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  I made a remark respecting my coming down here often,\nto see Joe, which you received with a marked silence. Have the\ngoodness, Biddy, to tell me why. \n\n Are you quite sure, then, that you WILL come to see him often?  asked\nBiddy, stopping in the narrow garden walk, and looking at me under the\nstars with a clear and honest eye.\n\n O dear me!  said I, as if I found myself compelled to give up Biddy in\ndespair.  This really is a very bad side of human nature! Don t say any\nmore, if you please, Biddy. This shocks me very much. \n\nFor which cogent reason I kept Biddy at a distance during supper, and\nwhen I went up to my own old little room, took as stately a leave of\nher as I could, in my murmuring soul, deem reconcilable with the\nchurchyard and the event of the day. As often as I was restless in the\nnight, and that was every quarter of an hour, I reflected what an\nunkindness, what an injury, what an injustice, Biddy had done me.\n\nEarly in the morning I was to go. Early in the morning I was out, and\nlooking in, unseen, at one of the wooden windows of the forge. There I\nstood, for minutes, looking at Joe, already at work with a glow of\nhealth and strength upon his face that made it show as if the bright\nsun of the life in store for him were shining on it.\n\n Good-bye, dear Joe! No, don t wipe it off for God s sake, give me your\nblackened hand! I shall be down soon and often. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n Never too soon, sir,  said Joe,  and never too often, Pip! \n\nBiddy was waiting for me at the kitchen door, with a mug of new milk\nand a crust of bread.  Biddy,  said I, when I gave her my hand at\nparting,  I am not angry, but I am hurt. \n\n No, don t be hurt,  she pleaded quite pathetically;  let only me be\nhurt, if I have been ungenerous. \n\nOnce more, the mists were rising as I walked away. If they disclosed to\nme, as I suspect they did, that I should _not_ come back, and that\nBiddy was quite right, all I can say is, they were quite right too.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVI.\n\n\nHerbert and I went on from bad to worse, in the way of increasing our\ndebts, looking into our affairs, leaving Margins, and the like\nexemplary transactions; and Time went on, whether or no, as he has a\nway of doing; and I came of age, in fulfilment of Herbert s prediction,\nthat I should do so before I knew where I was.\n\nHerbert himself had come of age eight months before me. As he had\nnothing else than his majority to come into, the event did not make a\nprofound sensation in Barnard s Inn. But we had looked forward to my\none-and-twentieth birthday, with a crowd of speculations and\nanticipations, for we had both considered that my guardian could hardly\nhelp saying something definite on that occasion.\n\nI had taken care to have it well understood in Little Britain when my\nbirthday was. On the day before it, I received an official note from\nWemmick, informing me that Mr. Jaggers would be glad if I would call\nupon him at five in the afternoon of the auspicious day. This convinced\nus that something great was to happen, and threw me into an unusual\nflutter when I repaired to my guardian s office, a model of\npunctuality.\n\nIn the outer office Wemmick offered me his congratulations, and\nincidentally rubbed the side of his nose with a folded piece of\ntissue-paper that I liked the look of. But he said nothing respecting\nit, and motioned me with a nod into my guardian s room. It was\nNovember, and my guardian was standing before his fire leaning his back\nagainst the chimney-piece, with his hands under his coattails.\n\n Well, Pip,  said he,  I must call you Mr. Pip to-day. Congratulations,\nMr. Pip. \n\nWe shook hands, he was always a remarkably short shaker, and I thanked\nhim.\n\n Take a chair, Mr. Pip,  said my guardian.\n\nAs I sat down, and he preserved his attitude and bent his brows at his\nboots, I felt at a disadvantage, which reminded me of that old time\nwhen I had been put upon a tombstone. The two ghastly casts on the\nshelf were not far from him, and their expression was as if they were\nmaking a stupid apoplectic attempt to attend to the conversation.\n\n Now my young friend,  my guardian began, as if I were a witness in the\nbox,  I am going to have a word or two with you. \n\n If you please, sir. \n\n What do you suppose,  said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at the\nground, and then throwing his head back to look at the ceiling, what\ndo you suppose you are living at the rate of? \n\n At the rate of, sir? \n\n At,  repeated Mr. Jaggers, still looking at the ceiling,\n the rate of?  And then looked all round the room, and paused with his\npocket-handkerchief in his hand, half-way to his nose.\n\nI had looked into my affairs so often, that I had thoroughly destroyed\nany slight notion I might ever have had of their bearings. Reluctantly,\nI confessed myself quite unable to answer the question. This reply\nseemed agreeable to Mr. Jaggers, who said,  I thought so!  and blew his\nnose with an air of satisfaction.\n\n Now, I have asked _you_ a question, my friend,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n Have you anything to ask _me_? \n\n Of course it would be a great relief to me to ask you several\nquestions, sir; but I remember your prohibition. \n\n Ask one,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Is my benefactor to be made known to me to-day? \n\n No. Ask another. \n\n Is that confidence to be imparted to me soon? \n\n Waive that, a moment,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and ask another. \n\nI looked about me, but there appeared to be now no possible escape from\nthe inquiry,  Have-I anything to receive, sir?  On that, Mr. Jaggers\nsaid, triumphantly,  I thought we should come to it!  and called to\nWemmick to give him that piece of paper. Wemmick appeared, handed it\nin, and disappeared.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers,  attend, if you please. You have been\ndrawing pretty freely here; your name occurs pretty often in Wemmick s\ncash-book; but you are in debt, of course? \n\n I am afraid I must say yes, sir. \n\n You know you must say yes; don t you?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n I don t ask you what you owe, because you don t know; and if you did\nknow, you wouldn t tell me; you would say less. Yes, yes, my friend, \ncried Mr. Jaggers, waving his forefinger to stop me as I made a show of\nprotesting:  it s likely enough that you think you wouldn t, but you\nwould. You ll excuse me, but I know better than you. Now, take this\npiece of paper in your hand. You have got it? Very good. Now, unfold it\nand tell me what it is. \n\n This is a bank-note,  said I,  for five hundred pounds. \n\n That is a bank-note,  repeated Mr. Jaggers,  for five hundred pounds.\nAnd a very handsome sum of money too, I think. You consider it so? \n\n How could I do otherwise! \n\n Ah! But answer the question,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n You consider it, undoubtedly, a handsome sum of money. Now, that\nhandsome sum of money, Pip, is your own. It is a present to you on this\nday, in earnest of your expectations. And at the rate of that handsome\nsum of money per annum, and at no higher rate, you are to live until\nthe donor of the whole appears. That is to say, you will now take your\nmoney affairs entirely into your own hands, and you will draw from\nWemmick one hundred and twenty-five pounds per quarter, until you are\nin communication with the fountain-head, and no longer with the mere\nagent. As I have told you before, I am the mere agent. I execute my\ninstructions, and I am paid for doing so. I think them injudicious, but\nI am not paid for giving any opinion on their merits. \n\nI was beginning to express my gratitude to my benefactor for the great\nliberality with which I was treated, when Mr. Jaggers stopped me.  I am\nnot paid, Pip,  said he, coolly,  to carry your words to any one;  and\nthen gathered up his coat-tails, as he had gathered up the subject, and\nstood frowning at his boots as if he suspected them of designs against\nhim.\n\nAfter a pause, I hinted, \n\n There was a question just now, Mr. Jaggers, which you desired me to\nwaive for a moment. I hope I am doing nothing wrong in asking it\nagain? \n\n What is it?  said he.\n\nI might have known that he would never help me out; but it took me\naback to have to shape the question afresh, as if it were quite new.\n Is it likely,  I said, after hesitating,  that my patron, the\nfountain-head you have spoken of, Mr. Jaggers, will soon  there I\ndelicately stopped.\n\n Will soon what?  asked Mr. Jaggers.  That s no question as it stands,\nyou know. \n\n Will soon come to London,  said I, after casting about for a precise\nform of words,  or summon me anywhere else? \n\n Now, here,  replied Mr. Jaggers, fixing me for the first time with his\ndark deep-set eyes,  we must revert to the evening when we first\nencountered one another in your village. What did I tell you then,\nPip? \n\n You told me, Mr. Jaggers, that it might be years hence when that\nperson appeared. \n\n Just so,  said Mr. Jaggers,  that s my answer. \n\nAs we looked full at one another, I felt my breath come quicker in my\nstrong desire to get something out of him. And as I felt that it came\nquicker, and as I felt that he saw that it came quicker, I felt that I\nhad less chance than ever of getting anything out of him.\n\n Do you suppose it will still be years hence, Mr. Jaggers? \n\nMr. Jaggers shook his head, not in negativing the question, but in\naltogether negativing the notion that he could anyhow be got to answer\nit, and the two horrible casts of the twitched faces looked, when my\neyes strayed up to them, as if they had come to a crisis in their\nsuspended attention, and were going to sneeze.\n\n Come!  said Mr. Jaggers, warming the backs of his legs with the backs\nof his warmed hands,  I ll be plain with you, my friend Pip. That s a\nquestion I must not be asked. You ll understand that better, when I\ntell you it s a question that might compromise _me_. Come! I ll go a\nlittle further with you; I ll say something more. \n\nHe bent down so low to frown at his boots, that he was able to rub the\ncalves of his legs in the pause he made.\n\n When that person discloses,  said Mr. Jaggers, straightening himself,\n you and that person will settle your own affairs. When that person\ndiscloses, my part in this business will cease and determine. When that\nperson discloses, it will not be necessary for me to know anything\nabout it. And that s all I have got to say. \n\nWe looked at one another until I withdrew my eyes, and looked\nthoughtfully at the floor. From this last speech I derived the notion\nthat Miss Havisham, for some reason or no reason, had not taken him\ninto her confidence as to her designing me for Estella; that he\nresented this, and felt a jealousy about it; or that he really did\nobject to that scheme, and would have nothing to do with it. When I\nraised my eyes again, I found that he had been shrewdly looking at me\nall the time, and was doing so still.\n\n If that is all you have to say, sir,  I remarked,  there can be\nnothing left for me to say. \n\nHe nodded assent, and pulled out his thief-dreaded watch, and asked me\nwhere I was going to dine? I replied at my own chambers, with Herbert.\nAs a necessary sequence, I asked him if he would favour us with his\ncompany, and he promptly accepted the invitation. But he insisted on\nwalking home with me, in order that I might make no extra preparation\nfor him, and first he had a letter or two to write, and (of course) had\nhis hands to wash. So I said I would go into the outer office and talk\nto Wemmick.\n\nThe fact was, that when the five hundred pounds had come into my\npocket, a thought had come into my head which had been often there\nbefore; and it appeared to me that Wemmick was a good person to advise\nwith concerning such thought.\n\nHe had already locked up his safe, and made preparations for going\nhome. He had left his desk, brought out his two greasy office\ncandlesticks and stood them in line with the snuffers on a slab near\nthe door, ready to be extinguished; he had raked his fire low, put his\nhat and great-coat ready, and was beating himself all over the chest\nwith his safe-key, as an athletic exercise after business.\n\n Mr. Wemmick,  said I,  I want to ask your opinion. I am very desirous\nto serve a friend. \n\nWemmick tightened his post-office and shook his head, as if his opinion\nwere dead against any fatal weakness of that sort.\n\n This friend,  I pursued,  is trying to get on in commercial life, but\nhas no money, and finds it difficult and disheartening to make a\nbeginning. Now I want somehow to help him to a beginning. \n\n With money down?  said Wemmick, in a tone drier than any sawdust.\n\n With _some_ money down,  I replied, for an uneasy remembrance shot\nacross me of that symmetrical bundle of papers at home with _some_\nmoney down, and perhaps some anticipation of my expectations. \n\n Mr. Pip,  said Wemmick,  I should like just to run over with you on my\nfingers, if you please, the names of the various bridges up as high as\nChelsea Reach. Let s see; there s London, one; Southwark, two;\nBlackfriars, three; Waterloo, four; Westminster, five; Vauxhall, six. \nHe had checked off each bridge in its turn, with the handle of his\nsafe-key on the palm of his hand.  There s as many as six, you see, to\nchoose from. \n\n I don t understand you,  said I.\n\n Choose your bridge, Mr. Pip,  returned Wemmick,  and take a walk upon\nyour bridge, and pitch your money into the Thames over the centre arch\nof your bridge, and you know the end of it. Serve a friend with it, and\nyou may know the end of it too, but it s a less pleasant and profitable\nend. \n\nI could have posted a newspaper in his mouth, he made it so wide after\nsaying this.\n\n This is very discouraging,  said I.\n\n Meant to be so,  said Wemmick.\n\n Then is it your opinion,  I inquired, with some little indignation,\n that a man should never \n\n Invest portable property in a friend?  said Wemmick.  Certainly he\nshould not. Unless he wants to get rid of the friend, and then it\nbecomes a question how much portable property it may be worth to get\nrid of him. \n\n And that,  said I,  is your deliberate opinion, Mr. Wemmick? \n\n That,  he returned,  is my deliberate opinion in this office. \n\n Ah!  said I, pressing him, for I thought I saw him near a loophole\nhere;  but would that be your opinion at Walworth? \n\n Mr. Pip,  he replied, with gravity,  Walworth is one place, and this\noffice is another. Much as the Aged is one person, and Mr. Jaggers is\nanother. They must not be confounded together. My Walworth sentiments\nmust be taken at Walworth; none but my official sentiments can be taken\nin this office. \n\n Very well,  said I, much relieved,  then I shall look you up at\nWalworth, you may depend upon it. \n\n Mr. Pip,  he returned,  you will be welcome there, in a private and\npersonal capacity. \n\nWe had held this conversation in a low voice, well knowing my\nguardian s ears to be the sharpest of the sharp. As he now appeared in\nhis doorway, towelling his hands, Wemmick got on his great-coat and\nstood by to snuff out the candles. We all three went into the street\ntogether, and from the door-step Wemmick turned his way, and Mr.\nJaggers and I turned ours.\n\nI could not help wishing more than once that evening, that Mr. Jaggers\nhad had an Aged in Gerrard Street, or a Stinger, or a Something, or a\nSomebody, to unbend his brows a little. It was an uncomfortable\nconsideration on a twenty-first birthday, that coming of age at all\nseemed hardly worth while in such a guarded and suspicious world as he\nmade of it. He was a thousand times better informed and cleverer than\nWemmick, and yet I would a thousand times rather have had Wemmick to\ndinner. And Mr. Jaggers made not me alone intensely melancholy,\nbecause, after he was gone, Herbert said of himself, with his eyes\nfixed on the fire, that he thought he must have committed a felony and\nforgotten the details of it, he felt so dejected and guilty.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVII.\n\n\nDeeming Sunday the best day for taking Mr. Wemmick s Walworth\nsentiments, I devoted the next ensuing Sunday afternoon to a pilgrimage\nto the Castle. On arriving before the battlements, I found the Union\nJack flying and the drawbridge up; but undeterred by this show of\ndefiance and resistance, I rang at the gate, and was admitted in a most\npacific manner by the Aged.\n\n My son, sir,  said the old man, after securing the drawbridge,  rather\nhad it in his mind that you might happen to drop in, and he left word\nthat he would soon be home from his afternoon s walk. He is very\nregular in his walks, is my son. Very regular in everything, is my\nson. \n\nI nodded at the old gentleman as Wemmick himself might have nodded, and\nwe went in and sat down by the fireside.\n\n You made acquaintance with my son, sir,  said the old man, in his\nchirping way, while he warmed his hands at the blaze,  at his office, I\nexpect?  I nodded.  Hah! I have heerd that my son is a wonderful hand\nat his business, sir?  I nodded hard.  Yes; so they tell me. His\nbusiness is the Law?  I nodded harder.  Which makes it more surprising\nin my son,  said the old man,  for he was not brought up to the Law,\nbut to the Wine-Coopering. \n\nCurious to know how the old gentleman stood informed concerning the\nreputation of Mr. Jaggers, I roared that name at him. He threw me into\nthe greatest confusion by laughing heartily and replying in a very\nsprightly manner,  No, to be sure; you re right.  And to this hour I\nhave not the faintest notion what he meant, or what joke he thought I\nhad made.\n\nAs I could not sit there nodding at him perpetually, without making\nsome other attempt to interest him, I shouted at inquiry whether his\nown calling in life had been  the Wine-Coopering.  By dint of straining\nthat term out of myself several times and tapping the old gentleman on\nthe chest to associate it with him, I at last succeeded in making my\nmeaning understood.\n\n No,  said the old gentleman;  the warehousing, the warehousing. First,\nover yonder;  he appeared to mean up the chimney, but I believe he\nintended to refer me to Liverpool;  and then in the City of London\nhere. However, having an infirmity for I am hard of hearing, sir \n\nI expressed in pantomime the greatest astonishment.\n\n Yes, hard of hearing; having that infirmity coming upon me, my son he\nwent into the Law, and he took charge of me, and he by little and\nlittle made out this elegant and beautiful property. But returning to\nwhat you said, you know,  pursued the old man, again laughing heartily,\n what I say is, No to be sure; you re right. \n\nI was modestly wondering whether my utmost ingenuity would have enabled\nme to say anything that would have amused him half as much as this\nimaginary pleasantry, when I was startled by a sudden click in the wall\non one side of the chimney, and the ghostly tumbling open of a little\nwooden flap with  JOHN  upon it. The old man, following my eyes, cried\nwith great triumph,  My son s come home!  and we both went out to the\ndrawbridge.\n\nIt was worth any money to see Wemmick waving a salute to me from the\nother side of the moat, when we might have shaken hands across it with\nthe greatest ease. The Aged was so delighted to work the drawbridge,\nthat I made no offer to assist him, but stood quiet until Wemmick had\ncome across, and had presented me to Miss Skiffins; a lady by whom he\nwas accompanied.\n\nMiss Skiffins was of a wooden appearance, and was, like her escort, in\nthe post-office branch of the service. She might have been some two or\nthree years younger than Wemmick, and I judged her to stand possessed\nof portable property. The cut of her dress from the waist upward, both\nbefore and behind, made her figure very like a boy s kite; and I might\nhave pronounced her gown a little too decidedly orange, and her gloves\na little too intensely green. But she seemed to be a good sort of\nfellow, and showed a high regard for the Aged. I was not long in\ndiscovering that she was a frequent visitor at the Castle; for, on our\ngoing in, and my complimenting Wemmick on his ingenious contrivance for\nannouncing himself to the Aged, he begged me to give my attention for a\nmoment to the other side of the chimney, and disappeared. Presently\nanother click came, and another little door tumbled open with  Miss\nSkiffins  on it; then Miss Skiffins shut up and John tumbled open; then\nMiss Skiffins and John both tumbled open together, and finally shut up\ntogether. On Wemmick s return from working these mechanical appliances,\nI expressed the great admiration with which I regarded them, and he\nsaid,  Well, you know, they re both pleasant and useful to the Aged.\nAnd by George, sir, it s a thing worth mentioning, that of all the\npeople who come to this gate, the secret of those pulls is only known\nto the Aged, Miss Skiffins, and me! \n\n And Mr. Wemmick made them,  added Miss Skiffins,  with his own hands\nout of his own head. \n\nWhile Miss Skiffins was taking off her bonnet (she retained her green\ngloves during the evening as an outward and visible sign that there was\ncompany), Wemmick invited me to take a walk with him round the\nproperty, and see how the island looked in wintertime. Thinking that he\ndid this to give me an opportunity of taking his Walworth sentiments, I\nseized the opportunity as soon as we were out of the Castle.\n\nHaving thought of the matter with care, I approached my subject as if I\nhad never hinted at it before. I informed Wemmick that I was anxious in\nbehalf of Herbert Pocket, and I told him how we had first met, and how\nwe had fought. I glanced at Herbert s home, and at his character, and\nat his having no means but such as he was dependent on his father for;\nthose, uncertain and unpunctual. I alluded to the advantages I had\nderived in my first rawness and ignorance from his society, and I\nconfessed that I feared I had but ill repaid them, and that he might\nhave done better without me and my expectations. Keeping Miss Havisham\nin the background at a great distance, I still hinted at the\npossibility of my having competed with him in his prospects, and at the\ncertainty of his possessing a generous soul, and being far above any\nmean distrusts, retaliations, or designs. For all these reasons (I told\nWemmick), and because he was my young companion and friend, and I had a\ngreat affection for him, I wished my own good fortune to reflect some\nrays upon him, and therefore I sought advice from Wemmick s experience\nand knowledge of men and affairs, how I could best try with my\nresources to help Herbert to some present income, say of a hundred a\nyear, to keep him in good hope and heart, and gradually to buy him on\nto some small partnership. I begged Wemmick, in conclusion, to\nunderstand that my help must always be rendered without Herbert s\nknowledge or suspicion, and that there was no one else in the world\nwith whom I could advise. I wound up by laying my hand upon his\nshoulder, and saying,  I can t help confiding in you, though I know it\nmust be troublesome to you; but that is your fault, in having ever\nbrought me here. \n\nWemmick was silent for a little while, and then said with a kind of\nstart,  Well you know, Mr. Pip, I must tell you one thing. This is\ndevilish good of you. \n\n Say you ll help me to be good then,  said I.\n\n Ecod,  replied Wemmick, shaking his head,  that s not my trade. \n\n Nor is this your trading-place,  said I.\n\n You are right,  he returned.  You hit the nail on the head. Mr. Pip,\nI ll put on my considering-cap, and I think all you want to do may be\ndone by degrees. Skiffins (that s her brother) is an accountant and\nagent. I ll look him up and go to work for you. \n\n I thank you ten thousand times. \n\n On the contrary,  said he,  I thank you, for though we are strictly in\nour private and personal capacity, still it may be mentioned that there\n_are_ Newgate cobwebs about, and it brushes them away. \n\nAfter a little further conversation to the same effect, we returned\ninto the Castle where we found Miss Skiffins preparing tea. The\nresponsible duty of making the toast was delegated to the Aged, and\nthat excellent old gentleman was so intent upon it that he seemed to me\nin some danger of melting his eyes. It was no nominal meal that we were\ngoing to make, but a vigorous reality. The Aged prepared such a\nhay-stack of buttered toast, that I could scarcely see him over it as\nit simmered on an iron stand hooked on to the top-bar; while Miss\nSkiffins brewed such a jorum of tea, that the pig in the back premises\nbecame strongly excited, and repeatedly expressed his desire to\nparticipate in the entertainment.\n\nThe flag had been struck, and the gun had been fired, at the right\nmoment of time, and I felt as snugly cut off from the rest of Walworth\nas if the moat were thirty feet wide by as many deep. Nothing disturbed\nthe tranquillity of the Castle, but the occasional tumbling open of\nJohn and Miss Skiffins: which little doors were a prey to some\nspasmodic infirmity that made me sympathetically uncomfortable until I\ngot used to it. I inferred from the methodical nature of Miss\nSkiffins s arrangements that she made tea there every Sunday night; and\nI rather suspected that a classic brooch she wore, representing the\nprofile of an undesirable female with a very straight nose and a very\nnew moon, was a piece of portable property that had been given her by\nWemmick.\n\nWe ate the whole of the toast, and drank tea in proportion, and it was\ndelightful to see how warm and greasy we all got after it. The Aged\nespecially, might have passed for some clean old chief of a savage\ntribe, just oiled. After a short pause of repose, Miss Skiffins in the\nabsence of the little servant who, it seemed, retired to the bosom of\nher family on Sunday afternoons washed up the tea-things, in a trifling\nlady-like amateur manner that compromised none of us. Then, she put on\nher gloves again, and we drew round the fire, and Wemmick said,  Now,\nAged Parent, tip us the paper. \n\nWemmick explained to me while the Aged got his spectacles out, that\nthis was according to custom, and that it gave the old gentleman\ninfinite satisfaction to read the news aloud.  I won t offer an\napology,  said Wemmick,  for he isn t capable of many pleasures are\nyou, Aged P.? \n\n All right, John, all right,  returned the old man, seeing himself\nspoken to.\n\n Only tip him a nod every now and then when he looks off his paper, \nsaid Wemmick,  and he ll be as happy as a king. We are all attention,\nAged One. \n\n All right, John, all right!  returned the cheerful old man, so busy\nand so pleased, that it really was quite charming.\n\nThe Aged s reading reminded me of the classes at Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt s, with the pleasanter peculiarity that it seemed to come\nthrough a keyhole. As he wanted the candles close to him, and as he was\nalways on the verge of putting either his head or the newspaper into\nthem, he required as much watching as a powder-mill. But Wemmick was\nequally untiring and gentle in his vigilance, and the Aged read on,\nquite unconscious of his many rescues. Whenever he looked at us, we all\nexpressed the greatest interest and amazement, and nodded until he\nresumed again.\n\nAs Wemmick and Miss Skiffins sat side by side, and as I sat in a\nshadowy corner, I observed a slow and gradual elongation of Mr.\nWemmick s mouth, powerfully suggestive of his slowly and gradually\nstealing his arm round Miss Skiffins s waist. In course of time I saw\nhis hand appear on the other side of Miss Skiffins; but at that moment\nMiss Skiffins neatly stopped him with the green glove, unwound his arm\nagain as if it were an article of dress, and with the greatest\ndeliberation laid it on the table before her. Miss Skiffins s composure\nwhile she did this was one of the most remarkable sights I have ever\nseen, and if I could have thought the act consistent with abstraction\nof mind, I should have deemed that Miss Skiffins performed it\nmechanically.\n\nBy and by, I noticed Wemmick s arm beginning to disappear again, and\ngradually fading out of view. Shortly afterwards, his mouth began to\nwiden again. After an interval of suspense on my part that was quite\nenthralling and almost painful, I saw his hand appear on the other side\nof Miss Skiffins. Instantly, Miss Skiffins stopped it with the neatness\nof a placid boxer, took off that girdle or cestus as before, and laid\nit on the table. Taking the table to represent the path of virtue, I am\njustified in stating that during the whole time of the Aged s reading,\nWemmick s arm was straying from the path of virtue and being recalled\nto it by Miss Skiffins.\n\nAt last, the Aged read himself into a light slumber. This was the time\nfor Wemmick to produce a little kettle, a tray of glasses, and a black\nbottle with a porcelain-topped cork, representing some clerical\ndignitary of a rubicund and social aspect. With the aid of these\nappliances we all had something warm to drink, including the Aged, who\nwas soon awake again. Miss Skiffins mixed, and I observed that she and\nWemmick drank out of one glass. Of course I knew better than to offer\nto see Miss Skiffins home, and under the circumstances I thought I had\nbest go first; which I did, taking a cordial leave of the Aged, and\nhaving passed a pleasant evening.\n\nBefore a week was out, I received a note from Wemmick, dated Walworth,\nstating that he hoped he had made some advance in that matter\nappertaining to our private and personal capacities, and that he would\nbe glad if I could come and see him again upon it. So, I went out to\nWalworth again, and yet again, and yet again, and I saw him by\nappointment in the City several times, but never held any communication\nwith him on the subject in or near Little Britain. The upshot was, that\nwe found a worthy young merchant or shipping-broker, not long\nestablished in business, who wanted intelligent help, and who wanted\ncapital, and who in due course of time and receipt would want a\npartner. Between him and me, secret articles were signed of which\nHerbert was the subject, and I paid him half of my five hundred pounds\ndown, and engaged for sundry other payments: some, to fall due at\ncertain dates out of my income: some, contingent on my coming into my\nproperty. Miss Skiffins s brother conducted the negotiation. Wemmick\npervaded it throughout, but never appeared in it.\n\nThe whole business was so cleverly managed, that Herbert had not the\nleast suspicion of my hand being in it. I never shall forget the\nradiant face with which he came home one afternoon, and told me, as a\nmighty piece of news, of his having fallen in with one Clarriker (the\nyoung merchant s name), and of Clarriker s having shown an\nextraordinary inclination towards him, and of his belief that the\nopening had come at last. Day by day as his hopes grew stronger and his\nface brighter, he must have thought me a more and more affectionate\nfriend, for I had the greatest difficulty in restraining my tears of\ntriumph when I saw him so happy. At length, the thing being done, and\nhe having that day entered Clarriker s House, and he having talked to\nme for a whole evening in a flush of pleasure and success, I did really\ncry in good earnest when I went to bed, to think that my expectations\nhad done some good to somebody.\n\nA great event in my life, the turning point of my life, now opens on my\nview. But, before I proceed to narrate it, and before I pass on to all\nthe changes it involved, I must give one chapter to Estella. It is not\nmuch to give to the theme that so long filled my heart.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVIII.\n\n\nIf that staid old house near the Green at Richmond should ever come to\nbe haunted when I am dead, it will be haunted, surely, by my ghost. O\nthe many, many nights and days through which the unquiet spirit within\nme haunted that house when Estella lived there! Let my body be where it\nwould, my spirit was always wandering, wandering, wandering, about that\nhouse.\n\nThe lady with whom Estella was placed, Mrs. Brandley by name, was a\nwidow, with one daughter several years older than Estella. The mother\nlooked young, and the daughter looked old; the mother s complexion was\npink, and the daughter s was yellow; the mother set up for frivolity,\nand the daughter for theology. They were in what is called a good\nposition, and visited, and were visited by, numbers of people. Little,\nif any, community of feeling subsisted between them and Estella, but\nthe understanding was established that they were necessary to her, and\nthat she was necessary to them. Mrs. Brandley had been a friend of Miss\nHavisham s before the time of her seclusion.\n\nIn Mrs. Brandley s house and out of Mrs. Brandley s house, I suffered\nevery kind and degree of torture that Estella could cause me. The\nnature of my relations with her, which placed me on terms of\nfamiliarity without placing me on terms of favour, conduced to my\ndistraction. She made use of me to tease other admirers, and she turned\nthe very familiarity between herself and me to the account of putting a\nconstant slight on my devotion to her. If I had been her secretary,\nsteward, half-brother, poor relation, if I had been a younger brother\nof her appointed husband, I could not have seemed to myself further\nfrom my hopes when I was nearest to her. The privilege of calling her\nby her name and hearing her call me by mine became, under the\ncircumstances an aggravation of my trials; and while I think it likely\nthat it almost maddened her other lovers, I know too certainly that it\nalmost maddened me.\n\nShe had admirers without end. No doubt my jealousy made an admirer of\nevery one who went near her; but there were more than enough of them\nwithout that.\n\nI saw her often at Richmond, I heard of her often in town, and I used\noften to take her and the Brandleys on the water; there were picnics,\nf te days, plays, operas, concerts, parties, all sorts of pleasures,\nthrough which I pursued her, and they were all miseries to me. I never\nhad one hour s happiness in her society, and yet my mind all round the\nfour-and-twenty hours was harping on the happiness of having her with\nme unto death.\n\nThroughout this part of our intercourse, and it lasted, as will\npresently be seen, for what I then thought a long time, she habitually\nreverted to that tone which expressed that our association was forced\nupon us. There were other times when she would come to a sudden check\nin this tone and in all her many tones, and would seem to pity me.\n\n Pip, Pip,  she said one evening, coming to such a check, when we sat\napart at a darkening window of the house in Richmond;  will you never\ntake warning? \n\n Of what? \n\n Of me. \n\n Warning not to be attracted by you, do you mean, Estella? \n\n Do I mean! If you don t know what I mean, you are blind. \n\nI should have replied that Love was commonly reputed blind, but for the\nreason that I always was restrained and this was not the least of my\nmiseries by a feeling that it was ungenerous to press myself upon her,\nwhen she knew that she could not choose but obey Miss Havisham. My\ndread always was, that this knowledge on her part laid me under a heavy\ndisadvantage with her pride, and made me the subject of a rebellious\nstruggle in her bosom.\n\n At any rate,  said I,  I have no warning given me just now, for you\nwrote to me to come to you, this time. \n\n That s true,  said Estella, with a cold careless smile that always\nchilled me.\n\nAfter looking at the twilight without, for a little while, she went on\nto say: \n\n The time has come round when Miss Havisham wishes to have me for a day\nat Satis. You are to take me there, and bring me back, if you will. She\nwould rather I did not travel alone, and objects to receiving my maid,\nfor she has a sensitive horror of being talked of by such people. Can\nyou take me? \n\n Can I take you, Estella! \n\n You can then? The day after to-morrow, if you please. You are to pay\nall charges out of my purse. You hear the condition of your going? \n\n And must obey,  said I.\n\nThis was all the preparation I received for that visit, or for others\nlike it; Miss Havisham never wrote to me, nor had I ever so much as\nseen her handwriting. We went down on the next day but one, and we\nfound her in the room where I had first beheld her, and it is needless\nto add that there was no change in Satis House.\n\nShe was even more dreadfully fond of Estella than she had been when I\nlast saw them together; I repeat the word advisedly, for there was\nsomething positively dreadful in the energy of her looks and embraces.\nShe hung upon Estella s beauty, hung upon her words, hung upon her\ngestures, and sat mumbling her own trembling fingers while she looked\nat her, as though she were devouring the beautiful creature she had\nreared.\n\nFrom Estella she looked at me, with a searching glance that seemed to\npry into my heart and probe its wounds.  How does she use you, Pip; how\ndoes she use you?  she asked me again, with her witch-like eagerness,\neven in Estella s hearing. But, when we sat by her flickering fire at\nnight, she was most weird; for then, keeping Estella s hand drawn\nthrough her arm and clutched in her own hand, she extorted from her, by\ndint of referring back to what Estella had told her in her regular\nletters, the names and conditions of the men whom she had fascinated;\nand as Miss Havisham dwelt upon this roll, with the intensity of a mind\nmortally hurt and diseased, she sat with her other hand on her crutch\nstick, and her chin on that, and her wan bright eyes glaring at me, a\nvery spectre.\n\nI saw in this, wretched though it made me, and bitter the sense of\ndependence and even of degradation that it awakened, I saw in this that\nEstella was set to wreak Miss Havisham s revenge on men, and that she\nwas not to be given to me until she had gratified it for a term. I saw\nin this, a reason for her being beforehand assigned to me. Sending her\nout to attract and torment and do mischief, Miss Havisham sent her with\nthe malicious assurance that she was beyond the reach of all admirers,\nand that all who staked upon that cast were secured to lose. I saw in\nthis that I, too, was tormented by a perversion of ingenuity, even\nwhile the prize was reserved for me. I saw in this the reason for my\nbeing staved off so long and the reason for my late guardian s\ndeclining to commit himself to the formal knowledge of such a scheme.\nIn a word, I saw in this Miss Havisham as I had her then and there\nbefore my eyes, and always had had her before my eyes; and I saw in\nthis, the distinct shadow of the darkened and unhealthy house in which\nher life was hidden from the sun.\n\nThe candles that lighted that room of hers were placed in sconces on\nthe wall. They were high from the ground, and they burnt with the\nsteady dulness of artificial light in air that is seldom renewed. As I\nlooked round at them, and at the pale gloom they made, and at the\nstopped clock, and at the withered articles of bridal dress upon the\ntable and the ground, and at her own awful figure with its ghostly\nreflection thrown large by the fire upon the ceiling and the wall, I\nsaw in everything the construction that my mind had come to, repeated\nand thrown back to me. My thoughts passed into the great room across\nthe landing where the table was spread, and I saw it written, as it\nwere, in the falls of the cobwebs from the centre-piece, in the\ncrawlings of the spiders on the cloth, in the tracks of the mice as\nthey betook their little quickened hearts behind the panels, and in the\ngropings and pausings of the beetles on the floor.\n\nIt happened on the occasion of this visit that some sharp words arose\nbetween Estella and Miss Havisham. It was the first time I had ever\nseen them opposed.\n\nWe were seated by the fire, as just now described, and Miss Havisham\nstill had Estella s arm drawn through her own, and still clutched\nEstella s hand in hers, when Estella gradually began to detach herself.\nShe had shown a proud impatience more than once before, and had rather\nendured that fierce affection than accepted or returned it.\n\n What!  said Miss Havisham, flashing her eyes upon her,  are you tired\nof me? \n\n Only a little tired of myself,  replied Estella, disengaging her arm,\nand moving to the great chimney-piece, where she stood looking down at\nthe fire.\n\n Speak the truth, you ingrate!  cried Miss Havisham, passionately\nstriking her stick upon the floor;  you are tired of me. \n\nEstella looked at her with perfect composure, and again looked down at\nthe fire. Her graceful figure and her beautiful face expressed a\nself-possessed indifference to the wild heat of the other, that was\nalmost cruel.\n\n You stock and stone!  exclaimed Miss Havisham.  You cold, cold heart! \n\n What?  said Estella, preserving her attitude of indifference as she\nleaned against the great chimney-piece and only moving her eyes;  do\nyou reproach me for being cold? You? \n\n Are you not?  was the fierce retort.\n\n You should know,  said Estella.  I am what you have made me. Take all\nthe praise, take all the blame; take all the success, take all the\nfailure; in short, take me. \n\n O, look at her, look at her!  cried Miss Havisham, bitterly;  Look at\nher so hard and thankless, on the hearth where she was reared! Where I\ntook her into this wretched breast when it was first bleeding from its\nstabs, and where I have lavished years of tenderness upon her! \n\n[Illustration]\n\n At least I was no party to the compact,  said Estella,  for if I could\nwalk and speak, when it was made, it was as much as I could do. But\nwhat would you have? You have been very good to me, and I owe\neverything to you. What would you have? \n\n Love,  replied the other.\n\n You have it. \n\n I have not,  said Miss Havisham.\n\n Mother by adoption,  retorted Estella, never departing from the easy\ngrace of her attitude, never raising her voice as the other did, never\nyielding either to anger or tenderness, mother by adoption, I have\nsaid that I owe everything to you. All I possess is freely yours. All\nthat you have given me, is at your command to have again. Beyond that,\nI have nothing. And if you ask me to give you, what you never gave me,\nmy gratitude and duty cannot do impossibilities. \n\n Did I never give her love!  cried Miss Havisham, turning wildly to me.\n Did I never give her a burning love, inseparable from jealousy at all\ntimes, and from sharp pain, while she speaks thus to me! Let her call\nme mad, let her call me mad! \n\n Why should I call you mad,  returned Estella,  I, of all people? Does\nany one live, who knows what set purposes you have, half as well as I\ndo? Does any one live, who knows what a steady memory you have, half as\nwell as I do? I who have sat on this same hearth on the little stool\nthat is even now beside you there, learning your lessons and looking up\ninto your face, when your face was strange and frightened me! \n\n Soon forgotten!  moaned Miss Havisham.  Times soon forgotten! \n\n No, not forgotten,  retorted Estella, not forgotten, but treasured up\nin my memory. When have you found me false to your teaching? When have\nyou found me unmindful of your lessons? When have you found me giving\nadmission here,  she touched her bosom with her hand,  to anything that\nyou excluded? Be just to me. \n\n So proud, so proud!  moaned Miss Havisham, pushing away her grey hair\nwith both her hands.\n\n Who taught me to be proud?  returned Estella.  Who praised me when I\nlearnt my lesson? \n\n So hard, so hard!  moaned Miss Havisham, with her former action.\n\n Who taught me to be hard?  returned Estella.  Who praised me when I\nlearnt my lesson? \n\n But to be proud and hard to _me_!  Miss Havisham quite shrieked, as\nshe stretched out her arms.  Estella, Estella, Estella, to be proud and\nhard to _me_! \n\nEstella looked at her for a moment with a kind of calm wonder, but was\nnot otherwise disturbed; when the moment was past, she looked down at\nthe fire again.\n\n I cannot think,  said Estella, raising her eyes after a silence  why\nyou should be so unreasonable when I come to see you after a\nseparation. I have never forgotten your wrongs and their causes. I have\nnever been unfaithful to you or your schooling. I have never shown any\nweakness that I can charge myself with. \n\n Would it be weakness to return my love?  exclaimed Miss Havisham.  But\nyes, yes, she would call it so! \n\n I begin to think,  said Estella, in a musing way, after another moment\nof calm wonder,  that I almost understand how this comes about. If you\nhad brought up your adopted daughter wholly in the dark confinement of\nthese rooms, and had never let her know that there was such a thing as\nthe daylight by which she had never once seen your face, if you had\ndone that, and then, for a purpose had wanted her to understand the\ndaylight and know all about it, you would have been disappointed and\nangry? \n\nMiss Havisham, with her head in her hands, sat making a low moaning,\nand swaying herself on her chair, but gave no answer.\n\n Or,  said Estella, which is a nearer case, if you had taught her,\nfrom the dawn of her intelligence, with your utmost energy and might,\nthat there was such a thing as daylight, but that it was made to be her\nenemy and destroyer, and she must always turn against it, for it had\nblighted you and would else blight her; if you had done this, and then,\nfor a purpose, had wanted her to take naturally to the daylight and she\ncould not do it, you would have been disappointed and angry? \n\nMiss Havisham sat listening (or it seemed so, for I could not see her\nface), but still made no answer.\n\n So,  said Estella,  I must be taken as I have been made. The success\nis not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me. \n\nMiss Havisham had settled down, I hardly knew how, upon the floor,\namong the faded bridal relics with which it was strewn. I took\nadvantage of the moment I had sought one from the first to leave the\nroom, after beseeching Estella s attention to her, with a movement of\nmy hand. When I left, Estella was yet standing by the great\nchimney-piece, just as she had stood throughout. Miss Havisham s grey\nhair was all adrift upon the ground, among the other bridal wrecks, and\nwas a miserable sight to see.\n\nIt was with a depressed heart that I walked in the starlight for an\nhour and more, about the courtyard, and about the brewery, and about\nthe ruined garden. When I at last took courage to return to the room, I\nfound Estella sitting at Miss Havisham s knee, taking up some stitches\nin one of those old articles of dress that were dropping to pieces, and\nof which I have often been reminded since by the faded tatters of old\nbanners that I have seen hanging up in cathedrals. Afterwards, Estella\nand I played at cards, as of yore, only we were skilful now, and played\nFrench games, and so the evening wore away, and I went to bed.\n\nI lay in that separate building across the courtyard. It was the first\ntime I had ever lain down to rest in Satis House, and sleep refused to\ncome near me. A thousand Miss Havishams haunted me. She was on this\nside of my pillow, on that, at the head of the bed, at the foot, behind\nthe half-opened door of the dressing-room, in the dressing-room, in the\nroom overhead, in the room beneath, everywhere. At last, when the night\nwas slow to creep on towards two o clock, I felt that I absolutely\ncould no longer bear the place as a place to lie down in, and that I\nmust get up. I therefore got up and put on my clothes, and went out\nacross the yard into the long stone passage, designing to gain the\nouter courtyard and walk there for the relief of my mind. But I was no\nsooner in the passage than I extinguished my candle; for I saw Miss\nHavisham going along it in a ghostly manner, making a low cry. I\nfollowed her at a distance, and saw her go up the staircase. She\ncarried a bare candle in her hand, which she had probably taken from\none of the sconces in her own room, and was a most unearthly object by\nits light. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I felt the mildewed\nair of the feast-chamber, without seeing her open the door, and I heard\nher walking there, and so across into her own room, and so across again\ninto that, never ceasing the low cry. After a time, I tried in the dark\nboth to get out, and to go back, but I could do neither until some\nstreaks of day strayed in and showed me where to lay my hands. During\nthe whole interval, whenever I went to the bottom of the staircase, I\nheard her footstep, saw her light pass above, and heard her ceaseless\nlow cry.\n\nBefore we left next day, there was no revival of the difference between\nher and Estella, nor was it ever revived on any similar occasion; and\nthere were four similar occasions, to the best of my remembrance. Nor,\ndid Miss Havisham s manner towards Estella in anywise change, except\nthat I believed it to have something like fear infused among its former\ncharacteristics.\n\nIt is impossible to turn this leaf of my life, without putting Bentley\nDrummle s name upon it; or I would, very gladly.\n\nOn a certain occasion when the Finches were assembled in force, and\nwhen good feeling was being promoted in the usual manner by nobody s\nagreeing with anybody else, the presiding Finch called the Grove to\norder, forasmuch as Mr. Drummle had not yet toasted a lady; which,\naccording to the solemn constitution of the society, it was the brute s\nturn to do that day. I thought I saw him leer in an ugly way at me\nwhile the decanters were going round, but as there was no love lost\nbetween us, that might easily be. What was my indignant surprise when\nhe called upon the company to pledge him to  Estella! \n\n Estella who?  said I.\n\n Never you mind,  retorted Drummle.\n\n Estella of where?  said I.  You are bound to say of where.  Which he\nwas, as a Finch.\n\n Of Richmond, gentlemen,  said Drummle, putting me out of the question,\n and a peerless beauty. \n\nMuch he knew about peerless beauties, a mean, miserable idiot! I\nwhispered Herbert.\n\n I know that lady,  said Herbert, across the table, when the toast had\nbeen honoured.\n\n _Do_ you?  said Drummle.\n\n And so do I,  I added, with a scarlet face.\n\n _Do_ you?  said Drummle.  _O_, Lord! \n\nThis was the only retort except glass or crockery that the heavy\ncreature was capable of making; but, I became as highly incensed by it\nas if it had been barbed with wit, and I immediately rose in my place\nand said that I could not but regard it as being like the honourable\nFinch s impudence to come down to that Grove, we always talked about\ncoming down to that Grove, as a neat Parliamentary turn of\nexpression, down to that Grove, proposing a lady of whom he knew\nnothing. Mr. Drummle, upon this, starting up, demanded what I meant by\nthat? Whereupon I made him the extreme reply that I believed he knew\nwhere I was to be found.\n\nWhether it was possible in a Christian country to get on without blood,\nafter this, was a question on which the Finches were divided. The\ndebate upon it grew so lively, indeed, that at least six more\nhonourable members told six more, during the discussion, that they\nbelieved _they_ knew where _they_ were to be found. However, it was\ndecided at last (the Grove being a Court of Honour) that if Mr. Drummle\nwould bring never so slight a certificate from the lady, importing that\nhe had the honour of her acquaintance, Mr. Pip must express his regret,\nas a gentleman and a Finch, for  having been betrayed into a warmth\nwhich.  Next day was appointed for the production (lest our honour\nshould take cold from delay), and next day Drummle appeared with a\npolite little avowal in Estella s hand, that she had had the honour of\ndancing with him several times. This left me no course but to regret\nthat I had been  betrayed into a warmth which,  and on the whole to\nrepudiate, as untenable, the idea that I was to be found anywhere.\nDrummle and I then sat snorting at one another for an hour, while the\nGrove engaged in indiscriminate contradiction, and finally the\npromotion of good feeling was declared to have gone ahead at an amazing\nrate.\n\nI tell this lightly, but it was no light thing to me. For, I cannot\nadequately express what pain it gave me to think that Estella should\nshow any favour to a contemptible, clumsy, sulky booby, so very far\nbelow the average. To the present moment, I believe it to have been\nreferable to some pure fire of generosity and disinterestedness in my\nlove for her, that I could not endure the thought of her stooping to\nthat hound. No doubt I should have been miserable whomsoever she had\nfavoured; but a worthier object would have caused me a different kind\nand degree of distress.\n\nIt was easy for me to find out, and I did soon find out, that Drummle\nhad begun to follow her closely, and that she allowed him to do it. A\nlittle while, and he was always in pursuit of her, and he and I crossed\none another every day. He held on, in a dull persistent way, and\nEstella held him on; now with encouragement, now with discouragement,\nnow almost flattering him, now openly despising him, now knowing him\nvery well, now scarcely remembering who he was.\n\nThe Spider, as Mr. Jaggers had called him, was used to lying in wait,\nhowever, and had the patience of his tribe. Added to that, he had a\nblockhead confidence in his money and in his family greatness, which\nsometimes did him good service, almost taking the place of\nconcentration and determined purpose. So, the Spider, doggedly watching\nEstella, outwatched many brighter insects, and would often uncoil\nhimself and drop at the right nick of time.\n\nAt a certain Assembly Ball at Richmond (there used to be Assembly Balls\nat most places then), where Estella had outshone all other beauties,\nthis blundering Drummle so hung about her, and with so much toleration\non her part, that I resolved to speak to her concerning him. I took the\nnext opportunity; which was when she was waiting for Mrs. Blandley to\ntake her home, and was sitting apart among some flowers, ready to go. I\nwas with her, for I almost always accompanied them to and from such\nplaces.\n\n Are you tired, Estella? \n\n Rather, Pip. \n\n You should be. \n\n Say rather, I should not be; for I have my letter to Satis House to\nwrite, before I go to sleep. \n\n Recounting to-night s triumph?  said I.  Surely a very poor one,\nEstella. \n\n What do you mean? I didn t know there had been any. \n\n Estella,  said I,  do look at that fellow in the corner yonder, who is\nlooking over here at us. \n\n Why should I look at him?  returned Estella, with her eyes on me\ninstead.  What is there in that fellow in the corner yonder, to use\nyour words, that I need look at? \n\n Indeed, that is the very question I want to ask you,  said I.  For he\nhas been hovering about you all night. \n\n Moths, and all sorts of ugly creatures,  replied Estella, with a\nglance towards him,  hover about a lighted candle. Can the candle help\nit? \n\n No,  I returned;  but cannot the Estella help it? \n\n Well!  said she, laughing, after a moment,  perhaps. Yes. Anything you\nlike. \n\n But, Estella, do hear me speak. It makes me wretched that you should\nencourage a man so generally despised as Drummle. You know he is\ndespised. \n\n Well?  said she.\n\n You know he is as ungainly within as without. A deficient,\nill-tempered, lowering, stupid fellow. \n\n Well?  said she.\n\n You know he has nothing to recommend him but money and a ridiculous\nroll of addle-headed predecessors; now, don t you? \n\n Well?  said she again; and each time she said it, she opened her\nlovely eyes the wider.\n\nTo overcome the difficulty of getting past that monosyllable, I took it\nfrom her, and said, repeating it with emphasis,  Well! Then, that is\nwhy it makes me wretched. \n\nNow, if I could have believed that she favoured Drummle with any idea\nof making me me wretched, I should have been in better heart about it;\nbut in that habitual way of hers, she put me so entirely out of the\nquestion, that I could believe nothing of the kind.\n\n Pip,  said Estella, casting her glance over the room,  don t be\nfoolish about its effect on you. It may have its effect on others, and\nmay be meant to have. It s not worth discussing. \n\n Yes it is,  said I,  because I cannot bear that people should say,\n she throws away her graces and attractions on a mere boor, the lowest\nin the crowd. \n\n I can bear it,  said Estella.\n\n Oh! don t be so proud, Estella, and so inflexible. \n\n Calls me proud and inflexible in this breath!  said Estella, opening\nher hands.  And in his last breath reproached me for stooping to a\nboor! \n\n There is no doubt you do,  said I, something hurriedly,  for I have\nseen you give him looks and smiles this very night, such as you never\ngive to me. \n\n Do you want me then,  said Estella, turning suddenly with a fixed and\nserious, if not angry, look,  to deceive and entrap you? \n\n Do you deceive and entrap him, Estella? \n\n Yes, and many others, all of them but you. Here is Mrs. Brandley. I ll\nsay no more. \n\n\n\n\nAnd now that I have given the one chapter to the theme that so filled\nmy heart, and so often made it ache and ache again, I pass on\nunhindered, to the event that had impended over me longer yet; the\nevent that had begun to be prepared for, before I knew that the world\nheld Estella, and in the days when her baby intelligence was receiving\nits first distortions from Miss Havisham s wasting hands.\n\nIn the Eastern story, the heavy slab that was to fall on the bed of\nstate in the flush of conquest was slowly wrought out of the quarry,\nthe tunnel for the rope to hold it in its place was slowly carried\nthrough the leagues of rock, the slab was slowly raised and fitted in\nthe roof, the rope was rove to it and slowly taken through the miles of\nhollow to the great iron ring. All being made ready with much labour,\nand the hour come, the sultan was aroused in the dead of the night, and\nthe sharpened axe that was to sever the rope from the great iron ring\nwas put into his hand, and he struck with it, and the rope parted and\nrushed away, and the ceiling fell. So, in my case; all the work, near\nand afar, that tended to the end, had been accomplished; and in an\ninstant the blow was struck, and the roof of my stronghold dropped upon\nme.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIX.\n\n\nI was three-and-twenty years of age. Not another word had I heard to\nenlighten me on the subject of my expectations, and my twenty-third\nbirthday was a week gone. We had left Barnard s Inn more than a year,\nand lived in the Temple. Our chambers were in Garden-court, down by the\nriver.\n\nMr. Pocket and I had for some time parted company as to our original\nrelations, though we continued on the best terms. Notwithstanding my\ninability to settle to anything, which I hope arose out of the restless\nand incomplete tenure on which I held my means, I had a taste for\nreading, and read regularly so many hours a day. That matter of\nHerbert s was still progressing, and everything with me was as I have\nbrought it down to the close of the last preceding chapter.\n\nBusiness had taken Herbert on a journey to Marseilles. I was alone, and\nhad a dull sense of being alone. Dispirited and anxious, long hoping\nthat to-morrow or next week would clear my way, and long disappointed,\nI sadly missed the cheerful face and ready response of my friend.\n\nIt was wretched weather; stormy and wet, stormy and wet; and mud, mud,\nmud, deep in all the streets. Day after day, a vast heavy veil had been\ndriving over London from the East, and it drove still, as if in the\nEast there were an eternity of cloud and wind. So furious had been the\ngusts, that high buildings in town had had the lead stripped off their\nroofs; and in the country, trees had been torn up, and sails of\nwindmills carried away; and gloomy accounts had come in from the coast,\nof shipwreck and death. Violent blasts of rain had accompanied these\nrages of wind, and the day just closed as I sat down to read had been\nthe worst of all.\n\nAlterations have been made in that part of the Temple since that time,\nand it has not now so lonely a character as it had then, nor is it so\nexposed to the river. We lived at the top of the last house, and the\nwind rushing up the river shook the house that night, like discharges\nof cannon, or breakings of a sea. When the rain came with it and dashed\nagainst the windows, I thought, raising my eyes to them as they rocked,\nthat I might have fancied myself in a storm-beaten lighthouse.\nOccasionally, the smoke came rolling down the chimney as though it\ncould not bear to go out into such a night; and when I set the doors\nopen and looked down the staircase, the staircase lamps were blown out;\nand when I shaded my face with my hands and looked through the black\nwindows (opening them ever so little was out of the question in the\nteeth of such wind and rain), I saw that the lamps in the court were\nblown out, and that the lamps on the bridges and the shore were\nshuddering, and that the coal-fires in barges on the river were being\ncarried away before the wind like red-hot splashes in the rain.\n\nI read with my watch upon the table, purposing to close my book at\neleven o clock. As I shut it, Saint Paul s, and all the many\nchurch-clocks in the City some leading, some accompanying, some\nfollowing struck that hour. The sound was curiously flawed by the wind;\nand I was listening, and thinking how the wind assailed and tore it,\nwhen I heard a footstep on the stair.\n\nWhat nervous folly made me start, and awfully connect it with the\nfootstep of my dead sister, matters not. It was past in a moment, and I\nlistened again, and heard the footstep stumble in coming on.\nRemembering then, that the staircase-lights were blown out, I took up\nmy reading-lamp and went out to the stair-head. Whoever was below had\nstopped on seeing my lamp, for all was quiet.\n\n There is some one down there, is there not?  I called out, looking\ndown.\n\n Yes,  said a voice from the darkness beneath.\n\n What floor do you want? \n\n The top. Mr. Pip. \n\n That is my name. There is nothing the matter? \n\n Nothing the matter,  returned the voice. And the man came on.\n\nI stood with my lamp held out over the stair-rail, and he came slowly\nwithin its light. It was a shaded lamp, to shine upon a book, and its\ncircle of light was very contracted; so that he was in it for a mere\ninstant, and then out of it. In the instant, I had seen a face that was\nstrange to me, looking up with an incomprehensible air of being touched\nand pleased by the sight of me.\n\nMoving the lamp as the man moved, I made out that he was substantially\ndressed, but roughly, like a voyager by sea. That he had long iron-grey\nhair. That his age was about sixty. That he was a muscular man, strong\non his legs, and that he was browned and hardened by exposure to\nweather. As he ascended the last stair or two, and the light of my lamp\nincluded us both, I saw, with a stupid kind of amazement, that he was\nholding out both his hands to me.\n\n Pray what is your business?  I asked him.\n\n My business?  he repeated, pausing.  Ah! Yes. I will explain my\nbusiness, by your leave. \n\n Do you wish to come in? \n\n Yes,  he replied;  I wish to come in, master. \n\nI had asked him the question inhospitably enough, for I resented the\nsort of bright and gratified recognition that still shone in his face.\nI resented it, because it seemed to imply that he expected me to\nrespond to it. But I took him into the room I had just left, and,\nhaving set the lamp on the table, asked him as civilly as I could to\nexplain himself.\n\nHe looked about him with the strangest air, an air of wondering\npleasure, as if he had some part in the things he admired, and he\npulled off a rough outer coat, and his hat. Then, I saw that his head\nwas furrowed and bald, and that the long iron-grey hair grew only on\nits sides. But, I saw nothing that in the least explained him. On the\ncontrary, I saw him next moment, once more holding out both his hands\nto me.\n\n What do you mean?  said I, half suspecting him to be mad.\n\nHe stopped in his looking at me, and slowly rubbed his right hand over\nhis head.  It s disapinting to a man,  he said, in a coarse broken\nvoice,  arter having looked for ard so distant, and come so fur; but\nyou re not to blame for that, neither on us is to blame for that. I ll\nspeak in half a minute. Give me half a minute, please. \n\nHe sat down on a chair that stood before the fire, and covered his\nforehead with his large brown veinous hands. I looked at him\nattentively then, and recoiled a little from him; but I did not know\nhim.\n\n There s no one nigh,  said he, looking over his shoulder;  is there? \n\n Why do you, a stranger coming into my rooms at this time of the night,\nask that question?  said I.\n\n You re a game one,  he returned, shaking his head at me with a\ndeliberate affection, at once most unintelligible and most\nexasperating;  I m glad you ve grow d up, a game one! But don t catch\nhold of me. You d be sorry arterwards to have done it. \n\nI relinquished the intention he had detected, for I knew him! Even yet\nI could not recall a single feature, but I knew him! If the wind and\nthe rain had driven away the intervening years, had scattered all the\nintervening objects, had swept us to the churchyard where we first\nstood face to face on such different levels, I could not have known my\nconvict more distinctly than I knew him now as he sat in the chair\nbefore the fire. No need to take a file from his pocket and show it to\nme; no need to take the handkerchief from his neck and twist it round\nhis head; no need to hug himself with both his arms, and take a\nshivering turn across the room, looking back at me for recognition. I\nknew him before he gave me one of those aids, though, a moment before,\nI had not been conscious of remotely suspecting his identity.\n\nHe came back to where I stood, and again held out both his hands. Not\nknowing what to do, for, in my astonishment I had lost my\nself-possession, I reluctantly gave him my hands. He grasped them\nheartily, raised them to his lips, kissed them, and still held them.\n\n You acted noble, my boy,  said he.  Noble, Pip! And I have never\nforgot it! \n\nAt a change in his manner as if he were even going to embrace me, I\nlaid a hand upon his breast and put him away.\n\n Stay!  said I.  Keep off! If you are grateful to me for what I did\nwhen I was a little child, I hope you have shown your gratitude by\nmending your way of life. If you have come here to thank me, it was not\nnecessary. Still, however you have found me out, there must be\nsomething good in the feeling that has brought you here, and I will not\nrepulse you; but surely you must understand that I \n\nMy attention was so attracted by the singularity of his fixed look at\nme, that the words died away on my tongue.\n\n You was a-saying,  he observed, when we had confronted one another in\nsilence,  that surely I must understand. What, surely must I\nunderstand? \n\n That I cannot wish to renew that chance intercourse with you of long\nago, under these different circumstances. I am glad to believe you have\nrepented and recovered yourself. I am glad to tell you so. I am glad\nthat, thinking I deserve to be thanked, you have come to thank me. But\nour ways are different ways, none the less. You are wet, and you look\nweary. Will you drink something before you go? \n\nHe had replaced his neckerchief loosely, and had stood, keenly\nobservant of me, biting a long end of it.  I think,  he answered, still\nwith the end at his mouth and still observant of me,  that I _will_\ndrink (I thank you) afore I go. \n\nThere was a tray ready on a side-table. I brought it to the table near\nthe fire, and asked him what he would have? He touched one of the\nbottles without looking at it or speaking, and I made him some hot rum\nand water. I tried to keep my hand steady while I did so, but his look\nat me as he leaned back in his chair with the long draggled end of his\nneckerchief between his teeth evidently forgotten made my hand very\ndifficult to master. When at last I put the glass to him, I saw with\namazement that his eyes were full of tears.\n\nUp to this time I had remained standing, not to disguise that I wished\nhim gone. But I was softened by the softened aspect of the man, and\nfelt a touch of reproach.  I hope,  said I, hurriedly putting something\ninto a glass for myself, and drawing a chair to the table,  that you\nwill not think I spoke harshly to you just now. I had no intention of\ndoing it, and I am sorry for it if I did. I wish you well and happy! \n\nAs I put my glass to my lips, he glanced with surprise at the end of\nhis neckerchief, dropping from his mouth when he opened it, and\nstretched out his hand. I gave him mine, and then he drank, and drew\nhis sleeve across his eyes and forehead.\n\n How are you living?  I asked him.\n\n I ve been a sheep-farmer, stock-breeder, other trades besides, away in\nthe new world,  said he;  many a thousand mile of stormy water off from\nthis. \n\n I hope you have done well? \n\n I ve done wonderfully well. There s others went out alonger me as has\ndone well too, but no man has done nigh as well as me. I m famous for\nit. \n\n I am glad to hear it. \n\n I hope to hear you say so, my dear boy. \n\nWithout stopping to try to understand those words or the tone in which\nthey were spoken, I turned off to a point that had just come into my\nmind.\n\n Have you ever seen a messenger you once sent to me,  I inquired,\n since he undertook that trust? \n\n Never set eyes upon him. I warn t likely to it. \n\n He came faithfully, and he brought me the two one-pound notes. I was a\npoor boy then, as you know, and to a poor boy they were a little\nfortune. But, like you, I have done well since, and you must let me pay\nthem back. You can put them to some other poor boy s use.  I took out\nmy purse.\n\nHe watched me as I laid my purse upon the table and opened it, and he\nwatched me as I separated two one-pound notes from its contents. They\nwere clean and new, and I spread them out and handed them over to him.\nStill watching me, he laid them one upon the other, folded them\nlong-wise, gave them a twist, set fire to them at the lamp, and dropped\nthe ashes into the tray.\n\n May I make so bold,  he said then, with a smile that was like a frown,\nand with a frown that was like a smile,  as ask you _how_ you have done\nwell, since you and me was out on them lone shivering marshes? \n\n How? \n\n Ah! \n\nHe emptied his glass, got up, and stood at the side of the fire, with\nhis heavy brown hand on the mantel-shelf. He put a foot up to the bars,\nto dry and warm it, and the wet boot began to steam; but, he neither\nlooked at it, nor at the fire, but steadily looked at me. It was only\nnow that I began to tremble.\n\nWhen my lips had parted, and had shaped some words that were without\nsound, I forced myself to tell him (though I could not do it\ndistinctly), that I had been chosen to succeed to some property.\n\n Might a mere warmint ask what property?  said he.\n\nI faltered,  I don t know. \n\n Might a mere warmint ask whose property?  said he.\n\nI faltered again,  I don t know. \n\n Could I make a guess, I wonder,  said the Convict,  at your income\nsince you come of age! As to the first figure now. Five? \n\nWith my heart beating like a heavy hammer of disordered action, I rose\nout of my chair, and stood with my hand upon the back of it, looking\nwildly at him.\n\n Concerning a guardian,  he went on.  There ought to have been some\nguardian, or such-like, whiles you was a minor. Some lawyer, maybe. As\nto the first letter of that lawyer s name now. Would it be J? \n\nAll the truth of my position came flashing on me; and its\ndisappointments, dangers, disgraces, consequences of all kinds, rushed\nin in such a multitude that I was borne down by them and had to\nstruggle for every breath I drew.\n\n Put it,  he resumed,  as the employer of that lawyer whose name begun\nwith a J, and might be Jaggers, put it as he had come over sea to\nPortsmouth, and had landed there, and had wanted to come on to you.\n However, you have found me out,  you says just now. Well! However, did\nI find you out? Why, I wrote from Portsmouth to a person in London, for\nparticulars of your address. That person s name? Why, Wemmick. \n\nI could not have spoken one word, though it had been to save my life. I\nstood, with a hand on the chair-back and a hand on my breast, where I\nseemed to be suffocating, I stood so, looking wildly at him, until I\ngrasped at the chair, when the room began to surge and turn. He caught\nme, drew me to the sofa, put me up against the cushions, and bent on\none knee before me, bringing the face that I now well remembered, and\nthat I shuddered at, very near to mine.\n\n Yes, Pip, dear boy, I ve made a gentleman on you! It s me wot has done\nit! I swore that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that guinea\nshould go to you. I swore arterwards, sure as ever I spec lated and got\nrich, you should get rich. I lived rough, that you should live smooth;\nI worked hard, that you should be above work. What odds, dear boy? Do I\ntell it, fur you to feel a obligation? Not a bit. I tell it, fur you to\nknow as that there hunted dunghill dog wot you kep life in, got his\nhead so high that he could make a gentleman, and, Pip, you re him! \n\nThe abhorrence in which I held the man, the dread I had of him, the\nrepugnance with which I shrank from him, could not have been exceeded\nif he had been some terrible beast.\n\n Look ee here, Pip. I m your second father. You re my son, more to me\nnor any son. I ve put away money, only for you to spend. When I was a\nhired-out shepherd in a solitary hut, not seeing no faces but faces of\nsheep till I half forgot wot men s and women s faces wos like, I see\nyourn. I drops my knife many a time in that hut when I was a-eating my\ndinner or my supper, and I says,  Here s the boy again, a looking at me\nwhiles I eats and drinks!  I see you there a many times, as plain as\never I see you on them misty marshes.  Lord strike me dead!  I says\neach time, and I goes out in the air to say it under the open\nheavens, but wot, if I gets liberty and money, I ll make that boy a\ngentleman!  And I done it. Why, look at you, dear boy! Look at these\nhere lodgings of yourn, fit for a lord! A lord? Ah! You shall show\nmoney with lords for wagers, and beat  em! \n\nIn his heat and triumph, and in his knowledge that I had been nearly\nfainting, he did not remark on my reception of all this. It was the one\ngrain of relief I had.\n\n Look ee here!  he went on, taking my watch out of my pocket, and\nturning towards him a ring on my finger, while I recoiled from his\ntouch as if he had been a snake,  a gold  un and a beauty: _that s_ a\ngentleman s, I hope! A diamond all set round with rubies; _that s_ a\ngentleman s, I hope! Look at your linen; fine and beautiful! Look at\nyour clothes; better ain t to be got! And your books too,  turning his\neyes round the room,  mounting up, on their shelves, by hundreds! And\nyou read  em; don t you? I see you d been a reading of  em when I come\nin. Ha, ha, ha! You shall read  em to me, dear boy! And if they re in\nforeign languages wot I don t understand, I shall be just as proud as\nif I did. \n\nAgain he took both my hands and put them to his lips, while my blood\nran cold within me.\n\n Don t you mind talking, Pip,  said he, after again drawing his sleeve\nover his eyes and forehead, as the click came in his throat which I\nwell remembered, and he was all the more horrible to me that he was so\nmuch in earnest;  you can t do better nor keep quiet, dear boy. You\nain t looked slowly forward to this as I have; you wosn t prepared for\nthis as I wos. But didn t you never think it might be me? \n\n O no, no, no,  I returned,  Never, never! \n\n Well, you see it _wos_ me, and single-handed. Never a soul in it but\nmy own self and Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Was there no one else?  I asked.\n\n No,  said he, with a glance of surprise:  who else should there be?\nAnd, dear boy, how good looking you have growed! There s bright eyes\nsomewheres eh? Isn t there bright eyes somewheres, wot you love the\nthoughts on? \n\nO Estella, Estella!\n\n They shall be yourn, dear boy, if money can buy  em. Not that a\ngentleman like you, so well set up as you, can t win  em off of his own\ngame; but money shall back you! Let me finish wot I was a telling you,\ndear boy. From that there hut and that there hiring-out, I got money\nleft me by my master (which died, and had been the same as me), and got\nmy liberty and went for myself. In every single thing I went for, I\nwent for you.  Lord strike a blight upon it,  I says, wotever it was I\nwent for,  if it ain t for him!  It all prospered wonderful. As I giv \nyou to understand just now, I m famous for it. It was the money left\nme, and the gains of the first few year wot I sent home to Mr.\nJaggers all for you when he first come arter you, agreeable to my\nletter. \n\nO that he had never come! That he had left me at the forge, far from\ncontented, yet, by comparison happy!\n\n And then, dear boy, it was a recompense to me, look ee here, to know\nin secret that I was making a gentleman. The blood horses of them\ncolonists might fling up the dust over me as I was walking; what do I\nsay? I says to myself,  I m making a better gentleman nor ever _you_ ll\nbe!  When one of  em says to another,  He was a convict, a few year\nago, and is a ignorant common fellow now, for all he s lucky,  what do\nI say? I says to myself,  If I ain t a gentleman, nor yet ain t got no\nlearning, I m the owner of such. All on you owns stock and land; which\non you owns a brought-up London gentleman?  This way I kep myself\na-going. And this way I held steady afore my mind that I would for\ncertain come one day and see my boy, and make myself known to him, on\nhis own ground. \n\nHe laid his hand on my shoulder. I shuddered at the thought that for\nanything I knew, his hand might be stained with blood.\n\n It warn t easy, Pip, for me to leave them parts, nor yet it warn t\nsafe. But I held to it, and the harder it was, the stronger I held, for\nI was determined, and my mind firm made up. At last I done it. Dear\nboy, I done it! \n\nI tried to collect my thoughts, but I was stunned. Throughout, I had\nseemed to myself to attend more to the wind and the rain than to him;\neven now, I could not separate his voice from those voices, though\nthose were loud and his was silent.\n\n Where will you put me?  he asked, presently.  I must be put\nsomewheres, dear boy. \n\n To sleep?  said I.\n\n Yes. And to sleep long and sound,  he answered;  for I ve been\nsea-tossed and sea-washed, months and months. \n\n My friend and companion,  said I, rising from the sofa,  is absent;\nyou must have his room. \n\n He won t come back to-morrow; will he? \n\n No,  said I, answering almost mechanically, in spite of my utmost\nefforts;  not to-morrow. \n\n Because, look ee here, dear boy,  he said, dropping his voice, and\nlaying a long finger on my breast in an impressive manner,  caution is\nnecessary. \n\n How do you mean? Caution? \n\n By G , it s Death! \n\n What s death? \n\n I was sent for life. It s death to come back. There s been overmuch\ncoming back of late years, and I should of a certainty be hanged if\ntook. \n\nNothing was needed but this; the wretched man, after loading wretched\nme with his gold and silver chains for years, had risked his life to\ncome to me, and I held it there in my keeping! If I had loved him\ninstead of abhorring him; if I had been attracted to him by the\nstrongest admiration and affection, instead of shrinking from him with\nthe strongest repugnance; it could have been no worse. On the contrary,\nit would have been better, for his preservation would then have\nnaturally and tenderly addressed my heart.\n\nMy first care was to close the shutters, so that no light might be seen\nfrom without, and then to close and make fast the doors. While I did\nso, he stood at the table drinking rum and eating biscuit; and when I\nsaw him thus engaged, I saw my convict on the marshes at his meal\nagain. It almost seemed to me as if he must stoop down presently, to\nfile at his leg.\n\nWhen I had gone into Herbert s room, and had shut off any other\ncommunication between it and the staircase than through the room in\nwhich our conversation had been held, I asked him if he would go to\nbed? He said yes, but asked me for some of my  gentleman s linen  to\nput on in the morning. I brought it out, and laid it ready for him, and\nmy blood again ran cold when he again took me by both hands to give me\ngood-night.\n\nI got away from him, without knowing how I did it, and mended the fire\nin the room where we had been together, and sat down by it, afraid to\ngo to bed. For an hour or more, I remained too stunned to think; and it\nwas not until I began to think, that I began fully to know how wrecked\nI was, and how the ship in which I had sailed was gone to pieces.\n\nMiss Havisham s intentions towards me, all a mere dream; Estella not\ndesigned for me; I only suffered in Satis House as a convenience, a\nsting for the greedy relations, a model with a mechanical heart to\npractise on when no other practice was at hand; those were the first\nsmarts I had. But, sharpest and deepest pain of all, it was for the\nconvict, guilty of I knew not what crimes, and liable to be taken out\nof those rooms where I sat thinking, and hanged at the Old Bailey door,\nthat I had deserted Joe.\n\nI would not have gone back to Joe now, I would not have gone back to\nBiddy now, for any consideration; simply, I suppose, because my sense\nof my own worthless conduct to them was greater than every\nconsideration. No wisdom on earth could have given me the comfort that\nI should have derived from their simplicity and fidelity; but I could\nnever, never, undo what I had done.\n\nIn every rage of wind and rush of rain, I heard pursuers. Twice, I\ncould have sworn there was a knocking and whispering at the outer door.\nWith these fears upon me, I began either to imagine or recall that I\nhad had mysterious warnings of this man s approach. That, for weeks\ngone by, I had passed faces in the streets which I had thought like\nhis. That these likenesses had grown more numerous, as he, coming over\nthe sea, had drawn nearer. That his wicked spirit had somehow sent\nthese messengers to mine, and that now on this stormy night he was as\ngood as his word, and with me.\n\nCrowding up with these reflections came the reflection that I had seen\nhim with my childish eyes to be a desperately violent man; that I had\nheard that other convict reiterate that he had tried to murder him;\nthat I had seen him down in the ditch tearing and fighting like a wild\nbeast. Out of such remembrances I brought into the light of the fire a\nhalf-formed terror that it might not be safe to be shut up there with\nhim in the dead of the wild solitary night. This dilated until it\nfilled the room, and impelled me to take a candle and go in and look at\nmy dreadful burden.\n\nHe had rolled a handkerchief round his head, and his face was set and\nlowering in his sleep. But he was asleep, and quietly too, though he\nhad a pistol lying on the pillow. Assured of this, I softly removed the\nkey to the outside of his door, and turned it on him before I again sat\ndown by the fire. Gradually I slipped from the chair and lay on the\nfloor. When I awoke without having parted in my sleep with the\nperception of my wretchedness, the clocks of the Eastward churches were\nstriking five, the candles were wasted out, the fire was dead, and the\nwind and rain intensified the thick black darkness.\n\nTHIS IS THE END OF THE SECOND STAGE OF PIP S EXPECTATIONS.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XL.\n\n\nIt was fortunate for me that I had to take precautions to ensure (so\nfar as I could) the safety of my dreaded visitor; for, this thought\npressing on me when I awoke, held other thoughts in a confused\nconcourse at a distance.\n\nThe impossibility of keeping him concealed in the chambers was\nself-evident. It could not be done, and the attempt to do it would\ninevitably engender suspicion. True, I had no Avenger in my service\nnow, but I was looked after by an inflammatory old female, assisted by\nan animated rag-bag whom she called her niece, and to keep a room\nsecret from them would be to invite curiosity and exaggeration. They\nboth had weak eyes, which I had long attributed to their chronically\nlooking in at keyholes, and they were always at hand when not wanted;\nindeed that was their only reliable quality besides larceny. Not to get\nup a mystery with these people, I resolved to announce in the morning\nthat my uncle had unexpectedly come from the country.\n\nThis course I decided on while I was yet groping about in the darkness\nfor the means of getting a light. Not stumbling on the means after all,\nI was fain to go out to the adjacent Lodge and get the watchman there\nto come with his lantern. Now, in groping my way down the black\nstaircase I fell over something, and that something was a man crouching\nin a corner.\n\nAs the man made no answer when I asked him what he did there, but\neluded my touch in silence, I ran to the Lodge and urged the watchman\nto come quickly; telling him of the incident on the way back. The wind\nbeing as fierce as ever, we did not care to endanger the light in the\nlantern by rekindling the extinguished lamps on the staircase, but we\nexamined the staircase from the bottom to the top and found no one\nthere. It then occurred to me as possible that the man might have\nslipped into my rooms; so, lighting my candle at the watchman s, and\nleaving him standing at the door, I examined them carefully, including\nthe room in which my dreaded guest lay asleep. All was quiet, and\nassuredly no other man was in those chambers.\n\nIt troubled me that there should have been a lurker on the stairs, on\nthat night of all nights in the year, and I asked the watchman, on the\nchance of eliciting some hopeful explanation as I handed him a dram at\nthe door, whether he had admitted at his gate any gentleman who had\nperceptibly been dining out? Yes, he said; at different times of the\nnight, three. One lived in Fountain Court, and the other two lived in\nthe Lane, and he had seen them all go home. Again, the only other man\nwho dwelt in the house of which my chambers formed a part had been in\nthe country for some weeks, and he certainly had not returned in the\nnight, because we had seen his door with his seal on it as we came\nupstairs.\n\n The night being so bad, sir,  said the watchman, as he gave me back my\nglass,  uncommon few have come in at my gate. Besides them three\ngentlemen that I have named, I don t call to mind another since about\neleven o clock, when a stranger asked for you. \n\n My uncle,  I muttered.  Yes. \n\n You saw him, sir? \n\n Yes. Oh yes. \n\n Likewise the person with him? \n\n Person with him!  I repeated.\n\n I judged the person to be with him,  returned the watchman.  The\nperson stopped, when he stopped to make inquiry of me, and the person\ntook this way when he took this way. \n\n What sort of person? \n\nThe watchman had not particularly noticed; he should say a working\nperson; to the best of his belief, he had a dust-coloured kind of\nclothes on, under a dark coat. The watchman made more light of the\nmatter than I did, and naturally; not having my reason for attaching\nweight to it.\n\nWhen I had got rid of him, which I thought it well to do without\nprolonging explanations, my mind was much troubled by these two\ncircumstances taken together. Whereas they were easy of innocent\nsolution apart, as, for instance, some diner out or diner at home, who\nhad not gone near this watchman s gate, might have strayed to my\nstaircase and dropped asleep there, and my nameless visitor might have\nbrought some one with him to show him the way, still, joined, they had\nan ugly look to one as prone to distrust and fear as the changes of a\nfew hours had made me.\n\nI lighted my fire, which burnt with a raw pale flare at that time of\nthe morning, and fell into a doze before it. I seemed to have been\ndozing a whole night when the clocks struck six. As there was full an\nhour and a half between me and daylight, I dozed again; now, waking up\nuneasily, with prolix conversations about nothing, in my ears; now,\nmaking thunder of the wind in the chimney; at length, falling off into\na profound sleep from which the daylight woke me with a start.\n\nAll this time I had never been able to consider my own situation, nor\ncould I do so yet. I had not the power to attend to it. I was greatly\ndejected and distressed, but in an incoherent wholesale sort of way. As\nto forming any plan for the future, I could as soon have formed an\nelephant. When I opened the shutters and looked out at the wet wild\nmorning, all of a leaden hue; when I walked from room to room; when I\nsat down again shivering, before the fire, waiting for my laundress to\nappear; I thought how miserable I was, but hardly knew why, or how long\nI had been so, or on what day of the week I made the reflection, or\neven who I was that made it.\n\nAt last, the old woman and the niece came in, the latter with a head\nnot easily distinguishable from her dusty broom, and testified surprise\nat sight of me and the fire. To whom I imparted how my uncle had come\nin the night and was then asleep, and how the breakfast preparations\nwere to be modified accordingly. Then I washed and dressed while they\nknocked the furniture about and made a dust; and so, in a sort of dream\nor sleep-waking, I found myself sitting by the fire again, waiting\nfor Him to come to breakfast.\n\nBy and by, his door opened and he came out. I could not bring myself to\nbear the sight of him, and I thought he had a worse look by daylight.\n\n I do not even know,  said I, speaking low as he took his seat at the\ntable,  by what name to call you. I have given out that you are my\nuncle. \n\n That s it, dear boy! Call me uncle. \n\n You assumed some name, I suppose, on board ship? \n\n Yes, dear boy. I took the name of Provis. \n\n Do you mean to keep that name? \n\n Why, yes, dear boy, it s as good as another, unless you d like\nanother. \n\n What is your real name?  I asked him in a whisper.\n\n Magwitch,  he answered, in the same tone;  chrisen d Abel. \n\n What were you brought up to be? \n\n A warmint, dear boy. \n\nHe answered quite seriously, and used the word as if it denoted some\nprofession.\n\n When you came into the Temple last night  said I, pausing to wonder\nwhether that could really have been last night, which seemed so long\nago.\n\n Yes, dear boy? \n\n When you came in at the gate and asked the watchman the way here, had\nyou any one with you? \n\n With me? No, dear boy. \n\n But there was some one there? \n\n I didn t take particular notice,  he said, dubiously,  not knowing the\nways of the place. But I think there _was_ a person, too, come in\nalonger me. \n\n Are you known in London? \n\n I hope not!  said he, giving his neck a jerk with his forefinger that\nmade me turn hot and sick.\n\n Were you known in London, once? \n\n Not over and above, dear boy. I was in the provinces mostly. \n\n Were you tried in London? \n\n Which time?  said he, with a sharp look.\n\n The last time. \n\nHe nodded.  First knowed Mr. Jaggers that way. Jaggers was for me. \n\nIt was on my lips to ask him what he was tried for, but he took up a\nknife, gave it a flourish, and with the words,  And what I done is\nworked out and paid for!  fell to at his breakfast.\n\nHe ate in a ravenous way that was very disagreeable, and all his\nactions were uncouth, noisy, and greedy. Some of his teeth had failed\nhim since I saw him eat on the marshes, and as he turned his food in\nhis mouth, and turned his head sideways to bring his strongest fangs to\nbear upon it, he looked terribly like a hungry old dog. If I had begun\nwith any appetite, he would have taken it away, and I should have sat\nmuch as I did, repelled from him by an insurmountable aversion, and\ngloomily looking at the cloth.\n\n I m a heavy grubber, dear boy,  he said, as a polite kind of apology\nwhen he made an end of his meal,  but I always was. If it had been in\nmy constitution to be a lighter grubber, I might ha  got into lighter\ntrouble. Similarly, I must have my smoke. When I was first hired out as\nshepherd t other side the world, it s my belief I should ha  turned\ninto a molloncolly-mad sheep myself, if I hadn t a had my smoke. \n\nAs he said so, he got up from table, and putting his hand into the\nbreast of the pea-coat he wore, brought out a short black pipe, and a\nhandful of loose tobacco of the kind that is called Negro-head. Having\nfilled his pipe, he put the surplus tobacco back again, as if his\npocket were a drawer. Then, he took a live coal from the fire with the\ntongs, and lighted his pipe at it, and then turned round on the\nhearth-rug with his back to the fire, and went through his favourite\naction of holding out both his hands for mine.\n\n And this,  said he, dandling my hands up and down in his, as he puffed\nat his pipe, and this is the gentleman what I made! The real genuine\nOne! It does me good fur to look at you, Pip. All I stip late, is, to\nstand by and look at you, dear boy! \n\nI released my hands as soon as I could, and found that I was beginning\nslowly to settle down to the contemplation of my condition. What I was\nchained to, and how heavily, became intelligible to me, as I heard his\nhoarse voice, and sat looking up at his furrowed bald head with its\niron grey hair at the sides.\n\n I mustn t see my gentleman a footing it in the mire of the streets;\nthere mustn t be no mud on _his_ boots. My gentleman must have horses,\nPip! Horses to ride, and horses to drive, and horses for his servant to\nride and drive as well. Shall colonists have their horses (and blood\n uns, if you please, good Lord!) and not my London gentleman? No, no.\nWe ll show  em another pair of shoes than that, Pip; won t us? \n\nHe took out of his pocket a great thick pocket-book, bursting with\npapers, and tossed it on the table.\n\n There s something worth spending in that there book, dear boy. It s\nyourn. All I ve got ain t mine; it s yourn. Don t you be afeerd on it.\nThere s more where that come from. I ve come to the old country fur to\nsee my gentleman spend his money _like_ a gentleman. That ll be _my_\npleasure. _My_ pleasure  ull be fur to see him do it. And blast you\nall!  he wound up, looking round the room and snapping his fingers once\nwith a loud snap,  blast you every one, from the judge in his wig, to\nthe colonist a stirring up the dust, I ll show a better gentleman than\nthe whole kit on you put together! \n\n Stop!  said I, almost in a frenzy of fear and dislike,  I want to\nspeak to you. I want to know what is to be done. I want to know how you\nare to be kept out of danger, how long you are going to stay, what\nprojects you have. \n\n Look ee here, Pip,  said he, laying his hand on my arm in a suddenly\naltered and subdued manner;  first of all, look ee here. I forgot\nmyself half a minute ago. What I said was low; that s what it was; low.\nLook ee here, Pip. Look over it. I ain t a-going to be low. \n\n First,  I resumed, half groaning,  what precautions can be taken\nagainst your being recognised and seized? \n\n No, dear boy,  he said, in the same tone as before,  that don t go\nfirst. Lowness goes first. I ain t took so many year to make a\ngentleman, not without knowing what s due to him. Look ee here, Pip. I\nwas low; that s what I was; low. Look over it, dear boy. \n\nSome sense of the grimly-ludicrous moved me to a fretful laugh, as I\nreplied,  I _have_ looked over it. In Heaven s name, don t harp upon\nit! \n\n Yes, but look ee here,  he persisted.  Dear boy, I ain t come so fur,\nnot fur to be low. Now, go on, dear boy. You was a saying \n\n How are you to be guarded from the danger you have incurred? \n\n Well, dear boy, the danger ain t so great. Without I was informed\nagen, the danger ain t so much to signify. There s Jaggers, and there s\nWemmick, and there s you. Who else is there to inform? \n\n Is there no chance person who might identify you in the street?  said\nI.\n\n Well,  he returned,  there ain t many. Nor yet I don t intend to\nadvertise myself in the newspapers by the name of A.M. come back from\nBotany Bay; and years have rolled away, and who s to gain by it? Still,\nlook ee here, Pip. If the danger had been fifty times as great, I\nshould ha  come to see you, mind you, just the same. \n\n And how long do you remain? \n\n How long?  said he, taking his black pipe from his mouth, and dropping\nhis jaw as he stared at me.  I m not a-going back. I ve come for good. \n\n Where are you to live?  said I.  What is to be done with you? Where\nwill you be safe? \n\n Dear boy,  he returned,  there s disguising wigs can be bought for\nmoney, and there s hair powder, and spectacles, and black\nclothes, shorts and what not. Others has done it safe afore, and what\nothers has done afore, others can do agen. As to the where and how of\nliving, dear boy, give me your own opinions on it. \n\n You take it smoothly now,  said I,  but you were very serious last\nnight, when you swore it was Death. \n\n And so I swear it is Death,  said he, putting his pipe back in his\nmouth,  and Death by the rope, in the open street not fur from this,\nand it s serious that you should fully understand it to be so. What\nthen, when that s once done? Here I am. To go back now  ud be as bad as\nto stand ground worse. Besides, Pip, I m here, because I ve meant it by\nyou, years and years. As to what I dare, I m a old bird now, as has\ndared all manner of traps since first he was fledged, and I m not\nafeerd to perch upon a scarecrow. If there s Death hid inside of it,\nthere is, and let him come out, and I ll face him, and then I ll\nbelieve in him and not afore. And now let me have a look at my\ngentleman agen. \n\nOnce more, he took me by both hands and surveyed me with an air of\nadmiring proprietorship: smoking with great complacency all the while.\n\nIt appeared to me that I could do no better than secure him some quiet\nlodging hard by, of which he might take possession when Herbert\nreturned: whom I expected in two or three days. That the secret must be\nconfided to Herbert as a matter of unavoidable necessity, even if I\ncould have put the immense relief I should derive from sharing it with\nhim out of the question, was plain to me. But it was by no means so\nplain to Mr. Provis (I resolved to call him by that name), who reserved\nhis consent to Herbert s participation until he should have seen him\nand formed a favourable judgment of his physiognomy.  And even then,\ndear boy,  said he, pulling a greasy little clasped black Testament out\nof his pocket,  we ll have him on his oath. \n\nTo state that my terrible patron carried this little black book about\nthe world solely to swear people on in cases of emergency, would be to\nstate what I never quite established; but this I can say, that I never\nknew him put it to any other use. The book itself had the appearance of\nhaving been stolen from some court of justice, and perhaps his\nknowledge of its antecedents, combined with his own experience in that\nwise, gave him a reliance on its powers as a sort of legal spell or\ncharm. On this first occasion of his producing it, I recalled how he\nhad made me swear fidelity in the churchyard long ago, and how he had\ndescribed himself last night as always swearing to his resolutions in\nhis solitude.\n\nAs he was at present dressed in a seafaring slop suit, in which he\nlooked as if he had some parrots and cigars to dispose of, I next\ndiscussed with him what dress he should wear. He cherished an\nextraordinary belief in the virtues of  shorts  as a disguise, and had\nin his own mind sketched a dress for himself that would have made him\nsomething between a dean and a dentist. It was with considerable\ndifficulty that I won him over to the assumption of a dress more like a\nprosperous farmer s; and we arranged that he should cut his hair close,\nand wear a little powder. Lastly, as he had not yet been seen by the\nlaundress or her niece, he was to keep himself out of their view until\nhis change of dress was made.\n\nIt would seem a simple matter to decide on these precautions; but in my\ndazed, not to say distracted, state, it took so long, that I did not\nget out to further them until two or three in the afternoon. He was to\nremain shut up in the chambers while I was gone, and was on no account\nto open the door.\n\nThere being to my knowledge a respectable lodging-house in Essex\nStreet, the back of which looked into the Temple, and was almost within\nhail of my windows, I first of all repaired to that house, and was so\nfortunate as to secure the second floor for my uncle, Mr. Provis. I\nthen went from shop to shop, making such purchases as were necessary to\nthe change in his appearance. This business transacted, I turned my\nface, on my own account, to Little Britain. Mr. Jaggers was at his\ndesk, but, seeing me enter, got up immediately and stood before his\nfire.\n\n Now, Pip,  said he,  be careful. \n\n I will, sir,  I returned. For, coming along I had thought well of what\nI was going to say.\n\n Don t commit yourself,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and don t commit any one.\nYou understand any one. Don t tell me anything: I don t want to know\nanything; I am not curious. \n\nOf course I saw that he knew the man was come.\n\n I merely want, Mr. Jaggers,  said I,  to assure myself that what I\nhave been told is true. I have no hope of its being untrue, but at\nleast I may verify it. \n\nMr. Jaggers nodded.  But did you say  told  or  informed ?  he asked\nme, with his head on one side, and not looking at me, but looking in a\nlistening way at the floor.  Told would seem to imply verbal\ncommunication. You can t have verbal communication with a man in New\nSouth Wales, you know. \n\n I will say, informed, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Good. \n\n I have been informed by a person named Abel Magwitch, that he is the\nbenefactor so long unknown to me. \n\n That is the man,  said Mr. Jaggers,  in New South Wales. \n\n And only he?  said I.\n\n And only he,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n I am not so unreasonable, sir, as to think you at all responsible for\nmy mistakes and wrong conclusions; but I always supposed it was Miss\nHavisham. \n\n As you say, Pip,  returned Mr. Jaggers, turning his eyes upon me\ncoolly, and taking a bite at his forefinger,  I am not at all\nresponsible for that. \n\n And yet it looked so like it, sir,  I pleaded with a downcast heart.\n\n Not a particle of evidence, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, shaking his head\nand gathering up his skirts.  Take nothing on its looks; take\neverything on evidence. There s no better rule. \n\n I have no more to say,  said I, with a sigh, after standing silent for\na little while.  I have verified my information, and there s an end. \n\n And Magwitch in New South Wales having at last disclosed himself, \nsaid Mr. Jaggers,  you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly throughout my\ncommunication with you, I have always adhered to the strict line of\nfact. There has never been the least departure from the strict line of\nfact. You are quite aware of that? \n\n Quite, sir. \n\n I communicated to Magwitch in New South Wales when he first wrote to\nme from New South Wales the caution that he must not expect me ever to\ndeviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him\nanother caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his\nletter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I\ncautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all\nlikely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his\nnatural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be\nan act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the\nlaw. I gave Magwitch that caution,  said Mr. Jaggers, looking hard at\nme;  I wrote it to New South Wales. He guided himself by it, no doubt. \n\n No doubt,  said I.\n\n I have been informed by Wemmick,  pursued Mr. Jaggers, still looking\nhard at me,  that he has received a letter, under date Portsmouth, from\na colonist of the name of Purvis, or \n\n Or Provis,  I suggested.\n\n Or Provis thank you, Pip. Perhaps it _is_ Provis? Perhaps you know\nit s Provis? \n\n Yes,  said I.\n\n You know it s Provis. A letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist\nof the name of Provis, asking for the particulars of your address, on\nbehalf of Magwitch. Wemmick sent him the particulars, I understand, by\nreturn of post. Probably it is through Provis that you have received\nthe explanation of Magwitch in New South Wales? \n\n It came through Provis,  I replied.\n\n Good day, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, offering his hand;  glad to have\nseen you. In writing by post to Magwitch in New South Wales or in\ncommunicating with him through Provis, have the goodness to mention\nthat the particulars and vouchers of our long account shall be sent to\nyou, together with the balance; for there is still a balance remaining.\nGood-day, Pip! \n\nWe shook hands, and he looked hard at me as long as he could see me. I\nturned at the door, and he was still looking hard at me, while the two\nvile casts on the shelf seemed to be trying to get their eyelids open,\nand to force out of their swollen throats,  O, what a man he is! \n\nWemmick was out, and though he had been at his desk he could have done\nnothing for me. I went straight back to the Temple, where I found the\nterrible Provis drinking rum and water and smoking negro-head, in\nsafety.\n\nNext day the clothes I had ordered all came home, and he put them on.\nWhatever he put on, became him less (it dismally seemed to me) than\nwhat he had worn before. To my thinking, there was something in him\nthat made it hopeless to attempt to disguise him. The more I dressed\nhim and the better I dressed him, the more he looked like the slouching\nfugitive on the marshes. This effect on my anxious fancy was partly\nreferable, no doubt, to his old face and manner growing more familiar\nto me; but I believe too that he dragged one of his legs as if there\nwere still a weight of iron on it, and that from head to foot there was\nConvict in the very grain of the man.\n\nThe influences of his solitary hut-life were upon him besides, and gave\nhim a savage air that no dress could tame; added to these were the\ninfluences of his subsequent branded life among men, and, crowning all,\nhis consciousness that he was dodging and hiding now. In all his ways\nof sitting and standing, and eating and drinking, of brooding about in\na high-shouldered reluctant style, of taking out his great horn-handled\njackknife and wiping it on his legs and cutting his food, of lifting\nlight glasses and cups to his lips, as if they were clumsy\npannikins, of chopping a wedge off his bread, and soaking up with it\nthe last fragments of gravy round and round his plate, as if to make\nthe most of an allowance, and then drying his finger-ends on it, and\nthen swallowing it, in these ways and a thousand other small nameless\ninstances arising every minute in the day, there was Prisoner, Felon,\nBondsman, plain as plain could be.\n\nIt had been his own idea to wear that touch of powder, and I had\nconceded the powder after overcoming the shorts. But I can compare the\neffect of it, when on, to nothing but the probable effect of rouge upon\nthe dead; so awful was the manner in which everything in him that it\nwas most desirable to repress, started through that thin layer of\npretence, and seemed to come blazing out at the crown of his head. It\nwas abandoned as soon as tried, and he wore his grizzled hair cut\nshort.\n\nWords cannot tell what a sense I had, at the same time, of the dreadful\nmystery that he was to me. When he fell asleep of an evening, with his\nknotted hands clenching the sides of the easy-chair, and his bald head\ntattooed with deep wrinkles falling forward on his breast, I would sit\nand look at him, wondering what he had done, and loading him with all\nthe crimes in the Calendar, until the impulse was powerful on me to\nstart up and fly from him. Every hour so increased my abhorrence of\nhim, that I even think I might have yielded to this impulse in the\nfirst agonies of being so haunted, notwithstanding all he had done for\nme and the risk he ran, but for the knowledge that Herbert must soon\ncome back. Once, I actually did start out of bed in the night, and\nbegin to dress myself in my worst clothes, hurriedly intending to leave\nhim there with everything else I possessed, and enlist for India as a\nprivate soldier.\n\nI doubt if a ghost could have been more terrible to me, up in those\nlonely rooms in the long evenings and long nights, with the wind and\nthe rain always rushing by. A ghost could not have been taken and\nhanged on my account, and the consideration that he could be, and the\ndread that he would be, were no small addition to my horrors. When he\nwas not asleep, or playing a complicated kind of Patience with a ragged\npack of cards of his own, a game that I never saw before or since, and\nin which he recorded his winnings by sticking his jackknife into the\ntable, when he was not engaged in either of these pursuits, he would\nask me to read to him, Foreign language, dear boy!  While I complied,\nhe, not comprehending a single word, would stand before the fire\nsurveying me with the air of an Exhibitor, and I would see him, between\nthe fingers of the hand with which I shaded my face, appealing in dumb\nshow to the furniture to take notice of my proficiency. The imaginary\nstudent pursued by the misshapen creature he had impiously made, was\nnot more wretched than I, pursued by the creature who had made me, and\nrecoiling from him with a stronger repulsion, the more he admired me\nand the fonder he was of me.\n\nThis is written of, I am sensible, as if it had lasted a year. It\nlasted about five days. Expecting Herbert all the time, I dared not go\nout, except when I took Provis for an airing after dark. At length, one\nevening when dinner was over and I had dropped into a slumber quite\nworn out, for my nights had been agitated and my rest broken by fearful\ndreams, I was roused by the welcome footstep on the staircase. Provis,\nwho had been asleep too, staggered up at the noise I made, and in an\ninstant I saw his jackknife shining in his hand.\n\n Quiet! It s Herbert!  I said; and Herbert came bursting in, with the\nairy freshness of six hundred miles of France upon him.\n\n Handel, my dear fellow, how are you, and again how are you, and again\nhow are you? I seem to have been gone a twelvemonth! Why, so I must\nhave been, for you have grown quite thin and pale! Handel, my Halloa! I\nbeg your pardon. \n\nHe was stopped in his running on and in his shaking hands with me, by\nseeing Provis. Provis, regarding him with a fixed attention, was slowly\nputting up his jackknife, and groping in another pocket for something\nelse.\n\n Herbert, my dear friend,  said I, shutting the double doors, while\nHerbert stood staring and wondering,  something very strange has\nhappened. This is a visitor of mine. \n\n It s all right, dear boy!  said Provis coming forward, with his little\nclasped black book, and then addressing himself to Herbert.  Take it in\nyour right hand. Lord strike you dead on the spot, if ever you split in\nany way sumever! Kiss it! \n\n Do so, as he wishes it,  I said to Herbert. So, Herbert, looking at me\nwith a friendly uneasiness and amazement, complied, and Provis\nimmediately shaking hands with him, said,  Now you re on your oath, you\nknow. And never believe me on mine, if Pip shan t make a gentleman on\nyou! \n\n\n\n\nChapter XLI.\n\n\nIn vain should I attempt to describe the astonishment and disquiet of\nHerbert, when he and I and Provis sat down before the fire, and I\nrecounted the whole of the secret. Enough, that I saw my own feelings\nreflected in Herbert s face, and not least among them, my repugnance\ntowards the man who had done so much for me.\n\nWhat would alone have set a division between that man and us, if there\nhad been no other dividing circumstance, was his triumph in my story.\nSaving his troublesome sense of having been  low  on one occasion since\nhis return, on which point he began to hold forth to Herbert, the\nmoment my revelation was finished, he had no perception of the\npossibility of my finding any fault with my good fortune. His boast\nthat he had made me a gentleman, and that he had come to see me support\nthe character on his ample resources, was made for me quite as much as\nfor himself. And that it was a highly agreeable boast to both of us,\nand that we must both be very proud of it, was a conclusion quite\nestablished in his own mind.\n\n Though, look ee here, Pip s comrade,  he said to Herbert, after having\ndiscoursed for some time,  I know very well that once since I come\nback for half a minute I ve been low. I said to Pip, I knowed as I had\nbeen low. But don t you fret yourself on that score. I ain t made Pip a\ngentleman, and Pip ain t a-going to make you a gentleman, not fur me\nnot to know what s due to ye both. Dear boy, and Pip s comrade, you two\nmay count upon me always having a genteel muzzle on. Muzzled I have\nbeen since that half a minute when I was betrayed into lowness, muzzled\nI am at the present time, muzzled I ever will be. \n\nHerbert said,  Certainly,  but looked as if there were no specific\nconsolation in this, and remained perplexed and dismayed. We were\nanxious for the time when he would go to his lodging and leave us\ntogether, but he was evidently jealous of leaving us together, and sat\nlate. It was midnight before I took him round to Essex Street, and saw\nhim safely in at his own dark door. When it closed upon him, I\nexperienced the first moment of relief I had known since the night of\nhis arrival.\n\nNever quite free from an uneasy remembrance of the man on the stairs, I\nhad always looked about me in taking my guest out after dark, and in\nbringing him back; and I looked about me now. Difficult as it is in a\nlarge city to avoid the suspicion of being watched, when the mind is\nconscious of danger in that regard, I could not persuade myself that\nany of the people within sight cared about my movements. The few who\nwere passing passed on their several ways, and the street was empty\nwhen I turned back into the Temple. Nobody had come out at the gate\nwith us, nobody went in at the gate with me. As I crossed by the\nfountain, I saw his lighted back windows looking bright and quiet, and,\nwhen I stood for a few moments in the doorway of the building where I\nlived, before going up the stairs, Garden Court was as still and\nlifeless as the staircase was when I ascended it.\n\nHerbert received me with open arms, and I had never felt before so\nblessedly what it is to have a friend. When he had spoken some sound\nwords of sympathy and encouragement, we sat down to consider the\nquestion, What was to be done?\n\nThe chair that Provis had occupied still remaining where it had\nstood, for he had a barrack way with him of hanging about one spot, in\none unsettled manner, and going through one round of observances with\nhis pipe and his negro-head and his jackknife and his pack of cards,\nand what not, as if it were all put down for him on a slate, I say his\nchair remaining where it had stood, Herbert unconsciously took it, but\nnext moment started out of it, pushed it away, and took another. He had\nno occasion to say after that that he had conceived an aversion for my\npatron, neither had I occasion to confess my own. We interchanged that\nconfidence without shaping a syllable.\n\n What,  said I to Herbert, when he was safe in another chair, what is\nto be done? \n\n My poor dear Handel,  he replied, holding his head,  I am too stunned\nto think. \n\n So was I, Herbert, when the blow first fell. Still, something must be\ndone. He is intent upon various new expenses, horses, and carriages,\nand lavish appearances of all kinds. He must be stopped somehow. \n\n You mean that you can t accept \n\n How can I?  I interposed, as Herbert paused.  Think of him! Look at\nhim! \n\nAn involuntary shudder passed over both of us.\n\n Yet I am afraid the dreadful truth is, Herbert, that he is attached to\nme, strongly attached to me. Was there ever such a fate! \n\n My poor dear Handel,  Herbert repeated.\n\n Then,  said I,  after all, stopping short here, never taking another\npenny from him, think what I owe him already! Then again: I am heavily\nin debt, very heavily for me, who have now no expectations, and I have\nbeen bred to no calling, and I am fit for nothing. \n\n Well, well, well!  Herbert remonstrated.  Don t say fit for nothing. \n\n What am I fit for? I know only one thing that I am fit for, and that\nis, to go for a soldier. And I might have gone, my dear Herbert, but\nfor the prospect of taking counsel with your friendship and affection. \n\nOf course I broke down there: and of course Herbert, beyond seizing a\nwarm grip of my hand, pretended not to know it.\n\n Anyhow, my dear Handel,  said he presently,  soldiering won t do. If\nyou were to renounce this patronage and these favours, I suppose you\nwould do so with some faint hope of one day repaying what you have\nalready had. Not very strong, that hope, if you went soldiering!\nBesides, it s absurd. You would be infinitely better in Clarriker s\nhouse, small as it is. I am working up towards a partnership, you\nknow. \n\nPoor fellow! He little suspected with whose money.\n\n But there is another question,  said Herbert.  This is an ignorant,\ndetermined man, who has long had one fixed idea. More than that, he\nseems to me (I may misjudge him) to be a man of a desperate and fierce\ncharacter. \n\n I know he is,  I returned.  Let me tell you what evidence I have seen\nof it.  And I told him what I had not mentioned in my narrative, of\nthat encounter with the other convict.\n\n See, then,  said Herbert;  think of this! He comes here at the peril\nof his life, for the realisation of his fixed idea. In the moment of\nrealisation, after all his toil and waiting, you cut the ground from\nunder his feet, destroy his idea, and make his gains worthless to him.\nDo you see nothing that he might do, under the disappointment? \n\n I have seen it, Herbert, and dreamed of it, ever since the fatal night\nof his arrival. Nothing has been in my thoughts so distinctly as his\nputting himself in the way of being taken. \n\n Then you may rely upon it,  said Herbert,  that there would be great\ndanger of his doing it. That is his power over you as long as he\nremains in England, and that would be his reckless course if you\nforsook him. \n\nI was so struck by the horror of this idea, which had weighed upon me\nfrom the first, and the working out of which would make me regard\nmyself, in some sort, as his murderer, that I could not rest in my\nchair, but began pacing to and fro. I said to Herbert, meanwhile, that\neven if Provis were recognised and taken, in spite of himself, I should\nbe wretched as the cause, however innocently. Yes; even though I was so\nwretched in having him at large and near me, and even though I would\nfar rather have worked at the forge all the days of my life than I\nwould ever have come to this!\n\nBut there was no staving off the question, What was to be done?\n\n The first and the main thing to be done,  said Herbert,  is to get him\nout of England. You will have to go with him, and then he may be\ninduced to go. \n\n But get him where I will, could I prevent his coming back? \n\n My good Handel, is it not obvious that with Newgate in the next\nstreet, there must be far greater hazard in your breaking your mind to\nhim and making him reckless, here, than elsewhere? If a pretext to get\nhim away could be made out of that other convict, or out of anything\nelse in his life, now. \n\n There, again!  said I, stopping before Herbert, with my open hands\nheld out, as if they contained the desperation of the case.  I know\nnothing of his life. It has almost made me mad to sit here of a night\nand see him before me, so bound up with my fortunes and misfortunes,\nand yet so unknown to me, except as the miserable wretch who terrified\nme two days in my childhood! \n\nHerbert got up, and linked his arm in mine, and we slowly walked to and\nfro together, studying the carpet.\n\n Handel,  said Herbert, stopping,  you feel convinced that you can take\nno further benefits from him; do you? \n\n Fully. Surely you would, too, if you were in my place? \n\n And you feel convinced that you must break with him? \n\n Herbert, can you ask me? \n\n And you have, and are bound to have, that tenderness for the life he\nhas risked on your account, that you must save him, if possible, from\nthrowing it away. Then you must get him out of England before you stir\na finger to extricate yourself. That done, extricate yourself, in\nHeaven s name, and we ll see it out together, dear old boy. \n\nIt was a comfort to shake hands upon it, and walk up and down again,\nwith only that done.\n\n Now, Herbert,  said I,  with reference to gaining some knowledge of\nhis history. There is but one way that I know of. I must ask him point\nblank. \n\n Yes. Ask him,  said Herbert,  when we sit at breakfast in the\nmorning.  For he had said, on taking leave of Herbert, that he would\ncome to breakfast with us.\n\nWith this project formed, we went to bed. I had the wildest dreams\nconcerning him, and woke unrefreshed; I woke, too, to recover the fear\nwhich I had lost in the night, of his being found out as a returned\ntransport. Waking, I never lost that fear.\n\nHe came round at the appointed time, took out his jackknife, and sat\ndown to his meal. He was full of plans  for his gentleman s coming out\nstrong, and like a gentleman,  and urged me to begin speedily upon the\npocket-book which he had left in my possession. He considered the\nchambers and his own lodging as temporary residences, and advised me to\nlook out at once for a  fashionable crib  near Hyde Park, in which he\ncould have  a shake-down.  When he had made an end of his breakfast,\nand was wiping his knife on his leg, I said to him, without a word of\npreface, \n\n After you were gone last night, I told my friend of the struggle that\nthe soldiers found you engaged in on the marshes, when we came up. You\nremember? \n\n Remember!  said he.  I think so! \n\n We want to know something about that man and about you. It is strange\nto know no more about either, and particularly you, than I was able to\ntell last night. Is not this as good a time as another for our knowing\nmore? \n\n Well!  he said, after consideration.  You re on your oath, you know,\nPip s comrade? \n\n Assuredly,  replied Herbert.\n\n As to anything I say, you know,  he insisted.  The oath applies to\nall. \n\n I understand it to do so. \n\n And look ee here! Wotever I done is worked out and paid for,  he\ninsisted again.\n\n So be it. \n\nHe took out his black pipe and was going to fill it with negro-head,\nwhen, looking at the tangle of tobacco in his hand, he seemed to think\nit might perplex the thread of his narrative. He put it back again,\nstuck his pipe in a button-hole of his coat, spread a hand on each\nknee, and after turning an angry eye on the fire for a few silent\nmoments, looked round at us and said what follows.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLII.\n\n\n Dear boy and Pip s comrade. I am not a-going fur to tell you my life\nlike a song, or a story-book. But to give it you short and handy, I ll\nput it at once into a mouthful of English. In jail and out of jail, in\njail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail. There, you ve got it.\nThat s _my_ life pretty much, down to such times as I got shipped off,\narter Pip stood my friend.\n\n I ve been done everything to, pretty well except hanged. I ve been\nlocked up as much as a silver tea-kittle. I ve been carted here and\ncarted there, and put out of this town, and put out of that town, and\nstuck in the stocks, and whipped and worried and drove. I ve no more\nnotion where I was born than you have if so much. I first become aware\nof myself down in Essex, a thieving turnips for my living. Summun had\nrun away from me a man a tinker and he d took the fire with him, and\nleft me wery cold.\n\n I know d my name to be Magwitch, chrisen d Abel. How did I know it?\nMuch as I know d the birds  names in the hedges to be chaffinch,\nsparrer, thrush. I might have thought it was all lies together, only as\nthe birds  names come out true, I supposed mine did.\n\n So fur as I could find, there warn t a soul that see young Abel\nMagwitch, with us little on him as in him, but wot caught fright at\nhim, and either drove him off, or took him up. I was took up, took up,\ntook up, to that extent that I reg larly grow d up took up.\n\n This is the way it was, that when I was a ragged little creetur as\nmuch to be pitied as ever I see (not that I looked in the glass, for\nthere warn t many insides of furnished houses known to me), I got the\nname of being hardened.  This is a terrible hardened one,  they says to\nprison wisitors, picking out me.  May be said to live in jails, this\nboy.  Then they looked at me, and I looked at them, and they measured\nmy head, some on  em, they had better a measured my stomach, and others\non  em giv me tracts what I couldn t read, and made me speeches what I\ncouldn t understand. They always went on agen me about the Devil. But\nwhat the Devil was I to do? I must put something into my stomach,\nmustn t I? Howsomever, I m a getting low, and I know what s due. Dear\nboy and Pip s comrade, don t you be afeerd of me being low.\n\n Tramping, begging, thieving, working sometimes when I could, though\nthat warn t as often as you may think, till you put the question\nwhether you would ha  been over-ready to give me work yourselves, a bit\nof a poacher, a bit of a labourer, a bit of a wagoner, a bit of a\nhaymaker, a bit of a hawker, a bit of most things that don t pay and\nlead to trouble, I got to be a man. A deserting soldier in a\nTraveller s Rest, what lay hid up to the chin under a lot of taturs,\nlearnt me to read; and a travelling Giant what signed his name at a\npenny a time learnt me to write. I warn t locked up as often now as\nformerly, but I wore out my good share of key-metal still.\n\n At Epsom races, a matter of over twenty years ago, I got acquainted\nwi  a man whose skull I d crack wi  this poker, like the claw of a\nlobster, if I d got it on this hob. His right name was Compeyson; and\nthat s the man, dear boy, what you see me a pounding in the ditch,\naccording to what you truly told your comrade arter I was gone last\nnight.\n\n He set up fur a gentleman, this Compeyson, and he d been to a public\nboarding-school and had learning. He was a smooth one to talk, and was\na dab at the ways of gentlefolks. He was good-looking too. It was the\nnight afore the great race, when I found him on the heath, in a booth\nthat I know d on. Him and some more was a sitting among the tables when\nI went in, and the landlord (which had a knowledge of me, and was a\nsporting one) called him out, and said,  I think this is a man that\nmight suit you, meaning I was.\n\n Compeyson, he looks at me very noticing, and I look at him. He has a\nwatch and a chain and a ring and a breast-pin and a handsome suit of\nclothes.\n\n To judge from appearances, you re out of luck,  says Compeyson to me.\n\n Yes, master, and I ve never been in it much.  (I had come out of\nKingston Jail last on a vagrancy committal. Not but what it might have\nbeen for something else; but it warn t.)\n\n Luck changes,  says Compeyson;  perhaps yours is going to change. \n\n I says,  I hope it may be so. There s room. \n\n What can you do?  says Compeyson.\n\n Eat and drink,  I says;  if you ll find the materials. \n\n Compeyson laughed, looked at me again very noticing, giv me five\nshillings, and appointed me for next night. Same place.\n\n I went to Compeyson next night, same place, and Compeyson took me on\nto be his man and pardner. And what was Compeyson s business in which\nwe was to go pardners? Compeyson s business was the swindling,\nhandwriting forging, stolen bank-note passing, and such-like. All sorts\nof traps as Compeyson could set with his head, and keep his own legs\nout of and get the profits from and let another man in for, was\nCompeyson s business. He d no more heart than a iron file, he was as\ncold as death, and he had the head of the Devil afore mentioned.\n\n There was another in with Compeyson, as was called Arthur, not as\nbeing so chrisen d, but as a surname. He was in a Decline, and was a\nshadow to look at. Him and Compeyson had been in a bad thing with a\nrich lady some years afore, and they d made a pot of money by it; but\nCompeyson betted and gamed, and he d have run through the king s taxes.\nSo, Arthur was a dying, and a dying poor and with the horrors on him,\nand Compeyson s wife (which Compeyson kicked mostly) was a having pity\non him when she could, and Compeyson was a having pity on nothing and\nnobody.\n\n I might a took warning by Arthur, but I didn t; and I won t pretend I\nwas partick ler for where  ud be the good on it, dear boy and comrade?\nSo I begun wi  Compeyson, and a poor tool I was in his hands. Arthur\nlived at the top of Compeyson s house (over nigh Brentford it was), and\nCompeyson kept a careful account agen him for board and lodging, in\ncase he should ever get better to work it out. But Arthur soon settled\nthe account. The second or third time as ever I see him, he come a\ntearing down into Compeyson s parlour late at night, in only a flannel\ngown, with his hair all in a sweat, and he says to Compeyson s wife,\n Sally, she really is upstairs alonger me, now, and I can t get rid of\nher. She s all in white,  he says,  wi  white flowers in her hair, and\nshe s awful mad, and she s got a shroud hanging over her arm, and she\nsays she ll put it on me at five in the morning. \n\n Says Compeyson:  Why, you fool, don t you know she s got a living\nbody? And how should she be up there, without coming through the door,\nor in at the window, and up the stairs? \n\n I don t know how she s there,  says Arthur, shivering dreadful with\nthe horrors,  but she s standing in the corner at the foot of the bed,\nawful mad. And over where her heart s broke _you_ broke it! there s\ndrops of blood. \n\n Compeyson spoke hardy, but he was always a coward.  Go up alonger this\ndrivelling sick man,  he says to his wife,  and Magwitch, lend her a\nhand, will you?  But he never come nigh himself.\n\n Compeyson s wife and me took him up to bed agen, and he raved most\ndreadful.  Why look at her!  he cries out.  She s a shaking the shroud\nat me! Don t you see her? Look at her eyes! Ain t it awful to see her\nso mad?  Next he cries,  She ll put it on me, and then I m done for!\nTake it away from her, take it away!  And then he catched hold of us,\nand kep on a talking to her, and answering of her, till I half believed\nI see her myself.\n\n Compeyson s wife, being used to him, giv him some liquor to get the\nhorrors off, and by and by he quieted.  O, she s gone! Has her keeper\nbeen for her?  he says.  Yes,  says Compeyson s wife.  Did you tell him\nto lock her and bar her in?   Yes.   And to take that ugly thing away\nfrom her?   Yes, yes, all right.   You re a good creetur,  he says,\n don t leave me, whatever you do, and thank you! \n\n He rested pretty quiet till it might want a few minutes of five, and\nthen he starts up with a scream, and screams out,  Here she is! She s\ngot the shroud again. She s unfolding it. She s coming out of the\ncorner. She s coming to the bed. Hold me, both on you one of each\nside don t let her touch me with it. Hah! she missed me that time.\nDon t let her throw it over my shoulders. Don t let her lift me up to\nget it round me. She s lifting me up. Keep me down!  Then he lifted\nhimself up hard, and was dead.\n\n Compeyson took it easy as a good riddance for both sides. Him and me\nwas soon busy, and first he swore me (being ever artful) on my own\nbook, this here little black book, dear boy, what I swore your comrade\non.\n\n Not to go into the things that Compeyson planned, and I done which  ud\ntake a week I ll simply say to you, dear boy, and Pip s comrade, that\nthat man got me into such nets as made me his black slave. I was always\nin debt to him, always under his thumb, always a working, always a\ngetting into danger. He was younger than me, but he d got craft, and\nhe d got learning, and he overmatched me five hundred times told and no\nmercy. My Missis as I had the hard time wi Stop though! I ain t\nbrought _her_ in \n\nHe looked about him in a confused way, as if he had lost his place in\nthe book of his remembrance; and he turned his face to the fire, and\nspread his hands broader on his knees, and lifted them off and put them\non again.\n\n There ain t no need to go into it,  he said, looking round once more.\n The time wi  Compeyson was a most as hard a time as ever I had; that\nsaid, all s said. Did I tell you as I was tried, alone, for\nmisdemeanor, while with Compeyson? \n\nI answered, No.\n\n Well!  he said,  I _was_, and got convicted. As to took up on\nsuspicion, that was twice or three times in the four or five year that\nit lasted; but evidence was wanting. At last, me and Compeyson was both\ncommitted for felony, on a charge of putting stolen notes in\ncirculation, and there was other charges behind. Compeyson says to me,\n Separate defences, no communication,  and that was all. And I was so\nmiserable poor, that I sold all the clothes I had, except what hung on\nmy back, afore I could get Jaggers.\n\n When we was put in the dock, I noticed first of all what a gentleman\nCompeyson looked, wi  his curly hair and his black clothes and his\nwhite pocket-handkercher, and what a common sort of a wretch I looked.\nWhen the prosecution opened and the evidence was put short, aforehand,\nI noticed how heavy it all bore on me, and how light on him. When the\nevidence was giv in the box, I noticed how it was always me that had\ncome for ard, and could be swore to, how it was always me that the\nmoney had been paid to, how it was always me that had seemed to work\nthe thing and get the profit. But when the defence come on, then I see\nthe plan plainer; for, says the counsellor for Compeyson,  My lord and\ngentlemen, here you has afore you, side by side, two persons as your\neyes can separate wide; one, the younger, well brought up, who will be\nspoke to as such; one, the elder, ill brought up, who will be spoke to\nas such; one, the younger, seldom if ever seen in these here\ntransactions, and only suspected; t other, the elder, always seen in\n em and always wi  his guilt brought home. Can you doubt, if there is\nbut one in it, which is the one, and, if there is two in it, which is\nmuch the worst one?  And such-like. And when it come to character,\nwarn t it Compeyson as had been to the school, and warn t it his\nschoolfellows as was in this position and in that, and warn t it him as\nhad been know d by witnesses in such clubs and societies, and nowt to\nhis disadvantage? And warn t it me as had been tried afore, and as had\nbeen know d up hill and down dale in Bridewells and Lock-Ups! And when\nit come to speech-making, warn t it Compeyson as could speak to  em wi \nhis face dropping every now and then into his white\npocket-handkercher, ah! and wi  verses in his speech, too, and warn t\nit me as could only say,  Gentlemen, this man at my side is a most\nprecious rascal ? And when the verdict come, warn t it Compeyson as was\nrecommended to mercy on account of good character and bad company, and\ngiving up all the information he could agen me, and warn t it me as got\nnever a word but Guilty? And when I says to Compeyson,  Once out of\nthis court, I ll smash that face of yourn!  ain t it Compeyson as prays\nthe Judge to be protected, and gets two turnkeys stood betwixt us? And\nwhen we re sentenced, ain t it him as gets seven year, and me fourteen,\nand ain t it him as the Judge is sorry for, because he might a done so\nwell, and ain t it me as the Judge perceives to be a old offender of\nwiolent passion, likely to come to worse? \n\nHe had worked himself into a state of great excitement, but he checked\nit, took two or three short breaths, swallowed as often, and stretching\nout his hand towards me said, in a reassuring manner,  I ain t a-going\nto be low, dear boy! \n\nHe had so heated himself that he took out his handkerchief and wiped\nhis face and head and neck and hands, before he could go on.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n I had said to Compeyson that I d smash that face of his, and I swore\nLord smash mine! to do it. We was in the same prison-ship, but I\ncouldn t get at him for long, though I tried. At last I come behind him\nand hit him on the cheek to turn him round and get a smashing one at\nhim, when I was seen and seized. The black-hole of that ship warn t a\nstrong one, to a judge of black-holes that could swim and dive. I\nescaped to the shore, and I was a hiding among the graves there,\nenvying them as was in  em and all over, when I first see my boy! \n\nHe regarded me with a look of affection that made him almost abhorrent\nto me again, though I had felt great pity for him.\n\n By my boy, I was giv to understand as Compeyson was out on them\nmarshes too. Upon my soul, I half believe he escaped in his terror, to\nget quit of me, not knowing it was me as had got ashore. I hunted him\ndown. I smashed his face.  And now,  says I  as the worst thing I can\ndo, caring nothing for myself, I ll drag you back.  And I d have swum\noff, towing him by the hair, if it had come to that, and I d a got him\naboard without the soldiers.\n\n Of course he d much the best of it to the last, his character was so\ngood. He had escaped when he was made half wild by me and my murderous\nintentions; and his punishment was light. I was put in irons, brought\nto trial again, and sent for life. I didn t stop for life, dear boy and\nPip s comrade, being here. \n\nHe wiped himself again, as he had done before, and then slowly took his\ntangle of tobacco from his pocket, and plucked his pipe from his\nbutton-hole, and slowly filled it, and began to smoke.\n\n Is he dead?  I asked, after a silence.\n\n Is who dead, dear boy? \n\n Compeyson. \n\n He hopes _I_ am, if he s alive, you may be sure,  with a fierce look.\n I never heerd no more of him. \n\nHerbert had been writing with his pencil in the cover of a book. He\nsoftly pushed the book over to me, as Provis stood smoking with his\neyes on the fire, and I read in it: \n\n Young Havisham s name was Arthur. Compeyson is the man who professed\nto be Miss Havisham s lover. \n\nI shut the book and nodded slightly to Herbert, and put the book by;\nbut we neither of us said anything, and both looked at Provis as he\nstood smoking by the fire.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIII.\n\n\nWhy should I pause to ask how much of my shrinking from Provis might be\ntraced to Estella? Why should I loiter on my road, to compare the state\nof mind in which I had tried to rid myself of the stain of the prison\nbefore meeting her at the coach-office, with the state of mind in which\nI now reflected on the abyss between Estella in her pride and beauty,\nand the returned transport whom I harboured? The road would be none the\nsmoother for it, the end would be none the better for it, he would not\nbe helped, nor I extenuated.\n\nA new fear had been engendered in my mind by his narrative; or rather,\nhis narrative had given form and purpose to the fear that was already\nthere. If Compeyson were alive and should discover his return, I could\nhardly doubt the consequence. That Compeyson stood in mortal fear of\nhim, neither of the two could know much better than I; and that any\nsuch man as that man had been described to be would hesitate to release\nhimself for good from a dreaded enemy by the safe means of becoming an\ninformer was scarcely to be imagined.\n\nNever had I breathed, and never would I breathe or so I resolved a word\nof Estella to Provis. But, I said to Herbert that, before I could go\nabroad, I must see both Estella and Miss Havisham. This was when we\nwere left alone on the night of the day when Provis told us his story.\nI resolved to go out to Richmond next day, and I went.\n\nOn my presenting myself at Mrs. Brandley s, Estella s maid was called\nto tell that Estella had gone into the country. Where? To Satis House,\nas usual. Not as usual, I said, for she had never yet gone there\nwithout me; when was she coming back? There was an air of reservation\nin the answer which increased my perplexity, and the answer was, that\nher maid believed she was only coming back at all for a little while. I\ncould make nothing of this, except that it was meant that I should make\nnothing of it, and I went home again in complete discomfiture.\n\nAnother night consultation with Herbert after Provis was gone home (I\nalways took him home, and always looked well about me), led us to the\nconclusion that nothing should be said about going abroad until I came\nback from Miss Havisham s. In the mean time, Herbert and I were to\nconsider separately what it would be best to say; whether we should\ndevise any pretence of being afraid that he was under suspicious\nobservation; or whether I, who had never yet been abroad, should\npropose an expedition. We both knew that I had but to propose anything,\nand he would consent. We agreed that his remaining many days in his\npresent hazard was not to be thought of.\n\nNext day I had the meanness to feign that I was under a binding promise\nto go down to Joe; but I was capable of almost any meanness towards Joe\nor his name. Provis was to be strictly careful while I was gone, and\nHerbert was to take the charge of him that I had taken. I was to be\nabsent only one night, and, on my return, the gratification of his\nimpatience for my starting as a gentleman on a greater scale was to be\nbegun. It occurred to me then, and as I afterwards found to Herbert\nalso, that he might be best got away across the water, on that\npretence, as, to make purchases, or the like.\n\nHaving thus cleared the way for my expedition to Miss Havisham s, I set\noff by the early morning coach before it was yet light, and was out on\nthe open country road when the day came creeping on, halting and\nwhimpering and shivering, and wrapped in patches of cloud and rags of\nmist, like a beggar. When we drove up to the Blue Boar after a drizzly\nride, whom should I see come out under the gateway, toothpick in hand,\nto look at the coach, but Bentley Drummle!\n\nAs he pretended not to see me, I pretended not to see him. It was a\nvery lame pretence on both sides; the lamer, because we both went into\nthe coffee-room, where he had just finished his breakfast, and where I\nordered mine. It was poisonous to me to see him in the town, for I very\nwell knew why he had come there.\n\nPretending to read a smeary newspaper long out of date, which had\nnothing half so legible in its local news, as the foreign matter of\ncoffee, pickles, fish sauces, gravy, melted butter, and wine with which\nit was sprinkled all over, as if it had taken the measles in a highly\nirregular form, I sat at my table while he stood before the fire. By\ndegrees it became an enormous injury to me that he stood before the\nfire. And I got up, determined to have my share of it. I had to put my\nhand behind his legs for the poker when I went up to the fireplace to\nstir the fire, but still pretended not to know him.\n\n Is this a cut?  said Mr. Drummle.\n\n Oh!  said I, poker in hand;  it s you, is it? How do you do? I was\nwondering who it was, who kept the fire off. \n\nWith that, I poked tremendously, and having done so, planted myself\nside by side with Mr. Drummle, my shoulders squared and my back to the\nfire.\n\n You have just come down?  said Mr. Drummle, edging me a little away\nwith his shoulder.\n\n Yes,  said I, edging _him_ a little away with _my_ shoulder.\n\n Beastly place,  said Drummle.  Your part of the country, I think? \n\n Yes,  I assented.  I am told it s very like your Shropshire. \n\n Not in the least like it,  said Drummle.\n\nHere Mr. Drummle looked at his boots and I looked at mine, and then Mr.\nDrummle looked at my boots, and I looked at his.\n\n Have you been here long?  I asked, determined not to yield an inch of\nthe fire.\n\n Long enough to be tired of it,  returned Drummle, pretending to yawn,\nbut equally determined.\n\n Do you stay here long? \n\n Can t say,  answered Mr. Drummle.  Do you? \n\n Can t say,  said I.\n\nI felt here, through a tingling in my blood, that if Mr. Drummle s\nshoulder had claimed another hair s breadth of room, I should have\njerked him into the window; equally, that if my own shoulder had urged\na similar claim, Mr. Drummle would have jerked me into the nearest box.\nHe whistled a little. So did I.\n\n Large tract of marshes about here, I believe?  said Drummle.\n\n Yes. What of that?  said I.\n\nMr. Drummle looked at me, and then at my boots, and then said,  Oh! \nand laughed.\n\n Are you amused, Mr. Drummle? \n\n No,  said he,  not particularly. I am going out for a ride in the\nsaddle. I mean to explore those marshes for amusement. Out-of-the-way\nvillages there, they tell me. Curious little public-houses and\nsmithies and that. Waiter! \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Is that horse of mine ready? \n\n Brought round to the door, sir. \n\n I say. Look here, you sir. The lady won t ride to-day; the weather\nwon t do. \n\n Very good, sir. \n\n And I don t dine, because I m going to dine at the lady s. \n\n Very good, sir. \n\nThen, Drummle glanced at me, with an insolent triumph on his\ngreat-jowled face that cut me to the heart, dull as he was, and so\nexasperated me, that I felt inclined to take him in my arms (as the\nrobber in the story-book is said to have taken the old lady) and seat\nhim on the fire.\n\nOne thing was manifest to both of us, and that was, that until relief\ncame, neither of us could relinquish the fire. There we stood, well\nsquared up before it, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot, with our\nhands behind us, not budging an inch. The horse was visible outside in\nthe drizzle at the door, my breakfast was put on the table, Drummle s\nwas cleared away, the waiter invited me to begin, I nodded, we both\nstood our ground.\n\n Have you been to the Grove since?  said Drummle.\n\n No,  said I,  I had quite enough of the Finches the last time I was\nthere. \n\n Was that when we had a difference of opinion? \n\n Yes,  I replied, very shortly.\n\n Come, come! They let you off easily enough,  sneered Drummle.  You\nshouldn t have lost your temper. \n\n Mr. Drummle,  said I,  you are not competent to give advice on that\nsubject. When I lose my temper (not that I admit having done so on that\noccasion), I don t throw glasses. \n\n I do,  said Drummle.\n\nAfter glancing at him once or twice, in an increased state of\nsmouldering ferocity, I said, \n\n Mr. Drummle, I did not seek this conversation, and I don t think it an\nagreeable one. \n\n I am sure it s not,  said he, superciliously over his shoulder;  I\ndon t think anything about it. \n\n And therefore,  I went on,  with your leave, I will suggest that we\nhold no kind of communication in future. \n\n Quite my opinion,  said Drummle,  and what I should have suggested\nmyself, or done more likely without suggesting. But don t lose your\ntemper. Haven t you lost enough without that? \n\n What do you mean, sir? \n\n Waiter!  said Drummle, by way of answering me.\n\nThe waiter reappeared.\n\n Look here, you sir. You quite understand that the young lady don t\nride to-day, and that I dine at the young lady s? \n\n Quite so, sir! \n\nWhen the waiter had felt my fast-cooling teapot with the palm of his\nhand, and had looked imploringly at me, and had gone out, Drummle,\ncareful not to move the shoulder next me, took a cigar from his pocket\nand bit the end off, but showed no sign of stirring. Choking and\nboiling as I was, I felt that we could not go a word further, without\nintroducing Estella s name, which I could not endure to hear him utter;\nand therefore I looked stonily at the opposite wall, as if there were\nno one present, and forced myself to silence. How long we might have\nremained in this ridiculous position it is impossible to say, but for\nthe incursion of three thriving farmers laid on by the waiter, I\nthink who came into the coffee-room unbuttoning their great-coats and\nrubbing their hands, and before whom, as they charged at the fire, we\nwere obliged to give way.\n\nI saw him through the window, seizing his horse s mane, and mounting in\nhis blundering brutal manner, and sidling and backing away. I thought\nhe was gone, when he came back, calling for a light for the cigar in\nhis mouth, which he had forgotten. A man in a dust-coloured dress\nappeared with what was wanted, I could not have said from where:\nwhether from the inn yard, or the street, or where not, and as Drummle\nleaned down from the saddle and lighted his cigar and laughed, with a\njerk of his head towards the coffee-room windows, the slouching\nshoulders and ragged hair of this man whose back was towards me\nreminded me of Orlick.\n\nToo heavily out of sorts to care much at the time whether it were he or\nno, or after all to touch the breakfast, I washed the weather and the\njourney from my face and hands, and went out to the memorable old house\nthat it would have been so much the better for me never to have\nentered, never to have seen.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIV.\n\n\nIn the room where the dressing-table stood, and where the wax-candles\nburnt on the wall, I found Miss Havisham and Estella; Miss Havisham\nseated on a settee near the fire, and Estella on a cushion at her feet.\nEstella was knitting, and Miss Havisham was looking on. They both\nraised their eyes as I went in, and both saw an alteration in me. I\nderived that, from the look they interchanged.\n\n And what wind,  said Miss Havisham,  blows you here, Pip? \n\nThough she looked steadily at me, I saw that she was rather confused.\nEstella, pausing a moment in her knitting with her eyes upon me, and\nthen going on, I fancied that I read in the action of her fingers, as\nplainly as if she had told me in the dumb alphabet, that she perceived\nI had discovered my real benefactor.\n\n Miss Havisham,  said I,  I went to Richmond yesterday, to speak to\nEstella; and finding that some wind had blown _her_ here, I followed. \n\nMiss Havisham motioning to me for the third or fourth time to sit down,\nI took the chair by the dressing-table, which I had often seen her\noccupy. With all that ruin at my feet and about me, it seemed a natural\nplace for me, that day.\n\n What I had to say to Estella, Miss Havisham, I will say before you,\npresently in a few moments. It will not surprise you, it will not\ndisplease you. I am as unhappy as you can ever have meant me to be. \n\nMiss Havisham continued to look steadily at me. I could see in the\naction of Estella s fingers as they worked that she attended to what I\nsaid; but she did not look up.\n\n I have found out who my patron is. It is not a fortunate discovery,\nand is not likely ever to enrich me in reputation, station, fortune,\nanything. There are reasons why I must say no more of that. It is not\nmy secret, but another s. \n\nAs I was silent for a while, looking at Estella and considering how to\ngo on, Miss Havisham repeated,  It is not your secret, but another s.\nWell? \n\n When you first caused me to be brought here, Miss Havisham, when I\nbelonged to the village over yonder, that I wish I had never left, I\nsuppose I did really come here, as any other chance boy might have\ncome, as a kind of servant, to gratify a want or a whim, and to be paid\nfor it? \n\n Ay, Pip,  replied Miss Havisham, steadily nodding her head;  you did. \n\n And that Mr. Jaggers \n\n Mr. Jaggers,  said Miss Havisham, taking me up in a firm tone,  had\nnothing to do with it, and knew nothing of it. His being my lawyer, and\nhis being the lawyer of your patron is a coincidence. He holds the same\nrelation towards numbers of people, and it might easily arise. Be that\nas it may, it did arise, and was not brought about by any one. \n\nAny one might have seen in her haggard face that there was no\nsuppression or evasion so far.\n\n But when I fell into the mistake I have so long remained in, at least\nyou led me on?  said I.\n\n Yes,  she returned, again nodding steadily,  I let you go on. \n\n Was that kind? \n\n Who am I,  cried Miss Havisham, striking her stick upon the floor and\nflashing into wrath so suddenly that Estella glanced up at her in\nsurprise, who am I, for God s sake, that I should be kind? \n\nIt was a weak complaint to have made, and I had not meant to make it. I\ntold her so, as she sat brooding after this outburst.\n\n Well, well, well!  she said.  What else? \n\n I was liberally paid for my old attendance here,  I said, to soothe\nher,  in being apprenticed, and I have asked these questions only for\nmy own information. What follows has another (and I hope more\ndisinterested) purpose. In humouring my mistake, Miss Havisham, you\npunished practised on perhaps you will supply whatever term expresses\nyour intention, without offence your self-seeking relations? \n\n I did. Why, they would have it so! So would you. What has been my\nhistory, that I should be at the pains of entreating either them or you\nnot to have it so! You made your own snares. _I_ never made them. \n\nWaiting until she was quiet again, for this, too, flashed out of her in\na wild and sudden way, I went on.\n\n I have been thrown among one family of your relations, Miss Havisham,\nand have been constantly among them since I went to London. I know them\nto have been as honestly under my delusion as I myself. And I should be\nfalse and base if I did not tell you, whether it is acceptable to you\nor no, and whether you are inclined to give credence to it or no, that\nyou deeply wrong both Mr. Matthew Pocket and his son Herbert, if you\nsuppose them to be otherwise than generous, upright, open, and\nincapable of anything designing or mean. \n\n They are your friends,  said Miss Havisham.\n\n They made themselves my friends,  said I,  when they supposed me to\nhave superseded them; and when Sarah Pocket, Miss Georgiana, and\nMistress Camilla were not my friends, I think. \n\nThis contrasting of them with the rest seemed, I was glad to see, to do\nthem good with her. She looked at me keenly for a little while, and\nthen said quietly, \n\n What do you want for them? \n\n Only,  said I,  that you would not confound them with the others. They\nmay be of the same blood, but, believe me, they are not of the same\nnature. \n\nStill looking at me keenly, Miss Havisham repeated, \n\n What do you want for them? \n\n I am not so cunning, you see,  I said, in answer, conscious that I\nreddened a little,  as that I could hide from you, even if I desired,\nthat I do want something. Miss Havisham, if you would spare the money\nto do my friend Herbert a lasting service in life, but which from the\nnature of the case must be done without his knowledge, I could show you\nhow. \n\n Why must it be done without his knowledge?  she asked, settling her\nhands upon her stick, that she might regard me the more attentively.\n\n Because,  said I,  I began the service myself, more than two years\nago, without his knowledge, and I don t want to be betrayed. Why I fail\nin my ability to finish it, I cannot explain. It is a part of the\nsecret which is another person s and not mine. \n\nShe gradually withdrew her eyes from me, and turned them on the fire.\nAfter watching it for what appeared in the silence and by the light of\nthe slowly wasting candles to be a long time, she was roused by the\ncollapse of some of the red coals, and looked towards me again at\nfirst, vacantly then, with a gradually concentrating attention. All\nthis time Estella knitted on. When Miss Havisham had fixed her\nattention on me, she said, speaking as if there had been no lapse in\nour dialogue, \n\n What else? \n\n Estella,  said I, turning to her now, and trying to command my\ntrembling voice,  you know I love you. You know that I have loved you\nlong and dearly. \n\nShe raised her eyes to my face, on being thus addressed, and her\nfingers plied their work, and she looked at me with an unmoved\ncountenance. I saw that Miss Havisham glanced from me to her, and from\nher to me.\n\n I should have said this sooner, but for my long mistake. It induced me\nto hope that Miss Havisham meant us for one another. While I thought\nyou could not help yourself, as it were, I refrained from saying it.\nBut I must say it now. \n\nPreserving her unmoved countenance, and with her fingers still going,\nEstella shook her head.\n\n I know,  said I, in answer to that action, I know. I have no hope\nthat I shall ever call you mine, Estella. I am ignorant what may become\nof me very soon, how poor I may be, or where I may go. Still, I love\nyou. I have loved you ever since I first saw you in this house. \n\nLooking at me perfectly unmoved and with her fingers busy, she shook\nher head again.\n\n It would have been cruel in Miss Havisham, horribly cruel, to practise\non the susceptibility of a poor boy, and to torture me through all\nthese years with a vain hope and an idle pursuit, if she had reflected\non the gravity of what she did. But I think she did not. I think that,\nin the endurance of her own trial, she forgot mine, Estella. \n\nI saw Miss Havisham put her hand to her heart and hold it there, as she\nsat looking by turns at Estella and at me.\n\n It seems,  said Estella, very calmly,  that there are sentiments,\nfancies, I don t know how to call them, which I am not able to\ncomprehend. When you say you love me, I know what you mean, as a form\nof words; but nothing more. You address nothing in my breast, you touch\nnothing there. I don t care for what you say at all. I have tried to\nwarn you of this; now, have I not? \n\nI said in a miserable manner,  Yes. \n\n Yes. But you would not be warned, for you thought I did not mean it.\nNow, did you not think so? \n\n I thought and hoped you could not mean it. You, so young, untried, and\nbeautiful, Estella! Surely it is not in Nature. \n\n It is in _my_ nature,  she returned. And then she added, with a stress\nupon the words,  It is in the nature formed within me. I make a great\ndifference between you and all other people when I say so much. I can\ndo no more. \n\n Is it not true,  said I,  that Bentley Drummle is in town here, and\npursuing you? \n\n It is quite true,  she replied, referring to him with the indifference\nof utter contempt.\n\n That you encourage him, and ride out with him, and that he dines with\nyou this very day? \n\nShe seemed a little surprised that I should know it, but again replied,\n Quite true. \n\n You cannot love him, Estella! \n\nHer fingers stopped for the first time, as she retorted rather angrily,\n What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do\nnot mean what I say? \n\n You would never marry him, Estella? \n\nShe looked towards Miss Havisham, and considered for a moment with her\nwork in her hands. Then she said,  Why not tell you the truth? I am\ngoing to be married to him. \n\nI dropped my face into my hands, but was able to control myself better\nthan I could have expected, considering what agony it gave me to hear\nher say those words. When I raised my face again, there was such a\nghastly look upon Miss Havisham s, that it impressed me, even in my\npassionate hurry and grief.\n\n Estella, dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this\nfatal step. Put me aside for ever, you have done so, I well know, but\nbestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham\ngives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done\nto the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly\nlove you. Among those few there may be one who loves you even as\ndearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can\nbear it better, for your sake! \n\nMy earnestness awoke a wonder in her that seemed as if it would have\nbeen touched with compassion, if she could have rendered me at all\nintelligible to her own mind.\n\n I am going,  she said again, in a gentler voice,  to be married to\nhim. The preparations for my marriage are making, and I shall be\nmarried soon. Why do you injuriously introduce the name of my mother by\nadoption? It is my own act. \n\n Your own act, Estella, to fling yourself away upon a brute? \n\n On whom should I fling myself away?  she retorted, with a smile.\n Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if\npeople do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is\ndone. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me\ninto what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me\nwait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which\nhas very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say\nno more. We shall never understand each other. \n\n Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!  I urged, in despair.\n\n Don t be afraid of my being a blessing to him,  said Estella;  I shall\nnot be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary\nboy or man? \n\n O Estella!  I answered, as my bitter tears fell fast on her hand, do\nwhat I would to restrain them;  even if I remained in England and could\nhold my head up with the rest, how could I see you Drummle s wife? \n\n Nonsense,  she returned, nonsense. This will pass in no time. \n\n Never, Estella! \n\n You will get me out of your thoughts in a week. \n\n Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You\nhave been in every line I have ever read since I first came here, the\nrough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been\nin every prospect I have ever seen since, on the river, on the sails of\nthe ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the\ndarkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You\nhave been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever\nbecome acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London\nbuildings are made are not more real, or more impossible to be\ndisplaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to\nme, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my\nlife, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the\nlittle good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation, I\nassociate you only with the good; and I will faithfully hold you to\nthat always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me\nfeel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you! \n\nIn what ecstasy of unhappiness I got these broken words out of myself,\nI don t know. The rhapsody welled up within me, like blood from an\ninward wound, and gushed out. I held her hand to my lips some lingering\nmoments, and so I left her. But ever afterwards, I remembered, and soon\nafterwards with stronger reason, that while Estella looked at me merely\nwith incredulous wonder, the spectral figure of Miss Havisham, her hand\nstill covering her heart, seemed all resolved into a ghastly stare of\npity and remorse.\n\nAll done, all gone! So much was done and gone, that when I went out at\nthe gate, the light of the day seemed of a darker colour than when I\nwent in. For a while, I hid myself among some lanes and by-paths, and\nthen struck off to walk all the way to London. For, I had by that time\ncome to myself so far as to consider that I could not go back to the\ninn and see Drummle there; that I could not bear to sit upon the coach\nand be spoken to; that I could do nothing half so good for myself as\ntire myself out.\n\nIt was past midnight when I crossed London Bridge. Pursuing the narrow\nintricacies of the streets which at that time tended westward near the\nMiddlesex shore of the river, my readiest access to the Temple was\nclose by the river-side, through Whitefriars. I was not expected till\nto-morrow; but I had my keys, and, if Herbert were gone to bed, could\nget to bed myself without disturbing him.\n\nAs it seldom happened that I came in at that Whitefriars gate after the\nTemple was closed, and as I was very muddy and weary, I did not take it\nill that the night-porter examined me with much attention as he held\nthe gate a little way open for me to pass in. To help his memory I\nmentioned my name.\n\n I was not quite sure, sir, but I thought so. Here s a note, sir. The\nmessenger that brought it, said would you be so good as read it by my\nlantern? \n\n[Illustration]\n\nMuch surprised by the request, I took the note. It was directed to\nPhilip Pip, Esquire, and on the top of the superscription were the\nwords,  PLEASE READ THIS, HERE.  I opened it, the watchman holding up\nhis light, and read inside, in Wemmick s writing, \n\n DON T GO HOME. \n\n\n\n\nChapter XLV.\n\n\nTurning from the Temple gate as soon as I had read the warning, I made\nthe best of my way to Fleet Street, and there got a late hackney\nchariot and drove to the Hummums in Covent Garden. In those times a bed\nwas always to be got there at any hour of the night, and the\nchamberlain, letting me in at his ready wicket, lighted the candle next\nin order on his shelf, and showed me straight into the bedroom next in\norder on his list. It was a sort of vault on the ground floor at the\nback, with a despotic monster of a four-post bedstead in it, straddling\nover the whole place, putting one of his arbitrary legs into the\nfireplace and another into the doorway, and squeezing the wretched\nlittle washing-stand in quite a Divinely Righteous manner.\n\nAs I had asked for a night-light, the chamberlain had brought me in,\nbefore he left me, the good old constitutional rushlight of those\nvirtuous days an object like the ghost of a walking-cane, which\ninstantly broke its back if it were touched, which nothing could ever\nbe lighted at, and which was placed in solitary confinement at the\nbottom of a high tin tower, perforated with round holes that made a\nstaringly wide-awake pattern on the walls. When I had got into bed, and\nlay there footsore, weary, and wretched, I found that I could no more\nclose my own eyes than I could close the eyes of this foolish Argus.\nAnd thus, in the gloom and death of the night, we stared at one\nanother.\n\nWhat a doleful night! How anxious, how dismal, how long! There was an\ninhospitable smell in the room, of cold soot and hot dust; and, as I\nlooked up into the corners of the tester over my head, I thought what a\nnumber of blue-bottle flies from the butchers , and earwigs from the\nmarket, and grubs from the country, must be holding on up there, lying\nby for next summer. This led me to speculate whether any of them ever\ntumbled down, and then I fancied that I felt light falls on my face, a\ndisagreeable turn of thought, suggesting other and more objectionable\napproaches up my back. When I had lain awake a little while, those\nextraordinary voices with which silence teems began to make themselves\naudible. The closet whispered, the fireplace sighed, the little\nwashing-stand ticked, and one guitar-string played occasionally in the\nchest of drawers. At about the same time, the eyes on the wall acquired\na new expression, and in every one of those staring rounds I saw\nwritten, DON T GO HOME.\n\nWhatever night-fancies and night-noises crowded on me, they never\nwarded off this DON T GO HOME. It plaited itself into whatever I\nthought of, as a bodily pain would have done. Not long before, I had\nread in the newspapers, how a gentleman unknown had come to the Hummums\nin the night, and had gone to bed, and had destroyed himself, and had\nbeen found in the morning weltering in blood. It came into my head that\nhe must have occupied this very vault of mine, and I got out of bed to\nassure myself that there were no red marks about; then opened the door\nto look out into the passages, and cheer myself with the companionship\nof a distant light, near which I knew the chamberlain to be dozing. But\nall this time, why I was not to go home, and what had happened at home,\nand when I should go home, and whether Provis was safe at home, were\nquestions occupying my mind so busily, that one might have supposed\nthere could be no more room in it for any other theme. Even when I\nthought of Estella, and how we had parted that day forever, and when I\nrecalled all the circumstances of our parting, and all her looks and\ntones, and the action of her fingers while she knitted, even then I was\npursuing, here and there and everywhere, the caution, Don t go home.\nWhen at last I dozed, in sheer exhaustion of mind and body, it became a\nvast shadowy verb which I had to conjugate. Imperative mood, present\ntense: Do not thou go home, let him not go home, let us not go home, do\nnot ye or you go home, let not them go home. Then potentially: I may\nnot and I cannot go home; and I might not, could not, would not, and\nshould not go home; until I felt that I was going distracted, and\nrolled over on the pillow, and looked at the staring rounds upon the\nwall again.\n\nI had left directions that I was to be called at seven; for it was\nplain that I must see Wemmick before seeing any one else, and equally\nplain that this was a case in which his Walworth sentiments only could\nbe taken. It was a relief to get out of the room where the night had\nbeen so miserable, and I needed no second knocking at the door to\nstartle me from my uneasy bed.\n\nThe Castle battlements arose upon my view at eight o clock. The little\nservant happening to be entering the fortress with two hot rolls, I\npassed through the postern and crossed the drawbridge in her company,\nand so came without announcement into the presence of Wemmick as he was\nmaking tea for himself and the Aged. An open door afforded a\nperspective view of the Aged in bed.\n\n Halloa, Mr. Pip!  said Wemmick.  You did come home, then? \n\n Yes,  I returned;  but I didn t go home. \n\n That s all right,  said he, rubbing his hands.  I left a note for you\nat each of the Temple gates, on the chance. Which gate did you come\nto? \n\nI told him.\n\n I ll go round to the others in the course of the day and destroy the\nnotes,  said Wemmick;  it s a good rule never to leave documentary\nevidence if you can help it, because you don t know when it may be put\nin. I m going to take a liberty with you. _Would_ you mind toasting\nthis sausage for the Aged P.? \n\nI said I should be delighted to do it.\n\n Then you can go about your work, Mary Anne,  said Wemmick to the\nlittle servant;  which leaves us to ourselves, don t you see, Mr. Pip? \nhe added, winking, as she disappeared.\n\nI thanked him for his friendship and caution, and our discourse\nproceeded in a low tone, while I toasted the Aged s sausage and he\nbuttered the crumb of the Aged s roll.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip, you know,  said Wemmick,  you and I understand one\nanother. We are in our private and personal capacities, and we have\nbeen engaged in a confidential transaction before to-day. Official\nsentiments are one thing. We are extra official. \n\nI cordially assented. I was so very nervous, that I had already lighted\nthe Aged s sausage like a torch, and been obliged to blow it out.\n\n I accidentally heard, yesterday morning,  said Wemmick,  being in a\ncertain place where I once took you, even between you and me, it s as\nwell not to mention names when avoidable \n\n Much better not,  said I.  I understand you. \n\n I heard there by chance, yesterday morning,  said Wemmick,  that a\ncertain person not altogether of uncolonial pursuits, and not\nunpossessed of portable property, I don t know who it may really be, we\nwon t name this person \n\n Not necessary,  said I.\n\n Had made some little stir in a certain part of the world where a good\nmany people go, not always in gratification of their own inclinations,\nand not quite irrespective of the government expense \n\nIn watching his face, I made quite a firework of the Aged s sausage,\nand greatly discomposed both my own attention and Wemmick s; for which\nI apologised.\n\n By disappearing from such place, and being no more heard of\nthereabouts. From which,  said Wemmick,  conjectures had been raised\nand theories formed. I also heard that you at your chambers in Garden\nCourt, Temple, had been watched, and might be watched again. \n\n By whom?  said I.\n\n I wouldn t go into that,  said Wemmick, evasively,  it might clash\nwith official responsibilities. I heard it, as I have in my time heard\nother curious things in the same place. I don t tell it you on\ninformation received. I heard it. \n\nHe took the toasting-fork and sausage from me as he spoke, and set\nforth the Aged s breakfast neatly on a little tray. Previous to placing\nit before him, he went into the Aged s room with a clean white cloth,\nand tied the same under the old gentleman s chin, and propped him up,\nand put his nightcap on one side, and gave him quite a rakish air. Then\nhe placed his breakfast before him with great care, and said,  All\nright, ain t you, Aged P.?  To which the cheerful Aged replied,  All\nright, John, my boy, all right!  As there seemed to be a tacit\nunderstanding that the Aged was not in a presentable state, and was\ntherefore to be considered invisible, I made a pretence of being in\ncomplete ignorance of these proceedings.\n\n This watching of me at my chambers (which I have once had reason to\nsuspect),  I said to Wemmick when he came back,  is inseparable from\nthe person to whom you have adverted; is it? \n\nWemmick looked very serious.  I couldn t undertake to say that, of my\nown knowledge. I mean, I couldn t undertake to say it was at first. But\nit either is, or it will be, or it s in great danger of being. \n\nAs I saw that he was restrained by fealty to Little Britain from saying\nas much as he could, and as I knew with thankfulness to him how far out\nof his way he went to say what he did, I could not press him. But I\ntold him, after a little meditation over the fire, that I would like to\nask him a question, subject to his answering or not answering, as he\ndeemed right, and sure that his course would be right. He paused in his\nbreakfast, and crossing his arms, and pinching his shirt-sleeves (his\nnotion of in-door comfort was to sit without any coat), he nodded to me\nonce, to put my question.\n\n You have heard of a man of bad character, whose true name is\nCompeyson? \n\nHe answered with one other nod.\n\n Is he living? \n\nOne other nod.\n\n Is he in London? \n\nHe gave me one other nod, compressed the post-office exceedingly, gave\nme one last nod, and went on with his breakfast.\n\n Now,  said Wemmick,  questioning being over,  which he emphasised and\nrepeated for my guidance,  I come to what I did, after hearing what I\nheard. I went to Garden Court to find you; not finding you, I went to\nClarriker s to find Mr. Herbert. \n\n And him you found?  said I, with great anxiety.\n\n And him I found. Without mentioning any names or going into any\ndetails, I gave him to understand that if he was aware of anybody Tom,\nJack, or Richard being about the chambers, or about the immediate\nneighbourhood, he had better get Tom, Jack, or Richard out of the way\nwhile you were out of the way. \n\n He would be greatly puzzled what to do? \n\n He _was_ puzzled what to do; not the less, because I gave him my\nopinion that it was not safe to try to get Tom, Jack, or Richard too\nfar out of the way at present. Mr. Pip, I ll tell you something. Under\nexisting circumstances, there is no place like a great city when you\nare once in it. Don t break cover too soon. Lie close. Wait till things\nslacken, before you try the open, even for foreign air. \n\nI thanked him for his valuable advice, and asked him what Herbert had\ndone?\n\n Mr. Herbert,  said Wemmick,  after being all of a heap for half an\nhour, struck out a plan. He mentioned to me as a secret, that he is\ncourting a young lady who has, as no doubt you are aware, a bedridden\nPa. Which Pa, having been in the Purser line of life, lies a-bed in a\nbow-window where he can see the ships sail up and down the river. You\nare acquainted with the young lady, most probably? \n\n Not personally,  said I.\n\nThe truth was, that she had objected to me as an expensive companion\nwho did Herbert no good, and that, when Herbert had first proposed to\npresent me to her, she had received the proposal with such very\nmoderate warmth, that Herbert had felt himself obliged to confide the\nstate of the case to me, with a view to the lapse of a little time\nbefore I made her acquaintance. When I had begun to advance Herbert s\nprospects by stealth, I had been able to bear this with cheerful\nphilosophy: he and his affianced, for their part, had naturally not\nbeen very anxious to introduce a third person into their interviews;\nand thus, although I was assured that I had risen in Clara s esteem,\nand although the young lady and I had long regularly interchanged\nmessages and remembrances by Herbert, I had never seen her. However, I\ndid not trouble Wemmick with these particulars.\n\n The house with the bow-window,  said Wemmick,  being by the\nriver-side, down the Pool there between Limehouse and Greenwich, and\nbeing kept, it seems, by a very respectable widow who has a furnished\nupper floor to let, Mr. Herbert put it to me, what did I think of that\nas a temporary tenement for Tom, Jack, or Richard? Now, I thought very\nwell of it, for three reasons I ll give you. That is to say: _Firstly_.\nIt s altogether out of all your beats, and is well away from the usual\nheap of streets great and small. _Secondly_. Without going near it\nyourself, you could always hear of the safety of Tom, Jack, or Richard,\nthrough Mr. Herbert. _Thirdly_. After a while and when it might be\nprudent, if you should want to slip Tom, Jack, or Richard on board a\nforeign packet-boat, there he is ready. \n\nMuch comforted by these considerations, I thanked Wemmick again and\nagain, and begged him to proceed.\n\n Well, sir! Mr. Herbert threw himself into the business with a will,\nand by nine o clock last night he housed Tom, Jack, or\nRichard, whichever it may be, you and I don t want to know, quite\nsuccessfully. At the old lodgings it was understood that he was\nsummoned to Dover, and, in fact, he was taken down the Dover road and\ncornered out of it. Now, another great advantage of all this is, that\nit was done without you, and when, if any one was concerning himself\nabout your movements, you must be known to be ever so many miles off\nand quite otherwise engaged. This diverts suspicion and confuses it;\nand for the same reason I recommended that, even if you came back last\nnight, you should not go home. It brings in more confusion, and you\nwant confusion. \n\nWemmick, having finished his breakfast, here looked at his watch, and\nbegan to get his coat on.\n\n And now, Mr. Pip,  said he, with his hands still in the sleeves,  I\nhave probably done the most I can do; but if I can ever do more, from a\nWalworth point of view, and in a strictly private and personal\ncapacity, I shall be glad to do it. Here s the address. There can be no\nharm in your going here to-night, and seeing for yourself that all is\nwell with Tom, Jack, or Richard, before you go home, which is another\nreason for your not going home last night. But, after you have gone\nhome, don t go back here. You are very welcome, I am sure, Mr. Pip ;\nhis hands were now out of his sleeves, and I was shaking them;  and let\nme finally impress one important point upon you.  He laid his hands\nupon my shoulders, and added in a solemn whisper:  Avail yourself of\nthis evening to lay hold of his portable property. You don t know what\nmay happen to him. Don t let anything happen to the portable property. \n\nQuite despairing of making my mind clear to Wemmick on this point, I\nforbore to try.\n\n Time s up,  said Wemmick,  and I must be off. If you had nothing more\npressing to do than to keep here till dark, that s what I should\nadvise. You look very much worried, and it would do you good to have a\nperfectly quiet day with the Aged, he ll be up presently, and a little\nbit of you remember the pig? \n\n Of course,  said I.\n\n Well; and a little bit of _him_. That sausage you toasted was his, and\nhe was in all respects a first-rater. Do try him, if it is only for old\nacquaintance sake. Good-bye, Aged Parent!  in a cheery shout.\n\n All right, John; all right, my boy!  piped the old man from within.\n\nI soon fell asleep before Wemmick s fire, and the Aged and I enjoyed\none another s society by falling asleep before it more or less all day.\nWe had loin of pork for dinner, and greens grown on the estate; and I\nnodded at the Aged with a good intention whenever I failed to do it\ndrowsily. When it was quite dark, I left the Aged preparing the fire\nfor toast; and I inferred from the number of teacups, as well as from\nhis glances at the two little doors in the wall, that Miss Skiffins was\nexpected.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVI.\n\n\nEight o clock had struck before I got into the air, that was scented,\nnot disagreeably, by the chips and shavings of the long-shore\nboat-builders, and mast, oar, and block makers. All that water-side\nregion of the upper and lower Pool below Bridge was unknown ground to\nme; and when I struck down by the river, I found that the spot I wanted\nwas not where I had supposed it to be, and was anything but easy to\nfind. It was called Mill Pond Bank, Chinks s Basin; and I had no other\nguide to Chinks s Basin than the Old Green Copper Rope-walk.\n\nIt matters not what stranded ships repairing in dry docks I lost myself\namong, what old hulls of ships in course of being knocked to pieces,\nwhat ooze and slime and other dregs of tide, what yards of\nship-builders and ship-breakers, what rusty anchors blindly biting into\nthe ground, though for years off duty, what mountainous country of\naccumulated casks and timber, how many rope-walks that were not the Old\nGreen Copper. After several times falling short of my destination and\nas often overshooting it, I came unexpectedly round a corner, upon Mill\nPond Bank. It was a fresh kind of place, all circumstances considered,\nwhere the wind from the river had room to turn itself round; and there\nwere two or three trees in it, and there was the stump of a ruined\nwindmill, and there was the Old Green Copper Rope-walk, whose long and\nnarrow vista I could trace in the moonlight, along a series of wooden\nframes set in the ground, that looked like superannuated\nhaymaking-rakes which had grown old and lost most of their teeth.\n\nSelecting from the few queer houses upon Mill Pond Bank a house with a\nwooden front and three stories of bow-window (not bay-window, which is\nanother thing), I looked at the plate upon the door, and read there,\nMrs. Whimple. That being the name I wanted, I knocked, and an elderly\nwoman of a pleasant and thriving appearance responded. She was\nimmediately deposed, however, by Herbert, who silently led me into the\nparlour and shut the door. It was an odd sensation to see his very\nfamiliar face established quite at home in that very unfamiliar room\nand region; and I found myself looking at him, much as I looked at the\ncorner-cupboard with the glass and china, the shells upon the\nchimney-piece, and the coloured engravings on the wall, representing\nthe death of Captain Cook, a ship-launch, and his Majesty King George\nthe Third in a state coachman s wig, leather-breeches, and top-boots,\non the terrace at Windsor.\n\n All is well, Handel,  said Herbert,  and he is quite satisfied, though\neager to see you. My dear girl is with her father; and if you ll wait\ntill she comes down, I ll make you known to her, and then we ll go\nupstairs. _That s_ her father. \n\nI had become aware of an alarming growling overhead, and had probably\nexpressed the fact in my countenance.\n\n I am afraid he is a sad old rascal,  said Herbert, smiling,  but I\nhave never seen him. Don t you smell rum? He is always at it. \n\n At rum?  said I.\n\n Yes,  returned Herbert,  and you may suppose how mild it makes his\ngout. He persists, too, in keeping all the provisions upstairs in his\nroom, and serving them out. He keeps them on shelves over his head, and\n_will_ weigh them all. His room must be like a chandler s shop. \n\nWhile he thus spoke, the growling noise became a prolonged roar, and\nthen died away.\n\n What else can be the consequence,  said Herbert, in explanation,  if\nhe _will_ cut the cheese? A man with the gout in his right hand and\neverywhere else can t expect to get through a Double Gloucester without\nhurting himself. \n\nHe seemed to have hurt himself very much, for he gave another furious\nroar.\n\n To have Provis for an upper lodger is quite a godsend to Mrs.\nWhimple,  said Herbert,  for of course people in general won t stand\nthat noise. A curious place, Handel; isn t it? \n\nIt was a curious place, indeed; but remarkably well kept and clean.\n\n Mrs. Whimple,  said Herbert, when I told him so,  is the best of\nhousewives, and I really do not know what my Clara would do without her\nmotherly help. For, Clara has no mother of her own, Handel, and no\nrelation in the world but old Gruffandgrim. \n\n Surely that s not his name, Herbert? \n\n No, no,  said Herbert,  that s my name for him. His name is Mr.\nBarley. But what a blessing it is for the son of my father and mother\nto love a girl who has no relations, and who can never bother herself\nor anybody else about her family! \n\nHerbert had told me on former occasions, and now reminded me, that he\nfirst knew Miss Clara Barley when she was completing her education at\nan establishment at Hammersmith, and that on her being recalled home to\nnurse her father, he and she had confided their affection to the\nmotherly Mrs. Whimple, by whom it had been fostered and regulated with\nequal kindness and discretion, ever since. It was understood that\nnothing of a tender nature could possibly be confided to old Barley, by\nreason of his being totally unequal to the consideration of any subject\nmore psychological than Gout, Rum, and Purser s stores.\n\nAs we were thus conversing in a low tone while Old Barley s sustained\ngrowl vibrated in the beam that crossed the ceiling, the room door\nopened, and a very pretty, slight, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so came\nin with a basket in her hand: whom Herbert tenderly relieved of the\nbasket, and presented, blushing, as  Clara.  She really was a most\ncharming girl, and might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that\ntruculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service.\n\n Look here,  said Herbert, showing me the basket, with a compassionate\nand tender smile, after we had talked a little;  here s poor Clara s\nsupper, served out every night. Here s her allowance of bread, and\nhere s her slice of cheese, and here s her rum, which I drink. This is\nMr. Barley s breakfast for to-morrow, served out to be cooked. Two\nmutton-chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, two\nounces of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper. It s\nstewed up together, and taken hot, and it s a nice thing for the gout,\nI should think! \n\nThere was something so natural and winning in Clara s resigned way of\nlooking at these stores in detail, as Herbert pointed them out; and\nsomething so confiding, loving, and innocent in her modest manner of\nyielding herself to Herbert s embracing arm; and something so gentle in\nher, so much needing protection on Mill Pond Bank, by Chinks s Basin,\nand the Old Green Copper Rope-walk, with Old Barley growling in the\nbeam, that I would not have undone the engagement between her and\nHerbert for all the money in the pocket-book I had never opened.\n\nI was looking at her with pleasure and admiration, when suddenly the\ngrowl swelled into a roar again, and a frightful bumping noise was\nheard above, as if a giant with a wooden leg were trying to bore it\nthrough the ceiling to come at us. Upon this Clara said to Herbert,\n Papa wants me, darling!  and ran away.\n\n There is an unconscionable old shark for you!  said Herbert.  What do\nyou suppose he wants now, Handel? \n\n I don t know,  said I.  Something to drink? \n\n That s it!  cried Herbert, as if I had made a guess of extraordinary\nmerit.  He keeps his grog ready mixed in a little tub on the table.\nWait a moment, and you ll hear Clara lift him up to take some. There he\ngoes!  Another roar, with a prolonged shake at the end.  Now,  said\nHerbert, as it was succeeded by silence,  he s drinking. Now,  said\nHerbert, as the growl resounded in the beam once more,  he s down again\non his back! \n\nClara returned soon afterwards, and Herbert accompanied me upstairs to\nsee our charge. As we passed Mr. Barley s door, he was heard hoarsely\nmuttering within, in a strain that rose and fell like wind, the\nfollowing Refrain, in which I substitute good wishes for something\nquite the reverse: \n\n Ahoy! Bless your eyes, here s old Bill Barley. Here s old Bill Barley,\nbless your eyes. Here s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the\nLord. Lying on the flat of his back like a drifting old dead flounder,\nhere s your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy! Bless you. \n\nIn this strain of consolation, Herbert informed me the invisible Barley\nwould commune with himself by the day and night together; Often, while\nit was light, having, at the same time, one eye at a telescope which\nwas fitted on his bed for the convenience of sweeping the river.\n\nIn his two cabin rooms at the top of the house, which were fresh and\nairy, and in which Mr. Barley was less audible than below, I found\nProvis comfortably settled. He expressed no alarm, and seemed to feel\nnone that was worth mentioning; but it struck me that he was\nsoftened, indefinably, for I could not have said how, and could never\nafterwards recall how when I tried, but certainly.\n\nThe opportunity that the day s rest had given me for reflection had\nresulted in my fully determining to say nothing to him respecting\nCompeyson. For anything I knew, his animosity towards the man might\notherwise lead to his seeking him out and rushing on his own\ndestruction. Therefore, when Herbert and I sat down with him by his\nfire, I asked him first of all whether he relied on Wemmick s judgment\nand sources of information?\n\n Ay, ay, dear boy!  he answered, with a grave nod,  Jaggers knows. \n\n Then, I have talked with Wemmick,  said I,  and have come to tell you\nwhat caution he gave me and what advice. \n\nThis I did accurately, with the reservation just mentioned; and I told\nhim how Wemmick had heard, in Newgate prison (whether from officers or\nprisoners I could not say), that he was under some suspicion, and that\nmy chambers had been watched; how Wemmick had recommended his keeping\nclose for a time, and my keeping away from him; and what Wemmick had\nsaid about getting him abroad. I added, that of course, when the time\ncame, I should go with him, or should follow close upon him, as might\nbe safest in Wemmick s judgment. What was to follow that I did not\ntouch upon; neither, indeed, was I at all clear or comfortable about it\nin my own mind, now that I saw him in that softer condition, and in\ndeclared peril for my sake. As to altering my way of living by\nenlarging my expenses, I put it to him whether in our present unsettled\nand difficult circumstances, it would not be simply ridiculous, if it\nwere no worse?\n\nHe could not deny this, and indeed was very reasonable throughout. His\ncoming back was a venture, he said, and he had always known it to be a\nventure. He would do nothing to make it a desperate venture, and he had\nvery little fear of his safety with such good help.\n\nHerbert, who had been looking at the fire and pondering, here said that\nsomething had come into his thoughts arising out of Wemmick s\nsuggestion, which it might be worth while to pursue.  We are both good\nwatermen, Handel, and could take him down the river ourselves when the\nright time comes. No boat would then be hired for the purpose, and no\nboatmen; that would save at least a chance of suspicion, and any chance\nis worth saving. Never mind the season; don t you think it might be a\ngood thing if you began at once to keep a boat at the Temple stairs,\nand were in the habit of rowing up and down the river? You fall into\nthat habit, and then who notices or minds? Do it twenty or fifty times,\nand there is nothing special in your doing it the twenty-first or\nfifty-first. \n\nI liked this scheme, and Provis was quite elated by it. We agreed that\nit should be carried into execution, and that Provis should never\nrecognise us if we came below Bridge, and rowed past Mill Pond Bank.\nBut we further agreed that he should pull down the blind in that part\nof his window which gave upon the east, whenever he saw us and all was\nright.\n\nOur conference being now ended, and everything arranged, I rose to go;\nremarking to Herbert that he and I had better not go home together, and\nthat I would take half an hour s start of him.  I don t like to leave\nyou here,  I said to Provis,  though I cannot doubt your being safer\nhere than near me. Good-bye! \n\n Dear boy,  he answered, clasping my hands,  I don t know when we may\nmeet again, and I don t like good-bye. Say good-night! \n\n Good-night! Herbert will go regularly between us, and when the time\ncomes you may be certain I shall be ready. Good-night, good-night! \n\nWe thought it best that he should stay in his own rooms; and we left\nhim on the landing outside his door, holding a light over the\nstair-rail to light us downstairs. Looking back at him, I thought of\nthe first night of his return, when our positions were reversed, and\nwhen I little supposed my heart could ever be as heavy and anxious at\nparting from him as it was now.\n\nOld Barley was growling and swearing when we repassed his door, with no\nappearance of having ceased or of meaning to cease. When we got to the\nfoot of the stairs, I asked Herbert whether he had preserved the name\nof Provis. He replied, certainly not, and that the lodger was Mr.\nCampbell. He also explained that the utmost known of Mr. Campbell there\nwas, that he (Herbert) had Mr. Campbell consigned to him, and felt a\nstrong personal interest in his being well cared for, and living a\nsecluded life. So, when we went into the parlour where Mrs. Whimple and\nClara were seated at work, I said nothing of my own interest in Mr.\nCampbell, but kept it to myself.\n\nWhen I had taken leave of the pretty, gentle, dark-eyed girl, and of\nthe motherly woman who had not outlived her honest sympathy with a\nlittle affair of true love, I felt as if the Old Green Copper Rope-walk\nhad grown quite a different place. Old Barley might be as old as the\nhills, and might swear like a whole field of troopers, but there were\nredeeming youth and trust and hope enough in Chinks s Basin to fill it\nto overflowing. And then I thought of Estella, and of our parting, and\nwent home very sadly.\n\nAll things were as quiet in the Temple as ever I had seen them. The\nwindows of the rooms on that side, lately occupied by Provis, were dark\nand still, and there was no lounger in Garden Court. I walked past the\nfountain twice or thrice before I descended the steps that were between\nme and my rooms, but I was quite alone. Herbert, coming to my bedside\nwhen he came in, for I went straight to bed, dispirited and\nfatigued, made the same report. Opening one of the windows after that,\nhe looked out into the moonlight, and told me that the pavement was as\nsolemnly empty as the pavement of any cathedral at that same hour.\n\nNext day I set myself to get the boat. It was soon done, and the boat\nwas brought round to the Temple stairs, and lay where I could reach her\nwithin a minute or two. Then, I began to go out as for training and\npractice: sometimes alone, sometimes with Herbert. I was often out in\ncold, rain, and sleet, but nobody took much note of me after I had been\nout a few times. At first, I kept above Blackfriars Bridge; but as the\nhours of the tide changed, I took towards London Bridge. It was Old\nLondon Bridge in those days, and at certain states of the tide there\nwas a race and fall of water there which gave it a bad reputation. But\nI knew well enough how to  shoot  the bridge after seeing it done, and\nso began to row about among the shipping in the Pool, and down to\nErith. The first time I passed Mill Pond Bank, Herbert and I were\npulling a pair of oars; and, both in going and returning, we saw the\nblind towards the east come down. Herbert was rarely there less\nfrequently than three times in a week, and he never brought me a single\nword of intelligence that was at all alarming. Still, I knew that there\nwas cause for alarm, and I could not get rid of the notion of being\nwatched. Once received, it is a haunting idea; how many undesigning\npersons I suspected of watching me, it would be hard to calculate.\n\nIn short, I was always full of fears for the rash man who was in\nhiding. Herbert had sometimes said to me that he found it pleasant to\nstand at one of our windows after dark, when the tide was running down,\nand to think that it was flowing, with everything it bore, towards\nClara. But I thought with dread that it was flowing towards Magwitch,\nand that any black mark on its surface might be his pursuers, going\nswiftly, silently, and surely, to take him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVII.\n\n\nSome weeks passed without bringing any change. We waited for Wemmick,\nand he made no sign. If I had never known him out of Little Britain,\nand had never enjoyed the privilege of being on a familiar footing at\nthe Castle, I might have doubted him; not so for a moment, knowing him\nas I did.\n\nMy worldly affairs began to wear a gloomy appearance, and I was pressed\nfor money by more than one creditor. Even I myself began to know the\nwant of money (I mean of ready money in my own pocket), and to relieve\nit by converting some easily spared articles of jewelery into cash. But\nI had quite determined that it would be a heartless fraud to take more\nmoney from my patron in the existing state of my uncertain thoughts and\nplans. Therefore, I had sent him the unopened pocket-book by Herbert,\nto hold in his own keeping, and I felt a kind of satisfaction whether\nit was a false kind or a true, I hardly know in not having profited by\nhis generosity since his revelation of himself.\n\nAs the time wore on, an impression settled heavily upon me that Estella\nwas married. Fearful of having it confirmed, though it was all but a\nconviction, I avoided the newspapers, and begged Herbert (to whom I had\nconfided the circumstances of our last interview) never to speak of her\nto me. Why I hoarded up this last wretched little rag of the robe of\nhope that was rent and given to the winds, how do I know? Why did you\nwho read this, commit that not dissimilar inconsistency of your own\nlast year, last month, last week?\n\nIt was an unhappy life that I lived; and its one dominant anxiety,\ntowering over all its other anxieties, like a high mountain above a\nrange of mountains, never disappeared from my view. Still, no new cause\nfor fear arose. Let me start from my bed as I would, with the terror\nfresh upon me that he was discovered; let me sit listening, as I would\nwith dread, for Herbert s returning step at night, lest it should be\nfleeter than ordinary, and winged with evil news, for all that, and\nmuch more to like purpose, the round of things went on. Condemned to\ninaction and a state of constant restlessness and suspense, I rowed\nabout in my boat, and waited, waited, waited, as I best could.\n\nThere were states of the tide when, having been down the river, I could\nnot get back through the eddy-chafed arches and starlings of old London\nBridge; then, I left my boat at a wharf near the Custom House, to be\nbrought up afterwards to the Temple stairs. I was not averse to doing\nthis, as it served to make me and my boat a commoner incident among the\nwater-side people there. From this slight occasion sprang two meetings\nthat I have now to tell of.\n\nOne afternoon, late in the month of February, I came ashore at the\nwharf at dusk. I had pulled down as far as Greenwich with the ebb tide,\nand had turned with the tide. It had been a fine bright day, but had\nbecome foggy as the sun dropped, and I had had to feel my way back\namong the shipping, pretty carefully. Both in going and returning, I\nhad seen the signal in his window, All well.\n\nAs it was a raw evening, and I was cold, I thought I would comfort\nmyself with dinner at once; and as I had hours of dejection and\nsolitude before me if I went home to the Temple, I thought I would\nafterwards go to the play. The theatre where Mr. Wopsle had achieved\nhis questionable triumph was in that water-side neighbourhood (it is\nnowhere now), and to that theatre I resolved to go. I was aware that\nMr. Wopsle had not succeeded in reviving the Drama, but, on the\ncontrary, had rather partaken of its decline. He had been ominously\nheard of, through the play-bills, as a faithful Black, in connection\nwith a little girl of noble birth, and a monkey. And Herbert had seen\nhim as a predatory Tartar of comic propensities, with a face like a red\nbrick, and an outrageous hat all over bells.\n\nI dined at what Herbert and I used to call a geographical chop-house,\nwhere there were maps of the world in porter-pot rims on every\nhalf-yard of the tablecloths, and charts of gravy on every one of the\nknives, to this day there is scarcely a single chop-house within the\nLord Mayor s dominions which is not geographical, and wore out the time\nin dozing over crumbs, staring at gas, and baking in a hot blast of\ndinners. By and by, I roused myself, and went to the play.\n\nThere, I found a virtuous boatswain in His Majesty s service, a most\nexcellent man, though I could have wished his trousers not quite so\ntight in some places, and not quite so loose in others, who knocked all\nthe little men s hats over their eyes, though he was very generous and\nbrave, and who wouldn t hear of anybody s paying taxes, though he was\nvery patriotic. He had a bag of money in his pocket, like a pudding in\nthe cloth, and on that property married a young person in\nbed-furniture, with great rejoicings; the whole population of\nPortsmouth (nine in number at the last census) turning out on the beach\nto rub their own hands and shake everybody else s, and sing  Fill,\nfill!  A certain dark-complexioned Swab, however, who wouldn t fill, or\ndo anything else that was proposed to him, and whose heart was openly\nstated (by the boatswain) to be as black as his figure-head, proposed\nto two other Swabs to get all mankind into difficulties; which was so\neffectually done (the Swab family having considerable political\ninfluence) that it took half the evening to set things right, and then\nit was only brought about through an honest little grocer with a white\nhat, black gaiters, and red nose, getting into a clock, with a\ngridiron, and listening, and coming out, and knocking everybody down\nfrom behind with the gridiron whom he couldn t confute with what he had\noverheard. This led to Mr. Wopsle s (who had never been heard of\nbefore) coming in with a star and garter on, as a plenipotentiary of\ngreat power direct from the Admiralty, to say that the Swabs were all\nto go to prison on the spot, and that he had brought the boatswain down\nthe Union Jack, as a slight acknowledgment of his public services. The\nboatswain, unmanned for the first time, respectfully dried his eyes on\nthe Jack, and then cheering up, and addressing Mr. Wopsle as Your\nHonour, solicited permission to take him by the fin. Mr. Wopsle,\nconceding his fin with a gracious dignity, was immediately shoved into\na dusty corner, while everybody danced a hornpipe; and from that\ncorner, surveying the public with a discontented eye, became aware of\nme.\n\nThe second piece was the last new grand comic Christmas pantomime, in\nthe first scene of which, it pained me to suspect that I detected Mr.\nWopsle with red worsted legs under a highly magnified phosphoric\ncountenance and a shock of red curtain-fringe for his hair, engaged in\nthe manufacture of thunderbolts in a mine, and displaying great\ncowardice when his gigantic master came home (very hoarse) to dinner.\nBut he presently presented himself under worthier circumstances; for,\nthe Genius of Youthful Love being in want of assistance, on account of\nthe parental brutality of an ignorant farmer who opposed the choice of\nhis daughter s heart, by purposely falling upon the object, in a\nflour-sack, out of the first-floor window, summoned a sententious\nEnchanter; and he, coming up from the antipodes rather unsteadily,\nafter an apparently violent journey, proved to be Mr. Wopsle in a\nhigh-crowned hat, with a necromantic work in one volume under his arm.\nThe business of this enchanter on earth being principally to be talked\nat, sung at, butted at, danced at, and flashed at with fires of various\ncolours, he had a good deal of time on his hands. And I observed, with\ngreat surprise, that he devoted it to staring in my direction as if he\nwere lost in amazement.\n\nThere was something so remarkable in the increasing glare of Mr.\nWopsle s eye, and he seemed to be turning so many things over in his\nmind and to grow so confused, that I could not make it out. I sat\nthinking of it long after he had ascended to the clouds in a large\nwatch-case, and still I could not make it out. I was still thinking of\nit when I came out of the theatre an hour afterwards, and found him\nwaiting for me near the door.\n\n How do you do?  said I, shaking hands with him as we turned down the\nstreet together.  I saw that you saw me. \n\n Saw you, Mr. Pip!  he returned.  Yes, of course I saw you. But who\nelse was there? \n\n Who else? \n\n It is the strangest thing,  said Mr. Wopsle, drifting into his lost\nlook again;  and yet I could swear to him. \n\nBecoming alarmed, I entreated Mr. Wopsle to explain his meaning.\n\n Whether I should have noticed him at first but for your being there, \nsaid Mr. Wopsle, going on in the same lost way,  I can t be positive;\nyet I think I should. \n\nInvoluntarily I looked round me, as I was accustomed to look round me\nwhen I went home; for these mysterious words gave me a chill.\n\n Oh! He can t be in sight,  said Mr. Wopsle.  He went out before I went\noff. I saw him go. \n\nHaving the reason that I had for being suspicious, I even suspected\nthis poor actor. I mistrusted a design to entrap me into some\nadmission. Therefore I glanced at him as we walked on together, but\nsaid nothing.\n\n I had a ridiculous fancy that he must be with you, Mr. Pip, till I saw\nthat you were quite unconscious of him, sitting behind you there like a\nghost. \n\nMy former chill crept over me again, but I was resolved not to speak\nyet, for it was quite consistent with his words that he might be set on\nto induce me to connect these references with Provis. Of course, I was\nperfectly sure and safe that Provis had not been there.\n\n I dare say you wonder at me, Mr. Pip; indeed, I see you do. But it is\nso very strange! You ll hardly believe what I am going to tell you. I\ncould hardly believe it myself, if you told me. \n\n Indeed?  said I.\n\n No, indeed. Mr. Pip, you remember in old times a certain Christmas\nDay, when you were quite a child, and I dined at Gargery s, and some\nsoldiers came to the door to get a pair of handcuffs mended? \n\n I remember it very well. \n\n And you remember that there was a chase after two convicts, and that\nwe joined in it, and that Gargery took you on his back, and that I took\nthe lead, and you kept up with me as well as you could? \n\n I remember it all very well.  Better than he thought, except the last\nclause.\n\n And you remember that we came up with the two in a ditch, and that\nthere was a scuffle between them, and that one of them had been\nseverely handled and much mauled about the face by the other? \n\n I see it all before me. \n\n And that the soldiers lighted torches, and put the two in the centre,\nand that we went on to see the last of them, over the black marshes,\nwith the torchlight shining on their faces, I am particular about\nthat, with the torchlight shining on their faces, when there was an\nouter ring of dark night all about us? \n\n Yes,  said I.  I remember all that. \n\n Then, Mr. Pip, one of those two prisoners sat behind you tonight. I\nsaw him over your shoulder. \n\n Steady!  I thought. I asked him then,  Which of the two do you suppose\nyou saw? \n\n The one who had been mauled,  he answered readily,  and I ll swear I\nsaw him! The more I think of him, the more certain I am of him. \n\n This is very curious!  said I, with the best assumption I could put on\nof its being nothing more to me.  Very curious indeed! \n\nI cannot exaggerate the enhanced disquiet into which this conversation\nthrew me, or the special and peculiar terror I felt at Compeyson s\nhaving been behind me  like a ghost.  For if he had ever been out of my\nthoughts for a few moments together since the hiding had begun, it was\nin those very moments when he was closest to me; and to think that I\nshould be so unconscious and off my guard after all my care was as if I\nhad shut an avenue of a hundred doors to keep him out, and then had\nfound him at my elbow. I could not doubt, either, that he was there,\nbecause I was there, and that, however slight an appearance of danger\nthere might be about us, danger was always near and active.\n\nI put such questions to Mr. Wopsle as, When did the man come in? He\ncould not tell me that; he saw me, and over my shoulder he saw the man.\nIt was not until he had seen him for some time that he began to\nidentify him; but he had from the first vaguely associated him with me,\nand known him as somehow belonging to me in the old village time. How\nwas he dressed? Prosperously, but not noticeably otherwise; he thought,\nin black. Was his face at all disfigured? No, he believed not. I\nbelieved not too, for, although in my brooding state I had taken no\nespecial notice of the people behind me, I thought it likely that a\nface at all disfigured would have attracted my attention.\n\nWhen Mr. Wopsle had imparted to me all that he could recall or I\nextract, and when I had treated him to a little appropriate\nrefreshment, after the fatigues of the evening, we parted. It was\nbetween twelve and one o clock when I reached the Temple, and the gates\nwere shut. No one was near me when I went in and went home.\n\nHerbert had come in, and we held a very serious council by the fire.\nBut there was nothing to be done, saving to communicate to Wemmick what\nI had that night found out, and to remind him that we waited for his\nhint. As I thought that I might compromise him if I went too often to\nthe Castle, I made this communication by letter. I wrote it before I\nwent to bed, and went out and posted it; and again no one was near me.\nHerbert and I agreed that we could do nothing else but be very\ncautious. And we were very cautious indeed, more cautious than before,\nif that were possible, and I for my part never went near Chinks s\nBasin, except when I rowed by, and then I only looked at Mill Pond Bank\nas I looked at anything else.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVIII.\n\n\nThe second of the two meetings referred to in the last chapter occurred\nabout a week after the first. I had again left my boat at the wharf\nbelow Bridge; the time was an hour earlier in the afternoon; and,\nundecided where to dine, I had strolled up into Cheapside, and was\nstrolling along it, surely the most unsettled person in all the busy\nconcourse, when a large hand was laid upon my shoulder by some one\novertaking me. It was Mr. Jaggers s hand, and he passed it through my\narm.\n\n As we are going in the same direction, Pip, we may walk together.\nWhere are you bound for? \n\n For the Temple, I think,  said I.\n\n Don t you know?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Well,  I returned, glad for once to get the better of him in\ncross-examination,  I do _not_ know, for I have not made up my mind. \n\n You are going to dine?  said Mr. Jaggers.  You don t mind admitting\nthat, I suppose? \n\n No,  I returned,  I don t mind admitting that. \n\n And are not engaged? \n\n I don t mind admitting also that I am not engaged. \n\n Then,  said Mr. Jaggers,  come and dine with me. \n\nI was going to excuse myself, when he added,  Wemmick s coming.  So I\nchanged my excuse into an acceptance, the few words I had uttered,\nserving for the beginning of either, and we went along Cheapside and\nslanted off to Little Britain, while the lights were springing up\nbrilliantly in the shop windows, and the street lamp-lighters, scarcely\nfinding ground enough to plant their ladders on in the midst of the\nafternoon s bustle, were skipping up and down and running in and out,\nopening more red eyes in the gathering fog than my rushlight tower at\nthe Hummums had opened white eyes in the ghostly wall.\n\nAt the office in Little Britain there was the usual letter-writing,\nhand-washing, candle-snuffing, and safe-locking, that closed the\nbusiness of the day. As I stood idle by Mr. Jaggers s fire, its rising\nand falling flame made the two casts on the shelf look as if they were\nplaying a diabolical game at bo-peep with me; while the pair of coarse,\nfat office candles that dimly lighted Mr. Jaggers as he wrote in a\ncorner were decorated with dirty winding-sheets, as if in remembrance\nof a host of hanged clients.\n\nWe went to Gerrard Street, all three together, in a hackney-coach: And,\nas soon as we got there, dinner was served. Although I should not have\nthought of making, in that place, the most distant reference by so much\nas a look to Wemmick s Walworth sentiments, yet I should have had no\nobjection to catching his eye now and then in a friendly way. But it\nwas not to be done. He turned his eyes on Mr. Jaggers whenever he\nraised them from the table, and was as dry and distant to me as if\nthere were twin Wemmicks, and this was the wrong one.\n\n Did you send that note of Miss Havisham s to Mr. Pip, Wemmick?  Mr.\nJaggers asked, soon after we began dinner.\n\n No, sir,  returned Wemmick;  it was going by post, when you brought\nMr. Pip into the office. Here it is.  He handed it to his principal\ninstead of to me.\n\n It s a note of two lines, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, handing it on,  sent\nup to me by Miss Havisham on account of her not being sure of your\naddress. She tells me that she wants to see you on a little matter of\nbusiness you mentioned to her. You ll go down? \n\n Yes,  said I, casting my eyes over the note, which was exactly in\nthose terms.\n\n When do you think of going down? \n\n I have an impending engagement,  said I, glancing at Wemmick, who was\nputting fish into the post-office,  that renders me rather uncertain of\nmy time. At once, I think. \n\n If Mr. Pip has the intention of going at once,  said Wemmick to Mr.\nJaggers,  he needn t write an answer, you know. \n\nReceiving this as an intimation that it was best not to delay, I\nsettled that I would go to-morrow, and said so. Wemmick drank a glass\nof wine, and looked with a grimly satisfied air at Mr. Jaggers, but not\nat me.\n\n So, Pip! Our friend the Spider,  said Mr. Jaggers,  has played his\ncards. He has won the pool. \n\nIt was as much as I could do to assent.\n\n Hah! He is a promising fellow in his way but he may not have it all\nhis own way. The stronger will win in the end, but the stronger has to\nbe found out first. If he should turn to, and beat her \n\n Surely,  I interrupted, with a burning face and heart,  you do not\nseriously think that he is scoundrel enough for that, Mr. Jaggers? \n\n I didn t say so, Pip. I am putting a case. If he should turn to and\nbeat her, he may possibly get the strength on his side; if it should be\na question of intellect, he certainly will not. It would be chance work\nto give an opinion how a fellow of that sort will turn out in such\ncircumstances, because it s a toss-up between two results. \n\n May I ask what they are? \n\n A fellow like our friend the Spider,  answered Mr. Jaggers,  either\nbeats or cringes. He may cringe and growl, or cringe and not growl; but\nhe either beats or cringes. Ask Wemmick _his_ opinion. \n\n Either beats or cringes,  said Wemmick, not at all addressing himself\nto me.\n\n So here s to Mrs. Bentley Drummle,  said Mr. Jaggers, taking a\ndecanter of choicer wine from his dumb-waiter, and filling for each of\nus and for himself,  and may the question of supremacy be settled to\nthe lady s satisfaction! To the satisfaction of the lady _and_ the\ngentleman, it never will be. Now, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, how slow\nyou are to-day! \n\nShe was at his elbow when he addressed her, putting a dish upon the\ntable. As she withdrew her hands from it, she fell back a step or two,\nnervously muttering some excuse. And a certain action of her fingers,\nas she spoke, arrested my attention.\n\n What s the matter?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Nothing. Only the subject we were speaking of,  said I,  was rather\npainful to me. \n\nThe action of her fingers was like the action of knitting. She stood\nlooking at her master, not understanding whether she was free to go, or\nwhether he had more to say to her and would call her back if she did\ngo. Her look was very intent. Surely, I had seen exactly such eyes and\nsuch hands on a memorable occasion very lately!\n\nHe dismissed her, and she glided out of the room. But she remained\nbefore me as plainly as if she were still there. I looked at those\nhands, I looked at those eyes, I looked at that flowing hair; and I\ncompared them with other hands, other eyes, other hair, that I knew of,\nand with what those might be after twenty years of a brutal husband and\na stormy life. I looked again at those hands and eyes of the\nhousekeeper, and thought of the inexplicable feeling that had come over\nme when I last walked not alone in the ruined garden, and through the\ndeserted brewery. I thought how the same feeling had come back when I\nsaw a face looking at me, and a hand waving to me from a stage-coach\nwindow; and how it had come back again and had flashed about me like\nlightning, when I had passed in a carriage not alone through a sudden\nglare of light in a dark street. I thought how one link of association\nhad helped that identification in the theatre, and how such a link,\nwanting before, had been riveted for me now, when I had passed by a\nchance swift from Estella s name to the fingers with their knitting\naction, and the attentive eyes. And I felt absolutely certain that this\nwoman was Estella s mother.\n\nMr. Jaggers had seen me with Estella, and was not likely to have missed\nthe sentiments I had been at no pains to conceal. He nodded when I said\nthe subject was painful to me, clapped me on the back, put round the\nwine again, and went on with his dinner.\n\nOnly twice more did the housekeeper reappear, and then her stay in the\nroom was very short, and Mr. Jaggers was sharp with her. But her hands\nwere Estella s hands, and her eyes were Estella s eyes, and if she had\nreappeared a hundred times I could have been neither more sure nor less\nsure that my conviction was the truth.\n\nIt was a dull evening, for Wemmick drew his wine, when it came round,\nquite as a matter of business, just as he might have drawn his salary\nwhen that came round, and with his eyes on his chief, sat in a state of\nperpetual readiness for cross-examination. As to the quantity of wine,\nhis post-office was as indifferent and ready as any other post-office\nfor its quantity of letters. From my point of view, he was the wrong\ntwin all the time, and only externally like the Wemmick of Walworth.\n\nWe took our leave early, and left together. Even when we were groping\namong Mr. Jaggers s stock of boots for our hats, I felt that the right\ntwin was on his way back; and we had not gone half a dozen yards down\nGerrard Street in the Walworth direction, before I found that I was\nwalking arm in arm with the right twin, and that the wrong twin had\nevaporated into the evening air.\n\n Well!  said Wemmick,  that s over! He s a wonderful man, without his\nliving likeness; but I feel that I have to screw myself up when I dine\nwith him, and I dine more comfortably unscrewed. \n\nI felt that this was a good statement of the case, and told him so.\n\n Wouldn t say it to anybody but yourself,  he answered.  I know that\nwhat is said between you and me goes no further. \n\nI asked him if he had ever seen Miss Havisham s adopted daughter, Mrs.\nBentley Drummle. He said no. To avoid being too abrupt, I then spoke of\nthe Aged and of Miss Skiffins. He looked rather sly when I mentioned\nMiss Skiffins, and stopped in the street to blow his nose, with a roll\nof the head, and a flourish not quite free from latent boastfulness.\n\n Wemmick,  said I,  do you remember telling me, before I first went to\nMr. Jaggers s private house, to notice that housekeeper? \n\n Did I?  he replied.  Ah, I dare say I did. Deuce take me,  he added,\nsuddenly,  I know I did. I find I am not quite unscrewed yet. \n\n A wild beast tamed, you called her. \n\n And what do _you_ call her? \n\n The same. How did Mr. Jaggers tame her, Wemmick? \n\n That s his secret. She has been with him many a long year. \n\n I wish you would tell me her story. I feel a particular interest in\nbeing acquainted with it. You know that what is said between you and me\ngoes no further. \n\n Well!  Wemmick replied,  I don t know her story, that is, I don t know\nall of it. But what I do know I ll tell you. We are in our private and\npersonal capacities, of course. \n\n Of course. \n\n A score or so of years ago, that woman was tried at the Old Bailey for\nmurder, and was acquitted. She was a very handsome young woman, and I\nbelieve had some gypsy blood in her. Anyhow, it was hot enough when it\nwas up, as you may suppose. \n\n But she was acquitted. \n\n Mr. Jaggers was for her,  pursued Wemmick, with a look full of\nmeaning,  and worked the case in a way quite astonishing. It was a\ndesperate case, and it was comparatively early days with him then, and\nhe worked it to general admiration; in fact, it may almost be said to\nhave made him. He worked it himself at the police-office, day after day\nfor many days, contending against even a committal; and at the trial\nwhere he couldn t work it himself, sat under counsel, and every one\nknew put in all the salt and pepper. The murdered person was a woman, a\nwoman a good ten years older, very much larger, and very much stronger.\nIt was a case of jealousy. They both led tramping lives, and this woman\nin Gerrard Street here had been married very young, over the broomstick\n(as we say), to a tramping man, and was a perfect fury in point of\njealousy. The murdered woman, more a match for the man, certainly, in\npoint of years was found dead in a barn near Hounslow Heath. There had\nbeen a violent struggle, perhaps a fight. She was bruised and scratched\nand torn, and had been held by the throat, at last, and choked. Now,\nthere was no reasonable evidence to implicate any person but this\nwoman, and on the improbabilities of her having been able to do it Mr.\nJaggers principally rested his case. You may be sure,  said Wemmick,\ntouching me on the sleeve,  that he never dwelt upon the strength of\nher hands then, though he sometimes does now. \n\nI had told Wemmick of his showing us her wrists, that day of the dinner\nparty.\n\n Well, sir!  Wemmick went on;  it happened happened, don t you\nsee? that this woman was so very artfully dressed from the time of her\napprehension, that she looked much slighter than she really was; in\nparticular, her sleeves are always remembered to have been so skilfully\ncontrived that her arms had quite a delicate look. She had only a\nbruise or two about her, nothing for a tramp, but the backs of her\nhands were lacerated, and the question was, Was it with finger-nails?\nNow, Mr. Jaggers showed that she had struggled through a great lot of\nbrambles which were not as high as her face; but which she could not\nhave got through and kept her hands out of; and bits of those brambles\nwere actually found in her skin and put in evidence, as well as the\nfact that the brambles in question were found on examination to have\nbeen broken through, and to have little shreds of her dress and little\nspots of blood upon them here and there. But the boldest point he made\nwas this: it was attempted to be set up, in proof of her jealousy, that\nshe was under strong suspicion of having, at about the time of the\nmurder, frantically destroyed her child by this man some three years\nold to revenge herself upon him. Mr. Jaggers worked that in this way:\n We say these are not marks of finger-nails, but marks of brambles, and\nwe show you the brambles. You say they are marks of finger-nails, and\nyou set up the hypothesis that she destroyed her child. You must accept\nall consequences of that hypothesis. For anything we know, she may have\ndestroyed her child, and the child in clinging to her may have\nscratched her hands. What then? You are not trying her for the murder\nof her child; why don t you? As to this case, if you _will_ have\nscratches, we say that, for anything we know, you may have accounted\nfor them, assuming for the sake of argument that you have not invented\nthem?   To sum up, sir,  said Wemmick,  Mr. Jaggers was altogether too\nmany for the jury, and they gave in. \n\n Has she been in his service ever since? \n\n Yes; but not only that,  said Wemmick,  she went into his service\nimmediately after her acquittal, tamed as she is now. She has since\nbeen taught one thing and another in the way of her duties, but she was\ntamed from the beginning. \n\n Do you remember the sex of the child? \n\n Said to have been a girl. \n\n You have nothing more to say to me to-night? \n\n Nothing. I got your letter and destroyed it. Nothing. \n\nWe exchanged a cordial good-night, and I went home, with new matter for\nmy thoughts, though with no relief from the old.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIX.\n\n\nPutting Miss Havisham s note in my pocket, that it might serve as my\ncredentials for so soon reappearing at Satis House, in case her\nwaywardness should lead her to express any surprise at seeing me, I\nwent down again by the coach next day. But I alighted at the Halfway\nHouse, and breakfasted there, and walked the rest of the distance; for\nI sought to get into the town quietly by the unfrequented ways, and to\nleave it in the same manner.\n\nThe best light of the day was gone when I passed along the quiet\nechoing courts behind the High Street. The nooks of ruin where the old\nmonks had once had their refectories and gardens, and where the strong\nwalls were now pressed into the service of humble sheds and stables,\nwere almost as silent as the old monks in their graves. The cathedral\nchimes had at once a sadder and a more remote sound to me, as I hurried\non avoiding observation, than they had ever had before; so, the swell\nof the old organ was borne to my ears like funeral music; and the\nrooks, as they hovered about the grey tower and swung in the bare high\ntrees of the priory garden, seemed to call to me that the place was\nchanged, and that Estella was gone out of it for ever.\n\nAn elderly woman, whom I had seen before as one of the servants who\nlived in the supplementary house across the back courtyard, opened the\ngate. The lighted candle stood in the dark passage within, as of old,\nand I took it up and ascended the staircase alone. Miss Havisham was\nnot in her own room, but was in the larger room across the landing.\nLooking in at the door, after knocking in vain, I saw her sitting on\nthe hearth in a ragged chair, close before, and lost in the\ncontemplation of, the ashy fire.\n\nDoing as I had often done, I went in, and stood touching the old\nchimney-piece, where she could see me when she raised her eyes. There\nwas an air of utter loneliness upon her, that would have moved me to\npity though she had wilfully done me a deeper injury than I could\ncharge her with. As I stood compassionating her, and thinking how, in\nthe progress of time, I too had come to be a part of the wrecked\nfortunes of that house, her eyes rested on me. She stared, and said in\na low voice,  Is it real? \n\n It is I, Pip. Mr. Jaggers gave me your note yesterday, and I have lost\nno time. \n\n Thank you. Thank you. \n\nAs I brought another of the ragged chairs to the hearth and sat down, I\nremarked a new expression on her face, as if she were afraid of me.\n\n I want,  she said,  to pursue that subject you mentioned to me when\nyou were last here, and to show you that I am not all stone. But\nperhaps you can never believe, now, that there is anything human in my\nheart? \n\nWhen I said some reassuring words, she stretched out her tremulous\nright hand, as though she was going to touch me; but she recalled it\nagain before I understood the action, or knew how to receive it.\n\n You said, speaking for your friend, that you could tell me how to do\nsomething useful and good. Something that you would like done, is it\nnot? \n\n Something that I would like done very much. \n\n What is it? \n\nI began explaining to her that secret history of the partnership. I had\nnot got far into it, when I judged from her looks that she was thinking\nin a discursive way of me, rather than of what I said. It seemed to be\nso; for, when I stopped speaking, many moments passed before she showed\nthat she was conscious of the fact.\n\n Do you break off,  she asked then, with her former air of being afraid\nof me,  because you hate me too much to bear to speak to me? \n\n No, no,  I answered,  how can you think so, Miss Havisham! I stopped\nbecause I thought you were not following what I said. \n\n Perhaps I was not,  she answered, putting a hand to her head.  Begin\nagain, and let me look at something else. Stay! Now tell me. \n\nShe set her hand upon her stick in the resolute way that sometimes was\nhabitual to her, and looked at the fire with a strong expression of\nforcing herself to attend. I went on with my explanation, and told her\nhow I had hoped to complete the transaction out of my means, but how in\nthis I was disappointed. That part of the subject (I reminded her)\ninvolved matters which could form no part of my explanation, for they\nwere the weighty secrets of another.\n\n So!  said she, assenting with her head, but not looking at me.  And\nhow much money is wanting to complete the purchase? \n\nI was rather afraid of stating it, for it sounded a large sum.  Nine\nhundred pounds. \n\n If I give you the money for this purpose, will you keep my secret as\nyou have kept your own? \n\n Quite as faithfully. \n\n And your mind will be more at rest? \n\n Much more at rest. \n\n Are you very unhappy now? \n\nShe asked this question, still without looking at me, but in an\nunwonted tone of sympathy. I could not reply at the moment, for my\nvoice failed me. She put her left arm across the head of her stick, and\nsoftly laid her forehead on it.\n\n I am far from happy, Miss Havisham; but I have other causes of\ndisquiet than any you know of. They are the secrets I have mentioned. \n\nAfter a little while, she raised her head, and looked at the fire\nagain.\n\n It is noble in you to tell me that you have other causes of\nunhappiness. Is it true? \n\n Too true. \n\n Can I only serve you, Pip, by serving your friend? Regarding that as\ndone, is there nothing I can do for you yourself? \n\n Nothing. I thank you for the question. I thank you even more for the\ntone of the question. But there is nothing. \n\nShe presently rose from her seat, and looked about the blighted room\nfor the means of writing. There were none there, and she took from her\npocket a yellow set of ivory tablets, mounted in tarnished gold, and\nwrote upon them with a pencil in a case of tarnished gold that hung\nfrom her neck.\n\n You are still on friendly terms with Mr. Jaggers? \n\n Quite. I dined with him yesterday. \n\n This is an authority to him to pay you that money, to lay out at your\nirresponsible discretion for your friend. I keep no money here; but if\nyou would rather Mr. Jaggers knew nothing of the matter, I will send it\nto you. \n\n Thank you, Miss Havisham; I have not the least objection to receiving\nit from him. \n\nShe read me what she had written; and it was direct and clear, and\nevidently intended to absolve me from any suspicion of profiting by the\nreceipt of the money. I took the tablets from her hand, and it trembled\nagain, and it trembled more as she took off the chain to which the\npencil was attached, and put it in mine. All this she did without\nlooking at me.\n\n My name is on the first leaf. If you can ever write under my name,  I\nforgive her,  though ever so long after my broken heart is dust pray do\nit! \n\n O Miss Havisham,  said I,  I can do it now. There have been sore\nmistakes; and my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want\nforgiveness and direction far too much, to be bitter with you. \n\nShe turned her face to me for the first time since she had averted it,\nand, to my amazement, I may even add to my terror, dropped on her knees\nat my feet; with her folded hands raised to me in the manner in which,\nwhen her poor heart was young and fresh and whole, they must often have\nbeen raised to heaven from her mother s side.\n\nTo see her with her white hair and her worn face kneeling at my feet\ngave me a shock through all my frame. I entreated her to rise, and got\nmy arms about her to help her up; but she only pressed that hand of\nmine which was nearest to her grasp, and hung her head over it and\nwept. I had never seen her shed a tear before, and, in the hope that\nthe relief might do her good, I bent over her without speaking. She was\nnot kneeling now, but was down upon the ground.\n\n O!  she cried, despairingly.  What have I done! What have I done! \n\n If you mean, Miss Havisham, what have you done to injure me, let me\nanswer. Very little. I should have loved her under any circumstances.\nIs she married? \n\n Yes. \n\nIt was a needless question, for a new desolation in the desolate house\nhad told me so.\n\n What have I done! What have I done!  She wrung her hands, and crushed\nher white hair, and returned to this cry over and over again.  What\nhave I done! \n\nI knew not how to answer, or how to comfort her. That she had done a\ngrievous thing in taking an impressionable child to mould into the form\nthat her wild resentment, spurned affection, and wounded pride found\nvengeance in, I knew full well. But that, in shutting out the light of\nday, she had shut out infinitely more; that, in seclusion, she had\nsecluded herself from a thousand natural and healing influences; that,\nher mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased, as all minds do and\nmust and will that reverse the appointed order of their Maker, I knew\nequally well. And could I look upon her without compassion, seeing her\npunishment in the ruin she was, in her profound unfitness for this\nearth on which she was placed, in the vanity of sorrow which had become\na master mania, like the vanity of penitence, the vanity of remorse,\nthe vanity of unworthiness, and other monstrous vanities that have been\ncurses in this world?\n\n Until you spoke to her the other day, and until I saw in you a\nlooking-glass that showed me what I once felt myself, I did not know\nwhat I had done. What have I done! What have I done!  And so again,\ntwenty, fifty times over, What had she done!\n\n Miss Havisham,  I said, when her cry had died away,  you may dismiss\nme from your mind and conscience. But Estella is a different case, and\nif you can ever undo any scrap of what you have done amiss in keeping a\npart of her right nature away from her, it will be better to do that\nthan to bemoan the past through a hundred years. \n\n Yes, yes, I know it. But, Pip my dear!  There was an earnest womanly\ncompassion for me in her new affection.  My dear! Believe this: when\nshe first came to me, I meant to save her from misery like my own. At\nfirst, I meant no more. \n\n Well, well!  said I.  I hope so. \n\n But as she grew, and promised to be very beautiful, I gradually did\nworse, and with my praises, and with my jewels, and with my teachings,\nand with this figure of myself always before her, a warning to back and\npoint my lessons, I stole her heart away, and put ice in its place. \n\n Better,  I could not help saying,  to have left her a natural heart,\neven to be bruised or broken. \n\nWith that, Miss Havisham looked distractedly at me for a while, and\nthen burst out again, What had she done!\n\n If you knew all my story,  she pleaded,  you would have some\ncompassion for me and a better understanding of me. \n\n Miss Havisham,  I answered, as delicately as I could,  I believe I may\nsay that I do know your story, and have known it ever since I first\nleft this neighbourhood. It has inspired me with great commiseration,\nand I hope I understand it and its influences. Does what has passed\nbetween us give me any excuse for asking you a question relative to\nEstella? Not as she is, but as she was when she first came here? \n\nShe was seated on the ground, with her arms on the ragged chair, and\nher head leaning on them. She looked full at me when I said this, and\nreplied,  Go on. \n\n Whose child was Estella? \n\nShe shook her head.\n\n You don t know? \n\nShe shook her head again.\n\n But Mr. Jaggers brought her here, or sent her here? \n\n Brought her here. \n\n Will you tell me how that came about? \n\nShe answered in a low whisper and with caution:  I had been shut up in\nthese rooms a long time (I don t know how long; you know what time the\nclocks keep here), when I told him that I wanted a little girl to rear\nand love, and save from my fate. I had first seen him when I sent for\nhim to lay this place waste for me; having read of him in the\nnewspapers, before I and the world parted. He told me that he would\nlook about him for such an orphan child. One night he brought her here\nasleep, and I called her Estella. \n\n Might I ask her age then? \n\n Two or three. She herself knows nothing, but that she was left an\norphan and I adopted her. \n\nSo convinced I was of that woman s being her mother, that I wanted no\nevidence to establish the fact in my own mind. But, to any mind, I\nthought, the connection here was clear and straight.\n\nWhat more could I hope to do by prolonging the interview? I had\nsucceeded on behalf of Herbert, Miss Havisham had told me all she knew\nof Estella, I had said and done what I could to ease her mind. No\nmatter with what other words we parted; we parted.\n\nTwilight was closing in when I went downstairs into the natural air. I\ncalled to the woman who had opened the gate when I entered, that I\nwould not trouble her just yet, but would walk round the place before\nleaving. For I had a presentiment that I should never be there again,\nand I felt that the dying light was suited to my last view of it.\n\nBy the wilderness of casks that I had walked on long ago, and on which\nthe rain of years had fallen since, rotting them in many places, and\nleaving miniature swamps and pools of water upon those that stood on\nend, I made my way to the ruined garden. I went all round it; round by\nthe corner where Herbert and I had fought our battle; round by the\npaths where Estella and I had walked. So cold, so lonely, so dreary\nall!\n\nTaking the brewery on my way back, I raised the rusty latch of a little\ndoor at the garden end of it, and walked through. I was going out at\nthe opposite door, not easy to open now, for the damp wood had started\nand swelled, and the hinges were yielding, and the threshold was\nencumbered with a growth of fungus, when I turned my head to look back.\nA childish association revived with wonderful force in the moment of\nthe slight action, and I fancied that I saw Miss Havisham hanging to\nthe beam. So strong was the impression, that I stood under the beam\nshuddering from head to foot before I knew it was a fancy, though to be\nsure I was there in an instant.\n\nThe mournfulness of the place and time, and the great terror of this\nillusion, though it was but momentary, caused me to feel an\nindescribable awe as I came out between the open wooden gates where I\nhad once wrung my hair after Estella had wrung my heart. Passing on\ninto the front courtyard, I hesitated whether to call the woman to let\nme out at the locked gate of which she had the key, or first to go\nupstairs and assure myself that Miss Havisham was as safe and well as I\nhad left her. I took the latter course and went up.\n\nI looked into the room where I had left her, and I saw her seated in\nthe ragged chair upon the hearth close to the fire, with her back\ntowards me. In the moment when I was withdrawing my head to go quietly\naway, I saw a great flaming light spring up. In the same moment I saw\nher running at me, shrieking, with a whirl of fire blazing all about\nher, and soaring at least as many feet above her head as she was high.\n\nI had a double-caped great-coat on, and over my arm another thick coat.\nThat I got them off, closed with her, threw her down, and got them over\nher; that I dragged the great cloth from the table for the same\npurpose, and with it dragged down the heap of rottenness in the midst,\nand all the ugly things that sheltered there; that we were on the\nground struggling like desperate enemies, and that the closer I covered\nher, the more wildly she shrieked and tried to free herself, that this\noccurred I knew through the result, but not through anything I felt, or\nthought, or knew I did. I knew nothing until I knew that we were on the\nfloor by the great table, and that patches of tinder yet alight were\nfloating in the smoky air, which, a moment ago, had been her faded\nbridal dress.\n\nThen, I looked round and saw the disturbed beetles and spiders running\naway over the floor, and the servants coming in with breathless cries\nat the door. I still held her forcibly down with all my strength, like\na prisoner who might escape; and I doubt if I even knew who she was, or\nwhy we had struggled, or that she had been in flames, or that the\nflames were out, until I saw the patches of tinder that had been her\ngarments no longer alight but falling in a black shower around us.\n\nShe was insensible, and I was afraid to have her moved, or even\ntouched. Assistance was sent for, and I held her until it came, as if I\nunreasonably fancied (I think I did) that, if I let her go, the fire\nwould break out again and consume her. When I got up, on the surgeon s\ncoming to her with other aid, I was astonished to see that both my\nhands were burnt; for, I had no knowledge of it through the sense of\nfeeling.\n\nOn examination it was pronounced that she had received serious hurts,\nbut that they of themselves were far from hopeless; the danger lay\nmainly in the nervous shock. By the surgeon s directions, her bed was\ncarried into that room and laid upon the great table, which happened to\nbe well suited to the dressing of her injuries. When I saw her again,\nan hour afterwards, she lay, indeed, where I had seen her strike her\nstick, and had heard her say that she would lie one day.\n\nThough every vestige of her dress was burnt, as they told me, she still\nhad something of her old ghastly bridal appearance; for, they had\ncovered her to the throat with white cotton-wool, and as she lay with a\nwhite sheet loosely overlying that, the phantom air of something that\nhad been and was changed was still upon her.\n\nI found, on questioning the servants, that Estella was in Paris, and I\ngot a promise from the surgeon that he would write to her by the next\npost. Miss Havisham s family I took upon myself; intending to\ncommunicate with Mr. Matthew Pocket only, and leave him to do as he\nliked about informing the rest. This I did next day, through Herbert,\nas soon as I returned to town.\n\nThere was a stage, that evening, when she spoke collectedly of what had\nhappened, though with a certain terrible vivacity. Towards midnight she\nbegan to wander in her speech; and after that it gradually set in that\nshe said innumerable times in a low solemn voice,  What have I done! \nAnd then,  When she first came, I meant to save her from misery like\nmine.  And then,  Take the pencil and write under my name,  I forgive\nher!  She never changed the order of these three sentences, but she\nsometimes left out a word in one or other of them; never putting in\nanother word, but always leaving a blank and going on to the next word.\n\nAs I could do no service there, and as I had, nearer home, that\npressing reason for anxiety and fear which even her wanderings could\nnot drive out of my mind, I decided, in the course of the night that I\nwould return by the early morning coach, walking on a mile or so, and\nbeing taken up clear of the town. At about six o clock of the morning,\ntherefore, I leaned over her and touched her lips with mine, just as\nthey said, not stopping for being touched,  Take the pencil and write\nunder my name,  I forgive her. \n\n\n\n\nChapter L.\n\n\nMy hands had been dressed twice or thrice in the night, and again in\nthe morning. My left arm was a good deal burned to the elbow, and, less\nseverely, as high as the shoulder; it was very painful, but the flames\nhad set in that direction, and I felt thankful it was no worse. My\nright hand was not so badly burnt but that I could move the fingers. It\nwas bandaged, of course, but much less inconveniently than my left hand\nand arm; those I carried in a sling; and I could only wear my coat like\na cloak, loose over my shoulders and fastened at the neck. My hair had\nbeen caught by the fire, but not my head or face.\n\nWhen Herbert had been down to Hammersmith and seen his father, he came\nback to me at our chambers, and devoted the day to attending on me. He\nwas the kindest of nurses, and at stated times took off the bandages,\nand steeped them in the cooling liquid that was kept ready, and put\nthem on again, with a patient tenderness that I was deeply grateful\nfor.\n\nAt first, as I lay quiet on the sofa, I found it painfully difficult, I\nmight say impossible, to get rid of the impression of the glare of the\nflames, their hurry and noise, and the fierce burning smell. If I dozed\nfor a minute, I was awakened by Miss Havisham s cries, and by her\nrunning at me with all that height of fire above her head. This pain of\nthe mind was much harder to strive against than any bodily pain I\nsuffered; and Herbert, seeing that, did his utmost to hold my attention\nengaged.\n\nNeither of us spoke of the boat, but we both thought of it. That was\nmade apparent by our avoidance of the subject, and by our\nagreeing without agreement to make my recovery of the use of my hands a\nquestion of so many hours, not of so many weeks.\n\nMy first question when I saw Herbert had been of course, whether all\nwas well down the river? As he replied in the affirmative, with perfect\nconfidence and cheerfulness, we did not resume the subject until the\nday was wearing away. But then, as Herbert changed the bandages, more\nby the light of the fire than by the outer light, he went back to it\nspontaneously.\n\n I sat with Provis last night, Handel, two good hours. \n\n Where was Clara? \n\n Dear little thing!  said Herbert.  She was up and down with\nGruffandgrim all the evening. He was perpetually pegging at the floor\nthe moment she left his sight. I doubt if he can hold out long, though.\nWhat with rum and pepper, and pepper and rum, I should think his\npegging must be nearly over. \n\n And then you will be married, Herbert? \n\n How can I take care of the dear child otherwise? Lay your arm out upon\nthe back of the sofa, my dear boy, and I ll sit down here, and get the\nbandage off so gradually that you shall not know when it comes. I was\nspeaking of Provis. Do you know, Handel, he improves? \n\n I said to you I thought he was softened when I last saw him. \n\n So you did. And so he is. He was very communicative last night, and\ntold me more of his life. You remember his breaking off here about some\nwoman that he had had great trouble with. Did I hurt you? \n\nI had started, but not under his touch. His words had given me a start.\n\n I had forgotten that, Herbert, but I remember it now you speak of it. \n\n Well! He went into that part of his life, and a dark wild part it is.\nShall I tell you? Or would it worry you just now? \n\n Tell me by all means. Every word. \n\nHerbert bent forward to look at me more nearly, as if my reply had been\nrather more hurried or more eager than he could quite account for.\n Your head is cool?  he said, touching it.\n\n Quite,  said I.  Tell me what Provis said, my dear Herbert. \n\n It seems,  said Herbert,  there s a bandage off most charmingly, and\nnow comes the cool one, makes you shrink at first, my poor dear fellow,\ndon t it? but it will be comfortable presently, it seems that the woman\nwas a young woman, and a jealous woman, and a revengeful woman;\nrevengeful, Handel, to the last degree. \n\n To what last degree? \n\n Murder. Does it strike too cold on that sensitive place? \n\n I don t feel it. How did she murder? Whom did she murder? \n\n Why, the deed may not have merited quite so terrible a name,  said\nHerbert,  but, she was tried for it, and Mr. Jaggers defended her, and\nthe reputation of that defence first made his name known to Provis. It\nwas another and a stronger woman who was the victim, and there had been\na struggle in a barn. Who began it, or how fair it was, or how unfair,\nmay be doubtful; but how it ended is certainly not doubtful, for the\nvictim was found throttled. \n\n Was the woman brought in guilty? \n\n No; she was acquitted. My poor Handel, I hurt you! \n\n It is impossible to be gentler, Herbert. Yes? What else? \n\n This acquitted young woman and Provis had a little child; a little\nchild of whom Provis was exceedingly fond. On the evening of the very\nnight when the object of her jealousy was strangled as I tell you, the\nyoung woman presented herself before Provis for one moment, and swore\nthat she would destroy the child (which was in her possession), and he\nshould never see it again; then she vanished. There s the worst arm\ncomfortably in the sling once more, and now there remains but the right\nhand, which is a far easier job. I can do it better by this light than\nby a stronger, for my hand is steadiest when I don t see the poor\nblistered patches too distinctly. You don t think your breathing is\naffected, my dear boy? You seem to breathe quickly. \n\n Perhaps I do, Herbert. Did the woman keep her oath? \n\n There comes the darkest part of Provis s life. She did. \n\n That is, he says she did. \n\n Why, of course, my dear boy,  returned Herbert, in a tone of surprise,\nand again bending forward to get a nearer look at me.  He says it all.\nI have no other information. \n\n No, to be sure. \n\n Now, whether,  pursued Herbert,  he had used the child s mother ill,\nor whether he had used the child s mother well, Provis doesn t say; but\nshe had shared some four or five years of the wretched life he\ndescribed to us at this fireside, and he seems to have felt pity for\nher, and forbearance towards her. Therefore, fearing he should be\ncalled upon to depose about this destroyed child, and so be the cause\nof her death, he hid himself (much as he grieved for the child), kept\nhimself dark, as he says, out of the way and out of the trial, and was\nonly vaguely talked of as a certain man called Abel, out of whom the\njealousy arose. After the acquittal she disappeared, and thus he lost\nthe child and the child s mother. \n\n I want to ask \n\n A moment, my dear boy, and I have done. That evil genius, Compeyson,\nthe worst of scoundrels among many scoundrels, knowing of his keeping\nout of the way at that time and of his reasons for doing so, of course\nafterwards held the knowledge over his head as a means of keeping him\npoorer and working him harder. It was clear last night that this barbed\nthe point of Provis s animosity. \n\n I want to know,  said I,  and particularly, Herbert, whether he told\nyou when this happened? \n\n Particularly? Let me remember, then, what he said as to that. His\nexpression was,  a round score o  year ago, and a most directly after I\ntook up wi  Compeyson.  How old were you when you came upon him in the\nlittle churchyard? \n\n I think in my seventh year. \n\n Ay. It had happened some three or four years then, he said, and you\nbrought into his mind the little girl so tragically lost, who would\nhave been about your age. \n\n Herbert,  said I, after a short silence, in a hurried way,  can you\nsee me best by the light of the window, or the light of the fire? \n\n By the firelight,  answered Herbert, coming close again.\n\n Look at me. \n\n I do look at you, my dear boy. \n\n Touch me. \n\n I do touch you, my dear boy. \n\n You are not afraid that I am in any fever, or that my head is much\ndisordered by the accident of last night? \n\n N-no, my dear boy,  said Herbert, after taking time to examine me.\n You are rather excited, but you are quite yourself. \n\n I know I am quite myself. And the man we have in hiding down the\nriver, is Estella s Father. \n\n\n\n\nChapter LI.\n\n\nWhat purpose I had in view when I was hot on tracing out and proving\nEstella s parentage, I cannot say. It will presently be seen that the\nquestion was not before me in a distinct shape until it was put before\nme by a wiser head than my own.\n\nBut when Herbert and I had held our momentous conversation, I was\nseized with a feverish conviction that I ought to hunt the matter\ndown, that I ought not to let it rest, but that I ought to see Mr.\nJaggers, and come at the bare truth. I really do not know whether I\nfelt that I did this for Estella s sake, or whether I was glad to\ntransfer to the man in whose preservation I was so much concerned some\nrays of the romantic interest that had so long surrounded me. Perhaps\nthe latter possibility may be the nearer to the truth.\n\nAny way, I could scarcely be withheld from going out to Gerrard Street\nthat night. Herbert s representations that, if I did, I should probably\nbe laid up and stricken useless, when our fugitive s safety would\ndepend upon me, alone restrained my impatience. On the understanding,\nagain and again reiterated, that, come what would, I was to go to Mr.\nJaggers to-morrow, I at length submitted to keep quiet, and to have my\nhurts looked after, and to stay at home. Early next morning we went out\ntogether, and at the corner of Giltspur Street by Smithfield, I left\nHerbert to go his way into the City, and took my way to Little Britain.\n\nThere were periodical occasions when Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick went over\nthe office accounts, and checked off the vouchers, and put all things\nstraight. On these occasions, Wemmick took his books and papers into\nMr. Jaggers s room, and one of the upstairs clerks came down into the\nouter office. Finding such clerk on Wemmick s post that morning, I knew\nwhat was going on; but I was not sorry to have Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick\ntogether, as Wemmick would then hear for himself that I said nothing to\ncompromise him.\n\nMy appearance, with my arm bandaged and my coat loose over my\nshoulders, favoured my object. Although I had sent Mr. Jaggers a brief\naccount of the accident as soon as I had arrived in town, yet I had to\ngive him all the details now; and the speciality of the occasion caused\nour talk to be less dry and hard, and less strictly regulated by the\nrules of evidence, than it had been before. While I described the\ndisaster, Mr. Jaggers stood, according to his wont, before the fire.\nWemmick leaned back in his chair, staring at me, with his hands in the\npockets of his trousers, and his pen put horizontally into the post.\nThe two brutal casts, always inseparable in my mind from the official\nproceedings, seemed to be congestively considering whether they didn t\nsmell fire at the present moment.\n\nMy narrative finished, and their questions exhausted, I then produced\nMiss Havisham s authority to receive the nine hundred pounds for\nHerbert. Mr. Jaggers s eyes retired a little deeper into his head when\nI handed him the tablets, but he presently handed them over to Wemmick,\nwith instructions to draw the check for his signature. While that was\nin course of being done, I looked on at Wemmick as he wrote, and Mr.\nJaggers, poising and swaying himself on his well-polished boots, looked\non at me.  I am sorry, Pip,  said he, as I put the check in my pocket,\nwhen he had signed it,  that we do nothing for _you_. \n\n Miss Havisham was good enough to ask me,  I returned,  whether she\ncould do nothing for me, and I told her No. \n\n Everybody should know his own business,  said Mr. Jaggers. And I saw\nWemmick s lips form the words  portable property. \n\n I should _not_ have told her No, if I had been you,  said Mr Jaggers;\n but every man ought to know his own business best. \n\n Every man s business,  said Wemmick, rather reproachfully towards me,\n is portable property. \n\nAs I thought the time was now come for pursuing the theme I had at\nheart, I said, turning on Mr. Jaggers: \n\n I did ask something of Miss Havisham, however, sir. I asked her to\ngive me some information relative to her adopted daughter, and she gave\nme all she possessed. \n\n Did she?  said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at his boots and\nthen straightening himself.  Hah! I don t think I should have done so,\nif I had been Miss Havisham. But _she_ ought to know her own business\nbest. \n\n I know more of the history of Miss Havisham s adopted child than Miss\nHavisham herself does, sir. I know her mother. \n\nMr. Jaggers looked at me inquiringly, and repeated  Mother? \n\n I have seen her mother within these three days. \n\n Yes?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n And so have you, sir. And you have seen her still more recently. \n\n Yes?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Perhaps I know more of Estella s history than even you do,  said I.  I\nknow her father too. \n\nA certain stop that Mr. Jaggers came to in his manner he was too\nself-possessed to change his manner, but he could not help its being\nbrought to an indefinably attentive stop assured me that he did not\nknow who her father was. This I had strongly suspected from Provis s\naccount (as Herbert had repeated it) of his having kept himself dark;\nwhich I pieced on to the fact that he himself was not Mr. Jaggers s\nclient until some four years later, and when he could have no reason\nfor claiming his identity. But, I could not be sure of this\nunconsciousness on Mr. Jaggers s part before, though I was quite sure\nof it now.\n\n So! You know the young lady s father, Pip?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Yes,  I replied,  and his name is Provis from New South Wales. \n\nEven Mr. Jaggers started when I said those words. It was the slightest\nstart that could escape a man, the most carefully repressed and the\nsooner checked, but he did start, though he made it a part of the\naction of taking out his pocket-handkerchief. How Wemmick received the\nannouncement I am unable to say; for I was afraid to look at him just\nthen, lest Mr. Jaggers s sharpness should detect that there had been\nsome communication unknown to him between us.\n\n And on what evidence, Pip,  asked Mr. Jaggers, very coolly, as he\npaused with his handkerchief half way to his nose,  does Provis make\nthis claim? \n\n He does not make it,  said I,  and has never made it, and has no\nknowledge or belief that his daughter is in existence. \n\nFor once, the powerful pocket-handkerchief failed. My reply was so\nunexpected, that Mr. Jaggers put the handkerchief back into his pocket\nwithout completing the usual performance, folded his arms, and looked\nwith stern attention at me, though with an immovable face.\n\nThen I told him all I knew, and how I knew it; with the one reservation\nthat I left him to infer that I knew from Miss Havisham what I in fact\nknew from Wemmick. I was very careful indeed as to that. Nor did I look\ntowards Wemmick until I had finished all I had to tell, and had been\nfor some time silently meeting Mr. Jaggers s look. When I did at last\nturn my eyes in Wemmick s direction, I found that he had unposted his\npen, and was intent upon the table before him.\n\n Hah!  said Mr. Jaggers at last, as he moved towards the papers on the\ntable.  What item was it you were at, Wemmick, when Mr. Pip came in? \n\nBut I could not submit to be thrown off in that way, and I made a\npassionate, almost an indignant appeal, to him to be more frank and\nmanly with me. I reminded him of the false hopes into which I had\nlapsed, the length of time they had lasted, and the discovery I had\nmade: and I hinted at the danger that weighed upon my spirits. I\nrepresented myself as being surely worthy of some little confidence\nfrom him, in return for the confidence I had just now imparted. I said\nthat I did not blame him, or suspect him, or mistrust him, but I wanted\nassurance of the truth from him. And if he asked me why I wanted it,\nand why I thought I had any right to it, I would tell him, little as he\ncared for such poor dreams, that I had loved Estella dearly and long,\nand that although I had lost her, and must live a bereaved life,\nwhatever concerned her was still nearer and dearer to me than anything\nelse in the world. And seeing that Mr. Jaggers stood quite still and\nsilent, and apparently quite obdurate, under this appeal, I turned to\nWemmick, and said,  Wemmick, I know you to be a man with a gentle\nheart. I have seen your pleasant home, and your old father, and all the\ninnocent, cheerful playful ways with which you refresh your business\nlife. And I entreat you to say a word for me to Mr. Jaggers, and to\nrepresent to him that, all circumstances considered, he ought to be\nmore open with me! \n\nI have never seen two men look more oddly at one another than Mr.\nJaggers and Wemmick did after this apostrophe. At first, a misgiving\ncrossed me that Wemmick would be instantly dismissed from his\nemployment; but it melted as I saw Mr. Jaggers relax into something\nlike a smile, and Wemmick become bolder.\n\n What s all this?  said Mr. Jaggers.  You with an old father, and you\nwith pleasant and playful ways? \n\n Well!  returned Wemmick.  If I don t bring  em here, what does it\nmatter? \n\n Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, laying his hand upon my arm, and smiling\nopenly,  this man must be the most cunning impostor in all London. \n\n Not a bit of it,  returned Wemmick, growing bolder and bolder.  I\nthink you re another. \n\nAgain they exchanged their former odd looks, each apparently still\ndistrustful that the other was taking him in.\n\n _You_ with a pleasant home?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Since it don t interfere with business,  returned Wemmick,  let it be\nso. Now, I look at you, sir, I shouldn t wonder if _you_ might be\nplanning and contriving to have a pleasant home of your own one of\nthese days, when you re tired of all this work. \n\nMr. Jaggers nodded his head retrospectively two or three times, and\nactually drew a sigh.  Pip,  said he,  we won t talk about  poor\ndreams;  you know more about such things than I, having much fresher\nexperience of that kind. But now about this other matter. I ll put a\ncase to you. Mind! I admit nothing. \n\nHe waited for me to declare that I quite understood that he expressly\nsaid that he admitted nothing.\n\n Now, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers,  put this case. Put the case that a\nwoman, under such circumstances as you have mentioned, held her child\nconcealed, and was obliged to communicate the fact to her legal\nadviser, on his representing to her that he must know, with an eye to\nthe latitude of his defence, how the fact stood about that child. Put\nthe case that, at the same time he held a trust to find a child for an\neccentric rich lady to adopt and bring up. \n\n I follow you, sir. \n\n Put the case that he lived in an atmosphere of evil, and that all he\nsaw of children was their being generated in great numbers for certain\ndestruction. Put the case that he often saw children solemnly tried at\na criminal bar, where they were held up to be seen; put the case that\nhe habitually knew of their being imprisoned, whipped, transported,\nneglected, cast out, qualified in all ways for the hangman, and growing\nup to be hanged. Put the case that pretty nigh all the children he saw\nin his daily business life he had reason to look upon as so much spawn,\nto develop into the fish that were to come to his net, to be\nprosecuted, defended, forsworn, made orphans, bedevilled somehow. \n\n I follow you, sir. \n\n Put the case, Pip, that here was one pretty little child out of the\nheap who could be saved; whom the father believed dead, and dared make\nno stir about; as to whom, over the mother, the legal adviser had this\npower:  I know what you did, and how you did it. You came so and so,\nyou did such and such things to divert suspicion. I have tracked you\nthrough it all, and I tell it you all. Part with the child, unless it\nshould be necessary to produce it to clear you, and then it shall be\nproduced. Give the child into my hands, and I will do my best to bring\nyou off. If you are saved, your child is saved too; if you are lost,\nyour child is still saved.  Put the case that this was done, and that\nthe woman was cleared. \n\n I understand you perfectly. \n\n But that I make no admissions? \n\n That you make no admissions.  And Wemmick repeated,  No admissions. \n\n Put the case, Pip, that passion and the terror of death had a little\nshaken the woman s intellects, and that when she was set at liberty,\nshe was scared out of the ways of the world, and went to him to be\nsheltered. Put the case that he took her in, and that he kept down the\nold, wild, violent nature whenever he saw an inkling of its breaking\nout, by asserting his power over her in the old way. Do you comprehend\nthe imaginary case? \n\n Quite. \n\n Put the case that the child grew up, and was married for money. That\nthe mother was still living. That the father was still living. That the\nmother and father, unknown to one another, were dwelling within so many\nmiles, furlongs, yards if you like, of one another. That the secret was\nstill a secret, except that you had got wind of it. Put that last case\nto yourself very carefully. \n\n I do. \n\n I ask Wemmick to put it to _him_self very carefully. \n\nAnd Wemmick said,  I do. \n\n For whose sake would you reveal the secret? For the father s? I think\nhe would not be much the better for the mother. For the mother s? I\nthink if she had done such a deed she would be safer where she was. For\nthe daughter s? I think it would hardly serve her to establish her\nparentage for the information of her husband, and to drag her back to\ndisgrace, after an escape of twenty years, pretty secure to last for\nlife. But add the case that you had loved her, Pip, and had made her\nthe subject of those  poor dreams  which have, at one time or another,\nbeen in the heads of more men than you think likely, then I tell you\nthat you had better and would much sooner when you had thought well of\nit chop off that bandaged left hand of yours with your bandaged right\nhand, and then pass the chopper on to Wemmick there, to cut _that_ off\ntoo. \n\nI looked at Wemmick, whose face was very grave. He gravely touched his\nlips with his forefinger. I did the same. Mr. Jaggers did the same.\n Now, Wemmick,  said the latter then, resuming his usual manner,  what\nitem was it you were at when Mr. Pip came in? \n\nStanding by for a little, while they were at work, I observed that the\nodd looks they had cast at one another were repeated several times:\nwith this difference now, that each of them seemed suspicious, not to\nsay conscious, of having shown himself in a weak and unprofessional\nlight to the other. For this reason, I suppose, they were now\ninflexible with one another; Mr. Jaggers being highly dictatorial, and\nWemmick obstinately justifying himself whenever there was the smallest\npoint in abeyance for a moment. I had never seen them on such ill\nterms; for generally they got on very well indeed together.\n\nBut they were both happily relieved by the opportune appearance of\nMike, the client with the fur cap and the habit of wiping his nose on\nhis sleeve, whom I had seen on the very first day of my appearance\nwithin those walls. This individual, who, either in his own person or\nin that of some member of his family, seemed to be always in trouble\n(which in that place meant Newgate), called to announce that his eldest\ndaughter was taken up on suspicion of shoplifting. As he imparted this\nmelancholy circumstance to Wemmick, Mr. Jaggers standing magisterially\nbefore the fire and taking no share in the proceedings, Mike s eye\nhappened to twinkle with a tear.\n\n What are you about?  demanded Wemmick, with the utmost indignation.\n What do you come snivelling here for? \n\n I didn t go to do it, Mr. Wemmick. \n\n You did,  said Wemmick.  How dare you? You re not in a fit state to\ncome here, if you can t come here without spluttering like a bad pen.\nWhat do you mean by it? \n\n A man can t help his feelings, Mr. Wemmick,  pleaded Mike.\n\n His what?  demanded Wemmick, quite savagely.  Say that again! \n\n Now look here my man,  said Mr. Jaggers, advancing a step, and\npointing to the door.  Get out of this office. I ll have no feelings\nhere. Get out. \n\n It serves you right,  said Wemmick,  Get out. \n\nSo, the unfortunate Mike very humbly withdrew, and Mr. Jaggers and\nWemmick appeared to have re-established their good understanding, and\nwent to work again with an air of refreshment upon them as if they had\njust had lunch.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LII.\n\n\nFrom Little Britain I went, with my check in my pocket, to Miss\nSkiffins s brother, the accountant; and Miss Skiffins s brother, the\naccountant, going straight to Clarriker s and bringing Clarriker to me,\nI had the great satisfaction of concluding that arrangement. It was the\nonly good thing I had done, and the only completed thing I had done,\nsince I was first apprised of my great expectations.\n\nClarriker informing me on that occasion that the affairs of the House\nwere steadily progressing, that he would now be able to establish a\nsmall branch-house in the East which was much wanted for the extension\nof the business, and that Herbert in his new partnership capacity would\ngo out and take charge of it, I found that I must have prepared for a\nseparation from my friend, even though my own affairs had been more\nsettled. And now, indeed, I felt as if my last anchor were loosening\nits hold, and I should soon be driving with the winds and waves.\n\nBut there was recompense in the joy with which Herbert would come home\nof a night and tell me of these changes, little imagining that he told\nme no news, and would sketch airy pictures of himself conducting Clara\nBarley to the land of the Arabian Nights, and of me going out to join\nthem (with a caravan of camels, I believe), and of our all going up the\nNile and seeing wonders. Without being sanguine as to my own part in\nthose bright plans, I felt that Herbert s way was clearing fast, and\nthat old Bill Barley had but to stick to his pepper and rum, and his\ndaughter would soon be happily provided for.\n\nWe had now got into the month of March. My left arm, though it\npresented no bad symptoms, took, in the natural course, so long to heal\nthat I was still unable to get a coat on. My right arm was tolerably\nrestored; disfigured, but fairly serviceable.\n\nOn a Monday morning, when Herbert and I were at breakfast, I received\nthe following letter from Wemmick by the post.\n\n Walworth. Burn this as soon as read. Early in the week, or say\nWednesday, you might do what you know of, if you felt disposed to try\nit. Now burn. \n\nWhen I had shown this to Herbert and had put it in the fire but not\nbefore we had both got it by heart we considered what to do. For, of\ncourse my being disabled could now be no longer kept out of view.\n\n I have thought it over again and again,  said Herbert,  and I think I\nknow a better course than taking a Thames waterman. Take Startop. A\ngood fellow, a skilled hand, fond of us, and enthusiastic and\nhonourable. \n\nI had thought of him more than once.\n\n But how much would you tell him, Herbert? \n\n It is necessary to tell him very little. Let him suppose it a mere\nfreak, but a secret one, until the morning comes: then let him know\nthat there is urgent reason for your getting Provis aboard and away.\nYou go with him? \n\n No doubt. \n\n Where? \n\nIt had seemed to me, in the many anxious considerations I had given the\npoint, almost indifferent what port we made for, Hamburg, Rotterdam,\nAntwerp, the place signified little, so that he was out of England. Any\nforeign steamer that fell in our way and would take us up would do. I\nhad always proposed to myself to get him well down the river in the\nboat; certainly well beyond Gravesend, which was a critical place for\nsearch or inquiry if suspicion were afoot. As foreign steamers would\nleave London at about the time of high-water, our plan would be to get\ndown the river by a previous ebb-tide, and lie by in some quiet spot\nuntil we could pull off to one. The time when one would be due where we\nlay, wherever that might be, could be calculated pretty nearly, if we\nmade inquiries beforehand.\n\nHerbert assented to all this, and we went out immediately after\nbreakfast to pursue our investigations. We found that a steamer for\nHamburg was likely to suit our purpose best, and we directed our\nthoughts chiefly to that vessel. But we noted down what other foreign\nsteamers would leave London with the same tide, and we satisfied\nourselves that we knew the build and colour of each. We then separated\nfor a few hours: I, to get at once such passports as were necessary;\nHerbert, to see Startop at his lodgings. We both did what we had to do\nwithout any hindrance, and when we met again at one o clock reported it\ndone. I, for my part, was prepared with passports; Herbert had seen\nStartop, and he was more than ready to join.\n\nThose two should pull a pair of oars, we settled, and I would steer;\nour charge would be sitter, and keep quiet; as speed was not our\nobject, we should make way enough. We arranged that Herbert should not\ncome home to dinner before going to Mill Pond Bank that evening; that\nhe should not go there at all to-morrow evening, Tuesday; that he\nshould prepare Provis to come down to some stairs hard by the house, on\nWednesday, when he saw us approach, and not sooner; that all the\narrangements with him should be concluded that Monday night; and that\nhe should be communicated with no more in any way, until we took him on\nboard.\n\nThese precautions well understood by both of us, I went home.\n\nOn opening the outer door of our chambers with my key, I found a letter\nin the box, directed to me; a very dirty letter, though not\nill-written. It had been delivered by hand (of course, since I left\nhome), and its contents were these: \n\n If you are not afraid to come to the old marshes to-night or to-morrow\nnight at nine, and to come to the little sluice-house by the limekiln,\nyou had better come. If you want information regarding _your uncle\nProvis_, you had much better come and tell no one, and lose no time.\n_You must come alone_. Bring this with you. \n\nI had had load enough upon my mind before the receipt of this strange\nletter. What to do now, I could not tell. And the worst was, that I\nmust decide quickly, or I should miss the afternoon coach, which would\ntake me down in time for to-night. To-morrow night I could not think of\ngoing, for it would be too close upon the time of the flight. And\nagain, for anything I knew, the proffered information might have some\nimportant bearing on the flight itself.\n\nIf I had had ample time for consideration, I believe I should still\nhave gone. Having hardly any time for consideration, my watch showing\nme that the coach started within half an hour, I resolved to go. I\nshould certainly not have gone, but for the reference to my Uncle\nProvis. That, coming on Wemmick s letter and the morning s busy\npreparation, turned the scale.\n\nIt is so difficult to become clearly possessed of the contents of\nalmost any letter, in a violent hurry, that I had to read this\nmysterious epistle again twice, before its injunction to me to be\nsecret got mechanically into my mind. Yielding to it in the same\nmechanical kind of way, I left a note in pencil for Herbert, telling\nhim that as I should be so soon going away, I knew not for how long, I\nhad decided to hurry down and back, to ascertain for myself how Miss\nHavisham was faring. I had then barely time to get my great-coat, lock\nup the chambers, and make for the coach-office by the short by-ways. If\nI had taken a hackney-chariot and gone by the streets, I should have\nmissed my aim; going as I did, I caught the coach just as it came out\nof the yard. I was the only inside passenger, jolting away knee-deep in\nstraw, when I came to myself.\n\nFor I really had not been myself since the receipt of the letter; it\nhad so bewildered me, ensuing on the hurry of the morning. The morning\nhurry and flutter had been great; for, long and anxiously as I had\nwaited for Wemmick, his hint had come like a surprise at last. And now\nI began to wonder at myself for being in the coach, and to doubt\nwhether I had sufficient reason for being there, and to consider\nwhether I should get out presently and go back, and to argue against\never heeding an anonymous communication, and, in short, to pass through\nall those phases of contradiction and indecision to which I suppose\nvery few hurried people are strangers. Still, the reference to Provis\nby name mastered everything. I reasoned as I had reasoned already\nwithout knowing it, if that be reasoning, in case any harm should\nbefall him through my not going, how could I ever forgive myself!\n\nIt was dark before we got down, and the journey seemed long and dreary\nto me, who could see little of it inside, and who could not go outside\nin my disabled state. Avoiding the Blue Boar, I put up at an inn of\nminor reputation down the town, and ordered some dinner. While it was\npreparing, I went to Satis House and inquired for Miss Havisham; she\nwas still very ill, though considered something better.\n\nMy inn had once been a part of an ancient ecclesiastical house, and I\ndined in a little octagonal common-room, like a font. As I was not able\nto cut my dinner, the old landlord with a shining bald head did it for\nme. This bringing us into conversation, he was so good as to entertain\nme with my own story, of course with the popular feature that\nPumblechook was my earliest benefactor and the founder of my fortunes.\n\n Do you know the young man?  said I.\n\n Know him!  repeated the landlord.  Ever since he was no height at\nall. \n\n Does he ever come back to this neighbourhood? \n\n Ay, he comes back,  said the landlord,  to his great friends, now and\nagain, and gives the cold shoulder to the man that made him. \n\n What man is that? \n\n Him that I speak of,  said the landlord.  Mr. Pumblechook. \n\n Is he ungrateful to no one else? \n\n No doubt he would be, if he could,  returned the landlord,  but he\ncan t. And why? Because Pumblechook done everything for him. \n\n Does Pumblechook say so? \n\n Say so!  replied the landlord.  He han t no call to say so. \n\n But does he say so? \n\n It would turn a man s blood to white wine winegar to hear him tell of\nit, sir,  said the landlord.\n\nI thought,  Yet Joe, dear Joe, _you_ never tell of it. Long-suffering\nand loving Joe, _you_ never complain. Nor you, sweet-tempered Biddy! \n\n Your appetite s been touched like by your accident,  said the\nlandlord, glancing at the bandaged arm under my coat.  Try a tenderer\nbit. \n\n No, thank you,  I replied, turning from the table to brood over the\nfire.  I can eat no more. Please take it away. \n\nI had never been struck at so keenly, for my thanklessness to Joe, as\nthrough the brazen impostor Pumblechook. The falser he, the truer Joe;\nthe meaner he, the nobler Joe.\n\nMy heart was deeply and most deservedly humbled as I mused over the\nfire for an hour or more. The striking of the clock aroused me, but not\nfrom my dejection or remorse, and I got up and had my coat fastened\nround my neck, and went out. I had previously sought in my pockets for\nthe letter, that I might refer to it again; but I could not find it,\nand was uneasy to think that it must have been dropped in the straw of\nthe coach. I knew very well, however, that the appointed place was the\nlittle sluice-house by the limekiln on the marshes, and the hour nine.\nTowards the marshes I now went straight, having no time to spare.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter LIII.\n\n\nIt was a dark night, though the full moon rose as I left the enclosed\nlands, and passed out upon the marshes. Beyond their dark line there\nwas a ribbon of clear sky, hardly broad enough to hold the red large\nmoon. In a few minutes she had ascended out of that clear field, in\namong the piled mountains of cloud.\n\nThere was a melancholy wind, and the marshes were very dismal. A\nstranger would have found them insupportable, and even to me they were\nso oppressive that I hesitated, half inclined to go back. But I knew\nthem well, and could have found my way on a far darker night, and had\nno excuse for returning, being there. So, having come there against my\ninclination, I went on against it.\n\nThe direction that I took was not that in which my old home lay, nor\nthat in which we had pursued the convicts. My back was turned towards\nthe distant Hulks as I walked on, and, though I could see the old\nlights away on the spits of sand, I saw them over my shoulder. I knew\nthe limekiln as well as I knew the old Battery, but they were miles\napart; so that, if a light had been burning at each point that night,\nthere would have been a long strip of the blank horizon between the two\nbright specks.\n\nAt first, I had to shut some gates after me, and now and then to stand\nstill while the cattle that were lying in the banked-up pathway arose\nand blundered down among the grass and reeds. But after a little while\nI seemed to have the whole flats to myself.\n\nIt was another half-hour before I drew near to the kiln. The lime was\nburning with a sluggish stifling smell, but the fires were made up and\nleft, and no workmen were visible. Hard by was a small stone-quarry. It\nlay directly in my way, and had been worked that day, as I saw by the\ntools and barrows that were lying about.\n\nComing up again to the marsh level out of this excavation, for the rude\npath lay through it, I saw a light in the old sluice-house. I quickened\nmy pace, and knocked at the door with my hand. Waiting for some reply,\nI looked about me, noticing how the sluice was abandoned and broken,\nand how the house of wood with a tiled roof would not be proof against\nthe weather much longer, if it were so even now, and how the mud and\nooze were coated with lime, and how the choking vapour of the kiln\ncrept in a ghostly way towards me. Still there was no answer, and I\nknocked again. No answer still, and I tried the latch.\n\nIt rose under my hand, and the door yielded. Looking in, I saw a\nlighted candle on a table, a bench, and a mattress on a truckle\nbedstead. As there was a loft above, I called,  Is there any one here? \nbut no voice answered. Then I looked at my watch, and, finding that it\nwas past nine, called again,  Is there any one here?  There being still\nno answer, I went out at the door, irresolute what to do.\n\nIt was beginning to rain fast. Seeing nothing save what I had seen\nalready, I turned back into the house, and stood just within the\nshelter of the doorway, looking out into the night. While I was\nconsidering that some one must have been there lately and must soon be\ncoming back, or the candle would not be burning, it came into my head\nto look if the wick were long. I turned round to do so, and had taken\nup the candle in my hand, when it was extinguished by some violent\nshock; and the next thing I comprehended was, that I had been caught in\na strong running noose, thrown over my head from behind.\n\n Now,  said a suppressed voice with an oath,  I ve got you! \n\n What is this?  I cried, struggling.  Who is it? Help, help, help! \n\nNot only were my arms pulled close to my sides, but the pressure on my\nbad arm caused me exquisite pain. Sometimes, a strong man s hand,\nsometimes a strong man s breast, was set against my mouth to deaden my\ncries, and with a hot breath always close to me, I struggled\nineffectually in the dark, while I was fastened tight to the wall.  And\nnow,  said the suppressed voice with another oath,  call out again, and\nI ll make short work of you! \n\nFaint and sick with the pain of my injured arm, bewildered by the\nsurprise, and yet conscious how easily this threat could be put in\nexecution, I desisted, and tried to ease my arm were it ever so little.\nBut, it was bound too tight for that. I felt as if, having been burnt\nbefore, it were now being boiled.\n\nThe sudden exclusion of the night, and the substitution of black\ndarkness in its place, warned me that the man had closed a shutter.\nAfter groping about for a little, he found the flint and steel he\nwanted, and began to strike a light. I strained my sight upon the\nsparks that fell among the tinder, and upon which he breathed and\nbreathed, match in hand, but I could only see his lips, and the blue\npoint of the match; even those but fitfully. The tinder was damp, no\nwonder there, and one after another the sparks died out.\n\nThe man was in no hurry, and struck again with the flint and steel. As\nthe sparks fell thick and bright about him, I could see his hands, and\ntouches of his face, and could make out that he was seated and bending\nover the table; but nothing more. Presently I saw his blue lips again,\nbreathing on the tinder, and then a flare of light flashed up, and\nshowed me Orlick.\n\nWhom I had looked for, I don t know. I had not looked for him. Seeing\nhim, I felt that I was in a dangerous strait indeed, and I kept my eyes\nupon him.\n\nHe lighted the candle from the flaring match with great deliberation,\nand dropped the match, and trod it out. Then he put the candle away\nfrom him on the table, so that he could see me, and sat with his arms\nfolded on the table and looked at me. I made out that I was fastened to\na stout perpendicular ladder a few inches from the wall, a fixture\nthere, the means of ascent to the loft above.\n\n Now,  said he, when we had surveyed one another for some time,  I ve\ngot you. \n\n Unbind me. Let me go! \n\n Ah!  he returned,  _I_ ll let you go. I ll let you go to the moon,\nI ll let you go to the stars. All in good time. \n\n Why have you lured me here? \n\n Don t you know?  said he, with a deadly look.\n\n Why have you set upon me in the dark? \n\n Because I mean to do it all myself. One keeps a secret better than\ntwo. O you enemy, you enemy! \n\nHis enjoyment of the spectacle I furnished, as he sat with his arms\nfolded on the table, shaking his head at me and hugging himself, had a\nmalignity in it that made me tremble. As I watched him in silence, he\nput his hand into the corner at his side, and took up a gun with a\nbrass-bound stock.\n\n Do you know this?  said he, making as if he would take aim at me.  Do\nyou know where you saw it afore? Speak, wolf! \n\n Yes,  I answered.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n You cost me that place. You did. Speak! \n\n What else could I do? \n\n You did that, and that would be enough, without more. How dared you to\ncome betwixt me and a young woman I liked? \n\n When did I? \n\n When didn t you? It was you as always give Old Orlick a bad name to\nher. \n\n You gave it to yourself; you gained it for yourself. I could have done\nyou no harm, if you had done yourself none. \n\n You re a liar. And you ll take any pains, and spend any money, to\ndrive me out of this country, will you?  said he, repeating my words to\nBiddy in the last interview I had with her.  Now, I ll tell you a piece\nof information. It was never so well worth your while to get me out of\nthis country as it is to-night. Ah! If it was all your money twenty\ntimes told, to the last brass farden!  As he shook his heavy hand at\nme, with his mouth snarling like a tiger s, I felt that it was true.\n\n What are you going to do to me? \n\n I m a-going,  said he, bringing his fist down upon the table with a\nheavy blow, and rising as the blow fell to give it greater force, I m\na-going to have your life! \n\nHe leaned forward staring at me, slowly unclenched his hand and drew it\nacross his mouth as if his mouth watered for me, and sat down again.\n\n You was always in Old Orlick s way since ever you was a child. You\ngoes out of his way this present night. He ll have no more on you.\nYou re dead. \n\nI felt that I had come to the brink of my grave. For a moment I looked\nwildly round my trap for any chance of escape; but there was none.\n\n More than that,  said he, folding his arms on the table again,  I\nwon t have a rag of you, I won t have a bone of you, left on earth.\nI ll put your body in the kiln, I d carry two such to it, on my\nshoulders and, let people suppose what they may of you, they shall\nnever know nothing. \n\nMy mind, with inconceivable rapidity followed out all the consequences\nof such a death. Estella s father would believe I had deserted him,\nwould be taken, would die accusing me; even Herbert would doubt me,\nwhen he compared the letter I had left for him with the fact that I had\ncalled at Miss Havisham s gate for only a moment; Joe and Biddy would\nnever know how sorry I had been that night, none would ever know what I\nhad suffered, how true I had meant to be, what an agony I had passed\nthrough. The death close before me was terrible, but far more terrible\nthan death was the dread of being misremembered after death. And so\nquick were my thoughts, that I saw myself despised by unborn\ngenerations, Estella s children, and their children, while the wretch s\nwords were yet on his lips.\n\n Now, wolf,  said he,  afore I kill you like any other beast, which is\nwot I mean to do and wot I have tied you up for, I ll have a good look\nat you and a good goad at you. O you enemy! \n\nIt had passed through my thoughts to cry out for help again; though few\ncould know better than I, the solitary nature of the spot, and the\nhopelessness of aid. But as he sat gloating over me, I was supported by\na scornful detestation of him that sealed my lips. Above all things, I\nresolved that I would not entreat him, and that I would die making some\nlast poor resistance to him. Softened as my thoughts of all the rest of\nmen were in that dire extremity; humbly beseeching pardon, as I did, of\nHeaven; melted at heart, as I was, by the thought that I had taken no\nfarewell, and never now could take farewell of those who were dear to\nme, or could explain myself to them, or ask for their compassion on my\nmiserable errors, still, if I could have killed him, even in dying, I\nwould have done it.\n\nHe had been drinking, and his eyes were red and bloodshot. Around his\nneck was slung a tin bottle, as I had often seen his meat and drink\nslung about him in other days. He brought the bottle to his lips, and\ntook a fiery drink from it; and I smelt the strong spirits that I saw\nflash into his face.\n\n Wolf!  said he, folding his arms again,  Old Orlick s a-going to tell\nyou somethink. It was you as did for your shrew sister. \n\nAgain my mind, with its former inconceivable rapidity, had exhausted\nthe whole subject of the attack upon my sister, her illness, and her\ndeath, before his slow and hesitating speech had formed these words.\n\n It was you, villain,  said I.\n\n I tell you it was your doing, I tell you it was done through you,  he\nretorted, catching up the gun, and making a blow with the stock at the\nvacant air between us.  I come upon her from behind, as I come upon you\nto-night. _I_ giv  it her! I left her for dead, and if there had been a\nlimekiln as nigh her as there is now nigh you, she shouldn t have come\nto life again. But it warn t Old Orlick as did it; it was you. You was\nfavoured, and he was bullied and beat. Old Orlick bullied and beat, eh?\nNow you pays for it. You done it; now you pays for it. \n\nHe drank again, and became more ferocious. I saw by his tilting of the\nbottle that there was no great quantity left in it. I distinctly\nunderstood that he was working himself up with its contents to make an\nend of me. I knew that every drop it held was a drop of my life. I knew\nthat when I was changed into a part of the vapour that had crept\ntowards me but a little while before, like my own warning ghost, he\nwould do as he had done in my sister s case, make all haste to the\ntown, and be seen slouching about there drinking at the alehouses. My\nrapid mind pursued him to the town, made a picture of the street with\nhim in it, and contrasted its lights and life with the lonely marsh and\nthe white vapour creeping over it, into which I should have dissolved.\n\nIt was not only that I could have summed up years and years and years\nwhile he said a dozen words, but that what he did say presented\npictures to me, and not mere words. In the excited and exalted state of\nmy brain, I could not think of a place without seeing it, or of persons\nwithout seeing them. It is impossible to overstate the vividness of\nthese images, and yet I was so intent, all the time, upon him\nhimself, who would not be intent on the tiger crouching to spring! that\nI knew of the slightest action of his fingers.\n\nWhen he had drunk this second time, he rose from the bench on which he\nsat, and pushed the table aside. Then, he took up the candle, and,\nshading it with his murderous hand so as to throw its light on me,\nstood before me, looking at me and enjoying the sight.\n\n Wolf, I ll tell you something more. It was Old Orlick as you tumbled\nover on your stairs that night. \n\nI saw the staircase with its extinguished lamps. I saw the shadows of\nthe heavy stair-rails, thrown by the watchman s lantern on the wall. I\nsaw the rooms that I was never to see again; here, a door half open;\nthere, a door closed; all the articles of furniture around.\n\n And why was Old Orlick there? I ll tell you something more, wolf. You\nand her _have_ pretty well hunted me out of this country, so far as\ngetting a easy living in it goes, and I ve took up with new companions,\nand new masters. Some of  em writes my letters when I wants  em\nwrote, do you mind? writes my letters, wolf! They writes fifty hands;\nthey re not like sneaking you, as writes but one. I ve had a firm mind\nand a firm will to have your life, since you was down here at your\nsister s burying. I han t seen a way to get you safe, and I ve looked\narter you to know your ins and outs. For, says Old Orlick to himself,\n Somehow or another I ll have him!  What! When I looks for you, I finds\nyour uncle Provis, eh? \n\nMill Pond Bank, and Chinks s Basin, and the Old Green Copper Rope-walk,\nall so clear and plain! Provis in his rooms, the signal whose use was\nover, pretty Clara, the good motherly woman, old Bill Barley on his\nback, all drifting by, as on the swift stream of my life fast running\nout to sea!\n\n _You_ with a uncle too! Why, I know d you at Gargery s when you was so\nsmall a wolf that I could have took your weazen betwixt this finger and\nthumb and chucked you away dead (as I d thoughts o  doing, odd times,\nwhen I see you loitering amongst the pollards on a Sunday), and you\nhadn t found no uncles then. No, not you! But when Old Orlick come for\nto hear that your uncle Provis had most like wore the leg-iron wot Old\nOrlick had picked up, filed asunder, on these meshes ever so many year\nago, and wot he kep by him till he dropped your sister with it, like a\nbullock, as he means to drop you hey? when he come for to hear\nthat hey? \n\nIn his savage taunting, he flared the candle so close at me that I\nturned my face aside to save it from the flame.\n\n Ah!  he cried, laughing, after doing it again,  the burnt child dreads\nthe fire! Old Orlick knowed you was burnt, Old Orlick knowed you was\nsmuggling your uncle Provis away, Old Orlick s a match for you and\nknow d you d come to-night! Now I ll tell you something more, wolf, and\nthis ends it. There s them that s as good a match for your uncle Provis\nas Old Orlick has been for you. Let him  ware them, when he s lost his\nnevvy! Let him  ware them, when no man can t find a rag of his dear\nrelation s clothes, nor yet a bone of his body. There s them that can t\nand that won t have Magwitch, yes, _I_ know the name! alive in the same\nland with them, and that s had such sure information of him when he was\nalive in another land, as that he couldn t and shouldn t leave it\nunbeknown and put them in danger. P raps it s them that writes fifty\nhands, and that s not like sneaking you as writes but one.  Ware\nCompeyson, Magwitch, and the gallows! \n\nHe flared the candle at me again, smoking my face and hair, and for an\ninstant blinding me, and turned his powerful back as he replaced the\nlight on the table. I had thought a prayer, and had been with Joe and\nBiddy and Herbert, before he turned towards me again.\n\nThere was a clear space of a few feet between the table and the\nopposite wall. Within this space, he now slouched backwards and\nforwards. His great strength seemed to sit stronger upon him than ever\nbefore, as he did this with his hands hanging loose and heavy at his\nsides, and with his eyes scowling at me. I had no grain of hope left.\nWild as my inward hurry was, and wonderful the force of the pictures\nthat rushed by me instead of thoughts, I could yet clearly understand\nthat, unless he had resolved that I was within a few moments of surely\nperishing out of all human knowledge, he would never have told me what\nhe had told.\n\nOf a sudden, he stopped, took the cork out of his bottle, and tossed it\naway. Light as it was, I heard it fall like a plummet. He swallowed\nslowly, tilting up the bottle by little and little, and now he looked\nat me no more. The last few drops of liquor he poured into the palm of\nhis hand, and licked up. Then, with a sudden hurry of violence and\nswearing horribly, he threw the bottle from him, and stooped; and I saw\nin his hand a stone-hammer with a long heavy handle.\n\nThe resolution I had made did not desert me, for, without uttering one\nvain word of appeal to him, I shouted out with all my might, and\nstruggled with all my might. It was only my head and my legs that I\ncould move, but to that extent I struggled with all the force, until\nthen unknown, that was within me. In the same instant I heard\nresponsive shouts, saw figures and a gleam of light dash in at the\ndoor, heard voices and tumult, and saw Orlick emerge from a struggle of\nmen, as if it were tumbling water, clear the table at a leap, and fly\nout into the night.\n\nAfter a blank, I found that I was lying unbound, on the floor, in the\nsame place, with my head on some one s knee. My eyes were fixed on the\nladder against the wall, when I came to myself, had opened on it before\nmy mind saw it, and thus as I recovered consciousness, I knew that I\nwas in the place where I had lost it.\n\nToo indifferent at first, even to look round and ascertain who\nsupported me, I was lying looking at the ladder, when there came\nbetween me and it a face. The face of Trabb s boy!\n\n I think he s all right!  said Trabb s boy, in a sober voice;  but\nain t he just pale though! \n\nAt these words, the face of him who supported me looked over into mine,\nand I saw my supporter to be \n\n Herbert! Great Heaven! \n\n Softly,  said Herbert.  Gently, Handel. Don t be too eager. \n\n And our old comrade, Startop!  I cried, as he too bent over me.\n\n Remember what he is going to assist us in,  said Herbert,  and be\ncalm. \n\nThe allusion made me spring up; though I dropped again from the pain in\nmy arm.  The time has not gone by, Herbert, has it? What night is\nto-night? How long have I been here?  For, I had a strange and strong\nmisgiving that I had been lying there a long time a day and a\nnight, two days and nights, more.\n\n The time has not gone by. It is still Monday night. \n\n Thank God! \n\n And you have all to-morrow, Tuesday, to rest in,  said Herbert.  But\nyou can t help groaning, my dear Handel. What hurt have you got? Can\nyou stand? \n\n Yes, yes,  said I,  I can walk. I have no hurt but in this throbbing\narm. \n\nThey laid it bare, and did what they could. It was violently swollen\nand inflamed, and I could scarcely endure to have it touched. But, they\ntore up their handkerchiefs to make fresh bandages, and carefully\nreplaced it in the sling, until we could get to the town and obtain\nsome cooling lotion to put upon it. In a little while we had shut the\ndoor of the dark and empty sluice-house, and were passing through the\nquarry on our way back. Trabb s boy Trabb s overgrown young man\nnow went before us with a lantern, which was the light I had seen come\nin at the door. But, the moon was a good two hours higher than when I\nhad last seen the sky, and the night, though rainy, was much lighter.\nThe white vapour of the kiln was passing from us as we went by, and as\nI had thought a prayer before, I thought a thanksgiving now.\n\nEntreating Herbert to tell me how he had come to my rescue, which at\nfirst he had flatly refused to do, but had insisted on my remaining\nquiet, I learnt that I had in my hurry dropped the letter, open, in our\nchambers, where he, coming home to bring with him Startop whom he had\nmet in the street on his way to me, found it, very soon after I was\ngone. Its tone made him uneasy, and the more so because of the\ninconsistency between it and the hasty letter I had left for him. His\nuneasiness increasing instead of subsiding, after a quarter of an\nhour s consideration, he set off for the coach-office with Startop, who\nvolunteered his company, to make inquiry when the next coach went down.\nFinding that the afternoon coach was gone, and finding that his\nuneasiness grew into positive alarm, as obstacles came in his way, he\nresolved to follow in a post-chaise. So he and Startop arrived at the\nBlue Boar, fully expecting there to find me, or tidings of me; but,\nfinding neither, went on to Miss Havisham s, where they lost me.\nHereupon they went back to the hotel (doubtless at about the time when\nI was hearing the popular local version of my own story) to refresh\nthemselves and to get some one to guide them out upon the marshes.\nAmong the loungers under the Boar s archway happened to be Trabb s\nBoy, true to his ancient habit of happening to be everywhere where he\nhad no business, and Trabb s boy had seen me passing from Miss\nHavisham s in the direction of my dining-place. Thus Trabb s boy became\ntheir guide, and with him they went out to the sluice-house, though by\nthe town way to the marshes, which I had avoided. Now, as they went\nalong, Herbert reflected, that I might, after all, have been brought\nthere on some genuine and serviceable errand tending to Provis s\nsafety, and, bethinking himself that in that case interruption must be\nmischievous, left his guide and Startop on the edge of the quarry, and\nwent on by himself, and stole round the house two or three times,\nendeavouring to ascertain whether all was right within. As he could\nhear nothing but indistinct sounds of one deep rough voice (this was\nwhile my mind was so busy), he even at last began to doubt whether I\nwas there, when suddenly I cried out loudly, and he answered the cries,\nand rushed in, closely followed by the other two.\n\nWhen I told Herbert what had passed within the house, he was for our\nimmediately going before a magistrate in the town, late at night as it\nwas, and getting out a warrant. But, I had already considered that such\na course, by detaining us there, or binding us to come back, might be\nfatal to Provis. There was no gainsaying this difficulty, and we\nrelinquished all thoughts of pursuing Orlick at that time. For the\npresent, under the circumstances, we deemed it prudent to make rather\nlight of the matter to Trabb s boy; who, I am convinced, would have\nbeen much affected by disappointment, if he had known that his\nintervention saved me from the limekiln. Not that Trabb s boy was of a\nmalignant nature, but that he had too much spare vivacity, and that it\nwas in his constitution to want variety and excitement at anybody s\nexpense. When we parted, I presented him with two guineas (which seemed\nto meet his views), and told him that I was sorry ever to have had an\nill opinion of him (which made no impression on him at all).\n\nWednesday being so close upon us, we determined to go back to London\nthat night, three in the post-chaise; the rather, as we should then be\nclear away before the night s adventure began to be talked of. Herbert\ngot a large bottle of stuff for my arm; and by dint of having this\nstuff dropped over it all the night through, I was just able to bear\nits pain on the journey. It was daylight when we reached the Temple,\nand I went at once to bed, and lay in bed all day.\n\nMy terror, as I lay there, of falling ill, and being unfitted for\nto-morrow, was so besetting, that I wonder it did not disable me of\nitself. It would have done so, pretty surely, in conjunction with the\nmental wear and tear I had suffered, but for the unnatural strain upon\nme that to-morrow was. So anxiously looked forward to, charged with\nsuch consequences, its results so impenetrably hidden, though so near.\n\nNo precaution could have been more obvious than our refraining from\ncommunication with him that day; yet this again increased my\nrestlessness. I started at every footstep and every sound, believing\nthat he was discovered and taken, and this was the messenger to tell me\nso. I persuaded myself that I knew he was taken; that there was\nsomething more upon my mind than a fear or a presentiment; that the\nfact had occurred, and I had a mysterious knowledge of it. As the days\nwore on, and no ill news came, as the day closed in and darkness fell,\nmy overshadowing dread of being disabled by illness before to-morrow\nmorning altogether mastered me. My burning arm throbbed, and my burning\nhead throbbed, and I fancied I was beginning to wander. I counted up to\nhigh numbers, to make sure of myself, and repeated passages that I knew\nin prose and verse. It happened sometimes that in the mere escape of a\nfatigued mind, I dozed for some moments or forgot; then I would say to\nmyself with a start,  Now it has come, and I am turning delirious! \n\nThey kept me very quiet all day, and kept my arm constantly dressed,\nand gave me cooling drinks. Whenever I fell asleep, I awoke with the\nnotion I had had in the sluice-house, that a long time had elapsed and\nthe opportunity to save him was gone. About midnight I got out of bed\nand went to Herbert, with the conviction that I had been asleep for\nfour-and-twenty hours, and that Wednesday was past. It was the last\nself-exhausting effort of my fretfulness, for after that I slept\nsoundly.\n\nWednesday morning was dawning when I looked out of window. The winking\nlights upon the bridges were already pale, the coming sun was like a\nmarsh of fire on the horizon. The river, still dark and mysterious, was\nspanned by bridges that were turning coldly grey, with here and there\nat top a warm touch from the burning in the sky. As I looked along the\nclustered roofs, with church-towers and spires shooting into the\nunusually clear air, the sun rose up, and a veil seemed to be drawn\nfrom the river, and millions of sparkles burst out upon its waters.\nFrom me too, a veil seemed to be drawn, and I felt strong and well.\n\nHerbert lay asleep in his bed, and our old fellow-student lay asleep on\nthe sofa. I could not dress myself without help; but I made up the\nfire, which was still burning, and got some coffee ready for them. In\ngood time they too started up strong and well, and we admitted the\nsharp morning air at the windows, and looked at the tide that was still\nflowing towards us.\n\n When it turns at nine o clock,  said Herbert, cheerfully,  look out\nfor us, and stand ready, you over there at Mill Pond Bank! \n\n\n\n\nChapter LIV.\n\n\nIt was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind\nblows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. We\nhad our pea-coats with us, and I took a bag. Of all my worldly\npossessions I took no more than the few necessaries that filled the\nbag. Where I might go, what I might do, or when I might return, were\nquestions utterly unknown to me; nor did I vex my mind with them, for\nit was wholly set on Provis s safety. I only wondered for the passing\nmoment, as I stopped at the door and looked back, under what altered\ncircumstances I should next see those rooms, if ever.\n\nWe loitered down to the Temple stairs, and stood loitering there, as if\nwe were not quite decided to go upon the water at all. Of course, I had\ntaken care that the boat should be ready and everything in order. After\na little show of indecision, which there were none to see but the two\nor three amphibious creatures belonging to our Temple stairs, we went\non board and cast off; Herbert in the bow, I steering. It was then\nabout high-water, half-past eight.\n\nOur plan was this. The tide, beginning to run down at nine, and being\nwith us until three, we intended still to creep on after it had turned,\nand row against it until dark. We should then be well in those long\nreaches below Gravesend, between Kent and Essex, where the river is\nbroad and solitary, where the water-side inhabitants are very few, and\nwhere lone public-houses are scattered here and there, of which we\ncould choose one for a resting-place. There, we meant to lie by all\nnight. The steamer for Hamburg and the steamer for Rotterdam would\nstart from London at about nine on Thursday morning. We should know at\nwhat time to expect them, according to where we were, and would hail\nthe first; so that, if by any accident we were not taken abroad, we\nshould have another chance. We knew the distinguishing marks of each\nvessel.\n\nThe relief of being at last engaged in the execution of the purpose was\nso great to me that I felt it difficult to realise the condition in\nwhich I had been a few hours before. The crisp air, the sunlight, the\nmovement on the river, and the moving river itself, the road that ran\nwith us, seeming to sympathise with us, animate us, and encourage us\non, freshened me with new hope. I felt mortified to be of so little use\nin the boat; but, there were few better oarsmen than my two friends,\nand they rowed with a steady stroke that was to last all day.\n\nAt that time, the steam-traffic on the Thames was far below its present\nextent, and watermen s boats were far more numerous. Of barges, sailing\ncolliers, and coasting-traders, there were perhaps, as many as now; but\nof steam-ships, great and small, not a tithe or a twentieth part so\nmany. Early as it was, there were plenty of scullers going here and\nthere that morning, and plenty of barges dropping down with the tide;\nthe navigation of the river between bridges, in an open boat, was a\nmuch easier and commoner matter in those days than it is in these; and\nwe went ahead among many skiffs and wherries briskly.\n\nOld London Bridge was soon passed, and old Billingsgate Market with its\noyster-boats and Dutchmen, and the White Tower and Traitor s Gate, and\nwe were in among the tiers of shipping. Here were the Leith, Aberdeen,\nand Glasgow steamers, loading and unloading goods, and looking\nimmensely high out of the water as we passed alongside; here, were\ncolliers by the score and score, with the coal-whippers plunging off\nstages on deck, as counterweights to measures of coal swinging up,\nwhich were then rattled over the side into barges; here, at her\nmoorings was to-morrow s steamer for Rotterdam, of which we took good\nnotice; and here to-morrow s for Hamburg, under whose bowsprit we\ncrossed. And now I, sitting in the stern, could see, with a faster\nbeating heart, Mill Pond Bank and Mill Pond stairs.\n\n Is he there?  said Herbert.\n\n Not yet. \n\n Right! He was not to come down till he saw us. Can you see his\nsignal? \n\n Not well from here; but I think I see it. Now I see him! Pull both.\nEasy, Herbert. Oars! \n\nWe touched the stairs lightly for a single moment, and he was on board,\nand we were off again. He had a boat-cloak with him, and a black canvas\nbag; and he looked as like a river-pilot as my heart could have wished.\n\n Dear boy!  he said, putting his arm on my shoulder, as he took his\nseat.  Faithful dear boy, well done. Thankye, thankye! \n\nAgain among the tiers of shipping, in and out, avoiding rusty\nchain-cables frayed hempen hawsers and bobbing buoys, sinking for the\nmoment floating broken baskets, scattering floating chips of wood and\nshaving, cleaving floating scum of coal, in and out, under the\nfigure-head of the _John of Sunderland_ making a speech to the winds\n(as is done by many Johns), and the _Betsy of Yarmouth_ with a firm\nformality of bosom and her knobby eyes starting two inches out of her\nhead; in and out, hammers going in ship-builders  yards, saws going at\ntimber, clashing engines going at things unknown, pumps going in leaky\nships, capstans going, ships going out to sea, and unintelligible\nsea-creatures roaring curses over the bulwarks at respondent\nlightermen, in and out, out at last upon the clearer river, where the\nships  boys might take their fenders in, no longer fishing in troubled\nwaters with them over the side, and where the festooned sails might fly\nout to the wind.\n\nAt the stairs where we had taken him abroad, and ever since, I had\nlooked warily for any token of our being suspected. I had seen none. We\ncertainly had not been, and at that time as certainly we were not\neither attended or followed by any boat. If we had been waited on by\nany boat, I should have run in to shore, and have obliged her to go on,\nor to make her purpose evident. But we held our own without any\nappearance of molestation.\n\nHe had his boat-cloak on him, and looked, as I have said, a natural\npart of the scene. It was remarkable (but perhaps the wretched life he\nhad led accounted for it) that he was the least anxious of any of us.\nHe was not indifferent, for he told me that he hoped to live to see his\ngentleman one of the best of gentlemen in a foreign country; he was not\ndisposed to be passive or resigned, as I understood it; but he had no\nnotion of meeting danger half way. When it came upon him, he confronted\nit, but it must come before he troubled himself.\n\n If you knowed, dear boy,  he said to me,  what it is to sit here\nalonger my dear boy and have my smoke, arter having been day by day\nbetwixt four walls, you d envy me. But you don t know what it is. \n\n I think I know the delights of freedom,  I answered.\n\n Ah,  said he, shaking his head gravely.  But you don t know it equal\nto me. You must have been under lock and key, dear boy, to know it\nequal to me, but I ain t a-going to be low. \n\nIt occurred to me as inconsistent, that, for any mastering idea, he\nshould have endangered his freedom, and even his life. But I reflected\nthat perhaps freedom without danger was too much apart from all the\nhabit of his existence to be to him what it would be to another man. I\nwas not far out, since he said, after smoking a little: \n\n You see, dear boy, when I was over yonder, t other side the world, I\nwas always a looking to this side; and it come flat to be there, for\nall I was a growing rich. Everybody knowed Magwitch, and Magwitch could\ncome, and Magwitch could go, and nobody s head would be troubled about\nhim. They ain t so easy concerning me here, dear boy, wouldn t be,\nleastwise, if they knowed where I was. \n\n If all goes well,  said I,  you will be perfectly free and safe again\nwithin a few hours. \n\n Well,  he returned, drawing a long breath,  I hope so. \n\n And think so? \n\nHe dipped his hand in the water over the boat s gunwale, and said,\nsmiling with that softened air upon him which was not new to me: \n\n Ay, I s pose I think so, dear boy. We d be puzzled to be more quiet\nand easy-going than we are at present. But it s a flowing so soft and\npleasant through the water, p raps, as makes me think it I was a\nthinking through my smoke just then, that we can no more see to the\nbottom of the next few hours than we can see to the bottom of this\nriver what I catches hold of. Nor yet we can t no more hold their tide\nthan I can hold this. And it s run through my fingers and gone, you\nsee!  holding up his dripping hand.\n\n But for your face I should think you were a little despondent,  said\nI.\n\n Not a bit on it, dear boy! It comes of flowing on so quiet, and of\nthat there rippling at the boat s head making a sort of a Sunday tune.\nMaybe I m a growing a trifle old besides. \n\nHe put his pipe back in his mouth with an undisturbed expression of\nface, and sat as composed and contented as if we were already out of\nEngland. Yet he was as submissive to a word of advice as if he had been\nin constant terror; for, when we ran ashore to get some bottles of beer\ninto the boat, and he was stepping out, I hinted that I thought he\nwould be safest where he was, and he said.  Do you, dear boy?  and\nquietly sat down again.\n\nThe air felt cold upon the river, but it was a bright day, and the\nsunshine was very cheering. The tide ran strong, I took care to lose\nnone of it, and our steady stroke carried us on thoroughly well. By\nimperceptible degrees, as the tide ran out, we lost more and more of\nthe nearer woods and hills, and dropped lower and lower between the\nmuddy banks, but the tide was yet with us when we were off Gravesend.\nAs our charge was wrapped in his cloak, I purposely passed within a\nboat or two s length of the floating Custom House, and so out to catch\nthe stream, alongside of two emigrant ships, and under the bows of a\nlarge transport with troops on the forecastle looking down at us. And\nsoon the tide began to slacken, and the craft lying at anchor to swing,\nand presently they had all swung round, and the ships that were taking\nadvantage of the new tide to get up to the Pool began to crowd upon us\nin a fleet, and we kept under the shore, as much out of the strength of\nthe tide now as we could, standing carefully off from low shallows and\nmudbanks.\n\nOur oarsmen were so fresh, by dint of having occasionally let her drive\nwith the tide for a minute or two, that a quarter of an hour s rest\nproved full as much as they wanted. We got ashore among some slippery\nstones while we ate and drank what we had with us, and looked about. It\nwas like my own marsh country, flat and monotonous, and with a dim\nhorizon; while the winding river turned and turned, and the great\nfloating buoys upon it turned and turned, and everything else seemed\nstranded and still. For now the last of the fleet of ships was round\nthe last low point we had headed; and the last green barge,\nstraw-laden, with a brown sail, had followed; and some\nballast-lighters, shaped like a child s first rude imitation of a boat,\nlay low in the mud; and a little squat shoal-lighthouse on open piles\nstood crippled in the mud on stilts and crutches; and slimy stakes\nstuck out of the mud, and slimy stones stuck out of the mud, and red\nlandmarks and tidemarks stuck out of the mud, and an old landing-stage\nand an old roofless building slipped into the mud, and all about us was\nstagnation and mud.\n\nWe pushed off again, and made what way we could. It was much harder\nwork now, but Herbert and Startop persevered, and rowed and rowed and\nrowed until the sun went down. By that time the river had lifted us a\nlittle, so that we could see above the bank. There was the red sun, on\nthe low level of the shore, in a purple haze, fast deepening into\nblack; and there was the solitary flat marsh; and far away there were\nthe rising grounds, between which and us there seemed to be no life,\nsave here and there in the foreground a melancholy gull.\n\nAs the night was fast falling, and as the moon, being past the full,\nwould not rise early, we held a little council; a short one, for\nclearly our course was to lie by at the first lonely tavern we could\nfind. So, they plied their oars once more, and I looked out for\nanything like a house. Thus we held on, speaking little, for four or\nfive dull miles. It was very cold, and, a collier coming by us, with\nher galley-fire smoking and flaring, looked like a comfortable home.\nThe night was as dark by this time as it would be until morning; and\nwhat light we had, seemed to come more from the river than the sky, as\nthe oars in their dipping struck at a few reflected stars.\n\nAt this dismal time we were evidently all possessed by the idea that we\nwere followed. As the tide made, it flapped heavily at irregular\nintervals against the shore; and whenever such a sound came, one or\nother of us was sure to start, and look in that direction. Here and\nthere, the set of the current had worn down the bank into a little\ncreek, and we were all suspicious of such places, and eyed them\nnervously. Sometimes,  What was that ripple?  one of us would say in a\nlow voice. Or another,  Is that a boat yonder?  And afterwards we would\nfall into a dead silence, and I would sit impatiently thinking with\nwhat an unusual amount of noise the oars worked in the thowels.\n\nAt length we descried a light and a roof, and presently afterwards ran\nalongside a little causeway made of stones that had been picked up hard\nby. Leaving the rest in the boat, I stepped ashore, and found the light\nto be in a window of a public-house. It was a dirty place enough, and I\ndare say not unknown to smuggling adventurers; but there was a good\nfire in the kitchen, and there were eggs and bacon to eat, and various\nliquors to drink. Also, there were two double-bedded rooms, such as\nthey were,  the landlord said. No other company was in the house than\nthe landlord, his wife, and a grizzled male creature, the  Jack  of the\nlittle causeway, who was as slimy and smeary as if he had been\nlow-water mark too.\n\nWith this assistant, I went down to the boat again, and we all came\nashore, and brought out the oars, and rudder and boat-hook, and all\nelse, and hauled her up for the night. We made a very good meal by the\nkitchen fire, and then apportioned the bedrooms: Herbert and Startop\nwere to occupy one; I and our charge the other. We found the air as\ncarefully excluded from both, as if air were fatal to life; and there\nwere more dirty clothes and bandboxes under the beds than I should have\nthought the family possessed. But we considered ourselves well off,\nnotwithstanding, for a more solitary place we could not have found.\n\nWhile we were comforting ourselves by the fire after our meal, the\nJack who was sitting in a corner, and who had a bloated pair of shoes\non, which he had exhibited while we were eating our eggs and bacon, as\ninteresting relics that he had taken a few days ago from the feet of a\ndrowned seaman washed ashore asked me if we had seen a four-oared\ngalley going up with the tide? When I told him No, he said she must\nhave gone down then, and yet she  took up too,  when she left there.\n\n They must ha  thought better on t for some reason or another,  said\nthe Jack,  and gone down. \n\n A four-oared galley, did you say?  said I.\n\n A four,  said the Jack,  and two sitters. \n\n Did they come ashore here? \n\n They put in with a stone two-gallon jar for some beer. I d ha  been\nglad to pison the beer myself,  said the Jack,  or put some rattling\nphysic in it. \n\n Why? \n\n _I_ know why,  said the Jack. He spoke in a slushy voice, as if much\nmud had washed into his throat.\n\n He thinks,  said the landlord, a weakly meditative man with a pale\neye, who seemed to rely greatly on his Jack, he thinks they was, what\nthey wasn t. \n\n _I_ knows what I thinks,  observed the Jack.\n\n _You_ thinks Custom  Us, Jack?  said the landlord.\n\n I do,  said the Jack.\n\n Then you re wrong, Jack. \n\n AM I! \n\nIn the infinite meaning of his reply and his boundless confidence in\nhis views, the Jack took one of his bloated shoes off, looked into it,\nknocked a few stones out of it on the kitchen floor, and put it on\nagain. He did this with the air of a Jack who was so right that he\ncould afford to do anything.\n\n Why, what do you make out that they done with their buttons then,\nJack?  asked the landlord, vacillating weakly.\n\n Done with their buttons?  returned the Jack.  Chucked  em overboard.\nSwallered  em. Sowed  em, to come up small salad. Done with their\nbuttons! \n\n Don t be cheeky, Jack,  remonstrated the landlord, in a melancholy and\npathetic way.\n\n A Custom  Us officer knows what to do with his Buttons,  said the\nJack, repeating the obnoxious word with the greatest contempt,  when\nthey comes betwixt him and his own light. A four and two sitters don t\ngo hanging and hovering, up with one tide and down with another, and\nboth with and against another, without there being Custom  Us at the\nbottom of it.  Saying which he went out in disdain; and the landlord,\nhaving no one to reply upon, found it impracticable to pursue the\nsubject.\n\nThis dialogue made us all uneasy, and me very uneasy. The dismal wind\nwas muttering round the house, the tide was flapping at the shore, and\nI had a feeling that we were caged and threatened. A four-oared galley\nhovering about in so unusual a way as to attract this notice was an\nugly circumstance that I could not get rid of. When I had induced\nProvis to go up to bed, I went outside with my two companions (Startop\nby this time knew the state of the case), and held another council.\nWhether we should remain at the house until near the steamer s time,\nwhich would be about one in the afternoon, or whether we should put off\nearly in the morning, was the question we discussed. On the whole we\ndeemed it the better course to lie where we were, until within an hour\nor so of the steamer s time, and then to get out in her track, and\ndrift easily with the tide. Having settled to do this, we returned into\nthe house and went to bed.\n\nI lay down with the greater part of my clothes on, and slept well for a\nfew hours. When I awoke, the wind had risen, and the sign of the house\n(the Ship) was creaking and banging about, with noises that startled\nme. Rising softly, for my charge lay fast asleep, I looked out of the\nwindow. It commanded the causeway where we had hauled up our boat, and,\nas my eyes adapted themselves to the light of the clouded moon, I saw\ntwo men looking into her. They passed by under the window, looking at\nnothing else, and they did not go down to the landing-place which I\ncould discern to be empty, but struck across the marsh in the direction\nof the Nore.\n\nMy first impulse was to call up Herbert, and show him the two men going\naway. But reflecting, before I got into his room, which was at the back\nof the house and adjoined mine, that he and Startop had had a harder\nday than I, and were fatigued, I forbore. Going back to my window, I\ncould see the two men moving over the marsh. In that light, however, I\nsoon lost them, and, feeling very cold, lay down to think of the\nmatter, and fell asleep again.\n\nWe were up early. As we walked to and fro, all four together, before\nbreakfast, I deemed it right to recount what I had seen. Again our\ncharge was the least anxious of the party. It was very likely that the\nmen belonged to the Custom House, he said quietly, and that they had no\nthought of us. I tried to persuade myself that it was so, as, indeed,\nit might easily be. However, I proposed that he and I should walk away\ntogether to a distant point we could see, and that the boat should take\nus aboard there, or as near there as might prove feasible, at about\nnoon. This being considered a good precaution, soon after breakfast he\nand I set forth, without saying anything at the tavern.\n\nHe smoked his pipe as we went along, and sometimes stopped to clap me\non the shoulder. One would have supposed that it was I who was in\ndanger, not he, and that he was reassuring me. We spoke very little. As\nwe approached the point, I begged him to remain in a sheltered place,\nwhile I went on to reconnoitre; for it was towards it that the men had\npassed in the night. He complied, and I went on alone. There was no\nboat off the point, nor any boat drawn up anywhere near it, nor were\nthere any signs of the men having embarked there. But, to be sure, the\ntide was high, and there might have been some footprints under water.\n\nWhen he looked out from his shelter in the distance, and saw that I\nwaved my hat to him to come up, he rejoined me, and there we waited;\nsometimes lying on the bank, wrapped in our coats, and sometimes moving\nabout to warm ourselves, until we saw our boat coming round. We got\naboard easily, and rowed out into the track of the steamer. By that\ntime it wanted but ten minutes of one o clock, and we began to look out\nfor her smoke.\n\nBut, it was half-past one before we saw her smoke, and soon afterwards\nwe saw behind it the smoke of another steamer. As they were coming on\nat full speed, we got the two bags ready, and took that opportunity of\nsaying good-bye to Herbert and Startop. We had all shaken hands\ncordially, and neither Herbert s eyes nor mine were quite dry, when I\nsaw a four-oared galley shoot out from under the bank but a little way\nahead of us, and row out into the same track.\n\nA stretch of shore had been as yet between us and the steamer s smoke,\nby reason of the bend and wind of the river; but now she was visible,\ncoming head on. I called to Herbert and Startop to keep before the\ntide, that she might see us lying by for her, and I adjured Provis to\nsit quite still, wrapped in his cloak. He answered cheerily,  Trust to\nme, dear boy,  and sat like a statue. Meantime the galley, which was\nvery skilfully handled, had crossed us, let us come up with her, and\nfallen alongside. Leaving just room enough for the play of the oars,\nshe kept alongside, drifting when we drifted, and pulling a stroke or\ntwo when we pulled. Of the two sitters one held the rudder-lines, and\nlooked at us attentively, as did all the rowers; the other sitter was\nwrapped up, much as Provis was, and seemed to shrink, and whisper some\ninstruction to the steerer as he looked at us. Not a word was spoken in\neither boat.\n\nStartop could make out, after a few minutes, which steamer was first,\nand gave me the word  Hamburg,  in a low voice, as we sat face to face.\nShe was nearing us very fast, and the beating of her peddles grew\nlouder and louder. I felt as if her shadow were absolutely upon us,\nwhen the galley hailed us. I answered.\n\n You have a returned Transport there,  said the man who held the lines.\n That s the man, wrapped in the cloak. His name is Abel Magwitch,\notherwise Provis. I apprehend that man, and call upon him to surrender,\nand you to assist. \n\nAt the same moment, without giving any audible direction to his crew,\nhe ran the galley abroad of us. They had pulled one sudden stroke\nahead, had got their oars in, had run athwart us, and were holding on\nto our gunwale, before we knew what they were doing. This caused great\nconfusion on board the steamer, and I heard them calling to us, and\nheard the order given to stop the paddles, and heard them stop, but\nfelt her driving down upon us irresistibly. In the same moment, I saw\nthe steersman of the galley lay his hand on his prisoner s shoulder,\nand saw that both boats were swinging round with the force of the tide,\nand saw that all hands on board the steamer were running forward quite\nfrantically. Still, in the same moment, I saw the prisoner start up,\nlean across his captor, and pull the cloak from the neck of the\nshrinking sitter in the galley. Still in the same moment, I saw that\nthe face disclosed, was the face of the other convict of long ago.\nStill, in the same moment, I saw the face tilt backward with a white\nterror on it that I shall never forget, and heard a great cry on board\nthe steamer, and a loud splash in the water, and felt the boat sink\nfrom under me.\n\nIt was but for an instant that I seemed to struggle with a thousand\nmill-weirs and a thousand flashes of light; that instant past, I was\ntaken on board the galley. Herbert was there, and Startop was there;\nbut our boat was gone, and the two convicts were gone.\n\nWhat with the cries aboard the steamer, and the furious blowing off of\nher steam, and her driving on, and our driving on, I could not at first\ndistinguish sky from water or shore from shore; but the crew of the\ngalley righted her with great speed, and, pulling certain swift strong\nstrokes ahead, lay upon their oars, every man looking silently and\neagerly at the water astern. Presently a dark object was seen in it,\nbearing towards us on the tide. No man spoke, but the steersman held up\nhis hand, and all softly backed water, and kept the boat straight and\ntrue before it. As it came nearer, I saw it to be Magwitch, swimming,\nbut not swimming freely. He was taken on board, and instantly manacled\nat the wrists and ankles.\n\nThe galley was kept steady, and the silent, eager look-out at the water\nwas resumed. But, the Rotterdam steamer now came up, and apparently not\nunderstanding what had happened, came on at speed. By the time she had\nbeen hailed and stopped, both steamers were drifting away from us, and\nwe were rising and falling in a troubled wake of water. The look-out\nwas kept, long after all was still again and the two steamers were\ngone; but everybody knew that it was hopeless now.\n\nAt length we gave it up, and pulled under the shore towards the tavern\nwe had lately left, where we were received with no little surprise.\nHere I was able to get some comforts for Magwitch, Provis no\nlonger, who had received some very severe injury in the chest, and a\ndeep cut in the head.\n\nHe told me that he believed himself to have gone under the keel of the\nsteamer, and to have been struck on the head in rising. The injury to\nhis chest (which rendered his breathing extremely painful) he thought\nhe had received against the side of the galley. He added that he did\nnot pretend to say what he might or might not have done to Compeyson,\nbut that, in the moment of his laying his hand on his cloak to identify\nhim, that villain had staggered up and staggered back, and they had\nboth gone overboard together, when the sudden wrenching of him\n(Magwitch) out of our boat, and the endeavour of his captor to keep him\nin it, had capsized us. He told me in a whisper that they had gone down\nfiercely locked in each other s arms, and that there had been a\nstruggle under water, and that he had disengaged himself, struck out,\nand swum away.\n\nI never had any reason to doubt the exact truth of what he thus told\nme. The officer who steered the galley gave the same account of their\ngoing overboard.\n\nWhen I asked this officer s permission to change the prisoner s wet\nclothes by purchasing any spare garments I could get at the\npublic-house, he gave it readily: merely observing that he must take\ncharge of everything his prisoner had about him. So the pocket-book\nwhich had once been in my hands passed into the officer s. He further\ngave me leave to accompany the prisoner to London; but declined to\naccord that grace to my two friends.\n\nThe Jack at the Ship was instructed where the drowned man had gone\ndown, and undertook to search for the body in the places where it was\nlikeliest to come ashore. His interest in its recovery seemed to me to\nbe much heightened when he heard that it had stockings on. Probably, it\ntook about a dozen drowned men to fit him out completely; and that may\nhave been the reason why the different articles of his dress were in\nvarious stages of decay.\n\nWe remained at the public-house until the tide turned, and then\nMagwitch was carried down to the galley and put on board. Herbert and\nStartop were to get to London by land, as soon as they could. We had a\ndoleful parting, and when I took my place by Magwitch s side, I felt\nthat that was my place henceforth while he lived.\n\nFor now, my repugnance to him had all melted away; and in the hunted,\nwounded, shackled creature who held my hand in his, I only saw a man\nwho had meant to be my benefactor, and who had felt affectionately,\ngratefully, and generously, towards me with great constancy through a\nseries of years. I only saw in him a much better man than I had been to\nJoe.\n\nHis breathing became more difficult and painful as the night drew on,\nand often he could not repress a groan. I tried to rest him on the arm\nI could use, in any easy position; but it was dreadful to think that I\ncould not be sorry at heart for his being badly hurt, since it was\nunquestionably best that he should die. That there were, still living,\npeople enough who were able and willing to identify him, I could not\ndoubt. That he would be leniently treated, I could not hope. He who had\nbeen presented in the worst light at his trial, who had since broken\nprison and had been tried again, who had returned from transportation\nunder a life sentence, and who had occasioned the death of the man who\nwas the cause of his arrest.\n\nAs we returned towards the setting sun we had yesterday left behind us,\nand as the stream of our hopes seemed all running back, I told him how\ngrieved I was to think that he had come home for my sake.\n\n Dear boy,  he answered,  I m quite content to take my chance. I ve\nseen my boy, and he can be a gentleman without me. \n\nNo. I had thought about that, while we had been there side by side. No.\nApart from any inclinations of my own, I understood Wemmick s hint now.\nI foresaw that, being convicted, his possessions would be forfeited to\nthe Crown.\n\n Lookee here, dear boy,  said he  It s best as a gentleman should not\nbe knowed to belong to me now. Only come to see me as if you come by\nchance alonger Wemmick. Sit where I can see you when I am swore to, for\nthe last o  many times, and I don t ask no more. \n\n I will never stir from your side,  said I,  when I am suffered to be\nnear you. Please God, I will be as true to you as you have been to me! \n\nI felt his hand tremble as it held mine, and he turned his face away as\nhe lay in the bottom of the boat, and I heard that old sound in his\nthroat, softened now, like all the rest of him. It was a good thing\nthat he had touched this point, for it put into my mind what I might\nnot otherwise have thought of until too late, that he need never know\nhow his hopes of enriching me had perished.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LV.\n\n\nHe was taken to the Police Court next day, and would have been\nimmediately committed for trial, but that it was necessary to send down\nfor an old officer of the prison-ship from which he had once escaped,\nto speak to his identity. Nobody doubted it; but Compeyson, who had\nmeant to depose to it, was tumbling on the tides, dead, and it happened\nthat there was not at that time any prison officer in London who could\ngive the required evidence. I had gone direct to Mr. Jaggers at his\nprivate house, on my arrival over night, to retain his assistance, and\nMr. Jaggers on the prisoner s behalf would admit nothing. It was the\nsole resource; for he told me that the case must be over in five\nminutes when the witness was there, and that no power on earth could\nprevent its going against us.\n\nI imparted to Mr. Jaggers my design of keeping him in ignorance of the\nfate of his wealth. Mr. Jaggers was querulous and angry with me for\nhaving  let it slip through my fingers,  and said we must memorialise\nby and by, and try at all events for some of it. But he did not conceal\nfrom me that, although there might be many cases in which the\nforfeiture would not be exacted, there were no circumstances in this\ncase to make it one of them. I understood that very well. I was not\nrelated to the outlaw, or connected with him by any recognisable tie;\nhe had put his hand to no writing or settlement in my favour before his\napprehension, and to do so now would be idle. I had no claim, and I\nfinally resolved, and ever afterwards abided by the resolution, that my\nheart should never be sickened with the hopeless task of attempting to\nestablish one.\n\nThere appeared to be reason for supposing that the drowned informer had\nhoped for a reward out of this forfeiture, and had obtained some\naccurate knowledge of Magwitch s affairs. When his body was found, many\nmiles from the scene of his death, and so horribly disfigured that he\nwas only recognisable by the contents of his pockets, notes were still\nlegible, folded in a case he carried. Among these were the name of a\nbanking-house in New South Wales, where a sum of money was, and the\ndesignation of certain lands of considerable value. Both these heads of\ninformation were in a list that Magwitch, while in prison, gave to Mr.\nJaggers, of the possessions he supposed I should inherit. His\nignorance, poor fellow, at last served him; he never mistrusted but\nthat my inheritance was quite safe, with Mr. Jaggers s aid.\n\nAfter three days  delay, during which the crown prosecution stood over\nfor the production of the witness from the prison-ship, the witness\ncame, and completed the easy case. He was committed to take his trial\nat the next Sessions, which would come on in a month.\n\nIt was at this dark time of my life that Herbert returned home one\nevening, a good deal cast down, and said, \n\n My dear Handel, I fear I shall soon have to leave you. \n\nHis partner having prepared me for that, I was less surprised than he\nthought.\n\n We shall lose a fine opportunity if I put off going to Cairo, and I am\nvery much afraid I must go, Handel, when you most need me. \n\n Herbert, I shall always need you, because I shall always love you; but\nmy need is no greater now than at another time. \n\n You will be so lonely. \n\n I have not leisure to think of that,  said I.  You know that I am\nalways with him to the full extent of the time allowed, and that I\nshould be with him all day long, if I could. And when I come away from\nhim, you know that my thoughts are with him. \n\nThe dreadful condition to which he was brought, was so appalling to\nboth of us, that we could not refer to it in plainer words.\n\n My dear fellow,  said Herbert,  let the near prospect of our\nseparation for, it is very near be my justification for troubling you\nabout yourself. Have you thought of your future? \n\n No, for I have been afraid to think of any future. \n\n But yours cannot be dismissed; indeed, my dear dear Handel, it must\nnot be dismissed. I wish you would enter on it now, as far as a few\nfriendly words go, with me. \n\n I will,  said I.\n\n In this branch house of ours, Handel, we must have a \n\nI saw that his delicacy was avoiding the right word, so I said,  A\nclerk. \n\n A clerk. And I hope it is not at all unlikely that he may expand (as a\nclerk of your acquaintance has expanded) into a partner. Now,\nHandel, in short, my dear boy, will you come to me? \n\nThere was something charmingly cordial and engaging in the manner in\nwhich after saying  Now, Handel,  as if it were the grave beginning of\na portentous business exordium, he had suddenly given up that tone,\nstretched out his honest hand, and spoken like a schoolboy.\n\n Clara and I have talked about it again and again,  Herbert pursued,\n and the dear little thing begged me only this evening, with tears in\nher eyes, to say to you that, if you will live with us when we come\ntogether, she will do her best to make you happy, and to convince her\nhusband s friend that he is her friend too. We should get on so well,\nHandel! \n\nI thanked her heartily, and I thanked him heartily, but said I could\nnot yet make sure of joining him as he so kindly offered. Firstly, my\nmind was too preoccupied to be able to take in the subject clearly.\nSecondly, Yes! Secondly, there was a vague something lingering in my\nthoughts that will come out very near the end of this slight narrative.\n\n But if you thought, Herbert, that you could, without doing any injury\nto your business, leave the question open for a little while \n\n For any while,  cried Herbert.  Six months, a year! \n\n Not so long as that,  said I.  Two or three months at most. \n\nHerbert was highly delighted when we shook hands on this arrangement,\nand said he could now take courage to tell me that he believed he must\ngo away at the end of the week.\n\n And Clara?  said I.\n\n The dear little thing,  returned Herbert,  holds dutifully to her\nfather as long as he lasts; but he won t last long. Mrs. Whimple\nconfides to me that he is certainly going. \n\n Not to say an unfeeling thing,  said I,  he cannot do better than go. \n\n I am afraid that must be admitted,  said Herbert;  and then I shall\ncome back for the dear little thing, and the dear little thing and I\nwill walk quietly into the nearest church. Remember! The blessed\ndarling comes of no family, my dear Handel, and never looked into the\nred book, and hasn t a notion about her grandpapa. What a fortune for\nthe son of my mother! \n\nOn the Saturday in that same week, I took my leave of Herbert, full of\nbright hope, but sad and sorry to leave me, as he sat on one of the\nseaport mail coaches. I went into a coffee-house to write a little note\nto Clara, telling her he had gone off, sending his love to her over and\nover again, and then went to my lonely home, if it deserved the name;\nfor it was now no home to me, and I had no home anywhere.\n\nOn the stairs I encountered Wemmick, who was coming down, after an\nunsuccessful application of his knuckles to my door. I had not seen him\nalone since the disastrous issue of the attempted flight; and he had\ncome, in his private and personal capacity, to say a few words of\nexplanation in reference to that failure.\n\n The late Compeyson,  said Wemmick,  had by little and little got at\nthe bottom of half of the regular business now transacted; and it was\nfrom the talk of some of his people in trouble (some of his people\nbeing always in trouble) that I heard what I did. I kept my ears open,\nseeming to have them shut, until I heard that he was absent, and I\nthought that would be the best time for making the attempt. I can only\nsuppose now, that it was a part of his policy, as a very clever man,\nhabitually to deceive his own instruments. You don t blame me, I hope,\nMr. Pip? I am sure I tried to serve you, with all my heart. \n\n I am as sure of that, Wemmick, as you can be, and I thank you most\nearnestly for all your interest and friendship. \n\n Thank you, thank you very much. It s a bad job,  said Wemmick,\nscratching his head,  and I assure you I haven t been so cut up for a\nlong time. What I look at is the sacrifice of so much portable\nproperty. Dear me! \n\n What _I_ think of, Wemmick, is the poor owner of the property. \n\n Yes, to be sure,  said Wemmick.  Of course, there can be no objection\nto your being sorry for him, and I d put down a five-pound note myself\nto get him out of it. But what I look at is this. The late Compeyson\nhaving been beforehand with him in intelligence of his return, and\nbeing so determined to bring him to book, I do not think he could have\nbeen saved. Whereas, the portable property certainly could have been\nsaved. That s the difference between the property and the owner, don t\nyou see? \n\nI invited Wemmick to come upstairs, and refresh himself with a glass of\ngrog before walking to Walworth. He accepted the invitation. While he\nwas drinking his moderate allowance, he said, with nothing to lead up\nto it, and after having appeared rather fidgety, \n\n What do you think of my meaning to take a holiday on Monday, Mr. Pip? \n\n Why, I suppose you have not done such a thing these twelve months. \n\n These twelve years, more likely,  said Wemmick.  Yes. I m going to\ntake a holiday. More than that; I m going to take a walk. More than\nthat; I m going to ask you to take a walk with me. \n\nI was about to excuse myself, as being but a bad companion just then,\nwhen Wemmick anticipated me.\n\n I know your engagements,  said he,  and I know you are out of sorts,\nMr. Pip. But if you _could_ oblige me, I should take it as a kindness.\nIt ain t a long walk, and it s an early one. Say it might occupy you\n(including breakfast on the walk) from eight to twelve. Couldn t you\nstretch a point and manage it? \n\nHe had done so much for me at various times, that this was very little\nto do for him. I said I could manage it, would manage it, and he was so\nvery much pleased by my acquiescence, that I was pleased too. At his\nparticular request, I appointed to call for him at the Castle at half\npast eight on Monday morning, and so we parted for the time.\n\nPunctual to my appointment, I rang at the Castle gate on the Monday\nmorning, and was received by Wemmick himself, who struck me as looking\ntighter than usual, and having a sleeker hat on. Within, there were two\nglasses of rum and milk prepared, and two biscuits. The Aged must have\nbeen stirring with the lark, for, glancing into the perspective of his\nbedroom, I observed that his bed was empty.\n\nWhen we had fortified ourselves with the rum and milk and biscuits, and\nwere going out for the walk with that training preparation on us, I was\nconsiderably surprised to see Wemmick take up a fishing-rod, and put it\nover his shoulder.  Why, we are not going fishing!  said I.  No, \nreturned Wemmick,  but I like to walk with one. \n\nI thought this odd; however, I said nothing, and we set off. We went\ntowards Camberwell Green, and when we were thereabouts, Wemmick said\nsuddenly, \n\n Halloa! Here s a church! \n\nThere was nothing very surprising in that; but again, I was rather\nsurprised, when he said, as if he were animated by a brilliant idea, \n\n Let s go in! \n\nWe went in, Wemmick leaving his fishing-rod in the porch, and looked\nall round. In the mean time, Wemmick was diving into his coat-pockets,\nand getting something out of paper there.\n\n Halloa!  said he.  Here s a couple of pair of gloves! Let s put  em\non! \n\nAs the gloves were white kid gloves, and as the post-office was widened\nto its utmost extent, I now began to have my strong suspicions. They\nwere strengthened into certainty when I beheld the Aged enter at a side\ndoor, escorting a lady.\n\n Halloa!  said Wemmick.  Here s Miss Skiffins! Let s have a wedding. \n\nThat discreet damsel was attired as usual, except that she was now\nengaged in substituting for her green kid gloves a pair of white. The\nAged was likewise occupied in preparing a similar sacrifice for the\naltar of Hymen. The old gentleman, however, experienced so much\ndifficulty in getting his gloves on, that Wemmick found it necessary to\nput him with his back against a pillar, and then to get behind the\npillar himself and pull away at them, while I for my part held the old\ngentleman round the waist, that he might present an equal and safe\nresistance. By dint of this ingenious scheme, his gloves were got on to\nperfection.\n\nThe clerk and clergyman then appearing, we were ranged in order at\nthose fatal rails. True to his notion of seeming to do it all without\npreparation, I heard Wemmick say to himself, as he took something out\nof his waistcoat-pocket before the service began,  Halloa! Here s a\nring! \n\nI acted in the capacity of backer, or best-man, to the bridegroom;\nwhile a little limp pew-opener in a soft bonnet like a baby s, made a\nfeint of being the bosom friend of Miss Skiffins. The responsibility of\ngiving the lady away devolved upon the Aged, which led to the\nclergyman s being unintentionally scandalised, and it happened thus.\nWhen he said,  Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?  the\nold gentleman, not in the least knowing what point of the ceremony we\nhad arrived at, stood most amiably beaming at the ten commandments.\nUpon which, the clergyman said again,  WHO giveth this woman to be\nmarried to this man?  The old gentleman being still in a state of most\nestimable unconsciousness, the bridegroom cried out in his accustomed\nvoice,  Now Aged P. you know; who giveth?  To which the Aged replied\nwith great briskness, before saying that _he_ gave,  All right, John,\nall right, my boy!  And the clergyman came to so gloomy a pause upon\nit, that I had doubts for the moment whether we should get completely\nmarried that day.\n\nIt was completely done, however, and when we were going out of church\nWemmick took the cover off the font, and put his white gloves in it,\nand put the cover on again. Mrs. Wemmick, more heedful of the future,\nput her white gloves in her pocket and assumed her green.  _Now_, Mr.\nPip,  said Wemmick, triumphantly shouldering the fishing-rod as we came\nout,  let me ask you whether anybody would suppose this to be a\nwedding-party! \n\nBreakfast had been ordered at a pleasant little tavern, a mile or so\naway upon the rising ground beyond the green; and there was a bagatelle\nboard in the room, in case we should desire to unbend our minds after\nthe solemnity. It was pleasant to observe that Mrs. Wemmick no longer\nunwound Wemmick s arm when it adapted itself to her figure, but sat in\na high-backed chair against the wall, like a violoncello in its case,\nand submitted to be embraced as that melodious instrument might have\ndone.\n\nWe had an excellent breakfast, and when any one declined anything on\ntable, Wemmick said,  Provided by contract, you know; don t be afraid\nof it!  I drank to the new couple, drank to the Aged, drank to the\nCastle, saluted the bride at parting, and made myself as agreeable as I\ncould.\n\nWemmick came down to the door with me, and I again shook hands with\nhim, and wished him joy.\n\n Thankee!  said Wemmick, rubbing his hands.  She s such a manager of\nfowls, you have no idea. You shall have some eggs, and judge for\nyourself. I say, Mr. Pip!  calling me back, and speaking low.  This is\naltogether a Walworth sentiment, please. \n\n I understand. Not to be mentioned in Little Britain,  said I.\n\nWemmick nodded.  After what you let out the other day, Mr. Jaggers may\nas well not know of it. He might think my brain was softening, or\nsomething of the kind. \n\n\n\n\nChapter LVI.\n\n\nHe lay in prison very ill, during the whole interval between his\ncommittal for trial and the coming round of the Sessions. He had broken\ntwo ribs, they had wounded one of his lungs, and he breathed with great\npain and difficulty, which increased daily. It was a consequence of his\nhurt that he spoke so low as to be scarcely audible; therefore he spoke\nvery little. But he was ever ready to listen to me; and it became the\nfirst duty of my life to say to him, and read to him, what I knew he\nought to hear.\n\nBeing far too ill to remain in the common prison, he was removed, after\nthe first day or so, into the infirmary. This gave me opportunities of\nbeing with him that I could not otherwise have had. And but for his\nillness he would have been put in irons, for he was regarded as a\ndetermined prison-breaker, and I know not what else.\n\nAlthough I saw him every day, it was for only a short time; hence, the\nregularly recurring spaces of our separation were long enough to record\non his face any slight changes that occurred in his physical state. I\ndo not recollect that I once saw any change in it for the better; he\nwasted, and became slowly weaker and worse, day by day, from the day\nwhen the prison door closed upon him.\n\nThe kind of submission or resignation that he showed was that of a man\nwho was tired out. I sometimes derived an impression, from his manner\nor from a whispered word or two which escaped him, that he pondered\nover the question whether he might have been a better man under better\ncircumstances. But he never justified himself by a hint tending that\nway, or tried to bend the past out of its eternal shape.\n\nIt happened on two or three occasions in my presence, that his\ndesperate reputation was alluded to by one or other of the people in\nattendance on him. A smile crossed his face then, and he turned his\neyes on me with a trustful look, as if he were confident that I had\nseen some small redeeming touch in him, even so long ago as when I was\na little child. As to all the rest, he was humble and contrite, and I\nnever knew him complain.\n\nWhen the Sessions came round, Mr. Jaggers caused an application to be\nmade for the postponement of his trial until the following Sessions. It\nwas obviously made with the assurance that he could not live so long,\nand was refused. The trial came on at once, and, when he was put to the\nbar, he was seated in a chair. No objection was made to my getting\nclose to the dock, on the outside of it, and holding the hand that he\nstretched forth to me.\n\nThe trial was very short and very clear. Such things as could be said\nfor him were said, how he had taken to industrious habits, and had\nthriven lawfully and reputably. But nothing could unsay the fact that\nhe had returned, and was there in presence of the Judge and Jury. It\nwas impossible to try him for that, and do otherwise than find him\nguilty.\n\nAt that time, it was the custom (as I learnt from my terrible\nexperience of that Sessions) to devote a concluding day to the passing\nof Sentences, and to make a finishing effect with the Sentence of\nDeath. But for the indelible picture that my remembrance now holds\nbefore me, I could scarcely believe, even as I write these words, that\nI saw two-and-thirty men and women put before the Judge to receive that\nsentence together. Foremost among the two-and-thirty was he; seated,\nthat he might get breath enough to keep life in him.\n\nThe whole scene starts out again in the vivid colours of the moment,\ndown to the drops of April rain on the windows of the court, glittering\nin the rays of April sun. Penned in the dock, as I again stood outside\nit at the corner with his hand in mine, were the two-and-thirty men and\nwomen; some defiant, some stricken with terror, some sobbing and\nweeping, some covering their faces, some staring gloomily about. There\nhad been shrieks from among the women convicts; but they had been\nstilled, and a hush had succeeded. The sheriffs with their great chains\nand nosegays, other civic gewgaws and monsters, criers, ushers, a great\ngallery full of people, a large theatrical audience, looked on, as the\ntwo-and-thirty and the Judge were solemnly confronted. Then the Judge\naddressed them. Among the wretched creatures before him whom he must\nsingle out for special address was one who almost from his infancy had\nbeen an offender against the laws; who, after repeated imprisonments\nand punishments, had been at length sentenced to exile for a term of\nyears; and who, under circumstances of great violence and daring, had\nmade his escape and been re-sentenced to exile for life. That miserable\nman would seem for a time to have become convinced of his errors, when\nfar removed from the scenes of his old offences, and to have lived a\npeaceable and honest life. But in a fatal moment, yielding to those\npropensities and passions, the indulgence of which had so long rendered\nhim a scourge to society, he had quitted his haven of rest and\nrepentance, and had come back to the country where he was proscribed.\nBeing here presently denounced, he had for a time succeeded in evading\nthe officers of Justice, but being at length seized while in the act of\nflight, he had resisted them, and had he best knew whether by express\ndesign, or in the blindness of his hardihood caused the death of his\ndenouncer, to whom his whole career was known. The appointed punishment\nfor his return to the land that had cast him out, being Death, and his\ncase being this aggravated case, he must prepare himself to Die.\n\nThe sun was striking in at the great windows of the court, through the\nglittering drops of rain upon the glass, and it made a broad shaft of\nlight between the two-and-thirty and the Judge, linking both together,\nand perhaps reminding some among the audience how both were passing on,\nwith absolute equality, to the greater Judgment that knoweth all\nthings, and cannot err. Rising for a moment, a distinct speck of face\nin this way of light, the prisoner said,  My Lord, I have received my\nsentence of Death from the Almighty, but I bow to yours,  and sat down\nagain. There was some hushing, and the Judge went on with what he had\nto say to the rest. Then they were all formally doomed, and some of\nthem were supported out, and some of them sauntered out with a haggard\nlook of bravery, and a few nodded to the gallery, and two or three\nshook hands, and others went out chewing the fragments of herb they had\ntaken from the sweet herbs lying about. He went last of all, because of\nhaving to be helped from his chair, and to go very slowly; and he held\nmy hand while all the others were removed, and while the audience got\nup (putting their dresses right, as they might at church or elsewhere),\nand pointed down at this criminal or at that, and most of all at him\nand me.\n\nI earnestly hoped and prayed that he might die before the Recorder s\nReport was made; but, in the dread of his lingering on, I began that\nnight to write out a petition to the Home Secretary of State, setting\nforth my knowledge of him, and how it was that he had come back for my\nsake. I wrote it as fervently and pathetically as I could; and when I\nhad finished it and sent it in, I wrote out other petitions to such men\nin authority as I hoped were the most merciful, and drew up one to the\nCrown itself. For several days and nights after he was sentenced I took\nno rest except when I fell asleep in my chair, but was wholly absorbed\nin these appeals. And after I had sent them in, I could not keep away\nfrom the places where they were, but felt as if they were more hopeful\nand less desperate when I was near them. In this unreasonable\nrestlessness and pain of mind I would roam the streets of an evening,\nwandering by those offices and houses where I had left the petitions.\nTo the present hour, the weary western streets of London on a cold,\ndusty spring night, with their ranges of stern, shut-up mansions, and\ntheir long rows of lamps, are melancholy to me from this association.\n\nThe daily visits I could make him were shortened now, and he was more\nstrictly kept. Seeing, or fancying, that I was suspected of an\nintention of carrying poison to him, I asked to be searched before I\nsat down at his bedside, and told the officer who was always there,\nthat I was willing to do anything that would assure him of the\nsingleness of my designs. Nobody was hard with him or with me. There\nwas duty to be done, and it was done, but not harshly. The officer\nalways gave me the assurance that he was worse, and some other sick\nprisoners in the room, and some other prisoners who attended on them as\nsick nurses, (malefactors, but not incapable of kindness, God be\nthanked!) always joined in the same report.\n\nAs the days went on, I noticed more and more that he would lie placidly\nlooking at the white ceiling, with an absence of light in his face\nuntil some word of mine brightened it for an instant, and then it would\nsubside again. Sometimes he was almost or quite unable to speak, then\nhe would answer me with slight pressures on my hand, and I grew to\nunderstand his meaning very well.\n\nThe number of the days had risen to ten, when I saw a greater change in\nhim than I had seen yet. His eyes were turned towards the door, and\nlighted up as I entered.\n\n Dear boy,  he said, as I sat down by his bed:  I thought you was late.\nBut I knowed you couldn t be that. \n\n It is just the time,  said I.  I waited for it at the gate. \n\n You always waits at the gate; don t you, dear boy? \n\n Yes. Not to lose a moment of the time. \n\n Thank ee dear boy, thank ee. God bless you! You ve never deserted me,\ndear boy. \n\nI pressed his hand in silence, for I could not forget that I had once\nmeant to desert him.\n\n And what s the best of all,  he said,  you ve been more comfortable\nalonger me, since I was under a dark cloud, than when the sun shone.\nThat s best of all. \n\nHe lay on his back, breathing with great difficulty. Do what he would,\nand love me though he did, the light left his face ever and again, and\na film came over the placid look at the white ceiling.\n\n Are you in much pain to-day? \n\n I don t complain of none, dear boy. \n\n You never do complain. \n\nHe had spoken his last words. He smiled, and I understood his touch to\nmean that he wished to lift my hand, and lay it on his breast. I laid\nit there, and he smiled again, and put both his hands upon it.\n\nThe allotted time ran out, while we were thus; but, looking round, I\nfound the governor of the prison standing near me, and he whispered,\n You needn t go yet.  I thanked him gratefully, and asked,  Might I\nspeak to him, if he can hear me? \n\nThe governor stepped aside, and beckoned the officer away. The change,\nthough it was made without noise, drew back the film from the placid\nlook at the white ceiling, and he looked most affectionately at me.\n\n Dear Magwitch, I must tell you now, at last. You understand what I\nsay? \n\nA gentle pressure on my hand.\n\n You had a child once, whom you loved and lost. \n\nA stronger pressure on my hand.\n\n She lived, and found powerful friends. She is living now. She is a\nlady and very beautiful. And I love her! \n\nWith a last faint effort, which would have been powerless but for my\nyielding to it and assisting it, he raised my hand to his lips. Then,\nhe gently let it sink upon his breast again, with his own hands lying\non it. The placid look at the white ceiling came back, and passed away,\nand his head dropped quietly on his breast.\n\nMindful, then, of what we had read together, I thought of the two men\nwho went up into the Temple to pray, and I knew there were no better\nwords that I could say beside his bed, than  O Lord, be merciful to him\na sinner! \n\n\n\n\nChapter LVII.\n\n\nNow that I was left wholly to myself, I gave notice of my intention to\nquit the chambers in the Temple as soon as my tenancy could legally\ndetermine, and in the meanwhile to underlet them. At once I put bills\nup in the windows; for, I was in debt, and had scarcely any money, and\nbegan to be seriously alarmed by the state of my affairs. I ought\nrather to write that I should have been alarmed if I had had energy and\nconcentration enough to help me to the clear perception of any truth\nbeyond the fact that I was falling very ill. The late stress upon me\nhad enabled me to put off illness, but not to put it away; I knew that\nit was coming on me now, and I knew very little else, and was even\ncareless as to that.\n\nFor a day or two, I lay on the sofa, or on the floor, anywhere,\naccording as I happened to sink down, with a heavy head and aching\nlimbs, and no purpose, and no power. Then there came, one night which\nappeared of great duration, and which teemed with anxiety and horror;\nand when in the morning I tried to sit up in my bed and think of it, I\nfound I could not do so.\n\nWhether I really had been down in Garden Court in the dead of the\nnight, groping about for the boat that I supposed to be there; whether\nI had two or three times come to myself on the staircase with great\nterror, not knowing how I had got out of bed; whether I had found\nmyself lighting the lamp, possessed by the idea that he was coming up\nthe stairs, and that the lights were blown out; whether I had been\ninexpressibly harassed by the distracted talking, laughing, and\ngroaning of some one, and had half suspected those sounds to be of my\nown making; whether there had been a closed iron furnace in a dark\ncorner of the room, and a voice had called out, over and over again,\nthat Miss Havisham was consuming within it, these were things that I\ntried to settle with myself and get into some order, as I lay that\nmorning on my bed. But the vapour of a limekiln would come between me\nand them, disordering them all, and it was through the vapour at last\nthat I saw two men looking at me.\n\n What do you want?  I asked, starting;  I don t know you. \n\n Well, sir,  returned one of them, bending down and touching me on the\nshoulder,  this is a matter that you ll soon arrange, I dare say, but\nyou re arrested. \n\n What is the debt? \n\n Hundred and twenty-three pound, fifteen, six. Jeweller s account, I\nthink. \n\n What is to be done? \n\n You had better come to my house,  said the man.  I keep a very nice\nhouse. \n\nI made some attempt to get up and dress myself. When I next attended to\nthem, they were standing a little off from the bed, looking at me. I\nstill lay there.\n\n You see my state,  said I.  I would come with you if I could; but\nindeed I am quite unable. If you take me from here, I think I shall die\nby the way. \n\nPerhaps they replied, or argued the point, or tried to encourage me to\nbelieve that I was better than I thought. Forasmuch as they hang in my\nmemory by only this one slender thread, I don t know what they did,\nexcept that they forbore to remove me.\n\nThat I had a fever and was avoided, that I suffered greatly, that I\noften lost my reason, that the time seemed interminable, that I\nconfounded impossible existences with my own identity; that I was a\nbrick in the house-wall, and yet entreating to be released from the\ngiddy place where the builders had set me; that I was a steel beam of a\nvast engine, clashing and whirling over a gulf, and yet that I implored\nin my own person to have the engine stopped, and my part in it hammered\noff; that I passed through these phases of disease, I know of my own\nremembrance, and did in some sort know at the time. That I sometimes\nstruggled with real people, in the belief that they were murderers, and\nthat I would all at once comprehend that they meant to do me good, and\nwould then sink exhausted in their arms, and suffer them to lay me\ndown, I also knew at the time. But, above all, I knew that there was a\nconstant tendency in all these people, who, when I was very ill, would\npresent all kinds of extraordinary transformations of the human face,\nand would be much dilated in size, above all, I say, I knew that there\nwas an extraordinary tendency in all these people, sooner or later, to\nsettle down into the likeness of Joe.\n\nAfter I had turned the worst point of my illness, I began to notice\nthat while all its other features changed, this one consistent feature\ndid not change. Whoever came about me, still settled down into Joe. I\nopened my eyes in the night, and I saw, in the great chair at the\nbedside, Joe. I opened my eyes in the day, and, sitting on the\nwindow-seat, smoking his pipe in the shaded open window, still I saw\nJoe. I asked for cooling drink, and the dear hand that gave it me was\nJoe s. I sank back on my pillow after drinking, and the face that\nlooked so hopefully and tenderly upon me was the face of Joe.\n\nAt last, one day, I took courage, and said,  _Is_ it Joe? \n\nAnd the dear old home-voice answered,  Which it air, old chap. \n\n O Joe, you break my heart! Look angry at me, Joe. Strike me, Joe. Tell\nme of my ingratitude. Don t be so good to me! \n\nFor Joe had actually laid his head down on the pillow at my side, and\nput his arm round my neck, in his joy that I knew him.\n\n Which dear old Pip, old chap,  said Joe,  you and me was ever friends.\nAnd when you re well enough to go out for a ride what larks! \n\nAfter which, Joe withdrew to the window, and stood with his back\ntowards me, wiping his eyes. And as my extreme weakness prevented me\nfrom getting up and going to him, I lay there, penitently whispering,\n O God bless him! O God bless this gentle Christian man! \n\nJoe s eyes were red when I next found him beside me; but I was holding\nhis hand, and we both felt happy.\n\n How long, dear Joe? \n\n Which you meantersay, Pip, how long have your illness lasted, dear old\nchap? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n It s the end of May, Pip. To-morrow is the first of June. \n\n And have you been here all that time, dear Joe? \n\n Pretty nigh, old chap. For, as I says to Biddy when the news of your\nbeing ill were brought by letter, which it were brought by the post,\nand being formerly single he is now married though underpaid for a deal\nof walking and shoe-leather, but wealth were not a object on his part,\nand marriage were the great wish of his hart \n\n It is so delightful to hear you, Joe! But I interrupt you in what you\nsaid to Biddy. \n\n Which it were,  said Joe,  that how you might be amongst strangers,\nand that how you and me having been ever friends, a wisit at such a\nmoment might not prove unacceptabobble. And Biddy, her word were,  Go\nto him, without loss of time.  That,  said Joe, summing up with his\njudicial air,  were the word of Biddy.  Go to him,  Biddy say,  without\nloss of time.  In short, I shouldn t greatly deceive you,  Joe added,\nafter a little grave reflection,  if I represented to you that the word\nof that young woman were,  without a minute s loss of time. \n\nThere Joe cut himself short, and informed me that I was to be talked to\nin great moderation, and that I was to take a little nourishment at\nstated frequent times, whether I felt inclined for it or not, and that\nI was to submit myself to all his orders. So I kissed his hand, and lay\nquiet, while he proceeded to indite a note to Biddy, with my love in\nit.\n\nEvidently Biddy had taught Joe to write. As I lay in bed looking at\nhim, it made me, in my weak state, cry again with pleasure to see the\npride with which he set about his letter. My bedstead, divested of its\ncurtains, had been removed, with me upon it, into the sitting-room, as\nthe airiest and largest, and the carpet had been taken away, and the\nroom kept always fresh and wholesome night and day. At my own\nwriting-table, pushed into a corner and cumbered with little bottles,\nJoe now sat down to his great work, first choosing a pen from the\npen-tray as if it were a chest of large tools, and tucking up his\nsleeves as if he were going to wield a crow-bar or sledgehammer. It was\nnecessary for Joe to hold on heavily to the table with his left elbow,\nand to get his right leg well out behind him, before he could begin;\nand when he did begin he made every downstroke so slowly that it might\nhave been six feet long, while at every upstroke I could hear his pen\nspluttering extensively. He had a curious idea that the inkstand was on\nthe side of him where it was not, and constantly dipped his pen into\nspace, and seemed quite satisfied with the result. Occasionally, he was\ntripped up by some orthographical stumbling-block; but on the whole he\ngot on very well indeed; and when he had signed his name, and had\nremoved a finishing blot from the paper to the crown of his head with\nhis two forefingers, he got up and hovered about the table, trying the\neffect of his performance from various points of view, as it lay there,\nwith unbounded satisfaction.\n\nNot to make Joe uneasy by talking too much, even if I had been able to\ntalk much, I deferred asking him about Miss Havisham until next day. He\nshook his head when I then asked him if she had recovered.\n\n Is she dead, Joe? \n\n Why you see, old chap,  said Joe, in a tone of remonstrance, and by\nway of getting at it by degrees,  I wouldn t go so far as to say that,\nfor that s a deal to say; but she ain t \n\n Living, Joe? \n\n That s nigher where it is,  said Joe;  she ain t living. \n\n Did she linger long, Joe? \n\n Arter you was took ill, pretty much about what you might call (if you\nwas put to it) a week,  said Joe; still determined, on my account, to\ncome at everything by degrees.\n\n Dear Joe, have you heard what becomes of her property? \n\n Well, old chap,  said Joe,  it do appear that she had settled the most\nof it, which I meantersay tied it up, on Miss Estella. But she had\nwrote out a little coddleshell in her own hand a day or two afore the\naccident, leaving a cool four thousand to Mr. Matthew Pocket. And why,\ndo you suppose, above all things, Pip, she left that cool four thousand\nunto him?  Because of Pip s account of him, the said Matthew.  I am\ntold by Biddy, that air the writing,  said Joe, repeating the legal\nturn as if it did him infinite good,  account of him the said\nMatthew.  And a cool four thousand, Pip! \n\nI never discovered from whom Joe derived the conventional temperature\nof the four thousand pounds; but it appeared to make the sum of money\nmore to him, and he had a manifest relish in insisting on its being\ncool.\n\nThis account gave me great joy, as it perfected the only good thing I\nhad done. I asked Joe whether he had heard if any of the other\nrelations had any legacies?\n\n Miss Sarah,  said Joe,  she have twenty-five pound perannium fur to\nbuy pills, on account of being bilious. Miss Georgiana, she have twenty\npound down. Mrs. what s the name of them wild beasts with humps, old\nchap? \n\n Camels?  said I, wondering why he could possibly want to know.\n\nJoe nodded.  Mrs. Camels,  by which I presently understood he meant\nCamilla,  she have five pound fur to buy rushlights to put her in\nspirits when she wake up in the night. \n\nThe accuracy of these recitals was sufficiently obvious to me, to give\nme great confidence in Joe s information.  And now,  said Joe,  you\nain t that strong yet, old chap, that you can take in more nor one\nadditional shovelful to-day. Old Orlick he s been a bustin  open a\ndwelling-ouse. \n\n Whose?  said I.\n\n Not, I grant you, but what his manners is given to blusterous,  said\nJoe, apologetically;  still, a Englishman s ouse is his Castle, and\ncastles must not be busted  cept when done in war time. And wotsume er\nthe failings on his part, he were a corn and seedsman in his hart. \n\n Is it Pumblechook s house that has been broken into, then? \n\n That s it, Pip,  said Joe;  and they took his till, and they took his\ncash-box, and they drinked his wine, and they partook of his wittles,\nand they slapped his face, and they pulled his nose, and they tied him\nup to his bedpust, and they giv  him a dozen, and they stuffed his\nmouth full of flowering annuals to prewent his crying out. But he\nknowed Orlick, and Orlick s in the county jail. \n\nBy these approaches we arrived at unrestricted conversation. I was slow\nto gain strength, but I did slowly and surely become less weak, and Joe\nstayed with me, and I fancied I was little Pip again.\n\nFor the tenderness of Joe was so beautifully proportioned to my need,\nthat I was like a child in his hands. He would sit and talk to me in\nthe old confidence, and with the old simplicity, and in the old\nunassertive protecting way, so that I would half believe that all my\nlife since the days of the old kitchen was one of the mental troubles\nof the fever that was gone. He did everything for me except the\nhousehold work, for which he had engaged a very decent woman, after\npaying off the laundress on his first arrival.  Which I do assure you,\nPip,  he would often say, in explanation of that liberty;  I found her\na tapping the spare bed, like a cask of beer, and drawing off the\nfeathers in a bucket, for sale. Which she would have tapped yourn next,\nand draw d it off with you a laying on it, and was then a carrying away\nthe coals gradiwally in the soup-tureen and wegetable-dishes, and the\nwine and spirits in your Wellington boots. \n\nWe looked forward to the day when I should go out for a ride, as we had\nonce looked forward to the day of my apprenticeship. And when the day\ncame, and an open carriage was got into the Lane, Joe wrapped me up,\ntook me in his arms, carried me down to it, and put me in, as if I were\nstill the small helpless creature to whom he had so abundantly given of\nthe wealth of his great nature.\n\nAnd Joe got in beside me, and we drove away together into the country,\nwhere the rich summer growth was already on the trees and on the grass,\nand sweet summer scents filled all the air. The day happened to be\nSunday, and when I looked on the loveliness around me, and thought how\nit had grown and changed, and how the little wild-flowers had been\nforming, and the voices of the birds had been strengthening, by day and\nby night, under the sun and under the stars, while poor I lay burning\nand tossing on my bed, the mere remembrance of having burned and tossed\nthere came like a check upon my peace. But when I heard the Sunday\nbells, and looked around a little more upon the outspread beauty, I\nfelt that I was not nearly thankful enough, that I was too weak yet to\nbe even that, and I laid my head on Joe s shoulder, as I had laid it\nlong ago when he had taken me to the Fair or where not, and it was too\nmuch for my young senses.\n\nMore composure came to me after a while, and we talked as we used to\ntalk, lying on the grass at the old Battery. There was no change\nwhatever in Joe. Exactly what he had been in my eyes then, he was in my\neyes still; just as simply faithful, and as simply right.\n\nWhen we got back again, and he lifted me out, and carried me so\neasily! across the court and up the stairs, I thought of that eventful\nChristmas Day when he had carried me over the marshes. We had not yet\nmade any allusion to my change of fortune, nor did I know how much of\nmy late history he was acquainted with. I was so doubtful of myself\nnow, and put so much trust in him, that I could not satisfy myself\nwhether I ought to refer to it when he did not.\n\n Have you heard, Joe,  I asked him that evening, upon further\nconsideration, as he smoked his pipe at the window,  who my patron\nwas? \n\n I heerd,  returned Joe,  as it were not Miss Havisham, old chap. \n\n Did you hear who it was, Joe? \n\n Well! I heerd as it were a person what sent the person what giv  you\nthe bank-notes at the Jolly Bargemen, Pip. \n\n So it was. \n\n Astonishing!  said Joe, in the placidest way.\n\n Did you hear that he was dead, Joe?  I presently asked, with\nincreasing diffidence.\n\n Which? Him as sent the bank-notes, Pip? \n\n Yes. \n\n I think,  said Joe, after meditating a long time, and looking rather\nevasively at the window-seat,  as I _did_ hear tell that how he were\nsomething or another in a general way in that direction. \n\n Did you hear anything of his circumstances, Joe? \n\n Not partickler, Pip. \n\n If you would like to hear, Joe  I was beginning, when Joe got up and\ncame to my sofa.\n\n Lookee here, old chap,  said Joe, bending over me.  Ever the best of\nfriends; ain t us, Pip? \n\nI was ashamed to answer him.\n\n Wery good, then,  said Joe, as if I _had_ answered;  that s all right;\nthat s agreed upon. Then why go into subjects, old chap, which as\nbetwixt two sech must be for ever onnecessary? There s subjects enough\nas betwixt two sech, without onnecessary ones. Lord! To think of your\npoor sister and her Rampages! And don t you remember Tickler? \n\n I do indeed, Joe. \n\n Lookee here, old chap,  said Joe.  I done what I could to keep you and\nTickler in sunders, but my power were not always fully equal to my\ninclinations. For when your poor sister had a mind to drop into you, it\nwere not so much,  said Joe, in his favourite argumentative way,  that\nshe dropped into me too, if I put myself in opposition to her, but that\nshe dropped into you always heavier for it. I noticed that. It ain t a\ngrab at a man s whisker, not yet a shake or two of a man (to which your\nsister was quite welcome), that  ud put a man off from getting a little\nchild out of punishment. But when that little child is dropped into\nheavier for that grab of whisker or shaking, then that man naterally up\nand says to himself,  Where is the good as you are a-doing? I grant you\nI see the  arm,  says the man,  but I don t see the good. I call upon\nyou, sir, therefore, to pint out the good. \n\n The man says?  I observed, as Joe waited for me to speak.\n\n The man says,  Joe assented.  Is he right, that man? \n\n Dear Joe, he is always right. \n\n Well, old chap,  said Joe,  then abide by your words. If he s always\nright (which in general he s more likely wrong), he s right when he\nsays this: Supposing ever you kep any little matter to yourself, when\nyou was a little child, you kep it mostly because you know d as J.\nGargery s power to part you and Tickler in sunders were not fully equal\nto his inclinations. Theerfore, think no more of it as betwixt two\nsech, and do not let us pass remarks upon onnecessary subjects. Biddy\ngiv  herself a deal o  trouble with me afore I left (for I am almost\nawful dull), as I should view it in this light, and, viewing it in this\nlight, as I should so put it. Both of which,  said Joe, quite charmed\nwith his logical arrangement,  being done, now this to you a true\nfriend, say. Namely. You mustn t go a overdoing on it, but you must\nhave your supper and your wine and water, and you must be put betwixt\nthe sheets. \n\nThe delicacy with which Joe dismissed this theme, and the sweet tact\nand kindness with which Biddy who with her woman s wit had found me out\nso soon had prepared him for it, made a deep impression on my mind. But\nwhether Joe knew how poor I was, and how my great expectations had all\ndissolved, like our own marsh mists before the sun, I could not\nunderstand.\n\nAnother thing in Joe that I could not understand when it first began to\ndevelop itself, but which I soon arrived at a sorrowful comprehension\nof, was this: As I became stronger and better, Joe became a little less\neasy with me. In my weakness and entire dependence on him, the dear\nfellow had fallen into the old tone, and called me by the old names,\nthe dear  old Pip, old chap,  that now were music in my ears. I too had\nfallen into the old ways, only happy and thankful that he let me. But,\nimperceptibly, though I held by them fast, Joe s hold upon them began\nto slacken; and whereas I wondered at this, at first, I soon began to\nunderstand that the cause of it was in me, and that the fault of it was\nall mine.\n\nAh! Had I given Joe no reason to doubt my constancy, and to think that\nin prosperity I should grow cold to him and cast him off? Had I given\nJoe s innocent heart no cause to feel instinctively that as I got\nstronger, his hold upon me would be weaker, and that he had better\nloosen it in time and let me go, before I plucked myself away?\n\nIt was on the third or fourth occasion of my going out walking in the\nTemple Gardens leaning on Joe s arm, that I saw this change in him very\nplainly. We had been sitting in the bright warm sunlight, looking at\nthe river, and I chanced to say as we got up, \n\n See, Joe! I can walk quite strongly. Now, you shall see me walk back\nby myself. \n\n Which do not overdo it, Pip,  said Joe;  but I shall be happy fur to\nsee you able, sir. \n\nThe last word grated on me; but how could I remonstrate! I walked no\nfurther than the gate of the gardens, and then pretended to be weaker\nthan I was, and asked Joe for his arm. Joe gave it me, but was\nthoughtful.\n\nI, for my part, was thoughtful too; for, how best to check this growing\nchange in Joe was a great perplexity to my remorseful thoughts. That I\nwas ashamed to tell him exactly how I was placed, and what I had come\ndown to, I do not seek to conceal; but I hope my reluctance was not\nquite an unworthy one. He would want to help me out of his little\nsavings, I knew, and I knew that he ought not to help me, and that I\nmust not suffer him to do it.\n\nIt was a thoughtful evening with both of us. But, before we went to\nbed, I had resolved that I would wait over to-morrow, to-morrow being\nSunday, and would begin my new course with the new week. On Monday\nmorning I would speak to Joe about this change, I would lay aside this\nlast vestige of reserve, I would tell him what I had in my thoughts\n(that Secondly, not yet arrived at), and why I had not decided to go\nout to Herbert, and then the change would be conquered for ever. As I\ncleared, Joe cleared, and it seemed as though he had sympathetically\narrived at a resolution too.\n\nWe had a quiet day on the Sunday, and we rode out into the country, and\nthen walked in the fields.\n\n I feel thankful that I have been ill, Joe,  I said.\n\n Dear old Pip, old chap, you re a most come round, sir. \n\n It has been a memorable time for me, Joe. \n\n Likeways for myself, sir,  Joe returned.\n\n We have had a time together, Joe, that I can never forget. There were\ndays once, I know, that I did for a while forget; but I never shall\nforget these. \n\n Pip,  said Joe, appearing a little hurried and troubled,  there has\nbeen larks. And, dear sir, what have been betwixt us have been. \n\nAt night, when I had gone to bed, Joe came into my room, as he had done\nall through my recovery. He asked me if I felt sure that I was as well\nas in the morning?\n\n Yes, dear Joe, quite. \n\n And are always a getting stronger, old chap? \n\n Yes, dear Joe, steadily. \n\nJoe patted the coverlet on my shoulder with his great good hand, and\nsaid, in what I thought a husky voice,  Good night! \n\nWhen I got up in the morning, refreshed and stronger yet, I was full of\nmy resolution to tell Joe all, without delay. I would tell him before\nbreakfast. I would dress at once and go to his room and surprise him;\nfor, it was the first day I had been up early. I went to his room, and\nhe was not there. Not only was he not there, but his box was gone.\n\nI hurried then to the breakfast-table, and on it found a letter. These\nwere its brief contents: \n\n Not wishful to intrude I have departured fur you are well again dear\nPip and will do better without\n\n\nJO.\n\n\n P.S. Ever the best of friends. \n\n\nEnclosed in the letter was a receipt for the debt and costs on which I\nhad been arrested. Down to that moment, I had vainly supposed that my\ncreditor had withdrawn, or suspended proceedings until I should be\nquite recovered. I had never dreamed of Joe s having paid the money;\nbut Joe had paid it, and the receipt was in his name.\n\nWhat remained for me now, but to follow him to the dear old forge, and\nthere to have out my disclosure to him, and my penitent remonstrance\nwith him, and there to relieve my mind and heart of that reserved\nSecondly, which had begun as a vague something lingering in my\nthoughts, and had formed into a settled purpose?\n\nThe purpose was, that I would go to Biddy, that I would show her how\nhumbled and repentant I came back, that I would tell her how I had lost\nall I once hoped for, that I would remind her of our old confidences in\nmy first unhappy time. Then I would say to her,  Biddy, I think you\nonce liked me very well, when my errant heart, even while it strayed\naway from you, was quieter and better with you than it ever has been\nsince. If you can like me only half as well once more, if you can take\nme with all my faults and disappointments on my head, if you can\nreceive me like a forgiven child (and indeed I am as sorry, Biddy, and\nhave as much need of a hushing voice and a soothing hand), I hope I am\na little worthier of you that I was, not much, but a little. And,\nBiddy, it shall rest with you to say whether I shall work at the forge\nwith Joe, or whether I shall try for any different occupation down in\nthis country, or whether we shall go away to a distant place where an\nopportunity awaits me which I set aside, when it was offered, until I\nknew your answer. And now, dear Biddy, if you can tell me that you will\ngo through the world with me, you will surely make it a better world\nfor me, and me a better man for it, and I will try hard to make it a\nbetter world for you. \n\nSuch was my purpose. After three days more of recovery, I went down to\nthe old place to put it in execution. And how I sped in it is all I\nhave left to tell.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LVIII.\n\n\nThe tidings of my high fortunes having had a heavy fall had got down to\nmy native place and its neighbourhood before I got there. I found the\nBlue Boar in possession of the intelligence, and I found that it made a\ngreat change in the Boar s demeanour. Whereas the Boar had cultivated\nmy good opinion with warm assiduity when I was coming into property,\nthe Boar was exceedingly cool on the subject now that I was going out\nof property.\n\nIt was evening when I arrived, much fatigued by the journey I had so\noften made so easily. The Boar could not put me into my usual bedroom,\nwhich was engaged (probably by some one who had expectations), and\ncould only assign me a very indifferent chamber among the pigeons and\npost-chaises up the yard. But I had as sound a sleep in that lodging as\nin the most superior accommodation the Boar could have given me, and\nthe quality of my dreams was about the same as in the best bedroom.\n\nEarly in the morning, while my breakfast was getting ready, I strolled\nround by Satis House. There were printed bills on the gate and on bits\nof carpet hanging out of the windows, announcing a sale by auction of\nthe Household Furniture and Effects, next week. The House itself was to\nbe sold as old building materials, and pulled down. LOT 1 was marked in\nwhitewashed knock-knee letters on the brew house; LOT 2 on that part of\nthe main building which had been so long shut up. Other lots were\nmarked off on other parts of the structure, and the ivy had been torn\ndown to make room for the inscriptions, and much of it trailed low in\nthe dust and was withered already. Stepping in for a moment at the open\ngate, and looking around me with the uncomfortable air of a stranger\nwho had no business there, I saw the auctioneer s clerk walking on the\ncasks and telling them off for the information of a catalogue-compiler,\npen in hand, who made a temporary desk of the wheeled chair I had so\noften pushed along to the tune of Old Clem.\n\nWhen I got back to my breakfast in the Boar s coffee-room, I found Mr.\nPumblechook conversing with the landlord. Mr. Pumblechook (not improved\nin appearance by his late nocturnal adventure) was waiting for me, and\naddressed me in the following terms: \n\n Young man, I am sorry to see you brought low. But what else could be\nexpected! what else could be expected! \n\nAs he extended his hand with a magnificently forgiving air, and as I\nwas broken by illness and unfit to quarrel, I took it.\n\n William,  said Mr. Pumblechook to the waiter,  put a muffin on table.\nAnd has it come to this! Has it come to this! \n\nI frowningly sat down to my breakfast. Mr. Pumblechook stood over me\nand poured out my tea before I could touch the teapot with the air of a\nbenefactor who was resolved to be true to the last.\n\n William,  said Mr. Pumblechook, mournfully,  put the salt on. In\nhappier times,  addressing me,  I think you took sugar? And did you\ntake milk? You did. Sugar and milk. William, bring a watercress. \n\n Thank you,  said I, shortly,  but I don t eat watercresses. \n\n You don t eat  em,  returned Mr. Pumblechook, sighing and nodding his\nhead several times, as if he might have expected that, and as if\nabstinence from watercresses were consistent with my downfall.  True.\nThe simple fruits of the earth. No. You needn t bring any, William. \n\nI went on with my breakfast, and Mr. Pumblechook continued to stand\nover me, staring fishily and breathing noisily, as he always did.\n\n Little more than skin and bone!  mused Mr. Pumblechook, aloud.  And\nyet when he went from here (I may say with my blessing), and I spread\nafore him my humble store, like the Bee, he was as plump as a Peach! \n\nThis reminded me of the wonderful difference between the servile manner\nin which he had offered his hand in my new prosperity, saying,  May I? \nand the ostentatious clemency with which he had just now exhibited the\nsame fat five fingers.\n\n Hah!  he went on, handing me the bread and butter.  And air you\na-going to Joseph? \n\n In heaven s name,  said I, firing in spite of myself,  what does it\nmatter to you where I am going? Leave that teapot alone. \n\nIt was the worst course I could have taken, because it gave Pumblechook\nthe opportunity he wanted.\n\n Yes, young man,  said he, releasing the handle of the article in\nquestion, retiring a step or two from my table, and speaking for the\nbehoof of the landlord and waiter at the door,  I _will_ leave that\nteapot alone. You are right, young man. For once you are right. I\nforgit myself when I take such an interest in your breakfast, as to\nwish your frame, exhausted by the debilitating effects of\nprodigygality, to be stimilated by the  olesome nourishment of your\nforefathers. And yet,  said Pumblechook, turning to the landlord and\nwaiter, and pointing me out at arm s length,  this is him as I ever\nsported with in his days of happy infancy! Tell me not it cannot be; I\ntell you this is him! \n\nA low murmur from the two replied. The waiter appeared to be\nparticularly affected.\n\n This is him,  said Pumblechook,  as I have rode in my shay-cart. This\nis him as I have seen brought up by hand. This is him untoe the sister\nof which I was uncle by marriage, as her name was Georgiana M ria from\nher own mother, let him deny it if he can! \n\nThe waiter seemed convinced that I could not deny it, and that it gave\nthe case a black look.\n\n Young man,  said Pumblechook, screwing his head at me in the old\nfashion,  you air a-going to Joseph. What does it matter to me, you ask\nme, where you air a-going? I say to you, Sir, you air a-going to\nJoseph. \n\nThe waiter coughed, as if he modestly invited me to get over that.\n\n Now,  said Pumblechook, and all this with a most exasperating air of\nsaying in the cause of virtue what was perfectly convincing and\nconclusive,  I will tell you what to say to Joseph. Here is Squires of\nthe Boar present, known and respected in this town, and here is\nWilliam, which his father s name was Potkins if I do not deceive\nmyself. \n\n You do not, sir,  said William.\n\n In their presence,  pursued Pumblechook,  I will tell you, young man,\nwhat to say to Joseph. Says you,  Joseph, I have this day seen my\nearliest benefactor and the founder of my fortun s. I will name no\nnames, Joseph, but so they are pleased to call him up town, and I have\nseen that man. \n\n I swear I don t see him here,  said I.\n\n Say that likewise,  retorted Pumblechook.  Say you said that, and even\nJoseph will probably betray surprise. \n\n There you quite mistake him,  said I.  I know better. \n\n Says you,  Pumblechook went on,  Joseph, I have seen that man, and\nthat man bears you no malice and bears me no malice. He knows your\ncharacter, Joseph, and is well acquainted with your pig-headedness and\nignorance; and he knows my character, Joseph, and he knows my want of\ngratitoode. Yes, Joseph,  says you,  here Pumblechook shook his head\nand hand at me,  he knows my total deficiency of common human\ngratitoode. _He_ knows it, Joseph, as none can. _You_ do not know it,\nJoseph, having no call to know it, but that man do. \n\nWindy donkey as he was, it really amazed me that he could have the face\nto talk thus to mine.\n\n Says you,  Joseph, he gave me a little message, which I will now\nrepeat. It was that, in my being brought low, he saw the finger of\nProvidence. He knowed that finger when he saw Joseph, and he saw it\nplain. It pinted out this writing, Joseph. _Reward of ingratitoode to\nhis earliest benefactor, and founder of fortun s_. But that man said he\ndid not repent of what he had done, Joseph. Not at all. It was right to\ndo it, it was kind to do it, it was benevolent to do it, and he would\ndo it again. \n\n It s pity,  said I, scornfully, as I finished my interrupted\nbreakfast,  that the man did not say what he had done and would do\nagain. \n\n Squires of the Boar!  Pumblechook was now addressing the landlord,\n and William! I have no objections to your mentioning, either up town\nor down town, if such should be your wishes, that it was right to do\nit, kind to do it, benevolent to do it, and that I would do it again. \n\nWith those words the Impostor shook them both by the hand, with an air,\nand left the house; leaving me much more astonished than delighted by\nthe virtues of that same indefinite  it.  I was not long after him in\nleaving the house too, and when I went down the High Street I saw him\nholding forth (no doubt to the same effect) at his shop door to a\nselect group, who honoured me with very unfavourable glances as I\npassed on the opposite side of the way.\n\nBut, it was only the pleasanter to turn to Biddy and to Joe, whose\ngreat forbearance shone more brightly than before, if that could be,\ncontrasted with this brazen pretender. I went towards them slowly, for\nmy limbs were weak, but with a sense of increasing relief as I drew\nnearer to them, and a sense of leaving arrogance and untruthfulness\nfurther and further behind.\n\nThe June weather was delicious. The sky was blue, the larks were\nsoaring high over the green corn, I thought all that countryside more\nbeautiful and peaceful by far than I had ever known it to be yet. Many\npleasant pictures of the life that I would lead there, and of the\nchange for the better that would come over my character when I had a\nguiding spirit at my side whose simple faith and clear home wisdom I\nhad proved, beguiled my way. They awakened a tender emotion in me; for\nmy heart was softened by my return, and such a change had come to pass,\nthat I felt like one who was toiling home barefoot from distant travel,\nand whose wanderings had lasted many years.\n\nThe schoolhouse where Biddy was mistress I had never seen; but, the\nlittle roundabout lane by which I entered the village, for quietness \nsake, took me past it. I was disappointed to find that the day was a\nholiday; no children were there, and Biddy s house was closed. Some\nhopeful notion of seeing her, busily engaged in her daily duties,\nbefore she saw me, had been in my mind and was defeated.\n\nBut the forge was a very short distance off, and I went towards it\nunder the sweet green limes, listening for the clink of Joe s hammer.\nLong after I ought to have heard it, and long after I had fancied I\nheard it and found it but a fancy, all was still. The limes were there,\nand the white thorns were there, and the chestnut-trees were there, and\ntheir leaves rustled harmoniously when I stopped to listen; but, the\nclink of Joe s hammer was not in the midsummer wind.\n\nAlmost fearing, without knowing why, to come in view of the forge, I\nsaw it at last, and saw that it was closed. No gleam of fire, no\nglittering shower of sparks, no roar of bellows; all shut up, and\nstill.\n\nBut the house was not deserted, and the best parlour seemed to be in\nuse, for there were white curtains fluttering in its window, and the\nwindow was open and gay with flowers. I went softly towards it, meaning\nto peep over the flowers, when Joe and Biddy stood before me, arm in\narm.\n\nAt first Biddy gave a cry, as if she thought it was my apparition, but\nin another moment she was in my embrace. I wept to see her, and she\nwept to see me; I, because she looked so fresh and pleasant; she,\nbecause I looked so worn and white.\n\n But dear Biddy, how smart you are! \n\n Yes, dear Pip. \n\n And Joe, how smart _you_ are! \n\n Yes, dear old Pip, old chap. \n\nI looked at both of them, from one to the other, and then \n\n It s my wedding-day!  cried Biddy, in a burst of happiness,  and I am\nmarried to Joe! \n\nThey had taken me into the kitchen, and I had laid my head down on the\nold deal table. Biddy held one of my hands to her lips, and Joe s\nrestoring touch was on my shoulder.  Which he warn t strong enough, my\ndear, fur to be surprised,  said Joe. And Biddy said,  I ought to have\nthought of it, dear Joe, but I was too happy.  They were both so\noverjoyed to see me, so proud to see me, so touched by my coming to\nthem, so delighted that I should have come by accident to make their\nday complete!\n\nMy first thought was one of great thankfulness that I had never\nbreathed this last baffled hope to Joe. How often, while he was with me\nin my illness, had it risen to my lips! How irrevocable would have been\nhis knowledge of it, if he had remained with me but another hour!\n\n Dear Biddy,  said I,  you have the best husband in the whole world,\nand if you could have seen him by my bed you would have But no, you\ncouldn t love him better than you do. \n\n No, I couldn t indeed,  said Biddy.\n\n And, dear Joe, you have the best wife in the whole world, and she will\nmake you as happy as even you deserve to be, you dear, good, noble\nJoe! \n\nJoe looked at me with a quivering lip, and fairly put his sleeve before\nhis eyes.\n\n And Joe and Biddy both, as you have been to church to-day, and are in\ncharity and love with all mankind, receive my humble thanks for all you\nhave done for me, and all I have so ill repaid! And when I say that I\nam going away within the hour, for I am soon going abroad, and that I\nshall never rest until I have worked for the money with which you have\nkept me out of prison, and have sent it to you, don t think, dear Joe\nand Biddy, that if I could repay it a thousand times over, I suppose I\ncould cancel a farthing of the debt I owe you, or that I would do so if\nI could! \n\nThey were both melted by these words, and both entreated me to say no\nmore.\n\n But I must say more. Dear Joe, I hope you will have children to love,\nand that some little fellow will sit in this chimney-corner of a winter\nnight, who may remind you of another little fellow gone out of it for\never. Don t tell him, Joe, that I was thankless; don t tell him, Biddy,\nthat I was ungenerous and unjust; only tell him that I honoured you\nboth, because you were both so good and true, and that, as your child,\nI said it would be natural to him to grow up a much better man than I\ndid. \n\n I ain t a-going,  said Joe, from behind his sleeve,  to tell him\nnothink o  that natur, Pip. Nor Biddy ain t. Nor yet no one ain t. \n\n And now, though I know you have already done it in your own kind\nhearts, pray tell me, both, that you forgive me! Pray let me hear you\nsay the words, that I may carry the sound of them away with me, and\nthen I shall be able to believe that you can trust me, and think better\nof me, in the time to come! \n\n O dear old Pip, old chap,  said Joe.  God knows as I forgive you, if I\nhave anythink to forgive! \n\n Amen! And God knows I do!  echoed Biddy.\n\n Now let me go up and look at my old little room, and rest there a few\nminutes by myself. And then, when I have eaten and drunk with you, go\nwith me as far as the finger-post, dear Joe and Biddy, before we say\ngood-bye! \n\n\n\n\nI sold all I had, and put aside as much as I could, for a composition\nwith my creditors, who gave me ample time to pay them in full, and I\nwent out and joined Herbert. Within a month, I had quitted England, and\nwithin two months I was clerk to Clarriker and Co., and within four\nmonths I assumed my first undivided responsibility. For the beam across\nthe parlour ceiling at Mill Pond Bank had then ceased to tremble under\nold Bill Barley s growls and was at peace, and Herbert had gone away to\nmarry Clara, and I was left in sole charge of the Eastern Branch until\nhe brought her back.\n\nMany a year went round before I was a partner in the House; but I lived\nhappily with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, and paid my\ndebts, and maintained a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe. It\nwas not until I became third in the Firm, that Clarriker betrayed me to\nHerbert; but he then declared that the secret of Herbert s partnership\nhad been long enough upon his conscience, and he must tell it. So he\ntold it, and Herbert was as much moved as amazed, and the dear fellow\nand I were not the worse friends for the long concealment. I must not\nleave it to be supposed that we were ever a great House, or that we\nmade mints of money. We were not in a grand way of business, but we had\na good name, and worked for our profits, and did very well. We owed so\nmuch to Herbert s ever cheerful industry and readiness, that I often\nwondered how I had conceived that old idea of his inaptitude, until I\nwas one day enlightened by the reflection, that perhaps the inaptitude\nhad never been in him at all, but had been in me.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LIX.\n\n\nFor eleven years, I had not seen Joe nor Biddy with my bodily\neyes, though they had both been often before my fancy in the\nEast, when, upon an evening in December, an hour or two after dark, I\nlaid my hand softly on the latch of the old kitchen door. I touched it\nso softly that I was not heard, and looked in unseen. There, smoking\nhis pipe in the old place by the kitchen firelight, as hale and as\nstrong as ever, though a little grey, sat Joe; and there, fenced into\nthe corner with Joe s leg, and sitting on my own little stool looking\nat the fire, was I again!\n\n We giv  him the name of Pip for your sake, dear old chap,  said Joe,\ndelighted, when I took another stool by the child s side (but I did\n_not_ rumple his hair),  and we hoped he might grow a little bit like\nyou, and we think he do. \n\nI thought so too, and I took him out for a walk next morning, and we\ntalked immensely, understanding one another to perfection. And I took\nhim down to the churchyard, and set him on a certain tombstone there,\nand he showed me from that elevation which stone was sacred to the\nmemory of Philip Pirrip, late of this Parish, and Also Georgiana, Wife\nof the Above.\n\n Biddy,  said I, when I talked with her after dinner, as her little\ngirl lay sleeping in her lap,  you must give Pip to me one of these\ndays; or lend him, at all events. \n\n No, no,  said Biddy, gently.  You must marry. \n\n So Herbert and Clara say, but I don t think I shall, Biddy. I have so\nsettled down in their home, that it s not at all likely. I am already\nquite an old bachelor. \n\nBiddy looked down at her child, and put its little hand to her lips,\nand then put the good matronly hand with which she had touched it into\nmine. There was something in the action, and in the light pressure of\nBiddy s wedding-ring, that had a very pretty eloquence in it.\n\n Dear Pip,  said Biddy,  you are sure you don t fret for her? \n\n O no, I think not, Biddy. \n\n Tell me as an old, old friend. Have you quite forgotten her?\n\n My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a\nforemost place there, and little that ever had any place there. But\nthat poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy, all\ngone by! \n\nNevertheless, I knew, while I said those words, that I secretly\nintended to revisit the site of the old house that evening, alone, for\nher sake. Yes, even so. For Estella s sake.\n\nI had heard of her as leading a most unhappy life, and as being\nseparated from her husband, who had used her with great cruelty, and\nwho had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, avarice,\nbrutality, and meanness. And I had heard of the death of her husband,\nfrom an accident consequent on his ill-treatment of a horse. This\nrelease had befallen her some two years before; for anything I knew,\nshe was married again.\n\nThe early dinner hour at Joe s, left me abundance of time, without\nhurrying my talk with Biddy, to walk over to the old spot before dark.\nBut, what with loitering on the way to look at old objects and to think\nof old times, the day had quite declined when I came to the place.\n\nThere was no house now, no brewery, no building whatever left, but the\nwall of the old garden. The cleared space had been enclosed with a\nrough fence, and looking over it, I saw that some of the old ivy had\nstruck root anew, and was growing green on low quiet mounds of ruin. A\ngate in the fence standing ajar, I pushed it open, and went in.\n\nA cold silvery mist had veiled the afternoon, and the moon was not yet\nup to scatter it. But, the stars were shining beyond the mist, and the\nmoon was coming, and the evening was not dark. I could trace out where\nevery part of the old house had been, and where the brewery had been,\nand where the gates, and where the casks. I had done so, and was\nlooking along the desolate garden walk, when I beheld a solitary figure\nin it.\n\nThe figure showed itself aware of me, as I advanced. It had been moving\ntowards me, but it stood still. As I drew nearer, I saw it to be the\nfigure of a woman. As I drew nearer yet, it was about to turn away,\nwhen it stopped, and let me come up with it. Then, it faltered, as if\nmuch surprised, and uttered my name, and I cried out, \n\n Estella! \n\n I am greatly changed. I wonder you know me. \n\nThe freshness of her beauty was indeed gone, but its indescribable\nmajesty and its indescribable charm remained. Those attractions in it,\nI had seen before; what I had never seen before, was the saddened,\nsoftened light of the once proud eyes; what I had never felt before was\nthe friendly touch of the once insensible hand.\n\nWe sat down on a bench that was near, and I said,  After so many years,\nit is strange that we should thus meet again, Estella, here where our\nfirst meeting was! Do you often come back? \n\n I have never been here since. \n\n Nor I. \n\nThe moon began to rise, and I thought of the placid look at the white\nceiling, which had passed away. The moon began to rise, and I thought\nof the pressure on my hand when I had spoken the last words he had\nheard on earth.\n\nEstella was the next to break the silence that ensued between us.\n\n I have very often hoped and intended to come back, but have been\nprevented by many circumstances. Poor, poor old place! \n\nThe silvery mist was touched with the first rays of the moonlight, and\nthe same rays touched the tears that dropped from her eyes. Not knowing\nthat I saw them, and setting herself to get the better of them, she\nsaid quietly, \n\n Were you wondering, as you walked along, how it came to be left in\nthis condition? \n\n Yes, Estella. \n\n The ground belongs to me. It is the only possession I have not\nrelinquished. Everything else has gone from me, little by little, but I\nhave kept this. It was the subject of the only determined resistance I\nmade in all the wretched years. \n\n Is it to be built on? \n\n At last, it is. I came here to take leave of it before its change. And\nyou,  she said, in a voice of touching interest to a wanderer, you\nlive abroad still? \n\n Still. \n\n And do well, I am sure? \n\n I work pretty hard for a sufficient living, and therefore yes, I do\nwell. \n\n I have often thought of you,  said Estella.\n\n Have you? \n\n Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from\nme the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant\nof its worth. But since my duty has not been incompatible with the\nadmission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart. \n\n You have always held your place in my heart,  I answered.\n\nAnd we were silent again until she spoke.\n\n I little thought,  said Estella,  that I should take leave of you in\ntaking leave of this spot. I am very glad to do so. \n\n Glad to part again, Estella? To me, parting is a painful thing. To me,\nthe remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and\npainful. \n\n But you said to me,  returned Estella, very earnestly,  God bless\nyou, God forgive you!  And if you could say that to me then, you will\nnot hesitate to say that to me now, now, when suffering has been\nstronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what\nyour heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but I hope into a\nbetter shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me\nwe are friends. \n\n We are friends,  said I, rising and bending over her, as she rose from\nthe bench.\n\n And will continue friends apart,  said Estella.\n\nI took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as\nthe morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so\nthe evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of\ntranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting\nfrom her."
    },
    {
        "title": "Moby Dick",
        "author": "Herman Melville",
        "category": "Classics",
        "EN": "CHAPTER 1. Loomings.\n\nCall me Ishmael. Some years ago never mind how long precisely having\nlittle or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me\non shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part\nof the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and\nregulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about\nthe mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever\nI find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and\nbringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever\nmy hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral\nprinciple to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and\nmethodically knocking people s hats off then, I account it high time to\nget to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.\nWith a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I\nquietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they\nbut knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other,\ncherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.\n\nThere now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by\nwharves as Indian isles by coral reefs commerce surrounds it with her\nsurf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme\ndowntown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and\ncooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of\nland. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.\n\nCircumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears\nHook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What\ndo you see? Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand\nthousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some\nleaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some\nlooking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the\nrigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these\nare all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster tied to\ncounters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are\nthe green fields gone? What do they here?\n\nBut look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and\nseemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the\nextremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder\nwarehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water\nas they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand miles of\nthem leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets\nand avenues north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell\nme, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all\nthose ships attract them thither?\n\nOnce more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take\nalmost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a\ndale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in\nit. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest\nreveries stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will\ninfallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region.\nShould you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this\nexperiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical\nprofessor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for\never.\n\nBut here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest,\nquietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley\nof the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his\ntrees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were\nwithin; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up\nfrom yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands\nwinds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in\ntheir hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and\nthough this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this\nshepherd s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd s eye were\nfixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June,\nwhen for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among\nTiger-lilies what is the one charm wanting? Water there is not a drop\nof water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel\nyour thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon\nsuddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy\nhim a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian\ntrip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a\nrobust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea?\nWhy upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a\nmystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out\nof sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did\nthe Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely\nall this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that\nstory of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild\nimage he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that\nsame image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image\nof the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.\n\nNow, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin\nto grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my\nlungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a\npassenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a\npurse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers\nget sea-sick grow quarrelsome don t sleep of nights do not enjoy\nthemselves much, as a general thing; no, I never go as a passenger;\nnor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a\nCommodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction\nof such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all\nhonorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind\nwhatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself,\nwithout taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not.\nAnd as for going as cook, though I confess there is considerable glory\nin that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board yet, somehow, I\nnever fancied broiling fowls; though once broiled, judiciously\nbuttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who\nwill speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled\nfowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old\nEgyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the\nmummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.\n\nNo, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast,\nplumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head.\nTrue, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to\nspar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of\nthing is unpleasant enough. It touches one s sense of honor,\nparticularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the\nVan Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if\njust previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been\nlording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in\nawe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a\nschoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and\nthe Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off\nin time.\n\nWhat of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom\nand sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed,\nI mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel\nGabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and\nrespectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain t\na slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may\norder me about however they may thump and punch me about, I have the\nsatisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is\none way or other served in much the same way either in a physical or\nmetaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is\npassed round, and all hands should rub each other s shoulder-blades,\nand be content.\n\nAgain, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of\npaying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single\npenny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must\npay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and\nbeing paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable\ninfliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But _being\npaid_, what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man\nreceives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly\nbelieve money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no\naccount can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign\nourselves to perdition!\n\nFinally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome\nexercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world,\nhead winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if\nyou never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the\nCommodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from\nthe sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not\nso. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many\nother things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But\nwherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a\nmerchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling\nvoyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the\nconstant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in\nsome unaccountable way he can better answer than any one else. And,\ndoubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand\nprogramme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in\nas a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive\nperformances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run\nsomething like this:\n\n _Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States._\n WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.  BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN. \n\nThough I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the\nFates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when\nothers were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short\nand easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces though I\ncannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the\ncircumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives\nwhich being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced\nme to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the\ndelusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill\nand discriminating judgment.\n\nChief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale\nhimself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my\ncuriosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island\nbulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all\nthe attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds,\nhelped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things\nwould not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an\neverlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and\nland on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to\nperceive a horror, and could still be social with it would they let\nme since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of\nthe place one lodges in.\n\nBy reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the\ngreat flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild\nconceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into\nmy inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them\nall, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.\n\n\nCHAPTER 2. The Carpet-Bag.\n\nI stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my\narm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city\nof old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night\nin December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little\npacket for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching\nthat place would offer, till the following Monday.\n\nAs most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at\nthis same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well\nbe related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was\nmade up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a\nfine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous\nold island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has\nof late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though\nin this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket\nwas her great original the Tyre of this Carthage; the place where the\nfirst dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket\ndid those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes\nto give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did\nthat first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with\nimported cobblestones so goes the story to throw at the whales, in\norder to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the\nbowsprit?\n\nNow having a night, a day, and still another night following before me\nin New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a\nmatter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a\nvery dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold\nand cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had\nsounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver, So,\nwherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of\na dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the\nnorth with the darkness towards the south wherever in your wisdom you\nmay conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to\ninquire the price, and don t be too particular.\n\nWith halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of  The\nCrossed Harpoons but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further\non, from the bright red windows of the  Sword-Fish Inn,  there came\nsuch fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and\nice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay\nten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement, rather weary for me,\nwhen I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from\nhard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most\nmiserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one\nmoment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of\nthe tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don t\nyou hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are\nstopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets\nthat took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not\nthe cheeriest inns.\n\nSuch dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand,\nand here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At\nthis hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of\nthe town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light\nproceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood\ninvitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the\nuses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble\nover an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying\nparticles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city,\nGomorrah? But  The Crossed Harpoons,  and  The Sword-Fish? this, then\nmust needs be the sign of  The Trap.  However, I picked myself up and\nhearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior\ndoor.\n\nIt seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black\nfaces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of\nDoom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the\npreacher s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping\nand wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing\nout, Wretched entertainment at the sign of  The Trap! \n\nMoving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the\ndocks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a\nswinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly\nrepresenting a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words\nunderneath The Spouter Inn: Peter Coffin. \n\nCoffin? Spouter? Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought\nI. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this\nPeter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and\nthe place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated\nlittle wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here\nfrom the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a\npoverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very\nspot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.\n\nIt was a queer sort of place a gable-ended old house, one side palsied\nas it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner,\nwhere that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than\never it did about poor Paul s tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless,\nis a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the\nhob quietly toasting for bed.  In judging of that tempestuous wind\ncalled Euroclydon,  says an old writer of whose works I possess the\nonly copy extant it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou\nlookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the\noutside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where\nthe frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only\nglazier.  True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my\nmind old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are\nwindows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn t\nstop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint\nhere and there. But it s too late to make any improvements now. The\nuniverse is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted\noff a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth\nagainst the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with\nhis shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a\ncorn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the\ntempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken\nwrapper (he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty\nnight; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their\noriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the\nprivilege of making my own summer with my own coals.\n\nBut what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up\nto the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra\nthan here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the\nline of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in\norder to keep out this frost?\n\nNow, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the\ndoor of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be\nmoored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a\nCzar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a\ntemperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.\n\nBut no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there\nis plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted\nfeet, and see what sort of a place this  Spouter  may be.\n\n\nCHAPTER 3. The Spouter-Inn.\n\nEntering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide,\nlow, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of\nthe bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large\noilpainting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the\nunequal crosslights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent\nstudy and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of\nthe neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its\npurpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first\nyou almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New\nEngland hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint\nof much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and\nespecially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the\nentry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however\nwild, might not be altogether unwarranted.\n\nBut what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber,\nportentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the\npicture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a\nnameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive\na nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite,\nhalf-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to\nit, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what\nthat marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas,\ndeceptive idea would dart you through. It s the Black Sea in a midnight\ngale. It s the unnatural combat of the four primal elements. It s a\nblasted heath. It s a Hyperborean winter scene. It s the breaking-up of\nthe icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to\nthat one portentous something in the picture s midst. _That_ once found\nout, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint\nresemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?\n\nIn fact, the artist s design seemed this: a final theory of my own,\npartly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with\nwhom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner\nin a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its\nthree dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale,\npurposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of\nimpaling himself upon the three mast-heads.\n\nThe opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish\narray of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with\nglittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots\nof human hair; and one was sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping\nround like the segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed\nmower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what monstrous cannibal\nand savage could ever have gone a death-harvesting with such a hacking,\nhorrifying implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling lances\nand harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were storied weapons. With\nthis once long lance, now wildly elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan\nSwain kill fifteen whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that\nharpoon so like a corkscrew now was flung in Javan seas, and run away\nwith by a whale, years afterwards slain off the Cape of Blanco. The\noriginal iron entered nigh the tail, and, like a restless needle\nsojourning in the body of a man, travelled full forty feet, and at last\nwas found imbedded in the hump.\n\nCrossing this dusky entry, and on through yon low-arched way cut\nthrough what in old times must have been a great central chimney with\nfireplaces all round you enter the public room. A still duskier place\nis this, with such low ponderous beams above, and such old wrinkled\nplanks beneath, that you would almost fancy you trod some old craft s\ncockpits, especially of such a howling night, when this corner-anchored\nold ark rocked so furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like\ntable covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities\ngathered from this wide world s remotest nooks. Projecting from the\nfurther angle of the room stands a dark-looking den the bar a rude\nattempt at a right whale s head. Be that how it may, there stands the\nvast arched bone of the whale s jaw, so wide, a coach might almost\ndrive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old\ndecanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction,\nlike another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him),\nbustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells\nthe sailors deliriums and death.\n\nAbominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison. Though true\ncylinders without within, the villanous green goggling glasses\ndeceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians\nrudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads  goblets. Fill to\n_this_ mark, and your charge is but a penny; to _this_ a penny more;\nand so on to the full glass the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp\ndown for a shilling.\n\nUpon entering the place I found a number of young seamen gathered about\na table, examining by a dim light divers specimens of _skrimshander_. I\nsought the landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated with\na room, received for answer that his house was full not a bed\nunoccupied.  But avast,  he added, tapping his forehead,  you haint no\nobjections to sharing a harpooneer s blanket, have ye? I s pose you are\ngoin  a-whalin , so you d better get used to that sort of thing. \n\nI told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that if I should\never do so, it would depend upon who the harpooneer might be, and that\nif he (the landlord) really had no other place for me, and the\nharpooneer was not decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander\nfurther about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up with\nthe half of any decent man s blanket.\n\n I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper? you want supper?\nSupper ll be ready directly. \n\nI sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like a bench on the\nBattery. At one end a ruminating tar was still further adorning it with\nhis jack-knife, stooping over and diligently working away at the space\nbetween his legs. He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but\nhe didn t make much headway, I thought.\n\nAt last some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in an\nadjoining room. It was cold as Iceland no fire at all the landlord said\nhe couldn t afford it. Nothing but two dismal tallow candles, each in a\nwinding sheet. We were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold\nto our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers. But the\nfare was of the most substantial kind not only meat and potatoes, but\ndumplings; good heavens! dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a\ngreen box coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most direful\nmanner.\n\n My boy,  said the landlord,  you ll have the nightmare to a dead\nsartainty. \n\n Landlord,  I whispered,  that aint the harpooneer is it? \n\n Oh, no,  said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny,  the\nharpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he\ndon t he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes  em rare. \n\n The devil he does,  says I.  Where is that harpooneer? Is he here? \n\n He ll be here afore long,  was the answer.\n\nI could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this  dark\ncomplexioned  harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my mind that if it so\nturned out that we should sleep together, he must undress and get into\nbed before I did.\n\nSupper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when, knowing not\nwhat else to do with myself, I resolved to spend the rest of the\nevening as a looker on.\n\nPresently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up, the landlord\ncried,  That s the Grampus s crew. I seed her reported in the offing\nthis morning; a three years  voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now\nwe ll have the latest news from the Feegees. \n\nA tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung\nopen, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their\nshaggy watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters,\nall bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they\nseemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed from\ntheir boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then,\nthat they made a straight wake for the whale s mouth the bar when the\nwrinkled little old Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out\nbrimmers all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon\nwhich Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and molasses, which he\nswore was a sovereign cure for all colds and catarrhs whatsoever, never\nmind of how long standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador,\nor on the weather side of an ice-island.\n\nThe liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it generally does even\nwith the arrantest topers newly landed from sea, and they began\ncapering about most obstreperously.\n\nI observed, however, that one of them held somewhat aloof, and though\nhe seemed desirous not to spoil the hilarity of his shipmates by his\nown sober face, yet upon the whole he refrained from making as much\nnoise as the rest. This man interested me at once; and since the\nsea-gods had ordained that he should soon become my shipmate (though\nbut a sleeping-partner one, so far as this narrative is concerned), I\nwill here venture upon a little description of him. He stood full six\nfeet in height, with noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I\nhave seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply brown and\nburnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the contrast; while in the\ndeep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem\nto give him much joy. His voice at once announced that he was a\nSoutherner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of\nthose tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When\nthe revelry of his companions had mounted to its height, this man\nslipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my\ncomrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his\nshipmates, and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favourite with\nthem, they raised a cry of  Bulkington! Bulkington! where s\nBulkington?  and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.\n\nIt was now about nine o clock, and the room seeming almost\nsupernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to congratulate myself\nupon a little plan that had occurred to me just previous to the\nentrance of the seamen.\n\nNo man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you would a good deal\nrather not sleep with your own brother. I don t know how it is, but\npeople like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to\nsleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town,\nand that stranger a harpooneer, then your objections indefinitely\nmultiply. Nor was there any earthly reason why I as a sailor should\nsleep two in a bed, more than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep\ntwo in a bed at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all\nsleep together in one apartment, but you have your own hammock, and\ncover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.\n\nThe more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I abominated the\nthought of sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a\nharpooneer, his linen or woollen, as the case might be, would not be of\nthe tidiest, certainly none of the finest. I began to twitch all over.\nBesides, it was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be home\nand going bedwards. Suppose now, he should tumble in upon me at\nmidnight how could I tell from what vile hole he had been coming?\n\n Landlord! I ve changed my mind about that harpooneer. I shan t sleep\nwith him. I ll try the bench here. \n\n Just as you please; I m sorry I can t spare ye a tablecloth for a\nmattress, and it s a plaguy rough board here feeling of the knots and\nnotches.  But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I ve got a carpenter s plane\nthere in the bar wait, I say, and I ll make ye snug enough.  So saying\nhe procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting\nthe bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning\nlike an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the\nplane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was\nnear spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven s sake to quit the\nbed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing\nin the world could make eider down of a pine plank. So gathering up the\nshavings with another grin, and throwing them into the great stove in\nthe middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a\nbrown study.\n\nI now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too\nshort; but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too\nnarrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher\nthan the planed one so there was no yoking them. I then placed the\nfirst bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall,\nleaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in. But I\nsoon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from\nunder the sill of the window, that this plan would never do at all,\nespecially as another current from the rickety door met the one from\nthe window, and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in\nthe immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the\nnight.\n\nThe devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop, couldn t I steal\na march on him bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed, not to be\nwakened by the most violent knockings? It seemed no bad idea; but upon\nsecond thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the next\nmorning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the harpooneer might be\nstanding in the entry, all ready to knock me down!\n\nStill, looking round me again, and seeing no possible chance of\nspending a sufferable night unless in some other person s bed, I began\nto think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices\nagainst this unknown harpooneer. Thinks I, I ll wait awhile; he must be\ndropping in before long. I ll have a good look at him then, and perhaps\nwe may become jolly good bedfellows after all there s no telling.\n\nBut though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes,\nand going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.\n\n Landlord!  said I,  what sort of a chap is he does he always keep such\nlate hours?  It was now hard upon twelve o clock.\n\nThe landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and seemed to be\nmightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension.  No,  he\nanswered,  generally he s an early bird airley to bed and airley to\nrise yes, he s the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out\na peddling, you see, and I don t see what on airth keeps him so late,\nunless, may be, he can t sell his head. \n\n Can t sell his head? What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are\ntelling me?  getting into a towering rage.  Do you pretend to say,\nlandlord, that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed\nSaturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around\nthis town? \n\n That s precisely it,  said the landlord,  and I told him he couldn t\nsell it here, the market s overstocked. \n\n With what?  shouted I.\n\n With heads to be sure; ain t there too many heads in the world? \n\n I tell you what it is, landlord,  said I quite calmly,  you d better\nstop spinning that yarn to me I m not green. \n\n May be not,  taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick,  but I\nrayther guess you ll be done _brown_ if that ere harpooneer hears you a\nslanderin  his head. \n\n I ll break it for him,  said I, now flying into a passion again at\nthis unaccountable farrago of the landlord s.\n\n It s broke a ready,  said he.\n\n Broke,  said I _broke_, do you mean? \n\n Sartain, and that s the very reason he can t sell it, I guess. \n\n Landlord,  said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a\nsnow-storm landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one\nanother, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a\nbed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half\nbelongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I have\nnot yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and\nexasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling\ntowards the man whom you design for my bedfellow a sort of connexion,\nlandlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest\ndegree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this\nharpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the\nnight with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay\nthat story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good\nevidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I ve no idea of\nsleeping with a madman; and you, sir, _you_ I mean, landlord, _you_,\nsir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly, would thereby render\nyourself liable to a criminal prosecution. \n\n Wall,  said the landlord, fetching a long breath,  that s a purty long\nsarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be\neasy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin  you of has just arrived\nfrom the south seas, where he bought up a lot of  balmed New Zealand\nheads (great curios, you know), and he s sold all on  em but one, and\nthat one he s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow s Sunday, and it\nwould not do to be sellin  human heads about the streets when folks is\ngoin  to churches. He wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as\nhe was goin  out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for\nall the airth like a string of inions. \n\nThis account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed\nthat the landlord, after all, had had no idea of fooling me but at the\nsame time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a\nSaturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal\nbusiness as selling the heads of dead idolators?\n\n Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man. \n\n He pays reg lar,  was the rejoinder.  But come, it s getting dreadful\nlate, you had better be turning flukes it s a nice bed; Sal and me\nslept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There s plenty of room\nfor two to kick about in that bed; it s an almighty big bed that. Why,\nafore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the\nfoot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and\nsomehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm.\nArter that, Sal said it wouldn t do. Come along here, I ll give ye a\nglim in a jiffy;  and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards\nme, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a\nclock in the corner, he exclaimed  I vum it s Sunday you won t see that\nharpooneer to-night; he s come to anchor somewhere come along then;\n_do_ come; _won t_ ye come? \n\nI considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was\nushered into a small room, cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough,\nwith a prodigious bed, almost big enough indeed for any four\nharpooneers to sleep abreast.\n\n There,  said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest\nthat did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table;  there, make\nyourself comfortable now, and good night to ye.  I turned round from\neyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.\n\nFolding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of\nthe most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then\nglanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table,\ncould see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf,\nthe four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a\nwhale. Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a\nhammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a\nlarge seaman s bag, containing the harpooneer s wardrobe, no doubt in\nlieu of a land trunk. Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone\nfish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon\nstanding at the head of the bed.\n\nBut what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it close to the\nlight, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to\narrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it. I can compare it\nto nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little\ntinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an\nIndian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as\nyou see the same in South American ponchos. But could it be possible\nthat any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the\nstreets of any Christian town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to\ntry it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy\nand thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious\nharpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day. I went up in it to a bit\nof glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my\nlife. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink\nin the neck.\n\nI sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this\nhead-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat. After thinking some time on\nthe bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in\nthe middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat, and thought a\nlittle more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now,\nhalf undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about\nthe harpooneer s not coming home at all that night, it being so very\nlate, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots,\nand then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself\nto the care of heaven.\n\nWhether that mattress was stuffed with corn-cobs or broken crockery,\nthere is no telling, but I rolled about a good deal, and could not\nsleep for a long time. At last I slid off into a light doze, and had\npretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod, when I heard\na heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into\nthe room from under the door.\n\nLord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal\nhead-peddler. But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word\ntill spoken to. Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New\nZealand head in the other, the stranger entered the room, and without\nlooking towards the bed, placed his candle a good way off from me on\nthe floor in one corner, and then began working away at the knotted\ncords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room. I was\nall eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time\nwhile employed in unlacing the bag s mouth. This accomplished, however,\nhe turned round when, good heavens! what a sight! Such a face! It was\nof a dark, purplish, yellow colour, here and there stuck over with\nlarge blackish looking squares. Yes, it s just as I thought, he s a\nterrible bedfellow; he s been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here\nhe is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his\nface so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be\nsticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were\nstains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this;\nbut soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story\nof a white man a whaleman too who, falling among the cannibals, had\nbeen tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course\nof his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And\nwhat is it, thought I, after all! It s only his outside; a man can be\nhonest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly\ncomplexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely\nindependent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be\nnothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot\nsun s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had\nnever been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these\nextraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were\npassing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at\nall. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced\nfumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a\nseal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in\nthe middle of the room, he then took the New Zealand head a ghastly\nthing enough and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his\nhat a new beaver hat when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise.\nThere was no hair on his head none to speak of at least nothing but a\nsmall scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now\nlooked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger\nstood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker\nthan ever I bolted a dinner.\n\nEven as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but\nit was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this\nhead-peddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension.\nIgnorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and\nconfounded about the stranger, I confess I was now as much afraid of\nhim as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at\nthe dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game\nenough just then to address him, and demand a satisfactory answer\nconcerning what seemed inexplicable in him.\n\nMeanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed\nhis chest and arms. As I live, these covered parts of him were\ncheckered with the same squares as his face; his back, too, was all\nover the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years \nWar, and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still\nmore, his very legs were marked, as if a parcel of dark green frogs\nwere running up the trunks of young palms. It was now quite plain that\nhe must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman\nin the South Seas, and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to\nthink of it. A peddler of heads too perhaps the heads of his own\nbrothers. He might take a fancy to mine heavens! look at that tomahawk!\n\nBut there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about\nsomething that completely fascinated my attention, and convinced me\nthat he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall,\nor dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in\nthe pockets, and produced at length a curious little deformed image\nwith a hunch on its back, and exactly the colour of a three days  old\nCongo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought\nthat this black manikin was a real baby preserved in some similar\nmanner. But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened\na good deal like polished ebony, I concluded that it must be nothing\nbut a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be. For now the savage\ngoes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board,\nsets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the\nandirons. The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty,\nso that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine\nor chapel for his Congo idol.\n\nI now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image, feeling but\nill at ease meantime to see what was next to follow. First he takes\nabout a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket, and places\nthem carefully before the idol; then laying a bit of ship biscuit on\ntop and applying the flame from the lamp, he kindled the shavings into\na sacrificial blaze. Presently, after many hasty snatches into the\nfire, and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed\nto be scorching them badly), he at last succeeded in drawing out the\nbiscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little, he made a polite\noffer of it to the little negro. But the little devil did not seem to\nfancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips. All these\nstrange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from\nthe devotee, who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing\nsome pagan psalmody or other, during which his face twitched about in\nthe most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire, he took the\nidol up very unceremoniously, and bagged it again in his grego pocket\nas carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.\n\nAll these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness, and seeing\nhim now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business\noperations, and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time,\nnow or never, before the light was put out, to break the spell in which\nI had so long been bound.\n\nBut the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one.\nTaking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for\nan instant, and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the\nhandle, he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment\nthe light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between\nhis teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out, I could not help it\nnow; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.\n\nStammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him\nagainst the wall, and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might\nbe, to keep quiet, and let me get up and light the lamp again. But his\nguttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my\nmeaning.\n\n Who-e debel you? he at last said you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e. \nAnd so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the\ndark.\n\n Landlord, for God s sake, Peter Coffin!  shouted I.  Landlord! Watch!\nCoffin! Angels! save me! \n\n Speak-e! tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!  again growled the\ncannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the\nhot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire.\nBut thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light\nin hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.\n\n Don t be afraid now,  said he, grinning again,  Queequeg here wouldn t\nharm a hair of your head. \n\n Stop your grinning,  shouted I,  and why didn t you tell me that that\ninfernal harpooneer was a cannibal? \n\n I thought ye know d it; didn t I tell ye, he was a peddlin  heads\naround town? but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look\nhere you sabbee me, I sabbee you this man sleepe you you sabbee? \n\n Me sabbee plenty grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and\nsitting up in bed.\n\n You gettee in,  he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and\nthrowing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a\ncivil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a\nmoment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely\nlooking cannibal. What s all this fuss I have been making about,\nthought I to myself the man s a human being just as I am: he has just\nas much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep\nwith a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.\n\n Landlord,  said I,  tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or\nwhatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will\nturn in with him. But I don t fancy having a man smoking in bed with\nme. It s dangerous. Besides, I ain t insured. \n\nThis being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely\nmotioned me to get into bed rolling over to one side as much as to\nsay I won t touch a leg of ye. \n\n Good night, landlord,  said I,  you may go. \n\nI turned in, and never slept better in my life.\n\n\nCHAPTER 4. The Counterpane.\n\nUpon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg s arm thrown\nover me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost\nthought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of patchwork, full of\nodd little parti-coloured squares and triangles; and this arm of his\ntattooed all over with an interminable Cretan labyrinth of a figure, no\ntwo parts of which were of one precise shade owing I suppose to his\nkeeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade, his shirt\nsleeves irregularly rolled up at various times this same arm of his, I\nsay, looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork\nquilt. Indeed, partly lying on it as the arm did when I first awoke, I\ncould hardly tell it from the quilt, they so blended their hues\ntogether; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that I\ncould tell that Queequeg was hugging me.\n\nMy sensations were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a\nchild, I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance that befell me;\nwhether it was a reality or a dream, I never could entirely settle. The\ncircumstance was this. I had been cutting up some caper or other I\nthink it was trying to crawl up the chimney, as I had seen a little\nsweep do a few days previous; and my stepmother who, somehow or other,\nwas all the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless, my\nmother dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off to\nbed, though it was only two o clock in the afternoon of the 21st June,\nthe longest day in the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadfully. But\nthere was no help for it, so up stairs I went to my little room in the\nthird floor, undressed myself as slowly as possible so as to kill time,\nand with a bitter sigh got between the sheets.\n\nI lay there dismally calculating that sixteen entire hours must elapse\nbefore I could hope for a resurrection. Sixteen hours in bed! the small\nof my back ached to think of it. And it was so light too; the sun\nshining in at the window, and a great rattling of coaches in the\nstreets, and the sound of gay voices all over the house. I felt worse\nand worse at last I got up, dressed, and softly going down in my\nstockinged feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at\nher feet, beseeching her as a particular favour to give me a good\nslippering for my misbehaviour; anything indeed but condemning me to\nlie abed such an unendurable length of time. But she was the best and\nmost conscientious of stepmothers, and back I had to go to my room. For\nseveral hours I lay there broad awake, feeling a great deal worse than\nI have ever done since, even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes.\nAt last I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze; and\nslowly waking from it half steeped in dreams I opened my eyes, and the\nbefore sun-lit room was now wrapped in outer darkness. Instantly I felt\na shock running through all my frame; nothing was to be seen, and\nnothing was to be heard; but a supernatural hand seemed placed in mine.\nMy arm hung over the counterpane, and the nameless, unimaginable,\nsilent form or phantom, to which the hand belonged, seemed closely\nseated by my bed-side. For what seemed ages piled on ages, I lay there,\nfrozen with the most awful fears, not daring to drag away my hand; yet\never thinking that if I could but stir it one single inch, the horrid\nspell would be broken. I knew not how this consciousness at last glided\naway from me; but waking in the morning, I shudderingly remembered it\nall, and for days and weeks and months afterwards I lost myself in\nconfounding attempts to explain the mystery. Nay, to this very hour, I\noften puzzle myself with it.\n\nNow, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the\nsupernatural hand in mine were very similar, in their strangeness, to\nthose which I experienced on waking up and seeing Queequeg s pagan arm\nthrown round me. But at length all the past night s events soberly\nrecurred, one by one, in fixed reality, and then I lay only alive to\nthe comical predicament. For though I tried to move his arm unlock his\nbridegroom clasp yet, sleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly,\nas though naught but death should part us twain. I now strove to rouse\nhim Queequeg! but his only answer was a snore. I then rolled over, my\nneck feeling as if it were in a horse-collar; and suddenly felt a\nslight scratch. Throwing aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk\nsleeping by the savage s side, as if it were a hatchet-faced baby. A\npretty pickle, truly, thought I; abed here in a strange house in the\nbroad day, with a cannibal and a tomahawk!  Queequeg! in the name of\ngoodness, Queequeg, wake!  At length, by dint of much wriggling, and\nloud and incessant expostulations upon the unbecomingness of his\nhugging a fellow male in that matrimonial sort of style, I succeeded in\nextracting a grunt; and presently, he drew back his arm, shook himself\nall over like a Newfoundland dog just from the water, and sat up in\nbed, stiff as a pike-staff, looking at me, and rubbing his eyes as if\nhe did not altogether remember how I came to be there, though a dim\nconsciousness of knowing something about me seemed slowly dawning over\nhim. Meanwhile, I lay quietly eyeing him, having no serious misgivings\nnow, and bent upon narrowly observing so curious a creature. When, at\nlast, his mind seemed made up touching the character of his bedfellow,\nand he became, as it were, reconciled to the fact; he jumped out upon\nthe floor, and by certain signs and sounds gave me to understand that,\nif it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dress\nafterwards, leaving the whole apartment to myself. Thinks I, Queequeg,\nunder the circumstances, this is a very civilized overture; but, the\ntruth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you\nwill; it is marvellous how essentially polite they are. I pay this\nparticular compliment to Queequeg, because he treated me with so much\ncivility and consideration, while I was guilty of great rudeness;\nstaring at him from the bed, and watching all his toilette motions; for\nthe time my curiosity getting the better of my breeding. Nevertheless,\na man like Queequeg you don t see every day, he and his ways were well\nworth unusual regarding.\n\nHe commenced dressing at top by donning his beaver hat, a very tall\none, by the by, and then still minus his trowsers he hunted up his\nboots. What under the heavens he did it for, I cannot tell, but his\nnext movement was to crush himself boots in hand, and hat on under the\nbed; when, from sundry violent gaspings and strainings, I inferred he\nwas hard at work booting himself; though by no law of propriety that I\never heard of, is any man required to be private when putting on his\nboots. But Queequeg, do you see, was a creature in the transition\nstage neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just enough civilized\nto show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manners. His\neducation was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate. If he had not\nbeen a small degree civilized, he very probably would not have troubled\nhimself with boots at all; but then, if he had not been still a savage,\nhe never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on. At\nlast, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over\nhis eyes, and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not\nbeing much accustomed to boots, his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide\nones probably not made to order either rather pinched and tormented him\nat the first go off of a bitter cold morning.\n\nSeeing, now, that there were no curtains to the window, and that the\nstreet being very narrow, the house opposite commanded a plain view\ninto the room, and observing more and more the indecorous figure that\nQueequeg made, staving about with little else but his hat and boots on;\nI begged him as well as I could, to accelerate his toilet somewhat, and\nparticularly to get into his pantaloons as soon as possible. He\ncomplied, and then proceeded to wash himself. At that time in the\nmorning any Christian would have washed his face; but Queequeg, to my\namazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his\nchest, arms, and hands. He then donned his waistcoat, and taking up a\npiece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre table, dipped it into water\nand commenced lathering his face. I was watching to see where he kept\nhis razor, when lo and behold, he takes the harpoon from the bed\ncorner, slips out the long wooden stock, unsheathes the head, whets it\na little on his boot, and striding up to the bit of mirror against the\nwall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of his cheeks.\nThinks I, Queequeg, this is using Rogers s best cutlery with a\nvengeance. Afterwards I wondered the less at this operation when I came\nto know of what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made, and how\nexceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.\n\nThe rest of his toilet was soon achieved, and he proudly marched out of\nthe room, wrapped up in his great pilot monkey jacket, and sporting his\nharpoon like a marshal s baton.\n\n\nCHAPTER 5. Breakfast.\n\nI quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the\ngrinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him,\nthough he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my\nbedfellow.\n\nHowever, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a\ngood thing; the more s the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper\nperson, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be\nbackward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and be spent in\nthat way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about\nhim, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.\n\nThe bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the\nnight previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were\nnearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates,\nand sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and\nharpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky\nbeards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning\ngowns.\n\nYou could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This\nyoung fellow s healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and\nwould seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days\nlanded from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades\nlighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the\ncomplexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly\nbleached withal; _he_ doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who\ncould show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints,\nseemed like the Andes  western slope, to show forth in one array,\ncontrasting climates, zone by zone.\n\n Grub, ho!  now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we\nwent to breakfast.\n\nThey say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease\nin manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though:\nLedyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch\none; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But\nperhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as\nLedyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in\nthe negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo s\nperformances this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode\nof attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort\nof thing is to be had anywhere.\n\nThese reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that\nafter we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some\ngood stories about whaling; to my no small surprise, nearly every man\nmaintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked\nembarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the\nslightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas entire\nstrangers to them and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here\nthey sat at a social breakfast table all of the same calling, all of\nkindred tastes looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they\nhad never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green\nMountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior\nwhalemen!\n\nBut as for Queequeg why, Queequeg sat there among them at the head of\nthe table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I\ncannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have\ncordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him,\nand using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it,\nto the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks\ntowards him. But _that_ was certainly very coolly done by him, and\nevery one knows that in most people s estimation, to do anything coolly\nis to do it genteelly.\n\nWe will not speak of all Queequeg s peculiarities here; how he eschewed\ncoffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to\nbeefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew\nlike the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was\nsitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat\non, when I sallied out for a stroll.\n\n\nCHAPTER 6. The Street.\n\nIf I had been astonished at first catching a glimpse of so outlandish\nan individual as Queequeg circulating among the polite society of a\ncivilized town, that astonishment soon departed upon taking my first\ndaylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.\n\nIn thoroughfares nigh the docks, any considerable seaport will\nfrequently offer to view the queerest looking nondescripts from foreign\nparts. Even in Broadway and Chestnut streets, Mediterranean mariners\nwill sometimes jostle the affrighted ladies. Regent Street is not\nunknown to Lascars and Malays; and at Bombay, in the Apollo Green, live\nYankees have often scared the natives. But New Bedford beats all Water\nStreet and Wapping. In these last-mentioned haunts you see only\nsailors; but in New Bedford, actual cannibals stand chatting at street\ncorners; savages outright; many of whom yet carry on their bones unholy\nflesh. It makes a stranger stare.\n\nBut, besides the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians,\nand Brighggians, and, besides the wild specimens of the whaling-craft\nwhich unheeded reel about the streets, you will see other sights still\nmore curious, certainly more comical. There weekly arrive in this town\nscores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men, all athirst for gain\nand glory in the fishery. They are mostly young, of stalwart frames;\nfellows who have felled forests, and now seek to drop the axe and\nsnatch the whale-lance. Many are as green as the Green Mountains whence\nthey came. In some things you would think them but a few hours old.\nLook there! that chap strutting round the corner. He wears a beaver hat\nand swallow-tailed coat, girdled with a sailor-belt and sheath-knife.\nHere comes another with a sou -wester and a bombazine cloak.\n\nNo town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one I mean a\ndownright bumpkin dandy a fellow that, in the dog-days, will mow his\ntwo acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands. Now when a\ncountry dandy like this takes it into his head to make a distinguished\nreputation, and joins the great whale-fishery, you should see the\ncomical things he does upon reaching the seaport. In bespeaking his\nsea-outfit, he orders bell-buttons to his waistcoats; straps to his\ncanvas trowsers. Ah, poor Hay-Seed! how bitterly will burst those\nstraps in the first howling gale, when thou art driven, straps,\nbuttons, and all, down the throat of the tempest.\n\nBut think not that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals,\nand bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still New Bedford is a\nqueer place. Had it not been for us whalemen, that tract of land would\nthis day perhaps have been in as howling condition as the coast of\nLabrador. As it is, parts of her back country are enough to frighten\none, they look so bony. The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to\nlive in, in all New England. It is a land of oil, true enough: but not\nlike Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine. The streets do not run\nwith milk; nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs.\nYet, in spite of this, nowhere in all America will you find more\npatrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New\nBedford. Whence came they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of\na country?\n\nGo and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty\nmansion, and your question will be answered. Yes; all these brave\nhouses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian\noceans. One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the\nbottom of the sea. Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?\n\nIn New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their\ndaughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece.\nYou must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say,\nthey have reservoirs of oil in every house, and every night recklessly\nburn their lengths in spermaceti candles.\n\nIn summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples long\navenues of green and gold. And in August, high in air, the beautiful\nand bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise, proffer the passer-by\ntheir tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms. So omnipotent is\nart; which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright\nterraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at\ncreation s final day.\n\nAnd the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But\nroses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks\nis perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens. Elsewhere match that\nbloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young\ngirls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off\nshore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of\nthe Puritanic sands.\n\n\nCHAPTER 7. The Chapel.\n\nIn this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman s Chapel, and few are\nthe moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who\nfail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.\n\nReturning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this\nspecial errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving\nsleet and mist. Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called\nbearskin, I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering, I found\na small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors  wives and\nwidows. A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks\nof the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart\nfrom the other, as if each silent grief were insular and\nincommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived; and there these\nsilent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble\ntablets, with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the\npulpit. Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not\npretend to quote: \n\nSACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN TALBOT, Who, at the age of eighteen, was\nlost overboard, Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, _November_\n1_st_, 1836. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS SISTER.\n\nSACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN,\nWALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG, Forming one of the boats \ncrews OF THE SHIP ELIZA Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, On the\nOff-shore Ground in the PACIFIC, _December_ 31_st_, 1839. THIS MARBLE\nIs here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.\n\nSACRED TO THE MEMORY OF The late CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY, Who in the bows\nof his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, _August_\n3_d_, 1833. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS WIDOW.\n\nShaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated\nmyself near the door, and turning sideways was surprised to see\nQueequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene, there was a\nwondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage\nwas the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because\nhe was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading\nthose frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of\nthe seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation,\nI knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery,\nand so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not\nthe trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here\nbefore me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of\nthose bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed\nafresh.\n\nOh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing\namong flowers can say here, _here_ lies my beloved; ye know not the\ndesolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in\nthose black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in\nthose immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden\ninfidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse\nresurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a\ngrave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as\nhere.\n\nIn what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included;\nwhy it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no\ntales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands; how it is\nthat to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix\nso significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if\nhe but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the\nLife Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what\neternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies\nantique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we\nstill refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are\ndwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all\nthe dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify\na whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.\n\nBut Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these\ndead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.\n\nIt needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a\nNantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky\nlight of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who\nhad gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But\nsomehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine\nchance for promotion, it seems aye, a stove boat will make me an\nimmortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling a\nspeechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what\nthen? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death.\nMethinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true\nsubstance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too\nmuch like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking\nthat thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees\nof my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is\nnot me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat\nand stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.\n\n\nCHAPTER 8. The Pulpit.\n\nI had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable\nrobustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon\nadmitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation,\nsufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it\nwas the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he\nwas a very great favourite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in\nhis youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the\nministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy\nwinter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging\ninto a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his\nwrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing\nbloom the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February s snow. No\none having previously heard his history, could for the first time\nbehold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were\ncertain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that\nadventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that\nhe carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for\nhis tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot\ncloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of\nthe water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one\nby one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner;\nwhen, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.\n\nLike most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a\nregular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the\nfloor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the\narchitect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and\nfinished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side\nladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife\nof a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of\nred worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely\nheaded, and stained with a mahogany colour, the whole contrivance,\nconsidering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad\ntaste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both\nhands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple\ncast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still\nreverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if\nascending the main-top of his vessel.\n\nThe perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case\nwith swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of\nwood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of\nthe pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship,\nthese joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not\nprepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn\nround, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder\nstep by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him\nimpregnable in his little Quebec.\n\nI pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this.\nFather Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and\nsanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any\nmere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober\nreason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen.\nCan it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies\nhis spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties\nand connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the\nword, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a\nself-containing stronghold a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial\nwell of water within the walls.\n\nBut the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place,\nborrowed from the chaplain s former sea-farings. Between the marble\ncenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back\nwas adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating\nagainst a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy\nbreakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there\nfloated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel s\nface; and this bright face shed a distinct spot of radiance upon the\nship s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into\nthe Victory s plank where Nelson fell.  Ah, noble ship,  the angel\nseemed to say,  beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy\nhelm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling\noff serenest azure is at hand. \n\nNor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that\nhad achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the\nlikeness of a ship s bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a\nprojecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship s fiddle-headed\nbeak.\n\nWhat could be more full of meaning? for the pulpit is ever this earth s\nforemost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the\nworld. From thence it is the storm of God s quick wrath is first\ndescried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is\nthe God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favourable winds.\nYes, the world s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete;\nand the pulpit is its prow.\n\n\nCHAPTER 9. The Sermon.\n\nFather Mapple rose, and in a mild voice of unassuming authority ordered\nthe scattered people to condense.  Starboard gangway, there! side away\nto larboard larboard gangway to starboard! Midships! midships! \n\nThere was a low rumbling of heavy sea-boots among the benches, and a\nstill slighter shuffling of women s shoes, and all was quiet again, and\nevery eye on the preacher.\n\nHe paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit s bows, folded his\nlarge brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and\noffered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying\nat the bottom of the sea.\n\nThis ended, in prolonged solemn tones, like the continual tolling of a\nbell in a ship that is foundering at sea in a fog in such tones he\ncommenced reading the following hymn; but changing his manner towards\nthe concluding stanzas, burst forth with a pealing exultation and joy \n\n\n   The ribs and terrors in the whale, Arched over me a dismal gloom,\n  While all God s sun-lit waves rolled by, And lift me deepening down\n  to doom.\n\n   I saw the opening maw of hell, With endless pains and sorrows there;\n  Which none but they that feel can tell  Oh, I was plunging to\n  despair.\n\n   In black distress, I called my God, When I could scarce believe him\n  mine, He bowed his ear to my complaints  No more the whale did me\n  confine.\n\n   With speed he flew to my relief, As on a radiant dolphin borne;\n  Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone The face of my Deliverer God.\n\n   My song for ever shall record That terrible, that joyful hour; I\n  give the glory to my God, His all the mercy and the power. \n\n\n\n\nNearly all joined in singing this hymn, which swelled high above the\nhowling of the storm. A brief pause ensued; the preacher slowly turned\nover the leaves of the Bible, and at last, folding his hand down upon\nthe proper page, said:  Beloved shipmates, clinch the last verse of the\nfirst chapter of Jonah And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up\nJonah. \n\n Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters four yarns is one\nof the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures. Yet what\ndepths of the soul does Jonah s deep sealine sound! what a pregnant\nlesson to us is this prophet! What a noble thing is that canticle in\nthe fish s belly! How billow-like and boisterously grand! We feel the\nfloods surging over us; we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the\nwaters; sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us! But _what_\nis this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it is a\ntwo-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men, and a lesson to\nme as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us\nall, because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly\nawakened fears, the swift punishment, repentance, prayers, and finally\nthe deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men, the\nsin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the\ncommand of God never mind now what that command was, or how\nconveyed which he found a hard command. But all the things that God\nwould have us do are hard for us to do remember that and hence, he\noftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we\nmust disobey ourselves; and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein\nthe hardness of obeying God consists.\n\n With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at\nGod, by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men\nwill carry him into countries where God does not reign, but only the\nCaptains of this earth. He skulks about the wharves of Joppa, and seeks\na ship that s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto\nunheeded meaning here. By all accounts Tarshish could have been no\nother city than the modern Cadiz. That s the opinion of learned men.\nAnd where is Cadiz, shipmates? Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from\nJoppa, as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days, when\nthe Atlantic was an almost unknown sea. Because Joppa, the modern\nJaffa, shipmates, is on the most easterly coast of the Mediterranean,\nthe Syrian; and Tarshish or Cadiz more than two thousand miles to the\nwestward from that, just outside the Straits of Gibraltar. See ye not\nthen, shipmates, that Jonah sought to flee world-wide from God?\nMiserable man! Oh! most contemptible and worthy of all scorn; with\nslouched hat and guilty eye, skulking from his God; prowling among the\nshipping like a vile burglar hastening to cross the seas. So\ndisordered, self-condemning is his look, that had there been policemen\nin those days, Jonah, on the mere suspicion of something wrong, had\nbeen arrested ere he touched a deck. How plainly he s a fugitive! no\nbaggage, not a hat-box, valise, or carpet-bag, no friends accompany him\nto the wharf with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search, he\nfinds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo; and as\nhe steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin, all the sailors for\nthe moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger s\nevil eye. Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and\nconfidence; in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the\nman assure the mariners he can be no innocent. In their gamesome but\nstill serious way, one whispers to the other Jack, he s robbed a\nwidow;  or,  Joe, do you mark him; he s a bigamist;  or,  Harry lad, I\nguess he s the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike,\none of the missing murderers from Sodom.  Another runs to read the bill\nthat s stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is\nmoored, offering five hundred gold coins for the apprehension of a\nparricide, and containing a description of his person. He reads, and\nlooks from Jonah to the bill; while all his sympathetic shipmates now\ncrowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him. Frighted Jonah\ntrembles, and summoning all his boldness to his face, only looks so\nmuch the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected; but that\nitself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it; and when the\nsailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him\npass, and he descends into the cabin.\n\n Who s there?  cries the Captain at his busy desk, hurriedly making\nout his papers for the Customs Who s there?  Oh! how that harmless\nquestion mangles Jonah! For the instant he almost turns to flee again.\nBut he rallies.  I seek a passage in this ship to Tarshish; how soon\nsail ye, sir?  Thus far the busy Captain had not looked up to Jonah,\nthough the man now stands before him; but no sooner does he hear that\nhollow voice, than he darts a scrutinizing glance.  We sail with the\nnext coming tide,  at last he slowly answered, still intently eyeing\nhim.  No sooner, sir? Soon enough for any honest man that goes a\npassenger.  Ha! Jonah, that s another stab. But he swiftly calls away\nthe Captain from that scent.  I ll sail with ye, he says, the passage\nmoney how much is that? I ll pay now.  For it is particularly written,\nshipmates, as if it were a thing not to be overlooked in this history,\n that he paid the fare thereof  ere the craft did sail. And taken with\nthe context, this is full of meaning.\n\n Now Jonah s Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects\ncrime in any, but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In\nthis world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely, and\nwithout a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all\nfrontiers. So Jonah s Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah s\npurse, ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice the usual sum;\nand it s assented to. Then the Captain knows that Jonah is a fugitive;\nbut at the same time resolves to help a flight that paves its rear with\ngold. Yet when Jonah fairly takes out his purse, prudent suspicions\nstill molest the Captain. He rings every coin to find a counterfeit.\nNot a forger, any way, he mutters; and Jonah is put down for his\npassage.  Point out my state-room, Sir,  says Jonah now,  I m\ntravel-weary; I need sleep.   Thou lookest like it,  says the Captain,\n there s thy room.  Jonah enters, and would lock the door, but the lock\ncontains no key. Hearing him foolishly fumbling there, the Captain\nlaughs lowly to himself, and mutters something about the doors of\nconvicts  cells being never allowed to be locked within. All dressed\nand dusty as he is, Jonah throws himself into his berth, and finds the\nlittle state-room ceiling almost resting on his forehead. The air is\nclose, and Jonah gasps. Then, in that contracted hole, sunk, too,\nbeneath the ship s water-line, Jonah feels the heralding presentiment\nof that stifling hour, when the whale shall hold him in the smallest of\nhis bowels  wards.\n\n Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly\noscillates in Jonah s room; and the ship, heeling over towards the\nwharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp, flame and\nall, though in slight motion, still maintains a permanent obliquity\nwith reference to the room; though, in truth, infallibly straight\nitself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it\nhung. The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his\ntormented eyes roll round the place, and this thus far successful\nfugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance. But that\ncontradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the\nceiling, and the side, are all awry.  Oh! so my conscience hangs in\nme!  he groans,  straight upwards, so it burns; but the chambers of my\nsoul are all in crookedness! \n\n Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still\nreeling, but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the\nRoman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him;\nas one who in that miserable plight still turns and turns in giddy\nanguish, praying God for annihilation until the fit be passed; and at\nlast amid the whirl of woe he feels, a deep stupor steals over him, as\nover the man who bleeds to death, for conscience is the wound, and\nthere s naught to staunch it; so, after sore wrestlings in his berth,\nJonah s prodigy of ponderous misery drags him drowning down to sleep.\n\n And now the time of tide has come; the ship casts off her cables; and\nfrom the deserted wharf the uncheered ship for Tarshish, all careening,\nglides to sea. That ship, my friends, was the first of recorded\nsmugglers! the contraband was Jonah. But the sea rebels; he will not\nbear the wicked burden. A dreadful storm comes on, the ship is like to\nbreak. But now when the boatswain calls all hands to lighten her; when\nboxes, bales, and jars are clattering overboard; when the wind is\nshrieking, and the men are yelling, and every plank thunders with\ntrampling feet right over Jonah s head; in all this raging tumult,\nJonah sleeps his hideous sleep. He sees no black sky and raging sea,\nfeels not the reeling timbers, and little hears he or heeds he the far\nrush of the mighty whale, which even now with open mouth is cleaving\nthe seas after him. Aye, shipmates, Jonah was gone down into the sides\nof the ship a berth in the cabin as I have taken it, and was fast\nasleep. But the frightened master comes to him, and shrieks in his dead\near,  What meanest thou, O, sleeper! arise!  Startled from his lethargy\nby that direful cry, Jonah staggers to his feet, and stumbling to the\ndeck, grasps a shroud, to look out upon the sea. But at that moment he\nis sprung upon by a panther billow leaping over the bulwarks. Wave\nafter wave thus leaps into the ship, and finding no speedy vent runs\nroaring fore and aft, till the mariners come nigh to drowning while yet\nafloat. And ever, as the white moon shows her affrighted face from the\nsteep gullies in the blackness overhead, aghast Jonah sees the rearing\nbowsprit pointing high upward, but soon beat downward again towards the\ntormented deep.\n\n Terrors upon terrors run shouting through his soul. In all his\ncringing attitudes, the God-fugitive is now too plainly known. The\nsailors mark him; more and more certain grow their suspicions of him,\nand at last, fully to test the truth, by referring the whole matter to\nhigh Heaven, they fall to casting lots, to see for whose cause this\ngreat tempest was upon them. The lot is Jonah s; that discovered, then\nhow furiously they mob him with their questions.  What is thine\noccupation? Whence comest thou? Thy country? What people? But mark now,\nmy shipmates, the behavior of poor Jonah. The eager mariners but ask\nhim who he is, and where from; whereas, they not only receive an answer\nto those questions, but likewise another answer to a question not put\nby them, but the unsolicited answer is forced from Jonah by the hard\nhand of God that is upon him.\n\n I am a Hebrew,  he cries and then I fear the Lord the God of Heaven\nwho hath made the sea and the dry land!  Fear him, O Jonah? Aye, well\nmightest thou fear the Lord God _then!_ Straightway, he now goes on to\nmake a full confession; whereupon the mariners became more and more\nappalled, but still are pitiful. For when Jonah, not yet supplicating\nGod for mercy, since he but too well knew the darkness of his\ndeserts, when wretched Jonah cries out to them to take him and cast him\nforth into the sea, for he knew that for _his_ sake this great tempest\nwas upon them; they mercifully turn from him, and seek by other means\nto save the ship. But all in vain; the indignant gale howls louder;\nthen, with one hand raised invokingly to God, with the other they not\nunreluctantly lay hold of Jonah.\n\n And now behold Jonah taken up as an anchor and dropped into the sea;\nwhen instantly an oily calmness floats out from the east, and the sea\nis still, as Jonah carries down the gale with him, leaving smooth water\nbehind. He goes down in the whirling heart of such a masterless\ncommotion that he scarce heeds the moment when he drops seething into\nthe yawning jaws awaiting him; and the whale shoots-to all his ivory\nteeth, like so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed\nunto the Lord out of the fish s belly. But observe his prayer, and\nlearn a weighty lesson. For sinful as he is, Jonah does not weep and\nwail for direct deliverance. He feels that his dreadful punishment is\njust. He leaves all his deliverance to God, contenting himself with\nthis, that spite of all his pains and pangs, he will still look towards\nHis holy temple. And here, shipmates, is true and faithful repentance;\nnot clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment. And how pleasing\nto God was this conduct in Jonah, is shown in the eventual deliverance\nof him from the sea and the whale. Shipmates, I do not place Jonah\nbefore you to be copied for his sin but I do place him before you as a\nmodel for repentance. Sin not; but if you do, take heed to repent of it\nlike Jonah. \n\nWhile he was speaking these words, the howling of the shrieking,\nslanting storm without seemed to add new power to the preacher, who,\nwhen describing Jonah s sea-storm, seemed tossed by a storm himself.\nHis deep chest heaved as with a ground-swell; his tossed arms seemed\nthe warring elements at work; and the thunders that rolled away from\noff his swarthy brow, and the light leaping from his eye, made all his\nsimple hearers look on him with a quick fear that was strange to them.\n\nThere now came a lull in his look, as he silently turned over the\nleaves of the Book once more; and, at last, standing motionless, with\nclosed eyes, for the moment, seemed communing with God and himself.\n\nBut again he leaned over towards the people, and bowing his head lowly,\nwith an aspect of the deepest yet manliest humility, he spake these\nwords:\n\n Shipmates, God has laid but one hand upon you; both his hands press\nupon me. I have read ye by what murky light may be mine the lesson that\nJonah teaches to all sinners; and therefore to ye, and still more to\nme, for I am a greater sinner than ye. And now how gladly would I come\ndown from this mast-head and sit on the hatches there where you sit,\nand listen as you listen, while some one of you reads _me_ that other\nand more awful lesson which Jonah teaches to _me_, as a pilot of the\nliving God. How being an anointed pilot-prophet, or speaker of true\nthings, and bidden by the Lord to sound those unwelcome truths in the\nears of a wicked Nineveh, Jonah, appalled at the hostility he should\nraise, fled from his mission, and sought to escape his duty and his God\nby taking ship at Joppa. But God is everywhere; Tarshish he never\nreached. As we have seen, God came upon him in the whale, and swallowed\nhim down to living gulfs of doom, and with swift slantings tore him\nalong  into the midst of the seas,  where the eddying depths sucked him\nten thousand fathoms down, and  the weeds were wrapped about his head, \nand all the watery world of woe bowled over him. Yet even then beyond\nthe reach of any plummet out of the belly of hell when the whale\ngrounded upon the ocean s utmost bones, even then, God heard the\nengulphed, repenting prophet when he cried. Then God spake unto the\nfish; and from the shuddering cold and blackness of the sea, the whale\ncame breeching up towards the warm and pleasant sun, and all the\ndelights of air and earth; and  vomited out Jonah upon the dry land; \nwhen the word of the Lord came a second time; and Jonah, bruised and\nbeaten his ears, like two sea-shells, still multitudinously murmuring\nof the ocean Jonah did the Almighty s bidding. And what was that,\nshipmates? To preach the Truth to the face of Falsehood! That was it!\n\n This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of\nthe living God who slights it. Woe to him whom this world charms from\nGospel duty! Woe to him who seeks to pour oil upon the waters when God\nhas brewed them into a gale! Woe to him who seeks to please rather than\nto appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness! Woe\nto him who, in this world, courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would\nnot be true, even though to be false were salvation! Yea, woe to him\nwho, as the great Pilot Paul has it, while preaching to others is\nhimself a castaway! \n\nHe dropped and fell away from himself for a moment; then lifting his\nface to them again, showed a deep joy in his eyes, as he cried out with\na heavenly enthusiasm, But oh! shipmates! on the starboard hand of\nevery woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight,\nthan the bottom of the woe is deep. Is not the main-truck higher than\nthe kelson is low? Delight is to him a far, far upward, and inward\ndelight who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever\nstands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong\narms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has\ngone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the\ntruth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out\nfrom under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight, top-gallant\ndelight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his\nGod, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the\nwaves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake\nfrom this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness\nwill be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final\nbreath O Father! chiefly known to me by Thy rod mortal or immortal,\nhere I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this world s,\nor mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave eternity to Thee; for what is\nman that he should live out the lifetime of his God? \n\nHe said no more, but slowly waving a benediction, covered his face with\nhis hands, and so remained kneeling, till all the people had departed,\nand he was left alone in the place.\n\n\nCHAPTER 10. A Bosom Friend.\n\nReturning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there\nquite alone; he having left the Chapel before the benediction some\ntime. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the\nstove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that\nlittle negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a\njack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to\nhimself in his heathenish way.\n\nBut being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going\nto the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap\nbegan counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth\npage as I fancied stopping a moment, looking vacantly around him, and\ngiving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He\nwould then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number\none each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was\nonly by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his\nastonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.\n\nWith much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and\nhideously marred about the face at least to my taste his countenance\nyet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You\ncannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I\nsaw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes,\nfiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a\nthousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty\nbearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not\naltogether maim. He looked like a man who had never cringed and never\nhad had a creditor. Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved,\nhis forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked\nmore expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to\ndecide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent\none. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General Washington s\nhead, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long\nregularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were\nlikewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on\ntop. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.\n\nWhilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be\nlooking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my\npresence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but\nappeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous\nbook. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping together the night\nprevious, and especially considering the affectionate arm I had found\nthrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this indifference\nof his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you do\nnot know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their\ncalm self-collectedness of simplicity seems a Socratic wisdom. I had\nnoticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little,\nwith the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever;\nappeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances.\nAll this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there\nwas something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand\nmiles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is which was the only\nway he could get there thrown among people as strange to him as though\nhe were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease;\npreserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship;\nalways equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy;\nthough no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But,\nperhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of\nso living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man\ngives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the\ndyspeptic old woman, he must have  broken his digester. \n\nAs I sat there in that now lonely room; the fire burning low, in that\nmild stage when, after its first intensity has warmed the air, it then\nonly glows to be looked at; the evening shades and phantoms gathering\nround the casements, and peering in upon us silent, solitary twain; the\nstorm booming without in solemn swells; I began to be sensible of\nstrange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart\nand maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing\nsavage had redeemed it. There he sat, his very indifference speaking a\nnature in which there lurked no civilized hypocrisies and bland\ndeceits. Wild he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to\nfeel myself mysteriously drawn towards him. And those same things that\nwould have repelled most others, they were the very magnets that thus\ndrew me. I ll try a pagan friend, thought I, since Christian kindness\nhas proved but hollow courtesy. I drew my bench near him, and made some\nfriendly signs and hints, doing my best to talk with him meanwhile. At\nfirst he little noticed these advances; but presently, upon my\nreferring to his last night s hospitalities, he made out to ask me\nwhether we were again to be bedfellows. I told him yes; whereat I\nthought he looked pleased, perhaps a little complimented.\n\nWe then turned over the book together, and I endeavored to explain to\nhim the purpose of the printing, and the meaning of the few pictures\nthat were in it. Thus I soon engaged his interest; and from that we\nwent to jabbering the best we could about the various outer sights to\nbe seen in this famous town. Soon I proposed a social smoke; and,\nproducing his pouch and tomahawk, he quietly offered me a puff. And\nthen we sat exchanging puffs from that wild pipe of his, and keeping it\nregularly passing between us.\n\nIf there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan s\nbreast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and\nleft us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and\nunbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his\nforehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that\nhenceforth we were married; meaning, in his country s phrase, that we\nwere bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be. In a\ncountryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too\npremature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage\nthose old rules would not apply.\n\nAfter supper, and another social chat and smoke, we went to our room\ntogether. He made me a present of his embalmed head; took out his\nenormous tobacco wallet, and groping under the tobacco, drew out some\nthirty dollars in silver; then spreading them on the table, and\nmechanically dividing them into two equal portions, pushed one of them\ntowards me, and said it was mine. I was going to remonstrate; but he\nsilenced me by pouring them into my trowsers  pockets. I let them stay.\nHe then went about his evening prayers, took out his idol, and removed\nthe paper fireboard. By certain signs and symptoms, I thought he seemed\nanxious for me to join him; but well knowing what was to follow, I\ndeliberated a moment whether, in case he invited me, I would comply or\notherwise.\n\nI was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible\nPresbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in\nworshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? thought I. Do you\nsuppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and\nearth pagans and all included can possibly be jealous of an\ninsignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship? to do\nthe will of God _that_ is worship. And what is the will of God? to do\nto my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me _that_ is\nthe will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish\nthat this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular\nPresbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him\nin his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I kindled the shavings; helped\nprop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with\nQueequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that\ndone, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences\nand all the world. But we did not go to sleep without some little chat.\n\nHow it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential\ndisclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the\nvery bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often\nlie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our\nhearts  honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg a cosy, loving pair.\n\n\nCHAPTER 11. Nightgown.\n\nWe had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals, and\nQueequeg now and then affectionately throwing his brown tattooed legs\nover mine, and then drawing them back; so entirely sociable and free\nand easy were we; when, at last, by reason of our confabulations, what\nlittle nappishness remained in us altogether departed, and we felt like\ngetting up again, though day-break was yet some way down the future.\n\nYes, we became very wakeful; so much so that our recumbent position\nbegan to grow wearisome, and by little and little we found ourselves\nsitting up; the clothes well tucked around us, leaning against the\nhead-board with our four knees drawn up close together, and our two\nnoses bending over them, as if our kneepans were warming-pans. We felt\nvery nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors;\nindeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the\nroom. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some\nsmall part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world\nthat is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If\nyou flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been\nso a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But\nif, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown\nof your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general\nconsciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For\nthis reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire,\nwhich is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height\nof this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket\nbetween you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there\nyou lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.\n\nWe had been sitting in this crouching manner for some time, when all at\nonce I thought I would open my eyes; for when between sheets, whether\nby day or by night, and whether asleep or awake, I have a way of always\nkeeping my eyes shut, in order the more to concentrate the snugness of\nbeing in bed. Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright\nexcept his eyes be closed; as if darkness were indeed the proper\nelement of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey\npart. Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and\nself-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the\nunilluminated twelve-o clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable\nrevulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that\nperhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide\nawake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs\nfrom his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had felt such a strong\nrepugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how\nelastic our stiff prejudices grow when love once comes to bend them.\nFor now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me,\neven in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy\nthen. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord s policy of\ninsurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential\ncomfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend.\nWith our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the\nTomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue\nhanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.\n\nWhether it was that this undulating tester rolled the savage away to\nfar distant scenes, I know not, but he now spoke of his native island;\nand, eager to hear his history, I begged him to go on and tell it. He\ngladly complied. Though at the time I but ill comprehended not a few of\nhis words, yet subsequent disclosures, when I had become more familiar\nwith his broken phraseology, now enable me to present the whole story\nsuch as it may prove in the mere skeleton I give.\n\n\nCHAPTER 12. Biographical.\n\nQueequeg was a native of Rokovoko, an island far away to the West and\nSouth. It is not down in any map; true places never are.\n\nWhen a new-hatched savage running wild about his native woodlands in a\ngrass clout, followed by the nibbling goats, as if he were a green\nsapling; even then, in Queequeg s ambitious soul, lurked a strong\ndesire to see something more of Christendom than a specimen whaler or\ntwo. His father was a High Chief, a King; his uncle a High Priest; and\non the maternal side he boasted aunts who were the wives of\nunconquerable warriors. There was excellent blood in his veins royal\nstuff; though sadly vitiated, I fear, by the cannibal propensity he\nnourished in his untutored youth.\n\nA Sag Harbor ship visited his father s bay, and Queequeg sought a\npassage to Christian lands. But the ship, having her full complement of\nseamen, spurned his suit; and not all the King his father s influence\ncould prevail. But Queequeg vowed a vow. Alone in his canoe, he paddled\noff to a distant strait, which he knew the ship must pass through when\nshe quitted the island. On one side was a coral reef; on the other a\nlow tongue of land, covered with mangrove thickets that grew out into\nthe water. Hiding his canoe, still afloat, among these thickets, with\nits prow seaward, he sat down in the stern, paddle low in hand; and\nwhen the ship was gliding by, like a flash he darted out; gained her\nside; with one backward dash of his foot capsized and sank his canoe;\nclimbed up the chains; and throwing himself at full length upon the\ndeck, grappled a ring-bolt there, and swore not to let it go, though\nhacked in pieces.\n\nIn vain the captain threatened to throw him overboard; suspended a\ncutlass over his naked wrists; Queequeg was the son of a King, and\nQueequeg budged not. Struck by his desperate dauntlessness, and his\nwild desire to visit Christendom, the captain at last relented, and\ntold him he might make himself at home. But this fine young savage this\nsea Prince of Wales, never saw the Captain s cabin. They put him down\namong the sailors, and made a whaleman of him. But like Czar Peter\ncontent to toil in the shipyards of foreign cities, Queequeg disdained\nno seeming ignominy, if thereby he might happily gain the power of\nenlightening his untutored countrymen. For at bottom so he told me he\nwas actuated by a profound desire to learn among the Christians, the\narts whereby to make his people still happier than they were; and more\nthan that, still better than they were. But, alas! the practices of\nwhalemen soon convinced him that even Christians could be both\nmiserable and wicked; infinitely more so, than all his father s\nheathens. Arrived at last in old Sag Harbor; and seeing what the\nsailors did there; and then going on to Nantucket, and seeing how they\nspent their wages in _that_ place also, poor Queequeg gave it up for\nlost. Thought he, it s a wicked world in all meridians; I ll die a\npagan.\n\nAnd thus an old idolator at heart, he yet lived among these Christians,\nwore their clothes, and tried to talk their gibberish. Hence the queer\nways about him, though now some time from home.\n\nBy hints, I asked him whether he did not propose going back, and having\na coronation; since he might now consider his father dead and gone, he\nbeing very old and feeble at the last accounts. He answered no, not\nyet; and added that he was fearful Christianity, or rather Christians,\nhad unfitted him for ascending the pure and undefiled throne of thirty\npagan Kings before him. But by and by, he said, he would return, as\nsoon as he felt himself baptized again. For the nonce, however, he\nproposed to sail about, and sow his wild oats in all four oceans. They\nhad made a harpooneer of him, and that barbed iron was in lieu of a\nsceptre now.\n\nI asked him what might be his immediate purpose, touching his future\nmovements. He answered, to go to sea again, in his old vocation. Upon\nthis, I told him that whaling was my own design, and informed him of my\nintention to sail out of Nantucket, as being the most promising port\nfor an adventurous whaleman to embark from. He at once resolved to\naccompany me to that island, ship aboard the same vessel, get into the\nsame watch, the same boat, the same mess with me, in short to share my\nevery hap; with both my hands in his, boldly dip into the Potluck of\nboth worlds. To all this I joyously assented; for besides the affection\nI now felt for Queequeg, he was an experienced harpooneer, and as such,\ncould not fail to be of great usefulness to one, who, like me, was\nwholly ignorant of the mysteries of whaling, though well acquainted\nwith the sea, as known to merchant seamen.\n\nHis story being ended with his pipe s last dying puff, Queequeg\nembraced me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blowing out the\nlight, we rolled over from each other, this way and that, and very soon\nwere sleeping.\n\n\nCHAPTER 13. Wheelbarrow.\n\nNext morning, Monday, after disposing of the embalmed head to a barber,\nfor a block, I settled my own and comrade s bill; using, however, my\ncomrade s money. The grinning landlord, as well as the boarders, seemed\namazingly tickled at the sudden friendship which had sprung up between\nme and Queequeg especially as Peter Coffin s cock and bull stories\nabout him had previously so much alarmed me concerning the very person\nwhom I now companied with.\n\nWe borrowed a wheelbarrow, and embarking our things, including my own\npoor carpet-bag, and Queequeg s canvas sack and hammock, away we went\ndown to  the Moss,  the little Nantucket packet schooner moored at the\nwharf. As we were going along the people stared; not at Queequeg so\nmuch for they were used to seeing cannibals like him in their\nstreets, but at seeing him and me upon such confidential terms. But we\nheeded them not, going along wheeling the barrow by turns, and Queequeg\nnow and then stopping to adjust the sheath on his harpoon barbs. I\nasked him why he carried such a troublesome thing with him ashore, and\nwhether all whaling ships did not find their own harpoons. To this, in\nsubstance, he replied, that though what I hinted was true enough, yet\nhe had a particular affection for his own harpoon, because it was of\nassured stuff, well tried in many a mortal combat, and deeply intimate\nwith the hearts of whales. In short, like many inland reapers and\nmowers, who go into the farmers  meadows armed with their own\nscythes though in no wise obliged to furnish them even so, Queequeg,\nfor his own private reasons, preferred his own harpoon.\n\nShifting the barrow from my hand to his, he told me a funny story about\nthe first wheelbarrow he had ever seen. It was in Sag Harbor. The\nowners of his ship, it seems, had lent him one, in which to carry his\nheavy chest to his boarding house. Not to seem ignorant about the\nthing though in truth he was entirely so, concerning the precise way in\nwhich to manage the barrow Queequeg puts his chest upon it; lashes it\nfast; and then shoulders the barrow and marches up the wharf.  Why, \nsaid I,  Queequeg, you might have known better than that, one would\nthink. Didn t the people laugh? \n\nUpon this, he told me another story. The people of his island of\nRokovoko, it seems, at their wedding feasts express the fragrant water\nof young cocoanuts into a large stained calabash like a punchbowl; and\nthis punchbowl always forms the great central ornament on the braided\nmat where the feast is held. Now a certain grand merchant ship once\ntouched at Rokovoko, and its commander from all accounts, a very\nstately punctilious gentleman, at least for a sea captain this\ncommander was invited to the wedding feast of Queequeg s sister, a\npretty young princess just turned of ten. Well; when all the wedding\nguests were assembled at the bride s bamboo cottage, this Captain\nmarches in, and being assigned the post of honor, placed himself over\nagainst the punchbowl, and between the High Priest and his majesty the\nKing, Queequeg s father. Grace being said, for those people have their\ngrace as well as we though Queequeg told me that unlike us, who at such\ntimes look downwards to our platters, they, on the contrary, copying\nthe ducks, glance upwards to the great Giver of all feasts Grace, I\nsay, being said, the High Priest opens the banquet by the immemorial\nceremony of the island; that is, dipping his consecrated and\nconsecrating fingers into the bowl before the blessed beverage\ncirculates. Seeing himself placed next the Priest, and noting the\nceremony, and thinking himself being Captain of a ship as having plain\nprecedence over a mere island King, especially in the King s own\nhouse the Captain coolly proceeds to wash his hands in the\npunchbowl; taking it I suppose for a huge finger-glass.  Now,  said\nQueequeg,  what you tink now? Didn t our people laugh? \n\nAt last, passage paid, and luggage safe, we stood on board the\nschooner. Hoisting sail, it glided down the Acushnet river. On one\nside, New Bedford rose in terraces of streets, their ice-covered trees\nall glittering in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of\ncasks on casks were piled upon her wharves, and side by side the\nworld-wandering whale ships lay silent and safely moored at last; while\nfrom others came a sound of carpenters and coopers, with blended noises\nof fires and forges to melt the pitch, all betokening that new cruises\nwere on the start; that one most perilous and long voyage ended, only\nbegins a second; and a second ended, only begins a third, and so on,\nfor ever and for aye. Such is the endlessness, yea, the intolerableness\nof all earthly effort.\n\nGaining the more open water, the bracing breeze waxed fresh; the little\nMoss tossed the quick foam from her bows, as a young colt his\nsnortings. How I snuffed that Tartar air! how I spurned that turnpike\nearth! that common highway all over dented with the marks of slavish\nheels and hoofs; and turned me to admire the magnanimity of the sea\nwhich will permit no records.\n\nAt the same foam-fountain, Queequeg seemed to drink and reel with me.\nHis dusky nostrils swelled apart; he showed his filed and pointed\nteeth. On, on we flew; and our offing gained, the Moss did homage to\nthe blast; ducked and dived her bows as a slave before the Sultan.\nSideways leaning, we sideways darted; every ropeyarn tingling like a\nwire; the two tall masts buckling like Indian canes in land tornadoes.\nSo full of this reeling scene were we, as we stood by the plunging\nbowsprit, that for some time we did not notice the jeering glances of\nthe passengers, a lubber-like assembly, who marvelled that two fellow\nbeings should be so companionable; as though a white man were anything\nmore dignified than a whitewashed negro. But there were some boobies\nand bumpkins there, who, by their intense greenness, must have come\nfrom the heart and centre of all verdure. Queequeg caught one of these\nyoung saplings mimicking him behind his back. I thought the bumpkin s\nhour of doom was come. Dropping his harpoon, the brawny savage caught\nhim in his arms, and by an almost miraculous dexterity and strength,\nsent him high up bodily into the air; then slightly tapping his stern\nin mid-somerset, the fellow landed with bursting lungs upon his feet,\nwhile Queequeg, turning his back upon him, lighted his tomahawk pipe\nand passed it to me for a puff.\n\n Capting! Capting!  yelled the bumpkin, running towards that officer;\n Capting, Capting, here s the devil. \n\n Hallo, _you_ sir,  cried the Captain, a gaunt rib of the sea, stalking\nup to Queequeg,  what in thunder do you mean by that? Don t you know\nyou might have killed that chap? \n\n What him say?  said Queequeg, as he mildly turned to me.\n\n He say,  said I,  that you came near kill-e that man there,  pointing\nto the still shivering greenhorn.\n\n Kill-e,  cried Queequeg, twisting his tattooed face into an unearthly\nexpression of disdain,  ah! him bevy small-e fish-e; Queequeg no kill-e\nso small-e fish-e; Queequeg kill-e big whale! \n\n Look you,  roared the Captain,  I ll kill-e _you_, you cannibal, if\nyou try any more of your tricks aboard here; so mind your eye. \n\nBut it so happened just then, that it was high time for the Captain to\nmind his own eye. The prodigious strain upon the main-sail had parted\nthe weather-sheet, and the tremendous boom was now flying from side to\nside, completely sweeping the entire after part of the deck. The poor\nfellow whom Queequeg had handled so roughly, was swept overboard; all\nhands were in a panic; and to attempt snatching at the boom to stay it,\nseemed madness. It flew from right to left, and back again, almost in\none ticking of a watch, and every instant seemed on the point of\nsnapping into splinters. Nothing was done, and nothing seemed capable\nof being done; those on deck rushed towards the bows, and stood eyeing\nthe boom as if it were the lower jaw of an exasperated whale. In the\nmidst of this consternation, Queequeg dropped deftly to his knees, and\ncrawling under the path of the boom, whipped hold of a rope, secured\none end to the bulwarks, and then flinging the other like a lasso,\ncaught it round the boom as it swept over his head, and at the next\njerk, the spar was that way trapped, and all was safe. The schooner was\nrun into the wind, and while the hands were clearing away the stern\nboat, Queequeg, stripped to the waist, darted from the side with a long\nliving arc of a leap. For three minutes or more he was seen swimming\nlike a dog, throwing his long arms straight out before him, and by\nturns revealing his brawny shoulders through the freezing foam. I\nlooked at the grand and glorious fellow, but saw no one to be saved.\nThe greenhorn had gone down. Shooting himself perpendicularly from the\nwater, Queequeg, now took an instant s glance around him, and seeming\nto see just how matters were, dived down and disappeared. A few minutes\nmore, and he rose again, one arm still striking out, and with the other\ndragging a lifeless form. The boat soon picked them up. The poor\nbumpkin was restored. All hands voted Queequeg a noble trump; the\ncaptain begged his pardon. From that hour I clove to Queequeg like a\nbarnacle; yea, till poor Queequeg took his last long dive.\n\nWas there ever such unconsciousness? He did not seem to think that he\nat all deserved a medal from the Humane and Magnanimous Societies. He\nonly asked for water fresh water something to wipe the brine off; that\ndone, he put on dry clothes, lighted his pipe, and leaning against the\nbulwarks, and mildly eyeing those around him, seemed to be saying to\nhimself It s a mutual, joint-stock world, in all meridians. We\ncannibals must help these Christians. \n\n\nCHAPTER 14. Nantucket.\n\nNothing more happened on the passage worthy the mentioning; so, after a\nfine run, we safely arrived in Nantucket.\n\nNantucket! Take out your map and look at it. See what a real corner of\nthe world it occupies; how it stands there, away off shore, more lonely\nthan the Eddystone lighthouse. Look at it a mere hillock, and elbow of\nsand; all beach, without a background. There is more sand there than\nyou would use in twenty years as a substitute for blotting paper. Some\ngamesome wights will tell you that they have to plant weeds there, they\ndon t grow naturally; that they import Canada thistles; that they have\nto send beyond seas for a spile to stop a leak in an oil cask; that\npieces of wood in Nantucket are carried about like bits of the true\ncross in Rome; that people there plant toadstools before their houses,\nto get under the shade in summer time; that one blade of grass makes an\noasis, three blades in a day s walk a prairie; that they wear quicksand\nshoes, something like Laplander snow-shoes; that they are so shut up,\nbelted about, every way inclosed, surrounded, and made an utter island\nof by the ocean, that to their very chairs and tables small clams will\nsometimes be found adhering, as to the backs of sea turtles. But these\nextravaganzas only show that Nantucket is no Illinois.\n\nLook now at the wondrous traditional story of how this island was\nsettled by the red-men. Thus goes the legend. In olden times an eagle\nswooped down upon the New England coast, and carried off an infant\nIndian in his talons. With loud lament the parents saw their child\nborne out of sight over the wide waters. They resolved to follow in the\nsame direction. Setting out in their canoes, after a perilous passage\nthey discovered the island, and there they found an empty ivory\ncasket, the poor little Indian s skeleton.\n\nWhat wonder, then, that these Nantucketers, born on a beach, should\ntake to the sea for a livelihood! They first caught crabs and quohogs\nin the sand; grown bolder, they waded out with nets for mackerel; more\nexperienced, they pushed off in boats and captured cod; and at last,\nlaunching a navy of great ships on the sea, explored this watery world;\nput an incessant belt of circumnavigations round it; peeped in at\nBehring s Straits; and in all seasons and all oceans declared\neverlasting war with the mightiest animated mass that has survived the\nflood; most monstrous and most mountainous! That Himmalehan, salt-sea\nMastodon, clothed with such portentousness of unconscious power, that\nhis very panics are more to be dreaded than his most fearless and\nmalicious assaults!\n\nAnd thus have these naked Nantucketers, these sea hermits, issuing from\ntheir ant-hill in the sea, overrun and conquered the watery world like\nso many Alexanders; parcelling out among them the Atlantic, Pacific,\nand Indian oceans, as the three pirate powers did Poland. Let America\nadd Mexico to Texas, and pile Cuba upon Canada; let the English\noverswarm all India, and hang out their blazing banner from the sun;\ntwo thirds of this terraqueous globe are the Nantucketer s. For the sea\nis his; he owns it, as Emperors own empires; other seamen having but a\nright of way through it. Merchant ships are but extension bridges;\narmed ones but floating forts; even pirates and privateers, though\nfollowing the sea as highwaymen the road, they but plunder other ships,\nother fragments of the land like themselves, without seeking to draw\ntheir living from the bottomless deep itself. The Nantucketer, he alone\nresides and riots on the sea; he alone, in Bible language, goes down to\nit in ships; to and fro ploughing it as his own special plantation.\n_There_ is his home; _there_ lies his business, which a Noah s flood\nwould not interrupt, though it overwhelmed all the millions in China.\nHe lives on the sea, as prairie cocks in the prairie; he hides among\nthe waves, he climbs them as chamois hunters climb the Alps. For years\nhe knows not the land; so that when he comes to it at last, it smells\nlike another world, more strangely than the moon would to an Earthsman.\nWith the landless gull, that at sunset folds her wings and is rocked to\nsleep between billows; so at nightfall, the Nantucketer, out of sight\nof land, furls his sails, and lays him to his rest, while under his\nvery pillow rush herds of walruses and whales.\n\n\nCHAPTER 15. Chowder.\n\nIt was quite late in the evening when the little Moss came snugly to\nanchor, and Queequeg and I went ashore; so we could attend to no\nbusiness that day, at least none but a supper and a bed. The landlord\nof the Spouter-Inn had recommended us to his cousin Hosea Hussey of the\nTry Pots, whom he asserted to be the proprietor of one of the best kept\nhotels in all Nantucket, and moreover he had assured us that Cousin\nHosea, as he called him, was famous for his chowders. In short, he\nplainly hinted that we could not possibly do better than try pot-luck\nat the Try Pots. But the directions he had given us about keeping a\nyellow warehouse on our starboard hand till we opened a white church to\nthe larboard, and then keeping that on the larboard hand till we made a\ncorner three points to the starboard, and that done, then ask the first\nman we met where the place was: these crooked directions of his very\nmuch puzzled us at first, especially as, at the outset, Queequeg\ninsisted that the yellow warehouse our first point of departure must be\nleft on the larboard hand, whereas I had understood Peter Coffin to say\nit was on the starboard. However, by dint of beating about a little in\nthe dark, and now and then knocking up a peaceable inhabitant to\ninquire the way, we at last came to something which there was no\nmistaking.\n\nTwo enormous wooden pots painted black, and suspended by asses  ears,\nswung from the cross-trees of an old top-mast, planted in front of an\nold doorway. The horns of the cross-trees were sawed off on the other\nside, so that this old top-mast looked not a little like a gallows.\nPerhaps I was over sensitive to such impressions at the time, but I\ncould not help staring at this gallows with a vague misgiving. A sort\nof crick was in my neck as I gazed up to the two remaining horns; yes,\n_two_ of them, one for Queequeg, and one for me. It s ominous, thinks\nI. A Coffin my Innkeeper upon landing in my first whaling port;\ntombstones staring at me in the whalemen s chapel; and here a gallows!\nand a pair of prodigious black pots too! Are these last throwing out\noblique hints touching Tophet?\n\nI was called from these reflections by the sight of a freckled woman\nwith yellow hair and a yellow gown, standing in the porch of the inn,\nunder a dull red lamp swinging there, that looked much like an injured\neye, and carrying on a brisk scolding with a man in a purple woollen\nshirt.\n\n Get along with ye,  said she to the man,  or I ll be combing ye! \n\n Come on, Queequeg,  said I,  all right. There s Mrs. Hussey. \n\nAnd so it turned out; Mr. Hosea Hussey being from home, but leaving\nMrs. Hussey entirely competent to attend to all his affairs. Upon\nmaking known our desires for a supper and a bed, Mrs. Hussey,\npostponing further scolding for the present, ushered us into a little\nroom, and seating us at a table spread with the relics of a recently\nconcluded repast, turned round to us and said Clam or Cod? \n\n What s that about Cods, ma am?  said I, with much politeness.\n\n Clam or Cod?  she repeated.\n\n A clam for supper? a cold clam; is _that_ what you mean, Mrs. Hussey? \nsays I,  but that s a rather cold and clammy reception in the winter\ntime, ain t it, Mrs. Hussey? \n\nBut being in a great hurry to resume scolding the man in the purple\nShirt, who was waiting for it in the entry, and seeming to hear nothing\nbut the word  clam,  Mrs. Hussey hurried towards an open door leading\nto the kitchen, and bawling out  clam for two,  disappeared.\n\n Queequeg,  said I,  do you think that we can make out a supper for us\nboth on one clam? \n\nHowever, a warm savory steam from the kitchen served to belie the\napparently cheerless prospect before us. But when that smoking chowder\ncame in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh, sweet friends!\nhearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than\nhazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit, and salted pork cut up\ninto little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully\nseasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the\nfrosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favourite fishing\nfood before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we\ndespatched it with great expedition: when leaning back a moment and\nbethinking me of Mrs. Hussey s clam and cod announcement, I thought I\nwould try a little experiment. Stepping to the kitchen door, I uttered\nthe word  cod  with great emphasis, and resumed my seat. In a few\nmoments the savoury steam came forth again, but with a different\nflavor, and in good time a fine cod-chowder was placed before us.\n\nWe resumed business; and while plying our spoons in the bowl, thinks I\nto myself, I wonder now if this here has any effect on the head? What s\nthat stultifying saying about chowder-headed people?  But look,\nQueequeg, ain t that a live eel in your bowl? Where s your harpoon? \n\nFishiest of all fishy places was the Try Pots, which well deserved its\nname; for the pots there were always boiling chowders. Chowder for\nbreakfast, and chowder for dinner, and chowder for supper, till you\nbegan to look for fish-bones coming through your clothes. The area\nbefore the house was paved with clam-shells. Mrs. Hussey wore a\npolished necklace of codfish vertebra; and Hosea Hussey had his account\nbooks bound in superior old shark-skin. There was a fishy flavor to the\nmilk, too, which I could not at all account for, till one morning\nhappening to take a stroll along the beach among some fishermen s\nboats, I saw Hosea s brindled cow feeding on fish remnants, and\nmarching along the sand with each foot in a cod s decapitated head,\nlooking very slip-shod, I assure ye.\n\nSupper concluded, we received a lamp, and directions from Mrs. Hussey\nconcerning the nearest way to bed; but, as Queequeg was about to\nprecede me up the stairs, the lady reached forth her arm, and demanded\nhis harpoon; she allowed no harpoon in her chambers.  Why not?  said I;\n every true whaleman sleeps with his harpoon but why not?   Because\nit s dangerous,  says she.  Ever since young Stiggs coming from that\nunfort nt v y ge of his, when he was gone four years and a half, with\nonly three barrels of _ile_, was found dead in my first floor back,\nwith his harpoon in his side; ever since then I allow no boarders to\ntake sich dangerous weepons in their rooms at night. So, Mr. Queequeg \n(for she had learned his name),  I will just take this here iron, and\nkeep it for you till morning. But the chowder; clam or cod to-morrow\nfor breakfast, men? \n\n Both,  says I;  and let s have a couple of smoked herring by way of\nvariety. \n\n\nCHAPTER 16. The Ship.\n\nIn bed we concocted our plans for the morrow. But to my surprise and no\nsmall concern, Queequeg now gave me to understand, that he had been\ndiligently consulting Yojo the name of his black little god and Yojo\nhad told him two or three times over, and strongly insisted upon it\neveryway, that instead of our going together among the whaling-fleet in\nharbor, and in concert selecting our craft; instead of this, I say,\nYojo earnestly enjoined that the selection of the ship should rest\nwholly with me, inasmuch as Yojo purposed befriending us; and, in order\nto do so, had already pitched upon a vessel, which, if left to myself,\nI, Ishmael, should infallibly light upon, for all the world as though\nit had turned out by chance; and in that vessel I must immediately ship\nmyself, for the present irrespective of Queequeg.\n\nI have forgotten to mention that, in many things, Queequeg placed great\nconfidence in the excellence of Yojo s judgment and surprising forecast\nof things; and cherished Yojo with considerable esteem, as a rather\ngood sort of god, who perhaps meant well enough upon the whole, but in\nall cases did not succeed in his benevolent designs.\n\nNow, this plan of Queequeg s, or rather Yojo s, touching the selection\nof our craft; I did not like that plan at all. I had not a little\nrelied upon Queequeg s sagacity to point out the whaler best fitted to\ncarry us and our fortunes securely. But as all my remonstrances\nproduced no effect upon Queequeg, I was obliged to acquiesce; and\naccordingly prepared to set about this business with a determined\nrushing sort of energy and vigor, that should quickly settle that\ntrifling little affair. Next morning early, leaving Queequeg shut up\nwith Yojo in our little bedroom for it seemed that it was some sort of\nLent or Ramadan, or day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer with\nQueequeg and Yojo that day; _how_ it was I never could find out, for,\nthough I applied myself to it several times, I never could master his\nliturgies and XXXIX Articles leaving Queequeg, then, fasting on his\ntomahawk pipe, and Yojo warming himself at his sacrificial fire of\nshavings, I sallied out among the shipping. After much prolonged\nsauntering and many random inquiries, I learnt that there were three\nships up for three-years  voyages The Devil-dam, the Tit-bit, and the\nPequod. _Devil-Dam_, I do not know the origin of; _Tit-bit_ is obvious;\n_Pequod_, you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated\ntribe of Massachusetts Indians; now extinct as the ancient Medes. I\npeered and pryed about the Devil-dam; from her, hopped over to the\nTit-bit; and finally, going on board the Pequod, looked around her for\na moment, and then decided that this was the very ship for us.\n\nYou may have seen many a quaint craft in your day, for aught I\nknow; square-toed luggers; mountainous Japanese junks; butter-box\ngalliots, and what not; but take my word for it, you never saw such a\nrare old craft as this same rare old Pequod. She was a ship of the old\nschool, rather small if anything; with an old-fashioned claw-footed\nlook about her. Long seasoned and weather-stained in the typhoons and\ncalms of all four oceans, her old hull s complexion was darkened like a\nFrench grenadier s, who has alike fought in Egypt and Siberia. Her\nvenerable bows looked bearded. Her masts cut somewhere on the coast of\nJapan, where her original ones were lost overboard in a gale her masts\nstood stiffly up like the spines of the three old kings of Cologne. Her\nancient decks were worn and wrinkled, like the pilgrim-worshipped\nflag-stone in Canterbury Cathedral where Becket bled. But to all these\nher old antiquities, were added new and marvellous features, pertaining\nto the wild business that for more than half a century she had\nfollowed. Old Captain Peleg, many years her chief-mate, before he\ncommanded another vessel of his own, and now a retired seaman, and one\nof the principal owners of the Pequod, this old Peleg, during the term\nof his chief-mateship, had built upon her original grotesqueness, and\ninlaid it, all over, with a quaintness both of material and device,\nunmatched by anything except it be Thorkill-Hake s carved buckler or\nbedstead. She was apparelled like any barbaric Ethiopian emperor, his\nneck heavy with pendants of polished ivory. She was a thing of\ntrophies. A cannibal of a craft, tricking herself forth in the chased\nbones of her enemies. All round, her unpanelled, open bulwarks were\ngarnished like one continuous jaw, with the long sharp teeth of the\nsperm whale, inserted there for pins, to fasten her old hempen thews\nand tendons to. Those thews ran not through base blocks of land wood,\nbut deftly travelled over sheaves of sea-ivory. Scorning a turnstile\nwheel at her reverend helm, she sported there a tiller; and that tiller\nwas in one mass, curiously carved from the long narrow lower jaw of her\nhereditary foe. The helmsman who steered by that tiller in a tempest,\nfelt like the Tartar, when he holds back his fiery steed by clutching\nits jaw. A noble craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All noble things\nare touched with that.\n\nNow when I looked about the quarter-deck, for some one having\nauthority, in order to propose myself as a candidate for the voyage, at\nfirst I saw nobody; but I could not well overlook a strange sort of\ntent, or rather wigwam, pitched a little behind the main-mast. It\nseemed only a temporary erection used in port. It was of a conical\nshape, some ten feet high; consisting of the long, huge slabs of limber\nblack bone taken from the middle and highest part of the jaws of the\nright-whale. Planted with their broad ends on the deck, a circle of\nthese slabs laced together, mutually sloped towards each other, and at\nthe apex united in a tufted point, where the loose hairy fibres waved\nto and fro like the top-knot on some old Pottowottamie Sachem s head. A\ntriangular opening faced towards the bows of the ship, so that the\ninsider commanded a complete view forward.\n\nAnd half concealed in this queer tenement, I at length found one who by\nhis aspect seemed to have authority; and who, it being noon, and the\nship s work suspended, was now enjoying respite from the burden of\ncommand. He was seated on an old-fashioned oaken chair, wriggling all\nover with curious carving; and the bottom of which was formed of a\nstout interlacing of the same elastic stuff of which the wigwam was\nconstructed.\n\nThere was nothing so very particular, perhaps, about the appearance of\nthe elderly man I saw; he was brown and brawny, like most old seamen,\nand heavily rolled up in blue pilot-cloth, cut in the Quaker style;\nonly there was a fine and almost microscopic net-work of the minutest\nwrinkles interlacing round his eyes, which must have arisen from his\ncontinual sailings in many hard gales, and always looking to\nwindward; for this causes the muscles about the eyes to become pursed\ntogether. Such eye-wrinkles are very effectual in a scowl.\n\n Is this the Captain of the Pequod?  said I, advancing to the door of\nthe tent.\n\n Supposing it be the captain of the Pequod, what dost thou want of\nhim?  he demanded.\n\n I was thinking of shipping. \n\n Thou wast, wast thou? I see thou art no Nantucketer ever been in a\nstove boat? \n\n No, Sir, I never have. \n\n Dost know nothing at all about whaling, I dare say eh?\n\n Nothing, Sir; but I have no doubt I shall soon learn. I ve been\nseveral voyages in the merchant service, and I think that \n\n Merchant service be damned. Talk not that lingo to me. Dost see that\nleg? I ll take that leg away from thy stern, if ever thou talkest of\nthe marchant service to me again. Marchant service indeed! I suppose\nnow ye feel considerable proud of having served in those marchant\nships. But flukes! man, what makes thee want to go a whaling, eh? it\nlooks a little suspicious, don t it, eh? Hast not been a pirate, hast\nthou? Didst not rob thy last Captain, didst thou? Dost not think of\nmurdering the officers when thou gettest to sea? \n\nI protested my innocence of these things. I saw that under the mask of\nthese half humorous innuendoes, this old seaman, as an insulated\nQuakerish Nantucketer, was full of his insular prejudices, and rather\ndistrustful of all aliens, unless they hailed from Cape Cod or the\nVineyard.\n\n But what takes thee a-whaling? I want to know that before I think of\nshipping ye. \n\n Well, sir, I want to see what whaling is. I want to see the world. \n\n Want to see what whaling is, eh? Have ye clapped eye on Captain Ahab? \n\n Who is Captain Ahab, sir? \n\n Aye, aye, I thought so. Captain Ahab is the Captain of this ship. \n\n I am mistaken then. I thought I was speaking to the Captain himself. \n\n Thou art speaking to Captain Peleg that s who ye are speaking to,\nyoung man. It belongs to me and Captain Bildad to see the Pequod fitted\nout for the voyage, and supplied with all her needs, including crew. We\nare part owners and agents. But as I was going to say, if thou wantest\nto know what whaling is, as thou tellest ye do, I can put ye in a way\nof finding it out before ye bind yourself to it, past backing out. Clap\neye on Captain Ahab, young man, and thou wilt find that he has only one\nleg. \n\n What do you mean, sir? Was the other one lost by a whale? \n\n Lost by a whale! Young man, come nearer to me: it was devoured, chewed\nup, crunched by the monstrousest parmacetty that ever chipped a\nboat! ah, ah! \n\nI was a little alarmed by his energy, perhaps also a little touched at\nthe hearty grief in his concluding exclamation, but said as calmly as I\ncould,  What you say is no doubt true enough, sir; but how could I know\nthere was any peculiar ferocity in that particular whale, though indeed\nI might have inferred as much from the simple fact of the accident. \n\n Look ye now, young man, thy lungs are a sort of soft, d ye see; thou\ndost not talk shark a bit. _Sure_, ye ve been to sea before now; sure\nof that? \n\n Sir,  said I,  I thought I told you that I had been four voyages in\nthe merchant \n\n Hard down out of that! Mind what I said about the marchant\nservice don t aggravate me I won t have it. But let us understand each\nother. I have given thee a hint about what whaling is; do ye yet feel\ninclined for it? \n\n I do, sir. \n\n Very good. Now, art thou the man to pitch a harpoon down a live\nwhale s throat, and then jump after it? Answer, quick! \n\n I am, sir, if it should be positively indispensable to do so; not to\nbe got rid of, that is; which I don t take to be the fact. \n\n Good again. Now then, thou not only wantest to go a-whaling, to find\nout by experience what whaling is, but ye also want to go in order to\nsee the world? Was not that what ye said? I thought so. Well then, just\nstep forward there, and take a peep over the weather-bow, and then back\nto me and tell me what ye see there. \n\nFor a moment I stood a little puzzled by this curious request, not\nknowing exactly how to take it, whether humorously or in earnest. But\nconcentrating all his crow s feet into one scowl, Captain Peleg started\nme on the errand.\n\nGoing forward and glancing over the weather bow, I perceived that the\nship swinging to her anchor with the flood-tide, was now obliquely\npointing towards the open ocean. The prospect was unlimited, but\nexceedingly monotonous and forbidding; not the slightest variety that I\ncould see.\n\n Well, what s the report?  said Peleg when I came back;  what did ye\nsee? \n\n Not much,  I replied nothing but water; considerable horizon though,\nand there s a squall coming up, I think. \n\n Well, what does thou think then of seeing the world? Do ye wish to go\nround Cape Horn to see any more of it, eh? Can t ye see the world where\nyou stand? \n\nI was a little staggered, but go a-whaling I must, and I would; and the\nPequod was as good a ship as any I thought the best and all this I now\nrepeated to Peleg. Seeing me so determined, he expressed his\nwillingness to ship me.\n\n And thou mayest as well sign the papers right off,  he added come\nalong with ye.  And so saying, he led the way below deck into the\ncabin.\n\nSeated on the transom was what seemed to me a most uncommon and\nsurprising figure. It turned out to be Captain Bildad, who along with\nCaptain Peleg was one of the largest owners of the vessel; the other\nshares, as is sometimes the case in these ports, being held by a crowd\nof old annuitants; widows, fatherless children, and chancery wards;\neach owning about the value of a timber head, or a foot of plank, or a\nnail or two in the ship. People in Nantucket invest their money in\nwhaling vessels, the same way that you do yours in approved state\nstocks bringing in good interest.\n\nNow, Bildad, like Peleg, and indeed many other Nantucketers, was a\nQuaker, the island having been originally settled by that sect; and to\nthis day its inhabitants in general retain in an uncommon measure the\npeculiarities of the Quaker, only variously and anomalously modified by\nthings altogether alien and heterogeneous. For some of these same\nQuakers are the most sanguinary of all sailors and whale-hunters. They\nare fighting Quakers; they are Quakers with a vengeance.\n\nSo that there are instances among them of men, who, named with\nScripture names a singularly common fashion on the island and in\nchildhood naturally imbibing the stately dramatic thee and thou of the\nQuaker idiom; still, from the audacious, daring, and boundless\nadventure of their subsequent lives, strangely blend with these\nunoutgrown peculiarities, a thousand bold dashes of character, not\nunworthy a Scandinavian sea-king, or a poetical Pagan Roman. And when\nthese things unite in a man of greatly superior natural force, with a\nglobular brain and a ponderous heart; who has also by the stillness and\nseclusion of many long night-watches in the remotest waters, and\nbeneath constellations never seen here at the north, been led to think\nuntraditionally and independently; receiving all nature s sweet or\nsavage impressions fresh from her own virgin voluntary and confiding\nbreast, and thereby chiefly, but with some help from accidental\nadvantages, to learn a bold and nervous lofty language that man makes\none in a whole nation s census a mighty pageant creature, formed for\nnoble tragedies. Nor will it at all detract from him, dramatically\nregarded, if either by birth or other circumstances, he have what seems\na half wilful overruling morbidness at the bottom of his nature. For\nall men tragically great are made so through a certain morbidness. Be\nsure of this, O young ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease.\nBut, as yet we have not to do with such an one, but with quite another;\nand still a man, who, if indeed peculiar, it only results again from\nanother phase of the Quaker, modified by individual circumstances.\n\nLike Captain Peleg, Captain Bildad was a well-to-do, retired whaleman.\nBut unlike Captain Peleg who cared not a rush for what are called\nserious things, and indeed deemed those self-same serious things the\nveriest of all trifles Captain Bildad had not only been originally\neducated according to the strictest sect of Nantucket Quakerism, but\nall his subsequent ocean life, and the sight of many unclad, lovely\nisland creatures, round the Horn all that had not moved this native\nborn Quaker one single jot, had not so much as altered one angle of his\nvest. Still, for all this immutableness, was there some lack of common\nconsistency about worthy Captain Bildad. Though refusing, from\nconscientious scruples, to bear arms against land invaders, yet himself\nhad illimitably invaded the Atlantic and Pacific; and though a sworn\nfoe to human bloodshed, yet had he in his straight-bodied coat, spilled\ntuns upon tuns of leviathan gore. How now in the contemplative evening\nof his days, the pious Bildad reconciled these things in the\nreminiscence, I do not know; but it did not seem to concern him much,\nand very probably he had long since come to the sage and sensible\nconclusion that a man s religion is one thing, and this practical world\nquite another. This world pays dividends. Rising from a little\ncabin-boy in short clothes of the drabbest drab, to a harpooneer in a\nbroad shad-bellied waistcoat; from that becoming boat-header,\nchief-mate, and captain, and finally a ship owner; Bildad, as I hinted\nbefore, had concluded his adventurous career by wholly retiring from\nactive life at the goodly age of sixty, and dedicating his remaining\ndays to the quiet receiving of his well-earned income.\n\nNow, Bildad, I am sorry to say, had the reputation of being an\nincorrigible old hunks, and in his sea-going days, a bitter, hard\ntask-master. They told me in Nantucket, though it certainly seems a\ncurious story, that when he sailed the old Categut whaleman, his crew,\nupon arriving home, were mostly all carried ashore to the hospital,\nsore exhausted and worn out. For a pious man, especially for a Quaker,\nhe was certainly rather hard-hearted, to say the least. He never used\nto swear, though, at his men, they said; but somehow he got an\ninordinate quantity of cruel, unmitigated hard work out of them. When\nBildad was a chief-mate, to have his drab-coloured eye intently looking\nat you, made you feel completely nervous, till you could clutch\nsomething a hammer or a marling-spike, and go to work like mad, at\nsomething or other, never mind what. Indolence and idleness perished\nbefore him. His own person was the exact embodiment of his utilitarian\ncharacter. On his long, gaunt body, he carried no spare flesh, no\nsuperfluous beard, his chin having a soft, economical nap to it, like\nthe worn nap of his broad-brimmed hat.\n\nSuch, then, was the person that I saw seated on the transom when I\nfollowed Captain Peleg down into the cabin. The space between the decks\nwas small; and there, bolt-upright, sat old Bildad, who always sat so,\nand never leaned, and this to save his coat tails. His broad-brim was\nplaced beside him; his legs were stiffly crossed; his drab vesture was\nbuttoned up to his chin; and spectacles on nose, he seemed absorbed in\nreading from a ponderous volume.\n\n Bildad,  cried Captain Peleg,  at it again, Bildad, eh? Ye have been\nstudying those Scriptures, now, for the last thirty years, to my\ncertain knowledge. How far ye got, Bildad? \n\nAs if long habituated to such profane talk from his old shipmate,\nBildad, without noticing his present irreverence, quietly looked up,\nand seeing me, glanced again inquiringly towards Peleg.\n\n He says he s our man, Bildad,  said Peleg,  he wants to ship. \n\n Dost thee?  said Bildad, in a hollow tone, and turning round to me.\n\n I _dost_,  said I unconsciously, he was so intense a Quaker.\n\n What do ye think of him, Bildad?  said Peleg.\n\n He ll do,  said Bildad, eyeing me, and then went on spelling away at\nhis book in a mumbling tone quite audible.\n\nI thought him the queerest old Quaker I ever saw, especially as Peleg,\nhis friend and old shipmate, seemed such a blusterer. But I said\nnothing, only looking round me sharply. Peleg now threw open a chest,\nand drawing forth the ship s articles, placed pen and ink before him,\nand seated himself at a little table. I began to think it was high time\nto settle with myself at what terms I would be willing to engage for\nthe voyage. I was already aware that in the whaling business they paid\nno wages; but all hands, including the captain, received certain shares\nof the profits called _lays_, and that these lays were proportioned to\nthe degree of importance pertaining to the respective duties of the\nship s company. I was also aware that being a green hand at whaling, my\nown lay would not be very large; but considering that I was used to the\nsea, could steer a ship, splice a rope, and all that, I made no doubt\nthat from all I had heard I should be offered at least the 275th\nlay that is, the 275th part of the clear net proceeds of the voyage,\nwhatever that might eventually amount to. And though the 275th lay was\nwhat they call a rather _long lay_, yet it was better than nothing; and\nif we had a lucky voyage, might pretty nearly pay for the clothing I\nwould wear out on it, not to speak of my three years  beef and board,\nfor which I would not have to pay one stiver.\n\nIt might be thought that this was a poor way to accumulate a princely\nfortune and so it was, a very poor way indeed. But I am one of those\nthat never take on about princely fortunes, and am quite content if the\nworld is ready to board and lodge me, while I am putting up at this\ngrim sign of the Thunder Cloud. Upon the whole, I thought that the\n275th lay would be about the fair thing, but would not have been\nsurprised had I been offered the 200th, considering I was of a\nbroad-shouldered make.\n\nBut one thing, nevertheless, that made me a little distrustful about\nreceiving a generous share of the profits was this: Ashore, I had heard\nsomething of both Captain Peleg and his unaccountable old crony Bildad;\nhow that they being the principal proprietors of the Pequod, therefore\nthe other and more inconsiderable and scattered owners, left nearly the\nwhole management of the ship s affairs to these two. And I did not know\nbut what the stingy old Bildad might have a mighty deal to say about\nshipping hands, especially as I now found him on board the Pequod,\nquite at home there in the cabin, and reading his Bible as if at his\nown fireside. Now while Peleg was vainly trying to mend a pen with his\njack-knife, old Bildad, to my no small surprise, considering that he\nwas such an interested party in these proceedings; Bildad never heeded\nus, but went on mumbling to himself out of his book,  _Lay_ not up for\nyourselves treasures upon earth, where moth \n\n Well, Captain Bildad,  interrupted Peleg,  what d ye say, what lay\nshall we give this young man? \n\n Thou knowest best,  was the sepulchral reply,  the seven hundred and\nseventy-seventh wouldn t be too much, would it? where moth and rust do\ncorrupt, but _lay_ \n\n_Lay_, indeed, thought I, and such a lay! the seven hundred and\nseventy-seventh! Well, old Bildad, you are determined that I, for one,\nshall not _lay_ up many _lays_ here below, where moth and rust do\ncorrupt. It was an exceedingly _long lay_ that, indeed; and though from\nthe magnitude of the figure it might at first deceive a landsman, yet\nthe slightest consideration will show that though seven hundred and\nseventy-seven is a pretty large number, yet, when you come to make a\n_teenth_ of it, you will then see, I say, that the seven hundred and\nseventy-seventh part of a farthing is a good deal less than seven\nhundred and seventy-seven gold doubloons; and so I thought at the time.\n\n Why, blast your eyes, Bildad,  cried Peleg,  thou dost not want to\nswindle this young man! he must have more than that. \n\n Seven hundred and seventy-seventh,  again said Bildad, without lifting\nhis eyes; and then went on mumbling for where your treasure is, there\nwill your heart be also. \n\n I am going to put him down for the three hundredth,  said Peleg,  do\nye hear that, Bildad! The three hundredth lay, I say. \n\nBildad laid down his book, and turning solemnly towards him said,\n Captain Peleg, thou hast a generous heart; but thou must consider the\nduty thou owest to the other owners of this ship widows and orphans,\nmany of them and that if we too abundantly reward the labors of this\nyoung man, we may be taking the bread from those widows and those\norphans. The seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay, Captain Peleg. \n\n Thou Bildad!  roared Peleg, starting up and clattering about the\ncabin.  Blast ye, Captain Bildad, if I had followed thy advice in these\nmatters, I would afore now had a conscience to lug about that would be\nheavy enough to founder the largest ship that ever sailed round Cape\nHorn. \n\n Captain Peleg,  said Bildad steadily,  thy conscience may be drawing\nten inches of water, or ten fathoms, I can t tell; but as thou art\nstill an impenitent man, Captain Peleg, I greatly fear lest thy\nconscience be but a leaky one; and will in the end sink thee foundering\ndown to the fiery pit, Captain Peleg. \n\n Fiery pit! fiery pit! ye insult me, man; past all natural bearing, ye\ninsult me. It s an all-fired outrage to tell any human creature that\nhe s bound to hell. Flukes and flames! Bildad, say that again to me,\nand start my soul-bolts, but I ll I ll yes, I ll swallow a live goat\nwith all his hair and horns on. Out of the cabin, ye canting,\ndrab-coloured son of a wooden gun a straight wake with ye! \n\nAs he thundered out this he made a rush at Bildad, but with a\nmarvellous oblique, sliding celerity, Bildad for that time eluded him.\n\nAlarmed at this terrible outburst between the two principal and\nresponsible owners of the ship, and feeling half a mind to give up all\nidea of sailing in a vessel so questionably owned and temporarily\ncommanded, I stepped aside from the door to give egress to Bildad, who,\nI made no doubt, was all eagerness to vanish from before the awakened\nwrath of Peleg. But to my astonishment, he sat down again on the\ntransom very quietly, and seemed to have not the slightest intention of\nwithdrawing. He seemed quite used to impenitent Peleg and his ways. As\nfor Peleg, after letting off his rage as he had, there seemed no more\nleft in him, and he, too, sat down like a lamb, though he twitched a\nlittle as if still nervously agitated.  Whew!  he whistled at last the\nsquall s gone off to leeward, I think. Bildad, thou used to be good at\nsharpening a lance, mend that pen, will ye. My jack-knife here needs\nthe grindstone. That s he; thank ye, Bildad. Now then, my young man,\nIshmael s thy name, didn t ye say? Well then, down ye go here, Ishmael,\nfor the three hundredth lay. \n\n Captain Peleg,  said I,  I have a friend with me who wants to ship\ntoo shall I bring him down to-morrow? \n\n To be sure,  said Peleg.  Fetch him along, and we ll look at him. \n\n What lay does he want?  groaned Bildad, glancing up from the book in\nwhich he had again been burying himself.\n\n Oh! never thee mind about that, Bildad,  said Peleg.  Has he ever\nwhaled it any?  turning to me.\n\n Killed more whales than I can count, Captain Peleg. \n\n Well, bring him along then. \n\nAnd, after signing the papers, off I went; nothing doubting but that I\nhad done a good morning s work, and that the Pequod was the identical\nship that Yojo had provided to carry Queequeg and me round the Cape.\n\nBut I had not proceeded far, when I began to bethink me that the\nCaptain with whom I was to sail yet remained unseen by me; though,\nindeed, in many cases, a whale-ship will be completely fitted out, and\nreceive all her crew on board, ere the captain makes himself visible by\narriving to take command; for sometimes these voyages are so prolonged,\nand the shore intervals at home so exceedingly brief, that if the\ncaptain have a family, or any absorbing concernment of that sort, he\ndoes not trouble himself much about his ship in port, but leaves her to\nthe owners till all is ready for sea. However, it is always as well to\nhave a look at him before irrevocably committing yourself into his\nhands. Turning back I accosted Captain Peleg, inquiring where Captain\nAhab was to be found.\n\n And what dost thou want of Captain Ahab? It s all right enough; thou\nart shipped. \n\n Yes, but I should like to see him. \n\n But I don t think thou wilt be able to at present. I don t know\nexactly what s the matter with him; but he keeps close inside the\nhouse; a sort of sick, and yet he don t look so. In fact, he ain t\nsick; but no, he isn t well either. Any how, young man, he won t always\nsee me, so I don t suppose he will thee. He s a queer man, Captain\nAhab so some think but a good one. Oh, thou lt like him well enough; no\nfear, no fear. He s a grand, ungodly, god-like man, Captain Ahab;\ndoesn t speak much; but, when he does speak, then you may well listen.\nMark ye, be forewarned; Ahab s above the common; Ahab s been in\ncolleges, as well as  mong the cannibals; been used to deeper wonders\nthan the waves; fixed his fiery lance in mightier, stranger foes than\nwhales. His lance! aye, the keenest and the surest that out of all our\nisle! Oh! he ain t Captain Bildad; no, and he ain t Captain Peleg;\n_he s Ahab_, boy; and Ahab of old, thou knowest, was a crowned king! \n\n And a very vile one. When that wicked king was slain, the dogs, did\nthey not lick his blood? \n\n Come hither to me hither, hither,  said Peleg, with a significance in\nhis eye that almost startled me.  Look ye, lad; never say that on board\nthe Pequod. Never say it anywhere. Captain Ahab did not name himself.\n Twas a foolish, ignorant whim of his crazy, widowed mother, who died\nwhen he was only a twelvemonth old. And yet the old squaw Tistig, at\nGayhead, said that the name would somehow prove prophetic. And,\nperhaps, other fools like her may tell thee the same. I wish to warn\nthee. It s a lie. I know Captain Ahab well; I ve sailed with him as\nmate years ago; I know what he is a good man not a pious, good man,\nlike Bildad, but a swearing good man something like me only there s a\ngood deal more of him. Aye, aye, I know that he was never very jolly;\nand I know that on the passage home, he was a little out of his mind\nfor a spell; but it was the sharp shooting pains in his bleeding stump\nthat brought that about, as any one might see. I know, too, that ever\nsince he lost his leg last voyage by that accursed whale, he s been a\nkind of moody desperate moody, and savage sometimes; but that will all\npass off. And once for all, let me tell thee and assure thee, young\nman, it s better to sail with a moody good captain than a laughing bad\none. So good-bye to thee and wrong not Captain Ahab, because he happens\nto have a wicked name. Besides, my boy, he has a wife not three voyages\nwedded a sweet, resigned girl. Think of that; by that sweet girl that\nold man has a child: hold ye then there can be any utter, hopeless harm\nin Ahab? No, no, my lad; stricken, blasted, if he be, Ahab has his\nhumanities! \n\nAs I walked away, I was full of thoughtfulness; what had been\nincidentally revealed to me of Captain Ahab, filled me with a certain\nwild vagueness of painfulness concerning him. And somehow, at the time,\nI felt a sympathy and a sorrow for him, but for I don t know what,\nunless it was the cruel loss of his leg. And yet I also felt a strange\nawe of him; but that sort of awe, which I cannot at all describe, was\nnot exactly awe; I do not know what it was. But I felt it; and it did\nnot disincline me towards him; though I felt impatience at what seemed\nlike mystery in him, so imperfectly as he was known to me then.\nHowever, my thoughts were at length carried in other directions, so\nthat for the present dark Ahab slipped my mind.\n\n\nCHAPTER 17. The Ramadan.\n\nAs Queequeg s Ramadan, or Fasting and Humiliation, was to continue all\nday, I did not choose to disturb him till towards night-fall; for I\ncherish the greatest respect towards everybody s religious obligations,\nnever mind how comical, and could not find it in my heart to undervalue\neven a congregation of ants worshipping a toad-stool; or those other\ncreatures in certain parts of our earth, who with a degree of\nfootmanism quite unprecedented in other planets, bow down before the\ntorso of a deceased landed proprietor merely on account of the\ninordinate possessions yet owned and rented in his name.\n\nI say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these\nthings, and not fancy ourselves so vastly superior to other mortals,\npagans and what not, because of their half-crazy conceits on these\nsubjects. There was Queequeg, now, certainly entertaining the most\nabsurd notions about Yojo and his Ramadan; but what of that? Queequeg\nthought he knew what he was about, I suppose; he seemed to be content;\nand there let him rest. All our arguing with him would not avail; let\nhim be, I say: and Heaven have mercy on us all Presbyterians and Pagans\nalike for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and\nsadly need mending.\n\nTowards evening, when I felt assured that all his performances and\nrituals must be over, I went up to his room and knocked at the door;\nbut no answer. I tried to open it, but it was fastened inside.\n Queequeg,  said I softly through the key-hole: all silent.  I say,\nQueequeg! why don t you speak? It s I Ishmael.  But all remained still\nas before. I began to grow alarmed. I had allowed him such abundant\ntime; I thought he might have had an apoplectic fit. I looked through\nthe key-hole; but the door opening into an odd corner of the room, the\nkey-hole prospect was but a crooked and sinister one. I could only see\npart of the foot-board of the bed and a line of the wall, but nothing\nmore. I was surprised to behold resting against the wall the wooden\nshaft of Queequeg s harpoon, which the landlady the evening previous\nhad taken from him, before our mounting to the chamber. That s strange,\nthought I; but at any rate, since the harpoon stands yonder, and he\nseldom or never goes abroad without it, therefore he must be inside\nhere, and no possible mistake.\n\n Queequeg! Queequeg! all still. Something must have happened.\nApoplexy! I tried to burst open the door; but it stubbornly resisted.\nRunning down stairs, I quickly stated my suspicions to the first person\nI met the chamber-maid.  La! la!  she cried,  I thought something must\nbe the matter. I went to make the bed after breakfast, and the door was\nlocked; and not a mouse to be heard; and it s been just so silent ever\nsince. But I thought, may be, you had both gone off and locked your\nbaggage in for safe keeping. La! la, ma am! Mistress! murder! Mrs.\nHussey! apoplexy! and with these cries, she ran towards the kitchen, I\nfollowing.\n\nMrs. Hussey soon appeared, with a mustard-pot in one hand and a\nvinegar-cruet in the other, having just broken away from the occupation\nof attending to the castors, and scolding her little black boy\nmeantime.\n\n Wood-house!  cried I,  which way to it? Run for God s sake, and fetch\nsomething to pry open the door the axe! the axe! he s had a stroke;\ndepend upon it! and so saying I was unmethodically rushing up stairs\nagain empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and\nvinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance.\n\n What s the matter with you, young man? \n\n Get the axe! For God s sake, run for the doctor, some one, while I pry\nit open! \n\n Look here,  said the landlady, quickly putting down the vinegar-cruet,\nso as to have one hand free;  look here; are you talking about prying\nopen any of my doors? and with that she seized my arm.  What s the\nmatter with you? What s the matter with you, shipmate? \n\nIn as calm, but rapid a manner as possible, I gave her to understand\nthe whole case. Unconsciously clapping the vinegar-cruet to one side of\nher nose, she ruminated for an instant; then exclaimed No! I haven t\nseen it since I put it there.  Running to a little closet under the\nlanding of the stairs, she glanced in, and returning, told me that\nQueequeg s harpoon was missing.  He s killed himself,  she cried.  It s\nunfort nate Stiggs done over again there goes another counterpane God\npity his poor mother! it will be the ruin of my house. Has the poor lad\na sister? Where s that girl? there, Betty, go to Snarles the Painter,\nand tell him to paint me a sign, with no suicides permitted here, and\nno smoking in the parlor; might as well kill both birds at once. Kill?\nThe Lord be merciful to his ghost! What s that noise there? You, young\nman, avast there! \n\nAnd running up after me, she caught me as I was again trying to force\nopen the door.\n\n I don t allow it; I won t have my premises spoiled. Go for the\nlocksmith, there s one about a mile from here. But avast!  putting her\nhand in her side-pocket,  here s a key that ll fit, I guess; let s\nsee.  And with that, she turned it in the lock; but, alas! Queequeg s\nsupplemental bolt remained unwithdrawn within.\n\n Have to burst it open,  said I, and was running down the entry a\nlittle, for a good start, when the landlady caught at me, again vowing\nI should not break down her premises; but I tore from her, and with a\nsudden bodily rush dashed myself full against the mark.\n\nWith a prodigious noise the door flew open, and the knob slamming\nagainst the wall, sent the plaster to the ceiling; and there, good\nheavens! there sat Queequeg, altogether cool and self-collected; right\nin the middle of the room; squatting on his hams, and holding Yojo on\ntop of his head. He looked neither one way nor the other way, but sat\nlike a carved image with scarce a sign of active life.\n\n Queequeg,  said I, going up to him,  Queequeg, what s the matter with\nyou? \n\n He hain t been a sittin  so all day, has he?  said the landlady.\n\nBut all we said, not a word could we drag out of him; I almost felt\nlike pushing him over, so as to change his position, for it was almost\nintolerable, it seemed so painfully and unnaturally constrained;\nespecially, as in all probability he had been sitting so for upwards of\neight or ten hours, going too without his regular meals.\n\n Mrs. Hussey,  said I,  he s _alive_ at all events; so leave us, if you\nplease, and I will see to this strange affair myself. \n\nClosing the door upon the landlady, I endeavored to prevail upon\nQueequeg to take a chair; but in vain. There he sat; and all he could\ndo for all my polite arts and blandishments he would not move a peg,\nnor say a single word, nor even look at me, nor notice my presence in\nthe slightest way.\n\nI wonder, thought I, if this can possibly be a part of his Ramadan; do\nthey fast on their hams that way in his native island. It must be so;\nyes, it s part of his creed, I suppose; well, then, let him rest; he ll\nget up sooner or later, no doubt. It can t last for ever, thank God,\nand his Ramadan only comes once a year; and I don t believe it s very\npunctual then.\n\nI went down to supper. After sitting a long time listening to the long\nstories of some sailors who had just come from a plum-pudding voyage,\nas they called it (that is, a short whaling-voyage in a schooner or\nbrig, confined to the north of the line, in the Atlantic Ocean only);\nafter listening to these plum-puddingers till nearly eleven o clock, I\nwent up stairs to go to bed, feeling quite sure by this time Queequeg\nmust certainly have brought his Ramadan to a termination. But no; there\nhe was just where I had left him; he had not stirred an inch. I began\nto grow vexed with him; it seemed so downright senseless and insane to\nbe sitting there all day and half the night on his hams in a cold room,\nholding a piece of wood on his head.\n\n For heaven s sake, Queequeg, get up and shake yourself; get up and\nhave some supper. You ll starve; you ll kill yourself, Queequeg.  But\nnot a word did he reply.\n\nDespairing of him, therefore, I determined to go to bed and to sleep;\nand no doubt, before a great while, he would follow me. But previous to\nturning in, I took my heavy bearskin jacket, and threw it over him, as\nit promised to be a very cold night; and he had nothing but his\nordinary round jacket on. For some time, do all I would, I could not\nget into the faintest doze. I had blown out the candle; and the mere\nthought of Queequeg not four feet off sitting there in that uneasy\nposition, stark alone in the cold and dark; this made me really\nwretched. Think of it; sleeping all night in the same room with a wide\nawake pagan on his hams in this dreary, unaccountable Ramadan!\n\nBut somehow I dropped off at last, and knew nothing more till break of\nday; when, looking over the bedside, there squatted Queequeg, as if he\nhad been screwed down to the floor. But as soon as the first glimpse of\nsun entered the window, up he got, with stiff and grating joints, but\nwith a cheerful look; limped towards me where I lay; pressed his\nforehead again against mine; and said his Ramadan was over.\n\nNow, as I before hinted, I have no objection to any person s religion,\nbe it what it may, so long as that person does not kill or insult any\nother person, because that other person don t believe it also. But when\na man s religion becomes really frantic; when it is a positive torment\nto him; and, in fine, makes this earth of ours an uncomfortable inn to\nlodge in; then I think it high time to take that individual aside and\nargue the point with him.\n\nAnd just so I now did with Queequeg.  Queequeg,  said I,  get into bed\nnow, and lie and listen to me.  I then went on, beginning with the rise\nand progress of the primitive religions, and coming down to the various\nreligions of the present time, during which time I labored to show\nQueequeg that all these Lents, Ramadans, and prolonged ham-squattings\nin cold, cheerless rooms were stark nonsense; bad for the health;\nuseless for the soul; opposed, in short, to the obvious laws of Hygiene\nand common sense. I told him, too, that he being in other things such\nan extremely sensible and sagacious savage, it pained me, very badly\npained me, to see him now so deplorably foolish about this ridiculous\nRamadan of his. Besides, argued I, fasting makes the body cave in;\nhence the spirit caves in; and all thoughts born of a fast must\nnecessarily be half-starved. This is the reason why most dyspeptic\nreligionists cherish such melancholy notions about their hereafters. In\none word, Queequeg, said I, rather digressively; hell is an idea first\nborn on an undigested apple-dumpling; and since then perpetuated\nthrough the hereditary dyspepsias nurtured by Ramadans.\n\nI then asked Queequeg whether he himself was ever troubled with\ndyspepsia; expressing the idea very plainly, so that he could take it\nin. He said no; only upon one memorable occasion. It was after a great\nfeast given by his father the king, on the gaining of a great battle\nwherein fifty of the enemy had been killed by about two o clock in the\nafternoon, and all cooked and eaten that very evening.\n\n No more, Queequeg,  said I, shuddering;  that will do;  for I knew the\ninferences without his further hinting them. I had seen a sailor who\nhad visited that very island, and he told me that it was the custom,\nwhen a great battle had been gained there, to barbecue all the slain in\nthe yard or garden of the victor; and then, one by one, they were\nplaced in great wooden trenchers, and garnished round like a pilau,\nwith breadfruit and cocoanuts; and with some parsley in their mouths,\nwere sent round with the victor s compliments to all his friends, just\nas though these presents were so many Christmas turkeys.\n\nAfter all, I do not think that my remarks about religion made much\nimpression upon Queequeg. Because, in the first place, he somehow\nseemed dull of hearing on that important subject, unless considered\nfrom his own point of view; and, in the second place, he did not more\nthan one third understand me, couch my ideas simply as I would; and,\nfinally, he no doubt thought he knew a good deal more about the true\nreligion than I did. He looked at me with a sort of condescending\nconcern and compassion, as though he thought it a great pity that such\na sensible young man should be so hopelessly lost to evangelical pagan\npiety.\n\nAt last we rose and dressed; and Queequeg, taking a prodigiously hearty\nbreakfast of chowders of all sorts, so that the landlady should not\nmake much profit by reason of his Ramadan, we sallied out to board the\nPequod, sauntering along, and picking our teeth with halibut bones.\n\n\nCHAPTER 18. His Mark.\n\nAs we were walking down the end of the wharf towards the ship, Queequeg\ncarrying his harpoon, Captain Peleg in his gruff voice loudly hailed us\nfrom his wigwam, saying he had not suspected my friend was a cannibal,\nand furthermore announcing that he let no cannibals on board that\ncraft, unless they previously produced their papers.\n\n What do you mean by that, Captain Peleg?  said I, now jumping on the\nbulwarks, and leaving my comrade standing on the wharf.\n\n I mean,  he replied,  he must show his papers. \n\n Yes,  said Captain Bildad in his hollow voice, sticking his head from\nbehind Peleg s, out of the wigwam.  He must show that he s converted.\nSon of darkness,  he added, turning to Queequeg,  art thou at present\nin communion with any Christian church? \n\n Why,  said I,  he s a member of the first Congregational Church.  Here\nbe it said, that many tattooed savages sailing in Nantucket ships at\nlast come to be converted into the churches.\n\n First Congregational Church,  cried Bildad,  what! that worships in\nDeacon Deuteronomy Coleman s meeting-house?  and so saying, taking out\nhis spectacles, he rubbed them with his great yellow bandana\nhandkerchief, and putting them on very carefully, came out of the\nwigwam, and leaning stiffly over the bulwarks, took a good long look at\nQueequeg.\n\n How long hath he been a member?  he then said, turning to me;  not\nvery long, I rather guess, young man. \n\n No,  said Peleg,  and he hasn t been baptized right either, or it\nwould have washed some of that devil s blue off his face. \n\n Do tell, now,  cried Bildad,  is this Philistine a regular member of\nDeacon Deuteronomy s meeting? I never saw him going there, and I pass\nit every Lord s day. \n\n I don t know anything about Deacon Deuteronomy or his meeting,  said\nI;  all I know is, that Queequeg here is a born member of the First\nCongregational Church. He is a deacon himself, Queequeg is. \n\n Young man,  said Bildad sternly,  thou art skylarking with me explain\nthyself, thou young Hittite. What church dost thee mean? answer me. \n\nFinding myself thus hard pushed, I replied.  I mean, sir, the same\nancient Catholic Church to which you and I, and Captain Peleg there,\nand Queequeg here, and all of us, and every mother s son and soul of us\nbelong; the great and everlasting First Congregation of this whole\nworshipping world; we all belong to that; only some of us cherish some\nqueer crotchets no ways touching the grand belief; in _that_ we all\njoin hands. \n\n Splice, thou mean st _splice_ hands,  cried Peleg, drawing nearer.\n Young man, you d better ship for a missionary, instead of a fore-mast\nhand; I never heard a better sermon. Deacon Deuteronomy why Father\nMapple himself couldn t beat it, and he s reckoned something. Come\naboard, come aboard; never mind about the papers. I say, tell Quohog\nthere what s that you call him? tell Quohog to step along. By the great\nanchor, what a harpoon he s got there! looks like good stuff that; and\nhe handles it about right. I say, Quohog, or whatever your name is, did\nyou ever stand in the head of a whale-boat? did you ever strike a\nfish? \n\nWithout saying a word, Queequeg, in his wild sort of way, jumped upon\nthe bulwarks, from thence into the bows of one of the whale-boats\nhanging to the side; and then bracing his left knee, and poising his\nharpoon, cried out in some such way as this: \n\n Cap ain, you see him small drop tar on water dere? You see him? well,\nspose him one whale eye, well, den!  and taking sharp aim at it, he\ndarted the iron right over old Bildad s broad brim, clean across the\nship s decks, and struck the glistening tar spot out of sight.\n\n Now,  said Queequeg, quietly hauling in the line,  spos-ee him whale-e\neye; why, dad whale dead. \n\n Quick, Bildad,  said Peleg, his partner, who, aghast at the close\nvicinity of the flying harpoon, had retreated towards the cabin\ngangway.  Quick, I say, you Bildad, and get the ship s papers. We must\nhave Hedgehog there, I mean Quohog, in one of our boats. Look ye,\nQuohog, we ll give ye the ninetieth lay, and that s more than ever was\ngiven a harpooneer yet out of Nantucket. \n\nSo down we went into the cabin, and to my great joy Queequeg was soon\nenrolled among the same ship s company to which I myself belonged.\n\nWhen all preliminaries were over and Peleg had got everything ready for\nsigning, he turned to me and said,  I guess, Quohog there don t know\nhow to write, does he? I say, Quohog, blast ye! dost thou sign thy name\nor make thy mark? \n\nBut at this question, Queequeg, who had twice or thrice before taken\npart in similar ceremonies, looked no ways abashed; but taking the\noffered pen, copied upon the paper, in the proper place, an exact\ncounterpart of a queer round figure which was tattooed upon his arm; so\nthat through Captain Peleg s obstinate mistake touching his\nappellative, it stood something like this: \n\nQuohog. his X mark.\n\nMeanwhile Captain Bildad sat earnestly and steadfastly eyeing Queequeg,\nand at last rising solemnly and fumbling in the huge pockets of his\nbroad-skirted drab coat, took out a bundle of tracts, and selecting one\nentitled  The Latter Day Coming; or No Time to Lose,  placed it in\nQueequeg s hands, and then grasping them and the book with both his,\nlooked earnestly into his eyes, and said,  Son of darkness, I must do\nmy duty by thee; I am part owner of this ship, and feel concerned for\nthe souls of all its crew; if thou still clingest to thy Pagan ways,\nwhich I sadly fear, I beseech thee, remain not for aye a Belial\nbondsman. Spurn the idol Bell, and the hideous dragon; turn from the\nwrath to come; mind thine eye, I say; oh! goodness gracious! steer\nclear of the fiery pit! \n\nSomething of the salt sea yet lingered in old Bildad s language,\nheterogeneously mixed with Scriptural and domestic phrases.\n\n Avast there, avast there, Bildad, avast now spoiling our harpooneer, \ncried Peleg.  Pious harpooneers never make good voyagers it takes the\nshark out of  em; no harpooneer is worth a straw who aint pretty\nsharkish. There was young Nat Swaine, once the bravest boat-header out\nof all Nantucket and the Vineyard; he joined the meeting, and never\ncame to good. He got so frightened about his plaguy soul, that he\nshrinked and sheered away from whales, for fear of after-claps, in case\nhe got stove and went to Davy Jones. \n\n Peleg! Peleg!  said Bildad, lifting his eyes and hands,  thou thyself,\nas I myself, hast seen many a perilous time; thou knowest, Peleg, what\nit is to have the fear of death; how, then, can st thou prate in this\nungodly guise. Thou beliest thine own heart, Peleg. Tell me, when this\nsame Pequod here had her three masts overboard in that typhoon on\nJapan, that same voyage when thou went mate with Captain Ahab, did st\nthou not think of Death and the Judgment then? \n\n Hear him, hear him now,  cried Peleg, marching across the cabin, and\nthrusting his hands far down into his pockets, hear him, all of ye.\nThink of that! When every moment we thought the ship would sink! Death\nand the Judgment then? What? With all three masts making such an\neverlasting thundering against the side; and every sea breaking over\nus, fore and aft. Think of Death and the Judgment then? No! no time to\nthink about Death then. Life was what Captain Ahab and I was thinking\nof; and how to save all hands how to rig jury-masts how to get into the\nnearest port; that was what I was thinking of. \n\nBildad said no more, but buttoning up his coat, stalked on deck, where\nwe followed him. There he stood, very quietly overlooking some\nsailmakers who were mending a top-sail in the waist. Now and then he\nstooped to pick up a patch, or save an end of tarred twine, which\notherwise might have been wasted.\n\n\nCHAPTER 19. The Prophet.\n\n Shipmates, have ye shipped in that ship? \n\nQueequeg and I had just left the Pequod, and were sauntering away from\nthe water, for the moment each occupied with his own thoughts, when the\nabove words were put to us by a stranger, who, pausing before us,\nlevelled his massive forefinger at the vessel in question. He was but\nshabbily apparelled in faded jacket and patched trowsers; a rag of a\nblack handkerchief investing his neck. A confluent small-pox had in all\ndirections flowed over his face, and left it like the complicated\nribbed bed of a torrent, when the rushing waters have been dried up.\n\n Have ye shipped in her?  he repeated.\n\n You mean the ship Pequod, I suppose,  said I, trying to gain a little\nmore time for an uninterrupted look at him.\n\n Aye, the Pequod that ship there,  he said, drawing back his whole arm,\nand then rapidly shoving it straight out from him, with the fixed\nbayonet of his pointed finger darted full at the object.\n\n Yes,  said I,  we have just signed the articles. \n\n Anything down there about your souls? \n\n About what? \n\n Oh, perhaps you hav n t got any,  he said quickly.  No matter though,\nI know many chaps that hav n t got any, good luck to  em; and they are\nall the better off for it. A soul s a sort of a fifth wheel to a\nwagon. \n\n What are you jabbering about, shipmate?  said I.\n\n _He s_ got enough, though, to make up for all deficiencies of that\nsort in other chaps,  abruptly said the stranger, placing a nervous\nemphasis upon the word _he_.\n\n Queequeg,  said I,  let s go; this fellow has broken loose from\nsomewhere; he s talking about something and somebody we don t know. \n\n Stop!  cried the stranger.  Ye said true ye hav n t seen Old Thunder\nyet, have ye? \n\n Who s Old Thunder?  said I, again riveted with the insane earnestness\nof his manner.\n\n Captain Ahab. \n\n What! the captain of our ship, the Pequod? \n\n Aye, among some of us old sailor chaps, he goes by that name. Ye\nhav n t seen him yet, have ye? \n\n No, we hav n t. He s sick they say, but is getting better, and will be\nall right again before long. \n\n All right again before long!  laughed the stranger, with a solemnly\nderisive sort of laugh.  Look ye; when Captain Ahab is all right, then\nthis left arm of mine will be all right; not before. \n\n What do you know about him? \n\n What did they _tell_ you about him? Say that! \n\n They didn t tell much of anything about him; only I ve heard that he s\na good whale-hunter, and a good captain to his crew. \n\n That s true, that s true yes, both true enough. But you must jump when\nhe gives an order. Step and growl; growl and go that s the word with\nCaptain Ahab. But nothing about that thing that happened to him off\nCape Horn, long ago, when he lay like dead for three days and nights;\nnothing about that deadly skrimmage with the Spaniard afore the altar\nin Santa? heard nothing about that, eh? Nothing about the silver\ncalabash he spat into? And nothing about his losing his leg last\nvoyage, according to the prophecy. Didn t ye hear a word about them\nmatters and something more, eh? No, I don t think ye did; how could ye?\nWho knows it? Not all Nantucket, I guess. But hows ever, mayhap, ye ve\nheard tell about the leg, and how he lost it; aye, ye have heard of\nthat, I dare say. Oh yes, _that_ every one knows a most I mean they\nknow he s only one leg; and that a parmacetti took the other off. \n\n My friend,  said I,  what all this gibberish of yours is about, I\ndon t know, and I don t much care; for it seems to me that you must be\na little damaged in the head. But if you are speaking of Captain Ahab,\nof that ship there, the Pequod, then let me tell you, that I know all\nabout the loss of his leg. \n\n _All_ about it, eh sure you do? all? \n\n Pretty sure. \n\nWith finger pointed and eye levelled at the Pequod, the beggar-like\nstranger stood a moment, as if in a troubled reverie; then starting a\nlittle, turned and said: Ye ve shipped, have ye? Names down on the\npapers? Well, well, what s signed, is signed; and what s to be, will\nbe; and then again, perhaps it won t be, after all. Anyhow, it s all\nfixed and arranged a ready; and some sailors or other must go with him,\nI suppose; as well these as any other men, God pity  em! Morning to ye,\nshipmates, morning; the ineffable heavens bless ye; I m sorry I stopped\nye. \n\n Look here, friend,  said I,  if you have anything important to tell\nus, out with it; but if you are only trying to bamboozle us, you are\nmistaken in your game; that s all I have to say. \n\n And it s said very well, and I like to hear a chap talk up that way;\nyou are just the man for him the likes of ye. Morning to ye, shipmates,\nmorning! Oh! when ye get there, tell  em I ve concluded not to make one\nof  em. \n\n Ah, my dear fellow, you can t fool us that way you can t fool us. It\nis the easiest thing in the world for a man to look as if he had a\ngreat secret in him. \n\n Morning to ye, shipmates, morning. \n\n Morning it is,  said I.  Come along, Queequeg, let s leave this crazy\nman. But stop, tell me your name, will you? \n\n Elijah. \n\nElijah! thought I, and we walked away, both commenting, after each\nother s fashion, upon this ragged old sailor; and agreed that he was\nnothing but a humbug, trying to be a bugbear. But we had not gone\nperhaps above a hundred yards, when chancing to turn a corner, and\nlooking back as I did so, who should be seen but Elijah following us,\nthough at a distance. Somehow, the sight of him struck me so, that I\nsaid nothing to Queequeg of his being behind, but passed on with my\ncomrade, anxious to see whether the stranger would turn the same corner\nthat we did. He did; and then it seemed to me that he was dogging us,\nbut with what intent I could not for the life of me imagine. This\ncircumstance, coupled with his ambiguous, half-hinting, half-revealing,\nshrouded sort of talk, now begat in me all kinds of vague wonderments\nand half-apprehensions, and all connected with the Pequod; and Captain\nAhab; and the leg he had lost; and the Cape Horn fit; and the silver\ncalabash; and what Captain Peleg had said of him, when I left the ship\nthe day previous; and the prediction of the squaw Tistig; and the\nvoyage we had bound ourselves to sail; and a hundred other shadowy\nthings.\n\nI was resolved to satisfy myself whether this ragged Elijah was really\ndogging us or not, and with that intent crossed the way with Queequeg,\nand on that side of it retraced our steps. But Elijah passed on,\nwithout seeming to notice us. This relieved me; and once more, and\nfinally as it seemed to me, I pronounced him in my heart, a humbug.\n\n\nCHAPTER 20. All Astir.\n\nA day or two passed, and there was great activity aboard the Pequod.\nNot only were the old sails being mended, but new sails were coming on\nboard, and bolts of canvas, and coils of rigging; in short, everything\nbetokened that the ship s preparations were hurrying to a close.\nCaptain Peleg seldom or never went ashore, but sat in his wigwam\nkeeping a sharp look-out upon the hands: Bildad did all the purchasing\nand providing at the stores; and the men employed in the hold and on\nthe rigging were working till long after night-fall.\n\nOn the day following Queequeg s signing the articles, word was given at\nall the inns where the ship s company were stopping, that their chests\nmust be on board before night, for there was no telling how soon the\nvessel might be sailing. So Queequeg and I got down our traps,\nresolving, however, to sleep ashore till the last. But it seems they\nalways give very long notice in these cases, and the ship did not sail\nfor several days. But no wonder; there was a good deal to be done, and\nthere is no telling how many things to be thought of, before the Pequod\nwas fully equipped.\n\nEvery one knows what a multitude of things beds, sauce-pans, knives and\nforks, shovels and tongs, napkins, nut-crackers, and what not, are\nindispensable to the business of housekeeping. Just so with whaling,\nwhich necessitates a three-years  housekeeping upon the wide ocean, far\nfrom all grocers, costermongers, doctors, bakers, and bankers. And\nthough this also holds true of merchant vessels, yet not by any means\nto the same extent as with whalemen. For besides the great length of\nthe whaling voyage, the numerous articles peculiar to the prosecution\nof the fishery, and the impossibility of replacing them at the remote\nharbors usually frequented, it must be remembered, that of all ships,\nwhaling vessels are the most exposed to accidents of all kinds, and\nespecially to the destruction and loss of the very things upon which\nthe success of the voyage most depends. Hence, the spare boats, spare\nspars, and spare lines and harpoons, and spare everythings, almost, but\na spare Captain and duplicate ship.\n\nAt the period of our arrival at the Island, the heaviest storage of the\nPequod had been almost completed; comprising her beef, bread, water,\nfuel, and iron hoops and staves. But, as before hinted, for some time\nthere was a continual fetching and carrying on board of divers odds and\nends of things, both large and small.\n\nChief among those who did this fetching and carrying was Captain\nBildad s sister, a lean old lady of a most determined and indefatigable\nspirit, but withal very kindhearted, who seemed resolved that, if _she_\ncould help it, nothing should be found wanting in the Pequod, after\nonce fairly getting to sea. At one time she would come on board with a\njar of pickles for the steward s pantry; another time with a bunch of\nquills for the chief mate s desk, where he kept his log; a third time\nwith a roll of flannel for the small of some one s rheumatic back.\nNever did any woman better deserve her name, which was Charity Aunt\nCharity, as everybody called her. And like a sister of charity did this\ncharitable Aunt Charity bustle about hither and thither, ready to turn\nher hand and heart to anything that promised to yield safety, comfort,\nand consolation to all on board a ship in which her beloved brother\nBildad was concerned, and in which she herself owned a score or two of\nwell-saved dollars.\n\nBut it was startling to see this excellent hearted Quakeress coming on\nboard, as she did the last day, with a long oil-ladle in one hand, and\na still longer whaling lance in the other. Nor was Bildad himself nor\nCaptain Peleg at all backward. As for Bildad, he carried about with him\na long list of the articles needed, and at every fresh arrival, down\nwent his mark opposite that article upon the paper. Every once in a\nwhile Peleg came hobbling out of his whalebone den, roaring at the men\ndown the hatchways, roaring up to the riggers at the mast-head, and\nthen concluded by roaring back into his wigwam.\n\nDuring these days of preparation, Queequeg and I often visited the\ncraft, and as often I asked about Captain Ahab, and how he was, and\nwhen he was going to come on board his ship. To these questions they\nwould answer, that he was getting better and better, and was expected\naboard every day; meantime, the two captains, Peleg and Bildad, could\nattend to everything necessary to fit the vessel for the voyage. If I\nhad been downright honest with myself, I would have seen very plainly\nin my heart that I did but half fancy being committed this way to so\nlong a voyage, without once laying my eyes on the man who was to be the\nabsolute dictator of it, so soon as the ship sailed out upon the open\nsea. But when a man suspects any wrong, it sometimes happens that if he\nbe already involved in the matter, he insensibly strives to cover up\nhis suspicions even from himself. And much this way it was with me. I\nsaid nothing, and tried to think nothing.\n\nAt last it was given out that some time next day the ship would\ncertainly sail. So next morning, Queequeg and I took a very early\nstart.\n\n\nCHAPTER 21. Going Aboard.\n\nIt was nearly six o clock, but only grey imperfect misty dawn, when we\ndrew nigh the wharf.\n\n There are some sailors running ahead there, if I see right,  said I to\nQueequeg,  it can t be shadows; she s off by sunrise, I guess; come\non! \n\n Avast!  cried a voice, whose owner at the same time coming close\nbehind us, laid a hand upon both our shoulders, and then insinuating\nhimself between us, stood stooping forward a little, in the uncertain\ntwilight, strangely peering from Queequeg to me. It was Elijah.\n\n Going aboard? \n\n Hands off, will you,  said I.\n\n Lookee here,  said Queequeg, shaking himself,  go  way! \n\n Ain t going aboard, then? \n\n Yes, we are,  said I,  but what business is that of yours? Do you\nknow, Mr. Elijah, that I consider you a little impertinent? \n\n No, no, no; I wasn t aware of that,  said Elijah, slowly and\nwonderingly looking from me to Queequeg, with the most unaccountable\nglances.\n\n Elijah,  said I,  you will oblige my friend and me by withdrawing. We\nare going to the Indian and Pacific Oceans, and would prefer not to be\ndetained. \n\n Ye be, be ye? Coming back afore breakfast? \n\n He s cracked, Queequeg,  said I,  come on. \n\n Holloa!  cried stationary Elijah, hailing us when we had removed a few\npaces.\n\n Never mind him,  said I,  Queequeg, come on. \n\nBut he stole up to us again, and suddenly clapping his hand on my\nshoulder, said Did ye see anything looking like men going towards that\nship a while ago? \n\nStruck by this plain matter-of-fact question, I answered, saying,  Yes,\nI thought I did see four or five men; but it was too dim to be sure. \n\n Very dim, very dim,  said Elijah.  Morning to ye. \n\nOnce more we quitted him; but once more he came softly after us; and\ntouching my shoulder again, said,  See if you can find  em now, will\nye?\n\n Find who? \n\n Morning to ye! morning to ye!  he rejoined, again moving off.  Oh! I\nwas going to warn ye against but never mind, never mind it s all one,\nall in the family too; sharp frost this morning, ain t it? Good-bye to\nye. Shan t see ye again very soon, I guess; unless it s before the\nGrand Jury.  And with these cracked words he finally departed, leaving\nme, for the moment, in no small wonderment at his frantic impudence.\n\nAt last, stepping on board the Pequod, we found everything in profound\nquiet, not a soul moving. The cabin entrance was locked within; the\nhatches were all on, and lumbered with coils of rigging. Going forward\nto the forecastle, we found the slide of the scuttle open. Seeing a\nlight, we went down, and found only an old rigger there, wrapped in a\ntattered pea-jacket. He was thrown at whole length upon two chests, his\nface downwards and inclosed in his folded arms. The profoundest slumber\nslept upon him.\n\n Those sailors we saw, Queequeg, where can they have gone to?  said I,\nlooking dubiously at the sleeper. But it seemed that, when on the\nwharf, Queequeg had not at all noticed what I now alluded to; hence I\nwould have thought myself to have been optically deceived in that\nmatter, were it not for Elijah s otherwise inexplicable question. But I\nbeat the thing down; and again marking the sleeper, jocularly hinted to\nQueequeg that perhaps we had best sit up with the body; telling him to\nestablish himself accordingly. He put his hand upon the sleeper s rear,\nas though feeling if it was soft enough; and then, without more ado,\nsat quietly down there.\n\n Gracious! Queequeg, don t sit there,  said I.\n\n Oh! perry dood seat,  said Queequeg,  my country way; won t hurt him\nface. \n\n Face!  said I,  call that his face? very benevolent countenance then;\nbut how hard he breathes, he s heaving himself; get off, Queequeg, you\nare heavy, it s grinding the face of the poor. Get off, Queequeg! Look,\nhe ll twitch you off soon. I wonder he don t wake. \n\nQueequeg removed himself to just beyond the head of the sleeper, and\nlighted his tomahawk pipe. I sat at the feet. We kept the pipe passing\nover the sleeper, from one to the other. Meanwhile, upon questioning\nhim in his broken fashion, Queequeg gave me to understand that, in his\nland, owing to the absence of settees and sofas of all sorts, the king,\nchiefs, and great people generally, were in the custom of fattening\nsome of the lower orders for ottomans; and to furnish a house\ncomfortably in that respect, you had only to buy up eight or ten lazy\nfellows, and lay them round in the piers and alcoves. Besides, it was\nvery convenient on an excursion; much better than those garden-chairs\nwhich are convertible into walking-sticks; upon occasion, a chief\ncalling his attendant, and desiring him to make a settee of himself\nunder a spreading tree, perhaps in some damp marshy place.\n\nWhile narrating these things, every time Queequeg received the tomahawk\nfrom me, he flourished the hatchet-side of it over the sleeper s head.\n\n What s that for, Queequeg? \n\n Perry easy, kill-e; oh! perry easy! \n\nHe was going on with some wild reminiscences about his tomahawk-pipe,\nwhich, it seemed, had in its two uses both brained his foes and soothed\nhis soul, when we were directly attracted to the sleeping rigger. The\nstrong vapor now completely filling the contracted hole, it began to\ntell upon him. He breathed with a sort of muffledness; then seemed\ntroubled in the nose; then revolved over once or twice; then sat up and\nrubbed his eyes.\n\n Holloa!  he breathed at last,  who be ye smokers? \n\n Shipped men,  answered I,  when does she sail? \n\n Aye, aye, ye are going in her, be ye? She sails to-day. The Captain\ncame aboard last night. \n\n What Captain? Ahab? \n\n Who but him indeed? \n\nI was going to ask him some further questions concerning Ahab, when we\nheard a noise on deck.\n\n Holloa! Starbuck s astir,  said the rigger.  He s a lively chief mate,\nthat; good man, and a pious; but all alive now, I must turn to.  And so\nsaying he went on deck, and we followed.\n\nIt was now clear sunrise. Soon the crew came on board in twos and\nthrees; the riggers bestirred themselves; the mates were actively\nengaged; and several of the shore people were busy in bringing various\nlast things on board. Meanwhile Captain Ahab remained invisibly\nenshrined within his cabin.\n\n\nCHAPTER 22. Merry Christmas.\n\nAt length, towards noon, upon the final dismissal of the ship s\nriggers, and after the Pequod had been hauled out from the wharf, and\nafter the ever-thoughtful Charity had come off in a whale-boat, with\nher last gift a night-cap for Stubb, the second mate, her\nbrother-in-law, and a spare Bible for the steward after all this, the\ntwo Captains, Peleg and Bildad, issued from the cabin, and turning to\nthe chief mate, Peleg said:\n\n Now, Mr. Starbuck, are you sure everything is right? Captain Ahab is\nall ready just spoke to him nothing more to be got from shore, eh?\nWell, call all hands, then. Muster  em aft here blast  em! \n\n No need of profane words, however great the hurry, Peleg,  said\nBildad,  but away with thee, friend Starbuck, and do our bidding. \n\nHow now! Here upon the very point of starting for the voyage, Captain\nPeleg and Captain Bildad were going it with a high hand on the\nquarter-deck, just as if they were to be joint-commanders at sea, as\nwell as to all appearances in port. And, as for Captain Ahab, no sign\nof him was yet to be seen; only, they said he was in the cabin. But\nthen, the idea was, that his presence was by no means necessary in\ngetting the ship under weigh, and steering her well out to sea. Indeed,\nas that was not at all his proper business, but the pilot s; and as he\nwas not yet completely recovered so they said therefore, Captain Ahab\nstayed below. And all this seemed natural enough; especially as in the\nmerchant service many captains never show themselves on deck for a\nconsiderable time after heaving up the anchor, but remain over the\ncabin table, having a farewell merry-making with their shore friends,\nbefore they quit the ship for good with the pilot.\n\nBut there was not much chance to think over the matter, for Captain\nPeleg was now all alive. He seemed to do most of the talking and\ncommanding, and not Bildad.\n\n Aft here, ye sons of bachelors,  he cried, as the sailors lingered at\nthe main-mast.  Mr. Starbuck, drive  em aft. \n\n Strike the tent there! was the next order. As I hinted before, this\nwhalebone marquee was never pitched except in port; and on board the\nPequod, for thirty years, the order to strike the tent was well known\nto be the next thing to heaving up the anchor.\n\n Man the capstan! Blood and thunder! jump! was the next command, and\nthe crew sprang for the handspikes.\n\nNow in getting under weigh, the station generally occupied by the pilot\nis the forward part of the ship. And here Bildad, who, with Peleg, be\nit known, in addition to his other officers, was one of the licensed\npilots of the port he being suspected to have got himself made a pilot\nin order to save the Nantucket pilot-fee to all the ships he was\nconcerned in, for he never piloted any other craft Bildad, I say, might\nnow be seen actively engaged in looking over the bows for the\napproaching anchor, and at intervals singing what seemed a dismal stave\nof psalmody, to cheer the hands at the windlass, who roared forth some\nsort of a chorus about the girls in Booble Alley, with hearty good\nwill. Nevertheless, not three days previous, Bildad had told them that\nno profane songs would be allowed on board the Pequod, particularly in\ngetting under weigh; and Charity, his sister, had placed a small choice\ncopy of Watts in each seaman s berth.\n\nMeantime, overseeing the other part of the ship, Captain Peleg ripped\nand swore astern in the most frightful manner. I almost thought he\nwould sink the ship before the anchor could be got up; involuntarily I\npaused on my handspike, and told Queequeg to do the same, thinking of\nthe perils we both ran, in starting on the voyage with such a devil for\na pilot. I was comforting myself, however, with the thought that in\npious Bildad might be found some salvation, spite of his seven hundred\nand seventy-seventh lay; when I felt a sudden sharp poke in my rear,\nand turning round, was horrified at the apparition of Captain Peleg in\nthe act of withdrawing his leg from my immediate vicinity. That was my\nfirst kick.\n\n Is that the way they heave in the marchant service?  he roared.\n Spring, thou sheep-head; spring, and break thy backbone! Why don t ye\nspring, I say, all of ye spring! Quohog! spring, thou chap with the red\nwhiskers; spring there, Scotch-cap; spring, thou green pants. Spring, I\nsay, all of ye, and spring your eyes out!  And so saying, he moved\nalong the windlass, here and there using his leg very freely, while\nimperturbable Bildad kept leading off with his psalmody. Thinks I,\nCaptain Peleg must have been drinking something to-day.\n\nAt last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It\nwas a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into\nnight, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose\nfreezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of\nteeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white\nivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from\nthe bows.\n\nLank Bildad, as pilot, headed the first watch, and ever and anon, as\nthe old craft deep dived into the green seas, and sent the shivering\nfrost all over her, and the winds howled, and the cordage rang, his\nsteady notes were heard, \n\n\n_ Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood, Stand dressed in living\ngreen. So to the Jews old Canaan stood, While Jordan rolled between. _\n\n\n\nNever did those sweet words sound more sweetly to me than then. They\nwere full of hope and fruition. Spite of this frigid winter night in\nthe boisterous Atlantic, spite of my wet feet and wetter jacket, there\nwas yet, it then seemed to me, many a pleasant haven in store; and\nmeads and glades so eternally vernal, that the grass shot up by the\nspring, untrodden, unwilted, remains at midsummer.\n\nAt last we gained such an offing, that the two pilots were needed no\nlonger. The stout sail-boat that had accompanied us began ranging\nalongside.\n\nIt was curious and not unpleasing, how Peleg and Bildad were affected\nat this juncture, especially Captain Bildad. For loath to depart, yet;\nvery loath to leave, for good, a ship bound on so long and perilous a\nvoyage beyond both stormy Capes; a ship in which some thousands of his\nhard earned dollars were invested; a ship, in which an old shipmate\nsailed as captain; a man almost as old as he, once more starting to\nencounter all the terrors of the pitiless jaw; loath to say good-bye to\na thing so every way brimful of every interest to him, poor old Bildad\nlingered long; paced the deck with anxious strides; ran down into the\ncabin to speak another farewell word there; again came on deck, and\nlooked to windward; looked towards the wide and endless waters, only\nbounded by the far-off unseen Eastern Continents; looked towards the\nland; looked aloft; looked right and left; looked everywhere and\nnowhere; and at last, mechanically coiling a rope upon its pin,\nconvulsively grasped stout Peleg by the hand, and holding up a lantern,\nfor a moment stood gazing heroically in his face, as much as to say,\n Nevertheless, friend Peleg, I can stand it; yes, I can. \n\nAs for Peleg himself, he took it more like a philosopher; but for all\nhis philosophy, there was a tear twinkling in his eye, when the lantern\ncame too near. And he, too, did not a little run from cabin to deck now\na word below, and now a word with Starbuck, the chief mate.\n\nBut, at last, he turned to his comrade, with a final sort of look about\nhim, Captain Bildad come, old shipmate, we must go. Back the main-yard\nthere! Boat ahoy! Stand by to come close alongside, now! Careful,\ncareful! come, Bildad, boy say your last. Luck to ye, Starbuck luck to\nye, Mr. Stubb luck to ye, Mr. Flask good-bye and good luck to ye\nall and this day three years I ll have a hot supper smoking for ye in\nold Nantucket. Hurrah and away! \n\n God bless ye, and have ye in His holy keeping, men,  murmured old\nBildad, almost incoherently.  I hope ye ll have fine weather now, so\nthat Captain Ahab may soon be moving among ye a pleasant sun is all he\nneeds, and ye ll have plenty of them in the tropic voyage ye go. Be\ncareful in the hunt, ye mates. Don t stave the boats needlessly, ye\nharpooneers; good white cedar plank is raised full three per cent.\nwithin the year. Don t forget your prayers, either. Mr. Starbuck, mind\nthat cooper don t waste the spare staves. Oh! the sail-needles are in\nthe green locker! Don t whale it too much a  Lord s days, men; but\ndon t miss a fair chance either, that s rejecting Heaven s good gifts.\nHave an eye to the molasses tierce, Mr. Stubb; it was a little leaky, I\nthought. If ye touch at the islands, Mr. Flask, beware of fornication.\nGood-bye, good-bye! Don t keep that cheese too long down in the hold,\nMr. Starbuck; it ll spoil. Be careful with the butter twenty cents the\npound it was, and mind ye, if \n\n Come, come, Captain Bildad; stop palavering, away!  and with that,\nPeleg hurried him over the side, and both dropt into the boat.\n\nShip and boat diverged; the cold, damp night breeze blew between; a\nscreaming gull flew overhead; the two hulls wildly rolled; we gave\nthree heavy-hearted cheers, and blindly plunged like fate into the lone\nAtlantic.\n\n\nCHAPTER 23. The Lee Shore.\n\nSome chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, newlanded\nmariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.\n\nWhen on that shivering winter s night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive\nbows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her\nhelm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon\nthe man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years  dangerous\nvoyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another\ntempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest\nthings are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs;\nthis six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only\nsay that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that\nmiserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give\nsuccor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort,\nhearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that s kind to our\nmortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship s\ndirest jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land,\nthough it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and\nthrough. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing,\nfights  gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks\nall the lashed sea s landlessness again; for refuge s sake forlornly\nrushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!\n\nKnow ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally\nintolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid\neffort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the\nwildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the\ntreacherous, slavish shore?\n\nBut as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless,\nindefinite as God so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite,\nthan be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For\nworm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the\nterrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O\nBulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy\nocean-perishing straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!\n\n\nCHAPTER 24. The Advocate.\n\nAs Queequeg and I are now fairly embarked in this business of whaling;\nand as this business of whaling has somehow come to be regarded among\nlandsmen as a rather unpoetical and disreputable pursuit; therefore, I\nam all anxiety to convince ye, ye landsmen, of the injustice hereby\ndone to us hunters of whales.\n\nIn the first place, it may be deemed almost superfluous to establish\nthe fact, that among people at large, the business of whaling is not\naccounted on a level with what are called the liberal professions. If a\nstranger were introduced into any miscellaneous metropolitan society,\nit would but slightly advance the general opinion of his merits, were\nhe presented to the company as a harpooneer, say; and if in emulation\nof the naval officers he should append the initials S.W.F. (Sperm Whale\nFishery) to his visiting card, such a procedure would be deemed\npre-eminently presuming and ridiculous.\n\nDoubtless one leading reason why the world declines honoring us\nwhalemen, is this: they think that, at best, our vocation amounts to a\nbutchering sort of business; and that when actively engaged therein, we\nare surrounded by all manner of defilements. Butchers we are, that is\ntrue. But butchers, also, and butchers of the bloodiest badge have been\nall Martial Commanders whom the world invariably delights to honor. And\nas for the matter of the alleged uncleanliness of our business, ye\nshall soon be initiated into certain facts hitherto pretty generally\nunknown, and which, upon the whole, will triumphantly plant the sperm\nwhale-ship at least among the cleanliest things of this tidy earth. But\neven granting the charge in question to be true; what disordered\nslippery decks of a whale-ship are comparable to the unspeakable\ncarrion of those battle-fields from which so many soldiers return to\ndrink in all ladies  plaudits? And if the idea of peril so much\nenhances the popular conceit of the soldier s profession; let me assure\nye that many a veteran who has freely marched up to a battery, would\nquickly recoil at the apparition of the sperm whale s vast tail,\nfanning into eddies the air over his head. For what are the\ncomprehensible terrors of man compared with the interlinked terrors and\nwonders of God!\n\nBut, though the world scouts at us whale hunters, yet does it\nunwittingly pay us the profoundest homage; yea, an all-abounding\nadoration! for almost all the tapers, lamps, and candles that burn\nround the globe, burn, as before so many shrines, to our glory!\n\nBut look at this matter in other lights; weigh it in all sorts of\nscales; see what we whalemen are, and have been.\n\nWhy did the Dutch in De Witt s time have admirals of their whaling\nfleets? Why did Louis XVI. of France, at his own personal expense, fit\nout whaling ships from Dunkirk, and politely invite to that town some\nscore or two of families from our own island of Nantucket? Why did\nBritain between the years 1750 and 1788 pay to her whalemen in bounties\nupwards of  1,000,000? And lastly, how comes it that we whalemen of\nAmerica now outnumber all the rest of the banded whalemen in the world;\nsail a navy of upwards of seven hundred vessels; manned by eighteen\nthousand men; yearly consuming 4,000,000 of dollars; the ships worth,\nat the time of sailing, $20,000,000! and every year importing into our\nharbors a well reaped harvest of $7,000,000. How comes all this, if\nthere be not something puissant in whaling?\n\nBut this is not the half; look again.\n\nI freely assert, that the cosmopolite philosopher cannot, for his life,\npoint out one single peaceful influence, which within the last sixty\nyears has operated more potentially upon the whole broad world, taken\nin one aggregate, than the high and mighty business of whaling. One way\nand another, it has begotten events so remarkable in themselves, and so\ncontinuously momentous in their sequential issues, that whaling may\nwell be regarded as that Egyptian mother, who bore offspring themselves\npregnant from her womb. It would be a hopeless, endless task to\ncatalogue all these things. Let a handful suffice. For many years past\nthe whale-ship has been the pioneer in ferreting out the remotest and\nleast known parts of the earth. She has explored seas and archipelagoes\nwhich had no chart, where no Cook or Vancouver had ever sailed. If\nAmerican and European men-of-war now peacefully ride in once savage\nharbors, let them fire salutes to the honor and glory of the\nwhale-ship, which originally showed them the way, and first interpreted\nbetween them and the savages. They may celebrate as they will the\nheroes of Exploring Expeditions, your Cooks, your Krusensterns; but I\nsay that scores of anonymous Captains have sailed out of Nantucket,\nthat were as great, and greater than your Cook and your Krusenstern.\nFor in their succourless empty-handedness, they, in the heathenish\nsharked waters, and by the beaches of unrecorded, javelin islands,\nbattled with virgin wonders and terrors that Cook with all his marines\nand muskets would not willingly have dared. All that is made such a\nflourish of in the old South Sea Voyages, those things were but the\nlife-time commonplaces of our heroic Nantucketers. Often, adventures\nwhich Vancouver dedicates three chapters to, these men accounted\nunworthy of being set down in the ship s common log. Ah, the world! Oh,\nthe world!\n\nUntil the whale fishery rounded Cape Horn, no commerce but colonial,\nscarcely any intercourse but colonial, was carried on between Europe\nand the long line of the opulent Spanish provinces on the Pacific\ncoast. It was the whaleman who first broke through the jealous policy\nof the Spanish crown, touching those colonies; and, if space permitted,\nit might be distinctly shown how from those whalemen at last eventuated\nthe liberation of Peru, Chili, and Bolivia from the yoke of Old Spain,\nand the establishment of the eternal democracy in those parts.\n\nThat great America on the other side of the sphere, Australia, was\ngiven to the enlightened world by the whaleman. After its first\nblunder-born discovery by a Dutchman, all other ships long shunned\nthose shores as pestiferously barbarous; but the whale-ship touched\nthere. The whale-ship is the true mother of that now mighty colony.\nMoreover, in the infancy of the first Australian settlement, the\nemigrants were several times saved from starvation by the benevolent\nbiscuit of the whale-ship luckily dropping an anchor in their waters.\nThe uncounted isles of all Polynesia confess the same truth, and do\ncommercial homage to the whale-ship, that cleared the way for the\nmissionary and the merchant, and in many cases carried the primitive\nmissionaries to their first destinations. If that double-bolted land,\nJapan, is ever to become hospitable, it is the whale-ship alone to whom\nthe credit will be due; for already she is on the threshold.\n\nBut if, in the face of all this, you still declare that whaling has no\n sthetically noble associations connected with it, then am I ready to\nshiver fifty lances with you there, and unhorse you with a split helmet\nevery time.\n\nThe whale has no famous author, and whaling no famous chronicler, you\nwill say.\n\n_The whale no famous author, and whaling no famous chronicler?_ Who\nwrote the first account of our Leviathan? Who but mighty Job! And who\ncomposed the first narrative of a whaling-voyage? Who, but no less a\nprince than Alfred the Great, who, with his own royal pen, took down\nthe words from Other, the Norwegian whale-hunter of those times! And\nwho pronounced our glowing eulogy in Parliament? Who, but Edmund Burke!\n\nTrue enough, but then whalemen themselves are poor devils; they have no\ngood blood in their veins.\n\n_No good blood in their veins?_ They have something better than royal\nblood there. The grandmother of Benjamin Franklin was Mary Morrel;\nafterwards, by marriage, Mary Folger, one of the old settlers of\nNantucket, and the ancestress to a long line of Folgers and\nharpooneers all kith and kin to noble Benjamin this day darting the\nbarbed iron from one side of the world to the other.\n\nGood again; but then all confess that somehow whaling is not\nrespectable.\n\n_Whaling not respectable?_ Whaling is imperial! By old English\nstatutory law, the whale is declared  a royal fish.  *\n\nOh, that s only nominal! The whale himself has never figured in any\ngrand imposing way.\n\n_The whale never figured in any grand imposing way?_ In one of the\nmighty triumphs given to a Roman general upon his entering the world s\ncapital, the bones of a whale, brought all the way from the Syrian\ncoast, were the most conspicuous object in the cymballed procession.*\n\n*See subsequent chapters for something more on this head.\n\nGrant it, since you cite it; but, say what you will, there is no real\ndignity in whaling.\n\n_No dignity in whaling?_ The dignity of our calling the very heavens\nattest. Cetus is a constellation in the South! No more! Drive down your\nhat in presence of the Czar, and take it off to Queequeg! No more! I\nknow a man that, in his lifetime, has taken three hundred and fifty\nwhales. I account that man more honorable than that great captain of\nantiquity who boasted of taking as many walled towns.\n\nAnd, as for me, if, by any possibility, there be any as yet\nundiscovered prime thing in me; if I shall ever deserve any real repute\nin that small but high hushed world which I might not be unreasonably\nambitious of; if hereafter I shall do anything that, upon the whole, a\nman might rather have done than to have left undone; if, at my death,\nmy executors, or more properly my creditors, find any precious MSS. in\nmy desk, then here I prospectively ascribe all the honor and the glory\nto whaling; for a whale-ship was my Yale College and my Harvard.\n\n\nCHAPTER 25. Postscript.\n\nIn behalf of the dignity of whaling, I would fain advance naught but\nsubstantiated facts. But after embattling his facts, an advocate who\nshould wholly suppress a not unreasonable surmise, which might tell\neloquently upon his cause such an advocate, would he not be\nblameworthy?\n\nIt is well known that at the coronation of kings and queens, even\nmodern ones, a certain curious process of seasoning them for their\nfunctions is gone through. There is a saltcellar of state, so called,\nand there may be a castor of state. How they use the salt,\nprecisely who knows? Certain I am, however, that a king s head is\nsolemnly oiled at his coronation, even as a head of salad. Can it be,\nthough, that they anoint it with a view of making its interior run\nwell, as they anoint machinery? Much might be ruminated here,\nconcerning the essential dignity of this regal process, because in\ncommon life we esteem but meanly and contemptibly a fellow who anoints\nhis hair, and palpably smells of that anointing. In truth, a mature man\nwho uses hair-oil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a\nquoggy spot in him somewhere. As a general rule, he can t amount to\nmuch in his totality.\n\nBut the only thing to be considered here, is this what kind of oil is\nused at coronations? Certainly it cannot be olive oil, nor macassar\noil, nor castor oil, nor bear s oil, nor train oil, nor cod-liver oil.\nWhat then can it possibly be, but sperm oil in its unmanufactured,\nunpolluted state, the sweetest of all oils?\n\nThink of that, ye loyal Britons! we whalemen supply your kings and\nqueens with coronation stuff!\n\n\nCHAPTER 26. Knights and Squires.\n\nThe chief mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a native of Nantucket, and a\nQuaker by descent. He was a long, earnest man, and though born on an\nicy coast, seemed well adapted to endure hot latitudes, his flesh being\nhard as twice-baked biscuit. Transported to the Indies, his live blood\nwould not spoil like bottled ale. He must have been born in some time\nof general drought and famine, or upon one of those fast days for which\nhis state is famous. Only some thirty arid summers had he seen; those\nsummers had dried up all his physical superfluousness. But this, his\nthinness, so to speak, seemed no more the token of wasting anxieties\nand cares, than it seemed the indication of any bodily blight. It was\nmerely the condensation of the man. He was by no means ill-looking;\nquite the contrary. His pure tight skin was an excellent fit; and\nclosely wrapped up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength,\nlike a revivified Egyptian, this Starbuck seemed prepared to endure for\nlong ages to come, and to endure always, as now; for be it Polar snow\nor torrid sun, like a patent chronometer, his interior vitality was\nwarranted to do well in all climates. Looking into his eyes, you seemed\nto see there the yet lingering images of those thousand-fold perils he\nhad calmly confronted through life. A staid, steadfast man, whose life\nfor the most part was a telling pantomime of action, and not a tame\nchapter of sounds. Yet, for all his hardy sobriety and fortitude, there\nwere certain qualities in him which at times affected, and in some\ncases seemed well nigh to overbalance all the rest. Uncommonly\nconscientious for a seaman, and endued with a deep natural reverence,\nthe wild watery loneliness of his life did therefore strongly incline\nhim to superstition; but to that sort of superstition, which in some\norganizations seems rather to spring, somehow, from intelligence than\nfrom ignorance. Outward portents and inward presentiments were his. And\nif at times these things bent the welded iron of his soul, much more\ndid his far-away domestic memories of his young Cape wife and child,\ntend to bend him still more from the original ruggedness of his nature,\nand open him still further to those latent influences which, in some\nhonest-hearted men, restrain the gush of dare-devil daring, so often\nevinced by others in the more perilous vicissitudes of the fishery.  I\nwill have no man in my boat,  said Starbuck,  who is not afraid of a\nwhale.  By this, he seemed to mean, not only that the most reliable and\nuseful courage was that which arises from the fair estimation of the\nencountered peril, but that an utterly fearless man is a far more\ndangerous comrade than a coward.\n\n Aye, aye,  said Stubb, the second mate,  Starbuck, there, is as\ncareful a man as you ll find anywhere in this fishery.  But we shall\nere long see what that word  careful  precisely means when used by a\nman like Stubb, or almost any other whale hunter.\n\nStarbuck was no crusader after perils; in him courage was not a\nsentiment; but a thing simply useful to him, and always at hand upon\nall mortally practical occasions. Besides, he thought, perhaps, that in\nthis business of whaling, courage was one of the great staple outfits\nof the ship, like her beef and her bread, and not to be foolishly\nwasted. Wherefore he had no fancy for lowering for whales after\nsun-down; nor for persisting in fighting a fish that too much persisted\nin fighting him. For, thought Starbuck, I am here in this critical\nocean to kill whales for my living, and not to be killed by them for\ntheirs; and that hundreds of men had been so killed Starbuck well knew.\nWhat doom was his own father s? Where, in the bottomless deeps, could\nhe find the torn limbs of his brother?\n\nWith memories like these in him, and, moreover, given to a certain\nsuperstitiousness, as has been said; the courage of this Starbuck which\ncould, nevertheless, still flourish, must indeed have been extreme. But\nit was not in reasonable nature that a man so organized, and with such\nterrible experiences and remembrances as he had; it was not in nature\nthat these things should fail in latently engendering an element in\nhim, which, under suitable circumstances, would break out from its\nconfinement, and burn all his courage up. And brave as he might be, it\nwas that sort of bravery chiefly, visible in some intrepid men, which,\nwhile generally abiding firm in the conflict with seas, or winds, or\nwhales, or any of the ordinary irrational horrors of the world, yet\ncannot withstand those more terrific, because more spiritual terrors,\nwhich sometimes menace you from the concentrating brow of an enraged\nand mighty man.\n\nBut were the coming narrative to reveal in any instance, the complete\nabasement of poor Starbuck s fortitude, scarce might I have the heart\nto write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose\nthe fall of valour in the soul. Men may seem detestable as joint\nstock-companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be;\nmen may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble\nand so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any\nignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their\ncostliest robes. That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so\nfar within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character\nseem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a\nvalor-ruined man. Nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight,\ncompletely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But\nthis august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes,\nbut that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt\nsee it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that\ndemocratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God;\nHimself! The great God absolute! The centre and circumference of all\ndemocracy! His omnipresence, our divine equality!\n\nIf, then, to meanest mariners, and renegades and castaways, I shall\nhereafter ascribe high qualities, though dark; weave round them tragic\ngraces; if even the most mournful, perchance the most abased, among\nthem all, shall at times lift himself to the exalted mounts; if I shall\ntouch that workman s arm with some ethereal light; if I shall spread a\nrainbow over his disastrous set of sun; then against all mortal critics\nbear me out in it, thou just Spirit of Equality, which hast spread one\nroyal mantle of humanity over all my kind! Bear me out in it, thou\ngreat democratic God! who didst not refuse to the swart convict,\nBunyan, the pale, poetic pearl; Thou who didst clothe with doubly\nhammered leaves of finest gold, the stumped and paupered arm of old\nCervantes; Thou who didst pick up Andrew Jackson from the pebbles; who\ndidst hurl him upon a war-horse; who didst thunder him higher than a\nthrone! Thou who, in all Thy mighty, earthly marchings, ever cullest\nThy selectest champions from the kingly commons; bear me out in it, O\nGod!\n\n\nCHAPTER 27. Knights and Squires.\n\nStubb was the second mate. He was a native of Cape Cod; and hence,\naccording to local usage, was called a Cape-Cod-man. A happy-go-lucky;\nneither craven nor valiant; taking perils as they came with an\nindifferent air; and while engaged in the most imminent crisis of the\nchase, toiling away, calm and collected as a journeyman joiner engaged\nfor the year. Good-humored, easy, and careless, he presided over his\nwhale-boat as if the most deadly encounter were but a dinner, and his\ncrew all invited guests. He was as particular about the comfortable\narrangement of his part of the boat, as an old stage-driver is about\nthe snugness of his box. When close to the whale, in the very\ndeath-lock of the fight, he handled his unpitying lance coolly and\noff-handedly, as a whistling tinker his hammer. He would hum over his\nold rigadig tunes while flank and flank with the most exasperated\nmonster. Long usage had, for this Stubb, converted the jaws of death\ninto an easy chair. What he thought of death itself, there is no\ntelling. Whether he ever thought of it at all, might be a question;\nbut, if he ever did chance to cast his mind that way after a\ncomfortable dinner, no doubt, like a good sailor, he took it to be a\nsort of call of the watch to tumble aloft, and bestir themselves there,\nabout something which he would find out when he obeyed the order, and\nnot sooner.\n\nWhat, perhaps, with other things, made Stubb such an easy-going,\nunfearing man, so cheerily trudging off with the burden of life in a\nworld full of grave pedlars, all bowed to the ground with their packs;\nwhat helped to bring about that almost impious good-humor of his; that\nthing must have been his pipe. For, like his nose, his short, black\nlittle pipe was one of the regular features of his face. You would\nalmost as soon have expected him to turn out of his bunk without his\nnose as without his pipe. He kept a whole row of pipes there ready\nloaded, stuck in a rack, within easy reach of his hand; and, whenever\nhe turned in, he smoked them all out in succession, lighting one from\nthe other to the end of the chapter; then loading them again to be in\nreadiness anew. For, when Stubb dressed, instead of first putting his\nlegs into his trowsers, he put his pipe into his mouth.\n\nI say this continual smoking must have been one cause, at least, of his\npeculiar disposition; for every one knows that this earthly air,\nwhether ashore or afloat, is terribly infected with the nameless\nmiseries of the numberless mortals who have died exhaling it; and as in\ntime of the cholera, some people go about with a camphorated\nhandkerchief to their mouths; so, likewise, against all mortal\ntribulations, Stubb s tobacco smoke might have operated as a sort of\ndisinfecting agent.\n\nThe third mate was Flask, a native of Tisbury, in Martha s Vineyard. A\nshort, stout, ruddy young fellow, very pugnacious concerning whales,\nwho somehow seemed to think that the great leviathans had personally\nand hereditarily affronted him; and therefore it was a sort of point of\nhonor with him, to destroy them whenever encountered. So utterly lost\nwas he to all sense of reverence for the many marvels of their majestic\nbulk and mystic ways; and so dead to anything like an apprehension of\nany possible danger from encountering them; that in his poor opinion,\nthe wondrous whale was but a species of magnified mouse, or at least\nwater-rat, requiring only a little circumvention and some small\napplication of time and trouble in order to kill and boil. This\nignorant, unconscious fearlessness of his made him a little waggish in\nthe matter of whales; he followed these fish for the fun of it; and a\nthree years  voyage round Cape Horn was only a jolly joke that lasted\nthat length of time. As a carpenter s nails are divided into wrought\nnails and cut nails; so mankind may be similarly divided. Little Flask\nwas one of the wrought ones; made to clinch tight and last long. They\ncalled him King-Post on board of the Pequod; because, in form, he could\nbe well likened to the short, square timber known by that name in\nArctic whalers; and which by the means of many radiating side timbers\ninserted into it, serves to brace the ship against the icy concussions\nof those battering seas.\n\nNow these three mates Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, were momentous men.\nThey it was who by universal prescription commanded three of the\nPequod s boats as headsmen. In that grand order of battle in which\nCaptain Ahab would probably marshal his forces to descend on the\nwhales, these three headsmen were as captains of companies. Or, being\narmed with their long keen whaling spears, they were as a picked trio\nof lancers; even as the harpooneers were flingers of javelins.\n\nAnd since in this famous fishery, each mate or headsman, like a Gothic\nKnight of old, is always accompanied by his boat-steerer or harpooneer,\nwho in certain conjunctures provides him with a fresh lance, when the\nformer one has been badly twisted, or elbowed in the assault; and\nmoreover, as there generally subsists between the two, a close intimacy\nand friendliness; it is therefore but meet, that in this place we set\ndown who the Pequod s harpooneers were, and to what headsman each of\nthem belonged.\n\nFirst of all was Queequeg, whom Starbuck, the chief mate, had selected\nfor his squire. But Queequeg is already known.\n\nNext was Tashtego, an unmixed Indian from Gay Head, the most westerly\npromontory of Martha s Vineyard, where there still exists the last\nremnant of a village of red men, which has long supplied the\nneighboring island of Nantucket with many of her most daring\nharpooneers. In the fishery, they usually go by the generic name of\nGay-Headers. Tashtego s long, lean, sable hair, his high cheek bones,\nand black rounding eyes for an Indian, Oriental in their largeness, but\nAntarctic in their glittering expression all this sufficiently\nproclaimed him an inheritor of the unvitiated blood of those proud\nwarrior hunters, who, in quest of the great New England moose, had\nscoured, bow in hand, the aboriginal forests of the main. But no longer\nsnuffing in the trail of the wild beasts of the woodland, Tashtego now\nhunted in the wake of the great whales of the sea; the unerring harpoon\nof the son fitly replacing the infallible arrow of the sires. To look\nat the tawny brawn of his lithe snaky limbs, you would almost have\ncredited the superstitions of some of the earlier Puritans, and\nhalf-believed this wild Indian to be a son of the Prince of the Powers\nof the Air. Tashtego was Stubb the second mate s squire.\n\nThird among the harpooneers was Daggoo, a gigantic, coal-black\nnegro-savage, with a lion-like tread an Ahasuerus to behold. Suspended\nfrom his ears were two golden hoops, so large that the sailors called\nthem ring-bolts, and would talk of securing the top-sail halyards to\nthem. In his youth Daggoo had voluntarily shipped on board of a whaler,\nlying in a lonely bay on his native coast. And never having been\nanywhere in the world but in Africa, Nantucket, and the pagan harbors\nmost frequented by whalemen; and having now led for many years the bold\nlife of the fishery in the ships of owners uncommonly heedful of what\nmanner of men they shipped; Daggoo retained all his barbaric virtues,\nand erect as a giraffe, moved about the decks in all the pomp of six\nfeet five in his socks. There was a corporeal humility in looking up at\nhim; and a white man standing before him seemed a white flag come to\nbeg truce of a fortress. Curious to tell, this imperial negro,\nAhasuerus Daggoo, was the Squire of little Flask, who looked like a\nchess-man beside him. As for the residue of the Pequod s company, be it\nsaid, that at the present day not one in two of the many thousand men\nbefore the mast employed in the American whale fishery, are Americans\nborn, though pretty nearly all the officers are. Herein it is the same\nwith the American whale fishery as with the American army and military\nand merchant navies, and the engineering forces employed in the\nconstruction of the American Canals and Railroads. The same, I say,\nbecause in all these cases the native American liberally provides the\nbrains, the rest of the world as generously supplying the muscles. No\nsmall number of these whaling seamen belong to the Azores, where the\noutward bound Nantucket whalers frequently touch to augment their crews\nfrom the hardy peasants of those rocky shores. In like manner, the\nGreenland whalers sailing out of Hull or London, put in at the Shetland\nIslands, to receive the full complement of their crew. Upon the passage\nhomewards, they drop them there again. How it is, there is no telling,\nbut Islanders seem to make the best whalemen. They were nearly all\nIslanders in the Pequod, _Isolatoes_ too, I call such, not\nacknowledging the common continent of men, but each _Isolato_ living on\na separate continent of his own. Yet now, federated along one keel,\nwhat a set these Isolatoes were! An Anacharsis Clootz deputation from\nall the isles of the sea, and all the ends of the earth, accompanying\nOld Ahab in the Pequod to lay the world s grievances before that bar\nfrom which not very many of them ever come back. Black Little Pip he\nnever did oh, no! he went before. Poor Alabama boy! On the grim\nPequod s forecastle, ye shall ere long see him, beating his tambourine;\nprelusive of the eternal time, when sent for, to the great quarter-deck\non high, he was bid strike in with angels, and beat his tambourine in\nglory; called a coward here, hailed a hero there!\n\n\nCHAPTER 28. Ahab.\n\nFor several days after leaving Nantucket, nothing above hatches was\nseen of Captain Ahab. The mates regularly relieved each other at the\nwatches, and for aught that could be seen to the contrary, they seemed\nto be the only commanders of the ship; only they sometimes issued from\nthe cabin with orders so sudden and peremptory, that after all it was\nplain they but commanded vicariously. Yes, their supreme lord and\ndictator was there, though hitherto unseen by any eyes not permitted to\npenetrate into the now sacred retreat of the cabin.\n\nEvery time I ascended to the deck from my watches below, I instantly\ngazed aft to mark if any strange face were visible; for my first vague\ndisquietude touching the unknown captain, now in the seclusion of the\nsea, became almost a perturbation. This was strangely heightened at\ntimes by the ragged Elijah s diabolical incoherences uninvitedly\nrecurring to me, with a subtle energy I could not have before conceived\nof. But poorly could I withstand them, much as in other moods I was\nalmost ready to smile at the solemn whimsicalities of that outlandish\nprophet of the wharves. But whatever it was of apprehensiveness or\nuneasiness to call it so which I felt, yet whenever I came to look\nabout me in the ship, it seemed against all warrantry to cherish such\nemotions. For though the harpooneers, with the great body of the crew,\nwere a far more barbaric, heathenish, and motley set than any of the\ntame merchant-ship companies which my previous experiences had made me\nacquainted with, still I ascribed this and rightly ascribed it to the\nfierce uniqueness of the very nature of that wild Scandinavian vocation\nin which I had so abandonedly embarked. But it was especially the\naspect of the three chief officers of the ship, the mates, which was\nmost forcibly calculated to allay these colourless misgivings, and\ninduce confidence and cheerfulness in every presentment of the voyage.\nThree better, more likely sea-officers and men, each in his own\ndifferent way, could not readily be found, and they were every one of\nthem Americans; a Nantucketer, a Vineyarder, a Cape man. Now, it being\nChristmas when the ship shot from out her harbor, for a space we had\nbiting Polar weather, though all the time running away from it to the\nsouthward; and by every degree and minute of latitude which we sailed,\ngradually leaving that merciless winter, and all its intolerable\nweather behind us. It was one of those less lowering, but still grey\nand gloomy enough mornings of the transition, when with a fair wind the\nship was rushing through the water with a vindictive sort of leaping\nand melancholy rapidity, that as I mounted to the deck at the call of\nthe forenoon watch, so soon as I levelled my glance towards the\ntaffrail, foreboding shivers ran over me. Reality outran apprehension;\nCaptain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck.\n\nThere seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the\nrecovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when\nthe fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them,\nor taking away one particle from their compacted aged robustness. His\nwhole high, broad form, seemed made of solid bronze, and shaped in an\nunalterable mould, like Cellini s cast Perseus. Threading its way out\nfrom among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his\ntawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you\nsaw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish. It resembled that\nperpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a\ngreat tree, when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and\nwithout wrenching a single twig, peels and grooves out the bark from\ntop to bottom, ere running off into the soil, leaving the tree still\ngreenly alive, but branded. Whether that mark was born with him, or\nwhether it was the scar left by some desperate wound, no one could\ncertainly say. By some tacit consent, throughout the voyage little or\nno allusion was made to it, especially by the mates. But once\nTashtego s senior, an old Gay-Head Indian among the crew,\nsuperstitiously asserted that not till he was full forty years old did\nAhab become that way branded, and then it came upon him, not in the\nfury of any mortal fray, but in an elemental strife at sea. Yet, this\nwild hint seemed inferentially negatived, by what a grey Manxman\ninsinuated, an old sepulchral man, who, having never before sailed out\nof Nantucket, had never ere this laid eye upon wild Ahab. Nevertheless,\nthe old sea-traditions, the immemorial credulities, popularly invested\nthis old Manxman with preternatural powers of discernment. So that no\nwhite sailor seriously contradicted him when he said that if ever\nCaptain Ahab should be tranquilly laid out which might hardly come to\npass, so he muttered then, whoever should do that last office for the\ndead, would find a birth-mark on him from crown to sole.\n\nSo powerfully did the whole grim aspect of Ahab affect me, and the\nlivid brand which streaked it, that for the first few moments I hardly\nnoted that not a little of this overbearing grimness was owing to the\nbarbaric white leg upon which he partly stood. It had previously come\nto me that this ivory leg had at sea been fashioned from the polished\nbone of the sperm whale s jaw.  Aye, he was dismasted off Japan,  said\nthe old Gay-Head Indian once;  but like his dismasted craft, he shipped\nanother mast without coming home for it. He has a quiver of  em. \n\nI was struck with the singular posture he maintained. Upon each side of\nthe Pequod s quarter deck, and pretty close to the mizzen shrouds,\nthere was an auger hole, bored about half an inch or so, into the\nplank. His bone leg steadied in that hole; one arm elevated, and\nholding by a shroud; Captain Ahab stood erect, looking straight out\nbeyond the ship s ever-pitching prow. There was an infinity of firmest\nfortitude, a determinate, unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and\nfearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke; nor\ndid his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest\ngestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not\npainful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye. And not\nonly that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion\nin his face; in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some\nmighty woe.\n\nEre long, from his first visit in the air, he withdrew into his cabin.\nBut after that morning, he was every day visible to the crew; either\nstanding in his pivot-hole, or seated upon an ivory stool he had; or\nheavily walking the deck. As the sky grew less gloomy; indeed, began to\ngrow a little genial, he became still less and less a recluse; as if,\nwhen the ship had sailed from home, nothing but the dead wintry\nbleakness of the sea had then kept him so secluded. And, by and by, it\ncame to pass, that he was almost continually in the air; but, as yet,\nfor all that he said, or perceptibly did, on the at last sunny deck, he\nseemed as unnecessary there as another mast. But the Pequod was only\nmaking a passage now; not regularly cruising; nearly all whaling\npreparatives needing supervision the mates were fully competent to, so\nthat there was little or nothing, out of himself, to employ or excite\nAhab, now; and thus chase away, for that one interval, the clouds that\nlayer upon layer were piled upon his brow, as ever all clouds choose\nthe loftiest peaks to pile themselves upon.\n\nNevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the\npleasant, holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him\nfrom his mood. For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and\nMay, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest,\nruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some\nfew green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants; so Ahab did,\nin the end, a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish\nair. More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look,\nwhich, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile.\n\n\nCHAPTER 29. Enter Ahab; to Him, Stubb.\n\nSome days elapsed, and ice and icebergs all astern, the Pequod now went\nrolling through the bright Quito spring, which, at sea, almost\nperpetually reigns on the threshold of the eternal August of the\nTropic. The warmly cool, clear, ringing, perfumed, overflowing,\nredundant days, were as crystal goblets of Persian sherbet, heaped\nup flaked up, with rose-water snow. The starred and stately nights\nseemed haughty dames in jewelled velvets, nursing at home in lonely\npride, the memory of their absent conquering Earls, the golden helmeted\nsuns! For sleeping man,  twas hard to choose between such winsome days\nand such seducing nights. But all the witcheries of that unwaning\nweather did not merely lend new spells and potencies to the outward\nworld. Inward they turned upon the soul, especially when the still mild\nhours of eve came on; then, memory shot her crystals as the clear ice\nmost forms of noiseless twilights. And all these subtle agencies, more\nand more they wrought on Ahab s texture.\n\nOld age is always wakeful; as if, the longer linked with life, the less\nman has to do with aught that looks like death. Among sea-commanders,\nthe old greybeards will oftenest leave their berths to visit the\nnight-cloaked deck. It was so with Ahab; only that now, of late, he\nseemed so much to live in the open air, that truly speaking, his visits\nwere more to the cabin, than from the cabin to the planks.  It feels\nlike going down into one s tomb, he would mutter to himself for an\nold captain like me to be descending this narrow scuttle, to go to my\ngrave-dug berth. \n\nSo, almost every twenty-four hours, when the watches of the night were\nset, and the band on deck sentinelled the slumbers of the band below;\nand when if a rope was to be hauled upon the forecastle, the sailors\nflung it not rudely down, as by day, but with some cautiousness dropt\nit to its place for fear of disturbing their slumbering shipmates; when\nthis sort of steady quietude would begin to prevail, habitually, the\nsilent steersman would watch the cabin-scuttle; and ere long the old\nman would emerge, gripping at the iron banister, to help his crippled\nway. Some considering touch of humanity was in him; for at times like\nthese, he usually abstained from patrolling the quarter-deck; because\nto his wearied mates, seeking repose within six inches of his ivory\nheel, such would have been the reverberating crack and din of that bony\nstep, that their dreams would have been on the crunching teeth of\nsharks. But once, the mood was on him too deep for common regardings;\nand as with heavy, lumber-like pace he was measuring the ship from\ntaffrail to mainmast, Stubb, the old second mate, came up from below,\nwith a certain unassured, deprecating humorousness, hinted that if\nCaptain Ahab was pleased to walk the planks, then, no one could say\nnay; but there might be some way of muffling the noise; hinting\nsomething indistinctly and hesitatingly about a globe of tow, and the\ninsertion into it, of the ivory heel. Ah! Stubb, thou didst not know\nAhab then.\n\n Am I a cannon-ball, Stubb,  said Ahab,  that thou wouldst wad me that\nfashion? But go thy ways; I had forgot. Below to thy nightly grave;\nwhere such as ye sleep between shrouds, to use ye to the filling one at\nlast. Down, dog, and kennel! \n\nStarting at the unforseen concluding exclamation of the so suddenly\nscornful old man, Stubb was speechless a moment; then said excitedly,\n I am not used to be spoken to that way, sir; I do but less than half\nlike it, sir. \n\n Avast! gritted Ahab between his set teeth, and violently moving away,\nas if to avoid some passionate temptation.\n\n No, sir; not yet,  said Stubb, emboldened,  I will not tamely be\ncalled a dog, sir. \n\n Then be called ten times a donkey, and a mule, and an ass, and begone,\nor I ll clear the world of thee! \n\nAs he said this, Ahab advanced upon him with such overbearing terrors\nin his aspect, that Stubb involuntarily retreated.\n\n I was never served so before without giving a hard blow for it, \nmuttered Stubb, as he found himself descending the cabin-scuttle.  It s\nvery queer. Stop, Stubb; somehow, now, I don t well know whether to go\nback and strike him, or what s that? down here on my knees and pray for\nhim? Yes, that was the thought coming up in me; but it would be the\nfirst time I ever _did_ pray. It s queer; very queer; and he s queer\ntoo; aye, take him fore and aft, he s about the queerest old man Stubb\never sailed with. How he flashed at me! his eyes like powder-pans! is\nhe mad? Anyway there s something on his mind, as sure as there must be\nsomething on a deck when it cracks. He aint in his bed now, either,\nmore than three hours out of the twenty-four; and he don t sleep then.\nDidn t that Dough-Boy, the steward, tell me that of a morning he always\nfinds the old man s hammock clothes all rumpled and tumbled, and the\nsheets down at the foot, and the coverlid almost tied into knots, and\nthe pillow a sort of frightful hot, as though a baked brick had been on\nit? A hot old man! I guess he s got what some folks ashore call a\nconscience; it s a kind of Tic-Dolly-row they say worse nor a\ntoothache. Well, well; I don t know what it is, but the Lord keep me\nfrom catching it. He s full of riddles; I wonder what he goes into the\nafter hold for, every night, as Dough-Boy tells me he suspects; what s\nthat for, I should like to know? Who s made appointments with him in\nthe hold? Ain t that queer, now? But there s no telling, it s the old\ngame Here goes for a snooze. Damn me, it s worth a fellow s while to be\nborn into the world, if only to fall right asleep. And now that I think\nof it, that s about the first thing babies do, and that s a sort of\nqueer, too. Damn me, but all things are queer, come to think of  em.\nBut that s against my principles. Think not, is my eleventh\ncommandment; and sleep when you can, is my twelfth So here goes again.\nBut how s that? didn t he call me a dog? blazes! he called me ten times\na donkey, and piled a lot of jackasses on top of _that!_ He might as\nwell have kicked me, and done with it. Maybe he _did_ kick me, and I\ndidn t observe it, I was so taken all aback with his brow, somehow. It\nflashed like a bleached bone. What the devil s the matter with me? I\ndon t stand right on my legs. Coming afoul of that old man has a sort\nof turned me wrong side out. By the Lord, I must have been dreaming,\nthough How? how? how? but the only way s to stash it; so here goes to\nhammock again; and in the morning, I ll see how this plaguey juggling\nthinks over by daylight. \n\n\nCHAPTER 30. The Pipe.\n\nWhen Stubb had departed, Ahab stood for a while leaning over the\nbulwarks; and then, as had been usual with him of late, calling a\nsailor of the watch, he sent him below for his ivory stool, and also\nhis pipe. Lighting the pipe at the binnacle lamp and planting the stool\non the weather side of the deck, he sat and smoked.\n\nIn old Norse times, the thrones of the sea-loving Danish kings were\nfabricated, saith tradition, of the tusks of the narwhale. How could\none look at Ahab then, seated on that tripod of bones, without\nbethinking him of the royalty it symbolized? For a Khan of the plank,\nand a king of the sea, and a great lord of Leviathans was Ahab.\n\nSome moments passed, during which the thick vapor came from his mouth\nin quick and constant puffs, which blew back again into his face.  How\nnow,  he soliloquized at last, withdrawing the tube,  this smoking no\nlonger soothes. Oh, my pipe! hard must it go with me if thy charm be\ngone! Here have I been unconsciously toiling, not pleasuring aye, and\nignorantly smoking to windward all the while; to windward, and with\nsuch nervous whiffs, as if, like the dying whale, my final jets were\nthe strongest and fullest of trouble. What business have I with this\npipe? This thing that is meant for sereneness, to send up mild white\nvapors among mild white hairs, not among torn iron-grey locks like\nmine. I ll smoke no more \n\nHe tossed the still lighted pipe into the sea. The fire hissed in the\nwaves; the same instant the ship shot by the bubble the sinking pipe\nmade. With slouched hat, Ahab lurchingly paced the planks.\n\n\nCHAPTER 31. Queen Mab.\n\nNext morning Stubb accosted Flask.\n\n Such a queer dream, King-Post, I never had. You know the old man s\nivory leg, well I dreamed he kicked me with it; and when I tried to\nkick back, upon my soul, my little man, I kicked my leg right off! And\nthen, presto! Ahab seemed a pyramid, and I, like a blazing fool, kept\nkicking at it. But what was still more curious, Flask you know how\ncurious all dreams are through all this rage that I was in, I somehow\nseemed to be thinking to myself, that after all, it was not much of an\ninsult, that kick from Ahab.  Why,  thinks I,  what s the row? It s not\na real leg, only a false leg.  And there s a mighty difference between\na living thump and a dead thump. That s what makes a blow from the\nhand, Flask, fifty times more savage to bear than a blow from a cane.\nThe living member that makes the living insult, my little man. And\nthinks I to myself all the while, mind, while I was stubbing my silly\ntoes against that cursed pyramid so confoundedly contradictory was it\nall, all the while, I say, I was thinking to myself,  what s his leg\nnow, but a cane a whalebone cane. Yes,  thinks I,  it was only a\nplayful cudgelling in fact, only a whaleboning that he gave me not a\nbase kick. Besides,  thinks I,  look at it once; why, the end of it the\nfoot part what a small sort of end it is; whereas, if a broad footed\nfarmer kicked me, _there s_ a devilish broad insult. But this insult is\nwhittled down to a point only.  But now comes the greatest joke of the\ndream, Flask. While I was battering away at the pyramid, a sort of\nbadger-haired old merman, with a hump on his back, takes me by the\nshoulders, and slews me round.  What are you  bout?  says he. Slid!\nman, but I was frightened. Such a phiz! But, somehow, next moment I was\nover the fright.  What am I about?  says I at last.  And what business\nis that of yours, I should like to know, Mr. Humpback? Do _you_ want a\nkick?  By the lord, Flask, I had no sooner said that, than he turned\nround his stern to me, bent over, and dragging up a lot of seaweed he\nhad for a clout what do you think, I saw? why thunder alive, man, his\nstern was stuck full of marlinspikes, with the points out. Says I, on\nsecond thoughts,  I guess I won t kick you, old fellow.   Wise Stubb, \nsaid he,  wise Stubb;  and kept muttering it all the time, a sort of\neating of his own gums like a chimney hag. Seeing he wasn t going to\nstop saying over his  wise Stubb, wise Stubb,  I thought I might as\nwell fall to kicking the pyramid again. But I had only just lifted my\nfoot for it, when he roared out,  Stop that kicking!   Halloa,  says I,\n what s the matter now, old fellow?   Look ye here,  says he;  let s\nargue the insult. Captain Ahab kicked ye, didn t he?   Yes, he did, \nsays I right _here_ it was.   Very good,  says he he used his ivory\nleg, didn t he?   Yes, he did,  says I.  Well then,  says he,  wise\nStubb, what have you to complain of? Didn t he kick with right good\nwill? it wasn t a common pitch pine leg he kicked with, was it? No, you\nwere kicked by a great man, and with a beautiful ivory leg, Stubb. It s\nan honor; I consider it an honor. Listen, wise Stubb. In old England\nthe greatest lords think it great glory to be slapped by a queen, and\nmade garter-knights of; but, be _your_ boast, Stubb, that ye were\nkicked by old Ahab, and made a wise man of. Remember what I say; _be_\nkicked by him; account his kicks honors; and on no account kick back;\nfor you can t help yourself, wise Stubb. Don t you see that pyramid? \nWith that, he all of a sudden seemed somehow, in some queer fashion, to\nswim off into the air. I snored; rolled over; and there I was in my\nhammock! Now, what do you think of that dream, Flask? \n\n I don t know; it seems a sort of foolish to me, tho. \n\n May be; may be. But it s made a wise man of me, Flask. D ye see Ahab\nstanding there, sideways looking over the stern? Well, the best thing\nyou can do, Flask, is to let the old man alone; never speak to him,\nwhatever he says. Halloa! What s that he shouts? Hark! \n\n Mast-head, there! Look sharp, all of ye! There are whales hereabouts!\n\n If ye see a white one, split your lungs for him!\n\n What do you think of that now, Flask? ain t there a small drop of\nsomething queer about that, eh? A white whale did ye mark that, man?\nLook ye there s something special in the wind. Stand by for it, Flask.\nAhab has that that s bloody on his mind. But, mum; he comes this way. \n\n\nCHAPTER 32. Cetology.\n\nAlready we are boldly launched upon the deep; but soon we shall be lost\nin its unshored, harbourless immensities. Ere that come to pass; ere\nthe Pequod s weedy hull rolls side by side with the barnacled hulls of\nthe leviathan; at the outset it is but well to attend to a matter\nalmost indispensable to a thorough appreciative understanding of the\nmore special leviathanic revelations and allusions of all sorts which\nare to follow.\n\nIt is some systematized exhibition of the whale in his broad genera,\nthat I would now fain put before you. Yet is it no easy task. The\nclassification of the constituents of a chaos, nothing less is here\nessayed. Listen to what the best and latest authorities have laid down.\n\n No branch of Zoology is so much involved as that which is entitled\nCetology,  says Captain Scoresby, A.D. 1820.\n\n It is not my intention, were it in my power, to enter into the inquiry\nas to the true method of dividing the cetacea into groups and families.\n* * * Utter confusion exists among the historians of this animal \n(sperm whale), says Surgeon Beale, A.D. 1839.\n\n Unfitness to pursue our research in the unfathomable waters. \n Impenetrable veil covering our knowledge of the cetacea.   A field\nstrewn with thorns.   All these incomplete indications but serve to\ntorture us naturalists. \n\nThus speak of the whale, the great Cuvier, and John Hunter, and Lesson,\nthose lights of zoology and anatomy. Nevertheless, though of real\nknowledge there be little, yet of books there are a plenty; and so in\nsome small degree, with cetology, or the science of whales. Many are\nthe men, small and great, old and new, landsmen and seamen, who have at\nlarge or in little, written of the whale. Run over a few: The Authors\nof the Bible; Aristotle; Pliny; Aldrovandi; Sir Thomas Browne; Gesner;\nRay; Linn us; Rondeletius; Willoughby; Green; Artedi; Sibbald; Brisson;\nMarten; Lac p de; Bonneterre; Desmarest; Baron Cuvier; Frederick\nCuvier; John Hunter; Owen; Scoresby; Beale; Bennett; J. Ross Browne;\nthe Author of Miriam Coffin; Olmstead; and the Rev. T. Cheever. But to\nwhat ultimate generalizing purpose all these have written, the above\ncited extracts will show.\n\nOf the names in this list of whale authors, only those following Owen\never saw living whales; and but one of them was a real professional\nharpooneer and whaleman. I mean Captain Scoresby. On the separate\nsubject of the Greenland or right-whale, he is the best existing\nauthority. But Scoresby knew nothing and says nothing of the great\nsperm whale, compared with which the Greenland whale is almost unworthy\nmentioning. And here be it said, that the Greenland whale is an usurper\nupon the throne of the seas. He is not even by any means the largest of\nthe whales. Yet, owing to the long priority of his claims, and the\nprofound ignorance which, till some seventy years back, invested the\nthen fabulous or utterly unknown sperm-whale, and which ignorance to\nthis present day still reigns in all but some few scientific retreats\nand whale-ports; this usurpation has been every way complete. Reference\nto nearly all the leviathanic allusions in the great poets of past\ndays, will satisfy you that the Greenland whale, without one rival, was\nto them the monarch of the seas. But the time has at last come for a\nnew proclamation. This is Charing Cross; hear ye! good people all, the\nGreenland whale is deposed, the great sperm whale now reigneth!\n\nThere are only two books in being which at all pretend to put the\nliving sperm whale before you, and at the same time, in the remotest\ndegree succeed in the attempt. Those books are Beale s and Bennett s;\nboth in their time surgeons to English South-Sea whale-ships, and both\nexact and reliable men. The original matter touching the sperm whale to\nbe found in their volumes is necessarily small; but so far as it goes,\nit is of excellent quality, though mostly confined to scientific\ndescription. As yet, however, the sperm whale, scientific or poetic,\nlives not complete in any literature. Far above all other hunted\nwhales, his is an unwritten life.\n\nNow the various species of whales need some sort of popular\ncomprehensive classification, if only an easy outline one for the\npresent, hereafter to be filled in all its departments by subsequent\nlaborers. As no better man advances to take this matter in hand, I\nhereupon offer my own poor endeavors. I promise nothing complete;\nbecause any human thing supposed to be complete, must for that very\nreason infallibly be faulty. I shall not pretend to a minute anatomical\ndescription of the various species, or in this place at least to much\nof any description. My object here is simply to project the draught of\na systematization of cetology. I am the architect, not the builder.\n\nBut it is a ponderous task; no ordinary letter-sorter in the\nPost-Office is equal to it. To grope down into the bottom of the sea\nafter them; to have one s hands among the unspeakable foundations,\nribs, and very pelvis of the world; this is a fearful thing. What am I\nthat I should essay to hook the nose of this leviathan! The awful\ntauntings in Job might well appal me. Will he (the leviathan) make a\ncovenant with thee? Behold the hope of him is vain! But I have swam\nthrough libraries and sailed through oceans; I have had to do with\nwhales with these visible hands; I am in earnest; and I will try. There\nare some preliminaries to settle.\n\nFirst: The uncertain, unsettled condition of this science of Cetology\nis in the very vestibule attested by the fact, that in some quarters it\nstill remains a moot point whether a whale be a fish. In his System of\nNature, A.D. 1776, Linn us declares,  I hereby separate the whales from\nthe fish.  But of my own knowledge, I know that down to the year 1850,\nsharks and shad, alewives and herring, against Linn us s express edict,\nwere still found dividing the possession of the same seas with the\nLeviathan.\n\nThe grounds upon which Linn us would fain have banished the whales from\nthe waters, he states as follows:  On account of their warm bilocular\nheart, their lungs, their movable eyelids, their hollow ears, penem\nintrantem feminam mammis lactantem,  and finally,  ex lege natur  jure\nmeritoque.  I submitted all this to my friends Simeon Macey and Charley\nCoffin, of Nantucket, both messmates of mine in a certain voyage, and\nthey united in the opinion that the reasons set forth were altogether\ninsufficient. Charley profanely hinted they were humbug.\n\nBe it known that, waiving all argument, I take the good old fashioned\nground that the whale is a fish, and call upon holy Jonah to back me.\nThis fundamental thing settled, the next point is, in what internal\nrespect does the whale differ from other fish. Above, Linn us has given\nyou those items. But in brief, they are these: lungs and warm blood;\nwhereas, all other fish are lungless and cold blooded.\n\nNext: how shall we define the whale, by his obvious externals, so as\nconspicuously to label him for all time to come? To be short, then, a\nwhale is _a spouting fish with a horizontal tail_. There you have him.\nHowever contracted, that definition is the result of expanded\nmeditation. A walrus spouts much like a whale, but the walrus is not a\nfish, because he is amphibious. But the last term of the definition is\nstill more cogent, as coupled with the first. Almost any one must have\nnoticed that all the fish familiar to landsmen have not a flat, but a\nvertical, or up-and-down tail. Whereas, among spouting fish the tail,\nthough it may be similarly shaped, invariably assumes a horizontal\nposition.\n\nBy the above definition of what a whale is, I do by no means exclude\nfrom the leviathanic brotherhood any sea creature hitherto identified\nwith the whale by the best informed Nantucketers; nor, on the other\nhand, link with it any fish hitherto authoritatively regarded as\nalien.* Hence, all the smaller, spouting, and horizontal tailed fish\nmust be included in this ground-plan of Cetology. Now, then, come the\ngrand divisions of the entire whale host.\n\n*I am aware that down to the present time, the fish styled Lamatins and\nDugongs (Pig-fish and Sow-fish of the Coffins of Nantucket) are\nincluded by many naturalists among the whales. But as these pig-fish\nare a noisy, contemptible set, mostly lurking in the mouths of rivers,\nand feeding on wet hay, and especially as they do not spout, I deny\ntheir credentials as whales; and have presented them with their\npassports to quit the Kingdom of Cetology.\n\nFirst: According to magnitude I divide the whales into three primary\nBOOKS (subdivisible into CHAPTERS), and these shall comprehend them\nall, both small and large.\n\nI. THE FOLIO WHALE; II. the OCTAVO WHALE; III. the DUODECIMO WHALE.\n\nAs the type of the FOLIO I present the _Sperm Whale_; of the OCTAVO,\nthe _Grampus_; of the DUODECIMO, the _Porpoise_.\n\nFOLIOS. Among these I here include the following chapters: I. The\n_Sperm Whale_; II. the _Right Whale_; III. the _Fin-Back Whale_; IV.\nthe _Hump-backed Whale_; V. the _Razor Back Whale_; VI. the _Sulphur\nBottom Whale_.\n\nBOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER I. (_Sperm Whale_). This whale, among the\nEnglish of old vaguely known as the Trumpa whale, and the Physeter\nwhale, and the Anvil Headed whale, is the present Cachalot of the\nFrench, and the Pottsfich of the Germans, and the Macrocephalus of the\nLong Words. He is, without doubt, the largest inhabitant of the globe;\nthe most formidable of all whales to encounter; the most majestic in\naspect; and lastly, by far the most valuable in commerce; he being the\nonly creature from which that valuable substance, spermaceti, is\nobtained. All his peculiarities will, in many other places, be enlarged\nupon. It is chiefly with his name that I now have to do. Philologically\nconsidered, it is absurd. Some centuries ago, when the Sperm whale was\nalmost wholly unknown in his own proper individuality, and when his oil\nwas only accidentally obtained from the stranded fish; in those days\nspermaceti, it would seem, was popularly supposed to be derived from a\ncreature identical with the one then known in England as the Greenland\nor Right Whale. It was the idea also, that this same spermaceti was\nthat quickening humor of the Greenland Whale which the first syllable\nof the word literally expresses. In those times, also, spermaceti was\nexceedingly scarce, not being used for light, but only as an ointment\nand medicament. It was only to be had from the druggists as you\nnowadays buy an ounce of rhubarb. When, as I opine, in the course of\ntime, the true nature of spermaceti became known, its original name was\nstill retained by the dealers; no doubt to enhance its value by a\nnotion so strangely significant of its scarcity. And so the appellation\nmust at last have come to be bestowed upon the whale from which this\nspermaceti was really derived.\n\nBOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER II. (_Right Whale_). In one respect this is\nthe most venerable of the leviathans, being the one first regularly\nhunted by man. It yields the article commonly known as whalebone or\nbaleen; and the oil specially known as  whale oil,  an inferior article\nin commerce. Among the fishermen, he is indiscriminately designated by\nall the following titles: The Whale; the Greenland Whale; the Black\nWhale; the Great Whale; the True Whale; the Right Whale. There is a\ndeal of obscurity concerning the identity of the species thus\nmultitudinously baptised. What then is the whale, which I include in\nthe second species of my Folios? It is the Great Mysticetus of the\nEnglish naturalists; the Greenland Whale of the English whalemen; the\nBaleine Ordinaire of the French whalemen; the Growlands Walfish of the\nSwedes. It is the whale which for more than two centuries past has been\nhunted by the Dutch and English in the Arctic seas; it is the whale\nwhich the American fishermen have long pursued in the Indian ocean, on\nthe Brazil Banks, on the Nor  West Coast, and various other parts of\nthe world, designated by them Right Whale Cruising Grounds.\n\nSome pretend to see a difference between the Greenland whale of the\nEnglish and the right whale of the Americans. But they precisely agree\nin all their grand features; nor has there yet been presented a single\ndeterminate fact upon which to ground a radical distinction. It is by\nendless subdivisions based upon the most inconclusive differences, that\nsome departments of natural history become so repellingly intricate.\nThe right whale will be elsewhere treated of at some length, with\nreference to elucidating the sperm whale.\n\nBOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER III. (_Fin-Back_). Under this head I reckon\na monster which, by the various names of Fin-Back, Tall-Spout, and\nLong-John, has been seen almost in every sea and is commonly the whale\nwhose distant jet is so often descried by passengers crossing the\nAtlantic, in the New York packet-tracks. In the length he attains, and\nin his baleen, the Fin-back resembles the right whale, but is of a less\nportly girth, and a lighter colour, approaching to olive. His great\nlips present a cable-like aspect, formed by the intertwisting, slanting\nfolds of large wrinkles. His grand distinguishing feature, the fin,\nfrom which he derives his name, is often a conspicuous object. This fin\nis some three or four feet long, growing vertically from the hinder\npart of the back, of an angular shape, and with a very sharp pointed\nend. Even if not the slightest other part of the creature be visible,\nthis isolated fin will, at times, be seen plainly projecting from the\nsurface. When the sea is moderately calm, and slightly marked with\nspherical ripples, and this gnomon-like fin stands up and casts shadows\nupon the wrinkled surface, it may well be supposed that the watery\ncircle surrounding it somewhat resembles a dial, with its style and\nwavy hour-lines graved on it. On that Ahaz-dial the shadow often goes\nback. The Fin-Back is not gregarious. He seems a whale-hater, as some\nmen are man-haters. Very shy; always going solitary; unexpectedly\nrising to the surface in the remotest and most sullen waters; his\nstraight and single lofty jet rising like a tall misanthropic spear\nupon a barren plain; gifted with such wondrous power and velocity in\nswimming, as to defy all present pursuit from man; this leviathan seems\nthe banished and unconquerable Cain of his race, bearing for his mark\nthat style upon his back. From having the baleen in his mouth, the\nFin-Back is sometimes included with the right whale, among a theoretic\nspecies denominated _Whalebone whales_, that is, whales with baleen. Of\nthese so called Whalebone whales, there would seem to be several\nvarieties, most of which, however, are little known. Broad-nosed whales\nand beaked whales; pike-headed whales; bunched whales; under-jawed\nwhales and rostrated whales, are the fishermen s names for a few sorts.\n\nIn connection with this appellative of  Whalebone whales,  it is of\ngreat importance to mention, that however such a nomenclature may be\nconvenient in facilitating allusions to some kind of whales, yet it is\nin vain to attempt a clear classification of the Leviathan, founded\nupon either his baleen, or hump, or fin, or teeth; notwithstanding that\nthose marked parts or features very obviously seem better adapted to\nafford the basis for a regular system of Cetology than any other\ndetached bodily distinctions, which the whale, in his kinds, presents.\nHow then? The baleen, hump, back-fin, and teeth; these are things whose\npeculiarities are indiscriminately dispersed among all sorts of whales,\nwithout any regard to what may be the nature of their structure in\nother and more essential particulars. Thus, the sperm whale and the\nhumpbacked whale, each has a hump; but there the similitude ceases.\nThen, this same humpbacked whale and the Greenland whale, each of these\nhas baleen; but there again the similitude ceases. And it is just the\nsame with the other parts above mentioned. In various sorts of whales,\nthey form such irregular combinations; or, in the case of any one of\nthem detached, such an irregular isolation; as utterly to defy all\ngeneral methodization formed upon such a basis. On this rock every one\nof the whale-naturalists has split.\n\nBut it may possibly be conceived that, in the internal parts of the\nwhale, in his anatomy there, at least, we shall be able to hit the\nright classification. Nay; what thing, for example, is there in the\nGreenland whale s anatomy more striking than his baleen? Yet we have\nseen that by his baleen it is impossible correctly to classify the\nGreenland whale. And if you descend into the bowels of the various\nleviathans, why there you will not find distinctions a fiftieth part as\navailable to the systematizer as those external ones already\nenumerated. What then remains? nothing but to take hold of the whales\nbodily, in their entire liberal volume, and boldly sort them that way.\nAnd this is the Bibliographical system here adopted; and it is the only\none that can possibly succeed, for it alone is practicable. To proceed.\n\nBOOK I. (_Folio_) CHAPTER IV. (_Hump Back_). This whale is often seen\non the northern American coast. He has been frequently captured there,\nand towed into harbor. He has a great pack on him like a peddler; or\nyou might call him the Elephant and Castle whale. At any rate, the\npopular name for him does not sufficiently distinguish him, since the\nsperm whale also has a hump though a smaller one. His oil is not very\nvaluable. He has baleen. He is the most gamesome and light-hearted of\nall the whales, making more gay foam and white water generally than any\nother of them.\n\nBOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER V. (_Razor Back_). Of this whale little is\nknown but his name. I have seen him at a distance off Cape Horn. Of a\nretiring nature, he eludes both hunters and philosophers. Though no\ncoward, he has never yet shown any part of him but his back, which\nrises in a long sharp ridge. Let him go. I know little more of him, nor\ndoes anybody else.\n\nBOOK I. (_Folio_), CHAPTER VI. (_Sulphur Bottom_). Another retiring\ngentleman, with a brimstone belly, doubtless got by scraping along the\nTartarian tiles in some of his profounder divings. He is seldom seen;\nat least I have never seen him except in the remoter southern seas, and\nthen always at too great a distance to study his countenance. He is\nnever chased; he would run away with rope-walks of line. Prodigies are\ntold of him. Adieu, Sulphur Bottom! I can say nothing more that is true\nof ye, nor can the oldest Nantucketer.\n\nThus ends BOOK I. (_Folio_), and now begins BOOK II. (_Octavo_).\n\nOCTAVOES.* These embrace the whales of middling magnitude, among which\npresent may be numbered: I., the _Grampus_; II., the _Black Fish_;\nIII., the _Narwhale_; IV., the _Thrasher_; V., the _Killer_.\n\n*Why this book of whales is not denominated the Quarto is very plain.\nBecause, while the whales of this order, though smaller than those of\nthe former order, nevertheless retain a proportionate likeness to them\nin figure, yet the bookbinder s Quarto volume in its dimensioned form\ndoes not preserve the shape of the Folio volume, but the Octavo volume\ndoes.\n\nBOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER I. (_Grampus_). Though this fish, whose\nloud sonorous breathing, or rather blowing, has furnished a proverb to\nlandsmen, is so well known a denizen of the deep, yet is he not\npopularly classed among whales. But possessing all the grand\ndistinctive features of the leviathan, most naturalists have recognised\nhim for one. He is of moderate octavo size, varying from fifteen to\ntwenty-five feet in length, and of corresponding dimensions round the\nwaist. He swims in herds; he is never regularly hunted, though his oil\nis considerable in quantity, and pretty good for light. By some\nfishermen his approach is regarded as premonitory of the advance of the\ngreat sperm whale.\n\nBOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER II. (_Black Fish_). I give the popular\nfishermen s names for all these fish, for generally they are the best.\nWhere any name happens to be vague or inexpressive, I shall say so, and\nsuggest another. I do so now, touching the Black Fish, so-called,\nbecause blackness is the rule among almost all whales. So, call him the\nHyena Whale, if you please. His voracity is well known, and from the\ncircumstance that the inner angles of his lips are curved upwards, he\ncarries an everlasting Mephistophelean grin on his face. This whale\naverages some sixteen or eighteen feet in length. He is found in almost\nall latitudes. He has a peculiar way of showing his dorsal hooked fin\nin swimming, which looks something like a Roman nose. When not more\nprofitably employed, the sperm whale hunters sometimes capture the\nHyena whale, to keep up the supply of cheap oil for domestic\nemployment as some frugal housekeepers, in the absence of company, and\nquite alone by themselves, burn unsavory tallow instead of odorous wax.\nThough their blubber is very thin, some of these whales will yield you\nupwards of thirty gallons of oil.\n\nBOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER III. (_Narwhale_), that is, _Nostril\nwhale_. Another instance of a curiously named whale, so named I suppose\nfrom his peculiar horn being originally mistaken for a peaked nose. The\ncreature is some sixteen feet in length, while its horn averages five\nfeet, though some exceed ten, and even attain to fifteen feet. Strictly\nspeaking, this horn is but a lengthened tusk, growing out from the jaw\nin a line a little depressed from the horizontal. But it is only found\non the sinister side, which has an ill effect, giving its owner\nsomething analogous to the aspect of a clumsy left-handed man. What\nprecise purpose this ivory horn or lance answers, it would be hard to\nsay. It does not seem to be used like the blade of the sword-fish and\nbill-fish; though some sailors tell me that the Narwhale employs it for\na rake in turning over the bottom of the sea for food. Charley Coffin\nsaid it was used for an ice-piercer; for the Narwhale, rising to the\nsurface of the Polar Sea, and finding it sheeted with ice, thrusts his\nhorn up, and so breaks through. But you cannot prove either of these\nsurmises to be correct. My own opinion is, that however this one-sided\nhorn may really be used by the Narwhale however that may be it would\ncertainly be very convenient to him for a folder in reading pamphlets.\nThe Narwhale I have heard called the Tusked whale, the Horned whale,\nand the Unicorn whale. He is certainly a curious example of the\nUnicornism to be found in almost every kingdom of animated nature. From\ncertain cloistered old authors I have gathered that this same\nsea-unicorn s horn was in ancient days regarded as the great antidote\nagainst poison, and as such, preparations of it brought immense prices.\nIt was also distilled to a volatile salts for fainting ladies, the same\nway that the horns of the male deer are manufactured into hartshorn.\nOriginally it was in itself accounted an object of great curiosity.\nBlack Letter tells me that Sir Martin Frobisher on his return from that\nvoyage, when Queen Bess did gallantly wave her jewelled hand to him\nfrom a window of Greenwich Palace, as his bold ship sailed down the\nThames;  when Sir Martin returned from that voyage,  saith Black\nLetter,  on bended knees he presented to her highness a prodigious long\nhorn of the Narwhale, which for a long period after hung in the castle\nat Windsor.  An Irish author avers that the Earl of Leicester, on\nbended knees, did likewise present to her highness another horn,\npertaining to a land beast of the unicorn nature.\n\nThe Narwhale has a very picturesque, leopard-like look, being of a\nmilk-white ground colour, dotted with round and oblong spots of black.\nHis oil is very superior, clear and fine; but there is little of it,\nand he is seldom hunted. He is mostly found in the circumpolar seas.\n\nBOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER IV. (_Killer_). Of this whale little is\nprecisely known to the Nantucketer, and nothing at all to the professed\nnaturalist. From what I have seen of him at a distance, I should say\nthat he was about the bigness of a grampus. He is very savage a sort of\nFeegee fish. He sometimes takes the great Folio whales by the lip, and\nhangs there like a leech, till the mighty brute is worried to death.\nThe Killer is never hunted. I never heard what sort of oil he has.\nException might be taken to the name bestowed upon this whale, on the\nground of its indistinctness. For we are all killers, on land and on\nsea; Bonapartes and Sharks included.\n\nBOOK II. (_Octavo_), CHAPTER V. (_Thrasher_). This gentleman is famous\nfor his tail, which he uses for a ferule in thrashing his foes. He\nmounts the Folio whale s back, and as he swims, he works his passage by\nflogging him; as some schoolmasters get along in the world by a similar\nprocess. Still less is known of the Thrasher than of the Killer. Both\nare outlaws, even in the lawless seas.\n\n Thus ends BOOK II. (_Octavo_), and begins BOOK III. (_Duodecimo_).\n\nDUODECIMOES. These include the smaller whales. I. The Huzza Porpoise.\nII. The Algerine Porpoise. III. The Mealy-mouthed Porpoise.\n\nTo those who have not chanced specially to study the subject, it may\npossibly seem strange, that fishes not commonly exceeding four or five\nfeet should be marshalled among WHALES a word, which, in the popular\nsense, always conveys an idea of hugeness. But the creatures set down\nabove as Duodecimoes are infallibly whales, by the terms of my\ndefinition of what a whale is _i.e._ a spouting fish, with a horizontal\ntail.\n\nBOOK III. (_Duodecimo_), CHAPTER 1. (_Huzza Porpoise_). This is the\ncommon porpoise found almost all over the globe. The name is of my own\nbestowal; for there are more than one sort of porpoises, and something\nmust be done to distinguish them. I call him thus, because he always\nswims in hilarious shoals, which upon the broad sea keep tossing\nthemselves to heaven like caps in a Fourth-of-July crowd. Their\nappearance is generally hailed with delight by the mariner. Full of\nfine spirits, they invariably come from the breezy billows to windward.\nThey are the lads that always live before the wind. They are accounted\na lucky omen. If you yourself can withstand three cheers at beholding\nthese vivacious fish, then heaven help ye; the spirit of godly\ngamesomeness is not in ye. A well-fed, plump Huzza Porpoise will yield\nyou one good gallon of good oil. But the fine and delicate fluid\nextracted from his jaws is exceedingly valuable. It is in request among\njewellers and watchmakers. Sailors put it on their hones. Porpoise meat\nis good eating, you know. It may never have occurred to you that a\nporpoise spouts. Indeed, his spout is so small that it is not very\nreadily discernible. But the next time you have a chance, watch him;\nand you will then see the great Sperm whale himself in miniature.\n\nBOOK III. (_Duodecimo_), CHAPTER II. (_Algerine Porpoise_). A pirate.\nVery savage. He is only found, I think, in the Pacific. He is somewhat\nlarger than the Huzza Porpoise, but much of the same general make.\nProvoke him, and he will buckle to a shark. I have lowered for him many\ntimes, but never yet saw him captured.\n\nBOOK III. (_Duodecimo_), CHAPTER III. (_Mealy-mouthed Porpoise_). The\nlargest kind of Porpoise; and only found in the Pacific, so far as it\nis known. The only English name, by which he has hitherto been\ndesignated, is that of the fishers Right-Whale Porpoise, from the\ncircumstance that he is chiefly found in the vicinity of that Folio. In\nshape, he differs in some degree from the Huzza Porpoise, being of a\nless rotund and jolly girth; indeed, he is of quite a neat and\ngentleman-like figure. He has no fins on his back (most other porpoises\nhave), he has a lovely tail, and sentimental Indian eyes of a hazel\nhue. But his mealy-mouth spoils all. Though his entire back down to his\nside fins is of a deep sable, yet a boundary line, distinct as the mark\nin a ship s hull, called the  bright waist,  that line streaks him from\nstem to stern, with two separate colours, black above and white below.\nThe white comprises part of his head, and the whole of his mouth, which\nmakes him look as if he had just escaped from a felonious visit to a\nmeal-bag. A most mean and mealy aspect! His oil is much like that of\nthe common porpoise.\n\n  * * * * * *\n\nBeyond the DUODECIMO, this system does not proceed, inasmuch as the\nPorpoise is the smallest of the whales. Above, you have all the\nLeviathans of note. But there are a rabble of uncertain, fugitive,\nhalf-fabulous whales, which, as an American whaleman, I know by\nreputation, but not personally. I shall enumerate them by their\nfore-castle appellations; for possibly such a list may be valuable to\nfuture investigators, who may complete what I have here but begun. If\nany of the following whales, shall hereafter be caught and marked, then\nhe can readily be incorporated into this System, according to his\nFolio, Octavo, or Duodecimo magnitude: The Bottle-Nose Whale; the Junk\nWhale; the Pudding-Headed Whale; the Cape Whale; the Leading Whale; the\nCannon Whale; the Scragg Whale; the Coppered Whale; the Elephant Whale;\nthe Iceberg Whale; the Quog Whale; the Blue Whale; etc. From Icelandic,\nDutch, and old English authorities, there might be quoted other lists\nof uncertain whales, blessed with all manner of uncouth names. But I\nomit them as altogether obsolete; and can hardly help suspecting them\nfor mere sounds, full of Leviathanism, but signifying nothing.\n\nFinally: It was stated at the outset, that this system would not be\nhere, and at once, perfected. You cannot but plainly see that I have\nkept my word. But I now leave my cetological System standing thus\nunfinished, even as the great Cathedral of Cologne was left, with the\ncrane still standing upon the top of the uncompleted tower. For small\nerections may be finished by their first architects; grand ones, true\nones, ever leave the copestone to posterity. God keep me from ever\ncompleting anything. This whole book is but a draught nay, but the\ndraught of a draught. Oh, Time, Strength, Cash, and Patience!\n\n\nCHAPTER 33. The Specksnyder.\n\nConcerning the officers of the whale-craft, this seems as good a place\nas any to set down a little domestic peculiarity on ship-board, arising\nfrom the existence of the harpooneer class of officers, a class unknown\nof course in any other marine than the whale-fleet.\n\nThe large importance attached to the harpooneer s vocation is evinced\nby the fact, that originally in the old Dutch Fishery, two centuries\nand more ago, the command of a whale ship was not wholly lodged in the\nperson now called the captain, but was divided between him and an\nofficer called the Specksnyder. Literally this word means Fat-Cutter;\nusage, however, in time made it equivalent to Chief Harpooneer. In\nthose days, the captain s authority was restricted to the navigation\nand general management of the vessel; while over the whale-hunting\ndepartment and all its concerns, the Specksnyder or Chief Harpooneer\nreigned supreme. In the British Greenland Fishery, under the corrupted\ntitle of Specksioneer, this old Dutch official is still retained, but\nhis former dignity is sadly abridged. At present he ranks simply as\nsenior Harpooneer; and as such, is but one of the captain s more\ninferior subalterns. Nevertheless, as upon the good conduct of the\nharpooneers the success of a whaling voyage largely depends, and since\nin the American Fishery he is not only an important officer in the\nboat, but under certain circumstances (night watches on a whaling\nground) the command of the ship s deck is also his; therefore the grand\npolitical maxim of the sea demands, that he should nominally live apart\nfrom the men before the mast, and be in some way distinguished as their\nprofessional superior; though always, by them, familiarly regarded as\ntheir social equal.\n\nNow, the grand distinction drawn between officer and man at sea, is\nthis the first lives aft, the last forward. Hence, in whale-ships and\nmerchantmen alike, the mates have their quarters with the captain; and\nso, too, in most of the American whalers the harpooneers are lodged in\nthe after part of the ship. That is to say, they take their meals in\nthe captain s cabin, and sleep in a place indirectly communicating with\nit.\n\nThough the long period of a Southern whaling voyage (by far the longest\nof all voyages now or ever made by man), the peculiar perils of it, and\nthe community of interest prevailing among a company, all of whom, high\nor low, depend for their profits, not upon fixed wages, but upon their\ncommon luck, together with their common vigilance, intrepidity, and\nhard work; though all these things do in some cases tend to beget a\nless rigorous discipline than in merchantmen generally; yet, never mind\nhow much like an old Mesopotamian family these whalemen may, in some\nprimitive instances, live together; for all that, the punctilious\nexternals, at least, of the quarter-deck are seldom materially relaxed,\nand in no instance done away. Indeed, many are the Nantucket ships in\nwhich you will see the skipper parading his quarter-deck with an elated\ngrandeur not surpassed in any military navy; nay, extorting almost as\nmuch outward homage as if he wore the imperial purple, and not the\nshabbiest of pilot-cloth.\n\nAnd though of all men the moody captain of the Pequod was the least\ngiven to that sort of shallowest assumption; and though the only homage\nhe ever exacted, was implicit, instantaneous obedience; though he\nrequired no man to remove the shoes from his feet ere stepping upon the\nquarter-deck; and though there were times when, owing to peculiar\ncircumstances connected with events hereafter to be detailed, he\naddressed them in unusual terms, whether of condescension or _in\nterrorem_, or otherwise; yet even Captain Ahab was by no means\nunobservant of the paramount forms and usages of the sea.\n\nNor, perhaps, will it fail to be eventually perceived, that behind\nthose forms and usages, as it were, he sometimes masked himself;\nincidentally making use of them for other and more private ends than\nthey were legitimately intended to subserve. That certain sultanism of\nhis brain, which had otherwise in a good degree remained unmanifested;\nthrough those forms that same sultanism became incarnate in an\nirresistible dictatorship. For be a man s intellectual superiority what\nit will, it can never assume the practical, available supremacy over\nother men, without the aid of some sort of external arts and\nentrenchments, always, in themselves, more or less paltry and base.\nThis it is, that for ever keeps God s true princes of the Empire from\nthe world s hustings; and leaves the highest honors that this air can\ngive, to those men who become famous more through their infinite\ninferiority to the choice hidden handful of the Divine Inert, than\nthrough their undoubted superiority over the dead level of the mass.\nSuch large virtue lurks in these small things when extreme political\nsuperstitions invest them, that in some royal instances even to idiot\nimbecility they have imparted potency. But when, as in the case of\nNicholas the Czar, the ringed crown of geographical empire encircles an\nimperial brain; then, the plebeian herds crouch abased before the\ntremendous centralization. Nor, will the tragic dramatist who would\ndepict mortal indomitableness in its fullest sweep and direct swing,\never forget a hint, incidentally so important in his art, as the one\nnow alluded to.\n\nBut Ahab, my Captain, still moves before me in all his Nantucket\ngrimness and shagginess; and in this episode touching Emperors and\nKings, I must not conceal that I have only to do with a poor old\nwhale-hunter like him; and, therefore, all outward majestical trappings\nand housings are denied me. Oh, Ahab! what shall be grand in thee, it\nmust needs be plucked at from the skies, and dived for in the deep, and\nfeatured in the unbodied air!\n\n\nCHAPTER 34. The Cabin-Table.\n\nIt is noon; and Dough-Boy, the steward, thrusting his pale\nloaf-of-bread face from the cabin-scuttle, announces dinner to his lord\nand master; who, sitting in the lee quarter-boat, has just been taking\nan observation of the sun; and is now mutely reckoning the latitude on\nthe smooth, medallion-shaped tablet, reserved for that daily purpose on\nthe upper part of his ivory leg. From his complete inattention to the\ntidings, you would think that moody Ahab had not heard his menial. But\npresently, catching hold of the mizen shrouds, he swings himself to the\ndeck, and in an even, unexhilarated voice, saying,  Dinner, Mr.\nStarbuck,  disappears into the cabin.\n\nWhen the last echo of his sultan s step has died away, and Starbuck,\nthe first Emir, has every reason to suppose that he is seated, then\nStarbuck rouses from his quietude, takes a few turns along the planks,\nand, after a grave peep into the binnacle, says, with some touch of\npleasantness,  Dinner, Mr. Stubb,  and descends the scuttle. The second\nEmir lounges about the rigging awhile, and then slightly shaking the\nmain brace, to see whether it will be all right with that important\nrope, he likewise takes up the old burden, and with a rapid  Dinner,\nMr. Flask,  follows after his predecessors.\n\nBut the third Emir, now seeing himself all alone on the quarter-deck,\nseems to feel relieved from some curious restraint; for, tipping all\nsorts of knowing winks in all sorts of directions, and kicking off his\nshoes, he strikes into a sharp but noiseless squall of a hornpipe right\nover the Grand Turk s head; and then, by a dexterous sleight, pitching\nhis cap up into the mizentop for a shelf, he goes down rollicking so\nfar at least as he remains visible from the deck, reversing all other\nprocessions, by bringing up the rear with music. But ere stepping into\nthe cabin doorway below, he pauses, ships a new face altogether, and,\nthen, independent, hilarious little Flask enters King Ahab s presence,\nin the character of Abjectus, or the Slave.\n\nIt is not the least among the strange things bred by the intense\nartificialness of sea-usages, that while in the open air of the deck\nsome officers will, upon provocation, bear themselves boldly and\ndefyingly enough towards their commander; yet, ten to one, let those\nvery officers the next moment go down to their customary dinner in that\nsame commander s cabin, and straightway their inoffensive, not to say\ndeprecatory and humble air towards him, as he sits at the head of the\ntable; this is marvellous, sometimes most comical. Wherefore this\ndifference? A problem? Perhaps not. To have been Belshazzar, King of\nBabylon; and to have been Belshazzar, not haughtily but courteously,\ntherein certainly must have been some touch of mundane grandeur. But he\nwho in the rightly regal and intelligent spirit presides over his own\nprivate dinner-table of invited guests, that man s unchallenged power\nand dominion of individual influence for the time; that man s royalty\nof state transcends Belshazzar s, for Belshazzar was not the greatest.\nWho has but once dined his friends, has tasted what it is to be C sar.\nIt is a witchery of social czarship which there is no withstanding.\nNow, if to this consideration you superadd the official supremacy of a\nship-master, then, by inference, you will derive the cause of that\npeculiarity of sea-life just mentioned.\n\nOver his ivory-inlaid table, Ahab presided like a mute, maned sea-lion\non the white coral beach, surrounded by his warlike but still\ndeferential cubs. In his own proper turn, each officer waited to be\nserved. They were as little children before Ahab; and yet, in Ahab,\nthere seemed not to lurk the smallest social arrogance. With one mind,\ntheir intent eyes all fastened upon the old man s knife, as he carved\nthe chief dish before him. I do not suppose that for the world they\nwould have profaned that moment with the slightest observation, even\nupon so neutral a topic as the weather. No! And when reaching out his\nknife and fork, between which the slice of beef was locked, Ahab\nthereby motioned Starbuck s plate towards him, the mate received his\nmeat as though receiving alms; and cut it tenderly; and a little\nstarted if, perchance, the knife grazed against the plate; and chewed\nit noiselessly; and swallowed it, not without circumspection. For, like\nthe Coronation banquet at Frankfort, where the German Emperor\nprofoundly dines with the seven Imperial Electors, so these cabin meals\nwere somehow solemn meals, eaten in awful silence; and yet at table old\nAhab forbade not conversation; only he himself was dumb. What a relief\nit was to choking Stubb, when a rat made a sudden racket in the hold\nbelow. And poor little Flask, he was the youngest son, and little boy\nof this weary family party. His were the shinbones of the saline beef;\nhis would have been the drumsticks. For Flask to have presumed to help\nhimself, this must have seemed to him tantamount to larceny in the\nfirst degree. Had he helped himself at that table, doubtless, never\nmore would he have been able to hold his head up in this honest world;\nnevertheless, strange to say, Ahab never forbade him. And had Flask\nhelped himself, the chances were Ahab had never so much as noticed it.\nLeast of all, did Flask presume to help himself to butter. Whether he\nthought the owners of the ship denied it to him, on account of its\nclotting his clear, sunny complexion; or whether he deemed that, on so\nlong a voyage in such marketless waters, butter was at a premium, and\ntherefore was not for him, a subaltern; however it was, Flask, alas!\nwas a butterless man!\n\nAnother thing. Flask was the last person down at the dinner, and Flask\nis the first man up. Consider! For hereby Flask s dinner was badly\njammed in point of time. Starbuck and Stubb both had the start of him;\nand yet they also have the privilege of lounging in the rear. If Stubb\neven, who is but a peg higher than Flask, happens to have but a small\nappetite, and soon shows symptoms of concluding his repast, then Flask\nmust bestir himself, he will not get more than three mouthfuls that\nday; for it is against holy usage for Stubb to precede Flask to the\ndeck. Therefore it was that Flask once admitted in private, that ever\nsince he had arisen to the dignity of an officer, from that moment he\nhad never known what it was to be otherwise than hungry, more or less.\nFor what he ate did not so much relieve his hunger, as keep it immortal\nin him. Peace and satisfaction, thought Flask, have for ever departed\nfrom my stomach. I am an officer; but, how I wish I could fish a bit of\nold-fashioned beef in the forecastle, as I used to when I was before\nthe mast. There s the fruits of promotion now; there s the vanity of\nglory: there s the insanity of life! Besides, if it were so that any\nmere sailor of the Pequod had a grudge against Flask in Flask s\nofficial capacity, all that sailor had to do, in order to obtain ample\nvengeance, was to go aft at dinner-time, and get a peep at Flask\nthrough the cabin sky-light, sitting silly and dumfoundered before\nawful Ahab.\n\nNow, Ahab and his three mates formed what may be called the first table\nin the Pequod s cabin. After their departure, taking place in inverted\norder to their arrival, the canvas cloth was cleared, or rather was\nrestored to some hurried order by the pallid steward. And then the\nthree harpooneers were bidden to the feast, they being its residuary\nlegatees. They made a sort of temporary servants  hall of the high and\nmighty cabin.\n\nIn strange contrast to the hardly tolerable constraint and nameless\ninvisible domineerings of the captain s table, was the entire care-free\nlicense and ease, the almost frantic democracy of those inferior\nfellows the harpooneers. While their masters, the mates, seemed afraid\nof the sound of the hinges of their own jaws, the harpooneers chewed\ntheir food with such a relish that there was a report to it. They dined\nlike lords; they filled their bellies like Indian ships all day loading\nwith spices. Such portentous appetites had Queequeg and Tashtego, that\nto fill out the vacancies made by the previous repast, often the pale\nDough-Boy was fain to bring on a great baron of salt-junk, seemingly\nquarried out of the solid ox. And if he were not lively about it, if he\ndid not go with a nimble hop-skip-and-jump, then Tashtego had an\nungentlemanly way of accelerating him by darting a fork at his back,\nharpoon-wise. And once Daggoo, seized with a sudden humor, assisted\nDough-Boy s memory by snatching him up bodily, and thrusting his head\ninto a great empty wooden trencher, while Tashtego, knife in hand,\nbegan laying out the circle preliminary to scalping him. He was\nnaturally a very nervous, shuddering sort of little fellow, this\nbread-faced steward; the progeny of a bankrupt baker and a hospital\nnurse. And what with the standing spectacle of the black terrific Ahab,\nand the periodical tumultuous visitations of these three savages,\nDough-Boy s whole life was one continual lip-quiver. Commonly, after\nseeing the harpooneers furnished with all things they demanded, he\nwould escape from their clutches into his little pantry adjoining, and\nfearfully peep out at them through the blinds of its door, till all was\nover.\n\nIt was a sight to see Queequeg seated over against Tashtego, opposing\nhis filed teeth to the Indian s: crosswise to them, Daggoo seated on\nthe floor, for a bench would have brought his hearse-plumed head to the\nlow carlines; at every motion of his colossal limbs, making the low\ncabin framework to shake, as when an African elephant goes passenger in\na ship. But for all this, the great negro was wonderfully abstemious,\nnot to say dainty. It seemed hardly possible that by such comparatively\nsmall mouthfuls he could keep up the vitality diffused through so\nbroad, baronial, and superb a person. But, doubtless, this noble savage\nfed strong and drank deep of the abounding element of air; and through\nhis dilated nostrils snuffed in the sublime life of the worlds. Not by\nbeef or by bread, are giants made or nourished. But Queequeg, he had a\nmortal, barbaric smack of the lip in eating an ugly sound enough so\nmuch so, that the trembling Dough-Boy almost looked to see whether any\nmarks of teeth lurked in his own lean arms. And when he would hear\nTashtego singing out for him to produce himself, that his bones might\nbe picked, the simple-witted steward all but shattered the crockery\nhanging round him in the pantry, by his sudden fits of the palsy. Nor\ndid the whetstone which the harpooneers carried in their pockets, for\ntheir lances and other weapons; and with which whetstones, at dinner,\nthey would ostentatiously sharpen their knives; that grating sound did\nnot at all tend to tranquillize poor Dough-Boy. How could he forget\nthat in his Island days, Queequeg, for one, must certainly have been\nguilty of some murderous, convivial indiscretions. Alas! Dough-Boy!\nhard fares the white waiter who waits upon cannibals. Not a napkin\nshould he carry on his arm, but a buckler. In good time, though, to his\ngreat delight, the three salt-sea warriors would rise and depart; to\nhis credulous, fable-mongering ears, all their martial bones jingling\nin them at every step, like Moorish scimetars in scabbards.\n\nBut, though these barbarians dined in the cabin, and nominally lived\nthere; still, being anything but sedentary in their habits, they were\nscarcely ever in it except at mealtimes, and just before sleeping-time,\nwhen they passed through it to their own peculiar quarters.\n\nIn this one matter, Ahab seemed no exception to most American whale\ncaptains, who, as a set, rather incline to the opinion that by rights\nthe ship s cabin belongs to them; and that it is by courtesy alone that\nanybody else is, at any time, permitted there. So that, in real truth,\nthe mates and harpooneers of the Pequod might more properly be said to\nhave lived out of the cabin than in it. For when they did enter it, it\nwas something as a street-door enters a house; turning inwards for a\nmoment, only to be turned out the next; and, as a permanent thing,\nresiding in the open air. Nor did they lose much hereby; in the cabin\nwas no companionship; socially, Ahab was inaccessible. Though nominally\nincluded in the census of Christendom, he was still an alien to it. He\nlived in the world, as the last of the Grisly Bears lived in settled\nMissouri. And as when Spring and Summer had departed, that wild Logan\nof the woods, burying himself in the hollow of a tree, lived out the\nwinter there, sucking his own paws; so, in his inclement, howling old\nage, Ahab s soul, shut up in the caved trunk of his body, there fed\nupon the sullen paws of its gloom!\n\n\nCHAPTER 35. The Mast-Head.\n\nIt was during the more pleasant weather, that in due rotation with the\nother seamen my first mast-head came round.\n\nIn most American whalemen the mast-heads are manned almost\nsimultaneously with the vessel s leaving her port; even though she may\nhave fifteen thousand miles, and more, to sail ere reaching her proper\ncruising ground. And if, after a three, four, or five years  voyage she\nis drawing nigh home with anything empty in her say, an empty vial\neven then, her mast-heads are kept manned to the last; and not till her\nskysail-poles sail in among the spires of the port, does she altogether\nrelinquish the hope of capturing one whale more.\n\nNow, as the business of standing mast-heads, ashore or afloat, is a\nvery ancient and interesting one, let us in some measure expatiate\nhere. I take it, that the earliest standers of mast-heads were the old\nEgyptians; because, in all my researches, I find none prior to them.\nFor though their progenitors, the builders of Babel, must doubtless, by\ntheir tower, have intended to rear the loftiest mast-head in all Asia,\nor Africa either; yet (ere the final truck was put to it) as that great\nstone mast of theirs may be said to have gone by the board, in the\ndread gale of God s wrath; therefore, we cannot give these Babel\nbuilders priority over the Egyptians. And that the Egyptians were a\nnation of mast-head standers, is an assertion based upon the general\nbelief among arch ologists, that the first pyramids were founded for\nastronomical purposes: a theory singularly supported by the peculiar\nstair-like formation of all four sides of those edifices; whereby, with\nprodigious long upliftings of their legs, those old astronomers were\nwont to mount to the apex, and sing out for new stars; even as the\nlook-outs of a modern ship sing out for a sail, or a whale just bearing\nin sight. In Saint Stylites, the famous Christian hermit of old times,\nwho built him a lofty stone pillar in the desert and spent the whole\nlatter portion of his life on its summit, hoisting his food from the\nground with a tackle; in him we have a remarkable instance of a\ndauntless stander-of-mast-heads; who was not to be driven from his\nplace by fogs or frosts, rain, hail, or sleet; but valiantly facing\neverything out to the last, literally died at his post. Of modern\nstanders-of-mast-heads we have but a lifeless set; mere stone, iron,\nand bronze men; who, though well capable of facing out a stiff gale,\nare still entirely incompetent to the business of singing out upon\ndiscovering any strange sight. There is Napoleon; who, upon the top of\nthe column of Vendome, stands with arms folded, some one hundred and\nfifty feet in the air; careless, now, who rules the decks below;\nwhether Louis Philippe, Louis Blanc, or Louis the Devil. Great\nWashington, too, stands high aloft on his towering main-mast in\nBaltimore, and like one of Hercules  pillars, his column marks that\npoint of human grandeur beyond which few mortals will go. Admiral\nNelson, also, on a capstan of gun-metal, stands his mast-head in\nTrafalgar Square; and ever when most obscured by that London smoke,\ntoken is yet given that a hidden hero is there; for where there is\nsmoke, must be fire. But neither great Washington, nor Napoleon, nor\nNelson, will answer a single hail from below, however madly invoked to\nbefriend by their counsels the distracted decks upon which they gaze;\nhowever it may be surmised, that their spirits penetrate through the\nthick haze of the future, and descry what shoals and what rocks must be\nshunned.\n\nIt may seem unwarrantable to couple in any respect the mast-head\nstanders of the land with those of the sea; but that in truth it is not\nso, is plainly evinced by an item for which Obed Macy, the sole\nhistorian of Nantucket, stands accountable. The worthy Obed tells us,\nthat in the early times of the whale fishery, ere ships were regularly\nlaunched in pursuit of the game, the people of that island erected\nlofty spars along the sea-coast, to which the look-outs ascended by\nmeans of nailed cleats, something as fowls go upstairs in a hen-house.\nA few years ago this same plan was adopted by the Bay whalemen of New\nZealand, who, upon descrying the game, gave notice to the ready-manned\nboats nigh the beach. But this custom has now become obsolete; turn we\nthen to the one proper mast-head, that of a whale-ship at sea. The\nthree mast-heads are kept manned from sun-rise to sun-set; the seamen\ntaking their regular turns (as at the helm), and relieving each other\nevery two hours. In the serene weather of the tropics it is exceedingly\npleasant the mast-head; nay, to a dreamy meditative man it is\ndelightful. There you stand, a hundred feet above the silent decks,\nstriding along the deep, as if the masts were gigantic stilts, while\nbeneath you and between your legs, as it were, swim the hugest monsters\nof the sea, even as ships once sailed between the boots of the famous\nColossus at old Rhodes. There you stand, lost in the infinite series of\nthe sea, with nothing ruffled but the waves. The tranced ship\nindolently rolls; the drowsy trade winds blow; everything resolves you\ninto languor. For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime\nuneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras\nwith startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into\nunnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt\nsecurities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what\nyou shall have for dinner for all your meals for three years and more\nare snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.\n\nIn one of those southern whalesmen, on a long three or four years \nvoyage, as often happens, the sum of the various hours you spend at the\nmast-head would amount to several entire months. And it is much to be\ndeplored that the place to which you devote so considerable a portion\nof the whole term of your natural life, should be so sadly destitute of\nanything approaching to a cosy inhabitiveness, or adapted to breed a\ncomfortable localness of feeling, such as pertains to a bed, a hammock,\na hearse, a sentry box, a pulpit, a coach, or any other of those small\nand snug contrivances in which men temporarily isolate themselves. Your\nmost usual point of perch is the head of the t  gallant-mast, where you\nstand upon two thin parallel sticks (almost peculiar to whalemen)\ncalled the t  gallant cross-trees. Here, tossed about by the sea, the\nbeginner feels about as cosy as he would standing on a bull s horns. To\nbe sure, in cold weather you may carry your house aloft with you, in\nthe shape of a watch-coat; but properly speaking the thickest\nwatch-coat is no more of a house than the unclad body; for as the soul\nis glued inside of its fleshy tabernacle, and cannot freely move about\nin it, nor even move out of it, without running great risk of perishing\n(like an ignorant pilgrim crossing the snowy Alps in winter); so a\nwatch-coat is not so much of a house as it is a mere envelope, or\nadditional skin encasing you. You cannot put a shelf or chest of\ndrawers in your body, and no more can you make a convenient closet of\nyour watch-coat.\n\nConcerning all this, it is much to be deplored that the mast-heads of a\nsouthern whale ship are unprovided with those enviable little tents or\npulpits, called _crow s-nests_, in which the look-outs of a Greenland\nwhaler are protected from the inclement weather of the frozen seas. In\nthe fireside narrative of Captain Sleet, entitled  A Voyage among the\nIcebergs, in quest of the Greenland Whale, and incidentally for the\nre-discovery of the Lost Icelandic Colonies of Old Greenland;  in this\nadmirable volume, all standers of mast-heads are furnished with a\ncharmingly circumstantial account of the then recently invented\n_crow s-nest_ of the Glacier, which was the name of Captain Sleet s\ngood craft. He called it the _Sleet s crow s-nest_, in honor of\nhimself; he being the original inventor and patentee, and free from all\nridiculous false delicacy, and holding that if we call our own children\nafter our own names (we fathers being the original inventors and\npatentees), so likewise should we denominate after ourselves any other\napparatus we may beget. In shape, the Sleet s crow s-nest is something\nlike a large tierce or pipe; it is open above, however, where it is\nfurnished with a movable side-screen to keep to windward of your head\nin a hard gale. Being fixed on the summit of the mast, you ascend into\nit through a little trap-hatch in the bottom. On the after side, or\nside next the stern of the ship, is a comfortable seat, with a locker\nunderneath for umbrellas, comforters, and coats. In front is a leather\nrack, in which to keep your speaking trumpet, pipe, telescope, and\nother nautical conveniences. When Captain Sleet in person stood his\nmast-head in this crow s-nest of his, he tells us that he always had a\nrifle with him (also fixed in the rack), together with a powder flask\nand shot, for the purpose of popping off the stray narwhales, or\nvagrant sea unicorns infesting those waters; for you cannot\nsuccessfully shoot at them from the deck owing to the resistance of the\nwater, but to shoot down upon them is a very different thing. Now, it\nwas plainly a labor of love for Captain Sleet to describe, as he does,\nall the little detailed conveniences of his crow s-nest; but though he\nso enlarges upon many of these, and though he treats us to a very\nscientific account of his experiments in this crow s-nest, with a small\ncompass he kept there for the purpose of counteracting the errors\nresulting from what is called the  local attraction  of all binnacle\nmagnets; an error ascribable to the horizontal vicinity of the iron in\nthe ship s planks, and in the Glacier s case, perhaps, to there having\nbeen so many broken-down blacksmiths among her crew; I say, that though\nthe Captain is very discreet and scientific here, yet, for all his\nlearned  binnacle deviations,   azimuth compass observations,  and\n approximate errors,  he knows very well, Captain Sleet, that he was\nnot so much immersed in those profound magnetic meditations, as to fail\nbeing attracted occasionally towards that well replenished little\ncase-bottle, so nicely tucked in on one side of his crow s nest, within\neasy reach of his hand. Though, upon the whole, I greatly admire and\neven love the brave, the honest, and learned Captain; yet I take it\nvery ill of him that he should so utterly ignore that case-bottle,\nseeing what a faithful friend and comforter it must have been, while\nwith mittened fingers and hooded head he was studying the mathematics\naloft there in that bird s nest within three or four perches of the\npole.\n\nBut if we Southern whale-fishers are not so snugly housed aloft as\nCaptain Sleet and his Greenlandmen were; yet that disadvantage is\ngreatly counter-balanced by the widely contrasting serenity of those\nseductive seas in which we South fishers mostly float. For one, I used\nto lounge up the rigging very leisurely, resting in the top to have a\nchat with Queequeg, or any one else off duty whom I might find there;\nthen ascending a little way further, and throwing a lazy leg over the\ntop-sail yard, take a preliminary view of the watery pastures, and so\nat last mount to my ultimate destination.\n\nLet me make a clean breast of it here, and frankly admit that I kept\nbut sorry guard. With the problem of the universe revolving in me, how\ncould I being left completely to myself at such a thought-engendering\naltitude how could I but lightly hold my obligations to observe all\nwhale-ships  standing orders,  Keep your weather eye open, and sing out\nevery time. \n\nAnd let me in this place movingly admonish you, ye ship-owners of\nNantucket! Beware of enlisting in your vigilant fisheries any lad with\nlean brow and hollow eye; given to unseasonable meditativeness; and who\noffers to ship with the Ph don instead of Bowditch in his head. Beware\nof such an one, I say; your whales must be seen before they can be\nkilled; and this sunken-eyed young Platonist will tow you ten wakes\nround the world, and never make you one pint of sperm the richer. Nor\nare these monitions at all unneeded. For nowadays, the whale-fishery\nfurnishes an asylum for many romantic, melancholy, and absent-minded\nyoung men, disgusted with the carking cares of earth, and seeking\nsentiment in tar and blubber. Childe Harold not unfrequently perches\nhimself upon the mast-head of some luckless disappointed whale-ship,\nand in moody phrase ejaculates: \n\n\n Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand\nblubber-hunters sweep over thee in vain. \n\n\n\nVery often do the captains of such ships take those absent-minded young\nphilosophers to task, upbraiding them with not feeling sufficient\n interest  in the voyage; half-hinting that they are so hopelessly lost\nto all honorable ambition, as that in their secret souls they would\nrather not see whales than otherwise. But all in vain; those young\nPlatonists have a notion that their vision is imperfect; they are\nshort-sighted; what use, then, to strain the visual nerve? They have\nleft their opera-glasses at home.\n\n Why, thou monkey,  said a harpooneer to one of these lads,  we ve been\ncruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale\nyet. Whales are scarce as hen s teeth whenever thou art up here. \nPerhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in\nthe far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of\nvacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending\ncadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity;\ntakes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep,\nblue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange,\nhalf-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every\ndimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him\nthe embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by\ncontinually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit\nebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space;\nlike Cranmer s sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of\nevery shore the round globe over.\n\nThere is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a\ngently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from\nthe inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on\nye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your\nidentity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And\nperhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled\nshriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no\nmore to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!\n\n\nCHAPTER 36. The Quarter-Deck.\n\n(_Enter Ahab: Then, all._)\n\nIt was not a great while after the affair of the pipe, that one morning\nshortly after breakfast, Ahab, as was his wont, ascended the\ncabin-gangway to the deck. There most sea-captains usually walk at that\nhour, as country gentlemen, after the same meal, take a few turns in\nthe garden.\n\nSoon his steady, ivory stride was heard, as to and fro he paced his old\nrounds, upon planks so familiar to his tread, that they were all over\ndented, like geological stones, with the peculiar mark of his walk. Did\nyou fixedly gaze, too, upon that ribbed and dented brow; there also,\nyou would see still stranger foot-prints the foot-prints of his one\nunsleeping, ever-pacing thought.\n\nBut on the occasion in question, those dents looked deeper, even as his\nnervous step that morning left a deeper mark. And, so full of his\nthought was Ahab, that at every uniform turn that he made, now at the\nmain-mast and now at the binnacle, you could almost see that thought\nturn in him as he turned, and pace in him as he paced; so completely\npossessing him, indeed, that it all but seemed the inward mould of\nevery outer movement.\n\n D ye mark him, Flask?  whispered Stubb;  the chick that s in him pecks\nthe shell.  Twill soon be out. \n\nThe hours wore on; Ahab now shut up within his cabin; anon, pacing the\ndeck, with the same intense bigotry of purpose in his aspect.\n\nIt drew near the close of day. Suddenly he came to a halt by the\nbulwarks, and inserting his bone leg into the auger-hole there, and\nwith one hand grasping a shroud, he ordered Starbuck to send everybody\naft.\n\n Sir!  said the mate, astonished at an order seldom or never given on\nship-board except in some extraordinary case.\n\n Send everybody aft,  repeated Ahab.  Mast-heads, there! come down! \n\nWhen the entire ship s company were assembled, and with curious and not\nwholly unapprehensive faces, were eyeing him, for he looked not unlike\nthe weather horizon when a storm is coming up, Ahab, after rapidly\nglancing over the bulwarks, and then darting his eyes among the crew,\nstarted from his standpoint; and as though not a soul were nigh him\nresumed his heavy turns upon the deck. With bent head and half-slouched\nhat he continued to pace, unmindful of the wondering whispering among\nthe men; till Stubb cautiously whispered to Flask, that Ahab must have\nsummoned them there for the purpose of witnessing a pedestrian feat.\nBut this did not last long. Vehemently pausing, he cried: \n\n What do ye do when ye see a whale, men? \n\n Sing out for him!  was the impulsive rejoinder from a score of clubbed\nvoices.\n\n Good!  cried Ahab, with a wild approval in his tones; observing the\nhearty animation into which his unexpected question had so magnetically\nthrown them.\n\n And what do ye next, men? \n\n Lower away, and after him! \n\n And what tune is it ye pull to, men? \n\n A dead whale or a stove boat! \n\nMore and more strangely and fiercely glad and approving, grew the\ncountenance of the old man at every shout; while the mariners began to\ngaze curiously at each other, as if marvelling how it was that they\nthemselves became so excited at such seemingly purposeless questions.\n\nBut, they were all eagerness again, as Ahab, now half-revolving in his\npivot-hole, with one hand reaching high up a shroud, and tightly,\nalmost convulsively grasping it, addressed them thus: \n\n All ye mast-headers have before now heard me give orders about a white\nwhale. Look ye! d ye see this Spanish ounce of gold? holding up a\nbroad bright coin to the sun it is a sixteen dollar piece, men. D ye\nsee it? Mr. Starbuck, hand me yon top-maul. \n\nWhile the mate was getting the hammer, Ahab, without speaking, was\nslowly rubbing the gold piece against the skirts of his jacket, as if\nto heighten its lustre, and without using any words was meanwhile lowly\nhumming to himself, producing a sound so strangely muffled and\ninarticulate that it seemed the mechanical humming of the wheels of his\nvitality in him.\n\nReceiving the top-maul from Starbuck, he advanced towards the main-mast\nwith the hammer uplifted in one hand, exhibiting the gold with the\nother, and with a high raised voice exclaiming:  Whosoever of ye raises\nme a white-headed whale with a wrinkled brow and a crooked jaw;\nwhosoever of ye raises me that white-headed whale, with three holes\npunctured in his starboard fluke look ye, whosoever of ye raises me\nthat same white whale, he shall have this gold ounce, my boys! \n\n Huzza! huzza!  cried the seamen, as with swinging tarpaulins they\nhailed the act of nailing the gold to the mast.\n\n It s a white whale, I say,  resumed Ahab, as he threw down the\ntopmaul:  a white whale. Skin your eyes for him, men; look sharp for\nwhite water; if ye see but a bubble, sing out. \n\nAll this while Tashtego, Daggoo, and Queequeg had looked on with even\nmore intense interest and surprise than the rest, and at the mention of\nthe wrinkled brow and crooked jaw they had started as if each was\nseparately touched by some specific recollection.\n\n Captain Ahab,  said Tashtego,  that white whale must be the same that\nsome call Moby Dick. \n\n Moby Dick?  shouted Ahab.  Do ye know the white whale then, Tash? \n\n Does he fan-tail a little curious, sir, before he goes down?  said the\nGay-Header deliberately.\n\n And has he a curious spout, too,  said Daggoo,  very bushy, even for a\nparmacetty, and mighty quick, Captain Ahab? \n\n And he have one, two, three oh! good many iron in him hide, too,\nCaptain,  cried Queequeg disjointedly,  all twiske-tee be-twisk, like\nhim him  faltering hard for a word, and screwing his hand round and\nround as though uncorking a bottle like him him \n\n Corkscrew!  cried Ahab,  aye, Queequeg, the harpoons lie all twisted\nand wrenched in him; aye, Daggoo, his spout is a big one, like a whole\nshock of wheat, and white as a pile of our Nantucket wool after the\ngreat annual sheep-shearing; aye, Tashtego, and he fan-tails like a\nsplit jib in a squall. Death and devils! men, it is Moby Dick ye have\nseen Moby Dick Moby Dick! \n\n Captain Ahab,  said Starbuck, who, with Stubb and Flask, had thus far\nbeen eyeing his superior with increasing surprise, but at last seemed\nstruck with a thought which somewhat explained all the wonder.  Captain\nAhab, I have heard of Moby Dick but it was not Moby Dick that took off\nthy leg? \n\n Who told thee that?  cried Ahab; then pausing,  Aye, Starbuck; aye, my\nhearties all round; it was Moby Dick that dismasted me; Moby Dick that\nbrought me to this dead stump I stand on now. Aye, aye,  he shouted\nwith a terrific, loud, animal sob, like that of a heart-stricken moose;\n Aye, aye! it was that accursed white whale that razed me; made a poor\npegging lubber of me for ever and a day!  Then tossing both arms, with\nmeasureless imprecations he shouted out:  Aye, aye! and I ll chase him\nround Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom,\nand round perdition s flames before I give him up. And this is what ye\nhave shipped for, men! to chase that white whale on both sides of land,\nand over all sides of earth, till he spouts black blood and rolls fin\nout. What say ye, men, will ye splice hands on it, now? I think ye do\nlook brave. \n\n Aye, aye!  shouted the harpooneers and seamen, running closer to the\nexcited old man:  A sharp eye for the white whale; a sharp lance for\nMoby Dick! \n\n God bless ye,  he seemed to half sob and half shout.  God bless ye,\nmen. Steward! go draw the great measure of grog. But what s this long\nface about, Mr. Starbuck; wilt thou not chase the white whale? art not\ngame for Moby Dick? \n\n I am game for his crooked jaw, and for the jaws of Death too, Captain\nAhab, if it fairly comes in the way of the business we follow; but I\ncame here to hunt whales, not my commander s vengeance. How many\nbarrels will thy vengeance yield thee even if thou gettest it, Captain\nAhab? it will not fetch thee much in our Nantucket market. \n\n Nantucket market! Hoot! But come closer, Starbuck; thou requirest a\nlittle lower layer. If money s to be the measurer, man, and the\naccountants have computed their great counting-house the globe, by\ngirdling it with guineas, one to every three parts of an inch; then,\nlet me tell thee, that my vengeance will fetch a great premium _here!_ \n\n He smites his chest,  whispered Stubb,  what s that for? methinks it\nrings most vast, but hollow. \n\n Vengeance on a dumb brute!  cried Starbuck,  that simply smote thee\nfrom blindest instinct! Madness! To be enraged with a dumb thing,\nCaptain Ahab, seems blasphemous. \n\n Hark ye yet again the little lower layer. All visible objects, man,\nare but as pasteboard masks. But in each event in the living act, the\nundoubted deed there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth\nthe mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man\nwill strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach\noutside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is\nthat wall, shoved near to me. Sometimes I think there s naught beyond.\nBut  tis enough. He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous\nstrength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable\nthing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the\nwhite whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him. Talk not to me\nof blasphemy, man; I d strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the\nsun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of\nfair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. But not my\nmaster, man, is even that fair play. Who s over me? Truth hath no\nconfines. Take off thine eye! more intolerable than fiends  glarings is\na doltish stare! So, so; thou reddenest and palest; my heat has melted\nthee to anger-glow. But look ye, Starbuck, what is said in heat, that\nthing unsays itself. There are men from whom warm words are small\nindignity. I meant not to incense thee. Let it go. Look! see yonder\nTurkish cheeks of spotted tawn living, breathing pictures painted by\nthe sun. The Pagan leopards the unrecking and unworshipping things,\nthat live; and seek, and give no reasons for the torrid life they feel!\nThe crew, man, the crew! Are they not one and all with Ahab, in this\nmatter of the whale? See Stubb! he laughs! See yonder Chilian! he\nsnorts to think of it. Stand up amid the general hurricane, thy one\ntost sapling cannot, Starbuck! And what is it? Reckon it.  Tis but to\nhelp strike a fin; no wondrous feat for Starbuck. What is it more? From\nthis one poor hunt, then, the best lance out of all Nantucket, surely\nhe will not hang back, when every foremast-hand has clutched a\nwhetstone? Ah! constrainings seize thee; I see! the billow lifts thee!\nSpeak, but speak! Aye, aye! thy silence, then, _that_ voices thee.\n(_Aside_) Something shot from my dilated nostrils, he has inhaled it in\nhis lungs. Starbuck now is mine; cannot oppose me now, without\nrebellion. \n\n God keep me! keep us all!  murmured Starbuck, lowly.\n\nBut in his joy at the enchanted, tacit acquiescence of the mate, Ahab\ndid not hear his foreboding invocation; nor yet the low laugh from the\nhold; nor yet the presaging vibrations of the winds in the cordage; nor\nyet the hollow flap of the sails against the masts, as for a moment\ntheir hearts sank in. For again Starbuck s downcast eyes lighted up\nwith the stubbornness of life; the subterranean laugh died away; the\nwinds blew on; the sails filled out; the ship heaved and rolled as\nbefore. Ah, ye admonitions and warnings! why stay ye not when ye come?\nBut rather are ye predictions than warnings, ye shadows! Yet not so\nmuch predictions from without, as verifications of the foregoing things\nwithin. For with little external to constrain us, the innermost\nnecessities in our being, these still drive us on.\n\n The measure! the measure!  cried Ahab.\n\nReceiving the brimming pewter, and turning to the harpooneers, he\nordered them to produce their weapons. Then ranging them before him\nnear the capstan, with their harpoons in their hands, while his three\nmates stood at his side with their lances, and the rest of the ship s\ncompany formed a circle round the group; he stood for an instant\nsearchingly eyeing every man of his crew. But those wild eyes met his,\nas the bloodshot eyes of the prairie wolves meet the eye of their\nleader, ere he rushes on at their head in the trail of the bison; but,\nalas! only to fall into the hidden snare of the Indian.\n\n Drink and pass!  he cried, handing the heavy charged flagon to the\nnearest seaman.  The crew alone now drink. Round with it, round! Short\ndraughts long swallows, men;  tis hot as Satan s hoof. So, so; it goes\nround excellently. It spiralizes in ye; forks out at the\nserpent-snapping eye. Well done; almost drained. That way it went, this\nway it comes. Hand it me here s a hollow! Men, ye seem the years; so\nbrimming life is gulped and gone. Steward, refill!\n\n Attend now, my braves. I have mustered ye all round this capstan; and\nye mates, flank me with your lances; and ye harpooneers, stand there\nwith your irons; and ye, stout mariners, ring me in, that I may in some\nsort revive a noble custom of my fisherman fathers before me. O men,\nyou will yet see that Ha! boy, come back? bad pennies come not sooner.\nHand it me. Why, now, this pewter had run brimming again, wer t not\nthou St. Vitus  imp away, thou ague!\n\n Advance, ye mates! Cross your lances full before me. Well done! Let me\ntouch the axis.  So saying, with extended arm, he grasped the three\nlevel, radiating lances at their crossed centre; while so doing,\nsuddenly and nervously twitched them; meanwhile, glancing intently from\nStarbuck to Stubb; from Stubb to Flask. It seemed as though, by some\nnameless, interior volition, he would fain have shocked into them the\nsame fiery emotion accumulated within the Leyden jar of his own\nmagnetic life. The three mates quailed before his strong, sustained,\nand mystic aspect. Stubb and Flask looked sideways from him; the honest\neye of Starbuck fell downright.\n\n In vain!  cried Ahab;  but, maybe,  tis well. For did ye three but\nonce take the full-forced shock, then mine own electric thing, _that_\nhad perhaps expired from out me. Perchance, too, it would have dropped\nye dead. Perchance ye need it not. Down lances! And now, ye mates, I do\nappoint ye three cupbearers to my three pagan kinsmen there yon three\nmost honorable gentlemen and noblemen, my valiant harpooneers. Disdain\nthe task? What, when the great Pope washes the feet of beggars, using\nhis tiara for ewer? Oh, my sweet cardinals! your own condescension,\n_that_ shall bend ye to it. I do not order ye; ye will it. Cut your\nseizings and draw the poles, ye harpooneers! \n\nSilently obeying the order, the three harpooneers now stood with the\ndetached iron part of their harpoons, some three feet long, held, barbs\nup, before him.\n\n Stab me not with that keen steel! Cant them; cant them over! know ye\nnot the goblet end? Turn up the socket! So, so; now, ye cup-bearers,\nadvance. The irons! take them; hold them while I fill!  Forthwith,\nslowly going from one officer to the other, he brimmed the harpoon\nsockets with the fiery waters from the pewter.\n\n Now, three to three, ye stand. Commend the murderous chalices! Bestow\nthem, ye who are now made parties to this indissoluble league. Ha!\nStarbuck! but the deed is done! Yon ratifying sun now waits to sit upon\nit. Drink, ye harpooneers! drink and swear, ye men that man the\ndeathful whaleboat s bow Death to Moby Dick! God hunt us all, if we do\nnot hunt Moby Dick to his death!  The long, barbed steel goblets were\nlifted; and to cries and maledictions against the white whale, the\nspirits were simultaneously quaffed down with a hiss. Starbuck paled,\nand turned, and shivered. Once more, and finally, the replenished\npewter went the rounds among the frantic crew; when, waving his free\nhand to them, they all dispersed; and Ahab retired within his cabin.\n\n\nCHAPTER 37. Sunset.\n\n_The cabin; by the stern windows; Ahab sitting alone, and gazing out_.\n\nI leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where er I\nsail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them;\nbut first I pass.\n\nYonder, by ever-brimming goblet s rim, the warm waves blush like wine.\nThe gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun slow dived from noon goes\ndown; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then,\nthe crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it\nbright with many a gem; I the wearer, see not its far flashings; but\ndarkly feel that I wear that, that dazzlingly confounds.  Tis iron that\nI know not gold.  Tis split, too that I feel; the jagged edge galls me\nso, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull,\nmine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight!\n\nDry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred\nme, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not\nme; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne er enjoy. Gifted\nwith the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most\nsubtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise! Good\nnight good night! (_waving his hand, he moves from the window_.)\n\n Twas not so hard a task. I thought to find one stubborn, at the least;\nbut my one cogged circle fits into all their various wheels, and they\nrevolve. Or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of powder, they all\nstand before me; and I their match. Oh, hard! that to fire others, the\nmatch itself must needs be wasting! What I ve dared, I ve willed; and\nwhat I ve willed, I ll do! They think me mad Starbuck does; but I m\ndemoniac, I am madness maddened! That wild madness that s only calm to\ncomprehend itself! The prophecy was that I should be dismembered;\nand Aye! I lost this leg. I now prophesy that I will dismember my\ndismemberer. Now, then, be the prophet and the fulfiller one. That s\nmore than ye, ye great gods, ever were. I laugh and hoot at ye, ye\ncricket-players, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blinded Bendigoes! I\nwill not say as schoolboys do to bullies Take some one of your own\nsize; don t pommel _me!_ No, ye ve knocked me down, and I am up again;\nbut _ye_ have run and hidden. Come forth from behind your cotton bags!\nI have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab s compliments to ye; come\nand see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye\nswerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed\npurpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run.\nOver unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under\ntorrents  beds, unerringly I rush! Naught s an obstacle, naught s an\nangle to the iron way!\n\n\nCHAPTER 38. Dusk.\n\n_By the Mainmast; Starbuck leaning against it_.\n\nMy soul is more than matched; she s overmanned; and by a madman!\nInsufferable sting, that sanity should ground arms on such a field! But\nhe drilled deep down, and blasted all my reason out of me! I think I\nsee his impious end; but feel that I must help him to it. Will I, nill\nI, the ineffable thing has tied me to him; tows me with a cable I have\nno knife to cut. Horrible old man! Who s over him, he cries; aye, he\nwould be a democrat to all above; look, how he lords it over all below!\nOh! I plainly see my miserable office, to obey, rebelling; and worse\nyet, to hate with touch of pity! For in his eyes I read some lurid woe\nwould shrivel me up, had I it. Yet is there hope. Time and tide flow\nwide. The hated whale has the round watery world to swim in, as the\nsmall gold-fish has its glassy globe. His heaven-insulting purpose, God\nmay wedge aside. I would up heart, were it not like lead. But my whole\nclock s run down; my heart the all-controlling weight, I have no key to\nlift again.\n\n[_A burst of revelry from the forecastle_.]\n\nOh, God! to sail with such a heathen crew that have small touch of\nhuman mothers in them! Whelped somewhere by the sharkish sea. The white\nwhale is their demigorgon. Hark! the infernal orgies! that revelry is\nforward! mark the unfaltering silence aft! Methinks it pictures life.\nForemost through the sparkling sea shoots on the gay, embattled,\nbantering bow, but only to drag dark Ahab after it, where he broods\nwithin his sternward cabin, builded over the dead water of the wake,\nand further on, hunted by its wolfish gurglings. The long howl thrills\nme through! Peace! ye revellers, and set the watch! Oh, life!  tis in\nan hour like this, with soul beat down and held to knowledge, as wild,\nuntutored things are forced to feed Oh, life!  tis now that I do feel\nthe latent horror in thee! but  tis not me! that horror s out of me!\nand with the soft feeling of the human in me, yet will I try to fight\nye, ye grim, phantom futures! Stand by me, hold me, bind me, O ye\nblessed influences!\n\n\nCHAPTER 39. First Night-Watch.\n\nFore-Top.\n\n(_Stubb solus, and mending a brace_.)\n\nHa! ha! ha! ha! hem! clear my throat! I ve been thinking over it ever\nsince, and that ha, ha s the final consequence. Why so? Because a\nlaugh s the wisest, easiest answer to all that s queer; and come what\nwill, one comfort s always left that unfailing comfort is, it s all\npredestinated. I heard not all his talk with Starbuck; but to my poor\neye Starbuck then looked something as I the other evening felt. Be sure\nthe old Mogul has fixed him, too. I twigged it, knew it; had had the\ngift, might readily have prophesied it for when I clapped my eye upon\nhis skull I saw it. Well, Stubb, _wise_ Stubb that s my title well,\nStubb, what of it, Stubb? Here s a carcase. I know not all that may be\ncoming, but be it what it will, I ll go to it laughing. Such a waggish\nleering as lurks in all your horribles! I feel funny. Fa, la! lirra,\nskirra! What s my juicy little pear at home doing now? Crying its eyes\nout? Giving a party to the last arrived harpooneers, I dare say, gay as\na frigate s pennant, and so am I fa, la! lirra, skirra! Oh \n\n\nWe ll drink to-night with hearts as light, To love, as gay and fleeting\nAs bubbles that swim, on the beaker s brim, And break on the lips while\nmeeting.\n\n\n\nA brave stave that who calls? Mr. Starbuck? Aye, aye, sir (_Aside_)\nhe s my superior, he has his too, if I m not mistaken. Aye, aye, sir,\njust through with this job coming.\n\n\nCHAPTER 40. Midnight, Forecastle.\n\nHARPOONEERS AND SAILORS.\n\n(_Foresail rises and discovers the watch standing, lounging, leaning,\nand lying in various attitudes, all singing in chorus_.)\n\n\n  Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies! Farewell and adieu to you,\n  ladies of Spain! Our captain s commanded. \n\n\n\n1ST NANTUCKET SAILOR. Oh, boys, don t be sentimental; it s bad for the\ndigestion! Take a tonic, follow me!\n\n(_Sings, and all follow._)\n\n\n Our captain stood upon the deck, A spy-glass in his hand, A viewing of\n those gallant whales That blew at every strand. Oh, your tubs in your\n boats, my boys, And by your braces stand, And we ll have one of those\n fine whales, Hand, boys, over hand! So, be cheery, my lads! may your\n hearts never fail! While the bold harpooner is striking the whale!\n\n\n\nMATE S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Eight bells there, forward!\n\n2ND NANTUCKET SAILOR. Avast the chorus! Eight bells there! d ye hear,\nbell-boy? Strike the bell eight, thou Pip! thou blackling! and let me\ncall the watch. I ve the sort of mouth for that the hogshead mouth. So,\nso, (_thrusts his head down the scuttle_,) Star-bo-l-e-e-n-s, a-h-o-y!\nEight bells there below! Tumble up!\n\nDUTCH SAILOR. Grand snoozing to-night, maty; fat night for that. I mark\nthis in our old Mogul s wine; it s quite as deadening to some as\nfilliping to others. We sing; they sleep aye, lie down there, like\nground-tier butts. At  em again! There, take this copper-pump, and hail\n em through it. Tell  em to avast dreaming of their lasses. Tell  em\nit s the resurrection; they must kiss their last, and come to judgment.\nThat s the way _that s_ it; thy throat ain t spoiled with eating\nAmsterdam butter.\n\nFRENCH SAILOR. Hist, boys! let s have a jig or two before we ride to\nanchor in Blanket Bay. What say ye? There comes the other watch. Stand\nby all legs! Pip! little Pip! hurrah with your tambourine!\n\nPIP. (_Sulky and sleepy._) Don t know where it is.\n\nFRENCH SAILOR. Beat thy belly, then, and wag thy ears. Jig it, men, I\nsay; merry s the word; hurrah! Damn me, won t you dance? Form, now,\nIndian-file, and gallop into the double-shuffle? Throw yourselves!\nLegs! legs!\n\nICELAND SAILOR. I don t like your floor, maty; it s too springy to my\ntaste. I m used to ice-floors. I m sorry to throw cold water on the\nsubject; but excuse me.\n\nMALTESE SAILOR. Me too; where s your girls? Who but a fool would take\nhis left hand by his right, and say to himself, how d ye do? Partners!\nI must have partners!\n\nSICILIAN SAILOR. Aye; girls and a green! then I ll hop with ye; yea,\nturn grasshopper!\n\nLONG-ISLAND SAILOR. Well, well, ye sulkies, there s plenty more of us.\nHoe corn when you may, say I. All legs go to harvest soon. Ah! here\ncomes the music; now for it!\n\nAZORE SAILOR. (_Ascending, and pitching the tambourine up the\nscuttle_.) Here you are, Pip; and there s the windlass-bitts; up you\nmount! Now, boys! (_The half of them dance to the tambourine; some go\nbelow; some sleep or lie among the coils of rigging. Oaths a-plenty_.)\n\nAZORE SAILOR. (_Dancing_) Go it, Pip! Bang it, bell-boy! Rig it, dig\nit, stig it, quig it, bell-boy! Make fire-flies; break the jinglers!\n\nPIP. Jinglers, you say? there goes another, dropped off; I pound it so.\n\nCHINA SAILOR. Rattle thy teeth, then, and pound away; make a pagoda of\nthyself.\n\nFRENCH SAILOR. Merry-mad! Hold up thy hoop, Pip, till I jump through\nit! Split jibs! tear yourselves!\n\nTASHTEGO. (_Quietly smoking._) That s a white man; he calls that fun:\nhumph! I save my sweat.\n\nOLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what\nthey are dancing over. I ll dance over your grave, I will that s the\nbitterest threat of your night-women, that beat head-winds round\ncorners. O Christ! to think of the green navies and the green-skulled\ncrews! Well, well; belike the whole world s a ball, as you scholars\nhave it; and so  tis right to make one ballroom of it. Dance on, lads,\nyou re young; I was once.\n\n3D NANTUCKET SAILOR. Spell oh! whew! this is worse than pulling after\nwhales in a calm give us a whiff, Tash.\n\n(_They cease dancing, and gather in clusters. Meantime the sky\ndarkens the wind rises_.)\n\nLASCAR SAILOR. By Brahma! boys, it ll be douse sail soon. The sky-born,\nhigh-tide Ganges turned to wind! Thou showest thy black brow, Seeva!\n\nMALTESE SAILOR. (_Reclining and shaking his cap_.) It s the waves the\nsnow s caps turn to jig it now. They ll shake their tassels soon. Now\nwould all the waves were women, then I d go drown, and chassee with\nthem evermore! There s naught so sweet on earth heaven may not match\nit! as those swift glances of warm, wild bosoms in the dance, when the\nover-arboring arms hide such ripe, bursting grapes.\n\nSICILIAN SAILOR. (_Reclining_.) Tell me not of it! Hark ye, lad fleet\ninterlacings of the limbs lithe swayings coyings flutterings! lip!\nheart! hip! all graze: unceasing touch and go! not taste, observe ye,\nelse come satiety. Eh, Pagan? (_Nudging_.)\n\nTAHITAN SAILOR. (_Reclining on a mat_.) Hail, holy nakedness of our\ndancing girls! the Heeva-Heeva! Ah! low veiled, high palmed Tahiti! I\nstill rest me on thy mat, but the soft soil has slid! I saw thee woven\nin the wood, my mat! green the first day I brought ye thence; now worn\nand wilted quite. Ah me! not thou nor I can bear the change! How then,\nif so be transplanted to yon sky? Hear I the roaring streams from\nPirohitee s peak of spears, when they leap down the crags and drown the\nvillages? The blast! the blast! Up, spine, and meet it! (_Leaps to his\nfeet_.)\n\nPORTUGUESE SAILOR. How the sea rolls swashing  gainst the side! Stand\nby for reefing, hearties! the winds are just crossing swords, pell-mell\nthey ll go lunging presently.\n\nDANISH SAILOR. Crack, crack, old ship! so long as thou crackest, thou\nholdest! Well done! The mate there holds ye to it stiffly. He s no more\nafraid than the isle fort at Cattegat, put there to fight the Baltic\nwith storm-lashed guns, on which the sea-salt cakes!\n\n4TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. He has his orders, mind ye that. I heard old Ahab\ntell him he must always kill a squall, something as they burst a\nwaterspout with a pistol fire your ship right into it!\n\nENGLISH SAILOR. Blood! but that old man s a grand old cove! We are the\nlads to hunt him up his whale!\n\nALL. Aye! aye!\n\nOLD MANX SAILOR. How the three pines shake! Pines are the hardest sort\nof tree to live when shifted to any other soil, and here there s none\nbut the crew s cursed clay. Steady, helmsman! steady. This is the sort\nof weather when brave hearts snap ashore, and keeled hulls split at\nsea. Our captain has his birthmark; look yonder, boys, there s another\nin the sky lurid-like, ye see, all else pitch black.\n\nDAGGOO. What of that? Who s afraid of black s afraid of me! I m\nquarried out of it!\n\nSPANISH SAILOR. (_Aside_.) He wants to bully, ah! the old grudge makes\nme touchy (_Advancing_.) Aye, harpooneer, thy race is the undeniable\ndark side of mankind devilish dark at that. No offence.\n\nDAGGOO (_grimly_). None.\n\nST. JAGO S SAILOR. That Spaniard s mad or drunk. But that can t be, or\nelse in his one case our old Mogul s fire-waters are somewhat long in\nworking.\n\n5TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. What s that I saw lightning? Yes.\n\nSPANISH SAILOR. No; Daggoo showing his teeth.\n\nDAGGOO (_springing_). Swallow thine, mannikin! White skin, white liver!\n\nSPANISH SAILOR (_meeting him_). Knife thee heartily! big frame, small\nspirit!\n\nALL. A row! a row! a row!\n\nTASHTEGO (_with a whiff_). A row a low, and a row aloft Gods and\nmen both brawlers! Humph!\n\nBELFAST SAILOR. A row! arrah a row! The Virgin be blessed, a row!\nPlunge in with ye!\n\nENGLISH SAILOR. Fair play! Snatch the Spaniard s knife! A ring, a ring!\n\nOLD MANX SAILOR. Ready formed. There! the ringed horizon. In that ring\nCain struck Abel. Sweet work, right work! No? Why then, God, mad st\nthou the ring?\n\nMATE S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Hands by the halyards! in\ntop-gallant sails! Stand by to reef topsails!\n\nALL. The squall! the squall! jump, my jollies! (_They scatter_.)\n\nPIP (_shrinking under the windlass_). Jollies? Lord help such jollies!\nCrish, crash! there goes the jib-stay! Blang-whang! God! Duck lower,\nPip, here comes the royal yard! It s worse than being in the whirled\nwoods, the last day of the year! Who d go climbing after chestnuts now?\nBut there they go, all cursing, and here I don t. Fine prospects to\n em; they re on the road to heaven. Hold on hard! Jimmini, what a\nsquall! But those chaps there are worse yet they are your white\nsqualls, they. White squalls? white whale, shirr! shirr! Here have I\nheard all their chat just now, and the white whale shirr! shirr! but\nspoken of once! and only this evening it makes me jingle all over like\nmy tambourine that anaconda of an old man swore  em in to hunt him! Oh,\nthou big white God aloft there somewhere in yon darkness, have mercy on\nthis small black boy down here; preserve him from all men that have no\nbowels to feel fear!\n\n\nCHAPTER 41. Moby Dick.\n\nI, Ishmael, was one of that crew; my shouts had gone up with the rest;\nmy oath had been welded with theirs; and stronger I shouted, and more\ndid I hammer and clinch my oath, because of the dread in my soul. A\nwild, mystical, sympathetical feeling was in me; Ahab s quenchless feud\nseemed mine. With greedy ears I learned the history of that murderous\nmonster against whom I and all the others had taken our oaths of\nviolence and revenge.\n\nFor some time past, though at intervals only, the unaccompanied,\nsecluded White Whale had haunted those uncivilized seas mostly\nfrequented by the Sperm Whale fishermen. But not all of them knew of\nhis existence; only a few of them, comparatively, had knowingly seen\nhim; while the number who as yet had actually and knowingly given\nbattle to him, was small indeed. For, owing to the large number of\nwhale-cruisers; the disorderly way they were sprinkled over the entire\nwatery circumference, many of them adventurously pushing their quest\nalong solitary latitudes, so as seldom or never for a whole twelvemonth\nor more on a stretch, to encounter a single news-telling sail of any\nsort; the inordinate length of each separate voyage; the irregularity\nof the times of sailing from home; all these, with other circumstances,\ndirect and indirect, long obstructed the spread through the whole\nworld-wide whaling-fleet of the special individualizing tidings\nconcerning Moby Dick. It was hardly to be doubted, that several vessels\nreported to have encountered, at such or such a time, or on such or\nsuch a meridian, a Sperm Whale of uncommon magnitude and malignity,\nwhich whale, after doing great mischief to his assailants, had\ncompletely escaped them; to some minds it was not an unfair\npresumption, I say, that the whale in question must have been no other\nthan Moby Dick. Yet as of late the Sperm Whale fishery had been marked\nby various and not unfrequent instances of great ferocity, cunning, and\nmalice in the monster attacked; therefore it was, that those who by\naccident ignorantly gave battle to Moby Dick; such hunters, perhaps,\nfor the most part, were content to ascribe the peculiar terror he bred,\nmore, as it were, to the perils of the Sperm Whale fishery at large,\nthan to the individual cause. In that way, mostly, the disastrous\nencounter between Ahab and the whale had hitherto been popularly\nregarded.\n\nAnd as for those who, previously hearing of the White Whale, by chance\ncaught sight of him; in the beginning of the thing they had every one\nof them, almost, as boldly and fearlessly lowered for him, as for any\nother whale of that species. But at length, such calamities did ensue\nin these assaults not restricted to sprained wrists and ankles, broken\nlimbs, or devouring amputations but fatal to the last degree of\nfatality; those repeated disastrous repulses, all accumulating and\npiling their terrors upon Moby Dick; those things had gone far to shake\nthe fortitude of many brave hunters, to whom the story of the White\nWhale had eventually come.\n\nNor did wild rumors of all sorts fail to exaggerate, and still the more\nhorrify the true histories of these deadly encounters. For not only do\nfabulous rumors naturally grow out of the very body of all surprising\nterrible events, as the smitten tree gives birth to its fungi; but, in\nmaritime life, far more than in that of terra firma, wild rumors\nabound, wherever there is any adequate reality for them to cling to.\nAnd as the sea surpasses the land in this matter, so the whale fishery\nsurpasses every other sort of maritime life, in the wonderfulness and\nfearfulness of the rumors which sometimes circulate there. For not only\nare whalemen as a body unexempt from that ignorance and\nsuperstitiousness hereditary to all sailors; but of all sailors, they\nare by all odds the most directly brought into contact with whatever is\nappallingly astonishing in the sea; face to face they not only eye its\ngreatest marvels, but, hand to jaw, give battle to them. Alone, in such\nremotest waters, that though you sailed a thousand miles, and passed a\nthousand shores, you would not come to any chiseled hearth-stone, or\naught hospitable beneath that part of the sun; in such latitudes and\nlongitudes, pursuing too such a calling as he does, the whaleman is\nwrapped by influences all tending to make his fancy pregnant with many\na mighty birth.\n\nNo wonder, then, that ever gathering volume from the mere transit over\nthe widest watery spaces, the outblown rumors of the White Whale did in\nthe end incorporate with themselves all manner of morbid hints, and\nhalf-formed f tal suggestions of supernatural agencies, which\neventually invested Moby Dick with new terrors unborrowed from anything\nthat visibly appears. So that in many cases such a panic did he finally\nstrike, that few who by those rumors, at least, had heard of the White\nWhale, few of those hunters were willing to encounter the perils of his\njaw.\n\nBut there were still other and more vital practical influences at work.\nNot even at the present day has the original prestige of the Sperm\nWhale, as fearfully distinguished from all other species of the\nleviathan, died out of the minds of the whalemen as a body. There are\nthose this day among them, who, though intelligent and courageous\nenough in offering battle to the Greenland or Right whale, would\nperhaps either from professional inexperience, or incompetency, or\ntimidity, decline a contest with the Sperm Whale; at any rate, there\nare plenty of whalemen, especially among those whaling nations not\nsailing under the American flag, who have never hostilely encountered\nthe Sperm Whale, but whose sole knowledge of the leviathan is\nrestricted to the ignoble monster primitively pursued in the North;\nseated on their hatches, these men will hearken with a childish\nfireside interest and awe, to the wild, strange tales of Southern\nwhaling. Nor is the pre-eminent tremendousness of the great Sperm Whale\nanywhere more feelingly comprehended, than on board of those prows\nwhich stem him.\n\nAnd as if the now tested reality of his might had in former legendary\ntimes thrown its shadow before it; we find some book\nnaturalists Olassen and Povelson declaring the Sperm Whale not only to\nbe a consternation to every other creature in the sea, but also to be\nso incredibly ferocious as continually to be athirst for human blood.\nNor even down to so late a time as Cuvier s, were these or almost\nsimilar impressions effaced. For in his Natural History, the Baron\nhimself affirms that at sight of the Sperm Whale, all fish (sharks\nincluded) are  struck with the most lively terrors,  and  often in the\nprecipitancy of their flight dash themselves against the rocks with\nsuch violence as to cause instantaneous death.  And however the general\nexperiences in the fishery may amend such reports as these; yet in\ntheir full terribleness, even to the bloodthirsty item of Povelson, the\nsuperstitious belief in them is, in some vicissitudes of their\nvocation, revived in the minds of the hunters.\n\nSo that overawed by the rumors and portents concerning him, not a few\nof the fishermen recalled, in reference to Moby Dick, the earlier days\nof the Sperm Whale fishery, when it was oftentimes hard to induce long\npractised Right whalemen to embark in the perils of this new and daring\nwarfare; such men protesting that although other leviathans might be\nhopefully pursued, yet to chase and point lance at such an apparition\nas the Sperm Whale was not for mortal man. That to attempt it, would be\ninevitably to be torn into a quick eternity. On this head, there are\nsome remarkable documents that may be consulted.\n\nNevertheless, some there were, who even in the face of these things\nwere ready to give chase to Moby Dick; and a still greater number who,\nchancing only to hear of him distantly and vaguely, without the\nspecific details of any certain calamity, and without superstitious\naccompaniments, were sufficiently hardy not to flee from the battle if\noffered.\n\nOne of the wild suggestions referred to, as at last coming to be linked\nwith the White Whale in the minds of the superstitiously inclined, was\nthe unearthly conceit that Moby Dick was ubiquitous; that he had\nactually been encountered in opposite latitudes at one and the same\ninstant of time.\n\nNor, credulous as such minds must have been, was this conceit\naltogether without some faint show of superstitious probability. For as\nthe secrets of the currents in the seas have never yet been divulged,\neven to the most erudite research; so the hidden ways of the Sperm\nWhale when beneath the surface remain, in great part, unaccountable to\nhis pursuers; and from time to time have originated the most curious\nand contradictory speculations regarding them, especially concerning\nthe mystic modes whereby, after sounding to a great depth, he\ntransports himself with such vast swiftness to the most widely distant\npoints.\n\nIt is a thing well known to both American and English whale-ships, and\nas well a thing placed upon authoritative record years ago by Scoresby,\nthat some whales have been captured far north in the Pacific, in whose\nbodies have been found the barbs of harpoons darted in the Greenland\nseas. Nor is it to be gainsaid, that in some of these instances it has\nbeen declared that the interval of time between the two assaults could\nnot have exceeded very many days. Hence, by inference, it has been\nbelieved by some whalemen, that the Nor  West Passage, so long a\nproblem to man, was never a problem to the whale. So that here, in the\nreal living experience of living men, the prodigies related in old\ntimes of the inland Strello mountain in Portugal (near whose top there\nwas said to be a lake in which the wrecks of ships floated up to the\nsurface); and that still more wonderful story of the Arethusa fountain\nnear Syracuse (whose waters were believed to have come from the Holy\nLand by an underground passage); these fabulous narrations are almost\nfully equalled by the realities of the whalemen.\n\nForced into familiarity, then, with such prodigies as these; and\nknowing that after repeated, intrepid assaults, the White Whale had\nescaped alive; it cannot be much matter of surprise that some whalemen\nshould go still further in their superstitions; declaring Moby Dick not\nonly ubiquitous, but immortal (for immortality is but ubiquity in\ntime); that though groves of spears should be planted in his flanks, he\nwould still swim away unharmed; or if indeed he should ever be made to\nspout thick blood, such a sight would be but a ghastly deception; for\nagain in unensanguined billows hundreds of leagues away, his unsullied\njet would once more be seen.\n\nBut even stripped of these supernatural surmisings, there was enough in\nthe earthly make and incontestable character of the monster to strike\nthe imagination with unwonted power. For, it was not so much his\nuncommon bulk that so much distinguished him from other sperm whales,\nbut, as was elsewhere thrown out a peculiar snow-white wrinkled\nforehead, and a high, pyramidical white hump. These were his prominent\nfeatures; the tokens whereby, even in the limitless, uncharted seas, he\nrevealed his identity, at a long distance, to those who knew him.\n\nThe rest of his body was so streaked, and spotted, and marbled with the\nsame shrouded hue, that, in the end, he had gained his distinctive\nappellation of the White Whale; a name, indeed, literally justified by\nhis vivid aspect, when seen gliding at high noon through a dark blue\nsea, leaving a milky-way wake of creamy foam, all spangled with golden\ngleamings.\n\nNor was it his unwonted magnitude, nor his remarkable hue, nor yet his\ndeformed lower jaw, that so much invested the whale with natural\nterror, as that unexampled, intelligent malignity which, according to\nspecific accounts, he had over and over again evinced in his assaults.\nMore than all, his treacherous retreats struck more of dismay than\nperhaps aught else. For, when swimming before his exulting pursuers,\nwith every apparent symptom of alarm, he had several times been known\nto turn round suddenly, and, bearing down upon them, either stave their\nboats to splinters, or drive them back in consternation to their ship.\n\nAlready several fatalities had attended his chase. But though similar\ndisasters, however little bruited ashore, were by no means unusual in\nthe fishery; yet, in most instances, such seemed the White Whale s\ninfernal aforethought of ferocity, that every dismembering or death\nthat he caused, was not wholly regarded as having been inflicted by an\nunintelligent agent.\n\nJudge, then, to what pitches of inflamed, distracted fury the minds of\nhis more desperate hunters were impelled, when amid the chips of chewed\nboats, and the sinking limbs of torn comrades, they swam out of the\nwhite curds of the whale s direful wrath into the serene, exasperating\nsunlight, that smiled on, as if at a birth or a bridal.\n\nHis three boats stove around him, and oars and men both whirling in the\neddies; one captain, seizing the line-knife from his broken prow, had\ndashed at the whale, as an Arkansas duellist at his foe, blindly\nseeking with a six inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the\nwhale. That captain was Ahab. And then it was, that suddenly sweeping\nhis sickle-shaped lower jaw beneath him, Moby Dick had reaped away\nAhab s leg, as a mower a blade of grass in the field. No turbaned Turk,\nno hired Venetian or Malay, could have smote him with more seeming\nmalice. Small reason was there to doubt, then, that ever since that\nalmost fatal encounter, Ahab had cherished a wild vindictiveness\nagainst the whale, all the more fell for that in his frantic morbidness\nhe at last came to identify with him, not only all his bodily woes, but\nall his intellectual and spiritual exasperations. The White Whale swam\nbefore him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious\nagencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left\nliving on with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity\nwhich has been from the beginning; to whose dominion even the modern\nChristians ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of\nthe east reverenced in their statue devil; Ahab did not fall down and\nworship it like them; but deliriously transferring its idea to the\nabhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against it. All\nthat most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things;\nall truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the\nbrain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy\nAhab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby\nDick. He piled upon the whale s white hump the sum of all the general\nrage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if\nhis chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart s shell upon it.\n\nIt is not probable that this monomania in him took its instant rise at\nthe precise time of his bodily dismemberment. Then, in darting at the\nmonster, knife in hand, he had but given loose to a sudden, passionate,\ncorporal animosity; and when he received the stroke that tore him, he\nprobably but felt the agonizing bodily laceration, but nothing more.\nYet, when by this collision forced to turn towards home, and for long\nmonths of days and weeks, Ahab and anguish lay stretched together in\none hammock, rounding in mid winter that dreary, howling Patagonian\nCape; then it was, that his torn body and gashed soul bled into one\nanother; and so interfusing, made him mad. That it was only then, on\nthe homeward voyage, after the encounter, that the final monomania\nseized him, seems all but certain from the fact that, at intervals\nduring the passage, he was a raving lunatic; and, though unlimbed of a\nleg, yet such vital strength yet lurked in his Egyptian chest, and was\nmoreover intensified by his delirium, that his mates were forced to\nlace him fast, even there, as he sailed, raving in his hammock. In a\nstrait-jacket, he swung to the mad rockings of the gales. And, when\nrunning into more sufferable latitudes, the ship, with mild stun sails\nspread, floated across the tranquil tropics, and, to all appearances,\nthe old man s delirium seemed left behind him with the Cape Horn\nswells, and he came forth from his dark den into the blessed light and\nair; even then, when he bore that firm, collected front, however pale,\nand issued his calm orders once again; and his mates thanked God the\ndireful madness was now gone; even then, Ahab, in his hidden self,\nraved on. Human madness is oftentimes a cunning and most feline thing.\nWhen you think it fled, it may have but become transfigured into some\nstill subtler form. Ahab s full lunacy subsided not, but deepeningly\ncontracted; like the unabated Hudson, when that noble Northman flows\nnarrowly, but unfathomably through the Highland gorge. But, as in his\nnarrow-flowing monomania, not one jot of Ahab s broad madness had been\nleft behind; so in that broad madness, not one jot of his great natural\nintellect had perished. That before living agent, now became the living\ninstrument. If such a furious trope may stand, his special lunacy\nstormed his general sanity, and carried it, and turned all its\nconcentred cannon upon its own mad mark; so that far from having lost\nhis strength, Ahab, to that one end, did now possess a thousand fold\nmore potency than ever he had sanely brought to bear upon any one\nreasonable object.\n\nThis is much; yet Ahab s larger, darker, deeper part remains unhinted.\nBut vain to popularize profundities, and all truth is profound. Winding\nfar down from within the very heart of this spiked Hotel de Cluny where\nwe here stand however grand and wonderful, now quit it; and take your\nway, ye nobler, sadder souls, to those vast Roman halls of Thermes;\nwhere far beneath the fantastic towers of man s upper earth, his root\nof grandeur, his whole awful essence sits in bearded state; an antique\nburied beneath antiquities, and throned on torsoes! So with a broken\nthrone, the great gods mock that captive king; so like a Caryatid, he\npatient sits, upholding on his frozen brow the piled entablatures of\nages. Wind ye down there, ye prouder, sadder souls! question that\nproud, sad king! A family likeness! aye, he did beget ye, ye young\nexiled royalties; and from your grim sire only will the old\nState-secret come.\n\nNow, in his heart, Ahab had some glimpse of this, namely: all my means\nare sane, my motive and my object mad. Yet without power to kill, or\nchange, or shun the fact; he likewise knew that to mankind he did long\ndissemble; in some sort, did still. But that thing of his dissembling\nwas only subject to his perceptibility, not to his will determinate.\nNevertheless, so well did he succeed in that dissembling, that when\nwith ivory leg he stepped ashore at last, no Nantucketer thought him\notherwise than but naturally grieved, and that to the quick, with the\nterrible casualty which had overtaken him.\n\nThe report of his undeniable delirium at sea was likewise popularly\nascribed to a kindred cause. And so too, all the added moodiness which\nalways afterwards, to the very day of sailing in the Pequod on the\npresent voyage, sat brooding on his brow. Nor is it so very unlikely,\nthat far from distrusting his fitness for another whaling voyage, on\naccount of such dark symptoms, the calculating people of that prudent\nisle were inclined to harbor the conceit, that for those very reasons\nhe was all the better qualified and set on edge, for a pursuit so full\nof rage and wildness as the bloody hunt of whales. Gnawed within and\nscorched without, with the infixed, unrelenting fangs of some incurable\nidea; such an one, could he be found, would seem the very man to dart\nhis iron and lift his lance against the most appalling of all brutes.\nOr, if for any reason thought to be corporeally incapacitated for that,\nyet such an one would seem superlatively competent to cheer and howl on\nhis underlings to the attack. But be all this as it may, certain it is,\nthat with the mad secret of his unabated rage bolted up and keyed in\nhim, Ahab had purposely sailed upon the present voyage with the one\nonly and all-engrossing object of hunting the White Whale. Had any one\nof his old acquaintances on shore but half dreamed of what was lurking\nin him then, how soon would their aghast and righteous souls have\nwrenched the ship from such a fiendish man! They were bent on\nprofitable cruises, the profit to be counted down in dollars from the\nmint. He was intent on an audacious, immitigable, and supernatural\nrevenge.\n\nHere, then, was this grey-headed, ungodly old man, chasing with curses\na Job s whale round the world, at the head of a crew, too, chiefly made\nup of mongrel renegades, and castaways, and cannibals morally enfeebled\nalso, by the incompetence of mere unaided virtue or right-mindedness in\nStarbuck, the invulnerable jollity of indifference and recklessness in\nStubb, and the pervading mediocrity in Flask. Such a crew, so\nofficered, seemed specially picked and packed by some infernal fatality\nto help him to his monomaniac revenge. How it was that they so\naboundingly responded to the old man s ire by what evil magic their\nsouls were possessed, that at times his hate seemed almost theirs; the\nWhite Whale as much their insufferable foe as his; how all this came to\nbe what the White Whale was to them, or how to their unconscious\nunderstandings, also, in some dim, unsuspected way, he might have\nseemed the gliding great demon of the seas of life, all this to\nexplain, would be to dive deeper than Ishmael can go. The subterranean\nminer that works in us all, how can one tell whither leads his shaft by\nthe ever shifting, muffled sound of his pick? Who does not feel the\nirresistible arm drag? What skiff in tow of a seventy-four can stand\nstill? For one, I gave myself up to the abandonment of the time and the\nplace; but while yet all a-rush to encounter the whale, could see\nnaught in that brute but the deadliest ill.\n\n\nCHAPTER 42. The Whiteness of the Whale.\n\nWhat the white whale was to Ahab, has been hinted; what, at times, he\nwas to me, as yet remains unsaid.\n\nAside from those more obvious considerations touching Moby Dick, which\ncould not but occasionally awaken in any man s soul some alarm, there\nwas another thought, or rather vague, nameless horror concerning him,\nwhich at times by its intensity completely overpowered all the rest;\nand yet so mystical and well nigh ineffable was it, that I almost\ndespair of putting it in a comprehensible form. It was the whiteness of\nthe whale that above all things appalled me. But how can I hope to\nexplain myself here; and yet, in some dim, random way, explain myself I\nmust, else all these chapters might be naught.\n\nThough in many natural objects, whiteness refiningly enhances beauty,\nas if imparting some special virtue of its own, as in marbles,\njaponicas, and pearls; and though various nations have in some way\nrecognised a certain royal preeminence in this hue; even the barbaric,\ngrand old kings of Pegu placing the title  Lord of the White Elephants \nabove all their other magniloquent ascriptions of dominion; and the\nmodern kings of Siam unfurling the same snow-white quadruped in the\nroyal standard; and the Hanoverian flag bearing the one figure of a\nsnow-white charger; and the great Austrian Empire, C sarian, heir to\noverlording Rome, having for the imperial colour the same imperial hue;\nand though this pre-eminence in it applies to the human race itself,\ngiving the white man ideal mastership over every dusky tribe; and\nthough, besides, all this, whiteness has been even made significant of\ngladness, for among the Romans a white stone marked a joyful day; and\nthough in other mortal sympathies and symbolizings, this same hue is\nmade the emblem of many touching, noble things the innocence of brides,\nthe benignity of age; though among the Red Men of America the giving of\nthe white belt of wampum was the deepest pledge of honor; though in\nmany climes, whiteness typifies the majesty of Justice in the ermine of\nthe Judge, and contributes to the daily state of kings and queens drawn\nby milk-white steeds; though even in the higher mysteries of the most\naugust religions it has been made the symbol of the divine spotlessness\nand power; by the Persian fire worshippers, the white forked flame\nbeing held the holiest on the altar; and in the Greek mythologies,\nGreat Jove himself being made incarnate in a snow-white bull; and\nthough to the noble Iroquois, the midwinter sacrifice of the sacred\nWhite Dog was by far the holiest festival of their theology, that\nspotless, faithful creature being held the purest envoy they could send\nto the Great Spirit with the annual tidings of their own fidelity; and\nthough directly from the Latin word for white, all Christian priests\nderive the name of one part of their sacred vesture, the alb or tunic,\nworn beneath the cassock; and though among the holy pomps of the Romish\nfaith, white is specially employed in the celebration of the Passion of\nour Lord; though in the Vision of St. John, white robes are given to\nthe redeemed, and the four-and-twenty elders stand clothed in white\nbefore the great white throne, and the Holy One that sitteth there\nwhite like wool; yet for all these accumulated associations, with\nwhatever is sweet, and honorable, and sublime, there yet lurks an\nelusive something in the innermost idea of this hue, which strikes more\nof panic to the soul than that redness which affrights in blood.\n\nThis elusive quality it is, which causes the thought of whiteness, when\ndivorced from more kindly associations, and coupled with any object\nterrible in itself, to heighten that terror to the furthest bounds.\nWitness the white bear of the poles, and the white shark of the\ntropics; what but their smooth, flaky whiteness makes them the\ntranscendent horrors they are? That ghastly whiteness it is which\nimparts such an abhorrent mildness, even more loathsome than terrific,\nto the dumb gloating of their aspect. So that not the fierce-fanged\ntiger in his heraldic coat can so stagger courage as the white-shrouded\nbear or shark.*\n\n*With reference to the Polar bear, it may possibly be urged by him who\nwould fain go still deeper into this matter, that it is not the\nwhiteness, separately regarded, which heightens the intolerable\nhideousness of that brute; for, analysed, that heightened hideousness,\nit might be said, only rises from the circumstance, that the\nirresponsible ferociousness of the creature stands invested in the\nfleece of celestial innocence and love; and hence, by bringing together\ntwo such opposite emotions in our minds, the Polar bear frightens us\nwith so unnatural a contrast. But even assuming all this to be true;\nyet, were it not for the whiteness, you would not have that intensified\nterror.\n\nAs for the white shark, the white gliding ghostliness of repose in that\ncreature, when beheld in his ordinary moods, strangely tallies with the\nsame quality in the Polar quadruped. This peculiarity is most vividly\nhit by the French in the name they bestow upon that fish. The Romish\nmass for the dead begins with  Requiem eternam  (eternal rest), whence\n_Requiem_ denominating the mass itself, and any other funeral music.\nNow, in allusion to the white, silent stillness of death in this shark,\nand the mild deadliness of his habits, the French call him _Requin_.\n\nBethink thee of the albatross, whence come those clouds of spiritual\nwonderment and pale dread, in which that white phantom sails in all\nimaginations? Not Coleridge first threw that spell; but God s great,\nunflattering laureate, Nature.*\n\n*I remember the first albatross I ever saw. It was during a prolonged\ngale, in waters hard upon the Antarctic seas. From my forenoon watch\nbelow, I ascended to the overclouded deck; and there, dashed upon the\nmain hatches, I saw a regal, feathery thing of unspotted whiteness, and\nwith a hooked, Roman bill sublime. At intervals, it arched forth its\nvast archangel wings, as if to embrace some holy ark. Wondrous\nflutterings and throbbings shook it. Though bodily unharmed, it uttered\ncries, as some king s ghost in supernatural distress. Through its\ninexpressible, strange eyes, methought I peeped to secrets which took\nhold of God. As Abraham before the angels, I bowed myself; the white\nthing was so white, its wings so wide, and in those for ever exiled\nwaters, I had lost the miserable warping memories of traditions and of\ntowns. Long I gazed at that prodigy of plumage. I cannot tell, can only\nhint, the things that darted through me then. But at last I awoke; and\nturning, asked a sailor what bird was this. A goney, he replied. Goney!\nnever had heard that name before; is it conceivable that this glorious\nthing is utterly unknown to men ashore! never! But some time after, I\nlearned that goney was some seaman s name for albatross. So that by no\npossibility could Coleridge s wild Rhyme have had aught to do with\nthose mystical impressions which were mine, when I saw that bird upon\nour deck. For neither had I then read the Rhyme, nor knew the bird to\nbe an albatross. Yet, in saying this, I do but indirectly burnish a\nlittle brighter the noble merit of the poem and the poet.\n\nI assert, then, that in the wondrous bodily whiteness of the bird\nchiefly lurks the secret of the spell; a truth the more evinced in\nthis, that by a solecism of terms there are birds called grey\nalbatrosses; and these I have frequently seen, but never with such\nemotions as when I beheld the Antarctic fowl.\n\nBut how had the mystic thing been caught? Whisper it not, and I will\ntell; with a treacherous hook and line, as the fowl floated on the sea.\nAt last the Captain made a postman of it; tying a lettered, leathern\ntally round its neck, with the ship s time and place; and then letting\nit escape. But I doubt not, that leathern tally, meant for man, was\ntaken off in Heaven, when the white fowl flew to join the wing-folding,\nthe invoking, and adoring cherubim!\n\nMost famous in our Western annals and Indian traditions is that of the\nWhite Steed of the Prairies; a magnificent milk-white charger,\nlarge-eyed, small-headed, bluff-chested, and with the dignity of a\nthousand monarchs in his lofty, overscorning carriage. He was the\nelected Xerxes of vast herds of wild horses, whose pastures in those\ndays were only fenced by the Rocky Mountains and the Alleghanies. At\ntheir flaming head he westward trooped it like that chosen star which\nevery evening leads on the hosts of light. The flashing cascade of his\nmane, the curving comet of his tail, invested him with housings more\nresplendent than gold and silver-beaters could have furnished him. A\nmost imperial and archangelical apparition of that unfallen, western\nworld, which to the eyes of the old trappers and hunters revived the\nglories of those primeval times when Adam walked majestic as a god,\nbluff-browed and fearless as this mighty steed. Whether marching amid\nhis aides and marshals in the van of countless cohorts that endlessly\nstreamed it over the plains, like an Ohio; or whether with his\ncircumambient subjects browsing all around at the horizon, the White\nSteed gallopingly reviewed them with warm nostrils reddening through\nhis cool milkiness; in whatever aspect he presented himself, always to\nthe bravest Indians he was the object of trembling reverence and awe.\nNor can it be questioned from what stands on legendary record of this\nnoble horse, that it was his spiritual whiteness chiefly, which so\nclothed him with divineness; and that this divineness had that in it\nwhich, though commanding worship, at the same time enforced a certain\nnameless terror.\n\nBut there are other instances where this whiteness loses all that\naccessory and strange glory which invests it in the White Steed and\nAlbatross.\n\nWhat is it that in the Albino man so peculiarly repels and often shocks\nthe eye, as that sometimes he is loathed by his own kith and kin! It is\nthat whiteness which invests him, a thing expressed by the name he\nbears. The Albino is as well made as other men has no substantive\ndeformity and yet this mere aspect of all-pervading whiteness makes him\nmore strangely hideous than the ugliest abortion. Why should this be\nso?\n\nNor, in quite other aspects, does Nature in her least palpable but not\nthe less malicious agencies, fail to enlist among her forces this\ncrowning attribute of the terrible. From its snowy aspect, the\ngauntleted ghost of the Southern Seas has been denominated the White\nSquall. Nor, in some historic instances, has the art of human malice\nomitted so potent an auxiliary. How wildly it heightens the effect of\nthat passage in Froissart, when, masked in the snowy symbol of their\nfaction, the desperate White Hoods of Ghent murder their bailiff in the\nmarket-place!\n\nNor, in some things, does the common, hereditary experience of all\nmankind fail to bear witness to the supernaturalism of this hue. It\ncannot well be doubted, that the one visible quality in the aspect of\nthe dead which most appals the gazer, is the marble pallor lingering\nthere; as if indeed that pallor were as much like the badge of\nconsternation in the other world, as of mortal trepidation here. And\nfrom that pallor of the dead, we borrow the expressive hue of the\nshroud in which we wrap them. Nor even in our superstitions do we fail\nto throw the same snowy mantle round our phantoms; all ghosts rising in\na milk-white fog Yea, while these terrors seize us, let us add, that\neven the king of terrors, when personified by the evangelist, rides on\nhis pallid horse.\n\nTherefore, in his other moods, symbolize whatever grand or gracious\nthing he will by whiteness, no man can deny that in its profoundest\nidealized significance it calls up a peculiar apparition to the soul.\n\nBut though without dissent this point be fixed, how is mortal man to\naccount for it? To analyse it, would seem impossible. Can we, then, by\nthe citation of some of those instances wherein this thing of\nwhiteness though for the time either wholly or in great part stripped\nof all direct associations calculated to impart to it aught fearful,\nbut nevertheless, is found to exert over us the same sorcery, however\nmodified; can we thus hope to light upon some chance clue to conduct us\nto the hidden cause we seek?\n\nLet us try. But in a matter like this, subtlety appeals to subtlety,\nand without imagination no man can follow another into these halls. And\nthough, doubtless, some at least of the imaginative impressions about\nto be presented may have been shared by most men, yet few perhaps were\nentirely conscious of them at the time, and therefore may not be able\nto recall them now.\n\nWhy to the man of untutored ideality, who happens to be but loosely\nacquainted with the peculiar character of the day, does the bare\nmention of Whitsuntide marshal in the fancy such long, dreary,\nspeechless processions of slow-pacing pilgrims, down-cast and hooded\nwith new-fallen snow? Or, to the unread, unsophisticated Protestant of\nthe Middle American States, why does the passing mention of a White\nFriar or a White Nun, evoke such an eyeless statue in the soul?\n\nOr what is there apart from the traditions of dungeoned warriors and\nkings (which will not wholly account for it) that makes the White Tower\nof London tell so much more strongly on the imagination of an\nuntravelled American, than those other storied structures, its\nneighbors the Byward Tower, or even the Bloody? And those sublimer\ntowers, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, whence, in peculiar\nmoods, comes that gigantic ghostliness over the soul at the bare\nmention of that name, while the thought of Virginia s Blue Ridge is\nfull of a soft, dewy, distant dreaminess? Or why, irrespective of all\nlatitudes and longitudes, does the name of the White Sea exert such a\nspectralness over the fancy, while that of the Yellow Sea lulls us with\nmortal thoughts of long lacquered mild afternoons on the waves,\nfollowed by the gaudiest and yet sleepiest of sunsets? Or, to choose a\nwholly unsubstantial instance, purely addressed to the fancy, why, in\nreading the old fairy tales of Central Europe, does  the tall pale man \nof the Hartz forests, whose changeless pallor unrustlingly glides\nthrough the green of the groves why is this phantom more terrible than\nall the whooping imps of the Blocksburg?\n\nNor is it, altogether, the remembrance of her cathedral-toppling\nearthquakes; nor the stampedoes of her frantic seas; nor the\ntearlessness of arid skies that never rain; nor the sight of her wide\nfield of leaning spires, wrenched cope-stones, and crosses all adroop\n(like canted yards of anchored fleets); and her suburban avenues of\nhouse-walls lying over upon each other, as a tossed pack of cards; it\nis not these things alone which make tearless Lima, the strangest,\nsaddest city thou can st see. For Lima has taken the white veil; and\nthere is a higher horror in this whiteness of her woe. Old as Pizarro,\nthis whiteness keeps her ruins for ever new; admits not the cheerful\ngreenness of complete decay; spreads over her broken ramparts the rigid\npallor of an apoplexy that fixes its own distortions.\n\nI know that, to the common apprehension, this phenomenon of whiteness\nis not confessed to be the prime agent in exaggerating the terror of\nobjects otherwise terrible; nor to the unimaginative mind is there\naught of terror in those appearances whose awfulness to another mind\nalmost solely consists in this one phenomenon, especially when\nexhibited under any form at all approaching to muteness or\nuniversality. What I mean by these two statements may perhaps be\nrespectively elucidated by the following examples.\n\nFirst: The mariner, when drawing nigh the coasts of foreign lands, if\nby night he hear the roar of breakers, starts to vigilance, and feels\njust enough of trepidation to sharpen all his faculties; but under\nprecisely similar circumstances, let him be called from his hammock to\nview his ship sailing through a midnight sea of milky whiteness as if\nfrom encircling headlands shoals of combed white bears were swimming\nround him, then he feels a silent, superstitious dread; the shrouded\nphantom of the whitened waters is horrible to him as a real ghost; in\nvain the lead assures him he is still off soundings; heart and helm\nthey both go down; he never rests till blue water is under him again.\nYet where is the mariner who will tell thee,  Sir, it was not so much\nthe fear of striking hidden rocks, as the fear of that hideous\nwhiteness that so stirred me? \n\nSecond: To the native Indian of Peru, the continual sight of the\nsnow-howdahed Andes conveys naught of dread, except, perhaps, in the\nmere fancying of the eternal frosted desolateness reigning at such vast\naltitudes, and the natural conceit of what a fearfulness it would be to\nlose oneself in such inhuman solitudes. Much the same is it with the\nbackwoodsman of the West, who with comparative indifference views an\nunbounded prairie sheeted with driven snow, no shadow of tree or twig\nto break the fixed trance of whiteness. Not so the sailor, beholding\nthe scenery of the Antarctic seas; where at times, by some infernal\ntrick of legerdemain in the powers of frost and air, he, shivering and\nhalf shipwrecked, instead of rainbows speaking hope and solace to his\nmisery, views what seems a boundless churchyard grinning upon him with\nits lean ice monuments and splintered crosses.\n\nBut thou sayest, methinks that white-lead chapter about whiteness is\nbut a white flag hung out from a craven soul; thou surrenderest to a\nhypo, Ishmael.\n\nTell me, why this strong young colt, foaled in some peaceful valley of\nVermont, far removed from all beasts of prey why is it that upon the\nsunniest day, if you but shake a fresh buffalo robe behind him, so that\nhe cannot even see it, but only smells its wild animal muskiness why\nwill he start, snort, and with bursting eyes paw the ground in\nphrensies of affright? There is no remembrance in him of any gorings of\nwild creatures in his green northern home, so that the strange\nmuskiness he smells cannot recall to him anything associated with the\nexperience of former perils; for what knows he, this New England colt,\nof the black bisons of distant Oregon?\n\nNo: but here thou beholdest even in a dumb brute, the instinct of the\nknowledge of the demonism in the world. Though thousands of miles from\nOregon, still when he smells that savage musk, the rending, goring\nbison herds are as present as to the deserted wild foal of the\nprairies, which this instant they may be trampling into dust.\n\nThus, then, the muffled rollings of a milky sea; the bleak rustlings of\nthe festooned frosts of mountains; the desolate shiftings of the\nwindrowed snows of prairies; all these, to Ishmael, are as the shaking\nof that buffalo robe to the frightened colt!\n\nThough neither knows where lie the nameless things of which the mystic\nsign gives forth such hints; yet with me, as with the colt, somewhere\nthose things must exist. Though in many of its aspects this visible\nworld seems formed in love, the invisible spheres were formed in\nfright.\n\nBut not yet have we solved the incantation of this whiteness, and\nlearned why it appeals with such power to the soul; and more strange\nand far more portentous why, as we have seen, it is at once the most\nmeaning symbol of spiritual things, nay, the very veil of the\nChristian s Deity; and yet should be as it is, the intensifying agent\nin things the most appalling to mankind.\n\nIs it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids\nand immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the\nthought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky\nway? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a colour as\nthe visible absence of colour; and at the same time the concrete of all\ncolours; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness,\nfull of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows a colourless, all-colour\nof atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory\nof the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues every stately\nor lovely emblazoning the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea,\nand the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of\nyoung girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent\nin substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified\nNature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover\nnothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and\nconsider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her\nhues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless\nin itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all\nobjects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge pondering all\nthis, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful\ntravellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear coloured and colouring\nglasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at\nthe monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And\nof all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at\nthe fiery hunt?\n\n\nCHAPTER 43. Hark!\n\n HIST! Did you hear that noise, Cabaco? \n\nIt was the middle-watch: a fair moonlight; the seamen were standing in\na cordon, extending from one of the fresh-water butts in the waist, to\nthe scuttle-butt near the taffrail. In this manner, they passed the\nbuckets to fill the scuttle-butt. Standing, for the most part, on the\nhallowed precincts of the quarter-deck, they were careful not to speak\nor rustle their feet. From hand to hand, the buckets went in the\ndeepest silence, only broken by the occasional flap of a sail, and the\nsteady hum of the unceasingly advancing keel.\n\nIt was in the midst of this repose, that Archy, one of the cordon,\nwhose post was near the after-hatches, whispered to his neighbor, a\nCholo, the words above.\n\n Hist! did you hear that noise, Cabaco? \n\n Take the bucket, will ye, Archy? what noise d ye mean? \n\n There it is again under the hatches don t you hear it a cough it\nsounded like a cough. \n\n Cough be damned! Pass along that return bucket. \n\n There again there it is! it sounds like two or three sleepers turning\nover, now! \n\n Caramba! have done, shipmate, will ye? It s the three soaked biscuits\nye eat for supper turning over inside of ye nothing else. Look to the\nbucket! \n\n Say what ye will, shipmate; I ve sharp ears. \n\n Aye, you are the chap, ain t ye, that heard the hum of the old\nQuakeress s knitting-needles fifty miles at sea from Nantucket; you re\nthe chap. \n\n Grin away; we ll see what turns up. Hark ye, Cabaco, there is somebody\ndown in the after-hold that has not yet been seen on deck; and I\nsuspect our old Mogul knows something of it too. I heard Stubb tell\nFlask, one morning watch, that there was something of that sort in the\nwind. \n\n Tish! the bucket! \n\n\nCHAPTER 44. The Chart.\n\nHad you followed Captain Ahab down into his cabin after the squall that\ntook place on the night succeeding that wild ratification of his\npurpose with his crew, you would have seen him go to a locker in the\ntransom, and bringing out a large wrinkled roll of yellowish sea\ncharts, spread them before him on his screwed-down table. Then seating\nhimself before it, you would have seen him intently study the various\nlines and shadings which there met his eye; and with slow but steady\npencil trace additional courses over spaces that before were blank. At\nintervals, he would refer to piles of old log-books beside him, wherein\nwere set down the seasons and places in which, on various former\nvoyages of various ships, sperm whales had been captured or seen.\n\nWhile thus employed, the heavy pewter lamp suspended in chains over his\nhead, continually rocked with the motion of the ship, and for ever\nthrew shifting gleams and shadows of lines upon his wrinkled brow, till\nit almost seemed that while he himself was marking out lines and\ncourses on the wrinkled charts, some invisible pencil was also tracing\nlines and courses upon the deeply marked chart of his forehead.\n\nBut it was not this night in particular that, in the solitude of his\ncabin, Ahab thus pondered over his charts. Almost every night they were\nbrought out; almost every night some pencil marks were effaced, and\nothers were substituted. For with the charts of all four oceans before\nhim, Ahab was threading a maze of currents and eddies, with a view to\nthe more certain accomplishment of that monomaniac thought of his soul.\n\nNow, to any one not fully acquainted with the ways of the leviathans,\nit might seem an absurdly hopeless task thus to seek out one solitary\ncreature in the unhooped oceans of this planet. But not so did it seem\nto Ahab, who knew the sets of all tides and currents; and thereby\ncalculating the driftings of the sperm whale s food; and, also, calling\nto mind the regular, ascertained seasons for hunting him in particular\nlatitudes; could arrive at reasonable surmises, almost approaching to\ncertainties, concerning the timeliest day to be upon this or that\nground in search of his prey.\n\nSo assured, indeed, is the fact concerning the periodicalness of the\nsperm whale s resorting to given waters, that many hunters believe\nthat, could he be closely observed and studied throughout the world;\nwere the logs for one voyage of the entire whale fleet carefully\ncollated, then the migrations of the sperm whale would be found to\ncorrespond in invariability to those of the herring-shoals or the\nflights of swallows. On this hint, attempts have been made to construct\nelaborate migratory charts of the sperm whale.*\n\n\n  *Since the above was written, the statement is happily borne out by\n  an official circular, issued by Lieutenant Maury, of the National\n  Observatory, Washington, April 16th, 1851. By that circular, it\n  appears that precisely such a chart is in course of completion; and\n  portions of it are presented in the circular.  This chart divides the\n  ocean into districts of five degrees of latitude by five degrees of\n  longitude; perpendicularly through each of which districts are twelve\n  columns for the twelve months; and horizontally through each of which\n  districts are three lines; one to show the number of days that have\n  been spent in each month in every district, and the two others to\n  show the number of days in which whales, sperm or right, have been\n  seen. \n\n\n\n\nBesides, when making a passage from one feeding-ground to another, the\nsperm whales, guided by some infallible instinct say, rather, secret\nintelligence from the Deity mostly swim in _veins_, as they are called;\ncontinuing their way along a given ocean-line with such undeviating\nexactitude, that no ship ever sailed her course, by any chart, with one\ntithe of such marvellous precision. Though, in these cases, the\ndirection taken by any one whale be straight as a surveyor s parallel,\nand though the line of advance be strictly confined to its own\nunavoidable, straight wake, yet the arbitrary _vein_ in which at these\ntimes he is said to swim, generally embraces some few miles in width\n(more or less, as the vein is presumed to expand or contract); but\nnever exceeds the visual sweep from the whale-ship s mast-heads, when\ncircumspectly gliding along this magic zone. The sum is, that at\nparticular seasons within that breadth and along that path, migrating\nwhales may with great confidence be looked for.\n\nAnd hence not only at substantiated times, upon well known separate\nfeeding-grounds, could Ahab hope to encounter his prey; but in crossing\nthe widest expanses of water between those grounds he could, by his\nart, so place and time himself on his way, as even then not to be\nwholly without prospect of a meeting.\n\nThere was a circumstance which at first sight seemed to entangle his\ndelirious but still methodical scheme. But not so in the reality,\nperhaps. Though the gregarious sperm whales have their regular seasons\nfor particular grounds, yet in general you cannot conclude that the\nherds which haunted such and such a latitude or longitude this year,\nsay, will turn out to be identically the same with those that were\nfound there the preceding season; though there are peculiar and\nunquestionable instances where the contrary of this has proved true. In\ngeneral, the same remark, only within a less wide limit, applies to the\nsolitaries and hermits among the matured, aged sperm whales. So that\nthough Moby Dick had in a former year been seen, for example, on what\nis called the Seychelle ground in the Indian ocean, or Volcano Bay on\nthe Japanese Coast; yet it did not follow, that were the Pequod to\nvisit either of those spots at any subsequent corresponding season, she\nwould infallibly encounter him there. So, too, with some other feeding\ngrounds, where he had at times revealed himself. But all these seemed\nonly his casual stopping-places and ocean-inns, so to speak, not his\nplaces of prolonged abode. And where Ahab s chances of accomplishing\nhis object have hitherto been spoken of, allusion has only been made to\nwhatever way-side, antecedent, extra prospects were his, ere a\nparticular set time or place were attained, when all possibilities\nwould become probabilities, and, as Ahab fondly thought, every\npossibility the next thing to a certainty. That particular set time and\nplace were conjoined in the one technical phrase the\nSeason-on-the-Line. For there and then, for several consecutive years,\nMoby Dick had been periodically descried, lingering in those waters for\nawhile, as the sun, in its annual round, loiters for a predicted\ninterval in any one sign of the Zodiac. There it was, too, that most of\nthe deadly encounters with the white whale had taken place; there the\nwaves were storied with his deeds; there also was that tragic spot\nwhere the monomaniac old man had found the awful motive to his\nvengeance. But in the cautious comprehensiveness and unloitering\nvigilance with which Ahab threw his brooding soul into this unfaltering\nhunt, he would not permit himself to rest all his hopes upon the one\ncrowning fact above mentioned, however flattering it might be to those\nhopes; nor in the sleeplessness of his vow could he so tranquillize his\nunquiet heart as to postpone all intervening quest.\n\nNow, the Pequod had sailed from Nantucket at the very beginning of the\nSeason-on-the-Line. No possible endeavor then could enable her\ncommander to make the great passage southwards, double Cape Horn, and\nthen running down sixty degrees of latitude arrive in the equatorial\nPacific in time to cruise there. Therefore, he must wait for the next\nensuing season. Yet the premature hour of the Pequod s sailing had,\nperhaps, been correctly selected by Ahab, with a view to this very\ncomplexion of things. Because, an interval of three hundred and\nsixty-five days and nights was before him; an interval which, instead\nof impatiently enduring ashore, he would spend in a miscellaneous hunt;\nif by chance the White Whale, spending his vacation in seas far remote\nfrom his periodical feeding-grounds, should turn up his wrinkled brow\noff the Persian Gulf, or in the Bengal Bay, or China Seas, or in any\nother waters haunted by his race. So that Monsoons, Pampas,\nNor -Westers, Harmattans, Trades; any wind but the Levanter and Simoon,\nmight blow Moby Dick into the devious zig-zag world-circle of the\nPequod s circumnavigating wake.\n\nBut granting all this; yet, regarded discreetly and coolly, seems it\nnot but a mad idea, this; that in the broad boundless ocean, one\nsolitary whale, even if encountered, should be thought capable of\nindividual recognition from his hunter, even as a white-bearded Mufti\nin the thronged thoroughfares of Constantinople? Yes. For the peculiar\nsnow-white brow of Moby Dick, and his snow-white hump, could not but be\nunmistakable. And have I not tallied the whale, Ahab would mutter to\nhimself, as after poring over his charts till long after midnight he\nwould throw himself back in reveries tallied him, and shall he escape?\nHis broad fins are bored, and scalloped out like a lost sheep s ear!\nAnd here, his mad mind would run on in a breathless race; till a\nweariness and faintness of pondering came over him; and in the open air\nof the deck he would seek to recover his strength. Ah, God! what\ntrances of torments does that man endure who is consumed with one\nunachieved revengeful desire. He sleeps with clenched hands; and wakes\nwith his own bloody nails in his palms.\n\nOften, when forced from his hammock by exhausting and intolerably vivid\ndreams of the night, which, resuming his own intense thoughts through\nthe day, carried them on amid a clashing of phrensies, and whirled them\nround and round and round in his blazing brain, till the very throbbing\nof his life-spot became insufferable anguish; and when, as was\nsometimes the case, these spiritual throes in him heaved his being up\nfrom its base, and a chasm seemed opening in him, from which forked\nflames and lightnings shot up, and accursed fiends beckoned him to leap\ndown among them; when this hell in himself yawned beneath him, a wild\ncry would be heard through the ship; and with glaring eyes Ahab would\nburst from his state room, as though escaping from a bed that was on\nfire. Yet these, perhaps, instead of being the unsuppressable symptoms\nof some latent weakness, or fright at his own resolve, were but the\nplainest tokens of its intensity. For, at such times, crazy Ahab, the\nscheming, unappeasedly steadfast hunter of the white whale; this Ahab\nthat had gone to his hammock, was not the agent that so caused him to\nburst from it in horror again. The latter was the eternal, living\nprinciple or soul in him; and in sleep, being for the time dissociated\nfrom the characterizing mind, which at other times employed it for its\nouter vehicle or agent, it spontaneously sought escape from the\nscorching contiguity of the frantic thing, of which, for the time, it\nwas no longer an integral. But as the mind does not exist unless\nleagued with the soul, therefore it must have been that, in Ahab s\ncase, yielding up all his thoughts and fancies to his one supreme\npurpose; that purpose, by its own sheer inveteracy of will, forced\nitself against gods and devils into a kind of self-assumed, independent\nbeing of its own. Nay, could grimly live and burn, while the common\nvitality to which it was conjoined, fled horror-stricken from the\nunbidden and unfathered birth. Therefore, the tormented spirit that\nglared out of bodily eyes, when what seemed Ahab rushed from his room,\nwas for the time but a vacated thing, a formless somnambulistic being,\na ray of living light, to be sure, but without an object to colour, and\ntherefore a blankness in itself. God help thee, old man, thy thoughts\nhave created a creature in thee; and he whose intense thinking thus\nmakes him a Prometheus; a vulture feeds upon that heart for ever; that\nvulture the very creature he creates.\n\n\nCHAPTER 45. The Affidavit.\n\nSo far as what there may be of a narrative in this book; and, indeed,\nas indirectly touching one or two very interesting and curious\nparticulars in the habits of sperm whales, the foregoing chapter, in\nits earlier part, is as important a one as will be found in this\nvolume; but the leading matter of it requires to be still further and\nmore familiarly enlarged upon, in order to be adequately understood,\nand moreover to take away any incredulity which a profound ignorance of\nthe entire subject may induce in some minds, as to the natural verity\nof the main points of this affair.\n\nI care not to perform this part of my task methodically; but shall be\ncontent to produce the desired impression by separate citations of\nitems, practically or reliably known to me as a whaleman; and from\nthese citations, I take it the conclusion aimed at will naturally\nfollow of itself.\n\nFirst: I have personally known three instances where a whale, after\nreceiving a harpoon, has effected a complete escape; and, after an\ninterval (in one instance of three years), has been again struck by the\nsame hand, and slain; when the two irons, both marked by the same\nprivate cypher, have been taken from the body. In the instance where\nthree years intervened between the flinging of the two harpoons; and I\nthink it may have been something more than that; the man who darted\nthem happening, in the interval, to go in a trading ship on a voyage to\nAfrica, went ashore there, joined a discovery party, and penetrated far\ninto the interior, where he travelled for a period of nearly two years,\noften endangered by serpents, savages, tigers, poisonous miasmas, with\nall the other common perils incident to wandering in the heart of\nunknown regions. Meanwhile, the whale he had struck must also have been\non its travels; no doubt it had thrice circumnavigated the globe,\nbrushing with its flanks all the coasts of Africa; but to no purpose.\nThis man and this whale again came together, and the one vanquished the\nother. I say I, myself, have known three instances similar to this;\nthat is in two of them I saw the whales struck; and, upon the second\nattack, saw the two irons with the respective marks cut in them,\nafterwards taken from the dead fish. In the three-year instance, it so\nfell out that I was in the boat both times, first and last, and the\nlast time distinctly recognised a peculiar sort of huge mole under the\nwhale s eye, which I had observed there three years previous. I say\nthree years, but I am pretty sure it was more than that. Here are three\ninstances, then, which I personally know the truth of; but I have heard\nof many other instances from persons whose veracity in the matter there\nis no good ground to impeach.\n\nSecondly: It is well known in the Sperm Whale Fishery, however ignorant\nthe world ashore may be of it, that there have been several memorable\nhistorical instances where a particular whale in the ocean has been at\ndistant times and places popularly cognisable. Why such a whale became\nthus marked was not altogether and originally owing to his bodily\npeculiarities as distinguished from other whales; for however peculiar\nin that respect any chance whale may be, they soon put an end to his\npeculiarities by killing him, and boiling him down into a peculiarly\nvaluable oil. No: the reason was this: that from the fatal experiences\nof the fishery there hung a terrible prestige of perilousness about\nsuch a whale as there did about Rinaldo Rinaldini, insomuch that most\nfishermen were content to recognise him by merely touching their\ntarpaulins when he would be discovered lounging by them on the sea,\nwithout seeking to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance. Like some\npoor devils ashore that happen to know an irascible great man, they\nmake distant unobtrusive salutations to him in the street, lest if they\npursued the acquaintance further, they might receive a summary thump\nfor their presumption.\n\nBut not only did each of these famous whales enjoy great individual\ncelebrity Nay, you may call it an ocean-wide renown; not only was he\nfamous in life and now is immortal in forecastle stories after death,\nbut he was admitted into all the rights, privileges, and distinctions\nof a name; had as much a name indeed as Cambyses or C sar. Was it not\nso, O Timor Tom! thou famed leviathan, scarred like an iceberg, who so\nlong did st lurk in the Oriental straits of that name, whose spout was\noft seen from the palmy beach of Ombay? Was it not so, O New Zealand\nJack! thou terror of all cruisers that crossed their wakes in the\nvicinity of the Tattoo Land? Was it not so, O Morquan! King of Japan,\nwhose lofty jet they say at times assumed the semblance of a snow-white\ncross against the sky? Was it not so, O Don Miguel! thou Chilian whale,\nmarked like an old tortoise with mystic hieroglyphics upon the back! In\nplain prose, here are four whales as well known to the students of\nCetacean History as Marius or Sylla to the classic scholar.\n\nBut this is not all. New Zealand Tom and Don Miguel, after at various\ntimes creating great havoc among the boats of different vessels, were\nfinally gone in quest of, systematically hunted out, chased and killed\nby valiant whaling captains, who heaved up their anchors with that\nexpress object as much in view, as in setting out through the\nNarragansett Woods, Captain Butler of old had it in his mind to capture\nthat notorious murderous savage Annawon, the headmost warrior of the\nIndian King Philip.\n\nI do not know where I can find a better place than just here, to make\nmention of one or two other things, which to me seem important, as in\nprinted form establishing in all respects the reasonableness of the\nwhole story of the White Whale, more especially the catastrophe. For\nthis is one of those disheartening instances where truth requires full\nas much bolstering as error. So ignorant are most landsmen of some of\nthe plainest and most palpable wonders of the world, that without some\nhints touching the plain facts, historical and otherwise, of the\nfishery, they might scout at Moby Dick as a monstrous fable, or still\nworse and more detestable, a hideous and intolerable allegory.\n\nFirst: Though most men have some vague flitting ideas of the general\nperils of the grand fishery, yet they have nothing like a fixed, vivid\nconception of those perils, and the frequency with which they recur.\nOne reason perhaps is, that not one in fifty of the actual disasters\nand deaths by casualties in the fishery, ever finds a public record at\nhome, however transient and immediately forgotten that record. Do you\nsuppose that that poor fellow there, who this moment perhaps caught by\nthe whale-line off the coast of New Guinea, is being carried down to\nthe bottom of the sea by the sounding leviathan do you suppose that\nthat poor fellow s name will appear in the newspaper obituary you will\nread to-morrow at your breakfast? No: because the mails are very\nirregular between here and New Guinea. In fact, did you ever hear what\nmight be called regular news direct or indirect from New Guinea? Yet I\ntell you that upon one particular voyage which I made to the Pacific,\namong many others we spoke thirty different ships, every one of which\nhad had a death by a whale, some of them more than one, and three that\nhad each lost a boat s crew. For God s sake, be economical with your\nlamps and candles! not a gallon you burn, but at least one drop of\nman s blood was spilled for it.\n\nSecondly: People ashore have indeed some indefinite idea that a whale\nis an enormous creature of enormous power; but I have ever found that\nwhen narrating to them some specific example of this two-fold\nenormousness, they have significantly complimented me upon my\nfacetiousness; when, I declare upon my soul, I had no more idea of\nbeing facetious than Moses, when he wrote the history of the plagues of\nEgypt.\n\nBut fortunately the special point I here seek can be established upon\ntestimony entirely independent of my own. That point is this: The Sperm\nWhale is in some cases sufficiently powerful, knowing, and judiciously\nmalicious, as with direct aforethought to stave in, utterly destroy,\nand sink a large ship; and what is more, the Sperm Whale _has_ done it.\n\nFirst: In the year 1820 the ship Essex, Captain Pollard, of Nantucket,\nwas cruising in the Pacific Ocean. One day she saw spouts, lowered her\nboats, and gave chase to a shoal of sperm whales. Ere long, several of\nthe whales were wounded; when, suddenly, a very large whale escaping\nfrom the boats, issued from the shoal, and bore directly down upon the\nship. Dashing his forehead against her hull, he so stove her in, that\nin less than  ten minutes  she settled down and fell over. Not a\nsurviving plank of her has been seen since. After the severest\nexposure, part of the crew reached the land in their boats. Being\nreturned home at last, Captain Pollard once more sailed for the Pacific\nin command of another ship, but the gods shipwrecked him again upon\nunknown rocks and breakers; for the second time his ship was utterly\nlost, and forthwith forswearing the sea, he has never tempted it since.\nAt this day Captain Pollard is a resident of Nantucket. I have seen\nOwen Chace, who was chief mate of the Essex at the time of the tragedy;\nI have read his plain and faithful narrative; I have conversed with his\nson; and all this within a few miles of the scene of the catastrophe.*\n\n*The following are extracts from Chace s narrative:  Every fact seemed\nto warrant me in concluding that it was anything but chance which\ndirected his operations; he made two several attacks upon the ship, at\na short interval between them, both of which, according to their\ndirection, were calculated to do us the most injury, by being made\nahead, and thereby combining the speed of the two objects for the\nshock; to effect which, the exact man uvres which he made were\nnecessary. His aspect was most horrible, and such as indicated\nresentment and fury. He came directly from the shoal which we had just\nbefore entered, and in which we had struck three of his companions, as\nif fired with revenge for their sufferings.  Again:  At all events, the\nwhole circumstances taken together, all happening before my own eyes,\nand producing, at the time, impressions in my mind of decided,\ncalculating mischief, on the part of the whale (many of which\nimpressions I cannot now recall), induce me to be satisfied that I am\ncorrect in my opinion. \n\nHere are his reflections some time after quitting the ship, during a\nblack night in an open boat, when almost despairing of reaching any\nhospitable shore.  The dark ocean and swelling waters were nothing; the\nfears of being swallowed up by some dreadful tempest, or dashed upon\nhidden rocks, with all the other ordinary subjects of fearful\ncontemplation, seemed scarcely entitled to a moment s thought; the\ndismal looking wreck, and _the horrid aspect and revenge of the whale_,\nwholly engrossed my reflections, until day again made its appearance. \n\nIn another place p. 45, he speaks of  _the mysterious and mortal attack\nof the animal_. \n\nSecondly: The ship Union, also of Nantucket, was in the year 1807\ntotally lost off the Azores by a similar onset, but the authentic\nparticulars of this catastrophe I have never chanced to encounter,\nthough from the whale hunters I have now and then heard casual\nallusions to it.\n\nThirdly: Some eighteen or twenty years ago Commodore J , then\ncommanding an American sloop-of-war of the first class, happened to be\ndining with a party of whaling captains, on board a Nantucket ship in\nthe harbor of Oahu, Sandwich Islands. Conversation turning upon whales,\nthe Commodore was pleased to be sceptical touching the amazing strength\nascribed to them by the professional gentlemen present. He peremptorily\ndenied for example, that any whale could so smite his stout\nsloop-of-war as to cause her to leak so much as a thimbleful. Very\ngood; but there is more coming. Some weeks after, the Commodore set\nsail in this impregnable craft for Valparaiso. But he was stopped on\nthe way by a portly sperm whale, that begged a few moments \nconfidential business with him. That business consisted in fetching the\nCommodore s craft such a thwack, that with all his pumps going he made\nstraight for the nearest port to heave down and repair. I am not\nsuperstitious, but I consider the Commodore s interview with that whale\nas providential. Was not Saul of Tarsus converted from unbelief by a\nsimilar fright? I tell you, the sperm whale will stand no nonsense.\n\nI will now refer you to Langsdorff s Voyages for a little circumstance\nin point, peculiarly interesting to the writer hereof. Langsdorff, you\nmust know by the way, was attached to the Russian Admiral Krusenstern s\nfamous Discovery Expedition in the beginning of the present century.\nCaptain Langsdorff thus begins his seventeenth chapter:\n\n By the thirteenth of May our ship was ready to sail, and the next day\nwe were out in the open sea, on our way to Ochotsh. The weather was\nvery clear and fine, but so intolerably cold that we were obliged to\nkeep on our fur clothing. For some days we had very little wind; it was\nnot till the nineteenth that a brisk gale from the northwest sprang up.\nAn uncommon large whale, the body of which was larger than the ship\nitself, lay almost at the surface of the water, but was not perceived\nby any one on board till the moment when the ship, which was in full\nsail, was almost upon him, so that it was impossible to prevent its\nstriking against him. We were thus placed in the most imminent danger,\nas this gigantic creature, setting up its back, raised the ship three\nfeet at least out of the water. The masts reeled, and the sails fell\naltogether, while we who were below all sprang instantly upon the deck,\nconcluding that we had struck upon some rock; instead of this we saw\nthe monster sailing off with the utmost gravity and solemnity. Captain\nD Wolf applied immediately to the pumps to examine whether or not the\nvessel had received any damage from the shock, but we found that very\nhappily it had escaped entirely uninjured. \n\nNow, the Captain D Wolf here alluded to as commanding the ship in\nquestion, is a New Englander, who, after a long life of unusual\nadventures as a sea-captain, this day resides in the village of\nDorchester near Boston. I have the honor of being a nephew of his. I\nhave particularly questioned him concerning this passage in Langsdorff.\nHe substantiates every word. The ship, however, was by no means a large\none: a Russian craft built on the Siberian coast, and purchased by my\nuncle after bartering away the vessel in which he sailed from home.\n\nIn that up and down manly book of old-fashioned adventure, so full,\ntoo, of honest wonders the voyage of Lionel Wafer, one of ancient\nDampier s old chums I found a little matter set down so like that just\nquoted from Langsdorff, that I cannot forbear inserting it here for a\ncorroborative example, if such be needed.\n\nLionel, it seems, was on his way to  John Ferdinando,  as he calls the\nmodern Juan Fernandes.  In our way thither,  he says,  about four\no clock in the morning, when we were about one hundred and fifty\nleagues from the Main of America, our ship felt a terrible shock, which\nput our men in such consternation that they could hardly tell where\nthey were or what to think; but every one began to prepare for death.\nAnd, indeed, the shock was so sudden and violent, that we took it for\ngranted the ship had struck against a rock; but when the amazement was\na little over, we cast the lead, and sounded, but found no ground. * *\n* * * The suddenness of the shock made the guns leap in their\ncarriages, and several of the men were shaken out of their hammocks.\nCaptain Davis, who lay with his head on a gun, was thrown out of his\ncabin!  Lionel then goes on to impute the shock to an earthquake, and\nseems to substantiate the imputation by stating that a great\nearthquake, somewhere about that time, did actually do great mischief\nalong the Spanish land. But I should not much wonder if, in the\ndarkness of that early hour of the morning, the shock was after all\ncaused by an unseen whale vertically bumping the hull from beneath.\n\nI might proceed with several more examples, one way or another known to\nme, of the great power and malice at times of the sperm whale. In more\nthan one instance, he has been known, not only to chase the assailing\nboats back to their ships, but to pursue the ship itself, and long\nwithstand all the lances hurled at him from its decks. The English ship\nPusie Hall can tell a story on that head; and, as for his strength, let\nme say, that there have been examples where the lines attached to a\nrunning sperm whale have, in a calm, been transferred to the ship, and\nsecured there; the whale towing her great hull through the water, as a\nhorse walks off with a cart. Again, it is very often observed that, if\nthe sperm whale, once struck, is allowed time to rally, he then acts,\nnot so often with blind rage, as with wilful, deliberate designs of\ndestruction to his pursuers; nor is it without conveying some eloquent\nindication of his character, that upon being attacked he will\nfrequently open his mouth, and retain it in that dread expansion for\nseveral consecutive minutes. But I must be content with only one more\nand a concluding illustration; a remarkable and most significant one,\nby which you will not fail to see, that not only is the most marvellous\nevent in this book corroborated by plain facts of the present day, but\nthat these marvels (like all marvels) are mere repetitions of the ages;\nso that for the millionth time we say amen with Solomon Verily there is\nnothing new under the sun.\n\nIn the sixth Christian century lived Procopius, a Christian magistrate\nof Constantinople, in the days when Justinian was Emperor and\nBelisarius general. As many know, he wrote the history of his own\ntimes, a work every way of uncommon value. By the best authorities, he\nhas always been considered a most trustworthy and unexaggerating\nhistorian, except in some one or two particulars, not at all affecting\nthe matter presently to be mentioned.\n\nNow, in this history of his, Procopius mentions that, during the term\nof his prefecture at Constantinople, a great sea-monster was captured\nin the neighboring Propontis, or Sea of Marmora, after having destroyed\nvessels at intervals in those waters for a period of more than fifty\nyears. A fact thus set down in substantial history cannot easily be\ngainsaid. Nor is there any reason it should be. Of what precise species\nthis sea-monster was, is not mentioned. But as he destroyed ships, as\nwell as for other reasons, he must have been a whale; and I am strongly\ninclined to think a sperm whale. And I will tell you why. For a long\ntime I fancied that the sperm whale had been always unknown in the\nMediterranean and the deep waters connecting with it. Even now I am\ncertain that those seas are not, and perhaps never can be, in the\npresent constitution of things, a place for his habitual gregarious\nresort. But further investigations have recently proved to me, that in\nmodern times there have been isolated instances of the presence of the\nsperm whale in the Mediterranean. I am told, on good authority, that on\nthe Barbary coast, a Commodore Davis of the British navy found the\nskeleton of a sperm whale. Now, as a vessel of war readily passes\nthrough the Dardanelles, hence a sperm whale could, by the same route,\npass out of the Mediterranean into the Propontis.\n\nIn the Propontis, as far as I can learn, none of that peculiar\nsubstance called _brit_ is to be found, the aliment of the right whale.\nBut I have every reason to believe that the food of the sperm\nwhale squid or cuttle-fish lurks at the bottom of that sea, because\nlarge creatures, but by no means the largest of that sort, have been\nfound at its surface. If, then, you properly put these statements\ntogether, and reason upon them a bit, you will clearly perceive that,\naccording to all human reasoning, Procopius s sea-monster, that for\nhalf a century stove the ships of a Roman Emperor, must in all\nprobability have been a sperm whale.\n\n\nCHAPTER 46. Surmises.\n\nThough, consumed with the hot fire of his purpose, Ahab in all his\nthoughts and actions ever had in view the ultimate capture of Moby\nDick; though he seemed ready to sacrifice all mortal interests to that\none passion; nevertheless it may have been that he was by nature and\nlong habituation far too wedded to a fiery whaleman s ways, altogether\nto abandon the collateral prosecution of the voyage. Or at least if\nthis were otherwise, there were not wanting other motives much more\ninfluential with him. It would be refining too much, perhaps, even\nconsidering his monomania, to hint that his vindictiveness towards the\nWhite Whale might have possibly extended itself in some degree to all\nsperm whales, and that the more monsters he slew by so much the more he\nmultiplied the chances that each subsequently encountered whale would\nprove to be the hated one he hunted. But if such an hypothesis be\nindeed exceptionable, there were still additional considerations which,\nthough not so strictly according with the wildness of his ruling\npassion, yet were by no means incapable of swaying him.\n\nTo accomplish his object Ahab must use tools; and of all tools used in\nthe shadow of the moon, men are most apt to get out of order. He knew,\nfor example, that however magnetic his ascendency in some respects was\nover Starbuck, yet that ascendency did not cover the complete spiritual\nman any more than mere corporeal superiority involves intellectual\nmastership; for to the purely spiritual, the intellectual but stand in\na sort of corporeal relation. Starbuck s body and Starbuck s coerced\nwill were Ahab s, so long as Ahab kept his magnet at Starbuck s brain;\nstill he knew that for all this the chief mate, in his soul, abhorred\nhis captain s quest, and could he, would joyfully disintegrate himself\nfrom it, or even frustrate it. It might be that a long interval would\nelapse ere the White Whale was seen. During that long interval Starbuck\nwould ever be apt to fall into open relapses of rebellion against his\ncaptain s leadership, unless some ordinary, prudential, circumstantial\ninfluences were brought to bear upon him. Not only that, but the subtle\ninsanity of Ahab respecting Moby Dick was noways more significantly\nmanifested than in his superlative sense and shrewdness in foreseeing\nthat, for the present, the hunt should in some way be stripped of that\nstrange imaginative impiousness which naturally invested it; that the\nfull terror of the voyage must be kept withdrawn into the obscure\nbackground (for few men s courage is proof against protracted\nmeditation unrelieved by action); that when they stood their long night\nwatches, his officers and men must have some nearer things to think of\nthan Moby Dick. For however eagerly and impetuously the savage crew had\nhailed the announcement of his quest; yet all sailors of all sorts are\nmore or less capricious and unreliable they live in the varying outer\nweather, and they inhale its fickleness and when retained for any\nobject remote and blank in the pursuit, however promissory of life and\npassion in the end, it is above all things requisite that temporary\ninterests and employments should intervene and hold them healthily\nsuspended for the final dash.\n\nNor was Ahab unmindful of another thing. In times of strong emotion\nmankind disdain all base considerations; but such times are evanescent.\nThe permanent constitutional condition of the manufactured man, thought\nAhab, is sordidness. Granting that the White Whale fully incites the\nhearts of this my savage crew, and playing round their savageness even\nbreeds a certain generous knight-errantism in them, still, while for\nthe love of it they give chase to Moby Dick, they must also have food\nfor their more common, daily appetites. For even the high lifted and\nchivalric Crusaders of old times were not content to traverse two\nthousand miles of land to fight for their holy sepulchre, without\ncommitting burglaries, picking pockets, and gaining other pious\nperquisites by the way. Had they been strictly held to their one final\nand romantic object that final and romantic object, too many would have\nturned from in disgust. I will not strip these men, thought Ahab, of\nall hopes of cash aye, cash. They may scorn cash now; but let some\nmonths go by, and no perspective promise of it to them, and then this\nsame quiescent cash all at once mutinying in them, this same cash would\nsoon cashier Ahab.\n\nNor was there wanting still another precautionary motive more related\nto Ahab personally. Having impulsively, it is probable, and perhaps\nsomewhat prematurely revealed the prime but private purpose of the\nPequod s voyage, Ahab was now entirely conscious that, in so doing, he\nhad indirectly laid himself open to the unanswerable charge of\nusurpation; and with perfect impunity, both moral and legal, his crew\nif so disposed, and to that end competent, could refuse all further\nobedience to him, and even violently wrest from him the command. From\neven the barely hinted imputation of usurpation, and the possible\nconsequences of such a suppressed impression gaining ground, Ahab must\nof course have been most anxious to protect himself. That protection\ncould only consist in his own predominating brain and heart and hand,\nbacked by a heedful, closely calculating attention to every minute\natmospheric influence which it was possible for his crew to be\nsubjected to.\n\nFor all these reasons then, and others perhaps too analytic to be\nverbally developed here, Ahab plainly saw that he must still in a good\ndegree continue true to the natural, nominal purpose of the Pequod s\nvoyage; observe all customary usages; and not only that, but force\nhimself to evince all his well known passionate interest in the general\npursuit of his profession.\n\nBe all this as it may, his voice was now often heard hailing the three\nmast-heads and admonishing them to keep a bright look-out, and not omit\nreporting even a porpoise. This vigilance was not long without reward.\n\n\nCHAPTER 47. The Mat-Maker.\n\nIt was a cloudy, sultry afternoon; the seamen were lazily lounging\nabout the decks, or vacantly gazing over into the lead-coloured waters.\nQueequeg and I were mildly employed weaving what is called a sword-mat,\nfor an additional lashing to our boat. So still and subdued and yet\nsomehow preluding was all the scene, and such an incantation of reverie\nlurked in the air, that each silent sailor seemed resolved into his own\ninvisible self.\n\nI was the attendant or page of Queequeg, while busy at the mat. As I\nkept passing and repassing the filling or woof of marline between the\nlong yarns of the warp, using my own hand for the shuttle, and as\nQueequeg, standing sideways, ever and anon slid his heavy oaken sword\nbetween the threads, and idly looking off upon the water, carelessly\nand unthinkingly drove home every yarn: I say so strange a dreaminess\ndid there then reign all over the ship and all over the sea, only\nbroken by the intermitting dull sound of the sword, that it seemed as\nif this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically\nweaving and weaving away at the Fates. There lay the fixed threads of\nthe warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging\nvibration, and that vibration merely enough to admit of the crosswise\ninterblending of other threads with its own. This warp seemed\nnecessity; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle\nand weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads. Meantime,\nQueequeg s impulsive, indifferent sword, sometimes hitting the woof\nslantingly, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be;\nand by this difference in the concluding blow producing a corresponding\ncontrast in the final aspect of the completed fabric; this savage s\nsword, thought I, which thus finally shapes and fashions both warp and\nwoof; this easy, indifferent sword must be chance aye, chance, free\nwill, and necessity nowise incompatible all interweavingly working\ntogether. The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its\nultimate course its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending\nto that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads;\nand chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of\nnecessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though\nthus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the\nlast featuring blow at events.\n\nThus we were weaving and weaving away when I started at a sound so\nstrange, long drawn, and musically wild and unearthly, that the ball of\nfree will dropped from my hand, and I stood gazing up at the clouds\nwhence that voice dropped like a wing. High aloft in the cross-trees\nwas that mad Gay-Header, Tashtego. His body was reaching eagerly\nforward, his hand stretched out like a wand, and at brief sudden\nintervals he continued his cries. To be sure the same sound was that\nvery moment perhaps being heard all over the seas, from hundreds of\nwhalemen s look-outs perched as high in the air; but from few of those\nlungs could that accustomed old cry have derived such a marvellous\ncadence as from Tashtego the Indian s.\n\nAs he stood hovering over you half suspended in air, so wildly and\neagerly peering towards the horizon, you would have thought him some\nprophet or seer beholding the shadows of Fate, and by those wild cries\nannouncing their coming.\n\n There she blows! there! there! there! she blows! she blows! \n\n Where-away? \n\n On the lee-beam, about two miles off! a school of them! \n\nInstantly all was commotion.\n\nThe Sperm Whale blows as a clock ticks, with the same undeviating and\nreliable uniformity. And thereby whalemen distinguish this fish from\nother tribes of his genus.\n\n There go flukes!  was now the cry from Tashtego; and the whales\ndisappeared.\n\n Quick, steward!  cried Ahab.  Time! time! \n\nDough-Boy hurried below, glanced at the watch, and reported the exact\nminute to Ahab.\n\nThe ship was now kept away from the wind, and she went gently rolling\nbefore it. Tashtego reporting that the whales had gone down heading to\nleeward, we confidently looked to see them again directly in advance of\nour bows. For that singular craft at times evinced by the Sperm Whale\nwhen, sounding with his head in one direction, he nevertheless, while\nconcealed beneath the surface, mills round, and swiftly swims off in\nthe opposite quarter this deceitfulness of his could not now be in\naction; for there was no reason to suppose that the fish seen by\nTashtego had been in any way alarmed, or indeed knew at all of our\nvicinity. One of the men selected for shipkeepers that is, those not\nappointed to the boats, by this time relieved the Indian at the\nmain-mast head. The sailors at the fore and mizzen had come down; the\nline tubs were fixed in their places; the cranes were thrust out; the\nmainyard was backed, and the three boats swung over the sea like three\nsamphire baskets over high cliffs. Outside of the bulwarks their eager\ncrews with one hand clung to the rail, while one foot was expectantly\npoised on the gunwale. So look the long line of man-of-war s men about\nto throw themselves on board an enemy s ship.\n\nBut at this critical instant a sudden exclamation was heard that took\nevery eye from the whale. With a start all glared at dark Ahab, who was\nsurrounded by five dusky phantoms that seemed fresh formed out of air.\n\n\nCHAPTER 48. The First Lowering.\n\nThe phantoms, for so they then seemed, were flitting on the other side\nof the deck, and, with a noiseless celerity, were casting loose the\ntackles and bands of the boat which swung there. This boat had always\nbeen deemed one of the spare boats, though technically called the\ncaptain s, on account of its hanging from the starboard quarter. The\nfigure that now stood by its bows was tall and swart, with one white\ntooth evilly protruding from its steel-like lips. A rumpled Chinese\njacket of black cotton funereally invested him, with wide black\ntrowsers of the same dark stuff. But strangely crowning this ebonness\nwas a glistening white plaited turban, the living hair braided and\ncoiled round and round upon his head. Less swart in aspect, the\ncompanions of this figure were of that vivid, tiger-yellow complexion\npeculiar to some of the aboriginal natives of the Manillas; a race\nnotorious for a certain diabolism of subtilty, and by some honest white\nmariners supposed to be the paid spies and secret confidential agents\non the water of the devil, their lord, whose counting-room they suppose\nto be elsewhere.\n\nWhile yet the wondering ship s company were gazing upon these\nstrangers, Ahab cried out to the white-turbaned old man at their head,\n All ready there, Fedallah? \n\n Ready,  was the half-hissed reply.\n\n Lower away then; d ye hear?  shouting across the deck.  Lower away\nthere, I say. \n\nSuch was the thunder of his voice, that spite of their amazement the\nmen sprang over the rail; the sheaves whirled round in the blocks; with\na wallow, the three boats dropped into the sea; while, with a\ndexterous, off-handed daring, unknown in any other vocation, the\nsailors, goat-like, leaped down the rolling ship s side into the tossed\nboats below.\n\nHardly had they pulled out from under the ship s lee, when a fourth\nkeel, coming from the windward side, pulled round under the stern, and\nshowed the five strangers rowing Ahab, who, standing erect in the\nstern, loudly hailed Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, to spread themselves\nwidely, so as to cover a large expanse of water. But with all their\neyes again riveted upon the swart Fedallah and his crew, the inmates of\nthe other boats obeyed not the command.\n\n Captain Ahab?  said Starbuck.\n\n Spread yourselves,  cried Ahab;  give way, all four boats. Thou,\nFlask, pull out more to leeward! \n\n Aye, aye, sir,  cheerily cried little King-Post, sweeping round his\ngreat steering oar.  Lay back!  addressing his crew.\n There! there! there again! There she blows right ahead, boys! lay\nback! \n\n Never heed yonder yellow boys, Archy. \n\n Oh, I don t mind  em, sir,  said Archy;  I knew it all before now.\nDidn t I hear  em in the hold? And didn t I tell Cabaco here of it?\nWhat say ye, Cabaco? They are stowaways, Mr. Flask. \n\n Pull, pull, my fine hearts-alive; pull, my children; pull, my little\nones,  drawlingly and soothingly sighed Stubb to his crew, some of whom\nstill showed signs of uneasiness.  Why don t you break your backbones,\nmy boys? What is it you stare at? Those chaps in yonder boat? Tut! They\nare only five more hands come to help us never mind from where the more\nthe merrier. Pull, then, do pull; never mind the brimstone devils are\ngood fellows enough. So, so; there you are now; that s the stroke for a\nthousand pounds; that s the stroke to sweep the stakes! Hurrah for the\ngold cup of sperm oil, my heroes! Three cheers, men all hearts alive!\nEasy, easy; don t be in a hurry don t be in a hurry. Why don t you snap\nyour oars, you rascals? Bite something, you dogs! So, so, so,\nthen: softly, softly! That s it that s it! long and strong. Give way\nthere, give way! The devil fetch ye, ye ragamuffin rapscallions; ye are\nall asleep. Stop snoring, ye sleepers, and pull. Pull, will ye? pull,\ncan t ye? pull, won t ye? Why in the name of gudgeons and ginger-cakes\ndon t ye pull? pull and break something! pull, and start your eyes out!\nHere!  whipping out the sharp knife from his girdle;  every mother s\nson of ye draw his knife, and pull with the blade between his teeth.\nThat s it that s it. Now ye do something; that looks like it, my\nsteel-bits. Start her start her, my silver-spoons! Start her,\nmarling-spikes! \n\nStubb s exordium to his crew is given here at large, because he had\nrather a peculiar way of talking to them in general, and especially in\ninculcating the religion of rowing. But you must not suppose from this\nspecimen of his sermonizings that he ever flew into downright passions\nwith his congregation. Not at all; and therein consisted his chief\npeculiarity. He would say the most terrific things to his crew, in a\ntone so strangely compounded of fun and fury, and the fury seemed so\ncalculated merely as a spice to the fun, that no oarsman could hear\nsuch queer invocations without pulling for dear life, and yet pulling\nfor the mere joke of the thing. Besides he all the time looked so easy\nand indolent himself, so loungingly managed his steering-oar, and so\nbroadly gaped open-mouthed at times that the mere sight of such a\nyawning commander, by sheer force of contrast, acted like a charm upon\nthe crew. Then again, Stubb was one of those odd sort of humorists,\nwhose jollity is sometimes so curiously ambiguous, as to put all\ninferiors on their guard in the matter of obeying them.\n\nIn obedience to a sign from Ahab, Starbuck was now pulling obliquely\nacross Stubb s bow; and when for a minute or so the two boats were\npretty near to each other, Stubb hailed the mate.\n\n Mr. Starbuck! larboard boat there, ahoy! a word with ye, sir, if ye\nplease! \n\n Halloa!  returned Starbuck, turning round not a single inch as he\nspoke; still earnestly but whisperingly urging his crew; his face set\nlike a flint from Stubb s.\n\n What think ye of those yellow boys, sir! \n\n Smuggled on board, somehow, before the ship sailed. (Strong, strong,\nboys!)  in a whisper to his crew, then speaking out loud again:  A sad\nbusiness, Mr. Stubb! (seethe her, seethe her, my lads!) but never mind,\nMr. Stubb, all for the best. Let all your crew pull strong, come what\nwill. (Spring, my men, spring!) There s hogsheads of sperm ahead, Mr.\nStubb, and that s what ye came for. (Pull, my boys!) Sperm, sperm s the\nplay! This at least is duty; duty and profit hand in hand. \n\n Aye, aye, I thought as much,  soliloquized Stubb, when the boats\ndiverged,  as soon as I clapt eye on  em, I thought so. Aye, and that s\nwhat he went into the after hold for, so often, as Dough-Boy long\nsuspected. They were hidden down there. The White Whale s at the bottom\nof it. Well, well, so be it! Can t be helped! All right! Give way, men!\nIt ain t the White Whale to-day! Give way! \n\nNow the advent of these outlandish strangers at such a critical instant\nas the lowering of the boats from the deck, this had not unreasonably\nawakened a sort of superstitious amazement in some of the ship s\ncompany; but Archy s fancied discovery having some time previous got\nabroad among them, though indeed not credited then, this had in some\nsmall measure prepared them for the event. It took off the extreme edge\nof their wonder; and so what with all this and Stubb s confident way of\naccounting for their appearance, they were for the time freed from\nsuperstitious surmisings; though the affair still left abundant room\nfor all manner of wild conjectures as to dark Ahab s precise agency in\nthe matter from the beginning. For me, I silently recalled the\nmysterious shadows I had seen creeping on board the Pequod during the\ndim Nantucket dawn, as well as the enigmatical hintings of the\nunaccountable Elijah.\n\nMeantime, Ahab, out of hearing of his officers, having sided the\nfurthest to windward, was still ranging ahead of the other boats; a\ncircumstance bespeaking how potent a crew was pulling him. Those tiger\nyellow creatures of his seemed all steel and whalebone; like five\ntrip-hammers they rose and fell with regular strokes of strength, which\nperiodically started the boat along the water like a horizontal burst\nboiler out of a Mississippi steamer. As for Fedallah, who was seen\npulling the harpooneer oar, he had thrown aside his black jacket, and\ndisplayed his naked chest with the whole part of his body above the\ngunwale, clearly cut against the alternating depressions of the watery\nhorizon; while at the other end of the boat Ahab, with one arm, like a\nfencer s, thrown half backward into the air, as if to counterbalance\nany tendency to trip; Ahab was seen steadily managing his steering oar\nas in a thousand boat lowerings ere the White Whale had torn him. All\nat once the outstretched arm gave a peculiar motion and then remained\nfixed, while the boat s five oars were seen simultaneously peaked. Boat\nand crew sat motionless on the sea. Instantly the three spread boats in\nthe rear paused on their way. The whales had irregularly settled bodily\ndown into the blue, thus giving no distantly discernible token of the\nmovement, though from his closer vicinity Ahab had observed it.\n\n Every man look out along his oars!  cried Starbuck.  Thou, Queequeg,\nstand up! \n\nNimbly springing up on the triangular raised box in the bow, the savage\nstood erect there, and with intensely eager eyes gazed off towards the\nspot where the chase had last been descried. Likewise upon the extreme\nstern of the boat where it was also triangularly platformed level with\nthe gunwale, Starbuck himself was seen coolly and adroitly balancing\nhimself to the jerking tossings of his chip of a craft, and silently\neyeing the vast blue eye of the sea.\n\nNot very far distant Flask s boat was also lying breathlessly still;\nits commander recklessly standing upon the top of the loggerhead, a\nstout sort of post rooted in the keel, and rising some two feet above\nthe level of the stern platform. It is used for catching turns with the\nwhale line. Its top is not more spacious than the palm of a man s hand,\nand standing upon such a base as that, Flask seemed perched at the\nmast-head of some ship which had sunk to all but her trucks. But little\nKing-Post was small and short, and at the same time little King-Post\nwas full of a large and tall ambition, so that this loggerhead\nstand-point of his did by no means satisfy King-Post.\n\n I can t see three seas off; tip us up an oar there, and let me on to\nthat. \n\nUpon this, Daggoo, with either hand upon the gunwale to steady his way,\nswiftly slid aft, and then erecting himself volunteered his lofty\nshoulders for a pedestal.\n\n Good a mast-head as any, sir. Will you mount? \n\n That I will, and thank ye very much, my fine fellow; only I wish you\nfifty feet taller. \n\nWhereupon planting his feet firmly against two opposite planks of the\nboat, the gigantic negro, stooping a little, presented his flat palm to\nFlask s foot, and then putting Flask s hand on his hearse-plumed head\nand bidding him spring as he himself should toss, with one dexterous\nfling landed the little man high and dry on his shoulders. And here was\nFlask now standing, Daggoo with one lifted arm furnishing him with a\nbreastband to lean against and steady himself by.\n\nAt any time it is a strange sight to the tyro to see with what wondrous\nhabitude of unconscious skill the whaleman will maintain an erect\nposture in his boat, even when pitched about by the most riotously\nperverse and cross-running seas. Still more strange to see him giddily\nperched upon the loggerhead itself, under such circumstances. But the\nsight of little Flask mounted upon gigantic Daggoo was yet more\ncurious; for sustaining himself with a cool, indifferent, easy,\nunthought of, barbaric majesty, the noble negro to every roll of the\nsea harmoniously rolled his fine form. On his broad back, flaxen-haired\nFlask seemed a snow-flake. The bearer looked nobler than the rider.\nThough truly vivacious, tumultuous, ostentatious little Flask would now\nand then stamp with impatience; but not one added heave did he thereby\ngive to the negro s lordly chest. So have I seen Passion and Vanity\nstamping the living magnanimous earth, but the earth did not alter her\ntides and her seasons for that.\n\nMeanwhile Stubb, the third mate, betrayed no such far-gazing\nsolicitudes. The whales might have made one of their regular soundings,\nnot a temporary dive from mere fright; and if that were the case,\nStubb, as his wont in such cases, it seems, was resolved to solace the\nlanguishing interval with his pipe. He withdrew it from his hatband,\nwhere he always wore it aslant like a feather. He loaded it, and rammed\nhome the loading with his thumb-end; but hardly had he ignited his\nmatch across the rough sandpaper of his hand, when Tashtego, his\nharpooneer, whose eyes had been setting to windward like two fixed\nstars, suddenly dropped like light from his erect attitude to his seat,\ncrying out in a quick phrensy of hurry,  Down, down all, and give\nway! there they are! \n\nTo a landsman, no whale, nor any sign of a herring, would have been\nvisible at that moment; nothing but a troubled bit of greenish white\nwater, and thin scattered puffs of vapor hovering over it, and\nsuffusingly blowing off to leeward, like the confused scud from white\nrolling billows. The air around suddenly vibrated and tingled, as it\nwere, like the air over intensely heated plates of iron. Beneath this\natmospheric waving and curling, and partially beneath a thin layer of\nwater, also, the whales were swimming. Seen in advance of all the other\nindications, the puffs of vapor they spouted, seemed their forerunning\ncouriers and detached flying outriders.\n\nAll four boats were now in keen pursuit of that one spot of troubled\nwater and air. But it bade fair to outstrip them; it flew on and on, as\na mass of interblending bubbles borne down a rapid stream from the\nhills.\n\n Pull, pull, my good boys,  said Starbuck, in the lowest possible but\nintensest concentrated whisper to his men; while the sharp fixed glance\nfrom his eyes darted straight ahead of the bow, almost seemed as two\nvisible needles in two unerring binnacle compasses. He did not say much\nto his crew, though, nor did his crew say anything to him. Only the\nsilence of the boat was at intervals startlingly pierced by one of his\npeculiar whispers, now harsh with command, now soft with entreaty.\n\nHow different the loud little King-Post.  Sing out and say something,\nmy hearties. Roar and pull, my thunderbolts! Beach me, beach me on\ntheir black backs, boys; only do that for me, and I ll sign over to you\nmy Martha s Vineyard plantation, boys; including wife and children,\nboys. Lay me on lay me on! O Lord, Lord! but I shall go stark, staring\nmad! See! see that white water!  And so shouting, he pulled his hat\nfrom his head, and stamped up and down on it; then picking it up,\nflirted it far off upon the sea; and finally fell to rearing and\nplunging in the boat s stern like a crazed colt from the prairie.\n\n Look at that chap now,  philosophically drawled Stubb, who, with his\nunlighted short pipe, mechanically retained between his teeth, at a\nshort distance, followed after He s got fits, that Flask has. Fits?\nyes, give him fits that s the very word pitch fits into  em. Merrily,\nmerrily, hearts-alive. Pudding for supper, you know; merry s the word.\nPull, babes pull, sucklings pull, all. But what the devil are you\nhurrying about? Softly, softly, and steadily, my men. Only pull, and\nkeep pulling; nothing more. Crack all your backbones, and bite your\nknives in two that s all. Take it easy why don t ye take it easy, I\nsay, and burst all your livers and lungs! \n\nBut what it was that inscrutable Ahab said to that tiger-yellow crew of\nhis these were words best omitted here; for you live under the blessed\nlight of the evangelical land. Only the infidel sharks in the audacious\nseas may give ear to such words, when, with tornado brow, and eyes of\nred murder, and foam-glued lips, Ahab leaped after his prey.\n\nMeanwhile, all the boats tore on. The repeated specific allusions of\nFlask to  that whale,  as he called the fictitious monster which he\ndeclared to be incessantly tantalizing his boat s bow with its\ntail these allusions of his were at times so vivid and life-like, that\nthey would cause some one or two of his men to snatch a fearful look\nover the shoulder. But this was against all rule; for the oarsmen must\nput out their eyes, and ram a skewer through their necks; usage\npronouncing that they must have no organs but ears, and no limbs but\narms, in these critical moments.\n\nIt was a sight full of quick wonder and awe! The vast swells of the\nomnipotent sea; the surging, hollow roar they made, as they rolled\nalong the eight gunwales, like gigantic bowls in a boundless\nbowling-green; the brief suspended agony of the boat, as it would tip\nfor an instant on the knife-like edge of the sharper waves, that almost\nseemed threatening to cut it in two; the sudden profound dip into the\nwatery glens and hollows; the keen spurrings and goadings to gain the\ntop of the opposite hill; the headlong, sled-like slide down its other\nside; all these, with the cries of the headsmen and harpooneers, and\nthe shuddering gasps of the oarsmen, with the wondrous sight of the\nivory Pequod bearing down upon her boats with outstretched sails, like\na wild hen after her screaming brood; all this was thrilling.\n\nNot the raw recruit, marching from the bosom of his wife into the fever\nheat of his first battle; not the dead man s ghost encountering the\nfirst unknown phantom in the other world; neither of these can feel\nstranger and stronger emotions than that man does, who for the first\ntime finds himself pulling into the charmed, churned circle of the\nhunted sperm whale.\n\nThe dancing white water made by the chase was now becoming more and\nmore visible, owing to the increasing darkness of the dun cloud-shadows\nflung upon the sea. The jets of vapor no longer blended, but tilted\neverywhere to right and left; the whales seemed separating their wakes.\nThe boats were pulled more apart; Starbuck giving chase to three whales\nrunning dead to leeward. Our sail was now set, and, with the still\nrising wind, we rushed along; the boat going with such madness through\nthe water, that the lee oars could scarcely be worked rapidly enough to\nescape being torn from the row-locks.\n\nSoon we were running through a suffusing wide veil of mist; neither\nship nor boat to be seen.\n\n Give way, men,  whispered Starbuck, drawing still further aft the\nsheet of his sail;  there is time to kill a fish yet before the squall\ncomes. There s white water again! close to! Spring! \n\nSoon after, two cries in quick succession on each side of us denoted\nthat the other boats had got fast; but hardly were they overheard, when\nwith a lightning-like hurtling whisper Starbuck said:  Stand up!  and\nQueequeg, harpoon in hand, sprang to his feet.\n\nThough not one of the oarsmen was then facing the life and death peril\nso close to them ahead, yet with their eyes on the intense countenance\nof the mate in the stern of the boat, they knew that the imminent\ninstant had come; they heard, too, an enormous wallowing sound as of\nfifty elephants stirring in their litter. Meanwhile the boat was still\nbooming through the mist, the waves curling and hissing around us like\nthe erected crests of enraged serpents.\n\n That s his hump. _There_, _there_, give it to him!  whispered\nStarbuck.\n\nA short rushing sound leaped out of the boat; it was the darted iron of\nQueequeg. Then all in one welded commotion came an invisible push from\nastern, while forward the boat seemed striking on a ledge; the sail\ncollapsed and exploded; a gush of scalding vapor shot up near by;\nsomething rolled and tumbled like an earthquake beneath us. The whole\ncrew were half suffocated as they were tossed helter-skelter into the\nwhite curdling cream of the squall. Squall, whale, and harpoon had all\nblended together; and the whale, merely grazed by the iron, escaped.\n\nThough completely swamped, the boat was nearly unharmed. Swimming round\nit we picked up the floating oars, and lashing them across the gunwale,\ntumbled back to our places. There we sat up to our knees in the sea,\nthe water covering every rib and plank, so that to our downward gazing\neyes the suspended craft seemed a coral boat grown up to us from the\nbottom of the ocean.\n\nThe wind increased to a howl; the waves dashed their bucklers together;\nthe whole squall roared, forked, and crackled around us like a white\nfire upon the prairie, in which, unconsumed, we were burning; immortal\nin these jaws of death! In vain we hailed the other boats; as well roar\nto the live coals down the chimney of a flaming furnace as hail those\nboats in that storm. Meanwhile the driving scud, rack, and mist, grew\ndarker with the shadows of night; no sign of the ship could be seen.\nThe rising sea forbade all attempts to bale out the boat. The oars were\nuseless as propellers, performing now the office of life-preservers.\nSo, cutting the lashing of the waterproof match keg, after many\nfailures Starbuck contrived to ignite the lamp in the lantern; then\nstretching it on a waif pole, handed it to Queequeg as the\nstandard-bearer of this forlorn hope. There, then, he sat, holding up\nthat imbecile candle in the heart of that almighty forlornness. There,\nthen, he sat, the sign and symbol of a man without faith, hopelessly\nholding up hope in the midst of despair.\n\nWet, drenched through, and shivering cold, despairing of ship or boat,\nwe lifted up our eyes as the dawn came on. The mist still spread over\nthe sea, the empty lantern lay crushed in the bottom of the boat.\nSuddenly Queequeg started to his feet, hollowing his hand to his ear.\nWe all heard a faint creaking, as of ropes and yards hitherto muffled\nby the storm. The sound came nearer and nearer; the thick mists were\ndimly parted by a huge, vague form. Affrighted, we all sprang into the\nsea as the ship at last loomed into view, bearing right down upon us\nwithin a distance of not much more than its length.\n\nFloating on the waves we saw the abandoned boat, as for one instant it\ntossed and gaped beneath the ship s bows like a chip at the base of a\ncataract; and then the vast hull rolled over it, and it was seen no\nmore till it came up weltering astern. Again we swam for it, were\ndashed against it by the seas, and were at last taken up and safely\nlanded on board. Ere the squall came close to, the other boats had cut\nloose from their fish and returned to the ship in good time. The ship\nhad given us up, but was still cruising, if haply it might light upon\nsome token of our perishing, an oar or a lance pole.\n\n\nCHAPTER 49. The Hyena.\n\nThere are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed\naffair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast\npractical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more\nthan suspects that the joke is at nobody s expense but his own.\nHowever, nothing dispirits, and nothing seems worth while disputing. He\nbolts down all events, all creeds, and beliefs, and persuasions, all\nhard things visible and invisible, never mind how knobby; as an ostrich\nof potent digestion gobbles down bullets and gun flints. And as for\nsmall difficulties and worryings, prospects of sudden disaster, peril\nof life and limb; all these, and death itself, seem to him only sly,\ngood-natured hits, and jolly punches in the side bestowed by the unseen\nand unaccountable old joker. That odd sort of wayward mood I am\nspeaking of, comes over a man only in some time of extreme tribulation;\nit comes in the very midst of his earnestness, so that what just before\nmight have seemed to him a thing most momentous, now seems but a part\nof the general joke. There is nothing like the perils of whaling to\nbreed this free and easy sort of genial, desperado philosophy; and with\nit I now regarded this whole voyage of the Pequod, and the great White\nWhale its object.\n\n Queequeg,  said I, when they had dragged me, the last man, to the\ndeck, and I was still shaking myself in my jacket to fling off the\nwater;  Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing often\nhappen?  Without much emotion, though soaked through just like me, he\ngave me to understand that such things did often happen.\n\n Mr. Stubb,  said I, turning to that worthy, who, buttoned up in his\noil-jacket, was now calmly smoking his pipe in the rain;  Mr. Stubb, I\nthink I have heard you say that of all whalemen you ever met, our chief\nmate, Mr. Starbuck, is by far the most careful and prudent. I suppose\nthen, that going plump on a flying whale with your sail set in a foggy\nsquall is the height of a whaleman s discretion? \n\n Certain. I ve lowered for whales from a leaking ship in a gale off\nCape Horn. \n\n Mr. Flask,  said I, turning to little King-Post, who was standing\nclose by;  you are experienced in these things, and I am not. Will you\ntell me whether it is an unalterable law in this fishery, Mr. Flask,\nfor an oarsman to break his own back pulling himself back-foremost into\ndeath s jaws? \n\n Can t you twist that smaller?  said Flask.  Yes, that s the law. I\nshould like to see a boat s crew backing water up to a whale face\nforemost. Ha, ha! the whale would give them squint for squint, mind\nthat! \n\nHere then, from three impartial witnesses, I had a deliberate statement\nof the entire case. Considering, therefore, that squalls and capsizings\nin the water and consequent bivouacks on the deep, were matters of\ncommon occurrence in this kind of life; considering that at the\nsuperlatively critical instant of going on to the whale I must resign\nmy life into the hands of him who steered the boat oftentimes a fellow\nwho at that very moment is in his impetuousness upon the point of\nscuttling the craft with his own frantic stampings; considering that\nthe particular disaster to our own particular boat was chiefly to be\nimputed to Starbuck s driving on to his whale almost in the teeth of a\nsquall, and considering that Starbuck, notwithstanding, was famous for\nhis great heedfulness in the fishery; considering that I belonged to\nthis uncommonly prudent Starbuck s boat; and finally considering in\nwhat a devil s chase I was implicated, touching the White Whale: taking\nall things together, I say, I thought I might as well go below and make\na rough draft of my will.  Queequeg,  said I,  come along, you shall be\nmy lawyer, executor, and legatee. \n\nIt may seem strange that of all men sailors should be tinkering at\ntheir last wills and testaments, but there are no people in the world\nmore fond of that diversion. This was the fourth time in my nautical\nlife that I had done the same thing. After the ceremony was concluded\nupon the present occasion, I felt all the easier; a stone was rolled\naway from my heart. Besides, all the days I should now live would be as\ngood as the days that Lazarus lived after his resurrection; a\nsupplementary clean gain of so many months or weeks as the case might\nbe. I survived myself; my death and burial were locked up in my chest.\nI looked round me tranquilly and contentedly, like a quiet ghost with a\nclean conscience sitting inside the bars of a snug family vault.\n\nNow then, thought I, unconsciously rolling up the sleeves of my frock,\nhere goes for a cool, collected dive at death and destruction, and the\ndevil fetch the hindmost.\n\n\nCHAPTER 50. Ahab s Boat and Crew. Fedallah.\n\n Who would have thought it, Flask!  cried Stubb;  if I had but one leg\nyou would not catch me in a boat, unless maybe to stop the plug-hole\nwith my timber toe. Oh! he s a wonderful old man! \n\n I don t think it so strange, after all, on that account,  said Flask.\n If his leg were off at the hip, now, it would be a different thing.\nThat would disable him; but he has one knee, and good part of the other\nleft, you know. \n\n I don t know that, my little man; I never yet saw him kneel. \n\nAmong whale-wise people it has often been argued whether, considering\nthe paramount importance of his life to the success of the voyage, it\nis right for a whaling captain to jeopardize that life in the active\nperils of the chase. So Tamerlane s soldiers often argued with tears in\ntheir eyes, whether that invaluable life of his ought to be carried\ninto the thickest of the fight.\n\nBut with Ahab the question assumed a modified aspect. Considering that\nwith two legs man is but a hobbling wight in all times of danger;\nconsidering that the pursuit of whales is always under great and\nextraordinary difficulties; that every individual moment, indeed, then\ncomprises a peril; under these circumstances is it wise for any maimed\nman to enter a whale-boat in the hunt? As a general thing, the\njoint-owners of the Pequod must have plainly thought not.\n\nAhab well knew that although his friends at home would think little of\nhis entering a boat in certain comparatively harmless vicissitudes of\nthe chase, for the sake of being near the scene of action and giving\nhis orders in person, yet for Captain Ahab to have a boat actually\napportioned to him as a regular headsman in the hunt above all for\nCaptain Ahab to be supplied with five extra men, as that same boat s\ncrew, he well knew that such generous conceits never entered the heads\nof the owners of the Pequod. Therefore he had not solicited a boat s\ncrew from them, nor had he in any way hinted his desires on that head.\nNevertheless he had taken private measures of his own touching all that\nmatter. Until Cabaco s published discovery, the sailors had little\nforeseen it, though to be sure when, after being a little while out of\nport, all hands had concluded the customary business of fitting the\nwhaleboats for service; when some time after this Ahab was now and then\nfound bestirring himself in the matter of making thole-pins with his\nown hands for what was thought to be one of the spare boats, and even\nsolicitously cutting the small wooden skewers, which when the line is\nrunning out are pinned over the groove in the bow: when all this was\nobserved in him, and particularly his solicitude in having an extra\ncoat of sheathing in the bottom of the boat, as if to make it better\nwithstand the pointed pressure of his ivory limb; and also the anxiety\nhe evinced in exactly shaping the thigh board, or clumsy cleat, as it\nis sometimes called, the horizontal piece in the boat s bow for bracing\nthe knee against in darting or stabbing at the whale; when it was\nobserved how often he stood up in that boat with his solitary knee\nfixed in the semi-circular depression in the cleat, and with the\ncarpenter s chisel gouged out a little here and straightened it a\nlittle there; all these things, I say, had awakened much interest and\ncuriosity at the time. But almost everybody supposed that this\nparticular preparative heedfulness in Ahab must only be with a view to\nthe ultimate chase of Moby Dick; for he had already revealed his\nintention to hunt that mortal monster in person. But such a supposition\ndid by no means involve the remotest suspicion as to any boat s crew\nbeing assigned to that boat.\n\nNow, with the subordinate phantoms, what wonder remained soon waned\naway; for in a whaler wonders soon wane. Besides, now and then such\nunaccountable odds and ends of strange nations come up from the unknown\nnooks and ash-holes of the earth to man these floating outlaws of\nwhalers; and the ships themselves often pick up such queer castaway\ncreatures found tossing about the open sea on planks, bits of wreck,\noars, whaleboats, canoes, blown-off Japanese junks, and what not; that\nBeelzebub himself might climb up the side and step down into the cabin\nto chat with the captain, and it would not create any unsubduable\nexcitement in the forecastle.\n\nBut be all this as it may, certain it is that while the subordinate\nphantoms soon found their place among the crew, though still as it were\nsomehow distinct from them, yet that hair-turbaned Fedallah remained a\nmuffled mystery to the last. Whence he came in a mannerly world like\nthis, by what sort of unaccountable tie he soon evinced himself to be\nlinked with Ahab s peculiar fortunes; nay, so far as to have some sort\nof a half-hinted influence; Heaven knows, but it might have been even\nauthority over him; all this none knew. But one cannot sustain an\nindifferent air concerning Fedallah. He was such a creature as\ncivilized, domestic people in the temperate zone only see in their\ndreams, and that but dimly; but the like of whom now and then glide\namong the unchanging Asiatic communities, especially the Oriental isles\nto the east of the continent those insulated, immemorial, unalterable\ncountries, which even in these modern days still preserve much of the\nghostly aboriginalness of earth s primal generations, when the memory\nof the first man was a distinct recollection, and all men his\ndescendants, unknowing whence he came, eyed each other as real\nphantoms, and asked of the sun and the moon why they were created and\nto what end; when though, according to Genesis, the angels indeed\nconsorted with the daughters of men, the devils also, add the\nuncanonical Rabbins, indulged in mundane amours.\n\n\nCHAPTER 51. The Spirit-Spout.\n\nDays, weeks passed, and under easy sail, the ivory Pequod had slowly\nswept across four several cruising-grounds; that off the Azores; off\nthe Cape de Verdes; on the Plate (so called), being off the mouth of\nthe Rio de la Plata; and the Carrol Ground, an unstaked, watery\nlocality, southerly from St. Helena.\n\nIt was while gliding through these latter waters that one serene and\nmoonlight night, when all the waves rolled by like scrolls of silver;\nand, by their soft, suffusing seethings, made what seemed a silvery\nsilence, not a solitude; on such a silent night a silvery jet was seen\nfar in advance of the white bubbles at the bow. Lit up by the moon, it\nlooked celestial; seemed some plumed and glittering god uprising from\nthe sea. Fedallah first descried this jet. For of these moonlight\nnights, it was his wont to mount to the main-mast head, and stand a\nlook-out there, with the same precision as if it had been day. And yet,\nthough herds of whales were seen by night, not one whaleman in a\nhundred would venture a lowering for them. You may think with what\nemotions, then, the seamen beheld this old Oriental perched aloft at\nsuch unusual hours; his turban and the moon, companions in one sky. But\nwhen, after spending his uniform interval there for several successive\nnights without uttering a single sound; when, after all this silence,\nhis unearthly voice was heard announcing that silvery, moon-lit jet,\nevery reclining mariner started to his feet as if some winged spirit\nhad lighted in the rigging, and hailed the mortal crew.  There she\nblows!  Had the trump of judgment blown, they could not have quivered\nmore; yet still they felt no terror; rather pleasure. For though it was\na most unwonted hour, yet so impressive was the cry, and so deliriously\nexciting, that almost every soul on board instinctively desired a\nlowering.\n\nWalking the deck with quick, side-lunging strides, Ahab commanded the\nt gallant sails and royals to be set, and every stunsail spread. The\nbest man in the ship must take the helm. Then, with every mast-head\nmanned, the piled-up craft rolled down before the wind. The strange,\nupheaving, lifting tendency of the taffrail breeze filling the hollows\nof so many sails, made the buoyant, hovering deck to feel like air\nbeneath the feet; while still she rushed along, as if two antagonistic\ninfluences were struggling in her one to mount direct to heaven, the\nother to drive yawingly to some horizontal goal. And had you watched\nAhab s face that night, you would have thought that in him also two\ndifferent things were warring. While his one live leg made lively\nechoes along the deck, every stroke of his dead limb sounded like a\ncoffin-tap. On life and death this old man walked. But though the ship\nso swiftly sped, and though from every eye, like arrows, the eager\nglances shot, yet the silvery jet was no more seen that night. Every\nsailor swore he saw it once, but not a second time.\n\nThis midnight-spout had almost grown a forgotten thing, when, some days\nafter, lo! at the same silent hour, it was again announced: again it\nwas descried by all; but upon making sail to overtake it, once more it\ndisappeared as if it had never been. And so it served us night after\nnight, till no one heeded it but to wonder at it. Mysteriously jetted\ninto the clear moonlight, or starlight, as the case might be;\ndisappearing again for one whole day, or two days, or three; and\nsomehow seeming at every distinct repetition to be advancing still\nfurther and further in our van, this solitary jet seemed for ever\nalluring us on.\n\nNor with the immemorial superstition of their race, and in accordance\nwith the preternaturalness, as it seemed, which in many things invested\nthe Pequod, were there wanting some of the seamen who swore that\nwhenever and wherever descried; at however remote times, or in however\nfar apart latitudes and longitudes, that unnearable spout was cast by\none self-same whale; and that whale, Moby Dick. For a time, there\nreigned, too, a sense of peculiar dread at this flitting apparition, as\nif it were treacherously beckoning us on and on, in order that the\nmonster might turn round upon us, and rend us at last in the remotest\nand most savage seas.\n\nThese temporary apprehensions, so vague but so awful, derived a\nwondrous potency from the contrasting serenity of the weather, in\nwhich, beneath all its blue blandness, some thought there lurked a\ndevilish charm, as for days and days we voyaged along, through seas so\nwearily, lonesomely mild, that all space, in repugnance to our vengeful\nerrand, seemed vacating itself of life before our urn-like prow.\n\nBut, at last, when turning to the eastward, the Cape winds began\nhowling around us, and we rose and fell upon the long, troubled seas\nthat are there; when the ivory-tusked Pequod sharply bowed to the\nblast, and gored the dark waves in her madness, till, like showers of\nsilver chips, the foam-flakes flew over her bulwarks; then all this\ndesolate vacuity of life went away, but gave place to sights more\ndismal than before.\n\nClose to our bows, strange forms in the water darted hither and thither\nbefore us; while thick in our rear flew the inscrutable sea-ravens. And\nevery morning, perched on our stays, rows of these birds were seen; and\nspite of our hootings, for a long time obstinately clung to the hemp,\nas though they deemed our ship some drifting, uninhabited craft; a\nthing appointed to desolation, and therefore fit roosting-place for\ntheir homeless selves. And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved\nthe black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great\nmundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering\nit had bred.\n\nCape of Good Hope, do they call ye? Rather Cape Tormentoso, as called\nof yore; for long allured by the perfidious silences that before had\nattended us, we found ourselves launched into this tormented sea, where\nguilty beings transformed into those fowls and these fish, seemed\ncondemned to swim on everlastingly without any haven in store, or beat\nthat black air without any horizon. But calm, snow-white, and\nunvarying; still directing its fountain of feathers to the sky; still\nbeckoning us on from before, the solitary jet would at times be\ndescried.\n\nDuring all this blackness of the elements, Ahab, though assuming for\nthe time the almost continual command of the drenched and dangerous\ndeck, manifested the gloomiest reserve; and more seldom than ever\naddressed his mates. In tempestuous times like these, after everything\nabove and aloft has been secured, nothing more can be done but\npassively to await the issue of the gale. Then Captain and crew become\npractical fatalists. So, with his ivory leg inserted into its\naccustomed hole, and with one hand firmly grasping a shroud, Ahab for\nhours and hours would stand gazing dead to windward, while an\noccasional squall of sleet or snow would all but congeal his very\neyelashes together. Meantime, the crew driven from the forward part of\nthe ship by the perilous seas that burstingly broke over its bows,\nstood in a line along the bulwarks in the waist; and the better to\nguard against the leaping waves, each man had slipped himself into a\nsort of bowline secured to the rail, in which he swung as in a loosened\nbelt. Few or no words were spoken; and the silent ship, as if manned by\npainted sailors in wax, day after day tore on through all the swift\nmadness and gladness of the demoniac waves. By night the same muteness\nof humanity before the shrieks of the ocean prevailed; still in silence\nthe men swung in the bowlines; still wordless Ahab stood up to the\nblast. Even when wearied nature seemed demanding repose he would not\nseek that repose in his hammock. Never could Starbuck forget the old\nman s aspect, when one night going down into the cabin to mark how the\nbarometer stood, he saw him with closed eyes sitting straight in his\nfloor-screwed chair; the rain and half-melted sleet of the storm from\nwhich he had some time before emerged, still slowly dripping from the\nunremoved hat and coat. On the table beside him lay unrolled one of\nthose charts of tides and currents which have previously been spoken\nof. His lantern swung from his tightly clenched hand. Though the body\nwas erect, the head was thrown back so that the closed eyes were\npointed towards the needle of the tell-tale that swung from a beam in\nthe ceiling.*\n\n*The cabin-compass is called the tell-tale, because without going to\nthe compass at the helm, the Captain, while below, can inform himself\nof the course of the ship.\n\nTerrible old man! thought Starbuck with a shudder, sleeping in this\ngale, still thou steadfastly eyest thy purpose.\n\n\nCHAPTER 52. The Albatross.\n\nSouth-eastward from the Cape, off the distant Crozetts, a good cruising\nground for Right Whalemen, a sail loomed ahead, the Goney (Albatross)\nby name. As she slowly drew nigh, from my lofty perch at the\nfore-mast-head, I had a good view of that sight so remarkable to a tyro\nin the far ocean fisheries a whaler at sea, and long absent from home.\n\nAs if the waves had been fullers, this craft was bleached like the\nskeleton of a stranded walrus. All down her sides, this spectral\nappearance was traced with long channels of reddened rust, while all\nher spars and her rigging were like the thick branches of trees furred\nover with hoar-frost. Only her lower sails were set. A wild sight it\nwas to see her long-bearded look-outs at those three mast-heads. They\nseemed clad in the skins of beasts, so torn and bepatched the raiment\nthat had survived nearly four years of cruising. Standing in iron hoops\nnailed to the mast, they swayed and swung over a fathomless sea; and\nthough, when the ship slowly glided close under our stern, we six men\nin the air came so nigh to each other that we might almost have leaped\nfrom the mast-heads of one ship to those of the other; yet, those\nforlorn-looking fishermen, mildly eyeing us as they passed, said not\none word to our own look-outs, while the quarter-deck hail was being\nheard from below.\n\n Ship ahoy! Have ye seen the White Whale? \n\nBut as the strange captain, leaning over the pallid bulwarks, was in\nthe act of putting his trumpet to his mouth, it somehow fell from his\nhand into the sea; and the wind now rising amain, he in vain strove to\nmake himself heard without it. Meantime his ship was still increasing\nthe distance between. While in various silent ways the seamen of the\nPequod were evincing their observance of this ominous incident at the\nfirst mere mention of the White Whale s name to another ship, Ahab for\na moment paused; it almost seemed as though he would have lowered a\nboat to board the stranger, had not the threatening wind forbade. But\ntaking advantage of his windward position, he again seized his trumpet,\nand knowing by her aspect that the stranger vessel was a Nantucketer\nand shortly bound home, he loudly hailed Ahoy there! This is the\nPequod, bound round the world! Tell them to address all future letters\nto the Pacific ocean! and this time three years, if I am not at home,\ntell them to address them to  \n\nAt that moment the two wakes were fairly crossed, and instantly, then,\nin accordance with their singular ways, shoals of small harmless fish,\nthat for some days before had been placidly swimming by our side,\ndarted away with what seemed shuddering fins, and ranged themselves\nfore and aft with the stranger s flanks. Though in the course of his\ncontinual voyagings Ahab must often before have noticed a similar\nsight, yet, to any monomaniac man, the veriest trifles capriciously\ncarry meanings.\n\n Swim away from me, do ye?  murmured Ahab, gazing over into the water.\nThere seemed but little in the words, but the tone conveyed more of\ndeep helpless sadness than the insane old man had ever before evinced.\nBut turning to the steersman, who thus far had been holding the ship in\nthe wind to diminish her headway, he cried out in his old lion\nvoice, Up helm! Keep her off round the world! \n\nRound the world! There is much in that sound to inspire proud feelings;\nbut whereto does all that circumnavigation conduct? Only through\nnumberless perils to the very point whence we started, where those that\nwe left behind secure, were all the time before us.\n\nWere this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could for\never reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange\nthan any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise\nin the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in\ntormented chase of that demon phantom that, some time or other, swims\nbefore all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they\neither lead us on in barren mazes or midway leave us whelmed.\n\n\nCHAPTER 53. The Gam.\n\nThe ostensible reason why Ahab did not go on board of the whaler we had\nspoken was this: the wind and sea betokened storms. But even had this\nnot been the case, he would not after all, perhaps, have boarded\nher judging by his subsequent conduct on similar occasions if so it had\nbeen that, by the process of hailing, he had obtained a negative answer\nto the question he put. For, as it eventually turned out, he cared not\nto consort, even for five minutes, with any stranger captain, except he\ncould contribute some of that information he so absorbingly sought. But\nall this might remain inadequately estimated, were not something said\nhere of the peculiar usages of whaling-vessels when meeting each other\nin foreign seas, and especially on a common cruising-ground.\n\nIf two strangers crossing the Pine Barrens in New York State, or the\nequally desolate Salisbury Plain in England; if casually encountering\neach other in such inhospitable wilds, these twain, for the life of\nthem, cannot well avoid a mutual salutation; and stopping for a moment\nto interchange the news; and, perhaps, sitting down for a while and\nresting in concert: then, how much more natural that upon the\nillimitable Pine Barrens and Salisbury Plains of the sea, two whaling\nvessels descrying each other at the ends of the earth off lone\nFanning s Island, or the far away King s Mills; how much more natural,\nI say, that under such circumstances these ships should not only\ninterchange hails, but come into still closer, more friendly and\nsociable contact. And especially would this seem to be a matter of\ncourse, in the case of vessels owned in one seaport, and whose\ncaptains, officers, and not a few of the men are personally known to\neach other; and consequently, have all sorts of dear domestic things to\ntalk about.\n\nFor the long absent ship, the outward-bounder, perhaps, has letters on\nboard; at any rate, she will be sure to let her have some papers of a\ndate a year or two later than the last one on her blurred and\nthumb-worn files. And in return for that courtesy, the outward-bound\nship would receive the latest whaling intelligence from the\ncruising-ground to which she may be destined, a thing of the utmost\nimportance to her. And in degree, all this will hold true concerning\nwhaling vessels crossing each other s track on the cruising-ground\nitself, even though they are equally long absent from home. For one of\nthem may have received a transfer of letters from some third, and now\nfar remote vessel; and some of those letters may be for the people of\nthe ship she now meets. Besides, they would exchange the whaling news,\nand have an agreeable chat. For not only would they meet with all the\nsympathies of sailors, but likewise with all the peculiar\ncongenialities arising from a common pursuit and mutually shared\nprivations and perils.\n\nNor would difference of country make any very essential difference;\nthat is, so long as both parties speak one language, as is the case\nwith Americans and English. Though, to be sure, from the small number\nof English whalers, such meetings do not very often occur, and when\nthey do occur there is too apt to be a sort of shyness between them;\nfor your Englishman is rather reserved, and your Yankee, he does not\nfancy that sort of thing in anybody but himself. Besides, the English\nwhalers sometimes affect a kind of metropolitan superiority over the\nAmerican whalers; regarding the long, lean Nantucketer, with his\nnondescript provincialisms, as a sort of sea-peasant. But where this\nsuperiority in the English whalemen does really consist, it would be\nhard to say, seeing that the Yankees in one day, collectively, kill\nmore whales than all the English, collectively, in ten years. But this\nis a harmless little foible in the English whale-hunters, which the\nNantucketer does not take much to heart; probably, because he knows\nthat he has a few foibles himself.\n\nSo, then, we see that of all ships separately sailing the sea, the\nwhalers have most reason to be sociable and they are so. Whereas, some\nmerchant ships crossing each other s wake in the mid-Atlantic, will\noftentimes pass on without so much as a single word of recognition,\nmutually cutting each other on the high seas, like a brace of dandies\nin Broadway; and all the time indulging, perhaps, in finical criticism\nupon each other s rig. As for Men-of-War, when they chance to meet at\nsea, they first go through such a string of silly bowings and\nscrapings, such a ducking of ensigns, that there does not seem to be\nmuch right-down hearty good-will and brotherly love about it at all. As\ntouching Slave-ships meeting, why, they are in such a prodigious hurry,\nthey run away from each other as soon as possible. And as for Pirates,\nwhen they chance to cross each other s cross-bones, the first hail\nis How many skulls? the same way that whalers hail How many\nbarrels?  And that question once answered, pirates straightway steer\napart, for they are infernal villains on both sides, and don t like to\nsee overmuch of each other s villanous likenesses.\n\nBut look at the godly, honest, unostentatious, hospitable, sociable,\nfree-and-easy whaler! What does the whaler do when she meets another\nwhaler in any sort of decent weather? She has a  _Gam_,  a thing so\nutterly unknown to all other ships that they never heard of the name\neven; and if by chance they should hear of it, they only grin at it,\nand repeat gamesome stuff about  spouters  and  blubber-boilers,  and\nsuch like pretty exclamations. Why it is that all Merchant-seamen, and\nalso all Pirates and Man-of-War s men, and Slave-ship sailors, cherish\nsuch a scornful feeling towards Whale-ships; this is a question it\nwould be hard to answer. Because, in the case of pirates, say, I should\nlike to know whether that profession of theirs has any peculiar glory\nabout it. It sometimes ends in uncommon elevation, indeed; but only at\nthe gallows. And besides, when a man is elevated in that odd fashion,\nhe has no proper foundation for his superior altitude. Hence, I\nconclude, that in boasting himself to be high lifted above a whaleman,\nin that assertion the pirate has no solid basis to stand on.\n\nBut what is a _Gam?_ You might wear out your index-finger running up\nand down the columns of dictionaries, and never find the word. Dr.\nJohnson never attained to that erudition; Noah Webster s ark does not\nhold it. Nevertheless, this same expressive word has now for many years\nbeen in constant use among some fifteen thousand true born Yankees.\nCertainly, it needs a definition, and should be incorporated into the\nLexicon. With that view, let me learnedly define it.\n\nGAM. NOUN _A social meeting of two_ (_or more_) _Whaleships, generally\non a cruising-ground; when, after exchanging hails, they exchange\nvisits by boats  crews: the two captains remaining, for the time, on\nboard of one ship, and the two chief mates on the other._\n\nThere is another little item about Gamming which must not be forgotten\nhere. All professions have their own little peculiarities of detail; so\nhas the whale fishery. In a pirate, man-of-war, or slave ship, when the\ncaptain is rowed anywhere in his boat, he always sits in the stern\nsheets on a comfortable, sometimes cushioned seat there, and often\nsteers himself with a pretty little milliner s tiller decorated with\ngay cords and ribbons. But the whale-boat has no seat astern, no sofa\nof that sort whatever, and no tiller at all. High times indeed, if\nwhaling captains were wheeled about the water on castors like gouty old\naldermen in patent chairs. And as for a tiller, the whale-boat never\nadmits of any such effeminacy; and therefore as in gamming a complete\nboat s crew must leave the ship, and hence as the boat steerer or\nharpooneer is of the number, that subordinate is the steersman upon the\noccasion, and the captain, having no place to sit in, is pulled off to\nhis visit all standing like a pine tree. And often you will notice that\nbeing conscious of the eyes of the whole visible world resting on him\nfrom the sides of the two ships, this standing captain is all alive to\nthe importance of sustaining his dignity by maintaining his legs. Nor\nis this any very easy matter; for in his rear is the immense projecting\nsteering oar hitting him now and then in the small of his back, the\nafter-oar reciprocating by rapping his knees in front. He is thus\ncompletely wedged before and behind, and can only expand himself\nsideways by settling down on his stretched legs; but a sudden, violent\npitch of the boat will often go far to topple him, because length of\nfoundation is nothing without corresponding breadth. Merely make a\nspread angle of two poles, and you cannot stand them up. Then, again,\nit would never do in plain sight of the world s riveted eyes, it would\nnever do, I say, for this straddling captain to be seen steadying\nhimself the slightest particle by catching hold of anything with his\nhands; indeed, as token of his entire, buoyant self-command, he\ngenerally carries his hands in his trowsers  pockets; but perhaps being\ngenerally very large, heavy hands, he carries them there for ballast.\nNevertheless there have occurred instances, well authenticated ones\ntoo, where the captain has been known for an uncommonly critical moment\nor two, in a sudden squall say to seize hold of the nearest oarsman s\nhair, and hold on there like grim death.\n\n\nCHAPTER 54. The Town-Ho s Story.\n\n(_As told at the Golden Inn._)\n\nThe Cape of Good Hope, and all the watery region round about there, is\nmuch like some noted four corners of a great highway, where you meet\nmore travellers than in any other part.\n\nIt was not very long after speaking the Goney that another\nhomeward-bound whaleman, the Town-Ho,* was encountered. She was manned\nalmost wholly by Polynesians. In the short gam that ensued she gave us\nstrong news of Moby Dick. To some the general interest in the White\nWhale was now wildly heightened by a circumstance of the Town-Ho s\nstory, which seemed obscurely to involve with the whale a certain\nwondrous, inverted visitation of one of those so called judgments of\nGod which at times are said to overtake some men. This latter\ncircumstance, with its own particular accompaniments, forming what may\nbe called the secret part of the tragedy about to be narrated, never\nreached the ears of Captain Ahab or his mates. For that secret part of\nthe story was unknown to the captain of the Town-Ho himself. It was the\nprivate property of three confederate white seamen of that ship, one of\nwhom, it seems, communicated it to Tashtego with Romish injunctions of\nsecrecy, but the following night Tashtego rambled in his sleep, and\nrevealed so much of it in that way, that when he was wakened he could\nnot well withhold the rest. Nevertheless, so potent an influence did\nthis thing have on those seamen in the Pequod who came to the full\nknowledge of it, and by such a strange delicacy, to call it so, were\nthey governed in this matter, that they kept the secret among\nthemselves so that it never transpired abaft the Pequod s main-mast.\nInterweaving in its proper place this darker thread with the story as\npublicly narrated on the ship, the whole of this strange affair I now\nproceed to put on lasting record.\n\n*The ancient whale-cry upon first sighting a whale from the mast-head,\nstill used by whalemen in hunting the famous Gallipagos terrapin.\n\nFor my humor s sake, I shall preserve the style in which I once\nnarrated it at Lima, to a lounging circle of my Spanish friends, one\nsaint s eve, smoking upon the thick-gilt tiled piazza of the Golden\nInn. Of those fine cavaliers, the young Dons, Pedro and Sebastian, were\non the closer terms with me; and hence the interluding questions they\noccasionally put, and which are duly answered at the time.\n\n Some two years prior to my first learning the events which I am about\nrehearsing to you, gentlemen, the Town-Ho, Sperm Whaler of Nantucket,\nwas cruising in your Pacific here, not very many days  sail eastward\nfrom the eaves of this good Golden Inn. She was somewhere to the\nnorthward of the Line. One morning upon handling the pumps, according\nto daily usage, it was observed that she made more water in her hold\nthan common. They supposed a sword-fish had stabbed her, gentlemen. But\nthe captain, having some unusual reason for believing that rare good\nluck awaited him in those latitudes; and therefore being very averse to\nquit them, and the leak not being then considered at all dangerous,\nthough, indeed, they could not find it after searching the hold as low\ndown as was possible in rather heavy weather, the ship still continued\nher cruisings, the mariners working at the pumps at wide and easy\nintervals; but no good luck came; more days went by, and not only was\nthe leak yet undiscovered, but it sensibly increased. So much so, that\nnow taking some alarm, the captain, making all sail, stood away for the\nnearest harbor among the islands, there to have his hull hove out and\nrepaired.\n\n Though no small passage was before her, yet, if the commonest chance\nfavoured, he did not at all fear that his ship would founder by the\nway, because his pumps were of the best, and being periodically\nrelieved at them, those six-and-thirty men of his could easily keep the\nship free; never mind if the leak should double on her. In truth, well\nnigh the whole of this passage being attended by very prosperous\nbreezes, the Town-Ho had all but certainly arrived in perfect safety at\nher port without the occurrence of the least fatality, had it not been\nfor the brutal overbearing of Radney, the mate, a Vineyarder, and the\nbitterly provoked vengeance of Steelkilt, a Lakeman and desperado from\nBuffalo.\n\n Lakeman! Buffalo! Pray, what is a Lakeman, and where is Buffalo? \nsaid Don Sebastian, rising in his swinging mat of grass.\n\n On the eastern shore of our Lake Erie, Don; but I crave your\ncourtesy may be, you shall soon hear further of all that. Now,\ngentlemen, in square-sail brigs and three-masted ships, well-nigh as\nlarge and stout as any that ever sailed out of your old Callao to far\nManilla; this Lakeman, in the land-locked heart of our America, had yet\nbeen nurtured by all those agrarian freebooting impressions popularly\nconnected with the open ocean. For in their interflowing aggregate,\nthose grand fresh-water seas of ours, Erie, and Ontario, and Huron, and\nSuperior, and Michigan, possess an ocean-like expansiveness, with many\nof the ocean s noblest traits; with many of its rimmed varieties of\nraces and of climes. They contain round archipelagoes of romantic\nisles, even as the Polynesian waters do; in large part, are shored by\ntwo great contrasting nations, as the Atlantic is; they furnish long\nmaritime approaches to our numerous territorial colonies from the East,\ndotted all round their banks; here and there are frowned upon by\nbatteries, and by the goat-like craggy guns of lofty Mackinaw; they\nhave heard the fleet thunderings of naval victories; at intervals, they\nyield their beaches to wild barbarians, whose red painted faces flash\nfrom out their peltry wigwams; for leagues and leagues are flanked by\nancient and unentered forests, where the gaunt pines stand like serried\nlines of kings in Gothic genealogies; those same woods harboring wild\nAfric beasts of prey, and silken creatures whose exported furs give\nrobes to Tartar Emperors; they mirror the paved capitals of Buffalo and\nCleveland, as well as Winnebago villages; they float alike the\nfull-rigged merchant ship, the armed cruiser of the State, the steamer,\nand the beech canoe; they are swept by Borean and dismasting blasts as\ndireful as any that lash the salted wave; they know what shipwrecks\nare, for out of sight of land, however inland, they have drowned full\nmany a midnight ship with all its shrieking crew. Thus, gentlemen,\nthough an inlander, Steelkilt was wild-ocean born, and wild-ocean\nnurtured; as much of an audacious mariner as any. And for Radney,\nthough in his infancy he may have laid him down on the lone Nantucket\nbeach, to nurse at his maternal sea; though in after life he had long\nfollowed our austere Atlantic and your contemplative Pacific; yet was\nhe quite as vengeful and full of social quarrel as the backwoods\nseaman, fresh from the latitudes of buck-horn handled Bowie-knives. Yet\nwas this Nantucketer a man with some good-hearted traits; and this\nLakeman, a mariner, who though a sort of devil indeed, might yet by\ninflexible firmness, only tempered by that common decency of human\nrecognition which is the meanest slave s right; thus treated, this\nSteelkilt had long been retained harmless and docile. At all events, he\nhad proved so thus far; but Radney was doomed and made mad, and\nSteelkilt but, gentlemen, you shall hear.\n\n It was not more than a day or two at the furthest after pointing her\nprow for her island haven, that the Town-Ho s leak seemed again\nincreasing, but only so as to require an hour or more at the pumps\nevery day. You must know that in a settled and civilized ocean like our\nAtlantic, for example, some skippers think little of pumping their\nwhole way across it; though of a still, sleepy night, should the\nofficer of the deck happen to forget his duty in that respect, the\nprobability would be that he and his shipmates would never again\nremember it, on account of all hands gently subsiding to the bottom.\nNor in the solitary and savage seas far from you to the westward,\ngentlemen, is it altogether unusual for ships to keep clanging at their\npump-handles in full chorus even for a voyage of considerable length;\nthat is, if it lie along a tolerably accessible coast, or if any other\nreasonable retreat is afforded them. It is only when a leaky vessel is\nin some very out of the way part of those waters, some really landless\nlatitude, that her captain begins to feel a little anxious.\n\n Much this way had it been with the Town-Ho; so when her leak was found\ngaining once more, there was in truth some small concern manifested by\nseveral of her company; especially by Radney the mate. He commanded the\nupper sails to be well hoisted, sheeted home anew, and every way\nexpanded to the breeze. Now this Radney, I suppose, was as little of a\ncoward, and as little inclined to any sort of nervous apprehensiveness\ntouching his own person as any fearless, unthinking creature on land or\non sea that you can conveniently imagine, gentlemen. Therefore when he\nbetrayed this solicitude about the safety of the ship, some of the\nseamen declared that it was only on account of his being a part owner\nin her. So when they were working that evening at the pumps, there was\non this head no small gamesomeness slily going on among them, as they\nstood with their feet continually overflowed by the rippling clear\nwater; clear as any mountain spring, gentlemen that bubbling from the\npumps ran across the deck, and poured itself out in steady spouts at\nthe lee scupper-holes.\n\n Now, as you well know, it is not seldom the case in this conventional\nworld of ours watery or otherwise; that when a person placed in command\nover his fellow-men finds one of them to be very significantly his\nsuperior in general pride of manhood, straightway against that man he\nconceives an unconquerable dislike and bitterness; and if he have a\nchance he will pull down and pulverize that subaltern s tower, and make\na little heap of dust of it. Be this conceit of mine as it may,\ngentlemen, at all events Steelkilt was a tall and noble animal with a\nhead like a Roman, and a flowing golden beard like the tasseled\nhousings of your last viceroy s snorting charger; and a brain, and a\nheart, and a soul in him, gentlemen, which had made Steelkilt\nCharlemagne, had he been born son to Charlemagne s father. But Radney,\nthe mate, was ugly as a mule; yet as hardy, as stubborn, as malicious.\nHe did not love Steelkilt, and Steelkilt knew it.\n\n Espying the mate drawing near as he was toiling at the pump with the\nrest, the Lakeman affected not to notice him, but unawed, went on with\nhis gay banterings.\n\n Aye, aye, my merry lads, it s a lively leak this; hold a cannikin,\none of ye, and let s have a taste. By the Lord, it s worth bottling! I\ntell ye what, men, old Rad s investment must go for it! he had best cut\naway his part of the hull and tow it home. The fact is, boys, that\nsword-fish only began the job; he s come back again with a gang of\nship-carpenters, saw-fish, and file-fish, and what not; and the whole\nposse of  em are now hard at work cutting and slashing at the bottom;\nmaking improvements, I suppose. If old Rad were here now, I d tell him\nto jump overboard and scatter  em. They re playing the devil with his\nestate, I can tell him. But he s a simple old soul, Rad, and a beauty\ntoo. Boys, they say the rest of his property is invested in\nlooking-glasses. I wonder if he d give a poor devil like me the model\nof his nose. \n\n Damn your eyes! what s that pump stopping for?  roared Radney,\npretending not to have heard the sailors  talk.  Thunder away at it! \n\n Aye, aye, sir,  said Steelkilt, merry as a cricket.  Lively, boys,\nlively, now!  And with that the pump clanged like fifty fire-engines;\nthe men tossed their hats off to it, and ere long that peculiar gasping\nof the lungs was heard which denotes the fullest tension of life s\nutmost energies.\n\n Quitting the pump at last, with the rest of his band, the Lakeman went\nforward all panting, and sat himself down on the windlass; his face\nfiery red, his eyes bloodshot, and wiping the profuse sweat from his\nbrow. Now what cozening fiend it was, gentlemen, that possessed Radney\nto meddle with such a man in that corporeally exasperated state, I know\nnot; but so it happened. Intolerably striding along the deck, the mate\ncommanded him to get a broom and sweep down the planks, and also a\nshovel, and remove some offensive matters consequent upon allowing a\npig to run at large.\n\n Now, gentlemen, sweeping a ship s deck at sea is a piece of household\nwork which in all times but raging gales is regularly attended to every\nevening; it has been known to be done in the case of ships actually\nfoundering at the time. Such, gentlemen, is the inflexibility of\nsea-usages and the instinctive love of neatness in seamen; some of whom\nwould not willingly drown without first washing their faces. But in all\nvessels this broom business is the prescriptive province of the boys,\nif boys there be aboard. Besides, it was the stronger men in the\nTown-Ho that had been divided into gangs, taking turns at the pumps;\nand being the most athletic seaman of them all, Steelkilt had been\nregularly assigned captain of one of the gangs; consequently he should\nhave been freed from any trivial business not connected with truly\nnautical duties, such being the case with his comrades. I mention all\nthese particulars so that you may understand exactly how this affair\nstood between the two men.\n\n But there was more than this: the order about the shovel was almost as\nplainly meant to sting and insult Steelkilt, as though Radney had spat\nin his face. Any man who has gone sailor in a whale-ship will\nunderstand this; and all this and doubtless much more, the Lakeman\nfully comprehended when the mate uttered his command. But as he sat\nstill for a moment, and as he steadfastly looked into the mate s\nmalignant eye and perceived the stacks of powder-casks heaped up in him\nand the slow-match silently burning along towards them; as he\ninstinctively saw all this, that strange forbearance and unwillingness\nto stir up the deeper passionateness in any already ireful being a\nrepugnance most felt, when felt at all, by really valiant men even when\naggrieved this nameless phantom feeling, gentlemen, stole over\nSteelkilt.\n\n Therefore, in his ordinary tone, only a little broken by the bodily\nexhaustion he was temporarily in, he answered him saying that sweeping\nthe deck was not his business, and he would not do it. And then,\nwithout at all alluding to the shovel, he pointed to three lads as the\ncustomary sweepers; who, not being billeted at the pumps, had done\nlittle or nothing all day. To this, Radney replied with an oath, in a\nmost domineering and outrageous manner unconditionally reiterating his\ncommand; meanwhile advancing upon the still seated Lakeman, with an\nuplifted cooper s club hammer which he had snatched from a cask near\nby.\n\n Heated and irritated as he was by his spasmodic toil at the pumps, for\nall his first nameless feeling of forbearance the sweating Steelkilt\ncould but ill brook this bearing in the mate; but somehow still\nsmothering the conflagration within him, without speaking he remained\ndoggedly rooted to his seat, till at last the incensed Radney shook the\nhammer within a few inches of his face, furiously commanding him to do\nhis bidding.\n\n Steelkilt rose, and slowly retreating round the windlass, steadily\nfollowed by the mate with his menacing hammer, deliberately repeated\nhis intention not to obey. Seeing, however, that his forbearance had\nnot the slightest effect, by an awful and unspeakable intimation with\nhis twisted hand he warned off the foolish and infatuated man; but it\nwas to no purpose. And in this way the two went once slowly round the\nwindlass; when, resolved at last no longer to retreat, bethinking him\nthat he had now forborne as much as comported with his humor, the\nLakeman paused on the hatches and thus spoke to the officer:\n\n Mr. Radney, I will not obey you. Take that hammer away, or look to\nyourself.  But the predestinated mate coming still closer to him, where\nthe Lakeman stood fixed, now shook the heavy hammer within an inch of\nhis teeth; meanwhile repeating a string of insufferable maledictions.\nRetreating not the thousandth part of an inch; stabbing him in the eye\nwith the unflinching poniard of his glance, Steelkilt, clenching his\nright hand behind him and creepingly drawing it back, told his\npersecutor that if the hammer but grazed his cheek he (Steelkilt) would\nmurder him. But, gentlemen, the fool had been branded for the slaughter\nby the gods. Immediately the hammer touched the cheek; the next instant\nthe lower jaw of the mate was stove in his head; he fell on the hatch\nspouting blood like a whale.\n\n Ere the cry could go aft Steelkilt was shaking one of the backstays\nleading far aloft to where two of his comrades were standing their\nmastheads. They were both Canallers.\n\n Canallers!  cried Don Pedro.  We have seen many whale-ships in our\nharbours, but never heard of your Canallers. Pardon: who and what are\nthey? \n\n Canallers, Don, are the boatmen belonging to our grand Erie Canal.\nYou must have heard of it. \n\n Nay, Senor; hereabouts in this dull, warm, most lazy, and hereditary\nland, we know but little of your vigorous North. \n\n Aye? Well then, Don, refill my cup. Your chicha s very fine; and ere\nproceeding further I will tell ye what our Canallers are; for such\ninformation may throw side-light upon my story. \n\n For three hundred and sixty miles, gentlemen, through the entire\nbreadth of the state of New York; through numerous populous cities and\nmost thriving villages; through long, dismal, uninhabited swamps, and\naffluent, cultivated fields, unrivalled for fertility; by billiard-room\nand bar-room; through the holy-of-holies of great forests; on Roman\narches over Indian rivers; through sun and shade; by happy hearts or\nbroken; through all the wide contrasting scenery of those noble Mohawk\ncounties; and especially, by rows of snow-white chapels, whose spires\nstand almost like milestones, flows one continual stream of Venetianly\ncorrupt and often lawless life. There s your true Ashantee, gentlemen;\nthere howl your pagans; where you ever find them, next door to you;\nunder the long-flung shadow, and the snug patronising lee of churches.\nFor by some curious fatality, as it is often noted of your metropolitan\nfreebooters that they ever encamp around the halls of justice, so\nsinners, gentlemen, most abound in holiest vicinities.\n\n Is that a friar passing?  said Don Pedro, looking downwards into the\ncrowded plazza, with humorous concern.\n\n Well for our northern friend, Dame Isabella s Inquisition wanes in\nLima,  laughed Don Sebastian.  Proceed, Senor. \n\n A moment! Pardon!  cried another of the company.  In the name of all\nus Limeese, I but desire to express to you, sir sailor, that we have by\nno means overlooked your delicacy in not substituting present Lima for\ndistant Venice in your corrupt comparison. Oh! do not bow and look\nsurprised; you know the proverb all along this coast Corrupt as Lima. \nIt but bears out your saying, too; churches more plentiful than\nbilliard-tables, and for ever open and  Corrupt as Lima.  So, too,\nVenice; I have been there; the holy city of the blessed evangelist, St.\nMark! St. Dominic, purge it! Your cup! Thanks: here I refill; now, you\npour out again. \n\n Freely depicted in his own vocation, gentlemen, the Canaller would\nmake a fine dramatic hero, so abundantly and picturesquely wicked is\nhe. Like Mark Antony, for days and days along his green-turfed, flowery\nNile, he indolently floats, openly toying with his red-cheeked\nCleopatra, ripening his apricot thigh upon the sunny deck. But ashore,\nall this effeminacy is dashed. The brigandish guise which the Canaller\nso proudly sports; his slouched and gaily-ribboned hat betoken his\ngrand features. A terror to the smiling innocence of the villages\nthrough which he floats; his swart visage and bold swagger are not\nunshunned in cities. Once a vagabond on his own canal, I have received\ngood turns from one of these Canallers; I thank him heartily; would\nfain be not ungrateful; but it is often one of the prime redeeming\nqualities of your man of violence, that at times he has as stiff an arm\nto back a poor stranger in a strait, as to plunder a wealthy one. In\nsum, gentlemen, what the wildness of this canal life is, is\nemphatically evinced by this; that our wild whale-fishery contains so\nmany of its most finished graduates, and that scarce any race of\nmankind, except Sydney men, are so much distrusted by our whaling\ncaptains. Nor does it at all diminish the curiousness of this matter,\nthat to many thousands of our rural boys and young men born along its\nline, the probationary life of the Grand Canal furnishes the sole\ntransition between quietly reaping in a Christian corn-field, and\nrecklessly ploughing the waters of the most barbaric seas.\n\n I see! I see!  impetuously exclaimed Don Pedro, spilling his chicha\nupon his silvery ruffles.  No need to travel! The world s one Lima. I\nhad thought, now, that at your temperate North the generations were\ncold and holy as the hills. But the story. \n\n I left off, gentlemen, where the Lakeman shook the backstay. Hardly\nhad he done so, when he was surrounded by the three junior mates and\nthe four harpooneers, who all crowded him to the deck. But sliding down\nthe ropes like baleful comets, the two Canallers rushed into the\nuproar, and sought to drag their man out of it towards the forecastle.\nOthers of the sailors joined with them in this attempt, and a twisted\nturmoil ensued; while standing out of harm s way, the valiant captain\ndanced up and down with a whale-pike, calling upon his officers to\nmanhandle that atrocious scoundrel, and smoke him along to the\nquarter-deck. At intervals, he ran close up to the revolving border of\nthe confusion, and prying into the heart of it with his pike, sought to\nprick out the object of his resentment. But Steelkilt and his\ndesperadoes were too much for them all; they succeeded in gaining the\nforecastle deck, where, hastily slewing about three or four large casks\nin a line with the windlass, these sea-Parisians entrenched themselves\nbehind the barricade.\n\n Come out of that, ye pirates!  roared the captain, now menacing them\nwith a pistol in each hand, just brought to him by the steward.  Come\nout of that, ye cut-throats! \n\n Steelkilt leaped on the barricade, and striding up and down there,\ndefied the worst the pistols could do; but gave the captain to\nunderstand distinctly, that his (Steelkilt s) death would be the signal\nfor a murderous mutiny on the part of all hands. Fearing in his heart\nlest this might prove but too true, the captain a little desisted, but\nstill commanded the insurgents instantly to return to their duty.\n\n Will you promise not to touch us, if we do?  demanded their\nringleader.\n\n Turn to! turn to! I make no promise; to your duty! Do you want to\nsink the ship, by knocking off at a time like this? Turn to!  and he\nonce more raised a pistol.\n\n Sink the ship?  cried Steelkilt.  Aye, let her sink. Not a man of us\nturns to, unless you swear not to raise a rope-yarn against us. What\nsay ye, men?  turning to his comrades. A fierce cheer was their\nresponse.\n\n The Lakeman now patrolled the barricade, all the while keeping his eye\non the Captain, and jerking out such sentences as these: It s not our\nfault; we didn t want it; I told him to take his hammer away; it was\nboy s business; he might have known me before this; I told him not to\nprick the buffalo; I believe I have broken a finger here against his\ncursed jaw; ain t those mincing knives down in the forecastle there,\nmen? look to those handspikes, my hearties. Captain, by God, look to\nyourself; say the word; don t be a fool; forget it all; we are ready to\nturn to; treat us decently, and we re your men; but we won t be\nflogged. \n\n Turn to! I make no promises, turn to, I say! \n\n Look ye, now,  cried the Lakeman, flinging out his arm towards him,\n there are a few of us here (and I am one of them) who have shipped for\nthe cruise, d ye see; now as you well know, sir, we can claim our\ndischarge as soon as the anchor is down; so we don t want a row; it s\nnot our interest; we want to be peaceable; we are ready to work, but we\nwon t be flogged. \n\n Turn to!  roared the Captain.\n\n Steelkilt glanced round him a moment, and then said: I tell you what\nit is now, Captain, rather than kill ye, and be hung for such a shabby\nrascal, we won t lift a hand against ye unless ye attack us; but till\nyou say the word about not flogging us, we don t do a hand s turn. \n\n Down into the forecastle then, down with ye, I ll keep ye there till\nye re sick of it. Down ye go. \n\n Shall we?  cried the ringleader to his men. Most of them were against\nit; but at length, in obedience to Steelkilt, they preceded him down\ninto their dark den, growlingly disappearing, like bears into a cave.\n\n As the Lakeman s bare head was just level with the planks, the Captain\nand his posse leaped the barricade, and rapidly drawing over the slide\nof the scuttle, planted their group of hands upon it, and loudly called\nfor the steward to bring the heavy brass padlock belonging to the\ncompanionway. Then opening the slide a little, the Captain whispered\nsomething down the crack, closed it, and turned the key upon them ten\nin number leaving on deck some twenty or more, who thus far had\nremained neutral.\n\n All night a wide-awake watch was kept by all the officers, forward and\naft, especially about the forecastle scuttle and fore hatchway; at\nwhich last place it was feared the insurgents might emerge, after\nbreaking through the bulkhead below. But the hours of darkness passed\nin peace; the men who still remained at their duty toiling hard at the\npumps, whose clinking and clanking at intervals through the dreary\nnight dismally resounded through the ship.\n\n At sunrise the Captain went forward, and knocking on the deck,\nsummoned the prisoners to work; but with a yell they refused. Water was\nthen lowered down to them, and a couple of handfuls of biscuit were\ntossed after it; when again turning the key upon them and pocketing it,\nthe Captain returned to the quarter-deck. Twice every day for three\ndays this was repeated; but on the fourth morning a confused wrangling,\nand then a scuffling was heard, as the customary summons was delivered;\nand suddenly four men burst up from the forecastle, saying they were\nready to turn to. The fetid closeness of the air, and a famishing diet,\nunited perhaps to some fears of ultimate retribution, had constrained\nthem to surrender at discretion. Emboldened by this, the Captain\nreiterated his demand to the rest, but Steelkilt shouted up to him a\nterrific hint to stop his babbling and betake himself where he\nbelonged. On the fifth morning three others of the mutineers bolted up\ninto the air from the desperate arms below that sought to restrain\nthem. Only three were left.\n\n Better turn to, now?  said the Captain with a heartless jeer.\n\n Shut us up again, will ye!  cried Steelkilt.\n\n Oh certainly,  said the Captain, and the key clicked.\n\n It was at this point, gentlemen, that enraged by the defection of\nseven of his former associates, and stung by the mocking voice that had\nlast hailed him, and maddened by his long entombment in a place as\nblack as the bowels of despair; it was then that Steelkilt proposed to\nthe two Canallers, thus far apparently of one mind with him, to burst\nout of their hole at the next summoning of the garrison; and armed with\ntheir keen mincing knives (long, crescentic, heavy implements with a\nhandle at each end) run amuck from the bowsprit to the taffrail; and if\nby any devilishness of desperation possible, seize the ship. For\nhimself, he would do this, he said, whether they joined him or not.\nThat was the last night he should spend in that den. But the scheme met\nwith no opposition on the part of the other two; they swore they were\nready for that, or for any other mad thing, for anything in short but a\nsurrender. And what was more, they each insisted upon being the first\nman on deck, when the time to make the rush should come. But to this\ntheir leader as fiercely objected, reserving that priority for himself;\nparticularly as his two comrades would not yield, the one to the other,\nin the matter; and both of them could not be first, for the ladder\nwould but admit one man at a time. And here, gentlemen, the foul play\nof these miscreants must come out.\n\n Upon hearing the frantic project of their leader, each in his own\nseparate soul had suddenly lighted, it would seem, upon the same piece\nof treachery, namely: to be foremost in breaking out, in order to be\nthe first of the three, though the last of the ten, to surrender; and\nthereby secure whatever small chance of pardon such conduct might\nmerit. But when Steelkilt made known his determination still to lead\nthem to the last, they in some way, by some subtle chemistry of\nvillany, mixed their before secret treacheries together; and when their\nleader fell into a doze, verbally opened their souls to each other in\nthree sentences; and bound the sleeper with cords, and gagged him with\ncords; and shrieked out for the Captain at midnight.\n\n Thinking murder at hand, and smelling in the dark for the blood, he\nand all his armed mates and harpooneers rushed for the forecastle. In a\nfew minutes the scuttle was opened, and, bound hand and foot, the still\nstruggling ringleader was shoved up into the air by his perfidious\nallies, who at once claimed the honor of securing a man who had been\nfully ripe for murder. But all these were collared, and dragged along\nthe deck like dead cattle; and, side by side, were seized up into the\nmizzen rigging, like three quarters of meat, and there they hung till\nmorning.  Damn ye,  cried the Captain, pacing to and fro before them,\n the vultures would not touch ye, ye villains! \n\n At sunrise he summoned all hands; and separating those who had\nrebelled from those who had taken no part in the mutiny, he told the\nformer that he had a good mind to flog them all round thought, upon the\nwhole, he would do so he ought to justice demanded it; but for the\npresent, considering their timely surrender, he would let them go with\na reprimand, which he accordingly administered in the vernacular.\n\n But as for you, ye carrion rogues,  turning to the three men in the\nrigging for you, I mean to mince ye up for the try-pots;  and, seizing\na rope, he applied it with all his might to the backs of the two\ntraitors, till they yelled no more, but lifelessly hung their heads\nsideways, as the two crucified thieves are drawn.\n\n My wrist is sprained with ye!  he cried, at last;  but there is still\nrope enough left for you, my fine bantam, that wouldn t give up. Take\nthat gag from his mouth, and let us hear what he can say for himself. \n\n For a moment the exhausted mutineer made a tremulous motion of his\ncramped jaws, and then painfully twisting round his head, said in a\nsort of hiss,  What I say is this and mind it well if you flog me, I\nmurder you! \n\n Say ye so? then see how ye frighten me and the Captain drew off with\nthe rope to strike.\n\n Best not,  hissed the Lakeman.\n\n But I must, and the rope was once more drawn back for the stroke.\n\n Steelkilt here hissed out something, inaudible to all but the Captain;\nwho, to the amazement of all hands, started back, paced the deck\nrapidly two or three times, and then suddenly throwing down his rope,\nsaid,  I won t do it let him go cut him down: d ye hear? \n\n But as the junior mates were hurrying to execute the order, a pale\nman, with a bandaged head, arrested them Radney the chief mate. Ever\nsince the blow, he had lain in his berth; but that morning, hearing the\ntumult on the deck, he had crept out, and thus far had watched the\nwhole scene. Such was the state of his mouth, that he could hardly\nspeak; but mumbling something about _his_ being willing and able to do\nwhat the captain dared not attempt, he snatched the rope and advanced\nto his pinioned foe.\n\n You are a coward!  hissed the Lakeman.\n\n So I am, but take that.  The mate was in the very act of striking,\nwhen another hiss stayed his uplifted arm. He paused: and then pausing\nno more, made good his word, spite of Steelkilt s threat, whatever that\nmight have been. The three men were then cut down, all hands were\nturned to, and, sullenly worked by the moody seamen, the iron pumps\nclanged as before.\n\n Just after dark that day, when one watch had retired below, a clamor\nwas heard in the forecastle; and the two trembling traitors running up,\nbesieged the cabin door, saying they durst not consort with the crew.\nEntreaties, cuffs, and kicks could not drive them back, so at their own\ninstance they were put down in the ship s run for salvation. Still, no\nsign of mutiny reappeared among the rest. On the contrary, it seemed,\nthat mainly at Steelkilt s instigation, they had resolved to maintain\nthe strictest peacefulness, obey all orders to the last, and, when the\nship reached port, desert her in a body. But in order to insure the\nspeediest end to the voyage, they all agreed to another thing namely,\nnot to sing out for whales, in case any should be discovered. For,\nspite of her leak, and spite of all her other perils, the Town-Ho still\nmaintained her mast-heads, and her captain was just as willing to lower\nfor a fish that moment, as on the day his craft first struck the\ncruising ground; and Radney the mate was quite as ready to change his\nberth for a boat, and with his bandaged mouth seek to gag in death the\nvital jaw of the whale.\n\n But though the Lakeman had induced the seamen to adopt this sort of\npassiveness in their conduct, he kept his own counsel (at least till\nall was over) concerning his own proper and private revenge upon the\nman who had stung him in the ventricles of his heart. He was in Radney\nthe chief mate s watch; and as if the infatuated man sought to run more\nthan half way to meet his doom, after the scene at the rigging, he\ninsisted, against the express counsel of the captain, upon resuming the\nhead of his watch at night. Upon this, and one or two other\ncircumstances, Steelkilt systematically built the plan of his revenge.\n\n During the night, Radney had an unseamanlike way of sitting on the\nbulwarks of the quarter-deck, and leaning his arm upon the gunwale of\nthe boat which was hoisted up there, a little above the ship s side. In\nthis attitude, it was well known, he sometimes dozed. There was a\nconsiderable vacancy between the boat and the ship, and down between\nthis was the sea. Steelkilt calculated his time, and found that his\nnext trick at the helm would come round at two o clock, in the morning\nof the third day from that in which he had been betrayed. At his\nleisure, he employed the interval in braiding something very carefully\nin his watches below.\n\n What are you making there?  said a shipmate.\n\n What do you think? what does it look like? \n\n Like a lanyard for your bag; but it s an odd one, seems to me. \n\n Yes, rather oddish,  said the Lakeman, holding it at arm s length\nbefore him;  but I think it will answer. Shipmate, I haven t enough\ntwine, have you any? \n\n But there was none in the forecastle.\n\n Then I must get some from old Rad;  and he rose to go aft.\n\n You don t mean to go a begging to _him!_  said a sailor.\n\n Why not? Do you think he won t do me a turn, when it s to help\nhimself in the end, shipmate?  and going to the mate, he looked at him\nquietly, and asked him for some twine to mend his hammock. It was given\nhim neither twine nor lanyard were seen again; but the next night an\niron ball, closely netted, partly rolled from the pocket of the\nLakeman s monkey jacket, as he was tucking the coat into his hammock\nfor a pillow. Twenty-four hours after, his trick at the silent\nhelm nigh to the man who was apt to doze over the grave always ready\ndug to the seaman s hand that fatal hour was then to come; and in the\nfore-ordaining soul of Steelkilt, the mate was already stark and\nstretched as a corpse, with his forehead crushed in.\n\n But, gentlemen, a fool saved the would-be murderer from the bloody\ndeed he had planned. Yet complete revenge he had, and without being the\navenger. For by a mysterious fatality, Heaven itself seemed to step in\nto take out of his hands into its own the damning thing he would have\ndone.\n\n It was just between daybreak and sunrise of the morning of the second\nday, when they were washing down the decks, that a stupid Teneriffe\nman, drawing water in the main-chains, all at once shouted out,  There\nshe rolls! there she rolls!  Jesu, what a whale! It was Moby Dick.\n\n Moby Dick!  cried Don Sebastian;  St. Dominic! Sir sailor, but do\nwhales have christenings? Whom call you Moby Dick? \n\n A very white, and famous, and most deadly immortal monster, Don; but\nthat would be too long a story. \n\n How? how?  cried all the young Spaniards, crowding.\n\n Nay, Dons, Dons nay, nay! I cannot rehearse that now. Let me get more\ninto the air, Sirs. \n\n The chicha! the chicha!  cried Don Pedro;  our vigorous friend looks\nfaint; fill up his empty glass! \n\n No need, gentlemen; one moment, and I proceed. Now, gentlemen, so\nsuddenly perceiving the snowy whale within fifty yards of the\nship forgetful of the compact among the crew in the excitement of the\nmoment, the Teneriffe man had instinctively and involuntarily lifted\nhis voice for the monster, though for some little time past it had been\nplainly beheld from the three sullen mast-heads. All was now a phrensy.\n The White Whale the White Whale!  was the cry from captain, mates, and\nharpooneers, who, undeterred by fearful rumours, were all anxious to\ncapture so famous and precious a fish; while the dogged crew eyed\naskance, and with curses, the appalling beauty of the vast milky mass,\nthat lit up by a horizontal spangling sun, shifted and glistened like a\nliving opal in the blue morning sea. Gentlemen, a strange fatality\npervades the whole career of these events, as if verily mapped out\nbefore the world itself was charted. The mutineer was the bowsman of\nthe mate, and when fast to a fish, it was his duty to sit next him,\nwhile Radney stood up with his lance in the prow, and haul in or\nslacken the line, at the word of command. Moreover, when the four boats\nwere lowered, the mate s got the start; and none howled more fiercely\nwith delight than did Steelkilt, as he strained at his oar. After a\nstiff pull, their harpooneer got fast, and, spear in hand, Radney\nsprang to the bow. He was always a furious man, it seems, in a boat.\nAnd now his bandaged cry was, to beach him on the whale s topmost back.\nNothing loath, his bowsman hauled him up and up, through a blinding\nfoam that blent two whitenesses together; till of a sudden the boat\nstruck as against a sunken ledge, and keeling over, spilled out the\nstanding mate. That instant, as he fell on the whale s slippery back,\nthe boat righted, and was dashed aside by the swell, while Radney was\ntossed over into the sea, on the other flank of the whale. He struck\nout through the spray, and, for an instant, was dimly seen through that\nveil, wildly seeking to remove himself from the eye of Moby Dick. But\nthe whale rushed round in a sudden maelstrom; seized the swimmer\nbetween his jaws; and rearing high up with him, plunged headlong again,\nand went down.\n\n Meantime, at the first tap of the boat s bottom, the Lakeman had\nslackened the line, so as to drop astern from the whirlpool; calmly\nlooking on, he thought his own thoughts. But a sudden, terrific,\ndownward jerking of the boat, quickly brought his knife to the line. He\ncut it; and the whale was free. But, at some distance, Moby Dick rose\nagain, with some tatters of Radney s red woollen shirt, caught in the\nteeth that had destroyed him. All four boats gave chase again; but the\nwhale eluded them, and finally wholly disappeared.\n\n In good time, the Town-Ho reached her port a savage, solitary\nplace where no civilized creature resided. There, headed by the\nLakeman, all but five or six of the foremastmen deliberately deserted\namong the palms; eventually, as it turned out, seizing a large double\nwar-canoe of the savages, and setting sail for some other harbor.\n\n The ship s company being reduced to but a handful, the captain called\nupon the Islanders to assist him in the laborious business of heaving\ndown the ship to stop the leak. But to such unresting vigilance over\ntheir dangerous allies was this small band of whites necessitated, both\nby night and by day, and so extreme was the hard work they underwent,\nthat upon the vessel being ready again for sea, they were in such a\nweakened condition that the captain durst not put off with them in so\nheavy a vessel. After taking counsel with his officers, he anchored the\nship as far off shore as possible; loaded and ran out his two cannon\nfrom the bows; stacked his muskets on the poop; and warning the\nIslanders not to approach the ship at their peril, took one man with\nhim, and setting the sail of his best whale-boat, steered straight\nbefore the wind for Tahiti, five hundred miles distant, to procure a\nreinforcement to his crew.\n\n On the fourth day of the sail, a large canoe was descried, which\nseemed to have touched at a low isle of corals. He steered away from\nit; but the savage craft bore down on him; and soon the voice of\nSteelkilt hailed him to heave to, or he would run him under water. The\ncaptain presented a pistol. With one foot on each prow of the yoked\nwar-canoes, the Lakeman laughed him to scorn; assuring him that if the\npistol so much as clicked in the lock, he would bury him in bubbles and\nfoam.\n\n What do you want of me?  cried the captain.\n\n Where are you bound? and for what are you bound?  demanded Steelkilt;\n no lies. \n\n I am bound to Tahiti for more men. \n\n Very good. Let me board you a moment I come in peace.  With that he\nleaped from the canoe, swam to the boat; and climbing the gunwale,\nstood face to face with the captain.\n\n Cross your arms, sir; throw back your head. Now, repeat after me. As\nsoon as Steelkilt leaves me, I swear to beach this boat on yonder\nisland, and remain there six days. If I do not, may lightnings strike\nme! \n\n A pretty scholar,  laughed the Lakeman.  Adios, Senor!  and leaping\ninto the sea, he swam back to his comrades.\n\n Watching the boat till it was fairly beached, and drawn up to the\nroots of the cocoa-nut trees, Steelkilt made sail again, and in due\ntime arrived at Tahiti, his own place of destination. There, luck\nbefriended him; two ships were about to sail for France, and were\nprovidentially in want of precisely that number of men which the sailor\nheaded. They embarked; and so for ever got the start of their former\ncaptain, had he been at all minded to work them legal retribution.\n\n Some ten days after the French ships sailed, the whale-boat arrived,\nand the captain was forced to enlist some of the more civilized\nTahitians, who had been somewhat used to the sea. Chartering a small\nnative schooner, he returned with them to his vessel; and finding all\nright there, again resumed his cruisings.\n\n Where Steelkilt now is, gentlemen, none know; but upon the island of\nNantucket, the widow of Radney still turns to the sea which refuses to\ngive up its dead; still in dreams sees the awful white whale that\ndestroyed him.  * * * *\n\n Are you through?  said Don Sebastian, quietly.\n\n I am, Don. \n\n Then I entreat you, tell me if to the best of your own convictions,\nthis your story is in substance really true? It is so passing\nwonderful! Did you get it from an unquestionable source? Bear with me\nif I seem to press. \n\n Also bear with all of us, sir sailor; for we all join in Don\nSebastian s suit,  cried the company, with exceeding interest.\n\n Is there a copy of the Holy Evangelists in the Golden Inn,\ngentlemen? \n\n Nay,  said Don Sebastian;  but I know a worthy priest near by, who\nwill quickly procure one for me. I go for it; but are you well advised?\nthis may grow too serious. \n\n Will you be so good as to bring the priest also, Don? \n\n Though there are no Auto-da-F s in Lima now,  said one of the company\nto another;  I fear our sailor friend runs risk of the archiepiscopacy.\nLet us withdraw more out of the moonlight. I see no need of this. \n\n Excuse me for running after you, Don Sebastian; but may I also beg\nthat you will be particular in procuring the largest sized Evangelists\nyou can. \n\n* * * * * *\n\n This is the priest, he brings you the Evangelists,  said Don\nSebastian, gravely, returning with a tall and solemn figure.\n\n Let me remove my hat. Now, venerable priest, further into the light,\nand hold the Holy Book before me that I may touch it.\n\n So help me Heaven, and on my honor the story I have told ye,\ngentlemen, is in substance and its great items, true. I know it to be\ntrue; it happened on this ball; I trod the ship; I knew the crew; I\nhave seen and talked with Steelkilt since the death of Radney. \n\n\nCHAPTER 55. Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales.\n\nI shall ere long paint to you as well as one can without canvas,\nsomething like the true form of the whale as he actually appears to the\neye of the whaleman when in his own absolute body the whale is moored\nalongside the whale-ship so that he can be fairly stepped upon there.\nIt may be worth while, therefore, previously to advert to those curious\nimaginary portraits of him which even down to the present day\nconfidently challenge the faith of the landsman. It is time to set the\nworld right in this matter, by proving such pictures of the whale all\nwrong.\n\nIt may be that the primal source of all those pictorial delusions will\nbe found among the oldest Hindoo, Egyptian, and Grecian sculptures. For\never since those inventive but unscrupulous times when on the marble\npanellings of temples, the pedestals of statues, and on shields,\nmedallions, cups, and coins, the dolphin was drawn in scales of\nchain-armor like Saladin s, and a helmeted head like St. George s; ever\nsince then has something of the same sort of license prevailed, not\nonly in most popular pictures of the whale, but in many scientific\npresentations of him.\n\nNow, by all odds, the most ancient extant portrait anyways purporting\nto be the whale s, is to be found in the famous cavern-pagoda of\nElephanta, in India. The Brahmins maintain that in the almost endless\nsculptures of that immemorial pagoda, all the trades and pursuits,\nevery conceivable avocation of man, were prefigured ages before any of\nthem actually came into being. No wonder then, that in some sort our\nnoble profession of whaling should have been there shadowed forth. The\nHindoo whale referred to, occurs in a separate department of the wall,\ndepicting the incarnation of Vishnu in the form of leviathan, learnedly\nknown as the Matse Avatar. But though this sculpture is half man and\nhalf whale, so as only to give the tail of the latter, yet that small\nsection of him is all wrong. It looks more like the tapering tail of an\nanaconda, than the broad palms of the true whale s majestic flukes.\n\nBut go to the old Galleries, and look now at a great Christian\npainter s portrait of this fish; for he succeeds no better than the\nantediluvian Hindoo. It is Guido s picture of Perseus rescuing\nAndromeda from the sea-monster or whale. Where did Guido get the model\nof such a strange creature as that? Nor does Hogarth, in painting the\nsame scene in his own  Perseus Descending,  make out one whit better.\nThe huge corpulence of that Hogarthian monster undulates on the\nsurface, scarcely drawing one inch of water. It has a sort of howdah on\nits back, and its distended tusked mouth into which the billows are\nrolling, might be taken for the Traitors  Gate leading from the Thames\nby water into the Tower. Then, there are the Prodromus whales of old\nScotch Sibbald, and Jonah s whale, as depicted in the prints of old\nBibles and the cuts of old primers. What shall be said of these? As for\nthe book-binder s whale winding like a vine-stalk round the stock of a\ndescending anchor as stamped and gilded on the backs and title-pages of\nmany books both old and new that is a very picturesque but purely\nfabulous creature, imitated, I take it, from the like figures on\nantique vases. Though universally denominated a dolphin, I nevertheless\ncall this book-binder s fish an attempt at a whale; because it was so\nintended when the device was first introduced. It was introduced by an\nold Italian publisher somewhere about the 15th century, during the\nRevival of Learning; and in those days, and even down to a\ncomparatively late period, dolphins were popularly supposed to be a\nspecies of the Leviathan.\n\nIn the vignettes and other embellishments of some ancient books you\nwill at times meet with very curious touches at the whale, where all\nmanner of spouts, jets d eau, hot springs and cold, Saratoga and\nBaden-Baden, come bubbling up from his unexhausted brain. In the\ntitle-page of the original edition of the  Advancement of Learning  you\nwill find some curious whales.\n\nBut quitting all these unprofessional attempts, let us glance at those\npictures of leviathan purporting to be sober, scientific delineations,\nby those who know. In old Harris s collection of voyages there are some\nplates of whales extracted from a Dutch book of voyages, A.D. 1671,\nentitled  A Whaling Voyage to Spitzbergen in the ship Jonas in the\nWhale, Peter Peterson of Friesland, master.  In one of those plates the\nwhales, like great rafts of logs, are represented lying among\nice-isles, with white bears running over their living backs. In another\nplate, the prodigious blunder is made of representing the whale with\nperpendicular flukes.\n\nThen again, there is an imposing quarto, written by one Captain\nColnett, a Post Captain in the English navy, entitled  A Voyage round\nCape Horn into the South Seas, for the purpose of extending the\nSpermaceti Whale Fisheries.  In this book is an outline purporting to\nbe a  Picture of a Physeter or Spermaceti whale, drawn by scale from\none killed on the coast of Mexico, August, 1793, and hoisted on deck. \nI doubt not the captain had this veracious picture taken for the\nbenefit of his marines. To mention but one thing about it, let me say\nthat it has an eye which applied, according to the accompanying scale,\nto a full grown sperm whale, would make the eye of that whale a\nbow-window some five feet long. Ah, my gallant captain, why did ye not\ngive us Jonah looking out of that eye!\n\nNor are the most conscientious compilations of Natural History for the\nbenefit of the young and tender, free from the same heinousness of\nmistake. Look at that popular work  Goldsmith s Animated Nature.  In\nthe abridged London edition of 1807, there are plates of an alleged\n whale  and a  narwhale.  I do not wish to seem inelegant, but this\nunsightly whale looks much like an amputated sow; and, as for the\nnarwhale, one glimpse at it is enough to amaze one, that in this\nnineteenth century such a hippogriff could be palmed for genuine upon\nany intelligent public of schoolboys.\n\nThen, again, in 1825, Bernard Germain, Count de Lac p de, a great\nnaturalist, published a scientific systemized whale book, wherein are\nseveral pictures of the different species of the Leviathan. All these\nare not only incorrect, but the picture of the Mysticetus or Greenland\nwhale (that is to say, the Right whale), even Scoresby, a long\nexperienced man as touching that species, declares not to have its\ncounterpart in nature.\n\nBut the placing of the cap-sheaf to all this blundering business was\nreserved for the scientific Frederick Cuvier, brother to the famous\nBaron. In 1836, he published a Natural History of Whales, in which he\ngives what he calls a picture of the Sperm Whale. Before showing that\npicture to any Nantucketer, you had best provide for your summary\nretreat from Nantucket. In a word, Frederick Cuvier s Sperm Whale is\nnot a Sperm Whale, but a squash. Of course, he never had the benefit of\na whaling voyage (such men seldom have), but whence he derived that\npicture, who can tell? Perhaps he got it as his scientific predecessor\nin the same field, Desmarest, got one of his authentic abortions; that\nis, from a Chinese drawing. And what sort of lively lads with the\npencil those Chinese are, many queer cups and saucers inform us.\n\nAs for the sign-painters  whales seen in the streets hanging over the\nshops of oil-dealers, what shall be said of them? They are generally\nRichard III. whales, with dromedary humps, and very savage;\nbreakfasting on three or four sailor tarts, that is whaleboats full of\nmariners: their deformities floundering in seas of blood and blue\npaint.\n\nBut these manifold mistakes in depicting the whale are not so very\nsurprising after all. Consider! Most of the scientific drawings have\nbeen taken from the stranded fish; and these are about as correct as a\ndrawing of a wrecked ship, with broken back, would correctly represent\nthe noble animal itself in all its undashed pride of hull and spars.\nThough elephants have stood for their full-lengths, the living\nLeviathan has never yet fairly floated himself for his portrait. The\nliving whale, in his full majesty and significance, is only to be seen\nat sea in unfathomable waters; and afloat the vast bulk of him is out\nof sight, like a launched line-of-battle ship; and out of that element\nit is a thing eternally impossible for mortal man to hoist him bodily\ninto the air, so as to preserve all his mighty swells and undulations.\nAnd, not to speak of the highly presumable difference of contour\nbetween a young sucking whale and a full-grown Platonian Leviathan;\nyet, even in the case of one of those young sucking whales hoisted to a\nship s deck, such is then the outlandish, eel-like, limbered, varying\nshape of him, that his precise expression the devil himself could not\ncatch.\n\nBut it may be fancied, that from the naked skeleton of the stranded\nwhale, accurate hints may be derived touching his true form. Not at\nall. For it is one of the more curious things about this Leviathan,\nthat his skeleton gives very little idea of his general shape. Though\nJeremy Bentham s skeleton, which hangs for candelabra in the library of\none of his executors, correctly conveys the idea of a burly-browed\nutilitarian old gentleman, with all Jeremy s other leading personal\ncharacteristics; yet nothing of this kind could be inferred from any\nleviathan s articulated bones. In fact, as the great Hunter says, the\nmere skeleton of the whale bears the same relation to the fully\ninvested and padded animal as the insect does to the chrysalis that so\nroundingly envelopes it. This peculiarity is strikingly evinced in the\nhead, as in some part of this book will be incidentally shown. It is\nalso very curiously displayed in the side fin, the bones of which\nalmost exactly answer to the bones of the human hand, minus only the\nthumb. This fin has four regular bone-fingers, the index, middle, ring,\nand little finger. But all these are permanently lodged in their fleshy\ncovering, as the human fingers in an artificial covering.  However\nrecklessly the whale may sometimes serve us,  said humorous Stubb one\nday,  he can never be truly said to handle us without mittens. \n\nFor all these reasons, then, any way you may look at it, you must needs\nconclude that the great Leviathan is that one creature in the world\nwhich must remain unpainted to the last. True, one portrait may hit the\nmark much nearer than another, but none can hit it with any very\nconsiderable degree of exactness. So there is no earthly way of finding\nout precisely what the whale really looks like. And the only mode in\nwhich you can derive even a tolerable idea of his living contour, is by\ngoing a whaling yourself; but by so doing, you run no small risk of\nbeing eternally stove and sunk by him. Wherefore, it seems to me you\nhad best not be too fastidious in your curiosity touching this\nLeviathan.\n\n\nCHAPTER 56. Of the Less Erroneous Pictures of Whales, and the True\nPictures of Whaling Scenes.\n\nIn connexion with the monstrous pictures of whales, I am strongly\ntempted here to enter upon those still more monstrous stories of them\nwhich are to be found in certain books, both ancient and modern,\nespecially in Pliny, Purchas, Hackluyt, Harris, Cuvier, etc. But I pass\nthat matter by.\n\nI know of only four published outlines of the great Sperm Whale;\nColnett s, Huggins s, Frederick Cuvier s, and Beale s. In the previous\nchapter Colnett and Cuvier have been referred to. Huggins s is far\nbetter than theirs; but, by great odds, Beale s is the best. All\nBeale s drawings of this whale are good, excepting the middle figure in\nthe picture of three whales in various attitudes, capping his second\nchapter. His frontispiece, boats attacking Sperm Whales, though no\ndoubt calculated to excite the civil scepticism of some parlor men, is\nadmirably correct and life-like in its general effect. Some of the\nSperm Whale drawings in J. Ross Browne are pretty correct in contour;\nbut they are wretchedly engraved. That is not his fault though.\n\nOf the Right Whale, the best outline pictures are in Scoresby; but they\nare drawn on too small a scale to convey a desirable impression. He has\nbut one picture of whaling scenes, and this is a sad deficiency,\nbecause it is by such pictures only, when at all well done, that you\ncan derive anything like a truthful idea of the living whale as seen by\nhis living hunters.\n\nBut, taken for all in all, by far the finest, though in some details\nnot the most correct, presentations of whales and whaling scenes to be\nanywhere found, are two large French engravings, well executed, and\ntaken from paintings by one Garnery. Respectively, they represent\nattacks on the Sperm and Right Whale. In the first engraving a noble\nSperm Whale is depicted in full majesty of might, just risen beneath\nthe boat from the profundities of the ocean, and bearing high in the\nair upon his back the terrific wreck of the stoven planks. The prow of\nthe boat is partially unbroken, and is drawn just balancing upon the\nmonster s spine; and standing in that prow, for that one single\nincomputable flash of time, you behold an oarsman, half shrouded by the\nincensed boiling spout of the whale, and in the act of leaping, as if\nfrom a precipice. The action of the whole thing is wonderfully good and\ntrue. The half-emptied line-tub floats on the whitened sea; the wooden\npoles of the spilled harpoons obliquely bob in it; the heads of the\nswimming crew are scattered about the whale in contrasting expressions\nof affright; while in the black stormy distance the ship is bearing\ndown upon the scene. Serious fault might be found with the anatomical\ndetails of this whale, but let that pass; since, for the life of me, I\ncould not draw so good a one.\n\nIn the second engraving, the boat is in the act of drawing alongside\nthe barnacled flank of a large running Right Whale, that rolls his\nblack weedy bulk in the sea like some mossy rock-slide from the\nPatagonian cliffs. His jets are erect, full, and black like soot; so\nthat from so abounding a smoke in the chimney, you would think there\nmust be a brave supper cooking in the great bowels below. Sea fowls are\npecking at the small crabs, shell-fish, and other sea candies and\nmaccaroni, which the Right Whale sometimes carries on his pestilent\nback. And all the while the thick-lipped leviathan is rushing through\nthe deep, leaving tons of tumultuous white curds in his wake, and\ncausing the slight boat to rock in the swells like a skiff caught nigh\nthe paddle-wheels of an ocean steamer. Thus, the foreground is all\nraging commotion; but behind, in admirable artistic contrast, is the\nglassy level of a sea becalmed, the drooping unstarched sails of the\npowerless ship, and the inert mass of a dead whale, a conquered\nfortress, with the flag of capture lazily hanging from the whale-pole\ninserted into his spout-hole.\n\nWho Garnery the painter is, or was, I know not. But my life for it he\nwas either practically conversant with his subject, or else\nmarvellously tutored by some experienced whaleman. The French are the\nlads for painting action. Go and gaze upon all the paintings of Europe,\nand where will you find such a gallery of living and breathing\ncommotion on canvas, as in that triumphal hall at Versailles; where the\nbeholder fights his way, pell-mell, through the consecutive great\nbattles of France; where every sword seems a flash of the Northern\nLights, and the successive armed kings and Emperors dash by, like a\ncharge of crowned centaurs? Not wholly unworthy of a place in that\ngallery, are these sea battle-pieces of Garnery.\n\nThe natural aptitude of the French for seizing the picturesqueness of\nthings seems to be peculiarly evinced in what paintings and engravings\nthey have of their whaling scenes. With not one tenth of England s\nexperience in the fishery, and not the thousandth part of that of the\nAmericans, they have nevertheless furnished both nations with the only\nfinished sketches at all capable of conveying the real spirit of the\nwhale hunt. For the most part, the English and American whale\ndraughtsmen seem entirely content with presenting the mechanical\noutline of things, such as the vacant profile of the whale; which, so\nfar as picturesqueness of effect is concerned, is about tantamount to\nsketching the profile of a pyramid. Even Scoresby, the justly renowned\nRight whaleman, after giving us a stiff full length of the Greenland\nwhale, and three or four delicate miniatures of narwhales and\nporpoises, treats us to a series of classical engravings of boat hooks,\nchopping knives, and grapnels; and with the microscopic diligence of a\nLeuwenhoeck submits to the inspection of a shivering world ninety-six\nfac-similes of magnified Arctic snow crystals. I mean no disparagement\nto the excellent voyager (I honor him for a veteran), but in so\nimportant a matter it was certainly an oversight not to have procured\nfor every crystal a sworn affidavit taken before a Greenland Justice of\nthe Peace.\n\nIn addition to those fine engravings from Garnery, there are two other\nFrench engravings worthy of note, by some one who subscribes himself\n H. Durand.  One of them, though not precisely adapted to our present\npurpose, nevertheless deserves mention on other accounts. It is a quiet\nnoon-scene among the isles of the Pacific; a French whaler anchored,\ninshore, in a calm, and lazily taking water on board; the loosened\nsails of the ship, and the long leaves of the palms in the background,\nboth drooping together in the breezeless air. The effect is very fine,\nwhen considered with reference to its presenting the hardy fishermen\nunder one of their few aspects of oriental repose. The other engraving\nis quite a different affair: the ship hove-to upon the open sea, and in\nthe very heart of the Leviathanic life, with a Right Whale alongside;\nthe vessel (in the act of cutting-in) hove over to the monster as if to\na quay; and a boat, hurriedly pushing off from this scene of activity,\nis about giving chase to whales in the distance. The harpoons and\nlances lie levelled for use; three oarsmen are just setting the mast in\nits hole; while from a sudden roll of the sea, the little craft stands\nhalf-erect out of the water, like a rearing horse. From the ship, the\nsmoke of the torments of the boiling whale is going up like the smoke\nover a village of smithies; and to windward, a black cloud, rising up\nwith earnest of squalls and rains, seems to quicken the activity of the\nexcited seamen.\n\n\nCHAPTER 57. Of Whales in Paint; in Teeth; in Wood; in Sheet-Iron; in\nStone; in Mountains; in Stars.\n\nOn Tower-hill, as you go down to the London docks, you may have seen a\ncrippled beggar (or _kedger_, as the sailors say) holding a painted\nboard before him, representing the tragic scene in which he lost his\nleg. There are three whales and three boats; and one of the boats\n(presumed to contain the missing leg in all its original integrity) is\nbeing crunched by the jaws of the foremost whale. Any time these ten\nyears, they tell me, has that man held up that picture, and exhibited\nthat stump to an incredulous world. But the time of his justification\nhas now come. His three whales are as good whales as were ever\npublished in Wapping, at any rate; and his stump as unquestionable a\nstump as any you will find in the western clearings. But, though for\never mounted on that stump, never a stump-speech does the poor whaleman\nmake; but, with downcast eyes, stands ruefully contemplating his own\namputation.\n\nThroughout the Pacific, and also in Nantucket, and New Bedford, and Sag\nHarbor, you will come across lively sketches of whales and\nwhaling-scenes, graven by the fishermen themselves on Sperm\nWhale-teeth, or ladies  busks wrought out of the Right Whale-bone, and\nother like skrimshander articles, as the whalemen call the numerous\nlittle ingenious contrivances they elaborately carve out of the rough\nmaterial, in their hours of ocean leisure. Some of them have little\nboxes of dentistical-looking implements, specially intended for the\nskrimshandering business. But, in general, they toil with their\njack-knives alone; and, with that almost omnipotent tool of the sailor,\nthey will turn you out anything you please, in the way of a mariner s\nfancy.\n\nLong exile from Christendom and civilization inevitably restores a man\nto that condition in which God placed him, _i.e._ what is called\nsavagery. Your true whale-hunter is as much a savage as an Iroquois. I\nmyself am a savage, owning no allegiance but to the King of the\nCannibals; and ready at any moment to rebel against him.\n\nNow, one of the peculiar characteristics of the savage in his domestic\nhours, is his wonderful patience of industry. An ancient Hawaiian\nwar-club or spear-paddle, in its full multiplicity and elaboration of\ncarving, is as great a trophy of human perseverance as a Latin lexicon.\nFor, with but a bit of broken sea-shell or a shark s tooth, that\nmiraculous intricacy of wooden net-work has been achieved; and it has\ncost steady years of steady application.\n\nAs with the Hawaiian savage, so with the white sailor-savage. With the\nsame marvellous patience, and with the same single shark s tooth, of\nhis one poor jack-knife, he will carve you a bit of bone sculpture, not\nquite as workmanlike, but as close packed in its maziness of design, as\nthe Greek savage, Achilles s shield; and full of barbaric spirit and\nsuggestiveness, as the prints of that fine old Dutch savage, Albert\nDurer.\n\nWooden whales, or whales cut in profile out of the small dark slabs of\nthe noble South Sea war-wood, are frequently met with in the\nforecastles of American whalers. Some of them are done with much\naccuracy.\n\nAt some old gable-roofed country houses you will see brass whales hung\nby the tail for knockers to the road-side door. When the porter is\nsleepy, the anvil-headed whale would be best. But these knocking whales\nare seldom remarkable as faithful essays. On the spires of some\nold-fashioned churches you will see sheet-iron whales placed there for\nweather-cocks; but they are so elevated, and besides that are to all\nintents and purposes so labelled with  _Hands off!_  you cannot examine\nthem closely enough to decide upon their merit.\n\nIn bony, ribby regions of the earth, where at the base of high broken\ncliffs masses of rock lie strewn in fantastic groupings upon the plain,\nyou will often discover images as of the petrified forms of the\nLeviathan partly merged in grass, which of a windy day breaks against\nthem in a surf of green surges.\n\nThen, again, in mountainous countries where the traveller is\ncontinually girdled by amphitheatrical heights; here and there from\nsome lucky point of view you will catch passing glimpses of the\nprofiles of whales defined along the undulating ridges. But you must be\na thorough whaleman, to see these sights; and not only that, but if you\nwish to return to such a sight again, you must be sure and take the\nexact intersecting latitude and longitude of your first stand-point,\nelse so chance-like are such observations of the hills, that your\nprecise, previous stand-point would require a laborious re-discovery;\nlike the Soloma Islands, which still remain incognita, though once\nhigh-ruffed Mendanna trod them and old Figuera chronicled them.\n\nNor when expandingly lifted by your subject, can you fail to trace out\ngreat whales in the starry heavens, and boats in pursuit of them; as\nwhen long filled with thoughts of war the Eastern nations saw armies\nlocked in battle among the clouds. Thus at the North have I chased\nLeviathan round and round the Pole with the revolutions of the bright\npoints that first defined him to me. And beneath the effulgent\nAntarctic skies I have boarded the Argo-Navis, and joined the chase\nagainst the starry Cetus far beyond the utmost stretch of Hydrus and\nthe Flying Fish.\n\nWith a frigate s anchors for my bridle-bitts and fasces of harpoons for\nspurs, would I could mount that whale and leap the topmost skies, to\nsee whether the fabled heavens with all their countless tents really\nlie encamped beyond my mortal sight!\n\n\nCHAPTER 58. Brit.\n\nSteering north-eastward from the Crozetts, we fell in with vast meadows\nof brit, the minute, yellow substance, upon which the Right Whale\nlargely feeds. For leagues and leagues it undulated round us, so that\nwe seemed to be sailing through boundless fields of ripe and golden\nwheat.\n\nOn the second day, numbers of Right Whales were seen, who, secure from\nthe attack of a Sperm Whaler like the Pequod, with open jaws sluggishly\nswam through the brit, which, adhering to the fringing fibres of that\nwondrous Venetian blind in their mouths, was in that manner separated\nfrom the water that escaped at the lip.\n\nAs morning mowers, who side by side slowly and seethingly advance their\nscythes through the long wet grass of marshy meads; even so these\nmonsters swam, making a strange, grassy, cutting sound; and leaving\nbehind them endless swaths of blue upon the yellow sea.*\n\n*That part of the sea known among whalemen as the  Brazil Banks  does\nnot bear that name as the Banks of Newfoundland do, because of there\nbeing shallows and soundings there, but because of this remarkable\nmeadow-like appearance, caused by the vast drifts of brit continually\nfloating in those latitudes, where the Right Whale is often chased.\n\nBut it was only the sound they made as they parted the brit which at\nall reminded one of mowers. Seen from the mast-heads, especially when\nthey paused and were stationary for a while, their vast black forms\nlooked more like lifeless masses of rock than anything else. And as in\nthe great hunting countries of India, the stranger at a distance will\nsometimes pass on the plains recumbent elephants without knowing them\nto be such, taking them for bare, blackened elevations of the soil;\neven so, often, with him, who for the first time beholds this species\nof the leviathans of the sea. And even when recognised at last, their\nimmense magnitude renders it very hard really to believe that such\nbulky masses of overgrowth can possibly be instinct, in all parts, with\nthe same sort of life that lives in a dog or a horse.\n\nIndeed, in other respects, you can hardly regard any creatures of the\ndeep with the same feelings that you do those of the shore. For though\nsome old naturalists have maintained that all creatures of the land are\nof their kind in the sea; and though taking a broad general view of the\nthing, this may very well be; yet coming to specialties, where, for\nexample, does the ocean furnish any fish that in disposition answers to\nthe sagacious kindness of the dog? The accursed shark alone can in any\ngeneric respect be said to bear comparative analogy to him.\n\nBut though, to landsmen in general, the native inhabitants of the seas\nhave ever been regarded with emotions unspeakably unsocial and\nrepelling; though we know the sea to be an everlasting terra incognita,\nso that Columbus sailed over numberless unknown worlds to discover his\none superficial western one; though, by vast odds, the most terrific of\nall mortal disasters have immemorially and indiscriminately befallen\ntens and hundreds of thousands of those who have gone upon the waters;\nthough but a moment s consideration will teach, that however baby man\nmay brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering\nfuture, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever,\nto the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize\nthe stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the\ncontinual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense\nof the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.\n\nThe first boat we read of, floated on an ocean, that with Portuguese\nvengeance had whelmed a whole world without leaving so much as a widow.\nThat same ocean rolls now; that same ocean destroyed the wrecked ships\nof last year. Yea, foolish mortals, Noah s flood is not yet subsided;\ntwo thirds of the fair world it yet covers.\n\nWherein differ the sea and the land, that a miracle upon one is not a\nmiracle upon the other? Preternatural terrors rested upon the Hebrews,\nwhen under the feet of Korah and his company the live ground opened and\nswallowed them up for ever; yet not a modern sun ever sets, but in\nprecisely the same manner the live sea swallows up ships and crews.\n\nBut not only is the sea such a foe to man who is an alien to it, but it\nis also a fiend to its own off-spring; worse than the Persian host who\nmurdered his own guests; sparing not the creatures which itself hath\nspawned. Like a savage tigress that tossing in the jungle overlays her\nown cubs, so the sea dashes even the mightiest whales against the\nrocks, and leaves them there side by side with the split wrecks of\nships. No mercy, no power but its own controls it. Panting and snorting\nlike a mad battle steed that has lost its rider, the masterless ocean\noverruns the globe.\n\nConsider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures\nglide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously\nhidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish\nbrilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the\ndainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once\nmore, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey\nupon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.\n\nConsider all this; and then turn to this green, gentle, and most docile\nearth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a\nstrange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean\nsurrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one\ninsular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the\nhorrors of the half known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that\nisle, thou canst never return!\n\n\nCHAPTER 59. Squid.\n\nSlowly wading through the meadows of brit, the Pequod still held on her\nway north-eastward towards the island of Java; a gentle air impelling\nher keel, so that in the surrounding serenity her three tall tapering\nmasts mildly waved to that languid breeze, as three mild palms on a\nplain. And still, at wide intervals in the silvery night, the lonely,\nalluring jet would be seen.\n\nBut one transparent blue morning, when a stillness almost preternatural\nspread over the sea, however unattended with any stagnant calm; when\nthe long burnished sun-glade on the waters seemed a golden finger laid\nacross them, enjoining some secrecy; when the slippered waves whispered\ntogether as they softly ran on; in this profound hush of the visible\nsphere a strange spectre was seen by Daggoo from the main-mast-head.\n\nIn the distance, a great white mass lazily rose, and rising higher and\nhigher, and disentangling itself from the azure, at last gleamed before\nour prow like a snow-slide, new slid from the hills. Thus glistening\nfor a moment, as slowly it subsided, and sank. Then once more arose,\nand silently gleamed. It seemed not a whale; and yet is this Moby Dick?\nthought Daggoo. Again the phantom went down, but on re-appearing once\nmore, with a stiletto-like cry that startled every man from his nod,\nthe negro yelled out There! there again! there she breaches! right\nahead! The White Whale, the White Whale! \n\nUpon this, the seamen rushed to the yard-arms, as in swarming-time the\nbees rush to the boughs. Bare-headed in the sultry sun, Ahab stood on\nthe bowsprit, and with one hand pushed far behind in readiness to wave\nhis orders to the helmsman, cast his eager glance in the direction\nindicated aloft by the outstretched motionless arm of Daggoo.\n\nWhether the flitting attendance of the one still and solitary jet had\ngradually worked upon Ahab, so that he was now prepared to connect the\nideas of mildness and repose with the first sight of the particular\nwhale he pursued; however this was, or whether his eagerness betrayed\nhim; whichever way it might have been, no sooner did he distinctly\nperceive the white mass, than with a quick intensity he instantly gave\norders for lowering.\n\nThe four boats were soon on the water; Ahab s in advance, and all\nswiftly pulling towards their prey. Soon it went down, and while, with\noars suspended, we were awaiting its reappearance, lo! in the same spot\nwhere it sank, once more it slowly rose. Almost forgetting for the\nmoment all thoughts of Moby Dick, we now gazed at the most wondrous\nphenomenon which the secret seas have hitherto revealed to mankind. A\nvast pulpy mass, furlongs in length and breadth, of a glancing\ncream-colour, lay floating on the water, innumerable long arms\nradiating from its centre, and curling and twisting like a nest of\nanacondas, as if blindly to clutch at any hapless object within reach.\nNo perceptible face or front did it have; no conceivable token of\neither sensation or instinct; but undulated there on the billows, an\nunearthly, formless, chance-like apparition of life.\n\nAs with a low sucking sound it slowly disappeared again, Starbuck still\ngazing at the agitated waters where it had sunk, with a wild voice\nexclaimed Almost rather had I seen Moby Dick and fought him, than to\nhave seen thee, thou white ghost! \n\n What was it, Sir?  said Flask.\n\n The great live squid, which, they say, few whale-ships ever beheld,\nand returned to their ports to tell of it. \n\nBut Ahab said nothing; turning his boat, he sailed back to the vessel;\nthe rest as silently following.\n\nWhatever superstitions the sperm whalemen in general have connected\nwith the sight of this object, certain it is, that a glimpse of it\nbeing so very unusual, that circumstance has gone far to invest it with\nportentousness. So rarely is it beheld, that though one and all of them\ndeclare it to be the largest animated thing in the ocean, yet very few\nof them have any but the most vague ideas concerning its true nature\nand form; notwithstanding, they believe it to furnish to the sperm\nwhale his only food. For though other species of whales find their food\nabove water, and may be seen by man in the act of feeding, the\nspermaceti whale obtains his whole food in unknown zones below the\nsurface; and only by inference is it that any one can tell of what,\nprecisely, that food consists. At times, when closely pursued, he will\ndisgorge what are supposed to be the detached arms of the squid; some\nof them thus exhibited exceeding twenty and thirty feet in length. They\nfancy that the monster to which these arms belonged ordinarily clings\nby them to the bed of the ocean; and that the sperm whale, unlike other\nspecies, is supplied with teeth in order to attack and tear it.\n\nThere seems some ground to imagine that the great Kraken of Bishop\nPontoppodan may ultimately resolve itself into Squid. The manner in\nwhich the Bishop describes it, as alternately rising and sinking, with\nsome other particulars he narrates, in all this the two correspond. But\nmuch abatement is necessary with respect to the incredible bulk he\nassigns it.\n\nBy some naturalists who have vaguely heard rumors of the mysterious\ncreature, here spoken of, it is included among the class of\ncuttle-fish, to which, indeed, in certain external respects it would\nseem to belong, but only as the Anak of the tribe.\n\n\nCHAPTER 60. The Line.\n\nWith reference to the whaling scene shortly to be described, as well as\nfor the better understanding of all similar scenes elsewhere presented,\nI have here to speak of the magical, sometimes horrible whale-line.\n\nThe line originally used in the fishery was of the best hemp, slightly\nvapored with tar, not impregnated with it, as in the case of ordinary\nropes; for while tar, as ordinarily used, makes the hemp more pliable\nto the rope-maker, and also renders the rope itself more convenient to\nthe sailor for common ship use; yet, not only would the ordinary\nquantity too much stiffen the whale-line for the close coiling to which\nit must be subjected; but as most seamen are beginning to learn, tar in\ngeneral by no means adds to the rope s durability or strength, however\nmuch it may give it compactness and gloss.\n\nOf late years the Manilla rope has in the American fishery almost\nentirely superseded hemp as a material for whale-lines; for, though not\nso durable as hemp, it is stronger, and far more soft and elastic; and\nI will add (since there is an  sthetics in all things), is much more\nhandsome and becoming to the boat, than hemp. Hemp is a dusky, dark\nfellow, a sort of Indian; but Manilla is as a golden-haired Circassian\nto behold.\n\nThe whale-line is only two-thirds of an inch in thickness. At first\nsight, you would not think it so strong as it really is. By experiment\nits one and fifty yarns will each suspend a weight of one hundred and\ntwenty pounds; so that the whole rope will bear a strain nearly equal\nto three tons. In length, the common sperm whale-line measures\nsomething over two hundred fathoms. Towards the stern of the boat it is\nspirally coiled away in the tub, not like the worm-pipe of a still\nthough, but so as to form one round, cheese-shaped mass of densely\nbedded  sheaves,  or layers of concentric spiralizations, without any\nhollow but the  heart,  or minute vertical tube formed at the axis of\nthe cheese. As the least tangle or kink in the coiling would, in\nrunning out, infallibly take somebody s arm, leg, or entire body off,\nthe utmost precaution is used in stowing the line in its tub. Some\nharpooneers will consume almost an entire morning in this business,\ncarrying the line high aloft and then reeving it downwards through a\nblock towards the tub, so as in the act of coiling to free it from all\npossible wrinkles and twists.\n\nIn the English boats two tubs are used instead of one; the same line\nbeing continuously coiled in both tubs. There is some advantage in\nthis; because these twin-tubs being so small they fit more readily into\nthe boat, and do not strain it so much; whereas, the American tub,\nnearly three feet in diameter and of proportionate depth, makes a\nrather bulky freight for a craft whose planks are but one half-inch in\nthickness; for the bottom of the whale-boat is like critical ice, which\nwill bear up a considerable distributed weight, but not very much of a\nconcentrated one. When the painted canvas cover is clapped on the\nAmerican line-tub, the boat looks as if it were pulling off with a\nprodigious great wedding-cake to present to the whales.\n\nBoth ends of the line are exposed; the lower end terminating in an\neye-splice or loop coming up from the bottom against the side of the\ntub, and hanging over its edge completely disengaged from everything.\nThis arrangement of the lower end is necessary on two accounts. First:\nIn order to facilitate the fastening to it of an additional line from a\nneighboring boat, in case the stricken whale should sound so deep as to\nthreaten to carry off the entire line originally attached to the\nharpoon. In these instances, the whale of course is shifted like a mug\nof ale, as it were, from the one boat to the other; though the first\nboat always hovers at hand to assist its consort. Second: This\narrangement is indispensable for common safety s sake; for were the\nlower end of the line in any way attached to the boat, and were the\nwhale then to run the line out to the end almost in a single, smoking\nminute as he sometimes does, he would not stop there, for the doomed\nboat would infallibly be dragged down after him into the profundity of\nthe sea; and in that case no town-crier would ever find her again.\n\nBefore lowering the boat for the chase, the upper end of the line is\ntaken aft from the tub, and passing round the loggerhead there, is\nagain carried forward the entire length of the boat, resting crosswise\nupon the loom or handle of every man s oar, so that it jogs against his\nwrist in rowing; and also passing between the men, as they alternately\nsit at the opposite gunwales, to the leaded chocks or grooves in the\nextreme pointed prow of the boat, where a wooden pin or skewer the size\nof a common quill, prevents it from slipping out. From the chocks it\nhangs in a slight festoon over the bows, and is then passed inside the\nboat again; and some ten or twenty fathoms (called box-line) being\ncoiled upon the box in the bows, it continues its way to the gunwale\nstill a little further aft, and is then attached to the short-warp the\nrope which is immediately connected with the harpoon; but previous to\nthat connexion, the short-warp goes through sundry mystifications too\ntedious to detail.\n\nThus the whale-line folds the whole boat in its complicated coils,\ntwisting and writhing around it in almost every direction. All the\noarsmen are involved in its perilous contortions; so that to the timid\neye of the landsman, they seem as Indian jugglers, with the deadliest\nsnakes sportively festooning their limbs. Nor can any son of mortal\nwoman, for the first time, seat himself amid those hempen intricacies,\nand while straining his utmost at the oar, bethink him that at any\nunknown instant the harpoon may be darted, and all these horrible\ncontortions be put in play like ringed lightnings; he cannot be thus\ncircumstanced without a shudder that makes the very marrow in his bones\nto quiver in him like a shaken jelly. Yet habit strange thing! what\ncannot habit accomplish? Gayer sallies, more merry mirth, better jokes,\nand brighter repartees, you never heard over your mahogany, than you\nwill hear over the half-inch white cedar of the whale-boat, when thus\nhung in hangman s nooses; and, like the six burghers of Calais before\nKing Edward, the six men composing the crew pull into the jaws of\ndeath, with a halter around every neck, as you may say.\n\nPerhaps a very little thought will now enable you to account for those\nrepeated whaling disasters some few of which are casually chronicled of\nthis man or that man being taken out of the boat by the line, and lost.\nFor, when the line is darting out, to be seated then in the boat, is\nlike being seated in the midst of the manifold whizzings of a\nsteam-engine in full play, when every flying beam, and shaft, and\nwheel, is grazing you. It is worse; for you cannot sit motionless in\nthe heart of these perils, because the boat is rocking like a cradle,\nand you are pitched one way and the other, without the slightest\nwarning; and only by a certain self-adjusting buoyancy and\nsimultaneousness of volition and action, can you escape being made a\nMazeppa of, and run away with where the all-seeing sun himself could\nnever pierce you out.\n\nAgain: as the profound calm which only apparently precedes and\nprophesies of the storm, is perhaps more awful than the storm itself;\nfor, indeed, the calm is but the wrapper and envelope of the storm; and\ncontains it in itself, as the seemingly harmless rifle holds the fatal\npowder, and the ball, and the explosion; so the graceful repose of the\nline, as it silently serpentines about the oarsmen before being brought\ninto actual play this is a thing which carries more of true terror than\nany other aspect of this dangerous affair. But why say more? All men\nlive enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their\nnecks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death,\nthat mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life.\nAnd if you be a philosopher, though seated in the whale-boat, you would\nnot at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before\nyour evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.\n\n\nCHAPTER 61. Stubb Kills a Whale.\n\nIf to Starbuck the apparition of the Squid was a thing of portents, to\nQueequeg it was quite a different object.\n\n When you see him  quid,  said the savage, honing his harpoon in the\nbow of his hoisted boat,  then you quick see him  parm whale. \n\nThe next day was exceedingly still and sultry, and with nothing special\nto engage them, the Pequod s crew could hardly resist the spell of\nsleep induced by such a vacant sea. For this part of the Indian Ocean\nthrough which we then were voyaging is not what whalemen call a lively\nground; that is, it affords fewer glimpses of porpoises, dolphins,\nflying-fish, and other vivacious denizens of more stirring waters, than\nthose off the Rio de la Plata, or the in-shore ground off Peru.\n\nIt was my turn to stand at the foremast-head; and with my shoulders\nleaning against the slackened royal shrouds, to and fro I idly swayed\nin what seemed an enchanted air. No resolution could withstand it; in\nthat dreamy mood losing all consciousness, at last my soul went out of\nmy body; though my body still continued to sway as a pendulum will,\nlong after the power which first moved it is withdrawn.\n\nEre forgetfulness altogether came over me, I had noticed that the\nseamen at the main and mizzen-mast-heads were already drowsy. So that\nat last all three of us lifelessly swung from the spars, and for every\nswing that we made there was a nod from below from the slumbering\nhelmsman. The waves, too, nodded their indolent crests; and across the\nwide trance of the sea, east nodded to west, and the sun over all.\n\nSuddenly bubbles seemed bursting beneath my closed eyes; like vices my\nhands grasped the shrouds; some invisible, gracious agency preserved\nme; with a shock I came back to life. And lo! close under our lee, not\nforty fathoms off, a gigantic Sperm Whale lay rolling in the water like\nthe capsized hull of a frigate, his broad, glossy back, of an Ethiopian\nhue, glistening in the sun s rays like a mirror. But lazily undulating\nin the trough of the sea, and ever and anon tranquilly spouting his\nvapory jet, the whale looked like a portly burgher smoking his pipe of\na warm afternoon. But that pipe, poor whale, was thy last. As if struck\nby some enchanter s wand, the sleepy ship and every sleeper in it all\nat once started into wakefulness; and more than a score of voices from\nall parts of the vessel, simultaneously with the three notes from\naloft, shouted forth the accustomed cry, as the great fish slowly and\nregularly spouted the sparkling brine into the air.\n\n Clear away the boats! Luff!  cried Ahab. And obeying his own order, he\ndashed the helm down before the helmsman could handle the spokes.\n\nThe sudden exclamations of the crew must have alarmed the whale; and\nere the boats were down, majestically turning, he swam away to the\nleeward, but with such a steady tranquillity, and making so few ripples\nas he swam, that thinking after all he might not as yet be alarmed,\nAhab gave orders that not an oar should be used, and no man must speak\nbut in whispers. So seated like Ontario Indians on the gunwales of the\nboats, we swiftly but silently paddled along; the calm not admitting of\nthe noiseless sails being set. Presently, as we thus glided in chase,\nthe monster perpendicularly flitted his tail forty feet into the air,\nand then sank out of sight like a tower swallowed up.\n\n There go flukes!  was the cry, an announcement immediately followed by\nStubb s producing his match and igniting his pipe, for now a respite\nwas granted. After the full interval of his sounding had elapsed, the\nwhale rose again, and being now in advance of the smoker s boat, and\nmuch nearer to it than to any of the others, Stubb counted upon the\nhonor of the capture. It was obvious, now, that the whale had at length\nbecome aware of his pursuers. All silence of cautiousness was therefore\nno longer of use. Paddles were dropped, and oars came loudly into play.\nAnd still puffing at his pipe, Stubb cheered on his crew to the\nassault.\n\nYes, a mighty change had come over the fish. All alive to his jeopardy,\nhe was going  head out ; that part obliquely projecting from the mad\nyeast which he brewed.*\n\n*It will be seen in some other place of what a very light substance the\nentire interior of the sperm whale s enormous head consists. Though\napparently the most massive, it is by far the most buoyant part about\nhim. So that with ease he elevates it in the air, and invariably does\nso when going at his utmost speed. Besides, such is the breadth of the\nupper part of the front of his head, and such the tapering cut-water\nformation of the lower part, that by obliquely elevating his head, he\nthereby may be said to transform himself from a bluff-bowed sluggish\ngalliot into a sharppointed New York pilot-boat.\n\n Start her, start her, my men! Don t hurry yourselves; take plenty of\ntime but start her; start her like thunder-claps, that s all,  cried\nStubb, spluttering out the smoke as he spoke.  Start her, now; give  em\nthe long and strong stroke, Tashtego. Start her, Tash, my boy start\nher, all; but keep cool, keep cool cucumbers is the word easy,\neasy only start her like grim death and grinning devils, and raise the\nburied dead perpendicular out of their graves, boys that s all. Start\nher! \n\n Woo-hoo! Wa-hee!  screamed the Gay-Header in reply, raising some old\nwar-whoop to the skies; as every oarsman in the strained boat\ninvoluntarily bounced forward with the one tremendous leading stroke\nwhich the eager Indian gave.\n\nBut his wild screams were answered by others quite as wild.  Kee-hee!\nKee-hee!  yelled Daggoo, straining forwards and backwards on his seat,\nlike a pacing tiger in his cage.\n\n Ka-la! Koo-loo!  howled Queequeg, as if smacking his lips over a\nmouthful of Grenadier s steak. And thus with oars and yells the keels\ncut the sea. Meanwhile, Stubb retaining his place in the van, still\nencouraged his men to the onset, all the while puffing the smoke from\nhis mouth. Like desperadoes they tugged and they strained, till the\nwelcome cry was heard Stand up, Tashtego! give it to him!  The harpoon\nwas hurled.  Stern all!  The oarsmen backed water; the same moment\nsomething went hot and hissing along every one of their wrists. It was\nthe magical line. An instant before, Stubb had swiftly caught two\nadditional turns with it round the loggerhead, whence, by reason of its\nincreased rapid circlings, a hempen blue smoke now jetted up and\nmingled with the steady fumes from his pipe. As the line passed round\nand round the loggerhead; so also, just before reaching that point, it\nblisteringly passed through and through both of Stubb s hands, from\nwhich the hand-cloths, or squares of quilted canvas sometimes worn at\nthese times, had accidentally dropped. It was like holding an enemy s\nsharp two-edged sword by the blade, and that enemy all the time\nstriving to wrest it out of your clutch.\n\n Wet the line! wet the line!  cried Stubb to the tub oarsman (him\nseated by the tub) who, snatching off his hat, dashed sea-water into\nit.* More turns were taken, so that the line began holding its place.\nThe boat now flew through the boiling water like a shark all fins.\nStubb and Tashtego here changed places stem for stern a staggering\nbusiness truly in that rocking commotion.\n\n*Partly to show the indispensableness of this act, it may here be\nstated, that, in the old Dutch fishery, a mop was used to dash the\nrunning line with water; in many other ships, a wooden piggin, or\nbailer, is set apart for that purpose. Your hat, however, is the most\nconvenient.\n\nFrom the vibrating line extending the entire length of the upper part\nof the boat, and from its now being more tight than a harpstring, you\nwould have thought the craft had two keels one cleaving the water, the\nother the air as the boat churned on through both opposing elements at\nonce. A continual cascade played at the bows; a ceaseless whirling eddy\nin her wake; and, at the slightest motion from within, even but of a\nlittle finger, the vibrating, cracking craft canted over her spasmodic\ngunwale into the sea. Thus they rushed; each man with might and main\nclinging to his seat, to prevent being tossed to the foam; and the tall\nform of Tashtego at the steering oar crouching almost double, in order\nto bring down his centre of gravity. Whole Atlantics and Pacifics\nseemed passed as they shot on their way, till at length the whale\nsomewhat slackened his flight.\n\n Haul in haul in!  cried Stubb to the bowsman! and, facing round\ntowards the whale, all hands began pulling the boat up to him, while\nyet the boat was being towed on. Soon ranging up by his flank, Stubb,\nfirmly planting his knee in the clumsy cleat, darted dart after dart\ninto the flying fish; at the word of command, the boat alternately\nsterning out of the way of the whale s horrible wallow, and then\nranging up for another fling.\n\nThe red tide now poured from all sides of the monster like brooks down\na hill. His tormented body rolled not in brine but in blood, which\nbubbled and seethed for furlongs behind in their wake. The slanting sun\nplaying upon this crimson pond in the sea, sent back its reflection\ninto every face, so that they all glowed to each other like red men.\nAnd all the while, jet after jet of white smoke was agonizingly shot\nfrom the spiracle of the whale, and vehement puff after puff from the\nmouth of the excited headsman; as at every dart, hauling in upon his\ncrooked lance (by the line attached to it), Stubb straightened it again\nand again, by a few rapid blows against the gunwale, then again and\nagain sent it into the whale.\n\n Pull up pull up!  he now cried to the bowsman, as the waning whale\nrelaxed in his wrath.  Pull up! close to!  and the boat ranged along\nthe fish s flank. When reaching far over the bow, Stubb slowly churned\nhis long sharp lance into the fish, and kept it there, carefully\nchurning and churning, as if cautiously seeking to feel after some gold\nwatch that the whale might have swallowed, and which he was fearful of\nbreaking ere he could hook it out. But that gold watch he sought was\nthe innermost life of the fish. And now it is struck; for, starting\nfrom his trance into that unspeakable thing called his  flurry,  the\nmonster horribly wallowed in his blood, overwrapped himself in\nimpenetrable, mad, boiling spray, so that the imperilled craft,\ninstantly dropping astern, had much ado blindly to struggle out from\nthat phrensied twilight into the clear air of the day.\n\nAnd now abating in his flurry, the whale once more rolled out into\nview; surging from side to side; spasmodically dilating and contracting\nhis spout-hole, with sharp, cracking, agonized respirations. At last,\ngush after gush of clotted red gore, as if it had been the purple lees\nof red wine, shot into the frighted air; and falling back again, ran\ndripping down his motionless flanks into the sea. His heart had burst!\n\n He s dead, Mr. Stubb,  said Daggoo.\n\n Yes; both pipes smoked out!  and withdrawing his own from his mouth,\nStubb scattered the dead ashes over the water; and, for a moment, stood\nthoughtfully eyeing the vast corpse he had made.\n\n\nCHAPTER 62. The Dart.\n\nA word concerning an incident in the last chapter.\n\nAccording to the invariable usage of the fishery, the whale-boat pushes\noff from the ship, with the headsman or whale-killer as temporary\nsteersman, and the harpooneer or whale-fastener pulling the foremost\noar, the one known as the harpooneer-oar. Now it needs a strong,\nnervous arm to strike the first iron into the fish; for often, in what\nis called a long dart, the heavy implement has to be flung to the\ndistance of twenty or thirty feet. But however prolonged and exhausting\nthe chase, the harpooneer is expected to pull his oar meanwhile to the\nuttermost; indeed, he is expected to set an example of superhuman\nactivity to the rest, not only by incredible rowing, but by repeated\nloud and intrepid exclamations; and what it is to keep shouting at the\ntop of one s compass, while all the other muscles are strained and half\nstarted what that is none know but those who have tried it. For one, I\ncannot bawl very heartily and work very recklessly at one and the same\ntime. In this straining, bawling state, then, with his back to the\nfish, all at once the exhausted harpooneer hears the exciting\ncry Stand up, and give it to him!  He now has to drop and secure his\noar, turn round on his centre half way, seize his harpoon from the\ncrotch, and with what little strength may remain, he essays to pitch it\nsomehow into the whale. No wonder, taking the whole fleet of whalemen\nin a body, that out of fifty fair chances for a dart, not five are\nsuccessful; no wonder that so many hapless harpooneers are madly cursed\nand disrated; no wonder that some of them actually burst their\nblood-vessels in the boat; no wonder that some sperm whalemen are\nabsent four years with four barrels; no wonder that to many ship\nowners, whaling is but a losing concern; for it is the harpooneer that\nmakes the voyage, and if you take the breath out of his body how can\nyou expect to find it there when most wanted!\n\nAgain, if the dart be successful, then at the second critical instant,\nthat is, when the whale starts to run, the boatheader and harpooneer\nlikewise start to running fore and aft, to the imminent jeopardy of\nthemselves and every one else. It is then they change places; and the\nheadsman, the chief officer of the little craft, takes his proper\nstation in the bows of the boat.\n\nNow, I care not who maintains the contrary, but all this is both\nfoolish and unnecessary. The headsman should stay in the bows from\nfirst to last; he should both dart the harpoon and the lance, and no\nrowing whatever should be expected of him, except under circumstances\nobvious to any fisherman. I know that this would sometimes involve a\nslight loss of speed in the chase; but long experience in various\nwhalemen of more than one nation has convinced me that in the vast\nmajority of failures in the fishery, it has not by any means been so\nmuch the speed of the whale as the before described exhaustion of the\nharpooneer that has caused them.\n\nTo insure the greatest efficiency in the dart, the harpooneers of this\nworld must start to their feet from out of idleness, and not from out\nof toil.\n\n\nCHAPTER 63. The Crotch.\n\nOut of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in\nproductive subjects, grow the chapters.\n\nThe crotch alluded to on a previous page deserves independent mention.\nIt is a notched stick of a peculiar form, some two feet in length,\nwhich is perpendicularly inserted into the starboard gunwale near the\nbow, for the purpose of furnishing a rest for the wooden extremity of\nthe harpoon, whose other naked, barbed end slopingly projects from the\nprow. Thereby the weapon is instantly at hand to its hurler, who\nsnatches it up as readily from its rest as a backwoodsman swings his\nrifle from the wall. It is customary to have two harpoons reposing in\nthe crotch, respectively called the first and second irons.\n\nBut these two harpoons, each by its own cord, are both connected with\nthe line; the object being this: to dart them both, if possible, one\ninstantly after the other into the same whale; so that if, in the\ncoming drag, one should draw out, the other may still retain a hold. It\nis a doubling of the chances. But it very often happens that owing to\nthe instantaneous, violent, convulsive running of the whale upon\nreceiving the first iron, it becomes impossible for the harpooneer,\nhowever lightning-like in his movements, to pitch the second iron into\nhim. Nevertheless, as the second iron is already connected with the\nline, and the line is running, hence that weapon must, at all events,\nbe anticipatingly tossed out of the boat, somehow and somewhere; else\nthe most terrible jeopardy would involve all hands. Tumbled into the\nwater, it accordingly is in such cases; the spare coils of box line\n(mentioned in a preceding chapter) making this feat, in most instances,\nprudently practicable. But this critical act is not always unattended\nwith the saddest and most fatal casualties.\n\nFurthermore: you must know that when the second iron is thrown\noverboard, it thenceforth becomes a dangling, sharp-edged terror,\nskittishly curvetting about both boat and whale, entangling the lines,\nor cutting them, and making a prodigious sensation in all directions.\nNor, in general, is it possible to secure it again until the whale is\nfairly captured and a corpse.\n\nConsider, now, how it must be in the case of four boats all engaging\none unusually strong, active, and knowing whale; when owing to these\nqualities in him, as well as to the thousand concurring accidents of\nsuch an audacious enterprise, eight or ten loose second irons may be\nsimultaneously dangling about him. For, of course, each boat is\nsupplied with several harpoons to bend on to the line should the first\none be ineffectually darted without recovery. All these particulars are\nfaithfully narrated here, as they will not fail to elucidate several\nmost important, however intricate passages, in scenes hereafter to be\npainted.\n\n\nCHAPTER 64. Stubb s Supper.\n\nStubb s whale had been killed some distance from the ship. It was a\ncalm; so, forming a tandem of three boats, we commenced the slow\nbusiness of towing the trophy to the Pequod. And now, as we eighteen\nmen with our thirty-six arms, and one hundred and eighty thumbs and\nfingers, slowly toiled hour after hour upon that inert, sluggish corpse\nin the sea; and it seemed hardly to budge at all, except at long\nintervals; good evidence was hereby furnished of the enormousness of\nthe mass we moved. For, upon the great canal of Hang-Ho, or whatever\nthey call it, in China, four or five laborers on the foot-path will\ndraw a bulky freighted junk at the rate of a mile an hour; but this\ngrand argosy we towed heavily forged along, as if laden with pig-lead\nin bulk.\n\nDarkness came on; but three lights up and down in the Pequod s\nmain-rigging dimly guided our way; till drawing nearer we saw Ahab\ndropping one of several more lanterns over the bulwarks. Vacantly\neyeing the heaving whale for a moment, he issued the usual orders for\nsecuring it for the night, and then handing his lantern to a seaman,\nwent his way into the cabin, and did not come forward again until\nmorning.\n\nThough, in overseeing the pursuit of this whale, Captain Ahab had\nevinced his customary activity, to call it so; yet now that the\ncreature was dead, some vague dissatisfaction, or impatience, or\ndespair, seemed working in him; as if the sight of that dead body\nreminded him that Moby Dick was yet to be slain; and though a thousand\nother whales were brought to his ship, all that would not one jot\nadvance his grand, monomaniac object. Very soon you would have thought\nfrom the sound on the Pequod s decks, that all hands were preparing to\ncast anchor in the deep; for heavy chains are being dragged along the\ndeck, and thrust rattling out of the port-holes. But by those clanking\nlinks, the vast corpse itself, not the ship, is to be moored. Tied by\nthe head to the stern, and by the tail to the bows, the whale now lies\nwith its black hull close to the vessel s and seen through the darkness\nof the night, which obscured the spars and rigging aloft, the two ship\nand whale, seemed yoked together like colossal bullocks, whereof one\nreclines while the other remains standing.*\n\n*A little item may as well be related here. The strongest and most\nreliable hold which the ship has upon the whale when moored alongside,\nis by the flukes or tail; and as from its greater density that part is\nrelatively heavier than any other (excepting the side-fins), its\nflexibility even in death, causes it to sink low beneath the surface;\nso that with the hand you cannot get at it from the boat, in order to\nput the chain round it. But this difficulty is ingeniously overcome: a\nsmall, strong line is prepared with a wooden float at its outer end,\nand a weight in its middle, while the other end is secured to the ship.\nBy adroit management the wooden float is made to rise on the other side\nof the mass, so that now having girdled the whale, the chain is readily\nmade to follow suit; and being slipped along the body, is at last\nlocked fast round the smallest part of the tail, at the point of\njunction with its broad flukes or lobes.\n\nIf moody Ahab was now all quiescence, at least so far as could be known\non deck, Stubb, his second mate, flushed with conquest, betrayed an\nunusual but still good-natured excitement. Such an unwonted bustle was\nhe in that the staid Starbuck, his official superior, quietly resigned\nto him for the time the sole management of affairs. One small, helping\ncause of all this liveliness in Stubb, was soon made strangely\nmanifest. Stubb was a high liver; he was somewhat intemperately fond of\nthe whale as a flavorish thing to his palate.\n\n A steak, a steak, ere I sleep! You, Daggoo! overboard you go, and cut\nme one from his small! \n\nHere be it known, that though these wild fishermen do not, as a general\nthing, and according to the great military maxim, make the enemy defray\nthe current expenses of the war (at least before realizing the proceeds\nof the voyage), yet now and then you find some of these Nantucketers\nwho have a genuine relish for that particular part of the Sperm Whale\ndesignated by Stubb; comprising the tapering extremity of the body.\n\nAbout midnight that steak was cut and cooked; and lighted by two\nlanterns of sperm oil, Stubb stoutly stood up to his spermaceti supper\nat the capstan-head, as if that capstan were a sideboard. Nor was Stubb\nthe only banqueter on whale s flesh that night. Mingling their\nmumblings with his own mastications, thousands on thousands of sharks,\nswarming round the dead leviathan, smackingly feasted on its fatness.\nThe few sleepers below in their bunks were often startled by the sharp\nslapping of their tails against the hull, within a few inches of the\nsleepers  hearts. Peering over the side you could just see them (as\nbefore you heard them) wallowing in the sullen, black waters, and\nturning over on their backs as they scooped out huge globular pieces of\nthe whale of the bigness of a human head. This particular feat of the\nshark seems all but miraculous. How at such an apparently unassailable\nsurface, they contrive to gouge out such symmetrical mouthfuls, remains\na part of the universal problem of all things. The mark they thus leave\non the whale, may best be likened to the hollow made by a carpenter in\ncountersinking for a screw.\n\nThough amid all the smoking horror and diabolism of a sea-fight, sharks\nwill be seen longingly gazing up to the ship s decks, like hungry dogs\nround a table where red meat is being carved, ready to bolt down every\nkilled man that is tossed to them; and though, while the valiant\nbutchers over the deck-table are thus cannibally carving each other s\nlive meat with carving-knives all gilded and tasselled, the sharks,\nalso, with their jewel-hilted mouths, are quarrelsomely carving away\nunder the table at the dead meat; and though, were you to turn the\nwhole affair upside down, it would still be pretty much the same thing,\nthat is to say, a shocking sharkish business enough for all parties;\nand though sharks also are the invariable outriders of all slave ships\ncrossing the Atlantic, systematically trotting alongside, to be handy\nin case a parcel is to be carried anywhere, or a dead slave to be\ndecently buried; and though one or two other like instances might be\nset down, touching the set terms, places, and occasions, when sharks do\nmost socially congregate, and most hilariously feast; yet is there no\nconceivable time or occasion when you will find them in such countless\nnumbers, and in gayer or more jovial spirits, than around a dead sperm\nwhale, moored by night to a whaleship at sea. If you have never seen\nthat sight, then suspend your decision about the propriety of\ndevil-worship, and the expediency of conciliating the devil.\n\nBut, as yet, Stubb heeded not the mumblings of the banquet that was\ngoing on so nigh him, no more than the sharks heeded the smacking of\nhis own epicurean lips.\n\n Cook, cook! where s that old Fleece?  he cried at length, widening his\nlegs still further, as if to form a more secure base for his supper;\nand, at the same time darting his fork into the dish, as if stabbing\nwith his lance;  cook, you cook! sail this way, cook! \n\nThe old black, not in any very high glee at having been previously\nroused from his warm hammock at a most unseasonable hour, came\nshambling along from his galley, for, like many old blacks, there was\nsomething the matter with his knee-pans, which he did not keep well\nscoured like his other pans; this old Fleece, as they called him, came\nshuffling and limping along, assisting his step with his tongs, which,\nafter a clumsy fashion, were made of straightened iron hoops; this old\nEbony floundered along, and in obedience to the word of command, came\nto a dead stop on the opposite side of Stubb s sideboard; when, with\nboth hands folded before him, and resting on his two-legged cane, he\nbowed his arched back still further over, at the same time sideways\ninclining his head, so as to bring his best ear into play.\n\n Cook,  said Stubb, rapidly lifting a rather reddish morsel to his\nmouth,  don t you think this steak is rather overdone? You ve been\nbeating this steak too much, cook; it s too tender. Don t I always say\nthat to be good, a whale-steak must be tough? There are those sharks\nnow over the side, don t you see they prefer it tough and rare? What a\nshindy they are kicking up! Cook, go and talk to  em; tell  em they are\nwelcome to help themselves civilly, and in moderation, but they must\nkeep quiet. Blast me, if I can hear my own voice. Away, cook, and\ndeliver my message. Here, take this lantern,  snatching one from his\nsideboard;  now then, go and preach to  em! \n\nSullenly taking the offered lantern, old Fleece limped across the deck\nto the bulwarks; and then, with one hand dropping his light low over\nthe sea, so as to get a good view of his congregation, with the other\nhand he solemnly flourished his tongs, and leaning far over the side in\na mumbling voice began addressing the sharks, while Stubb, softly\ncrawling behind, overheard all that was said.\n\n Fellow-critters: I se ordered here to say dat you must stop dat dam\nnoise dare. You hear? Stop dat dam smackin  ob de lip! Massa Stubb say\ndat you can fill your dam bellies up to de hatchings, but by Gor! you\nmust stop dat dam racket! \n\n Cook,  here interposed Stubb, accompanying the word with a sudden slap\non the shoulder, Cook! why, damn your eyes, you mustn t swear that way\nwhen you re preaching. That s no way to convert sinners, cook! \n\n Who dat? Den preach to him yourself,  sullenly turning to go.\n\n No, cook; go on, go on. \n\n Well, den, Belubed fellow-critters: \n\n Right!  exclaimed Stubb, approvingly,  coax  em to it; try that,  and\nFleece continued.\n\n Do you is all sharks, and by natur wery woracious, yet I zay to you,\nfellow-critters, dat dat woraciousness top dat dam slappin  ob de\ntail! How you tink to hear, spose you keep up such a dam slappin  and\nbitin  dare? \n\n Cook,  cried Stubb, collaring him,  I won t have that swearing. Talk\nto  em gentlemanly. \n\nOnce more the sermon proceeded.\n\n Your woraciousness, fellow-critters, I don t blame ye so much for; dat\nis natur, and can t be helped; but to gobern dat wicked natur, dat is\nde pint. You is sharks, sartin; but if you gobern de shark in you, why\nden you be angel; for all angel is not ing more dan de shark well\ngoberned. Now, look here, bred ren, just try wonst to be cibil, a\nhelping yourselbs from dat whale. Don t be tearin  de blubber out your\nneighbour s mout, I say. Is not one shark dood right as toder to dat\nwhale? And, by Gor, none on you has de right to dat whale; dat whale\nbelong to some one else. I know some o  you has berry brig mout,\nbrigger dan oders; but den de brig mouts sometimes has de small\nbellies; so dat de brigness of de mout is not to swaller wid, but to\nbit off de blubber for de small fry ob sharks, dat can t get into de\nscrouge to help demselves. \n\n Well done, old Fleece!  cried Stubb,  that s Christianity; go on. \n\n No use goin  on; de dam willains will keep a scougin  and slappin \neach oder, Massa Stubb; dey don t hear one word; no use a-preachin  to\nsuch dam g uttons as you call  em, till dare bellies is full, and dare\nbellies is bottomless; and when dey do get  em full, dey wont hear you\nden; for den dey sink in de sea, go fast to sleep on de coral, and\ncan t hear not ing at all, no more, for eber and eber. \n\n Upon my soul, I am about of the same opinion; so give the benediction,\nFleece, and I ll away to my supper. \n\nUpon this, Fleece, holding both hands over the fishy mob, raised his\nshrill voice, and cried \n\n Cussed fellow-critters! Kick up de damndest row as ever you can; fill\nyour dam  bellies  till dey bust and den die. \n\n Now, cook,  said Stubb, resuming his supper at the capstan;  stand\njust where you stood before, there, over against me, and pay particular\nattention. \n\n All dention,  said Fleece, again stooping over upon his tongs in the\ndesired position.\n\n Well,  said Stubb, helping himself freely meanwhile;  I shall now go\nback to the subject of this steak. In the first place, how old are you,\ncook? \n\n What dat do wid de  teak,  said the old black, testily.\n\n Silence! How old are you, cook? \n\n Bout ninety, dey say,  he gloomily muttered.\n\n And you have lived in this world hard upon one hundred years, cook,\nand don t know yet how to cook a whale-steak?  rapidly bolting another\nmouthful at the last word, so that morsel seemed a continuation of the\nquestion.  Where were you born, cook? \n\n Hind de hatchway, in ferry-boat, goin  ober de Roanoke. \n\n Born in a ferry-boat! That s queer, too. But I want to know what\ncountry you were born in, cook! \n\n Didn t I say de Roanoke country?  he cried sharply.\n\n No, you didn t, cook; but I ll tell you what I m coming to, cook. You\nmust go home and be born over again; you don t know how to cook a\nwhale-steak yet. \n\n Bress my soul, if I cook noder one,  he growled, angrily, turning\nround to depart.\n\n Come back, cook; here, hand me those tongs; now take that bit of steak\nthere, and tell me if you think that steak cooked as it should be? Take\nit, I say holding the tongs towards him take it, and taste it. \n\nFaintly smacking his withered lips over it for a moment, the old negro\nmuttered,  Best cooked  teak I eber taste; joosy, berry joosy. \n\n Cook,  said Stubb, squaring himself once more;  do you belong to the\nchurch? \n\n Passed one once in Cape-Down,  said the old man sullenly.\n\n And you have once in your life passed a holy church in Cape-Town,\nwhere you doubtless overheard a holy parson addressing his hearers as\nhis beloved fellow-creatures, have you, cook! And yet you come here,\nand tell me such a dreadful lie as you did just now, eh?  said Stubb.\n Where do you expect to go to, cook? \n\n Go to bed berry soon,  he mumbled, half-turning as he spoke.\n\n Avast! heave to! I mean when you die, cook. It s an awful question.\nNow what s your answer? \n\n When dis old brack man dies,  said the negro slowly, changing his\nwhole air and demeanor,  he hisself won t go nowhere; but some bressed\nangel will come and fetch him. \n\n Fetch him? How? In a coach and four, as they fetched Elijah? And fetch\nhim where? \n\n Up dere,  said Fleece, holding his tongs straight over his head, and\nkeeping it there very solemnly.\n\n So, then, you expect to go up into our main-top, do you, cook, when\nyou are dead? But don t you know the higher you climb, the colder it\ngets? Main-top, eh? \n\n Didn t say dat t all,  said Fleece, again in the sulks.\n\n You said up there, didn t you? and now look yourself, and see where\nyour tongs are pointing. But, perhaps you expect to get into heaven by\ncrawling through the lubber s hole, cook; but, no, no, cook, you don t\nget there, except you go the regular way, round by the rigging. It s a\nticklish business, but must be done, or else it s no go. But none of us\nare in heaven yet. Drop your tongs, cook, and hear my orders. Do ye\nhear? Hold your hat in one hand, and clap t other a top of your heart,\nwhen I m giving my orders, cook. What! that your heart, there? that s\nyour gizzard! Aloft! aloft! that s it now you have it. Hold it there\nnow, and pay attention. \n\n All  dention,  said the old black, with both hands placed as desired,\nvainly wriggling his grizzled head, as if to get both ears in front at\none and the same time.\n\n Well then, cook, you see this whale-steak of yours was so very bad,\nthat I have put it out of sight as soon as possible; you see that,\ndon t you? Well, for the future, when you cook another whale-steak for\nmy private table here, the capstan, I ll tell you what to do so as not\nto spoil it by overdoing. Hold the steak in one hand, and show a live\ncoal to it with the other; that done, dish it; d ye hear? And now\nto-morrow, cook, when we are cutting in the fish, be sure you stand by\nto get the tips of his fins; have them put in pickle. As for the ends\nof the flukes, have them soused, cook. There, now ye may go. \n\nBut Fleece had hardly got three paces off, when he was recalled.\n\n Cook, give me cutlets for supper to-morrow night in the mid-watch.\nD ye hear? away you sail, then. Halloa! stop! make a bow before you\ngo. Avast heaving again! Whale-balls for breakfast don t forget. \n\n Wish, by gor! whale eat him,  stead of him eat whale. I m bressed if\nhe ain t more of shark dan Massa Shark hisself,  muttered the old man,\nlimping away; with which sage ejaculation he went to his hammock.\n\n\nCHAPTER 65. The Whale as a Dish.\n\nThat mortal man should feed upon the creature that feeds his lamp, and,\nlike Stubb, eat him by his own light, as you may say; this seems so\noutlandish a thing that one must needs go a little into the history and\nphilosophy of it.\n\nIt is upon record, that three centuries ago the tongue of the Right\nWhale was esteemed a great delicacy in France, and commanded large\nprices there. Also, that in Henry VIIIth s time, a certain cook of the\ncourt obtained a handsome reward for inventing an admirable sauce to be\neaten with barbacued porpoises, which, you remember, are a species of\nwhale. Porpoises, indeed, are to this day considered fine eating. The\nmeat is made into balls about the size of billiard balls, and being\nwell seasoned and spiced might be taken for turtle-balls or veal balls.\nThe old monks of Dunfermline were very fond of them. They had a great\nporpoise grant from the crown.\n\nThe fact is, that among his hunters at least, the whale would by all\nhands be considered a noble dish, were there not so much of him; but\nwhen you come to sit down before a meat-pie nearly one hundred feet\nlong, it takes away your appetite. Only the most unprejudiced of men\nlike Stubb, nowadays partake of cooked whales; but the Esquimaux are\nnot so fastidious. We all know how they live upon whales, and have rare\nold vintages of prime old train oil. Zogranda, one of their most famous\ndoctors, recommends strips of blubber for infants, as being exceedingly\njuicy and nourishing. And this reminds me that certain Englishmen, who\nlong ago were accidentally left in Greenland by a whaling vessel that\nthese men actually lived for several months on the mouldy scraps of\nwhales which had been left ashore after trying out the blubber. Among\nthe Dutch whalemen these scraps are called  fritters ; which, indeed,\nthey greatly resemble, being brown and crisp, and smelling something\nlike old Amsterdam housewives  dough-nuts or oly-cooks, when fresh.\nThey have such an eatable look that the most self-denying stranger can\nhardly keep his hands off.\n\nBut what further depreciates the whale as a civilized dish, is his\nexceeding richness. He is the great prize ox of the sea, too fat to be\ndelicately good. Look at his hump, which would be as fine eating as the\nbuffalo s (which is esteemed a rare dish), were it not such a solid\npyramid of fat. But the spermaceti itself, how bland and creamy that\nis; like the transparent, half-jellied, white meat of a cocoanut in the\nthird month of its growth, yet far too rich to supply a substitute for\nbutter. Nevertheless, many whalemen have a method of absorbing it into\nsome other substance, and then partaking of it. In the long try watches\nof the night it is a common thing for the seamen to dip their\nship-biscuit into the huge oil-pots and let them fry there awhile. Many\na good supper have I thus made.\n\nIn the case of a small Sperm Whale the brains are accounted a fine\ndish. The casket of the skull is broken into with an axe, and the two\nplump, whitish lobes being withdrawn (precisely resembling two large\npuddings), they are then mixed with flour, and cooked into a most\ndelectable mess, in flavor somewhat resembling calves  head, which is\nquite a dish among some epicures; and every one knows that some young\nbucks among the epicures, by continually dining upon calves  brains, by\nand by get to have a little brains of their own, so as to be able to\ntell a calf s head from their own heads; which, indeed, requires\nuncommon discrimination. And that is the reason why a young buck with\nan intelligent looking calf s head before him, is somehow one of the\nsaddest sights you can see. The head looks a sort of reproachfully at\nhim, with an  Et tu Brute!  expression.\n\nIt is not, perhaps, entirely because the whale is so excessively\nunctuous that landsmen seem to regard the eating of him with\nabhorrence; that appears to result, in some way, from the consideration\nbefore mentioned: _i.e._ that a man should eat a newly murdered thing\nof the sea, and eat it too by its own light. But no doubt the first man\nthat ever murdered an ox was regarded as a murderer; perhaps he was\nhung; and if he had been put on his trial by oxen, he certainly would\nhave been; and he certainly deserved it if any murderer does. Go to the\nmeat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds\nstaring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight\ntake a tooth out of the cannibal s jaw? Cannibals? who is not a\ncannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that\nsalted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it\nwill be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of\njudgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who\nnailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy\npat -de-foie-gras.\n\nBut Stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he? and that is\nadding insult to injury, is it? Look at your knife-handle, there, my\ncivilized and enlightened gourmand dining off that roast beef, what is\nthat handle made of? what but the bones of the brother of the very ox\nyou are eating? And what do you pick your teeth with, after devouring\nthat fat goose? With a feather of the same fowl. And with what quill\ndid the Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to\nGanders formally indite his circulars? It is only within the last month\nor two that that society passed a resolution to patronize nothing but\nsteel pens.\n\n\nCHAPTER 66. The Shark Massacre.\n\nWhen in the Southern Fishery, a captured Sperm Whale, after long and\nweary toil, is brought alongside late at night, it is not, as a general\nthing at least, customary to proceed at once to the business of cutting\nhim in. For that business is an exceedingly laborious one; is not very\nsoon completed; and requires all hands to set about it. Therefore, the\ncommon usage is to take in all sail; lash the helm a lee; and then send\nevery one below to his hammock till daylight, with the reservation\nthat, until that time, anchor-watches shall be kept; that is, two and\ntwo for an hour, each couple, the crew in rotation shall mount the deck\nto see that all goes well.\n\nBut sometimes, especially upon the Line in the Pacific, this plan will\nnot answer at all; because such incalculable hosts of sharks gather\nround the moored carcase, that were he left so for six hours, say, on a\nstretch, little more than the skeleton would be visible by morning. In\nmost other parts of the ocean, however, where these fish do not so\nlargely abound, their wondrous voracity can be at times considerably\ndiminished, by vigorously stirring them up with sharp whaling-spades, a\nprocedure notwithstanding, which, in some instances, only seems to\ntickle them into still greater activity. But it was not thus in the\npresent case with the Pequod s sharks; though, to be sure, any man\nunaccustomed to such sights, to have looked over her side that night,\nwould have almost thought the whole round sea was one huge cheese, and\nthose sharks the maggots in it.\n\nNevertheless, upon Stubb setting the anchor-watch after his supper was\nconcluded; and when, accordingly, Queequeg and a forecastle seaman came\non deck, no small excitement was created among the sharks; for\nimmediately suspending the cutting stages over the side, and lowering\nthree lanterns, so that they cast long gleams of light over the turbid\nsea, these two mariners, darting their long whaling-spades, kept up an\nincessant murdering of the sharks,* by striking the keen steel deep\ninto their skulls, seemingly their only vital part. But in the foamy\nconfusion of their mixed and struggling hosts, the marksmen could not\nalways hit their mark; and this brought about new revelations of the\nincredible ferocity of the foe. They viciously snapped, not only at\neach other s disembowelments, but like flexible bows, bent round, and\nbit their own; till those entrails seemed swallowed over and over again\nby the same mouth, to be oppositely voided by the gaping wound. Nor was\nthis all. It was unsafe to meddle with the corpses and ghosts of these\ncreatures. A sort of generic or Pantheistic vitality seemed to lurk in\ntheir very joints and bones, after what might be called the individual\nlife had departed. Killed and hoisted on deck for the sake of his skin,\none of these sharks almost took poor Queequeg s hand off, when he tried\nto shut down the dead lid of his murderous jaw.\n\n*The whaling-spade used for cutting-in is made of the very best steel;\nis about the bigness of a man s spread hand; and in general shape,\ncorresponds to the garden implement after which it is named; only its\nsides are perfectly flat, and its upper end considerably narrower than\nthe lower. This weapon is always kept as sharp as possible; and when\nbeing used is occasionally honed, just like a razor. In its socket, a\nstiff pole, from twenty to thirty feet long, is inserted for a handle.\n\n Queequeg no care what god made him shark,  said the savage,\nagonizingly lifting his hand up and down;  wedder Fejee god or\nNantucket god; but de god wat made shark must be one dam Ingin. \n\n\nCHAPTER 67. Cutting In.\n\nIt was a Saturday night, and such a Sabbath as followed! Ex officio\nprofessors of Sabbath breaking are all whalemen. The ivory Pequod was\nturned into what seemed a shamble; every sailor a butcher. You would\nhave thought we were offering up ten thousand red oxen to the sea gods.\n\nIn the first place, the enormous cutting tackles, among other ponderous\nthings comprising a cluster of blocks generally painted green, and\nwhich no single man can possibly lift this vast bunch of grapes was\nswayed up to the main-top and firmly lashed to the lower mast-head, the\nstrongest point anywhere above a ship s deck. The end of the\nhawser-like rope winding through these intricacies, was then conducted\nto the windlass, and the huge lower block of the tackles was swung over\nthe whale; to this block the great blubber hook, weighing some one\nhundred pounds, was attached. And now suspended in stages over the\nside, Starbuck and Stubb, the mates, armed with their long spades,\nbegan cutting a hole in the body for the insertion of the hook just\nabove the nearest of the two side-fins. This done, a broad,\nsemicircular line is cut round the hole, the hook is inserted, and the\nmain body of the crew striking up a wild chorus, now commence heaving\nin one dense crowd at the windlass. When instantly, the entire ship\ncareens over on her side; every bolt in her starts like the nail-heads\nof an old house in frosty weather; she trembles, quivers, and nods her\nfrighted mast-heads to the sky. More and more she leans over to the\nwhale, while every gasping heave of the windlass is answered by a\nhelping heave from the billows; till at last, a swift, startling snap\nis heard; with a great swash the ship rolls upwards and backwards from\nthe whale, and the triumphant tackle rises into sight dragging after it\nthe disengaged semicircular end of the first strip of blubber. Now as\nthe blubber envelopes the whale precisely as the rind does an orange,\nso is it stripped off from the body precisely as an orange is sometimes\nstripped by spiralizing it. For the strain constantly kept up by the\nwindlass continually keeps the whale rolling over and over in the\nwater, and as the blubber in one strip uniformly peels off along the\nline called the  scarf,  simultaneously cut by the spades of Starbuck\nand Stubb, the mates; and just as fast as it is thus peeled off, and\nindeed by that very act itself, it is all the time being hoisted higher\nand higher aloft till its upper end grazes the main-top; the men at the\nwindlass then cease heaving, and for a moment or two the prodigious\nblood-dripping mass sways to and fro as if let down from the sky, and\nevery one present must take good heed to dodge it when it swings, else\nit may box his ears and pitch him headlong overboard.\n\nOne of the attending harpooneers now advances with a long, keen weapon\ncalled a boarding-sword, and watching his chance he dexterously slices\nout a considerable hole in the lower part of the swaying mass. Into\nthis hole, the end of the second alternating great tackle is then\nhooked so as to retain a hold upon the blubber, in order to prepare for\nwhat follows. Whereupon, this accomplished swordsman, warning all hands\nto stand off, once more makes a scientific dash at the mass, and with a\nfew sidelong, desperate, lunging slicings, severs it completely in\ntwain; so that while the short lower part is still fast, the long upper\nstrip, called a blanket-piece, swings clear, and is all ready for\nlowering. The heavers forward now resume their song, and while the one\ntackle is peeling and hoisting a second strip from the whale, the other\nis slowly slackened away, and down goes the first strip through the\nmain hatchway right beneath, into an unfurnished parlor called the\nblubber-room. Into this twilight apartment sundry nimble hands keep\ncoiling away the long blanket-piece as if it were a great live mass of\nplaited serpents. And thus the work proceeds; the two tackles hoisting\nand lowering simultaneously; both whale and windlass heaving, the\nheavers singing, the blubber-room gentlemen coiling, the mates\nscarfing, the ship straining, and all hands swearing occasionally, by\nway of assuaging the general friction.\n\n\nCHAPTER 68. The Blanket.\n\nI have given no small attention to that not unvexed subject, the skin\nof the whale. I have had controversies about it with experienced\nwhalemen afloat, and learned naturalists ashore. My original opinion\nremains unchanged; but it is only an opinion.\n\nThe question is, what and where is the skin of the whale? Already you\nknow what his blubber is. That blubber is something of the consistence\nof firm, close-grained beef, but tougher, more elastic and compact, and\nranges from eight or ten to twelve and fifteen inches in thickness.\n\nNow, however preposterous it may at first seem to talk of any\ncreature s skin as being of that sort of consistence and thickness, yet\nin point of fact these are no arguments against such a presumption;\nbecause you cannot raise any other dense enveloping layer from the\nwhale s body but that same blubber; and the outermost enveloping layer\nof any animal, if reasonably dense, what can that be but the skin?\nTrue, from the unmarred dead body of the whale, you may scrape off with\nyour hand an infinitely thin, transparent substance, somewhat\nresembling the thinnest shreds of isinglass, only it is almost as\nflexible and soft as satin; that is, previous to being dried, when it\nnot only contracts and thickens, but becomes rather hard and brittle. I\nhave several such dried bits, which I use for marks in my whale-books.\nIt is transparent, as I said before; and being laid upon the printed\npage, I have sometimes pleased myself with fancying it exerted a\nmagnifying influence. At any rate, it is pleasant to read about whales\nthrough their own spectacles, as you may say. But what I am driving at\nhere is this. That same infinitely thin, isinglass substance, which, I\nadmit, invests the entire body of the whale, is not so much to be\nregarded as the skin of the creature, as the skin of the skin, so to\nspeak; for it were simply ridiculous to say, that the proper skin of\nthe tremendous whale is thinner and more tender than the skin of a\nnew-born child. But no more of this.\n\nAssuming the blubber to be the skin of the whale; then, when this skin,\nas in the case of a very large Sperm Whale, will yield the bulk of one\nhundred barrels of oil; and, when it is considered that, in quantity,\nor rather weight, that oil, in its expressed state, is only three\nfourths, and not the entire substance of the coat; some idea may hence\nbe had of the enormousness of that animated mass, a mere part of whose\nmere integument yields such a lake of liquid as that. Reckoning ten\nbarrels to the ton, you have ten tons for the net weight of only three\nquarters of the stuff of the whale s skin.\n\nIn life, the visible surface of the Sperm Whale is not the least among\nthe many marvels he presents. Almost invariably it is all over\nobliquely crossed and re-crossed with numberless straight marks in\nthick array, something like those in the finest Italian line\nengravings. But these marks do not seem to be impressed upon the\nisinglass substance above mentioned, but seem to be seen through it, as\nif they were engraved upon the body itself. Nor is this all. In some\ninstances, to the quick, observant eye, those linear marks, as in a\nveritable engraving, but afford the ground for far other delineations.\nThese are hieroglyphical; that is, if you call those mysterious cyphers\non the walls of pyramids hieroglyphics, then that is the proper word to\nuse in the present connexion. By my retentive memory of the\nhieroglyphics upon one Sperm Whale in particular, I was much struck\nwith a plate representing the old Indian characters chiselled on the\nfamous hieroglyphic palisades on the banks of the Upper Mississippi.\nLike those mystic rocks, too, the mystic-marked whale remains\nundecipherable. This allusion to the Indian rocks reminds me of another\nthing. Besides all the other phenomena which the exterior of the Sperm\nWhale presents, he not seldom displays the back, and more especially\nhis flanks, effaced in great part of the regular linear appearance, by\nreason of numerous rude scratches, altogether of an irregular, random\naspect. I should say that those New England rocks on the sea-coast,\nwhich Agassiz imagines to bear the marks of violent scraping contact\nwith vast floating icebergs I should say, that those rocks must not a\nlittle resemble the Sperm Whale in this particular. It also seems to me\nthat such scratches in the whale are probably made by hostile contact\nwith other whales; for I have most remarked them in the large,\nfull-grown bulls of the species.\n\nA word or two more concerning this matter of the skin or blubber of the\nwhale. It has already been said, that it is stript from him in long\npieces, called blanket-pieces. Like most sea-terms, this one is very\nhappy and significant. For the whale is indeed wrapt up in his blubber\nas in a real blanket or counterpane; or, still better, an Indian poncho\nslipt over his head, and skirting his extremity. It is by reason of\nthis cosy blanketing of his body, that the whale is enabled to keep\nhimself comfortable in all weathers, in all seas, times, and tides.\nWhat would become of a Greenland whale, say, in those shuddering, icy\nseas of the North, if unsupplied with his cosy surtout? True, other\nfish are found exceedingly brisk in those Hyperborean waters; but\nthese, be it observed, are your cold-blooded, lungless fish, whose very\nbellies are refrigerators; creatures, that warm themselves under the\nlee of an iceberg, as a traveller in winter would bask before an inn\nfire; whereas, like man, the whale has lungs and warm blood. Freeze his\nblood, and he dies. How wonderful is it then except after\nexplanation that this great monster, to whom corporeal warmth is as\nindispensable as it is to man; how wonderful that he should be found at\nhome, immersed to his lips for life in those Arctic waters! where, when\nseamen fall overboard, they are sometimes found, months afterwards,\nperpendicularly frozen into the hearts of fields of ice, as a fly is\nfound glued in amber. But more surprising is it to know, as has been\nproved by experiment, that the blood of a Polar whale is warmer than\nthat of a Borneo negro in summer.\n\nIt does seem to me, that herein we see the rare virtue of a strong\nindividual vitality, and the rare virtue of thick walls, and the rare\nvirtue of interior spaciousness. Oh, man! admire and model thyself\nafter the whale! Do thou, too, remain warm among ice. Do thou, too,\nlive in this world without being of it. Be cool at the equator; keep\nthy blood fluid at the Pole. Like the great dome of St. Peter s, and\nlike the great whale, retain, O man! in all seasons a temperature of\nthine own.\n\nBut how easy and how hopeless to teach these fine things! Of erections,\nhow few are domed like St. Peter s! of creatures, how few vast as the\nwhale!\n\n\nCHAPTER 69. The Funeral.\n\n Haul in the chains! Let the carcase go astern! \n\nThe vast tackles have now done their duty. The peeled white body of the\nbeheaded whale flashes like a marble sepulchre; though changed in hue,\nit has not perceptibly lost anything in bulk. It is still colossal.\nSlowly it floats more and more away, the water round it torn and\nsplashed by the insatiate sharks, and the air above vexed with\nrapacious flights of screaming fowls, whose beaks are like so many\ninsulting poniards in the whale. The vast white headless phantom floats\nfurther and further from the ship, and every rod that it so floats,\nwhat seem square roods of sharks and cubic roods of fowls, augment the\nmurderous din. For hours and hours from the almost stationary ship that\nhideous sight is seen. Beneath the unclouded and mild azure sky, upon\nthe fair face of the pleasant sea, wafted by the joyous breezes, that\ngreat mass of death floats on and on, till lost in infinite\nperspectives.\n\nThere s a most doleful and most mocking funeral! The sea-vultures all\nin pious mourning, the air-sharks all punctiliously in black or\nspeckled. In life but few of them would have helped the whale, I ween,\nif peradventure he had needed it; but upon the banquet of his funeral\nthey most piously do pounce. Oh, horrible vultureism of earth! from\nwhich not the mightiest whale is free.\n\nNor is this the end. Desecrated as the body is, a vengeful ghost\nsurvives and hovers over it to scare. Espied by some timid man-of-war\nor blundering discovery-vessel from afar, when the distance obscuring\nthe swarming fowls, nevertheless still shows the white mass floating in\nthe sun, and the white spray heaving high against it; straightway the\nwhale s unharming corpse, with trembling fingers is set down in the\nlog _shoals, rocks, and breakers hereabouts: beware!_ And for years\nafterwards, perhaps, ships shun the place; leaping over it as silly\nsheep leap over a vacuum, because their leader originally leaped there\nwhen a stick was held. There s your law of precedents; there s your\nutility of traditions; there s the story of your obstinate survival of\nold beliefs never bottomed on the earth, and now not even hovering in\nthe air! There s orthodoxy!\n\nThus, while in life the great whale s body may have been a real terror\nto his foes, in his death his ghost becomes a powerless panic to a\nworld.\n\nAre you a believer in ghosts, my friend? There are other ghosts than\nthe Cock-Lane one, and far deeper men than Doctor Johnson who believe\nin them.\n\n\nCHAPTER 70. The Sphynx.\n\nIt should not have been omitted that previous to completely stripping\nthe body of the leviathan, he was beheaded. Now, the beheading of the\nSperm Whale is a scientific anatomical feat, upon which experienced\nwhale surgeons very much pride themselves: and not without reason.\n\nConsider that the whale has nothing that can properly be called a neck;\non the contrary, where his head and body seem to join, there, in that\nvery place, is the thickest part of him. Remember, also, that the\nsurgeon must operate from above, some eight or ten feet intervening\nbetween him and his subject, and that subject almost hidden in a\ndiscoloured, rolling, and oftentimes tumultuous and bursting sea. Bear\nin mind, too, that under these untoward circumstances he has to cut\nmany feet deep in the flesh; and in that subterraneous manner, without\nso much as getting one single peep into the ever-contracting gash thus\nmade, he must skilfully steer clear of all adjacent, interdicted parts,\nand exactly divide the spine at a critical point hard by its insertion\ninto the skull. Do you not marvel, then, at Stubb s boast, that he\ndemanded but ten minutes to behead a sperm whale?\n\nWhen first severed, the head is dropped astern and held there by a\ncable till the body is stripped. That done, if it belong to a small\nwhale it is hoisted on deck to be deliberately disposed of. But, with a\nfull grown leviathan this is impossible; for the sperm whale s head\nembraces nearly one third of his entire bulk, and completely to suspend\nsuch a burden as that, even by the immense tackles of a whaler, this\nwere as vain a thing as to attempt weighing a Dutch barn in jewellers \nscales.\n\nThe Pequod s whale being decapitated and the body stripped, the head\nwas hoisted against the ship s side about half way out of the sea, so\nthat it might yet in great part be buoyed up by its native element. And\nthere with the strained craft steeply leaning over to it, by reason of\nthe enormous downward drag from the lower mast-head, and every yard-arm\non that side projecting like a crane over the waves; there, that\nblood-dripping head hung to the Pequod s waist like the giant\nHolofernes s from the girdle of Judith.\n\nWhen this last task was accomplished it was noon, and the seamen went\nbelow to their dinner. Silence reigned over the before tumultuous but\nnow deserted deck. An intense copper calm, like a universal yellow\nlotus, was more and more unfolding its noiseless measureless leaves\nupon the sea.\n\nA short space elapsed, and up into this noiselessness came Ahab alone\nfrom his cabin. Taking a few turns on the quarter-deck, he paused to\ngaze over the side, then slowly getting into the main-chains he took\nStubb s long spade still remaining there after the whale s\ndecapitation and striking it into the lower part of the half-suspended\nmass, placed its other end crutch-wise under one arm, and so stood\nleaning over with eyes attentively fixed on this head.\n\nIt was a black and hooded head; and hanging there in the midst of so\nintense a calm, it seemed the Sphynx s in the desert.  Speak, thou vast\nand venerable head,  muttered Ahab,  which, though ungarnished with a\nbeard, yet here and there lookest hoary with mosses; speak, mighty\nhead, and tell us the secret thing that is in thee. Of all divers, thou\nhast dived the deepest. That head upon which the upper sun now gleams,\nhas moved amid this world s foundations. Where unrecorded names and\nnavies rust, and untold hopes and anchors rot; where in her murderous\nhold this frigate earth is ballasted with bones of millions of the\ndrowned; there, in that awful water-land, there was thy most familiar\nhome. Thou hast been where bell or diver never went; hast slept by many\na sailor s side, where sleepless mothers would give their lives to lay\nthem down. Thou saw st the locked lovers when leaping from their\nflaming ship; heart to heart they sank beneath the exulting wave; true\nto each other, when heaven seemed false to them. Thou saw st the\nmurdered mate when tossed by pirates from the midnight deck; for hours\nhe fell into the deeper midnight of the insatiate maw; and his\nmurderers still sailed on unharmed while swift lightnings shivered the\nneighboring ship that would have borne a righteous husband to\noutstretched, longing arms. O head! thou hast seen enough to split the\nplanets and make an infidel of Abraham, and not one syllable is thine! \n\n Sail ho!  cried a triumphant voice from the main-mast-head.\n\n Aye? Well, now, that s cheering,  cried Ahab, suddenly erecting\nhimself, while whole thunder-clouds swept aside from his brow.  That\nlively cry upon this deadly calm might almost convert a better\nman. Where away? \n\n Three points on the starboard bow, sir, and bringing down her breeze\nto us!\n\n Better and better, man. Would now St. Paul would come along that way,\nand to my breezelessness bring his breeze! O Nature, and O soul of man!\nhow far beyond all utterance are your linked analogies! not the\nsmallest atom stirs or lives on matter, but has its cunning duplicate\nin mind. \n\n\nCHAPTER 71. The Jeroboam s Story.\n\nHand in hand, ship and breeze blew on; but the breeze came faster than\nthe ship, and soon the Pequod began to rock.\n\nBy and by, through the glass the stranger s boats and manned mast-heads\nproved her a whale-ship. But as she was so far to windward, and\nshooting by, apparently making a passage to some other ground, the\nPequod could not hope to reach her. So the signal was set to see what\nresponse would be made.\n\nHere be it said, that like the vessels of military marines, the ships\nof the American Whale Fleet have each a private signal; all which\nsignals being collected in a book with the names of the respective\nvessels attached, every captain is provided with it. Thereby, the whale\ncommanders are enabled to recognise each other upon the ocean, even at\nconsiderable distances and with no small facility.\n\nThe Pequod s signal was at last responded to by the stranger s setting\nher own; which proved the ship to be the Jeroboam of Nantucket.\nSquaring her yards, she bore down, ranged abeam under the Pequod s lee,\nand lowered a boat; it soon drew nigh; but, as the side-ladder was\nbeing rigged by Starbuck s order to accommodate the visiting captain,\nthe stranger in question waved his hand from his boat s stern in token\nof that proceeding being entirely unnecessary. It turned out that the\nJeroboam had a malignant epidemic on board, and that Mayhew, her\ncaptain, was fearful of infecting the Pequod s company. For, though\nhimself and boat s crew remained untainted, and though his ship was\nhalf a rifle-shot off, and an incorruptible sea and air rolling and\nflowing between; yet conscientiously adhering to the timid quarantine\nof the land, he peremptorily refused to come into direct contact with\nthe Pequod.\n\nBut this did by no means prevent all communications. Preserving an\ninterval of some few yards between itself and the ship, the Jeroboam s\nboat by the occasional use of its oars contrived to keep parallel to\nthe Pequod, as she heavily forged through the sea (for by this time it\nblew very fresh), with her main-topsail aback; though, indeed, at times\nby the sudden onset of a large rolling wave, the boat would be pushed\nsome way ahead; but would be soon skilfully brought to her proper\nbearings again. Subject to this, and other the like interruptions now\nand then, a conversation was sustained between the two parties; but at\nintervals not without still another interruption of a very different\nsort.\n\nPulling an oar in the Jeroboam s boat, was a man of a singular\nappearance, even in that wild whaling life where individual\nnotabilities make up all totalities. He was a small, short, youngish\nman, sprinkled all over his face with freckles, and wearing redundant\nyellow hair. A long-skirted, cabalistically-cut coat of a faded walnut\ntinge enveloped him; the overlapping sleeves of which were rolled up on\nhis wrists. A deep, settled, fanatic delirium was in his eyes.\n\nSo soon as this figure had been first descried, Stubb had\nexclaimed That s he! that s he! the long-togged scaramouch the\nTown-Ho s company told us of!  Stubb here alluded to a strange story\ntold of the Jeroboam, and a certain man among her crew, some time\nprevious when the Pequod spoke the Town-Ho. According to this account\nand what was subsequently learned, it seemed that the scaramouch in\nquestion had gained a wonderful ascendency over almost everybody in the\nJeroboam. His story was this:\n\nHe had been originally nurtured among the crazy society of Neskyeuna\nShakers, where he had been a great prophet; in their cracked, secret\nmeetings having several times descended from heaven by the way of a\ntrap-door, announcing the speedy opening of the seventh vial, which he\ncarried in his vest-pocket; but, which, instead of containing\ngunpowder, was supposed to be charged with laudanum. A strange,\napostolic whim having seized him, he had left Neskyeuna for Nantucket,\nwhere, with that cunning peculiar to craziness, he assumed a steady,\ncommon-sense exterior, and offered himself as a green-hand candidate\nfor the Jeroboam s whaling voyage. They engaged him; but straightway\nupon the ship s getting out of sight of land, his insanity broke out in\na freshet. He announced himself as the archangel Gabriel, and commanded\nthe captain to jump overboard. He published his manifesto, whereby he\nset himself forth as the deliverer of the isles of the sea and\nvicar-general of all Oceanica. The unflinching earnestness with which\nhe declared these things; the dark, daring play of his sleepless,\nexcited imagination, and all the preternatural terrors of real\ndelirium, united to invest this Gabriel in the minds of the majority of\nthe ignorant crew, with an atmosphere of sacredness. Moreover, they\nwere afraid of him. As such a man, however, was not of much practical\nuse in the ship, especially as he refused to work except when he\npleased, the incredulous captain would fain have been rid of him; but\napprised that that individual s intention was to land him in the first\nconvenient port, the archangel forthwith opened all his seals and\nvials devoting the ship and all hands to unconditional perdition, in\ncase this intention was carried out. So strongly did he work upon his\ndisciples among the crew, that at last in a body they went to the\ncaptain and told him if Gabriel was sent from the ship, not a man of\nthem would remain. He was therefore forced to relinquish his plan. Nor\nwould they permit Gabriel to be any way maltreated, say or do what he\nwould; so that it came to pass that Gabriel had the complete freedom of\nthe ship. The consequence of all this was, that the archangel cared\nlittle or nothing for the captain and mates; and since the epidemic had\nbroken out, he carried a higher hand than ever; declaring that the\nplague, as he called it, was at his sole command; nor should it be\nstayed but according to his good pleasure. The sailors, mostly poor\ndevils, cringed, and some of them fawned before him; in obedience to\nhis instructions, sometimes rendering him personal homage, as to a god.\nSuch things may seem incredible; but, however wondrous, they are true.\nNor is the history of fanatics half so striking in respect to the\nmeasureless self-deception of the fanatic himself, as his measureless\npower of deceiving and bedevilling so many others. But it is time to\nreturn to the Pequod.\n\n I fear not thy epidemic, man,  said Ahab from the bulwarks, to Captain\nMayhew, who stood in the boat s stern;  come on board. \n\nBut now Gabriel started to his feet.\n\n Think, think of the fevers, yellow and bilious! Beware of the horrible\nplague! \n\n Gabriel! Gabriel!  cried Captain Mayhew;  thou must either  But that\ninstant a headlong wave shot the boat far ahead, and its seethings\ndrowned all speech.\n\n Hast thou seen the White Whale?  demanded Ahab, when the boat drifted\nback.\n\n Think, think of thy whale-boat, stoven and sunk! Beware of the\nhorrible tail! \n\n I tell thee again, Gabriel, that  But again the boat tore ahead as if\ndragged by fiends. Nothing was said for some moments, while a\nsuccession of riotous waves rolled by, which by one of those occasional\ncaprices of the seas were tumbling, not heaving it. Meantime, the\nhoisted sperm whale s head jogged about very violently, and Gabriel was\nseen eyeing it with rather more apprehensiveness than his archangel\nnature seemed to warrant.\n\nWhen this interlude was over, Captain Mayhew began a dark story\nconcerning Moby Dick; not, however, without frequent interruptions from\nGabriel, whenever his name was mentioned, and the crazy sea that seemed\nleagued with him.\n\nIt seemed that the Jeroboam had not long left home, when upon speaking\na whale-ship, her people were reliably apprised of the existence of\nMoby Dick, and the havoc he had made. Greedily sucking in this\nintelligence, Gabriel solemnly warned the captain against attacking the\nWhite Whale, in case the monster should be seen; in his gibbering\ninsanity, pronouncing the White Whale to be no less a being than the\nShaker God incarnated; the Shakers receiving the Bible. But when, some\nyear or two afterwards, Moby Dick was fairly sighted from the\nmast-heads, Macey, the chief mate, burned with ardour to encounter him;\nand the captain himself being not unwilling to let him have the\nopportunity, despite all the archangel s denunciations and\nforewarnings, Macey succeeded in persuading five men to man his boat.\nWith them he pushed off; and, after much weary pulling, and many\nperilous, unsuccessful onsets, he at last succeeded in getting one iron\nfast. Meantime, Gabriel, ascending to the main-royal mast-head, was\ntossing one arm in frantic gestures, and hurling forth prophecies of\nspeedy doom to the sacrilegious assailants of his divinity. Now, while\nMacey, the mate, was standing up in his boat s bow, and with all the\nreckless energy of his tribe was venting his wild exclamations upon the\nwhale, and essaying to get a fair chance for his poised lance, lo! a\nbroad white shadow rose from the sea; by its quick, fanning motion,\ntemporarily taking the breath out of the bodies of the oarsmen. Next\ninstant, the luckless mate, so full of furious life, was smitten bodily\ninto the air, and making a long arc in his descent, fell into the sea\nat the distance of about fifty yards. Not a chip of the boat was\nharmed, nor a hair of any oarsman s head; but the mate for ever sank.\n\nIt is well to parenthesize here, that of the fatal accidents in the\nSperm-Whale Fishery, this kind is perhaps almost as frequent as any.\nSometimes, nothing is injured but the man who is thus annihilated;\noftener the boat s bow is knocked off, or the thigh-board, in which the\nheadsman stands, is torn from its place and accompanies the body. But\nstrangest of all is the circumstance, that in more instances than one,\nwhen the body has been recovered, not a single mark of violence is\ndiscernible; the man being stark dead.\n\nThe whole calamity, with the falling form of Macey, was plainly\ndescried from the ship. Raising a piercing shriek The vial! the vial! \nGabriel called off the terror-stricken crew from the further hunting of\nthe whale. This terrible event clothed the archangel with added\ninfluence; because his credulous disciples believed that he had\nspecifically fore-announced it, instead of only making a general\nprophecy, which any one might have done, and so have chanced to hit one\nof many marks in the wide margin allowed. He became a nameless terror\nto the ship.\n\nMayhew having concluded his narration, Ahab put such questions to him,\nthat the stranger captain could not forbear inquiring whether he\nintended to hunt the White Whale, if opportunity should offer. To which\nAhab answered Aye.  Straightway, then, Gabriel once more started to\nhis feet, glaring upon the old man, and vehemently exclaimed, with\ndownward pointed finger Think, think of the blasphemer dead, and down\nthere! beware of the blasphemer s end! \n\nAhab stolidly turned aside; then said to Mayhew,  Captain, I have just\nbethought me of my letter-bag; there is a letter for one of thy\nofficers, if I mistake not. Starbuck, look over the bag. \n\nEvery whale-ship takes out a goodly number of letters for various\nships, whose delivery to the persons to whom they may be addressed,\ndepends upon the mere chance of encountering them in the four oceans.\nThus, most letters never reach their mark; and many are only received\nafter attaining an age of two or three years or more.\n\nSoon Starbuck returned with a letter in his hand. It was sorely\ntumbled, damp, and covered with a dull, spotted, green mould, in\nconsequence of being kept in a dark locker of the cabin. Of such a\nletter, Death himself might well have been the post-boy.\n\n Can st not read it?  cried Ahab.  Give it me, man. Aye, aye, it s but\na dim scrawl; what s this?  As he was studying it out, Starbuck took a\nlong cutting-spade pole, and with his knife slightly split the end, to\ninsert the letter there, and in that way, hand it to the boat, without\nits coming any closer to the ship.\n\nMeantime, Ahab holding the letter, muttered,  Mr. Har yes, Mr. Harry (a\nwoman s pinny hand, the man s wife, I ll wager) Aye Mr. Harry Macey,\nShip Jeroboam; why it s Macey, and he s dead! \n\n Poor fellow! poor fellow! and from his wife,  sighed Mayhew;  but let\nme have it. \n\n Nay, keep it thyself,  cried Gabriel to Ahab;  thou art soon going\nthat way. \n\n Curses throttle thee!  yelled Ahab.  Captain Mayhew, stand by now to\nreceive it ; and taking the fatal missive from Starbuck s hands, he\ncaught it in the slit of the pole, and reached it over towards the\nboat. But as he did so, the oarsmen expectantly desisted from rowing;\nthe boat drifted a little towards the ship s stern; so that, as if by\nmagic, the letter suddenly ranged along with Gabriel s eager hand. He\nclutched it in an instant, seized the boat-knife, and impaling the\nletter on it, sent it thus loaded back into the ship. It fell at Ahab s\nfeet. Then Gabriel shrieked out to his comrades to give way with their\noars, and in that manner the mutinous boat rapidly shot away from the\nPequod.\n\nAs, after this interlude, the seamen resumed their work upon the jacket\nof the whale, many strange things were hinted in reference to this wild\naffair.\n\n\nCHAPTER 72. The Monkey-Rope.\n\nIn the tumultuous business of cutting-in and attending to a whale,\nthere is much running backwards and forwards among the crew. Now hands\nare wanted here, and then again hands are wanted there. There is no\nstaying in any one place; for at one and the same time everything has\nto be done everywhere. It is much the same with him who endeavors the\ndescription of the scene. We must now retrace our way a little. It was\nmentioned that upon first breaking ground in the whale s back, the\nblubber-hook was inserted into the original hole there cut by the\nspades of the mates. But how did so clumsy and weighty a mass as that\nsame hook get fixed in that hole? It was inserted there by my\nparticular friend Queequeg, whose duty it was, as harpooneer, to\ndescend upon the monster s back for the special purpose referred to.\nBut in very many cases, circumstances require that the harpooneer shall\nremain on the whale till the whole flensing or stripping operation is\nconcluded. The whale, be it observed, lies almost entirely submerged,\nexcepting the immediate parts operated upon. So down there, some ten\nfeet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer flounders about,\nhalf on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass revolves like\na tread-mill beneath him. On the occasion in question, Queequeg figured\nin the Highland costume a shirt and socks in which to my eyes, at\nleast, he appeared to uncommon advantage; and no one had a better\nchance to observe him, as will presently be seen.\n\nBeing the savage s bowsman, that is, the person who pulled the bow-oar\nin his boat (the second one from forward), it was my cheerful duty to\nattend upon him while taking that hard-scrabble scramble upon the dead\nwhale s back. You have seen Italian organ-boys holding a dancing-ape by\na long cord. Just so, from the ship s steep side, did I hold Queequeg\ndown there in the sea, by what is technically called in the fishery a\nmonkey-rope, attached to a strong strip of canvas belted round his\nwaist.\n\nIt was a humorously perilous business for both of us. For, before we\nproceed further, it must be said that the monkey-rope was fast at both\nends; fast to Queequeg s broad canvas belt, and fast to my narrow\nleather one. So that for better or for worse, we two, for the time,\nwere wedded; and should poor Queequeg sink to rise no more, then both\nusage and honor demanded, that instead of cutting the cord, it should\ndrag me down in his wake. So, then, an elongated Siamese ligature\nunited us. Queequeg was my own inseparable twin brother; nor could I\nany way get rid of the dangerous liabilities which the hempen bond\nentailed.\n\nSo strongly and metaphysically did I conceive of my situation then,\nthat while earnestly watching his motions, I seemed distinctly to\nperceive that my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock\ncompany of two; that my free will had received a mortal wound; and that\nanother s mistake or misfortune might plunge innocent me into unmerited\ndisaster and death. Therefore, I saw that here was a sort of\ninterregnum in Providence; for its even-handed equity never could have\nso gross an injustice. And yet still further pondering while I jerked\nhim now and then from between the whale and ship, which would threaten\nto jam him still further pondering, I say, I saw that this situation of\nmine was the precise situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in\nmost cases, he, one way or other, has this Siamese connexion with a\nplurality of other mortals. If your banker breaks, you snap; if your\napothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die. True,\nyou may say that, by exceeding caution, you may possibly escape these\nand the multitudinous other evil chances of life. But handle Queequeg s\nmonkey-rope heedfully as I would, sometimes he jerked it so, that I\ncame very near sliding overboard. Nor could I possibly forget that, do\nwhat I would, I only had the management of one end of it.*\n\n*The monkey-rope is found in all whalers; but it was only in the Pequod\nthat the monkey and his holder were ever tied together. This\nimprovement upon the original usage was introduced by no less a man\nthan Stubb, in order to afford the imperilled harpooneer the strongest\npossible guarantee for the faithfulness and vigilance of his\nmonkey-rope holder.\n\nI have hinted that I would often jerk poor Queequeg from between the\nwhale and the ship where he would occasionally fall, from the incessant\nrolling and swaying of both. But this was not the only jamming jeopardy\nhe was exposed to. Unappalled by the massacre made upon them during the\nnight, the sharks now freshly and more keenly allured by the before\npent blood which began to flow from the carcass the rabid creatures\nswarmed round it like bees in a beehive.\n\nAnd right in among those sharks was Queequeg; who often pushed them\naside with his floundering feet. A thing altogether incredible were it\nnot that attracted by such prey as a dead whale, the otherwise\nmiscellaneously carnivorous shark will seldom touch a man.\n\nNevertheless, it may well be believed that since they have such a\nravenous finger in the pie, it is deemed but wise to look sharp to\nthem. Accordingly, besides the monkey-rope, with which I now and then\njerked the poor fellow from too close a vicinity to the maw of what\nseemed a peculiarly ferocious shark he was provided with still another\nprotection. Suspended over the side in one of the stages, Tashtego and\nDaggoo continually flourished over his head a couple of keen\nwhale-spades, wherewith they slaughtered as many sharks as they could\nreach. This procedure of theirs, to be sure, was very disinterested and\nbenevolent of them. They meant Queequeg s best happiness, I admit; but\nin their hasty zeal to befriend him, and from the circumstance that\nboth he and the sharks were at times half hidden by the blood-muddled\nwater, those indiscreet spades of theirs would come nearer amputating a\nleg than a tail. But poor Queequeg, I suppose, straining and gasping\nthere with that great iron hook poor Queequeg, I suppose, only prayed\nto his Yojo, and gave up his life into the hands of his gods.\n\nWell, well, my dear comrade and twin-brother, thought I, as I drew in\nand then slacked off the rope to every swell of the sea what matters\nit, after all? Are you not the precious image of each and all of us men\nin this whaling world? That unsounded ocean you gasp in, is Life; those\nsharks, your foes; those spades, your friends; and what between sharks\nand spades you are in a sad pickle and peril, poor lad.\n\nBut courage! there is good cheer in store for you, Queequeg. For now,\nas with blue lips and blood-shot eyes the exhausted savage at last\nclimbs up the chains and stands all dripping and involuntarily\ntrembling over the side; the steward advances, and with a benevolent,\nconsolatory glance hands him what? Some hot Cognac? No! hands him, ye\ngods! hands him a cup of tepid ginger and water!\n\n Ginger? Do I smell ginger?  suspiciously asked Stubb, coming near.\n Yes, this must be ginger,  peering into the as yet untasted cup. Then\nstanding as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards the\nastonished steward slowly saying,  Ginger? ginger? and will you have\nthe goodness to tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, where lies the virtue of\nginger? Ginger! is ginger the sort of fuel you use, Dough-boy, to\nkindle a fire in this shivering cannibal? Ginger! what the devil is\nginger? Sea-coal? firewood? lucifer matches? tinder? gunpowder? what\nthe devil is ginger, I say, that you offer this cup to our poor\nQueequeg here. \n\n There is some sneaking Temperance Society movement about this\nbusiness,  he suddenly added, now approaching Starbuck, who had just\ncome from forward.  Will you look at that kannakin, sir: smell of it,\nif you please.  Then watching the mate s countenance, he added,  The\nsteward, Mr. Starbuck, had the face to offer that calomel and jalap to\nQueequeg, there, this instant off the whale. Is the steward an\napothecary, sir? and may I ask whether this is the sort of bitters by\nwhich he blows back the life into a half-drowned man? \n\n I trust not,  said Starbuck,  it is poor stuff enough. \n\n Aye, aye, steward,  cried Stubb,  we ll teach you to drug a\nharpooneer; none of your apothecary s medicine here; you want to poison\nus, do ye? You have got out insurances on our lives and want to murder\nus all, and pocket the proceeds, do ye? \n\n It was not me,  cried Dough-Boy,  it was Aunt Charity that brought the\nginger on board; and bade me never give the harpooneers any spirits,\nbut only this ginger-jub so she called it. \n\n Ginger-jub! you gingerly rascal! take that! and run along with ye to\nthe lockers, and get something better. I hope I do no wrong, Mr.\nStarbuck. It is the captain s orders grog for the harpooneer on a\nwhale. \n\n Enough,  replied Starbuck,  only don t hit him again, but \n\n Oh, I never hurt when I hit, except when I hit a whale or something of\nthat sort; and this fellow s a weazel. What were you about saying,\nsir? \n\n Only this: go down with him, and get what thou wantest thyself. \n\nWhen Stubb reappeared, he came with a dark flask in one hand, and a\nsort of tea-caddy in the other. The first contained strong spirits, and\nwas handed to Queequeg; the second was Aunt Charity s gift, and that\nwas freely given to the waves.\n\n\nCHAPTER 73. Stubb and Flask kill a Right Whale; and Then Have a Talk\nover Him.\n\nIt must be borne in mind that all this time we have a Sperm Whale s\nprodigious head hanging to the Pequod s side. But we must let it\ncontinue hanging there a while till we can get a chance to attend to\nit. For the present other matters press, and the best we can do now for\nthe head, is to pray heaven the tackles may hold.\n\nNow, during the past night and forenoon, the Pequod had gradually\ndrifted into a sea, which, by its occasional patches of yellow brit,\ngave unusual tokens of the vicinity of Right Whales, a species of the\nLeviathan that but few supposed to be at this particular time lurking\nanywhere near. And though all hands commonly disdained the capture of\nthose inferior creatures; and though the Pequod was not commissioned to\ncruise for them at all, and though she had passed numbers of them near\nthe Crozetts without lowering a boat; yet now that a Sperm Whale had\nbeen brought alongside and beheaded, to the surprise of all, the\nannouncement was made that a Right Whale should be captured that day,\nif opportunity offered.\n\nNor was this long wanting. Tall spouts were seen to leeward; and two\nboats, Stubb s and Flask s, were detached in pursuit. Pulling further\nand further away, they at last became almost invisible to the men at\nthe mast-head. But suddenly in the distance, they saw a great heap of\ntumultuous white water, and soon after news came from aloft that one or\nboth the boats must be fast. An interval passed and the boats were in\nplain sight, in the act of being dragged right towards the ship by the\ntowing whale. So close did the monster come to the hull, that at first\nit seemed as if he meant it malice; but suddenly going down in a\nmaelstrom, within three rods of the planks, he wholly disappeared from\nview, as if diving under the keel.  Cut, cut!  was the cry from the\nship to the boats, which, for one instant, seemed on the point of being\nbrought with a deadly dash against the vessel s side. But having plenty\nof line yet in the tubs, and the whale not sounding very rapidly, they\npaid out abundance of rope, and at the same time pulled with all their\nmight so as to get ahead of the ship. For a few minutes the struggle\nwas intensely critical; for while they still slacked out the tightened\nline in one direction, and still plied their oars in another, the\ncontending strain threatened to take them under. But it was only a few\nfeet advance they sought to gain. And they stuck to it till they did\ngain it; when instantly, a swift tremor was felt running like lightning\nalong the keel, as the strained line, scraping beneath the ship,\nsuddenly rose to view under her bows, snapping and quivering; and so\nflinging off its drippings, that the drops fell like bits of broken\nglass on the water, while the whale beyond also rose to sight, and once\nmore the boats were free to fly. But the fagged whale abated his speed,\nand blindly altering his course, went round the stern of the ship\ntowing the two boats after him, so that they performed a complete\ncircuit.\n\nMeantime, they hauled more and more upon their lines, till close\nflanking him on both sides, Stubb answered Flask with lance for lance;\nand thus round and round the Pequod the battle went, while the\nmultitudes of sharks that had before swum round the Sperm Whale s body,\nrushed to the fresh blood that was spilled, thirstily drinking at every\nnew gash, as the eager Israelites did at the new bursting fountains\nthat poured from the smitten rock.\n\nAt last his spout grew thick, and with a frightful roll and vomit, he\nturned upon his back a corpse.\n\nWhile the two headsmen were engaged in making fast cords to his flukes,\nand in other ways getting the mass in readiness for towing, some\nconversation ensued between them.\n\n I wonder what the old man wants with this lump of foul lard,  said\nStubb, not without some disgust at the thought of having to do with so\nignoble a leviathan.\n\n Wants with it?  said Flask, coiling some spare line in the boat s bow,\n did you never hear that the ship which but once has a Sperm Whale s\nhead hoisted on her starboard side, and at the same time a Right\nWhale s on the larboard; did you never hear, Stubb, that that ship can\nnever afterwards capsize? \n\n Why not?\n\n I don t know, but I heard that gamboge ghost of a Fedallah saying so,\nand he seems to know all about ships  charms. But I sometimes think\nhe ll charm the ship to no good at last. I don t half like that chap,\nStubb. Did you ever notice how that tusk of his is a sort of carved\ninto a snake s head, Stubb? \n\n Sink him! I never look at him at all; but if ever I get a chance of a\ndark night, and he standing hard by the bulwarks, and no one by; look\ndown there, Flask pointing into the sea with a peculiar motion of both\nhands Aye, will I! Flask, I take that Fedallah to be the devil in\ndisguise. Do you believe that cock and bull story about his having been\nstowed away on board ship? He s the devil, I say. The reason why you\ndon t see his tail, is because he tucks it up out of sight; he carries\nit coiled away in his pocket, I guess. Blast him! now that I think of\nit, he s always wanting oakum to stuff into the toes of his boots. \n\n He sleeps in his boots, don t he? He hasn t got any hammock; but I ve\nseen him lay of nights in a coil of rigging. \n\n No doubt, and it s because of his cursed tail; he coils it down, do ye\nsee, in the eye of the rigging. \n\n What s the old man have so much to do with him for? \n\n Striking up a swap or a bargain, I suppose. \n\n Bargain? about what? \n\n Why, do ye see, the old man is hard bent after that White Whale, and\nthe devil there is trying to come round him, and get him to swap away\nhis silver watch, or his soul, or something of that sort, and then\nhe ll surrender Moby Dick. \n\n Pooh! Stubb, you are skylarking; how can Fedallah do that? \n\n I don t know, Flask, but the devil is a curious chap, and a wicked\none, I tell ye. Why, they say as how he went a sauntering into the old\nflag-ship once, switching his tail about devilish easy and\ngentlemanlike, and inquiring if the old governor was at home. Well, he\nwas at home, and asked the devil what he wanted. The devil, switching\nhis hoofs, up and says,  I want John.   What for?  says the old\ngovernor.  What business is that of yours,  says the devil, getting\nmad, I want to use him.   Take him,  says the governor and by the\nLord, Flask, if the devil didn t give John the Asiatic cholera before\nhe got through with him, I ll eat this whale in one mouthful. But look\nsharp ain t you all ready there? Well, then, pull ahead, and let s get\nthe whale alongside. \n\n I think I remember some such story as you were telling,  said Flask,\nwhen at last the two boats were slowly advancing with their burden\ntowards the ship,  but I can t remember where. \n\n Three Spaniards? Adventures of those three bloody-minded soldadoes?\nDid ye read it there, Flask? I guess ye did? \n\n No: never saw such a book; heard of it, though. But now, tell me,\nStubb, do you suppose that that devil you was speaking of just now, was\nthe same you say is now on board the Pequod? \n\n Am I the same man that helped kill this whale? Doesn t the devil live\nfor ever; who ever heard that the devil was dead? Did you ever see any\nparson a wearing mourning for the devil? And if the devil has a\nlatch-key to get into the admiral s cabin, don t you suppose he can\ncrawl into a porthole? Tell me that, Mr. Flask? \n\n How old do you suppose Fedallah is, Stubb? \n\n Do you see that mainmast there?  pointing to the ship;  well, that s\nthe figure one; now take all the hoops in the Pequod s hold, and string\nalong in a row with that mast, for oughts, do you see; well, that\nwouldn t begin to be Fedallah s age. Nor all the coopers in creation\ncouldn t show hoops enough to make oughts enough. \n\n But see here, Stubb, I thought you a little boasted just now, that you\nmeant to give Fedallah a sea-toss, if you got a good chance. Now, if\nhe s so old as all those hoops of yours come to, and if he is going to\nlive for ever, what good will it do to pitch him overboard tell me\nthat?\n\n Give him a good ducking, anyhow. \n\n But he d crawl back. \n\n Duck him again; and keep ducking him. \n\n Suppose he should take it into his head to duck you, though yes, and\ndrown you what then? \n\n I should like to see him try it; I d give him such a pair of black\neyes that he wouldn t dare to show his face in the admiral s cabin\nagain for a long while, let alone down in the orlop there, where he\nlives, and hereabouts on the upper decks where he sneaks so much. Damn\nthe devil, Flask; so you suppose I m afraid of the devil? Who s afraid\nof him, except the old governor who daresn t catch him and put him in\ndouble-darbies, as he deserves, but lets him go about kidnapping\npeople; aye, and signed a bond with him, that all the people the devil\nkidnapped, he d roast for him? There s a governor! \n\n Do you suppose Fedallah wants to kidnap Captain Ahab? \n\n Do I suppose it? You ll know it before long, Flask. But I am going now\nto keep a sharp look-out on him; and if I see anything very suspicious\ngoing on, I ll just take him by the nape of his neck, and say Look\nhere, Beelzebub, you don t do it; and if he makes any fuss, by the Lord\nI ll make a grab into his pocket for his tail, take it to the capstan,\nand give him such a wrenching and heaving, that his tail will come\nshort off at the stump do you see; and then, I rather guess when he\nfinds himself docked in that queer fashion, he ll sneak off without the\npoor satisfaction of feeling his tail between his legs. \n\n And what will you do with the tail, Stubb? \n\n Do with it? Sell it for an ox whip when we get home; what else? \n\n Now, do you mean what you say, and have been saying all along, Stubb? \n\n Mean or not mean, here we are at the ship. \n\nThe boats were here hailed, to tow the whale on the larboard side,\nwhere fluke chains and other necessaries were already prepared for\nsecuring him.\n\n Didn t I tell you so?  said Flask;  yes, you ll soon see this right\nwhale s head hoisted up opposite that parmacetti s. \n\nIn good time, Flask s saying proved true. As before, the Pequod steeply\nleaned over towards the sperm whale s head, now, by the counterpoise of\nboth heads, she regained her even keel; though sorely strained, you may\nwell believe. So, when on one side you hoist in Locke s head, you go\nover that way; but now, on the other side, hoist in Kant s and you come\nback again; but in very poor plight. Thus, some minds for ever keep\ntrimming boat. Oh, ye foolish! throw all these thunder-heads overboard,\nand then you will float light and right.\n\nIn disposing of the body of a right whale, when brought alongside the\nship, the same preliminary proceedings commonly take place as in the\ncase of a sperm whale; only, in the latter instance, the head is cut\noff whole, but in the former the lips and tongue are separately removed\nand hoisted on deck, with all the well known black bone attached to\nwhat is called the crown-piece. But nothing like this, in the present\ncase, had been done. The carcases of both whales had dropped astern;\nand the head-laden ship not a little resembled a mule carrying a pair\nof overburdening panniers.\n\nMeantime, Fedallah was calmly eyeing the right whale s head, and ever\nand anon glancing from the deep wrinkles there to the lines in his own\nhand. And Ahab chanced so to stand, that the Parsee occupied his\nshadow; while, if the Parsee s shadow was there at all it seemed only\nto blend with, and lengthen Ahab s. As the crew toiled on, Laplandish\nspeculations were bandied among them, concerning all these passing\nthings.\n\n\nCHAPTER 74. The Sperm Whale s Head Contrasted View.\n\nHere, now, are two great whales, laying their heads together; let us\njoin them, and lay together our own.\n\nOf the grand order of folio leviathans, the Sperm Whale and the Right\nWhale are by far the most noteworthy. They are the only whales\nregularly hunted by man. To the Nantucketer, they present the two\nextremes of all the known varieties of the whale. As the external\ndifference between them is mainly observable in their heads; and as a\nhead of each is this moment hanging from the Pequod s side; and as we\nmay freely go from one to the other, by merely stepping across the\ndeck: where, I should like to know, will you obtain a better chance to\nstudy practical cetology than here?\n\nIn the first place, you are struck by the general contrast between\nthese heads. Both are massive enough in all conscience; but there is a\ncertain mathematical symmetry in the Sperm Whale s which the Right\nWhale s sadly lacks. There is more character in the Sperm Whale s head.\nAs you behold it, you involuntarily yield the immense superiority to\nhim, in point of pervading dignity. In the present instance, too, this\ndignity is heightened by the pepper and salt colour of his head at the\nsummit, giving token of advanced age and large experience. In short, he\nis what the fishermen technically call a  grey-headed whale. \n\nLet us now note what is least dissimilar in these heads namely, the two\nmost important organs, the eye and the ear. Far back on the side of the\nhead, and low down, near the angle of either whale s jaw, if you\nnarrowly search, you will at last see a lashless eye, which you would\nfancy to be a young colt s eye; so out of all proportion is it to the\nmagnitude of the head.\n\nNow, from this peculiar sideway position of the whale s eyes, it is\nplain that he can never see an object which is exactly ahead, no more\nthan he can one exactly astern. In a word, the position of the whale s\neyes corresponds to that of a man s ears; and you may fancy, for\nyourself, how it would fare with you, did you sideways survey objects\nthrough your ears. You would find that you could only command some\nthirty degrees of vision in advance of the straight side-line of sight;\nand about thirty more behind it. If your bitterest foe were walking\nstraight towards you, with dagger uplifted in broad day, you would not\nbe able to see him, any more than if he were stealing upon you from\nbehind. In a word, you would have two backs, so to speak; but, at the\nsame time, also, two fronts (side fronts): for what is it that makes\nthe front of a man what, indeed, but his eyes?\n\nMoreover, while in most other animals that I can now think of, the eyes\nare so planted as imperceptibly to blend their visual power, so as to\nproduce one picture and not two to the brain; the peculiar position of\nthe whale s eyes, effectually divided as they are by many cubic feet of\nsolid head, which towers between them like a great mountain separating\ntwo lakes in valleys; this, of course, must wholly separate the\nimpressions which each independent organ imparts. The whale, therefore,\nmust see one distinct picture on this side, and another distinct\npicture on that side; while all between must be profound darkness and\nnothingness to him. Man may, in effect, be said to look out on the\nworld from a sentry-box with two joined sashes for his window. But with\nthe whale, these two sashes are separately inserted, making two\ndistinct windows, but sadly impairing the view. This peculiarity of the\nwhale s eyes is a thing always to be borne in mind in the fishery; and\nto be remembered by the reader in some subsequent scenes.\n\nA curious and most puzzling question might be started concerning this\nvisual matter as touching the Leviathan. But I must be content with a\nhint. So long as a man s eyes are open in the light, the act of seeing\nis involuntary; that is, he cannot then help mechanically seeing\nwhatever objects are before him. Nevertheless, any one s experience\nwill teach him, that though he can take in an undiscriminating sweep of\nthings at one glance, it is quite impossible for him, attentively, and\ncompletely, to examine any two things however large or however small at\none and the same instant of time; never mind if they lie side by side\nand touch each other. But if you now come to separate these two\nobjects, and surround each by a circle of profound darkness; then, in\norder to see one of them, in such a manner as to bring your mind to\nbear on it, the other will be utterly excluded from your contemporary\nconsciousness. How is it, then, with the whale? True, both his eyes, in\nthemselves, must simultaneously act; but is his brain so much more\ncomprehensive, combining, and subtle than man s, that he can at the\nsame moment of time attentively examine two distinct prospects, one on\none side of him, and the other in an exactly opposite direction? If he\ncan, then is it as marvellous a thing in him, as if a man were able\nsimultaneously to go through the demonstrations of two distinct\nproblems in Euclid. Nor, strictly investigated, is there any\nincongruity in this comparison.\n\nIt may be but an idle whim, but it has always seemed to me, that the\nextraordinary vacillations of movement displayed by some whales when\nbeset by three or four boats; the timidity and liability to queer\nfrights, so common to such whales; I think that all this indirectly\nproceeds from the helpless perplexity of volition, in which their\ndivided and diametrically opposite powers of vision must involve them.\n\nBut the ear of the whale is full as curious as the eye. If you are an\nentire stranger to their race, you might hunt over these two heads for\nhours, and never discover that organ. The ear has no external leaf\nwhatever; and into the hole itself you can hardly insert a quill, so\nwondrously minute is it. It is lodged a little behind the eye. With\nrespect to their ears, this important difference is to be observed\nbetween the sperm whale and the right. While the ear of the former has\nan external opening, that of the latter is entirely and evenly covered\nover with a membrane, so as to be quite imperceptible from without.\n\nIs it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the\nworld through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear\nwhich is smaller than a hare s? But if his eyes were broad as the lens\nof Herschel s great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of\ncathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of\nhearing? Not at all. Why then do you try to  enlarge  your mind?\nSubtilize it.\n\nLet us now with whatever levers and steam-engines we have at hand, cant\nover the sperm whale s head, that it may lie bottom up; then, ascending\nby a ladder to the summit, have a peep down the mouth; and were it not\nthat the body is now completely separated from it, with a lantern we\nmight descend into the great Kentucky Mammoth Cave of his stomach. But\nlet us hold on here by this tooth, and look about us where we are. What\na really beautiful and chaste-looking mouth! from floor to ceiling,\nlined, or rather papered with a glistening white membrane, glossy as\nbridal satins.\n\nBut come out now, and look at this portentous lower jaw, which seems\nlike the long narrow lid of an immense snuff-box, with the hinge at one\nend, instead of one side. If you pry it up, so as to get it overhead,\nand expose its rows of teeth, it seems a terrific portcullis; and such,\nalas! it proves to many a poor wight in the fishery, upon whom these\nspikes fall with impaling force. But far more terrible is it to behold,\nwhen fathoms down in the sea, you see some sulky whale, floating there\nsuspended, with his prodigious jaw, some fifteen feet long, hanging\nstraight down at right-angles with his body, for all the world like a\nship s jib-boom. This whale is not dead; he is only dispirited; out of\nsorts, perhaps; hypochondriac; and so supine, that the hinges of his\njaw have relaxed, leaving him there in that ungainly sort of plight, a\nreproach to all his tribe, who must, no doubt, imprecate lock-jaws upon\nhim.\n\nIn most cases this lower jaw being easily unhinged by a practised\nartist is disengaged and hoisted on deck for the purpose of extracting\nthe ivory teeth, and furnishing a supply of that hard white whalebone\nwith which the fishermen fashion all sorts of curious articles,\nincluding canes, umbrella-stocks, and handles to riding-whips.\n\nWith a long, weary hoist the jaw is dragged on board, as if it were an\nanchor; and when the proper time comes some few days after the other\nwork Queequeg, Daggoo, and Tashtego, being all accomplished dentists,\nare set to drawing teeth. With a keen cutting-spade, Queequeg lances\nthe gums; then the jaw is lashed down to ringbolts, and a tackle being\nrigged from aloft, they drag out these teeth, as Michigan oxen drag\nstumps of old oaks out of wild wood lands. There are generally\nforty-two teeth in all; in old whales, much worn down, but undecayed;\nnor filled after our artificial fashion. The jaw is afterwards sawn\ninto slabs, and piled away like joists for building houses.\n\n\nCHAPTER 75. The Right Whale s Head Contrasted View.\n\nCrossing the deck, let us now have a good long look at the Right\nWhale s head.\n\nAs in general shape the noble Sperm Whale s head may be compared to a\nRoman war-chariot (especially in front, where it is so broadly\nrounded); so, at a broad view, the Right Whale s head bears a rather\ninelegant resemblance to a gigantic galliot-toed shoe. Two hundred\nyears ago an old Dutch voyager likened its shape to that of a\nshoemaker s last. And in this same last or shoe, that old woman of the\nnursery tale, with the swarming brood, might very comfortably be\nlodged, she and all her progeny.\n\nBut as you come nearer to this great head it begins to assume different\naspects, according to your point of view. If you stand on its summit\nand look at these two F-shaped spoutholes, you would take the whole\nhead for an enormous bass-viol, and these spiracles, the apertures in\nits sounding-board. Then, again, if you fix your eye upon this strange,\ncrested, comb-like incrustation on the top of the mass this green,\nbarnacled thing, which the Greenlanders call the  crown,  and the\nSouthern fishers the  bonnet  of the Right Whale; fixing your eyes\nsolely on this, you would take the head for the trunk of some huge oak,\nwith a bird s nest in its crotch. At any rate, when you watch those\nlive crabs that nestle here on this bonnet, such an idea will be almost\nsure to occur to you; unless, indeed, your fancy has been fixed by the\ntechnical term  crown  also bestowed upon it; in which case you will\ntake great interest in thinking how this mighty monster is actually a\ndiademed king of the sea, whose green crown has been put together for\nhim in this marvellous manner. But if this whale be a king, he is a\nvery sulky looking fellow to grace a diadem. Look at that hanging lower\nlip! what a huge sulk and pout is there! a sulk and pout, by\ncarpenter s measurement, about twenty feet long and five feet deep; a\nsulk and pout that will yield you some 500 gallons of oil and more.\n\nA great pity, now, that this unfortunate whale should be hare-lipped.\nThe fissure is about a foot across. Probably the mother during an\nimportant interval was sailing down the Peruvian coast, when\nearthquakes caused the beach to gape. Over this lip, as over a slippery\nthreshold, we now slide into the mouth. Upon my word were I at\nMackinaw, I should take this to be the inside of an Indian wigwam. Good\nLord! is this the road that Jonah went? The roof is about twelve feet\nhigh, and runs to a pretty sharp angle, as if there were a regular\nridge-pole there; while these ribbed, arched, hairy sides, present us\nwith those wondrous, half vertical, scimetar-shaped slats of whalebone,\nsay three hundred on a side, which depending from the upper part of the\nhead or crown bone, form those Venetian blinds which have elsewhere\nbeen cursorily mentioned. The edges of these bones are fringed with\nhairy fibres, through which the Right Whale strains the water, and in\nwhose intricacies he retains the small fish, when openmouthed he goes\nthrough the seas of brit in feeding time. In the central blinds of\nbone, as they stand in their natural order, there are certain curious\nmarks, curves, hollows, and ridges, whereby some whalemen calculate the\ncreature s age, as the age of an oak by its circular rings. Though the\ncertainty of this criterion is far from demonstrable, yet it has the\nsavor of analogical probability. At any rate, if we yield to it, we\nmust grant a far greater age to the Right Whale than at first glance\nwill seem reasonable.\n\nIn old times, there seem to have prevailed the most curious fancies\nconcerning these blinds. One voyager in Purchas calls them the wondrous\n whiskers  inside of the whale s mouth;* another,  hogs  bristles ; a\nthird old gentleman in Hackluyt uses the following elegant language:\n There are about two hundred and fifty fins growing on each side of his\nupper _chop_, which arch over his tongue on each side of his mouth. \n\n*This reminds us that the Right Whale really has a sort of whisker, or\nrather a moustache, consisting of a few scattered white hairs on the\nupper part of the outer end of the lower jaw. Sometimes these tufts\nimpart a rather brigandish expression to his otherwise solemn\ncountenance.\n\nAs every one knows, these same  hogs  bristles,   fins,   whiskers, \n blinds,  or whatever you please, furnish to the ladies their busks and\nother stiffening contrivances. But in this particular, the demand has\nlong been on the decline. It was in Queen Anne s time that the bone was\nin its glory, the farthingale being then all the fashion. And as those\nancient dames moved about gaily, though in the jaws of the whale, as\nyou may say; even so, in a shower, with the like thoughtlessness, do we\nnowadays fly under the same jaws for protection; the umbrella being a\ntent spread over the same bone.\n\nBut now forget all about blinds and whiskers for a moment, and,\nstanding in the Right Whale s mouth, look around you afresh. Seeing all\nthese colonnades of bone so methodically ranged about, would you not\nthink you were inside of the great Haarlem organ, and gazing upon its\nthousand pipes? For a carpet to the organ we have a rug of the softest\nTurkey the tongue, which is glued, as it were, to the floor of the\nmouth. It is very fat and tender, and apt to tear in pieces in hoisting\nit on deck. This particular tongue now before us; at a passing glance I\nshould say it was a six-barreler; that is, it will yield you about that\namount of oil.\n\nEre this, you must have plainly seen the truth of what I started\nwith that the Sperm Whale and the Right Whale have almost entirely\ndifferent heads. To sum up, then: in the Right Whale s there is no\ngreat well of sperm; no ivory teeth at all; no long, slender mandible\nof a lower jaw, like the Sperm Whale s. Nor in the Sperm Whale are\nthere any of those blinds of bone; no huge lower lip; and scarcely\nanything of a tongue. Again, the Right Whale has two external\nspout-holes, the Sperm Whale only one.\n\nLook your last, now, on these venerable hooded heads, while they yet\nlie together; for one will soon sink, unrecorded, in the sea; the other\nwill not be very long in following.\n\nCan you catch the expression of the Sperm Whale s there? It is the same\nhe died with, only some of the longer wrinkles in the forehead seem now\nfaded away. I think his broad brow to be full of a prairie-like\nplacidity, born of a speculative indifference as to death. But mark the\nother head s expression. See that amazing lower lip, pressed by\naccident against the vessel s side, so as firmly to embrace the jaw.\nDoes not this whole head seem to speak of an enormous practical\nresolution in facing death? This Right Whale I take to have been a\nStoic; the Sperm Whale, a Platonian, who might have taken up Spinoza in\nhis latter years.\n\n\nCHAPTER 76. The Battering-Ram.\n\nEre quitting, for the nonce, the Sperm Whale s head, I would have you,\nas a sensible physiologist, simply particularly remark its front\naspect, in all its compacted collectedness. I would have you\ninvestigate it now with the sole view of forming to yourself some\nunexaggerated, intelligent estimate of whatever battering-ram power may\nbe lodged there. Here is a vital point; for you must either\nsatisfactorily settle this matter with yourself, or for ever remain an\ninfidel as to one of the most appalling, but not the less true events,\nperhaps anywhere to be found in all recorded history.\n\nYou observe that in the ordinary swimming position of the Sperm Whale,\nthe front of his head presents an almost wholly vertical plane to the\nwater; you observe that the lower part of that front slopes\nconsiderably backwards, so as to furnish more of a retreat for the long\nsocket which receives the boom-like lower jaw; you observe that the\nmouth is entirely under the head, much in the same way, indeed, as\nthough your own mouth were entirely under your chin. Moreover you\nobserve that the whale has no external nose; and that what nose he\nhas his spout hole is on the top of his head; you observe that his eyes\nand ears are at the sides of his head, nearly one third of his entire\nlength from the front. Wherefore, you must now have perceived that the\nfront of the Sperm Whale s head is a dead, blind wall, without a single\norgan or tender prominence of any sort whatsoever. Furthermore, you are\nnow to consider that only in the extreme, lower, backward sloping part\nof the front of the head, is there the slightest vestige of bone; and\nnot till you get near twenty feet from the forehead do you come to the\nfull cranial development. So that this whole enormous boneless mass is\nas one wad. Finally, though, as will soon be revealed, its contents\npartly comprise the most delicate oil; yet, you are now to be apprised\nof the nature of the substance which so impregnably invests all that\napparent effeminacy. In some previous place I have described to you how\nthe blubber wraps the body of the whale, as the rind wraps an orange.\nJust so with the head; but with this difference: about the head this\nenvelope, though not so thick, is of a boneless toughness, inestimable\nby any man who has not handled it. The severest pointed harpoon, the\nsharpest lance darted by the strongest human arm, impotently rebounds\nfrom it. It is as though the forehead of the Sperm Whale were paved\nwith horses  hoofs. I do not think that any sensation lurks in it.\n\nBethink yourself also of another thing. When two large, loaded Indiamen\nchance to crowd and crush towards each other in the docks, what do the\nsailors do? They do not suspend between them, at the point of coming\ncontact, any merely hard substance, like iron or wood. No, they hold\nthere a large, round wad of tow and cork, enveloped in the thickest and\ntoughest of ox-hide. That bravely and uninjured takes the jam which\nwould have snapped all their oaken handspikes and iron crow-bars. By\nitself this sufficiently illustrates the obvious fact I drive at. But\nsupplementary to this, it has hypothetically occurred to me, that as\nordinary fish possess what is called a swimming bladder in them,\ncapable, at will, of distension or contraction; and as the Sperm Whale,\nas far as I know, has no such provision in him; considering, too, the\notherwise inexplicable manner in which he now depresses his head\naltogether beneath the surface, and anon swims with it high elevated\nout of the water; considering the unobstructed elasticity of its\nenvelope; considering the unique interior of his head; it has\nhypothetically occurred to me, I say, that those mystical lung-celled\nhoneycombs there may possibly have some hitherto unknown and\nunsuspected connexion with the outer air, so as to be susceptible to\natmospheric distension and contraction. If this be so, fancy the\nirresistibleness of that might, to which the most impalpable and\ndestructive of all elements contributes.\n\nNow, mark. Unerringly impelling this dead, impregnable, uninjurable\nwall, and this most buoyant thing within; there swims behind it all a\nmass of tremendous life, only to be adequately estimated as piled wood\nis by the cord; and all obedient to one volition, as the smallest\ninsect. So that when I shall hereafter detail to you all the\nspecialities and concentrations of potency everywhere lurking in this\nexpansive monster; when I shall show you some of his more\ninconsiderable braining feats; I trust you will have renounced all\nignorant incredulity, and be ready to abide by this; that though the\nSperm Whale stove a passage through the Isthmus of Darien, and mixed\nthe Atlantic with the Pacific, you would not elevate one hair of your\neye-brow. For unless you own the whale, you are but a provincial and\nsentimentalist in Truth. But clear Truth is a thing for salamander\ngiants only to encounter; how small the chances for the provincials\nthen? What befell the weakling youth lifting the dread goddess s veil\nat Lais?\n\n\nCHAPTER 77. The Great Heidelburgh Tun.\n\nNow comes the Baling of the Case. But to comprehend it aright, you must\nknow something of the curious internal structure of the thing operated\nupon.\n\nRegarding the Sperm Whale s head as a solid oblong, you may, on an\ninclined plane, sideways divide it into two quoins,* whereof the lower\nis the bony structure, forming the cranium and jaws, and the upper an\nunctuous mass wholly free from bones; its broad forward end forming the\nexpanded vertical apparent forehead of the whale. At the middle of the\nforehead horizontally subdivide this upper quoin, and then you have two\nalmost equal parts, which before were naturally divided by an internal\nwall of a thick tendinous substance.\n\n*Quoin is not a Euclidean term. It belongs to the pure nautical\nmathematics. I know not that it has been defined before. A quoin is a\nsolid which differs from a wedge in having its sharp end formed by the\nsteep inclination of one side, instead of the mutual tapering of both\nsides.\n\nThe lower subdivided part, called the junk, is one immense honeycomb of\noil, formed by the crossing and recrossing, into ten thousand\ninfiltrated cells, of tough elastic white fibres throughout its whole\nextent. The upper part, known as the Case, may be regarded as the great\nHeidelburgh Tun of the Sperm Whale. And as that famous great tierce is\nmystically carved in front, so the whale s vast plaited forehead forms\ninnumerable strange devices for the emblematical adornment of his\nwondrous tun. Moreover, as that of Heidelburgh was always replenished\nwith the most excellent of the wines of the Rhenish valleys, so the tun\nof the whale contains by far the most precious of all his oily\nvintages; namely, the highly-prized spermaceti, in its absolutely pure,\nlimpid, and odoriferous state. Nor is this precious substance found\nunalloyed in any other part of the creature. Though in life it remains\nperfectly fluid, yet, upon exposure to the air, after death, it soon\nbegins to concrete; sending forth beautiful crystalline shoots, as when\nthe first thin delicate ice is just forming in water. A large whale s\ncase generally yields about five hundred gallons of sperm, though from\nunavoidable circumstances, considerable of it is spilled, leaks, and\ndribbles away, or is otherwise irrevocably lost in the ticklish\nbusiness of securing what you can.\n\nI know not with what fine and costly material the Heidelburgh Tun was\ncoated within, but in superlative richness that coating could not\npossibly have compared with the silken pearl-coloured membrane, like\nthe lining of a fine pelisse, forming the inner surface of the Sperm\nWhale s case.\n\nIt will have been seen that the Heidelburgh Tun of the Sperm Whale\nembraces the entire length of the entire top of the head; and since as\nhas been elsewhere set forth the head embraces one third of the whole\nlength of the creature, then setting that length down at eighty feet\nfor a good sized whale, you have more than twenty-six feet for the\ndepth of the tun, when it is lengthwise hoisted up and down against a\nship s side.\n\nAs in decapitating the whale, the operator s instrument is brought\nclose to the spot where an entrance is subsequently forced into the\nspermaceti magazine; he has, therefore, to be uncommonly heedful, lest\na careless, untimely stroke should invade the sanctuary and wastingly\nlet out its invaluable contents. It is this decapitated end of the\nhead, also, which is at last elevated out of the water, and retained in\nthat position by the enormous cutting tackles, whose hempen\ncombinations, on one side, make quite a wilderness of ropes in that\nquarter.\n\nThus much being said, attend now, I pray you, to that marvellous and in\nthis particular instance almost fatal operation whereby the Sperm\nWhale s great Heidelburgh Tun is tapped.\n\n\nCHAPTER 78. Cistern and Buckets.\n\nNimble as a cat, Tashtego mounts aloft; and without altering his erect\nposture, runs straight out upon the overhanging mainyard-arm, to the\npart where it exactly projects over the hoisted Tun. He has carried\nwith him a light tackle called a whip, consisting of only two parts,\ntravelling through a single-sheaved block. Securing this block, so that\nit hangs down from the yard-arm, he swings one end of the rope, till it\nis caught and firmly held by a hand on deck. Then, hand-over-hand, down\nthe other part, the Indian drops through the air, till dexterously he\nlands on the summit of the head. There still high elevated above the\nrest of the company, to whom he vivaciously cries he seems some Turkish\nMuezzin calling the good people to prayers from the top of a tower. A\nshort-handled sharp spade being sent up to him, he diligently searches\nfor the proper place to begin breaking into the Tun. In this business\nhe proceeds very heedfully, like a treasure-hunter in some old house,\nsounding the walls to find where the gold is masoned in. By the time\nthis cautious search is over, a stout iron-bound bucket, precisely like\na well-bucket, has been attached to one end of the whip; while the\nother end, being stretched across the deck, is there held by two or\nthree alert hands. These last now hoist the bucket within grasp of the\nIndian, to whom another person has reached up a very long pole.\nInserting this pole into the bucket, Tashtego downward guides the\nbucket into the Tun, till it entirely disappears; then giving the word\nto the seamen at the whip, up comes the bucket again, all bubbling like\na dairy-maid s pail of new milk. Carefully lowered from its height, the\nfull-freighted vessel is caught by an appointed hand, and quickly\nemptied into a large tub. Then remounting aloft, it again goes through\nthe same round until the deep cistern will yield no more. Towards the\nend, Tashtego has to ram his long pole harder and harder, and deeper\nand deeper into the Tun, until some twenty feet of the pole have gone\ndown.\n\nNow, the people of the Pequod had been baling some time in this way;\nseveral tubs had been filled with the fragrant sperm; when all at once\na queer accident happened. Whether it was that Tashtego, that wild\nIndian, was so heedless and reckless as to let go for a moment his\none-handed hold on the great cabled tackles suspending the head; or\nwhether the place where he stood was so treacherous and oozy; or\nwhether the Evil One himself would have it to fall out so, without\nstating his particular reasons; how it was exactly, there is no telling\nnow; but, on a sudden, as the eightieth or ninetieth bucket came\nsuckingly up my God! poor Tashtego like the twin reciprocating bucket\nin a veritable well, dropped head-foremost down into this great Tun of\nHeidelburgh, and with a horrible oily gurgling, went clean out of\nsight!\n\n Man overboard!  cried Daggoo, who amid the general consternation first\ncame to his senses.  Swing the bucket this way!  and putting one foot\ninto it, so as the better to secure his slippery hand-hold on the whip\nitself, the hoisters ran him high up to the top of the head, almost\nbefore Tashtego could have reached its interior bottom. Meantime, there\nwas a terrible tumult. Looking over the side, they saw the before\nlifeless head throbbing and heaving just below the surface of the sea,\nas if that moment seized with some momentous idea; whereas it was only\nthe poor Indian unconsciously revealing by those struggles the perilous\ndepth to which he had sunk.\n\nAt this instant, while Daggoo, on the summit of the head, was clearing\nthe whip which had somehow got foul of the great cutting tackles a\nsharp cracking noise was heard; and to the unspeakable horror of all,\none of the two enormous hooks suspending the head tore out, and with a\nvast vibration the enormous mass sideways swung, till the drunk ship\nreeled and shook as if smitten by an iceberg. The one remaining hook,\nupon which the entire strain now depended, seemed every instant to be\non the point of giving way; an event still more likely from the violent\nmotions of the head.\n\n Come down, come down!  yelled the seamen to Daggoo, but with one hand\nholding on to the heavy tackles, so that if the head should drop, he\nwould still remain suspended; the negro having cleared the foul line,\nrammed down the bucket into the now collapsed well, meaning that the\nburied harpooneer should grasp it, and so be hoisted out.\n\n In heaven s name, man,  cried Stubb,  are you ramming home a cartridge\nthere? Avast! How will that help him; jamming that iron-bound bucket on\ntop of his head? Avast, will ye! \n\n Stand clear of the tackle!  cried a voice like the bursting of a\nrocket.\n\nAlmost in the same instant, with a thunder-boom, the enormous mass\ndropped into the sea, like Niagara s Table-Rock into the whirlpool; the\nsuddenly relieved hull rolled away from it, to far down her glittering\ncopper; and all caught their breath, as half swinging now over the\nsailors  heads, and now over the water Daggoo, through a thick mist of\nspray, was dimly beheld clinging to the pendulous tackles, while poor,\nburied-alive Tashtego was sinking utterly down to the bottom of the\nsea! But hardly had the blinding vapor cleared away, when a naked\nfigure with a boarding-sword in his hand, was for one swift moment seen\nhovering over the bulwarks. The next, a loud splash announced that my\nbrave Queequeg had dived to the rescue. One packed rush was made to the\nside, and every eye counted every ripple, as moment followed moment,\nand no sign of either the sinker or the diver could be seen. Some hands\nnow jumped into a boat alongside, and pushed a little off from the\nship.\n\n Ha! ha!  cried Daggoo, all at once, from his now quiet, swinging perch\noverhead; and looking further off from the side, we saw an arm thrust\nupright from the blue waves; a sight strange to see, as an arm thrust\nforth from the grass over a grave.\n\n Both! both! it is both! cried Daggoo again with a joyful shout; and\nsoon after, Queequeg was seen boldly striking out with one hand, and\nwith the other clutching the long hair of the Indian. Drawn into the\nwaiting boat, they were quickly brought to the deck; but Tashtego was\nlong in coming to, and Queequeg did not look very brisk.\n\nNow, how had this noble rescue been accomplished? Why, diving after the\nslowly descending head, Queequeg with his keen sword had made side\nlunges near its bottom, so as to scuttle a large hole there; then\ndropping his sword, had thrust his long arm far inwards and upwards,\nand so hauled out poor Tash by the head. He averred, that upon first\nthrusting in for him, a leg was presented; but well knowing that that\nwas not as it ought to be, and might occasion great trouble; he had\nthrust back the leg, and by a dexterous heave and toss, had wrought a\nsomerset upon the Indian; so that with the next trial, he came forth in\nthe good old way head foremost. As for the great head itself, that was\ndoing as well as could be expected.\n\nAnd thus, through the courage and great skill in obstetrics of\nQueequeg, the deliverance, or rather, delivery of Tashtego, was\nsuccessfully accomplished, in the teeth, too, of the most untoward and\napparently hopeless impediments; which is a lesson by no means to be\nforgotten. Midwifery should be taught in the same course with fencing\nand boxing, riding and rowing.\n\nI know that this queer adventure of the Gay-Header s will be sure to\nseem incredible to some landsmen, though they themselves may have\neither seen or heard of some one s falling into a cistern ashore; an\naccident which not seldom happens, and with much less reason too than\nthe Indian s, considering the exceeding slipperiness of the curb of the\nSperm Whale s well.\n\nBut, peradventure, it may be sagaciously urged, how is this? We thought\nthe tissued, infiltrated head of the Sperm Whale, was the lightest and\nmost corky part about him; and yet thou makest it sink in an element of\na far greater specific gravity than itself. We have thee there. Not at\nall, but I have ye; for at the time poor Tash fell in, the case had\nbeen nearly emptied of its lighter contents, leaving little but the\ndense tendinous wall of the well a double welded, hammered substance,\nas I have before said, much heavier than the sea water, and a lump of\nwhich sinks in it like lead almost. But the tendency to rapid sinking\nin this substance was in the present instance materially counteracted\nby the other parts of the head remaining undetached from it, so that it\nsank very slowly and deliberately indeed, affording Queequeg a fair\nchance for performing his agile obstetrics on the run, as you may say.\nYes, it was a running delivery, so it was.\n\nNow, had Tashtego perished in that head, it had been a very precious\nperishing; smothered in the very whitest and daintiest of fragrant\nspermaceti; coffined, hearsed, and tombed in the secret inner chamber\nand sanctum sanctorum of the whale. Only one sweeter end can readily be\nrecalled the delicious death of an Ohio honey-hunter, who seeking honey\nin the crotch of a hollow tree, found such exceeding store of it, that\nleaning too far over, it sucked him in, so that he died embalmed. How\nmany, think ye, have likewise fallen into Plato s honey head, and\nsweetly perished there?\n\n\nCHAPTER 79. The Prairie.\n\nTo scan the lines of his face, or feel the bumps on the head of this\nLeviathan; this is a thing which no Physiognomist or Phrenologist has\nas yet undertaken. Such an enterprise would seem almost as hopeful as\nfor Lavater to have scrutinized the wrinkles on the Rock of Gibraltar,\nor for Gall to have mounted a ladder and manipulated the Dome of the\nPantheon. Still, in that famous work of his, Lavater not only treats of\nthe various faces of men, but also attentively studies the faces of\nhorses, birds, serpents, and fish; and dwells in detail upon the\nmodifications of expression discernible therein. Nor have Gall and his\ndisciple Spurzheim failed to throw out some hints touching the\nphrenological characteristics of other beings than man. Therefore,\nthough I am but ill qualified for a pioneer, in the application of\nthese two semi-sciences to the whale, I will do my endeavor. I try all\nthings; I achieve what I can.\n\nPhysiognomically regarded, the Sperm Whale is an anomalous creature. He\nhas no proper nose. And since the nose is the central and most\nconspicuous of the features; and since it perhaps most modifies and\nfinally controls their combined expression; hence it would seem that\nits entire absence, as an external appendage, must very largely affect\nthe countenance of the whale. For as in landscape gardening, a spire,\ncupola, monument, or tower of some sort, is deemed almost indispensable\nto the completion of the scene; so no face can be physiognomically in\nkeeping without the elevated open-work belfry of the nose. Dash the\nnose from Phidias s marble Jove, and what a sorry remainder!\nNevertheless, Leviathan is of so mighty a magnitude, all his\nproportions are so stately, that the same deficiency which in the\nsculptured Jove were hideous, in him is no blemish at all. Nay, it is\nan added grandeur. A nose to the whale would have been impertinent. As\non your physiognomical voyage you sail round his vast head in your\njolly-boat, your noble conceptions of him are never insulted by the\nreflection that he has a nose to be pulled. A pestilent conceit, which\nso often will insist upon obtruding even when beholding the mightiest\nroyal beadle on his throne.\n\nIn some particulars, perhaps the most imposing physiognomical view to\nbe had of the Sperm Whale, is that of the full front of his head. This\naspect is sublime.\n\nIn thought, a fine human brow is like the East when troubled with the\nmorning. In the repose of the pasture, the curled brow of the bull has\na touch of the grand in it. Pushing heavy cannon up mountain defiles,\nthe elephant s brow is majestic. Human or animal, the mystical brow is\nas that great golden seal affixed by the German emperors to their\ndecrees. It signifies God: done this day by my hand.  But in most\ncreatures, nay in man himself, very often the brow is but a mere strip\nof alpine land lying along the snow line. Few are the foreheads which\nlike Shakespeare s or Melancthon s rise so high, and descend so low,\nthat the eyes themselves seem clear, eternal, tideless mountain lakes;\nand all above them in the forehead s wrinkles, you seem to track the\nantlered thoughts descending there to drink, as the Highland hunters\ntrack the snow prints of the deer. But in the great Sperm Whale, this\nhigh and mighty god-like dignity inherent in the brow is so immensely\namplified, that gazing on it, in that full front view, you feel the\nDeity and the dread powers more forcibly than in beholding any other\nobject in living nature. For you see no one point precisely; not one\ndistinct feature is revealed; no nose, eyes, ears, or mouth; no face;\nhe has none, proper; nothing but that one broad firmament of a\nforehead, pleated with riddles; dumbly lowering with the doom of boats,\nand ships, and men. Nor, in profile, does this wondrous brow diminish;\nthough that way viewed its grandeur does not domineer upon you so. In\nprofile, you plainly perceive that horizontal, semi-crescentic\ndepression in the forehead s middle, which, in man, is Lavater s mark\nof genius.\n\nBut how? Genius in the Sperm Whale? Has the Sperm Whale ever written a\nbook, spoken a speech? No, his great genius is declared in his doing\nnothing particular to prove it. It is moreover declared in his\npyramidical silence. And this reminds me that had the great Sperm Whale\nbeen known to the young Orient World, he would have been deified by\ntheir child-magian thoughts. They deified the crocodile of the Nile,\nbecause the crocodile is tongueless; and the Sperm Whale has no tongue,\nor at least it is so exceedingly small, as to be incapable of\nprotrusion. If hereafter any highly cultured, poetical nation shall\nlure back to their birth-right, the merry May-day gods of old; and\nlivingly enthrone them again in the now egotistical sky; in the now\nunhaunted hill; then be sure, exalted to Jove s high seat, the great\nSperm Whale shall lord it.\n\nChampollion deciphered the wrinkled granite hieroglyphics. But there is\nno Champollion to decipher the Egypt of every man s and every being s\nface. Physiognomy, like every other human science, is but a passing\nfable. If then, Sir William Jones, who read in thirty languages, could\nnot read the simplest peasant s face in its profounder and more subtle\nmeanings, how may unlettered Ishmael hope to read the awful Chaldee of\nthe Sperm Whale s brow? I but put that brow before you. Read it if you\ncan.\n\n\nCHAPTER 80. The Nut.\n\nIf the Sperm Whale be physiognomically a Sphinx, to the phrenologist\nhis brain seems that geometrical circle which it is impossible to\nsquare.\n\nIn the full-grown creature the skull will measure at least twenty feet\nin length. Unhinge the lower jaw, and the side view of this skull is as\nthe side of a moderately inclined plane resting throughout on a level\nbase. But in life as we have elsewhere seen this inclined plane is\nangularly filled up, and almost squared by the enormous superincumbent\nmass of the junk and sperm. At the high end the skull forms a crater to\nbed that part of the mass; while under the long floor of this crater in\nanother cavity seldom exceeding ten inches in length and as many in\ndepth reposes the mere handful of this monster s brain. The brain is at\nleast twenty feet from his apparent forehead in life; it is hidden away\nbehind its vast outworks, like the innermost citadel within the\namplified fortifications of Quebec. So like a choice casket is it\nsecreted in him, that I have known some whalemen who peremptorily deny\nthat the Sperm Whale has any other brain than that palpable semblance\nof one formed by the cubic-yards of his sperm magazine. Lying in\nstrange folds, courses, and convolutions, to their apprehensions, it\nseems more in keeping with the idea of his general might to regard that\nmystic part of him as the seat of his intelligence.\n\nIt is plain, then, that phrenologically the head of this Leviathan, in\nthe creature s living intact state, is an entire delusion. As for his\ntrue brain, you can then see no indications of it, nor feel any. The\nwhale, like all things that are mighty, wears a false brow to the\ncommon world.\n\nIf you unload his skull of its spermy heaps and then take a rear view\nof its rear end, which is the high end, you will be struck by its\nresemblance to the human skull, beheld in the same situation, and from\nthe same point of view. Indeed, place this reversed skull (scaled down\nto the human magnitude) among a plate of men s skulls, and you would\ninvoluntarily confound it with them; and remarking the depressions on\none part of its summit, in phrenological phrase you would say This man\nhad no self-esteem, and no veneration. And by those negations,\nconsidered along with the affirmative fact of his prodigious bulk and\npower, you can best form to yourself the truest, though not the most\nexhilarating conception of what the most exalted potency is.\n\nBut if from the comparative dimensions of the whale s proper brain, you\ndeem it incapable of being adequately charted, then I have another idea\nfor you. If you attentively regard almost any quadruped s spine, you\nwill be struck with the resemblance of its vertebr  to a strung\nnecklace of dwarfed skulls, all bearing rudimental resemblance to the\nskull proper. It is a German conceit, that the vertebr  are absolutely\nundeveloped skulls. But the curious external resemblance, I take it the\nGermans were not the first men to perceive. A foreign friend once\npointed it out to me, in the skeleton of a foe he had slain, and with\nthe vertebr  of which he was inlaying, in a sort of basso-relievo, the\nbeaked prow of his canoe. Now, I consider that the phrenologists have\nomitted an important thing in not pushing their investigations from the\ncerebellum through the spinal canal. For I believe that much of a man s\ncharacter will be found betokened in his backbone. I would rather feel\nyour spine than your skull, whoever you are. A thin joist of a spine\nnever yet upheld a full and noble soul. I rejoice in my spine, as in\nthe firm audacious staff of that flag which I fling half out to the\nworld.\n\nApply this spinal branch of phrenology to the Sperm Whale. His cranial\ncavity is continuous with the first neck-vertebra; and in that vertebra\nthe bottom of the spinal canal will measure ten inches across, being\neight in height, and of a triangular figure with the base downwards. As\nit passes through the remaining vertebr  the canal tapers in size, but\nfor a considerable distance remains of large capacity. Now, of course,\nthis canal is filled with much the same strangely fibrous substance the\nspinal cord as the brain; and directly communicates with the brain. And\nwhat is still more, for many feet after emerging from the brain s\ncavity, the spinal cord remains of an undecreasing girth, almost equal\nto that of the brain. Under all these circumstances, would it be\nunreasonable to survey and map out the whale s spine phrenologically?\nFor, viewed in this light, the wonderful comparative smallness of his\nbrain proper is more than compensated by the wonderful comparative\nmagnitude of his spinal cord.\n\nBut leaving this hint to operate as it may with the phrenologists, I\nwould merely assume the spinal theory for a moment, in reference to the\nSperm Whale s hump. This august hump, if I mistake not, rises over one\nof the larger vertebr , and is, therefore, in some sort, the outer\nconvex mould of it. From its relative situation then, I should call\nthis high hump the organ of firmness or indomitableness in the Sperm\nWhale. And that the great monster is indomitable, you will yet have\nreason to know.\n\n\nCHAPTER 81. The Pequod Meets The Virgin.\n\nThe predestinated day arrived, and we duly met the ship Jungfrau,\nDerick De Deer, master, of Bremen.\n\nAt one time the greatest whaling people in the world, the Dutch and\nGermans are now among the least; but here and there at very wide\nintervals of latitude and longitude, you still occasionally meet with\ntheir flag in the Pacific.\n\nFor some reason, the Jungfrau seemed quite eager to pay her respects.\nWhile yet some distance from the Pequod, she rounded to, and dropping a\nboat, her captain was impelled towards us, impatiently standing in the\nbows instead of the stern.\n\n What has he in his hand there?  cried Starbuck, pointing to something\nwavingly held by the German.  Impossible! a lamp-feeder! \n\n Not that,  said Stubb,  no, no, it s a coffee-pot, Mr. Starbuck; he s\ncoming off to make us our coffee, is the Yarman; don t you see that big\ntin can there alongside of him? that s his boiling water. Oh! he s all\nright, is the Yarman. \n\n Go along with you,  cried Flask,  it s a lamp-feeder and an oil-can.\nHe s out of oil, and has come a-begging. \n\nHowever curious it may seem for an oil-ship to be borrowing oil on the\nwhale-ground, and however much it may invertedly contradict the old\nproverb about carrying coals to Newcastle, yet sometimes such a thing\nreally happens; and in the present case Captain Derick De Deer did\nindubitably conduct a lamp-feeder as Flask did declare.\n\nAs he mounted the deck, Ahab abruptly accosted him, without at all\nheeding what he had in his hand; but in his broken lingo, the German\nsoon evinced his complete ignorance of the White Whale; immediately\nturning the conversation to his lamp-feeder and oil can, with some\nremarks touching his having to turn into his hammock at night in\nprofound darkness his last drop of Bremen oil being gone, and not a\nsingle flying-fish yet captured to supply the deficiency; concluding by\nhinting that his ship was indeed what in the Fishery is technically\ncalled a _clean_ one (that is, an empty one), well deserving the name\nof Jungfrau or the Virgin.\n\nHis necessities supplied, Derick departed; but he had not gained his\nship s side, when whales were almost simultaneously raised from the\nmast-heads of both vessels; and so eager for the chase was Derick, that\nwithout pausing to put his oil-can and lamp-feeder aboard, he slewed\nround his boat and made after the leviathan lamp-feeders.\n\nNow, the game having risen to leeward, he and the other three German\nboats that soon followed him, had considerably the start of the\nPequod s keels. There were eight whales, an average pod. Aware of their\ndanger, they were going all abreast with great speed straight before\nthe wind, rubbing their flanks as closely as so many spans of horses in\nharness. They left a great, wide wake, as though continually unrolling\na great wide parchment upon the sea.\n\nFull in this rapid wake, and many fathoms in the rear, swam a huge,\nhumped old bull, which by his comparatively slow progress, as well as\nby the unusual yellowish incrustations overgrowing him, seemed\nafflicted with the jaundice, or some other infirmity. Whether this\nwhale belonged to the pod in advance, seemed questionable; for it is\nnot customary for such venerable leviathans to be at all social.\nNevertheless, he stuck to their wake, though indeed their back water\nmust have retarded him, because the white-bone or swell at his broad\nmuzzle was a dashed one, like the swell formed when two hostile\ncurrents meet. His spout was short, slow, and laborious; coming forth\nwith a choking sort of gush, and spending itself in torn shreds,\nfollowed by strange subterranean commotions in him, which seemed to\nhave egress at his other buried extremity, causing the waters behind\nhim to upbubble.\n\n Who s got some paregoric?  said Stubb,  he has the stomach-ache, I m\nafraid. Lord, think of having half an acre of stomach-ache! Adverse\nwinds are holding mad Christmas in him, boys. It s the first foul wind\nI ever knew to blow from astern; but look, did ever whale yaw so\nbefore? it must be, he s lost his tiller. \n\nAs an overladen Indiaman bearing down the Hindostan coast with a deck\nload of frightened horses, careens, buries, rolls, and wallows on her\nway; so did this old whale heave his aged bulk, and now and then partly\nturning over on his cumbrous rib-ends, expose the cause of his devious\nwake in the unnatural stump of his starboard fin. Whether he had lost\nthat fin in battle, or had been born without it, it were hard to say.\n\n Only wait a bit, old chap, and I ll give ye a sling for that wounded\narm,  cried cruel Flask, pointing to the whale-line near him.\n\n Mind he don t sling thee with it,  cried Starbuck.  Give way, or the\nGerman will have him. \n\nWith one intent all the combined rival boats were pointed for this one\nfish, because not only was he the largest, and therefore the most\nvaluable whale, but he was nearest to them, and the other whales were\ngoing with such great velocity, moreover, as almost to defy pursuit for\nthe time. At this juncture the Pequod s keels had shot by the three\nGerman boats last lowered; but from the great start he had had,\nDerick s boat still led the chase, though every moment neared by his\nforeign rivals. The only thing they feared, was, that from being\nalready so nigh to his mark, he would be enabled to dart his iron\nbefore they could completely overtake and pass him. As for Derick, he\nseemed quite confident that this would be the case, and occasionally\nwith a deriding gesture shook his lamp-feeder at the other boats.\n\n The ungracious and ungrateful dog!  cried Starbuck;  he mocks and\ndares me with the very poor-box I filled for him not five minutes\nago! then in his old intense whisper Give way, greyhounds! Dog to\nit! \n\n I tell ye what it is, men cried Stubb to his crew it s against my\nreligion to get mad; but I d like to eat that villainous\nYarman Pull won t ye? Are ye going to let that rascal beat ye? Do ye\nlove brandy? A hogshead of brandy, then, to the best man. Come, why\ndon t some of ye burst a blood-vessel? Who s that been dropping an\nanchor overboard we don t budge an inch we re becalmed. Halloo, here s\ngrass growing in the boat s bottom and by the Lord, the mast there s\nbudding. This won t do, boys. Look at that Yarman! The short and long\nof it is, men, will ye spit fire or not? \n\n Oh! see the suds he makes!  cried Flask, dancing up and down What a\nhump Oh, _do_ pile on the beef lays like a log! Oh! my lads, _do_\nspring slap-jacks and quahogs for supper, you know, my lads baked clams\nand muffins oh, _do_, _do_, spring, he s a hundred barreller don t lose\nhim now don t oh, _don t!_ see that Yarman Oh, won t ye pull for your\nduff, my lads such a sog! such a sogger! Don t ye love sperm? There\ngoes three thousand dollars, men! a bank! a whole bank! The bank of\nEngland! Oh, _do_, _do_, _do!_ What s that Yarman about now? \n\nAt this moment Derick was in the act of pitching his lamp-feeder at the\nadvancing boats, and also his oil-can; perhaps with the double view of\nretarding his rivals  way, and at the same time economically\naccelerating his own by the momentary impetus of the backward toss.\n\n The unmannerly Dutch dogger!  cried Stubb.  Pull now, men, like fifty\nthousand line-of-battle-ship loads of red-haired devils. What d ye say,\nTashtego; are you the man to snap your spine in two-and-twenty pieces\nfor the honor of old Gayhead? What d ye say? \n\n I say, pull like god-dam, cried the Indian.\n\nFiercely, but evenly incited by the taunts of the German, the Pequod s\nthree boats now began ranging almost abreast; and, so disposed,\nmomentarily neared him. In that fine, loose, chivalrous attitude of the\nheadsman when drawing near to his prey, the three mates stood up\nproudly, occasionally backing the after oarsman with an exhilarating\ncry of,  There she slides, now! Hurrah for the white-ash breeze! Down\nwith the Yarman! Sail over him! \n\nBut so decided an original start had Derick had, that spite of all\ntheir gallantry, he would have proved the victor in this race, had not\na righteous judgment descended upon him in a crab which caught the\nblade of his midship oarsman. While this clumsy lubber was striving to\nfree his white-ash, and while, in consequence, Derick s boat was nigh\nto capsizing, and he thundering away at his men in a mighty rage; that\nwas a good time for Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask. With a shout, they took\na mortal start forwards, and slantingly ranged up on the German s\nquarter. An instant more, and all four boats were diagonically in the\nwhale s immediate wake, while stretching from them, on both sides, was\nthe foaming swell that he made.\n\nIt was a terrific, most pitiable, and maddening sight. The whale was\nnow going head out, and sending his spout before him in a continual\ntormented jet; while his one poor fin beat his side in an agony of\nfright. Now to this hand, now to that, he yawed in his faltering\nflight, and still at every billow that he broke, he spasmodically sank\nin the sea, or sideways rolled towards the sky his one beating fin. So\nhave I seen a bird with clipped wing making affrighted broken circles\nin the air, vainly striving to escape the piratical hawks. But the bird\nhas a voice, and with plaintive cries will make known her fear; but the\nfear of this vast dumb brute of the sea, was chained up and enchanted\nin him; he had no voice, save that choking respiration through his\nspiracle, and this made the sight of him unspeakably pitiable; while\nstill, in his amazing bulk, portcullis jaw, and omnipotent tail, there\nwas enough to appal the stoutest man who so pitied.\n\nSeeing now that but a very few moments more would give the Pequod s\nboats the advantage, and rather than be thus foiled of his game, Derick\nchose to hazard what to him must have seemed a most unusually long\ndart, ere the last chance would for ever escape.\n\nBut no sooner did his harpooneer stand up for the stroke, than all\nthree tigers Queequeg, Tashtego, Daggoo instinctively sprang to their\nfeet, and standing in a diagonal row, simultaneously pointed their\nbarbs; and darted over the head of the German harpooneer, their three\nNantucket irons entered the whale. Blinding vapors of foam and\nwhite-fire! The three boats, in the first fury of the whale s headlong\nrush, bumped the German s aside with such force, that both Derick and\nhis baffled harpooneer were spilled out, and sailed over by the three\nflying keels.\n\n Don t be afraid, my butter-boxes,  cried Stubb, casting a passing\nglance upon them as he shot by;  ye ll be picked up presently all\nright I saw some sharks astern St. Bernard s dogs, you know relieve\ndistressed travellers. Hurrah! this is the way to sail now. Every keel\na sunbeam! Hurrah! Here we go like three tin kettles at the tail of a\nmad cougar! This puts me in mind of fastening to an elephant in a\ntilbury on a plain makes the wheel-spokes fly, boys, when you fasten to\nhim that way; and there s danger of being pitched out too, when you\nstrike a hill. Hurrah! this is the way a fellow feels when he s going\nto Davy Jones all a rush down an endless inclined plane! Hurrah! this\nwhale carries the everlasting mail! \n\nBut the monster s run was a brief one. Giving a sudden gasp, he\ntumultuously sounded. With a grating rush, the three lines flew round\nthe loggerheads with such a force as to gouge deep grooves in them;\nwhile so fearful were the harpooneers that this rapid sounding would\nsoon exhaust the lines, that using all their dexterous might, they\ncaught repeated smoking turns with the rope to hold on; till at\nlast owing to the perpendicular strain from the lead-lined chocks of\nthe boats, whence the three ropes went straight down into the blue the\ngunwales of the bows were almost even with the water, while the three\nsterns tilted high in the air. And the whale soon ceasing to sound, for\nsome time they remained in that attitude, fearful of expending more\nline, though the position was a little ticklish. But though boats have\nbeen taken down and lost in this way, yet it is this  holding on,  as\nit is called; this hooking up by the sharp barbs of his live flesh from\nthe back; this it is that often torments the Leviathan into soon rising\nagain to meet the sharp lance of his foes. Yet not to speak of the\nperil of the thing, it is to be doubted whether this course is always\nthe best; for it is but reasonable to presume, that the longer the\nstricken whale stays under water, the more he is exhausted. Because,\nowing to the enormous surface of him in a full grown sperm whale\nsomething less than 2000 square feet the pressure of the water is\nimmense. We all know what an astonishing atmospheric weight we\nourselves stand up under; even here, above-ground, in the air; how\nvast, then, the burden of a whale, bearing on his back a column of two\nhundred fathoms of ocean! It must at least equal the weight of fifty\natmospheres. One whaleman has estimated it at the weight of twenty\nline-of-battle ships, with all their guns, and stores, and men on\nboard.\n\nAs the three boats lay there on that gently rolling sea, gazing down\ninto its eternal blue noon; and as not a single groan or cry of any\nsort, nay, not so much as a ripple or a bubble came up from its depths;\nwhat landsman would have thought, that beneath all that silence and\nplacidity, the utmost monster of the seas was writhing and wrenching in\nagony! Not eight inches of perpendicular rope were visible at the bows.\nSeems it credible that by three such thin threads the great Leviathan\nwas suspended like the big weight to an eight day clock. Suspended? and\nto what? To three bits of board. Is this the creature of whom it was\nonce so triumphantly said Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons?\nor his head with fish-spears? The sword of him that layeth at him\ncannot hold, the spear, the dart, nor the habergeon: he esteemeth iron\nas straw; the arrow cannot make him flee; darts are counted as stubble;\nhe laugheth at the shaking of a spear!  This the creature? this he? Oh!\nthat unfulfilments should follow the prophets. For with the strength of\na thousand thighs in his tail, Leviathan had run his head under the\nmountains of the sea, to hide him from the Pequod s fish-spears!\n\nIn that sloping afternoon sunlight, the shadows that the three boats\nsent down beneath the surface, must have been long enough and broad\nenough to shade half Xerxes  army. Who can tell how appalling to the\nwounded whale must have been such huge phantoms flitting over his head!\n\n Stand by, men; he stirs,  cried Starbuck, as the three lines suddenly\nvibrated in the water, distinctly conducting upwards to them, as by\nmagnetic wires, the life and death throbs of the whale, so that every\noarsman felt them in his seat. The next moment, relieved in great part\nfrom the downward strain at the bows, the boats gave a sudden bounce\nupwards, as a small icefield will, when a dense herd of white bears are\nscared from it into the sea.\n\n Haul in! Haul in!  cried Starbuck again;  he s rising. \n\nThe lines, of which, hardly an instant before, not one hand s breadth\ncould have been gained, were now in long quick coils flung back all\ndripping into the boats, and soon the whale broke water within two\nship s lengths of the hunters.\n\nHis motions plainly denoted his extreme exhaustion. In most land\nanimals there are certain valves or flood-gates in many of their veins,\nwhereby when wounded, the blood is in some degree at least instantly\nshut off in certain directions. Not so with the whale; one of whose\npeculiarities it is to have an entire non-valvular structure of the\nblood-vessels, so that when pierced even by so small a point as a\nharpoon, a deadly drain is at once begun upon his whole arterial\nsystem; and when this is heightened by the extraordinary pressure of\nwater at a great distance below the surface, his life may be said to\npour from him in incessant streams. Yet so vast is the quantity of\nblood in him, and so distant and numerous its interior fountains, that\nhe will keep thus bleeding and bleeding for a considerable period; even\nas in a drought a river will flow, whose source is in the well-springs\nof far-off and undiscernible hills. Even now, when the boats pulled\nupon this whale, and perilously drew over his swaying flukes, and the\nlances were darted into him, they were followed by steady jets from the\nnew made wound, which kept continually playing, while the natural\nspout-hole in his head was only at intervals, however rapid, sending\nits affrighted moisture into the air. From this last vent no blood yet\ncame, because no vital part of him had thus far been struck. His life,\nas they significantly call it, was untouched.\n\nAs the boats now more closely surrounded him, the whole upper part of\nhis form, with much of it that is ordinarily submerged, was plainly\nrevealed. His eyes, or rather the places where his eyes had been, were\nbeheld. As strange misgrown masses gather in the knot-holes of the\nnoblest oaks when prostrate, so from the points which the whale s eyes\nhad once occupied, now protruded blind bulbs, horribly pitiable to see.\nBut pity there was none. For all his old age, and his one arm, and his\nblind eyes, he must die the death and be murdered, in order to light\nthe gay bridals and other merry-makings of men, and also to illuminate\nthe solemn churches that preach unconditional inoffensiveness by all to\nall. Still rolling in his blood, at last he partially disclosed a\nstrangely discoloured bunch or protuberance, the size of a bushel, low\ndown on the flank.\n\n A nice spot,  cried Flask;  just let me prick him there once. \n\n Avast!  cried Starbuck,  there s no need of that! \n\nBut humane Starbuck was too late. At the instant of the dart an\nulcerous jet shot from this cruel wound, and goaded by it into more\nthan sufferable anguish, the whale now spouting thick blood, with swift\nfury blindly darted at the craft, bespattering them and their glorying\ncrews all over with showers of gore, capsizing Flask s boat and marring\nthe bows. It was his death stroke. For, by this time, so spent was he\nby loss of blood, that he helplessly rolled away from the wreck he had\nmade; lay panting on his side, impotently flapped with his stumped fin,\nthen over and over slowly revolved like a waning world; turned up the\nwhite secrets of his belly; lay like a log, and died. It was most\npiteous, that last expiring spout. As when by unseen hands the water is\ngradually drawn off from some mighty fountain, and with half-stifled\nmelancholy gurglings the spray-column lowers and lowers to the\nground so the last long dying spout of the whale.\n\nSoon, while the crews were awaiting the arrival of the ship, the body\nshowed symptoms of sinking with all its treasures unrifled.\nImmediately, by Starbuck s orders, lines were secured to it at\ndifferent points, so that ere long every boat was a buoy; the sunken\nwhale being suspended a few inches beneath them by the cords. By very\nheedful management, when the ship drew nigh, the whale was transferred\nto her side, and was strongly secured there by the stiffest\nfluke-chains, for it was plain that unless artificially upheld, the\nbody would at once sink to the bottom.\n\nIt so chanced that almost upon first cutting into him with the spade,\nthe entire length of a corroded harpoon was found imbedded in his\nflesh, on the lower part of the bunch before described. But as the\nstumps of harpoons are frequently found in the dead bodies of captured\nwhales, with the flesh perfectly healed around them, and no prominence\nof any kind to denote their place; therefore, there must needs have\nbeen some other unknown reason in the present case fully to account for\nthe ulceration alluded to. But still more curious was the fact of a\nlance-head of stone being found in him, not far from the buried iron,\nthe flesh perfectly firm about it. Who had darted that stone lance? And\nwhen? It might have been darted by some Nor  West Indian long before\nAmerica was discovered.\n\nWhat other marvels might have been rummaged out of this monstrous\ncabinet there is no telling. But a sudden stop was put to further\ndiscoveries, by the ship s being unprecedentedly dragged over sideways\nto the sea, owing to the body s immensely increasing tendency to sink.\nHowever, Starbuck, who had the ordering of affairs, hung on to it to\nthe last; hung on to it so resolutely, indeed, that when at length the\nship would have been capsized, if still persisting in locking arms with\nthe body; then, when the command was given to break clear from it, such\nwas the immovable strain upon the timber-heads to which the\nfluke-chains and cables were fastened, that it was impossible to cast\nthem off. Meantime everything in the Pequod was aslant. To cross to the\nother side of the deck was like walking up the steep gabled roof of a\nhouse. The ship groaned and gasped. Many of the ivory inlayings of her\nbulwarks and cabins were started from their places, by the unnatural\ndislocation. In vain handspikes and crows were brought to bear upon the\nimmovable fluke-chains, to pry them adrift from the timberheads; and so\nlow had the whale now settled that the submerged ends could not be at\nall approached, while every moment whole tons of ponderosity seemed\nadded to the sinking bulk, and the ship seemed on the point of going\nover.\n\n Hold on, hold on, won t ye?  cried Stubb to the body,  don t be in\nsuch a devil of a hurry to sink! By thunder, men, we must do something\nor go for it. No use prying there; avast, I say with your handspikes,\nand run one of ye for a prayer book and a pen-knife, and cut the big\nchains. \n\n Knife? Aye, aye,  cried Queequeg, and seizing the carpenter s heavy\nhatchet, he leaned out of a porthole, and steel to iron, began slashing\nat the largest fluke-chains. But a few strokes, full of sparks, were\ngiven, when the exceeding strain effected the rest. With a terrific\nsnap, every fastening went adrift; the ship righted, the carcase sank.\n\nNow, this occasional inevitable sinking of the recently killed Sperm\nWhale is a very curious thing; nor has any fisherman yet adequately\naccounted for it. Usually the dead Sperm Whale floats with great\nbuoyancy, with its side or belly considerably elevated above the\nsurface. If the only whales that thus sank were old, meagre, and\nbroken-hearted creatures, their pads of lard diminished and all their\nbones heavy and rheumatic; then you might with some reason assert that\nthis sinking is caused by an uncommon specific gravity in the fish so\nsinking, consequent upon this absence of buoyant matter in him. But it\nis not so. For young whales, in the highest health, and swelling with\nnoble aspirations, prematurely cut off in the warm flush and May of\nlife, with all their panting lard about them; even these brawny,\nbuoyant heroes do sometimes sink.\n\nBe it said, however, that the Sperm Whale is far less liable to this\naccident than any other species. Where one of that sort go down, twenty\nRight Whales do. This difference in the species is no doubt imputable\nin no small degree to the greater quantity of bone in the Right Whale;\nhis Venetian blinds alone sometimes weighing more than a ton; from this\nincumbrance the Sperm Whale is wholly free. But there are instances\nwhere, after the lapse of many hours or several days, the sunken whale\nagain rises, more buoyant than in life. But the reason of this is\nobvious. Gases are generated in him; he swells to a prodigious\nmagnitude; becomes a sort of animal balloon. A line-of-battle ship\ncould hardly keep him under then. In the Shore Whaling, on soundings,\namong the Bays of New Zealand, when a Right Whale gives token of\nsinking, they fasten buoys to him, with plenty of rope; so that when\nthe body has gone down, they know where to look for it when it shall\nhave ascended again.\n\nIt was not long after the sinking of the body that a cry was heard from\nthe Pequod s mast-heads, announcing that the Jungfrau was again\nlowering her boats; though the only spout in sight was that of a\nFin-Back, belonging to the species of uncapturable whales, because of\nits incredible power of swimming. Nevertheless, the Fin-Back s spout is\nso similar to the Sperm Whale s, that by unskilful fishermen it is\noften mistaken for it. And consequently Derick and all his host were\nnow in valiant chase of this unnearable brute. The Virgin crowding all\nsail, made after her four young keels, and thus they all disappeared\nfar to leeward, still in bold, hopeful chase.\n\nOh! many are the Fin-Backs, and many are the Dericks, my friend.\n\n\nCHAPTER 82. The Honor and Glory of Whaling.\n\nThere are some enterprises in which a careful disorderliness is the\ntrue method.\n\nThe more I dive into this matter of whaling, and push my researches up\nto the very spring-head of it so much the more am I impressed with its\ngreat honorableness and antiquity; and especially when I find so many\ngreat demi-gods and heroes, prophets of all sorts, who one way or other\nhave shed distinction upon it, I am transported with the reflection\nthat I myself belong, though but subordinately, to so emblazoned a\nfraternity.\n\nThe gallant Perseus, a son of Jupiter, was the first whaleman; and to\nthe eternal honor of our calling be it said, that the first whale\nattacked by our brotherhood was not killed with any sordid intent.\nThose were the knightly days of our profession, when we only bore arms\nto succor the distressed, and not to fill men s lamp-feeders. Every one\nknows the fine story of Perseus and Andromeda; how the lovely\nAndromeda, the daughter of a king, was tied to a rock on the sea-coast,\nand as Leviathan was in the very act of carrying her off, Perseus, the\nprince of whalemen, intrepidly advancing, harpooned the monster, and\ndelivered and married the maid. It was an admirable artistic exploit,\nrarely achieved by the best harpooneers of the present day; inasmuch as\nthis Leviathan was slain at the very first dart. And let no man doubt\nthis Arkite story; for in the ancient Joppa, now Jaffa, on the Syrian\ncoast, in one of the Pagan temples, there stood for many ages the vast\nskeleton of a whale, which the city s legends and all the inhabitants\nasserted to be the identical bones of the monster that Perseus slew.\nWhen the Romans took Joppa, the same skeleton was carried to Italy in\ntriumph. What seems most singular and suggestively important in this\nstory, is this: it was from Joppa that Jonah set sail.\n\nAkin to the adventure of Perseus and Andromeda indeed, by some supposed\nto be indirectly derived from it is that famous story of St. George and\nthe Dragon; which dragon I maintain to have been a whale; for in many\nold chronicles whales and dragons are strangely jumbled together, and\noften stand for each other.  Thou art as a lion of the waters, and as a\ndragon of the sea,  saith Ezekiel; hereby, plainly meaning a whale; in\ntruth, some versions of the Bible use that word itself. Besides, it\nwould much subtract from the glory of the exploit had St. George but\nencountered a crawling reptile of the land, instead of doing battle\nwith the great monster of the deep. Any man may kill a snake, but only\na Perseus, a St. George, a Coffin, have the heart in them to march\nboldly up to a whale.\n\nLet not the modern paintings of this scene mislead us; for though the\ncreature encountered by that valiant whaleman of old is vaguely\nrepresented of a griffin-like shape, and though the battle is depicted\non land and the saint on horseback, yet considering the great ignorance\nof those times, when the true form of the whale was unknown to artists;\nand considering that as in Perseus  case, St. George s whale might have\ncrawled up out of the sea on the beach; and considering that the animal\nridden by St. George might have been only a large seal, or sea-horse;\nbearing all this in mind, it will not appear altogether incompatible\nwith the sacred legend and the ancientest draughts of the scene, to\nhold this so-called dragon no other than the great Leviathan himself.\nIn fact, placed before the strict and piercing truth, this whole story\nwill fare like that fish, flesh, and fowl idol of the Philistines,\nDagon by name; who being planted before the ark of Israel, his horse s\nhead and both the palms of his hands fell off from him, and only the\nstump or fishy part of him remained. Thus, then, one of our own noble\nstamp, even a whaleman, is the tutelary guardian of England; and by\ngood rights, we harpooneers of Nantucket should be enrolled in the most\nnoble order of St. George. And therefore, let not the knights of that\nhonorable company (none of whom, I venture to say, have ever had to do\nwith a whale like their great patron), let them never eye a Nantucketer\nwith disdain, since even in our woollen frocks and tarred trowsers we\nare much better entitled to St. George s decoration than they.\n\nWhether to admit Hercules among us or not, concerning this I long\nremained dubious: for though according to the Greek mythologies, that\nantique Crockett and Kit Carson that brawny doer of rejoicing good\ndeeds, was swallowed down and thrown up by a whale; still, whether that\nstrictly makes a whaleman of him, that might be mooted. It nowhere\nappears that he ever actually harpooned his fish, unless, indeed, from\nthe inside. Nevertheless, he may be deemed a sort of involuntary\nwhaleman; at any rate the whale caught him, if he did not the whale. I\nclaim him for one of our clan.\n\nBut, by the best contradictory authorities, this Grecian story of\nHercules and the whale is considered to be derived from the still more\nancient Hebrew story of Jonah and the whale; and vice vers ; certainly\nthey are very similar. If I claim the demi-god then, why not the\nprophet?\n\nNor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole\nroll of our order. Our grand master is still to be named; for like\nroyal kings of old times, we find the head waters of our fraternity in\nnothing short of the great gods themselves. That wondrous oriental\nstory is now to be rehearsed from the Shaster, which gives us the dread\nVishnoo, one of the three persons in the godhead of the Hindoos; gives\nus this divine Vishnoo himself for our Lord; Vishnoo, who, by the first\nof his ten earthly incarnations, has for ever set apart and sanctified\nthe whale. When Brahma, or the God of Gods, saith the Shaster, resolved\nto recreate the world after one of its periodical dissolutions, he gave\nbirth to Vishnoo, to preside over the work; but the Vedas, or mystical\nbooks, whose perusal would seem to have been indispensable to Vishnoo\nbefore beginning the creation, and which therefore must have contained\nsomething in the shape of practical hints to young architects, these\nVedas were lying at the bottom of the waters; so Vishnoo became\nincarnate in a whale, and sounding down in him to the uttermost depths,\nrescued the sacred volumes. Was not this Vishnoo a whaleman, then? even\nas a man who rides a horse is called a horseman?\n\nPerseus, St. George, Hercules, Jonah, and Vishnoo! there s a\nmember-roll for you! What club but the whaleman s can head off like\nthat?\n\n\nCHAPTER 83. Jonah Historically Regarded.\n\nReference was made to the historical story of Jonah and the whale in\nthe preceding chapter. Now some Nantucketers rather distrust this\nhistorical story of Jonah and the whale. But then there were some\nsceptical Greeks and Romans, who, standing out from the orthodox pagans\nof their times, equally doubted the story of Hercules and the whale,\nand Arion and the dolphin; and yet their doubting those traditions did\nnot make those traditions one whit the less facts, for all that.\n\nOne old Sag-Harbor whaleman s chief reason for questioning the Hebrew\nstory was this: He had one of those quaint old-fashioned Bibles,\nembellished with curious, unscientific plates; one of which represented\nJonah s whale with two spouts in his head a peculiarity only true with\nrespect to a species of the Leviathan (the Right Whale, and the\nvarieties of that order), concerning which the fishermen have this\nsaying,  A penny roll would choke him ; his swallow is so very small.\nBut, to this, Bishop Jebb s anticipative answer is ready. It is not\nnecessary, hints the Bishop, that we consider Jonah as tombed in the\nwhale s belly, but as temporarily lodged in some part of his mouth. And\nthis seems reasonable enough in the good Bishop. For truly, the Right\nWhale s mouth would accommodate a couple of whist-tables, and\ncomfortably seat all the players. Possibly, too, Jonah might have\nensconced himself in a hollow tooth; but, on second thoughts, the Right\nWhale is toothless.\n\nAnother reason which Sag-Harbor (he went by that name) urged for his\nwant of faith in this matter of the prophet, was something obscurely in\nreference to his incarcerated body and the whale s gastric juices. But\nthis objection likewise falls to the ground, because a German exegetist\nsupposes that Jonah must have taken refuge in the floating body of a\n_dead_ whale even as the French soldiers in the Russian campaign turned\ntheir dead horses into tents, and crawled into them. Besides, it has\nbeen divined by other continental commentators, that when Jonah was\nthrown overboard from the Joppa ship, he straightway effected his\nescape to another vessel near by, some vessel with a whale for a\nfigure-head; and, I would add, possibly called  The Whale,  as some\ncraft are nowadays christened the  Shark,  the  Gull,  the  Eagle.  Nor\nhave there been wanting learned exegetists who have opined that the\nwhale mentioned in the book of Jonah merely meant a life-preserver an\ninflated bag of wind which the endangered prophet swam to, and so was\nsaved from a watery doom. Poor Sag-Harbor, therefore, seems worsted all\nround. But he had still another reason for his want of faith. It was\nthis, if I remember right: Jonah was swallowed by the whale in the\nMediterranean Sea, and after three days he was vomited up somewhere\nwithin three days  journey of Nineveh, a city on the Tigris, very much\nmore than three days  journey across from the nearest point of the\nMediterranean coast. How is that?\n\nBut was there no other way for the whale to land the prophet within\nthat short distance of Nineveh? Yes. He might have carried him round by\nthe way of the Cape of Good Hope. But not to speak of the passage\nthrough the whole length of the Mediterranean, and another passage up\nthe Persian Gulf and Red Sea, such a supposition would involve the\ncomplete circumnavigation of all Africa in three days, not to speak of\nthe Tigris waters, near the site of Nineveh, being too shallow for any\nwhale to swim in. Besides, this idea of Jonah s weathering the Cape of\nGood Hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of\nthat great headland from Bartholomew Diaz, its reputed discoverer, and\nso make modern history a liar.\n\nBut all these foolish arguments of old Sag-Harbor only evinced his\nfoolish pride of reason a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing\nthat he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the\nsun and the sea. I say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and\nabominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy. For by a\nPortuguese Catholic priest, this very idea of Jonah s going to Nineveh\nvia the Cape of Good Hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the\ngeneral miracle. And so it was. Besides, to this day, the highly\nenlightened Turks devoutly believe in the historical story of Jonah.\nAnd some three centuries ago, an English traveller in old Harris s\nVoyages, speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, in which\nMosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil.\n\n\nCHAPTER 84. Pitchpoling.\n\nTo make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are\nanointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an\nanalogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it\nto be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly\nbe of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are\nhostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to\nmake the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing\nhis boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau\ndisappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation;\ncrawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in\nthe unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair\nfrom the craft s bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to\nsome particular presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the\nevent.\n\nTowards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to\nthem, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered\nflight, as of Cleopatra s barges from Actium.\n\nNevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb s was foremost. By great\nexertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the\nstricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal\nflight, with added fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the\nplanted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became\nimperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to\nhaul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and\nfurious. What then remained?\n\nOf all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and\ncountless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced,\nnone exceed that fine man uvre with the lance called pitchpoling. Small\nsword, or broad sword, in all its exercises boasts nothing like it. It\nis only indispensable with an inveterate running whale; its grand fact\nand feature is the wonderful distance to which the long lance is\naccurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat, under extreme\nheadway. Steel and wood included, the entire spear is some ten or\ntwelve feet in length; the staff is much slighter than that of the\nharpoon, and also of a lighter material pine. It is furnished with a\nsmall rope called a warp, of considerable length, by which it can be\nhauled back to the hand after darting.\n\nBut before going further, it is important to mention here, that though\nthe harpoon may be pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet it is\nseldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful, on\naccount of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoon as\ncompared with the lance, which in effect become serious drawbacks. As a\ngeneral thing, therefore, you must first get fast to a whale, before\nany pitchpoling comes into play.\n\nLook now at Stubb; a man who from his humorous, deliberate coolness and\nequanimity in the direst emergencies, was specially qualified to excel\nin pitchpoling. Look at him; he stands upright in the tossed bow of the\nflying boat; wrapt in fleecy foam, the towing whale is forty feet\nahead. Handling the long lance lightly, glancing twice or thrice along\nits length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlingly gathers\nup the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to secure its free end in\nhis grasp, leaving the rest unobstructed. Then holding the lance full\nbefore his waistband s middle, he levels it at the whale; when,\ncovering him with it, he steadily depresses the butt-end in his hand,\nthereby elevating the point till the weapon stands fairly balanced upon\nhis palm, fifteen feet in the air. He minds you somewhat of a juggler,\nbalancing a long staff on his chin. Next moment with a rapid, nameless\nimpulse, in a superb lofty arch the bright steel spans the foaming\ndistance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale. Instead of\nsparkling water, he now spouts red blood.\n\n That drove the spigot out of him!  cried Stubb.  Tis July s immortal\nFourth; all fountains must run wine today! Would now, it were old\nOrleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakable old Monongahela! Then,\nTashtego, lad, I d have ye hold a canakin to the jet, and we d drink\nround it! Yea, verily, hearts alive, we d brew choice punch in the\nspread of his spout-hole there, and from that live punch-bowl quaff the\nliving stuff. \n\nAgain and again to such gamesome talk, the dexterous dart is repeated,\nthe spear returning to its master like a greyhound held in skilful\nleash. The agonized whale goes into his flurry; the tow-line is\nslackened, and the pitchpoler dropping astern, folds his hands, and\nmutely watches the monster die.\n\n\nCHAPTER 85. The Fountain.\n\nThat for six thousand years and no one knows how many millions of ages\nbefore the great whales should have been spouting all over the sea, and\nsprinkling and mistifying the gardens of the deep, as with so many\nsprinkling or mistifying pots; and that for some centuries back,\nthousands of hunters should have been close by the fountain of the\nwhale, watching these sprinklings and spoutings that all this should\nbe, and yet, that down to this blessed minute (fifteen and a quarter\nminutes past one o clock P.M. of this sixteenth day of December, A.D.\n1851), it should still remain a problem, whether these spoutings are,\nafter all, really water, or nothing but vapor this is surely a\nnoteworthy thing.\n\nLet us, then, look at this matter, along with some interesting items\ncontingent. Every one knows that by the peculiar cunning of their\ngills, the finny tribes in general breathe the air which at all times\nis combined with the element in which they swim; hence, a herring or a\ncod might live a century, and never once raise its head above the\nsurface. But owing to his marked internal structure which gives him\nregular lungs, like a human being s, the whale can only live by\ninhaling the disengaged air in the open atmosphere. Wherefore the\nnecessity for his periodical visits to the upper world. But he cannot\nin any degree breathe through his mouth, for, in his ordinary attitude,\nthe Sperm Whale s mouth is buried at least eight feet beneath the\nsurface; and what is still more, his windpipe has no connexion with his\nmouth. No, he breathes through his spiracle alone; and this is on the\ntop of his head.\n\nIf I say, that in any creature breathing is only a function\nindispensable to vitality, inasmuch as it withdraws from the air a\ncertain element, which being subsequently brought into contact with the\nblood imparts to the blood its vivifying principle, I do not think I\nshall err; though I may possibly use some superfluous scientific words.\nAssume it, and it follows that if all the blood in a man could be\naerated with one breath, he might then seal up his nostrils and not\nfetch another for a considerable time. That is to say, he would then\nlive without breathing. Anomalous as it may seem, this is precisely the\ncase with the whale, who systematically lives, by intervals, his full\nhour and more (when at the bottom) without drawing a single breath, or\nso much as in any way inhaling a particle of air; for, remember, he has\nno gills. How is this? Between his ribs and on each side of his spine\nhe is supplied with a remarkable involved Cretan labyrinth of\nvermicelli-like vessels, which vessels, when he quits the surface, are\ncompletely distended with oxygenated blood. So that for an hour or\nmore, a thousand fathoms in the sea, he carries a surplus stock of\nvitality in him, just as the camel crossing the waterless desert\ncarries a surplus supply of drink for future use in its four\nsupplementary stomachs. The anatomical fact of this labyrinth is\nindisputable; and that the supposition founded upon it is reasonable\nand true, seems the more cogent to me, when I consider the otherwise\ninexplicable obstinacy of that leviathan in _having his spoutings out_,\nas the fishermen phrase it. This is what I mean. If unmolested, upon\nrising to the surface, the Sperm Whale will continue there for a period\nof time exactly uniform with all his other unmolested risings. Say he\nstays eleven minutes, and jets seventy times, that is, respires seventy\nbreaths; then whenever he rises again, he will be sure to have his\nseventy breaths over again, to a minute. Now, if after he fetches a few\nbreaths you alarm him, so that he sounds, he will be always dodging up\nagain to make good his regular allowance of air. And not till those\nseventy breaths are told, will he finally go down to stay out his full\nterm below. Remark, however, that in different individuals these rates\nare different; but in any one they are alike. Now, why should the whale\nthus insist upon having his spoutings out, unless it be to replenish\nhis reservoir of air, ere descending for good? How obvious is it, too,\nthat this necessity for the whale s rising exposes him to all the fatal\nhazards of the chase. For not by hook or by net could this vast\nleviathan be caught, when sailing a thousand fathoms beneath the\nsunlight. Not so much thy skill, then, O hunter, as the great\nnecessities that strike the victory to thee!\n\nIn man, breathing is incessantly going on one breath only serving for\ntwo or three pulsations; so that whatever other business he has to\nattend to, waking or sleeping, breathe he must, or die he will. But the\nSperm Whale only breathes about one seventh or Sunday of his time.\n\nIt has been said that the whale only breathes through his spout-hole;\nif it could truthfully be added that his spouts are mixed with water,\nthen I opine we should be furnished with the reason why his sense of\nsmell seems obliterated in him; for the only thing about him that at\nall answers to his nose is that identical spout-hole; and being so\nclogged with two elements, it could not be expected to have the power\nof smelling. But owing to the mystery of the spout whether it be water\nor whether it be vapor no absolute certainty can as yet be arrived at\non this head. Sure it is, nevertheless, that the Sperm Whale has no\nproper olfactories. But what does he want of them? No roses, no\nviolets, no Cologne-water in the sea.\n\nFurthermore, as his windpipe solely opens into the tube of his spouting\ncanal, and as that long canal like the grand Erie Canal is furnished\nwith a sort of locks (that open and shut) for the downward retention of\nair or the upward exclusion of water, therefore the whale has no voice;\nunless you insult him by saying, that when he so strangely rumbles, he\ntalks through his nose. But then again, what has the whale to say?\nSeldom have I known any profound being that had anything to say to this\nworld, unless forced to stammer out something by way of getting a\nliving. Oh! happy that the world is such an excellent listener!\n\nNow, the spouting canal of the Sperm Whale, chiefly intended as it is\nfor the conveyance of air, and for several feet laid along,\nhorizontally, just beneath the upper surface of his head, and a little\nto one side; this curious canal is very much like a gas-pipe laid down\nin a city on one side of a street. But the question returns whether\nthis gas-pipe is also a water-pipe; in other words, whether the spout\nof the Sperm Whale is the mere vapor of the exhaled breath, or whether\nthat exhaled breath is mixed with water taken in at the mouth, and\ndischarged through the spiracle. It is certain that the mouth\nindirectly communicates with the spouting canal; but it cannot be\nproved that this is for the purpose of discharging water through the\nspiracle. Because the greatest necessity for so doing would seem to be,\nwhen in feeding he accidentally takes in water. But the Sperm Whale s\nfood is far beneath the surface, and there he cannot spout even if he\nwould. Besides, if you regard him very closely, and time him with your\nwatch, you will find that when unmolested, there is an undeviating\nrhyme between the periods of his jets and the ordinary periods of\nrespiration.\n\nBut why pester one with all this reasoning on the subject? Speak out!\nYou have seen him spout; then declare what the spout is; can you not\ntell water from air? My dear sir, in this world it is not so easy to\nsettle these plain things. I have ever found your plain things the\nknottiest of all. And as for this whale spout, you might almost stand\nin it, and yet be undecided as to what it is precisely.\n\nThe central body of it is hidden in the snowy sparkling mist enveloping\nit; and how can you certainly tell whether any water falls from it,\nwhen, always, when you are close enough to a whale to get a close view\nof his spout, he is in a prodigious commotion, the water cascading all\naround him. And if at such times you should think that you really\nperceived drops of moisture in the spout, how do you know that they are\nnot merely condensed from its vapor; or how do you know that they are\nnot those identical drops superficially lodged in the spout-hole\nfissure, which is countersunk into the summit of the whale s head? For\neven when tranquilly swimming through the mid-day sea in a calm, with\nhis elevated hump sun-dried as a dromedary s in the desert; even then,\nthe whale always carries a small basin of water on his head, as under a\nblazing sun you will sometimes see a cavity in a rock filled up with\nrain.\n\nNor is it at all prudent for the hunter to be over curious touching the\nprecise nature of the whale spout. It will not do for him to be peering\ninto it, and putting his face in it. You cannot go with your pitcher to\nthis fountain and fill it, and bring it away. For even when coming into\nslight contact with the outer, vapory shreds of the jet, which will\noften happen, your skin will feverishly smart, from the acridness of\nthe thing so touching it. And I know one, who coming into still closer\ncontact with the spout, whether with some scientific object in view, or\notherwise, I cannot say, the skin peeled off from his cheek and arm.\nWherefore, among whalemen, the spout is deemed poisonous; they try to\nevade it. Another thing; I have heard it said, and I do not much doubt\nit, that if the jet is fairly spouted into your eyes, it will blind\nyou. The wisest thing the investigator can do then, it seems to me, is\nto let this deadly spout alone.\n\nStill, we can hypothesize, even if we cannot prove and establish. My\nhypothesis is this: that the spout is nothing but mist. And besides\nother reasons, to this conclusion I am impelled, by considerations\ntouching the great inherent dignity and sublimity of the Sperm Whale; I\naccount him no common, shallow being, inasmuch as it is an undisputed\nfact that he is never found on soundings, or near shores; all other\nwhales sometimes are. He is both ponderous and profound. And I am\nconvinced that from the heads of all ponderous profound beings, such as\nPlato, Pyrrho, the Devil, Jupiter, Dante, and so on, there always goes\nup a certain semi-visible steam, while in the act of thinking deep\nthoughts. While composing a little treatise on Eternity, I had the\ncuriosity to place a mirror before me; and ere long saw reflected\nthere, a curious involved worming and undulation in the atmosphere over\nmy head. The invariable moisture of my hair, while plunged in deep\nthought, after six cups of hot tea in my thin shingled attic, of an\nAugust noon; this seems an additional argument for the above\nsupposition.\n\nAnd how nobly it raises our conceit of the mighty, misty monster, to\nbehold him solemnly sailing through a calm tropical sea; his vast, mild\nhead overhung by a canopy of vapor, engendered by his incommunicable\ncontemplations, and that vapor as you will sometimes see it glorified\nby a rainbow, as if Heaven itself had put its seal upon his thoughts.\nFor, d ye see, rainbows do not visit the clear air; they only irradiate\nvapor. And so, through all the thick mists of the dim doubts in my\nmind, divine intuitions now and then shoot, enkindling my fog with a\nheavenly ray. And for this I thank God; for all have doubts; many deny;\nbut doubts or denials, few along with them, have intuitions. Doubts of\nall things earthly, and intuitions of some things heavenly; this\ncombination makes neither believer nor infidel, but makes a man who\nregards them both with equal eye.\n\n\nCHAPTER 86. The Tail.\n\nOther poets have warbled the praises of the soft eye of the antelope,\nand the lovely plumage of the bird that never alights; less celestial,\nI celebrate a tail.\n\nReckoning the largest sized Sperm Whale s tail to begin at that point\nof the trunk where it tapers to about the girth of a man, it comprises\nupon its upper surface alone, an area of at least fifty square feet.\nThe compact round body of its root expands into two broad, firm, flat\npalms or flukes, gradually shoaling away to less than an inch in\nthickness. At the crotch or junction, these flukes slightly overlap,\nthen sideways recede from each other like wings, leaving a wide vacancy\nbetween. In no living thing are the lines of beauty more exquisitely\ndefined than in the crescentic borders of these flukes. At its utmost\nexpansion in the full grown whale, the tail will considerably exceed\ntwenty feet across.\n\nThe entire member seems a dense webbed bed of welded sinews; but cut\ninto it, and you find that three distinct strata compose it: upper,\nmiddle, and lower. The fibres in the upper and lower layers, are long\nand horizontal; those of the middle one, very short, and running\ncrosswise between the outside layers. This triune structure, as much as\nanything else, imparts power to the tail. To the student of old Roman\nwalls, the middle layer will furnish a curious parallel to the thin\ncourse of tiles always alternating with the stone in those wonderful\nrelics of the antique, and which undoubtedly contribute so much to the\ngreat strength of the masonry.\n\nBut as if this vast local power in the tendinous tail were not enough,\nthe whole bulk of the leviathan is knit over with a warp and woof of\nmuscular fibres and filaments, which passing on either side the loins\nand running down into the flukes, insensibly blend with them, and\nlargely contribute to their might; so that in the tail the confluent\nmeasureless force of the whole whale seems concentrated to a point.\nCould annihilation occur to matter, this were the thing to do it.\n\nNor does this its amazing strength, at all tend to cripple the graceful\nflexion of its motions; where infantileness of ease undulates through a\nTitanism of power. On the contrary, those motions derive their most\nappalling beauty from it. Real strength never impairs beauty or\nharmony, but it often bestows it; and in everything imposingly\nbeautiful, strength has much to do with the magic. Take away the tied\ntendons that all over seem bursting from the marble in the carved\nHercules, and its charm would be gone. As devout Eckerman lifted the\nlinen sheet from the naked corpse of Goethe, he was overwhelmed with\nthe massive chest of the man, that seemed as a Roman triumphal arch.\nWhen Angelo paints even God the Father in human form, mark what\nrobustness is there. And whatever they may reveal of the divine love in\nthe Son, the soft, curled, hermaphroditical Italian pictures, in which\nhis idea has been most successfully embodied; these pictures, so\ndestitute as they are of all brawniness, hint nothing of any power, but\nthe mere negative, feminine one of submission and endurance, which on\nall hands it is conceded, form the peculiar practical virtues of his\nteachings.\n\nSuch is the subtle elasticity of the organ I treat of, that whether\nwielded in sport, or in earnest, or in anger, whatever be the mood it\nbe in, its flexions are invariably marked by exceeding grace. Therein\nno fairy s arm can transcend it.\n\nFive great motions are peculiar to it. First, when used as a fin for\nprogression; Second, when used as a mace in battle; Third, in sweeping;\nFourth, in lobtailing; Fifth, in peaking flukes.\n\nFirst: Being horizontal in its position, the Leviathan s tail acts in a\ndifferent manner from the tails of all other sea creatures. It never\nwriggles. In man or fish, wriggling is a sign of inferiority. To the\nwhale, his tail is the sole means of propulsion. Scroll-wise coiled\nforwards beneath the body, and then rapidly sprung backwards, it is\nthis which gives that singular darting, leaping motion to the monster\nwhen furiously swimming. His side-fins only serve to steer by.\n\nSecond: It is a little significant, that while one sperm whale only\nfights another sperm whale with his head and jaw, nevertheless, in his\nconflicts with man, he chiefly and contemptuously uses his tail. In\nstriking at a boat, he swiftly curves away his flukes from it, and the\nblow is only inflicted by the recoil. If it be made in the unobstructed\nair, especially if it descend to its mark, the stroke is then simply\nirresistible. No ribs of man or boat can withstand it. Your only\nsalvation lies in eluding it; but if it comes sideways through the\nopposing water, then partly owing to the light buoyancy of the\nwhale-boat, and the elasticity of its materials, a cracked rib or a\ndashed plank or two, a sort of stitch in the side, is generally the\nmost serious result. These submerged side blows are so often received\nin the fishery, that they are accounted mere child s play. Some one\nstrips off a frock, and the hole is stopped.\n\nThird: I cannot demonstrate it, but it seems to me, that in the whale\nthe sense of touch is concentrated in the tail; for in this respect\nthere is a delicacy in it only equalled by the daintiness of the\nelephant s trunk. This delicacy is chiefly evinced in the action of\nsweeping, when in maidenly gentleness the whale with a certain soft\nslowness moves his immense flukes from side to side upon the surface of\nthe sea; and if he feel but a sailor s whisker, woe to that sailor,\nwhiskers and all. What tenderness there is in that preliminary touch!\nHad this tail any prehensile power, I should straightway bethink me of\nDarmonodes  elephant that so frequented the flower-market, and with low\nsalutations presented nosegays to damsels, and then caressed their\nzones. On more accounts than one, a pity it is that the whale does not\npossess this prehensile virtue in his tail; for I have heard of yet\nanother elephant, that when wounded in the fight, curved round his\ntrunk and extracted the dart.\n\nFourth: Stealing unawares upon the whale in the fancied security of the\nmiddle of solitary seas, you find him unbent from the vast corpulence\nof his dignity, and kitten-like, he plays on the ocean as if it were a\nhearth. But still you see his power in his play. The broad palms of his\ntail are flirted high into the air; then smiting the surface, the\nthunderous concussion resounds for miles. You would almost think a\ngreat gun had been discharged; and if you noticed the light wreath of\nvapor from the spiracle at his other extremity, you would think that\nthat was the smoke from the touch-hole.\n\nFifth: As in the ordinary floating posture of the leviathan the flukes\nlie considerably below the level of his back, they are then completely\nout of sight beneath the surface; but when he is about to plunge into\nthe deeps, his entire flukes with at least thirty feet of his body are\ntossed erect in the air, and so remain vibrating a moment, till they\ndownwards shoot out of view. Excepting the sublime _breach_ somewhere\nelse to be described this peaking of the whale s flukes is perhaps the\ngrandest sight to be seen in all animated nature. Out of the bottomless\nprofundities the gigantic tail seems spasmodically snatching at the\nhighest heaven. So in dreams, have I seen majestic Satan thrusting\nforth his tormented colossal claw from the flame Baltic of Hell. But in\ngazing at such scenes, it is all in all what mood you are in; if in the\nDantean, the devils will occur to you; if in that of Isaiah, the\narchangels. Standing at the mast-head of my ship during a sunrise that\ncrimsoned sky and sea, I once saw a large herd of whales in the east,\nall heading towards the sun, and for a moment vibrating in concert with\npeaked flukes. As it seemed to me at the time, such a grand embodiment\nof adoration of the gods was never beheld, even in Persia, the home of\nthe fire worshippers. As Ptolemy Philopater testified of the African\nelephant, I then testified of the whale, pronouncing him the most\ndevout of all beings. For according to King Juba, the military\nelephants of antiquity often hailed the morning with their trunks\nuplifted in the profoundest silence.\n\nThe chance comparison in this chapter, between the whale and the\nelephant, so far as some aspects of the tail of the one and the trunk\nof the other are concerned, should not tend to place those two opposite\norgans on an equality, much less the creatures to which they\nrespectively belong. For as the mightiest elephant is but a terrier to\nLeviathan, so, compared with Leviathan s tail, his trunk is but the\nstalk of a lily. The most direful blow from the elephant s trunk were\nas the playful tap of a fan, compared with the measureless crush and\ncrash of the sperm whale s ponderous flukes, which in repeated\ninstances have one after the other hurled entire boats with all their\noars and crews into the air, very much as an Indian juggler tosses his\nballs.*\n\n*Though all comparison in the way of general bulk between the whale and\nthe elephant is preposterous, inasmuch as in that particular the\nelephant stands in much the same respect to the whale that a dog does\nto the elephant; nevertheless, there are not wanting some points of\ncurious similitude; among these is the spout. It is well known that the\nelephant will often draw up water or dust in his trunk, and then\nelevating it, jet it forth in a stream.\n\nThe more I consider this mighty tail, the more do I deplore my\ninability to express it. At times there are gestures in it, which,\nthough they would well grace the hand of man, remain wholly\ninexplicable. In an extensive herd, so remarkable, occasionally, are\nthese mystic gestures, that I have heard hunters who have declared them\nakin to Free-Mason signs and symbols; that the whale, indeed, by these\nmethods intelligently conversed with the world. Nor are there wanting\nother motions of the whale in his general body, full of strangeness,\nand unaccountable to his most experienced assailant. Dissect him how I\nmay, then, I but go skin deep; I know him not, and never will. But if I\nknow not even the tail of this whale, how understand his head? much\nmore, how comprehend his face, when face he has none? Thou shalt see my\nback parts, my tail, he seems to say, but my face shall not be seen.\nBut I cannot completely make out his back parts; and hint what he will\nabout his face, I say again he has no face.\n\n\nCHAPTER 87. The Grand Armada.\n\nThe long and narrow peninsula of Malacca, extending south-eastward from\nthe territories of Birmah, forms the most southerly point of all Asia.\nIn a continuous line from that peninsula stretch the long islands of\nSumatra, Java, Bally, and Timor; which, with many others, form a vast\nmole, or rampart, lengthwise connecting Asia with Australia, and\ndividing the long unbroken Indian ocean from the thickly studded\noriental archipelagoes. This rampart is pierced by several sally-ports\nfor the convenience of ships and whales; conspicuous among which are\nthe straits of Sunda and Malacca. By the straits of Sunda, chiefly,\nvessels bound to China from the west, emerge into the China seas.\n\nThose narrow straits of Sunda divide Sumatra from Java; and standing\nmidway in that vast rampart of islands, buttressed by that bold green\npromontory, known to seamen as Java Head; they not a little correspond\nto the central gateway opening into some vast walled empire: and\nconsidering the inexhaustible wealth of spices, and silks, and jewels,\nand gold, and ivory, with which the thousand islands of that oriental\nsea are enriched, it seems a significant provision of nature, that such\ntreasures, by the very formation of the land, should at least bear the\nappearance, however ineffectual, of being guarded from the all-grasping\nwestern world. The shores of the Straits of Sunda are unsupplied with\nthose domineering fortresses which guard the entrances to the\nMediterranean, the Baltic, and the Propontis. Unlike the Danes, these\nOrientals do not demand the obsequious homage of lowered top-sails from\nthe endless procession of ships before the wind, which for centuries\npast, by night and by day, have passed between the islands of Sumatra\nand Java, freighted with the costliest cargoes of the east. But while\nthey freely waive a ceremonial like this, they do by no means renounce\ntheir claim to more solid tribute.\n\nTime out of mind the piratical proas of the Malays, lurking among the\nlow shaded coves and islets of Sumatra, have sallied out upon the\nvessels sailing through the straits, fiercely demanding tribute at the\npoint of their spears. Though by the repeated bloody chastisements they\nhave received at the hands of European cruisers, the audacity of these\ncorsairs has of late been somewhat repressed; yet, even at the present\nday, we occasionally hear of English and American vessels, which, in\nthose waters, have been remorselessly boarded and pillaged.\n\nWith a fair, fresh wind, the Pequod was now drawing nigh to these\nstraits; Ahab purposing to pass through them into the Javan sea, and\nthence, cruising northwards, over waters known to be frequented here\nand there by the Sperm Whale, sweep inshore by the Philippine Islands,\nand gain the far coast of Japan, in time for the great whaling season\nthere. By these means, the circumnavigating Pequod would sweep almost\nall the known Sperm Whale cruising grounds of the world, previous to\ndescending upon the Line in the Pacific; where Ahab, though everywhere\nelse foiled in his pursuit, firmly counted upon giving battle to Moby\nDick, in the sea he was most known to frequent; and at a season when he\nmight most reasonably be presumed to be haunting it.\n\nBut how now? in this zoned quest, does Ahab touch no land? does his\ncrew drink air? Surely, he will stop for water. Nay. For a long time,\nnow, the circus-running sun has raced within his fiery ring, and needs\nno sustenance but what s in himself. So Ahab. Mark this, too, in the\nwhaler. While other hulls are loaded down with alien stuff, to be\ntransferred to foreign wharves; the world-wandering whale-ship carries\nno cargo but herself and crew, their weapons and their wants. She has a\nwhole lake s contents bottled in her ample hold. She is ballasted with\nutilities; not altogether with unusable pig-lead and kentledge. She\ncarries years  water in her. Clear old prime Nantucket water; which,\nwhen three years afloat, the Nantucketer, in the Pacific, prefers to\ndrink before the brackish fluid, but yesterday rafted off in casks,\nfrom the Peruvian or Indian streams. Hence it is, that, while other\nships may have gone to China from New York, and back again, touching at\na score of ports, the whale-ship, in all that interval, may not have\nsighted one grain of soil; her crew having seen no man but floating\nseamen like themselves. So that did you carry them the news that\nanother flood had come; they would only answer Well, boys, here s the\nark! \n\nNow, as many Sperm Whales had been captured off the western coast of\nJava, in the near vicinity of the Straits of Sunda; indeed, as most of\nthe ground, roundabout, was generally recognised by the fishermen as an\nexcellent spot for cruising; therefore, as the Pequod gained more and\nmore upon Java Head, the look-outs were repeatedly hailed, and\nadmonished to keep wide awake. But though the green palmy cliffs of the\nland soon loomed on the starboard bow, and with delighted nostrils the\nfresh cinnamon was snuffed in the air, yet not a single jet was\ndescried. Almost renouncing all thought of falling in with any game\nhereabouts, the ship had well nigh entered the straits, when the\ncustomary cheering cry was heard from aloft, and ere long a spectacle\nof singular magnificence saluted us.\n\nBut here be it premised, that owing to the unwearied activity with\nwhich of late they have been hunted over all four oceans, the Sperm\nWhales, instead of almost invariably sailing in small detached\ncompanies, as in former times, are now frequently met with in extensive\nherds, sometimes embracing so great a multitude, that it would almost\nseem as if numerous nations of them had sworn solemn league and\ncovenant for mutual assistance and protection. To this aggregation of\nthe Sperm Whale into such immense caravans, may be imputed the\ncircumstance that even in the best cruising grounds, you may now\nsometimes sail for weeks and months together, without being greeted by\na single spout; and then be suddenly saluted by what sometimes seems\nthousands on thousands.\n\nBroad on both bows, at the distance of some two or three miles, and\nforming a great semicircle, embracing one half of the level horizon, a\ncontinuous chain of whale-jets were up-playing and sparkling in the\nnoon-day air. Unlike the straight perpendicular twin-jets of the Right\nWhale, which, dividing at top, fall over in two branches, like the\ncleft drooping boughs of a willow, the single forward-slanting spout of\nthe Sperm Whale presents a thick curled bush of white mist, continually\nrising and falling away to leeward.\n\nSeen from the Pequod s deck, then, as she would rise on a high hill of\nthe sea, this host of vapory spouts, individually curling up into the\nair, and beheld through a blending atmosphere of bluish haze, showed\nlike the thousand cheerful chimneys of some dense metropolis, descried\nof a balmy autumnal morning, by some horseman on a height.\n\nAs marching armies approaching an unfriendly defile in the mountains,\naccelerate their march, all eagerness to place that perilous passage in\ntheir rear, and once more expand in comparative security upon the\nplain; even so did this vast fleet of whales now seem hurrying forward\nthrough the straits; gradually contracting the wings of their\nsemicircle, and swimming on, in one solid, but still crescentic centre.\n\nCrowding all sail the Pequod pressed after them; the harpooneers\nhandling their weapons, and loudly cheering from the heads of their yet\nsuspended boats. If the wind only held, little doubt had they, that\nchased through these Straits of Sunda, the vast host would only deploy\ninto the Oriental seas to witness the capture of not a few of their\nnumber. And who could tell whether, in that congregated caravan, Moby\nDick himself might not temporarily be swimming, like the worshipped\nwhite-elephant in the coronation procession of the Siamese! So with\nstun-sail piled on stun-sail, we sailed along, driving these leviathans\nbefore us; when, of a sudden, the voice of Tashtego was heard, loudly\ndirecting attention to something in our wake.\n\nCorresponding to the crescent in our van, we beheld another in our\nrear. It seemed formed of detached white vapors, rising and falling\nsomething like the spouts of the whales; only they did not so\ncompletely come and go; for they constantly hovered, without finally\ndisappearing. Levelling his glass at this sight, Ahab quickly revolved\nin his pivot-hole, crying,  Aloft there, and rig whips and buckets to\nwet the sails; Malays, sir, and after us! \n\nAs if too long lurking behind the headlands, till the Pequod should\nfairly have entered the straits, these rascally Asiatics were now in\nhot pursuit, to make up for their over-cautious delay. But when the\nswift Pequod, with a fresh leading wind, was herself in hot chase; how\nvery kind of these tawny philanthropists to assist in speeding her on\nto her own chosen pursuit, mere riding-whips and rowels to her, that\nthey were. As with glass under arm, Ahab to-and-fro paced the deck; in\nhis forward turn beholding the monsters he chased, and in the after one\nthe bloodthirsty pirates chasing _him_; some such fancy as the above\nseemed his. And when he glanced upon the green walls of the watery\ndefile in which the ship was then sailing, and bethought him that\nthrough that gate lay the route to his vengeance, and beheld, how that\nthrough that same gate he was now both chasing and being chased to his\ndeadly end; and not only that, but a herd of remorseless wild pirates\nand inhuman atheistical devils were infernally cheering him on with\ntheir curses; when all these conceits had passed through his brain,\nAhab s brow was left gaunt and ribbed, like the black sand beach after\nsome stormy tide has been gnawing it, without being able to drag the\nfirm thing from its place.\n\nBut thoughts like these troubled very few of the reckless crew; and\nwhen, after steadily dropping and dropping the pirates astern, the\nPequod at last shot by the vivid green Cockatoo Point on the Sumatra\nside, emerging at last upon the broad waters beyond; then, the\nharpooneers seemed more to grieve that the swift whales had been\ngaining upon the ship, than to rejoice that the ship had so\nvictoriously gained upon the Malays. But still driving on in the wake\nof the whales, at length they seemed abating their speed; gradually the\nship neared them; and the wind now dying away, word was passed to\nspring to the boats. But no sooner did the herd, by some presumed\nwonderful instinct of the Sperm Whale, become notified of the three\nkeels that were after them, though as yet a mile in their rear, than\nthey rallied again, and forming in close ranks and battalions, so that\ntheir spouts all looked like flashing lines of stacked bayonets, moved\non with redoubled velocity.\n\nStripped to our shirts and drawers, we sprang to the white-ash, and\nafter several hours  pulling were almost disposed to renounce the\nchase, when a general pausing commotion among the whales gave animating\ntoken that they were now at last under the influence of that strange\nperplexity of inert irresolution, which, when the fishermen perceive it\nin the whale, they say he is gallied. The compact martial columns in\nwhich they had been hitherto rapidly and steadily swimming, were now\nbroken up in one measureless rout; and like King Porus  elephants in\nthe Indian battle with Alexander, they seemed going mad with\nconsternation. In all directions expanding in vast irregular circles,\nand aimlessly swimming hither and thither, by their short thick\nspoutings, they plainly betrayed their distraction of panic. This was\nstill more strangely evinced by those of their number, who, completely\nparalysed as it were, helplessly floated like water-logged dismantled\nships on the sea. Had these Leviathans been but a flock of simple\nsheep, pursued over the pasture by three fierce wolves, they could not\npossibly have evinced such excessive dismay. But this occasional\ntimidity is characteristic of almost all herding creatures. Though\nbanding together in tens of thousands, the lion-maned buffaloes of the\nWest have fled before a solitary horseman. Witness, too, all human\nbeings, how when herded together in the sheepfold of a theatre s pit,\nthey will, at the slightest alarm of fire, rush helter-skelter for the\noutlets, crowding, trampling, jamming, and remorselessly dashing each\nother to death. Best, therefore, withhold any amazement at the\nstrangely gallied whales before us, for there is no folly of the beasts\nof the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men.\n\nThough many of the whales, as has been said, were in violent motion,\nyet it is to be observed that as a whole the herd neither advanced nor\nretreated, but collectively remained in one place. As is customary in\nthose cases, the boats at once separated, each making for some one lone\nwhale on the outskirts of the shoal. In about three minutes  time,\nQueequeg s harpoon was flung; the stricken fish darted blinding spray\nin our faces, and then running away with us like light, steered\nstraight for the heart of the herd. Though such a movement on the part\nof the whale struck under such circumstances, is in no wise\nunprecedented; and indeed is almost always more or less anticipated;\nyet does it present one of the more perilous vicissitudes of the\nfishery. For as the swift monster drags you deeper and deeper into the\nfrantic shoal, you bid adieu to circumspect life and only exist in a\ndelirious throb.\n\nAs, blind and deaf, the whale plunged forward, as if by sheer power of\nspeed to rid himself of the iron leech that had fastened to him; as we\nthus tore a white gash in the sea, on all sides menaced as we flew, by\nthe crazed creatures to and fro rushing about us; our beset boat was\nlike a ship mobbed by ice-isles in a tempest, and striving to steer\nthrough their complicated channels and straits, knowing not at what\nmoment it may be locked in and crushed.\n\nBut not a bit daunted, Queequeg steered us manfully; now sheering off\nfrom this monster directly across our route in advance; now edging away\nfrom that, whose colossal flukes were suspended overhead, while all the\ntime, Starbuck stood up in the bows, lance in hand, pricking out of our\nway whatever whales he could reach by short darts, for there was no\ntime to make long ones. Nor were the oarsmen quite idle, though their\nwonted duty was now altogether dispensed with. They chiefly attended to\nthe shouting part of the business.  Out of the way, Commodore!  cried\none, to a great dromedary that of a sudden rose bodily to the surface,\nand for an instant threatened to swamp us.  Hard down with your tail,\nthere!  cried a second to another, which, close to our gunwale, seemed\ncalmly cooling himself with his own fan-like extremity.\n\nAll whaleboats carry certain curious contrivances, originally invented\nby the Nantucket Indians, called druggs. Two thick squares of wood of\nequal size are stoutly clenched together, so that they cross each\nother s grain at right angles; a line of considerable length is then\nattached to the middle of this block, and the other end of the line\nbeing looped, it can in a moment be fastened to a harpoon. It is\nchiefly among gallied whales that this drugg is used. For then, more\nwhales are close round you than you can possibly chase at one time. But\nsperm whales are not every day encountered; while you may, then, you\nmust kill all you can. And if you cannot kill them all at once, you\nmust wing them, so that they can be afterwards killed at your leisure.\nHence it is, that at times like these the drugg, comes into\nrequisition. Our boat was furnished with three of them. The first and\nsecond were successfully darted, and we saw the whales staggeringly\nrunning off, fettered by the enormous sidelong resistance of the towing\ndrugg. They were cramped like malefactors with the chain and ball. But\nupon flinging the third, in the act of tossing overboard the clumsy\nwooden block, it caught under one of the seats of the boat, and in an\ninstant tore it out and carried it away, dropping the oarsman in the\nboat s bottom as the seat slid from under him. On both sides the sea\ncame in at the wounded planks, but we stuffed two or three drawers and\nshirts in, and so stopped the leaks for the time.\n\nIt had been next to impossible to dart these drugged-harpoons, were it\nnot that as we advanced into the herd, our whale s way greatly\ndiminished; moreover, that as we went still further and further from\nthe circumference of commotion, the direful disorders seemed waning. So\nthat when at last the jerking harpoon drew out, and the towing whale\nsideways vanished; then, with the tapering force of his parting\nmomentum, we glided between two whales into the innermost heart of the\nshoal, as if from some mountain torrent we had slid into a serene\nvalley lake. Here the storms in the roaring glens between the outermost\nwhales, were heard but not felt. In this central expanse the sea\npresented that smooth satin-like surface, called a sleek, produced by\nthe subtle moisture thrown off by the whale in his more quiet moods.\nYes, we were now in that enchanted calm which they say lurks at the\nheart of every commotion. And still in the distracted distance we\nbeheld the tumults of the outer concentric circles, and saw successive\npods of whales, eight or ten in each, swiftly going round and round,\nlike multiplied spans of horses in a ring; and so closely shoulder to\nshoulder, that a Titanic circus-rider might easily have over-arched the\nmiddle ones, and so have gone round on their backs. Owing to the\ndensity of the crowd of reposing whales, more immediately surrounding\nthe embayed axis of the herd, no possible chance of escape was at\npresent afforded us. We must watch for a breach in the living wall that\nhemmed us in; the wall that had only admitted us in order to shut us\nup. Keeping at the centre of the lake, we were occasionally visited by\nsmall tame cows and calves; the women and children of this routed host.\n\nNow, inclusive of the occasional wide intervals between the revolving\nouter circles, and inclusive of the spaces between the various pods in\nany one of those circles, the entire area at this juncture, embraced by\nthe whole multitude, must have contained at least two or three square\nmiles. At any rate though indeed such a test at such a time might be\ndeceptive spoutings might be discovered from our low boat that seemed\nplaying up almost from the rim of the horizon. I mention this\ncircumstance, because, as if the cows and calves had been purposely\nlocked up in this innermost fold; and as if the wide extent of the herd\nhad hitherto prevented them from learning the precise cause of its\nstopping; or, possibly, being so young, unsophisticated, and every way\ninnocent and inexperienced; however it may have been, these smaller\nwhales now and then visiting our becalmed boat from the margin of the\nlake evinced a wondrous fearlessness and confidence, or else a still\nbecharmed panic which it was impossible not to marvel at. Like\nhousehold dogs they came snuffling round us, right up to our gunwales,\nand touching them; till it almost seemed that some spell had suddenly\ndomesticated them. Queequeg patted their foreheads; Starbuck scratched\ntheir backs with his lance; but fearful of the consequences, for the\ntime refrained from darting it.\n\nBut far beneath this wondrous world upon the surface, another and still\nstranger world met our eyes as we gazed over the side. For, suspended\nin those watery vaults, floated the forms of the nursing mothers of the\nwhales, and those that by their enormous girth seemed shortly to become\nmothers. The lake, as I have hinted, was to a considerable depth\nexceedingly transparent; and as human infants while suckling will\ncalmly and fixedly gaze away from the breast, as if leading two\ndifferent lives at the time; and while yet drawing mortal nourishment,\nbe still spiritually feasting upon some unearthly reminiscence; even so\ndid the young of these whales seem looking up towards us, but not at\nus, as if we were but a bit of Gulfweed in their new-born sight.\nFloating on their sides, the mothers also seemed quietly eyeing us. One\nof these little infants, that from certain queer tokens seemed hardly a\nday old, might have measured some fourteen feet in length, and some six\nfeet in girth. He was a little frisky; though as yet his body seemed\nscarce yet recovered from that irksome position it had so lately\noccupied in the maternal reticule; where, tail to head, and all ready\nfor the final spring, the unborn whale lies bent like a Tartar s bow.\nThe delicate side-fins, and the palms of his flukes, still freshly\nretained the plaited crumpled appearance of a baby s ears newly arrived\nfrom foreign parts.\n\n Line! line!  cried Queequeg, looking over the gunwale;  him fast! him\nfast! Who line him! Who struck? Two whale; one big, one little! \n\n What ails ye, man?  cried Starbuck.\n\n Look-e here,  said Queequeg, pointing down.\n\nAs when the stricken whale, that from the tub has reeled out hundreds\nof fathoms of rope; as, after deep sounding, he floats up again, and\nshows the slackened curling line buoyantly rising and spiralling\ntowards the air; so now, Starbuck saw long coils of the umbilical cord\nof Madame Leviathan, by which the young cub seemed still tethered to\nits dam. Not seldom in the rapid vicissitudes of the chase, this\nnatural line, with the maternal end loose, becomes entangled with the\nhempen one, so that the cub is thereby trapped. Some of the subtlest\nsecrets of the seas seemed divulged to us in this enchanted pond. We\nsaw young Leviathan amours in the deep.*\n\n*The sperm whale, as with all other species of the Leviathan, but\nunlike most other fish, breeds indifferently at all seasons; after a\ngestation which may probably be set down at nine months, producing but\none at a time; though in some few known instances giving birth to an\nEsau and Jacob: a contingency provided for in suckling by two teats,\ncuriously situated, one on each side of the anus; but the breasts\nthemselves extend upwards from that. When by chance these precious\nparts in a nursing whale are cut by the hunter s lance, the mother s\npouring milk and blood rivallingly discolour the sea for rods. The milk\nis very sweet and rich; it has been tasted by man; it might do well\nwith strawberries. When overflowing with mutual esteem, the whales\nsalute _more hominum_.\n\nAnd thus, though surrounded by circle upon circle of consternations and\naffrights, did these inscrutable creatures at the centre freely and\nfearlessly indulge in all peaceful concernments; yea, serenely revelled\nin dalliance and delight. But even so, amid the tornadoed Atlantic of\nmy being, do I myself still for ever centrally disport in mute calm;\nand while ponderous planets of unwaning woe revolve round me, deep down\nand deep inland there I still bathe me in eternal mildness of joy.\n\nMeanwhile, as we thus lay entranced, the occasional sudden frantic\nspectacles in the distance evinced the activity of the other boats,\nstill engaged in drugging the whales on the frontier of the host; or\npossibly carrying on the war within the first circle, where abundance\nof room and some convenient retreats were afforded them. But the sight\nof the enraged drugged whales now and then blindly darting to and fro\nacross the circles, was nothing to what at last met our eyes. It is\nsometimes the custom when fast to a whale more than commonly powerful\nand alert, to seek to hamstring him, as it were, by sundering or\nmaiming his gigantic tail-tendon. It is done by darting a short-handled\ncutting-spade, to which is attached a rope for hauling it back again. A\nwhale wounded (as we afterwards learned) in this part, but not\neffectually, as it seemed, had broken away from the boat, carrying\nalong with him half of the harpoon line; and in the extraordinary agony\nof the wound, he was now dashing among the revolving circles like the\nlone mounted desperado Arnold, at the battle of Saratoga, carrying\ndismay wherever he went.\n\nBut agonizing as was the wound of this whale, and an appalling\nspectacle enough, any way; yet the peculiar horror with which he seemed\nto inspire the rest of the herd, was owing to a cause which at first\nthe intervening distance obscured from us. But at length we perceived\nthat by one of the unimaginable accidents of the fishery, this whale\nhad become entangled in the harpoon-line that he towed; he had also run\naway with the cutting-spade in him; and while the free end of the rope\nattached to that weapon, had permanently caught in the coils of the\nharpoon-line round his tail, the cutting-spade itself had worked loose\nfrom his flesh. So that tormented to madness, he was now churning\nthrough the water, violently flailing with his flexible tail, and\ntossing the keen spade about him, wounding and murdering his own\ncomrades.\n\nThis terrific object seemed to recall the whole herd from their\nstationary fright. First, the whales forming the margin of our lake\nbegan to crowd a little, and tumble against each other, as if lifted by\nhalf spent billows from afar; then the lake itself began faintly to\nheave and swell; the submarine bridal-chambers and nurseries vanished;\nin more and more contracting orbits the whales in the more central\ncircles began to swim in thickening clusters. Yes, the long calm was\ndeparting. A low advancing hum was soon heard; and then like to the\ntumultuous masses of block-ice when the great river Hudson breaks up in\nSpring, the entire host of whales came tumbling upon their inner\ncentre, as if to pile themselves up in one common mountain. Instantly\nStarbuck and Queequeg changed places; Starbuck taking the stern.\n\n Oars! Oars!  he intensely whispered, seizing the helm gripe your\noars, and clutch your souls, now! My God, men, stand by! Shove him off,\nyou Queequeg the whale there! prick him! hit him! Stand up stand up,\nand stay so! Spring, men pull, men; never mind their backs scrape\nthem! scrape away! \n\nThe boat was now all but jammed between two vast black bulks, leaving a\nnarrow Dardanelles between their long lengths. But by desperate\nendeavor we at last shot into a temporary opening; then giving way\nrapidly, and at the same time earnestly watching for another outlet.\nAfter many similar hair-breadth escapes, we at last swiftly glided into\nwhat had just been one of the outer circles, but now crossed by random\nwhales, all violently making for one centre. This lucky salvation was\ncheaply purchased by the loss of Queequeg s hat, who, while standing in\nthe bows to prick the fugitive whales, had his hat taken clean from his\nhead by the air-eddy made by the sudden tossing of a pair of broad\nflukes close by.\n\nRiotous and disordered as the universal commotion now was, it soon\nresolved itself into what seemed a systematic movement; for having\nclumped together at last in one dense body, they then renewed their\nonward flight with augmented fleetness. Further pursuit was useless;\nbut the boats still lingered in their wake to pick up what drugged\nwhales might be dropped astern, and likewise to secure one which Flask\nhad killed and waifed. The waif is a pennoned pole, two or three of\nwhich are carried by every boat; and which, when additional game is at\nhand, are inserted upright into the floating body of a dead whale, both\nto mark its place on the sea, and also as token of prior possession,\nshould the boats of any other ship draw near.\n\nThe result of this lowering was somewhat illustrative of that sagacious\nsaying in the Fishery, the more whales the less fish. Of all the\ndrugged whales only one was captured. The rest contrived to escape for\nthe time, but only to be taken, as will hereafter be seen, by some\nother craft than the Pequod.\n\n\nCHAPTER 88. Schools and Schoolmasters.\n\nThe previous chapter gave account of an immense body or herd of Sperm\nWhales, and there was also then given the probable cause inducing those\nvast aggregations.\n\nNow, though such great bodies are at times encountered, yet, as must\nhave been seen, even at the present day, small detached bands are\noccasionally observed, embracing from twenty to fifty individuals each.\nSuch bands are known as schools. They generally are of two sorts; those\ncomposed almost entirely of females, and those mustering none but young\nvigorous males, or bulls, as they are familiarly designated.\n\nIn cavalier attendance upon the school of females, you invariably see a\nmale of full grown magnitude, but not old; who, upon any alarm, evinces\nhis gallantry by falling in the rear and covering the flight of his\nladies. In truth, this gentleman is a luxurious Ottoman, swimming about\nover the watery world, surroundingly accompanied by all the solaces and\nendearments of the harem. The contrast between this Ottoman and his\nconcubines is striking; because, while he is always of the largest\nleviathanic proportions, the ladies, even at full growth, are not more\nthan one-third of the bulk of an average-sized male. They are\ncomparatively delicate, indeed; I dare say, not to exceed half a dozen\nyards round the waist. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied, that upon the\nwhole they are hereditarily entitled to _en bon point_.\n\nIt is very curious to watch this harem and its lord in their indolent\nramblings. Like fashionables, they are for ever on the move in\nleisurely search of variety. You meet them on the Line in time for the\nfull flower of the Equatorial feeding season, having just returned,\nperhaps, from spending the summer in the Northern seas, and so cheating\nsummer of all unpleasant weariness and warmth. By the time they have\nlounged up and down the promenade of the Equator awhile, they start for\nthe Oriental waters in anticipation of the cool season there, and so\nevade the other excessive temperature of the year.\n\nWhen serenely advancing on one of these journeys, if any strange\nsuspicious sights are seen, my lord whale keeps a wary eye on his\ninteresting family. Should any unwarrantably pert young Leviathan\ncoming that way, presume to draw confidentially close to one of the\nladies, with what prodigious fury the Bashaw assails him, and chases\nhim away! High times, indeed, if unprincipled young rakes like him are\nto be permitted to invade the sanctity of domestic bliss; though do\nwhat the Bashaw will, he cannot keep the most notorious Lothario out of\nhis bed; for, alas! all fish bed in common. As ashore, the ladies often\ncause the most terrible duels among their rival admirers; just so with\nthe whales, who sometimes come to deadly battle, and all for love. They\nfence with their long lower jaws, sometimes locking them together, and\nso striving for the supremacy like elks that warringly interweave their\nantlers. Not a few are captured having the deep scars of these\nencounters, furrowed heads, broken teeth, scolloped fins; and in some\ninstances, wrenched and dislocated mouths.\n\nBut supposing the invader of domestic bliss to betake himself away at\nthe first rush of the harem s lord, then is it very diverting to watch\nthat lord. Gently he insinuates his vast bulk among them again and\nrevels there awhile, still in tantalizing vicinity to young Lothario,\nlike pious Solomon devoutly worshipping among his thousand concubines.\nGranting other whales to be in sight, the fishermen will seldom give\nchase to one of these Grand Turks; for these Grand Turks are too lavish\nof their strength, and hence their unctuousness is small. As for the\nsons and the daughters they beget, why, those sons and daughters must\ntake care of themselves; at least, with only the maternal help. For\nlike certain other omnivorous roving lovers that might be named, my\nLord Whale has no taste for the nursery, however much for the bower;\nand so, being a great traveller, he leaves his anonymous babies all\nover the world; every baby an exotic. In good time, nevertheless, as\nthe ardour of youth declines; as years and dumps increase; as\nreflection lends her solemn pauses; in short, as a general lassitude\novertakes the sated Turk; then a love of ease and virtue supplants the\nlove for maidens; our Ottoman enters upon the impotent, repentant,\nadmonitory stage of life, forswears, disbands the harem, and grown to\nan exemplary, sulky old soul, goes about all alone among the meridians\nand parallels saying his prayers, and warning each young Leviathan from\nhis amorous errors.\n\nNow, as the harem of whales is called by the fishermen a school, so is\nthe lord and master of that school technically known as the\nschoolmaster. It is therefore not in strict character, however\nadmirably satirical, that after going to school himself, he should then\ngo abroad inculcating not what he learned there, but the folly of it.\nHis title, schoolmaster, would very naturally seem derived from the\nname bestowed upon the harem itself, but some have surmised that the\nman who first thus entitled this sort of Ottoman whale, must have read\nthe memoirs of Vidocq, and informed himself what sort of a\ncountry-schoolmaster that famous Frenchman was in his younger days, and\nwhat was the nature of those occult lessons he inculcated into some of\nhis pupils.\n\nThe same secludedness and isolation to which the schoolmaster whale\nbetakes himself in his advancing years, is true of all aged Sperm\nWhales. Almost universally, a lone whale as a solitary Leviathan is\ncalled proves an ancient one. Like venerable moss-bearded Daniel Boone,\nhe will have no one near him but Nature herself; and her he takes to\nwife in the wilderness of waters, and the best of wives she is, though\nshe keeps so many moody secrets.\n\nThe schools composing none but young and vigorous males, previously\nmentioned, offer a strong contrast to the harem schools. For while\nthose female whales are characteristically timid, the young males, or\nforty-barrel-bulls, as they call them, are by far the most pugnacious\nof all Leviathans, and proverbially the most dangerous to encounter;\nexcepting those wondrous grey-headed, grizzled whales, sometimes met,\nand these will fight you like grim fiends exasperated by a penal gout.\n\nThe Forty-barrel-bull schools are larger than the harem schools. Like a\nmob of young collegians, they are full of fight, fun, and wickedness,\ntumbling round the world at such a reckless, rollicking rate, that no\nprudent underwriter would insure them any more than he would a riotous\nlad at Yale or Harvard. They soon relinquish this turbulence though,\nand when about three-fourths grown, break up, and separately go about\nin quest of settlements, that is, harems.\n\nAnother point of difference between the male and female schools is\nstill more characteristic of the sexes. Say you strike a\nForty-barrel-bull poor devil! all his comrades quit him. But strike a\nmember of the harem school, and her companions swim around her with\nevery token of concern, sometimes lingering so near her and so long, as\nthemselves to fall a prey.\n\n\nCHAPTER 89. Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish.\n\nThe allusion to the waif and waif-poles in the last chapter but one,\nnecessitates some account of the laws and regulations of the whale\nfishery, of which the waif may be deemed the grand symbol and badge.\n\nIt frequently happens that when several ships are cruising in company,\na whale may be struck by one vessel, then escape, and be finally killed\nand captured by another vessel; and herein are indirectly comprised\nmany minor contingencies, all partaking of this one grand feature. For\nexample, after a weary and perilous chase and capture of a whale, the\nbody may get loose from the ship by reason of a violent storm; and\ndrifting far away to leeward, be retaken by a second whaler, who, in a\ncalm, snugly tows it alongside, without risk of life or line. Thus the\nmost vexatious and violent disputes would often arise between the\nfishermen, were there not some written or unwritten, universal,\nundisputed law applicable to all cases.\n\nPerhaps the only formal whaling code authorized by legislative\nenactment, was that of Holland. It was decreed by the States-General in\nA.D. 1695. But though no other nation has ever had any written whaling\nlaw, yet the American fishermen have been their own legislators and\nlawyers in this matter. They have provided a system which for terse\ncomprehensiveness surpasses Justinian s Pandects and the By-laws of the\nChinese Society for the Suppression of Meddling with other People s\nBusiness. Yes; these laws might be engraven on a Queen Anne s farthing,\nor the barb of a harpoon, and worn round the neck, so small are they.\n\nI. A Fast-Fish belongs to the party fast to it.\n\nII. A Loose-Fish is fair game for anybody who can soonest catch it.\n\nBut what plays the mischief with this masterly code is the admirable\nbrevity of it, which necessitates a vast volume of commentaries to\nexpound it.\n\nFirst: What is a Fast-Fish? Alive or dead a fish is technically fast,\nwhen it is connected with an occupied ship or boat, by any medium at\nall controllable by the occupant or occupants, a mast, an oar, a\nnine-inch cable, a telegraph wire, or a strand of cobweb, it is all the\nsame. Likewise a fish is technically fast when it bears a waif, or any\nother recognised symbol of possession; so long as the party waifing it\nplainly evince their ability at any time to take it alongside, as well\nas their intention so to do.\n\nThese are scientific commentaries; but the commentaries of the whalemen\nthemselves sometimes consist in hard words and harder knocks the\nCoke-upon-Littleton of the fist. True, among the more upright and\nhonorable whalemen allowances are always made for peculiar cases, where\nit would be an outrageous moral injustice for one party to claim\npossession of a whale previously chased or killed by another party. But\nothers are by no means so scrupulous.\n\nSome fifty years ago there was a curious case of whale-trover litigated\nin England, wherein the plaintiffs set forth that after a hard chase of\na whale in the Northern seas; and when indeed they (the plaintiffs) had\nsucceeded in harpooning the fish; they were at last, through peril of\ntheir lives, obliged to forsake not only their lines, but their boat\nitself. Ultimately the defendants (the crew of another ship) came up\nwith the whale, struck, killed, seized, and finally appropriated it\nbefore the very eyes of the plaintiffs. And when those defendants were\nremonstrated with, their captain snapped his fingers in the plaintiffs \nteeth, and assured them that by way of doxology to the deed he had\ndone, he would now retain their line, harpoons, and boat, which had\nremained attached to the whale at the time of the seizure. Wherefore\nthe plaintiffs now sued for the recovery of the value of their whale,\nline, harpoons, and boat.\n\nMr. Erskine was counsel for the defendants; Lord Ellenborough was the\njudge. In the course of the defence, the witty Erskine went on to\nillustrate his position, by alluding to a recent crim. con. case,\nwherein a gentleman, after in vain trying to bridle his wife s\nviciousness, had at last abandoned her upon the seas of life; but in\nthe course of years, repenting of that step, he instituted an action to\nrecover possession of her. Erskine was on the other side; and he then\nsupported it by saying, that though the gentleman had originally\nharpooned the lady, and had once had her fast, and only by reason of\nthe great stress of her plunging viciousness, had at last abandoned\nher; yet abandon her he did, so that she became a loose-fish; and\ntherefore when a subsequent gentleman re-harpooned her, the lady then\nbecame that subsequent gentleman s property, along with whatever\nharpoon might have been found sticking in her.\n\nNow in the present case Erskine contended that the examples of the\nwhale and the lady were reciprocally illustrative of each other.\n\nThese pleadings, and the counter pleadings, being duly heard, the very\nlearned judge in set terms decided, to wit, That as for the boat, he\nawarded it to the plaintiffs, because they had merely abandoned it to\nsave their lives; but that with regard to the controverted whale,\nharpoons, and line, they belonged to the defendants; the whale, because\nit was a Loose-Fish at the time of the final capture; and the harpoons\nand line because when the fish made off with them, it (the fish)\nacquired a property in those articles; and hence anybody who afterwards\ntook the fish had a right to them. Now the defendants afterwards took\nthe fish; ergo, the aforesaid articles were theirs.\n\nA common man looking at this decision of the very learned Judge, might\npossibly object to it. But ploughed up to the primary rock of the\nmatter, the two great principles laid down in the twin whaling laws\npreviously quoted, and applied and elucidated by Lord Ellenborough in\nthe above cited case; these two laws touching Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish,\nI say, will, on reflection, be found the fundamentals of all human\njurisprudence; for notwithstanding its complicated tracery of\nsculpture, the Temple of the Law, like the Temple of the Philistines,\nhas but two props to stand on.\n\nIs it not a saying in every one s mouth, Possession is half of the law:\nthat is, regardless of how the thing came into possession? But often\npossession is the whole of the law. What are the sinews and souls of\nRussian serfs and Republican slaves but Fast-Fish, whereof possession\nis the whole of the law? What to the rapacious landlord is the widow s\nlast mite but a Fast-Fish? What is yonder undetected villain s marble\nmansion with a door-plate for a waif; what is that but a Fast-Fish?\nWhat is the ruinous discount which Mordecai, the broker, gets from poor\nWoebegone, the bankrupt, on a loan to keep Woebegone s family from\nstarvation; what is that ruinous discount but a Fast-Fish? What is the\nArchbishop of Savesoul s income of  100,000 seized from the scant bread\nand cheese of hundreds of thousands of broken-backed laborers (all sure\nof heaven without any of Savesoul s help) what is that globular\n 100,000 but a Fast-Fish? What are the Duke of Dunder s hereditary\ntowns and hamlets but Fast-Fish? What to that redoubted harpooneer,\nJohn Bull, is poor Ireland, but a Fast-Fish? What to that apostolic\nlancer, Brother Jonathan, is Texas but a Fast-Fish? And concerning all\nthese, is not Possession the whole of the law?\n\nBut if the doctrine of Fast-Fish be pretty generally applicable, the\nkindred doctrine of Loose-Fish is still more widely so. That is\ninternationally and universally applicable.\n\nWhat was America in 1492 but a Loose-Fish, in which Columbus struck the\nSpanish standard by way of waifing it for his royal master and\nmistress? What was Poland to the Czar? What Greece to the Turk? What\nIndia to England? What at last will Mexico be to the United States? All\nLoose-Fish.\n\nWhat are the Rights of Man and the Liberties of the World but\nLoose-Fish? What all men s minds and opinions but Loose-Fish? What is\nthe principle of religious belief in them but a Loose-Fish? What to the\nostentatious smuggling verbalists are the thoughts of thinkers but\nLoose-Fish? What is the great globe itself but a Loose-Fish? And what\nare you, reader, but a Loose-Fish and a Fast-Fish, too?\n\n\nCHAPTER 90. Heads or Tails.\n\n De balena vero sufficit, si rex habeat caput, et regina caudam. \n_Bracton, l. 3, c. 3._\n\nLatin from the books of the Laws of England, which taken along with the\ncontext, means, that of all whales captured by anybody on the coast of\nthat land, the King, as Honorary Grand Harpooneer, must have the head,\nand the Queen be respectfully presented with the tail. A division\nwhich, in the whale, is much like halving an apple; there is no\nintermediate remainder. Now as this law, under a modified form, is to\nthis day in force in England; and as it offers in various respects a\nstrange anomaly touching the general law of Fast and Loose-Fish, it is\nhere treated of in a separate chapter, on the same courteous principle\nthat prompts the English railways to be at the expense of a separate\ncar, specially reserved for the accommodation of royalty. In the first\nplace, in curious proof of the fact that the above-mentioned law is\nstill in force, I proceed to lay before you a circumstance that\nhappened within the last two years.\n\nIt seems that some honest mariners of Dover, or Sandwich, or some one\nof the Cinque Ports, had after a hard chase succeeded in killing and\nbeaching a fine whale which they had originally descried afar off from\nthe shore. Now the Cinque Ports are partially or somehow under the\njurisdiction of a sort of policeman or beadle, called a Lord Warden.\nHolding the office directly from the crown, I believe, all the royal\nemoluments incident to the Cinque Port territories become by assignment\nhis. By some writers this office is called a sinecure. But not so.\nBecause the Lord Warden is busily employed at times in fobbing his\nperquisites; which are his chiefly by virtue of that same fobbing of\nthem.\n\nNow when these poor sun-burnt mariners, bare-footed, and with their\ntrowsers rolled high up on their eely legs, had wearily hauled their\nfat fish high and dry, promising themselves a good  150 from the\nprecious oil and bone; and in fantasy sipping rare tea with their\nwives, and good ale with their cronies, upon the strength of their\nrespective shares; up steps a very learned and most Christian and\ncharitable gentleman, with a copy of Blackstone under his arm; and\nlaying it upon the whale s head, he says Hands off! this fish, my\nmasters, is a Fast-Fish. I seize it as the Lord Warden s.  Upon this\nthe poor mariners in their respectful consternation so truly\nEnglish knowing not what to say, fall to vigorously scratching their\nheads all round; meanwhile ruefully glancing from the whale to the\nstranger. But that did in nowise mend the matter, or at all soften the\nhard heart of the learned gentleman with the copy of Blackstone. At\nlength one of them, after long scratching about for his ideas, made\nbold to speak,\n\n Please, sir, who is the Lord Warden? \n\n The Duke. \n\n But the duke had nothing to do with taking this fish? \n\n It is his. \n\n We have been at great trouble, and peril, and some expense, and is all\nthat to go to the Duke s benefit; we getting nothing at all for our\npains but our blisters? \n\n It is his. \n\n Is the Duke so very poor as to be forced to this desperate mode of\ngetting a livelihood? \n\n It is his. \n\n I thought to relieve my old bed-ridden mother by part of my share of\nthis whale. \n\n It is his. \n\n Won t the Duke be content with a quarter or a half? \n\n It is his. \n\nIn a word, the whale was seized and sold, and his Grace the Duke of\nWellington received the money. Thinking that viewed in some particular\nlights, the case might by a bare possibility in some small degree be\ndeemed, under the circumstances, a rather hard one, an honest clergyman\nof the town respectfully addressed a note to his Grace, begging him to\ntake the case of those unfortunate mariners into full consideration. To\nwhich my Lord Duke in substance replied (both letters were published)\nthat he had already done so, and received the money, and would be\nobliged to the reverend gentleman if for the future he (the reverend\ngentleman) would decline meddling with other people s business. Is this\nthe still militant old man, standing at the corners of the three\nkingdoms, on all hands coercing alms of beggars?\n\nIt will readily be seen that in this case the alleged right of the Duke\nto the whale was a delegated one from the Sovereign. We must needs\ninquire then on what principle the Sovereign is originally invested\nwith that right. The law itself has already been set forth. But Plowdon\ngives us the reason for it. Says Plowdon, the whale so caught belongs\nto the King and Queen,  because of its superior excellence.  And by the\nsoundest commentators this has ever been held a cogent argument in such\nmatters.\n\nBut why should the King have the head, and the Queen the tail? A reason\nfor that, ye lawyers!\n\nIn his treatise on  Queen-Gold,  or Queen-pinmoney, an old King s Bench\nauthor, one William Prynne, thus discourseth:  Ye tail is ye Queen s,\nthat ye Queen s wardrobe may be supplied with ye whalebone.  Now this\nwas written at a time when the black limber bone of the Greenland or\nRight whale was largely used in ladies  bodices. But this same bone is\nnot in the tail; it is in the head, which is a sad mistake for a\nsagacious lawyer like Prynne. But is the Queen a mermaid, to be\npresented with a tail? An allegorical meaning may lurk here.\n\nThere are two royal fish so styled by the English law writers the whale\nand the sturgeon; both royal property under certain limitations, and\nnominally supplying the tenth branch of the crown s ordinary revenue. I\nknow not that any other author has hinted of the matter; but by\ninference it seems to me that the sturgeon must be divided in the same\nway as the whale, the King receiving the highly dense and elastic head\npeculiar to that fish, which, symbolically regarded, may possibly be\nhumorously grounded upon some presumed congeniality. And thus there\nseems a reason in all things, even in law.\n\n\nCHAPTER 91. The Pequod Meets The Rose-Bud.\n\n In vain it was to rake for Ambergriese in the paunch of this\nLeviathan, insufferable fetor denying not inquiry.  _Sir T. Browne,\nV.E._\n\nIt was a week or two after the last whaling scene recounted, and when\nwe were slowly sailing over a sleepy, vapory, mid-day sea, that the\nmany noses on the Pequod s deck proved more vigilant discoverers than\nthe three pairs of eyes aloft. A peculiar and not very pleasant smell\nwas smelt in the sea.\n\n I will bet something now,  said Stubb,  that somewhere hereabouts are\nsome of those drugged whales we tickled the other day. I thought they\nwould keel up before long. \n\nPresently, the vapors in advance slid aside; and there in the distance\nlay a ship, whose furled sails betokened that some sort of whale must\nbe alongside. As we glided nearer, the stranger showed French colours\nfrom his peak; and by the eddying cloud of vulture sea-fowl that\ncircled, and hovered, and swooped around him, it was plain that the\nwhale alongside must be what the fishermen call a blasted whale, that\nis, a whale that has died unmolested on the sea, and so floated an\nunappropriated corpse. It may well be conceived, what an unsavory odor\nsuch a mass must exhale; worse than an Assyrian city in the plague,\nwhen the living are incompetent to bury the departed. So intolerable\nindeed is it regarded by some, that no cupidity could persuade them to\nmoor alongside of it. Yet are there those who will still do it;\nnotwithstanding the fact that the oil obtained from such subjects is of\na very inferior quality, and by no means of the nature of\nattar-of-rose.\n\nComing still nearer with the expiring breeze, we saw that the Frenchman\nhad a second whale alongside; and this second whale seemed even more of\na nosegay than the first. In truth, it turned out to be one of those\nproblematical whales that seem to dry up and die with a sort of\nprodigious dyspepsia, or indigestion; leaving their defunct bodies\nalmost entirely bankrupt of anything like oil. Nevertheless, in the\nproper place we shall see that no knowing fisherman will ever turn up\nhis nose at such a whale as this, however much he may shun blasted\nwhales in general.\n\nThe Pequod had now swept so nigh to the stranger, that Stubb vowed he\nrecognised his cutting spade-pole entangled in the lines that were\nknotted round the tail of one of these whales.\n\n There s a pretty fellow, now,  he banteringly laughed, standing in the\nship s bows,  there s a jackal for ye! I well know that these Crappoes\nof Frenchmen are but poor devils in the fishery; sometimes lowering\ntheir boats for breakers, mistaking them for Sperm Whale spouts; yes,\nand sometimes sailing from their port with their hold full of boxes of\ntallow candles, and cases of snuffers, foreseeing that all the oil they\nwill get won t be enough to dip the Captain s wick into; aye, we all\nknow these things; but look ye, here s a Crappo that is content with\nour leavings, the drugged whale there, I mean; aye, and is content too\nwith scraping the dry bones of that other precious fish he has there.\nPoor devil! I say, pass round a hat, some one, and let s make him a\npresent of a little oil for dear charity s sake. For what oil he ll get\nfrom that drugged whale there, wouldn t be fit to burn in a jail; no,\nnot in a condemned cell. And as for the other whale, why, I ll agree to\nget more oil by chopping up and trying out these three masts of ours,\nthan he ll get from that bundle of bones; though, now that I think of\nit, it may contain something worth a good deal more than oil; yes,\nambergris. I wonder now if our old man has thought of that. It s worth\ntrying. Yes, I m for it;  and so saying he started for the\nquarter-deck.\n\nBy this time the faint air had become a complete calm; so that whether\nor no, the Pequod was now fairly entrapped in the smell, with no hope\nof escaping except by its breezing up again. Issuing from the cabin,\nStubb now called his boat s crew, and pulled off for the stranger.\nDrawing across her bow, he perceived that in accordance with the\nfanciful French taste, the upper part of her stem-piece was carved in\nthe likeness of a huge drooping stalk, was painted green, and for\nthorns had copper spikes projecting from it here and there; the whole\nterminating in a symmetrical folded bulb of a bright red colour. Upon\nher head boards, in large gilt letters, he read  Bouton de\nRose, Rose-button, or Rose-bud; and this was the romantic name of this\naromatic ship.\n\nThough Stubb did not understand the _Bouton_ part of the inscription,\nyet the word _rose_, and the bulbous figure-head put together,\nsufficiently explained the whole to him.\n\n A wooden rose-bud, eh?  he cried with his hand to his nose,  that will\ndo very well; but how like all creation it smells! \n\nNow in order to hold direct communication with the people on deck, he\nhad to pull round the bows to the starboard side, and thus come close\nto the blasted whale; and so talk over it.\n\nArrived then at this spot, with one hand still to his nose, he\nbawled Bouton-de-Rose, ahoy! are there any of you Bouton-de-Roses that\nspeak English? \n\n Yes,  rejoined a Guernsey-man from the bulwarks, who turned out to be\nthe chief-mate.\n\n Well, then, my Bouton-de-Rose-bud, have you seen the White Whale? \n\n _What_ whale? \n\n The _White_ Whale a Sperm Whale Moby Dick, have ye seen him?\n\n Never heard of such a whale. Cachalot Blanche! White Whale no. \n\n Very good, then; good bye now, and I ll call again in a minute. \n\nThen rapidly pulling back towards the Pequod, and seeing Ahab leaning\nover the quarter-deck rail awaiting his report, he moulded his two\nhands into a trumpet and shouted No, Sir! No!  Upon which Ahab\nretired, and Stubb returned to the Frenchman.\n\nHe now perceived that the Guernsey-man, who had just got into the\nchains, and was using a cutting-spade, had slung his nose in a sort of\nbag.\n\n What s the matter with your nose, there?  said Stubb.  Broke it? \n\n I wish it was broken, or that I didn t have any nose at all!  answered\nthe Guernsey-man, who did not seem to relish the job he was at very\nmuch.  But what are you holding _yours_ for? \n\n Oh, nothing! It s a wax nose; I have to hold it on. Fine day, ain t\nit? Air rather gardenny, I should say; throw us a bunch of posies, will\nye, Bouton-de-Rose? \n\n What in the devil s name do you want here?  roared the Guernseyman,\nflying into a sudden passion.\n\n Oh! keep cool cool? yes, that s the word! why don t you pack those\nwhales in ice while you re working at  em? But joking aside, though; do\nyou know, Rose-bud, that it s all nonsense trying to get any oil out of\nsuch whales? As for that dried up one, there, he hasn t a gill in his\nwhole carcase. \n\n I know that well enough; but, d ye see, the Captain here won t believe\nit; this is his first voyage; he was a Cologne manufacturer before. But\ncome aboard, and mayhap he ll believe you, if he won t me; and so I ll\nget out of this dirty scrape. \n\n Anything to oblige ye, my sweet and pleasant fellow,  rejoined Stubb,\nand with that he soon mounted to the deck. There a queer scene\npresented itself. The sailors, in tasselled caps of red worsted, were\ngetting the heavy tackles in readiness for the whales. But they worked\nrather slow and talked very fast, and seemed in anything but a good\nhumor. All their noses upwardly projected from their faces like so many\njib-booms. Now and then pairs of them would drop their work, and run up\nto the mast-head to get some fresh air. Some thinking they would catch\nthe plague, dipped oakum in coal-tar, and at intervals held it to their\nnostrils. Others having broken the stems of their pipes almost short\noff at the bowl, were vigorously puffing tobacco-smoke, so that it\nconstantly filled their olfactories.\n\nStubb was struck by a shower of outcries and anathemas proceeding from\nthe Captain s round-house abaft; and looking in that direction saw a\nfiery face thrust from behind the door, which was held ajar from\nwithin. This was the tormented surgeon, who, after in vain\nremonstrating against the proceedings of the day, had betaken himself\nto the Captain s round-house (_cabinet_ he called it) to avoid the\npest; but still, could not help yelling out his entreaties and\nindignations at times.\n\nMarking all this, Stubb argued well for his scheme, and turning to the\nGuernsey-man had a little chat with him, during which the stranger mate\nexpressed his detestation of his Captain as a conceited ignoramus, who\nhad brought them all into so unsavory and unprofitable a pickle.\nSounding him carefully, Stubb further perceived that the Guernsey-man\nhad not the slightest suspicion concerning the ambergris. He therefore\nheld his peace on that head, but otherwise was quite frank and\nconfidential with him, so that the two quickly concocted a little plan\nfor both circumventing and satirizing the Captain, without his at all\ndreaming of distrusting their sincerity. According to this little plan\nof theirs, the Guernsey-man, under cover of an interpreter s office,\nwas to tell the Captain what he pleased, but as coming from Stubb; and\nas for Stubb, he was to utter any nonsense that should come uppermost\nin him during the interview.\n\nBy this time their destined victim appeared from his cabin. He was a\nsmall and dark, but rather delicate looking man for a sea-captain, with\nlarge whiskers and moustache, however; and wore a red cotton velvet\nvest with watch-seals at his side. To this gentleman, Stubb was now\npolitely introduced by the Guernsey-man, who at once ostentatiously put\non the aspect of interpreting between them.\n\n What shall I say to him first?  said he.\n\n Why,  said Stubb, eyeing the velvet vest and the watch and seals,  you\nmay as well begin by telling him that he looks a sort of babyish to me,\nthough I don t pretend to be a judge. \n\n He says, Monsieur,  said the Guernsey-man, in French, turning to his\ncaptain,  that only yesterday his ship spoke a vessel, whose captain\nand chief-mate, with six sailors, had all died of a fever caught from a\nblasted whale they had brought alongside. \n\nUpon this the captain started, and eagerly desired to know more.\n\n What now?  said the Guernsey-man to Stubb.\n\n Why, since he takes it so easy, tell him that now I have eyed him\ncarefully, I m quite certain that he s no more fit to command a\nwhale-ship than a St. Jago monkey. In fact, tell him from me he s a\nbaboon. \n\n He vows and declares, Monsieur, that the other whale, the dried one,\nis far more deadly than the blasted one; in fine, Monsieur, he conjures\nus, as we value our lives, to cut loose from these fish. \n\nInstantly the captain ran forward, and in a loud voice commanded his\ncrew to desist from hoisting the cutting-tackles, and at once cast\nloose the cables and chains confining the whales to the ship.\n\n What now?  said the Guernsey-man, when the Captain had returned to\nthem.\n\n Why, let me see; yes, you may as well tell him now that that in fact,\ntell him I ve diddled him, and (aside to himself) perhaps somebody\nelse. \n\n He says, Monsieur, that he s very happy to have been of any service to\nus. \n\nHearing this, the captain vowed that they were the grateful parties\n(meaning himself and mate) and concluded by inviting Stubb down into\nhis cabin to drink a bottle of Bordeaux.\n\n He wants you to take a glass of wine with him,  said the interpreter.\n\n Thank him heartily; but tell him it s against my principles to drink\nwith the man I ve diddled. In fact, tell him I must go. \n\n He says, Monsieur, that his principles won t admit of his drinking;\nbut that if Monsieur wants to live another day to drink, then Monsieur\nhad best drop all four boats, and pull the ship away from these whales,\nfor it s so calm they won t drift. \n\nBy this time Stubb was over the side, and getting into his boat, hailed\nthe Guernsey-man to this effect, that having a long tow-line in his\nboat, he would do what he could to help them, by pulling out the\nlighter whale of the two from the ship s side. While the Frenchman s\nboats, then, were engaged in towing the ship one way, Stubb\nbenevolently towed away at his whale the other way, ostentatiously\nslacking out a most unusually long tow-line.\n\nPresently a breeze sprang up; Stubb feigned to cast off from the whale;\nhoisting his boats, the Frenchman soon increased his distance, while\nthe Pequod slid in between him and Stubb s whale. Whereupon Stubb\nquickly pulled to the floating body, and hailing the Pequod to give\nnotice of his intentions, at once proceeded to reap the fruit of his\nunrighteous cunning. Seizing his sharp boat-spade, he commenced an\nexcavation in the body, a little behind the side fin. You would almost\nhave thought he was digging a cellar there in the sea; and when at\nlength his spade struck against the gaunt ribs, it was like turning up\nold Roman tiles and pottery buried in fat English loam. His boat s crew\nwere all in high excitement, eagerly helping their chief, and looking\nas anxious as gold-hunters.\n\nAnd all the time numberless fowls were diving, and ducking, and\nscreaming, and yelling, and fighting around them. Stubb was beginning\nto look disappointed, especially as the horrible nosegay increased,\nwhen suddenly from out the very heart of this plague, there stole a\nfaint stream of perfume, which flowed through the tide of bad smells\nwithout being absorbed by it, as one river will flow into and then\nalong with another, without at all blending with it for a time.\n\n I have it, I have it,  cried Stubb, with delight, striking something\nin the subterranean regions,  a purse! a purse! \n\nDropping his spade, he thrust both hands in, and drew out handfuls of\nsomething that looked like ripe Windsor soap, or rich mottled old\ncheese; very unctuous and savory withal. You might easily dent it with\nyour thumb; it is of a hue between yellow and ash colour. And this,\ngood friends, is ambergris, worth a gold guinea an ounce to any\ndruggist. Some six handfuls were obtained; but more was unavoidably\nlost in the sea, and still more, perhaps, might have been secured were\nit not for impatient Ahab s loud command to Stubb to desist, and come\non board, else the ship would bid them good bye.\n\n\nCHAPTER 92. Ambergris.\n\nNow this ambergris is a very curious substance, and so important as an\narticle of commerce, that in 1791 a certain Nantucket-born Captain\nCoffin was examined at the bar of the English House of Commons on that\nsubject. For at that time, and indeed until a comparatively late day,\nthe precise origin of ambergris remained, like amber itself, a problem\nto the learned. Though the word ambergris is but the French compound\nfor grey amber, yet the two substances are quite distinct. For amber,\nthough at times found on the sea-coast, is also dug up in some far\ninland soils, whereas ambergris is never found except upon the sea.\nBesides, amber is a hard, transparent, brittle, odorless substance,\nused for mouth-pieces to pipes, for beads and ornaments; but ambergris\nis soft, waxy, and so highly fragrant and spicy, that it is largely\nused in perfumery, in pastiles, precious candles, hair-powders, and\npomatum. The Turks use it in cooking, and also carry it to Mecca, for\nthe same purpose that frankincense is carried to St. Peter s in Rome.\nSome wine merchants drop a few grains into claret, to flavor it.\n\nWho would think, then, that such fine ladies and gentlemen should\nregale themselves with an essence found in the inglorious bowels of a\nsick whale! Yet so it is. By some, ambergris is supposed to be the\ncause, and by others the effect, of the dyspepsia in the whale. How to\ncure such a dyspepsia it were hard to say, unless by administering\nthree or four boat loads of Brandreth s pills, and then running out of\nharm s way, as laborers do in blasting rocks.\n\nI have forgotten to say that there were found in this ambergris,\ncertain hard, round, bony plates, which at first Stubb thought might be\nsailors  trowsers buttons; but it afterwards turned out that they were\nnothing more than pieces of small squid bones embalmed in that manner.\n\nNow that the incorruption of this most fragrant ambergris should be\nfound in the heart of such decay; is this nothing? Bethink thee of that\nsaying of St. Paul in Corinthians, about corruption and incorruption;\nhow that we are sown in dishonor, but raised in glory. And likewise\ncall to mind that saying of Paracelsus about what it is that maketh the\nbest musk. Also forget not the strange fact that of all things of\nill-savor, Cologne-water, in its rudimental manufacturing stages, is\nthe worst.\n\nI should like to conclude the chapter with the above appeal, but\ncannot, owing to my anxiety to repel a charge often made against\nwhalemen, and which, in the estimation of some already biased minds,\nmight be considered as indirectly substantiated by what has been said\nof the Frenchman s two whales. Elsewhere in this volume the slanderous\naspersion has been disproved, that the vocation of whaling is\nthroughout a slatternly, untidy business. But there is another thing to\nrebut. They hint that all whales always smell bad. Now how did this\nodious stigma originate?\n\nI opine, that it is plainly traceable to the first arrival of the\nGreenland whaling ships in London, more than two centuries ago. Because\nthose whalemen did not then, and do not now, try out their oil at sea\nas the Southern ships have always done; but cutting up the fresh\nblubber in small bits, thrust it through the bung holes of large casks,\nand carry it home in that manner; the shortness of the season in those\nIcy Seas, and the sudden and violent storms to which they are exposed,\nforbidding any other course. The consequence is, that upon breaking\ninto the hold, and unloading one of these whale cemeteries, in the\nGreenland dock, a savor is given forth somewhat similar to that arising\nfrom excavating an old city grave-yard, for the foundations of a\nLying-in Hospital.\n\nI partly surmise also, that this wicked charge against whalers may be\nlikewise imputed to the existence on the coast of Greenland, in former\ntimes, of a Dutch village called Schmerenburgh or Smeerenberg, which\nlatter name is the one used by the learned Fogo Von Slack, in his great\nwork on Smells, a text-book on that subject. As its name imports\n(smeer, fat; berg, to put up), this village was founded in order to\nafford a place for the blubber of the Dutch whale fleet to be tried\nout, without being taken home to Holland for that purpose. It was a\ncollection of furnaces, fat-kettles, and oil sheds; and when the works\nwere in full operation certainly gave forth no very pleasant savor. But\nall this is quite different with a South Sea Sperm Whaler; which in a\nvoyage of four years perhaps, after completely filling her hold with\noil, does not, perhaps, consume fifty days in the business of boiling\nout; and in the state that it is casked, the oil is nearly scentless.\nThe truth is, that living or dead, if but decently treated, whales as a\nspecies are by no means creatures of ill odor; nor can whalemen be\nrecognised, as the people of the middle ages affected to detect a Jew\nin the company, by the nose. Nor indeed can the whale possibly be\notherwise than fragrant, when, as a general thing, he enjoys such high\nhealth; taking abundance of exercise; always out of doors; though, it\nis true, seldom in the open air. I say, that the motion of a Sperm\nWhale s flukes above water dispenses a perfume, as when a musk-scented\nlady rustles her dress in a warm parlor. What then shall I liken the\nSperm Whale to for fragrance, considering his magnitude? Must it not be\nto that famous elephant, with jewelled tusks, and redolent with myrrh,\nwhich was led out of an Indian town to do honor to Alexander the Great?\n\n\nCHAPTER 93. The Castaway.\n\nIt was but some few days after encountering the Frenchman, that a most\nsignificant event befell the most insignificant of the Pequod s crew;\nan event most lamentable; and which ended in providing the sometimes\nmadly merry and predestinated craft with a living and ever accompanying\nprophecy of whatever shattered sequel might prove her own.\n\nNow, in the whale ship, it is not every one that goes in the boats.\nSome few hands are reserved called ship-keepers, whose province it is\nto work the vessel while the boats are pursuing the whale. As a general\nthing, these ship-keepers are as hardy fellows as the men comprising\nthe boats  crews. But if there happen to be an unduly slender, clumsy,\nor timorous wight in the ship, that wight is certain to be made a\nship-keeper. It was so in the Pequod with the little negro Pippin by\nnick-name, Pip by abbreviation. Poor Pip! ye have heard of him before;\nye must remember his tambourine on that dramatic midnight, so\ngloomy-jolly.\n\nIn outer aspect, Pip and Dough-Boy made a match, like a black pony and\na white one, of equal developments, though of dissimilar colour, driven\nin one eccentric span. But while hapless Dough-Boy was by nature dull\nand torpid in his intellects, Pip, though over tender-hearted, was at\nbottom very bright, with that pleasant, genial, jolly brightness\npeculiar to his tribe; a tribe, which ever enjoy all holidays and\nfestivities with finer, freer relish than any other race. For blacks,\nthe year s calendar should show naught but three hundred and sixty-five\nFourth of Julys and New Year s Days. Nor smile so, while I write that\nthis little black was brilliant, for even blackness has its brilliancy;\nbehold yon lustrous ebony, panelled in king s cabinets. But Pip loved\nlife, and all life s peaceable securities; so that the panic-striking\nbusiness in which he had somehow unaccountably become entrapped, had\nmost sadly blurred his brightness; though, as ere long will be seen,\nwhat was thus temporarily subdued in him, in the end was destined to be\nluridly illumined by strange wild fires, that fictitiously showed him\noff to ten times the natural lustre with which in his native Tolland\nCounty in Connecticut, he had once enlivened many a fiddler s frolic on\nthe green; and at melodious even-tide, with his gay ha-ha! had turned\nthe round horizon into one star-belled tambourine. So, though in the\nclear air of day, suspended against a blue-veined neck, the\npure-watered diamond drop will healthful glow; yet, when the cunning\njeweller would show you the diamond in its most impressive lustre, he\nlays it against a gloomy ground, and then lights it up, not by the sun,\nbut by some unnatural gases. Then come out those fiery effulgences,\ninfernally superb; then the evil-blazing diamond, once the divinest\nsymbol of the crystal skies, looks like some crown-jewel stolen from\nthe King of Hell. But let us to the story.\n\nIt came to pass, that in the ambergris affair Stubb s after-oarsman\nchanced so to sprain his hand, as for a time to become quite maimed;\nand, temporarily, Pip was put into his place.\n\nThe first time Stubb lowered with him, Pip evinced much nervousness;\nbut happily, for that time, escaped close contact with the whale; and\ntherefore came off not altogether discreditably; though Stubb observing\nhim, took care, afterwards, to exhort him to cherish his courageousness\nto the utmost, for he might often find it needful.\n\nNow upon the second lowering, the boat paddled upon the whale; and as\nthe fish received the darted iron, it gave its customary rap, which\nhappened, in this instance, to be right under poor Pip s seat. The\ninvoluntary consternation of the moment caused him to leap, paddle in\nhand, out of the boat; and in such a way, that part of the slack whale\nline coming against his chest, he breasted it overboard with him, so as\nto become entangled in it, when at last plumping into the water. That\ninstant the stricken whale started on a fierce run, the line swiftly\nstraightened; and presto! poor Pip came all foaming up to the chocks of\nthe boat, remorselessly dragged there by the line, which had taken\nseveral turns around his chest and neck.\n\nTashtego stood in the bows. He was full of the fire of the hunt. He\nhated Pip for a poltroon. Snatching the boat-knife from its sheath, he\nsuspended its sharp edge over the line, and turning towards Stubb,\nexclaimed interrogatively,  Cut?  Meantime Pip s blue, choked face\nplainly looked, Do, for God s sake! All passed in a flash. In less than\nhalf a minute, this entire thing happened.\n\n Damn him, cut!  roared Stubb; and so the whale was lost and Pip was\nsaved.\n\nSo soon as he recovered himself, the poor little negro was assailed by\nyells and execrations from the crew. Tranquilly permitting these\nirregular cursings to evaporate, Stubb then in a plain, business-like,\nbut still half humorous manner, cursed Pip officially; and that done,\nunofficially gave him much wholesome advice. The substance was, Never\njump from a boat, Pip, except but all the rest was indefinite, as the\nsoundest advice ever is. Now, in general, _Stick to the boat_, is your\ntrue motto in whaling; but cases will sometimes happen when _Leap from\nthe boat_, is still better. Moreover, as if perceiving at last that if\nhe should give undiluted conscientious advice to Pip, he would be\nleaving him too wide a margin to jump in for the future; Stubb suddenly\ndropped all advice, and concluded with a peremptory command,  Stick to\nthe boat, Pip, or by the Lord, I won t pick you up if you jump; mind\nthat. We can t afford to lose whales by the likes of you; a whale would\nsell for thirty times what you would, Pip, in Alabama. Bear that in\nmind, and don t jump any more.  Hereby perhaps Stubb indirectly hinted,\nthat though man loved his fellow, yet man is a money-making animal,\nwhich propensity too often interferes with his benevolence.\n\nBut we are all in the hands of the Gods; and Pip jumped again. It was\nunder very similar circumstances to the first performance; but this\ntime he did not breast out the line; and hence, when the whale started\nto run, Pip was left behind on the sea, like a hurried traveller s\ntrunk. Alas! Stubb was but too true to his word. It was a beautiful,\nbounteous, blue day; the spangled sea calm and cool, and flatly\nstretching away, all round, to the horizon, like gold-beater s skin\nhammered out to the extremest. Bobbing up and down in that sea, Pip s\nebon head showed like a head of cloves. No boat-knife was lifted when\nhe fell so rapidly astern. Stubb s inexorable back was turned upon him;\nand the whale was winged. In three minutes, a whole mile of shoreless\nocean was between Pip and Stubb. Out from the centre of the sea, poor\nPip turned his crisp, curling, black head to the sun, another lonely\ncastaway, though the loftiest and the brightest.\n\nNow, in calm weather, to swim in the open ocean is as easy to the\npractised swimmer as to ride in a spring-carriage ashore. But the awful\nlonesomeness is intolerable. The intense concentration of self in the\nmiddle of such a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it? Mark,\nhow when sailors in a dead calm bathe in the open sea mark how closely\nthey hug their ship and only coast along her sides.\n\nBut had Stubb really abandoned the poor little negro to his fate? No;\nhe did not mean to, at least. Because there were two boats in his wake,\nand he supposed, no doubt, that they would of course come up to Pip\nvery quickly, and pick him up; though, indeed, such considerations\ntowards oarsmen jeopardized through their own timidity, is not always\nmanifested by the hunters in all similar instances; and such instances\nnot unfrequently occur; almost invariably in the fishery, a coward, so\ncalled, is marked with the same ruthless detestation peculiar to\nmilitary navies and armies.\n\nBut it so happened, that those boats, without seeing Pip, suddenly\nspying whales close to them on one side, turned, and gave chase; and\nStubb s boat was now so far away, and he and all his crew so intent\nupon his fish, that Pip s ringed horizon began to expand around him\nmiserably. By the merest chance the ship itself at last rescued him;\nbut from that hour the little negro went about the deck an idiot; such,\nat least, they said he was. The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body\nup, but drowned the infinite of his soul. Not drowned entirely, though.\nRather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of\nthe unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes;\nand the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the\njoyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous,\nGod-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters\nheaved the colossal orbs. He saw God s foot upon the treadle of the\nloom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad. So\nman s insanity is heaven s sense; and wandering from all mortal reason,\nman comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is\nabsurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised,\nindifferent as his God.\n\nFor the rest, blame not Stubb too hardly. The thing is common in that\nfishery; and in the sequel of the narrative, it will then be seen what\nlike abandonment befell myself.\n\n\nCHAPTER 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.\n\nThat whale of Stubb s, so dearly purchased, was duly brought to the\nPequod s side, where all those cutting and hoisting operations\npreviously detailed, were regularly gone through, even to the baling of\nthe Heidelburgh Tun, or Case.\n\nWhile some were occupied with this latter duty, others were employed in\ndragging away the larger tubs, so soon as filled with the sperm; and\nwhen the proper time arrived, this same sperm was carefully manipulated\nere going to the try-works, of which anon.\n\nIt had cooled and crystallized to such a degree, that when, with\nseveral others, I sat down before a large Constantine s bath of it, I\nfound it strangely concreted into lumps, here and there rolling about\nin the liquid part. It was our business to squeeze these lumps back\ninto fluid. A sweet and unctuous duty! No wonder that in old times this\nsperm was such a favourite cosmetic. Such a clearer! such a sweetener!\nsuch a softener! such a delicious molifier! After having my hands in it\nfor only a few minutes, my fingers felt like eels, and began, as it\nwere, to serpentine and spiralise.\n\nAs I sat there at my ease, cross-legged on the deck; after the bitter\nexertion at the windlass; under a blue tranquil sky; the ship under\nindolent sail, and gliding so serenely along; as I bathed my hands\namong those soft, gentle globules of infiltrated tissues, woven almost\nwithin the hour; as they richly broke to my fingers, and discharged all\ntheir opulence, like fully ripe grapes their wine; as I snuffed up that\nuncontaminated aroma, literally and truly, like the smell of spring\nviolets; I declare to you, that for the time I lived as in a musky\nmeadow; I forgot all about our horrible oath; in that inexpressible\nsperm, I washed my hands and my heart of it; I almost began to credit\nthe old Paracelsan superstition that sperm is of rare virtue in\nallaying the heat of anger; while bathing in that bath, I felt divinely\nfree from all ill-will, or petulance, or malice, of any sort\nwhatsoever.\n\nSqueeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm\ntill I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a\nstrange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly\nsqueezing my co-laborers  hands in it, mistaking their hands for the\ngentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving\nfeeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually\nsqueezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as\nmuch as to say, Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish\nany social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come;\nlet us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into\neach other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and\nsperm of kindness.\n\nWould that I could keep squeezing that sperm for ever! For now, since\nby many prolonged, repeated experiences, I have perceived that in all\ncases man must eventually lower, or at least shift, his conceit of\nattainable felicity; not placing it anywhere in the intellect or the\nfancy; but in the wife, the heart, the bed, the table, the saddle, the\nfireside, the country; now that I have perceived all this, I am ready\nto squeeze case eternally. In thoughts of the visions of the night, I\nsaw long rows of angels in paradise, each with his hands in a jar of\nspermaceti.\n\nNow, while discoursing of sperm, it behooves to speak of other things\nakin to it, in the business of preparing the sperm whale for the\ntry-works.\n\nFirst comes white-horse, so called, which is obtained from the tapering\npart of the fish, and also from the thicker portions of his flukes. It\nis tough with congealed tendons a wad of muscle but still contains some\noil. After being severed from the whale, the white-horse is first cut\ninto portable oblongs ere going to the mincer. They look much like\nblocks of Berkshire marble.\n\nPlum-pudding is the term bestowed upon certain fragmentary parts of the\nwhale s flesh, here and there adhering to the blanket of blubber, and\noften participating to a considerable degree in its unctuousness. It is\na most refreshing, convivial, beautiful object to behold. As its name\nimports, it is of an exceedingly rich, mottled tint, with a bestreaked\nsnowy and golden ground, dotted with spots of the deepest crimson and\npurple. It is plums of rubies, in pictures of citron. Spite of reason,\nit is hard to keep yourself from eating it. I confess, that once I\nstole behind the foremast to try it. It tasted something as I should\nconceive a royal cutlet from the thigh of Louis le Gros might have\ntasted, supposing him to have been killed the first day after the\nvenison season, and that particular venison season contemporary with an\nunusually fine vintage of the vineyards of Champagne.\n\nThere is another substance, and a very singular one, which turns up in\nthe course of this business, but which I feel it to be very puzzling\nadequately to describe. It is called slobgollion; an appellation\noriginal with the whalemen, and even so is the nature of the substance.\nIt is an ineffably oozy, stringy affair, most frequently found in the\ntubs of sperm, after a prolonged squeezing, and subsequent decanting. I\nhold it to be the wondrously thin, ruptured membranes of the case,\ncoalescing.\n\nGurry, so called, is a term properly belonging to right whalemen, but\nsometimes incidentally used by the sperm fishermen. It designates the\ndark, glutinous substance which is scraped off the back of the\nGreenland or right whale, and much of which covers the decks of those\ninferior souls who hunt that ignoble Leviathan.\n\nNippers. Strictly this word is not indigenous to the whale s\nvocabulary. But as applied by whalemen, it becomes so. A whaleman s\nnipper is a short firm strip of tendinous stuff cut from the tapering\npart of Leviathan s tail: it averages an inch in thickness, and for the\nrest, is about the size of the iron part of a hoe. Edgewise moved along\nthe oily deck, it operates like a leathern squilgee; and by nameless\nblandishments, as of magic, allures along with it all impurities.\n\nBut to learn all about these recondite matters, your best way is at\nonce to descend into the blubber-room, and have a long talk with its\ninmates. This place has previously been mentioned as the receptacle for\nthe blanket-pieces, when stript and hoisted from the whale. When the\nproper time arrives for cutting up its contents, this apartment is a\nscene of terror to all tyros, especially by night. On one side, lit by\na dull lantern, a space has been left clear for the workmen. They\ngenerally go in pairs, a pike-and-gaffman and a spade-man. The\nwhaling-pike is similar to a frigate s boarding-weapon of the same\nname. The gaff is something like a boat-hook. With his gaff, the\ngaffman hooks on to a sheet of blubber, and strives to hold it from\nslipping, as the ship pitches and lurches about. Meanwhile, the\nspade-man stands on the sheet itself, perpendicularly chopping it into\nthe portable horse-pieces. This spade is sharp as hone can make it; the\nspademan s feet are shoeless; the thing he stands on will sometimes\nirresistibly slide away from him, like a sledge. If he cuts off one of\nhis own toes, or one of his assistants , would you be very much\nastonished? Toes are scarce among veteran blubber-room men.\n\n\nCHAPTER 95. The Cassock.\n\nHad you stepped on board the Pequod at a certain juncture of this\npost-mortemizing of the whale; and had you strolled forward nigh the\nwindlass, pretty sure am I that you would have scanned with no small\ncuriosity a very strange, enigmatical object, which you would have seen\nthere, lying along lengthwise in the lee scuppers. Not the wondrous\ncistern in the whale s huge head; not the prodigy of his unhinged lower\njaw; not the miracle of his symmetrical tail; none of these would so\nsurprise you, as half a glimpse of that unaccountable cone, longer than\na Kentuckian is tall, nigh a foot in diameter at the base, and\njet-black as Yojo, the ebony idol of Queequeg. And an idol, indeed, it\nis; or, rather, in old times, its likeness was. Such an idol as that\nfound in the secret groves of Queen Maachah in Judea; and for\nworshipping which, King Asa, her son, did depose her, and destroyed the\nidol, and burnt it for an abomination at the brook Kedron, as darkly\nset forth in the 15th chapter of the First Book of Kings.\n\nLook at the sailor, called the mincer, who now comes along, and\nassisted by two allies, heavily backs the grandissimus, as the mariners\ncall it, and with bowed shoulders, staggers off with it as if he were a\ngrenadier carrying a dead comrade from the field. Extending it upon the\nforecastle deck, he now proceeds cylindrically to remove its dark pelt,\nas an African hunter the pelt of a boa. This done he turns the pelt\ninside out, like a pantaloon leg; gives it a good stretching, so as\nalmost to double its diameter; and at last hangs it, well spread, in\nthe rigging, to dry. Ere long, it is taken down; when removing some\nthree feet of it, towards the pointed extremity, and then cutting two\nslits for arm-holes at the other end, he lengthwise slips himself\nbodily into it. The mincer now stands before you invested in the full\ncanonicals of his calling. Immemorial to all his order, this\ninvestiture alone will adequately protect him, while employed in the\npeculiar functions of his office.\n\nThat office consists in mincing the horse-pieces of blubber for the\npots; an operation which is conducted at a curious wooden horse,\nplanted endwise against the bulwarks, and with a capacious tub beneath\nit, into which the minced pieces drop, fast as the sheets from a rapt\norator s desk. Arrayed in decent black; occupying a conspicuous pulpit;\nintent on bible leaves; what a candidate for an archbishopric, what a\nlad for a Pope were this mincer!*\n\n*Bible leaves! Bible leaves! This is the invariable cry from the mates\nto the mincer. It enjoins him to be careful, and cut his work into as\nthin slices as possible, inasmuch as by so doing the business of\nboiling out the oil is much accelerated, and its quantity considerably\nincreased, besides perhaps improving it in quality.\n\n\nCHAPTER 96. The Try-Works.\n\nBesides her hoisted boats, an American whaler is outwardly\ndistinguished by her try-works. She presents the curious anomaly of the\nmost solid masonry joining with oak and hemp in constituting the\ncompleted ship. It is as if from the open field a brick-kiln were\ntransported to her planks.\n\nThe try-works are planted between the foremast and mainmast, the most\nroomy part of the deck. The timbers beneath are of a peculiar strength,\nfitted to sustain the weight of an almost solid mass of brick and\nmortar, some ten feet by eight square, and five in height. The\nfoundation does not penetrate the deck, but the masonry is firmly\nsecured to the surface by ponderous knees of iron bracing it on all\nsides, and screwing it down to the timbers. On the flanks it is cased\nwith wood, and at top completely covered by a large, sloping, battened\nhatchway. Removing this hatch we expose the great try-pots, two in\nnumber, and each of several barrels  capacity. When not in use, they\nare kept remarkably clean. Sometimes they are polished with soapstone\nand sand, till they shine within like silver punch-bowls. During the\nnight-watches some cynical old sailors will crawl into them and coil\nthemselves away there for a nap. While employed in polishing them one\nman in each pot, side by side many confidential communications are\ncarried on, over the iron lips. It is a place also for profound\nmathematical meditation. It was in the left hand try-pot of the Pequod,\nwith the soapstone diligently circling round me, that I was first\nindirectly struck by the remarkable fact, that in geometry all bodies\ngliding along the cycloid, my soapstone for example, will descend from\nany point in precisely the same time.\n\nRemoving the fire-board from the front of the try-works, the bare\nmasonry of that side is exposed, penetrated by the two iron mouths of\nthe furnaces, directly underneath the pots. These mouths are fitted\nwith heavy doors of iron. The intense heat of the fire is prevented\nfrom communicating itself to the deck, by means of a shallow reservoir\nextending under the entire inclosed surface of the works. By a tunnel\ninserted at the rear, this reservoir is kept replenished with water as\nfast as it evaporates. There are no external chimneys; they open direct\nfrom the rear wall. And here let us go back for a moment.\n\nIt was about nine o clock at night that the Pequod s try-works were\nfirst started on this present voyage. It belonged to Stubb to oversee\nthe business.\n\n All ready there? Off hatch, then, and start her. You cook, fire the\nworks.  This was an easy thing, for the carpenter had been thrusting\nhis shavings into the furnace throughout the passage. Here be it said\nthat in a whaling voyage the first fire in the try-works has to be fed\nfor a time with wood. After that no wood is used, except as a means of\nquick ignition to the staple fuel. In a word, after being tried out,\nthe crisp, shrivelled blubber, now called scraps or fritters, still\ncontains considerable of its unctuous properties. These fritters feed\nthe flames. Like a plethoric burning martyr, or a self-consuming\nmisanthrope, once ignited, the whale supplies his own fuel and burns by\nhis own body. Would that he consumed his own smoke! for his smoke is\nhorrible to inhale, and inhale it you must, and not only that, but you\nmust live in it for the time. It has an unspeakable, wild, Hindoo odor\nabout it, such as may lurk in the vicinity of funereal pyres. It smells\nlike the left wing of the day of judgment; it is an argument for the\npit.\n\nBy midnight the works were in full operation. We were clear from the\ncarcase; sail had been made; the wind was freshening; the wild ocean\ndarkness was intense. But that darkness was licked up by the fierce\nflames, which at intervals forked forth from the sooty flues, and\nilluminated every lofty rope in the rigging, as with the famed Greek\nfire. The burning ship drove on, as if remorselessly commissioned to\nsome vengeful deed. So the pitch and sulphur-freighted brigs of the\nbold Hydriote, Canaris, issuing from their midnight harbors, with broad\nsheets of flame for sails, bore down upon the Turkish frigates, and\nfolded them in conflagrations.\n\nThe hatch, removed from the top of the works, now afforded a wide\nhearth in front of them. Standing on this were the Tartarean shapes of\nthe pagan harpooneers, always the whale-ship s stokers. With huge\npronged poles they pitched hissing masses of blubber into the scalding\npots, or stirred up the fires beneath, till the snaky flames darted,\ncurling, out of the doors to catch them by the feet. The smoke rolled\naway in sullen heaps. To every pitch of the ship there was a pitch of\nthe boiling oil, which seemed all eagerness to leap into their faces.\nOpposite the mouth of the works, on the further side of the wide wooden\nhearth, was the windlass. This served for a sea-sofa. Here lounged the\nwatch, when not otherwise employed, looking into the red heat of the\nfire, till their eyes felt scorched in their heads. Their tawny\nfeatures, now all begrimed with smoke and sweat, their matted beards,\nand the contrasting barbaric brilliancy of their teeth, all these were\nstrangely revealed in the capricious emblazonings of the works. As they\nnarrated to each other their unholy adventures, their tales of terror\ntold in words of mirth; as their uncivilized laughter forked upwards\nout of them, like the flames from the furnace; as to and fro, in their\nfront, the harpooneers wildly gesticulated with their huge pronged\nforks and dippers; as the wind howled on, and the sea leaped, and the\nship groaned and dived, and yet steadfastly shot her red hell further\nand further into the blackness of the sea and the night, and scornfully\nchamped the white bone in her mouth, and viciously spat round her on\nall sides; then the rushing Pequod, freighted with savages, and laden\nwith fire, and burning a corpse, and plunging into that blackness of\ndarkness, seemed the material counterpart of her monomaniac commander s\nsoul.\n\nSo seemed it to me, as I stood at her helm, and for long hours silently\nguided the way of this fire-ship on the sea. Wrapped, for that\ninterval, in darkness myself, I but the better saw the redness, the\nmadness, the ghastliness of others. The continual sight of the fiend\nshapes before me, capering half in smoke and half in fire, these at\nlast begat kindred visions in my soul, so soon as I began to yield to\nthat unaccountable drowsiness which ever would come over me at a\nmidnight helm.\n\nBut that night, in particular, a strange (and ever since inexplicable)\nthing occurred to me. Starting from a brief standing sleep, I was\nhorribly conscious of something fatally wrong. The jaw-bone tiller\nsmote my side, which leaned against it; in my ears was the low hum of\nsails, just beginning to shake in the wind; I thought my eyes were\nopen; I was half conscious of putting my fingers to the lids and\nmechanically stretching them still further apart. But, spite of all\nthis, I could see no compass before me to steer by; though it seemed\nbut a minute since I had been watching the card, by the steady binnacle\nlamp illuminating it. Nothing seemed before me but a jet gloom, now and\nthen made ghastly by flashes of redness. Uppermost was the impression,\nthat whatever swift, rushing thing I stood on was not so much bound to\nany haven ahead as rushing from all havens astern. A stark, bewildered\nfeeling, as of death, came over me. Convulsively my hands grasped the\ntiller, but with the crazy conceit that the tiller was, somehow, in\nsome enchanted way, inverted. My God! what is the matter with me?\nthought I. Lo! in my brief sleep I had turned myself about, and was\nfronting the ship s stern, with my back to her prow and the compass. In\nan instant I faced back, just in time to prevent the vessel from flying\nup into the wind, and very probably capsizing her. How glad and how\ngrateful the relief from this unnatural hallucination of the night, and\nthe fatal contingency of being brought by the lee!\n\nLook not too long in the face of the fire, O man! Never dream with thy\nhand on the helm! Turn not thy back to the compass; accept the first\nhint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its\nredness makes all things look ghastly. To-morrow, in the natural sun,\nthe skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking\nflames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the\nglorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp all others but liars!\n\nNevertheless the sun hides not Virginia s Dismal Swamp, nor Rome s\naccursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of\ndeserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean,\nwhich is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this\nearth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow\nin him, that mortal man cannot be true not true, or undeveloped. With\nbooks the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the\ntruest of all books is Solomon s, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered\nsteel of woe.  All is vanity.  ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold\nof unchristian Solomon s wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and\njails, and walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of\noperas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor devils\nall of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais\nas passing wise, and therefore jolly; not that man is fitted to sit\ndown on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably\nwondrous Solomon.\n\nBut even Solomon, he says,  the man that wandereth out of the way of\nunderstanding shall remain  (_i.e._, even while living)  in the\ncongregation of the dead.  Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it\ninvert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom\nthat is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a\nCatskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest\ngorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny\nspaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is\nin the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle\nis still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.\n\n\nCHAPTER 97. The Lamp.\n\nHad you descended from the Pequod s try-works to the Pequod s\nforecastle, where the off duty watch were sleeping, for one single\nmoment you would have almost thought you were standing in some\nilluminated shrine of canonized kings and counsellors. There they lay\nin their triangular oaken vaults, each mariner a chiselled muteness; a\nscore of lamps flashing upon his hooded eyes.\n\nIn merchantmen, oil for the sailor is more scarce than the milk of\nqueens. To dress in the dark, and eat in the dark, and stumble in\ndarkness to his pallet, this is his usual lot. But the whaleman, as he\nseeks the food of light, so he lives in light. He makes his berth an\nAladdin s lamp, and lays him down in it; so that in the pitchiest night\nthe ship s black hull still houses an illumination.\n\nSee with what entire freedom the whaleman takes his handful of\nlamps often but old bottles and vials, though to the copper cooler at\nthe try-works, and replenishes them there, as mugs of ale at a vat. He\nburns, too, the purest of oil, in its unmanufactured, and, therefore,\nunvitiated state; a fluid unknown to solar, lunar, or astral\ncontrivances ashore. It is sweet as early grass butter in April. He\ngoes and hunts for his oil, so as to be sure of its freshness and\ngenuineness, even as the traveller on the prairie hunts up his own\nsupper of game.\n\n\nCHAPTER 98. Stowing Down and Clearing Up.\n\nAlready has it been related how the great leviathan is afar off\ndescried from the mast-head; how he is chased over the watery moors,\nand slaughtered in the valleys of the deep; how he is then towed\nalongside and beheaded; and how (on the principle which entitled the\nheadsman of old to the garments in which the beheaded was killed) his\ngreat padded surtout becomes the property of his executioner; how, in\ndue time, he is condemned to the pots, and, like Shadrach, Meshach, and\nAbednego, his spermaceti, oil, and bone pass unscathed through the\nfire; but now it remains to conclude the last chapter of this part of\nthe description by rehearsing singing, if I may the romantic proceeding\nof decanting off his oil into the casks and striking them down into the\nhold, where once again leviathan returns to his native profundities,\nsliding along beneath the surface as before; but, alas! never more to\nrise and blow.\n\nWhile still warm, the oil, like hot punch, is received into the\nsix-barrel casks; and while, perhaps, the ship is pitching and rolling\nthis way and that in the midnight sea, the enormous casks are slewed\nround and headed over, end for end, and sometimes perilously scoot\nacross the slippery deck, like so many land slides, till at last\nman-handled and stayed in their course; and all round the hoops, rap,\nrap, go as many hammers as can play upon them, for now, _ex officio_,\nevery sailor is a cooper.\n\nAt length, when the last pint is casked, and all is cool, then the\ngreat hatchways are unsealed, the bowels of the ship are thrown open,\nand down go the casks to their final rest in the sea. This done, the\nhatches are replaced, and hermetically closed, like a closet walled up.\n\nIn the sperm fishery, this is perhaps one of the most remarkable\nincidents in all the business of whaling. One day the planks stream\nwith freshets of blood and oil; on the sacred quarter-deck enormous\nmasses of the whale s head are profanely piled; great rusty casks lie\nabout, as in a brewery yard; the smoke from the try-works has besooted\nall the bulwarks; the mariners go about suffused with unctuousness; the\nentire ship seems great leviathan himself; while on all hands the din\nis deafening.\n\nBut a day or two after, you look about you, and prick your ears in this\nself-same ship; and were it not for the tell-tale boats and try-works,\nyou would all but swear you trod some silent merchant vessel, with a\nmost scrupulously neat commander. The unmanufactured sperm oil\npossesses a singularly cleansing virtue. This is the reason why the\ndecks never look so white as just after what they call an affair of\noil. Besides, from the ashes of the burned scraps of the whale, a\npotent lye is readily made; and whenever any adhesiveness from the back\nof the whale remains clinging to the side, that lye quickly\nexterminates it. Hands go diligently along the bulwarks, and with\nbuckets of water and rags restore them to their full tidiness. The soot\nis brushed from the lower rigging. All the numerous implements which\nhave been in use are likewise faithfully cleansed and put away. The\ngreat hatch is scrubbed and placed upon the try-works, completely\nhiding the pots; every cask is out of sight; all tackles are coiled in\nunseen nooks; and when by the combined and simultaneous industry of\nalmost the entire ship s company, the whole of this conscientious duty\nis at last concluded, then the crew themselves proceed to their own\nablutions; shift themselves from top to toe; and finally issue to the\nimmaculate deck, fresh and all aglow, as bridegrooms new-leaped from\nout the daintiest Holland.\n\nNow, with elated step, they pace the planks in twos and threes, and\nhumorously discourse of parlors, sofas, carpets, and fine cambrics;\npropose to mat the deck; think of having hanging to the top; object not\nto taking tea by moonlight on the piazza of the forecastle. To hint to\nsuch musked mariners of oil, and bone, and blubber, were little short\nof audacity. They know not the thing you distantly allude to. Away, and\nbring us napkins!\n\nBut mark: aloft there, at the three mast heads, stand three men intent\non spying out more whales, which, if caught, infallibly will again soil\nthe old oaken furniture, and drop at least one small grease-spot\nsomewhere. Yes; and many is the time, when, after the severest\nuninterrupted labors, which know no night; continuing straight through\nfor ninety-six hours; when from the boat, where they have swelled their\nwrists with all day rowing on the Line, they only step to the deck to\ncarry vast chains, and heave the heavy windlass, and cut and slash,\nyea, and in their very sweatings to be smoked and burned anew by the\ncombined fires of the equatorial sun and the equatorial try-works;\nwhen, on the heel of all this, they have finally bestirred themselves\nto cleanse the ship, and make a spotless dairy room of it; many is the\ntime the poor fellows, just buttoning the necks of their clean frocks,\nare startled by the cry of  There she blows!  and away they fly to\nfight another whale, and go through the whole weary thing again. Oh! my\nfriends, but this is man-killing! Yet this is life. For hardly have we\nmortals by long toilings extracted from this world s vast bulk its\nsmall but valuable sperm; and then, with weary patience, cleansed\nourselves from its defilements, and learned to live here in clean\ntabernacles of the soul; hardly is this done, when _There she\nblows!_ the ghost is spouted up, and away we sail to fight some other\nworld, and go through young life s old routine again.\n\nOh! the metempsychosis! Oh! Pythagoras, that in bright Greece, two\nthousand years ago, did die, so good, so wise, so mild; I sailed with\nthee along the Peruvian coast last voyage and, foolish as I am, taught\nthee, a green simple boy, how to splice a rope!\n\n\nCHAPTER 99. The Doubloon.\n\nEre now it has been related how Ahab was wont to pace his quarter-deck,\ntaking regular turns at either limit, the binnacle and mainmast; but in\nthe multiplicity of other things requiring narration it has not been\nadded how that sometimes in these walks, when most plunged in his mood,\nhe was wont to pause in turn at each spot, and stand there strangely\neyeing the particular object before him. When he halted before the\nbinnacle, with his glance fastened on the pointed needle in the\ncompass, that glance shot like a javelin with the pointed intensity of\nhis purpose; and when resuming his walk he again paused before the\nmainmast, then, as the same riveted glance fastened upon the riveted\ngold coin there, he still wore the same aspect of nailed firmness, only\ndashed with a certain wild longing, if not hopefulness.\n\nBut one morning, turning to pass the doubloon, he seemed to be newly\nattracted by the strange figures and inscriptions stamped on it, as\nthough now for the first time beginning to interpret for himself in\nsome monomaniac way whatever significance might lurk in them. And some\ncertain significance lurks in all things, else all things are little\nworth, and the round world itself but an empty cipher, except to sell\nby the cartload, as they do hills about Boston, to fill up some morass\nin the Milky Way.\n\nNow this doubloon was of purest, virgin gold, raked somewhere out of\nthe heart of gorgeous hills, whence, east and west, over golden sands,\nthe head-waters of many a Pactolus flows. And though now nailed amidst\nall the rustiness of iron bolts and the verdigris of copper spikes,\nyet, untouchable and immaculate to any foulness, it still preserved its\nQuito glow. Nor, though placed amongst a ruthless crew and every hour\npassed by ruthless hands, and through the livelong nights shrouded with\nthick darkness which might cover any pilfering approach, nevertheless\nevery sunrise found the doubloon where the sunset left it last. For it\nwas set apart and sanctified to one awe-striking end; and however\nwanton in their sailor ways, one and all, the mariners revered it as\nthe white whale s talisman. Sometimes they talked it over in the weary\nwatch by night, wondering whose it was to be at last, and whether he\nwould ever live to spend it.\n\nNow those noble golden coins of South America are as medals of the sun\nand tropic token-pieces. Here palms, alpacas, and volcanoes; sun s\ndisks and stars; ecliptics, horns-of-plenty, and rich banners waving,\nare in luxuriant profusion stamped; so that the precious gold seems\nalmost to derive an added preciousness and enhancing glories, by\npassing through those fancy mints, so Spanishly poetic.\n\nIt so chanced that the doubloon of the Pequod was a most wealthy\nexample of these things. On its round border it bore the letters,\nREPUBLICA DEL ECUADOR: QUITO. So this bright coin came from a country\nplanted in the middle of the world, and beneath the great equator, and\nnamed after it; and it had been cast midway up the Andes, in the\nunwaning clime that knows no autumn. Zoned by those letters you saw the\nlikeness of three Andes  summits; from one a flame; a tower on another;\non the third a crowing cock; while arching over all was a segment of\nthe partitioned zodiac, the signs all marked with their usual\ncabalistics, and the keystone sun entering the equinoctial point at\nLibra.\n\nBefore this equatorial coin, Ahab, not unobserved by others, was now\npausing.\n\n There s something ever egotistical in mountain-tops and towers, and\nall other grand and lofty things; look here, three peaks as proud as\nLucifer. The firm tower, that is Ahab; the volcano, that is Ahab; the\ncourageous, the undaunted, and victorious fowl, that, too, is Ahab; all\nare Ahab; and this round gold is but the image of the rounder globe,\nwhich, like a magician s glass, to each and every man in turn but\nmirrors back his own mysterious self. Great pains, small gains for\nthose who ask the world to solve them; it cannot solve itself. Methinks\nnow this coined sun wears a ruddy face; but see! aye, he enters the\nsign of storms, the equinox! and but six months before he wheeled out\nof a former equinox at Aries! From storm to storm! So be it, then. Born\nin throes,  tis fit that man should live in pains and die in pangs! So\nbe it, then! Here s stout stuff for woe to work on. So be it, then. \n\n No fairy fingers can have pressed the gold, but devil s claws must\nhave left their mouldings there since yesterday,  murmured Starbuck to\nhimself, leaning against the bulwarks.  The old man seems to read\nBelshazzar s awful writing. I have never marked the coin inspectingly.\nHe goes below; let me read. A dark valley between three mighty,\nheaven-abiding peaks, that almost seem the Trinity, in some faint\nearthly symbol. So in this vale of Death, God girds us round; and over\nall our gloom, the sun of Righteousness still shines a beacon and a\nhope. If we bend down our eyes, the dark vale shows her mouldy soil;\nbut if we lift them, the bright sun meets our glance half way, to\ncheer. Yet, oh, the great sun is no fixture; and if, at midnight, we\nwould fain snatch some sweet solace from him, we gaze for him in vain!\nThis coin speaks wisely, mildly, truly, but still sadly to me. I will\nquit it, lest Truth shake me falsely. \n\n There now s the old Mogul,  soliloquized Stubb by the try-works,  he s\nbeen twigging it; and there goes Starbuck from the same, and both with\nfaces which I should say might be somewhere within nine fathoms long.\nAnd all from looking at a piece of gold, which did I have it now on\nNegro Hill or in Corlaer s Hook, I d not look at it very long ere\nspending it. Humph! in my poor, insignificant opinion, I regard this as\nqueer. I have seen doubloons before now in my voyagings; your doubloons\nof old Spain, your doubloons of Peru, your doubloons of Chili, your\ndoubloons of Bolivia, your doubloons of Popayan; with plenty of gold\nmoidores and pistoles, and joes, and half joes, and quarter joes. What\nthen should there be in this doubloon of the Equator that is so killing\nwonderful? By Golconda! let me read it once. Halloa! here s signs and\nwonders truly! That, now, is what old Bowditch in his Epitome calls the\nzodiac, and what my almanac below calls ditto. I ll get the almanac and\nas I have heard devils can be raised with Daboll s arithmetic, I ll try\nmy hand at raising a meaning out of these queer curvicues here with the\nMassachusetts calendar. Here s the book. Let s see now. Signs and\nwonders; and the sun, he s always among  em. Hem, hem, hem; here they\nare here they go all alive: Aries, or the Ram; Taurus, or the Bull and\nJimimi! here s Gemini himself, or the Twins. Well; the sun he wheels\namong  em. Aye, here on the coin he s just crossing the threshold\nbetween two of twelve sitting-rooms all in a ring. Book! you lie there;\nthe fact is, you books must know your places. You ll do to give us the\nbare words and facts, but we come in to supply the thoughts. That s my\nsmall experience, so far as the Massachusetts calendar, and Bowditch s\nnavigator, and Daboll s arithmetic go. Signs and wonders, eh? Pity if\nthere is nothing wonderful in signs, and significant in wonders!\nThere s a clue somewhere; wait a bit; hist hark! By Jove, I have it!\nLook you, Doubloon, your zodiac here is the life of man in one round\nchapter; and now I ll read it off, straight out of the book. Come,\nAlmanack! To begin: there s Aries, or the Ram lecherous dog, he begets\nus; then, Taurus, or the Bull he bumps us the first thing; then Gemini,\nor the Twins that is, Virtue and Vice; we try to reach Virtue, when lo!\ncomes Cancer the Crab, and drags us back; and here, going from Virtue,\nLeo, a roaring Lion, lies in the path he gives a few fierce bites and\nsurly dabs with his paw; we escape, and hail Virgo, the Virgin! that s\nour first love; we marry and think to be happy for aye, when pop comes\nLibra, or the Scales happiness weighed and found wanting; and while we\nare very sad about that, Lord! how we suddenly jump, as Scorpio, or the\nScorpion, stings us in the rear; we are curing the wound, when whang\ncome the arrows all round; Sagittarius, or the Archer, is amusing\nhimself. As we pluck out the shafts, stand aside! here s the\nbattering-ram, Capricornus, or the Goat; full tilt, he comes rushing,\nand headlong we are tossed; when Aquarius, or the Water-bearer, pours\nout his whole deluge and drowns us; and to wind up with Pisces, or the\nFishes, we sleep. There s a sermon now, writ in high heaven, and the\nsun goes through it every year, and yet comes out of it all alive and\nhearty. Jollily he, aloft there, wheels through toil and trouble; and\nso, alow here, does jolly Stubb. Oh, jolly s the word for aye! Adieu,\nDoubloon! But stop; here comes little King-Post; dodge round the\ntry-works, now, and let s hear what he ll have to say. There; he s\nbefore it; he ll out with something presently. So, so; he s beginning. \n\n I see nothing here, but a round thing made of gold, and whoever raises\na certain whale, this round thing belongs to him. So, what s all this\nstaring been about? It is worth sixteen dollars, that s true; and at\ntwo cents the cigar, that s nine hundred and sixty cigars. I won t\nsmoke dirty pipes like Stubb, but I like cigars, and here s nine\nhundred and sixty of them; so here goes Flask aloft to spy  em out. \n\n Shall I call that wise or foolish, now; if it be really wise it has a\nfoolish look to it; yet, if it be really foolish, then has it a sort of\nwiseish look to it. But, avast; here comes our old Manxman the old\nhearse-driver, he must have been, that is, before he took to the sea.\nHe luffs up before the doubloon; halloa, and goes round on the other\nside of the mast; why, there s a horse-shoe nailed on that side; and\nnow he s back again; what does that mean? Hark! he s muttering voice\nlike an old worn-out coffee-mill. Prick ears, and listen! \n\n If the White Whale be raised, it must be in a month and a day, when\nthe sun stands in some one of these signs. I ve studied signs, and know\ntheir marks; they were taught me two score years ago, by the old witch\nin Copenhagen. Now, in what sign will the sun then be? The horse-shoe\nsign; for there it is, right opposite the gold. And what s the\nhorse-shoe sign? The lion is the horse-shoe sign the roaring and\ndevouring lion. Ship, old ship! my old head shakes to think of thee. \n\n There s another rendering now; but still one text. All sorts of men in\none kind of world, you see. Dodge again! here comes Queequeg all\ntattooing looks like the signs of the Zodiac himself. What says the\nCannibal? As I live he s comparing notes; looking at his thigh bone;\nthinks the sun is in the thigh, or in the calf, or in the bowels, I\nsuppose, as the old women talk Surgeon s Astronomy in the back country.\nAnd by Jove, he s found something there in the vicinity of his thigh I\nguess it s Sagittarius, or the Archer. No: he don t know what to make\nof the doubloon; he takes it for an old button off some king s\ntrowsers. But, aside again! here comes that ghost-devil, Fedallah; tail\ncoiled out of sight as usual, oakum in the toes of his pumps as usual.\nWhat does he say, with that look of his? Ah, only makes a sign to the\nsign and bows himself; there is a sun on the coin fire worshipper,\ndepend upon it. Ho! more and more. This way comes Pip poor boy! would\nhe had died, or I; he s half horrible to me. He too has been watching\nall of these interpreters myself included and look now, he comes to\nread, with that unearthly idiot face. Stand away again and hear him.\nHark! \n\n I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look. \n\n Upon my soul, he s been studying Murray s Grammar! Improving his mind,\npoor fellow! But what s that he says now hist! \n\n I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look. \n\n Why, he s getting it by heart hist! again. \n\n I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look. \n\n Well, that s funny. \n\n And I, you, and he; and we, ye, and they, are all bats; and I m a\ncrow, especially when I stand a top of this pine tree here. Caw! caw!\ncaw! caw! caw! caw! Ain t I a crow? And where s the scare-crow? There\nhe stands; two bones stuck into a pair of old trowsers, and two more\npoked into the sleeves of an old jacket. \n\n Wonder if he means me? complimentary! poor lad! I could go hang\nmyself. Any way, for the present, I ll quit Pip s vicinity. I can stand\nthe rest, for they have plain wits; but he s too crazy-witty for my\nsanity. So, so, I leave him muttering. \n\n Here s the ship s navel, this doubloon here, and they are all on fire\nto unscrew it. But, unscrew your navel, and what s the consequence?\nThen again, if it stays here, that is ugly, too, for when aught s\nnailed to the mast it s a sign that things grow desperate. Ha, ha! old\nAhab! the White Whale; he ll nail ye! This is a pine tree. My father,\nin old Tolland county, cut down a pine tree once, and found a silver\nring grown over in it; some old darkey s wedding ring. How did it get\nthere? And so they ll say in the resurrection, when they come to fish\nup this old mast, and find a doubloon lodged in it, with bedded oysters\nfor the shaggy bark. Oh, the gold! the precious, precious, gold! the\ngreen miser ll hoard ye soon! Hish! hish! God goes  mong the worlds\nblackberrying. Cook! ho, cook! and cook us! Jenny! hey, hey, hey, hey,\nhey, Jenny, Jenny! and get your hoe-cake done! \n\n\nCHAPTER 100. Leg and Arm.\n\nThe Pequod, of Nantucket, Meets the Samuel Enderby, of London.\n\n Ship, ahoy! Hast seen the White Whale? \n\nSo cried Ahab, once more hailing a ship showing English colours,\nbearing down under the stern. Trumpet to mouth, the old man was\nstanding in his hoisted quarter-boat, his ivory leg plainly revealed to\nthe stranger captain, who was carelessly reclining in his own boat s\nbow. He was a darkly-tanned, burly, good-natured, fine-looking man, of\nsixty or thereabouts, dressed in a spacious roundabout, that hung round\nhim in festoons of blue pilot-cloth; and one empty arm of this jacket\nstreamed behind him like the broidered arm of a hussar s surcoat.\n\n Hast seen the White Whale? \n\n See you this?  and withdrawing it from the folds that had hidden it,\nhe held up a white arm of sperm whale bone, terminating in a wooden\nhead like a mallet.\n\n Man my boat!  cried Ahab, impetuously, and tossing about the oars near\nhim Stand by to lower! \n\nIn less than a minute, without quitting his little craft, he and his\ncrew were dropped to the water, and were soon alongside of the\nstranger. But here a curious difficulty presented itself. In the\nexcitement of the moment, Ahab had forgotten that since the loss of his\nleg he had never once stepped on board of any vessel at sea but his\nown, and then it was always by an ingenious and very handy mechanical\ncontrivance peculiar to the Pequod, and a thing not to be rigged and\nshipped in any other vessel at a moment s warning. Now, it is no very\neasy matter for anybody except those who are almost hourly used to it,\nlike whalemen to clamber up a ship s side from a boat on the open sea;\nfor the great swells now lift the boat high up towards the bulwarks,\nand then instantaneously drop it half way down to the kelson. So,\ndeprived of one leg, and the strange ship of course being altogether\nunsupplied with the kindly invention, Ahab now found himself abjectly\nreduced to a clumsy landsman again; hopelessly eyeing the uncertain\nchangeful height he could hardly hope to attain.\n\nIt has before been hinted, perhaps, that every little untoward\ncircumstance that befell him, and which indirectly sprang from his\nluckless mishap, almost invariably irritated or exasperated Ahab. And\nin the present instance, all this was heightened by the sight of the\ntwo officers of the strange ship, leaning over the side, by the\nperpendicular ladder of nailed cleets there, and swinging towards him a\npair of tastefully-ornamented man-ropes; for at first they did not seem\nto bethink them that a one-legged man must be too much of a cripple to\nuse their sea bannisters. But this awkwardness only lasted a minute,\nbecause the strange captain, observing at a glance how affairs stood,\ncried out,  I see, I see! avast heaving there! Jump, boys, and swing\nover the cutting-tackle. \n\nAs good luck would have it, they had had a whale alongside a day or two\nprevious, and the great tackles were still aloft, and the massive\ncurved blubber-hook, now clean and dry, was still attached to the end.\nThis was quickly lowered to Ahab, who at once comprehending it all,\nslid his solitary thigh into the curve of the hook (it was like sitting\nin the fluke of an anchor, or the crotch of an apple tree), and then\ngiving the word, held himself fast, and at the same time also helped to\nhoist his own weight, by pulling hand-over-hand upon one of the running\nparts of the tackle. Soon he was carefully swung inside the high\nbulwarks, and gently landed upon the capstan head. With his ivory arm\nfrankly thrust forth in welcome, the other captain advanced, and Ahab,\nputting out his ivory leg, and crossing the ivory arm (like two\nsword-fish blades) cried out in his walrus way,  Aye, aye, hearty! let\nus shake bones together! an arm and a leg! an arm that never can\nshrink, d ye see; and a leg that never can run. Where did st thou see\nthe White Whale? how long ago? \n\n The White Whale,  said the Englishman, pointing his ivory arm towards\nthe East, and taking a rueful sight along it, as if it had been a\ntelescope;  there I saw him, on the Line, last season. \n\n And he took that arm off, did he?  asked Ahab, now sliding down from\nthe capstan, and resting on the Englishman s shoulder, as he did so.\n\n Aye, he was the cause of it, at least; and that leg, too? \n\n Spin me the yarn,  said Ahab;  how was it? \n\n It was the first time in my life that I ever cruised on the Line, \nbegan the Englishman.  I was ignorant of the White Whale at that time.\nWell, one day we lowered for a pod of four or five whales, and my boat\nfastened to one of them; a regular circus horse he was, too, that went\nmilling and milling round so, that my boat s crew could only trim dish,\nby sitting all their sterns on the outer gunwale. Presently up breaches\nfrom the bottom of the sea a bouncing great whale, with a milky-white\nhead and hump, all crows  feet and wrinkles. \n\n It was he, it was he!  cried Ahab, suddenly letting out his suspended\nbreath.\n\n And harpoons sticking in near his starboard fin. \n\n Aye, aye they were mine _my_ irons,  cried Ahab, exultingly but on! \n\n Give me a chance, then,  said the Englishman, good-humoredly.  Well,\nthis old great-grandfather, with the white head and hump, runs all\nafoam into the pod, and goes to snapping furiously at my fast-line!\n\n Aye, I see! wanted to part it; free the fast-fish an old trick I know\nhim. \n\n How it was exactly,  continued the one-armed commander,  I do not\nknow; but in biting the line, it got foul of his teeth, caught there\nsomehow; but we didn t know it then; so that when we afterwards pulled\non the line, bounce we came plump on to his hump! instead of the other\nwhale s; that went off to windward, all fluking. Seeing how matters\nstood, and what a noble great whale it was the noblest and biggest I\never saw, sir, in my life I resolved to capture him, spite of the\nboiling rage he seemed to be in. And thinking the hap-hazard line would\nget loose, or the tooth it was tangled to might draw (for I have a\ndevil of a boat s crew for a pull on a whale-line); seeing all this, I\nsay, I jumped into my first mate s boat Mr. Mounttop s here (by the\nway, Captain Mounttop; Mounttop the captain); as I was saying, I jumped\ninto Mounttop s boat, which, d ye see, was gunwale and gunwale with\nmine, then; and snatching the first harpoon, let this old\ngreat-grandfather have it. But, Lord, look you, sir hearts and souls\nalive, man the next instant, in a jiff, I was blind as a bat both eyes\nout all befogged and bedeadened with black foam the whale s tail\nlooming straight up out of it, perpendicular in the air, like a marble\nsteeple. No use sterning all, then; but as I was groping at midday,\nwith a blinding sun, all crown-jewels; as I was groping, I say, after\nthe second iron, to toss it overboard down comes the tail like a Lima\ntower, cutting my boat in two, leaving each half in splinters; and,\nflukes first, the white hump backed through the wreck, as though it was\nall chips. We all struck out. To escape his terrible flailings, I\nseized hold of my harpoon-pole sticking in him, and for a moment clung\nto that like a sucking fish. But a combing sea dashed me off, and at\nthe same instant, the fish, taking one good dart forwards, went down\nlike a flash; and the barb of that cursed second iron towing along near\nme caught me here  (clapping his hand just below his shoulder);  yes,\ncaught me just here, I say, and bore me down to Hell s flames, I was\nthinking; when, when, all of a sudden, thank the good God, the barb\nript its way along the flesh clear along the whole length of my\narm came out nigh my wrist, and up I floated; and that gentleman there\nwill tell you the rest (by the way, captain Dr. Bunger, ship s surgeon:\nBunger, my lad, the captain). Now, Bunger boy, spin your part of the\nyarn. \n\nThe professional gentleman thus familiarly pointed out, had been all\nthe time standing near them, with nothing specific visible, to denote\nhis gentlemanly rank on board. His face was an exceedingly round but\nsober one; he was dressed in a faded blue woollen frock or shirt, and\npatched trowsers; and had thus far been dividing his attention between\na marlingspike he held in one hand, and a pill-box held in the other,\noccasionally casting a critical glance at the ivory limbs of the two\ncrippled captains. But, at his superior s introduction of him to Ahab,\nhe politely bowed, and straightway went on to do his captain s bidding.\n\n It was a shocking bad wound,  began the whale-surgeon;  and, taking my\nadvice, Captain Boomer here, stood our old Sammy \n\n Samuel Enderby is the name of my ship,  interrupted the one-armed\ncaptain, addressing Ahab;  go on, boy. \n\n Stood our old Sammy off to the northward, to get out of the blazing\nhot weather there on the Line. But it was no use I did all I could; sat\nup with him nights; was very severe with him in the matter of diet \n\n Oh, very severe!  chimed in the patient himself; then suddenly\naltering his voice,  Drinking hot rum toddies with me every night, till\nhe couldn t see to put on the bandages; and sending me to bed, half\nseas over, about three o clock in the morning. Oh, ye stars! he sat up\nwith me indeed, and was very severe in my diet. Oh! a great watcher,\nand very dietetically severe, is Dr. Bunger. (Bunger, you dog, laugh\nout! why don t ye? You know you re a precious jolly rascal.) But, heave\nahead, boy, I d rather be killed by you than kept alive by any other\nman. \n\n My captain, you must have ere this perceived, respected sir said the\nimperturbable godly-looking Bunger, slightly bowing to Ahab is apt to\nbe facetious at times; he spins us many clever things of that sort. But\nI may as well say en passant, as the French remark that I myself that\nis to say, Jack Bunger, late of the reverend clergy am a strict total\nabstinence man; I never drink \n\n Water!  cried the captain;  he never drinks it; it s a sort of fits to\nhim; fresh water throws him into the hydrophobia; but go on go on with\nthe arm story. \n\n Yes, I may as well,  said the surgeon, coolly.  I was about observing,\nsir, before Captain Boomer s facetious interruption, that spite of my\nbest and severest endeavors, the wound kept getting worse and worse;\nthe truth was, sir, it was as ugly gaping wound as surgeon ever saw;\nmore than two feet and several inches long. I measured it with the lead\nline. In short, it grew black; I knew what was threatened, and off it\ncame. But I had no hand in shipping that ivory arm there; that thing is\nagainst all rule pointing at it with the marlingspike that is the\ncaptain s work, not mine; he ordered the carpenter to make it; he had\nthat club-hammer there put to the end, to knock some one s brains out\nwith, I suppose, as he tried mine once. He flies into diabolical\npassions sometimes. Do ye see this dent, sir removing his hat, and\nbrushing aside his hair, and exposing a bowl-like cavity in his skull,\nbut which bore not the slightest scarry trace, or any token of ever\nhaving been a wound Well, the captain there will tell you how that\ncame here; he knows. \n\n No, I don t,  said the captain,  but his mother did; he was born with\nit. Oh, you solemn rogue, you you Bunger! was there ever such another\nBunger in the watery world? Bunger, when you die, you ought to die in\npickle, you dog; you should be preserved to future ages, you rascal. \n\n What became of the White Whale?  now cried Ahab, who thus far had been\nimpatiently listening to this by-play between the two Englishmen.\n\n Oh!  cried the one-armed captain,  oh, yes! Well; after he sounded, we\ndidn t see him again for some time; in fact, as I before hinted, I\ndidn t then know what whale it was that had served me such a trick,\ntill some time afterwards, when coming back to the Line, we heard about\nMoby Dick as some call him and then I knew it was he. \n\n Did st thou cross his wake again? \n\n Twice. \n\n But could not fasten? \n\n Didn t want to try to: ain t one limb enough? What should I do without\nthis other arm? And I m thinking Moby Dick doesn t bite so much as he\nswallows. \n\n Well, then,  interrupted Bunger,  give him your left arm for bait to\nget the right. Do you know, gentlemen very gravely and mathematically\nbowing to each Captain in succession Do you know, gentlemen, that the\ndigestive organs of the whale are so inscrutably constructed by Divine\nProvidence, that it is quite impossible for him to completely digest\neven a man s arm? And he knows it too. So that what you take for the\nWhite Whale s malice is only his awkwardness. For he never means to\nswallow a single limb; he only thinks to terrify by feints. But\nsometimes he is like the old juggling fellow, formerly a patient of\nmine in Ceylon, that making believe swallow jack-knives, once upon a\ntime let one drop into him in good earnest, and there it stayed for a\ntwelvemonth or more; when I gave him an emetic, and he heaved it up in\nsmall tacks, d ye see. No possible way for him to digest that\njack-knife, and fully incorporate it into his general bodily system.\nYes, Captain Boomer, if you are quick enough about it, and have a mind\nto pawn one arm for the sake of the privilege of giving decent burial\nto the other, why in that case the arm is yours; only let the whale\nhave another chance at you shortly, that s all. \n\n No, thank ye, Bunger,  said the English Captain,  he s welcome to the\narm he has, since I can t help it, and didn t know him then; but not to\nanother one. No more White Whales for me; I ve lowered for him once,\nand that has satisfied me. There would be great glory in killing him, I\nknow that; and there is a ship-load of precious sperm in him, but, hark\nye, he s best let alone; don t you think so, Captain? glancing at the\nivory leg.\n\n He is. But he will still be hunted, for all that. What is best let\nalone, that accursed thing is not always what least allures. He s all a\nmagnet! How long since thou saw st him last? Which way heading? \n\n Bless my soul, and curse the foul fiend s,  cried Bunger, stoopingly\nwalking round Ahab, and like a dog, strangely snuffing;  this man s\nblood bring the thermometer! it s at the boiling point! his pulse makes\nthese planks beat! sir! taking a lancet from his pocket, and drawing\nnear to Ahab s arm.\n\n Avast!  roared Ahab, dashing him against the bulwarks Man the boat!\nWhich way heading? \n\n Good God!  cried the English Captain, to whom the question was put.\n What s the matter? He was heading east, I think. Is your Captain\ncrazy?  whispering Fedallah.\n\nBut Fedallah, putting a finger on his lip, slid over the bulwarks to\ntake the boat s steering oar, and Ahab, swinging the cutting-tackle\ntowards him, commanded the ship s sailors to stand by to lower.\n\nIn a moment he was standing in the boat s stern, and the Manilla men\nwere springing to their oars. In vain the English Captain hailed him.\nWith back to the stranger ship, and face set like a flint to his own,\nAhab stood upright till alongside of the Pequod.\n\n\nCHAPTER 101. The Decanter.\n\nEre the English ship fades from sight, be it set down here, that she\nhailed from London, and was named after the late Samuel Enderby,\nmerchant of that city, the original of the famous whaling house of\nEnderby & Sons; a house which in my poor whaleman s opinion, comes not\nfar behind the united royal houses of the Tudors and Bourbons, in point\nof real historical interest. How long, prior to the year of our Lord\n1775, this great whaling house was in existence, my numerous\nfish-documents do not make plain; but in that year (1775) it fitted out\nthe first English ships that ever regularly hunted the Sperm Whale;\nthough for some score of years previous (ever since 1726) our valiant\nCoffins and Maceys of Nantucket and the Vineyard had in large fleets\npursued that Leviathan, but only in the North and South Atlantic: not\nelsewhere. Be it distinctly recorded here, that the Nantucketers were\nthe first among mankind to harpoon with civilized steel the great Sperm\nWhale; and that for half a century they were the only people of the\nwhole globe who so harpooned him.\n\nIn 1778, a fine ship, the Amelia, fitted out for the express purpose,\nand at the sole charge of the vigorous Enderbys, boldly rounded Cape\nHorn, and was the first among the nations to lower a whale-boat of any\nsort in the great South Sea. The voyage was a skilful and lucky one;\nand returning to her berth with her hold full of the precious sperm,\nthe Amelia s example was soon followed by other ships, English and\nAmerican, and thus the vast Sperm Whale grounds of the Pacific were\nthrown open. But not content with this good deed, the indefatigable\nhouse again bestirred itself: Samuel and all his Sons how many, their\nmother only knows and under their immediate auspices, and partly, I\nthink, at their expense, the British government was induced to send the\nsloop-of-war Rattler on a whaling voyage of discovery into the South\nSea. Commanded by a naval Post-Captain, the Rattler made a rattling\nvoyage of it, and did some service; how much does not appear. But this\nis not all. In 1819, the same house fitted out a discovery whale ship\nof their own, to go on a tasting cruise to the remote waters of Japan.\nThat ship well called the  Syren made a noble experimental cruise; and\nit was thus that the great Japanese Whaling Ground first became\ngenerally known. The Syren in this famous voyage was commanded by a\nCaptain Coffin, a Nantucketer.\n\nAll honor to the Enderbies, therefore, whose house, I think, exists to\nthe present day; though doubtless the original Samuel must long ago\nhave slipped his cable for the great South Sea of the other world.\n\nThe ship named after him was worthy of the honor, being a very fast\nsailer and a noble craft every way. I boarded her once at midnight\nsomewhere off the Patagonian coast, and drank good flip down in the\nforecastle. It was a fine gam we had, and they were all trumps every\nsoul on board. A short life to them, and a jolly death. And that fine\ngam I had long, very long after old Ahab touched her planks with his\nivory heel it minds me of the noble, solid, Saxon hospitality of that\nship; and may my parson forget me, and the devil remember me, if I ever\nlose sight of it. Flip? Did I say we had flip? Yes, and we flipped it\nat the rate of ten gallons the hour; and when the squall came (for it s\nsqually off there by Patagonia), and all hands visitors and all were\ncalled to reef topsails, we were so top-heavy that we had to swing each\nother aloft in bowlines; and we ignorantly furled the skirts of our\njackets into the sails, so that we hung there, reefed fast in the\nhowling gale, a warning example to all drunken tars. However, the masts\ndid not go overboard; and by and by we scrambled down, so sober, that\nwe had to pass the flip again, though the savage salt spray bursting\ndown the forecastle scuttle, rather too much diluted and pickled it to\nmy taste.\n\nThe beef was fine tough, but with body in it. They said it was\nbull-beef; others, that it was dromedary beef; but I do not know, for\ncertain, how that was. They had dumplings too; small, but substantial,\nsymmetrically globular, and indestructible dumplings. I fancied that\nyou could feel them, and roll them about in you after they were\nswallowed. If you stooped over too far forward, you risked their\npitching out of you like billiard-balls. The bread but that couldn t be\nhelped; besides, it was an anti-scorbutic; in short, the bread\ncontained the only fresh fare they had. But the forecastle was not very\nlight, and it was very easy to step over into a dark corner when you\nate it. But all in all, taking her from truck to helm, considering the\ndimensions of the cook s boilers, including his own live parchment\nboilers; fore and aft, I say, the Samuel Enderby was a jolly ship; of\ngood fare and plenty; fine flip and strong; crack fellows all, and\ncapital from boot heels to hat-band.\n\nBut why was it, think ye, that the Samuel Enderby, and some other\nEnglish whalers I know of not all though were such famous, hospitable\nships; that passed round the beef, and the bread, and the can, and the\njoke; and were not soon weary of eating, and drinking, and laughing? I\nwill tell you. The abounding good cheer of these English whalers is\nmatter for historical research. Nor have I been at all sparing of\nhistorical whale research, when it has seemed needed.\n\nThe English were preceded in the whale fishery by the Hollanders,\nZealanders, and Danes; from whom they derived many terms still extant\nin the fishery; and what is yet more, their fat old fashions, touching\nplenty to eat and drink. For, as a general thing, the English\nmerchant-ship scrimps her crew; but not so the English whaler. Hence,\nin the English, this thing of whaling good cheer is not normal and\nnatural, but incidental and particular; and, therefore, must have some\nspecial origin, which is here pointed out, and will be still further\nelucidated.\n\nDuring my researches in the Leviathanic histories, I stumbled upon an\nancient Dutch volume, which, by the musty whaling smell of it, I knew\nmust be about whalers. The title was,  Dan Coopman,  wherefore I\nconcluded that this must be the invaluable memoirs of some Amsterdam\ncooper in the fishery, as every whale ship must carry its cooper. I was\nreinforced in this opinion by seeing that it was the production of one\n Fitz Swackhammer.  But my friend Dr. Snodhead, a very learned man,\nprofessor of Low Dutch and High German in the college of Santa Claus\nand St. Pott s, to whom I handed the work for translation, giving him a\nbox of sperm candles for his trouble this same Dr. Snodhead, so soon as\nhe spied the book, assured me that  Dan Coopman  did not mean  The\nCooper,  but  The Merchant.  In short, this ancient and learned Low\nDutch book treated of the commerce of Holland; and, among other\nsubjects, contained a very interesting account of its whale fishery.\nAnd in this chapter it was, headed,  Smeer,  or  Fat,  that I found a\nlong detailed list of the outfits for the larders and cellars of 180\nsail of Dutch whalemen; from which list, as translated by Dr. Snodhead,\nI transcribe the following:\n\n400,000 lbs. of beef. 60,000 lbs. Friesland pork. 150,000 lbs. of stock\nfish. 550,000 lbs. of biscuit. 72,000 lbs. of soft bread. 2,800 firkins\nof butter. 20,000 lbs. Texel & Leyden cheese. 144,000 lbs. cheese\n(probably an inferior article). 550 ankers of Geneva. 10,800 barrels of\nbeer.\n\nMost statistical tables are parchingly dry in the reading; not so in\nthe present case, however, where the reader is flooded with whole\npipes, barrels, quarts, and gills of good gin and good cheer.\n\nAt the time, I devoted three days to the studious digesting of all this\nbeer, beef, and bread, during which many profound thoughts were\nincidentally suggested to me, capable of a transcendental and Platonic\napplication; and, furthermore, I compiled supplementary tables of my\nown, touching the probable quantity of stock-fish, etc., consumed by\nevery Low Dutch harpooneer in that ancient Greenland and Spitzbergen\nwhale fishery. In the first place, the amount of butter, and Texel and\nLeyden cheese consumed, seems amazing. I impute it, though, to their\nnaturally unctuous natures, being rendered still more unctuous by the\nnature of their vocation, and especially by their pursuing their game\nin those frigid Polar Seas, on the very coasts of that Esquimaux\ncountry where the convivial natives pledge each other in bumpers of\ntrain oil.\n\nThe quantity of beer, too, is very large, 10,800 barrels. Now, as those\npolar fisheries could only be prosecuted in the short summer of that\nclimate, so that the whole cruise of one of these Dutch whalemen,\nincluding the short voyage to and from the Spitzbergen sea, did not\nmuch exceed three months, say, and reckoning 30 men to each of their\nfleet of 180 sail, we have 5,400 Low Dutch seamen in all; therefore, I\nsay, we have precisely two barrels of beer per man, for a twelve weeks \nallowance, exclusive of his fair proportion of that 550 ankers of gin.\nNow, whether these gin and beer harpooneers, so fuddled as one might\nfancy them to have been, were the right sort of men to stand up in a\nboat s head, and take good aim at flying whales; this would seem\nsomewhat improbable. Yet they did aim at them, and hit them too. But\nthis was very far North, be it remembered, where beer agrees well with\nthe constitution; upon the Equator, in our southern fishery, beer would\nbe apt to make the harpooneer sleepy at the mast-head and boozy in his\nboat; and grievous loss might ensue to Nantucket and New Bedford.\n\nBut no more; enough has been said to show that the old Dutch whalers of\ntwo or three centuries ago were high livers; and that the English\nwhalers have not neglected so excellent an example. For, say they, when\ncruising in an empty ship, if you can get nothing better out of the\nworld, get a good dinner out of it, at least. And this empties the\ndecanter.\n\n\nCHAPTER 102. A Bower in the Arsacides.\n\nHitherto, in descriptively treating of the Sperm Whale, I have chiefly\ndwelt upon the marvels of his outer aspect; or separately and in detail\nupon some few interior structural features. But to a large and thorough\nsweeping comprehension of him, it behooves me now to unbutton him still\nfurther, and untagging the points of his hose, unbuckling his garters,\nand casting loose the hooks and the eyes of the joints of his innermost\nbones, set him before you in his ultimatum; that is to say, in his\nunconditional skeleton.\n\nBut how now, Ishmael? How is it, that you, a mere oarsman in the\nfishery, pretend to know aught about the subterranean parts of the\nwhale? Did erudite Stubb, mounted upon your capstan, deliver lectures\non the anatomy of the Cetacea; and by help of the windlass, hold up a\nspecimen rib for exhibition? Explain thyself, Ishmael. Can you land a\nfull-grown whale on your deck for examination, as a cook dishes a\nroast-pig? Surely not. A veritable witness have you hitherto been,\nIshmael; but have a care how you seize the privilege of Jonah alone;\nthe privilege of discoursing upon the joists and beams; the rafters,\nridge-pole, sleepers, and under-pinnings, making up the frame-work of\nleviathan; and belike of the tallow-vats, dairy-rooms, butteries, and\ncheeseries in his bowels.\n\nI confess, that since Jonah, few whalemen have penetrated very far\nbeneath the skin of the adult whale; nevertheless, I have been blessed\nwith an opportunity to dissect him in miniature. In a ship I belonged\nto, a small cub Sperm Whale was once bodily hoisted to the deck for his\npoke or bag, to make sheaths for the barbs of the harpoons, and for the\nheads of the lances. Think you I let that chance go, without using my\nboat-hatchet and jack-knife, and breaking the seal and reading all the\ncontents of that young cub?\n\nAnd as for my exact knowledge of the bones of the leviathan in their\ngigantic, full grown development, for that rare knowledge I am indebted\nto my late royal friend Tranquo, king of Tranque, one of the Arsacides.\nFor being at Tranque, years ago, when attached to the trading-ship Dey\nof Algiers, I was invited to spend part of the Arsacidean holidays with\nthe lord of Tranque, at his retired palm villa at Pupella; a sea-side\nglen not very far distant from what our sailors called Bamboo-Town, his\ncapital.\n\nAmong many other fine qualities, my royal friend Tranquo, being gifted\nwith a devout love for all matters of barbaric vertu, had brought\ntogether in Pupella whatever rare things the more ingenious of his\npeople could invent; chiefly carved woods of wonderful devices,\nchiselled shells, inlaid spears, costly paddles, aromatic canoes; and\nall these distributed among whatever natural wonders, the\nwonder-freighted, tribute-rendering waves had cast upon his shores.\n\nChief among these latter was a great Sperm Whale, which, after an\nunusually long raging gale, had been found dead and stranded, with his\nhead against a cocoa-nut tree, whose plumage-like, tufted droopings\nseemed his verdant jet. When the vast body had at last been stripped of\nits fathom-deep enfoldings, and the bones become dust dry in the sun,\nthen the skeleton was carefully transported up the Pupella glen, where\na grand temple of lordly palms now sheltered it.\n\nThe ribs were hung with trophies; the vertebr  were carved with\nArsacidean annals, in strange hieroglyphics; in the skull, the priests\nkept up an unextinguished aromatic flame, so that the mystic head again\nsent forth its vapory spout; while, suspended from a bough, the\nterrific lower jaw vibrated over all the devotees, like the hair-hung\nsword that so affrighted Damocles.\n\nIt was a wondrous sight. The wood was green as mosses of the Icy Glen;\nthe trees stood high and haughty, feeling their living sap; the\nindustrious earth beneath was as a weaver s loom, with a gorgeous\ncarpet on it, whereof the ground-vine tendrils formed the warp and\nwoof, and the living flowers the figures. All the trees, with all their\nladen branches; all the shrubs, and ferns, and grasses; the\nmessage-carrying air; all these unceasingly were active. Through the\nlacings of the leaves, the great sun seemed a flying shuttle weaving\nthe unwearied verdure. Oh, busy weaver! unseen weaver! pause! one\nword! whither flows the fabric? what palace may it deck? wherefore all\nthese ceaseless toilings? Speak, weaver! stay thy hand! but one single\nword with thee! Nay the shuttle flies the figures float from forth the\nloom; the freshet-rushing carpet for ever slides away. The weaver-god,\nhe weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal\nvoice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened;\nand only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak\nthrough it. For even so it is in all material factories. The spoken\nwords that are inaudible among the flying spindles; those same words\nare plainly heard without the walls, bursting from the opened\ncasements. Thereby have villainies been detected. Ah, mortal! then, be\nheedful; for so, in all this din of the great world s loom, thy\nsubtlest thinkings may be overheard afar.\n\nNow, amid the green, life-restless loom of that Arsacidean wood, the\ngreat, white, worshipped skeleton lay lounging a gigantic idler! Yet,\nas the ever-woven verdant warp and woof intermixed and hummed around\nhim, the mighty idler seemed the cunning weaver; himself all woven over\nwith the vines; every month assuming greener, fresher verdure; but\nhimself a skeleton. Life folded Death; Death trellised Life; the grim\ngod wived with youthful Life, and begat him curly-headed glories.\n\nNow, when with royal Tranquo I visited this wondrous whale, and saw the\nskull an altar, and the artificial smoke ascending from where the real\njet had issued, I marvelled that the king should regard a chapel as an\nobject of vertu. He laughed. But more I marvelled that the priests\nshould swear that smoky jet of his was genuine. To and fro I paced\nbefore this skeleton brushed the vines aside broke through the ribs and\nwith a ball of Arsacidean twine, wandered, eddied long amid its many\nwinding, shaded colonnades and arbours. But soon my line was out; and\nfollowing it back, I emerged from the opening where I entered. I saw no\nliving thing within; naught was there but bones.\n\nCutting me a green measuring-rod, I once more dived within the\nskeleton. From their arrow-slit in the skull, the priests perceived me\ntaking the altitude of the final rib,  How now!  they shouted;  Dar st\nthou measure this our god! That s for us.   Aye, priests well, how long\ndo ye make him, then?  But hereupon a fierce contest rose among them,\nconcerning feet and inches; they cracked each other s sconces with\ntheir yard-sticks the great skull echoed and seizing that lucky chance,\nI quickly concluded my own admeasurements.\n\nThese admeasurements I now propose to set before you. But first, be it\nrecorded, that, in this matter, I am not free to utter any fancied\nmeasurement I please. Because there are skeleton authorities you can\nrefer to, to test my accuracy. There is a Leviathanic Museum, they tell\nme, in Hull, England, one of the whaling ports of that country, where\nthey have some fine specimens of fin-backs and other whales. Likewise,\nI have heard that in the museum of Manchester, in New Hampshire, they\nhave what the proprietors call  the only perfect specimen of a\nGreenland or River Whale in the United States.  Moreover, at a place in\nYorkshire, England, Burton Constable by name, a certain Sir Clifford\nConstable has in his possession the skeleton of a Sperm Whale, but of\nmoderate size, by no means of the full-grown magnitude of my friend\nKing Tranquo s.\n\nIn both cases, the stranded whales to which these two skeletons\nbelonged, were originally claimed by their proprietors upon similar\ngrounds. King Tranquo seizing his because he wanted it; and Sir\nClifford, because he was lord of the seignories of those parts. Sir\nClifford s whale has been articulated throughout; so that, like a great\nchest of drawers, you can open and shut him, in all his bony\ncavities spread out his ribs like a gigantic fan and swing all day upon\nhis lower jaw. Locks are to be put upon some of his trap-doors and\nshutters; and a footman will show round future visitors with a bunch of\nkeys at his side. Sir Clifford thinks of charging twopence for a peep\nat the whispering gallery in the spinal column; threepence to hear the\necho in the hollow of his cerebellum; and sixpence for the unrivalled\nview from his forehead.\n\nThe skeleton dimensions I shall now proceed to set down are copied\nverbatim from my right arm, where I had them tattooed; as in my wild\nwanderings at that period, there was no other secure way of preserving\nsuch valuable statistics. But as I was crowded for space, and wished\nthe other parts of my body to remain a blank page for a poem I was then\ncomposing at least, what untattooed parts might remain I did not\ntrouble myself with the odd inches; nor, indeed, should inches at all\nenter into a congenial admeasurement of the whale.\n\n\nCHAPTER 103. Measurement of The Whale s Skeleton.\n\nIn the first place, I wish to lay before you a particular, plain\nstatement, touching the living bulk of this leviathan, whose skeleton\nwe are briefly to exhibit. Such a statement may prove useful here.\n\nAccording to a careful calculation I have made, and which I partly base\nupon Captain Scoresby s estimate, of seventy tons for the largest sized\nGreenland whale of sixty feet in length; according to my careful\ncalculation, I say, a Sperm Whale of the largest magnitude, between\neighty-five and ninety feet in length, and something less than forty\nfeet in its fullest circumference, such a whale will weigh at least\nninety tons; so that, reckoning thirteen men to a ton, he would\nconsiderably outweigh the combined population of a whole village of one\nthousand one hundred inhabitants.\n\nThink you not then that brains, like yoked cattle, should be put to\nthis leviathan, to make him at all budge to any landsman s imagination?\n\nHaving already in various ways put before you his skull, spout-hole,\njaw, teeth, tail, forehead, fins, and divers other parts, I shall now\nsimply point out what is most interesting in the general bulk of his\nunobstructed bones. But as the colossal skull embraces so very large a\nproportion of the entire extent of the skeleton; as it is by far the\nmost complicated part; and as nothing is to be repeated concerning it\nin this chapter, you must not fail to carry it in your mind, or under\nyour arm, as we proceed, otherwise you will not gain a complete notion\nof the general structure we are about to view.\n\nIn length, the Sperm Whale s skeleton at Tranque measured seventy-two\nfeet; so that when fully invested and extended in life, he must have\nbeen ninety feet long; for in the whale, the skeleton loses about one\nfifth in length compared with the living body. Of this seventy-two\nfeet, his skull and jaw comprised some twenty feet, leaving some fifty\nfeet of plain back-bone. Attached to this back-bone, for something less\nthan a third of its length, was the mighty circular basket of ribs\nwhich once enclosed his vitals.\n\nTo me this vast ivory-ribbed chest, with the long, unrelieved spine,\nextending far away from it in a straight line, not a little resembled\nthe hull of a great ship new-laid upon the stocks, when only some\ntwenty of her naked bow-ribs are inserted, and the keel is otherwise,\nfor the time, but a long, disconnected timber.\n\nThe ribs were ten on a side. The first, to begin from the neck, was\nnearly six feet long; the second, third, and fourth were each\nsuccessively longer, till you came to the climax of the fifth, or one\nof the middle ribs, which measured eight feet and some inches. From\nthat part, the remaining ribs diminished, till the tenth and last only\nspanned five feet and some inches. In general thickness, they all bore\na seemly correspondence to their length. The middle ribs were the most\narched. In some of the Arsacides they are used for beams whereon to lay\nfootpath bridges over small streams.\n\nIn considering these ribs, I could not but be struck anew with the\ncircumstance, so variously repeated in this book, that the skeleton of\nthe whale is by no means the mould of his invested form. The largest of\nthe Tranque ribs, one of the middle ones, occupied that part of the\nfish which, in life, is greatest in depth. Now, the greatest depth of\nthe invested body of this particular whale must have been at least\nsixteen feet; whereas, the corresponding rib measured but little more\nthan eight feet. So that this rib only conveyed half of the true notion\nof the living magnitude of that part. Besides, for some way, where I\nnow saw but a naked spine, all that had been once wrapped round with\ntons of added bulk in flesh, muscle, blood, and bowels. Still more, for\nthe ample fins, I here saw but a few disordered joints; and in place of\nthe weighty and majestic, but boneless flukes, an utter blank!\n\nHow vain and foolish, then, thought I, for timid untravelled man to try\nto comprehend aright this wondrous whale, by merely poring over his\ndead attenuated skeleton, stretched in this peaceful wood. No. Only in\nthe heart of quickest perils; only when within the eddyings of his\nangry flukes; only on the profound unbounded sea, can the fully\ninvested whale be truly and livingly found out.\n\nBut the spine. For that, the best way we can consider it is, with a\ncrane, to pile its bones high up on end. No speedy enterprise. But now\nit s done, it looks much like Pompey s Pillar.\n\nThere are forty and odd vertebr  in all, which in the skeleton are not\nlocked together. They mostly lie like the great knobbed blocks on a\nGothic spire, forming solid courses of heavy masonry. The largest, a\nmiddle one, is in width something less than three feet, and in depth\nmore than four. The smallest, where the spine tapers away into the\ntail, is only two inches in width, and looks something like a white\nbilliard-ball. I was told that there were still smaller ones, but they\nhad been lost by some little cannibal urchins, the priest s children,\nwho had stolen them to play marbles with. Thus we see how that the\nspine of even the hugest of living things tapers off at last into\nsimple child s play.\n\n\nCHAPTER 104. The Fossil Whale.\n\nFrom his mighty bulk the whale affords a most congenial theme whereon\nto enlarge, amplify, and generally expatiate. Would you, you could not\ncompress him. By good rights he should only be treated of in imperial\nfolio. Not to tell over again his furlongs from spiracle to tail, and\nthe yards he measures about the waist; only think of the gigantic\ninvolutions of his intestines, where they lie in him like great cables\nand hawsers coiled away in the subterranean orlop-deck of a\nline-of-battle-ship.\n\nSince I have undertaken to manhandle this Leviathan, it behooves me to\napprove myself omnisciently exhaustive in the enterprise; not\noverlooking the minutest seminal germs of his blood, and spinning him\nout to the uttermost coil of his bowels. Having already described him\nin most of his present habitatory and anatomical peculiarities, it now\nremains to magnify him in an arch ological, fossiliferous, and\nantediluvian point of view. Applied to any other creature than the\nLeviathan to an ant or a flea such portly terms might justly be deemed\nunwarrantably grandiloquent. But when Leviathan is the text, the case\nis altered. Fain am I to stagger to this emprise under the weightiest\nwords of the dictionary. And here be it said, that whenever it has been\nconvenient to consult one in the course of these dissertations, I have\ninvariably used a huge quarto edition of Johnson, expressly purchased\nfor that purpose; because that famous lexicographer s uncommon personal\nbulk more fitted him to compile a lexicon to be used by a whale author\nlike me.\n\nOne often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject,\nthough it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of\nthis Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard\ncapitals. Give me a condor s quill! Give me Vesuvius  crater for an\ninkstand! Friends, hold my arms! For in the mere act of penning my\nthoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their\noutreaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole\ncircle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and\nmastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas\nof empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding\nits suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and\nliberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you\nmust choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be\nwritten on the flea, though many there be who have tried it.\n\nEre entering upon the subject of Fossil Whales, I present my\ncredentials as a geologist, by stating that in my miscellaneous time I\nhave been a stone-mason, and also a great digger of ditches, canals and\nwells, wine-vaults, cellars, and cisterns of all sorts. Likewise, by\nway of preliminary, I desire to remind the reader, that while in the\nearlier geological strata there are found the fossils of monsters now\nalmost completely extinct; the subsequent relics discovered in what are\ncalled the Tertiary formations seem the connecting, or at any rate\nintercepted links, between the antichronical creatures, and those whose\nremote posterity are said to have entered the Ark; all the Fossil\nWhales hitherto discovered belong to the Tertiary period, which is the\nlast preceding the superficial formations. And though none of them\nprecisely answer to any known species of the present time, they are yet\nsufficiently akin to them in general respects, to justify their taking\nrank as Cetacean fossils.\n\nDetached broken fossils of pre-adamite whales, fragments of their bones\nand skeletons, have within thirty years past, at various intervals,\nbeen found at the base of the Alps, in Lombardy, in France, in England,\nin Scotland, and in the States of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama.\nAmong the more curious of such remains is part of a skull, which in the\nyear 1779 was disinterred in the Rue Dauphine in Paris, a short street\nopening almost directly upon the palace of the Tuileries; and bones\ndisinterred in excavating the great docks of Antwerp, in Napoleon s\ntime. Cuvier pronounced these fragments to have belonged to some\nutterly unknown Leviathanic species.\n\nBut by far the most wonderful of all Cetacean relics was the almost\ncomplete vast skeleton of an extinct monster, found in the year 1842,\non the plantation of Judge Creagh, in Alabama. The awe-stricken\ncredulous slaves in the vicinity took it for the bones of one of the\nfallen angels. The Alabama doctors declared it a huge reptile, and\nbestowed upon it the name of Basilosaurus. But some specimen bones of\nit being taken across the sea to Owen, the English Anatomist, it turned\nout that this alleged reptile was a whale, though of a departed\nspecies. A significant illustration of the fact, again and again\nrepeated in this book, that the skeleton of the whale furnishes but\nlittle clue to the shape of his fully invested body. So Owen\nrechristened the monster Zeuglodon; and in his paper read before the\nLondon Geological Society, pronounced it, in substance, one of the most\nextraordinary creatures which the mutations of the globe have blotted\nout of existence.\n\nWhen I stand among these mighty Leviathan skeletons, skulls, tusks,\njaws, ribs, and vertebr , all characterized by partial resemblances to\nthe existing breeds of sea-monsters; but at the same time bearing on\nthe other hand similar affinities to the annihilated antichronical\nLeviathans, their incalculable seniors; I am, by a flood, borne back to\nthat wondrous period, ere time itself can be said to have begun; for\ntime began with man. Here Saturn s grey chaos rolls over me, and I\nobtain dim, shuddering glimpses into those Polar eternities; when\nwedged bastions of ice pressed hard upon what are now the Tropics; and\nin all the 25,000 miles of this world s circumference, not an\ninhabitable hand s breadth of land was visible. Then the whole world\nwas the whale s; and, king of creation, he left his wake along the\npresent lines of the Andes and the Himmalehs. Who can show a pedigree\nlike Leviathan? Ahab s harpoon had shed older blood than the Pharaoh s.\nMethuselah seems a school-boy. I look round to shake hands with Shem. I\nam horror-struck at this antemosaic, unsourced existence of the\nunspeakable terrors of the whale, which, having been before all time,\nmust needs exist after all humane ages are over.\n\nBut not alone has this Leviathan left his pre-adamite traces in the\nstereotype plates of nature, and in limestone and marl bequeathed his\nancient bust; but upon Egyptian tablets, whose antiquity seems to claim\nfor them an almost fossiliferous character, we find the unmistakable\nprint of his fin. In an apartment of the great temple of Denderah, some\nfifty years ago, there was discovered upon the granite ceiling a\nsculptured and painted planisphere, abounding in centaurs, griffins,\nand dolphins, similar to the grotesque figures on the celestial globe\nof the moderns. Gliding among them, old Leviathan swam as of yore; was\nthere swimming in that planisphere, centuries before Solomon was\ncradled.\n\nNor must there be omitted another strange attestation of the antiquity\nof the whale, in his own osseous post-diluvian reality, as set down by\nthe venerable John Leo, the old Barbary traveller.\n\n Not far from the Sea-side, they have a Temple, the Rafters and Beams\nof which are made of Whale-Bones; for Whales of a monstrous size are\noftentimes cast up dead upon that shore. The Common People imagine,\nthat by a secret Power bestowed by God upon the Temple, no Whale can\npass it without immediate death. But the truth of the Matter is, that\non either side of the Temple, there are Rocks that shoot two Miles into\nthe Sea, and wound the Whales when they light upon  em. They keep a\nWhale s Rib of an incredible length for a Miracle, which lying upon the\nGround with its convex part uppermost, makes an Arch, the Head of which\ncannot be reached by a Man upon a Camel s Back. This Rib (says John\nLeo) is said to have layn there a hundred Years before I saw it. Their\nHistorians affirm, that a Prophet who prophesy d of Mahomet, came from\nthis Temple, and some do not stand to assert, that the Prophet Jonas\nwas cast forth by the Whale at the Base of the Temple. \n\nIn this Afric Temple of the Whale I leave you, reader, and if you be a\nNantucketer, and a whaleman, you will silently worship there.\n\n\nCHAPTER 105. Does the Whale s Magnitude Diminish? Will He Perish?\n\nInasmuch, then, as this Leviathan comes floundering down upon us from\nthe head-waters of the Eternities, it may be fitly inquired, whether,\nin the long course of his generations, he has not degenerated from the\noriginal bulk of his sires.\n\nBut upon investigation we find, that not only are the whales of the\npresent day superior in magnitude to those whose fossil remains are\nfound in the Tertiary system (embracing a distinct geological period\nprior to man), but of the whales found in that Tertiary system, those\nbelonging to its latter formations exceed in size those of its earlier\nones.\n\nOf all the pre-adamite whales yet exhumed, by far the largest is the\nAlabama one mentioned in the last chapter, and that was less than\nseventy feet in length in the skeleton. Whereas, we have already seen,\nthat the tape-measure gives seventy-two feet for the skeleton of a\nlarge sized modern whale. And I have heard, on whalemen s authority,\nthat Sperm Whales have been captured near a hundred feet long at the\ntime of capture.\n\nBut may it not be, that while the whales of the present hour are an\nadvance in magnitude upon those of all previous geological periods; may\nit not be, that since Adam s time they have degenerated?\n\nAssuredly, we must conclude so, if we are to credit the accounts of\nsuch gentlemen as Pliny, and the ancient naturalists generally. For\nPliny tells us of whales that embraced acres of living bulk, and\nAldrovandus of others which measured eight hundred feet in length Rope\nWalks and Thames Tunnels of Whales! And even in the days of Banks and\nSolander, Cooke s naturalists, we find a Danish member of the Academy\nof Sciences setting down certain Iceland Whales (reydan-siskur, or\nWrinkled Bellies) at one hundred and twenty yards; that is, three\nhundred and sixty feet. And Lac p de, the French naturalist, in his\nelaborate history of whales, in the very beginning of his work (page\n3), sets down the Right Whale at one hundred metres, three hundred and\ntwenty-eight feet. And this work was published so late as A.D. 1825.\n\nBut will any whaleman believe these stories? No. The whale of to-day is\nas big as his ancestors in Pliny s time. And if ever I go where Pliny\nis, I, a whaleman (more than he was), will make bold to tell him so.\nBecause I cannot understand how it is, that while the Egyptian mummies\nthat were buried thousands of years before even Pliny was born, do not\nmeasure so much in their coffins as a modern Kentuckian in his socks;\nand while the cattle and other animals sculptured on the oldest\nEgyptian and Nineveh tablets, by the relative proportions in which they\nare drawn, just as plainly prove that the high-bred, stall-fed, prize\ncattle of Smithfield, not only equal, but far exceed in magnitude the\nfattest of Pharaoh s fat kine; in the face of all this, I will not\nadmit that of all animals the whale alone should have degenerated.\n\nBut still another inquiry remains; one often agitated by the more\nrecondite Nantucketers. Whether owing to the almost omniscient\nlook-outs at the mast-heads of the whale-ships, now penetrating even\nthrough Behring s straits, and into the remotest secret drawers and\nlockers of the world; and the thousand harpoons and lances darted along\nall continental coasts; the moot point is, whether Leviathan can long\nendure so wide a chase, and so remorseless a havoc; whether he must not\nat last be exterminated from the waters, and the last whale, like the\nlast man, smoke his last pipe, and then himself evaporate in the final\npuff.\n\nComparing the humped herds of whales with the humped herds of buffalo,\nwhich, not forty years ago, overspread by tens of thousands the\nprairies of Illinois and Missouri, and shook their iron manes and\nscowled with their thunder-clotted brows upon the sites of populous\nriver-capitals, where now the polite broker sells you land at a dollar\nan inch; in such a comparison an irresistible argument would seem\nfurnished, to show that the hunted whale cannot now escape speedy\nextinction.\n\nBut you must look at this matter in every light. Though so short a\nperiod ago not a good lifetime the census of the buffalo in Illinois\nexceeded the census of men now in London, and though at the present day\nnot one horn or hoof of them remains in all that region; and though the\ncause of this wondrous extermination was the spear of man; yet the far\ndifferent nature of the whale-hunt peremptorily forbids so inglorious\nan end to the Leviathan. Forty men in one ship hunting the Sperm Whales\nfor forty-eight months think they have done extremely well, and thank\nGod, if at last they carry home the oil of forty fish. Whereas, in the\ndays of the old Canadian and Indian hunters and trappers of the West,\nwhen the far west (in whose sunset suns still rise) was a wilderness\nand a virgin, the same number of moccasined men, for the same number of\nmonths, mounted on horse instead of sailing in ships, would have slain\nnot forty, but forty thousand and more buffaloes; a fact that, if need\nwere, could be statistically stated.\n\nNor, considered aright, does it seem any argument in favour of the\ngradual extinction of the Sperm Whale, for example, that in former\nyears (the latter part of the last century, say) these Leviathans, in\nsmall pods, were encountered much oftener than at present, and, in\nconsequence, the voyages were not so prolonged, and were also much more\nremunerative. Because, as has been elsewhere noticed, those whales,\ninfluenced by some views to safety, now swim the seas in immense\ncaravans, so that to a large degree the scattered solitaries, yokes,\nand pods, and schools of other days are now aggregated into vast but\nwidely separated, unfrequent armies. That is all. And equally\nfallacious seems the conceit, that because the so-called whale-bone\nwhales no longer haunt many grounds in former years abounding with\nthem, hence that species also is declining. For they are only being\ndriven from promontory to cape; and if one coast is no longer enlivened\nwith their jets, then, be sure, some other and remoter strand has been\nvery recently startled by the unfamiliar spectacle.\n\nFurthermore: concerning these last mentioned Leviathans, they have two\nfirm fortresses, which, in all human probability, will for ever remain\nimpregnable. And as upon the invasion of their valleys, the frosty\nSwiss have retreated to their mountains; so, hunted from the savannas\nand glades of the middle seas, the whale-bone whales can at last resort\nto their Polar citadels, and diving under the ultimate glassy barriers\nand walls there, come up among icy fields and floes; and in a charmed\ncircle of everlasting December, bid defiance to all pursuit from man.\n\nBut as perhaps fifty of these whale-bone whales are harpooned for one\ncachalot, some philosophers of the forecastle have concluded that this\npositive havoc has already very seriously diminished their battalions.\nBut though for some time past a number of these whales, not less than\n13,000, have been annually slain on the nor  west coast by the\nAmericans alone; yet there are considerations which render even this\ncircumstance of little or no account as an opposing argument in this\nmatter.\n\nNatural as it is to be somewhat incredulous concerning the populousness\nof the more enormous creatures of the globe, yet what shall we say to\nHarto, the historian of Goa, when he tells us that at one hunting the\nKing of Siam took 4,000 elephants; that in those regions elephants are\nnumerous as droves of cattle in the temperate climes. And there seems\nno reason to doubt that if these elephants, which have now been hunted\nfor thousands of years, by Semiramis, by Porus, by Hannibal, and by all\nthe successive monarchs of the East if they still survive there in\ngreat numbers, much more may the great whale outlast all hunting, since\nhe has a pasture to expatiate in, which is precisely twice as large as\nall Asia, both Americas, Europe and Africa, New Holland, and all the\nIsles of the sea combined.\n\nMoreover: we are to consider, that from the presumed great longevity of\nwhales, their probably attaining the age of a century and more,\ntherefore at any one period of time, several distinct adult generations\nmust be contemporary. And what that is, we may soon gain some idea of,\nby imagining all the grave-yards, cemeteries, and family vaults of\ncreation yielding up the live bodies of all the men, women, and\nchildren who were alive seventy-five years ago; and adding this\ncountless host to the present human population of the globe.\n\nWherefore, for all these things, we account the whale immortal in his\nspecies, however perishable in his individuality. He swam the seas\nbefore the continents broke water; he once swam over the site of the\nTuileries, and Windsor Castle, and the Kremlin. In Noah s flood he\ndespised Noah s Ark; and if ever the world is to be again flooded, like\nthe Netherlands, to kill off its rats, then the eternal whale will\nstill survive, and rearing upon the topmost crest of the equatorial\nflood, spout his frothed defiance to the skies.\n\n\nCHAPTER 106. Ahab s Leg.\n\nThe precipitating manner in which Captain Ahab had quitted the Samuel\nEnderby of London, had not been unattended with some small violence to\nhis own person. He had lighted with such energy upon a thwart of his\nboat that his ivory leg had received a half-splintering shock. And when\nafter gaining his own deck, and his own pivot-hole there, he so\nvehemently wheeled round with an urgent command to the steersman (it\nwas, as ever, something about his not steering inflexibly enough);\nthen, the already shaken ivory received such an additional twist and\nwrench, that though it still remained entire, and to all appearances\nlusty, yet Ahab did not deem it entirely trustworthy.\n\nAnd, indeed, it seemed small matter for wonder, that for all his\npervading, mad recklessness, Ahab did at times give careful heed to the\ncondition of that dead bone upon which he partly stood. For it had not\nbeen very long prior to the Pequod s sailing from Nantucket, that he\nhad been found one night lying prone upon the ground, and insensible;\nby some unknown, and seemingly inexplicable, unimaginable casualty, his\nivory limb having been so violently displaced, that it had stake-wise\nsmitten, and all but pierced his groin; nor was it without extreme\ndifficulty that the agonizing wound was entirely cured.\n\nNor, at the time, had it failed to enter his monomaniac mind, that all\nthe anguish of that then present suffering was but the direct issue of\na former woe; and he too plainly seemed to see, that as the most\npoisonous reptile of the marsh perpetuates his kind as inevitably as\nthe sweetest songster of the grove; so, equally with every felicity,\nall miserable events do naturally beget their like. Yea, more than\nequally, thought Ahab; since both the ancestry and posterity of Grief\ngo further than the ancestry and posterity of Joy. For, not to hint of\nthis: that it is an inference from certain canonic teachings, that\nwhile some natural enjoyments here shall have no children born to them\nfor the other world, but, on the contrary, shall be followed by the\njoy-childlessness of all hell s despair; whereas, some guilty mortal\nmiseries shall still fertilely beget to themselves an eternally\nprogressive progeny of griefs beyond the grave; not at all to hint of\nthis, there still seems an inequality in the deeper analysis of the\nthing. For, thought Ahab, while even the highest earthly felicities\never have a certain unsignifying pettiness lurking in them, but, at\nbottom, all heartwoes, a mystic significance, and, in some men, an\narchangelic grandeur; so do their diligent tracings-out not belie the\nobvious deduction. To trail the genealogies of these high mortal\nmiseries, carries us at last among the sourceless primogenitures of the\ngods; so that, in the face of all the glad, hay-making suns, and soft\ncymballing, round harvest-moons, we must needs give in to this: that\nthe gods themselves are not for ever glad. The ineffaceable, sad\nbirth-mark in the brow of man, is but the stamp of sorrow in the\nsigners.\n\nUnwittingly here a secret has been divulged, which perhaps might more\nproperly, in set way, have been disclosed before. With many other\nparticulars concerning Ahab, always had it remained a mystery to some,\nwhy it was, that for a certain period, both before and after the\nsailing of the Pequod, he had hidden himself away with such\nGrand-Lama-like exclusiveness; and, for that one interval, sought\nspeechless refuge, as it were, among the marble senate of the dead.\nCaptain Peleg s bruited reason for this thing appeared by no means\nadequate; though, indeed, as touching all Ahab s deeper part, every\nrevelation partook more of significant darkness than of explanatory\nlight. But, in the end, it all came out; this one matter did, at least.\nThat direful mishap was at the bottom of his temporary recluseness. And\nnot only this, but to that ever-contracting, dropping circle ashore,\nwho, for any reason, possessed the privilege of a less banned approach\nto him; to that timid circle the above hinted casualty remaining, as it\ndid, moodily unaccounted for by Ahab invested itself with terrors, not\nentirely underived from the land of spirits and of wails. So that,\nthrough their zeal for him, they had all conspired, so far as in them\nlay, to muffle up the knowledge of this thing from others; and hence it\nwas, that not till a considerable interval had elapsed, did it\ntranspire upon the Pequod s decks.\n\nBut be all this as it may; let the unseen, ambiguous synod in the air,\nor the vindictive princes and potentates of fire, have to do or not\nwith earthly Ahab, yet, in this present matter of his leg, he took\nplain practical procedures; he called the carpenter.\n\nAnd when that functionary appeared before him, he bade him without\ndelay set about making a new leg, and directed the mates to see him\nsupplied with all the studs and joists of jaw-ivory (Sperm Whale) which\nhad thus far been accumulated on the voyage, in order that a careful\nselection of the stoutest, clearest-grained stuff might be secured.\nThis done, the carpenter received orders to have the leg completed that\nnight; and to provide all the fittings for it, independent of those\npertaining to the distrusted one in use. Moreover, the ship s forge was\nordered to be hoisted out of its temporary idleness in the hold; and,\nto accelerate the affair, the blacksmith was commanded to proceed at\nonce to the forging of whatever iron contrivances might be needed.\n\n\nCHAPTER 107. The Carpenter.\n\nSeat thyself sultanically among the moons of Saturn, and take high\nabstracted man alone; and he seems a wonder, a grandeur, and a woe. But\nfrom the same point, take mankind in mass, and for the most part, they\nseem a mob of unnecessary duplicates, both contemporary and hereditary.\nBut most humble though he was, and far from furnishing an example of\nthe high, humane abstraction; the Pequod s carpenter was no duplicate;\nhence, he now comes in person on this stage.\n\nLike all sea-going ship carpenters, and more especially those belonging\nto whaling vessels, he was, to a certain off-handed, practical extent,\nalike experienced in numerous trades and callings collateral to his\nown; the carpenter s pursuit being the ancient and outbranching trunk\nof all those numerous handicrafts which more or less have to do with\nwood as an auxiliary material. But, besides the application to him of\nthe generic remark above, this carpenter of the Pequod was singularly\nefficient in those thousand nameless mechanical emergencies continually\nrecurring in a large ship, upon a three or four years  voyage, in\nuncivilized and far-distant seas. For not to speak of his readiness in\nordinary duties: repairing stove boats, sprung spars, reforming the\nshape of clumsy-bladed oars, inserting bull s eyes in the deck, or new\ntree-nails in the side planks, and other miscellaneous matters more\ndirectly pertaining to his special business; he was moreover\nunhesitatingly expert in all manner of conflicting aptitudes, both\nuseful and capricious.\n\nThe one grand stage where he enacted all his various parts so manifold,\nwas his vice-bench; a long rude ponderous table furnished with several\nvices, of different sizes, and both of iron and of wood. At all times\nexcept when whales were alongside, this bench was securely lashed\nathwartships against the rear of the Try-works.\n\nA belaying pin is found too large to be easily inserted into its hole:\nthe carpenter claps it into one of his ever-ready vices, and\nstraightway files it smaller. A lost land-bird of strange plumage\nstrays on board, and is made a captive: out of clean shaved rods of\nright-whale bone, and cross-beams of sperm whale ivory, the carpenter\nmakes a pagoda-looking cage for it. An oarsman sprains his wrist: the\ncarpenter concocts a soothing lotion. Stubb longed for vermillion stars\nto be painted upon the blade of his every oar; screwing each oar in his\nbig vice of wood, the carpenter symmetrically supplies the\nconstellation. A sailor takes a fancy to wear shark-bone ear-rings: the\ncarpenter drills his ears. Another has the toothache: the carpenter out\npincers, and clapping one hand upon his bench bids him be seated there;\nbut the poor fellow unmanageably winces under the unconcluded\noperation; whirling round the handle of his wooden vice, the carpenter\nsigns him to clap his jaw in that, if he would have him draw the tooth.\n\nThus, this carpenter was prepared at all points, and alike indifferent\nand without respect in all. Teeth he accounted bits of ivory; heads he\ndeemed but top-blocks; men themselves he lightly held for capstans. But\nwhile now upon so wide a field thus variously accomplished and with\nsuch liveliness of expertness in him, too; all this would seem to argue\nsome uncommon vivacity of intelligence. But not precisely so. For\nnothing was this man more remarkable, than for a certain impersonal\nstolidity as it were; impersonal, I say; for it so shaded off into the\nsurrounding infinite of things, that it seemed one with the general\nstolidity discernible in the whole visible world; which while\npauselessly active in uncounted modes, still eternally holds its peace,\nand ignores you, though you dig foundations for cathedrals. Yet was\nthis half-horrible stolidity in him, involving, too, as it appeared, an\nall-ramifying heartlessness; yet was it oddly dashed at times, with an\nold, crutch-like, antediluvian, wheezing humorousness, not unstreaked\nnow and then with a certain grizzled wittiness; such as might have\nserved to pass the time during the midnight watch on the bearded\nforecastle of Noah s ark. Was it that this old carpenter had been a\nlife-long wanderer, whose much rolling, to and fro, not only had\ngathered no moss; but what is more, had rubbed off whatever small\noutward clingings might have originally pertained to him? He was a\nstript abstract; an unfractioned integral; uncompromised as a new-born\nbabe; living without premeditated reference to this world or the next.\nYou might almost say, that this strange uncompromisedness in him\ninvolved a sort of unintelligence; for in his numerous trades, he did\nnot seem to work so much by reason or by instinct, or simply because he\nhad been tutored to it, or by any intermixture of all these, even or\nuneven; but merely by a kind of deaf and dumb, spontaneous literal\nprocess. He was a pure manipulator; his brain, if he had ever had one,\nmust have early oozed along into the muscles of his fingers. He was\nlike one of those unreasoning but still highly useful, _multum in\nparvo_, Sheffield contrivances, assuming the exterior though a little\nswelled of a common pocket knife; but containing, not only blades of\nvarious sizes, but also screw-drivers, cork-screws, tweezers, awls,\npens, rulers, nail-filers, countersinkers. So, if his superiors wanted\nto use the carpenter for a screw-driver, all they had to do was to open\nthat part of him, and the screw was fast: or if for tweezers, take him\nup by the legs, and there they were.\n\nYet, as previously hinted, this omnitooled, open-and-shut carpenter,\nwas, after all, no mere machine of an automaton. If he did not have a\ncommon soul in him, he had a subtle something that somehow anomalously\ndid its duty. What that was, whether essence of quicksilver, or a few\ndrops of hartshorn, there is no telling. But there it was; and there it\nhad abided for now some sixty years or more. And this it was, this same\nunaccountable, cunning life-principle in him; this it was, that kept\nhim a great part of the time soliloquizing; but only like an\nunreasoning wheel, which also hummingly soliloquizes; or rather, his\nbody was a sentry-box and this soliloquizer on guard there, and talking\nall the time to keep himself awake.\n\n\nCHAPTER 108. Ahab and the Carpenter.\n\nThe Deck First Night Watch.\n\n(_Carpenter standing before his vice-bench, and by the light of two\nlanterns busily filing the ivory joist for the leg, which joist is\nfirmly fixed in the vice. Slabs of ivory, leather straps, pads, screws,\nand various tools of all sorts lying about the bench. Forward, the red\nflame of the forge is seen, where the blacksmith is at work._)\n\nDrat the file, and drat the bone! That is hard which should be soft,\nand that is soft which should be hard. So we go, who file old jaws and\nshinbones. Let s try another. Aye, now, this works better (_sneezes_).\nHalloa, this bone dust is (_sneezes_) why it s (_sneezes_) yes it s\n(_sneezes_) bless my soul, it won t let me speak! This is what an old\nfellow gets now for working in dead lumber. Saw a live tree, and you\ndon t get this dust; amputate a live bone, and you don t get it\n(_sneezes_). Come, come, you old Smut, there, bear a hand, and let s\nhave that ferule and buckle-screw; I ll be ready for them presently.\nLucky now (_sneezes_) there s no knee-joint to make; that might puzzle\na little; but a mere shinbone why it s easy as making hop-poles; only I\nshould like to put a good finish on. Time, time; if I but only had the\ntime, I could turn him out as neat a leg now as ever (_sneezes_)\nscraped to a lady in a parlor. Those buckskin legs and calves of legs\nI ve seen in shop windows wouldn t compare at all. They soak water,\nthey do; and of course get rheumatic, and have to be doctored\n(_sneezes_) with washes and lotions, just like live legs. There; before\nI saw it off, now, I must call his old Mogulship, and see whether the\nlength will be all right; too short, if anything, I guess. Ha! that s\nthe heel; we are in luck; here he comes, or it s somebody else, that s\ncertain.\n\nAHAB (_advancing_). (_During the ensuing scene, the carpenter continues\nsneezing at times._)\n\nWell, manmaker!\n\nJust in time, sir. If the captain pleases, I will now mark the length.\nLet me measure, sir.\n\nMeasured for a leg! good. Well, it s not the first time. About it!\nThere; keep thy finger on it. This is a cogent vice thou hast here,\ncarpenter; let me feel its grip once. So, so; it does pinch some.\n\nOh, sir, it will break bones beware, beware!\n\nNo fear; I like a good grip; I like to feel something in this slippery\nworld that can hold, man. What s Prometheus about there? the\nblacksmith, I mean what s he about?\n\nHe must be forging the buckle-screw, sir, now.\n\nRight. It s a partnership; he supplies the muscle part. He makes a\nfierce red flame there!\n\nAye, sir; he must have the white heat for this kind of fine work.\n\nUm-m. So he must. I do deem it now a most meaning thing, that that old\nGreek, Prometheus, who made men, they say, should have been a\nblacksmith, and animated them with fire; for what s made in fire must\nproperly belong to fire; and so hell s probable. How the soot flies!\nThis must be the remainder the Greek made the Africans of. Carpenter,\nwhen he s through with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel\nshoulder-blades; there s a pedlar aboard with a crushing pack.\n\nSir?\n\nHold; while Prometheus is about it, I ll order a complete man after a\ndesirable pattern. Imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks; then, chest\nmodelled after the Thames Tunnel; then, legs with roots to  em, to stay\nin one place; then, arms three feet through the wrist; no heart at all,\nbrass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains; and let\nme see shall I order eyes to see outwards? No, but put a sky-light on\ntop of his head to illuminate inwards. There, take the order, and away.\n\nNow, what s he speaking about, and who s he speaking to, I should like\nto know? Shall I keep standing here? (_aside_).\n\n Tis but indifferent architecture to make a blind dome; here s one. No,\nno, no; I must have a lantern.\n\nHo, ho! That s it, hey? Here are two, sir; one will serve my turn.\n\nWhat art thou thrusting that thief-catcher into my face for, man?\nThrusted light is worse than presented pistols.\n\nI thought, sir, that you spoke to carpenter.\n\nCarpenter? why that s but no; a very tidy, and, I may say, an extremely\ngentlemanlike sort of business thou art in here, carpenter; or would st\nthou rather work in clay?\n\nSir? Clay? clay, sir? That s mud; we leave clay to ditchers, sir.\n\nThe fellow s impious! What art thou sneezing about?\n\nBone is rather dusty, sir.\n\nTake the hint, then; and when thou art dead, never bury thyself under\nliving people s noses.\n\nSir? oh! ah! I guess so; yes oh, dear!\n\nLook ye, carpenter, I dare say thou callest thyself a right good\nworkmanlike workman, eh? Well, then, will it speak thoroughly well for\nthy work, if, when I come to mount this leg thou makest, I shall\nnevertheless feel another leg in the same identical place with it; that\nis, carpenter, my old lost leg; the flesh and blood one, I mean. Canst\nthou not drive that old Adam away?\n\nTruly, sir, I begin to understand somewhat now. Yes, I have heard\nsomething curious on that score, sir; how that a dismasted man never\nentirely loses the feeling of his old spar, but it will be still\npricking him at times. May I humbly ask if it be really so, sir?\n\nIt is, man. Look, put thy live leg here in the place where mine once\nwas; so, now, here is only one distinct leg to the eye, yet two to the\nsoul. Where thou feelest tingling life; there, exactly there, there to\na hair, do I. Is t a riddle?\n\nI should humbly call it a poser, sir.\n\nHist, then. How dost thou know that some entire, living, thinking thing\nmay not be invisibly and uninterpenetratingly standing precisely where\nthou now standest; aye, and standing there in thy spite? In thy most\nsolitary hours, then, dost thou not fear eavesdroppers? Hold, don t\nspeak! And if I still feel the smart of my crushed leg, though it be\nnow so long dissolved; then, why mayst not thou, carpenter, feel the\nfiery pains of hell for ever, and without a body? Hah!\n\nGood Lord! Truly, sir, if it comes to that, I must calculate over\nagain; I think I didn t carry a small figure, sir.\n\nLook ye, pudding-heads should never grant premises. How long before the\nleg is done?\n\nPerhaps an hour, sir.\n\nBungle away at it then, and bring it to me (_turns to go_). Oh, Life!\nHere I am, proud as Greek god, and yet standing debtor to this\nblockhead for a bone to stand on! Cursed be that mortal\ninter-indebtedness which will not do away with ledgers. I would be free\nas air; and I m down in the whole world s books. I am so rich, I could\nhave given bid for bid with the wealthiest Pr torians at the auction of\nthe Roman empire (which was the world s); and yet I owe for the flesh\nin the tongue I brag with. By heavens! I ll get a crucible, and into\nit, and dissolve myself down to one small, compendious vertebra. So.\n\nCARPENTER (_resuming his work_).\n\nWell, well, well! Stubb knows him best of all, and Stubb always says\nhe s queer; says nothing but that one sufficient little word queer;\nhe s queer, says Stubb; he s queer queer, queer; and keeps dinning it\ninto Mr. Starbuck all the time queer sir queer, queer, very queer. And\nhere s his leg! Yes, now that I think of it, here s his bedfellow! has\na stick of whale s jaw-bone for a wife! And this is his leg; he ll\nstand on this. What was that now about one leg standing in three\nplaces, and all three places standing in one hell how was that? Oh! I\ndon t wonder he looked so scornful at me! I m a sort of\nstrange-thoughted sometimes, they say; but that s only haphazard-like.\nThen, a short, little old body like me, should never undertake to wade\nout into deep waters with tall, heron-built captains; the water chucks\nyou under the chin pretty quick, and there s a great cry for\nlife-boats. And here s the heron s leg! long and slim, sure enough!\nNow, for most folks one pair of legs lasts a lifetime, and that must be\nbecause they use them mercifully, as a tender-hearted old lady uses her\nroly-poly old coach-horses. But Ahab; oh he s a hard driver. Look,\ndriven one leg to death, and spavined the other for life, and now wears\nout bone legs by the cord. Halloa, there, you Smut! bear a hand there\nwith those screws, and let s finish it before the resurrection fellow\ncomes a-calling with his horn for all legs, true or false, as\nbrewery-men go round collecting old beer barrels, to fill  em up again.\nWhat a leg this is! It looks like a real live leg, filed down to\nnothing but the core; he ll be standing on this to-morrow; he ll be\ntaking altitudes on it. Halloa! I almost forgot the little oval slate,\nsmoothed ivory, where he figures up the latitude. So, so; chisel, file,\nand sand-paper, now!\n\n\nCHAPTER 109. Ahab and Starbuck in the Cabin.\n\nAccording to usage they were pumping the ship next morning; and lo! no\ninconsiderable oil came up with the water; the casks below must have\nsprung a bad leak. Much concern was shown; and Starbuck went down into\nthe cabin to report this unfavourable affair.*\n\n*In Sperm-whalemen with any considerable quantity of oil on board, it\nis a regular semi-weekly duty to conduct a hose into the hold, and\ndrench the casks with sea-water; which afterwards, at varying\nintervals, is removed by the ship s pumps. Hereby the casks are sought\nto be kept damply tight; while by the changed character of the\nwithdrawn water, the mariners readily detect any serious leakage in the\nprecious cargo.\n\nNow, from the South and West the Pequod was drawing nigh to Formosa and\nthe Bashee Isles, between which lies one of the tropical outlets from\nthe China waters into the Pacific. And so Starbuck found Ahab with a\ngeneral chart of the oriental archipelagoes spread before him; and\nanother separate one representing the long eastern coasts of the\nJapanese islands Niphon, Matsmai, and Sikoke. With his snow-white new\nivory leg braced against the screwed leg of his table, and with a long\npruning-hook of a jack-knife in his hand, the wondrous old man, with\nhis back to the gangway door, was wrinkling his brow, and tracing his\nold courses again.\n\n Who s there?  hearing the footstep at the door, but not turning round\nto it.  On deck! Begone! \n\n Captain Ahab mistakes; it is I. The oil in the hold is leaking, sir.\nWe must up Burtons and break out. \n\n Up Burtons and break out? Now that we are nearing Japan; heave-to here\nfor a week to tinker a parcel of old hoops? \n\n Either do that, sir, or waste in one day more oil than we may make\ngood in a year. What we come twenty thousand miles to get is worth\nsaving, sir. \n\n So it is, so it is; if we get it. \n\n I was speaking of the oil in the hold, sir. \n\n And I was not speaking or thinking of that at all. Begone! Let it\nleak! I m all aleak myself. Aye! leaks in leaks! not only full of leaky\ncasks, but those leaky casks are in a leaky ship; and that s a far\nworse plight than the Pequod s, man. Yet I don t stop to plug my leak;\nfor who can find it in the deep-loaded hull; or how hope to plug it,\neven if found, in this life s howling gale? Starbuck! I ll not have the\nBurtons hoisted. \n\n What will the owners say, sir? \n\n Let the owners stand on Nantucket beach and outyell the Typhoons. What\ncares Ahab? Owners, owners? Thou art always prating to me, Starbuck,\nabout those miserly owners, as if the owners were my conscience. But\nlook ye, the only real owner of anything is its commander; and hark ye,\nmy conscience is in this ship s keel. On deck! \n\n Captain Ahab,  said the reddening mate, moving further into the cabin,\nwith a daring so strangely respectful and cautious that it almost\nseemed not only every way seeking to avoid the slightest outward\nmanifestation of itself, but within also seemed more than half\ndistrustful of itself;  A better man than I might well pass over in\nthee what he would quickly enough resent in a younger man; aye, and in\na happier, Captain Ahab. \n\n Devils! Dost thou then so much as dare to critically think of me? On\ndeck! \n\n Nay, sir, not yet; I do entreat. And I do dare, sir to be forbearing!\nShall we not understand each other better than hitherto, Captain Ahab? \n\nAhab seized a loaded musket from the rack (forming part of most\nSouth-Sea-men s cabin furniture), and pointing it towards Starbuck,\nexclaimed:  There is one God that is Lord over the earth, and one\nCaptain that is lord over the Pequod. On deck! \n\nFor an instant in the flashing eyes of the mate, and his fiery cheeks,\nyou would have almost thought that he had really received the blaze of\nthe levelled tube. But, mastering his emotion, he half calmly rose, and\nas he quitted the cabin, paused for an instant and said:  Thou hast\noutraged, not insulted me, sir; but for that I ask thee not to beware\nof Starbuck; thou wouldst but laugh; but let Ahab beware of Ahab;\nbeware of thyself, old man. \n\n He waxes brave, but nevertheless obeys; most careful bravery that! \nmurmured Ahab, as Starbuck disappeared.  What s that he said Ahab\nbeware of Ahab there s something there!  Then unconsciously using the\nmusket for a staff, with an iron brow he paced to and fro in the little\ncabin; but presently the thick plaits of his forehead relaxed, and\nreturning the gun to the rack, he went to the deck.\n\n Thou art but too good a fellow, Starbuck,  he said lowly to the mate;\nthen raising his voice to the crew:  Furl the t gallant-sails, and\nclose-reef the top-sails, fore and aft; back the main-yard; up Burton,\nand break out in the main-hold. \n\nIt were perhaps vain to surmise exactly why it was, that as respecting\nStarbuck, Ahab thus acted. It may have been a flash of honesty in him;\nor mere prudential policy which, under the circumstance, imperiously\nforbade the slightest symptom of open disaffection, however transient,\nin the important chief officer of his ship. However it was, his orders\nwere executed; and the Burtons were hoisted.\n\n\nCHAPTER 110. Queequeg in His Coffin.\n\nUpon searching, it was found that the casks last struck into the hold\nwere perfectly sound, and that the leak must be further off. So, it\nbeing calm weather, they broke out deeper and deeper, disturbing the\nslumbers of the huge ground-tier butts; and from that black midnight\nsending those gigantic moles into the daylight above. So deep did they\ngo; and so ancient, and corroded, and weedy the aspect of the lowermost\npuncheons, that you almost looked next for some mouldy corner-stone\ncask containing coins of Captain Noah, with copies of the posted\nplacards, vainly warning the infatuated old world from the flood.\nTierce after tierce, too, of water, and bread, and beef, and shooks of\nstaves, and iron bundles of hoops, were hoisted out, till at last the\npiled decks were hard to get about; and the hollow hull echoed under\nfoot, as if you were treading over empty catacombs, and reeled and\nrolled in the sea like an air-freighted demijohn. Top-heavy was the\nship as a dinnerless student with all Aristotle in his head. Well was\nit that the Typhoons did not visit them then.\n\nNow, at this time it was that my poor pagan companion, and fast\nbosom-friend, Queequeg, was seized with a fever, which brought him nigh\nto his endless end.\n\nBe it said, that in this vocation of whaling, sinecures are unknown;\ndignity and danger go hand in hand; till you get to be Captain, the\nhigher you rise the harder you toil. So with poor Queequeg, who, as\nharpooneer, must not only face all the rage of the living whale, but as\nwe have elsewhere seen mount his dead back in a rolling sea; and\nfinally descend into the gloom of the hold, and bitterly sweating all\nday in that subterraneous confinement, resolutely manhandle the\nclumsiest casks and see to their stowage. To be short, among whalemen,\nthe harpooneers are the holders, so called.\n\nPoor Queequeg! when the ship was about half disembowelled, you should\nhave stooped over the hatchway, and peered down upon him there; where,\nstripped to his woollen drawers, the tattooed savage was crawling about\namid that dampness and slime, like a green spotted lizard at the bottom\nof a well. And a well, or an ice-house, it somehow proved to him, poor\npagan; where, strange to say, for all the heat of his sweatings, he\ncaught a terrible chill which lapsed into a fever; and at last, after\nsome days  suffering, laid him in his hammock, close to the very sill\nof the door of death. How he wasted and wasted away in those few\nlong-lingering days, till there seemed but little left of him but his\nframe and tattooing. But as all else in him thinned, and his\ncheek-bones grew sharper, his eyes, nevertheless, seemed growing fuller\nand fuller; they became of a strange softness of lustre; and mildly but\ndeeply looked out at you there from his sickness, a wondrous testimony\nto that immortal health in him which could not die, or be weakened. And\nlike circles on the water, which, as they grow fainter, expand; so his\neyes seemed rounding and rounding, like the rings of Eternity. An awe\nthat cannot be named would steal over you as you sat by the side of\nthis waning savage, and saw as strange things in his face, as any\nbeheld who were bystanders when Zoroaster died. For whatever is truly\nwondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books. And\nthe drawing near of Death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all\nwith a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could\nadequately tell. So that let us say it again no dying Chaldee or Greek\nhad higher and holier thoughts than those, whose mysterious shades you\nsaw creeping over the face of poor Queequeg, as he quietly lay in his\nswaying hammock, and the rolling sea seemed gently rocking him to his\nfinal rest, and the ocean s invisible flood-tide lifted him higher and\nhigher towards his destined heaven.\n\nNot a man of the crew but gave him up; and, as for Queequeg himself,\nwhat he thought of his case was forcibly shown by a curious favour he\nasked. He called one to him in the grey morning watch, when the day was\njust breaking, and taking his hand, said that while in Nantucket he had\nchanced to see certain little canoes of dark wood, like the rich\nwar-wood of his native isle; and upon inquiry, he had learned that all\nwhalemen who died in Nantucket, were laid in those same dark canoes,\nand that the fancy of being so laid had much pleased him; for it was\nnot unlike the custom of his own race, who, after embalming a dead\nwarrior, stretched him out in his canoe, and so left him to be floated\naway to the starry archipelagoes; for not only do they believe that the\nstars are isles, but that far beyond all visible horizons, their own\nmild, uncontinented seas, interflow with the blue heavens; and so form\nthe white breakers of the milky way. He added, that he shuddered at the\nthought of being buried in his hammock, according to the usual\nsea-custom, tossed like something vile to the death-devouring sharks.\nNo: he desired a canoe like those of Nantucket, all the more congenial\nto him, being a whaleman, that like a whale-boat these coffin-canoes\nwere without a keel; though that involved but uncertain steering, and\nmuch lee-way adown the dim ages.\n\nNow, when this strange circumstance was made known aft, the carpenter\nwas at once commanded to do Queequeg s bidding, whatever it might\ninclude. There was some heathenish, coffin-coloured old lumber aboard,\nwhich, upon a long previous voyage, had been cut from the aboriginal\ngroves of the Lackaday islands, and from these dark planks the coffin\nwas recommended to be made. No sooner was the carpenter apprised of the\norder, than taking his rule, he forthwith with all the indifferent\npromptitude of his character, proceeded into the forecastle and took\nQueequeg s measure with great accuracy, regularly chalking Queequeg s\nperson as he shifted the rule.\n\n Ah! poor fellow! he ll have to die now,  ejaculated the Long Island\nsailor.\n\nGoing to his vice-bench, the carpenter for convenience sake and general\nreference, now transferringly measured on it the exact length the\ncoffin was to be, and then made the transfer permanent by cutting two\nnotches at its extremities. This done, he marshalled the planks and his\ntools, and to work.\n\nWhen the last nail was driven, and the lid duly planed and fitted, he\nlightly shouldered the coffin and went forward with it, inquiring\nwhether they were ready for it yet in that direction.\n\nOverhearing the indignant but half-humorous cries with which the people\non deck began to drive the coffin away, Queequeg, to every one s\nconsternation, commanded that the thing should be instantly brought to\nhim, nor was there any denying him; seeing that, of all mortals, some\ndying men are the most tyrannical; and certainly, since they will\nshortly trouble us so little for evermore, the poor fellows ought to be\nindulged.\n\nLeaning over in his hammock, Queequeg long regarded the coffin with an\nattentive eye. He then called for his harpoon, had the wooden stock\ndrawn from it, and then had the iron part placed in the coffin along\nwith one of the paddles of his boat. All by his own request, also,\nbiscuits were then ranged round the sides within: a flask of fresh\nwater was placed at the head, and a small bag of woody earth scraped up\nin the hold at the foot; and a piece of sail-cloth being rolled up for\na pillow, Queequeg now entreated to be lifted into his final bed, that\nhe might make trial of its comforts, if any it had. He lay without\nmoving a few minutes, then told one to go to his bag and bring out his\nlittle god, Yojo. Then crossing his arms on his breast with Yojo\nbetween, he called for the coffin lid (hatch he called it) to be placed\nover him. The head part turned over with a leather hinge, and there lay\nQueequeg in his coffin with little but his composed countenance in\nview.  Rarmai  (it will do; it is easy), he murmured at last, and\nsigned to be replaced in his hammock.\n\nBut ere this was done, Pip, who had been slily hovering near by all\nthis while, drew nigh to him where he lay, and with soft sobbings, took\nhim by the hand; in the other, holding his tambourine.\n\n Poor rover! will ye never have done with all this weary roving? where\ngo ye now? But if the currents carry ye to those sweet Antilles where\nthe beaches are only beat with water-lilies, will ye do one little\nerrand for me? Seek out one Pip, who s now been missing long: I think\nhe s in those far Antilles. If ye find him, then comfort him; for he\nmust be very sad; for look! he s left his tambourine behind; I found\nit. Rig-a-dig, dig, dig! Now, Queequeg, die; and I ll beat ye your\ndying march. \n\n I have heard,  murmured Starbuck, gazing down the scuttle,  that in\nviolent fevers, men, all ignorance, have talked in ancient tongues; and\nthat when the mystery is probed, it turns out always that in their\nwholly forgotten childhood those ancient tongues had been really spoken\nin their hearing by some lofty scholars. So, to my fond faith, poor\nPip, in this strange sweetness of his lunacy, brings heavenly vouchers\nof all our heavenly homes. Where learned he that, but there? Hark! he\nspeaks again: but more wildly now. \n\n Form two and two! Let s make a General of him! Ho, where s his\nharpoon? Lay it across here. Rig-a-dig, dig, dig! huzza! Oh for a game\ncock now to sit upon his head and crow! Queequeg dies game! mind ye\nthat; Queequeg dies game! take ye good heed of that; Queequeg dies\ngame! I say; game, game, game! but base little Pip, he died a coward;\ndied all a shiver; out upon Pip! Hark ye; if ye find Pip, tell all the\nAntilles he s a runaway; a coward, a coward, a coward! Tell them he\njumped from a whale-boat! I d never beat my tambourine over base Pip,\nand hail him General, if he were once more dying here. No, no! shame\nupon all cowards shame upon them! Let  em go drown like Pip, that\njumped from a whale-boat. Shame! shame! \n\nDuring all this, Queequeg lay with closed eyes, as if in a dream. Pip\nwas led away, and the sick man was replaced in his hammock.\n\nBut now that he had apparently made every preparation for death; now\nthat his coffin was proved a good fit, Queequeg suddenly rallied; soon\nthere seemed no need of the carpenter s box: and thereupon, when some\nexpressed their delighted surprise, he, in substance, said, that the\ncause of his sudden convalescence was this; at a critical moment, he\nhad just recalled a little duty ashore, which he was leaving undone;\nand therefore had changed his mind about dying: he could not die yet,\nhe averred. They asked him, then, whether to live or die was a matter\nof his own sovereign will and pleasure. He answered, certainly. In a\nword, it was Queequeg s conceit, that if a man made up his mind to\nlive, mere sickness could not kill him: nothing but a whale, or a gale,\nor some violent, ungovernable, unintelligent destroyer of that sort.\n\nNow, there is this noteworthy difference between savage and civilized;\nthat while a sick, civilized man may be six months convalescing,\ngenerally speaking, a sick savage is almost half-well again in a day.\nSo, in good time my Queequeg gained strength; and at length after\nsitting on the windlass for a few indolent days (but eating with a\nvigorous appetite) he suddenly leaped to his feet, threw out his arms\nand legs, gave himself a good stretching, yawned a little bit, and then\nspringing into the head of his hoisted boat, and poising a harpoon,\npronounced himself fit for a fight.\n\nWith a wild whimsiness, he now used his coffin for a sea-chest; and\nemptying into it his canvas bag of clothes, set them in order there.\nMany spare hours he spent, in carving the lid with all manner of\ngrotesque figures and drawings; and it seemed that hereby he was\nstriving, in his rude way, to copy parts of the twisted tattooing on\nhis body. And this tattooing had been the work of a departed prophet\nand seer of his island, who, by those hieroglyphic marks, had written\nout on his body a complete theory of the heavens and the earth, and a\nmystical treatise on the art of attaining truth; so that Queequeg in\nhis own proper person was a riddle to unfold; a wondrous work in one\nvolume; but whose mysteries not even himself could read, though his own\nlive heart beat against them; and these mysteries were therefore\ndestined in the end to moulder away with the living parchment whereon\nthey were inscribed, and so be unsolved to the last. And this thought\nit must have been which suggested to Ahab that wild exclamation of his,\nwhen one morning turning away from surveying poor Queequeg Oh,\ndevilish tantalization of the gods! \n\n\nCHAPTER 111. The Pacific.\n\nWhen gliding by the Bashee isles we emerged at last upon the great\nSouth Sea; were it not for other things, I could have greeted my dear\nPacific with uncounted thanks, for now the long supplication of my\nyouth was answered; that serene ocean rolled eastwards from me a\nthousand leagues of blue.\n\nThere is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently\nawful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those\nfabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St.\nJohn. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery\nprairies and Potters  Fields of all four continents, the waves should\nrise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of\nmixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all\nthat we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing\nlike slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by\ntheir restlessness.\n\nTo any meditative Magian rover, this serene Pacific, once beheld, must\never after be the sea of his adoption. It rolls the midmost waters of\nthe world, the Indian ocean and Atlantic being but its arms. The same\nwaves wash the moles of the new-built Californian towns, but yesterday\nplanted by the recentest race of men, and lave the faded but still\ngorgeous skirts of Asiatic lands, older than Abraham; while all between\nfloat milky-ways of coral isles, and low-lying, endless, unknown\nArchipelagoes, and impenetrable Japans. Thus this mysterious, divine\nPacific zones the world s whole bulk about; makes all coasts one bay to\nit; seems the tide-beating heart of earth. Lifted by those eternal\nswells, you needs must own the seductive god, bowing your head to Pan.\n\nBut few thoughts of Pan stirred Ahab s brain, as standing like an iron\nstatue at his accustomed place beside the mizen rigging, with one\nnostril he unthinkingly snuffed the sugary musk from the Bashee isles\n(in whose sweet woods mild lovers must be walking), and with the other\nconsciously inhaled the salt breath of the new found sea; that sea in\nwhich the hated White Whale must even then be swimming. Launched at\nlength upon these almost final waters, and gliding towards the Japanese\ncruising-ground, the old man s purpose intensified itself. His firm\nlips met like the lips of a vice; the Delta of his forehead s veins\nswelled like overladen brooks; in his very sleep, his ringing cry ran\nthrough the vaulted hull,  Stern all! the White Whale spouts thick\nblood! \n\n\nCHAPTER 112. The Blacksmith.\n\nAvailing himself of the mild, summer-cool weather that now reigned in\nthese latitudes, and in preparation for the peculiarly active pursuits\nshortly to be anticipated, Perth, the begrimed, blistered old\nblacksmith, had not removed his portable forge to the hold again, after\nconcluding his contributory work for Ahab s leg, but still retained it\non deck, fast lashed to ringbolts by the foremast; being now almost\nincessantly invoked by the headsmen, and harpooneers, and bowsmen to do\nsome little job for them; altering, or repairing, or new shaping their\nvarious weapons and boat furniture. Often he would be surrounded by an\neager circle, all waiting to be served; holding boat-spades,\npike-heads, harpoons, and lances, and jealously watching his every\nsooty movement, as he toiled. Nevertheless, this old man s was a\npatient hammer wielded by a patient arm. No murmur, no impatience, no\npetulance did come from him. Silent, slow, and solemn; bowing over\nstill further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil\nwere life itself, and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating\nof his heart. And so it was. Most miserable!\n\nA peculiar walk in this old man, a certain slight but painful appearing\nyawing in his gait, had at an early period of the voyage excited the\ncuriosity of the mariners. And to the importunity of their persisted\nquestionings he had finally given in; and so it came to pass that every\none now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.\n\nBelated, and not innocently, one bitter winter s midnight, on the road\nrunning between two country towns, the blacksmith half-stupidly felt\nthe deadly numbness stealing over him, and sought refuge in a leaning,\ndilapidated barn. The issue was, the loss of the extremities of both\nfeet. Out of this revelation, part by part, at last came out the four\nacts of the gladness, and the one long, and as yet uncatastrophied\nfifth act of the grief of his life s drama.\n\nHe was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty, had postponedly\nencountered that thing in sorrow s technicals called ruin. He had been\nan artisan of famed excellence, and with plenty to do; owned a house\nand garden; embraced a youthful, daughter-like, loving wife, and three\nblithe, ruddy children; every Sunday went to a cheerful-looking church,\nplanted in a grove. But one night, under cover of darkness, and further\nconcealed in a most cunning disguisement, a desperate burglar slid into\nhis happy home, and robbed them all of everything. And darker yet to\ntell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into\nhis family s heart. It was the Bottle Conjuror! Upon the opening of\nthat fatal cork, forth flew the fiend, and shrivelled up his home. Now,\nfor prudent, most wise, and economic reasons, the blacksmith s shop was\nin the basement of his dwelling, but with a separate entrance to it; so\nthat always had the young and loving healthy wife listened with no\nunhappy nervousness, but with vigorous pleasure, to the stout ringing\nof her young-armed old husband s hammer; whose reverberations, muffled\nby passing through the floors and walls, came up to her, not unsweetly,\nin her nursery; and so, to stout Labor s iron lullaby, the blacksmith s\ninfants were rocked to slumber.\n\nOh, woe on woe! Oh, Death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely?\nHadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came\nupon him, then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her\norphans a truly venerable, legendary sire to dream of in their after\nyears; and all of them a care-killing competency. But Death plucked\ndown some virtuous elder brother, on whose whistling daily toil solely\nhung the responsibilities of some other family, and left the worse than\nuseless old man standing, till the hideous rot of life should make him\neasier to harvest.\n\nWhy tell the whole? The blows of the basement hammer every day grew\nmore and more between; and each blow every day grew fainter than the\nlast; the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes,\nglitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows\nfell; the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold; the mother\ndived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed\nher thither; and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a\nvagabond in crape; his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to\nflaxen curls!\n\nDeath seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death\nis only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but\nthe first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the\nWild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of\nsuch men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions\nagainst suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean\nalluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking\nterrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of\ninfinite Pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them Come hither,\nbroken-hearted; here is another life without the guilt of intermediate\ndeath; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them. Come\nhither! bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and\nabhorring, landed world, is more oblivious than death. Come hither! put\nup _thy_ gravestone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till\nwe marry thee! \n\nHearkening to these voices, East and West, by early sunrise, and by\nfall of eve, the blacksmith s soul responded, Aye, I come! And so Perth\nwent a-whaling.\n\n\nCHAPTER 113. The Forge.\n\nWith matted beard, and swathed in a bristling shark-skin apron, about\nmid-day, Perth was standing between his forge and anvil, the latter\nplaced upon an iron-wood log, with one hand holding a pike-head in the\ncoals, and with the other at his forge s lungs, when Captain Ahab came\nalong, carrying in his hand a small rusty-looking leathern bag. While\nyet a little distance from the forge, moody Ahab paused; till at last,\nPerth, withdrawing his iron from the fire, began hammering it upon the\nanvil the red mass sending off the sparks in thick hovering flights,\nsome of which flew close to Ahab.\n\n Are these thy Mother Carey s chickens, Perth? they are always flying\nin thy wake; birds of good omen, too, but not to all; look here, they\nburn; but thou thou liv st among them without a scorch. \n\n Because I am scorched all over, Captain Ahab,  answered Perth, resting\nfor a moment on his hammer;  I am past scorching; not easily can st\nthou scorch a scar. \n\n Well, well; no more. Thy shrunk voice sounds too calmly, sanely woeful\nto me. In no Paradise myself, I am impatient of all misery in others\nthat is not mad. Thou should st go mad, blacksmith; say, why dost thou\nnot go mad? How can st thou endure without being mad? Do the heavens\nyet hate thee, that thou can st not go mad? What wert thou making\nthere? \n\n Welding an old pike-head, sir; there were seams and dents in it. \n\n And can st thou make it all smooth again, blacksmith, after such hard\nusage as it had? \n\n I think so, sir. \n\n And I suppose thou can st smoothe almost any seams and dents; never\nmind how hard the metal, blacksmith? \n\n Aye, sir, I think I can; all seams and dents but one. \n\n Look ye here, then,  cried Ahab, passionately advancing, and leaning\nwith both hands on Perth s shoulders;  look ye here _here_ can ye\nsmoothe out a seam like this, blacksmith,  sweeping one hand across his\nribbed brow;  if thou could st, blacksmith, glad enough would I lay my\nhead upon thy anvil, and feel thy heaviest hammer between my eyes.\nAnswer! Can st thou smoothe this seam? \n\n Oh! that is the one, sir! Said I not all seams and dents but one? \n\n Aye, blacksmith, it is the one; aye, man, it is unsmoothable; for\nthough thou only see st it here in my flesh, it has worked down into\nthe bone of my skull _that_ is all wrinkles! But, away with child s\nplay; no more gaffs and pikes to-day. Look ye here!  jingling the\nleathern bag, as if it were full of gold coins.  I, too, want a harpoon\nmade; one that a thousand yoke of fiends could not part, Perth;\nsomething that will stick in a whale like his own fin-bone. There s the\nstuff,  flinging the pouch upon the anvil.  Look ye, blacksmith, these\nare the gathered nail-stubbs of the steel shoes of racing horses. \n\n Horse-shoe stubbs, sir? Why, Captain Ahab, thou hast here, then, the\nbest and stubbornest stuff we blacksmiths ever work. \n\n I know it, old man; these stubbs will weld together like glue from the\nmelted bones of murderers. Quick! forge me the harpoon. And forge me\nfirst, twelve rods for its shank; then wind, and twist, and hammer\nthese twelve together like the yarns and strands of a tow-line. Quick!\nI ll blow the fire. \n\nWhen at last the twelve rods were made, Ahab tried them, one by one, by\nspiralling them, with his own hand, round a long, heavy iron bolt.  A\nflaw!  rejecting the last one.  Work that over again, Perth. \n\nThis done, Perth was about to begin welding the twelve into one, when\nAhab stayed his hand, and said he would weld his own iron. As, then,\nwith regular, gasping hems, he hammered on the anvil, Perth passing to\nhim the glowing rods, one after the other, and the hard pressed forge\nshooting up its intense straight flame, the Parsee passed silently, and\nbowing over his head towards the fire, seemed invoking some curse or\nsome blessing on the toil. But, as Ahab looked up, he slid aside.\n\n What s that bunch of lucifers dodging about there for?  muttered\nStubb, looking on from the forecastle.  That Parsee smells fire like a\nfusee; and smells of it himself, like a hot musket s powder-pan. \n\nAt last the shank, in one complete rod, received its final heat; and as\nPerth, to temper it, plunged it all hissing into the cask of water near\nby, the scalding steam shot up into Ahab s bent face.\n\n Would st thou brand me, Perth?  wincing for a moment with the pain;\n have I been but forging my own branding-iron, then? \n\n Pray God, not that; yet I fear something, Captain Ahab. Is not this\nharpoon for the White Whale? \n\n For the white fiend! But now for the barbs; thou must make them\nthyself, man. Here are my razors the best of steel; here, and make the\nbarbs sharp as the needle-sleet of the Icy Sea. \n\nFor a moment, the old blacksmith eyed the razors as though he would\nfain not use them.\n\n Take them, man, I have no need for them; for I now neither shave, sup,\nnor pray till but here to work! \n\nFashioned at last into an arrowy shape, and welded by Perth to the\nshank, the steel soon pointed the end of the iron; and as the\nblacksmith was about giving the barbs their final heat, prior to\ntempering them, he cried to Ahab to place the water-cask near.\n\n No, no no water for that; I want it of the true death-temper. Ahoy,\nthere! Tashtego, Queequeg, Daggoo! What say ye, pagans! Will ye give me\nas much blood as will cover this barb?  holding it high up. A cluster\nof dark nods replied, Yes. Three punctures were made in the heathen\nflesh, and the White Whale s barbs were then tempered.\n\n Ego non baptizo te in nomine patris, sed in nomine diaboli! \ndeliriously howled Ahab, as the malignant iron scorchingly devoured the\nbaptismal blood.\n\nNow, mustering the spare poles from below, and selecting one of\nhickory, with the bark still investing it, Ahab fitted the end to the\nsocket of the iron. A coil of new tow-line was then unwound, and some\nfathoms of it taken to the windlass, and stretched to a great tension.\nPressing his foot upon it, till the rope hummed like a harp-string,\nthen eagerly bending over it, and seeing no strandings, Ahab exclaimed,\n Good! and now for the seizings. \n\nAt one extremity the rope was unstranded, and the separate spread yarns\nwere all braided and woven round the socket of the harpoon; the pole\nwas then driven hard up into the socket; from the lower end the rope\nwas traced half-way along the pole s length, and firmly secured so,\nwith intertwistings of twine. This done, pole, iron, and rope like the\nThree Fates remained inseparable, and Ahab moodily stalked away with\nthe weapon; the sound of his ivory leg, and the sound of the hickory\npole, both hollowly ringing along every plank. But ere he entered his\ncabin, light, unnatural, half-bantering, yet most piteous sound was\nheard. Oh, Pip! thy wretched laugh, thy idle but unresting eye; all thy\nstrange mummeries not unmeaningly blended with the black tragedy of the\nmelancholy ship, and mocked it!\n\n\nCHAPTER 114. The Gilder.\n\nPenetrating further and further into the heart of the Japanese cruising\nground, the Pequod was soon all astir in the fishery. Often, in mild,\npleasant weather, for twelve, fifteen, eighteen, and twenty hours on\nthe stretch, they were engaged in the boats, steadily pulling, or\nsailing, or paddling after the whales, or for an interlude of sixty or\nseventy minutes calmly awaiting their uprising; though with but small\nsuccess for their pains.\n\nAt such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow\nheaving swells; seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so\nsociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearth-stone\ncats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy\nquietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the\nocean s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and\nwould not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a\nremorseless fang.\n\nThese are the times, when in his whale-boat the rover softly feels a\ncertain filial, confident, land-like feeling towards the sea; that he\nregards it as so much flowery earth; and the distant ship revealing\nonly the tops of her masts, seems struggling forward, not through high\nrolling waves, but through the tall grass of a rolling prairie: as when\nthe western emigrants  horses only show their erected ears, while their\nhidden bodies widely wade through the amazing verdure.\n\nThe long-drawn virgin vales; the mild blue hill-sides; as over these\nthere steals the hush, the hum; you almost swear that play-wearied\nchildren lie sleeping in these solitudes, in some glad May-time, when\nthe flowers of the woods are plucked. And all this mixes with your most\nmystic mood; so that fact and fancy, half-way meeting, interpenetrate,\nand form one seamless whole.\n\nNor did such soothing scenes, however temporary, fail of at least as\ntemporary an effect on Ahab. But if these secret golden keys did seem\nto open in him his own secret golden treasuries, yet did his breath\nupon them prove but tarnishing.\n\nOh, grassy glades! oh, ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in\nye, though long parched by the dead drought of the earthy life, in ye,\nmen yet may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some\nfew fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them.\nWould to God these blessed calms would last. But the mingled, mingling\nthreads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms, a\nstorm for every calm. There is no steady unretracing progress in this\nlife; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one\npause: through infancy s unconscious spell, boyhood s thoughtless\nfaith, adolescence  doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then\ndisbelief, resting at last in manhood s pondering repose of If. But\nonce gone through, we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and\nmen, and Ifs eternally. Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor\nno more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will\nnever weary? Where is the foundling s father hidden? Our souls are like\nthose orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of\nour paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.\n\nAnd that same day, too, gazing far down from his boat s side into that\nsame golden sea, Starbuck lowly murmured: \n\n Loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride s\neye! Tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks, and thy kidnapping\ncannibal ways. Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep\ndown and do believe. \n\nAnd Stubb, fish-like, with sparkling scales, leaped up in that same\ngolden light: \n\n I am Stubb, and Stubb has his history; but here Stubb takes oaths that\nhe has always been jolly! \n\n\nCHAPTER 115. The Pequod Meets The Bachelor.\n\nAnd jolly enough were the sights and the sounds that came bearing down\nbefore the wind, some few weeks after Ahab s harpoon had been welded.\n\nIt was a Nantucket ship, the Bachelor, which had just wedged in her\nlast cask of oil, and bolted down her bursting hatches; and now, in\nglad holiday apparel, was joyously, though somewhat vain-gloriously,\nsailing round among the widely-separated ships on the ground, previous\nto pointing her prow for home.\n\nThe three men at her mast-head wore long streamers of narrow red\nbunting at their hats; from the stern, a whale-boat was suspended,\nbottom down; and hanging captive from the bowsprit was seen the long\nlower jaw of the last whale they had slain. Signals, ensigns, and jacks\nof all colours were flying from her rigging, on every side. Sideways\nlashed in each of her three basketed tops were two barrels of sperm;\nabove which, in her top-mast cross-trees, you saw slender breakers of\nthe same precious fluid; and nailed to her main truck was a brazen\nlamp.\n\nAs was afterwards learned, the Bachelor had met with the most\nsurprising success; all the more wonderful, for that while cruising in\nthe same seas numerous other vessels had gone entire months without\nsecuring a single fish. Not only had barrels of beef and bread been\ngiven away to make room for the far more valuable sperm, but additional\nsupplemental casks had been bartered for, from the ships she had met;\nand these were stowed along the deck, and in the captain s and\nofficers  state-rooms. Even the cabin table itself had been knocked\ninto kindling-wood; and the cabin mess dined off the broad head of an\noil-butt, lashed down to the floor for a centrepiece. In the\nforecastle, the sailors had actually caulked and pitched their chests,\nand filled them; it was humorously added, that the cook had clapped a\nhead on his largest boiler, and filled it; that the steward had plugged\nhis spare coffee-pot and filled it; that the harpooneers had headed the\nsockets of their irons and filled them; that indeed everything was\nfilled with sperm, except the captain s pantaloons pockets, and those\nhe reserved to thrust his hands into, in self-complacent testimony of\nhis entire satisfaction.\n\nAs this glad ship of good luck bore down upon the moody Pequod, the\nbarbarian sound of enormous drums came from her forecastle; and drawing\nstill nearer, a crowd of her men were seen standing round her huge\ntry-pots, which, covered with the parchment-like _poke_ or stomach skin\nof the black fish, gave forth a loud roar to every stroke of the\nclenched hands of the crew. On the quarter-deck, the mates and\nharpooneers were dancing with the olive-hued girls who had eloped with\nthem from the Polynesian Isles; while suspended in an ornamented boat,\nfirmly secured aloft between the foremast and mainmast, three Long\nIsland negroes, with glittering fiddle-bows of whale ivory, were\npresiding over the hilarious jig. Meanwhile, others of the ship s\ncompany were tumultuously busy at the masonry of the try-works, from\nwhich the huge pots had been removed. You would have almost thought\nthey were pulling down the cursed Bastille, such wild cries they\nraised, as the now useless brick and mortar were being hurled into the\nsea.\n\nLord and master over all this scene, the captain stood erect on the\nship s elevated quarter-deck, so that the whole rejoicing drama was\nfull before him, and seemed merely contrived for his own individual\ndiversion.\n\nAnd Ahab, he too was standing on his quarter-deck, shaggy and black,\nwith a stubborn gloom; and as the two ships crossed each other s\nwakes one all jubilations for things passed, the other all forebodings\nas to things to come their two captains in themselves impersonated the\nwhole striking contrast of the scene.\n\n Come aboard, come aboard!  cried the gay Bachelor s commander, lifting\na glass and a bottle in the air.\n\n Hast seen the White Whale?  gritted Ahab in reply.\n\n No; only heard of him; but don t believe in him at all,  said the\nother good-humoredly.  Come aboard! \n\n Thou art too damned jolly. Sail on. Hast lost any men? \n\n Not enough to speak of two islanders, that s all; but come aboard, old\nhearty, come along. I ll soon take that black from your brow. Come\nalong, will ye (merry s the play); a full ship and homeward-bound. \n\n How wondrous familiar is a fool!  muttered Ahab; then aloud,  Thou art\na full ship and homeward bound, thou sayst; well, then, call me an\nempty ship, and outward-bound. So go thy ways, and I will mine. Forward\nthere! Set all sail, and keep her to the wind! \n\nAnd thus, while the one ship went cheerily before the breeze, the other\nstubbornly fought against it; and so the two vessels parted; the crew\nof the Pequod looking with grave, lingering glances towards the\nreceding Bachelor; but the Bachelor s men never heeding their gaze for\nthe lively revelry they were in. And as Ahab, leaning over the\ntaffrail, eyed the homeward-bound craft, he took from his pocket a\nsmall vial of sand, and then looking from the ship to the vial, seemed\nthereby bringing two remote associations together, for that vial was\nfilled with Nantucket soundings.\n\n\nCHAPTER 116. The Dying Whale.\n\nNot seldom in this life, when, on the right side, fortune s favourites\nsail close by us, we, though all adroop before, catch somewhat of the\nrushing breeze, and joyfully feel our bagging sails fill out. So seemed\nit with the Pequod. For next day after encountering the gay Bachelor,\nwhales were seen and four were slain; and one of them by Ahab.\n\nIt was far down the afternoon; and when all the spearings of the\ncrimson fight were done: and floating in the lovely sunset sea and sky,\nsun and whale both stilly died together; then, such a sweetness and\nsuch plaintiveness, such inwreathing orisons curled up in that rosy\nair, that it almost seemed as if far over from the deep green convent\nvalleys of the Manilla isles, the Spanish land-breeze, wantonly turned\nsailor, had gone to sea, freighted with these vesper hymns.\n\nSoothed again, but only soothed to deeper gloom, Ahab, who had sterned\noff from the whale, sat intently watching his final wanings from the\nnow tranquil boat. For that strange spectacle observable in all sperm\nwhales dying the turning sunwards of the head, and so expiring that\nstrange spectacle, beheld of such a placid evening, somehow to Ahab\nconveyed a wondrousness unknown before.\n\n He turns and turns him to it, how slowly, but how steadfastly, his\nhomage-rendering and invoking brow, with his last dying motions. He too\nworships fire; most faithful, broad, baronial vassal of the sun! Oh\nthat these too-favouring eyes should see these too-favouring sights.\nLook! here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe; in\nthese most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks\nfurnish tablets; where for long Chinese ages, the billows have still\nrolled on speechless and unspoken to, as stars that shine upon the\nNiger s unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith;\nbut see! no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it\nheads some other way.\n\n Oh, thou dark Hindoo half of nature, who of drowned bones hast builded\nthy separate throne somewhere in the heart of these unverdured seas;\nthou art an infidel, thou queen, and too truly speakest to me in the\nwide-slaughtering Typhoon, and the hushed burial of its after calm. Nor\nhas this thy whale sunwards turned his dying head, and then gone round\nagain, without a lesson to me.\n\n Oh, trebly hooped and welded hip of power! Oh, high aspiring,\nrainbowed jet! that one strivest, this one jettest all in vain! In\nvain, oh whale, dost thou seek intercedings with yon all-quickening\nsun, that only calls forth life, but gives it not again. Yet dost thou,\ndarker half, rock me with a prouder, if a darker faith. All thy\nunnamable imminglings float beneath me here; I am buoyed by breaths of\nonce living things, exhaled as air, but water now.\n\n Then hail, for ever hail, O sea, in whose eternal tossings the wild\nfowl finds his only rest. Born of earth, yet suckled by the sea; though\nhill and valley mothered me, ye billows are my foster-brothers! \n\n\nCHAPTER 117. The Whale Watch.\n\nThe four whales slain that evening had died wide apart; one, far to\nwindward; one, less distant, to leeward; one ahead; one astern. These\nlast three were brought alongside ere nightfall; but the windward one\ncould not be reached till morning; and the boat that had killed it lay\nby its side all night; and that boat was Ahab s.\n\nThe waif-pole was thrust upright into the dead whale s spout-hole; and\nthe lantern hanging from its top, cast a troubled flickering glare upon\nthe black, glossy back, and far out upon the midnight waves, which\ngently chafed the whale s broad flank, like soft surf upon a beach.\n\nAhab and all his boat s crew seemed asleep but the Parsee; who\ncrouching in the bow, sat watching the sharks, that spectrally played\nround the whale, and tapped the light cedar planks with their tails. A\nsound like the moaning in squadrons over Asphaltites of unforgiven\nghosts of Gomorrah, ran shuddering through the air.\n\nStarted from his slumbers, Ahab, face to face, saw the Parsee; and\nhooped round by the gloom of the night they seemed the last men in a\nflooded world.  I have dreamed it again,  said he.\n\n Of the hearses? Have I not said, old man, that neither hearse nor\ncoffin can be thine? \n\n And who are hearsed that die on the sea? \n\n But I said, old man, that ere thou couldst die on this voyage, two\nhearses must verily be seen by thee on the sea; the first not made by\nmortal hands; and the visible wood of the last one must be grown in\nAmerica. \n\n Aye, aye! a strange sight that, Parsee: a hearse and its plumes\nfloating over the ocean with the waves for the pall-bearers. Ha! Such a\nsight we shall not soon see. \n\n Believe it or not, thou canst not die till it be seen, old man. \n\n And what was that saying about thyself? \n\n Though it come to the last, I shall still go before thee thy pilot. \n\n And when thou art so gone before if that ever befall then ere I can\nfollow, thou must still appear to me, to pilot me still? Was it not so?\nWell, then, did I believe all ye say, oh my pilot! I have here two\npledges that I shall yet slay Moby Dick and survive it. \n\n Take another pledge, old man,  said the Parsee, as his eyes lighted up\nlike fire-flies in the gloom Hemp only can kill thee. \n\n The gallows, ye mean. I am immortal then, on land and on sea,  cried\nAhab, with a laugh of derision; Immortal on land and on sea! \n\nBoth were silent again, as one man. The grey dawn came on, and the\nslumbering crew arose from the boat s bottom, and ere noon the dead\nwhale was brought to the ship.\n\n\nCHAPTER 118. The Quadrant.\n\nThe season for the Line at length drew near; and every day when Ahab,\ncoming from his cabin, cast his eyes aloft, the vigilant helmsman would\nostentatiously handle his spokes, and the eager mariners quickly run to\nthe braces, and would stand there with all their eyes centrally fixed\non the nailed doubloon; impatient for the order to point the ship s\nprow for the equator. In good time the order came. It was hard upon\nhigh noon; and Ahab, seated in the bows of his high-hoisted boat, was\nabout taking his wonted daily observation of the sun to determine his\nlatitude.\n\nNow, in that Japanese sea, the days in summer are as freshets of\neffulgences. That unblinkingly vivid Japanese sun seems the blazing\nfocus of the glassy ocean s immeasurable burning-glass. The sky looks\nlacquered; clouds there are none; the horizon floats; and this\nnakedness of unrelieved radiance is as the insufferable splendors of\nGod s throne. Well that Ahab s quadrant was furnished with coloured\nglasses, through which to take sight of that solar fire. So, swinging\nhis seated form to the roll of the ship, and with his\nastrological-looking instrument placed to his eye, he remained in that\nposture for some moments to catch the precise instant when the sun\nshould gain its precise meridian. Meantime while his whole attention\nwas absorbed, the Parsee was kneeling beneath him on the ship s deck,\nand with face thrown up like Ahab s, was eyeing the same sun with him;\nonly the lids of his eyes half hooded their orbs, and his wild face was\nsubdued to an earthly passionlessness. At length the desired\nobservation was taken; and with his pencil upon his ivory leg, Ahab\nsoon calculated what his latitude must be at that precise instant. Then\nfalling into a moment s revery, he again looked up towards the sun and\nmurmured to himself:  Thou sea-mark! thou high and mighty Pilot! thou\ntellest me truly where I _am_ but canst thou cast the least hint where\nI _shall_ be? Or canst thou tell where some other thing besides me is\nthis moment living? Where is Moby Dick? This instant thou must be\neyeing him. These eyes of mine look into the very eye that is even now\nbeholding him; aye, and into the eye that is even now equally beholding\nthe objects on the unknown, thither side of thee, thou sun! \n\nThen gazing at his quadrant, and handling, one after the other, its\nnumerous cabalistical contrivances, he pondered again, and muttered:\n Foolish toy! babies  plaything of haughty Admirals, and Commodores,\nand Captains; the world brags of thee, of thy cunning and might; but\nwhat after all canst thou do, but tell the poor, pitiful point, where\nthou thyself happenest to be on this wide planet, and the hand that\nholds thee: no! not one jot more! Thou canst not tell where one drop of\nwater or one grain of sand will be to-morrow noon; and yet with thy\nimpotence thou insultest the sun! Science! Curse thee, thou vain toy;\nand cursed be all the things that cast man s eyes aloft to that heaven,\nwhose live vividness but scorches him, as these old eyes are even now\nscorched with thy light, O sun! Level by nature to this earth s horizon\nare the glances of man s eyes; not shot from the crown of his head, as\nif God had meant him to gaze on his firmament. Curse thee, thou\nquadrant!  dashing it to the deck,  no longer will I guide my earthly\nway by thee; the level ship s compass, and the level dead-reckoning, by\nlog and by line; _these_ shall conduct me, and show me my place on the\nsea. Aye,  lighting from the boat to the deck,  thus I trample on thee,\nthou paltry thing that feebly pointest on high; thus I split and\ndestroy thee! \n\nAs the frantic old man thus spoke and thus trampled with his live and\ndead feet, a sneering triumph that seemed meant for Ahab, and a\nfatalistic despair that seemed meant for himself these passed over the\nmute, motionless Parsee s face. Unobserved he rose and glided away;\nwhile, awestruck by the aspect of their commander, the seamen clustered\ntogether on the forecastle, till Ahab, troubledly pacing the deck,\nshouted out To the braces! Up helm! square in! \n\nIn an instant the yards swung round; and as the ship half-wheeled upon\nher heel, her three firm-seated graceful masts erectly poised upon her\nlong, ribbed hull, seemed as the three Horatii pirouetting on one\nsufficient steed.\n\nStanding between the knight-heads, Starbuck watched the Pequod s\ntumultuous way, and Ahab s also, as he went lurching along the deck.\n\n I have sat before the dense coal fire and watched it all aglow, full\nof its tormented flaming life; and I have seen it wane at last, down,\ndown, to dumbest dust. Old man of oceans! of all this fiery life of\nthine, what will at length remain but one little heap of ashes! \n\n Aye,  cried Stubb,  but sea-coal ashes mind ye that, Mr.\nStarbuck sea-coal, not your common charcoal. Well, well; I heard Ahab\nmutter,  Here some one thrusts these cards into these old hands of\nmine; swears that I must play them, and no others.  And damn me, Ahab,\nbut thou actest right; live in the game, and die in it! \n\n\nCHAPTER 119. The Candles.\n\nWarmest climes but nurse the cruellest fangs: the tiger of Bengal\ncrouches in spiced groves of ceaseless verdure. Skies the most\neffulgent but basket the deadliest thunders: gorgeous Cuba knows\ntornadoes that never swept tame northern lands. So, too, it is, that in\nthese resplendent Japanese seas the mariner encounters the direst of\nall storms, the Typhoon. It will sometimes burst from out that\ncloudless sky, like an exploding bomb upon a dazed and sleepy town.\n\nTowards evening of that day, the Pequod was torn of her canvas, and\nbare-poled was left to fight a Typhoon which had struck her directly\nahead. When darkness came on, sky and sea roared and split with the\nthunder, and blazed with the lightning, that showed the disabled masts\nfluttering here and there with the rags which the first fury of the\ntempest had left for its after sport.\n\nHolding by a shroud, Starbuck was standing on the quarter-deck; at\nevery flash of the lightning glancing aloft, to see what additional\ndisaster might have befallen the intricate hamper there; while Stubb\nand Flask were directing the men in the higher hoisting and firmer\nlashing of the boats. But all their pains seemed naught. Though lifted\nto the very top of the cranes, the windward quarter boat (Ahab s) did\nnot escape. A great rolling sea, dashing high up against the reeling\nship s high teetering side, stove in the boat s bottom at the stern,\nand left it again, all dripping through like a sieve.\n\n Bad work, bad work! Mr. Starbuck,  said Stubb, regarding the wreck,\n but the sea will have its way. Stubb, for one, can t fight it. You\nsee, Mr. Starbuck, a wave has such a great long start before it leaps,\nall round the world it runs, and then comes the spring! But as for me,\nall the start I have to meet it, is just across the deck here. But\nnever mind; it s all in fun: so the old song says; (_sings_.)\n\n\n  Oh! jolly is the gale, And a joker is the whale, A  flourishin  his\n  tail,  Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad, is the\n  Ocean, oh!\n\n  The scud all a flyin , That s his flip only foamin ; When he stirs in\n  the spicin ,  Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad,\n  is the Ocean, oh!\n\n  Thunder splits the ships, But he only smacks his lips, A tastin  of\n  this flip,  Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad,\n  is the Ocean, oh!\n\n\n\n Avast Stubb,  cried Starbuck,  let the Typhoon sing, and strike his\nharp here in our rigging; but if thou art a brave man thou wilt hold\nthy peace. \n\n But I am not a brave man; never said I was a brave man; I am a coward;\nand I sing to keep up my spirits. And I tell you what it is, Mr.\nStarbuck, there s no way to stop my singing in this world but to cut my\nthroat. And when that s done, ten to one I sing ye the doxology for a\nwind-up. \n\n Madman! look through my eyes if thou hast none of thine own. \n\n What! how can you see better of a dark night than anybody else, never\nmind how foolish? \n\n Here!  cried Starbuck, seizing Stubb by the shoulder, and pointing his\nhand towards the weather bow,  markest thou not that the gale comes\nfrom the eastward, the very course Ahab is to run for Moby Dick? the\nvery course he swung to this day noon? now mark his boat there; where\nis that stove? In the stern-sheets, man; where he is wont to stand his\nstand-point is stove, man! Now jump overboard, and sing away, if thou\nmust!\n\n I don t half understand ye: what s in the wind? \n\n Yes, yes, round the Cape of Good Hope is the shortest way to\nNantucket,  soliloquized Starbuck suddenly, heedless of Stubb s\nquestion.  The gale that now hammers at us to stave us, we can turn it\ninto a fair wind that will drive us towards home. Yonder, to windward,\nall is blackness of doom; but to leeward, homeward I see it lightens up\nthere; but not with the lightning. \n\nAt that moment in one of the intervals of profound darkness, following\nthe flashes, a voice was heard at his side; and almost at the same\ninstant a volley of thunder peals rolled overhead.\n\n Who s there? \n\n Old Thunder!  said Ahab, groping his way along the bulwarks to his\npivot-hole; but suddenly finding his path made plain to him by elbowed\nlances of fire.\n\nNow, as the lightning rod to a spire on shore is intended to carry off\nthe perilous fluid into the soil; so the kindred rod which at sea some\nships carry to each mast, is intended to conduct it into the water. But\nas this conductor must descend to considerable depth, that its end may\navoid all contact with the hull; and as moreover, if kept constantly\ntowing there, it would be liable to many mishaps, besides interfering\nnot a little with some of the rigging, and more or less impeding the\nvessel s way in the water; because of all this, the lower parts of a\nship s lightning-rods are not always overboard; but are generally made\nin long slender links, so as to be the more readily hauled up into the\nchains outside, or thrown down into the sea, as occasion may require.\n\n The rods! the rods!  cried Starbuck to the crew, suddenly admonished\nto vigilance by the vivid lightning that had just been darting\nflambeaux, to light Ahab to his post.  Are they overboard? drop them\nover, fore and aft. Quick! \n\n Avast!  cried Ahab;  let s have fair play here, though we be the\nweaker side. Yet I ll contribute to raise rods on the Himmalehs and\nAndes, that all the world may be secured; but out on privileges! Let\nthem be, sir. \n\n Look aloft!  cried Starbuck.  The corpusants! the corpusants! \n\nAll the yard-arms were tipped with a pallid fire; and touched at each\ntri-pointed lightning-rod-end with three tapering white flames, each of\nthe three tall masts was silently burning in that sulphurous air, like\nthree gigantic wax tapers before an altar.\n\n Blast the boat! let it go!  cried Stubb at this instant, as a swashing\nsea heaved up under his own little craft, so that its gunwale violently\njammed his hand, as he was passing a lashing.  Blast it! but slipping\nbackward on the deck, his uplifted eyes caught the flames; and\nimmediately shifting his tone he cried The corpusants have mercy on us\nall! \n\nTo sailors, oaths are household words; they will swear in the trance of\nthe calm, and in the teeth of the tempest; they will imprecate curses\nfrom the topsail-yard-arms, when most they teeter over to a seething\nsea; but in all my voyagings, seldom have I heard a common oath when\nGod s burning finger has been laid on the ship; when His  Mene, Mene,\nTekel Upharsin  has been woven into the shrouds and the cordage.\n\nWhile this pallidness was burning aloft, few words were heard from the\nenchanted crew; who in one thick cluster stood on the forecastle, all\ntheir eyes gleaming in that pale phosphorescence, like a far away\nconstellation of stars. Relieved against the ghostly light, the\ngigantic jet negro, Daggoo, loomed up to thrice his real stature, and\nseemed the black cloud from which the thunder had come. The parted\nmouth of Tashtego revealed his shark-white teeth, which strangely\ngleamed as if they too had been tipped by corpusants; while lit up by\nthe preternatural light, Queequeg s tattooing burned like Satanic blue\nflames on his body.\n\nThe tableau all waned at last with the pallidness aloft; and once more\nthe Pequod and every soul on her decks were wrapped in a pall. A moment\nor two passed, when Starbuck, going forward, pushed against some one.\nIt was Stubb.  What thinkest thou now, man; I heard thy cry; it was not\nthe same in the song. \n\n No, no, it wasn t; I said the corpusants have mercy on us all; and I\nhope they will, still. But do they only have mercy on long faces? have\nthey no bowels for a laugh? And look ye, Mr. Starbuck but it s too dark\nto look. Hear me, then: I take that mast-head flame we saw for a sign\nof good luck; for those masts are rooted in a hold that is going to be\nchock a  block with sperm-oil, d ye see; and so, all that sperm will\nwork up into the masts, like sap in a tree. Yes, our three masts will\nyet be as three spermaceti candles that s the good promise we saw. \n\nAt that moment Starbuck caught sight of Stubb s face slowly beginning\nto glimmer into sight. Glancing upwards, he cried:  See! see!  and once\nmore the high tapering flames were beheld with what seemed redoubled\nsupernaturalness in their pallor.\n\n The corpusants have mercy on us all,  cried Stubb, again.\n\nAt the base of the mainmast, full beneath the doubloon and the flame,\nthe Parsee was kneeling in Ahab s front, but with his head bowed away\nfrom him; while near by, from the arched and overhanging rigging, where\nthey had just been engaged securing a spar, a number of the seamen,\narrested by the glare, now cohered together, and hung pendulous, like a\nknot of numbed wasps from a drooping, orchard twig. In various\nenchanted attitudes, like the standing, or stepping, or running\nskeletons in Herculaneum, others remained rooted to the deck; but all\ntheir eyes upcast.\n\n Aye, aye, men!  cried Ahab.  Look up at it; mark it well; the white\nflame but lights the way to the White Whale! Hand me those mainmast\nlinks there; I would fain feel this pulse, and let mine beat against\nit; blood against fire! So. \n\nThen turning the last link held fast in his left hand, he put his foot\nupon the Parsee; and with fixed upward eye, and high-flung right arm,\nhe stood erect before the lofty tri-pointed trinity of flames.\n\n Oh! thou clear spirit of clear fire, whom on these seas I as Persian\nonce did worship, till in the sacramental act so burned by thee, that\nto this hour I bear the scar; I now know thee, thou clear spirit, and I\nnow know that thy right worship is defiance. To neither love nor\nreverence wilt thou be kind; and e en for hate thou canst but kill; and\nall are killed. No fearless fool now fronts thee. I own thy speechless,\nplaceless power; but to the last gasp of my earthquake life will\ndispute its unconditional, unintegral mastery in me. In the midst of\nthe personified impersonal, a personality stands here. Though but a\npoint at best; whencesoe er I came; wheresoe er I go; yet while I\nearthly live, the queenly personality lives in me, and feels her royal\nrights. But war is pain, and hate is woe. Come in thy lowest form of\nlove, and I will kneel and kiss thee; but at thy highest, come as mere\nsupernal power; and though thou launchest navies of full-freighted\nworlds, there s that in here that still remains indifferent. Oh, thou\nclear spirit, of thy fire thou madest me, and like a true child of\nfire, I breathe it back to thee. \n\n[_Sudden, repeated flashes of lightning; the nine flames leap\nlengthwise to thrice their previous height; Ahab, with the rest, closes\nhis eyes, his right hand pressed hard upon them._]\n\n I own thy speechless, placeless power; said I not so? Nor was it wrung\nfrom me; nor do I now drop these links. Thou canst blind; but I can\nthen grope. Thou canst consume; but I can then be ashes. Take the\nhomage of these poor eyes, and shutter-hands. I would not take it. The\nlightning flashes through my skull; mine eye-balls ache and ache; my\nwhole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning\nground. Oh, oh! Yet blindfold, yet will I talk to thee. Light though\nthou be, thou leapest out of darkness; but I am darkness leaping out of\nlight, leaping out of thee! The javelins cease; open eyes; see, or not?\nThere burn the flames! Oh, thou magnanimous! now I do glory in my\ngenealogy. But thou art but my fiery father; my sweet mother, I know\nnot. Oh, cruel! what hast thou done with her? There lies my puzzle; but\nthine is greater. Thou knowest not how came ye, hence callest thyself\nunbegotten; certainly knowest not thy beginning, hence callest thyself\nunbegun. I know that of me, which thou knowest not of thyself, oh, thou\nomnipotent. There is some unsuffusing thing beyond thee, thou clear\nspirit, to whom all thy eternity is but time, all thy creativeness\nmechanical. Through thee, thy flaming self, my scorched eyes do dimly\nsee it. Oh, thou foundling fire, thou hermit immemorial, thou too hast\nthy incommunicable riddle, thy unparticipated grief. Here again with\nhaughty agony, I read my sire. Leap! leap up, and lick the sky! I leap\nwith thee; I burn with thee; would fain be welded with thee; defyingly\nI worship thee! \n\n The boat! the boat!  cried Starbuck,  look at thy boat, old man! \n\nAhab s harpoon, the one forged at Perth s fire, remained firmly lashed\nin its conspicuous crotch, so that it projected beyond his whale-boat s\nbow; but the sea that had stove its bottom had caused the loose leather\nsheath to drop off; and from the keen steel barb there now came a\nlevelled flame of pale, forked fire. As the silent harpoon burned there\nlike a serpent s tongue, Starbuck grasped Ahab by the arm God, God is\nagainst thee, old man; forbear!  tis an ill voyage! ill begun, ill\ncontinued; let me square the yards, while we may, old man, and make a\nfair wind of it homewards, to go on a better voyage than this. \n\nOverhearing Starbuck, the panic-stricken crew instantly ran to the\nbraces though not a sail was left aloft. For the moment all the aghast\nmate s thoughts seemed theirs; they raised a half mutinous cry. But\ndashing the rattling lightning links to the deck, and snatching the\nburning harpoon, Ahab waved it like a torch among them; swearing to\ntransfix with it the first sailor that but cast loose a rope s end.\nPetrified by his aspect, and still more shrinking from the fiery dart\nthat he held, the men fell back in dismay, and Ahab again spoke: \n\n All your oaths to hunt the White Whale are as binding as mine; and\nheart, soul, and body, lungs and life, old Ahab is bound. And that ye\nmay know to what tune this heart beats; look ye here; thus I blow out\nthe last fear!  And with one blast of his breath he extinguished the\nflame.\n\nAs in the hurricane that sweeps the plain, men fly the neighborhood of\nsome lone, gigantic elm, whose very height and strength but render it\nso much the more unsafe, because so much the more a mark for\nthunderbolts; so at those last words of Ahab s many of the mariners did\nrun from him in a terror of dismay.\n\n\nCHAPTER 120. The Deck Towards the End of the First Night Watch.\n\n_Ahab standing by the helm. Starbuck approaching him._\n\n We must send down the main-top-sail yard, sir. The band is working\nloose and the lee lift is half-stranded. Shall I strike it, sir? \n\n Strike nothing; lash it. If I had sky-sail poles, I d sway them up\nnow. \n\n Sir! in God s name! sir? \n\n Well. \n\n The anchors are working, sir. Shall I get them inboard? \n\n Strike nothing, and stir nothing, but lash everything. The wind rises,\nbut it has not got up to my table-lands yet. Quick, and see to it. By\nmasts and keels! he takes me for the hunch-backed skipper of some\ncoasting smack. Send down my main-top-sail yard! Ho, gluepots! Loftiest\ntrucks were made for wildest winds, and this brain-truck of mine now\nsails amid the cloud-scud. Shall I strike that? Oh, none but cowards\nsend down their brain-trucks in tempest time. What a hooroosh aloft\nthere! I would e en take it for sublime, did I not know that the colic\nis a noisy malady. Oh, take medicine, take medicine! \n\n\nCHAPTER 121. Midnight. The Forecastle Bulwarks.\n\n_Stubb and Flask mounted on them, and passing additional lashings over\nthe anchors there hanging._\n\n No, Stubb; you may pound that knot there as much as you please, but\nyou will never pound into me what you were just now saying. And how\nlong ago is it since you said the very contrary? Didn t you once say\nthat whatever ship Ahab sails in, that ship should pay something extra\non its insurance policy, just as though it were loaded with powder\nbarrels aft and boxes of lucifers forward? Stop, now; didn t you say\nso? \n\n Well, suppose I did? What then? I ve part changed my flesh since that\ntime, why not my mind? Besides, supposing we _are_ loaded with powder\nbarrels aft and lucifers forward; how the devil could the lucifers get\nafire in this drenching spray here? Why, my little man, you have pretty\nred hair, but you couldn t get afire now. Shake yourself; you re\nAquarius, or the water-bearer, Flask; might fill pitchers at your coat\ncollar. Don t you see, then, that for these extra risks the Marine\nInsurance companies have extra guarantees? Here are hydrants, Flask.\nBut hark, again, and I ll answer ye the other thing. First take your\nleg off from the crown of the anchor here, though, so I can pass the\nrope; now listen. What s the mighty difference between holding a mast s\nlightning-rod in the storm, and standing close by a mast that hasn t\ngot any lightning-rod at all in a storm? Don t you see, you\ntimber-head, that no harm can come to the holder of the rod, unless the\nmast is first struck? What are you talking about, then? Not one ship in\na hundred carries rods, and Ahab, aye, man, and all of us, were in no\nmore danger then, in my poor opinion, than all the crews in ten\nthousand ships now sailing the seas. Why, you King-Post, you, I suppose\nyou would have every man in the world go about with a small\nlightning-rod running up the corner of his hat, like a militia\nofficer s skewered feather, and trailing behind like his sash. Why\ndon t ye be sensible, Flask? it s easy to be sensible; why don t ye,\nthen? any man with half an eye can be sensible. \n\n I don t know that, Stubb. You sometimes find it rather hard. \n\n Yes, when a fellow s soaked through, it s hard to be sensible, that s\na fact. And I am about drenched with this spray. Never mind; catch the\nturn there, and pass it. Seems to me we are lashing down these anchors\nnow as if they were never going to be used again. Tying these two\nanchors here, Flask, seems like tying a man s hands behind him. And\nwhat big generous hands they are, to be sure. These are your iron\nfists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the\nworld is anchored anywhere; if she is, she swings with an uncommon long\ncable, though. There, hammer that knot down, and we ve done. So; next\nto touching land, lighting on deck is the most satisfactory. I say,\njust wring out my jacket skirts, will ye? Thank ye. They laugh at\nlong-togs so, Flask; but seems to me, a long tailed coat ought always\nto be worn in all storms afloat. The tails tapering down that way,\nserve to carry off the water, d ye see. Same with cocked hats; the\ncocks form gable-end eave-troughs, Flask. No more monkey-jackets and\ntarpaulins for me; I must mount a swallow-tail, and drive down a\nbeaver; so. Halloa! whew! there goes my tarpaulin overboard; Lord,\nLord, that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly!\nThis is a nasty night, lad. \n\n\nCHAPTER 122. Midnight Aloft. Thunder and Lightning.\n\n_The main-top-sail yard_. _Tashtego passing new lashings around it_.\n\n Um, um, um. Stop that thunder! Plenty too much thunder up here. What s\nthe use of thunder? Um, um, um. We don t want thunder; we want rum;\ngive us a glass of rum. Um, um, um! \n\n\nCHAPTER 123. The Musket.\n\nDuring the most violent shocks of the Typhoon, the man at the Pequod s\njaw-bone tiller had several times been reelingly hurled to the deck by\nits spasmodic motions, even though preventer tackles had been attached\nto it for they were slack because some play to the tiller was\nindispensable.\n\nIn a severe gale like this, while the ship is but a tossed shuttlecock\nto the blast, it is by no means uncommon to see the needles in the\ncompasses, at intervals, go round and round. It was thus with the\nPequod s; at almost every shock the helmsman had not failed to notice\nthe whirling velocity with which they revolved upon the cards; it is a\nsight that hardly anyone can behold without some sort of unwonted\nemotion.\n\nSome hours after midnight, the Typhoon abated so much, that through the\nstrenuous exertions of Starbuck and Stubb one engaged forward and the\nother aft the shivered remnants of the jib and fore and main-top-sails\nwere cut adrift from the spars, and went eddying away to leeward, like\nthe feathers of an albatross, which sometimes are cast to the winds\nwhen that storm-tossed bird is on the wing.\n\nThe three corresponding new sails were now bent and reefed, and a\nstorm-trysail was set further aft; so that the ship soon went through\nthe water with some precision again; and the course for the present,\nEast-south-east which he was to steer, if practicable, was once more\ngiven to the helmsman. For during the violence of the gale, he had only\nsteered according to its vicissitudes. But as he was now bringing the\nship as near her course as possible, watching the compass meanwhile,\nlo! a good sign! the wind seemed coming round astern; aye, the foul\nbreeze became fair!\n\nInstantly the yards were squared, to the lively song of  _Ho! the fair\nwind! oh-ye-ho, cheerly men!_  the crew singing for joy, that so\npromising an event should so soon have falsified the evil portents\npreceding it.\n\nIn compliance with the standing order of his commander to report\nimmediately, and at any one of the twenty-four hours, any decided\nchange in the affairs of the deck, Starbuck had no sooner trimmed the\nyards to the breeze however reluctantly and gloomily, than he\nmechanically went below to apprise Captain Ahab of the circumstance.\n\nEre knocking at his state-room, he involuntarily paused before it a\nmoment. The cabin lamp taking long swings this way and that was burning\nfitfully, and casting fitful shadows upon the old man s bolted door, a\nthin one, with fixed blinds inserted, in place of upper panels. The\nisolated subterraneousness of the cabin made a certain humming silence\nto reign there, though it was hooped round by all the roar of the\nelements. The loaded muskets in the rack were shiningly revealed, as\nthey stood upright against the forward bulkhead. Starbuck was an\nhonest, upright man; but out of Starbuck s heart, at that instant when\nhe saw the muskets, there strangely evolved an evil thought; but so\nblent with its neutral or good accompaniments that for the instant he\nhardly knew it for itself.\n\n He would have shot me once,  he murmured,  yes, there s the very\nmusket that he pointed at me; that one with the studded stock; let me\ntouch it lift it. Strange, that I, who have handled so many deadly\nlances, strange, that I should shake so now. Loaded? I must see. Aye,\naye; and powder in the pan; that s not good. Best spill it? wait. I ll\ncure myself of this. I ll hold the musket boldly while I think. I come\nto report a fair wind to him. But how fair? Fair for death and\ndoom, _that s_ fair for Moby Dick. It s a fair wind that s only fair\nfor that accursed fish. The very tube he pointed at me! the very one;\n_this_ one I hold it here; he would have killed me with the very thing\nI handle now. Aye and he would fain kill all his crew. Does he not say\nhe will not strike his spars to any gale? Has he not dashed his\nheavenly quadrant? and in these same perilous seas, gropes he not his\nway by mere dead reckoning of the error-abounding log? and in this very\nTyphoon, did he not swear that he would have no lightning-rods? But\nshall this crazed old man be tamely suffered to drag a whole ship s\ncompany down to doom with him? Yes, it would make him the wilful\nmurderer of thirty men and more, if this ship come to any deadly harm;\nand come to deadly harm, my soul swears this ship will, if Ahab have\nhis way. If, then, he were this instant put aside, that crime would not\nbe his. Ha! is he muttering in his sleep? Yes, just there, in there,\nhe s sleeping. Sleeping? aye, but still alive, and soon awake again. I\ncan t withstand thee, then, old man. Not reasoning; not remonstrance;\nnot entreaty wilt thou hearken to; all this thou scornest. Flat\nobedience to thy own flat commands, this is all thou breathest. Aye,\nand say st the men have vow d thy vow; say st all of us are Ahabs.\nGreat God forbid! But is there no other way? no lawful way? Make him a\nprisoner to be taken home? What! hope to wrest this old man s living\npower from his own living hands? Only a fool would try it. Say he were\npinioned even; knotted all over with ropes and hawsers; chained down to\nring-bolts on this cabin floor; he would be more hideous than a caged\ntiger, then. I could not endure the sight; could not possibly fly his\nhowlings; all comfort, sleep itself, inestimable reason would leave me\non the long intolerable voyage. What, then, remains? The land is\nhundreds of leagues away, and locked Japan the nearest. I stand alone\nhere upon an open sea, with two oceans and a whole continent between me\nand law. Aye, aye,  tis so. Is heaven a murderer when its lightning\nstrikes a would-be murderer in his bed, tindering sheets and skin\ntogether? And would I be a murderer, then, if and slowly, stealthily,\nand half sideways looking, he placed the loaded musket s end against\nthe door.\n\n On this level, Ahab s hammock swings within; his head this way. A\ntouch, and Starbuck may survive to hug his wife and child again. Oh\nMary! Mary! boy! boy! boy! But if I wake thee not to death, old man,\nwho can tell to what unsounded deeps Starbuck s body this day week may\nsink, with all the crew! Great God, where art Thou? Shall I? shall\nI? The wind has gone down and shifted, sir; the fore and main topsails\nare reefed and set; she heads her course. \n\n Stern all! Oh Moby Dick, I clutch thy heart at last! \n\nSuch were the sounds that now came hurtling from out the old man s\ntormented sleep, as if Starbuck s voice had caused the long dumb dream\nto speak.\n\nThe yet levelled musket shook like a drunkard s arm against the panel;\nStarbuck seemed wrestling with an angel; but turning from the door, he\nplaced the death-tube in its rack, and left the place.\n\n He s too sound asleep, Mr. Stubb; go thou down, and wake him, and tell\nhim. I must see to the deck here. Thou know st what to say. \n\n\nCHAPTER 124. The Needle.\n\nNext morning the not-yet-subsided sea rolled in long slow billows of\nmighty bulk, and striving in the Pequod s gurgling track, pushed her on\nlike giants  palms outspread. The strong, unstaggering breeze abounded\nso, that sky and air seemed vast outbellying sails; the whole world\nboomed before the wind. Muffled in the full morning light, the\ninvisible sun was only known by the spread intensity of his place;\nwhere his bayonet rays moved on in stacks. Emblazonings, as of crowned\nBabylonian kings and queens, reigned over everything. The sea was as a\ncrucible of molten gold, that bubblingly leaps with light and heat.\n\nLong maintaining an enchanted silence, Ahab stood apart; and every time\nthe tetering ship loweringly pitched down her bowsprit, he turned to\neye the bright sun s rays produced ahead; and when she profoundly\nsettled by the stern, he turned behind, and saw the sun s rearward\nplace, and how the same yellow rays were blending with his undeviating\nwake.\n\n Ha, ha, my ship! thou mightest well be taken now for the sea-chariot\nof the sun. Ho, ho! all ye nations before my prow, I bring the sun to\nye! Yoke on the further billows; hallo! a tandem, I drive the sea! \n\nBut suddenly reined back by some counter thought, he hurried towards\nthe helm, huskily demanding how the ship was heading.\n\n East-sou-east, sir,  said the frightened steersman.\n\n Thou liest!  smiting him with his clenched fist.  Heading East at this\nhour in the morning, and the sun astern? \n\nUpon this every soul was confounded; for the phenomenon just then\nobserved by Ahab had unaccountably escaped every one else; but its very\nblinding palpableness must have been the cause.\n\nThrusting his head half way into the binnacle, Ahab caught one glimpse\nof the compasses; his uplifted arm slowly fell; for a moment he almost\nseemed to stagger. Standing behind him Starbuck looked, and lo! the two\ncompasses pointed East, and the Pequod was as infallibly going West.\n\nBut ere the first wild alarm could get out abroad among the crew, the\nold man with a rigid laugh exclaimed,  I have it! It has happened\nbefore. Mr. Starbuck, last night s thunder turned our compasses that s\nall. Thou hast before now heard of such a thing, I take it. \n\n Aye; but never before has it happened to me, sir,  said the pale mate,\ngloomily.\n\nHere, it must needs be said, that accidents like this have in more than\none case occurred to ships in violent storms. The magnetic energy, as\ndeveloped in the mariner s needle, is, as all know, essentially one\nwith the electricity beheld in heaven; hence it is not to be much\nmarvelled at, that such things should be. Instances where the lightning\nhas actually struck the vessel, so as to smite down some of the spars\nand rigging, the effect upon the needle has at times been still more\nfatal; all its loadstone virtue being annihilated, so that the before\nmagnetic steel was of no more use than an old wife s knitting needle.\nBut in either case, the needle never again, of itself, recovers the\noriginal virtue thus marred or lost; and if the binnacle compasses be\naffected, the same fate reaches all the others that may be in the ship;\neven were the lowermost one inserted into the kelson.\n\nDeliberately standing before the binnacle, and eyeing the transpointed\ncompasses, the old man, with the sharp of his extended hand, now took\nthe precise bearing of the sun, and satisfied that the needles were\nexactly inverted, shouted out his orders for the ship s course to be\nchanged accordingly. The yards were hard up; and once more the Pequod\nthrust her undaunted bows into the opposing wind, for the supposed fair\none had only been juggling her.\n\nMeanwhile, whatever were his own secret thoughts, Starbuck said\nnothing, but quietly he issued all requisite orders; while Stubb and\nFlask who in some small degree seemed then to be sharing his\nfeelings likewise unmurmuringly acquiesced. As for the men, though some\nof them lowly rumbled, their fear of Ahab was greater than their fear\nof Fate. But as ever before, the pagan harpooneers remained almost\nwholly unimpressed; or if impressed, it was only with a certain\nmagnetism shot into their congenial hearts from inflexible Ahab s.\n\nFor a space the old man walked the deck in rolling reveries. But\nchancing to slip with his ivory heel, he saw the crushed copper\nsight-tubes of the quadrant he had the day before dashed to the deck.\n\n Thou poor, proud heaven-gazer and sun s pilot! yesterday I wrecked\nthee, and to-day the compasses would fain have wrecked me. So, so. But\nAhab is lord over the level loadstone yet. Mr. Starbuck a lance without\na pole; a top-maul, and the smallest of the sail-maker s needles.\nQuick! \n\nAccessory, perhaps, to the impulse dictating the thing he was now about\nto do, were certain prudential motives, whose object might have been to\nrevive the spirits of his crew by a stroke of his subtile skill, in a\nmatter so wondrous as that of the inverted compasses. Besides, the old\nman well knew that to steer by transpointed needles, though clumsily\npracticable, was not a thing to be passed over by superstitious\nsailors, without some shudderings and evil portents.\n\n Men,  said he, steadily turning upon the crew, as the mate handed him\nthe things he had demanded,  my men, the thunder turned old Ahab s\nneedles; but out of this bit of steel Ahab can make one of his own,\nthat will point as true as any. \n\nAbashed glances of servile wonder were exchanged by the sailors, as\nthis was said; and with fascinated eyes they awaited whatever magic\nmight follow. But Starbuck looked away.\n\nWith a blow from the top-maul Ahab knocked off the steel head of the\nlance, and then handing to the mate the long iron rod remaining, bade\nhim hold it upright, without its touching the deck. Then, with the\nmaul, after repeatedly smiting the upper end of this iron rod, he\nplaced the blunted needle endwise on the top of it, and less strongly\nhammered that, several times, the mate still holding the rod as before.\nThen going through some small strange motions with it whether\nindispensable to the magnetizing of the steel, or merely intended to\naugment the awe of the crew, is uncertain he called for linen thread;\nand moving to the binnacle, slipped out the two reversed needles there,\nand horizontally suspended the sail-needle by its middle, over one of\nthe compass-cards. At first, the steel went round and round, quivering\nand vibrating at either end; but at last it settled to its place, when\nAhab, who had been intently watching for this result, stepped frankly\nback from the binnacle, and pointing his stretched arm towards it,\nexclaimed, Look ye, for yourselves, if Ahab be not lord of the level\nloadstone! The sun is East, and that compass swears it! \n\nOne after another they peered in, for nothing but their own eyes could\npersuade such ignorance as theirs, and one after another they slunk\naway.\n\nIn his fiery eyes of scorn and triumph, you then saw Ahab in all his\nfatal pride.\n\n\nCHAPTER 125. The Log and Line.\n\nWhile now the fated Pequod had been so long afloat this voyage, the log\nand line had but very seldom been in use. Owing to a confident reliance\nupon other means of determining the vessel s place, some merchantmen,\nand many whalemen, especially when cruising, wholly neglect to heave\nthe log; though at the same time, and frequently more for form s sake\nthan anything else, regularly putting down upon the customary slate the\ncourse steered by the ship, as well as the presumed average rate of\nprogression every hour. It had been thus with the Pequod. The wooden\nreel and angular log attached hung, long untouched, just beneath the\nrailing of the after bulwarks. Rains and spray had damped it; sun and\nwind had warped it; all the elements had combined to rot a thing that\nhung so idly. But heedless of all this, his mood seized Ahab, as he\nhappened to glance upon the reel, not many hours after the magnet\nscene, and he remembered how his quadrant was no more, and recalled his\nfrantic oath about the level log and line. The ship was sailing\nplungingly; astern the billows rolled in riots.\n\n Forward, there! Heave the log! \n\nTwo seamen came. The golden-hued Tahitian and the grizzly Manxman.\n Take the reel, one of ye, I ll heave. \n\nThey went towards the extreme stern, on the ship s lee side, where the\ndeck, with the oblique energy of the wind, was now almost dipping into\nthe creamy, sidelong-rushing sea.\n\nThe Manxman took the reel, and holding it high up, by the projecting\nhandle-ends of the spindle, round which the spool of line revolved, so\nstood with the angular log hanging downwards, till Ahab advanced to\nhim.\n\nAhab stood before him, and was lightly unwinding some thirty or forty\nturns to form a preliminary hand-coil to toss overboard, when the old\nManxman, who was intently eyeing both him and the line, made bold to\nspeak.\n\n Sir, I mistrust it; this line looks far gone, long heat and wet have\nspoiled it. \n\n Twill hold, old gentleman. Long heat and wet, have they spoiled thee?\nThou seem st to hold. Or, truer perhaps, life holds thee; not thou it. \n\n I hold the spool, sir. But just as my captain says. With these grey\nhairs of mine  tis not worth while disputing,  specially with a\nsuperior, who ll ne er confess. \n\n What s that? There now s a patched professor in Queen Nature s\ngranite-founded College; but methinks he s too subservient. Where wert\nthou born? \n\n In the little rocky Isle of Man, sir. \n\n Excellent! Thou st hit the world by that. \n\n I know not, sir, but I was born there. \n\n In the Isle of Man, hey? Well, the other way, it s good. Here s a man\nfrom Man; a man born in once independent Man, and now unmanned of Man;\nwhich is sucked in by what? Up with the reel! The dead, blind wall\nbutts all inquiring heads at last. Up with it! So. \n\nThe log was heaved. The loose coils rapidly straightened out in a long\ndragging line astern, and then, instantly, the reel began to whirl. In\nturn, jerkingly raised and lowered by the rolling billows, the towing\nresistance of the log caused the old reelman to stagger strangely.\n\n Hold hard! \n\nSnap! the overstrained line sagged down in one long festoon; the\ntugging log was gone.\n\n I crush the quadrant, the thunder turns the needles, and now the mad\nsea parts the log-line. But Ahab can mend all. Haul in here, Tahitian;\nreel up, Manxman. And look ye, let the carpenter make another log, and\nmend thou the line. See to it. \n\n There he goes now; to him nothing s happened; but to me, the skewer\nseems loosening out of the middle of the world. Haul in, haul in,\nTahitian! These lines run whole, and whirling out: come in broken, and\ndragging slow. Ha, Pip? come to help; eh, Pip? \n\n Pip? whom call ye Pip? Pip jumped from the whale-boat. Pip s missing.\nLet s see now if ye haven t fished him up here, fisherman. It drags\nhard; I guess he s holding on. Jerk him, Tahiti! Jerk him off; we haul\nin no cowards here. Ho! there s his arm just breaking water. A hatchet!\na hatchet! cut it off we haul in no cowards here. Captain Ahab! sir,\nsir! here s Pip, trying to get on board again. \n\n Peace, thou crazy loon,  cried the Manxman, seizing him by the arm.\n Away from the quarter-deck! \n\n The greater idiot ever scolds the lesser,  muttered Ahab, advancing.\n Hands off from that holiness! Where sayest thou Pip was, boy?\n\n Astern there, sir, astern! Lo! lo! \n\n And who art thou, boy? I see not my reflection in the vacant pupils of\nthy eyes. Oh God! that man should be a thing for immortal souls to\nsieve through! Who art thou, boy? \n\n Bell-boy, sir; ship s-crier; ding, dong, ding! Pip! Pip! Pip! One\nhundred pounds of clay reward for Pip; five feet high looks\ncowardly quickest known by that! Ding, dong, ding! Who s seen Pip the\ncoward? \n\n There can be no hearts above the snow-line. Oh, ye frozen heavens!\nlook down here. Ye did beget this luckless child, and have abandoned\nhim, ye creative libertines. Here, boy; Ahab s cabin shall be Pip s\nhome henceforth, while Ahab lives. Thou touchest my inmost centre, boy;\nthou art tied to me by cords woven of my heart-strings. Come, let s\ndown. \n\n What s this? here s velvet shark-skin,  intently gazing at Ahab s\nhand, and feeling it.  Ah, now, had poor Pip but felt so kind a thing\nas this, perhaps he had ne er been lost! This seems to me, sir, as a\nman-rope; something that weak souls may hold by. Oh, sir, let old Perth\nnow come and rivet these two hands together; the black one with the\nwhite, for I will not let this go. \n\n Oh, boy, nor will I thee, unless I should thereby drag thee to worse\nhorrors than are here. Come, then, to my cabin. Lo! ye believers in\ngods all goodness, and in man all ill, lo you! see the omniscient gods\noblivious of suffering man; and man, though idiotic, and knowing not\nwhat he does, yet full of the sweet things of love and gratitude. Come!\nI feel prouder leading thee by thy black hand, than though I grasped an\nEmperor s! \n\n There go two daft ones now,  muttered the old Manxman.  One daft with\nstrength, the other daft with weakness. But here s the end of the\nrotten line all dripping, too. Mend it, eh? I think we had best have a\nnew line altogether. I ll see Mr. Stubb about it. \n\n\nCHAPTER 126. The Life-Buoy.\n\nSteering now south-eastward by Ahab s levelled steel, and her progress\nsolely determined by Ahab s level log and line; the Pequod held on her\npath towards the Equator. Making so long a passage through such\nunfrequented waters, descrying no ships, and ere long, sideways\nimpelled by unvarying trade winds, over waves monotonously mild; all\nthese seemed the strange calm things preluding some riotous and\ndesperate scene.\n\nAt last, when the ship drew near to the outskirts, as it were, of the\nEquatorial fishing-ground, and in the deep darkness that goes before\nthe dawn, was sailing by a cluster of rocky islets; the watch then\nheaded by Flask was startled by a cry so plaintively wild and\nunearthly like half-articulated wailings of the ghosts of all Herod s\nmurdered Innocents that one and all, they started from their reveries,\nand for the space of some moments stood, or sat, or leaned all\ntransfixedly listening, like the carved Roman slave, while that wild\ncry remained within hearing. The Christian or civilized part of the\ncrew said it was mermaids, and shuddered; but the pagan harpooneers\nremained unappalled. Yet the grey Manxman the oldest mariner of\nall declared that the wild thrilling sounds that were heard, were the\nvoices of newly drowned men in the sea.\n\nBelow in his hammock, Ahab did not hear of this till grey dawn, when he\ncame to the deck; it was then recounted to him by Flask, not\nunaccompanied with hinted dark meanings. He hollowly laughed, and thus\nexplained the wonder.\n\nThose rocky islands the ship had passed were the resort of great\nnumbers of seals, and some young seals that had lost their dams, or\nsome dams that had lost their cubs, must have risen nigh the ship and\nkept company with her, crying and sobbing with their human sort of\nwail. But this only the more affected some of them, because most\nmariners cherish a very superstitious feeling about seals, arising not\nonly from their peculiar tones when in distress, but also from the\nhuman look of their round heads and semi-intelligent faces, seen\npeeringly uprising from the water alongside. In the sea, under certain\ncircumstances, seals have more than once been mistaken for men.\n\nBut the bodings of the crew were destined to receive a most plausible\nconfirmation in the fate of one of their number that morning. At\nsun-rise this man went from his hammock to his mast-head at the fore;\nand whether it was that he was not yet half waked from his sleep (for\nsailors sometimes go aloft in a transition state), whether it was thus\nwith the man, there is now no telling; but, be that as it may, he had\nnot been long at his perch, when a cry was heard a cry and a\nrushing and looking up, they saw a falling phantom in the air; and\nlooking down, a little tossed heap of white bubbles in the blue of the\nsea.\n\nThe life-buoy a long slender cask was dropped from the stern, where it\nalways hung obedient to a cunning spring; but no hand rose to seize it,\nand the sun having long beat upon this cask it had shrunken, so that it\nslowly filled, and that parched wood also filled at its every pore; and\nthe studded iron-bound cask followed the sailor to the bottom, as if to\nyield him his pillow, though in sooth but a hard one.\n\nAnd thus the first man of the Pequod that mounted the mast to look out\nfor the White Whale, on the White Whale s own peculiar ground; that man\nwas swallowed up in the deep. But few, perhaps, thought of that at the\ntime. Indeed, in some sort, they were not grieved at this event, at\nleast as a portent; for they regarded it, not as a foreshadowing of\nevil in the future, but as the fulfilment of an evil already presaged.\nThey declared that now they knew the reason of those wild shrieks they\nhad heard the night before. But again the old Manxman said nay.\n\nThe lost life-buoy was now to be replaced; Starbuck was directed to see\nto it; but as no cask of sufficient lightness could be found, and as in\nthe feverish eagerness of what seemed the approaching crisis of the\nvoyage, all hands were impatient of any toil but what was directly\nconnected with its final end, whatever that might prove to be;\ntherefore, they were going to leave the ship s stern unprovided with a\nbuoy, when by certain strange signs and inuendoes Queequeg hinted a\nhint concerning his coffin.\n\n A life-buoy of a coffin!  cried Starbuck, starting.\n\n Rather queer, that, I should say,  said Stubb.\n\n It will make a good enough one,  said Flask,  the carpenter here can\narrange it easily. \n\n Bring it up; there s nothing else for it,  said Starbuck, after a\nmelancholy pause.  Rig it, carpenter; do not look at me so the coffin,\nI mean. Dost thou hear me? Rig it. \n\n And shall I nail down the lid, sir?  moving his hand as with a hammer.\n\n Aye. \n\n And shall I caulk the seams, sir?  moving his hand as with a\ncaulking-iron.\n\n Aye. \n\n And shall I then pay over the same with pitch, sir?  moving his hand\nas with a pitch-pot.\n\n Away! what possesses thee to this? Make a life-buoy of the coffin, and\nno more. Mr. Stubb, Mr. Flask, come forward with me. \n\n He goes off in a huff. The whole he can endure; at the parts he\nbaulks. Now I don t like this. I make a leg for Captain Ahab, and he\nwears it like a gentleman; but I make a bandbox for Queequeg, and he\nwon t put his head into it. Are all my pains to go for nothing with\nthat coffin? And now I m ordered to make a life-buoy of it. It s like\nturning an old coat; going to bring the flesh on the other side now. I\ndon t like this cobbling sort of business I don t like it at all; it s\nundignified; it s not my place. Let tinkers  brats do tinkerings; we\nare their betters. I like to take in hand none but clean, virgin,\nfair-and-square mathematical jobs, something that regularly begins at\nthe beginning, and is at the middle when midway, and comes to an end at\nthe conclusion; not a cobbler s job, that s at an end in the middle,\nand at the beginning at the end. It s the old woman s tricks to be\ngiving cobbling jobs. Lord! what an affection all old women have for\ntinkers. I know an old woman of sixty-five who ran away with a\nbald-headed young tinker once. And that s the reason I never would work\nfor lonely widow old women ashore, when I kept my job-shop in the\nVineyard; they might have taken it into their lonely old heads to run\noff with me. But heigh-ho! there are no caps at sea but snow-caps. Let\nme see. Nail down the lid; caulk the seams; pay over the same with\npitch; batten them down tight, and hang it with the snap-spring over\nthe ship s stern. Were ever such things done before with a coffin? Some\nsuperstitious old carpenters, now, would be tied up in the rigging, ere\nthey would do the job. But I m made of knotty Aroostook hemlock; I\ndon t budge. Cruppered with a coffin! Sailing about with a grave-yard\ntray! But never mind. We workers in woods make bridal-bedsteads and\ncard-tables, as well as coffins and hearses. We work by the month, or\nby the job, or by the profit; not for us to ask the why and wherefore\nof our work, unless it be too confounded cobbling, and then we stash it\nif we can. Hem! I ll do the job, now, tenderly. I ll have me let s\nsee how many in the ship s company, all told? But I ve forgotten. Any\nway, I ll have me thirty separate, Turk s-headed life-lines, each three\nfeet long hanging all round to the coffin. Then, if the hull go down,\nthere ll be thirty lively fellows all fighting for one coffin, a sight\nnot seen very often beneath the sun! Come hammer, caulking-iron,\npitch-pot, and marling-spike! Let s to it. \n\n\nCHAPTER 127. The Deck.\n\n_The coffin laid upon two line-tubs, between the vice-bench and the\nopen hatchway; the Carpenter caulking its seams; the string of twisted\noakum slowly unwinding from a large roll of it placed in the bosom of\nhis frock. Ahab comes slowly from the cabin-gangway, and hears Pip\nfollowing him._\n\n Back, lad; I will be with ye again presently. He goes! Not this hand\ncomplies with my humor more genially than that boy. Middle aisle of a\nchurch! What s here? \n\n Life-buoy, sir. Mr. Starbuck s orders. Oh, look, sir! Beware the\nhatchway! \n\n Thank ye, man. Thy coffin lies handy to the vault. \n\n Sir? The hatchway? oh! So it does, sir, so it does. \n\n Art not thou the leg-maker? Look, did not this stump come from thy\nshop? \n\n I believe it did, sir; does the ferrule stand, sir? \n\n Well enough. But art thou not also the undertaker? \n\n Aye, sir; I patched up this thing here as a coffin for Queequeg; but\nthey ve set me now to turning it into something else. \n\n Then tell me; art thou not an arrant, all-grasping, intermeddling,\nmonopolising, heathenish old scamp, to be one day making legs, and the\nnext day coffins to clap them in, and yet again life-buoys out of those\nsame coffins? Thou art as unprincipled as the gods, and as much of a\njack-of-all-trades. \n\n But I do not mean anything, sir. I do as I do. \n\n The gods again. Hark ye, dost thou not ever sing working about a\ncoffin? The Titans, they say, hummed snatches when chipping out the\ncraters for volcanoes; and the grave-digger in the play sings, spade in\nhand. Dost thou never? \n\n Sing, sir? Do I sing? Oh, I m indifferent enough, sir, for that; but\nthe reason why the grave-digger made music must have been because there\nwas none in his spade, sir. But the caulking mallet is full of it. Hark\nto it. \n\n Aye, and that s because the lid there s a sounding-board; and what in\nall things makes the sounding-board is this there s naught beneath. And\nyet, a coffin with a body in it rings pretty much the same, Carpenter.\nHast thou ever helped carry a bier, and heard the coffin knock against\nthe churchyard gate, going in?\n\n Faith, sir, I ve \n\n Faith? What s that? \n\n Why, faith, sir, it s only a sort of exclamation-like that s all,\nsir. \n\n Um, um; go on. \n\n I was about to say, sir, that \n\n Art thou a silk-worm? Dost thou spin thy own shroud out of thyself?\nLook at thy bosom! Despatch! and get these traps out of sight. \n\n He goes aft. That was sudden, now; but squalls come sudden in hot\nlatitudes. I ve heard that the Isle of Albemarle, one of the\nGallipagos, is cut by the Equator right in the middle. Seems to me some\nsort of Equator cuts yon old man, too, right in his middle. He s always\nunder the Line fiery hot, I tell ye! He s looking this way come, oakum;\nquick. Here we go again. This wooden mallet is the cork, and I m the\nprofessor of musical glasses tap, tap! \n\n(_Ahab to himself_.)\n\n There s a sight! There s a sound! The greyheaded woodpecker tapping\nthe hollow tree! Blind and dumb might well be envied now. See! that\nthing rests on two line-tubs, full of tow-lines. A most malicious wag,\nthat fellow. Rat-tat! So man s seconds tick! Oh! how immaterial are all\nmaterials! What things real are there, but imponderable thoughts? Here\nnow s the very dreaded symbol of grim death, by a mere hap, made the\nexpressive sign of the help and hope of most endangered life. A\nlife-buoy of a coffin! Does it go further? Can it be that in some\nspiritual sense the coffin is, after all, but an immortality-preserver!\nI ll think of that. But no. So far gone am I in the dark side of earth,\nthat its other side, the theoretic bright one, seems but uncertain\ntwilight to me. Will ye never have done, Carpenter, with that accursed\nsound? I go below; let me not see that thing here when I return again.\nNow, then, Pip, we ll talk this over; I do suck most wondrous\nphilosophies from thee! Some unknown conduits from the unknown worlds\nmust empty into thee! \n\n\nCHAPTER 128. The Pequod Meets The Rachel.\n\nNext day, a large ship, the Rachel, was descried, bearing directly down\nupon the Pequod, all her spars thickly clustering with men. At the time\nthe Pequod was making good speed through the water; but as the\nbroad-winged windward stranger shot nigh to her, the boastful sails all\nfell together as blank bladders that are burst, and all life fled from\nthe smitten hull.\n\n Bad news; she brings bad news,  muttered the old Manxman. But ere her\ncommander, who, with trumpet to mouth, stood up in his boat; ere he\ncould hopefully hail, Ahab s voice was heard.\n\n Hast seen the White Whale? \n\n Aye, yesterday. Have ye seen a whale-boat adrift? \n\nThrottling his joy, Ahab negatively answered this unexpected question;\nand would then have fain boarded the stranger, when the stranger\ncaptain himself, having stopped his vessel s way, was seen descending\nher side. A few keen pulls, and his boat-hook soon clinched the\nPequod s main-chains, and he sprang to the deck. Immediately he was\nrecognised by Ahab for a Nantucketer he knew. But no formal salutation\nwas exchanged.\n\n Where was he? not killed! not killed!  cried Ahab, closely advancing.\n How was it? \n\nIt seemed that somewhat late on the afternoon of the day previous,\nwhile three of the stranger s boats were engaged with a shoal of\nwhales, which had led them some four or five miles from the ship; and\nwhile they were yet in swift chase to windward, the white hump and head\nof Moby Dick had suddenly loomed up out of the water, not very far to\nleeward; whereupon, the fourth rigged boat a reserved one had been\ninstantly lowered in chase. After a keen sail before the wind, this\nfourth boat the swiftest keeled of all seemed to have succeeded in\nfastening at least, as well as the man at the mast-head could tell\nanything about it. In the distance he saw the diminished dotted boat;\nand then a swift gleam of bubbling white water; and after that nothing\nmore; whence it was concluded that the stricken whale must have\nindefinitely run away with his pursuers, as often happens. There was\nsome apprehension, but no positive alarm, as yet. The recall signals\nwere placed in the rigging; darkness came on; and forced to pick up her\nthree far to windward boats ere going in quest of the fourth one in the\nprecisely opposite direction the ship had not only been necessitated to\nleave that boat to its fate till near midnight, but, for the time, to\nincrease her distance from it. But the rest of her crew being at last\nsafe aboard, she crowded all sail stunsail on stunsail after the\nmissing boat; kindling a fire in her try-pots for a beacon; and every\nother man aloft on the look-out. But though when she had thus sailed a\nsufficient distance to gain the presumed place of the absent ones when\nlast seen; though she then paused to lower her spare boats to pull all\naround her; and not finding anything, had again dashed on; again\npaused, and lowered her boats; and though she had thus continued doing\ntill daylight; yet not the least glimpse of the missing keel had been\nseen.\n\nThe story told, the stranger Captain immediately went on to reveal his\nobject in boarding the Pequod. He desired that ship to unite with his\nown in the search; by sailing over the sea some four or five miles\napart, on parallel lines, and so sweeping a double horizon, as it were.\n\n I will wager something now,  whispered Stubb to Flask,  that some one\nin that missing boat wore off that Captain s best coat; mayhap, his\nwatch he s so cursed anxious to get it back. Who ever heard of two\npious whale-ships cruising after one missing whale-boat in the height\nof the whaling season? See, Flask, only see how pale he looks pale in\nthe very buttons of his eyes look it wasn t the coat it must have been\nthe \n\n My boy, my own boy is among them. For God s sake I beg, I\nconjure here exclaimed the stranger Captain to Ahab, who thus far had\nbut icily received his petition.  For eight-and-forty hours let me\ncharter your ship I will gladly pay for it, and roundly pay for it if\nthere be no other way for eight-and-forty hours only only that you\nmust, oh, you must, and you _shall_ do this thing. \n\n His son!  cried Stubb,  oh, it s his son he s lost! I take back the\ncoat and watch what says Ahab? We must save that boy. \n\n He s drowned with the rest on  em, last night,  said the old Manx\nsailor standing behind them;  I heard; all of ye heard their spirits. \n\nNow, as it shortly turned out, what made this incident of the Rachel s\nthe more melancholy, was the circumstance, that not only was one of the\nCaptain s sons among the number of the missing boat s crew; but among\nthe number of the other boat s crews, at the same time, but on the\nother hand, separated from the ship during the dark vicissitudes of the\nchase, there had been still another son; as that for a time, the\nwretched father was plunged to the bottom of the cruellest perplexity;\nwhich was only solved for him by his chief mate s instinctively\nadopting the ordinary procedure of a whale-ship in such emergencies,\nthat is, when placed between jeopardized but divided boats, always to\npick up the majority first. But the captain, for some unknown\nconstitutional reason, had refrained from mentioning all this, and not\ntill forced to it by Ahab s iciness did he allude to his one yet\nmissing boy; a little lad, but twelve years old, whose father with the\nearnest but unmisgiving hardihood of a Nantucketer s paternal love, had\nthus early sought to initiate him in the perils and wonders of a\nvocation almost immemorially the destiny of all his race. Nor does it\nunfrequently occur, that Nantucket captains will send a son of such\ntender age away from them, for a protracted three or four years  voyage\nin some other ship than their own; so that their first knowledge of a\nwhaleman s career shall be unenervated by any chance display of a\nfather s natural but untimely partiality, or undue apprehensiveness and\nconcern.\n\nMeantime, now the stranger was still beseeching his poor boon of Ahab;\nand Ahab still stood like an anvil, receiving every shock, but without\nthe least quivering of his own.\n\n I will not go,  said the stranger,  till you say _aye_ to me. Do to me\nas you would have me do to you in the like case. For _you_ too have a\nboy, Captain Ahab though but a child, and nestling safely at home now a\nchild of your old age too Yes, yes, you relent; I see it run, run, men,\nnow, and stand by to square in the yards. \n\n Avast,  cried Ahab touch not a rope-yarn ; then in a voice that\nprolongingly moulded every word Captain Gardiner, I will not do it.\nEven now I lose time. Good-bye, good-bye. God bless ye, man, and may I\nforgive myself, but I must go. Mr. Starbuck, look at the binnacle\nwatch, and in three minutes from this present instant warn off all\nstrangers: then brace forward again, and let the ship sail as before. \n\nHurriedly turning, with averted face, he descended into his cabin,\nleaving the strange captain transfixed at this unconditional and utter\nrejection of his so earnest suit. But starting from his enchantment,\nGardiner silently hurried to the side; more fell than stepped into his\nboat, and returned to his ship.\n\nSoon the two ships diverged their wakes; and long as the strange vessel\nwas in view, she was seen to yaw hither and thither at every dark spot,\nhowever small, on the sea. This way and that her yards were swung\nround; starboard and larboard, she continued to tack; now she beat\nagainst a head sea; and again it pushed her before it; while all the\nwhile, her masts and yards were thickly clustered with men, as three\ntall cherry trees, when the boys are cherrying among the boughs.\n\nBut by her still halting course and winding, woeful way, you plainly\nsaw that this ship that so wept with spray, still remained without\ncomfort. She was Rachel, weeping for her children, because they were\nnot.\n\n\nCHAPTER 129. The Cabin.\n\n(_Ahab moving to go on deck; Pip catches him by the hand to follow._)\n\n Lad, lad, I tell thee thou must not follow Ahab now. The hour is\ncoming when Ahab would not scare thee from him, yet would not have thee\nby him. There is that in thee, poor lad, which I feel too curing to my\nmalady. Like cures like; and for this hunt, my malady becomes my most\ndesired health. Do thou abide below here, where they shall serve thee,\nas if thou wert the captain. Aye, lad, thou shalt sit here in my own\nscrewed chair; another screw to it, thou must be. \n\n No, no, no! ye have not a whole body, sir; do ye but use poor me for\nyour one lost leg; only tread upon me, sir; I ask no more, so I remain\na part of ye. \n\n Oh! spite of million villains, this makes me a bigot in the fadeless\nfidelity of man! and a black! and crazy! but methinks like-cures-like\napplies to him too; he grows so sane again. \n\n They tell me, sir, that Stubb did once desert poor little Pip, whose\ndrowned bones now show white, for all the blackness of his living skin.\nBut I will never desert ye, sir, as Stubb did him. Sir, I must go with\nye. \n\n If thou speakest thus to me much more, Ahab s purpose keels up in him.\nI tell thee no; it cannot be. \n\n Oh good master, master, master!\n\n Weep so, and I will murder thee! have a care, for Ahab too is mad.\nListen, and thou wilt often hear my ivory foot upon the deck, and still\nknow that I am there. And now I quit thee. Thy hand! Met! True art\nthou, lad, as the circumference to its centre. So: God for ever bless\nthee; and if it come to that, God for ever save thee, let what will\nbefall. \n\n(_Ahab goes; Pip steps one step forward._)\n\n Here he this instant stood; I stand in his air, but I m alone. Now\nwere even poor Pip here I could endure it, but he s missing. Pip! Pip!\nDing, dong, ding! Who s seen Pip? He must be up here; let s try the\ndoor. What? neither lock, nor bolt, nor bar; and yet there s no opening\nit. It must be the spell; he told me to stay here: Aye, and told me\nthis screwed chair was mine. Here, then, I ll seat me, against the\ntransom, in the ship s full middle, all her keel and her three masts\nbefore me. Here, our old sailors say, in their black seventy-fours\ngreat admirals sometimes sit at table, and lord it over rows of\ncaptains and lieutenants. Ha! what s this? epaulets! epaulets! the\nepaulets all come crowding! Pass round the decanters; glad to see ye;\nfill up, monsieurs! What an odd feeling, now, when a black boy s host\nto white men with gold lace upon their coats! Monsieurs, have ye seen\none Pip? a little negro lad, five feet high, hang-dog look, and\ncowardly! Jumped from a whale-boat once; seen him? No! Well then, fill\nup again, captains, and let s drink shame upon all cowards! I name no\nnames. Shame upon them! Put one foot upon the table. Shame upon all\ncowards. Hist! above there, I hear ivory Oh, master! master! I am\nindeed down-hearted when you walk over me. But here I ll stay, though\nthis stern strikes rocks; and they bulge through; and oysters come to\njoin me. \n\n\nCHAPTER 130. The Hat.\n\nAnd now that at the proper time and place, after so long and wide a\npreliminary cruise, Ahab, all other whaling waters swept seemed to have\nchased his foe into an ocean-fold, to slay him the more securely there;\nnow, that he found himself hard by the very latitude and longitude\nwhere his tormenting wound had been inflicted; now that a vessel had\nbeen spoken which on the very day preceding had actually encountered\nMoby Dick; and now that all his successive meetings with various ships\ncontrastingly concurred to show the demoniac indifference with which\nthe white whale tore his hunters, whether sinning or sinned against;\nnow it was that there lurked a something in the old man s eyes, which\nit was hardly sufferable for feeble souls to see. As the unsetting\npolar star, which through the livelong, arctic, six months  night\nsustains its piercing, steady, central gaze; so Ahab s purpose now\nfixedly gleamed down upon the constant midnight of the gloomy crew. It\ndomineered above them so, that all their bodings, doubts, misgivings,\nfears, were fain to hide beneath their souls, and not sprout forth a\nsingle spear or leaf.\n\nIn this foreshadowing interval too, all humor, forced or natural,\nvanished. Stubb no more strove to raise a smile; Starbuck no more\nstrove to check one. Alike, joy and sorrow, hope and fear, seemed\nground to finest dust, and powdered, for the time, in the clamped\nmortar of Ahab s iron soul. Like machines, they dumbly moved about the\ndeck, ever conscious that the old man s despot eye was on them.\n\nBut did you deeply scan him in his more secret confidential hours; when\nhe thought no glance but one was on him; then you would have seen that\neven as Ahab s eyes so awed the crew s, the inscrutable Parsee s glance\nawed his; or somehow, at least, in some wild way, at times affected it.\nSuch an added, gliding strangeness began to invest the thin Fedallah\nnow; such ceaseless shudderings shook him; that the men looked dubious\nat him; half uncertain, as it seemed, whether indeed he were a mortal\nsubstance, or else a tremulous shadow cast upon the deck by some unseen\nbeing s body. And that shadow was always hovering there. For not by\nnight, even, had Fedallah ever certainly been known to slumber, or go\nbelow. He would stand still for hours: but never sat or leaned; his wan\nbut wondrous eyes did plainly say We two watchmen never rest.\n\nNor, at any time, by night or day could the mariners now step upon the\ndeck, unless Ahab was before them; either standing in his pivot-hole,\nor exactly pacing the planks between two undeviating limits, the\nmain-mast and the mizen; or else they saw him standing in the\ncabin-scuttle, his living foot advanced upon the deck, as if to step;\nhis hat slouched heavily over his eyes; so that however motionless he\nstood, however the days and nights were added on, that he had not swung\nin his hammock; yet hidden beneath that slouching hat, they could never\ntell unerringly whether, for all this, his eyes were really closed at\ntimes; or whether he was still intently scanning them; no matter,\nthough he stood so in the scuttle for a whole hour on the stretch, and\nthe unheeded night-damp gathered in beads of dew upon that stone-carved\ncoat and hat. The clothes that the night had wet, the next day s\nsunshine dried upon him; and so, day after day, and night after night;\nhe went no more beneath the planks; whatever he wanted from the cabin\nthat thing he sent for.\n\nHe ate in the same open air; that is, his two only meals, breakfast and\ndinner: supper he never touched; nor reaped his beard; which darkly\ngrew all gnarled, as unearthed roots of trees blown over, which still\ngrow idly on at naked base, though perished in the upper verdure. But\nthough his whole life was now become one watch on deck; and though the\nParsee s mystic watch was without intermission as his own; yet these\ntwo never seemed to speak one man to the other unless at long intervals\nsome passing unmomentous matter made it necessary. Though such a potent\nspell seemed secretly to join the twain; openly, and to the awe-struck\ncrew, they seemed pole-like asunder. If by day they chanced to speak\none word; by night, dumb men were both, so far as concerned the\nslightest verbal interchange. At times, for longest hours, without a\nsingle hail, they stood far parted in the starlight; Ahab in his\nscuttle, the Parsee by the mainmast; but still fixedly gazing upon each\nother; as if in the Parsee Ahab saw his forethrown shadow, in Ahab the\nParsee his abandoned substance.\n\nAnd yet, somehow, did Ahab in his own proper self, as daily, hourly,\nand every instant, commandingly revealed to his subordinates, Ahab\nseemed an independent lord; the Parsee but his slave. Still again both\nseemed yoked together, and an unseen tyrant driving them; the lean\nshade siding the solid rib. For be this Parsee what he may, all rib and\nkeel was solid Ahab.\n\nAt the first faintest glimmering of the dawn, his iron voice was heard\nfrom aft, Man the mast-heads! and all through the day, till after\nsunset and after twilight, the same voice every hour, at the striking\nof the helmsman s bell, was heard What d ye see? sharp! sharp! \n\nBut when three or four days had slided by, after meeting the\nchildren-seeking Rachel; and no spout had yet been seen; the monomaniac\nold man seemed distrustful of his crew s fidelity; at least, of nearly\nall except the Pagan harpooneers; he seemed to doubt, even, whether\nStubb and Flask might not willingly overlook the sight he sought. But\nif these suspicions were really his, he sagaciously refrained from\nverbally expressing them, however his actions might seem to hint them.\n\n I will have the first sight of the whale myself, he said.  Aye! Ahab\nmust have the doubloon!  and with his own hands he rigged a nest of\nbasketed bowlines; and sending a hand aloft, with a single sheaved\nblock, to secure to the main-mast head, he received the two ends of the\ndownward-reeved rope; and attaching one to his basket prepared a pin\nfor the other end, in order to fasten it at the rail. This done, with\nthat end yet in his hand and standing beside the pin, he looked round\nupon his crew, sweeping from one to the other; pausing his glance long\nupon Daggoo, Queequeg, Tashtego; but shunning Fedallah; and then\nsettling his firm relying eye upon the chief mate, said, Take the\nrope, sir I give it into thy hands, Starbuck.  Then arranging his\nperson in the basket, he gave the word for them to hoist him to his\nperch, Starbuck being the one who secured the rope at last; and\nafterwards stood near it. And thus, with one hand clinging round the\nroyal mast, Ahab gazed abroad upon the sea for miles and miles, ahead,\nastern, this side, and that, within the wide expanded circle commanded\nat so great a height.\n\nWhen in working with his hands at some lofty almost isolated place in\nthe rigging, which chances to afford no foothold, the sailor at sea is\nhoisted up to that spot, and sustained there by the rope; under these\ncircumstances, its fastened end on deck is always given in strict\ncharge to some one man who has the special watch of it. Because in such\na wilderness of running rigging, whose various different relations\naloft cannot always be infallibly discerned by what is seen of them at\nthe deck; and when the deck-ends of these ropes are being every few\nminutes cast down from the fastenings, it would be but a natural\nfatality, if, unprovided with a constant watchman, the hoisted sailor\nshould by some carelessness of the crew be cast adrift and fall all\nswooping to the sea. So Ahab s proceedings in this matter were not\nunusual; the only strange thing about them seemed to be, that Starbuck,\nalmost the one only man who had ever ventured to oppose him with\nanything in the slightest degree approaching to decision one of those\ntoo, whose faithfulness on the look-out he had seemed to doubt\nsomewhat; it was strange, that this was the very man he should select\nfor his watchman; freely giving his whole life into such an otherwise\ndistrusted person s hands.\n\nNow, the first time Ahab was perched aloft; ere he had been there ten\nminutes; one of those red-billed savage sea-hawks which so often fly\nincommodiously close round the manned mast-heads of whalemen in these\nlatitudes; one of these birds came wheeling and screaming round his\nhead in a maze of untrackably swift circlings. Then it darted a\nthousand feet straight up into the air; then spiralized downwards, and\nwent eddying again round his head.\n\nBut with his gaze fixed upon the dim and distant horizon, Ahab seemed\nnot to mark this wild bird; nor, indeed, would any one else have marked\nit much, it being no uncommon circumstance; only now almost the least\nheedful eye seemed to see some sort of cunning meaning in almost every\nsight.\n\n Your hat, your hat, sir!  suddenly cried the Sicilian seaman, who\nbeing posted at the mizen-mast-head, stood directly behind Ahab, though\nsomewhat lower than his level, and with a deep gulf of air dividing\nthem.\n\nBut already the sable wing was before the old man s eyes; the long\nhooked bill at his head: with a scream, the black hawk darted away with\nhis prize.\n\nAn eagle flew thrice round Tarquin s head, removing his cap to replace\nit, and thereupon Tanaquil, his wife, declared that Tarquin would be\nking of Rome. But only by the replacing of the cap was that omen\naccounted good. Ahab s hat was never restored; the wild hawk flew on\nand on with it; far in advance of the prow: and at last disappeared;\nwhile from the point of that disappearance, a minute black spot was\ndimly discerned, falling from that vast height into the sea.\n\n\nCHAPTER 131. The Pequod Meets The Delight.\n\nThe intense Pequod sailed on; the rolling waves and days went by; the\nlife-buoy-coffin still lightly swung; and another ship, most miserably\nmisnamed the Delight, was descried. As she drew nigh, all eyes were\nfixed upon her broad beams, called shears, which, in some\nwhaling-ships, cross the quarter-deck at the height of eight or nine\nfeet; serving to carry the spare, unrigged, or disabled boats.\n\nUpon the stranger s shears were beheld the shattered, white ribs, and\nsome few splintered planks, of what had once been a whale-boat; but you\nnow saw through this wreck, as plainly as you see through the peeled,\nhalf-unhinged, and bleaching skeleton of a horse.\n\n Hast seen the White Whale? \n\n Look!  replied the hollow-cheeked captain from his taffrail; and with\nhis trumpet he pointed to the wreck.\n\n Hast killed him? \n\n The harpoon is not yet forged that ever will do that,  answered the\nother, sadly glancing upon a rounded hammock on the deck, whose\ngathered sides some noiseless sailors were busy in sewing together.\n\n Not forged!  and snatching Perth s levelled iron from the crotch, Ahab\nheld it out, exclaiming Look ye, Nantucketer; here in this hand I hold\nhis death! Tempered in blood, and tempered by lightning are these\nbarbs; and I swear to temper them triply in that hot place behind the\nfin, where the White Whale most feels his accursed life! \n\n Then God keep thee, old man see st thou that pointing to the\nhammock I bury but one of five stout men, who were alive only\nyesterday; but were dead ere night. Only _that_ one I bury; the rest\nwere buried before they died; you sail upon their tomb.  Then turning\nto his crew Are ye ready there? place the plank then on the rail, and\nlift the body; so, then Oh! God advancing towards the hammock with\nuplifted hands may the resurrection and the life \n\n Brace forward! Up helm!  cried Ahab like lightning to his men.\n\nBut the suddenly started Pequod was not quick enough to escape the\nsound of the splash that the corpse soon made as it struck the sea; not\nso quick, indeed, but that some of the flying bubbles might have\nsprinkled her hull with their ghostly baptism.\n\nAs Ahab now glided from the dejected Delight, the strange life-buoy\nhanging at the Pequod s stern came into conspicuous relief.\n\n Ha! yonder! look yonder, men!  cried a foreboding voice in her wake.\n In vain, oh, ye strangers, ye fly our sad burial; ye but turn us your\ntaffrail to show us your coffin! \n\n\nCHAPTER 132. The Symphony.\n\nIt was a clear steel-blue day. The firmaments of air and sea were\nhardly separable in that all-pervading azure; only, the pensive air was\ntransparently pure and soft, with a woman s look, and the robust and\nman-like sea heaved with long, strong, lingering swells, as Samson s\nchest in his sleep.\n\nHither, and thither, on high, glided the snow-white wings of small,\nunspeckled birds; these were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air;\nbut to and fro in the deeps, far down in the bottomless blue, rushed\nmighty leviathans, sword-fish, and sharks; and these were the strong,\ntroubled, murderous thinkings of the masculine sea.\n\nBut though thus contrasting within, the contrast was only in shades and\nshadows without; those two seemed one; it was only the sex, as it were,\nthat distinguished them.\n\nAloft, like a royal czar and king, the sun seemed giving this gentle\nair to this bold and rolling sea; even as bride to groom. And at the\ngirdling line of the horizon, a soft and tremulous motion most seen\nhere at the equator denoted the fond, throbbing trust, the loving\nalarms, with which the poor bride gave her bosom away.\n\nTied up and twisted; gnarled and knotted with wrinkles; haggardly firm\nand unyielding; his eyes glowing like coals, that still glow in the\nashes of ruin; untottering Ahab stood forth in the clearness of the\nmorn; lifting his splintered helmet of a brow to the fair girl s\nforehead of heaven.\n\nOh, immortal infancy, and innocency of the azure! Invisible winged\ncreatures that frolic all round us! Sweet childhood of air and sky! how\noblivious were ye of old Ahab s close-coiled woe! But so have I seen\nlittle Miriam and Martha, laughing-eyed elves, heedlessly gambol around\ntheir old sire; sporting with the circle of singed locks which grew on\nthe marge of that burnt-out crater of his brain.\n\nSlowly crossing the deck from the scuttle, Ahab leaned over the side\nand watched how his shadow in the water sank and sank to his gaze, the\nmore and the more that he strove to pierce the profundity. But the\nlovely aromas in that enchanted air did at last seem to dispel, for a\nmoment, the cankerous thing in his soul. That glad, happy air, that\nwinsome sky, did at last stroke and caress him; the step-mother world,\nso long cruel forbidding now threw affectionate arms round his stubborn\nneck, and did seem to joyously sob over him, as if over one, that\nhowever wilful and erring, she could yet find it in her heart to save\nand to bless. From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into\nthe sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee\ndrop.\n\nStarbuck saw the old man; saw him, how he heavily leaned over the side;\nand he seemed to hear in his own true heart the measureless sobbing\nthat stole out of the centre of the serenity around. Careful not to\ntouch him, or be noticed by him, he yet drew near to him, and stood\nthere.\n\nAhab turned.\n\n Starbuck! \n\n Sir. \n\n Oh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On such\na day very much such a sweetness as this I struck my first whale a\nboy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty forty forty years ago! ago! Forty\nyears of continual whaling! forty years of privation, and peril, and\nstorm-time! forty years on the pitiless sea! for forty years has Ahab\nforsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors\nof the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck, out of those forty years I have not\nspent three ashore. When I think of this life I have led; the\ndesolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a\nCaptain s exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any\nsympathy from the green country without oh, weariness! heaviness!\nGuinea-coast slavery of solitary command! when I think of all this;\nonly half-suspected, not so keenly known to me before and how for forty\nyears I have fed upon dry salted fare fit emblem of the dry nourishment\nof my soil! when the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily\nhand, and broken the world s fresh bread to my mouldy crusts away,\nwhole oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and\nsailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my marriage\npillow wife? wife? rather a widow with her husband alive! Aye, I\nwidowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and then, the\nmadness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow, with\nwhich, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously, foamingly\nchased his prey more a demon than a man! aye, aye! what a forty years \nfool fool old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this strife of the chase?\nwhy weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance?\nhow the richer or better is Ahab now? Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not\nhard, that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been\nsnatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me,\nthat I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some\nashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel\ndeadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering\nbeneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! God! God! crack my\nheart! stave my brain! mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey\nhairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus\nintolerably old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a\nhuman eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to\ngaze upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is\nthe magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no;\nstay on board, on board! lower not when I do; when branded Ahab gives\nchase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no! not with\nthe far away home I see in that eye! \n\n Oh, my Captain! my Captain! noble soul! grand old heart, after all!\nwhy should any one give chase to that hated fish! Away with me! let us\nfly these deadly waters! let us home! Wife and child, too, are\nStarbuck s wife and child of his brotherly, sisterly, play-fellow\nyouth; even as thine, sir, are the wife and child of thy loving,\nlonging, paternal old age! Away! let us away! this instant let me alter\nthe course! How cheerily, how hilariously, O my Captain, would we bowl\non our way to see old Nantucket again! I think, sir, they have some\nsuch mild blue days, even as this, in Nantucket. \n\n They have, they have. I have seen them some summer days in the\nmorning. About this time yes, it is his noon nap now the boy\nvivaciously wakes; sits up in bed; and his mother tells him of me, of\ncannibal old me; how I am abroad upon the deep, but will yet come back\nto dance him again. \n\n Tis my Mary, my Mary herself! She promised that my boy, every\nmorning, should be carried to the hill to catch the first glimpse of\nhis father s sail! Yes, yes! no more! it is done! we head for\nNantucket! Come, my Captain, study out the course, and let us away!\nSee, see! the boy s face from the window! the boy s hand on the hill! \n\nBut Ahab s glance was averted; like a blighted fruit tree he shook, and\ncast his last, cindered apple to the soil.\n\n What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what\ncozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor\ncommands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep\npushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly\nmaking me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not\nso much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this\narm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is as an errand-boy\nin heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible\npower; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain\nthink thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does\nthat living, and not I. By heaven, man, we are turned round and round\nin this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. And all\nthe time, lo! that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea! Look! see yon\nAlbicore! who put it into him to chase and fang that flying-fish? Where\ndo murderers go, man! Who s to doom, when the judge himself is dragged\nto the bar? But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and\nthe air smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have\nbeen making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and\nthe mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we\nhow we may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust\namid greenness; as last year s scythes flung down, and left in the\nhalf-cut swaths Starbuck! \n\nBut blanched to a corpse s hue with despair, the Mate had stolen away.\n\nAhab crossed the deck to gaze over on the other side; but started at\ntwo reflected, fixed eyes in the water there. Fedallah was motionlessly\nleaning over the same rail.\n\n\nCHAPTER 133. The Chase First Day.\n\nThat night, in the mid-watch, when the old man as his wont at\nintervals stepped forth from the scuttle in which he leaned, and went\nto his pivot-hole, he suddenly thrust out his face fiercely, snuffing\nup the sea air as a sagacious ship s dog will, in drawing nigh to some\nbarbarous isle. He declared that a whale must be near. Soon that\npeculiar odor, sometimes to a great distance given forth by the living\nsperm whale, was palpable to all the watch; nor was any mariner\nsurprised when, after inspecting the compass, and then the dog-vane,\nand then ascertaining the precise bearing of the odor as nearly as\npossible, Ahab rapidly ordered the ship s course to be slightly\naltered, and the sail to be shortened.\n\nThe acute policy dictating these movements was sufficiently vindicated\nat daybreak, by the sight of a long sleek on the sea directly and\nlengthwise ahead, smooth as oil, and resembling in the pleated watery\nwrinkles bordering it, the polished metallic-like marks of some swift\ntide-rip, at the mouth of a deep, rapid stream.\n\n Man the mast-heads! Call all hands! \n\nThundering with the butts of three clubbed handspikes on the forecastle\ndeck, Daggoo roused the sleepers with such judgment claps that they\nseemed to exhale from the scuttle, so instantaneously did they appear\nwith their clothes in their hands.\n\n What d ye see?  cried Ahab, flattening his face to the sky.\n\n Nothing, nothing sir!  was the sound hailing down in reply.\n\n T gallant sails! stunsails! alow and aloft, and on both sides! \n\nAll sail being set, he now cast loose the life-line, reserved for\nswaying him to the main royal-mast head; and in a few moments they were\nhoisting him thither, when, while but two thirds of the way aloft, and\nwhile peering ahead through the horizontal vacancy between the\nmain-top-sail and top-gallant-sail, he raised a gull-like cry in the\nair.  There she blows! there she blows! A hump like a snow-hill! It is\nMoby Dick! \n\nFired by the cry which seemed simultaneously taken up by the three\nlook-outs, the men on deck rushed to the rigging to behold the famous\nwhale they had so long been pursuing. Ahab had now gained his final\nperch, some feet above the other look-outs, Tashtego standing just\nbeneath him on the cap of the top-gallant-mast, so that the Indian s\nhead was almost on a level with Ahab s heel. From this height the whale\nwas now seen some mile or so ahead, at every roll of the sea revealing\nhis high sparkling hump, and regularly jetting his silent spout into\nthe air. To the credulous mariners it seemed the same silent spout they\nhad so long ago beheld in the moonlit Atlantic and Indian Oceans.\n\n And did none of ye see it before?  cried Ahab, hailing the perched men\nall around him.\n\n I saw him almost that same instant, sir, that Captain Ahab did, and I\ncried out,  said Tashtego.\n\n Not the same instant; not the same no, the doubloon is mine, Fate\nreserved the doubloon for me. _I_ only; none of ye could have raised\nthe White Whale first. There she blows! there she blows! there she\nblows! There again! there again!  he cried, in long-drawn, lingering,\nmethodic tones, attuned to the gradual prolongings of the whale s\nvisible jets.  He s going to sound! In stunsails! Down\ntop-gallant-sails! Stand by three boats. Mr. Starbuck, remember, stay\non board, and keep the ship. Helm there! Luff, luff a point! So;\nsteady, man, steady! There go flukes! No, no; only black water! All\nready the boats there? Stand by, stand by! Lower me, Mr. Starbuck;\nlower, lower, quick, quicker!  and he slid through the air to the deck.\n\n He is heading straight to leeward, sir,  cried Stubb,  right away from\nus; cannot have seen the ship yet. \n\n Be dumb, man! Stand by the braces! Hard down the helm! brace up!\nShiver her! shiver her! So; well that! Boats, boats! \n\nSoon all the boats but Starbuck s were dropped; all the boat-sails\nset all the paddles plying; with rippling swiftness, shooting to\nleeward; and Ahab heading the onset. A pale, death-glimmer lit up\nFedallah s sunken eyes; a hideous motion gnawed his mouth.\n\nLike noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the sea;\nbut only slowly they neared the foe. As they neared him, the ocean grew\nstill more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves; seemed a\nnoon-meadow, so serenely it spread. At length the breathless hunter\ncame so nigh his seemingly unsuspecting prey, that his entire dazzling\nhump was distinctly visible, sliding along the sea as if an isolated\nthing, and continually set in a revolving ring of finest, fleecy,\ngreenish foam. He saw the vast, involved wrinkles of the slightly\nprojecting head beyond. Before it, far out on the soft Turkish-rugged\nwaters, went the glistening white shadow from his broad, milky\nforehead, a musical rippling playfully accompanying the shade; and\nbehind, the blue waters interchangeably flowed over into the moving\nvalley of his steady wake; and on either hand bright bubbles arose and\ndanced by his side. But these were broken again by the light toes of\nhundreds of gay fowl softly feathering the sea, alternate with their\nfitful flight; and like to some flag-staff rising from the painted hull\nof an argosy, the tall but shattered pole of a recent lance projected\nfrom the white whale s back; and at intervals one of the cloud of\nsoft-toed fowls hovering, and to and fro skimming like a canopy over\nthe fish, silently perched and rocked on this pole, the long tail\nfeathers streaming like pennons.\n\nA gentle joyousness a mighty mildness of repose in swiftness, invested\nthe gliding whale. Not the white bull Jupiter swimming away with\nravished Europa clinging to his graceful horns; his lovely, leering\neyes sideways intent upon the maid; with smooth bewitching fleetness,\nrippling straight for the nuptial bower in Crete; not Jove, not that\ngreat majesty Supreme! did surpass the glorified White Whale as he so\ndivinely swam.\n\nOn each soft side coincident with the parted swell, that but once\nleaving him, then flowed so wide away on each bright side, the whale\nshed off enticings. No wonder there had been some among the hunters who\nnamelessly transported and allured by all this serenity, had ventured\nto assail it; but had fatally found that quietude but the vesture of\ntornadoes. Yet calm, enticing calm, oh, whale! thou glidest on, to all\nwho for the first time eye thee, no matter how many in that same way\nthou may st have bejuggled and destroyed before.\n\nAnd thus, through the serene tranquillities of the tropical sea, among\nwaves whose hand-clappings were suspended by exceeding rapture, Moby\nDick moved on, still withholding from sight the full terrors of his\nsubmerged trunk, entirely hiding the wrenched hideousness of his jaw.\nBut soon the fore part of him slowly rose from the water; for an\ninstant his whole marbleized body formed a high arch, like Virginia s\nNatural Bridge, and warningly waving his bannered flukes in the air,\nthe grand god revealed himself, sounded, and went out of sight.\nHoveringly halting, and dipping on the wing, the white sea-fowls\nlongingly lingered over the agitated pool that he left.\n\nWith oars apeak, and paddles down, the sheets of their sails adrift,\nthe three boats now stilly floated, awaiting Moby Dick s reappearance.\n\n An hour,  said Ahab, standing rooted in his boat s stern; and he gazed\nbeyond the whale s place, towards the dim blue spaces and wide wooing\nvacancies to leeward. It was only an instant; for again his eyes seemed\nwhirling round in his head as he swept the watery circle. The breeze\nnow freshened; the sea began to swell.\n\n The birds! the birds!  cried Tashtego.\n\nIn long Indian file, as when herons take wing, the white birds were now\nall flying towards Ahab s boat; and when within a few yards began\nfluttering over the water there, wheeling round and round, with joyous,\nexpectant cries. Their vision was keener than man s; Ahab could\ndiscover no sign in the sea. But suddenly as he peered down and down\ninto its depths, he profoundly saw a white living spot no bigger than a\nwhite weasel, with wonderful celerity uprising, and magnifying as it\nrose, till it turned, and then there were plainly revealed two long\ncrooked rows of white, glistening teeth, floating up from the\nundiscoverable bottom. It was Moby Dick s open mouth and scrolled jaw;\nhis vast, shadowed bulk still half blending with the blue of the sea.\nThe glittering mouth yawned beneath the boat like an open-doored marble\ntomb; and giving one sidelong sweep with his steering oar, Ahab whirled\nthe craft aside from this tremendous apparition. Then, calling upon\nFedallah to change places with him, went forward to the bows, and\nseizing Perth s harpoon, commanded his crew to grasp their oars and\nstand by to stern.\n\nNow, by reason of this timely spinning round the boat upon its axis,\nits bow, by anticipation, was made to face the whale s head while yet\nunder water. But as if perceiving this stratagem, Moby Dick, with that\nmalicious intelligence ascribed to him, sidelingly transplanted\nhimself, as it were, in an instant, shooting his pleated head\nlengthwise beneath the boat.\n\nThrough and through; through every plank and each rib, it thrilled for\nan instant, the whale obliquely lying on his back, in the manner of a\nbiting shark, slowly and feelingly taking its bows full within his\nmouth, so that the long, narrow, scrolled lower jaw curled high up into\nthe open air, and one of the teeth caught in a row-lock. The bluish\npearl-white of the inside of the jaw was within six inches of Ahab s\nhead, and reached higher than that. In this attitude the White Whale\nnow shook the slight cedar as a mildly cruel cat her mouse. With\nunastonished eyes Fedallah gazed, and crossed his arms; but the\ntiger-yellow crew were tumbling over each other s heads to gain the\nuttermost stern.\n\nAnd now, while both elastic gunwales were springing in and out, as the\nwhale dallied with the doomed craft in this devilish way; and from his\nbody being submerged beneath the boat, he could not be darted at from\nthe bows, for the bows were almost inside of him, as it were; and while\nthe other boats involuntarily paused, as before a quick crisis\nimpossible to withstand, then it was that monomaniac Ahab, furious with\nthis tantalizing vicinity of his foe, which placed him all alive and\nhelpless in the very jaws he hated; frenzied with all this, he seized\nthe long bone with his naked hands, and wildly strove to wrench it from\nits gripe. As now he thus vainly strove, the jaw slipped from him; the\nfrail gunwales bent in, collapsed, and snapped, as both jaws, like an\nenormous shears, sliding further aft, bit the craft completely in\ntwain, and locked themselves fast again in the sea, midway between the\ntwo floating wrecks. These floated aside, the broken ends drooping, the\ncrew at the stern-wreck clinging to the gunwales, and striving to hold\nfast to the oars to lash them across.\n\nAt that preluding moment, ere the boat was yet snapped, Ahab, the first\nto perceive the whale s intent, by the crafty upraising of his head, a\nmovement that loosed his hold for the time; at that moment his hand had\nmade one final effort to push the boat out of the bite. But only\nslipping further into the whale s mouth, and tilting over sideways as\nit slipped, the boat had shaken off his hold on the jaw; spilled him\nout of it, as he leaned to the push; and so he fell flat-faced upon the\nsea.\n\nRipplingly withdrawing from his prey, Moby Dick now lay at a little\ndistance, vertically thrusting his oblong white head up and down in the\nbillows; and at the same time slowly revolving his whole spindled body;\nso that when his vast wrinkled forehead rose some twenty or more feet\nout of the water the now rising swells, with all their confluent waves,\ndazzlingly broke against it; vindictively tossing their shivered spray\nstill higher into the air.* So, in a gale, the but half baffled Channel\nbillows only recoil from the base of the Eddystone, triumphantly to\noverleap its summit with their scud.\n\n*This motion is peculiar to the sperm whale. It receives its\ndesignation (pitchpoling) from its being likened to that preliminary\nup-and-down poise of the whale-lance, in the exercise called\npitchpoling, previously described. By this motion the whale must best\nand most comprehensively view whatever objects may be encircling him.\n\nBut soon resuming his horizontal attitude, Moby Dick swam swiftly round\nand round the wrecked crew; sideways churning the water in his vengeful\nwake, as if lashing himself up to still another and more deadly\nassault. The sight of the splintered boat seemed to madden him, as the\nblood of grapes and mulberries cast before Antiochus s elephants in the\nbook of Maccabees. Meanwhile Ahab half smothered in the foam of the\nwhale s insolent tail, and too much of a cripple to swim, though he\ncould still keep afloat, even in the heart of such a whirlpool as that;\nhelpless Ahab s head was seen, like a tossed bubble which the least\nchance shock might burst. From the boat s fragmentary stern, Fedallah\nincuriously and mildly eyed him; the clinging crew, at the other\ndrifting end, could not succor him; more than enough was it for them to\nlook to themselves. For so revolvingly appalling was the White Whale s\naspect, and so planetarily swift the ever-contracting circles he made,\nthat he seemed horizontally swooping upon them. And though the other\nboats, unharmed, still hovered hard by; still they dared not pull into\nthe eddy to strike, lest that should be the signal for the instant\ndestruction of the jeopardized castaways, Ahab and all; nor in that\ncase could they themselves hope to escape. With straining eyes, then,\nthey remained on the outer edge of the direful zone, whose centre had\nnow become the old man s head.\n\nMeantime, from the beginning all this had been descried from the ship s\nmast heads; and squaring her yards, she had borne down upon the scene;\nand was now so nigh, that Ahab in the water hailed her! Sail on\nthe but that moment a breaking sea dashed on him from Moby Dick, and\nwhelmed him for the time. But struggling out of it again, and chancing\nto rise on a towering crest, he shouted, Sail on the whale! Drive him\noff! \n\nThe Pequod s prows were pointed; and breaking up the charmed circle,\nshe effectually parted the white whale from his victim. As he sullenly\nswam off, the boats flew to the rescue.\n\nDragged into Stubb s boat with blood-shot, blinded eyes, the white\nbrine caking in his wrinkles; the long tension of Ahab s bodily\nstrength did crack, and helplessly he yielded to his body s doom: for a\ntime, lying all crushed in the bottom of Stubb s boat, like one trodden\nunder foot of herds of elephants. Far inland, nameless wails came from\nhim, as desolate sounds from out ravines.\n\nBut this intensity of his physical prostration did but so much the more\nabbreviate it. In an instant s compass, great hearts sometimes condense\nto one deep pang, the sum total of those shallow pains kindly diffused\nthrough feebler men s whole lives. And so, such hearts, though summary\nin each one suffering; still, if the gods decree it, in their life-time\naggregate a whole age of woe, wholly made up of instantaneous\nintensities; for even in their pointless centres, those noble natures\ncontain the entire circumferences of inferior souls.\n\n The harpoon,  said Ahab, half way rising, and draggingly leaning on\none bended arm is it safe? \n\n Aye, sir, for it was not darted; this is it,  said Stubb, showing it.\n\n Lay it before me; any missing men? \n\n One, two, three, four, five; there were five oars, sir, and here are\nfive men. \n\n That s good. Help me, man; I wish to stand. So, so, I see him! there!\nthere! going to leeward still; what a leaping spout! Hands off from me!\nThe eternal sap runs up in Ahab s bones again! Set the sail; out oars;\nthe helm! \n\nIt is often the case that when a boat is stove, its crew, being picked\nup by another boat, help to work that second boat; and the chase is\nthus continued with what is called double-banked oars. It was thus now.\nBut the added power of the boat did not equal the added power of the\nwhale, for he seemed to have treble-banked his every fin; swimming with\na velocity which plainly showed, that if now, under these\ncircumstances, pushed on, the chase would prove an indefinitely\nprolonged, if not a hopeless one; nor could any crew endure for so long\na period, such an unintermitted, intense straining at the oar; a thing\nbarely tolerable only in some one brief vicissitude. The ship itself,\nthen, as it sometimes happens, offered the most promising intermediate\nmeans of overtaking the chase. Accordingly, the boats now made for her,\nand were soon swayed up to their cranes the two parts of the wrecked\nboat having been previously secured by her and then hoisting everything\nto her side, and stacking her canvas high up, and sideways\noutstretching it with stun-sails, like the double-jointed wings of an\nalbatross; the Pequod bore down in the leeward wake of Moby-Dick. At\nthe well known, methodic intervals, the whale s glittering spout was\nregularly announced from the manned mast-heads; and when he would be\nreported as just gone down, Ahab would take the time, and then pacing\nthe deck, binnacle-watch in hand, so soon as the last second of the\nallotted hour expired, his voice was heard. Whose is the doubloon now?\nD ye see him?  and if the reply was, No, sir! straightway he commanded\nthem to lift him to his perch. In this way the day wore on; Ahab, now\naloft and motionless; anon, unrestingly pacing the planks.\n\nAs he was thus walking, uttering no sound, except to hail the men\naloft, or to bid them hoist a sail still higher, or to spread one to a\nstill greater breadth thus to and fro pacing, beneath his slouched hat,\nat every turn he passed his own wrecked boat, which had been dropped\nupon the quarter-deck, and lay there reversed; broken bow to shattered\nstern. At last he paused before it; and as in an already over-clouded\nsky fresh troops of clouds will sometimes sail across, so over the old\nman s face there now stole some such added gloom as this.\n\nStubb saw him pause; and perhaps intending, not vainly, though, to\nevince his own unabated fortitude, and thus keep up a valiant place in\nhis Captain s mind, he advanced, and eyeing the wreck exclaimed The\nthistle the ass refused; it pricked his mouth too keenly, sir; ha! ha! \n\n What soulless thing is this that laughs before a wreck? Man, man! did\nI not know thee brave as fearless fire (and as mechanical) I could\nswear thou wert a poltroon. Groan nor laugh should be heard before a\nwreck. \n\n Aye, sir,  said Starbuck drawing near,  tis a solemn sight; an omen,\nand an ill one. \n\n Omen? omen? the dictionary! If the gods think to speak outright to\nman, they will honorably speak outright; not shake their heads, and\ngive an old wives  darkling hint. Begone! Ye two are the opposite poles\nof one thing; Starbuck is Stubb reversed, and Stubb is Starbuck; and ye\ntwo are all mankind; and Ahab stands alone among the millions of the\npeopled earth, nor gods nor men his neighbors! Cold, cold I shiver! How\nnow? Aloft there! D ye see him? Sing out for every spout, though he\nspout ten times a second! \n\nThe day was nearly done; only the hem of his golden robe was rustling.\nSoon, it was almost dark, but the look-out men still remained unset.\n\n Can t see the spout now, sir; too dark cried a voice from the air.\n\n How heading when last seen? \n\n As before, sir, straight to leeward. \n\n Good! he will travel slower now  tis night. Down royals and\ntop-gallant stun-sails, Mr. Starbuck. We must not run over him before\nmorning; he s making a passage now, and may heave-to a while. Helm\nthere! keep her full before the wind! Aloft! come down! Mr. Stubb, send\na fresh hand to the fore-mast head, and see it manned till\nmorning. Then advancing towards the doubloon in the main-mast Men,\nthis gold is mine, for I earned it; but I shall let it abide here till\nthe White Whale is dead; and then, whosoever of ye first raises him,\nupon the day he shall be killed, this gold is that man s; and if on\nthat day I shall again raise him, then, ten times its sum shall be\ndivided among all of ye! Away now! the deck is thine, sir! \n\nAnd so saying, he placed himself half way within the scuttle, and\nslouching his hat, stood there till dawn, except when at intervals\nrousing himself to see how the night wore on.\n\n\nCHAPTER 134. The Chase Second Day.\n\nAt day-break, the three mast-heads were punctually manned afresh.\n\n D ye see him?  cried Ahab after allowing a little space for the light\nto spread.\n\n See nothing, sir. \n\n Turn up all hands and make sail! he travels faster than I thought\nfor; the top-gallant sails! aye, they should have been kept on her all\nnight. But no matter tis but resting for the rush. \n\nHere be it said, that this pertinacious pursuit of one particular\nwhale, continued through day into night, and through night into day, is\na thing by no means unprecedented in the South sea fishery. For such is\nthe wonderful skill, prescience of experience, and invincible\nconfidence acquired by some great natural geniuses among the Nantucket\ncommanders; that from the simple observation of a whale when last\ndescried, they will, under certain given circumstances, pretty\naccurately foretell both the direction in which he will continue to\nswim for a time, while out of sight, as well as his probable rate of\nprogression during that period. And, in these cases, somewhat as a\npilot, when about losing sight of a coast, whose general trending he\nwell knows, and which he desires shortly to return to again, but at\nsome further point; like as this pilot stands by his compass, and takes\nthe precise bearing of the cape at present visible, in order the more\ncertainly to hit aright the remote, unseen headland, eventually to be\nvisited: so does the fisherman, at his compass, with the whale; for\nafter being chased, and diligently marked, through several hours of\ndaylight, then, when night obscures the fish, the creature s future\nwake through the darkness is almost as established to the sagacious\nmind of the hunter, as the pilot s coast is to him. So that to this\nhunter s wondrous skill, the proverbial evanescence of a thing writ in\nwater, a wake, is to all desired purposes well nigh as reliable as the\nsteadfast land. And as the mighty iron Leviathan of the modern railway\nis so familiarly known in its every pace, that, with watches in their\nhands, men time his rate as doctors that of a baby s pulse; and lightly\nsay of it, the up train or the down train will reach such or such a\nspot, at such or such an hour; even so, almost, there are occasions\nwhen these Nantucketers time that other Leviathan of the deep,\naccording to the observed humor of his speed; and say to themselves, so\nmany hours hence this whale will have gone two hundred miles, will have\nabout reached this or that degree of latitude or longitude. But to\nrender this acuteness at all successful in the end, the wind and the\nsea must be the whaleman s allies; for of what present avail to the\nbecalmed or windbound mariner is the skill that assures him he is\nexactly ninety-three leagues and a quarter from his port? Inferable\nfrom these statements, are many collateral subtile matters touching the\nchase of whales.\n\nThe ship tore on; leaving such a furrow in the sea as when a\ncannon-ball, missent, becomes a plough-share and turns up the level\nfield.\n\n By salt and hemp!  cried Stubb,  but this swift motion of the deck\ncreeps up one s legs and tingles at the heart. This ship and I are two\nbrave fellows! Ha, ha! Some one take me up, and launch me, spine-wise,\non the sea, for by live-oaks! my spine s a keel. Ha, ha! we go the gait\nthat leaves no dust behind! \n\n There she blows she blows! she blows! right ahead!  was now the\nmast-head cry.\n\n Aye, aye!  cried Stubb,  I knew it ye can t escape blow on and split\nyour spout, O whale! the mad fiend himself is after ye! blow your\ntrump blister your lungs! Ahab will dam off your blood, as a miller\nshuts his watergate upon the stream! \n\nAnd Stubb did but speak out for well nigh all that crew. The frenzies\nof the chase had by this time worked them bubblingly up, like old wine\nworked anew. Whatever pale fears and forebodings some of them might\nhave felt before; these were not only now kept out of sight through the\ngrowing awe of Ahab, but they were broken up, and on all sides routed,\nas timid prairie hares that scatter before the bounding bison. The hand\nof Fate had snatched all their souls; and by the stirring perils of the\nprevious day; the rack of the past night s suspense; the fixed,\nunfearing, blind, reckless way in which their wild craft went plunging\ntowards its flying mark; by all these things, their hearts were bowled\nalong. The wind that made great bellies of their sails, and rushed the\nvessel on by arms invisible as irresistible; this seemed the symbol of\nthat unseen agency which so enslaved them to the race.\n\nThey were one man, not thirty. For as the one ship that held them all;\nthough it was put together of all contrasting things oak, and maple,\nand pine wood; iron, and pitch, and hemp yet all these ran into each\nother in the one concrete hull, which shot on its way, both balanced\nand directed by the long central keel; even so, all the individualities\nof the crew, this man s valor, that man s fear; guilt and guiltiness,\nall varieties were welded into oneness, and were all directed to that\nfatal goal which Ahab their one lord and keel did point to.\n\nThe rigging lived. The mast-heads, like the tops of tall palms, were\noutspreadingly tufted with arms and legs. Clinging to a spar with one\nhand, some reached forth the other with impatient wavings; others,\nshading their eyes from the vivid sunlight, sat far out on the rocking\nyards; all the spars in full bearing of mortals, ready and ripe for\ntheir fate. Ah! how they still strove through that infinite blueness to\nseek out the thing that might destroy them!\n\n Why sing ye not out for him, if ye see him?  cried Ahab, when, after\nthe lapse of some minutes since the first cry, no more had been heard.\n Sway me up, men; ye have been deceived; not Moby Dick casts one odd\njet that way, and then disappears. \n\nIt was even so; in their headlong eagerness, the men had mistaken some\nother thing for the whale-spout, as the event itself soon proved; for\nhardly had Ahab reached his perch; hardly was the rope belayed to its\npin on deck, when he struck the key-note to an orchestra, that made the\nair vibrate as with the combined discharges of rifles. The triumphant\nhalloo of thirty buckskin lungs was heard, as much nearer to the ship\nthan the place of the imaginary jet, less than a mile ahead Moby Dick\nbodily burst into view! For not by any calm and indolent spoutings; not\nby the peaceable gush of that mystic fountain in his head, did the\nWhite Whale now reveal his vicinity; but by the far more wondrous\nphenomenon of breaching. Rising with his utmost velocity from the\nfurthest depths, the Sperm Whale thus booms his entire bulk into the\npure element of air, and piling up a mountain of dazzling foam, shows\nhis place to the distance of seven miles and more. In those moments,\nthe torn, enraged waves he shakes off, seem his mane; in some cases,\nthis breaching is his act of defiance.\n\n There she breaches! there she breaches!  was the cry, as in his\nimmeasurable bravadoes the White Whale tossed himself salmon-like to\nHeaven. So suddenly seen in the blue plain of the sea, and relieved\nagainst the still bluer margin of the sky, the spray that he raised,\nfor the moment, intolerably glittered and glared like a glacier; and\nstood there gradually fading and fading away from its first sparkling\nintensity, to the dim mistiness of an advancing shower in a vale.\n\n Aye, breach your last to the sun, Moby Dick!  cried Ahab,  thy hour\nand thy harpoon are at hand! Down! down all of ye, but one man at the\nfore. The boats! stand by! \n\nUnmindful of the tedious rope-ladders of the shrouds, the men, like\nshooting stars, slid to the deck, by the isolated backstays and\nhalyards; while Ahab, less dartingly, but still rapidly was dropped\nfrom his perch.\n\n Lower away,  he cried, so soon as he had reached his boat a spare one,\nrigged the afternoon previous.  Mr. Starbuck, the ship is thine keep\naway from the boats, but keep near them. Lower, all! \n\nAs if to strike a quick terror into them, by this time being the first\nassailant himself, Moby Dick had turned, and was now coming for the\nthree crews. Ahab s boat was central; and cheering his men, he told\nthem he would take the whale head-and-head, that is, pull straight up\nto his forehead, a not uncommon thing; for when within a certain limit,\nsuch a course excludes the coming onset from the whale s sidelong\nvision. But ere that close limit was gained, and while yet all three\nboats were plain as the ship s three masts to his eye; the White Whale\nchurning himself into furious speed, almost in an instant as it were,\nrushing among the boats with open jaws, and a lashing tail, offered\nappalling battle on every side; and heedless of the irons darted at him\nfrom every boat, seemed only intent on annihilating each separate plank\nof which those boats were made. But skilfully man uvred, incessantly\nwheeling like trained chargers in the field; the boats for a while\neluded him; though, at times, but by a plank s breadth; while all the\ntime, Ahab s unearthly slogan tore every other cry but his to shreds.\n\nBut at last in his untraceable evolutions, the White Whale so crossed\nand recrossed, and in a thousand ways entangled the slack of the three\nlines now fast to him, that they foreshortened, and, of themselves,\nwarped the devoted boats towards the planted irons in him; though now\nfor a moment the whale drew aside a little, as if to rally for a more\ntremendous charge. Seizing that opportunity, Ahab first paid out more\nline: and then was rapidly hauling and jerking in upon it again hoping\nthat way to disencumber it of some snarls when lo! a sight more savage\nthan the embattled teeth of sharks!\n\nCaught and twisted corkscrewed in the mazes of the line, loose harpoons\nand lances, with all their bristling barbs and points, came flashing\nand dripping up to the chocks in the bows of Ahab s boat. Only one\nthing could be done. Seizing the boat-knife, he critically reached\nwithin through and then, without the rays of steel; dragged in the line\nbeyond, passed it, inboard, to the bowsman, and then, twice sundering\nthe rope near the chocks dropped the intercepted fagot of steel into\nthe sea; and was all fast again. That instant, the White Whale made a\nsudden rush among the remaining tangles of the other lines; by so\ndoing, irresistibly dragged the more involved boats of Stubb and Flask\ntowards his flukes; dashed them together like two rolling husks on a\nsurf-beaten beach, and then, diving down into the sea, disappeared in a\nboiling maelstrom, in which, for a space, the odorous cedar chips of\nthe wrecks danced round and round, like the grated nutmeg in a swiftly\nstirred bowl of punch.\n\nWhile the two crews were yet circling in the waters, reaching out after\nthe revolving line-tubs, oars, and other floating furniture, while\naslope little Flask bobbed up and down like an empty vial, twitching\nhis legs upwards to escape the dreaded jaws of sharks; and Stubb was\nlustily singing out for some one to ladle him up; and while the old\nman s line now parting admitted of his pulling into the creamy pool to\nrescue whom he could; in that wild simultaneousness of a thousand\nconcreted perils, Ahab s yet unstricken boat seemed drawn up towards\nHeaven by invisible wires, as, arrow-like, shooting perpendicularly\nfrom the sea, the White Whale dashed his broad forehead against its\nbottom, and sent it, turning over and over, into the air; till it fell\nagain gunwale downwards and Ahab and his men struggled out from under\nit, like seals from a sea-side cave.\n\nThe first uprising momentum of the whale modifying its direction as he\nstruck the surface involuntarily launched him along it, to a little\ndistance from the centre of the destruction he had made; and with his\nback to it, he now lay for a moment slowly feeling with his flukes from\nside to side; and whenever a stray oar, bit of plank, the least chip or\ncrumb of the boats touched his skin, his tail swiftly drew back, and\ncame sideways smiting the sea. But soon, as if satisfied that his work\nfor that time was done, he pushed his pleated forehead through the\nocean, and trailing after him the intertangled lines, continued his\nleeward way at a traveller s methodic pace.\n\nAs before, the attentive ship having descried the whole fight, again\ncame bearing down to the rescue, and dropping a boat, picked up the\nfloating mariners, tubs, oars, and whatever else could be caught at,\nand safely landed them on her decks. Some sprained shoulders, wrists,\nand ankles; livid contusions; wrenched harpoons and lances;\ninextricable intricacies of rope; shattered oars and planks; all these\nwere there; but no fatal or even serious ill seemed to have befallen\nany one. As with Fedallah the day before, so Ahab was now found grimly\nclinging to his boat s broken half, which afforded a comparatively easy\nfloat; nor did it so exhaust him as the previous day s mishap.\n\nBut when he was helped to the deck, all eyes were fastened upon him; as\ninstead of standing by himself he still half-hung upon the shoulder of\nStarbuck, who had thus far been the foremost to assist him. His ivory\nleg had been snapped off, leaving but one short sharp splinter.\n\n Aye, aye, Starbuck,  tis sweet to lean sometimes, be the leaner who he\nwill; and would old Ahab had leaned oftener than he has. \n\n The ferrule has not stood, sir,  said the carpenter, now coming up;  I\nput good work into that leg. \n\n But no bones broken, sir, I hope,  said Stubb with true concern.\n\n Aye! and all splintered to pieces, Stubb! d ye see it. But even with a\nbroken bone, old Ahab is untouched; and I account no living bone of\nmine one jot more me, than this dead one that s lost. Nor white whale,\nnor man, nor fiend, can so much as graze old Ahab in his own proper and\ninaccessible being. Can any lead touch yonder floor, any mast scrape\nyonder roof? Aloft there! which way? \n\n Dead to leeward, sir. \n\n Up helm, then; pile on the sail again, ship keepers! down the rest of\nthe spare boats and rig them Mr. Starbuck away, and muster the boat s\ncrews. \n\n Let me first help thee towards the bulwarks, sir. \n\n Oh, oh, oh! how this splinter gores me now! Accursed fate! that the\nunconquerable captain in the soul should have such a craven mate! \n\n Sir? \n\n My body, man, not thee. Give me something for a cane there, that\nshivered lance will do. Muster the men. Surely I have not seen him yet.\nBy heaven it cannot be! missing? quick! call them all. \n\nThe old man s hinted thought was true. Upon mustering the company, the\nParsee was not there.\n\n The Parsee!  cried Stubb he must have been caught in \n\n The black vomit wrench thee! run all of ye above, alow, cabin,\nforecastle find him not gone not gone! \n\nBut quickly they returned to him with the tidings that the Parsee was\nnowhere to be found.\n\n Aye, sir,  said Stubb caught among the tangles of your line I thought\nI saw him dragging under. \n\n _My_ line! _my_ line? Gone? gone? What means that little word? What\ndeath-knell rings in it, that old Ahab shakes as if he were the belfry.\nThe harpoon, too! toss over the litter there, d ye see it? the forged\niron, men, the white whale s no, no, no, blistered fool! this hand did\ndart it! tis in the fish! Aloft there! Keep him nailed Quick! all\nhands to the rigging of the boats collect the oars harpooneers! the\nirons, the irons! hoist the royals higher a pull on all the\nsheets! helm there! steady, steady for your life! I ll ten times girdle\nthe unmeasured globe; yea and dive straight through it, but I ll slay\nhim yet! \n\n Great God! but for one single instant show thyself,  cried Starbuck;\n never, never wilt thou capture him, old man In Jesus  name no more of\nthis, that s worse than devil s madness. Two days chased; twice stove\nto splinters; thy very leg once more snatched from under thee; thy evil\nshadow gone all good angels mobbing thee with warnings: what more\nwouldst thou have? Shall we keep chasing this murderous fish till he\nswamps the last man? Shall we be dragged by him to the bottom of the\nsea? Shall we be towed by him to the infernal world? Oh, oh, Impiety\nand blasphemy to hunt him more! \n\n Starbuck, of late I ve felt strangely moved to thee; ever since that\nhour we both saw thou know st what, in one another s eyes. But in this\nmatter of the whale, be the front of thy face to me as the palm of this\nhand a lipless, unfeatured blank. Ahab is for ever Ahab, man. This\nwhole act s immutably decreed.  Twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion\nyears before this ocean rolled. Fool! I am the Fates  lieutenant; I act\nunder orders. Look thou, underling! that thou obeyest mine. Stand round\nme, men. Ye see an old man cut down to the stump; leaning on a shivered\nlance; propped up on a lonely foot.  Tis Ahab his body s part; but\nAhab s soul s a centipede, that moves upon a hundred legs. I feel\nstrained, half stranded, as ropes that tow dismasted frigates in a\ngale; and I may look so. But ere I break, ye ll hear me crack; and till\nye hear _that_, know that Ahab s hawser tows his purpose yet. Believe\nye, men, in the things called omens? Then laugh aloud, and cry encore!\nFor ere they drown, drowning things will twice rise to the surface;\nthen rise again, to sink for evermore. So with Moby Dick two days he s\nfloated tomorrow will be the third. Aye, men, he ll rise once more, but\nonly to spout his last! D ye feel brave men, brave? \n\n As fearless fire,  cried Stubb.\n\n And as mechanical,  muttered Ahab. Then as the men went forward, he\nmuttered on:  The things called omens! And yesterday I talked the same\nto Starbuck there, concerning my broken boat. Oh! how valiantly I seek\nto drive out of others  hearts what s clinched so fast in mine! The\nParsee the Parsee! gone, gone? and he was to go before: but still was\nto be seen again ere I could perish How s that? There s a riddle now\nmight baffle all the lawyers backed by the ghosts of the whole line of\njudges: like a hawk s beak it pecks my brain. _I ll_, _I ll_ solve it,\nthough! \n\nWhen dusk descended, the whale was still in sight to leeward.\n\nSo once more the sail was shortened, and everything passed nearly as on\nthe previous night; only, the sound of hammers, and the hum of the\ngrindstone was heard till nearly daylight, as the men toiled by\nlanterns in the complete and careful rigging of the spare boats and\nsharpening their fresh weapons for the morrow. Meantime, of the broken\nkeel of Ahab s wrecked craft the carpenter made him another leg; while\nstill as on the night before, slouched Ahab stood fixed within his\nscuttle; his hid, heliotrope glance anticipatingly gone backward on its\ndial; sat due eastward for the earliest sun.\n\n\nCHAPTER 135. The Chase. Third Day.\n\nThe morning of the third day dawned fair and fresh, and once more the\nsolitary night-man at the fore-mast-head was relieved by crowds of the\ndaylight look-outs, who dotted every mast and almost every spar.\n\n D ye see him?  cried Ahab; but the whale was not yet in sight.\n\n In his infallible wake, though; but follow that wake, that s all. Helm\nthere; steady, as thou goest, and hast been going. What a lovely day\nagain! were it a new-made world, and made for a summer-house to the\nangels, and this morning the first of its throwing open to them, a\nfairer day could not dawn upon that world. Here s food for thought, had\nAhab time to think; but Ahab never thinks; he only feels, feels, feels;\n_that s_ tingling enough for mortal man! to think s audacity. God only\nhas that right and privilege. Thinking is, or ought to be, a coolness\nand a calmness; and our poor hearts throb, and our poor brains beat too\nmuch for that. And yet, I ve sometimes thought my brain was very\ncalm frozen calm, this old skull cracks so, like a glass in which the\ncontents turned to ice, and shiver it. And still this hair is growing\nnow; this moment growing, and heat must breed it; but no, it s like\nthat sort of common grass that will grow anywhere, between the earthy\nclefts of Greenland ice or in Vesuvius lava. How the wild winds blow\nit; they whip it about me as the torn shreds of split sails lash the\ntossed ship they cling to. A vile wind that has no doubt blown ere this\nthrough prison corridors and cells, and wards of hospitals, and\nventilated them, and now comes blowing hither as innocent as fleeces.\nOut upon it! it s tainted. Were I the wind, I d blow no more on such a\nwicked, miserable world. I d crawl somewhere to a cave, and slink\nthere. And yet,  tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind! who ever\nconquered it? In every fight it has the last and bitterest blow. Run\ntilting at it, and you but run through it. Ha! a coward wind that\nstrikes stark naked men, but will not stand to receive a single blow.\nEven Ahab is a braver thing a nobler thing than _that_. Would now the\nwind but had a body; but all the things that most exasperate and\noutrage mortal man, all these things are bodiless, but only bodiless as\nobjects, not as agents. There s a most special, a most cunning, oh, a\nmost malicious difference! And yet, I say again, and swear it now, that\nthere s something all glorious and gracious in the wind. These warm\nTrade Winds, at least, that in the clear heavens blow straight on, in\nstrong and steadfast, vigorous mildness; and veer not from their mark,\nhowever the baser currents of the sea may turn and tack, and mightiest\nMississippies of the land swift and swerve about, uncertain where to go\nat last. And by the eternal Poles! these same Trades that so directly\nblow my good ship on; these Trades, or something like them something so\nunchangeable, and full as strong, blow my keeled soul along! To it!\nAloft there! What d ye see? \n\n Nothing, sir. \n\n Nothing! and noon at hand! The doubloon goes a-begging! See the sun!\nAye, aye, it must be so. I ve oversailed him. How, got the start? Aye,\nhe s chasing _me_ now; not I, _him_ that s bad; I might have known it,\ntoo. Fool! the lines the harpoons he s towing. Aye, aye, I have run him\nby last night. About! about! Come down, all of ye, but the regular look\nouts! Man the braces! \n\nSteering as she had done, the wind had been somewhat on the Pequod s\nquarter, so that now being pointed in the reverse direction, the braced\nship sailed hard upon the breeze as she rechurned the cream in her own\nwhite wake.\n\n Against the wind he now steers for the open jaw,  murmured Starbuck to\nhimself, as he coiled the new-hauled main-brace upon the rail.  God\nkeep us, but already my bones feel damp within me, and from the inside\nwet my flesh. I misdoubt me that I disobey my God in obeying him! \n\n Stand by to sway me up!  cried Ahab, advancing to the hempen basket.\n We should meet him soon. \n\n Aye, aye, sir,  and straightway Starbuck did Ahab s bidding, and once\nmore Ahab swung on high.\n\nA whole hour now passed; gold-beaten out to ages. Time itself now held\nlong breaths with keen suspense. But at last, some three points off the\nweather bow, Ahab descried the spout again, and instantly from the\nthree mast-heads three shrieks went up as if the tongues of fire had\nvoiced it.\n\n Forehead to forehead I meet thee, this third time, Moby Dick! On deck\nthere! brace sharper up; crowd her into the wind s eye. He s too far\noff to lower yet, Mr. Starbuck. The sails shake! Stand over that\nhelmsman with a top-maul! So, so; he travels fast, and I must down. But\nlet me have one more good round look aloft here at the sea; there s\ntime for that. An old, old sight, and yet somehow so young; aye, and\nnot changed a wink since I first saw it, a boy, from the sand-hills of\nNantucket! The same! the same! the same to Noah as to me. There s a\nsoft shower to leeward. Such lovely leewardings! They must lead\nsomewhere to something else than common land, more palmy than the\npalms. Leeward! the white whale goes that way; look to windward, then;\nthe better if the bitterer quarter. But good bye, good bye, old\nmast-head! What s this? green? aye, tiny mosses in these warped cracks.\nNo such green weather stains on Ahab s head! There s the difference now\nbetween man s old age and matter s. But aye, old mast, we both grow old\ntogether; sound in our hulls, though, are we not, my ship? Aye, minus a\nleg, that s all. By heaven this dead wood has the better of my live\nflesh every way. I can t compare with it; and I ve known some ships\nmade of dead trees outlast the lives of men made of the most vital\nstuff of vital fathers. What s that he said? he should still go before\nme, my pilot; and yet to be seen again? But where? Will I have eyes at\nthe bottom of the sea, supposing I descend those endless stairs? and\nall night I ve been sailing from him, wherever he did sink to. Aye,\naye, like many more thou told st direful truth as touching thyself, O\nParsee; but, Ahab, there thy shot fell short. Good-bye, mast-head keep\na good eye upon the whale, the while I m gone. We ll talk to-morrow,\nnay, to-night, when the white whale lies down there, tied by head and\ntail. \n\nHe gave the word; and still gazing round him, was steadily lowered\nthrough the cloven blue air to the deck.\n\nIn due time the boats were lowered; but as standing in his shallop s\nstern, Ahab just hovered upon the point of the descent, he waved to the\nmate, who held one of the tackle-ropes on deck and bade him pause.\n\n Starbuck! \n\n Sir? \n\n For the third time my soul s ship starts upon this voyage, Starbuck. \n\n Aye, sir, thou wilt have it so. \n\n Some ships sail from their ports, and ever afterwards are missing,\nStarbuck! \n\n Truth, sir: saddest truth. \n\n Some men die at ebb tide; some at low water; some at the full of the\nflood; and I feel now like a billow that s all one crested comb,\nStarbuck. I am old; shake hands with me, man. \n\nTheir hands met; their eyes fastened; Starbuck s tears the glue.\n\n Oh, my captain, my captain! noble heart go not go not! see, it s a\nbrave man that weeps; how great the agony of the persuasion then! \n\n Lower away! cried Ahab, tossing the mate s arm from him.  Stand by\nthe crew! \n\nIn an instant the boat was pulling round close under the stern.\n\n The sharks! the sharks!  cried a voice from the low cabin-window\nthere;  O master, my master, come back! \n\nBut Ahab heard nothing; for his own voice was high-lifted then; and the\nboat leaped on.\n\nYet the voice spake true; for scarce had he pushed from the ship, when\nnumbers of sharks, seemingly rising from out the dark waters beneath\nthe hull, maliciously snapped at the blades of the oars, every time\nthey dipped in the water; and in this way accompanied the boat with\ntheir bites. It is a thing not uncommonly happening to the whale-boats\nin those swarming seas; the sharks at times apparently following them\nin the same prescient way that vultures hover over the banners of\nmarching regiments in the east. But these were the first sharks that\nhad been observed by the Pequod since the White Whale had been first\ndescried; and whether it was that Ahab s crew were all such\ntiger-yellow barbarians, and therefore their flesh more musky to the\nsenses of the sharks a matter sometimes well known to affect\nthem, however it was, they seemed to follow that one boat without\nmolesting the others.\n\n Heart of wrought steel!  murmured Starbuck gazing over the side, and\nfollowing with his eyes the receding boat canst thou yet ring boldly\nto that sight? lowering thy keel among ravening sharks, and followed by\nthem, open-mouthed to the chase; and this the critical third day? For\nwhen three days flow together in one continuous intense pursuit; be\nsure the first is the morning, the second the noon, and the third the\nevening and the end of that thing be that end what it may. Oh! my God!\nwhat is this that shoots through me, and leaves me so deadly calm, yet\nexpectant, fixed at the top of a shudder! Future things swim before me,\nas in empty outlines and skeletons; all the past is somehow grown dim.\nMary, girl! thou fadest in pale glories behind me; boy! I seem to see\nbut thy eyes grown wondrous blue. Strangest problems of life seem\nclearing; but clouds sweep between Is my journey s end coming? My legs\nfeel faint; like his who has footed it all day. Feel thy heart, beats\nit yet? Stir thyself, Starbuck! stave it off move, move! speak\naloud! Mast-head there! See ye my boy s hand on the hill? Crazed; aloft\nthere! keep thy keenest eye upon the boats: mark well the whale! Ho!\nagain! drive off that hawk! see! he pecks he tears the vane pointing\nto the red flag flying at the main-truck Ha! he soars away with\nit! Where s the old man now? see st thou that sight, oh Ahab! shudder,\nshudder! \n\nThe boats had not gone very far, when by a signal from the mast-heads a\ndownward pointed arm, Ahab knew that the whale had sounded; but\nintending to be near him at the next rising, he held on his way a\nlittle sideways from the vessel; the becharmed crew maintaining the\nprofoundest silence, as the head-beat waves hammered and hammered\nagainst the opposing bow.\n\n Drive, drive in your nails, oh ye waves! to their uttermost heads\ndrive them in! ye but strike a thing without a lid; and no coffin and\nno hearse can be mine: and hemp only can kill me! Ha! ha! \n\nSuddenly the waters around them slowly swelled in broad circles; then\nquickly upheaved, as if sideways sliding from a submerged berg of ice,\nswiftly rising to the surface. A low rumbling sound was heard; a\nsubterraneous hum; and then all held their breaths; as bedraggled with\ntrailing ropes, and harpoons, and lances, a vast form shot lengthwise,\nbut obliquely from the sea. Shrouded in a thin drooping veil of mist,\nit hovered for a moment in the rainbowed air; and then fell swamping\nback into the deep. Crushed thirty feet upwards, the waters flashed for\nan instant like heaps of fountains, then brokenly sank in a shower of\nflakes, leaving the circling surface creamed like new milk round the\nmarble trunk of the whale.\n\n Give way!  cried Ahab to the oarsmen, and the boats darted forward to\nthe attack; but maddened by yesterday s fresh irons that corroded in\nhim, Moby Dick seemed combinedly possessed by all the angels that fell\nfrom heaven. The wide tiers of welded tendons overspreading his broad\nwhite forehead, beneath the transparent skin, looked knitted together;\nas head on, he came churning his tail among the boats; and once more\nflailed them apart; spilling out the irons and lances from the two\nmates  boats, and dashing in one side of the upper part of their bows,\nbut leaving Ahab s almost without a scar.\n\nWhile Daggoo and Queequeg were stopping the strained planks; and as the\nwhale swimming out from them, turned, and showed one entire flank as he\nshot by them again; at that moment a quick cry went up. Lashed round\nand round to the fish s back; pinioned in the turns upon turns in\nwhich, during the past night, the whale had reeled the involutions of\nthe lines around him, the half torn body of the Parsee was seen; his\nsable raiment frayed to shreds; his distended eyes turned full upon old\nAhab.\n\nThe harpoon dropped from his hand.\n\n Befooled, befooled! drawing in a long lean breath Aye, Parsee! I see\nthee again. Aye, and thou goest before; and this, _this_ then is the\nhearse that thou didst promise. But I hold thee to the last letter of\nthy word. Where is the second hearse? Away, mates, to the ship! those\nboats are useless now; repair them if ye can in time, and return to me;\nif not, Ahab is enough to die Down, men! the first thing that but\noffers to jump from this boat I stand in, that thing I harpoon. Ye are\nnot other men, but my arms and my legs; and so obey me. Where s the\nwhale? gone down again? \n\nBut he looked too nigh the boat; for as if bent upon escaping with the\ncorpse he bore, and as if the particular place of the last encounter\nhad been but a stage in his leeward voyage, Moby Dick was now again\nsteadily swimming forward; and had almost passed the ship, which thus\nfar had been sailing in the contrary direction to him, though for the\npresent her headway had been stopped. He seemed swimming with his\nutmost velocity, and now only intent upon pursuing his own straight\npath in the sea.\n\n Oh! Ahab,  cried Starbuck,  not too late is it, even now, the third\nday, to desist. See! Moby Dick seeks thee not. It is thou, thou, that\nmadly seekest him! \n\nSetting sail to the rising wind, the lonely boat was swiftly impelled\nto leeward, by both oars and canvas. And at last when Ahab was sliding\nby the vessel, so near as plainly to distinguish Starbuck s face as he\nleaned over the rail, he hailed him to turn the vessel about, and\nfollow him, not too swiftly, at a judicious interval. Glancing upwards,\nhe saw Tashtego, Queequeg, and Daggoo, eagerly mounting to the three\nmast-heads; while the oarsmen were rocking in the two staved boats\nwhich had but just been hoisted to the side, and were busily at work in\nrepairing them. One after the other, through the port-holes, as he\nsped, he also caught flying glimpses of Stubb and Flask, busying\nthemselves on deck among bundles of new irons and lances. As he saw all\nthis; as he heard the hammers in the broken boats; far other hammers\nseemed driving a nail into his heart. But he rallied. And now marking\nthat the vane or flag was gone from the main-mast-head, he shouted to\nTashtego, who had just gained that perch, to descend again for another\nflag, and a hammer and nails, and so nail it to the mast.\n\nWhether fagged by the three days  running chase, and the resistance to\nhis swimming in the knotted hamper he bore; or whether it was some\nlatent deceitfulness and malice in him: whichever was true, the White\nWhale s way now began to abate, as it seemed, from the boat so rapidly\nnearing him once more; though indeed the whale s last start had not\nbeen so long a one as before. And still as Ahab glided over the waves\nthe unpitying sharks accompanied him; and so pertinaciously stuck to\nthe boat; and so continually bit at the plying oars, that the blades\nbecame jagged and crunched, and left small splinters in the sea, at\nalmost every dip.\n\n Heed them not! those teeth but give new rowlocks to your oars. Pull\non!  tis the better rest, the shark s jaw than the yielding water. \n\n But at every bite, sir, the thin blades grow smaller and smaller! \n\n They will last long enough! pull on! But who can tell he\nmuttered whether these sharks swim to feast on the whale or on\nAhab? But pull on! Aye, all alive, now we near him. The helm! take the\nhelm! let me pass, and so saying two of the oarsmen helped him forward\nto the bows of the still flying boat.\n\nAt length as the craft was cast to one side, and ran ranging along with\nthe White Whale s flank, he seemed strangely oblivious of its\nadvance as the whale sometimes will and Ahab was fairly within the\nsmoky mountain mist, which, thrown off from the whale s spout, curled\nround his great, Monadnock hump; he was even thus close to him; when,\nwith body arched back, and both arms lengthwise high-lifted to the\npoise, he darted his fierce iron, and his far fiercer curse into the\nhated whale. As both steel and curse sank to the socket, as if sucked\ninto a morass, Moby Dick sideways writhed; spasmodically rolled his\nnigh flank against the bow, and, without staving a hole in it, so\nsuddenly canted the boat over, that had it not been for the elevated\npart of the gunwale to which he then clung, Ahab would once more have\nbeen tossed into the sea. As it was, three of the oarsmen who foreknew\nnot the precise instant of the dart, and were therefore unprepared for\nits effects these were flung out; but so fell, that, in an instant two\nof them clutched the gunwale again, and rising to its level on a\ncombing wave, hurled themselves bodily inboard again; the third man\nhelplessly dropping astern, but still afloat and swimming.\n\nAlmost simultaneously, with a mighty volition of ungraduated,\ninstantaneous swiftness, the White Whale darted through the weltering\nsea. But when Ahab cried out to the steersman to take new turns with\nthe line, and hold it so; and commanded the crew to turn round on their\nseats, and tow the boat up to the mark; the moment the treacherous line\nfelt that double strain and tug, it snapped in the empty air!\n\n What breaks in me? Some sinew cracks! tis whole again; oars! oars!\nBurst in upon him! \n\nHearing the tremendous rush of the sea-crashing boat, the whale wheeled\nround to present his blank forehead at bay; but in that evolution,\ncatching sight of the nearing black hull of the ship; seemingly seeing\nin it the source of all his persecutions; bethinking it it may be a\nlarger and nobler foe; of a sudden, he bore down upon its advancing\nprow, smiting his jaws amid fiery showers of foam.\n\nAhab staggered; his hand smote his forehead.  I grow blind; hands!\nstretch out before me that I may yet grope my way. Is t night? \n\n The whale! The ship!  cried the cringing oarsmen.\n\n Oars! oars! Slope downwards to thy depths, O sea, that ere it be for\never too late, Ahab may slide this last, last time upon his mark! I\nsee: the ship! the ship! Dash on, my men! Will ye not save my ship? \n\nBut as the oarsmen violently forced their boat through the\nsledge-hammering seas, the before whale-smitten bow-ends of two planks\nburst through, and in an instant almost, the temporarily disabled boat\nlay nearly level with the waves; its half-wading, splashing crew,\ntrying hard to stop the gap and bale out the pouring water.\n\nMeantime, for that one beholding instant, Tashtego s mast-head hammer\nremained suspended in his hand; and the red flag, half-wrapping him as\nwith a plaid, then streamed itself straight out from him, as his own\nforward-flowing heart; while Starbuck and Stubb, standing upon the\nbowsprit beneath, caught sight of the down-coming monster just as soon\nas he.\n\n The whale, the whale! Up helm, up helm! Oh, all ye sweet powers of\nair, now hug me close! Let not Starbuck die, if die he must, in a\nwoman s fainting fit. Up helm, I say ye fools, the jaw! the jaw! Is\nthis the end of all my bursting prayers? all my life-long fidelities?\nOh, Ahab, Ahab, lo, thy work. Steady! helmsman, steady. Nay, nay! Up\nhelm again! He turns to meet us! Oh, his unappeasable brow drives on\ntowards one, whose duty tells him he cannot depart. My God, stand by me\nnow! \n\n Stand not by me, but stand under me, whoever you are that will now\nhelp Stubb; for Stubb, too, sticks here. I grin at thee, thou grinning\nwhale! Who ever helped Stubb, or kept Stubb awake, but Stubb s own\nunwinking eye? And now poor Stubb goes to bed upon a mattrass that is\nall too soft; would it were stuffed with brushwood! I grin at thee,\nthou grinning whale! Look ye, sun, moon, and stars! I call ye assassins\nof as good a fellow as ever spouted up his ghost. For all that, I would\nyet ring glasses with ye, would ye but hand the cup! Oh, oh! oh, oh!\nthou grinning whale, but there ll be plenty of gulping soon! Why fly ye\nnot, O Ahab! For me, off shoes and jacket to it; let Stubb die in his\ndrawers! A most mouldy and over salted death, though; cherries!\ncherries! cherries! Oh, Flask, for one red cherry ere we die! \n\n Cherries? I only wish that we were where they grow. Oh, Stubb, I hope\nmy poor mother s drawn my part-pay ere this; if not, few coppers will\nnow come to her, for the voyage is up. \n\nFrom the ship s bows, nearly all the seamen now hung inactive; hammers,\nbits of plank, lances, and harpoons, mechanically retained in their\nhands, just as they had darted from their various employments; all\ntheir enchanted eyes intent upon the whale, which from side to side\nstrangely vibrating his predestinating head, sent a broad band of\noverspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed. Retribution,\nswift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of\nall that mortal man could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead\nsmote the ship s starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled. Some fell\nflat upon their faces. Like dislodged trucks, the heads of the\nharpooneers aloft shook on their bull-like necks. Through the breach,\nthey heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume.\n\n The ship! The hearse! the second hearse!  cried Ahab from the boat;\n its wood could only be American! \n\nDiving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its\nkeel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far\noff the other bow, but within a few yards of Ahab s boat, where, for a\ntime, he lay quiescent.\n\n I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! let me hear thy\nhammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of mine; thou uncracked keel;\nand only god-bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and\nPole-pointed prow, death-glorious ship! must ye then perish, and\nwithout me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest\nshipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel\nmy topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your\nfurthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone\nlife, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll,\nthou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with\nthee; from hell s heart I stab at thee; for hate s sake I spit my last\nbreath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool!\nand since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still\nchasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! _Thus_, I give up\nthe spear! \n\nThe harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting\nvelocity the line ran through the grooves; ran foul. Ahab stooped to\nclear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the\nneck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was\nshot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the\nheavy eye-splice in the rope s final end flew out of the stark-empty\ntub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its\ndepths.\n\nFor an instant, the tranced boat s crew stood still; then turned.  The\nship? Great God, where is the ship?  Soon they through dim, bewildering\nmediums saw her sidelong fading phantom, as in the gaseous Fata\nMorgana; only the uppermost masts out of water; while fixed by\ninfatuation, or fidelity, or fate, to their once lofty perches, the\npagan harpooneers still maintained their sinking lookouts on the sea.\nAnd now, concentric circles seized the lone boat itself, and all its\ncrew, and each floating oar, and every lance-pole, and spinning,\nanimate and inanimate, all round and round in one vortex, carried the\nsmallest chip of the Pequod out of sight.\n\nBut as the last whelmings intermixingly poured themselves over the\nsunken head of the Indian at the mainmast, leaving a few inches of the\nerect spar yet visible, together with long streaming yards of the flag,\nwhich calmly undulated, with ironical coincidings, over the destroying\nbillows they almost touched; at that instant, a red arm and a hammer\nhovered backwardly uplifted in the open air, in the act of nailing the\nflag faster and yet faster to the subsiding spar. A sky-hawk that\ntauntingly had followed the main-truck downwards from its natural home\namong the stars, pecking at the flag, and incommoding Tashtego there;\nthis bird now chanced to intercept its broad fluttering wing between\nthe hammer and the wood; and simultaneously feeling that etherial\nthrill, the submerged savage beneath, in his death-gasp, kept his\nhammer frozen there; and so the bird of heaven, with archangelic\nshrieks, and his imperial beak thrust upwards, and his whole captive\nform folded in the flag of Ahab, went down with his ship, which, like\nSatan, would not sink to hell till she had dragged a living part of\nheaven along with her, and helmeted herself with it.\n\nNow small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen\nwhite surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the\ngreat shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.\n\n\nEpilogue\n\n AND I ONLY AM ESCAPED ALONE TO TELL THEE  Job.\n\nThe drama s done. Why then here does any one step forth? Because one\ndid survive the wreck.\n\nIt so chanced, that after the Parsee s disappearance, I was he whom the\nFates ordained to take the place of Ahab s bowsman, when that bowsman\nassumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day the three\nmen were tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern. So,\nfloating on the margin of the ensuing scene, and in full sight of it,\nwhen the halfspent suction of the sunk ship reached me, I was then, but\nslowly, drawn towards the closing vortex. When I reached it, it had\nsubsided to a creamy pool. Round and round, then, and ever contracting\ntowards the button-like black bubble at the axis of that slowly\nwheeling circle, like another Ixion I did revolve. Till, gaining that\nvital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated by\nreason of its cunning spring, and, owing to its great buoyancy, rising\nwith great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea,\nfell over, and floated by my side. Buoyed up by that coffin, for almost\none whole day and night, I floated on a soft and dirgelike main. The\nunharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths;\nthe savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks. On the second day, a\nsail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the\ndevious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing\nchildren, only found another orphan."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes",
        "author": "Arthur Conan Doyle",
        "category": "Classics",
        "EN": "I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA\n\n\nI.\n\nTo Sherlock Holmes she is always _the_ woman. I have seldom heard him\nmention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and\npredominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion\nakin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly,\nwere abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He\nwas, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that\nthe world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a\nfalse position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe\nand a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer excellent for\ndrawing the veil from men s motives and actions. But for the trained\nreasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely\nadjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might\nthrow a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive\ninstrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not\nbe more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And\nyet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene\nAdler, of dubious and questionable memory.\n\nI had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away\nfrom each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred\ninterests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master\nof his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention,\nwhile Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian\nsoul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old\nbooks, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition,\nthe drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen\nnature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime,\nand occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of\nobservation in following out those clues, and clearing up those\nmysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police.\nFrom time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his\nsummons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up\nof the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and\nfinally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and\nsuccessfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of\nhis activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of\nthe daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.\n\nOne night it was on the twentieth of March, 1888 I was returning from a\njourney to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when\nmy way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered\ndoor, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and\nwith the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a\nkeen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his\nextraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I\nlooked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette\nagainst the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his\nhead sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who\nknew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own\nstory. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created\ndreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell\nand was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.\n\nHis manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think,\nto see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved\nme to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a\nspirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire\nand looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.\n\n Wedlock suits you,  he remarked.  I think, Watson, that you have put\non seven and a half pounds since I saw you. \n\n Seven!  I answered.\n\n Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I\nfancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me\nthat you intended to go into harness. \n\n Then, how do you know? \n\n I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting\nyourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless\nservant girl? \n\n My dear Holmes,  said I,  this is too much. You would certainly have\nbeen burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a\ncountry walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I\nhave changed my clothes I can t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary\nJane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there,\nagain, I fail to see how you work it out. \n\nHe chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.\n\n It is simplicity itself,  said he;  my eyes tell me that on the inside\nof your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is\nscored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by\nsomeone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in\norder to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double\ndeduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a\nparticularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As\nto your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of\niodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right\nforefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where\nhe has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not\npronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession. \n\nI could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his\nprocess of deduction.  When I hear you give your reasons,  I remarked,\n the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I\ncould easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your\nreasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I\nbelieve that my eyes are as good as yours. \n\n Quite so,  he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself\ndown into an armchair.  You see, but you do not observe. The\ndistinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps\nwhich lead up from the hall to this room. \n\n Frequently. \n\n How often? \n\n Well, some hundreds of times. \n\n Then how many are there? \n\n How many? I don t know. \n\n Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just\nmy point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have\nboth seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these\nlittle problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two\nof my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.  He threw\nover a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open\nupon the table.  It came by the last post,  said he.  Read it aloud. \n\nThe note was undated, and without either signature or address.\n\n There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o clock,  it\nsaid,  a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very\ndeepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of\nEurope have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with\nmatters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated.\nThis account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your\nchamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor\nwear a mask. \n\n This is indeed a mystery,  I remarked.  What do you imagine that it\nmeans? \n\n I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has\ndata. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of\ntheories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from\nit? \n\nI carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was\nwritten.\n\n The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,  I remarked,\nendeavouring to imitate my companion s processes.  Such paper could not\nbe bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and\nstiff. \n\n Peculiar that is the very word,  said Holmes.  It is not an English\npaper at all. Hold it up to the light. \n\nI did so, and saw a large  E  with a small  g,  a  P,  and a large  G \nwith a small  t  woven into the texture of the paper.\n\n What do you make of that?  asked Holmes.\n\n The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather. \n\n Not at all. The  G  with the small  t  stands for  Gesellschaft, \nwhich is the German for  Company.  It is a customary contraction like\nour  Co.   P,  of course, stands for  Papier.  Now for the  Eg.  Let us\nglance at our Continental Gazetteer.  He took down a heavy brown volume\nfrom his shelves.  Eglow, Eglonitz here we are, Egria. It is in a\nGerman-speaking country in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad.  Remarkable\nas being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous\nglass-factories and paper-mills.  Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of\nthat?  His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud\nfrom his cigarette.\n\n The paper was made in Bohemia,  I said.\n\n Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the\npeculiar construction of the sentence This account of you we have from\nall quarters received.  A Frenchman or Russian could not have written\nthat. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only\nremains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who\nwrites upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his\nface. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our\ndoubts. \n\nAs he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses  hoofs and grating\nwheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes\nwhistled.\n\n A pair, by the sound,  said he.  Yes,  he continued, glancing out of\nthe window.  A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred\nand fifty guineas apiece. There s money in this case, Watson, if there\nis nothing else. \n\n I think that I had better go, Holmes. \n\n Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.\nAnd this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it. \n\n But your client \n\n Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.\nSit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention. \n\nA slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the\npassage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and\nauthoritative tap.\n\n Come in!  said Holmes.\n\nA man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches\nin height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich\nwith a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad\ntaste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and\nfronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was\nthrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and\nsecured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming\nberyl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were\ntrimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of\nbarbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He\ncarried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper\npart of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard\nmask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand\nwas still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face\nhe appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip,\nand a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length\nof obstinacy.\n\n You had my note?  he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly\nmarked German accent.  I told you that I would call.  He looked from\none to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.\n\n Pray take a seat,  said Holmes.  This is my friend and colleague, Dr.\nWatson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom\nhave I the honour to address? \n\n You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I\nunderstand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and\ndiscretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme\nimportance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you\nalone. \n\nI rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into\nmy chair.  It is both, or none,  said he.  You may say before this\ngentleman anything which you may say to me. \n\nThe Count shrugged his broad shoulders.  Then I must begin,  said he,\n by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of\nthat time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too\nmuch to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon\nEuropean history. \n\n I promise,  said Holmes.\n\n And I. \n\n You will excuse this mask,  continued our strange visitor.  The august\nperson who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may\nconfess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is\nnot exactly my own. \n\n I was aware of it,  said Holmes dryly.\n\n The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to\nbe taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and\nseriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak\nplainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary\nkings of Bohemia. \n\n I was also aware of that,  murmured Holmes, settling himself down in\nhis armchair and closing his eyes.\n\nOur visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,\nlounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the\nmost incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes\nslowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.\n\n If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,  he remarked,  I\nshould be better able to advise you. \n\nThe man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in\nuncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore\nthe mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground.  You are right, \nhe cried;  I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it? \n\n Why, indeed?  murmured Holmes.  Your Majesty had not spoken before I\nwas aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von\nOrmstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of\nBohemia. \n\n But you can understand,  said our strange visitor, sitting down once\nmore and passing his hand over his high white forehead,  you can\nunderstand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own\nperson. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to\nan agent without putting myself in his power. I have come _incognito_\nfrom Prague for the purpose of consulting you. \n\n Then, pray consult,  said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.\n\n The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy\nvisit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress,\nIrene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you. \n\n Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,  murmured Holmes without\nopening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing\nall paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to\nname a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish\ninformation. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between\nthat of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a\nmonograph upon the deep-sea fishes.\n\n Let me see!  said Holmes.  Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.\nContralto hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw yes!\nRetired from operatic stage ha! Living in London quite so! Your\nMajesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person,\nwrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting\nthose letters back. \n\n Precisely so. But how \n\n Was there a secret marriage? \n\n None. \n\n No legal papers or certificates? \n\n None. \n\n Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should\nproduce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to\nprove their authenticity? \n\n There is the writing. \n\n Pooh, pooh! Forgery. \n\n My private note-paper. \n\n Stolen. \n\n My own seal. \n\n Imitated. \n\n My photograph. \n\n Bought. \n\n We were both in the photograph. \n\n Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an\nindiscretion. \n\n I was mad insane. \n\n You have compromised yourself seriously. \n\n I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now. \n\n It must be recovered. \n\n We have tried and failed. \n\n Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought. \n\n She will not sell. \n\n Stolen, then. \n\n Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her\nhouse. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has\nbeen waylaid. There has been no result. \n\n No sign of it? \n\n Absolutely none. \n\nHolmes laughed.  It is quite a pretty little problem,  said he.\n\n But a very serious one to me,  returned the King reproachfully.\n\n Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph? \n\n To ruin me. \n\n But how? \n\n I am about to be married. \n\n So I have heard. \n\n To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of\nScandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is\nherself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct\nwould bring the matter to an end. \n\n And Irene Adler? \n\n Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that\nshe will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She\nhas the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most\nresolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no\nlengths to which she would not go none. \n\n You are sure that she has not sent it yet? \n\n I am sure. \n\n And why? \n\n Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the\nbetrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday. \n\n Oh, then we have three days yet,  said Holmes with a yawn.  That is\nvery fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into\njust at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the\npresent? \n\n Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count\nVon Kramm. \n\n Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress. \n\n Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety. \n\n Then, as to money? \n\n You have _carte blanche_. \n\n Absolutely? \n\n I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to\nhave that photograph. \n\n And for present expenses? \n\nThe King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid\nit on the table.\n\n There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,  he\nsaid.\n\nHolmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it\nto him.\n\n And Mademoiselle s address?  he asked.\n\n Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John s Wood. \n\nHolmes took a note of it.  One other question,  said he.  Was the\nphotograph a cabinet? \n\n It was. \n\n Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have\nsome good news for you. And good-night, Watson,  he added, as the\nwheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street.  If you will be\ngood enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o clock I should like\nto chat this little matter over with you. \n\n\nII.\n\nAt three o clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not\nyet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house\nshortly after eight o clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire,\nhowever, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be.\nI was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was\nsurrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were\nassociated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still,\nthe nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a\ncharacter of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the\ninvestigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his\nmasterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which\nmade it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the\nquick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable\nmysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very\npossibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head.\n\nIt was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking\ngroom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and\ndisreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my\nfriend s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three\ntimes before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he\nvanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes\ntweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his\npockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed\nheartily for some minutes.\n\n Well, really!  he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he\nwas obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.\n\n What is it? \n\n It s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed\nmy morning, or what I ended by doing. \n\n I can t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and\nperhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler. \n\n Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however.\nI left the house a little after eight o clock this morning in the\ncharacter of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and\nfreemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all\nthat there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a _bijou_\nvilla, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to\nthe road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on\nthe right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor,\nand those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could\nopen. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window\ncould be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and\nexamined it closely from every point of view, but without noting\nanything else of interest.\n\n I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there\nwas a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent\nthe ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in\nexchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco,\nand as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say\nnothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was\nnot in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to\nlisten to. \n\n And what of Irene Adler?  I asked.\n\n Oh, she has turned all the men s heads down in that part. She is the\ndaintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the\nSerpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives\nout at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom\ngoes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male\nvisitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing,\nnever calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey\nNorton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a\nconfidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews,\nand knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I\nbegan to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think\nover my plan of campaign.\n\n This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter.\nHe was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between\nthem, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client,\nhis friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably\ntransferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less\nlikely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should\ncontinue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the\ngentleman s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it\nwidened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these\ndetails, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are\nto understand the situation. \n\n I am following you closely,  I answered.\n\n I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up\nto Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably\nhandsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached evidently the man of whom\nI had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman\nto wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of\na man who was thoroughly at home.\n\n He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of\nhim in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking\nexcitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently\nhe emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to\nthe cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it\nearnestly,  Drive like the devil,  he shouted,  first to Gross &\nHankey s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the\nEdgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes! \n\n Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well\nto follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman\nwith his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all\nthe tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn t\npulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only\ncaught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with\na face that a man might die for.\n\n The Church of St. Monica, John,  she cried,  and half a sovereign if\nyou reach it in twenty minutes. \n\n This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether\nI should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a\ncab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby\nfare, but I jumped in before he could object.  The Church of St.\nMonica,  said I,  and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty\nminutes.  It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was\nclear enough what was in the wind.\n\n My cabby drove fast. I don t think I ever drove faster, but the others\nwere there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses\nwere in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried\ninto the church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had\nfollowed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with\nthem. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I\nlounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a\nchurch. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to\nme, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me.\n\n Thank God,  he cried.  You ll do. Come! Come! \n\n What then?  I asked.\n\n Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won t be legal. \n\n I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I\nfound myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and\nvouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in\nthe secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton,\nbachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman\nthanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the\nclergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous position\nin which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it\nthat started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some\ninformality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused\nto marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky\nappearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the\nstreets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I\nmean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion. \n\n This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,  said I;  and what then? \n\n Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the\npair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt\nand energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they\nseparated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house.  I\nshall drive out in the park at five as usual,  she said as she left\nhim. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I\nwent off to make my own arrangements. \n\n Which are? \n\n Some cold beef and a glass of beer,  he answered, ringing the bell.  I\nhave been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still\nthis evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation. \n\n I shall be delighted. \n\n You don t mind breaking the law? \n\n Not in the least. \n\n Nor running a chance of arrest? \n\n Not in a good cause. \n\n Oh, the cause is excellent! \n\n Then I am your man. \n\n I was sure that I might rely on you. \n\n But what is it you wish? \n\n When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you.\nNow,  he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our\nlandlady had provided,  I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not\nmuch time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene\nof action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at\nseven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her. \n\n And what then? \n\n You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur.\nThere is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere,\ncome what may. You understand? \n\n I am to be neutral? \n\n To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small\nunpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed\ninto the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window\nwill open. You are to station yourself close to that open window. \n\n Yes. \n\n You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you. \n\n Yes. \n\n And when I raise my hand so you will throw into the room what I give\nyou to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You\nquite follow me? \n\n Entirely. \n\n It is nothing very formidable,  he said, taking a long cigar-shaped\nroll from his pocket.  It is an ordinary plumber s smoke-rocket, fitted\nwith a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is\nconfined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up\nby quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the\nstreet, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made\nmyself clear? \n\n I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at\nthe signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and\nto wait you at the corner of the street. \n\n Precisely. \n\n Then you may entirely rely on me. \n\n That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare\nfor the new role I have to play. \n\nHe disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the\ncharacter of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His\nbroad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic\nsmile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such\nas Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that\nHolmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul\nseemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a\nfine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a\nspecialist in crime.\n\nIt was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still\nwanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine\nAvenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as\nwe paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming\nof its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from\nSherlock Holmes  succinct description, but the locality appeared to be\nless private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a\nquiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of\nshabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a\nscissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a\nnurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and\ndown with cigars in their mouths.\n\n You see,  remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the\nhouse,  this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes\na double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse\nto its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming\nto the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find\nthe photograph? \n\n Where, indeed? \n\n It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet\nsize. Too large for easy concealment about a woman s dress. She knows\nthat the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two\nattempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that\nshe does not carry it about with her. \n\n Where, then? \n\n Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am\ninclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like\nto do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else?\nShe could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what\nindirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a\nbusiness man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within\na few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be\nin her own house. \n\n But it has twice been burgled. \n\n Pshaw! They did not know how to look. \n\n But how will you look? \n\n I will not look. \n\n What then? \n\n I will get her to show me. \n\n But she will refuse. \n\n She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her\ncarriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter. \n\nAs he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the\ncurve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to\nthe door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at\nthe corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a\ncopper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with\nthe same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by\nthe two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the\nscissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was\nstruck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage,\nwas the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who\nstruck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes\ndashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her,\nhe gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely\ndown his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one\ndirection and the loungers in the other, while a number of better\ndressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it,\ncrowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene\nAdler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she\nstood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of\nthe hall, looking back into the street.\n\n Is the poor gentleman much hurt?  she asked.\n\n He is dead,  cried several voices.\n\n No, no, there s life in him!  shouted another.  But he ll be gone\nbefore you can get him to hospital. \n\n He s a brave fellow,  said a woman.  They would have had the lady s\npurse and watch if it hadn t been for him. They were a gang, and a\nrough one, too. Ah, he s breathing now. \n\n He can t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm? \n\n Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa.\nThis way, please! \n\nSlowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the\nprincipal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by\nthe window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn,\nso that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know\nwhether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he\nwas playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of\nmyself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I\nwas conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon\nthe injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes\nto draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened\nmy heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I\nthought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from\ninjuring another.\n\nHolmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who\nis in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At\nthe same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my\nrocket into the room with a cry of  Fire!  The word was no sooner out\nof my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and\nill gentlemen, ostlers, and servant maids joined in a general shriek of\n Fire!  Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the\nopen window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later\nthe voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false\nalarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner\nof the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend s arm\nin mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly\nand in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the\nquiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road.\n\n You did it very nicely, Doctor,  he remarked.  Nothing could have been\nbetter. It is all right. \n\n You have the photograph? \n\n I know where it is. \n\n And how did you find out? \n\n She showed me, as I told you she would. \n\n I am still in the dark. \n\n I do not wish to make a mystery,  said he, laughing.  The matter was\nperfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was\nan accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening. \n\n I guessed as much. \n\n Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the\npalm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my\nface, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick. \n\n That also I could fathom. \n\n Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could\nshe do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I\nsuspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to\nsee which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were\ncompelled to open the window, and you had your chance. \n\n How did that help you? \n\n It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire,\nher instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It\nis a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken\nadvantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it\nwas of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married\nwoman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box.\nNow it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house\nmore precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to\nsecure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting\nwere enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The\nphotograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right\nbell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as\nshe half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she\nreplaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have\nnot seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the\nhouse. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once;\nbut the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it\nseemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all. \n\n And now?  I asked.\n\n Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King\nto-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown\ninto the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that\nwhen she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be\na satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own hands. \n\n And when will you call? \n\n At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a\nclear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a\ncomplete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without\ndelay. \n\nWe had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was\nsearching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:\n\n Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes. \n\nThere were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting\nappeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.\n\n I ve heard that voice before,  said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit\nstreet.  Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been. \n\n\nIII.\n\nI slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast\nand coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the\nroom.\n\n You have really got it!  he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either\nshoulder and looking eagerly into his face.\n\n Not yet. \n\n But you have hopes? \n\n I have hopes. \n\n Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone. \n\n We must have a cab. \n\n No, my brougham is waiting. \n\n Then that will simplify matters.  We descended and started off once\nmore for Briony Lodge.\n\n Irene Adler is married,  remarked Holmes.\n\n Married! When? \n\n Yesterday. \n\n But to whom? \n\n To an English lawyer named Norton. \n\n But she could not love him. \n\n I am in hopes that she does. \n\n And why in hopes? \n\n Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If\nthe lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does\nnot love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with\nyour Majesty s plan. \n\n It is true. And yet ! Well! I wish she had been of my own station!\nWhat a queen she would have made!  He relapsed into a moody silence,\nwhich was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.\n\nThe door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the\nsteps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the\nbrougham.\n\n Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?  said she.\n\n I am Mr. Holmes,  answered my companion, looking at her with a\nquestioning and rather startled gaze.\n\n Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left\nthis morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for\nthe Continent. \n\n What!  Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and\nsurprise.  Do you mean that she has left England? \n\n Never to return. \n\n And the papers?  asked the King hoarsely.  All is lost. \n\n We shall see.  He pushed past the servant and rushed into the\ndrawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was\nscattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open\ndrawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight.\nHolmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and,\nplunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The\nphotograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was\nsuperscribed to  Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.  My\nfriend tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at\nmidnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:\n\n     MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, You really did it very well. You took\n    me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a\n    suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I\n    began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had\n    been told that, if the King employed an agent, it would certainly\n    be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you\n    made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became\n    suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old\n    clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself.\n    Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the\n    freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you,\n    ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came\n    down just as you departed.\n\n     Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was\n    really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.\n    Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for\n    the Temple to see my husband.\n\n     We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so\n    formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you\n    call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in\n    peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do\n    what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly\n    wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a\n    weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might\n    take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to\n    possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,\n\n\n     Very truly yours,\n\n     IRENE NORTON, _n e_ ADLER. \n\n\n What a woman oh, what a woman!  cried the King of Bohemia, when we had\nall three read this epistle.  Did I not tell you how quick and resolute\nshe was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity\nthat she was not on my level? \n\n From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very\ndifferent level to your Majesty,  said Holmes coldly.  I am sorry that\nI have not been able to bring your Majesty s business to a more\nsuccessful conclusion. \n\n On the contrary, my dear sir,  cried the King;  nothing could be more\nsuccessful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as\nsafe as if it were in the fire. \n\n I am glad to hear your Majesty say so. \n\n I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward\nyou. This ring  He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and\nheld it out upon the palm of his hand.\n\n Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly, \nsaid Holmes.\n\n You have but to name it. \n\n This photograph! \n\nThe King stared at him in amazement.\n\n Irene s photograph!  he cried.  Certainly, if you wish it. \n\n I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter.\nI have the honour to wish you a very good morning.  He bowed, and,\nturning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched\nout to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.\n\nAnd that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of\nBohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a\nwoman s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I\nhave not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or\nwhen he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable\ntitle of _the_ woman.\n\n\n\n\nII. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE\n\n\n I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the\n autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very\n stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an\n apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled\n me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.\n\n You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,  he\nsaid cordially.\n\n I was afraid that you were engaged. \n\n So I am. Very much so. \n\n Then I can wait in the next room. \n\n Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper\nin many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will\nbe of the utmost use to me in yours also. \n\nThe stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of\ngreeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small\nfat-encircled eyes.\n\n Try the settee,  said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting\nhis fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods.  I\nknow, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and\noutside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have\nshown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to\nchronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish\nso many of my own little adventures. \n\n Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,  I\nobserved.\n\n You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went\ninto the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that\nfor strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life\nitself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the\nimagination. \n\n A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting. \n\n You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for\notherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your\nreason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr.\nJabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning,\nand to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular\nwhich I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that\nthe strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with\nthe larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where\nthere is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed.\nAs far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the\npresent case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events\nis certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.\nPerhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence\nyour narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has\nnot heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the\nstory makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As\na rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of\nevents, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar\ncases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to\nadmit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique. \n\nThe portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some\nlittle pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside\npocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column,\nwith his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee,\nI took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my\ncompanion, to read the indications which might be presented by his\ndress or appearance.\n\nI did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore\nevery mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,\npompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd s check trousers,\na not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab\nwaistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of\nmetal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown\novercoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him.\nAltogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man\nsave his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and\ndiscontent upon his features.\n\nSherlock Holmes  quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head\nwith a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.  Beyond the obvious\nfacts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff,\nthat he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done\na considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else. \n\nMr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the\npaper, but his eyes upon my companion.\n\n How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes? \nhe asked.  How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour.\nIt s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship s carpenter. \n\n Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than\nyour left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more\ndeveloped. \n\n Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry? \n\n I won t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,\nespecially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use\nan arc-and-compass breastpin. \n\n Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing? \n\n What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five\ninches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you\nrest it upon the desk? \n\n Well, but China? \n\n The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist\ncould only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo\nmarks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That\ntrick of staining the fishes  scales of a delicate pink is quite\npeculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from\nyour watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple. \n\nMr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily.  Well, I never!  said he.  I thought\nat first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was\nnothing in it after all. \n\n I begin to think, Watson,  said Holmes,  that I make a mistake in\nexplaining.  _Omne ignotum pro magnifico_,  you know, and my poor\nlittle reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so\ncandid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson? \n\n Yes, I have got it now,  he answered with his thick red finger planted\nhalfway down the column.  Here it is. This is what began it all. You\njust read it for yourself, sir. \n\nI took the paper from him and read as follows:\n\n TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late\nEzekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there is now another\nvacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of   4 a\nweek for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in\nbody and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible.\nApply in person on Monday, at eleven o clock, to Duncan Ross, at the\noffices of the League, 7 Pope s Court, Fleet Street. \n\n\n What on earth does this mean?  I ejaculated after I had twice read\nover the extraordinary announcement.\n\nHolmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in\nhigh spirits.  It is a little off the beaten track, isn t it?  said he.\n And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about\nyourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had\nupon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper\nand the date. \n\n It is _The Morning Chronicle_ of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago. \n\n Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson? \n\n Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, \nsaid Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead;  I have a small pawnbroker s\nbusiness at Coburg Square, near the City. It s not a very large affair,\nand of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I\nused to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I\nwould have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half\nwages so as to learn the business. \n\n What is the name of this obliging youth?  asked Sherlock Holmes.\n\n His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he s not such a youth, either. It s\nhard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes;\nand I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I\nam able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I\nput ideas in his head? \n\n Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an _employ _ who comes\nunder the full market price. It is not a common experience among\nemployers in this age. I don t know that your assistant is not as\nremarkable as your advertisement. \n\n Oh, he has his faults, too,  said Mr. Wilson.  Never was such a fellow\nfor photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be\nimproving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit\ninto its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on\nthe whole he s a good worker. There s no vice in him. \n\n He is still with you, I presume? \n\n Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking\nand keeps the place clean that s all I have in the house, for I am a\nwidower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three\nof us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do\nnothing more.\n\n The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he\ncame down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very\npaper in his hand, and he says:\n\n I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man. \n\n Why that?  I asks.\n\n Why,  says he,  here s another vacancy on the League of the\nRed-headed Men. It s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets\nit, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men,\nso that the trustees are at their wits  end what to do with the money.\nIf my hair would only change colour, here s a nice little crib all\nready for me to step into. \n\n Why, what is it, then?  I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very\nstay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to\ngo to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the\ndoor-mat. In that way I didn t know much of what was going on outside,\nand I was always glad of a bit of news.\n\n Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?  he asked\nwith his eyes open.\n\n Never. \n\n Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the\nvacancies. \n\n And what are they worth?  I asked.\n\n Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it\nneed not interfere very much with one s other occupations. \n\n Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the\nbusiness has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of\nhundred would have been very handy.\n\n Tell me all about it,  said I.\n\n Well,  said he, showing me the advertisement,  you can see for\nyourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where\nyou should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League\nwas founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very\npeculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great\nsympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he\nhad left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with\ninstructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to\nmen whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay\nand very little to do. \n\n But,  said I,  there would be millions of red-headed men who would\napply. \n\n Not so many as you might think,  he answered.  You see it is really\nconfined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from\nLondon when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn.\nThen, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is\nlight red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery\nred. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in;\nbut perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of\nthe way for the sake of a few hundred pounds. \n\n Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my\nhair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if\nthere was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance\nas any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so\nmuch about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered\nhim to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me.\nHe was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and\nstarted off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.\n\n I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From\nnorth, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his\nhair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet\nStreet was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope s Court looked like a\ncoster s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in\nthe whole country as were brought together by that single\nadvertisement. Every shade of colour they were straw, lemon, orange,\nbrick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were\nnot many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how\nmany were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding\nwould not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed\nand pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up\nto the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon\nthe stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we\nwedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office. \n\n Your experience has been a most entertaining one,  remarked Holmes as\nhis client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff.\n Pray continue your very interesting statement. \n\n There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a\ndeal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even\nredder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up,\nand then he always managed to find some fault in them which would\ndisqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy\nmatter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much\nmore favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door\nas we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.\n\n This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,  said my assistant,  and he is willing to\nfill a vacancy in the League. \n\n And he is admirably suited for it,  the other answered.  He has every\nrequirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.  He\ntook a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair\nuntil I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my\nhand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.\n\n It would be injustice to hesitate,  said he.  You will, however, I am\nsure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.  With that he seized\nmy hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain.\n There is water in your eyes,  said he as he released me.  I perceive\nthat all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have\ntwice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales\nof cobbler s wax which would disgust you with human nature.  He stepped\nover to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that\nthe vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,\nand the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was\nnot a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.\n\n My name,  said he,  is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the\npensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a\nmarried man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family? \n\n I answered that I had not.\n\n His face fell immediately.\n\n Dear me!  he said gravely,  that is very serious indeed! I am sorry\nto hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and\nspread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is\nexceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor. \n\n My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not\nto have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few\nminutes he said that it would be all right.\n\n In the case of another,  said he,  the objection might be fatal, but\nwe must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as\nyours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties? \n\n Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,  said I.\n\n Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!  said Vincent Spaulding.  I\nshould be able to look after that for you. \n\n What would be the hours?  I asked.\n\n Ten to two. \n\n Now a pawnbroker s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes,\nespecially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day;\nso it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings.\nBesides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see\nto anything that turned up.\n\n That would suit me very well,  said I.  And the pay? \n\n Is   4 a week. \n\n And the work? \n\n Is purely nominal. \n\n What do you call purely nominal? \n\n Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the\nwhole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The\nwill is very clear upon that point. You don t comply with the\nconditions if you budge from the office during that time. \n\n It s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,  said\nI.\n\n No excuse will avail,  said Mr. Duncan Ross;  neither sickness nor\nbusiness nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your\nbillet. \n\n And the work? \n\n Is to copy out the _Encyclop dia Britannica_. There is the first\nvolume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and\nblotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready\nto-morrow? \n\n Certainly,  I answered.\n\n Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once\nmore on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to\ngain.  He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant,\nhardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good\nfortune.\n\n Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low\nspirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair\nmust be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I\ncould not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could\nmake such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything\nso simple as copying out the _Encyclop dia Britannica_. Vincent\nSpaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had\nreasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I\ndetermined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of\nink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I\nstarted off for Pope s Court.\n\n Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible.\nThe table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to\nsee that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and\nthen he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all\nwas right with me. At two o clock he bade me good-day, complimented me\nupon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office\nafter me.\n\n This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager\ncame in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week s work. It\nwas the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I\nwas there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.\nDuncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a\ntime, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to\nleave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,\nand the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would\nnot risk the loss of it.\n\n Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and\nArchery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with\ndiligence that I might get on to the B s before very long. It cost me\nsomething in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my\nwritings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end. \n\n To an end? \n\n Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual\nat ten o clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square\nof cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here\nit is, and you can read for yourself. \n\nHe held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of\nnote-paper. It read in this fashion:\n\n THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890. \n\n\nSherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful\nface behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely\novertopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar\nof laughter.\n\n I cannot see that there is anything very funny,  cried our client,\nflushing up to the roots of his flaming head.  If you can do nothing\nbetter than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere. \n\n No, no,  cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he\nhad half risen.  I really wouldn t miss your case for the world. It is\nmost refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying\nso, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you\ntake when you found the card upon the door? \n\n I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the\noffices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.\nFinally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the\nground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of\nthe Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such\nbody. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the\nname was new to him.\n\n Well,  said I,  the gentleman at No. 4. \n\n What, the red-headed man? \n\n Yes. \n\n Oh,  said he,  his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and\nwas using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises\nwere ready. He moved out yesterday. \n\n Where could I find him? \n\n Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King\nEdward Street, near St. Paul s. \n\n I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a\nmanufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of\neither Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross. \n\n And what did you do then?  asked Holmes.\n\n I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my\nassistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that\nif I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough,\nMr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so,\nas I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk\nwho were in need of it, I came right away to you. \n\n And you did very wisely,  said Holmes.  Your case is an exceedingly\nremarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you\nhave told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from\nit than might at first sight appear. \n\n Grave enough!  said Mr. Jabez Wilson.  Why, I have lost four pound a\nweek. \n\n As far as you are personally concerned,  remarked Holmes,  I do not\nsee that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On\nthe contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some   30, to say\nnothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject\nwhich comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them. \n\n No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what\ntheir object was in playing this prank if it was a prank upon me. It\nwas a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty\npounds. \n\n We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one\nor two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called\nyour attention to the advertisement how long had he been with you? \n\n About a month then. \n\n How did he come? \n\n In answer to an advertisement. \n\n Was he the only applicant? \n\n No, I had a dozen. \n\n Why did you pick him? \n\n Because he was handy and would come cheap. \n\n At half wages, in fact. \n\n Yes. \n\n What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding? \n\n Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,\nthough he s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his\nforehead. \n\nHolmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement.  I thought as\nmuch,  said he.  Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for\nearrings? \n\n Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a\nlad. \n\n Hum!  said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought.  He is still with\nyou? \n\n Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him. \n\n And has your business been attended to in your absence? \n\n Nothing to complain of, sir. There s never very much to do of a\nmorning. \n\n That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon\nthe subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I\nhope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion. \n\n Well, Watson,  said Holmes when our visitor had left us,  what do you\nmake of it all? \n\n I make nothing of it,  I answered frankly.  It is a most mysterious\nbusiness. \n\n As a rule,  said Holmes,  the more bizarre a thing is the less\nmysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes\nwhich are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most\ndifficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter. \n\n What are you going to do, then?  I asked.\n\n To smoke,  he answered.  It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg\nthat you won t speak to me for fifty minutes.  He curled himself up in\nhis chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and\nthere he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out\nlike the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that\nhe had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly\nsprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his\nmind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.\n\n Sarasate plays at the St. James s Hall this afternoon,  he remarked.\n What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few\nhours? \n\n I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing. \n\n Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and\nwe can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal\nof German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than\nItalian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come\nalong! \n\nWe travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk\ntook us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we\nhad listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel\nplace, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out\ninto a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few\nclumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden\nand uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with\n JABEZ WILSON  in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the\nplace where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock\nHolmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it\nall over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he\nwalked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still\nlooking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker s,\nand, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or\nthree times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly\nopened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to\nstep in.\n\n Thank you,  said Holmes,  I only wished to ask you how you would go\nfrom here to the Strand. \n\n Third right, fourth left,  answered the assistant promptly, closing\nthe door.\n\n Smart fellow, that,  observed Holmes as we walked away.  He is, in my\njudgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not\nsure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him\nbefore. \n\n Evidently,  said I,  Mr. Wilson s assistant counts for a good deal in\nthis mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your\nway merely in order that you might see him. \n\n Not him. \n\n What then? \n\n The knees of his trousers. \n\n And what did you see? \n\n What I expected to see. \n\n Why did you beat the pavement? \n\n My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are\nspies in an enemy s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.\nLet us now explore the parts which lie behind it. \n\nThe road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from\nthe retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as\nthe front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main\narteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west.\nThe roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in\na double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with\nthe hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we\nlooked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that\nthey really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant\nsquare which we had just quitted.\n\n Let me see,  said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along\nthe line,  I should like just to remember the order of the houses here.\nIt is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is\nMortimer s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg\nbranch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and\nMcFarlane s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the\nother block. And now, Doctor, we ve done our work, so it s time we had\nsome play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land,\nwhere all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no\nred-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums. \n\nMy friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very\ncapable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the\nafternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,\ngently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his\ngently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those\nof Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,\nready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his\nsingular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his\nextreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought,\nthe reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which\noccasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from\nextreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never\nso truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in\nhis armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.\nThen it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him,\nand that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of\nintuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would\nlook askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other\nmortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St.\nJames s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom\nhe had set himself to hunt down.\n\n You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,  he remarked as we emerged.\n\n Yes, it would be as well. \n\n And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This\nbusiness at Coburg Square is serious. \n\n Why serious? \n\n A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to\nbelieve that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday\nrather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night. \n\n At what time? \n\n Ten will be early enough. \n\n I shall be at Baker Street at ten. \n\n Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so\nkindly put your army revolver in your pocket.  He waved his hand,\nturned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.\n\nI trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always\noppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock\nHolmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had\nseen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not\nonly what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the\nwhole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my\nhouse in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story\nof the red-headed copier of the _Encyclop dia_ down to the visit to\nSaxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from\nme. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?\nWhere were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes\nthat this smooth-faced pawnbroker s assistant was a formidable man a\nman who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it\nup in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an\nexplanation.\n\nIt was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way\nacross the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two\nhansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard\nthe sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in\nanimated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter\nJones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin,\nsad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable\nfrock-coat.\n\n Ha! Our party is complete,  said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket\nand taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.  Watson, I think you\nknow Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.\nMerryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night s adventure. \n\n We re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,  said Jones in his\nconsequential way.  Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a\nchase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down. \n\n I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase, \nobserved Mr. Merryweather gloomily.\n\n You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,  said the\npolice agent loftily.  He has his own little methods, which are, if he\nwon t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,\nbut he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say\nthat once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the\nAgra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official\nforce. \n\n Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,  said the stranger with\ndeference.  Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first\nSaturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my\nrubber. \n\n I think you will find,  said Sherlock Holmes,  that you will play for\na higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play\nwill be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be\nsome   30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you\nwish to lay your hands. \n\n John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He s a young man,\nMr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would\nrather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He s a\nremarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,\nand he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as\nhis fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never\nknow where to find the man himself. He ll crack a crib in Scotland one\nweek, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.\nI ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet. \n\n I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I ve\nhad one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with\nyou that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however,\nand quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom,\nWatson and I will follow in the second. \n\nSherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and\nlay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the\nafternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets\nuntil we emerged into Farrington Street.\n\n We are close there now,  my friend remarked.  This fellow Merryweather\nis a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought\nit as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though\nan absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He\nis as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his\nclaws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us. \n\nWe had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found\nourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the\nguidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and\nthrough a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small\ncorridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was\nopened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated\nat another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a\nlantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and\nso, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was\npiled all round with crates and massive boxes.\n\n You are not very vulnerable from above,  Holmes remarked as he held up\nthe lantern and gazed about him.\n\n Nor from below,  said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the\nflags which lined the floor.  Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!  he\nremarked, looking up in surprise.\n\n I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!  said Holmes\nseverely.  You have already imperilled the whole success of our\nexpedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down\nupon one of those boxes, and not to interfere? \n\nThe solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very\ninjured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon\nthe floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine\nminutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to\nsatisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his\npocket.\n\n We have at least an hour before us,  he remarked,  for they can hardly\ntake any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they\nwill not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer\ntime they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor as no\ndoubt you have divined in the cellar of the City branch of one of the\nprincipal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors,\nand he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring\ncriminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar\nat present. \n\n It is our French gold,  whispered the director.  We have had several\nwarnings that an attempt might be made upon it. \n\n Your French gold? \n\n Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and\nborrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It\nhas become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money,\nand that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit\ncontains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our\nreserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a\nsingle branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the\nsubject. \n\n Which were very well justified,  observed Holmes.  And now it is time\nthat we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters\nwill come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the\nscreen over that dark lantern. \n\n And sit in the dark? \n\n I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I\nthought that, as we were a _partie carr e_, you might have your rubber\nafter all. But I see that the enemy s preparations have gone so far\nthat we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must\nchoose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take\nthem at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful.\nI shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind\nthose. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they\nfire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down. \n\nI placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind\nwhich I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern\nand left us in pitch darkness such an absolute darkness as I have never\nbefore experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that\nthe light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment s notice. To\nme, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was\nsomething depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold\ndank air of the vault.\n\n They have but one retreat,  whispered Holmes.  That is back through\nthe house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I\nasked you, Jones? \n\n I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door. \n\n Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and\nwait. \n\nWhat a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an\nhour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have\nalmost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and\nstiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up\nto the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I\ncould not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could\ndistinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the\nthin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look\nover the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught\nthe glint of a light.\n\nAt first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it\nlengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any\nwarning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,\nalmost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area\nof light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers,\nprotruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it\nappeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which\nmarked a chink between the stones.\n\nIts disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing\nsound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and\nleft a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a\nlantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which\nlooked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the\naperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee\nrested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the\nhole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like\nhimself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.\n\n It s all clear,  he whispered.  Have you the chisel and the bags?\nGreat Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I ll swing for it! \n\nSherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.\nThe other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth\nas Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a\nrevolver, but Holmes  hunting crop came down on the man s wrist, and\nthe pistol clinked upon the stone floor.\n\n It s no use, John Clay,  said Holmes blandly.  You have no chance at\nall. \n\n So I see,  the other answered with the utmost coolness.  I fancy that\nmy pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails. \n\n There are three men waiting for him at the door,  said Holmes.\n\n Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must\ncompliment you. \n\n And I you,  Holmes answered.  Your red-headed idea was very new and\neffective. \n\n You ll see your pal again presently,  said Jones.  He s quicker at\nclimbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies. \n\n I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,  remarked our\nprisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.  You may not be\naware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also,\nwhen you address me always to say  sir  and  please. \n\n All right,  said Jones with a stare and a snigger.  Well, would you\nplease, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your\nHighness to the police-station? \n\n That is better,  said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to\nthe three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.\n\n Really, Mr. Holmes,  said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from\nthe cellar,  I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.\nThere is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most\ncomplete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery\nthat have ever come within my experience. \n\n I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John\nClay,  said Holmes.  I have been at some small expense over this\nmatter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am\namply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique,\nand by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League. \n\n You see, Watson,  he explained in the early hours of the morning as we\nsat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street,  it was perfectly\nobvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather\nfantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying\nof the _Encyclop dia_, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker\nout of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of\nmanaging it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better.\nThe method was no doubt suggested to Clay s ingenious mind by the\ncolour of his accomplice s hair. The   4 a week was a lure which must\ndraw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They\nput in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other\nrogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to\nsecure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I\nheard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me\nthat he had some strong motive for securing the situation. \n\n But how could you guess what the motive was? \n\n Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere\nvulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man s\nbusiness was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which\ncould account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure\nas they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What\ncould it be? I thought of the assistant s fondness for photography, and\nhis trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end\nof this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious\nassistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most\ndaring criminals in London. He was doing something in the\ncellar something which took many hours a day for months on end. What\ncould it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was\nrunning a tunnel to some other building.\n\n So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I\nsurprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was\nascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It\nwas not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant\nanswered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes\nupon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were\nwhat I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn,\nwrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of\nburrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I\nwalked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our\nfriend s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you\ndrove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the\nchairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen. \n\n And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?  I\nasked.\n\n Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they\ncared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson s presence in other words, that\nthey had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should\nuse it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be\nremoved. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it\nwould give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I\nexpected them to come to-night. \n\n You reasoned it out beautifully,  I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration.\n It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true. \n\n It saved me from ennui,  he answered, yawning.  Alas! I already feel\nit closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape\nfrom the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do\nso. \n\n And you are a benefactor of the race,  said I.\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders.  Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some\nlittle use,  he remarked.  _L homme c est rien l uvre c est tout_, \nas Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand. \n\n\n\n\nIII. A CASE OF IDENTITY\n\n\n My dear fellow,  said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the\nfire in his lodgings at Baker Street,  life is infinitely stranger than\nanything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to\nconceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If\nwe could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great\ncity, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which\nare going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the\ncross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through\ngenerations, and leading to the most _outr _ results, it would make all\nfiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale\nand unprofitable. \n\n And yet I am not convinced of it,  I answered.  The cases which come\nto light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough.\nWe have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and\nyet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor\nartistic. \n\n A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a\nrealistic effect,  remarked Holmes.  This is wanting in the police\nreport, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the\nmagistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the\nvital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so\nunnatural as the commonplace. \n\nI smiled and shook my head.  I can quite understand your thinking so, \nI said.  Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper\nto everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents,\nyou are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But\nhere I picked up the morning paper from the ground let us put it to a\npractical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come.  A\nhusband s cruelty to his wife.  There is half a column of print, but I\nknow without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There\nis, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the\nbruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers\ncould invent nothing more crude. \n\n Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,  said\nHolmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it.  This is the\nDundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing\nup some small points in connection with it. The husband was a\nteetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was\nthat he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking\nout his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will\nallow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the\naverage story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge\nthat I have scored over you in your example. \n\nHe held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the\ncentre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely\nways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.\n\n Ah,  said he,  I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is\na little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance\nin the case of the Irene Adler papers. \n\n And the ring?  I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which\nsparkled upon his finger.\n\n It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which\nI served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to\nyou, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little\nproblems. \n\n And have you any on hand just now?  I asked with interest.\n\n Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.\nThey are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed,\nI have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a\nfield for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and\neffect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are\napt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a\nrule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate\nmatter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing\nwhich presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that\nI may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this\nis one of my clients, or I am much mistaken. \n\nHe had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds\ngazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over\nhis shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large\nwoman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red\nfeather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess\nof Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she\npeeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her\nbody oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her\nglove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves\nthe bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of\nthe bell.\n\n I have seen those symptoms before,  said Holmes, throwing his\ncigarette into the fire.  Oscillation upon the pavement always means an\n_affaire de c ur_. She would like advice, but is not sure that the\nmatter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may\ndiscriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no\nlonger oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we\nmay take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so\nmuch angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to\nresolve our doubts. \n\nAs he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered\nto announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind\nhis small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny\npilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for\nwhich he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into\nan armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted\nfashion which was peculiar to him.\n\n Do you not find,  he said,  that with your short sight it is a little\ntrying to do so much typewriting? \n\n I did at first,  she answered,  but now I know where the letters are\nwithout looking.  Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his\nwords, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and\nastonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face.  You ve heard about\nme, Mr. Holmes,  she cried,  else how could you know all that? \n\n Never mind,  said Holmes, laughing;  it is my business to know things.\nPerhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why\nshould you come to consult me? \n\n I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose\nhusband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up\nfor dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I m not\nrich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the\nlittle that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what\nhas become of Mr. Hosmer Angel. \n\n Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?  asked Sherlock\nHolmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.\n\nAgain a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary\nSutherland.  Yes, I did bang out of the house,  she said,  for it made\nme angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank that is, my\nfather took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go\nto you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that\nthere was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things\nand came right away to you. \n\n Your father,  said Holmes,  your stepfather, surely, since the name is\ndifferent. \n\n Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too,\nfor he is only five years and two months older than myself. \n\n And your mother is alive? \n\n Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn t best pleased, Mr. Holmes,\nwhen she married again so soon after father s death, and a man who was\nnearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the\nTottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which\nmother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank\ncame he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a\ntraveller in wines. They got   4700 for the goodwill and interest,\nwhich wasn t near as much as father could have got if he had been\nalive. \n\nI had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and\ninconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with\nthe greatest concentration of attention.\n\n Your own little income,  he asked,  does it come out of the business? \n\n Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in\nAuckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4  per cent. Two thousand\nfive hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest. \n\n You interest me extremely,  said Holmes.  And since you draw so large\na sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no\ndoubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that\na single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about   60. \n\n I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand\nthat as long as I live at home I don t wish to be a burden to them, and\nso they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of\ncourse, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest\nevery quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do\npretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a\nsheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day. \n\n You have made your position very clear to me,  said Holmes.  This is\nmy friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before\nmyself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer\nAngel. \n\nA flush stole over Miss Sutherland s face, and she picked nervously at\nthe fringe of her jacket.  I met him first at the gasfitters  ball, \nshe said.  They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then\nafterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank\ndid not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would\nget quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But\nthis time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to\nprevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all\nfather s friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit\nto wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken\nout of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to\nFrance upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with\nMr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr.\nHosmer Angel. \n\n I suppose,  said Holmes,  that when Mr. Windibank came back from\nFrance he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball. \n\n Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and\nshrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a\nwoman, for she would have her way. \n\n I see. Then at the gasfitters  ball you met, as I understand, a\ngentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel. \n\n Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we\nhad got home all safe, and after that we met him that is to say, Mr.\nHolmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back\nagain, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more. \n\n No? \n\n Well, you know father didn t like anything of the sort. He wouldn t\nhave any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman\nshould be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to\nmother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got\nmine yet. \n\n But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you? \n\n Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote\nand said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until\nhe had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every\nday. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for\nfather to know. \n\n Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time? \n\n Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we\ntook. Hosmer Mr. Angel was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall\nStreet and \n\n What office? \n\n That s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don t know. \n\n Where did he live, then? \n\n He slept on the premises. \n\n And you don t know his address? \n\n No except that it was Leadenhall Street. \n\n Where did you address your letters, then? \n\n To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He\nsaid that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all\nthe other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to\ntypewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn t have that, for he said\nthat when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were\ntypewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That\nwill just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little\nthings that he would think of. \n\n It was most suggestive,  said Holmes.  It has long been an axiom of\nmine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you\nremember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel? \n\n He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the\nevening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be\nconspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was\ngentle. He d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he\ntold me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating,\nwhispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and\nplain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted\nglasses against the glare. \n\n Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned\nto France? \n\n Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should\nmarry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me\nswear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would\nalways be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear,\nand that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour\nfrom the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they\ntalked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but\nthey both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him\nafterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I\ndidn t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask\nhis leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn t want\nto do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the\ncompany has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the\nvery morning of the wedding. \n\n It missed him, then? \n\n Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived. \n\n Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the\nFriday. Was it to be in church? \n\n Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour s, near King s\nCross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras\nHotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he\nput us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which\nhappened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church\nfirst, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step\nout, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and\nlooked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not\nimagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own\neyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard\nanything since then to throw any light upon what became of him. \n\n It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,  said\nHolmes.\n\n Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the\nmorning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true;\nand that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I\nwas always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would\nclaim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a\nwedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it. \n\n Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some\nunforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him? \n\n Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not\nhave talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened. \n\n But you have no notion as to what it could have been? \n\n None. \n\n One more question. How did your mother take the matter? \n\n She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter\nagain. \n\n And your father? Did you tell him? \n\n Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and\nthat I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could\nanyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving\nme? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got\nmy money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was\nvery independent about money and never would look at a shilling of\nmine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write?\nOh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can t sleep a wink at\nnight.  She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to\nsob heavily into it.\n\n I shall glance into the case for you,  said Holmes, rising,  and I\nhave no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight\nof the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it\nfurther. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your\nmemory, as he has done from your life. \n\n Then you don t think I ll see him again? \n\n I fear not. \n\n Then what has happened to him? \n\n You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate\ndescription of him and any letters of his which you can spare. \n\n I advertised for him in last Saturday s _Chronicle_,  said she.  Here\nis the slip and here are four letters from him. \n\n Thank you. And your address? \n\n No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell. \n\n Mr. Angel s address you never had, I understand. Where is your\nfather s place of business? \n\n He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of\nFenchurch Street. \n\n Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave\nthe papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let\nthe whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your\nlife. \n\n You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true\nto Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back. \n\nFor all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something\nnoble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect.\nShe laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way,\nwith a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.\n\nSherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still\npressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze\ndirected upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old\nand oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit\nit, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths\nspinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.\n\n Quite an interesting study, that maiden,  he observed.  I found her\nmore interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather\na trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in\nAndover in  77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last\nyear. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which\nwere new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive. \n\n You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to\nme,  I remarked.\n\n Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look,\nand so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to\nrealise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails,\nor the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you\ngather from that woman s appearance? Describe it. \n\n Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a\nfeather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn\nupon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was\nbrown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at\nthe neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at\nthe right forefinger. Her boots I didn t observe. She had small round,\nhanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in\na vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way. \n\nSherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.\n\n Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have\nreally done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed\neverything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you\nhave a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my\nboy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always\nat a woman s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the\nknee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her\nsleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double\nline a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against\nthe table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand\ntype, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side\nof it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the\nbroadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing\nthe dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark\nupon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her. \n\n It surprised me. \n\n But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested\non glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was\nwearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one\nhaving a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was\nbuttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at\nthe first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady,\notherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots,\nhalf-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a\nhurry. \n\n And what else?  I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my\nfriend s incisive reasoning.\n\n I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home\nbut after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was\ntorn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove\nand finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and\ndipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark\nwould not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though\nrather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you\nmind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel? \n\nI held the little printed slip to the light.  Missing,  it said,  on\nthe morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About\nfive ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black\nhair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and\nmoustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed,\nwhen last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat,\ngold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters\nover elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in\nLeadenhall Street. Anybody bringing,  &c, &c.\n\n That will do,  said Holmes.  As to the letters,  he continued,\nglancing over them,  they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in\nthem to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one\nremarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you. \n\n They are typewritten,  I remarked.\n\n Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat\nlittle  Hosmer Angel  at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no\nsuperscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The\npoint about the signature is very suggestive in fact, we may call it\nconclusive. \n\n Of what? \n\n My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears\nupon the case? \n\n I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to\ndeny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted. \n\n No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which\nshould settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to\nthe young lady s stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could\nmeet us here at six o clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that\nwe should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can\ndo nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our\nlittle problem upon the shelf for the interim. \n\nI had had so many reasons to believe in my friend s subtle powers of\nreasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must\nhave some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which\nhe treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to\nfathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of\nBohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to\nthe weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary\ncircumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would\nbe a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.\n\nI left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the\nconviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that\nhe held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity\nof the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.\n\nA professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at\nthe time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the\nsufferer. It was not until close upon six o clock that I found myself\nfree and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street,\nhalf afraid that I might be too late to assist at the _d nouement_ of\nthe little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half\nasleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his\narmchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the\npungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent\nhis day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.\n\n Well, have you solved it?  I asked as I entered.\n\n Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta. \n\n No, no, the mystery!  I cried.\n\n Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There\nwas never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some\nof the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no\nlaw, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel. \n\n Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss\nSutherland? \n\nThe question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened\nhis lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a\ntap at the door.\n\n This is the girl s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,  said Holmes.  He\nhas written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in! \n\nThe man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty\nyears of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland,\ninsinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating\ngrey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny\ntop-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the\nnearest chair.\n\n Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,  said Holmes.  I think that this\ntypewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with\nme for six o clock? \n\n Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my\nown master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you\nabout this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash\nlinen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she\ncame, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have\nnoticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind\non a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not\nconnected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a\nfamily misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless\nexpense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel? \n\n On the contrary,  said Holmes quietly;  I have every reason to believe\nthat I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel. \n\nMr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves.  I am\ndelighted to hear it,  he said.\n\n It is a curious thing,  remarked Holmes,  that a typewriter has really\nquite as much individuality as a man s handwriting. Unless they are\nquite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more\nworn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in\nthis note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some\nlittle slurring over of the  e,  and a slight defect in the tail of the\n r.  There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more\nobvious. \n\n We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no\ndoubt it is a little worn,  our visitor answered, glancing keenly at\nHolmes with his bright little eyes.\n\n And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr.\nWindibank,  Holmes continued.  I think of writing another little\nmonograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to\ncrime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I\nhave here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They\nare all typewritten. In each case, not only are the  e s  slurred and\nthe  r s  tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my\nmagnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I\nhave alluded are there as well. \n\nMr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat.  I cannot\nwaste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,  he said.  If\nyou can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done\nit. \n\n Certainly,  said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the\ndoor.  I let you know, then, that I have caught him! \n\n What! where?  shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and\nglancing about him like a rat in a trap.\n\n Oh, it won t do really it won t,  said Holmes suavely.  There is no\npossible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent,\nand it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible\nfor me to solve so simple a question. That s right! Sit down and let us\ntalk it over. \n\nOur visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter\nof moisture on his brow.  It it s not actionable,  he stammered.\n\n I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,\nWindibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty\nway as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of\nevents, and you will contradict me if I go wrong. \n\nThe man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his\nbreast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on\nthe corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his\npockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.\n\n The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money, \nsaid he,  and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long\nas she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their\nposition, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It\nwas worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable\ndisposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it\nwas evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little\nincome, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her\nmarriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what\ndoes her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of\nkeeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of\nher own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She\nbecame restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her\npositive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever\nstepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head\nthan to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he\ndisguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked\nthe face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear\nvoice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the\ngirl s short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other\nlovers by making love himself. \n\n It was only a joke at first,  groaned our visitor.  We never thought\nthat she would have been so carried away. \n\n Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very\ndecidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her\nstepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an\ninstant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman s\nattentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed\nadmiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was\nobvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a\nreal effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an\nengagement, which would finally secure the girl s affections from\nturning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up\nforever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The\nthing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a\ndramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the\nyoung lady s mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor\nfor some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a\nTestament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something\nhappening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished\nMiss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to\nhis fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen\nto another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as\nhe could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick\nof stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I\nthink that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank! \n\nOur visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had\nbeen talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his\npale face.\n\n It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,  said he,  but if you are so\nvery sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are\nbreaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from\nthe first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself\nopen to an action for assault and illegal constraint. \n\n The law cannot, as you say, touch you,  said Holmes, unlocking and\nthrowing open the door,  yet there never was a man who deserved\npunishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought\nto lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!  he continued, flushing\nup at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man s face,  it is not\npart of my duties to my client, but here s a hunting crop handy, and I\nthink I shall just treat myself to  He took two swift steps to the\nwhip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps\nupon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we\ncould see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the\nroad.\n\n There s a cold-blooded scoundrel!  said Holmes, laughing, as he threw\nhimself down into his chair once more.  That fellow will rise from\ncrime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows.\nThe case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest. \n\n I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,  I\nremarked.\n\n Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer\nAngel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was\nequally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as\nfar as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men\nwere never together, but that the one always appeared when the other\nwas away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious\nvoice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My\nsuspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his\nsignature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so\nfamiliar to her that she would recognise even the smallest sample of\nit. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones,\nall pointed in the same direction. \n\n And how did you verify them? \n\n Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew\nthe firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed\ndescription. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result\nof a disguise the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to\nthe firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered\nto the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed\nthe peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at\nhis business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected,\nhis reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but\ncharacteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from\nWesthouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description\ntallied in every respect with that of their employ , James Windibank.\n_Voil  tout_! \n\n And Miss Sutherland? \n\n If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old\nPersian saying,  There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and\ndanger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.  There is as\nmuch sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world. \n\n\n\n\nIV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY\n\n\nWe were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid\nbrought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:\n\n Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the\nwest of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be\nglad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave\nPaddington by the 11:15. \n\n What do you say, dear?  said my wife, looking across at me.  Will you\ngo? \n\n I really don t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at\npresent. \n\n Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a\nlittle pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you\nare always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes  cases. \n\n I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one\nof them,  I answered.  But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I\nhave only half an hour. \n\nMy experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect\nof making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and\nsimple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my\nvalise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing\nup and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and\ntaller by his long grey travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.\n\n It is really very good of you to come, Watson,  said he.  It makes a\nconsiderable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can\nthoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed.\nIf you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets. \n\nWe had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers\nwhich Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read,\nwith intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past\nReading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and\ntossed them up onto the rack.\n\n Have you heard anything of the case?  he asked.\n\n Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days. \n\n The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been\nlooking through all the recent papers in order to master the\nparticulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple\ncases which are so extremely difficult. \n\n That sounds a little paradoxical. \n\n But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.\nThe more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it\nis to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a\nvery serious case against the son of the murdered man. \n\n It is a murder, then? \n\n Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted\nuntil I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will\nexplain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to\nunderstand it, in a very few words.\n\n Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in\nHerefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John\nTurner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to\nthe old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was\nlet to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had\nknown each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that\nwhen they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as\npossible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his\ntenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as\nthey were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen,\nand Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them\nhad wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the\nneighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though\nboth the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the\nrace-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants a man\nand a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the\nleast. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the\nfamilies. Now for the facts.\n\n On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at\nHatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe\nPool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream\nwhich runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his\nserving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he\nmust hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three.\nFrom that appointment he never came back alive.\n\n From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile,\nand two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old\nwoman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder,\na game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose\nthat Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a\nfew minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr.\nJames McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the\nbest of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and\nthe son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he\nheard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.\n\n The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the\ngame-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded\nround, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl\nof fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of\nthe Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers.\nShe states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood\nand close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared\nto be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using\nvery strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his\nhand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their\nviolence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home\nthat she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and\nthat she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said\nthe words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say\nthat he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help\nof the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his\nhat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with\nfresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out\nupon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated\nblows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might\nvery well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son s gun, which\nwas found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under\nthese circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict\nof  wilful murder  having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he\nwas on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have\nreferred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the\ncase as they came out before the coroner and the police-court. \n\n I could hardly imagine a more damning case,  I remarked.  If ever\ncircumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here. \n\n Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,  answered Holmes\nthoughtfully.  It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if\nyou shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in\nan equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It\nmust be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave\nagainst the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the\nculprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and\namong them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who\nbelieve in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may\nrecollect in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case\nin his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case\nto me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying\nwestward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their\nbreakfasts at home. \n\n I am afraid,  said I,  that the facts are so obvious that you will\nfind little credit to be gained out of this case. \n\n There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,  he answered,\nlaughing.  Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts\nwhich may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me\ntoo well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either\nconfirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of\nemploying, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand,\nI very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the\nright-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have\nnoted even so self-evident a thing as that. \n\n How on earth \n\n My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which\ncharacterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you\nshave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete\nas we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively\nslovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear\nthat that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine\na man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being\nsatisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of\nobservation and inference. Therein lies my _m tier_, and it is just\npossible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies\nbefore us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in\nthe inquest, and which are worth considering. \n\n What are they? \n\n It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the\nreturn to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing\nhim that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to\nhear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of\nhis had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might\nhave remained in the minds of the coroner s jury. \n\n It was a confession,  I ejaculated.\n\n No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence. \n\n Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least\na most suspicious remark. \n\n On the contrary,  said Holmes,  it is the brightest rift which I can\nat present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could\nnot be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances\nwere very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own\narrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as\nhighly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural\nunder the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to\na scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as\neither an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint\nand firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not\nunnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his\nfather, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far\nforgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even,\naccording to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise\nhis hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which\nare displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy\nmind rather than of a guilty one. \n\nI shook my head.  Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence, \nI remarked.\n\n So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged. \n\n What is the young man s own account of the matter? \n\n It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though\nthere are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find\nit here, and may read it for yourself. \n\nHe picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper,\nand having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which\nthe unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had\noccurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read\nit very carefully. It ran in this way:\n\n Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and\ngave evidence as follows:  I had been away from home for three days at\nBristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday,\nthe 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and\nI was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John\nCobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap\nin the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk\nrapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he\nwas going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the\nBoscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which\nis upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the\ngame-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in\nthinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in\nfront of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of\n Cooee!  which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then\nhurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be\nmuch surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was\ndoing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost\nto blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that\nhis passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards\nHatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I\nheard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I\nfound my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly\ninjured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost\ninstantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made\nmy way to Mr. Turner s lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to\nask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I\nhave no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man,\nbeing somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far\nas I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter. \n\n The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died?\n\n Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion\nto a rat.\n\n The Coroner: What did you understand by that?\n\n Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was\ndelirious.\n\n The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had\nthis final quarrel?\n\n Witness: I should prefer not to answer.\n\n The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.\n\n Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you\nthat it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.\n\n The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to\nyou that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably\nin any future proceedings which may arise.\n\n Witness: I must still refuse.\n\n The Coroner: I understand that the cry of  Cooee  was a common signal\nbetween you and your father?\n\n Witness: It was.\n\n The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,\nand before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?\n\n Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.\n\n A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you\nreturned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?\n\n Witness: Nothing definite.\n\n The Coroner: What do you mean?\n\n Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open,\nthat I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague\nimpression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the\nleft of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of\nsome sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked\nround for it, but it was gone.\n\n Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help? \n\n Yes, it was gone. \n\n You cannot say what it was? \n\n No, I had a feeling something was there. \n\n How far from the body? \n\n A dozen yards or so. \n\n And how far from the edge of the wood? \n\n About the same. \n\n Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of\nit? \n\n Yes, but with my back towards it. \n\n This concluded the examination of the witness. \n\n I see,  said I as I glanced down the column,  that the coroner in his\nconcluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls\nattention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having\nsignalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details\nof his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his\nfather s dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against\nthe son. \n\nHolmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the\ncushioned seat.  Both you and the coroner have been at some pains, \nsaid he,  to single out the very strongest points in the young man s\nfavour. Don t you see that you alternately give him credit for having\ntoo much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent\na cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too\nmuch, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so\n_outr _ as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the\nvanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of\nview that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither\nthat hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and\nnot another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of\naction. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty\nminutes. \n\nIt was nearly four o clock when we at last, after passing through the\nbeautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found\nourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean,\nferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the\nplatform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings\nwhich he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no\ndifficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove\nto the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us.\n\n I have ordered a carriage,  said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea.\n I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until\nyou had been on the scene of the crime. \n\n It was very nice and complimentary of you,  Holmes answered.  It is\nentirely a question of barometric pressure. \n\nLestrade looked startled.  I do not quite follow,  he said.\n\n How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the\nsky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the\nsofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do\nnot think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night. \n\nLestrade laughed indulgently.  You have, no doubt, already formed your\nconclusions from the newspapers,  he said.  The case is as plain as a\npikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still,\nof course, one can t refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too.\nShe has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly\ntold her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not\nalready done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door. \n\nHe had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most\nlovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes\nshining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of\nher natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.\n\n Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!  she cried, glancing from one to the other of\nus, and finally, with a woman s quick intuition, fastening upon my\ncompanion,  I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell\nyou so. I know that James didn t do it. I know it, and I want you to\nstart upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon\nthat point. We have known each other since we were little children, and\nI know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to\nhurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him. \n\n I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,  said Sherlock Holmes.  You may\nrely upon my doing all that I can. \n\n But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do\nyou not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he\nis innocent? \n\n I think that it is very probable. \n\n There, now!  she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly\nat Lestrade.  You hear! He gives me hopes. \n\nLestrade shrugged his shoulders.  I am afraid that my colleague has\nbeen a little quick in forming his conclusions,  he said.\n\n But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And\nabout his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he\nwould not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in\nit. \n\n In what way?  asked Holmes.\n\n It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many\ndisagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should\nbe a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as\nbrother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little\nof life yet, and and well, he naturally did not wish to do anything\nlike that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of\nthem. \n\n And your father?  asked Holmes.  Was he in favour of such a union? \n\n No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of\nit.  A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one\nof his keen, questioning glances at her.\n\n Thank you for this information,  said he.  May I see your father if I\ncall to-morrow? \n\n I am afraid the doctor won t allow it. \n\n The doctor? \n\n Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years\nback, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed,\nand Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is\nshattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the\nold days in Victoria. \n\n Ha! In Victoria! That is important. \n\n Yes, at the mines. \n\n Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made\nhis money. \n\n Yes, certainly. \n\n Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me. \n\n You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go\nto the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that\nI know him to be innocent. \n\n I will, Miss Turner. \n\n I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I\nleave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.  She hurried\nfrom the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the\nwheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.\n\n I am ashamed of you, Holmes,  said Lestrade with dignity after a few\nminutes  silence.  Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to\ndisappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel. \n\n I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,  said Holmes.\n Have you an order to see him in prison? \n\n Yes, but only for you and me. \n\n Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still\ntime to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night? \n\n Ample. \n\n Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but\nI shall only be away a couple of hours. \n\nI walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the\nstreets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay\nupon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel.\nThe puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the\ndeep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention\nwander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung\nit across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of\nthe events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man s story\nwere absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely\nunforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the\ntime when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by\nhis screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and\ndeadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal\nsomething to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the\nweekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest.\nIn the surgeon s deposition it was stated that the posterior third of\nthe left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been\nshattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon\nmy own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind.\nThat was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen\nquarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go\nfor very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the\nblow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes  attention to\nit. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could\nthat mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow\ndoes not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an\nattempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I\ncudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the\nincident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true\nthe murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his\novercoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and\nto carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back\nturned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and\nimprobabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade s\nopinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes  insight that I\ncould not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen\nhis conviction of young McCarthy s innocence.\n\nIt was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for\nLestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.\n\n The glass still keeps very high,  he remarked as he sat down.  It is\nof importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the\nground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest\nfor such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by\na long journey. I have seen young McCarthy. \n\n And what did you learn from him? \n\n Nothing. \n\n Could he throw no light? \n\n None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had\ndone it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is\nas puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth,\nthough comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart. \n\n I cannot admire his taste,  I remarked,  if it is indeed a fact that\nhe was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss\nTurner. \n\n Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,\ninsanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a\nlad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at\na boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of\na barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a\nword of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him\nto be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do,\nbut what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of\nthis sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his\nfather, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss\nTurner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and\nhis father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown\nhim over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife\nthat he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did\nnot know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has\ncome out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers\nthat he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him\nover utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband\nalready in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between\nthem. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all\nthat he has suffered. \n\n But if he is innocent, who has done it? \n\n Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points.\nOne is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the\npool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was\naway, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the\nmurdered man was heard to cry  Cooee!  before he knew that his son had\nreturned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And\nnow let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall\nleave all minor matters until to-morrow. \n\nThere was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright\nand cloudless. At nine o clock Lestrade called for us with the\ncarriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.\n\n There is serious news this morning,  Lestrade observed.  It is said\nthat Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of. \n\n An elderly man, I presume?  said Holmes.\n\n About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life\nabroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business\nhas had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy s,\nand, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he\ngave him Hatherley Farm rent free. \n\n Indeed! That is interesting,  said Holmes.\n\n Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about\nhere speaks of his kindness to him. \n\n Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this\nMcCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been\nunder such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son\nto Turner s daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and\nthat in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a\nproposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we\nknow that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us\nas much. Do you not deduce something from that? \n\n We have got to the deductions and the inferences,  said Lestrade,\nwinking at me.  I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without\nflying away after theories and fancies. \n\n You are right,  said Holmes demurely;  you do find it very hard to\ntackle the facts. \n\n Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to\nget hold of,  replied Lestrade with some warmth.\n\n And that is \n\n That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all\ntheories to the contrary are the merest moonshine. \n\n Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,  said Holmes, laughing.\n But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the\nleft. \n\n Yes, that is it.  It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,\ntwo-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon\nthe grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,\ngave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay\nheavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes \nrequest, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his\ndeath, and also a pair of the son s, though not the pair which he had\nthen had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight\ndifferent points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from\nwhich we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.\n\nSherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as\nthis. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker\nStreet would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and\ndarkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his\neyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was\nbent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins\nstood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed\nto dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so\nabsolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or\nremark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a\nquick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way\nalong the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the\nwoods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that\ndistrict, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and\namid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes\nwould hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little\ndetour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective\nindifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the\ninterest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions\nwas directed towards a definite end.\n\nThe Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some\nfifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley\nFarm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods\nwhich lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting\npinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner s dwelling. On\nthe Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was\na narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of\nthe trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the\nexact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was\nthe ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by\nthe fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager\nface and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the\ntrampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and\nthen turned upon my companion.\n\n What did you go into the pool for?  he asked.\n\n I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or\nother trace. But how on earth \n\n Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward\ntwist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it\nvanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I\nbeen here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over\nit. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have\ncovered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are\nthree separate tracks of the same feet.  He drew out a lens and lay\ndown upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time\nrather to himself than to us.  These are young McCarthy s feet. Twice\nhe was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply\nmarked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran\nwhen he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father s feet\nas he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the\ngun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here?\nTiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go,\nthey come again of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they\ncome from?  He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the\ntrack until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the\nshadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes\ntraced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon\nhis face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained\nthere, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what\nseemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens\nnot only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could\nreach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he\ncarefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the\nwood until he came to the high road, where all traces were lost.\n\n It has been a case of considerable interest,  he remarked, returning\nto his natural manner.  I fancy that this grey house on the right must\nbe the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and\nperhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our\nluncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently. \n\nIt was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into\nRoss, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up\nin the wood.\n\n This may interest you, Lestrade,  he remarked, holding it out.  The\nmurder was done with it. \n\n I see no marks. \n\n There are none. \n\n How do you know, then? \n\n The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days.\nThere was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds\nwith the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon. \n\n And the murderer? \n\n Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears\nthick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses\na cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are\nseveral other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our\nsearch. \n\nLestrade laughed.  I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,  he said.\n Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed\nBritish jury. \n\n _Nous verrons_,  answered Holmes calmly.  You work your own method,\nand I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall\nprobably return to London by the evening train. \n\n And leave your case unfinished? \n\n No, finished. \n\n But the mystery? \n\n It is solved. \n\n Who was the criminal, then? \n\n The gentleman I describe. \n\n But who is he? \n\n Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a\npopulous neighbourhood. \n\nLestrade shrugged his shoulders.  I am a practical man,  he said,  and\nI really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a\nleft-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the\nlaughing-stock of Scotland Yard. \n\n All right,  said Holmes quietly.  I have given you the chance. Here\nare your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave. \n\nHaving left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we\nfound lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought\nwith a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a\nperplexing position.\n\n Look here, Watson,  he said when the cloth was cleared  just sit down\nin this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don t know quite\nwhat to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me\nexpound. \n\n  Pray do so. \n\n Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young\nMcCarthy s narrative which struck us both instantly, although they\nimpressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that\nhis father should, according to his account, cry  Cooee!  before seeing\nhim. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled\nseveral words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son s\near. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will\nbegin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true. \n\n What of this  Cooee!  then? \n\n Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as\nfar as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within\nearshot. The  Cooee!  was meant to attract the attention of whoever it\nwas that he had the appointment with. But  Cooee  is a distinctly\nAustralian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a\nstrong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him\nat Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia. \n\n What of the rat, then? \n\nSherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it\nout on the table.  This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,  he said.\n I wired to Bristol for it last night.  He put his hand over part of\nthe map.  What do you read? \n\n ARAT,  I read.\n\n And now?  He raised his hand.\n\n BALLARAT. \n\n Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only\ncaught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his\nmurderer. So and so, of Ballarat. \n\n It is wonderful!  I exclaimed.\n\n It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down\nconsiderably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which,\ngranting the son s statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have\ncome now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an\nAustralian from Ballarat with a grey cloak. \n\n Certainly. \n\n And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be\napproached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly\nwander. \n\n Quite so. \n\n Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I\ngained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as\nto the personality of the criminal. \n\n But how did you gain them? \n\n You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles. \n\n His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his\nstride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces. \n\n Yes, they were peculiar boots. \n\n But his lameness? \n\n The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his\nleft. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped he was lame. \n\n But his left-handedness. \n\n You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by\nthe surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately\nbehind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it\nwere by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the\ninterview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found\nthe ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables\nme to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some\nattention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140\ndifferent varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found\nthe ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss\nwhere he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which\nare rolled in Rotterdam. \n\n And the cigar-holder? \n\n I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used\na holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not\na clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife. \n\n Holmes,  I said,  you have drawn a net round this man from which he\ncannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if\nyou had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in\nwhich all this points. The culprit is \n\n Mr. John Turner,  cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our\nsitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.\n\nThe man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow,\nlimping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude,\nand yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs\nshowed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of\ncharacter. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping\neyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his\nappearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the\ncorners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear\nto me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic\ndisease.\n\n Pray sit down on the sofa,  said Holmes gently.  You had my note? \n\n Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see\nme here to avoid scandal. \n\n I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall. \n\n And why did you wish to see me?  He looked across at my companion with\ndespair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.\n\n Yes,  said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words.  It is\nso. I know all about McCarthy. \n\nThe old man sank his face in his hands.  God help me!  he cried.  But I\nwould not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that\nI would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes. \n\n I am glad to hear you say so,  said Holmes gravely.\n\n I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would\nbreak her heart it will break her heart when she hears that I am\narrested. \n\n It may not come to that,  said Holmes.\n\n What? \n\n I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who\nrequired my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young\nMcCarthy must be got off, however. \n\n I am a dying man,  said old Turner.  I have had diabetes for years. My\ndoctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would\nrather die under my own roof than in a gaol. \n\nHolmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a\nbundle of paper before him.  Just tell us the truth,  he said.  I shall\njot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it.\nThen I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save\nyoung McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is\nabsolutely needed. \n\n It s as well,  said the old man;  it s a question whether I shall live\nto the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare\nAlice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has\nbeen a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.\n\n You didn t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I\ntell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he.\nHis grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my\nlife. I ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.\n\n It was in the early  60 s at the diggings. I was a young chap then,\nhot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got\namong bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to\nthe bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway\nrobber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it,\nsticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the\nroad to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under,\nand our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.\n\n One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay\nin wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us,\nso it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the\nfirst volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the\nswag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this\nvery man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I\nspared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as\nthough to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became\nwealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected.\nThere I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a\nquiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be\nin the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to\nmake up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and\nthough my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when\nshe was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path\nas nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and\ndid my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy\nlaid his grip upon me.\n\n I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent\nStreet with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.\n\n Here we are, Jack,  says he, touching me on the arm;  we ll be as\ngood as a family to you. There s two of us, me and my son, and you can\nhave the keeping of us. If you don t it s a fine, law-abiding country\nis England, and there s always a policeman within hail. \n\n Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them\noff, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.\nThere was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I\nwould, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse\nas Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my\npast than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever\nit was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last\nhe asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.\n\n His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known\nto be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad\nshould step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not\nhave his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to\nthe lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm.\nMcCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at\nthe pool midway between our houses to talk it over.\n\n When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a\ncigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I\nlistened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come\nuppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little\nregard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the\nstreets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear\nshould be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the\nbond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind\nand fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my\nmemory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that\nfoul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I\nhave sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that\nmy girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more\nthan I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if\nhe had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son;\nbut I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back\nto fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true\nstory, gentlemen, of all that occurred. \n\n Well, it is not for me to judge you,  said Holmes as the old man\nsigned the statement which had been drawn out.  I pray that we may\nnever be exposed to such a temptation. \n\n I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do? \n\n In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will\nsoon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I\nwill keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be\nforced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and\nyour secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us. \n\n Farewell, then,  said the old man solemnly.  Your own deathbeds, when\nthey come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you\nhave given to mine.  Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he\nstumbled slowly from the room.\n\n God help us!  said Holmes after a long silence.  Why does fate play\nsuch tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as\nthis that I do not think of Baxter s words, and say,  There, but for\nthe grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes. \n\nJames McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number\nof objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the\ndefending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our\ninterview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son\nand daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the\nblack cloud which rests upon their past.\n\n\n\n\nV. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS\n\n\nWhen I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases\nbetween the years  82 and  90, I am faced by so many which present\nstrange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know\nwhich to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained\npublicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for\nthose peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree,\nand which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too,\nhave baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives,\nbeginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially\ncleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture\nand surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to\nhim. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in\nits details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give\nsome account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in\nconnection with it which never have been, and probably never will be,\nentirely cleared up.\n\nThe year  87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or\nless interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under\nthis one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the\nParadol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious\nclub in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts\nconnected with the loss of the British barque _Sophy Anderson_, of the\nsingular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and\nfinally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be\nremembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man s\nwatch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that\ntherefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time a deduction\nwhich was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these\nI may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such\nsingular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have\nnow taken up my pen to describe.\n\nIt was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had\nset in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the\nrain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of\ngreat, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the\ninstant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those\ngreat elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his\ncivilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the\nstorm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a\nchild in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the\nfireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was\ndeep in one of Clark Russell s fine sea-stories until the howl of the\ngale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the\nrain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was\non a visit to her mother s, and for a few days I was a dweller once\nmore in my old quarters at Baker Street.\n\n Why,  said I, glancing up at my companion,  that was surely the bell.\nWho could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps? \n\n Except yourself I have none,  he answered.  I do not encourage\nvisitors. \n\n A client, then? \n\n If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on\nsuch a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to\nbe some crony of the landlady s. \n\nSherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a\nstep in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his\nlong arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant\nchair upon which a newcomer must sit.\n\n Come in!  said he.\n\nThe man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside,\nwell-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy\nin his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and\nhis long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he\nhad come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I\ncould see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a\nman who is weighed down with some great anxiety.\n\n I owe you an apology,  he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his\neyes.  I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some\ntraces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber. \n\n Give me your coat and umbrella,  said Holmes.  They may rest here on\nthe hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the\nsouth-west, I see. \n\n Yes, from Horsham. \n\n That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite\ndistinctive. \n\n I have come for advice. \n\n That is easily got. \n\n And help. \n\n That is not always so easy. \n\n I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how\nyou saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal. \n\n Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards. \n\n He said that you could solve anything. \n\n He said too much. \n\n That you are never beaten. \n\n I have been beaten four times three times by men, and once by a\nwoman. \n\n But what is that compared with the number of your successes? \n\n It is true that I have been generally successful. \n\n Then you may be so with me. \n\n I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with\nsome details as to your case. \n\n It is no ordinary one. \n\n None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal. \n\n And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have\never listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events\nthan those which have happened in my own family. \n\n You fill me with interest,  said Holmes.  Pray give us the essential\nfacts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to\nthose details which seem to me to be most important. \n\nThe young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards\nthe blaze.\n\n My name,  said he,  is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far\nas I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a\nhereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must\ngo back to the commencement of the affair.\n\n You must know that my grandfather had two sons my uncle Elias and my\nfather Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he\nenlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee\nof the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such\nsuccess that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome\ncompetence.\n\n My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became\na planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At\nthe time of the war he fought in Jackson s army, and afterwards under\nHood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my\nuncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four\nyears. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small\nestate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune\nin the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the\nnegroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the\nfranchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered,\nvery foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring\ndisposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if\never he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields\nround his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very\noften for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great\ndeal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and\ndid not want any friends, not even his own brother.\n\n He didn t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time\nwhen he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be\nin the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He\nbegged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in\nhis way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and\ndraughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the\nservants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was\nsixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could\ngo where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him\nin his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a\nsingle room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably\nlocked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to\nenter. With a boy s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I\nwas never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and\nbundles as would be expected in such a room.\n\n One day it was in March, 1883 a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon\nthe table in front of the colonel s plate. It was not a common thing\nfor him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money,\nand he had no friends of any sort.  From India!  said he as he took it\nup,  Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?  Opening it hurriedly, out\nthere jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon\nhis plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my\nlips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were\nprotruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope\nwhich he still held in his trembling hand,  K. K. K.!  he shrieked, and\nthen,  My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me! \n\n What is it, uncle?  I cried.\n\n Death,  said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room,\nleaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw\nscrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter\nK three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried\npips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the\nbreakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with\nan old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand,\nand a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.\n\n They may do what they like, but I ll checkmate them still,  said he\nwith an oath.  Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day,\nand send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer. \n\n I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step\nup to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there\nwas a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass\nbox stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed,\nwith a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had\nread in the morning upon the envelope.\n\n I wish you, John,  said my uncle,  to witness my will. I leave my\nestate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my\nbrother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you\ncan enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my\nadvice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to\ngive you such a two-edged thing, but I can t say what turn things are\ngoing to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you. \n\n I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him.\nThe singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression\nupon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind\nwithout being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off\nthe vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation\ngrew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the\nusual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however.\nHe drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of\nsociety. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door\nlocked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of\ndrunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the\ngarden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of\nno man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by\nman or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush\ntumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man\nwho can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the\nroots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold\nday, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.\n\n Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse\nyour patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken\nsallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to\nsearch for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay\nat the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the\nwater was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his\nknown eccentricity, brought in a verdict of  suicide.  But I, who knew\nhow he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade\nmyself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,\nhowever, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of\nsome   14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank. \n\n One moment,  Holmes interposed,  your statement is, I foresee, one of\nthe most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date\nof the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his\nsupposed suicide. \n\n The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later,\nupon the night of May 2nd. \n\n Thank you. Pray proceed. \n\n When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made\na careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We\nfound the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On\nthe inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K.\nK. repeated upon it, and  Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register \nwritten beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers\nwhich had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was\nnothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered\npapers and note-books bearing upon my uncle s life in America. Some of\nthem were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and\nhad borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during\nthe reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned\nwith politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the\ncarpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.\n\n Well, it was the beginning of  84 when my father came to live at\nHorsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of\n 85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a\nsharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There\nhe was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried\norange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always\nlaughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but\nhe looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon\nhimself.\n\n Why, what on earth does this mean, John?  he stammered.\n\n My heart had turned to lead.  It is K. K. K.,  said I.\n\n He looked inside the envelope.  So it is,  he cried.  Here are the\nvery letters. But what is this written above them? \n\n Put the papers on the sundial,  I read, peeping over his shoulder.\n\n What papers? What sundial?  he asked.\n\n The sundial in the garden. There is no other,  said I;  but the\npapers must be those that are destroyed. \n\n Pooh!  said he, gripping hard at his courage.  We are in a civilised\nland here, and we can t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the\nthing come from? \n\n From Dundee,  I answered, glancing at the postmark.\n\n Some preposterous practical joke,  said he.  What have I to do with\nsundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense. \n\n I should certainly speak to the police,  I said.\n\n And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort. \n\n Then let me do so? \n\n No, I forbid you. I won t have a fuss made about such nonsense. \n\n It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I\nwent about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.\n\n On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from\nhome to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command\nof one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go,\nfor it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away\nfrom home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his\nabsence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at\nonce. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound\nin the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull.\nI hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his\nconsciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in\nthe twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit\nunfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of  death\nfrom accidental causes.  Carefully as I examined every fact connected\nwith his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the\nidea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no\nrobbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And\nyet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I\nwas well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.\n\n In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I\ndid not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our\ntroubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle s\nlife, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in\nanother.\n\n It was in January,  85, that my poor father met his end, and two years\nand eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived\nhappily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed\naway from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I\nhad begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow\nfell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father. \n\nThe young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning\nto the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.\n\n This is the envelope,  he continued.  The postmark is London eastern\ndivision. Within are the very words which were upon my father s last\nmessage:  K. K. K. ; and then  Put the papers on the sundial. \n\n What have you done?  asked Holmes.\n\n Nothing. \n\n Nothing? \n\n To tell the truth he sank his face into his thin, white hands I have\nfelt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the\nsnake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some\nresistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can\nguard against. \n\n Tut! tut!  cried Sherlock Holmes.  You must act, man, or you are lost.\nNothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair. \n\n I have seen the police. \n\n Ah! \n\n But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the\ninspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical\njokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as\nthe jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings. \n\nHolmes shook his clenched hands in the air.  Incredible imbecility!  he\ncried.\n\n They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the\nhouse with me. \n\n Has he come with you to-night? \n\n No. His orders were to stay in the house. \n\nAgain Holmes raved in the air.\n\n Why did you come to me?  he said,  and, above all, why did you not\ncome at once? \n\n I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast\nabout my troubles and was advised by him to come to you. \n\n It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted\nbefore this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which\nyou have placed before us no suggestive detail which might help us? \n\n There is one thing,  said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat\npocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he\nlaid it out upon the table.  I have some remembrance,  said he,  that\non the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small,\nunburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular\ncolour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am\ninclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps,\nfluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped\ndestruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us\nmuch. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The\nwriting is undoubtedly my uncle s. \n\nHolmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which\nshowed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It\nwas headed,  March, 1869,  and beneath were the following enigmatical\nnotices:\n\n 4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.\n\n 7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain of St.\nAugustine.\n\n 9th. McCauley cleared.\n\n 10th. John Swain cleared.\n\n 12th. Visited Paramore. All well. \n\n Thank you!  said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our\nvisitor.  And now you must on no account lose another instant. We\ncannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get\nhome instantly and act. \n\n What shall I do? \n\n There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put\nthis piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which\nyou have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the\nother papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one\nwhich remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry\nconviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box\nout upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand? \n\n Entirely. \n\n Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think\nthat we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to\nweave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to\nremove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear\nup the mystery and to punish the guilty parties. \n\n I thank you,  said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat.\n You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you\nadvise. \n\n Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the\nmeanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are\nthreatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back? \n\n By train from Waterloo. \n\n It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you\nmay be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely. \n\n I am armed. \n\n That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case. \n\n I shall see you at Horsham, then? \n\n No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it. \n\n Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to\nthe box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular. \nHe shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still\nscreamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This\nstrange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad\nelements blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale and now to\nhave been reabsorbed by them once more.\n\nSherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk\nforward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit\nhis pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings\nas they chased each other up to the ceiling.\n\n I think, Watson,  he remarked at last,  that of all our cases we have\nhad none more fantastic than this. \n\n Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four. \n\n Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me\nto be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos. \n\n But have you,  I asked,  formed any definite conception as to what\nthese perils are? \n\n There can be no question as to their nature,  he answered.\n\n Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this\nunhappy family? \n\nSherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of\nhis chair, with his finger-tips together.  The ideal reasoner,  he\nremarked,  would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its\nbearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up\nto it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier\ncould correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a\nsingle bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in\na series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other\nones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which\nthe reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study\nwhich have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of\ntheir senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is\nnecessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts\nwhich have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you\nwill readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these\ndays of free education and encyclop dias, is a somewhat rare\naccomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should\npossess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work,\nand this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly,\nyou on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my\nlimits in a very precise fashion. \n\n Yes,  I answered, laughing.  It was a singular document. Philosophy,\nastronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany\nvariable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region\nwithin fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic,\nsensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer,\nswordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I\nthink, were the main points of my analysis. \n\nHolmes grinned at the last item.  Well,  he said,  I say now, as I said\nthen, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all\nthe furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in\nthe lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it.\nNow, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us\nto-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me\ndown the letter K of the _American Encyclop dia_ which stands upon the\nshelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see\nwhat may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a\nstrong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason\nfor leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their\nhabits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the\nlonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude\nin England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or\nsomething, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of\nsomeone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he\nfeared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters\nwhich were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the\npostmarks of those letters? \n\n The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third\nfrom London. \n\n From East London. What do you deduce from that? \n\n They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship. \n\n Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the\nprobability the strong probability is that the writer was on board of a\nship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of\nPondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment,\nin Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest\nanything? \n\n A greater distance to travel. \n\n But the letter had also a greater distance to come. \n\n Then I do not see the point. \n\n There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or\nmen are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their\nsingular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission.\nYou see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from\nDundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have\narrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven\nweeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the\ndifference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the\nsailing vessel which brought the writer. \n\n It is possible. \n\n More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of\nthis new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has\nalways fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to\ntravel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we\ncannot count upon delay. \n\n Good God!  I cried.  What can it mean, this relentless persecution? \n\n The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to\nthe person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite\nclear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not\nhave carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner s\njury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men\nof resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the\nholder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be\nthe initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society. \n\n But of what society? \n\n Have you never  said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his\nvoice have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan? \n\n I never have. \n\nHolmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee.  Here it is, \nsaid he presently:\n\n Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the\nsound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was\nformed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the\nCivil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of\nthe country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia,\nand Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for\nthe terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from\nthe country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were\nusually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic\nbut generally recognised shape a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts,\nmelon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim\nmight either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the\ncountry. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon\nhim, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was\nthe organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that\nthere is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving\nit with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to\nthe perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite\nof the efforts of the United States government and of the better\nclasses of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869,\nthe movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been\nsporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date. \n\n You will observe,  said Holmes, laying down the volume,  that the\nsudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance\nof Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause\nand effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the\nmore implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this\nregister and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South,\nand that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is\nrecovered. \n\n Then the page we have seen \n\n Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right,  sent the\npips to A, B, and C that is, sent the society s warning to them. Then\nthere are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country,\nand finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C.\nWell, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place,\nand I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime\nis to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to\nbe done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget\nfor half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable\nways of our fellow men. \n\nIt had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued\nbrightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.\nSherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.\n\n You will excuse me for not waiting for you,  said he;  I have, I\nforesee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young\nOpenshaw s. \n\n What steps will you take?  I asked.\n\n It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may\nhave to go down to Horsham, after all. \n\n You will not go there first? \n\n No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid\nwill bring up your coffee. \n\nAs I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced\nmy eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my\nheart.\n\n Holmes,  I cried,  you are too late. \n\n Ah!  said he, laying down his cup,  I feared as much. How was it\ndone?  He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.\n\n My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading  Tragedy Near\nWaterloo Bridge.  Here is the account:\n\n Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H\nDivision, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a\nsplash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy,\nso that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite\nimpossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by\nthe aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It\nproved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from\nan envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose\nresidence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been\nhurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that\nin his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked\nover the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats.\nThe body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt\nthat the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which\nshould have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to\nthe condition of the riverside landing-stages. \n\nWe sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken\nthan I had ever seen him.\n\n That hurts my pride, Watson,  he said at last.  It is a petty feeling,\nno doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me\nnow, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang.\nThat he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to\nhis death !  He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in\nuncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a\nnervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.\n\n They must be cunning devils,  he exclaimed at last.  How could they\nhave decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line\nto the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a\nnight, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in\nthe long run. I am going out now! \n\n To the police? \n\n No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take\nthe flies, but not before. \n\nAll day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the\nevening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come\nback yet. It was nearly ten o clock before he entered, looking pale and\nworn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf\nhe devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of\nwater.\n\n You are hungry,  I remarked.\n\n Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since\nbreakfast. \n\n Nothing? \n\n Not a bite. I had no time to think of it. \n\n And how have you succeeded? \n\n Well. \n\n You have a clue? \n\n I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long\nremain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark\nupon them. It is well thought of! \n\n What do you mean? \n\nHe took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he\nsqueezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust\nthem into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote  S. H. for J.\nO.  Then he sealed it and addressed it to  Captain James Calhoun,\nBarque _Lone Star_, Savannah, Georgia. \n\n That will await him when he enters port,  said he, chuckling.  It may\ngive him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his\nfate as Openshaw did before him. \n\n And who is this Captain Calhoun? \n\n The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first. \n\n How did you trace it, then? \n\nHe took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates\nand names.\n\n I have spent the whole day,  said he,  over Lloyd s registers and\nfiles of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel\nwhich touched at Pondicherry in January and February in  83. There were\nthirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those\nmonths. Of these, one, the _Lone Star_, instantly attracted my\nattention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from\nLondon, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the\nUnion. \n\n Texas, I think. \n\n I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an\nAmerican origin. \n\n What then? \n\n I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque _Lone\nStar_ was there in January,  85, my suspicion became a certainty. I\nthen inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of\nLondon. \n\n Yes? \n\n The _Lone Star_ had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert\nDock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide\nthis morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and\nlearned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly\nI have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from\nthe Isle of Wight. \n\n What will you do, then? \n\n Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the\nonly native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and\nGermans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last\nnight. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By\nthe time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will\nhave carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police\nof Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a\ncharge of murder. \n\nThere is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the\nmurderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which\nwould show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves,\nwas upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial\ngales that year. We waited long for news of the _Lone Star_ of\nSavannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere\nfar out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen\nswinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters  L. S.  carved upon\nit, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the _Lone\nStar_.\n\n\n\n\nVI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP\n\n\nIsa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the\nTheological College of St. George s, was much addicted to opium. The\nhabit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he\nwas at college; for having read De Quincey s description of his dreams\nand sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt\nto produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that\nthe practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years\nhe continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and\npity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow,\npasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a\nchair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.\n\nOne night it was in June,  89 there came a ring to my bell, about the\nhour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up\nin my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made\na little face of disappointment.\n\n A patient!  said she.  You ll have to go out. \n\nI groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.\n\nWe heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon\nthe linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some\ndark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.\n\n You will excuse my calling so late,  she began, and then, suddenly\nlosing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my\nwife s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder.  Oh, I m in such trouble! \nshe cried;  I do so want a little help. \n\n Why,  said my wife, pulling up her veil,  it is Kate Whitney. How you\nstartled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in. \n\n I didn t know what to do, so I came straight to you.  That was always\nthe way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a\nlighthouse.\n\n It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and\nwater, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you\nrather that I sent James off to bed? \n\n Oh, no, no! I want the doctor s advice and help, too. It s about Isa.\nHe has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him! \n\nIt was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband s\ntrouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school\ncompanion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.\nDid she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring\nhim back to her?\n\nIt seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he\nhad, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest\neast of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one\nday, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But\nnow the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay\nthere, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison\nor sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of\nit, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do?\nHow could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place\nand pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?\n\nThere was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.\nMight I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought,\nwhy should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney s medical adviser, and as\nsuch I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were\nalone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab\nwithin two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given\nme. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery\nsitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a\nstrange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only\ncould show how strange it was to be.\n\nBut there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.\nUpper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves\nwhich line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.\nBetween a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of\nsteps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the\nden of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down\nthe steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken\nfeet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found\nthe latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with\nthe brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the\nforecastle of an emigrant ship.\n\nThrough the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in\nstrange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown\nback, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,\nlack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows\nthere glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as\nthe burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The\nmost lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked\ntogether in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming\nin gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling\nout his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his\nneighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal,\nbeside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old\nman, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his\nknees, staring into the fire.\n\nAs I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for\nme and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.\n\n Thank you. I have not come to stay,  said I.  There is a friend of\nmine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him. \n\nThere was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering\nthrough the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring\nout at me.\n\n My God! It s Watson,  said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,\nwith every nerve in a twitter.  I say, Watson, what o clock is it? \n\n Nearly eleven. \n\n Of what day? \n\n Of Friday, June 19th. \n\n Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d you\nwant to frighten a chap for?  He sank his face onto his arms and began\nto sob in a high treble key.\n\n I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two\ndays for you. You should be ashamed of yourself! \n\n So I am. But you ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few\nhours, three pipes, four pipes I forget how many. But I ll go home with\nyou. I wouldn t frighten Kate poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have\nyou a cab? \n\n Yes, I have one waiting. \n\n Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe,\nWatson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself. \n\nI walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,\nholding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,\nand looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by\nthe brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice\nwhispered,  Walk past me, and then look back at me.  The words fell\nquite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come\nfrom the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever,\nvery thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down\nfrom between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude\nfrom his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all\nmy self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of\nastonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I.\nHis form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had\nregained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my\nsurprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion\nto me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round\nto the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped\nsenility.\n\n Holmes!  I whispered,  what on earth are you doing in this den? \n\n As low as you can,  he answered;  I have excellent ears. If you would\nhave the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I\nshould be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you. \n\n I have a cab outside. \n\n Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he\nappears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you\nalso to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have\nthrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with\nyou in five minutes. \n\nIt was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes  requests, for they\nwere always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet\nair of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in\nthe cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I\ncould not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in\none of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his\nexistence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney s bill,\nled him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a\nvery short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I\nwas walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he\nshuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing\nquickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit\nof laughter.\n\n I suppose, Watson,  said he,  that you imagine that I have added\nopium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little\nweaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views. \n\n I was certainly surprised to find you there. \n\n But not more so than I to find you. \n\n I came to find a friend. \n\n And I to find an enemy. \n\n An enemy? \n\n Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.\nBriefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I\nhave hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as\nI have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would\nnot have been worth an hour s purchase; for I have used it before now\nfor my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to\nhave vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that\nbuilding, near the corner of Paul s Wharf, which could tell some\nstrange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights. \n\n What! You do not mean bodies? \n\n Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had   1000 for every\npoor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest\nmurder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair\nhas entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.  He\nput his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly a signal\nwhich was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed\nshortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses  hoofs.\n\n Now, Watson,  said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the\ngloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side\nlanterns.  You ll come with me, won t you? \n\n If I can be of use. \n\n Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so.\nMy room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one. \n\n The Cedars? \n\n Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair s house. I am staying there while I conduct\nthe inquiry. \n\n Where is it, then? \n\n Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us. \n\n But I am all in the dark. \n\n Of course you are. You ll know all about it presently. Jump up here.\nAll right, John; we shall not need you. Here s half a crown. Look out\nfor me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then! \n\nHe flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the\nendless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened\ngradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with\nthe murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull\nwilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy,\nregular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some\nbelated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the\nsky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts\nof the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his\nbreast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside\nhim, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax\nhis powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of\nhis thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to\nthe fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself,\nshrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who\nhas satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.\n\n You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,  said he.  It makes you\nquite invaluable as a companion.  Pon my word, it is a great thing for\nme to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not\nover-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little\nwoman to-night when she meets me at the door. \n\n You forget that I know nothing about it. \n\n I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get\nto Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to\ngo upon. There s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can t get the end of\nit into my hand. Now, I ll state the case clearly and concisely to you,\nWatson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me. \n\n Proceed, then. \n\n Some years ago to be definite, in May, 1884 there came to Lee a\ngentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of\nmoney. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and\nlived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the\nneighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer,\nby whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was\ninterested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the\nmorning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St.\nClair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a\ngood husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with\nall who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment,\nas far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to   88 10_s_., while\nhe has   220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.\nThere is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been\nweighing upon his mind.\n\n Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than\nusual, remarking before he started that he had two important\ncommissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a\nbox of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram\nupon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect\nthat a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting\nwas waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company.\nNow, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office\nof the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam\nLane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch,\nstarted for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company s\noffice, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking\nthrough Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed\nme so far? \n\n It is very clear. \n\n If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair\nwalked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did\nnot like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was\nwalking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an\nejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down\nat her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor\nwindow. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she\ndescribes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to\nher, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to\nher that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from\nbehind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that\nalthough he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he\nhad on neither collar nor necktie.\n\n Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the\nsteps for the house was none other than the opium den in which you\nfound me to-night and running through the front room she attempted to\nascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the\nstairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken,\nwho thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there,\npushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts\nand fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in\nFresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their\nway to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and\nin spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their\nway to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no\nsign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one\nto be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems,\nmade his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one\nelse had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was\ntheir denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to\nbelieve that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she\nsprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid\nfrom it. Out there fell a cascade of children s bricks. It was the toy\nwhich he had promised to bring home.\n\n This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed,\nmade the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were\ncarefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The\nfront room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small\nbedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between\nthe wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low\ntide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of\nwater. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On\nexamination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and\nseveral scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the\nbedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the\nclothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His\nboots, his socks, his hat, and his watch all were there. There were no\nsigns of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other\ntraces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently\nhave gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous\nbloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save\nhimself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment\nof the tragedy.\n\n And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in\nthe matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents,\nbut as, by Mrs. St. Clair s story, he was known to have been at the\nfoot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband s appearance\nat the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the\ncrime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that\nhe had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and\nthat he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing\ngentleman s clothes.\n\n So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives\nupon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last\nhuman being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh\nBoone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who\ngoes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to\navoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax\nvestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the\nleft-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in\nthe wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,\ncross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a\npiteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy\nleather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the\nfellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional\nacquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has\nreaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that\nno one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a\npale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has\nturned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair\nof very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the\ncolour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of\nmendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply\nto any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.\nThis is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium\nden, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are\nin quest. \n\n But a cripple!  said I.  What could he have done single-handed against\na man in the prime of life? \n\n He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other\nrespects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your\nmedical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is\noften compensated for by exceptional strength in the others. \n\n Pray continue your narrative. \n\n Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window,\nand she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could\nbe of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who\nhad charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the\npremises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the\nmatter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as\nhe was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated\nwith his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he\nwas seized and searched, without anything being found which could\nincriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his\nright shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been\ncut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there,\nadding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the\nstains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same\nsource. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair\nand swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a\nmystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair s assertion that\nshe had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she\nmust have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly\nprotesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon\nthe premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh\nclue.\n\n And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had\nfeared to find. It was Neville St. Clair s coat, and not Neville St.\nClair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think\nthey found in the pockets? \n\n I cannot imagine. \n\n No, I don t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies\nand half-pennies 421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder\nthat it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a\ndifferent matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the\nhouse. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when\nthe stripped body had been sucked away into the river. \n\n But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.\nWould the body be dressed in a coat alone? \n\n No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that\nthis man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there\nis no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then?\nIt would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the\ntell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of\nthrowing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not\nsink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when\nthe wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard\nfrom his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.\nThere is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard,\nwhere he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all\nthe coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure\nof the coat s sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same\nwith the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and\nonly just had time to close the window when the police appeared. \n\n It certainly sounds feasible. \n\n Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better.\nBoone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but\nit could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against\nhim. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life\nappeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter\nstands at present, and the questions which have to be solved what\nNeville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when\nthere, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his\ndisappearance are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I\ncannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first\nglance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties. \n\nWhile Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of\nevents, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town\nuntil the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled\nalong with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished,\nhowever, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights\nstill glimmered in the windows.\n\n We are on the outskirts of Lee,  said my companion.  We have touched\non three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex,\npassing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light\namong the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman\nwhose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink\nof our horse s feet. \n\n But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?  I asked.\n\n Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St.\nClair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest\nassured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and\ncolleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her\nhusband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa! \n\nWe had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own\ngrounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse s head, and springing\ndown, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to\nthe house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde\nwoman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de\nsoie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She\nstood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand\nupon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly\nbent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a\nstanding question.\n\n Well?  she cried,  well?  And then, seeing that there were two of us,\nshe gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my\ncompanion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.\n\n No good news? \n\n None. \n\n No bad? \n\n No. \n\n Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a\nlong day. \n\n This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in\nseveral of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to\nbring him out and associate him with this investigation. \n\n I am delighted to see you,  said she, pressing my hand warmly.  You\nwill, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our\narrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly\nupon us. \n\n My dear madam,  said I,  I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I\ncan very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any\nassistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed\nhappy. \n\n Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,  said the lady as we entered a well-lit\ndining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out,\n I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to\nwhich I beg that you will give a plain answer. \n\n Certainly, madam. \n\n Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to\nfainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion. \n\n Upon what point? \n\n In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive? \n\nSherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.  Frankly,\nnow!  she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at\nhim as he leaned back in a basket-chair.\n\n Frankly, then, madam, I do not. \n\n You think that he is dead? \n\n I do. \n\n Murdered? \n\n I don t say that. Perhaps. \n\n And on what day did he meet his death? \n\n On Monday. \n\n Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is\nthat I have received a letter from him to-day. \n\nSherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.\n\n What!  he roared.\n\n Yes, to-day.  She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in\nthe air.\n\n May I see it? \n\n Certainly. \n\nHe snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the\ntable he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my\nchair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very\ncoarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the\ndate of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was\nconsiderably after midnight.\n\n Coarse writing,  murmured Holmes.  Surely this is not your husband s\nwriting, madam. \n\n No, but the enclosure is. \n\n I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and\ninquire as to the address. \n\n How can you tell that? \n\n The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself.\nThe rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has\nbeen used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none\nwould be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and\nthere has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only\nmean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but\nthere is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter.\nHa! there has been an enclosure here! \n\n Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring. \n\n And you are sure that this is your husband s hand? \n\n One of his hands. \n\n One? \n\n His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing,\nand yet I know it well. \n\n Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge\nerror which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in\npatience. NEVILLE.  Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book,\noctavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man\nwith a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very\nmuch in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have\nno doubt that it is your husband s hand, madam? \n\n None. Neville wrote those words. \n\n And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the\nclouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is\nover. \n\n But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes. \n\n Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The\nring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him. \n\n No, no; it is, it is his very own writing! \n\n Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only\nposted to-day. \n\n That is possible. \n\n If so, much may have happened between. \n\n Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well\nwith him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if\nevil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself\nin the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly\nwith the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think\nthat I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his\ndeath? \n\n I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be\nmore valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in\nthis letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to\ncorroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write\nletters, why should he remain away from you? \n\n I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable. \n\n And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you? \n\n No. \n\n And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane? \n\n Very much so. \n\n Was the window open? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then he might have called to you? \n\n He might. \n\n He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry? \n\n Yes. \n\n A call for help, you thought? \n\n Yes. He waved his hands. \n\n But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the\nunexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands? \n\n It is possible. \n\n And you thought he was pulled back? \n\n He disappeared so suddenly. \n\n He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room? \n\n No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the\nLascar was at the foot of the stairs. \n\n Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary\nclothes on? \n\n But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat. \n\n Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane? \n\n Never. \n\n Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium? \n\n Never. \n\n Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which\nI wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and\nthen retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow. \n\nA large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our\ndisposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after\nmy night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he\nhad an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for\na week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking\nat it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or\nconvinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident\nto me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off\nhis coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then\nwandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions\nfrom the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of\nEastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an\nounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In\nthe dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe\nbetween his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the\nceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with\nthe light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I\ndropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me\nto wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The\npipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the\nroom was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap\nof shag which I had seen upon the previous night.\n\n Awake, Watson?  he asked.\n\n Yes. \n\n Game for a morning drive? \n\n Certainly. \n\n Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy\nsleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.  He chuckled to himself as\nhe spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the\nsombre thinker of the previous night.\n\nAs I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was\nstirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished\nwhen Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the\nhorse.\n\n I want to test a little theory of mine,  said he, pulling on his\nboots.  I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of\none of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from\nhere to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now. \n\n And where is it?  I asked, smiling.\n\n In the bathroom,  he answered.  Oh, yes, I am not joking,  he\ncontinued, seeing my look of incredulity.  I have just been there, and\nI have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on,\nmy boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock. \n\nWe made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the\nbright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the\nhalf-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away\nwe dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring,\nbearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on\neither side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.\n\n It has been in some points a singular case,  said Holmes, flicking the\nhorse on into a gallop.  I confess that I have been as blind as a mole,\nbut it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all. \n\nIn town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from\ntheir windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.\nPassing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and\ndashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found\nourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,\nand the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the\nhorse s head while the other led us in.\n\n Who is on duty?  asked Holmes.\n\n Inspector Bradstreet, sir. \n\n Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?  A tall, stout official had come down the\nstone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket.  I wish to\nhave a quiet word with you, Bradstreet. \n\n Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here. \n\nIt was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table,\nand a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his\ndesk.\n\n What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes? \n\n I called about that beggarman, Boone the one who was charged with\nbeing concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee. \n\n Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries. \n\n So I heard. You have him here? \n\n In the cells. \n\n Is he quiet? \n\n Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel. \n\n Dirty? \n\n Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is\nas black as a tinker s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he\nwill have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would\nagree with me that he needed it. \n\n I should like to see him very much. \n\n Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your\nbag. \n\n No, I think that I ll take it. \n\n Very good. Come this way, if you please.  He led us down a passage,\nopened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a\nwhitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.\n\n The third on the right is his,  said the inspector.  Here it is!  He\nquietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced\nthrough.\n\n He is asleep,  said he.  You can see him very well. \n\nWe both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face\ntowards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was\na middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a\ncoloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He\nwas, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which\ncovered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad\nwheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its\ncontraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three\nteeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red\nhair grew low over his eyes and forehead.\n\n He s a beauty, isn t he?  said the inspector.\n\n He certainly needs a wash,  remarked Holmes.  I had an idea that he\nmight, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.  He opened\nthe Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very\nlarge bath-sponge.\n\n He! he! You are a funny one,  chuckled the inspector.\n\n Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very\nquietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure. \n\n Well, I don t know why not,  said the inspector.  He doesn t look a\ncredit to the Bow Street cells, does he?  He slipped his key into the\nlock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half\nturned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes\nstooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it\ntwice vigorously across and down the prisoner s face.\n\n Let me introduce you,  he shouted,  to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee,\nin the county of Kent. \n\nNever in my life have I seen such a sight. The man s face peeled off\nunder the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown\ntint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and\nthe twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A\ntwitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his\nbed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and\nsmooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy\nbewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a\nscream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.\n\n Great heavens!  cried the inspector,  it is, indeed, the missing man.\nI know him from the photograph. \n\nThe prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself\nto his destiny.  Be it so,  said he.  And pray what am I charged with? \n\n With making away with Mr. Neville St.  Oh, come, you can t be charged\nwith that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,  said the\ninspector with a grin.  Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the\nforce, but this really takes the cake. \n\n If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has\nbeen committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained. \n\n No crime, but a very great error has been committed,  said Holmes.\n You would have done better to have trusted your wife. \n\n It was not the wife; it was the children,  groaned the prisoner.  God\nhelp me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an\nexposure! What can I do? \n\nSherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly\non the shoulder.\n\n If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,  said he,\n of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you\nconvince the police authorities that there is no possible case against\nyou, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should\nfind their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure,\nmake notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the\nproper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all. \n\n God bless you!  cried the prisoner passionately.  I would have endured\nimprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable\nsecret as a family blot to my children.\n\n You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a\nschoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education.\nI travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a\nreporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to\nhave a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I\nvolunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my\nadventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I\ncould get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I\nhad, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been\nfamous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my\nattainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as\npossible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by\nthe aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head\nof hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business\npart of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar.\nFor seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the\nevening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26_s_.\n4_d_.\n\n I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some\ntime later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me\nfor   25. I was at my wit s end where to get the money, but a sudden\nidea came to me. I begged a fortnight s grace from the creditor, asked\nfor a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the\nCity under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the\ndebt.\n\n Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work\nat   2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by\nsmearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and\nsitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but\nthe dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day\nin the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly\nface and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret.\nHe was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam\nLane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the\nevenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This\nfellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew\nthat my secret was safe in his possession.\n\n Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money.\nI do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn   700\na year which is less than my average takings but I had exceptional\nadvantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of\nrepartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised\ncharacter in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver,\npoured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take\n  2.\n\n As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country,\nand eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real\noccupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She\nlittle knew what.\n\n Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room\nabove the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my\nhorror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with\nher eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms\nto cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated\nhim to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice\ndownstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off\nmy clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and\nwig. Even a wife s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But\nthen it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and\nthat the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by\nmy violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the\nbedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the\ncoppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in\nwhich I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it\ndisappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but\nat that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few\nminutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of\nbeing identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his\nmurderer.\n\n I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was\ndetermined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my\npreference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly\nanxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a\nmoment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried\nscrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear. \n\n That note only reached her yesterday,  said Holmes.\n\n Good God! What a week she must have spent! \n\n The police have watched this Lascar,  said Inspector Bradstreet,  and\nI can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter\nunobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who\nforgot all about it for some days. \n\n That was it,  said Holmes, nodding approvingly;  I have no doubt of\nit. But have you never been prosecuted for begging? \n\n Many times; but what was a fine to me? \n\n It must stop here, however,  said Bradstreet.  If the police are to\nhush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone. \n\n I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take. \n\n In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be\ntaken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure,\nMr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared\nthe matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results. \n\n I reached this one,  said my friend,  by sitting upon five pillows and\nconsuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker\nStreet we shall just be in time for breakfast. \n\n\n\n\nVII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE\n\n\nI had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning\nafter Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of\nthe season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a\npipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled\nmorning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch\nwas a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and\ndisreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in\nseveral places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair\nsuggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the\npurpose of examination.\n\n You are engaged,  said I;  perhaps I interrupt you. \n\n Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my\nresults. The matter is a perfectly trivial one he jerked his thumb in\nthe direction of the old hat but there are points in connection with\nit which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction. \n\nI seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his\ncrackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were\nthick with the ice crystals.  I suppose,  I remarked,  that, homely as\nit looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it that it is\nthe clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the\npunishment of some crime. \n\n No, no. No crime,  said Sherlock Holmes, laughing.  Only one of those\nwhimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million\nhuman beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square\nmiles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity,\nevery possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and\nmany a little problem will be presented which may be striking and\nbizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of\nsuch. \n\n So much so,  I remarked,  that of the last six cases which I have\nadded to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime. \n\n Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers,\nto the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of\nthe man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small\nmatter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson,\nthe commissionaire? \n\n Yes. \n\n It is to him that this trophy belongs. \n\n It is his hat. \n\n No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look\nupon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem.\nAnd, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning,\nin company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting\nat this moment in front of Peterson s fire. The facts are these: about\nfour o clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a\nvery honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was\nmaking his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he\nsaw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and\ncarrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the\ncorner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a\nlittle knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man s hat, on\nwhich he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his\nhead, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward\nto protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at\nhaving broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in\nuniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and\nvanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of\nTottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of\nPeterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and\nalso of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a\nmost unimpeachable Christmas goose. \n\n Which surely he restored to their owner? \n\n My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that  For Mrs.\nHenry Baker  was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird s\nleft leg, and it is also true that the initials  H. B.  are legible\nupon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers,\nand some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy\nto restore lost property to any one of them. \n\n What, then, did Peterson do? \n\n He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,\nknowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The\ngoose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in\nspite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten\nwithout unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to\nfulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the\nhat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner. \n\n Did he not advertise? \n\n No. \n\n Then, what clue could you have as to his identity? \n\n Only as much as we can deduce. \n\n From his hat? \n\n Precisely. \n\n But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt? \n\n Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as\nto the individuality of the man who has worn this article? \n\nI took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather\nruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape,\nhard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but\nwas a good deal discoloured. There was no maker s name; but, as Holmes\nhad remarked, the initials  H. B.  were scrawled upon one side. It was\npierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For\nthe rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several\nplaces, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the\ndiscoloured patches by smearing them with ink.\n\n I can see nothing,  said I, handing it back to my friend.\n\n On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to\nreason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your\ninferences. \n\n Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat? \n\nHe picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion\nwhich was characteristic of him.  It is perhaps less suggestive than it\nmight have been,  he remarked,  and yet there are a few inferences\nwhich are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a\nstrong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is\nof course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly\nwell-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon\nevil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing\nto a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his\nfortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at\nwork upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife\nhas ceased to love him. \n\n My dear Holmes! \n\n He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,  he continued,\ndisregarding my remonstrance.  He is a man who leads a sedentary life,\ngoes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has\ngrizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which\nhe anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are\nto be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely\nimprobable that he has gas laid on in his house. \n\n You are certainly joking, Holmes. \n\n Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these\nresults, you are unable to see how they are attained? \n\n I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am\nunable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was\nintellectual? \n\nFor answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the\nforehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose.  It is a question of\ncubic capacity,  said he;  a man with so large a brain must have\nsomething in it. \n\n The decline of his fortunes, then? \n\n This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came\nin then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of\nribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy\nso expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he\nhas assuredly gone down in the world. \n\n Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and\nthe moral retrogression? \n\nSherlock Holmes laughed.  Here is the foresight,  said he putting his\nfinger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.  They are\nnever sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a\ncertain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this\nprecaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the\nelastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has\nless foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a\nweakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some\nof these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign\nthat he has not entirely lost his self-respect. \n\n Your reasoning is certainly plausible. \n\n The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled,\nthat it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to\nbe gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining.\nThe lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the\nscissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a\ndistinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the\ngritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house,\nshowing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the\nmarks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer\nperspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of\ntraining. \n\n But his wife you said that she had ceased to love him. \n\n This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear\nWatson, with a week s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your\nwife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also\nhave been unfortunate enough to lose your wife s affection. \n\n But he might be a bachelor. \n\n Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.\nRemember the card upon the bird s leg. \n\n You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that\nthe gas is not laid on in his house? \n\n One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no\nless than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the\nindividual must be brought into frequent contact with burning\ntallow walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a\nguttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from\na gas-jet. Are you satisfied? \n\n Well, it is very ingenious,  said I, laughing;  but since, as you said\njust now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the\nloss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy. \n\nSherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open,\nand Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with\nflushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.\n\n The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!  he gasped.\n\n Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through\nthe kitchen window?  Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get\na fairer view of the man s excited face.\n\n See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!  He held out his\nhand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly\nscintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of\nsuch purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the\ndark hollow of his hand.\n\nSherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle.  By Jove, Peterson!  said he,\n this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got? \n\n A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were\nputty. \n\n It s more than a precious stone. It is _the_ precious stone. \n\n Not the Countess of Morcar s blue carbuncle!  I ejaculated.\n\n Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have\nread the advertisement about it in _The Times_ every day lately. It is\nabsolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the\nreward offered of   1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of\nthe market price. \n\n A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!  The commissionaire plumped\ndown into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.\n\n That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are\nsentimental considerations in the background which would induce the\nCountess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the\ngem. \n\n It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,  I\nremarked.\n\n Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a\nplumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady s\njewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has\nbeen referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I\nbelieve.  He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates,\nuntil at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the\nfollowing paragraph:\n\n Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was\nbrought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted\nfrom the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as\nthe blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his\nevidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room\nof the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he\nmight solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had\nremained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called\naway. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the\nbureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in\nwhich, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep\nher jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly\ngave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone\ncould not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine\nCusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder s cry of\ndismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,\nwhere she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector\nBradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who\nstruggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest\nterms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given\nagainst the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the\noffence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of\nintense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion\nand was carried out of court. \n\n Hum! So much for the police-court,  said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing\naside the paper.  The question for us now to solve is the sequence of\nevents leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a\ngoose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little\ndeductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less\ninnocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and\nthe goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and\nall the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we\nmust set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and\nascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do\nthis, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly\nin an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall\nhave recourse to other methods. \n\n What will you say? \n\n Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then:  Found at the\ncorner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker\ncan have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker\nStreet.  That is clear and concise. \n\n Very. But will he see it? \n\n Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man,\nthe loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in\nbreaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of\nnothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the\nimpulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the\nintroduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who\nknows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run\ndown to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening\npapers. \n\n In which, sir? \n\n Oh, in the _Globe_, _Star_, _Pall Mall_, _St. James s Gazette_,\n_Evening News_, _Standard_, _Echo_, and any others that occur to you. \n\n Very well, sir. And this stone? \n\n Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just\nbuy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must\nhave one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your\nfamily is now devouring. \n\nWhen the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it\nagainst the light.  It s a bonny thing,  said he.  Just see how it\nglints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.\nEvery good stone is. They are the devil s pet baits. In the larger and\nolder jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not\nyet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in\nsouthern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the\ncarbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite\nof its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two\nmurders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought\nabout for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal.\nWho would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows\nand the prison? I ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to\nthe Countess to say that we have it. \n\n Do you think that this man Horner is innocent? \n\n I cannot tell. \n\n Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had\nanything to do with the matter? \n\n It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely\ninnocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was\nof considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,\nhowever, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer\nto our advertisement. \n\n And you can do nothing until then? \n\n Nothing. \n\n In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come\nback in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like\nto see the solution of so tangled a business. \n\n Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe.\nBy the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs.\nHudson to examine its crop. \n\nI had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six\nwhen I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the\nhouse I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was\nbuttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which\nwas thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened,\nand we were shown up together to Holmes  room.\n\n Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,  said he, rising from his armchair and\ngreeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so\nreadily assume.  Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a\ncold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for\nsummer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right\ntime. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker? \n\n Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat. \n\nHe was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad,\nintelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A\ntouch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended\nhand, recalled Holmes  surmise as to his habits. His rusty black\nfrock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up,\nand his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff\nor shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with\ncare, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and\nletters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.\n\n We have retained these things for some days,  said Holmes,  because we\nexpected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at\na loss to know now why you did not advertise. \n\nOur visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh.  Shillings have not been so\nplentiful with me as they once were,  he remarked.  I had no doubt that\nthe gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the\nbird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at\nrecovering them. \n\n Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat\nit. \n\n To eat it!  Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.\n\n Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I\npresume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the\nsame weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally\nwell? \n\n Oh, certainly, certainly,  answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.\n\n Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your\nown bird, so if you wish \n\nThe man burst into a hearty laugh.  They might be useful to me as\nrelics of my adventure,  said he,  but beyond that I can hardly see\nwhat use the _disjecta membra_ of my late acquaintance are going to be\nto me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my\nattentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard. \n\nSherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his\nshoulders.\n\n There is your hat, then, and there your bird,  said he.  By the way,\nwould it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am\nsomewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown\ngoose. \n\n Certainly, sir,  said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained\nproperty under his arm.  There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha\nInn, near the Museum we are to be found in the Museum itself during the\nday, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name,\ninstituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence\nevery week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were\nduly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you,\nsir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity. \nWith a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and\nstrode off upon his way.\n\n So much for Mr. Henry Baker,  said Holmes when he had closed the door\nbehind him.  It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about\nthe matter. Are you hungry, Watson? \n\n Not particularly. \n\n Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up\nthis clue while it is still hot. \n\n By all means. \n\nIt was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats\nabout our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a\ncloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke\nlike so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as\nwe swung through the doctors  quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street,\nand so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an\nhour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small\npublic-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into\nHolborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two\nglasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.\n\n Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,  said\nhe.\n\n My geese!  The man seemed surprised.\n\n Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was\na member of your goose club. \n\n Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them s not _our_ geese. \n\n Indeed! Whose, then? \n\n Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden. \n\n Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it? \n\n Breckinridge is his name. \n\n Ah! I don t know him. Well, here s your good health landlord, and\nprosperity to your house. Good-night. \n\n Now for Mr. Breckinridge,  he continued, buttoning up his coat as we\ncame out into the frosty air.  Remember, Watson that though we have so\nhomely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the\nother a man who will certainly get seven years  penal servitude unless\nwe can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but\nconfirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation\nwhich has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has\nplaced in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to\nthe south, then, and quick march! \n\nWe passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag\nof slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the\nname of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man,\nwith a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up\nthe shutters.\n\n Good-evening. It s a cold night,  said Holmes.\n\nThe salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.\n\n Sold out of geese, I see,  continued Holmes, pointing at the bare\nslabs of marble.\n\n Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning. \n\n That s no good. \n\n Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare. \n\n Ah, but I was recommended to you. \n\n Who by? \n\n The landlord of the Alpha. \n\n Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen. \n\n Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from? \n\nTo my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the\nsalesman.\n\n Now, then, mister,  said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo,\n what are you driving at? Let s have it straight, now. \n\n It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese\nwhich you supplied to the Alpha. \n\n Well then, I shan t tell you. So now! \n\n Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don t know why you should\nbe so warm over such a trifle. \n\n Warm! You d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I\npay good money for a good article there should be an end of the\nbusiness; but it s  Where are the geese?  and  Who did you sell the\ngeese to?  and  What will you take for the geese?  One would think they\nwere the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over\nthem. \n\n Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making\ninquiries,  said Holmes carelessly.  If you won t tell us the bet is\noff, that is all. But I m always ready to back my opinion on a matter\nof fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country\nbred. \n\n Well, then, you ve lost your fiver, for it s town bred,  snapped the\nsalesman.\n\n It s nothing of the kind. \n\n I say it is. \n\n I don t believe it. \n\n D you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them\never since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the\nAlpha were town bred. \n\n You ll never persuade me to believe that. \n\n Will you bet, then? \n\n It s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I ll\nhave a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate. \n\nThe salesman chuckled grimly.  Bring me the books, Bill,  said he.\n\nThe small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great\ngreasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.\n\n Now then, Mr. Cocksure,  said the salesman,  I thought that I was out\nof geese, but before I finish you ll find that there is still one left\nin my shop. You see this little book? \n\n Well? \n\n That s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D you see? Well, then,\nhere on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their\nnames are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You\nsee this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town\nsuppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me. \n\n Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road 249,  read Holmes.\n\n Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger. \n\nHolmes turned to the page indicated.  Here you are,  Mrs. Oakshott,\n117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier. \n\n Now, then, what s the last entry? \n\n December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7_s_. 6_d_. \n\n Quite so. There you are. And underneath? \n\n Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12_s_. \n\n What have you to say now? \n\nSherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his\npocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a\nman whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped\nunder a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which\nwas peculiar to him.\n\n When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the  Pink  un \nprotruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,  said\nhe.  I daresay that if I had put   100 down in front of him, that man\nwould not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him\nby the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I\nfancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains\nto be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott\nto-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear\nfrom what that surly fellow said that there are others besides\nourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should \n\nHis remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out\nfrom the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little\nrat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light\nwhich was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the\nsalesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists\nfiercely at the cringing figure.\n\n I ve had enough of you and your geese,  he shouted.  I wish you were\nall at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your\nsilly talk I ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and\nI ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese\noff you? \n\n No; but one of them was mine all the same,  whined the little man.\n\n Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it. \n\n She told me to ask you. \n\n Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I ve had enough\nof it. Get out of this!  He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer\nflitted away into the darkness.\n\n Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,  whispered Holmes.  Come\nwith me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.  Striding\nthrough the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring\nstalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him\nupon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light\nthat every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.\n\n Who are you, then? What do you want?  he asked in a quavering voice.\n\n You will excuse me,  said Holmes blandly,  but I could not help\noverhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I\nthink that I could be of assistance to you. \n\n You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter? \n\n My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other\npeople don t know. \n\n But you can know nothing of this? \n\n Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some\ngeese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman\nnamed Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and\nby him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member. \n\n Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,  cried the\nlittle fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers.  I can\nhardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter. \n\nSherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing.  In that case\nwe had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept\nmarket-place,  said he.  But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it\nis that I have the pleasure of assisting. \n\nThe man hesitated for an instant.  My name is John Robinson,  he\nanswered with a sidelong glance.\n\n No, no; the real name,  said Holmes sweetly.  It is always awkward\ndoing business with an alias. \n\nA flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger.  Well then,  said\nhe,  my real name is James Ryder. \n\n Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into\nthe cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you\nwould wish to know. \n\nThe little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with\nhalf-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he\nis on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into\nthe cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker\nStreet. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin\nbreathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of\nhis hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.\n\n Here we are!  said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room.  The\nfire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder.\nPray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we\nsettle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what\nbecame of those geese? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which\nyou were interested white, with a black bar across the tail. \n\nRyder quivered with emotion.  Oh, sir,  he cried,  can you tell me\nwhere it went to? \n\n It came here. \n\n Here? \n\n Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don t wonder that you\nshould take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead the\nbonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here\nin my museum. \n\nOur visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his\nright hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue\ncarbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant,\nmany-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain\nwhether to claim or to disown it.\n\n The game s up, Ryder,  said Holmes quietly.  Hold up, man, or you ll\nbe into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He s not\ngot blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of\nbrandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to\nbe sure! \n\nFor a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought\na tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened\neyes at his accuser.\n\n I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could\npossibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that\nlittle may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had\nheard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar s? \n\n It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,  said he in a crackling\nvoice.\n\n I see her ladyship s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden\nwealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for\nbetter men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means\nyou used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very\npretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had\nbeen concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would\nrest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some\nsmall job in my lady s room you and your confederate Cusack and you\nmanaged that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you\nrifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man\narrested. You then \n\nRyder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my\ncompanion s knees.  For God s sake, have mercy!  he shrieked.  Think of\nmy father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went\nwrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I ll swear it on a Bible.\nOh, don t bring it into court! For Christ s sake, don t! \n\n Get back into your chair!  said Holmes sternly.  It is very well to\ncringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner\nin the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing. \n\n I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge\nagainst him will break down. \n\n Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of\nthe next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose\ninto the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope\nof safety. \n\nRyder passed his tongue over his parched lips.  I will tell you it just\nas it happened, sir,  said he.  When Horner had been arrested, it\nseemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at\nonce, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it\ninto their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the\nhotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and\nI made for my sister s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and\nlived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the\nway there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a\ndetective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring\ndown my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what\nwas the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been\nupset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard\nand smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.\n\n I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just\nbeen serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell\ninto talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what\nthey stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two\nthings about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where\nhe lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn\nthe stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the\nagonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any\nmoment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my\nwaistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and\nlooking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and\nsuddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the\nbest detective that ever lived.\n\n My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of\nher geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as\ngood as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my\nstone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this\nI drove one of the birds a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I\ncaught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat\nas far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the\nstone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature\nflapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the\nmatter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered\noff among the others.\n\n Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?  says she.\n\n Well,  said I,  you said you d give me one for Christmas, and I was\nfeeling which was the fattest. \n\n Oh,  says she,  we ve set yours aside for you Jem s bird, we call it.\nIt s the big white one over yonder. There s twenty-six of them, which\nmakes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market. \n\n Thank you, Maggie,  says I;  but if it is all the same to you, I d\nrather have that one I was handling just now. \n\n The other is a good three pound heavier,  said she,  and we fattened\nit expressly for you. \n\n Never mind. I ll have the other, and I ll take it now,  said I.\n\n Oh, just as you like,  said she, a little huffed.  Which is it you\nwant, then? \n\n That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the\nflock. \n\n Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you. \n\n Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the\nway to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it\nwas easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and\nwe got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for\nthere was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake\nhad occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister s, and hurried\ninto the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.\n\n Where are they all, Maggie?  I cried.\n\n Gone to the dealer s, Jem. \n\n Which dealer s? \n\n Breckinridge, of Covent Garden. \n\n But was there another with a barred tail?  I asked,  the same as the\none I chose? \n\n Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell\nthem apart. \n\n Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet\nwould carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at\nonce, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You\nheard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like\nthat. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am\nmyself. And now and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever\nhaving touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me!\nGod help me!  He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in\nhis hands.\n\nThere was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the\nmeasured tapping of Sherlock Holmes  finger-tips upon the edge of the\ntable. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.\n\n Get out!  said he.\n\n What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you! \n\n No more words. Get out! \n\nAnd no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the\nstairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls\nfrom the street.\n\n After all, Watson,  said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay\npipe,  I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If\nHorner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will\nnot appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am\ncommuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul.\nThis fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened.\nSend him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides,\nit is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most\nsingular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If\nyou will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin\nanother investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief\nfeature. \n\n\n\n\nVIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND\n\n\nOn glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have\nduring the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock\nHolmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange,\nbut none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his\nart than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself\nwith any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even\nthe fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any\nwhich presented more singular features than that which was associated\nwith the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The\nevents in question occurred in the early days of my association with\nHolmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is\npossible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a\npromise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been\nfreed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom\nthe pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now\ncome to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread\nrumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the\nmatter even more terrible than the truth.\n\nIt was early in April in the year  83 that I woke one morning to find\nSherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was\na late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me\nthat it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some\nsurprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself\nregular in my habits.\n\n Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,  said he,  but it s the common lot\nthis morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me,\nand I on you. \n\n What is it, then a fire? \n\n No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable\nstate of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in\nthe sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at\nthis hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds,\nI presume that it is something very pressing which they have to\ncommunicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am\nsure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I\nshould call you and give you the chance. \n\n My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything. \n\nI had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional\ninvestigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as\nintuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he\nunravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on\nmy clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down\nto the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who\nhad been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.\n\n Good-morning, madam,  said Holmes cheerily.  My name is Sherlock\nHolmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before\nwhom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see\nthat Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up\nto it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that\nyou are shivering. \n\n It is not cold which makes me shiver,  said the woman in a low voice,\nchanging her seat as requested.\n\n What, then? \n\n It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.  She raised her veil as she\nspoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of\nagitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes,\nlike those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of\na woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her\nexpression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one\nof his quick, all-comprehensive glances.\n\n You must not fear,  said he soothingly, bending forward and patting\nher forearm.  We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You\nhave come in by train this morning, I see. \n\n You know me, then? \n\n No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of\nyour left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good\ndrive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the\nstation. \n\nThe lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my\ncompanion.\n\n There is no mystery, my dear madam,  said he, smiling.  The left arm\nof your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The\nmarks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which\nthrows up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand\nside of the driver. \n\n Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,  said she.  I\nstarted from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and\ncame in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no\nlonger; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to none,\nsave only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little\naid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.\nFarintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from\nher that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could\nhelp me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense\ndarkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward\nyou for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,\nwith the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find\nme ungrateful. \n\nHolmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small\ncase-book, which he consulted.\n\n Farintosh,  said he.  Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with\nan opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,\nmadam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I\ndid to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own\nreward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put\nto, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay\nbefore us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the\nmatter. \n\n Alas!  replied our visitor,  the very horror of my situation lies in\nthe fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so\nentirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that\neven he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and\nadvice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a\nnervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing\nanswers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can\nsee deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may\nadvise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me. \n\n I am all attention, madam. \n\n My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is\nthe last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the\nRoylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey. \n\nHolmes nodded his head.  The name is familiar to me,  said he.\n\n The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the\nestates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and\nHampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive\nheirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin\nwas eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency.\nNothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the\ntwo-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy\nmortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the\nhorrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my\nstepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,\nobtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a\nmedical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional\nskill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a\nfit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been\nperpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and\nnarrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term\nof imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and\ndisappointed man.\n\n When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the\nyoung widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister\nJulia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of\nmy mother s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money not less\nthan   1000 a year and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely\nwhile we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum\nshould be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly\nafter our return to England my mother died she was killed eight years\nago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his\nattempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live\nwith him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my\nmother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no\nobstacle to our happiness.\n\n But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.\nInstead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,\nwho had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in\nthe old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came\nout save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his\npath. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in\nthe men of the family, and in my stepfather s case it had, I believe,\nbeen intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of\ndisgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,\nuntil at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would\nfly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and\nabsolutely uncontrollable in his anger.\n\n Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream,\nand it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather\ntogether that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no\nfriends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these\nvagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land\nwhich represent the family estate, and would accept in return the\nhospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for\nweeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent\nover to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and\na baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the\nvillagers almost as much as their master.\n\n You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no\ngreat pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a\nlong time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the\ntime of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even\nas mine has. \n\n Your sister is dead, then? \n\n She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to\nspeak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have\ndescribed, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and\nposition. We had, however, an aunt, my mother s maiden sister, Miss\nHonoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally\nallowed to pay short visits at this lady s house. Julia went there at\nChristmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to\nwhom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when\nmy sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within\na fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the\nterrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion. \n\nSherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed\nand his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and\nglanced across at his visitor.\n\n Pray be precise as to details,  said he.\n\n It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is\nseared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very\nold, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are\non the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of\nthe buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott s, the second\nmy sister s, and the third my own. There is no communication between\nthem, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself\nplain? \n\n Perfectly so. \n\n The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal\nnight Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he\nhad not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the\nstrong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her\nroom, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,\nchatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o clock she rose to\nleave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.\n\n Tell me, Helen,  said she,  have you ever heard anyone whistle in the\ndead of the night? \n\n Never,  said I.\n\n I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your\nsleep? \n\n Certainly not. But why? \n\n Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the\nmorning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has\nawakened me. I cannot tell where it came from perhaps from the next\nroom, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you\nwhether you had heard it. \n\n No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation. \n\n Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did\nnot hear it also. \n\n Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you. \n\n Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.  She smiled back at\nme, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the\nlock. \n\n Indeed,  said Holmes.  Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in\nat night? \n\n Always. \n\n And why? \n\n I think that I mentioned to you that the Doctor kept a cheetah and a\nbaboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked. \n\n Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement. \n\n I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune\nimpressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you\nknow how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely\nallied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain\nwas beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the\nhubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified\nwoman. I knew that it was my sister s voice. I sprang from my bed,\nwrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my\ndoor I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a\nfew moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.\nAs I ran down the passage, my sister s door was unlocked, and revolved\nslowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing\nwhat was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I\nsaw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her\nhands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that\nof a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that\nmoment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She\nwrithed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully\nconvulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I\nbent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never\nforget,  Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!  There\nwas something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with\nher finger into the air in the direction of the Doctor s room, but a\nfresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling\nloudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his\ndressing-gown. When he reached my sister s side she was unconscious,\nand though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid\nfrom the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and\ndied without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful\nend of my beloved sister. \n\n One moment,  said Holmes,  are you sure about this whistle and\nmetallic sound? Could you swear to it? \n\n That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my\nstrong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale\nand the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived. \n\n Was your sister dressed? \n\n No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the\ncharred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box. \n\n Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the\nalarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the\ncoroner come to? \n\n He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott s conduct\nhad long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any\nsatisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been\nfastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by\nold-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every\nnight. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite\nsolid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with\nthe same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large\nstaples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when\nshe met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon\nher. \n\n How about poison? \n\n The doctors examined her for it, but without success. \n\n What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then? \n\n It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though\nwhat it was that frightened her I cannot imagine. \n\n Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time? \n\n Yes, there are nearly always some there. \n\n Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band a speckled\nband? \n\n Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium,\nsometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to\nthese very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted\nhandkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have\nsuggested the strange adjective which she used. \n\nHolmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.\n\n These are very deep waters,  said he;  pray go on with your\nnarrative. \n\n Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately\nlonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have\nknown for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in\nmarriage. His name is Armitage Percy Armitage the second son of Mr.\nArmitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no\nopposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the\nspring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the\nbuilding, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to\nmove into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very\nbed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last\nnight, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly\nheard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the\nherald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was\nto be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however,\nso I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a\ndog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead,\nfrom whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing\nyou and asking your advice. \n\n You have done wisely,  said my friend.  But have you told me all? \n\n Yes, all. \n\n Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather. \n\n Why, what do you mean? \n\nFor answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the\nhand that lay upon our visitor s knee. Five little livid spots, the\nmarks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.\n\n You have been cruelly used,  said Holmes.\n\nThe lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist.  He is a\nhard man,  she said,  and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength. \n\nThere was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his\nhands and stared into the crackling fire.\n\n This is a very deep business,  he said at last.  There are a thousand\ndetails which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course\nof action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to\nStoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms\nwithout the knowledge of your stepfather? \n\n As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most\nimportant business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and\nthat there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now,\nbut she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way. \n\n Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson? \n\n By no means. \n\n Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself? \n\n I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in\ntown. But I shall return by the twelve o clock train, so as to be there\nin time for your coming. \n\n And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small\nbusiness matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast? \n\n No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my\ntrouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this\nafternoon.  She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided\nfrom the room.\n\n And what do you think of it all, Watson?  asked Sherlock Holmes,\nleaning back in his chair.\n\n It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business. \n\n Dark enough and sinister enough. \n\n Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are\nsound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her\nsister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious\nend. \n\n What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very\npeculiar words of the dying woman? \n\n I cannot think. \n\n When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a\nband of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the\nfact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an\ninterest in preventing his stepdaughter s marriage, the dying allusion\nto a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a\nmetallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars\nthat secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that\nthere is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along\nthose lines. \n\n But what, then, did the gipsies do? \n\n I cannot imagine. \n\n I see many objections to any such theory. \n\n And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to\nStoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,\nor if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil! \n\nThe ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our\ndoor had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed\nhimself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the\nprofessional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long\nfrock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in\nhis hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of\nthe doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to\nside. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with\nthe sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the\nother of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,\nfleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird\nof prey.\n\n Which of you is Holmes?  asked this apparition.\n\n My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,  said my companion\nquietly.\n\n I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. \n\n Indeed, Doctor,  said Holmes blandly.  Pray take a seat. \n\n I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have\ntraced her. What has she been saying to you? \n\n It is a little cold for the time of the year,  said Holmes.\n\n What has she been saying to you?  screamed the old man furiously.\n\n But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,  continued my\ncompanion imperturbably.\n\n Ha! You put me off, do you?  said our new visitor, taking a step\nforward and shaking his hunting-crop.  I know you, you scoundrel! I\nhave heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler. \n\nMy friend smiled.\n\n Holmes, the busybody! \n\nHis smile broadened.\n\n Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office! \n\nHolmes chuckled heartily.  Your conversation is most entertaining, \nsaid he.  When you go out close the door, for there is a decided\ndraught. \n\n I will go when I have had my say. Don t you dare to meddle with my\naffairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a\ndangerous man to fall foul of! See here.  He stepped swiftly forward,\nseized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.\n\n See that you keep yourself out of my grip,  he snarled, and hurling\nthe twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.\n\n He seems a very amiable person,  said Holmes, laughing.  I am not\nquite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my\ngrip was not much more feeble than his own.  As he spoke he picked up\nthe steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.\n\n Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official\ndetective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,\nhowever, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from\nher imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we\nshall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors \nCommons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this\nmatter. \n\nIt was nearly one o clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his\nexcursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over\nwith notes and figures.\n\n I have seen the will of the deceased wife,  said he.  To determine its\nexact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the\ninvestments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the\ntime of the wife s death was little short of   1,100, is now, through\nthe fall in agricultural prices, not more than   750. Each daughter can\nclaim an income of   250, in case of marriage. It is evident,\ntherefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a\nmere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very\nserious extent. My morning s work has not been wasted, since it has\nproved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way\nof anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for\ndawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting\nourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and\ndrive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your\nrevolver into your pocket. An Eley s No. 2 is an excellent argument\nwith gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a\ntooth-brush are, I think, all that we need. \n\nAt Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,\nwhere we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five\nmiles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a\nbright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and\nwayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the\nair was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least\nthere was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring\nand this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in\nthe front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his\neyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.\nSuddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed\nover the meadows.\n\n Look there!  said he.\n\nA heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into\na grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out\nthe grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.\n\n Stoke Moran?  said he.\n\n Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,  remarked the\ndriver.\n\n There is some building going on there,  said Holmes;  that is where we\nare going. \n\n There s the village,  said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs\nsome distance to the left;  but if you want to get to the house, you ll\nfind it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath over the\nfields. There it is, where the lady is walking. \n\n And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,  observed Holmes, shading his\neyes.  Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest. \n\nWe got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to\nLeatherhead.\n\n I thought it as well,  said Holmes as we climbed the stile,  that this\nfellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite\nbusiness. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see\nthat we have been as good as our word. \n\nOur client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face\nwhich spoke her joy.  I have been waiting so eagerly for you,  she\ncried, shaking hands with us warmly.  All has turned out splendidly.\nDr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back\nbefore evening. \n\n We have had the pleasure of making the Doctor s acquaintance,  said\nHolmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss\nStoner turned white to the lips as she listened.\n\n Good heavens!  she cried,  he has followed me, then. \n\n So it appears. \n\n He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will\nhe say when he returns? \n\n He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more\ncunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him\nto-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt s at\nHarrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us\nat once to the rooms which we are to examine. \n\nThe building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central\nportion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on\neach side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked\nwith wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of\nruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the\nright-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the\nwindows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that\nthis was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected\nagainst the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but\nthere were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes\nwalked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep\nattention the outsides of the windows.\n\n This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the\ncentre one to your sister s, and the one next to the main building to\nDr. Roylott s chamber? \n\n Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one. \n\n Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not\nseem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall. \n\n There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my\nroom. \n\n Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing\nruns the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows\nin it, of course? \n\n Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through. \n\n As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable\nfrom that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room\nand bar your shutters? \n\nMiss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the\nopen window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but\nwithout success. There was no slit through which a knife could be\npassed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but\nthey were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry.  Hum! \nsaid he, scratching his chin in some perplexity,  my theory certainly\npresents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they\nwere bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the\nmatter. \n\nA small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the\nthree bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so\nwe passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now\nsleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a\nhomely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after\nthe fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in\none corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a\ndressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,\nwith two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the\nroom save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round\nand the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old\nand discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of\nthe house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent,\nwhile his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in\nevery detail of the apartment.\n\n Where does that bell communicate with?  he asked at last pointing to a\nthick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually\nlying upon the pillow.\n\n It goes to the housekeeper s room. \n\n It looks newer than the other things? \n\n Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago. \n\n Your sister asked for it, I suppose? \n\n No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we\nwanted for ourselves. \n\n Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You\nwill excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this\nfloor.  He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand\nand crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks\nbetween the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which\nthe chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent\nsome time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall.\nFinally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.\n\n Why, it s a dummy,  said he.\n\n Won t it ring? \n\n No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You\ncan see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little\nopening for the ventilator is. \n\n How very absurd! I never noticed that before. \n\n Very strange!  muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope.  There are one or\ntwo very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a\nbuilder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the\nsame trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air! \n\n That is also quite modern,  said the lady.\n\n Done about the same time as the bell-rope?  remarked Holmes.\n\n Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time. \n\n They seem to have been of a most interesting character dummy\nbell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your\npermission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the\ninner apartment. \n\nDr. Grimesby Roylott s chamber was larger than that of his\nstep-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden\nshelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair\nbeside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table,\nand a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye.\nHolmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the\nkeenest interest.\n\n What s in here?  he asked, tapping the safe.\n\n My stepfather s business papers. \n\n Oh! you have seen inside, then? \n\n Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers. \n\n There isn t a cat in it, for example? \n\n No. What a strange idea! \n\n Well, look at this!  He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on\nthe top of it.\n\n No; we don t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon. \n\n Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a\nsaucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay.\nThere is one point which I should wish to determine.  He squatted down\nin front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the\ngreatest attention.\n\n Thank you. That is quite settled,  said he, rising and putting his\nlens in his pocket.  Hullo! Here is something interesting! \n\nThe object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one\ncorner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied\nso as to make a loop of whipcord.\n\n What do you make of that, Watson? \n\n It s a common enough lash. But I don t know why it should be tied. \n\n That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it s a wicked world, and\nwhen a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I\nthink that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your\npermission we shall walk out upon the lawn. \n\nI had never seen my friend s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was\nwhen we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked\nseveral times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself\nliking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his\nreverie.\n\n It is very essential, Miss Stoner,  said he,  that you should\nabsolutely follow my advice in every respect. \n\n I shall most certainly do so. \n\n The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend\nupon your compliance. \n\n I assure you that I am in your hands. \n\n In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your\nroom. \n\nBoth Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.\n\n Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village\ninn over there? \n\n Yes, that is the Crown. \n\n Very good. Your windows would be visible from there? \n\n Certainly. \n\n You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,\nwhen your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the\nnight, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put\nyour lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with\neverything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to\noccupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage\nthere for one night. \n\n Oh, yes, easily. \n\n The rest you will leave in our hands. \n\n But what will you do? \n\n We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the\ncause of this noise which has disturbed you. \n\n I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,  said\nMiss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion s sleeve.\n\n Perhaps I have. \n\n Then, for pity s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister s\ndeath. \n\n I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak. \n\n You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she\ndied from some sudden fright. \n\n No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more\ntangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.\nRoylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and\nbe brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured\nthat we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you. \n\nSherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and\nsitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from\nour window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the\ninhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby\nRoylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure\nof the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing\nthe heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the Doctor s\nvoice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him.\nThe trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring\nup among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.\n\n Do you know, Watson,  said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering\ndarkness,  I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There\nis a distinct element of danger. \n\n Can I be of assistance? \n\n Your presence might be invaluable. \n\n Then I shall certainly come. \n\n It is very kind of you. \n\n You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than\nwas visible to me. \n\n No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that\nyou saw all that I did. \n\n I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that\ncould answer I confess is more than I can imagine. \n\n You saw the ventilator, too? \n\n Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a\nsmall opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could\nhardly pass through. \n\n I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke\nMoran. \n\n My dear Holmes! \n\n Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister\ncould smell Dr. Roylott s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once\nthat there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only\nbe a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner s\ninquiry. I deduced a ventilator. \n\n But what harm can there be in that? \n\n Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator\nis made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does\nnot that strike you? \n\n I cannot as yet see any connection. \n\n Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed? \n\n No. \n\n It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that\nbefore? \n\n I cannot say that I have. \n\n The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same\nrelative position to the ventilator and to the rope or so we may call\nit, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull. \n\n Holmes,  I cried,  I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are\nonly just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime. \n\n Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is\nthe first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and\nPritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes\neven deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike\ndeeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is\nover; for goodness  sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds\nfor a few hours to something more cheerful. \n\nAbout nine o clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all\nwas dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly\naway, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright\nlight shone out right in front of us.\n\n That is our signal,  said Holmes, springing to his feet;  it comes\nfrom the middle window. \n\nAs we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining\nthat we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was\npossible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were\nout on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow\nlight twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our\nsombre errand.\n\nThere was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired\nbreaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we\nreached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the\nwindow when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed\nto be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass\nwith writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the\ndarkness.\n\n My God!  I whispered;  did you see it? \n\nHolmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice\nupon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put\nhis lips to my ear.\n\n It is a nice household,  he murmured.  That is the baboon. \n\nI had forgotten the strange pets which the Doctor affected. There was a\ncheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any\nmoment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following\nHolmes  example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the\nbedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp\nonto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had\nseen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of\nhis hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that\nI could do to distinguish the words:\n\n The least sound would be fatal to our plans. \n\nI nodded to show that I had heard.\n\n We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator. \n\nI nodded again.\n\n Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol\nready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and\nyou in that chair. \n\nI took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.\n\nHolmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed\nbeside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle.\nThen he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.\n\nHow shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound,\nnot even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat\nopen-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous\ntension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of\nlight, and we waited in absolute darkness.\n\nFrom outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our\nvery window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah\nwas indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the\nparish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they\nseemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and\nstill we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.\n\nSuddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction\nof the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a\nstrong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room\nhad lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then\nall was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an\nhour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became\naudible a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of\nsteam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it,\nHolmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with\nhis cane at the bell-pull.\n\n You see it, Watson?  he yelled.  You see it? \n\nBut I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a\nlow, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes\nmade it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed\nso savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and\nfilled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing\nup at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the\nnight the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled\nup louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all\nmingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the\nvillage, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the\nsleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood\ngazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died\naway into the silence from which it rose.\n\n What can it mean?  I gasped.\n\n It means that it is all over,  Holmes answered.  And perhaps, after\nall, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.\nRoylott s room. \n\nWith a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.\nTwice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then\nhe turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked\npistol in my hand.\n\nIt was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a\ndark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of\nlight upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this\ntable, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long\ngrey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet\nthrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short\nstock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin\nwas cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at\nthe corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow\nband, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round\nhis head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.\n\n The band! the speckled band!  whispered Holmes.\n\nI took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to\nmove, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat\ndiamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.\n\n It is a swamp adder!  cried Holmes;  the deadliest snake in India. He\nhas died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth,\nrecoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he\ndigs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we\ncan then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county\npolice know what has happened. \n\nAs he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man s lap, and\nthrowing the noose round the reptile s neck he drew it from its horrid\nperch and, carrying it at arm s length, threw it into the iron safe,\nwhich he closed upon it.\n\nSuch are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke\nMoran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has\nalready run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news\nto the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the\ncare of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official\ninquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while\nindiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet\nto learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled\nback next day.\n\n I had,  said he,  come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which\nshows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from\ninsufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word\n band,  which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the\nappearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of\nher match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I\ncan only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position\nwhen, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an\noccupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door.\nMy attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to\nthis ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The\ndiscovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the\nfloor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as\na bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed.\nThe idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it\nwith my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of\ncreatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track.\nThe idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be\ndiscovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a\nclever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity\nwith which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point\nof view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who\ncould distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where\nthe poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of\ncourse he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to\nthe victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we\nsaw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this\nventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it\nwould crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not\nbite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but\nsooner or later she must fall a victim.\n\n I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An\ninspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of\nstanding on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he\nshould reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk,\nand the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which\nmay have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was\nobviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe\nupon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the\nsteps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the\ncreature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit\nthe light and attacked it. \n\n With the result of driving it through the ventilator. \n\n And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the\nother side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its\nsnakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this\nway I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott s\ndeath, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my\nconscience. \n\n\n\n\nIX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER S THUMB\n\n\nOf all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr.\nSherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there\nwere only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice that\nof Mr. Hatherley s thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton s madness. Of\nthese the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute and\noriginal observer, but the other was so strange in its inception and so\ndramatic in its details that it may be the more worthy of being placed\nupon record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for those\ndeductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable\nresults. The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the\nnewspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less\nstriking when set forth _en bloc_ in a single half-column of print than\nwhen the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery\nclears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which\nleads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a\ndeep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served\nto weaken the effect.\n\nIt was in the summer of  89, not long after my marriage, that the\nevents occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to\ncivil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street\nrooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even\npersuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit\nus. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no\nvery great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from\namong the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and\nlingering disease, was never weary of advertising my virtues and of\nendeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might have any\ninfluence.\n\nOne morning, at a little before seven o clock, I was awakened by the\nmaid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from\nPaddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed\nhurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom\ntrivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the\nguard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.\n\n I ve got him here,  he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder;\n he s all right. \n\n What is it, then?  I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some\nstrange creature which he had caged up in my room.\n\n It s a new patient,  he whispered.  I thought I d bring him round\nmyself; then he couldn t slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I\nmust go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you.  And off\nhe went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank him.\n\nI entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table.\nHe was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap\nwhich he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a\nhandkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He\nwas young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong,\nmasculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression\nof a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took\nall his strength of mind to control.\n\n I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,  said he,  but I have had\na very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this\nmorning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a\ndoctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a\ncard, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table. \n\nI took it up and glanced at it.  Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic\nengineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor).  That was the name, style,\nand abode of my morning visitor.  I regret that I have kept you\nwaiting,  said I, sitting down in my library-chair.  You are fresh from\na night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous\noccupation. \n\n Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,  said he, and laughed. He\nlaughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his\nchair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against\nthat laugh.\n\n Stop it!  I cried;  pull yourself together!  and I poured out some\nwater from a caraffe.\n\nIt was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical\noutbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is\nover and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and\npale-looking.\n\n I have been making a fool of myself,  he gasped.\n\n Not at all. Drink this.  I dashed some brandy into the water, and the\ncolour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.\n\n That s better!  said he.  And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly\nattend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be. \n\nHe unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my\nhardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding\nfingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have\nbeen. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.\n\n Good heavens!  I cried,  this is a terrible injury. It must have bled\nconsiderably. \n\n Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have\nbeen senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was\nstill bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round\nthe wrist and braced it up with a twig. \n\n Excellent! You should have been a surgeon. \n\n It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own\nprovince. \n\n This has been done,  said I, examining the wound,  by a very heavy and\nsharp instrument. \n\n A thing like a cleaver,  said he.\n\n An accident, I presume? \n\n By no means. \n\n What! a murderous attack? \n\n Very murderous indeed. \n\n You horrify me. \n\nI sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it\nover with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without\nwincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.\n\n How is that?  I asked when I had finished.\n\n Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was\nvery weak, but I have had a good deal to go through. \n\n Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying\nto your nerves. \n\n Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but,\nbetween ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this\nwound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for\nit is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof\nwith which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which\nI can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will\nbe done. \n\n Ha!  cried I,  if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you\ndesire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my\nfriend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police. \n\n Oh, I have heard of that fellow,  answered my visitor,  and I should\nbe very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must\nuse the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to\nhim? \n\n I ll do better. I ll take you round to him myself. \n\n I should be immensely obliged to you. \n\n We ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a\nlittle breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it? \n\n Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story. \n\n Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an\ninstant.  I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife,\nand in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new\nacquaintance to Baker Street.\n\nSherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in\nhis dressing-gown, reading the agony column of _The Times_ and smoking\nhis before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and\ndottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and\ncollected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his\nquietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us\nin a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance\nupon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of\nbrandy and water within his reach.\n\n It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr.\nHatherley,  said he.  Pray, lie down there and make yourself absolutely\nat home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep up\nyour strength with a little stimulant. \n\n Thank you,  said my patient,  but I have felt another man since the\ndoctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the\ncure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I\nshall start at once upon my peculiar experiences. \n\nHolmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded expression\nwhich veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him,\nand we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor\ndetailed to us.\n\n You must know,  said he,  that I am an orphan and a bachelor, residing\nalone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engineer,\nand I have had considerable experience of my work during the seven\nyears that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm,\nof Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time, and having also\ncome into a fair sum of money through my poor father s death, I\ndetermined to start in business for myself and took professional\nchambers in Victoria Street.\n\n I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business\na dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so. During two\nyears I have had three consultations and one small job, and that is\nabsolutely all that my profession has brought me. My gross takings\namount to   27 10_s_. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in\nthe afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began\nto sink, and I came to believe that I should never have any practice at\nall.\n\n Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my\nclerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me\nupon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of  Colonel\nLysander Stark  engraved upon it. Close at his heels came the colonel\nhimself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an exceeding\nthinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His whole\nface sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was\ndrawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation\nseemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was\nbright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but\nneatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than\nthirty.\n\n Mr. Hatherley?  said he, with something of a German accent.  You have\nbeen recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only\nproficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of\npreserving a secret. \n\n I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an\naddress.  May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character? \n\n Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at\nthis moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an orphan\nand a bachelor and are residing alone in London. \n\n That is quite correct,  I answered;  but you will excuse me if I say\nthat I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional\nqualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter that\nyou wished to speak to me? \n\n Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the\npoint. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy\nis quite essential absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we\nmay expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who lives in\nthe bosom of his family. \n\n If I promise to keep a secret,  said I,  you may absolutely depend\nupon my doing so. \n\n He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had\nnever seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.\n\n Do you promise, then?  said he at last.\n\n Yes, I promise. \n\n Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No reference\nto the matter at all, either in word or writing? \n\n I have already given you my word. \n\n Very good.  He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across\nthe room he flung open the door. The passage outside was empty.\n\n That s all right,  said he, coming back.  I know that clerks are\nsometimes curious as to their master s affairs. Now we can talk in\nsafety.  He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare at\nme again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.\n\n A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to\nrise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my\ndread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my\nimpatience.\n\n I beg that you will state your business, sir,  said I;  my time is of\nvalue.  Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to\nmy lips.\n\n How would fifty guineas for a night s work suit you?  he asked.\n\n Most admirably. \n\n I say a night s work, but an hour s would be nearer the mark. I\nsimply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has\ngot out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it\nright ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that? \n\n The work appears to be light and the pay munificent. \n\n Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train. \n\n Where to? \n\n To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of\nOxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from\nPaddington which would bring you there at about 11:15. \n\n Very good. \n\n I shall come down in a carriage to meet you. \n\n There is a drive, then? \n\n Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven\nmiles from Eyford Station. \n\n Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would\nbe no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night. \n\n Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down. \n\n That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient hour? \n\n We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to recompense\nyou for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a young and\nunknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very heads of\nyour profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw out of the\nbusiness, there is plenty of time to do so. \n\n I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be\nto me.  Not at all,  said I,  I shall be very happy to accommodate\nmyself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little\nmore clearly what it is that you wish me to do. \n\n Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we have\nexacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to\ncommit you to anything without your having it all laid before you. I\nsuppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers? \n\n Entirely. \n\n Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that\nfuller s-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in one\nor two places in England? \n\n I have heard so. \n\n Some little time ago I bought a small place a very small place within\nten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that there was\na deposit of fuller s-earth in one of my fields. On examining it,\nhowever, I found that this deposit was a comparatively small one, and\nthat it formed a link between two very much larger ones upon the right\nand left both of them, however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These\ngood people were absolutely ignorant that their land contained that\nwhich was quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my\ninterest to buy their land before they discovered its true value, but\nunfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few\nof my friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we\nshould quietly and secretly work our own little deposit and that in\nthis way we should earn the money which would enable us to buy the\nneighbouring fields. This we have now been doing for some time, and in\norder to help us in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This\npress, as I have already explained, has got out of order, and we wish\nyour advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very jealously,\nhowever, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers\ncoming to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if\nthe facts came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these\nfields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise\nme that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford\nto-night. I hope that I make it all plain? \n\n I quite follow you,  said I.  The only point which I could not quite\nunderstand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in\nexcavating fuller s-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like\ngravel from a pit. \n\n Ah!  said he carelessly,  we have our own process. We compress the\nearth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they\nare. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my\nconfidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you. \nHe rose as he spoke.  I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11:15. \n\n I shall certainly be there. \n\n And not a word to a soul.  He looked at me with a last long,\nquestioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he\nhurried from the room.\n\n Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much\nastonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which had\nbeen intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for the\nfee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a price\nupon my own services, and it was possible that this order might lead to\nother ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my patron had\nmade an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not think that his\nexplanation of the fuller s-earth was sufficient to explain the\nnecessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I\nshould tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the\nwinds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off,\nhaving obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue.\n\n At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station.\nHowever, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached the\nlittle dim-lit station after eleven o clock. I was the only passenger\nwho got out there, and there was no one upon the platform save a single\nsleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through the wicket gate,\nhowever, I found my acquaintance of the morning waiting in the shadow\nupon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm and hurried me\ninto a carriage, the door of which was standing open. He drew up the\nwindows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as\nfast as the horse could go. \n\n One horse?  interjected Holmes.\n\n Yes, only one. \n\n Did you observe the colour? \n\n Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the\ncarriage. It was a chestnut. \n\n Tired-looking or fresh? \n\n Oh, fresh and glossy. \n\n Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your most\ninteresting statement. \n\n Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander\nStark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should think, from\nthe rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it\nmust have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the\ntime, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction,\nthat he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem\nto be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and\njolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of\nwhere we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make\nout nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and\nthen I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but\nthe colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon\nflagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for\nthe crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a\nstand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him,\npulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped,\nas it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I\nfailed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The\ninstant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily\nbehind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage\ndrove away.\n\n It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about\nlooking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door\nopened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light\nshot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a\nlamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face\nforward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from\nthe gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it\nwas a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a\ntone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a\ngruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from\nher hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear,\nand then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he\nwalked towards me again with the lamp in his hand.\n\n Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few\nminutes,  said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little,\nplainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which\nseveral German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp\non the top of a harmonium beside the door.  I shall not keep you\nwaiting an instant,  said he, and vanished into the darkness.\n\n I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of\nGerman I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the\nothers being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window,\nhoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak\nshutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully\nsilent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the\npassage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of\nuneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and\nwhat were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And\nwhere was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I\nknew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that\nmatter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that\nradius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was\nquite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the\ncountry. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath\nto keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my\nfifty-guinea fee.\n\n Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter\nstillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was\nstanding in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the\nyellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I\ncould see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a\nchill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be\nsilent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her\neyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom\nbehind her.\n\n I would go,  said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak\ncalmly;  I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you\nto do. \n\n But, madam,  said I,  I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot\npossibly leave until I have seen the machine. \n\n It is not worth your while to wait,  she went on.  You can pass\nthrough the door; no one hinders.  And then, seeing that I smiled and\nshook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step\nforward, with her hands wrung together.  For the love of Heaven!  she\nwhispered,  get away from here before it is too late! \n\n But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage\nin an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my\nfifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night\nwhich seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should\nI slink away without having carried out my commission, and without the\npayment which was my due? This woman might, for all I knew, be a\nmonomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had\nshaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head and\ndeclared my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to renew\nher entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several\nfootsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw\nup her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and as\nnoiselessly as she had come.\n\n The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with a\nchinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who was\nintroduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.\n\n This is my secretary and manager,  said the colonel.  By the way, I\nwas under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear\nthat you have felt the draught. \n\n On the contrary,  said I,  I opened the door myself because I felt\nthe room to be a little close. \n\n He shot one of his suspicious looks at me.  Perhaps we had better\nproceed to business, then,  said he.  Mr. Ferguson and I will take you\nup to see the machine. \n\n I had better put my hat on, I suppose. \n\n Oh, no, it is in the house. \n\n What, you dig fuller s-earth in the house? \n\n No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All\nwe wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what is\nwrong with it. \n\n We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat\nmanager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with\ncorridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors,\nthe thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had\ncrossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture above\nthe ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls, and the\ndamp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put\non as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not forgotten the\nwarnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen\neye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent\nman, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at least\na fellow-countryman.\n\n Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he\nunlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us\ncould hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the\ncolonel ushered me in.\n\n We are now,  said he,  actually within the hydraulic press, and it\nwould be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn\nit on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the\ndescending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons upon\nthis metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside\nwhich receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it in the\nmanner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily enough, but\nthere is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little\nof its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over and to\nshow us how we can set it right. \n\n I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly.\nIt was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising enormous\npressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down the levers\nwhich controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound that there\nwas a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of water through\none of the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of the\nindia-rubber bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk\nso as not quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This was\nclearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my\ncompanions, who followed my remarks very carefully and asked several\npractical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When\nI had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the\nmachine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was\nobvious at a glance that the story of the fuller s-earth was the merest\nfabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an\nengine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose. The walls were of\nwood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I came\nto examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I\nhad stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I\nheard a muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of\nthe colonel looking down at me.\n\n What are you doing there?  he asked.\n\n I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that\nwhich he had told me.  I was admiring your fuller s-earth,  said I;  I\nthink that I should be better able to advise you as to your machine if\nI knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used. \n\n The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my\nspeech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey\neyes.\n\n Very well,  said he,  you shall know all about the machine.  He took\na step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the\nlock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite\nsecure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves.  Hullo! \nI yelled.  Hullo! Colonel! Let me out! \n\n And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart\ninto my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the\nleaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood\nupon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By its\nlight I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me, slowly,\njerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force which must\nwithin a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself,\nscreaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I\nimplored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the\nlevers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my\nhead, and with my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface.\nThen it flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend\nvery much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my face the\nweight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that\ndreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve\nto lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me?\nAlready I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something which\nbrought a gush of hope back to my heart.\n\n I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the walls\nwere of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line\nof yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened and\nbroadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I could\nhardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from death.\nThe next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting upon the\nother side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of the\nlamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal,\ntold me how narrow had been my escape.\n\n I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I\nfound myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a\nwoman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she held\na candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had\nso foolishly rejected.\n\n Come! come!  she cried breathlessly.  They will be here in a moment.\nThey will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious\ntime, but come! \n\n This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my\nfeet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The\nlatter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we heard\nthe sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one answering\nthe other from the floor on which  we were and from the one beneath. My\nguide stopped and looked about her like one  who is at her wit s end.\nThen she threw open a door which led into a bedroom, through the window\nof which the moon was shining brightly.\n\n It is your only chance,  said she.  It is high, but it may be that\nyou can jump it. \n\n As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the\npassage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing\nforward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher s\ncleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the\nwindow, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden\nlooked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet\ndown. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I\nshould have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who\npursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to\ngo back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my\nmind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw\nher arms round him and tried to hold him back.\n\n Fritz! Fritz!  she cried in English,  remember your promise after the\nlast time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he\nwill be silent! \n\n You are mad, Elise!  he shouted, struggling to break away from her.\n You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say! \nHe dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with\nhis heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the hands to\nthe sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip\nloosened, and I fell into the garden below.\n\n I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and\nrushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood\nthat I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I\nran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at my\nhand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time, saw\nthat my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from my\nwound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came a\nsudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among\nthe rose-bushes.\n\n How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a\nvery long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was\nbreaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew,\nand my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The\nsmarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my night s\nadventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might hardly\nyet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when I came to\nlook round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen. I had been\nlying in an angle of the hedge close by the high road, and just a little\nlower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it,\nto be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night.\nWere it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during\nthose dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.\n\n Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train.\nThere would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was\non duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him\nwhether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was\nstrange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for\nme? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was\none about three miles off.\n\n It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to\nwait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It\nwas a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound\ndressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I\nput the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you advise. \n\nWe both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this\nextraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the\nshelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his\ncuttings.\n\n Here is an advertisement which will interest you,  said he.  It\nappeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:  Lost, on\nthe 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic\nengineer. Left his lodgings at ten o clock at night, and has not been\nheard of since. Was dressed in,  etc., etc. Ha! That represents the\nlast time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I\nfancy. \n\n Good heavens!  cried my patient.  Then that explains what the girl\nsaid. \n\n Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and\ndesperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand\nin the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will\nleave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is\nprecious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard\nat once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford. \n\nSome three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together,\nbound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock\nHolmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard,\na plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map\nof the county out upon the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing\na circle with Eyford for its centre.\n\n There you are,  said he.  That circle is drawn at a radius of ten\nmiles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that\nline. You said ten miles, I think, sir. \n\n It was an hour s good drive. \n\n And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were\nunconscious? \n\n They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been\nlifted and conveyed somewhere. \n\n What I cannot understand,  said I,  is why they should have spared you\nwhen they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain\nwas softened by the woman s entreaties. \n\n I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my\nlife. \n\n Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,  said Bradstreet.  Well, I have\ndrawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk\nthat we are in search of are to be found. \n\n I think I could lay my finger on it,  said Holmes quietly.\n\n Really, now!  cried the inspector,  you have formed your opinion!\nCome, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the\ncountry is more deserted there. \n\n And I say east,  said my patient.\n\n I am for west,  remarked the plain-clothes man.  There are several\nquiet little villages up there. \n\n And I am for north,  said I,  because there are no hills there, and\nour friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any. \n\n Come,  cried the inspector, laughing;  it s a very pretty diversity of\nopinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your\ncasting vote to? \n\n You are all wrong. \n\n But we can t all be. \n\n Oh, yes, you can. This is my point.  He placed his finger in the\ncentre of the circle.  This is where we shall find them. \n\n But the twelve-mile drive?  gasped Hatherley.\n\n Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse\nwas fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had\ngone twelve miles over heavy roads? \n\n Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough,  observed Bradstreet thoughtfully.\n Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this gang. \n\n None at all,  said Holmes.  They are coiners on a large scale, and\nhave used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of\nsilver. \n\n We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,  said the\ninspector.  They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We\neven traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they\nhad covered their traces in a way that showed that they were very old\nhands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that we have got\nthem right enough. \n\nBut the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined\nto fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we\nsaw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small\nclump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense ostrich\nfeather over the landscape.\n\n A house on fire?  asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on\nits way.\n\n Yes, sir!  said the station-master.\n\n When did it break out? \n\n I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and\nthe whole place is in a blaze. \n\n Whose house is it? \n\n Dr. Becher s. \n\n Tell me,  broke in the engineer,  is Dr. Becher a German, very thin,\nwith a long, sharp nose? \n\nThe station-master laughed heartily.  No, sir, Dr. Becher is an\nEnglishman, and there isn t a man in the parish who has a better-lined\nwaistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I\nunderstand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good\nBerkshire beef would do him no harm. \n\nThe station-master had not finished his speech before we were all\nhastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and\nthere was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us,\nspouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front\nthree fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.\n\n That s it!  cried Hatherley, in intense excitement.  There is the\ngravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second\nwindow is the one that I jumped from. \n\n Well, at least,  said Holmes,  you have had your revenge upon them.\nThere can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was\ncrushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt\nthey were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time.\nNow keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night,\nthough I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now. \n\nAnd Holmes  fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no\nword has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister\nGerman, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met\na cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving\nrapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the\nfugitives disappeared, and even Holmes  ingenuity failed ever to\ndiscover the least clue as to their whereabouts.\n\nThe firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which\nthey had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed\nhuman thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset,\nhowever, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the\nflames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been\nreduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and\niron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our\nunfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin\nwere discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found,\nwhich may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have\nbeen already referred to.\n\nHow our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the\nspot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a\nmystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain\ntale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom\nhad remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the\nwhole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold\nor less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear\nthe unconscious man out of the way of danger.\n\n Well,  said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once\nmore to London,  it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my\nthumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained? \n\n Experience,  said Holmes, laughing.  Indirectly it may be of value,\nyou know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of\nbeing excellent company for the remainder of your existence. \n\n\n\n\nX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR\n\n\nThe Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long\nceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which\nthe unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and\ntheir more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this\nfour-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the\nfull facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my\nfriend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter\nup, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little\nsketch of this remarkable episode.\n\nIt was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was\nstill sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from\nan afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I\nhad remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn\nto rain, with high autumnal winds, and the jezail bullet which I had\nbrought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign\nthrobbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my\nlegs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers\nuntil at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all\naside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the\nenvelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend s noble\ncorrespondent could be.\n\n Here is a very fashionable epistle,  I remarked as he entered.  Your\nmorning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a\ntide-waiter. \n\n Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,  he\nanswered, smiling,  and the humbler are usually the more interesting.\nThis looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon\na man either to be bored or to lie. \n\nHe broke the seal and glanced over the contents.\n\n Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all. \n\n Not social, then? \n\n No, distinctly professional. \n\n And from a noble client? \n\n One of the highest in England. \n\n My dear fellow, I congratulate you. \n\n I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my\nclient is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case.\nIt is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this\nnew investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late,\nhave you not? \n\n It looks like it,  said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the\ncorner.  I have had nothing else to do. \n\n It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read\nnothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is\nalways instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely\nyou must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding? \n\n Oh, yes, with the deepest interest. \n\n That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St.\nSimon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these\npapers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he\nsays:\n\n     MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, Lord Backwater tells me that I may\n    place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have\n    determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in\n    reference to the very painful event which has occurred in\n    connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is\n    acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no\n    objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that it\n    might be of some assistance. I will call at four o clock in the\n    afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that time,\n    I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of paramount\n    importance. Yours faithfully,\n\n\n     ROBERT ST. SIMON. \n\n\n It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the\nnoble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer\nside of his right little finger,  remarked Holmes as he folded up the\nepistle.\n\n He says four o clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour. \n\n Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the\nsubject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order\nof time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.  He picked a\nred-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the\nmantelpiece.  Here he is,  said he, sitting down and flattening it out\nupon his knee.  Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son\nof the Duke of Balmoral.  Hum!  Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief\nover a fess sable. Born in 1846.  He s forty-one years of age, which is\nmature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late\nadministration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for\nForeign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and\nTudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive\nin all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more\nsolid. \n\n I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,  said I,  for\nthe facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I\nfeared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry\non hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters. \n\n Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van.\nThat is quite cleared up now though, indeed, it was obvious from the\nfirst. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections. \n\n Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal\ncolumn of the _Morning Post_, and dates, as you see, some weeks back:\n A marriage has been arranged,  it says,  and will, if rumour is\ncorrect, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second\nson of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of\nAloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.  That is all. \n\n Terse and to the point,  remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin\nlegs towards the fire.\n\n There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of\nthe same week. Ah, here it is:  There will soon be a call for\nprotection in the marriage  market, for the present free-trade\nprinciple appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one\nthe management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the\nhands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important\naddition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes\nwhich have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon,\nwho has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little\ngod s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage\nwith Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California\nmillionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face\nattracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only\nchild, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to\nconsiderably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future. As\nit is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to\nsell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has\nno property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is\nobvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an\nalliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition\nfrom a Republican lady to a British peeress. \n\n Anything else?  asked Holmes, yawning.\n\n Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the _Morning Post_ to\nsay that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would\nbe at St. George s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate\nfriends would be invited, and that the party would return to the\nfurnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius\nDoran. Two days later that is, on Wednesday last there is a curt\nannouncement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honeymoon\nwould be passed at Lord Backwater s place, near Petersfield. Those are\nall the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride. \n\n Before the what?  asked Holmes with a start.\n\n The vanishing of the lady. \n\n When did she vanish, then? \n\n At the wedding breakfast. \n\n Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite\ndramatic, in fact. \n\n Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common. \n\n They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the\nhoneymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this.\nPray let me have the details. \n\n I warn you that they are very incomplete. \n\n Perhaps we may make them less so. \n\n Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning\npaper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed,  Singular\nOccurrence at a Fashionable Wedding :\n\n The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the greatest\nconsternation by the strange and painful episodes which have taken\nplace in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly\nannounced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning;\nbut it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange\nrumours which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of the\nattempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public attention\nhas now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served by\naffecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation.\n\n The ceremony, which was performed at St. George s, Hanover Square,\nwas a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the\nbride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater,\nLord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister\nof the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party\nproceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster\nGate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little\ntrouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who\nendeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal party,\nalleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after\na painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and\nthe footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before\nthis unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest,\nwhen she complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her room.\nHer prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed\nher, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber\nfor an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the\npassage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the\nhouse thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his\nmistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that\nhis daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with\nthe bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the\npolice, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will\nprobably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business.\nUp to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the\nwhereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the\nmatter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the\nwoman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from\njealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the\nstrange disappearance of the bride. \n\n And is that all? \n\n Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a\nsuggestive one. \n\n And it is \n\n That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has\nactually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a _danseuse_\nat the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years.\nThere are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands\nnow so far as it has been set forth in the public press. \n\n And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have\nmissed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as\nthe clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this\nwill prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I\nvery much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own\nmemory. \n\n Lord Robert St. Simon,  announced our page-boy, throwing open the\ndoor. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed\nand pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with\nthe steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever\nbeen to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his\ngeneral appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight\nforward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair,\ntoo, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the\nedges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the\nverge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white\nwaistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured\ngaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left\nto right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden\neyeglasses.\n\n Good-day, Lord St. Simon,  said Holmes, rising and bowing.  Pray take\nthe basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up\na little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over. \n\n A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.\nHolmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have\nalready managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I\npresume that they were hardly from the same class of society. \n\n No, I am descending. \n\n I beg pardon. \n\n My last client of the sort was a king. \n\n Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king? \n\n The King of Scandinavia. \n\n What! Had he lost his wife? \n\n You can understand,  said Holmes suavely,  that I extend to the\naffairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in\nyours. \n\n Of course! Very right! very right! I m sure I beg pardon. As to my own\ncase, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in\nforming an opinion. \n\n Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,\nnothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct this article, for\nexample, as to the disappearance of the bride. \n\nLord St. Simon glanced over it.  Yes, it is correct, as far as it\ngoes. \n\n But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer\nan opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by\nquestioning you. \n\n Pray do so. \n\n When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran? \n\n In San Francisco, a year ago. \n\n You were travelling in the States? \n\n Yes. \n\n Did you become engaged then? \n\n No. \n\n But you were on a friendly footing? \n\n I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused. \n\n Her father is very rich? \n\n He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope. \n\n And how did he make his money? \n\n In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,\ninvested it, and came up by leaps and bounds. \n\n Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady s your wife s\ncharacter? \n\nThe nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the\nfire.  You see, Mr. Holmes,  said he,  my wife was twenty before her\nfather became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining\ncamp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has\ncome from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call\nin England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by\nany sort of traditions. She is impetuous volcanic, I was about to say.\nShe is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her\nresolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the name\nwhich I have the honour to bear he gave a little stately cough had I\nnot thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is\ncapable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would\nbe repugnant to her. \n\n Have you her photograph? \n\n I brought this with me.  He opened a locket and showed us the full\nface of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory\nminiature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the\nlustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.\nHolmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and\nhanded it back to Lord St. Simon.\n\n The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your\nacquaintance? \n\n Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met\nher several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her. \n\n She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry? \n\n A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family. \n\n And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a _fait\naccompli_? \n\n I really have made no inquiries on the subject. \n\n Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the\nwedding? \n\n Yes. \n\n Was she in good spirits? \n\n Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future\nlives. \n\n Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding? \n\n She was as bright as possible at least until after the ceremony. \n\n And did you observe any change in her then? \n\n Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever\nseen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however, was\ntoo trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the case. \n\n Pray let us have it, for all that. \n\n Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the\nvestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over\ninto the pew. There was a moment s delay, but the gentleman in the pew\nhanded it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse for\nthe fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me\nabruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly\nagitated over this trifling cause. \n\n Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the\ngeneral public were present, then? \n\n Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open. \n\n This gentleman was not one of your wife s friends? \n\n No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a\ncommon-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I\nthink that we are wandering rather far from the point. \n\n Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful\nframe of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering\nher father s house? \n\n I saw her in conversation with her maid. \n\n And who is her maid? \n\n Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with\nher. \n\n A confidential servant? \n\n A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to\ntake great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these\nthings in a different way. \n\n How long did she speak to this Alice? \n\n Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of. \n\n You did not overhear what they said? \n\n Lady St. Simon said something about  jumping a claim.  She was\naccustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant. \n\n American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do\nwhen she finished speaking to her maid? \n\n She walked into the breakfast-room. \n\n On your arm? \n\n No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then,\nafter we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly,\nmuttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came\nback. \n\n But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her\nroom, covered her bride s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet,\nand went out. \n\n Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in\ncompany with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had\nalready made a disturbance at Mr. Doran s house that morning. \n\n Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and\nyour relations to her. \n\nLord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.  We have\nbeen on a friendly footing for some years I may say on a _very_\nfriendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her\nungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but\nyou know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but\nexceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me\ndreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to\ntell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly\nwas that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came\nto Mr. Doran s door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to push\nher way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even\nthreatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the\nsort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon\npushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good\nin making a row. \n\n Did your wife hear all this? \n\n No, thank goodness, she did not. \n\n And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards? \n\n Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so\nserious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some\nterrible trap for her. \n\n Well, it is a possible supposition. \n\n You think so, too? \n\n I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this\nas likely? \n\n I do not think Flora would hurt a fly. \n\n Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is\nyour own theory as to what took place? \n\n Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have\ngiven you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it\nhas occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the\nconsciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the\neffect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife. \n\n In short, that she had become suddenly deranged? \n\n Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back I will not\nsay upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without\nsuccess I can hardly explain it in any other fashion. \n\n Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,  said Holmes,\nsmiling.  And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my\ndata. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that\nyou could see out of the window? \n\n We could see the other side of the road and the Park. \n\n Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I\nshall communicate with you. \n\n Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,  said our\nclient, rising.\n\n I have solved it. \n\n Eh? What was that? \n\n I say that I have solved it. \n\n Where, then, is my wife? \n\n That is a detail which I shall speedily supply. \n\nLord St. Simon shook his head.  I am afraid that it will take wiser\nheads than yours or mine,  he remarked, and bowing in a stately,\nold-fashioned manner he departed.\n\n It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a\nlevel with his own,  said Sherlock Holmes, laughing.  I think that I\nshall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this\ncross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before\nour client came into the room. \n\n My dear Holmes! \n\n I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked\nbefore, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to turn\nmy conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally\nvery convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote\nThoreau s example. \n\n But I have heard all that you have heard. \n\n Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me\nso well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and\nsomething on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the\nFranco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases but, hullo, here is\nLestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon\nthe sideboard, and there are cigars in the box. \n\nThe official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which\ngave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas\nbag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the\ncigar which had been offered to him.\n\n What s up, then?  asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye.  You look\ndissatisfied. \n\n And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case.\nI can make neither head nor tail of the business. \n\n Really! You surprise me. \n\n Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip\nthrough my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day. \n\n And very wet it seems to have made you,  said Holmes laying his hand\nupon the arm of the pea-jacket.\n\n Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine. \n\n In Heaven s name, what for? \n\n In search of the body of Lady St. Simon. \n\nSherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.\n\n Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?  he asked.\n\n Why? What do you mean? \n\n Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one\nas in the other. \n\nLestrade shot an angry glance at my companion.  I suppose you know all\nabout it,  he snarled.\n\n Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up. \n\n Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the\nmatter? \n\n I think it very unlikely. \n\n Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in\nit?  He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a\nwedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a\nbride s wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.  There, \nsaid he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile.  There is\na little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes. \n\n Oh, indeed!  said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air.  You\ndragged them from the Serpentine? \n\n No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They\nhave been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the\nclothes were there the body would not be far off. \n\n By the same brilliant reasoning, every man s body is to be found in\nthe neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive\nat through this? \n\n At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance. \n\n I am afraid that you will find it difficult. \n\n Are you, indeed, now?  cried Lestrade with some bitterness.  I am\nafraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions\nand your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes.\nThis dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar. \n\n And how? \n\n In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the\ncard-case is a note. And here is the very note.  He slapped it down\nupon the table in front of him.  Listen to this:  You will see me when\nall is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.  Now my theory all along has been\nthat Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she,\nwith confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance.\nHere, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt\nquietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within\ntheir reach. \n\n Very good, Lestrade,  said Holmes, laughing.  You really are very fine\nindeed. Let me see it.  He took up the paper in a listless way, but his\nattention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of\nsatisfaction.  This is indeed important,  said he.\n\n Ha! you find it so? \n\n Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly. \n\nLestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look.  Why,  he\nshrieked,  you re looking at the wrong side! \n\n On the contrary, this is the right side. \n\n The right side? You re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over\nhere. \n\n And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill,\nwhich interests me deeply. \n\n There s nothing in it. I looked at it before,  said Lestrade.  Oct.\n4th, rooms 8_s_., breakfast 2_s_. 6_d_., cocktail 1_s_., lunch 2_s_.\n6_d_., glass sherry, 8_d_.  I see nothing in that. \n\n Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note,\nit is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate\nyou again. \n\n I ve wasted time enough,  said Lestrade, rising.  I believe in hard\nwork and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day,\nMr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter\nfirst.  He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made\nfor the door.\n\n Just one hint to you, Lestrade,  drawled Holmes before his rival\nvanished;  I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St.\nSimon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such\nperson. \n\nLestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his\nforehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.\n\nHe had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his\novercoat.  There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor\nwork,  he remarked,  so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your\npapers for a little. \n\nIt was after five o clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no\ntime to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner s\nman with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a\nyouth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great\nastonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out\nupon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of\ncold woodcock, a pheasant, a _p t  de foie gras_ pie with a group of\nancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my\ntwo visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with\nno explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered\nto this address.\n\nJust before nine o clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the room.\nHis features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which\nmade me think that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions.\n\n They have laid the supper, then,  he said, rubbing his hands.\n\n You seem to expect company. They have laid for five. \n\n Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,  said he.  I am\nsurprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that\nI hear his step now upon the stairs. \n\nIt was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in,\ndangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very\nperturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.\n\n My messenger reached you, then?  asked Holmes.\n\n Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure. Have\nyou good authority for what you say? \n\n The best possible. \n\nLord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his forehead.\n\n What will the Duke say,  he murmured,  when he hears that one of the\nfamily has been subjected to such humiliation? \n\n It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any\nhumiliation. \n\n Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint. \n\n I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady\ncould have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was\nundoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to advise\nher at such a crisis. \n\n It was a slight, sir, a public slight,  said Lord St. Simon, tapping\nhis fingers upon the table.\n\n You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so unprecedented\na position. \n\n I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been\nshamefully used. \n\n I think that I heard a ring,  said Holmes.  Yes, there are steps on\nthe landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the\nmatter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be more\nsuccessful.  He opened the door and ushered in a lady and gentleman.\n Lord St. Simon,  said he  allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs.\nFrancis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met. \n\nAt the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat and\nstood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the\nbreast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The lady had\ntaken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him, but he\nstill refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his resolution,\nperhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard to resist.\n\n You re angry, Robert,  said she.  Well, I guess you have every cause\nto be. \n\n Pray make no apology to me,  said Lord St. Simon bitterly.\n\n Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should\nhave spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from\nthe time when I saw Frank here again I just didn t know what I was\ndoing or saying. I only wonder I didn t fall down and do a faint right\nthere before the altar. \n\n Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the\nroom while you explain this matter? \n\n If I may give an opinion,  remarked the strange gentleman,  we ve had\njust a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my part,\nI should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it.  He was\na small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert\nmanner.\n\n Then I ll tell our story right away,  said the lady.  Frank here and I\nmet in  84, in McQuire s camp, near the Rockies, where Pa was working a\nclaim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day\nfather struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had\na claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer Pa grew the\npoorer was Frank; so at last Pa wouldn t hear of our engagement lasting\nany longer, and he took me away to  Frisco. Frank wouldn t throw up his\nhand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without Pa knowing\nanything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just\nfixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his\npile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as Pa.\nSo then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged\nmyself not to marry anyone else while he lived.  Why shouldn t we be\nmarried right away, then,  said he,  and then I will feel sure of you;\nand I won t claim to be your husband until I come back?  Well, we\ntalked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman\nall ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank\nwent off to seek his fortune, and I went back to Pa.\n\n The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went\nprospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After\nthat came a long newspaper story about how a miners  camp had been\nattacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank s name among the\nkilled. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa\nthought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in  Frisco. Not\na word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that\nFrank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to  Frisco, and we came\nto London, and a marriage was arranged, and Pa was very pleased, but I\nfelt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place\nin my heart that had been given to my poor Frank.\n\n Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I d have done my\nduty by him. We can t command our love, but we can our actions. I went\nto the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a\nwife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just\nas I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank standing and\nlooking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at\nfirst; but when I looked again there he was still, with a kind of\nquestion in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to\nsee him. I wonder I didn t drop. I know that everything was turning\nround, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee\nin my ear. I didn t know what to do. Should I stop the service and make\na scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to know\nwhat I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to\nbe still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper, and I knew that\nhe was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped\nmy bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he\nreturned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when\nhe made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment\nthat my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever\nhe might direct.\n\n When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and\nhad always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a\nfew things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to\nLord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all\nthose great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain\nafterwards. I hadn t been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank\nout of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and\nthen began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and\nfollowed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St.\nSimon to me seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little\nsecret of his own before marriage also but I managed to get away from\nher and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we\ndrove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my\ntrue wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a\nprisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to  Frisco, found that\nI had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there,\nand had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding. \n\n I saw it in a paper,  explained the American.  It gave the name and\nthe church but not where the lady lived. \n\n Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for\nopenness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should\nlike to vanish away and never see any of them again just sending a line\nto Pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to\nthink of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table\nand waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and\nthings and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and\ndropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely\nthat we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good\ngentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he\nfound us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and\nkindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be\nputting ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to\ngive us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came\nright away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard it\nall, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you\ndo not think very meanly of me. \n\nLord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had\nlistened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long\nnarrative.\n\n Excuse me,  he said,  but it is not my custom to discuss my most\nintimate personal affairs in this public manner. \n\n Then you won t forgive me? You won t shake hands before I go? \n\n Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.  He put out his hand\nand coldly grasped that which she extended to him.\n\n I had hoped,  suggested Holmes,  that you would have joined us in a\nfriendly supper. \n\n I think that there you ask a little too much,  responded his Lordship.\n I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments, but I can\nhardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with your\npermission I will now wish you all a very good-night.  He included us\nall in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.\n\n Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,  said\nSherlock Holmes.  It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton,\nfor I am one of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and the\nblundering of a minister in far-gone years will not prevent our\nchildren from being some day citizens of the same world-wide country\nunder a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the\nStars and Stripes. \n\n The case has been an interesting one,  remarked Holmes when our\nvisitors had left us,  because it serves to show very clearly how\nsimple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems\nto be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the\nsequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger than\nthe result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland\nYard. \n\n You were not yourself at fault at all, then? \n\n From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the\nlady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other\nthat she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning home.\nObviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to cause her\nto change her mind. What could that something be? She could not have\nspoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the company of\nthe bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be\nsomeone from America because she had spent so short a time in this\ncountry that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an\ninfluence over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to\nchange her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a\nprocess of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an American.\nThen who could this American be, and why should he possess so much\ninfluence over her? It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her\nyoung womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under\nstrange conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St.\nSimon s narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in\nthe bride s manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as\nthe dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and\nof her very significant allusion to claim-jumping which in miners \nparlance means taking possession of that which another person has a\nprior claim to the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had\ngone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a previous\nhusband the chances being in favour of the latter. \n\n And how in the world did you find them? \n\n It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information in\nhis hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials\nwere, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still was\nit to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of the\nmost select London hotels. \n\n How did you deduce the select? \n\n By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a\nglass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are\nnot many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I\nvisited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of the\nbook that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the\nday before, and on looking over the entries against him, I came upon\nthe very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were\nto be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being\nfortunate enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give\nthem some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be\nbetter in every way that they should make their position a little\nclearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular.\nI invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the\nappointment. \n\n But with no very good result,  I remarked.  His conduct was certainly\nnot very gracious. \n\n Ah, Watson,  said Holmes, smiling,  perhaps you would not be very\ngracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you\nfound yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think\nthat we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars\nthat we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw\nyour chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still\nto solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings. \n\n\n\n\nXI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET\n\n\n Holmes,  said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down\nthe street,  here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that\nhis relatives should allow him to come out alone. \n\nMy friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in the\npockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a\nbright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still\nlay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down\nthe centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly\nband by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of\nthe footpaths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey pavement\nhad been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so\nthat there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction\nof the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman\nwhose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.\n\nHe was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a\nmassive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed\nin a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat\nbrown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were\nin absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was\nrunning hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives\nwho is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he\njerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face\ninto the most extraordinary contortions.\n\n What on earth can be the matter with him?  I asked.  He is looking up\nat the numbers of the houses. \n\n I believe that he is coming here,  said Holmes, rubbing his hands.\n\n Here? \n\n Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I think\nthat I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?  As he spoke,\nthe man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at our bell\nuntil the whole house resounded with the clanging.\n\nA few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still\ngesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his\neyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity. For\na while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and plucked\nat his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme limits of his\nreason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his head against\nthe wall with such force that we both rushed upon him and tore him away\nto the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the\neasy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with\nhim in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.\n\n You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?  said he.  You\nare fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered\nyourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little\nproblem which you may submit to me. \n\nThe man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting against\nhis emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his\nlips tight, and turned his face towards us.\n\n No doubt you think me mad?  said he.\n\n I see that you have had some great trouble,  responded Holmes.\n\n God knows I have! a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so\nsudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced,\nalthough I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain.\nPrivate affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming\ntogether, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my very\nsoul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land may\nsuffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair. \n\n Pray compose yourself, sir,  said Holmes,  and let me have a clear\naccount of who you are and what it is that has befallen you. \n\n My name,  answered our visitor,  is probably familiar to your ears. I\nam Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of\nThreadneedle Street. \n\nThe name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior partner\nin the second largest private banking concern in the City of London.\nWhat could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost citizens\nof London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all curiosity, until\nwith another effort he braced himself to tell his story.\n\n I feel that time is of value,  said he;  that is why I hastened here\nwhen the police inspector suggested that I should secure your\nco-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried\nfrom there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is\nwhy I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little\nexercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as\nshortly and yet as clearly as I can.\n\n It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking\nbusiness as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative\ninvestments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and the\nnumber of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of laying out\nmoney is in the shape of loans, where the security is unimpeachable. We\nhave done a good deal in this direction during the last few years, and\nthere are many noble families to whom we have advanced large sums upon\nthe security of their pictures, libraries, or plate.\n\n Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card\nwas brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the\nname, for it was that of none other than well, perhaps even to you I\nhad better say no more than that it was a name which is a household\nword all over the earth one of the highest, noblest, most exalted names\nin England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when he\nentered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the air\nof a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.\n\n Mr. Holder,  said he,  I have been informed that you are in the habit\nof advancing money. \n\n The firm does so when the security is good.  I answered.\n\n It is absolutely essential to me,  said he,  that I should have  \n50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times\nover from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of business\nand to carry out that business myself. In my position you can readily\nunderstand that it is unwise to place one s self under obligations. \n\n For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?  I asked.\n\n Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most\ncertainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it\nright to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should\nbe paid at once. \n\n I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own\nprivate purse,  said I,  were it not that the strain would be rather\nmore than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the\nname of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that,\neven in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken. \n\n I should much prefer to have it so,  said he, raising up a square,\nblack morocco case which he had laid beside his chair.  You have\ndoubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet? \n\n One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,  said I.\n\n Precisely.  He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft,\nflesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he\nhad named.  There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,  said he,  and the\nprice of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would\nput the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have asked. I am\nprepared to leave it with you as my security. \n\n I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity\nfrom it to my illustrious client.\n\n You doubt its value?  he asked.\n\n Not at all. I only doubt \n\n The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about\nthat. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain\nthat I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter\nof form. Is the security sufficient? \n\n Ample. \n\n You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of\nthe confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have heard\nof you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all\ngossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this coronet with\nevery possible precaution because I need not say that a great public\nscandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it\nwould be almost as serious as its complete loss, for there are no\nberyls in the world to match these, and it would be impossible to\nreplace them. I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and\nI shall call for it in person on Monday morning. \n\n Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but,\ncalling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty   1000 notes.\nWhen I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying upon\nthe table in front of me, I could not but think with some misgivings of\nthe immense responsibility which it entailed upon me. There could be no\ndoubt that, as it was a national possession, a horrible scandal would\nensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having\never consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter\nthe matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned once\nmore to my work.\n\n When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so\nprecious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers  safes had been\nforced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible\nwould be the position in which I should find myself! I determined,\ntherefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case\nbackward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of\nmy reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my house\nat Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe freely\nuntil I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of my\ndressing-room.\n\n And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to\nthoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out of\nthe house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three maid-servants\nwho have been with me a number of years and whose absolute reliability\nis quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the second waiting-maid,\nhas only been in my service a few months. She came with an excellent\ncharacter, however, and has always given me satisfaction. She is a very\npretty girl and has attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about\nthe place. That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we\nbelieve her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way.\n\n So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will\nnot take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son,\nArthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes a grievous\ndisappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell\nme that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died\nI felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile\nfade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish.\nPerhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner,\nbut I meant it for the best.\n\n It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my\nbusiness, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and,\nto speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums\nof money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club,\nand there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a\nnumber of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play\nheavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again\nand again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his\nallowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried more than\nonce to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but\neach time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough\nto draw him back again.\n\n And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell\nshould gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to\nmy house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the\nfascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world\nto his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a\nbrilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think\nof him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am\nconvinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in\nhis eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think,\nand so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman s quick insight\ninto character.\n\n And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when\nmy brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I\nadopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is\na sunbeam in my house sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and\nhousekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be.\nShe is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In\nonly one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has\nasked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but each time she\nhas refused him. I think that if anyone could have drawn him into the\nright path it would have been she, and that his marriage might have\nchanged his whole life; but now, alas! it is too late forever too late!\n\n Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I\nshall continue with my miserable story.\n\n When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after\ndinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious\ntreasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my\nclient. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left\nthe room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and Arthur\nwere much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but I\nthought it better not to disturb it.\n\n Where have you put it?  asked Arthur.\n\n In my own bureau. \n\n Well, I hope to goodness the house won t be burgled during the\nnight.  said he.\n\n It is locked up,  I answered.\n\n Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have\nopened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard. \n\n He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what\nhe said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very\ngrave face.\n\n Look here, dad,  said he with his eyes cast down,  can you let me\nhave   200? \n\n No, I cannot!  I answered sharply.  I have been far too generous with\nyou in money matters. \n\n You have been very kind,  said he,  but I must have this money, or\nelse I can never show my face inside the club again. \n\n And a very good thing, too!  I cried.\n\n Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,  said he.\n I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and\nif you will not let me have it, then I must try other means. \n\n I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month.  You\nshall not have a farthing from me,  I cried, on which he bowed and left\nthe room without another word.\n\n When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure was\nsafe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house to see\nthat all was secure a duty which I usually leave to Mary but which I\nthought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs\nI saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which she closed and\nfastened as I approached.\n\n Tell me, dad,  said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed,  did\nyou give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night? \n\n Certainly not. \n\n She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has\nonly been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is\nhardly safe and should be stopped. \n\n You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are\nyou sure that everything is fastened? \n\n Quite sure, dad. \n\n Then, good-night.  I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again,\nwhere I was soon asleep.\n\n I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have\nany bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any\npoint which I do not make clear. \n\n On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid. \n\n I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be\nparticularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my\nmind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in\nthe morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had\nceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as\nthough a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all\nmy ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of\nfootsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all\npalpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room\ndoor.\n\n Arthur!  I screamed,  you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that\ncoronet? \n\n The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed\nonly in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding\nthe coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending\nit with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and\nturned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the\ngold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.\n\n You blackguard!  I shouted, beside myself with rage.  You have\ndestroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels\nwhich you have stolen? \n\n Stolen!  he cried.\n\n Yes, thief!  I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.\n\n There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,  said he.\n\n There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you\na liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another\npiece? \n\n You have called me names enough,  said he,  I will not stand it any\nlonger. I shall not say another word about this business, since you\nhave chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and\nmake my own way in the world. \n\n You shall leave it in the hands of the police!  I cried half-mad with\ngrief and rage.  I shall have this matter probed to the bottom. \n\n You shall learn nothing from me,  said he with a passion such as I\nshould not have thought was in his nature.  If you choose to call the\npolice, let the police find what they can. \n\n By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in\nmy anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of\nthe coronet and of Arthur s face, she read the whole story and, with a\nscream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the housemaid for the\npolice and put the investigation into their hands at once. When the\ninspector and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood\nsullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to\ncharge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private\nmatter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was\nnational property. I was determined that the law should have its way in\neverything.\n\n At least,  said he,  you will not have me arrested at once. It would\nbe to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for\nfive minutes. \n\n That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have\nstolen,  said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in which I\nwas placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honour but that\nof one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened\nto raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it\nall if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing\nstones.\n\n You may as well face the matter,  said I;  you have been caught in\nthe act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you\nbut make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the\nberyls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten. \n\n Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,  he answered, turning\naway from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words\nof mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the\ninspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only\nof his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where\nhe could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could\nbe found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our\npersuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and\nI, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round\nto you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The\npolice have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of\nit. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already\noffered a reward of   1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my\nhonour, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do! \n\nHe put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro,\ndroning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words.\n\nSherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted\nand his eyes fixed upon the fire.\n\n Do you receive much company?  he asked.\n\n None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of\nArthur s. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one\nelse, I think. \n\n Do you go out much in society? \n\n Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it. \n\n That is unusual in a young girl. \n\n She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is\nfour-and-twenty. \n\n This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her\nalso. \n\n Terrible! She is even more affected than I. \n\n You have neither of you any doubt as to your son s guilt? \n\n How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in\nhis hands. \n\n I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the\ncoronet at all injured? \n\n Yes, it was twisted. \n\n Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten\nit? \n\n God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it\nis too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose\nwere innocent, why did he not say so? \n\n Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His\nsilence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular\npoints about the case. What did the police think of the noise which\nawoke you from your sleep? \n\n They considered that it might be caused by Arthur s closing his\nbedroom door. \n\n A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as\nto wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of\nthese gems? \n\n They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in the\nhope of finding them. \n\n Have they thought of looking outside the house? \n\n Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has\nalready been minutely examined. \n\n Now, my dear sir,  said Holmes,  is it not obvious to you now that\nthis matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the\npolice were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a\nsimple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is\ninvolved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his\nbed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau,\ntook out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it,\nwent off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the\nthirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then\nreturned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed\nhimself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is\nsuch a theory tenable? \n\n But what other is there?  cried the banker with a gesture of despair.\n If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain them? \n\n It is our task to find that out,  replied Holmes;  so now, if you\nplease, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and devote\nan hour to glancing a little more closely into details. \n\nMy friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition, which\nI was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were deeply\nstirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that the guilt\nof the banker s son appeared to me to be as obvious as it did to his\nunhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes  judgment that I\nfelt that there must be some grounds for hope as long as he was\ndissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke a word the\nwhole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his\nbreast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought.\nOur client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of\nhope which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a\ndesultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway\njourney and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest residence\nof the great financier.\n\nFairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back a\nlittle from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn,\nstretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed the\nentrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led into\na narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road to the\nkitchen door, and forming the tradesmen s entrance. On the left ran a\nlane which led to the stables, and was not itself within the grounds at\nall, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us\nstanding at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the\nfront, down the tradesmen s path, and so round by the garden behind\ninto the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into\nthe dining-room and waited by the fire until he should return. We were\nsitting there in silence when the door opened and a young lady came in.\nShe was rather above the middle height, slim, with dark hair and eyes,\nwhich seemed the darker against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do\nnot think that I have ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman s face.\nHer lips, too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying.\nAs she swept silently into the room she impressed me with a greater\nsense of grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the\nmore striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character,\nwith immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she\nwent straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a\nsweet womanly caress.\n\n You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not,\ndad?  she asked.\n\n No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom. \n\n But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman s instincts\nare. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be sorry for\nhaving acted so harshly. \n\n Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent? \n\n Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect\nhim. \n\n How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the\ncoronet in his hand? \n\n Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my\nword for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more.\nIt is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison! \n\n I shall never let it drop until the gems are found never, Mary! Your\naffection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far\nfrom hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down from London\nto inquire more deeply into it. \n\n This gentleman?  she asked, facing round to me.\n\n No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the\nstable lane now. \n\n The stable lane?  She raised her dark eyebrows.  What can he hope to\nfind there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will\nsucceed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin\nArthur is innocent of this crime. \n\n I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove\nit,  returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from his\nshoes.  I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder.\nMight I ask you a question or two? \n\n Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up. \n\n You heard nothing yourself last night? \n\n Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and\nI came down. \n\n You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all\nthe windows? \n\n Yes. \n\n Were they all fastened this morning? \n\n Yes. \n\n You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to\nyour uncle last night that she had been out to see him? \n\n Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who may\nhave heard uncle s remarks about the coronet. \n\n I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart,\nand that the two may have planned the robbery. \n\n But what is the good of all these vague theories,  cried the banker\nimpatiently,  when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet\nin his hands? \n\n Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl,\nMiss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume? \n\n Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met\nher slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom. \n\n Do you know him? \n\n Oh, yes! he is the greengrocer who brings our vegetables round. His\nname is Francis Prosper. \n\n He stood,  said Holmes,  to the left of the door that is to say,\nfarther up the path than is necessary to reach the door? \n\n Yes, he did. \n\n And he is a man with a wooden leg? \n\nSomething like fear sprang up in the young lady s expressive black\neyes.  Why, you are like a magician,  said she.  How do you know that? \nShe smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes  thin, eager\nface.\n\n I should be very glad now to go upstairs,  said he.  I shall probably\nwish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better\ntake a look at the lower windows before I go up. \n\nHe walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the\nlarge one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he\nopened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his\npowerful magnifying lens.  Now we shall go upstairs,  said he at last.\n\nThe banker s dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with\na grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the\nbureau first and looked hard at the lock.\n\n Which key was used to open it?  he asked.\n\n That which my son himself indicated that of the cupboard of the\nlumber-room. \n\n Have you it here? \n\n That is it on the dressing-table. \n\nSherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.\n\n It is a noiseless lock,  said he.  It is no wonder that it did not\nwake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a\nlook at it.  He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it\nupon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller s art,\nand the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one\nside of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding three\ngems had been torn away.\n\n Now, Mr. Holder,  said Holmes,  here is the corner which corresponds\nto that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will\nbreak it off. \n\nThe banker recoiled in horror.  I should not dream of trying,  said he.\n\n Then I will.  Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without\nresult.  I feel it give a little,  said he;  but, though I am\nexceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to\nbreak it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think would\nhappen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a\npistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a few yards\nof your bed and that you heard nothing of it? \n\n I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me. \n\n But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss\nHolder? \n\n I confess that I still share my uncle s perplexity. \n\n Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him? \n\n He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt. \n\n Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck\nduring this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do not\nsucceed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I\nshall now continue my investigations outside. \n\nHe went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any\nunnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour\nor more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow\nand his features as inscrutable as ever.\n\n I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder, \nsaid he;  I can serve you best by returning to my rooms. \n\n But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they? \n\n I cannot tell. \n\nThe banker wrung his hands.  I shall never see them again!  he cried.\n And my son? You give me hopes? \n\n My opinion is in no way altered. \n\n Then, for God s sake, what was this dark business which was acted in\nmy house last night? \n\n If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning\nbetween nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it\nclearer. I understand that you give me _carte blanche_ to act for you,\nprovided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit on\nthe sum I may draw. \n\n I would give my fortune to have them back. \n\n Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then.\nGood-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again\nbefore evening. \n\nIt was obvious to me that my companion s mind was now made up about the\ncase, although what his conclusions were was more than I could even\ndimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I endeavoured\nto sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to some other\ntopic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not yet three\nwhen we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried to his\nchamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a common loafer.\nWith his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and\nhis worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.\n\n I think that this should do,  said he, glancing into the glass above\nthe fireplace.  I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I\nfear that it won t do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may\nbe following a will-o -the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is. I\nhope that I may be back in a few hours.  He cut a slice of beef from\nthe joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of\nbread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off upon\nhis expedition.\n\nI had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent\nspirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked it\ndown into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.\n\n I only looked in as I passed,  said he.  I am going right on. \n\n Where to? \n\n Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I\nget back. Don t wait up for me in case I should be late. \n\n How are you getting on? \n\n Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since\nI saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet\nlittle problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal.\nHowever, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable\nclothes off and return to my highly respectable self. \n\nI could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction\nthan his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even\na touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a\nfew minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that\nhe was off once more upon his congenial hunt.\n\nI waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I\nretired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for\ndays and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his\nlateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in,\nbut when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a\ncup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim\nas possible.\n\n You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,  said he,  but you\nremember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning. \n\n Why, it is after nine now,  I answered.  I should not be surprised if\nthat were he. I thought I heard a ring. \n\nIt was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change\nwhich had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad\nand massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed\nto me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy\nwhich was even more painful than his violence of the morning before,\nand he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for\nhim.\n\n I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,  said he.\n Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in\nthe world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow\ncomes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted\nme. \n\n Deserted you? \n\n Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty,\nand a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last\nnight, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all\nmight have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say\nso. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:\n\n     MY DEAREST UNCLE, I feel that I have brought trouble upon you,\n    and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might\n    never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever\n    again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you\n    forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for;\n    and, above all, do not search for me, for it will be fruitless\n    labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in death, I am ever\n    your loving,\n\n\n     MARY. \n\n\n What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points\nto suicide? \n\n No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution.\nI trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your troubles. \n\n Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have learned\nsomething! Where are the gems? \n\n You would not think   1000 apiece an excessive sum for them? \n\n I would pay ten. \n\n That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And\nthere is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your cheque-book? Here is a\npen. Better make it out for   4000. \n\nWith a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes walked\nover to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold with three\ngems in it, and threw it down upon the table.\n\nWith a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.\n\n You have it!  he gasped.  I am saved! I am saved! \n\nThe reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he\nhugged his recovered gems to his bosom.\n\n There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,  said Sherlock Holmes\nrather sternly.\n\n Owe!  He caught up a pen.  Name the sum, and I will pay it. \n\n No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble\nlad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be\nproud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have one. \n\n Then it was not Arthur who took them? \n\n I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not. \n\n You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know\nthat the truth is known. \n\n He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview\nwith him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it to\nhim, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the very\nfew details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of this\nmorning, however, may open his lips. \n\n For Heaven s sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary mystery! \n\n I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it. And\nlet me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say and\nfor you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George\nBurnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together. \n\n My Mary? Impossible! \n\n It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor\nyour son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into\nyour family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England a\nruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or\nconscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his\nvows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her, she flattered\nherself that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what\nhe said, but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of\nseeing him nearly every evening. \n\n I cannot, and I will not, believe it!  cried the banker with an ashen\nface.\n\n I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your\nniece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down\nand talked to her lover through the window which leads into the stable\nlane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so long had he\nstood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust for gold\nkindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt that\nshe loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover\nextinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have been one.\nShe had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming\ndownstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you about\none of the servants  escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was\nall perfectly true.\n\n Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he\nslept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the\nmiddle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose\nand, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very\nstealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your\ndressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some\nclothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this\nstrange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the\nlight of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious\ncoronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling\nwith horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door,\nwhence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her\nstealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the\ngloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing\nquite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain.\n\n As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a\nhorrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that she\nwas gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for you,\nand how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down, just as\nhe was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow,\nand ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the\nmoonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught\nhim, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one\nside of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle,\nyour son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something\nsuddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his\nhands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had\njust observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was\nendeavouring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene. \n\n Is it possible?  gasped the banker.\n\n You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he\nfelt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the\ntrue state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved\nlittle enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous\nview, however, and preserved her secret. \n\n And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet, \ncried Mr. Holder.  Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his\nasking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted\nto see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How\ncruelly I have misjudged him! \n\n When I arrived at the house,  continued Holmes,  I at once went very\ncarefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow\nwhich might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening\nbefore, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve\nimpressions. I passed along the tradesmen s path, but found it all\ntrampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the\nfar side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man,\nwhose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I\ncould even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run\nback swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel\nmarks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I\nthought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of\nwhom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I\npassed round the garden without seeing anything more than random\ntracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable\nlane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of\nme.\n\n There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double\nline which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was\nat once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your\nson. The first had walked both ways, but the other had run swiftly, and\nas his tread was marked in places over the depression of the boot, it\nwas obvious that he had passed after the other. I followed them up and\nfound they led to the hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow\naway while waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred\nyards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round, where\nthe snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle, and, finally,\nwhere a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was not\nmistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge\nof blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the\nhigh road at the other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared,\nso there was an end to that clue.\n\n On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill\nand framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see\nthat someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an\ninstep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was then\nbeginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred. A man\nhad waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems; the deed\nhad been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had struggled\nwith him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength\ncausing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had\nreturned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his\nopponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man, and\nwho was it brought him the coronet?\n\n It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible,\nwhatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew\nthat it was not you who had brought it down, so there only remained\nyour niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why should your son\nallow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible\nreason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was an excellent\nexplanation why he should retain her secret the more so as the secret\nwas a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that\nwindow, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my\nconjecture became a certainty.\n\n And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for\nwho else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to\nyou? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends\nwas a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had\nheard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It\nmust have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems.\nEven though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still\nflatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word\nwithout compromising his own family.\n\n Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I\nwent in the shape of a loafer to Sir George s house, managed to pick up\nan acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut his\nhead the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six shillings,\nmade all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these I\njourneyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the\ntracks. \n\n I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,  said Mr.\nHolder.\n\n Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and\nchanged my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then,\nfor I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I\nknew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in the\nmatter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything.\nBut when I gave him every particular that had occurred, he tried to\nbluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man,\nhowever, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike.\nThen he became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give\nhim a price for the stones he held  1000 apiece. That brought out the\nfirst signs of grief that he had shown.  Why, dash it all!  said he,\n I ve let them go at six hundred for the three!  I soon managed to get\nthe address of the receiver who had them, on promising him that there\nwould be no prosecution. Off I set to him, and after much chaffering I\ngot our stones at   1000 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told\nhim that all was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o clock,\nafter what I may call a really hard day s work. \n\n A day which has saved England from a great public scandal,  said the\nbanker, rising.  Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall\nnot find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed\nexceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear boy\nto apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to what you\ntell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even your skill can\ninform me where she is now. \n\n I think that we may safely say,  returned Holmes,  that she is\nwherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that\nwhatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient\npunishment. \n\n\n\n\nXII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES\n\n\n To the man who loves art for its own sake,  remarked Sherlock Holmes,\ntossing aside the advertisement sheet of _The Daily Telegraph_,  it is\nfrequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the\nkeenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe,\nWatson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in these little\nrecords of our cases which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I\nam bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence\nnot so much to the many _causes c l bres_ and sensational trials in\nwhich I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been\ntrivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of\ndeduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my special\nprovince. \n\n And yet,  said I, smiling,  I cannot quite hold myself absolved from\nthe charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records. \n\n You have erred, perhaps,  he observed, taking up a glowing cinder with\nthe tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont\nto replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a\nmeditative mood you have erred perhaps in attempting to put colour and\nlife into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the\ntask of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect\nwhich is really the only notable feature about the thing. \n\n It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter,  I\nremarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which I\nhad more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend s\nsingular character.\n\n No, it is not selfishness or conceit,  said he, answering, as was his\nwont, my thoughts rather than my words.  If I claim full justice for my\nart, it is because it is an impersonal thing a thing beyond myself.\nCrime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather\nthan upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what\nshould have been a course of lectures into a series of tales. \n\nIt was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast\non either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A\nthick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the\nopposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy\nyellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth and\nglimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet.\nSherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously\ninto the advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last,\nhaving apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet\ntemper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.\n\n At the same time,  he remarked after a pause, during which he had sat\npuffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire,  you can hardly\nbe open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you\nhave been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not\ntreat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I\nendeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of\nMiss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the\ntwisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters\nwhich are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational,\nI fear that you may have bordered on the trivial. \n\n The end may have been so,  I answered,  but the methods I hold to have\nbeen novel and of interest. \n\n Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant\npublic, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by\nhis left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction!\nBut, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for the days of\nthe great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all\nenterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to\nbe degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and\ngiving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I\nhave touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning\nmarks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!  He tossed a crumpled letter\nacross to me.\n\nIt was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran\nthus:\n\n     DEAR MR. HOLMES, I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I\n    should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to\n    me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do\n    not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully,\n\n\n     VIOLET HUNTER. \n\n\n Do you know the young lady?  I asked.\n\n Not I. \n\n It is half-past ten now. \n\n Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring. \n\n It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember\nthat the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim\nat first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this\ncase, also. \n\n Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for\nhere, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question. \n\nAs he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was\nplainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a\nplover s egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own\nway to make in the world.\n\n You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure,  said she, as my\ncompanion rose to greet her,  but I have had a very strange experience,\nand as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask\nadvice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what\nI should do. \n\n Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I\ncan to serve you. \n\nI could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and\nspeech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching fashion,\nand then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his finger-tips\ntogether, to listen to her story.\n\n I have been a governess for five years,  said she,  in the family of\nColonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an\nappointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to\nAmerica with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I\nadvertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last\nthe little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my\nwit s end as to what I should do.\n\n There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called\nWestaway s, and there I used to call about once a week in order to see\nwhether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was the\nname of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by Miss\nStoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who are\nseeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by\none, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has anything\nwhich would suit them.\n\n Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as\nusual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout\nman with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down\nin fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of\nglasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who entered.\nAs I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to\nMiss Stoper.\n\n That will do,  said he;  I could not ask for anything better.\nCapital! capital!  He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands\ntogether in the most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking\nman that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.\n\n You are looking for a situation, miss?  he asked.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n As governess? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And what salary do you ask? \n\n I had   4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro. \n\n Oh, tut, tut! sweating rank sweating!  he cried, throwing his fat\nhands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion.  How\ncould anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and\naccomplishments? \n\n My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,  said I.  A\nlittle French, a little German, music, and drawing \n\n Tut, tut!  he cried.  This is all quite beside the question. The\npoint is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a\nlady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted\nfor the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in\nthe history of the country. But if you have, why, then, how could any\ngentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three\nfigures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at   100 a year. \n\n You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an\noffer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however, seeing\nperhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocket-book and\ntook out a note.\n\n It is also my custom,  said he, smiling in the most pleasant fashion\nuntil his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the white\ncreases of his face,  to advance to my young ladies half their salary\nbeforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their journey\nand their wardrobe. \n\n It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful\na man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a\ngreat convenience, and yet there was something unnatural about the\nwhole transaction which made me wish to know a little more before I\nquite committed myself.\n\n May I ask where you live, sir?  said I.\n\n Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on\nthe far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear\nyoung lady, and the dearest old country-house. \n\n And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be. \n\n One child one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could\nsee him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three\ngone before you could wink!  He leaned back in his chair and laughed\nhis eyes into his head again.\n\n I was a little startled at the nature of the child s amusement, but\nthe father s laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.\n\n My sole duties, then,  I asked,  are to take charge of a single\nchild? \n\n No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,  he cried.\n Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to\nobey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they\nwere such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no\ndifficulty, heh? \n\n I should be happy to make myself useful. \n\n Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you\nknow faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which\nwe might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh? \n\n No,  said I, considerably astonished at his words.\n\n Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you? \n\n Oh, no. \n\n Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us? \n\n I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my\nhair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut.\nIt has been considered artistic. I could not dream of sacrificing it in\nthis offhand fashion.\n\n I am afraid that that is quite impossible,  said I. He had been\nwatching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow\npass over his face as I spoke.\n\n I am afraid that it is quite essential,  said he.  It is a little\nfancy of my wife s, and ladies  fancies, you know, madam, ladies \nfancies must be consulted. And so you won t cut your hair? \n\n No, sir, I really could not,  I answered firmly.\n\n Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity,\nbecause in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In\nthat case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young\nladies. \n\n The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a\nword to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance\nupon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a\nhandsome commission through my refusal.\n\n Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?  she asked.\n\n If you please, Miss Stoper. \n\n Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most\nexcellent offers in this fashion,  said she sharply.  You can hardly\nexpect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you.\nGood-day to you, Miss Hunter.  She struck a gong upon the table, and I\nwas shown out by the page.\n\n Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little\nenough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table, I began\nto ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all,\nif these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most\nextraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for their\neccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting   100 a year.\nBesides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by\nwearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I\nwas inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I\nwas sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to\nthe agency and inquire whether the place was still open when I received\nthis letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read\nit to you:\n\n The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.\n\n     DEAR MISS HUNTER, Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your\n    address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have\n    reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should\n    come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We\n    are willing to give   30 a quarter, or   120 a year, so as to\n    recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may\n    cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond\n    of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear\n    such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to\n    the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear\n    daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which would, I should think,\n    fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or there, or amusing\n    yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no\n    inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity,\n    especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our\n    short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this\n    point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you\n    for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are\n    very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the\n    dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. Yours faithfully,\n\n\n     JEPHRO RUCASTLE. \n\n\n That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind\nis made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before\ntaking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your\nconsideration. \n\n Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the\nquestion,  said Holmes, smiling.\n\n But you would not advise me to refuse? \n\n I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a\nsister of mine apply for. \n\n What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes? \n\n Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed\nsome opinion? \n\n Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle\nseemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his\nwife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear\nshe should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in\nevery way in order to prevent an outbreak? \n\n That is a possible solution in fact, as matters stand, it is the most\nprobable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household\nfor a young lady. \n\n But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money! \n\n Well, yes, of course the pay is good too good. That is what makes me\nuneasy. Why should they give you   120 a year, when they could have\ntheir pick for   40? There must be some strong reason behind. \n\n I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand\nafterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I\nfelt that you were at the back of me. \n\n Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your\nlittle problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my\nway for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of\nthe features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger \n\n Danger! What danger do you foresee? \n\nHolmes shook his head gravely.  It would cease to be a danger if we\ncould define it,  said he.  But at any time, day or night, a telegram\nwould bring me down to your help. \n\n That is enough.  She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all\nswept from her face.  I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my\nmind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair\nto-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow.  With a few grateful\nwords to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon her\nway.\n\n At least,  said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the\nstairs,  she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take\ncare of herself. \n\n And she would need to be,  said Holmes gravely.  I am much mistaken if\nwe do not hear from her before many days are past. \n\nIt was not very long before my friend s prediction was fulfilled. A\nfortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning\nin her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human\nexperience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary, the\ncurious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something\nabnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a\nphilanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to\ndetermine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an\nhour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the\nmatter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it.  Data! data!\ndata!  he cried impatiently.  I can t make bricks without clay.  And\nyet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should\never have accepted such a situation.\n\nThe telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I\nwas thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those\nall-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I\nwould leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and\nfind him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the\nmorning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the\nmessage, threw it across to me.\n\n Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,  said he, and turned back to his\nchemical studies.\n\nThe summons was a brief and urgent one.\n\n Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow, \nit said.  Do come! I am at my wit s end.\n\n\n HUNTER. \n\n\n Will you come with me?  asked Holmes, glancing up.\n\n I should wish to. \n\n Just look it up, then. \n\n There is a train at half-past nine,  said I, glancing over my\nBradshaw.  It is due at Winchester at 11:30. \n\n That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my\nanalysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the\nmorning. \n\nBy eleven o clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old\nEnglish capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the\nway down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them\ndown and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a\nlight blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across\nfrom west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was\nan exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man s energy.\nAll over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot,\nthe little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from\namid the light green of the new foliage.\n\n Are they not fresh and beautiful?  I cried with all the enthusiasm of\na man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.\n\nBut Holmes shook his head gravely.\n\n Do you know, Watson,  said he,  that it is one of the curses of a mind\nwith a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to\nmy own special subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are\nimpressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which\ncomes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with\nwhich crime may be committed there. \n\n Good heavens!  I cried.  Who would associate crime with these dear old\nhomesteads? \n\n They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson,\nfounded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London\ndo not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and\nbeautiful countryside. \n\n You horrify me! \n\n But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do\nin the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile\nthat the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard s blow,\ndoes not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours, and then\nthe whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of\ncomplaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime\nand the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields,\nfilled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the\nlaw. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which\nmay go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had\nthis lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I\nshould never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country\nwhich makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally\nthreatened. \n\n No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away. \n\n Quite so. She has her freedom. \n\n What _can_ be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation? \n\n I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would cover\nthe facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct can\nonly be determined by the fresh information which we shall no doubt\nfind waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral, and we\nshall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell. \n\nThe Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance\nfrom the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us. She\nhad engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the table.\n\n I am so delighted that you have come,  she said earnestly.  It is so\nvery kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do. Your\nadvice will be altogether invaluable to me. \n\n Pray tell us what has happened to you. \n\n I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle to\nbe back before three. I got his leave to come into town this morning,\nthough he little knew for what purpose. \n\n Let us have everything in its due order.  Holmes thrust his long thin\nlegs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.\n\n In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no\nactual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to\nthem to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in my\nmind about them. \n\n What can you not understand? \n\n Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as it\noccurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me in\nhis dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully\nsituated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square\nblock of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp\nand bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides, and\non the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton high road,\nwhich curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This\nground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part\nof Lord Southerton s preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately\nin front of the hall door has given its name to the place.\n\n I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was\nintroduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no\ntruth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable\nin your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to\nbe a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more\nthan thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less than\nforty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been\nmarried about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only\nchild by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia.\nMr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them\nwas that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the\ndaughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that\nher position must have been uncomfortable with her father s young wife.\n\n Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in\nfeature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a\nnonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to\nher husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes wandered\ncontinually from one to the other, noting every little want and\nforestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff,\nboisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple.\nAnd yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost\nin deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I\nhave surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the\ndisposition of her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never\nmet so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is\nsmall for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large.\nHis whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between savage\nfits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any\ncreature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and\nhe shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice,\nlittle birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk about the\ncreature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has little to do with my story. \n\n I am glad of all details,  remarked my friend,  whether they seem to\nyou to be relevant or not. \n\n I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant\nthing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance and\nconduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife.\nToller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled\nhair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have\nbeen with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to\ntake no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a\nsour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a\nmost unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the\nnursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one corner of\nthe building.\n\n For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very\nquiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and\nwhispered something to her husband.\n\n Oh, yes,  said he, turning to me,  we are very much obliged to you,\nMiss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your hair.\nI assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from your\nappearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will become\nyou. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and if you\nwould be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely obliged. \n\n The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of\nblue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore\nunmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been a\nbetter fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle\nexpressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated\nin its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which\nis a very large room, stretching along the entire front of the house,\nwith three long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair had been\nplaced close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. In\nthis I was asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on\nthe other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest\nstories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he\nwas, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who\nhas evidently no sense of humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with\nher hands in her lap, and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an\nhour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence\nthe duties of the day, and that I might change my dress and go to\nlittle Edward in the nursery.\n\n Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly\nsimilar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the\nwindow, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of which\nmy employer had an immense _r pertoire_, and which he told inimitably.\nThen he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my chair a little\nsideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the page, he begged me\nto read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes, beginning in the\nheart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he\nordered me to cease and to change my dress.\n\n You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what\nthe meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They\nwere always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the\nwindow, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was going\non behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon\ndevised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy thought\nseized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my handkerchief. On\nthe next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put my handkerchief\nup to my eyes, and was able with a little management to see all that\nthere was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There was\nnothing. At least that was my first impression. At the second glance,\nhowever, I perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton\nRoad, a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in\nmy direction. The road is an important highway, and there are usually\npeople there. This man, however, was leaning against the railings which\nbordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my\nhandkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon\nme with a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced\nthat she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what\nwas behind me. She rose at once.\n\n Jephro,  said she,  there is an impertinent fellow upon the road\nthere who stares up at Miss Hunter. \n\n No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?  he asked.\n\n No, I know no one in these parts. \n\n Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him to\ngo away. \n\n Surely it would be better to take no notice. \n\n No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round\nand wave him away like that. \n\n I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down\nthe blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat again\nin the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man in the\nroad. \n\n Pray continue,  said Holmes.  Your narrative promises to be a most\ninteresting one. \n\n You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to\nbe little relation between the different incidents of which I speak. On\nthe very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took\nme to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we\napproached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as\nof a large animal moving about.\n\n Look in here!  said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two\nplanks.  Is he not a beauty? \n\n I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a vague\nfigure huddled up in the darkness.\n\n Don t be frightened,  said my employer, laughing at the start which I\nhad given.  It s only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really\nold Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with him. We\nfeed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is always as\nkeen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God help the\ntrespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness  sake don t you\never on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at night, for it s\nas much as your life is worth. \n\n The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look\nout of my bedroom window about two o clock in the morning. It was a\nbeautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was\nsilvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the\npeaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was\nmoving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the\nmoonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf,\ntawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting\nbones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow\nupon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart\nwhich I do not think that any burglar could have done.\n\n And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you\nknow, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil at\nthe bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I\nbegan to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by\nrearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers in\nthe room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked. I\nhad filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to pack\naway I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer.\nIt struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so I\ntook out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key\nfitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one\nthing in it, but I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It\nwas my coil of hair.\n\n I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and\nthe same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded\nitself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With\ntrembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and drew\nfrom the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together, and I\nassure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle\nas I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I returned\nthe strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the\nRucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a\ndrawer which they had locked.\n\n I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I\nsoon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was\none wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door\nwhich faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into\nthis suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, however, as I\nascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door,\nhis keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him a very\ndifferent person to the round, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His\ncheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins\nstood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried\npast me without a word or a look.\n\n This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the\ngrounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I could\nsee the windows of this part of the house. There were four of them in a\nrow, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered\nup. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down,\nglancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as\nmerry and jovial as ever.\n\n Ah!  said he,  you must not think me rude if I passed you without a\nword, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters. \n\n I assured him that I was not offended.  By the way,  said I,  you seem\nto have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the\nshutters up. \n\n He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my\nremark.\n\n Photography is one of my hobbies,  said he.  I have made my dark room\nup there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have come upon.\nWho would have believed it? Who would have ever believed it?  He spoke\nin a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at\nme. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest.\n\n Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was\nsomething about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was all\non fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have my\nshare of that. It was more a feeling of duty a feeling that some good\nmight come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of woman s\ninstinct; perhaps it was woman s instinct which gave me that feeling.\nAt any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout for any\nchance to pass the forbidden door.\n\n It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that,\nbesides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do in\nthese deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black linen\nbag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking hard, and\nyesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came upstairs there was\nthe key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had left it there.\nMr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with\nthem, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently\nin the lock, opened the door, and slipped through.\n\n There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted,\nwhich turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner\nwere three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open.\nThey each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two windows\nin the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the evening\nlight glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was closed, and\nacross the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad bars of an\niron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at\nthe other with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the\nkey was not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the\nshuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from\nbeneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was a\nskylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the passage\ngazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it might veil, I\nsuddenly heard the sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow pass\nbackward and forward against the little slit of dim light which shone\nout from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the\nsight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I\nturned and ran ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me\nclutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through\nthe door, and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting\noutside.\n\n So,  said he, smiling,  it was you, then. I thought that it must be\nwhen I saw the door open. \n\n Oh, I am so frightened!  I panted.\n\n My dear young lady! my dear young lady! you cannot think how\ncaressing and soothing his manner was and what has frightened you, my\ndear young lady? \n\n But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was\nkeenly on my guard against him.\n\n I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,  I answered.  But it\nis so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran\nout again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there! \n\n Only that?  said he, looking at me keenly.\n\n Why, what did you think?  I asked.\n\n Why do you think that I lock this door? \n\n I am sure that I do not know. \n\n It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?  He\nwas still smiling in the most amiable manner.\n\n I am sure if I had known \n\n Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that\nthreshold again here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of\nrage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon I ll throw you\nto the mastiff. \n\n I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I\nmust have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I\nfound myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you,\nMr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I was\nfrightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the servants,\neven of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring\nyou down all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the house,\nbut my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon\nmade up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down\nto the office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then\nreturned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind\nas I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I remembered\nthat Toller had drunk himself into a state of insensibility that\nevening, and I knew that he was the only one in the household who had\nany influence with the savage creature, or who would venture to set him\nfree. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at\nthe thought of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come\ninto Winchester this morning, but I must be back before three o clock,\nfor Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all\nthe evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you\nall my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could\ntell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should do. \n\nHolmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My\nfriend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his\npockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his face.\n\n Is Toller still drunk?  he asked.\n\n Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing\nwith him. \n\n That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night? \n\n Yes. \n\n Is there a cellar with a good strong lock? \n\n Yes, the wine-cellar. \n\n You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave\nand sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one\nmore feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite\nexceptional woman. \n\n I will try. What is it? \n\n We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o clock, my friend and I.\nThe Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be\nincapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If\nyou could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the\nkey upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely. \n\n I will do it. \n\n Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course\nthere is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to\npersonate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this chamber.\nThat is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is\nthe daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to\nhave gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in\nheight, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off,\nvery possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of\ncourse, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you came\nupon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some friend of\nhers possibly her _fianc _ and no doubt, as you wore the girl s dress\nand were so like her, he was convinced from your laughter, whenever he\nsaw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was\nperfectly happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog\nis let loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring to communicate\nwith her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case\nis the disposition of the child. \n\n What on earth has that to do with it?  I ejaculated.\n\n My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as\nto the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don t you see\nthat the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained my first\nreal insight into the character of parents by studying their children.\nThis child s disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty s\nsake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should\nsuspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in\ntheir power. \n\n I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes,  cried our client.  A\nthousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have hit\nit. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor\ncreature. \n\n We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We\ncan do nothing until seven o clock. At that hour we shall be with you,\nand it will not be long before we solve the mystery. \n\nWe were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached the\nCopper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house. The\ngroup of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in\nthe light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the house even\nhad Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the door-step.\n\n Have you managed it?  asked Holmes.\n\nA loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs.  That is Mrs.\nToller in the cellar,  said she.  Her husband lies snoring on the\nkitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.\nRucastle s. \n\n You have done well indeed!  cried Holmes with enthusiasm.  Now lead\nthe way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business. \n\nWe passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage,\nand found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had\ndescribed. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he\ntried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came\nfrom within, and at the silence Holmes  face clouded over.\n\n I trust that we are not too late,  said he.  I think, Miss Hunter,\nthat we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to\nit, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in. \n\nIt was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength.\nTogether we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture\nsave a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The\nskylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.\n\n There has been some villainy here,  said Holmes;  this beauty has\nguessed Miss Hunter s intentions and has carried his victim off. \n\n But how? \n\n Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.  He swung\nhimself up onto the roof.  Ah, yes,  he cried,  here s the end of a\nlong light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it. \n\n But it is impossible,  said Miss Hunter;  the ladder was not there\nwhen the Rucastles went away. \n\n He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and\ndangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he\nwhose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be\nas well for you to have your pistol ready. \n\nThe words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the\ndoor of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his\nhand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of\nhim, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him.\n\n You villain!  said he,  where s your daughter? \n\nThe fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.\n\n It is for me to ask you that,  he shrieked,  you thieves! Spies and\nthieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I ll serve\nyou!  He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.\n\n He s gone for the dog!  cried Miss Hunter.\n\n I have my revolver,  said I.\n\n Better close the front door,  cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the\nstairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the\nbaying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying\nsound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red\nface and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.\n\n My God!  he cried.  Someone has loosed the dog. It s not been fed for\ntwo days. Quick, quick, or it ll be too late! \n\nHolmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller\nhurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle\nburied in Rucastle s throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the\nground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over with its\nkeen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his neck. With\nmuch labour we separated them and carried him, living but horribly\nmangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa, and\nhaving dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to his wife, I\ndid what I could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him\nwhen the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room.\n\n Mrs. Toller!  cried Miss Hunter.\n\n Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up\nto you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn t let me know what you were\nplanning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted. \n\n Ha!  said Holmes, looking keenly at her.  It is clear that Mrs. Toller\nknows more about this matter than anyone else. \n\n Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know. \n\n Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several points\non which I must confess that I am still in the dark. \n\n I will soon make it clear to you,  said she;  and I d have done so\nbefore now if I could ha  got out from the cellar. If there s\npolice-court business over this, you ll remember that I was the one\nthat stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice s friend too.\n\n She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn t, from the time that her\nfather married again. She was slighted like and had no say in anything,\nbut it never really became bad for her until after she met Mr. Fowler\nat a friend s house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice had rights of\nher own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she\nnever said a word about them but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle s\nhands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there was a chance of a\nhusband coming forward, who would ask for all that the law would give\nhim, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her\nto sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her\nmoney. When she wouldn t do it, he kept on worrying her until she got\nbrain-fever, and for six weeks was at death s door. Then she got better\nat last, all worn to a shadow, and with her beautiful hair cut off; but\nthat didn t make no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as\ntrue as man could be. \n\n Ah,  said Holmes,  I think that what you have been good enough to tell\nus makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that\nremains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of\nimprisonment? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the\ndisagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler. \n\n That was it, sir. \n\n But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be,\nblockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain arguments,\nmetallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the\nsame as his. \n\n Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman,  said Mrs.\nToller serenely.\n\n And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of\ndrink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your master\nhad gone out. \n\n You have it, sir, just as it happened. \n\n I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller,  said Holmes,  for you\nhave certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes\nthe country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we had\nbest escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me that our\n_locus standi_ now is rather a questionable one. \n\nAnd thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper\nbeeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a\nbroken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife.\nThey still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of\nRucastle s past life that he finds it difficult to part from them. Mr.\nFowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in\nSouthampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a\ngovernment appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet\nHunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no\nfurther interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of\none of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at\nWalsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Picture of Dorian Gray",
        "author": "Oscar Wilde",
        "category": "Classics",
        "EN": "THE PREFACE\n\n\nThe artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and\nconceal the artist is art s aim. The critic is he who can translate\ninto another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful\nthings.\n\nThe highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.\nThose who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without\nbeing charming. This is a fault.\n\nThose who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the\ncultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom\nbeautiful things mean only beauty.\n\nThere is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well\nwritten, or badly written. That is all.\n\nThe nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing\nhis own face in a glass.\n\nThe nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban\nnot seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of\nthe subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in\nthe perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove\nanything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has\nethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable\nmannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express\neverything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an\nart. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the\npoint of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the\nmusician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor s craft is the\ntype. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the\nsurface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their\nperil. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.\nDiversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new,\ncomplex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with\nhimself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he\ndoes not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that\none admires it intensely.\n\nAll art is quite useless.\n\nOSCAR WILDE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nThe studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light\nsummer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through\nthe open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate\nperfume of the pink-flowering thorn.\n\nFrom the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was\nlying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry\nWotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured\nblossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to\nbear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then\nthe fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long\ntussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,\nproducing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of\nthose pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of\nan art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of\nswiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their\nway through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous\ninsistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,\nseemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London\nwas like the bourdon note of a distant organ.\n\nIn the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the\nfull-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,\nand in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist\nhimself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago\ncaused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many\nstrange conjectures.\n\nAs the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so\nskilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his\nface, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and\nclosing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought\nto imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he\nmight awake.\n\n It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,  said\nLord Henry languidly.  You must certainly send it next year to the\nGrosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have\ngone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been\nable to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that\nI have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor\nis really the only place. \n\n I don t think I shall send it anywhere,  he answered, tossing his head\nback in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at\nOxford.  No, I won t send it anywhere. \n\nLord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through\nthe thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls\nfrom his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette.  Not send it anywhere? My dear\nfellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You\ndo anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one,\nyou seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is\nonly one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is\nnot being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above\nall the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if\nold men are ever capable of any emotion. \n\n I know you will laugh at me,  he replied,  but I really can t exhibit\nit. I have put too much of myself into it. \n\nLord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.\n\n Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same. \n\n Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn t know you\nwere so vain; and I really can t see any resemblance between you, with\nyour rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young\nAdonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,\nmy dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you well, of course you have an\nintellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends\nwhere an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode\nof exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one\nsits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something\nhorrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.\nHow perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But\nthen in the Church they don t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the\nage of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,\nand as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.\nYour mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but\nwhose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of\nthat. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here\nin winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer\nwhen we want something to chill our intelligence. Don t flatter\nyourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him. \n\n You don t understand me, Harry,  answered the artist.  Of course I am\nnot like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to\nlook like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth.\nThere is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction,\nthe sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering\nsteps of kings. It is better not to be different from one s fellows.\nThe ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit\nat their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory,\nthey are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all\nshould live undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They\nneither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands.\nYour rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are my art,\nwhatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray s good looks we shall all suffer\nfor what the gods have given us, suffer terribly. \n\n Dorian Gray? Is that his name?  asked Lord Henry, walking across the\nstudio towards Basil Hallward.\n\n Yes, that is his name. I didn t intend to tell it to you. \n\n But why not? \n\n Oh, I can t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their\nnames to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown\nto love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life\nmysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if\none only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I\nam going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit,\nI dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into\none s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it? \n\n Not at all,  answered Lord Henry,  not at all, my dear Basil. You seem\nto forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it\nmakes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I\nnever know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.\nWhen we meet we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go\ndown to the Duke s we tell each other the most absurd stories with the\nmost serious faces. My wife is very good at it much better, in fact,\nthan I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But\nwhen she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish\nshe would; but she merely laughs at me. \n\n I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,  said Basil\nHallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden.  I\nbelieve that you are really a very good husband, but that you are\nthoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary\nfellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.\nYour cynicism is simply a pose. \n\n Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know, \ncried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the\ngarden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that\nstood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the\npolished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.\n\nAfter a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch.  I am afraid I must be\ngoing, Basil,  he murmured,  and before I go, I insist on your\nanswering a question I put to you some time ago. \n\n What is that?  said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.\n\n You know quite well. \n\n I do not, Harry. \n\n Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you\nwon t exhibit Dorian Gray s picture. I want the real reason. \n\n I told you the real reason. \n\n No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of\nyourself in it. Now, that is childish. \n\n Harry,  said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face,  every\nportrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not\nof the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is\nnot he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on\nthe coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit\nthis picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of\nmy own soul. \n\nLord Henry laughed.  And what is that?  he asked.\n\n I will tell you,  said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came\nover his face.\n\n I am all expectation, Basil,  continued his companion, glancing at\nhim.\n\n Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,  answered the painter;\n and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly\nbelieve it. \n\nLord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from\nthe grass and examined it.  I am quite sure I shall understand it,  he\nreplied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk,\n and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it\nis quite incredible. \n\nThe wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy\nlilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the\nlanguid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a\nblue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze\nwings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward s heart\nbeating, and wondered what was coming.\n\n The story is simply this,  said the painter after some time.  Two\nmonths ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon s. You know we poor\nartists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to\nremind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a\nwhite tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain\na reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room\nabout ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious\nacademicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at\nme. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.\nWhen our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation\nof terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some\none whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to\ndo so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art\nitself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know\nyourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my\nown master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.\nThen but I don t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to\ntell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had\na strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and\nexquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was\nnot conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take\nno credit to myself for trying to escape. \n\n Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience\nis the trade-name of the firm. That is all. \n\n I don t believe that, Harry, and I don t believe you do either.\nHowever, whatever was my motive and it may have been pride, for I used\nto be very proud I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I\nstumbled against Lady Brandon.  You are not going to run away so soon,\nMr. Hallward?  she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice? \n\n Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,  said Lord Henry,\npulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.\n\n I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and people\nwith stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and\nparrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her\nonce before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe\nsome picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had\nbeen chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the\nnineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself\nface to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely\nstirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again.\nIt was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.\nPerhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We\nwould have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of\nthat. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined\nto know each other. \n\n And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?  asked his\ncompanion.  I know she goes in for giving a rapid _pr cis_ of all her\nguests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old\ngentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my\near, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to\neverybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I\nlike to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests\nexactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them\nentirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants\nto know. \n\n Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!  said Hallward\nlistlessly.\n\n My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in\nopening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she\nsay about Mr. Dorian Gray? \n\n Oh, something like,  Charming boy poor dear mother and I absolutely\ninseparable. Quite forget what he does afraid he doesn t do\nanything oh, yes, plays the piano or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray? \nNeither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once. \n\n Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far\nthe best ending for one,  said the young lord, plucking another daisy.\n\nHallward shook his head.  You don t understand what friendship is,\nHarry,  he murmured or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every\none; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one. \n\n How horribly unjust of you!  cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back\nand looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of\nglossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the\nsummer sky.  Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference\nbetween people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my\nacquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good\nintellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I\nhave not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual\npower, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of\nme? I think it is rather vain. \n\n I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be\nmerely an acquaintance. \n\n My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance. \n\n And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose? \n\n Oh, brothers! I don t care for brothers. My elder brother won t die,\nand my younger brothers seem never to do anything else. \n\n Harry!  exclaimed Hallward, frowning.\n\n My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can t help detesting my\nrelations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand\nother people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize\nwith the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices\nof the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and\nimmorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of\nus makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When\npoor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite\nmagnificent. And yet I don t suppose that ten per cent of the\nproletariat live correctly. \n\n I don t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is\nmore, Harry, I feel sure you don t either. \n\nLord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his\npatent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane.  How English you are\nBasil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one\nputs forward an idea to a true Englishman always a rash thing to do he\nnever dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The\nonly thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it\noneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with\nthe sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities\nare that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual\nwill the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his\nwants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don t propose to\ndiscuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons\nbetter than principles, and I like persons with no principles better\nthan anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray.\nHow often do you see him? \n\n Every day. I couldn t be happy if I didn t see him every day. He is\nabsolutely necessary to me. \n\n How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but\nyour art. \n\n He is all my art to me now,  said the painter gravely.  I sometimes\nthink, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the\nworld s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,\nand the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.\nWhat the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of\nAntinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will\nsome day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from\nhim, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much\nmore to me than a model or a sitter. I won t tell you that I am\ndissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such\nthat art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express,\nand I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good\nwork, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way I wonder\nwill you understand me? his personality has suggested to me an entirely\nnew manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things\ndifferently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate life in a\nway that was hidden from me before.  A dream of form in days of\nthought who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray\nhas been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad for he seems to\nme little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty his merely\nvisible presence ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means?\nUnconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school\nthat is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the\nperfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and\nbody how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and\nhave invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void.\nHarry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that\nlandscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price but\nwhich I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever\ndone. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray\nsat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the\nfirst time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had\nalways looked for and always missed. \n\n Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray. \n\nHallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After\nsome time he came back.  Harry,  he said,  Dorian Gray is to me simply\na motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him.\nHe is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there.\nHe is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the\ncurves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain\ncolours. That is all. \n\n Then why won t you exhibit his portrait?  asked Lord Henry.\n\n Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of\nall this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never\ncared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know\nanything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my\nsoul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under\ntheir microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry too\nmuch of myself! \n\n Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion\nis for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions. \n\n I hate them for it,  cried Hallward.  An artist should create\nbeautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We\nlive in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of\nautobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I\nwill show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall\nnever see my portrait of Dorian Gray. \n\n I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won t argue with you. It is only\nthe intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very\nfond of you? \n\nThe painter considered for a few moments.  He likes me,  he answered\nafter a pause;  I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully.\nI find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall\nbe sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit\nin the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he\nis horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me\npain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some\none who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of\ndecoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer s day. \n\n Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,  murmured Lord Henry.\n Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think\nof, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That\naccounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate\nourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have\nsomething that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and\nfacts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly\nwell-informed man that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the\nthoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a\n_bric- -brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above\nits proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day\nyou will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little\nout of drawing, or you won t like his tone of colour, or something. You\nwill bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that\nhe has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be\nperfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will\nalter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art\none might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is\nthat it leaves one so unromantic. \n\n Harry, don t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of\nDorian Gray will dominate me. You can t feel what I feel. You change\ntoo often. \n\n Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are\nfaithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who\nknow love s tragedies.  And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty\nsilver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and\nsatisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was\na rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy,\nand the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like\nswallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other\npeople s emotions were! much more delightful than their ideas, it\nseemed to him. One s own soul, and the passions of one s friends those\nwere the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent\namusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long\nwith Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt s, he would have been sure\nto have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have\nbeen about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model\nlodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those\nvirtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives.\nThe rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown\neloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped\nall that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He\nturned to Hallward and said,  My dear fellow, I have just remembered. \n\n Remembered what, Harry? \n\n Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray. \n\n Where was it?  asked Hallward, with a slight frown.\n\n Don t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha s. She told\nme she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her\nin the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state\nthat she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation\nof good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very\nearnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a\ncreature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping\nabout on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend. \n\n I am very glad you didn t, Harry. \n\n Why? \n\n I don t want you to meet him. \n\n You don t want me to meet him? \n\n No. \n\n Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,  said the butler, coming into\nthe garden.\n\n You must introduce me now,  cried Lord Henry, laughing.\n\nThe painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.\n Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments.  The man\nbowed and went up the walk.\n\nThen he looked at Lord Henry.  Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,  he\nsaid.  He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite\nright in what she said of him. Don t spoil him. Don t try to influence\nhim. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many\nmarvellous people in it. Don t take away from me the one person who\ngives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist\ndepends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.  He spoke very slowly, and\nthe words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.\n\n What nonsense you talk!  said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward\nby the arm, he almost led him into the house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nAs they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with\nhis back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann s\n Forest Scenes.   You must lend me these, Basil,  he cried.  I want to\nlearn them. They are perfectly charming. \n\n That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian. \n\n Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don t want a life-sized portrait of\nmyself,  answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a\nwilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint\nblush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up.  I beg your\npardon, Basil, but I didn t know you had any one with you. \n\n This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I\nhave just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you\nhave spoiled everything. \n\n You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,  said Lord\nHenry, stepping forward and extending his hand.  My aunt has often\nspoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am\nafraid, one of her victims also. \n\n I am in Lady Agatha s black books at present,  answered Dorian with a\nfunny look of penitence.  I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel\nwith her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to\nhave played a duet together three duets, I believe. I don t know what\nshe will say to me. I am far too frightened to call. \n\n Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you.\nAnd I don t think it really matters about your not being there. The\naudience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to\nthe piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people. \n\n That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,  answered Dorian,\nlaughing.\n\nLord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome,\nwith his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp\ngold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at\nonce. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth s\npassionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the\nworld. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.\n\n You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray far too\ncharming.  And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened\nhis cigarette-case.\n\nThe painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes\nready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry s last\nremark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said,\n Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it\nawfully rude of me if I asked you to go away? \n\nLord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray.  Am I to go, Mr. Gray?  he\nasked.\n\n Oh, please don t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky\nmoods, and I can t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell\nme why I should not go in for philanthropy. \n\n I don t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a\nsubject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly\nshall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don t\nreally mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your\nsitters to have some one to chat to. \n\nHallward bit his lip.  If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay.\nDorian s whims are laws to everybody, except himself. \n\nLord Henry took up his hat and gloves.  You are very pressing, Basil,\nbut I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the\nOrleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon\nStreet. I am nearly always at home at five o clock. Write to me when\nyou are coming. I should be sorry to miss you. \n\n Basil,  cried Dorian Gray,  if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go,\ntoo. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is\nhorribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask\nhim to stay. I insist upon it. \n\n Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,  said Hallward,\ngazing intently at his picture.  It is quite true, I never talk when I\nam working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious\nfor my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay. \n\n But what about my man at the Orleans? \n\nThe painter laughed.  I don t think there will be any difficulty about\nthat. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform,\nand don t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry\nsays. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single\nexception of myself. \n\nDorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek\nmartyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom\nhe had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a\ndelightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few\nmoments he said to him,  Have you really a very bad influence, Lord\nHenry? As bad as Basil says? \n\n There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is\nimmoral immoral from the scientific point of view. \n\n Why? \n\n Because to influence a person is to give him one s own soul. He does\nnot think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His\nvirtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as\nsins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else s music, an\nactor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is\nself-development. To realize one s nature perfectly that is what each\nof us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have\nforgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one s\nself. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe\nthe beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone\nout of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society,\nwhich is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of\nreligion these are the two things that govern us. And yet \n\n Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good\nboy,  said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look\nhad come into the lad s face that he had never seen there before.\n\n And yet,  continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with\nthat graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of\nhim, and that he had even in his Eton days,  I believe that if one man\nwere to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to\nevery feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream I\nbelieve that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we\nwould forget all the maladies of medi valism, and return to the\nHellenic ideal to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it\nmay be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The\nmutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial\nthat mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse\nthat we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body\nsins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of\npurification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure,\nor the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is\nto yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for\nthe things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its\nmonstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that\nthe great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the\nbrain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place\nalso. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your\nrose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid,\nthoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping\ndreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame \n\n Stop!  faltered Dorian Gray,  stop! you bewilder me. I don t know what\nto say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don t speak.\nLet me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think. \n\nFor nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and\neyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh\ninfluences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come\nreally from himself. The few words that Basil s friend had said to\nhim words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in\nthem had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before,\nbut that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.\n\nMusic had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But\nmusic was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another\nchaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they\nwere! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them.\nAnd yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able\nto give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their\nown as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything\nso real as words?\n\nYes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.\nHe understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It\nseemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known\nit?\n\nWith his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise\npsychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested.\nHe was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced,\nand, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book\nwhich had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he\nwondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience.\nHe had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How\nfascinating the lad was!\n\nHallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had\nthe true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes\nonly from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.\n\n Basil, I am tired of standing,  cried Dorian Gray suddenly.  I must go\nout and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here. \n\n My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can t think of\nanything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And\nI have caught the effect I wanted the half-parted lips and the bright\nlook in the eyes. I don t know what Harry has been saying to you, but\nhe has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose\nhe has been paying you compliments. You mustn t believe a word that he\nsays. \n\n He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the\nreason that I don t believe anything he has told me. \n\n You know you believe it all,  said Lord Henry, looking at him with his\ndreamy languorous eyes.  I will go out to the garden with you. It is\nhorribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink,\nsomething with strawberries in it. \n\n Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will\ntell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I\nwill join you later on. Don t keep Dorian too long. I have never been\nin better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my\nmasterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands. \n\nLord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his\nface in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their\nperfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand\nupon his shoulder.  You are quite right to do that,  he murmured.\n Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the\nsenses but the soul. \n\nThe lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had\ntossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There\nwas a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are\nsuddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some\nhidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.\n\n Yes,  continued Lord Henry,  that is one of the great secrets of\nlife to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means\nof the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think\nyou know, just as you know less than you want to know. \n\nDorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking\nthe tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic,\nolive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was\nsomething in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His\ncool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved,\nas he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own.\nBut he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been\nleft for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil\nHallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered\nhim. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to\nhave disclosed to him life s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be\nafraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be\nfrightened.\n\n Let us go and sit in the shade,  said Lord Henry.  Parker has brought\nout the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be\nquite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must\nnot allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming. \n\n What can it matter?  cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on\nthe seat at the end of the garden.\n\n It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray. \n\n Why? \n\n Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing\nworth having. \n\n I don t feel that, Lord Henry. \n\n No, you don t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and\nugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion\nbranded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will\nfeel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it\nalways be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray.\nDon t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius is higher,\nindeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great\nfacts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in\ndark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be\nquestioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of\nthose who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won t\nsmile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That\nmay be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me,\nbeauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not\njudge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not\nthe invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But\nwhat the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in\nwhich to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your\nbeauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there\nare no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those\nmean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than\ndefeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something\ndreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your\nroses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You\nwill suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it.\nDon t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying\nto improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the\nignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the\nfalse ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you!\nLet nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations.\nBe afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism that is what our century wants.\nYou might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing\nyou could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The moment\nI met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are,\nof what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me\nthat I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how\ntragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time\nthat your youth will last such a little time. The common hill-flowers\nwither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next\nJune as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the\nclematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold\nits purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy\nthat beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses\nrot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the\npassions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite\ntemptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth!\nThere is absolutely nothing in the world but youth! \n\nDorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell\nfrom his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for\na moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe\nof the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in\ntrivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make\nus afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we\ncannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays\nsudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the\nbee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian\nconvolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and\nfro.\n\nSuddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made\nstaccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and\nsmiled.\n\n I am waiting,  he cried.  Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and\nyou can bring your drinks. \n\nThey rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white\nbutterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of\nthe garden a thrush began to sing.\n\n You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,  said Lord Henry, looking at\nhim.\n\n Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad? \n\n Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it.\nWomen are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to\nmake it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only\ndifference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice\nlasts a little longer. \n\nAs they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry s\narm.  In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,  he murmured,\nflushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and\nresumed his pose.\n\nLord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.\nThe sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that\nbroke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back\nto look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that\nstreamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The\nheavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.\n\nAfter about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for\na long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture,\nbiting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning.  It is quite\nfinished,  he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in\nlong vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.\n\nLord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a\nwonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.\n\n My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,  he said.  It is the\nfinest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at\nyourself. \n\nThe lad started, as if awakened from some dream.\n\n Is it really finished?  he murmured, stepping down from the platform.\n\n Quite finished,  said the painter.  And you have sat splendidly\nto-day. I am awfully obliged to you. \n\n That is entirely due to me,  broke in Lord Henry.  Isn t it, Mr.\nGray? \n\nDorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture\nand turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks\nflushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes,\nas if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there\nmotionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to\nhim, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own\nbeauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before.\nBasil Hallward s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the\ncharming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed\nat them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had\ncome Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his\nterrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and\nnow, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full\nreality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a\nday when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and\ncolourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet\nwould pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The\nlife that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become\ndreadful, hideous, and uncouth.\n\nAs he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a\nknife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes\ndeepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt\nas if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.\n\n Don t you like it?  cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the\nlad s silence, not understanding what it meant.\n\n Of course he likes it,  said Lord Henry.  Who wouldn t like it? It is\none of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you\nlike to ask for it. I must have it. \n\n It is not my property, Harry. \n\n Whose property is it? \n\n Dorian s, of course,  answered the painter.\n\n He is a very lucky fellow. \n\n How sad it is!  murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon\nhis own portrait.  How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and\ndreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be\nolder than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other\nway! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was\nto grow old! For that for that I would give everything! Yes, there is\nnothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for\nthat! \n\n You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,  cried Lord\nHenry, laughing.  It would be rather hard lines on your work. \n\n I should object very strongly, Harry,  said Hallward.\n\nDorian Gray turned and looked at him.  I believe you would, Basil. You\nlike your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a\ngreen bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say. \n\nThe painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like\nthat. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed\nand his cheeks burning.\n\n Yes,  he continued,  I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your\nsilver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till\nI have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses\none s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your\npicture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth\nis the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I\nshall kill myself. \n\nHallward turned pale and caught his hand.  Dorian! Dorian!  he cried,\n don t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I\nshall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things,\nare you? you who are finer than any of them! \n\n I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of\nthe portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must\nlose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives\nsomething to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture\ncould change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint\nit? It will mock me some day mock me horribly!  The hot tears welled\ninto his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the\ndivan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.\n\n This is your doing, Harry,  said the painter bitterly.\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  It is the real Dorian Gray that is\nall. \n\n It is not. \n\n If it is not, what have I to do with it? \n\n You should have gone away when I asked you,  he muttered.\n\n I stayed when you asked me,  was Lord Henry s answer.\n\n Harry, I can t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between\nyou both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever\ndone, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will\nnot let it come across our three lives and mar them. \n\nDorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid\nface and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal\npainting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was\nhe doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin\ntubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long\npalette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at\nlast. He was going to rip up the canvas.\n\nWith a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to\nHallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of\nthe studio.  Don t, Basil, don t!  he cried.  It would be murder! \n\n I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,  said the painter\ncoldly when he had recovered from his surprise.  I never thought you\nwould. \n\n Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I\nfeel that. \n\n Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and\nsent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.  And he walked\nacross the room and rang the bell for tea.  You will have tea, of\ncourse, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple\npleasures? \n\n I adore simple pleasures,  said Lord Henry.  They are the last refuge\nof the complex. But I don t like scenes, except on the stage. What\nabsurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as\na rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man\nis many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after\nall though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You\nhad much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn t really\nwant it, and I really do. \n\n If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you! \ncried Dorian Gray;  and I don t allow people to call me a silly boy. \n\n You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it\nexisted. \n\n And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you\ndon t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young. \n\n I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry. \n\n Ah! this morning! You have lived since then. \n\nThere came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden\ntea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a\nrattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn.\nTwo globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray\nwent over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to\nthe table and examined what was under the covers.\n\n Let us go to the theatre to-night,  said Lord Henry.  There is sure to\nbe something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White s, but it\nis only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am\nill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent\nengagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have\nall the surprise of candour. \n\n It is such a bore putting on one s dress-clothes,  muttered Hallward.\n And, when one has them on, they are so horrid. \n\n Yes,  answered Lord Henry dreamily,  the costume of the nineteenth\ncentury is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only\nreal colour-element left in modern life. \n\n You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry. \n\n Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one\nin the picture? \n\n Before either. \n\n I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,  said the\nlad.\n\n Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won t you? \n\n I can t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do. \n\n Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray. \n\n I should like that awfully. \n\nThe painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture.\n I shall stay with the real Dorian,  he said, sadly.\n\n Is it the real Dorian?  cried the original of the portrait, strolling\nacross to him.  Am I really like that? \n\n Yes; you are just like that. \n\n How wonderful, Basil! \n\n At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter, \nsighed Hallward.  That is something. \n\n What a fuss people make about fidelity!  exclaimed Lord Henry.  Why,\neven in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to\ndo with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old\nmen want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say. \n\n Don t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,  said Hallward.  Stop and\ndine with me. \n\n I can t, Basil. \n\n Why? \n\n Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him. \n\n He won t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always\nbreaks his own. I beg you not to go. \n\nDorian Gray laughed and shook his head.\n\n I entreat you. \n\nThe lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them\nfrom the tea-table with an amused smile.\n\n I must go, Basil,  he answered.\n\n Very well,  said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on\nthe tray.  It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better\nlose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon.\nCome to-morrow. \n\n Certainly. \n\n You won t forget? \n\n No, of course not,  cried Dorian.\n\n And ... Harry! \n\n Yes, Basil? \n\n Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning. \n\n I have forgotten it. \n\n I trust you. \n\n I wish I could trust myself,  said Lord Henry, laughing.  Come, Mr.\nGray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.\nGood-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon. \n\nAs the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a\nsofa, and a look of pain came into his face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nAt half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon\nStreet over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial\nif somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called\nselfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was\nconsidered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His\nfather had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and\nPrim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a\ncapricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at\nParis, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by\nreason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches,\nand his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his\nfather s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat\nfoolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months\nlater to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great\naristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town\nhouses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and\ntook most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the\nmanagement of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself\nfor this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of\nhaving coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of\nburning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when\nthe Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them\nfor being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied\nhim, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn.\nOnly England could have produced him, and he always said that the\ncountry was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but\nthere was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.\n\nWhen Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough\nshooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_.  Well,\nHarry,  said the old gentleman,  what brings you out so early? I\nthought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till\nfive. \n\n Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get\nsomething out of you. \n\n Money, I suppose,  said Lord Fermor, making a wry face.  Well, sit\ndown and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that\nmoney is everything. \n\n Yes,  murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat;  and\nwhen they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only\npeople who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay\nmine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly\nupon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and\nconsequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not\nuseful information, of course; useless information. \n\n Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry,\nalthough those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in\nthe Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in\nnow by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure\nhumbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite\nenough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for\nhim. \n\n Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George,  said\nLord Henry languidly.\n\n Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?  asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy\nwhite eyebrows.\n\n That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who\nhe is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux,\nLady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What\nwas she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in\nyour time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in\nMr. Gray at present. I have only just met him. \n\n Kelso s grandson!  echoed the old gentleman.  Kelso s grandson! ... Of\ncourse.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her\nchristening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret\nDevereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless\nyoung fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or\nsomething of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it\nhappened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few\nmonths after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said\nKelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his\nson-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the\nfellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed\nup, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time\nafterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she\nnever spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl\ndied, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had\nforgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he\nmust be a good-looking chap. \n\n He is very good-looking,  assented Lord Henry.\n\n I hope he will fall into proper hands,  continued the old man.  He\nshould have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing\nby him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her,\nthrough her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a\nmean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I\nwas ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble\nwho was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made\nquite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I\nhope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies. \n\n I don t know,  answered Lord Henry.  I fancy that the boy will be well\noff. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ...\nhis mother was very beautiful? \n\n Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw,\nHarry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could\nunderstand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was\nmad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family\nwere. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful.\nCarlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at\nhim, and there wasn t a girl in London at the time who wasn t after\nhim. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this\nhumbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an\nAmerican? Ain t English girls good enough for him? \n\n It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George. \n\n I ll back English women against the world, Harry,  said Lord Fermor,\nstriking the table with his fist.\n\n The betting is on the Americans. \n\n They don t last, I am told,  muttered his uncle.\n\n A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a\nsteeplechase. They take things flying. I don t think Dartmoor has a\nchance. \n\n Who are her people?  grumbled the old gentleman.  Has she got any? \n\nLord Henry shook his head.  American girls are as clever at concealing\ntheir parents, as English women are at concealing their past,  he said,\nrising to go.\n\n They are pork-packers, I suppose? \n\n I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor s sake. I am told that\npork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after\npolitics. \n\n Is she pretty? \n\n She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the\nsecret of their charm. \n\n Why can t these American women stay in their own country? They are\nalways telling us that it is the paradise for women. \n\n It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively\nanxious to get out of it,  said Lord Henry.  Good-bye, Uncle George. I\nshall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the\ninformation I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new\nfriends, and nothing about my old ones. \n\n Where are you lunching, Harry? \n\n At Aunt Agatha s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest\n_prot g _. \n\n Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with\nher charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that\nI have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads. \n\n All right, Uncle George, I ll tell her, but it won t have any effect.\nPhilanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their\ndistinguishing characteristic. \n\nThe old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his\nservant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and\nturned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.\n\nSo that was the story of Dorian Gray s parentage. Crudely as it had\nbeen told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a\nstrange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything\nfor a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a\nhideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child\nborn in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to\nsolitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an\ninteresting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it\nwere. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something\ntragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might\nblow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as\nwith startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat\nopposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer\nrose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing\nupon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the\nbow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of\ninfluence. No other activity was like it. To project one s soul into\nsome gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one s\nown intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of\npassion and youth; to convey one s temperament into another as though\nit were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in\nthat perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited\nand vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and\ngrossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad,\nwhom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil s studio, or could be\nfashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the\nwhite purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for\nus. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made\na Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to\nfade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how\ninteresting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at\nlife, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who\nwas unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim\nwoodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself,\nDryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there\nhad been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful\nthings revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it\nwere, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they\nwere themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose\nshadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something\nlike it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had\nfirst analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the\ncoloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was\nstrange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without\nknowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful\nportrait. He would seek to dominate him had already, indeed, half done\nso. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something\nfascinating in this son of love and death.\n\nSuddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had\npassed his aunt s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.\nWhen he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they\nhad gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and\npassed into the dining-room.\n\n Late as usual, Harry,  cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.\n\nHe invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to\nher, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from\nthe end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek.\nOpposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and\ngood temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample\narchitectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are\ndescribed by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on\nher right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who\nfollowed his leader in public life and in private life followed the\nbest cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in\naccordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was\noccupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable\ncharm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence,\nhaving, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he\nhad to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur,\none of his aunt s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so\ndreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book.\nFortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most\nintelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement\nin the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely\nearnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once\nhimself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of\nthem ever quite escape.\n\n We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,  cried the duchess,\nnodding pleasantly to him across the table.  Do you think he will\nreally marry this fascinating young person? \n\n I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess. \n\n How dreadful!  exclaimed Lady Agatha.  Really, some one should\ninterfere. \n\n I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American\ndry-goods store,  said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.\n\n My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas. \n\n Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?  asked the duchess, raising\nher large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb.\n\n American novels,  answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.\n\nThe duchess looked puzzled.\n\n Don t mind him, my dear,  whispered Lady Agatha.  He never means\nanything that he says. \n\n When America was discovered,  said the Radical member and he began to\ngive some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a\nsubject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised\nher privilege of interruption.  I wish to goodness it never had been\ndiscovered at all!  she exclaimed.  Really, our girls have no chance\nnowadays. It is most unfair. \n\n Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,  said Mr.\nErskine;  I myself would say that it had merely been detected. \n\n Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,  answered the\nduchess vaguely.  I must confess that most of them are extremely\npretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris.\nI wish I could afford to do the same. \n\n They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris,  chuckled Sir\nThomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour s cast-off clothes.\n\n Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?  inquired the\nduchess.\n\n They go to America,  murmured Lord Henry.\n\nSir Thomas frowned.  I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against\nthat great country,  he said to Lady Agatha.  I have travelled all over\nit in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are\nextremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it. \n\n But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?  asked Mr.\nErskine plaintively.  I don t feel up to the journey. \n\nSir Thomas waved his hand.  Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on\nhis shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about\nthem. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are\nabsolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing\ncharacteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I\nassure you there is no nonsense about the Americans. \n\n How dreadful!  cried Lord Henry.  I can stand brute force, but brute\nreason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It\nis hitting below the intellect. \n\n I do not understand you,  said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.\n\n I do, Lord Henry,  murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.\n\n Paradoxes are all very well in their way....  rejoined the baronet.\n\n Was that a paradox?  asked Mr. Erskine.  I did not think so. Perhaps\nit was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality\nwe must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we\ncan judge them. \n\n Dear me!  said Lady Agatha,  how you men argue! I am sure I never can\nmake out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with\nyou. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the\nEast End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love\nhis playing. \n\n I want him to play to me,  cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked\ndown the table and caught a bright answering glance.\n\n But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,  continued Lady Agatha.\n\n I can sympathize with everything except suffering,  said Lord Henry,\nshrugging his shoulders.  I cannot sympathize with that. It is too\nugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid\nin the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the\ncolour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life s sores,\nthe better. \n\n Still, the East End is a very important problem,  remarked Sir Thomas\nwith a grave shake of the head.\n\n Quite so,  answered the young lord.  It is the problem of slavery, and\nwe try to solve it by amusing the slaves. \n\nThe politician looked at him keenly.  What change do you propose,\nthen?  he asked.\n\nLord Henry laughed.  I don t desire to change anything in England\nexcept the weather,  he answered.  I am quite content with philosophic\ncontemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through\nan over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal\nto science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that\nthey lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not\nemotional. \n\n But we have such grave responsibilities,  ventured Mrs. Vandeleur\ntimidly.\n\n Terribly grave,  echoed Lady Agatha.\n\nLord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine.  Humanity takes itself too\nseriously. It is the world s original sin. If the caveman had known how\nto laugh, history would have been different. \n\n You are really very comforting,  warbled the duchess.  I have always\nfelt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no\ninterest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look\nher in the face without a blush. \n\n A blush is very becoming, Duchess,  remarked Lord Henry.\n\n Only when one is young,  she answered.  When an old woman like myself\nblushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell\nme how to become young again. \n\nHe thought for a moment.  Can you remember any great error that you\ncommitted in your early days, Duchess?  he asked, looking at her across\nthe table.\n\n A great many, I fear,  she cried.\n\n Then commit them over again,  he said gravely.  To get back one s\nyouth, one has merely to repeat one s follies. \n\n A delightful theory!  she exclaimed.  I must put it into practice. \n\n A dangerous theory!  came from Sir Thomas s tight lips. Lady Agatha\nshook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.\n\n Yes,  he continued,  that is one of the great secrets of life.\nNowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and\ndiscover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are\none s mistakes. \n\nA laugh ran round the table.\n\nHe played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and\ntransformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent\nwith fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went\non, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and\ncatching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her\nwine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the\nhills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled\nbefore her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge\npress at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round\nher bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over\nthe vat s black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary\nimprovisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him,\nand the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose\ntemperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and\nto lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic,\nirresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they\nfollowed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him,\nbut sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips\nand wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.\n\nAt last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room\nin the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was\nwaiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair.  How annoying!  she\ncried.  I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take\nhim to some absurd meeting at Willis s Rooms, where he is going to be\nin the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn t\nhave a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would\nruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are\nquite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don t know\nwhat to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some\nnight. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday? \n\n For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess,  said Lord Henry with a\nbow.\n\n Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you,  she cried;  so mind you\ncome ; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the\nother ladies.\n\nWhen Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking\na chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.\n\n You talk books away,  he said;  why don t you write one? \n\n I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I\nshould like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely\nas a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in\nEngland for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of\nall people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty\nof literature. \n\n I fear you are right,  answered Mr. Erskine.  I myself used to have\nliterary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young\nfriend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really\nmeant all that you said to us at lunch? \n\n I quite forget what I said,  smiled Lord Henry.  Was it all very bad? \n\n Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if\nanything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being\nprimarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The\ngeneration into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are\ntired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your\nphilosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate\nenough to possess. \n\n I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It\nhas a perfect host, and a perfect library. \n\n You will complete it,  answered the old gentleman with a courteous\nbow.  And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at\nthe Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there. \n\n All of you, Mr. Erskine? \n\n Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English\nAcademy of Letters. \n\nLord Henry laughed and rose.  I am going to the park,  he cried.\n\nAs he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm.\n Let me come with you,  he murmured.\n\n But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him, \nanswered Lord Henry.\n\n I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let\nme. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so\nwonderfully as you do. \n\n Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day,  said Lord Henry, smiling.\n All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with\nme, if you care to. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nOne afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious\narm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry s house in Mayfair. It\nwas, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled\nwainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling\nof raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk,\nlong-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette\nby Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for\nMargaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies\nthat Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and\nparrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small\nleaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a\nsummer day in London.\n\nLord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his\nprinciple being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was\nlooking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages\nof an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had\nfound in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the\nLouis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going\naway.\n\nAt last he heard a step outside, and the door opened.  How late you\nare, Harry!  he murmured.\n\n I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,  answered a shrill voice.\n\nHe glanced quickly round and rose to his feet.  I beg your pardon. I\nthought \n\n You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me\nintroduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my\nhusband has got seventeen of them. \n\n Not seventeen, Lady Henry? \n\n Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the\nopera.  She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her\nvague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always\nlooked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.\nShe was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never\nreturned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look\npicturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria,\nand she had a perfect mania for going to church.\n\n That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think? \n\n Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner s music better than\nanybody s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other\npeople hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don t you\nthink so, Mr. Gray? \n\nThe same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her\nfingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.\n\nDorian smiled and shook his head:  I am afraid I don t think so, Lady\nHenry. I never talk during music at least, during good music. If one\nhears bad music, it is one s duty to drown it in conversation. \n\n Ah! that is one of Harry s views, isn t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear\nHarry s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of\nthem. But you must not think I don t like good music. I adore it, but I\nam afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped\npianists two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don t know what it\nis about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are,\nain t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after\na time, don t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to\nart. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn t it? You have never been to\nany of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can t afford\norchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one s rooms\nlook so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for\nyou, to ask you something I forget what it was and I found Mr. Gray\nhere. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the\nsame ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been\nmost pleasant. I am so glad I ve seen him. \n\n I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,  said Lord Henry, elevating his\ndark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused\nsmile.  So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old\nbrocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays\npeople know the price of everything and the value of nothing. \n\n I am afraid I must be going,  exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an\nawkward silence with her silly sudden laugh.  I have promised to drive\nwith the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining\nout, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury s. \n\n I dare say, my dear,  said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her\nas, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the\nrain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of\nfrangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the\nsofa.\n\n Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,  he said after a\nfew puffs.\n\n Why, Harry? \n\n Because they are so sentimental. \n\n But I like sentimental people. \n\n Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women,\nbecause they are curious: both are disappointed. \n\n I don t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That\nis one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do\neverything that you say. \n\n Who are you in love with?  asked Lord Henry after a pause.\n\n With an actress,  said Dorian Gray, blushing.\n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  That is a rather commonplace\n_d but_. \n\n You would not say so if you saw her, Harry. \n\n Who is she? \n\n Her name is Sibyl Vane. \n\n Never heard of her. \n\n No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius. \n\n My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They\nnever have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent\nthe triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of\nmind over morals. \n\n Harry, how can you? \n\n My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so\nI ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I\nfind that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and\nthe coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a\nreputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to\nsupper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake,\nhowever. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers\npainted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used\nto go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten\nyears younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for\nconversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and\ntwo of these can t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me\nabout your genius. How long have you known her? \n\n Ah! Harry, your views terrify me. \n\n Never mind that. How long have you known her? \n\n About three weeks. \n\n And where did you come across her? \n\n I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn t be unsympathetic about it.\nAfter all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You\nfilled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days\nafter I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in\nthe park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who\npassed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they\nled. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There\nwas an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations....\nWell, one evening about seven o clock, I determined to go out in search\nof some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with\nits myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as\nyou once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a\nthousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I\nremembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we\nfirst dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret\nof life. I don t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered\neastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black\ngrassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little\ntheatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous\nJew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was\nstanding at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets,\nand an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt.  Have a\nbox, my Lord?  he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an\nair of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that\namused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I\nreally went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the\npresent day I can t make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn t my dear\nHarry, if I hadn t I should have missed the greatest romance of my\nlife. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you! \n\n I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you\nshould not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the\nfirst romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will\nalways be in love with love. A _grande passion_ is the privilege of\npeople who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes\nof a country. Don t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for\nyou. This is merely the beginning. \n\n Do you think my nature so shallow?  cried Dorian Gray angrily.\n\n No; I think your nature so deep. \n\n How do you mean? \n\n My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really\nthe shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I\ncall either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.\nFaithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life\nof the intellect simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must\nanalyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many\nthings that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might\npick them up. But I don t want to interrupt you. Go on with your\nstory. \n\n Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a\nvulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the\ncurtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and\ncornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were\nfairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and\nthere was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the\ndress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there\nwas a terrible consumption of nuts going on. \n\n It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama. \n\n Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what\non earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you\nthink the play was, Harry? \n\n I should think  The Idiot Boy , or  Dumb but Innocent . Our fathers\nused to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian,\nthe more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is\nnot good enough for us. In art, as in politics, _les grandp res ont\ntoujours tort_. \n\n This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I\nmust admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare\ndone in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a\nsort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There\nwas a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a\ncracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene\nwas drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman,\nwith corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a\nbeer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the\nlow-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most\nfriendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the\nscenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But\nJuliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a\nlittle, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of\ndark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were\nlike the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen\nin my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that\nbeauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you,\nHarry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came\nacross me. And her voice I never heard such a voice. It was very low at\nfirst, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one s\near. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a\ndistant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy\nthat one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There\nwere moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You\nknow how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane\nare two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear\nthem, and each of them says something different. I don t know which to\nfollow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is\neverything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One\nevening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have\nseen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from\nher lover s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of\nArden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.\nShe has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and\ngiven him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been\ninnocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike\nthroat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary\nwomen never appeal to one s imagination. They are limited to their\ncentury. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as\neasily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is\nno mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and\nchatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped\nsmile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an\nactress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn t you tell me\nthat the only thing worth loving is an actress? \n\n Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian. \n\n Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces. \n\n Don t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary\ncharm in them, sometimes,  said Lord Henry.\n\n I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane. \n\n You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life\nyou will tell me everything you do. \n\n Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things.\nYou have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would\ncome and confess it to you. You would understand me. \n\n People like you the wilful sunbeams of life don t commit crimes,\nDorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now\ntell me reach me the matches, like a good boy thanks what are your\nactual relations with Sibyl Vane? \n\nDorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.\n Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred! \n\n It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian,  said\nLord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice.  But why\nshould you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When\none is in love, one always begins by deceiving one s self, and one\nalways ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a\nromance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose? \n\n Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the\nhorrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and\noffered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was\nfurious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds\nof years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I\nthink, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the\nimpression that I had taken too much champagne, or something. \n\n I am not surprised. \n\n Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I\nnever even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and\nconfided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy\nagainst him, and that they were every one of them to be bought. \n\n I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other\nhand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all\nexpensive. \n\n Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means,  laughed Dorian.\n By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre,\nand I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly\nrecommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the\nplace again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I\nwas a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though\nhe had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with\nan air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to  The\nBard,  as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a\ndistinction. \n\n It was a distinction, my dear Dorian a great distinction. Most people\nbecome bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of\nlife. To have ruined one s self over poetry is an honour. But when did\nyou first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane? \n\n The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going\nround. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me at least\nI fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed\ndetermined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not\nwanting to know her, wasn t it? \n\n No; I don t think so. \n\n My dear Harry, why? \n\n I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl. \n\n Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a child\nabout her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her\nwhat I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of\nher power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood\ngrinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate\nspeeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like\nchildren. He would insist on calling me  My Lord,  so I had to assure\nSibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me,\n You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming. \n\n Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments. \n\n You don t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in\na play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded\ntired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta\ndressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen\nbetter days. \n\n I know that look. It depresses me,  murmured Lord Henry, examining his\nrings.\n\n The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest\nme. \n\n You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about\nother people s tragedies. \n\n Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came\nfrom? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and\nentirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every\nnight she is more marvellous. \n\n That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I\nthought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is\nnot quite what I expected. \n\n My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have\nbeen to the opera with you several times,  said Dorian, opening his\nblue eyes in wonder.\n\n You always come dreadfully late. \n\n Well, I can t help going to see Sibyl play,  he cried,  even if it is\nonly for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think\nof the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I\nam filled with awe. \n\n You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can t you? \n\nHe shook his head.  To-night she is Imogen,  he answered,  and\nto-morrow night she will be Juliet. \n\n When is she Sibyl Vane? \n\n Never. \n\n I congratulate you. \n\n How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one.\nShe is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has\ngenius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the\nsecrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to\nmake Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our\nlaughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their\ndust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry,\nhow I worship her!  He was walking up and down the room as he spoke.\nHectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.\n\nLord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different\nhe was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward s\nstudio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of\nscarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and\ndesire had come to meet it on the way.\n\n And what do you propose to do?  said Lord Henry at last.\n\n I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I\nhave not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to\nacknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew s hands.\nShe is bound to him for three years at least for two years and eight\nmonths from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of\ncourse. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and\nbring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made\nme. \n\n That would be impossible, my dear boy. \n\n Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in\nher, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it\nis personalities, not principles, that move the age. \n\n Well, what night shall we go? \n\n Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet\nto-morrow. \n\n All right. The Bristol at eight o clock; and I will get Basil. \n\n Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the\ncurtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets\nRomeo. \n\n Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or\nreading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before\nseven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to\nhim? \n\n Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather\nhorrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful\nframe, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous\nof the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit\nthat I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don t want\nto see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good\nadvice. \n\nLord Henry smiled.  People are very fond of giving away what they need\nmost themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity. \n\n Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit\nof a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered\nthat. \n\n Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his\nwork. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his\nprejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I\nhave ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good\nartists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly\nuninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is\nthe most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely\nfascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they\nlook. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets\nmakes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot\nwrite. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize. \n\n I wonder is that really so, Harry?  said Dorian Gray, putting some\nperfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that\nstood on the table.  It must be, if you say it. And now I am off.\nImogen is waiting for me. Don t forget about to-morrow. Good-bye. \n\nAs he left the room, Lord Henry s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began\nto think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as\nDorian Gray, and yet the lad s mad adoration of some one else caused\nhim not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by\nit. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled\nby the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of\nthat science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had\nbegun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others.\nHuman life that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating.\nCompared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as\none watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one\ncould not wear over one s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous\nfumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with\nmonstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle\nthat to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were\nmaladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to\nunderstand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received!\nHow wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard\nlogic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect to\nobserve where they met, and where they separated, at what point they\nwere in unison, and at what point they were at discord there was a\ndelight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too\nhigh a price for any sensation.\n\nHe was conscious and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his\nbrown agate eyes that it was through certain words of his, musical\nwords said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray s soul had turned\nto this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent\nthe lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was\nsomething. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its\nsecrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were\nrevealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect\nof art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately\nwith the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex\npersonality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed,\nin its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces,\njust as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.\n\nYes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was\nyet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was\nbecoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his\nbeautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It\nwas no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one\nof those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be\nremote from one, but whose sorrows stir one s sense of beauty, and\nwhose wounds are like red roses.\n\nSoul and body, body and soul how mysterious they were! There was\nanimalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.\nThe senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say\nwhere the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How\nshallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And\nyet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools!\nWas the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body\nreally in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit\nfrom matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a\nmystery also.\n\nHe began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a\nscience that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it\nwas, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others.\nExperience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to\ntheir mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of\nwarning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation\nof character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow\nand showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in\nexperience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.\nAll that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same\nas our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we\nwould do many times, and with joy.\n\nIt was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by\nwhich one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and\ncertainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to\npromise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane\nwas a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt\nthat curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new\nexperiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex\npassion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of\nboyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination,\nchanged into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from\nsense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the\npassions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most\nstrongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we\nwere conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were\nexperimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.\n\nWhile Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the\ndoor, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for\ndinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had\nsmitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The\npanes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a\nfaded rose. He thought of his friend s young fiery-coloured life and\nwondered how it was all going to end.\n\nWhen he arrived home, about half-past twelve o clock, he saw a telegram\nlying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian\nGray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl\nVane.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\n Mother, Mother, I am so happy!  whispered the girl, burying her face\nin the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to\nthe shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their\ndingy sitting-room contained.  I am so happy!  she repeated,  and you\nmust be happy, too! \n\nMrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her\ndaughter s head.  Happy!  she echoed,  I am only happy, Sibyl, when I\nsee you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs\nhas been very good to us, and we owe him money. \n\nThe girl looked up and pouted.  Money, Mother?  she cried,  what does\nmoney matter? Love is more than money. \n\n Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to\nget a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty\npounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate. \n\n He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me, \nsaid the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window.\n\n I don t know how we could manage without him,  answered the elder\nwoman querulously.\n\nSibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed.  We don t want him any more,\nMother. Prince Charming rules life for us now.  Then she paused. A rose\nshook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the\npetals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept\nover her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress.  I love him,  she\nsaid simply.\n\n Foolish child! foolish child!  was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.\nThe waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the\nwords.\n\nThe girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her\neyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a\nmoment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a\ndream had passed across them.\n\nThin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at\nprudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name\nof common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of\npassion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on\nmemory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it\nhad brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids\nwere warm with his breath.\n\nThen wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This\nyoung man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against\nthe shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of\ncraft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled.\n\nSuddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her.\n Mother, Mother,  she cried,  why does he love me so much? I know why I\nlove him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be.\nBut what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I\ncannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I\nfeel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love\nPrince Charming? \n\nThe elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her\ncheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to\nher, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her.  Forgive me,\nMother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains\nyou because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy\nto-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever! \n\n My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides,\nwhat do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The\nwhole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away\nto Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you\nshould have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he\nis rich ... \n\n Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy! \n\nMrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical\ngestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a\nstage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened\nand a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was\nthick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat\nclumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would\nhardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them.\nMrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally\nelevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the\n_tableau_ was interesting.\n\n You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,  said the\nlad with a good-natured grumble.\n\n Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim,  she cried.  You are a\ndreadful old bear.  And she ran across the room and hugged him.\n\nJames Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness.  I want you\nto come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see\nthis horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to. \n\n My son, don t say such dreadful things,  murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up\na tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She\nfelt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would\nhave increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.\n\n Why not, Mother? I mean it. \n\n You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a\nposition of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the\nColonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your\nfortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London. \n\n Society!  muttered the lad.  I don t want to know anything about that.\nI should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I\nhate it. \n\n Oh, Jim!  said Sibyl, laughing,  how unkind of you! But are you really\ngoing for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were\ngoing to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave\nyou that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking\nit. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where\nshall we go? Let us go to the park. \n\n I am too shabby,  he answered, frowning.  Only swell people go to the\npark. \n\n Nonsense, Jim,  she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.\n\nHe hesitated for a moment.  Very well,  he said at last,  but don t be\ntoo long dressing.  She danced out of the door. One could hear her\nsinging as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.\n\nHe walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to\nthe still figure in the chair.  Mother, are my things ready?  he asked.\n\n Quite ready, James,  she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For\nsome months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this\nrough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when\ntheir eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The\nsilence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.\nShe began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as\nthey attack by sudden and strange surrenders.  I hope you will be\ncontented, James, with your sea-faring life,  she said.  You must\nremember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a\nsolicitor s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the\ncountry often dine with the best families. \n\n I hate offices, and I hate clerks,  he replied.  But you are quite\nright. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don t\nlet her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her. \n\n James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl. \n\n I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to\ntalk to her. Is that right? What about that? \n\n You are speaking about things you don t understand, James. In the\nprofession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying\nattention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was\nwhen acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at\npresent whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no doubt\nthat the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always\nmost polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and\nthe flowers he sends are lovely. \n\n You don t know his name, though,  said the lad harshly.\n\n No,  answered his mother with a placid expression in her face.  He has\nnot yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He\nis probably a member of the aristocracy. \n\nJames Vane bit his lip.  Watch over Sibyl, Mother,  he cried,  watch\nover her. \n\n My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special\ncare. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why\nshe should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the\naristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be a\nmost brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple.\nHis good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them. \n\nThe lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane\nwith his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something when\nthe door opened and Sibyl ran in.\n\n How serious you both are!  she cried.  What is the matter? \n\n Nothing,  he answered.  I suppose one must be serious sometimes.\nGood-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o clock. Everything is\npacked, except my shirts, so you need not trouble. \n\n Good-bye, my son,  she answered with a bow of strained stateliness.\n\nShe was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and\nthere was something in his look that had made her feel afraid.\n\n Kiss me, Mother,  said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the\nwithered cheek and warmed its frost.\n\n My child! my child!  cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in\nsearch of an imaginary gallery.\n\n Come, Sibyl,  said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother s\naffectations.\n\nThey went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled\ndown the dreary Euston Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at the\nsullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the\ncompany of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a common\ngardener walking with a rose.\n\nJim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of\nsome stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on\ngeniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however,\nwas quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Her love was\ntrembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming,\nand, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him,\nbut prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail, about\nthe gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life\nhe was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not\nto remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be.\nOh, no! A sailor s existence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a\nhorrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a\nblack wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long\nscreaming ribands! He was to leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a\npolite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields.\nBefore a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure\ngold, the largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it\ndown to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The\nbushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with\nimmense slaughter. Or, no. He was not to go to the gold-fields at all.\nThey were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other\nin bar-rooms, and used bad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer,\nand one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful\nheiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase,\nand rescue her. Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with\nher, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense\nhouse in London. Yes, there were delightful things in store for him.\nBut he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money\nfoolishly. She was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much\nmore of life. He must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and\nto say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very\ngood, and would watch over him. She would pray for him, too, and in a\nfew years he would come back quite rich and happy.\n\nThe lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sick\nat leaving home.\n\nYet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose.\nInexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger\nof Sibyl s position. This young dandy who was making love to her could\nmean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated\nhim through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,\nand which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was\nconscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother s nature,\nand in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl s happiness.\nChildren begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge\nthem; sometimes they forgive them.\n\nHis mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that\nhe had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that he\nhad heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears\none night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of\nhorrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a\nhunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like\nfurrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.\n\n You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim,  cried Sibyl,  and I\nam making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something. \n\n What do you want me to say? \n\n Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us,  she answered,\nsmiling at him.\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders.  You are more likely to forget me than I am\nto forget you, Sibyl. \n\nShe flushed.  What do you mean, Jim?  she asked.\n\n You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me\nabout him? He means you no good. \n\n Stop, Jim!  she exclaimed.  You must not say anything against him. I\nlove him. \n\n Why, you don t even know his name,  answered the lad.  Who is he? I\nhave a right to know. \n\n He is called Prince Charming. Don t you like the name. Oh! you silly\nboy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think\nhim the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet\nhim when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much.\nEverybody likes him, and I ... love him. I wish you could come to the\ntheatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. Oh!\nhow I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet! To have\nhim sitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I may frighten\nthe company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is to surpass\none s self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting  genius  to his\nloafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will\nannounce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his only,\nPrince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor\nbeside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the\ndoor, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want rewriting.\nThey were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I\nthink, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies. \n\n He is a gentleman,  said the lad sullenly.\n\n A prince!  she cried musically.  What more do you want? \n\n He wants to enslave you. \n\n I shudder at the thought of being free. \n\n I want you to beware of him. \n\n To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him. \n\n Sibyl, you are mad about him. \n\nShe laughed and took his arm.  You dear old Jim, you talk as if you\nwere a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will\nknow what it is. Don t look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to\nthink that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have\never been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and\ndifficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new world,\nand I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the\nsmart people go by. \n\nThey took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds across\nthe road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white dust tremulous\ncloud of orris-root it seemed hung in the panting air. The brightly\ncoloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies.\n\nShe made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He\nspoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as\nplayers at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not\ncommunicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all\nthe echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly she\ncaught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open\ncarriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.\n\nShe started to her feet.  There he is!  she cried.\n\n Who?  said Jim Vane.\n\n Prince Charming,  she answered, looking after the victoria.\n\nHe jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm.  Show him to me. Which\nis he? Point him out. I must see him!  he exclaimed; but at that moment\nthe Duke of Berwick s four-in-hand came between, and when it had left\nthe space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.\n\n He is gone,  murmured Sibyl sadly.  I wish you had seen him. \n\n I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does\nyou any wrong, I shall kill him. \n\nShe looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air\nlike a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close to\nher tittered.\n\n Come away, Jim; come away,  she whispered. He followed her doggedly as\nshe passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.\n\nWhen they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was pity\nin her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head at\nhim.  You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that\nis all. How can you say such horrible things? You don t know what you\nare talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you\nwould fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was\nwicked. \n\n I am sixteen,  he answered,  and I know what I am about. Mother is no\nhelp to you. She doesn t understand how to look after you. I wish now\nthat I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck\nthe whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn t been signed. \n\n Oh, don t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those\nsilly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going\nto quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect\nhappiness. We won t quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I\nlove, would you? \n\n Not as long as you love him, I suppose,  was the sullen answer.\n\n I shall love him for ever!  she cried.\n\n And he? \n\n For ever, too! \n\n He had better. \n\nShe shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He\nwas merely a boy.\n\nAt the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to\ntheir shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o clock, and\nSibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted\nthat she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when\ntheir mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he\ndetested scenes of every kind.\n\nIn Sybil s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad s heart,\nand a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him,\nhad come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck,\nand her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her\nwith real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went\ndownstairs.\n\nHis mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his\nunpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his\nmeagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the\nstained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of\nstreet-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that\nwas left to him.\n\nAfter some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his\nhands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to\nhim before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother\nwatched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace\nhandkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got\nup and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their\neyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him.\n\n Mother, I have something to ask you,  he said. Her eyes wandered\nvaguely about the room. She made no answer.  Tell me the truth. I have\na right to know. Were you married to my father? \n\nShe heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment,\nthe moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,\nhad come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure\nit was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question\ncalled for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up\nto. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.\n\n No,  she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.\n\n My father was a scoundrel then!  cried the lad, clenching his fists.\n\nShe shook her head.  I knew he was not free. We loved each other very\nmuch. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don t speak\nagainst him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he\nwas highly connected. \n\nAn oath broke from his lips.  I don t care for myself,  he exclaimed,\n but don t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn t it, who is in love\nwith her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose. \n\nFor a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her\nhead drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands.  Sibyl has a\nmother,  she murmured;  I had none. \n\nThe lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed\nher.  I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,  he\nsaid,  but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget\nthat you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me\nthat if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him\ndown, and kill him like a dog. I swear it. \n\nThe exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that\naccompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid\nto her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely,\nand for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She\nwould have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional\nscale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers\nlooked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the\nbargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It\nwas with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the\ntattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She\nwas conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled\nherself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now\nthat she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase.\nIt had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and\ndramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some\nday.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\n I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?  said Lord Henry that\nevening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol\nwhere dinner had been laid for three.\n\n No, Harry,  answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing\nwaiter.  What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t\ninterest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons\nworth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little\nwhitewashing. \n\n Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,  said Lord Henry, watching him\nas he spoke.\n\nHallward started and then frowned.  Dorian engaged to be married!  he\ncried.  Impossible! \n\n It is perfectly true. \n\n To whom? \n\n To some little actress or other. \n\n I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible. \n\n Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear\nBasil. \n\n Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry. \n\n Except in America,  rejoined Lord Henry languidly.  But I didn t say\nhe was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great\ndifference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have\nno recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I\nnever was engaged. \n\n But think of Dorian s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be\nabsurd for him to marry so much beneath him. \n\n If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is\nsure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it\nis always from the noblest motives. \n\n I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don t want to see Dorian tied to\nsome vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his\nintellect. \n\n Oh, she is better than good she is beautiful,  murmured Lord Henry,\nsipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters.  Dorian says she is\nbeautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your\nportrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal\nappearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst\nothers. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn t forget his\nappointment. \n\n Are you serious? \n\n Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever\nbe more serious than I am at the present moment. \n\n But do you approve of it, Harry?  asked the painter, walking up and\ndown the room and biting his lip.  You can t approve of it, possibly.\nIt is some silly infatuation. \n\n I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd\nattitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air\nour moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people\nsay, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a\npersonality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality\nselects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with\na beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not?\nIf he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You know\nI am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that\nit makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack\nindividuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage\nmakes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other\negos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more\nhighly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should fancy, the\nobject of man s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and\nwhatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I\nhope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore\nher for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one\nelse. He would be a wonderful study. \n\n You don t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don t.\nIf Dorian Gray s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than\nyourself. You are much better than you pretend to be. \n\nLord Henry laughed.  The reason we all like to think so well of others\nis that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer\nterror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour\nwith the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to\nus. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find\ngood qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our\npockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest\ncontempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but\none whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have\nmerely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly,\nbut there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I\nwill certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being\nfashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I\ncan. \n\n My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!  said the\nlad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and\nshaking each of his friends by the hand in turn.  I have never been so\nhappy. Of course, it is sudden all really delightful things are. And\nyet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my\nlife.  He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked\nextraordinarily handsome.\n\n I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,  said Hallward,  but I\ndon t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.\nYou let Harry know. \n\n And I don t forgive you for being late for dinner,  broke in Lord\nHenry, putting his hand on the lad s shoulder and smiling as he spoke.\n Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and\nthen you will tell us how it all came about. \n\n There is really not much to tell,  cried Dorian as they took their\nseats at the small round table.  What happened was simply this. After I\nleft you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that\nlittle Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and\nwent down at eight o clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind.\nOf course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!\nYou should have seen her! When she came on in her boy s clothes, she\nwas perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with\ncinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little\ngreen cap with a hawk s feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak\nlined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had\nall the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your\nstudio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round\na pale rose. As for her acting well, you shall see her to-night. She is\nsimply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I\nforgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away\nwith my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the\nperformance was over, I went behind and spoke to her. As we were\nsitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had\nnever seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each\nother. I can t describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to\nme that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of\nrose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shook like a white\nnarcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I\nfeel that I should not tell you all this, but I can t help it. Of\ncourse, our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own\nmother. I don t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to\nbe furious. I don t care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and\nthen I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven t I, to take\nmy love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare s plays? Lips\nthat Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear.\nI have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the\nmouth. \n\n Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,  said Hallward slowly.\n\n Have you seen her to-day?  asked Lord Henry.\n\nDorian Gray shook his head.  I left her in the forest of Arden; I shall\nfind her in an orchard in Verona. \n\nLord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner.  At what\nparticular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what\ndid she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it. \n\n My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did\nnot make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said\nshe was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is\nnothing to me compared with her. \n\n Women are wonderfully practical,  murmured Lord Henry,  much more\npractical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to\nsay anything about marriage, and they always remind us. \n\nHallward laid his hand upon his arm.  Don t, Harry. You have annoyed\nDorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any\none. His nature is too fine for that. \n\nLord Henry looked across the table.  Dorian is never annoyed with me, \nhe answered.  I asked the question for the best reason possible, for\nthe only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any\nquestion simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women\nwho propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of\ncourse, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not\nmodern. \n\nDorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head.  You are quite incorrigible,\nHarry; but I don t mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When\nyou see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her\nwould be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any\none can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to\nplace her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the woman\nwho is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for\nthat. Ah! don t mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her\ntrust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her,\nI regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you\nhave known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane s\nhand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous,\ndelightful theories. \n\n And those are ...?  asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.\n\n Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories\nabout pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry. \n\n Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,  he answered\nin his slow melodious voice.  But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory\nas my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature s test,\nher sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when\nwe are good, we are not always happy. \n\n Ah! but what do you mean by good?  cried Basil Hallward.\n\n Yes,  echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord\nHenry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the\ncentre of the table,  what do you mean by good, Harry? \n\n To be good is to be in harmony with one s self,  he replied, touching\nthe thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.\n Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One s own\nlife that is the important thing. As for the lives of one s neighbours,\nif one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one s moral\nviews about them, but they are not one s concern. Besides,\nindividualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in\naccepting the standard of one s age. I consider that for any man of\nculture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest\nimmorality. \n\n But, surely, if one lives merely for one s self, Harry, one pays a\nterrible price for doing so?  suggested the painter.\n\n Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that\nthe real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but\nself-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege\nof the rich. \n\n One has to pay in other ways but money. \n\n What sort of ways, Basil? \n\n Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the\nconsciousness of degradation. \n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  My dear fellow, medi val art is\ncharming, but medi val emotions are out of date. One can use them in\nfiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in\nfiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me,\nno civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever\nknows what a pleasure is. \n\n I know what pleasure is,  cried Dorian Gray.  It is to adore some\none. \n\n That is certainly better than being adored,  he answered, toying with\nsome fruits.  Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as\nhumanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us\nto do something for them. \n\n I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to\nus,  murmured the lad gravely.  They create love in our natures. They\nhave a right to demand it back. \n\n That is quite true, Dorian,  cried Hallward.\n\n Nothing is ever quite true,  said Lord Henry.\n\n This is,  interrupted Dorian.  You must admit, Harry, that women give\nto men the very gold of their lives. \n\n Possibly,  he sighed,  but they invariably want it back in such very\nsmall change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once\nput it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always\nprevent us from carrying them out. \n\n Harry, you are dreadful! I don t know why I like you so much. \n\n You will always like me, Dorian,  he replied.  Will you have some\ncoffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and\nsome cigarettes. No, don t mind the cigarettes I have some. Basil, I\ncan t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette\nis the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it\nleaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will\nalways be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never\nhad the courage to commit. \n\n What nonsense you talk, Harry!  cried the lad, taking a light from a\nfire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.\n Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will\nhave a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you\nhave never known. \n\n I have known everything,  said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his\neyes,  but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however,\nthat, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful\ngirl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life.\nLet us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but\nthere is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a\nhansom. \n\nThey got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The\npainter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He\ncould not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better\nthan many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes,\nthey all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been\narranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in\nfront of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that\nDorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the\npast. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded\nflaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the\ntheatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nFor some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat\nJew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with\nan oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of\npompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top\nof his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he\nhad come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry,\nupon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and\ninsisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud\nto meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a\npoet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The\nheat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a\nmonstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths in the gallery\nhad taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side.\nThey talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges\nwith the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in\nthe pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of\nthe popping of corks came from the bar.\n\n What a place to find one s divinity in!  said Lord Henry.\n\n Yes!  answered Dorian Gray.  It was here I found her, and she is\ndivine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget\neverything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and\nbrutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They\nsit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to\ndo. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them,\nand one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one s self. \n\n The same flesh and blood as one s self! Oh, I hope not!  exclaimed\nLord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his\nopera-glass.\n\n Don t pay any attention to him, Dorian,  said the painter.  I\nunderstand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love\nmust be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must\nbe fine and noble. To spiritualize one s age that is something worth\ndoing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without\none, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have\nbeen sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and\nlend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of\nall your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage\nis quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The\ngods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been\nincomplete. \n\n Thanks, Basil,  answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand.  I knew that\nyou would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here\nis the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about\nfive minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom\nI am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is\ngood in me. \n\nA quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of\napplause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly\nlovely to look at one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,\nthat he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace\nand startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror\nof silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded\nenthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to\ntremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.\nMotionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord\nHenry peered through his glasses, murmuring,  Charming! charming! \n\nThe scene was the hall of Capulet s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim s\ndress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such\nas it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through\nthe crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a\ncreature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a\nplant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a\nwhite lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.\n\nYet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes\nrested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak \n\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\n    Which mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims  hands do touch,\n    And palm to palm is holy palmers  kiss \n\n\nwith the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly\nartificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view\nof tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away\nall the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.\n\nDorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious.\nNeither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them\nto be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.\n\nYet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of\nthe second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was\nnothing in her.\n\nShe looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be\ndenied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse\nas she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She\noveremphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage \n\nThou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\nElse would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\nFor that which thou hast heard me speak to-night \n\n\nwas declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been\ntaught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she\nleaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines \n\nAlthough I joy in thee,\nI have no joy of this contract to-night:\nIt is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;\nToo like the lightning, which doth cease to be\nEre one can say,  It lightens.  Sweet, good-night!\nThis bud of love by summer s ripening breath\nMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet \n\n\nshe spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was\nnot nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely\nself-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.\n\nEven the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their\ninterest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and\nto whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the\ndress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was\nthe girl herself.\n\nWhen the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord\nHenry got up from his chair and put on his coat.  She is quite\nbeautiful, Dorian,  he said,  but she can t act. Let us go. \n\n I am going to see the play through,  answered the lad, in a hard\nbitter voice.  I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an\nevening, Harry. I apologize to you both. \n\n My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,  interrupted\nHallward.  We will come some other night. \n\n I wish she were ill,  he rejoined.  But she seems to me to be simply\ncallous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great\nartist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress. \n\n Don t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more\nwonderful thing than art. \n\n They are both simply forms of imitation,  remarked Lord Henry.  But do\nlet us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good\nfor one s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don t suppose you will\nwant your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like\na wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about\nlife as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience.\nThere are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating people\nwho know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.\nGood heavens, my dear boy, don t look so tragic! The secret of\nremaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to\nthe club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to\nthe beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want? \n\n Go away, Harry,  cried the lad.  I want to be alone. Basil, you must\ngo. Ah! can t you see that my heart is breaking?  The hot tears came to\nhis eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he\nleaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.\n\n Let us go, Basil,  said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his\nvoice, and the two young men passed out together.\n\nA few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose\non the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale,\nand proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed\ninterminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots\nand laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played\nto almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some\ngroans.\n\nAs soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the\ngreenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on\nher face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a\nradiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of\ntheir own.\n\nWhen he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy\ncame over her.  How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!  she cried.\n\n Horribly!  he answered, gazing at her in amazement.  Horribly! It was\ndreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea\nwhat I suffered. \n\nThe girl smiled.  Dorian,  she answered, lingering over his name with\nlong-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to\nthe red petals of her mouth.  Dorian, you should have understood. But\nyou understand now, don t you? \n\n Understand what?  he asked, angrily.\n\n Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall\nnever act well again. \n\nHe shrugged his shoulders.  You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill\nyou shouldn t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored.\nI was bored. \n\nShe seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An\necstasy of happiness dominated her.\n\n Dorian, Dorian,  she cried,  before I knew you, acting was the one\nreality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought\nthat it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other.\nThe joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine\nalso. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me\nseemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew\nnothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came oh, my beautiful\nlove! and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality\nreally is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the\nhollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had\nalways played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that\nthe Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the\norchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I\nhad to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to\nsay. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is\nbut a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My\nlove! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of\nshadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do\nwith the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not\nunderstand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that\nI was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly\nit dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to\nme. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love\nsuch as ours? Take me away, Dorian take me away with you, where we can\nbe quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not\nfeel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian,\nDorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it\nwould be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me\nsee that. \n\nHe flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face.  You have\nkilled my love,  he muttered.\n\nShe looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came\nacross to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt\ndown and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a\nshudder ran through him.\n\nThen he leaped up and went to the door.  Yes,  he cried,  you have\nkilled my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don t even\nstir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because\nyou were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you\nrealized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the\nshadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and\nstupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You\nare nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think\nof you. I will never mention your name. You don t know what you were to\nme, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can t bear to think of it! I wish I had\nnever laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How\nlittle you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your\nart, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid,\nmagnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have\nborne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty\nface. \n\nThe girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and\nher voice seemed to catch in her throat.  You are not serious, Dorian? \nshe murmured.  You are acting. \n\n Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,  he answered bitterly.\n\nShe rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her\nface, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and\nlooked into his eyes. He thrust her back.  Don t touch me!  he cried.\n\nA low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay\nthere like a trampled flower.  Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!  she\nwhispered.  I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all\nthe time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across\nme, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had\nnot kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love.\nDon t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me.\nMy brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest....\nBut you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and\ntry to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than\nanything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not\npleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown\nmyself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help\nit. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me.  A fit of passionate sobbing\nchoked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian\nGray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled\nlips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous\nabout the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane\nseemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed\nhim.\n\n I am going,  he said at last in his calm clear voice.  I don t wish to\nbe unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me. \n\nShe wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little\nhands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He\nturned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of\nthe theatre.\n\nWhere he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly\nlit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking\nhouses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after\nhim. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like\nmonstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps,\nand heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.\n\nAs the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden.\nThe darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed\nitself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies\nrumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with\nthe perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an\nanodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men\nunloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some\ncherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money\nfor them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at\nmidnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long\nline of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red\nroses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge,\njade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey,\nsun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,\nwaiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging\ndoors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped\nand stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.\nSome of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked\nand pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.\n\nAfter a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few\nmoments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent\nsquare, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds.\nThe sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like\nsilver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke\nwas rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.\n\nIn the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge s barge, that\nhung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance,\nlights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals\nof flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and,\nhaving thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library\ntowards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the\nground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had\ndecorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries\nthat had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As\nhe was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait\nBasil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise.\nThen he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he\nhad taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate.\nFinally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In\nthe dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk\nblinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression\nlooked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty\nin the mouth. It was certainly strange.\n\nHe turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The\nbright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky\ncorners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he\nhad noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be\nmore intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the\nlines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking\ninto a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.\n\nHe winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory\nCupids, one of Lord Henry s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly\ninto its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What\ndid it mean?\n\nHe rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it\nagain. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual\npainting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had\naltered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly\napparent.\n\nHe threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there\nflashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward s studio the\nday the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He\nhad uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the\nportrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the\nface on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that\nthe painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and\nthought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness\nof his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been\nfulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to\nthink of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the\ntouch of cruelty in the mouth.\n\nCruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl s fault, not his. He had\ndreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he\nhad thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been\nshallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over\nhim, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little\nchild. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had\nhe been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he\nhad suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had\nlasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His\nlife was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had\nwounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear\nsorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of\ntheir emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one\nwith whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and\nLord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl\nVane? She was nothing to him now.\n\nBut the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his\nlife, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty.\nWould it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it\nagain?\n\nNo; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The\nhorrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly\nthere had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men\nmad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.\n\nYet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel\nsmile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met\nhis own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted\nimage of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would\nalter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses\nwould die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and\nwreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or\nunchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would\nresist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more would not, at\nany rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil\nHallward s garden had first stirred within him the passion for\nimpossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends,\nmarry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She\nmust have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish\nand cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would\nreturn. They would be happy together. His life with her would be\nbeautiful and pure.\n\nHe got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the\nportrait, shuddering as he glanced at it.  How horrible!  he murmured\nto himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he\nstepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning\nair seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of\nSibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name\nover and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched\ngarden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nIt was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times\non tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered\nwhat made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and\nVictor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a\nsmall tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,\nwith their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall\nwindows.\n\n Monsieur has well slept this morning,  he said, smiling.\n\n What o clock is it, Victor?  asked Dorian Gray drowsily.\n\n One hour and a quarter, Monsieur. \n\nHow late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his\nletters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand\nthat morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The\nothers he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of\ncards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of\ncharity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young\nmen every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for\na chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the\ncourage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned\npeople and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary\nthings are our only necessities; and there were several very\ncourteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders\noffering to advance any sum of money at a moment s notice and at the\nmost reasonable rates of interest.\n\nAfter about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate\ndressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the\nonyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep.\nHe seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense\nof having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice,\nbut there was the unreality of a dream about it.\n\nAs soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a\nlight French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round\ntable close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air\nseemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the\nblue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before\nhim. He felt perfectly happy.\n\nSuddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the\nportrait, and he started.\n\n Too cold for Monsieur?  asked his valet, putting an omelette on the\ntable.  I shut the window? \n\nDorian shook his head.  I am not cold,  he murmured.\n\nWas it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply\nhis own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there\nhad been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The\nthing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It\nwould make him smile.\n\nAnd, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in\nthe dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of\ncruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the\nroom. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the\nportrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes\nhad been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to\ntell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him\nback. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a\nmoment.  I am not at home to any one, Victor,  he said with a sigh. The\nman bowed and retired.\n\nThen he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on\na luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen\nwas an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a\nrather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously,\nwondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man s life.\n\nShould he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was\nthe use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was\nnot true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier\nchance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change?\nWhat should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own\npicture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be\nexamined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful\nstate of doubt.\n\nHe got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he\nlooked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and\nsaw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had\naltered.\n\nAs he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he\nfound himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost\nscientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was\nincredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle\naffinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form\nand colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be\nthat what that soul thought, they realized? that what it dreamed, they\nmade true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered,\nand felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the\npicture in sickened horror.\n\nOne thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him\nconscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not\ntoo late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His\nunreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be\ntransformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil\nHallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would\nbe to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the\nfear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could\nlull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the\ndegradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men\nbrought upon their souls.\n\nThree o clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double\nchime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the\nscarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his\nway through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was\nwandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he\nwent over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had\nloved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He\ncovered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of\npain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we\nfeel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession,\nnot the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the\nletter, he felt that he had been forgiven.\n\nSuddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry s\nvoice outside.  My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can t\nbear your shutting yourself up like this. \n\nHe made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking\nstill continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry\nin, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel\nwith him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was\ninevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture,\nand unlocked the door.\n\n I am so sorry for it all, Dorian,  said Lord Henry as he entered.  But\nyou must not think too much about it. \n\n Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?  asked the lad.\n\n Yes, of course,  answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly\npulling off his yellow gloves.  It is dreadful, from one point of view,\nbut it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her,\nafter the play was over? \n\n Yes. \n\n I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her? \n\n I was brutal, Harry perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am\nnot sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know\nmyself better. \n\n Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would\nfind you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours. \n\n I have got through all that,  said Dorian, shaking his head and\nsmiling.  I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin\nwith. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in\nus. Don t sneer at it, Harry, any more at least not before me. I want\nto be good. I can t bear the idea of my soul being hideous. \n\n A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you\non it. But how are you going to begin? \n\n By marrying Sibyl Vane. \n\n Marrying Sibyl Vane!  cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him\nin perplexed amazement.  But, my dear Dorian \n\n Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about\nmarriage. Don t say it. Don t ever say things of that kind to me again.\nTwo days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word\nto her. She is to be my wife. \n\n Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn t you get my letter? I wrote to you this\nmorning, and sent the note down by my own man. \n\n Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was\nafraid there might be something in it that I wouldn t like. You cut\nlife to pieces with your epigrams. \n\n You know nothing then? \n\n What do you mean? \n\nLord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray,\ntook both his hands in his own and held them tightly.  Dorian,  he\nsaid,  my letter don t be frightened was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is\ndead. \n\nA cry of pain broke from the lad s lips, and he leaped to his feet,\ntearing his hands away from Lord Henry s grasp.  Dead! Sibyl dead! It\nis not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it? \n\n It is quite true, Dorian,  said Lord Henry, gravely.  It is in all the\nmorning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till\nI came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not\nbe mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris.\nBut in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make\none s _d but_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an\ninterest to one s old age. I suppose they don t know your name at the\ntheatre? If they don t, it is all right. Did any one see you going\nround to her room? That is an important point. \n\nDorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.\nFinally he stammered, in a stifled voice,  Harry, did you say an\ninquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl ? Oh, Harry, I can t bear\nit! But be quick. Tell me everything at once. \n\n I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put\nin that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre\nwith her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had\nforgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she\ndid not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the\nfloor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake,\nsome dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don t know what it was, but\nit had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was\nprussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously. \n\n Harry, Harry, it is terrible!  cried the lad.\n\n Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed\nup in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have\nthought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and\nseemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn t let this\nthing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and\nafterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and\neverybody will be there. You can come to my sister s box. She has got\nsome smart women with her. \n\n So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,  said Dorian Gray, half to himself,\n murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife.\nYet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as\nhappily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go\non to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How\nextraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book,\nHarry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has\nhappened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears.\nHere is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my\nlife. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been\naddressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent\npeople we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh,\nHarry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was\neverything to me. Then came that dreadful night was it really only last\nnight? when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She\nexplained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a\nbit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me\nafraid. I can t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I\nwould go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My\nGod! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don t know the danger I am in,\nand there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for\nme. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her. \n\n My dear Dorian,  answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case\nand producing a gold-latten matchbox,  the only way a woman can ever\nreform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible\ninterest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been\nwretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always\nbe kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon\nfound out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman\nfinds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy,\nor wears very smart bonnets that some other woman s husband has to pay\nfor. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been\nabject which, of course, I would not have allowed but I assure you that\nin any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure. \n\n I suppose it would,  muttered the lad, walking up and down the room\nand looking horribly pale.  But I thought it was my duty. It is not my\nfault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right.\nI remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good\nresolutions that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were. \n\n Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific\nlaws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_.\nThey give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions\nthat have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said\nfor them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they\nhave no account. \n\n Harry,  cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him,\n why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I\ndon t think I am heartless. Do you? \n\n You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be\nentitled to give yourself that name, Dorian,  answered Lord Henry with\nhis sweet melancholy smile.\n\nThe lad frowned.  I don t like that explanation, Harry,  he rejoined,\n but I am glad you don t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the\nkind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has\nhappened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply\nlike a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible\nbeauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but\nby which I have not been wounded. \n\n It is an interesting question,  said Lord Henry, who found an\nexquisite pleasure in playing on the lad s unconscious egotism,  an\nextremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is\nthis: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an\ninartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their\nabsolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack\nof style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an\nimpression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes,\nhowever, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses\nour lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply\nappeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are\nno longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are\nboth. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle\nenthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened?\nSome one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had\nsuch an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the\nrest of my life. The people who have adored me there have not been very\nmany, but there have been some have always insisted on living on, long\nafter I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have\nbecome stout and tedious, and when I meet them, they go in at once for\nreminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is!\nAnd what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb\nthe colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details\nare always vulgar. \n\n I must sow poppies in my garden,  sighed Dorian.\n\n There is no necessity,  rejoined his companion.  Life has always\npoppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once\nwore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic\nmourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did\ndie. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice\nthe whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one\nwith the terror of eternity. Well would you believe it? a week ago, at\nLady Hampshire s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in\nquestion, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and\ndigging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance\nin a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and assured me that I\nhad spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous\ndinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she\nshowed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women\nnever know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act,\nand as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose\nto continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would\nhave a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce.\nThey are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are\nmore fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the\nwomen I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you.\nOrdinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going\nin for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve,\nwhatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of\npink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a\ngreat consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their\nhusbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one s face, as if it\nwere the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its\nmysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and\nI can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being\ntold that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes;\nthere is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern\nlife. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one. \n\n What is that, Harry?  said the lad listlessly.\n\n Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else s admirer when one\nloses one s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But\nreally, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the\nwomen one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her\ndeath. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen.\nThey make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with,\nsuch as romance, passion, and love. \n\n I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that. \n\n I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more\nthan anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have\nemancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all\nthe same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I\nhave never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how\ndelightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day\nbefore yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful,\nbut that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to\neverything. \n\n What was that, Harry? \n\n You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of\nromance that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that\nif she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen. \n\n She will never come to life again now,  muttered the lad, burying his\nface in his hands.\n\n No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you\nmust think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a\nstrange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene\nfrom Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived,\nand so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a\ndream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare s plays and left them\nlovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare s music\nsounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual\nlife, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn\nfor Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was\nstrangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio\ndied. But don t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real\nthan they are. \n\nThere was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and\nwith silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours\nfaded wearily out of things.\n\nAfter some time Dorian Gray looked up.  You have explained me to\nmyself, Harry,  he murmured with something of a sigh of relief.  I felt\nall that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not\nexpress it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again\nof what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all.\nI wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous. \n\n Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that\nyou, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do. \n\n But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What\nthen? \n\n Ah, then,  said Lord Henry, rising to go,  then, my dear Dorian, you\nwould have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to\nyou. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads\ntoo much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We\ncannot spare you. And now you had better dress and drive down to the\nclub. We are rather late, as it is. \n\n I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat\nanything. What is the number of your sister s box? \n\n Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her\nname on the door. But I am sorry you won t come and dine. \n\n I don t feel up to it,  said Dorian listlessly.  But I am awfully\nobliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my\nbest friend. No one has ever understood me as you have. \n\n We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian,  answered Lord\nHenry, shaking him by the hand.  Good-bye. I shall see you before\nnine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing. \n\nAs he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in\na few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down.\nHe waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an\ninterminable time over everything.\n\nAs soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No;\nthere was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of\nSibyl Vane s death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious\nof the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred\nthe fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment\nthat the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it\nindifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed\nwithin the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the\nchange taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.\n\nPoor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked\ndeath on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her\nwith him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed\nhim, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would\nalways be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the\nsacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what\nshe had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre.\nWhen he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent\non to the world s stage to show the supreme reality of love. A\nwonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her\nchildlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He\nbrushed them away hastily and looked again at the picture.\n\nHe felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his\nchoice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him life, and\nhis own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion,\npleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins he was to have\nall these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame:\nthat was all.\n\nA feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that\nwas in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery\nof Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips\nthat now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat\nbefore the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as\nit seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which\nhe yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be\nhidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had\nso often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The\npity of it! the pity of it!\n\nFor a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that\nexisted between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in\nanswer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain\nunchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender\nthe chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance\nmight be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?\nBesides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer\nthat had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious\nscientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence\nupon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon\ndead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,\nmight not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods\nand passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity?\nBut the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a\nprayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to\nalter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?\n\nFor there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to\nfollow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him\nthe most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so\nit would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he\nwould still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer.\nWhen the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of\nchalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one\nblossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life\nwould ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and\nfleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured\nimage on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.\n\nHe drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,\nsmiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was\nalready waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord\nHenry was leaning over his chair.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nAs he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown\ninto the room.\n\n I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,  he said gravely.  I called\nlast night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew\nthat was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really\ngone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy\nmight be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me\nwhen you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late\nedition of _The Globe_ that I picked up at the club. I came here at\nonce and was miserable at not finding you. I can t tell you how\nheart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer.\nBut where were you? Did you go down and see the girl s mother? For a\nmoment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the\npaper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn t it? But I was afraid of\nintruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a\nstate she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about\nit all? \n\n My dear Basil, how do I know?  murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some\npale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass\nand looking dreadfully bored.  I was at the opera. You should have come\non there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry s sister, for the first time. We\nwere in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely.\nDon t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn t talk about a thing, it\nhas never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives\nreality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman s only\nchild. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on\nthe stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about\nyourself and what you are painting. \n\n You went to the opera?  said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a\nstrained touch of pain in his voice.  You went to the opera while Sibyl\nVane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other\nwomen being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl\nyou loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there\nare horrors in store for that little white body of hers! \n\n Stop, Basil! I won t hear it!  cried Dorian, leaping to his feet.  You\nmust not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is\npast. \n\n You call yesterday the past? \n\n What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only\nshallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is\nmaster of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a\npleasure. I don t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use\nthem, to enjoy them, and to dominate them. \n\n Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You\nlook exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come\ndown to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural,\nand affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the\nwhole world. Now, I don t know what has come over you. You talk as if\nyou had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry s influence. I see\nthat. \n\nThe lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few\nmoments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden.  I owe a great\ndeal to Harry, Basil,  he said at last,  more than I owe to you. You\nonly taught me to be vain. \n\n Well, I am punished for that, Dorian or shall be some day. \n\n I don t know what you mean, Basil,  he exclaimed, turning round.  I\ndon t know what you want. What do you want? \n\n I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,  said the artist sadly.\n\n Basil,  said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his\nshoulder,  you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl\nVane had killed herself \n\n Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?  cried\nHallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.\n\n My dear Basil! Surely you don t think it was a vulgar accident? Of\ncourse she killed herself. \n\nThe elder man buried his face in his hands.  How fearful,  he muttered,\nand a shudder ran through him.\n\n No,  said Dorian Gray,  there is nothing fearful about it. It is one\nof the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act\nlead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful\nwives, or something tedious. You know what I mean middle-class virtue\nand all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her\nfinest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played the\nnight you saw her she acted badly because she had known the reality of\nlove. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died.\nShe passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the\nmartyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of\nmartyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not\nthink I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular\nmoment about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six you would\nhave found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the\nnews, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered\nimmensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can,\nexcept sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come\ndown here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled,\nand you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a\nstory Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty\nyears of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some\nunjust law altered I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded,\nand nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing\nto do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And\nbesides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me\nrather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic\npoint of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la\nconsolation des arts_? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered\nbook in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase.\nWell, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at\nMarlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could\nconsole one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that\none can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work,\ncarved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp there is much to\nbe got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create,\nor at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of\none s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I\nknow you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not\nrealized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am\na man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am\ndifferent, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must\nalways be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know\nthat you are better than he is. You are not stronger you are too much\nafraid of life but you are better. And how happy we used to be\ntogether! Don t leave me, Basil, and don t quarrel with me. I am what I\nam. There is nothing more to be said. \n\nThe painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,\nand his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He\ncould not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his\nindifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was\nso much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.\n\n Well, Dorian,  he said at length, with a sad smile,  I won t speak to\nyou again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your\nname won t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take\nplace this afternoon. Have they summoned you? \n\nDorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at\nthe mention of the word  inquest.  There was something so crude and\nvulgar about everything of the kind.  They don t know my name,  he\nanswered.\n\n But surely she did? \n\n Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned\nto any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn\nwho I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince\nCharming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl,\nBasil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a\nfew kisses and some broken pathetic words. \n\n I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you\nmust come and sit to me yourself again. I can t get on without you. \n\n I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!  he exclaimed,\nstarting back.\n\nThe painter stared at him.  My dear boy, what nonsense!  he cried.  Do\nyou mean to say you don t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have\nyou pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best\nthing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply\ndisgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room\nlooked different as I came in. \n\n My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don t imagine I let\nhim arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes that\nis all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait. \n\n Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for\nit. Let me see it.  And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.\n\nA cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray s lips, and he rushed between\nthe painter and the screen.  Basil,  he said, looking very pale,  you\nmust not look at it. I don t wish you to. \n\n Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn t I look at\nit?  exclaimed Hallward, laughing.\n\n If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never\nspeak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don t offer\nany explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you\ntouch this screen, everything is over between us. \n\nHallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute\namazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually\npallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes\nwere like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.\n\n Dorian! \n\n Don t speak! \n\n But what is the matter? Of course I won t look at it if you don t want\nme to,  he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over\ntowards the window.  But, really, it seems rather absurd that I\nshouldn t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in\nParis in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of\nvarnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day? \n\n To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?  exclaimed Dorian Gray, a\nstrange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be\nshown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That\nwas impossible. Something he did not know what had to be done at once.\n\n Yes; I don t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going\nto collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de\nS ze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only\nbe away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that\ntime. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it\nalways behind a screen, you can t care much about it. \n\nDorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of\nperspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible\ndanger.  You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,  he\ncried.  Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being\nconsistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference\nis that your moods are rather meaningless. You can t have forgotten\nthat you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would\ninduce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the\nsame thing.  He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his\neyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half\nseriously and half in jest,  If you want to have a strange quarter of\nan hour, get Basil to tell you why he won t exhibit your picture. He\ntold me why he wouldn t, and it was a revelation to me.  Yes, perhaps\nBasil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try.\n\n Basil,  he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in\nthe face,  we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall\ntell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my\npicture? \n\nThe painter shuddered in spite of himself.  Dorian, if I told you, you\nmight like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I\ncould not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me\nnever to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to\nlook at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from\nthe world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any\nfame or reputation. \n\n No, Basil, you must tell me,  insisted Dorian Gray.  I think I have a\nright to know.  His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity\nhad taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward s\nmystery.\n\n Let us sit down, Dorian,  said the painter, looking troubled.  Let us\nsit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the\npicture something curious? something that probably at first did not\nstrike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly? \n\n Basil!  cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling\nhands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes.\n\n I see you did. Don t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say.\nDorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most\nextraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and\npower, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen\nideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I\nworshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted\nto have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When\nyou were away from me, you were still present in my art.... Of course,\nI never let you know anything about this. It would have been\nimpossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it\nmyself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that\nthe world had become wonderful to my eyes too wonderful, perhaps, for\nin such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less\nthan the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew\nmore and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn\nyou as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman s cloak and\npolished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on\nthe prow of Adrian s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You\nhad leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the\nwater s silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been\nwhat art should be unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day\nI sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as\nyou actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own\ndress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method,\nor the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to\nme without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at\nit, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I\ngrew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that\nI had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it\nwas that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You\nwere a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant\nto me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not\nmind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I\nfelt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my\nstudio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of\nits presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that\nI had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely\ngood-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling\nthat it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is\never really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract\nthan we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour that is all.\nIt often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely\nthan it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I\ndetermined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition.\nIt never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were\nright. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me,\nDorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are\nmade to be worshipped. \n\nDorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and\na smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the\ntime. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who\nhad just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he\nhimself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord\nHenry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was\ntoo clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be\nsome one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of\nthe things that life had in store?\n\n It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,  said Hallward,  that you should\nhave seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it? \n\n I saw something in it,  he answered,  something that seemed to me very\ncurious. \n\n Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now? \n\nDorian shook his head.  You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not\npossibly let you stand in front of that picture. \n\n You will some day, surely? \n\n Never. \n\n Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been\nthe one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I\nhave done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost\nme to tell you all that I have told you. \n\n My dear Basil,  said Dorian,  what have you told me? Simply that you\nfelt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment. \n\n It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I\nhave made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one\nshould never put one s worship into words. \n\n It was a very disappointing confession. \n\n Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the\npicture, did you? There was nothing else to see? \n\n No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t\ntalk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we\nmust always remain so. \n\n You have got Harry,  said the painter sadly.\n\n Oh, Harry!  cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter.  Harry spends\nhis days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is\nimprobable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I\ndon t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go\nto you, Basil. \n\n You will sit to me again? \n\n Impossible! \n\n You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes\nacross two ideal things. Few come across one. \n\n I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again.\nThere is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I\nwill come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant. \n\n Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,  murmured Hallward regretfully.  And\nnow good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once\nagain. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about\nit. \n\nAs he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How\nlittle he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead\nof having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded,\nalmost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that\nstrange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of\njealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious\nreticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed\nto him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance.\n\nHe sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all\ncosts. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad\nof him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room\nto which any of his friends had access.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nWhen his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if\nhe had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite\nimpassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked\nover to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of\nVictor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There\nwas nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his\nguard.\n\nSpeaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he\nwanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to\nsend two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man\nleft the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was\nthat merely his own fancy?\n\nAfter a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread\nmittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He\nasked her for the key of the schoolroom.\n\n The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?  she exclaimed.  Why, it is full of\ndust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It\nis not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed. \n\n I don t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key. \n\n Well, sir, you ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it\nhasn t been opened for nearly five years not since his lordship died. \n\nHe winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of\nhim.  That does not matter,  he answered.  I simply want to see the\nplace that is all. Give me the key. \n\n And here is the key, sir,  said the old lady, going over the contents\nof her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands.  Here is the key. I ll\nhave it off the bunch in a moment. But you don t think of living up\nthere, sir, and you so comfortable here? \n\n No, no,  he cried petulantly.  Thank you, Leaf. That will do. \n\nShe lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of\nthe household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought\nbest. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.\n\nAs the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round\nthe room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily\nembroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century\nVenetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna.\nYes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps\nserved often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that\nhad a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death\nitself something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What\nthe worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on\nthe canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They\nwould defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still\nlive on. It would be always alive.\n\nHe shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil\nthe true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would\nhave helped him to resist Lord Henry s influence, and the still more\npoisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that\nhe bore him for it was really love had nothing in it that was not noble\nand intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty\nthat is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was\nsuch love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann,\nand Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was\ntoo late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or\nforgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were\npassions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that\nwould make the shadow of their evil real.\n\nHe took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that\ncovered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was\nthe face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was\nunchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue\neyes, and rose-red lips they all were there. It was simply the\nexpression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared\nto what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil s\nreproaches about Sibyl Vane had been! how shallow, and of what little\naccount! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and\ncalling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung\nthe rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door.\nHe passed out as his servant entered.\n\n The persons are here, Monsieur. \n\nHe felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed\nto know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly\nabout him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the\nwriting-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him\nround something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at\neight-fifteen that evening.\n\n Wait for an answer,  he said, handing it to him,  and show the men in\nhere. \n\nIn two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard\nhimself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in\nwith a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a\nflorid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was\nconsiderably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the\nartists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He\nwaited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in\nfavour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed\neverybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.\n\n What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?  he said, rubbing his fat freckled\nhands.  I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in\nperson. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a\nsale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited\nfor a religious subject, Mr. Gray. \n\n I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.\nHubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame though I don t\ngo in much at present for religious art but to-day I only want a\npicture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so\nI thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men. \n\n No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to\nyou. Which is the work of art, sir? \n\n This,  replied Dorian, moving the screen back.  Can you move it,\ncovering and all, just as it is? I don t want it to get scratched going\nupstairs. \n\n There will be no difficulty, sir,  said the genial frame-maker,\nbeginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from\nthe long brass chains by which it was suspended.  And, now, where shall\nwe carry it to, Mr. Gray? \n\n I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or\nperhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top\nof the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider. \n\nHe held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and\nbegan the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the\npicture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious\nprotests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman s spirited dislike\nof seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it\nso as to help them.\n\n Something of a load to carry, sir,  gasped the little man when they\nreached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.\n\n I am afraid it is rather heavy,  murmured Dorian as he unlocked the\ndoor that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious\nsecret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.\n\nHe had not entered the place for more than four years not, indeed,\nsince he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then\nas a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,\nwell-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord\nKelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness\nto his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and\ndesired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little\nchanged. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its fantastically\npainted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so\noften hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled\nwith his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the\nsame ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing\nchess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded\nbirds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every\nmoment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He\nrecalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed\nhorrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden\naway. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in\nstore for him!\n\nBut there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as\nthis. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its\npurple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden,\nand unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would\nnot see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He\nkept his youth that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow\nfiner, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full\nof shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and\nshield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit\nand in flesh those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them\ntheir subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would\nhave passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to\nthe world Basil Hallward s masterpiece.\n\nNo; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon\nthe canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but\nthe hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become\nhollow or flaccid. Yellow crow s feet would creep round the fading eyes\nand make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth\nwould gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old\nmen are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined\nhands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had\nbeen so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed.\nThere was no help for it.\n\n Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please,  he said, wearily, turning round.  I\nam sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else. \n\n Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,  answered the frame-maker, who\nwas still gasping for breath.  Where shall we put it, sir? \n\n Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don t want to have it hung up.\nJust lean it against the wall. Thanks. \n\n Might one look at the work of art, sir? \n\nDorian started.  It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard,  he said,\nkeeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling\nhim to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that\nconcealed the secret of his life.  I shan t trouble you any more now. I\nam much obliged for your kindness in coming round. \n\n Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,\nsir.  And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant,\nwho glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough\nuncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.\n\nWhen the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door\nand put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look\nupon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.\n\nOn reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o clock\nand that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark\nperfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley,\nhis guardian s wife, a pretty professional invalid who had spent the\npreceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside\nit was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the\nedges soiled. A copy of the third edition of _The St. James s Gazette_\nhad been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had\nreturned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were\nleaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.\nHe would be sure to miss the picture had no doubt missed it already,\nwhile he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set\nback, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he\nmight find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the\nroom. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one s house. He had\nheard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some\nservant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked\nup a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower\nor a shred of crumpled lace.\n\nHe sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry s\nnote. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper,\nand a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at\neight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James s_ languidly, and looked\nthrough it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew\nattention to the following paragraph:\n\nINQUEST ON AN ACTRESS. An inquest was held this morning at the Bell\nTavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of\nSibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre,\nHolborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable\nsympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly\naffected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr.\nBirrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.\n\n\nHe frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and\nflung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real\nugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for\nhaving sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have\nmarked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more\nthan enough English for that.\n\nPerhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,\nwhat did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane s death?\nThere was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.\n\nHis eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was\nit, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal\nstand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange\nEgyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung\nhimself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a\nfew minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had\never read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the\ndelicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb\nshow before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made\nreal to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually\nrevealed.\n\nIt was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being,\nindeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who\nspent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the\npassions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his\nown, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through\nwhich the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere\nartificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue,\nas much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The\nstyle in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid\nand obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical\nexpressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work\nof some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_.\nThere were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in\ncolour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical\nphilosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the\nspiritual ecstasies of some medi val saint or the morbid confessions of\na modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense\nseemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere\ncadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full\nas it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated,\nproduced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter,\na form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of\nthe falling day and creeping shadows.\n\nCloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed\nthrough the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no\nmore. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the\nlateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed\nthe book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his\nbedside and began to dress for dinner.\n\nIt was almost nine o clock before he reached the club, where he found\nLord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.\n\n I am so sorry, Harry,  he cried,  but really it is entirely your\nfault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the\ntime was going. \n\n Yes, I thought you would like it,  replied his host, rising from his\nchair.\n\n I didn t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a\ngreat difference. \n\n Ah, you have discovered that?  murmured Lord Henry. And they passed\ninto the dining-room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nFor years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of\nthis book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never\nsought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than\nnine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in\ndifferent colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the\nchanging fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have\nalmost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in\nwhom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely\nblended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And,\nindeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own\nlife, written before he had lived it.\n\nIn one point he was more fortunate than the novel s fantastic hero. He\nnever knew never, indeed, had any cause to know that somewhat grotesque\ndread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which\ncame upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned\nby the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so\nremarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy and perhaps in nearly every\njoy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place that he used\nto read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if\nsomewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who\nhad himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly\nvalued.\n\nFor the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and\nmany others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had\nheard the most evil things against him and from time to time strange\nrumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the\nchatter of the clubs could not believe anything to his dishonour when\nthey saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself\nunspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when\nDorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his\nface that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the\nmemory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one\nso charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an\nage that was at once sordid and sensual.\n\nOften, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged\nabsences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were\nhis friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep\nupstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left\nhim now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil\nHallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on\nthe canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him\nfrom the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to\nquicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his\nown beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul.\nHe would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and\nterrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead\nor crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which\nwere the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would\nplace his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture,\nand smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.\n\nThere were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own\ndelicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little\nill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in\ndisguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he\nhad brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant\nbecause it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare.\nThat curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as\nthey sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase\nwith gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He\nhad mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.\n\nYet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to\nsociety. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each\nWednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the\nworld his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the\nday to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little\ndinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were\nnoted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited,\nas for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with\nits subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered\ncloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many,\nespecially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw,\nin Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often\ndreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of\nthe real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and\nperfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of\nthe company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to  make\nthemselves perfect by the worship of beauty.  Like Gautier, he was one\nfor whom  the visible world existed. \n\nAnd, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the\narts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation.\nFashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment\nuniversal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert\nthe absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for\nhim. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to\ntime he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of\nthe Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in\neverything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of\nhis graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.\n\nFor, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost\nimmediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a\nsubtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the\nLondon of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the\nSatyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be\nsomething more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on\nthe wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of\na cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have\nits reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the\nspiritualizing of the senses its highest realization.\n\nThe worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been\ndecried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and\nsensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are\nconscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence.\nBut it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had\nnever been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal\nmerely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or\nto kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a\nnew spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the\ndominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through\nhistory, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been\nsurrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful\nrejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose\norigin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more\nterrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance,\nthey had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out\nthe anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to\nthe hermit the beasts of the field as his companions.\n\nYes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that\nwas to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely puritanism\nthat is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was to have its\nservice of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to accept any\ntheory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of\npassionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself,\nand not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of\nthe asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy\nthat dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to\nconcentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a\nmoment.\n\nThere are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either\nafter one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of\ndeath, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through\nthe chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality\nitself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques,\nand that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one\nmight fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled\nwith the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the\ncurtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb\nshadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside,\nthere is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men\ngoing forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down\nfrom the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it\nfeared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from\nher purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by\ndegrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we\nwatch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan\nmirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we\nhad left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been\nstudying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the\nletter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often.\nNothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night\ncomes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where\nwe had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the\nnecessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of\nstereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids\nmight open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in\nthe darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh\nshapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in\nwhich the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate,\nin no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of\njoy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.\n\nIt was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray\nto be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his\nsearch for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and\npossess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he\nwould often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really\nalien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and\nthen, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his\nintellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that\nis not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that,\nindeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition\nof it.\n\nIt was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman\nCatholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great\nattraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the\nsacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb\nrejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity\nof its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it\nsought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement\nand watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with\nwhite hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft\nthe jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at\ntimes, one would fain think, is indeed the  _panis c lestis_,  the\nbread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ,\nbreaking the Host into the chalice and smiting his breast for his sins.\nThe fuming censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet,\ntossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtle\nfascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at\nthe black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of\nthem and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating\nthe true story of their lives.\n\nBut he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual\ndevelopment by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of\nmistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable\nfor the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which\nthere are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its\nmarvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle\nantinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a\nseason; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of\nthe _Darwinismus_ movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in\ntracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the\nbrain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of\nthe absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions,\nmorbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him\nbefore, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance\ncompared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all\nintellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment.\nHe knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual\nmysteries to reveal.\n\nAnd so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their\nmanufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums\nfrom the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not\nits counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their\ntrue relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one\nmystical, and in ambergris that stirred one s passions, and in violets\nthat woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the\nbrain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often\nto elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several\ninfluences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers;\nof aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that\nsickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to\nbe able to expel melancholy from the soul.\n\nAt another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long\nlatticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of\nolive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad\ngipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled\nTunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while\ngrinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching\nupon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of\nreed or brass and charmed or feigned to charm great hooded snakes and\nhorrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of\nbarbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert s grace, and Chopin s\nbeautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell\nunheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world\nthe strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of\ndead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact\nwith Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the\nmysterious _juruparis_ of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not\nallowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been\nsubjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the\nPeruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human\nbones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous green\njaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular\nsweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when\nthey were shaken; the long _clarin_ of the Mexicans, into which the\nperformer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the\nharsh _ture_ of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who\nsit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a\ndistance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating\ntongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an\nelastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells\nof the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge\ncylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the\none that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican\ntemple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a\ndescription. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated\nhim, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like\nNature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous\nvoices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his\nbox at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt\npleasure to  Tannhauser  and seeing in the prelude to that great work\nof art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul.\n\nOn one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a\ncostume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered\nwith five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for\nyears, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often\nspend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various\nstones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that\nturns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver,\nthe pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes,\ncarbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red\ncinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their\nalternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the\nsunstone, and the moonstone s pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow\nof the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of\nextraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la\nvieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.\n\nHe discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso s\nClericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real\njacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of\nEmathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes  with\ncollars of real emeralds growing on their backs.  There was a gem in\nthe brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and  by the exhibition\nof golden letters and a scarlet robe  the monster could be thrown into\na magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de\nBoniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India\nmade him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth\nprovoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The\ngarnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her\ncolour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus,\nthat discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids.\nLeonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a\nnewly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The\nbezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm\nthat could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the\naspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any\ndanger by fire.\n\nThe King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand,\nas the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the\nPriest were  made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake\ninwrought, so that no man might bring poison within.  Over the gable\nwere  two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles,  so that the\ngold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge s strange\nromance  A Margarite of America , it was stated that in the chamber of\nthe queen one could behold  all the chaste ladies of the world,\ninchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites,\ncarbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults.  Marco Polo had seen the\ninhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the\ndead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver\nbrought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven\nmoons over its loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit,\nhe flung it away Procopius tells the story nor was it ever found again,\nthough the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold\npieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian a\nrosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he\nworshipped.\n\nWhen the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII.\nof France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to\nBrantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great\nlight. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred\nand twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty\nthousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described\nHenry VIII., on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as\nwearing  a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds\nand other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large\nbalasses.  The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in\ngold filigrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold\narmour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with\nturquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parsem _ with pearls. Henry II. wore\njewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with\ntwelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles the\nRash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped\npearls and studded with sapphires.\n\nHow exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and\ndecoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful.\n\nThen he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries that\nperformed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern\nnations of Europe. As he investigated the subject and he always had an\nextraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in\nwhatever he took up he was almost saddened by the reflection of the\nruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any\nrate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils\nbloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of\ntheir shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained\nhis flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material things! Where\nhad they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which\nthe gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls\nfor the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had\nstretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail of purple on\nwhich was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot\ndrawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious\ntable-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were\ndisplayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast;\nthe mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden\nbees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of\nPontus and were figured with  lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests,\nrocks, hunters all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature ; and\nthe coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which\nwere embroidered the verses of a song beginning  _Madame, je suis tout\njoyeux_,  the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold\nthread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four\npearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims\nfor the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with  thirteen\nhundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the\nking s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings\nwere similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked\nin gold.  Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black\nvelvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask,\nwith leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground,\nand fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in\na room hung with rows of the queen s devices in cut black velvet upon\ncloth of silver. Louis XIV. had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen\nfeet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland,\nwas made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses\nfrom the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased,\nand profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been\ntaken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed\nhad stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy.\n\nAnd so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite\nspecimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting\nthe dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and\nstitched over with iridescent beetles  wings; the Dacca gauzes, that\nfrom their transparency are known in the East as  woven air,  and\n running water,  and  evening dew ; strange figured cloths from Java;\nelaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair\nblue silks and wrought with _fleurs-de-lis_, birds and images; veils of\n_lacis_ worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish\nvelvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese _Foukousas_,\nwith their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds.\n\nHe had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed\nhe had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the\nlong cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had\nstored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the\nraiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and\nfine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by\nthe suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He\npossessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask,\nfigured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in\nsix-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the\npine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided\ninto panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the\ncoronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood.\nThis was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of\ngreen velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves,\nfrom which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which\nwere picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morse\nbore a seraph s head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were\nwoven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with\nmedallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. He\nhad chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold\nbrocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with\nrepresentations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and\nembroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of\nwhite satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins\nand _fleurs-de-lis_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen;\nand many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices\nto which such things were put, there was something that quickened his\nimagination.\n\nFor these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely\nhouse, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he\ncould escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times\nto be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked\nroom where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his\nown hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the\nreal degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the\npurple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there,\nwould forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart,\nhis wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence.\nThen, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to\ndreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day,\nuntil he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the\npicture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times,\nwith that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin,\nand smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to\nbear the burden that should have been his own.\n\nAfter a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and\ngave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as\nwell as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more\nthan once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture\nthat was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his\nabsence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the\nelaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door.\n\nHe was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true\nthat the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness\nof the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn\nfrom that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had not\npainted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked?\nEven if he told them, would they believe it?\n\nYet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in\nNottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank\nwho were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton\nluxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly\nleave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not\nbeen tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it\nshould be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely\nthe world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already\nsuspected it.\n\nFor, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him.\nHe was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth\nand social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was\nsaid that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the\nsmoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another\ngentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories\nbecame current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It\nwas rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a\nlow den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with\nthieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His\nextraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear\nagain in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass\nhim with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though\nthey were determined to discover his secret.\n\nOf such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice,\nand in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his\ncharming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth\nthat seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer\nto the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about\nhim. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most\nintimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had\nwildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and\nset convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or\nhorror if Dorian Gray entered the room.\n\nYet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his\nstrange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of\nsecurity. Society civilized society, at least is never very ready to\nbelieve anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and\nfascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance\nthan morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much\nless value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after all, it is\na very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad\ndinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the\ncardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entr es_, as Lord Henry\nremarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is possibly a\ngood deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are,\nor should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely\nessential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as\nits unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic\nplay with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is\ninsincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method\nby which we can multiply our personalities.\n\nSuch, at any rate, was Dorian Gray s opinion. He used to wonder at the\nshallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing\nsimple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a\nbeing with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform\ncreature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and\npassion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies\nof the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery\nof his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose\nblood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by\nFrancis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and\nKing James, as one who was  caressed by the Court for his handsome\nface, which kept him not long company.  Was it young Herbert s life\nthat he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body\nto body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that\nruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause,\ngive utterance, in Basil Hallward s studio, to the mad prayer that had\nso changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled\nsurcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard,\nwith his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this man s\nlegacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some\ninheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams\nthat the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the fading\ncanvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl\nstomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand,\nand her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On\na table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large green\nrosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and the\nstrange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something of\nher temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look\ncuriously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and\nfantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine and\nswarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain.\nDelicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so\noverladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century,\nand the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord\nBeckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and\none of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How\nproud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose!\nWhat passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as\ninfamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the\nGarter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his\nwife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred\nwithin him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady\nHamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips he knew what he had got\nfrom her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the\nbeauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress.\nThere were vine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she\nwas holding. The carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes\nwere still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They\nseemed to follow him wherever he went.\n\nYet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one s own race,\nnearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly\nwith an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There\nwere times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history\nwas merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act\nand circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it\nhad been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known\nthem all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the\nstage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of\nsubtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had\nbeen his own.\n\nThe hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had\nhimself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how,\ncrowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as\nTiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of\nElephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the\nflute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had\ncaroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in\nan ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had\nwandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round\nwith haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his\ndays, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _t dium vit _, that comes\non those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear\nemerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of\npearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the\nStreet of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero\nCaesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with\ncolours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon\nfrom Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.\n\nOver and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the\ntwo chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious\ntapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and\nbeautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made\nmonstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife and painted\nher lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the\ndead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the\nSecond, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and\nwhose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the\nprice of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase\nliving men and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot\nwho had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide\nriding beside him and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto;\nPietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and\nminion of Sixtus IV., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery,\nand who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson\nsilk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might\nserve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy\ncould be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion\nfor red blood, as other men have for red wine the son of the Fiend, as\nwas reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling\nwith him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the\nname of Innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads\nwas infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of\nIsotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome as the\nenemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave\npoison to Ginevra d Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a\nshameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles\nVI., who had so wildly adored his brother s wife that a leper had\nwarned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his\nbrain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen\ncards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in\nhis trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto\nBaglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page,\nand whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow\npiazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep,\nand Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him.\n\nThere was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and\nthey troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of\nstrange manners of poisoning poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch,\nby an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by\nan amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were\nmoments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could\nrealize his conception of the beautiful.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nIt was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth\nbirthday, as he often remembered afterwards.\n\nHe was walking home about eleven o clock from Lord Henry s, where he\nhad been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold\nand foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a\nman passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of\nhis grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian recognized\nhim. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could\nnot account, came over him. He made no sign of recognition and went on\nquickly in the direction of his own house.\n\nBut Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the\npavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was on\nhis arm.\n\n Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for\nyou in your library ever since nine o clock. Finally I took pity on\nyour tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am\noff to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see\nyou before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as\nyou passed me. But I wasn t quite sure. Didn t you recognize me? \n\n In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can t even recognize Grosvenor\nSquare. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don t feel at\nall certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen\nyou for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon? \n\n No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take a\nstudio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture\nI have in my head. However, it wasn t about myself I wanted to talk.\nHere we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something\nto say to you. \n\n I shall be charmed. But won t you miss your train?  said Dorian Gray\nlanguidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his\nlatch-key.\n\nThe lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his\nwatch.  I have heaps of time,  he answered.  The train doesn t go till\ntwelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to\nthe club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan t have any\ndelay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with\nme is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes. \n\nDorian looked at him and smiled.  What a way for a fashionable painter\nto travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get\ninto the house. And mind you don t talk about anything serious. Nothing\nis serious nowadays. At least nothing should be. \n\nHallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the\nlibrary. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth.\nThe lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with\nsome siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little\nmarqueterie table.\n\n You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me\neverything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is\na most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman\nyou used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye? \n\nDorian shrugged his shoulders.  I believe he married Lady Radley s\nmaid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker.\n_Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly\nof the French, doesn t it? But do you know? he was not at all a bad\nservant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One\noften imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted\nto me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another\nbrandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take\nhock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room. \n\n Thanks, I won t have anything more,  said the painter, taking his cap\nand coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the\ncorner.  And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously.\nDon t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me. \n\n What is it all about?  cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging\nhimself down on the sofa.  I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of\nmyself to-night. I should like to be somebody else. \n\n It is about yourself,  answered Hallward in his grave deep voice,  and\nI must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour. \n\nDorian sighed and lit a cigarette.  Half an hour!  he murmured.\n\n It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own\nsake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the\nmost dreadful things are being said against you in London. \n\n I don t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other\npeople, but scandals about myself don t interest me. They have not got\nthe charm of novelty. \n\n They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his\ngood name. You don t want people to talk of you as something vile and\ndegraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all\nthat kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind\nyou, I don t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can t believe\nthem when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man s\nface. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices.\nThere are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself\nin the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of\nhis hands even. Somebody I won t mention his name, but you know\nhim came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen\nhim before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though\nI have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I\nrefused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I\nhated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him.\nHis life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent\nface, and your marvellous untroubled youth I can t believe anything\nagainst you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to\nthe studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these\nhideous things that people are whispering about you, I don t know what\nto say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves\nthe room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen\nin London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You\nused to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week.\nYour name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the\nminiatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley\ncurled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes,\nbut that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to\nknow, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I\nreminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant.\nHe told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why\nis your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy\nin the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There\nwas Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name.\nYou and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his\ndreadful end? What about Lord Kent s only son and his career? I met his\nfather yesterday in St. James s Street. He seemed broken with shame and\nsorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he\ngot now? What gentleman would associate with him? \n\n Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing, \nsaid Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt\nin his voice.  You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It\nis because I know everything about his life, not because he knows\nanything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could\nhis record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did\nI teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent s\nsilly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If\nAdrian Singleton writes his friend s name across a bill, am I his\nkeeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air\ntheir moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper\nabout what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try\nand pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with\nthe people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to\nhave distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him.\nAnd what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead\nthemselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land\nof the hypocrite. \n\n Dorian,  cried Hallward,  that is not the question. England is bad\nenough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why\nI want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge\nof a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all\nsense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a\nmadness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them\nthere. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are\nsmiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are\ninseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not\nhave made his sister s name a by-word. \n\n Take care, Basil. You go too far. \n\n I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady\nGwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a\nsingle decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park?\nWhy, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are\nother stories stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of\ndreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in\nLondon. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I\nlaughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your\ncountry-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don t know\nwhat is said about you. I won t tell you that I don t want to preach to\nyou. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself\ninto an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and\nthen proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want\nyou to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you\nto have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the\ndreadful people you associate with. Don t shrug your shoulders like\nthat. Don t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it\nbe for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with\nwhom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to\nenter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don t know\nwhether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am\ntold things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one\nof my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife\nhad written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone.\nYour name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I\ntold him that it was absurd that I knew you thoroughly and that you\nwere incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know\nyou? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul. \n\n To see my soul!  muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and\nturning almost white from fear.\n\n Yes,  answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his\nvoice,  to see your soul. But only God can do that. \n\nA bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man.  You\nshall see it yourself, to-night!  he cried, seizing a lamp from the\ntable.  Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn t you look at it?\nYou can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody\nwould believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the\nbetter for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate\nabout it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough\nabout corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face. \n\nThere was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his\nfoot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible\njoy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that\nthe man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his\nshame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous\nmemory of what he had done.\n\n Yes,  he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into\nhis stern eyes,  I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that\nyou fancy only God can see. \n\nHallward started back.  This is blasphemy, Dorian!  he cried.  You must\nnot say things like that. They are horrible, and they don t mean\nanything. \n\n You think so?  He laughed again.\n\n I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your\ngood. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you. \n\n Don t touch me. Finish what you have to say. \n\nA twisted flash of pain shot across the painter s face. He paused for a\nmoment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right\nhad he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of\nwhat was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he\nstraightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and stood\nthere, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their\nthrobbing cores of flame.\n\n I am waiting, Basil,  said the young man in a hard clear voice.\n\nHe turned round.  What I have to say is this,  he cried.  You must give\nme some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If\nyou tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I\nshall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can t you see what I\nam going through? My God! don t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt,\nand shameful. \n\nDorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips.  Come\nupstairs, Basil,  he said quietly.  I keep a diary of my life from day\nto day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall\nshow it to you if you come with me. \n\n I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my\ntrain. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don t ask me to\nread anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question. \n\n That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You\nwill not have to read long. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nHe passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward\nfollowing close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at\nnight. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A\nrising wind made some of the windows rattle.\n\nWhen they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the\nfloor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock.  You insist on\nknowing, Basil?  he asked in a low voice.\n\n Yes. \n\n I am delighted,  he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat\nharshly,  You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know\neverything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you\nthink ; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold\ncurrent of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a\nflame of murky orange. He shuddered.  Shut the door behind you,  he\nwhispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.\n\nHallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked\nas if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a\ncurtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty\nbook-case that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a\ntable. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was\nstanding on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered\nwith dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling\nbehind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.\n\n So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that\ncurtain back, and you will see mine. \n\nThe voice that spoke was cold and cruel.  You are mad, Dorian, or\nplaying a part,  muttered Hallward, frowning.\n\n You won t? Then I must do it myself,  said the young man, and he tore\nthe curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.\n\nAn exclamation of horror broke from the painter s lips as he saw in the\ndim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was\nsomething in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.\nGood heavens! it was Dorian Gray s own face that he was looking at! The\nhorror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous\nbeauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet\non the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the\nloveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely\npassed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it\nwas Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own\nbrushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous,\nyet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the\npicture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long\nletters of bright vermilion.\n\nIt was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never\ndone that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if\nhis blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own\npicture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at\nDorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his\nparched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across\nhis forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.\n\nThe young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with\nthat strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are\nabsorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither\nreal sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the\nspectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken\nthe flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do\nso.\n\n What does this mean?  cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded\nshrill and curious in his ears.\n\n Years ago, when I was a boy,  said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in\nhis hand,  you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my\ngood looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who\nexplained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me\nthat revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even\nnow, I don t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you\nwould call it a prayer.... \n\n I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is\nimpossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The\npaints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the\nthing is impossible. \n\n Ah, what is impossible?  murmured the young man, going over to the\nwindow and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.\n\n You told me you had destroyed it. \n\n I was wrong. It has destroyed me. \n\n I don t believe it is my picture. \n\n Can t you see your ideal in it?  said Dorian bitterly.\n\n My ideal, as you call it... \n\n As you called it. \n\n There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an\nideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr. \n\n It is the face of my soul. \n\n Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a\ndevil. \n\n Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil,  cried Dorian with a\nwild gesture of despair.\n\nHallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it.  My God! If it\nis true,  he exclaimed,  and this is what you have done with your life,\nwhy, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you\nto be!  He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The\nsurface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was\nfrom within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through\nsome strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly\neating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was\nnot so fearful.\n\nHis hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and\nlay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he\nflung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and\nburied his face in his hands.\n\n Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!  There was no\nanswer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window.  Pray,\nDorian, pray,  he murmured.  What is it that one was taught to say in\none s boyhood?  Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash\naway our iniquities.  Let us say that together. The prayer of your\npride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered\nalso. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped\nyourself too much. We are both punished. \n\nDorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed\neyes.  It is too late, Basil,  he faltered.\n\n It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot\nremember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere,  Though your sins be\nas scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ? \n\n Those words mean nothing to me now. \n\n Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God!\nDon t you see that accursed thing leering at us? \n\nDorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable\nfeeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had\nbeen suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his\near by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred\nwithin him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more\nthan in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly\naround. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced\nhim. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he\nhad brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had\nforgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing\nHallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and\nturned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise.\nHe rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind\nthe ear, crushing the man s head down on the table and stabbing again\nand again.\n\nThere was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking\nwith blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively,\nwaving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice\nmore, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the\nfloor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he\nthrew the knife on the table, and listened.\n\nHe could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He\nopened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely\nquiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the\nbalustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness.\nThen he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in\nas he did so.\n\nThe thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with\nbowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been\nfor the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was\nslowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was\nsimply asleep.\n\nHow quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking\nover to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind\nhad blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock s\ntail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the\npoliceman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on\nthe doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom\ngleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl\nwas creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and\nthen she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse\nvoice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She\nstumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The\ngas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their\nblack iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the\nwindow behind him.\n\nHaving reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not\neven glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole\nthing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the\nfatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his\nlife. That was enough.\n\nThen he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish\nworkmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished\nsteel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed\nby his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a\nmoment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not\nhelp seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the\nlong hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image.\n\nHaving locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The\nwoodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped\nseveral times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the\nsound of his own footsteps.\n\nWhen he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.\nThey must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was\nin the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises,\nand put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he\npulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.\n\nHe sat down and began to think. Every year every month, almost men were\nstrangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of\nmurder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth....\nAnd yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left\nthe house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the\nservants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes.\nIt was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he\nhad intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months\nbefore any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything could be\ndestroyed long before then.\n\nA sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went\nout into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the\npoliceman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the\nbull s-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath.\n\nAfter a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting\nthe door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In\nabout five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very\ndrowsy.\n\n I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis,  he said, stepping in;\n but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it? \n\n Ten minutes past two, sir,  answered the man, looking at the clock and\nblinking.\n\n Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine\nto-morrow. I have some work to do. \n\n All right, sir. \n\n Did any one call this evening? \n\n Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away\nto catch his train. \n\n Oh! I am sorry I didn t see him. Did he leave any message? \n\n No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not\nfind you at the club. \n\n That will do, Francis. Don t forget to call me at nine to-morrow. \n\n No, sir. \n\nThe man shambled down the passage in his slippers.\n\nDorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the\nlibrary. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room,\nbiting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one\nof the shelves and began to turn over the leaves.  Alan Campbell, 152,\nHertford Street, Mayfair.  Yes; that was the man he wanted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nAt nine o clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of\nchocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite\npeacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his\ncheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.\n\nThe man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as\nhe opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he\nhad been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all.\nHis night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But\nyouth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.\n\nHe turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his\nchocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The\nsky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost\nlike a morning in May.\n\nGradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent,\nblood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there\nwith terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had\nsuffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for\nBasil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came\nback to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still\nsitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was!\nSuch hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day.\n\nHe felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken\nor grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory\nthan in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride\nmore than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of\njoy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the\nsenses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out\nof the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might\nstrangle one itself.\n\nWhen the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and\nthen got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual\ncare, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and\nscarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time\nalso over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet\nabout some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the\nservants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the\nletters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times\nover and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face.\n That awful thing, a woman s memory!  as Lord Henry had once said.\n\nAfter he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly\nwith a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the\ntable, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the\nother he handed to the valet.\n\n Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell\nis out of town, get his address. \n\nAs soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a\npiece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and\nthen human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew\nseemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and\ngetting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard.\nHe was determined that he would not think about what had happened until\nit became absolutely necessary that he should do so.\n\nWhen he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page\nof the book. It was Gautier s  maux et Cam es , Charpentier s\nJapanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of\ncitron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted\npomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he\nturned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of\nLacenaire, the cold yellow hand  _du supplice encore mal lav e_,  with\nits downy red hairs and its  _doigts de faune_.  He glanced at his own\nwhite taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and\npassed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice:\n\nSur une gamme chromatique,\n    Le sein de perles ruisselant,\nLa V nus de l Adriatique\n    Sort de l eau son corps rose et blanc.\n\nLes d mes, sur l azur des ondes\n    Suivant la phrase au pur contour,\nS enflent comme des gorges rondes\n    Que soul ve un soupir d amour.\n\nL esquif aborde et me d pose,\n    Jetant son amarre au pilier,\nDevant une fa ade rose,\n    Sur le marbre d un escalier.\n\n\nHow exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating\ndown the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black\ngondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked\nto him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as\none pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him\nof the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the\ntall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through\nthe dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he\nkept saying over and over to himself:\n\n Devant une fa ade rose,\nSur le marbre d un escalier. \n\n\nThe whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn\nthat he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to\nmad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice,\nlike Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true\nromantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had\nbeen with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor\nBasil! What a horrible way for a man to die!\n\nHe sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read\nof the swallows that fly in and out of the little _caf _ at Smyrna\nwhere the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned\nmerchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each\nother; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps\ntears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by\nthe hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red\nibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small\nberyl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood\nover those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell\nof that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the\n _monstre charmant_  that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre.\nBut after a time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a\nhorrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be\nout of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he\nmight refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital\nimportance.\n\nThey had been great friends once, five years before almost inseparable,\nindeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in\nsociety now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never\ndid.\n\nHe was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real\nappreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the\nbeauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His\ndominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had\nspent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken\na good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was\nstill devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his\nown in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the\nannoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for\nParliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up\nprescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and\nplayed both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In\nfact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray\ntogether music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be\nable to exercise whenever he wished and, indeed, exercised often\nwithout being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire s the\nnight that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always\nseen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For\neighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at\nSelby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian\nGray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in\nlife. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever\nknew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they\nmet and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at\nwhich Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too was strangely\nmelancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and\nwould never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called\nupon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in\nwhich to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to\nbecome more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice\nin some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious\nexperiments.\n\nThis was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept\nglancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly\nagitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room,\nlooking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides.\nHis hands were curiously cold.\n\nThe suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with\nfeet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the\njagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting\nfor him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands\nhis burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight\nand driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain\nhad its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made\ngrotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain,\ndanced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving\nmasks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind,\nslow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being\ndead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its\ngrave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him\nstone.\n\nAt last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes\nupon him.\n\n Mr. Campbell, sir,  said the man.\n\nA sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back\nto his cheeks.\n\n Ask him to come in at once, Francis.  He felt that he was himself\nagain. His mood of cowardice had passed away.\n\nThe man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in,\nlooking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his\ncoal-black hair and dark eyebrows.\n\n Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming. \n\n I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it\nwas a matter of life and death.  His voice was hard and cold. He spoke\nwith slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady\nsearching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the\npockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the\ngesture with which he had been greeted.\n\n Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one\nperson. Sit down. \n\nCampbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The\ntwo men s eyes met. In Dorian s there was infinite pity. He knew that\nwhat he was going to do was dreadful.\n\nAfter a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very\nquietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he\nhad sent for,  Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room\nto which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table.\nHe has been dead ten hours now. Don t stir, and don t look at me like\nthat. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not\nconcern you. What you have to do is this \n\n Stop, Gray. I don t want to know anything further. Whether what you\nhave told me is true or not true doesn t concern me. I entirely decline\nto be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself.\nThey don t interest me any more. \n\n Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest\nyou. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can t help myself. You are\nthe one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the\nmatter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about\nchemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you\nhave got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs to destroy it\nso that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come\ninto the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in\nParis. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must\nbe no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and\neverything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may\nscatter in the air. \n\n You are mad, Dorian. \n\n Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian. \n\n You are mad, I tell you mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to\nhelp you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing to\ndo with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril\nmy reputation for you? What is it to me what devil s work you are up\nto? \n\n It was suicide, Alan. \n\n I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy. \n\n Do you still refuse to do this for me? \n\n Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I\ndon t care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be\nsorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of\nall men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have\nthought you knew more about people s characters. Your friend Lord Henry\nWotton can t have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he\nhas taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You\nhave come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don t come to\nme. \n\n Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don t know what he had made me\nsuffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the\nmarring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it, the\nresult was the same. \n\n Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not\ninform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in\nthe matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime\nwithout doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it. \n\n You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to\nme. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain\nscientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the\nhorrors that you do there don t affect you. If in some hideous\ndissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a\nleaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow\nthrough, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You\nwould not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing\nanything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were\nbenefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the\nworld, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind.\nWhat I want you to do is merely what you have often done before.\nIndeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are\naccustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence\nagainst me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be\ndiscovered unless you help me. \n\n I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent\nto the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me. \n\n Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you\ncame I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some\nday. No! don t think of that. Look at the matter purely from the\nscientific point of view. You don t inquire where the dead things on\nwhich you experiment come from. Don t inquire now. I have told you too\nmuch as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once,\nAlan. \n\n Don t speak about those days, Dorian they are dead. \n\n The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is\nsitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan!\nIf you don t come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will hang\nme, Alan! Don t you understand? They will hang me for what I have\ndone. \n\n There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do\nanything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me. \n\n You refuse? \n\n Yes. \n\n I entreat you, Alan. \n\n It is useless. \n\nThe same look of pity came into Dorian Gray s eyes. Then he stretched\nout his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read\nit over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table.\nHaving done this, he got up and went over to the window.\n\nCampbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and\nopened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell back\nin his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if\nhis heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow.\n\nAfter two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and\ncame and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.\n\n I am so sorry for you, Alan,  he murmured,  but you leave me no\nalternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the\naddress. If you don t help me, I must send it. If you don t help me, I\nwill send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to\nhelp me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you.\nYou will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh,\noffensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me no\nliving man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate\nterms. \n\nCampbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through\nhim.\n\n Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The\nthing is quite simple. Come, don t work yourself into this fever. The\nthing has to be done. Face it, and do it. \n\nA groan broke from Campbell s lips and he shivered all over. The\nticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing\ntime into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be\nborne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his\nforehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already\ncome upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead.\nIt was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.\n\n Come, Alan, you must decide at once. \n\n I cannot do it,  he said, mechanically, as though words could alter\nthings.\n\n You must. You have no choice. Don t delay. \n\nHe hesitated a moment.  Is there a fire in the room upstairs? \n\n Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos. \n\n I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory. \n\n No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of\nnotepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the\nthings back to you. \n\nCampbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope\nto his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then\nhe rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as\nsoon as possible and to bring the things with him.\n\nAs the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up\nfrom the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a\nkind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A\nfly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was\nlike the beat of a hammer.\n\nAs the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian\nGray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in\nthe purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him.\n You are infamous, absolutely infamous!  he muttered.\n\n Hush, Alan. You have saved my life,  said Dorian.\n\n Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from\ncorruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In\ndoing what I am going to do what you force me to do it is not of your\nlife that I am thinking. \n\n Ah, Alan,  murmured Dorian with a sigh,  I wish you had a thousandth\npart of the pity for me that I have for you.  He turned away as he\nspoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer.\n\nAfter about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant\nentered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil\nof steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps.\n\n Shall I leave the things here, sir?  he asked Campbell.\n\n Yes,  said Dorian.  And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another\nerrand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies\nSelby with orchids? \n\n Harden, sir. \n\n Yes Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden\npersonally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered,\nand to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don t want any\nwhite ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty\nplace otherwise I wouldn t bother you about it. \n\n No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back? \n\nDorian looked at Campbell.  How long will your experiment take, Alan? \nhe said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in\nthe room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.\n\nCampbell frowned and bit his lip.  It will take about five hours,  he\nanswered.\n\n It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven,\nFrancis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have\nthe evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want\nyou. \n\n Thank you, sir,  said the man, leaving the room.\n\n Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is!\nI ll take it for you. You bring the other things.  He spoke rapidly and\nin an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left\nthe room together.\n\nWhen they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned\nit in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his\neyes. He shuddered.  I don t think I can go in, Alan,  he murmured.\n\n It is nothing to me. I don t require you,  said Campbell coldly.\n\nDorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his\nportrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn\ncurtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had\nforgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas,\nand was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder.\n\nWhat was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on\none of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible\nit was! more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent\nthing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose\ngrotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had\nnot stirred, but was still there, as he had left it.\n\nHe heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with\nhalf-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that\nhe would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and\ntaking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the\npicture.\n\nThere he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed\nthemselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard\nCampbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other\nthings that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder\nif he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had\nthought of each other.\n\n Leave me now,  said a stern voice behind him.\n\nHe turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been\nthrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a\nglistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key\nbeing turned in the lock.\n\nIt was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He\nwas pale, but absolutely calm.  I have done what you asked me to do, \nhe muttered.  And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again. \n\n You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that,  said Dorian\nsimply.\n\nAs soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible\nsmell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting\nat the table was gone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nThat evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large\nbutton-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady\nNarborough s drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was\nthrobbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his\nmanner as he bent over his hostess s hand was as easy and graceful as\never. Perhaps one never seems so much at one s ease as when one has to\nplay a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could\nhave believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any\ntragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have\nclutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God\nand goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his\ndemeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a\ndouble life.\n\nIt was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who\nwas a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the\nremains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife\nto one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband\nproperly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and\nmarried off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted\nherself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and\nFrench _esprit_ when she could get it.\n\nDorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that\nshe was extremely glad she had not met him in early life.  I know, my\ndear, I should have fallen madly in love with you,  she used to say,\n and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most\nfortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our\nbonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to\nraise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.\nHowever, that was all Narborough s fault. He was dreadfully\nshort-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who\nnever sees anything. \n\nHer guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she\nexplained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married\ndaughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make\nmatters worse, had actually brought her husband with her.  I think it\nis most unkind of her, my dear,  she whispered.  Of course I go and\nstay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old\nwoman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake\nthem up. You don t know what an existence they lead down there. It is\npure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have\nso much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to\nthink about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since\nthe time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep\nafter dinner. You shan t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me\nand amuse me. \n\nDorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:\nit was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen\nbefore, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those\nmiddle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,\nbut are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an\noverdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always\ntrying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to\nher great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against\nher; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and\nVenetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess s daughter, a dowdy\ndull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once\nseen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,\nwhite-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the\nimpression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of\nideas.\n\nHe was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the\ngreat ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the\nmauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed:  How horrid of Henry Wotton to be\nso late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised\nfaithfully not to disappoint me. \n\nIt was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door\nopened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some\ninsincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.\n\nBut at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away\nuntasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called  an\ninsult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you,  and\nnow and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence\nand abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass\nwith champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.\n\n Dorian,  said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being\nhanded round,  what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out\nof sorts. \n\n I believe he is in love,  cried Lady Narborough,  and that he is\nafraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I\ncertainly should. \n\n Dear Lady Narborough,  murmured Dorian, smiling,  I have not been in\nlove for a whole week not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town. \n\n How you men can fall in love with that woman!  exclaimed the old lady.\n I really cannot understand it. \n\n It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,\nLady Narborough,  said Lord Henry.  She is the one link between us and\nyour short frocks. \n\n She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I\nremember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _d collet e_\nshe was then. \n\n She is still _d collet e_,  he answered, taking an olive in his long\nfingers;  and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an\n_ dition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and\nfull of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.\nWhen her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief. \n\n How can you, Harry!  cried Dorian.\n\n It is a most romantic explanation,  laughed the hostess.  But her\nthird husband, Lord Henry! You don t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth? \n\n Certainly, Lady Narborough. \n\n I don t believe a word of it. \n\n Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends. \n\n Is it true, Mr. Gray? \n\n She assures me so, Lady Narborough,  said Dorian.  I asked her\nwhether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and\nhung at her girdle. She told me she didn t, because none of them had\nhad any hearts at all. \n\n Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de z le_. \n\n _Trop d audace_, I tell her,  said Dorian.\n\n Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol\nlike? I don t know him. \n\n The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes, \nsaid Lord Henry, sipping his wine.\n\nLady Narborough hit him with her fan.  Lord Henry, I am not at all\nsurprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked. \n\n But what world says that?  asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.\n It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent\nterms. \n\n Everybody I know says you are very wicked,  cried the old lady,\nshaking her head.\n\nLord Henry looked serious for some moments.  It is perfectly\nmonstrous,  he said, at last,  the way people go about nowadays saying\nthings against one behind one s back that are absolutely and entirely\ntrue. \n\n Isn t he incorrigible?  cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.\n\n I hope so,  said his hostess, laughing.  But really, if you all\nworship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry\nagain so as to be in the fashion. \n\n You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,  broke in Lord Henry.\n You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she\ndetested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he\nadored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs. \n\n Narborough wasn t perfect,  cried the old lady.\n\n If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,  was the\nrejoinder.  Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them,\nthey will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never\nask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough,\nbut it is quite true. \n\n Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for\nyour defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be\nmarried. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however,\nthat that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like\nbachelors, and all the bachelors like married men. \n\n _Fin de si cle_,  murmured Lord Henry.\n\n _Fin du globe_,  answered his hostess.\n\n I wish it were _fin du globe_,  said Dorian with a sigh.  Life is a\ngreat disappointment. \n\n Ah, my dear,  cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves,  don t\ntell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows\nthat life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes\nwish that I had been; but you are made to be good you look so good. I\nmust find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don t you think that Mr. Gray\nshould get married? \n\n I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough,  said Lord Henry with a\nbow.\n\n Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go\nthrough Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the\neligible young ladies. \n\n With their ages, Lady Narborough?  asked Dorian.\n\n Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done\nin a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable\nalliance, and I want you both to be happy. \n\n What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!  exclaimed Lord\nHenry.  A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love\nher. \n\n Ah! what a cynic you are!  cried the old lady, pushing back her chair\nand nodding to Lady Ruxton.  You must come and dine with me soon again.\nYou are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew\nprescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet,\nthough. I want it to be a delightful gathering. \n\n I like men who have a future and women who have a past,  he answered.\n Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party? \n\n I fear so,  she said, laughing, as she stood up.  A thousand pardons,\nmy dear Lady Ruxton,  she added,  I didn t see you hadn t finished your\ncigarette. \n\n Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going\nto limit myself, for the future. \n\n Pray don t, Lady Ruxton,  said Lord Henry.  Moderation is a fatal\nthing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a\nfeast. \n\nLady Ruxton glanced at him curiously.  You must come and explain that\nto me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory,  she\nmurmured, as she swept out of the room.\n\n Now, mind you don t stay too long over your politics and scandal, \ncried Lady Narborough from the door.  If you do, we are sure to\nsquabble upstairs. \n\nThe men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the\ntable and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and\nsat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the\nsituation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The\nword _doctrinaire_ word full of terror to the British mind reappeared\nfrom time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served\nas an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles\nof thought. The inherited stupidity of the race sound English common\nsense he jovially termed it was shown to be the proper bulwark for\nsociety.\n\nA smile curved Lord Henry s lips, and he turned round and looked at\nDorian.\n\n Are you better, my dear fellow?  he asked.  You seemed rather out of\nsorts at dinner. \n\n I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all. \n\n You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to\nyou. She tells me she is going down to Selby. \n\n She has promised to come on the twentieth. \n\n Is Monmouth to be there, too? \n\n Oh, yes, Harry. \n\n He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very\nclever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of\nweakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image\nprecious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay.\nWhite porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and\nwhat fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences. \n\n How long has she been married?  asked Dorian.\n\n An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is\nten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,\nwith time thrown in. Who else is coming? \n\n Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey\nClouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian. \n\n I like him,  said Lord Henry.  A great many people don t, but I find\nhim charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by\nbeing always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type. \n\n I don t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to\nMonte Carlo with his father. \n\n Ah! what a nuisance people s people are! Try and make him come. By the\nway, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven.\nWhat did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home? \n\nDorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.\n\n No, Harry,  he said at last,  I did not get home till nearly three. \n\n Did you go to the club? \n\n Yes,  he answered. Then he bit his lip.  No, I don t mean that. I\ndidn t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How\ninquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been\ndoing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at\nhalf-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my\nlatch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any\ncorroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him. \n\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let\nus go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.\nSomething has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not\nyourself to-night. \n\n Don t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come\nround and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady\nNarborough. I shan t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home. \n\n All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.\nThe duchess is coming. \n\n I will try to be there, Harry,  he said, leaving the room. As he drove\nback to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he\nthought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry s casual\nquestioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted\nhis nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He\nwinced. He hated the idea of even touching them.\n\nYet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the\ndoor of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had\nthrust Basil Hallward s coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled\nanother log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning\nleather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume\neverything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some\nAlgerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and\nforehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.\n\nSuddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed\nnervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large\nFlorentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue\nlapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and\nmake afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet\nalmost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He\nlit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the\nlong fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the\ncabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying,\nwent over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A\ntriangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively\ntowards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese\nbox of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides\npatterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round\ncrystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside\nwas a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and\npersistent.\n\nHe hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his\nface. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly\nhot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes\nto twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did\nso, and went into his bedroom.\n\nAs midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray,\ndressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept\nquietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good\nhorse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address.\n\nThe man shook his head.  It is too far for me,  he muttered.\n\n Here is a sovereign for you,  said Dorian.  You shall have another if\nyou drive fast. \n\n All right, sir,  answered the man,  you will be there in an hour,  and\nafter his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly\ntowards the river.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nA cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly\nin the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men\nand women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some\nof the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards\nbrawled and screamed.\n\nLying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian\nGray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and\nnow and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said\nto him on the first day they had met,  To cure the soul by means of the\nsenses, and the senses by means of the soul.  Yes, that was the secret.\nHe had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium\ndens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of\nold sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.\n\nThe moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a\nhuge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The\ngas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the\nman lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from\nthe horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom\nwere clogged with a grey-flannel mist.\n\n To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of\nthe soul!  How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was\nsick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent\nblood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there\nwas no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness\nwas possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing\nout, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one.\nIndeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who\nhad made him a judge over others? He had said things that were\ndreadful, horrible, not to be endured.\n\nOn and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each\nstep. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The\nhideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned and\nhis delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse\nmadly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in\nanswer, and the man was silent.\n\nThe way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some\nsprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist\nthickened, he felt afraid.\n\nThen they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and\nhe could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange,\nfanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in\nthe darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a\nrut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop.\n\nAfter some time they left the clay road and rattled again over\nrough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then\nfantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He\nwatched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made\ngestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart.\nAs they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open\ndoor, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The\ndriver beat at them with his whip.\n\nIt is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with\nhideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped\nthose subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in\nthem the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by\nintellectual approval, passions that without such justification would\nstill have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept\nthe one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all\nman s appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre.\nUgliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real,\nbecame dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one\nreality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of\ndisordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more\nvivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious\nshapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for\nforgetfulness. In three days he would be free.\n\nSuddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over\nthe low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black\nmasts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the\nyards.\n\n Somewhere about here, sir, ain t it?  he asked huskily through the\ntrap.\n\nDorian started and peered round.  This will do,  he answered, and\nhaving got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had\npromised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and\nthere a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The\nlight shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an\noutward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like\na wet mackintosh.\n\nHe hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he\nwas being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small\nshabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of\nthe top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock.\n\nAfter a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being\nunhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word\nto the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as\nhe passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that\nswayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the\nstreet. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as\nif it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring\ngas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced\nthem, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin\nbacked them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered\nwith ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and\nstained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching\nby a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing\ntheir white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head\nburied in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily\npainted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women,\nmocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an\nexpression of disgust.  He thinks he s got red ants on him,  laughed\none of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and\nbegan to whimper.\n\nAt the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a\ndarkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the\nheavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils\nquivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow\nhair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up\nat him and nodded in a hesitating manner.\n\n You here, Adrian?  muttered Dorian.\n\n Where else should I be?  he answered, listlessly.  None of the chaps\nwill speak to me now. \n\n I thought you had left England. \n\n Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at\nlast. George doesn t speak to me either.... I don t care,  he added\nwith a sigh.  As long as one has this stuff, one doesn t want friends.\nI think I have had too many friends. \n\nDorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such\nfantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the\ngaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in\nwhat strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were\nteaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he\nwas. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was\neating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of\nBasil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The\npresence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one\nwould know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.\n\n I am going on to the other place,  he said after a pause.\n\n On the wharf? \n\n Yes. \n\n That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won t have her in this place\nnow. \n\nDorian shrugged his shoulders.  I am sick of women who love one. Women\nwho hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better. \n\n Much the same. \n\n I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have\nsomething. \n\n I don t want anything,  murmured the young man.\n\n Never mind. \n\nAdrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A\nhalf-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous\ngreeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of\nthem. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back\non them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.\n\nA crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of\nthe women.  We are very proud to-night,  she sneered.\n\n For God s sake don t talk to me,  cried Dorian, stamping his foot on\nthe ground.  What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don t ever talk to me\nagain. \n\nTwo red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman s sodden eyes, then\nflickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and\nraked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion\nwatched her enviously.\n\n It s no use,  sighed Adrian Singleton.  I don t care to go back. What\ndoes it matter? I am quite happy here. \n\n You will write to me if you want anything, won t you?  said Dorian,\nafter a pause.\n\n Perhaps. \n\n Good night, then. \n\n Good night,  answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping\nhis parched mouth with a handkerchief.\n\nDorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew\nthe curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the\nwoman who had taken his money.  There goes the devil s bargain!  she\nhiccoughed, in a hoarse voice.\n\n Curse you!  he answered,  don t call me that. \n\nShe snapped her fingers.  Prince Charming is what you like to be\ncalled, ain t it?  she yelled after him.\n\nThe drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly\nround. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He\nrushed out as if in pursuit.\n\nDorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His\nmeeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered\nif the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as\nBasil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his\nlip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did\nit matter to him? One s days were too brief to take the burden of\nanother s errors on one s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and\npaid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so\noften for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed.\nIn her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.\n\nThere are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or\nfor what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of\nthe body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful\nimpulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will.\nThey move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken\nfrom them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all,\nlives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm.\nFor all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of\ndisobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell\nfrom heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.\n\nCallous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for\nrebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but\nas he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a\nshort cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself\nsuddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself,\nhe was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his\nthroat.\n\nHe struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the\ntightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver,\nand saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head,\nand the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him.\n\n What do you want?  he gasped.\n\n Keep quiet,  said the man.  If you stir, I shoot you. \n\n You are mad. What have I done to you? \n\n You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,  was the answer,  and Sibyl Vane\nwas my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your\ndoor. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you.\nI had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you\nwere dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you.\nI heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night\nyou are going to die. \n\nDorian Gray grew sick with fear.  I never knew her,  he stammered.  I\nnever heard of her. You are mad. \n\n You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you\nare going to die.  There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know\nwhat to say or do.  Down on your knees!  growled the man.  I give you\none minute to make your peace no more. I go on board to-night for\nIndia, and I must do my job first. One minute. That s all. \n\nDorian s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know\nwhat to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain.  Stop,  he\ncried.  How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me! \n\n Eighteen years,  said the man.  Why do you ask me? What do years\nmatter? \n\n Eighteen years,  laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his\nvoice.  Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face! \n\nJames Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant.\nThen he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.\n\nDim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him\nthe hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face\nof the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the\nunstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty\nsummers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been\nwhen they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was\nnot the man who had destroyed her life.\n\nHe loosened his hold and reeled back.  My God! my God!  he cried,  and\nI would have murdered you! \n\nDorian Gray drew a long breath.  You have been on the brink of\ncommitting a terrible crime, my man,  he said, looking at him sternly.\n Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own\nhands. \n\n Forgive me, sir,  muttered James Vane.  I was deceived. A chance word\nI heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track. \n\n You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into\ntrouble,  said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the\nstreet.\n\nJames Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head\nto foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping\nalong the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him\nwith stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked\nround with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at\nthe bar.\n\n Why didn t you kill him?  she hissed out, putting haggard face quite\nclose to his.  I knew you were following him when you rushed out from\nDaly s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and\nhe s as bad as bad. \n\n He is not the man I am looking for,  he answered,  and I want no man s\nmoney. I want a man s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly\nforty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not\ngot his blood upon my hands. \n\nThe woman gave a bitter laugh.  Little more than a boy!  she sneered.\n Why, man, it s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me\nwhat I am. \n\n You lie!  cried James Vane.\n\nShe raised her hand up to heaven.  Before God I am telling the truth, \nshe cried.\n\n Before God? \n\n Strike me dumb if it ain t so. He is the worst one that comes here.\nThey say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It s nigh\non eighteen years since I met him. He hasn t changed much since then. I\nhave, though,  she added, with a sickly leer.\n\n You swear this? \n\n I swear it,  came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth.  But don t give\nme away to him,  she whined;  I am afraid of him. Let me have some\nmoney for my night s lodging. \n\nHe broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street,\nbut Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had\nvanished also.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\nA week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby\nRoyal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband,\na jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time,\nand the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the\ntable lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at\nwhich the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily\namong the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that\nDorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped\nwicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady\nNarborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last\nBrazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men\nin elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women.\nThe house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more\nexpected to arrive on the next day.\n\n What are you two talking about?  said Lord Henry, strolling over to\nthe table and putting his cup down.  I hope Dorian has told you about\nmy plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea. \n\n But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry,  rejoined the duchess,\nlooking up at him with her wonderful eyes.  I am quite satisfied with\nmy own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his. \n\n My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are\nboth perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an\norchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as\neffective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one\nof the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen\nof _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad\ntruth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.\nNames are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is\nwith words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The\nman who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It\nis the only thing he is fit for. \n\n Then what should we call you, Harry?  she asked.\n\n His name is Prince Paradox,  said Dorian.\n\n I recognize him in a flash,  exclaimed the duchess.\n\n I won t hear of it,  laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair.  From a\nlabel there is no escape! I refuse the title. \n\n Royalties may not abdicate,  fell as a warning from pretty lips.\n\n You wish me to defend my throne, then? \n\n Yes. \n\n I give the truths of to-morrow. \n\n I prefer the mistakes of to-day,  she answered.\n\n You disarm me, Gladys,  he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.\n\n Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear. \n\n I never tilt against beauty,  he said, with a wave of his hand.\n\n That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much. \n\n How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be\nbeautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready\nthan I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly. \n\n Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?  cried the duchess.\n What becomes of your simile about the orchid? \n\n Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good\nTory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly\nvirtues have made our England what she is. \n\n You don t like your country, then?  she asked.\n\n I live in it. \n\n That you may censure it the better. \n\n Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?  he inquired.\n\n What do they say of us? \n\n That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop. \n\n Is that yours, Harry? \n\n I give it to you. \n\n I could not use it. It is too true. \n\n You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description. \n\n They are practical. \n\n They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger,\nthey balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy. \n\n Still, we have done great things. \n\n Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys. \n\n We have carried their burden. \n\n Only as far as the Stock Exchange. \n\nShe shook her head.  I believe in the race,  she cried.\n\n It represents the survival of the pushing. \n\n It has development. \n\n Decay fascinates me more. \n\n What of art?  she asked.\n\n It is a malady. \n\n Love? \n\n An illusion. \n\n Religion? \n\n The fashionable substitute for belief. \n\n You are a sceptic. \n\n Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith. \n\n What are you? \n\n To define is to limit. \n\n Give me a clue. \n\n Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth. \n\n You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else. \n\n Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince\nCharming. \n\n Ah! don t remind me of that,  cried Dorian Gray.\n\n Our host is rather horrid this evening,  answered the duchess,\ncolouring.  I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely\nscientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern\nbutterfly. \n\n Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess,  laughed Dorian.\n\n Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me. \n\n And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess? \n\n For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I\ncome in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by\nhalf-past eight. \n\n How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning. \n\n I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the\none I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice\nof you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All\ngood hats are made out of nothing. \n\n Like all good reputations, Gladys,  interrupted Lord Henry.  Every\neffect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be\na mediocrity. \n\n Not with women,  said the duchess, shaking her head;  and women rule\nthe world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some\none says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if\nyou ever love at all. \n\n It seems to me that we never do anything else,  murmured Dorian.\n\n Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray,  answered the duchess with\nmock sadness.\n\n My dear Gladys!  cried Lord Henry.  How can you say that? Romance\nlives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art.\nBesides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved.\nDifference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely\nintensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best,\nand the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as\npossible. \n\n Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?  asked the duchess after\na pause.\n\n Especially when one has been wounded by it,  answered Lord Henry.\n\nThe duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression\nin her eyes.  What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?  she inquired.\n\nDorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed.\n I always agree with Harry, Duchess. \n\n Even when he is wrong? \n\n Harry is never wrong, Duchess. \n\n And does his philosophy make you happy? \n\n I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have\nsearched for pleasure. \n\n And found it, Mr. Gray? \n\n Often. Too often. \n\nThe duchess sighed.  I am searching for peace,  she said,  and if I\ndon t go and dress, I shall have none this evening. \n\n Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,  cried Dorian, starting to his\nfeet and walking down the conservatory.\n\n You are flirting disgracefully with him,  said Lord Henry to his\ncousin.  You had better take care. He is very fascinating. \n\n If he were not, there would be no battle. \n\n Greek meets Greek, then? \n\n I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman. \n\n They were defeated. \n\n There are worse things than capture,  she answered.\n\n You gallop with a loose rein. \n\n Pace gives life,  was the _riposte_.\n\n I shall write it in my diary to-night. \n\n What? \n\n That a burnt child loves the fire. \n\n I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. \n\n You use them for everything, except flight. \n\n Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us. \n\n You have a rival. \n\n Who? \n\nHe laughed.  Lady Narborough,  he whispered.  She perfectly adores\nhim. \n\n You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us\nwho are romanticists. \n\n Romanticists! You have all the methods of science. \n\n Men have educated us. \n\n But not explained you. \n\n Describe us as a sex,  was her challenge.\n\n Sphinxes without secrets. \n\nShe looked at him, smiling.  How long Mr. Gray is!  she said.  Let us\ngo and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock. \n\n Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys. \n\n That would be a premature surrender. \n\n Romantic art begins with its climax. \n\n I must keep an opportunity for retreat. \n\n In the Parthian manner? \n\n They found safety in the desert. I could not do that. \n\n Women are not always allowed a choice,  he answered, but hardly had he\nfinished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came\na stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody\nstarted up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in\nhis eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian\nGray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon.\n\nHe was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of\nthe sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with\na dazed expression.\n\n What has happened?  he asked.  Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry? \nHe began to tremble.\n\n My dear Dorian,  answered Lord Henry,  you merely fainted. That was\nall. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to\ndinner. I will take your place. \n\n No, I will come down,  he said, struggling to his feet.  I would\nrather come down. I must not be alone. \n\nHe went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of\ngaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of\nterror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the\nwindow of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the\nface of James Vane watching him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nThe next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the\ntime in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet\nindifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,\ntracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but\ntremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against\nthe leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild\nregrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor s face\npeering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to\nlay its hand upon his heart.\n\nBut perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of\nthe night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual\nlife was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the\nimagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of\nsin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen\nbrood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor\nthe good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon\nthe weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round\nthe house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had\nany foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have\nreported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane s brother had\nnot come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in\nsome winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did\nnot know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had\nsaved him.\n\nAnd yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think\nthat conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them\nvisible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would\nhis be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from\nsilent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear\nas he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep!\nAs the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and\nthe air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a\nwild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere\nmemory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back\nto him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible and\nswathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in\nat six o clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break.\n\nIt was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was\nsomething in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that\nseemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it\nwas not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused\nthe change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish\nthat had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle\nand finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions\nmust either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves\ndie. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows\nthat are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had\nconvinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken\nimagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity\nand not a little of contempt.\n\nAfter breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden\nand then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp\nfrost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue\nmetal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake.\n\nAt the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey\nClouston, the duchess s brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of\nhis gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the\nmare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken\nand rough undergrowth.\n\n Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?  he asked.\n\n Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the\nopen. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new\nground. \n\nDorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and\nred lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters\nringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that\nfollowed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful\nfreedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high\nindifference of joy.\n\nSuddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front\nof them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it\nforward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir\nGeoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the\nanimal s grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he\ncried out at once,  Don t shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live. \n\n What nonsense, Dorian!  laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded\ninto the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a\nhare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is\nworse.\n\n Good heavens! I have hit a beater!  exclaimed Sir Geoffrey.  What an\nass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!  he\ncalled out at the top of his voice.  A man is hurt. \n\nThe head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand.\n\n Where, sir? Where is he?  he shouted. At the same time, the firing\nceased along the line.\n\n Here,  answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket.\n Why on earth don t you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the\nday. \n\nDorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the\nlithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging\na body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It\nseemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir\nGeoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of\nthe keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with\nfaces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of\nvoices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the\nboughs overhead.\n\nAfter a few moments that were to him, in his perturbed state, like\nendless hours of pain he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started\nand looked round.\n\n Dorian,  said Lord Henry,  I had better tell them that the shooting is\nstopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on. \n\n I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry,  he answered bitterly.  The\nwhole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...? \n\nHe could not finish the sentence.\n\n I am afraid so,  rejoined Lord Henry.  He got the whole charge of shot\nin his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go\nhome. \n\nThey walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly\nfifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and\nsaid, with a heavy sigh,  It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen. \n\n What is?  asked Lord Henry.  Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear\nfellow, it can t be helped. It was the man s own fault. Why did he get\nin front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather\nawkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It\nmakes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he\nshoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter. \n\nDorian shook his head.  It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something\nhorrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps,  he\nadded, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain.\n\nThe elder man laughed.  The only horrible thing in the world is\n_ennui_, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness.\nBut we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep\nchattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the\nsubject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an\nomen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel\nfor that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have\neverything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would\nnot be delighted to change places with you. \n\n There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don t\nlaugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who\nhas just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It is\nthe coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to\nwheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don t you see a man\nmoving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me? \n\nLord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand\nwas pointing.  Yes,  he said, smiling,  I see the gardener waiting for\nyou. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the\ntable to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must\ncome and see my doctor, when we get back to town. \n\nDorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The\nman touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating\nmanner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master.  Her\nGrace told me to wait for an answer,  he murmured.\n\nDorian put the letter into his pocket.  Tell her Grace that I am coming\nin,  he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the\ndirection of the house.\n\n How fond women are of doing dangerous things!  laughed Lord Henry.  It\nis one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt\nwith anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on. \n\n How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present\ninstance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I\ndon t love her. \n\n And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you\nare excellently matched. \n\n You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for\nscandal. \n\n The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty,  said Lord Henry,\nlighting a cigarette.\n\n You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram. \n\n The world goes to the altar of its own accord,  was the answer.\n\n I wish I could love,  cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in\nhis voice.  But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the\ndesire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has\nbecome a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was\nsilly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to\nHarvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe. \n\n Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what\nit is? You know I would help you. \n\n I can t tell you, Harry,  he answered sadly.  And I dare say it is\nonly a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a\nhorrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me. \n\n What nonsense! \n\n I hope it is, but I can t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess,\nlooking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back,\nDuchess. \n\n I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray,  she answered.  Poor Geoffrey is\nterribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare.\nHow curious! \n\n Yes, it was very curious. I don t know what made me say it. Some whim,\nI suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am\nsorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject. \n\n It is an annoying subject,  broke in Lord Henry.  It has no\npsychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on\npurpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one\nwho had committed a real murder. \n\n How horrid of you, Harry!  cried the duchess.  Isn t it, Mr. Gray?\nHarry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint. \n\nDorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled.  It is nothing,\nDuchess,  he murmured;  my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is\nall. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn t hear what\nHarry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think\nI must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won t you? \n\nThey had reached the great flight of steps that led from the\nconservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian,\nLord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes.\n Are you very much in love with him?  he asked.\n\nShe did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape.  I\nwish I knew,  she said at last.\n\nHe shook his head.  Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty\nthat charms one. A mist makes things wonderful. \n\n One may lose one s way. \n\n All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys. \n\n What is that? \n\n Disillusion. \n\n It was my _d but_ in life,  she sighed.\n\n It came to you crowned. \n\n I am tired of strawberry leaves. \n\n They become you. \n\n Only in public. \n\n You would miss them,  said Lord Henry.\n\n I will not part with a petal. \n\n Monmouth has ears. \n\n Old age is dull of hearing. \n\n Has he never been jealous? \n\n I wish he had been. \n\nHe glanced about as if in search of something.  What are you looking\nfor?  she inquired.\n\n The button from your foil,  he answered.  You have dropped it. \n\nShe laughed.  I have still the mask. \n\n It makes your eyes lovelier,  was his reply.\n\nShe laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet\nfruit.\n\nUpstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror\nin every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too\nhideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky\nbeater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to\npre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord\nHenry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.\n\nAt five o clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to\npack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham\nat the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another\nnight at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in\nthe sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood.\n\nThen he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to\ntown to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in\nhis absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to\nthe door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see\nhim. He frowned and bit his lip.  Send him in,  he muttered, after some\nmoments  hesitation.\n\nAs soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a\ndrawer and spread it out before him.\n\n I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this\nmorning, Thornton?  he said, taking up a pen.\n\n Yes, sir,  answered the gamekeeper.\n\n Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him? \nasked Dorian, looking bored.  If so, I should not like them to be left\nin want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary. \n\n We don t know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of\ncoming to you about. \n\n Don t know who he is?  said Dorian, listlessly.  What do you mean?\nWasn t he one of your men? \n\n No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir. \n\nThe pen dropped from Dorian Gray s hand, and he felt as if his heart\nhad suddenly stopped beating.  A sailor?  he cried out.  Did you say a\nsailor? \n\n Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on\nboth arms, and that kind of thing. \n\n Was there anything found on him?  said Dorian, leaning forward and\nlooking at the man with startled eyes.  Anything that would tell his\nname? \n\n Some money, sir not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any\nkind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we\nthink. \n\nDorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He\nclutched at it madly.  Where is the body?  he exclaimed.  Quick! I must\nsee it at once. \n\n It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don t like to\nhave that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad\nluck. \n\n The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to\nbring my horse round. No. Never mind. I ll go to the stables myself. It\nwill save time. \n\nIn less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the\nlong avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him\nin spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his\npath. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.\nHe lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air\nlike an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.\n\nAt last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard.\nHe leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the\nfarthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him\nthat the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand\nupon the latch.\n\nThere he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a\ndiscovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the\ndoor open and entered.\n\nOn a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man\ndressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted\nhandkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a\nbottle, sputtered beside it.\n\nDorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take\nthe handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to\ncome to him.\n\n Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it,  he said, clutching at\nthe door-post for support.\n\nWhen the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy\nbroke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James\nVane.\n\nHe stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode\nhome, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\n There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good,  cried\nLord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled\nwith rose-water.  You are quite perfect. Pray, don t change. \n\nDorian Gray shook his head.  No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful\nthings in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good\nactions yesterday. \n\n Where were you yesterday? \n\n In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself. \n\n My dear boy,  said Lord Henry, smiling,  anybody can be good in the\ncountry. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people\nwho live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is not\nby any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by\nwhich man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being\ncorrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either, so they\nstagnate. \n\n Culture and corruption,  echoed Dorian.  I have known something of\nboth. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found\ntogether. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I\nhave altered. \n\n You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say you\nhad done more than one?  asked his companion as he spilled into his\nplate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a\nperforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them.\n\n I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one else.\nI spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She\nwas quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was\nthat which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don t you?\nHow long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our own class, of\ncourse. She was simply a girl in a village. But I really loved her. I\nam quite sure that I loved her. All during this wonderful May that we\nhave been having, I used to run down and see her two or three times a\nweek. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept\ntumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. We were to have gone\naway together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her\nas flowerlike as I had found her. \n\n I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill\nof real pleasure, Dorian,  interrupted Lord Henry.  But I can finish\nyour idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. That\nwas the beginning of your reformation. \n\n Harry, you are horrible! You mustn t say these dreadful things.\nHetty s heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But\nthere is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her\ngarden of mint and marigold. \n\n And weep over a faithless Florizel,  said Lord Henry, laughing, as he\nleaned back in his chair.  My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously\nboyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content now\nwith any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day to\na rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of having met\nyou, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will\nbe wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I think much\nof your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides,\nhow do you know that Hetty isn t floating at the present moment in some\nstarlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like Ophelia? \n\n I can t bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest the\nmost serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don t care what\nyou say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor Hetty! As I\nrode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at the window,\nlike a spray of jasmine. Don t let us talk about it any more, and don t\ntry to persuade me that the first good action I have done for years,\nthe first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known, is really a\nsort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be better. Tell me\nsomething about yourself. What is going on in town? I have not been to\nthe club for days. \n\n The people are still discussing poor Basil s disappearance. \n\n I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time,  said\nDorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly.\n\n My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and\nthe British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having\nmore than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate\nlately, however. They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell s\nsuicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist.\nScotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left\nfor Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor\nBasil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris\nat all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has\nbeen seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one who\ndisappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful\ncity, and possess all the attractions of the next world. \n\n What do you think has happened to Basil?  asked Dorian, holding up his\nBurgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could\ndiscuss the matter so calmly.\n\n I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it is\nno business of mine. If he is dead, I don t want to think about him.\nDeath is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it. \n\n Why?  said the younger man wearily.\n\n Because,  said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt\ntrellis of an open vinaigrette box,  one can survive everything\nnowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the\nnineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our coffee\nin the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man with\nwhom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was\nvery fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course,\nmarried life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one regrets the\nloss even of one s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most.\nThey are such an essential part of one s personality. \n\nDorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next\nroom, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white\nand black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he\nstopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said,  Harry, did it ever\noccur to you that Basil was murdered? \n\nLord Henry yawned.  Basil was very popular, and always wore a Waterbury\nwatch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to\nhave enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a\nman can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was\nreally rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he\ntold me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you\nwere the dominant motive of his art. \n\n I was very fond of Basil,  said Dorian with a note of sadness in his\nvoice.  But don t people say that he was murdered? \n\n Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all\nprobable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not\nthe sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his\nchief defect. \n\n What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil? \nsaid the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken.\n\n I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that\ndoesn t suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.\nIt is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurt your\nvanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongs\nexclusively to the lower orders. I don t blame them in the smallest\ndegree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply\na method of procuring extraordinary sensations. \n\n A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who\nhas once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?\nDon t tell me that. \n\n Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often,  cried Lord\nHenry, laughing.  That is one of the most important secrets of life. I\nshould fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should\nnever do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us\npass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to such a\nreally romantic end as you suggest, but I can t. I dare say he fell\ninto the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the\nscandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now on\nhis back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges floating\nover him and long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, I don t\nthink he would have done much more good work. During the last ten years\nhis painting had gone off very much. \n\nDorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began\nto stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged\nbird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo\nperch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of\ncrinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards\nand forwards.\n\n Yes,  he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of\nhis pocket;  his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have\nlost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be\ngreat friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated\nyou? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It s a habit\nbores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he\ndid of you? I don t think I have ever seen it since he finished it. Oh!\nI remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to\nSelby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way. You never got\nit back? What a pity! it was really a masterpiece. I remember I wanted\nto buy it. I wish I had now. It belonged to Basil s best period. Since\nthen, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good\nintentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative\nBritish artist. Did you advertise for it? You should. \n\n I forget,  said Dorian.  I suppose I did. But I never really liked it.\nI am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to me. Why\ndo you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious lines in some\nplay Hamlet, I think how do they run? \n\n Like the painting of a sorrow,\nA face without a heart. \n\n\nYes: that is what it was like. \n\nLord Henry laughed.  If a man treats life artistically, his brain is\nhis heart,  he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.\n\nDorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.\n Like the painting of a sorrow,  he repeated,  a face without a\nheart. \n\nThe elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes.  By the\nway, Dorian,  he said after a pause,  what does it profit a man if he\ngain the whole world and lose how does the quotation run? his own\nsoul ? \n\nThe music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend.\n Why do you ask me that, Harry? \n\n My dear fellow,  said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise,\n I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.\nThat is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by the\nMarble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people\nlistening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the\nman yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being\nrather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. A\nwet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly\nwhite faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful\nphrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips it was really very\ngood in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet\nthat art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he\nwould not have understood me. \n\n Don t, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and\nsold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is\na soul in each one of us. I know it. \n\n Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian? \n\n Quite sure. \n\n Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely\ncertain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the\nlesson of romance. How grave you are! Don t be so serious. What have\nyou or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up\nour belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian,\nand, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your\nyouth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you\nare, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really wonderful,\nDorian. You have never looked more charming than you do to-night. You\nremind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy,\nand absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in\nappearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth\nI would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early,\nor be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It s absurd to talk\nof the ignorance of youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen\nnow with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in\nfront of me. Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the\naged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask\nthem their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly\ngive you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks,\nbelieved in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that\nthing you are playing is! I wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca,\nwith the sea weeping round the villa and the salt spray dashing against\nthe panes? It is marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that\nthere is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don t stop. I want\nmusic to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and that I\nam Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that\neven you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is\nold, but that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity.\nAh, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You\nhave drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against\nyour palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to\nyou no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are\nstill the same. \n\n I am not the same, Harry. \n\n Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be.\nDon t spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type.\nDon t make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need\nnot shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don t deceive\nyourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question\nof nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides\nitself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and\nthink yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a\nmorning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that\nbrings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you\nhad come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had\nceased to play I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that\nour lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own\nsenses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of\n_lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the\nstrangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places\nwith you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has\nalways worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of\nwhat the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am\nso glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or\npainted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has\nbeen your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your\nsonnets. \n\nDorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair.\n Yes, life has been exquisite,  he murmured,  but I am not going to\nhave the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant\nthings to me. You don t know everything about me. I think that if you\ndid, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don t laugh. \n\n Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne\nover again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the\ndusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she\nwill come closer to the earth. You won t? Let us go to the club, then.\nIt has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is\nsome one at White s who wants immensely to know you young Lord Poole,\nBournemouth s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has\nbegged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather\nreminds me of you. \n\n I hope not,  said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes.  But I am tired\nto-night, Harry. I shan t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I\nwant to go to bed early. \n\n Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was\nsomething in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than\nI had ever heard from it before. \n\n It is because I am going to be good,  he answered, smiling.  I am a\nlittle changed already. \n\n You cannot change to me, Dorian,  said Lord Henry.  You and I will\nalways be friends. \n\n Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.\nHarry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It\ndoes harm. \n\n My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be\ngoing about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people\nagainst all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too\ndelightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we\nare, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book,\nthere is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It\nannihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that\nthe world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.\nThat is all. But we won t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I\nam going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you\nto lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and\nwants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying.\nMind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says she\nnever sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you\nwould be. Her clever tongue gets on one s nerves. Well, in any case, be\nhere at eleven. \n\n Must I really come, Harry? \n\n Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don t think there have been\nsuch lilacs since the year I met you. \n\n Very well. I shall be here at eleven,  said Dorian.  Good night,\nHarry.  As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had\nsomething more to say. Then he sighed and went out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\nIt was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and\ndid not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home,\nsmoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He\nheard one of them whisper to the other,  That is Dorian Gray.  He\nremembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared\nat, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the\ncharm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that\nno one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to\nlove him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her\nonce that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that\nwicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she\nhad! just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her\ncotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had\neverything that he had lost.\n\nWhen he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent\nhim to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and\nbegan to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him.\n\nWas it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing\nfor the unstained purity of his boyhood his rose-white boyhood, as Lord\nHenry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled\nhis mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had\nbeen an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in\nbeing so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been\nthe fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame.\nBut was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?\n\nAh! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that\nthe portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the\nunsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to\nthat. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure\nswift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not\n Forgive us our sins  but  Smite us for our iniquities  should be the\nprayer of man to a most just God.\n\nThe curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many\nyears ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids\nlaughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night\nof horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and\nwith wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some\none who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending\nwith these idolatrous words:  The world is changed because you are made\nof ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.  The\nphrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to\nhimself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the\nfloor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his\nbeauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed\nfor. But for those two things, his life might have been free from\nstain. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery.\nWhat was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow\nmoods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had\nspoiled him.\n\nIt was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It\nwas of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane\nwas hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had\nshot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the\nsecret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was,\nover Basil Hallward s disappearance would soon pass away. It was\nalready waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the\ndeath of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the\nliving death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the\nportrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It\nwas the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to him\nthat were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The\nmurder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell,\nhis suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was\nnothing to him.\n\nA new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for.\nSurely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at\nany rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good.\n\nAs he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in\nthe locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it\nhad been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel\nevery sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had\nalready gone away. He would go and look.\n\nHe took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the\ndoor, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face\nand lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and\nthe hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror\nto him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.\n\nHe went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and\ndragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and\nindignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the\neyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of\nthe hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome more loathsome, if\npossible, than before and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed\nbrighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it\nbeen merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the\ndesire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking\nlaugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things\nfiner than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the\nred stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a\nhorrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the\npainted feet, as though the thing had dripped blood even on the hand\nthat had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to\nconfess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt\nthat the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would\nbelieve him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere.\nEverything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned\nwhat had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad.\nThey would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was his\nduty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement.\nThere was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well\nas to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had\ntold his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of\nBasil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty\nMerton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he\nwas looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing\nmore in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At\nleast he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing\nmore. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the\nmask of goodness. For curiosity s sake he had tried the denial of self.\nHe recognized that now.\n\nBut this murder was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be\nburdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only\none bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself that was\nevidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had\ngiven him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had\nfelt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been\naway, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon\nit. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had\nmarred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it\nhad been conscience. He would destroy it.\n\nHe looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He\nhad cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was\nbright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill\nthe painter s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past,\nand when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous\nsoul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He\nseized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.\n\nThere was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its\nagony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms.\nTwo gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked\nup at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and\nbrought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no\nanswer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all\ndark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and\nwatched.\n\n Whose house is that, Constable?  asked the elder of the two gentlemen.\n\n Mr. Dorian Gray s, sir,  answered the policeman.\n\nThey looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of\nthem was Sir Henry Ashton s uncle.\n\nInside, in the servants  part of the house, the half-clad domestics\nwere talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying\nand wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.\n\nAfter about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the\nfootmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They\ncalled out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force\nthe door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. The\nwindows yielded easily their bolts were old.\n\nWhen they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait\nof their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his\nexquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in\nevening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled,\nand loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings\nthat they recognized who it was.\n\nTHE END"
    },
    {
        "title": "Wuthering Heights",
        "author": "Emily Brontë",
        "category": "Classics",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I\n\n\n1801 I have just returned from a visit to my landlord the solitary\nneighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful\ncountry! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a\nsituation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect\nmisanthropist s Heaven and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable\npair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little\nimagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes\nwithdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his\nfingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further\nin his waistcoat, as I announced my name.\n\n Mr. Heathcliff?  I said.\n\nA nod was the answer.\n\n Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling\nas soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have\nnot inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation\nof Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts \n\n Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,  he interrupted, wincing.  I should\nnot allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it walk in! \n\nThe  walk in  was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the\nsentiment,  Go to the Deuce!  even the gate over which he leant\nmanifested no sympathising movement to the words; and I think that\ncircumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested\nin a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.\n\nWhen he saw my horse s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put\nout his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the\ncauseway, calling, as we entered the court, Joseph, take Mr.\nLockwood s horse; and bring up some wine. \n\n Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,  was the\nreflection suggested by this compound order.  No wonder the grass grows\nup between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters. \n\nJoseph was an elderly, nay, an old man, very old, perhaps, though hale\nand sinewy.  The Lord help us!  he soliloquised in an undertone of\npeevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime,\nin my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of\ndivine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no\nreference to my unexpected advent.\n\nWuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff s dwelling.  Wuthering \nbeing a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the\natmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather.\nPure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed:\none may guess the power of the north wind, blowing over the edge, by\nthe excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and\nby a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if\ncraving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build\nit strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the\ncorners defended with large jutting stones.\n\nBefore passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of\ngrotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the\nprincipal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins\nand shameless little boys, I detected the date  1500,  and the name\n Hareton Earnshaw.  I would have made a few comments, and requested a\nshort history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at\nthe door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure,\nand I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting\nthe penetralium.\n\nOne step brought us into the family sitting-room, without any\nintroductory lobby or passage: they call it here  the house \npre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I\nbelieve at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat\naltogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of\ntongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I\nobserved no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge\nfireplace; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on\nthe walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat\nfrom ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and\ntankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very\nroof. The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay\nbare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with\noatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it.\nAbove the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of\nhorse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily painted canisters\ndisposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the\nchairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two\nheavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser\nreposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of\nsquealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.\n\nThe apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as\nbelonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance,\nand stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters.\nSuch an individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on\nthe round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six\nmiles among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But\nMr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of\nliving. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a\ngentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire:\nrather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence,\nbecause he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose.\nPossibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred\npride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of\nthe sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to\nshowy displays of feeling to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He ll\nlove and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of\nimpertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I m running on too fast: I\nbestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have\nentirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he\nmeets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope\nmy constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should\nnever have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself\nperfectly unworthy of one.\n\nWhile enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown\ninto the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my\neyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I  never told my love \nvocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have\nguessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked\na return the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I\nconfess it with shame shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every\nglance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was\nled to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her\nsupposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp.\n\nBy this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of\ndeliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.\n\nI took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which\nmy landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by\nattempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and\nwas sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and\nher white teeth watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long,\nguttural gnarl.\n\n You d better let the dog alone,  growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison,\nchecking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot.  She s not\naccustomed to be spoiled not kept for a pet.  Then, striding to a side\ndoor, he shouted again,  Joseph! \n\nJoseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no\nintimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me\n_vis- -vis_ the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs,\nwho shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not\nanxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but,\nimagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately\nindulged in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my\nphysiognomy so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and\nleapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the\ntable between us. This proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen\nfour-footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens\nto the common centre. I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects\nof assault; and parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I\ncould with the poker, I was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance\nfrom some of the household in re-establishing peace.\n\nMr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious\nphlegm: I don t think they moved one second faster than usual, though\nthe hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an\ninhabitant of the kitchen made more dispatch; a lusty dame, with\ntucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the\nmidst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her\ntongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she\nonly remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master\nentered on the scene.\n\n What the devil is the matter?  he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I\ncould ill endure after this inhospitable treatment.\n\n What the devil, indeed!  I muttered.  The herd of possessed swine\ncould have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours,\nsir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers! \n\n They won t meddle with persons who touch nothing,  he remarked,\nputting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table.  The\ndogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine? \n\n No, thank you. \n\n Not bitten, are you? \n\n If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.  Heathcliff s\ncountenance relaxed into a grin.\n\n Come, come,  he said,  you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a\nlittle wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my\ndogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your\nhealth, sir? \n\nI bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be\nfoolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides,\nI felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since\nhis humour took that turn. He probably swayed by prudential\nconsideration of the folly of offending a good tenant relaxed a little\nin the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs,\nand introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me, a\ndiscourse on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of\nretirement. I found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and\nbefore I went home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another\nvisit to-morrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I\nshall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself\ncompared with him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nYesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend\nit by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to\nWuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B. I dine\nbetween twelve and one o clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken\nas a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend\nmy request that I might be served at five) on mounting the stairs with\nthis lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl\non her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an\ninfernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders.\nThis spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a\nfour-miles  walk, arrived at Heathcliff s garden-gate just in time to\nescape the first feathery flakes of a snow shower.\n\nOn that bleak hill top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the\nair made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the\nchain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered\nwith straggling gooseberry-bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till\nmy knuckles tingled and the dogs howled.\n\n Wretched inmates!  I ejaculated, mentally,  you deserve perpetual\nisolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least,\nI would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don t care I will\nget in!  So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently.\nVinegar-faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the\nbarn.\n\n What are ye for?  he shouted.  T  maister s down i  t  fowld. Go round\nby th  end o  t  laith, if ye went to spake to him. \n\n Is there nobody inside to open the door?  I hallooed, responsively.\n\n There s nobbut t  missis; and shoo ll not oppen  t an ye mak  yer\nflaysome dins till neeght. \n\n Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph? \n\n Nor-ne me! I ll hae no hend wi t,  muttered the head, vanishing.\n\nThe snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another\ntrial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork,\nappeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after\nmarching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed,\npump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful\napartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the\nradiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and\nnear the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to\nobserve the  missis,  an individual whose existence I had never\npreviously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me\ntake a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained\nmotionless and mute.\n\n Rough weather!  I remarked.  I m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door\nmust bear the consequence of your servants  leisure attendance: I had\nhard work to make them hear me. \n\nShe never opened her mouth. I stared she stared also: at any rate, she\nkept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly\nembarrassing and disagreeable.\n\n Sit down,  said the young man, gruffly.  He ll be in soon. \n\nI obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, at this\nsecond interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of\nowning my acquaintance.\n\n A beautiful animal!  I commenced again.  Do you intend parting with\nthe little ones, madam? \n\n They are not mine,  said the amiable hostess, more repellingly than\nHeathcliff himself could have replied.\n\n Ah, your favourites are among these?  I continued, turning to an\nobscure cushion full of something like cats.\n\n A strange choice of favourites!  she observed scornfully.\n\nUnluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew\ncloser to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the\nevening.\n\n You should not have come out,  she said, rising and reaching from the\nchimney-piece two of the painted canisters.\n\nHer position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct\nview of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and\napparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the most\nexquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding;\nsmall features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging\nloose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in\nexpression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my\nsusceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between\nscorn and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected\nthere. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to\naid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if any one attempted\nto assist him in counting his gold.\n\n I don t want your help,  she snapped;  I can get them for myself. \n\n I beg your pardon!  I hastened to reply.\n\n Were you asked to tea?  she demanded, tying an apron over her neat\nblack frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised over the\npot.\n\n I shall be glad to have a cup,  I answered.\n\n Were you asked?  she repeated.\n\n No,  I said, half smiling.  You are the proper person to ask me. \n\nShe flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet;\nher forehead corrugated, and her red under-lip pushed out, like a\nchild s ready to cry.\n\nMeanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby\nupper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on\nme from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some\nmortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a\nservant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of\nthe superiority observable in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown\ncurls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly\nover his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common\nlabourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed\nnone of a domestic s assiduity in attending on the lady of the house.\nIn the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to\nabstain from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes\nafterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure,\nfrom my uncomfortable state.\n\n You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!  I exclaimed, assuming\nthe cheerful;  and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour, if\nyou can afford me shelter during that space. \n\n Half an hour?  he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes;  I\nwonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble about in.\nDo you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People\nfamiliar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I\ncan tell you there is no chance of a change at present. \n\n Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the\nGrange till morning could you spare me one? \n\n No, I could not. \n\n Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity. \n\n Umph! \n\n Are you going to mak  the tea?  demanded he of the shabby coat,\nshifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.\n\n Is _he_ to have any?  she asked, appealing to Heathcliff.\n\n Get it ready, will you?  was the answer, uttered so savagely that I\nstarted. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad\nnature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow.\nWhen the preparations were finished, he invited me with Now, sir,\nbring forward your chair.  And we all, including the rustic youth, drew\nround the table: an austere silence prevailing while we discussed our\nmeal.\n\nI thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort\nto dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it\nwas impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal\nscowl they wore was their every-day countenance.\n\n It is strange,  I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea\nand receiving another it is strange how custom can mould our tastes\nand ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life\nof such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff;\nyet, I ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with\nyour amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart \n\n My amiable lady!  he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on\nhis face.  Where is she my amiable lady? \n\n Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean. \n\n Well, yes oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of\nministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even\nwhen her body is gone. Is that it? \n\nPerceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have\nseen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to\nmake it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a\nperiod of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of\nbeing married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace\nof our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.\n\nThen it flashed upon me The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea\nout of a basin and eating his bread with unwashed hands, may be her\nhusband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being\nburied alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer\nignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity I must beware how\nI cause her to regret her choice.  The last reflection may seem\nconceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on\nrepulsive; I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive.\n\n Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,  said Heathcliff, corroborating\nmy surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a\nlook of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles\nthat will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of\nhis soul.\n\n Ah, certainly I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the\nbeneficent fairy,  I remarked, turning to my neighbour.\n\nThis was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his\nfist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. But he seemed to\nrecollect himself presently, and smothered the storm in a brutal curse,\nmuttered on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice.\n\n Unhappy in your conjectures, sir,  observed my host;  we neither of us\nhave the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said\nshe was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son. \n\n And this young man is \n\n Not my son, assuredly. \n\nHeathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to\nattribute the paternity of that bear to him.\n\n My name is Hareton Earnshaw,  growled the other;  and I d counsel you\nto respect it! \n\n I ve shown no disrespect,  was my reply, laughing internally at the\ndignity with which he announced himself.\n\nHe fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for\nfear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity\naudible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant\nfamily circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than\nneutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to\nbe cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.\n\nThe business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of\nsociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A\nsorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and\nhills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow.\n\n I don t think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,  I\ncould not help exclaiming.  The roads will be buried already; and, if\nthey were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance. \n\n Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They ll be\ncovered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them, \nsaid Heathcliff.\n\n How must I do?  I continued, with rising irritation.\n\nThere was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only\nJoseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff\nleaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of\nmatches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she restored the\ntea-canister to its place. The former, when he had deposited his\nburden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated\nout Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i  idleness un war,\nwhen all on  ems goan out! Bud yah re a nowt, and it s no use\ntalking yah ll niver mend o yer ill ways, but goa raight to t  divil,\nlike yer mother afore ye! \n\nI imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was addressed to\nme; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal with an\nintention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however,\nchecked me by her answer.\n\n You scandalous old hypocrite!  she replied.  Are you not afraid of\nbeing carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil s name? I\nwarn you to refrain from provoking me, or I ll ask your abduction as a\nspecial favour! Stop! look here, Joseph,  she continued, taking a long,\ndark book from a shelf;  I ll show you how far I ve progressed in the\nBlack Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The\nred cow didn t die by chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be\nreckoned among providential visitations! \n\n Oh, wicked, wicked!  gasped the elder;  may the Lord deliver us from\nevil! \n\n No, reprobate! you are a castaway be off, or I ll hurt you seriously!\nI ll have you all modelled in wax and clay! and the first who passes\nthe limits I fix shall I ll not say what he shall be done to but,\nyou ll see! Go, I m looking at you! \n\nThe little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and\nJoseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and\nejaculating  wicked  as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted\nby a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured\nto interest her in my distress.\n\n Mrs. Heathcliff,  I said earnestly,  you must excuse me for troubling\nyou. I presume, because, with that face, I m sure you cannot help being\ngood-hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way\nhome: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to\nget to London! \n\n Take the road you came,  she answered, ensconcing herself in a chair,\nwith a candle, and the long book open before her.  It is brief advice,\nbut as sound as I can give. \n\n Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full\nof snow, your conscience won t whisper that it is partly your fault? \n\n How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn t let me go to the end of the\ngarden wall. \n\n _You_! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my\nconvenience, on such a night,  I cried.  I want you to _tell_ me my\nway, not to _show_ it: or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a\nguide. \n\n Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. Which would you\nhave? \n\n Are there no boys at the farm? \n\n No; those are all. \n\n Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay. \n\n That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it. \n\n I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on\nthese hills,  cried Heathcliff s stern voice from the kitchen entrance.\n As to staying here, I don t keep accommodations for visitors: you must\nshare a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do. \n\n I can sleep on a chair in this room,  I replied.\n\n No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit\nme to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!  said\nthe unmannerly wretch.\n\nWith this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of\ndisgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in\nmy haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and,\nas I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour\namongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend\nme.\n\n I ll go with him as far as the park,  he said.\n\n You ll go with him to hell!  exclaimed his master, or whatever\nrelation he bore.  And who is to look after the horses, eh? \n\n A man s life is of more consequence than one evening s neglect of the\nhorses: somebody must go,  murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I\nexpected.\n\n Not at your command!  retorted Hareton.  If you set store on him,\nyou d better be quiet. \n\n Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will\nnever get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin,  she answered,\nsharply.\n\n Hearken, hearken, shoo s cursing on  em!  muttered Joseph, towards\nwhom I had been steering.\n\nHe sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern,\nwhich I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it\nback on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern.\n\n Maister, maister, he s staling t  lanthern!  shouted the ancient,\npursuing my retreat.  Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, holld him,\nholld him! \n\nOn opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat,\nbearing me down, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw\nfrom Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone on my rage and\nhumiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching\ntheir paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than devouring me\nalive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie\ntill their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless and\ntrembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out on their\nperil to keep me one minute longer with several incoherent threats of\nretaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency, smacked of\nKing Lear.\n\nThe vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the\nnose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don t know\nwhat would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at\nhand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my\nentertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued\nforth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some\nof them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack\nher master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger\nscoundrel.\n\n Well, Mr. Earnshaw,  she cried,  I wonder what you ll have agait next?\nAre we going to murder folk on our very door-stones? I see this house\nwill never do for me look at t  poor lad, he s fair choking! Wisht,\nwisht; you mun n t go on so. Come in, and I ll cure that: there now,\nhold ye still. \n\nWith these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my\nneck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his\naccidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness.\n\nI was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled\nperforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a\nglass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she\ncondoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders,\nwhereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nWhile leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the\ncandle, and not make a noise; for her master had an odd notion about\nthe chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there\nwillingly. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered: she had\nonly lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on,\nshe could not begin to be curious.\n\nToo stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced\nround for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a\nclothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top\nresembling coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked\ninside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch,\nvery conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of\nthe family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little\ncloset, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a\ntable.\n\nI slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them\ntogether again, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff,\nand every one else.\n\nThe ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up\nin one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint.\nThis writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of\ncharacters, large and small _Catherine Earnshaw_, here and there varied\nto _Catherine Heathcliff_, and then again to _Catherine Linton_.\n\nIn vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued\nspelling over Catherine Earnshaw Heathcliff Linton, till my eyes\nclosed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white\nletters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres the air swarmed\nwith Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I\ndiscovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and\nperfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf-skin.\n\nI snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and\nlingering nausea, sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee.\nIt was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a\nfly-leaf bore the inscription Catherine Earnshaw, her book,  and a\ndate some quarter of a century back.\n\nI shut it, and took up another and another, till I had examined all.\nCatherine s library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it\nto have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose:\nscarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and-ink commentary at least the\nappearance of one covering every morsel of blank that the printer had\nleft. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a\nregular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an\nextra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was\ngreatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend\nJoseph, rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled\nwithin me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher\nher faded hieroglyphics.\n\n An awful Sunday,  commenced the paragraph beneath.  I wish my father\nwere back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute his conduct to\nHeathcliff is atrocious H. and I are going to rebel we took our\ninitiatory step this evening.\n\n All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so\nJoseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while\nHindley and his wife basked downstairs before a comfortable fire doing\nanything but reading their Bibles, I ll answer for it Heathcliff,\nmyself, and the unhappy ploughboy were commanded to take our\nprayer-books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, on a sack of corn,\ngroaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph would shiver too, so\nthat he might give us a short homily for his own sake. A vain idea! The\nservice lasted precisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face\nto exclaim, when he saw us descending,  What, done already?  On Sunday\nevenings we used to be permitted to play, if we did not make much\nnoise; now a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners.\n\n You forget you have a master here,  says the tyrant.  I ll demolish\nthe first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and\nsilence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances darling, pull his hair as you\ngo by: I heard him snap his fingers.  Frances pulled his hair heartily,\nand then went and seated herself on her husband s knee, and there they\nwere, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour foolish\npalaver that we should be ashamed of. We made ourselves as snug as our\nmeans allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened our\npinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes\nJoseph, on an errand from the stables. He tears down my handiwork,\nboxes my ears, and croaks:\n\n T  maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o ered, und t  sound\no  t  gospel still i  yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking! Shame on ye!\nsit ye down, ill childer! there s good books eneugh if ye ll read  em:\nsit ye down, and think o  yer sowls! \n\n Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that we might\nreceive from the far-off fire a dull ray to show us the text of the\nlumber he thrust upon us. I could not bear the employment. I took my\ndingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I\nhated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there\nwas a hubbub!\n\n Maister Hindley!  shouted our chaplain.  Maister, coom hither! Miss\nCathy s riven th  back off  Th  Helmet o  Salvation,  un  Heathcliff s\npawsed his fit into t  first part o   T  Brooad Way to Destruction! \nIt s fair flaysome that ye let  em go on this gait. Ech! th  owd man\nwad ha  laced  em properly but he s goan! \n\n Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of\nus by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the\nback-kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated,  owd Nick  would fetch us as\nsure as we were living: and, so comforted, we each sought a separate\nnook to await his advent. I reached this book, and a pot of ink from a\nshelf, and pushed the house-door ajar to give me light, and I have got\nthe time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is\nimpatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman s\ncloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant\nsuggestion and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his\nprophecy verified we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we\nare here. \n\n* * * * * *\n\n\nI suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took\nup another subject: she waxed lachrymose.\n\n How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!  she\nwrote.  My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I\ncan t give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and\nwon t let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he\nand I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the\nhouse if we break his orders. He has been blaming our father (how dared\nhe?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to\nhis right place \n\n* * * * * *\n\n\nI began to nod drowsily over the dim page: my eye wandered from\nmanuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title Seventy Times Seven,\nand the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the\nReverend Jabez Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.  And while\nI was, half-consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabez\nBranderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell\nasleep. Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper! What else\ncould it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don t remember\nanother that I can at all compare with it since I was capable of\nsuffering.\n\nI began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality.\nI thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph\nfor a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered\non, my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not\nbrought a pilgrim s staff: telling me that I could never get into the\nhouse without one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel,\nwhich I understood to be so denominated. For a moment I considered it\nabsurd that I should need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own\nresidence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was not going there: we\nwere journeying to hear the famous Jabez Branderham preach, from the\ntext Seventy Times Seven;  and either Joseph, the preacher, or I had\ncommitted the  First of the Seventy-First,  and were to be publicly\nexposed and excommunicated.\n\nWe came to the chapel. I have passed it really in my walks, twice or\nthrice; it lies in a hollow, between two hills: an elevated hollow,\nnear a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all the purposes\nof embalming on the few corpses deposited there. The roof has been kept\nwhole hitherto; but as the clergyman s stipend is only twenty pounds\nper annum, and a house with two rooms, threatening speedily to\ndetermine into one, no clergyman will undertake the duties of pastor:\nespecially as it is currently reported that his flock would rather let\nhim starve than increase the living by one penny from their own\npockets. However, in my dream, Jabez had a full and attentive\ncongregation; and he preached good God! what a sermon; divided into\n_four hundred and ninety_ parts, each fully equal to an ordinary\naddress from the pulpit, and each discussing a separate sin! Where he\nsearched for them, I cannot tell. He had his private manner of\ninterpreting the phrase, and it seemed necessary the brother should sin\ndifferent sins on every occasion. They were of the most curious\ncharacter: odd transgressions that I never imagined previously.\n\nOh, how weary I grew. How I writhed, and yawned, and nodded, and\nrevived! How I pinched and pricked myself, and rubbed my eyes, and\nstood up, and sat down again, and nudged Joseph to inform me if he\nwould _ever_ have done. I was condemned to hear all out: finally, he\nreached the  _First of the Seventy-First_.  At that crisis, a sudden\ninspiration descended on me; I was moved to rise and denounce Jabez\nBranderham as the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon.\n\n Sir,  I exclaimed,  sitting here within these four walls, at one\nstretch, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety heads\nof your discourse. Seventy times seven times have I plucked up my hat\nand been about to depart Seventy times seven times have you\npreposterously forced me to resume my seat. The four hundred and\nninety-first is too much. Fellow-martyrs, have at him! Drag him down,\nand crush him to atoms, that the place which knows him may know him no\nmore! \n\n _Thou art the Man!_  cried Jabez, after a solemn pause, leaning over\nhis cushion.  Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly contort thy\nvisage seventy times seven did I take counsel with my soul Lo, this is\nhuman weakness: this also may be absolved! The First of the\nSeventy-First is come. Brethren, execute upon him the judgment written.\nSuch honour have all His saints! \n\nWith that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their pilgrim s\nstaves, rushed round me in a body; and I, having no weapon to raise in\nself-defence, commenced grappling with Joseph, my nearest and most\nferocious assailant, for his. In the confluence of the multitude,\nseveral clubs crossed; blows, aimed at me, fell on other sconces.\nPresently the whole chapel resounded with rappings and counter\nrappings: every man s hand was against his neighbour; and Branderham,\nunwilling to remain idle, poured forth his zeal in a shower of loud\ntaps on the boards of the pulpit, which responded so smartly that, at\nlast, to my unspeakable relief, they woke me. And what was it that had\nsuggested the tremendous tumult? What had played Jabez s part in the\nrow? Merely the branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the\nblast wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes! I\nlistened doubtingly an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and\ndozed, and dreamt again: if possible, still more disagreeably than\nbefore.\n\nThis time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard\ndistinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also,\nthe fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right\ncause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if\npossible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the\ncasement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance\nobserved by me when awake, but forgotten.  I must stop it,\nnevertheless!  I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and\nstretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of\nwhich, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!\n\nThe intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my\narm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed,\n\n Let me in let me in! \n\n Who are you?  I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself.\n\n Catherine Linton,  it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of\n_Linton_? I had read _Earnshaw_ twenty times for Linton) I m come\nhome: I d lost my way on the moor! \n\nAs it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child s face looking through the\nwindow. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt\nshaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and\nrubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes:\nstill it wailed,  Let me in!  and maintained its tenacious gripe,\nalmost maddening me with fear.\n\n How can I!  I said at length.  Let _me_ go, if you want me to let you\nin! \n\nThe fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled\nthe books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude\nthe lamentable prayer.\n\nI seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the\ninstant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on!\n\n Begone!  I shouted.  I ll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty\nyears. \n\n It is twenty years,  mourned the voice:  twenty years. I ve been a\nwaif for twenty years! \n\nThereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved\nas if thrust forward.\n\nI tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in\na frenzy of fright.\n\nTo my confusion, I discovered the yell was not ideal: hasty footsteps\napproached my chamber door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous\nhand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed.\nI sat shuddering, yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehead:\nthe intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself.\n\nAt last, he said, in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer,\n\n Is any one here? \n\nI considered it best to confess my presence; for I knew Heathcliff s\naccents, and feared he might search further, if I kept quiet.\n\nWith this intention, I turned and opened the panels. I shall not soon\nforget the effect my action produced.\n\nHeathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a\ncandle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall\nbehind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric\nshock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and\nhis agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.\n\n It is only your guest, sir,  I called out, desirous to spare him the\nhumiliation of exposing his cowardice further.  I had the misfortune to\nscream in my sleep, owing to a frightful nightmare. I m sorry I\ndisturbed you. \n\n Oh, God confound you, Mr. Lockwood! I wish you were at the  commenced\nmy host, setting the candle on a chair, because he found it impossible\nto hold it steady.  And who showed you up into this room?  he\ncontinued, crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth to\nsubdue the maxillary convulsions.  Who was it? I ve a good mind to turn\nthem out of the house this moment! \n\n It was your servant Zillah,  I replied, flinging myself on to the\nfloor, and rapidly resuming my garments.  I should not care if you did,\nMr. Heathcliff; she richly deserves it. I suppose that she wanted to\nget another proof that the place was haunted, at my expense. Well, it\nis swarming with ghosts and goblins! You have reason in shutting it up,\nI assure you. No one will thank you for a doze in such a den! \n\n What do you mean?  asked Heathcliff,  and what are you doing? Lie down\nand finish out the night, since you _are_ here; but, for Heaven s sake!\ndon t repeat that horrid noise: nothing could excuse it, unless you\nwere having your throat cut! \n\n If the little fiend had got in at the window, she probably would have\nstrangled me!  I returned.  I m not going to endure the persecutions of\nyour hospitable ancestors again. Was not the Reverend Jabez Branderham\nakin to you on the mother s side? And that minx, Catherine Linton, or\nEarnshaw, or however she was called she must have been a\nchangeling wicked little soul! She told me she had been walking the\nearth these twenty years: a just punishment for her mortal\ntransgressions, I ve no doubt! \n\nScarcely were these words uttered when I recollected the association of\nHeathcliff s with Catherine s name in the book, which had completely\nslipped from my memory, till thus awakened. I blushed at my\ninconsideration: but, without showing further consciousness of the\noffence, I hastened to add The truth is, sir, I passed the first part\nof the night in  Here I stopped afresh I was about to say  perusing\nthose old volumes,  then it would have revealed my knowledge of their\nwritten, as well as their printed, contents; so, correcting myself, I\nwent on in spelling over the name scratched on that window-ledge. A\nmonotonous occupation, calculated to set me asleep, like counting, or \n\n What _can_ you mean by talking in this way to _me!_  thundered\nHeathcliff with savage vehemence.  How how _dare_ you, under my\nroof? God! he s mad to speak so!  And he struck his forehead with rage.\n\nI did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my\nexplanation; but he seemed so powerfully affected that I took pity and\nproceeded with my dreams; affirming I had never heard the appellation\nof  Catherine Linton  before, but reading it often over produced an\nimpression which personified itself when I had no longer my imagination\nunder control. Heathcliff gradually fell back into the shelter of the\nbed, as I spoke; finally sitting down almost concealed behind it. I\nguessed, however, by his irregular and intercepted breathing, that he\nstruggled to vanquish an excess of violent emotion. Not liking to show\nhim that I had heard the conflict, I continued my toilette rather\nnoisily, looked at my watch, and soliloquised on the length of the\nnight:  Not three o clock yet! I could have taken oath it had been six.\nTime stagnates here: we must surely have retired to rest at eight! \n\n Always at nine in winter, and rise at four,  said my host, suppressing\na groan: and, as I fancied, by the motion of his arm s shadow, dashing\na tear from his eyes.  Mr. Lockwood,  he added,  you may go into my\nroom: you ll only be in the way, coming downstairs so early: and your\nchildish outcry has sent sleep to the devil for me. \n\n And for me, too,  I replied.  I ll walk in the yard till daylight, and\nthen I ll be off; and you need not dread a repetition of my intrusion.\nI m now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or\ntown. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself. \n\n Delightful company!  muttered Heathcliff.  Take the candle, and go\nwhere you please. I shall join you directly. Keep out of the yard,\nthough, the dogs are unchained; and the house Juno mounts sentinel\nthere, and nay, you can only ramble about the steps and passages. But,\naway with you! I ll come in two minutes! \n\nI obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber; when, ignorant where the\nnarrow lobbies led, I stood still, and was witness, involuntarily, to a\npiece of superstition on the part of my landlord which belied, oddly,\nhis apparent sense. He got on to the bed, and wrenched open the\nlattice, bursting, as he pulled at it, into an uncontrollable passion\nof tears.  Come in! come in!  he sobbed.  Cathy, do come. Oh, do _once_\nmore! Oh! my heart s darling! hear me _this_ time, Catherine, at last! \nThe spectre showed a spectre s ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of\nbeing; but the snow and wind whirled wildly through, even reaching my\nstation, and blowing out the light.\n\nThere was such anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied this\nraving, that my compassion made me overlook its folly, and I drew off,\nhalf angry to have listened at all, and vexed at having related my\nridiculous nightmare, since it produced that agony; though _why_ was\nbeyond my comprehension. I descended cautiously to the lower regions,\nand landed in the back-kitchen, where a gleam of fire, raked compactly\ntogether, enabled me to rekindle my candle. Nothing was stirring except\na brindled, grey cat, which crept from the ashes, and saluted me with a\nquerulous mew.\n\nTwo benches, shaped in sections of a circle, nearly enclosed the\nhearth; on one of these I stretched myself, and Grimalkin mounted the\nother. We were both of us nodding ere any one invaded our retreat, and\nthen it was Joseph, shuffling down a wooden ladder that vanished in the\nroof, through a trap: the ascent to his garret, I suppose. He cast a\nsinister look at the little flame which I had enticed to play between\nthe ribs, swept the cat from its elevation, and bestowing himself in\nthe vacancy, commenced the operation of stuffing a three-inch pipe with\ntobacco. My presence in his sanctum was evidently esteemed a piece of\nimpudence too shameful for remark: he silently applied the tube to his\nlips, folded his arms, and puffed away. I let him enjoy the luxury\nunannoyed; and after sucking out his last wreath, and heaving a\nprofound sigh, he got up, and departed as solemnly as he came.\n\nA more elastic footstep entered next; and now I opened my mouth for a\n good-morning,  but closed it again, the salutation unachieved; for\nHareton Earnshaw was performing his orison _sotto voce_, in a series of\ncurses directed against every object he touched, while he rummaged a\ncorner for a spade or shovel to dig through the drifts. He glanced over\nthe back of the bench, dilating his nostrils, and thought as little of\nexchanging civilities with me as with my companion the cat. I guessed,\nby his preparations, that egress was allowed, and, leaving my hard\ncouch, made a movement to follow him. He noticed this, and thrust at an\ninner door with the end of his spade, intimating by an inarticulate\nsound that there was the place where I must go, if I changed my\nlocality.\n\nIt opened into the house, where the females were already astir; Zillah\nurging flakes of flame up the chimney with a colossal bellows; and Mrs.\nHeathcliff, kneeling on the hearth, reading a book by the aid of the\nblaze. She held her hand interposed between the furnace-heat and her\neyes, and seemed absorbed in her occupation; desisting from it only to\nchide the servant for covering her with sparks, or to push away a dog,\nnow and then, that snoozled its nose overforwardly into her face. I was\nsurprised to see Heathcliff there also. He stood by the fire, his back\ntowards me, just finishing a stormy scene with poor Zillah; who ever\nand anon interrupted her labour to pluck up the corner of her apron,\nand heave an indignant groan.\n\n And you, you worthless  he broke out as I entered, turning to his\ndaughter-in-law, and employing an epithet as harmless as duck, or\nsheep, but generally represented by a dash .  There you are, at your\nidle tricks again! The rest of them do earn their bread you live on my\ncharity! Put your trash away, and find something to do. You shall pay\nme for the plague of having you eternally in my sight do you hear,\ndamnable jade? \n\n I ll put my trash away, because you can make me if I refuse,  answered\nthe young lady, closing her book, and throwing it on a chair.  But I ll\nnot do anything, though you should swear your tongue out, except what I\nplease! \n\nHeathcliff lifted his hand, and the speaker sprang to a safer distance,\nobviously acquainted with its weight. Having no desire to be\nentertained by a cat-and-dog combat, I stepped forward briskly, as if\neager to partake the warmth of the hearth, and innocent of any\nknowledge of the interrupted dispute. Each had enough decorum to\nsuspend further hostilities: Heathcliff placed his fists, out of\ntemptation, in his pockets; Mrs. Heathcliff curled her lip, and walked\nto a seat far off, where she kept her word by playing the part of a\nstatue during the remainder of my stay. That was not long. I declined\njoining their breakfast, and, at the first gleam of dawn, took an\nopportunity of escaping into the free air, now clear, and still, and\ncold as impalpable ice.\n\nMy landlord halloed for me to stop ere I reached the bottom of the\ngarden, and offered to accompany me across the moor. It was well he\ndid, for the whole hill-back was one billowy, white ocean; the swells\nand falls not indicating corresponding rises and depressions in the\nground: many pits, at least, were filled to a level; and entire ranges\nof mounds, the refuse of the quarries, blotted from the chart which my\nyesterday s walk left pictured in my mind. I had remarked on one side\nof the road, at intervals of six or seven yards, a line of upright\nstones, continued through the whole length of the barren: these were\nerected and daubed with lime on purpose to serve as guides in the dark,\nand also when a fall, like the present, confounded the deep swamps on\neither hand with the firmer path: but, excepting a dirty dot pointing\nup here and there, all traces of their existence had vanished: and my\ncompanion found it necessary to warn me frequently to steer to the\nright or left, when I imagined I was following, correctly, the windings\nof the road.\n\nWe exchanged little conversation, and he halted at the entrance of\nThrushcross Park, saying, I could make no error there. Our adieux were\nlimited to a hasty bow, and then I pushed forward, trusting to my own\nresources; for the porter s lodge is untenanted as yet. The distance\nfrom the gate to the Grange is two miles; I believe I managed to make\nit four, what with losing myself among the trees, and sinking up to the\nneck in snow: a predicament which only those who have experienced it\ncan appreciate. At any rate, whatever were my wanderings, the clock\nchimed twelve as I entered the house; and that gave exactly an hour for\nevery mile of the usual way from Wuthering Heights.\n\nMy human fixture and her satellites rushed to welcome me; exclaiming,\ntumultuously, they had completely given me up: everybody conjectured\nthat I perished last night; and they were wondering how they must set\nabout the search for my remains. I bid them be quiet, now that they saw\nme returned, and, benumbed to my very heart, I dragged upstairs;\nwhence, after putting on dry clothes, and pacing to and fro thirty or\nforty minutes, to restore the animal heat, I adjourned to my study,\nfeeble as a kitten: almost too much so to enjoy the cheerful fire and\nsmoking coffee which the servant had prepared for my refreshment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nWhat vain weather-cocks we are! I, who had determined to hold myself\nindependent of all social intercourse, and thanked my stars that, at\nlength, I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable I,\nweak wretch, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits\nand solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colours; and under\npretence of gaining information concerning the necessities of my\nestablishment, I desired Mrs. Dean, when she brought in supper, to sit\ndown while I ate it; hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip,\nand either rouse me to animation or lull me to sleep by her talk.\n\n You have lived here a considerable time,  I commenced;  did you not\nsay sixteen years? \n\n Eighteen, sir: I came when the mistress was married, to wait on her;\nafter she died, the master retained me for his housekeeper. \n\n Indeed. \n\nThere ensued a pause. She was not a gossip, I feared; unless about her\nown affairs, and those could hardly interest me. However, having\nstudied for an interval, with a fist on either knee, and a cloud of\nmeditation over her ruddy countenance, she ejaculated Ah, times are\ngreatly changed since then! \n\n Yes,  I remarked,  you ve seen a good many alterations, I suppose? \n\n I have: and troubles too,  she said.\n\n Oh, I ll turn the talk on my landlord s family!  I thought to myself.\n A good subject to start! And that pretty girl-widow, I should like to\nknow her history: whether she be a native of the country, or, as is\nmore probable, an exotic that the surly _indigenae_ will not recognise\nfor kin.  With this intention I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff let\nThrushcross Grange, and preferred living in a situation and residence\nso much inferior.  Is he not rich enough to keep the estate in good\norder?  I inquired.\n\n Rich, sir!  she returned.  He has nobody knows what money, and every\nyear it increases. Yes, yes, he s rich enough to live in a finer house\nthan this: but he s very near close-handed; and, if he had meant to\nflit to Thrushcross Grange, as soon as he heard of a good tenant he\ncould not have borne to miss the chance of getting a few hundreds more.\nIt is strange people should be so greedy, when they are alone in the\nworld! \n\n He had a son, it seems? \n\n Yes, he had one he is dead. \n\n And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow? \n\n Yes. \n\n Where did she come from originally? \n\n Why, sir, she is my late master s daughter: Catherine Linton was her\nmaiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I did wish Mr. Heathcliff would\nremove here, and then we might have been together again. \n\n What! Catherine Linton?  I exclaimed, astonished. But a minute s\nreflection convinced me it was not my ghostly Catherine.  Then,  I\ncontinued,  my predecessor s name was Linton? \n\n It was. \n\n And who is that Earnshaw: Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr.\nHeathcliff? Are they relations? \n\n No; he is the late Mrs. Linton s nephew. \n\n The young lady s cousin, then? \n\n Yes; and her husband was her cousin also: one on the mother s, the\nother on the father s side: Heathcliff married Mr. Linton s sister. \n\n I see the house at Wuthering Heights has  Earnshaw  carved over the\nfront door. Are they an old family? \n\n Very old, sir; and Hareton is the last of them, as our Miss Cathy is\nof us I mean, of the Lintons. Have you been to Wuthering Heights? I beg\npardon for asking; but I should like to hear how she is! \n\n Mrs. Heathcliff? she looked very well, and very handsome; yet, I\nthink, not very happy. \n\n Oh dear, I don t wonder! And how did you like the master? \n\n A rough fellow, rather, Mrs. Dean. Is not that his character? \n\n Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone! The less you meddle with\nhim the better. \n\n He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him such a churl.\nDo you know anything of his history? \n\n It s a cuckoo s, sir I know all about it: except where he was born,\nand who were his parents, and how he got his money at first. And\nHareton has been cast out like an unfledged dunnock! The unfortunate\nlad is the only one in all this parish that does not guess how he has\nbeen cheated. \n\n Well, Mrs. Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me something of\nmy neighbours: I feel I shall not rest if I go to bed; so be good\nenough to sit and chat an hour. \n\n Oh, certainly, sir! I ll just fetch a little sewing, and then I ll sit\nas long as you please. But you ve caught cold: I saw you shivering, and\nyou must have some gruel to drive it out. \n\nThe worthy woman bustled off, and I crouched nearer the fire; my head\nfelt hot, and the rest of me chill: moreover, I was excited, almost to\na pitch of foolishness, through my nerves and brain. This caused me to\nfeel, not uncomfortable, but rather fearful (as I am still) of serious\neffects from the incidents of to-day and yesterday. She returned\npresently, bringing a smoking basin and a basket of work; and, having\nplaced the former on the hob, drew in her seat, evidently pleased to\nfind me so companionable.\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nBefore I came to live here, she commenced waiting no farther invitation\nto her story I was almost always at Wuthering Heights; because my\nmother had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that was Hareton s father, and\nI got used to playing with the children: I ran errands too, and helped\nto make hay, and hung about the farm ready for anything that anybody\nwould set me to. One fine summer morning it was the beginning of\nharvest, I remember Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came downstairs,\ndressed for a journey; and, after he had told Joseph what was to be\ndone during the day, he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me for I sat\neating my porridge with them and he said, speaking to his son,  Now, my\nbonny man, I m going to Liverpool to-day, what shall I bring you? You\nmay choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there\nand back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!  Hindley named a\nfiddle, and then he asked Miss Cathy; she was hardly six years old, but\nshe could ride any horse in the stable, and she chose a whip. He did\nnot forget me; for he had a kind heart, though he was rather severe\nsometimes. He promised to bring me a pocketful of apples and pears, and\nthen he kissed his children, said good-bye, and set off.\n\nIt seemed a long while to us all the three days of his absence and\noften did little Cathy ask when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw\nexpected him by supper-time on the third evening, and she put the meal\noff hour after hour; there were no signs of his coming, however, and at\nlast the children got tired of running down to the gate to look. Then\nit grew dark; she would have had them to bed, but they begged sadly to\nbe allowed to stay up; and, just about eleven o clock, the door-latch\nwas raised quietly, and in stepped the master. He threw himself into a\nchair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was\nnearly killed he would not have such another walk for the three\nkingdoms.\n\n And at the end of it to be flighted to death!  he said, opening his\ngreat-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms.  See here, wife! I\nwas never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must e en take it\nas a gift of God; though it s as dark almost as if it came from the\ndevil. \n\nWe crowded round, and over Miss Cathy s head I had a peep at a dirty,\nragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed,\nits face looked older than Catherine s; yet when it was set on its\nfeet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some\ngibberish that nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs.\nEarnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how\nhe could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had\ntheir own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and\nwhether he were mad? The master tried to explain the matter; but he was\nreally half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst\nher scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and\nas good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and\ninquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said;\nand his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take\nit home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he\nwas determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the\nconclusion was, that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr.\nEarnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep\nwith the children.\n\nHindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till\npeace was restored: then, both began searching their father s pockets\nfor the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of\nfourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to\nmorsels in the great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she\nlearned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger,\nshowed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing;\nearning for her pains a sound blow from her father, to teach her\ncleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or\neven in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing\nof the stairs, hoping it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or\nelse attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw s door,\nand there he found it on quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as\nto how it got there; I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my\ncowardice and inhumanity was sent out of the house.\n\nThis was Heathcliff s first introduction to the family. On coming back\na few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual),\nI found they had christened him  Heathcliff : it was the name of a son\nwho died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for\nChristian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but\nHindley hated him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued\nand went on with him shamefully: for I wasn t reasonable enough to feel\nmy injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when\nshe saw him wronged.\n\nHe seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment:\nhe would stand Hindley s blows without winking or shedding a tear, and\nmy pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if\nhe had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This\nendurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son\npersecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to\nHeathcliff strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said\nprecious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above\nCathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.\n\nSo, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at\nMrs. Earnshaw s death, which happened in less than two years after, the\nyoung master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather\nthan a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent s affections\nand his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these\ninjuries. I sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the\nmeasles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at\nonce, I changed my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he\nlay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose\nhe felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn t wit to guess that I\nwas compelled to do it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest\nchild that ever nurse watched over. The difference between him and the\nothers forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me\nterribly: _he_ was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not\ngentleness, made him give little trouble.\n\nHe got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure owing\nto me, and praised me for my care. I was vain of his commendations, and\nsoftened towards the being by whose means I earned them, and thus\nHindley lost his last ally: still I couldn t dote on Heathcliff, and I\nwondered often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy;\nwho never, to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of\ngratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply\ninsensible; though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and\nconscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to\nbend to his wishes. As an instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw once bought\na couple of colts at the parish fair, and gave the lads each one.\nHeathcliff took the handsomest, but it soon fell lame, and when he\ndiscovered it, he said to Hindley \n\n You must exchange horses with me: I don t like mine; and if you won t\nI shall tell your father of the three thrashings you ve given me this\nweek, and show him my arm, which is black to the shoulder.  Hindley put\nout his tongue, and cuffed him over the ears.  You d better do it at\nonce,  he persisted, escaping to the porch (they were in the stable):\n you will have to: and if I speak of these blows, you ll get them again\nwith interest.   Off, dog!  cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron\nweight used for weighing potatoes and hay.  Throw it,  he replied,\nstanding still,  and then I ll tell how you boasted that you would turn\nme out of doors as soon as he died, and see whether he will not turn\nyou out directly.  Hindley threw it, hitting him on the breast, and\ndown he fell, but staggered up immediately, breathless and white; and,\nhad not I prevented it, he would have gone just so to the master, and\ngot full revenge by letting his condition plead for him, intimating who\nhad caused it.  Take my colt, Gipsy, then!  said young Earnshaw.  And I\npray that he may break your neck: take him, and be damned, you beggarly\ninterloper! and wheedle my father out of all he has: only afterwards\nshow him what you are, imp of Satan. And take that, I hope he ll kick\nout your brains! \n\nHeathcliff had gone to loose the beast, and shift it to his own stall;\nhe was passing behind it, when Hindley finished his speech by knocking\nhim under its feet, and without stopping to examine whether his hopes\nwere fulfilled, ran away as fast as he could. I was surprised to\nwitness how coolly the child gathered himself up, and went on with his\nintention; exchanging saddles and all, and then sitting down on a\nbundle of hay to overcome the qualm which the violent blow occasioned,\nbefore he entered the house. I persuaded him easily to let me lay the\nblame of his bruises on the horse: he minded little what tale was told\nsince he had what he wanted. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such\nstirs as these, that I really thought him not vindictive: I was\ndeceived completely, as you will hear.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nIn the course of time Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active\nand healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and when he was\nconfined to the chimney-corner he grew grievously irritable. A nothing\nvexed him; and suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into\nfits. This was especially to be remarked if any one attempted to impose\nupon, or domineer over, his favourite: he was painfully jealous lest a\nword should be spoken amiss to him; seeming to have got into his head\nthe notion that, because he liked Heathcliff, all hated, and longed to\ndo him an ill-turn. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder\namong us did not wish to fret the master, so we humoured his\npartiality; and that humouring was rich nourishment to the child s\npride and black tempers. Still it became in a manner necessary; twice,\nor thrice, Hindley s manifestation of scorn, while his father was near,\nroused the old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and\nshook with rage that he could not do it.\n\nAt last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living answer by\nteaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming his bit of land\nhimself) advised that the young man should be sent to college; and Mr.\nEarnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said Hindley was\nnought, and would never thrive as where he wandered. \n\nI hoped heartily we should have peace now. It hurt me to think the\nmaster should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed. I fancied the\ndiscontent of age and disease arose from his family disagreements; as\nhe would have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it was in his\nsinking frame. We might have got on tolerably, notwithstanding, but for\ntwo people Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant: you saw him, I daresay,\nup yonder. He was, and is yet most likely, the wearisomest\nself-righteous Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the\npromises to himself and fling the curses to his neighbours. By his\nknack of sermonising and pious discoursing, he contrived to make a\ngreat impression on Mr. Earnshaw; and the more feeble the master\nbecame, the more influence he gained. He was relentless in worrying him\nabout his soul s concerns, and about ruling his children rigidly. He\nencouraged him to regard Hindley as a reprobate; and, night after\nnight, he regularly grumbled out a long string of tales against\nHeathcliff and Catherine: always minding to flatter Earnshaw s weakness\nby heaping the heaviest blame on the latter.\n\nCertainly she had ways with her such as I never saw a child take up\nbefore; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener\nin a day: from the hour she came downstairs till the hour she went to\nbed, we had not a minute s security that she wouldn t be in mischief.\nHer spirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always\ngoing singing, laughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the\nsame. A wild, wicked slip she was but she had the bonniest eye, the\nsweetest smile, and lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I\nbelieve she meant no harm; for when once she made you cry in good\nearnest, it seldom happened that she would not keep you company, and\noblige you to be quiet that you might comfort her. She was much too\nfond of Heathcliff. The greatest punishment we could invent for her was\nto keep her separate from him: yet she got chided more than any of us\non his account. In play, she liked exceedingly to act the little\nmistress; using her hands freely, and commanding her companions: she\ndid so to me, but I would not bear slapping and ordering; and so I let\nher know.\n\nNow, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: he had\nalways been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on her part, had\nno idea why her father should be crosser and less patient in his ailing\ncondition than he was in his prime. His peevish reproofs wakened in her\na naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we\nwere all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy\nlook, and her ready words; turning Joseph s religious curses into\nridicule, baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most showing\nhow her pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over\nHeathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do _her_ bidding in\nanything, and _his_ only when it suited his own inclination. After\nbehaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to\nmake it up at night.  Nay, Cathy,  the old man would say,  I cannot\nlove thee, thou rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child,\nand ask God s pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever\nreared thee!  That made her cry, at first; and then being repulsed\ncontinually hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was\nsorry for her faults, and beg to be forgiven.\n\nBut the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earnshaw s troubles on\nearth. He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the\nfire-side. A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the\nchimney: it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, and we were\nall together I, a little removed from the hearth, busy at my knitting,\nand Joseph reading his Bible near the table (for the servants generally\nsat in the house then, after their work was done). Miss Cathy had been\nsick, and that made her still; she leant against her father s knee, and\nHeathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. I remember\nthe master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair it\npleased him rarely to see her gentle and saying,  Why canst thou not\nalways be a good lass, Cathy?  And she turned her face up to his, and\nlaughed, and answered,  Why cannot you always be a good man, father? \nBut as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said\nshe would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till his\nfingers dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. Then I told\nher to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. We all kept as\nmute as mice a full half-hour, and should have done so longer, only\nJoseph, having finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse\nthe master for prayers and bed. He stepped forward, and called him by\nname, and touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the\ncandle and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set\ndown the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them\nto  frame upstairs, and make little din they might pray alone that\nevening he had summut to do. \n\n I shall bid father good-night first,  said Catherine, putting her arms\nround his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing discovered\nher loss directly she screamed out Oh, he s dead, Heathcliff! he s\ndead!  And they both set up a heart-breaking cry.\n\nI joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we\ncould be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven. He\ntold me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the\nparson. I could not guess the use that either would be of, then.\nHowever, I went, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor,\nback with me; the other said he would come in the morning. Leaving\nJoseph to explain matters, I ran to the children s room: their door was\najar, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but\nthey were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls\nwere comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit\non: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they\ndid, in their innocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could\nnot help wishing we were all there safe together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nMr. Hindley came home to the funeral; and a thing that amazed us, and\nset the neighbours gossiping right and left he brought a wife with him.\nWhat she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably,\nshe had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely\nhave kept the union from his father.\n\nShe was not one that would have disturbed the house much on her own\naccount. Every object she saw, the moment she crossed the threshold,\nappeared to delight her; and every circumstance that took place about\nher: except the preparing for the burial, and the presence of the\nmourners. I thought she was half silly, from her behaviour while that\nwent on: she ran into her chamber, and made me come with her, though I\nshould have been dressing the children: and there she sat shivering and\nclasping her hands, and asking repeatedly Are they gone yet?  Then she\nbegan describing with hysterical emotion the effect it produced on her\nto see black; and started, and trembled, and, at last, fell\na-weeping and when I asked what was the matter, answered, she didn t\nknow; but she felt so afraid of dying! I imagined her as little likely\nto die as myself. She was rather thin, but young, and\nfresh-complexioned, and her eyes sparkled as bright as diamonds. I did\nremark, to be sure, that mounting the stairs made her breathe very\nquick; that the least sudden noise set her all in a quiver, and that\nshe coughed troublesomely sometimes: but I knew nothing of what these\nsymptoms portended, and had no impulse to sympathise with her. We don t\nin general take to foreigners here, Mr. Lockwood, unless they take to\nus first.\n\nYoung Earnshaw was altered considerably in the three years of his\nabsence. He had grown sparer, and lost his colour, and spoke and\ndressed quite differently; and, on the very day of his return, he told\nJoseph and me we must thenceforth quarter ourselves in the\nback-kitchen, and leave the house for him. Indeed, he would have\ncarpeted and papered a small spare room for a parlour; but his wife\nexpressed such pleasure at the white floor and huge glowing fireplace,\nat the pewter dishes and delf-case, and dog-kennel, and the wide space\nthere was to move about in where they usually sat, that he thought it\nunnecessary to her comfort, and so dropped the intention.\n\nShe expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new\nacquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran\nabout with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning.\nHer affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish,\nHindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to\nHeathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy.\nHe drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the\ninstructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of\ndoors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the\nfarm.\n\nHeathcliff bore his degradation pretty well at first, because Cathy\ntaught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the\nfields. They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages; the\nyoung master being entirely negligent how they behaved, and what they\ndid, so they kept clear of him. He would not even have seen after their\ngoing to church on Sundays, only Joseph and the curate reprimanded his\ncarelessness when they absented themselves; and that reminded him to\norder Heathcliff a flogging, and Catherine a fast from dinner or\nsupper. But it was one of their chief amusements to run away to the\nmoors in the morning and remain there all day, and the after punishment\ngrew a mere thing to laugh at. The curate might set as many chapters as\nhe pleased for Catherine to get by heart, and Joseph might thrash\nHeathcliff till his arm ached; they forgot everything the minute they\nwere together again: at least the minute they had contrived some\nnaughty plan of revenge; and many a time I ve cried to myself to watch\nthem growing more reckless daily, and I not daring to speak a syllable,\nfor fear of losing the small power I still retained over the unfriended\ncreatures. One Sunday evening, it chanced that they were banished from\nthe sitting-room, for making a noise, or a light offence of the kind;\nand when I went to call them to supper, I could discover them nowhere.\nWe searched the house, above and below, and the yard and stables; they\nwere invisible: and, at last, Hindley in a passion told us to bolt the\ndoors, and swore nobody should let them in that night. The household\nwent to bed; and I, too anxious to lie down, opened my lattice and put\nmy head out to hearken, though it rained: determined to admit them in\nspite of the prohibition, should they return. In a while, I\ndistinguished steps coming up the road, and the light of a lantern\nglimmered through the gate. I threw a shawl over my head and ran to\nprevent them from waking Mr. Earnshaw by knocking. There was\nHeathcliff, by himself: it gave me a start to see him alone.\n\n Where is Miss Catherine?  I cried hurriedly.  No accident, I hope? \n At Thrushcross Grange,  he answered;  and I would have been there too,\nbut they had not the manners to ask me to stay.   Well, you will catch\nit!  I said:  you ll never be content till you re sent about your\nbusiness. What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange? \n Let me get off my wet clothes, and I ll tell you all about it, Nelly, \nhe replied. I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he\nundressed and I waited to put out the candle, he continued Cathy and I\nescaped from the wash-house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a\nglimpse of the Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see\nwhether the Lintons passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in\ncorners, while their father and mother sat eating and drinking, and\nsinging and laughing, and burning their eyes out before the fire. Do\nyou think they do? Or reading sermons, and being catechised by their\nman-servant, and set to learn a column of Scripture names, if they\ndon t answer properly?   Probably not,  I responded.  They are good\nchildren, no doubt, and don t deserve the treatment you receive, for\nyour bad conduct.   Don t cant, Nelly,  he said:  nonsense! We ran from\nthe top of the Heights to the park, without stopping Catherine\ncompletely beaten in the race, because she was barefoot. You ll have to\nseek for her shoes in the bog to-morrow. We crept through a broken\nhedge, groped our way up the path, and planted ourselves on a\nflower-plot under the drawing-room window. The light came from thence;\nthey had not put up the shutters, and the curtains were only half\nclosed. Both of us were able to look in by standing on the basement,\nand clinging to the ledge, and we saw ah! it was beautiful a splendid\nplace carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and\na pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging\nin silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft\ntapers. Old Mr. and Mrs. Linton were not there; Edgar and his sister\nhad it entirely to themselves. Shouldn t they have been happy? We\nshould have thought ourselves in heaven! And now, guess what your good\nchildren were doing? Isabella I believe she is eleven, a year younger\nthan Cathy lay screaming at the farther end of the room, shrieking as\nif witches were running red-hot needles into her. Edgar stood on the\nhearth weeping silently, and in the middle of the table sat a little\ndog, shaking its paw and yelping; which, from their mutual accusations,\nwe understood they had nearly pulled in two between them. The idiots!\nThat was their pleasure! to quarrel who should hold a heap of warm\nhair, and each begin to cry because both, after struggling to get it,\nrefused to take it. We laughed outright at the petted things; we did\ndespise them! When would you catch me wishing to have what Catherine\nwanted? or find us by ourselves, seeking entertainment in yelling, and\nsobbing, and rolling on the ground, divided by the whole room? I d not\nexchange, for a thousand lives, my condition here, for Edgar Linton s\nat Thrushcross Grange not if I might have the privilege of flinging\nJoseph off the highest gable, and painting the house-front with\nHindley s blood! \n\n Hush, hush!  I interrupted.  Still you have not told me, Heathcliff,\nhow Catherine is left behind? \n\n I told you we laughed,  he answered.  The Lintons heard us, and with\none accord they shot like arrows to the door; there was silence, and\nthen a cry,  Oh, mamma, mamma! Oh, papa! Oh, mamma, come here. Oh,\npapa, oh!  They really did howl out something in that way. We made\nfrightful noises to terrify them still more, and then we dropped off\nthe ledge, because somebody was drawing the bars, and we felt we had\nbetter flee. I had Cathy by the hand, and was urging her on, when all\nat once she fell down.  Run, Heathcliff, run!  she whispered.  They\nhave let the bull-dog loose, and he holds me!  The devil had seized her\nankle, Nelly: I heard his abominable snorting. She did not yell out no!\nshe would have scorned to do it, if she had been spitted on the horns\nof a mad cow. I did, though: I vociferated curses enough to annihilate\nany fiend in Christendom; and I got a stone and thrust it between his\njaws, and tried with all my might to cram it down his throat. A beast\nof a servant came up with a lantern, at last, shouting Keep fast,\nSkulker, keep fast!  He changed his note, however, when he saw\nSkulker s game. The dog was throttled off; his huge, purple tongue\nhanging half a foot out of his mouth, and his pendent lips streaming\nwith bloody slaver. The man took Cathy up; she was sick: not from fear,\nI m certain, but from pain. He carried her in; I followed, grumbling\nexecrations and vengeance.  What prey, Robert?  hallooed Linton from\nthe entrance.  Skulker has caught a little girl, sir,  he replied;  and\nthere s a lad here,  he added, making a clutch at me,  who looks an\nout-and-outer! Very like the robbers were for putting them through the\nwindow to open the doors to the gang after all were asleep, that they\nmight murder us at their ease. Hold your tongue, you foul-mouthed\nthief, you! you shall go to the gallows for this. Mr. Linton, sir,\ndon t lay by your gun.   No, no, Robert,  said the old fool.  The\nrascals knew that yesterday was my rent-day: they thought to have me\ncleverly. Come in; I ll furnish them a reception. There, John, fasten\nthe chain. Give Skulker some water, Jenny. To beard a magistrate in his\nstronghold, and on the Sabbath, too! Where will their insolence stop?\nOh, my dear Mary, look here! Don t be afraid, it is but a boy yet the\nvillain scowls so plainly in his face; would it not be a kindness to\nthe country to hang him at once, before he shows his nature in acts as\nwell as features?  He pulled me under the chandelier, and Mrs. Linton\nplaced her spectacles on her nose and raised her hands in horror. The\ncowardly children crept nearer also, Isabella lisping Frightful thing!\nPut him in the cellar, papa. He s exactly like the son of the\nfortune-teller that stole my tame pheasant. Isn t he, Edgar? \n\n While they examined me, Cathy came round; she heard the last speech,\nand laughed. Edgar Linton, after an inquisitive stare, collected\nsufficient wit to recognise her. They see us at church, you know,\nthough we seldom meet them elsewhere.  That s Miss Earnshaw!  he\nwhispered to his mother,  and look how Skulker has bitten her how her\nfoot bleeds! \n\n Miss Earnshaw? Nonsense!  cried the dame;  Miss Earnshaw scouring the\ncountry with a gipsy! And yet, my dear, the child is in mourning surely\nit is and she may be lamed for life! \n\n What culpable carelessness in her brother!  exclaimed Mr. Linton,\nturning from me to Catherine.  I ve understood from Shielders  (that\nwas the curate, sir)  that he lets her grow up in absolute heathenism.\nBut who is this? Where did she pick up this companion? Oho! I declare\nhe is that strange acquisition my late neighbour made, in his journey\nto Liverpool a little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway. \n\n A wicked boy, at all events,  remarked the old lady,  and quite unfit\nfor a decent house! Did you notice his language, Linton? I m shocked\nthat my children should have heard it. \n\n I recommenced cursing don t be angry, Nelly and so Robert was ordered\nto take me off. I refused to go without Cathy; he dragged me into the\ngarden, pushed the lantern into my hand, assured me that Mr. Earnshaw\nshould be informed of my behaviour, and, bidding me march directly,\nsecured the door again. The curtains were still looped up at one\ncorner, and I resumed my station as spy; because, if Catherine had\nwished to return, I intended shattering their great glass panes to a\nmillion of fragments, unless they let her out. She sat on the sofa\nquietly. Mrs. Linton took off the grey cloak of the dairy-maid which we\nhad borrowed for our excursion, shaking her head and expostulating with\nher, I suppose: she was a young lady, and they made a distinction\nbetween her treatment and mine. Then the woman-servant brought a basin\nof warm water, and washed her feet; and Mr. Linton mixed a tumbler of\nnegus, and Isabella emptied a plateful of cakes into her lap, and Edgar\nstood gaping at a distance. Afterwards, they dried and combed her\nbeautiful hair, and gave her a pair of enormous slippers, and wheeled\nher to the fire; and I left her, as merry as she could be, dividing her\nfood between the little dog and Skulker, whose nose she pinched as he\nate; and kindling a spark of spirit in the vacant blue eyes of the\nLintons a dim reflection from her own enchanting face. I saw they were\nfull of stupid admiration; she is so immeasurably superior to them to\neverybody on earth, is she not, Nelly? \n\n There will more come of this business than you reckon on,  I answered,\ncovering him up and extinguishing the light.  You are incurable,\nHeathcliff; and Mr. Hindley will have to proceed to extremities, see if\nhe won t.  My words came truer than I desired. The luckless adventure\nmade Earnshaw furious. And then Mr. Linton, to mend matters, paid us a\nvisit himself on the morrow, and read the young master such a lecture\non the road he guided his family, that he was stirred to look about\nhim, in earnest. Heathcliff received no flogging, but he was told that\nthe first word he spoke to Miss Catherine should ensure a dismissal;\nand Mrs. Earnshaw undertook to keep her sister-in-law in due restraint\nwhen she returned home; employing art, not force: with force she would\nhave found it impossible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nCathy stayed at Thrushcross Grange five weeks: till Christmas. By that\ntime her ankle was thoroughly cured, and her manners much improved. The\nmistress visited her often in the interval, and commenced her plan of\nreform by trying to raise her self-respect with fine clothes and\nflattery, which she took readily; so that, instead of a wild, hatless\nlittle savage jumping into the house, and rushing to squeeze us all\nbreathless, there lighted from a handsome black pony a very dignified\nperson, with brown ringlets falling from the cover of a feathered\nbeaver, and a long cloth habit, which she was obliged to hold up with\nboth hands that she might sail in. Hindley lifted her from her horse,\nexclaiming delightedly,  Why, Cathy, you are quite a beauty! I should\nscarcely have known you: you look like a lady now. Isabella Linton is\nnot to be compared with her, is she, Frances?   Isabella has not her\nnatural advantages,  replied his wife:  but she must mind and not grow\nwild again here. Ellen, help Miss Catherine off with her things Stay,\ndear, you will disarrange your curls let me untie your hat. \n\nI removed the habit, and there shone forth beneath a grand plaid silk\nfrock, white trousers, and burnished shoes; and, while her eyes\nsparkled joyfully when the dogs came bounding up to welcome her, she\ndared hardly touch them lest they should fawn upon her splendid\ngarments. She kissed me gently: I was all flour making the Christmas\ncake, and it would not have done to give me a hug; and then she looked\nround for Heathcliff. Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw watched anxiously their\nmeeting; thinking it would enable them to judge, in some measure, what\ngrounds they had for hoping to succeed in separating the two friends.\n\nHeathcliff was hard to discover, at first. If he were careless, and\nuncared for, before Catherine s absence, he had been ten times more so\nsince. Nobody but I even did him the kindness to call him a dirty boy,\nand bid him wash himself, once a week; and children of his age seldom\nhave a natural pleasure in soap and water. Therefore, not to mention\nhis clothes, which had seen three months  service in mire and dust, and\nhis thick uncombed hair, the surface of his face and hands was dismally\nbeclouded. He might well skulk behind the settle, on beholding such a\nbright, graceful damsel enter the house, instead of a rough-headed\ncounterpart of himself, as he expected.  Is Heathcliff not here?  she\ndemanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonderfully\nwhitened with doing nothing and staying indoors.\n\n Heathcliff, you may come forward,  cried Mr. Hindley, enjoying his\ndiscomfiture, and gratified to see what a forbidding young blackguard\nhe would be compelled to present himself.  You may come and wish Miss\nCatherine welcome, like the other servants. \n\nCathy, catching a glimpse of her friend in his concealment, flew to\nembrace him; she bestowed seven or eight kisses on his cheek within the\nsecond, and then stopped, and drawing back, burst into a laugh,\nexclaiming,  Why, how very black and cross you look! and how how funny\nand grim! But that s because I m used to Edgar and Isabella Linton.\nWell, Heathcliff, have you forgotten me? \n\nShe had some reason to put the question, for shame and pride threw\ndouble gloom over his countenance, and kept him immovable.\n\n Shake hands, Heathcliff,  said Mr. Earnshaw, condescendingly;  once in\na way, that is permitted. \n\n I shall not,  replied the boy, finding his tongue at last;  I shall\nnot stand to be laughed at. I shall not bear it! \n\nAnd he would have broken from the circle, but Miss Cathy seized him\nagain.\n\n I did not mean to laugh at you,  she said;  I could not hinder myself:\nHeathcliff, shake hands at least! What are you sulky for? It was only\nthat you looked odd. If you wash your face and brush your hair, it will\nbe all right: but you are so dirty! \n\nShe gazed concernedly at the dusky fingers she held in her own, and\nalso at her dress; which she feared had gained no embellishment from\nits contact with his.\n\n You needn t have touched me!  he answered, following her eye and\nsnatching away his hand.  I shall be as dirty as I please: and I like\nto be dirty, and I will be dirty. \n\nWith that he dashed headforemost out of the room, amid the merriment of\nthe master and mistress, and to the serious disturbance of Catherine;\nwho could not comprehend how her remarks should have produced such an\nexhibition of bad temper.\n\nAfter playing lady s-maid to the new-comer, and putting my cakes in the\noven, and making the house and kitchen cheerful with great fires,\nbefitting Christmas-eve, I prepared to sit down and amuse myself by\nsinging carols, all alone; regardless of Joseph s affirmations that he\nconsidered the merry tunes I chose as next door to songs. He had\nretired to private prayer in his chamber, and Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw\nwere engaging Missy s attention by sundry gay trifles bought for her to\npresent to the little Lintons, as an acknowledgment of their kindness.\nThey had invited them to spend the morrow at Wuthering Heights, and the\ninvitation had been accepted, on one condition: Mrs. Linton begged that\nher darlings might be kept carefully apart from that  naughty swearing\nboy. \n\nUnder these circumstances I remained solitary. I smelt the rich scent\nof the heating spices; and admired the shining kitchen utensils, the\npolished clock, decked in holly, the silver mugs ranged on a tray ready\nto be filled with mulled ale for supper; and above all, the speckless\npurity of my particular care the scoured and well-swept floor. I gave\ndue inward applause to every object, and then I remembered how old\nEarnshaw used to come in when all was tidied, and call me a cant lass,\nand slip a shilling into my hand as a Christmas-box; and from that I\nwent on to think of his fondness for Heathcliff, and his dread lest he\nshould suffer neglect after death had removed him: and that naturally\nled me to consider the poor lad s situation now, and from singing I\nchanged my mind to crying. It struck me soon, however, there would be\nmore sense in endeavouring to repair some of his wrongs than shedding\ntears over them: I got up and walked into the court to seek him. He was\nnot far; I found him smoothing the glossy coat of the new pony in the\nstable, and feeding the other beasts, according to custom.\n\n Make haste, Heathcliff!  I said,  the kitchen is so comfortable; and\nJoseph is upstairs: make haste, and let me dress you smart before Miss\nCathy comes out, and then you can sit together, with the whole hearth\nto yourselves, and have a long chatter till bedtime. \n\nHe proceeded with his task, and never turned his head towards me.\n\n Come are you coming?  I continued.  There s a little cake for each of\nyou, nearly enough; and you ll need half-an-hour s donning. \n\nI waited five minutes, but getting no answer left him. Catherine supped\nwith her brother and sister-in-law: Joseph and I joined at an\nunsociable meal, seasoned with reproofs on one side and sauciness on\nthe other. His cake and cheese remained on the table all night for the\nfairies. He managed to continue work till nine o clock, and then\nmarched dumb and dour to his chamber. Cathy sat up late, having a world\nof things to order for the reception of her new friends: she came into\nthe kitchen once to speak to her old one; but he was gone, and she only\nstayed to ask what was the matter with him, and then went back. In the\nmorning he rose early; and, as it was a holiday, carried his ill-humour\non to the moors; not re-appearing till the family were departed for\nchurch. Fasting and reflection seemed to have brought him to a better\nspirit. He hung about me for a while, and having screwed up his\ncourage, exclaimed abruptly Nelly, make me decent, I m going to be\ngood. \n\n High time, Heathcliff,  I said;  you _have_ grieved Catherine: she s\nsorry she ever came home, I daresay! It looks as if you envied her,\nbecause she is more thought of than you. \n\nThe notion of _envying_ Catherine was incomprehensible to him, but the\nnotion of grieving her he understood clearly enough.\n\n Did she say she was grieved?  he inquired, looking very serious.\n\n She cried when I told her you were off again this morning. \n\n Well, _I_ cried last night,  he returned,  and I had more reason to\ncry than she. \n\n Yes: you had the reason of going to bed with a proud heart and an\nempty stomach,  said I.  Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.\nBut, if you be ashamed of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind,\nwhen she comes in. You must go up and offer to kiss her, and say you\nknow best what to say; only do it heartily, and not as if you thought\nher converted into a stranger by her grand dress. And now, though I\nhave dinner to get ready, I ll steal time to arrange you so that Edgar\nLinton shall look quite a doll beside you: and that he does. You are\nyounger, and yet, I ll be bound, you are taller and twice as broad\nacross the shoulders; you could knock him down in a twinkling; don t\nyou feel that you could? \n\nHeathcliff s face brightened a moment; then it was overcast afresh, and\nhe sighed.\n\n But, Nelly, if I knocked him down twenty times, that wouldn t make him\nless handsome or me more so. I wish I had light hair and a fair skin,\nand was dressed and behaved as well, and had a chance of being as rich\nas he will be! \n\n And cried for mamma at every turn,  I added,  and trembled if a\ncountry lad heaved his fist against you, and sat at home all day for a\nshower of rain. Oh, Heathcliff, you are showing a poor spirit! Come to\nthe glass, and I ll let you see what you should wish. Do you mark those\ntwo lines between your eyes; and those thick brows, that, instead of\nrising arched, sink in the middle; and that couple of black fiends, so\ndeeply buried, who never open their windows boldly, but lurk glinting\nunder them, like devil s spies? Wish and learn to smooth away the surly\nwrinkles, to raise your lids frankly, and change the fiends to\nconfident, innocent angels, suspecting and doubting nothing, and always\nseeing friends where they are not sure of foes. Don t get the\nexpression of a vicious cur that appears to know the kicks it gets are\nits desert, and yet hates all the world, as well as the kicker, for\nwhat it suffers. \n\n In other words, I must wish for Edgar Linton s great blue eyes and\neven forehead,  he replied.  I do and that won t help me to them. \n\n A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad,  I continued,  if\nyou were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the bonniest into\nsomething worse than ugly. And now that we ve done washing, and\ncombing, and sulking tell me whether you don t think yourself rather\nhandsome? I ll tell you, I do. You re fit for a prince in disguise. Who\nknows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian\nqueen, each of them able to buy up, with one week s income, Wuthering\nHeights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by\nwicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would\nframe high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should\ngive me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little\nfarmer! \n\nSo I chattered on; and Heathcliff gradually lost his frown and began to\nlook quite pleasant, when all at once our conversation was interrupted\nby a rumbling sound moving up the road and entering the court. He ran\nto the window and I to the door, just in time to behold the two Lintons\ndescend from the family carriage, smothered in cloaks and furs, and the\nEarnshaws dismount from their horses: they often rode to church in\nwinter. Catherine took a hand of each of the children, and brought them\ninto the house and set them before the fire, which quickly put colour\ninto their white faces.\n\nI urged my companion to hasten now and show his amiable humour, and he\nwillingly obeyed; but ill luck would have it that, as he opened the\ndoor leading from the kitchen on one side, Hindley opened it on the\nother. They met, and the master, irritated at seeing him clean and\ncheerful, or, perhaps, eager to keep his promise to Mrs. Linton, shoved\nhim back with a sudden thrust, and angrily bade Joseph  keep the fellow\nout of the room send him into the garret till dinner is over. He ll be\ncramming his fingers in the tarts and stealing the fruit, if left alone\nwith them a minute. \n\n Nay, sir,  I could not avoid answering,  he ll touch nothing, not he:\nand I suppose he must have his share of the dainties as well as we. \n\n He shall have his share of my hand, if I catch him downstairs till\ndark,  cried Hindley.  Begone, you vagabond! What! you are attempting\nthe coxcomb, are you? Wait till I get hold of those elegant locks see\nif I won t pull them a bit longer! \n\n They are long enough already,  observed Master Linton, peeping from\nthe doorway;  I wonder they don t make his head ache. It s like a\ncolt s mane over his eyes! \n\nHe ventured this remark without any intention to insult; but\nHeathcliff s violent nature was not prepared to endure the appearance\nof impertinence from one whom he seemed to hate, even then, as a rival.\nHe seized a tureen of hot apple sauce, the first thing that came under\nhis gripe, and dashed it full against the speaker s face and neck; who\ninstantly commenced a lament that brought Isabella and Catherine\nhurrying to the place. Mr. Earnshaw snatched up the culprit directly\nand conveyed him to his chamber; where, doubtless, he administered a\nrough remedy to cool the fit of passion, for he appeared red and\nbreathless. I got the dish-cloth, and rather spitefully scrubbed\nEdgar s nose and mouth, affirming it served him right for meddling. His\nsister began weeping to go home, and Cathy stood by confounded,\nblushing for all.\n\n You should not have spoken to him!  she expostulated with Master\nLinton.  He was in a bad temper, and now you ve spoilt your visit; and\nhe ll be flogged: I hate him to be flogged! I can t eat my dinner. Why\ndid you speak to him, Edgar? \n\n I didn t,  sobbed the youth, escaping from my hands, and finishing the\nremainder of the purification with his cambric pocket-handkerchief.  I\npromised mamma that I wouldn t say one word to him, and I didn t. \n\n Well, don t cry,  replied Catherine, contemptuously;  you re not\nkilled. Don t make more mischief; my brother is coming: be quiet! Hush,\nIsabella! Has anybody hurt _you?_ \n\n There, there, children to your seats!  cried Hindley, bustling in.\n That brute of a lad has warmed me nicely. Next time, Master Edgar,\ntake the law into your own fists it will give you an appetite! \n\nThe little party recovered its equanimity at sight of the fragrant\nfeast. They were hungry after their ride, and easily consoled, since no\nreal harm had befallen them. Mr. Earnshaw carved bountiful platefuls,\nand the mistress made them merry with lively talk. I waited behind her\nchair, and was pained to behold Catherine, with dry eyes and an\nindifferent air, commence cutting up the wing of a goose before her.\n An unfeeling child,  I thought to myself;  how lightly she dismisses\nher old playmate s troubles. I could not have imagined her to be so\nselfish.  She lifted a mouthful to her lips: then she set it down\nagain: her cheeks flushed, and the tears gushed over them. She slipped\nher fork to the floor, and hastily dived under the cloth to conceal her\nemotion. I did not call her unfeeling long; for I perceived she was in\npurgatory throughout the day, and wearying to find an opportunity of\ngetting by herself, or paying a visit to Heathcliff, who had been\nlocked up by the master: as I discovered, on endeavouring to introduce\nto him a private mess of victuals.\n\nIn the evening we had a dance. Cathy begged that he might be liberated\nthen, as Isabella Linton had no partner: her entreaties were vain, and\nI was appointed to supply the deficiency. We got rid of all gloom in\nthe excitement of the exercise, and our pleasure was increased by the\narrival of the Gimmerton band, mustering fifteen strong: a trumpet, a\ntrombone, clarionets, bassoons, French horns, and a bass viol, besides\nsingers. They go the rounds of all the respectable houses, and receive\ncontributions every Christmas, and we esteemed it a first-rate treat to\nhear them. After the usual carols had been sung, we set them to songs\nand glees. Mrs. Earnshaw loved the music, and so they gave us plenty.\n\nCatherine loved it too: but she said it sounded sweetest at the top of\nthe steps, and she went up in the dark: I followed. They shut the house\ndoor below, never noting our absence, it was so full of people. She\nmade no stay at the stairs -head, but mounted farther, to the garret\nwhere Heathcliff was confined, and called him. He stubbornly declined\nanswering for a while: she persevered, and finally persuaded him to\nhold communion with her through the boards. I let the poor things\nconverse unmolested, till I supposed the songs were going to cease, and\nthe singers to get some refreshment: then I clambered up the ladder to\nwarn her. Instead of finding her outside, I heard her voice within. The\nlittle monkey had crept by the skylight of one garret, along the roof,\ninto the skylight of the other, and it was with the utmost difficulty I\ncould coax her out again. When she did come, Heathcliff came with her,\nand she insisted that I should take him into the kitchen, as my\nfellow-servant had gone to a neighbour s, to be removed from the sound\nof our  devil s psalmody,  as it pleased him to call it. I told them I\nintended by no means to encourage their tricks: but as the prisoner had\nnever broken his fast since yesterday s dinner, I would wink at his\ncheating Mr. Hindley that once. He went down: I set him a stool by the\nfire, and offered him a quantity of good things: but he was sick and\ncould eat little, and my attempts to entertain him were thrown away. He\nleant his two elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands, and\nremained rapt in dumb meditation. On my inquiring the subject of his\nthoughts, he answered gravely I m trying to settle how I shall pay\nHindley back. I don t care how long I wait, if I can only do it at\nlast. I hope he will not die before I do! \n\n For shame, Heathcliff!  said I.  It is for God to punish wicked\npeople; we should learn to forgive. \n\n No, God won t have the satisfaction that I shall,  he returned.  I\nonly wish I knew the best way! Let me alone, and I ll plan it out:\nwhile I m thinking of that I don t feel pain. \n\nBut, Mr. Lockwood, I forget these tales cannot divert you. I m annoyed\nhow I should dream of chattering on at such a rate; and your gruel\ncold, and you nodding for bed! I could have told Heathcliff s history,\nall that you need hear, in half a dozen words.\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nThus interrupting herself, the housekeeper rose, and proceeded to lay\naside her sewing; but I felt incapable of moving from the hearth, and I\nwas very far from nodding.  Sit still, Mrs. Dean,  I cried;  do sit\nstill another half-hour. You ve done just right to tell the story\nleisurely. That is the method I like; and you must finish it in the\nsame style. I am interested in every character you have mentioned, more\nor less. \n\n The clock is on the stroke of eleven, sir. \n\n No matter I m not accustomed to go to bed in the long hours. One or\ntwo is early enough for a person who lies till ten. \n\n You shouldn t lie till ten. There s the very prime of the morning gone\nlong before that time. A person who has not done one-half his day s\nwork by ten o clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone. \n\n Nevertheless, Mrs. Dean, resume your chair; because to-morrow I intend\nlengthening the night till afternoon. I prognosticate for myself an\nobstinate cold, at least. \n\n I hope not, sir. Well, you must allow me to leap over some three\nyears; during that space Mrs. Earnshaw \n\n No, no, I ll allow nothing of the sort! Are you acquainted with the\nmood of mind in which, if you were seated alone, and the cat licking\nits kitten on the rug before you, you would watch the operation so\nintently that puss s neglect of one ear would put you seriously out of\ntemper? \n\n A terribly lazy mood, I should say. \n\n On the contrary, a tiresomely active one. It is mine, at present; and,\ntherefore, continue minutely. I perceive that people in these regions\nacquire over people in towns the value that a spider in a dungeon does\nover a spider in a cottage, to their various occupants; and yet the\ndeepened attraction is not entirely owing to the situation of the\nlooker-on. They _do_ live more in earnest, more in themselves, and less\nin surface, change, and frivolous external things. I could fancy a love\nfor life here almost possible; and I was a fixed unbeliever in any love\nof a year s standing. One state resembles setting a hungry man down to\na single dish, on which he may concentrate his entire appetite and do\nit justice; the other, introducing him to a table laid out by French\ncooks: he can perhaps extract as much enjoyment from the whole; but\neach part is a mere atom in his regard and remembrance. \n\n Oh! here we are the same as anywhere else, when you get to know us, \nobserved Mrs. Dean, somewhat puzzled at my speech.\n\n Excuse me,  I responded;  you, my good friend, are a striking evidence\nagainst that assertion. Excepting a few provincialisms of slight\nconsequence, you have no marks of the manners which I am habituated to\nconsider as peculiar to your class. I am sure you have thought a great\ndeal more than the generality of servants think. You have been\ncompelled to cultivate your reflective faculties for want of occasions\nfor frittering your life away in silly trifles. \n\nMrs. Dean laughed.\n\n I certainly esteem myself a steady, reasonable kind of body,  she\nsaid;  not exactly from living among the hills and seeing one set of\nfaces, and one series of actions, from year s end to year s end; but I\nhave undergone sharp discipline, which has taught me wisdom; and then,\nI have read more than you would fancy, Mr. Lockwood. You could not open\na book in this library that I have not looked into, and got something\nout of also: unless it be that range of Greek and Latin, and that of\nFrench; and those I know one from another: it is as much as you can\nexpect of a poor man s daughter. However, if I am to follow my story in\ntrue gossip s fashion, I had better go on; and instead of leaping three\nyears, I will be content to pass to the next summer the summer of 1778,\nthat is nearly twenty-three years ago. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nOn the morning of a fine June day my first bonny little nursling, and\nthe last of the ancient Earnshaw stock, was born. We were busy with the\nhay in a far-away field, when the girl that usually brought our\nbreakfasts came running an hour too soon across the meadow and up the\nlane, calling me as she ran.\n\n Oh, such a grand bairn!  she panted out.  The finest lad that ever\nbreathed! But the doctor says missis must go: he says she s been in a\nconsumption these many months. I heard him tell Mr. Hindley: and now\nshe has nothing to keep her, and she ll be dead before winter. You must\ncome home directly. You re to nurse it, Nelly: to feed it with sugar\nand milk, and take care of it day and night. I wish I were you, because\nit will be all yours when there is no missis! \n\n But is she very ill?  I asked, flinging down my rake and tying my\nbonnet.\n\n I guess she is; yet she looks bravely,  replied the girl,  and she\ntalks as if she thought of living to see it grow a man. She s out of\nher head for joy, it s such a beauty! If I were her I m certain I\nshould not die: I should get better at the bare sight of it, in spite\nof Kenneth. I was fairly mad at him. Dame Archer brought the cherub\ndown to master, in the house, and his face just began to light up, when\nthe old croaker steps forward, and says he Earnshaw, it s a blessing\nyour wife has been spared to leave you this son. When she came, I felt\nconvinced we shouldn t keep her long; and now, I must tell you, the\nwinter will probably finish her. Don t take on, and fret about it too\nmuch: it can t be helped. And besides, you should have known better\nthan to choose such a rush of a lass! \n\n And what did the master answer?  I inquired.\n\n I think he swore: but I didn t mind him, I was straining to see the\nbairn,  and she began again to describe it rapturously. I, as zealous\nas herself, hurried eagerly home to admire, on my part; though I was\nvery sad for Hindley s sake. He had room in his heart only for two\nidols his wife and himself: he doted on both, and adored one, and I\ncouldn t conceive how he would bear the loss.\n\nWhen we got to Wuthering Heights, there he stood at the front door;\nand, as I passed in, I asked,  how was the baby? \n\n Nearly ready to run about, Nell!  he replied, putting on a cheerful\nsmile.\n\n And the mistress?  I ventured to inquire;  the doctor says she s \n\n Damn the doctor!  he interrupted, reddening.  Frances is quite right:\nshe ll be perfectly well by this time next week. Are you going\nupstairs? will you tell her that I ll come, if she ll promise not to\ntalk. I left her because she would not hold her tongue; and she\nmust tell her Mr. Kenneth says she must be quiet. \n\nI delivered this message to Mrs. Earnshaw; she seemed in flighty\nspirits, and replied merrily,  I hardly spoke a word, Ellen, and there\nhe has gone out twice, crying. Well, say I promise I won t speak: but\nthat does not bind me not to laugh at him! \n\nPoor soul! Till within a week of her death that gay heart never failed\nher; and her husband persisted doggedly, nay, furiously, in affirming\nher health improved every day. When Kenneth warned him that his\nmedicines were useless at that stage of the malady, and he needn t put\nhim to further expense by attending her, he retorted,  I know you need\nnot she s well she does not want any more attendance from you! She\nnever was in a consumption. It was a fever; and it is gone: her pulse\nis as slow as mine now, and her cheek as cool. \n\nHe told his wife the same story, and she seemed to believe him; but one\nnight, while leaning on his shoulder, in the act of saying she thought\nshe should be able to get up to-morrow, a fit of coughing took her a\nvery slight one he raised her in his arms; she put her two hands about\nhis neck, her face changed, and she was dead.\n\nAs the girl had anticipated, the child Hareton fell wholly into my\nhands. Mr. Earnshaw, provided he saw him healthy and never heard him\ncry, was contented, as far as regarded him. For himself, he grew\ndesperate: his sorrow was of that kind that will not lament. He neither\nwept nor prayed; he cursed and defied: execrated God and man, and gave\nhimself up to reckless dissipation. The servants could not bear his\ntyrannical and evil conduct long: Joseph and I were the only two that\nwould stay. I had not the heart to leave my charge; and besides, you\nknow, I had been his foster-sister, and excused his behaviour more\nreadily than a stranger would. Joseph remained to hector over tenants\nand labourers; and because it was his vocation to be where he had\nplenty of wickedness to reprove.\n\nThe master s bad ways and bad companions formed a pretty example for\nCatherine and Heathcliff. His treatment of the latter was enough to\nmake a fiend of a saint. And, truly, it appeared as if the lad _were_\npossessed of something diabolical at that period. He delighted to\nwitness Hindley degrading himself past redemption; and became daily\nmore notable for savage sullenness and ferocity. I could not half tell\nwhat an infernal house we had. The curate dropped calling, and nobody\ndecent came near us, at last; unless Edgar Linton s visits to Miss\nCathy might be an exception. At fifteen she was the queen of the\ncountry-side; she had no peer; and she did turn out a haughty,\nheadstrong creature! I own I did not like her, after infancy was past;\nand I vexed her frequently by trying to bring down her arrogance: she\nnever took an aversion to me, though. She had a wondrous constancy to\nold attachments: even Heathcliff kept his hold on her affections\nunalterably; and young Linton, with all his superiority, found it\ndifficult to make an equally deep impression. He was my late master:\nthat is his portrait over the fireplace. It used to hang on one side,\nand his wife s on the other; but hers has been removed, or else you\nmight see something of what she was. Can you make that out?\n\nMrs. Dean raised the candle, and I discerned a soft-featured face,\nexceedingly resembling the young lady at the Heights, but more pensive\nand amiable in expression. It formed a sweet picture. The long light\nhair curled slightly on the temples; the eyes were large and serious;\nthe figure almost too graceful. I did not marvel how Catherine Earnshaw\ncould forget her first friend for such an individual. I marvelled much\nhow he, with a mind to correspond with his person, could fancy my idea\nof Catherine Earnshaw.\n\n A very agreeable portrait,  I observed to the house-keeper.  Is it\nlike? \n\n Yes,  she answered;  but he looked better when he was animated; that\nis his everyday countenance: he wanted spirit in general. \n\nCatherine had kept up her acquaintance with the Lintons since her\nfive-weeks  residence among them; and as she had no temptation to show\nher rough side in their company, and had the sense to be ashamed of\nbeing rude where she experienced such invariable courtesy, she imposed\nunwittingly on the old lady and gentleman by her ingenious cordiality;\ngained the admiration of Isabella, and the heart and soul of her\nbrother: acquisitions that flattered her from the first for she was\nfull of ambition and led her to adopt a double character without\nexactly intending to deceive any one. In the place where she heard\nHeathcliff termed a  vulgar young ruffian,  and  worse than a brute, \nshe took care not to act like him; but at home she had small\ninclination to practise politeness that would only be laughed at, and\nrestrain an unruly nature when it would bring her neither credit nor\npraise.\n\nMr. Edgar seldom mustered courage to visit Wuthering Heights openly. He\nhad a terror of Earnshaw s reputation, and shrunk from encountering\nhim; and yet he was always received with our best attempts at civility:\nthe master himself avoided offending him, knowing why he came; and if\nhe could not be gracious, kept out of the way. I rather think his\nappearance there was distasteful to Catherine; she was not artful,\nnever played the coquette, and had evidently an objection to her two\nfriends meeting at all; for when Heathcliff expressed contempt of\nLinton in his presence, she could not half coincide, as she did in his\nabsence; and when Linton evinced disgust and antipathy to Heathcliff,\nshe dared not treat his sentiments with indifference, as if\ndepreciation of her playmate were of scarcely any consequence to her.\nI ve had many a laugh at her perplexities and untold troubles, which\nshe vainly strove to hide from my mockery. That sounds ill-natured: but\nshe was so proud, it became really impossible to pity her distresses,\ntill she should be chastened into more humility. She did bring herself,\nfinally, to confess, and to confide in me: there was not a soul else\nthat she might fashion into an adviser.\n\nMr. Hindley had gone from home one afternoon, and Heathcliff presumed\nto give himself a holiday on the strength of it. He had reached the age\nof sixteen then, I think, and without having bad features, or being\ndeficient in intellect, he contrived to convey an impression of inward\nand outward repulsiveness that his present aspect retains no traces of.\nIn the first place, he had by that time lost the benefit of his early\neducation: continual hard work, begun soon and concluded late, had\nextinguished any curiosity he once possessed in pursuit of knowledge,\nand any love for books or learning. His childhood s sense of\nsuperiority, instilled into him by the favours of old Mr. Earnshaw, was\nfaded away. He struggled long to keep up an equality with Catherine in\nher studies, and yielded with poignant though silent regret: but he\nyielded completely; and there was no prevailing on him to take a step\nin the way of moving upward, when he found he must, necessarily, sink\nbeneath his former level. Then personal appearance sympathised with\nmental deterioration: he acquired a slouching gait and ignoble look;\nhis naturally reserved disposition was exaggerated into an almost\nidiotic excess of unsociable moroseness; and he took a grim pleasure,\napparently, in exciting the aversion rather than the esteem of his few\nacquaintance.\n\nCatherine and he were constant companions still at his seasons of\nrespite from labour; but he had ceased to express his fondness for her\nin words, and recoiled with angry suspicion from her girlish caresses,\nas if conscious there could be no gratification in lavishing such marks\nof affection on him. On the before-named occasion he came into the\nhouse to announce his intention of doing nothing, while I was assisting\nMiss Cathy to arrange her dress: she had not reckoned on his taking it\ninto his head to be idle; and imagining she would have the whole place\nto herself, she managed, by some means, to inform Mr. Edgar of her\nbrother s absence, and was then preparing to receive him.\n\n Cathy, are you busy this afternoon?  asked Heathcliff.  Are you going\nanywhere? \n\n No, it is raining,  she answered.\n\n Why have you that silk frock on, then?  he said.  Nobody coming here,\nI hope? \n\n Not that I know of,  stammered Miss:  but you should be in the field\nnow, Heathcliff. It is an hour past dinner time; I thought you were\ngone. \n\n Hindley does not often free us from his accursed presence,  observed\nthe boy.  I ll not work any more to-day: I ll stay with you. \n\n Oh, but Joseph will tell,  she suggested;  you d better go! \n\n Joseph is loading lime on the further side of Penistone Crags; it will\ntake him till dark, and he ll never know. \n\nSo saying, he lounged to the fire, and sat down. Catherine reflected\nan instant, with knitted brows she found it needful to smooth the way\nfor an intrusion.  Isabella and Edgar Linton talked of calling this\nafternoon,  she said, at the conclusion of a minute s silence.  As it\nrains, I hardly expect them; but they may come, and if they do, you run\nthe risk of being scolded for no good. \n\n Order Ellen to say you are engaged, Cathy,  he persisted;  don t turn\nme out for those pitiful, silly friends of yours! I m on the point,\nsometimes, of complaining that they but I ll not \n\n That they what?  cried Catherine, gazing at him with a troubled\ncountenance.  Oh, Nelly!  she added petulantly, jerking her head away\nfrom my hands,  you ve combed my hair quite out of curl! That s enough;\nlet me alone. What are you on the point of complaining about,\nHeathcliff? \n\n Nothing only look at the almanack on that wall;  he pointed to a\nframed sheet hanging near the window, and continued,  The crosses are\nfor the evenings you have spent with the Lintons, the dots for those\nspent with me. Do you see? I ve marked every day. \n\n Yes very foolish: as if I took notice!  replied Catherine, in a\npeevish tone.  And where is the sense of that? \n\n To show that I _do_ take notice,  said Heathcliff.\n\n And should I always be sitting with you?  she demanded, growing more\nirritated.  What good do I get? What do you talk about? You might be\ndumb, or a baby, for anything you say to amuse me, or for anything you\ndo, either! \n\n You never told me before that I talked too little, or that you\ndisliked my company, Cathy!  exclaimed Heathcliff, in much agitation.\n\n It s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,  she\nmuttered.\n\nHer companion rose up, but he hadn t time to express his feelings\nfurther, for a horse s feet were heard on the flags, and having knocked\ngently, young Linton entered, his face brilliant with delight at the\nunexpected summons he had received. Doubtless Catherine marked the\ndifference between her friends, as one came in and the other went out.\nThe contrast resembled what you see in exchanging a bleak, hilly, coal\ncountry for a beautiful fertile valley; and his voice and greeting were\nas opposite as his aspect. He had a sweet, low manner of speaking, and\npronounced his words as you do: that s less gruff than we talk here,\nand softer.\n\n I m not come too soon, am I?  he said, casting a look at me: I had\nbegun to wipe the plate, and tidy some drawers at the far end in the\ndresser.\n\n No,  answered Catherine.  What are you doing there, Nelly? \n\n My work, Miss,  I replied. (Mr. Hindley had given me directions to\nmake a third party in any private visits Linton chose to pay.)\n\nShe stepped behind me and whispered crossly,  Take yourself and your\ndusters off; when company are in the house, servants don t commence\nscouring and cleaning in the room where they are! \n\n It s a good opportunity, now that master is away,  I answered aloud:\n he hates me to be fidgeting over these things in his presence. I m\nsure Mr. Edgar will excuse me. \n\n I hate you to be fidgeting in _my_ presence,  exclaimed the young lady\nimperiously, not allowing her guest time to speak: she had failed to\nrecover her equanimity since the little dispute with Heathcliff.\n\n I m sorry for it, Miss Catherine,  was my response; and I proceeded\nassiduously with my occupation.\n\nShe, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my\nhand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the\narm. I ve said I did not love her, and rather relished mortifying her\nvanity now and then: besides, she hurt me extremely; so I started up\nfrom my knees, and screamed out,  Oh, Miss, that s a nasty trick! You\nhave no right to nip me, and I m not going to bear it. \n\n I didn t touch you, you lying creature!  cried she, her fingers\ntingling to repeat the act, and her ears red with rage. She never had\npower to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complexion in a\nblaze.\n\n What s that, then?  I retorted, showing a decided purple witness to\nrefute her.\n\nShe stamped her foot, wavered a moment, and then, irresistibly impelled\nby the naughty spirit within her, slapped me on the cheek: a stinging\nblow that filled both eyes with water.\n\n Catherine, love! Catherine!  interposed Linton, greatly shocked at the\ndouble fault of falsehood and violence which his idol had committed.\n\n Leave the room, Ellen!  she repeated, trembling all over.\n\nLittle Hareton, who followed me everywhere, and was sitting near me on\nthe floor, at seeing my tears commenced crying himself, and sobbed out\ncomplaints against  wicked aunt Cathy,  which drew her fury on to his\nunlucky head: she seized his shoulders, and shook him till the poor\nchild waxed livid, and Edgar thoughtlessly laid hold of her hands to\ndeliver him. In an instant one was wrung free, and the astonished young\nman felt it applied over his own ear in a way that could not be\nmistaken for jest. He drew back in consternation. I lifted Hareton in\nmy arms, and walked off to the kitchen with him, leaving the door of\ncommunication open, for I was curious to watch how they would settle\ntheir disagreement. The insulted visitor moved to the spot where he had\nlaid his hat, pale and with a quivering lip.\n\n That s right!  I said to myself.  Take warning and begone! It s a\nkindness to let you have a glimpse of her genuine disposition. \n\n Where are you going?  demanded Catherine, advancing to the door.\n\nHe swerved aside, and attempted to pass.\n\n You must not go!  she exclaimed, energetically.\n\n I must and shall!  he replied in a subdued voice.\n\n No,  she persisted, grasping the handle;  not yet, Edgar Linton: sit\ndown; you shall not leave me in that temper. I should be miserable all\nnight, and I won t be miserable for you! \n\n Can I stay after you have struck me?  asked Linton.\n\nCatherine was mute.\n\n You ve made me afraid and ashamed of you,  he continued;  I ll not\ncome here again! \n\nHer eyes began to glisten and her lids to twinkle.\n\n And you told a deliberate untruth!  he said.\n\n I didn t!  she cried, recovering her speech;  I did nothing\ndeliberately. Well, go, if you please get away! And now I ll cry I ll\ncry myself sick! \n\nShe dropped down on her knees by a chair, and set to weeping in serious\nearnest. Edgar persevered in his resolution as far as the court; there\nhe lingered. I resolved to encourage him.\n\n Miss is dreadfully wayward, sir,  I called out.  As bad as any marred\nchild: you d better be riding home, or else she will be sick, only to\ngrieve us. \n\nThe soft thing looked askance through the window: he possessed the\npower to depart as much as a cat possesses the power to leave a mouse\nhalf killed, or a bird half eaten. Ah, I thought, there will be no\nsaving him: he s doomed, and flies to his fate! And so it was: he\nturned abruptly, hastened into the house again, shut the door behind\nhim; and when I went in a while after to inform them that Earnshaw had\ncome home rabid drunk, ready to pull the whole place about our ears\n(his ordinary frame of mind in that condition), I saw the quarrel had\nmerely effected a closer intimacy had broken the outworks of youthful\ntimidity, and enabled them to forsake the disguise of friendship, and\nconfess themselves lovers.\n\nIntelligence of Mr. Hindley s arrival drove Linton speedily to his\nhorse, and Catherine to her chamber. I went to hide little Hareton, and\nto take the shot out of the master s fowling-piece, which he was fond\nof playing with in his insane excitement, to the hazard of the lives of\nany who provoked, or even attracted his notice too much; and I had hit\nupon the plan of removing it, that he might do less mischief if he did\ngo the length of firing the gun.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nHe entered, vociferating oaths dreadful to hear; and caught me in the\nact of stowing his son away in the kitchen cupboard. Hareton was\nimpressed with a wholesome terror of encountering either his wild\nbeast s fondness or his madman s rage; for in one he ran a chance of\nbeing squeezed and kissed to death, and in the other of being flung\ninto the fire, or dashed against the wall; and the poor thing remained\nperfectly quiet wherever I chose to put him.\n\n There, I ve found it out at last!  cried Hindley, pulling me back by\nthe skin of my neck, like a dog.  By heaven and hell, you ve sworn\nbetween you to murder that child! I know how it is, now, that he is\nalways out of my way. But, with the help of Satan, I shall make you\nswallow the carving-knife, Nelly! You needn t laugh; for I ve just\ncrammed Kenneth, head-downmost, in the Black-horse marsh; and two is\nthe same as one and I want to kill some of you: I shall have no rest\ntill I do! \n\n But I don t like the carving-knife, Mr. Hindley,  I answered;  it has\nbeen cutting red herrings. I d rather be shot, if you please. \n\n You d rather be damned!  he said;  and so you shall. No law in England\ncan hinder a man from keeping his house decent, and mine s abominable!\nOpen your mouth. \n\nHe held the knife in his hand, and pushed its point between my teeth:\nbut, for my part, I was never much afraid of his vagaries. I spat out,\nand affirmed it tasted detestably I would not take it on any account.\n\n Oh!  said he, releasing me,  I see that hideous little villain is not\nHareton: I beg your pardon, Nell. If it be, he deserves flaying alive\nfor not running to welcome me, and for screaming as if I were a goblin.\nUnnatural cub, come hither! I ll teach thee to impose on a\ngood-hearted, deluded father. Now, don t you think the lad would be\nhandsomer cropped? It makes a dog fiercer, and I love something\nfierce get me a scissors something fierce and trim! Besides, it s\ninfernal affectation devilish conceit it is, to cherish our ears we re\nasses enough without them. Hush, child, hush! Well then, it is my\ndarling! wisht, dry thy eyes there s a joy; kiss me. What! it won t?\nKiss me, Hareton! Damn thee, kiss me! By God, as if I would rear such a\nmonster! As sure as I m living, I ll break the brat s neck. \n\nPoor Hareton was squalling and kicking in his father s arms with all\nhis might, and redoubled his yells when he carried him upstairs and\nlifted him over the banister. I cried out that he would frighten the\nchild into fits, and ran to rescue him. As I reached them, Hindley\nleant forward on the rails to listen to a noise below; almost\nforgetting what he had in his hands.  Who is that?  he asked, hearing\nsome one approaching the stairs -foot. I leant forward also, for the\npurpose of signing to Heathcliff, whose step I recognised, not to come\nfurther; and, at the instant when my eye quitted Hareton, he gave a\nsudden spring, delivered himself from the careless grasp that held him,\nand fell.\n\nThere was scarcely time to experience a thrill of horror before we saw\nthat the little wretch was safe. Heathcliff arrived underneath just at\nthe critical moment; by a natural impulse he arrested his descent, and\nsetting him on his feet, looked up to discover the author of the\naccident. A miser who has parted with a lucky lottery ticket for five\nshillings, and finds next day he has lost in the bargain five thousand\npounds, could not show a blanker countenance than he did on beholding\nthe figure of Mr. Earnshaw above. It expressed, plainer than words\ncould do, the intensest anguish at having made himself the instrument\nof thwarting his own revenge. Had it been dark, I daresay he would have\ntried to remedy the mistake by smashing Hareton s skull on the steps;\nbut, we witnessed his salvation; and I was presently below with my\nprecious charge pressed to my heart. Hindley descended more leisurely,\nsobered and abashed.\n\n It is your fault, Ellen,  he said;  you should have kept him out of\nsight: you should have taken him from me! Is he injured anywhere? \n\n Injured!  I cried angrily;  if he is not killed, he ll be an idiot!\nOh! I wonder his mother does not rise from her grave to see how you use\nhim. You re worse than a heathen treating your own flesh and blood in\nthat manner! \n\nHe attempted to touch the child, who, on finding himself with me,\nsobbed off his terror directly. At the first finger his father laid on\nhim, however, he shrieked again louder than before, and struggled as if\nhe would go into convulsions.\n\n You shall not meddle with him!  I continued.  He hates you they all\nhate you that s the truth! A happy family you have; and a pretty state\nyou re come to! \n\n I shall come to a prettier, yet, Nelly,  laughed the misguided man,\nrecovering his hardness.  At present, convey yourself and him away. And\nhark you, Heathcliff! clear you too quite from my reach and hearing. I\nwouldn t murder you to-night; unless, perhaps, I set the house on fire:\nbut that s as my fancy goes. \n\nWhile saying this he took a pint bottle of brandy from the dresser, and\npoured some into a tumbler.\n\n Nay, don t!  I entreated.  Mr. Hindley, do take warning. Have mercy on\nthis unfortunate boy, if you care nothing for yourself! \n\n Any one will do better for him than I shall,  he answered.\n\n Have mercy on your own soul!  I said, endeavouring to snatch the glass\nfrom his hand.\n\n Not I! On the contrary, I shall have great pleasure in sending it to\nperdition to punish its Maker,  exclaimed the blasphemer.  Here s to\nits hearty damnation! \n\nHe drank the spirits and impatiently bade us go; terminating his\ncommand with a sequel of horrid imprecations too bad to repeat or\nremember.\n\n It s a pity he cannot kill himself with drink,  observed Heathcliff,\nmuttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut.  He s doing\nhis very utmost; but his constitution defies him. Mr. Kenneth says he\nwould wager his mare that he ll outlive any man on this side Gimmerton,\nand go to the grave a hoary sinner; unless some happy chance out of the\ncommon course befall him. \n\nI went into the kitchen, and sat down to lull my little lamb to sleep.\nHeathcliff, as I thought, walked through to the barn. It turned out\nafterwards that he only got as far as the other side the settle, when\nhe flung himself on a bench by the wall, removed from the fire, and\nremained silent.\n\nI was rocking Hareton on my knee, and humming a song that began, \n\nIt was far in the night, and the bairnies grat,\nThe mither beneath the mools heard that,\n\n\nwhen Miss Cathy, who had listened to the hubbub from her room, put her\nhead in, and whispered, Are you alone, Nelly? \n\n Yes, Miss,  I replied.\n\nShe entered and approached the hearth. I, supposing she was going to\nsay something, looked up. The expression of her face seemed disturbed\nand anxious. Her lips were half asunder, as if she meant to speak, and\nshe drew a breath; but it escaped in a sigh instead of a sentence. I\nresumed my song; not having forgotten her recent behaviour.\n\n Where s Heathcliff?  she said, interrupting me.\n\n About his work in the stable,  was my answer.\n\nHe did not contradict me; perhaps he had fallen into a doze. There\nfollowed another long pause, during which I perceived a drop or two\ntrickle from Catherine s cheek to the flags. Is she sorry for her\nshameful conduct? I asked myself. That will be a novelty: but she may\ncome to the point as she will I sha n t help her! No, she felt small\ntrouble regarding any subject, save her own concerns.\n\n Oh, dear!  she cried at last.  I m very unhappy! \n\n A pity,  observed I.  You re hard to please; so many friends and so\nfew cares, and can t make yourself content! \n\n Nelly, will you keep a secret for me?  she pursued, kneeling down by\nme, and lifting her winsome eyes to my face with that sort of look\nwhich turns off bad temper, even when one has all the right in the\nworld to indulge it.\n\n Is it worth keeping?  I inquired, less sulkily.\n\n Yes, and it worries me, and I must let it out! I want to know what I\nshould do. To-day, Edgar Linton has asked me to marry him, and I ve\ngiven him an answer. Now, before I tell you whether it was a consent or\ndenial, you tell me which it ought to have been. \n\n Really, Miss Catherine, how can I know?  I replied.  To be sure,\nconsidering the exhibition you performed in his presence this\nafternoon, I might say it would be wise to refuse him: since he asked\nyou after that, he must either be hopelessly stupid or a venturesome\nfool. \n\n If you talk so, I won t tell you any more,  she returned, peevishly\nrising to her feet.  I accepted him, Nelly. Be quick, and say whether I\nwas wrong! \n\n You accepted him! Then what good is it discussing the matter? You have\npledged your word, and cannot retract. \n\n But say whether I should have done so do!  she exclaimed in an\nirritated tone; chafing her hands together, and frowning.\n\n There are many things to be considered before that question can be\nanswered properly,  I said, sententiously.  First and foremost, do you\nlove Mr. Edgar? \n\n Who can help it? Of course I do,  she answered.\n\nThen I put her through the following catechism: for a girl of\ntwenty-two it was not injudicious.\n\n Why do you love him, Miss Cathy? \n\n Nonsense, I do that s sufficient. \n\n By no means; you must say why? \n\n Well, because he is handsome, and pleasant to be with. \n\n Bad!  was my commentary.\n\n And because he is young and cheerful. \n\n Bad, still. \n\n And because he loves me. \n\n Indifferent, coming there. \n\n And he will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman of the\nneighbourhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband. \n\n Worst of all. And now, say how you love him? \n\n As everybody loves You re silly, Nelly. \n\n Not at all Answer. \n\n I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and\neverything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks,\nand all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now! \n\n And why? \n\n Nay; you are making a jest of it: it is exceedingly ill-natured! It s\nno jest to me!  said the young lady, scowling, and turning her face to\nthe fire.\n\n I m very far from jesting, Miss Catherine,  I replied.  You love Mr.\nEdgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and\nloves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: you would love him\nwithout that, probably; and with it you wouldn t, unless he possessed\nthe four former attractions. \n\n No, to be sure not: I should only pity him hate him, perhaps, if he\nwere ugly, and a clown. \n\n But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world:\nhandsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from\nloving them? \n\n If there be any, they are out of my way: I ve seen none like Edgar. \n\n You may see some; and he won t always be handsome, and young, and may\nnot always be rich. \n\n He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would\nspeak rationally. \n\n Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, marry\nMr. Linton. \n\n I don t want your permission for that I _shall_ marry him: and yet you\nhave not told me whether I m right. \n\n Perfectly right; if people be right to marry only for the present. And\nnow, let us hear what you are unhappy about. Your brother will be\npleased; the old lady and gentleman will not object, I think; you will\nescape from a disorderly, comfortless home into a wealthy, respectable\none; and you love Edgar, and Edgar loves you. All seems smooth and\neasy: where is the obstacle? \n\n _Here_! and _here_!  replied Catherine, striking one hand on her\nforehead, and the other on her breast:  in whichever place the soul\nlives. In my soul and in my heart, I m convinced I m wrong! \n\n That s very strange! I cannot make it out. \n\n It s my secret. But if you will not mock at me, I ll explain it: I\ncan t do it distinctly; but I ll give you a feeling of how I feel. \n\nShe seated herself by me again: her countenance grew sadder and graver,\nand her clasped hands trembled.\n\n Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?  she said, suddenly, after\nsome minutes  reflection.\n\n Yes, now and then,  I answered.\n\n And so do I. I ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me\never after, and changed my ideas: they ve gone through and through me,\nlike wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is\none: I m going to tell it but take care not to smile at any part of\nit. \n\n Oh! don t, Miss Catherine!  I cried.  We re dismal enough without\nconjuring up ghosts and visions to perplex us. Come, come, be merry and\nlike yourself! Look at little Hareton! _he s_ dreaming nothing dreary.\nHow sweetly he smiles in his sleep! \n\n Yes; and how sweetly his father curses in his solitude! You remember\nhim, I daresay, when he was just such another as that chubby thing:\nnearly as young and innocent. However, Nelly, I shall oblige you to\nlisten: it s not long; and I ve no power to be merry to-night. \n\n I won t hear it, I won t hear it!  I repeated, hastily.\n\nI was superstitious about dreams then, and am still; and Catherine had\nan unusual gloom in her aspect, that made me dread something from which\nI might shape a prophecy, and foresee a fearful catastrophe. She was\nvexed, but she did not proceed. Apparently taking up another subject,\nshe recommenced in a short time.\n\n If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable. \n\n Because you are not fit to go there,  I answered.  All sinners would\nbe miserable in heaven. \n\n But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there. \n\n I tell you I won t hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! I ll go to\nbed,  I interrupted again.\n\nShe laughed, and held me down; for I made a motion to leave my chair.\n\n This is nothing,  cried she:  I was only going to say that heaven did\nnot seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back\nto earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the\nmiddle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke\nsobbing for joy. That will do to explain my secret, as well as the\nother. I ve no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in\nheaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so\nlow, I shouldn t have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry\nHeathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not\nbecause he s handsome, Nelly, but because he s more myself than I am.\nWhatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton s\nis as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire. \n\nEre this speech ended I became sensible of Heathcliff s presence.\nHaving noticed a slight movement, I turned my head, and saw him rise\nfrom the bench, and steal out noiselessly. He had listened till he\nheard Catherine say it would degrade her to marry him, and then he\nstayed to hear no further. My companion, sitting on the ground, was\nprevented by the back of the settle from remarking his presence or\ndeparture; but I started, and bade her hush!\n\n Why?  she asked, gazing nervously round.\n\n Joseph is here,  I answered, catching opportunely the roll of his\ncartwheels up the road;  and Heathcliff will come in with him. I m not\nsure whether he were not at the door this moment. \n\n Oh, he couldn t overhear me at the door!  said she.  Give me Hareton,\nwhile you get the supper, and when it is ready ask me to sup with you.\nI want to cheat my uncomfortable conscience, and be convinced that\nHeathcliff has no notion of these things. He has not, has he? He does\nnot know what being in love is! \n\n I see no reason that he should not know, as well as you,  I returned;\n and if _you_ are his choice, he ll be the most unfortunate creature\nthat ever was born! As soon as you become Mrs. Linton, he loses friend,\nand love, and all! Have you considered how you ll bear the separation,\nand how he ll bear to be quite deserted in the world? Because, Miss\nCatherine \n\n He quite deserted! we separated!  she exclaimed, with an accent of\nindignation.  Who is to separate us, pray? They ll meet the fate of\nMilo! Not as long as I live, Ellen: for no mortal creature. Every\nLinton on the face of the earth might melt into nothing before I could\nconsent to forsake Heathcliff. Oh, that s not what I intend that s not\nwhat I mean! I shouldn t be Mrs. Linton were such a price demanded!\nHe ll be as much to me as he has been all his lifetime. Edgar must\nshake off his antipathy, and tolerate him, at least. He will, when he\nlearns my true feelings towards him. Nelly, I see now you think me a\nselfish wretch; but did it never strike you that if Heathcliff and I\nmarried, we should be beggars? whereas, if I marry Linton I can aid\nHeathcliff to rise, and place him out of my brother s power. \n\n With your husband s money, Miss Catherine?  I asked.  You ll find him\nnot so pliable as you calculate upon: and, though I m hardly a judge, I\nthink that s the worst motive you ve given yet for being the wife of\nyoung Linton. \n\n It is not,  retorted she;  it is the best! The others were the\nsatisfaction of my whims: and for Edgar s sake, too, to satisfy him.\nThis is for the sake of one who comprehends in his person my feelings\nto Edgar and myself. I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody\nhave a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond\nyou. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained\nhere? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff s miseries,\nand I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in\nliving is himself. If all else perished, and _he_ remained, _I_ should\nstill continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were\nannihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not\nseem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods:\ntime will change it, I m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My\nlove for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of\nlittle visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I _am_ Heathcliff! He s\nalways, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always\na pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don t talk of our\nseparation again: it is impracticable; and \n\nShe paused, and hid her face in the folds of my gown; but I jerked it\nforcibly away. I was out of patience with her folly!\n\n If I can make any sense of your nonsense, Miss,  I said,  it only goes\nto convince me that you are ignorant of the duties you undertake in\nmarrying; or else that you are a wicked, unprincipled girl. But trouble\nme with no more secrets: I ll not promise to keep them. \n\n You ll keep that?  she asked, eagerly.\n\n No, I ll not promise,  I repeated.\n\nShe was about to insist, when the entrance of Joseph finished our\nconversation; and Catherine removed her seat to a corner, and nursed\nHareton, while I made the supper. After it was cooked, my\nfellow-servant and I began to quarrel who should carry some to Mr.\nHindley; and we didn t settle it till all was nearly cold. Then we came\nto the agreement that we would let him ask, if he wanted any; for we\nfeared particularly to go into his presence when he had been some time\nalone.\n\n And how isn t that nowt comed in fro  th  field, be this time? What is\nhe about? girt idle seeght!  demanded the old man, looking round for\nHeathcliff.\n\n I ll call him,  I replied.  He s in the barn, I ve no doubt. \n\nI went and called, but got no answer. On returning, I whispered to\nCatherine that he had heard a good part of what she said, I was sure;\nand told how I saw him quit the kitchen just as she complained of her\nbrother s conduct regarding him. She jumped up in a fine fright, flung\nHareton on to the settle, and ran to seek for her friend herself; not\ntaking leisure to consider why she was so flurried, or how her talk\nwould have affected him. She was absent such a while that Joseph\nproposed we should wait no longer. He cunningly conjectured they were\nstaying away in order to avoid hearing his protracted blessing. They\nwere  ill eneugh for ony fahl manners,  he affirmed. And on their\nbehalf he added that night a special prayer to the usual\nquarter-of-an-hour s supplication before meat, and would have tacked\nanother to the end of the grace, had not his young mistress broken in\nupon him with a hurried command that he must run down the road, and,\nwherever Heathcliff had rambled, find and make him re-enter directly!\n\n I want to speak to him, and I _must_, before I go upstairs,  she said.\n And the gate is open: he is somewhere out of hearing; for he would not\nreply, though I shouted at the top of the fold as loud as I could. \n\nJoseph objected at first; she was too much in earnest, however, to\nsuffer contradiction; and at last he placed his hat on his head, and\nwalked grumbling forth. Meantime, Catherine paced up and down the\nfloor, exclaiming I wonder where he is I wonder where he _can_ be!\nWhat did I say, Nelly? I ve forgotten. Was he vexed at my bad humour\nthis afternoon? Dear! tell me what I ve said to grieve him? I do wish\nhe d come. I do wish he would! \n\n What a noise for nothing!  I cried, though rather uneasy myself.  What\na trifle scares you! It s surely no great cause of alarm that\nHeathcliff should take a moonlight saunter on the moors, or even lie\ntoo sulky to speak to us in the hay-loft. I ll engage he s lurking\nthere. See if I don t ferret him out! \n\nI departed to renew my search; its result was disappointment, and\nJoseph s quest ended in the same.\n\n Yon lad gets war und war!  observed he on re-entering.  He s left th \ngate at t  full swing, and Miss s pony has trodden dahn two rigs o \ncorn, and plottered through, raight o er into t  meadow! Hahsomdiver,\nt  maister  ull play t  devil to-morn, and he ll do weel. He s patience\nitsseln wi  sich careless, offald craters patience itsseln he is! Bud\nhe ll not be soa allus yah s see, all on ye! Yah mun n t drive him out\nof his heead for nowt! \n\n Have you found Heathcliff, you ass?  interrupted Catherine.  Have you\nbeen looking for him, as I ordered? \n\n I sud more likker look for th  horse,  he replied.  It  ud be to more\nsense. Bud I can look for norther horse nur man of a neeght loike\nthis as black as t  chimbley! und Heathcliff s noan t  chap to coom at\n_my_ whistle happen he ll be less hard o  hearing wi  _ye_! \n\nIt _was_ a very dark evening for summer: the clouds appeared inclined\nto thunder, and I said we had better all sit down; the approaching rain\nwould be certain to bring him home without further trouble. However,\nCatherine would not be persuaded into tranquillity. She kept wandering\nto and fro, from the gate to the door, in a state of agitation which\npermitted no repose; and at length took up a permanent situation on one\nside of the wall, near the road: where, heedless of my expostulations\nand the growling thunder, and the great drops that began to plash\naround her, she remained, calling at intervals, and then listening, and\nthen crying outright. She beat Hareton, or any child, at a good\npassionate fit of crying.\n\nAbout midnight, while we still sat up, the storm came rattling over the\nHeights in full fury. There was a violent wind, as well as thunder, and\neither one or the other split a tree off at the corner of the building:\na huge bough fell across the roof, and knocked down a portion of the\neast chimney-stack, sending a clatter of stones and soot into the\nkitchen-fire. We thought a bolt had fallen in the middle of us; and\nJoseph swung on to his knees, beseeching the Lord to remember the\npatriarchs Noah and Lot, and, as in former times, spare the righteous,\nthough he smote the ungodly. I felt some sentiment that it must be a\njudgment on us also. The Jonah, in my mind, was Mr. Earnshaw; and I\nshook the handle of his den that I might ascertain if he were yet\nliving. He replied audibly enough, in a fashion which made my companion\nvociferate, more clamorously than before, that a wide distinction might\nbe drawn between saints like himself and sinners like his master. But\nthe uproar passed away in twenty minutes, leaving us all unharmed;\nexcepting Cathy, who got thoroughly drenched for her obstinacy in\nrefusing to take shelter, and standing bonnetless and shawlless to\ncatch as much water as she could with her hair and clothes. She came in\nand lay down on the settle, all soaked as she was, turning her face to\nthe back, and putting her hands before it.\n\n Well, Miss!  I exclaimed, touching her shoulder;  you are not bent on\ngetting your death, are you? Do you know what o clock it is? Half-past\ntwelve. Come, come to bed! there s no use waiting any longer on that\nfoolish boy: he ll be gone to Gimmerton, and he ll stay there now. He\nguesses we shouldn t wait for him till this late hour: at least, he\nguesses that only Mr. Hindley would be up; and he d rather avoid having\nthe door opened by the master. \n\n Nay, nay, he s noan at Gimmerton,  said Joseph.  I s niver wonder but\nhe s at t  bothom of a bog-hoile. This visitation worn t for nowt, and\nI wod hev  ye to look out, Miss yah muh be t  next. Thank Hivin for\nall! All warks togither for gooid to them as is chozzen, and piked out\nfro  th  rubbidge! Yah knaw whet t  Scripture ses.  And he began\nquoting several texts, referring us to chapters and verses where we\nmight find them.\n\nI, having vainly begged the wilful girl to rise and remove her wet\nthings, left him preaching and her shivering, and betook myself to bed\nwith little Hareton, who slept as fast as if everyone had been sleeping\nround him. I heard Joseph read on a while afterwards; then I\ndistinguished his slow step on the ladder, and then I dropped asleep.\n\nComing down somewhat later than usual, I saw, by the sunbeams piercing\nthe chinks of the shutters, Miss Catherine still seated near the\nfireplace. The house-door was ajar, too; light entered from its\nunclosed windows; Hindley had come out, and stood on the kitchen\nhearth, haggard and drowsy.\n\n What ails you, Cathy?  he was saying when I entered:  you look as\ndismal as a drowned whelp. Why are you so damp and pale, child? \n\n I ve been wet,  she answered reluctantly,  and I m cold, that s all. \n\n Oh, she is naughty!  I cried, perceiving the master to be tolerably\nsober.  She got steeped in the shower of yesterday evening, and there\nshe has sat the night through, and I couldn t prevail on her to stir. \n\nMr. Earnshaw stared at us in surprise.  The night through,  he\nrepeated.  What kept her up? not fear of the thunder, surely? That was\nover hours since. \n\nNeither of us wished to mention Heathcliff s absence, as long as we\ncould conceal it; so I replied, I didn t know how she took it into her\nhead to sit up; and she said nothing. The morning was fresh and cool; I\nthrew back the lattice, and presently the room filled with sweet scents\nfrom the garden; but Catherine called peevishly to me,  Ellen, shut the\nwindow. I m starving!  And her teeth chattered as she shrank closer to\nthe almost extinguished embers.\n\n She s ill,  said Hindley, taking her wrist;  I suppose that s the\nreason she would not go to bed. Damn it! I don t want to be troubled\nwith more sickness here. What took you into the rain? \n\n Running after t  lads, as usuald!  croaked Joseph, catching an\nopportunity from our hesitation to thrust in his evil tongue.  If I war\nyah, maister, I d just slam t  boards i  their faces all on  em, gentle\nand simple! Never a day ut yah re off, but yon cat o  Linton comes\nsneaking hither; and Miss Nelly, shoo s a fine lass! shoo sits watching\nfor ye i  t  kitchen; and as yah re in at one door, he s out at\nt other; and, then, wer grand lady goes a-courting of her side! It s\nbonny behaviour, lurking amang t  fields, after twelve o  t  night, wi \nthat fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think _I m_\nblind; but I m noan: nowt ut t  soart! I seed young Linton boath coming\nand going, and I seed _yah_  (directing his discourse to me),  yah\ngooid fur nowt, slattenly witch! nip up and bolt into th  house, t \nminute yah heard t  maister s horse-fit clatter up t  road. \n\n Silence, eavesdropper!  cried Catherine;  none of your insolence\nbefore me! Edgar Linton came yesterday by chance, Hindley; and it was\n_I_ who told him to be off: because I knew you would not like to have\nmet him as you were. \n\n You lie, Cathy, no doubt,  answered her brother,  and you are a\nconfounded simpleton! But never mind Linton at present: tell me, were\nyou not with Heathcliff last night? Speak the truth, now. You need not\nbe afraid of harming him: though I hate him as much as ever, he did me\na good turn a short time since that will make my conscience tender of\nbreaking his neck. To prevent it, I shall send him about his business\nthis very morning; and after he s gone, I d advise you all to look\nsharp: I shall only have the more humour for you. \n\n I never saw Heathcliff last night,  answered Catherine, beginning to\nsob bitterly:  and if you do turn him out of doors, I ll go with him.\nBut, perhaps, you ll never have an opportunity: perhaps, he s gone. \nHere she burst into uncontrollable grief, and the remainder of her\nwords were inarticulate.\n\nHindley lavished on her a torrent of scornful abuse, and bade her get\nto her room immediately, or she shouldn t cry for nothing! I obliged\nher to obey; and I shall never forget what a scene she acted when we\nreached her chamber: it terrified me. I thought she was going mad, and\nI begged Joseph to run for the doctor. It proved the commencement of\ndelirium: Mr. Kenneth, as soon as he saw her, pronounced her\ndangerously ill; she had a fever. He bled her, and he told me to let\nher live on whey and water-gruel, and take care she did not throw\nherself downstairs or out of the window; and then he left: for he had\nenough to do in the parish, where two or three miles was the ordinary\ndistance between cottage and cottage.\n\nThough I cannot say I made a gentle nurse, and Joseph and the master\nwere no better, and though our patient was as wearisome and headstrong\nas a patient could be, she weathered it through. Old Mrs. Linton paid\nus several visits, to be sure, and set things to rights, and scolded\nand ordered us all; and when Catherine was convalescent, she insisted\non conveying her to Thrushcross Grange: for which deliverance we were\nvery grateful. But the poor dame had reason to repent of her kindness:\nshe and her husband both took the fever, and died within a few days of\neach other.\n\nOur young lady returned to us saucier and more passionate, and\nhaughtier than ever. Heathcliff had never been heard of since the\nevening of the thunder-storm; and, one day, I had the misfortune, when\nshe had provoked me exceedingly, to lay the blame of his disappearance\non her: where indeed it belonged, as she well knew. From that period,\nfor several months, she ceased to hold any communication with me, save\nin the relation of a mere servant. Joseph fell under a ban also: he\n_would_ speak his mind, and lecture her all the same as if she were a\nlittle girl; and she esteemed herself a woman, and our mistress, and\nthought that her recent illness gave her a claim to be treated with\nconsideration. Then the doctor had said that she would not bear\ncrossing much; she ought to have her own way; and it was nothing less\nthan murder in her eyes for any one to presume to stand up and\ncontradict her. From Mr. Earnshaw and his companions she kept aloof;\nand tutored by Kenneth, and serious threats of a fit that often\nattended her rages, her brother allowed her whatever she pleased to\ndemand, and generally avoided aggravating her fiery temper. He was\nrather _too_ indulgent in humouring her caprices; not from affection,\nbut from pride: he wished earnestly to see her bring honour to the\nfamily by an alliance with the Lintons, and as long as she let him\nalone she might trample on us like slaves, for aught he cared! Edgar\nLinton, as multitudes have been before and will be after him, was\ninfatuated: and believed himself the happiest man alive on the day he\nled her to Gimmerton Chapel, three years subsequent to his father s\ndeath.\n\nMuch against my inclination, I was persuaded to leave Wuthering Heights\nand accompany her here. Little Hareton was nearly five years old, and I\nhad just begun to teach him his letters. We made a sad parting; but\nCatherine s tears were more powerful than ours. When I refused to go,\nand when she found her entreaties did not move me, she went lamenting\nto her husband and brother. The former offered me munificent wages; the\nlatter ordered me to pack up: he wanted no women in the house, he said,\nnow that there was no mistress; and as to Hareton, the curate should\ntake him in hand, by-and-by. And so I had but one choice left: to do as\nI was ordered. I told the master he got rid of all decent people only\nto run to ruin a little faster; I kissed Hareton, said good-by; and\nsince then he has been a stranger: and it s very queer to think it, but\nI ve no doubt he has completely forgotten all about Ellen Dean, and\nthat he was ever more than all the world to her and she to him!\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nAt this point of the housekeeper s story she chanced to glance towards\nthe time-piece over the chimney; and was in amazement on seeing the\nminute-hand measure half-past one. She would not hear of staying a\nsecond longer: in truth, I felt rather disposed to defer the sequel of\nher narrative myself. And now that she is vanished to her rest, and I\nhave meditated for another hour or two, I shall summon courage to go\nalso, in spite of aching laziness of head and limbs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nA charming introduction to a hermit s life! Four weeks  torture,\ntossing, and sickness! Oh, these bleak winds and bitter northern skies,\nand impassable roads, and dilatory country surgeons! And oh, this\ndearth of the human physiognomy! and, worse than all, the terrible\nintimation of Kenneth that I need not expect to be out of doors till\nspring!\n\nMr. Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven days ago\nhe sent me a brace of grouse the last of the season. Scoundrel! He is\nnot altogether guiltless in this illness of mine; and that I had a\ngreat mind to tell him. But, alas! how could I offend a man who was\ncharitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some\nother subject than pills and draughts, blisters and leeches? This is\nquite an easy interval. I am too weak to read; yet I feel as if I could\nenjoy something interesting. Why not have up Mrs. Dean to finish her\ntale? I can recollect its chief incidents, as far as she had gone. Yes:\nI remember her hero had run off, and never been heard of for three\nyears; and the heroine was married. I ll ring: she ll be delighted to\nfind me capable of talking cheerfully. Mrs. Dean came.\n\n It wants twenty minutes, sir, to taking the medicine,  she commenced.\n\n Away, away with it!  I replied;  I desire to have \n\n The doctor says you must drop the powders. \n\n With all my heart! Don t interrupt me. Come and take your seat here.\nKeep your fingers from that bitter phalanx of vials. Draw your knitting\nout of your pocket that will do now continue the history of Mr.\nHeathcliff, from where you left off, to the present day. Did he finish\nhis education on the Continent, and come back a gentleman? or did he\nget a sizar s place at college, or escape to America, and earn honours\nby drawing blood from his foster-country? or make a fortune more\npromptly on the English highways? \n\n He may have done a little in all these vocations, Mr. Lockwood; but I\ncouldn t give my word for any. I stated before that I didn t know how\nhe gained his money; neither am I aware of the means he took to raise\nhis mind from the savage ignorance into which it was sunk: but, with\nyour leave, I ll proceed in my own fashion, if you think it will amuse\nand not weary you. Are you feeling better this morning? \n\n Much. \n\n That s good news. \n\n* * * * *\n\n\nI got Miss Catherine and myself to Thrushcross Grange; and, to my\nagreeable disappointment, she behaved infinitely better than I dared to\nexpect. She seemed almost over-fond of Mr. Linton; and even to his\nsister she showed plenty of affection. They were both very attentive to\nher comfort, certainly. It was not the thorn bending to the\nhoneysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. There were no\nmutual concessions: one stood erect, and the others yielded: and who\n_can_ be ill-natured and bad-tempered when they encounter neither\nopposition nor indifference? I observed that Mr. Edgar had a\ndeep-rooted fear of ruffling her humour. He concealed it from her; but\nif ever he heard me answer sharply, or saw any other servant grow\ncloudy at some imperious order of hers, he would show his trouble by a\nfrown of displeasure that never darkened on his own account. He many a\ntime spoke sternly to me about my pertness; and averred that the stab\nof a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at seeing\nhis lady vexed. Not to grieve a kind master, I learned to be less\ntouchy; and, for the space of half a year, the gunpowder lay as\nharmless as sand, because no fire came near to explode it. Catherine\nhad seasons of gloom and silence now and then: they were respected with\nsympathising silence by her husband, who ascribed them to an alteration\nin her constitution, produced by her perilous illness; as she was never\nsubject to depression of spirits before. The return of sunshine was\nwelcomed by answering sunshine from him. I believe I may assert that\nthey were really in possession of deep and growing happiness.\n\nIt ended. Well, we _must_ be for ourselves in the long run; the mild\nand generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering; and it\nended when circumstances caused each to feel that the one s interest\nwas not the chief consideration in the other s thoughts. On a mellow\nevening in September, I was coming from the garden with a heavy basket\nof apples which I had been gathering. It had got dusk, and the moon\nlooked over the high wall of the court, causing undefined shadows to\nlurk in the corners of the numerous projecting portions of the\nbuilding. I set my burden on the house-steps by the kitchen-door, and\nlingered to rest, and drew in a few more breaths of the soft, sweet\nair; my eyes were on the moon, and my back to the entrance, when I\nheard a voice behind me say, Nelly, is that you? \n\nIt was a deep voice, and foreign in tone; yet there was something in\nthe manner of pronouncing my name which made it sound familiar. I\nturned about to discover who spoke, fearfully; for the doors were shut,\nand I had seen nobody on approaching the steps. Something stirred in\nthe porch; and, moving nearer, I distinguished a tall man dressed in\ndark clothes, with dark face and hair. He leant against the side, and\nheld his fingers on the latch as if intending to open for himself.  Who\ncan it be?  I thought.  Mr. Earnshaw? Oh, no! The voice has no\nresemblance to his. \n\n I have waited here an hour,  he resumed, while I continued staring;\n and the whole of that time all round has been as still as death. I\ndared not enter. You do not know me? Look, I m not a stranger! \n\nA ray fell on his features; the cheeks were sallow, and half covered\nwith black whiskers; the brows lowering, the eyes deep-set and\nsingular. I remembered the eyes.\n\n What!  I cried, uncertain whether to regard him as a worldly visitor,\nand I raised my hands in amazement.  What! you come back? Is it really\nyou? Is it? \n\n Yes, Heathcliff,  he replied, glancing from me up to the windows,\nwhich reflected a score of glittering moons, but showed no lights from\nwithin.  Are they at home? where is she? Nelly, you are not glad! you\nneedn t be so disturbed. Is she here? Speak! I want to have one word\nwith her your mistress. Go, and say some person from Gimmerton desires\nto see her. \n\n How will she take it?  I exclaimed.  What will she do? The surprise\nbewilders me it will put her out of her head! And you _are_ Heathcliff!\nBut altered! Nay, there s no comprehending it. Have you been for a\nsoldier? \n\n Go and carry my message,  he interrupted, impatiently.  I m in hell\ntill you do! \n\nHe lifted the latch, and I entered; but when I got to the parlour where\nMr. and Mrs. Linton were, I could not persuade myself to proceed. At\nlength I resolved on making an excuse to ask if they would have the\ncandles lighted, and I opened the door.\n\nThey sat together in a window whose lattice lay back against the wall,\nand displayed, beyond the garden trees, and the wild green park, the\nvalley of Gimmerton, with a long line of mist winding nearly to its top\n(for very soon after you pass the chapel, as you may have noticed, the\nsough that runs from the marshes joins a beck which follows the bend of\nthe glen). Wuthering Heights rose above this silvery vapour; but our\nold house was invisible; it rather dips down on the other side. Both\nthe room and its occupants, and the scene they gazed on, looked\nwondrously peaceful. I shrank reluctantly from performing my errand;\nand was actually going away leaving it unsaid, after having put my\nquestion about the candles, when a sense of my folly compelled me to\nreturn, and mutter,  A person from Gimmerton wishes to see you ma am. \n\n What does he want?  asked Mrs. Linton.\n\n I did not question him,  I answered.\n\n Well, close the curtains, Nelly,  she said;  and bring up tea. I ll be\nback again directly. \n\nShe quitted the apartment; Mr. Edgar inquired, carelessly, who it was.\n\n Some one mistress does not expect,  I replied.  That Heathcliff you\nrecollect him, sir who used to live at Mr. Earnshaw s. \n\n What! the gipsy the ploughboy?  he cried.  Why did you not say so to\nCatherine? \n\n Hush! you must not call him by those names, master,  I said.  She d be\nsadly grieved to hear you. She was nearly heartbroken when he ran off.\nI guess his return will make a jubilee to her. \n\nMr. Linton walked to a window on the other side of the room that\noverlooked the court. He unfastened it, and leant out. I suppose they\nwere below, for he exclaimed quickly:  Don t stand there, love! Bring\nthe person in, if it be anyone particular.  Ere long, I heard the click\nof the latch, and Catherine flew upstairs, breathless and wild; too\nexcited to show gladness: indeed, by her face, you would rather have\nsurmised an awful calamity.\n\n Oh, Edgar, Edgar!  she panted, flinging her arms round his neck.  Oh,\nEdgar darling! Heathcliff s come back he is!  And she tightened her\nembrace to a squeeze.\n\n Well, well,  cried her husband, crossly,  don t strangle me for that!\nHe never struck me as such a marvellous treasure. There is no need to\nbe frantic! \n\n I know you didn t like him,  she answered, repressing a little the\nintensity of her delight.  Yet, for my sake, you must be friends now.\nShall I tell him to come up? \n\n Here,  he said,  into the parlour? \n\n Where else?  she asked.\n\nHe looked vexed, and suggested the kitchen as a more suitable place for\nhim. Mrs. Linton eyed him with a droll expression half angry, half\nlaughing at his fastidiousness.\n\n No,  she added, after a while;  I cannot sit in the kitchen. Set two\ntables here, Ellen: one for your master and Miss Isabella, being\ngentry; the other for Heathcliff and myself, being of the lower orders.\nWill that please you, dear? Or must I have a fire lighted elsewhere? If\nso, give directions. I ll run down and secure my guest. I m afraid the\njoy is too great to be real! \n\nShe was about to dart off again; but Edgar arrested her.\n\n _You_ bid him step up,  he said, addressing me;  and, Catherine, try\nto be glad, without being absurd. The whole household need not witness\nthe sight of your welcoming a runaway servant as a brother. \n\nI descended, and found Heathcliff waiting under the porch, evidently\nanticipating an invitation to enter. He followed my guidance without\nwaste of words, and I ushered him into the presence of the master and\nmistress, whose flushed cheeks betrayed signs of warm talking. But the\nlady s glowed with another feeling when her friend appeared at the\ndoor: she sprang forward, took both his hands, and led him to Linton;\nand then she seized Linton s reluctant fingers and crushed them into\nhis. Now, fully revealed by the fire and candlelight, I was amazed,\nmore than ever, to behold the transformation of Heathcliff. He had\ngrown a tall, athletic, well-formed man; beside whom my master seemed\nquite slender and youth-like. His upright carriage suggested the idea\nof his having been in the army. His countenance was much older in\nexpression and decision of feature than Mr. Linton s; it looked\nintelligent, and retained no marks of former degradation. A\nhalf-civilised ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full\nof black fire, but it was subdued; and his manner was even dignified:\nquite divested of roughness, though too stern for grace. My master s\nsurprise equalled or exceeded mine: he remained for a minute at a loss\nhow to address the ploughboy, as he had called him. Heathcliff dropped\nhis slight hand, and stood looking at him coolly till he chose to\nspeak.\n\n Sit down, sir,  he said, at length.  Mrs. Linton, recalling old times,\nwould have me give you a cordial reception; and, of course, I am\ngratified when anything occurs to please her. \n\n And I also,  answered Heathcliff,  especially if it be anything in\nwhich I have a part. I shall stay an hour or two willingly. \n\nHe took a seat opposite Catherine, who kept her gaze fixed on him as if\nshe feared he would vanish were she to remove it. He did not raise his\nto her often: a quick glance now and then sufficed; but it flashed\nback, each time more confidently, the undisguised delight he drank from\nhers. They were too much absorbed in their mutual joy to suffer\nembarrassment. Not so Mr. Edgar: he grew pale with pure annoyance: a\nfeeling that reached its climax when his lady rose, and stepping across\nthe rug, seized Heathcliff s hands again, and laughed like one beside\nherself.\n\n I shall think it a dream to-morrow!  she cried.  I shall not be able\nto believe that I have seen, and touched, and spoken to you once more.\nAnd yet, cruel Heathcliff! you don t deserve this welcome. To be absent\nand silent for three years, and never to think of me! \n\n A little more than you have thought of me,  he murmured.  I heard of\nyour marriage, Cathy, not long since; and, while waiting in the yard\nbelow, I meditated this plan just to have one glimpse of your face, a\nstare of surprise, perhaps, and pretended pleasure; afterwards settle\nmy score with Hindley; and then prevent the law by doing execution on\nmyself. Your welcome has put these ideas out of my mind; but beware of\nmeeting me with another aspect next time! Nay, you ll not drive me off\nagain. You were really sorry for me, were you? Well, there was cause.\nI ve fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice; and\nyou must forgive me, for I struggled only for you! \n\n Catherine, unless we are to have cold tea, please to come to the\ntable,  interrupted Linton, striving to preserve his ordinary tone, and\na due measure of politeness.  Mr. Heathcliff will have a long walk,\nwherever he may lodge to-night; and I m thirsty. \n\nShe took her post before the urn; and Miss Isabella came, summoned by\nthe bell; then, having handed their chairs forward, I left the room.\nThe meal hardly endured ten minutes. Catherine s cup was never filled:\nshe could neither eat nor drink. Edgar had made a slop in his saucer,\nand scarcely swallowed a mouthful. Their guest did not protract his\nstay that evening above an hour longer. I asked, as he departed, if he\nwent to Gimmerton?\n\n No, to Wuthering Heights,  he answered:  Mr. Earnshaw invited me, when\nI called this morning. \n\nMr. Earnshaw invited _him_! and _he_ called on Mr. Earnshaw! I pondered\nthis sentence painfully, after he was gone. Is he turning out a bit of\na hypocrite, and coming into the country to work mischief under a\ncloak? I mused: I had a presentiment in the bottom of my heart that he\nhad better have remained away.\n\nAbout the middle of the night, I was wakened from my first nap by Mrs.\nLinton gliding into my chamber, taking a seat on my bedside, and\npulling me by the hair to rouse me.\n\n I cannot rest, Ellen,  she said, by way of apology.  And I want some\nliving creature to keep me company in my happiness! Edgar is sulky,\nbecause I m glad of a thing that does not interest him: he refuses to\nopen his mouth, except to utter pettish, silly speeches; and he\naffirmed I was cruel and selfish for wishing to talk when he was so\nsick and sleepy. He always contrives to be sick at the least cross! I\ngave a few sentences of commendation to Heathcliff, and he, either for\na headache or a pang of envy, began to cry: so I got up and left him. \n\n What use is it praising Heathcliff to him?  I answered.  As lads they\nhad an aversion to each other, and Heathcliff would hate just as much\nto hear him praised: it s human nature. Let Mr. Linton alone about him,\nunless you would like an open quarrel between them. \n\n But does it not show great weakness?  pursued she.  I m not envious: I\nnever feel hurt at the brightness of Isabella s yellow hair and the\nwhiteness of her skin, at her dainty elegance, and the fondness all the\nfamily exhibit for her. Even you, Nelly, if we have a dispute\nsometimes, you back Isabella at once; and I yield like a foolish\nmother: I call her a darling, and flatter her into a good temper. It\npleases her brother to see us cordial, and that pleases me. But they\nare very much alike: they are spoiled children, and fancy the world was\nmade for their accommodation; and though I humour both, I think a smart\nchastisement might improve them all the same. \n\n You re mistaken, Mrs. Linton,  said I.  They humour you: I know what\nthere would be to do if they did not. You can well afford to indulge\ntheir passing whims as long as their business is to anticipate all your\ndesires. You may, however, fall out, at last, over something of equal\nconsequence to both sides; and then those you term weak are very\ncapable of being as obstinate as you. \n\n And then we shall fight to the death, sha n t we, Nelly?  she\nreturned, laughing.  No! I tell you, I have such faith in Linton s\nlove, that I believe I might kill him, and he wouldn t wish to\nretaliate. \n\nI advised her to value him the more for his affection.\n\n I do,  she answered,  but he needn t resort to whining for trifles. It\nis childish; and, instead of melting into tears because I said that\nHeathcliff was now worthy of anyone s regard, and it would honour the\nfirst gentleman in the country to be his friend, he ought to have said\nit for me, and been delighted from sympathy. He must get accustomed to\nhim, and he may as well like him: considering how Heathcliff has reason\nto object to him, I m sure he behaved excellently! \n\n What do you think of his going to Wuthering Heights?  I inquired.  He\nis reformed in every respect, apparently: quite a Christian: offering\nthe right hand of fellowship to his enemies all around! \n\n He explained it,  she replied.  I wonder as much as you. He said he\ncalled to gather information concerning me from you, supposing you\nresided there still; and Joseph told Hindley, who came out and fell to\nquestioning him of what he had been doing, and how he had been living;\nand finally, desired him to walk in. There were some persons sitting at\ncards; Heathcliff joined them; my brother lost some money to him, and,\nfinding him plentifully supplied, he requested that he would come again\nin the evening: to which he consented. Hindley is too reckless to\nselect his acquaintance prudently: he doesn t trouble himself to\nreflect on the causes he might have for mistrusting one whom he has\nbasely injured. But Heathcliff affirms his principal reason for\nresuming a connection with his ancient persecutor is a wish to install\nhimself in quarters at walking distance from the Grange, and an\nattachment to the house where we lived together; and likewise a hope\nthat I shall have more opportunities of seeing him there than I could\nhave if he settled in Gimmerton. He means to offer liberal payment for\npermission to lodge at the Heights; and doubtless my brother s\ncovetousness will prompt him to accept the terms: he was always greedy;\nthough what he grasps with one hand he flings away with the other. \n\n It s a nice place for a young man to fix his dwelling in!  said I.\n Have you no fear of the consequences, Mrs. Linton? \n\n None for my friend,  she replied:  his strong head will keep him from\ndanger; a little for Hindley: but he can t be made morally worse than\nhe is; and I stand between him and bodily harm. The event of this\nevening has reconciled me to God and humanity! I had risen in angry\nrebellion against Providence. Oh, I ve endured very, very bitter\nmisery, Nelly! If that creature knew how bitter, he d be ashamed to\ncloud its removal with idle petulance. It was kindness for him which\ninduced me to bear it alone: had I expressed the agony I frequently\nfelt, he would have been taught to long for its alleviation as ardently\nas I. However, it s over, and I ll take no revenge on his folly; I can\nafford to suffer anything hereafter! Should the meanest thing alive\nslap me on the cheek, I d not only turn the other, but I d ask pardon\nfor provoking it; and, as a proof, I ll go make my peace with Edgar\ninstantly. Good-night! I m an angel! \n\nIn this self-complacent conviction she departed; and the success of her\nfulfilled resolution was obvious on the morrow: Mr. Linton had not only\nabjured his peevishness (though his spirits seemed still subdued by\nCatherine s exuberance of vivacity), but he ventured no objection to\nher taking Isabella with her to Wuthering Heights in the afternoon; and\nshe rewarded him with such a summer of sweetness and affection in\nreturn as made the house a paradise for several days; both master and\nservants profiting from the perpetual sunshine.\n\nHeathcliff Mr. Heathcliff I should say in future used the liberty of\nvisiting at Thrushcross Grange cautiously, at first: he seemed\nestimating how far its owner would bear his intrusion. Catherine, also,\ndeemed it judicious to moderate her expressions of pleasure in\nreceiving him; and he gradually established his right to be expected.\nHe retained a great deal of the reserve for which his boyhood was\nremarkable; and that served to repress all startling demonstrations of\nfeeling. My master s uneasiness experienced a lull, and further\ncircumstances diverted it into another channel for a space.\n\nHis new source of trouble sprang from the not anticipated misfortune of\nIsabella Linton evincing a sudden and irresistible attraction towards\nthe tolerated guest. She was at that time a charming young lady of\neighteen; infantile in manners, though possessed of keen wit, keen\nfeelings, and a keen temper, too, if irritated. Her brother, who loved\nher tenderly, was appalled at this fantastic preference. Leaving aside\nthe degradation of an alliance with a nameless man, and the possible\nfact that his property, in default of heirs male, might pass into such\na one s power, he had sense to comprehend Heathcliff s disposition: to\nknow that, though his exterior was altered, his mind was unchangeable\nand unchanged. And he dreaded that mind: it revolted him: he shrank\nforebodingly from the idea of committing Isabella to its keeping. He\nwould have recoiled still more had he been aware that her attachment\nrose unsolicited, and was bestowed where it awakened no reciprocation\nof sentiment; for the minute he discovered its existence he laid the\nblame on Heathcliff s deliberate designing.\n\nWe had all remarked, during some time, that Miss Linton fretted and\npined over something. She grew cross and wearisome; snapping at and\nteasing Catherine continually, at the imminent risk of exhausting her\nlimited patience. We excused her, to a certain extent, on the plea of\nill-health: she was dwindling and fading before our eyes. But one day,\nwhen she had been peculiarly wayward, rejecting her breakfast,\ncomplaining that the servants did not do what she told them; that the\nmistress would allow her to be nothing in the house, and Edgar\nneglected her; that she had caught a cold with the doors being left\nopen, and we let the parlour fire go out on purpose to vex her, with a\nhundred yet more frivolous accusations, Mrs. Linton peremptorily\ninsisted that she should get to bed; and, having scolded her heartily,\nthreatened to send for the doctor. Mention of Kenneth caused her to\nexclaim, instantly, that her health was perfect, and it was only\nCatherine s harshness which made her unhappy.\n\n How can you say I am harsh, you naughty fondling?  cried the mistress,\namazed at the unreasonable assertion.  You are surely losing your\nreason. When have I been harsh, tell me? \n\n Yesterday,  sobbed Isabella,  and now! \n\n Yesterday!  said her sister-in-law.  On what occasion? \n\n In our walk along the moor: you told me to ramble where I pleased,\nwhile you sauntered on with Mr. Heathcliff! \n\n And that s your notion of harshness?  said Catherine, laughing.  It\nwas no hint that your company was superfluous; we didn t care whether\nyou kept with us or not; I merely thought Heathcliff s talk would have\nnothing entertaining for your ears. \n\n Oh, no,  wept the young lady;  you wished me away, because you knew I\nliked to be there! \n\n Is she sane?  asked Mrs. Linton, appealing to me.  I ll repeat our\nconversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out any charm it\ncould have had for you. \n\n I don t mind the conversation,  she answered:  I wanted to be with \n\n Well?  said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the\nsentence.\n\n With him: and I won t be always sent off!  she continued, kindling up.\n You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but\nyourself! \n\n You are an impertinent little monkey!  exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in\nsurprise.  But I ll not believe this idiocy! It is impossible that you\ncan covet the admiration of Heathcliff that you consider him an\nagreeable person! I hope I have misunderstood you, Isabella? \n\n No, you have not,  said the infatuated girl.  I love him more than\never you loved Edgar, and he might love me, if you would let him! \n\n I wouldn t be you for a kingdom, then!  Catherine declared,\nemphatically: and she seemed to speak sincerely.  Nelly, help me to\nconvince her of her madness. Tell her what Heathcliff is: an\nunreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation; an arid\nwilderness of furze and whinstone. I d as soon put that little canary\ninto the park on a winter s day, as recommend you to bestow your heart\non him! It is deplorable ignorance of his character, child, and nothing\nelse, which makes that dream enter your head. Pray, don t imagine that\nhe conceals depths of benevolence and affection beneath a stern\nexterior! He s not a rough diamond a pearl-containing oyster of a\nrustic: he s a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. I never say to him,  Let\nthis or that enemy alone, because it would be ungenerous or cruel to\nharm them;  I say,  Let them alone, because _I_ should hate them to be\nwronged:  and he d crush you like a sparrow s egg, Isabella, if he\nfound you a troublesome charge. I know he couldn t love a Linton; and\nyet he d be quite capable of marrying your fortune and expectations:\navarice is growing with him a besetting sin. There s my picture: and\nI m his friend so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you,\nI should, perhaps, have held my tongue, and let you fall into his\ntrap. \n\nMiss Linton regarded her sister-in-law with indignation.\n\n For shame! for shame!  she repeated, angrily.  You are worse than\ntwenty foes, you poisonous friend! \n\n Ah! you won t believe me, then?  said Catherine.  You think I speak\nfrom wicked selfishness? \n\n I m certain you do,  retorted Isabella;  and I shudder at you! \n\n Good!  cried the other.  Try for yourself, if that be your spirit: I\nhave done, and yield the argument to your saucy insolence. \n\n And I must suffer for her egotism!  she sobbed, as Mrs. Linton left\nthe room.  All, all is against me: she has blighted my single\nconsolation. But she uttered falsehoods, didn t she? Mr. Heathcliff is\nnot a fiend: he has an honourable soul, and a true one, or how could he\nremember her? \n\n Banish him from your thoughts, Miss,  I said.  He s a bird of bad\nomen: no mate for you. Mrs. Linton spoke strongly, and yet I can t\ncontradict her. She is better acquainted with his heart than I, or any\none besides; and she never would represent him as worse than he is.\nHonest people don t hide their deeds. How has he been living? how has\nhe got rich? why is he staying at Wuthering Heights, the house of a man\nwhom he abhors? They say Mr. Earnshaw is worse and worse since he came.\nThey sit up all night together continually, and Hindley has been\nborrowing money on his land, and does nothing but play and drink: I\nheard only a week ago it was Joseph who told me I met him at Gimmerton:\n Nelly,  he said,  we s hae a crowner s  quest enow, at ahr folks . One\non  em  s a most getten his finger cut off wi  hauding t  other fro \nstickin  hisseln loike a cawlf. That s maister, yah knaw,  at  s soa\nup o  going tuh t  grand  sizes. He s noan feared o  t  bench o \njudges, norther Paul, nur Peter, nur John, nur Matthew, nor noan on\n em, not he! He fair likes he langs to set his brazened face agean  em!\nAnd yon bonny lad Heathcliff, yah mind, he s a rare  un. He can girn a\nlaugh as well  s onybody at a raight divil s jest. Does he niver say\nnowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to t  Grange? This is t \nway on  t: up at sun-down: dice, brandy, cloised shutters, und\ncan le-light till next day at noon: then, t  fooil gangs banning un\nraving to his cham er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i  thur\nlugs fur varry shame; un  the knave, why he can caint his brass, un \nate, un  sleep, un  off to his neighbour s to gossip wi  t  wife. I \ncourse, he tells Dame Catherine how her fathur s goold runs into his\npocket, and her fathur s son gallops down t  broad road, while he flees\nafore to oppen t  pikes!  Now, Miss Linton, Joseph is an old rascal,\nbut no liar; and, if his account of Heathcliff s conduct be true, you\nwould never think of desiring such a husband, would you? \n\n You are leagued with the rest, Ellen!  she replied.  I ll not listen\nto your slanders. What malevolence you must have to wish to convince me\nthat there is no happiness in the world! \n\nWhether she would have got over this fancy if left to herself, or\npersevered in nursing it perpetually, I cannot say: she had little time\nto reflect. The day after, there was a justice-meeting at the next\ntown; my master was obliged to attend; and Mr. Heathcliff, aware of his\nabsence, called rather earlier than usual. Catherine and Isabella were\nsitting in the library, on hostile terms, but silent: the latter\nalarmed at her recent indiscretion, and the disclosure she had made of\nher secret feelings in a transient fit of passion; the former, on\nmature consideration, really offended with her companion; and, if she\nlaughed again at her pertness, inclined to make it no laughing matter\nto _her_. She did laugh as she saw Heathcliff pass the window. I was\nsweeping the hearth, and I noticed a mischievous smile on her lips.\nIsabella, absorbed in her meditations, or a book, remained till the\ndoor opened; and it was too late to attempt an escape, which she would\ngladly have done had it been practicable.\n\n Come in, that s right!  exclaimed the mistress, gaily, pulling a chair\nto the fire.  Here are two people sadly in need of a third to thaw the\nice between them; and you are the very one we should both of us choose.\nHeathcliff, I m proud to show you, at last, somebody that dotes on you\nmore than myself. I expect you to feel flattered. Nay, it s not Nelly;\ndon t look at her! My poor little sister-in-law is breaking her heart\nby mere contemplation of your physical and moral beauty. It lies in\nyour own power to be Edgar s brother! No, no, Isabella, you sha n t run\noff,  she continued, arresting, with feigned playfulness, the\nconfounded girl, who had risen indignantly.  We were quarrelling like\ncats about you, Heathcliff; and I was fairly beaten in protestations of\ndevotion and admiration: and, moreover, I was informed that if I would\nbut have the manners to stand aside, my rival, as she will have herself\nto be, would shoot a shaft into your soul that would fix you for ever,\nand send my image into eternal oblivion! \n\n Catherine!  said Isabella, calling up her dignity, and disdaining to\nstruggle from the tight grasp that held her,  I d thank you to adhere\nto the truth and not slander me, even in joke! Mr. Heathcliff, be kind\nenough to bid this friend of yours release me: she forgets that you and\nI are not intimate acquaintances; and what amuses her is painful to me\nbeyond expression. \n\nAs the guest answered nothing, but took his seat, and looked thoroughly\nindifferent what sentiments she cherished concerning him, she turned\nand whispered an earnest appeal for liberty to her tormentor.\n\n By no means!  cried Mrs. Linton in answer.  I won t be named a dog in\nthe manger again. You _shall_ stay: now then! Heathcliff, why don t you\nevince satisfaction at my pleasant news? Isabella swears that the love\nEdgar has for me is nothing to that she entertains for you. I m sure\nshe made some speech of the kind; did she not, Ellen? And she has\nfasted ever since the day before yesterday s walk, from sorrow and rage\nthat I despatched her out of your society under the idea of its being\nunacceptable. \n\n I think you belie her,  said Heathcliff, twisting his chair to face\nthem.  She wishes to be out of my society now, at any rate! \n\nAnd he stared hard at the object of discourse, as one might do at a\nstrange repulsive animal: a centipede from the Indies, for instance,\nwhich curiosity leads one to examine in spite of the aversion it\nraises. The poor thing couldn t bear that; she grew white and red in\nrapid succession, and, while tears beaded her lashes, bent the strength\nof her small fingers to loosen the firm clutch of Catherine; and\nperceiving that as fast as she raised one finger off her arm another\nclosed down, and she could not remove the whole together, she began to\nmake use of her nails; and their sharpness presently ornamented the\ndetainer s with crescents of red.\n\n There s a tigress!  exclaimed Mrs. Linton, setting her free, and\nshaking her hand with pain.  Begone, for God s sake, and hide your\nvixen face! How foolish to reveal those talons to _him_. Can t you\nfancy the conclusions he ll draw? Look, Heathcliff! they are\ninstruments that will do execution you must beware of your eyes. \n\n I d wrench them off her fingers, if they ever menaced me,  he\nanswered, brutally, when the door had closed after her.  But what did\nyou mean by teasing the creature in that manner, Cathy? You were not\nspeaking the truth, were you? \n\n I assure you I was,  she returned.  She has been dying for your sake\nseveral weeks, and raving about you this morning, and pouring forth a\ndeluge of abuse, because I represented your failings in a plain light,\nfor the purpose of mitigating her adoration. But don t notice it\nfurther: I wished to punish her sauciness, that s all. I like her too\nwell, my dear Heathcliff, to let you absolutely seize and devour her\nup. \n\n And I like her too ill to attempt it,  said he,  except in a very\nghoulish fashion. You d hear of odd things if I lived alone with that\nmawkish, waxen face: the most ordinary would be painting on its white\nthe colours of the rainbow, and turning the blue eyes black, every day\nor two: they detestably resemble Linton s. \n\n Delectably!  observed Catherine.  They are dove s eyes angel s! \n\n She s her brother s heir, is she not?  he asked, after a brief\nsilence.\n\n I should be sorry to think so,  returned his companion.  Half a dozen\nnephews shall erase her title, please heaven! Abstract your mind from\nthe subject at present: you are too prone to covet your neighbour s\ngoods; remember _this_ neighbour s goods are mine. \n\n If they were _mine_, they would be none the less that,  said\nHeathcliff;  but though Isabella Linton may be silly, she is scarcely\nmad; and, in short, we ll dismiss the matter, as you advise. \n\nFrom their tongues they did dismiss it; and Catherine, probably, from\nher thoughts. The other, I felt certain, recalled it often in the\ncourse of the evening. I saw him smile to himself grin rather and lapse\ninto ominous musing whenever Mrs. Linton had occasion to be absent from\nthe apartment.\n\nI determined to watch his movements. My heart invariably cleaved to the\nmaster s, in preference to Catherine s side: with reason I imagined,\nfor he was kind, and trustful, and honourable; and she she could not be\ncalled the _opposite_, yet she seemed to allow herself such wide\nlatitude, that I had little faith in her principles, and still less\nsympathy for her feelings. I wanted something to happen which might\nhave the effect of freeing both Wuthering Heights and the Grange of Mr.\nHeathcliff, quietly; leaving us as we had been prior to his advent. His\nvisits were a continual nightmare to me; and, I suspected, to my master\nalso. His abode at the Heights was an oppression past explaining. I\nfelt that God had forsaken the stray sheep there to its own wicked\nwanderings, and an evil beast prowled between it and the fold, waiting\nhis time to spring and destroy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nSometimes, while meditating on these things in solitude, I ve got up in\na sudden terror, and put on my bonnet to go see how all was at the\nfarm. I ve persuaded my conscience that it was a duty to warn him how\npeople talked regarding his ways; and then I ve recollected his\nconfirmed bad habits, and, hopeless of benefiting him, have flinched\nfrom re-entering the dismal house, doubting if I could bear to be taken\nat my word.\n\nOne time I passed the old gate, going out of my way, on a journey to\nGimmerton. It was about the period that my narrative has reached: a\nbright frosty afternoon; the ground bare, and the road hard and dry. I\ncame to a stone where the highway branches off on to the moor at your\nleft hand; a rough sand-pillar, with the letters W. H. cut on its north\nside, on the east, G., and on the south-west, T. G. It serves as a\nguide-post to the Grange, the Heights, and village. The sun shone\nyellow on its grey head, reminding me of summer; and I cannot say why,\nbut all at once a gush of child s sensations flowed into my heart.\nHindley and I held it a favourite spot twenty years before. I gazed\nlong at the weather-worn block; and, stooping down, perceived a hole\nnear the bottom still full of snail-shells and pebbles, which we were\nfond of storing there with more perishable things; and, as fresh as\nreality, it appeared that I beheld my early playmate seated on the\nwithered turf: his dark, square head bent forward, and his little hand\nscooping out the earth with a piece of slate.  Poor Hindley!  I\nexclaimed, involuntarily. I started: my bodily eye was cheated into a\nmomentary belief that the child lifted its face and stared straight\ninto mine! It vanished in a twinkling; but immediately I felt an\nirresistible yearning to be at the Heights. Superstition urged me to\ncomply with this impulse: supposing he should be dead! I thought or\nshould die soon! supposing it were a sign of death! The nearer I got to\nthe house the more agitated I grew; and on catching sight of it I\ntrembled in every limb. The apparition had outstripped me: it stood\nlooking through the gate. That was my first idea on observing an\nelf-locked, brown-eyed boy setting his ruddy countenance against the\nbars. Further reflection suggested this must be Hareton, _my_ Hareton,\nnot altered greatly since I left him, ten months since.\n\n God bless thee, darling!  I cried, forgetting instantaneously my\nfoolish fears.  Hareton, it s Nelly! Nelly, thy nurse. \n\nHe retreated out of arm s length, and picked up a large flint.\n\n I am come to see thy father, Hareton,  I added, guessing from the\naction that Nelly, if she lived in his memory at all, was not\nrecognised as one with me.\n\nHe raised his missile to hurl it; I commenced a soothing speech, but\ncould not stay his hand: the stone struck my bonnet; and then ensued,\nfrom the stammering lips of the little fellow, a string of curses,\nwhich, whether he comprehended them or not, were delivered with\npractised emphasis, and distorted his baby features into a shocking\nexpression of malignity. You may be certain this grieved more than\nangered me. Fit to cry, I took an orange from my pocket, and offered it\nto propitiate him. He hesitated, and then snatched it from my hold; as\nif he fancied I only intended to tempt and disappoint him. I showed\nanother, keeping it out of his reach.\n\n Who has taught you those fine words, my bairn?  I inquired.  The\ncurate? \n\n Damn the curate, and thee! Gie me that,  he replied.\n\n Tell us where you got your lessons, and you shall have it,  said I.\n Who s your master? \n\n Devil daddy,  was his answer.\n\n And what do you learn from daddy?  I continued.\n\nHe jumped at the fruit; I raised it higher.  What does he teach you?  I\nasked.\n\n Naught,  said he,  but to keep out of his gait. Daddy cannot bide me,\nbecause I swear at him. \n\n Ah! and the devil teaches you to swear at daddy?  I observed.\n\n Ay nay,  he drawled.\n\n Who, then? \n\n Heathcliff. \n\n I asked if he liked Mr. Heathcliff. \n\n Ay!  he answered again.\n\nDesiring to have his reasons for liking him, I could only gather the\nsentences I known t: he pays dad back what he gies to me he curses\ndaddy for cursing me. He says I mun do as I will. \n\n And the curate does not teach you to read and write, then?  I pursued.\n\n No, I was told the curate should have his   teeth dashed down his  \nthroat, if he stepped over the threshold Heathcliff had promised that! \n\nI put the orange in his hand, and bade him tell his father that a woman\ncalled Nelly Dean was waiting to speak with him, by the garden gate. He\nwent up the walk, and entered the house; but, instead of Hindley,\nHeathcliff appeared on the door-stones; and I turned directly and ran\ndown the road as hard as ever I could race, making no halt till I\ngained the guide-post, and feeling as scared as if I had raised a\ngoblin. This is not much connected with Miss Isabella s affair: except\nthat it urged me to resolve further on mounting vigilant guard, and\ndoing my utmost to check the spread of such bad influence at the\nGrange: even though I should wake a domestic storm, by thwarting Mrs.\nLinton s pleasure.\n\nThe next time Heathcliff came my young lady chanced to be feeding some\npigeons in the court. She had never spoken a word to her sister-in-law\nfor three days; but she had likewise dropped her fretful complaining,\nand we found it a great comfort. Heathcliff had not the habit of\nbestowing a single unnecessary civility on Miss Linton, I knew. Now, as\nsoon as he beheld her, his first precaution was to take a sweeping\nsurvey of the house-front. I was standing by the kitchen-window, but I\ndrew out of sight. He then stepped across the pavement to her, and said\nsomething: she seemed embarrassed, and desirous of getting away; to\nprevent it, he laid his hand on her arm. She averted her face: he\napparently put some question which she had no mind to answer. There was\nanother rapid glance at the house, and supposing himself unseen, the\nscoundrel had the impudence to embrace her.\n\n Judas! Traitor!  I ejaculated.  You are a hypocrite, too, are you? A\ndeliberate deceiver. \n\n Who is, Nelly?  said Catherine s voice at my elbow: I had been\nover-intent on watching the pair outside to mark her entrance.\n\n Your worthless friend!  I answered, warmly:  the sneaking rascal\nyonder. Ah, he has caught a glimpse of us he is coming in! I wonder\nwill he have the heart to find a plausible excuse for making love to\nMiss, when he told you he hated her? \n\nMrs. Linton saw Isabella tear herself free, and run into the garden;\nand a minute after, Heathcliff opened the door. I couldn t withhold\ngiving some loose to my indignation; but Catherine angrily insisted on\nsilence, and threatened to order me out of the kitchen, if I dared to\nbe so presumptuous as to put in my insolent tongue.\n\n To hear you, people might think you were the mistress!  she cried.\n You want setting down in your right place! Heathcliff, what are you\nabout, raising this stir? I said you must let Isabella alone! I beg you\nwill, unless you are tired of being received here, and wish Linton to\ndraw the bolts against you! \n\n God forbid that he should try!  answered the black villain. I detested\nhim just then.  God keep him meek and patient! Every day I grow madder\nafter sending him to heaven! \n\n Hush!  said Catherine, shutting the inner door.  Don t vex me. Why\nhave you disregarded my request? Did she come across you on purpose? \n\n What is it to you?  he growled.  I have a right to kiss her, if she\nchooses; and you have no right to object. I am not _your_ husband:\n_you_ needn t be jealous of me! \n\n I m not jealous of you,  replied the mistress;  I m jealous for you.\nClear your face: you sha n t scowl at me! If you like Isabella, you\nshall marry her. But do you like her? Tell the truth, Heathcliff!\nThere, you won t answer. I m certain you don t. \n\n And would Mr. Linton approve of his sister marrying that man?  I\ninquired.\n\n Mr. Linton should approve,  returned my lady, decisively.\n\n He might spare himself the trouble,  said Heathcliff:  I could do as\nwell without his approbation. And as to you, Catherine, I have a mind\nto speak a few words now, while we are at it. I want you to be aware\nthat I _know_ you have treated me infernally infernally! Do you hear?\nAnd if you flatter yourself that I don t perceive it, you are a fool;\nand if you think I can be consoled by sweet words, you are an idiot:\nand if you fancy I ll suffer unrevenged, I ll convince you of the\ncontrary, in a very little while! Meantime, thank you for telling me\nyour sister-in-law s secret: I swear I ll make the most of it. And\nstand you aside! \n\n What new phase of his character is this?  exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in\namazement.  I ve treated you infernally and you ll take your revenge!\nHow will you take it, ungrateful brute? How have I treated you\ninfernally? \n\n I seek no revenge on you,  replied Heathcliff, less vehemently.\n That s not the plan. The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don t\nturn against him; they crush those beneath them. You are welcome to\ntorture me to death for your amusement, only allow me to amuse myself a\nlittle in the same style, and refrain from insult as much as you are\nable. Having levelled my palace, don t erect a hovel and complacently\nadmire your own charity in giving me that for a home. If I imagined you\nreally wished me to marry Isabel, I d cut my throat! \n\n Oh, the evil is that I am _not_ jealous, is it?  cried Catherine.\n Well, I won t repeat my offer of a wife: it is as bad as offering\nSatan a lost soul. Your bliss lies, like his, in inflicting misery. You\nprove it. Edgar is restored from the ill-temper he gave way to at your\ncoming; I begin to be secure and tranquil; and you, restless to know us\nat peace, appear resolved on exciting a quarrel. Quarrel with Edgar, if\nyou please, Heathcliff, and deceive his sister: you ll hit on exactly\nthe most efficient method of revenging yourself on me. \n\nThe conversation ceased. Mrs. Linton sat down by the fire, flushed and\ngloomy. The spirit which served her was growing intractable: she could\nneither lay nor control it. He stood on the hearth with folded arms,\nbrooding on his evil thoughts; and in this position I left them to seek\nthe master, who was wondering what kept Catherine below so long.\n\n Ellen,  said he, when I entered,  have you seen your mistress? \n\n Yes; she s in the kitchen, sir,  I answered.  She s sadly put out by\nMr. Heathcliff s behaviour: and, indeed, I do think it s time to\narrange his visits on another footing. There s harm in being too soft,\nand now it s come to this .  And I related the scene in the court, and,\nas near as I dared, the whole subsequent dispute. I fancied it could\nnot be very prejudicial to Mrs. Linton; unless she made it so\nafterwards, by assuming the defensive for her guest. Edgar Linton had\ndifficulty in hearing me to the close. His first words revealed that he\ndid not clear his wife of blame.\n\n This is insufferable!  he exclaimed.  It is disgraceful that she\nshould own him for a friend, and force his company on me! Call me two\nmen out of the hall, Ellen. Catherine shall linger no longer to argue\nwith the low ruffian I have humoured her enough. \n\nHe descended, and bidding the servants wait in the passage, went,\nfollowed by me, to the kitchen. Its occupants had recommenced their\nangry discussion: Mrs. Linton, at least, was scolding with renewed\nvigour; Heathcliff had moved to the window, and hung his head, somewhat\ncowed by her violent rating apparently. He saw the master first, and\nmade a hasty motion that she should be silent; which she obeyed,\nabruptly, on discovering the reason of his intimation.\n\n How is this?  said Linton, addressing her;  what notion of propriety\nmust you have to remain here, after the language which has been held to\nyou by that blackguard? I suppose, because it is his ordinary talk you\nthink nothing of it: you are habituated to his baseness, and, perhaps,\nimagine I can get used to it too! \n\n Have you been listening at the door, Edgar?  asked the mistress, in a\ntone particularly calculated to provoke her husband, implying both\ncarelessness and contempt of his irritation. Heathcliff, who had raised\nhis eyes at the former speech, gave a sneering laugh at the latter; on\npurpose, it seemed, to draw Mr. Linton s attention to him. He\nsucceeded; but Edgar did not mean to entertain him with any high\nflights of passion.\n\n I ve been so far forbearing with you, sir,  he said quietly;  not that\nI was ignorant of your miserable, degraded character, but I felt you\nwere only partly responsible for that; and Catherine wishing to keep up\nyour acquaintance, I acquiesced foolishly. Your presence is a moral\npoison that would contaminate the most virtuous: for that cause, and to\nprevent worse consequences, I shall deny you hereafter admission into\nthis house, and give notice now that I require your instant departure.\nThree minutes  delay will render it involuntary and ignominious. \n\nHeathcliff measured the height and breadth of the speaker with an eye\nfull of derision.\n\n Cathy, this lamb of yours threatens like a bull!  he said.  It is in\ndanger of splitting its skull against my knuckles. By God! Mr. Linton,\nI m mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down! \n\nMy master glanced towards the passage, and signed me to fetch the men:\nhe had no intention of hazarding a personal encounter. I obeyed the\nhint; but Mrs. Linton, suspecting something, followed; and when I\nattempted to call them, she pulled me back, slammed the door to, and\nlocked it.\n\n Fair means!  she said, in answer to her husband s look of angry\nsurprise.  If you have not courage to attack him, make an apology, or\nallow yourself to be beaten. It will correct you of feigning more\nvalour than you possess. No, I ll swallow the key before you shall get\nit! I m delightfully rewarded for my kindness to each! After constant\nindulgence of one s weak nature, and the other s bad one, I earn for\nthanks two samples of blind ingratitude, stupid to absurdity! Edgar, I\nwas defending you and yours; and I wish Heathcliff may flog you sick,\nfor daring to think an evil thought of me! \n\nIt did not need the medium of a flogging to produce that effect on the\nmaster. He tried to wrest the key from Catherine s grasp, and for\nsafety she flung it into the hottest part of the fire; whereupon Mr.\nEdgar was taken with a nervous trembling, and his countenance grew\ndeadly pale. For his life he could not avert that excess of emotion:\nmingled anguish and humiliation overcame him completely. He leant on\nthe back of a chair, and covered his face.\n\n Oh, heavens! In old days this would win you knighthood!  exclaimed\nMrs. Linton.  We are vanquished! we are vanquished! Heathcliff would as\nsoon lift a finger at you as the king would march his army against a\ncolony of mice. Cheer up! you sha n t be hurt! Your type is not a lamb,\nit s a sucking leveret. \n\n I wish you joy of the milk-blooded coward, Cathy!  said her friend.  I\ncompliment you on your taste. And that is the slavering, shivering\nthing you preferred to me! I would not strike him with my fist, but I d\nkick him with my foot, and experience considerable satisfaction. Is he\nweeping, or is he going to faint for fear? \n\nThe fellow approached and gave the chair on which Linton rested a push.\nHe d better have kept his distance: my master quickly sprang erect, and\nstruck him full on the throat a blow that would have levelled a\nslighter man. It took his breath for a minute; and while he choked, Mr.\nLinton walked out by the back door into the yard, and from thence to\nthe front entrance.\n\n There! you ve done with coming here,  cried Catherine.  Get away, now;\nhe ll return with a brace of pistols and half-a-dozen assistants. If he\ndid overhear us, of course he d never forgive you. You ve played me an\nill turn, Heathcliff! But go make haste! I d rather see Edgar at bay\nthan you. \n\n Do you suppose I m going with that blow burning in my gullet?  he\nthundered.  By hell, no! I ll crush his ribs in like a rotten hazel-nut\nbefore I cross the threshold! If I don t floor him now, I shall murder\nhim some time; so, as you value his existence, let me get at him! \n\n He is not coming,  I interposed, framing a bit of a lie.  There s the\ncoachman and the two gardeners; you ll surely not wait to be thrust\ninto the road by them! Each has a bludgeon; and master will, very\nlikely, be watching from the parlour-windows to see that they fulfil\nhis orders. \n\nThe gardeners and coachman _were_ there: but Linton was with them. They\nhad already entered the court. Heathcliff, on the second thoughts,\nresolved to avoid a struggle against three underlings: he seized the\npoker, smashed the lock from the inner door, and made his escape as\nthey tramped in.\n\nMrs. Linton, who was very much excited, bade me accompany her upstairs.\nShe did not know my share in contributing to the disturbance, and I was\nanxious to keep her in ignorance.\n\n I m nearly distracted, Nelly!  she exclaimed, throwing herself on the\nsofa.  A thousand smiths  hammers are beating in my head! Tell Isabella\nto shun me; this uproar is owing to her; and should she or any one else\naggravate my anger at present, I shall get wild. And, Nelly, say to\nEdgar, if you see him again to-night, that I m in danger of being\nseriously ill. I wish it may prove true. He has startled and distressed\nme shockingly! I want to frighten him. Besides, he might come and begin\na string of abuse or complainings; I m certain I should recriminate,\nand God knows where we should end! Will you do so, my good Nelly? You\nare aware that I am no way blamable in this matter. What possessed him\nto turn listener? Heathcliff s talk was outrageous, after you left us;\nbut I could soon have diverted him from Isabella, and the rest meant\nnothing. Now all is dashed wrong; by the fool s craving to hear evil of\nself, that haunts some people like a demon! Had Edgar never gathered\nour conversation, he would never have been the worse for it. Really,\nwhen he opened on me in that unreasonable tone of displeasure after I\nhad scolded Heathcliff till I was hoarse for _him;_ I did not care\nhardly what they did to each other; especially as I felt that, however\nthe scene closed, we should all be driven asunder for nobody knows how\nlong! Well, if I cannot keep Heathcliff for my friend if Edgar will be\nmean and jealous, I ll try to break their hearts by breaking my own.\nThat will be a prompt way of finishing all, when I am pushed to\nextremity! But it s a deed to be reserved for a forlorn hope; I d not\ntake Linton by surprise with it. To this point he has been discreet in\ndreading to provoke me; you must represent the peril of quitting that\npolicy, and remind him of my passionate temper, verging, when kindled,\non frenzy. I wish you could dismiss that apathy out of that\ncountenance, and look rather more anxious about me. \n\nThe stolidity with which I received these instructions was, no doubt,\nrather exasperating: for they were delivered in perfect sincerity; but\nI believed a person who could plan the turning of her fits of passion\nto account, beforehand, might, by exerting her will, manage to control\nherself tolerably, even while under their influence; and I did not wish\nto  frighten  her husband, as she said, and multiply his annoyances for\nthe purpose of serving her selfishness. Therefore I said nothing when I\nmet the master coming towards the parlour; but I took the liberty of\nturning back to listen whether they would resume their quarrel\ntogether. He began to speak first.\n\n Remain where you are, Catherine,  he said; without any anger in his\nvoice, but with much sorrowful despondency.  I shall not stay. I am\nneither come to wrangle nor be reconciled; but I wish just to learn\nwhether, after this evening s events, you intend to continue your\nintimacy with \n\n Oh, for mercy s sake,  interrupted the mistress, stamping her foot,\n for mercy s sake, let us hear no more of it now! Your cold blood\ncannot be worked into a fever: your veins are full of ice-water; but\nmine are boiling, and the sight of such chillness makes them dance. \n\n To get rid of me, answer my question,  persevered Mr. Linton.  You\n_must_ answer it; and that violence does not alarm me. I have found\nthat you can be as stoical as anyone, when you please. Will you give up\nHeathcliff hereafter, or will you give up me? It is impossible for you\nto be _my_ friend and _his_ at the same time; and I absolutely\n_require_ to know which you choose. \n\n I require to be let alone!  exclaimed Catherine, furiously.  I demand\nit! Don t you see I can scarcely stand? Edgar, you you leave me! \n\nShe rang the bell till it broke with a twang; I entered leisurely. It\nwas enough to try the temper of a saint, such senseless, wicked rages!\nThere she lay dashing her head against the arm of the sofa, and\ngrinding her teeth, so that you might fancy she would crash them to\nsplinters! Mr. Linton stood looking at her in sudden compunction and\nfear. He told me to fetch some water. She had no breath for speaking. I\nbrought a glass full; and as she would not drink, I sprinkled it on her\nface. In a few seconds she stretched herself out stiff, and turned up\nher eyes, while her cheeks, at once blanched and livid, assumed the\naspect of death. Linton looked terrified.\n\n There is nothing in the world the matter,  I whispered. I did not want\nhim to yield, though I could not help being afraid in my heart.\n\n She has blood on her lips!  he said, shuddering.\n\n Never mind!  I answered, tartly. And I told him how she had resolved,\nprevious to his coming, on exhibiting a fit of frenzy. I incautiously\ngave the account aloud, and she heard me; for she started up her hair\nflying over her shoulders, her eyes flashing, the muscles of her neck\nand arms standing out preternaturally. I made up my mind for broken\nbones, at least; but she only glared about her for an instant, and then\nrushed from the room. The master directed me to follow; I did, to her\nchamber-door: she hindered me from going further by securing it against\nme.\n\nAs she never offered to descend to breakfast next morning, I went to\nask whether she would have some carried up.  No!  she replied,\nperemptorily. The same question was repeated at dinner and tea; and\nagain on the morrow after, and received the same answer. Mr. Linton, on\nhis part, spent his time in the library, and did not inquire concerning\nhis wife s occupations. Isabella and he had had an hour s interview,\nduring which he tried to elicit from her some sentiment of proper\nhorror for Heathcliff s advances: but he could make nothing of her\nevasive replies, and was obliged to close the examination\nunsatisfactorily; adding, however, a solemn warning, that if she were\nso insane as to encourage that worthless suitor, it would dissolve all\nbonds of relationship between herself and him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nWhile Miss Linton moped about the park and garden, always silent, and\nalmost always in tears; and her brother shut himself up among books\nthat he never opened wearying, I guessed, with a continual vague\nexpectation that Catherine, repenting her conduct, would come of her\nown accord to ask pardon, and seek a reconciliation and _she_ fasted\npertinaciously, under the idea, probably, that at every meal Edgar was\nready to choke for her absence, and pride alone held him from running\nto cast himself at her feet; I went about my household duties,\nconvinced that the Grange had but one sensible soul in its walls, and\nthat lodged in my body. I wasted no condolences on Miss, nor any\nexpostulations on my mistress; nor did I pay much attention to the\nsighs of my master, who yearned to hear his lady s name, since he might\nnot hear her voice. I determined they should come about as they pleased\nfor me; and though it was a tiresomely slow process, I began to rejoice\nat length in a faint dawn of its progress: as I thought at first.\n\nMrs. Linton, on the third day, unbarred her door, and having finished\nthe water in her pitcher and decanter, desired a renewed supply, and a\nbasin of gruel, for she believed she was dying. That I set down as a\nspeech meant for Edgar s ears; I believed no such thing, so I kept it\nto myself and brought her some tea and dry toast. She ate and drank\neagerly, and sank back on her pillow again, clenching her hands and\ngroaning.  Oh, I will die,  she exclaimed,  since no one cares anything\nabout me. I wish I had not taken that.  Then a good while after I heard\nher murmur,  No, I ll not die he d be glad he does not love me at\nall he would never miss me! \n\n Did you want anything, ma am?  I inquired, still preserving my\nexternal composure, in spite of her ghastly countenance and strange,\nexaggerated manner.\n\n What is that apathetic being doing?  she demanded, pushing the thick\nentangled locks from her wasted face.  Has he fallen into a lethargy,\nor is he dead? \n\n Neither,  replied I;  if you mean Mr. Linton. He s tolerably well, I\nthink, though his studies occupy him rather more than they ought: he is\ncontinually among his books, since he has no other society. \n\nI should not have spoken so if I had known her true condition, but I\ncould not get rid of the notion that she acted a part of her disorder.\n\n Among his books!  she cried, confounded.  And I dying! I on the brink\nof the grave! My God! does he know how I m altered?  continued she,\nstaring at her reflection in a mirror hanging against the opposite\nwall.  Is that Catherine Linton? He imagines me in a pet in play,\nperhaps. Cannot you inform him that it is frightful earnest? Nelly, if\nit be not too late, as soon as I learn how he feels, I ll choose\nbetween these two: either to starve at once that would be no punishment\nunless he had a heart or to recover, and leave the country. Are you\nspeaking the truth about him now? Take care. Is he actually so utterly\nindifferent for my life? \n\n Why, ma am,  I answered,  the master has no idea of your being\nderanged; and of course he does not fear that you will let yourself die\nof hunger. \n\n You think not? Cannot you tell him I will?  she returned.  Persuade\nhim! speak of your own mind: say you are certain I will! \n\n No, you forget, Mrs. Linton,  I suggested,  that you have eaten some\nfood with a relish this evening, and to-morrow you will perceive its\ngood effects. \n\n If I were only sure it would kill him,  she interrupted,  I d kill\nmyself directly! These three awful nights I ve never closed my lids and\noh, I ve been tormented! I ve been haunted, Nelly! But I begin to fancy\nyou don t like me. How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and\ndespised each other, they could not avoid loving me. And they have all\nturned to enemies in a few hours. _They_ have, I m positive; the people\n_here_. How dreary to meet death, surrounded by their cold faces!\nIsabella, terrified and repelled, afraid to enter the room, it would be\nso dreadful to watch Catherine go. And Edgar standing solemnly by to\nsee it over; then offering prayers of thanks to God for restoring peace\nto his house, and going back to his _books_! What in the name of all\nthat feels has he to do with _books_, when I am dying? \n\nShe could not bear the notion which I had put into her head of Mr.\nLinton s philosophical resignation. Tossing about, she increased her\nfeverish bewilderment to madness, and tore the pillow with her teeth;\nthen raising herself up all burning, desired that I would open the\nwindow. We were in the middle of winter, the wind blew strong from the\nnorth-east, and I objected. Both the expressions flitting over her\nface, and the changes of her moods, began to alarm me terribly; and\nbrought to my recollection her former illness, and the doctor s\ninjunction that she should not be crossed. A minute previously she was\nviolent; now, supported on one arm, and not noticing my refusal to obey\nher, she seemed to find childish diversion in pulling the feathers from\nthe rents she had just made, and ranging them on the sheet according to\ntheir different species: her mind had strayed to other associations.\n\n That s a turkey s,  she murmured to herself;  and this is a wild\nduck s; and this is a pigeon s. Ah, they put pigeons  feathers in the\npillows no wonder I couldn t die! Let me take care to throw it on the\nfloor when I lie down. And here is a moor-cock s; and this I should\nknow it among a thousand it s a lapwing s. Bonny bird; wheeling over\nour heads in the middle of the moor. It wanted to get to its nest, for\nthe clouds had touched the swells, and it felt rain coming. This\nfeather was picked up from the heath, the bird was not shot: we saw its\nnest in the winter, full of little skeletons. Heathcliff set a trap\nover it, and the old ones dared not come. I made him promise he d never\nshoot a lapwing after that, and he didn t. Yes, here are more! Did he\nshoot my lapwings, Nelly? Are they red, any of them? Let me look. \n\n Give over with that baby-work!  I interrupted, dragging the pillow\naway, and turning the holes towards the mattress, for she was removing\nits contents by handfuls.  Lie down and shut your eyes: you re\nwandering. There s a mess! The down is flying about like snow. \n\nI went here and there collecting it.\n\n I see in you, Nelly,  she continued dreamily,  an aged woman: you have\ngrey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is the fairy cave under\nPenistone Crags, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our heifers;\npretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of wool. That s\nwhat you ll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now. I m\nnot wandering: you re mistaken, or else I should believe you really\n_were_ that withered hag, and I should think I _was_ under Penistone\nCrags; and I m conscious it s night, and there are two candles on the\ntable making the black press shine like jet. \n\n The black press? where is that?  I asked.  You are talking in your\nsleep! \n\n It s against the wall, as it always is,  she replied.  It _does_\nappear odd I see a face in it! \n\n There s no press in the room, and never was,  said I, resuming my\nseat, and looping up the curtain that I might watch her.\n\n Don t _you_ see that face?  she inquired, gazing earnestly at the\nmirror.\n\nAnd say what I could, I was incapable of making her comprehend it to be\nher own; so I rose and covered it with a shawl.\n\n It s behind there still!  she pursued, anxiously.  And it stirred. Who\nis it? I hope it will not come out when you are gone! Oh! Nelly, the\nroom is haunted! I m afraid of being alone! \n\nI took her hand in mine, and bid her be composed; for a succession of\nshudders convulsed her frame, and she _would_ keep straining her gaze\ntowards the glass.\n\n There s nobody here!  I insisted.  It was _yourself_, Mrs. Linton: you\nknew it a while since. \n\n Myself!  she gasped,  and the clock is striking twelve! It s true,\nthen! that s dreadful! \n\nHer fingers clutched the clothes, and gathered them over her eyes. I\nattempted to steal to the door with an intention of calling her\nhusband; but I was summoned back by a piercing shriek the shawl had\ndropped from the frame.\n\n Why, what _is_ the matter?  cried I.  Who is coward now? Wake up! That\nis the glass the mirror, Mrs. Linton; and you see yourself in it, and\nthere am I too by your side. \n\nTrembling and bewildered, she held me fast, but the horror gradually\npassed from her countenance; its paleness gave place to a glow of\nshame.\n\n Oh, dear! I thought I was at home,  she sighed.  I thought I was lying\nin my chamber at Wuthering Heights. Because I m weak, my brain got\nconfused, and I screamed unconsciously. Don t say anything; but stay\nwith me. I dread sleeping: my dreams appal me. \n\n A sound sleep would do you good, ma am,  I answered:  and I hope this\nsuffering will prevent your trying starving again. \n\n Oh, if I were but in my own bed in the old house!  she went on\nbitterly, wringing her hands.  And that wind sounding in the firs by\nthe lattice. Do let me feel it it comes straight down the moor do let\nme have one breath! \n\nTo pacify her I held the casement ajar a few seconds. A cold blast\nrushed through; I closed it, and returned to my post. She lay still\nnow, her face bathed in tears. Exhaustion of body had entirely subdued\nher spirit: our fiery Catherine was no better than a wailing child.\n\n How long is it since I shut myself in here?  she asked, suddenly\nreviving.\n\n It was Monday evening,  I replied,  and this is Thursday night, or\nrather Friday morning, at present. \n\n What! of the same week?  she exclaimed.  Only that brief time? \n\n Long enough to live on nothing but cold water and ill-temper, \nobserved I.\n\n Well, it seems a weary number of hours,  she muttered doubtfully:  it\nmust be more. I remember being in the parlour after they had\nquarrelled, and Edgar being cruelly provoking, and me running into this\nroom desperate. As soon as ever I had barred the door, utter blackness\noverwhelmed me, and I fell on the floor. I couldn t explain to Edgar\nhow certain I felt of having a fit, or going raging mad, if he\npersisted in teasing me! I had no command of tongue, or brain, and he\ndid not guess my agony, perhaps: it barely left me sense to try to\nescape from him and his voice. Before I recovered sufficiently to see\nand hear, it began to be dawn, and, Nelly, I ll tell you what I\nthought, and what has kept recurring and recurring till I feared for my\nreason. I thought as I lay there, with my head against that table leg,\nand my eyes dimly discerning the grey square of the window, that I was\nenclosed in the oak-panelled bed at home; and my heart ached with some\ngreat grief which, just waking, I could not recollect. I pondered, and\nworried myself to discover what it could be, and, most strangely, the\nwhole last seven years of my life grew a blank! I did not recall that\nthey had been at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my\nmisery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me\nand Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and, rousing from\na dismal doze after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push the\npanels aside: it struck the table-top! I swept it along the carpet, and\nthen memory burst in: my late anguish was swallowed in a paroxysm of\ndespair. I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched: it must have been\ntemporary derangement; for there is scarcely cause. But, supposing at\ntwelve years old I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early\nassociation, and my all in all, as Heathcliff was at that time, and\nbeen converted at a stroke into Mrs. Linton, the lady of Thrushcross\nGrange, and the wife of a stranger: an exile, and outcast, thenceforth,\nfrom what had been my world. You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where\nI grovelled! Shake your head as you will, Nelly, _you_ have helped to\nunsettle me! You should have spoken to Edgar, indeed you should, and\ncompelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I m burning! I wish I were out of\ndoors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and\nlaughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed?\nwhy does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I m sure I\nshould be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the\nwindow again wide: fasten it open! Quick, why don t you move? \n\n Because I won t give you your death of cold,  I answered.\n\n You won t give me a chance of life, you mean,  she said sullenly.\n However, I m not helpless yet; I ll open it myself. \n\nAnd sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the\nroom, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless\nof the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. I\nentreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. But I soon\nfound her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she _was_ delirious,\nI became convinced by her subsequent actions and ravings). There was no\nmoon, and everything beneath lay in misty darkness: not a light gleamed\nfrom any house, far or near; all had been extinguished long ago: and\nthose at Wuthering Heights were never visible still she asserted she\ncaught their shining.\n\n Look!  she cried eagerly,  that s my room with the candle in it, and\nthe trees swaying before it; and the other candle is in Joseph s\ngarret. Joseph sits up late, doesn t he? He s waiting till I come home\nthat he may lock the gate. Well, he ll wait a while yet. It s a rough\njourney, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton\nKirk to go that journey! We ve braved its ghosts often together, and\ndared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But,\nHeathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I ll keep\nyou. I ll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep,\nand throw the church down over me, but I won t rest till you are with\nme. I never will! \n\nShe paused, and resumed with a strange smile.  He s considering he d\nrather I d come to him! Find a way, then! not through that kirkyard.\nYou are slow! Be content, you always followed me! \n\nPerceiving it vain to argue against her insanity, I was planning how I\ncould reach something to wrap about her, without quitting my hold of\nherself (for I could not trust her alone by the gaping lattice), when,\nto my consternation, I heard the rattle of the door-handle, and Mr.\nLinton entered. He had only then come from the library; and, in passing\nthrough the lobby, had noticed our talking and been attracted by\ncuriosity, or fear, to examine what it signified, at that late hour.\n\n Oh, sir!  I cried, checking the exclamation risen to his lips at the\nsight which met him, and the bleak atmosphere of the chamber.  My poor\nmistress is ill, and she quite masters me: I cannot manage her at all;\npray, come and persuade her to go to bed. Forget your anger, for she s\nhard to guide any way but her own. \n\n Catherine ill?  he said, hastening to us.  Shut the window, Ellen!\nCatherine! why \n\nHe was silent. The haggardness of Mrs. Linton s appearance smote him\nspeechless, and he could only glance from her to me in horrified\nastonishment.\n\n She s been fretting here,  I continued,  and eating scarcely anything,\nand never complaining: she would admit none of us till this evening,\nand so we couldn t inform you of her state, as we were not aware of it\nourselves; but it is nothing. \n\nI felt I uttered my explanations awkwardly; the master frowned.  It is\nnothing, is it, Ellen Dean?  he said sternly.  You shall account more\nclearly for keeping me ignorant of this!  And he took his wife in his\narms, and looked at her with anguish.\n\nAt first she gave him no glance of recognition: he was invisible to her\nabstracted gaze. The delirium was not fixed, however; having weaned her\neyes from contemplating the outer darkness, by degrees she centred her\nattention on him, and discovered who it was that held her.\n\n Ah! you are come, are you, Edgar Linton?  she said, with angry\nanimation.  You are one of those things that are ever found when least\nwanted, and when you are wanted, never! I suppose we shall have plenty\nof lamentations now I see we shall but they can t keep me from my\nnarrow home out yonder: my resting-place, where I m bound before spring\nis over! There it is: not among the Lintons, mind, under the\nchapel-roof, but in the open air, with a head-stone; and you may please\nyourself whether you go to them or come to me! \n\n Catherine, what have you done?  commenced the master.  Am I nothing to\nyou any more? Do you love that wretch Heath \n\n Hush!  cried Mrs. Linton.  Hush, this moment! You mention that name\nand I end the matter instantly by a spring from the window! What you\ntouch at present you may have; but my soul will be on that hill-top\nbefore you lay hands on me again. I don t want you, Edgar: I m past\nwanting you. Return to your books. I m glad you possess a consolation,\nfor all you had in me is gone. \n\n Her mind wanders, sir,  I interposed.  She has been talking nonsense\nthe whole evening; but let her have quiet, and proper attendance, and\nshe ll rally. Hereafter, we must be cautious how we vex her. \n\n I desire no further advice from you,  answered Mr. Linton.  You knew\nyour mistress s nature, and you encouraged me to harass her. And not to\ngive me one hint of how she has been these three days! It was\nheartless! Months of sickness could not cause such a change! \n\nI began to defend myself, thinking it too bad to be blamed for\nanother s wicked waywardness.  I knew Mrs. Linton s nature to be\nheadstrong and domineering,  cried I:  but I didn t know that you\nwished to foster her fierce temper! I didn t know that, to humour her,\nI should wink at Mr. Heathcliff. I performed the duty of a faithful\nservant in telling you, and I have got a faithful servant s wages!\nWell, it will teach me to be careful next time. Next time you may\ngather intelligence for yourself! \n\n The next time you bring a tale to me you shall quit my service, Ellen\nDean,  he replied.\n\n You d rather hear nothing about it, I suppose, then, Mr. Linton?  said\nI.  Heathcliff has your permission to come a-courting to Miss, and to\ndrop in at every opportunity your absence offers, on purpose to poison\nthe mistress against you? \n\nConfused as Catherine was, her wits were alert at applying our\nconversation.\n\n Ah! Nelly has played traitor,  she exclaimed, passionately.  Nelly is\nmy hidden enemy. You witch! So you do seek elf-bolts to hurt us! Let me\ngo, and I ll make her rue! I ll make her howl a recantation! \n\nA maniac s fury kindled under her brows; she struggled desperately to\ndisengage herself from Linton s arms. I felt no inclination to tarry\nthe event; and, resolving to seek medical aid on my own responsibility,\nI quitted the chamber.\n\nIn passing the garden to reach the road, at a place where a bridle hook\nis driven into the wall, I saw something white moved irregularly,\nevidently by another agent than the wind. Notwithstanding my hurry, I\nstayed to examine it, lest ever after I should have the conviction\nimpressed on my imagination that it was a creature of the other world.\nMy surprise and perplexity were great on discovering, by touch more\nthan vision, Miss Isabella s springer, Fanny, suspended by a\nhandkerchief, and nearly at its last gasp. I quickly released the\nanimal, and lifted it into the garden. I had seen it follow its\nmistress upstairs when she went to bed; and wondered much how it could\nhave got out there, and what mischievous person had treated it so.\nWhile untying the knot round the hook, it seemed to me that I\nrepeatedly caught the beat of horses  feet galloping at some distance;\nbut there were such a number of things to occupy my reflections that I\nhardly gave the circumstance a thought: though it was a strange sound,\nin that place, at two o clock in the morning.\n\nMr. Kenneth was fortunately just issuing from his house to see a\npatient in the village as I came up the street; and my account of\nCatherine Linton s malady induced him to accompany me back immediately.\nHe was a plain rough man; and he made no scruple to speak his doubts of\nher surviving this second attack; unless she were more submissive to\nhis directions than she had shown herself before.\n\n Nelly Dean,  said he,  I can t help fancying there s an extra cause\nfor this. What has there been to do at the Grange? We ve odd reports up\nhere. A stout, hearty lass like Catherine does not fall ill for a\ntrifle; and that sort of people should not either. It s hard work\nbringing them through fevers, and such things. How did it begin? \n\n The master will inform you,  I answered;  but you are acquainted with\nthe Earnshaws  violent dispositions, and Mrs. Linton caps them all. I\nmay say this; it commenced in a quarrel. She was struck during a\ntempest of passion with a kind of fit. That s her account, at least:\nfor she flew off in the height of it, and locked herself up.\nAfterwards, she refused to eat, and now she alternately raves and\nremains in a half dream; knowing those about her, but having her mind\nfilled with all sorts of strange ideas and illusions. \n\n Mr. Linton will be sorry?  observed Kenneth, interrogatively.\n\n Sorry? he ll break his heart should anything happen!  I replied.\n Don t alarm him more than necessary. \n\n Well, I told him to beware,  said my companion;  and he must bide the\nconsequences of neglecting my warning! Hasn t he been intimate with Mr.\nHeathcliff lately? \n\n Heathcliff frequently visits at the Grange,  answered I,  though more\non the strength of the mistress having known him when a boy, than\nbecause the master likes his company. At present he s discharged from\nthe trouble of calling; owing to some presumptuous aspirations after\nMiss Linton which he manifested. I hardly think he ll be taken in\nagain. \n\n And does Miss Linton turn a cold shoulder on him?  was the doctor s\nnext question.\n\n I m not in her confidence,  returned I, reluctant to continue the\nsubject.\n\n No, she s a sly one,  he remarked, shaking his head.  She keeps her\nown counsel! But she s a real little fool. I have it from good\nauthority that last night (and a pretty night it was!) she and\nHeathcliff were walking in the plantation at the back of your house\nabove two hours; and he pressed her not to go in again, but just mount\nhis horse and away with him! My informant said she could only put him\noff by pledging her word of honour to be prepared on their first\nmeeting after that: when it was to be he didn t hear; but you urge Mr.\nLinton to look sharp! \n\nThis news filled me with fresh fears; I outstripped Kenneth, and ran\nmost of the way back. The little dog was yelping in the garden yet. I\nspared a minute to open the gate for it, but instead of going to the\nhouse door, it coursed up and down snuffing the grass, and would have\nescaped to the road, had I not seized it and conveyed it in with me. On\nascending to Isabella s room, my suspicions were confirmed: it was\nempty. Had I been a few hours sooner Mrs. Linton s illness might have\narrested her rash step. But what could be done now? There was a bare\npossibility of overtaking them if pursued instantly. _I_ could not\npursue them, however; and I dared not rouse the family, and fill the\nplace with confusion; still less unfold the business to my master,\nabsorbed as he was in his present calamity, and having no heart to\nspare for a second grief! I saw nothing for it but to hold my tongue,\nand suffer matters to take their course; and Kenneth being arrived, I\nwent with a badly composed countenance to announce him. Catherine lay\nin a troubled sleep: her husband had succeeded in soothing the excess\nof frenzy; he now hung over her pillow, watching every shade and every\nchange of her painfully expressive features.\n\nThe doctor, on examining the case for himself, spoke hopefully to him\nof its having a favourable termination, if we could only preserve\naround her perfect and constant tranquillity. To me, he signified the\nthreatening danger was not so much death, as permanent alienation of\nintellect.\n\nI did not close my eyes that night, nor did Mr. Linton: indeed, we\nnever went to bed; and the servants were all up long before the usual\nhour, moving through the house with stealthy tread, and exchanging\nwhispers as they encountered each other in their vocations. Every one\nwas active but Miss Isabella; and they began to remark how sound she\nslept: her brother, too, asked if she had risen, and seemed impatient\nfor her presence, and hurt that she showed so little anxiety for her\nsister-in-law. I trembled lest he should send me to call her; but I was\nspared the pain of being the first proclaimant of her flight. One of\nthe maids, a thoughtless girl, who had been on an early errand to\nGimmerton, came panting upstairs, open-mouthed, and dashed into the\nchamber, crying:  Oh, dear, dear! What mun we have next? Master,\nmaster, our young lady \n\n Hold your noise!  cried I hastily, enraged at her clamorous manner.\n\n Speak lower, Mary What is the matter?  said Mr. Linton.  What ails\nyour young lady? \n\n She s gone, she s gone! Yon  Heathcliff s run off wi  her!  gasped the\ngirl.\n\n That is not true!  exclaimed Linton, rising in agitation.  It cannot\nbe: how has the idea entered your head? Ellen Dean, go and seek her. It\nis incredible: it cannot be. \n\nAs he spoke he took the servant to the door, and then repeated his\ndemand to know her reasons for such an assertion.\n\n Why, I met on the road a lad that fetches milk here,  she stammered,\n and he asked whether we weren t in trouble at the Grange. I thought he\nmeant for missis s sickness, so I answered, yes. Then says he,  There s\nsomebody gone after  em, I guess?  I stared. He saw I knew nought about\nit, and he told how a gentleman and lady had stopped to have a horse s\nshoe fastened at a blacksmith s shop, two miles out of Gimmerton, not\nvery long after midnight! and how the blacksmith s lass had got up to\nspy who they were: she knew them both directly. And she noticed the\nman Heathcliff it was, she felt certain: nob dy could mistake him,\nbesides put a sovereign in her father s hand for payment. The lady had\na cloak about her face; but having desired a sup of water, while she\ndrank it fell back, and she saw her very plain. Heathcliff held both\nbridles as they rode on, and they set their faces from the village, and\nwent as fast as the rough roads would let them. The lass said nothing\nto her father, but she told it all over Gimmerton this morning. \n\nI ran and peeped, for form s sake, into Isabella s room; confirming,\nwhen I returned, the servant s statement. Mr. Linton had resumed his\nseat by the bed; on my re-entrance, he raised his eyes, read the\nmeaning of my blank aspect, and dropped them without giving an order,\nor uttering a word.\n\n Are we to try any measures for overtaking and bringing her back,  I\ninquired.  How should we do? \n\n She went of her own accord,  answered the master;  she had a right to\ngo if she pleased. Trouble me no more about her. Hereafter she is only\nmy sister in name: not because I disown her, but because she has\ndisowned me. \n\nAnd that was all he said on the subject: he did not make a single inquiry\nfurther, or mention her in any way, except directing me to send what\nproperty she had in the house to her fresh home, wherever it was, when\nI knew it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nFor two months the fugitives remained absent; in those two months, Mrs.\nLinton encountered and conquered the worst shock of what was\ndenominated a brain fever. No mother could have nursed an only child\nmore devotedly than Edgar tended her. Day and night he was watching,\nand patiently enduring all the annoyances that irritable nerves and a\nshaken reason could inflict; and, though Kenneth remarked that what he\nsaved from the grave would only recompense his care by forming the\nsource of constant future anxiety in fact, that his health and strength\nwere being sacrificed to preserve a mere ruin of humanity he knew no\nlimits in gratitude and joy when Catherine s life was declared out of\ndanger; and hour after hour he would sit beside her, tracing the\ngradual return to bodily health, and flattering his too sanguine hopes\nwith the illusion that her mind would settle back to its right balance\nalso, and she would soon be entirely her former self.\n\nThe first time she left her chamber was at the commencement of the\nfollowing March. Mr. Linton had put on her pillow, in the morning, a\nhandful of golden crocuses; her eye, long stranger to any gleam of\npleasure, caught them in waking, and shone delighted as she gathered\nthem eagerly together.\n\n These are the earliest flowers at the Heights,  she exclaimed.  They\nremind me of soft thaw winds, and warm sunshine, and nearly melted\nsnow. Edgar, is there not a south wind, and is not the snow almost\ngone? \n\n The snow is quite gone down here, darling,  replied her husband;  and\nI only see two white spots on the whole range of moors: the sky is\nblue, and the larks are singing, and the becks and brooks are all brim\nfull. Catherine, last spring at this time, I was longing to have you\nunder this roof; now, I wish you were a mile or two up those hills: the\nair blows so sweetly, I feel that it would cure you. \n\n I shall never be there but once more,  said the invalid;  and then\nyou ll leave me, and I shall remain for ever. Next spring you ll long\nagain to have me under this roof, and you ll look back and think you\nwere happy to-day. \n\nLinton lavished on her the kindest caresses, and tried to cheer her by\nthe fondest words; but, vaguely regarding the flowers, she let the\ntears collect on her lashes and stream down her cheeks unheeding. We\nknew she was really better, and, therefore, decided that long\nconfinement to a single place produced much of this despondency, and it\nmight be partially removed by a change of scene. The master told me to\nlight a fire in the many-weeks  deserted parlour, and to set an\neasy-chair in the sunshine by the window; and then he brought her down,\nand she sat a long while enjoying the genial heat, and, as we expected,\nrevived by the objects round her: which, though familiar, were free\nfrom the dreary associations investing her hated sick chamber. By\nevening she seemed greatly exhausted; yet no arguments could persuade\nher to return to that apartment, and I had to arrange the parlour sofa\nfor her bed, till another room could be prepared. To obviate the\nfatigue of mounting and descending the stairs, we fitted up this, where\nyou lie at present on the same floor with the parlour; and she was soon\nstrong enough to move from one to the other, leaning on Edgar s arm.\nAh, I thought myself, she might recover, so waited on as she was. And\nthere was double cause to desire it, for on her existence depended that\nof another: we cherished the hope that in a little while Mr. Linton s\nheart would be gladdened, and his lands secured from a stranger s\ngripe, by the birth of an heir.\n\nI should mention that Isabella sent to her brother, some six weeks from\nher departure, a short note, announcing her marriage with Heathcliff.\nIt appeared dry and cold; but at the bottom was dotted in with pencil\nan obscure apology, and an entreaty for kind remembrance and\nreconciliation, if her proceeding had offended him: asserting that she\ncould not help it then, and being done, she had now no power to repeal\nit. Linton did not reply to this, I believe; and, in a fortnight more,\nI got a long letter, which I considered odd, coming from the pen of a\nbride just out of the honeymoon. I ll read it: for I keep it yet. Any\nrelic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nDEAR ELLEN, it begins, I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and\nheard, for the first time, that Catherine has been, and is yet, very\nill. I must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too\nangry or too distressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write\nto somebody, and the only choice left me is you.\n\nInform Edgar that I d give the world to see his face again that my\nheart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after I left\nit, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him, and\nCatherine! _I can t follow it though_ (these words are underlined) they\nneed not expect me, and they may draw what conclusions they please;\ntaking care, however, to lay nothing at the door of my weak will or\ndeficient affection.\n\nThe remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask you\ntwo questions: the first is, How did you contrive to preserve the\ncommon sympathies of human nature when you resided here? I cannot\nrecognise any sentiment which those around share with me.\n\nThe second question I have great interest in; it is this Is Mr.\nHeathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil? I\nsha n t tell my reasons for making this inquiry; but I beseech you to\nexplain, if you can, what I have married: that is, when you call to see\nme; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don t write, but come, and\nbring me something from Edgar.\n\nNow, you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am\nled to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell\non such subjects as the lack of external comforts: they never occupy my\nthoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and\ndance for joy, if I found their absence was the total of my miseries,\nand the rest was an unnatural dream!\n\nThe sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors; by that, I\njudged it to be six o clock; and my companion halted half an hour, to\ninspect the park, and the gardens, and, probably, the place itself, as\nwell as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard\nof the farmhouse, and your old fellow-servant, Joseph, issued out to\nreceive us by the light of a dip candle. He did it with a courtesy that\nredounded to his credit. His first act was to elevate his torch to a\nlevel with my face, squint malignantly, project his under-lip, and turn\naway. Then he took the two horses, and led them into the stables;\nreappearing for the purpose of locking the outer gate, as if we lived\nin an ancient castle.\n\nHeathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen a dingy,\nuntidy hole; I daresay you would not know it, it is so changed since it\nwas in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly child, strong in limb\nand dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in his eyes and about his\nmouth.\n\n This is Edgar s legal nephew,  I reflected mine in a manner; I must\nshake hands, and yes I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good\nunderstanding at the beginning. \n\nI approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said How do you\ndo, my dear? \n\nHe replied in a jargon I did not comprehend.\n\n Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?  was my next essay at\nconversation.\n\nAn oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not  frame off \nrewarded my perseverance.\n\n Hey, Throttler, lad!  whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred\nbull-dog from its lair in a corner.  Now, wilt thou be ganging?  he\nasked authoritatively.\n\nLove for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to\nwait till the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible;\nand Joseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested to accompany\nme in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and\nreplied Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it?\nMincing un  munching! How can I tell whet ye say? \n\n I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!  I cried, thinking\nhim deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness.\n\n None o  me! I getten summut else to do,  he answered, and continued\nhis work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and\ncountenance (the former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I m\nsure, as sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt.\n\nI walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at\nwhich I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant\nmight show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall,\ngaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his\nfeatures were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders;\nand _his_ eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine s with all their\nbeauty annihilated.\n\n What s your business here?  he demanded, grimly.  Who are you? \n\n My name _was_ Isabella Linton,  I replied.  You ve seen me before,\nsir. I m lately married to Mr. Heathcliff, and he has brought me here I\nsuppose by your permission. \n\n Is he come back, then?  asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf.\n\n Yes we came just now,  I said;  but he left me by the kitchen door;\nand when I would have gone in, your little boy played sentinel over the\nplace, and frightened me off by the help of a bull-dog. \n\n It s well the hellish villain has kept his word!  growled my future\nhost, searching the darkness beyond me in expectation of discovering\nHeathcliff; and then he indulged in a soliloquy of execrations, and\nthreats of what he would have done had the  fiend  deceived him.\n\nI repented having tried this second entrance, and was almost inclined\nto slip away before he finished cursing, but ere I could execute that\nintention, he ordered me in, and shut and re-fastened the door. There\nwas a great fire, and that was all the light in the huge apartment,\nwhose floor had grown a uniform grey; and the once brilliant\npewter-dishes, which used to attract my gaze when I was a girl, partook\nof a similar obscurity, created by tarnish and dust. I inquired whether\nI might call the maid, and be conducted to a bedroom! Mr. Earnshaw\nvouchsafed no answer. He walked up and down, with his hands in his\npockets, apparently quite forgetting my presence; and his abstraction\nwas evidently so deep, and his whole aspect so misanthropical, that I\nshrank from disturbing him again.\n\nYou ll not be surprised, Ellen, at my feeling particularly cheerless,\nseated in worse than solitude on that inhospitable hearth, and\nremembering that four miles distant lay my delightful home, containing\nthe only people I loved on earth; and there might as well be the\nAtlantic to part us, instead of those four miles: I could not overpass\nthem! I questioned with myself where must I turn for comfort? and mind\nyou don t tell Edgar, or Catherine above every sorrow beside, this rose\npre-eminent: despair at finding nobody who could or would be my ally\nagainst Heathcliff! I had sought shelter at Wuthering Heights, almost\ngladly, because I was secured by that arrangement from living alone\nwith him; but he knew the people we were coming amongst, and he did not\nfear their intermeddling.\n\nI sat and thought a doleful time: the clock struck eight, and nine, and\nstill my companion paced to and fro, his head bent on his breast, and\nperfectly silent, unless a groan or a bitter ejaculation forced itself\nout at intervals. I listened to detect a woman s voice in the house,\nand filled the interim with wild regrets and dismal anticipations,\nwhich, at last, spoke audibly in irrepressible sighing and weeping. I\nwas not aware how openly I grieved, till Earnshaw halted opposite, in\nhis measured walk, and gave me a stare of newly-awakened surprise.\nTaking advantage of his recovered attention, I exclaimed I m tired\nwith my journey, and I want to go to bed! Where is the maid-servant?\nDirect me to her, as she won t come to me! \n\n We have none,  he answered;  you must wait on yourself! \n\n Where must I sleep, then?  I sobbed; I was beyond regarding\nself-respect, weighed down by fatigue and wretchedness.\n\n Joseph will show you Heathcliff s chamber,  said he;  open that\ndoor he s in there. \n\nI was going to obey, but he suddenly arrested me, and added in the\nstrangest tone Be so good as to turn your lock, and draw your\nbolt don t omit it! \n\n Well!  I said.  But why, Mr. Earnshaw?  I did not relish the notion of\ndeliberately fastening myself in with Heathcliff.\n\n Look here!  he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a\ncuriously-constructed pistol, having a double-edged spring knife\nattached to the barrel.  That s a great tempter to a desperate man, is\nit not? I cannot resist going up with this every night, and trying his\ndoor. If once I find it open he s done for; I do it invariably, even\nthough the minute before I have been recalling a hundred reasons that\nshould make me refrain: it is some devil that urges me to thwart my own\nschemes by killing him. You fight against that devil for love as long\nas you may; when the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall\nsave him! \n\nI surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck me: how\npowerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I took it from his\nhand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished at the expression my\nface assumed during a brief second: it was not horror, it was\ncovetousness. He snatched the pistol back, jealously; shut the knife,\nand returned it to its concealment.\n\n I don t care if you tell him,  said he.  Put him on his guard, and\nwatch for him. You know the terms we are on, I see: his danger does not\nshock you. \n\n What has Heathcliff done to you?  I asked.  In what has he wronged\nyou, to warrant this appalling hatred? Wouldn t it be wiser to bid him\nquit the house? \n\n No!  thundered Earnshaw;  should he offer to leave me, he s a dead\nman: persuade him to attempt it, and you are a murderess! Am I to lose\n_all_, without a chance of retrieval? Is Hareton to be a beggar? Oh,\ndamnation! I _will_ have it back; and I ll have _his_ gold too; and\nthen his blood; and hell shall have his soul! It will be ten times\nblacker with that guest than ever it was before! \n\nYou ve acquainted me, Ellen, with your old master s habits. He is\nclearly on the verge of madness: he was so last night at least. I\nshuddered to be near him, and thought on the servant s ill-bred\nmoroseness as comparatively agreeable. He now recommenced his moody\nwalk, and I raised the latch, and escaped into the kitchen. Joseph was\nbending over the fire, peering into a large pan that swung above it;\nand a wooden bowl of oatmeal stood on the settle close by. The contents\nof the pan began to boil, and he turned to plunge his hand into the\nbowl; I conjectured that this preparation was probably for our supper,\nand, being hungry, I resolved it should be eatable; so, crying out\nsharply,  _I ll_ make the porridge!  I removed the vessel out of his\nreach, and proceeded to take off my hat and riding-habit.  Mr.\nEarnshaw,  I continued,  directs me to wait on myself: I will. I m not\ngoing to act the lady among you, for fear I should starve. \n\n Gooid Lord!  he muttered, sitting down, and stroking his ribbed\nstockings from the knee to the ankle.  If there s to be fresh\northerings just when I getten used to two maisters, if I mun hev  a\n_mistress_ set o er my heead, it s like time to be flitting. I niver\n_did_ think to see t  day that I mud lave th  owld place but I doubt\nit s nigh at hand! \n\nThis lamentation drew no notice from me: I went briskly to work,\nsighing to remember a period when it would have been all merry fun; but\ncompelled speedily to drive off the remembrance. It racked me to recall\npast happiness and the greater peril there was of conjuring up its\napparition, the quicker the thible ran round, and the faster the\nhandfuls of meal fell into the water. Joseph beheld my style of cookery\nwith growing indignation.\n\n Thear!  he ejaculated.  Hareton, thou willn t sup thy porridge\nto-neeght; they ll be naught but lumps as big as my neive. Thear,\nagean! I d fling in bowl un  all, if I wer ye! There, pale t  guilp\noff, un  then ye ll hae done wi t. Bang, bang. It s a mercy t  bothom\nisn t deaved out! \n\nIt _was_ rather a rough mess, I own, when poured into the basins; four\nhad been provided, and a gallon pitcher of new milk was brought from\nthe dairy, which Hareton seized and commenced drinking and spilling\nfrom the expansive lip. I expostulated, and desired that he should have\nhis in a mug; affirming that I could not taste the liquid treated so\ndirtily. The old cynic chose to be vastly offended at this nicety;\nassuring me, repeatedly, that  the barn was every bit as good  as I,\n and every bit as wollsome,  and wondering how I could fashion to be so\nconceited. Meanwhile, the infant ruffian continued sucking; and\nglowered up at me defyingly, as he slavered into the jug.\n\n I shall have my supper in another room,  I said.  Have you no place\nyou call a parlour? \n\n _Parlour_!  he echoed, sneeringly,  _parlour_! Nay, we ve noa\n_parlours_. If yah dunnut loike wer company, there s maister s; un  if\nyah dunnut loike maister, there s us. \n\n Then I shall go upstairs,  I answered;  show me a chamber. \n\nI put my basin on a tray, and went myself to fetch some more milk. With\ngreat grumblings, the fellow rose, and preceded me in my ascent: we\nmounted to the garrets; he opened a door, now and then, to look into\nthe apartments we passed.\n\n Here s a rahm,  he said, at last, flinging back a cranky board on\nhinges.  It s weel eneugh to ate a few porridge in. There s a pack o \ncorn i  t  corner, thear, meeterly clane; if ye re feared o  muckying\nyer grand silk cloes, spread yer hankerchir o  t  top on t. \n\nThe  rahm  was a kind of lumber-hole smelling strong of malt and grain;\nvarious sacks of which articles were piled around, leaving a wide, bare\nspace in the middle.\n\n Why, man,  I exclaimed, facing him angrily,  this is not a place to\nsleep in. I wish to see my bed-room. \n\n _Bed-rume_!  he repeated, in a tone of mockery.  Yah s see all t \n_bed-rumes_ thear is yon s mine. \n\nHe pointed into the second garret, only differing from the first in\nbeing more naked about the walls, and having a large, low, curtainless\nbed, with an indigo-coloured quilt, at one end.\n\n What do I want with yours?  I retorted.  I suppose Mr. Heathcliff does\nnot lodge at the top of the house, does he? \n\n Oh! it s Maister _Hathecliff s_ ye re wanting?  cried he, as if making\na new discovery.  Couldn t ye ha  said soa, at onst? un  then, I mud\nha  telled ye, baht all this wark, that that s just one ye cannut\nsee he allas keeps it locked, un  nob dy iver mells on t but hisseln. \n\n You ve a nice house, Joseph,  I could not refrain from observing,  and\npleasant inmates; and I think the concentrated essence of all the\nmadness in the world took up its abode in my brain the day I linked my\nfate with theirs! However, that is not to the present purpose there are\nother rooms. For heaven s sake be quick, and let me settle somewhere! \n\nHe made no reply to this adjuration; only plodding doggedly down the\nwooden steps, and halting before an apartment which, from that halt\nand the superior quality of its furniture, I conjectured to be the best\none. There was a carpet a good one, but the pattern was obliterated by\ndust; a fireplace hung with cut-paper, dropping to pieces; a handsome\noak-bedstead with ample crimson curtains of rather expensive material\nand modern make; but they had evidently experienced rough usage: the\nvallances hung in festoons, wrenched from their rings, and the iron rod\nsupporting them was bent in an arc on one side, causing the drapery to\ntrail upon the floor. The chairs were also damaged, many of them\nseverely; and deep indentations deformed the panels of the walls. I was\nendeavouring to gather resolution for entering and taking possession,\nwhen my fool of a guide announced, This here is t  maister s.  My\nsupper by this time was cold, my appetite gone, and my patience\nexhausted. I insisted on being provided instantly with a place of\nrefuge, and means of repose.\n\n Whear the divil?  began the religious elder.  The Lord bless us! The\nLord forgie us! Whear the _hell_ wold ye gang? ye marred, wearisome\nnowt! Ye ve seen all but Hareton s bit of a cham er. There s not\nanother hoile to lig down in i  th  hahse! \n\nI was so vexed, I flung my tray and its contents on the ground; and\nthen seated myself at the stairs -head, hid my face in my hands, and\ncried.\n\n Ech! ech!  exclaimed Joseph.  Weel done, Miss Cathy! weel done, Miss\nCathy! Howsiver, t  maister sall just tum le o er them brocken pots;\nun  then we s hear summut; we s hear how it s to be. Gooid-for-naught\nmadling! ye desarve pining fro  this to Churstmas, flinging t  precious\ngifts uh God under fooit i  yer flaysome rages! But I m mista en if ye\nshew yer sperrit lang. Will Hathecliff bide sich bonny ways, think ye?\nI nobbut wish he may catch ye i  that plisky. I nobbut wish he may. \n\nAnd so he went on scolding to his den beneath, taking the candle with\nhim; and I remained in the dark. The period of reflection succeeding\nthis silly action compelled me to admit the necessity of smothering my\npride and choking my wrath, and bestirring myself to remove its\neffects. An unexpected aid presently appeared in the shape of\nThrottler, whom I now recognised as a son of our old Skulker: it had\nspent its whelphood at the Grange, and was given by my father to Mr.\nHindley. I fancy it knew me: it pushed its nose against mine by way of\nsalute, and then hastened to devour the porridge; while I groped from\nstep to step, collecting the shattered earthenware, and drying the\nspatters of milk from the banister with my pocket-handkerchief. Our\nlabours were scarcely over when I heard Earnshaw s tread in the\npassage; my assistant tucked in his tail, and pressed to the wall; I\nstole into the nearest doorway. The dog s endeavour to avoid him was\nunsuccessful; as I guessed by a scutter downstairs, and a prolonged,\npiteous yelping. I had better luck: he passed on, entered his chamber,\nand shut the door. Directly after Joseph came up with Hareton, to put\nhim to bed. I had found shelter in Hareton s room, and the old man, on\nseeing me, said, They s rahm for boath ye un  yer pride, now, I sud\nthink i  the hahse. It s empty; ye may hev  it all to yerseln, un  Him\nas allas maks a third, i  sich ill company! \n\nGladly did I take advantage of this intimation; and the minute I flung\nmyself into a chair, by the fire, I nodded, and slept. My slumber was\ndeep and sweet, though over far too soon. Mr. Heathcliff awoke me; he\nhad just come in, and demanded, in his loving manner, what I was doing\nthere? I told him the cause of my staying up so late that he had the\nkey of our room in his pocket. The adjective _our_ gave mortal offence.\nHe swore it was not, nor ever should be, mine; and he d but I ll not\nrepeat his language, nor describe his habitual conduct: he is ingenious\nand unresting in seeking to gain my abhorrence! I sometimes wonder at\nhim with an intensity that deadens my fear: yet, I assure you, a tiger\nor a venomous serpent could not rouse terror in me equal to that which\nhe wakens. He told me of Catherine s illness, and accused my brother of\ncausing it; promising that I should be Edgar s proxy in suffering, till\nhe could get hold of him.\n\nI do hate him I am wretched I have been a fool! Beware of uttering one\nbreath of this to any one at the Grange. I shall expect you every\nday don t disappoint me! ISABELLA.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nAs soon as I had perused this epistle I went to the master, and\ninformed him that his sister had arrived at the Heights, and sent me a\nletter expressing her sorrow for Mrs. Linton s situation, and her\nardent desire to see him; with a wish that he would transmit to her, as\nearly as possible, some token of forgiveness by me.\n\n Forgiveness!  said Linton.  I have nothing to forgive her, Ellen. You\nmay call at Wuthering Heights this afternoon, if you like, and say that\nI am not _angry_, but I m _sorry_ to have lost her; especially as I can\nnever think she ll be happy. It is out of the question my going to see\nher, however: we are eternally divided; and should she really wish to\noblige me, let her persuade the villain she has married to leave the\ncountry. \n\n And you won t write her a little note, sir?  I asked, imploringly.\n\n No,  he answered.  It is needless. My communication with Heathcliff s\nfamily shall be as sparing as his with mine. It shall not exist! \n\nMr. Edgar s coldness depressed me exceedingly; and all the way from the\nGrange I puzzled my brains how to put more heart into what he said,\nwhen I repeated it; and how to soften his refusal of even a few lines\nto console Isabella. I daresay she had been on the watch for me since\nmorning: I saw her looking through the lattice as I came up the garden\ncauseway, and I nodded to her; but she drew back, as if afraid of being\nobserved. I entered without knocking. There never was such a dreary,\ndismal scene as the formerly cheerful house presented! I must confess,\nthat if I had been in the young lady s place, I would, at least, have\nswept the hearth, and wiped the tables with a duster. But she already\npartook of the pervading spirit of neglect which encompassed her. Her\npretty face was wan and listless; her hair uncurled: some locks hanging\nlankly down, and some carelessly twisted round her head. Probably she\nhad not touched her dress since yester evening. Hindley was not there.\nMr. Heathcliff sat at a table, turning over some papers in his\npocket-book; but he rose when I appeared, asked me how I did, quite\nfriendly, and offered me a chair. He was the only thing there that\nseemed decent; and I thought he never looked better. So much had\ncircumstances altered their positions, that he would certainly have\nstruck a stranger as a born and bred gentleman; and his wife as a\nthorough little slattern! She came forward eagerly to greet me, and\nheld out one hand to take the expected letter. I shook my head. She\nwouldn t understand the hint, but followed me to a sideboard, where I\nwent to lay my bonnet, and importuned me in a whisper to give her\ndirectly what I had brought. Heathcliff guessed the meaning of her\nman uvres, and said If you have got anything for Isabella (as no\ndoubt you have, Nelly), give it to her. You needn t make a secret of\nit: we have no secrets between us. \n\n Oh, I have nothing,  I replied, thinking it best to speak the truth at\nonce.  My master bid me tell his sister that she must not expect either\na letter or a visit from him at present. He sends his love, ma am, and\nhis wishes for your happiness, and his pardon for the grief you have\noccasioned; but he thinks that after this time his household and the\nhousehold here should drop intercommunication, as nothing could come of\nkeeping it up. \n\nMrs. Heathcliff s lip quivered slightly, and she returned to her seat\nin the window. Her husband took his stand on the hearthstone, near me,\nand began to put questions concerning Catherine. I told him as much as\nI thought proper of her illness, and he extorted from me, by\ncross-examination, most of the facts connected with its origin. I\nblamed her, as she deserved, for bringing it all on herself; and ended\nby hoping that he would follow Mr. Linton s example and avoid future\ninterference with his family, for good or evil.\n\n Mrs. Linton is now just recovering,  I said;  she ll never be like she\nwas, but her life is spared; and if you really have a regard for her,\nyou ll shun crossing her way again: nay, you ll move out of this\ncountry entirely; and that you may not regret it, I ll inform you\nCatherine Linton is as different now from your old friend Catherine\nEarnshaw, as that young lady is different from me. Her appearance is\nchanged greatly, her character much more so; and the person who is\ncompelled, of necessity, to be her companion, will only sustain his\naffection hereafter by the remembrance of what she once was, by common\nhumanity, and a sense of duty! \n\n That is quite possible,  remarked Heathcliff, forcing himself to seem\ncalm:  quite possible that your master should have nothing but common\nhumanity and a sense of duty to fall back upon. But do you imagine that\nI shall leave Catherine to his _duty_ and _humanity_? and can you\ncompare my feelings respecting Catherine to his? Before you leave this\nhouse, I must exact a promise from you that you ll get me an interview\nwith her: consent, or refuse, I _will_ see her! What do you say? \n\n I say, Mr. Heathcliff,  I replied,  you must not: you never shall,\nthrough my means. Another encounter between you and the master would\nkill her altogether. \n\n With your aid that may be avoided,  he continued;  and should there be\ndanger of such an event should he be the cause of adding a single\ntrouble more to her existence why, I think I shall be justified in\ngoing to extremes! I wish you had sincerity enough to tell me whether\nCatherine would suffer greatly from his loss: the fear that she would\nrestrains me. And there you see the distinction between our feelings:\nhad he been in my place, and I in his, though I hated him with a hatred\nthat turned my life to gall, I never would have raised a hand against\nhim. You may look incredulous, if you please! I never would have\nbanished him from her society as long as she desired his. The moment\nher regard ceased, I would have torn his heart out, and drunk his\nblood! But, till then if you don t believe me, you don t know me till\nthen, I would have died by inches before I touched a single hair of his\nhead! \n\n And yet,  I interrupted,  you have no scruples in completely ruining\nall hopes of her perfect restoration, by thrusting yourself into her\nremembrance now, when she has nearly forgotten you, and involving her\nin a new tumult of discord and distress. \n\n You suppose she has nearly forgotten me?  he said.  Oh, Nelly! you\nknow she has not! You know as well as I do, that for every thought she\nspends on Linton she spends a thousand on me! At a most miserable\nperiod of my life, I had a notion of the kind: it haunted me on my\nreturn to the neighbourhood last summer; but only her own assurance\ncould make me admit the horrible idea again. And then, Linton would be\nnothing, nor Hindley, nor all the dreams that ever I dreamt. Two words\nwould comprehend my future _death_ and _hell_: existence, after losing\nher, would be hell. Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she\nvalued Edgar Linton s attachment more than mine. If he loved with all\nthe powers of his puny being, he couldn t love as much in eighty years\nas I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have: the\nsea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough as her whole\naffection be monopolised by him. Tush! He is scarcely a degree dearer\nto her than her dog, or her horse. It is not in him to be loved like\nme: how can she love in him what he has not? \n\n Catherine and Edgar are as fond of each other as any two people can\nbe,  cried Isabella, with sudden vivacity.  No one has a right to talk\nin that manner, and I won t hear my brother depreciated in silence! \n\n Your brother is wondrous fond of you too, isn t he?  observed\nHeathcliff, scornfully.  He turns you adrift on the world with\nsurprising alacrity. \n\n He is not aware of what I suffer,  she replied.  I didn t tell him\nthat. \n\n You have been telling him something, then: you have written, have\nyou? \n\n To say that I was married, I did write you saw the note. \n\n And nothing since? \n\n No. \n\n My young lady is looking sadly the worse for her change of condition, \nI remarked.  Somebody s love comes short in her case, obviously; whose,\nI may guess; but, perhaps, I shouldn t say. \n\n I should guess it was her own,  said Heathcliff.  She degenerates into\na mere slut! She is tired of trying to please me uncommonly early.\nYou d hardly credit it, but the very morrow of our wedding she was\nweeping to go home. However, she ll suit this house so much the better\nfor not being over nice, and I ll take care she does not disgrace me by\nrambling abroad. \n\n Well, sir,  returned I,  I hope you ll consider that Mrs. Heathcliff\nis accustomed to be looked after and waited on; and that she has been\nbrought up like an only daughter, whom every one was ready to serve.\nYou must let her have a maid to keep things tidy about her, and you\nmust treat her kindly. Whatever be your notion of Mr. Edgar, you cannot\ndoubt that she has a capacity for strong attachments, or she wouldn t\nhave abandoned the elegancies, and comforts, and friends of her former\nhome, to fix contentedly, in such a wilderness as this, with you. \n\n She abandoned them under a delusion,  he answered;  picturing in me a\nhero of romance, and expecting unlimited indulgences from my chivalrous\ndevotion. I can hardly regard her in the light of a rational creature,\nso obstinately has she persisted in forming a fabulous notion of my\ncharacter and acting on the false impressions she cherished. But, at\nlast, I think she begins to know me: I don t perceive the silly smiles\nand grimaces that provoked me at first; and the senseless incapability\nof discerning that I was in earnest when I gave her my opinion of her\ninfatuation and herself. It was a marvellous effort of perspicacity to\ndiscover that I did not love her. I believed, at one time, no lessons\ncould teach her that! And yet it is poorly learnt; for this morning she\nannounced, as a piece of appalling intelligence, that I had actually\nsucceeded in making her hate me! A positive labour of Hercules, I\nassure you! If it be achieved, I have cause to return thanks. Can I\ntrust your assertion, Isabella? Are you sure you hate me? If I let you\nalone for half a day, won t you come sighing and wheedling to me again?\nI daresay she would rather I had seemed all tenderness before you: it\nwounds her vanity to have the truth exposed. But I don t care who knows\nthat the passion was wholly on one side: and I never told her a lie\nabout it. She cannot accuse me of showing one bit of deceitful\nsoftness. The first thing she saw me do, on coming out of the Grange,\nwas to hang up her little dog; and when she pleaded for it, the first\nwords I uttered were a wish that I had the hanging of every being\nbelonging to her, except one: possibly she took that exception for\nherself. But no brutality disgusted her: I suppose she has an innate\nadmiration of it, if only her precious person were secure from injury!\nNow, was it not the depth of absurdity of genuine idiocy, for that\npitiful, slavish, mean-minded brach to dream that I could love her?\nTell your master, Nelly, that I never, in all my life, met with such an\nabject thing as she is. She even disgraces the name of Linton; and I ve\nsometimes relented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on\nwhat she could endure, and still creep shamefully cringing back! But\ntell him, also, to set his fraternal and magisterial heart at ease:\nthat I keep strictly within the limits of the law. I have avoided, up\nto this period, giving her the slightest right to claim a separation;\nand, what s more, she d thank nobody for dividing us. If she desired to\ngo, she might: the nuisance of her presence outweighs the gratification\nto be derived from tormenting her! \n\n Mr. Heathcliff,  said I,  this is the talk of a madman; your wife,\nmost likely, is convinced you are mad; and, for that reason, she has\nborne with you hitherto: but now that you say she may go, she ll\ndoubtless avail herself of the permission. You are not so bewitched,\nma am, are you, as to remain with him of your own accord? \n\n Take care, Ellen!  answered Isabella, her eyes sparkling irefully;\nthere was no misdoubting by their expression the full success of her\npartner s endeavours to make himself detested.  Don t put faith in a\nsingle word he speaks. He s a lying fiend! a monster, and not a human\nbeing! I ve been told I might leave him before; and I ve made the\nattempt, but I dare not repeat it! Only, Ellen, promise you ll not\nmention a syllable of his infamous conversation to my brother or\nCatherine. Whatever he may pretend, he wishes to provoke Edgar to\ndesperation: he says he has married me on purpose to obtain power over\nhim; and he sha n t obtain it I ll die first! I just hope, I pray, that\nhe may forget his diabolical prudence and kill me! The single pleasure\nI can imagine is to die, or to see him dead! \n\n There that will do for the present!  said Heathcliff.  If you are\ncalled upon in a court of law, you ll remember her language, Nelly! And\ntake a good look at that countenance: she s near the point which would\nsuit me. No; you re not fit to be your own guardian, Isabella, now; and\nI, being your legal protector, must retain you in my custody, however\ndistasteful the obligation may be. Go upstairs; I have something to say\nto Ellen Dean in private. That s not the way: upstairs, I tell you!\nWhy, this is the road upstairs, child! \n\nHe seized, and thrust her from the room; and returned muttering I have\nno pity! I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to\ncrush out their entrails! It is a moral teething; and I grind with\ngreater energy in proportion to the increase of pain. \n\n Do you understand what the word pity means?  I said, hastening to\nresume my bonnet.  Did you ever feel a touch of it in your life? \n\n Put that down!  he interrupted, perceiving my intention to depart.\n You are not going yet. Come here now, Nelly: I must either persuade or\ncompel you to aid me in fulfilling my determination to see Catherine,\nand that without delay. I swear that I meditate no harm: I don t desire\nto cause any disturbance, or to exasperate or insult Mr. Linton; I only\nwish to hear from herself how she is, and why she has been ill; and to\nask if anything that I could do would be of use to her. Last night I\nwas in the Grange garden six hours, and I ll return there to-night; and\nevery night I ll haunt the place, and every day, till I find an\nopportunity of entering. If Edgar Linton meets me, I shall not hesitate\nto knock him down, and give him enough to insure his quiescence while I\nstay. If his servants oppose me, I shall threaten them off with these\npistols. But wouldn t it be better to prevent my coming in contact with\nthem, or their master? And you could do it so easily. I d warn you when\nI came, and then you might let me in unobserved, as soon as she was\nalone, and watch till I departed, your conscience quite calm: you would\nbe hindering mischief. \n\nI protested against playing that treacherous part in my employer s\nhouse: and, besides, I urged the cruelty and selfishness of his\ndestroying Mrs. Linton s tranquillity for his satisfaction.  The\ncommonest occurrence startles her painfully,  I said.  She s all\nnerves, and she couldn t bear the surprise, I m positive. Don t\npersist, sir! or else I shall be obliged to inform my master of your\ndesigns; and he ll take measures to secure his house and its inmates\nfrom any such unwarrantable intrusions! \n\n In that case I ll take measures to secure you, woman!  exclaimed\nHeathcliff;  you shall not leave Wuthering Heights till to-morrow\nmorning. It is a foolish story to assert that Catherine could not bear\nto see me; and as to surprising her, I don t desire it: you must\nprepare her ask her if I may come. You say she never mentions my name,\nand that I am never mentioned to her. To whom should she mention me if\nI am a forbidden topic in the house? She thinks you are all spies for\nher husband. Oh, I ve no doubt she s in hell among you! I guess by her\nsilence, as much as anything, what she feels. You say she is often\nrestless, and anxious-looking: is that a proof of tranquillity? You\ntalk of her mind being unsettled. How the devil could it be otherwise\nin her frightful isolation? And that insipid, paltry creature attending\nher from _duty_ and _humanity_! From _pity_ and _charity_! He might as\nwell plant an oak in a flower-pot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine\nhe can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares! Let us\nsettle it at once: will you stay here, and am I to fight my way to\nCatherine over Linton and his footman? Or will you be my friend, as you\nhave been hitherto, and do what I request? Decide! because there is no\nreason for my lingering another minute, if you persist in your stubborn\nill-nature! \n\nWell, Mr. Lockwood, I argued and complained, and flatly refused him\nfifty times; but in the long run he forced me to an agreement. I\nengaged to carry a letter from him to my mistress; and should she\nconsent, I promised to let him have intelligence of Linton s next\nabsence from home, when he might come, and get in as he was able: I\nwouldn t be there, and my fellow-servants should be equally out of the\nway. Was it right or wrong? I fear it was wrong, though expedient. I\nthought I prevented another explosion by my compliance; and I thought,\ntoo, it might create a favourable crisis in Catherine s mental illness:\nand then I remembered Mr. Edgar s stern rebuke of my carrying tales;\nand I tried to smooth away all disquietude on the subject, by\naffirming, with frequent iteration, that that betrayal of trust, if it\nmerited so harsh an appellation, should be the last. Notwithstanding,\nmy journey homeward was sadder than my journey thither; and many\nmisgivings I had, ere I could prevail on myself to put the missive into\nMrs. Linton s hand.\n\nBut here is Kenneth; I ll go down, and tell him how much better you\nare. My history is _dree_, as we say, and will serve to while away\nanother morning.\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nDree, and dreary! I reflected as the good woman descended to receive\nthe doctor: and not exactly of the kind which I should have chosen to\namuse me. But never mind! I ll extract wholesome medicines from Mrs.\nDean s bitter herbs; and firstly, let me beware of the fascination that\nlurks in Catherine Heathcliff s brilliant eyes. I should be in a\ncurious taking if I surrendered my heart to that young person, and the\ndaughter turned out a second edition of the mother.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nAnother week over and I am so many days nearer health, and spring! I\nhave now heard all my neighbour s history, at different sittings, as\nthe housekeeper could spare time from more important occupations. I ll\ncontinue it in her own words, only a little condensed. She is, on the\nwhole, a very fair narrator, and I don t think I could improve her\nstyle.\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nIn the evening, she said, the evening of my visit to the Heights, I\nknew, as well as if I saw him, that Mr. Heathcliff was about the place;\nand I shunned going out, because I still carried his letter in my\npocket, and didn t want to be threatened or teased any more. I had made\nup my mind not to give it till my master went somewhere, as I could not\nguess how its receipt would affect Catherine. The consequence was, that\nit did not reach her before the lapse of three days. The fourth was\nSunday, and I brought it into her room after the family were gone to\nchurch. There was a man servant left to keep the house with me, and we\ngenerally made a practice of locking the doors during the hours of\nservice; but on that occasion the weather was so warm and pleasant that\nI set them wide open, and, to fulfil my engagement, as I knew who would\nbe coming, I told my companion that the mistress wished very much for\nsome oranges, and he must run over to the village and get a few, to be\npaid for on the morrow. He departed, and I went upstairs.\n\nMrs. Linton sat in a loose white dress, with a light shawl over her\nshoulders, in the recess of the open window, as usual. Her thick, long\nhair had been partly removed at the beginning of her illness, and now\nshe wore it simply combed in its natural tresses over her temples and\nneck. Her appearance was altered, as I had told Heathcliff; but when\nshe was calm, there seemed unearthly beauty in the change. The flash of\nher eyes had been succeeded by a dreamy and melancholy softness; they\nno longer gave the impression of looking at the objects around her:\nthey appeared always to gaze beyond, and far beyond you would have said\nout of this world. Then, the paleness of her face its haggard aspect\nhaving vanished as she recovered flesh and the peculiar expression\narising from her mental state, though painfully suggestive of their\ncauses, added to the touching interest which she awakened;\nand invariably to me, I know, and to any person who saw her, I should\nthink refuted more tangible proofs of convalescence, and stamped her as\none doomed to decay.\n\nA book lay spread on the sill before her, and the scarcely perceptible\nwind fluttered its leaves at intervals. I believe Linton had laid it\nthere: for she never endeavoured to divert herself with reading, or\noccupation of any kind, and he would spend many an hour in trying to\nentice her attention to some subject which had formerly been her\namusement. She was conscious of his aim, and in her better moods\nendured his efforts placidly, only showing their uselessness by now and\nthen suppressing a wearied sigh, and checking him at last with the\nsaddest of smiles and kisses. At other times, she would turn petulantly\naway, and hide her face in her hands, or even push him off angrily; and\nthen he took care to let her alone, for he was certain of doing no\ngood.\n\nGimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full, mellow flow of\nthe beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet\nsubstitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which\ndrowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf. At\nWuthering Heights it always sounded on quiet days following a great\nthaw or a season of steady rain. And of Wuthering Heights Catherine was\nthinking as she listened: that is, if she thought or listened at all;\nbut she had the vague, distant look I mentioned before, which expressed\nno recognition of material things either by ear or eye.\n\n There s a letter for you, Mrs. Linton,  I said, gently inserting it in\none hand that rested on her knee.  You must read it immediately,\nbecause it wants an answer. Shall I break the seal?   Yes,  she\nanswered, without altering the direction of her eyes. I opened it it\nwas very short.  Now,  I continued,  read it.  She drew away her hand,\nand let it fall. I replaced it in her lap, and stood waiting till it\nshould please her to glance down; but that movement was so long delayed\nthat at last I resumed Must I read it, ma am? It is from Mr.\nHeathcliff. \n\nThere was a start and a troubled gleam of recollection, and a struggle\nto arrange her ideas. She lifted the letter, and seemed to peruse it;\nand when she came to the signature she sighed: yet still I found she\nhad not gathered its import, for, upon my desiring to hear her reply,\nshe merely pointed to the name, and gazed at me with mournful and\nquestioning eagerness.\n\n Well, he wishes to see you,  said I, guessing her need of an\ninterpreter.  He s in the garden by this time, and impatient to know\nwhat answer I shall bring. \n\nAs I spoke, I observed a large dog lying on the sunny grass beneath\nraise its ears as if about to bark, and then smoothing them back,\nannounce, by a wag of the tail, that some one approached whom it did\nnot consider a stranger. Mrs. Linton bent forward, and listened\nbreathlessly. The minute after a step traversed the hall; the open\nhouse was too tempting for Heathcliff to resist walking in: most likely\nhe supposed that I was inclined to shirk my promise, and so resolved to\ntrust to his own audacity. With straining eagerness Catherine gazed\ntowards the entrance of her chamber. He did not hit the right room\ndirectly: she motioned me to admit him, but he found it out ere I could\nreach the door, and in a stride or two was at her side, and had her\ngrasped in his arms.\n\nHe neither spoke nor loosed his hold for some five minutes, during\nwhich period he bestowed more kisses than ever he gave in his life\nbefore, I daresay: but then my mistress had kissed him first, and I\nplainly saw that he could hardly bear, for downright agony, to look\ninto her face! The same conviction had stricken him as me, from the\ninstant he beheld her, that there was no prospect of ultimate recovery\nthere she was fated, sure to die.\n\n Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it?  was the first sentence he\nuttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair. And now\nhe stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his\ngaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish:\nthey did not melt.\n\n What now?  said Catherine, leaning back, and returning his look with a\nsuddenly clouded brow: her humour was a mere vane for constantly\nvarying caprices.  You and Edgar have broken my heart, Heathcliff! And\nyou both come to bewail the deed to me, as if you were the people to be\npitied! I shall not pity you, not I. You have killed me and thriven on\nit, I think. How strong you are! How many years do you mean to live\nafter I am gone? \n\nHeathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her; he attempted to rise,\nbut she seized his hair, and kept him down.\n\n I wish I could hold you,  she continued, bitterly,  till we were both\ndead! I shouldn t care what you suffered. I care nothing for your\nsufferings. Why shouldn t you suffer? I do! Will you forget me? Will\nyou be happy when I am in the earth? Will you say twenty years hence,\n That s the grave of Catherine Earnshaw? I loved her long ago, and was\nwretched to lose her; but it is past. I ve loved many others since: my\nchildren are dearer to me than she was; and, at death, I shall not\nrejoice that I am going to her: I shall be sorry that I must leave\nthem!  Will you say so, Heathcliff? \n\n Don t torture me till I m as mad as yourself,  cried he, wrenching his\nhead free, and grinding his teeth.\n\nThe two, to a cool spectator, made a strange and fearful picture. Well\nmight Catherine deem that heaven would be a land of exile to her,\nunless with her mortal body she cast away her moral character also. Her\npresent countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a\nbloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed\nfingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping. As to her\ncompanion, while raising himself with one hand, he had taken her arm\nwith the other; and so inadequate was his stock of gentleness to the\nrequirements of her condition, that on his letting go I saw four\ndistinct impressions left blue in the colourless skin.\n\n Are you possessed with a devil,  he pursued, savagely,  to talk in\nthat manner to me when you are dying? Do you reflect that all those\nwords will be branded in my memory, and eating deeper eternally after\nyou have left me? You know you lie to say I have killed you: and,\nCatherine, you know that I could as soon forget you as my existence! Is\nit not sufficient for your infernal selfishness, that while you are at\npeace I shall writhe in the torments of hell? \n\n I shall not be at peace,  moaned Catherine, recalled to a sense of\nphysical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of her heart, which\nbeat visibly and audibly under this excess of agitation. She said\nnothing further till the paroxysm was over; then she continued, more\nkindly \n\n I m not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only\nwish us never to be parted: and should a word of mine distress you\nhereafter, think I feel the same distress underground, and for my own\nsake, forgive me! Come here and kneel down again! You never harmed me\nin your life. Nay, if you nurse anger, that will be worse to remember\nthan my harsh words! Won t you come here again? Do! \n\nHeathcliff went to the back of her chair, and leant over, but not so\nfar as to let her see his face, which was livid with emotion. She bent\nround to look at him; he would not permit it: turning abruptly, he\nwalked to the fireplace, where he stood, silent, with his back towards\nus. Mrs. Linton s glance followed him suspiciously: every movement woke\na new sentiment in her. After a pause and a prolonged gaze, she\nresumed; addressing me in accents of indignant disappointment: \n\n Oh, you see, Nelly, he would not relent a moment to keep me out of the\ngrave. _That_ is how I m loved! Well, never mind. That is not _my_\nHeathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him with me: he s in my\nsoul. And,  added she musingly,  the thing that irks me most is this\nshattered prison, after all. I m tired of being enclosed here. I m\nwearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there:\nnot seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the\nwalls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it. Nelly, you\nthink you are better and more fortunate than I; in full health and\nstrength: you are sorry for me very soon that will be altered. I shall\nbe sorry for _you_. I shall be incomparably beyond and above you all. I\n_wonder_ he won t be near me!  She went on to herself.  I thought he\nwished it. Heathcliff, dear! you should not be sullen now. Do come to\nme, Heathcliff. \n\nIn her eagerness she rose and supported herself on the arm of the\nchair. At that earnest appeal he turned to her, looking absolutely\ndesperate. His eyes, wide and wet, at last flashed fiercely on her; his\nbreast heaved convulsively. An instant they held asunder, and then how\nthey met I hardly saw, but Catherine made a spring, and he caught her,\nand they were locked in an embrace from which I thought my mistress\nwould never be released alive: in fact, to my eyes, she seemed directly\ninsensible. He flung himself into the nearest seat, and on my\napproaching hurriedly to ascertain if she had fainted, he gnashed at\nme, and foamed like a mad dog, and gathered her to him with greedy\njealousy. I did not feel as if I were in the company of a creature of\nmy own species: it appeared that he would not understand, though I\nspoke to him; so I stood off, and held my tongue, in great perplexity.\n\nA movement of Catherine s relieved me a little presently: she put up\nher hand to clasp his neck, and bring her cheek to his as he held her;\nwhile he, in return, covering her with frantic caresses, said wildly \n\n You teach me now how cruel you ve been cruel and false. _Why_ did you\ndespise me? _Why_ did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one\nword of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you\nmay kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they ll blight\nyou they ll damn you. You loved me then what _right_ had you to leave\nme? What right answer me for the poor fancy you felt for Linton?\nBecause misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or\nSatan could inflict would have parted us, _you_, of your own will, did\nit. I have not broken your heart _you_ have broken it; and in breaking\nit, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do\nI want to live? What kind of living will it be when you oh, God! would\n_you_ like to live with your soul in the grave? \n\n Let me alone. Let me alone,  sobbed Catherine.  If I ve done wrong,\nI m dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won t upbraid\nyou! I forgive you. Forgive me! \n\n It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those\nwasted hands,  he answered.  Kiss me again; and don t let me see your\neyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love _my_ murderer but\n_yours_! How can I? \n\nThey were silent their faces hid against each other, and washed by each\nother s tears. At least, I suppose the weeping was on both sides; as it\nseemed Heathcliff _could_ weep on a great occasion like this.\n\nI grew very uncomfortable, meanwhile; for the afternoon wore fast away,\nthe man whom I had sent off returned from his errand, and I could\ndistinguish, by the shine of the western sun up the valley, a concourse\nthickening outside Gimmerton chapel porch.\n\n Service is over,  I announced.  My master will be here in half an\nhour. \n\nHeathcliff groaned a curse, and strained Catherine closer: she never\nmoved.\n\nEre long I perceived a group of the servants passing up the road\ntowards the kitchen wing. Mr. Linton was not far behind; he opened the\ngate himself and sauntered slowly up, probably enjoying the lovely\nafternoon that breathed as soft as summer.\n\n Now he is here,  I exclaimed.  For heaven s sake, hurry down! You ll\nnot meet any one on the front stairs. Do be quick; and stay among the\ntrees till he is fairly in. \n\n I must go, Cathy,  said Heathcliff, seeking to extricate himself from\nhis companion s arms.  But if I live, I ll see you again before you are\nasleep. I won t stray five yards from your window. \n\n You must not go!  she answered, holding him as firmly as her strength\nallowed.  You _shall_ not, I tell you. \n\n For one hour,  he pleaded earnestly.\n\n Not for one minute,  she replied.\n\n I _must_ Linton will be up immediately,  persisted the alarmed\nintruder.\n\nHe would have risen, and unfixed her fingers by the act she clung fast,\ngasping: there was mad resolution in her face.\n\n No!  she shrieked.  Oh, don t, don t go. It is the last time! Edgar\nwill not hurt us. Heathcliff, I shall die! I shall die! \n\n Damn the fool! There he is,  cried Heathcliff, sinking back into his\nseat.  Hush, my darling! Hush, hush, Catherine! I ll stay. If he shot\nme so, I d expire with a blessing on my lips. \n\nAnd there they were fast again. I heard my master mounting the\nstairs the cold sweat ran from my forehead: I was horrified.\n\n Are you going to listen to her ravings?  I said, passionately.  She\ndoes not know what she says. Will you ruin her, because she has not wit\nto help herself? Get up! You could be free instantly. That is the most\ndiabolical deed that ever you did. We are all done for master,\nmistress, and servant. \n\nI wrung my hands, and cried out; and Mr. Linton hastened his step at\nthe noise. In the midst of my agitation, I was sincerely glad to\nobserve that Catherine s arms had fallen relaxed, and her head hung\ndown.\n\n She s fainted, or dead,  I thought:  so much the better. Far better\nthat she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery-maker to\nall about her. \n\nEdgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment and\nrage. What he meant to do I cannot tell; however, the other stopped all\ndemonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless-looking form in his\narms.\n\n Look there!  he said.  Unless you be a fiend, help her first then you\nshall speak to me! \n\nHe walked into the parlour, and sat down. Mr. Linton summoned me, and\nwith great difficulty, and after resorting to many means, we managed to\nrestore her to sensation; but she was all bewildered; she sighed, and\nmoaned, and knew nobody. Edgar, in his anxiety for her, forgot her\nhated friend. I did not. I went, at the earliest opportunity, and\nbesought him to depart; affirming that Catherine was better, and he\nshould hear from me in the morning how she passed the night.\n\n I shall not refuse to go out of doors,  he answered;  but I shall stay\nin the garden: and, Nelly, mind you keep your word to-morrow. I shall\nbe under those larch-trees. Mind! or I pay another visit, whether\nLinton be in or not. \n\nHe sent a rapid glance through the half-open door of the chamber, and,\nascertaining that what I stated was apparently true, delivered the\nhouse of his luckless presence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nAbout twelve o clock that night was born the Catherine you saw at\nWuthering Heights: a puny, seven-months  child; and two hours after the\nmother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss\nHeathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter s distraction at his bereavement\nis a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after-effects showed how\ndeep the sorrow sunk. A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left\nwithout an heir. I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and\nI mentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the\nsecuring his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son s. An\nunwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed out of life,\nand nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence. We\nredeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friendless as\nits end is likely to be.\n\nNext morning bright and cheerful out of doors stole softened in through\nthe blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant\nwith a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had his head laid on the\npillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair features were almost as\ndeathlike as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but\n_his_ was the hush of exhausted anguish, and _hers_ of perfect peace.\nHer brow smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a\nsmile; no angel in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared.\nAnd I partook of the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never\nin a holier frame than while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine\nrest. I instinctively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours\nbefore:  Incomparably beyond and above us all! Whether still on earth\nor now in heaven, her spirit is at home with God! \n\nI don t know if it be a peculiarity in me, but I am seldom otherwise\nthan happy while watching in the chamber of death, should no frenzied\nor despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a repose that\nneither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the\nendless and shadowless hereafter the Eternity they have entered where\nlife is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in\nits fulness. I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is\neven in a love like Mr. Linton s, when he so regretted Catherine s\nblessed release! To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward\nand impatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of\npeace at last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not\nthen, in the presence of her corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity,\nwhich seemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitant.\n\nDo you believe such people _are_ happy in the other world, sir? I d\ngive a great deal to know.\n\nI declined answering Mrs. Dean s question, which struck me as something\nheterodox. She proceeded:\n\nRetracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to\nthink she is; but we ll leave her with her Maker.\n\nThe master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the\nroom and steal out to the pure refreshing air. The servants thought me\ngone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted watch; in reality, my\nchief motive was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If he had remained among the\nlarches all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the\nGrange; unless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop of the messenger\ngoing to Gimmerton. If he had come nearer, he would probably be aware,\nfrom the lights flitting to and fro, and the opening and shutting of\nthe outer doors, that all was not right within. I wished, yet feared,\nto find him. I felt the terrible news must be told, and I longed to get\nit over; but _how_ to do it I did not know. He was there at least, a\nfew yards further in the park; leant against an old ash-tree, his hat\noff, and his hair soaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded\nbranches, and fell pattering round him. He had been standing a long\ntime in that position, for I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing\nscarcely three feet from him, busy in building their nest, and\nregarding his proximity no more than that of a piece of timber. They\nflew off at my approach, and he raised his eyes and spoke: She s\ndead!  he said;  I ve not waited for you to learn that. Put your\nhandkerchief away don t snivel before me. Damn you all! she wants none\nof _your_ tears! \n\nI was weeping as much for him as her: we do sometimes pity creatures\nthat have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. When I\nfirst looked into his face, I perceived that he had got intelligence of\nthe catastrophe; and a foolish notion struck me that his heart was\nquelled and he prayed, because his lips moved and his gaze was bent on\nthe ground.\n\n Yes, she s dead!  I answered, checking my sobs and drying my cheeks.\n Gone to heaven, I hope; where we may, every one, join her, if we take\ndue warning and leave our evil ways to follow good! \n\n Did _she_ take due warning, then?  asked Heathcliff, attempting a\nsneer.  Did she die like a saint? Come, give me a true history of the\nevent. How did ? \n\nHe endeavoured to pronounce the name, but could not manage it; and\ncompressing his mouth he held a silent combat with his inward agony,\ndefying, meanwhile, my sympathy with an unflinching, ferocious stare.\n How did she die?  he resumed, at last fain, notwithstanding his\nhardihood, to have a support behind him; for, after the struggle, he\ntrembled, in spite of himself, to his very finger-ends.\n\n Poor wretch!  I thought;  you have a heart and nerves the same as your\nbrother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal them? Your pride\ncannot blind God! You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of\nhumiliation. \n\n Quietly as a lamb!  I answered, aloud.  She drew a sigh, and stretched\nherself, like a child reviving, and sinking again to sleep; and five\nminutes after I felt one little pulse at her heart, and nothing more! \n\n And did she ever mention me?  he asked, hesitating, as if he dreaded\nthe answer to his question would introduce details that he could not\nbear to hear.\n\n Her senses never returned: she recognised nobody from the time you\nleft her,  I said.  She lies with a sweet smile on her face; and her\nlatest ideas wandered back to pleasant early days. Her life closed in a\ngentle dream may she wake as kindly in the other world! \n\n May she wake in torment!  he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping\nhis foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion.\n Why, she s a liar to the end! Where is she? Not _there_ not in\nheaven not perished where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my\nsufferings! And I pray one prayer I repeat it till my tongue\nstiffens Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living;\nyou said I killed you haunt me, then! The murdered _do_ haunt their\nmurderers, I believe. I know that ghosts _have_ wandered on earth. Be\nwith me always take any form drive me mad! only _do_ not leave me in\nthis abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I\n_cannot_ live without my life! I _cannot_ live without my soul! \n\nHe dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes,\nhowled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death\nwith knives and spears. I observed several splashes of blood about the\nbark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably\nthe scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the\nnight. It hardly moved my compassion it appalled me: still, I felt\nreluctant to quit him so. But the moment he recollected himself enough\nto notice me watching, he thundered a command for me to go, and I\nobeyed. He was beyond my skill to quiet or console!\n\nMrs. Linton s funeral was appointed to take place on the Friday\nfollowing her decease; and till then her coffin remained uncovered, and\nstrewn with flowers and scented leaves, in the great drawing-room.\nLinton spent his days and nights there, a sleepless guardian; and a\ncircumstance concealed from all but me Heathcliff spent his nights, at\nleast, outside, equally a stranger to repose. I held no communication\nwith him; still, I was conscious of his design to enter, if he could;\nand on the Tuesday, a little after dark, when my master, from sheer\nfatigue, had been compelled to retire a couple of hours, I went and\nopened one of the windows; moved by his perseverance to give him a\nchance of bestowing on the faded image of his idol one final adieu. He\ndid not omit to avail himself of the opportunity, cautiously and\nbriefly; too cautiously to betray his presence by the slightest noise.\nIndeed, I shouldn t have discovered that he had been there, except for\nthe disarrangement of the drapery about the corpse s face, and for\nobserving on the floor a curl of light hair, fastened with a silver\nthread; which, on examination, I ascertained to have been taken from a\nlocket hung round Catherine s neck. Heathcliff had opened the trinket\nand cast out its contents, replacing them by a black lock of his own. I\ntwisted the two, and enclosed them together.\n\nMr. Earnshaw was, of course, invited to attend the remains of his\nsister to the grave; he sent no excuse, but he never came; so that,\nbesides her husband, the mourners were wholly composed of tenants and\nservants. Isabella was not asked.\n\nThe place of Catherine s interment, to the surprise of the villagers,\nwas neither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, nor\nyet by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a green\nslope in a corner of the kirkyard, where the wall is so low that heath\nand bilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat-mould\nalmost buries it. Her husband lies in the same spot now; and they have\neach a simple headstone above, and a plain grey block at their feet, to\nmark the graves.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nThat Friday made the last of our fine days for a month. In the evening\nthe weather broke: the wind shifted from south to north-east, and\nbrought rain first, and then sleet and snow. On the morrow one could\nhardly imagine that there had been three weeks of summer: the primroses\nand crocuses were hidden under wintry drifts; the larks were silent,\nthe young leaves of the early trees smitten and blackened. And dreary,\nand chill, and dismal, that morrow did creep over! My master kept his\nroom; I took possession of the lonely parlour, converting it into a\nnursery: and there I was, sitting with the moaning doll of a child laid\non my knee; rocking it to and fro, and watching, meanwhile, the still\ndriving flakes build up the uncurtained window, when the door opened,\nand some person entered, out of breath and laughing! My anger was\ngreater than my astonishment for a minute. I supposed it one of the\nmaids, and I cried Have done! How dare you show your giddiness here?\nWhat would Mr. Linton say if he heard you? \n\n Excuse me!  answered a familiar voice;  but I know Edgar is in bed,\nand I cannot stop myself. \n\nWith that the speaker came forward to the fire, panting and holding her\nhand to her side.\n\n I have run the whole way from Wuthering Heights!  she continued, after\na pause;  except where I ve flown. I couldn t count the number of falls\nI ve had. Oh, I m aching all over! Don t be alarmed! There shall be an\nexplanation as soon as I can give it; only just have the goodness to\nstep out and order the carriage to take me on to Gimmerton, and tell a\nservant to seek up a few clothes in my wardrobe. \n\nThe intruder was Mrs. Heathcliff. She certainly seemed in no laughing\npredicament: her hair streamed on her shoulders, dripping with snow and\nwater; she was dressed in the girlish dress she commonly wore,\nbefitting her age more than her position: a low frock with short\nsleeves, and nothing on either head or neck. The frock was of light\nsilk, and clung to her with wet, and her feet were protected merely by\nthin slippers; add to this a deep cut under one ear, which only the\ncold prevented from bleeding profusely, a white face scratched and\nbruised, and a frame hardly able to support itself through fatigue; and\nyou may fancy my first fright was not much allayed when I had had\nleisure to examine her.\n\n My dear young lady,  I exclaimed,  I ll stir nowhere, and hear\nnothing, till you have removed every article of your clothes, and put\non dry things; and certainly you shall not go to Gimmerton to-night, so\nit is needless to order the carriage. \n\n Certainly I shall,  she said;  walking or riding: yet I ve no\nobjection to dress myself decently. And ah, see how it flows down my\nneck now! The fire does make it smart. \n\nShe insisted on my fulfilling her directions, before she would let me\ntouch her; and not till after the coachman had been instructed to get\nready, and a maid set to pack up some necessary attire, did I obtain\nher consent for binding the wound and helping to change her garments.\n\n Now, Ellen,  she said, when my task was finished and she was seated in\nan easy-chair on the hearth, with a cup of tea before her,  you sit\ndown opposite me, and put poor Catherine s baby away: I don t like to\nsee it! You mustn t think I care little for Catherine, because I\nbehaved so foolishly on entering: I ve cried, too, bitterly yes, more\nthan any one else has reason to cry. We parted unreconciled, you\nremember, and I sha n t forgive myself. But, for all that, I was not\ngoing to sympathise with him the brute beast! Oh, give me the poker!\nThis is the last thing of his I have about me:  she slipped the gold\nring from her third finger, and threw it on the floor.  I ll smash it! \nshe continued, striking it with childish spite,  and then I ll burn\nit!  and she took and dropped the misused article among the coals.\n There! he shall buy another, if he gets me back again. He d be capable\nof coming to seek me, to tease Edgar. I dare not stay, lest that notion\nshould possess his wicked head! And besides, Edgar has not been kind,\nhas he? And I won t come suing for his assistance; nor will I bring him\ninto more trouble. Necessity compelled me to seek shelter here; though,\nif I had not learned he was out of the way, I d have halted at the\nkitchen, washed my face, warmed myself, got you to bring what I wanted,\nand departed again to anywhere out of the reach of my accursed of that\nincarnate goblin! Ah, he was in such a fury! If he had caught me! It s\na pity Earnshaw is not his match in strength: I wouldn t have run till\nI d seen him all but demolished, had Hindley been able to do it! \n\n Well, don t talk so fast, Miss!  I interrupted;  you ll disorder the\nhandkerchief I have tied round your face, and make the cut bleed again.\nDrink your tea, and take breath, and give over laughing: laughter is\nsadly out of place under this roof, and in your condition! \n\n An undeniable truth,  she replied.  Listen to that child! It maintains\na constant wail send it out of my hearing for an hour; I sha n t stay\nany longer. \n\nI rang the bell, and committed it to a servant s care; and then I\ninquired what had urged her to escape from Wuthering Heights in such an\nunlikely plight, and where she meant to go, as she refused remaining\nwith us.\n\n I ought, and I wished to remain,  answered she,  to cheer Edgar and\ntake care of the baby, for two things, and because the Grange is my\nright home. But I tell you he wouldn t let me! Do you think he could\nbear to see me grow fat and merry could bear to think that we were\ntranquil, and not resolve on poisoning our comfort? Now, I have the\nsatisfaction of being sure that he detests me, to the point of its\nannoying him seriously to have me within ear-shot or eyesight: I\nnotice, when I enter his presence, the muscles of his countenance are\ninvoluntarily distorted into an expression of hatred; partly arising\nfrom his knowledge of the good causes I have to feel that sentiment for\nhim, and partly from original aversion. It is strong enough to make me\nfeel pretty certain that he would not chase me over England, supposing\nI contrived a clear escape; and therefore I must get quite away. I ve\nrecovered from my first desire to be killed by him: I d rather he d\nkill himself! He has extinguished my love effectually, and so I m at my\nease. I can recollect yet how I loved him; and can dimly imagine that I\ncould still be loving him, if no, no! Even if he had doted on me, the\ndevilish nature would have revealed its existence somehow. Catherine\nhad an awfully perverted taste to esteem him so dearly, knowing him so\nwell. Monster! would that he could be blotted out of creation, and out\nof my memory! \n\n Hush, hush! He s a human being,  I said.  Be more charitable: there\nare worse men than he is yet! \n\n He s not a human being,  she retorted;  and he has no claim on my\ncharity. I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death, and\nflung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen: and since he\nhas destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him: and I would not,\nthough he groaned from this to his dying day, and wept tears of blood\nfor Catherine! No, indeed, indeed, I wouldn t!  And here Isabella began\nto cry; but, immediately dashing the water from her lashes, she\nrecommenced.  You asked, what has driven me to flight at last? I was\ncompelled to attempt it, because I had succeeded in rousing his rage a\npitch above his malignity. Pulling out the nerves with red hot pincers\nrequires more coolness than knocking on the head. He was worked up to\nforget the fiendish prudence he boasted of, and proceeded to murderous\nviolence. I experienced pleasure in being able to exasperate him: the\nsense of pleasure woke my instinct of self-preservation, so I fairly\nbroke free; and if ever I come into his hands again he is welcome to a\nsignal revenge.\n\n Yesterday, you know, Mr. Earnshaw should have been at the funeral. He\nkept himself sober for the purpose tolerably sober: not going to bed\nmad at six o clock and getting up drunk at twelve. Consequently, he\nrose, in suicidal low spirits, as fit for the church as for a dance;\nand instead, he sat down by the fire and swallowed gin or brandy by\ntumblerfuls.\n\n Heathcliff I shudder to name him! has been a stranger in the house\nfrom last Sunday till to-day. Whether the angels have fed him, or his\nkin beneath, I cannot tell; but he has not eaten a meal with us for\nnearly a week. He has just come home at dawn, and gone upstairs to his\nchamber; locking himself in as if anybody dreamt of coveting his\ncompany! There he has continued, praying like a Methodist: only the\ndeity he implored is senseless dust and ashes; and God, when addressed,\nwas curiously confounded with his own black father! After concluding\nthese precious orisons and they lasted generally till he grew hoarse\nand his voice was strangled in his throat he would be off again; always\nstraight down to the Grange! I wonder Edgar did not send for a\nconstable, and give him into custody! For me, grieved as I was about\nCatherine, it was impossible to avoid regarding this season of\ndeliverance from degrading oppression as a holiday.\n\n I recovered spirits sufficient to hear Joseph s eternal lectures\nwithout weeping, and to move up and down the house less with the foot\nof a frightened thief than formerly. You wouldn t think that I should\ncry at anything Joseph could say; but he and Hareton are detestable\ncompanions. I d rather sit with Hindley, and hear his awful talk, than\nwith  t  little maister  and his staunch supporter, that odious old\nman! When Heathcliff is in, I m often obliged to seek the kitchen and\ntheir society, or starve among the damp uninhabited chambers; when he\nis not, as was the case this week, I establish a table and chair at one\ncorner of the house fire, and never mind how Mr. Earnshaw may occupy\nhimself; and he does not interfere with my arrangements. He is quieter\nnow than he used to be, if no one provokes him: more sullen and\ndepressed, and less furious. Joseph affirms he s sure he s an altered\nman: that the Lord has touched his heart, and he is saved  so as by\nfire.  I m puzzled to detect signs of the favourable change: but it is\nnot my business.\n\n Yester-evening I sat in my nook reading some old books till late on\ntowards twelve. It seemed so dismal to go upstairs, with the wild snow\nblowing outside, and my thoughts continually reverting to the kirkyard\nand the new-made grave! I dared hardly lift my eyes from the page\nbefore me, that melancholy scene so instantly usurped its place.\nHindley sat opposite, his head leant on his hand; perhaps meditating on\nthe same subject. He had ceased drinking at a point below\nirrationality, and had neither stirred nor spoken during two or three\nhours. There was no sound through the house but the moaning wind, which\nshook the windows every now and then, the faint crackling of the coals,\nand the click of my snuffers as I removed at intervals the long wick of\nthe candle. Hareton and Joseph were probably fast asleep in bed. It was\nvery, very sad: and while I read I sighed, for it seemed as if all joy\nhad vanished from the world, never to be restored.\n\n The doleful silence was broken at length by the sound of the kitchen\nlatch: Heathcliff had returned from his watch earlier than usual;\nowing, I suppose, to the sudden storm. That entrance was fastened, and\nwe heard him coming round to get in by the other. I rose with an\nirrepressible expression of what I felt on my lips, which induced my\ncompanion, who had been staring towards the door, to turn and look at\nme.\n\n I ll keep him out five minutes,  he exclaimed.  You won t object? \n\n No, you may keep him out the whole night for me,  I answered.  Do!\nput the key in the lock, and draw the bolts. \n\n Earnshaw accomplished this ere his guest reached the front; he then\ncame and brought his chair to the other side of my table, leaning over\nit, and searching in my eyes for a sympathy with the burning hate that\ngleamed from his: as he both looked and felt like an assassin, he\ncouldn t exactly find that; but he discovered enough to encourage him\nto speak.\n\n You, and I,  he said,  have each a great debt to settle with the man\nout yonder! If we were neither of us cowards, we might combine to\ndischarge it. Are you as soft as your brother? Are you willing to\nendure to the last, and not once attempt a repayment? \n\n I m weary of enduring now,  I replied;  and I d be glad of a\nretaliation that wouldn t recoil on myself; but treachery and violence\nare spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them\nworse than their enemies. \n\n Treachery and violence are a just return for treachery and violence! \ncried Hindley.  Mrs. Heathcliff, I ll ask you to do nothing; but sit\nstill and be dumb. Tell me now, can you? I m sure you would have as\nmuch pleasure as I in witnessing the conclusion of the fiend s\nexistence; he ll be _your_ death unless you overreach him; and he ll be\n_my_ ruin. Damn the hellish villain! He knocks at the door as if he\nwere master here already! Promise to hold your tongue, and before that\nclock strikes it wants three minutes of one you re a free woman! \n\n He took the implements which I described to you in my letter from his\nbreast, and would have turned down the candle. I snatched it away,\nhowever, and seized his arm.\n\n I ll not hold my tongue!  I said;  you mustn t touch him. Let the\ndoor remain shut, and be quiet! \n\n No! I ve formed my resolution, and by God I ll execute it!  cried the\ndesperate being.  I ll do you a kindness in spite of yourself, and\nHareton justice! And you needn t trouble your head to screen me;\nCatherine is gone. Nobody alive would regret me, or be ashamed, though\nI cut my throat this minute and it s time to make an end! \n\n I might as well have struggled with a bear, or reasoned with a\nlunatic. The only resource left me was to run to a lattice and warn his\nintended victim of the fate which awaited him.\n\n You d better seek shelter somewhere else to-night!  I exclaimed, in\nrather a triumphant tone.  Mr. Earnshaw has a mind to shoot you, if you\npersist in endeavouring to enter. \n\n You d better open the door, you  he answered, addressing me by some\nelegant term that I don t care to repeat.\n\n I shall not meddle in the matter,  I retorted again.  Come in and get\nshot, if you please. I ve done my duty. \n\n With that I shut the window and returned to my place by the fire;\nhaving too small a stock of hypocrisy at my command to pretend any\nanxiety for the danger that menaced him. Earnshaw swore passionately at\nme: affirming that I loved the villain yet; and calling me all sorts of\nnames for the base spirit I evinced. And I, in my secret heart (and\nconscience never reproached me), thought what a blessing it would be\nfor _him_ should Heathcliff put him out of misery; and what a blessing\nfor _me_ should he send Heathcliff to his right abode! As I sat nursing\nthese reflections, the casement behind me was banged on to the floor by\na blow from the latter individual, and his black countenance looked\nblightingly through. The stanchions stood too close to suffer his\nshoulders to follow, and I smiled, exulting in my fancied security. His\nhair and clothes were whitened with snow, and his sharp cannibal teeth,\nrevealed by cold and wrath, gleamed through the dark.\n\n Isabella, let me in, or I ll make you repent!  he  girned,  as Joseph\ncalls it.\n\n I cannot commit murder,  I replied.  Mr. Hindley stands sentinel with\na knife and loaded pistol. \n\n Let me in by the kitchen door,  he said.\n\n Hindley will be there before me,  I answered:  and that s a poor love\nof yours that cannot bear a shower of snow! We were left at peace in\nour beds as long as the summer moon shone, but the moment a blast of\nwinter returns, you must run for shelter! Heathcliff, if I were you,\nI d go stretch myself over her grave and die like a faithful dog. The\nworld is surely not worth living in now, is it? You had distinctly\nimpressed on me the idea that Catherine was the whole joy of your life:\nI can t imagine how you think of surviving her loss. \n\n He s there, is he?  exclaimed my companion, rushing to the gap.  If I\ncan get my arm out I can hit him! \n\n I m afraid, Ellen, you ll set me down as really wicked; but you don t\nknow all, so don t judge. I wouldn t have aided or abetted an attempt\non even _his_ life for anything. Wish that he were dead, I must; and\ntherefore I was fearfully disappointed, and unnerved by terror for the\nconsequences of my taunting speech, when he flung himself on Earnshaw s\nweapon and wrenched it from his grasp.\n\n The charge exploded, and the knife, in springing back, closed into its\nowner s wrist. Heathcliff pulled it away by main force, slitting up the\nflesh as it passed on, and thrust it dripping into his pocket. He then\ntook a stone, struck down the division between two windows, and sprang\nin. His adversary had fallen senseless with excessive pain and the flow\nof blood, that gushed from an artery or a large vein. The ruffian\nkicked and trampled on him, and dashed his head repeatedly against the\nflags, holding me with one hand, meantime, to prevent me summoning\nJoseph. He exerted preterhuman self-denial in abstaining from finishing\nhim completely; but getting out of breath, he finally desisted, and\ndragged the apparently inanimate body on to the settle. There he tore\noff the sleeve of Earnshaw s coat, and bound up the wound with brutal\nroughness; spitting and cursing during the operation as energetically\nas he had kicked before. Being at liberty, I lost no time in seeking\nthe old servant; who, having gathered by degrees the purport of my\nhasty tale, hurried below, gasping, as he descended the steps two at\nonce.\n\n What is ther to do, now? what is ther to do, now? \n\n There s this to do,  thundered Heathcliff,  that your master s mad;\nand should he last another month, I ll have him to an asylum. And how\nthe devil did you come to fasten me out, you toothless hound? Don t\nstand muttering and mumbling there. Come, I m not going to nurse him.\nWash that stuff away; and mind the sparks of your candle it is more\nthan half brandy! \n\n And so ye ve been murthering on him?  exclaimed Joseph, lifting his\nhands and eyes in horror.  If iver I seed a seeght loike this! May the\nLord \n\n Heathcliff gave him a push on to his knees in the middle of the blood,\nand flung a towel to him; but instead of proceeding to dry it up, he\njoined his hands and began a prayer, which excited my laughter from its\nodd phraseology. I was in the condition of mind to be shocked at\nnothing: in fact, I was as reckless as some malefactors show themselves\nat the foot of the gallows.\n\n Oh, I forgot you,  said the tyrant.  You shall do that. Down with\nyou. And you conspire with him against me, do you, viper? There, that\nis work fit for you! \n\n He shook me till my teeth rattled, and pitched me beside Joseph, who\nsteadily concluded his supplications, and then rose, vowing he would\nset off for the Grange directly. Mr. Linton was a magistrate, and\nthough he had fifty wives dead, he should inquire into this. He was so\nobstinate in his resolution, that Heathcliff deemed it expedient to\ncompel from my lips a recapitulation of what had taken place; standing\nover me, heaving with malevolence, as I reluctantly delivered the\naccount in answer to his questions. It required a great deal of labour\nto satisfy the old man that Heathcliff was not the aggressor;\nespecially with my hardly-wrung replies. However, Mr. Earnshaw soon\nconvinced him that he was alive still; Joseph hastened to administer a\ndose of spirits, and by their succour his master presently regained\nmotion and consciousness. Heathcliff, aware that his opponent was\nignorant of the treatment received while insensible, called him\ndeliriously intoxicated; and said he should not notice his atrocious\nconduct further, but advised him to get to bed. To my joy, he left us,\nafter giving this judicious counsel, and Hindley stretched himself on\nthe hearthstone. I departed to my own room, marvelling that I had\nescaped so easily.\n\n This morning, when I came down, about half an hour before noon, Mr.\nEarnshaw was sitting by the fire, deadly sick; his evil genius, almost\nas gaunt and ghastly, leant against the chimney. Neither appeared\ninclined to dine, and, having waited till all was cold on the table, I\ncommenced alone. Nothing hindered me from eating heartily, and I\nexperienced a certain sense of satisfaction and superiority, as, at\nintervals, I cast a look towards my silent companions, and felt the\ncomfort of a quiet conscience within me. After I had done, I ventured\non the unusual liberty of drawing near the fire, going round Earnshaw s\nseat, and kneeling in the corner beside him.\n\n Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contemplated his\nfeatures almost as confidently as if they had been turned to stone. His\nforehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I now think so\ndiabolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basilisk eyes were\nnearly quenched by sleeplessness, and weeping, perhaps, for the lashes\nwere wet then: his lips devoid of their ferocious sneer, and sealed in\nan expression of unspeakable sadness. Had it been another, I would have\ncovered my face in the presence of such grief. In _his_ case, I was\ngratified; and, ignoble as it seems to insult a fallen enemy, I\ncouldn t miss this chance of sticking in a dart: his weakness was the\nonly time when I could taste the delight of paying wrong for wrong. \n\n Fie, fie, Miss!  I interrupted.  One might suppose you had never\nopened a Bible in your life. If God afflict your enemies, surely that\nought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to add your\ntorture to his! \n\n In general I ll allow that it would be, Ellen,  she continued;  but\nwhat misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I have a hand\nin it? I d rather he suffered _less_, if I might cause his sufferings\nand he might _know_ that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him so much. On\nonly one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, if I may take an\neye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; for every wrench of agony return a\nwrench: reduce him to my level. As he was the first to injure, make him\nthe first to implore pardon; and then why then, Ellen, I might show you\nsome generosity. But it is utterly impossible I can ever be revenged,\nand therefore I cannot forgive him. Hindley wanted some water, and I\nhanded him a glass, and asked him how he was.\n\n Not as ill as I wish,  he replied.  But leaving out my arm, every\ninch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of imps! \n\n Yes, no wonder,  was my next remark.  Catherine used to boast that\nshe stood between you and bodily harm: she meant that certain persons\nwould not hurt you for fear of offending her. It s well people don t\n_really_ rise from their grave, or, last night, she might have\nwitnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised, and cut over your\nchest and shoulders? \n\n I can t say,  he answered;  but what do you mean? Did he dare to\nstrike me when I was down? \n\n He trampled on and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground,  I\nwhispered.  And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth; because\nhe s only half man: not so much, and the rest fiend. \n\n Mr. Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the countenance of our mutual foe;\nwho, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to anything around him:\nthe longer he stood, the plainer his reflections revealed their\nblackness through his features.\n\n Oh, if God would but give me strength to strangle him in my last\nagony, I d go to hell with joy,  groaned the impatient man, writhing to\nrise, and sinking back in despair, convinced of his inadequacy for the\nstruggle.\n\n Nay, it s enough that he has murdered one of you,  I observed aloud.\n At the Grange, every one knows your sister would have been living now\nhad it not been for Mr. Heathcliff. After all, it is preferable to be\nhated than loved by him. When I recollect how happy we were how happy\nCatherine was before he came I m fit to curse the day. \n\n Most likely, Heathcliff noticed more the truth of what was said, than\nthe spirit of the person who said it. His attention was roused, I saw,\nfor his eyes rained down tears among the ashes, and he drew his breath\nin suffocating sighs. I stared full at him, and laughed scornfully. The\nclouded windows of hell flashed a moment towards me; the fiend which\nusually looked out, however, was so dimmed and drowned that I did not\nfear to hazard another sound of derision.\n\n Get up, and begone out of my sight,  said the mourner.\n\n I guessed he uttered those words, at least, though his voice was\nhardly intelligible.\n\n I beg your pardon,  I replied.  But I loved Catherine too; and her\nbrother requires attendance, which, for her sake, I shall supply. Now\nthat she s dead, I see her in Hindley: Hindley has exactly her eyes, if\nyou had not tried to gouge them out, and made them black and red; and\nher \n\n Get up, wretched idiot, before I stamp you to death!  he cried,\nmaking a movement that caused me to make one also.\n\n But then,  I continued, holding myself ready to flee,  if poor\nCatherine had trusted you, and assumed the ridiculous, contemptible,\ndegrading title of Mrs. Heathcliff, she would soon have presented a\nsimilar picture! _She_ wouldn t have borne your abominable behaviour\nquietly: her detestation and disgust must have found voice. \n\n The back of the settle and Earnshaw s person interposed between me and\nhim; so instead of endeavouring to reach me, he snatched a dinner-knife\nfrom the table and flung it at my head. It struck beneath my ear, and\nstopped the sentence I was uttering; but, pulling it out, I sprang to\nthe door and delivered another; which I hope went a little deeper than\nhis missile. The last glimpse I caught of him was a furious rush on his\npart, checked by the embrace of his host; and both fell locked together\non the hearth. In my flight through the kitchen I bid Joseph speed to\nhis master; I knocked over Hareton, who was hanging a litter of puppies\nfrom a chair-back in the doorway; and, blessed as a soul escaped from\npurgatory, I bounded, leaped, and flew down the steep road; then,\nquitting its windings, shot direct across the moor, rolling over banks,\nand wading through marshes: precipitating myself, in fact, towards the\nbeacon-light of the Grange. And far rather would I be condemned to a\nperpetual dwelling in the infernal regions than, even for one night,\nabide beneath the roof of Wuthering Heights again. \n\nIsabella ceased speaking, and took a drink of tea; then she rose, and\nbidding me put on her bonnet, and a great shawl I had brought, and\nturning a deaf ear to my entreaties for her to remain another hour, she\nstepped on to a chair, kissed Edgar s and Catherine s portraits,\nbestowed a similar salute on me, and descended to the carriage,\naccompanied by Fanny, who yelped wild with joy at recovering her\nmistress. She was driven away, never to revisit this neighbourhood: but\na regular correspondence was established between her and my master when\nthings were more settled. I believe her new abode was in the south,\nnear London; there she had a son born a few months subsequent to her\nescape. He was christened Linton, and, from the first, she reported him\nto be an ailing, peevish creature.\n\nMr. Heathcliff, meeting me one day in the village, inquired where she\nlived. I refused to tell. He remarked that it was not of any moment,\nonly she must beware of coming to her brother: she should not be with\nhim, if he had to keep her himself. Though I would give no information,\nhe discovered, through some of the other servants, both her place of\nresidence and the existence of the child. Still, he didn t molest her:\nfor which forbearance she might thank his aversion, I suppose. He often\nasked about the infant, when he saw me; and on hearing its name, smiled\ngrimly, and observed:  They wish me to hate it too, do they? \n\n I don t think they wish you to know anything about it,  I answered.\n\n But I ll have it,  he said,  when I want it. They may reckon on that! \n\nFortunately its mother died before the time arrived; some thirteen\nyears after the decease of Catherine, when Linton was twelve, or a\nlittle more.\n\nOn the day succeeding Isabella s unexpected visit I had no opportunity\nof speaking to my master: he shunned conversation, and was fit for\ndiscussing nothing. When I could get him to listen, I saw it pleased\nhim that his sister had left her husband; whom he abhorred with an\nintensity which the mildness of his nature would scarcely seem to\nallow. So deep and sensitive was his aversion, that he refrained from\ngoing anywhere where he was likely to see or hear of Heathcliff. Grief,\nand that together, transformed him into a complete hermit: he threw up\nhis office of magistrate, ceased even to attend church, avoided the\nvillage on all occasions, and spent a life of entire seclusion within\nthe limits of his park and grounds; only varied by solitary rambles on\nthe moors, and visits to the grave of his wife, mostly at evening, or\nearly morning before other wanderers were abroad. But he was too good\nto be thoroughly unhappy long. _He_ didn t pray for Catherine s soul to\nhaunt him. Time brought resignation, and a melancholy sweeter than\ncommon joy. He recalled her memory with ardent, tender love, and\nhopeful aspiring to the better world; where he doubted not she was\ngone.\n\nAnd he had earthly consolation and affections also. For a few days, I\nsaid, he seemed regardless of the puny successor to the departed: that\ncoldness melted as fast as snow in April, and ere the tiny thing could\nstammer a word or totter a step it wielded a despot s sceptre in his\nheart. It was named Catherine; but he never called it the name in full,\nas he had never called the first Catherine short: probably because\nHeathcliff had a habit of doing so. The little one was always Cathy: it\nformed to him a distinction from the mother, and yet a connection with\nher; and his attachment sprang from its relation to her, far more than\nfrom its being his own.\n\nI used to draw a comparison between him and Hindley Earnshaw, and\nperplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was so\nopposite in similar circumstances. They had both been fond husbands,\nand were both attached to their children; and I could not see how they\nshouldn t both have taken the same road, for good or evil. But, I\nthought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the stronger head, has\nshown himself sadly the worse and the weaker man. When his ship struck,\nthe captain abandoned his post; and the crew, instead of trying to save\nher, rushed into riot and confusion, leaving no hope for their luckless\nvessel. Linton, on the contrary, displayed the true courage of a loyal\nand faithful soul: he trusted God; and God comforted him. One hoped,\nand the other despaired: they chose their own lots, and were\nrighteously doomed to endure them. But you ll not want to hear my\nmoralising, Mr. Lockwood; you ll judge, as well as I can, all these\nthings: at least, you ll think you will, and that s the same. The end\nof Earnshaw was what might have been expected; it followed fast on his\nsister s: there were scarcely six months between them. We, at the\nGrange, never got a very succinct account of his state preceding it;\nall that I did learn was on occasion of going to aid in the\npreparations for the funeral. Mr. Kenneth came to announce the event to\nmy master.\n\n Well, Nelly,  said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not\nto alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news,  it s yours and\nmy turn to go into mourning at present. Who s given us the slip now, do\nyou think? \n\n Who?  I asked in a flurry.\n\n Why, guess!  he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a\nhook by the door.  And nip up the corner of your apron: I m certain\nyou ll need it. \n\n Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely?  I exclaimed.\n\n What! would you have tears for him?  said the doctor.  No,\nHeathcliff s a tough young fellow: he looks blooming to-day. I ve just\nseen him. He s rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half. \n\n Who is it, then, Mr. Kenneth?  I repeated impatiently.\n\n Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hindley,  he replied,  and my wicked\ngossip: though he s been too wild for me this long while. There! I said\nwe should draw water. But cheer up! He died true to his character:\ndrunk as a lord. Poor lad! I m sorry, too. One can t help missing an\nold companion: though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man\nimagined, and has done me many a rascally turn. He s barely\ntwenty-seven, it seems; that s your own age: who would have thought you\nwere born in one year? \n\nI confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs. Linton s\ndeath: ancient associations lingered round my heart; I sat down in the\nporch and wept as for a blood relation, desiring Mr. Kenneth to get\nanother servant to introduce him to the master. I could not hinder\nmyself from pondering on the question Had he had fair play?  Whatever\nI did, that idea would bother me: it was so tiresomely pertinacious\nthat I resolved on requesting leave to go to Wuthering Heights, and\nassist in the last duties to the dead. Mr. Linton was extremely\nreluctant to consent, but I pleaded eloquently for the friendless\ncondition in which he lay; and I said my old master and foster-brother\nhad a claim on my services as strong as his own. Besides, I reminded\nhim that the child Hareton was his wife s nephew, and, in the absence\nof nearer kin, he ought to act as its guardian; and he ought to and\nmust inquire how the property was left, and look over the concerns of\nhis brother-in-law. He was unfit for attending to such matters then,\nbut he bid me speak to his lawyer; and at length permitted me to go.\nHis lawyer had been Earnshaw s also: I called at the village, and asked\nhim to accompany me. He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff\nshould be let alone; affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would\nbe found little else than a beggar.\n\n His father died in debt,  he said;  the whole property is mortgaged,\nand the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity\nof creating some interest in the creditor s heart, that he may be\ninclined to deal leniently towards him. \n\nWhen I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see\neverything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in sufficient\ndistress, expressed satisfaction at my presence. Mr. Heathcliff said he\ndid not perceive that I was wanted; but I might stay and order the\narrangements for the funeral, if I chose.\n\n Correctly,  he remarked,  that fool s body should be buried at the\ncross-roads, without ceremony of any kind. I happened to leave him ten\nminutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval he fastened the two\ndoors of the house against me, and he has spent the night in drinking\nhimself to death deliberately! We broke in this morning, for we heard\nhim snorting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle:\nflaying and scalping would not have wakened him. I sent for Kenneth,\nand he came; but not till the beast had changed into carrion: he was\nboth dead and cold, and stark; and so you ll allow it was useless\nmaking more stir about him! \n\nThe old servant confirmed this statement, but muttered:\n\n I d rayther he d goan hisseln for t  doctor! I sud ha  taen tent o  t \nmaister better nor him and he warn t deead when I left, naught o  t \nsoart! \n\nI insisted on the funeral being respectable. Mr. Heathcliff said I\nmight have my own way there too: only, he desired me to remember that\nthe money for the whole affair came out of his pocket. He maintained a\nhard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow: if\nanything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a piece of difficult\nwork successfully executed. I observed once, indeed, something like\nexultation in his aspect: it was just when the people were bearing the\ncoffin from the house. He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and\nprevious to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on\nto the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto,  Now, my bonny lad, you\nare _mine_! And we ll see if one tree won t grow as crooked as another,\nwith the same wind to twist it!  The unsuspecting thing was pleased at\nthis speech: he played with Heathcliff s whiskers, and stroked his\ncheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly,  That boy must\ngo back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir. There is nothing in the\nworld less yours than he is! \n\n Does Linton say so?  he demanded.\n\n Of course he has ordered me to take him,  I replied.\n\n Well,  said the scoundrel,  we ll not argue the subject now: but I\nhave a fancy to try my hand at rearing a young one; so intimate to your\nmaster that I must supply the place of this with my own, if he attempt\nto remove it. I don t engage to let Hareton go undisputed; but I ll be\npretty sure to make the other come! Remember to tell him. \n\nThis hint was enough to bind our hands. I repeated its substance on my\nreturn; and Edgar Linton, little interested at the commencement, spoke\nno more of interfering. I m not aware that he could have done it to any\npurpose, had he been ever so willing.\n\nThe guest was now the master of Wuthering Heights: he held firm\npossession, and proved to the attorney who, in his turn, proved it to\nMr. Linton that Earnshaw had mortgaged every yard of land he owned for\ncash to supply his mania for gaming; and he, Heathcliff, was the\nmortgagee. In that manner Hareton, who should now be the first\ngentleman in the neighbourhood, was reduced to a state of complete\ndependence on his father s inveterate enemy; and lives in his own house\nas a servant, deprived of the advantage of wages: quite unable to right\nhimself, because of his friendlessness, and his ignorance that he has\nbeen wronged.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nThe twelve years, continued Mrs. Dean, following that dismal period\nwere the happiest of my life: my greatest troubles in their passage\nrose from our little lady s trifling illnesses, which she had to\nexperience in common with all children, rich and poor. For the rest,\nafter the first six months, she grew like a larch, and could walk and\ntalk too, in her own way, before the heath blossomed a second time over\nMrs. Linton s dust. She was the most winning thing that ever brought\nsunshine into a desolate house: a real beauty in face, with the\nEarnshaws  handsome dark eyes, but the Lintons  fair skin and small\nfeatures, and yellow curling hair. Her spirit was high, though not\nrough, and qualified by a heart sensitive and lively to excess in its\naffections. That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of her\nmother: still she did not resemble her: for she could be soft and mild\nas a dove, and she had a gentle voice and pensive expression: her anger\nwas never furious; her love never fierce: it was deep and tender.\nHowever, it must be acknowledged, she had faults to foil her gifts. A\npropensity to be saucy was one; and a perverse will, that indulged\nchildren invariably acquire, whether they be good tempered or cross. If\na servant chanced to vex her, it was always I shall tell papa!  And if\nhe reproved her, even by a look, you would have thought it a\nheart-breaking business: I don t believe he ever did speak a harsh word\nto her. He took her education entirely on himself, and made it an\namusement. Fortunately, curiosity and a quick intellect made her an apt\nscholar: she learned rapidly and eagerly, and did honour to his\nteaching.\n\nTill she reached the age of thirteen she had not once been beyond the\nrange of the park by herself. Mr. Linton would take her with him a mile\nor so outside, on rare occasions; but he trusted her to no one else.\nGimmerton was an unsubstantial name in her ears; the chapel, the only\nbuilding she had approached or entered, except her own home. Wuthering\nHeights and Mr. Heathcliff did not exist for her: she was a perfect\nrecluse; and, apparently, perfectly contented. Sometimes, indeed, while\nsurveying the country from her nursery window, she would observe \n\n Ellen, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those\nhills? I wonder what lies on the other side is it the sea? \n\n No, Miss Cathy,  I would answer;  it is hills again, just like these. \n\n And what are those golden rocks like when you stand under them?  she\nonce asked.\n\nThe abrupt descent of Penistone Crags particularly attracted her\nnotice; especially when the setting sun shone on it and the topmost\nheights, and the whole extent of landscape besides lay in shadow. I\nexplained that they were bare masses of stone, with hardly enough earth\nin their clefts to nourish a stunted tree.\n\n And why are they bright so long after it is evening here?  she\npursued.\n\n Because they are a great deal higher up than we are,  replied I;  you\ncould not climb them, they are too high and steep. In winter the frost\nis always there before it comes to us; and deep into summer I have\nfound snow under that black hollow on the north-east side! \n\n Oh, you have been on them!  she cried gleefully.  Then I can go, too,\nwhen I am a woman. Has papa been, Ellen? \n\n Papa would tell you, Miss,  I answered, hastily,  that they are not\nworth the trouble of visiting. The moors, where you ramble with him,\nare much nicer; and Thrushcross Park is the finest place in the world. \n\n But I know the park, and I don t know those,  she murmured to herself.\n And I should delight to look round me from the brow of that tallest\npoint: my little pony Minny shall take me some time. \n\nOne of the maids mentioning the Fairy Cave, quite turned her head with\na desire to fulfil this project: she teased Mr. Linton about it; and he\npromised she should have the journey when she got older. But Miss\nCatherine measured her age by months, and,  Now, am I old enough to go\nto Penistone Crags?  was the constant question in her mouth. The road\nthither wound close by Wuthering Heights. Edgar had not the heart to\npass it; so she received as constantly the answer,  Not yet, love: not\nyet. \n\nI said Mrs. Heathcliff lived above a dozen years after quitting her\nhusband. Her family were of a delicate constitution: she and Edgar both\nlacked the ruddy health that you will generally meet in these parts.\nWhat her last illness was, I am not certain: I conjecture, they died of\nthe same thing, a kind of fever, slow at its commencement, but\nincurable, and rapidly consuming life towards the close. She wrote to\ninform her brother of the probable conclusion of a four-months \nindisposition under which she had suffered, and entreated him to come\nto her, if possible; for she had much to settle, and she wished to bid\nhim adieu, and deliver Linton safely into his hands. Her hope was that\nLinton might be left with him, as he had been with her: his father, she\nwould fain convince herself, had no desire to assume the burden of his\nmaintenance or education. My master hesitated not a moment in complying\nwith her request: reluctant as he was to leave home at ordinary calls,\nhe flew to answer this; commending Catherine to my peculiar vigilance,\nin his absence, with reiterated orders that she must not wander out of\nthe park, even under my escort: he did not calculate on her going\nunaccompanied.\n\nHe was away three weeks. The first day or two my charge sat in a corner\nof the library, too sad for either reading or playing: in that quiet\nstate she caused me little trouble; but it was succeeded by an interval\nof impatient, fretful weariness; and being too busy, and too old then,\nto run up and down amusing her, I hit on a method by which she might\nentertain herself. I used to send her on her travels round the\ngrounds now on foot, and now on a pony; indulging her with a patient\naudience of all her real and imaginary adventures when she returned.\n\nThe summer shone in full prime; and she took such a taste for this\nsolitary rambling that she often contrived to remain out from breakfast\ntill tea; and then the evenings were spent in recounting her fanciful\ntales. I did not fear her breaking bounds; because the gates were\ngenerally locked, and I thought she would scarcely venture forth alone,\nif they had stood wide open. Unluckily, my confidence proved misplaced.\nCatherine came to me, one morning, at eight o clock, and said she was\nthat day an Arabian merchant, going to cross the Desert with his\ncaravan; and I must give her plenty of provision for herself and\nbeasts: a horse, and three camels, personated by a large hound and a\ncouple of pointers. I got together good store of dainties, and slung\nthem in a basket on one side of the saddle; and she sprang up as gay as\na fairy, sheltered by her wide-brimmed hat and gauze veil from the July\nsun, and trotted off with a merry laugh, mocking my cautious counsel to\navoid galloping, and come back early. The naughty thing never made her\nappearance at tea. One traveller, the hound, being an old dog and fond\nof its ease, returned; but neither Cathy, nor the pony, nor the two\npointers were visible in any direction: I despatched emissaries down\nthis path, and that path, and at last went wandering in search of her\nmyself. There was a labourer working at a fence round a plantation, on\nthe borders of the grounds. I inquired of him if he had seen our young\nlady.\n\n I saw her at morn,  he replied:  she would have me to cut her a hazel\nswitch, and then she leapt her Galloway over the hedge yonder, where it\nis lowest, and galloped out of sight. \n\nYou may guess how I felt at hearing this news. It struck me directly\nshe must have started for Penistone Crags.  What will become of her?  I\nejaculated, pushing through a gap which the man was repairing, and\nmaking straight to the high-road. I walked as if for a wager, mile\nafter mile, till a turn brought me in view of the Heights; but no\nCatherine could I detect, far or near. The Crags lie about a mile and a\nhalf beyond Mr. Heathcliff s place, and that is four from the Grange,\nso I began to fear night would fall ere I could reach them.  And what\nif she should have slipped in clambering among them,  I reflected,  and\nbeen killed, or broken some of her bones?  My suspense was truly\npainful; and, at first, it gave me delightful relief to observe, in\nhurrying by the farmhouse, Charlie, the fiercest of the pointers, lying\nunder a window, with swelled head and bleeding ear. I opened the wicket\nand ran to the door, knocking vehemently for admittance. A woman whom I\nknew, and who formerly lived at Gimmerton, answered: she had been\nservant there since the death of Mr. Earnshaw.\n\n Ah,  said she,  you are come a-seeking your little mistress! Don t be\nfrightened. She s here safe: but I m glad it isn t the master. \n\n He is not at home then, is he?  I panted, quite breathless with quick\nwalking and alarm.\n\n No, no,  she replied:  both he and Joseph are off, and I think they\nwon t return this hour or more. Step in and rest you a bit. \n\nI entered, and beheld my stray lamb seated on the hearth, rocking\nherself in a little chair that had been her mother s when a child. Her\nhat was hung against the wall, and she seemed perfectly at home,\nlaughing and chattering, in the best spirits imaginable, to Hareton now\na great, strong lad of eighteen who stared at her with considerable\ncuriosity and astonishment: comprehending precious little of the fluent\nsuccession of remarks and questions which her tongue never ceased\npouring forth.\n\n Very well, Miss!  I exclaimed, concealing my joy under an angry\ncountenance.  This is your last ride, till papa comes back. I ll not\ntrust you over the threshold again, you naughty, naughty girl! \n\n Aha, Ellen!  she cried, gaily, jumping up and running to my side.  I\nshall have a pretty story to tell to-night; and so you ve found me out.\nHave you ever been here in your life before? \n\n Put that hat on, and home at once,  said I.  I m dreadfully grieved at\nyou, Miss Cathy: you ve done extremely wrong! It s no use pouting and\ncrying: that won t repay the trouble I ve had, scouring the country\nafter you. To think how Mr. Linton charged me to keep you in; and you\nstealing off so! It shows you are a cunning little fox, and nobody will\nput faith in you any more. \n\n What have I done?  sobbed she, instantly checked.  Papa charged me\nnothing: he ll not scold me, Ellen he s never cross, like you! \n\n Come, come!  I repeated.  I ll tie the riband. Now, let us have no\npetulance. Oh, for shame! You thirteen years old, and such a baby! \n\nThis exclamation was caused by her pushing the hat from her head, and\nretreating to the chimney out of my reach.\n\n Nay,  said the servant,  don t be hard on the bonny lass, Mrs. Dean.\nWe made her stop: she d fain have ridden forwards, afeard you should be\nuneasy. Hareton offered to go with her, and I thought he should: it s a\nwild road over the hills. \n\nHareton, during the discussion, stood with his hands in his pockets,\ntoo awkward to speak; though he looked as if he did not relish my\nintrusion.\n\n How long am I to wait?  I continued, disregarding the woman s\ninterference.  It will be dark in ten minutes. Where is the pony, Miss\nCathy? And where is Phoenix? I shall leave you, unless you be quick; so\nplease yourself. \n\n The pony is in the yard,  she replied,  and Phoenix is shut in there.\nHe s bitten and so is Charlie. I was going to tell you all about it;\nbut you are in a bad temper, and don t deserve to hear. \n\nI picked up her hat, and approached to reinstate it; but perceiving\nthat the people of the house took her part, she commenced capering\nround the room; and on my giving chase, ran like a mouse over and under\nand behind the furniture, rendering it ridiculous for me to pursue.\nHareton and the woman laughed, and she joined them, and waxed more\nimpertinent still; till I cried, in great irritation, Well, Miss\nCathy, if you were aware whose house this is you d be glad enough to\nget out. \n\n It s _your_ father s, isn t it?  said she, turning to Hareton.\n\n Nay,  he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully.\n\nHe could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they were just\nhis own.\n\n Whose then your master s?  she asked.\n\nHe coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and\nturned away.\n\n Who is his master?  continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me.  He\ntalked about  our house,  and  our folk.  I thought he had been the\nowner s son. And he never said Miss: he should have done, shouldn t he,\nif he s a servant? \n\nHareton grew black as a thunder-cloud at this childish speech. I\nsilently shook my questioner, and at last succeeded in equipping her\nfor departure.\n\n Now, get my horse,  she said, addressing her unknown kinsman as she\nwould one of the stable-boys at the Grange.  And you may come with me.\nI want to see where the goblin-hunter rises in the marsh, and to hear\nabout the _fairishes_, as you call them: but make haste! What s the\nmatter? Get my horse, I say. \n\n I ll see thee damned before I be _thy_ servant!  growled the lad.\n\n You ll see me _what?_  asked Catherine in surprise.\n\n Damned thou saucy witch!  he replied.\n\n There, Miss Cathy! you see you have got into pretty company,  I\ninterposed.  Nice words to be used to a young lady! Pray don t begin to\ndispute with him. Come, let us seek for Minny ourselves, and begone. \n\n But, Ellen,  cried she, staring fixed in astonishment,  how dare he\nspeak so to me? Mustn t he be made to do as I ask him? You wicked\ncreature, I shall tell papa what you said. Now, then! \n\nHareton did not appear to feel this threat; so the tears sprang into\nher eyes with indignation.  You bring the pony,  she exclaimed, turning\nto the woman,  and let my dog free this moment! \n\n Softly, Miss,  answered the addressed.  You ll lose nothing by being\ncivil. Though Mr. Hareton, there, be not the master s son, he s your\ncousin: and I was never hired to serve you. \n\n _He_ my cousin!  cried Cathy, with a scornful laugh.\n\n Yes, indeed,  responded her reprover.\n\n Oh, Ellen! don t let them say such things,  she pursued in great\ntrouble.  Papa is gone to fetch my cousin from London: my cousin is a\ngentleman s son. That my  she stopped, and wept outright; upset at the\nbare notion of relationship with such a clown.\n\n Hush, hush!  I whispered;  people can have many cousins and of all\nsorts, Miss Cathy, without being any the worse for it; only they\nneedn t keep their company, if they be disagreeable and bad. \n\n He s not he s not my cousin, Ellen!  she went on, gathering fresh\ngrief from reflection, and flinging herself into my arms for refuge\nfrom the idea.\n\nI was much vexed at her and the servant for their mutual revelations;\nhaving no doubt of Linton s approaching arrival, communicated by the\nformer, being reported to Mr. Heathcliff; and feeling as confident that\nCatherine s first thought on her father s return would be to seek an\nexplanation of the latter s assertion concerning her rude-bred kindred.\nHareton, recovering from his disgust at being taken for a servant,\nseemed moved by her distress; and, having fetched the pony round to the\ndoor, he took, to propitiate her, a fine crooked-legged terrier whelp\nfrom the kennel, and putting it into her hand, bid her whist! for he\nmeant nought. Pausing in her lamentations, she surveyed him with a\nglance of awe and horror, then burst forth anew.\n\nI could scarcely refrain from smiling at this antipathy to the poor\nfellow; who was a well-made, athletic youth, good-looking in features,\nand stout and healthy, but attired in garments befitting his daily\noccupations of working on the farm and lounging among the moors after\nrabbits and game. Still, I thought I could detect in his physiognomy a\nmind owning better qualities than his father ever possessed. Good\nthings lost amid a wilderness of weeds, to be sure, whose rankness far\nover-topped their neglected growth; yet, notwithstanding, evidence of a\nwealthy soil, that might yield luxuriant crops under other and\nfavourable circumstances. Mr. Heathcliff, I believe, had not treated\nhim physically ill; thanks to his fearless nature, which offered no\ntemptation to that course of oppression: he had none of the timid\nsusceptibility that would have given zest to ill-treatment, in\nHeathcliff s judgment. He appeared to have bent his malevolence on\nmaking him a brute: he was never taught to read or write; never rebuked\nfor any bad habit which did not annoy his keeper; never led a single\nstep towards virtue, or guarded by a single precept against vice. And\nfrom what I heard, Joseph contributed much to his deterioration, by a\nnarrow-minded partiality which prompted him to flatter and pet him, as\na boy, because he was the head of the old family. And as he had been in\nthe habit of accusing Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, when children,\nof putting the master past his patience, and compelling him to seek\nsolace in drink by what he termed their  offald ways,  so at present he\nlaid the whole burden of Hareton s faults on the shoulders of the\nusurper of his property. If the lad swore, he wouldn t correct him: nor\nhowever culpably he behaved. It gave Joseph satisfaction, apparently,\nto watch him go the worst lengths: he allowed that the lad was ruined:\nthat his soul was abandoned to perdition; but then he reflected that\nHeathcliff must answer for it. Hareton s blood would be required at his\nhands; and there lay immense consolation in that thought. Joseph had\ninstilled into him a pride of name, and of his lineage; he would, had\nhe dared, have fostered hate between him and the present owner of the\nHeights: but his dread of that owner amounted to superstition; and he\nconfined his feelings regarding him to muttered innuendoes and private\ncomminations. I don t pretend to be intimately acquainted with the mode\nof living customary in those days at Wuthering Heights: I only speak\nfrom hearsay; for I saw little. The villagers affirmed Mr. Heathcliff\nwas _near_, and a cruel hard landlord to his tenants; but the house,\ninside, had regained its ancient aspect of comfort under female\nmanagement, and the scenes of riot common in Hindley s time were not\nnow enacted within its walls. The master was too gloomy to seek\ncompanionship with any people, good or bad; and he is yet.\n\nThis, however, is not making progress with my story. Miss Cathy\nrejected the peace-offering of the terrier, and demanded her own dogs,\nCharlie and Phoenix. They came limping and hanging their heads; and we\nset out for home, sadly out of sorts, every one of us. I could not\nwring from my little lady how she had spent the day; except that, as I\nsupposed, the goal of her pilgrimage was Penistone Crags; and she\narrived without adventure to the gate of the farmhouse, when Hareton\nhappened to issue forth, attended by some canine followers, who\nattacked her train. They had a smart battle, before their owners could\nseparate them: that formed an introduction. Catherine told Hareton who\nshe was, and where she was going; and asked him to show her the way:\nfinally, beguiling him to accompany her. He opened the mysteries of the\nFairy Cave, and twenty other queer places. But, being in disgrace, I\nwas not favoured with a description of the interesting objects she saw.\nI could gather, however, that her guide had been a favourite till she\nhurt his feelings by addressing him as a servant; and Heathcliff s\nhousekeeper hurt hers by calling him her cousin. Then the language he\nhad held to her rankled in her heart; she who was always  love,  and\n darling,  and  queen,  and  angel,  with everybody at the Grange, to\nbe insulted so shockingly by a stranger! She did not comprehend it; and\nhard work I had to obtain a promise that she would not lay the\ngrievance before her father. I explained how he objected to the whole\nhousehold at the Heights, and how sorry he would be to find she had\nbeen there; but I insisted most on the fact, that if she revealed my\nnegligence of his orders, he would perhaps be so angry that I should\nhave to leave; and Cathy couldn t bear that prospect: she pledged her\nword, and kept it for my sake. After all, she was a sweet little girl.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nA letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master s return.\nIsabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his\ndaughter, and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his\nyouthful nephew. Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming\nher father back; and indulged most sanguine anticipations of the\ninnumerable excellencies of her  real  cousin. The evening of their\nexpected arrival came. Since early morning she had been busy ordering\nher own small affairs; and now attired in her new black frock poor\nthing! her aunt s death impressed her with no definite sorrow she\nobliged me, by constant worrying, to walk with her down through the\ngrounds to meet them.\n\n Linton is just six months younger than I am,  she chattered, as we\nstrolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under\nshadow of the trees.  How delightful it will be to have him for a\nplayfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it\nwas lighter than mine more flaxen, and quite as fine. I have it\ncarefully preserved in a little glass box; and I ve often thought what\na pleasure it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy and papa, dear,\ndear papa! Come, Ellen, let us run! come, run. \n\nShe ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober\nfootsteps reached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy\nbank beside the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was\nimpossible: she couldn t be still a minute.\n\n How long they are!  she exclaimed.  Ah, I see some dust on the\nroad they are coming! No! When will they be here? May we not go a\nlittle way half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile? Do say yes, to\nthat clump of birches at the turn! \n\nI refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the travelling\ncarriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her\narms as soon as she caught her father s face looking from the window.\nHe descended, nearly as eager as herself; and a considerable interval\nelapsed ere they had a thought to spare for any but themselves. While\nthey exchanged caresses I took a peep in to see after Linton. He was\nasleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak, as if it had\nbeen winter. A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been\ntaken for my master s younger brother, so strong was the resemblance:\nbut there was a sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton\nnever had. The latter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, advised\nme to close the door, and leave him undisturbed; for the journey had\nfatigued him. Cathy would fain have taken one glance, but her father\ntold her to come, and they walked together up the park, while I\nhastened before to prepare the servants.\n\n Now, darling,  said Mr. Linton, addressing his daughter, as they\nhalted at the bottom of the front steps:  your cousin is not so strong\nor so merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember, a very\nshort time since; therefore, don t expect him to play and run about\nwith you directly. And don t harass him much by talking: let him be\nquiet this evening, at least, will you? \n\n Yes, yes, papa,  answered Catherine:  but I do want to see him; and he\nhasn t once looked out. \n\nThe carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted to the\nground by his uncle.\n\n This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,  he said, putting their little\nhands together.  She s fond of you already; and mind you don t grieve\nher by crying to-night. Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an\nend, and you have nothing to do but rest and amuse yourself as you\nplease. \n\n Let me go to bed, then,  answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine s\nsalute; and he put his fingers to his eyes to remove incipient tears.\n\n Come, come, there s a good child,  I whispered, leading him in.\n You ll make her weep too see how sorry she is for you! \n\nI do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin put on as\nsad a countenance as himself, and returned to her father. All three\nentered, and mounted to the library, where tea was laid ready. I\nproceeded to remove Linton s cap and mantle, and placed him on a chair\nby the table; but he was no sooner seated than he began to cry afresh.\nMy master inquired what was the matter.\n\n I can t sit on a chair,  sobbed the boy.\n\n Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,  answered\nhis uncle patiently.\n\nHe had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his\nfretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down.\nCathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. At first she sat\nsilent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her\nlittle cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking\nhis curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer,\nlike a baby. This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his\neyes, and lightened into a faint smile.\n\n Oh, he ll do very well,  said the master to me, after watching them a\nminute.  Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child\nof his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for\nstrength he ll gain it. \n\n Ay, if we can keep him!  I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came\nover me that there was slight hope of that. And then, I thought, how\never will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights? Between his father\nand Hareton, what playmates and instructors they ll be. Our doubts were\npresently decided even earlier than I expected. I had just taken the\nchildren upstairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep he\nwould not suffer me to leave him till that was the case I had come\ndown, and was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom\ncandle for Mr. Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and\ninformed me that Mr. Heathcliff s servant Joseph was at the door, and\nwished to speak with the master.\n\n I shall ask him what he wants first,  I said, in considerable\ntrepidation.  A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the\ninstant they have returned from a long journey. I don t think the\nmaster can see him. \n\nJoseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and\nnow presented himself in the hall. He was donned in his Sunday\ngarments, with his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding\nhis hat in one hand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean\nhis shoes on the mat.\n\n Good-evening, Joseph,  I said, coldly.  What business brings you here\nto-night? \n\n It s Maister Linton I mun spake to,  he answered, waving me\ndisdainfully aside.\n\n Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to\nsay, I m sure he won t hear it now,  I continued.  You had better sit\ndown in there, and entrust your message to me. \n\n Which is his rahm?  pursued the fellow, surveying the range of closed\ndoors.\n\nI perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very reluctantly I\nwent up to the library, and announced the unseasonable visitor,\nadvising that he should be dismissed till next day. Mr. Linton had no\ntime to empower me to do so, for Joseph mounted close at my heels, and,\npushing into the apartment, planted himself at the far side of the\ntable, with his two fists clapped on the head of his stick, and began\nin an elevated tone, as if anticipating opposition \n\n Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn t goa back  bout him. \n\nEdgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding sorrow\novercast his features: he would have pitied the child on his own\naccount; but, recalling Isabella s hopes and fears, and anxious wishes\nfor her son, and her commendations of him to his care, he grieved\nbitterly at the prospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart\nhow it might be avoided. No plan offered itself: the very exhibition of\nany desire to keep him would have rendered the claimant more\nperemptory: there was nothing left but to resign him. However, he was\nnot going to rouse him from his sleep.\n\n Tell Mr. Heathcliff,  he answered calmly,  that his son shall come to\nWuthering Heights to-morrow. He is in bed, and too tired to go the\ndistance now. You may also tell him that the mother of Linton desired\nhim to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is\nvery precarious. \n\n Noa!  said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, and\nassuming an authoritative air.  Noa! that means naught. Hathecliff maks\nnoa  count o  t  mother, nor ye norther; but he ll hev his lad; und I\nmun tak  him soa now ye knaw! \n\n You shall not to-night!  answered Linton decisively.  Walk down stairs\nat once, and repeat to your master what I have said. Ellen, show him\ndown. Go \n\nAnd, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid the room\nof him and closed the door.\n\n Varrah weell!  shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off.  To-morn, he s\ncome hisseln, and thrust _him_ out, if ye darr! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nTo obviate the danger of this threat being fulfilled, Mr. Linton\ncommissioned me to take the boy home early, on Catherine s pony; and,\nsaid he As we shall now have no influence over his destiny, good or\nbad, you must say nothing of where he is gone to my daughter: she\ncannot associate with him hereafter, and it is better for her to remain\nin ignorance of his proximity; lest she should be restless, and anxious\nto visit the Heights. Merely tell her his father sent for him suddenly,\nand he has been obliged to leave us. \n\nLinton was very reluctant to be roused from his bed at five o clock,\nand astonished to be informed that he must prepare for further\ntravelling; but I softened off the matter by stating that he was going\nto spend some time with his father, Mr. Heathcliff, who wished to see\nhim so much, he did not like to defer the pleasure till he should\nrecover from his late journey.\n\n My father!  he cried, in strange perplexity.  Mamma never told me I\nhad a father. Where does he live? I d rather stay with uncle. \n\n He lives a little distance from the Grange,  I replied;  just beyond\nthose hills: not so far, but you may walk over here when you get\nhearty. And you should be glad to go home, and to see him. You must try\nto love him, as you did your mother, and then he will love you. \n\n But why have I not heard of him before?  asked Linton.  Why didn t\nmamma and he live together, as other people do? \n\n He had business to keep him in the north,  I answered,  and your\nmother s health required her to reside in the south. \n\n And why didn t mamma speak to me about him?  persevered the child.\n She often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him long ago. How am I\nto love papa? I don t know him. \n\n Oh, all children love their parents,  I said.  Your mother, perhaps,\nthought you would want to be with him if she mentioned him often to\nyou. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a beautiful morning is\nmuch preferable to an hour s more sleep. \n\n Is _she_ to go with us,  he demanded,  the little girl I saw\nyesterday? \n\n Not now,  replied I.\n\n Is uncle?  he continued.\n\n No, I shall be your companion there,  I said.\n\nLinton sank back on his pillow and fell into a brown study.\n\n I won t go without uncle,  he cried at length:  I can t tell where you\nmean to take me. \n\nI attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing reluctance to\nmeet his father; still he obstinately resisted any progress towards\ndressing, and I had to call for my master s assistance in coaxing him\nout of bed. The poor thing was finally got off, with several delusive\nassurances that his absence should be short: that Mr. Edgar and Cathy\nwould visit him, and other promises, equally ill-founded, which I\ninvented and reiterated at intervals throughout the way. The pure\nheather-scented air, the bright sunshine, and the gentle canter of\nMinny, relieved his despondency after a while. He began to put\nquestions concerning his new home, and its inhabitants, with greater\ninterest and liveliness.\n\n Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross Grange?  he\ninquired, turning to take a last glance into the valley, whence a light\nmist mounted and formed a fleecy cloud on the skirts of the blue.\n\n It is not so buried in trees,  I replied,  and it is not quite so\nlarge, but you can see the country beautifully all round; and the air\nis healthier for you fresher and drier. You will, perhaps, think the\nbuilding old and dark at first; though it is a respectable house: the\nnext best in the neighbourhood. And you will have such nice rambles on\nthe moors. Hareton Earnshaw that is, Miss Cathy s other cousin, and so\nyours in a manner will show you all the sweetest spots; and you can\nbring a book in fine weather, and make a green hollow your study; and,\nnow and then, your uncle may join you in a walk: he does, frequently,\nwalk out on the hills. \n\n And what is my father like?  he asked.  Is he as young and handsome as\nuncle? \n\n He s as young,  said I;  but he has black hair and eyes, and looks\nsterner; and he is taller and bigger altogether. He ll not seem to you\nso gentle and kind at first, perhaps, because it is not his way: still,\nmind you, be frank and cordial with him; and naturally he ll be fonder\nof you than any uncle, for you are his own. \n\n Black hair and eyes!  mused Linton.  I can t fancy him. Then I am not\nlike him, am I? \n\n Not much,  I answered: not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret\nthe white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large\nlanguid eyes his mother s eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness\nkindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkling spirit.\n\n How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me!  he\nmurmured.  Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I\nremember not a single thing about him! \n\n Why, Master Linton,  said I,  three hundred miles is a great distance;\nand ten years seem very different in length to a grown-up person\ncompared with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff\nproposed going from summer to summer, but never found a convenient\nopportunity; and now it is too late. Don t trouble him with questions\non the subject: it will disturb him, for no good. \n\nThe boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder\nof the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden-gate. I watched\nto catch his impressions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved\nfront and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry-bushes and\ncrooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head: his\nprivate feelings entirely disapproved of the exterior of his new abode.\nBut he had sense to postpone complaining: there might be compensation\nwithin. Before he dismounted, I went and opened the door. It was\nhalf-past six; the family had just finished breakfast: the servant was\nclearing and wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master s chair\ntelling some tale concerning a lame horse; and Hareton was preparing\nfor the hayfield.\n\n Hallo, Nelly!  said Mr. Heathcliff, when he saw me.  I feared I should\nhave to come down and fetch my property myself. You ve brought it, have\nyou? Let us see what we can make of it. \n\nHe got up and strode to the door: Hareton and Joseph followed in gaping\ncuriosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the\nthree.\n\n Sure-ly,  said Joseph after a grave inspection,  he s swopped wi  ye,\nMaister, an  yon s his lass! \n\nHeathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of confusion, uttered a\nscornful laugh.\n\n God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing!  he exclaimed.\n Hav n t they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my\nsoul! but that s worse than I expected and the devil knows I was not\nsanguine! \n\nI bid the trembling and bewildered child get down, and enter. He did\nnot thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father s speech, or\nwhether it were intended for him: indeed, he was not yet certain that\nthe grim, sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with\ngrowing trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff s taking a seat and bidding\nhim  come hither  he hid his face on my shoulder and wept.\n\n Tut, tut!  said Heathcliff, stretching out a hand and dragging him\nroughly between his knees, and then holding up his head by the chin.\n None of that nonsense! We re not going to hurt thee, Linton isn t that\nthy name? Thou art thy mother s child, entirely! Where is _my_ share in\nthee, puling chicken? \n\nHe took off the boy s cap and pushed back his thick flaxen curls, felt\nhis slender arms and his small fingers; during which examination Linton\nceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes to inspect the inspector.\n\n Do you know me?  asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself that the\nlimbs were all equally frail and feeble.\n\n No,  said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear.\n\n You ve heard of me, I daresay? \n\n No,  he replied again.\n\n No! What a shame of your mother, never to waken your filial regard for\nme! You are my son, then, I ll tell you; and your mother was a wicked\nslut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed.\nNow, don t wince, and colour up! Though it _is_ something to see you\nhave not white blood. Be a good lad; and I ll do for you. Nelly, if you\nbe tired you may sit down; if not, get home again. I guess you ll\nreport what you hear and see to the cipher at the Grange; and this\nthing won t be settled while you linger about it. \n\n Well,  replied I,  I hope you ll be kind to the boy, Mr. Heathcliff,\nor you ll not keep him long; and he s all you have akin in the wide\nworld, that you will ever know remember. \n\n I ll be _very_ kind to him, you needn t fear,  he said, laughing.\n Only nobody else must be kind to him: I m jealous of monopolising his\naffection. And, to begin my kindness, Joseph, bring the lad some\nbreakfast. Hareton, you infernal calf, begone to your work. Yes, Nell, \nhe added, when they had departed,  my son is prospective owner of your\nplace, and I should not wish him to die till I was certain of being his\nsuccessor. Besides, he s _mine_, and I want the triumph of seeing _my_\ndescendant fairly lord of their estates; my child hiring their children\nto till their fathers  lands for wages. That is the sole consideration\nwhich can make me endure the whelp: I despise him for himself, and hate\nhim for the memories he revives! But that consideration is sufficient:\nhe s as safe with me, and shall be tended as carefully as your master\ntends his own. I have a room upstairs, furnished for him in handsome\nstyle; I ve engaged a tutor, also, to come three times a week, from\ntwenty miles  distance, to teach him what he pleases to learn. I ve\nordered Hareton to obey him: and in fact I ve arranged everything with\na view to preserve the superior and the gentleman in him, above his\nassociates. I do regret, however, that he so little deserves the\ntrouble: if I wished any blessing in the world, it was to find him a\nworthy object of pride; and I m bitterly disappointed with the\nwhey-faced, whining wretch! \n\nWhile he was speaking, Joseph returned bearing a basin of\nmilk-porridge, and placed it before Linton: who stirred round the\nhomely mess with a look of aversion, and affirmed he could not eat it.\nI saw the old man-servant shared largely in his master s scorn of the\nchild; though he was compelled to retain the sentiment in his heart,\nbecause Heathcliff plainly meant his underlings to hold him in honour.\n\n Cannot ate it?  repeated he, peering in Linton s face, and subduing\nhis voice to a whisper, for fear of being overheard.  But Maister\nHareton nivir ate naught else, when he wer a little  un; and what wer\ngooid eneugh for him s gooid eneugh for ye, I s rayther think! \n\n I _sha n t_ eat it!  answered Linton, snappishly.  Take it away. \n\nJoseph snatched up the food indignantly, and brought it to us.\n\n Is there aught ails th  victuals?  he asked, thrusting the tray under\nHeathcliff s nose.\n\n What should ail them?  he said.\n\n Wah!  answered Joseph,  yon dainty chap says he cannut ate  em. But I\nguess it s raight! His mother wer just soa we wer a most too mucky to\nsow t  corn for makking her breead. \n\n Don t mention his mother to me,  said the master, angrily.  Get him\nsomething that he can eat, that s all. What is his usual food, Nelly? \n\nI suggested boiled milk or tea; and the housekeeper received\ninstructions to prepare some. Come, I reflected, his father s\nselfishness may contribute to his comfort. He perceives his delicate\nconstitution, and the necessity of treating him tolerably. I ll console\nMr. Edgar by acquainting him with the turn Heathcliff s humour has\ntaken. Having no excuse for lingering longer, I slipped out, while\nLinton was engaged in timidly rebuffing the advances of a friendly\nsheep-dog. But he was too much on the alert to be cheated: as I closed\nthe door, I heard a cry, and a frantic repetition of the words \n\n Don t leave me! I ll not stay here! I ll not stay here! \n\nThen the latch was raised and fell: they did not suffer him to come\nforth. I mounted Minny, and urged her to a trot; and so my brief\nguardianship ended.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nWe had sad work with little Cathy that day: she rose in high glee,\neager to join her cousin, and such passionate tears and lamentations\nfollowed the news of his departure that Edgar himself was obliged to\nsoothe her, by affirming he should come back soon: he added, however,\n if I can get him ; and there were no hopes of that. This promise\npoorly pacified her; but time was more potent; and though still at\nintervals she inquired of her father when Linton would return, before\nshe did see him again his features had waxed so dim in her memory that\nshe did not recognise him.\n\nWhen I chanced to encounter the housekeeper of Wuthering Heights, in\npaying business visits to Gimmerton, I used to ask how the young master\ngot on; for he lived almost as secluded as Catherine herself, and was\nnever to be seen. I could gather from her that he continued in weak\nhealth, and was a tiresome inmate. She said Mr. Heathcliff seemed to\ndislike him ever longer and worse, though he took some trouble to\nconceal it: he had an antipathy to the sound of his voice, and could\nnot do at all with his sitting in the same room with him many minutes\ntogether. There seldom passed much talk between them: Linton learnt his\nlessons and spent his evenings in a small apartment they called the\nparlour: or else lay in bed all day: for he was constantly getting\ncoughs, and colds, and aches, and pains of some sort.\n\n And I never knew such a faint-hearted creature,  added the woman;  nor\none so careful of hisseln. He _will_ go on, if I leave the window open\na bit late in the evening. Oh! it s killing, a breath of night air! And\nhe must have a fire in the middle of summer; and Joseph s bacca-pipe is\npoison; and he must always have sweets and dainties, and always milk,\nmilk for ever heeding naught how the rest of us are pinched in winter;\nand there he ll sit, wrapped in his furred cloak in his chair by the\nfire, with some toast and water or other slop on the hob to sip at; and\nif Hareton, for pity, comes to amuse him Hareton is not bad-natured,\nthough he s rough they re sure to part, one swearing and the other\ncrying. I believe the master would relish Earnshaw s thrashing him to a\nmummy, if he were not his son; and I m certain he would be fit to turn\nhim out of doors, if he knew half the nursing he gives hisseln. But\nthen he won t go into danger of temptation: he never enters the\nparlour, and should Linton show those ways in the house where he is, he\nsends him upstairs directly. \n\nI divined, from this account, that utter lack of sympathy had rendered\nyoung Heathcliff selfish and disagreeable, if he were not so\noriginally; and my interest in him, consequently, decayed: though still\nI was moved with a sense of grief at his lot, and a wish that he had\nbeen left with us. Mr. Edgar encouraged me to gain information: he\nthought a great deal about him, I fancy, and would have run some risk\nto see him; and he told me once to ask the housekeeper whether he ever\ncame into the village? She said he had only been twice, on horseback,\naccompanying his father; and both times he pretended to be quite\nknocked up for three or four days afterwards. That housekeeper left, if\nI recollect rightly, two years after he came; and another, whom I did\nnot know, was her successor; she lives there still.\n\nTime wore on at the Grange in its former pleasant way till Miss Cathy\nreached sixteen. On the anniversary of her birth we never manifested\nany signs of rejoicing, because it was also the anniversary of my late\nmistress s death. Her father invariably spent that day alone in the\nlibrary; and walked, at dusk, as far as Gimmerton kirkyard, where he\nwould frequently prolong his stay beyond midnight. Therefore Catherine\nwas thrown on her own resources for amusement. This twentieth of March\nwas a beautiful spring day, and when her father had retired, my young\nlady came down dressed for going out, and said she asked to have a\nramble on the edge of the moor with me: Mr. Linton had given her leave,\nif we went only a short distance and were back within the hour.\n\n So make haste, Ellen!  she cried.  I know where I wish to go; where a\ncolony of moor-game are settled: I want to see whether they have made\ntheir nests yet. \n\n That must be a good distance up,  I answered;  they don t breed on the\nedge of the moor. \n\n No, it s not,  she said.  I ve gone very near with papa. \n\nI put on my bonnet and sallied out, thinking nothing more of the\nmatter. She bounded before me, and returned to my side, and was off\nagain like a young greyhound; and, at first, I found plenty of\nentertainment in listening to the larks singing far and near, and\nenjoying the sweet, warm sunshine; and watching her, my pet and my\ndelight, with her golden ringlets flying loose behind, and her bright\ncheek, as soft and pure in its bloom as a wild rose, and her eyes\nradiant with cloudless pleasure. She was a happy creature, and an\nangel, in those days. It s a pity she could not be content.\n\n Well,  said I,  where are your moor-game, Miss Cathy? We should be at\nthem: the Grange park-fence is a great way off now. \n\n Oh, a little further only a little further, Ellen,  was her answer,\ncontinually.  Climb to that hillock, pass that bank, and by the time\nyou reach the other side I shall have raised the birds. \n\nBut there were so many hillocks and banks to climb and pass, that, at\nlength, I began to be weary, and told her we must halt, and retrace our\nsteps. I shouted to her, as she had outstripped me a long way; she\neither did not hear or did not regard, for she still sprang on, and I\nwas compelled to follow. Finally, she dived into a hollow; and before I\ncame in sight of her again, she was two miles nearer Wuthering Heights\nthan her own home; and I beheld a couple of persons arrest her, one of\nwhom I felt convinced was Mr. Heathcliff himself.\n\nCathy had been caught in the fact of plundering, or, at least, hunting\nout the nests of the grouse. The Heights were Heathcliff s land, and he\nwas reproving the poacher.\n\n I ve neither taken any nor found any,  she said, as I toiled to them,\nexpanding her hands in corroboration of the statement.  I didn t mean\nto take them; but papa told me there were quantities up here, and I\nwished to see the eggs. \n\nHeathcliff glanced at me with an ill-meaning smile, expressing his\nacquaintance with the party, and, consequently, his malevolence towards\nit, and demanded who  papa  was?\n\n Mr. Linton of Thrushcross Grange,  she replied.  I thought you did not\nknow me, or you wouldn t have spoken in that way. \n\n You suppose papa is highly esteemed and respected, then?  he said,\nsarcastically.\n\n And what are you?  inquired Catherine, gazing curiously on the\nspeaker.  That man I ve seen before. Is he your son? \n\nShe pointed to Hareton, the other individual, who had gained nothing\nbut increased bulk and strength by the addition of two years to his\nage: he seemed as awkward and rough as ever.\n\n Miss Cathy,  I interrupted,  it will be three hours instead of one\nthat we are out, presently. We really must go back. \n\n No, that man is not my son,  answered Heathcliff, pushing me aside.\n But I have one, and you have seen him before too; and, though your\nnurse is in a hurry, I think both you and she would be the better for a\nlittle rest. Will you just turn this nab of heath, and walk into my\nhouse? You ll get home earlier for the ease; and you shall receive a\nkind welcome. \n\nI whispered Catherine that she mustn t, on any account, accede to the\nproposal: it was entirely out of the question.\n\n Why?  she asked, aloud.  I m tired of running, and the ground is dewy:\nI can t sit here. Let us go, Ellen. Besides, he says I have seen his\nson. He s mistaken, I think; but I guess where he lives: at the\nfarmhouse I visited in coming from Penistone Crags. Don t you? \n\n I do. Come, Nelly, hold your tongue it will be a treat for her to look\nin on us. Hareton, get forwards with the lass. You shall walk with me,\nNelly. \n\n No, she s not going to any such place,  I cried, struggling to release\nmy arm, which he had seized: but she was almost at the door-stones\nalready, scampering round the brow at full speed. Her appointed\ncompanion did not pretend to escort her: he shied off by the road-side,\nand vanished.\n\n Mr. Heathcliff, it s very wrong,  I continued:  you know you mean no\ngood. And there she ll see Linton, and all will be told as soon as ever\nwe return; and I shall have the blame. \n\n I want her to see Linton,  he answered;  he s looking better these few\ndays; it s not often he s fit to be seen. And we ll soon persuade her\nto keep the visit secret: where is the harm of it? \n\n The harm of it is, that her father would hate me if he found I\nsuffered her to enter your house; and I am convinced you have a bad\ndesign in encouraging her to do so,  I replied.\n\n My design is as honest as possible. I ll inform you of its whole\nscope,  he said.  That the two cousins may fall in love, and get\nmarried. I m acting generously to your master: his young chit has no\nexpectations, and should she second my wishes she ll be provided for at\nonce as joint successor with Linton. \n\n If Linton died,  I answered,  and his life is quite uncertain,\nCatherine would be the heir. \n\n No, she would not,  he said.  There is no clause in the will to secure\nit so: his property would go to me; but, to prevent disputes, I desire\ntheir union, and am resolved to bring it about. \n\n And I m resolved she shall never approach your house with me again,  I\nreturned, as we reached the gate, where Miss Cathy waited our coming.\n\nHeathcliff bade me be quiet; and, preceding us up the path, hastened to\nopen the door. My young lady gave him several looks, as if she could\nnot exactly make up her mind what to think of him; but now he smiled\nwhen he met her eye, and softened his voice in addressing her; and I\nwas foolish enough to imagine the memory of her mother might disarm him\nfrom desiring her injury. Linton stood on the hearth. He had been out\nwalking in the fields, for his cap was on, and he was calling to Joseph\nto bring him dry shoes. He had grown tall of his age, still wanting\nsome months of sixteen. His features were pretty yet, and his eye and\ncomplexion brighter than I remembered them, though with merely\ntemporary lustre borrowed from the salubrious air and genial sun.\n\n Now, who is that?  asked Mr. Heathcliff, turning to Cathy.  Can you\ntell? \n\n Your son?  she said, having doubtfully surveyed, first one and then\nthe other.\n\n Yes, yes,  answered he:  but is this the only time you have beheld\nhim? Think! Ah! you have a short memory. Linton, don t you recall your\ncousin, that you used to tease us so with wishing to see? \n\n What, Linton!  cried Cathy, kindling into joyful surprise at the name.\n Is that little Linton? He s taller than I am! Are you Linton? \n\nThe youth stepped forward, and acknowledged himself: she kissed him\nfervently, and they gazed with wonder at the change time had wrought in\nthe appearance of each. Catherine had reached her full height; her\nfigure was both plump and slender, elastic as steel, and her whole\naspect sparkling with health and spirits. Linton s looks and movements\nwere very languid, and his form extremely slight; but there was a grace\nin his manner that mitigated these defects, and rendered him not\nunpleasing. After exchanging numerous marks of fondness with him, his\ncousin went to Mr. Heathcliff, who lingered by the door, dividing his\nattention between the objects inside and those that lay without:\npretending, that is, to observe the latter, and really noting the\nformer alone.\n\n And you are my uncle, then!  she cried, reaching up to salute him.  I\nthought I liked you, though you were cross at first. Why don t you\nvisit at the Grange with Linton? To live all these years such close\nneighbours, and never see us, is odd: what have you done so for? \n\n I visited it once or twice too often before you were born,  he\nanswered.  There damn it! If you have any kisses to spare, give them to\nLinton: they are thrown away on me. \n\n Naughty Ellen!  exclaimed Catherine, flying to attack me next with her\nlavish caresses.  Wicked Ellen! to try to hinder me from entering. But\nI ll take this walk every morning in future: may I, uncle? and\nsometimes bring papa. Won t you be glad to see us? \n\n Of course,  replied the uncle, with a hardly suppressed grimace,\nresulting from his deep aversion to both the proposed visitors.  But\nstay,  he continued, turning towards the young lady.  Now I think of\nit, I d better tell you. Mr. Linton has a prejudice against me: we\nquarrelled at one time of our lives, with unchristian ferocity; and, if\nyou mention coming here to him, he ll put a veto on your visits\naltogether. Therefore, you must not mention it, unless you be careless\nof seeing your cousin hereafter: you may come, if you will, but you\nmust not mention it. \n\n Why did you quarrel?  asked Catherine, considerably crestfallen.\n\n He thought me too poor to wed his sister,  answered Heathcliff,  and\nwas grieved that I got her: his pride was hurt, and he ll never forgive\nit. \n\n That s wrong!  said the young lady:  some time I ll tell him so. But\nLinton and I have no share in your quarrel. I ll not come here, then;\nhe shall come to the Grange. \n\n It will be too far for me,  murmured her cousin:  to walk four miles\nwould kill me. No, come here, Miss Catherine, now and then: not every\nmorning, but once or twice a week. \n\nThe father launched towards his son a glance of bitter contempt.\n\n I am afraid, Nelly, I shall lose my labour,  he muttered to me.  Miss\nCatherine, as the ninny calls her, will discover his value, and send\nhim to the devil. Now, if it had been Hareton! Do you know that, twenty\ntimes a day, I covet Hareton, with all his degradation? I d have loved\nthe lad had he been some one else. But I think he s safe from _her_\nlove. I ll pit him against that paltry creature, unless it bestir\nitself briskly. We calculate it will scarcely last till it is eighteen.\nOh, confound the vapid thing! He s absorbed in drying his feet, and\nnever looks at her. Linton! \n\n Yes, father,  answered the boy.\n\n Have you nothing to show your cousin anywhere about, not even a rabbit\nor a weasel s nest? Take her into the garden, before you change your\nshoes; and into the stable to see your horse. \n\n Wouldn t you rather sit here?  asked Linton, addressing Cathy in a\ntone which expressed reluctance to move again.\n\n I don t know,  she replied, casting a longing look to the door, and\nevidently eager to be active.\n\nHe kept his seat, and shrank closer to the fire. Heathcliff rose, and\nwent into the kitchen, and from thence to the yard, calling out for\nHareton. Hareton responded, and presently the two re-entered. The young\nman had been washing himself, as was visible by the glow on his cheeks\nand his wetted hair.\n\n Oh, I ll ask _you_, uncle,  cried Miss Cathy, recollecting the\nhousekeeper s assertion.  That is not my cousin, is he? \n\n Yes,  he replied,  your mother s nephew. Don t you like him? \n\nCatherine looked queer.\n\n Is he not a handsome lad?  he continued.\n\nThe uncivil little thing stood on tiptoe, and whispered a sentence in\nHeathcliff s ear. He laughed; Hareton darkened: I perceived he was very\nsensitive to suspected slights, and had obviously a dim notion of his\ninferiority. But his master or guardian chased the frown by exclaiming \n\n You ll be the favourite among us, Hareton! She says you are a What was\nit? Well, something very flattering. Here! you go with her round the\nfarm. And behave like a gentleman, mind! Don t use any bad words; and\ndon t stare when the young lady is not looking at you, and be ready to\nhide your face when she is; and, when you speak, say your words slowly,\nand keep your hands out of your pockets. Be off, and entertain her as\nnicely as you can. \n\nHe watched the couple walking past the window. Earnshaw had his\ncountenance completely averted from his companion. He seemed studying\nthe familiar landscape with a stranger s and an artist s interest.\nCatherine took a sly look at him, expressing small admiration. She then\nturned her attention to seeking out objects of amusement for herself,\nand tripped merrily on, lilting a tune to supply the lack of\nconversation.\n\n I ve tied his tongue,  observed Heathcliff.  He ll not venture a\nsingle syllable all the time! Nelly, you recollect me at his age nay,\nsome years younger. Did I ever look so stupid: so  gaumless,  as Joseph\ncalls it? \n\n Worse,  I replied,  because more sullen with it. \n\n I ve a pleasure in him,  he continued, reflecting aloud.  He has\nsatisfied my expectations. If he were a born fool I should not enjoy it\nhalf so much. But he s no fool; and I can sympathise with all his\nfeelings, having felt them myself. I know what he suffers now, for\ninstance, exactly: it is merely a beginning of what he shall suffer,\nthough. And he ll never be able to emerge from his bathos of coarseness\nand ignorance. I ve got him faster than his scoundrel of a father\nsecured me, and lower; for he takes a pride in his brutishness. I ve\ntaught him to scorn everything extra-animal as silly and weak. Don t\nyou think Hindley would be proud of his son, if he could see him?\nalmost as proud as I am of mine. But there s this difference; one is\ngold put to the use of paving-stones, and the other is tin polished to\nape a service of silver. _Mine_ has nothing valuable about it; yet I\nshall have the merit of making it go as far as such poor stuff can go.\n_His_ had first-rate qualities, and they are lost: rendered worse than\nunavailing. _I_ have nothing to regret; _he_ would have more than any,\nbut I, are aware of. And the best of it is, Hareton is damnably fond of\nme! You ll own that I ve outmatched Hindley there. If the dead villain\ncould rise from his grave to abuse me for his offspring s wrongs, I\nshould have the fun of seeing the said offspring fight him back again,\nindignant that he should dare to rail at the one friend he has in the\nworld! \n\nHeathcliff chuckled a fiendish laugh at the idea. I made no reply,\nbecause I saw that he expected none. Meantime, our young companion, who\nsat too removed from us to hear what was said, began to evince symptoms\nof uneasiness, probably repenting that he had denied himself the treat\nof Catherine s society for fear of a little fatigue. His father\nremarked the restless glances wandering to the window, and the hand\nirresolutely extended towards his cap.\n\n Get up, you idle boy!  he exclaimed, with assumed heartiness.  Away\nafter them! they are just at the corner, by the stand of hives. \n\nLinton gathered his energies, and left the hearth. The lattice was\nopen, and, as he stepped out, I heard Cathy inquiring of her unsociable\nattendant what was that inscription over the door? Hareton stared up,\nand scratched his head like a true clown.\n\n It s some damnable writing,  he answered.  I cannot read it. \n\n Can t read it?  cried Catherine;  I can read it: it s English. But I\nwant to know why it is there. \n\nLinton giggled: the first appearance of mirth he had exhibited.\n\n He does not know his letters,  he said to his cousin.  Could you\nbelieve in the existence of such a colossal dunce? \n\n Is he all as he should be?  asked Miss Cathy, seriously;  or is he\nsimple: not right? I ve questioned him twice now, and each time he\nlooked so stupid I think he does not understand me. I can hardly\nunderstand _him_, I m sure! \n\nLinton repeated his laugh, and glanced at Hareton tauntingly; who\ncertainly did not seem quite clear of comprehension at that moment.\n\n There s nothing the matter but laziness; is there, Earnshaw?  he said.\n My cousin fancies you are an idiot. There you experience the\nconsequence of scorning  book-larning,  as you would say. Have you\nnoticed, Catherine, his frightful Yorkshire pronunciation? \n\n Why, where the devil is the use on t?  growled Hareton, more ready in\nanswering his daily companion. He was about to enlarge further, but the\ntwo youngsters broke into a noisy fit of merriment: my giddy miss being\ndelighted to discover that she might turn his strange talk to matter of\namusement.\n\n Where is the use of the devil in that sentence?  tittered Linton.\n Papa told you not to say any bad words, and you can t open your mouth\nwithout one. Do try to behave like a gentleman, now do! \n\n If thou weren t more a lass than a lad, I d fell thee this minute, I\nwould; pitiful lath of a crater!  retorted the angry boor, retreating,\nwhile his face burnt with mingled rage and mortification; for he was\nconscious of being insulted, and embarrassed how to resent it.\n\nMr. Heathcliff having overheard the conversation, as well as I, smiled\nwhen he saw him go; but immediately afterwards cast a look of singular\naversion on the flippant pair, who remained chattering in the doorway:\nthe boy finding animation enough while discussing Hareton s faults and\ndeficiencies, and relating anecdotes of his goings on; and the girl\nrelishing his pert and spiteful sayings, without considering the\nill-nature they evinced. I began to dislike, more than to compassionate\nLinton, and to excuse his father in some measure for holding him cheap.\n\nWe stayed till afternoon: I could not tear Miss Cathy away sooner; but\nhappily my master had not quitted his apartment, and remained ignorant\nof our prolonged absence. As we walked home, I would fain have\nenlightened my charge on the characters of the people we had quitted:\nbut she got it into her head that I was prejudiced against them.\n\n Aha!  she cried,  you take papa s side, Ellen: you are partial I know;\nor else you wouldn t have cheated me so many years into the notion that\nLinton lived a long way from here. I m really extremely angry; only I m\nso pleased I can t show it! But you must hold your tongue about my\nuncle; he s _my_ uncle, remember; and I ll scold papa for quarrelling\nwith him. \n\nAnd so she ran on, till I relinquished the endeavour to convince her of\nher mistake. She did not mention the visit that night, because she did\nnot see Mr. Linton. Next day it all came out, sadly to my chagrin; and\nstill I was not altogether sorry: I thought the burden of directing and\nwarning would be more efficiently borne by him than me. But he was too\ntimid in giving satisfactory reasons for his wish that she should shun\nconnection with the household of the Heights, and Catherine liked good\nreasons for every restraint that harassed her petted will.\n\n Papa!  she exclaimed, after the morning s salutations,  guess whom I\nsaw yesterday, in my walk on the moors. Ah, papa, you started! you ve\nnot done right, have you, now? I saw but listen, and you shall hear how\nI found you out; and Ellen, who is in league with you, and yet\npretended to pity me so, when I kept hoping, and was always\ndisappointed about Linton s coming back! \n\nShe gave a faithful account of her excursion and its consequences; and\nmy master, though he cast more than one reproachful look at me, said\nnothing till she had concluded. Then he drew her to him, and asked if\nshe knew why he had concealed Linton s near neighbourhood from her?\nCould she think it was to deny her a pleasure that she might harmlessly\nenjoy?\n\n It was because you disliked Mr. Heathcliff,  she answered.\n\n Then you believe I care more for my own feelings than yours, Cathy? \nhe said.  No, it was not because I disliked Mr. Heathcliff, but because\nMr. Heathcliff dislikes me; and is a most diabolical man, delighting to\nwrong and ruin those he hates, if they give him the slightest\nopportunity. I knew that you could not keep up an acquaintance with\nyour cousin without being brought into contact with him; and I knew he\nwould detest you on my account; so for your own good, and nothing else,\nI took precautions that you should not see Linton again. I meant to\nexplain this some time as you grew older, and I m sorry I delayed it. \n\n But Mr. Heathcliff was quite cordial, papa,  observed Catherine, not\nat all convinced;  and _he_ didn t object to our seeing each other: he\nsaid I might come to his house when I pleased; only I must not tell\nyou, because you had quarrelled with him, and would not forgive him for\nmarrying aunt Isabella. And you won t. _You_ are the one to be blamed:\nhe is willing to let _us_ be friends, at least; Linton and I; and you\nare not. \n\nMy master, perceiving that she would not take his word for her\nuncle-in-law s evil disposition, gave a hasty sketch of his conduct to\nIsabella, and the manner in which Wuthering Heights became his\nproperty. He could not bear to discourse long upon the topic; for\nthough he spoke little of it, he still felt the same horror and\ndetestation of his ancient enemy that had occupied his heart ever since\nMrs. Linton s death.  She might have been living yet, if it had not\nbeen for him!  was his constant bitter reflection; and, in his eyes,\nHeathcliff seemed a murderer. Miss Cathy conversant with no bad deeds\nexcept her own slight acts of disobedience, injustice, and passion,\narising from hot temper and thoughtlessness, and repented of on the day\nthey were committed was amazed at the blackness of spirit that could\nbrood on and cover revenge for years, and deliberately prosecute its\nplans without a visitation of remorse. She appeared so deeply impressed\nand shocked at this new view of human nature excluded from all her\nstudies and all her ideas till now that Mr. Edgar deemed it unnecessary\nto pursue the subject. He merely added:  You will know hereafter,\ndarling, why I wish you to avoid his house and family; now return to\nyour old employments and amusements, and think no more about them. \n\nCatherine kissed her father, and sat down quietly to her lessons for a\ncouple of hours, according to custom; then she accompanied him into the\ngrounds, and the whole day passed as usual: but in the evening, when\nshe had retired to her room, and I went to help her to undress, I found\nher crying, on her knees by the bedside.\n\n Oh, fie, silly child!  I exclaimed.  If you had any real griefs you d\nbe ashamed to waste a tear on this little contrariety. You never had\none shadow of substantial sorrow, Miss Catherine. Suppose, for a\nminute, that master and I were dead, and you were by yourself in the\nworld: how would you feel, then? Compare the present occasion with such\nan affliction as that, and be thankful for the friends you have,\ninstead of coveting more. \n\n I m not crying for myself, Ellen,  she answered,  it s for him. He\nexpected to see me again to-morrow, and there he ll be so disappointed:\nand he ll wait for me, and I sha n t come! \n\n Nonsense!  said I,  do you imagine he has thought as much of you as\nyou have of him? Hasn t he Hareton for a companion? Not one in a\nhundred would weep at losing a relation they had just seen twice, for\ntwo afternoons. Linton will conjecture how it is, and trouble himself\nno further about you. \n\n But may I not write a note to tell him why I cannot come?  she asked,\nrising to her feet.  And just send those books I promised to lend him?\nHis books are not as nice as mine, and he wanted to have them\nextremely, when I told him how interesting they were. May I not,\nEllen? \n\n No, indeed! no, indeed!  replied I with decision.  Then he would write\nto you, and there d never be an end of it. No, Miss Catherine, the\nacquaintance must be dropped entirely: so papa expects, and I shall see\nthat it is done. \n\n But how can one little note ?  she recommenced, putting on an\nimploring countenance.\n\n Silence!  I interrupted.  We ll not begin with your little notes. Get\ninto bed. \n\nShe threw at me a very naughty look, so naughty that I would not kiss\nher good-night at first: I covered her up, and shut her door, in great\ndispleasure; but, repenting half-way, I returned softly, and lo! there\nwas Miss standing at the table with a bit of blank paper before her and\na pencil in her hand, which she guiltily slipped out of sight on my\nentrance.\n\n You ll get nobody to take that, Catherine,  I said,  if you write it;\nand at present I shall put out your candle. \n\nI set the extinguisher on the flame, receiving as I did so a slap on my\nhand and a petulant  cross thing!  I then quitted her again, and she\ndrew the bolt in one of her worst, most peevish humours. The letter was\nfinished and forwarded to its destination by a milk-fetcher who came\nfrom the village; but that I didn t learn till some time afterwards.\nWeeks passed on, and Cathy recovered her temper; though she grew\nwondrous fond of stealing off to corners by herself; and often, if I\ncame near her suddenly while reading, she would start and bend over the\nbook, evidently desirous to hide it; and I detected edges of loose\npaper sticking out beyond the leaves. She also got a trick of coming\ndown early in the morning and lingering about the kitchen, as if she\nwere expecting the arrival of something; and she had a small drawer in\na cabinet in the library, which she would trifle over for hours, and\nwhose key she took special care to remove when she left it.\n\nOne day, as she inspected this drawer, I observed that the playthings\nand trinkets which recently formed its contents were transmuted into\nbits of folded paper. My curiosity and suspicions were roused; I\ndetermined to take a peep at her mysterious treasures; so, at night, as\nsoon as she and my master were safe upstairs, I searched, and readily\nfound among my house keys one that would fit the lock. Having opened, I\nemptied the whole contents into my apron, and took them with me to\nexamine at leisure in my own chamber. Though I could not but suspect, I\nwas still surprised to discover that they were a mass of\ncorrespondence daily almost, it must have been from Linton Heathcliff:\nanswers to documents forwarded by her. The earlier dated were\nembarrassed and short; gradually, however, they expanded into copious\nlove-letters, foolish, as the age of the writer rendered natural, yet\nwith touches here and there which I thought were borrowed from a more\nexperienced source. Some of them struck me as singularly odd compounds\nof ardour and flatness; commencing in strong feeling, and concluding in\nthe affected, wordy style that a schoolboy might use to a fancied,\nincorporeal sweetheart. Whether they satisfied Cathy I don t know; but\nthey appeared very worthless trash to me. After turning over as many as\nI thought proper, I tied them in a handkerchief and set them aside,\nrelocking the vacant drawer.\n\nFollowing her habit, my young lady descended early, and visited the\nkitchen: I watched her go to the door, on the arrival of a certain\nlittle boy; and, while the dairymaid filled his can, she tucked\nsomething into his jacket pocket, and plucked something out. I went\nround by the garden, and laid wait for the messenger; who fought\nvalorously to defend his trust, and we spilt the milk between us; but I\nsucceeded in abstracting the epistle; and, threatening serious\nconsequences if he did not look sharp home, I remained under the wall\nand perused Miss Cathy s affectionate composition. It was more simple\nand more eloquent than her cousin s: very pretty and very silly. I\nshook my head, and went meditating into the house. The day being wet,\nshe could not divert herself with rambling about the park; so, at the\nconclusion of her morning studies, she resorted to the solace of the\ndrawer. Her father sat reading at the table; and I, on purpose, had\nsought a bit of work in some unripped fringes of the window-curtain,\nkeeping my eye steadily fixed on her proceedings. Never did any bird\nflying back to a plundered nest, which it had left brimful of chirping\nyoung ones, express more complete despair, in its anguished cries and\nflutterings, than she by her single  Oh!  and the change that\ntransfigured her late happy countenance. Mr. Linton looked up.\n\n What is the matter, love? Have you hurt yourself?  he said.\n\nHis tone and look assured her _he_ had not been the discoverer of the\nhoard.\n\n No, papa!  she gasped.  Ellen! Ellen! come upstairs I m sick! \n\nI obeyed her summons, and accompanied her out.\n\n Oh, Ellen! you have got them,  she commenced immediately, dropping on\nher knees, when we were enclosed alone.  Oh, give them to me, and I ll\nnever, never do so again! Don t tell papa. You have not told papa,\nEllen? say you have not? I ve been exceedingly naughty, but I won t do\nit any more! \n\nWith a grave severity in my manner I bade her stand up.\n\n So,  I exclaimed,  Miss Catherine, you are tolerably far on, it seems:\nyou may well be ashamed of them! A fine bundle of trash you study in\nyour leisure hours, to be sure: why, it s good enough to be printed!\nAnd what do you suppose the master will think when I display it before\nhim? I hav n t shown it yet, but you needn t imagine I shall keep your\nridiculous secrets. For shame! and you must have led the way in writing\nsuch absurdities: he would not have thought of beginning, I m certain. \n\n I didn t! I didn t!  sobbed Cathy, fit to break her heart.  I didn t\nonce think of loving him till \n\n _Loving_!  cried I, as scornfully as I could utter the word.\n _Loving_! Did anybody ever hear the like! I might just as well talk of\nloving the miller who comes once a year to buy our corn. Pretty loving,\nindeed! and both times together you have seen Linton hardly four hours\nin your life! Now here is the babyish trash. I m going with it to the\nlibrary; and we ll see what your father says to such _loving_. \n\nShe sprang at her precious epistles, but I held them above my head; and\nthen she poured out further frantic entreaties that I would burn\nthem do anything rather than show them. And being really fully as much\ninclined to laugh as scold for I esteemed it all girlish vanity I at\nlength relented in a measure, and asked, If I consent to burn them,\nwill you promise faithfully neither to send nor receive a letter again,\nnor a book (for I perceive you have sent him books), nor locks of hair,\nnor rings, nor playthings? \n\n We don t send playthings,  cried Catherine, her pride overcoming her\nshame.\n\n Nor anything at all, then, my lady?  I said.  Unless you will, here I\ngo. \n\n I promise, Ellen!  she cried, catching my dress.  Oh, put them in the\nfire, do, do! \n\nBut when I proceeded to open a place with the poker the sacrifice was\ntoo painful to be borne. She earnestly supplicated that I would spare\nher one or two.\n\n One or two, Ellen, to keep for Linton s sake! \n\nI unknotted the handkerchief, and commenced dropping them in from an\nangle, and the flame curled up the chimney.\n\n I will have one, you cruel wretch!  she screamed, darting her hand\ninto the fire, and drawing forth some half-consumed fragments, at the\nexpense of her fingers.\n\n Very well and I will have some to exhibit to papa!  I answered,\nshaking back the rest into the bundle, and turning anew to the door.\n\nShe emptied her blackened pieces into the flames, and motioned me to\nfinish the immolation. It was done; I stirred up the ashes, and\ninterred them under a shovelful of coals; and she mutely, and with a\nsense of intense injury, retired to her private apartment. I descended\nto tell my master that the young lady s qualm of sickness was almost\ngone, but I judged it best for her to lie down a while. She wouldn t\ndine; but she reappeared at tea, pale, and red about the eyes, and\nmarvellously subdued in outward aspect. Next morning I answered the\nletter by a slip of paper, inscribed,  Master Heathcliff is requested\nto send no more notes to Miss Linton, as she will not receive them. \nAnd, thenceforth, the little boy came with vacant pockets.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nSummer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but\nthe harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still\nuncleared. Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among\nthe reapers; at the carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk,\nand the evening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad\ncold, that settled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors\nthroughout the whole of the winter, nearly without intermission.\n\nPoor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably\nsadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her\nreading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no\nlonger; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible,\nwith mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could only spare two or\nthree hours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her\nfootsteps, and then my society was obviously less desirable than his.\n\nOn an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November a fresh watery\nafternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered\nleaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds dark grey\nstreamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain I\nrequested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain of\nshowers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my\numbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a\nformal walk which she generally affected if low-spirited and that she\ninvariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing\nnever known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from\nhis increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went\nsadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind\nmight well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my\neye, I could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her\ncheek. I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side\nof the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks,\nwith their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too\nloose for the latter; and strong winds had blown some nearly\nhorizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb along these\ntrunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground;\nand I, pleased with her agility and her light, childish heart, still\nconsidered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an\nelevation, but so that she knew there was no necessity for descending.\nFrom dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze-rocked cradle, doing\nnothing except singing old songs my nursery lore to herself, or\nwatching the birds, joint tenants, feed and entice their young ones to\nfly: or nestling with closed lids, half thinking, half dreaming,\nhappier than words can express.\n\n Look, Miss!  I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one\ntwisted tree.  Winter is not here yet. There s a little flower up\nyonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those\nturf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck it\nto show to papa? \n\nCathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its earthy\nshelter, and replied, at length No, I ll not touch it: but it looks\nmelancholy, does it not, Ellen? \n\n Yes,  I observed,  about as starved and sackless as you: your cheeks\nare bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You re so low, I\ndaresay I shall keep up with you. \n\n No,  she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals\nto muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus\nspreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever\nand anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.\n\n Catherine, why are you crying, love?  I asked, approaching and putting\nmy arm over her shoulder.  You mustn t cry because papa has a cold; be\nthankful it is nothing worse. \n\nShe now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled\nby sobs.\n\n Oh, it _will_ be something worse,  she said.  And what shall I do when\npapa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can t forget your words,\nEllen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary\nthe world will be, when papa and you are dead. \n\n None can tell whether you won t die before us,  I replied.  It s wrong\nto anticipate evil. We ll hope there are years and years to come before\nany of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five.\nMy mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr.\nLinton were spared till he saw sixty, that would be more years than you\nhave counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamity\nabove twenty years beforehand? \n\n But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,  she remarked, gazing up with\ntimid hope to seek further consolation.\n\n Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,  I replied.  She wasn t\nas happy as Master: she hadn t as much to live for. All you need do, is\nto wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see you\ncheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject: mind that,\nCathy! I ll not disguise but you might kill him if you were wild and\nreckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for the son of a\nperson who would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to\ndiscover that you fretted over the separation he has judged it\nexpedient to make. \n\n I fret about nothing on earth except papa s illness,  answered my\ncompanion.  I care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I ll\nnever never oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a word\nto vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; and I know it by\nthis: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would\nrather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him\nbetter than myself. \n\n Good words,  I replied.  But deeds must prove it also; and after he is\nwell, remember you don t forget resolutions formed in the hour of\nfear. \n\nAs we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young\nlady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on\nthe top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed\nscarlet on the summit branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing the\nhighway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could\ntouch the upper, except from Cathy s present station. In stretching to\npull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed\nscrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a\nfall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy\nmatter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rosebushes\nand blackberry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending.\nI, like a fool, didn t recollect that, till I heard her laughing and\nexclaiming Ellen! you ll have to fetch the key, or else I must run\nround to the porter s lodge. I can t scale the ramparts on this side! \n\n Stay where you are,  I answered;  I have my bundle of keys in my\npocket: perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I ll go. \n\nCatherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while\nI tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and\nfound that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain\nthere, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an\napproaching sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy s\ndance stopped also.\n\n Who is that?  I whispered.\n\n Ellen, I wish you could open the door,  whispered back my companion,\nanxiously.\n\n Ho, Miss Linton!  cried a deep voice (the rider s),  I m glad to meet\nyou. Don t be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and\nobtain. \n\n I sha n t speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,  answered Catherine.  Papa\nsays you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says\nthe same. \n\n That is nothing to the purpose,  said Heathcliff. (He it was.)  I\ndon t hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand\nyour attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months\nsince, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in\nplay, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for that! You especially,\nthe elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. I ve got your letters,\nand if you give me any pertness I ll send them to your father. I\npresume you grew weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn t you?\nWell, you dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in\nearnest: in love, really. As true as I live, he s dying for you;\nbreaking his heart at your fickleness: not figuratively, but actually.\nThough Hareton has made him a standing jest for six weeks, and I have\nused more serious measures, and attempted to frighten him out of his\nidiocy, he gets worse daily; and he ll be under the sod before summer,\nunless you restore him! \n\n How can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?  I called from the\ninside.  Pray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry\nfalsehoods? Miss Cathy, I ll knock the lock off with a stone: you won t\nbelieve that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossible\nthat a person should die for love of a stranger. \n\n I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,  muttered the detected\nvillain.  Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don t like your\ndouble-dealing,  he added aloud.  How could _you_ lie so glaringly as\nto affirm I hated the  poor child ? and invent bugbear stories to\nterrify her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms\nme), my bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if I\nhave not spoken truth: do, there s a darling! Just imagine your father\nin my place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your\ncareless lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your\nfather himself entreated him; and don t, from pure stupidity, fall into\nthe same error. I swear, on my salvation, he s going to his grave, and\nnone but you can save him! \n\nThe lock gave way and I issued out.\n\n I swear Linton is dying,  repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me.\n And grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you\nwon t let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return\ntill this time next week; and I think your master himself would\nscarcely object to her visiting her cousin. \n\n Come in,  said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to\nre-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of\nthe speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit.\n\nHe pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed \n\n Miss Catherine, I ll own to you that I have little patience with\nLinton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. I ll own that he s with a\nharsh set. He pines for kindness, as well as love; and a kind word from\nyou would be his best medicine. Don t mind Mrs. Dean s cruel cautions;\nbut be generous, and contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and\nnight, and cannot be persuaded that you don t hate him, since you\nneither write nor call. \n\nI closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in\nholding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for\nthe rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and\nwarned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the\nencounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined\ninstinctively that Catherine s heart was clouded now in double\ndarkness. Her features were so sad, they did not seem hers: she\nevidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true.\n\nThe master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his\nroom to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and\nasked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; and\nafterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she\nwas weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed\nme absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it\nappeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy\nit a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr.\nHeathcliff s assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would\ncoincide. Alas! I hadn t skill to counteract the effect his account had\nproduced: it was just what he intended.\n\n You may be right, Ellen,  she answered;  but I shall never feel at\nease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I\ndon t write, and convince him that I shall not change. \n\nWhat use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We\nparted that night hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to\nWuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress s pony. I\ncouldn t bear to witness her sorrow: to see her pale, dejected\ncountenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in the faint hope that\nLinton himself might prove, by his reception of us, how little of the\ntale was founded on fact.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nThe rainy night had ushered in a misty morning half frost, half\ndrizzle and temporary brooks crossed our path gurgling from the\nuplands. My feet were thoroughly wetted; I was cross and low; exactly\nthe humour suited for making the most of these disagreeable things. We\nentered the farm-house by the kitchen way, to ascertain whether Mr.\nHeathcliff were really absent: because I put slight faith in his own\naffirmation.\n\nJoseph seemed sitting in a sort of elysium alone, beside a roaring\nfire; a quart of ale on the table near him, bristling with large pieces\nof toasted oat-cake; and his black, short pipe in his mouth. Catherine\nran to the hearth to warm herself. I asked if the master was in? My\nquestion remained so long unanswered, that I thought the old man had\ngrown deaf, and repeated it louder.\n\n Na ay!  he snarled, or rather screamed through his nose.  Na ay! yah\nmuh goa back whear yah coom frough. \n\n Joseph!  cried a peevish voice, simultaneously with me, from the inner\nroom.  How often am I to call you? There are only a few red ashes now.\nJoseph! come this moment. \n\nVigorous puffs, and a resolute stare into the grate, declared he had no\near for this appeal. The housekeeper and Hareton were invisible; one\ngone on an errand, and the other at his work, probably. We knew\nLinton s tones, and entered.\n\n Oh, I hope you ll die in a garret, starved to death!  said the boy,\nmistaking our approach for that of his negligent attendant.\n\nHe stopped on observing his error: his cousin flew to him.\n\n Is that you, Miss Linton?  he said, raising his head from the arm of\nthe great chair, in which he reclined.  No don t kiss me: it takes my\nbreath. Dear me! Papa said you would call,  continued he, after\nrecovering a little from Catherine s embrace; while she stood by\nlooking very contrite.  Will you shut the door, if you please? you left\nit open; and those those _detestable_ creatures won t bring coals to\nthe fire. It s so cold! \n\nI stirred up the cinders, and fetched a scuttleful myself. The invalid\ncomplained of being covered with ashes; but he had a tiresome cough,\nand looked feverish and ill, so I did not rebuke his temper.\n\n Well, Linton,  murmured Catherine, when his corrugated brow relaxed,\n are you glad to see me? Can I do you any good? \n\n Why didn t you come before?  he asked.  You should have come, instead\nof writing. It tired me dreadfully writing those long letters. I d far\nrather have talked to you. Now, I can neither bear to talk, nor\nanything else. I wonder where Zillah is! Will you  (looking at me)\n step into the kitchen and see? \n\nI had received no thanks for my other service; and being unwilling to\nrun to and fro at his behest, I replied \n\n Nobody is out there but Joseph. \n\n I want to drink,  he exclaimed fretfully, turning away.  Zillah is\nconstantly gadding off to Gimmerton since papa went: it s miserable!\nAnd I m obliged to come down here they resolved never to hear me\nupstairs. \n\n Is your father attentive to you, Master Heathcliff?  I asked,\nperceiving Catherine to be checked in her friendly advances.\n\n Attentive? He makes _them_ a little more attentive at least,  he\ncried.  The wretches! Do you know, Miss Linton, that brute Hareton\nlaughs at me! I hate him! indeed, I hate them all: they are odious\nbeings. \n\nCathy began searching for some water; she lighted on a pitcher in the\ndresser, filled a tumbler, and brought it. He bid her add a spoonful of\nwine from a bottle on the table; and having swallowed a small portion,\nappeared more tranquil, and said she was very kind.\n\n And are you glad to see me?  asked she, reiterating her former\nquestion, and pleased to detect the faint dawn of a smile.\n\n Yes, I am. It s something new to hear a voice like yours!  he replied.\n But I have been vexed, because you wouldn t come. And papa swore it\nwas owing to me: he called me a pitiful, shuffling, worthless thing;\nand said you despised me; and if he had been in my place, he would be\nmore the master of the Grange than your father by this time. But you\ndon t despise me, do you, Miss ? \n\n I wish you would say Catherine, or Cathy,  interrupted my young lady.\n Despise you? No! Next to papa and Ellen, I love you better than\nanybody living. I don t love Mr. Heathcliff, though; and I dare not\ncome when he returns: will he stay away many days? \n\n Not many,  answered Linton;  but he goes on to the moors frequently,\nsince the shooting season commenced; and you might spend an hour or two\nwith me in his absence. Do say you will. I think I should not be\npeevish with you: you d not provoke me, and you d always be ready to\nhelp me, wouldn t you? \n\n Yes,  said Catherine, stroking his long soft hair,  if I could only\nget papa s consent, I d spend half my time with you. Pretty Linton! I\nwish you were my brother. \n\n And then you would like me as well as your father?  observed he, more\ncheerfully.  But papa says you would love me better than him and all\nthe world, if you were my wife; so I d rather you were that. \n\n No, I should never love anybody better than papa,  she returned\ngravely.  And people hate their wives, sometimes; but not their sisters\nand brothers: and if you were the latter, you would live with us, and\npapa would be as fond of you as he is of me. \n\nLinton denied that people ever hated their wives; but Cathy affirmed\nthey did, and, in her wisdom, instanced his own father s aversion to\nher aunt. I endeavoured to stop her thoughtless tongue. I couldn t\nsucceed till everything she knew was out. Master Heathcliff, much\nirritated, asserted her relation was false.\n\n Papa told me; and papa does not tell falsehoods,  she answered pertly.\n\n _My_ papa scorns yours!  cried Linton.  He calls him a sneaking fool. \n\n Yours is a wicked man,  retorted Catherine;  and you are very naughty\nto dare to repeat what he says. He must be wicked to have made Aunt\nIsabella leave him as she did. \n\n She didn t leave him,  said the boy;  you sha n t contradict me. \n\n She did,  cried my young lady.\n\n Well, I ll tell _you_ something!  said Linton.  Your mother hated your\nfather: now then. \n\n Oh!  exclaimed Catherine, too enraged to continue.\n\n And she loved mine,  added he.\n\n You little liar! I hate you now!  she panted, and her face grew red\nwith passion.\n\n She did! she did!  sang Linton, sinking into the recess of his chair,\nand leaning back his head to enjoy the agitation of the other\ndisputant, who stood behind.\n\n Hush, Master Heathcliff!  I said;  that s your father s tale, too, I\nsuppose. \n\n It isn t: you hold your tongue!  he answered.  She did, she did,\nCatherine! she did, she did! \n\nCathy, beside herself, gave the chair a violent push, and caused him to\nfall against one arm. He was immediately seized by a suffocating cough\nthat soon ended his triumph. It lasted so long that it frightened even\nme. As to his cousin, she wept with all her might, aghast at the\nmischief she had done: though she said nothing. I held him till the fit\nexhausted itself. Then he thrust me away, and leant his head down\nsilently. Catherine quelled her lamentations also, took a seat\nopposite, and looked solemnly into the fire.\n\n How do you feel now, Master Heathcliff?  I inquired, after waiting ten\nminutes.\n\n I wish _she_ felt as I do,  he replied:  spiteful, cruel thing!\nHareton never touches me: he never struck me in his life. And I was\nbetter to-day: and there  his voice died in a whimper.\n\n _I_ didn t strike you!  muttered Cathy, chewing her lip to prevent\nanother burst of emotion.\n\nHe sighed and moaned like one under great suffering, and kept it up for\na quarter of an hour; on purpose to distress his cousin apparently, for\nwhenever he caught a stifled sob from her he put renewed pain and\npathos into the inflexions of his voice.\n\n I m sorry I hurt you, Linton,  she said at length, racked beyond\nendurance.  But _I_ couldn t have been hurt by that little push, and I\nhad no idea that you could, either: you re not much, are you, Linton?\nDon t let me go home thinking I ve done you harm. Answer! speak to me. \n\n I can t speak to you,  he murmured;  you ve hurt me so that I shall\nlie awake all night choking with this cough. If you had it you d know\nwhat it was; but _you ll_ be comfortably asleep while I m in agony, and\nnobody near me. I wonder how you would like to pass those fearful\nnights!  And he began to wail aloud, for very pity of himself.\n\n Since you are in the habit of passing dreadful nights,  I said,  it\nwon t be Miss who spoils your ease: you d be the same had she never\ncome. However, she shall not disturb you again; and perhaps you ll get\nquieter when we leave you. \n\n Must I go?  asked Catherine dolefully, bending over him.  Do you want\nme to go, Linton? \n\n You can t alter what you ve done,  he replied pettishly, shrinking\nfrom her,  unless you alter it for the worse by teasing me into a\nfever. \n\n Well, then, I must go?  she repeated.\n\n Let me alone, at least,  said he;  I can t bear your talking. \n\nShe lingered, and resisted my persuasions to departure a tiresome\nwhile; but as he neither looked up nor spoke, she finally made a\nmovement to the door, and I followed. We were recalled by a scream.\nLinton had slid from his seat on to the hearthstone, and lay writhing\nin the mere perverseness of an indulged plague of a child, determined\nto be as grievous and harassing as it can. I thoroughly gauged his\ndisposition from his behaviour, and saw at once it would be folly to\nattempt humouring him. Not so my companion: she ran back in terror,\nknelt down, and cried, and soothed, and entreated, till he grew quiet\nfrom lack of breath: by no means from compunction at distressing her.\n\n I shall lift him on to the settle,  I said,  and he may roll about as\nhe pleases: we can t stop to watch him. I hope you are satisfied, Miss\nCathy, that _you_ are not the person to benefit him; and that his\ncondition of health is not occasioned by attachment to you. Now, then,\nthere he is! Come away: as soon as he knows there is nobody by to care\nfor his nonsense, he ll be glad to lie still. \n\nShe placed a cushion under his head, and offered him some water; he\nrejected the latter, and tossed uneasily on the former, as if it were a\nstone or a block of wood. She tried to put it more comfortably.\n\n I can t do with that,  he said;  it s not high enough. \n\nCatherine brought another to lay above it.\n\n That s _too_ high,  murmured the provoking thing.\n\n How must I arrange it, then?  she asked despairingly.\n\nHe twined himself up to her, as she half knelt by the settle, and\nconverted her shoulder into a support.\n\n No, that won t do,  I said.  You ll be content with the cushion,\nMaster Heathcliff. Miss has wasted too much time on you already: we\ncannot remain five minutes longer. \n\n Yes, yes, we can!  replied Cathy.  He s good and patient now. He s\nbeginning to think I shall have far greater misery than he will\nto-night, if I believe he is the worse for my visit: and then I dare\nnot come again. Tell the truth about it, Linton; for I mustn t come, if\nI have hurt you. \n\n You must come, to cure me,  he answered.  You ought to come, because\nyou have hurt me: you know you have extremely! I was not as ill when\nyou entered as I am at present was I? \n\n But you ve made yourself ill by crying and being in a passion. I\ndidn t do it all,  said his cousin.  However, we ll be friends now. And\nyou want me: you would wish to see me sometimes, really? \n\n I told you I did,  he replied impatiently.  Sit on the settle and let\nme lean on your knee. That s as mamma used to do, whole afternoons\ntogether. Sit quite still and don t talk: but you may sing a song, if\nyou can sing; or you may say a nice long interesting ballad one of\nthose you promised to teach me; or a story. I d rather have a ballad,\nthough: begin. \n\nCatherine repeated the longest she could remember. The employment\npleased both mightily. Linton would have another, and after that\nanother, notwithstanding my strenuous objections; and so they went on\nuntil the clock struck twelve, and we heard Hareton in the court,\nreturning for his dinner.\n\n And to-morrow, Catherine, will you be here to-morrow?  asked young\nHeathcliff, holding her frock as she rose reluctantly.\n\n No,  I answered,  nor next day neither.  She, however, gave a\ndifferent response evidently, for his forehead cleared as she stooped\nand whispered in his ear.\n\n You won t go to-morrow, recollect, Miss!  I commenced, when we were\nout of the house.  You are not dreaming of it, are you? \n\nShe smiled.\n\n Oh, I ll take good care,  I continued:  I ll have that lock mended,\nand you can escape by no way else. \n\n I can get over the wall,  she said laughing.  The Grange is not a\nprison, Ellen, and you are not my gaoler. And besides, I m almost\nseventeen: I m a woman. And I m certain Linton would recover quickly if\nhe had me to look after him. I m older than he is, you know, and wiser:\nless childish, am I not? And he ll soon do as I direct him, with some\nslight coaxing. He s a pretty little darling when he s good. I d make\nsuch a pet of him, if he were mine. We should never quarrel, should we,\nafter we were used to each other? Don t you like him, Ellen? \n\n Like him!  I exclaimed.  The worst-tempered bit of a sickly slip that\never struggled into its teens. Happily, as Mr. Heathcliff conjectured,\nhe ll not win twenty. I doubt whether he ll see spring, indeed. And\nsmall loss to his family whenever he drops off. And lucky it is for us\nthat his father took him: the kinder he was treated, the more tedious\nand selfish he d be. I m glad you have no chance of having him for a\nhusband, Miss Catherine. \n\nMy companion waxed serious at hearing this speech. To speak of his\ndeath so regardlessly wounded her feelings.\n\n He s younger than I,  she answered, after a protracted pause of\nmeditation,  and he ought to live the longest: he will he must live as\nlong as I do. He s as strong now as when he first came into the north;\nI m positive of that. It s only a cold that ails him, the same as papa\nhas. You say papa will get better, and why shouldn t he? \n\n Well, well,  I cried,  after all, we needn t trouble ourselves; for\nlisten, Miss, and mind, I ll keep my word, if you attempt going to\nWuthering Heights again, with or without me, I shall inform Mr. Linton,\nand, unless he allow it, the intimacy with your cousin must not be\nrevived. \n\n It has been revived,  muttered Cathy, sulkily.\n\n Must not be continued, then,  I said.\n\n We ll see,  was her reply, and she set off at a gallop, leaving me to\ntoil in the rear.\n\nWe both reached home before our dinner-time; my master supposed we had\nbeen wandering through the park, and therefore he demanded no\nexplanation of our absence. As soon as I entered I hastened to change\nmy soaked shoes and stockings; but sitting such a while at the Heights\nhad done the mischief. On the succeeding morning I was laid up, and\nduring three weeks I remained incapacitated for attending to my duties:\na calamity never experienced prior to that period, and never, I am\nthankful to say, since.\n\nMy little mistress behaved like an angel in coming to wait on me, and\ncheer my solitude; the confinement brought me exceedingly low. It is\nwearisome, to a stirring active body: but few have slighter reasons for\ncomplaint than I had. The moment Catherine left Mr. Linton s room she\nappeared at my bedside. Her day was divided between us; no amusement\nusurped a minute: she neglected her meals, her studies, and her play;\nand she was the fondest nurse that ever watched. She must have had a\nwarm heart, when she loved her father so, to give so much to me. I said\nher days were divided between us; but the master retired early, and I\ngenerally needed nothing after six o clock, thus the evening was her\nown. Poor thing! I never considered what she did with herself after\ntea. And though frequently, when she looked in to bid me good-night, I\nremarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender\nfingers, instead of fancying the hue borrowed from a cold ride across\nthe moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\nAt the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move\nabout the house. And on the first occasion of my sitting up in the\nevening I asked Catherine to read to me, because my eyes were weak. We\nwere in the library, the master having gone to bed: she consented,\nrather unwillingly, I fancied; and imagining my sort of books did not\nsuit her, I bid her please herself in the choice of what she perused.\nShe selected one of her own favourites, and got forward steadily about\nan hour; then came frequent questions.\n\n Ellen, are not you tired? Hadn t you better lie down now? You ll be\nsick, keeping up so long, Ellen. \n\n No, no, dear, I m not tired,  I returned, continually.\n\nPerceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her\ndisrelish for her occupation. It changed to yawning, and stretching,\nand \n\n Ellen, I m tired. \n\n Give over then and talk,  I answered.\n\nThat was worse: she fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till\neight, and finally went to her room, completely overdone with sleep;\njudging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she\ninflicted on her eyes. The following night she seemed more impatient\nstill; and on the third from recovering my company she complained of a\nheadache, and left me. I thought her conduct odd; and having remained\nalone a long while, I resolved on going and inquiring whether she were\nbetter, and asking her to come and lie on the sofa, instead of upstairs\nin the dark. No Catherine could I discover upstairs, and none below.\nThe servants affirmed they had not seen her. I listened at Mr. Edgar s\ndoor; all was silence. I returned to her apartment, extinguished my\ncandle, and seated myself in the window.\n\nThe moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow covered the ground, and I\nreflected that she might, possibly, have taken it into her head to walk\nabout the garden, for refreshment. I did detect a figure creeping along\nthe inner fence of the park; but it was not my young mistress: on its\nemerging into the light, I recognised one of the grooms. He stood a\nconsiderable period, viewing the carriage-road through the grounds;\nthen started off at a brisk pace, as if he had detected something, and\nreappeared presently, leading Miss s pony; and there she was, just\ndismounted, and walking by its side. The man took his charge stealthily\nacross the grass towards the stable. Cathy entered by the\ncasement-window of the drawing-room, and glided noiselessly up to where\nI awaited her. She put the door gently to, slipped off her snowy\nshoes, untied her hat, and was proceeding, unconscious of my espionage,\nto lay aside her mantle, when I suddenly rose and revealed myself. The\nsurprise petrified her an instant: she uttered an inarticulate\nexclamation, and stood fixed.\n\n My dear Miss Catherine,  I began, too vividly impressed by her recent\nkindness to break into a scold,  where have you been riding out at this\nhour? And why should you try to deceive me by telling a tale? Where\nhave you been? Speak! \n\n To the bottom of the park,  she stammered.  I didn t tell a tale. \n\n And nowhere else?  I demanded.\n\n No,  was the muttered reply.\n\n Oh, Catherine!  I cried, sorrowfully.  You know you have been doing\nwrong, or you wouldn t be driven to uttering an untruth to me. That\ndoes grieve me. I d rather be three months ill, than hear you frame a\ndeliberate lie. \n\nShe sprang forward, and bursting into tears, threw her arms round my\nneck.\n\n Well, Ellen, I m so afraid of you being angry,  she said.  Promise not\nto be angry, and you shall know the very truth: I hate to hide it. \n\nWe sat down in the window-seat; I assured her I would not scold,\nwhatever her secret might be, and I guessed it, of course; so she\ncommenced \n\n I ve been to Wuthering Heights, Ellen, and I ve never missed going a\nday since you fell ill; except thrice before, and twice after you left\nyour room. I gave Michael books and pictures to prepare Minny every\nevening, and to put her back in the stable: you mustn t scold _him_\neither, mind. I was at the Heights by half-past six, and generally\nstayed till half-past eight, and then galloped home. It was not to\namuse myself that I went: I was often wretched all the time. Now and\nthen I was happy: once in a week perhaps. At first, I expected there\nwould be sad work persuading you to let me keep my word to Linton: for\nI had engaged to call again next day, when we quitted him; but, as you\nstayed upstairs on the morrow, I escaped that trouble. While Michael\nwas refastening the lock of the park door in the afternoon, I got\npossession of the key, and told him how my cousin wished me to visit\nhim, because he was sick, and couldn t come to the Grange; and how papa\nwould object to my going: and then I negotiated with him about the\npony. He is fond of reading, and he thinks of leaving soon to get\nmarried; so he offered, if I would lend him books out of the library,\nto do what I wished: but I preferred giving him my own, and that\nsatisfied him better.\n\n On my second visit Linton seemed in lively spirits; and Zillah (that\nis their housekeeper) made us a clean room and a good fire, and told us\nthat, as Joseph was out at a prayer-meeting and Hareton Earnshaw was\noff with his dogs robbing our woods of pheasants, as I heard\nafterwards we might do what we liked. She brought me some warm wine and\ngingerbread, and appeared exceedingly good-natured; and Linton sat in\nthe arm-chair, and I in the little rocking chair on the hearth-stone,\nand we laughed and talked so merrily, and found so much to say: we\nplanned where we would go, and what we would do in summer. I needn t\nrepeat that, because you would call it silly.\n\n One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the pleasantest\nmanner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening\non a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming\ndreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead,\nand the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That\nwas his most perfect idea of heaven s happiness: mine was rocking in a\nrustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds\nflitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and\nblackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side,\nand the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but\nclose by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze;\nand woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with\njoy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to\nsparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be\nonly half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall\nasleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine, and began to\ngrow very snappish. At last, we agreed to try both, as soon as the\nright weather came; and then we kissed each other and were friends.\n\n After sitting still an hour, I looked at the great room with its\nsmooth uncarpeted floor, and thought how nice it would be to play in,\nif we removed the table; and I asked Linton to call Zillah in to help\nus, and we d have a game at blindman s-buff; she should try to catch\nus: you used to, you know, Ellen. He wouldn t: there was no pleasure in\nit, he said; but he consented to play at ball with me. We found two in\na cupboard, among a heap of old toys, tops, and hoops, and battledores\nand shuttlecocks. One was marked C., and the other H.; I wished to have\nthe C., because that stood for Catherine, and the H. might be for\nHeathcliff, his name; but the bran came out of H., and Linton didn t\nlike it. I beat him constantly; and he got cross again, and coughed,\nand returned to his chair. That night, though, he easily recovered his\ngood humour: he was charmed with two or three pretty songs _your_\nsongs, Ellen; and when I was obliged to go, he begged and entreated me\nto come the following evening; and I promised. Minny and I went flying\nhome as light as air; and I dreamt of Wuthering Heights and my sweet,\ndarling cousin, till morning.\n\n On the morrow I was sad; partly because you were poorly, and partly\nthat I wished my father knew, and approved of my excursions: but it was\nbeautiful moonlight after tea; and, as I rode on, the gloom cleared. I\nshall have another happy evening, I thought to myself; and what\ndelights me more, my pretty Linton will. I trotted up their garden, and\nwas turning round to the back, when that fellow Earnshaw met me, took\nmy bridle, and bid me go in by the front entrance. He patted Minny s\nneck, and said she was a bonny beast, and appeared as if he wanted me\nto speak to him. I only told him to leave my horse alone, or else it\nwould kick him. He answered in his vulgar accent,  It wouldn t do mitch\nhurt if it did;  and surveyed its legs with a smile. I was half\ninclined to make it try; however, he moved off to open the door, and,\nas he raised the latch, he looked up to the inscription above, and\nsaid, with a stupid mixture of awkwardness and elation:  Miss\nCatherine! I can read yon, now. \n\n Wonderful,  I exclaimed.  Pray let us hear you you _are_ grown\nclever! \n\n He spelt, and drawled over by syllables, the name Hareton Earnshaw. \n\n And the figures?  I cried, encouragingly, perceiving that he came to\na dead halt.\n\n I cannot tell them yet,  he answered.\n\n Oh, you dunce!  I said, laughing heartily at his failure.\n\n The fool stared, with a grin hovering about his lips, and a scowl\ngathering over his eyes, as if uncertain whether he might not join in\nmy mirth: whether it were not pleasant familiarity, or what it really\nwas, contempt. I settled his doubts, by suddenly retrieving my gravity\nand desiring him to walk away, for I came to see Linton, not him. He\nreddened I saw that by the moonlight dropped his hand from the latch,\nand skulked off, a picture of mortified vanity. He imagined himself to\nbe as accomplished as Linton, I suppose, because he could spell his own\nname; and was marvellously discomfited that I didn t think the same. \n\n Stop, Miss Catherine, dear!  I interrupted.  I shall not scold, but I\ndon t like your conduct there. If you had remembered that Hareton was\nyour cousin as much as Master Heathcliff, you would have felt how\nimproper it was to behave in that way. At least, it was praiseworthy\nambition for him to desire to be as accomplished as Linton; and\nprobably he did not learn merely to show off: you had made him ashamed\nof his ignorance before, I have no doubt; and he wished to remedy it\nand please you. To sneer at his imperfect attempt was very bad\nbreeding. Had _you_ been brought up in his circumstances, would you be\nless rude? He was as quick and as intelligent a child as ever you were;\nand I m hurt that he should be despised now, because that base\nHeathcliff has treated him so unjustly. \n\n Well, Ellen, you won t cry about it, will you?  she exclaimed,\nsurprised at my earnestness.  But wait, and you shall hear if he conned\nhis A B C to please me; and if it were worth while being civil to the\nbrute. I entered; Linton was lying on the settle, and half got up to\nwelcome me.\n\n I m ill to-night, Catherine, love,  he said;  and you must have all\nthe talk, and let me listen. Come, and sit by me. I was sure you\nwouldn t break your word, and I ll make you promise again, before you\ngo. \n\n I knew now that I mustn t tease him, as he was ill; and I spoke softly\nand put no questions, and avoided irritating him in any way. I had\nbrought some of my nicest books for him: he asked me to read a little\nof one, and I was about to comply, when Earnshaw burst the door open:\nhaving gathered venom with reflection. He advanced direct to us, seized\nLinton by the arm, and swung him off the seat.\n\n Get to thy own room!  he said, in a voice almost inarticulate with\npassion; and his face looked swelled and furious.  Take her there if\nshe comes to see thee: thou shalln t keep me out of this. Begone wi  ye\nboth! \n\n He swore at us, and left Linton no time to answer, nearly throwing him\ninto the kitchen; and he clenched his fist as I followed, seemingly\nlonging to knock me down. I was afraid for a moment, and I let one\nvolume fall; he kicked it after me, and shut us out. I heard a\nmalignant, crackly laugh by the fire, and turning, beheld that odious\nJoseph standing rubbing his bony hands, and quivering.\n\n I wer sure he d sarve ye out! He s a grand lad! He s getten t  raight\nsperrit in him! _He_ knaws ay, he knaws, as weel as I do, who sud be t \nmaister yonder Ech, ech, ech! He made ye skift properly! Ech, ech,\nech! \n\n Where must we go?  I asked of my cousin, disregarding the old\nwretch s mockery.\n\n Linton was white and trembling. He was not pretty then, Ellen: oh, no!\nhe looked frightful; for his thin face and large eyes were wrought into\nan expression of frantic, powerless fury. He grasped the handle of the\ndoor, and shook it: it was fastened inside.\n\n If you don t let me in, I ll kill you! If you don t let me in, I ll\nkill you!  he rather shrieked than said.  Devil! devil! I ll kill\nyou I ll kill you! \n\n Joseph uttered his croaking laugh again.\n\n Thear, that s t  father!  he cried.  That s father! We ve allas\nsummut o  either side in us. Niver heed, Hareton, lad dunnut be\n feard he cannot get at thee! \n\n I took hold of Linton s hands, and tried to pull him away; but he\nshrieked so shockingly that I dared not proceed. At last his cries were\nchoked by a dreadful fit of coughing; blood gushed from his mouth, and\nhe fell on the ground. I ran into the yard, sick with terror; and\ncalled for Zillah, as loud as I could. She soon heard me: she was\nmilking the cows in a shed behind the barn, and hurrying from her work,\nshe inquired what there was to do? I hadn t breath to explain; dragging\nher in, I looked about for Linton. Earnshaw had come out to examine the\nmischief he had caused, and he was then conveying the poor thing\nupstairs. Zillah and I ascended after him; but he stopped me at the top\nof the steps, and said I shouldn t go in: I must go home. I exclaimed\nthat he had killed Linton, and I _would_ enter. Joseph locked the door,\nand declared I should do  no sich stuff,  and asked me whether I were\n bahn to be as mad as him.  I stood crying till the housekeeper\nreappeared. She affirmed he would be better in a bit, but he couldn t\ndo with that shrieking and din; and she took me, and nearly carried me\ninto the house.\n\n Ellen, I was ready to tear my hair off my head! I sobbed and wept so\nthat my eyes were almost blind; and the ruffian you have such sympathy\nwith stood opposite: presuming every now and then to bid me  wisht, \nand denying that it was his fault; and, finally, frightened by my\nassertions that I would tell papa, and that he should be put in prison\nand hanged, he commenced blubbering himself, and hurried out to hide\nhis cowardly agitation. Still, I was not rid of him: when at length\nthey compelled me to depart, and I had got some hundred yards off the\npremises, he suddenly issued from the shadow of the road-side, and\nchecked Minny and took hold of me.\n\n Miss Catherine, I m ill grieved,  he began,  but it s rayther too\nbad \n\n I gave him a cut with my whip, thinking perhaps he would murder me. He\nlet go, thundering one of his horrid curses, and I galloped home more\nthan half out of my senses.\n\n I didn t bid you good-night that evening, and I didn t go to Wuthering\nHeights the next: I wished to go exceedingly; but I was strangely\nexcited, and dreaded to hear that Linton was dead, sometimes; and\nsometimes shuddered at the thought of encountering Hareton. On the\nthird day I took courage: at least, I couldn t bear longer suspense,\nand stole off once more. I went at five o clock, and walked; fancying I\nmight manage to creep into the house, and up to Linton s room,\nunobserved. However, the dogs gave notice of my approach. Zillah\nreceived me, and saying  the lad was mending nicely,  showed me into a\nsmall, tidy, carpeted apartment, where, to my inexpressible joy, I\nbeheld Linton laid on a little sofa, reading one of my books. But he\nwould neither speak to me nor look at me, through a whole hour, Ellen:\nhe has such an unhappy temper. And what quite confounded me, when he\ndid open his mouth, it was to utter the falsehood that I had occasioned\nthe uproar, and Hareton was not to blame! Unable to reply, except\npassionately, I got up and walked from the room. He sent after me a\nfaint  Catherine!  He did not reckon on being answered so: but I\nwouldn t turn back; and the morrow was the second day on which I stayed\nat home, nearly determined to visit him no more. But it was so\nmiserable going to bed and getting up, and never hearing anything about\nhim, that my resolution melted into air before it was properly formed.\nIt _had_ appeared wrong to take the journey once; now it seemed wrong\nto refrain. Michael came to ask if he must saddle Minny; I said  Yes, \nand considered myself doing a duty as she bore me over the hills. I was\nforced to pass the front windows to get to the court: it was no use\ntrying to conceal my presence.\n\n Young master is in the house,  said Zillah, as she saw me making for\nthe parlour. I went in; Earnshaw was there also, but he quitted the\nroom directly. Linton sat in the great arm-chair half asleep; walking\nup to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly meaning it to be\ntrue \n\n As you don t like me, Linton, and as you think I come on purpose to\nhurt you, and pretend that I do so every time, this is our last\nmeeting: let us say good-bye; and tell Mr. Heathcliff that you have no\nwish to see me, and that he mustn t invent any more falsehoods on the\nsubject. \n\n Sit down and take your hat off, Catherine,  he answered.  You are so\nmuch happier than I am, you ought to be better. Papa talks enough of my\ndefects, and shows enough scorn of me, to make it natural I should\ndoubt myself. I doubt whether I am not altogether as worthless as he\ncalls me, frequently; and then I feel so cross and bitter, I hate\neverybody! I _am_ worthless, and bad in temper, and bad in spirit,\nalmost always; and, if you choose, you _may_ say good-bye: you ll get\nrid of an annoyance. Only, Catherine, do me this justice: believe that\nif I might be as sweet, and as kind, and as good as you are, I would\nbe; as willingly, and more so, than as happy and as healthy. And\nbelieve that your kindness has made me love you deeper than if I\ndeserved your love: and though I couldn t, and cannot help showing my\nnature to you, I regret it and repent it; and shall regret and repent\nit till I die! \n\n I felt he spoke the truth; and I felt I must forgive him: and, though\nwe should quarrel the next moment, I must forgive him again. We were\nreconciled; but we cried, both of us, the whole time I stayed: not\nentirely for sorrow; yet I _was_ sorry Linton had that distorted\nnature. He ll never let his friends be at ease, and he ll never be at\nease himself! I have always gone to his little parlour, since that\nnight; because his father returned the day after.\n\n About three times, I think, we have been merry and hopeful, as we were\nthe first evening; the rest of my visits were dreary and troubled: now\nwith his selfishness and spite, and now with his sufferings: but I ve\nlearned to endure the former with nearly as little resentment as the\nlatter. Mr. Heathcliff purposely avoids me: I have hardly seen him at\nall. Last Sunday, indeed, coming earlier than usual, I heard him\nabusing poor Linton cruelly for his conduct of the night before. I\ncan t tell how he knew of it, unless he listened. Linton had certainly\nbehaved provokingly: however, it was the business of nobody but me, and\nI interrupted Mr. Heathcliff s lecture by entering and telling him so.\nHe burst into a laugh, and went away, saying he was glad I took that\nview of the matter. Since then, I ve told Linton he must whisper his\nbitter things. Now, Ellen, you have heard all. I can t be prevented\nfrom going to Wuthering Heights, except by inflicting misery on two\npeople; whereas, if you ll only not tell papa, my going need disturb\nthe tranquillity of none. You ll not tell, will you? It will be very\nheartless, if you do. \n\n I ll make up my mind on that point by to-morrow, Miss Catherine,  I\nreplied.  It requires some study; and so I ll leave you to your rest,\nand go think it over. \n\nI thought it over aloud, in my master s presence; walking straight from\nher room to his, and relating the whole story: with the exception of\nher conversations with her cousin, and any mention of Hareton. Mr.\nLinton was alarmed and distressed, more than he would acknowledge to\nme. In the morning, Catherine learnt my betrayal of her confidence, and\nshe learnt also that her secret visits were to end. In vain she wept\nand writhed against the interdict, and implored her father to have pity\non Linton: all she got to comfort her was a promise that he would write\nand give him leave to come to the Grange when he pleased; but\nexplaining that he must no longer expect to see Catherine at Wuthering\nHeights. Perhaps, had he been aware of his nephew s disposition and\nstate of health, he would have seen fit to withhold even that slight\nconsolation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\n These things happened last winter, sir,  said Mrs. Dean;  hardly more\nthan a year ago. Last winter, I did not think, at another twelve\nmonths  end, I should be amusing a stranger to the family with relating\nthem! Yet, who knows how long you ll be a stranger? You re too young to\nrest always contented, living by yourself; and I some way fancy no one\ncould see Catherine Linton and not love her. You smile; but why do you\nlook so lively and interested when I talk about her? and why have you\nasked me to hang her picture over your fireplace? and why ? \n\n Stop, my good friend!  I cried.  It may be very possible that _I_\nshould love her; but would she love me? I doubt it too much to venture\nmy tranquillity by running into temptation: and then my home is not\nhere. I m of the busy world, and to its arms I must return. Go on. Was\nCatherine obedient to her father s commands? \n\n She was,  continued the housekeeper.  Her affection for him was still\nthe chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without anger: he spoke\nin the deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils\nand foes, where his remembered words would be the only aid that he\ncould bequeath to guide her. He said to me, a few days afterwards,  I\nwish my nephew would write, Ellen, or call. Tell me, sincerely, what\nyou think of him: is he changed for the better, or is there a prospect\nof improvement, as he grows a man? \n\n He s very delicate, sir,  I replied;  and scarcely likely to reach\nmanhood: but this I can say, he does not resemble his father; and if\nMiss Catherine had the misfortune to marry him, he would not be beyond\nher control: unless she were extremely and foolishly indulgent.\nHowever, master, you ll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him\nand see whether he would suit her: it wants four years and more to his\nbeing of age. \n\nEdgar sighed; and, walking to the window, looked out towards Gimmerton\nKirk. It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun shone dimly, and\nwe could just distinguish the two fir-trees in the yard, and the\nsparely-scattered gravestones.\n\n I ve prayed often,  he half soliloquised,  for the approach of what is\ncoming; and now I begin to shrink, and fear it. I thought the memory of\nthe hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would be less sweet than\nthe anticipation that I was soon, in a few months, or, possibly, weeks,\nto be carried up, and laid in its lonely hollow! Ellen, I ve been very\nhappy with my little Cathy: through winter nights and summer days she\nwas a living hope at my side. But I ve been as happy musing by myself\namong those stones, under that old church: lying, through the long June\nevenings, on the green mound of her mother s grave, and\nwishing yearning for the time when I might lie beneath it. What can I\ndo for Cathy? How must I quit her? I d not care one moment for Linton\nbeing Heathcliff s son; nor for his taking her from me, if he could\nconsole her for my loss. I d not care that Heathcliff gained his ends,\nand triumphed in robbing me of my last blessing! But should Linton be\nunworthy only a feeble tool to his father I cannot abandon her to him!\nAnd, hard though it be to crush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere in\nmaking her sad while I live, and leaving her solitary when I die.\nDarling! I d rather resign her to God, and lay her in the earth before\nme. \n\n Resign her to God as it is, sir,  I answered,  and if we should lose\nyou which may He forbid under His providence, I ll stand her friend and\ncounsellor to the last. Miss Catherine is a good girl: I don t fear\nthat she will go wilfully wrong; and people who do their duty are\nalways finally rewarded. \n\nSpring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength, though he\nresumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter. To her\ninexperienced notions, this itself was a sign of convalescence; and\nthen his cheek was often flushed, and his eyes were bright; she felt\nsure of his recovering. On her seventeenth birthday, he did not visit\nthe churchyard: it was raining, and I observed \n\n You ll surely not go out to-night, sir? \n\nHe answered, No, I ll defer it this year a little longer. \n\nHe wrote again to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; and,\nhad the invalid been presentable, I ve no doubt his father would have\npermitted him to come. As it was, being instructed, he returned an\nanswer, intimating that Mr. Heathcliff objected to his calling at the\nGrange; but his uncle s kind remembrance delighted him, and he hoped to\nmeet him sometimes in his rambles, and personally to petition that his\ncousin and he might not remain long so utterly divided.\n\nThat part of his letter was simple, and probably his own. Heathcliff\nknew he could plead eloquently for Catherine s company, then.\n\n I do not ask,  he said,  that she may visit here; but am I never to\nsee her, because my father forbids me to go to her home, and you forbid\nher to come to mine? Do, now and then, ride with her towards the\nHeights; and let us exchange a few words, in your presence! We have\ndone nothing to deserve this separation; and you are not angry with me:\nyou have no reason to dislike me, you allow, yourself. Dear uncle! send\nme a kind note to-morrow, and leave to join you anywhere you please,\nexcept at Thrushcross Grange. I believe an interview would convince you\nthat my father s character is not mine: he affirms I am more your\nnephew than his son; and though I have faults which render me unworthy\nof Catherine, she has excused them, and for her sake, you should also.\nYou inquire after my health it is better; but while I remain cut off\nfrom all hope, and doomed to solitude, or the society of those who\nnever did and never will like me, how can I be cheerful and well? \n\nEdgar, though he felt for the boy, could not consent to grant his\nrequest; because he could not accompany Catherine. He said, in summer,\nperhaps, they might meet: meantime, he wished him to continue writing\nat intervals, and engaged to give him what advice and comfort he was\nable by letter; being well aware of his hard position in his family.\nLinton complied; and had he been unrestrained, would probably have\nspoiled all by filling his epistles with complaints and lamentations:\nbut his father kept a sharp watch over him; and, of course, insisted on\nevery line that my master sent being shown; so, instead of penning his\npeculiar personal sufferings and distresses, the themes constantly\nuppermost in his thoughts, he harped on the cruel obligation of being\nheld asunder from his friend and love; and gently intimated that Mr.\nLinton must allow an interview soon, or he should fear he was purposely\ndeceiving him with empty promises.\n\nCathy was a powerful ally at home; and between them they at length\npersuaded my master to acquiesce in their having a ride or a walk\ntogether about once a week, under my guardianship, and on the moors\nnearest the Grange: for June found him still declining. Though he had\nset aside yearly a portion of his income for my young lady s fortune,\nhe had a natural desire that she might retain or at least return in a\nshort time to the house of her ancestors; and he considered her only\nprospect of doing that was by a union with his heir; he had no idea\nthat the latter was failing almost as fast as himself; nor had any one,\nI believe: no doctor visited the Heights, and no one saw Master\nHeathcliff to make report of his condition among us. I, for my part,\nbegan to fancy my forebodings were false, and that he must be actually\nrallying, when he mentioned riding and walking on the moors, and seemed\nso earnest in pursuing his object. I could not picture a father\ntreating a dying child as tyrannically and wickedly as I afterwards\nlearned Heathcliff had treated him, to compel this apparent eagerness:\nhis efforts redoubling the more imminently his avaricious and unfeeling\nplans were threatened with defeat by death.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nSummer was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly yielded his\nassent to their entreaties, and Catherine and I set out on our first\nride to join her cousin. It was a close, sultry day: devoid of\nsunshine, but with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain: and our\nplace of meeting had been fixed at the guide-stone, by the cross-roads.\nOn arriving there, however, a little herd-boy, despatched as a\nmessenger, told us that, Maister Linton wer just o  this side th \nHeights: and he d be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further. \n\n Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle,  I\nobserved:  he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at\nonce. \n\n Well, we ll turn our horses  heads round when we reach him,  answered\nmy companion;  our excursion shall lie towards home. \n\nBut when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from\nhis own door, we found he had no horse; and we were forced to dismount,\nand leave ours to graze. He lay on the heath, awaiting our approach,\nand did not rise till we came within a few yards. Then he walked so\nfeebly, and looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed, Why, Master\nHeathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning. How ill\nyou do look! \n\nCatherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment: she changed the\nejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm; and the congratulation\non their long-postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry, whether he were\nworse than usual?\n\n No better better!  he panted, trembling, and retaining her hand as if\nhe needed its support, while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over\nher; the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness the\nlanguid expression they once possessed.\n\n But you have been worse,  persisted his cousin;  worse than when I saw\nyou last; you are thinner, and \n\n I m tired,  he interrupted, hurriedly.  It is too hot for walking, let\nus rest here. And, in the morning, I often feel sick papa says I grow\nso fast. \n\nBadly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her.\n\n This is something like your paradise,  said she, making an effort at\ncheerfulness.  You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the\nplace and way each thought pleasantest? This is nearly yours, only\nthere are clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow: it is nicer\nthan sunshine. Next week, if you can, we ll ride down to the Grange\nPark, and try mine. \n\nLinton did not appear to remember what she talked of; and he had\nevidently great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation. His\nlack of interest in the subjects she started, and his equal incapacity\nto contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not\nconceal her disappointment. An indefinite alteration had come over his\nwhole person and manner. The pettishness that might be caressed into\nfondness, had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the\npeevish temper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be\nsoothed, and more of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed\ninvalid, repelling consolation, and ready to regard the good-humoured\nmirth of others as an insult. Catherine perceived, as well as I did,\nthat he held it rather a punishment, than a gratification, to endure\nour company; and she made no scruple of proposing, presently, to\ndepart. That proposal, unexpectedly, roused Linton from his lethargy,\nand threw him into a strange state of agitation. He glanced fearfully\ntowards the Heights, begging she would remain another half-hour, at\nleast.\n\n But I think,  said Cathy,  you d be more comfortable at home than\nsitting here; and I cannot amuse you to-day, I see, by my tales, and\nsongs, and chatter: you have grown wiser than I, in these six months;\nyou have little taste for my diversions now: or else, if I could amuse\nyou, I d willingly stay. \n\n Stay to rest yourself,  he replied.  And, Catherine, don t think or\nsay that I m _very_ unwell: it is the heavy weather and heat that make\nme dull; and I walked about, before you came, a great deal for me. Tell\nuncle I m in tolerable health, will you? \n\n I ll tell him that _you_ say so, Linton. I couldn t affirm that you\nare,  observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious assertion\nof what was evidently an untruth.\n\n And be here again next Thursday,  continued he, shunning her puzzled\ngaze.  And give him my thanks for permitting you to come my best\nthanks, Catherine. And and, if you _did_ meet my father, and he asked\nyou about me, don t lead him to suppose that I ve been extremely silent\nand stupid: don t look sad and downcast, as you _are_ doing he ll be\nangry. \n\n I care nothing for his anger,  exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be\nits object.\n\n But I do,  said her cousin, shuddering.  _Don t_ provoke him against\nme, Catherine, for he is very hard. \n\n Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?  I inquired.  Has he grown\nweary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred? \n\nLinton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her seat by\nhis side another ten minutes, during which his head fell drowsily on\nhis breast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of\nexhaustion or pain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking for\nbilberries, and sharing the produce of her researches with me: she did\nnot offer them to him, for she saw further notice would only weary and\nannoy.\n\n Is it half-an-hour now, Ellen?  she whispered in my ear, at last.  I\ncan t tell why we should stay. He s asleep, and papa will be wanting us\nback. \n\n Well, we must not leave him asleep,  I answered;  wait till he wakes,\nand be patient. You were mighty eager to set off, but your longing to\nsee poor Linton has soon evaporated! \n\n Why did _he_ wish to see me?  returned Catherine.  In his crossest\nhumours, formerly, I liked him better than I do in his present curious\nmood. It s just as if it were a task he was compelled to perform this\ninterview for fear his father should scold him. But I m hardly going to\ncome to give Mr. Heathcliff pleasure; whatever reason he may have for\nordering Linton to undergo this penance. And, though I m glad he s\nbetter in health, I m sorry he s so much less pleasant, and so much\nless affectionate to me. \n\n You think _he is_ better in health, then?  I said.\n\n Yes,  she answered;  because he always made such a great deal of his\nsufferings, you know. He is not tolerably well, as he told me to tell\npapa; but he s better, very likely. \n\n There you differ with me, Miss Cathy,  I remarked;  I should\nconjecture him to be far worse. \n\nLinton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if\nany one had called his name.\n\n No,  said Catherine;  unless in dreams. I cannot conceive how you\nmanage to doze out of doors, in the morning. \n\n I thought I heard my father,  he gasped, glancing up to the frowning\nnab above us.  You are sure nobody spoke? \n\n Quite sure,  replied his cousin.  Only Ellen and I were disputing\nconcerning your health. Are you truly stronger, Linton, than when we\nseparated in winter? If you be, I m certain one thing is not\nstronger your regard for me: speak, are you? \n\nThe tears gushed from Linton s eyes as he answered,  Yes, yes, I am! \nAnd, still under the spell of the imaginary voice, his gaze wandered up\nand down to detect its owner.\n\nCathy rose.  For to-day we must part,  she said.  And I won t conceal\nthat I have been sadly disappointed with our meeting; though I ll\nmention it to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr.\nHeathcliff. \n\n Hush,  murmured Linton;  for God s sake, hush! He s coming.  And he\nclung to Catherine s arm, striving to detain her; but at that\nannouncement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled to Minny, who\nobeyed her like a dog.\n\n I ll be here next Thursday,  she cried, springing to the saddle.\n Good-bye. Quick, Ellen! \n\nAnd so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure, so absorbed\nwas he in anticipating his father s approach.\n\nBefore we reached home, Catherine s displeasure softened into a\nperplexed sensation of pity and regret, largely blended with vague,\nuneasy doubts about Linton s actual circumstances, physical and social:\nin which I partook, though I counselled her not to say much; for a\nsecond journey would make us better judges. My master requested an\naccount of our ongoings. His nephew s offering of thanks was duly\ndelivered, Miss Cathy gently touching on the rest: I also threw little\nlight on his inquiries, for I hardly knew what to hide and what to\nreveal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\nSeven days glided away, every one marking its course by the henceforth\nrapid alteration of Edgar Linton s state. The havoc that months had\npreviously wrought was now emulated by the inroads of hours. Catherine\nwe would fain have deluded yet; but her own quick spirit refused to\ndelude her: it divined in secret, and brooded on the dreadful\nprobability, gradually ripening into certainty. She had not the heart\nto mention her ride, when Thursday came round; I mentioned it for her,\nand obtained permission to order her out of doors: for the library,\nwhere her father stopped a short time daily the brief period he could\nbear to sit up and his chamber, had become her whole world. She grudged\neach moment that did not find her bending over his pillow, or seated by\nhis side. Her countenance grew wan with watching and sorrow, and my\nmaster gladly dismissed her to what he flattered himself would be a\nhappy change of scene and society; drawing comfort from the hope that\nshe would not now be left entirely alone after his death.\n\nHe had a fixed idea, I guessed by several observations he let fall,\nthat, as his nephew resembled him in person, he would resemble him in\nmind; for Linton s letters bore few or no indications of his defective\ncharacter. And I, through pardonable weakness, refrained from\ncorrecting the error; asking myself what good there would be in\ndisturbing his last moments with information that he had neither power\nnor opportunity to turn to account.\n\nWe deferred our excursion till the afternoon; a golden afternoon of\nAugust: every breath from the hills so full of life, that it seemed\nwhoever respired it, though dying, might revive. Catherine s face was\njust like the landscape shadows and sunshine flitting over it in rapid\nsuccession; but the shadows rested longer, and the sunshine was more\ntransient; and her poor little heart reproached itself for even that\npassing forgetfulness of its cares.\n\nWe discerned Linton watching at the same spot he had selected before.\nMy young mistress alighted, and told me that, as she was resolved to\nstay a very little while, I had better hold the pony and remain on\nhorseback; but I dissented: I wouldn t risk losing sight of the charge\ncommitted to me a minute; so we climbed the slope of heath together.\nMaster Heathcliff received us with greater animation on this occasion:\nnot the animation of high spirits though, nor yet of joy; it looked\nmore like fear.\n\n It is late!  he said, speaking short and with difficulty.  Is not your\nfather very ill? I thought you wouldn t come. \n\n _Why_ won t you be candid?  cried Catherine, swallowing her greeting.\n Why cannot you say at once you don t want me? It is strange, Linton,\nthat for the second time you have brought me here on purpose,\napparently to distress us both, and for no reason besides! \n\nLinton shivered, and glanced at her, half supplicating, half ashamed;\nbut his cousin s patience was not sufficient to endure this enigmatical\nbehaviour.\n\n My father _is_ very ill,  she said;  and why am I called from his\nbedside? Why didn t you send to absolve me from my promise, when you\nwished I wouldn t keep it? Come! I desire an explanation: playing and\ntrifling are completely banished out of my mind; and I can t dance\nattendance on your affectations now! \n\n My affectations!  he murmured;  what are they? For heaven s sake,\nCatherine, don t look so angry! Despise me as much as you please; I am\na worthless, cowardly wretch: I can t be scorned enough; but I m too\nmean for your anger. Hate my father, and spare me for contempt. \n\n Nonsense!  cried Catherine in a passion.  Foolish, silly boy! And\nthere! he trembles, as if I were really going to touch him! You needn t\nbespeak contempt, Linton: anybody will have it spontaneously at your\nservice. Get off! I shall return home: it is folly dragging you from\nthe hearth-stone, and pretending what do we pretend? Let go my frock!\nIf I pitied you for crying and looking so very frightened, you should\nspurn such pity. Ellen, tell him how disgraceful this conduct is. Rise,\nand don t degrade yourself into an abject reptile _don t_! \n\nWith streaming face and an expression of agony, Linton had thrown his\nnerveless frame along the ground: he seemed convulsed with exquisite\nterror.\n\n Oh!  he sobbed,  I cannot bear it! Catherine, Catherine, I m a\ntraitor, too, and I dare not tell you! But leave me, and I shall be\nkilled! _Dear_ Catherine, my life is in your hands: and you have said\nyou loved me, and if you did, it wouldn t harm you. You ll not go,\nthen? kind, sweet, good Catherine! And perhaps you _will_ consent and\nhe ll let me die with you! \n\nMy young lady, on witnessing his intense anguish, stooped to raise him.\nThe old feeling of indulgent tenderness overcame her vexation, and she\ngrew thoroughly moved and alarmed.\n\n Consent to what?  she asked.  To stay! tell me the meaning of this\nstrange talk, and I will. You contradict your own words, and distract\nme! Be calm and frank, and confess at once all that weighs on your\nheart. You wouldn t injure me, Linton, would you? You wouldn t let any\nenemy hurt me, if you could prevent it? I ll believe you are a coward,\nfor yourself, but not a cowardly betrayer of your best friend. \n\n But my father threatened me,  gasped the boy, clasping his attenuated\nfingers,  and I dread him I dread him! I _dare_ not tell! \n\n Oh, well!  said Catherine, with scornful compassion,  keep your\nsecret: _I m_ no coward. Save yourself: I m not afraid! \n\nHer magnanimity provoked his tears: he wept wildly, kissing her\nsupporting hands, and yet could not summon courage to speak out. I was\ncogitating what the mystery might be, and determined Catherine should\nnever suffer to benefit him or any one else, by my good will; when,\nhearing a rustle among the ling, I looked up and saw Mr. Heathcliff\nalmost close upon us, descending the Heights. He didn t cast a glance\ntowards my companions, though they were sufficiently near for Linton s\nsobs to be audible; but hailing me in the almost hearty tone he assumed\nto none besides, and the sincerity of which I couldn t avoid doubting,\nhe said \n\n It is something to see you so near to my house, Nelly. How are you at\nthe Grange? Let us hear. The rumour goes,  he added, in a lower tone,\n that Edgar Linton is on his death-bed: perhaps they exaggerate his\nillness? \n\n No; my master is dying,  I replied:  it is true enough. A sad thing it\nwill be for us all, but a blessing for him! \n\n How long will he last, do you think?  he asked.\n\n I don t know,  I said.\n\n Because,  he continued, looking at the two young people, who were\nfixed under his eye Linton appeared as if he could not venture to stir\nor raise his head, and Catherine could not move, on his\naccount because that lad yonder seems determined to beat me; and I d\nthank his uncle to be quick, and go before him! Hallo! has the whelp\nbeen playing that game long? I _did_ give him some lessons about\nsnivelling. Is he pretty lively with Miss Linton generally? \n\n Lively? no he has shown the greatest distress,  I answered.  To see\nhim, I should say, that instead of rambling with his sweetheart on the\nhills, he ought to be in bed, under the hands of a doctor. \n\n He shall be, in a day or two,  muttered Heathcliff.  But first get up,\nLinton! Get up!  he shouted.  Don t grovel on the ground there: up,\nthis moment! \n\nLinton had sunk prostrate again in another paroxysm of helpless fear,\ncaused by his father s glance towards him, I suppose: there was nothing\nelse to produce such humiliation. He made several efforts to obey, but\nhis little strength was annihilated for the time, and he fell back\nagain with a moan. Mr. Heathcliff advanced, and lifted him to lean\nagainst a ridge of turf.\n\n Now,  said he, with curbed ferocity,  I m getting angry and if you\ndon t command that paltry spirit of yours _damn_ you! get up directly! \n\n I will, father,  he panted.  Only, let me alone, or I shall faint.\nI ve done as you wished, I m sure. Catherine will tell you that I that\nI have been cheerful. Ah! keep by me, Catherine; give me your hand. \n\n Take mine,  said his father;  stand on your feet. There now she ll\nlend you her arm: that s right, look at _her_. You would imagine I was\nthe devil himself, Miss Linton, to excite such horror. Be so kind as to\nwalk home with him, will you? He shudders if I touch him. \n\n Linton dear!  whispered Catherine,  I can t go to Wuthering Heights:\npapa has forbidden me. He ll not harm you: why are you so afraid? \n\n I can never re-enter that house,  he answered.  I m _not_ to re-enter\nit without you! \n\n Stop!  cried his father.  We ll respect Catherine s filial scruples.\nNelly, take him in, and I ll follow your advice concerning the doctor,\nwithout delay. \n\n You ll do well,  replied I.  But I must remain with my mistress: to\nmind your son is not my business. \n\n You are very stiff,  said Heathcliff,  I know that: but you ll force\nme to pinch the baby and make it scream before it moves your charity.\nCome, then, my hero. Are you willing to return, escorted by me? \n\nHe approached once more, and made as if he would seize the fragile\nbeing; but, shrinking back, Linton clung to his cousin, and implored\nher to accompany him, with a frantic importunity that admitted no\ndenial. However I disapproved, I couldn t hinder her: indeed, how could\nshe have refused him herself? What was filling him with dread we had no\nmeans of discerning; but there he was, powerless under its gripe, and\nany addition seemed capable of shocking him into idiocy. We reached the\nthreshold; Catherine walked in, and I stood waiting till she had\nconducted the invalid to a chair, expecting her out immediately; when\nMr. Heathcliff, pushing me forward, exclaimed My house is not stricken\nwith the plague, Nelly; and I have a mind to be hospitable to-day: sit\ndown, and allow me to shut the door. \n\nHe shut and locked it also. I started.\n\n You shall have tea before you go home,  he added.  I am by myself.\nHareton is gone with some cattle to the Lees, and Zillah and Joseph are\noff on a journey of pleasure; and, though I m used to being alone, I d\nrather have some interesting company, if I can get it. Miss Linton,\ntake your seat by _him_. I give you what I have: the present is hardly\nworth accepting; but I have nothing else to offer. It is Linton, I\nmean. How she does stare! It s odd what a savage feeling I have to\nanything that seems afraid of me! Had I been born where laws are less\nstrict and tastes less dainty, I should treat myself to a slow\nvivisection of those two, as an evening s amusement. \n\nHe drew in his breath, struck the table, and swore to himself,  By\nhell! I hate them. \n\n I am not afraid of you!  exclaimed Catherine, who could not hear the\nlatter part of his speech. She stepped close up; her black eyes\nflashing with passion and resolution.  Give me that key: I will have\nit!  she said.  I wouldn t eat or drink here, if I were starving. \n\nHeathcliff had the key in his hand that remained on the table. He\nlooked up, seized with a sort of surprise at her boldness; or,\npossibly, reminded, by her voice and glance, of the person from whom\nshe inherited it. She snatched at the instrument, and half succeeded in\ngetting it out of his loosened fingers: but her action recalled him to\nthe present; he recovered it speedily.\n\n Now, Catherine Linton,  he said,  stand off, or I shall knock you\ndown; and that will make Mrs. Dean mad. \n\nRegardless of this warning, she captured his closed hand and its\ncontents again.  We _will_ go!  she repeated, exerting her utmost\nefforts to cause the iron muscles to relax; and finding that her nails\nmade no impression, she applied her teeth pretty sharply. Heathcliff\nglanced at me a glance that kept me from interfering a moment.\nCatherine was too intent on his fingers to notice his face. He opened\nthem suddenly, and resigned the object of dispute; but, ere she had\nwell secured it, he seized her with the liberated hand, and, pulling\nher on his knee, administered with the other a shower of terrific slaps\non both sides of the head, each sufficient to have fulfilled his\nthreat, had she been able to fall.\n\nAt this diabolical violence I rushed on him furiously.  You villain!  I\nbegan to cry,  you villain!  A touch on the chest silenced me: I am\nstout, and soon put out of breath; and, what with that and the rage, I\nstaggered dizzily back, and felt ready to suffocate, or to burst a\nblood-vessel. The scene was over in two minutes; Catherine, released,\nput her two hands to her temples, and looked just as if she were not\nsure whether her ears were off or on. She trembled like a reed, poor\nthing, and leant against the table perfectly bewildered.\n\n I know how to chastise children, you see,  said the scoundrel, grimly,\nas he stooped to repossess himself of the key, which had dropped to the\nfloor.  Go to Linton now, as I told you; and cry at your ease! I shall\nbe your father, to-morrow all the father you ll have in a few days and\nyou shall have plenty of that. You can bear plenty; you re no weakling:\nyou shall have a daily taste, if I catch such a devil of a temper in\nyour eyes again! \n\nCathy ran to me instead of Linton, and knelt down and put her burning\ncheek on my lap, weeping aloud. Her cousin had shrunk into a corner of\nthe settle, as quiet as a mouse, congratulating himself, I dare say,\nthat the correction had alighted on another than him. Mr. Heathcliff,\nperceiving us all confounded, rose, and expeditiously made the tea\nhimself. The cups and saucers were laid ready. He poured it out, and\nhanded me a cup.\n\n Wash away your spleen,  he said.  And help your own naughty pet and\nmine. It is not poisoned, though I prepared it. I m going out to seek\nyour horses. \n\nOur first thought, on his departure, was to force an exit somewhere. We\ntried the kitchen door, but that was fastened outside: we looked at the\nwindows they were too narrow for even Cathy s little figure.\n\n Master Linton,  I cried, seeing we were regularly imprisoned,  you\nknow what your diabolical father is after, and you shall tell us, or\nI ll box your ears, as he has done your cousin s. \n\n Yes, Linton, you must tell,  said Catherine.  It was for your sake I\ncame; and it will be wickedly ungrateful if you refuse. \n\n Give me some tea, I m thirsty, and then I ll tell you,  he answered.\n Mrs. Dean, go away. I don t like you standing over me. Now, Catherine,\nyou are letting your tears fall into my cup. I won t drink that. Give\nme another. \n\nCatherine pushed another to him, and wiped her face. I felt disgusted\nat the little wretch s composure, since he was no longer in terror for\nhimself. The anguish he had exhibited on the moor subsided as soon as\never he entered Wuthering Heights; so I guessed he had been menaced\nwith an awful visitation of wrath if he failed in decoying us there;\nand, that accomplished, he had no further immediate fears.\n\n Papa wants us to be married,  he continued, after sipping some of the\nliquid.  And he knows your papa wouldn t let us marry now; and he s\nafraid of my dying if we wait; so we are to be married in the morning,\nand you are to stay here all night; and, if you do as he wishes, you\nshall return home next day, and take me with you. \n\n Take you with her, pitiful changeling!  I exclaimed.  _You_ marry?\nWhy, the man is mad! or he thinks us fools, every one. And do you\nimagine that beautiful young lady, that healthy, hearty girl, will tie\nherself to a little perishing monkey like you? Are you cherishing the\nnotion that _anybody_, let alone Miss Catherine Linton, would have you\nfor a husband? You want whipping for bringing us in here at all, with\nyour dastardly puling tricks: and don t look so silly, now! I ve a very\ngood mind to shake you severely, for your contemptible treachery, and\nyour imbecile conceit. \n\nI did give him a slight shaking; but it brought on the cough, and he\ntook to his ordinary resource of moaning and weeping, and Catherine\nrebuked me.\n\n Stay all night? No,  she said, looking slowly round.  Ellen, I ll burn\nthat door down but I ll get out. \n\nAnd she would have commenced the execution of her threat directly, but\nLinton was up in alarm for his dear self again. He clasped her in his\ntwo feeble arms sobbing: Won t you have me, and save me? not let me\ncome to the Grange? Oh, darling Catherine! you mustn t go and leave,\nafter all. You _must_ obey my father you _must_! \n\n I must obey my own,  she replied,  and relieve him from this cruel\nsuspense. The whole night! What would he think? He ll be distressed\nalready. I ll either break or burn a way out of the house. Be quiet!\nYou re in no danger; but if you hinder me Linton, I love papa better\nthan you! \n\nThe mortal terror he felt of Mr. Heathcliff s anger restored to the boy\nhis coward s eloquence. Catherine was near distraught: still, she\npersisted that she must go home, and tried entreaty in her turn,\npersuading him to subdue his selfish agony. While they were thus\noccupied, our jailor re-entered.\n\n Your beasts have trotted off,  he said,  and now Linton! snivelling\nagain? What has she been doing to you? Come, come have done, and get to\nbed. In a month or two, my lad, you ll be able to pay her back her\npresent tyrannies with a vigorous hand. You re pining for pure love,\nare you not? nothing else in the world: and she shall have you! There,\nto bed! Zillah won t be here to-night; you must undress yourself. Hush!\nhold your noise! Once in your own room, I ll not come near you: you\nneedn t fear. By chance, you ve managed tolerably. I ll look to the\nrest. \n\nHe spoke these words, holding the door open for his son to pass, and\nthe latter achieved his exit exactly as a spaniel might which suspected\nthe person who attended on it of designing a spiteful squeeze. The lock\nwas re-secured. Heathcliff approached the fire, where my mistress and I\nstood silent. Catherine looked up, and instinctively raised her hand to\nher cheek: his neighbourhood revived a painful sensation. Anybody else\nwould have been incapable of regarding the childish act with sternness,\nbut he scowled on her and muttered Oh! you are not afraid of me? Your\ncourage is well disguised: you _seem_ damnably afraid! \n\n I _am_ afraid now,  she replied,  because, if I stay, papa will be\nmiserable: and how can I endure making him miserable when he when\nhe Mr. Heathcliff, _let_ me go home! I promise to marry Linton: papa\nwould like me to: and I love him. Why should you wish to force me to do\nwhat I ll willingly do of myself? \n\n Let him dare to force you,  I cried.  There s law in the land, thank\nGod! there is; though we be in an out-of-the-way place. I d inform if\nhe were my own son: and it s felony without benefit of clergy! \n\n Silence!  said the ruffian.  To the devil with your clamour! I don t\nwant _you_ to speak. Miss Linton, I shall enjoy myself remarkably in\nthinking your father will be miserable: I shall not sleep for\nsatisfaction. You could have hit on no surer way of fixing your\nresidence under my roof for the next twenty-four hours than informing\nme that such an event would follow. As to your promise to marry Linton,\nI ll take care you shall keep it; for you shall not quit this place\ntill it is fulfilled. \n\n Send Ellen, then, to let papa know I m safe!  exclaimed Catherine,\nweeping bitterly.  Or marry me now. Poor papa! Ellen, he ll think we re\nlost. What shall we do? \n\n Not he! He ll think you are tired of waiting on him, and run off for a\nlittle amusement,  answered Heathcliff.  You cannot deny that you\nentered my house of your own accord, in contempt of his injunctions to\nthe contrary. And it is quite natural that you should desire amusement\nat your age; and that you would weary of nursing a sick man, and that\nman _only_ your father. Catherine, his happiest days were over when\nyour days began. He cursed you, I dare say, for coming into the world\n(I did, at least); and it would just do if he cursed you as _he_ went\nout of it. I d join him. I don t love you! How should I? Weep away. As\nfar as I can see, it will be your chief diversion hereafter; unless\nLinton make amends for other losses: and your provident parent appears\nto fancy he may. His letters of advice and consolation entertained me\nvastly. In his last he recommended my jewel to be careful of his; and\nkind to her when he got her. Careful and kind that s paternal. But\nLinton requires his whole stock of care and kindness for himself.\nLinton can play the little tyrant well. He ll undertake to torture any\nnumber of cats, if their teeth be drawn and their claws pared. You ll\nbe able to tell his uncle fine tales of his _kindness_, when you get\nhome again, I assure you. \n\n You re right there!  I said;  explain your son s character. Show his\nresemblance to yourself: and then, I hope, Miss Cathy will think twice\nbefore she takes the cockatrice! \n\n I don t much mind speaking of his amiable qualities now,  he answered;\n because she must either accept him or remain a prisoner, and you along\nwith her, till your master dies. I can detain you both, quite\nconcealed, here. If you doubt, encourage her to retract her word, and\nyou ll have an opportunity of judging! \n\n I ll not retract my word,  said Catherine.  I ll marry him within this\nhour, if I may go to Thrushcross Grange afterwards. Mr. Heathcliff,\nyou re a cruel man, but you re not a fiend; and you won t, from _mere_\nmalice, destroy irrevocably all my happiness. If papa thought I had\nleft him on purpose, and if he died before I returned, could I bear to\nlive? I ve given over crying: but I m going to kneel here, at your\nknee; and I ll not get up, and I ll not take my eyes from your face\ntill you look back at me! No, don t turn away! _do_ look! you ll see\nnothing to provoke you. I don t hate you. I m not angry that you struck\nme. Have you never loved _anybody_ in all your life, uncle? _never_?\nAh! you must look once. I m so wretched, you can t help being sorry and\npitying me. \n\n Keep your eft s fingers off; and move, or I ll kick you!  cried\nHeathcliff, brutally repulsing her.  I d rather be hugged by a snake.\nHow the devil can you dream of fawning on me? I _detest_ you! \n\nHe shrugged his shoulders: shook himself, indeed, as if his flesh crept\nwith aversion; and thrust back his chair; while I got up, and opened my\nmouth, to commence a downright torrent of abuse. But I was rendered\ndumb in the middle of the first sentence, by a threat that I should be\nshown into a room by myself the very next syllable I uttered. It was\ngrowing dark we heard a sound of voices at the garden-gate. Our host\nhurried out instantly: _he_ had his wits about him; _we_ had not. There\nwas a talk of two or three minutes, and he returned alone.\n\n I thought it had been your cousin Hareton,  I observed to Catherine.\n I wish he would arrive! Who knows but he might take our part? \n\n It was three servants sent to seek you from the Grange,  said\nHeathcliff, overhearing me.  You should have opened a lattice and\ncalled out: but I could swear that chit is glad you didn t. She s glad\nto be obliged to stay, I m certain. \n\nAt learning the chance we had missed, we both gave vent to our grief\nwithout control; and he allowed us to wail on till nine o clock. Then\nhe bid us go upstairs, through the kitchen, to Zillah s chamber; and I\nwhispered my companion to obey: perhaps we might contrive to get\nthrough the window there, or into a garret, and out by its skylight.\nThe window, however, was narrow, like those below, and the garret trap\nwas safe from our attempts; for we were fastened in as before. We\nneither of us lay down: Catherine took her station by the lattice, and\nwatched anxiously for morning; a deep sigh being the only answer I\ncould obtain to my frequent entreaties that she would try to rest. I\nseated myself in a chair, and rocked to and fro, passing harsh judgment\non my many derelictions of duty; from which, it struck me then, all the\nmisfortunes of my employers sprang. It was not the case, in reality, I\nam aware; but it was, in my imagination, that dismal night; and I\nthought Heathcliff himself less guilty than I.\n\nAt seven o clock he came, and inquired if Miss Linton had risen. She\nran to the door immediately, and answered,  Yes.   Here, then,  he\nsaid, opening it, and pulling her out. I rose to follow, but he turned\nthe lock again. I demanded my release.\n\n Be patient,  he replied;  I ll send up your breakfast in a while. \n\nI thumped on the panels, and rattled the latch angrily; and Catherine\nasked why I was still shut up? He answered, I must try to endure it\nanother hour, and they went away. I endured it two or three hours; at\nlength, I heard a footstep: not Heathcliff s.\n\n I ve brought you something to eat,  said a voice;  oppen t  door! \n\nComplying eagerly, I beheld Hareton, laden with food enough to last me\nall day.\n\n Tak  it,  he added, thrusting the tray into my hand.\n\n Stay one minute,  I began.\n\n Nay,  cried he, and retired, regardless of any prayers I could pour\nforth to detain him.\n\nAnd there I remained enclosed the whole day, and the whole of the next\nnight; and another, and another. Five nights and four days I remained,\naltogether, seeing nobody but Hareton once every morning; and he was a\nmodel of a jailor: surly, and dumb, and deaf to every attempt at moving\nhis sense of justice or compassion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\nOn the fifth morning, or rather afternoon, a different step\napproached lighter and shorter; and, this time, the person entered the\nroom. It was Zillah; donned in her scarlet shawl, with a black silk\nbonnet on her head, and a willow-basket swung to her arm.\n\n Eh, dear! Mrs. Dean!  she exclaimed.  Well! there is a talk about you\nat Gimmerton. I never thought but you were sunk in the Blackhorse\nmarsh, and missy with you, till master told me you d been found, and\nhe d lodged you here! What! and you must have got on an island, sure?\nAnd how long were you in the hole? Did master save you, Mrs. Dean? But\nyou re not so thin you ve not been so poorly, have you? \n\n Your master is a true scoundrel!  I replied.  But he shall answer for\nit. He needn t have raised that tale: it shall all be laid bare! \n\n What do you mean?  asked Zillah.  It s not his tale: they tell that in\nthe village about your being lost in the marsh; and I calls to\nEarnshaw, when I come in Eh, they s queer things, Mr. Hareton,\nhappened since I went off. It s a sad pity of that likely young lass,\nand cant Nelly Dean.  He stared. I thought he had not heard aught, so I\ntold him the rumour. The master listened, and he just smiled to\nhimself, and said,  If they have been in the marsh, they are out now,\nZillah. Nelly Dean is lodged, at this minute, in your room. You can\ntell her to flit, when you go up; here is the key. The bog-water got\ninto her head, and she would have run home quite flighty, but I fixed\nher till she came round to her senses. You can bid her go to the Grange\nat once, if she be able, and carry a message from me, that her young\nlady will follow in time to attend the squire s funeral. \n\n Mr. Edgar is not dead?  I gasped.  Oh! Zillah, Zillah! \n\n No, no; sit you down, my good mistress,  she replied;  you re right\nsickly yet. He s not dead; Doctor Kenneth thinks he may last another\nday. I met him on the road and asked. \n\nInstead of sitting down, I snatched my outdoor things, and hastened\nbelow, for the way was free. On entering the house, I looked about for\nsome one to give information of Catherine. The place was filled with\nsunshine, and the door stood wide open; but nobody seemed at hand. As I\nhesitated whether to go off at once, or return and seek my mistress, a\nslight cough drew my attention to the hearth. Linton lay on the settle,\nsole tenant, sucking a stick of sugar-candy, and pursuing my movements\nwith apathetic eyes.  Where is Miss Catherine?  I demanded sternly,\nsupposing I could frighten him into giving intelligence, by catching\nhim thus, alone. He sucked on like an innocent.\n\n Is she gone?  I said.\n\n No,  he replied;  she s upstairs: she s not to go; we won t let her. \n\n You won t let her, little idiot!  I exclaimed.  Direct me to her room\nimmediately, or I ll make you sing out sharply. \n\n Papa would make you sing out, if you attempted to get there,  he\nanswered.  He says I m not to be soft with Catherine: she s my wife,\nand it s shameful that she should wish to leave me. He says she hates\nme and wants me to die, that she may have my money; but she shan t have\nit: and she shan t go home! She never shall! she may cry, and be sick\nas much as she pleases! \n\nHe resumed his former occupation, closing his lids, as if he meant to\ndrop asleep.\n\n Master Heathcliff,  I resumed,  have you forgotten all Catherine s\nkindness to you last winter, when you affirmed you loved her, and when\nshe brought you books and sung you songs, and came many a time through\nwind and snow to see you? She wept to miss one evening, because you\nwould be disappointed; and you felt then that she was a hundred times\ntoo good to you: and now you believe the lies your father tells, though\nyou know he detests you both. And you join him against her. That s fine\ngratitude, is it not? \n\nThe corner of Linton s mouth fell, and he took the sugar-candy from his\nlips.\n\n Did she come to Wuthering Heights because she hated you?  I continued.\n Think for yourself! As to your money, she does not even know that you\nwill have any. And you say she s sick; and yet you leave her alone, up\nthere in a strange house! _You_ who have felt what it is to be so\nneglected! You could pity your own sufferings; and she pitied them,\ntoo; but you won t pity hers! I shed tears, Master Heathcliff, you\nsee an elderly woman, and a servant merely and you, after pretending\nsuch affection, and having reason to worship her almost, store every\ntear you have for yourself, and lie there quite at ease. Ah! you re a\nheartless, selfish boy! \n\n I can t stay with her,  he answered crossly.  I ll not stay by myself.\nShe cries so I can t bear it. And she won t give over, though I say\nI ll call my father. I did call him once, and he threatened to strangle\nher if she was not quiet; but she began again the instant he left the\nroom, moaning and grieving all night long, though I screamed for\nvexation that I couldn t sleep. \n\n Is Mr. Heathcliff out?  I inquired, perceiving that the wretched\ncreature had no power to sympathise with his cousin s mental tortures.\n\n He s in the court,  he replied,  talking to Doctor Kenneth; who says\nuncle is dying, truly, at last. I m glad, for I shall be master of the\nGrange after him. Catherine always spoke of it as _her_ house. It isn t\nhers! It s mine: papa says everything she has is mine. All her nice\nbooks are mine; she offered to give me them, and her pretty birds, and\nher pony Minny, if I would get the key of our room, and let her out;\nbut I told her she had nothing to give, they were all, all mine. And\nthen she cried, and took a little picture from her neck, and said I\nshould have that; two pictures in a gold case, on one side her mother,\nand on the other uncle, when they were young. That was yesterday I said\n_they_ were mine, too; and tried to get them from her. The spiteful\nthing wouldn t let me: she pushed me off, and hurt me. I shrieked\nout that frightens her she heard papa coming, and she broke the hinges\nand divided the case, and gave me her mother s portrait; the other she\nattempted to hide: but papa asked what was the matter, and I explained\nit. He took the one I had away, and ordered her to resign hers to me;\nshe refused, and he he struck her down, and wrenched it off the chain,\nand crushed it with his foot. \n\n And were you pleased to see her struck?  I asked: having my designs in\nencouraging his talk.\n\n I winked,  he answered:  I wink to see my father strike a dog or a\nhorse, he does it so hard. Yet I was glad at first she deserved\npunishing for pushing me: but when papa was gone, she made me come to\nthe window and showed me her cheek cut on the inside, against her\nteeth, and her mouth filling with blood; and then she gathered up the\nbits of the picture, and went and sat down with her face to the wall,\nand she has never spoken to me since: and I sometimes think she can t\nspeak for pain. I don t like to think so; but she s a naughty thing for\ncrying continually; and she looks so pale and wild, I m afraid of her. \n\n And you can get the key if you choose?  I said.\n\n Yes, when I am upstairs,  he answered;  but I can t walk upstairs\nnow. \n\n In what apartment is it?  I asked.\n\n Oh,  he cried,  I shan t tell _you_ where it is. It is our secret.\nNobody, neither Hareton nor Zillah, is to know. There! you ve tired\nme go away, go away!  And he turned his face on to his arm, and shut\nhis eyes again.\n\nI considered it best to depart without seeing Mr. Heathcliff, and bring\na rescue for my young lady from the Grange. On reaching it, the\nastonishment of my fellow-servants to see me, and their joy also, was\nintense; and when they heard that their little mistress was safe, two\nor three were about to hurry up and shout the news at Mr. Edgar s door:\nbut I bespoke the announcement of it myself. How changed I found him,\neven in those few days! He lay an image of sadness and resignation\nawaiting his death. Very young he looked: though his actual age was\nthirty-nine, one would have called him ten years younger, at least. He\nthought of Catherine; for he murmured her name. I touched his hand, and\nspoke.\n\n Catherine is coming, dear master!  I whispered;  she is alive and\nwell; and will be here, I hope, to-night. \n\nI trembled at the first effects of this intelligence: he half rose up,\nlooked eagerly round the apartment, and then sank back in a swoon. As\nsoon as he recovered, I related our compulsory visit, and detention at\nthe Heights. I said Heathcliff forced me to go in: which was not quite\ntrue. I uttered as little as possible against Linton; nor did I\ndescribe all his father s brutal conduct my intentions being to add no\nbitterness, if I could help it, to his already overflowing cup.\n\nHe divined that one of his enemy s purposes was to secure the personal\nproperty, as well as the estate, to his son: or rather himself; yet why\nhe did not wait till his decease was a puzzle to my master, because\nignorant how nearly he and his nephew would quit the world together.\nHowever, he felt that his will had better be altered: instead of\nleaving Catherine s fortune at her own disposal, he determined to put\nit in the hands of trustees for her use during life, and for her\nchildren, if she had any, after her. By that means, it could not fall\nto Mr. Heathcliff should Linton die.\n\nHaving received his orders, I despatched a man to fetch the attorney,\nand four more, provided with serviceable weapons, to demand my young\nlady of her jailor. Both parties were delayed very late. The single\nservant returned first. He said Mr. Green, the lawyer, was out when he\narrived at his house, and he had to wait two hours for his re-entrance;\nand then Mr. Green told him he had a little business in the village\nthat must be done; but he would be at Thrushcross Grange before\nmorning. The four men came back unaccompanied also. They brought word\nthat Catherine was ill: too ill to quit her room; and Heathcliff would\nnot suffer them to see her. I scolded the stupid fellows well for\nlistening to that tale, which I would not carry to my master; resolving\nto take a whole bevy up to the Heights, at daylight, and storm it\nliterally, unless the prisoner were quietly surrendered to us. Her\nfather _shall_ see her, I vowed, and vowed again, if that devil be\nkilled on his own door-stones in trying to prevent it!\n\nHappily, I was spared the journey and the trouble. I had gone\ndownstairs at three o clock to fetch a jug of water; and was passing\nthrough the hall with it in my hand, when a sharp knock at the front\ndoor made me jump.  Oh! it is Green,  I said, recollecting myself only\nGreen,  and I went on, intending to send somebody else to open it; but\nthe knock was repeated: not loud, and still importunately. I put the\njug on the banister and hastened to admit him myself. The harvest moon\nshone clear outside. It was not the attorney. My own sweet little\nmistress sprang on my neck sobbing,  Ellen, Ellen! Is papa alive? \n\n Yes,  I cried:  yes, my angel, he is, God be thanked, you are safe\nwith us again! \n\nShe wanted to run, breathless as she was, upstairs to Mr. Linton s\nroom; but I compelled her to sit down on a chair, and made her drink,\nand washed her pale face, chafing it into a faint colour with my apron.\nThen I said I must go first, and tell of her arrival; imploring her to\nsay, she should be happy with young Heathcliff. She stared, but soon\ncomprehending why I counselled her to utter the falsehood, she assured\nme she would not complain.\n\nI couldn t abide to be present at their meeting. I stood outside the\nchamber-door a quarter of an hour, and hardly ventured near the bed,\nthen. All was composed, however: Catherine s despair was as silent as\nher father s joy. She supported him calmly, in appearance; and he fixed\non her features his raised eyes that seemed dilating with ecstasy.\n\nHe died blissfully, Mr. Lockwood: he died so. Kissing her cheek, he\nmurmured, I am going to her; and you, darling child, shall come to\nus!  and never stirred or spoke again; but continued that rapt, radiant\ngaze, till his pulse imperceptibly stopped and his soul departed. None\ncould have noticed the exact minute of his death, it was so entirely\nwithout a struggle.\n\nWhether Catherine had spent her tears, or whether the grief were too\nweighty to let them flow, she sat there dry-eyed till the sun rose: she\nsat till noon, and would still have remained brooding over that\ndeathbed, but I insisted on her coming away and taking some repose. It\nwas well I succeeded in removing her, for at dinner-time appeared the\nlawyer, having called at Wuthering Heights to get his instructions how\nto behave. He had sold himself to Mr. Heathcliff: that was the cause of\nhis delay in obeying my master s summons. Fortunately, no thought of\nworldly affairs crossed the latter s mind, to disturb him, after his\ndaughter s arrival.\n\nMr. Green took upon himself to order everything and everybody about the\nplace. He gave all the servants but me, notice to quit. He would have\ncarried his delegated authority to the point of insisting that Edgar\nLinton should not be buried beside his wife, but in the chapel, with\nhis family. There was the will, however, to hinder that, and my loud\nprotestations against any infringement of its directions. The funeral\nwas hurried over; Catherine, Mrs. Linton Heathcliff now, was suffered\nto stay at the Grange till her father s corpse had quitted it.\n\nShe told me that her anguish had at last spurred Linton to incur the\nrisk of liberating her. She heard the men I sent disputing at the door,\nand she gathered the sense of Heathcliff s answer. It drove her\ndesperate. Linton who had been conveyed up to the little parlour soon\nafter I left, was terrified into fetching the key before his father\nre-ascended. He had the cunning to unlock and re-lock the door, without\nshutting it; and when he should have gone to bed, he begged to sleep\nwith Hareton, and his petition was granted for once. Catherine stole\nout before break of day. She dared not try the doors lest the dogs\nshould raise an alarm; she visited the empty chambers and examined\ntheir windows; and, luckily, lighting on her mother s, she got easily\nout of its lattice, and on to the ground, by means of the fir-tree\nclose by. Her accomplice suffered for his share in the escape,\nnotwithstanding his timid contrivances.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nThe evening after the funeral, my young lady and I were seated in the\nlibrary; now musing mournfully one of us despairingly on our loss, now\nventuring conjectures as to the gloomy future.\n\nWe had just agreed the best destiny which could await Catherine would\nbe a permission to continue resident at the Grange; at least during\nLinton s life: he being allowed to join her there, and I to remain as\nhousekeeper. That seemed rather too favourable an arrangement to be\nhoped for; and yet I did hope, and began to cheer up under the prospect\nof retaining my home and my employment, and, above all, my beloved\nyoung mistress; when a servant one of the discarded ones, not yet\ndeparted rushed hastily in, and said  that devil Heathcliff  was coming\nthrough the court: should he fasten the door in his face?\n\nIf we had been mad enough to order that proceeding, we had not time. He\nmade no ceremony of knocking or announcing his name: he was master, and\navailed himself of the master s privilege to walk straight in, without\nsaying a word. The sound of our informant s voice directed him to the\nlibrary; he entered and motioning him out, shut the door.\n\nIt was the same room into which he had been ushered, as a guest,\neighteen years before: the same moon shone through the window; and the\nsame autumn landscape lay outside. We had not yet lighted a candle, but\nall the apartment was visible, even to the portraits on the wall: the\nsplendid head of Mrs. Linton, and the graceful one of her husband.\nHeathcliff advanced to the hearth. Time had little altered his person\neither. There was the same man: his dark face rather sallower and more\ncomposed, his frame a stone or two heavier, perhaps, and no other\ndifference. Catherine had risen with an impulse to dash out, when she\nsaw him.\n\n Stop!  he said, arresting her by the arm.  No more runnings away!\nWhere would you go? I m come to fetch you home; and I hope you ll be a\ndutiful daughter and not encourage my son to further disobedience. I\nwas embarrassed how to punish him when I discovered his part in the\nbusiness: he s such a cobweb, a pinch would annihilate him; but you ll\nsee by his look that he has received his due! I brought him down one\nevening, the day before yesterday, and just set him in a chair, and\nnever touched him afterwards. I sent Hareton out, and we had the room\nto ourselves. In two hours, I called Joseph to carry him up again; and\nsince then my presence is as potent on his nerves as a ghost; and I\nfancy he sees me often, though I am not near. Hareton says he wakes and\nshrieks in the night by the hour together, and calls you to protect him\nfrom me; and, whether you like your precious mate, or not, you must\ncome: he s your concern now; I yield all my interest in him to you. \n\n Why not let Catherine continue here,  I pleaded,  and send Master\nLinton to her? As you hate them both, you d not miss them: they _can_\nonly be a daily plague to your unnatural heart. \n\n I m seeking a tenant for the Grange,  he answered;  and I want my\nchildren about me, to be sure. Besides, that lass owes me her services\nfor her bread. I m not going to nurture her in luxury and idleness\nafter Linton is gone. Make haste and get ready, now; and don t oblige\nme to compel you. \n\n I shall,  said Catherine.  Linton is all I have to love in the world,\nand though you have done what you could to make him hateful to me, and\nme to him, you _cannot_ make us hate each other. And I defy you to hurt\nhim when I am by, and I defy you to frighten me! \n\n You are a boastful champion,  replied Heathcliff;  but I don t like\nyou well enough to hurt him: you shall get the full benefit of the\ntorment, as long as it lasts. It is not I who will make him hateful to\nyou it is his own sweet spirit. He s as bitter as gall at your\ndesertion and its consequences: don t expect thanks for this noble\ndevotion. I heard him draw a pleasant picture to Zillah of what he\nwould do if he were as strong as I: the inclination is there, and his\nvery weakness will sharpen his wits to find a substitute for strength. \n\n I know he has a bad nature,  said Catherine:  he s your son. But I m\nglad I ve a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that\nreason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff, _you_ have _nobody_ to love you;\nand, however miserable you make us, we shall still have the revenge of\nthinking that your cruelty arises from your greater misery. You _are_\nmiserable, are you not? Lonely, like the devil, and envious like him?\n_Nobody_ loves you _nobody_ will cry for you when you die! I wouldn t\nbe you! \n\nCatherine spoke with a kind of dreary triumph: she seemed to have made\nup her mind to enter into the spirit of her future family, and draw\npleasure from the griefs of her enemies.\n\n You shall be sorry to be yourself presently,  said her father-in-law,\n if you stand there another minute. Begone, witch, and get your\nthings! \n\nShe scornfully withdrew. In her absence I began to beg for Zillah s\nplace at the Heights, offering to resign mine to her; but he would\nsuffer it on no account. He bid me be silent; and then, for the first\ntime, allowed himself a glance round the room and a look at the\npictures. Having studied Mrs. Linton s, he said I shall have that\nhome. Not because I need it, but  He turned abruptly to the fire, and\ncontinued, with what, for lack of a better word, I must call a\nsmile I ll tell you what I did yesterday! I got the sexton, who was\ndigging Linton s grave, to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I\nopened it. I thought, once, I would have stayed there: when I saw her\nface again it is hers yet! he had hard work to stir me; but he said it\nwould change if the air blew on it, and so I struck one side of the\ncoffin loose, and covered it up: not Linton s side, damn him! I wish\nhe d been soldered in lead. And I bribed the sexton to pull it away\nwhen I m laid there, and slide mine out too; I ll have it made so: and\nthen by the time Linton gets to us he ll not know which is which! \n\n You were very wicked, Mr. Heathcliff!  I exclaimed;  were you not\nashamed to disturb the dead? \n\n I disturbed nobody, Nelly,  he replied;  and I gave some ease to\nmyself. I shall be a great deal more comfortable now; and you ll have a\nbetter chance of keeping me underground, when I get there. Disturbed\nher? No! she has disturbed me, night and day, through eighteen\nyears incessantly remorselessly till yesternight; and yesternight I was\ntranquil. I dreamt I was sleeping the last sleep by that sleeper, with\nmy heart stopped and my cheek frozen against hers. \n\n And if she had been dissolved into earth, or worse, what would you\nhave dreamt of then?  I said.\n\n Of dissolving with her, and being more happy still!  he answered.  Do\nyou suppose I dread any change of that sort? I expected such a\ntransformation on raising the lid, but I m better pleased that it should\nnot commence till I share it. Besides, unless I had received a distinct\nimpression of her passionless features, that strange feeling would\nhardly have been removed. It began oddly. You know I was wild after she\ndied; and eternally, from dawn to dawn, praying her to return to me her\nspirit! I have a strong faith in ghosts: I have a conviction that they\ncan, and do, exist among us! The day she was buried, there came a fall\nof snow. In the evening I went to the churchyard. It blew bleak as\nwinter all round was solitary. I didn t fear that her fool of a husband\nwould wander up the glen so late; and no one else had business to bring\nthem there. Being alone, and conscious two yards of loose earth was the\nsole barrier between us, I said to myself I ll have her in my arms\nagain! If she be cold, I ll think it is this north wind that chills\n_me_; and if she be motionless, it is sleep.  I got a spade from the\ntool-house, and began to delve with all my might it scraped the coffin;\nI fell to work with my hands; the wood commenced cracking about the\nscrews; I was on the point of attaining my object, when it seemed that\nI heard a sigh from some one above, close at the edge of the grave, and\nbending down.  If I can only get this off,  I muttered,  I wish they\nmay shovel in the earth over us both!  and I wrenched at it more\ndesperately still. There was another sigh, close at my ear. I appeared\nto feel the warm breath of it displacing the sleet-laden wind. I knew\nno living thing in flesh and blood was by; but, as certainly as you\nperceive the approach to some substantial body in the dark, though it\ncannot be discerned, so certainly I felt that Cathy was there: not\nunder me, but on the earth. A sudden sense of relief flowed from my\nheart through every limb. I relinquished my labour of agony, and turned\nconsoled at once: unspeakably consoled. Her presence was with me: it\nremained while I re-filled the grave, and led me home. You may laugh,\nif you will; but I was sure I should see her there. I was sure she was\nwith me, and I could not help talking to her. Having reached the\nHeights, I rushed eagerly to the door. It was fastened; and, I\nremember, that accursed Earnshaw and my wife opposed my entrance. I\nremember stopping to kick the breath out of him, and then hurrying\nupstairs, to my room and hers. I looked round impatiently I felt her by\nme I could _almost_ see her, and yet I _could not_! I ought to have\nsweat blood then, from the anguish of my yearning from the fervour of\nmy supplications to have but one glimpse! I had not one. She showed\nherself, as she often was in life, a devil to me! And, since then,\nsometimes more and sometimes less, I ve been the sport of that\nintolerable torture! Infernal! keeping my nerves at such a stretch\nthat, if they had not resembled catgut, they would long ago have\nrelaxed to the feebleness of Linton s. When I sat in the house with\nHareton, it seemed that on going out I should meet her; when I walked\non the moors I should meet her coming in. When I went from home I\nhastened to return; she _must_ be somewhere at the Heights, I was\ncertain! And when I slept in her chamber I was beaten out of that. I\ncouldn t lie there; for the moment I closed my eyes, she was either\noutside the window, or sliding back the panels, or entering the room,\nor even resting her darling head on the same pillow as she did when a\nchild; and I must open my lids to see. And so I opened and closed them\na hundred times a night to be always disappointed! It racked me! I ve\noften groaned aloud, till that old rascal Joseph no doubt believed that\nmy conscience was playing the fiend inside of me. Now, since I ve seen\nher, I m pacified a little. It was a strange way of killing: not by\ninches, but by fractions of hairbreadths, to beguile me with the\nspectre of a hope through eighteen years! \n\nMr. Heathcliff paused and wiped his forehead; his hair clung to it, wet\nwith perspiration; his eyes were fixed on the red embers of the fire,\nthe brows not contracted, but raised next the temples; diminishing the\ngrim aspect of his countenance, but imparting a peculiar look of\ntrouble, and a painful appearance of mental tension towards one\nabsorbing subject. He only half addressed me, and I maintained silence.\nI didn t like to hear him talk! After a short period he resumed his\nmeditation on the picture, took it down and leant it against the sofa\nto contemplate it at better advantage; and while so occupied Catherine\nentered, announcing that she was ready, when her pony should be\nsaddled.\n\n Send that over to-morrow,  said Heathcliff to me; then turning to her,\nhe added:  You may do without your pony: it is a fine evening, and\nyou ll need no ponies at Wuthering Heights; for what journeys you take,\nyour own feet will serve you. Come along. \n\n Good-bye, Ellen!  whispered my dear little mistress. As she kissed me,\nher lips felt like ice.  Come and see me, Ellen; don t forget. \n\n Take care you do no such thing, Mrs. Dean!  said her new father.  When\nI wish to speak to you I ll come here. I want none of your prying at my\nhouse! \n\nHe signed her to precede him; and casting back a look that cut my\nheart, she obeyed. I watched them, from the window, walk down the\ngarden. Heathcliff fixed Catherine s arm under his: though she disputed\nthe act at first evidently; and with rapid strides he hurried her into\nthe alley, whose trees concealed them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nI have paid a visit to the Heights, but I have not seen her since she\nleft: Joseph held the door in his hand when I called to ask after her,\nand wouldn t let me pass. He said Mrs. Linton was  thrang,  and the\nmaster was not in. Zillah has told me something of the way they go on,\notherwise I should hardly know who was dead and who living. She thinks\nCatherine haughty, and does not like her, I can guess by her talk. My\nyoung lady asked some aid of her when she first came; but Mr.\nHeathcliff told her to follow her own business, and let his\ndaughter-in-law look after herself; and Zillah willingly acquiesced,\nbeing a narrow-minded, selfish woman. Catherine evinced a child s\nannoyance at this neglect; repaid it with contempt, and thus enlisted\nmy informant among her enemies, as securely as if she had done her some\ngreat wrong. I had a long talk with Zillah about six weeks ago, a\nlittle before you came, one day when we foregathered on the moor; and\nthis is what she told me.\n\n The first thing Mrs. Linton did,  she said,  on her arrival at the\nHeights, was to run upstairs, without even wishing good-evening to me\nand Joseph; she shut herself into Linton s room, and remained till\nmorning. Then, while the master and Earnshaw were at breakfast, she\nentered the house, and asked all in a quiver if the doctor might be\nsent for? her cousin was very ill.\n\n We know that!  answered Heathcliff;  but his life is not worth a\nfarthing, and I won t spend a farthing on him. \n\n But I cannot tell how to do,  she said;  and if nobody will help me,\nhe ll die! \n\n Walk out of the room,  cried the master,  and let me never hear a\nword more about him! None here care what becomes of him; if you do, act\nthe nurse; if you do not, lock him up and leave him. \n\n Then she began to bother me, and I said I d had enough plague with the\ntiresome thing; we each had our tasks, and hers was to wait on Linton:\nMr. Heathcliff bid me leave that labour to her.\n\n How they managed together, I can t tell. I fancy he fretted a great\ndeal, and moaned hisseln night and day; and she had precious little\nrest: one could guess by her white face and heavy eyes. She sometimes\ncame into the kitchen all wildered like, and looked as if she would\nfain beg assistance; but I was not going to disobey the master: I never\ndare disobey him, Mrs. Dean; and, though I thought it wrong that\nKenneth should not be sent for, it was no concern of mine either to\nadvise or complain, and I always refused to meddle. Once or twice,\nafter we had gone to bed, I ve happened to open my door again and seen\nher sitting crying on the stairs -top; and then I ve shut myself in\nquick, for fear of being moved to interfere. I did pity her then, I m\nsure: still I didn t wish to lose my place, you know.\n\n At last, one night she came boldly into my chamber, and frightened me\nout of my wits, by saying,  Tell Mr. Heathcliff that his son is\ndying I m sure he is, this time. Get up, instantly, and tell him. \n\n Having uttered this speech, she vanished again. I lay a quarter of an\nhour listening and trembling. Nothing stirred the house was quiet.\n\n She s mistaken, I said to myself. He s got over it. I needn t disturb\nthem; and I began to doze. But my sleep was marred a second time by a\nsharp ringing of the bell the only bell we have, put up on purpose for\nLinton; and the master called to me to see what was the matter, and\ninform them that he wouldn t have that noise repeated.\n\n I delivered Catherine s message. He cursed to himself, and in a few\nminutes came out with a lighted candle, and proceeded to their room. I\nfollowed. Mrs. Heathcliff was seated by the bedside, with her hands\nfolded on her knees. Her father-in-law went up, held the light to\nLinton s face, looked at him, and touched him; afterwards he turned to\nher.\n\n Now Catherine,  he said,  how do you feel? \n\n She was dumb.\n\n How do you feel, Catherine?  he repeated.\n\n He s safe, and I m free,  she answered:  I should feel well but,  she\ncontinued, with a bitterness she couldn t conceal,  you have left me so\nlong to struggle against death alone, that I feel and see only death! I\nfeel like death! \n\n And she looked like it, too! I gave her a little wine. Hareton and\nJoseph, who had been wakened by the ringing and the sound of feet, and\nheard our talk from outside, now entered. Joseph was fain, I believe,\nof the lad s removal; Hareton seemed a thought bothered: though he was\nmore taken up with staring at Catherine than thinking of Linton. But\nthe master bid him get off to bed again: we didn t want his help. He\nafterwards made Joseph remove the body to his chamber, and told me to\nreturn to mine, and Mrs. Heathcliff remained by herself.\n\n In the morning, he sent me to tell her she must come down to\nbreakfast: she had undressed, and appeared going to sleep, and said she\nwas ill; at which I hardly wondered. I informed Mr. Heathcliff, and he\nreplied, Well, let her be till after the funeral; and go up now and\nthen to get her what is needful; and, as soon as she seems better, tell\nme. \n\nCathy stayed upstairs a fortnight, according to Zillah; who visited her\ntwice a day, and would have been rather more friendly, but her attempts\nat increasing kindness were proudly and promptly repelled.\n\nHeathcliff went up once, to show her Linton s will. He had bequeathed\nthe whole of his, and what had been her, moveable property, to his\nfather: the poor creature was threatened, or coaxed, into that act\nduring her week s absence, when his uncle died. The lands, being a\nminor, he could not meddle with. However, Mr. Heathcliff has claimed\nand kept them in his wife s right and his also: I suppose legally; at\nany rate, Catherine, destitute of cash and friends, cannot disturb his\npossession.\n\n Nobody,  said Zillah,  ever approached her door, except that once, but\nI; and nobody asked anything about her. The first occasion of her\ncoming down into the house was on a Sunday afternoon. She had cried\nout, when I carried up her dinner, that she couldn t bear any longer\nbeing in the cold; and I told her the master was going to Thrushcross\nGrange, and Earnshaw and I needn t hinder her from descending; so, as\nsoon as she heard Heathcliff s horse trot off, she made her appearance,\ndonned in black, and her yellow curls combed back behind her ears as\nplain as a Quaker: she couldn t comb them out.\n\n Joseph and I generally go to chapel on Sundays:  the kirk, (you know,\nhas no minister now, explained Mrs. Dean; and they call the Methodists \nor Baptists  place, I can t say which it is, at Gimmerton, a chapel.)\n Joseph had gone,  she continued,  but I thought proper to bide at\nhome. Young folks are always the better for an elder s over-looking;\nand Hareton, with all his bashfulness, isn t a model of nice behaviour.\nI let him know that his cousin would very likely sit with us, and she\nhad been always used to see the Sabbath respected; so he had as good\nleave his guns and bits of indoor work alone, while she stayed. He\ncoloured up at the news, and cast his eyes over his hands and clothes.\nThe train-oil and gunpowder were shoved out of sight in a minute. I saw\nhe meant to give her his company; and I guessed, by his way, he wanted\nto be presentable; so, laughing, as I durst not laugh when the master\nis by, I offered to help him, if he would, and joked at his confusion.\nHe grew sullen, and began to swear.\n\n Now, Mrs. Dean,  Zillah went on, seeing me not pleased by her manner,\n you happen think your young lady too fine for Mr. Hareton; and happen\nyou re right: but I own I should love well to bring her pride a peg\nlower. And what will all her learning and her daintiness do for her,\nnow? She s as poor as you or I: poorer, I ll be bound: you re saving,\nand I m doing my little all that road. \n\nHareton allowed Zillah to give him her aid; and she flattered him into\na good humour; so, when Catherine came, half forgetting her former\ninsults, he tried to make himself agreeable, by the housekeeper s\naccount.\n\n Missis walked in,  she said,  as chill as an icicle, and as high as a\nprincess. I got up and offered her my seat in the arm-chair. No, she\nturned up her nose at my civility. Earnshaw rose, too, and bid her come\nto the settle, and sit close by the fire: he was sure she was starved.\n\n I ve been starved a month and more,  she answered, resting on the\nword as scornful as she could.\n\n And she got a chair for herself, and placed it at a distance from both\nof us. Having sat till she was warm, she began to look round, and\ndiscovered a number of books on the dresser; she was instantly upon her\nfeet again, stretching to reach them: but they were too high up. Her\ncousin, after watching her endeavours a while, at last summoned courage\nto help her; she held her frock, and he filled it with the first that\ncame to hand.\n\n That was a great advance for the lad. She didn t thank him; still, he\nfelt gratified that she had accepted his assistance, and ventured to\nstand behind as she examined them, and even to stoop and point out what\nstruck his fancy in certain old pictures which they contained; nor was\nhe daunted by the saucy style in which she jerked the page from his\nfinger: he contented himself with going a bit farther back and looking\nat her instead of the book. She continued reading, or seeking for\nsomething to read. His attention became, by degrees, quite centred in\nthe study of her thick silky curls: her face he couldn t see, and she\ncouldn t see him. And, perhaps, not quite awake to what he did, but\nattracted like a child to a candle, at last he proceeded from staring\nto touching; he put out his hand and stroked one curl, as gently as if\nit were a bird. He might have stuck a knife into her neck, she started\nround in such a taking.\n\n Get away this moment! How dare you touch me? Why are you stopping\nthere?  she cried, in a tone of disgust.  I can t endure you! I ll go\nupstairs again, if you come near me. \n\n Mr. Hareton recoiled, looking as foolish as he could do: he sat down\nin the settle very quiet, and she continued turning over her volumes\nanother half hour; finally, Earnshaw crossed over, and whispered to me.\n\n Will you ask her to read to us, Zillah? I m stalled of doing naught;\nand I do like I could like to hear her! Dunnot say I wanted it, but ask\nof yourseln. \n\n Mr. Hareton wishes you would read to us, ma am,  I said, immediately.\n He d take it very kind he d be much obliged. \n\n She frowned; and looking up, answered \n\n Mr. Hareton, and the whole set of you, will be good enough to\nunderstand that I reject any pretence at kindness you have the\nhypocrisy to offer! I despise you, and will have nothing to say to any\nof you! When I would have given my life for one kind word, even to see\none of your faces, you all kept off. But I won t complain to you! I m\ndriven down here by the cold; not either to amuse you or enjoy your\nsociety. \n\n What could I ha  done?  began Earnshaw.  How was I to blame? \n\n Oh! you are an exception,  answered Mrs. Heathcliff.  I never missed\nsuch a concern as you. \n\n But I offered more than once, and asked,  he said, kindling up at her\npertness,  I asked Mr. Heathcliff to let me wake for you \n\n Be silent! I ll go out of doors, or anywhere, rather than have your\ndisagreeable voice in my ear!  said my lady.\n\n Hareton muttered she might go to hell, for him! and unslinging his\ngun, restrained himself from his Sunday occupations no longer. He\ntalked now, freely enough; and she presently saw fit to retreat to her\nsolitude: but the frost had set in, and, in spite of her pride, she was\nforced to condescend to our company, more and more. However, I took\ncare there should be no further scorning at my good nature: ever since,\nI ve been as stiff as herself; and she has no lover or liker among us:\nand she does not deserve one; for, let them say the least word to her,\nand she ll curl back without respect of any one. She ll snap at the\nmaster himself, and as good as dares him to thrash her; and the more\nhurt she gets, the more venomous she grows. \n\nAt first, on hearing this account from Zillah, I determined to leave my\nsituation, take a cottage, and get Catherine to come and live with me:\nbut Mr. Heathcliff would as soon permit that as he would set up Hareton\nin an independent house; and I can see no remedy, at present, unless\nshe could marry again; and that scheme it does not come within my\nprovince to arrange.\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nThus ended Mrs. Dean s story. Notwithstanding the doctor s prophecy, I\nam rapidly recovering strength; and though it be only the second week\nin January, I propose getting out on horseback in a day or two, and\nriding over to Wuthering Heights, to inform my landlord that I shall\nspend the next six months in London; and, if he likes, he may look out\nfor another tenant to take the place after October. I would not pass\nanother winter here for much.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nYesterday was bright, calm, and frosty. I went to the Heights as I\nproposed: my housekeeper entreated me to bear a little note from her to\nher young lady, and I did not refuse, for the worthy woman was not\nconscious of anything odd in her request. The front door stood open,\nbut the jealous gate was fastened, as at my last visit; I knocked and\ninvoked Earnshaw from among the garden-beds; he unchained it, and I\nentered. The fellow is as handsome a rustic as need be seen. I took\nparticular notice of him this time; but then he does his best\napparently to make the least of his advantages.\n\nI asked if Mr. Heathcliff were at home? He answered, No; but he would\nbe in at dinner-time. It was eleven o clock, and I announced my\nintention of going in and waiting for him; at which he immediately\nflung down his tools and accompanied me, in the office of watchdog, not\nas a substitute for the host.\n\nWe entered together; Catherine was there, making herself useful in\npreparing some vegetables for the approaching meal; she looked more\nsulky and less spirited than when I had seen her first. She hardly\nraised her eyes to notice me, and continued her employment with the\nsame disregard to common forms of politeness as before; never returning\nmy bow and good-morning by the slightest acknowledgment.\n\n She does not seem so amiable,  I thought,  as Mrs. Dean would persuade\nme to believe. She s a beauty, it is true; but not an angel. \n\nEarnshaw surlily bid her remove her things to the kitchen.  Remove them\nyourself,  she said, pushing them from her as soon as she had done; and\nretiring to a stool by the window, where she began to carve figures of\nbirds and beasts out of the turnip-parings in her lap. I approached\nher, pretending to desire a view of the garden; and, as I fancied,\nadroitly dropped Mrs. Dean s note on to her knee, unnoticed by\nHareton but she asked aloud,  What is that?  And chucked it off.\n\n A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange,  I\nanswered; annoyed at her exposing my kind deed, and fearful lest it\nshould be imagined a missive of my own. She would gladly have gathered\nit up at this information, but Hareton beat her; he seized and put it\nin his waistcoat, saying Mr. Heathcliff should look at it first.\nThereat, Catherine silently turned her face from us, and, very\nstealthily, drew out her pocket-handkerchief and applied it to her\neyes; and her cousin, after struggling awhile to keep down his softer\nfeelings, pulled out the letter and flung it on the floor beside her,\nas ungraciously as he could. Catherine caught and perused it eagerly;\nthen she put a few questions to me concerning the inmates, rational and\nirrational, of her former home; and gazing towards the hills, murmured\nin soliloquy:\n\n I should like to be riding Minny down there! I should like to be\nclimbing up there! Oh! I m tired I m _stalled_, Hareton!  And she leant\nher pretty head back against the sill, with half a yawn and half a\nsigh, and lapsed into an aspect of abstracted sadness: neither caring\nnor knowing whether we remarked her.\n\n Mrs. Heathcliff,  I said, after sitting some time mute,  you are not\naware that I am an acquaintance of yours? so intimate that I think it\nstrange you won t come and speak to me. My housekeeper never wearies of\ntalking about and praising you; and she ll be greatly disappointed if I\nreturn with no news of or from you, except that you received her letter\nand said nothing! \n\nShe appeared to wonder at this speech, and asked, \n\n Does Ellen like you? \n\n Yes, very well,  I replied, hesitatingly.\n\n You must tell her,  she continued,  that I would answer her letter,\nbut I have no materials for writing: not even a book from which I might\ntear a leaf. \n\n No books!  I exclaimed.  How do you contrive to live here without\nthem? if I may take the liberty to inquire. Though provided with a\nlarge library, I m frequently very dull at the Grange; take my books\naway, and I should be desperate! \n\n I was always reading, when I had them,  said Catherine;  and Mr.\nHeathcliff never reads; so he took it into his head to destroy my\nbooks. I have not had a glimpse of one for weeks. Only once, I searched\nthrough Joseph s store of theology, to his great irritation; and once,\nHareton, I came upon a secret stock in your room some Latin and Greek,\nand some tales and poetry: all old friends. I brought the last here and\nyou gathered them, as a magpie gathers silver spoons, for the mere love\nof stealing! They are of no use to you; or else you concealed them in\nthe bad spirit that, as you cannot enjoy them, nobody else shall.\nPerhaps _your_ envy counselled Mr. Heathcliff to rob me of my\ntreasures? But I ve most of them written on my brain and printed in my\nheart, and you cannot deprive me of those! \n\nEarnshaw blushed crimson when his cousin made this revelation of his\nprivate literary accumulations, and stammered an indignant denial of\nher accusations.\n\n Mr. Hareton is desirous of increasing his amount of knowledge,  I\nsaid, coming to his rescue.  He is not _envious_, but _emulous_ of your\nattainments. He ll be a clever scholar in a few years. \n\n And he wants me to sink into a dunce, meantime,  answered Catherine.\n Yes, I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, and pretty\nblunders he makes! I wish you would repeat Chevy Chase as you did\nyesterday: it was extremely funny. I heard you; and I heard you turning\nover the dictionary to seek out the hard words, and then cursing\nbecause you couldn t read their explanations! \n\nThe young man evidently thought it too bad that he should be laughed at\nfor his ignorance, and then laughed at for trying to remove it. I had a\nsimilar notion; and, remembering Mrs. Dean s anecdote of his first\nattempt at enlightening the darkness in which he had been reared, I\nobserved, But, Mrs. Heathcliff, we have each had a commencement, and\neach stumbled and tottered on the threshold; had our teachers scorned\ninstead of aiding us, we should stumble and totter yet. \n\n Oh!  she replied,  I don t wish to limit his acquirements: still, he\nhas no right to appropriate what is mine, and make it ridiculous to me\nwith his vile mistakes and mispronunciations! Those books, both prose\nand verse, are consecrated to me by other associations; and I hate to\nhave them debased and profaned in his mouth! Besides, of all, he has\nselected my favourite pieces that I love the most to repeat, as if out\nof deliberate malice. \n\nHareton s chest heaved in silence a minute: he laboured under a severe\nsense of mortification and wrath, which it was no easy task to\nsuppress. I rose, and, from a gentlemanly idea of relieving his\nembarrassment, took up my station in the doorway, surveying the\nexternal prospect as I stood. He followed my example, and left the\nroom; but presently reappeared, bearing half a dozen volumes in his\nhands, which he threw into Catherine s lap, exclaiming, Take them! I\nnever want to hear, or read, or think of them again! \n\n I won t have them now,  she answered.  I shall connect them with you,\nand hate them. \n\nShe opened one that had obviously been often turned over, and read a\nportion in the drawling tone of a beginner; then laughed, and threw it\nfrom her.  And listen,  she continued, provokingly, commencing a verse\nof an old ballad in the same fashion.\n\nBut his self-love would endure no further torment: I heard, and not\naltogether disapprovingly, a manual check given to her saucy tongue.\nThe little wretch had done her utmost to hurt her cousin s sensitive\nthough uncultivated feelings, and a physical argument was the only mode\nhe had of balancing the account, and repaying its effects on the\ninflictor. He afterwards gathered the books and hurled them on the\nfire. I read in his countenance what anguish it was to offer that\nsacrifice to spleen. I fancied that as they consumed, he recalled the\npleasure they had already imparted, and the triumph and ever-increasing\npleasure he had anticipated from them; and I fancied I guessed the\nincitement to his secret studies also. He had been content with daily\nlabour and rough animal enjoyments, till Catherine crossed his path.\nShame at her scorn, and hope of her approval, were his first prompters\nto higher pursuits; and instead of guarding him from one and winning\nhim to the other, his endeavours to raise himself had produced just the\ncontrary result.\n\n Yes, that s all the good that such a brute as you can get from them! \ncried Catherine, sucking her damaged lip, and watching the\nconflagration with indignant eyes.\n\n You d _better_ hold your tongue, now,  he answered fiercely.\n\nAnd his agitation precluded further speech; he advanced hastily to the\nentrance, where I made way for him to pass. But ere he had crossed the\ndoor-stones, Mr. Heathcliff, coming up the causeway, encountered him,\nand laying hold of his shoulder asked, What s to do now, my lad? \n\n Naught, naught,  he said, and broke away to enjoy his grief and anger\nin solitude.\n\nHeathcliff gazed after him, and sighed.\n\n It will be odd if I thwart myself,  he muttered, unconscious that I\nwas behind him.  But when I look for his father in his face, I find\n_her_ every day more! How the devil is he so like? I can hardly bear to\nsee him. \n\nHe bent his eyes to the ground, and walked moodily in. There was a\nrestless, anxious expression in his countenance, I had never remarked\nthere before; and he looked sparer in person. His daughter-in-law, on\nperceiving him through the window, immediately escaped to the kitchen,\nso that I remained alone.\n\n I m glad to see you out of doors again, Mr. Lockwood,  he said, in\nreply to my greeting;  from selfish motives partly: I don t think I\ncould readily supply your loss in this desolation. I ve wondered more\nthan once what brought you here. \n\n An idle whim, I fear, sir,  was my answer;  or else an idle whim is\ngoing to spirit me away. I shall set out for London next week; and I\nmust give you warning that I feel no disposition to retain Thrushcross\nGrange beyond the twelve months I agreed to rent it. I believe I shall\nnot live there any more. \n\n Oh, indeed; you re tired of being banished from the world, are you? \nhe said.  But if you be coming to plead off paying for a place you\nwon t occupy, your journey is useless: I never relent in exacting my\ndue from any one. \n\n I m coming to plead off nothing about it,  I exclaimed, considerably\nirritated.  Should you wish it, I ll settle with you now,  and I drew\nmy note-book from my pocket.\n\n No, no,  he replied, coolly;  you ll leave sufficient behind to cover\nyour debts, if you fail to return: I m not in such a hurry. Sit down\nand take your dinner with us; a guest that is safe from repeating his\nvisit can generally be made welcome. Catherine! bring the things in:\nwhere are you? \n\nCatherine reappeared, bearing a tray of knives and forks.\n\n You may get your dinner with Joseph,  muttered Heathcliff, aside,  and\nremain in the kitchen till he is gone. \n\nShe obeyed his directions very punctually: perhaps she had no\ntemptation to transgress. Living among clowns and misanthropists, she\nprobably cannot appreciate a better class of people when she meets\nthem.\n\nWith Mr. Heathcliff, grim and saturnine, on the one hand, and Hareton,\nabsolutely dumb, on the other, I made a somewhat cheerless meal, and\nbade adieu early. I would have departed by the back way, to get a last\nglimpse of Catherine and annoy old Joseph; but Hareton received orders\nto lead up my horse, and my host himself escorted me to the door, so I\ncould not fulfil my wish.\n\n How dreary life gets over in that house!  I reflected, while riding\ndown the road.  What a realisation of something more romantic than a\nfairy tale it would have been for Mrs. Linton Heathcliff, had she and I\nstruck up an attachment, as her good nurse desired, and migrated\ntogether into the stirring atmosphere of the town! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\n1802. This September I was invited to devastate the moors of a friend\nin the north, and on my journey to his abode, I unexpectedly came\nwithin fifteen miles of Gimmerton. The ostler at a roadside\npublic-house was holding a pail of water to refresh my horses, when a\ncart of very green oats, newly reaped, passed by, and he\nremarked, Yon s frough Gimmerton, nah! They re allas three wick  after\nother folk wi  ther harvest. \n\n Gimmerton?  I repeated my residence in that locality had already grown\ndim and dreamy.  Ah! I know. How far is it from this? \n\n Happen fourteen mile o er th  hills; and a rough road,  he answered.\n\nA sudden impulse seized me to visit Thrushcross Grange. It was scarcely\nnoon, and I conceived that I might as well pass the night under my own\nroof as in an inn. Besides, I could spare a day easily to arrange\nmatters with my landlord, and thus save myself the trouble of invading\nthe neighbourhood again. Having rested awhile, I directed my servant to\ninquire the way to the village; and, with great fatigue to our beasts,\nwe managed the distance in some three hours.\n\nI left him there, and proceeded down the valley alone. The grey church\nlooked greyer, and the lonely churchyard lonelier. I distinguished a\nmoor-sheep cropping the short turf on the graves. It was sweet, warm\nweather too warm for travelling; but the heat did not hinder me from\nenjoying the delightful scenery above and below: had I seen it nearer\nAugust, I m sure it would have tempted me to waste a month among its\nsolitudes. In winter nothing more dreary, in summer nothing more\ndivine, than those glens shut in by hills, and those bluff, bold swells\nof heath.\n\nI reached the Grange before sunset, and knocked for admittance; but the\nfamily had retreated into the back premises, I judged, by one thin,\nblue wreath, curling from the kitchen chimney, and they did not hear. I\nrode into the court. Under the porch, a girl of nine or ten sat\nknitting, and an old woman reclined on the housesteps, smoking a\nmeditative pipe.\n\n Is Mrs. Dean within?  I demanded of the dame.\n\n Mistress Dean? Nay!  she answered,  she doesn t bide here: shoo s up\nat th  Heights. \n\n Are you the housekeeper, then?  I continued.\n\n Eea, Aw keep th  hause,  she replied.\n\n Well, I m Mr. Lockwood, the master. Are there any rooms to lodge me\nin, I wonder? I wish to stay all night. \n\n T  maister!  she cried in astonishment.  Whet, whoiver knew yah wur\ncoming? Yah sud ha  send word. They s nowt norther dry nor mensful\nabaht t  place: nowt there isn t! \n\nShe threw down her pipe and bustled in, the girl followed, and I\nentered too; soon perceiving that her report was true, and, moreover,\nthat I had almost upset her wits by my unwelcome apparition, I bade her\nbe composed. I would go out for a walk; and, meantime she must try to\nprepare a corner of a sitting-room for me to sup in, and a bedroom to\nsleep in. No sweeping and dusting, only good fire and dry sheets were\nnecessary. She seemed willing to do her best; though she thrust the\nhearth-brush into the grates in mistake for the poker, and\nmalappropriated several other articles of her craft: but I retired,\nconfiding in her energy for a resting-place against my return.\nWuthering Heights was the goal of my proposed excursion. An\nafter-thought brought me back, when I had quitted the court.\n\n All well at the Heights?  I inquired of the woman.\n\n Eea, f r owt ee knaw!  she answered, skurrying away with a pan of hot\ncinders.\n\nI would have asked why Mrs. Dean had deserted the Grange, but it was\nimpossible to delay her at such a crisis, so I turned away and made my\nexit, rambling leisurely along, with the glow of a sinking sun behind,\nand the mild glory of a rising moon in front one fading, and the other\nbrightening as I quitted the park, and climbed the stony by-road\nbranching off to Mr. Heathcliff s dwelling. Before I arrived in sight\nof it, all that remained of day was a beamless amber light along the\nwest: but I could see every pebble on the path, and every blade of\ngrass, by that splendid moon. I had neither to climb the gate nor to\nknock it yielded to my hand. That is an improvement, I thought. And I\nnoticed another, by the aid of my nostrils; a fragrance of stocks and\nwallflowers wafted on the air from amongst the homely fruit-trees.\n\nBoth doors and lattices were open; and yet, as is usually the case in a\ncoal-district, a fine red fire illumined the chimney: the comfort which\nthe eye derives from it renders the extra heat endurable. But the house\nof Wuthering Heights is so large that the inmates have plenty of space\nfor withdrawing out of its influence; and accordingly what inmates\nthere were had stationed themselves not far from one of the windows. I\ncould both see them and hear them talk before I entered, and looked and\nlistened in consequence; being moved thereto by a mingled sense of\ncuriosity and envy, that grew as I lingered.\n\n Con-_trary_!  said a voice as sweet as a silver bell.  That for the\nthird time, you dunce! I m not going to tell you again. Recollect, or\nI ll pull your hair! \n\n Contrary, then,  answered another, in deep but softened tones.  And\nnow, kiss me, for minding so well. \n\n No, read it over first correctly, without a single mistake. \n\nThe male speaker began to read: he was a young man, respectably dressed\nand seated at a table, having a book before him. His handsome features\nglowed with pleasure, and his eyes kept impatiently wandering from the\npage to a small white hand over his shoulder, which recalled him by a\nsmart slap on the cheek, whenever its owner detected such signs of\ninattention. Its owner stood behind; her light, shining ringlets\nblending, at intervals, with his brown locks, as she bent to\nsuperintend his studies; and her face it was lucky he could not see her\nface, or he would never have been so steady. I could; and I bit my lip\nin spite, at having thrown away the chance I might have had of doing\nsomething besides staring at its smiting beauty.\n\nThe task was done, not free from further blunders; but the pupil\nclaimed a reward, and received at least five kisses; which, however, he\ngenerously returned. Then they came to the door, and from their\nconversation I judged they were about to issue out and have a walk on\nthe moors. I supposed I should be condemned in Hareton Earnshaw s\nheart, if not by his mouth, to the lowest pit in the infernal regions\nif I showed my unfortunate person in his neighbourhood then; and\nfeeling very mean and malignant, I skulked round to seek refuge in the\nkitchen. There was unobstructed admittance on that side also; and at\nthe door sat my old friend Nelly Dean, sewing and singing a song; which\nwas often interrupted from within by harsh words of scorn and\nintolerance, uttered in far from musical accents.\n\n I d rayther, by th  haulf, hev   em swearing i  my lugs fro h morn to\nneeght, nor hearken ye hahsiver!  said the tenant of the kitchen, in\nanswer to an unheard speech of Nelly s.  It s a blazing shame, that I\ncannot oppen t  blessed Book, but yah set up them glories to sattan,\nand all t  flaysome wickednesses that iver were born into th  warld!\nOh! ye re a raight nowt; and shoo s another; and that poor lad  ll be\nlost atween ye. Poor lad!  he added, with a groan;  he s witched: I m\nsartin on t. Oh, Lord, judge  em, for there s norther law nor justice\namong wer rullers! \n\n No! or we should be sitting in flaming fagots, I suppose,  retorted\nthe singer.  But wisht, old man, and read your Bible like a Christian,\nand never mind me. This is  Fairy Annie s Wedding a bonny tune it goes\nto a dance. \n\nMrs. Dean was about to recommence, when I advanced; and recognising me\ndirectly, she jumped to her feet, crying Why, bless you, Mr. Lockwood!\nHow could you think of returning in this way? All s shut up at\nThrushcross Grange. You should have given us notice! \n\n I ve arranged to be accommodated there, for as long as I shall stay, \nI answered.  I depart again to-morrow. And how are you transplanted\nhere, Mrs. Dean? tell me that. \n\n Zillah left, and Mr. Heathcliff wished me to come, soon after you went\nto London, and stay till you returned. But, step in, pray! Have you\nwalked from Gimmerton this evening? \n\n From the Grange,  I replied;  and while they make me lodging room\nthere, I want to finish my business with your master; because I don t\nthink of having another opportunity in a hurry. \n\n What business, sir?  said Nelly, conducting me into the house.  He s\ngone out at present, and won t return soon. \n\n About the rent,  I answered.\n\n Oh! then it is with Mrs. Heathcliff you must settle,  she observed;\n or rather with me. She has not learnt to manage her affairs yet, and I\nact for her: there s nobody else. \n\nI looked surprised.\n\n Ah! you have not heard of Heathcliff s death, I see,  she continued.\n\n Heathcliff dead!  I exclaimed, astonished.  How long ago? \n\n Three months since: but sit down, and let me take your hat, and I ll\ntell you all about it. Stop, you have had nothing to eat, have you? \n\n I want nothing: I have ordered supper at home. You sit down too. I\nnever dreamt of his dying! Let me hear how it came to pass. You say you\ndon t expect them back for some time the young people? \n\n No I have to scold them every evening for their late rambles: but they\ndon t care for me. At least, have a drink of our old ale; it will do\nyou good: you seem weary. \n\nShe hastened to fetch it before I could refuse, and I heard Joseph\nasking whether  it warn t a crying scandal that she should have\nfollowers at her time of life? And then, to get them jocks out o  t \nmaister s cellar! He fair shaamed to  bide still and see it. \n\nShe did not stay to retaliate, but re-entered in a minute, bearing a\nreaming silver pint, whose contents I lauded with becoming earnestness.\nAnd afterwards she furnished me with the sequel of Heathcliff s\nhistory. He had a  queer  end, as she expressed it.\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nI was summoned to Wuthering Heights, within a fortnight of your leaving\nus, she said; and I obeyed joyfully, for Catherine s sake. My first\ninterview with her grieved and shocked me: she had altered so much\nsince our separation. Mr. Heathcliff did not explain his reasons for\ntaking a new mind about my coming here; he only told me he wanted me,\nand he was tired of seeing Catherine: I must make the little parlour my\nsitting-room, and keep her with me. It was enough if he were obliged to\nsee her once or twice a day. She seemed pleased at this arrangement;\nand, by degrees, I smuggled over a great number of books, and other\narticles, that had formed her amusement at the Grange; and flattered\nmyself we should get on in tolerable comfort. The delusion did not last\nlong. Catherine, contented at first, in a brief space grew irritable\nand restless. For one thing, she was forbidden to move out of the\ngarden, and it fretted her sadly to be confined to its narrow bounds as\nspring drew on; for another, in following the house, I was forced to\nquit her frequently, and she complained of loneliness: she preferred\nquarrelling with Joseph in the kitchen to sitting at peace in her\nsolitude. I did not mind their skirmishes: but Hareton was often\nobliged to seek the kitchen also, when the master wanted to have the\nhouse to himself; and though in the beginning she either left it at his\napproach, or quietly joined in my occupations, and shunned remarking or\naddressing him and though he was always as sullen and silent as\npossible after a while, she changed her behaviour, and became incapable\nof letting him alone: talking at him; commenting on his stupidity and\nidleness; expressing her wonder how he could endure the life he\nlived how he could sit a whole evening staring into the fire, and\ndozing.\n\n He s just like a dog, is he not, Ellen?  she once observed,  or a\ncart-horse? He does his work, eats his food, and sleeps eternally! What\na blank, dreary mind he must have! Do you ever dream, Hareton? And, if\nyou do, what is it about? But you can t speak to me! \n\nThen she looked at him; but he would neither open his mouth nor look\nagain.\n\n He s, perhaps, dreaming now,  she continued.  He twitched his shoulder\nas Juno twitches hers. Ask him, Ellen. \n\n Mr. Hareton will ask the master to send you upstairs, if you don t\nbehave!  I said. He had not only twitched his shoulder but clenched his\nfist, as if tempted to use it.\n\n I know why Hareton never speaks, when I am in the kitchen,  she\nexclaimed, on another occasion.  He is afraid I shall laugh at him.\nEllen, what do you think? He began to teach himself to read once; and,\nbecause I laughed, he burned his books, and dropped it: was he not a\nfool? \n\n Were not you naughty?  I said;  answer me that. \n\n Perhaps I was,  she went on;  but I did not expect him to be so silly.\nHareton, if I gave you a book, would you take it now? I ll try! \n\nShe placed one she had been perusing on his hand; he flung it off, and\nmuttered, if she did not give over, he would break her neck.\n\n Well, I shall put it here,  she said,  in the table-drawer; and I m\ngoing to bed. \n\nThen she whispered me to watch whether he touched it, and departed. But\nhe would not come near it; and so I informed her in the morning, to her\ngreat disappointment. I saw she was sorry for his persevering sulkiness\nand indolence: her conscience reproved her for frightening him off\nimproving himself: she had done it effectually. But her ingenuity was\nat work to remedy the injury: while I ironed, or pursued other such\nstationary employments as I could not well do in the parlour, she would\nbring some pleasant volume and read it aloud to me. When Hareton was\nthere, she generally paused in an interesting part, and left the book\nlying about: that she did repeatedly; but he was as obstinate as a\nmule, and, instead of snatching at her bait, in wet weather he took to\nsmoking with Joseph; and they sat like automatons, one on each side of\nthe fire, the elder happily too deaf to understand her wicked nonsense,\nas he would have called it, the younger doing his best to seem to\ndisregard it. On fine evenings the latter followed his shooting\nexpeditions, and Catherine yawned and sighed, and teased me to talk to\nher, and ran off into the court or garden the moment I began; and, as a\nlast resource, cried, and said she was tired of living: her life was\nuseless.\n\nMr. Heathcliff, who grew more and more disinclined to society, had\nalmost banished Earnshaw from his apartment. Owing to an accident at\nthe commencement of March, he became for some days a fixture in the\nkitchen. His gun burst while out on the hills by himself; a splinter\ncut his arm, and he lost a good deal of blood before he could reach\nhome. The consequence was that, perforce, he was condemned to the\nfireside and tranquillity, till he made it up again. It suited\nCatherine to have him there: at any rate, it made her hate her room\nupstairs more than ever: and she would compel me to find out business\nbelow, that she might accompany me.\n\nOn Easter Monday, Joseph went to Gimmerton fair with some cattle; and,\nin the afternoon, I was busy getting up linen in the kitchen. Earnshaw\nsat, morose as usual, at the chimney corner, and my little mistress was\nbeguiling an idle hour with drawing pictures on the window-panes,\nvarying her amusement by smothered bursts of songs, and whispered\nejaculations, and quick glances of annoyance and impatience in the\ndirection of her cousin, who steadfastly smoked, and looked into the\ngrate. At a notice that I could do with her no longer intercepting my\nlight, she removed to the hearthstone. I bestowed little attention on\nher proceedings, but, presently, I heard her begin I ve found out,\nHareton, that I want that I m glad that I should like you to be my\ncousin now, if you had not grown so cross to me, and so rough. \n\nHareton returned no answer.\n\n Hareton, Hareton, Hareton! do you hear?  she continued.\n\n Get off wi  ye!  he growled, with uncompromising gruffness.\n\n Let me take that pipe,  she said, cautiously advancing her hand and\nabstracting it from his mouth.\n\nBefore he could attempt to recover it, it was broken, and behind the\nfire. He swore at her and seized another.\n\n Stop,  she cried,  you must listen to me first; and I can t speak\nwhile those clouds are floating in my face. \n\n Will you go to the devil!  he exclaimed, ferociously,  and let me be! \n\n No,  she persisted,  I won t: I can t tell what to do to make you talk\nto me; and you are determined not to understand. When I call you\nstupid, I don t mean anything: I don t mean that I despise you. Come,\nyou shall take notice of me, Hareton: you are my cousin, and you shall\nown me. \n\n I shall have naught to do wi  you and your mucky pride, and your\ndamned mocking tricks!  he answered.  I ll go to hell, body and soul,\nbefore I look sideways after you again. Side out o  t  gate, now, this\nminute! \n\nCatherine frowned, and retreated to the window-seat chewing her lip,\nand endeavouring, by humming an eccentric tune, to conceal a growing\ntendency to sob.\n\n You should be friends with your cousin, Mr. Hareton,  I interrupted,\n since she repents of her sauciness. It would do you a great deal of\ngood: it would make you another man to have her for a companion. \n\n A companion!  he cried;  when she hates me, and does not think me fit\nto wipe her shoon! Nay, if it made me a king, I d not be scorned for\nseeking her good-will any more. \n\n It is not I who hate you, it is you who hate me!  wept Cathy, no\nlonger disguising her trouble.  You hate me as much as Mr. Heathcliff\ndoes, and more. \n\n You re a damned liar,  began Earnshaw:  why have I made him angry, by\ntaking your part, then, a hundred times? and that when you sneered at\nand despised me, and Go on plaguing me, and I ll step in yonder, and\nsay you worried me out of the kitchen! \n\n I didn t know you took my part,  she answered, drying her eyes;  and I\nwas miserable and bitter at everybody; but now I thank you, and beg you\nto forgive me: what can I do besides? \n\nShe returned to the hearth, and frankly extended her hand. He blackened\nand scowled like a thunder-cloud, and kept his fists resolutely\nclenched, and his gaze fixed on the ground. Catherine, by instinct,\nmust have divined it was obdurate perversity, and not dislike, that\nprompted this dogged conduct; for, after remaining an instant\nundecided, she stooped and impressed on his cheek a gentle kiss. The\nlittle rogue thought I had not seen her, and, drawing back, she took\nher former station by the window, quite demurely. I shook my head\nreprovingly, and then she blushed and whispered Well! what should I\nhave done, Ellen? He wouldn t shake hands, and he wouldn t look: I must\nshow him some way that I like him that I want to be friends. \n\nWhether the kiss convinced Hareton, I cannot tell: he was very careful,\nfor some minutes, that his face should not be seen, and when he did\nraise it, he was sadly puzzled where to turn his eyes.\n\nCatherine employed herself in wrapping a handsome book neatly in white\npaper, and having tied it with a bit of ribbon, and addressed it to\n Mr. Hareton Earnshaw,  she desired me to be her ambassadress, and\nconvey the present to its destined recipient.\n\n And tell him, if he ll take it, I ll come and teach him to read it\nright,  she said;  and, if he refuse it, I ll go upstairs, and never\ntease him again. \n\nI carried it, and repeated the message; anxiously watched by my\nemployer. Hareton would not open his fingers, so I laid it on his knee.\nHe did not strike it off, either. I returned to my work. Catherine\nleaned her head and arms on the table, till she heard the slight rustle\nof the covering being removed; then she stole away, and quietly seated\nherself beside her cousin. He trembled, and his face glowed: all his\nrudeness and all his surly harshness had deserted him: he could not\nsummon courage, at first, to utter a syllable in reply to her\nquestioning look, and her murmured petition.\n\n Say you forgive me, Hareton, do. You can make me so happy by speaking\nthat little word. \n\nHe muttered something inaudible.\n\n And you ll be my friend?  added Catherine, interrogatively.\n\n Nay, you ll be ashamed of me every day of your life,  he answered;\n and the more ashamed, the more you know me; and I cannot bide it. \n\n So you won t be my friend?  she said, smiling as sweet as honey, and\ncreeping close up.\n\nI overheard no further distinguishable talk, but, on looking round\nagain, I perceived two such radiant countenances bent over the page of\nthe accepted book, that I did not doubt the treaty had been ratified on\nboth sides; and the enemies were, thenceforth, sworn allies.\n\nThe work they studied was full of costly pictures; and those and their\nposition had charm enough to keep them unmoved till Joseph came home.\nHe, poor man, was perfectly aghast at the spectacle of Catherine seated\non the same bench with Hareton Earnshaw, leaning her hand on his\nshoulder; and confounded at his favourite s endurance of her proximity:\nit affected him too deeply to allow an observation on the subject that\nnight. His emotion was only revealed by the immense sighs he drew, as\nhe solemnly spread his large Bible on the table, and overlaid it with\ndirty bank-notes from his pocket-book, the produce of the day s\ntransactions. At length he summoned Hareton from his seat.\n\n Tak  these in to t  maister, lad,  he said,  and bide there. I s gang\nup to my own rahm. This hoile s neither mensful nor seemly for us: we\nmun side out and seearch another. \n\n Come, Catherine,  I said,  we must  side out  too: I ve done my\nironing. Are you ready to go? \n\n It is not eight o clock!  she answered, rising unwillingly.  Hareton,\nI ll leave this book upon the chimney-piece, and I ll bring some more\nto-morrow. \n\n Ony books that yah leave, I shall tak  into th  hahse,  said Joseph,\n and it ll be mitch if yah find  em agean; soa, yah may plase yerseln! \n\nCathy threatened that his library should pay for hers; and, smiling as\nshe passed Hareton, went singing upstairs: lighter of heart, I venture\nto say, than ever she had been under that roof before; except, perhaps,\nduring her earliest visits to Linton.\n\nThe intimacy thus commenced grew rapidly; though it encountered\ntemporary interruptions. Earnshaw was not to be civilized with a wish,\nand my young lady was no philosopher, and no paragon of patience; but\nboth their minds tending to the same point one loving and desiring to\nesteem, and the other loving and desiring to be esteemed they contrived\nin the end to reach it.\n\nYou see, Mr. Lockwood, it was easy enough to win Mrs. Heathcliff s\nheart. But now, I m glad you did not try. The crown of all my wishes\nwill be the union of those two. I shall envy no one on their wedding\nday: there won t be a happier woman than myself in England!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nOn the morrow of that Monday, Earnshaw being still unable to follow his\nordinary employments, and therefore remaining about the house, I\nspeedily found it would be impracticable to retain my charge beside me,\nas heretofore. She got downstairs before me, and out into the garden,\nwhere she had seen her cousin performing some easy work; and when I\nwent to bid them come to breakfast, I saw she had persuaded him to\nclear a large space of ground from currant and gooseberry bushes, and\nthey were busy planning together an importation of plants from the\nGrange.\n\nI was terrified at the devastation which had been accomplished in a\nbrief half-hour; the black-currant trees were the apple of Joseph s\neye, and she had just fixed her choice of a flower-bed in the midst of\nthem.\n\n There! That will be all shown to the master,  I exclaimed,  the minute\nit is discovered. And what excuse have you to offer for taking such\nliberties with the garden? We shall have a fine explosion on the head\nof it: see if we don t! Mr. Hareton, I wonder you should have no more\nwit than to go and make that mess at her bidding! \n\n I d forgotten they were Joseph s,  answered Earnshaw, rather puzzled;\n but I ll tell him I did it. \n\nWe always ate our meals with Mr. Heathcliff. I held the mistress s post\nin making tea and carving; so I was indispensable at table. Catherine\nusually sat by me, but to-day she stole nearer to Hareton; and I\npresently saw she would have no more discretion in her friendship than\nshe had in her hostility.\n\n Now, mind you don t talk with and notice your cousin too much,  were\nmy whispered instructions as we entered the room.  It will certainly\nannoy Mr. Heathcliff, and he ll be mad at you both. \n\n I m not going to,  she answered.\n\nThe minute after, she had sidled to him, and was sticking primroses in\nhis plate of porridge.\n\nHe dared not speak to her there: he dared hardly look; and yet she went\non teasing, till he was twice on the point of being provoked to laugh.\nI frowned, and then she glanced towards the master: whose mind was\noccupied on other subjects than his company, as his countenance\nevinced; and she grew serious for an instant, scrutinizing him with\ndeep gravity. Afterwards she turned, and recommenced her nonsense; at\nlast, Hareton uttered a smothered laugh. Mr. Heathcliff started; his\neye rapidly surveyed our faces. Catherine met it with her accustomed\nlook of nervousness and yet defiance, which he abhorred.\n\n It is well you are out of my reach,  he exclaimed.  What fiend\npossesses you to stare back at me, continually, with those infernal\neyes? Down with them! and don t remind me of your existence again. I\nthought I had cured you of laughing. \n\n It was me,  muttered Hareton.\n\n What do you say?  demanded the master.\n\nHareton looked at his plate, and did not repeat the confession. Mr.\nHeathcliff looked at him a bit, and then silently resumed his breakfast\nand his interrupted musing. We had nearly finished, and the two young\npeople prudently shifted wider asunder, so I anticipated no further\ndisturbance during that sitting: when Joseph appeared at the door,\nrevealing by his quivering lip and furious eyes that the outrage\ncommitted on his precious shrubs was detected. He must have seen Cathy\nand her cousin about the spot before he examined it, for while his jaws\nworked like those of a cow chewing its cud, and rendered his speech\ndifficult to understand, he began: \n\n I mun hev  my wage, and I mun goa! I _hed_ aimed to dee wheare I d\nsarved fur sixty year; and I thowt I d lug my books up into t  garret,\nand all my bits o  stuff, and they sud hev  t  kitchen to theirseln;\nfor t  sake o  quietness. It wur hard to gie up my awn hearthstun, but\nI thowt I _could_ do that! But nah, shoo s taan my garden fro  me, and\nby th  heart, maister, I cannot stand it! Yah may bend to th  yoak an\nye will I noan used to  t, and an old man doesn t sooin get used to new\nbarthens. I d rayther arn my bite an  my sup wi  a hammer in th  road! \n\n Now, now, idiot!  interrupted Heathcliff,  cut it short! What s your\ngrievance? I ll interfere in no quarrels between you and Nelly. She may\nthrust you into the coal-hole for anything I care. \n\n It s noan Nelly!  answered Joseph.  I sudn t shift for Nelly nasty ill\nnowt as shoo is. Thank God! _shoo_ cannot stale t  sowl o  nob dy! Shoo\nwer niver soa handsome, but what a body mud look at her  bout winking.\nIt s yon flaysome, graceless quean, that s witched our lad, wi  her\nbold een and her forrard ways till Nay! it fair brusts my heart! He s\nforgotten all I ve done for him, and made on him, and goan and riven up\na whole row o  t  grandest currant-trees i  t  garden!  and here he\nlamented outright; unmanned by a sense of his bitter injuries, and\nEarnshaw s ingratitude and dangerous condition.\n\n Is the fool drunk?  asked Mr. Heathcliff.  Hareton, is it you he s\nfinding fault with? \n\n I ve pulled up two or three bushes,  replied the young man;  but I m\ngoing to set  em again. \n\n And why have you pulled them up?  said the master.\n\nCatherine wisely put in her tongue.\n\n We wanted to plant some flowers there,  she cried.  I m the only\nperson to blame, for I wished him to do it. \n\n And who the devil gave _you_ leave to touch a stick about the place? \ndemanded her father-in-law, much surprised.  And who ordered _you_ to\nobey her?  he added, turning to Hareton.\n\nThe latter was speechless; his cousin replied You shouldn t grudge a\nfew yards of earth for me to ornament, when you have taken all my\nland! \n\n Your land, insolent slut! You never had any,  said Heathcliff.\n\n And my money,  she continued; returning his angry glare, and meantime\nbiting a piece of crust, the remnant of her breakfast.\n\n Silence!  he exclaimed.  Get done, and begone! \n\n And Hareton s land, and his money,  pursued the reckless thing.\n Hareton and I are friends now; and I shall tell him all about you! \n\nThe master seemed confounded a moment: he grew pale, and rose up,\neyeing her all the while, with an expression of mortal hate.\n\n If you strike me, Hareton will strike you,  she said;  so you may as\nwell sit down. \n\n If Hareton does not turn you out of the room, I ll strike him to\nhell,  thundered Heathcliff.  Damnable witch! dare you pretend to rouse\nhim against me? Off with her! Do you hear? Fling her into the kitchen!\nI ll kill her, Ellen Dean, if you let her come into my sight again! \n\nHareton tried, under his breath, to persuade her to go.\n\n Drag her away!  he cried, savagely.  Are you staying to talk?  And he\napproached to execute his own command.\n\n He ll not obey you, wicked man, any more,  said Catherine;  and he ll\nsoon detest you as much as I do. \n\n Wisht! wisht!  muttered the young man, reproachfully;  I will not hear\nyou speak so to him. Have done. \n\n But you won t let him strike me?  she cried.\n\n Come, then,  he whispered earnestly.\n\nIt was too late: Heathcliff had caught hold of her.\n\n Now, _you_ go!  he said to Earnshaw.  Accursed witch! this time she\nhas provoked me when I could not bear it; and I ll make her repent it\nfor ever! \n\nHe had his hand in her hair; Hareton attempted to release her locks,\nentreating him not to hurt her that once. Heathcliff s black eyes\nflashed; he seemed ready to tear Catherine in pieces, and I was just\nworked up to risk coming to the rescue, when of a sudden his fingers\nrelaxed; he shifted his grasp from her head to her arm, and gazed\nintently in her face. Then he drew his hand over his eyes, stood a\nmoment to collect himself apparently, and turning anew to Catherine,\nsaid, with assumed calmness You must learn to avoid putting me in a\npassion, or I shall really murder you some time! Go with Mrs. Dean, and\nkeep with her; and confine your insolence to her ears. As to Hareton\nEarnshaw, if I see him listen to you, I ll send him seeking his bread\nwhere he can get it! Your love will make him an outcast and a beggar.\nNelly, take her; and leave me, all of you! Leave me! \n\nI led my young lady out: she was too glad of her escape to resist; the\nother followed, and Mr. Heathcliff had the room to himself till dinner.\nI had counselled Catherine to dine upstairs; but, as soon as he\nperceived her vacant seat, he sent me to call her. He spoke to none of\nus, ate very little, and went out directly afterwards, intimating that\nhe should not return before evening.\n\nThe two new friends established themselves in the house during his\nabsence; where I heard Hareton sternly check his cousin, on her\noffering a revelation of her father-in-law s conduct to his father. He\nsaid he wouldn t suffer a word to be uttered in his disparagement: if\nhe were the devil, it didn t signify; he would stand by him; and he d\nrather she would abuse himself, as she used to, than begin on Mr.\nHeathcliff. Catherine was waxing cross at this; but he found means to\nmake her hold her tongue, by asking how she would like _him_ to speak\nill of her father? Then she comprehended that Earnshaw took the\nmaster s reputation home to himself; and was attached by ties stronger\nthan reason could break chains, forged by habit, which it would be\ncruel to attempt to loosen. She showed a good heart, thenceforth, in\navoiding both complaints and expressions of antipathy concerning\nHeathcliff; and confessed to me her sorrow that she had endeavoured to\nraise a bad spirit between him and Hareton: indeed, I don t believe she\nhas ever breathed a syllable, in the latter s hearing, against her\noppressor since.\n\nWhen this slight disagreement was over, they were friends again, and as\nbusy as possible in their several occupations of pupil and teacher. I\ncame in to sit with them, after I had done my work; and I felt so\nsoothed and comforted to watch them, that I did not notice how time got\non. You know, they both appeared in a measure my children: I had long\nbeen proud of one; and now, I was sure, the other would be a source of\nequal satisfaction. His honest, warm, and intelligent nature shook off\nrapidly the clouds of ignorance and degradation in which it had been\nbred; and Catherine s sincere commendations acted as a spur to his\nindustry. His brightening mind brightened his features, and added\nspirit and nobility to their aspect: I could hardly fancy it the same\nindividual I had beheld on the day I discovered my little lady at\nWuthering Heights, after her expedition to the Crags. While I admired\nand they laboured, dusk drew on, and with it returned the master. He\ncame upon us quite unexpectedly, entering by the front way, and had a\nfull view of the whole three, ere we could raise our heads to glance at\nhim. Well, I reflected, there was never a pleasanter, or more harmless\nsight; and it will be a burning shame to scold them. The red fire-light\nglowed on their two bonny heads, and revealed their faces animated with\nthe eager interest of children; for, though he was twenty-three and she\neighteen, each had so much of novelty to feel and learn, that neither\nexperienced nor evinced the sentiments of sober disenchanted maturity.\n\nThey lifted their eyes together, to encounter Mr. Heathcliff: perhaps\nyou have never remarked that their eyes are precisely similar, and they\nare those of Catherine Earnshaw. The present Catherine has no other\nlikeness to her, except a breadth of forehead, and a certain arch of\nthe nostril that makes her appear rather haughty, whether she will or\nnot. With Hareton the resemblance is carried farther: it is singular at\nall times, _then_ it was particularly striking; because his senses were\nalert, and his mental faculties wakened to unwonted activity. I suppose\nthis resemblance disarmed Mr. Heathcliff: he walked to the hearth in\nevident agitation; but it quickly subsided as he looked at the young\nman: or, I should say, altered its character; for it was there yet. He\ntook the book from his hand, and glanced at the open page, then\nreturned it without any observation; merely signing Catherine away: her\ncompanion lingered very little behind her, and I was about to depart\nalso, but he bid me sit still.\n\n It is a poor conclusion, is it not?  he observed, having brooded\na while on the scene he had just witnessed:  an absurd termination to\nmy violent exertions? I get levers and mattocks to demolish the two\nhouses, and train myself to be capable of working like Hercules, and\nwhen everything is ready and in my power, I find the will to lift a\nslate off either roof has vanished! My old enemies have not beaten me;\nnow would be the precise time to revenge myself on their\nrepresentatives: I could do it; and none could hinder me. But where is\nthe use? I don t care for striking: I can t take the trouble to raise\nmy hand! That sounds as if I had been labouring the whole time only to\nexhibit a fine trait of magnanimity. It is far from being the case: I\nhave lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle\nto destroy for nothing.\n\n Nelly, there is a strange change approaching; I m in its shadow at\npresent. I take so little interest in my daily life that I hardly\nremember to eat and drink. Those two who have left the room are the\nonly objects which retain a distinct material appearance to me; and\nthat appearance causes me pain, amounting to agony. About _her_ I won t\nspeak; and I don t desire to think; but I earnestly wish she were\ninvisible: her presence invokes only maddening sensations. _He_ moves\nme differently: and yet if I could do it without seeming insane, I d\nnever see him again! You ll perhaps think me rather inclined to become\nso,  he added, making an effort to smile,  if I try to describe the\nthousand forms of past associations and ideas he awakens or embodies.\nBut you ll not talk of what I tell you; and my mind is so eternally\nsecluded in itself, it is tempting at last to turn it out to another.\n\n Five minutes ago Hareton seemed a personification of my youth, not a\nhuman being; I felt to him in such a variety of ways, that it would\nhave been impossible to have accosted him rationally. In the first\nplace, his startling likeness to Catherine connected him fearfully with\nher. That, however, which you may suppose the most potent to arrest my\nimagination, is actually the least: for what is not connected with her\nto me? and what does not recall her? I cannot look down to this floor,\nbut her features are shaped in the flags! In every cloud, in every\ntree filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object\nby day I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men\nand women my own features mock me with a resemblance. The entire world\nis a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I\nhave lost her! Well, Hareton s aspect was the ghost of my immortal\nlove; of my wild endeavours to hold my right; my degradation, my pride,\nmy happiness, and my anguish \n\n But it is frenzy to repeat these thoughts to you: only it will let you\nknow why, with a reluctance to be always alone, his society is no\nbenefit; rather an aggravation of the constant torment I suffer: and it\npartly contributes to render me regardless how he and his cousin go on\ntogether. I can give them no attention any more. \n\n But what do you mean by a _change_, Mr. Heathcliff?  I said, alarmed\nat his manner: though he was neither in danger of losing his senses,\nnor dying, according to my judgment: he was quite strong and healthy;\nand, as to his reason, from childhood he had a delight in dwelling on\ndark things, and entertaining odd fancies. He might have had a\nmonomania on the subject of his departed idol; but on every other point\nhis wits were as sound as mine.\n\n I shall not know that till it comes,  he said;  I m only half\nconscious of it now. \n\n You have no feeling of illness, have you?  I asked.\n\n No, Nelly, I have not,  he answered.\n\n Then you are not afraid of death?  I pursued.\n\n Afraid? No!  he replied.  I have neither a fear, nor a presentiment,\nnor a hope of death. Why should I? With my hard constitution and\ntemperate mode of living, and unperilous occupations, I ought to, and\nprobably _shall_, remain above ground till there is scarcely a black\nhair on my head. And yet I cannot continue in this condition! I have to\nremind myself to breathe almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is\nlike bending back a stiff spring: it is by compulsion that I do the\nslightest act not prompted by one thought; and by compulsion that I\nnotice anything alive or dead, which is not associated with one\nuniversal idea. I have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties\nare yearning to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so\nunwaveringly, that I m convinced it _will_ be reached and\n_soon_ because it has devoured my existence: I am swallowed up in the\nanticipation of its fulfilment. My confessions have not relieved me;\nbut they may account for some otherwise unaccountable phases of humour\nwhich I show. O God! It is a long fight; I wish it were over! \n\nHe began to pace the room, muttering terrible things to himself, till I\nwas inclined to believe, as he said Joseph did, that conscience had\nturned his heart to an earthly hell. I wondered greatly how it would\nend. Though he seldom before had revealed this state of mind, even by\nlooks, it was his habitual mood, I had no doubt: he asserted it\nhimself; but not a soul, from his general bearing, would have\nconjectured the fact. You did not when you saw him, Mr. Lockwood: and\nat the period of which I speak, he was just the same as then; only\nfonder of continued solitude, and perhaps still more laconic in\ncompany.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\nFor some days after that evening, Mr. Heathcliff shunned meeting us at\nmeals; yet he would not consent formally to exclude Hareton and Cathy.\nHe had an aversion to yielding so completely to his feelings, choosing\nrather to absent himself; and eating once in twenty-four hours seemed\nsufficient sustenance for him.\n\nOne night, after the family were in bed, I heard him go downstairs, and\nout at the front door. I did not hear him re-enter, and in the morning\nI found he was still away. We were in April then: the weather was sweet\nand warm, the grass as green as showers and sun could make it, and the\ntwo dwarf apple-trees near the southern wall in full bloom. After\nbreakfast, Catherine insisted on my bringing a chair and sitting with\nmy work under the fir-trees at the end of the house; and she beguiled\nHareton, who had perfectly recovered from his accident, to dig and\narrange her little garden, which was shifted to that corner by the\ninfluence of Joseph s complaints. I was comfortably revelling in the\nspring fragrance around, and the beautiful soft blue overhead, when my\nyoung lady, who had run down near the gate to procure some primrose\nroots for a border, returned only half laden, and informed us that Mr.\nHeathcliff was coming in.  And he spoke to me,  she added, with a\nperplexed countenance.\n\n What did he say?  asked Hareton.\n\n He told me to begone as fast as I could,  she answered.  But he looked\nso different from his usual look that I stopped a moment to stare at\nhim. \n\n How?  he inquired.\n\n Why, almost bright and cheerful. No, _almost_ nothing _very much_\nexcited, and wild, and glad!  she replied.\n\n Night-walking amuses him, then,  I remarked, affecting a careless\nmanner: in reality as surprised as she was, and anxious to ascertain\nthe truth of her statement; for to see the master looking glad would\nnot be an every-day spectacle. I framed an excuse to go in. Heathcliff\nstood at the open door; he was pale, and he trembled: yet, certainly,\nhe had a strange joyful glitter in his eyes, that altered the aspect of\nhis whole face.\n\n Will you have some breakfast?  I said.  You must be hungry, rambling\nabout all night!  I wanted to discover where he had been, but I did not\nlike to ask directly.\n\n No, I m not hungry,  he answered, averting his head, and speaking\nrather contemptuously, as if he guessed I was trying to divine the\noccasion of his good humour.\n\nI felt perplexed: I didn t know whether it were not a proper\nopportunity to offer a bit of admonition.\n\n I don t think it right to wander out of doors,  I observed,  instead\nof being in bed: it is not wise, at any rate this moist season. I\ndaresay you ll catch a bad cold, or a fever: you have something the\nmatter with you now! \n\n Nothing but what I can bear,  he replied;  and with the greatest\npleasure, provided you ll leave me alone: get in, and don t annoy me. \n\nI obeyed: and, in passing, I noticed he breathed as fast as a cat.\n\n Yes!  I reflected to myself,  we shall have a fit of illness. I cannot\nconceive what he has been doing. \n\nThat noon he sat down to dinner with us, and received a heaped-up plate\nfrom my hands, as if he intended to make amends for previous fasting.\n\n I ve neither cold nor fever, Nelly,  he remarked, in allusion to my\nmorning s speech;  and I m ready to do justice to the food you give\nme. \n\nHe took his knife and fork, and was going to commence eating, when the\ninclination appeared to become suddenly extinct. He laid them on the\ntable, looked eagerly towards the window, then rose and went out. We\nsaw him walking to and fro in the garden while we concluded our meal,\nand Earnshaw said he d go and ask why he would not dine: he thought we\nhad grieved him some way.\n\n Well, is he coming?  cried Catherine, when her cousin returned.\n\n Nay,  he answered;  but he s not angry: he seemed rarely pleased\nindeed; only I made him impatient by speaking to him twice; and then he\nbid me be off to you: he wondered how I could want the company of\nanybody else. \n\nI set his plate to keep warm on the fender; and after an hour or two he\nre-entered, when the room was clear, in no degree calmer: the same\nunnatural it was unnatural appearance of joy under his black brows; the\nsame bloodless hue, and his teeth visible, now and then, in a kind of\nsmile; his frame shivering, not as one shivers with chill or weakness,\nbut as a tight-stretched cord vibrates a strong thrilling, rather than\ntrembling.\n\nI will ask what is the matter, I thought; or who should? And I\nexclaimed Have you heard any good news, Mr. Heathcliff? You look\nuncommonly animated. \n\n Where should good news come from to me?  he said.  I m animated with\nhunger; and, seemingly, I must not eat. \n\n Your dinner is here,  I returned;  why won t you get it? \n\n I don t want it now,  he muttered, hastily:  I ll wait till supper.\nAnd, Nelly, once for all, let me beg you to warn Hareton and the other\naway from me. I wish to be troubled by nobody: I wish to have this\nplace to myself. \n\n Is there some new reason for this banishment?  I inquired.  Tell me\nwhy you are so queer, Mr. Heathcliff? Where were you last night? I m\nnot putting the question through idle curiosity, but \n\n You are putting the question through very idle curiosity,  he\ninterrupted, with a laugh.  Yet I ll answer it. Last night I was on the\nthreshold of hell. To-day, I am within sight of my heaven. I have my\neyes on it: hardly three feet to sever me! And now you d better go!\nYou ll neither see nor hear anything to frighten you, if you refrain\nfrom prying. \n\nHaving swept the hearth and wiped the table, I departed; more perplexed\nthan ever.\n\nHe did not quit the house again that afternoon, and no one intruded on\nhis solitude; till, at eight o clock, I deemed it proper, though\nunsummoned, to carry a candle and his supper to him. He was leaning\nagainst the ledge of an open lattice, but not looking out: his face was\nturned to the interior gloom. The fire had smouldered to ashes; the\nroom was filled with the damp, mild air of the cloudy evening; and so\nstill, that not only the murmur of the beck down Gimmerton was\ndistinguishable, but its ripples and its gurgling over the pebbles, or\nthrough the large stones which it could not cover. I uttered an\nejaculation of discontent at seeing the dismal grate, and commenced\nshutting the casements, one after another, till I came to his.\n\n Must I close this?  I asked, in order to rouse him; for he would not\nstir.\n\nThe light flashed on his features as I spoke. Oh, Mr. Lockwood, I\ncannot express what a terrible start I got by the momentary view! Those\ndeep black eyes! That smile, and ghastly paleness! It appeared to me,\nnot Mr. Heathcliff, but a goblin; and, in my terror, I let the candle\nbend towards the wall, and it left me in darkness.\n\n Yes, close it,  he replied, in his familiar voice.  There, that is\npure awkwardness! Why did you hold the candle horizontally? Be quick,\nand bring another. \n\nI hurried out in a foolish state of dread, and said to Joseph The\nmaster wishes you to take him a light and rekindle the fire.  For I\ndared not go in myself again just then.\n\nJoseph rattled some fire into the shovel, and went: but he brought it\nback immediately, with the supper-tray in his other hand, explaining\nthat Mr. Heathcliff was going to bed, and he wanted nothing to eat till\nmorning. We heard him mount the stairs directly; he did not proceed to\nhis ordinary chamber, but turned into that with the panelled bed: its\nwindow, as I mentioned before, is wide enough for anybody to get\nthrough; and it struck me that he plotted another midnight excursion,\nof which he had rather we had no suspicion.\n\n Is he a ghoul or a vampire?  I mused. I had read of such hideous\nincarnate demons. And then I set myself to reflect how I had tended him\nin infancy, and watched him grow to youth, and followed him almost\nthrough his whole course; and what absurd nonsense it was to yield to\nthat sense of horror.  But where did he come from, the little dark\nthing, harboured by a good man to his bane?  muttered Superstition, as\nI dozed into unconsciousness. And I began, half dreaming, to weary\nmyself with imagining some fit parentage for him; and, repeating my\nwaking meditations, I tracked his existence over again, with grim\nvariations; at last, picturing his death and funeral: of which, all I\ncan remember is, being exceedingly vexed at having the task of\ndictating an inscription for his monument, and consulting the sexton\nabout it; and, as he had no surname, and we could not tell his age, we\nwere obliged to content ourselves with the single word,  Heathcliff. \nThat came true: we were. If you enter the kirkyard, you ll read, on his\nheadstone, only that, and the date of his death.\n\nDawn restored me to common sense. I rose, and went into the garden, as\nsoon as I could see, to ascertain if there were any footmarks under his\nwindow. There were none.  He has stayed at home,  I thought,  and he ll\nbe all right to-day.  I prepared breakfast for the household, as was my\nusual custom, but told Hareton and Catherine to get theirs ere the\nmaster came down, for he lay late. They preferred taking it out of\ndoors, under the trees, and I set a little table to accommodate them.\n\nOn my re-entrance, I found Mr. Heathcliff below. He and Joseph were\nconversing about some farming business; he gave clear, minute\ndirections concerning the matter discussed, but he spoke rapidly, and\nturned his head continually aside, and had the same excited expression,\neven more exaggerated. When Joseph quitted the room he took his seat in\nthe place he generally chose, and I put a basin of coffee before him.\nHe drew it nearer, and then rested his arms on the table, and looked at\nthe opposite wall, as I supposed, surveying one particular portion, up\nand down, with glittering, restless eyes, and with such eager interest\nthat he stopped breathing during half a minute together.\n\n Come now,  I exclaimed, pushing some bread against his hand,  eat and\ndrink that, while it is hot: it has been waiting near an hour. \n\nHe didn t notice me, and yet he smiled. I d rather have seen him gnash\nhis teeth than smile so.\n\n Mr. Heathcliff! master!  I cried,  don t, for God s sake, stare as if\nyou saw an unearthly vision. \n\n Don t, for God s sake, shout so loud,  he replied.  Turn round, and\ntell me, are we by ourselves? \n\n Of course,  was my answer;  of course we are. \n\nStill, I involuntarily obeyed him, as if I was not quite sure. With a\nsweep of his hand he cleared a vacant space in front among the\nbreakfast things, and leant forward to gaze more at his ease.\n\nNow, I perceived he was not looking at the wall; for when I regarded\nhim alone, it seemed exactly that he gazed at something within two\nyards  distance. And whatever it was, it communicated, apparently, both\npleasure and pain in exquisite extremes: at least the anguished, yet\nraptured, expression of his countenance suggested that idea. The\nfancied object was not fixed, either: his eyes pursued it with\nunwearied diligence, and, even in speaking to me, were never weaned\naway. I vainly reminded him of his protracted abstinence from food: if\nhe stirred to touch anything in compliance with my entreaties, if he\nstretched his hand out to get a piece of bread, his fingers clenched\nbefore they reached it, and remained on the table, forgetful of their\naim.\n\nI sat, a model of patience, trying to attract his absorbed attention\nfrom its engrossing speculation; till he grew irritable, and got up,\nasking why I would not allow him to have his own time in taking his\nmeals? and saying that on the next occasion I needn t wait: I might set\nthe things down and go. Having uttered these words he left the house,\nslowly sauntered down the garden path, and disappeared through the\ngate.\n\nThe hours crept anxiously by: another evening came. I did not retire to\nrest till late, and when I did, I could not sleep. He returned after\nmidnight, and, instead of going to bed, shut himself into the room\nbeneath. I listened, and tossed about, and, finally, dressed and\ndescended. It was too irksome to lie there, harassing my brain with a\nhundred idle misgivings.\n\nI distinguished Mr. Heathcliff s step, restlessly measuring the floor,\nand he frequently broke the silence by a deep inspiration, resembling a\ngroan. He muttered detached words also; the only one I could catch was\nthe name of Catherine, coupled with some wild term of endearment or\nsuffering; and spoken as one would speak to a person present; low and\nearnest, and wrung from the depth of his soul. I had not courage to\nwalk straight into the apartment; but I desired to divert him from his\nreverie, and therefore fell foul of the kitchen fire, stirred it, and\nbegan to scrape the cinders. It drew him forth sooner than I expected.\nHe opened the door immediately, and said Nelly, come here is it\nmorning? Come in with your light. \n\n It is striking four,  I answered.  You want a candle to take upstairs:\nyou might have lit one at this fire. \n\n No, I don t wish to go upstairs,  he said.  Come in, and kindle _me_ a\nfire, and do anything there is to do about the room. \n\n I must blow the coals red first, before I can carry any,  I replied,\ngetting a chair and the bellows.\n\nHe roamed to and fro, meantime, in a state approaching distraction; his\nheavy sighs succeeding each other so thick as to leave no space for\ncommon breathing between.\n\n When day breaks I ll send for Green,  he said;  I wish to make some\nlegal inquiries of him while I can bestow a thought on those matters,\nand while I can act calmly. I have not written my will yet; and how to\nleave my property I cannot determine. I wish I could annihilate it from\nthe face of the earth. \n\n I would not talk so, Mr. Heathcliff,  I interposed.  Let your will be\na while: you ll be spared to repent of your many injustices yet! I\nnever expected that your nerves would be disordered: they are, at\npresent, marvellously so, however; and almost entirely through your own\nfault. The way you ve passed these three last days might knock up a\nTitan. Do take some food, and some repose. You need only look at\nyourself in a glass to see how you require both. Your cheeks are\nhollow, and your eyes blood-shot, like a person starving with hunger\nand going blind with loss of sleep. \n\n It is not my fault that I cannot eat or rest,  he replied.  I assure\nyou it is through no settled designs. I ll do both, as soon as I\npossibly can. But you might as well bid a man struggling in the water\nrest within arms  length of the shore! I must reach it first, and then\nI ll rest. Well, never mind Mr. Green: as to repenting of my\ninjustices, I ve done no injustice, and I repent of nothing. I m too\nhappy; and yet I m not happy enough. My soul s bliss kills my body, but\ndoes not satisfy itself. \n\n Happy, master?  I cried.  Strange happiness! If you would hear me\nwithout being angry, I might offer some advice that would make you\nhappier. \n\n What is that?  he asked.  Give it. \n\n You are aware, Mr. Heathcliff,  I said,  that from the time you were\nthirteen years old you have lived a selfish, unchristian life; and\nprobably hardly had a Bible in your hands during all that period. You\nmust have forgotten the contents of the book, and you may not have\nspace to search it now. Could it be hurtful to send for some one some\nminister of any denomination, it does not matter which to explain it,\nand show you how very far you have erred from its precepts; and how\nunfit you will be for its heaven, unless a change takes place before\nyou die? \n\n I m rather obliged than angry, Nelly,  he said,  for you remind me of\nthe manner in which I desire to be buried. It is to be carried to the\nchurchyard in the evening. You and Hareton may, if you please,\naccompany me: and mind, particularly, to notice that the sexton obeys\nmy directions concerning the two coffins! No minister need come; nor\nneed anything be said over me. I tell you I have nearly attained _my_\nheaven; and that of others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me. \n\n And supposing you persevered in your obstinate fast, and died by that\nmeans, and they refused to bury you in the precincts of the kirk?  I\nsaid, shocked at his godless indifference.  How would you like it? \n\n They won t do that,  he replied:  if they did, you must have me\nremoved secretly; and if you neglect it you shall prove, practically,\nthat the dead are not annihilated! \n\nAs soon as he heard the other members of the family stirring he retired\nto his den, and I breathed freer. But in the afternoon, while Joseph\nand Hareton were at their work, he came into the kitchen again, and,\nwith a wild look, bid me come and sit in the house: he wanted somebody\nwith him. I declined; telling him plainly that his strange talk and\nmanner frightened me, and I had neither the nerve nor the will to be\nhis companion alone.\n\n I believe you think me a fiend,  he said, with his dismal laugh:\n something too horrible to live under a decent roof.  Then turning to\nCatherine, who was there, and who drew behind me at his approach, he\nadded, half sneeringly, Will _you_ come, chuck? I ll not hurt you. No!\nto you I ve made myself worse than the devil. Well, there is _one_ who\nwon t shrink from my company! By God! she s relentless. Oh, damn it!\nIt s unutterably too much for flesh and blood to bear even mine. \n\nHe solicited the society of no one more. At dusk he went into his\nchamber. Through the whole night, and far into the morning, we heard\nhim groaning and murmuring to himself. Hareton was anxious to enter;\nbut I bid him fetch Mr. Kenneth, and he should go in and see him. When\nhe came, and I requested admittance and tried to open the door, I found\nit locked; and Heathcliff bid us be damned. He was better, and would be\nleft alone; so the doctor went away.\n\nThe following evening was very wet: indeed, it poured down till\nday-dawn; and, as I took my morning walk round the house, I observed\nthe master s window swinging open, and the rain driving straight in. He\ncannot be in bed, I thought: those showers would drench him through. He\nmust either be up or out. But I ll make no more ado, I ll go boldly and\nlook.\n\nHaving succeeded in obtaining entrance with another key, I ran to\nunclose the panels, for the chamber was vacant; quickly pushing them\naside, I peeped in. Mr. Heathcliff was there laid on his back. His eyes\nmet mine so keen and fierce, I started; and then he seemed to smile. I\ncould not think him dead: but his face and throat were washed with\nrain; the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly still. The lattice,\nflapping to and fro, had grazed one hand that rested on the sill; no\nblood trickled from the broken skin, and when I put my fingers to it, I\ncould doubt no more: he was dead and stark!\n\nI hasped the window; I combed his black long hair from his forehead; I\ntried to close his eyes: to extinguish, if possible, that frightful,\nlife-like gaze of exultation before any one else beheld it. They would\nnot shut: they seemed to sneer at my attempts; and his parted lips and\nsharp white teeth sneered too! Taken with another fit of cowardice, I\ncried out for Joseph. Joseph shuffled up and made a noise, but\nresolutely refused to meddle with him.\n\n Th  divil s harried off his soul,  he cried,  and he may hev  his\ncarcass into t  bargin, for aught I care! Ech! what a wicked  un he\nlooks, girning at death!  and the old sinner grinned in mockery. I\nthought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but suddenly\ncomposing himself, he fell on his knees, and raised his hands, and\nreturned thanks that the lawful master and the ancient stock were\nrestored to their rights.\n\nI felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoidably recurred\nto former times with a sort of oppressive sadness. But poor Hareton,\nthe most wronged, was the only one who really suffered much. He sat by\nthe corpse all night, weeping in bitter earnest. He pressed its hand,\nand kissed the sarcastic, savage face that every one else shrank from\ncontemplating; and bemoaned him with that strong grief which springs\nnaturally from a generous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel.\n\nMr. Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the master\ndied. I concealed the fact of his having swallowed nothing for four\ndays, fearing it might lead to trouble, and then, I am persuaded, he\ndid not abstain on purpose: it was the consequence of his strange\nillness, not the cause.\n\nWe buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighbourhood, as he wished.\nEarnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to carry the coffin,\ncomprehended the whole attendance. The six men departed when they had\nlet it down into the grave: we stayed to see it covered. Hareton, with\na streaming face, dug green sods, and laid them over the brown mould\nhimself: at present it is as smooth and verdant as its companion\nmounds and I hope its tenant sleeps as soundly. But the country folks,\nif you ask them, would swear on the Bible that he _walks_: there are\nthose who speak to having met him near the church, and on the moor, and\neven within this house. Idle tales, you ll say, and so say I. Yet that\nold man by the kitchen fire affirms he has seen two on  em looking out\nof his chamber window on every rainy night since his death: and an odd\nthing happened to me about a month ago. I was going to the Grange one\nevening a dark evening, threatening thunder and, just at the turn of\nthe Heights, I encountered a little boy with a sheep and two lambs\nbefore him; he was crying terribly; and I supposed the lambs were\nskittish, and would not be guided.\n\n What is the matter, my little man?  I asked.\n\n There s Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t  nab,  he blubbered,\n un  I darnut pass  em. \n\nI saw nothing; but neither the sheep nor he would go on, so I bid him\ntake the road lower down. He probably raised the phantoms from\nthinking, as he traversed the moors alone, on the nonsense he had heard\nhis parents and companions repeat. Yet, still, I don t like being out\nin the dark now; and I don t like being left by myself in this grim\nhouse: I cannot help it; I shall be glad when they leave it, and shift\nto the Grange.\n\n They are going to the Grange, then?  I said.\n\n Yes,  answered Mrs. Dean,  as soon as they are married, and that will\nbe on New Year s Day. \n\n And who will live here then? \n\n Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and, perhaps, a lad to keep\nhim company. They will live in the kitchen, and the rest will be shut\nup. \n\n For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it?  I observed.\n\n No, Mr. Lockwood,  said Nelly, shaking her head.  I believe the dead\nare at peace: but it is not right to speak of them with levity. \n\nAt that moment the garden gate swung to; the ramblers were returning.\n\n _They_ are afraid of nothing,  I grumbled, watching their approach\nthrough the window.  Together, they would brave Satan and all his\nlegions. \n\nAs they stepped on to the door-stones, and halted to take a last look\nat the moon or, more correctly, at each other by her light I felt\nirresistibly impelled to escape them again; and, pressing a remembrance\ninto the hand of Mrs. Dean, and disregarding her expostulations at my\nrudeness, I vanished through the kitchen as they opened the house-door;\nand so should have confirmed Joseph in his opinion of his\nfellow-servant s gay indiscretions, had he not fortunately recognised\nme for a respectable character by the sweet ring of a sovereign at his\nfeet.\n\nMy walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction of the\nkirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had made progress, even\nin seven months: many a window showed black gaps deprived of glass; and\nslates jutted off, here and there, beyond the right line of the roof,\nto be gradually worked off in coming autumn storms.\n\nI sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next\nthe moor: the middle one grey, and half buried in heath; Edgar Linton s\nonly harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff s\nstill bare.\n\nI lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths\nfluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind\nbreathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever\nimagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Lord of the Rings",
        "author": "J.R.R. Tolkien",
        "category": "Fantasy",
        "EN": "INTRODUCTION\n\n\nNicolo Machiavelli was born at Florence on 3rd May 1469. He was the\nsecond son of Bernardo di Nicolo Machiavelli, a lawyer of some repute,\nand of Bartolommea di Stefano Nelli, his wife. Both parents were\nmembers of the old Florentine nobility.\n\nHis life falls naturally into three periods, each of which singularly\nenough constitutes a distinct and important era in the history of\nFlorence. His youth was concurrent with the greatness of Florence as an\nItalian power under the guidance of Lorenzo de  Medici, Il Magnifico.\nThe downfall of the Medici in Florence occurred in 1494, in which year\nMachiavelli entered the public service. During his official career\nFlorence was free under the government of a Republic, which lasted\nuntil 1512, when the Medici returned to power, and Machiavelli lost his\noffice. The Medici again ruled Florence from 1512 until 1527, when they\nwere once more driven out. This was the period of Machiavelli s\nliterary activity and increasing influence; but he died, within a few\nweeks of the expulsion of the Medici, on 22nd June 1527, in his\nfifty-eighth year, without having regained office.\n\n\n\n\nYOUTH    t. 1-25 1469-94\n\n\nAlthough there is little recorded of the youth of Machiavelli, the\nFlorence of those days is so well known that the early environment of\nthis representative citizen may be easily imagined. Florence has been\ndescribed as a city with two opposite currents of life, one directed by\nthe fervent and austere Savonarola, the other by the splendour-loving\nLorenzo. Savonarola s influence upon the young Machiavelli must have\nbeen slight, for although at one time he wielded immense power over the\nfortunes of Florence, he only furnished Machiavelli with a subject of a\ngibe in _The Prince_, where he is cited as an example of an unarmed\nprophet who came to a bad end. Whereas the magnificence of the Medicean\nrule during the life of Lorenzo appeared to have impressed Machiavelli\nstrongly, for he frequently recurs to it in his writings, and it is to\nLorenzo s grandson that he dedicates _The Prince_.\n\nMachiavelli, in his  History of Florence,  gives us a picture of the\nyoung men among whom his youth was passed. He writes:  They were freer\nthan their forefathers in dress and living, and spent more in other\nkinds of excesses, consuming their time and money in idleness, gaming,\nand women; their chief aim was to appear well dressed and to speak with\nwit and acuteness, whilst he who could wound others the most cleverly\nwas thought the wisest.  In a letter to his son Guido, Machiavelli\nshows why youth should avail itself of its opportunities for study, and\nleads us to infer that his own youth had been so occupied. He writes:\n I have received your letter, which has given me the greatest pleasure,\nespecially because you tell me you are quite restored in health, than\nwhich I could have no better news; for if God grant life to you, and to\nme, I hope to make a good man of you if you are willing to do your\nshare.  Then, writing of a new patron, he continues:  This will turn\nout well for you, but it is necessary for you to study; since, then,\nyou have no longer the excuse of illness, take pains to study letters\nand music, for you see what honour is done to me for the little skill I\nhave. Therefore, my son, if you wish to please me, and to bring success\nand honour to yourself, do right and study, because others will help\nyou if you help yourself. \n\n\n\n\nOFFICE    t. 25-43 1494-1512\n\n\nThe second period of Machiavelli s life was spent in the service of the\nfree Republic of Florence, which flourished, as stated above, from the\nexpulsion of the Medici in 1494 until their return in 1512. After\nserving four years in one of the public offices he was appointed\nChancellor and Secretary to the Second Chancery, the Ten of Liberty and\nPeace. Here we are on firm ground when dealing with the events of\nMachiavelli s life, for during this time he took a leading part in the\naffairs of the Republic, and we have its decrees, records, and\ndispatches to guide us, as well as his own writings. A mere\nrecapitulation of a few of his transactions with the statesmen and\nsoldiers of his time gives a fair indication of his activities, and\nsupplies the sources from which he drew the experiences and characters\nwhich illustrate _The Prince_.\n\nHis first mission was in 1499 to Catherina Sforza,  my lady of Forli \nof _The Prince_, from whose conduct and fate he drew the moral that it\nis far better to earn the confidence of the people than to rely on\nfortresses. This is a very noticeable principle in Machiavelli, and is\nurged by him in many ways as a matter of vital importance to princes.\n\nIn 1500 he was sent to France to obtain terms from Louis XII for\ncontinuing the war against Pisa: this king it was who, in his conduct\nof affairs in Italy, committed the five capital errors in statecraft\nsummarized in _The Prince_, and was consequently driven out. He, also,\nit was who made the dissolution of his marriage a condition of support\nto Pope Alexander VI; which leads Machiavelli to refer those who urge\nthat such promises should be kept to what he has written concerning the\nfaith of princes.\n\nMachiavelli s public life was largely occupied with events arising out\nof the ambitions of Pope Alexander VI and his son, Cesare Borgia, the\nDuke Valentino, and these characters fill a large space of _The\nPrince_. Machiavelli never hesitates to cite the actions of the duke\nfor the benefit of usurpers who wish to keep the states they have\nseized; he can, indeed, find no precepts to offer so good as the\npattern of Cesare Borgia s conduct, insomuch that Cesare is acclaimed\nby some critics as the  hero  of _The Prince_. Yet in _The Prince_ the\nduke is in point of fact cited as a type of the man who rises on the\nfortune of others, and falls with them; who takes every course that\nmight be expected from a prudent man but the course which will save\nhim; who is prepared for all eventualities but the one which happens;\nand who, when all his abilities fail to carry him through, exclaims\nthat it was not his fault, but an extraordinary and unforeseen\nfatality.\n\nOn the death of Pius III, in 1503, Machiavelli was sent to Rome to\nwatch the election of his successor, and there he saw Cesare Borgia\ncheated into allowing the choice of the College to fall on Giuliano\ndelle Rovere (Julius II), who was one of the cardinals that had most\nreason to fear the duke. Machiavelli, when commenting on this election,\nsays that he who thinks new favours will cause great personages to\nforget old injuries deceives himself. Julius did not rest until he had\nruined Cesare.\n\nIt was to Julius II that Machiavelli was sent in 1506, when that\npontiff was commencing his enterprise against Bologna; which he brought\nto a successful issue, as he did many of his other adventures, owing\nchiefly to his impetuous character. It is in reference to Pope Julius\nthat Machiavelli moralizes on the resemblance between Fortune and\nwomen, and concludes that it is the bold rather than the cautious man\nthat will win and hold them both.\n\nIt is impossible to follow here the varying fortunes of the Italian\nstates, which in 1507 were controlled by France, Spain, and Germany,\nwith results that have lasted to our day; we are concerned with those\nevents, and with the three great actors in them, so far only as they\nimpinge on the personality of Machiavelli. He had several meetings with\nLouis XII of France, and his estimate of that monarch s character has\nalready been alluded to. Machiavelli has painted Ferdinand of Aragon as\nthe man who accomplished great things under the cloak of religion, but\nwho in reality had no mercy, faith, humanity, or integrity; and who,\nhad he allowed himself to be influenced by such motives, would have\nbeen ruined. The Emperor Maximilian was one of the most interesting men\nof the age, and his character has been drawn by many hands; but\nMachiavelli, who was an envoy at his court in 1507-8, reveals the\nsecret of his many failures when he describes him as a secretive man,\nwithout force of character ignoring the human agencies necessary to\ncarry his schemes into effect, and never insisting on the fulfilment of\nhis wishes.\n\nThe remaining years of Machiavelli s official career were filled with\nevents arising out of the League of Cambrai, made in 1508 between the\nthree great European powers already mentioned and the pope, with the\nobject of crushing the Venetian Republic. This result was attained in\nthe battle of Vaila, when Venice lost in one day all that she had won\nin eight hundred years. Florence had a difficult part to play during\nthese events, complicated as they were by the feud which broke out\nbetween the pope and the French, because friendship with France had\ndictated the entire policy of the Republic. When, in 1511, Julius II\nfinally formed the Holy League against France, and with the assistance\nof the Swiss drove the French out of Italy, Florence lay at the mercy\nof the Pope, and had to submit to his terms, one of which was that the\nMedici should be restored. The return of the Medici to Florence on 1st\nSeptember 1512, and the consequent fall of the Republic, was the signal\nfor the dismissal of Machiavelli and his friends, and thus put an end\nto his public career, for, as we have seen, he died without regaining\noffice.\n\n\n\n\nLITERATURE AND DEATH    t. 43-58 1512-27\n\n\nOn the return of the Medici, Machiavelli, who for a few weeks had\nvainly hoped to retain his office under the new masters of Florence,\nwas dismissed by decree dated 7th November 1512. Shortly after this he\nwas accused of complicity in an abortive conspiracy against the Medici,\nimprisoned, and put to the question by torture. The new Medicean pope,\nLeo X, procured his release, and he retired to his small property at\nSan Casciano, near Florence, where he devoted himself to literature. In\na letter to Francesco Vettori, dated 13th December 1513, he has left a\nvery interesting description of his life at this period, which\nelucidates his methods and his motives in writing _The Prince_. After\ndescribing his daily occupations with his family and neighbours, he\nwrites:  The evening being come, I return home and go to my study; at\nthe entrance I pull off my peasant-clothes, covered with dust and dirt,\nand put on my noble court dress, and thus becomingly re-clothed I pass\ninto the ancient courts of the men of old, where, being lovingly\nreceived by them, I am fed with that food which is mine alone; where I\ndo not hesitate to speak with them, and to ask for the reason of their\nactions, and they in their benignity answer me; and for four hours I\nfeel no weariness, I forget every trouble, poverty does not dismay,\ndeath does not terrify me; I am possessed entirely by those great men.\nAnd because Dante says:\n\nKnowledge doth come of learning well retained,\nUnfruitful else,\n\nI have noted down what I have gained from their conversation, and have\ncomposed a small work on  Principalities,  where I pour myself out as\nfully as I can in meditation on the subject, discussing what a\nprincipality is, what kinds there are, how they can be acquired, how\nthey can be kept, why they are lost: and if any of my fancies ever\npleased you, this ought not to displease you: and to a prince,\nespecially to a new one, it should be welcome: therefore I dedicate it\nto his Magnificence Giuliano. Filippo Casavecchio has seen it; he will\nbe able to tell you what is in it, and of the discourses I have had\nwith him; nevertheless, I am still enriching and polishing it. \n\nThe  little book  suffered many vicissitudes before attaining the form\nin which it has reached us. Various mental influences were at work\nduring its composition; its title and patron were changed; and for some\nunknown reason it was finally dedicated to Lorenzo de  Medici. Although\nMachiavelli discussed with Casavecchio whether it should be sent or\npresented in person to the patron, there is no evidence that Lorenzo\never received or even read it: he certainly never gave Machiavelli any\nemployment. Although it was plagiarized during Machiavelli s lifetime,\n_The Prince_ was never published by him, and its text is still\ndisputable.\n\nMachiavelli concludes his letter to Vettori thus:  And as to this\nlittle thing [his book], when it has been read it will be seen that\nduring the fifteen years I have given to the study of statecraft I have\nneither slept nor idled; and men ought ever to desire to be served by\none who has reaped experience at the expense of others. And of my\nloyalty none could doubt, because having always kept faith I could not\nnow learn how to break it; for he who has been faithful and honest, as\nI have, cannot change his nature; and my poverty is a witness to my\nhonesty. \n\nBefore Machiavelli had got _The Prince_ off his hands he commenced his\n Discourse on the First Decade of Titus Livius,  which should be read\nconcurrently with _The Prince_. These and several minor works occupied\nhim until the year 1518, when he accepted a small commission to look\nafter the affairs of some Florentine merchants at Genoa. In 1519 the\nMedicean rulers of Florence granted a few political concessions to her\ncitizens, and Machiavelli with others was consulted upon a new\nconstitution under which the Great Council was to be restored; but on\none pretext or another it was not promulgated.\n\nIn 1520 the Florentine merchants again had recourse to Machiavelli to\nsettle their difficulties with Lucca, but this year was chiefly\nremarkable for his re-entry into Florentine literary society, where he\nwas much sought after, and also for the production of his  Art of War. \nIt was in the same year that he received a commission at the instance\nof Cardinal de  Medici to write the  History of Florence,  a task which\noccupied him until 1525. His return to popular favour may have\ndetermined the Medici to give him this employment, for an old writer\nobserves that  an able statesman out of work, like a huge whale, will\nendeavour to overturn the ship unless he has an empty cask to play\nwith. \n\nWhen the  History of Florence  was finished, Machiavelli took it to\nRome for presentation to his patron, Giuliano de  Medici, who had in\nthe meanwhile become pope under the title of Clement VII. It is\nsomewhat remarkable that, as, in 1513, Machiavelli had written _The\nPrince_ for the instruction of the Medici after they had just regained\npower in Florence, so, in 1525, he dedicated the  History of Florence \nto the head of the family when its ruin was now at hand. In that year\nthe battle of Pavia destroyed the French rule in Italy, and left\nFrancis I a prisoner in the hands of his great rival, Charles V. This\nwas followed by the sack of Rome, upon the news of which the popular\nparty at Florence threw off the yoke of the Medici, who were once more\nbanished.\n\nMachiavelli was absent from Florence at this time, but hastened his\nreturn, hoping to secure his former office of secretary to the  Ten of\nLiberty and Peace.  Unhappily he was taken ill soon after he reached\nFlorence, where he died on 22nd June 1527.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAN AND HIS WORKS\n\n\nNo one can say where the bones of Machiavelli rest, but modern Florence\nhas decreed him a stately cenotaph in Santa Croce, by the side of her\nmost famous sons; recognizing that, whatever other nations may have\nfound in his works, Italy found in them the idea of her unity and the\ngerms of her renaissance among the nations of Europe. Whilst it is idle\nto protest against the world-wide and evil signification of his name,\nit may be pointed out that the harsh construction of his doctrine which\nthis sinister reputation implies was unknown to his own day, and that\nthe researches of recent times have enabled us to interpret him more\nreasonably. It is due to these inquiries that the shape of an  unholy\nnecromancer,  which so long haunted men s vision, has begun to fade.\n\nMachiavelli was undoubtedly a man of great observation, acuteness, and\nindustry; noting with appreciative eye whatever passed before him, and\nwith his supreme literary gift turning it to account in his enforced\nretirement from affairs. He does not present himself, nor is he\ndepicted by his contemporaries, as a type of that rare combination, the\nsuccessful statesman and author, for he appears to have been only\nmoderately prosperous in his several embassies and political\nemployments. He was misled by Catherina Sforza, ignored by Louis XII,\noverawed by Cesare Borgia; several of his embassies were quite barren\nof results; his attempts to fortify Florence failed, and the soldiery\nthat he raised astonished everybody by their cowardice. In the conduct\nof his own affairs he was timid and time-serving; he dared not appear\nby the side of Soderini, to whom he owed so much, for fear of\ncompromising himself; his connection with the Medici was open to\nsuspicion, and Giuliano appears to have recognized his real forte when\nhe set him to write the  History of Florence,  rather than employ him\nin the state. And it is on the literary side of his character, and\nthere alone, that we find no weakness and no failure.\n\nAlthough the light of almost four centuries has been focused on _The\nPrince_, its problems are still debatable and interesting, because they\nare the eternal problems between the ruled and their rulers. Such as\nthey are, its ethics are those of Machiavelli s contemporaries; yet\nthey cannot be said to be out of date so long as the governments of\nEurope rely on material rather than on moral forces. Its historical\nincidents and personages become interesting by reason of the uses which\nMachiavelli makes of them to illustrate his theories of government and\nconduct.\n\nLeaving out of consideration those maxims of state which still furnish\nsome European and eastern statesmen with principles of action, _The\nPrince_ is bestrewn with truths that can be proved at every turn. Men\nare still the dupes of their simplicity and greed, as they were in the\ndays of Alexander VI. The cloak of religion still conceals the vices\nwhich Machiavelli laid bare in the character of Ferdinand of Aragon.\nMen will not look at things as they really are, but as they wish them\nto be and are ruined. In politics there are no perfectly safe courses;\nprudence consists in choosing the least dangerous ones. Then to pass to\na higher plane Machiavelli reiterates that, although crimes may win an\nempire, they do not win glory. Necessary wars are just wars, and the\narms of a nation are hallowed when it has no other resource but to\nfight.\n\nIt is the cry of a far later day than Machiavelli s that government\nshould be elevated into a living moral force, capable of inspiring the\npeople with a just recognition of the fundamental principles of\nsociety; to this  high argument  _The Prince_ contributes but little.\nMachiavelli always refused to write either of men or of governments\notherwise than as he found them, and he writes with such skill and\ninsight that his work is of abiding value. But what invests _The\nPrince_ with more than a merely artistic or historical interest is the\nincontrovertible truth that it deals with the great principles which\nstill guide nations and rulers in their relationship with each other\nand their neighbours.\n\nIn translating _The Prince_ my aim has been to achieve at all costs an\nexact literal rendering of the original, rather than a fluent\nparaphrase adapted to the modern notions of style and expression.\nMachiavelli was no facile phrasemonger; the conditions under which he\nwrote obliged him to weigh every word; his themes were lofty, his\nsubstance grave, his manner nobly plain and serious. _Quis eo fuit\nunquam in partiundis rebus, in definiendis, in explanandis pressior?_\nIn _The Prince_, it may be truly said, there is reason assignable, not\nonly for every word, but for the position of every word. To an\nEnglishman of Shakespeare s time the translation of such a treatise was\nin some ways a comparatively easy task, for in those times the genius\nof the English more nearly resembled that of the Italian language; to\nthe Englishman of to-day it is not so simple. To take a single example:\nthe word _intrattenere_, employed by Machiavelli to indicate the policy\nadopted by the Roman Senate towards the weaker states of Greece, would\nby an Elizabethan be correctly rendered  entertain,  and every\ncontemporary reader would understand what was meant by saying that\n Rome _entertained_ the  tolians and the Achaeans without augmenting\ntheir power.  But to-day such a phrase would seem obsolete and\nambiguous, if not unmeaning: we are compelled to say that  _Rome\nmaintained friendly relations with the  tolians_,  etc., using four\nwords to do the work of one. I have tried to preserve the pithy brevity\nof the Italian so far as was consistent with an absolute fidelity to\nthe sense. If the result be an occasional asperity I can only hope that\nthe reader, in his eagerness to reach the author s meaning, may\noverlook the roughness of the road that leads him to it.\n\nThe following is a list of the works of Machiavelli:\n\nPrincipal works. Discorso sopra le cose di Pisa, 1499; Del modo di\ntrattare i popoli della Valdichiana ribellati, 1502; Del modo tenuto\ndal duca Valentino nell  ammazzare Vitellozzo Vitelli, Oliverotto da\nFermo, etc., 1502; Discorso sopra la provisione del danaro, 1502;\nDecennale primo (poem in terza rima), 1506; Ritratti delle cose dell \nAlemagna, 1508-12; Decennale secondo, 1509; Ritratti delle cose di\nFrancia, 1510; Discorsi sopra la prima deca di T. Livio, 3 vols.,\n1512-17; Il Principe, 1513; Andria, comedy translated from Terence,\n1513 (?); Mandragola, prose comedy in five acts, with prologue in\nverse, 1513; Della lingua (dialogue), 1514; Clizia, comedy in prose,\n1515 (?); Belfagor arcidiavolo (novel), 1515; Asino d oro (poem in\nterza rima), 1517; Dell  arte della guerra, 1519-20; Discorso sopra il\nriformare lo stato di Firenze, 1520; Sommario delle cose della citta di\nLucca, 1520; Vita di Castruccio Castracani da Lucca, 1520; Istorie\nfiorentine, 8 books, 1521-5; Frammenti storici, 1525.\n\nOther poems include Sonetti, Canzoni, Ottave, and Canti\ncarnascialeschi.\n\nEditions. Aldo, Venice, 1546; della Tertina, 1550; Cambiagi, Florence,\n6 vols., 1782-5; dei Classici, Milan, 10 1813; Silvestri, 9 vols.,\n1820-2; Passerini, Fanfani, Milanesi, 6 vols. only published, 1873-7.\n\nMinor works. Ed. F. L. Polidori, 1852; Lettere familiari, ed. E.\nAlvisi, 1883, 2 editions, one with excisions; Credited Writings, ed. G.\nCanestrini, 1857; Letters to F. Vettori, see A. Ridolfi, Pensieri\nintorno allo scopo di N. Machiavelli nel libro Il Principe, etc.; D.\nFerrara, The Private Correspondence of Nicolo Machiavelli, 1929.\n\n\n\n\nDEDICATION\n\n\nTo the Magnificent Lorenzo Di Piero De  Medici\n\nThose who strive to obtain the good graces of a prince are accustomed\nto come before him with such things as they hold most precious, or in\nwhich they see him take most delight; whence one often sees horses,\narms, cloth of gold, precious stones, and similar ornaments presented\nto princes, worthy of their greatness.\n\nDesiring therefore to present myself to your Magnificence with some\ntestimony of my devotion towards you, I have not found among my\npossessions anything which I hold more dear than, or value so much as,\nthe knowledge of the actions of great men, acquired by long experience\nin contemporary affairs, and a continual study of antiquity; which,\nhaving reflected upon it with great and prolonged diligence, I now\nsend, digested into a little volume, to your Magnificence.\n\nAnd although I may consider this work unworthy of your countenance,\nnevertheless I trust much to your benignity that it may be acceptable,\nseeing that it is not possible for me to make a better gift than to\noffer you the opportunity of understanding in the shortest time all\nthat I have learnt in so many years, and with so many troubles and\ndangers; which work I have not embellished with swelling or magnificent\nwords, nor stuffed with rounded periods, nor with any extrinsic\nallurements or adornments whatever, with which so many are accustomed\nto embellish their works; for I have wished either that no honour\nshould be given it, or else that the truth of the matter and the\nweightiness of the theme shall make it acceptable.\n\nNor do I hold with those who regard it as a presumption if a man of low\nand humble condition dare to discuss and settle the concerns of\nprinces; because, just as those who draw landscapes place themselves\nbelow in the plain to contemplate the nature of the mountains and of\nlofty places, and in order to contemplate the plains place themselves\nupon high mountains, even so to understand the nature of the people it\nneeds to be a prince, and to understand that of princes it needs to be\nof the people.\n\nTake then, your Magnificence, this little gift in the spirit in which I\nsend it; wherein, if it be diligently read and considered by you, you\nwill learn my extreme desire that you should attain that greatness\nwhich fortune and your other attributes promise. And if your\nMagnificence from the summit of your greatness will sometimes turn your\neyes to these lower regions, you will see how unmeritedly I suffer a\ngreat and continued malignity of fortune.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRINCE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\nHOW MANY KINDS OF PRINCIPALITIES THERE ARE, AND BY WHAT MEANS THEY ARE\nACQUIRED\n\n\nAll states, all powers, that have held and hold rule over men have been\nand are either republics or principalities.\n\nPrincipalities are either hereditary, in which the family has been long\nestablished; or they are new.\n\nThe new are either entirely new, as was Milan to Francesco Sforza, or\nthey are, as it were, members annexed to the hereditary state of the\nprince who has acquired them, as was the kingdom of Naples to that of\nthe King of Spain.\n\nSuch dominions thus acquired are either accustomed to live under a\nprince, or to live in freedom; and are acquired either by the arms of\nthe prince himself, or of others, or else by fortune or by ability.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nCONCERNING HEREDITARY PRINCIPALITIES\n\n\nI will leave out all discussion on republics, inasmuch as in another\nplace I have written of them at length, and will address myself only to\nprincipalities. In doing so I will keep to the order indicated above,\nand discuss how such principalities are to be ruled and preserved.\n\nI say at once there are fewer difficulties in holding hereditary\nstates, and those long accustomed to the family of their prince, than\nnew ones; for it is sufficient only not to transgress the customs of\nhis ancestors, and to deal prudently with circumstances as they arise,\nfor a prince of average powers to maintain himself in his state, unless\nhe be deprived of it by some extraordinary and excessive force; and if\nhe should be so deprived of it, whenever anything sinister happens to\nthe usurper, he will regain it.\n\nWe have in Italy, for example, the Duke of Ferrara, who could not have\nwithstood the attacks of the Venetians in  84, nor those of Pope Julius\nin  10, unless he had been long established in his dominions. For the\nhereditary prince has less cause and less necessity to offend; hence it\nhappens that he will be more loved; and unless extraordinary vices\ncause him to be hated, it is reasonable to expect that his subjects\nwill be naturally well disposed towards him; and in the antiquity and\nduration of his rule the memories and motives that make for change are\nlost, for one change always leaves the toothing for another.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nCONCERNING MIXED PRINCIPALITIES\n\n\nBut the difficulties occur in a new principality. And firstly, if it be\nnot entirely new, but is, as it were, a member of a state which, taken\ncollectively, may be called composite, the changes arise chiefly from\nan inherent difficulty which there is in all new principalities; for\nmen change their rulers willingly, hoping to better themselves, and\nthis hope induces them to take up arms against him who rules: wherein\nthey are deceived, because they afterwards find by experience they have\ngone from bad to worse. This follows also on another natural and common\nnecessity, which always causes a new prince to burden those who have\nsubmitted to him with his soldiery and with infinite other hardships\nwhich he must put upon his new acquisition.\n\nIn this way you have enemies in all those whom you have injured in\nseizing that principality, and you are not able to keep those friends\nwho put you there because of your not being able to satisfy them in the\nway they expected, and you cannot take strong measures against them,\nfeeling bound to them. For, although one may be very strong in armed\nforces, yet in entering a province one has always need of the goodwill\nof the natives.\n\nFor these reasons Louis the Twelfth, King of France, quickly occupied\nMilan, and as quickly lost it; and to turn him out the first time it\nonly needed Lodovico s own forces; because those who had opened the\ngates to him, finding themselves deceived in their hopes of future\nbenefit, would not endure the ill-treatment of the new prince. It is\nvery true that, after acquiring rebellious provinces a second time,\nthey are not so lightly lost afterwards, because the prince, with\nlittle reluctance, takes the opportunity of the rebellion to punish the\ndelinquents, to clear out the suspects, and to strengthen himself in\nthe weakest places. Thus to cause France to lose Milan the first time\nit was enough for the Duke Lodovico[1] to raise insurrections on the\nborders; but to cause him to lose it a second time it was necessary to\nbring the whole world against him, and that his armies should be\ndefeated and driven out of Italy; which followed from the causes above\nmentioned.\n\n [1] Duke Lodovico was Lodovico Moro, a son of Francesco Sforza, who\n married Beatrice d Este. He ruled over Milan from 1494 to 1500, and\n died in 1510.\n\nNevertheless Milan was taken from France both the first and the second\ntime. The general reasons for the first have been discussed; it remains\nto name those for the second, and to see what resources he had, and\nwhat any one in his situation would have had for maintaining himself\nmore securely in his acquisition than did the King of France.\n\nNow I say that those dominions which, when acquired, are added to an\nancient state by him who acquires them, are either of the same country\nand language, or they are not. When they are, it is easier to hold\nthem, especially when they have not been accustomed to self-government;\nand to hold them securely it is enough to have destroyed the family of\nthe prince who was ruling them; because the two peoples, preserving in\nother things the old conditions, and not being unlike in customs, will\nlive quietly together, as one has seen in Brittany, Burgundy, Gascony,\nand Normandy, which have been bound to France for so long a time: and,\nalthough there may be some difference in language, nevertheless the\ncustoms are alike, and the people will easily be able to get on amongst\nthemselves. He who has annexed them, if he wishes to hold them, has\nonly to bear in mind two considerations: the one, that the family of\ntheir former lord is extinguished; the other, that neither their laws\nnor their taxes are altered, so that in a very short time they will\nbecome entirely one body with the old principality.\n\nBut when states are acquired in a country differing in language,\ncustoms, or laws, there are difficulties, and good fortune and great\nenergy are needed to hold them, and one of the greatest and most real\nhelps would be that he who has acquired them should go and reside\nthere. This would make his position more secure and durable, as it has\nmade that of the Turk in Greece, who, notwithstanding all the other\nmeasures taken by him for holding that state, if he had not settled\nthere, would not have been able to keep it. Because, if one is on the\nspot, disorders are seen as they spring up, and one can quickly remedy\nthem; but if one is not at hand, they are heard of only when they are\ngreat, and then one can no longer remedy them. Besides this, the\ncountry is not pillaged by your officials; the subjects are satisfied\nby prompt recourse to the prince; thus, wishing to be good, they have\nmore cause to love him, and wishing to be otherwise, to fear him. He\nwho would attack that state from the outside must have the utmost\ncaution; as long as the prince resides there it can only be wrested\nfrom him with the greatest difficulty.\n\nThe other and better course is to send colonies to one or two places,\nwhich may be as keys to that state, for it is necessary either to do\nthis or else to keep there a great number of cavalry and infantry. A\nprince does not spend much on colonies, for with little or no expense\nhe can send them out and keep them there, and he offends a minority\nonly of the citizens from whom he takes lands and houses to give them\nto the new inhabitants; and those whom he offends, remaining poor and\nscattered, are never able to injure him; whilst the rest being\nuninjured are easily kept quiet, and at the same time are anxious not\nto err for fear it should happen to them as it has to those who have\nbeen despoiled. In conclusion, I say that these colonies are not\ncostly, they are more faithful, they injure less, and the injured, as\nhas been said, being poor and scattered, cannot hurt. Upon this, one\nhas to remark that men ought either to be well treated or crushed,\nbecause they can avenge themselves of lighter injuries, of more serious\nones they cannot; therefore the injury that is to be done to a man\nought to be of such a kind that one does not stand in fear of revenge.\n\nBut in maintaining armed men there in place of colonies one spends much\nmore, having to consume on the garrison all the income from the state,\nso that the acquisition turns into a loss, and many more are\nexasperated, because the whole state is injured; through the shifting\nof the garrison up and down all become acquainted with hardship, and\nall become hostile, and they are enemies who, whilst beaten on their\nown ground, are yet able to do hurt. For every reason, therefore, such\nguards are as useless as a colony is useful.\n\nAgain, the prince who holds a country differing in the above respects\nought to make himself the head and defender of his less powerful\nneighbours, and to weaken the more powerful amongst them, taking care\nthat no foreigner as powerful as himself shall, by any accident, get a\nfooting there; for it will always happen that such a one will be\nintroduced by those who are discontented, either through excess of\nambition or through fear, as one has seen already. The Romans were\nbrought into Greece by the  tolians; and in every other country where\nthey obtained a footing they were brought in by the inhabitants. And\nthe usual course of affairs is that, as soon as a powerful foreigner\nenters a country, all the subject states are drawn to him, moved by the\nhatred which they feel against the ruling power. So that in respect to\nthose subject states he has not to take any trouble to gain them over\nto himself, for the whole of them quickly rally to the state which he\nhas acquired there. He has only to take care that they do not get hold\nof too much power and too much authority, and then with his own forces,\nand with their goodwill, he can easily keep down the more powerful of\nthem, so as to remain entirely master in the country. And he who does\nnot properly manage this business will soon lose what he has acquired,\nand whilst he does hold it he will have endless difficulties and\ntroubles.\n\nThe Romans, in the countries which they annexed, observed closely these\nmeasures; they sent colonies and maintained friendly relations with[2]\nthe minor powers, without increasing their strength; they kept down the\ngreater, and did not allow any strong foreign powers to gain authority.\nGreece appears to me sufficient for an example. The Achaeans and\n tolians were kept friendly by them, the kingdom of Macedonia was\nhumbled, Antiochus was driven out; yet the merits of the Achaeans and\n tolians never secured for them permission to increase their power, nor\ndid the persuasions of Philip ever induce the Romans to be his friends\nwithout first humbling him, nor did the influence of Antiochus make\nthem agree that he should retain any lordship over the country. Because\nthe Romans did in these instances what all prudent princes ought to do,\nwho have to regard not only present troubles, but also future ones, for\nwhich they must prepare with every energy, because, when foreseen, it\nis easy to remedy them; but if you wait until they approach, the\nmedicine is no longer in time because the malady has become incurable;\nfor it happens in this, as the physicians say it happens in hectic\nfever, that in the beginning of the malady it is easy to cure but\ndifficult to detect, but in the course of time, not having been either\ndetected or treated in the beginning, it becomes easy to detect but\ndifficult to cure. Thus it happens in affairs of state, for when the\nevils that arise have been foreseen (which it is only given to a wise\nman to see), they can be quickly redressed, but when, through not\nhaving been foreseen, they have been permitted to grow in a way that\nevery one can see them, there is no longer a remedy. Therefore, the\nRomans, foreseeing troubles, dealt with them at once, and, even to\navoid a war, would not let them come to a head, for they knew that war\nis not to be avoided, but is only to be put off to the advantage of\nothers; moreover they wished to fight with Philip and Antiochus in\nGreece so as not to have to do it in Italy; they could have avoided\nboth, but this they did not wish; nor did that ever please them which\nis forever in the mouths of the wise ones of our time: Let us enjoy the\nbenefits of the time but rather the benefits of their own valour and\nprudence, for time drives everything before it, and is able to bring\nwith it good as well as evil, and evil as well as good.\n\n [2] See remark in the introduction on the word  intrattenere. \n\nBut let us turn to France and inquire whether she has done any of the\nthings mentioned. I will speak of Louis[3] (and not of Charles)[4] as\nthe one whose conduct is the better to be observed, he having held\npossession of Italy for the longest period; and you will see that he\nhas done the opposite to those things which ought to be done to retain\na state composed of divers elements.\n\n [3] Louis XII, King of France,  The Father of the People,  born 1462,\n died 1515.\n\n [4] Charles VIII, King of France, born 1470, died 1498.\n\nKing Louis was brought into Italy by the ambition of the Venetians, who\ndesired to obtain half the state of Lombardy by his intervention. I\nwill not blame the course taken by the king, because, wishing to get a\nfoothold in Italy, and having no friends there seeing rather that every\ndoor was shut to him owing to the conduct of Charles he was forced to\naccept those friendships which he could get, and he would have\nsucceeded very quickly in his design if in other matters he had not\nmade some mistakes. The king, however, having acquired Lombardy,\nregained at once the authority which Charles had lost: Genoa yielded;\nthe Florentines became his friends; the Marquess of Mantua, the Duke of\nFerrara, the Bentivogli, my lady of Forli, the Lords of Faenza, of\nPesaro, of Rimini, of Camerino, of Piombino, the Lucchese, the Pisans,\nthe Sienese everybody made advances to him to become his friend. Then\ncould the Venetians realize the rashness of the course taken by them,\nwhich, in order that they might secure two towns in Lombardy, had made\nthe king master of two-thirds of Italy.\n\nLet any one now consider with what little difficulty the king could\nhave maintained his position in Italy had he observed the rules above\nlaid down, and kept all his friends secure and protected; for although\nthey were numerous they were both weak and timid, some afraid of the\nChurch, some of the Venetians, and thus they would always have been\nforced to stand in with him, and by their means he could easily have\nmade himself secure against those who remained powerful. But he was no\nsooner in Milan than he did the contrary by assisting Pope Alexander to\noccupy the Romagna. It never occurred to him that by this action he was\nweakening himself, depriving himself of friends and of those who had\nthrown themselves into his lap, whilst he aggrandized the Church by\nadding much temporal power to the spiritual, thus giving it greater\nauthority. And having committed this prime error, he was obliged to\nfollow it up, so much so that, to put an end to the ambition of\nAlexander, and to prevent his becoming the master of Tuscany, he was\nhimself forced to come into Italy.\n\nAnd as if it were not enough to have aggrandized the Church, and\ndeprived himself of friends, he, wishing to have the kingdom of Naples,\ndivided it with the King of Spain, and where he was the prime arbiter\nin Italy he takes an associate, so that the ambitious of that country\nand the malcontents of his own should have somewhere to shelter; and\nwhereas he could have left in the kingdom his own pensioner as king, he\ndrove him out, to put one there who was able to drive him, Louis, out\nin turn.\n\nThe wish to acquire is in truth very natural and common, and men always\ndo so when they can, and for this they will be praised not blamed; but\nwhen they cannot do so, yet wish to do so by any means, then there is\nfolly and blame. Therefore, if France could have attacked Naples with\nher own forces she ought to have done so; if she could not, then she\nought not to have divided it. And if the partition which she made with\nthe Venetians in Lombardy was justified by the excuse that by it she\ngot a foothold in Italy, this other partition merited blame, for it had\nnot the excuse of that necessity.\n\nTherefore Louis made these five errors: he destroyed the minor powers,\nhe increased the strength of one of the greater powers in Italy, he\nbrought in a foreign power, he did not settle in the country, he did\nnot send colonies. Which errors, had he lived, were not enough to\ninjure him had he not made a sixth by taking away their dominions from\nthe Venetians; because, had he not aggrandized the Church, nor brought\nSpain into Italy, it would have been very reasonable and necessary to\nhumble them; but having first taken these steps, he ought never to have\nconsented to their ruin, for they, being powerful, would always have\nkept off others from designs on Lombardy, to which the Venetians would\nnever have consented except to become masters themselves there; also\nbecause the others would not wish to take Lombardy from France in order\nto give it to the Venetians, and to run counter to both they would not\nhave had the courage.\n\nAnd if any one should say:  King Louis yielded the Romagna to Alexander\nand the kingdom to Spain to avoid war,  I answer for the reasons given\nabove that a blunder ought never to be perpetrated to avoid war,\nbecause it is not to be avoided, but is only deferred to your\ndisadvantage. And if another should allege the pledge which the king\nhad given to the Pope that he would assist him in the enterprise, in\nexchange for the dissolution of his marriage[5] and for the cap to\nRouen,[6] to that I reply what I shall write later on concerning the\nfaith of princes, and how it ought to be kept.\n\n [5] Louis XII divorced his wife, Jeanne, daughter of Louis XI, and\n married in 1499 Anne of Brittany, widow of Charles VIII, in order to\n retain the Duchy of Brittany for the crown.\n\n [6] The Archbishop of Rouen. He was Georges d Amboise, created a\n cardinal by Alexander VI. Born 1460, died 1510.\n\nThus King Louis lost Lombardy by not having followed any of the\nconditions observed by those who have taken possession of countries and\nwished to retain them. Nor is there any miracle in this, but much that\nis reasonable and quite natural. And on these matters I spoke at Nantes\nwith Rouen, when Valentino, as Cesare Borgia, the son of Pope\nAlexander, was usually called, occupied the Romagna, and on Cardinal\nRouen observing to me that the Italians did not understand war, I\nreplied to him that the French did not understand statecraft, meaning\nthat otherwise they would not have allowed the Church to reach such\ngreatness. And in fact it has been seen that the greatness of the\nChurch and of Spain in Italy has been caused by France, and her ruin\nmay be attributed to them. From this a general rule is drawn which\nnever or rarely fails: that he who is the cause of another becoming\npowerful is ruined; because that predominancy has been brought about\neither by astuteness or else by force, and both are distrusted by him\nwho has been raised to power.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nWHY THE KINGDOM OF DARIUS, CONQUERED BY ALEXANDER, DID NOT REBEL\nAGAINST THE SUCCESSORS OF ALEXANDER AT HIS DEATH\n\n\nConsidering the difficulties which men have had to hold to a newly\nacquired state, some might wonder how, seeing that Alexander the Great\nbecame the master of Asia in a few years, and died whilst it was\nscarcely settled (whence it might appear reasonable that the whole\nempire would have rebelled), nevertheless his successors maintained\nthemselves, and had to meet no other difficulty than that which arose\namong themselves from their own ambitions.\n\nI answer that the principalities of which one has record are found to\nbe governed in two different ways; either by a prince, with a body of\nservants, who assist him to govern the kingdom as ministers by his\nfavour and permission; or by a prince and barons, who hold that dignity\nby antiquity of blood and not by the grace of the prince. Such barons\nhave states and their own subjects, who recognize them as lords and\nhold them in natural affection. Those states that are governed by a\nprince and his servants hold their prince in more consideration,\nbecause in all the country there is no one who is recognized as\nsuperior to him, and if they yield obedience to another they do it as\nto a minister and official, and they do not bear him any particular\naffection.\n\nThe examples of these two governments in our time are the Turk and the\nKing of France. The entire monarchy of the Turk is governed by one\nlord, the others are his servants; and, dividing his kingdom into\nsanjaks, he sends there different administrators, and shifts and\nchanges them as he chooses. But the King of France is placed in the\nmidst of an ancient body of lords, acknowledged by their own subjects,\nand beloved by them; they have their own prerogatives, nor can the king\ntake these away except at his peril. Therefore, he who considers both\nof these states will recognize great difficulties in seizing the state\nof the Turk, but, once it is conquered, great ease in holding it. The\ncauses of the difficulties in seizing the kingdom of the Turk are that\nthe usurper cannot be called in by the princes of the kingdom, nor can\nhe hope to be assisted in his designs by the revolt of those whom the\nlord has around him. This arises from the reasons given above; for his\nministers, being all slaves and bondmen, can only be corrupted with\ngreat difficulty, and one can expect little advantage from them when\nthey have been corrupted, as they cannot carry the people with them,\nfor the reasons assigned. Hence, he who attacks the Turk must bear in\nmind that he will find him united, and he will have to rely more on his\nown strength than on the revolt of others; but, if once the Turk has\nbeen conquered, and routed in the field in such a way that he cannot\nreplace his armies, there is nothing to fear but the family of this\nprince, and, this being exterminated, there remains no one to fear, the\nothers having no credit with the people; and as the conqueror did not\nrely on them before his victory, so he ought not to fear them after it.\n\nThe contrary happens in kingdoms governed like that of France, because\none can easily enter there by gaining over some baron of the kingdom,\nfor one always finds malcontents and such as desire a change. Such men,\nfor the reasons given, can open the way into the state and render the\nvictory easy; but if you wish to hold it afterwards, you meet with\ninfinite difficulties, both from those who have assisted you and from\nthose you have crushed. Nor is it enough for you to have exterminated\nthe family of the prince, because the lords that remain make themselves\nthe heads of fresh movements against you, and as you are unable either\nto satisfy or exterminate them, that state is lost whenever time brings\nthe opportunity.\n\nNow if you will consider what was the nature of the government of\nDarius, you will find it similar to the kingdom of the Turk, and\ntherefore it was only necessary for Alexander, first to overthrow him\nin the field, and then to take the country from him. After which\nvictory, Darius being killed, the state remained secure to Alexander,\nfor the above reasons. And if his successors had been united they would\nhave enjoyed it securely and at their ease, for there were no tumults\nraised in the kingdom except those they provoked themselves.\n\nBut it is impossible to hold with such tranquillity states constituted\nlike that of France. Hence arose those frequent rebellions against the\nRomans in Spain, France, and Greece, owing to the many principalities\nthere were in these states, of which, as long as the memory of them\nendured, the Romans always held an insecure possession; but with the\npower and long continuance of the empire the memory of them passed\naway, and the Romans then became secure possessors. And when fighting\nafterwards amongst themselves, each one was able to attach to himself\nhis own parts of the country, according to the authority he had assumed\nthere; and the family of the former lord being exterminated, none other\nthan the Romans were acknowledged.\n\nWhen these things are remembered no one will marvel at the ease with\nwhich Alexander held the Empire of Asia, or at the difficulties which\nothers have had to keep an acquisition, such as Pyrrhus and many more;\nthis is not occasioned by the little or abundance of ability in the\nconqueror, but by the want of uniformity in the subject state.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nCONCERNING THE WAY TO GOVERN CITIES OR PRINCIPALITIES WHICH LIVED UNDER\nTHEIR OWN LAWS BEFORE THEY WERE ANNEXED\n\n\nWhenever those states which have been acquired as stated have been\naccustomed to live under their own laws and in freedom, there are three\ncourses for those who wish to hold them: the first is to ruin them, the\nnext is to reside there in person, the third is to permit them to live\nunder their own laws, drawing a tribute, and establishing within it an\noligarchy which will keep it friendly to you. Because such a\ngovernment, being created by the prince, knows that it cannot stand\nwithout his friendship and interest, and does its utmost to support\nhim; and therefore he who would keep a city accustomed to freedom will\nhold it more easily by the means of its own citizens than in any other\nway.\n\nThere are, for example, the Spartans and the Romans. The Spartans held\nAthens and Thebes, establishing there an oligarchy: nevertheless they\nlost them. The Romans, in order to hold Capua, Carthage, and Numantia,\ndismantled them, and did not lose them. They wished to hold Greece as\nthe Spartans held it, making it free and permitting its laws, and did\nnot succeed. So to hold it they were compelled to dismantle many cities\nin the country, for in truth there is no safe way to retain them\notherwise than by ruining them. And he who becomes master of a city\naccustomed to freedom and does not destroy it, may expect to be\ndestroyed by it, for in rebellion it has always the watchword of\nliberty and its ancient privileges as a rallying point, which neither\ntime nor benefits will ever cause it to forget. And whatever you may do\nor provide against, they never forget that name or their privileges\nunless they are disunited or dispersed, but at every chance they\nimmediately rally to them, as Pisa after the hundred years she had been\nheld in bondage by the Florentines.\n\nBut when cities or countries are accustomed to live under a prince, and\nhis family is exterminated, they, being on the one hand accustomed to\nobey and on the other hand not having the old prince, cannot agree in\nmaking one from amongst themselves, and they do not know how to govern\nthemselves. For this reason they are very slow to take up arms, and a\nprince can gain them to himself and secure them much more easily. But\nin republics there is more vitality, greater hatred, and more desire\nfor vengeance, which will never permit them to allow the memory of\ntheir former liberty to rest; so that the safest way is to destroy them\nor to reside there.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nCONCERNING NEW PRINCIPALITIES WHICH ARE ACQUIRED BY ONE S OWN ARMS AND\nABILITY\n\n\nLet no one be surprised if, in speaking of entirely new principalities\nas I shall do, I adduce the highest examples both of prince and of\nstate; because men, walking almost always in paths beaten by others,\nand following by imitation their deeds, are yet unable to keep entirely\nto the ways of others or attain to the power of those they imitate. A\nwise man ought always to follow the paths beaten by great men, and to\nimitate those who have been supreme, so that if his ability does not\nequal theirs, at least it will savour of it. Let him act like the\nclever archers who, designing to hit the mark which yet appears too far\ndistant, and knowing the limits to which the strength of their bow\nattains, take aim much higher than the mark, not to reach by their\nstrength or arrow to so great a height, but to be able with the aid of\nso high an aim to hit the mark they wish to reach.\n\nI say, therefore, that in entirely new principalities, where there is a\nnew prince, more or less difficulty is found in keeping them,\naccordingly as there is more or less ability in him who has acquired\nthe state. Now, as the fact of becoming a prince from a private station\npresupposes either ability or fortune, it is clear that one or other of\nthese things will mitigate in some degree many difficulties.\nNevertheless, he who has relied least on fortune is established the\nstrongest. Further, it facilitates matters when the prince, having no\nother state, is compelled to reside there in person.\n\nBut to come to those who, by their own ability and not through fortune,\nhave risen to be princes, I say that Moses, Cyrus, Romulus, Theseus,\nand such like are the most excellent examples. And although one may not\ndiscuss Moses, he having been a mere executor of the will of God, yet\nhe ought to be admired, if only for that favour which made him worthy\nto speak with God. But in considering Cyrus and others who have\nacquired or founded kingdoms, all will be found admirable; and if their\nparticular deeds and conduct shall be considered, they will not be\nfound inferior to those of Moses, although he had so great a preceptor.\nAnd in examining their actions and lives one cannot see that they owed\nanything to fortune beyond opportunity, which brought them the material\nto mould into the form which seemed best to them. Without that\nopportunity their powers of mind would have been extinguished, and\nwithout those powers the opportunity would have come in vain.\n\nIt was necessary, therefore, to Moses that he should find the people of\nIsrael in Egypt enslaved and oppressed by the Egyptians, in order that\nthey should be disposed to follow him so as to be delivered out of\nbondage. It was necessary that Romulus should not remain in Alba, and\nthat he should be abandoned at his birth, in order that he should\nbecome King of Rome and founder of the fatherland. It was necessary\nthat Cyrus should find the Persians discontented with the government of\nthe Medes, and the Medes soft and effeminate through their long peace.\nTheseus could not have shown his ability had he not found the Athenians\ndispersed. These opportunities, therefore, made those men fortunate,\nand their high ability enabled them to recognize the opportunity\nwhereby their country was ennobled and made famous.\n\nThose who by valorous ways become princes, like these men, acquire a\nprincipality with difficulty, but they keep it with ease. The\ndifficulties they have in acquiring it rise in part from the new rules\nand methods which they are forced to introduce to establish their\ngovernment and its security. And it ought to be remembered that there\nis nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or\nmore uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the\nintroduction of a new order of things, because the innovator has for\nenemies all those who have done well under the old conditions, and\nlukewarm defenders in those who may do well under the new. This\ncoolness arises partly from fear of the opponents, who have the laws on\ntheir side, and partly from the incredulity of men, who do not readily\nbelieve in new things until they have had a long experience of them.\nThus it happens that whenever those who are hostile have the\nopportunity to attack they do it like partisans, whilst the others\ndefend lukewarmly, in such wise that the prince is endangered along\nwith them.\n\nIt is necessary, therefore, if we desire to discuss this matter\nthoroughly, to inquire whether these innovators can rely on themselves\nor have to depend on others: that is to say, whether, to consummate\ntheir enterprise, have they to use prayers or can they use force? In\nthe first instance they always succeed badly, and never compass\nanything; but when they can rely on themselves and use force, then they\nare rarely endangered. Hence it is that all armed prophets have\nconquered, and the unarmed ones have been destroyed. Besides the\nreasons mentioned, the nature of the people is variable, and whilst it\nis easy to persuade them, it is difficult to fix them in that\npersuasion. And thus it is necessary to take such measures that, when\nthey believe no longer, it may be possible to make them believe by\nforce.\n\nIf Moses, Cyrus, Theseus, and Romulus had been unarmed they could not\nhave enforced their constitutions for long as happened in our time to\nFra Girolamo Savonarola, who was ruined with his new order of things\nimmediately the multitude believed in him no longer, and he had no\nmeans of keeping steadfast those who believed or of making the\nunbelievers to believe. Therefore such as these have great difficulties\nin consummating their enterprise, for all their dangers are in the\nascent, yet with ability they will overcome them; but when these are\novercome, and those who envied them their success are exterminated,\nthey will begin to be respected, and they will continue afterwards\npowerful, secure, honoured, and happy.\n\nTo these great examples I wish to add a lesser one; still it bears some\nresemblance to them, and I wish it to suffice me for all of a like\nkind: it is Hiero the Syracusan.[1] This man rose from a private\nstation to be Prince of Syracuse, nor did he, either, owe anything to\nfortune but opportunity; for the Syracusans, being oppressed, chose him\nfor their captain, afterwards he was rewarded by being made their\nprince. He was of so great ability, even as a private citizen, that one\nwho writes of him says he wanted nothing but a kingdom to be a king.\nThis man abolished the old soldiery, organized the new, gave up old\nalliances, made new ones; and as he had his own soldiers and allies, on\nsuch foundations he was able to build any edifice: thus, whilst he had\nendured much trouble in acquiring, he had but little in keeping.\n\n [1] Hiero II, born about 307 B.C., died 216 B.C.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nCONCERNING NEW PRINCIPALITIES WHICH ARE ACQUIRED EITHER BY THE ARMS OF\nOTHERS OR BY GOOD FORTUNE\n\n\nThose who solely by good fortune become princes from being private\ncitizens have little trouble in rising, but much in keeping atop; they\nhave not any difficulties on the way up, because they fly, but they\nhave many when they reach the summit. Such are those to whom some state\nis given either for money or by the favour of him who bestows it; as\nhappened to many in Greece, in the cities of Ionia and of the\nHellespont, where princes were made by Darius, in order that they might\nhold the cities both for his security and his glory; as also were those\nemperors who, by the corruption of the soldiers, from being citizens\ncame to empire. Such stand simply elevated upon the goodwill and the\nfortune of him who has elevated them two most inconstant and unstable\nthings. Neither have they the knowledge requisite for the position;\nbecause, unless they are men of great worth and ability, it is not\nreasonable to expect that they should know how to command, having\nalways lived in a private condition; besides, they cannot hold it\nbecause they have not forces which they can keep friendly and faithful.\n\nStates that rise unexpectedly, then, like all other things in nature\nwhich are born and grow rapidly, cannot leave their foundations and\ncorrespondencies[1] fixed in such a way that the first storm will not\noverthrow them; unless, as is said, those who unexpectedly become\nprinces are men of so much ability that they know they have to be\nprepared at once to hold that which fortune has thrown into their laps,\nand that those foundations, which others have laid _before_ they became\nprinces, they must lay _afterwards_.\n\n [1]  Le radici e corrispondenze,  their roots (i.e. foundations) and\n correspondencies or relations with other states a common meaning of\n  correspondence  and  correspondency  in the sixteenth and seventeenth\n centuries.\n\nConcerning these two methods of rising to be a prince by ability or\nfortune, I wish to adduce two examples within our own recollection, and\nthese are Francesco Sforza[2] and Cesare Borgia. Francesco, by proper\nmeans and with great ability, from being a private person rose to be\nDuke of Milan, and that which he had acquired with a thousand anxieties\nhe kept with little trouble. On the other hand, Cesare Borgia, called\nby the people Duke Valentino, acquired his state during the ascendancy\nof his father, and on its decline he lost it, notwithstanding that he\nhad taken every measure and done all that ought to be done by a wise\nand able man to fix firmly his roots in the states which the arms and\nfortunes of others had bestowed on him.\n\n [2] Francesco Sforza, born 1401, died 1466. He married Bianca Maria\n Visconti, a natural daughter of Filippo Visconti, the Duke of Milan,\n on whose death he procured his own elevation to the duchy. Machiavelli\n was the accredited agent of the Florentine Republic to Cesare Borgia\n (1478-1507) during the transactions which led up to the assassinations\n of the Orsini and Vitelli at Sinigalia, and along with his letters to\n his chiefs in Florence he has left an account, written ten years\n before _The Prince_, of the proceedings of the duke in his\n  Descritione del modo tenuto dal duca Valentino nello ammazzare\n Vitellozzo Vitelli,  etc., a translation of which is appended to the\n present work.\n\nBecause, as is stated above, he who has not first laid his foundations\nmay be able with great ability to lay them afterwards, but they will be\nlaid with trouble to the architect and danger to the building. If,\ntherefore, all the steps taken by the duke be considered, it will be\nseen that he laid solid foundations for his future power, and I do not\nconsider it superfluous to discuss them, because I do not know what\nbetter precepts to give a new prince than the example of his actions;\nand if his dispositions were of no avail, that was not his fault, but\nthe extraordinary and extreme malignity of fortune.\n\nAlexander the Sixth, in wishing to aggrandize the duke, his son, had\nmany immediate and prospective difficulties. Firstly, he did not see\nhis way to make him master of any state that was not a state of the\nChurch; and if he was willing to rob the Church he knew that the Duke\nof Milan and the Venetians would not consent, because Faenza and Rimini\nwere already under the protection of the Venetians. Besides this, he\nsaw the arms of Italy, especially those by which he might have been\nassisted, in hands that would fear the aggrandizement of the Pope,\nnamely, the Orsini and the Colonnesi and their following. It behoved\nhim, therefore, to upset this state of affairs and embroil the powers,\nso as to make himself securely master of part of their states. This was\neasy for him to do, because he found the Venetians, moved by other\nreasons, inclined to bring back the French into Italy; he would not\nonly not oppose this, but he would render it more easy by dissolving\nthe former marriage of King Louis. Therefore the king came into Italy\nwith the assistance of the Venetians and the consent of Alexander. He\nwas no sooner in Milan than the Pope had soldiers from him for the\nattempt on the Romagna, which yielded to him on the reputation of the\nking. The duke, therefore, having acquired the Romagna and beaten the\nColonnesi, while wishing to hold that and to advance further, was\nhindered by two things: the one, his forces did not appear loyal to\nhim, the other, the goodwill of France: that is to say, he feared that\nthe forces of the Orsini, which he was using, would not stand to him,\nthat not only might they hinder him from winning more, but might\nthemselves seize what he had won, and that the king might also do the\nsame. Of the Orsini he had a warning when, after taking Faenza and\nattacking Bologna, he saw them go very unwillingly to that attack. And\nas to the king, he learned his mind when he himself, after taking the\nDuchy of Urbino, attacked Tuscany, and the king made him desist from\nthat undertaking; hence the duke decided to depend no more upon the\narms and the luck of others.\n\nFor the first thing he weakened the Orsini and Colonnesi parties in\nRome, by gaining to himself all their adherents who were gentlemen,\nmaking them his gentlemen, giving them good pay, and, according to\ntheir rank, honouring them with office and command in such a way that\nin a few months all attachment to the factions was destroyed and turned\nentirely to the duke. After this he awaited an opportunity to crush the\nOrsini, having scattered the adherents of the Colonna house. This came\nto him soon and he used it well; for the Orsini, perceiving at length\nthat the aggrandizement of the duke and the Church was ruin to them,\ncalled a meeting of the Magione in Perugia. From this sprung the\nrebellion at Urbino and the tumults in the Romagna, with endless\ndangers to the duke, all of which he overcame with the help of the\nFrench. Having restored his authority, not to leave it at risk by\ntrusting either to the French or other outside forces, he had recourse\nto his wiles, and he knew so well how to conceal his mind that, by the\nmediation of Signor Pagolo whom the duke did not fail to secure with\nall kinds of attention, giving him money, apparel, and horses the\nOrsini were reconciled, so that their simplicity brought them into his\npower at Sinigalia.[3] Having exterminated the leaders, and turned\ntheir partisans into his friends, the duke laid sufficiently good\nfoundations to his power, having all the Romagna and the Duchy of\nUrbino; and the people now beginning to appreciate their prosperity, he\ngained them all over to himself. And as this point is worthy of notice,\nand to be imitated by others, I am not willing to leave it out.\n\n [3] Sinigalia, 31st December 1502.\n\nWhen the duke occupied the Romagna he found it under the rule of weak\nmasters, who rather plundered their subjects than ruled them, and gave\nthem more cause for disunion than for union, so that the country was\nfull of robbery, quarrels, and every kind of violence; and so, wishing\nto bring back peace and obedience to authority, he considered it\nnecessary to give it a good governor. Thereupon he promoted Messer\nRamiro d Orco,[4] a swift and cruel man, to whom he gave the fullest\npower. This man in a short time restored peace and unity with the\ngreatest success. Afterwards the duke considered that it was not\nadvisable to confer such excessive authority, for he had no doubt but\nthat he would become odious, so he set up a court of judgment in the\ncountry, under a most excellent president, wherein all cities had their\nadvocates. And because he knew that the past severity had caused some\nhatred against himself, so, to clear himself in the minds of the\npeople, and gain them entirely to himself, he desired to show that, if\nany cruelty had been practised, it had not originated with him, but in\nthe natural sternness of the minister. Under this pretence he took\nRamiro, and one morning caused him to be executed and left on the\npiazza at Cesena with the block and a bloody knife at his side. The\nbarbarity of this spectacle caused the people to be at once satisfied\nand dismayed.\n\n [4] Ramiro d Orco. Ramiro de Lorqua.\n\nBut let us return whence we started. I say that the duke, finding\nhimself now sufficiently powerful and partly secured from immediate\ndangers by having armed himself in his own way, and having in a great\nmeasure crushed those forces in his vicinity that could injure him if\nhe wished to proceed with his conquest, had next to consider France,\nfor he knew that the king, who too late was aware of his mistake, would\nnot support him. And from this time he began to seek new alliances and\nto temporize with France in the expedition which she was making towards\nthe kingdom of Naples against the Spaniards who were besieging Gaeta.\nIt was his intention to secure himself against them, and this he would\nhave quickly accomplished had Alexander lived.\n\nSuch was his line of action as to present affairs. But as to the future\nhe had to fear, in the first place, that a new successor to the Church\nmight not be friendly to him and might seek to take from him that which\nAlexander had given him, so he decided to act in four ways. Firstly, by\nexterminating the families of those lords whom he had despoiled, so as\nto take away that pretext from the Pope. Secondly, by winning to\nhimself all the gentlemen of Rome, so as to be able to curb the Pope\nwith their aid, as has been observed. Thirdly, by converting the\ncollege more to himself. Fourthly, by acquiring so much power before\nthe Pope should die that he could by his own measures resist the first\nshock. Of these four things, at the death of Alexander, he had\naccomplished three. For he had killed as many of the dispossessed lords\nas he could lay hands on, and few had escaped; he had won over the\nRoman gentlemen, and he had the most numerous party in the college. And\nas to any fresh acquisition, he intended to become master of Tuscany,\nfor he already possessed Perugia and Piombino, and Pisa was under his\nprotection. And as he had no longer to study France (for the French\nwere already driven out of the kingdom of Naples by the Spaniards, and\nin this way both were compelled to buy his goodwill), he pounced down\nupon Pisa. After this, Lucca and Siena yielded at once, partly through\nhatred and partly through fear of the Florentines; and the Florentines\nwould have had no remedy had he continued to prosper, as he was\nprospering the year that Alexander died, for he had acquired so much\npower and reputation that he would have stood by himself, and no longer\nhave depended on the luck and the forces of others, but solely on his\nown power and ability.\n\nBut Alexander died five years after he had first drawn the sword. He\nleft the duke with the state of Romagna alone consolidated, with the\nrest in the air, between two most powerful hostile armies, and sick\nunto death. Yet there were in the duke such boldness and ability, and\nhe knew so well how men are to be won or lost, and so firm were the\nfoundations which in so short a time he had laid, that if he had not\nhad those armies on his back, or if he had been in good health, he\nwould have overcome all difficulties. And it is seen that his\nfoundations were good, for the Romagna awaited him for more than a\nmonth. In Rome, although but half alive, he remained secure; and whilst\nthe Baglioni, the Vitelli, and the Orsini might come to Rome, they\ncould not effect anything against him. If he could not have made Pope\nhim whom he wished, at least the one whom he did not wish would not\nhave been elected. But if he had been in sound health at the death of\nAlexander,[5] everything would have been different to him. On the day\nthat Julius the Second[6] was elected, he told me that he had thought\nof everything that might occur at the death of his father, and had\nprovided a remedy for all, except that he had never anticipated that,\nwhen the death did happen, he himself would be on the point to die.\n\n [5] Alexander VI died of fever, 18th August 1503.\n\n [6] Julius II was Giuliano della Rovere, Cardinal of San Pietro ad\n Vincula, born 1443, died 1513.\n\nWhen all the actions of the duke are recalled, I do not know how to\nblame him, but rather it appears to be, as I have said, that I ought to\noffer him for imitation to all those who, by the fortune or the arms of\nothers, are raised to government. Because he, having a lofty spirit and\nfar-reaching aims, could not have regulated his conduct otherwise, and\nonly the shortness of the life of Alexander and his own sickness\nfrustrated his designs. Therefore, he who considers it necessary to\nsecure himself in his new principality, to win friends, to overcome\neither by force or fraud, to make himself beloved and feared by the\npeople, to be followed and revered by the soldiers, to exterminate\nthose who have power or reason to hurt him, to change the old order of\nthings for new, to be severe and gracious, magnanimous and liberal, to\ndestroy a disloyal soldiery and to create new, to maintain friendship\nwith kings and princes in such a way that they must help him with zeal\nand offend with caution, cannot find a more lively example than the\nactions of this man.\n\nOnly can he be blamed for the election of Julius the Second, in whom he\nmade a bad choice, because, as is said, not being able to elect a Pope\nto his own mind, he could have hindered any other from being elected\nPope; and he ought never to have consented to the election of any\ncardinal whom he had injured or who had cause to fear him if they\nbecame pontiffs. For men injure either from fear or hatred. Those whom\nhe had injured, amongst others, were San Pietro ad Vincula, Colonna,\nSan Giorgio, and Ascanio.[7] The rest, in becoming Pope, had to fear\nhim, Rouen and the Spaniards excepted; the latter from their\nrelationship and obligations, the former from his influence, the\nkingdom of France having relations with him. Therefore, above\neverything, the duke ought to have created a Spaniard Pope, and,\nfailing him, he ought to have consented to Rouen and not San Pietro ad\nVincula. He who believes that new benefits will cause great personages\nto forget old injuries is deceived. Therefore, the duke erred in his\nchoice, and it was the cause of his ultimate ruin.\n\n [7] San Giorgio is Raffaello Riario. Ascanio is Ascanio Sforza.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nCONCERNING THOSE WHO HAVE OBTAINED A PRINCIPALITY BY WICKEDNESS\n\n\nAlthough a prince may rise from a private station in two ways, neither\nof which can be entirely attributed to fortune or genius, yet it is\nmanifest to me that I must not be silent on them, although one could be\nmore copiously treated when I discuss republics. These methods are\nwhen, either by some wicked or nefarious ways, one ascends to the\nprincipality, or when by the favour of his fellow-citizens a private\nperson becomes the prince of his country. And speaking of the first\nmethod, it will be illustrated by two examples one ancient, the other\nmodern and without entering further into the subject, I consider these\ntwo examples will suffice those who may be compelled to follow them.\n\nAgathocles, the Sicilian,[1] became King of Syracuse not only from a\nprivate but from a low and abject position. This man, the son of a\npotter, through all the changes in his fortunes always led an infamous\nlife. Nevertheless, he accompanied his infamies with so much ability of\nmind and body that, having devoted himself to the military profession,\nhe rose through its ranks to be Praetor of Syracuse. Being established\nin that position, and having deliberately resolved to make himself\nprince and to seize by violence, without obligation to others, that\nwhich had been conceded to him by assent, he came to an understanding\nfor this purpose with Amilcar, the Carthaginian, who, with his army,\nwas fighting in Sicily. One morning he assembled the people and the\nsenate of Syracuse, as if he had to discuss with them things relating\nto the Republic, and at a given signal the soldiers killed all the\nsenators and the richest of the people; these dead, he seized and held\nthe princedom of that city without any civil commotion. And although he\nwas twice routed by the Carthaginians, and ultimately besieged, yet not\nonly was he able to defend his city, but leaving part of his men for\nits defence, with the others he attacked Africa, and in a short time\nraised the siege of Syracuse. The Carthaginians, reduced to extreme\nnecessity, were compelled to come to terms with Agathocles, and,\nleaving Sicily to him, had to be content with the possession of Africa.\n\n [1] Agathocles the Sicilian, born 361 B.C., died 289 B.C.\n\nTherefore, he who considers the actions and the genius of this man will\nsee nothing, or little, which can be attributed to fortune, inasmuch as\nhe attained pre-eminence, as is shown above, not by the favour of any\none, but step by step in the military profession, which steps were\ngained with a thousand troubles and perils, and were afterwards boldly\nheld by him with many hazardous dangers. Yet it cannot be called talent\nto slay fellow-citizens, to deceive friends, to be without faith,\nwithout mercy, without religion; such methods may gain empire, but not\nglory. Still, if the courage of Agathocles in entering into and\nextricating himself from dangers be considered, together with his\ngreatness of mind in enduring and overcoming hardships, it cannot be\nseen why he should be esteemed less than the most notable captain.\nNevertheless, his barbarous cruelty and inhumanity with infinite\nwickedness do not permit him to be celebrated among the most excellent\nmen. What he achieved cannot be attributed either to fortune or genius.\n\nIn our times, during the rule of Alexander the Sixth, Oliverotto da\nFermo, having been left an orphan many years before, was brought up by\nhis maternal uncle, Giovanni Fogliani, and in the early days of his\nyouth sent to fight under Pagolo Vitelli, that, being trained under his\ndiscipline, he might attain some high position in the military\nprofession. After Pagolo died, he fought under his brother Vitellozzo,\nand in a very short time, being endowed with wit and a vigorous body\nand mind, he became the first man in his profession. But it appearing a\npaltry thing to serve under others, he resolved, with the aid of some\ncitizens of Fermo, to whom the slavery of their country was dearer than\nits liberty, and with the help of the Vitelleschi, to seize Fermo. So\nhe wrote to Giovanni Fogliani that, having been away from home for many\nyears, he wished to visit him and his city, and in some measure to look\nupon his patrimony; and although he had not laboured to acquire\nanything except honour, yet, in order that the citizens should see he\nhad not spent his time in vain, he desired to come honourably, so would\nbe accompanied by one hundred horsemen, his friends and retainers; and\nhe entreated Giovanni to arrange that he should be received honourably\nby the Fermians, all of which would be not only to his honour, but also\nto that of Giovanni himself, who had brought him up.\n\nGiovanni, therefore, did not fail in any attentions due to his nephew,\nand he caused him to be honourably received by the Fermians, and he\nlodged him in his own house, where, having passed some days, and having\narranged what was necessary for his wicked designs, Oliverotto gave a\nsolemn banquet to which he invited Giovanni Fogliani and the chiefs of\nFermo. When the viands and all the other entertainments that are usual\nin such banquets were finished, Oliverotto artfully began certain grave\ndiscourses, speaking of the greatness of Pope Alexander and his son\nCesare, and of their enterprises, to which discourse Giovanni and\nothers answered; but he rose at once, saying that such matters ought to\nbe discussed in a more private place, and he betook himself to a\nchamber, whither Giovanni and the rest of the citizens went in after\nhim. No sooner were they seated than soldiers issued from secret places\nand slaughtered Giovanni and the rest. After these murders Oliverotto,\nmounted on horseback, rode up and down the town and besieged the chief\nmagistrate in the palace, so that in fear the people were forced to\nobey him, and to form a government, of which he made himself the\nprince. He killed all the malcontents who were able to injure him, and\nstrengthened himself with new civil and military ordinances, in such a\nway that, in the year during which he held the principality, not only\nwas he secure in the city of Fermo, but he had become formidable to all\nhis neighbours. And his destruction would have been as difficult as\nthat of Agathocles if he had not allowed himself to be overreached by\nCesare Borgia, who took him with the Orsini and Vitelli at Sinigalia,\nas was stated above. Thus one year after he had committed this\nparricide, he was strangled, together with Vitellozzo, whom he had made\nhis leader in valour and wickedness.\n\nSome may wonder how it can happen that Agathocles, and his like, after\ninfinite treacheries and cruelties, should live for long secure in his\ncountry, and defend himself from external enemies, and never be\nconspired against by his own citizens; seeing that many others, by\nmeans of cruelty, have never been able even in peaceful times to hold\nthe state, still less in the doubtful times of war. I believe that this\nfollows from severities[2] being badly or properly used. Those may be\ncalled properly used, if of evil it is possible to speak well, that are\napplied at one blow and are necessary to one s security, and that are\nnot persisted in afterwards unless they can be turned to the advantage\nof the subjects. The badly employed are those which, notwithstanding\nthey may be few in the commencement, multiply with time rather than\ndecrease. Those who practise the first system are able, by aid of God\nor man, to mitigate in some degree their rule, as Agathocles did. It is\nimpossible for those who follow the other to maintain themselves.\n\n [2] Mr Burd suggests that this word probably comes near the modern\n equivalent of Machiavelli s thought when he speaks of  crudelta  than\n the more obvious  cruelties. \n\nHence it is to be remarked that, in seizing a state, the usurper ought\nto examine closely into all those injuries which it is necessary for\nhim to inflict, and to do them all at one stroke so as not to have to\nrepeat them daily; and thus by not unsettling men he will be able to\nreassure them, and win them to himself by benefits. He who does\notherwise, either from timidity or evil advice, is always compelled to\nkeep the knife in his hand; neither can he rely on his subjects, nor\ncan they attach themselves to him, owing to their continued and\nrepeated wrongs. For injuries ought to be done all at one time, so\nthat, being tasted less, they offend less; benefits ought to be given\nlittle by little, so that the flavour of them may last longer.\n\nAnd above all things, a prince ought to live amongst his people in such\na way that no unexpected circumstances, whether of good or evil, shall\nmake him change; because if the necessity for this comes in troubled\ntimes, you are too late for harsh measures; and mild ones will not help\nyou, for they will be considered as forced from you, and no one will be\nunder any obligation to you for them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nCONCERNING A CIVIL PRINCIPALITY\n\n\nBut coming to the other point where a leading citizen becomes the\nprince of his country, not by wickedness or any intolerable violence,\nbut by the favour of his fellow citizens this may be called a civil\nprincipality: nor is genius or fortune altogether necessary to attain\nto it, but rather a happy shrewdness. I say then that such a\nprincipality is obtained either by the favour of the people or by the\nfavour of the nobles. Because in all cities these two distinct parties\nare found, and from this it arises that the people do not wish to be\nruled nor oppressed by the nobles, and the nobles wish to rule and\noppress the people; and from these two opposite desires there arises in\ncities one of three results, either a principality, self-government, or\nanarchy.\n\nA principality is created either by the people or by the nobles,\naccordingly as one or other of them has the opportunity; for the\nnobles, seeing they cannot withstand the people, begin to cry up the\nreputation of one of themselves, and they make him a prince, so that\nunder his shadow they can give vent to their ambitions. The people,\nfinding they cannot resist the nobles, also cry up the reputation of\none of themselves, and make him a prince so as to be defended by his\nauthority. He who obtains sovereignty by the assistance of the nobles\nmaintains himself with more difficulty than he who comes to it by the\naid of the people, because the former finds himself with many around\nhim who consider themselves his equals, and because of this he can\nneither rule nor manage them to his liking. But he who reaches\nsovereignty by popular favour finds himself alone, and has none around\nhim, or few, who are not prepared to obey him.\n\nBesides this, one cannot by fair dealing, and without injury to others,\nsatisfy the nobles, but you can satisfy the people, for their object is\nmore righteous than that of the nobles, the latter wishing to oppress,\nwhile the former only desire not to be oppressed. It is to be added\nalso that a prince can never secure himself against a hostile people,\nbecause of there being too many, whilst from the nobles he can secure\nhimself, as they are few in number. The worst that a prince may expect\nfrom a hostile people is to be abandoned by them; but from hostile\nnobles he has not only to fear abandonment, but also that they will\nrise against him; for they, being in these affairs more far-seeing and\nastute, always come forward in time to save themselves, and to obtain\nfavours from him whom they expect to prevail. Further, the prince is\ncompelled to live always with the same people, but he can do well\nwithout the same nobles, being able to make and unmake them daily, and\nto give or take away authority when it pleases him.\n\nTherefore, to make this point clearer, I say that the nobles ought to\nbe looked at mainly in two ways: that is to say, they either shape\ntheir course in such a way as binds them entirely to your fortune, or\nthey do not. Those who so bind themselves, and are not rapacious, ought\nto be honoured and loved; those who do not bind themselves may be dealt\nwith in two ways; they may fail to do this through pusillanimity and a\nnatural want of courage, in which case you ought to make use of them,\nespecially of those who are of good counsel; and thus, whilst in\nprosperity you honour them, in adversity you do not have to fear them.\nBut when for their own ambitious ends they shun binding themselves, it\nis a token that they are giving more thought to themselves than to you,\nand a prince ought to guard against such, and to fear them as if they\nwere open enemies, because in adversity they always help to ruin him.\n\nTherefore, one who becomes a prince through the favour of the people\nought to keep them friendly, and this he can easily do seeing they only\nask not to be oppressed by him. But one who, in opposition to the\npeople, becomes a prince by the favour of the nobles, ought, above\neverything, to seek to win the people over to himself, and this he may\neasily do if he takes them under his protection. Because men, when they\nreceive good from him of whom they were expecting evil, are bound more\nclosely to their benefactor; thus the people quickly become more\ndevoted to him than if he had been raised to the principality by their\nfavours; and the prince can win their affections in many ways, but as\nthese vary according to the circumstances one cannot give fixed rules,\nso I omit them; but, I repeat, it is necessary for a prince to have the\npeople friendly, otherwise he has no security in adversity.\n\nNabis,[1] Prince of the Spartans, sustained the attack of all Greece,\nand of a victorious Roman army, and against them he defended his\ncountry and his government; and for the overcoming of this peril it was\nonly necessary for him to make himself secure against a few, but this\nwould not have been sufficient had the people been hostile. And do not\nlet any one impugn this statement with the trite proverb that  He who\nbuilds on the people, builds on the mud,  for this is true when a\nprivate citizen makes a foundation there, and persuades himself that\nthe people will free him when he is oppressed by his enemies or by the\nmagistrates; wherein he would find himself very often deceived, as\nhappened to the Gracchi in Rome and to Messer Giorgio Scali[2] in\nFlorence. But granted a prince who has established himself as above,\nwho can command, and is a man of courage, undismayed in adversity, who\ndoes not fail in other qualifications, and who, by his resolution and\nenergy, keeps the whole people encouraged such a one will never find\nhimself deceived in them, and it will be shown that he has laid his\nfoundations well.\n\n [1] Nabis, tyrant of Sparta, conquered by the Romans under Flamininus\n in 195 B.C.; killed 192 B.C.\n\n [2] Messer Giorgio Scali. This event is to be found in Machiavelli s\n  Florentine History,  Book III.\n\nThese principalities are liable to danger when they are passing from\nthe civil to the absolute order of government, for such princes either\nrule personally or through magistrates. In the latter case their\ngovernment is weaker and more insecure, because it rests entirely on\nthe goodwill of those citizens who are raised to the magistracy, and\nwho, especially in troubled times, can destroy the government with\ngreat ease, either by intrigue or open defiance; and the prince has not\nthe chance amid tumults to exercise absolute authority, because the\ncitizens and subjects, accustomed to receive orders from magistrates,\nare not of a mind to obey him amid these confusions, and there will\nalways be in doubtful times a scarcity of men whom he can trust. For\nsuch a prince cannot rely upon what he observes in quiet times, when\ncitizens have need of the state, because then every one agrees with\nhim; they all promise, and when death is far distant they all wish to\ndie for him; but in troubled times, when the state has need of its\ncitizens, then he finds but few. And so much the more is this\nexperiment dangerous, inasmuch as it can only be tried once. Therefore\na wise prince ought to adopt such a course that his citizens will\nalways in every sort and kind of circumstance have need of the state\nand of him, and then he will always find them faithful.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nCONCERNING THE WAY IN WHICH THE STRENGTH OF ALL PRINCIPALITIES OUGHT TO\nBE MEASURED\n\n\nIt is necessary to consider another point in examining the character of\nthese principalities: that is, whether a prince has such power that, in\ncase of need, he can support himself with his own resources, or whether\nhe has always need of the assistance of others. And to make this quite\nclear I say that I consider those who are able to support themselves by\ntheir own resources who can, either by abundance of men or money, raise\na sufficient army to join battle against any one who comes to attack\nthem; and I consider those always to have need of others who cannot\nshow themselves against the enemy in the field, but are forced to\ndefend themselves by sheltering behind walls. The first case has been\ndiscussed, but we will speak of it again should it recur. In the second\ncase one can say nothing except to encourage such princes to provision\nand fortify their towns, and not on any account to defend the country.\nAnd whoever shall fortify his town well, and shall have managed the\nother concerns of his subjects in the way stated above, and to be often\nrepeated, will never be attacked without great caution, for men are\nalways adverse to enterprises where difficulties can be seen, and it\nwill be seen not to be an easy thing to attack one who has his town\nwell fortified, and is not hated by his people.\n\nThe cities of Germany are absolutely free, they own but little country\naround them, and they yield obedience to the emperor when it suits\nthem, nor do they fear this or any other power they may have near them,\nbecause they are fortified in such a way that every one thinks the\ntaking of them by assault would be tedious and difficult, seeing they\nhave proper ditches and walls, they have sufficient artillery, and they\nalways keep in public depots enough for one year s eating, drinking,\nand firing. And beyond this, to keep the people quiet and without loss\nto the state, they always have the means of giving work to the\ncommunity in those labours that are the life and strength of the city,\nand on the pursuit of which the people are supported; they also hold\nmilitary exercises in repute, and moreover have many ordinances to\nuphold them.\n\nTherefore, a prince who has a strong city, and had not made himself\nodious, will not be attacked, or if any one should attack he will only\nbe driven off with disgrace; again, because that the affairs of this\nworld are so changeable, it is almost impossible to keep an army a\nwhole year in the field without being interfered with. And whoever\nshould reply: If the people have property outside the city, and see it\nburnt, they will not remain patient, and the long siege and\nself-interest will make them forget their prince; to this I answer that\na powerful and courageous prince will overcome all such difficulties by\ngiving at one time hope to his subjects that the evil will not be for\nlong, at another time fear of the cruelty of the enemy, then preserving\nhimself adroitly from those subjects who seem to him to be too bold.\n\nFurther, the enemy would naturally on his arrival at once burn and ruin\nthe country at the time when the spirits of the people are still hot\nand ready for the defence; and, therefore, so much the less ought the\nprince to hesitate; because after a time, when spirits have cooled, the\ndamage is already done, the ills are incurred, and there is no longer\nany remedy; and therefore they are so much the more ready to unite with\ntheir prince, he appearing to be under obligations to them now that\ntheir houses have been burnt and their possessions ruined in his\ndefence. For it is the nature of men to be bound by the benefits they\nconfer as much as by those they receive. Therefore, if everything is\nwell considered, it will not be difficult for a wise prince to keep the\nminds of his citizens steadfast from first to last, when he does not\nfail to support and defend them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nCONCERNING ECCLESIASTICAL PRINCIPALITIES\n\n\nIt only remains now to speak of ecclesiastical principalities, touching\nwhich all difficulties are prior to getting possession, because they\nare acquired either by capacity or good fortune, and they can be held\nwithout either; for they are sustained by the ancient ordinances of\nreligion, which are so all-powerful, and of such a character that the\nprincipalities may be held no matter how their princes behave and live.\nThese princes alone have states and do not defend them; and they have\nsubjects and do not rule them; and the states, although unguarded, are\nnot taken from them, and the subjects, although not ruled, do not care,\nand they have neither the desire nor the ability to alienate\nthemselves. Such principalities only are secure and happy. But being\nupheld by powers, to which the human mind cannot reach, I shall speak\nno more of them, because, being exalted and maintained by God, it would\nbe the act of a presumptuous and rash man to discuss them.\n\nNevertheless, if any one should ask of me how comes it that the Church\nhas attained such greatness in temporal power, seeing that from\nAlexander backwards the Italian potentates (not only those who have\nbeen called potentates, but every baron and lord, though the smallest)\nhave valued the temporal power very slightly yet now a king of France\ntrembles before it, and it has been able to drive him from Italy, and\nto ruin the Venetians although this may be very manifest, it does not\nappear to me superfluous to recall it in some measure to memory.\n\nBefore Charles, King of France, passed into Italy,[1] this country was\nunder the dominion of the Pope, the Venetians, the King of Naples, the\nDuke of Milan, and the Florentines. These potentates had two principal\nanxieties: the one, that no foreigner should enter Italy under arms;\nthe other, that none of themselves should seize more territory. Those\nabout whom there was the most anxiety were the Pope and the Venetians.\nTo restrain the Venetians the union of all the others was necessary, as\nit was for the defence of Ferrara; and to keep down the Pope they made\nuse of the barons of Rome, who, being divided into two factions, Orsini\nand Colonnesi, had always a pretext for disorder, and, standing with\narms in their hands under the eyes of the Pontiff, kept the pontificate\nweak and powerless. And although there might arise sometimes a\ncourageous pope, such as Sixtus, yet neither fortune nor wisdom could\nrid him of these annoyances. And the short life of a pope is also a\ncause of weakness; for in the ten years, which is the average life of a\npope, he can with difficulty lower one of the factions; and if, so to\nspeak, one people should almost destroy the Colonnesi, another would\narise hostile to the Orsini, who would support their opponents, and yet\nwould not have time to ruin the Orsini. This was the reason why the\ntemporal powers of the pope were little esteemed in Italy.\n\n [1] Charles VIII invaded Italy in 1494.\n\nAlexander the Sixth arose afterwards, who of all the pontiffs that have\never been showed how a pope with both money and arms was able to\nprevail; and through the instrumentality of the Duke Valentino, and by\nreason of the entry of the French, he brought about all those things\nwhich I have discussed above in the actions of the duke. And although\nhis intention was not to aggrandize the Church, but the duke,\nnevertheless, what he did contributed to the greatness of the Church,\nwhich, after his death and the ruin of the duke, became the heir to all\nhis labours.\n\nPope Julius came afterwards and found the Church strong, possessing all\nthe Romagna, the barons of Rome reduced to impotence, and, through the\nchastisements of Alexander, the factions wiped out; he also found the\nway open to accumulate money in a manner such as had never been\npractised before Alexander s time. Such things Julius not only\nfollowed, but improved upon, and he intended to gain Bologna, to ruin\nthe Venetians, and to drive the French out of Italy. All of these\nenterprises prospered with him, and so much the more to his credit,\ninasmuch as he did everything to strengthen the Church and not any\nprivate person. He kept also the Orsini and Colonnesi factions within\nthe bounds in which he found them; and although there was among them\nsome mind to make disturbance, nevertheless he held two things firm:\nthe one, the greatness of the Church, with which he terrified them; and\nthe other, not allowing them to have their own cardinals, who caused\nthe disorders among them. For whenever these factions have their\ncardinals they do not remain quiet for long, because cardinals foster\nthe factions in Rome and out of it, and the barons are compelled to\nsupport them, and thus from the ambitions of prelates arise disorders\nand tumults among the barons. For these reasons his Holiness Pope\nLeo[2] found the pontificate most powerful, and it is to be hoped that,\nif others made it great in arms, he will make it still greater and more\nvenerated by his goodness and infinite other virtues.\n\n [2] Pope Leo X was the Cardinal de  Medici.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\nHOW MANY KINDS OF SOLDIERY THERE ARE, AND CONCERNING MERCENARIES\n\n\nHaving discoursed particularly on the characteristics of such\nprincipalities as in the beginning I proposed to discuss, and having\nconsidered in some degree the causes of there being good or bad, and\nhaving shown the methods by which many have sought to acquire them and\nto hold them, it now remains for me to discuss generally the means of\noffence and defence which belong to each of them.\n\nWe have seen above how necessary it is for a prince to have his\nfoundations well laid, otherwise it follows of necessity he will go to\nruin. The chief foundations of all states, new as well as old or\ncomposite, are good laws and good arms; and as there cannot be good\nlaws where the state is not well armed, it follows that where they are\nwell armed they have good laws. I shall leave the laws out of the\ndiscussion and shall speak of the arms.\n\nI say, therefore, that the arms with which a prince defends his state\nare either his own, or they are mercenaries, auxiliaries, or mixed.\nMercenaries and auxiliaries are useless and dangerous; and if one holds\nhis state based on these arms, he will stand neither firm nor safe; for\nthey are disunited, ambitious, and without discipline, unfaithful,\nvaliant before friends, cowardly before enemies; they have neither the\nfear of God nor fidelity to men, and destruction is deferred only so\nlong as the attack is; for in peace one is robbed by them, and in war\nby the enemy. The fact is, they have no other attraction or reason for\nkeeping the field than a trifle of stipend, which is not sufficient to\nmake them willing to die for you. They are ready enough to be your\nsoldiers whilst you do not make war, but if war comes they take\nthemselves off or run from the foe; which I should have little trouble\nto prove, for the ruin of Italy has been caused by nothing else than by\nresting all her hopes for many years on mercenaries, and although they\nformerly made some display and appeared valiant amongst themselves, yet\nwhen the foreigners came they showed what they were. Thus it was that\nCharles, King of France, was allowed to seize Italy with chalk in\nhand;[1] and he who told us that our sins were the cause of it told the\ntruth, but they were not the sins he imagined, but those which I have\nrelated. And as they were the sins of princes, it is the princes who\nhave also suffered the penalty.\n\n [1]  With chalk in hand,   col gesso.  This is one of the _bons mots_\n of Alexander VI, and refers to the ease with which Charles VIII seized\n Italy, implying that it was only necessary for him to send his\n quartermasters to chalk up the billets for his soldiers to conquer the\n country. _Cf_.  The History of Henry VII,  by Lord Bacon:  King\n Charles had conquered the realm of Naples, and lost it again, in a\n kind of a felicity of a dream. He passed the whole length of Italy\n without resistance: so that it was true what Pope Alexander was wont\n to say: That the Frenchmen came into Italy with chalk in their hands,\n to mark up their lodgings, rather than with swords to fight. \n\nI wish to demonstrate further the infelicity of these arms. The\nmercenary captains are either capable men or they are not; if they are,\nyou cannot trust them, because they always aspire to their own\ngreatness, either by oppressing you, who are their master, or others\ncontrary to your intentions; but if the captain is not skilful, you are\nruined in the usual way.\n\nAnd if it be urged that whoever is armed will act in the same way,\nwhether mercenary or not, I reply that when arms have to be resorted\nto, either by a prince or a republic, then the prince ought to go in\nperson and perform the duty of a captain; the republic has to send its\ncitizens, and when one is sent who does not turn out satisfactorily, it\nought to recall him, and when one is worthy, to hold him by the laws so\nthat he does not leave the command. And experience has shown princes\nand republics, single-handed, making the greatest progress, and\nmercenaries doing nothing except damage; and it is more difficult to\nbring a republic, armed with its own arms, under the sway of one of its\ncitizens than it is to bring one armed with foreign arms. Rome and\nSparta stood for many ages armed and free. The Switzers are completely\narmed and quite free.\n\nOf ancient mercenaries, for example, there are the Carthaginians, who\nwere oppressed by their mercenary soldiers after the first war with the\nRomans, although the Carthaginians had their own citizens for captains.\nAfter the death of Epaminondas, Philip of Macedon was made captain of\ntheir soldiers by the Thebans, and after victory he took away their\nliberty.\n\nDuke Filippo being dead, the Milanese enlisted Francesco Sforza against\nthe Venetians, and he, having overcome the enemy at Caravaggio,[2]\nallied himself with them to crush the Milanese, his masters. His\nfather, Sforza, having been engaged by Queen Johanna[3] of Naples, left\nher unprotected, so that she was forced to throw herself into the arms\nof the King of Aragon, in order to save her kingdom. And if the\nVenetians and Florentines formerly extended their dominions by these\narms, and yet their captains did not make themselves princes, but have\ndefended them, I reply that the Florentines in this case have been\nfavoured by chance, for of the able captains, of whom they might have\nstood in fear, some have not conquered, some have been opposed, and\nothers have turned their ambitions elsewhere. One who did not conquer\nwas Giovanni Acuto,[4] and since he did not conquer his fidelity cannot\nbe proved; but every one will acknowledge that, had he conquered, the\nFlorentines would have stood at his discretion. Sforza had the\nBracceschi always against him, so they watched each other. Francesco\nturned his ambition to Lombardy; Braccio against the Church and the\nkingdom of Naples. But let us come to that which happened a short while\nago. The Florentines appointed as their captain Pagolo Vitelli, a most\nprudent man, who from a private position had risen to the greatest\nrenown. If this man had taken Pisa, nobody can deny that it would have\nbeen proper for the Florentines to keep in with him, for if he became\nthe soldier of their enemies they had no means of resisting, and if\nthey held to him they must obey him. The Venetians, if their\nachievements are considered, will be seen to have acted safely and\ngloriously so long as they sent to war their own men, when with armed\ngentlemen and plebians they did valiantly. This was before they turned\nto enterprises on land, but when they began to fight on land they\nforsook this virtue and followed the custom of Italy. And in the\nbeginning of their expansion on land, through not having much\nterritory, and because of their great reputation, they had not much to\nfear from their captains; but when they expanded, as under\nCarmignuola,[5] they had a taste of this mistake; for, having found him\na most valiant man (they beat the Duke of Milan under his leadership),\nand, on the other hand, knowing how lukewarm he was in the war, they\nfeared they would no longer conquer under him, and for this reason they\nwere not willing, nor were they able, to let him go; and so, not to\nlose again that which they had acquired, they were compelled, in order\nto secure themselves, to murder him. They had afterwards for their\ncaptains Bartolomeo da Bergamo, Roberto da San Severino, the count of\nPitigliano,[6] and the like, under whom they had to dread loss and not\ngain, as happened afterwards at Vaila,[7] where in one battle they lost\nthat which in eight hundred years they had acquired with so much\ntrouble. Because from such arms conquests come but slowly, long delayed\nand inconsiderable, but the losses sudden and portentous.\n\n [2] Battle of Caravaggio, 15th September 1448.\n\n [3] Johanna II of Naples, the widow of Ladislao, King of Naples.\n\n [4] Giovanni Acuto. An English knight whose name was Sir John\n Hawkwood. He fought in the English wars in France, and was knighted by\n Edward III; afterwards he collected a body of troops and went into\n Italy. These became the famous  White Company.  He took part in many\n wars, and died in Florence in 1394. He was born about 1320 at Sible\n Hedingham, a village in Essex. He married Domnia, a daughter of\n Bernabo Visconti.\n\n [5] Carmignuola. Francesco Bussone, born at Carmagnola about 1390,\n executed at Venice, 5th May 1432.\n\n [6] Bartolomeo Colleoni of Bergamo; died 1457. Roberto of San\n Severino; died fighting for Venice against Sigismund, Duke of Austria,\n in 1487.  Primo capitano in Italia. Machiavelli. Count of Pitigliano;\n Nicolo Orsini, born 1442, died 1510.\n\n [7] Battle of Vaila in 1509.\n\nAnd as with these examples I have reached Italy, which has been ruled\nfor many years by mercenaries, I wish to discuss them more seriously,\nin order that, having seen their rise and progress, one may be better\nprepared to counteract them. You must understand that the empire has\nrecently come to be repudiated in Italy, that the Pope has acquired\nmore temporal power, and that Italy has been divided up into more\nstates, for the reason that many of the great cities took up arms\nagainst their nobles, who, formerly favoured by the emperor, were\noppressing them, whilst the Church was favouring them so as to gain\nauthority in temporal power: in many others their citizens became\nprinces. From this it came to pass that Italy fell partly into the\nhands of the Church and of republics, and, the Church consisting of\npriests and the republic of citizens unaccustomed to arms, both\ncommenced to enlist foreigners.\n\nThe first who gave renown to this soldiery was Alberigo da Conio,[8]\nthe Romagnian. From the school of this man sprang, among others,\nBraccio and Sforza, who in their time were the arbiters of Italy. After\nthese came all the other captains who till now have directed the arms\nof Italy; and the end of all their valour has been, that she has been\noverrun by Charles, robbed by Louis, ravaged by Ferdinand, and insulted\nby the Switzers. The principle that has guided them has been, first, to\nlower the credit of infantry so that they might increase their own.\nThey did this because, subsisting on their pay and without territory,\nthey were unable to support many soldiers, and a few infantry did not\ngive them any authority; so they were led to employ cavalry, with a\nmoderate force of which they were maintained and honoured; and affairs\nwere brought to such a pass that, in an army of twenty thousand\nsoldiers, there were not to be found two thousand foot soldiers. They\nhad, besides this, used every art to lessen fatigue and danger to\nthemselves and their soldiers, not killing in the fray, but taking\nprisoners and liberating without ransom. They did not attack towns at\nnight, nor did the garrisons of the towns attack encampments at night;\nthey did not surround the camp either with stockade or ditch, nor did\nthey campaign in the winter. All these things were permitted by their\nmilitary rules, and devised by them to avoid, as I have said, both\nfatigue and dangers; thus they have brought Italy to slavery and\ncontempt.\n\n [8] Alberigo da Conio. Alberico da Barbiano, Count of Cunio in\n Romagna. He was the leader of the famous  Company of St George, \n composed entirely of Italian soldiers. He died in 1409.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\nCONCERNING AUXILIARIES, MIXED SOLDIERY, AND ONE S OWN\n\n\nAuxiliaries, which are the other useless arm, are employed when a\nprince is called in with his forces to aid and defend, as was done by\nPope Julius in the most recent times; for he, having, in the enterprise\nagainst Ferrara, had poor proof of his mercenaries, turned to\nauxiliaries, and stipulated with Ferdinand, King of Spain,[1] for his\nassistance with men and arms. These arms may be useful and good in\nthemselves, but for him who calls them in they are always\ndisadvantageous; for losing, one is undone, and winning, one is their\ncaptive.\n\n [1] Ferdinand V (F. II of Aragon and Sicily, F. III of Naples),\n surnamed  The Catholic,  born 1452, died 1516.\n\nAnd although ancient histories may be full of examples, I do not wish\nto leave this recent one of Pope Julius the Second, the peril of which\ncannot fail to be perceived; for he, wishing to get Ferrara, threw\nhimself entirely into the hands of the foreigner. But his good fortune\nbrought about a third event, so that he did not reap the fruit of his\nrash choice; because, having his auxiliaries routed at Ravenna, and the\nSwitzers having risen and driven out the conquerors (against all\nexpectation, both his and others), it so came to pass that he did not\nbecome prisoner to his enemies, they having fled, nor to his\nauxiliaries, he having conquered by other arms than theirs.\n\nThe Florentines, being entirely without arms, sent ten thousand\nFrenchmen to take Pisa, whereby they ran more danger than at any other\ntime of their troubles.\n\nThe Emperor of Constantinople,[2] to oppose his neighbours, sent ten\nthousand Turks into Greece, who, on the war being finished, were not\nwilling to quit; this was the beginning of the servitude of Greece to\nthe infidels.\n\n [2] Joannes Cantacuzenus, born 1300, died 1383.\n\nTherefore, let him who has no desire to conquer make use of these arms,\nfor they are much more hazardous than mercenaries, because with them\nthe ruin is ready made; they are all united, all yield obedience to\nothers; but with mercenaries, when they have conquered, more time and\nbetter opportunities are needed to injure you; they are not all of one\ncommunity, they are found and paid by you, and a third party, which you\nhave made their head, is not able all at once to assume enough\nauthority to injure you. In conclusion, in mercenaries dastardy is most\ndangerous; in auxiliaries, valour. The wise prince, therefore, has\nalways avoided these arms and turned to his own; and has been willing\nrather to lose with them than to conquer with the others, not deeming\nthat a real victory which is gained with the arms of others.\n\nI shall never hesitate to cite Cesare Borgia and his actions. This duke\nentered the Romagna with auxiliaries, taking there only French\nsoldiers, and with them he captured Imola and Forli; but afterwards,\nsuch forces not appearing to him reliable, he turned to mercenaries,\ndiscerning less danger in them, and enlisted the Orsini and Vitelli;\nwhom presently, on handling and finding them doubtful, unfaithful, and\ndangerous, he destroyed and turned to his own men. And the difference\nbetween one and the other of these forces can easily be seen when one\nconsiders the difference there was in the reputation of the duke, when\nhe had the French, when he had the Orsini and Vitelli, and when he\nrelied on his own soldiers, on whose fidelity he could always count and\nfound it ever increasing; he was never esteemed more highly than when\nevery one saw that he was complete master of his own forces.\n\nI was not intending to go beyond Italian and recent examples, but I am\nunwilling to leave out Hiero, the Syracusan, he being one of those I\nhave named above. This man, as I have said, made head of the army by\nthe Syracusans, soon found out that a mercenary soldiery, constituted\nlike our Italian condottieri, was of no use; and it appearing to him\nthat he could neither keep them nor let them go, he had them all cut to\npieces, and afterwards made war with his own forces and not with\naliens.\n\nI wish also to recall to memory an instance from the Old Testament\napplicable to this subject. David offered himself to Saul to fight with\nGoliath, the Philistine champion, and, to give him courage, Saul armed\nhim with his own weapons; which David rejected as soon as he had them\non his back, saying he could make no use of them, and that he wished to\nmeet the enemy with his sling and his knife. In conclusion, the arms of\nothers either fall from your back, or they weigh you down, or they bind\nyou fast.\n\nCharles the Seventh,[3] the father of King Louis the Eleventh,[4]\nhaving by good fortune and valour liberated France from the English,\nrecognized the necessity of being armed with forces of his own, and he\nestablished in his kingdom ordinances concerning men-at-arms and\ninfantry. Afterwards his son, King Louis, abolished the infantry and\nbegan to enlist the Switzers, which mistake, followed by others, is, as\nis now seen, a source of peril to that kingdom; because, having raised\nthe reputation of the Switzers, he has entirely diminished the value of\nhis own arms, for he has destroyed the infantry altogether; and his\nmen-at-arms he has subordinated to others, for, being as they are so\naccustomed to fight along with Switzers, it does not appear that they\ncan now conquer without them. Hence it arises that the French cannot\nstand against the Switzers, and without the Switzers they do not come\noff well against others. The armies of the French have thus become\nmixed, partly mercenary and partly national, both of which arms\ntogether are much better than mercenaries alone or auxiliaries alone,\nbut much inferior to one s own forces. And this example proves it, for\nthe kingdom of France would be unconquerable if the ordinance of\nCharles had been enlarged or maintained.\n\n [3] Charles VII of France, surnamed  The Victorious,  born 1403, died\n 1461.\n\n [4] Louis XI, son of the above, born 1423, died 1483.\n\nBut the scanty wisdom of man, on entering into an affair which looks\nwell at first, cannot discern the poison that is hidden in it, as I\nhave said above of hectic fevers. Therefore, if he who rules a\nprincipality cannot recognize evils until they are upon him, he is not\ntruly wise; and this insight is given to few. And if the first disaster\nto the Roman Empire[5] should be examined, it will be found to have\ncommenced only with the enlisting of the Goths; because from that time\nthe vigour of the Roman Empire began to decline, and all that valour\nwhich had raised it passed away to others.\n\n [5]  Many speakers to the House the other night in the debate on the\n reduction of armaments seemed to show a most lamentable ignorance of\n the conditions under which the British Empire maintains its existence.\n When Mr Balfour replied to the allegations that the Roman Empire sank\n under the weight of its military obligations, he said that this was\n  wholly unhistorical.  He might well have added that the Roman power\n was at its zenith when every citizen acknowledged his liability to\n fight for the State, but that it began to decline as soon as this\n obligation was no longer recognised. _Pall Mall Gazette_, 15th May\n 1906.\n\nI conclude, therefore, that no principality is secure without having\nits own forces; on the contrary, it is entirely dependent on good\nfortune, not having the valour which in adversity would defend it. And\nit has always been the opinion and judgment of wise men that nothing\ncan be so uncertain or unstable as fame or power not founded on its own\nstrength. And one s own forces are those which are composed either of\nsubjects, citizens, or dependents; all others are mercenaries or\nauxiliaries. And the way to make ready one s own forces will be easily\nfound if the rules suggested by me shall be reflected upon, and if one\nwill consider how Philip, the father of Alexander the Great, and many\nrepublics and princes have armed and organized themselves, to which\nrules I entirely commit myself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\nTHAT WHICH CONCERNS A PRINCE ON THE SUBJECT OF THE ART OF WAR\n\n\nA prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor select anything\nelse for his study, than war and its rules and discipline; for this is\nthe sole art that belongs to him who rules, and it is of such force\nthat it not only upholds those who are born princes, but it often\nenables men to rise from a private station to that rank. And, on the\ncontrary, it is seen that when princes have thought more of ease than\nof arms they have lost their states. And the first cause of your losing\nit is to neglect this art; and what enables you to acquire a state is\nto be master of the art. Francesco Sforza, through being martial, from\na private person became Duke of Milan; and the sons, through avoiding\nthe hardships and troubles of arms, from dukes became private persons.\nFor among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to\nbe despised, and this is one of those ignominies against which a prince\nought to guard himself, as is shown later on. Because there is nothing\nproportionate between the armed and the unarmed; and it is not\nreasonable that he who is armed should yield obedience willingly to him\nwho is unarmed, or that the unarmed man should be secure among armed\nservants. Because, there being in the one disdain and in the other\nsuspicion, it is not possible for them to work well together. And\ntherefore a prince who does not understand the art of war, over and\nabove the other misfortunes already mentioned, cannot be respected by\nhis soldiers, nor can he rely on them. He ought never, therefore, to\nhave out of his thoughts this subject of war, and in peace he should\naddict himself more to its exercise than in war; this he can do in two\nways, the one by action, the other by study.\n\nAs regards action, he ought above all things to keep his men well\norganized and drilled, to follow incessantly the chase, by which he\naccustoms his body to hardships, and learns something of the nature of\nlocalities, and gets to find out how the mountains rise, how the\nvalleys open out, how the plains lie, and to understand the nature of\nrivers and marshes, and in all this to take the greatest care. Which\nknowledge is useful in two ways. Firstly, he learns to know his\ncountry, and is better able to undertake its defence; afterwards, by\nmeans of the knowledge and observation of that locality, he understands\nwith ease any other which it may be necessary for him to study\nhereafter; because the hills, valleys, and plains, and rivers and\nmarshes that are, for instance, in Tuscany, have a certain resemblance\nto those of other countries, so that with a knowledge of the aspect of\none country one can easily arrive at a knowledge of others. And the\nprince that lacks this skill lacks the essential which it is desirable\nthat a captain should possess, for it teaches him to surprise his\nenemy, to select quarters, to lead armies, to array the battle, to\nbesiege towns to advantage.\n\nPhilopoemen,[1] Prince of the Achaeans, among other praises which\nwriters have bestowed on him, is commended because in time of peace he\nnever had anything in his mind but the rules of war; and when he was in\nthe country with friends, he often stopped and reasoned with them:  If\nthe enemy should be upon that hill, and we should find ourselves here\nwith our army, with whom would be the advantage? How should one best\nadvance to meet him, keeping the ranks? If we should wish to retreat,\nhow ought we to pursue?  And he would set forth to them, as he went,\nall the chances that could befall an army; he would listen to their\nopinion and state his, confirming it with reasons, so that by these\ncontinual discussions there could never arise, in time of war, any\nunexpected circumstances that he could not deal with.\n\n [1] Philopoemen,  the last of the Greeks,  born 252 B.C., died 183\n B.C.\n\nBut to exercise the intellect the prince should read histories, and\nstudy there the actions of illustrious men, to see how they have borne\nthemselves in war, to examine the causes of their victories and defeat,\nso as to avoid the latter and imitate the former; and above all do as\nan illustrious man did, who took as an exemplar one who had been\npraised and famous before him, and whose achievements and deeds he\nalways kept in his mind, as it is said Alexander the Great imitated\nAchilles, Caesar Alexander, Scipio Cyrus. And whoever reads the life of\nCyrus, written by Xenophon, will recognize afterwards in the life of\nScipio how that imitation was his glory, and how in chastity,\naffability, humanity, and liberality Scipio conformed to those things\nwhich have been written of Cyrus by Xenophon. A wise prince ought to\nobserve some such rules, and never in peaceful times stand idle, but\nincrease his resources with industry in such a way that they may be\navailable to him in adversity, so that if fortune chances it may find\nhim prepared to resist her blows.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\nCONCERNING THINGS FOR WHICH MEN, AND ESPECIALLY PRINCES, ARE PRAISED OR\nBLAMED\n\n\nIt remains now to see what ought to be the rules of conduct for a\nprince towards subject and friends. And as I know that many have\nwritten on this point, I expect I shall be considered presumptuous in\nmentioning it again, especially as in discussing it I shall depart from\nthe methods of other people. But, it being my intention to write a\nthing which shall be useful to him who apprehends it, it appears to me\nmore appropriate to follow up the real truth of the matter than the\nimagination of it; for many have pictured republics and principalities\nwhich in fact have never been known or seen, because how one lives is\nso far distant from how one ought to live, that he who neglects what is\ndone for what ought to be done, sooner effects his ruin than his\npreservation; for a man who wishes to act entirely up to his\nprofessions of virtue soon meets with what destroys him among so much\nthat is evil.\n\nHence it is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know how\nto do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity.\nTherefore, putting on one side imaginary things concerning a prince,\nand discussing those which are real, I say that all men when they are\nspoken of, and chiefly princes for being more highly placed, are\nremarkable for some of those qualities which bring them either blame or\npraise; and thus it is that one is reputed liberal, another miserly,\nusing a Tuscan term (because an avaricious person in our language is\nstill he who desires to possess by robbery, whilst we call one miserly\nwho deprives himself too much of the use of his own); one is reputed\ngenerous, one rapacious; one cruel, one compassionate; one faithless,\nanother faithful; one effeminate and cowardly, another bold and brave;\none affable, another haughty; one lascivious, another chaste; one\nsincere, another cunning; one hard, another easy; one grave, another\nfrivolous; one religious, another unbelieving, and the like. And I know\nthat every one will confess that it would be most praiseworthy in a\nprince to exhibit all the above qualities that are considered good; but\nbecause they can neither be entirely possessed nor observed, for human\nconditions do not permit it, it is necessary for him to be sufficiently\nprudent that he may know how to avoid the reproach of those vices which\nwould lose him his state; and also to keep himself, if it be possible,\nfrom those which would not lose him it; but this not being possible, he\nmay with less hesitation abandon himself to them. And again, he need\nnot make himself uneasy at incurring a reproach for those vices without\nwhich the state can only be saved with difficulty, for if everything is\nconsidered carefully, it will be found that something which looks like\nvirtue, if followed, would be his ruin; whilst something else, which\nlooks like vice, yet followed brings him security and prosperity.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\nCONCERNING LIBERALITY AND MEANNESS\n\n\nCommencing then with the first of the above-named characteristics, I\nsay that it would be well to be reputed liberal. Nevertheless,\nliberality exercised in a way that does not bring you the reputation\nfor it, injures you; for if one exercises it honestly and as it should\nbe exercised, it may not become known, and you will not avoid the\nreproach of its opposite. Therefore, any one wishing to maintain among\nmen the name of liberal is obliged to avoid no attribute of\nmagnificence; so that a prince thus inclined will consume in such acts\nall his property, and will be compelled in the end, if he wish to\nmaintain the name of liberal, to unduly weigh down his people, and tax\nthem, and do everything he can to get money. This will soon make him\nodious to his subjects, and becoming poor he will be little valued by\nany one; thus, with his liberality, having offended many and rewarded\nfew, he is affected by the very first trouble and imperilled by\nwhatever may be the first danger; recognizing this himself, and wishing\nto draw back from it, he runs at once into the reproach of being\nmiserly.\n\nTherefore, a prince, not being able to exercise this virtue of\nliberality in such a way that it is recognized, except to his cost, if\nhe is wise he ought not to fear the reputation of being mean, for in\ntime he will come to be more considered than if liberal, seeing that\nwith his economy his revenues are enough, that he can defend himself\nagainst all attacks, and is able to engage in enterprises without\nburdening his people; thus it comes to pass that he exercises\nliberality towards all from whom he does not take, who are numberless,\nand meanness towards those to whom he does not give, who are few.\n\nWe have not seen great things done in our time except by those who have\nbeen considered mean; the rest have failed. Pope Julius the Second was\nassisted in reaching the papacy by a reputation for liberality, yet he\ndid not strive afterwards to keep it up, when he made war on the King\nof France; and he made many wars without imposing any extraordinary tax\non his subjects, for he supplied his additional expenses out of his\nlong thriftiness. The present King of Spain would not have undertaken\nor conquered in so many enterprises if he had been reputed liberal. A\nprince, therefore, provided that he has not to rob his subjects, that\nhe can defend himself, that he does not become poor and abject, that he\nis not forced to become rapacious, ought to hold of little account a\nreputation for being mean, for it is one of those vices which will\nenable him to govern.\n\nAnd if any one should say: Caesar obtained empire by liberality, and\nmany others have reached the highest positions by having been liberal,\nand by being considered so, I answer: Either you are a prince in fact,\nor in a way to become one. In the first case this liberality is\ndangerous, in the second it is very necessary to be considered liberal;\nand Caesar was one of those who wished to become pre-eminent in Rome;\nbut if he had survived after becoming so, and had not moderated his\nexpenses, he would have destroyed his government. And if any one should\nreply: Many have been princes, and have done great things with armies,\nwho have been considered very liberal, I reply: Either a prince spends\nthat which is his own or his subjects  or else that of others. In the\nfirst case he ought to be sparing, in the second he ought not to\nneglect any opportunity for liberality. And to the prince who goes\nforth with his army, supporting it by pillage, sack, and extortion,\nhandling that which belongs to others, this liberality is necessary,\notherwise he would not be followed by soldiers. And of that which is\nneither yours nor your subjects  you can be a ready giver, as were\nCyrus, Caesar, and Alexander; because it does not take away your\nreputation if you squander that of others, but adds to it; it is only\nsquandering your own that injures you.\n\nAnd there is nothing wastes so rapidly as liberality, for even whilst\nyou exercise it you lose the power to do so, and so become either poor\nor despised, or else, in avoiding poverty, rapacious and hated. And a\nprince should guard himself, above all things, against being despised\nand hated; and liberality leads you to both. Therefore it is wiser to\nhave a reputation for meanness which brings reproach without hatred,\nthan to be compelled through seeking a reputation for liberality to\nincur a name for rapacity which begets reproach with hatred.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\nCONCERNING CRUELTY AND CLEMENCY, AND WHETHER IT IS BETTER TO BE LOVED\nTHAN FEARED\n\n\nComing now to the other qualities mentioned above, I say that every\nprince ought to desire to be considered clement and not cruel.\nNevertheless he ought to take care not to misuse this clemency. Cesare\nBorgia was considered cruel; notwithstanding, his cruelty reconciled\nthe Romagna, unified it, and restored it to peace and loyalty. And if\nthis be rightly considered, he will be seen to have been much more\nmerciful than the Florentine people, who, to avoid a reputation for\ncruelty, permitted Pistoia to be destroyed.[1] Therefore a prince, so\nlong as he keeps his subjects united and loyal, ought not to mind the\nreproach of cruelty; because with a few examples he will be more\nmerciful than those who, through too much mercy, allow disorders to\narise, from which follow murders or robberies; for these are wont to\ninjure the whole people, whilst those executions which originate with a\nprince offend the individual only.\n\n [1] During the rioting between the Cancellieri and Panciatichi\n factions in 1502 and 1503.\n\nAnd of all princes, it is impossible for the new prince to avoid the\nimputation of cruelty, owing to new states being full of dangers. Hence\nVirgil, through the mouth of Dido, excuses the inhumanity of her reign\nowing to its being new, saying:\n\n Res dura, et regni novitas me talia cogunt\nMoliri, et late fines custode tueri. [2]\n\nNevertheless he ought to be slow to believe and to act, nor should he\nhimself show fear, but proceed in a temperate manner with prudence and\nhumanity, so that too much confidence may not make him incautious and\ntoo much distrust render him intolerable.\n\n [2] . . . against my will, my fate\nA throne unsettled, and an infant state,\nBid me defend my realms with all my pow rs,\nAnd guard with these severities my shores.\n\nChristopher Pitt.\n\nUpon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than\nfeared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to\nbe both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it\nis much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be\ndispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that\nthey are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as\nyou succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood,\nproperty, life, and children, as is said above, when the need is far\ndistant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince\nwho, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other\nprecautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by\npayments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be\nearned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied\nupon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than\none who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation\nwhich, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for\ntheir advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which\nnever fails.\n\nNevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he\ndoes not win love, he avoids hatred; because he can endure very well\nbeing feared whilst he is not hated, which will always be as long as he\nabstains from the property of his citizens and subjects and from their\nwomen. But when it is necessary for him to proceed against the life of\nsomeone, he must do it on proper justification and for manifest cause,\nbut above all things he must keep his hands off the property of others,\nbecause men more quickly forget the death of their father than the loss\nof their patrimony. Besides, pretexts for taking away the property are\nnever wanting; for he who has once begun to live by robbery will always\nfind pretexts for seizing what belongs to others; but reasons for\ntaking life, on the contrary, are more difficult to find and sooner\nlapse. But when a prince is with his army, and has under control a\nmultitude of soldiers, then it is quite necessary for him to disregard\nthe reputation of cruelty, for without it he would never hold his army\nunited or disposed to its duties.\n\nAmong the wonderful deeds of Hannibal this one is enumerated: that\nhaving led an enormous army, composed of many various races of men, to\nfight in foreign lands, no dissensions arose either among them or\nagainst the prince, whether in his bad or in his good fortune. This\narose from nothing else than his inhuman cruelty, which, with his\nboundless valour, made him revered and terrible in the sight of his\nsoldiers, but without that cruelty, his other virtues were not\nsufficient to produce this effect. And short-sighted writers admire his\ndeeds from one point of view and from another condemn the principal\ncause of them. That it is true his other virtues would not have been\nsufficient for him may be proved by the case of Scipio, that most\nexcellent man, not only of his own times but within the memory of man,\nagainst whom, nevertheless, his army rebelled in Spain; this arose from\nnothing but his too great forbearance, which gave his soldiers more\nlicense than is consistent with military discipline. For this he was\nupbraided in the Senate by Fabius Maximus, and called the corrupter of\nthe Roman soldiery. The Locrians were laid waste by a legate of Scipio,\nyet they were not avenged by him, nor was the insolence of the legate\npunished, owing entirely to his easy nature. Insomuch that someone in\nthe Senate, wishing to excuse him, said there were many men who knew\nmuch better how not to err than to correct the errors of others. This\ndisposition, if he had been continued in the command, would have\ndestroyed in time the fame and glory of Scipio; but, he being under the\ncontrol of the Senate, this injurious characteristic not only concealed\nitself, but contributed to his glory.\n\nReturning to the question of being feared or loved, I come to the\nconclusion that, men loving according to their own will and fearing\naccording to that of the prince, a wise prince should establish himself\non that which is in his own control and not in that of others; he must\nendeavour only to avoid hatred, as is noted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.[1]\nCONCERNING THE WAY IN WHICH PRINCES SHOULD KEEP FAITH\n\n\n [1]  The present chapter has given greater offence than any other\n portion of Machiavelli s writings.  Burd,  Il Principe,  p. 297.\n\nEvery one admits how praiseworthy it is in a prince to keep faith, and\nto live with integrity and not with craft. Nevertheless our experience\nhas been that those princes who have done great things have held good\nfaith of little account, and have known how to circumvent the intellect\nof men by craft, and in the end have overcome those who have relied on\ntheir word. You must know there are two ways of contesting,[2] the one\nby the law, the other by force; the first method is proper to men, the\nsecond to beasts; but because the first is frequently not sufficient,\nit is necessary to have recourse to the second. Therefore it is\nnecessary for a prince to understand how to avail himself of the beast\nand the man. This has been figuratively taught to princes by ancient\nwriters, who describe how Achilles and many other princes of old were\ngiven to the Centaur Chiron to nurse, who brought them up in his\ndiscipline; which means solely that, as they had for a teacher one who\nwas half beast and half man, so it is necessary for a prince to know\nhow to make use of both natures, and that one without the other is not\ndurable. A prince, therefore, being compelled knowingly to adopt the\nbeast, ought to choose the fox and the lion; because the lion cannot\ndefend himself against snares and the fox cannot defend himself against\nwolves. Therefore, it is necessary to be a fox to discover the snares\nand a lion to terrify the wolves. Those who rely simply on the lion do\nnot understand what they are about. Therefore a wise lord cannot, nor\nought he to, keep faith when such observance may be turned against him,\nand when the reasons that caused him to pledge it exist no longer. If\nmen were entirely good this precept would not hold, but because they\nare bad, and will not keep faith with you, you too are not bound to\nobserve it with them. Nor will there ever be wanting to a prince\nlegitimate reasons to excuse this non-observance. Of this endless\nmodern examples could be given, showing how many treaties and\nengagements have been made void and of no effect through the\nfaithlessness of princes; and he who has known best how to employ the\nfox has succeeded best.\n\n [2]  Contesting,  _i.e_.  striving for mastery.  Mr Burd points out\n that this passage is imitated directly from Cicero s  De Officiis :\n  Nam cum sint duo genera decertandi, unum per disceptationem, alterum\n per vim; cumque illud proprium sit hominis, hoc beluarum; confugiendum\n est ad posterius, si uti non licet superiore. \n\nBut it is necessary to know well how to disguise this characteristic,\nand to be a great pretender and dissembler; and men are so simple, and\nso subject to present necessities, that he who seeks to deceive will\nalways find someone who will allow himself to be deceived. One recent\nexample I cannot pass over in silence. Alexander the Sixth did nothing\nelse but deceive men, nor ever thought of doing otherwise, and he\nalways found victims; for there never was a man who had greater power\nin asserting, or who with greater oaths would affirm a thing, yet would\nobserve it less; nevertheless his deceits always succeeded according to\nhis wishes,[3] because he well understood this side of mankind.\n\n [3]  Nondimanco sempre gli succederono gli inganni (ad votum).  The\n words  ad votum  are omitted in the Testina addition, 1550.\n\nAlexander never did what he said,\nCesare never said what he did.\n\nItalian Proverb.\n\nTherefore it is unnecessary for a prince to have all the good qualities\nI have enumerated, but it is very necessary to appear to have them. And\nI shall dare to say this also, that to have them and always to observe\nthem is injurious, and that to appear to have them is useful; to appear\nmerciful, faithful, humane, religious, upright, and to be so, but with\na mind so framed that should you require not to be so, you may be able\nand know how to change to the opposite.\n\nAnd you have to understand this, that a prince, especially a new one,\ncannot observe all those things for which men are esteemed, being often\nforced, in order to maintain the state, to act contrary to fidelity,[4]\nfriendship, humanity, and religion. Therefore it is necessary for him\nto have a mind ready to turn itself accordingly as the winds and\nvariations of fortune force it, yet, as I have said above, not to\ndiverge from the good if he can avoid doing so, but, if compelled, then\nto know how to set about it.\n\n [4]  Contrary to fidelity  or  faith,   contro alla fede,  and  tutto\n fede,   altogether faithful,  in the next paragraph. It is noteworthy\n that these two phrases,  contro alla fede  and  tutto fede,  were\n omitted in the Testina edition, which was published with the sanction\n of the papal authorities. It may be that the meaning attached to the\n word  fede  was  the faith,  _i.e_. the Catholic creed, and not as\n rendered here  fidelity  and  faithful.  Observe that the word\n  religione  was suffered to stand in the text of the Testina, being\n used to signify indifferently every shade of belief, as witness  the\n religion,  a phrase inevitably employed to designate the Huguenot\n heresy. South in his Sermon IX, p. 69, ed. 1843, comments on this\n passage as follows:  That great patron and Coryphaeus of this tribe,\n Nicolo Machiavel, laid down this for a master rule in his political\n scheme:  That the show of religion was helpful to the politician, but\n the reality of it hurtful and pernicious. \n\nFor this reason a prince ought to take care that he never lets anything\nslip from his lips that is not replete with the above-named five\nqualities, that he may appear to him who sees and hears him altogether\nmerciful, faithful, humane, upright, and religious. There is nothing\nmore necessary to appear to have than this last quality, inasmuch as\nmen judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, because it\nbelongs to everybody to see you, to few to come in touch with you.\nEvery one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are, and\nthose few dare not oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who\nhave the majesty of the state to defend them; and in the actions of all\nmen, and especially of princes, which it is not prudent to challenge,\none judges by the result.\n\nFor that reason, let a prince have the credit of conquering and holding\nhis state, the means will always be considered honest, and he will be\npraised by everybody; because the vulgar are always taken by what a\nthing seems to be and by what comes of it; and in the world there are\nonly the vulgar, for the few find a place there only when the many have\nno ground to rest on.\n\nOne prince[5] of the present time, whom it is not well to name, never\npreaches anything else but peace and good faith, and to both he is most\nhostile, and either, if he had kept it, would have deprived him of\nreputation and kingdom many a time.\n\n [5] Ferdinand of Aragon.  When Machiavelli was writing _The Prince_ it\n would have been clearly impossible to mention Ferdinand s name here\n without giving offence.  Burd s  Il Principe,  p. 308.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\nTHAT ONE SHOULD AVOID BEING DESPISED AND HATED\n\n\nNow, concerning the characteristics of which mention is made above, I\nhave spoken of the more important ones, the others I wish to discuss\nbriefly under this generality, that the prince must consider, as has\nbeen in part said before, how to avoid those things which will make him\nhated or contemptible; and as often as he shall have succeeded he will\nhave fulfilled his part, and he need not fear any danger in other\nreproaches.\n\nIt makes him hated above all things, as I have said, to be rapacious,\nand to be a violator of the property and women of his subjects, from\nboth of which he must abstain. And when neither their property nor\ntheir honor is touched, the majority of men live content, and he has\nonly to contend with the ambition of a few, whom he can curb with ease\nin many ways.\n\nIt makes him contemptible to be considered fickle, frivolous,\neffeminate, mean-spirited, irresolute, from all of which a prince\nshould guard himself as from a rock; and he should endeavour to show in\nhis actions greatness, courage, gravity, and fortitude; and in his\nprivate dealings with his subjects let him show that his judgments are\nirrevocable, and maintain himself in such reputation that no one can\nhope either to deceive him or to get round him.\n\nThat prince is highly esteemed who conveys this impression of himself,\nand he who is highly esteemed is not easily conspired against; for,\nprovided it is well known that he is an excellent man and revered by\nhis people, he can only be attacked with difficulty. For this reason a\nprince ought to have two fears, one from within, on account of his\nsubjects, the other from without, on account of external powers. From\nthe latter he is defended by being well armed and having good allies,\nand if he is well armed he will have good friends, and affairs will\nalways remain quiet within when they are quiet without, unless they\nshould have been already disturbed by conspiracy; and even should\naffairs outside be disturbed, if he has carried out his preparations\nand has lived as I have said, as long as he does not despair, he will\nresist every attack, as I said Nabis the Spartan did.\n\nBut concerning his subjects, when affairs outside are disturbed he has\nonly to fear that they will conspire secretly, from which a prince can\neasily secure himself by avoiding being hated and despised, and by\nkeeping the people satisfied with him, which it is most necessary for\nhim to accomplish, as I said above at length. And one of the most\nefficacious remedies that a prince can have against conspiracies is not\nto be hated and despised by the people, for he who conspires against a\nprince always expects to please them by his removal; but when the\nconspirator can only look forward to offending them, he will not have\nthe courage to take such a course, for the difficulties that confront a\nconspirator are infinite. And as experience shows, many have been the\nconspiracies, but few have been successful; because he who conspires\ncannot act alone, nor can he take a companion except from those whom he\nbelieves to be malcontents, and as soon as you have opened your mind to\na malcontent you have given him the material with which to content\nhimself, for by denouncing you he can look for every advantage; so\nthat, seeing the gain from this course to be assured, and seeing the\nother to be doubtful and full of dangers, he must be a very rare\nfriend, or a thoroughly obstinate enemy of the prince, to keep faith\nwith you.\n\nAnd, to reduce the matter into a small compass, I say that, on the side\nof the conspirator, there is nothing but fear, jealousy, prospect of\npunishment to terrify him; but on the side of the prince there is the\nmajesty of the principality, the laws, the protection of friends and\nthe state to defend him; so that, adding to all these things the\npopular goodwill, it is impossible that any one should be so rash as to\nconspire. For whereas in general the conspirator has to fear before the\nexecution of his plot, in this case he has also to fear the sequel to\nthe crime; because on account of it he has the people for an enemy, and\nthus cannot hope for any escape.\n\nEndless examples could be given on this subject, but I will be content\nwith one, brought to pass within the memory of our fathers. Messer\nAnnibale Bentivogli, who was prince in Bologna (grandfather of the\npresent Annibale), having been murdered by the Canneschi, who had\nconspired against him, not one of his family survived but Messer\nGiovanni,[1] who was in childhood: immediately after his assassination\nthe people rose and murdered all the Canneschi. This sprung from the\npopular goodwill which the house of Bentivogli enjoyed in those days in\nBologna; which was so great that, although none remained there after\nthe death of Annibale who was able to rule the state, the Bolognese,\nhaving information that there was one of the Bentivogli family in\nFlorence, who up to that time had been considered the son of a\nblacksmith, sent to Florence for him and gave him the government of\ntheir city, and it was ruled by him until Messer Giovanni came in due\ncourse to the government.\n\n [1] Giovanni Bentivogli, born in Bologna 1438, died at Milan 1508. He\n ruled Bologna from 1462 to 1506. Machiavelli s strong condemnation of\n conspiracies may get its edge from his own very recent experience\n (February 1513), when he had been arrested and tortured for his\n alleged complicity in the Boscoli conspiracy.\n\nFor this reason I consider that a prince ought to reckon conspiracies\nof little account when his people hold him in esteem; but when it is\nhostile to him, and bears hatred towards him, he ought to fear\neverything and everybody. And well-ordered states and wise princes have\ntaken every care not to drive the nobles to desperation, and to keep\nthe people satisfied and contented, for this is one of the most\nimportant objects a prince can have.\n\nAmong the best ordered and governed kingdoms of our times is France,\nand in it are found many good institutions on which depend the liberty\nand security of the king; of these the first is the parliament and its\nauthority, because he who founded the kingdom, knowing the ambition of\nthe nobility and their boldness, considered that a bit to their mouths\nwould be necessary to hold them in; and, on the other side, knowing the\nhatred of the people, founded in fear, against the nobles, he wished to\nprotect them, yet he was not anxious for this to be the particular care\nof the king; therefore, to take away the reproach which he would be\nliable to from the nobles for favouring the people, and from the people\nfor favouring the nobles, he set up an arbiter, who should be one who\ncould beat down the great and favour the lesser without reproach to the\nking. Neither could you have a better or a more prudent arrangement, or\na greater source of security to the king and kingdom. From this one can\ndraw another important conclusion, that princes ought to leave affairs\nof reproach to the management of others, and keep those of grace in\ntheir own hands. And further, I consider that a prince ought to cherish\nthe nobles, but not so as to make himself hated by the people.\n\nIt may appear, perhaps, to some who have examined the lives and deaths\nof the Roman emperors that many of them would be an example contrary to\nmy opinion, seeing that some of them lived nobly and showed great\nqualities of soul, nevertheless they have lost their empire or have\nbeen killed by subjects who have conspired against them. Wishing,\ntherefore, to answer these objections, I will recall the characters of\nsome of the emperors, and will show that the causes of their ruin were\nnot different to those alleged by me; at the same time I will only\nsubmit for consideration those things that are noteworthy to him who\nstudies the affairs of those times.\n\nIt seems to me sufficient to take all those emperors who succeeded to\nthe empire from Marcus the philosopher down to Maximinus; they were\nMarcus and his son Commodus, Pertinax, Julian, Severus and his son\nAntoninus Caracalla, Macrinus, Heliogabalus, Alexander, and Maximinus.\n\nThere is first to note that, whereas in other principalities the\nambition of the nobles and the insolence of the people only have to be\ncontended with, the Roman emperors had a third difficulty in having to\nput up with the cruelty and avarice of their soldiers, a matter so\nbeset with difficulties that it was the ruin of many; for it was a hard\nthing to give satisfaction both to soldiers and people; because the\npeople loved peace, and for this reason they loved the unaspiring\nprince, whilst the soldiers loved the warlike prince who was bold,\ncruel, and rapacious, which qualities they were quite willing he should\nexercise upon the people, so that they could get double pay and give\nvent to their own greed and cruelty. Hence it arose that those emperors\nwere always overthrown who, either by birth or training, had no great\nauthority, and most of them, especially those who came new to the\nprincipality, recognizing the difficulty of these two opposing humours,\nwere inclined to give satisfaction to the soldiers, caring little about\ninjuring the people. Which course was necessary, because, as princes\ncannot help being hated by someone, they ought, in the first place, to\navoid being hated by every one, and when they cannot compass this, they\nought to endeavour with the utmost diligence to avoid the hatred of the\nmost powerful. Therefore, those emperors who through inexperience had\nneed of special favour adhered more readily to the soldiers than to the\npeople; a course which turned out advantageous to them or not,\naccordingly as the prince knew how to maintain authority over them.\n\nFrom these causes it arose that Marcus, Pertinax, and Alexander, being\nall men of modest life, lovers of justice, enemies to cruelty, humane,\nand benignant, came to a sad end except Marcus; he alone lived and died\nhonoured, because he had succeeded to the throne by hereditary title,\nand owed nothing either to the soldiers or the people; and afterwards,\nbeing possessed of many virtues which made him respected, he always\nkept both orders in their places whilst he lived, and was neither hated\nnor despised.\n\nBut Pertinax was created emperor against the wishes of the soldiers,\nwho, being accustomed to live licentiously under Commodus, could not\nendure the honest life to which Pertinax wished to reduce them; thus,\nhaving given cause for hatred, to which hatred there was added contempt\nfor his old age, he was overthrown at the very beginning of his\nadministration. And here it should be noted that hatred is acquired as\nmuch by good works as by bad ones, therefore, as I said before, a\nprince wishing to keep his state is very often forced to do evil; for\nwhen that body is corrupt whom you think you have need of to maintain\nyourself it may be either the people or the soldiers or the nobles you\nhave to submit to its humours and to gratify them, and then good works\nwill do you harm.\n\nBut let us come to Alexander, who was a man of such great goodness,\nthat among the other praises which are accorded him is this, that in\nthe fourteen years he held the empire no one was ever put to death by\nhim unjudged; nevertheless, being considered effeminate and a man who\nallowed himself to be governed by his mother, he became despised, the\narmy conspired against him, and murdered him.\n\nTurning now to the opposite characters of Commodus, Severus, Antoninus\nCaracalla, and Maximinus, you will find them all cruel and\nrapacious-men who, to satisfy their soldiers, did not hesitate to\ncommit every kind of iniquity against the people; and all, except\nSeverus, came to a bad end; but in Severus there was so much valour\nthat, keeping the soldiers friendly, although the people were oppressed\nby him, he reigned successfully; for his valour made him so much\nadmired in the sight of the soldiers and people that the latter were\nkept in a way astonished and awed and the former respectful and\nsatisfied. And because the actions of this man, as a new prince, were\ngreat, I wish to show briefly that he knew well how to counterfeit the\nfox and the lion, which natures, as I said above, it is necessary for a\nprince to imitate.\n\nKnowing the sloth of the Emperor Julian, he persuaded the army in\nSclavonia, of which he was captain, that it would be right to go to\nRome and avenge the death of Pertinax, who had been killed by the\npraetorian soldiers; and under this pretext, without appearing to\naspire to the throne, he moved the army on Rome, and reached Italy\nbefore it was known that he had started. On his arrival at Rome, the\nSenate, through fear, elected him emperor and killed Julian. After this\nthere remained for Severus, who wished to make himself master of the\nwhole empire, two difficulties; one in Asia, where Niger, head of the\nAsiatic army, had caused himself to be proclaimed emperor; the other in\nthe west where Albinus was, who also aspired to the throne. And as he\nconsidered it dangerous to declare himself hostile to both, he decided\nto attack Niger and to deceive Albinus. To the latter he wrote that,\nbeing elected emperor by the Senate, he was willing to share that\ndignity with him and sent him the title of Caesar; and, moreover, that\nthe Senate had made Albinus his colleague; which things were accepted\nby Albinus as true. But after Severus had conquered and killed Niger,\nand settled oriental affairs, he returned to Rome and complained to the\nSenate that Albinus, little recognizing the benefits that he had\nreceived from him, had by treachery sought to murder him, and for this\ningratitude he was compelled to punish him. Afterwards he sought him\nout in France, and took from him his government and life. He who will,\ntherefore, carefully examine the actions of this man will find him a\nmost valiant lion and a most cunning fox; he will find him feared and\nrespected by every one, and not hated by the army; and it need not be\nwondered at that he, a new man, was able to hold the empire so well,\nbecause his supreme renown always protected him from that hatred which\nthe people might have conceived against him for his violence.\n\nBut his son Antoninus was a most eminent man, and had very excellent\nqualities, which made him admirable in the sight of the people and\nacceptable to the soldiers, for he was a warlike man, most enduring of\nfatigue, a despiser of all delicate food and other luxuries, which\ncaused him to be beloved by the armies. Nevertheless, his ferocity and\ncruelties were so great and so unheard of that, after endless single\nmurders, he killed a large number of the people of Rome and all those\nof Alexandria. He became hated by the whole world, and also feared by\nthose he had around him, to such an extent that he was murdered in the\nmidst of his army by a centurion. And here it must be noted that\nsuch-like deaths, which are deliberately inflicted with a resolved and\ndesperate courage, cannot be avoided by princes, because any one who\ndoes not fear to die can inflict them; but a prince may fear them the\nless because they are very rare; he has only to be careful not to do\nany grave injury to those whom he employs or has around him in the\nservice of the state. Antoninus had not taken this care, but had\ncontumeliously killed a brother of that centurion, whom also he daily\nthreatened, yet retained in his bodyguard; which, as it turned out, was\na rash thing to do, and proved the emperor s ruin.\n\nBut let us come to Commodus, to whom it should have been very easy to\nhold the empire, for, being the son of Marcus, he had inherited it, and\nhe had only to follow in the footsteps of his father to please his\npeople and soldiers; but, being by nature cruel and brutal, he gave\nhimself up to amusing the soldiers and corrupting them, so that he\nmight indulge his rapacity upon the people; on the other hand, not\nmaintaining his dignity, often descending to the theatre to compete\nwith gladiators, and doing other vile things, little worthy of the\nimperial majesty, he fell into contempt with the soldiers, and being\nhated by one party and despised by the other, he was conspired against\nand was killed.\n\nIt remains to discuss the character of Maximinus. He was a very warlike\nman, and the armies, being disgusted with the effeminacy of Alexander,\nof whom I have already spoken, killed him and elected Maximinus to the\nthrone. This he did not possess for long, for two things made him hated\nand despised; the one, his having kept sheep in Thrace, which brought\nhim into contempt (it being well known to all, and considered a great\nindignity by every one), and the other, his having at the accession to\nhis dominions deferred going to Rome and taking possession of the\nimperial seat; he had also gained a reputation for the utmost ferocity\nby having, through his prefects in Rome and elsewhere in the empire,\npractised many cruelties, so that the whole world was moved to anger at\nthe meanness of his birth and to fear at his barbarity. First Africa\nrebelled, then the Senate with all the people of Rome, and all Italy\nconspired against him, to which may be added his own army; this latter,\nbesieging Aquileia and meeting with difficulties in taking it, were\ndisgusted with his cruelties, and fearing him less when they found so\nmany against him, murdered him.\n\nI do not wish to discuss Heliogabalus, Macrinus, or Julian, who, being\nthoroughly contemptible, were quickly wiped out; but I will bring this\ndiscourse to a conclusion by saying that princes in our times have this\ndifficulty of giving inordinate satisfaction to their soldiers in a far\nless degree, because, notwithstanding one has to give them some\nindulgence, that is soon done; none of these princes have armies that\nare veterans in the governance and administration of provinces, as were\nthe armies of the Roman Empire; and whereas it was then more necessary\nto give satisfaction to the soldiers than to the people, it is now more\nnecessary to all princes, except the Turk and the Soldan, to satisfy\nthe people rather the soldiers, because the people are the more\npowerful.\n\nFrom the above I have excepted the Turk, who always keeps round him\ntwelve thousand infantry and fifteen thousand cavalry on which depend\nthe security and strength of the kingdom, and it is necessary that,\nputting aside every consideration for the people, he should keep them\nhis friends. The kingdom of the Soldan is similar; being entirely in\nthe hands of soldiers, it follows again that, without regard to the\npeople, he must keep them his friends. But you must note that the state\nof the Soldan is unlike all other principalities, for the reason that\nit is like the Christian pontificate, which cannot be called either an\nhereditary or a newly formed principality; because the sons of the old\nprince are not the heirs, but he who is elected to that position by\nthose who have authority, and the sons remain only noblemen. And this\nbeing an ancient custom, it cannot be called a new principality,\nbecause there are none of those difficulties in it that are met with in\nnew ones; for although the prince is new, the constitution of the state\nis old, and it is framed so as to receive him as if he were its\nhereditary lord.\n\nBut returning to the subject of our discourse, I say that whoever will\nconsider it will acknowledge that either hatred or contempt has been\nfatal to the above-named emperors, and it will be recognized also how\nit happened that, a number of them acting in one way and a number in\nanother, only one in each way came to a happy end and the rest to\nunhappy ones. Because it would have been useless and dangerous for\nPertinax and Alexander, being new princes, to imitate Marcus, who was\nheir to the principality; and likewise it would have been utterly\ndestructive to Caracalla, Commodus, and Maximinus to have imitated\nSeverus, they not having sufficient valour to enable them to tread in\nhis footsteps. Therefore a prince, new to the principality, cannot\nimitate the actions of Marcus, nor, again, is it necessary to follow\nthose of Severus, but he ought to take from Severus those parts which\nare necessary to found his state, and from Marcus those which are\nproper and glorious to keep a state that may already be stable and\nfirm.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\nARE FORTRESSES, AND MANY OTHER THINGS TO WHICH PRINCES OFTEN RESORT,\nADVANTAGEOUS OR HURTFUL?\n\n\n1. Some princes, so as to hold securely the state, have disarmed their\nsubjects; others have kept their subject towns distracted by factions;\nothers have fostered enmities against themselves; others have laid\nthemselves out to gain over those whom they distrusted in the beginning\nof their governments; some have built fortresses; some have overthrown\nand destroyed them. And although one cannot give a final judgment on\nall of these things unless one possesses the particulars of those\nstates in which a decision has to be made, nevertheless I will speak as\ncomprehensively as the matter of itself will admit.\n\n2. There never was a new prince who has disarmed his subjects; rather\nwhen he has found them disarmed he has always armed them, because, by\narming them, those arms become yours, those men who were distrusted\nbecome faithful, and those who were faithful are kept so, and your\nsubjects become your adherents. And whereas all subjects cannot be\narmed, yet when those whom you do arm are benefited, the others can be\nhandled more freely, and this difference in their treatment, which they\nquite understand, makes the former your dependents, and the latter,\nconsidering it to be necessary that those who have the most danger and\nservice should have the most reward, excuse you. But when you disarm\nthem, you at once offend them by showing that you distrust them, either\nfor cowardice or for want of loyalty, and either of these opinions\nbreeds hatred against you. And because you cannot remain unarmed, it\nfollows that you turn to mercenaries, which are of the character\nalready shown; even if they should be good they would not be sufficient\nto defend you against powerful enemies and distrusted subjects.\nTherefore, as I have said, a new prince in a new principality has\nalways distributed arms. Histories are full of examples. But when a\nprince acquires a new state, which he adds as a province to his old\none, then it is necessary to disarm the men of that state, except those\nwho have been his adherents in acquiring it; and these again, with time\nand opportunity, should be rendered soft and effeminate; and matters\nshould be managed in such a way that all the armed men in the state\nshall be your own soldiers who in your old state were living near you.\n\n3. Our forefathers, and those who were reckoned wise, were accustomed\nto say that it was necessary to hold Pistoia by factions and Pisa by\nfortresses; and with this idea they fostered quarrels in some of their\ntributary towns so as to keep possession of them the more easily. This\nmay have been well enough in those times when Italy was in a way\nbalanced, but I do not believe that it can be accepted as a precept for\nto-day, because I do not believe that factions can ever be of use;\nrather it is certain that when the enemy comes upon you in divided\ncities you are quickly lost, because the weakest party will always\nassist the outside forces and the other will not be able to resist. The\nVenetians, moved, as I believe, by the above reasons, fostered the\nGuelph and Ghibelline factions in their tributary cities; and although\nthey never allowed them to come to bloodshed, yet they nursed these\ndisputes amongst them, so that the citizens, distracted by their\ndifferences, should not unite against them. Which, as we saw, did not\nafterwards turn out as expected, because, after the rout at Vaila, one\nparty at once took courage and seized the state. Such methods argue,\ntherefore, weakness in the prince, because these factions will never be\npermitted in a vigorous principality; such methods for enabling one the\nmore easily to manage subjects are only useful in times of peace, but\nif war comes this policy proves fallacious.\n\n4. Without doubt princes become great when they overcome the\ndifficulties and obstacles by which they are confronted, and therefore\nfortune, especially when she desires to make a new prince great, who\nhas a greater necessity to earn renown than an hereditary one, causes\nenemies to arise and form designs against him, in order that he may\nhave the opportunity of overcoming them, and by them to mount higher,\nas by a ladder which his enemies have raised. For this reason many\nconsider that a wise prince, when he has the opportunity, ought with\ncraft to foster some animosity against himself, so that, having crushed\nit, his renown may rise higher.\n\n5. Princes, especially new ones, have found more fidelity and\nassistance in those men who in the beginning of their rule were\ndistrusted than among those who in the beginning were trusted. Pandolfo\nPetrucci, Prince of Siena, ruled his state more by those who had been\ndistrusted than by others. But on this question one cannot speak\ngenerally, for it varies so much with the individual; I will only say\nthis, that those men who at the commencement of a princedom have been\nhostile, if they are of a description to need assistance to support\nthemselves, can always be gained over with the greatest ease, and they\nwill be tightly held to serve the prince with fidelity, inasmuch as\nthey know it to be very necessary for them to cancel by deeds the bad\nimpression which he had formed of them; and thus the prince always\nextracts more profit from them than from those who, serving him in too\nmuch security, may neglect his affairs. And since the matter demands\nit, I must not fail to warn a prince, who by means of secret favours\nhas acquired a new state, that he must well consider the reasons which\ninduced those to favour him who did so; and if it be not a natural\naffection towards him, but only discontent with their government, then\nhe will only keep them friendly with great trouble and difficulty, for\nit will be impossible to satisfy them. And weighing well the reasons\nfor this in those examples which can be taken from ancient and modern\naffairs, we shall find that it is easier for the prince to make friends\nof those men who were contented under the former government, and are\ntherefore his enemies, than of those who, being discontented with it,\nwere favourable to him and encouraged him to seize it.\n\n6. It has been a custom with princes, in order to hold their states\nmore securely, to build fortresses that may serve as a bridle and bit\nto those who might design to work against them, and as a place of\nrefuge from a first attack. I praise this system because it has been\nmade use of formerly. Notwithstanding that, Messer Nicolo Vitelli in\nour times has been seen to demolish two fortresses in Citta di Castello\nso that he might keep that state; Guido Ubaldo, Duke of Urbino, on\nreturning to his dominion, whence he had been driven by Cesare Borgia,\nrazed to the foundations all the fortresses in that province, and\nconsidered that without them it would be more difficult to lose it; the\nBentivogli returning to Bologna came to a similar decision. Fortresses,\ntherefore, are useful or not according to circumstances; if they do you\ngood in one way they injure you in another. And this question can be\nreasoned thus: the prince who has more to fear from the people than\nfrom foreigners ought to build fortresses, but he who has more to fear\nfrom foreigners than from the people ought to leave them alone. The\ncastle of Milan, built by Francesco Sforza, has made, and will make,\nmore trouble for the house of Sforza than any other disorder in the\nstate. For this reason the best possible fortress is not to be hated by\nthe people, because, although you may hold the fortresses, yet they\nwill not save you if the people hate you, for there will never be\nwanting foreigners to assist a people who have taken arms against you.\nIt has not been seen in our times that such fortresses have been of use\nto any prince, unless to the Countess of Forli,[1] when the Count\nGirolamo, her consort, was killed; for by that means she was able to\nwithstand the popular attack and wait for assistance from Milan, and\nthus recover her state; and the posture of affairs was such at that\ntime that the foreigners could not assist the people. But fortresses\nwere of little value to her afterwards when Cesare Borgia attacked her,\nand when the people, her enemy, were allied with foreigners. Therefore,\nit would have been safer for her, both then and before, not to have\nbeen hated by the people than to have had the fortresses. All these\nthings considered then, I shall praise him who builds fortresses as\nwell as him who does not, and I shall blame whoever, trusting in them,\ncares little about being hated by the people.\n\n [1] Catherine Sforza, a daughter of Galeazzo Sforza and Lucrezia\n Landriani, born 1463, died 1509. It was to the Countess of Forli that\n Machiavelli was sent as envoy on 1499. A letter from Fortunati to the\n countess announces the appointment:  I have been with the signori, \n wrote Fortunati,  to learn whom they would send and when. They tell me\n that Nicolo Machiavelli, a learned young Florentine noble, secretary\n to my Lords of the Ten, is to leave with me at once.  _Cf_.  Catherine\n Sforza,  by Count Pasolini, translated by P. Sylvester, 1898.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\nHOW A PRINCE SHOULD CONDUCT HIMSELF SO AS TO GAIN RENOWN\n\n\nNothing makes a prince so much esteemed as great enterprises and\nsetting a fine example. We have in our time Ferdinand of Aragon, the\npresent King of Spain. He can almost be called a new prince, because he\nhas risen, by fame and glory, from being an insignificant king to be\nthe foremost king in Christendom; and if you will consider his deeds\nyou will find them all great and some of them extraordinary. In the\nbeginning of his reign he attacked Granada, and this enterprise was the\nfoundation of his dominions. He did this quietly at first and without\nany fear of hindrance, for he held the minds of the barons of Castile\noccupied in thinking of the war and not anticipating any innovations;\nthus they did not perceive that by these means he was acquiring power\nand authority over them. He was able with the money of the Church and\nof the people to sustain his armies, and by that long war to lay the\nfoundation for the military skill which has since distinguished him.\nFurther, always using religion as a plea, so as to undertake greater\nschemes, he devoted himself with pious cruelty to driving out and\nclearing his kingdom of the Moors; nor could there be a more admirable\nexample, nor one more rare. Under this same cloak he assailed Africa,\nhe came down on Italy, he has finally attacked France; and thus his\nachievements and designs have always been great, and have kept the\nminds of his people in suspense and admiration and occupied with the\nissue of them. And his actions have arisen in such a way, one out of\nthe other, that men have never been given time to work steadily against\nhim.\n\nAgain, it much assists a prince to set unusual examples in internal\naffairs, similar to those which are related of Messer Bernabo da\nMilano, who, when he had the opportunity, by any one in civil life\ndoing some extraordinary thing, either good or bad, would take some\nmethod of rewarding or punishing him, which would be much spoken about.\nAnd a prince ought, above all things, always endeavour in every action\nto gain for himself the reputation of being a great and remarkable man.\n\nA prince is also respected when he is either a true friend or a\ndownright enemy, that is to say, when, without any reservation, he\ndeclares himself in favour of one party against the other; which course\nwill always be more advantageous than standing neutral; because if two\nof your powerful neighbours come to blows, they are of such a character\nthat, if one of them conquers, you have either to fear him or not. In\neither case it will always be more advantageous for you to declare\nyourself and to make war strenuously; because, in the first case, if\nyou do not declare yourself, you will invariably fall a prey to the\nconqueror, to the pleasure and satisfaction of him who has been\nconquered, and you will have no reasons to offer, nor anything to\nprotect or to shelter you. Because he who conquers does not want\ndoubtful friends who will not aid him in the time of trial; and he who\nloses will not harbour you because you did not willingly, sword in\nhand, court his fate.\n\nAntiochus went into Greece, being sent for by the  tolians to drive out\nthe Romans. He sent envoys to the Achaeans, who were friends of the\nRomans, exhorting them to remain neutral; and on the other hand the\nRomans urged them to take up arms. This question came to be discussed\nin the council of the Achaeans, where the legate of Antiochus urged\nthem to stand neutral. To this the Roman legate answered:  As for that\nwhich has been said, that it is better and more advantageous for your\nstate not to interfere in our war, nothing can be more erroneous;\nbecause by not interfering you will be left, without favour or\nconsideration, the guerdon of the conqueror.  Thus it will always\nhappen that he who is not your friend will demand your neutrality,\nwhilst he who is your friend will entreat you to declare yourself with\narms. And irresolute princes, to avoid present dangers, generally\nfollow the neutral path, and are generally ruined. But when a prince\ndeclares himself gallantly in favour of one side, if the party with\nwhom he allies himself conquers, although the victor may be powerful\nand may have him at his mercy, yet he is indebted to him, and there is\nestablished a bond of amity; and men are never so shameless as to\nbecome a monument of ingratitude by oppressing you. Victories after all\nare never so complete that the victor must not show some regard,\nespecially to justice. But if he with whom you ally yourself loses, you\nmay be sheltered by him, and whilst he is able he may aid you, and you\nbecome companions on a fortune that may rise again.\n\nIn the second case, when those who fight are of such a character that\nyou have no anxiety as to who may conquer, so much the more is it\ngreater prudence to be allied, because you assist at the destruction of\none by the aid of another who, if he had been wise, would have saved\nhim; and conquering, as it is impossible that he should not do with\nyour assistance, he remains at your discretion. And here it is to be\nnoted that a prince ought to take care never to make an alliance with\none more powerful than himself for the purposes of attacking others,\nunless necessity compels him, as is said above; because if he conquers\nyou are at his discretion, and princes ought to avoid as much as\npossible being at the discretion of any one. The Venetians joined with\nFrance against the Duke of Milan, and this alliance, which caused their\nruin, could have been avoided. But when it cannot be avoided, as\nhappened to the Florentines when the Pope and Spain sent armies to\nattack Lombardy, then in such a case, for the above reasons, the prince\nought to favour one of the parties.\n\nNever let any Government imagine that it can choose perfectly safe\ncourses; rather let it expect to have to take very doubtful ones,\nbecause it is found in ordinary affairs that one never seeks to avoid\none trouble without running into another; but prudence consists in\nknowing how to distinguish the character of troubles, and for choice to\ntake the lesser evil.\n\nA prince ought also to show himself a patron of ability, and to honour\nthe proficient in every art. At the same time he should encourage his\ncitizens to practise their callings peaceably, both in commerce and\nagriculture, and in every other following, so that the one should not\nbe deterred from improving his possessions for fear lest they be taken\naway from him or another from opening up trade for fear of taxes; but\nthe prince ought to offer rewards to whoever wishes to do these things\nand designs in any way to honour his city or state.\n\nFurther, he ought to entertain the people with festivals and spectacles\nat convenient seasons of the year; and as every city is divided into\nguilds or into societies,[1] he ought to hold such bodies in esteem,\nand associate with them sometimes, and show himself an example of\ncourtesy and liberality; nevertheless, always maintaining the majesty\nof his rank, for this he must never consent to abate in anything.\n\n [1]  Guilds or societies,   in arti o in tribu.   Arti  were craft or\n trade guilds, _cf_. Florio:  Arte . . . a whole company of any trade\n in any city or corporation town.  The guilds of Florence are most\n admirably described by Mr Edgcumbe Staley in his work on the subject\n (Methuen, 1906). Institutions of a somewhat similar character, called\n  artel,  exist in Russia to-day, _cf_. Sir Mackenzie Wallace s\n  Russia,  ed. 1905:  The sons . . . were always during the working\n season members of an artel. In some of the larger towns there are\n artels of a much more complex kind  permanent associations, possessing\n large capital, and pecuniarily responsible for the acts of the\n individual members.  The word  artel,  despite its apparent\n similarity, has, Mr Aylmer Maude assures me, no connection with  ars \n or  arte.  Its root is that of the verb  rotisya,  to bind oneself by\n an oath; and it is generally admitted to be only another form of\n  rota,  which now signifies a  regimental company.  In both words the\n underlying idea is that of a body of men united by an oath.  Tribu \n were possibly gentile groups, united by common descent, and included\n individuals connected by marriage. Perhaps our words  sects  or\n  clans  would be most appropriate.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\nCONCERNING THE SECRETARIES OF PRINCES\n\n\nThe choice of servants is of no little importance to a prince, and they\nare good or not according to the discrimination of the prince. And the\nfirst opinion which one forms of a prince, and of his understanding, is\nby observing the men he has around him; and when they are capable and\nfaithful he may always be considered wise, because he has known how to\nrecognize the capable and to keep them faithful. But when they are\notherwise one cannot form a good opinion of him, for the prime error\nwhich he made was in choosing them.\n\nThere were none who knew Messer Antonio da Venafro as the servant of\nPandolfo Petrucci, Prince of Siena, who would not consider Pandolfo to\nbe a very clever man in having Venafro for his servant. Because there\nare three classes of intellects: one which comprehends by itself;\nanother which appreciates what others comprehended; and a third which\nneither comprehends by itself nor by the showing of others; the first\nis the most excellent, the second is good, the third is useless.\nTherefore, it follows necessarily that, if Pandolfo was not in the\nfirst rank, he was in the second, for whenever one has judgment to know\ngood and bad when it is said and done, although he himself may not have\nthe initiative, yet he can recognize the good and the bad in his\nservant, and the one he can praise and the other correct; thus the\nservant cannot hope to deceive him, and is kept honest.\n\nBut to enable a prince to form an opinion of his servant there is one\ntest which never fails; when you see the servant thinking more of his\nown interests than of yours, and seeking inwardly his own profit in\neverything, such a man will never make a good servant, nor will you\never be able to trust him; because he who has the state of another in\nhis hands ought never to think of himself, but always of his prince,\nand never pay any attention to matters in which the prince is not\nconcerned.\n\nOn the other hand, to keep his servant honest the prince ought to study\nhim, honouring him, enriching him, doing him kindnesses, sharing with\nhim the honours and cares; and at the same time let him see that he\ncannot stand alone, so that many honours may not make him desire more,\nmany riches make him wish for more, and that many cares may make him\ndread chances. When, therefore, servants, and princes towards servants,\nare thus disposed, they can trust each other, but when it is otherwise,\nthe end will always be disastrous for either one or the other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\nHOW FLATTERERS SHOULD BE AVOIDED\n\n\nI do not wish to leave out an important branch of this subject, for it\nis a danger from which princes are with difficulty preserved, unless\nthey are very careful and discriminating. It is that of flatterers, of\nwhom courts are full, because men are so self-complacent in their own\naffairs, and in a way so deceived in them, that they are preserved with\ndifficulty from this pest, and if they wish to defend themselves they\nrun the danger of falling into contempt. Because there is no other way\nof guarding oneself from flatterers except letting men understand that\nto tell you the truth does not offend you; but when every one may tell\nyou the truth, respect for you abates.\n\nTherefore a wise prince ought to hold a third course by choosing the\nwise men in his state, and giving to them only the liberty of speaking\nthe truth to him, and then only of those things of which he inquires,\nand of none others; but he ought to question them upon everything, and\nlisten to their opinions, and afterwards form his own conclusions. With\nthese councillors, separately and collectively, he ought to carry\nhimself in such a way that each of them should know that, the more\nfreely he shall speak, the more he shall be preferred; outside of\nthese, he should listen to no one, pursue the thing resolved on, and be\nsteadfast in his resolutions. He who does otherwise is either\noverthrown by flatterers, or is so often changed by varying opinions\nthat he falls into contempt.\n\nI wish on this subject to adduce a modern example. Fra Luca, the man of\naffairs to Maximilian,[1] the present emperor, speaking of his majesty,\nsaid: He consulted with no one, yet never got his own way in anything.\nThis arose because of his following a practice the opposite to the\nabove; for the emperor is a secretive man he does not communicate his\ndesigns to any one, nor does he receive opinions on them. But as in\ncarrying them into effect they become revealed and known, they are at\nonce obstructed by those men whom he has around him, and he, being\npliant, is diverted from them. Hence it follows that those things he\ndoes one day he undoes the next, and no one ever understands what he\nwishes or intends to do, and no one can rely on his resolutions.\n\n [1] Maximilian I, born in 1459, died 1519, Emperor of the Holy Roman\n Empire. He married, first, Mary, daughter of Charles the Bold; after\n her death, Bianca Sforza; and thus became involved in Italian\n politics.\n\nA prince, therefore, ought always to take counsel, but only when he\nwishes and not when others wish; he ought rather to discourage every\none from offering advice unless he asks it; but, however, he ought to\nbe a constant inquirer, and afterwards a patient listener concerning\nthe things of which he inquired; also, on learning that any one, on any\nconsideration, has not told him the truth, he should let his anger be\nfelt.\n\nAnd if there are some who think that a prince who conveys an impression\nof his wisdom is not so through his own ability, but through the good\nadvisers that he has around him, beyond doubt they are deceived,\nbecause this is an axiom which never fails: that a prince who is not\nwise himself will never take good advice, unless by chance he has\nyielded his affairs entirely to one person who happens to be a very\nprudent man. In this case indeed he may be well governed, but it would\nnot be for long, because such a governor would in a short time take\naway his state from him.\n\nBut if a prince who is not inexperienced should take counsel from more\nthan one he will never get united counsels, nor will he know how to\nunite them. Each of the counsellors will think of his own interests,\nand the prince will not know how to control them or to see through\nthem. And they are not to be found otherwise, because men will always\nprove untrue to you unless they are kept honest by constraint.\nTherefore it must be inferred that good counsels, whencesoever they\ncome, are born of the wisdom of the prince, and not the wisdom of the\nprince from good counsels.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\nWHY THE PRINCES OF ITALY HAVE LOST THEIR STATES\n\n\nThe previous suggestions, carefully observed, will enable a new prince\nto appear well established, and render him at once more secure and\nfixed in the state than if he had been long seated there. For the\nactions of a new prince are more narrowly observed than those of an\nhereditary one, and when they are seen to be able they gain more men\nand bind far tighter than ancient blood; because men are attracted more\nby the present than by the past, and when they find the present good\nthey enjoy it and seek no further; they will also make the utmost\ndefence of a prince if he fails them not in other things. Thus it will\nbe a double glory for him to have established a new principality, and\nadorned and strengthened it with good laws, good arms, good allies, and\nwith a good example; so will it be a double disgrace to him who, born a\nprince, shall lose his state by want of wisdom.\n\nAnd if those seigniors are considered who have lost their states in\nItaly in our times, such as the King of Naples, the Duke of Milan, and\nothers, there will be found in them, firstly, one common defect in\nregard to arms from the causes which have been discussed at length; in\nthe next place, some one of them will be seen, either to have had the\npeople hostile, or if he has had the people friendly, he has not known\nhow to secure the nobles. In the absence of these defects states that\nhave power enough to keep an army in the field cannot be lost.\n\nPhilip of Macedon, not the father of Alexander the Great, but he who\nwas conquered by Titus Quintius, had not much territory compared to the\ngreatness of the Romans and of Greece who attacked him, yet being a\nwarlike man who knew how to attract the people and secure the nobles,\nhe sustained the war against his enemies for many years, and if in the\nend he lost the dominion of some cities, nevertheless he retained the\nkingdom.\n\nTherefore, do not let our princes accuse fortune for the loss of their\nprincipalities after so many years  possession, but rather their own\nsloth, because in quiet times they never thought there could be a\nchange (it is a common defect in man not to make any provision in the\ncalm against the tempest), and when afterwards the bad times came they\nthought of flight and not of defending themselves, and they hoped that\nthe people, disgusted with the insolence of the conquerors, would\nrecall them. This course, when others fail, may be good, but it is very\nbad to have neglected all other expedients for that, since you would\nnever wish to fall because you trusted to be able to find someone later\non to restore you. This again either does not happen, or, if it does,\nit will not be for your security, because that deliverance is of no\navail which does not depend upon yourself; those only are reliable,\ncertain, and durable that depend on yourself and your valour.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\nWHAT FORTUNE CAN EFFECT IN HUMAN AFFAIRS AND HOW TO WITHSTAND HER\n\n\nIt is not unknown to me how many men have had, and still have, the\nopinion that the affairs of the world are in such wise governed by\nfortune and by God that men with their wisdom cannot direct them and\nthat no one can even help them; and because of this they would have us\nbelieve that it is not necessary to labour much in affairs, but to let\nchance govern them. This opinion has been more credited in our times\nbecause of the great changes in affairs which have been seen, and may\nstill be seen, every day, beyond all human conjecture. Sometimes\npondering over this, I am in some degree inclined to their opinion.\nNevertheless, not to extinguish our free will, I hold it to be true\nthat Fortune is the arbiter of one-half of our actions,[1] but that she\nstill leaves us to direct the other half, or perhaps a little less.\n\n [1] Frederick the Great was accustomed to say:  The older one gets the\n more convinced one becomes that his Majesty King Chance does\n three-quarters of the business of this miserable universe.  Sorel s\n  Eastern Question. \n\nI compare her to one of those raging rivers, which when in flood\noverflows the plains, sweeping away trees and buildings, bearing away\nthe soil from place to place; everything flies before it, all yield to\nits violence, without being able in any way to withstand it; and yet,\nthough its nature be such, it does not follow therefore that men, when\nthe weather becomes fair, shall not make provision, both with defences\nand barriers, in such a manner that, rising again, the waters may pass\naway by canal, and their force be neither so unrestrained nor so\ndangerous. So it happens with fortune, who shows her power where valour\nhas not prepared to resist her, and thither she turns her forces where\nshe knows that barriers and defences have not been raised to constrain\nher.\n\nAnd if you will consider Italy, which is the seat of these changes, and\nwhich has given to them their impulse, you will see it to be an open\ncountry without barriers and without any defence. For if it had been\ndefended by proper valour, as are Germany, Spain, and France, either\nthis invasion would not have made the great changes it has made or it\nwould not have come at all. And this I consider enough to say\nconcerning resistance to fortune in general.\n\nBut confining myself more to the particular, I say that a prince may be\nseen happy to-day and ruined to-morrow without having shown any change\nof disposition or character. This, I believe, arises firstly from\ncauses that have already been discussed at length, namely, that the\nprince who relies entirely on fortune is lost when it changes. I\nbelieve also that he will be successful who directs his actions\naccording to the spirit of the times, and that he whose actions do not\naccord with the times will not be successful. Because men are seen, in\naffairs that lead to the end which every man has before him, namely,\nglory and riches, to get there by various methods; one with caution,\nanother with haste; one by force, another by skill; one by patience,\nanother by its opposite; and each one succeeds in reaching the goal by\na different method. One can also see of two cautious men the one attain\nhis end, the other fail; and similarly, two men by different\nobservances are equally successful, the one being cautious, the other\nimpetuous; all this arises from nothing else than whether or not they\nconform in their methods to the spirit of the times. This follows from\nwhat I have said, that two men working differently bring about the same\neffect, and of two working similarly, one attains his object and the\nother does not.\n\nChanges in estate also issue from this, for if, to one who governs\nhimself with caution and patience, times and affairs converge in such a\nway that his administration is successful, his fortune is made; but if\ntimes and affairs change, he is ruined if he does not change his course\nof action. But a man is not often found sufficiently circumspect to\nknow how to accommodate himself to the change, both because he cannot\ndeviate from what nature inclines him to do, and also because, having\nalways prospered by acting in one way, he cannot be persuaded that it\nis well to leave it; and, therefore, the cautious man, when it is time\nto turn adventurous, does not know how to do it, hence he is ruined;\nbut had he changed his conduct with the times fortune would not have\nchanged.\n\nPope Julius the Second went to work impetuously in all his affairs, and\nfound the times and circumstances conform so well to that line of\naction that he always met with success. Consider his first enterprise\nagainst Bologna, Messer Giovanni Bentivogli being still alive. The\nVenetians were not agreeable to it, nor was the King of Spain, and he\nhad the enterprise still under discussion with the King of France;\nnevertheless he personally entered upon the expedition with his\naccustomed boldness and energy, a move which made Spain and the\nVenetians stand irresolute and passive, the latter from fear, the\nformer from desire to recover the kingdom of Naples; on the other hand,\nhe drew after him the King of France, because that king, having\nobserved the movement, and desiring to make the Pope his friend so as\nto humble the Venetians, found it impossible to refuse him. Therefore\nJulius with his impetuous action accomplished what no other pontiff\nwith simple human wisdom could have done; for if he had waited in Rome\nuntil he could get away, with his plans arranged and everything fixed,\nas any other pontiff would have done, he would never have succeeded.\nBecause the King of France would have made a thousand excuses, and the\nothers would have raised a thousand fears.\n\nI will leave his other actions alone, as they were all alike, and they\nall succeeded, for the shortness of his life did not let him experience\nthe contrary; but if circumstances had arisen which required him to go\ncautiously, his ruin would have followed, because he would never have\ndeviated from those ways to which nature inclined him.\n\nI conclude, therefore that, fortune being changeful and mankind\nsteadfast in their ways, so long as the two are in agreement men are\nsuccessful, but unsuccessful when they fall out. For my part I consider\nthat it is better to be adventurous than cautious, because fortune is a\nwoman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and\nill-use her; and it is seen that she allows herself to be mastered by\nthe adventurous rather than by those who go to work more coldly. She\nis, therefore, always, woman-like, a lover of young men, because they\nare less cautious, more violent, and with more audacity command her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\nAN EXHORTATION TO LIBERATE ITALY FROM THE BARBARIANS\n\n\nHaving carefully considered the subject of the above discourses, and\nwondering within myself whether the present times were propitious to a\nnew prince, and whether there were elements that would give an\nopportunity to a wise and virtuous one to introduce a new order of\nthings which would do honour to him and good to the people of this\ncountry, it appears to me that so many things concur to favour a new\nprince that I never knew a time more fit than the present.\n\nAnd if, as I said, it was necessary that the people of Israel should be\ncaptive so as to make manifest the ability of Moses; that the Persians\nshould be oppressed by the Medes so as to discover the greatness of the\nsoul of Cyrus; and that the Athenians should be dispersed to illustrate\nthe capabilities of Theseus: then at the present time, in order to\ndiscover the virtue of an Italian spirit, it was necessary that Italy\nshould be reduced to the extremity that she is now in, that she should\nbe more enslaved than the Hebrews, more oppressed than the Persians,\nmore scattered than the Athenians; without head, without order, beaten,\ndespoiled, torn, overrun; and to have endured every kind of desolation.\n\nAlthough lately some spark may have been shown by one, which made us\nthink he was ordained by God for our redemption, nevertheless it was\nafterwards seen, in the height of his career, that fortune rejected\nhim; so that Italy, left as without life, waits for him who shall yet\nheal her wounds and put an end to the ravaging and plundering of\nLombardy, to the swindling and taxing of the kingdom and of Tuscany,\nand cleanse those sores that for long have festered. It is seen how she\nentreats God to send someone who shall deliver her from these wrongs\nand barbarous insolencies. It is seen also that she is ready and\nwilling to follow a banner if only someone will raise it.\n\nNor is there to be seen at present one in whom she can place more hope\nthan in your illustrious house,[1] with its valour and fortune,\nfavoured by God and by the Church of which it is now the chief, and\nwhich could be made the head of this redemption. This will not be\ndifficult if you will recall to yourself the actions and lives of the\nmen I have named. And although they were great and wonderful men, yet\nthey were men, and each one of them had no more opportunity than the\npresent offers, for their enterprises were neither more just nor easier\nthan this, nor was God more their friend than He is yours.\n\n [1] Giuliano de Medici. He had just been created a cardinal by Leo X.\n In 1523 Giuliano was elected Pope, and took the title of Clement VII.\n\nWith us there is great justice, because that war is just which is\nnecessary, and arms are hallowed when there is no other hope but in\nthem. Here there is the greatest willingness, and where the willingness\nis great the difficulties cannot be great if you will only follow those\nmen to whom I have directed your attention. Further than this, how\nextraordinarily the ways of God have been manifested beyond example:\nthe sea is divided, a cloud has led the way, the rock has poured forth\nwater, it has rained manna, everything has contributed to your\ngreatness; you ought to do the rest. God is not willing to do\neverything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory\nwhich belongs to us.\n\nAnd it is not to be wondered at if none of the above-named Italians\nhave been able to accomplish all that is expected from your illustrious\nhouse; and if in so many revolutions in Italy, and in so many\ncampaigns, it has always appeared as if military virtue were exhausted,\nthis has happened because the old order of things was not good, and\nnone of us have known how to find a new one. And nothing honours a man\nmore than to establish new laws and new ordinances when he himself was\nnewly risen. Such things when they are well founded and dignified will\nmake him revered and admired, and in Italy there are not wanting\nopportunities to bring such into use in every form.\n\nHere there is great valour in the limbs whilst it fails in the head.\nLook attentively at the duels and the hand-to-hand combats, how\nsuperior the Italians are in strength, dexterity, and subtlety. But\nwhen it comes to armies they do not bear comparison, and this springs\nentirely from the insufficiency of the leaders, since those who are\ncapable are not obedient, and each one seems to himself to know, there\nhaving never been any one so distinguished above the rest, either by\nvalour or fortune, that others would yield to him. Hence it is that for\nso long a time, and during so much fighting in the past twenty years,\nwhenever there has been an army wholly Italian, it has always given a\npoor account of itself; the first witness to this is Il Taro,\nafterwards Allesandria, Capua, Genoa, Vaila, Bologna, Mestri.[2]\n\n [2] The battles of Il Taro, 1495; Alessandria, 1499; Capua, 1501;\n Genoa, 1507; Vaila, 1509; Bologna, 1511; Mestri, 1513.\n\nIf, therefore, your illustrious house wishes to follow these remarkable\nmen who have redeemed their country, it is necessary before all things,\nas a true foundation for every enterprise, to be provided with your own\nforces, because there can be no more faithful, truer, or better\nsoldiers. And although singly they are good, altogether they will be\nmuch better when they find themselves commanded by their prince,\nhonoured by him, and maintained at his expense. Therefore it is\nnecessary to be prepared with such arms, so that you can be defended\nagainst foreigners by Italian valour.\n\nAnd although Swiss and Spanish infantry may be considered very\nformidable, nevertheless there is a defect in both, by reason of which\na third order would not only be able to oppose them, but might be\nrelied upon to overthrow them. For the Spaniards cannot resist cavalry,\nand the Switzers are afraid of infantry whenever they encounter them in\nclose combat. Owing to this, as has been and may again be seen, the\nSpaniards are unable to resist French cavalry, and the Switzers are\noverthrown by Spanish infantry. And although a complete proof of this\nlatter cannot be shown, nevertheless there was some evidence of it at\nthe battle of Ravenna, when the Spanish infantry were confronted by\nGerman battalions, who follow the same tactics as the Swiss; when the\nSpaniards, by agility of body and with the aid of their shields, got in\nunder the pikes of the Germans and stood out of danger, able to attack,\nwhile the Germans stood helpless, and, if the cavalry had not dashed\nup, all would have been over with them. It is possible, therefore,\nknowing the defects of both these infantries, to invent a new one,\nwhich will resist cavalry and not be afraid of infantry; this need not\ncreate a new order of arms, but a variation upon the old. And these are\nthe kind of improvements which confer reputation and power upon a new\nprince.\n\nThis opportunity, therefore, ought not to be allowed to pass for\nletting Italy at last see her liberator appear. Nor can one express the\nlove with which he would be received in all those provinces which have\nsuffered so much from these foreign scourings, with what thirst for\nrevenge, with what stubborn faith, with what devotion, with what tears.\nWhat door would be closed to him? Who would refuse obedience to him?\nWhat envy would hinder him? What Italian would refuse him homage? To\nall of us this barbarous dominion stinks. Let, therefore, your\nillustrious house take up this charge with that courage and hope with\nwhich all just enterprises are undertaken, so that under its standard\nour native country may be ennobled, and under its auspices may be\nverified that saying of Petrarch:\n\nVirtu contro al Furore\n    Prendera l arme, e fia il combatter corto:\nChe l antico valore\n    Negli italici cuor non e ancor morto.\n\nVirtue against fury shall advance the fight,\n    And it i  th  combat soon shall put to flight:\nFor the old Roman valour is not dead,\n    Nor in th  Italians  brests extinguished.\n\nEdward Dacre, 1640.\n\n\n\n\nDESCRIPTION OF THE METHODS ADOPTED BY THE DUKE VALENTINO WHEN MURDERING\nVITELLOZZO VITELLI, OLIVEROTTO DA FERMO, THE SIGNOR PAGOLO, AND THE\nDUKE DI GRAVINA ORSINI\n\nBY NICOLO MACHIAVELLI\n\n\nThe Duke Valentino had returned from Lombardy, where he had been to\nclear himself with the King of France from the calumnies which had been\nraised against him by the Florentines concerning the rebellion of\nArezzo and other towns in the Val di Chiana, and had arrived at Imola,\nwhence he intended with his army to enter upon the campaign against\nGiovanni Bentivogli, the tyrant of Bologna: for he intended to bring\nthat city under his domination, and to make it the head of his\nRomagnian duchy.\n\nThese matters coming to the knowledge of the Vitelli and Orsini and\ntheir following, it appeared to them that the duke would become too\npowerful, and it was feared that, having seized Bologna, he would seek\nto destroy them in order that he might become supreme in Italy. Upon\nthis a meeting was called at Magione in the district of Perugia, to\nwhich came the cardinal, Pagolo, and the Duke di Gravina Orsini,\nVitellozzo Vitelli, Oliverotto da Fermo, Gianpagolo Baglioni, the\ntyrant of Perugia, and Messer Antonio da Venafro, sent by Pandolfo\nPetrucci, the Prince of Siena. Here were discussed the power and\ncourage of the duke and the necessity of curbing his ambitions, which\nmight otherwise bring danger to the rest of being ruined. And they\ndecided not to abandon the Bentivogli, but to strive to win over the\nFlorentines; and they sent their men to one place and another,\npromising to one party assistance and to another encouragement to unite\nwith them against the common enemy. This meeting was at once reported\nthroughout all Italy, and those who were discontented under the duke,\namong whom were the people of Urbino, took hope of effecting a\nrevolution.\n\nThus it arose that, men s minds being thus unsettled, it was decided by\ncertain men of Urbino to seize the fortress of San Leo, which was held\nfor the duke, and which they captured by the following means. The\ncastellan was fortifying the rock and causing timber to be taken there;\nso the conspirators watched, and when certain beams which were being\ncarried to the rock were upon the bridge, so that it was prevented from\nbeing drawn up by those inside, they took the opportunity of leaping\nupon the bridge and thence into the fortress. Upon this capture being\neffected, the whole state rebelled and recalled the old duke, being\nencouraged in this, not so much by the capture of the fort, as by the\nDiet at Magione, from whom they expected to get assistance.\n\nThose who heard of the rebellion at Urbino thought they would not lose\nthe opportunity, and at once assembled their men so as to take any\ntown, should any remain in the hands of the duke in that state; and\nthey sent again to Florence to beg that republic to join with them in\ndestroying the common firebrand, showing that the risk was lessened and\nthat they ought not to wait for another opportunity.\n\nBut the Florentines, from hatred, for sundry reasons, of the Vitelli\nand Orsini, not only would not ally themselves, but sent Nicolo\nMachiavelli, their secretary, to offer shelter and assistance to the\nduke against his enemies. The duke was found full of fear at Imola,\nbecause, against everybody s expectation, his soldiers had at once gone\nover to the enemy and he found himself disarmed and war at his door.\nBut recovering courage from the offers of the Florentines, he decided\nto temporize before fighting with the few soldiers that remained to\nhim, and to negotiate for a reconciliation, and also to get assistance.\nThis latter he obtained in two ways, by sending to the King of France\nfor men and by enlisting men-at-arms and others whom he turned into\ncavalry of a sort: to all he gave money.\n\nNotwithstanding this, his enemies drew near to him, and approached\nFossombrone, where they encountered some men of the duke and, with the\naid of the Orsini and Vitelli, routed them. When this happened, the\nduke resolved at once to see if he could not close the trouble with\noffers of reconciliation, and being a most perfect dissembler he did\nnot fail in any practices to make the insurgents understand that he\nwished every man who had acquired anything to keep it, as it was enough\nfor him to have the title of prince, whilst others might have the\nprincipality.\n\nAnd the duke succeeded so well in this that they sent Signor Pagolo to\nhim to negotiate for a reconciliation, and they brought their army to a\nstandstill. But the duke did not stop his preparations, and took every\ncare to provide himself with cavalry and infantry, and that such\npreparations might not be apparent to the others, he sent his troops in\nseparate parties to every part of the Romagna. In the meanwhile there\ncame also to him five hundred French lancers, and although he found\nhimself sufficiently strong to take vengeance on his enemies in open\nwar, he considered that it would be safer and more advantageous to\noutwit them, and for this reason he did not stop the work of\nreconciliation.\n\nAnd that this might be effected the duke concluded a peace with them in\nwhich he confirmed their former covenants; he gave them four thousand\nducats at once; he promised not to injure the Bentivogli; and he formed\nan alliance with Giovanni; and moreover he would not force them to come\npersonally into his presence unless it pleased them to do so. On the\nother hand, they promised to restore to him the duchy of Urbino and\nother places seized by them, to serve him in all his expeditions, and\nnot to make war against or ally themselves with any one without his\npermission.\n\nThis reconciliation being completed, Guido Ubaldo, the Duke of Urbino,\nagain fled to Venice, having first destroyed all the fortresses in his\nstate; because, trusting in the people, he did not wish that the\nfortresses, which he did not think he could defend, should be held by\nthe enemy, since by these means a check would be kept upon his friends.\nBut the Duke Valentino, having completed this convention, and dispersed\nhis men throughout the Romagna, set out for Imola at the end of\nNovember together with his French men-at-arms: thence he went to\nCesena, where he stayed some time to negotiate with the envoys of the\nVitelli and Orsini, who had assembled with their men in the duchy of\nUrbino, as to the enterprise in which they should now take part; but\nnothing being concluded, Oliverotto da Fermo was sent to propose that\nif the duke wished to undertake an expedition against Tuscany they were\nready; if he did not wish it, then they would besiege Sinigalia. To\nthis the duke replied that he did not wish to enter into war with\nTuscany, and thus become hostile to the Florentines, but that he was\nvery willing to proceed against Sinigalia.\n\nIt happened that not long afterwards the town surrendered, but the\nfortress would not yield to them because the castellan would not give\nit up to any one but the duke in person; therefore they exhorted him to\ncome there. This appeared a good opportunity to the duke, as, being\ninvited by them, and not going of his own will, he would awaken no\nsuspicions. And the more to reassure them, he allowed all the French\nmen-at-arms who were with him in Lombardy to depart, except the hundred\nlancers under Mons. di Candales, his brother-in-law. He left Cesena\nabout the middle of December, and went to Fano, and with the utmost\ncunning and cleverness he persuaded the Vitelli and Orsini to wait for\nhim at Sinigalia, pointing out to them that any lack of compliance\nwould cast a doubt upon the sincerity and permanency of the\nreconciliation, and that he was a man who wished to make use of the\narms and councils of his friends. But Vitellozzo remained very\nstubborn, for the death of his brother warned him that he should not\noffend a prince and afterwards trust him; nevertheless, persuaded by\nPagolo Orsini, whom the duke had corrupted with gifts and promises, he\nagreed to wait.\n\nUpon this the duke, before his departure from Fano, which was to be on\n30th December 1502, communicated his designs to eight of his most\ntrusted followers, among whom were Don Michele and the Monsignor\nd Euna, who was afterwards cardinal; and he ordered that, as soon as\nVitellozzo, Pagolo Orsini, the Duke di Gravina, and Oliverotto should\narrive, his followers in pairs should take them one by one, entrusting\ncertain men to certain pairs, who should entertain them until they\nreached Sinigalia; nor should they be permitted to leave until they\ncame to the duke s quarters, where they should be seized.\n\nThe duke afterwards ordered all his horsemen and infantry, of which\nthere were more than two thousand cavalry and ten thousand footmen, to\nassemble by daybreak at the Metauro, a river five miles distant from\nFano, and await him there. He found himself, therefore, on the last day\nof December at the Metauro with his men, and having sent a cavalcade of\nabout two hundred horsemen before him, he then moved forward the\ninfantry, whom he accompanied with the rest of the men-at-arms.\n\nFano and Sinigalia are two cities of La Marca situated on the shore of\nthe Adriatic Sea, fifteen miles distant from each other, so that he who\ngoes towards Sinigalia has the mountains on his right hand, the bases\nof which are touched by the sea in some places. The city of Sinigalia\nis distant from the foot of the mountains a little more than a bow-shot\nand from the shore about a mile. On the side opposite to the city runs\na little river which bathes that part of the walls looking towards\nFano, facing the high road. Thus he who draws near to Sinigalia comes\nfor a good space by road along the mountains, and reaches the river\nwhich passes by Sinigalia. If he turns to his left hand along the bank\nof it, and goes for the distance of a bow-shot, he arrives at a bridge\nwhich crosses the river; he is then almost abreast of the gate that\nleads into Sinigalia, not by a straight line, but transversely. Before\nthis gate there stands a collection of houses with a square to which\nthe bank of the river forms one side.\n\nThe Vitelli and Orsini having received orders to wait for the duke, and\nto honour him in person, sent away their men to several castles distant\nfrom Sinigalia about six miles, so that room could be made for the men\nof the duke; and they left in Sinigalia only Oliverotto and his band,\nwhich consisted of one thousand infantry and one hundred and fifty\nhorsemen, who were quartered in the suburb mentioned above. Matters\nhaving been thus arranged, the Duke Valentino left for Sinigalia, and\nwhen the leaders of the cavalry reached the bridge they did not pass\nover, but having opened it, one portion wheeled towards the river and\nthe other towards the country, and a way was left in the middle through\nwhich the infantry passed, without stopping, into the town.\n\nVitellozzo, Pagolo, and the Duke di Gravina on mules, accompanied by a\nfew horsemen, went towards the duke; Vitellozo, unarmed and wearing a\ncape lined with green, appeared very dejected, as if conscious of his\napproaching death a circumstance which, in view of the ability of the\nman and his former fortune, caused some amazement. And it is said that\nwhen he parted from his men before setting out for Sinigalia to meet\nthe duke he acted as if it were his last parting from them. He\nrecommended his house and its fortunes to his captains, and advised his\nnephews that it was not the fortune of their house, but the virtues of\ntheir fathers that should be kept in mind. These three, therefore, came\nbefore the duke and saluted him respectfully, and were received by him\nwith goodwill; they were at once placed between those who were\ncommissioned to look after them.\n\nBut the duke noticing that Oliverotto, who had remained with his band\nin Sinigalia, was missing for Oliverotto was waiting in the square\nbefore his quarters near the river, keeping his men in order and\ndrilling them signalled with his eye to Don Michelle, to whom the care\nof Oliverotto had been committed, that he should take measures that\nOliverotto should not escape. Therefore Don Michele rode off and joined\nOliverotto, telling him that it was not right to keep his men out of\ntheir quarters, because these might be taken up by the men of the duke;\nand he advised him to send them at once to their quarters and to come\nhimself to meet the duke. And Oliverotto, having taken this advice,\ncame before the duke, who, when he saw him, called to him; and\nOliverotto, having made his obeisance, joined the others.\n\nSo the whole party entered Sinigalia, dismounted at the duke s\nquarters, and went with him into a secret chamber, where the duke made\nthem prisoners; he then mounted on horseback, and issued orders that\nthe men of Oliverotto and the Orsini should be stripped of their arms.\nThose of Oliverotto, being at hand, were quickly settled, but those of\nthe Orsini and Vitelli, being at a distance, and having a presentiment\nof the destruction of their masters, had time to prepare themselves,\nand bearing in mind the valour and discipline of the Orsinian and\nVitellian houses, they stood together against the hostile forces of the\ncountry and saved themselves.\n\nBut the duke s soldiers, not being content with having pillaged the men\nof Oliverotto, began to sack Sinigalia, and if the duke had not\nrepressed this outrage by killing some of them they would have\ncompletely sacked it. Night having come and the tumult being silenced,\nthe duke prepared to kill Vitellozzo and Oliverotto; he led them into a\nroom and caused them to be strangled. Neither of them used words in\nkeeping with their past lives: Vitellozzo prayed that he might ask of\nthe pope full pardon for his sins; Oliverotto cringed and laid the\nblame for all injuries against the duke on Vitellozzo. Pagolo and the\nDuke di Gravina Orsini were kept alive until the duke heard from Rome\nthat the pope had taken the Cardinal Orsino, the Archbishop of\nFlorence, and Messer Jacopo da Santa Croce. After which news, on 18th\nJanuary 1502, in the castle of Pieve, they also were strangled in the\nsame way.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIFE OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANI OF LUCCA\n\nWRITTEN BY NICOLO MACHIAVELLI\n\nAnd sent to his friends ZANOBI BUONDELMONTI And LUIGI ALAMANNI\n\nCASTRUCCIO CASTRACANI 1284-1328\n\n\nIt appears, dearest Zanobi and Luigi, a wonderful thing to those who\nhave considered the matter, that all men, or the larger number of them,\nwho have performed great deeds in the world, and excelled all others in\ntheir day, have had their birth and beginning in baseness and\nobscurity; or have been aggrieved by Fortune in some outrageous way.\nThey have either been exposed to the mercy of wild beasts, or they have\nhad so mean a parentage that in shame they have given themselves out to\nbe sons of Jove or of some other deity. It would be wearisome to relate\nwho these persons may have been because they are well known to\neverybody, and, as such tales would not be particularly edifying to\nthose who read them, they are omitted. I believe that these lowly\nbeginnings of great men occur because Fortune is desirous of showing to\nthe world that such men owe much to her and little to wisdom, because\nshe begins to show her hand when wisdom can really take no part in\ntheir career: thus all success must be attributed to her. Castruccio\nCastracani of Lucca was one of those men who did great deeds, if he is\nmeasured by the times in which he lived and the city in which he was\nborn; but, like many others, he was neither fortunate nor distinguished\nin his birth, as the course of this history will show. It appeared to\nbe desirable to recall his memory, because I have discerned in him such\nindications of valour and fortune as should make him a great exemplar\nto men. I think also that I ought to call your attention to his\nactions, because you of all men I know delight most in noble deeds.\n\nThe family of Castracani was formerly numbered among the noble families\nof Lucca, but in the days of which I speak it had somewhat fallen in\nestate, as so often happens in this world. To this family was born a\nson Antonio, who became a priest of the order of San Michele of Lucca,\nand for this reason was honoured with the title of Messer Antonio. He\nhad an only sister, who had been married to Buonaccorso Cenami, but\nBuonaccorso dying she became a widow, and not wishing to marry again\nwent to live with her brother. Messer Antonio had a vineyard behind the\nhouse where he resided, and as it was bounded on all sides by gardens,\nany person could have access to it without difficulty. One morning,\nshortly after sunrise, Madonna Dianora, as the sister of Messer Antonio\nwas called, had occasion to go into the vineyard as usual to gather\nherbs for seasoning the dinner, and hearing a slight rustling among the\nleaves of a vine she turned her eyes in that direction, and heard\nsomething resembling the cry of an infant. Whereupon she went towards\nit, and saw the hands and face of a baby who was lying enveloped in the\nleaves and who seemed to be crying for its mother. Partly wondering and\npartly fearing, yet full of compassion, she lifted it up and carried it\nto the house, where she washed it and clothed it with clean linen as is\ncustomary, and showed it to Messer Antonio when he returned home. When\nhe heard what had happened and saw the child he was not less surprised\nor compassionate than his sister. They discussed between themselves\nwhat should be done, and seeing that he was priest and that she had no\nchildren, they finally determined to bring it up. They had a nurse for\nit, and it was reared and loved as if it were their own child. They\nbaptized it, and gave it the name of Castruccio after their father. As\nthe years passed Castruccio grew very handsome, and gave evidence of\nwit and discretion, and learnt with a quickness beyond his years those\nlessons which Messer Antonio imparted to him. Messer Antonio intended\nto make a priest of him, and in time would have inducted him into his\ncanonry and other benefices, and all his instruction was given with\nthis object; but Antonio discovered that the character of Castruccio\nwas quite unfitted for the priesthood. As soon as Castruccio reached\nthe age of fourteen he began to take less notice of the chiding of\nMesser Antonio and Madonna Dianora and no longer to fear them; he left\noff reading ecclesiastical books, and turned to playing with arms,\ndelighting in nothing so much as in learning their uses, and in\nrunning, leaping, and wrestling with other boys. In all exercises he\nfar excelled his companions in courage and bodily strength, and if at\nany time he did turn to books, only those pleased him which told of\nwars and the mighty deeds of men. Messer Antonio beheld all this with\nvexation and sorrow.\n\nThere lived in the city of Lucca a gentleman of the Guinigi family,\nnamed Messer Francesco, whose profession was arms and who in riches,\nbodily strength, and valour excelled all other men in Lucca. He had\noften fought under the command of the Visconti of Milan, and as a\nGhibelline was the valued leader of that party in Lucca. This gentleman\nresided in Lucca and was accustomed to assemble with others most\nmornings and evenings under the balcony of the Podesta, which is at the\ntop of the square of San Michele, the finest square in Lucca, and he\nhad often seen Castruccio taking part with other children of the street\nin those games of which I have spoken. Noticing that Castruccio far\nexcelled the other boys, and that he appeared to exercise a royal\nauthority over them, and that they loved and obeyed him, Messer\nFrancesco became greatly desirous of learning who he was. Being\ninformed of the circumstances of the bringing up of Castruccio he felt\na greater desire to have him near to him. Therefore he called him one\nday and asked him whether he would more willingly live in the house of\na gentleman, where he would learn to ride horses and use arms, or in\nthe house of a priest, where he would learn nothing but masses and the\nservices of the Church. Messer Francesco could see that it pleased\nCastruccio greatly to hear horses and arms spoken of, even though he\nstood silent, blushing modestly; but being encouraged by Messer\nFrancesco to speak, he answered that, if his master were agreeable,\nnothing would please him more than to give up his priestly studies and\ntake up those of a soldier. This reply delighted Messer Francesco, and\nin a very short time he obtained the consent of Messer Antonio, who was\ndriven to yield by his knowledge of the nature of the lad, and the fear\nthat he would not be able to hold him much longer.\n\nThus Castruccio passed from the house of Messer Antonio the priest to\nthe house of Messer Francesco Guinigi the soldier, and it was\nastonishing to find that in a very short time he manifested all that\nvirtue and bearing which we are accustomed to associate with a true\ngentleman. In the first place he became an accomplished horseman, and\ncould manage with ease the most fiery charger, and in all jousts and\ntournaments, although still a youth, he was observed beyond all others,\nand he excelled in all exercises of strength and dexterity. But what\nenhanced so much the charm of these accomplishments, was the delightful\nmodesty which enabled him to avoid offence in either act or word to\nothers, for he was deferential to the great men, modest with his\nequals, and courteous to his inferiors. These gifts made him beloved,\nnot only by all the Guinigi family, but by all Lucca. When Castruccio\nhad reached his eighteenth year, the Ghibellines were driven from Pavia\nby the Guelphs, and Messer Francesco was sent by the Visconti to assist\nthe Ghibellines, and with him went Castruccio, in charge of his forces.\nCastruccio gave ample proof of his prudence and courage in this\nexpedition, acquiring greater reputation than any other captain, and\nhis name and fame were known, not only in Pavia, but throughout all\nLombardy.\n\nCastruccio, having returned to Lucca in far higher estimation than he\nleft it, did not omit to use all the means in his power to gain as many\nfriends as he could, neglecting none of those arts which are necessary\nfor that purpose. About this time Messer Francesco died, leaving a son\nthirteen years of age named Pagolo, and having appointed Castruccio to\nbe his son s tutor and administrator of his estate. Before he died\nFrancesco called Castruccio to him, and prayed him to show Pagolo that\ngoodwill which he (Francesco) had always shown to HIM, and to render to\nthe son the gratitude which he had not been able to repay to the\nfather. Upon the death of Francesco, Castruccio became the governor and\ntutor of Pagolo, which increased enormously his power and position, and\ncreated a certain amount of envy against him in Lucca in place of the\nformer universal goodwill, for many men suspected him of harbouring\ntyrannical intentions. Among these the leading man was Giorgio degli\nOpizi, the head of the Guelph party. This man hoped after the death of\nMesser Francesco to become the chief man in Lucca, but it seemed to him\nthat Castruccio, with the great abilities which he already showed, and\nholding the position of governor, deprived him of his opportunity;\ntherefore he began to sow those seeds which should rob Castruccio of\nhis eminence. Castruccio at first treated this with scorn, but\nafterwards he grew alarmed, thinking that Messer Giorgio might be able\nto bring him into disgrace with the deputy of King Ruberto of Naples\nand have him driven out of Lucca.\n\nThe Lord of Pisa at that time was Uguccione of the Faggiuola of Arezzo,\nwho being in the first place elected their captain afterwards became\ntheir lord. There resided in Paris some exiled Ghibellines from Lucca,\nwith whom Castruccio held communications with the object of effecting\ntheir restoration by the help of Uguccione. Castruccio also brought\ninto his plans friends from Lucca who would not endure the authority of\nthe Opizi. Having fixed upon a plan to be followed, Castruccio\ncautiously fortified the tower of the Onesti, filling it with supplies\nand munitions of war, in order that it might stand a siege for a few\ndays in case of need. When the night came which had been agreed upon\nwith Uguccione, who had occupied the plain between the mountains and\nPisa with many men, the signal was given, and without being observed\nUguccione approached the gate of San Piero and set fire to the\nportcullis. Castruccio raised a great uproar within the city, calling\nthe people to arms and forcing open the gate from his side. Uguccione\nentered with his men, poured through the town, and killed Messer\nGiorgio with all his family and many of his friends and supporters. The\ngovernor was driven out, and the government reformed according to the\nwishes of Uguccione, to the detriment of the city, because it was found\nthat more than one hundred families were exiled at that time. Of those\nwho fled, part went to Florence and part to Pistoia, which city was the\nheadquarters of the Guelph party, and for this reason it became most\nhostile to Uguccione and the Lucchese.\n\nAs it now appeared to the Florentines and others of the Guelph party\nthat the Ghibellines absorbed too much power in Tuscany, they\ndetermined to restore the exiled Guelphs to Lucca. They assembled a\nlarge army in the Val di Nievole, and seized Montecatini; from thence\nthey marched to Montecarlo, in order to secure the free passage into\nLucca. Upon this Uguccione assembled his Pisan and Lucchese forces, and\nwith a number of German cavalry which he drew out of Lombardy, he moved\nagainst the quarters of the Florentines, who upon the appearance of the\nenemy withdrew from Montecarlo, and posted themselves between\nMontecatini and Pescia. Uguccione now took up a position near to\nMontecarlo, and within about two miles of the enemy, and slight\nskirmishes between the horse of both parties were of daily occurrence.\nOwing to the illness of Uguccione, the Pisans and Lucchese delayed\ncoming to battle with the enemy. Uguccione, finding himself growing\nworse, went to Montecarlo to be cured, and left the command of the army\nin the hands of Castruccio. This change brought about the ruin of the\nGuelphs, who, thinking that the hostile army having lost its captain\nhad lost its head, grew over-confident. Castruccio observed this, and\nallowed some days to pass in order to encourage this belief; he also\nshowed signs of fear, and did not allow any of the munitions of the\ncamp to be used. On the other side, the Guelphs grew more insolent the\nmore they saw these evidences of fear, and every day they drew out in\nthe order of battle in front of the army of Castruccio. Presently,\ndeeming that the enemy was sufficiently emboldened, and having mastered\ntheir tactics, he decided to join battle with them. First he spoke a\nfew words of encouragement to his soldiers, and pointed out to them the\ncertainty of victory if they would but obey his commands. Castruccio\nhad noticed how the enemy had placed all his best troops in the centre\nof the line of battle, and his less reliable men on the wings of the\narmy; whereupon he did exactly the opposite, putting his most valiant\nmen on the flanks, while those on whom he could not so strongly rely he\nmoved to the centre. Observing this order of battle, he drew out of his\nlines and quickly came in sight of the hostile army, who, as usual, had\ncome in their insolence to defy him. He then commanded his centre\nsquadrons to march slowly, whilst he moved rapidly forward those on the\nwings. Thus, when they came into contact with the enemy, only the wings\nof the two armies became engaged, whilst the center battalions remained\nout of action, for these two portions of the line of battle were\nseparated from each other by a long interval and thus unable to reach\neach other. By this expedient the more valiant part of Castruccio s men\nwere opposed to the weaker part of the enemy s troops, and the most\nefficient men of the enemy were disengaged; and thus the Florentines\nwere unable to fight with those who were arrayed opposite to them, or\nto give any assistance to their own flanks. So, without much\ndifficulty, Castruccio put the enemy to flight on both flanks, and the\ncentre battalions took to flight when they found themselves exposed to\nattack, without having a chance of displaying their valour. The defeat\nwas complete, and the loss in men very heavy, there being more than ten\nthousand men killed with many officers and knights of the Guelph party\nin Tuscany, and also many princes who had come to help them, among whom\nwere Piero, the brother of King Ruberto, and Carlo, his nephew, and\nFilippo, the lord of Taranto. On the part of Castruccio the loss did\nnot amount to more than three hundred men, among whom was Francesco,\nthe son of Uguccione, who, being young and rash, was killed in the\nfirst onset.\n\nThis victory so greatly increased the reputation of Castruccio that\nUguccione conceived some jealousy and suspicion of him, because it\nappeared to Uguccione that this victory had given him no increase of\npower, but rather than diminished it. Being of this mind, he only\nwaited for an opportunity to give effect to it. This occurred on the\ndeath of Pier Agnolo Micheli, a man of great repute and abilities in\nLucca, the murderer of whom fled to the house of Castruccio for refuge.\nOn the sergeants of the captain going to arrest the murderer, they were\ndriven off by Castruccio, and the murderer escaped. This affair coming\nto the knowledge of Uguccione, who was then at Pisa, it appeared to him\na proper opportunity to punish Castruccio. He therefore sent for his\nson Neri, who was the governor of Lucca, and commissioned him to take\nCastruccio prisoner at a banquet and put him to death. Castruccio,\nfearing no evil, went to the governor in a friendly way, was\nentertained at supper, and then thrown into prison. But Neri, fearing\nto put him to death lest the people should be incensed, kept him alive,\nin order to hear further from his father concerning his intentions.\nUgucionne cursed the hesitation and cowardice of his son, and at once\nset out from Pisa to Lucca with four hundred horsemen to finish the\nbusiness in his own way; but he had not yet reached the baths when the\nPisans rebelled and put his deputy to death and created Count Gaddo\ndella Gherardesca their lord. Before Uguccione reached Lucca he heard\nof the occurrences at Pisa, but it did not appear wise to him to turn\nback, lest the Lucchese with the example of Pisa before them should\nclose their gates against him. But the Lucchese, having heard of what\nhad happened at Pisa, availed themselves of this opportunity to demand\nthe liberation of Castruccio, notwithstanding that Uguccione had\narrived in their city. They first began to speak of it in private\ncircles, afterwards openly in the squares and streets; then they raised\na tumult, and with arms in their hands went to Uguccione and demanded\nthat Castruccio should be set at liberty. Uguccione, fearing that worse\nmight happen, released him from prison. Whereupon Castruccio gathered\nhis friends around him, and with the help of the people attacked\nUguccione; who, finding he had no resource but in flight, rode away\nwith his friends to Lombardy, to the lords of Scale, where he died in\npoverty.\n\nBut Castruccio from being a prisoner became almost a prince in Lucca,\nand he carried himself so discreetly with his friends and the people\nthat they appointed him captain of their army for one year. Having\nobtained this, and wishing to gain renown in war, he planned the\nrecovery of the many towns which had rebelled after the departure of\nUguccione, and with the help of the Pisans, with whom he had concluded\na treaty, he marched to Serezzana. To capture this place he constructed\na fort against it, which is called to-day Zerezzanello; in the course\nof two months Castruccio captured the town. With the reputation gained\nat that siege, he rapidly seized Massa, Carrara, and Lavenza, and in a\nshort time had overrun the whole of Lunigiana. In order to close the\npass which leads from Lombardy to Lunigiana, he besieged Pontremoli and\nwrested it from the hands of Messer Anastagio Palavicini, who was the\nlord of it. After this victory he returned to Lucca, and was welcomed\nby the whole people. And now Castruccio, deeming it imprudent any\nlonger to defer making himself a prince, got himself created the lord\nof Lucca by the help of Pazzino del Poggio, Puccinello dal Portico,\nFrancesco Boccansacchi, and Cecco Guinigi, all of whom he had\ncorrupted; and he was afterwards solemnly and deliberately elected\nprince by the people. At this time Frederick of Bavaria, the King of\nthe Romans, came into Italy to assume the Imperial crown, and\nCastruccio, in order that he might make friends with him, met him at\nthe head of five hundred horsemen. Castruccio had left as his deputy in\nLucca, Pagolo Guinigi, who was held in high estimation, because of the\npeople s love for the memory of his father. Castruccio was received in\ngreat honour by Frederick, and many privileges were conferred upon him,\nand he was appointed the emperor s lieutenant in Tuscany. At this time\nthe Pisans were in great fear of Gaddo della Gherardesca, whom they had\ndriven out of Pisa, and they had recourse for assistance to Frederick.\nFrederick created Castruccio the lord of Pisa, and the Pisans, in dread\nof the Guelph party, and particularly of the Florentines, were\nconstrained to accept him as their lord.\n\nFrederick, having appointed a governor in Rome to watch his Italian\naffairs, returned to Germany. All the Tuscan and Lombardian\nGhibellines, who followed the imperial lead, had recourse to Castruccio\nfor help and counsel, and all promised him the governorship of his\ncountry, if enabled to recover it with his assistance. Among these\nexiles were Matteo Guidi, Nardo Scolari, Lapo Uberti, Gerozzo Nardi,\nand Piero Buonaccorsi, all exiled Florentines and Ghibellines.\nCastruccio had the secret intention of becoming the master of all\nTuscany by the aid of these men and of his own forces; and in order to\ngain greater weight in affairs, he entered into a league with Messer\nMatteo Visconti, the Prince of Milan, and organized for him the forces\nof his city and the country districts. As Lucca had five gates, he\ndivided his own country districts into five parts, which he supplied\nwith arms, and enrolled the men under captains and ensigns, so that he\ncould quickly bring into the field twenty thousand soldiers, without\nthose whom he could summon to his assistance from Pisa. While he\nsurrounded himself with these forces and allies, it happened at Messer\nMatteo Visconti was attacked by the Guelphs of Piacenza, who had driven\nout the Ghibellines with the assistance of a Florentine army and the\nKing Ruberto. Messer Matteo called upon Castruccio to invade the\nFlorentines in their own territories, so that, being attacked at home,\nthey should be compelled to draw their army out of Lombardy in order to\ndefend themselves. Castruccio invaded the Valdarno, and seized\nFucecchio and San Miniato, inflicting immense damage upon the country.\nWhereupon the Florentines recalled their army, which had scarcely\nreached Tuscany, when Castruccio was forced by other necessities to\nreturn to Lucca.\n\nThere resided in the city of Lucca the Poggio family, who were so\npowerful that they could not only elevate Castruccio, but even advance\nhim to the dignity of prince; and it appearing to them they had not\nreceived such rewards for their services as they deserved, they incited\nother families to rebel and to drive Castruccio out of Lucca. They\nfound their opportunity one morning, and arming themselves, they set\nupon the lieutenant whom Castruccio had left to maintain order and\nkilled him. They endeavoured to raise the people in revolt, but Stefano\ndi Poggio, a peaceable old man who had taken no hand in the rebellion,\nintervened and compelled them by his authority to lay down their arms;\nand he offered to be their mediator with Castruccio to obtain from him\nwhat they desired. Therefore they laid down their arms with no greater\nintelligence than they had taken them up. Castruccio, having heard the\nnews of what had happened at Lucca, at once put Pagolo Guinigi in\ncommand of the army, and with a troop of cavalry set out for home.\nContrary to his expectations, he found the rebellion at an end, yet he\nposted his men in the most advantageous places throughout the city. As\nit appeared to Stefano that Castruccio ought to be very much obliged to\nhim, he sought him out, and without saying anything on his own behalf,\nfor he did not recognize any need for doing so, he begged Castruccio to\npardon the other members of his family by reason of their youth, their\nformer friendships, and the obligations which Castruccio was under to\ntheir house. To this Castruccio graciously responded, and begged\nStefano to reassure himself, declaring that it gave him more pleasure\nto find the tumult at an end than it had ever caused him anxiety to\nhear of its inception. He encouraged Stefano to bring his family to\nhim, saying that he thanked God for having given him the opportunity of\nshowing his clemency and liberality. Upon the word of Stefano and\nCastruccio they surrendered, and with Stefano were immediately thrown\ninto prison and put to death. Meanwhile the Florentines had recovered\nSan Miniato, whereupon it seemed advisable to Castruccio to make peace,\nas it did not appear to him that he was sufficiently secure at Lucca to\nleave him. He approached the Florentines with the proposal of a truce,\nwhich they readily entertained, for they were weary of the war, and\ndesirous of getting rid of the expenses of it. A treaty was concluded\nwith them for two years, by which both parties agreed to keep the\nconquests they had made. Castruccio thus released from this trouble,\nturned his attention to affairs in Lucca, and in order that he should\nnot again be subject to the perils from which he had just escaped, he,\nunder various pretences and reasons, first wiped out all those who by\ntheir ambition might aspire to the principality; not sparing one of\nthem, but depriving them of country and property, and those whom he had\nin his hands of life also, stating that he had found by experience that\nnone of them were to be trusted. Then for his further security he\nraised a fortress in Lucca with the stones of the towers of those whom\nhe had killed or hunted out of the state.\n\nWhilst Castruccio made peace with the Florentines, and strengthened his\nposition in Lucca, he neglected no opportunity, short of open war, of\nincreasing his importance elsewhere. It appeared to him that if he\ncould get possession of Pistoia, he would have one foot in Florence,\nwhich was his great desire. He, therefore, in various ways made friends\nwith the mountaineers, and worked matters so in Pistoia that both\nparties confided their secrets to him. Pistoia was divided, as it\nalways had been, into the Bianchi and Neri parties; the head of the\nBianchi was Bastiano di Possente, and of the Neri, Jacopo da Gia. Each\nof these men held secret communications with Castruccio, and each\ndesired to drive the other out of the city; and, after many\nthreatenings, they came to blows. Jacopo fortified himself at the\nFlorentine gate, Bastiano at that of the Lucchese side of the city;\nboth trusted more in Castruccio than in the Florentines, because they\nbelieved that Castruccio was far more ready and willing to fight than\nthe Florentines, and they both sent to him for assistance. He gave\npromises to both, saying to Bastiano that he would come in person, and\nto Jacopo that he would send his pupil, Pagolo Guinigi. At the\nappointed time he sent forward Pagolo by way of Pisa, and went himself\ndirect to Pistoia; at midnight both of them met outside the city, and\nboth were admitted as friends. Thus the two leaders entered, and at a\nsignal given by Castruccio, one killed Jacopo da Gia, and the other\nBastiano di Possente, and both took prisoners or killed the partisans\nof either faction. Without further opposition Pistoia passed into the\nhands of Castruccio, who, having forced the Signoria to leave the\npalace, compelled the people to yield obedience to him, making them\nmany promises and remitting their old debts. The countryside flocked to\nthe city to see the new prince, and all were filled with hope and\nquickly settled down, influenced in a great measure by his great\nvalour.\n\nAbout this time great disturbances arose in Rome, owing to the dearness\nof living which was caused by the absence of the pontiff at Avignon.\nThe German governor, Enrico, was much blamed for what happened murders\nand tumults following each other daily, without his being able to put\nan end to them. This caused Enrico much anxiety lest the Romans should\ncall in Ruberto, the King of Naples, who would drive the Germans out of\nthe city, and bring back the Pope. Having no nearer friend to whom he\ncould apply for help than Castruccio, he sent to him, begging him not\nonly to give him assistance, but also to come in person to Rome.\nCastruccio considered that he ought not to hesitate to render the\nemperor this service, because he believed that he himself would not be\nsafe if at any time the emperor ceased to hold Rome. Leaving Pagolo\nGuinigi in command at Lucca, Castruccio set out for Rome with six\nhundred horsemen, where he was received by Enrico with the greatest\ndistinction. In a short time the presence of Castruccio obtained such\nrespect for the emperor that, without bloodshed or violence, good order\nwas restored, chiefly by reason of Castruccio having sent by sea from\nthe country round Pisa large quantities of corn, and thus removed the\nsource of the trouble. When he had chastised some of the Roman leaders,\nand admonished others, voluntary obedience was rendered to Enrico.\nCastruccio received many honours, and was made a Roman senator. This\ndignity was assumed with the greatest pomp, Castruccio being clothed in\na brocaded toga, which had the following words embroidered on its\nfront:  I am what God wills.  Whilst on the back was:  What God desires\nshall be. \n\nDuring this time the Florentines, who were much enraged that Castruccio\nshould have seized Pistoia during the truce, considered how they could\ntempt the city to rebel, to do which they thought would not be\ndifficult in his absence. Among the exiled Pistoians in Florence were\nBaldo Cecchi and Jacopo Baldini, both men of leading and ready to face\ndanger. These men kept up communications with their friends in Pistoia,\nand with the aid of the Florentines entered the city by night, and\nafter driving out some of Castruccio s officials and partisans, and\nkilling others, they restored the city to its freedom. The news of this\ngreatly angered Castruccio, and taking leave of Enrico, he pressed on\nin great haste to Pistoia. When the Florentines heard of his return,\nknowing that he would lose no time, they decided to intercept him with\ntheir forces in the Val di Nievole, under the belief that by doing so\nthey would cut off his road to Pistoia. Assembling a great army of the\nsupporters of the Guelph cause, the Florentines entered the Pistoian\nterritories. On the other hand, Castruccio reached Montecarlo with his\narmy; and having heard where the Florentines  lay, he decided not to\nencounter it in the plains of Pistoia, nor to await it in the plains of\nPescia, but, as far as he possibly could, to attack it boldly in the\nPass of Serravalle. He believed that if he succeeded in this design,\nvictory was assured, although he was informed that the Florentines had\nthirty thousand men, whilst he had only twelve thousand. Although he\nhad every confidence in his own abilities and the valour of his troops,\nyet he hesitated to attack his enemy in the open lest he should be\noverwhelmed by numbers. Serravalle is a castle between Pescia and\nPistoia, situated on a hill which blocks the Val di Nievole, not in the\nexact pass, but about a bowshot beyond; the pass itself is in places\nnarrow and steep, whilst in general it ascends gently, but is still\nnarrow, especially at the summit where the waters divide, so that\ntwenty men side by side could hold it. The lord of Serravalle was\nManfred, a German, who, before Castruccio became lord of Pistoia, had\nbeen allowed to remain in possession of the castle, it being common to\nthe Lucchese and the Pistoians, and unclaimed by either neither of them\nwishing to displace Manfred as long as he kept his promise of\nneutrality, and came under obligations to no one. For these reasons,\nand also because the castle was well fortified, he had always been able\nto maintain his position. It was here that Castruccio had determined to\nfall upon his enemy, for here his few men would have the advantage, and\nthere was no fear lest, seeing the large masses of the hostile force\nbefore they became engaged, they should not stand. As soon as this\ntrouble with Florence arose, Castruccio saw the immense advantage which\npossession of this castle would give him, and having an intimate\nfriendship with a resident in the castle, he managed matters so with\nhim that four hundred of his men were to be admitted into the castle\nthe night before the attack on the Florentines, and the castellan put\nto death.\n\nCastruccio, having prepared everything, had now to encourage the\nFlorentines to persist in their desire to carry the seat of war away\nfrom Pistoia into the Val di Nievole, therefore he did not move his\narmy from Montecarlo. Thus the Florentines hurried on until they\nreached their encampment under Serravalle, intending to cross the hill\non the following morning. In the meantime, Castruccio had seized the\ncastle at night, had also moved his army from Montecarlo, and marching\nfrom thence at midnight in dead silence, had reached the foot of\nSerravalle: thus he and the Florentines commenced the ascent of the\nhill at the same time in the morning. Castruccio sent forward his\ninfantry by the main road, and a troop of four hundred horsemen by a\npath on the left towards the castle. The Florentines sent forward four\nhundred cavalry ahead of their army which was following, never\nexpecting to find Castruccio in possession of the hill, nor were they\naware of his having seized the castle. Thus it happened that the\nFlorentine horsemen mounting the hill were completely taken by surprise\nwhen they discovered the infantry of Castruccio, and so close were they\nupon it they had scarcely time to pull down their visors. It was a case\nof unready soldiers being attacked by ready, and they were assailed\nwith such vigour that with difficulty they could hold their own,\nalthough some few of them got through. When the noise of the fighting\nreached the Florentine camp below, it was filled with confusion. The\ncavalry and infantry became inextricably mixed: the captains were\nunable to get their men either backward or forward, owing to the\nnarrowness of the pass, and amid all this tumult no one knew what ought\nto be done or what could be done. In a short time the cavalry who were\nengaged with the enemy s infantry were scattered or killed without\nhaving made any effective defence because of their unfortunate\nposition, although in sheer desperation they had offered a stout\nresistance. Retreat had been impossible, with the mountains on both\nflanks, whilst in front were their enemies, and in the rear their\nfriends. When Castruccio saw that his men were unable to strike a\ndecisive blow at the enemy and put them to flight, he sent one thousand\ninfantrymen round by the castle, with orders to join the four hundred\nhorsemen he had previously dispatched there, and commanded the whole\nforce to fall upon the flank of the enemy. These orders they carried\nout with such fury that the Florentines could not sustain the attack,\nbut gave way, and were soon in full retreat conquered more by their\nunfortunate position than by the valour of their enemy. Those in the\nrear turned towards Pistoia, and spread through the plains, each man\nseeking only his own safety. The defeat was complete and very\nsanguinary. Many captains were taken prisoners, among whom were Bandini\ndei Rossi, Francesco Brunelleschi, and Giovanni della Tosa, all\nFlorentine noblemen, with many Tuscans and Neapolitans who fought on\nthe Florentine side, having been sent by King Ruberto to assist the\nGuelphs. Immediately the Pistoians heard of this defeat they drove out\nthe friends of the Guelphs, and surrendered to Castruccio. He was not\ncontent with occupying Prato and all the castles on the plains on both\nsides of the Arno, but marched his army into the plain of Peretola,\nabout two miles from Florence. Here he remained many days, dividing the\nspoils, and celebrating his victory with feasts and games, holding\nhorse races, and foot races for men and women. He also struck medals in\ncommemoration of the defeat of the Florentines. He endeavoured to\ncorrupt some of the citizens of Florence, who were to open the city\ngates at night; but the conspiracy was discovered, and the\nparticipators in it taken and beheaded, among whom were Tommaso Lupacci\nand Lambertuccio Frescobaldi. This defeat caused the Florentines great\nanxiety, and despairing of preserving their liberty, they sent envoys\nto King Ruberto of Naples, offering him the dominion of their city; and\nhe, knowing of what immense importance the maintenance of the Guelph\ncause was to him, accepted it. He agreed with the Florentines to\nreceive from them a yearly tribute of two hundred thousand florins, and\nhe sent his son Carlo to Florence with four thousand horsemen.\n\nShortly after this the Florentines were relieved in some degree of the\npressure of Castruccio s army, owing to his being compelled to leave\nhis positions before Florence and march on Pisa, in order to suppress a\nconspiracy that had been raised against him by Benedetto Lanfranchi,\none of the first men in Pisa, who could not endure that his fatherland\nshould be under the dominion of the Lucchese. He had formed this\nconspiracy, intending to seize the citadel, kill the partisans of\nCastruccio, and drive out the garrison. As, however, in a conspiracy\npaucity of numbers is essential to secrecy, so for its execution a few\nare not sufficient, and in seeking more adherents to his conspiracy\nLanfranchi encountered a person who revealed the design to Castruccio.\nThis betrayal cannot be passed by without severe reproach to Bonifacio\nCerchi and Giovanni Guidi, two Florentine exiles who were suffering\ntheir banishment in Pisa. Thereupon Castruccio seized Benedetto and put\nhim to death, and beheaded many other noble citizens, and drove their\nfamilies into exile. It now appeared to Castruccio that both Pisa and\nPistoia were thoroughly disaffected; he employed much thought and\nenergy upon securing his position there, and this gave the Florentines\ntheir opportunity to reorganize their army, and to await the coming of\nCarlo, the son of the King of Naples. When Carlo arrived they decided\nto lose no more time, and assembled a great army of more than thirty\nthousand infantry and ten thousand cavalry having called to their aid\nevery Guelph there was in Italy. They consulted whether they should\nattack Pistoia or Pisa first, and decided that it would be better to\nmarch on the latter a course, owing to the recent conspiracy, more\nlikely to succeed, and of more advantage to them, because they believed\nthat the surrender of Pistoia would follow the acquisition of Pisa.\n\nIn the early part of May 1328, the Florentines put in motion this army\nand quickly occupied Lastra, Signa, Montelupo, and Empoli, passing from\nthence on to San Miniato. When Castruccio heard of the enormous army\nwhich the Florentines were sending against him, he was in no degree\nalarmed, believing that the time had now arrived when Fortune would\ndeliver the empire of Tuscany into his hands, for he had no reason to\nthink that his enemy would make a better fight, or had better prospects\nof success, than at Pisa or Serravalle. He assembled twenty thousand\nfoot soldiers and four thousand horsemen, and with this army went to\nFucecchio, whilst he sent Pagolo Guinigi to Pisa with five thousand\ninfantry. Fucecchio has a stronger position than any other town in the\nPisan district, owing to its situation between the rivers Arno and\nGusciana and its slight elevation above the surrounding plain.\nMoreover, the enemy could not hinder its being victualled unless they\ndivided their forces, nor could they approach it either from the\ndirection of Lucca or Pisa, nor could they get through to Pisa, or\nattack Castruccio s forces except at a disadvantage. In one case they\nwould find themselves placed between his two armies, the one under his\nown command and the other under Pagolo, and in the other case they\nwould have to cross the Arno to get to close quarters with the enemy,\nan undertaking of great hazard. In order to tempt the Florentines to\ntake this latter course, Castruccio withdrew his men from the banks of\nthe river and placed them under the walls of Fucecchio, leaving a wide\nexpanse of land between them and the river.\n\nThe Florentines, having occupied San Miniato, held a council of war to\ndecide whether they should attack Pisa or the army of Castruccio, and,\nhaving weighed the difficulties of both courses, they decided upon the\nlatter. The river Arno was at that time low enough to be fordable, yet\nthe water reached to the shoulders of the infantrymen and to the\nsaddles of the horsemen. On the morning of 10 June 1328, the\nFlorentines commenced the battle by ordering forward a number of\ncavalry and ten thousand infantry. Castruccio, whose plan of action was\nfixed, and who well knew what to do, at once attacked the Florentines\nwith five thousand infantry and three thousand horsemen, not allowing\nthem to issue from the river before he charged them; he also sent one\nthousand light infantry up the river bank, and the same number down the\nArno. The infantry of the Florentines were so much impeded by their\narms and the water that they were not able to mount the banks of the\nriver, whilst the cavalry had made the passage of the river more\ndifficult for the others, by reason of the few who had crossed having\nbroken up the bed of the river, and this being deep with mud, many of\nthe horses rolled over with their riders and many of them had stuck so\nfast that they could not move. When the Florentine captains saw the\ndifficulties their men were meeting, they withdrew them and moved\nhigher up the river, hoping to find the river bed less treacherous and\nthe banks more adapted for landing. These men were met at the bank by\nthe forces which Castruccio had already sent forward, who, being light\narmed with bucklers and javelins in their hands, let fly with\ntremendous shouts into the faces and bodies of the cavalry. The horses,\nalarmed by the noise and the wounds, would not move forward, and\ntrampled each other in great confusion. The fight between the men of\nCastruccio and those of the enemy who succeeded in crossing was sharp\nand terrible; both sides fought with the utmost desperation and neither\nwould yield. The soldiers of Castruccio fought to drive the others back\ninto the river, whilst the Florentines strove to get a footing on land\nin order to make room for the others pressing forward, who if they\ncould but get out of the water would be able to fight, and in this\nobstinate conflict they were urged on by their captains. Castruccio\nshouted to his men that these were the same enemies whom they had\nbefore conquered at Serravalle, whilst the Florentines reproached each\nother that the many should be overcome by the few. At length\nCastruccio, seeing how long the battle had lasted, and that both his\nmen and the enemy were utterly exhausted, and that both sides had many\nkilled and wounded, pushed forward another body of infantry to take up\na position at the rear of those who were fighting; he then commanded\nthese latter to open their ranks as if they intended to retreat, and\none part of them to turn to the right and another to the left. This\ncleared a space of which the Florentines at once took advantage, and\nthus gained possession of a portion of the battlefield. But when these\ntired soldiers found themselves at close quarters with Castruccio s\nreserves they could not stand against them and at once fell back into\nthe river. The cavalry of either side had not as yet gained any\ndecisive advantage over the other, because Castruccio, knowing his\ninferiority in this arm, had commanded his leaders only to stand on the\ndefensive against the attacks of their adversaries, as he hoped that\nwhen he had overcome the infantry he would be able to make short work\nof the cavalry. This fell out as he had hoped, for when he saw the\nFlorentine army driven back across the river he ordered the remainder\nof his infantry to attack the cavalry of the enemy. This they did with\nlance and javelin, and, joined by their own cavalry, fell upon the\nenemy with the greatest fury and soon put him to flight. The Florentine\ncaptains, having seen the difficulty their cavalry had met with in\ncrossing the river, had attempted to make their infantry cross lower\ndown the river, in order to attack the flanks of Castruccio s army. But\nhere, also, the banks were steep and already lined by the men of\nCastruccio, and this movement was quite useless. Thus the Florentines\nwere so completely defeated at all points that scarcely a third of them\nescaped, and Castruccio was again covered with glory. Many captains\nwere taken prisoners, and Carlo, the son of King Ruberto, with\nMichelagnolo Falconi and Taddeo degli Albizzi, the Florentine\ncommissioners, fled to Empoli. If the spoils were great, the slaughter\nwas infinitely greater, as might be expected in such a battle. Of the\nFlorentines there fell twenty thousand two hundred and thirty-one men,\nwhilst Castruccio lost one thousand five hundred and seventy men.\n\nBut Fortune growing envious of the glory of Castruccio took away his\nlife just at the time when she should have preserved it, and thus\nruined all those plans which for so long a time he had worked to carry\ninto effect, and in the successful prosecution of which nothing but\ndeath could have stopped him. Castruccio was in the thick of the battle\nthe whole of the day; and when the end of it came, although fatigued\nand overheated, he stood at the gate of Fucecchio to welcome his men on\ntheir return from victory and personally thank them. He was also on the\nwatch for any attempt of the enemy to retrieve the fortunes of the day;\nhe being of the opinion that it was the duty of a good general to be\nthe first man in the saddle and the last out of it. Here Castruccio\nstood exposed to a wind which often rises at midday on the banks of the\nArno, and which is often very unhealthy; from this he took a chill, of\nwhich he thought nothing, as he was accustomed to such troubles; but it\nwas the cause of his death. On the following night he was attacked with\nhigh fever, which increased so rapidly that the doctors saw it must\nprove fatal. Castruccio, therefore, called Pagolo Guinigi to him, and\naddressed him as follows:\n\n If I could have believed that Fortune would have cut me off in the\nmidst of the career which was leading to that glory which all my\nsuccesses promised, I should have laboured less, and I should have left\nthee, if a smaller state, at least with fewer enemies and perils,\nbecause I should have been content with the governorships of Lucca and\nPisa. I should neither have subjugated the Pistoians, nor outraged the\nFlorentines with so many injuries. But I would have made both these\npeoples my friends, and I should have lived, if no longer, at least\nmore peacefully, and have left you a state without a doubt smaller, but\none more secure and established on a surer foundation. But Fortune, who\ninsists upon having the arbitrament of human affairs, did not endow me\nwith sufficient judgment to recognize this from the first, nor the time\nto surmount it. Thou hast heard, for many have told thee, and I have\nnever concealed it, how I entered the house of thy father whilst yet a\nboy a stranger to all those ambitions which every generous soul should\nfeel and how I was brought up by him, and loved as though I had been\nborn of his blood; how under his governance I learned to be valiant and\ncapable of availing myself of all that fortune, of which thou hast been\nwitness. When thy good father came to die, he committed thee and all\nhis possessions to my care, and I have brought thee up with that love,\nand increased thy estate with that care, which I was bound to show. And\nin order that thou shouldst not only possess the estate which thy\nfather left, but also that which my fortune and abilities have gained,\nI have never married, so that the love of children should never deflect\nmy mind from that gratitude which I owed to the children of thy father.\nThus I leave thee a vast estate, of which I am well content, but I am\ndeeply concerned, inasmuch as I leave it thee unsettled and insecure.\nThou hast the city of Lucca on thy hands, which will never rest\ncontented under thy government. Thou hast also Pisa, where the men are\nof nature changeable and unreliable, who, although they may be\nsometimes held in subjection, yet they will ever disdain to serve under\na Lucchese. Pistoia is also disloyal to thee, she being eaten up with\nfactions and deeply incensed against thy family by reason of the wrongs\nrecently inflicted upon them. Thou hast for neighbours the offended\nFlorentines, injured by us in a thousand ways, but not utterly\ndestroyed, who will hail the news of my death with more delight than\nthey would the acquisition of all Tuscany. In the Emperor and in the\nprinces of Milan thou canst place no reliance, for they are far\ndistant, slow, and their help is very long in coming. Therefore, thou\nhast no hope in anything but in thine own abilities, and in the memory\nof my valour, and in the prestige which this latest victory has brought\nthee; which, as thou knowest how to use it with prudence, will assist\nthee to come to terms with the Florentines, who, as they are suffering\nunder this great defeat, should be inclined to listen to thee. And\nwhereas I have sought to make them my enemies, because I believed that\nwar with them would conduce to my power and glory, thou hast every\ninducement to make friends of them, because their alliance will bring\nthee advantages and security. It is of the greatest important in this\nworld that a man should know himself, and the measure of his own\nstrength and means; and he who knows that he has not a genius for\nfighting must learn how to govern by the arts of peace. And it will be\nwell for thee to rule thy conduct by my counsel, and to learn in this\nway to enjoy what my life-work and dangers have gained; and in this\nthou wilt easily succeed when thou hast learnt to believe that what I\nhave told thee is true. And thou wilt be doubly indebted to me, in that\nI have left thee this realm and have taught thee how to keep it. \n\nAfter this there came to Castruccio those citizens of Pisa, Pistoia,\nand Lucca, who had been fighting at his side, and whilst recommending\nPagolo to them, and making them swear obedience to him as his\nsuccessor, he died. He left a happy memory to those who had known him,\nand no prince of those times was ever loved with such devotion as he\nwas. His obsequies were celebrated with every sign of mourning, and he\nwas buried in San Francesco at Lucca. Fortune was not so friendly to\nPagolo Guinigi as she had been to Castruccio, for he had not the\nabilities. Not long after the death of Castruccio, Pagolo lost Pisa,\nand then Pistoia, and only with difficulty held on to Lucca. This\nlatter city continued in the family of Guinigi until the time of the\ngreat-grandson of Pagolo.\n\nFrom what has been related here it will be seen that Castruccio was a\nman of exceptional abilities, not only measured by men of his own time,\nbut also by those of an earlier date. In stature he was above the\nordinary height, and perfectly proportioned. He was of a gracious\npresence, and he welcomed men with such urbanity that those who spoke\nwith him rarely left him displeased. His hair was inclined to be red,\nand he wore it cut short above the ears, and, whether it rained or\nsnowed, he always went without a hat. He was delightful among friends,\nbut terrible to his enemies; just to his subjects; ready to play false\nwith the unfaithful, and willing to overcome by fraud those whom he\ndesired to subdue, because he was wont to say that it was the victory\nthat brought the glory, not the methods of achieving it. No one was\nbolder in facing danger, none more prudent in extricating himself. He\nwas accustomed to say that men ought to attempt everything and fear\nnothing; that God is a lover of strong men, because one always sees\nthat the weak are chastised by the strong. He was also wonderfully\nsharp or biting though courteous in his answers; and as he did not look\nfor any indulgence in this way of speaking from others, so he was not\nangered with others did not show it to him. It has often happened that\nhe has listened quietly when others have spoken sharply to him, as on\nthe following occasions. He had caused a ducat to be given for a\npartridge, and was taken to task for doing so by a friend, to whom\nCastruccio had said:  You would not have given more than a penny. \n That is true,  answered the friend. Then said Castruccio to him:  A\nducat is much less to me.  Having about him a flatterer on whom he had\nspat to show that he scorned him, the flatterer said to him:  Fisherman\nare willing to let the waters of the sea saturate them in order that\nthey may take a few little fishes, and I allow myself to be wetted by\nspittle that I may catch a whale ; and this was not only heard by\nCastruccio with patience but rewarded. When told by a priest that it\nwas wicked for him to live so sumptuously, Castruccio said:  If that be\na vice then you should not fare so splendidly at the feasts of our\nsaints.  Passing through a street he saw a young man as he came out of\na house of ill fame blush at being seen by Castruccio, and said to him:\n Thou shouldst not be ashamed when thou comest out, but when thou goest\ninto such places.  A friend gave him a very curiously tied knot to undo\nand was told:  Fool, do you think that I wish to untie a thing which\ngave so much trouble to fasten.  Castruccio said to one who professed\nto be a philosopher:  You are like the dogs who always run after those\nwho will give them the best to eat,  and was answered:  We are rather\nlike the doctors who go to the houses of those who have the greatest\nneed of them.  Going by water from Pisa to Leghorn, Castruccio was much\ndisturbed by a dangerous storm that sprang up, and was reproached for\ncowardice by one of those with him, who said that he did not fear\nanything. Castruccio answered that he did not wonder at that, since\nevery man valued his soul for what is was worth. Being asked by one\nwhat he ought to do to gain estimation, he said:  When thou goest to a\nbanquet take care that thou dost not seat one piece of wood upon\nanother.  To a person who was boasting that he had read many things,\nCastruccio said:  He knows better than to boast of remembering many\nthings.  Someone bragged that he could drink much without becoming\nintoxicated. Castruccio replied:  An ox does the same.  Castruccio was\nacquainted with a girl with whom he had intimate relations, and being\nblamed by a friend who told him that it was undignified for him to be\ntaken in by a woman, he said:  She has not taken me in, I have taken\nher.  Being also blamed for eating very dainty foods, he answered:\n Thou dost not spend as much as I do?  and being told that it was true,\nhe continued:  Then thou art more avaricious than I am gluttonous. \nBeing invited by Taddeo Bernardi, a very rich and splendid citizen of\nLuca, to supper, he went to the house and was shown by Taddeo into a\nchamber hung with silk and paved with fine stones representing flowers\nand foliage of the most beautiful colouring. Castruccio gathered some\nsaliva in his mouth and spat it out upon Taddeo, and seeing him much\ndisturbed by this, said to him:  I knew not where to spit in order to\noffend thee less.  Being asked how Caesar died he said:  God willing I\nwill die as he did.  Being one night in the house of one of his\ngentlemen where many ladies were assembled, he was reproved by one of\nhis friends for dancing and amusing himself with them more than was\nusual in one of his station, so he said:  He who is considered wise by\nday will not be considered a fool at night.  A person came to demand a\nfavour of Castruccio, and thinking he was not listening to his plea\nthrew himself on his knees to the ground, and being sharply reproved by\nCastruccio, said:  Thou art the reason of my acting thus for thou hast\nthy ears in thy feet,  whereupon he obtained double the favour he had\nasked. Castruccio used to say that the way to hell was an easy one,\nseeing that it was in a downward direction and you travelled\nblindfolded. Being asked a favour by one who used many superfluous\nwords, he said to him:  When you have another request to make, send\nsomeone else to make it.  Having been wearied by a similar man with a\nlong oration who wound up by saying:  Perhaps I have fatigued you by\nspeaking so long,  Castruccio said:  You have not, because I have not\nlistened to a word you said.  He used to say of one who had been a\nbeautiful child and who afterwards became a fine man, that he was\ndangerous, because he first took the husbands from the wives and now he\ntook the wives from their husbands. To an envious man who laughed, he\nsaid:  Do you laugh because you are successful or because another is\nunfortunate?  Whilst he was still in the charge of Messer Francesco\nGuinigi, one of his companions said to him:  What shall I give you if\nyou will let me give you a blow on the nose?  Castruccio answered:  A\nhelmet.  Having put to death a citizen of Lucca who had been\ninstrumental in raising him to power, and being told that he had done\nwrong to kill one of his old friends, he answered that people deceived\nthemselves; he had only killed a new enemy. Castruccio praised greatly\nthose men who intended to take a wife and then did not do so, saying\nthat they were like men who said they would go to sea, and then refused\nwhen the time came. He said that it always struck him with surprise\nthat whilst men in buying an earthen or glass vase would sound it first\nto learn if it were good, yet in choosing a wife they were content with\nonly looking at her. He was once asked in what manner he would wish to\nbe buried when he died, and answered:  With the face turned downwards,\nfor I know when I am gone this country will be turned upside down.  On\nbeing asked if it had ever occurred to him to become a friar in order\nto save his soul, he answered that it had not, because it appeared\nstrange to him that Fra Lazerone should go to Paradise and Uguccione\ndella Faggiuola to the Inferno. He was once asked when should a man eat\nto preserve his health, and replied:  If the man be rich let him eat\nwhen he is hungry; if he be poor, then when he can.  Seeing one of his\ngentlemen make a member of his family lace him up, he said to him:  I\npray God that you will let him feed you also.  Seeing that someone had\nwritten upon his house in Latin the words:  May God preserve this house\nfrom the wicked,  he said,  The owner must never go in.  Passing\nthrough one of the streets he saw a small house with a very large door,\nand remarked:  That house will fly through the door.  He was having a\ndiscussion with the ambassador of the King of Naples concerning the\nproperty of some banished nobles, when a dispute arose between them,\nand the ambassador asked him if he had no fear of the king.  Is this\nking of yours a bad man or a good one?  asked Castruccio, and was told\nthat he was a good one, whereupon he said,  Why should you suggest that\nI should be afraid of a good man? \n\nI could recount many other stories of his sayings both witty and\nweighty, but I think that the above will be sufficient testimony to his\nhigh qualities. He lived forty-four years, and was in every way a\nprince. And as he was surrounded by many evidences of his good fortune,\nso he also desired to have near him some memorials of his bad fortune;\ntherefore the manacles with which he was chained in prison are to be\nseen to this day fixed up in the tower of his residence, where they\nwere placed by him to testify forever to his days of adversity. As in\nhis life he was inferior neither to Philip of Macedon, the father of\nAlexander, nor to Scipio of Rome, so he died in the same year of his\nage as they did, and he would doubtless have excelled both of them had\nFortune decreed that he should be born, not in Lucca, but in Macedonia\nor Rome."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz",
        "author": "L. Frank Baum",
        "category": "Fantasy",
        "EN": "Introduction\n\n\nFolklore, legends, myths and fairy tales have followed childhood\nthrough the ages, for every healthy youngster has a wholesome and\ninstinctive love for stories fantastic, marvelous and manifestly\nunreal. The winged fairies of Grimm and Andersen have brought more\nhappiness to childish hearts than all other human creations.\n\nYet the old time fairy tale, having served for generations, may now be\nclassed as  historical  in the children s library; for the time has\ncome for a series of newer  wonder tales  in which the stereotyped\ngenie, dwarf and fairy are eliminated, together with all the horrible\nand blood-curdling incidents devised by their authors to point a\nfearsome moral to each tale. Modern education includes morality;\ntherefore the modern child seeks only entertainment in its wonder tales\nand gladly dispenses with all disagreeable incident.\n\nHaving this thought in mind, the story of  The Wonderful Wizard of Oz \nwas written solely to please children of today. It aspires to being a\nmodernized fairy tale, in which the wonderment and joy are retained and\nthe heartaches and nightmares are left out.\n\nL. Frank Baum\nChicago, April, 1900.\n\n\n\nThe Wonderful Wizard of Oz\n\n\n\n\n\nChapter I\nThe Cyclone\n\n\nDorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies, with Uncle\nHenry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer s wife. Their\nhouse was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon\nmany miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one\nroom; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for\nthe dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry\nand Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in\nanother corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar except a\nsmall hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family\ncould go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to\ncrush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the\nmiddle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark\nhole.\n\nWhen Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see\nnothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a\nhouse broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of\nthe sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a\ngray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was\nnot green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until\nthey were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had\nbeen painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it\naway, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else.\n\nWhen Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun\nand wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes\nand left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and\nlips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled\nnow. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had\nbeen so startled by the child s laughter that she would scream and\npress her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy s merry voice reached\nher ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she\ncould find anything to laugh at.\n\nUncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and\ndid not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his\nrough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke.\n\nIt was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray\nas her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black\ndog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on\neither side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and\nDorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.\n\nToday, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the\ndoorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than\nusual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at\nthe sky too. Aunt Em was washing the dishes.\n\nFrom the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and Uncle Henry\nand Dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves before the\ncoming storm. There now came a sharp whistling in the air from the\nsouth, and as they turned their eyes that way they saw ripples in the\ngrass coming from that direction also.\n\nSuddenly Uncle Henry stood up.\n\n There s a cyclone coming, Em,  he called to his wife.  I ll go look\nafter the stock.  Then he ran toward the sheds where the cows and\nhorses were kept.\n\nAunt Em dropped her work and came to the door. One glance told her of\nthe danger close at hand.\n\n Quick, Dorothy!  she screamed.  Run for the cellar! \n\nToto jumped out of Dorothy s arms and hid under the bed, and the girl\nstarted to get him. Aunt Em, badly frightened, threw open the trap door\nin the floor and climbed down the ladder into the small, dark hole.\nDorothy caught Toto at last and started to follow her aunt. When she\nwas halfway across the room there came a great shriek from the wind,\nand the house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat down\nsuddenly upon the floor.\n\nThen a strange thing happened.\n\nThe house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly through the\nair. Dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon.\n\nThe north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the\nexact center of the cyclone. In the middle of a cyclone the air is\ngenerally still, but the great pressure of the wind on every side of\nthe house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at the very top\nof the cyclone; and there it remained and was carried miles and miles\naway as easily as you could carry a feather.\n\nIt was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but Dorothy\nfound she was riding quite easily. After the first few whirls around,\nand one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were\nbeing rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.\n\nToto did not like it. He ran about the room, now here, now there,\nbarking loudly; but Dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to\nsee what would happen.\n\nOnce Toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at first\nthe little girl thought she had lost him. But soon she saw one of his\nears sticking up through the hole, for the strong pressure of the air\nwas keeping him up so that he could not fall. She crept to the hole,\ncaught Toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again, afterward\nclosing the trap door so that no more accidents could happen.\n\nHour after hour passed away, and slowly Dorothy got over her fright;\nbut she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about\nher that she nearly became deaf. At first she had wondered if she would\nbe dashed to pieces when the house fell again; but as the hours passed\nand nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and resolved to\nwait calmly and see what the future would bring. At last she crawled\nover the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and Toto\nfollowed and lay down beside her.\n\nIn spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind,\nDorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II\nThe Council with the Munchkins\n\n\nShe was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if Dorothy had\nnot been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt. As it was, the\njar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and Toto\nput his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally. Dorothy sat\nup and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark, for the\nbright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room. She\nsprang from her bed and with Toto at her heels ran and opened the door.\n\nThe little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes\ngrowing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw.\n\nThe cyclone had set the house down very gently for a cyclone in the\nmidst of a country of marvelous beauty. There were lovely patches of\ngreensward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious\nfruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with\nrare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes.\nA little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between\ngreen banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl\nwho had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies.\n\nWhile she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful sights,\nshe noticed coming toward her a group of the queerest people she had\never seen. They were not as big as the grown folk she had always been\nused to; but neither were they very small. In fact, they seemed about\nas tall as Dorothy, who was a well-grown child for her age, although\nthey were, so far as looks go, many years older.\n\nThree were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed. They wore\nround hats that rose to a small point a foot above their heads, with\nlittle bells around the brims that tinkled sweetly as they moved. The\nhats of the men were blue; the little woman s hat was white, and she\nwore a white gown that hung in pleats from her shoulders. Over it were\nsprinkled little stars that glistened in the sun like diamonds. The men\nwere dressed in blue, of the same shade as their hats, and wore\nwell-polished boots with a deep roll of blue at the tops. The men,\nDorothy thought, were about as old as Uncle Henry, for two of them had\nbeards. But the little woman was doubtless much older. Her face was\ncovered with wrinkles, her hair was nearly white, and she walked rather\nstiffly.\n\nWhen these people drew near the house where Dorothy was standing in the\ndoorway, they paused and whispered among themselves, as if afraid to\ncome farther. But the little old woman walked up to Dorothy, made a low\nbow and said, in a sweet voice:\n\n You are welcome, most noble Sorceress, to the land of the Munchkins.\nWe are so grateful to you for having killed the Wicked Witch of the\nEast, and for setting our people free from bondage. \n\nDorothy listened to this speech with wonder. What could the little\nwoman possibly mean by calling her a sorceress, and saying she had\nkilled the Wicked Witch of the East? Dorothy was an innocent, harmless\nlittle girl, who had been carried by a cyclone many miles from home;\nand she had never killed anything in all her life.\n\nBut the little woman evidently expected her to answer; so Dorothy said,\nwith hesitation,  You are very kind, but there must be some mistake. I\nhave not killed anything. \n\n Your house did, anyway,  replied the little old woman, with a laugh,\n and that is the same thing. See!  she continued, pointing to the\ncorner of the house.  There are her two feet, still sticking out from\nunder a block of wood. \n\nDorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright. There, indeed, just\nunder the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet were\nsticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes.\n\n Oh, dear! Oh, dear!  cried Dorothy, clasping her hands together in\ndismay.  The house must have fallen on her. Whatever shall we do? \n\n There is nothing to be done,  said the little woman calmly.\n\n But who was she?  asked Dorothy.\n\n She was the Wicked Witch of the East, as I said,  answered the little\nwoman.  She has held all the Munchkins in bondage for many years,\nmaking them slave for her night and day. Now they are all set free, and\nare grateful to you for the favor. \n\n Who are the Munchkins?  inquired Dorothy.\n\n They are the people who live in this land of the East where the Wicked\nWitch ruled. \n\n Are you a Munchkin?  asked Dorothy.\n\n No, but I am their friend, although I live in the land of the North.\nWhen they saw the Witch of the East was dead the Munchkins sent a swift\nmessenger to me, and I came at once. I am the Witch of the North. \n\n Oh, gracious!  cried Dorothy.  Are you a real witch? \n\n Yes, indeed,  answered the little woman.  But I am a good witch, and\nthe people love me. I am not as powerful as the Wicked Witch was who\nruled here, or I should have set the people free myself. \n\n But I thought all witches were wicked,  said the girl, who was half\nfrightened at facing a real witch.  Oh, no, that is a great mistake.\nThere were only four witches in all the Land of Oz, and two of them,\nthose who live in the North and the South, are good witches. I know\nthis is true, for I am one of them myself, and cannot be mistaken.\nThose who dwelt in the East and the West were, indeed, wicked witches;\nbut now that you have killed one of them, there is but one Wicked Witch\nin all the Land of Oz the one who lives in the West. \n\n But,  said Dorothy, after a moment s thought,  Aunt Em has told me\nthat the witches were all dead years and years ago. \n\n Who is Aunt Em?  inquired the little old woman.\n\n She is my aunt who lives in Kansas, where I came from. \n\nThe Witch of the North seemed to think for a time, with her head bowed\nand her eyes upon the ground. Then she looked up and said,  I do not\nknow where Kansas is, for I have never heard that country mentioned\nbefore. But tell me, is it a civilized country? \n\n Oh, yes,  replied Dorothy.\n\n Then that accounts for it. In the civilized countries I believe there\nare no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians. But,\nyou see, the Land of Oz has never been civilized, for we are cut off\nfrom all the rest of the world. Therefore we still have witches and\nwizards amongst us. \n\n Who are the wizards?  asked Dorothy.\n\n Oz himself is the Great Wizard,  answered the Witch, sinking her voice\nto a whisper.  He is more powerful than all the rest of us together. He\nlives in the City of Emeralds. \n\nDorothy was going to ask another question, but just then the Munchkins,\nwho had been standing silently by, gave a loud shout and pointed to the\ncorner of the house where the Wicked Witch had been lying.\n\n What is it?  asked the little old woman, and looked, and began to\nlaugh. The feet of the dead Witch had disappeared entirely, and nothing\nwas left but the silver shoes.\n\n She was so old,  explained the Witch of the North,  that she dried up\nquickly in the sun. That is the end of her. But the silver shoes are\nyours, and you shall have them to wear.  She reached down and picked up\nthe shoes, and after shaking the dust out of them handed them to\nDorothy.\n\n The Witch of the East was proud of those silver shoes,  said one of\nthe Munchkins,  and there is some charm connected with them; but what\nit is we never knew. \n\nDorothy carried the shoes into the house and placed them on the table.\nThen she came out again to the Munchkins and said:\n\n I am anxious to get back to my aunt and uncle, for I am sure they will\nworry about me. Can you help me find my way? \n\nThe Munchkins and the Witch first looked at one another, and then at\nDorothy, and then shook their heads.\n\n At the East, not far from here,  said one,  there is a great desert,\nand none could live to cross it. \n\n It is the same at the South,  said another,  for I have been there and\nseen it. The South is the country of the Quadlings. \n\n I am told,  said the third man,  that it is the same at the West. And\nthat country, where the Winkies live, is ruled by the Wicked Witch of\nthe West, who would make you her slave if you passed her way. \n\n The North is my home,  said the old lady,  and at its edge is the same\ngreat desert that surrounds this Land of Oz. I m afraid, my dear, you\nwill have to live with us. \n\nDorothy began to sob at this, for she felt lonely among all these\nstrange people. Her tears seemed to grieve the kind-hearted Munchkins,\nfor they immediately took out their handkerchiefs and began to weep\nalso. As for the little old woman, she took off her cap and balanced\nthe point on the end of her nose, while she counted  One, two, three \nin a solemn voice. At once the cap changed to a slate, on which was\nwritten in big, white chalk marks:\n\n LET DOROTHY GO TO THE CITY OF EMERALDS \n\n\nThe little old woman took the slate from her nose, and having read the\nwords on it, asked,  Is your name Dorothy, my dear? \n\n Yes,  answered the child, looking up and drying her tears.\n\n Then you must go to the City of Emeralds. Perhaps Oz will help you. \n\n Where is this city?  asked Dorothy.\n\n It is exactly in the center of the country, and is ruled by Oz, the\nGreat Wizard I told you of. \n\n Is he a good man?  inquired the girl anxiously.\n\n He is a good Wizard. Whether he is a man or not I cannot tell, for I\nhave never seen him. \n\n How can I get there?  asked Dorothy.\n\n You must walk. It is a long journey, through a country that is\nsometimes pleasant and sometimes dark and terrible. However, I will use\nall the magic arts I know of to keep you from harm. \n\n Won t you go with me?  pleaded the girl, who had begun to look upon\nthe little old woman as her only friend.\n\n No, I cannot do that,  she replied,  but I will give you my kiss, and\nno one will dare injure a person who has been kissed by the Witch of\nthe North. \n\nShe came close to Dorothy and kissed her gently on the forehead. Where\nher lips touched the girl they left a round, shining mark, as Dorothy\nfound out soon after.\n\n The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick,  said the\nWitch,  so you cannot miss it. When you get to Oz do not be afraid of\nhim, but tell your story and ask him to help you. Good-bye, my dear. \n\nThe three Munchkins bowed low to her and wished her a pleasant journey,\nafter which they walked away through the trees. The Witch gave Dorothy\na friendly little nod, whirled around on her left heel three times, and\nstraightway disappeared, much to the surprise of little Toto, who\nbarked after her loudly enough when she had gone, because he had been\nafraid even to growl while she stood by.\n\nBut Dorothy, knowing her to be a witch, had expected her to disappear\nin just that way, and was not surprised in the least.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III\nHow Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow\n\n\nWhen Dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry. So she went to\nthe cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread with butter.\nShe gave some to Toto, and taking a pail from the shelf she carried it\ndown to the little brook and filled it with clear, sparkling water.\nToto ran over to the trees and began to bark at the birds sitting\nthere. Dorothy went to get him, and saw such delicious fruit hanging\nfrom the branches that she gathered some of it, finding it just what\nshe wanted to help out her breakfast.\n\nThen she went back to the house, and having helped herself and Toto to\na good drink of the cool, clear water, she set about making ready for\nthe journey to the City of Emeralds.\n\nDorothy had only one other dress, but that happened to be clean and was\nhanging on a peg beside her bed. It was gingham, with checks of white\nand blue; and although the blue was somewhat faded with many washings,\nit was still a pretty frock. The girl washed herself carefully, dressed\nherself in the clean gingham, and tied her pink sunbonnet on her head.\nShe took a little basket and filled it with bread from the cupboard,\nlaying a white cloth over the top. Then she looked down at her feet and\nnoticed how old and worn her shoes were.\n\n They surely will never do for a long journey, Toto,  she said. And\nToto looked up into her face with his little black eyes and wagged his\ntail to show he knew what she meant.\n\nAt that moment Dorothy saw lying on the table the silver shoes that had\nbelonged to the Witch of the East.\n\n I wonder if they will fit me,  she said to Toto.  They would be just\nthe thing to take a long walk in, for they could not wear out. \n\nShe took off her old leather shoes and tried on the silver ones, which\nfitted her as well as if they had been made for her.\n\nFinally she picked up her basket.\n\n Come along, Toto,  she said.  We will go to the Emerald City and ask\nthe Great Oz how to get back to Kansas again. \n\nShe closed the door, locked it, and put the key carefully in the pocket\nof her dress. And so, with Toto trotting along soberly behind her, she\nstarted on her journey.\n\nThere were several roads nearby, but it did not take her long to find\nthe one paved with yellow bricks. Within a short time she was walking\nbriskly toward the Emerald City, her silver shoes tinkling merrily on\nthe hard, yellow road-bed. The sun shone bright and the birds sang\nsweetly, and Dorothy did not feel nearly so bad as you might think a\nlittle girl would who had been suddenly whisked away from her own\ncountry and set down in the midst of a strange land.\n\nShe was surprised, as she walked along, to see how pretty the country\nwas about her. There were neat fences at the sides of the road, painted\na dainty blue color, and beyond them were fields of grain and\nvegetables in abundance. Evidently the Munchkins were good farmers and\nable to raise large crops. Once in a while she would pass a house, and\nthe people came out to look at her and bow low as she went by; for\neveryone knew she had been the means of destroying the Wicked Witch and\nsetting them free from bondage. The houses of the Munchkins were\nodd-looking dwellings, for each was round, with a big dome for a roof.\nAll were painted blue, for in this country of the East blue was the\nfavorite color.\n\nToward evening, when Dorothy was tired with her long walk and began to\nwonder where she should pass the night, she came to a house rather\nlarger than the rest. On the green lawn before it many men and women\nwere dancing. Five little fiddlers played as loudly as possible, and\nthe people were laughing and singing, while a big table near by was\nloaded with delicious fruits and nuts, pies and cakes, and many other\ngood things to eat.\n\nThe people greeted Dorothy kindly, and invited her to supper and to\npass the night with them; for this was the home of one of the richest\nMunchkins in the land, and his friends were gathered with him to\ncelebrate their freedom from the bondage of the Wicked Witch.\n\nDorothy ate a hearty supper and was waited upon by the rich Munchkin\nhimself, whose name was Boq. Then she sat upon a settee and watched the\npeople dance.\n\nWhen Boq saw her silver shoes he said,  You must be a great sorceress. \n\n Why?  asked the girl.\n\n Because you wear silver shoes and have killed the Wicked Witch.\nBesides, you have white in your frock, and only witches and sorceresses\nwear white. \n\n My dress is blue and white checked,  said Dorothy, smoothing out the\nwrinkles in it.\n\n It is kind of you to wear that,  said Boq.  Blue is the color of the\nMunchkins, and white is the witch color. So we know you are a friendly\nwitch. \n\nDorothy did not know what to say to this, for all the people seemed to\nthink her a witch, and she knew very well she was only an ordinary\nlittle girl who had come by the chance of a cyclone into a strange\nland.\n\nWhen she had tired watching the dancing, Boq led her into the house,\nwhere he gave her a room with a pretty bed in it. The sheets were made\nof blue cloth, and Dorothy slept soundly in them till morning, with\nToto curled up on the blue rug beside her.\n\nShe ate a hearty breakfast, and watched a wee Munchkin baby, who played\nwith Toto and pulled his tail and crowed and laughed in a way that\ngreatly amused Dorothy. Toto was a fine curiosity to all the people,\nfor they had never seen a dog before.\n\n How far is it to the Emerald City?  the girl asked.\n\n I do not know,  answered Boq gravely,  for I have never been there. It\nis better for people to keep away from Oz, unless they have business\nwith him. But it is a long way to the Emerald City, and it will take\nyou many days. The country here is rich and pleasant, but you must pass\nthrough rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of your\njourney. \n\nThis worried Dorothy a little, but she knew that only the Great Oz\ncould help her get to Kansas again, so she bravely resolved not to turn\nback.\n\nShe bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road of\nyellow brick. When she had gone several miles she thought she would\nstop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside the road\nand sat down. There was a great cornfield beyond the fence, and not far\naway she saw a Scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep the birds from\nthe ripe corn.\n\nDorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the\nScarecrow. Its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes,\nnose, and mouth painted on it to represent a face. An old, pointed blue\nhat, that had belonged to some Munchkin, was perched on his head, and\nthe rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and faded,\nwhich had also been stuffed with straw. On the feet were some old boots\nwith blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and the figure\nwas raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole stuck up its\nback.\n\nWhile Dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the\nScarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her.\nShe thought she must have been mistaken at first, for none of the\nscarecrows in Kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its\nhead to her in a friendly way. Then she climbed down from the fence and\nwalked up to it, while Toto ran around the pole and barked.\n\n Good day,  said the Scarecrow, in a rather husky voice.\n\n Did you speak?  asked the girl, in wonder.\n\n Certainly,  answered the Scarecrow.  How do you do? \n\n I m pretty well, thank you,  replied Dorothy politely.  How do you\ndo? \n\n I m not feeling well,  said the Scarecrow, with a smile,  for it is\nvery tedious being perched up here night and day to scare away crows. \n\n Can t you get down?  asked Dorothy.\n\n No, for this pole is stuck up my back. If you will please take away\nthe pole I shall be greatly obliged to you. \n\nDorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole, for,\nbeing stuffed with straw, it was quite light.\n\n Thank you very much,  said the Scarecrow, when he had been set down on\nthe ground.  I feel like a new man. \n\nDorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a stuffed man\nspeak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her.\n\n Who are you?  asked the Scarecrow when he had stretched himself and\nyawned.  And where are you going? \n\n My name is Dorothy,  said the girl,  and I am going to the Emerald\nCity, to ask the Great Oz to send me back to Kansas. \n\n Where is the Emerald City?  he inquired.  And who is Oz? \n\n Why, don t you know?  she returned, in surprise.\n\n No, indeed. I don t know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have no\nbrains at all,  he answered sadly.\n\n Oh,  said Dorothy,  I m awfully sorry for you. \n\n Do you think,  he asked,  if I go to the Emerald City with you, that\nOz would give me some brains? \n\n I cannot tell,  she returned,  but you may come with me, if you like.\nIf Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you\nare now. \n\n That is true,  said the Scarecrow.  You see,  he continued\nconfidentially,  I don t mind my legs and arms and body being stuffed,\nbecause I cannot get hurt. If anyone treads on my toes or sticks a pin\ninto me, it doesn t matter, for I can t feel it. But I do not want\npeople to call me a fool, and if my head stays stuffed with straw\ninstead of with brains, as yours is, how am I ever to know anything? \n\n I understand how you feel,  said the little girl, who was truly sorry\nfor him.  If you will come with me I ll ask Oz to do all he can for\nyou. \n\n Thank you,  he answered gratefully.\n\nThey walked back to the road. Dorothy helped him over the fence, and\nthey started along the path of yellow brick for the Emerald City.\n\nToto did not like this addition to the party at first. He smelled\naround the stuffed man as if he suspected there might be a nest of rats\nin the straw, and he often growled in an unfriendly way at the\nScarecrow.\n\n Don t mind Toto,  said Dorothy to her new friend.  He never bites. \n\n Oh, I m not afraid,  replied the Scarecrow.  He can t hurt the straw.\nDo let me carry that basket for you. I shall not mind it, for I can t\nget tired. I ll tell you a secret,  he continued, as he walked along.\n There is only one thing in the world I am afraid of. \n\n What is that?  asked Dorothy;  the Munchkin farmer who made you? \n\n No,  answered the Scarecrow;  it s a lighted match. \n\n\n\n\nChapter IV\nThe Road Through the Forest\n\n\nAfter a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking grew so\ndifficult that the Scarecrow often stumbled over the yellow bricks,\nwhich were here very uneven. Sometimes, indeed, they were broken or\nmissing altogether, leaving holes that Toto jumped across and Dorothy\nwalked around. As for the Scarecrow, having no brains, he walked\nstraight ahead, and so stepped into the holes and fell at full length\non the hard bricks. It never hurt him, however, and Dorothy would pick\nhim up and set him upon his feet again, while he joined her in laughing\nmerrily at his own mishap.\n\nThe farms were not nearly so well cared for here as they were farther\nback. There were fewer houses and fewer fruit trees, and the farther\nthey went the more dismal and lonesome the country became.\n\nAt noon they sat down by the roadside, near a little brook, and Dorothy\nopened her basket and got out some bread. She offered a piece to the\nScarecrow, but he refused.\n\n I am never hungry,  he said,  and it is a lucky thing I am not, for my\nmouth is only painted, and if I should cut a hole in it so I could eat,\nthe straw I am stuffed with would come out, and that would spoil the\nshape of my head. \n\nDorothy saw at once that this was true, so she only nodded and went on\neating her bread.\n\n Tell me something about yourself and the country you came from,  said\nthe Scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner. So she told him all\nabout Kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone\nhad carried her to this queer Land of Oz.\n\nThe Scarecrow listened carefully, and said,  I cannot understand why\nyou should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry,\ngray place you call Kansas. \n\n That is because you have no brains  answered the girl.  No matter how\ndreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would\nrather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful.\nThere is no place like home. \n\nThe Scarecrow sighed.\n\n Of course I cannot understand it,  he said.  If your heads were\nstuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in the\nbeautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all. It is\nfortunate for Kansas that you have brains. \n\n Won t you tell me a story, while we are resting?  asked the child.\n\nThe Scarecrow looked at her reproachfully, and answered:\n\n My life has been so short that I really know nothing whatever. I was\nonly made day before yesterday. What happened in the world before that\ntime is all unknown to me. Luckily, when the farmer made my head, one\nof the first things he did was to paint my ears, so that I heard what\nwas going on. There was another Munchkin with him, and the first thing\nI heard was the farmer saying,  How do you like those ears? \n\n They aren t straight,  answered the other.\n\n Never mind,  said the farmer.  They are ears just the same,  which\nwas true enough.\n\n Now I ll make the eyes,  said the farmer. So he painted my right\neye, and as soon as it was finished I found myself looking at him and\nat everything around me with a great deal of curiosity, for this was my\nfirst glimpse of the world.\n\n That s a rather pretty eye,  remarked the Munchkin who was watching\nthe farmer.  Blue paint is just the color for eyes. \n\n I think I ll make the other a little bigger,  said the farmer. And\nwhen the second eye was done I could see much better than before. Then\nhe made my nose and my mouth. But I did not speak, because at that time\nI didn t know what a mouth was for. I had the fun of watching them make\nmy body and my arms and legs; and when they fastened on my head, at\nlast, I felt very proud, for I thought I was just as good a man as\nanyone.\n\n This fellow will scare the crows fast enough,  said the farmer.  He\nlooks just like a man. \n\n Why, he is a man,  said the other, and I quite agreed with him. The\nfarmer carried me under his arm to the cornfield, and set me up on a\ntall stick, where you found me. He and his friend soon after walked\naway and left me alone.\n\n I did not like to be deserted this way. So I tried to walk after them.\nBut my feet would not touch the ground, and I was forced to stay on\nthat pole. It was a lonely life to lead, for I had nothing to think of,\nhaving been made such a little while before. Many crows and other birds\nflew into the cornfield, but as soon as they saw me they flew away\nagain, thinking I was a Munchkin; and this pleased me and made me feel\nthat I was quite an important person. By and by an old crow flew near\nme, and after looking at me carefully he perched upon my shoulder and\nsaid:\n\n I wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy manner. Any\ncrow of sense could see that you are only stuffed with straw.  Then he\nhopped down at my feet and ate all the corn he wanted. The other birds,\nseeing he was not harmed by me, came to eat the corn too, so in a short\ntime there was a great flock of them about me.\n\n I felt sad at this, for it showed I was not such a good Scarecrow\nafter all; but the old crow comforted me, saying,  If you only had\nbrains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a\nbetter man than some of them. Brains are the only things worth having\nin this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man. \n\n After the crows had gone I thought this over, and decided I would try\nhard to get some brains. By good luck you came along and pulled me off\nthe stake, and from what you say I am sure the Great Oz will give me\nbrains as soon as we get to the Emerald City. \n\n I hope so,  said Dorothy earnestly,  since you seem anxious to have\nthem. \n\n Oh, yes; I am anxious,  returned the Scarecrow.  It is such an\nuncomfortable feeling to know one is a fool. \n\n Well,  said the girl,  let us go.  And she handed the basket to the\nScarecrow.\n\nThere were no fences at all by the roadside now, and the land was rough\nand untilled. Toward evening they came to a great forest, where the\ntrees grew so big and close together that their branches met over the\nroad of yellow brick. It was almost dark under the trees, for the\nbranches shut out the daylight; but the travelers did not stop, and\nwent on into the forest.\n\n If this road goes in, it must come out,  said the Scarecrow,  and as\nthe Emerald City is at the other end of the road, we must go wherever\nit leads us. \n\n Anyone would know that,  said Dorothy.\n\n Certainly; that is why I know it,  returned the Scarecrow.  If it\nrequired brains to figure it out, I never should have said it. \n\nAfter an hour or so the light faded away, and they found themselves\nstumbling along in the darkness. Dorothy could not see at all, but Toto\ncould, for some dogs see very well in the dark; and the Scarecrow\ndeclared he could see as well as by day. So she took hold of his arm\nand managed to get along fairly well.\n\n If you see any house, or any place where we can pass the night,  she\nsaid,  you must tell me; for it is very uncomfortable walking in the\ndark. \n\nSoon after the Scarecrow stopped.\n\n I see a little cottage at the right of us,  he said,  built of logs\nand branches. Shall we go there? \n\n Yes, indeed,  answered the child.  I am all tired out. \n\nSo the Scarecrow led her through the trees until they reached the\ncottage, and Dorothy entered and found a bed of dried leaves in one\ncorner. She lay down at once, and with Toto beside her soon fell into a\nsound sleep. The Scarecrow, who was never tired, stood up in another\ncorner and waited patiently until morning came.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V\nThe Rescue of the Tin Woodman\n\n\nWhen Dorothy awoke the sun was shining through the trees and Toto had\nlong been out chasing birds around him and squirrels. She sat up and\nlooked around her. There was the Scarecrow, still standing patiently in\nhis corner, waiting for her.\n\n We must go and search for water,  she said to him.\n\n Why do you want water?  he asked.\n\n To wash my face clean after the dust of the road, and to drink, so the\ndry bread will not stick in my throat. \n\n It must be inconvenient to be made of flesh,  said the Scarecrow\nthoughtfully,  for you must sleep, and eat and drink. However, you have\nbrains, and it is worth a lot of bother to be able to think properly. \n\nThey left the cottage and walked through the trees until they found a\nlittle spring of clear water, where Dorothy drank and bathed and ate\nher breakfast. She saw there was not much bread left in the basket, and\nthe girl was thankful the Scarecrow did not have to eat anything, for\nthere was scarcely enough for herself and Toto for the day.\n\nWhen she had finished her meal, and was about to go back to the road of\nyellow brick, she was startled to hear a deep groan near by.\n\n What was that?  she asked timidly.\n\n I cannot imagine,  replied the Scarecrow;  but we can go and see. \n\nJust then another groan reached their ears, and the sound seemed to\ncome from behind them. They turned and walked through the forest a few\nsteps, when Dorothy discovered something shining in a ray of sunshine\nthat fell between the trees. She ran to the place and then stopped\nshort, with a little cry of surprise.\n\nOne of the big trees had been partly chopped through, and standing\nbeside it, with an uplifted axe in his hands, was a man made entirely\nof tin. His head and arms and legs were jointed upon his body, but he\nstood perfectly motionless, as if he could not stir at all.\n\nDorothy looked at him in amazement, and so did the Scarecrow, while\nToto barked sharply and made a snap at the tin legs, which hurt his\nteeth.\n\n Did you groan?  asked Dorothy.\n\n Yes,  answered the tin man,  I did. I ve been groaning for more than a\nyear, and no one has ever heard me before or come to help me. \n\n What can I do for you?  she inquired softly, for she was moved by the\nsad voice in which the man spoke.\n\n Get an oil-can and oil my joints,  he answered.  They are rusted so\nbadly that I cannot move them at all; if I am well oiled I shall soon\nbe all right again. You will find an oil-can on a shelf in my cottage. \n\nDorothy at once ran back to the cottage and found the oil-can, and then\nshe returned and asked anxiously,  Where are your joints? \n\n Oil my neck, first,  replied the Tin Woodman. So she oiled it, and as\nit was quite badly rusted the Scarecrow took hold of the tin head and\nmoved it gently from side to side until it worked freely, and then the\nman could turn it himself.\n\n Now oil the joints in my arms,  he said. And Dorothy oiled them and\nthe Scarecrow bent them carefully until they were quite free from rust\nand as good as new.\n\nThe Tin Woodman gave a sigh of satisfaction and lowered his axe, which\nhe leaned against the tree.\n\n This is a great comfort,  he said.  I have been holding that axe in\nthe air ever since I rusted, and I m glad to be able to put it down at\nlast. Now, if you will oil the joints of my legs, I shall be all right\nonce more. \n\nSo they oiled his legs until he could move them freely; and he thanked\nthem again and again for his release, for he seemed a very polite\ncreature, and very grateful.\n\n I might have stood there always if you had not come along,  he said;\n so you have certainly saved my life. How did you happen to be here? \n\n We are on our way to the Emerald City to see the Great Oz,  she\nanswered,  and we stopped at your cottage to pass the night. \n\n Why do you wish to see Oz?  he asked.\n\n I want him to send me back to Kansas, and the Scarecrow wants him to\nput a few brains into his head,  she replied.\n\nThe Tin Woodman appeared to think deeply for a moment. Then he said:\n\n Do you suppose Oz could give me a heart? \n\n Why, I guess so,  Dorothy answered.  It would be as easy as to give\nthe Scarecrow brains. \n\n True,  the Tin Woodman returned.  So, if you will allow me to join\nyour party, I will also go to the Emerald City and ask Oz to help me. \n\n Come along,  said the Scarecrow heartily, and Dorothy added that she\nwould be pleased to have his company. So the Tin Woodman shouldered his\naxe and they all passed through the forest until they came to the road\nthat was paved with yellow brick.\n\nThe Tin Woodman had asked Dorothy to put the oil-can in her basket.\n For,  he said,  if I should get caught in the rain, and rust again, I\nwould need the oil-can badly. \n\nIt was a bit of good luck to have their new comrade join the party, for\nsoon after they had begun their journey again they came to a place\nwhere the trees and branches grew so thick over the road that the\ntravelers could not pass. But the Tin Woodman set to work with his axe\nand chopped so well that soon he cleared a passage for the entire\nparty.\n\nDorothy was thinking so earnestly as they walked along that she did not\nnotice when the Scarecrow stumbled into a hole and rolled over to the\nside of the road. Indeed he was obliged to call to her to help him up\nagain.\n\n Why didn t you walk around the hole?  asked the Tin Woodman.\n\n I don t know enough,  replied the Scarecrow cheerfully.  My head is\nstuffed with straw, you know, and that is why I am going to Oz to ask\nhim for some brains. \n\n Oh, I see,  said the Tin Woodman.  But, after all, brains are not the\nbest things in the world. \n\n Have you any?  inquired the Scarecrow.\n\n No, my head is quite empty,  answered the Woodman.  But once I had\nbrains, and a heart also; so, having tried them both, I should much\nrather have a heart. \n\n And why is that?  asked the Scarecrow.\n\n I will tell you my story, and then you will know. \n\nSo, while they were walking through the forest, the Tin Woodman told\nthe following story:\n\n I was born the son of a woodman who chopped down trees in the forest\nand sold the wood for a living. When I grew up, I too became a\nwoodchopper, and after my father died I took care of my old mother as\nlong as she lived. Then I made up my mind that instead of living alone\nI would marry, so that I might not become lonely.\n\n There was one of the Munchkin girls who was so beautiful that I soon\ngrew to love her with all my heart. She, on her part, promised to marry\nme as soon as I could earn enough money to build a better house for\nher; so I set to work harder than ever. But the girl lived with an old\nwoman who did not want her to marry anyone, for she was so lazy she\nwished the girl to remain with her and do the cooking and the\nhousework. So the old woman went to the Wicked Witch of the East, and\npromised her two sheep and a cow if she would prevent the marriage.\nThereupon the Wicked Witch enchanted my axe, and when I was chopping\naway at my best one day, for I was anxious to get the new house and my\nwife as soon as possible, the axe slipped all at once and cut off my\nleft leg.\n\n This at first seemed a great misfortune, for I knew a one-legged man\ncould not do very well as a wood-chopper. So I went to a tinsmith and\nhad him make me a new leg out of tin. The leg worked very well, once I\nwas used to it. But my action angered the Wicked Witch of the East, for\nshe had promised the old woman I should not marry the pretty Munchkin\ngirl. When I began chopping again, my axe slipped and cut off my right\nleg. Again I went to the tinsmith, and again he made me a leg out of\ntin. After this the enchanted axe cut off my arms, one after the other;\nbut, nothing daunted, I had them replaced with tin ones. The Wicked\nWitch then made the axe slip and cut off my head, and at first I\nthought that was the end of me. But the tinsmith happened to come\nalong, and he made me a new head out of tin.\n\n I thought I had beaten the Wicked Witch then, and I worked harder than\never; but I little knew how cruel my enemy could be. She thought of a\nnew way to kill my love for the beautiful Munchkin maiden, and made my\naxe slip again, so that it cut right through my body, splitting me into\ntwo halves. Once more the tinsmith came to my help and made me a body\nof tin, fastening my tin arms and legs and head to it, by means of\njoints, so that I could move around as well as ever. But, alas! I had\nnow no heart, so that I lost all my love for the Munchkin girl, and did\nnot care whether I married her or not. I suppose she is still living\nwith the old woman, waiting for me to come after her.\n\n My body shone so brightly in the sun that I felt very proud of it and\nit did not matter now if my axe slipped, for it could not cut me. There\nwas only one danger that my joints would rust; but I kept an oil-can in\nmy cottage and took care to oil myself whenever I needed it. However,\nthere came a day when I forgot to do this, and, being caught in a\nrainstorm, before I thought of the danger my joints had rusted, and I\nwas left to stand in the woods until you came to help me. It was a\nterrible thing to undergo, but during the year I stood there I had time\nto think that the greatest loss I had known was the loss of my heart.\nWhile I was in love I was the happiest man on earth; but no one can\nlove who has not a heart, and so I am resolved to ask Oz to give me\none. If he does, I will go back to the Munchkin maiden and marry her. \n\nBoth Dorothy and the Scarecrow had been greatly interested in the story\nof the Tin Woodman, and now they knew why he was so anxious to get a\nnew heart.\n\n All the same,  said the Scarecrow,  I shall ask for brains instead of\na heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had\none. \n\n I shall take the heart,  returned the Tin Woodman;  for brains do not\nmake one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world. \n\nDorothy did not say anything, for she was puzzled to know which of her\ntwo friends was right, and she decided if she could only get back to\nKansas and Aunt Em, it did not matter so much whether the Woodman had\nno brains and the Scarecrow no heart, or each got what he wanted.\n\nWhat worried her most was that the bread was nearly gone, and another\nmeal for herself and Toto would empty the basket. To be sure, neither\nthe Woodman nor the Scarecrow ever ate anything, but she was not made\nof tin nor straw, and could not live unless she was fed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI\nThe Cowardly Lion\n\n\nAll this time Dorothy and her companions had been walking through the\nthick woods. The road was still paved with yellow brick, but these were\nmuch covered by dried branches and dead leaves from the trees, and the\nwalking was not at all good.\n\nThere were few birds in this part of the forest, for birds love the\nopen country where there is plenty of sunshine. But now and then there\ncame a deep growl from some wild animal hidden among the trees. These\nsounds made the little girl s heart beat fast, for she did not know\nwhat made them; but Toto knew, and he walked close to Dorothy s side,\nand did not even bark in return.\n\n How long will it be,  the child asked of the Tin Woodman,  before we\nare out of the forest? \n\n I cannot tell,  was the answer,  for I have never been to the Emerald\nCity. But my father went there once, when I was a boy, and he said it\nwas a long journey through a dangerous country, although nearer to the\ncity where Oz dwells the country is beautiful. But I am not afraid so\nlong as I have my oil-can, and nothing can hurt the Scarecrow, while\nyou bear upon your forehead the mark of the Good Witch s kiss, and that\nwill protect you from harm. \n\n But Toto!  said the girl anxiously.  What will protect him? \n\n We must protect him ourselves if he is in danger,  replied the Tin\nWoodman.\n\nJust as he spoke there came from the forest a terrible roar, and the\nnext moment a great Lion bounded into the road. With one blow of his\npaw he sent the Scarecrow spinning over and over to the edge of the\nroad, and then he struck at the Tin Woodman with his sharp claws. But,\nto the Lion s surprise, he could make no impression on the tin,\nalthough the Woodman fell over in the road and lay still.\n\nLittle Toto, now that he had an enemy to face, ran barking toward the\nLion, and the great beast had opened his mouth to bite the dog, when\nDorothy, fearing Toto would be killed, and heedless of danger, rushed\nforward and slapped the Lion upon his nose as hard as she could, while\nshe cried out:\n\n Don t you dare to bite Toto! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a\nbig beast like you, to bite a poor little dog! \n\n I didn t bite him,  said the Lion, as he rubbed his nose with his paw\nwhere Dorothy had hit it.\n\n No, but you tried to,  she retorted.  You are nothing but a big\ncoward. \n\n I know it,  said the Lion, hanging his head in shame.  I ve always\nknown it. But how can I help it? \n\n I don t know, I m sure. To think of your striking a stuffed man, like\nthe poor Scarecrow! \n\n Is he stuffed?  asked the Lion in surprise, as he watched her pick up\nthe Scarecrow and set him upon his feet, while she patted him into\nshape again.\n\n Of course he s stuffed,  replied Dorothy, who was still angry.\n\n That s why he went over so easily,  remarked the Lion.  It astonished\nme to see him whirl around so. Is the other one stuffed also? \n\n No,  said Dorothy,  he s made of tin.  And she helped the Woodman up\nagain.\n\n That s why he nearly blunted my claws,  said the Lion.  When they\nscratched against the tin it made a cold shiver run down my back. What\nis that little animal you are so tender of? \n\n He is my dog, Toto,  answered Dorothy.\n\n Is he made of tin, or stuffed?  asked the Lion.\n\n Neither. He s a a a meat dog,  said the girl.\n\n Oh! He s a curious animal and seems remarkably small, now that I look\nat him. No one would think of biting such a little thing, except a\ncoward like me,  continued the Lion sadly.\n\n What makes you a coward?  asked Dorothy, looking at the great beast in\nwonder, for he was as big as a small horse.\n\n It s a mystery,  replied the Lion.  I suppose I was born that way. All\nthe other animals in the forest naturally expect me to be brave, for\nthe Lion is everywhere thought to be the King of Beasts. I learned that\nif I roared very loudly every living thing was frightened and got out\nof my way. Whenever I ve met a man I ve been awfully scared; but I just\nroared at him, and he has always run away as fast as he could go. If\nthe elephants and the tigers and the bears had ever tried to fight me,\nI should have run myself I m such a coward; but just as soon as they\nhear me roar they all try to get away from me, and of course I let them\ngo. \n\n But that isn t right. The King of Beasts shouldn t be a coward,  said\nthe Scarecrow.\n\n I know it,  returned the Lion, wiping a tear from his eye with the tip\nof his tail.  It is my great sorrow, and makes my life very unhappy.\nBut whenever there is danger, my heart begins to beat fast. \n\n Perhaps you have heart disease,  said the Tin Woodman.\n\n It may be,  said the Lion.\n\n If you have,  continued the Tin Woodman,  you ought to be glad, for it\nproves you have a heart. For my part, I have no heart; so I cannot have\nheart disease. \n\n Perhaps,  said the Lion thoughtfully,  if I had no heart I should not\nbe a coward. \n\n Have you brains?  asked the Scarecrow.\n\n I suppose so. I ve never looked to see,  replied the Lion.\n\n I am going to the Great Oz to ask him to give me some,  remarked the\nScarecrow,  for my head is stuffed with straw. \n\n And I am going to ask him to give me a heart,  said the Woodman.\n\n And I am going to ask him to send Toto and me back to Kansas,  added\nDorothy.\n\n Do you think Oz could give me courage?  asked the Cowardly Lion.\n\n Just as easily as he could give me brains,  said the Scarecrow.\n\n Or give me a heart,  said the Tin Woodman.\n\n Or send me back to Kansas,  said Dorothy.\n\n Then, if you don t mind, I ll go with you,  said the Lion,  for my\nlife is simply unbearable without a bit of courage. \n\n You will be very welcome,  answered Dorothy,  for you will help to\nkeep away the other wild beasts. It seems to me they must be more\ncowardly than you are if they allow you to scare them so easily. \n\n They really are,  said the Lion,  but that doesn t make me any braver,\nand as long as I know myself to be a coward I shall be unhappy. \n\nSo once more the little company set off upon the journey, the Lion\nwalking with stately strides at Dorothy s side. Toto did not approve of\nthis new comrade at first, for he could not forget how nearly he had\nbeen crushed between the Lion s great jaws. But after a time he became\nmore at ease, and presently Toto and the Cowardly Lion had grown to be\ngood friends.\n\nDuring the rest of that day there was no other adventure to mar the\npeace of their journey. Once, indeed, the Tin Woodman stepped upon a\nbeetle that was crawling along the road, and killed the poor little\nthing. This made the Tin Woodman very unhappy, for he was always\ncareful not to hurt any living creature; and as he walked along he wept\nseveral tears of sorrow and regret. These tears ran slowly down his\nface and over the hinges of his jaw, and there they rusted. When\nDorothy presently asked him a question the Tin Woodman could not open\nhis mouth, for his jaws were tightly rusted together. He became greatly\nfrightened at this and made many motions to Dorothy to relieve him, but\nshe could not understand. The Lion was also puzzled to know what was\nwrong. But the Scarecrow seized the oil-can from Dorothy s basket and\noiled the Woodman s jaws, so that after a few moments he could talk as\nwell as before.\n\n This will serve me a lesson,  said he,  to look where I step. For if I\nshould kill another bug or beetle I should surely cry again, and crying\nrusts my jaws so that I cannot speak. \n\nThereafter he walked very carefully, with his eyes on the road, and\nwhen he saw a tiny ant toiling by he would step over it, so as not to\nharm it. The Tin Woodman knew very well he had no heart, and therefore\nhe took great care never to be cruel or unkind to anything.\n\n You people with hearts,  he said,  have something to guide you, and\nneed never do wrong; but I have no heart, and so I must be very\ncareful. When Oz gives me a heart of course I needn t mind so much. \n\n\n\n\nChapter VII\nThe Journey to the Great Oz\n\n\nThey were obliged to camp out that night under a large tree in the\nforest, for there were no houses near. The tree made a good, thick\ncovering to protect them from the dew, and the Tin Woodman chopped a\ngreat pile of wood with his axe and Dorothy built a splendid fire that\nwarmed her and made her feel less lonely. She and Toto ate the last of\ntheir bread, and now she did not know what they would do for breakfast.\n\n If you wish,  said the Lion,  I will go into the forest and kill a\ndeer for you. You can roast it by the fire, since your tastes are so\npeculiar that you prefer cooked food, and then you will have a very\ngood breakfast. \n\n Don t! Please don t,  begged the Tin Woodman.  I should certainly weep\nif you killed a poor deer, and then my jaws would rust again. \n\nBut the Lion went away into the forest and found his own supper, and no\none ever knew what it was, for he didn t mention it. And the Scarecrow\nfound a tree full of nuts and filled Dorothy s basket with them, so\nthat she would not be hungry for a long time. She thought this was very\nkind and thoughtful of the Scarecrow, but she laughed heartily at the\nawkward way in which the poor creature picked up the nuts. His padded\nhands were so clumsy and the nuts were so small that he dropped almost\nas many as he put in the basket. But the Scarecrow did not mind how\nlong it took him to fill the basket, for it enabled him to keep away\nfrom the fire, as he feared a spark might get into his straw and burn\nhim up. So he kept a good distance away from the flames, and only came\nnear to cover Dorothy with dry leaves when she lay down to sleep. These\nkept her very snug and warm, and she slept soundly until morning.\n\nWhen it was daylight, the girl bathed her face in a little rippling\nbrook, and soon after they all started toward the Emerald City.\n\nThis was to be an eventful day for the travelers. They had hardly been\nwalking an hour when they saw before them a great ditch that crossed\nthe road and divided the forest as far as they could see on either\nside. It was a very wide ditch, and when they crept up to the edge and\nlooked into it they could see it was also very deep, and there were\nmany big, jagged rocks at the bottom. The sides were so steep that none\nof them could climb down, and for a moment it seemed that their journey\nmust end.\n\n What shall we do?  asked Dorothy despairingly.\n\n I haven t the faintest idea,  said the Tin Woodman, and the Lion shook\nhis shaggy mane and looked thoughtful.\n\nBut the Scarecrow said,  We cannot fly, that is certain. Neither can we\nclimb down into this great ditch. Therefore, if we cannot jump over it,\nwe must stop where we are. \n\n I think I could jump over it,  said the Cowardly Lion, after measuring\nthe distance carefully in his mind.\n\n Then we are all right,  answered the Scarecrow,  for you can carry us\nall over on your back, one at a time. \n\n Well, I ll try it,  said the Lion.  Who will go first? \n\n I will,  declared the Scarecrow,  for, if you found that you could not\njump over the gulf, Dorothy would be killed, or the Tin Woodman badly\ndented on the rocks below. But if I am on your back it will not matter\nso much, for the fall would not hurt me at all. \n\n I am terribly afraid of falling, myself,  said the Cowardly Lion,  but\nI suppose there is nothing to do but try it. So get on my back and we\nwill make the attempt. \n\nThe Scarecrow sat upon the Lion s back, and the big beast walked to the\nedge of the gulf and crouched down.\n\n Why don t you run and jump?  asked the Scarecrow.\n\n Because that isn t the way we Lions do these things,  he replied. Then\ngiving a great spring, he shot through the air and landed safely on the\nother side. They were all greatly pleased to see how easily he did it,\nand after the Scarecrow had got down from his back the Lion sprang\nacross the ditch again.\n\nDorothy thought she would go next; so she took Toto in her arms and\nclimbed on the Lion s back, holding tightly to his mane with one hand.\nThe next moment it seemed as if she were flying through the air; and\nthen, before she had time to think about it, she was safe on the other\nside. The Lion went back a third time and got the Tin Woodman, and then\nthey all sat down for a few moments to give the beast a chance to rest,\nfor his great leaps had made his breath short, and he panted like a big\ndog that has been running too long.\n\nThey found the forest very thick on this side, and it looked dark and\ngloomy. After the Lion had rested they started along the road of yellow\nbrick, silently wondering, each in his own mind, if ever they would\ncome to the end of the woods and reach the bright sunshine again. To\nadd to their discomfort, they soon heard strange noises in the depths\nof the forest, and the Lion whispered to them that it was in this part\nof the country that the Kalidahs lived.\n\n What are the Kalidahs?  asked the girl.\n\n They are monstrous beasts with bodies like bears and heads like\ntigers,  replied the Lion,  and with claws so long and sharp that they\ncould tear me in two as easily as I could kill Toto. I m terribly\nafraid of the Kalidahs. \n\n I m not surprised that you are,  returned Dorothy.  They must be\ndreadful beasts. \n\nThe Lion was about to reply when suddenly they came to another gulf\nacross the road. But this one was so broad and deep that the Lion knew\nat once he could not leap across it.\n\nSo they sat down to consider what they should do, and after serious\nthought the Scarecrow said:\n\n Here is a great tree, standing close to the ditch. If the Tin Woodman\ncan chop it down, so that it will fall to the other side, we can walk\nacross it easily. \n\n That is a first-rate idea,  said the Lion.  One would almost suspect\nyou had brains in your head, instead of straw. \n\nThe Woodman set to work at once, and so sharp was his axe that the tree\nwas soon chopped nearly through. Then the Lion put his strong front\nlegs against the tree and pushed with all his might, and slowly the big\ntree tipped and fell with a crash across the ditch, with its top\nbranches on the other side.\n\nThey had just started to cross this queer bridge when a sharp growl\nmade them all look up, and to their horror they saw running toward them\ntwo great beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers.\n\n They are the Kalidahs!  said the Cowardly Lion, beginning to tremble.\n\n Quick!  cried the Scarecrow.  Let us cross over. \n\nSo Dorothy went first, holding Toto in her arms, the Tin Woodman\nfollowed, and the Scarecrow came next. The Lion, although he was\ncertainly afraid, turned to face the Kalidahs, and then he gave so loud\nand terrible a roar that Dorothy screamed and the Scarecrow fell over\nbackward, while even the fierce beasts stopped short and looked at him\nin surprise.\n\nBut, seeing they were bigger than the Lion, and remembering that there\nwere two of them and only one of him, the Kalidahs again rushed\nforward, and the Lion crossed over the tree and turned to see what they\nwould do next. Without stopping an instant the fierce beasts also began\nto cross the tree. And the Lion said to Dorothy:\n\n We are lost, for they will surely tear us to pieces with their sharp\nclaws. But stand close behind me, and I will fight them as long as I am\nalive. \n\n Wait a minute!  called the Scarecrow. He had been thinking what was\nbest to be done, and now he asked the Woodman to chop away the end of\nthe tree that rested on their side of the ditch. The Tin Woodman began\nto use his axe at once, and, just as the two Kalidahs were nearly\nacross, the tree fell with a crash into the gulf, carrying the ugly,\nsnarling brutes with it, and both were dashed to pieces on the sharp\nrocks at the bottom.\n\n Well,  said the Cowardly Lion, drawing a long breath of relief,  I see\nwe are going to live a little while longer, and I am glad of it, for it\nmust be a very uncomfortable thing not to be alive. Those creatures\nfrightened me so badly that my heart is beating yet. \n\n Ah,  said the Tin Woodman sadly,  I wish I had a heart to beat. \n\nThis adventure made the travelers more anxious than ever to get out of\nthe forest, and they walked so fast that Dorothy became tired, and had\nto ride on the Lion s back. To their great joy the trees became thinner\nthe farther they advanced, and in the afternoon they suddenly came upon\na broad river, flowing swiftly just before them. On the other side of\nthe water they could see the road of yellow brick running through a\nbeautiful country, with green meadows dotted with bright flowers and\nall the road bordered with trees hanging full of delicious fruits. They\nwere greatly pleased to see this delightful country before them.\n\n How shall we cross the river?  asked Dorothy.\n\n That is easily done,  replied the Scarecrow.  The Tin Woodman must\nbuild us a raft, so we can float to the other side. \n\nSo the Woodman took his axe and began to chop down small trees to make\na raft, and while he was busy at this the Scarecrow found on the\nriverbank a tree full of fine fruit. This pleased Dorothy, who had\neaten nothing but nuts all day, and she made a hearty meal of the ripe\nfruit.\n\nBut it takes time to make a raft, even when one is as industrious and\nuntiring as the Tin Woodman, and when night came the work was not done.\nSo they found a cozy place under the trees where they slept well until\nthe morning; and Dorothy dreamed of the Emerald City, and of the good\nWizard Oz, who would soon send her back to her own home again.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII\nThe Deadly Poppy Field\n\n\nOur little party of travelers awakened the next morning refreshed and\nfull of hope, and Dorothy breakfasted like a princess off peaches and\nplums from the trees beside the river. Behind them was the dark forest\nthey had passed safely through, although they had suffered many\ndiscouragements; but before them was a lovely, sunny country that\nseemed to beckon them on to the Emerald City.\n\nTo be sure, the broad river now cut them off from this beautiful land.\nBut the raft was nearly done, and after the Tin Woodman had cut a few\nmore logs and fastened them together with wooden pins, they were ready\nto start. Dorothy sat down in the middle of the raft and held Toto in\nher arms. When the Cowardly Lion stepped upon the raft it tipped badly,\nfor he was big and heavy; but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood\nupon the other end to steady it, and they had long poles in their hands\nto push the raft through the water.\n\nThey got along quite well at first, but when they reached the middle of\nthe river the swift current swept the raft downstream, farther and\nfarther away from the road of yellow brick. And the water grew so deep\nthat the long poles would not touch the bottom.\n\n This is bad,  said the Tin Woodman,  for if we cannot get to the land\nwe shall be carried into the country of the Wicked Witch of the West,\nand she will enchant us and make us her slaves. \n\n And then I should get no brains,  said the Scarecrow.\n\n And I should get no courage,  said the Cowardly Lion.\n\n And I should get no heart,  said the Tin Woodman.\n\n And I should never get back to Kansas,  said Dorothy.\n\n We must certainly get to the Emerald City if we can,  the Scarecrow\ncontinued, and he pushed so hard on his long pole that it stuck fast in\nthe mud at the bottom of the river. Then, before he could pull it out\nagain or let go the raft was swept away, and the poor Scarecrow was\nleft clinging to the pole in the middle of the river.\n\n Good-bye!  he called after them, and they were very sorry to leave\nhim. Indeed, the Tin Woodman began to cry, but fortunately remembered\nthat he might rust, and so dried his tears on Dorothy s apron.\n\nOf course this was a bad thing for the Scarecrow.\n\n I am now worse off than when I first met Dorothy,  he thought.  Then,\nI was stuck on a pole in a cornfield, where I could make-believe scare\nthe crows, at any rate. But surely there is no use for a Scarecrow\nstuck on a pole in the middle of a river. I am afraid I shall never\nhave any brains, after all! \n\nDown the stream the raft floated, and the poor Scarecrow was left far\nbehind. Then the Lion said:\n\n Something must be done to save us. I think I can swim to the shore and\npull the raft after me, if you will only hold fast to the tip of my\ntail. \n\nSo he sprang into the water, and the Tin Woodman caught fast hold of\nhis tail. Then the Lion began to swim with all his might toward the\nshore. It was hard work, although he was so big; but by and by they\nwere drawn out of the current, and then Dorothy took the Tin Woodman s\nlong pole and helped push the raft to the land.\n\nThey were all tired out when they reached the shore at last and stepped\noff upon the pretty green grass, and they also knew that the stream had\ncarried them a long way past the road of yellow brick that led to the\nEmerald City.\n\n What shall we do now?  asked the Tin Woodman, as the Lion lay down on\nthe grass to let the sun dry him.\n\n We must get back to the road, in some way,  said Dorothy.\n\n The best plan will be to walk along the riverbank until we come to the\nroad again,  remarked the Lion.\n\nSo, when they were rested, Dorothy picked up her basket and they\nstarted along the grassy bank, to the road from which the river had\ncarried them. It was a lovely country, with plenty of flowers and fruit\ntrees and sunshine to cheer them, and had they not felt so sorry for\nthe poor Scarecrow, they could have been very happy.\n\nThey walked along as fast as they could, Dorothy only stopping once to\npick a beautiful flower; and after a time the Tin Woodman cried out:\n Look! \n\nThen they all looked at the river and saw the Scarecrow perched upon\nhis pole in the middle of the water, looking very lonely and sad.\n\n What can we do to save him?  asked Dorothy.\n\nThe Lion and the Woodman both shook their heads, for they did not know.\nSo they sat down upon the bank and gazed wistfully at the Scarecrow\nuntil a Stork flew by, who, upon seeing them, stopped to rest at the\nwater s edge.\n\n Who are you and where are you going?  asked the Stork.\n\n I am Dorothy,  answered the girl,  and these are my friends, the Tin\nWoodman and the Cowardly Lion; and we are going to the Emerald City. \n\n This isn t the road,  said the Stork, as she twisted her long neck and\nlooked sharply at the queer party.\n\n I know it,  returned Dorothy,  but we have lost the Scarecrow, and are\nwondering how we shall get him again. \n\n Where is he?  asked the Stork.\n\n Over there in the river,  answered the little girl.\n\n If he wasn t so big and heavy I would get him for you,  remarked the\nStork.\n\n He isn t heavy a bit,  said Dorothy eagerly,  for he is stuffed with\nstraw; and if you will bring him back to us, we shall thank you ever\nand ever so much. \n\n Well, I ll try,  said the Stork,  but if I find he is too heavy to\ncarry I shall have to drop him in the river again. \n\nSo the big bird flew into the air and over the water till she came to\nwhere the Scarecrow was perched upon his pole. Then the Stork with her\ngreat claws grabbed the Scarecrow by the arm and carried him up into\nthe air and back to the bank, where Dorothy and the Lion and the Tin\nWoodman and Toto were sitting.\n\nWhen the Scarecrow found himself among his friends again, he was so\nhappy that he hugged them all, even the Lion and Toto; and as they\nwalked along he sang  Tol-de-ri-de-oh!  at every step, he felt so gay.\n\n I was afraid I should have to stay in the river forever,  he said,\n but the kind Stork saved me, and if I ever get any brains I shall find\nthe Stork again and do her some kindness in return. \n\n That s all right,  said the Stork, who was flying along beside them.\n I always like to help anyone in trouble. But I must go now, for my\nbabies are waiting in the nest for me. I hope you will find the Emerald\nCity and that Oz will help you. \n\n Thank you,  replied Dorothy, and then the kind Stork flew into the air\nand was soon out of sight.\n\nThey walked along listening to the singing of the brightly colored\nbirds and looking at the lovely flowers which now became so thick that\nthe ground was carpeted with them. There were big yellow and white and\nblue and purple blossoms, besides great clusters of scarlet poppies,\nwhich were so brilliant in color they almost dazzled Dorothy s eyes.\n\n Aren t they beautiful?  the girl asked, as she breathed in the spicy\nscent of the bright flowers.\n\n I suppose so,  answered the Scarecrow.  When I have brains, I shall\nprobably like them better. \n\n If I only had a heart, I should love them,  added the Tin Woodman.\n\n I always did like flowers,  said the Lion.  They seem so helpless and\nfrail. But there are none in the forest so bright as these. \n\nThey now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer\nand fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the\nmidst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is well known that when\nthere are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that\nanyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried\naway from the scent of the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever. But\nDorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red\nflowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy\nand she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.\n\nBut the Tin Woodman would not let her do this.\n\n We must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark, \nhe said; and the Scarecrow agreed with him. So they kept walking until\nDorothy could stand no longer. Her eyes closed in spite of herself and\nshe forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep.\n\n What shall we do?  asked the Tin Woodman.\n\n If we leave her here she will die,  said the Lion.  The smell of the\nflowers is killing us all. I myself can scarcely keep my eyes open, and\nthe dog is asleep already. \n\nIt was true; Toto had fallen down beside his little mistress. But the\nScarecrow and the Tin Woodman, not being made of flesh, were not\ntroubled by the scent of the flowers.\n\n Run fast,  said the Scarecrow to the Lion,  and get out of this deadly\nflower bed as soon as you can. We will bring the little girl with us,\nbut if you should fall asleep you are too big to be carried. \n\nSo the Lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he could go.\nIn a moment he was out of sight.\n\n Let us make a chair with our hands and carry her,  said the Scarecrow.\nSo they picked up Toto and put the dog in Dorothy s lap, and then they\nmade a chair with their hands for the seat and their arms for the arms\nand carried the sleeping girl between them through the flowers.\n\nOn and on they walked, and it seemed that the great carpet of deadly\nflowers that surrounded them would never end. They followed the bend of\nthe river, and at last came upon their friend the Lion, lying fast\nasleep among the poppies. The flowers had been too strong for the huge\nbeast and he had given up at last, and fallen only a short distance\nfrom the end of the poppy bed, where the sweet grass spread in\nbeautiful green fields before them.\n\n We can do nothing for him,  said the Tin Woodman, sadly;  for he is\nmuch too heavy to lift. We must leave him here to sleep on forever, and\nperhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last. \n\n I m sorry,  said the Scarecrow.  The Lion was a very good comrade for\none so cowardly. But let us go on. \n\nThey carried the sleeping girl to a pretty spot beside the river, far\nenough from the poppy field to prevent her breathing any more of the\npoison of the flowers, and here they laid her gently on the soft grass\nand waited for the fresh breeze to waken her.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX\nThe Queen of the Field Mice\n\n\n We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now,  remarked the\nScarecrow, as he stood beside the girl,  for we have come nearly as far\nas the river carried us away. \n\nThe Tin Woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl, and\nturning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a strange\nbeast come bounding over the grass toward them. It was, indeed, a great\nyellow Wildcat, and the Woodman thought it must be chasing something,\nfor its ears were lying close to its head and its mouth was wide open,\nshowing two rows of ugly teeth, while its red eyes glowed like balls of\nfire. As it came nearer the Tin Woodman saw that running before the\nbeast was a little gray field mouse, and although he had no heart he\nknew it was wrong for the Wildcat to try to kill such a pretty,\nharmless creature.\n\nSo the Woodman raised his axe, and as the Wildcat ran by he gave it a\nquick blow that cut the beast s head clean off from its body, and it\nrolled over at his feet in two pieces.\n\nThe field mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short;\nand coming slowly up to the Woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice:\n\n Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for saving my life. \n\n Don t speak of it, I beg of you,  replied the Woodman.  I have no\nheart, you know, so I am careful to help all those who may need a\nfriend, even if it happens to be only a mouse. \n\n Only a mouse!  cried the little animal, indignantly.  Why, I am a\nQueen the Queen of all the Field Mice! \n\n Oh, indeed,  said the Woodman, making a bow.\n\n Therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one, in\nsaving my life,  added the Queen.\n\nAt that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as their\nlittle legs could carry them, and when they saw their Queen they\nexclaimed:\n\n Oh, your Majesty, we thought you would be killed! How did you manage\nto escape the great Wildcat?  They all bowed so low to the little Queen\nthat they almost stood upon their heads.\n\n This funny tin man,  she answered,  killed the Wildcat and saved my\nlife. So hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his slightest\nwish. \n\n We will!  cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus. And then they\nscampered in all directions, for Toto had awakened from his sleep, and\nseeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and jumped\nright into the middle of the group. Toto had always loved to chase mice\nwhen he lived in Kansas, and he saw no harm in it.\n\nBut the Tin Woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight,\nwhile he called to the mice,  Come back! Come back! Toto shall not hurt\nyou. \n\nAt this the Queen of the Mice stuck her head out from underneath a\nclump of grass and asked, in a timid voice,  Are you sure he will not\nbite us? \n\n I will not let him,  said the Woodman;  so do not be afraid. \n\nOne by one the mice came creeping back, and Toto did not bark again,\nalthough he tried to get out of the Woodman s arms, and would have\nbitten him had he not known very well he was made of tin. Finally one\nof the biggest mice spoke.\n\n Is there anything we can do,  it asked,  to repay you for saving the\nlife of our Queen? \n\n Nothing that I know of,  answered the Woodman; but the Scarecrow, who\nhad been trying to think, but could not because his head was stuffed\nwith straw, said, quickly,  Oh, yes; you can save our friend, the\nCowardly Lion, who is asleep in the poppy bed. \n\n A Lion!  cried the little Queen.  Why, he would eat us all up. \n\n Oh, no,  declared the Scarecrow;  this Lion is a coward. \n\n Really?  asked the Mouse.\n\n He says so himself,  answered the Scarecrow,  and he would never hurt\nanyone who is our friend. If you will help us to save him I promise\nthat he shall treat you all with kindness. \n\n Very well,  said the Queen,  we trust you. But what shall we do? \n\n Are there many of these mice which call you Queen and are willing to\nobey you? \n\n Oh, yes; there are thousands,  she replied.\n\n Then send for them all to come here as soon as possible, and let each\none bring a long piece of string. \n\nThe Queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them to go at\nonce and get all her people. As soon as they heard her orders they ran\naway in every direction as fast as possible.\n\n Now,  said the Scarecrow to the Tin Woodman,  you must go to those\ntrees by the riverside and make a truck that will carry the Lion. \n\nSo the Woodman went at once to the trees and began to work; and he soon\nmade a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he chopped away all\nthe leaves and branches. He fastened it together with wooden pegs and\nmade the four wheels out of short pieces of a big tree trunk. So fast\nand so well did he work that by the time the mice began to arrive the\ntruck was all ready for them.\n\nThey came from all directions, and there were thousands of them: big\nmice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each one brought a\npiece of string in his mouth. It was about this time that Dorothy woke\nfrom her long sleep and opened her eyes. She was greatly astonished to\nfind herself lying upon the grass, with thousands of mice standing\naround and looking at her timidly. But the Scarecrow told her about\neverything, and turning to the dignified little Mouse, he said:\n\n Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen. \n\nDorothy nodded gravely and the Queen made a curtsy, after which she\nbecame quite friendly with the little girl.\n\nThe Scarecrow and the Woodman now began to fasten the mice to the\ntruck, using the strings they had brought. One end of a string was tied\naround the neck of each mouse and the other end to the truck. Of course\nthe truck was a thousand times bigger than any of the mice who were to\ndraw it; but when all the mice had been harnessed, they were able to\npull it quite easily. Even the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman could sit\non it, and were drawn swiftly by their queer little horses to the place\nwhere the Lion lay asleep.\n\nAfter a great deal of hard work, for the Lion was heavy, they managed\nto get him up on the truck. Then the Queen hurriedly gave her people\nthe order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed among the poppies\ntoo long they also would fall asleep.\n\nAt first the little creatures, many though they were, could hardly stir\nthe heavily loaded truck; but the Woodman and the Scarecrow both pushed\nfrom behind, and they got along better. Soon they rolled the Lion out\nof the poppy bed to the green fields, where he could breathe the sweet,\nfresh air again, instead of the poisonous scent of the flowers.\n\nDorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly for saving\nher companion from death. She had grown so fond of the big Lion she was\nglad he had been rescued.\n\nThen the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered away\nthrough the grass to their homes. The Queen of the Mice was the last to\nleave.\n\n If ever you need us again,  she said,  come out into the field and\ncall, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance. Good-bye! \n\n Good-bye!  they all answered, and away the Queen ran, while Dorothy\nheld Toto tightly lest he should run after her and frighten her.\n\nAfter this they sat down beside the Lion until he should awaken; and\nthe Scarecrow brought Dorothy some fruit from a tree near by, which she\nate for her dinner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X\nThe Guardian of the Gate\n\n\nIt was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain\namong the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance;\nbut when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad\nto find himself still alive.\n\n I ran as fast as I could,  he said, sitting down and yawning,  but the\nflowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out? \n\nThen they told him of the field mice, and how they had generously saved\nhim from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said:\n\n I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such little\nthings as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as\nmice have saved my life. How strange it all is! But, comrades, what\nshall we do now? \n\n We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again,  said\nDorothy,  and then we can keep on to the Emerald City. \n\nSo, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again,\nthey all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through\nthe soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road\nof yellow brick and turned again toward the Emerald City where the\nGreat Oz dwelt.\n\nThe road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about was\nbeautiful, so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the forest far\nbehind, and with it the many dangers they had met in its gloomy shades.\nOnce more they could see fences built beside the road; but these were\npainted green, and when they came to a small house, in which a farmer\nevidently lived, that also was painted green. They passed by several of\nthese houses during the afternoon, and sometimes people came to the\ndoors and looked at them as if they would like to ask questions; but no\none came near them nor spoke to them because of the great Lion, of\nwhich they were very much afraid. The people were all dressed in\nclothing of a lovely emerald-green color and wore peaked hats like\nthose of the Munchkins.\n\n This must be the Land of Oz,  said Dorothy,  and we are surely getting\nnear the Emerald City. \n\n Yes,  answered the Scarecrow.  Everything is green here, while in the\ncountry of the Munchkins blue was the favorite color. But the people do\nnot seem to be as friendly as the Munchkins, and I m afraid we shall be\nunable to find a place to pass the night. \n\n I should like something to eat besides fruit,  said the girl,  and I m\nsure Toto is nearly starved. Let us stop at the next house and talk to\nthe people. \n\nSo, when they came to a good-sized farmhouse, Dorothy walked boldly up\nto the door and knocked.\n\nA woman opened it just far enough to look out, and said,  What do you\nwant, child, and why is that great Lion with you? \n\n We wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us,  answered\nDorothy;  and the Lion is my friend and comrade, and would not hurt you\nfor the world. \n\n Is he tame?  asked the woman, opening the door a little wider.\n\n Oh, yes,  said the girl,  and he is a great coward, too. He will be\nmore afraid of you than you are of him. \n\n Well,  said the woman, after thinking it over and taking another peep\nat the Lion,  if that is the case you may come in, and I will give you\nsome supper and a place to sleep. \n\nSo they all entered the house, where there were, besides the woman, two\nchildren and a man. The man had hurt his leg, and was lying on the\ncouch in a corner. They seemed greatly surprised to see so strange a\ncompany, and while the woman was busy laying the table the man asked:\n\n Where are you all going? \n\n To the Emerald City,  said Dorothy,  to see the Great Oz. \n\n Oh, indeed!  exclaimed the man.  Are you sure that Oz will see you? \n\n Why not?  she replied.\n\n Why, it is said that he never lets anyone come into his presence. I\nhave been to the Emerald City many times, and it is a beautiful and\nwonderful place; but I have never been permitted to see the Great Oz,\nnor do I know of any living person who has seen him. \n\n Does he never go out?  asked the Scarecrow.\n\n Never. He sits day after day in the great Throne Room of his Palace,\nand even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face. \n\n What is he like?  asked the girl.\n\n That is hard to tell,  said the man thoughtfully.  You see, Oz is a\nGreat Wizard, and can take on any form he wishes. So that some say he\nlooks like a bird; and some say he looks like an elephant; and some say\nhe looks like a cat. To others he appears as a beautiful fairy, or a\nbrownie, or in any other form that pleases him. But who the real Oz is,\nwhen he is in his own form, no living person can tell. \n\n That is very strange,  said Dorothy,  but we must try, in some way, to\nsee him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing. \n\n Why do you wish to see the terrible Oz?  asked the man.\n\n I want him to give me some brains,  said the Scarecrow eagerly.\n\n Oh, Oz could do that easily enough,  declared the man.  He has more\nbrains than he needs. \n\n And I want him to give me a heart,  said the Tin Woodman.\n\n That will not trouble him,  continued the man,  for Oz has a large\ncollection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes. \n\n And I want him to give me courage,  said the Cowardly Lion.\n\n Oz keeps a great pot of courage in his Throne Room,  said the man,\n which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it from running\nover. He will be glad to give you some. \n\n And I want him to send me back to Kansas,  said Dorothy.\n\n Where is Kansas?  asked the man, with surprise.\n\n I don t know,  replied Dorothy sorrowfully,  but it is my home, and\nI m sure it s somewhere. \n\n Very likely. Well, Oz can do anything; so I suppose he will find\nKansas for you. But first you must get to see him, and that will be a\nhard task; for the Great Wizard does not like to see anyone, and he\nusually has his own way. But what do YOU want?  he continued, speaking\nto Toto. Toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say, he could not\nspeak.\n\nThe woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they gathered\naround the table and Dorothy ate some delicious porridge and a dish of\nscrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and enjoyed her meal.\nThe Lion ate some of the porridge, but did not care for it, saying it\nwas made from oats and oats were food for horses, not for lions. The\nScarecrow and the Tin Woodman ate nothing at all. Toto ate a little of\neverything, and was glad to get a good supper again.\n\nThe woman now gave Dorothy a bed to sleep in, and Toto lay down beside\nher, while the Lion guarded the door of her room so she might not be\ndisturbed. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood up in a corner and\nkept quiet all night, although of course they could not sleep.\n\nThe next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on their way,\nand soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just before them.\n\n That must be the Emerald City,  said Dorothy.\n\nAs they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter, and it\nseemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels. Yet it\nwas afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded the\nCity. It was high and thick and of a bright green color.\n\nIn front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick, was a big\ngate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the sun that even\nthe painted eyes of the Scarecrow were dazzled by their brilliancy.\n\nThere was a bell beside the gate, and Dorothy pushed the button and\nheard a silvery tinkle sound within. Then the big gate swung slowly\nopen, and they all passed through and found themselves in a high arched\nroom, the walls of which glistened with countless emeralds.\n\nBefore them stood a little man about the same size as the Munchkins. He\nwas clothed all in green, from his head to his feet, and even his skin\nwas of a greenish tint. At his side was a large green box.\n\nWhen he saw Dorothy and her companions the man asked,  What do you wish\nin the Emerald City? \n\n We came here to see the Great Oz,  said Dorothy.\n\nThe man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to think it\nover.\n\n It has been many years since anyone asked me to see Oz,  he said,\nshaking his head in perplexity.  He is powerful and terrible, and if\nyou come on an idle or foolish errand to bother the wise reflections of\nthe Great Wizard, he might be angry and destroy you all in an instant. \n\n But it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one,  replied the\nScarecrow;  it is important. And we have been told that Oz is a good\nWizard. \n\n So he is,  said the green man,  and he rules the Emerald City wisely\nand well. But to those who are not honest, or who approach him from\ncuriosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared ask to see his\nface. I am the Guardian of the Gates, and since you demand to see the\nGreat Oz I must take you to his Palace. But first you must put on the\nspectacles. \n\n Why?  asked Dorothy.\n\n Because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and glory of the\nEmerald City would blind you. Even those who live in the City must wear\nspectacles night and day. They are all locked on, for Oz so ordered it\nwhen the City was first built, and I have the only key that will unlock\nthem. \n\nHe opened the big box, and Dorothy saw that it was filled with\nspectacles of every size and shape. All of them had green glasses in\nthem. The Guardian of the Gates found a pair that would just fit\nDorothy and put them over her eyes. There were two golden bands\nfastened to them that passed around the back of her head, where they\nwere locked together by a little key that was at the end of a chain the\nGuardian of the Gates wore around his neck. When they were on, Dorothy\ncould not take them off had she wished, but of course she did not wish\nto be blinded by the glare of the Emerald City, so she said nothing.\n\nThen the green man fitted spectacles for the Scarecrow and the Tin\nWoodman and the Lion, and even on little Toto; and all were locked fast\nwith the key.\n\nThen the Guardian of the Gates put on his own glasses and told them he\nwas ready to show them to the Palace. Taking a big golden key from a\npeg on the wall, he opened another gate, and they all followed him\nthrough the portal into the streets of the Emerald City.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI\nThe Wonderful City of Oz\n\n\nEven with eyes protected by the green spectacles, Dorothy and her\nfriends were at first dazzled by the brilliancy of the wonderful City.\nThe streets were lined with beautiful houses all built of green marble\nand studded everywhere with sparkling emeralds. They walked over a\npavement of the same green marble, and where the blocks were joined\ntogether were rows of emeralds, set closely, and glittering in the\nbrightness of the sun. The window panes were of green glass; even the\nsky above the City had a green tint, and the rays of the sun were\ngreen.\n\nThere were many people men, women, and children walking about, and\nthese were all dressed in green clothes and had greenish skins. They\nlooked at Dorothy and her strangely assorted company with wondering\neyes, and the children all ran away and hid behind their mothers when\nthey saw the Lion; but no one spoke to them. Many shops stood in the\nstreet, and Dorothy saw that everything in them was green. Green candy\nand green pop corn were offered for sale, as well as green shoes, green\nhats, and green clothes of all sorts. At one place a man was selling\ngreen lemonade, and when the children bought it Dorothy could see that\nthey paid for it with green pennies.\n\nThere seemed to be no horses nor animals of any kind; the men carried\nthings around in little green carts, which they pushed before them.\nEveryone seemed happy and contented and prosperous.\n\nThe Guardian of the Gates led them through the streets until they came\nto a big building, exactly in the middle of the City, which was the\nPalace of Oz, the Great Wizard. There was a soldier before the door,\ndressed in a green uniform and wearing a long green beard.\n\n Here are strangers,  said the Guardian of the Gates to him,  and they\ndemand to see the Great Oz. \n\n Step inside,  answered the soldier,  and I will carry your message to\nhim. \n\nSo they passed through the Palace Gates and were led into a big room\nwith a green carpet and lovely green furniture set with emeralds. The\nsoldier made them all wipe their feet upon a green mat before entering\nthis room, and when they were seated he said politely:\n\n Please make yourselves comfortable while I go to the door of the\nThrone Room and tell Oz you are here. \n\nThey had to wait a long time before the soldier returned. When, at\nlast, he came back, Dorothy asked:\n\n Have you seen Oz? \n\n Oh, no,  returned the soldier;  I have never seen him. But I spoke to\nhim as he sat behind his screen and gave him your message. He said he\nwill grant you an audience, if you so desire; but each one of you must\nenter his presence alone, and he will admit but one each day.\nTherefore, as you must remain in the Palace for several days, I will\nhave you shown to rooms where you may rest in comfort after your\njourney. \n\n Thank you,  replied the girl;  that is very kind of Oz. \n\nThe soldier now blew upon a green whistle, and at once a young girl,\ndressed in a pretty green silk gown, entered the room. She had lovely\ngreen hair and green eyes, and she bowed low before Dorothy as she\nsaid,  Follow me and I will show you your room. \n\nSo Dorothy said good-bye to all her friends except Toto, and taking the\ndog in her arms followed the green girl through seven passages and up\nthree flights of stairs until they came to a room at the front of the\nPalace. It was the sweetest little room in the world, with a soft\ncomfortable bed that had sheets of green silk and a green velvet\ncounterpane. There was a tiny fountain in the middle of the room, that\nshot a spray of green perfume into the air, to fall back into a\nbeautifully carved green marble basin. Beautiful green flowers stood in\nthe windows, and there was a shelf with a row of little green books.\nWhen Dorothy had time to open these books she found them full of queer\ngreen pictures that made her laugh, they were so funny.\n\nIn a wardrobe were many green dresses, made of silk and satin and\nvelvet; and all of them fitted Dorothy exactly.\n\n Make yourself perfectly at home,  said the green girl,  and if you\nwish for anything ring the bell. Oz will send for you tomorrow\nmorning. \n\nShe left Dorothy alone and went back to the others. These she also led\nto rooms, and each one of them found himself lodged in a very pleasant\npart of the Palace. Of course this politeness was wasted on the\nScarecrow; for when he found himself alone in his room he stood\nstupidly in one spot, just within the doorway, to wait till morning. It\nwould not rest him to lie down, and he could not close his eyes; so he\nremained all night staring at a little spider which was weaving its web\nin a corner of the room, just as if it were not one of the most\nwonderful rooms in the world. The Tin Woodman lay down on his bed from\nforce of habit, for he remembered when he was made of flesh; but not\nbeing able to sleep, he passed the night moving his joints up and down\nto make sure they kept in good working order. The Lion would have\npreferred a bed of dried leaves in the forest, and did not like being\nshut up in a room; but he had too much sense to let this worry him, so\nhe sprang upon the bed and rolled himself up like a cat and purred\nhimself asleep in a minute.\n\nThe next morning, after breakfast, the green maiden came to fetch\nDorothy, and she dressed her in one of the prettiest gowns, made of\ngreen brocaded satin. Dorothy put on a green silk apron and tied a\ngreen ribbon around Toto s neck, and they started for the Throne Room\nof the Great Oz.\n\nFirst they came to a great hall in which were many ladies and gentlemen\nof the court, all dressed in rich costumes. These people had nothing to\ndo but talk to each other, but they always came to wait outside the\nThrone Room every morning, although they were never permitted to see\nOz. As Dorothy entered they looked at her curiously, and one of them\nwhispered:\n\n Are you really going to look upon the face of Oz the Terrible? \n\n Of course,  answered the girl,  if he will see me. \n\n Oh, he will see you,  said the soldier who had taken her message to\nthe Wizard,  although he does not like to have people ask to see him.\nIndeed, at first he was angry and said I should send you back where you\ncame from. Then he asked me what you looked like, and when I mentioned\nyour silver shoes he was very much interested. At last I told him about\nthe mark upon your forehead, and he decided he would admit you to his\npresence. \n\nJust then a bell rang, and the green girl said to Dorothy,  That is the\nsignal. You must go into the Throne Room alone. \n\nShe opened a little door and Dorothy walked boldly through and found\nherself in a wonderful place. It was a big, round room with a high\narched roof, and the walls and ceiling and floor were covered with\nlarge emeralds set closely together. In the center of the roof was a\ngreat light, as bright as the sun, which made the emeralds sparkle in a\nwonderful manner.\n\nBut what interested Dorothy most was the big throne of green marble\nthat stood in the middle of the room. It was shaped like a chair and\nsparkled with gems, as did everything else. In the center of the chair\nwas an enormous Head, without a body to support it or any arms or legs\nwhatever. There was no hair upon this head, but it had eyes and a nose\nand mouth, and was much bigger than the head of the biggest giant.\n\nAs Dorothy gazed upon this in wonder and fear, the eyes turned slowly\nand looked at her sharply and steadily. Then the mouth moved, and\nDorothy heard a voice say:\n\n I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me? \n\nIt was not such an awful voice as she had expected to come from the big\nHead; so she took courage and answered:\n\n I am Dorothy, the Small and Meek. I have come to you for help. \n\nThe eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a full minute. Then said the\nvoice:\n\n Where did you get the silver shoes? \n\n I got them from the Wicked Witch of the East, when my house fell on\nher and killed her,  she replied.\n\n Where did you get the mark upon your forehead?  continued the voice.\n\n That is where the Good Witch of the North kissed me when she bade me\ngood-bye and sent me to you,  said the girl.\n\nAgain the eyes looked at her sharply, and they saw she was telling the\ntruth. Then Oz asked,  What do you wish me to do? \n\n Send me back to Kansas, where my Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are,  she\nanswered earnestly.  I don t like your country, although it is so\nbeautiful. And I am sure Aunt Em will be dreadfully worried over my\nbeing away so long. \n\nThe eyes winked three times, and then they turned up to the ceiling and\ndown to the floor and rolled around so queerly that they seemed to see\nevery part of the room. And at last they looked at Dorothy again.\n\n Why should I do this for you?  asked Oz.\n\n Because you are strong and I am weak; because you are a Great Wizard\nand I am only a little girl. \n\n But you were strong enough to kill the Wicked Witch of the East,  said\nOz.\n\n That just happened,  returned Dorothy simply;  I could not help it. \n\n Well,  said the Head,  I will give you my answer. You have no right to\nexpect me to send you back to Kansas unless you do something for me in\nreturn. In this country everyone must pay for everything he gets. If\nyou wish me to use my magic power to send you home again you must do\nsomething for me first. Help me and I will help you. \n\n What must I do?  asked the girl.\n\n Kill the Wicked Witch of the West,  answered Oz.\n\n But I cannot!  exclaimed Dorothy, greatly surprised.\n\n You killed the Witch of the East and you wear the silver shoes, which\nbear a powerful charm. There is now but one Wicked Witch left in all\nthis land, and when you can tell me she is dead I will send you back to\nKansas but not before. \n\nThe little girl began to weep, she was so much disappointed; and the\neyes winked again and looked upon her anxiously, as if the Great Oz\nfelt that she could help him if she would.\n\n I never killed anything, willingly,  she sobbed.  Even if I wanted to,\nhow could I kill the Wicked Witch? If you, who are Great and Terrible,\ncannot kill her yourself, how do you expect me to do it? \n\n I do not know,  said the Head;  but that is my answer, and until the\nWicked Witch dies you will not see your uncle and aunt again. Remember\nthat the Witch is Wicked tremendously Wicked and ought to be killed.\nNow go, and do not ask to see me again until you have done your task. \n\nSorrowfully Dorothy left the Throne Room and went back where the Lion\nand the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were waiting to hear what Oz had\nsaid to her.  There is no hope for me,  she said sadly,  for Oz will\nnot send me home until I have killed the Wicked Witch of the West; and\nthat I can never do. \n\nHer friends were sorry, but could do nothing to help her; so Dorothy\nwent to her own room and lay down on the bed and cried herself to\nsleep.\n\nThe next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the\nScarecrow and said:\n\n Come with me, for Oz has sent for you. \n\nSo the Scarecrow followed him and was admitted into the great Throne\nRoom, where he saw, sitting in the emerald throne, a most lovely Lady.\nShe was dressed in green silk gauze and wore upon her flowing green\nlocks a crown of jewels. Growing from her shoulders were wings,\ngorgeous in color and so light that they fluttered if the slightest\nbreath of air reached them.\n\nWhen the Scarecrow had bowed, as prettily as his straw stuffing would\nlet him, before this beautiful creature, she looked upon him sweetly,\nand said:\n\n I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me? \n\nNow the Scarecrow, who had expected to see the great Head Dorothy had\ntold him of, was much astonished; but he answered her bravely.\n\n I am only a Scarecrow, stuffed with straw. Therefore I have no brains,\nand I come to you praying that you will put brains in my head instead\nof straw, so that I may become as much a man as any other in your\ndominions. \n\n Why should I do this for you?  asked the Lady.\n\n Because you are wise and powerful, and no one else can help me, \nanswered the Scarecrow.\n\n I never grant favors without some return,  said Oz;  but this much I\nwill promise. If you will kill for me the Wicked Witch of the West, I\nwill bestow upon you a great many brains, and such good brains that you\nwill be the wisest man in all the Land of Oz. \n\n I thought you asked Dorothy to kill the Witch,  said the Scarecrow, in\nsurprise.\n\n So I did. I don t care who kills her. But until she is dead I will not\ngrant your wish. Now go, and do not seek me again until you have earned\nthe brains you so greatly desire. \n\nThe Scarecrow went sorrowfully back to his friends and told them what\nOz had said; and Dorothy was surprised to find that the Great Wizard\nwas not a Head, as she had seen him, but a lovely Lady.\n\n All the same,  said the Scarecrow,  she needs a heart as much as the\nTin Woodman. \n\nOn the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the Tin\nWoodman and said:\n\n Oz has sent for you. Follow me. \n\nSo the Tin Woodman followed him and came to the great Throne Room. He\ndid not know whether he would find Oz a lovely Lady or a Head, but he\nhoped it would be the lovely Lady.  For,  he said to himself,  if it is\nthe head, I am sure I shall not be given a heart, since a head has no\nheart of its own and therefore cannot feel for me. But if it is the\nlovely Lady I shall beg hard for a heart, for all ladies are themselves\nsaid to be kindly hearted. \n\nBut when the Woodman entered the great Throne Room he saw neither the\nHead nor the Lady, for Oz had taken the shape of a most terrible Beast.\nIt was nearly as big as an elephant, and the green throne seemed hardly\nstrong enough to hold its weight. The Beast had a head like that of a\nrhinoceros, only there were five eyes in its face. There were five long\narms growing out of its body, and it also had five long, slim legs.\nThick, woolly hair covered every part of it, and a more\ndreadful-looking monster could not be imagined. It was fortunate the\nTin Woodman had no heart at that moment, for it would have beat loud\nand fast from terror. But being only tin, the Woodman was not at all\nafraid, although he was much disappointed.\n\n I am Oz, the Great and Terrible,  spoke the Beast, in a voice that was\none great roar.  Who are you, and why do you seek me? \n\n I am a Woodman, and made of tin. Therefore I have no heart, and cannot\nlove. I pray you to give me a heart that I may be as other men are. \n\n Why should I do this?  demanded the Beast.\n\n Because I ask it, and you alone can grant my request,  answered the\nWoodman.\n\nOz gave a low growl at this, but said, gruffly:  If you indeed desire a\nheart, you must earn it. \n\n How?  asked the Woodman.\n\n Help Dorothy to kill the Wicked Witch of the West,  replied the Beast.\n When the Witch is dead, come to me, and I will then give you the\nbiggest and kindest and most loving heart in all the Land of Oz. \n\nSo the Tin Woodman was forced to return sorrowfully to his friends and\ntell them of the terrible Beast he had seen. They all wondered greatly\nat the many forms the Great Wizard could take upon himself, and the\nLion said:\n\n If he is a Beast when I go to see him, I shall roar my loudest, and so\nfrighten him that he will grant all I ask. And if he is the lovely\nLady, I shall pretend to spring upon her, and so compel her to do my\nbidding. And if he is the great Head, he will be at my mercy; for I\nwill roll this head all about the room until he promises to give us\nwhat we desire. So be of good cheer, my friends, for all will yet be\nwell. \n\nThe next morning the soldier with the green whiskers led the Lion to\nthe great Throne Room and bade him enter the presence of Oz.\n\nThe Lion at once passed through the door, and glancing around saw, to\nhis surprise, that before the throne was a Ball of Fire, so fierce and\nglowing he could scarcely bear to gaze upon it. His first thought was\nthat Oz had by accident caught on fire and was burning up; but when he\ntried to go nearer, the heat was so intense that it singed his\nwhiskers, and he crept back tremblingly to a spot nearer the door.\n\nThen a low, quiet voice came from the Ball of Fire, and these were the\nwords it spoke:\n\n I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me? \n\nAnd the Lion answered,  I am a Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything. I\ncame to you to beg that you give me courage, so that in reality I may\nbecome the King of Beasts, as men call me. \n\n Why should I give you courage?  demanded Oz.\n\n Because of all Wizards you are the greatest, and alone have power to\ngrant my request,  answered the Lion.\n\nThe Ball of Fire burned fiercely for a time, and the voice said,  Bring\nme proof that the Wicked Witch is dead, and that moment I will give you\ncourage. But as long as the Witch lives, you must remain a coward. \n\nThe Lion was angry at this speech, but could say nothing in reply, and\nwhile he stood silently gazing at the Ball of Fire it became so\nfuriously hot that he turned tail and rushed from the room. He was glad\nto find his friends waiting for him, and told them of his terrible\ninterview with the Wizard.\n\n What shall we do now?  asked Dorothy sadly.\n\n There is only one thing we can do,  returned the Lion,  and that is to\ngo to the land of the Winkies, seek out the Wicked Witch, and destroy\nher. \n\n But suppose we cannot?  said the girl.\n\n Then I shall never have courage,  declared the Lion.\n\n And I shall never have brains,  added the Scarecrow.\n\n And I shall never have a heart,  spoke the Tin Woodman.\n\n And I shall never see Aunt Em and Uncle Henry,  said Dorothy,\nbeginning to cry.\n\n Be careful!  cried the green girl.  The tears will fall on your green\nsilk gown and spot it. \n\nSo Dorothy dried her eyes and said,  I suppose we must try it; but I am\nsure I do not want to kill anybody, even to see Aunt Em again. \n\n I will go with you; but I m too much of a coward to kill the Witch, \nsaid the Lion.\n\n I will go too,  declared the Scarecrow;  but I shall not be of much\nhelp to you, I am such a fool. \n\n I haven t the heart to harm even a Witch,  remarked the Tin Woodman;\n but if you go I certainly shall go with you. \n\nTherefore it was decided to start upon their journey the next morning,\nand the Woodman sharpened his axe on a green grindstone and had all his\njoints properly oiled. The Scarecrow stuffed himself with fresh straw\nand Dorothy put new paint on his eyes that he might see better. The\ngreen girl, who was very kind to them, filled Dorothy s basket with\ngood things to eat, and fastened a little bell around Toto s neck with\na green ribbon.\n\nThey went to bed quite early and slept soundly until daylight, when\nthey were awakened by the crowing of a green cock that lived in the\nback yard of the Palace, and the cackling of a hen that had laid a\ngreen egg.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII\nThe Search for the Wicked Witch\n\n\nThe soldier with the green whiskers led them through the streets of the\nEmerald City until they reached the room where the Guardian of the\nGates lived. This officer unlocked their spectacles to put them back in\nhis great box, and then he politely opened the gate for our friends.\n\n Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?  asked Dorothy.\n\n There is no road,  answered the Guardian of the Gates.  No one ever\nwishes to go that way. \n\n How, then, are we to find her?  inquired the girl.\n\n That will be easy,  replied the man,  for when she knows you are in\nthe country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you all her\nslaves. \n\n Perhaps not,  said the Scarecrow,  for we mean to destroy her. \n\n Oh, that is different,  said the Guardian of the Gates.  No one has\never destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves\nof you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and\nfierce, and may not allow you to destroy her. Keep to the West, where\nthe sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her. \n\nThey thanked him and bade him good-bye, and turned toward the West,\nwalking over fields of soft grass dotted here and there with daisies\nand buttercups. Dorothy still wore the pretty silk dress she had put on\nin the palace, but now, to her surprise, she found it was no longer\ngreen, but pure white. The ribbon around Toto s neck had also lost its\ngreen color and was as white as Dorothy s dress.\n\nThe Emerald City was soon left far behind. As they advanced the ground\nbecame rougher and hillier, for there were no farms nor houses in this\ncountry of the West, and the ground was untilled.\n\nIn the afternoon the sun shone hot in their faces, for there were no\ntrees to offer them shade; so that before night Dorothy and Toto and\nthe Lion were tired, and lay down upon the grass and fell asleep, with\nthe Woodman and the Scarecrow keeping watch.\n\nNow the Wicked Witch of the West had but one eye, yet that was as\npowerful as a telescope, and could see everywhere. So, as she sat in\nthe door of her castle, she happened to look around and saw Dorothy\nlying asleep, with her friends all about her. They were a long distance\noff, but the Wicked Witch was angry to find them in her country; so she\nblew upon a silver whistle that hung around her neck.\n\nAt once there came running to her from all directions a pack of great\nwolves. They had long legs and fierce eyes and sharp teeth.\n\n Go to those people,  said the Witch,  and tear them to pieces. \n\n Are you not going to make them your slaves?  asked the leader of the\nwolves.\n\n No,  she answered,  one is of tin, and one of straw; one is a girl and\nanother a Lion. None of them is fit to work, so you may tear them into\nsmall pieces. \n\n Very well,  said the wolf, and he dashed away at full speed, followed\nby the others.\n\nIt was lucky the Scarecrow and the Woodman were wide awake and heard\nthe wolves coming.\n\n This is my fight,  said the Woodman,  so get behind me and I will meet\nthem as they come. \n\nHe seized his axe, which he had made very sharp, and as the leader of\nthe wolves came on the Tin Woodman swung his arm and chopped the wolf s\nhead from its body, so that it immediately died. As soon as he could\nraise his axe another wolf came up, and he also fell under the sharp\nedge of the Tin Woodman s weapon. There were forty wolves, and forty\ntimes a wolf was killed, so that at last they all lay dead in a heap\nbefore the Woodman.\n\nThen he put down his axe and sat beside the Scarecrow, who said,  It\nwas a good fight, friend. \n\nThey waited until Dorothy awoke the next morning. The little girl was\nquite frightened when she saw the great pile of shaggy wolves, but the\nTin Woodman told her all. She thanked him for saving them and sat down\nto breakfast, after which they started again upon their journey.\n\nNow this same morning the Wicked Witch came to the door of her castle\nand looked out with her one eye that could see far off. She saw all her\nwolves lying dead, and the strangers still traveling through her\ncountry. This made her angrier than before, and she blew her silver\nwhistle twice.\n\nStraightway a great flock of wild crows came flying toward her, enough\nto darken the sky.\n\nAnd the Wicked Witch said to the King Crow,  Fly at once to the\nstrangers; peck out their eyes and tear them to pieces. \n\nThe wild crows flew in one great flock toward Dorothy and her\ncompanions. When the little girl saw them coming she was afraid.\n\nBut the Scarecrow said,  This is my battle, so lie down beside me and\nyou will not be harmed. \n\nSo they all lay upon the ground except the Scarecrow, and he stood up\nand stretched out his arms. And when the crows saw him they were\nfrightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare\nto come any nearer. But the King Crow said:\n\n It is only a stuffed man. I will peck his eyes out. \n\nThe King Crow flew at the Scarecrow, who caught it by the head and\ntwisted its neck until it died. And then another crow flew at him, and\nthe Scarecrow twisted its neck also. There were forty crows, and forty\ntimes the Scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last all were lying dead\nbeside him. Then he called to his companions to rise, and again they\nwent upon their journey.\n\nWhen the Wicked Witch looked out again and saw all her crows lying in a\nheap, she got into a terrible rage, and blew three times upon her\nsilver whistle.\n\nForthwith there was heard a great buzzing in the air, and a swarm of\nblack bees came flying toward her.\n\n Go to the strangers and sting them to death!  commanded the Witch, and\nthe bees turned and flew rapidly until they came to where Dorothy and\nher friends were walking. But the Woodman had seen them coming, and the\nScarecrow had decided what to do.\n\n Take out my straw and scatter it over the little girl and the dog and\nthe Lion,  he said to the Woodman,  and the bees cannot sting them. \nThis the Woodman did, and as Dorothy lay close beside the Lion and held\nToto in her arms, the straw covered them entirely.\n\nThe bees came and found no one but the Woodman to sting, so they flew\nat him and broke off all their stings against the tin, without hurting\nthe Woodman at all. And as bees cannot live when their stings are\nbroken that was the end of the black bees, and they lay scattered thick\nabout the Woodman, like little heaps of fine coal.\n\nThen Dorothy and the Lion got up, and the girl helped the Tin Woodman\nput the straw back into the Scarecrow again, until he was as good as\never. So they started upon their journey once more.\n\nThe Wicked Witch was so angry when she saw her black bees in little\nheaps like fine coal that she stamped her foot and tore her hair and\ngnashed her teeth. And then she called a dozen of her slaves, who were\nthe Winkies, and gave them sharp spears, telling them to go to the\nstrangers and destroy them.\n\nThe Winkies were not a brave people, but they had to do as they were\ntold. So they marched away until they came near to Dorothy. Then the\nLion gave a great roar and sprang towards them, and the poor Winkies\nwere so frightened that they ran back as fast as they could.\n\nWhen they returned to the castle the Wicked Witch beat them well with a\nstrap, and sent them back to their work, after which she sat down to\nthink what she should do next. She could not understand how all her\nplans to destroy these strangers had failed; but she was a powerful\nWitch, as well as a wicked one, and she soon made up her mind how to\nact.\n\nThere was, in her cupboard, a Golden Cap, with a circle of diamonds and\nrubies running round it. This Golden Cap had a charm. Whoever owned it\ncould call three times upon the Winged Monkeys, who would obey any\norder they were given. But no person could command these strange\ncreatures more than three times. Twice already the Wicked Witch had\nused the charm of the Cap. Once was when she had made the Winkies her\nslaves, and set herself to rule over their country. The Winged Monkeys\nhad helped her do this. The second time was when she had fought against\nthe Great Oz himself, and driven him out of the land of the West. The\nWinged Monkeys had also helped her in doing this. Only once more could\nshe use this Golden Cap, for which reason she did not like to do so\nuntil all her other powers were exhausted. But now that her fierce\nwolves and her wild crows and her stinging bees were gone, and her\nslaves had been scared away by the Cowardly Lion, she saw there was\nonly one way left to destroy Dorothy and her friends.\n\nSo the Wicked Witch took the Golden Cap from her cupboard and placed it\nupon her head. Then she stood upon her left foot and said slowly:\n\n Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke! \n\nNext she stood upon her right foot and said:\n\n Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo! \n\nAfter this she stood upon both feet and cried in a loud voice:\n\n Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik! \n\nNow the charm began to work. The sky was darkened, and a low rumbling\nsound was heard in the air. There was a rushing of many wings, a great\nchattering and laughing, and the sun came out of the dark sky to show\nthe Wicked Witch surrounded by a crowd of monkeys, each with a pair of\nimmense and powerful wings on his shoulders.\n\nOne, much bigger than the others, seemed to be their leader. He flew\nclose to the Witch and said,  You have called us for the third and last\ntime. What do you command? \n\n Go to the strangers who are within my land and destroy them all except\nthe Lion,  said the Wicked Witch.  Bring that beast to me, for I have a\nmind to harness him like a horse, and make him work. \n\n Your commands shall be obeyed,  said the leader. Then, with a great\ndeal of chattering and noise, the Winged Monkeys flew away to the place\nwhere Dorothy and her friends were walking.\n\nSome of the Monkeys seized the Tin Woodman and carried him through the\nair until they were over a country thickly covered with sharp rocks.\nHere they dropped the poor Woodman, who fell a great distance to the\nrocks, where he lay so battered and dented that he could neither move\nnor groan.\n\nOthers of the Monkeys caught the Scarecrow, and with their long fingers\npulled all of the straw out of his clothes and head. They made his hat\nand boots and clothes into a small bundle and threw it into the top\nbranches of a tall tree.\n\nThe remaining Monkeys threw pieces of stout rope around the Lion and\nwound many coils about his body and head and legs, until he was unable\nto bite or scratch or struggle in any way. Then they lifted him up and\nflew away with him to the Witch s castle, where he was placed in a\nsmall yard with a high iron fence around it, so that he could not\nescape.\n\nBut Dorothy they did not harm at all. She stood, with Toto in her arms,\nwatching the sad fate of her comrades and thinking it would soon be her\nturn. The leader of the Winged Monkeys flew up to her, his long, hairy\narms stretched out and his ugly face grinning terribly; but he saw the\nmark of the Good Witch s kiss upon her forehead and stopped short,\nmotioning the others not to touch her.\n\n We dare not harm this little girl,  he said to them,  for she is\nprotected by the Power of Good, and that is greater than the Power of\nEvil. All we can do is to carry her to the castle of the Wicked Witch\nand leave her there. \n\nSo, carefully and gently, they lifted Dorothy in their arms and carried\nher swiftly through the air until they came to the castle, where they\nset her down upon the front doorstep. Then the leader said to the\nWitch:\n\n We have obeyed you as far as we were able. The Tin Woodman and the\nScarecrow are destroyed, and the Lion is tied up in your yard. The\nlittle girl we dare not harm, nor the dog she carries in her arms. Your\npower over our band is now ended, and you will never see us again. \n\nThen all the Winged Monkeys, with much laughing and chattering and\nnoise, flew into the air and were soon out of sight.\n\nThe Wicked Witch was both surprised and worried when she saw the mark\non Dorothy s forehead, for she knew well that neither the Winged\nMonkeys nor she, herself, dare hurt the girl in any way. She looked\ndown at Dorothy s feet, and seeing the Silver Shoes, began to tremble\nwith fear, for she knew what a powerful charm belonged to them. At\nfirst the Witch was tempted to run away from Dorothy; but she happened\nto look into the child s eyes and saw how simple the soul behind them\nwas, and that the little girl did not know of the wonderful power the\nSilver Shoes gave her. So the Wicked Witch laughed to herself, and\nthought,  I can still make her my slave, for she does not know how to\nuse her power.  Then she said to Dorothy, harshly and severely:\n\n Come with me; and see that you mind everything I tell you, for if you\ndo not I will make an end of you, as I did of the Tin Woodman and the\nScarecrow. \n\nDorothy followed her through many of the beautiful rooms in her castle\nuntil they came to the kitchen, where the Witch bade her clean the pots\nand kettles and sweep the floor and keep the fire fed with wood.\n\nDorothy went to work meekly, with her mind made up to work as hard as\nshe could; for she was glad the Wicked Witch had decided not to kill\nher.\n\nWith Dorothy hard at work, the Witch thought she would go into the\ncourtyard and harness the Cowardly Lion like a horse; it would amuse\nher, she was sure, to make him draw her chariot whenever she wished to\ngo to drive. But as she opened the gate the Lion gave a loud roar and\nbounded at her so fiercely that the Witch was afraid, and ran out and\nshut the gate again.\n\n If I cannot harness you,  said the Witch to the Lion, speaking through\nthe bars of the gate,  I can starve you. You shall have nothing to eat\nuntil you do as I wish. \n\nSo after that she took no food to the imprisoned Lion; but every day\nshe came to the gate at noon and asked,  Are you ready to be harnessed\nlike a horse? \n\nAnd the Lion would answer,  No. If you come in this yard, I will bite\nyou. \n\nThe reason the Lion did not have to do as the Witch wished was that\nevery night, while the woman was asleep, Dorothy carried him food from\nthe cupboard. After he had eaten he would lie down on his bed of straw,\nand Dorothy would lie beside him and put her head on his soft, shaggy\nmane, while they talked of their troubles and tried to plan some way to\nescape. But they could find no way to get out of the castle, for it was\nconstantly guarded by the yellow Winkies, who were the slaves of the\nWicked Witch and too afraid of her not to do as she told them.\n\nThe girl had to work hard during the day, and often the Witch\nthreatened to beat her with the same old umbrella she always carried in\nher hand. But, in truth, she did not dare to strike Dorothy, because of\nthe mark upon her forehead. The child did not know this, and was full\nof fear for herself and Toto. Once the Witch struck Toto a blow with\nher umbrella and the brave little dog flew at her and bit her leg in\nreturn. The Witch did not bleed where she was bitten, for she was so\nwicked that the blood in her had dried up many years before.\n\nDorothy s life became very sad as she grew to understand that it would\nbe harder than ever to get back to Kansas and Aunt Em again. Sometimes\nshe would cry bitterly for hours, with Toto sitting at her feet and\nlooking into her face, whining dismally to show how sorry he was for\nhis little mistress. Toto did not really care whether he was in Kansas\nor the Land of Oz so long as Dorothy was with him; but he knew the\nlittle girl was unhappy, and that made him unhappy too.\n\nNow the Wicked Witch had a great longing to have for her own the Silver\nShoes which the girl always wore. Her bees and her crows and her wolves\nwere lying in heaps and drying up, and she had used up all the power of\nthe Golden Cap; but if she could only get hold of the Silver Shoes,\nthey would give her more power than all the other things she had lost.\nShe watched Dorothy carefully, to see if she ever took off her shoes,\nthinking she might steal them. But the child was so proud of her pretty\nshoes that she never took them off except at night and when she took\nher bath. The Witch was too much afraid of the dark to dare go in\nDorothy s room at night to take the shoes, and her dread of water was\ngreater than her fear of the dark, so she never came near when Dorothy\nwas bathing. Indeed, the old Witch never touched water, nor ever let\nwater touch her in any way.\n\nBut the wicked creature was very cunning, and she finally thought of a\ntrick that would give her what she wanted. She placed a bar of iron in\nthe middle of the kitchen floor, and then by her magic arts made the\niron invisible to human eyes. So that when Dorothy walked across the\nfloor she stumbled over the bar, not being able to see it, and fell at\nfull length. She was not much hurt, but in her fall one of the Silver\nShoes came off; and before she could reach it, the Witch had snatched\nit away and put it on her own skinny foot.\n\nThe wicked woman was greatly pleased with the success of her trick, for\nas long as she had one of the shoes she owned half the power of their\ncharm, and Dorothy could not use it against her, even had she known how\nto do so.\n\nThe little girl, seeing she had lost one of her pretty shoes, grew\nangry, and said to the Witch,  Give me back my shoe! \n\n I will not,  retorted the Witch,  for it is now my shoe, and not\nyours. \n\n You are a wicked creature!  cried Dorothy.  You have no right to take\nmy shoe from me. \n\n I shall keep it, just the same,  said the Witch, laughing at her,  and\nsomeday I shall get the other one from you, too. \n\nThis made Dorothy so very angry that she picked up the bucket of water\nthat stood near and dashed it over the Witch, wetting her from head to\nfoot.\n\nInstantly the wicked woman gave a loud cry of fear, and then, as\nDorothy looked at her in wonder, the Witch began to shrink and fall\naway.\n\n See what you have done!  she screamed.  In a minute I shall melt\naway. \n\n I m very sorry, indeed,  said Dorothy, who was truly frightened to see\nthe Witch actually melting away like brown sugar before her very eyes.\n\n Didn t you know water would be the end of me?  asked the Witch, in a\nwailing, despairing voice.\n\n Of course not,  answered Dorothy.  How should I? \n\n Well, in a few minutes I shall be all melted, and you will have the\ncastle to yourself. I have been wicked in my day, but I never thought a\nlittle girl like you would ever be able to melt me and end my wicked\ndeeds. Look out here I go! \n\nWith these words the Witch fell down in a brown, melted, shapeless mass\nand began to spread over the clean boards of the kitchen floor. Seeing\nthat she had really melted away to nothing, Dorothy drew another bucket\nof water and threw it over the mess. She then swept it all out the\ndoor. After picking out the silver shoe, which was all that was left of\nthe old woman, she cleaned and dried it with a cloth, and put it on her\nfoot again. Then, being at last free to do as she chose, she ran out to\nthe courtyard to tell the Lion that the Wicked Witch of the West had\ncome to an end, and that they were no longer prisoners in a strange\nland.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII\nThe Rescue\n\n\nThe Cowardly Lion was much pleased to hear that the Wicked Witch had\nbeen melted by a bucket of water, and Dorothy at once unlocked the gate\nof his prison and set him free. They went in together to the castle,\nwhere Dorothy s first act was to call all the Winkies together and tell\nthem that they were no longer slaves.\n\nThere was great rejoicing among the yellow Winkies, for they had been\nmade to work hard during many years for the Wicked Witch, who had\nalways treated them with great cruelty. They kept this day as a\nholiday, then and ever after, and spent the time in feasting and\ndancing.\n\n If our friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, were only with us, \nsaid the Lion,  I should be quite happy. \n\n Don t you suppose we could rescue them?  asked the girl anxiously.\n\n We can try,  answered the Lion.\n\nSo they called the yellow Winkies and asked them if they would help to\nrescue their friends, and the Winkies said that they would be delighted\nto do all in their power for Dorothy, who had set them free from\nbondage. So she chose a number of the Winkies who looked as if they\nknew the most, and they all started away. They traveled that day and\npart of the next until they came to the rocky plain where the Tin\nWoodman lay, all battered and bent. His axe was near him, but the blade\nwas rusted and the handle broken off short.\n\nThe Winkies lifted him tenderly in their arms, and carried him back to\nthe Yellow Castle again, Dorothy shedding a few tears by the way at the\nsad plight of her old friend, and the Lion looking sober and sorry.\nWhen they reached the castle Dorothy said to the Winkies:\n\n Are any of your people tinsmiths? \n\n Oh, yes. Some of us are very good tinsmiths,  they told her.\n\n Then bring them to me,  she said. And when the tinsmiths came,\nbringing with them all their tools in baskets, she inquired,  Can you\nstraighten out those dents in the Tin Woodman, and bend him back into\nshape again, and solder him together where he is broken? \n\nThe tinsmiths looked the Woodman over carefully and then answered that\nthey thought they could mend him so he would be as good as ever. So\nthey set to work in one of the big yellow rooms of the castle and\nworked for three days and four nights, hammering and twisting and\nbending and soldering and polishing and pounding at the legs and body\nand head of the Tin Woodman, until at last he was straightened out into\nhis old form, and his joints worked as well as ever. To be sure, there\nwere several patches on him, but the tinsmiths did a good job, and as\nthe Woodman was not a vain man he did not mind the patches at all.\n\nWhen, at last, he walked into Dorothy s room and thanked her for\nrescuing him, he was so pleased that he wept tears of joy, and Dorothy\nhad to wipe every tear carefully from his face with her apron, so his\njoints would not be rusted. At the same time her own tears fell thick\nand fast at the joy of meeting her old friend again, and these tears\ndid not need to be wiped away. As for the Lion, he wiped his eyes so\noften with the tip of his tail that it became quite wet, and he was\nobliged to go out into the courtyard and hold it in the sun till it\ndried.\n\n If we only had the Scarecrow with us again,  said the Tin Woodman,\nwhen Dorothy had finished telling him everything that had happened,  I\nshould be quite happy. \n\n We must try to find him,  said the girl.\n\nSo she called the Winkies to help her, and they walked all that day and\npart of the next until they came to the tall tree in the branches of\nwhich the Winged Monkeys had tossed the Scarecrow s clothes.\n\nIt was a very tall tree, and the trunk was so smooth that no one could\nclimb it; but the Woodman said at once,  I ll chop it down, and then we\ncan get the Scarecrow s clothes. \n\nNow while the tinsmiths had been at work mending the Woodman himself,\nanother of the Winkies, who was a goldsmith, had made an axe-handle of\nsolid gold and fitted it to the Woodman s axe, instead of the old\nbroken handle. Others polished the blade until all the rust was removed\nand it glistened like burnished silver.\n\nAs soon as he had spoken, the Tin Woodman began to chop, and in a short\ntime the tree fell over with a crash, whereupon the Scarecrow s clothes\nfell out of the branches and rolled off on the ground.\n\nDorothy picked them up and had the Winkies carry them back to the\ncastle, where they were stuffed with nice, clean straw; and behold!\nhere was the Scarecrow, as good as ever, thanking them over and over\nagain for saving him.\n\nNow that they were reunited, Dorothy and her friends spent a few happy\ndays at the Yellow Castle, where they found everything they needed to\nmake them comfortable.\n\nBut one day the girl thought of Aunt Em, and said,  We must go back to\nOz, and claim his promise. \n\n Yes,  said the Woodman,  at last I shall get my heart. \n\n And I shall get my brains,  added the Scarecrow joyfully.\n\n And I shall get my courage,  said the Lion thoughtfully.\n\n And I shall get back to Kansas,  cried Dorothy, clapping her hands.\n Oh, let us start for the Emerald City tomorrow! \n\nThis they decided to do. The next day they called the Winkies together\nand bade them good-bye. The Winkies were sorry to have them go, and\nthey had grown so fond of the Tin Woodman that they begged him to stay\nand rule over them and the Yellow Land of the West. Finding they were\ndetermined to go, the Winkies gave Toto and the Lion each a golden\ncollar; and to Dorothy they presented a beautiful bracelet studded with\ndiamonds; and to the Scarecrow they gave a gold-headed walking stick,\nto keep him from stumbling; and to the Tin Woodman they offered a\nsilver oil-can, inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels.\n\nEvery one of the travelers made the Winkies a pretty speech in return,\nand all shook hands with them until their arms ached.\n\nDorothy went to the Witch s cupboard to fill her basket with food for\nthe journey, and there she saw the Golden Cap. She tried it on her own\nhead and found that it fitted her exactly. She did not know anything\nabout the charm of the Golden Cap, but she saw that it was pretty, so\nshe made up her mind to wear it and carry her sunbonnet in the basket.\n\nThen, being prepared for the journey, they all started for the Emerald\nCity; and the Winkies gave them three cheers and many good wishes to\ncarry with them.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV\nThe Winged Monkeys\n\n\nYou will remember there was no road not even a pathway between the\ncastle of the Wicked Witch and the Emerald City. When the four\ntravelers went in search of the Witch she had seen them coming, and so\nsent the Winged Monkeys to bring them to her. It was much harder to\nfind their way back through the big fields of buttercups and yellow\ndaisies than it was being carried. They knew, of course, they must go\nstraight east, toward the rising sun; and they started off in the right\nway. But at noon, when the sun was over their heads, they did not know\nwhich was east and which was west, and that was the reason they were\nlost in the great fields. They kept on walking, however, and at night\nthe moon came out and shone brightly. So they lay down among the sweet\nsmelling yellow flowers and slept soundly until morning all but the\nScarecrow and the Tin Woodman.\n\nThe next morning the sun was behind a cloud, but they started on, as if\nthey were quite sure which way they were going.\n\n If we walk far enough,  said Dorothy,  I am sure we shall sometime\ncome to some place. \n\nBut day by day passed away, and they still saw nothing before them but\nthe scarlet fields. The Scarecrow began to grumble a bit.\n\n We have surely lost our way,  he said,  and unless we find it again in\ntime to reach the Emerald City, I shall never get my brains. \n\n Nor I my heart,  declared the Tin Woodman.  It seems to me I can\nscarcely wait till I get to Oz, and you must admit this is a very long\njourney. \n\n You see,  said the Cowardly Lion, with a whimper,  I haven t the\ncourage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all. \n\nThen Dorothy lost heart. She sat down on the grass and looked at her\ncompanions, and they sat down and looked at her, and Toto found that\nfor the first time in his life he was too tired to chase a butterfly\nthat flew past his head. So he put out his tongue and panted and looked\nat Dorothy as if to ask what they should do next.\n\n Suppose we call the field mice,  she suggested.  They could probably\ntell us the way to the Emerald City. \n\n To be sure they could,  cried the Scarecrow.  Why didn t we think of\nthat before? \n\nDorothy blew the little whistle she had always carried about her neck\nsince the Queen of the Mice had given it to her. In a few minutes they\nheard the pattering of tiny feet, and many of the small gray mice came\nrunning up to her. Among them was the Queen herself, who asked, in her\nsqueaky little voice:\n\n What can I do for my friends? \n\n We have lost our way,  said Dorothy.  Can you tell us where the\nEmerald City is? \n\n Certainly,  answered the Queen;  but it is a great way off, for you\nhave had it at your backs all this time.  Then she noticed Dorothy s\nGolden Cap, and said,  Why don t you use the charm of the Cap, and call\nthe Winged Monkeys to you? They will carry you to the City of Oz in\nless than an hour. \n\n I didn t know there was a charm,  answered Dorothy, in surprise.  What\nis it? \n\n It is written inside the Golden Cap,  replied the Queen of the Mice.\n But if you are going to call the Winged Monkeys we must run away, for\nthey are full of mischief and think it great fun to plague us. \n\n Won t they hurt me?  asked the girl anxiously.\n\n Oh, no. They must obey the wearer of the Cap. Good-bye!  And she\nscampered out of sight, with all the mice hurrying after her.\n\nDorothy looked inside the Golden Cap and saw some words written upon\nthe lining. These, she thought, must be the charm, so she read the\ndirections carefully and put the Cap upon her head.\n\n Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!  she said, standing on her left foot.\n\n What did you say?  asked the Scarecrow, who did not know what she was\ndoing.\n\n Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!  Dorothy went on, standing this time on her\nright foot.\n\n Hello!  replied the Tin Woodman calmly.\n\n Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!  said Dorothy, who was now standing on both feet.\nThis ended the saying of the charm, and they heard a great chattering\nand flapping of wings, as the band of Winged Monkeys flew up to them.\n\nThe King bowed low before Dorothy, and asked,  What is your command? \n\n We wish to go to the Emerald City,  said the child,  and we have lost\nour way. \n\n We will carry you,  replied the King, and no sooner had he spoken than\ntwo of the Monkeys caught Dorothy in their arms and flew away with her.\nOthers took the Scarecrow and the Woodman and the Lion, and one little\nMonkey seized Toto and flew after them, although the dog tried hard to\nbite him.\n\nThe Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were rather frightened at first, for\nthey remembered how badly the Winged Monkeys had treated them before;\nbut they saw that no harm was intended, so they rode through the air\nquite cheerfully, and had a fine time looking at the pretty gardens and\nwoods far below them.\n\nDorothy found herself riding easily between two of the biggest Monkeys,\none of them the King himself. They had made a chair of their hands and\nwere careful not to hurt her.\n\n Why do you have to obey the charm of the Golden Cap?  she asked.\n\n That is a long story,  answered the King, with a winged laugh;  but as\nwe have a long journey before us, I will pass the time by telling you\nabout it, if you wish. \n\n I shall be glad to hear it,  she replied.\n\n Once,  began the leader,  we were a free people, living happily in the\ngreat forest, flying from tree to tree, eating nuts and fruit, and\ndoing just as we pleased without calling anybody master. Perhaps some\nof us were rather too full of mischief at times, flying down to pull\nthe tails of the animals that had no wings, chasing birds, and throwing\nnuts at the people who walked in the forest. But we were careless and\nhappy and full of fun, and enjoyed every minute of the day. This was\nmany years ago, long before Oz came out of the clouds to rule over this\nland.\n\n There lived here then, away at the North, a beautiful princess, who\nwas also a powerful sorceress. All her magic was used to help the\npeople, and she was never known to hurt anyone who was good. Her name\nwas Gayelette, and she lived in a handsome palace built from great\nblocks of ruby. Everyone loved her, but her greatest sorrow was that\nshe could find no one to love in return, since all the men were much\ntoo stupid and ugly to mate with one so beautiful and wise. At last,\nhowever, she found a boy who was handsome and manly and wise beyond his\nyears. Gayelette made up her mind that when he grew to be a man she\nwould make him her husband, so she took him to her ruby palace and used\nall her magic powers to make him as strong and good and lovely as any\nwoman could wish. When he grew to manhood, Quelala, as he was called,\nwas said to be the best and wisest man in all the land, while his manly\nbeauty was so great that Gayelette loved him dearly, and hastened to\nmake everything ready for the wedding.\n\n My grandfather was at that time the King of the Winged Monkeys which\nlived in the forest near Gayelette s palace, and the old fellow loved a\njoke better than a good dinner. One day, just before the wedding, my\ngrandfather was flying out with his band when he saw Quelala walking\nbeside the river. He was dressed in a rich costume of pink silk and\npurple velvet, and my grandfather thought he would see what he could\ndo. At his word the band flew down and seized Quelala, carried him in\ntheir arms until they were over the middle of the river, and then\ndropped him into the water.\n\n Swim out, my fine fellow,  cried my grandfather,  and see if the\nwater has spotted your clothes.  Quelala was much too wise not to swim,\nand he was not in the least spoiled by all his good fortune. He\nlaughed, when he came to the top of the water, and swam in to shore.\nBut when Gayelette came running out to him she found his silks and\nvelvet all ruined by the river.\n\n The princess was angry, and she knew, of course, who did it. She had\nall the Winged Monkeys brought before her, and she said at first that\ntheir wings should be tied and they should be treated as they had\ntreated Quelala, and dropped in the river. But my grandfather pleaded\nhard, for he knew the Monkeys would drown in the river with their wings\ntied, and Quelala said a kind word for them also; so that Gayelette\nfinally spared them, on condition that the Winged Monkeys should ever\nafter do three times the bidding of the owner of the Golden Cap. This\nCap had been made for a wedding present to Quelala, and it is said to\nhave cost the princess half her kingdom. Of course my grandfather and\nall the other Monkeys at once agreed to the condition, and that is how\nit happens that we are three times the slaves of the owner of the\nGolden Cap, whosoever he may be. \n\n And what became of them?  asked Dorothy, who had been greatly\ninterested in the story.\n\n Quelala being the first owner of the Golden Cap,  replied the Monkey,\n he was the first to lay his wishes upon us. As his bride could not\nbear the sight of us, he called us all to him in the forest after he\nhad married her and ordered us always to keep where she could never\nagain set eyes on a Winged Monkey, which we were glad to do, for we\nwere all afraid of her.\n\n This was all we ever had to do until the Golden Cap fell into the\nhands of the Wicked Witch of the West, who made us enslave the Winkies,\nand afterward drive Oz himself out of the Land of the West. Now the\nGolden Cap is yours, and three times you have the right to lay your\nwishes upon us. \n\nAs the Monkey King finished his story Dorothy looked down and saw the\ngreen, shining walls of the Emerald City before them. She wondered at\nthe rapid flight of the Monkeys, but was glad the journey was over. The\nstrange creatures set the travelers down carefully before the gate of\nthe City, the King bowed low to Dorothy, and then flew swiftly away,\nfollowed by all his band.\n\n That was a good ride,  said the little girl.\n\n Yes, and a quick way out of our troubles,  replied the Lion.  How\nlucky it was you brought away that wonderful Cap! \n\n\n\n\nChapter XV\nThe Discovery of Oz, the Terrible\n\n\nThe four travelers walked up to the great gate of Emerald City and rang\nthe bell. After ringing several times, it was opened by the same\nGuardian of the Gates they had met before.\n\n What! are you back again?  he asked, in surprise.\n\n Do you not see us?  answered the Scarecrow.\n\n But I thought you had gone to visit the Wicked Witch of the West. \n\n We did visit her,  said the Scarecrow.\n\n And she let you go again?  asked the man, in wonder.\n\n She could not help it, for she is melted,  explained the Scarecrow.\n\n Melted! Well, that is good news, indeed,  said the man.  Who melted\nher? \n\n It was Dorothy,  said the Lion gravely.\n\n Good gracious!  exclaimed the man, and he bowed very low indeed before\nher.\n\nThen he led them into his little room and locked the spectacles from\nthe great box on all their eyes, just as he had done before. Afterward\nthey passed on through the gate into the Emerald City. When the people\nheard from the Guardian of the Gates that Dorothy had melted the Wicked\nWitch of the West, they all gathered around the travelers and followed\nthem in a great crowd to the Palace of Oz.\n\nThe soldier with the green whiskers was still on guard before the door,\nbut he let them in at once, and they were again met by the beautiful\ngreen girl, who showed each of them to their old rooms at once, so they\nmight rest until the Great Oz was ready to receive them.\n\nThe soldier had the news carried straight to Oz that Dorothy and the\nother travelers had come back again, after destroying the Wicked Witch;\nbut Oz made no reply. They thought the Great Wizard would send for them\nat once, but he did not. They had no word from him the next day, nor\nthe next, nor the next. The waiting was tiresome and wearing, and at\nlast they grew vexed that Oz should treat them in so poor a fashion,\nafter sending them to undergo hardships and slavery. So the Scarecrow\nat last asked the green girl to take another message to Oz, saying if\nhe did not let them in to see him at once they would call the Winged\nMonkeys to help them, and find out whether he kept his promises or not.\nWhen the Wizard was given this message he was so frightened that he\nsent word for them to come to the Throne Room at four minutes after\nnine o clock the next morning. He had once met the Winged Monkeys in\nthe Land of the West, and he did not wish to meet them again.\n\nThe four travelers passed a sleepless night, each thinking of the gift\nOz had promised to bestow on him. Dorothy fell asleep only once, and\nthen she dreamed she was in Kansas, where Aunt Em was telling her how\nglad she was to have her little girl at home again.\n\nPromptly at nine o clock the next morning the green-whiskered soldier\ncame to them, and four minutes later they all went into the Throne Room\nof the Great Oz.\n\nOf course each one of them expected to see the Wizard in the shape he\nhad taken before, and all were greatly surprised when they looked about\nand saw no one at all in the room. They kept close to the door and\ncloser to one another, for the stillness of the empty room was more\ndreadful than any of the forms they had seen Oz take.\n\nPresently they heard a solemn Voice, that seemed to come from somewhere\nnear the top of the great dome, and it said:\n\n I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Why do you seek me? \n\nThey looked again in every part of the room, and then, seeing no one,\nDorothy asked,  Where are you? \n\n I am everywhere,  answered the Voice,  but to the eyes of common\nmortals I am invisible. I will now seat myself upon my throne, that you\nmay converse with me.  Indeed, the Voice seemed just then to come\nstraight from the throne itself; so they walked toward it and stood in\na row while Dorothy said:\n\n We have come to claim our promise, O Oz. \n\n What promise?  asked Oz.\n\n You promised to send me back to Kansas when the Wicked Witch was\ndestroyed,  said the girl.\n\n And you promised to give me brains,  said the Scarecrow.\n\n And you promised to give me a heart,  said the Tin Woodman.\n\n And you promised to give me courage,  said the Cowardly Lion.\n\n Is the Wicked Witch really destroyed?  asked the Voice, and Dorothy\nthought it trembled a little.\n\n Yes,  she answered,  I melted her with a bucket of water. \n\n Dear me,  said the Voice,  how sudden! Well, come to me tomorrow, for\nI must have time to think it over. \n\n You ve had plenty of time already,  said the Tin Woodman angrily.\n\n We shan t wait a day longer,  said the Scarecrow.\n\n You must keep your promises to us!  exclaimed Dorothy.\n\nThe Lion thought it might be as well to frighten the Wizard, so he gave\na large, loud roar, which was so fierce and dreadful that Toto jumped\naway from him in alarm and tipped over the screen that stood in a\ncorner. As it fell with a crash they looked that way, and the next\nmoment all of them were filled with wonder. For they saw, standing in\njust the spot the screen had hidden, a little old man, with a bald head\nand a wrinkled face, who seemed to be as much surprised as they were.\nThe Tin Woodman, raising his axe, rushed toward the little man and\ncried out,  Who are you? \n\n I am Oz, the Great and Terrible,  said the little man, in a trembling\nvoice.  But don t strike me please don t and I ll do anything you want\nme to. \n\nOur friends looked at him in surprise and dismay.\n\n I thought Oz was a great Head,  said Dorothy.\n\n And I thought Oz was a lovely Lady,  said the Scarecrow.\n\n And I thought Oz was a terrible Beast,  said the Tin Woodman.\n\n And I thought Oz was a Ball of Fire,  exclaimed the Lion.\n\n No, you are all wrong,  said the little man meekly.  I have been\nmaking believe. \n\n Making believe!  cried Dorothy.  Are you not a Great Wizard? \n\n Hush, my dear,  he said.  Don t speak so loud, or you will be\noverheard and I should be ruined. I m supposed to be a Great Wizard. \n\n And aren t you?  she asked.\n\n Not a bit of it, my dear; I m just a common man. \n\n You re more than that,  said the Scarecrow, in a grieved tone;  you re\na humbug. \n\n Exactly so!  declared the little man, rubbing his hands together as if\nit pleased him.  I am a humbug. \n\n But this is terrible,  said the Tin Woodman.  How shall I ever get my\nheart? \n\n Or I my courage?  asked the Lion.\n\n Or I my brains?  wailed the Scarecrow, wiping the tears from his eyes\nwith his coat sleeve.\n\n My dear friends,  said Oz,  I pray you not to speak of these little\nthings. Think of me, and the terrible trouble I m in at being found\nout. \n\n Doesn t anyone else know you re a humbug?  asked Dorothy.\n\n No one knows it but you four and myself,  replied Oz.  I have fooled\neveryone so long that I thought I should never be found out. It was a\ngreat mistake my ever letting you into the Throne Room. Usually I will\nnot see even my subjects, and so they believe I am something terrible. \n\n But, I don t understand,  said Dorothy, in bewilderment.  How was it\nthat you appeared to me as a great Head? \n\n That was one of my tricks,  answered Oz.  Step this way, please, and I\nwill tell you all about it. \n\nHe led the way to a small chamber in the rear of the Throne Room, and\nthey all followed him. He pointed to one corner, in which lay the great\nHead, made out of many thicknesses of paper, and with a carefully\npainted face.\n\n This I hung from the ceiling by a wire,  said Oz.  I stood behind the\nscreen and pulled a thread, to make the eyes move and the mouth open. \n\n But how about the voice?  she inquired.\n\n Oh, I am a ventriloquist,  said the little man.  I can throw the sound\nof my voice wherever I wish, so that you thought it was coming out of\nthe Head. Here are the other things I used to deceive you.  He showed\nthe Scarecrow the dress and the mask he had worn when he seemed to be\nthe lovely Lady. And the Tin Woodman saw that his terrible Beast was\nnothing but a lot of skins, sewn together, with slats to keep their\nsides out. As for the Ball of Fire, the false Wizard had hung that also\nfrom the ceiling. It was really a ball of cotton, but when oil was\npoured upon it the ball burned fiercely.\n\n Really,  said the Scarecrow,  you ought to be ashamed of yourself for\nbeing such a humbug. \n\n I am I certainly am,  answered the little man sorrowfully;  but it was\nthe only thing I could do. Sit down, please, there are plenty of\nchairs; and I will tell you my story. \n\nSo they sat down and listened while he told the following tale.\n\n I was born in Omaha \n\n Why, that isn t very far from Kansas!  cried Dorothy.\n\n No, but it s farther from here,  he said, shaking his head at her\nsadly.  When I grew up I became a ventriloquist, and at that I was very\nwell trained by a great master. I can imitate any kind of a bird or\nbeast.  Here he mewed so like a kitten that Toto pricked up his ears\nand looked everywhere to see where she was.  After a time,  continued\nOz,  I tired of that, and became a balloonist. \n\n What is that?  asked Dorothy.\n\n A man who goes up in a balloon on circus day, so as to draw a crowd of\npeople together and get them to pay to see the circus,  he explained.\n\n Oh,  she said,  I know. \n\n Well, one day I went up in a balloon and the ropes got twisted, so\nthat I couldn t come down again. It went way up above the clouds, so\nfar that a current of air struck it and carried it many, many miles\naway. For a day and a night I traveled through the air, and on the\nmorning of the second day I awoke and found the balloon floating over a\nstrange and beautiful country.\n\n It came down gradually, and I was not hurt a bit. But I found myself\nin the midst of a strange people, who, seeing me come from the clouds,\nthought I was a great Wizard. Of course I let them think so, because\nthey were afraid of me, and promised to do anything I wished them to.\n\n Just to amuse myself, and keep the good people busy, I ordered them to\nbuild this City, and my Palace; and they did it all willingly and well.\nThen I thought, as the country was so green and beautiful, I would call\nit the Emerald City; and to make the name fit better I put green\nspectacles on all the people, so that everything they saw was green. \n\n But isn t everything here green?  asked Dorothy.\n\n No more than in any other city,  replied Oz;  but when you wear green\nspectacles, why of course everything you see looks green to you. The\nEmerald City was built a great many years ago, for I was a young man\nwhen the balloon brought me here, and I am a very old man now. But my\npeople have worn green glasses on their eyes so long that most of them\nthink it really is an Emerald City, and it certainly is a beautiful\nplace, abounding in jewels and precious metals, and every good thing\nthat is needed to make one happy. I have been good to the people, and\nthey like me; but ever since this Palace was built, I have shut myself\nup and would not see any of them.\n\n One of my greatest fears was the Witches, for while I had no magical\npowers at all I soon found out that the Witches were really able to do\nwonderful things. There were four of them in this country, and they\nruled the people who live in the North and South and East and West.\nFortunately, the Witches of the North and South were good, and I knew\nthey would do me no harm; but the Witches of the East and West were\nterribly wicked, and had they not thought I was more powerful than they\nthemselves, they would surely have destroyed me. As it was, I lived in\ndeadly fear of them for many years; so you can imagine how pleased I\nwas when I heard your house had fallen on the Wicked Witch of the East.\nWhen you came to me, I was willing to promise anything if you would\nonly do away with the other Witch; but, now that you have melted her, I\nam ashamed to say that I cannot keep my promises. \n\n I think you are a very bad man,  said Dorothy.\n\n Oh, no, my dear; I m really a very good man, but I m a very bad\nWizard, I must admit. \n\n Can t you give me brains?  asked the Scarecrow.\n\n You don t need them. You are learning something every day. A baby has\nbrains, but it doesn t know much. Experience is the only thing that\nbrings knowledge, and the longer you are on earth the more experience\nyou are sure to get. \n\n That may all be true,  said the Scarecrow,  but I shall be very\nunhappy unless you give me brains. \n\nThe false Wizard looked at him carefully.\n\n Well,  he said with a sigh,  I m not much of a magician, as I said;\nbut if you will come to me tomorrow morning, I will stuff your head\nwith brains. I cannot tell you how to use them, however; you must find\nthat out for yourself. \n\n Oh, thank you thank you!  cried the Scarecrow.  I ll find a way to use\nthem, never fear! \n\n But how about my courage?  asked the Lion anxiously.\n\n You have plenty of courage, I am sure,  answered Oz.  All you need is\nconfidence in yourself. There is no living thing that is not afraid\nwhen it faces danger. The True courage is in facing danger when you are\nafraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty. \n\n Perhaps I have, but I m scared just the same,  said the Lion.  I shall\nreally be very unhappy unless you give me the sort of courage that\nmakes one forget he is afraid. \n\n Very well, I will give you that sort of courage tomorrow,  replied Oz.\n\n How about my heart?  asked the Tin Woodman.\n\n Why, as for that,  answered Oz,  I think you are wrong to want a\nheart. It makes most people unhappy. If you only knew it, you are in\nluck not to have a heart. \n\n That must be a matter of opinion,  said the Tin Woodman.  For my part,\nI will bear all the unhappiness without a murmur, if you will give me\nthe heart. \n\n Very well,  answered Oz meekly.  Come to me tomorrow and you shall\nhave a heart. I have played Wizard for so many years that I may as well\ncontinue the part a little longer. \n\n And now,  said Dorothy,  how am I to get back to Kansas? \n\n We shall have to think about that,  replied the little man.  Give me\ntwo or three days to consider the matter and I ll try to find a way to\ncarry you over the desert. In the meantime you shall all be treated as\nmy guests, and while you live in the Palace my people will wait upon\nyou and obey your slightest wish. There is only one thing I ask in\nreturn for my help such as it is. You must keep my secret and tell no\none I am a humbug. \n\nThey agreed to say nothing of what they had learned, and went back to\ntheir rooms in high spirits. Even Dorothy had hope that  The Great and\nTerrible Humbug,  as she called him, would find a way to send her back\nto Kansas, and if he did she was willing to forgive him everything.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI\nThe Magic Art of the Great Humbug\n\n\nNext morning the Scarecrow said to his friends:\n\n Congratulate me. I am going to Oz to get my brains at last. When I\nreturn I shall be as other men are. \n\n I have always liked you as you were,  said Dorothy simply.\n\n It is kind of you to like a Scarecrow,  he replied.  But surely you\nwill think more of me when you hear the splendid thoughts my new brain\nis going to turn out.  Then he said good-bye to them all in a cheerful\nvoice and went to the Throne Room, where he rapped upon the door.\n\n Come in,  said Oz.\n\nThe Scarecrow went in and found the little man sitting down by the\nwindow, engaged in deep thought.\n\n I have come for my brains,  remarked the Scarecrow, a little uneasily.\n\n Oh, yes; sit down in that chair, please,  replied Oz.  You must excuse\nme for taking your head off, but I shall have to do it in order to put\nyour brains in their proper place. \n\n That s all right,  said the Scarecrow.  You are quite welcome to take\nmy head off, as long as it will be a better one when you put it on\nagain. \n\nSo the Wizard unfastened his head and emptied out the straw. Then he\nentered the back room and took up a measure of bran, which he mixed\nwith a great many pins and needles. Having shaken them together\nthoroughly, he filled the top of the Scarecrow s head with the mixture\nand stuffed the rest of the space with straw, to hold it in place.\n\nWhen he had fastened the Scarecrow s head on his body again he said to\nhim,  Hereafter you will be a great man, for I have given you a lot of\nbran-new brains. \n\nThe Scarecrow was both pleased and proud at the fulfillment of his\ngreatest wish, and having thanked Oz warmly he went back to his\nfriends.\n\nDorothy looked at him curiously. His head was quite bulged out at the\ntop with brains.\n\n How do you feel?  she asked.\n\n I feel wise indeed,  he answered earnestly.  When I get used to my\nbrains I shall know everything. \n\n Why are those needles and pins sticking out of your head?  asked the\nTin Woodman.\n\n That is proof that he is sharp,  remarked the Lion.\n\n Well, I must go to Oz and get my heart,  said the Woodman. So he\nwalked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door.\n\n Come in,  called Oz, and the Woodman entered and said,  I have come\nfor my heart. \n\n Very well,  answered the little man.  But I shall have to cut a hole\nin your breast, so I can put your heart in the right place. I hope it\nwon t hurt you. \n\n Oh, no,  answered the Woodman.  I shall not feel it at all. \n\nSo Oz brought a pair of tinsmith s shears and cut a small, square hole\nin the left side of the Tin Woodman s breast. Then, going to a chest of\ndrawers, he took out a pretty heart, made entirely of silk and stuffed\nwith sawdust.\n\n Isn t it a beauty?  he asked.\n\n It is, indeed!  replied the Woodman, who was greatly pleased.  But is\nit a kind heart? \n\n Oh, very!  answered Oz. He put the heart in the Woodman s breast and\nthen replaced the square of tin, soldering it neatly together where it\nhad been cut.\n\n There,  said he;  now you have a heart that any man might be proud of.\nI m sorry I had to put a patch on your breast, but it really couldn t\nbe helped. \n\n Never mind the patch,  exclaimed the happy Woodman.  I am very\ngrateful to you, and shall never forget your kindness. \n\n Don t speak of it,  replied Oz.\n\nThen the Tin Woodman went back to his friends, who wished him every joy\non account of his good fortune.\n\nThe Lion now walked to the Throne Room and knocked at the door.\n\n Come in,  said Oz.\n\n I have come for my courage,  announced the Lion, entering the room.\n\n Very well,  answered the little man;  I will get it for you. \n\nHe went to a cupboard and reaching up to a high shelf took down a\nsquare green bottle, the contents of which he poured into a green-gold\ndish, beautifully carved. Placing this before the Cowardly Lion, who\nsniffed at it as if he did not like it, the Wizard said:\n\n Drink. \n\n What is it?  asked the Lion.\n\n Well,  answered Oz,  if it were inside of you, it would be courage.\nYou know, of course, that courage is always inside one; so that this\nreally cannot be called courage until you have swallowed it. Therefore\nI advise you to drink it as soon as possible. \n\nThe Lion hesitated no longer, but drank till the dish was empty.\n\n How do you feel now?  asked Oz.\n\n Full of courage,  replied the Lion, who went joyfully back to his\nfriends to tell them of his good fortune.\n\nOz, left to himself, smiled to think of his success in giving the\nScarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion exactly what they thought\nthey wanted.  How can I help being a humbug,  he said,  when all these\npeople make me do things that everybody knows can t be done? It was\neasy to make the Scarecrow and the Lion and the Woodman happy, because\nthey imagined I could do anything. But it will take more than\nimagination to carry Dorothy back to Kansas, and I m sure I don t know\nhow it can be done. \n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII\nHow the Balloon Was Launched\n\n\nFor three days Dorothy heard nothing from Oz. These were sad days for\nthe little girl, although her friends were all quite happy and\ncontented. The Scarecrow told them there were wonderful thoughts in his\nhead; but he would not say what they were because he knew no one could\nunderstand them but himself. When the Tin Woodman walked about he felt\nhis heart rattling around in his breast; and he told Dorothy he had\ndiscovered it to be a kinder and more tender heart than the one he had\nowned when he was made of flesh. The Lion declared he was afraid of\nnothing on earth, and would gladly face an army or a dozen of the\nfierce Kalidahs.\n\nThus each of the little party was satisfied except Dorothy, who longed\nmore than ever to get back to Kansas.\n\nOn the fourth day, to her great joy, Oz sent for her, and when she\nentered the Throne Room he greeted her pleasantly:\n\n Sit down, my dear; I think I have found the way to get you out of this\ncountry. \n\n And back to Kansas?  she asked eagerly.\n\n Well, I m not sure about Kansas,  said Oz,  for I haven t the faintest\nnotion which way it lies. But the first thing to do is to cross the\ndesert, and then it should be easy to find your way home. \n\n How can I cross the desert?  she inquired.\n\n Well, I ll tell you what I think,  said the little man.  You see, when\nI came to this country it was in a balloon. You also came through the\nair, being carried by a cyclone. So I believe the best way to get\nacross the desert will be through the air. Now, it is quite beyond my\npowers to make a cyclone; but I ve been thinking the matter over, and I\nbelieve I can make a balloon. \n\n How?  asked Dorothy.\n\n A balloon,  said Oz,  is made of silk, which is coated with glue to\nkeep the gas in it. I have plenty of silk in the Palace, so it will be\nno trouble to make the balloon. But in all this country there is no gas\nto fill the balloon with, to make it float. \n\n If it won t float,  remarked Dorothy,  it will be of no use to us. \n\n True,  answered Oz.  But there is another way to make it float, which\nis to fill it with hot air. Hot air isn t as good as gas, for if the\nair should get cold the balloon would come down in the desert, and we\nshould be lost. \n\n We!  exclaimed the girl.  Are you going with me? \n\n Yes, of course,  replied Oz.  I am tired of being such a humbug. If I\nshould go out of this Palace my people would soon discover I am not a\nWizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them.\nSo I have to stay shut up in these rooms all day, and it gets tiresome.\nI d much rather go back to Kansas with you and be in a circus again. \n\n I shall be glad to have your company,  said Dorothy.\n\n Thank you,  he answered.  Now, if you will help me sew the silk\ntogether, we will begin to work on our balloon. \n\nSo Dorothy took a needle and thread, and as fast as Oz cut the strips\nof silk into proper shape the girl sewed them neatly together. First\nthere was a strip of light green silk, then a strip of dark green and\nthen a strip of emerald green; for Oz had a fancy to make the balloon\nin different shades of the color about them. It took three days to sew\nall the strips together, but when it was finished they had a big bag of\ngreen silk more than twenty feet long.\n\nThen Oz painted it on the inside with a coat of thin glue, to make it\nairtight, after which he announced that the balloon was ready.\n\n But we must have a basket to ride in,  he said. So he sent the soldier\nwith the green whiskers for a big clothes basket, which he fastened\nwith many ropes to the bottom of the balloon.\n\nWhen it was all ready, Oz sent word to his people that he was going to\nmake a visit to a great brother Wizard who lived in the clouds. The\nnews spread rapidly throughout the city and everyone came to see the\nwonderful sight.\n\nOz ordered the balloon carried out in front of the Palace, and the\npeople gazed upon it with much curiosity. The Tin Woodman had chopped a\nbig pile of wood, and now he made a fire of it, and Oz held the bottom\nof the balloon over the fire so that the hot air that arose from it\nwould be caught in the silken bag. Gradually the balloon swelled out\nand rose into the air, until finally the basket just touched the\nground.\n\nThen Oz got into the basket and said to all the people in a loud voice:\n\n I am now going away to make a visit. While I am gone the Scarecrow\nwill rule over you. I command you to obey him as you would me. \n\nThe balloon was by this time tugging hard at the rope that held it to\nthe ground, for the air within it was hot, and this made it so much\nlighter in weight than the air without that it pulled hard to rise into\nthe sky.\n\n Come, Dorothy!  cried the Wizard.  Hurry up, or the balloon will fly\naway. \n\n I can t find Toto anywhere,  replied Dorothy, who did not wish to\nleave her little dog behind. Toto had run into the crowd to bark at a\nkitten, and Dorothy at last found him. She picked him up and ran\ntowards the balloon.\n\nShe was within a few steps of it, and Oz was holding out his hands to\nhelp her into the basket, when, crack! went the ropes, and the balloon\nrose into the air without her.\n\n Come back!  she screamed.  I want to go, too! \n\n I can t come back, my dear,  called Oz from the basket.  Good-bye! \n\n Good-bye!  shouted everyone, and all eyes were turned upward to where\nthe Wizard was riding in the basket, rising every moment farther and\nfarther into the sky.\n\nAnd that was the last any of them ever saw of Oz, the Wonderful Wizard,\nthough he may have reached Omaha safely, and be there now, for all we\nknow. But the people remembered him lovingly, and said to one another:\n\n Oz was always our friend. When he was here he built for us this\nbeautiful Emerald City, and now he is gone he has left the Wise\nScarecrow to rule over us. \n\nStill, for many days they grieved over the loss of the Wonderful\nWizard, and would not be comforted.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII\nAway to the South\n\n\nDorothy wept bitterly at the passing of her hope to get home to Kansas\nagain; but when she thought it all over she was glad she had not gone\nup in a balloon. And she also felt sorry at losing Oz, and so did her\ncompanions.\n\nThe Tin Woodman came to her and said:\n\n Truly I should be ungrateful if I failed to mourn for the man who gave\nme my lovely heart. I should like to cry a little because Oz is gone,\nif you will kindly wipe away my tears, so that I shall not rust. \n\n With pleasure,  she answered, and brought a towel at once. Then the\nTin Woodman wept for several minutes, and she watched the tears\ncarefully and wiped them away with the towel. When he had finished, he\nthanked her kindly and oiled himself thoroughly with his jeweled\noil-can, to guard against mishap.\n\nThe Scarecrow was now the ruler of the Emerald City, and although he\nwas not a Wizard the people were proud of him.  For,  they said,  there\nis not another city in all the world that is ruled by a stuffed man. \nAnd, so far as they knew, they were quite right.\n\nThe morning after the balloon had gone up with Oz, the four travelers\nmet in the Throne Room and talked matters over. The Scarecrow sat in\nthe big throne and the others stood respectfully before him.\n\n We are not so unlucky,  said the new ruler,  for this Palace and the\nEmerald City belong to us, and we can do just as we please. When I\nremember that a short time ago I was up on a pole in a farmer s\ncornfield, and that now I am the ruler of this beautiful City, I am\nquite satisfied with my lot. \n\n I also,  said the Tin Woodman,  am well-pleased with my new heart;\nand, really, that was the only thing I wished in all the world. \n\n For my part, I am content in knowing I am as brave as any beast that\never lived, if not braver,  said the Lion modestly.\n\n If Dorothy would only be contented to live in the Emerald City, \ncontinued the Scarecrow,  we might all be happy together. \n\n But I don t want to live here,  cried Dorothy.  I want to go to\nKansas, and live with Aunt Em and Uncle Henry. \n\n Well, then, what can be done?  inquired the Woodman.\n\nThe Scarecrow decided to think, and he thought so hard that the pins\nand needles began to stick out of his brains. Finally he said:\n\n Why not call the Winged Monkeys, and ask them to carry you over the\ndesert? \n\n I never thought of that!  said Dorothy joyfully.  It s just the thing.\nI ll go at once for the Golden Cap. \n\nWhen she brought it into the Throne Room she spoke the magic words, and\nsoon the band of Winged Monkeys flew in through the open window and\nstood beside her.\n\n This is the second time you have called us,  said the Monkey King,\nbowing before the little girl.  What do you wish? \n\n I want you to fly with me to Kansas,  said Dorothy.\n\nBut the Monkey King shook his head.\n\n That cannot be done,  he said.  We belong to this country alone, and\ncannot leave it. There has never been a Winged Monkey in Kansas yet,\nand I suppose there never will be, for they don t belong there. We\nshall be glad to serve you in any way in our power, but we cannot cross\nthe desert. Good-bye. \n\nAnd with another bow, the Monkey King spread his wings and flew away\nthrough the window, followed by all his band.\n\nDorothy was ready to cry with disappointment.  I have wasted the charm\nof the Golden Cap to no purpose,  she said,  for the Winged Monkeys\ncannot help me. \n\n It is certainly too bad!  said the tender-hearted Woodman.\n\nThe Scarecrow was thinking again, and his head bulged out so horribly\nthat Dorothy feared it would burst.\n\n Let us call in the soldier with the green whiskers,  he said,  and ask\nhis advice. \n\nSo the soldier was summoned and entered the Throne Room timidly, for\nwhile Oz was alive he never was allowed to come farther than the door.\n\n This little girl,  said the Scarecrow to the soldier,  wishes to cross\nthe desert. How can she do so? \n\n I cannot tell,  answered the soldier,  for nobody has ever crossed the\ndesert, unless it is Oz himself. \n\n Is there no one who can help me?  asked Dorothy earnestly.\n\n Glinda might,  he suggested.\n\n Who is Glinda?  inquired the Scarecrow.\n\n The Witch of the South. She is the most powerful of all the Witches,\nand rules over the Quadlings. Besides, her castle stands on the edge of\nthe desert, so she may know a way to cross it. \n\n Glinda is a Good Witch, isn t she?  asked the child.\n\n The Quadlings think she is good,  said the soldier,  and she is kind\nto everyone. I have heard that Glinda is a beautiful woman, who knows\nhow to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived. \n\n How can I get to her castle?  asked Dorothy.\n\n The road is straight to the South,  he answered,  but it is said to be\nfull of dangers to travelers. There are wild beasts in the woods, and a\nrace of queer men who do not like strangers to cross their country. For\nthis reason none of the Quadlings ever come to the Emerald City. \n\nThe soldier then left them and the Scarecrow said:\n\n It seems, in spite of dangers, that the best thing Dorothy can do is\nto travel to the Land of the South and ask Glinda to help her. For, of\ncourse, if Dorothy stays here she will never get back to Kansas. \n\n You must have been thinking again,  remarked the Tin Woodman.\n\n I have,  said the Scarecrow.\n\n I shall go with Dorothy,  declared the Lion,  for I am tired of your\ncity and long for the woods and the country again. I am really a wild\nbeast, you know. Besides, Dorothy will need someone to protect her. \n\n That is true,  agreed the Woodman.  My axe may be of service to her;\nso I also will go with her to the Land of the South. \n\n When shall we start?  asked the Scarecrow.\n\n Are you going?  they asked, in surprise.\n\n Certainly. If it wasn t for Dorothy I should never have had brains.\nShe lifted me from the pole in the cornfield and brought me to the\nEmerald City. So my good luck is all due to her, and I shall never\nleave her until she starts back to Kansas for good and all. \n\n Thank you,  said Dorothy gratefully.  You are all very kind to me. But\nI should like to start as soon as possible. \n\n We shall go tomorrow morning,  returned the Scarecrow.  So now let us\nall get ready, for it will be a long journey. \n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX\nAttacked by the Fighting Trees\n\n\nThe next morning Dorothy kissed the pretty green girl good-bye, and\nthey all shook hands with the soldier with the green whiskers, who had\nwalked with them as far as the gate. When the Guardian of the Gate saw\nthem again he wondered greatly that they could leave the beautiful City\nto get into new trouble. But he at once unlocked their spectacles,\nwhich he put back into the green box, and gave them many good wishes to\ncarry with them.\n\n You are now our ruler,  he said to the Scarecrow;  so you must come\nback to us as soon as possible. \n\n I certainly shall if I am able,  the Scarecrow replied;  but I must\nhelp Dorothy to get home, first. \n\nAs Dorothy bade the good-natured Guardian a last farewell she said:\n\n I have been very kindly treated in your lovely City, and everyone has\nbeen good to me. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. \n\n Don t try, my dear,  he answered.  We should like to keep you with us,\nbut if it is your wish to return to Kansas, I hope you will find a\nway.  He then opened the gate of the outer wall, and they walked forth\nand started upon their journey.\n\nThe sun shone brightly as our friends turned their faces toward the\nLand of the South. They were all in the best of spirits, and laughed\nand chatted together. Dorothy was once more filled with the hope of\ngetting home, and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were glad to be of\nuse to her. As for the Lion, he sniffed the fresh air with delight and\nwhisked his tail from side to side in pure joy at being in the country\nagain, while Toto ran around them and chased the moths and butterflies,\nbarking merrily all the time.\n\n City life does not agree with me at all,  remarked the Lion, as they\nwalked along at a brisk pace.  I have lost much flesh since I lived\nthere, and now I am anxious for a chance to show the other beasts how\ncourageous I have grown. \n\nThey now turned and took a last look at the Emerald City. All they\ncould see was a mass of towers and steeples behind the green walls, and\nhigh up above everything the spires and dome of the Palace of Oz.\n\n Oz was not such a bad Wizard, after all,  said the Tin Woodman, as he\nfelt his heart rattling around in his breast.\n\n He knew how to give me brains, and very good brains, too,  said the\nScarecrow.\n\n If Oz had taken a dose of the same courage he gave me,  added the\nLion,  he would have been a brave man. \n\nDorothy said nothing. Oz had not kept the promise he made her, but he\nhad done his best, so she forgave him. As he said, he was a good man,\neven if he was a bad Wizard.\n\nThe first day s journey was through the green fields and bright flowers\nthat stretched about the Emerald City on every side. They slept that\nnight on the grass, with nothing but the stars over them; and they\nrested very well indeed.\n\nIn the morning they traveled on until they came to a thick wood. There\nwas no way of going around it, for it seemed to extend to the right and\nleft as far as they could see; and, besides, they did not dare change\nthe direction of their journey for fear of getting lost. So they looked\nfor the place where it would be easiest to get into the forest.\n\nThe Scarecrow, who was in the lead, finally discovered a big tree with\nsuch wide-spreading branches that there was room for the party to pass\nunderneath. So he walked forward to the tree, but just as he came under\nthe first branches they bent down and twined around him, and the next\nminute he was raised from the ground and flung headlong among his\nfellow travelers.\n\nThis did not hurt the Scarecrow, but it surprised him, and he looked\nrather dizzy when Dorothy picked him up.\n\n Here is another space between the trees,  called the Lion.\n\n Let me try it first,  said the Scarecrow,  for it doesn t hurt me to\nget thrown about.  He walked up to another tree, as he spoke, but its\nbranches immediately seized him and tossed him back again.\n\n This is strange,  exclaimed Dorothy.  What shall we do? \n\n The trees seem to have made up their minds to fight us, and stop our\njourney,  remarked the Lion.\n\n I believe I will try it myself,  said the Woodman, and shouldering his\naxe, he marched up to the first tree that had handled the Scarecrow so\nroughly. When a big branch bent down to seize him the Woodman chopped\nat it so fiercely that he cut it in two. At once the tree began shaking\nall its branches as if in pain, and the Tin Woodman passed safely under\nit.\n\n Come on!  he shouted to the others.  Be quick!  They all ran forward\nand passed under the tree without injury, except Toto, who was caught\nby a small branch and shaken until he howled. But the Woodman promptly\nchopped off the branch and set the little dog free.\n\nThe other trees of the forest did nothing to keep them back, so they\nmade up their minds that only the first row of trees could bend down\ntheir branches, and that probably these were the policemen of the\nforest, and given this wonderful power in order to keep strangers out\nof it.\n\nThe four travelers walked with ease through the trees until they came\nto the farther edge of the wood. Then, to their surprise, they found\nbefore them a high wall which seemed to be made of white china. It was\nsmooth, like the surface of a dish, and higher than their heads.\n\n What shall we do now?  asked Dorothy.\n\n I will make a ladder,  said the Tin Woodman,  for we certainly must\nclimb over the wall. \n\n\n\n\nChapter XX\nThe Dainty China Country\n\n\nWhile the Woodman was making a ladder from wood which he found in the\nforest Dorothy lay down and slept, for she was tired by the long walk.\nThe Lion also curled himself up to sleep and Toto lay beside him.\n\nThe Scarecrow watched the Woodman while he worked, and said to him:\n\n I cannot think why this wall is here, nor what it is made of. \n\n Rest your brains and do not worry about the wall,  replied the\nWoodman.  When we have climbed over it, we shall know what is on the\nother side. \n\nAfter a time the ladder was finished. It looked clumsy, but the Tin\nWoodman was sure it was strong and would answer their purpose. The\nScarecrow waked Dorothy and the Lion and Toto, and told them that the\nladder was ready. The Scarecrow climbed up the ladder first, but he was\nso awkward that Dorothy had to follow close behind and keep him from\nfalling off. When he got his head over the top of the wall the\nScarecrow said,  Oh, my! \n\n Go on,  exclaimed Dorothy.\n\nSo the Scarecrow climbed farther up and sat down on the top of the\nwall, and Dorothy put her head over and cried,  Oh, my!  just as the\nScarecrow had done.\n\nThen Toto came up, and immediately began to bark, but Dorothy made him\nbe still.\n\nThe Lion climbed the ladder next, and the Tin Woodman came last; but\nboth of them cried,  Oh, my!  as soon as they looked over the wall.\nWhen they were all sitting in a row on the top of the wall, they looked\ndown and saw a strange sight.\n\nBefore them was a great stretch of country having a floor as smooth and\nshining and white as the bottom of a big platter. Scattered around were\nmany houses made entirely of china and painted in the brightest colors.\nThese houses were quite small, the biggest of them reaching only as\nhigh as Dorothy s waist. There were also pretty little barns, with\nchina fences around them; and many cows and sheep and horses and pigs\nand chickens, all made of china, were standing about in groups.\n\nBut the strangest of all were the people who lived in this queer\ncountry. There were milkmaids and shepherdesses, with brightly colored\nbodices and golden spots all over their gowns; and princesses with most\ngorgeous frocks of silver and gold and purple; and shepherds dressed in\nknee breeches with pink and yellow and blue stripes down them, and\ngolden buckles on their shoes; and princes with jeweled crowns upon\ntheir heads, wearing ermine robes and satin doublets; and funny clowns\nin ruffled gowns, with round red spots upon their cheeks and tall,\npointed caps. And, strangest of all, these people were all made of\nchina, even to their clothes, and were so small that the tallest of\nthem was no higher than Dorothy s knee.\n\nNo one did so much as look at the travelers at first, except one little\npurple china dog with an extra-large head, which came to the wall and\nbarked at them in a tiny voice, afterwards running away again.\n\n How shall we get down?  asked Dorothy.\n\nThey found the ladder so heavy they could not pull it up, so the\nScarecrow fell off the wall and the others jumped down upon him so that\nthe hard floor would not hurt their feet. Of course they took pains not\nto light on his head and get the pins in their feet. When all were\nsafely down they picked up the Scarecrow, whose body was quite\nflattened out, and patted his straw into shape again.\n\n We must cross this strange place in order to get to the other side, \nsaid Dorothy,  for it would be unwise for us to go any other way except\ndue South. \n\nThey began walking through the country of the china people, and the\nfirst thing they came to was a china milkmaid milking a china cow. As\nthey drew near, the cow suddenly gave a kick and kicked over the stool,\nthe pail, and even the milkmaid herself, and all fell on the china\nground with a great clatter.\n\nDorothy was shocked to see that the cow had broken her leg off, and\nthat the pail was lying in several small pieces, while the poor\nmilkmaid had a nick in her left elbow.\n\n There!  cried the milkmaid angrily.  See what you have done! My cow\nhas broken her leg, and I must take her to the mender s shop and have\nit glued on again. What do you mean by coming here and frightening my\ncow? \n\n I m very sorry,  returned Dorothy.  Please forgive us. \n\nBut the pretty milkmaid was much too vexed to make any answer. She\npicked up the leg sulkily and led her cow away, the poor animal limping\non three legs. As she left them the milkmaid cast many reproachful\nglances over her shoulder at the clumsy strangers, holding her nicked\nelbow close to her side.\n\nDorothy was quite grieved at this mishap.\n\n We must be very careful here,  said the kind-hearted Woodman,  or we\nmay hurt these pretty little people so they will never get over it. \n\nA little farther on Dorothy met a most beautifully dressed young\nPrincess, who stopped short as she saw the strangers and started to run\naway.\n\nDorothy wanted to see more of the Princess, so she ran after her. But\nthe china girl cried out:\n\n Don t chase me! Don t chase me! \n\nShe had such a frightened little voice that Dorothy stopped and said,\n Why not? \n\n Because,  answered the Princess, also stopping, a safe distance away,\n if I run I may fall down and break myself. \n\n But could you not be mended?  asked the girl.\n\n Oh, yes; but one is never so pretty after being mended, you know, \nreplied the Princess.\n\n I suppose not,  said Dorothy.\n\n Now there is Mr. Joker, one of our clowns,  continued the china lady,\n who is always trying to stand upon his head. He has broken himself so\noften that he is mended in a hundred places, and doesn t look at all\npretty. Here he comes now, so you can see for yourself. \n\nIndeed, a jolly little clown came walking toward them, and Dorothy\ncould see that in spite of his pretty clothes of red and yellow and\ngreen he was completely covered with cracks, running every which way\nand showing plainly that he had been mended in many places.\n\nThe Clown put his hands in his pockets, and after puffing out his\ncheeks and nodding his head at them saucily, he said:\n\n     My lady fair,\n   Why do you stare\nAt poor old Mr. Joker?\n    You re quite as stiff\n    And prim as if\nYou d eaten up a poker! \n\n\n Be quiet, sir!  said the Princess.  Can t you see these are strangers,\nand should be treated with respect? \n\n Well, that s respect, I expect,  declared the Clown, and immediately\nstood upon his head.\n\n Don t mind Mr. Joker,  said the Princess to Dorothy.  He is\nconsiderably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish. \n\n Oh, I don t mind him a bit,  said Dorothy.  But you are so beautiful, \nshe continued,  that I am sure I could love you dearly. Won t you let\nme carry you back to Kansas, and stand you on Aunt Em s mantel? I could\ncarry you in my basket. \n\n That would make me very unhappy,  answered the china Princess.  You\nsee, here in our country we live contentedly, and can talk and move\naround as we please. But whenever any of us are taken away our joints\nat once stiffen, and we can only stand straight and look pretty. Of\ncourse that is all that is expected of us when we are on mantels and\ncabinets and drawing-room tables, but our lives are much pleasanter\nhere in our own country. \n\n I would not make you unhappy for all the world!  exclaimed Dorothy.\n So I ll just say good-bye. \n\n Good-bye,  replied the Princess.\n\nThey walked carefully through the china country. The little animals and\nall the people scampered out of their way, fearing the strangers would\nbreak them, and after an hour or so the travelers reached the other\nside of the country and came to another china wall.\n\nIt was not so high as the first, however, and by standing upon the\nLion s back they all managed to scramble to the top. Then the Lion\ngathered his legs under him and jumped on the wall; but just as he\njumped, he upset a china church with his tail and smashed it all to\npieces.\n\n That was too bad,  said Dorothy,  but really I think we were lucky in\nnot doing these little people more harm than breaking a cow s leg and a\nchurch. They are all so brittle! \n\n They are, indeed,  said the Scarecrow,  and I am thankful I am made of\nstraw and cannot be easily damaged. There are worse things in the world\nthan being a Scarecrow. \n\n\n\n\nChapter XXI\nThe Lion Becomes the King of Beasts\n\n\nAfter climbing down from the china wall the travelers found themselves\nin a disagreeable country, full of bogs and marshes and covered with\ntall, rank grass. It was difficult to walk without falling into muddy\nholes, for the grass was so thick that it hid them from sight. However,\nby carefully picking their way, they got safely along until they\nreached solid ground. But here the country seemed wilder than ever, and\nafter a long and tiresome walk through the underbrush they entered\nanother forest, where the trees were bigger and older than any they had\never seen.\n\n This forest is perfectly delightful,  declared the Lion, looking\naround him with joy.  Never have I seen a more beautiful place. \n\n It seems gloomy,  said the Scarecrow.\n\n Not a bit of it,  answered the Lion.  I should like to live here all\nmy life. See how soft the dried leaves are under your feet and how rich\nand green the moss is that clings to these old trees. Surely no wild\nbeast could wish a pleasanter home. \n\n Perhaps there are wild beasts in the forest now,  said Dorothy.\n\n I suppose there are,  returned the Lion,  but I do not see any of them\nabout. \n\nThey walked through the forest until it became too dark to go any\nfarther. Dorothy and Toto and the Lion lay down to sleep, while the\nWoodman and the Scarecrow kept watch over them as usual.\n\nWhen morning came, they started again. Before they had gone far they\nheard a low rumble, as of the growling of many wild animals. Toto\nwhimpered a little, but none of the others was frightened, and they\nkept along the well-trodden path until they came to an opening in the\nwood, in which were gathered hundreds of beasts of every variety. There\nwere tigers and elephants and bears and wolves and foxes and all the\nothers in the natural history, and for a moment Dorothy was afraid. But\nthe Lion explained that the animals were holding a meeting, and he\njudged by their snarling and growling that they were in great trouble.\n\nAs he spoke several of the beasts caught sight of him, and at once the\ngreat assemblage hushed as if by magic. The biggest of the tigers came\nup to the Lion and bowed, saying:\n\n Welcome, O King of Beasts! You have come in good time to fight our\nenemy and bring peace to all the animals of the forest once more. \n\n What is your trouble?  asked the Lion quietly.\n\n We are all threatened,  answered the tiger,  by a fierce enemy which\nhas lately come into this forest. It is a most tremendous monster, like\na great spider, with a body as big as an elephant and legs as long as a\ntree trunk. It has eight of these long legs, and as the monster crawls\nthrough the forest he seizes an animal with a leg and drags it to his\nmouth, where he eats it as a spider does a fly. Not one of us is safe\nwhile this fierce creature is alive, and we had called a meeting to\ndecide how to take care of ourselves when you came among us. \n\nThe Lion thought for a moment.\n\n Are there any other lions in this forest?  he asked.\n\n No; there were some, but the monster has eaten them all. And, besides,\nthey were none of them nearly so large and brave as you. \n\n If I put an end to your enemy, will you bow down to me and obey me as\nKing of the Forest?  inquired the Lion.\n\n We will do that gladly,  returned the tiger; and all the other beasts\nroared with a mighty roar:  We will! \n\n Where is this great spider of yours now?  asked the Lion.\n\n Yonder, among the oak trees,  said the tiger, pointing with his\nforefoot.\n\n Take good care of these friends of mine,  said the Lion,  and I will\ngo at once to fight the monster. \n\nHe bade his comrades good-bye and marched proudly away to do battle\nwith the enemy.\n\nThe great spider was lying asleep when the Lion found him, and it\nlooked so ugly that its foe turned up his nose in disgust. Its legs\nwere quite as long as the tiger had said, and its body covered with\ncoarse black hair. It had a great mouth, with a row of sharp teeth a\nfoot long; but its head was joined to the pudgy body by a neck as\nslender as a wasp s waist. This gave the Lion a hint of the best way to\nattack the creature, and as he knew it was easier to fight it asleep\nthan awake, he gave a great spring and landed directly upon the\nmonster s back. Then, with one blow of his heavy paw, all armed with\nsharp claws, he knocked the spider s head from its body. Jumping down,\nhe watched it until the long legs stopped wiggling, when he knew it was\nquite dead.\n\nThe Lion went back to the opening where the beasts of the forest were\nwaiting for him and said proudly:\n\n You need fear your enemy no longer. \n\nThen the beasts bowed down to the Lion as their King, and he promised\nto come back and rule over them as soon as Dorothy was safely on her\nway to Kansas.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXII\nThe Country of the Quadlings\n\n\nThe four travelers passed through the rest of the forest in safety, and\nwhen they came out from its gloom saw before them a steep hill, covered\nfrom top to bottom with great pieces of rock.\n\n That will be a hard climb,  said the Scarecrow,  but we must get over\nthe hill, nevertheless. \n\nSo he led the way and the others followed. They had nearly reached the\nfirst rock when they heard a rough voice cry out,  Keep back! \n\n Who are you?  asked the Scarecrow.\n\nThen a head showed itself over the rock and the same voice said,  This\nhill belongs to us, and we don t allow anyone to cross it. \n\n But we must cross it,  said the Scarecrow.  We re going to the country\nof the Quadlings. \n\n But you shall not!  replied the voice, and there stepped from behind\nthe rock the strangest man the travelers had ever seen.\n\nHe was quite short and stout and had a big head, which was flat at the\ntop and supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles. But he had no arms\nat all, and, seeing this, the Scarecrow did not fear that so helpless a\ncreature could prevent them from climbing the hill. So he said,  I m\nsorry not to do as you wish, but we must pass over your hill whether\nyou like it or not,  and he walked boldly forward.\n\nAs quick as lightning the man s head shot forward and his neck\nstretched out until the top of the head, where it was flat, struck the\nScarecrow in the middle and sent him tumbling, over and over, down the\nhill. Almost as quickly as it came the head went back to the body, and\nthe man laughed harshly as he said,  It isn t as easy as you think! \n\nA chorus of boisterous laughter came from the other rocks, and Dorothy\nsaw hundreds of the armless Hammer-Heads upon the hillside, one behind\nevery rock.\n\nThe Lion became quite angry at the laughter caused by the Scarecrow s\nmishap, and giving a loud roar that echoed like thunder, he dashed up\nthe hill.\n\nAgain a head shot swiftly out, and the great Lion went rolling down the\nhill as if he had been struck by a cannon ball.\n\nDorothy ran down and helped the Scarecrow to his feet, and the Lion\ncame up to her, feeling rather bruised and sore, and said,  It is\nuseless to fight people with shooting heads; no one can withstand\nthem. \n\n What can we do, then?  she asked.\n\n Call the Winged Monkeys,  suggested the Tin Woodman.  You have still\nthe right to command them once more. \n\n Very well,  she answered, and putting on the Golden Cap she uttered\nthe magic words. The Monkeys were as prompt as ever, and in a few\nmoments the entire band stood before her.\n\n What are your commands?  inquired the King of the Monkeys, bowing low.\n\n Carry us over the hill to the country of the Quadlings,  answered the\ngirl.\n\n It shall be done,  said the King, and at once the Winged Monkeys\ncaught the four travelers and Toto up in their arms and flew away with\nthem. As they passed over the hill the Hammer-Heads yelled with\nvexation, and shot their heads high in the air, but they could not\nreach the Winged Monkeys, which carried Dorothy and her comrades safely\nover the hill and set them down in the beautiful country of the\nQuadlings.\n\n This is the last time you can summon us,  said the leader to Dorothy;\n so good-bye and good luck to you. \n\n Good-bye, and thank you very much,  returned the girl; and the Monkeys\nrose into the air and were out of sight in a twinkling.\n\nThe country of the Quadlings seemed rich and happy. There was field\nupon field of ripening grain, with well-paved roads running between,\nand pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges across them. The fences\nand houses and bridges were all painted bright red, just as they had\nbeen painted yellow in the country of the Winkies and blue in the\ncountry of the Munchkins. The Quadlings themselves, who were short and\nfat and looked chubby and good-natured, were dressed all in red, which\nshowed bright against the green grass and the yellowing grain.\n\nThe Monkeys had set them down near a farmhouse, and the four travelers\nwalked up to it and knocked at the door. It was opened by the farmer s\nwife, and when Dorothy asked for something to eat the woman gave them\nall a good dinner, with three kinds of cake and four kinds of cookies,\nand a bowl of milk for Toto.\n\n How far is it to the Castle of Glinda?  asked the child.\n\n It is not a great way,  answered the farmer s wife.  Take the road to\nthe South and you will soon reach it. \n\nThanking the good woman, they started afresh and walked by the fields\nand across the pretty bridges until they saw before them a very\nbeautiful Castle. Before the gates were three young girls, dressed in\nhandsome red uniforms trimmed with gold braid; and as Dorothy\napproached, one of them said to her:\n\n Why have you come to the South Country? \n\n To see the Good Witch who rules here,  she answered.  Will you take me\nto her? \n\n Let me have your name, and I will ask Glinda if she will receive you. \nThey told who they were, and the girl soldier went into the Castle.\nAfter a few moments she came back to say that Dorothy and the others\nwere to be admitted at once.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII\nGlinda The Good Witch Grants Dorothy s Wish\n\n\nBefore they went to see Glinda, however, they were taken to a room of\nthe Castle, where Dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the\nLion shook the dust out of his mane, and the Scarecrow patted himself\ninto his best shape, and the Woodman polished his tin and oiled his\njoints.\n\nWhen they were all quite presentable they followed the soldier girl\ninto a big room where the Witch Glinda sat upon a throne of rubies.\n\nShe was both beautiful and young to their eyes. Her hair was a rich red\nin color and fell in flowing ringlets over her shoulders. Her dress was\npure white but her eyes were blue, and they looked kindly upon the\nlittle girl.\n\n What can I do for you, my child?  she asked.\n\nDorothy told the Witch all her story: how the cyclone had brought her\nto the Land of Oz, how she had found her companions, and of the\nwonderful adventures they had met with.\n\n My greatest wish now,  she added,  is to get back to Kansas, for Aunt\nEm will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that\nwill make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this\nyear than they were last, I am sure Uncle Henry cannot afford it. \n\nGlinda leaned forward and kissed the sweet, upturned face of the loving\nlittle girl.\n\n Bless your dear heart,  she said,  I am sure I can tell you of a way\nto get back to Kansas.  Then she added,  But, if I do, you must give me\nthe Golden Cap. \n\n Willingly!  exclaimed Dorothy;  indeed, it is of no use to me now, and\nwhen you have it you can command the Winged Monkeys three times. \n\n And I think I shall need their service just those three times, \nanswered Glinda, smiling.\n\nDorothy then gave her the Golden Cap, and the Witch said to the\nScarecrow,  What will you do when Dorothy has left us? \n\n I will return to the Emerald City,  he replied,  for Oz has made me\nits ruler and the people like me. The only thing that worries me is how\nto cross the hill of the Hammer-Heads. \n\n By means of the Golden Cap I shall command the Winged Monkeys to carry\nyou to the gates of the Emerald City,  said Glinda,  for it would be a\nshame to deprive the people of so wonderful a ruler. \n\n Am I really wonderful?  asked the Scarecrow.\n\n You are unusual,  replied Glinda.\n\nTurning to the Tin Woodman, she asked,  What will become of you when\nDorothy leaves this country? \n\nHe leaned on his axe and thought a moment. Then he said,  The Winkies\nwere very kind to me, and wanted me to rule over them after the Wicked\nWitch died. I am fond of the Winkies, and if I could get back again to\nthe Country of the West, I should like nothing better than to rule over\nthem forever. \n\n My second command to the Winged Monkeys,  said Glinda  will be that\nthey carry you safely to the land of the Winkies. Your brain may not be\nso large to look at as those of the Scarecrow, but you are really\nbrighter than he is when you are well polished and I am sure you will\nrule the Winkies wisely and well. \n\nThen the Witch looked at the big, shaggy Lion and asked,  When Dorothy\nhas returned to her own home, what will become of you? \n\n Over the hill of the Hammer-Heads,  he answered,  lies a grand old\nforest, and all the beasts that live there have made me their King. If\nI could only get back to this forest, I would pass my life very happily\nthere. \n\n My third command to the Winged Monkeys,  said Glinda,  shall be to\ncarry you to your forest. Then, having used up the powers of the Golden\nCap, I shall give it to the King of the Monkeys, that he and his band\nmay thereafter be free for evermore. \n\nThe Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman and the Lion now thanked the Good\nWitch earnestly for her kindness; and Dorothy exclaimed:\n\n You are certainly as good as you are beautiful! But you have not yet\ntold me how to get back to Kansas. \n\n Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert,  replied Glinda.  If\nyou had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em the\nvery first day you came to this country. \n\n But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!  cried the\nScarecrow.  I might have passed my whole life in the farmer s\ncornfield. \n\n And I should not have had my lovely heart,  said the Tin Woodman.  I\nmight have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world. \n\n And I should have lived a coward forever,  declared the Lion,  and no\nbeast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me. \n\n This is all true,  said Dorothy,  and I am glad I was of use to these\ngood friends. But now that each of them has had what he most desired,\nand each is happy in having a kingdom to rule besides, I think I should\nlike to go back to Kansas. \n\n The Silver Shoes,  said the Good Witch,  have wonderful powers. And\none of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to\nany place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in\nthe wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together\nthree times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to\ngo. \n\n If that is so,  said the child joyfully,  I will ask them to carry me\nback to Kansas at once. \n\nShe threw her arms around the Lion s neck and kissed him, patting his\nbig head tenderly. Then she kissed the Tin Woodman, who was weeping in\na way most dangerous to his joints. But she hugged the soft, stuffed\nbody of the Scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face,\nand found she was crying herself at this sorrowful parting from her\nloving comrades.\n\nGlinda the Good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the little\ngirl a good-bye kiss, and Dorothy thanked her for all the kindness she\nhad shown to her friends and herself.\n\nDorothy now took Toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said one last\ngood-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three times,\nsaying:\n\n Take me home to Aunt Em! \n\n\nInstantly she was whirling through the air, so swiftly that all she\ncould see or feel was the wind whistling past her ears.\n\nThe Silver Shoes took but three steps, and then she stopped so suddenly\nthat she rolled over upon the grass several times before she knew where\nshe was.\n\nAt length, however, she sat up and looked about her.\n\n Good gracious!  she cried.\n\nFor she was sitting on the broad Kansas prairie, and just before her\nwas the new farmhouse Uncle Henry built after the cyclone had carried\naway the old one. Uncle Henry was milking the cows in the barnyard, and\nToto had jumped out of her arms and was running toward the barn,\nbarking furiously.\n\nDorothy stood up and found she was in her stocking-feet. For the Silver\nShoes had fallen off in her flight through the air, and were lost\nforever in the desert.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV\nHome Again\n\n\nAunt Em had just come out of the house to water the cabbages when she\nlooked up and saw Dorothy running toward her.\n\n My darling child!  she cried, folding the little girl in her arms and\ncovering her face with kisses.  Where in the world did you come from? \n\n From the Land of Oz,  said Dorothy gravely.  And here is Toto, too.\nAnd oh, Aunt Em! I m so glad to be at home again! "
    },
    {
        "title": "A Tale of Two Cities",
        "author": "Charles Dickens",
        "category": "Historical Fiction",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I.\nThe Period\n\n\nIt was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of\nwisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it\nwas the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the\nseason of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of\ndespair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were\nall going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in\nshort, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its\nnoisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for\nevil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.\n\nThere were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the\nthrone of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with\na fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer\nthan crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,\nthat things in general were settled for ever.\n\nIt was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.\nSpiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,\nas at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth\nblessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had\nheralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were\nmade for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane\nghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its\nmessages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally\ndeficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the\nearthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,\nfrom a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange\nto relate, have proved more important to the human race than any\ncommunications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane\nbrood.\n\nFrance, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her\nsister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down\nhill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her\nChristian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane\nachievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue\ntorn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not\nkneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks\nwhich passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty\nyards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and\nNorway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,\nalready marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into\nboards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in\nit, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses\nof some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were\nsheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with\nrustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which\nthe Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of\nthe Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work\nunceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about\nwith muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion\nthat they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.\n\nIn England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to\njustify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and\nhighway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;\nfamilies were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing\ntheir furniture to upholsterers  warehouses for security; the highwayman\nin the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and\nchallenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of\n the Captain,  gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the\nmail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and\nthen got shot dead himself by the other four,  in consequence of the\nfailure of his ammunition:  after which the mail was robbed in peace;\nthat magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand\nand deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the\nillustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London\ngaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law\nfired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;\nthieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at\nCourt drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles s, to search\nfor contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the\nmusketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences\nmuch out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy\nand ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing\nup long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on\nSaturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the\nhand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of\nWestminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,\nand to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer s boy of\nsixpence.\n\nAll these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close\nupon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.\nEnvironed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,\nthose two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the\nfair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights\nwith a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred\nand seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small\ncreatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the\nroads that lay before them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nThe Mail\n\n\nIt was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,\nbefore the first of the persons with whom this history has business.\nThe Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up\nShooter s Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,\nas the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish\nfor walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,\nand the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the\nhorses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the\ncoach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back\nto Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in\ncombination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose\notherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals\nare endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to\ntheir duty.\n\nWith drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through\nthe thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were\nfalling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested\nthem and brought them to a stand, with a wary  Wo-ho! so-ho-then!  the\nnear leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an\nunusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the\nhill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a\nnervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.\n\nThere was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its\nforlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding\nnone. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the\nair in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the\nwaves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out\neverything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,\nand a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed\ninto it, as if they had made it all.\n\nTwo other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the\nside of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the\nears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from\nanything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was\nhidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from\nthe eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers\nwere very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on\nthe road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,\nwhen every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in\n the Captain s  pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable\nnon-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard\nof the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one\nthousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter s Hill, as\nhe stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,\nand keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a\nloaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,\ndeposited on a substratum of cutlass.\n\nThe Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected\nthe passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they\nall suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but\nthe horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have\ntaken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the\njourney.\n\n Wo-ho!  said the coachman.  So, then! One more pull and you re at the\ntop and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to\nit!--Joe! \n\n Halloa!  the guard replied.\n\n What o clock do you make it, Joe? \n\n Ten minutes, good, past eleven. \n\n My blood!  ejaculated the vexed coachman,  and not atop of Shooter s\nyet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you! \n\nThe emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,\nmade a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed\nsuit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its\npassengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach\nstopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three\nhad had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead\ninto the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of\ngetting shot instantly as a highwayman.\n\nThe last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses\nstopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for\nthe descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.\n\n Tst! Joe!  cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his\nbox.\n\n What do you say, Tom? \n\nThey both listened.\n\n I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe. \n\n _I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,  returned the guard, leaving his hold\nof the door, and mounting nimbly to his place.  Gentlemen! In the king s\nname, all of you! \n\nWith this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on\nthe offensive.\n\nThe passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;\nthe two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He\nremained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained\nin the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,\nand from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked\nback and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up\nhis ears and looked back, without contradicting.\n\nThe stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring\nof the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet\nindeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to\nthe coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the\npassengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the\nquiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding\nthe breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.\n\nThe sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.\n\n So-ho!  the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar.  Yo there! Stand!\nI shall fire! \n\nThe pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,\na man s voice called from the mist,  Is that the Dover mail? \n\n Never you mind what it is!  the guard retorted.  What are you? \n\n _Is_ that the Dover mail? \n\n Why do you want to know? \n\n I want a passenger, if it is. \n\n What passenger? \n\n Mr. Jarvis Lorry. \n\nOur booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,\nthe coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.\n\n Keep where you are,  the guard called to the voice in the mist,\n because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in\nyour lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight. \n\n What is the matter?  asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering\nspeech.  Who wants me? Is it Jerry? \n\n( I don t like Jerry s voice, if it is Jerry,  growled the guard to\nhimself.  He s hoarser than suits me, is Jerry. )\n\n Yes, Mr. Lorry. \n\n What is the matter? \n\n A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co. \n\n I know this messenger, guard,  said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the\nroad--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two\npassengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and\npulled up the window.  He may come close; there s nothing wrong. \n\n I hope there ain t, but I can t make so  Nation sure of that,  said the\nguard, in gruff soliloquy.  Hallo you! \n\n Well! And hallo you!  said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.\n\n Come on at a footpace! d ye mind me? And if you ve got holsters to that\nsaddle o  yourn, don t let me see your hand go nigh  em. For I m a devil\nat a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So\nnow let s look at you. \n\nThe figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,\nand came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider\nstooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger\na small folded paper. The rider s horse was blown, and both horse and\nrider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of\nthe man.\n\n Guard!  said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.\n\nThe watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised\nblunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,\nanswered curtly,  Sir. \n\n There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson s Bank. You must\nknow Tellson s Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown\nto drink. I may read this? \n\n If so be as you re quick, sir. \n\nHe opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and\nread--first to himself and then aloud:  Wait at Dover for Mam selle. \nIt s not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED\nTO LIFE. \n\nJerry started in his saddle.  That s a Blazing strange answer, too, \n said he, at his hoarsest.\n\n Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as\nwell as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night. \n\nWith those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at\nall assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted\ntheir watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general\npretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape\nthe hazard of originating any other kind of action.\n\nThe coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round\nit as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss\nin his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and\nhaving looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,\nlooked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a\nfew smith s tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was\nfurnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown\nand stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut\nhimself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,\nand get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in\nfive minutes.\n\n Tom!  softly over the coach roof.\n\n Hallo, Joe. \n\n Did you hear the message? \n\n I did, Joe. \n\n What did you make of it, Tom? \n\n Nothing at all, Joe. \n\n That s a coincidence, too,  the guard mused,  for I made the same of it\nmyself. \n\nJerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not\nonly to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and\nshake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of\nholding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his\nheavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within\nhearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the\nhill.\n\n After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won t trust your\nfore-legs till I get you on the level,  said this hoarse messenger,\nglancing at his mare.  Recalled to life.  That s a Blazing strange\nmessage. Much of that wouldn t do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You d\nbe in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,\nJerry! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nThe Night Shadows\n\n\nA wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is\nconstituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A\nsolemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every\none of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every\nroom in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating\nheart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of\nits imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the\nawfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I\nturn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time\nto read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable\nwater, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses\nof buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the\nbook should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read\nbut a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an\neternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood\nin ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,\nmy love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable\nconsolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that\nindividuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life s end. In\nany of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there\na sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their\ninnermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?\n\nAs to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the\nmessenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the\nfirst Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the\nthree passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail\ncoach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had\nbeen in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the\nbreadth of a county between him and the next.\n\nThe messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at\nale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his\nown counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that\nassorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with\nno depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they\nwere afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too\nfar apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like\na three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and\nthroat, which descended nearly to the wearer s knees. When he stopped\nfor drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he\npoured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he\nmuffled again.\n\n No, Jerry, no!  said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.\n It wouldn t do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn t\nsuit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don t think he d\nbeen a drinking! \n\nHis message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several\ntimes, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,\nwhich was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all\nover it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was\nso like Smith s work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked\nwall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might\nhave declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.\n\nWhile he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night\nwatchman in his box at the door of Tellson s Bank, by Temple Bar, who\nwas to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the\nnight took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such\nshapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.\nThey seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.\n\nWhat time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon\nits tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,\nlikewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms\ntheir dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.\n\nTellson s Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank\npassenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what\nlay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,\nand driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special\njolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little\ncoach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the\nbulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great\nstroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,\nand more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson s, with\nall its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then\nthe strong-rooms underground, at Tellson s, with such of their valuable\nstores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a\nlittle that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among\nthem with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them\nsafe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.\n\nBut, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach\n(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was\nalways with him, there was another current of impression that never\nceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one\nout of a grave.\n\nNow, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him\nwas the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did\nnot indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by\nyears, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,\nand in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,\ndefiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;\nso did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands\nand figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was\nprematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this\nspectre:\n\n Buried how long? \n\nThe answer was always the same:  Almost eighteen years. \n\n You had abandoned all hope of being dug out? \n\n Long ago. \n\n You know that you are recalled to life? \n\n They tell me so. \n\n I hope you care to live? \n\n I can t say. \n\n Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her? \n\nThe answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes\nthe broken reply was,  Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon. \n Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,\n Take me to her.  Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it\nwas,  I don t know her. I don t understand. \n\nAfter such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,\nand dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his\nhands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth\nhanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The\npassenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the\nreality of mist and rain on his cheek.\n\nYet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving\npatch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating\nby jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train\nof the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the\nreal business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express\nsent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out\nof the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost\nit again.\n\n Buried how long? \n\n Almost eighteen years. \n\n I hope you care to live? \n\n I can t say. \n\nDig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two\npassengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm\nsecurely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two\nslumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again\nslid away into the bank and the grave.\n\n Buried how long? \n\n Almost eighteen years. \n\n You had abandoned all hope of being dug out? \n\n Long ago. \n\nThe words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in\nhis hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary\npassenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the\nshadows of the night were gone.\n\nHe lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a\nridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left\nlast night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,\nin which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained\nupon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,\nand the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.\n\n Eighteen years!  said the passenger, looking at the sun.  Gracious\nCreator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nThe Preparation\n\n\nWhen the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,\nthe head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his\ncustom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey\nfrom London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous\ntraveller upon.\n\nBy that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be\ncongratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective\nroadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp\nand dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather\nlike a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out\nof it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and\nmuddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.\n\n There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer? \n\n Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The\ntide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,\nsir? \n\n I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber. \n\n And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.\nShow Concord! Gentleman s valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off\ngentleman s boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)\nFetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord! \n\nThe Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the\nmail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from\nhead to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the\nRoyal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,\nall kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another\ndrawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all\nloitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord\nand the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a\nbrown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large\nsquare cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to\nhis breakfast.\n\nThe coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman\nin brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,\nwith its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,\nthat he might have been sitting for his portrait.\n\nVery orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a\nloud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,\nas though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and\nevanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain\nof it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a\nfine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He\nwore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his\nhead: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which\nlooked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.\nHis linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,\nwas as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring\nbeach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A\nface habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the\nquaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost\ntheir owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and\nreserved expression of Tellson s Bank. He had a healthy colour in his\ncheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.\nBut, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson s Bank were\nprincipally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps\nsecond-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.\n\nCompleting his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,\nMr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,\nand he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:\n\n I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any\ntime to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a\ngentleman from Tellson s Bank. Please to let me know. \n\n Yes, sir. Tellson s Bank in London, sir? \n\n Yes. \n\n Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in\ntheir travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A\nvast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company s House. \n\n Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one. \n\n Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,\nsir? \n\n Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last\nfrom France. \n\n Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people s\ntime here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir. \n\n I believe so. \n\n But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and\nCompany was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen\nyears ago? \n\n You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from\nthe truth. \n\n Indeed, sir! \n\nRounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the\ntable, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,\ndropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while\nhe ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the\nimmemorial usage of waiters in all ages.\n\nWhen Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on\nthe beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away\nfrom the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine\nostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling\nwildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was\ndestruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and\nbrought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong\na piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be\ndipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little\nfishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by\nnight, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide\nmade, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,\nsometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable\nthat nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.\n\nAs the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been\nat intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became\nagain charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry s thoughts seemed to cloud\ntoo. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting\nhis dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,\ndigging, digging, in the live red coals.\n\nA bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no\nharm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.\nMr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last\nglassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is\never to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has\ngot to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow\nstreet, and rumbled into the inn-yard.\n\nHe set down his glass untouched.  This is Mam selle!  said he.\n\nIn a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette\nhad arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from\nTellson s.\n\n So soon? \n\nMiss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none\nthen, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson s\nimmediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.\n\nThe gentleman from Tellson s had nothing left for it but to empty his\nglass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen\nwig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette s apartment.\nIt was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black\nhorsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and\noiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room\nwere gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep\ngraves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected\nfrom them until they were dug out.\n\nThe obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his\nway over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for\nthe moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall\ncandles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and\nthe fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,\nand still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As\nhis eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden\nhair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and\na forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth\nit was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was\nnot quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright\nfixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his\neyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,\nof a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very\nChannel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran\nhigh. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of\nthe gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital\nprocession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were\noffering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the\nfeminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.\n\n Pray take a seat, sir.  In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a\nlittle foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.\n\n I kiss your hand, miss,  said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier\ndate, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.\n\n I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that\nsome intelligence--or discovery-- \n\n The word is not material, miss; either word will do. \n\n --respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so\nlong dead-- \n\nMr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the\nhospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for\nanybody in their absurd baskets!\n\n --rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate\nwith a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for\nthe purpose. \n\n Myself. \n\n As I was prepared to hear, sir. \n\nShe curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a\npretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he\nwas than she. He made her another bow.\n\n I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by\nthose who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to\nFrance, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with\nme, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,\nduring the journey, under that worthy gentleman s protection. The\ngentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to\nbeg the favour of his waiting for me here. \n\n I was happy,  said Mr. Lorry,  to be entrusted with the charge. I shall\nbe more happy to execute it. \n\n Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me\nby the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the\nbusiness, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising\nnature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a\nstrong and eager interest to know what they are. \n\n Naturally,  said Mr. Lorry.  Yes--I-- \n\nAfter a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the\nears,  It is very difficult to begin. \n\nHe did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young\nforehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty\nand characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,\nas if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing\nshadow.\n\n Are you quite a stranger to me, sir? \n\n Am I not?  Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with\nan argumentative smile.\n\nBetween the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of\nwhich was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression\ndeepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which\nshe had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the\nmoment she raised her eyes again, went on:\n\n In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you\nas a young English lady, Miss Manette? \n\n If you please, sir. \n\n Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to\nacquit myself of. In your reception of it, don t heed me any more than\nif I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with\nyour leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers. \n\n Story! \n\nHe seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,\nin a hurry,  Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call\nour connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific\ngentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor. \n\n Not of Beauvais? \n\n Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the\ngentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the\ngentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.\nOur relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that\ntime in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years. \n\n At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir? \n\n I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and\nI was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other\nFrench gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson s hands.\nIn a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for\nscores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;\nthere is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like\nsentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my\nbusiness life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in\nthe course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere\nmachine. To go on-- \n\n But this is my father s story, sir; and I begin to think --the\ncuriously roughened forehead was very intent upon him-- that when I was\nleft an orphan through my mother s surviving my father only two years,\nit was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you. \n\nMr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced\nto take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then\nconducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding\nthe chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub\nhis chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking\ndown into her face while she sat looking up into his.\n\n Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself\njust now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold\nwith my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect\nthat I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of\nTellson s House since, and I have been busy with the other business of\nTellson s House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance\nof them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary\nMangle. \n\nAfter this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry\nflattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most\nunnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was\nbefore), and resumed his former attitude.\n\n So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your\nregretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died\nwhen he did--Don t be frightened! How you start! \n\nShe did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.\n\n Pray,  said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from\nthe back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped\nhim in so violent a tremble:  pray control your agitation--a matter of\nbusiness. As I was saying-- \n\nHer look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:\n\n As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly\nand silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not\nbeen difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could\ntrace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a\nprivilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid\nto speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the\nprivilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one\nto the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had\nimplored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of\nhim, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have\nbeen the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais. \n\n I entreat you to tell me more, sir. \n\n I will. I am going to. You can bear it? \n\n I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this\nmoment. \n\n You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That s good!  (Though\nhis manner was less satisfied than his words.)  A matter of business.\nRegard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now\nif this doctor s wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,\nhad suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was\nborn-- \n\n The little child was a daughter, sir. \n\n A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don t be distressed. Miss, if the\npoor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,\nthat she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the\ninheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by\nrearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don t kneel! In\nHeaven s name why should you kneel to me! \n\n For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth! \n\n A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact\nbusiness if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly\nmention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many\nshillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so\nmuch more at my ease about your state of mind. \n\nWithout directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had\nvery gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp\nhis wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she\ncommunicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.\n\n That s right, that s right. Courage! Business! You have business before\nyou; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with\nyou. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened\nher unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,\nto grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud\nupon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his\nheart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years. \n\nAs he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the\nflowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have\nbeen already tinged with grey.\n\n You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what\nthey had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new\ndiscovery, of money, or of any other property; but-- \n\nHe felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the\nforehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was\nnow immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.\n\n But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too\nprobable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.\nStill, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant\nin Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to\nrestore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort. \n\nA shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a\nlow, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,\n\n I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him! \n\nMr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm.  There, there,\nthere! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.\nYou are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair\nsea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side. \n\nShe repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper,  I have been free, I\nhave been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me! \n\n Only one thing more,  said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a\nwholesome means of enforcing her attention:  he has been found under\nanother name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be\nworse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to\nknow whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly\nheld prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,\nbecause it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,\nanywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all\nevents--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even\nTellson s, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of\nthe matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring\nto it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,\nand memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line,  Recalled to Life; \nwhich may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn t notice a\nword! Miss Manette! \n\nPerfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she\nsat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed\nupon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or\nbranded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he\nfeared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called\nout loudly for assistance without moving.\n\nA wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to\nbe all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some\nextraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most\nwonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,\nor a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the\ninn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the\npoor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him\nflying back against the nearest wall.\n\n( I really think this must be a man!  was Mr. Lorry s breathless\nreflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)\n\n Why, look at you all!  bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.\n Why don t you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring\nat me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don t you go and fetch\nthings? I ll let you know, if you don t bring smelling-salts, cold\nwater, and vinegar, quick, I will. \n\nThere was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she\nsoftly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and\ngentleness: calling her  my precious!  and  my bird!  and spreading her\ngolden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.\n\n And you in brown!  she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;\n couldn t you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her\nto death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do\nyou call _that_ being a Banker? \n\nMr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to\nanswer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler\nsympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn\nservants under the mysterious penalty of  letting them know  something\nnot mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a\nregular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head\nupon her shoulder.\n\n I hope she will do well now,  said Mr. Lorry.\n\n No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty! \n\n I hope,  said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and\nhumility,  that you accompany Miss Manette to France? \n\n A likely thing, too!  replied the strong woman.  If it was ever\nintended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence\nwould have cast my lot in an island? \n\nThis being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to\nconsider it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nThe Wine-shop\n\n\nA large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The\naccident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled\nout with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just\noutside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.\n\nAll the people within reach had suspended their business, or their\nidleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular\nstones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have\nthought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,\nhad dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own\njostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,\nmade scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help\nwomen, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all\nrun out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in\nthe puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with\nhandkerchiefs from women s heads, which were squeezed dry into infants \nmouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;\nothers, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and\nthere, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new\ndirections; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed\npieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted\nfragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the\nwine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up\nalong with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,\nif anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous\npresence.\n\nA shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,\nand children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There\nwas little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a\nspecial companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part\nof every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the\nluckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,\nshaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen\ntogether. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been\nmost abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these\ndemonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who\nhad left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in\nmotion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of\nhot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own\nstarved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men\nwith bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into\nthe winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom\ngathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.\n\nThe wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street\nin the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had\nstained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many\nwooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks\non the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was\nstained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.\nThose who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a\ntigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his\nhead more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled\nupon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.\n\nThe time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the\nstreet-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.\n\nAnd now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary\ngleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was\nheavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in\nwaiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;\nbut, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a\nterrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the\nfabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,\npassed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered\nin every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which\nhad worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the\nchildren had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the\ngrown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,\nwas the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out\nof the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and\nlines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and\npaper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of\nfirewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless\nchimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,\namong its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the\nbaker s shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of\nbad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that\nwas offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting\nchestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every\nfarthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant\ndrops of oil.\n\nIts abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding\nstreet, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets\ndiverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags\nand nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them\nthat looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some\nwild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and\nslinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor\ncompressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted\ninto the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or\ninflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)\nwere, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman\npainted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of\nmeagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,\ncroaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were\ngloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a\nflourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler s knives\nand axes were sharp and bright, the smith s hammers were heavy, and the\ngunmaker s stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,\nwith their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but\nbroke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down\nthe middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy\nrains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across\nthe streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and\npulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,\nand hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly\nmanner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and\nthe ship and crew were in peril of tempest.\n\nFor, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region\nshould have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so\nlong, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling\nup men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their\ncondition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over\nFrance shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of\nsong and feather, took no warning.\n\nThe wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its\nappearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside\nit, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle\nfor the lost wine.  It s not my affair,  said he, with a final shrug\nof the shoulders.  The people from the market did it. Let them bring\nanother. \n\nThere, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,\nhe called to him across the way:\n\n Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there? \n\nThe fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often\nthe way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is\noften the way with his tribe too.\n\n What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?  said the wine-shop\nkeeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of\nmud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it.  Why do you write\nin the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place\nto write such words in? \n\nIn his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,\nperhaps not) upon the joker s heart. The joker rapped it with his\nown, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing\nattitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his\nhand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly\npractical character, he looked, under those circumstances.\n\n Put it on, put it on,  said the other.  Call wine, wine; and finish\nthere.  With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker s\ndress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on\nhis account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.\n\nThis wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,\nand he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a\nbitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.\nHis shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to\nthe elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own\ncrisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good\neyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on\nthe whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong\nresolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing\ndown a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn\nthe man.\n\nMadame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he\ncame in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with\na watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand\nheavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of\nmanner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might\nhave predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself\nin any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being\nsensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright\nshawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large\nearrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick\nher teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported\nby her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but\ncoughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting\nof her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a\nline, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the\nshop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while\nhe stepped over the way.\n\nThe wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they\nrested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in\na corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing\ndominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply\nof wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the\nelderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady,  This is our man. \n\n What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?  said Monsieur Defarge\nto himself;  I don t know you. \n\nBut, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse\nwith the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.\n\n How goes it, Jacques?  said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge.  Is\nall the spilt wine swallowed? \n\n Every drop, Jacques,  answered Monsieur Defarge.\n\nWhen this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,\npicking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,\nand raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.\n\n It is not often,  said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur\nDefarge,  that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or\nof anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques? \n\n It is so, Jacques,  Monsieur Defarge returned.\n\nAt this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still\nusing her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of\ncough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.\n\nThe last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty\ndrinking vessel and smacked his lips.\n\n Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle\nalways have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I\nright, Jacques? \n\n You are right, Jacques,  was the response of Monsieur Defarge.\n\nThis third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment\nwhen Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and\nslightly rustled in her seat.\n\n Hold then! True!  muttered her husband.  Gentlemen--my wife! \n\nThe three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three\nflourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and\ngiving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the\nwine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose\nof spirit, and became absorbed in it.\n\n Gentlemen,  said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly\nupon her,  good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you\nwished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the\nfifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard\nclose to the left here,  pointing with his hand,  near to the window of\nmy establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been\nthere, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu! \n\nThey paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur\nDefarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly\ngentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.\n\n Willingly, sir,  said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to\nthe door.\n\nTheir conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first\nword, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had\nnot lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then\nbeckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge\nknitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.\n\nMr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,\njoined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own\ncompany just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,\nand was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited\nby a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the\ngloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee\nto the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was\na gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable\ntransformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour\nin his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,\nangry, dangerous man.\n\n It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly. \n Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began\nascending the stairs.\n\n Is he alone?  the latter whispered.\n\n Alone! God help him, who should be with him!  said the other, in the\nsame low voice.\n\n Is he always alone, then? \n\n Yes. \n\n Of his own desire? \n\n Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they\nfound me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be\ndiscreet--as he was then, so he is now. \n\n He is greatly changed? \n\n Changed! \n\nThe keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,\nand mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so\nforcible. Mr. Lorry s spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his\ntwo companions ascended higher and higher.\n\nSuch a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded\nparts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile\nindeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation\nwithin the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,\nthe room or rooms within every door that opened on the general\nstaircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides\nflinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and\nhopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted\nthe air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their\nintangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost\ninsupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt\nand poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to\nhis young companion s agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.\nJarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made\nat a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left\nuncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed\nto crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were\ncaught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer\nor lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any\npromise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.\n\nAt last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the\nthird time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination\nand of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story\nwas reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in\nadvance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he\ndreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about\nhere, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over\nhis shoulder, took out a key.\n\n The door is locked then, my friend?  said Mr. Lorry, surprised.\n\n Ay. Yes,  was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.\n\n You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired? \n\n I think it necessary to turn the key.  Monsieur Defarge whispered it\ncloser in his ear, and frowned heavily.\n\n Why? \n\n Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be\nfrightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what\nharm--if his door was left open. \n\n Is it possible!  exclaimed Mr. Lorry.\n\n Is it possible!  repeated Defarge, bitterly.  Yes. And a beautiful\nworld we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things\nare possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under\nthat sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on. \n\nThis dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word\nof it had reached the young lady s ears. But, by this time she trembled\nunder such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,\nand, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent\non him to speak a word or two of reassurance.\n\n Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a\nmoment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,\nall the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you\nbring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.\nThat s well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business! \n\nThey went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were\nsoon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at\nonce in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at\nthe side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which\nthe door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing\nfootsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed\nthemselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the\nwine-shop.\n\n I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,  explained Monsieur\nDefarge.  Leave us, good boys; we have business here. \n\nThe three glided by, and went silently down.\n\nThere appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of\nthe wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.\nLorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:\n\n Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette? \n\n I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few. \n\n Is that well? \n\n _I_ think it is well. \n\n Who are the few? How do you choose them? \n\n I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the\nsight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another\nthing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment. \n\nWith an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in\nthrough the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck\ntwice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to\nmake a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,\nthree or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned\nit as heavily as he could.\n\nThe door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the\nroom and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more\nthan a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.\n\nHe looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry\ngot his arm securely round the daughter s waist, and held her; for he\nfelt that she was sinking.\n\n A-a-a-business, business!  he urged, with a moisture that was not of\nbusiness shining on his cheek.  Come in, come in! \n\n I am afraid of it,  she answered, shuddering.\n\n Of it? What? \n\n I mean of him. Of my father. \n\nRendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of\ntheir conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his\nshoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her\ndown just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.\n\nDefarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,\ntook out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,\nmethodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he\ncould make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to\nwhere the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.\n\nThe garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim\nand dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the\nroof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from\nthe street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any\nother door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this\ndoor was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.\nSuch a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it\nwas difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit\nalone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work\nrequiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being\ndone in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face\ntowards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at\nhim, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very\nbusy, making shoes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nThe Shoemaker\n\n\n Good day!  said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that\nbent low over the shoemaking.\n\nIt was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the\nsalutation, as if it were at a distance:\n\n Good day! \n\n You are still hard at work, I see? \n\nAfter a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the\nvoice replied,  Yes--I am working.  This time, a pair of haggard eyes\nhad looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.\n\nThe faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the\nfaintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no\ndoubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was\nthe faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo\nof a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and\nresonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once\nbeautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and\nsuppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive\nit was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,\nwearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered\nhome and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.\n\nSome minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked\nup again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical\nperception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were\naware of had stood, was not yet empty.\n\n I want,  said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,\n to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more? \n\nThe shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,\nat the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the\nother side of him; then, upward at the speaker.\n\n What did you say? \n\n You can bear a little more light? \n\n I must bear it, if you let it in.  (Laying the palest shadow of a\nstress upon the second word.)\n\nThe opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that\nangle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and\nshowed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his\nlabour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his\nfeet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very\nlong, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and\nthinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet\ndark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really\notherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.\nHis yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body\nto be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose\nstockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion\nfrom direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of\nparchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.\n\nHe had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones\nof it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,\npausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without\nfirst looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had\nlost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without\nfirst wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.\n\n Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?  asked Defarge,\nmotioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.\n\n What did you say? \n\n Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day? \n\n I can t say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don t know. \n\nBut, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.\n\nMr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When\nhe had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker\nlooked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the\nunsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at\nit (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then\nthe hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The\nlook and the action had occupied but an instant.\n\n You have a visitor, you see,  said Monsieur Defarge.\n\n What did you say? \n\n Here is a visitor. \n\nThe shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his\nwork.\n\n Come!  said Defarge.  Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when\nhe sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur. \n\nMr. Lorry took it in his hand.\n\n Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker s name. \n\nThere was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:\n\n I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say? \n\n I said, couldn t you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur s\ninformation? \n\n It is a lady s shoe. It is a young lady s walking-shoe. It is in the\npresent mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.  He\nglanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.\n\n And the maker s name?  said Defarge.\n\nNow that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand\nin the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the\nhollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and\nso on in regular changes, without a moment s intermission. The task of\nrecalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he\nhad spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or\nendeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a\nfast-dying man.\n\n Did you ask me for my name? \n\n Assuredly I did. \n\n One Hundred and Five, North Tower. \n\n Is that all? \n\n One Hundred and Five, North Tower. \n\nWith a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work\nagain, until the silence was again broken.\n\n You are not a shoemaker by trade?  said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly\nat him.\n\nHis haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the\nquestion to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back\non the questioner when they had sought the ground.\n\n I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I\nlearnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to-- \n\nHe lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his\nhands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face\nfrom which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and\nresumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a\nsubject of last night.\n\n I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after\na long while, and I have made shoes ever since. \n\nAs he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.\nLorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:\n\n Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me? \n\nThe shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the\nquestioner.\n\n Monsieur Manette ; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge s arm;  do you\nremember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old\nbanker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your\nmind, Monsieur Manette? \n\nAs the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.\nLorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent\nintelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves\nthrough the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded\nagain, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And\nso exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who\nhad crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where\nshe now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only\nraised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and\nshut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,\ntrembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young\nbreast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression\nrepeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it\nlooked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.\n\nDarkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and\nless attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground\nand looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he\ntook the shoe up, and resumed his work.\n\n Have you recognised him, monsieur?  asked Defarge in a whisper.\n\n Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have\nunquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so\nwell. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush! \n\nShe had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on\nwhich he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the\nfigure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped\nover his labour.\n\nNot a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,\nbeside him, and he bent over his work.\n\nIt happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument\nin his hand, for his shoemaker s knife. It lay on that side of him\nwhich was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was\nstooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He\nraised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,\nbut she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his\nstriking at her with the knife, though they had.\n\nHe stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began\nto form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in\nthe pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:\n\n What is this? \n\nWith the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her\nlips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she\nlaid his ruined head there.\n\n You are not the gaoler s daughter? \n\nShe sighed  No. \n\n Who are you? \n\nNot yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench\nbeside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange\nthrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he\nlaid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.\n\nHer golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed\naside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and\nlittle, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action\nhe went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his\nshoemaking.\n\nBut not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his\nshoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to\nbe sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand\nto his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag\nattached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained\na very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden\nhairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.\n\nHe took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it.  It is\nthe same. How can it be! When was it! How was it! \n\nAs the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to\nbecome conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the\nlight, and looked at her.\n\n She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned\nout--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was\nbrought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve.  You will\nleave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they\nmay in the spirit.  Those were the words I said. I remember them very\nwell. \n\nHe formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.\nBut when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,\nthough slowly.\n\n How was this?--_Was it you_? \n\nOnce more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a\nfrightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only\nsaid, in a low voice,  I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near\nus, do not speak, do not move! \n\n Hark!  he exclaimed.  Whose voice was that? \n\nHis hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white\nhair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his\nshoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and\ntried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and\ngloomily shook his head.\n\n No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can t be. See what the\nprisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face\nshe knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He\nwas--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your\nname, my gentle angel? \n\nHailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees\nbefore him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.\n\n O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,\nand who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I\ncannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may\ntell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless\nme. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear! \n\nHis cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and\nlighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.\n\n If you hear in my voice--I don t know that it is so, but I hope it\nis--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was\nsweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in\ntouching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your\nbreast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when\nI hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you\nwith all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the\nremembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,\nweep for it, weep for it! \n\nShe held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a\nchild.\n\n If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I\nhave come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at\npeace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,\nand of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And\nif, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,\nand of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my\nhonoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake\nstriven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of\nmy poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep\nfor her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred\ntears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank\nGod for us, thank God! \n\nHe had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so\ntouching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which\nhad gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.\n\nWhen the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving\nbreast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all\nstorms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm\ncalled Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and\ndaughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay\nthere in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his\nhead might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained\nhim from the light.\n\n If, without disturbing him,  she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as\nhe stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose,  all could be\narranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he\ncould be taken away-- \n\n But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?  asked Mr. Lorry.\n\n More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to\nhim. \n\n It is true,  said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear.  More\nthan that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.\nSay, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses? \n\n That s business,  said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his\nmethodical manners;  and if business is to be done, I had better do it. \n\n Then be so kind,  urged Miss Manette,  as to leave us here. You see how\ncomposed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me\nnow. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from\ninterruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,\nas quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until\nyou return, and then we will remove him straight. \n\nBoth Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and\nin favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage\nand horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,\nfor the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily\ndividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away\nto do it.\n\nThen, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the\nhard ground close at the father s side, and watched him. The darkness\ndeepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed\nthrough the chinks in the wall.\n\nMr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and\nhad brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and\nmeat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the\nlamp he carried, on the shoemaker s bench (there was nothing else in the\ngarret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and\nassisted him to his feet.\n\nNo human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in\nthe scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,\nwhether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that\nhe was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They\ntried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to\nanswer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for\nthe time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of\noccasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen\nin him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his\ndaughter s voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.\n\nIn the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he\nate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak\nand other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to\nhis daughter s drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand\nin both his own.\n\nThey began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.\nLorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps\nof the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and\nround at the walls.\n\n You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here? \n\n What did you say? \n\nBut, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if\nshe had repeated it.\n\n Remember? No, I don t remember. It was so very long ago. \n\nThat he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his\nprison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,\n One Hundred and Five, North Tower;  and when he looked about him, it\nevidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed\nhim. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his\ntread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was\nno drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he\ndropped his daughter s hand and clasped his head again.\n\nNo crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the\nmany windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural\nsilence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and\nthat was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and\nsaw nothing.\n\nThe prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed\nhim, when Mr. Lorry s feet were arrested on the step by his asking,\nmiserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame\nDefarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and\nwent, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly\nbrought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned\nagainst the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.\n\nDefarge got upon the box, and gave the word  To the Barrier!  The\npostilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble\nover-swinging lamps.\n\nUnder the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better\nstreets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,\nilluminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city\ngates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there.  Your papers,\ntravellers!   See here then, Monsieur the Officer,  said Defarge,\ngetting down, and taking him gravely apart,  these are the papers of\nmonsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with\nhim, at the--  He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the\nmilitary lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm\nin uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day\nor an every night look, at monsieur with the white head.  It is well.\nForward!  from the uniform.  Adieu!  from Defarge. And so, under a short\ngrove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great\ngrove of stars.\n\nBeneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from\nthis little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their\nrays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything\nis suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.\nAll through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more\nwhispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried\nman who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever\nlost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:\n\n I hope you care to be recalled to life? \n\nAnd the old answer:\n\n I can t say. \n\n\nThe end of the first book.\n\n\n\n\nBook the Second--the Golden Thread\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\nFive Years Later\n\n\nTellson s Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the\nyear one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very\ndark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,\nmoreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were\nproud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,\nproud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence\nin those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if\nit were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was\nno passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more\nconvenient places of business. Tellson s (they said) wanted\nno elbow-room, Tellson s wanted no light, Tellson s wanted no\nembellishment. Noakes and Co. s might, or Snooks Brothers  might; but\nTellson s, thank Heaven--!\n\nAny one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the\nquestion of rebuilding Tellson s. In this respect the House was much\non a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for\nsuggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly\nobjectionable, but were only the more respectable.\n\nThus it had come to pass, that Tellson s was the triumphant perfection\nof inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with\na weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson s down two steps,\nand came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little\ncounters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the\nwind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of\nwindows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,\nand which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the\nheavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing\n the House,  you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,\nwhere you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its\nhands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal\ntwilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden\ndrawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when\nthey were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they\nwere fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among\nthe neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good\npolish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms\nmade of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their\nparchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family\npapers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great\ndining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year\none thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you\nby your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released\nfrom the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads\nexposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of\nAbyssinia or Ashantee.\n\nBut indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue\nwith all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson s.\nDeath is Nature s remedy for all things, and why not Legislation s?\nAccordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note\nwas put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the\npurloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder\nof a horse at Tellson s door, who made off with it, was put to\nDeath; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of\nthree-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to\nDeath. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it\nmight almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the\nreverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each\nparticular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked\nafter. Thus, Tellson s, in its day, like greater places of business,\nits contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid\nlow before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately\ndisposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the\nground floor had, in a rather significant manner.\n\nCramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson s, the\noldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young\nman into Tellson s London house, they hid him somewhere till he was\nold. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full\nTellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to\nbe seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches\nand gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.\n\nOutside Tellson s--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an\nodd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live\nsign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless\nupon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin\nof twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson s,\nin a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always\ntolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted\nthis person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful\noccasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the\neasterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added\nappellation of Jerry.\n\nThe scene was Mr. Cruncher s private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,\nWhitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March\nmorning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself\nalways spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under\nthe impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a\npopular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)\n\nMr. Cruncher s apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were\nbut two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it\nmight be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as\nit was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was\nalready scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged\nfor breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth\nwas spread.\n\nMr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin\nat home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll\nand surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair\nlooking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he\nexclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:\n\n Bust me, if she ain t at it agin! \n\nA woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a\ncorner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the\nperson referred to.\n\n What!  said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot.  You re at it\nagin, are you? \n\nAfter hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at\nthe woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the\nodd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher s domestic economy, that,\nwhereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he\noften got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.\n\n What,  said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his\nmark-- what are you up to, Aggerawayter? \n\n I was only saying my prayers. \n\n Saying your prayers! You re a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping\nyourself down and praying agin me? \n\n I was not praying against you; I was praying for you. \n\n You weren t. And if you were, I won t be took the liberty with. Here!\nyour mother s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your\nfather s prosperity. You ve got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.\nYou ve got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping\nherself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out\nof the mouth of her only child. \n\nMaster Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning\nto his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal\nboard.\n\n And what do you suppose, you conceited female,  said Mr. Cruncher, with\nunconscious inconsistency,  that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?\nName the price that you put _your_ prayers at! \n\n They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than\nthat. \n\n Worth no more than that,  repeated Mr. Cruncher.  They ain t worth\nmuch, then. Whether or no, I won t be prayed agin, I tell you. I can t\nafford it. I m not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If\nyou must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and\nchild, and not in opposition to  em. If I had had any but a unnat ral\nwife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat ral mother, I might\nhave made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and\ncountermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.\nB-u-u-ust me!  said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting\non his clothes,  if I ain t, what with piety and one blowed thing and\nanother, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor\ndevil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my\nboy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and\nthen, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I\ntell you,  here he addressed his wife once more,  I won t be gone agin,\nin this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I m as sleepy as\nlaudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn t know, if\nit wasn t for the pain in  em, which was me and which somebody else, yet\nI m none the better for it in pocket; and it s my suspicion that you ve\nbeen at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for\nit in pocket, and I won t put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you\nsay now! \n\nGrowling, in addition, such phrases as  Ah! yes! You re religious, too.\nYou wouldn t put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband\nand child, would you? Not you!  and throwing off other sarcastic sparks\nfrom the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook\nhimself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.\nIn the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,\nand whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father s did,\nkept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor\nwoman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made\nhis toilet, with a suppressed cry of  You are going to flop, mother.\n--Halloa, father!  and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in\nagain with an undutiful grin.\n\nMr. Cruncher s temper was not at all improved when he came to his\nbreakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher s saying grace with particular\nanimosity.\n\n Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again? \n\nHis wife explained that she had merely  asked a blessing. \n\n Don t do it!  said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected\nto see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife s petitions.  I\nain t a going to be blest out of house and home. I won t have my wittles\nblest off my table. Keep still! \n\nExceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party\nwhich had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried\nhis breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed\ninmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o clock he smoothed his ruffled\naspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as\nhe could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation\nof the day.\n\nIt could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite\ndescription of himself as  a honest tradesman.  His stock consisted of\na wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,\nyoung Jerry, walking at his father s side, carried every morning to\nbeneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,\nwith the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned\nfrom any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man s\nfeet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.\nCruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar\nitself,--and was almost as in-looking.\n\nEncamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his\nthree-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson s,\nJerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry\nstanding by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to\ninflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing\nboys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,\nextremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic\nin Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two\neyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.\nThe resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that\nthe mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the\nyouthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else\nin Fleet-street.\n\nThe head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson s\nestablishment was put through the door, and the word was given:\n\n Porter wanted! \n\n Hooray, father! Here s an early job to begin with! \n\nHaving thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on\nthe stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father\nhad been chewing, and cogitated.\n\n Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!  muttered young Jerry.\n Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don t get no iron\nrust here! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nA Sight\n\n\n You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?  said one of the oldest of\nclerks to Jerry the messenger.\n\n Ye-es, sir,  returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner.  I _do_\nknow the Bailey. \n\n Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry. \n\n I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much\nbetter,  said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment\nin question,  than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey. \n\n Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the\ndoor-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in. \n\n Into the court, sir? \n\n Into the court. \n\nMr. Cruncher s eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to\ninterchange the inquiry,  What do you think of this? \n\n Am I to wait in the court, sir?  he asked, as the result of that\nconference.\n\n I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.\nLorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry s\nattention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,\nto remain there until he wants you. \n\n Is that all, sir? \n\n That s all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him\nyou are there. \n\nAs the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,\nMr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the\nblotting-paper stage, remarked:\n\n I suppose they ll be trying Forgeries this morning? \n\n Treason! \n\n That s quartering,  said Jerry.  Barbarous! \n\n It is the law,  remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised\nspectacles upon him.  It is the law. \n\n It s hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It s hard enough to kill\nhim, but it s wery hard to spile him, sir. \n\n Not at all,  retained the ancient clerk.  Speak well of the law. Take\ncare of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take\ncare of itself. I give you that advice. \n\n It s the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,  said Jerry.  I\nleave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is. \n\n Well, well,  said the old clerk;  we all have our various ways of\ngaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry\nways. Here is the letter. Go along. \n\nJerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal\ndeference than he made an outward show of,  You are a lean old one,\ntoo,  made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,\nand went his way.\n\nThey hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had\nnot obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.\nBut, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and\nvillainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came\ninto court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the\ndock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It\nhad more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced\nhis own doom as certainly as the prisoner s, and even died before him.\nFor the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,\nfrom which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on\na violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a\nhalf of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.\nSo powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It\nwas famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted\na punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for\nthe whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and\nsoftening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in\nblood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically\nleading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed\nunder Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice\nillustration of the precept, that  Whatever is is right;  an aphorism\nthat would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome\nconsequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.\n\nMaking his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this\nhideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his\nway quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in\nhis letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play\nat the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the\nformer entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey\ndoors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the\ncriminals got there, and those were always left wide open.\n\nAfter some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a\nvery little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into\ncourt.\n\n What s on?  he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next\nto.\n\n Nothing yet. \n\n What s coming on? \n\n The Treason case. \n\n The quartering one, eh? \n\n Ah!  returned the man, with a relish;  he ll be drawn on a hurdle to\nbe half hanged, and then he ll be taken down and sliced before his own\nface, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,\nand then his head will be chopped off, and he ll be cut into quarters.\nThat s the sentence. \n\n If he s found Guilty, you mean to say?  Jerry added, by way of proviso.\n\n Oh! they ll find him guilty,  said the other.  Don t you be afraid of\nthat. \n\nMr. Cruncher s attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he\nsaw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry\nsat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged\ngentleman, the prisoner s counsel, who had a great bundle of papers\nbefore him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands\nin his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him\nthen or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the\ncourt. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing\nwith his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up\nto look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.\n\n What s _he_ got to do with the case?  asked the man he had spoken with.\n\n Blest if I know,  said Jerry.\n\n What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire? \n\n Blest if I know that either,  said Jerry.\n\nThe entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling\ndown in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the\ncentral point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,\nwent out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.\n\nEverybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the\nceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled\nat him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round\npillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows\nstood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,\nlaid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help\nthemselves, at anybody s cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got\nupon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.\nConspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall\nof Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a\nwhet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with\nthe waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,\nthat flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him\nin an impure mist and rain.\n\nThe object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about\nfive-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and\na dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly\ndressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and\ndark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out\nof his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express\nitself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his\nsituation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the\nsoul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,\nbowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.\n\nThe sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,\nwas not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less\nhorrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage\ndetails being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his\nfascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,\nwas the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered\nand torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various\nspectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and\npowers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.\n\nSilence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to\nan indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that\nhe was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so\nforth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers\noccasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French\nKing, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and\nso forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of\nour said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the\nsaid French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise\nevil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our\nsaid serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation\nto send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head\nbecoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with\nhuge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that\nthe aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood\nthere before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and\nthat Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.\n\nThe accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,\nbeheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from\nthe situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and\nattentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;\nand stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so\ncomposedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which\nit was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with\nvinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.\n\nOver the prisoner s head there was a mirror, to throw the light down\nupon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in\nit, and had passed from its surface and this earth s together. Haunted\nin a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the\nglass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one\nday to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace\nfor which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner s mind. Be\nthat as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar\nof light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his\nface flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.\n\nIt happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court\nwhich was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,\nin that corner of the Judge s bench, two persons upon whom his look\nimmediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his\naspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.\n\nThe spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than\ntwenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very\nremarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,\nand a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,\nbut pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he\nlooked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as\nit was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a\nhandsome man, not past the prime of life.\n\nHis daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by\nhim, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her\ndread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had\nbeen strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion\nthat saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very\nnoticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who\nhad had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,\n Who are they? \n\nJerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own\nmanner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his\nabsorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about\nhim had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and\nfrom him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got\nto Jerry:\n\n Witnesses. \n\n For which side? \n\n Against. \n\n Against what side? \n\n The prisoner s. \n\nThe Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,\nleaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was\nin his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the\naxe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nA Disappointment\n\n\nMr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before\nthem, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which\nclaimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the\npublic enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or\neven of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the\nprisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and\nrepassing between France and England, on secret business of which\nhe could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of\ntraitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real\nwickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.\nThat Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who\nwas beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the\nprisoner s schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his\nMajesty s Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.\nThat, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and\nattitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner s\nfriend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his\ninfamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish\nin his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues\nwere decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public\nbenefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as\nthey were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,\nas had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well\nknew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;\nwhereat the jury s countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that\nthey knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more\nespecially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.\nThat, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness\nfor the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had\ncommunicated itself to the prisoner s servant, and had engendered in him\na holy determination to examine his master s table-drawers and pockets,\nand secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to\nhear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,\nin a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General s)\nbrothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.\nAttorney-General s) father and mother. That, he called with confidence\non the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two\nwitnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be\nproduced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of\nhis Majesty s forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by\nsea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed\nsuch information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be\nproved to be in the prisoner s handwriting; but that it was all the\nsame; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as\nshowing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof\nwould go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged\nin these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the\nvery first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.\nThat, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they\nwere), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must\npositively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether\nthey liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their\npillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying\ntheir heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion\nof their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that\nthere never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon\npillows at all, unless the prisoner s head was taken off. That head\nMr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of\neverything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith\nof his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as\ngood as dead and gone.\n\nWhen the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if\na cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in\nanticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the\nunimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.\n\nMr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader s lead, examined the\npatriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was\nexactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if\nit had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom\nof its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the\nwigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.\nLorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting\nopposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.\n\nHad he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.\nWhat did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn t\nprecisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody s.\nHad he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very\ndistant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors \nprison? Didn t see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors \nprison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three\ntimes. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever\nbeen kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?\nDecidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell\ndownstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at\ndice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who\ncommitted the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?\nPositively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not\nmore than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.\nEver pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a\nvery slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?\nNo. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more\nabout the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.\nExpect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government\npay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear\nno. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer\npatriotism? None whatever.\n\nThe virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a\ngreat rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and\nsimplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais\npacket, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.\nHe had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of\ncharity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of\nthe prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging\nhis clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the\nprisoner s pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from\nthe drawer of the prisoner s desk. He had not put them there first. He\nhad seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen\nat Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and\nBoulogne. He loved his country, and couldn t bear it, and had given\ninformation. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;\nhe had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be\nonly a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;\nthat was merely a coincidence. He didn t call it a particularly curious\ncoincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a\ncurious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He\nwas a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.\n\nThe blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis\nLorry.\n\n Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson s bank? \n\n I am. \n\n On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and\nseventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and\nDover by the mail? \n\n It did. \n\n Were there any other passengers in the mail? \n\n Two. \n\n Did they alight on the road in the course of the night? \n\n They did. \n\n Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers? \n\n I cannot undertake to say that he was. \n\n Does he resemble either of these two passengers? \n\n Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so\nreserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that. \n\n Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as\nthose two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to\nrender it unlikely that he was one of them? \n\n No. \n\n You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them? \n\n No. \n\n So at least you say he may have been one of them? \n\n Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like\nmyself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous\nair. \n\n Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry? \n\n I certainly have seen that. \n\n Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your\ncertain knowledge, before? \n\n I have. \n\n When? \n\n I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the\nprisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the\nvoyage with me. \n\n At what hour did he come on board? \n\n At a little after midnight. \n\n In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board\nat that untimely hour? \n\n He happened to be the only one. \n\n Never mind about  happening,  Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who\ncame on board in the dead of the night? \n\n He was. \n\n Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion? \n\n With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here. \n\n They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner? \n\n Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and\nI lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore. \n\n Miss Manette! \n\nThe young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now\nturned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and\nkept her hand drawn through his arm.\n\n Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner. \n\nTo be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was\nfar more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.\nStanding, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all\nthe staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him\nto remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs\nbefore him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts\nto control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour\nrushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.\n\n Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Where? \n\n On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same\noccasion. \n\n You are the young lady just now referred to? \n\n O! most unhappily, I am! \n\nThe plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice\nof the Judge, as he said something fiercely:  Answer the questions put\nto you, and make no remark upon them. \n\n Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that\npassage across the Channel? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Recall it. \n\nIn the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began:  When the\ngentleman came on board-- \n\n Do you mean the prisoner?  inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.\n\n Yes, my Lord. \n\n Then say the prisoner. \n\n When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,  turning\nher eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her,  was much fatigued\nand in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was\nafraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the\ndeck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take\ncare of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.\nThe prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could\nshelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I\nhad not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would\nset when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed\ngreat gentleness and kindness for my father s state, and I am sure he\nfelt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together. \n\n Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone? \n\n No. \n\n How many were with him? \n\n Two French gentlemen. \n\n Had they conferred together? \n\n They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was\nnecessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat. \n\n Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists? \n\n Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don t know what\npapers. \n\n Like these in shape and size? \n\n Possibly, but indeed I don t know, although they stood whispering very\nnear to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the\nlight of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they\nspoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that\nthey looked at papers. \n\n Now, to the prisoner s conversation, Miss Manette. \n\n The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out\nof my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my\nfather. I hope,  bursting into tears,  I may not repay him by doing him\nharm to-day. \n\nBuzzing from the blue-flies.\n\n Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that\nyou give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must\ngive--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,\nhe is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on. \n\n He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and\ndifficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was\ntherefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business\nhad, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,\ntake him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long\ntime to come. \n\n Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular. \n\n He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said\nthat, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on\nEngland s part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George\nWashington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the\nThird. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said\nlaughingly, and to beguile the time. \n\nAny strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in\na scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be\nunconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully\nanxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when\nshe stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon\nthe counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same\nexpression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority\nof the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,\nwhen the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous\nheresy about George Washington.\n\nMr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it\nnecessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady s\nfather, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.\n\n Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before? \n\n Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or\nthree years and a half ago. \n\n Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or\nspeak to his conversation with your daughter? \n\n Sir, I can do neither. \n\n Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do\neither? \n\nHe answered, in a low voice,  There is. \n\n Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without\ntrial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette? \n\nHe answered, in a tone that went to every heart,  A long imprisonment. \n\n Were you newly released on the occasion in question? \n\n They tell me so. \n\n Have you no remembrance of the occasion? \n\n None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what\ntime--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the\ntime when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter\nhere. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored\nmy faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become\nfamiliar. I have no remembrance of the process. \n\nMr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down\ntogether.\n\nA singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being\nto show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,\nin the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and\ngot out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did\nnot remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,\nto a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness\nwas called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,\nin the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,\nwaiting for another person. The prisoner s counsel was cross-examining\nthis witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner\non any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time\nbeen looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a\nlittle piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening\nthis piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great\nattention and curiosity at the prisoner.\n\n You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner? \n\nThe witness was quite sure.\n\n Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner? \n\nNot so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.\n\n Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,  pointing\nto him who had tossed the paper over,  and then look well upon the\nprisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other? \n\nAllowing for my learned friend s appearance being careless and slovenly\nif not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,\nnot only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought\ninto comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside\nhis wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became\nmuch more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner s\ncounsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned\nfriend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he\nwould ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might\nhappen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen\nthis illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so\nconfident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash\nthis witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to\nuseless lumber.\n\nMr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his\nfingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.\nStryver fitted the prisoner s case on the jury, like a compact suit\nof clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and\ntraitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest\nscoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look\nrather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,\nand was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false\nswearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family\naffairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making\nthose passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a\nconsideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,\neven for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped\nand wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they\nhad witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent\ngallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman\nand young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that\nreference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and\nimpossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.\nHow it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this\nattempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies\nand fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;\nhow, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous\ncharacter of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the\nState Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed\n(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could\nnot sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.\n\nMr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to\nattend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.\nStryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and\nCly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the\nprisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning\nthe suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole\ndecidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.\n\nAnd now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.\n\nMr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,\nchanged neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.\nWhile his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,\nwhispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced\nanxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and\ngrouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,\nand slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion\nin the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man\nsat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put\non just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his\nhands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all\nday. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him\na disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he\nundoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,\nwhen they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the\nlookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would\nhardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the\nobservation to his next neighbour, and added,  I d hold half a guinea\nthat _he_ don t get no law-work to do. Don t look like the sort of one\nto get any, do he? \n\nYet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he\nappeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette s head dropped upon\nher father s breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:\n Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.\nDon t you see she will fall! \n\nThere was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much\nsympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to\nhim, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown\nstrong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or\nbrooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,\never since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a\nmoment, spoke, through their foreman.\n\nThey were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George\nWashington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,\nbut signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,\nand retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in\nthe court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the\njury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get\nrefreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat\ndown.\n\nMr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,\nnow reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,\ncould easily get near him.\n\n Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the\nway. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don t be a moment\nbehind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You\nare the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long\nbefore I can. \n\nJerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in\nacknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up\nat the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.\n\n How is the young lady? \n\n She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she\nfeels the better for being out of court. \n\n I ll tell the prisoner so. It won t do for a respectable bank gentleman\nlike you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know. \n\nMr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point\nin his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.\nThe way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all\neyes, ears, and spikes.\n\n Mr. Darnay! \n\nThe prisoner came forward directly.\n\n You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She\nwill do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation. \n\n I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so\nfor me, with my fervent acknowledgments? \n\n Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it. \n\nMr. Carton s manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,\nhalf turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.\n\n I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks. \n\n What,  said Carton, still only half turned towards him,  do you expect,\nMr. Darnay? \n\n The worst. \n\n It s the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their\nwithdrawing is in your favour. \n\nLoitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no\nmore: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other\nin manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above\nthem.\n\nAn hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded\npassages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.\nThe hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that\nrefection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide\nof people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along\nwith them.\n\n Jerry! Jerry!  Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got\nthere.\n\n Here, sir! It s a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir! \n\nMr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng.  Quick! Have you got\nit? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\nHastily written on the paper was the word  ACQUITTED. \n\n If you had sent the message,  Recalled to Life,  again,  muttered\nJerry, as he turned,  I should have known what you meant, this time. \n\nHe had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,\nuntil he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out\nwith a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz\nswept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in\nsearch of other carrion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nCongratulatory\n\n\nFrom the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the\nhuman stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when\nDoctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor\nfor the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.\nCharles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from\ndeath.\n\nIt would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise\nin Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the\nshoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him\ntwice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation\nhad not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and\nto the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent\nreason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long\nlingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition\nfrom the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of\nitself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those\nunacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual\nBastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three\nhundred miles away.\n\nOnly his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from\nhis mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his\nmisery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,\nthe light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial\ninfluence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could\nrecall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few\nand slight, and she believed them over.\n\nMr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned\nto Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little\nmore than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,\nloud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing\nway of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and\nconversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.\n\nHe still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his\nlate client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean\nout of the group:  I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.\nDarnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the\nless likely to succeed on that account. \n\n You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses, \n said his late client, taking his hand.\n\n I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as\nanother man s, I believe. \n\nIt clearly being incumbent on some one to say,  Much better,  Mr. Lorry\nsaid it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested\nobject of squeezing himself back again.\n\n You think so?  said Mr. Stryver.  Well! you have been present all day,\nand you ought to know. You are a man of business, too. \n\n And as such,  quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had\nnow shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered\nhim out of it-- as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up\nthis conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.\nDarnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out. \n\n Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,  said Stryver;  I have a night s work to\ndo yet. Speak for yourself. \n\n I speak for myself,  answered Mr. Lorry,  and for Mr. Darnay, and for\nMiss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all? \n He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.\n\nHis face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at\nDarnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,\nnot even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his\nthoughts had wandered away.\n\n My father,  said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.\n\nHe slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.\n\n Shall we go home, my father? \n\nWith a long breath, he answered  Yes. \n\nThe friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the\nimpression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be\nreleased that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the\npassages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,\nand the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning s interest of\ngallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.\nWalking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into\nthe open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter\ndeparted in it.\n\nMr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back\nto the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or\ninterchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning\nagainst the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled\nout after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now\nstepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.\n\n So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now? \n\nNobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton s part in the day s\nproceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the\nbetter for it in appearance.\n\n If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the\nbusiness mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business\nappearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay. \n\nMr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly,  You have mentioned that before,\nsir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We\nhave to think of the House more than ourselves. \n\n _I_ know, _I_ know,  rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly.  Don t be\nnettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,\nI dare say. \n\n And indeed, sir,  pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him,  I really don t\nknow what you have to do with the matter. If you ll excuse me, as very\nmuch your elder, for saying so, I really don t know that it is your\nbusiness. \n\n Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,  said Mr. Carton.\n\n It is a pity you have not, sir. \n\n I think so, too. \n\n If you had,  pursued Mr. Lorry,  perhaps you would attend to it. \n\n Lord love you, no!--I shouldn t,  said Mr. Carton.\n\n Well, sir!  cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,\n business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,\nif business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.\nDarnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance\nfor that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!\nI hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy\nlife.--Chair there! \n\nPerhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.\nLorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson s. Carton,\nwho smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed\nthen, and turned to Darnay:\n\n This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must\nbe a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on\nthese street stones? \n\n I hardly seem yet,  returned Charles Darnay,  to belong to this world\nagain. \n\n I don t wonder at it; it s not so long since you were pretty far\nadvanced on your way to another. You speak faintly. \n\n I begin to think I _am_ faint. \n\n Then why the devil don t you dine? I dined, myself, while those\nnumskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or\nsome other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at. \n\nDrawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to\nFleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were\nshown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting\nhis strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat\nopposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port\nbefore him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.\n\n Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.\nDarnay? \n\n I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far\nmended as to feel that. \n\n It must be an immense satisfaction! \n\nHe said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large\none.\n\n As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.\nIt has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we\nare not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are\nnot much alike in any particular, you and I. \n\nConfused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with\nthis Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was\nat a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.\n\n Now your dinner is done,  Carton presently said,  why don t you call a\nhealth, Mr. Darnay; why don t you give your toast? \n\n What health? What toast? \n\n Why, it s on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I ll\nswear it s there. \n\n Miss Manette, then! \n\n Miss Manette, then! \n\nLooking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton\nflung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to\npieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.\n\n That s a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay! \n he said, filling his new goblet.\n\nA slight frown and a laconic  Yes,  were the answer.\n\n That s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it\nfeel? Is it worth being tried for one s life, to be the object of such\nsympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay? \n\nAgain Darnay answered not a word.\n\n She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not\nthat she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was. \n\nThe allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this\ndisagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the\nstrait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him\nfor it.\n\n I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,  was the careless rejoinder.\n It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don t know why I did\nit, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question. \n\n Willingly, and a small return for your good offices. \n\n Do you think I particularly like you? \n\n Really, Mr. Carton,  returned the other, oddly disconcerted,  I have\nnot asked myself the question. \n\n But ask yourself the question now. \n\n You have acted as if you do; but I don t think you do. \n\n _I_ don t think I do,  said Carton.  I begin to have a very good\nopinion of your understanding. \n\n Nevertheless,  pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell,  there is\nnothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our\nparting without ill-blood on either side. \n\nCarton rejoining,  Nothing in life!  Darnay rang.  Do you call the whole\nreckoning?  said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative,  Then\nbring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at\nten. \n\nThe bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.\nWithout returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat\nof defiance in his manner, and said,  A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think\nI am drunk? \n\n I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton. \n\n Think? You know I have been drinking. \n\n Since I must say so, I know it. \n\n Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I\ncare for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me. \n\n Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better. \n\n May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don t let your sober face elate you,\nhowever; you don t know what it may come to. Good night! \n\nWhen he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a\nglass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.\n\n Do you particularly like the man?  he muttered, at his own image;  why\nshould you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing\nin you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have\nmade in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you\nwhat you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change\nplaces with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as\nhe was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and\nhave it out in plain words! You hate the fellow. \n\nHe resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few\nminutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the\ntable, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nThe Jackal\n\n\nThose were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is\nthe improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate\nstatement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow\nin the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a\nperfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.\nThe learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other\nlearned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.\nStryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative\npractice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the\ndrier parts of the legal race.\n\nA favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had\nbegun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which\nhe mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,\nspecially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the\nvisage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King s Bench, the\nflorid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of\nthe bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from\namong a rank garden-full of flaring companions.\n\nIt had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib\nman, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that\nfaculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is\namong the most striking and necessary of the advocate s accomplishments.\nBut, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more\nbusiness he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its\npith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney\nCarton, he always had his points at his fingers  ends in the morning.\n\nSydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver s great\nally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,\nmight have floated a king s ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,\nanywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring\nat the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there\nthey prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was\nrumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily\nto his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,\namong such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton\nwould never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he\nrendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.\n\n Ten o clock, sir,  said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to\nwake him-- ten o clock, sir. \n\n _What s_ the matter? \n\n Ten o clock, sir. \n\n What do you mean? Ten o clock at night? \n\n Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you. \n\n Oh! I remember. Very well, very well. \n\nAfter a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man\ndexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,\nhe got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,\nand, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King s\nBench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.\n\nThe Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone\nhome, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,\nand a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He\nhad that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which\nmay be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of\nJeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of\nArt, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.\n\n You are a little late, Memory,  said Stryver.\n\n About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later. \n\nThey went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,\nwhere there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in\nthe midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon\nit, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.\n\n You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney. \n\n Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day s client; or\nseeing him dine--it s all one! \n\n That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the\nidentification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you? \n\n I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have\nbeen much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck. \n\nMr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.\n\n You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work. \n\nSullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining\nroom, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel\nor two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them\nout, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down\nat the table, and said,  Now I am ready! \n\n Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,  said Mr. Stryver,\ngaily, as he looked among his papers.\n\n How much? \n\n Only two sets of them. \n\n Give me the worst first. \n\n There they are, Sydney. Fire away! \n\nThe lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the\ndrinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table\nproper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to\nhis hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in\na different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in\nhis waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some\nlighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,\nso deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he\nstretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or\nmore, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the\nmatter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on\nhim to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the\njug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as\nno words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious\ngravity.\n\nAt length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and\nproceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,\nmade his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal\nassisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his\nhands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then\ninvigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application\nto his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;\nthis was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not\ndisposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.\n\n And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,  said Mr.\nStryver.\n\nThe jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming\nagain, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.\n\n You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses\nto-day. Every question told. \n\n I always am sound; am I not? \n\n I don t gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to\nit and smooth it again. \n\nWith a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.\n\n The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,  said Stryver, nodding\nhis head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past,  the\nold seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and\nnow in despondency! \n\n Ah!  returned the other, sighing:  yes! The same Sydney, with the same\nluck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own. \n\n And why not? \n\n God knows. It was my way, I suppose. \n\nHe sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before\nhim, looking at the fire.\n\n Carton,  said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,\nas if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour\nwas forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney\nCarton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it,  your way\nis, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look\nat me. \n\n Oh, botheration!  returned Sydney, with a lighter and more\ngood-humoured laugh,  don t _you_ be moral! \n\n How have I done what I have done?  said Stryver;  how do I do what I\ndo? \n\n Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it s not worth\nyour while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to\ndo, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind. \n\n I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I? \n\n I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,  said\nCarton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.\n\n Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury, \n pursued Carton,  you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into\nmine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,\npicking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we\ndidn t get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always\nnowhere. \n\n And whose fault was that? \n\n Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always\ndriving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree\nthat I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It s a gloomy\nthing, however, to talk about one s own past, with the day breaking.\nTurn me in some other direction before I go. \n\n Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,  said Stryver, holding up\nhis glass.  Are you turned in a pleasant direction? \n\nApparently not, for he became gloomy again.\n\n Pretty witness,  he muttered, looking down into his glass.  I have had\nenough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who s your pretty witness? \n\n The picturesque doctor s daughter, Miss Manette. \n\n _She_ pretty? \n\n Is she not? \n\n No. \n\n Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court! \n\n Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge\nof beauty? She was a golden-haired doll! \n\n Do you know, Sydney,  said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,\nand slowly drawing a hand across his florid face:  do you know, I rather\nthought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,\nand were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll? \n\n Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a\nyard or two of a man s nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.\nI pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I ll have no more drink;\nI ll get to bed. \n\nWhen his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light\nhim down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy\nwindows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the\ndull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a\nlifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round\nbefore the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and\nthe first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.\n\nWaste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still\non his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the\nwilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and\nperseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries\nfrom which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the\nfruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.\nA moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of\nhouses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its\npillow was wet with wasted tears.\n\nSadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of\ngood abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,\nincapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight\non him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nHundreds of People\n\n\nThe quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not\nfar from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the\nwaves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried\nit, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis\nLorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,\non his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into\nbusiness-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor s friend, and the\nquiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.\n\nOn this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in\nthe afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine\nSundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;\nsecondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with\nthem as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and\ngenerally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have\nhis own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the\nDoctor s household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving\nthem.\n\nA quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be\nfound in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of\nthe Doctor s lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that\nhad a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,\nnorth of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers\ngrew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a\nconsequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,\ninstead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a\nsettlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which\nthe peaches ripened in their season.\n\nThe summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part\nof the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,\nthough not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a\nglare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful\nplace for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.\n\nThere ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and\nthere was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where\nseveral callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was\naudible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In\na building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree\nrustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver\nto be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant\nwho had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if\nhe had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all\nvisitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured\nto live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have\na counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray\nworkman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered\nabout there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a\nthump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions\nrequired to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind\nthe house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way\nfrom Sunday morning unto Saturday night.\n\nDoctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and\nits revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.\nHis scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting\ningenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and\nhe earned as much as he wanted.\n\nThese things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry s knowledge, thoughts, and\nnotice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,\non the fine Sunday afternoon.\n\n Doctor Manette at home? \n\nExpected home.\n\n Miss Lucie at home? \n\nExpected home.\n\n Miss Pross at home? \n\nPossibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to\nanticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the\nfact.\n\n As I am at home myself,  said Mr. Lorry,  I ll go upstairs. \n\nAlthough the Doctor s daughter had known nothing of the country of her\nbirth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to\nmake much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most\nagreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off\nby so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,\nthat its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the\nrooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,\nthe elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by\ndelicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in\nthemselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry\nstood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,\nwith something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this\ntime, whether he approved?\n\nThere were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they\ncommunicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them\nall, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which\nhe detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was\nthe best room, and in it were Lucie s birds, and flowers, and books,\nand desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was\nthe Doctor s consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,\nchangingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the\nDoctor s bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker s\nbench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the\ndismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.\n\n I wonder,  said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about,  that he keeps\nthat reminder of his sufferings about him! \n\n And why wonder at that?  was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.\n\nIt proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose\nacquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and\nhad since improved.\n\n I should have thought--  Mr. Lorry began.\n\n Pooh! You d have thought!  said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.\n\n How do you do?  inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to\nexpress that she bore him no malice.\n\n I am pretty well, I thank you,  answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness;  how\nare you? \n\n Nothing to boast of,  said Miss Pross.\n\n Indeed? \n\n Ah! indeed!  said Miss Pross.  I am very much put out about my\nLadybird. \n\n Indeed? \n\n For gracious sake say something else besides  indeed,  or you ll\nfidget me to death,  said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from\nstature) was shortness.\n\n Really, then?  said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.\n\n Really, is bad enough,  returned Miss Pross,  but better. Yes, I am\nvery much put out. \n\n May I ask the cause? \n\n I don t want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to\ncome here looking after her,  said Miss Pross.\n\n _Do_ dozens come for that purpose? \n\n Hundreds,  said Miss Pross.\n\nIt was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her\ntime and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,\nshe exaggerated it.\n\n Dear me!  said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.\n\n I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and\npaid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take\nyour affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her\nfor nothing--since she was ten years old. And it s really very hard, \n said Miss Pross.\n\nNot seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;\nusing that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would\nfit anything.\n\n All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,\nare always turning up,  said Miss Pross.  When you began it-- \n\n _I_ began it, Miss Pross? \n\n Didn t you? Who brought her father to life? \n\n Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--  said Mr. Lorry.\n\n It wasn t ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard\nenough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except\nthat he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on\nhim, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any\ncircumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds\nand multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven\nhim), to take Ladybird s affections away from me. \n\nMr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by\nthis time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those\nunselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and\nadmiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost\nit, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were\nnever fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon\ntheir own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there\nis nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so\nrendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted\nrespect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own\nmind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss\nPross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably\nbetter got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson s.\n\n There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,  said\nMiss Pross;  and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn t made a\nmistake in life. \n\nHere again: Mr. Lorry s inquiries into Miss Pross s personal history had\nestablished the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel\nwho had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to\nspeculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with\nno touch of compunction. Miss Pross s fidelity of belief in Solomon\n(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious\nmatter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.\n\n As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of\nbusiness,  he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had\nsat down there in friendly relations,  let me ask you--does the Doctor,\nin talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet? \n\n Never. \n\n And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him? \n\n Ah!  returned Miss Pross, shaking her head.  But I don t say he don t\nrefer to it within himself. \n\n Do you believe that he thinks of it much? \n\n I do,  said Miss Pross.\n\n Do you imagine--  Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up\nshort with:\n\n Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all. \n\n I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,\nsometimes? \n\n Now and then,  said Miss Pross.\n\n Do you suppose,  Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his\nbright eye, as it looked kindly at her,  that Doctor Manette has any\ntheory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to\nthe cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his\noppressor? \n\n I don t suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me. \n\n And that is--? \n\n That she thinks he has. \n\n Now don t be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a\nmere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business. \n\n Dull?  Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.\n\nRather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied,  No, no,\nno. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor\nManette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured\nhe is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,\nthough he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now\nintimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly\nattached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss\nPross, I don t approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of\nzealous interest. \n\n Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad s the best, you ll tell\nme,  said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology,  he is afraid\nof the whole subject. \n\n Afraid? \n\n It s plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It s a dreadful\nremembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not\nknowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never\nfeel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn t make the\nsubject pleasant, I should think. \n\nIt was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for.  True,  said\nhe,  and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss\nPross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression\nalways shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness\nit sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence. \n\n Can t be helped,  said Miss Pross, shaking her head.  Touch that\nstring, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.\nIn short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in\nthe dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking\nup and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to\nknow then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in\nhis old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up\nand down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says\na word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it\nbest not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down\ntogether, walking up and down together, till her love and company have\nbrought him to himself. \n\nNotwithstanding Miss Pross s denial of her own imagination, there was a\nperception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,\nin her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to\nher possessing such a thing.\n\nThe corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it\nhad begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it\nseemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had\nset it going.\n\n Here they are!  said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;\n and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon! \n\nIt was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a\npeculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,\nlooking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied\nthey would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though\nthe steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be\nheard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close\nat hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross\nwas ready at the street door to receive them.\n\nMiss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking\noff her darling s bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up\nwith the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and\nfolding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with\nas much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she\nhad been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant\nsight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against\nher taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do\nplayfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own\nchamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at\nthem, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with\neyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would\nhave had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,\nbeaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor\nstars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no\nHundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain\nfor the fulfilment of Miss Pross s prediction.\n\nDinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of\nthe little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and\nalways acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest\nquality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their\ncontrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be\nbetter. Miss Pross s friendship being of the thoroughly practical\nkind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of\nimpoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would\nimpart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters\nof Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl\nwho formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,\nor Cinderella s Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,\na vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she\npleased.\n\nOn Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor s table, but on other days\npersisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower\nregions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to\nwhich no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,\nMiss Pross, responding to Ladybird s pleasant face and pleasant efforts\nto please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.\n\nIt was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the\nwine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit\nthere in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,\nthey went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for\nthe special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some\ntime before, as Mr. Lorry s cup-bearer; and while they sat under the\nplane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs\nand ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree\nwhispered to them in its own way above their heads.\n\nStill, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay\npresented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he\nwas only One.\n\nDoctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross\nsuddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and\nretired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this\ndisorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation,  a fit of the\njerks. \n\nThe Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The\nresemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as\nthey sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting\nhis arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the\nlikeness.\n\nHe had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual\nvivacity.  Pray, Doctor Manette,  said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the\nplane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,\nwhich happened to be the old buildings of London-- have you seen much of\nthe Tower? \n\n Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of\nit, to know that it teems with interest; little more. \n\n _I_ have been there, as you remember,  said Darnay, with a smile,\nthough reddening a little angrily,  in another character, and not in a\ncharacter that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a\ncurious thing when I was there. \n\n What was that?  Lucie asked.\n\n In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which\nhad been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of\nits inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by\nprisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone\nin an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to\nexecution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with\nsome very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.\nAt first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully\nexamined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or\nlegend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses\nwere made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested\nthat the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The\nfloor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the\nearth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found\nthe ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case\nor bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he\nhad written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler. \n\n My father,  exclaimed Lucie,  you are ill! \n\nHe had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and\nhis look quite terrified them all.\n\n No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they\nmade me start. We had better go in. \n\nHe recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large\ndrops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he\nsaid not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told\nof, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry\neither detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned\ntowards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it\nwhen it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.\n\nHe recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of\nhis business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more\nsteady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he\nwas not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and\nthat the rain had startled him.\n\nTea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon\nher, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he\nmade only Two.\n\nThe night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and\nwindows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was\ndone with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the\nheavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton\nleaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of\nthe thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the\nceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.\n\n The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,  said Doctor\nManette.  It comes slowly. \n\n It comes surely,  said Carton.\n\nThey spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a\ndark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.\n\nThere was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to\nget shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes\nresounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a\nfootstep was there.\n\n A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!  said Darnay, when they had\nlistened for a while.\n\n Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?  asked Lucie.  Sometimes, I have\nsat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of\na foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and\nsolemn-- \n\n Let us shudder too. We may know what it is. \n\n It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we\noriginate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have\nsometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made\nthe echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming\nby-and-bye into our lives. \n\n There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so, \n Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.\n\nThe footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more\nrapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,\nas it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some\ncoming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in\nthe distant streets, and not one within sight.\n\n Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or\nare we to divide them among us? \n\n I don t know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you\nasked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and\nthen I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come\ninto my life, and my father s. \n\n I take them into mine!  said Carton.  _I_ ask no questions and make no\nstipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,\nand I see them--by the Lightning.  He added the last words, after there\nhad been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.\n\n And I hear them!  he added again, after a peal of thunder.  Here they\ncome, fast, fierce, and furious! \n\nIt was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,\nfor no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and\nlightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment s\ninterval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at\nmidnight.\n\nThe great bell of Saint Paul s was striking one in the cleared air, when\nMr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set\nforth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches\nof road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful\nof foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was\nusually performed a good two hours earlier.\n\n What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,  said Mr. Lorry,  to\nbring the dead out of their graves. \n\n I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don t expect to--what\nwould do that,  answered Jerry.\n\n Good night, Mr. Carton,  said the man of business.  Good night, Mr.\nDarnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together! \n\nPerhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,\nbearing down upon them, too.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nMonseigneur in Town\n\n\nMonseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his\nfortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in\nhis inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to\nthe crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur\nwas about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many\nthings with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather\nrapidly swallowing France; but, his morning s chocolate could not so\nmuch as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four\nstrong men besides the Cook.\n\nYes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the\nChief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his\npocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to\nconduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur s lips. One lacquey carried\nthe chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed\nthe chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;\na third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold\nwatches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to\ndispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high\nplace under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon\nhis escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three\nmen; he must have died of two.\n\nMonseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy\nand the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at\na little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so\nimpressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far\nmore influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and\nstate secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance\nfor France, as the like always is for all countries similarly\nfavoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted\ndays of the merry Stuart who sold it.\n\nMonseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which\nwas, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public\nbusiness, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go\nhis way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and\nparticular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world\nwas made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original\nby only a pronoun, which is not much) ran:  The earth and the fulness\nthereof are mine, saith Monseigneur. \n\nYet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into\nhis affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of\naffairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances\npublic, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and\nmust consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances\nprivate, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after\ngenerations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence\nMonseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet\ntime to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could\nwear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,\npoor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with\na golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer\nrooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior\nmankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked\ndown upon him with the loftiest contempt.\n\nA sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his\nstables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women\nwaited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and\nforage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial\nrelations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality\namong the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.\n\nFor, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with\nevery device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could\nachieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any\nreference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not\nso far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost\nequidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would\nhave been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have\nbeen anybody s business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers\ndestitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;\ncivil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the\nworst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;\nall totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in\npretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of\nMonseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which\nanything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the\nscore. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,\nyet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives\npassed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were\nno less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies\nfor imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly\npatients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had\ndiscovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the\nState was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to\nroot out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears\nthey could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving\nPhilosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making\ncard-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving\nChemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this\nwonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of\nthe finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been\nsince--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural\nsubject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of\nexhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various\nnotabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies\namong the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half\nof the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among\nthe angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and\nappearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of\nbringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far\ntowards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing\nknown to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,\nand brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and\nsupped as at twenty.\n\nThe leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance\nupon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional\npeople who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that\nthings in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting\nthem right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic\nsect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves\nwhether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the\nspot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the\nFuture, for Monseigneur s guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other\nthree who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a\njargon about  the Centre of Truth:  holding that Man had got out of the\nCentre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got\nout of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of\nthe Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,\nby fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much\ndiscoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never\nbecame manifest.\n\nBut, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of\nMonseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been\nascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally\ncorrect. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such\ndelicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant\nswords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would\nsurely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen\nof the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they\nlanguidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;\nand what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and\nfine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and\nhis devouring hunger far away.\n\nDress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all\nthings in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that\nwas never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through\nMonseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals\nof Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball\ndescended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was\nrequired to officiate  frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,\nand white silk stockings.  At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a\nrarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother\nProfessors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call\nhim, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at\nMonseigneur s reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year\nof our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled\nhangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would\nsee the very stars out!\n\nMonseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his\nchocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown\nopen, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and\nfawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in\nbody and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have\nbeen one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never\ntroubled it.\n\nBestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one\nhappy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably\npassed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of\nTruth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due\ncourse of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate\nsprites, and was seen no more.\n\nThe show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,\nand the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon\nbut one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm\nand his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his\nway out.\n\n I devote you,  said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,\nand turning in the direction of the sanctuary,  to the Devil! \n\nWith that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the\ndust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.\n\nHe was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and\nwith a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every\nfeature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,\nbeautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top\nof each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little\nchange that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing\ncolour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted\nby something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of\ntreachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with\nattention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the\nline of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much\ntoo horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a\nhandsome face, and a remarkable one.\n\nIts owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and\ndrove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had\nstood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer\nin his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable\nto him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and\noften barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were\ncharging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no\ncheck into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had\nsometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,\nthat, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician\ncustom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a\nbarbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second\ntime, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were\nleft to get out of their difficulties as they could.\n\nWith a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of\nconsideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage\ndashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming\nbefore it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of\nits way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its\nwheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a\nnumber of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.\n\nBut for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have\nstopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded\nbehind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,\nand there were twenty hands at the horses  bridles.\n\n What has gone wrong?  said Monsieur, calmly looking out.\n\nA tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of\nthe horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was\ndown in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.\n\n Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!  said a ragged and submissive man,  it is\na child. \n\n Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child? \n\n Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes. \n\nThe fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,\ninto a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly\ngot up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the\nMarquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.\n\n Killed!  shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at\ntheir length above his head, and staring at him.  Dead! \n\nThe people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was\nnothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness\nand eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the\npeople say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they\nremained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat\nand tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes\nover them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.\n\nHe took out his purse.\n\n It is extraordinary to me,  said he,  that you people cannot take care\nof yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in\nthe way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give\nhim that. \n\nHe threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads\ncraned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The\ntall man called out again with a most unearthly cry,  Dead! \n\nHe was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest\nmade way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,\nsobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were\nstooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They\nwere as silent, however, as the men.\n\n I know all, I know all,  said the last comer.  Be a brave man, my\nGaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to\nlive. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour\nas happily? \n\n You are a philosopher, you there,  said the Marquis, smiling.  How do\nthey call you? \n\n They call me Defarge. \n\n Of what trade? \n\n Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine. \n\n Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,  said the Marquis,\nthrowing him another gold coin,  and spend it as you will. The horses\nthere; are they right? \n\nWithout deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the\nMarquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the\nair of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had\npaid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly\ndisturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.\n\n Hold!  said Monsieur the Marquis.  Hold the horses! Who threw that? \n\nHe looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a\nmoment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on\nthe pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the\nfigure of a dark stout woman, knitting.\n\n You dogs!  said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,\nexcept as to the spots on his nose:  I would ride over any of you very\nwillingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal\nthrew at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he\nshould be crushed under the wheels. \n\nSo cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of\nwhat such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not\na voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.\nBut the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the\nMarquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his\ncontemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he\nleaned back in his seat again, and gave the word  Go on! \n\nHe was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick\nsuccession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the\nDoctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the\nwhole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats\nhad crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking\non for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the\nspectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through\nwhich they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and\nbidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle\nwhile it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running\nof the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who\nhad stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness\nof Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran\ninto evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,\ntime and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together\nin their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all\nthings ran their course.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nMonseigneur in the Country\n\n\nA beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.\nPatches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas\nand beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On\ninanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent\ntendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected\ndisposition to give up, and wither away.\n\nMonsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been\nlighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up\na steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was\nno impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was\noccasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting\nsun.\n\nThe sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it\ngained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson.  It will\ndie out,  said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands,  directly. \n\nIn effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the\nheavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down\nhill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed\nquickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow\nleft when the drag was taken off.\n\nBut, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village\nat the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a\nchurch-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a\nfortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects\nas the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was\ncoming near home.\n\nThe village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor\ntannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor\nfountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All\nits people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,\nshredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the\nfountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of\nthe earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,\nwere not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax\nfor the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be\npaid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until\nthe wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.\n\nFew children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,\ntheir choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest\nterms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;\nor captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.\n\nHeralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions \nwhips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as\nif he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in\nhis travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the\nfountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.\nHe looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow\nsure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the\nmeagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the\ntruth through the best part of a hundred years.\n\nMonsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that\ndrooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before\nMonseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces\ndrooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender\nof the roads joined the group.\n\n Bring me hither that fellow!  said the Marquis to the courier.\n\nThe fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round\nto look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.\n\n I passed you on the road? \n\n Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road. \n\n Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both? \n\n Monseigneur, it is true. \n\n What did you look at, so fixedly? \n\n Monseigneur, I looked at the man. \n\nHe stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the\ncarriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.\n\n What man, pig? And why look there? \n\n Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag. \n\n Who?  demanded the traveller.\n\n Monseigneur, the man. \n\n May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You\nknow all the men of this part of the country. Who was he? \n\n Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of\nall the days of my life, I never saw him. \n\n Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated? \n\n With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.\nHis head hanging over--like this! \n\nHe turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his\nface thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered\nhimself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.\n\n What was he like? \n\n Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,\nwhite as a spectre, tall as a spectre! \n\nThe picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all\neyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur\nthe Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his\nconscience.\n\n Truly, you did well,  said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such\nvermin were not to ruffle him,  to see a thief accompanying my carriage,\nand not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur\nGabelle! \n\nMonsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary\nunited; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this\nexamination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an\nofficial manner.\n\n Bah! Go aside!  said Monsieur Gabelle.\n\n Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village\nto-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle. \n\n Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders. \n\n Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed? \n\nThe accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen\nparticular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some\nhalf-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and\npresented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.\n\n Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag? \n\n Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as\na person plunges into the river. \n\n See to it, Gabelle. Go on! \n\nThe half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the\nwheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky\nto save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or\nthey might not have been so fortunate.\n\nThe burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the\nrise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,\nit subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many\nsweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer\ngnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the\npoints to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the\ncourier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.\n\nAt the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,\nwith a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor\nfigure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had\nstudied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was\ndreadfully spare and thin.\n\nTo this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been\ngrowing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She\nturned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and\npresented herself at the carriage-door.\n\n It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition. \n\nWith an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,\nMonseigneur looked out.\n\n How, then! What is it? Always petitions! \n\n Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester. \n\n What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He\ncannot pay something? \n\n He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead. \n\n Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you? \n\n Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor\ngrass. \n\n Well? \n\n Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass? \n\n Again, well? \n\nShe looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate\ngrief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together\nwith wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,\ncaressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to\nfeel the appealing touch.\n\n Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of\nwant; so many die of want; so many more will die of want. \n\n Again, well? Can I feed them? \n\n Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don t ask it. My petition is,\nthat a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband s name, may be placed\nover him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly\nforgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I\nshall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they\nare so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!\nMonseigneur! \n\nThe valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into\na brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far\nbehind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly\ndiminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and\nhis chateau.\n\nThe sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as\nthe rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group\nat the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid\nof the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his\nman like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they\ncould bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled\nin little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more\nstars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having\nbeen extinguished.\n\nThe shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,\nwas upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged\nfor the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door\nof his chateau was opened to him.\n\n Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England? \n\n Monseigneur, not yet. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nThe Gorgon s Head\n\n\nIt was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,\nwith a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of\nstaircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony\nbusiness altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and\nstone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in\nall directions. As if the Gorgon s head had surveyed it, when it was\nfinished, two centuries ago.\n\nUp the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau\npreceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness\nto elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile\nof stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the\nflambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great\ndoor, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being\nin the open night-air. Other sound than the owl s voice there was none,\nsave the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of\nthose dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then\nheave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.\n\nThe great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a\nhall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;\ngrimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a\npeasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord\nwas angry.\n\nAvoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,\nMonsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up\nthe staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him\nto his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two\nothers. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon\nthe hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries\nbefitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.\nThe fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to\nbreak--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;\nbut, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old\npages in the history of France.\n\nA supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round\nroom, in one of the chateau s four extinguisher-topped towers. A small\nlofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds\nclosed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of\nblack, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.\n\n My nephew,  said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation;  they\nsaid he was not arrived. \n\nNor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.\n\n Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the\ntable as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour. \n\nIn a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his\nsumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and\nhe had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his\nlips, when he put it down.\n\n What is that?  he calmly asked, looking with attention at the\nhorizontal lines of black and stone colour.\n\n Monseigneur? That? \n\n Outside the blinds. Open the blinds. \n\nIt was done.\n\n Well? \n\n Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are\nhere. \n\nThe servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into\nthe vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round\nfor instructions.\n\n Good,  said the imperturbable master.  Close them again. \n\nThat was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was\nhalf way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,\nhearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the\nfront of the chateau.\n\n Ask who is arrived. \n\nIt was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind\nMonseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance\nrapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.\nHe had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.\n\nHe was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and\nthere, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.\nHe had been known in England as Charles Darnay.\n\nMonseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake\nhands.\n\n You left Paris yesterday, sir?  he said to Monseigneur, as he took his\nseat at table.\n\n Yesterday. And you? \n\n I come direct. \n\n From London? \n\n Yes. \n\n You have been a long time coming,  said the Marquis, with a smile.\n\n On the contrary; I come direct. \n\n Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time\nintending the journey. \n\n I have been detained by --the nephew stopped a moment in his\nanswer-- various business. \n\n Without doubt,  said the polished uncle.\n\nSo long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.\nWhen coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,\nlooking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a\nfine mask, opened a conversation.\n\n I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that\ntook me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is\na sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have\nsustained me. \n\n Not to death,  said the uncle;  it is not necessary to say, to death. \n\n I doubt, sir,  returned the nephew,  whether, if it had carried me to\nthe utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there. \n\nThe deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight\nlines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a\ngraceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good\nbreeding that it was not reassuring.\n\n Indeed, sir,  pursued the nephew,  for anything I know, you may have\nexpressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious\ncircumstances that surrounded me. \n\n No, no, no,  said the uncle, pleasantly.\n\n But, however that may be,  resumed the nephew, glancing at him with\ndeep distrust,  I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,\nand would know no scruple as to means. \n\n My friend, I told you so,  said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the\ntwo marks.  Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago. \n\n I recall it. \n\n Thank you,  said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.\n\nHis tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical\ninstrument.\n\n In effect, sir,  pursued the nephew,  I believe it to be at once your\nbad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in\nFrance here. \n\n I do not quite understand,  returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.\n Dare I ask you to explain? \n\n I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not\nbeen overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would\nhave sent me to some fortress indefinitely. \n\n It is possible,  said the uncle, with great calmness.  For the honour\nof the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.\nPray excuse me! \n\n I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before\nyesterday was, as usual, a cold one,  observed the nephew.\n\n I would not say happily, my friend,  returned the uncle, with refined\npoliteness;  I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for\nconsideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence\nyour destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for\nyourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,\nat a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle\naids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that\nmight so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest\nand importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted\n(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such\nthings is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right\nof life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such\ndogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),\none fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing\nsome insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have\nlost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the\nassertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as\nto say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very\nbad! \n\nThe Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;\nas elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still\ncontaining himself, that great means of regeneration.\n\n We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern\ntime also,  said the nephew, gloomily,  that I believe our name to be\nmore detested than any name in France. \n\n Let us hope so,  said the uncle.  Detestation of the high is the\ninvoluntary homage of the low. \n\n There is not,  pursued the nephew, in his former tone,  a face I can\nlook at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any\ndeference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery. \n\n A compliment,  said the Marquis,  to the grandeur of the family,\nmerited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.\nHah!  And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly\ncrossed his legs.\n\nBut, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes\nthoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at\nhim sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,\nand dislike, than was comportable with its wearer s assumption of\nindifference.\n\n Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear\nand slavery, my friend,  observed the Marquis,  will keep the dogs\nobedient to the whip, as long as this roof,  looking up to it,  shuts\nout the sky. \n\nThat might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the\nchateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as\nthey too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to\nhim that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from\nthe ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof\nhe vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new\nway--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead\nwas fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.\n\n Meanwhile,  said the Marquis,  I will preserve the honour and repose\nof the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we\nterminate our conference for the night? \n\n A moment more. \n\n An hour, if you please. \n\n Sir,  said the nephew,  we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits\nof wrong. \n\n _We_ have done wrong?  repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,\nand delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.\n\n Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account\nto both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father s time, we did\na world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and\nour pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father s time,\nwhen it is equally yours? Can I separate my father s twin-brother, joint\ninheritor, and next successor, from himself? \n\n Death has done that!  said the Marquis.\n\n And has left me,  answered the nephew,  bound to a system that is\nfrightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to\nexecute the last request of my dear mother s lips, and obey the last\nlook of my dear mother s eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to\nredress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain. \n\n Seeking them from me, my nephew,  said the Marquis, touching him on the\nbreast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth-- you\nwill for ever seek them in vain, be assured. \n\nEvery fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was\ncruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking\nquietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he\ntouched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of\na small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the\nbody, and said,\n\n My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have\nlived. \n\nWhen he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his\nbox in his pocket.\n\n Better to be a rational creature,  he added then, after ringing a small\nbell on the table,  and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,\nMonsieur Charles, I see. \n\n This property and France are lost to me,  said the nephew, sadly;  I\nrenounce them. \n\n Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It\nis scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet? \n\n I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed\nto me from you, to-morrow-- \n\n Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable. \n\n --or twenty years hence-- \n\n You do me too much honour,  said the Marquis;  still, I prefer that\nsupposition. \n\n --I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to\nrelinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin! \n\n Hah!  said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.\n\n To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,\nunder the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,\nmismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,\nand suffering. \n\n Hah!  said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.\n\n If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better\nqualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the\nweight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave\nit and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in\nanother generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse\non it, and on all this land. \n\n And you?  said the uncle.  Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new\nphilosophy, graciously intend to live? \n\n I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at\ntheir backs, may have to do some day--work. \n\n In England, for example? \n\n Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The\nfamily name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other. \n\nThe ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be\nlighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The\nMarquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his\nvalet.\n\n England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have\nprospered there,  he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew\nwith a smile.\n\n I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may\nbe indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge. \n\n They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You\nknow a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor? \n\n Yes. \n\n With a daughter? \n\n Yes. \n\n Yes,  said the Marquis.  You are fatigued. Good night! \n\nAs he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy\nin his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,\nwhich struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same\ntime, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin\nstraight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that\nlooked handsomely diabolic.\n\n Yes,  repeated the Marquis.  A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So\ncommences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night! \n\nIt would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face\noutside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew\nlooked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.\n\n Good night!  said the uncle.  I look to the pleasure of seeing you\nagain in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his\nchamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,  he\nadded to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his\nvalet to his own bedroom.\n\nThe valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his\nloose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still\nnight. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no\nnoise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some\nenchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose\nperiodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just\ncoming on.\n\nHe moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the\nscraps of the day s journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow\ntoil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the\nprison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at\nthe fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the\nchain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,\nthe little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the\ntall man with his arms up, crying,  Dead! \n\n I am cool now,  said Monsieur the Marquis,  and may go to bed. \n\nSo, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin\ngauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence\nwith a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.\n\nThe stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night\nfor three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables\nrattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with\nvery little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to\nthe owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures\nhardly ever to say what is set down for them.\n\nFor three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,\nstared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,\ndead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.\nThe burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass\nwere undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might\nhave come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,\ntaxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as\nthe starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and\nthe yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and\nfreed.\n\nThe fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain\nat the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the\nminutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark\nhours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,\nand the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.\n\nLighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still\ntrees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water\nof the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces\ncrimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the\nweather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur\nthe Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.\nAt this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open\nmouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.\n\nNow, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement\nwindows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth\nshivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely\nlightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the\nfountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men\nand women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows\nout, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church\nand at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter\nprayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its\nfoot.\n\nThe chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and\nsurely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been\nreddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;\nnow, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked\nround over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at\ndoorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs\npulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.\n\nAll these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the\nreturn of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the\nchateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried\nfigures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and\neverywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?\n\nWhat winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already\nat work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day s dinner (not\nmuch to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow s while to\npeck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it\nto a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or\nno, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,\ndown the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the\nfountain.\n\nAll the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about\nin their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other\nemotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought\nin and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly\non, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their\ntrouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of\nthe people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and\nall the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded\non the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was\nhighly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated\ninto the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting\nhimself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,\nand what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind\na servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle\n(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of\nthe German ballad of Leonora?\n\nIt portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.\n\nThe Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added\nthe one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited\nthrough about two hundred years.\n\nIt lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine\nmask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the\nheart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt\nwas a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:\n\n Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nTwo Promises\n\n\nMore months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles\nDarnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French\nlanguage who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he\nwould have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with\nyoung men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a\nliving tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for\nits stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in\nsound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not\nat that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were\nto be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had\ndropped out of Tellson s ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a\ntutor, whose attainments made the student s way unusually pleasant and\nprofitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his\nwork besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became\nknown and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the\ncircumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.\nSo, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.\n\nIn London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor\nto lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he\nwould not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and\ndid it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.\n\nA certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he\nread with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a\ncontraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek\nand Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in\nLondon.\n\nNow, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days\nwhen it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has\ninvariably gone one way--Charles Darnay s way--the way of the love of a\nwoman.\n\nHe had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never\nheard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;\nhe had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was\nconfronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for\nhim. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination\nat the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,\nlong, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the\nmere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so\nmuch as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.\n\nThat he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a\nsummer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,\nhe turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity\nof opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer\nday, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.\n\nHe found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy\nwhich had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated\ntheir sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a\nvery energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength\nof resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was\nsometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the\nexercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been\nfrequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.\n\nHe studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with\nease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at\nsight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.\n\n Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your\nreturn these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were\nboth here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due. \n\n I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,  he answered,\na little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor.  Miss\nManette-- \n\n Is well,  said the Doctor, as he stopped short,  and your return will\ndelight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will\nsoon be home. \n\n Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her\nbeing from home, to beg to speak to you. \n\nThere was a blank silence.\n\n Yes?  said the Doctor, with evident constraint.  Bring your chair here,\nand speak on. \n\nHe complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less\neasy.\n\n I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here, \n so he at length began,  for some year and a half, that I hope the topic\non which I am about to touch may not-- \n\nHe was stayed by the Doctor s putting out his hand to stop him. When he\nhad kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:\n\n Is Lucie the topic? \n\n She is. \n\n It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me\nto hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay. \n\n It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor\nManette!  he said deferentially.\n\nThere was another blank silence before her father rejoined:\n\n I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it. \n\nHis constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it\noriginated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles\nDarnay hesitated.\n\n Shall I go on, sir? \n\nAnother blank.\n\n Yes, go on. \n\n You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly\nI say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and\nthe hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been\nladen. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,\ndisinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love\nher. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me! \n\nThe Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the\nground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,\nand cried:\n\n Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that! \n\nHis cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles\nDarnay s ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had\nextended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter\nso received it, and remained silent.\n\n I ask your pardon,  said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some\nmoments.  I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it. \n\nHe turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or\nraise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair\novershadowed his face:\n\n Have you spoken to Lucie? \n\n No. \n\n Nor written? \n\n Never. \n\n It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is\nto be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks\nyou. \n\nHe offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.\n\n I know,  said Darnay, respectfully,  how can I fail to know, Doctor\nManette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between\nyou and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so\nbelonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it\ncan have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and\nchild. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled\nwith the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there\nis, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy\nitself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is\nnow devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present\nyears and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the\nearly days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if\nyou had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could\nhardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that\nin which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to\nyou, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your\nneck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her\nown age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,\nloves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I\nhave known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home. \n\nHer father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a\nlittle quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.\n\n Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you\nwith this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as\nlong as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even\nnow feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch\nyour history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.\nHeaven is my witness that I love her! \n\n I believe it,  answered her father, mournfully.  I have thought so\nbefore now. I believe it. \n\n But, do not believe,  said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice\nstruck with a reproachful sound,  that if my fortune were so cast as\nthat, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time\nput any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a\nword of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I\nshould know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at\na remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my\nheart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not\nnow touch this honoured hand. \n\nHe laid his own upon it as he spoke.\n\n No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like\nyou, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like\nyou, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting\nin a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your\nlife and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide\nwith Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to\ncome in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be. \n\nHis touch still lingered on her father s hand. Answering the touch for a\nmoment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of\nhis chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the\nconference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that\noccasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.\n\n You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank\nyou with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have\nyou any reason to believe that Lucie loves you? \n\n None. As yet, none. \n\n Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once\nascertain that, with my knowledge? \n\n Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I\nmight (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow. \n\n Do you seek any guidance from me? \n\n I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it\nin your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some. \n\n Do you seek any promise from me? \n\n I do seek that. \n\n What is it? \n\n I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well\nunderstand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her\ninnocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I\ncould retain no place in it against her love for her father. \n\n If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it? \n\n I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor s\nfavour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,\nDoctor Manette,  said Darnay, modestly but firmly,  I would not ask that\nword, to save my life. \n\n I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as\nwell as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and\ndelicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one\nrespect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her\nheart. \n\n May I ask, sir, if you think she is--  As he hesitated, her father\nsupplied the rest.\n\n Is sought by any other suitor? \n\n It is what I meant to say. \n\nHer father considered a little before he answered:\n\n You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,\noccasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these. \n\n Or both,  said Darnay.\n\n I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want\na promise from me. Tell me what it is. \n\n It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own\npart, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will\nbear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you\nmay be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against\nme. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The\ncondition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to\nrequire, I will observe immediately. \n\n I give the promise,  said the Doctor,  without any condition. I believe\nyour object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I\nbelieve your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties\nbetween me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me\nthat you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.\nIf there were--Charles Darnay, if there were-- \n\nThe young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as\nthe Doctor spoke:\n\n --any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,\nnew or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility\nthereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her\nsake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me\nthan wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk. \n\nSo strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange\nhis fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own\nhand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.\n\n You said something to me,  said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.\n What was it you said to me? \n\nHe was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a\ncondition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:\n\n Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my\npart. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother s, is\nnot, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and\nwhy I am in England. \n\n Stop!  said the Doctor of Beauvais.\n\n I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no\nsecret from you. \n\n Stop! \n\nFor an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for\nanother instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay s lips.\n\n Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie\nshould love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you\npromise? \n\n Willingly.\n\n Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she\nshould not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you! \n\nIt was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and\ndarker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for\nMiss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his\nreading-chair empty.\n\n My father!  she called to him.  Father dear! \n\nNothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his\nbedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at\nhis door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her\nblood all chilled,  What shall I do! What shall I do! \n\nHer uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at\nhis door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of\nher voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down\ntogether for a long time.\n\nShe came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He\nslept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished\nwork, were all as usual.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nA Companion Picture\n\n\n Sydney,  said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his\njackal;  mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you. \n\nSydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,\nand the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making\na grand clearance among Mr. Stryver s papers before the setting in\nof the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver\narrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until\nNovember should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and\nbring grist to the mill again.\n\nSydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much\napplication. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him\nthrough the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded\nthe towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled\nhis turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at\nintervals for the last six hours.\n\n Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?  said Stryver the portly, with\nhis hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on\nhis back.\n\n I am. \n\n Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather\nsurprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as\nshrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry. \n\n _Do_ you? \n\n Yes. And not for money. What do you say now? \n\n I don t feel disposed to say much. Who is she? \n\n Guess. \n\n Do I know her? \n\n Guess. \n\n I am not going to guess, at five o clock in the morning, with my brains\nfrying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask\nme to dinner. \n\n Well then, I ll tell you,  said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting\nposture.  Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,\nbecause you are such an insensible dog. \n\n And you,  returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch,  are such a\nsensitive and poetical spirit-- \n\n Come!  rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully,  though I don t prefer\nany claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still\nI am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_. \n\n You are a luckier, if you mean that. \n\n I don t mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more-- \n\n Say gallantry, while you are about it,  suggested Carton.\n\n Well! I ll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,  said Stryver,\ninflating himself at his friend as he made the punch,  who cares more to\nbe agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how\nto be agreeable, in a woman s society, than you do. \n\n Go on,  said Sydney Carton.\n\n No; but before I go on,  said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying\nway,  I ll have this out with you. You ve been at Doctor Manette s house\nas much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your\nmoroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and\nhangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,\nSydney! \n\n It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to\nbe ashamed of anything,  returned Sydney;  you ought to be much obliged\nto me. \n\n You shall not get off in that way,  rejoined Stryver, shouldering the\nrejoinder at him;  no, Sydney, it s my duty to tell you--and I tell you\nto your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned\nfellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow. \n\nSydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.\n\n Look at me!  said Stryver, squaring himself;  I have less need to make\nmyself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.\nWhy do I do it? \n\n I never saw you do it yet,  muttered Carton.\n\n I do it because it s politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I\nget on. \n\n You don t get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions, \n answered Carton, with a careless air;  I wish you would keep to that. As\nto me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible? \n\nHe asked the question with some appearance of scorn.\n\n You have no business to be incorrigible,  was his friend s answer,\ndelivered in no very soothing tone.\n\n I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,  said Sydney Carton.\n Who is the lady? \n\n Now, don t let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,\nSydney,  said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness\nfor the disclosure he was about to make,  because I know you don t mean\nhalf you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I\nmake this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to\nme in slighting terms. \n\n I did? \n\n Certainly; and in these chambers. \n\nSydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;\ndrank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.\n\n You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young\nlady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or\ndelicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a\nlittle resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.\nYou want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I\nthink of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man s opinion of\na picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music\nof mine, who had no ear for music. \n\nSydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,\nlooking at his friend.\n\n Now you know all about it, Syd,  said Mr. Stryver.  I don t care about\nfortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to\nplease myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She\nwill have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,\nand a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,\nbut she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished? \n\nCarton, still drinking the punch, rejoined,  Why should I be\nastonished? \n\n You approve? \n\nCarton, still drinking the punch, rejoined,  Why should I not approve? \n\n Well!  said his friend Stryver,  you take it more easily than I fancied\nyou would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would\nbe; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your\nancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had\nenough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I\nfeel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels\ninclined to go to it (when he doesn t, he can stay away), and I feel\nthat Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me\ncredit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to\nsay a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you\nknow; you really are in a bad way. You don t know the value of money,\nyou live hard, you ll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;\nyou really ought to think about a nurse. \n\nThe prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as\nbig as he was, and four times as offensive.\n\n Now, let me recommend you,  pursued Stryver,  to look it in the face.\nI have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,\nyou, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of\nyou. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women s society, nor\nunderstanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some\nrespectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,\nor lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That s the\nkind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney. \n\n I ll think of it,  said Sydney.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\nThe Fellow of Delicacy\n\n\nMr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good\nfortune on the Doctor s daughter, resolved to make her happiness known\nto her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental\ndebating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as\nwell to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange\nat their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two\nbefore Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it\nand Hilary.\n\nAs to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly\nsaw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly\ngrounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a\nplain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the\nplaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for\nthe defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to\nconsider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer\ncase could be.\n\nAccordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal\nproposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to\nRanelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present\nhimself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.\n\nTowards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,\nwhile the bloom of the Long Vacation s infancy was still upon it.\nAnybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet\non Saint Dunstan s side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way\nalong the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have\nseen how safe and strong he was.\n\nHis way taking him past Tellson s, and he both banking at Tellson s and\nknowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.\nStryver s mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness\nof the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle\nin its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient\ncashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.\nLorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron\nbars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything\nunder the clouds were a sum.\n\n Halloa!  said Mr. Stryver.  How do you do? I hope you are well! \n\nIt was Stryver s grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any\nplace, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson s, that old clerks\nin distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he\nsqueezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading\nthe paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if\nthe Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.\n\nThe discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would\nrecommend under the circumstances,  How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do\nyou do, sir?  and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner\nof shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson s who shook\nhands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a\nself-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.\n\n Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?  asked Mr. Lorry, in his\nbusiness character.\n\n Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I\nhave come for a private word. \n\n Oh indeed!  said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed\nto the House afar off.\n\n I am going,  said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the\ndesk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to\nbe not half desk enough for him:  I am going to make an offer of myself\nin marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry. \n\n Oh dear me!  cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his\nvisitor dubiously.\n\n Oh dear me, sir?  repeated Stryver, drawing back.  Oh dear you, sir?\nWhat may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry? \n\n My meaning,  answered the man of business,  is, of course, friendly and\nappreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,\nmy meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.\nStryver--  Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest\nmanner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,\n you know there really is so much too much of you! \n\n Well!  said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,\nopening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath,  if I understand you,\nMr. Lorry, I ll be hanged! \n\nMr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that\nend, and bit the feather of a pen.\n\n D--n it all, sir!  said Stryver, staring at him,  am I not eligible? \n\n Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you re eligible!  said Mr. Lorry.  If you say\neligible, you are eligible. \n\n Am I not prosperous?  asked Stryver.\n\n Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,  said Mr. Lorry.\n\n And advancing? \n\n If you come to advancing you know,  said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be\nable to make another admission,  nobody can doubt that. \n\n Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?  demanded Stryver,\nperceptibly crestfallen.\n\n Well! I--Were you going there now?  asked Mr. Lorry.\n\n Straight!  said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.\n\n Then I think I wouldn t, if I was you. \n\n Why?  said Stryver.  Now, I ll put you in a corner,  forensically\nshaking a forefinger at him.  You are a man of business and bound to\nhave a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn t you go? \n\n Because,  said Mr. Lorry,  I wouldn t go on such an object without\nhaving some cause to believe that I should succeed. \n\n D--n _me_!  cried Stryver,  but this beats everything. \n\nMr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry\nStryver.\n\n Here s a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_\na Bank,  said Stryver;  and having summed up three leading reasons for\ncomplete success, he says there s no reason at all! Says it with his\nhead on!  Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have\nbeen infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.\n\n When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and\nwhen I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of\ncauses and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young\nlady, my good sir,  said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm,  the\nyoung lady. The young lady goes before all. \n\n Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,  said Stryver, squaring his\nelbows,  that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at\npresent in question is a mincing Fool? \n\n Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,  said Mr. Lorry,\nreddening,  that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady\nfrom any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose\ntaste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could\nnot restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at\nthis desk, not even Tellson s should prevent my giving him a piece of my\nmind. \n\nThe necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver s\nblood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;\nMr. Lorry s veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in\nno better state now it was his turn.\n\n That is what I mean to tell you, sir,  said Mr. Lorry.  Pray let there\nbe no mistake about it. \n\nMr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood\nhitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the\ntoothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:\n\n This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not\nto go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King s Bench\nbar? \n\n Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver? \n\n Yes, I do. \n\n Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly. \n\n And all I can say of it is,  laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh,  that\nthis--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come. \n\n Now understand me,  pursued Mr. Lorry.  As a man of business, I am\nnot justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of\nbusiness, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried\nMiss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and\nof her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have\nspoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I\nmay not be right? \n\n Not I!  said Stryver, whistling.  I can t undertake to find third\nparties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense\nin certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It s\nnew to me, but you are right, I dare say. \n\n What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And\nunderstand me, sir,  said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again,  I\nwill not--not even at Tellson s--have it characterised for me by any\ngentleman breathing. \n\n There! I beg your pardon!  said Stryver.\n\n Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be\npainful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor\nManette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very\npainful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You\nknow the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with\nthe family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you\nin no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a\nlittle new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon\nit. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its\nsoundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied\nwith it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is\nbest spared. What do you say? \n\n How long would you keep me in town? \n\n Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the\nevening, and come to your chambers afterwards. \n\n Then I say yes,  said Stryver:  I won t go up there now, I am not so\nhot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look\nin to-night. Good morning. \n\nThen Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a\nconcussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it\nbowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength\nof the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were\nalways seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly\nbelieved, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in\nthe empty office until they bowed another customer in.\n\nThe barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have\ngone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than\nmoral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to\nswallow, he got it down.  And now,  said Mr. Stryver, shaking his\nforensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down,  my way\nout of this, is, to put you all in the wrong. \n\nIt was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found\ngreat relief.  You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,  said Mr.\nStryver;  I ll do that for you. \n\nAccordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o clock,\nMr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the\npurpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of\nthe morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was\naltogether in an absent and preoccupied state.\n\n Well!  said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of\nbootless attempts to bring him round to the question.  I have been to\nSoho. \n\n To Soho?  repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly.  Oh, to be sure! What am I\nthinking of! \n\n And I have no doubt,  said Mr. Lorry,  that I was right in the\nconversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my\nadvice. \n\n I assure you,  returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way,  that I\nam sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father s\naccount. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let\nus say no more about it. \n\n I don t understand you,  said Mr. Lorry.\n\n I dare say not,  rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and\nfinal way;  no matter, no matter. \n\n But it does matter,  Mr. Lorry urged.\n\n No it doesn t; I assure you it doesn t. Having supposed that there was\nsense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is\nnot a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is\ndone. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have\nrepented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish\naspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been\na bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am\nglad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing\nfor me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could\nhave gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not\nproposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means\ncertain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to\nthat extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and\ngiddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you\nwill always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,\nI regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.\nAnd I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,\nand for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;\nyou were right, it never would have done. \n\nMr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.\nStryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of\nshowering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.\n Make the best of it, my dear sir,  said Stryver;  say no more about it;\nthank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night! \n\nMr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver\nwas lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\nThe Fellow of No Delicacy\n\n\nIf Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the\nhouse of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,\nand had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he\ncared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,\nwhich overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely\npierced by the light within him.\n\nAnd yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,\nand for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night\nhe vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no\ntransitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary\nfigure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams\nof the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture\nin spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time\nbrought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,\ninto his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known\nhim more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon\nit no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that\nneighbourhood.\n\nOn a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal\nthat  he had thought better of that marrying matter ) had carried his\ndelicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the\nCity streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health\nfor the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney s feet still trod\nthose stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became\nanimated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,\nthey took him to the Doctor s door.\n\nHe was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had\nnever been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little\nembarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at\nhis face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed\na change in it.\n\n I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton! \n\n No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What\nis to be expected of, or by, such profligates? \n\n Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to\nlive no better life? \n\n God knows it is a shame! \n\n Then why not change it? \n\nLooking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that\nthere were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he\nanswered:\n\n It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall\nsink lower, and be worse. \n\nHe leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The\ntable trembled in the silence that followed.\n\nShe had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to\nbe so, without looking at her, and said:\n\n Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of\nwhat I want to say to you. Will you hear me? \n\n If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,\nit would make me very glad! \n\n God bless you for your sweet compassion! \n\nHe unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.\n\n Don t be afraid to hear me. Don t shrink from anything I say. I am like\none who died young. All my life might have been. \n\n No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am\nsure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself. \n\n Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the\nmystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget\nit! \n\nShe was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair\nof himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have\nbeen holden.\n\n If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the\nlove of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,\npoor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been\nconscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would\nbring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,\ndisgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have\nno tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot\nbe. \n\n Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall\nyou--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your\nconfidence? I know this is a confidence,  she modestly said, after a\nlittle hesitation, and in earnest tears,  I know you would say this to\nno one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton? \n\nHe shook his head.\n\n To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very\nlittle more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that\nyou have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not\nbeen so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this\nhome made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had\ndied out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that\nI thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from\nold voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I\nhave had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off\nsloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all\na dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,\nbut I wish you to know that you inspired it. \n\n Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again! \n\n No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite\nundeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the\nweakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,\nheap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in\nits nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no\nservice, idly burning away. \n\n Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy\nthan you were before you knew me-- \n\n Don t say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if\nanything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse. \n\n Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,\nattributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can\nmake it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for\ngood, with you, at all? \n\n The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come\nhere to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,\nthe remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;\nand that there was something left in me at this time which you could\ndeplore and pity. \n\n Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with\nall my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton! \n\n Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,\nand I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let\nme believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life\nwas reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there\nalone, and will be shared by no one? \n\n If that will be a consolation to you, yes. \n\n Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you? \n\n Mr. Carton,  she answered, after an agitated pause,  the secret is\nyours, not mine; and I promise to respect it. \n\n Thank you. And again, God bless you. \n\nHe put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.\n\n Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this\nconversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it\nagain. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In\nthe hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and\nshall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made\nto you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried\nin your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy! \n\nHe was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so\nsad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept\ndown and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he\nstood looking back at her.\n\n Be comforted!  he said,  I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An\nhour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn\nbut yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any\nwretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I\nshall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be\nwhat you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make\nto you, is, that you will believe this of me. \n\n I will, Mr. Carton. \n\n My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve\nyou of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and\nbetween whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say\nit, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to\nyou, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that\nthere was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would\nembrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold\nme in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one\nthing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new\nties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly\nand strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever\ngrace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a\nhappy father s face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright\nbeauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is\na man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you! \n\nHe said,  Farewell!  said a last  God bless you!  and left her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\nThe Honest Tradesman\n\n\nTo the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in\nFleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and\nvariety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit\nupon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and\nnot be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending\nwestward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,\nboth ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where\nthe sun goes down!\n\nWith his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,\nlike the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty\nwatching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever\nrunning dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,\nsince a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid\nwomen (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from\nTellson s side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such\ncompanionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed\nto become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to\nhave the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from\nthe gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent\npurpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.\n\nTime was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in\nthe sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,\nbut not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.\n\nIt fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were\nfew, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so\nunprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.\nCruncher must have been  flopping  in some pointed manner, when an\nunusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his\nattention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of\nfuneral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this\nfuneral, which engendered uproar.\n\n Young Jerry,  said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring,  it s a\nburyin . \n\n Hooroar, father!  cried Young Jerry.\n\nThe young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious\nsignificance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched\nhis opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.\n\n What d ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey\nto your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for\n_me_!  said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him.  Him and his hooroars! Don t\nlet me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D ye\nhear? \n\n I warn t doing no harm,  Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.\n\n Drop it then,  said Mr. Cruncher;  I won t have none of _your_ no\nharms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd. \n\nHis son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing\nround a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach\nthere was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were\nconsidered essential to the dignity of the position. The position\nappeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble\nsurrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and\nincessantly groaning and calling out:  Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies! \n with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.\n\nFunerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he\nalways pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed\nTellson s. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance\nexcited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:\n\n What is it, brother? What s it about? \n\n _I_ don t know,  said the man.  Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies! \n\nHe asked another man.  Who is it? \n\n _I_ don t know,  returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth\nnevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the\ngreatest ardour,  Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies! \n\nAt length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled\nagainst him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the\nfuneral of one Roger Cly.\n\n Was he a spy?  asked Mr. Cruncher.\n\n Old Bailey spy,  returned his informant.  Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey\nSpi--i--ies! \n\n Why, to be sure!  exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had\nassisted.  I ve seen him. Dead, is he? \n\n Dead as mutton,  returned the other,  and can t be too dead. Have  em\nout, there! Spies! Pull  em out, there! Spies! \n\nThe idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,\nthat the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the\nsuggestion to have  em out, and to pull  em out, mobbed the two vehicles\nso closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd s opening the coach\ndoors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands\nfor a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,\nthat in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after\nshedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and\nother symbolical tears.\n\nThese, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great\nenjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a\ncrowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.\nThey had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin\nout, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to\nits destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being\nmuch needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and\nthe coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,\nwhile as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any\nexercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers\nwas Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from\nthe observation of Tellson s, in the further corner of the mourning\ncoach.\n\nThe officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in\nthe ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices\nremarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory\nmembers of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.\nThe remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the\nhearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under\nclose inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended\nby his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a\npopular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional\nornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his\nbear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to\nthat part of the procession in which he walked.\n\nThus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite\ncaricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting\nat every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination\nwas the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there\nin course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,\naccomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and\nhighly to its own satisfaction.\n\nThe dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of\nproviding some other entertainment for itself, another brighter\ngenius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual\npassers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase\nwas given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near\nthe Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and\nthey were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of\nwindow-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy\nand natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had\nbeen pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm\nthe more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were\ncoming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps\nthe Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual\nprogress of a mob.\n\nMr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained\nbehind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.\nThe place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a\nneighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and\nmaturely considering the spot.\n\n Jerry,  said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,\n you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he\nwas a young  un and a straight made  un. \n\nHaving smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned\nhimself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his\nstation at Tellson s. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched\nhis liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all\namiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent\nman, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon\nhis medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.\n\nYoung Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No\njob in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the\nusual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.\n\n Now, I tell you where it is!  said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on\nentering.  If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I\nshall make sure that you ve been praying again me, and I shall work you\nfor it just the same as if I seen you do it. \n\nThe dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.\n\n Why, you re at it afore my face!  said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of\nangry apprehension.\n\n I am saying nothing. \n\n Well, then; don t meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.\nYou may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether. \n\n Yes, Jerry. \n\n Yes, Jerry,  repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea.  Ah! It _is_\nyes, Jerry. That s about it. You may say yes, Jerry. \n\nMr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,\nbut made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general\nironical dissatisfaction.\n\n You and your yes, Jerry,  said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his\nbread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible\noyster out of his saucer.  Ah! I think so. I believe you. \n\n You are going out to-night?  asked his decent wife, when he took\nanother bite.\n\n Yes, I am. \n\n May I go with you, father?  asked his son, briskly.\n\n No, you mayn t. I m a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That s\nwhere I m going to. Going a fishing. \n\n Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don t it, father? \n\n Never you mind. \n\n Shall you bring any fish home, father? \n\n If I don t, you ll have short commons, to-morrow,  returned that\ngentleman, shaking his head;  that s questions enough for you; I ain t a\ngoing out, till you ve been long abed. \n\nHe devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a\nmost vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in\nconversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions\nto his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in\nconversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling\non any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than\nhe would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest\nperson could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an\nhonest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a\nprofessed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.\n\n And mind you!  said Mr. Cruncher.  No games to-morrow! If I, as a\nhonest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none\nof your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest\ntradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring\non water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly\ncustomer to you, if you don t. _I_ m your Rome, you know. \n\nThen he began grumbling again:\n\n With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don t\nknow how scarce you mayn t make the wittles and drink here, by your\nflopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_\nyour n, ain t he? He s as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,\nand not know that a mother s first duty is to blow her boy out? \n\nThis touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to\nperform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above\nall things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal\nfunction so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.\n\nThus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry\nwas ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,\nobeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with\nsolitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one\no clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,\ntook a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought\nforth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other\nfishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him\nin skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,\nextinguished the light, and went out.\n\nYoung Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to\nbed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he\nfollowed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the\ncourt, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning\nhis getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the\ndoor stood ajar all night.\n\nImpelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his\nfather s honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,\nwalls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his\nhonoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not\ngone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and\nthe two trudged on together.\n\nWithin half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the\nwinking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a\nlonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,\nthat if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the\nsecond follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split\nhimself into two.\n\nThe three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped\nunder a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low\nbrick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and\nwall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which\nthe wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.\nCrouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that\nYoung Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well\ndefined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.\nHe was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the\nthird. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay\nthere a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands\nand knees.\n\nIt was now Young Jerry s turn to approach the gate: which he did,\nholding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking\nin, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!\nand all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard\nthat they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church\ntower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not\ncreep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to\nfish.\n\nThey fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent\nappeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.\nWhatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful\nstriking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,\nwith his hair as stiff as his father s.\n\nBut, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not\nonly stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They\nwere still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for\nthe second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a\nscrewing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were\nstrained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the\nearth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what\nit would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to\nwrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he\nmade off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.\n\nHe would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,\nit being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable\nto get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen\nwas running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt\nupright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him\nand hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to\nshun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it\nwas making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the\nroadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them\nlike a dropsical boy s kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways\ntoo, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up\nto its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,\nand lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was\nincessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy\ngot to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then\nit would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every\nstair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on\nhis breast when he fell asleep.\n\nFrom his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after\ndaybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the\nfamily room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry\ninferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the\nears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the\nbed.\n\n I told you I would,  said Mr. Cruncher,  and I did. \n\n Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!  his wife implored.\n\n You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,  said Jerry,  and me\nand my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don t\nyou? \n\n I try to be a good wife, Jerry,  the poor woman protested, with tears.\n\n Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband s business? Is it\nhonouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your\nhusband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business? \n\n You hadn t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry. \n\n It s enough for you,  retorted Mr. Cruncher,  to be the wife of a\nhonest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations\nwhen he took to his trade or when he didn t. A honouring and obeying\nwife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious\nwoman? If you re a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have\nno more nat ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has\nof a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you. \n\nThe altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in\nthe honest tradesman s kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down\nat his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on\nhis back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay\ndown too, and fell asleep again.\n\nThere was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.\nCruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid\nby him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case\nhe should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed\nand washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his\nostensible calling.\n\nYoung Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father s side\nalong sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry\nfrom him of the previous night, running home through darkness and\nsolitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,\nand his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not\nimprobable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,\nthat fine morning.\n\n Father,  said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep\nat arm s length and to have the stool well between them:  what s a\nResurrection-Man? \n\nMr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered,  How\nshould I know? \n\n I thought you knowed everything, father,  said the artless boy.\n\n Hem! Well,  returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his\nhat to give his spikes free play,  he s a tradesman. \n\n What s his goods, father?  asked the brisk Young Jerry.\n\n His goods,  said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind,  is a\nbranch of Scientific goods. \n\n Persons  bodies, ain t it, father?  asked the lively boy.\n\n I believe it is something of that sort,  said Mr. Cruncher.\n\n Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I m quite\ngrowed up! \n\nMr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.\n It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop\nyour talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and\nthere s no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit\nfor.  As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,\nto plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to\nhimself:  Jerry, you honest tradesman, there s hopes wot that boy will\nyet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\nKnitting\n\n\nThere had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur\nDefarge. As early as six o clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping\nthrough its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over\nmeasures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best\nof times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that\nhe sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its\ninfluence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No\nvivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur\nDefarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in\nthe dregs of it.\n\nThis had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been\nearly drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun\non Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early\nbrooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and\nslunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could\nnot have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These\nwere to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could\nhave commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,\nand from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy\nlooks.\n\nNotwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop\nwas not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the\nthreshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see\nonly Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of\nwine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced\nand beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of\nhumanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.\n\nA suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps\nobserved by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in\nat every place, high and low, from the king s palace to the criminal s\ngaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built\ntowers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops\nof wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve\nwith her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible\na long way off.\n\nThus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was\nhigh noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under\nhis swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a\nmender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered\nthe wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast\nof Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and\nflickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had\nfollowed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though\nthe eyes of every man there were turned upon them.\n\n Good day, gentlemen!  said Monsieur Defarge.\n\nIt may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited\nan answering chorus of  Good day! \n\n It is bad weather, gentlemen,  said Defarge, shaking his head.\n\nUpon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down\ntheir eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.\n\n My wife,  said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge:  I have\ntravelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called\nJacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half s journey out of Paris.\nHe is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to\ndrink, my wife! \n\nA second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the\nmender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,\nand drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark\nbread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near\nMadame Defarge s counter. A third man got up and went out.\n\nDefarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less\nthan was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no\nrarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.\nHe looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even\nMadame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.\n\n Have you finished your repast, friend?  he asked, in due season.\n\n Yes, thank you. \n\n Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could\noccupy. It will suit you to a marvel. \n\nOut of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a\ncourtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the\nstaircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man\nsat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.\n\nNo white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had\ngone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired\nman afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at\nhim through the chinks in the wall.\n\nDefarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:\n\n Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness\nencountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.\nSpeak, Jacques Five! \n\nThe mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with\nit, and said,  Where shall I commence, monsieur? \n\n Commence,  was Monsieur Defarge s not unreasonable reply,  at the\ncommencement. \n\n I saw him then, messieurs,  began the mender of roads,  a year ago this\nrunning summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the\nchain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun\ngoing to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he\nhanging by the chain--like this. \n\nAgain the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which\nhe ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been\nthe infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village\nduring a whole year.\n\nJacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?\n\n Never,  answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.\n\nJacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?\n\n By his tall figure,  said the mender of roads, softly, and with his\nfinger at his nose.  When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,\n Say, what is he like?  I make response,  Tall as a spectre. \n\n You should have said, short as a dwarf,  returned Jacques Two.\n\n But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he\nconfide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not\noffer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,\nstanding near our little fountain, and says,  To me! Bring that rascal! \nMy faith, messieurs, I offer nothing. \n\n He is right there, Jacques,  murmured Defarge, to him who had\ninterrupted.  Go on! \n\n Good!  said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery.  The tall man\nis lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven? \n\n No matter, the number,  said Defarge.  He is well hidden, but at last\nhe is unluckily found. Go on! \n\n I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to\ngo to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the\nvillage below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see\ncoming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man\nwith his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this! \n\nWith the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his\nelbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.\n\n I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers\nand their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any\nspectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I\nsee no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and\nthat they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun\ngoing to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that\ntheir long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the\nroad, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.\nAlso, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves\nwith them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near\nto me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would\nbe well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as\non the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot! \n\nHe described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it\nvividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.\n\n I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not\nshow the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with\nour eyes.  Come on!  says the chief of that company, pointing to the\nvillage,  bring him fast to his tomb!  and they bring him faster. I\nfollow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden\nshoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and\nconsequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this! \n\nHe imitated the action of a man s being impelled forward by the\nbutt-ends of muskets.\n\n As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They\nlaugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,\nbut he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into\nthe village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,\nand up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the\ndarkness of the night, and swallow him--like this! \n\nHe opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding\nsnap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by\nopening it again, Defarge said,  Go on, Jacques. \n\n All the village,  pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low\nvoice,  withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the\nvillage sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the\nlocks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,\nexcept to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating\nmy morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on\nmy way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty\niron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no\nhand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a\ndead man. \n\nDefarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all\nof them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the\ncountryman s story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was\nauthoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One\nand Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on\nhis hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally\nintent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding\nover the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge\nstanding between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the\nlight of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to\nhim.\n\n Go on, Jacques,  said Defarge.\n\n He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks\nat him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a\ndistance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work\nof the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all\nfaces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards\nthe posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They\nwhisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be\nexecuted; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing\nthat he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say\nthat a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?\nIt is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. \n\n Listen then, Jacques,  Number One of that name sternly interposed.\n Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,\nyourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,\nsitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the\nhazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in\nhis hand. \n\n And once again listen, Jacques!  said the kneeling Number Three:\nhis fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a\nstrikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither\nfood nor drink;  the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,\nand struck him blows. You hear? \n\n I hear, messieurs. \n\n Go on then,  said Defarge.\n\n Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,  resumed the\ncountryman,  that he is brought down into our country to be executed on\nthe spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper\nthat because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the\nfather of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a\nparricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed\nwith the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds\nwhich will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be\npoured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,\nthat he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man\nsays, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on\nthe life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?\nI am not a scholar. \n\n Listen once again then, Jacques!  said the man with the restless hand\nand the craving air.  The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was\nall done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and\nnothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than\nthe crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager\nattention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,\nwhen he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was\ndone--why, how old are you? \n\n Thirty-five,  said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.\n\n It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen\nit. \n\n Enough!  said Defarge, with grim impatience.  Long live the Devil! Go\non. \n\n Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;\neven the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday\nnight when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from\nthe prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.\nWorkmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by\nthe fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the\nwater. \n\nThe mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,\nand pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.\n\n All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,\nthe cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers\nhave marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst\nof many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is\na gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he\nlaughed.  He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,\nfrom the corners of his mouth to his ears.  On the top of the gallows is\nfixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged\nthere forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water. \n\nThey looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,\non which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the\nspectacle.\n\n It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw\nwater! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have\nI said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to\nbed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,\nacross the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,\nmessieurs, to where the sky rests upon it! \n\nThe hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other\nthree, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.\n\n That s all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),\nand I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was\nwarned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now\nwalking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here\nyou see me! \n\nAfter a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said,  Good! You have acted\nand recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the\ndoor? \n\n Very willingly,  said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the\ntop of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.\n\nThe three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to\nthe garret.\n\n How say you, Jacques?  demanded Number One.  To be registered? \n\n To be registered, as doomed to destruction,  returned Defarge.\n\n Magnificent!  croaked the man with the craving.\n\n The chateau, and all the race?  inquired the first.\n\n The chateau and all the race,  returned Defarge.  Extermination. \n\nThe hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak,  Magnificent!  and began\ngnawing another finger.\n\n Are you sure,  asked Jacques Two, of Defarge,  that no embarrassment\ncan arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is\nsafe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always\nbe able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she? \n\n Jacques,  returned Defarge, drawing himself up,  if madame my wife\nundertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose\na word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her\nown symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in\nMadame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,\nto erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or\ncrimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge. \n\nThere was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who\nhungered, asked:  Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is\nvery simple; is he not a little dangerous? \n\n He knows nothing,  said Defarge;  at least nothing more than would\neasily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself\nwith him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him\non his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and\nCourt; let him see them on Sunday. \n\n What?  exclaimed the hungry man, staring.  Is it a good sign, that he\nwishes to see Royalty and Nobility? \n\n Jacques,  said Defarge;  judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her\nto thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish\nhim to bring it down one day. \n\nNothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already\ndozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the\npallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon\nasleep.\n\nWorse quarters than Defarge s wine-shop, could easily have been found\nin Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious\ndread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very\nnew and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly\nunconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that\nhis being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that\nhe shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he\ncontended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady\nmight pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it\ninto her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a\nmurder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through\nwith it until the play was played out.\n\nTherefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted\n(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur\nand himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have\nmadame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was\nadditionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the\nafternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to\nsee the carriage of the King and Queen.\n\n You work hard, madame,  said a man near her.\n\n Yes,  answered Madame Defarge;  I have a good deal to do. \n\n What do you make, madame? \n\n Many things. \n\n For instance-- \n\n For instance,  returned Madame Defarge, composedly,  shrouds. \n\nThe man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender\nof roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close\nand oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was\nfortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King\nand the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the\nshining Bull s Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing\nladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour\nand elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both\nsexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary\nintoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,\nLong live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of\nubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,\nterraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull s Eye,\nmore lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept\nwith sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three\nhours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,\nand throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him\nfrom flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to\npieces.\n\n Bravo!  said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a\npatron;  you are a good boy! \n\nThe mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of\nhaving made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.\n\n You are the fellow we want,  said Defarge, in his ear;  you make\nthese fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more\ninsolent, and it is the nearer ended. \n\n Hey!  cried the mender of roads, reflectively;  that s true. \n\n These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would\nstop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than\nin one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath\ntells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot\ndeceive them too much. \n\nMadame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in\nconfirmation.\n\n As to you,  said she,  you would shout and shed tears for anything, if\nit made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not? \n\n Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment. \n\n If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to\npluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would\npick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not? \n\n Truly yes, madame. \n\n Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were\nset upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,\nyou would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not? \n\n It is true, madame. \n\n You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,  said Madame Defarge, with\na wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;\n now, go home! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\nStill Knitting\n\n\nMadame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the\nbosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the\ndarkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by\nthe wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where\nthe chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to\nthe whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,\nfor listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village\nscarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead\nstick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and\nterrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that\nthe expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the\nvillage--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that\nwhen the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to\nfaces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled\nup forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel\nlook of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the\nstone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder\nwas done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which\neverybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the\nscarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the\ncrowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a\nskinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all\nstarted away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares\nwho could find a living there.\n\nChateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the\nstone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres\nof land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the\nnight sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole\nworld, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling\nstar. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse\nthe manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in\nthe feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every\nvice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.\n\nThe Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,\nin their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their\njourney naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier\nguardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual\nexamination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two\nof the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate\nwith, and affectionately embraced.\n\nWhen Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,\nand they, having finally alighted near the Saint s boundaries, were\npicking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his\nstreets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:\n\n Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee? \n\n Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy\ncommissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he\ncan say, but he knows of one. \n\n Eh well!  said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool\nbusiness air.  It is necessary to register him. How do they call that\nman? \n\n He is English. \n\n So much the better. His name? \n\n Barsad,  said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had\nbeen so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect\ncorrectness.\n\n Barsad,  repeated madame.  Good. Christian name? \n\n John. \n\n John Barsad,  repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.\n Good. His appearance; is it known? \n\n Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;\ncomplexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face\nthin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a\npeculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,\nsinister. \n\n Eh my faith. It is a portrait!  said madame, laughing.  He shall be\nregistered to-morrow. \n\nThey turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),\nand where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted\nthe small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the\nstock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of\nher own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally\ndismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl\nof money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her\nhandkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the\nnight. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked\nup and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which\ncondition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he\nwalked up and down through life.\n\nThe night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a\nneighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge s olfactory sense was\nby no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than\nit ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He\nwhiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.\n\n You are fatigued,  said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the\nmoney.  There are only the usual odours. \n\n I am a little tired,  her husband acknowledged.\n\n You are a little depressed, too,  said madame, whose quick eyes had\nnever been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for\nhim.  Oh, the men, the men! \n\n But my dear!  began Defarge.\n\n But my dear!  repeated madame, nodding firmly;  but my dear! You are\nfaint of heart to-night, my dear! \n\n Well, then,  said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his\nbreast,  it _is_ a long time. \n\n It is a long time,  repeated his wife;  and when is it not a long time?\nVengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule. \n\n It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,  said\nDefarge.\n\n How long,  demanded madame, composedly,  does it take to make and store\nthe lightning? Tell me. \n\nDefarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that\ntoo.\n\n It does not take a long time,  said madame,  for an earthquake to\nswallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the\nearthquake? \n\n A long time, I suppose,  said Defarge.\n\n But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything\nbefore it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not\nseen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it. \n\nShe tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.\n\n I tell thee,  said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,\n that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and\ncoming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it\nis always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world\nthat we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider\nthe rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with\nmore and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock\nyou. \n\n My brave wife,  returned Defarge, standing before her with his head\na little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and\nattentive pupil before his catechist,  I do not question all this. But\nit has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,\nit is possible--that it may not come, during our lives. \n\n Eh well! How then?  demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there\nwere another enemy strangled.\n\n Well!  said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.\n We shall not see the triumph. \n\n We shall have helped it,  returned madame, with her extended hand in\nstrong action.  Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all\nmy soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew\ncertainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I\nwould-- \n\nThen madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.\n\n Hold!  cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with\ncowardice;  I too, my dear, will stop at nothing. \n\n Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim\nand your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.\nWhen the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the\ntime with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready. \n\nMadame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her\nlittle counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains\nout, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene\nmanner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.\n\nNext noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the\nwine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she\nnow and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her\nusual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not\ndrinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,\nand heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous\nperquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell\ndead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies\nout promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they\nthemselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met\nthe same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they\nthought as much at Court that sunny summer day.\n\nA figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she\nfelt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her\nrose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.\n\nIt was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the\ncustomers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the\nwine-shop.\n\n Good day, madame,  said the new-comer.\n\n Good day, monsieur. \n\nShe said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:\n Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black\nhair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,\nthin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a\npeculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister\nexpression! Good day, one and all! \n\n Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a\nmouthful of cool fresh water, madame. \n\nMadame complied with a polite air.\n\n Marvellous cognac this, madame! \n\nIt was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame\nDefarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,\nhowever, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The\nvisitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity\nof observing the place in general.\n\n You knit with great skill, madame. \n\n I am accustomed to it. \n\n A pretty pattern too! \n\n _You_ think so?  said madame, looking at him with a smile.\n\n Decidedly. May one ask what it is for? \n\n Pastime,  said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her\nfingers moved nimbly.\n\n Not for use? \n\n That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,  said\nmadame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of\ncoquetry,  I ll use it! \n\nIt was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be\ndecidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two\nmen had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,\ncatching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of\nlooking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.\nNor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there\none left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,\nbut had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a\npoverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and\nunimpeachable.\n\n _John_,  thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,\nand her eyes looked at the stranger.  Stay long enough, and I shall knit\n BARSAD  before you go. \n\n You have a husband, madame? \n\n I have. \n\n Children? \n\n No children. \n\n Business seems bad? \n\n Business is very bad; the people are so poor. \n\n Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say. \n\n As _you_ say,  madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an\nextra something into his name that boded him no good.\n\n Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.\nOf course. \n\n _I_ think?  returned madame, in a high voice.  I and my husband have\nenough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we\nthink, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and\nit gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without\nembarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no. \n\nThe spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did\nnot allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,\nstood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame\nDefarge s little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.\n\n A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard s execution. Ah! the poor\nGaspard!  With a sigh of great compassion.\n\n My faith!  returned madame, coolly and lightly,  if people use knives\nfor such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the\nprice of his luxury was; he has paid the price. \n\n I believe,  said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone\nthat invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary\nsusceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face:  I believe there\nis much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor\nfellow? Between ourselves. \n\n Is there?  asked madame, vacantly.\n\n Is there not? \n\n --Here is my husband!  said Madame Defarge.\n\nAs the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted\nhim by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile,  Good day,\nJacques!  Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.\n\n Good day, Jacques!  the spy repeated; with not quite so much\nconfidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.\n\n You deceive yourself, monsieur,  returned the keeper of the wine-shop.\n You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge. \n\n It is all the same,  said the spy, airily, but discomfited too:  good\nday! \n\n Good day!  answered Defarge, drily.\n\n I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when\nyou entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy\nand anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard. \n\n No one has told me so,  said Defarge, shaking his head.  I know nothing\nof it. \n\nHaving said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his\nhand on the back of his wife s chair, looking over that barrier at the\nperson to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would\nhave shot with the greatest satisfaction.\n\nThe spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious\nattitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh\nwater, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it\nout for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over\nit.\n\n You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do? \n observed Defarge.\n\n Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested\nin its miserable inhabitants. \n\n Hah!  muttered Defarge.\n\n The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me, \n pursued the spy,  that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting\nassociations with your name. \n\n Indeed!  said Defarge, with much indifference.\n\n Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,\nhad the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am\ninformed of the circumstances? \n\n Such is the fact, certainly,  said Defarge. He had had it conveyed\nto him, in an accidental touch of his wife s elbow as she knitted and\nwarbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.\n\n It was to you,  said the spy,  that his daughter came; and it was\nfrom your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown\nmonsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of\nTellson and Company--over to England. \n\n Such is the fact,  repeated Defarge.\n\n Very interesting remembrances!  said the spy.  I have known Doctor\nManette and his daughter, in England. \n\n Yes?  said Defarge.\n\n You don t hear much about them now?  said the spy.\n\n No,  said Defarge.\n\n In effect,  madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little\nsong,  we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe\narrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,\nthey have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held\nno correspondence. \n\n Perfectly so, madame,  replied the spy.  She is going to be married. \n\n Going?  echoed madame.  She was pretty enough to have been married long\nago. You English are cold, it seems to me. \n\n Oh! You know I am English. \n\n I perceive your tongue is,  returned madame;  and what the tongue is, I\nsuppose the man is. \n\nHe did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best\nof it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the\nend, he added:\n\n Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to\none who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,\npoor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is\ngoing to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard\nwas exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present\nMarquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is\nMr. Charles Darnay. D Aulnais is the name of his mother s family. \n\nMadame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable\neffect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,\nas to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was\ntroubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no\nspy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.\n\nHaving made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be\nworth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad\npaid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,\nin a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the\npleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes\nafter he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the\nhusband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should\ncome back.\n\n Can it be true,  said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife\nas he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair:  what he has\nsaid of Ma amselle Manette? \n\n As he has said it,  returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little,  it\nis probably false. But it may be true. \n\n If it is--  Defarge began, and stopped.\n\n If it is?  repeated his wife.\n\n --And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her\nsake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France. \n\n Her husband s destiny,  said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,\n will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is\nto end him. That is all I know. \n\n But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange --said\nDefarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,\n that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her\nhusband s name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by\nthe side of that infernal dog s who has just left us? \n\n Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,  answered\nmadame.  I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here\nfor their merits; that is enough. \n\nShe rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently\ntook the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.\nEither Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable\ndecoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its\ndisappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very\nshortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.\n\nIn the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned\nhimself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came\nto the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame\nDefarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place\nto place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like\nher--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women\nknitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a\nmechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the\njaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,\nthe stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.\n\nBut, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame\nDefarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer\namong every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left\nbehind.\n\nHer husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration.  A\ngreat woman,  said he,  a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully\ngrand woman! \n\nDarkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and\nthe distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as\nthe women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another\ndarkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing\npleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into\nthundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a\nwretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,\nFreedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat\nknitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around\na structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,\ncounting dropping heads.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\nOne Night\n\n\nNever did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in\nSoho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat\nunder the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder\nradiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still\nseated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.\n\nLucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening\nfor her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.\n\n You are happy, my dear father? \n\n Quite, my child. \n\nThey had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it\nwas yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself\nin her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in\nboth ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this\ntime was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.\n\n And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the\nlove that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles s love\nfor me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or\nif my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by\nthe length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and\nself-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is-- \n\nEven as it was, she could not command her voice.\n\nIn the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face\nupon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of\nthe sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and\nits going.\n\n Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,\nquite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will\never interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your\nown heart, do you feel quite certain? \n\nHer father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could\nscarcely have assumed,  Quite sure, my darling! More than that,  he\nadded, as he tenderly kissed her:  my future is far brighter, Lucie,\nseen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever\nwas--without it. \n\n If I could hope _that_, my father!-- \n\n Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain\nit is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot\nfully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be\nwasted-- \n\nShe moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated\nthe word.\n\n --wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the\nnatural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely\ncomprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,\nhow could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete? \n\n If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy\nwith you. \n\nHe smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy\nwithout Charles, having seen him; and replied:\n\n My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been\nCharles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I\nshould have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have\ncast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you. \n\nIt was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him\nrefer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new\nsensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long\nafterwards.\n\n See!  said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.\n I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her\nlight. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think\nof her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against\nmy prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,\nthat I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I\ncould draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines\nwith which I could intersect them.  He added in his inward and pondering\nmanner, as he looked at the moon,  It was twenty either way, I remember,\nand the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in. \n\nThe strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,\ndeepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in\nthe manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present\ncheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.\n\n I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn\nchild from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had\nbeen born alive, or the poor mother s shock had killed it. Whether it\nwas a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my\nimprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it\nwas a son who would never know his father s story; who might even live\nto weigh the possibility of his father s having disappeared of his own\nwill and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman. \n\nShe drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.\n\n I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of\nme--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have\ncast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married\nto a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from\nthe remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a\nblank. \n\n My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who\nnever existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child. \n\n You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have\nbrought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and\nthe moon on this last night.--What did I say just now? \n\n She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you. \n\n So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence\nhave touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as\nlike a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its\nfoundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and\nleading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her\nimage in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held\nher in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.\nBut, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of? \n\n The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy? \n\n No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of\nsight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another\nand more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than\nthat she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you\nhave--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?\nI doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these\nperplexed distinctions. \n\nHis collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running\ncold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.\n\n In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,\ncoming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married\nlife was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture\nwas in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,\ncheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all. \n\n I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love\nthat was I. \n\n And she showed me her children,  said the Doctor of Beauvais,  and\nthey had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed\na prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked\nup at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I\nimagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.\nBut then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and\nblessed her. \n\n I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless\nme as fervently to-morrow? \n\n Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night\nfor loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great\nhappiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the\nhappiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us. \n\nHe embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked\nHeaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the\nhouse.\n\nThere was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to\nbe no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no\nchange in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,\nby taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the\napocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.\n\nDoctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only\nthree at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles\nwas not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving\nlittle plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.\n\nSo, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.\nBut, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came\ndownstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,\nbeforehand.\n\nAll things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay\nasleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his\nhands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the\nshadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;\nthen, leaned over him, and looked at him.\n\nInto his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he\ncovered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the\nmastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,\nresolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be\nbeheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.\n\nShe timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that\nshe might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his\nsorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once\nmore, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves\nof the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved\nin praying for him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\nNine Days\n\n\nThe marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the\nclosed door of the Doctor s room, where he was speaking with Charles\nDarnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.\nLorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of\nreconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,\nbut for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should\nhave been the bridegroom.\n\n And so,  said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,\nand who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,\npretty dress;  and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought\nyou across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought\nwhat I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring\non my friend Mr. Charles! \n\n You didn t mean it,  remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross,  and\ntherefore how could you know it? Nonsense! \n\n Really? Well; but don t cry,  said the gentle Mr. Lorry.\n\n I am not crying,  said Miss Pross;  _you_ are. \n\n I, my Pross?  (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,\non occasion.)\n\n You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don t wonder at it. Such\na present of plate as you have made  em, is enough to bring tears into\nanybody s eyes. There s not a fork or a spoon in the collection,  said\nMiss Pross,  that I didn t cry over, last night after the box came, till\nI couldn t see it. \n\n I am highly gratified,  said Mr. Lorry,  though, upon my honour, I\nhad no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance\ninvisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man\nspeculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there\nmight have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost! \n\n Not at all!  From Miss Pross.\n\n You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?  asked the\ngentleman of that name.\n\n Pooh!  rejoined Miss Pross;  you were a bachelor in your cradle. \n\n Well!  observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig,  that\nseems probable, too. \n\n And you were cut out for a bachelor,  pursued Miss Pross,  before you\nwere put in your cradle. \n\n Then, I think,  said Mr. Lorry,  that I was very unhandsomely dealt\nwith, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my\npattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,  drawing his arm soothingly round\nher waist,  I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and\nI, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final\nopportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave\nyour good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your\nown; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next\nfortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson s\nshall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at\nthe fortnight s end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on\nyour other fortnight s trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent\nhim to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear\nSomebody s step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an\nold-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his\nown. \n\nFor a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the\nwell-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright\ngolden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and\ndelicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.\n\nThe door of the Doctor s room opened, and he came out with Charles\nDarnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they\nwent in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.\nBut, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the\nshrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the\nold air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold\nwind.\n\nHe gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot\nwhich Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in\nanother carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange\neyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.\n\nBesides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little\ngroup when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,\nglanced on the bride s hand, which were newly released from the\ndark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry s pockets. They returned home to\nbreakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had\nmingled with the poor shoemaker s white locks in the Paris garret, were\nmingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the\ndoor at parting.\n\nIt was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father\ncheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her\nenfolding arms,  Take her, Charles! She is yours! \n\nAnd her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was\ngone.\n\nThe corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the\npreparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,\nand Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into\nthe welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great\nchange to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted\nthere, had struck him a poisoned blow.\n\nHe had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been\nexpected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was\nthe old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent\nmanner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own\nroom when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the\nwine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.\n\n I think,  he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration,  I\nthink we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.\nI must look in at Tellson s; so I will go there at once and come back\npresently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine\nthere, and all will be well. \n\nIt was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson s, than to look out of\nTellson s. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the\nold staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus\ninto the Doctor s rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.\n\n Good God!  he said, with a start.  What s that? \n\nMiss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear.  O me, O me! All is\nlost!  cried she, wringing her hands.  What is to be told to Ladybird?\nHe doesn t know me, and is making shoes! \n\nMr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the\nDoctor s room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been\nwhen he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent\ndown, and he was very busy.\n\n Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette! \n\nThe Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he\nwere angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.\n\nHe had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the\nthroat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old\nhaggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked\nhard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.\n\nMr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a\nshoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by\nhim, and asked what it was.\n\n A young lady s walking shoe,  he muttered, without looking up.  It\nought to have been finished long ago. Let it be. \n\n But, Doctor Manette. Look at me! \n\nHe obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in\nhis work.\n\n You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper\noccupation. Think, dear friend! \n\nNothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at\na time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract\na word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and\nwords fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on\nthe air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that\nhe sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there\nseemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were\ntrying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.\n\nTwo things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above\nall others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;\nthe second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In\nconjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter\nprecaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a\nfew days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised\non his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been\ncalled away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of\ntwo or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been\naddressed to her by the same post.\n\nThese measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in\nthe hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept\nanother course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he\nthought the best, on the Doctor s case.\n\nIn the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course\nbeing thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him\nattentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He\ntherefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson s for the\nfirst time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same\nroom.\n\nHe was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak\nto him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that\nattempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always\nbefore him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had\nfallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the\nwindow, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and\nnatural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.\n\nDoctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,\nthat first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour\nafter Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.\nWhen he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose\nand said to him:\n\n Will you go out? \n\nHe looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,\nlooked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:\n\n Out? \n\n Yes; for a walk with me. Why not? \n\nHe made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.\nLorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,\nwith his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in\nsome misty way asking himself,  Why not?  The sagacity of the man of\nbusiness perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.\n\nMiss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him\nat intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long\ntime before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he\nfell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his\nbench and to work.\n\nOn this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,\nand spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He\nreturned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and\nthat he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry\nto have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;\nat those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then\npresent, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing\namiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long\nenough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry s\nfriendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he\nappeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding\nhim.\n\nWhen it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:\n\n Dear Doctor, will you go out? \n\nAs before, he repeated,  Out? \n\n Yes; for a walk with me. Why not? \n\nThis time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer\nfrom him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the\nmeanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had\nsat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry s return, he\nslipped away to his bench.\n\nThe time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry s hope darkened, and his\nheart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.\nThe third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,\nseven days, eight days, nine days.\n\nWith a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and\nheavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was\nwell kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to\nobserve that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,\nwas growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on\nhis work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in\nthe dusk of the ninth evening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\nAn Opinion\n\n\nWorn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the\ntenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun\ninto the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark\nnight.\n\nHe rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had\ndone so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the\nDoctor s room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker s bench\nand tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading\nat the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which\nMr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly\nstudious and attentive.\n\nEven when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt\ngiddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might\nnot be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his\nfriend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed\nas usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of\nwhich he had so strong an impression had actually happened?\n\nIt was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the\nanswer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real\ncorresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?\nHow came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor\nManette s consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the\nDoctor s bedroom door in the early morning?\n\nWithin a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he\nhad had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have\nresolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.\nHe advised that they should let the time go by until the regular\nbreakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual\nhad occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.\nLorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from\nthe opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.\n\nMiss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked\nout with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical\ntoilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual\nwhite linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the\nusual way, and came to breakfast.\n\nSo far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those\ndelicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe\nadvance, he at first supposed that his daughter s marriage had taken\nplace yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to\nthe day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and\ncounting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,\nhe was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid\nhe sought. And that aid was his own.\n\nTherefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the\nDoctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:\n\n My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a\nvery curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is\nvery curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less\nso. \n\nGlancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the\nDoctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced\nat his hands more than once.\n\n Doctor Manette,  said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the\narm,  the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray\ngive your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,\nfor his daughter s--his daughter s, my dear Manette. \n\n If I understand,  said the Doctor, in a subdued tone,  some mental\nshock--? \n\n Yes! \n\n Be explicit,  said the Doctor.  Spare no detail. \n\nMr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.\n\n My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,\nof great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,\nthe--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a\nshock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how\nlong, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there\nare no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from\nwhich the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace\nhimself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is\nthe case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to\nbe a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and\ngreat exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his\nstock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,\nthere has been,  he paused and took a deep breath-- a slight relapse. \n\nThe Doctor, in a low voice, asked,  Of how long duration? \n\n Nine days and nights. \n\n How did it show itself? I infer,  glancing at his hands again,  in the\nresumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock? \n\n That is the fact. \n\n Now, did you ever see him,  asked the Doctor, distinctly and\ncollectedly, though in the same low voice,  engaged in that pursuit\noriginally? \n\n Once. \n\n And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all\nrespects--as he was then? \n\n I think in all respects. \n\n You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse? \n\n No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.\nIt is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted. \n\nThe Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured,  That was very kind. That was\nvery thoughtful!  Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of\nthe two spoke for a little while.\n\n Now, my dear Manette,  said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most\nconsiderate and most affectionate way,  I am a mere man of business,\nand unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not\npossess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of\nintelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom\nI could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this\nrelapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it\nbe prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come\nabout at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been\nmore desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,\nif I knew how.\n\n But I don t know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,\nknowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be\nable to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.\nPray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,\nand teach me how to be a little more useful. \n\nDoctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and\nMr. Lorry did not press him.\n\n I think it probable,  said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,\n that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite\nunforeseen by its subject. \n\n Was it dreaded by him?  Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.\n\n Very much.  He said it with an involuntary shudder.\n\n You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer s\nmind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force\nhimself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him. \n\n Would he,  asked Mr. Lorry,  be sensibly relieved if he could prevail\nupon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on\nhim? \n\n I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even\nbelieve it--in some cases--to be quite impossible. \n\n Now,  said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor s arm again,\nafter a short silence on both sides,  to what would you refer this\nattack? \n\n I believe,  returned Doctor Manette,  that there had been a strong and\nextraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that\nwas the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most\ndistressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that\nthere had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations\nwould be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a\nparticular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the\neffort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it. \n\n Would he remember what took place in the relapse?  asked Mr. Lorry,\nwith natural hesitation.\n\nThe Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and\nanswered, in a low voice,  Not at all. \n\n Now, as to the future,  hinted Mr. Lorry.\n\n As to the future,  said the Doctor, recovering firmness,  I should have\ngreat hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I\nshould have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated\nsomething, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,\nand recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that\nthe worst was over. \n\n Well, well! That s good comfort. I am thankful!  said Mr. Lorry.\n\n I am thankful!  repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.\n\n There are two other points,  said Mr. Lorry,  on which I am anxious to\nbe instructed. I may go on? \n\n You cannot do your friend a better service.  The Doctor gave him his\nhand.\n\n To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;\nhe applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional\nknowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does\nhe do too much? \n\n I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in\nsingular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in\npart, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy\nthings, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy\ndirection. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery. \n\n You are sure that he is not under too great a strain? \n\n I think I am quite sure of it. \n\n My dear Manette, if he were overworked now-- \n\n My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a\nviolent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight. \n\n Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,\nthat he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this\ndisorder? \n\n I do not think so. I do not think,  said Doctor Manette with the\nfirmness of self-conviction,  that anything but the one train of\nassociation would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some\nextraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has\nhappened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any\nsuch violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost\nbelieve, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted. \n\nHe spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing\nwould overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the\nconfidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal\nendurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that\nconfidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he\nreally was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to\nbe the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning\nconversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the\nlast nine days, he knew that he must face it.\n\n The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction\nso happily recovered from,  said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat,  we\nwill call--Blacksmith s work, Blacksmith s work. We will say, to put a\ncase and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad\ntime, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly\nfound at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by\nhim? \n\nThe Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot\nnervously on the ground.\n\n He has always kept it by him,  said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at\nhis friend.  Now, would it not be better that he should let it go? \n\nStill, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the\nground.\n\n You do not find it easy to advise me?  said Mr. Lorry.  I quite\nunderstand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--  And there he\nshook his head, and stopped.\n\n You see,  said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,\n it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings\nof this poor man s mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that\noccupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved\nhis pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for\nthe perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more\npractised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental\ntorture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it\nquite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of\nhimself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind\nof confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not\nfind it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may\nfancy strikes to the heart of a lost child. \n\nHe looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry s\nface.\n\n But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business\nwho only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and\nbank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of\nthe idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go\nwith it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the\nforge? \n\nThere was another silence.\n\n You see, too,  said the Doctor, tremulously,  it is such an old\ncompanion. \n\n I would not keep it,  said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained\nin firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted.  I would recommend him to\nsacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.\nCome! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter s\nsake, my dear Manette! \n\nVery strange to see what a struggle there was within him!\n\n In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take\nit away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;\nlet him miss his old companion after an absence. \n\nMr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They\npassed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the\nthree following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth\nday he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that\nhad been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously\nexplained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and\nshe had no suspicions.\n\nOn the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into\nhis room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross\ncarrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and\nguilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker s bench to pieces, while\nMiss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for\nwhich, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The\nburning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the\npurpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,\nshoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction\nand secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,\nwhile engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its\ntraces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible\ncrime.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\nA Plea\n\n\nWhen the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to\noffer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home\nmany hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or\nin looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity\nabout him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.\n\nHe watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of\nspeaking to him when no one overheard.\n\n Mr. Darnay,  said Carton,  I wish we might be friends. \n\n We are already friends, I hope. \n\n You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don t\nmean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be\nfriends, I scarcely mean quite that, either. \n\nCharles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and\ngood-fellowship, what he did mean?\n\n Upon my life,  said Carton, smiling,  I find that easier to comprehend\nin my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You\nremember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than\nusual? \n\n I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that\nyou had been drinking. \n\n I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I\nalways remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,\nwhen all days are at an end for me! Don t be alarmed; I am not going to\npreach. \n\n I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming\nto me. \n\n Ah!  said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that\naway.  On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as\nyou know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I\nwish you would forget it. \n\n I forgot it long ago. \n\n Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to\nme, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,\nand a light answer does not help me to forget it. \n\n If it was a light answer,  returned Darnay,  I beg your forgiveness\nfor it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my\nsurprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the\nfaith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good\nHeaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to\nremember, in the great service you rendered me that day? \n\n As to the great service,  said Carton,  I am bound to avow to you, when\nyou speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I\ndon t know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I\nsay when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past. \n\n You make light of the obligation,  returned Darnay,  but I will not\nquarrel with _your_ light answer. \n\n Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;\nI was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am\nincapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,\nask Stryver, and he ll tell you so. \n\n I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his. \n\n Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done\nany good, and never will. \n\n I don t know that you  never will. \n\n But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure\nto have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent\nreputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be\npermitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might\nbe regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the\nresemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of\nfurniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I\ndoubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I\nshould avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I\ndare say, to know that I had it. \n\n Will you try? \n\n That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have\nindicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name? \n\n I think so, Carton, by this time. \n\nThey shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute\nafterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.\n\nWhen he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss\nPross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of\nthis conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a\nproblem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not\nbitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw\nhim as he showed himself.\n\nHe had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young\nwife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found\nher waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly\nmarked.\n\n We are thoughtful to-night!  said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.\n\n Yes, dearest Charles,  with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring\nand attentive expression fixed upon him;  we are rather thoughtful\nto-night, for we have something on our mind to-night. \n\n What is it, my Lucie? \n\n Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to\nask it? \n\n Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love? \n\nWhat, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the\ncheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!\n\n I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and\nrespect than you expressed for him to-night. \n\n Indeed, my own? Why so? \n\n That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does. \n\n If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life? \n\n I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very\nlenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that\nhe has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep\nwounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding. \n\n It is a painful reflection to me,  said Charles Darnay, quite\nastounded,  that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this\nof him. \n\n My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is\nscarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable\nnow. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,\neven magnanimous things. \n\nShe looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,\nthat her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.\n\n And, O my dearest Love!  she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her\nhead upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his,  remember how strong\nwe are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery! \n\nThe supplication touched him home.  I will always remember it, dear\nHeart! I will remember it as long as I live. \n\nHe bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded\nher in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,\ncould have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops\nof pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of\nthat husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not\nhave parted from his lips for the first time--\n\n God bless her for her sweet compassion! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\nEchoing Footsteps\n\n\nA wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where\nthe Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound\nher husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and\ncompanion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in\nthe tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of\nyears.\n\nAt first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,\nwhen her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be\ndimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,\nafar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.\nFluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:\ndoubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided\nher breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of\nfootsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would\nbe left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her\neyes, and broke like waves.\n\nThat time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the\nadvancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of\nher prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young\nmother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and\nthe shady house was sunny with a child s laugh, and the Divine friend of\nchildren, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take\nher child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred\njoy to her.\n\nEver busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,\nweaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all\ntheir lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the\nechoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband s\nstep was strong and prosperous among them; her father s firm and equal.\nLo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an\nunruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the\nplane-tree in the garden!\n\nEven when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not\nharsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a\npillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant\nsmile,  Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to\nleave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!  those were not\ntears all of agony that wetted his young mother s cheek, as the spirit\ndeparted from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and\nforbid them not. They see my Father s face. O Father, blessed words!\n\nThus, the rustling of an Angel s wings got blended with the other\nechoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath\nof Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were\nmingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed\nmurmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as\nthe little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or\ndressing a doll at her mother s footstool, chattered in the tongues of\nthe Two Cities that were blended in her life.\n\nThe Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some\nhalf-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in\nuninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once\ndone often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing\nregarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by\nall true echoes for ages and ages.\n\nNo man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a\nblameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,\nbut her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive\ndelicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in\nsuch a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton\nwas the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,\nand he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of\nhim, almost at the last.  Poor Carton! Kiss him for me! \n\nMr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine\nforcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in\nhis wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually\nin a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped\nlife of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and\nstronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made\nit the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his\nstate of lion s jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of\nrising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with\nproperty and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them\nbut the straight hair of their dumpling heads.\n\nThese three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most\noffensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three\nsheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to\nLucie s husband: delicately saying  Halloa! here are three lumps of\nbread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!  The polite\nrejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.\nStryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the\ntraining of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the\npride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of\ndeclaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts\nMrs. Darnay had once put in practice to  catch  him, and on the\ndiamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him  not\nto be caught.  Some of his King s Bench familiars, who were occasionally\nparties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the\nlatter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed\nit himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an\noriginally bad offence, as to justify any such offender s being carried\noff to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.\n\nThese were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes\namused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little\ndaughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her\nchild s tread came, and those of her own dear father s, always active\nand self-possessed, and those of her dear husband s, need not be told.\nNor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself\nwith such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any\nwaste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet\nin her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her\nmore devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the\nmany times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed\nto divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her  What is\nthe magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,\nas if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to\nhave too much to do? \n\nBut, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly\nin the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about\nlittle Lucie s sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,\nas of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.\n\nOn a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.\nLorry came in late, from Tellson s, and sat himself down by Lucie and\nher husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were\nall three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the\nlightning from the same place.\n\n I began to think,  said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back,  that\nI should have to pass the night at Tellson s. We have been so full of\nbusiness all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way\nto turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a\nrun of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able\nto confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania\namong some of them for sending it to England. \n\n That has a bad look,  said Darnay--\n\n A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don t know what reason\nthere is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson s are\ngetting old, and we really can t be troubled out of the ordinary course\nwithout due occasion. \n\n Still,  said Darnay,  you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is. \n\n I know that, to be sure,  assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade\nhimself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled,  but I\nam determined to be peevish after my long day s botheration. Where is\nManette? \n\n Here he is,  said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.\n\n I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by\nwhich I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without\nreason. You are not going out, I hope? \n\n No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,  said the\nDoctor.\n\n I don t think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be\npitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can t\nsee. \n\n Of course, it has been kept for you. \n\n Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed? \n\n And sleeping soundly. \n\n That s right; all safe and well! I don t know why anything should be\notherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out\nall day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,\ncome and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear\nthe echoes about which you have your theory. \n\n Not a theory; it was a fancy. \n\n A fancy, then, my wise pet,  said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand.  They\nare very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them! \n\nHeadlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody s\nlife, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the\nfootsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in\nthe dark London window.\n\nSaint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows\nheaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy\nheads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous\nroar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms\nstruggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:\nall the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a\nweapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.\n\nWho gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what\nagency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the\nheads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could\nhave told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,\npowder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every\nweapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who\ncould lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to\nforce stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and\nheart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.\nEvery living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented\nwith a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.\n\nAs a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging\ncircled round Defarge s wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron\nhad a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,\nalready begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,\nthrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm\nanother, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.\n\n Keep near to me, Jacques Three,  cried Defarge;  and do you, Jacques\nOne and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these\npatriots as you can. Where is my wife? \n\n Eh, well! Here you see me!  said madame, composed as ever, but not\nknitting to-day. Madame s resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,\nin place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol\nand a cruel knife.\n\n Where do you go, my wife? \n\n I go,  said madame,  with you at present. You shall see me at the head\nof women, by-and-bye. \n\n Come, then!  cried Defarge, in a resounding voice.  Patriots and\nfriends, we are ready! The Bastille! \n\nWith a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped\ninto the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on\ndepth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums\nbeating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack\nbegan.\n\nDeep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great\ntowers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through\nthe smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against\na cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the\nwine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.\n\nDeep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,\ncannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down!  Work, comrades\nall, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques\nTwo Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all\nthe Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!  Thus Defarge of the\nwine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.\n\n To me, women!  cried madame his wife.  What! We can kill as well as\nthe men when the place is taken!  And to her, with a shrill thirsty\ncry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and\nrevenge.\n\nCannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single\ndrawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight\ndisplacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing\nweapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work\nat neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,\nexecrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the\nfurious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the\nsingle drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great\ntowers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot\nby the service of Four fierce hours.\n\nA white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly\nperceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly\nthe sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the\nwine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer\nwalls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!\n\nSo resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to\ndraw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been\nstruggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the\nouter courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he\nmade a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;\nMadame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the\ninner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,\nexultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet\nfurious dumb-show.\n\n The Prisoners! \n\n The Records! \n\n The secret cells! \n\n The instruments of torture! \n\n The Prisoners! \n\nOf all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences,  The Prisoners!  was\nthe cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an\neternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost\nbillows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and\nthreatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained\nundisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of\nthese men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his\nhand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the\nwall.\n\n Show me the North Tower!  said Defarge.  Quick! \n\n I will faithfully,  replied the man,  if you will come with me. But\nthere is no one there. \n\n What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?  asked\nDefarge.  Quick! \n\n The meaning, monsieur? \n\n Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I\nshall strike you dead? \n\n Kill him!  croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.\n\n Monsieur, it is a cell. \n\n Show it me! \n\n Pass this way, then. \n\nJacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed\nby the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,\nheld by Defarge s arm as he held by the turnkey s. Their three heads had\nbeen close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much\nas they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the\nnoise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and\nits inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around\noutside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,\noccasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the\nair like spray.\n\nThrough gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past\nhideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,\nand again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry\nwaterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,\nlinked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and\nthere, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;\nbut when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a\ntower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls\nand arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible\nto them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had\ncome had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.\n\nThe turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung\nthe door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed\nin:\n\n One hundred and five, North Tower! \n\nThere was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,\nwith a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by\nstooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred\nacross, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes\non the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were\nthe four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.\n\n Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,  said\nDefarge to the turnkey.\n\nThe man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.\n\n Stop!--Look here, Jacques! \n\n A. M.!  croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.\n\n Alexandre Manette,  said Defarge in his ear, following the letters\nwith his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder.  And here he\nwrote  a poor physician.  And it was he, without doubt, who scratched\na calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it\nme! \n\nHe had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden\nexchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and\ntable, beat them to pieces in a few blows.\n\n Hold the light higher!  he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey.  Look\namong those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife, \n throwing it to him;  rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the\nlight higher, you! \n\nWith a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,\npeering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,\nand worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar\nand dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and\nin it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney\ninto which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a\ncautious touch.\n\n Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques? \n\n Nothing. \n\n Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light\nthem, you! \n\nThe turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping\nagain to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and\nretraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense\nof hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once\nmore.\n\nThey found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint\nAntoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard\nupon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.\nOtherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for\njudgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people s\nblood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be\nunavenged.\n\nIn the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to\nencompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red\ndecoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a\nwoman s.  See, there is my husband!  she cried, pointing him out.\n See Defarge!  She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and\nremained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through\nthe streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable\nclose to him when he was got near his destination, and began to\nbe struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the\nlong-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him\nwhen he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot\nupon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.\n\nThe hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea\nof hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint\nAntoine s blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the\niron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the\ngovernor s body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge\nwhere she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation.  Lower\nthe lamp yonder!  cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new\nmeans of death;  here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!  The\nswinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.\n\nThe sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving\nof wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces\nwere yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,\nvoices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering\nuntil the touch of pity could make no mark on them.\n\nBut, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was\nin vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so\nfixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore\nmore memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly\nreleased by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high\noverhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last\nDay were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.\nOther seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose\ndrooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive\nfaces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;\nfaces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped\nlids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips,  THOU DIDST\nIT! \n\nSeven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the\naccursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters\nand other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken\nhearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint\nAntoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven\nhundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,\nand keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,\nand dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask\nat Defarge s wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once\nstained red.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\nThe Sea Still Rises\n\n\nHaggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften\nhis modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with\nthe relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame\nDefarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.\nMadame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of\nSpies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting\nthemselves to the saint s mercies. The lamps across his streets had a\nportentously elastic swing with them.\n\nMadame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,\ncontemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several\nknots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense\nof power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on\nthe wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it:  I know how\nhard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;\nbut do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to\ndestroy life in you?  Every lean bare arm, that had been without work\nbefore, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.\nThe fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that\nthey could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;\nthe image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the\nlast finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.\n\nMadame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was\nto be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her\nsisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved\ngrocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had\nalready earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.\n\n Hark!  said The Vengeance.  Listen, then! Who comes? \n\nAs if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine\nQuarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading\nmurmur came rushing along.\n\n It is Defarge,  said madame.  Silence, patriots! \n\nDefarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked\naround him!  Listen, everywhere!  said madame again.  Listen to him! \n Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open\nmouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had\nsprung to their feet.\n\n Say then, my husband. What is it? \n\n News from the other world! \n\n How, then?  cried madame, contemptuously.  The other world? \n\n Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people\nthat they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell? \n\n Everybody!  from all throats.\n\n The news is of him. He is among us! \n\n Among us!  from the universal throat again.  And dead? \n\n Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself\nto be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have\nfound him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have\nseen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have\nsaid that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason? \n\nWretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had\nnever known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he\ncould have heard the answering cry.\n\nA moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked\nsteadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum\nwas heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.\n\n Patriots!  said Defarge, in a determined voice,  are we ready? \n\nInstantly Madame Defarge s knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating\nin the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and\nThe Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about\nher head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to\nhouse, rousing the women.\n\nThe men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked\nfrom windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into\nthe streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From\nsuch household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their\nchildren, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground\nfamished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one\nanother, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.\nVillain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant\nFoulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of\nthese, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon\nalive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon\nwho told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread\nto give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these\nbreasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our\nsuffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my\nknees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,\nand young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,\nGive us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend\nFoulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from\nhim! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,\nwhirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they\ndropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men\nbelonging to them from being trampled under foot.\n\nNevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at\nthe Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew\nhis own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out\nof the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with\nsuch a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not\na human creature in Saint Antoine s bosom but a few old crones and the\nwailing children.\n\nNo. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where\nthis old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent\nopen space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,\nand Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance\nfrom him in the Hall.\n\n See!  cried madame, pointing with her knife.  See the old villain bound\nwith ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.\nHa, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!  Madame put her knife\nunder her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.\n\nThe people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of\nher satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to\nothers, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the\nclapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,\nand the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge s frequent\nexpressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at\na distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some\nwonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture\nto look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a\ntelegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.\n\nAt length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or\nprotection, directly down upon the old prisoner s head. The favour was\ntoo much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had\nstood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got\nhim!\n\nIt was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge\nhad but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable\nwretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned\nher hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and\nJacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows\nhad not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high\nperches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city,  Bring him\nout! Bring him to the lamp! \n\nDown, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on\nhis knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,\nand stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his\nface by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always\nentreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of\naction, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one\nanother back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through\na forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one\nof the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat\nmight have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him\nwhile they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately\nscreeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have\nhim killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope\nbroke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope\nbroke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and\nheld him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the\nmouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.\n\nNor was this the end of the day s bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted\nand danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when\nthe day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the\npeople s enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard\nfive hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes\non flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the\nbreast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on\npikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession\nthrough the streets.\n\nNot before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,\nwailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers  shops were beset by\nlong files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while\nthey waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by\nembracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them\nagain in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and\nfrayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and\nslender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in\ncommon, afterwards supping at their doors.\n\nScanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of\nmost other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused\nsome nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of\ncheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full\nshare in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;\nand lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and\nhoped.\n\nIt was almost morning, when Defarge s wine-shop parted with its last\nknot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in\nhusky tones, while fastening the door:\n\n At last it is come, my dear! \n\n Eh well!  returned madame.  Almost. \n\nSaint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with\nher starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum s was the\nonly voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The\nVengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had\nthe same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon\nwas seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint\nAntoine s bosom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\nFire Rises\n\n\nThere was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where\nthe mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the\nhighway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his\npoor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the\ncrag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,\nbut not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of\nthem knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not\nbe what he was ordered.\n\nFar and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.\nEvery green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as\nshrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,\ndejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated\nanimals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn\nout.\n\nMonseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national\nblessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of\nluxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;\nnevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought\nthings to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for\nMonseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must\nbe something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it\nwas, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the\nflints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that\nits purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing\nto bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and\nunaccountable.\n\nBut, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like\nit. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung\nit, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures\nof the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting\nthe beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces\nof barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in\nthe appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the\ndisappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and\nbeautifying features of Monseigneur.\n\nFor, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the\ndust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and\nto dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in\nthinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if\nhe had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,\nand viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on\nfoot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now\na frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern\nwithout surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian\naspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a\nmender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many\nhighways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled\nwith the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.\n\nSuch a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,\nas he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he\ncould get from a shower of hail.\n\nThe man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,\nand at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects\nin what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just\nintelligible:\n\n How goes it, Jacques? \n\n All well, Jacques. \n\n Touch then! \n\nThey joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.\n\n No dinner? \n\n Nothing but supper now,  said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.\n\n It is the fashion,  growled the man.  I meet no dinner anywhere. \n\nHe took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and\nsteel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held\nit from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and\nthumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.\n\n Touch then.  It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this\ntime, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.\n\n To-night?  said the mender of roads.\n\n To-night,  said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.\n\n Where? \n\n Here. \n\nHe and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at\none another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge\nof bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.\n\n Show me!  said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.\n\n See!  returned the mender of roads, with extended finger.  You go down\nhere, and straight through the street, and past the fountain-- \n\n To the Devil with all that!  interrupted the other, rolling his eye\nover the landscape.  _I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.\nWell? \n\n Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the\nvillage. \n\n Good. When do you cease to work? \n\n At sunset. \n\n Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without\nresting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you\nwake me? \n\n Surely. \n\nThe wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his\ngreat wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He\nwas fast asleep directly.\n\nAs the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling\naway, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to\nby silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap\nnow, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the\nheap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used\nhis tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.\nThe bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen\nred cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of\nbeasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen\nand desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender\nof roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were\nfootsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed\nwith leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long\nleagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into\nsores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at\nsecret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept\nwith his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.\nFortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and\ndrawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against\nthis figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and\nlooked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no\nobstacle, tending to centres all over France.\n\nThe man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of\nbrightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps\nof dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed\nthem, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,\nthe mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready\nto go down into the village, roused him.\n\n Good!  said the sleeper, rising on his elbow.  Two leagues beyond the\nsummit of the hill? \n\n About. \n\n About. Good! \n\nThe mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him\naccording to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,\nsqueezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and\nappearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.\nWhen the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,\nas it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A\ncurious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered\ntogether at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of\nlooking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,\nchief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top\nalone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his\nchimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to\nthe sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need\nto ring the tocsin by-and-bye.\n\nThe night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its\nsolitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened\nthe pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace\nflights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a\nswift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through\nthe hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the\nstairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis\nhad slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four\nheavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the\nbranches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four\nlights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all\nwas black again.\n\nBut, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely\nvisible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.\nThen, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,\npicking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,\nand windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.\nSoon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the\nstone faces awakened, stared out of fire.\n\nA faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left\nthere, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was\nspurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the\nspace by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur\nGabelle s door.  Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!  The tocsin rang\nimpatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The\nmender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood\nwith folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the\nsky.  It must be forty feet high,  said they, grimly; and never moved.\n\nThe rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away\nthrough the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on\nthe crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;\nremoved from them, a group of soldiers.  Help, gentlemen--officers! The\nchateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by\ntimely aid! Help, help!  The officers looked towards the soldiers who\nlooked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting\nof lips,  It must burn. \n\nAs the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the\nvillage was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and\nfifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of\nlighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in\nevery dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,\noccasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of\nMonsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on\nthat functionary s part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to\nauthority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,\nand that post-horses would roast.\n\nThe chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and\nraging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the\ninfernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising\nand falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in\ntorment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the\ntwo dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke\nagain, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake\nand contending with the fire.\n\nThe chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,\nscorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce\nfigures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten\nlead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran\ndry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the\nheat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and\nsplits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied\nbirds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures\ntrudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded\nroads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next\ndestination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,\nabolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.\n\nNot only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and\nbell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with\nthe collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment\nof taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter\ndays--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his\nhouse, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,\nMonsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel\nwith himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again\nwithdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time\nresolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man\nof retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the\nparapet, and crush a man or two below.\n\nProbably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the\ndistant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,\ncombined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an\nill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,\nwhich the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.\nA trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of\nthe black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur\nGabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the\nrush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,\nand Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that\nwhile.\n\nWithin a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were\nother functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom\nthe rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they\nhad been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople\nless fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the\nfunctionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up\nin their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,\nNorth, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.\nThe altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,\nno functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate\nsuccessfully.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\nDrawn to the Loadstone Rock\n\n\nIn such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by\nthe rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the\nflow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on\nthe shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays\nof little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful\ntissue of the life of her home.\n\nMany a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in\nthe corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging\nfeet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of\na people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in\ndanger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted\nin.\n\nMonseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of\nhis not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as\nto incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and\nthis life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with\ninfinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could\nask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after\nboldly reading the Lord s Prayer backwards for a great number of years,\nand performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no\nsooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.\n\nThe shining Bull s Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the\nmark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good\neye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer s pride,\nSardanapalus s luxury, and a mole s blindness--but it had dropped\nout and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its\noutermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was\nall gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and\n suspended,  when the last tidings came over.\n\nThe August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was\ncome, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.\n\nAs was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of\nMonseigneur, in London, was Tellson s Bank. Spirits are supposed to\nhaunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur\nwithout a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.\nMoreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most\nto be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson s was a munificent\nhouse, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen\nfrom their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming\nstorm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made\nprovident remittances to Tellson s, were always to be heard of there\nby their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer\nfrom France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson s, almost as\na matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson s was at that\ntime, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this\nwas so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in\nconsequence so numerous, that Tellson s sometimes wrote the latest news\nout in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran\nthrough Temple Bar to read.\n\nOn a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles\nDarnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The\npenitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now\nthe news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an\nhour or so of the time of closing.\n\n But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,  said Charles\nDarnay, rather hesitating,  I must still suggest to you-- \n\n I understand. That I am too old?  said Mr. Lorry.\n\n Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a\ndisorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you. \n\n My dear Charles,  said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence,  you touch\nsome of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe\nenough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard\nupon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth\ninterfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a\ndisorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our\nHouse here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of\nold, and is in Tellson s confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the\nlong journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit\nmyself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson s, after all\nthese years, who ought to be? \n\n I wish I were going myself,  said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,\nand like one thinking aloud.\n\n Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!  exclaimed Mr.\nLorry.  You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You\nare a wise counsellor. \n\n My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the\nthought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through\nmy mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for\nthe miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,  he spoke\nhere in his former thoughtful manner,  that one might be listened to,\nand might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,\nafter you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie-- \n\n When you were talking to Lucie,  Mr. Lorry repeated.  Yes. I wonder you\nare not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to\nFrance at this time of day! \n\n However, I am not going,  said Charles Darnay, with a smile.  It is\nmore to the purpose that you say you are. \n\n And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,  Mr. Lorry\nglanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice,  you can have no\nconception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and\nof the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The\nLord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers\nof people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they\nmight be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set\nafire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these\nwith the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise\ngetting of them out of harm s way, is within the power (without loss of\nprecious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall\nI hang back, when Tellson s knows this and says this--Tellson s, whose\nbread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about\nthe joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here! \n\n How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry. \n\n Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,  said Mr. Lorry, glancing at\nthe House again,  you are to remember, that getting things out of\nParis at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an\nimpossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought\nto us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to\nwhisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,\nevery one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed\nthe Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily\nas in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped. \n\n And do you really go to-night? \n\n I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of\ndelay. \n\n And do you take no one with you? \n\n All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing\nto say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my\nbodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.\nNobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or\nof having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his\nmaster. \n\n I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and\nyouthfulness. \n\n I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little\ncommission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson s proposal to retire and\nlive at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old. \n\nThis dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry s usual desk, with\nMonseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he\nwould do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too\nmuch the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it\nwas much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this\nterrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under\nthe skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or\nomitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched\nmillions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that\nshould have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,\nyears before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such\nvapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the\nrestoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,\nand worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured\nwithout some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was\nsuch vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood\nin his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had\nalready made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.\n\nAmong the talkers, was Stryver, of the King s Bench Bar, far on his\nway to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching\nto Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating\nthem from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for\naccomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition\nof eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard\nwith a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between\ngoing away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his\nword, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.\n\nThe House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter\nbefore him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to\nwhom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay\nthat he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right\nname. The address, turned into English, ran:\n\n Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evr monde, of\nFrance. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,\nLondon, England. \n\nOn the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and\nexpress request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should\nbe--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate\nbetween them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no\nsuspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.\n\n No,  said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House;  I have referred it,\nI think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this\ngentleman is to be found. \n\nThe hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there\nwas a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry s desk. He\nheld the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the\nperson of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at\nit in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,\nand The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in\nEnglish, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.\n\n Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the\npolished Marquis who was murdered,  said one.  Happy to say, I never\nknew him. \n\n A craven who abandoned his post,  said another--this Monseigneur had\nbeen got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of\nhay-- some years ago. \n\n Infected with the new doctrines,  said a third, eyeing the direction\nthrough his glass in passing;  set himself in opposition to the last\nMarquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to\nthe ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves. \n\n Hey?  cried the blatant Stryver.  Did he though? Is that the sort of\nfellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow! \n\nDarnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on\nthe shoulder, and said:\n\n I know the fellow. \n\n Do you, by Jupiter?  said Stryver.  I am sorry for it. \n\n Why? \n\n Why, Mr. Darnay? D ye hear what he did? Don t ask, why, in these\ntimes. \n\n But I do ask why? \n\n Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to\nhear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,\nwho, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that\never was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth\nthat ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a\nman who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I ll answer you. I am sorry\nbecause I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That s\nwhy. \n\nMindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and\nsaid:  You may not understand the gentleman. \n\n I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,  said Bully\nStryver,  and I ll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don t_\nunderstand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also\ntell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position\nto this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,\ngentlemen,  said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,\n I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you ll never\nfind a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such\nprecious _prot g s_. No, gentlemen; he ll always show  em a clean pair\nof heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away. \n\nWith those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver\nshouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of\nhis hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,\nin the general departure from the Bank.\n\n Will you take charge of the letter?  said Mr. Lorry.  You know where to\ndeliver it? \n\n I do. \n\n Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been\naddressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and\nthat it has been here some time? \n\n I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here? \n\n From here, at eight. \n\n I will come back, to see you off. \n\nVery ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,\nDarnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the\nletter, and read it. These were its contents:\n\n\n Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.\n\n June 21, 1792.  MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.\n\n After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the\nvillage, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and\nbrought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a\ngreat deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the\nground.\n\n The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,\nand for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my\nlife (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against\nthe majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an\nemigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not\nagainst, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,\nbefore the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the\nimposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had\nhad recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for\nan emigrant, and where is that emigrant?\n\n Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that\nemigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he\nnot come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,\nI send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your\nears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!\n\n For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of\nyour noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to\nsuccour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh\nMonsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!\n\n From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and\nnearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the\nassurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.\n\n Your afflicted,\n\n Gabelle. \n\n\nThe latent uneasiness in Darnay s mind was roused to vigourous life\nby this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose\nonly crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so\nreproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple\nconsidering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.\n\nHe knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated\nthe bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his\nresentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his\nconscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,\nhe had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,\nhis renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own\nmind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have\nsystematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to\ndo it, and that it had never been done.\n\nThe happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being\nalways actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time\nwhich had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week\nannihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week\nfollowing made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of\nthese circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still\nwithout continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched\nthe times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled\nuntil the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from\nFrance by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of\nconfiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,\nwas as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in\nFrance that might impeach him for it.\n\nBut, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so\nfar from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had\nrelinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no\nfavour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own\nbread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate\non written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little\nthere was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have\nin the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in\nthe summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his\nown safety, so that it could not but appear now.\n\nThis favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,\nthat he would go to Paris.\n\nYes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven\nhim within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him\nto itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted\nhim on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible\nattraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being\nworked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who\ncould not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,\ntrying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy\nand humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching\nhim, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the\nbrave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison\n(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,\nwhich had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were\ncoarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle s\nletter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his\njustice, honour, and good name.\n\nHis resolution was made. He must go to Paris.\n\nYes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he\nstruck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention\nwith which he had done what he had done, even although he had left\nit incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be\ngratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert\nit. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the\nsanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even\nsaw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging\nRevolution that was running so fearfully wild.\n\nAs he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that\nneither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.\nLucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always\nreluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,\nshould come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in\nthe balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his\nsituation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety\nto avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not\ndiscuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence\nin his course.\n\nHe walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to\nreturn to Tellson s and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived\nin Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say\nnothing of his intention now.\n\nA carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was\nbooted and equipped.\n\n I have delivered that letter,  said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry.  I\nwould not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but\nperhaps you will take a verbal one? \n\n That I will, and readily,  said Mr. Lorry,  if it is not dangerous. \n\n Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye. \n\n What is his name?  said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his\nhand.\n\n Gabelle. \n\n Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison? \n\n Simply,  that he has received the letter, and will come. \n\n Any time mentioned? \n\n He will start upon his journey to-morrow night. \n\n Any person mentioned? \n\n No. \n\nHe helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,\nand went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the\nmisty air of Fleet-street.  My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,  said\nMr. Lorry at parting,  and take precious care of them till I come back. \n Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage\nrolled away.\n\nThat night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote\ntwo fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation\nhe was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons\nthat he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no\npersonal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and\ntheir dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the\nstrongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters\nin proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.\n\nIt was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first\nreservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to\npreserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.\nBut, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him\nresolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,\nso strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and\nthe day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her\nscarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye\n(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise\nof clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy\nstreets, with a heavier heart.\n\nThe unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides\nand winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his\ntwo letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before\nmidnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.\n For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of\nyour noble name!  was the poor prisoner s cry with which he strengthened\nhis sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and\nfloated away for the Loadstone Rock.\n\n\nThe end of the second book.\n\n\n\n\nBook the Third--the Track of a Storm\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\nIn Secret\n\n\nThe traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from\nEngland in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and\nninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad\nhorses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and\nunfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;\nbut, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than\nthese. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of\ncitizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state\nof readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,\ninspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,\nturned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in\nhold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning\nRepublic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or\nDeath.\n\nA very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles\nDarnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there\nwas no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen\nat Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey s end.\nNot a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across\nthe road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in\nthe series that was barred between him and England. The universal\nwatchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,\nor were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have\nfelt his freedom more completely gone.\n\nThis universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty\ntimes in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by\nriding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him\nby anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been\ndays upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in\na little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.\n\nNothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle s letter from his\nprison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the\nguard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey\nto have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as\na man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he\nhad been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.\n\nAwakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough\nred caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.\n\n Emigrant,  said the functionary,  I am going to send you on to Paris,\nunder an escort. \n\n Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could\ndispense with the escort. \n\n Silence!  growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end\nof his musket.  Peace, aristocrat! \n\n It is as the good patriot says,  observed the timid functionary.  You\nare an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it. \n\n I have no choice,  said Charles Darnay.\n\n Choice! Listen to him!  cried the same scowling red-cap.  As if it was\nnot a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron! \n\n It is always as the good patriot says,  observed the functionary.  Rise\nand dress yourself, emigrant. \n\nDarnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other\npatriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by\na watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he\nstarted with it on the wet, wet roads at three o clock in the morning.\n\nThe escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured\ncockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either\nside of him.\n\nThe escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to\nhis bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his\nwrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their\nfaces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,\nand out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without\nchange, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay\nbetween them and the capital.\n\nThey travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and\nlying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,\nthat they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged\nshoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of\nbeing so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger\nas arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying\nhis musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint\nthat was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,\nhe reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits\nof an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,\nconfirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.\n\nBut when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,\nwhen the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from\nhimself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd\ngathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called\nout loudly,  Down with the emigrant! \n\nHe stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,\nresuming it as his safest place, said:\n\n Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own\nwill? \n\n You are a cursed emigrant,  cried a farrier, making at him in a\nfurious manner through the press, hammer in hand;  and you are a cursed\naristocrat! \n\nThe postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider s\nbridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said,  Let him\nbe; let him be! He will be judged at Paris. \n\n Judged!  repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer.  Ay! and condemned\nas a traitor.  At this the crowd roared approval.\n\nChecking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse s head to the\nyard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with\nthe line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his\nvoice heard:\n\n Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a\ntraitor. \n\n He lies!  cried the smith.  He is a traitor since the decree. His life\nis forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own! \n\nAt the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which\nanother instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his\nhorse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse s flanks,\nand the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier\nstruck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no\nmore was done.\n\n What is this decree that the smith spoke of?  Darnay asked the\npostmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.\n\n Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants. \n\n When passed? \n\n On the fourteenth. \n\n The day I left England! \n\n Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be\nothers--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and\ncondemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said\nyour life was not your own. \n\n But there are no such decrees yet? \n\n What do I know!  said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders;  there\nmay be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have? \n\nThey rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and\nthen rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many\nwild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride\nunreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and\nlonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor\ncottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and\nwould find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,\ncircling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn\nup together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in\nBeauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more\ninto solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and\nwet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth\nthat year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by\nthe sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their\nway, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.\n\nDaylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was\nclosed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.\n\n Where are the papers of this prisoner?  demanded a resolute-looking man\nin authority, who was summoned out by the guard.\n\nNaturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the\nspeaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,\nin charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had\nimposed upon him, and which he had paid for.\n\n Where,  repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him\nwhatever,  are the papers of this prisoner? \n\nThe drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his\neyes over Gabelle s letter, the same personage in authority showed some\ndisorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.\n\nHe left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went\ninto the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the\ngate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles\nDarnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and\npatriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress\ninto the city for peasants  carts bringing in supplies, and for similar\ntraffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest\npeople, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not\nto mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue\nforth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they\nfiltered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew\ntheir turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the\nground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered\nabout. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men\nand women.\n\nWhen he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these\nthings, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,\nwho directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the\nescort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him\nto dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,\nturned and rode away without entering the city.\n\nHe accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine\nand tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,\ndrunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and\nwaking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The\nlight in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of\nthe night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly\nuncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an\nofficer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.\n\n Citizen Defarge,  said he to Darnay s conductor, as he took a slip of\npaper to write on.  Is this the emigrant Evr monde? \n\n This is the man. \n\n Your age, Evr monde? \n\n Thirty-seven. \n\n Married, Evr monde? \n\n Yes. \n\n Where married? \n\n In England. \n\n Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evr monde? \n\n In England. \n\n Without doubt. You are consigned, Evr monde, to the prison of La\nForce. \n\n Just Heaven!  exclaimed Darnay.  Under what law, and for what offence? \n\nThe officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.\n\n We have new laws, Evr monde, and new offences, since you were here.  He\nsaid it with a hard smile, and went on writing.\n\n I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response\nto that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I\ndemand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that\nmy right? \n\n Emigrants have no rights, Evr monde,  was the stolid reply. The officer\nwrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,\nsanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words  In secret. \n\nDefarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany\nhim. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended\nthem.\n\n Is it you,  said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the\nguardhouse steps and turned into Paris,  who married the daughter of\nDoctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more? \n\n Yes,  replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.\n\n My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint\nAntoine. Possibly you have heard of me. \n\n My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes! \n\nThe word  wife  seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say\nwith sudden impatience,  In the name of that sharp female newly-born,\nand called La Guillotine, why did you come to France? \n\n You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the\ntruth? \n\n A bad truth for you,  said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and\nlooking straight before him.\n\n Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so\nsudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a\nlittle help? \n\n None.  Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.\n\n Will you answer me a single question? \n\n Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is. \n\n In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free\ncommunication with the world outside? \n\n You will see. \n\n I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of\npresenting my case? \n\n You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried\nin worse prisons, before now. \n\n But never by me, Citizen Defarge. \n\nDefarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady\nand set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope\nthere was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.\nHe, therefore, made haste to say:\n\n It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better\nthan I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to\nMr. Lorry of Tellson s Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,\nthe simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the\nprison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me? \n\n I will do,  Defarge doggedly rejoined,  nothing for you. My duty is to\nmy country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.\nI will do nothing for you. \n\nCharles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride\nwas touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see\nhow used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the\nstreets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned\ntheir heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;\notherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no\nmore remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be\ngoing to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they\npassed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited\naudience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal\nfamily. The few words that he caught from this man s lips, first made\nit known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the\nforeign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at\nBeauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal\nwatchfulness had completely isolated him.\n\nThat he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had\ndeveloped themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That\nperils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster\nyet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he\nmight not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events\nof a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by\nthe light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future\nwas, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant\nhope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few\nrounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed\ngarnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had\nbeen a hundred thousand years away. The  sharp female newly-born, and\ncalled La Guillotine,  was hardly known to him, or to the generality\nof people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were\nprobably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could\nthey have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?\n\nOf unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation\nfrom his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the\ncertainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on\nhis mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he\narrived at the prison of La Force.\n\nA man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge\npresented  The Emigrant Evr monde. \n\n What the Devil! How many more of them!  exclaimed the man with the\nbloated face.\n\nDefarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,\nwith his two fellow-patriots.\n\n What the Devil, I say again!  exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.\n How many more! \n\nThe gaoler s wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely\nreplied,  One must have patience, my dear!  Three turnkeys who entered\nresponsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added,  For\nthe love of Liberty;  which sounded in that place like an inappropriate\nconclusion.\n\nThe prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a\nhorrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome\nflavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that\nare ill cared for!\n\n In secret, too,  grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper.  As\nif I was not already full to bursting! \n\nHe stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay\nawaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and\nfro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in\neither case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his\nsubordinates.\n\n Come!  said the chief, at length taking up his keys,  come with me,\nemigrant. \n\nThrough the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by\ncorridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,\nuntil they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with\nprisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading\nand writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the\nmost part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the\nroom.\n\nIn the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and\ndisgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning\nunreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to\nreceive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with\nall the engaging graces and courtesies of life.\n\nSo strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and\ngloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and\nmisery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand\nin a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost\nof stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of\nfrivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all\nwaiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes\nthat were changed by the death they had died in coming there.\n\nIt struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other\ngaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance\nin the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly\ncoarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were\nthere--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the\nmature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and\nlikelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its\nutmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress\nof disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!\n\n In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,  said a\ngentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward,  I have the\nhonour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you\non the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate\nhappily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,\nto ask your name and condition? \n\nCharles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in\nwords as suitable as he could find.\n\n But I hope,  said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his\neyes, who moved across the room,  that you are not in secret? \n\n I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say\nso. \n\n Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several\nmembers of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted\nbut a short time.  Then he added, raising his voice,  I grieve to inform\nthe society--in secret. \n\nThere was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room\nto a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among\nwhich, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave\nhim good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to\nrender the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler s hand; and\nthe apparitions vanished from his sight forever.\n\nThe wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had\nascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted\nthem), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a\nsolitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.\n\n Yours,  said the gaoler.\n\n Why am I confined alone? \n\n How do I know! \n\n I can buy pen, ink, and paper? \n\n Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At\npresent, you may buy your food, and nothing more. \n\nThere were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As\nthe gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four\nwalls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of\nthe prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler\nwas so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like\na man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was\ngone, he thought in the same wandering way,  Now am I left, as if I were\ndead.  Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it\nwith a sick feeling, and thought,  And here in these crawling creatures\nis the first condition of the body after death. \n\n Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five\npaces by four and a half.  The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,\ncounting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled\ndrums with a wild swell of voices added to them.  He made shoes, he made\nshoes, he made shoes.  The prisoner counted the measurement again, and\npaced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.\n The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among\nthem, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the\nembrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden\nhair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God s sake,\nthrough the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He\nmade shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and\na half.  With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of\nhis mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting\nand counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it\nstill rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he\nknew, in the swell that rose above them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nThe Grindstone\n\n\nTellson s Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was\nin a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from\nthe street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to\na great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the\ntroubles, in his own cook s dress, and got across the borders. A\nmere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his\nmetempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation\nof whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men\nbesides the cook in question.\n\nMonseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the\nsin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and\nwilling to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and\nindivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur s\nhouse had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all\nthings moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce\nprecipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month\nof September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of\nMonseigneur s house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were\ndrinking brandy in its state apartments.\n\nA place of business in London like Tellson s place of business in Paris,\nwould soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.\nFor, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have\nsaid to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid\nover the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson s had whitewashed the\nCupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest\nlinen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to\nnight. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in\nLombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of\nthe immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and\nalso of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest\nprovocation. Yet, a French Tellson s could get on with these things\nexceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had\ntaken fright at them, and drawn out his money.\n\nWhat money would be drawn out of Tellson s henceforth, and what would\nlie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in\nTellson s hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,\nand when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with\nTellson s never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into\nthe next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis\nLorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by\na newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was\nprematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a\ndeeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the\nroom distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.\n\nHe occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which\nhe had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they\nderived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main\nbuilding, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about\nthat. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did\nhis duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,\nwas extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages\nof Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two\ngreat flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the\nopen air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared\nto have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,\nor other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless\nobjects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had\nopened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and\nhe had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.\n\nFrom the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came\nthe usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring\nin it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible\nnature were going up to Heaven.\n\n Thank God,  said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands,  that no one near and\ndear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all\nwho are in danger! \n\nSoon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,\n They have come back!  and sat listening. But, there was no loud\nirruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate\nclash again, and all was quiet.\n\nThe nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague\nuneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally\nawaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to\ngo among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly\nopened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in\namazement.\n\nLucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with\nthat old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it\nseemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give\nforce and power to it in this one passage of her life.\n\n What is this?  cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused.  What is the\nmatter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?\nWhat is it? \n\nWith the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted\nout in his arms, imploringly,  O my dear friend! My husband! \n\n Your husband, Lucie? \n\n Charles. \n\n What of Charles? \n\n Here.\n\n Here, in Paris? \n\n Has been here some days--three or four--I don t know how many--I can t\ncollect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to\nus; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison. \n\nThe old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the\nbell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices\ncame pouring into the courtyard.\n\n What is that noise?  said the Doctor, turning towards the window.\n\n Don t look!  cried Mr. Lorry.  Don t look out! Manette, for your life,\ndon t touch the blind! \n\nThe Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and\nsaid, with a cool, bold smile:\n\n My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been\na Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In\nFrance--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would\ntouch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.\nMy old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the\nbarrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I\nknew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I\ntold Lucie so.--What is that noise?  His hand was again upon the window.\n\n Don t look!  cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate.  No, Lucie, my\ndear, nor you!  He got his arm round her, and held her.  Don t be so\nterrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm\nhaving happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in\nthis fatal place. What prison is he in? \n\n La Force! \n\n La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in\nyour life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to\ndo exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or\nI can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;\nyou cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you\nto do for Charles s sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must\ninstantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a\nroom at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for\ntwo minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not\ndelay. \n\n I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do\nnothing else than this. I know you are true. \n\nThe old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the\nkey; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and\npartly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor s arm, and\nlooked out with him into the courtyard.\n\nLooked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near\nenough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The\npeople in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they\nhad rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up\nthere for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.\n\nBut, such awful workers, and such awful work!\n\nThe grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two\nmen, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of\nthe grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than\nthe visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.\nFalse eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their\nhideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with\nhowling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of\nsleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung\nforward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women\nheld wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping\nblood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks\nstruck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and\nfire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from\nthe smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the\nsharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all\nover their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain\nupon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women s lace\nand silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through\nand through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be\nsharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to\nthe wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments\nof dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And\nas the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream\nof sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in\ntheir frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have\ngiven twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.\n\nAll this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of\nany human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it\nwere there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for\nexplanation in his friend s ashy face.\n\n They are,  Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at\nthe locked room,  murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you\nsay; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you\nhave--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It\nmay be too late, I don t know, but let it not be a minute later! \n\nDoctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,\nand was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.\n\nHis streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous\nconfidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,\ncarried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.\nFor a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and\nthe unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,\nsurrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all\nlinked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with\ncries of-- Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner s\nkindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save\nthe prisoner Evr monde at La Force!  and a thousand answering shouts.\n\nHe closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window\nand the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was\nassisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found\nher child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be\nsurprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat\nwatching them in such quiet as the night knew.\n\nLucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,\nclinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own\nbed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty\ncharge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O\nthe long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!\n\nTwice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the\nirruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.\n What is it?  cried Lucie, affrighted.  Hush! The soldiers  swords are\nsharpened there,  said Mr. Lorry.  The place is national property now,\nand used as a kind of armoury, my love. \n\nTwice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.\nSoon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself\nfrom the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so\nbesmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back\nto consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by\nthe side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.\nShortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of\nthe carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,\nclimbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its\ndainty cushions.\n\nThe great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,\nand the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood\nalone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had\nnever given, and would never take away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nThe Shadow\n\n\nOne of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.\nLorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to\nimperil Tellson s by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under\nthe Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded\nfor Lucie and her child, without a moment s demur; but the great trust\nhe held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict\nman of business.\n\nAt first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out\nthe wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to\nthe safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the\nsame consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the\nmost violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in\nits dangerous workings.\n\nNoon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute s delay\ntending to compromise Tellson s, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said\nthat her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that\nQuarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to\nthis, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and\nhe were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry\nwent out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up\nin a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows\nof a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.\n\nTo this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:\ngiving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.\nHe left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear\nconsiderable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.\nA disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly\nand heavily the day lagged on with him.\n\nIt wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He\nwas again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to\ndo next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a\nman stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,\naddressed him by his name.\n\n Your servant,  said Mr. Lorry.  Do you know me? \n\nHe was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five\nto fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of\nemphasis, the words:\n\n Do you know me? \n\n I have seen you somewhere. \n\n Perhaps at my wine-shop? \n\nMuch interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said:  You come from Doctor\nManette? \n\n Yes. I come from Doctor Manette. \n\n And what says he? What does he send me? \n\nDefarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the\nwords in the Doctor s writing:\n\n     Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.\n     I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note\n     from Charles to his wife.  Let the bearer see his wife. \n\nIt was dated from La Force, within an hour.\n\n Will you accompany me,  said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading\nthis note aloud,  to where his wife resides? \n\n Yes,  returned Defarge.\n\nScarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical\nway Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the\ncourtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.\n\n Madame Defarge, surely!  said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly\nthe same attitude some seventeen years ago.\n\n It is she,  observed her husband.\n\n Does Madame go with us?  inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as\nthey moved.\n\n Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.\nIt is for their safety. \n\nBeginning to be struck by Defarge s manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously\nat him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being\nThe Vengeance.\n\nThey passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,\nascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,\nand found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the\ntidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that\ndelivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in\nthe night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.\n\n      DEAREST,--Take courage.  I am well, and your father has\n      influence around me.  You cannot answer this.\n      Kiss our child for me. \n\nThat was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received\nit, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the\nhands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly\naction, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took\nto its knitting again.\n\nThere was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in\nthe act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her\nneck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted\neyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.\n\n My dear,  said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain;  there are frequent\nrisings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever\ntrouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power\nto protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she\nmay identify them. I believe,  said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his\nreassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself\nupon him more and more,  I state the case, Citizen Defarge? \n\nDefarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a\ngruff sound of acquiescence.\n\n You had better, Lucie,  said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to\npropitiate, by tone and manner,  have the dear child here, and our\ngood Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no\nFrench. \n\nThe lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a\nmatch for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,\nappeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,\nwhom her eyes first encountered,  Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope\n_you_ are pretty well!  She also bestowed a British cough on Madame\nDefarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.\n\n Is that his child?  said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the\nfirst time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it\nwere the finger of Fate.\n\n Yes, madame,  answered Mr. Lorry;  this is our poor prisoner s darling\ndaughter, and only child. \n\nThe shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so\nthreatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively\nkneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The\nshadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,\nthreatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.\n\n It is enough, my husband,  said Madame Defarge.  I have seen them. We\nmay go. \n\nBut, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and\npresented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as\nshe laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge s dress:\n\n You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will\nhelp me to see him if you can? \n\n Your husband is not my business here,  returned Madame Defarge, looking\ndown at her with perfect composure.  It is the daughter of your father\nwho is my business here. \n\n For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child s sake! She\nwill put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more\nafraid of you than of these others. \n\nMadame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.\nDefarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,\ncollected his face into a sterner expression.\n\n What is it that your husband says in that little letter?  asked Madame\nDefarge, with a lowering smile.  Influence; he says something touching\ninfluence? \n\n That my father,  said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her\nbreast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it,  has\nmuch influence around him. \n\n Surely it will release him!  said Madame Defarge.  Let it do so. \n\n As a wife and mother,  cried Lucie, most earnestly,  I implore you to\nhave pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against\nmy innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think\nof me. As a wife and mother! \n\nMadame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,\nturning to her friend The Vengeance:\n\n The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little\nas this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have\nknown _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,\noften enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in\nthemselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,\nsickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds? \n\n We have seen nothing else,  returned The Vengeance.\n\n We have borne this a long time,  said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes\nagain upon Lucie.  Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife\nand mother would be much to us now? \n\nShe resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge\nwent last, and closed the door.\n\n Courage, my dear Lucie,  said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her.  Courage,\ncourage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of\nlate gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart. \n\n I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a\nshadow on me and on all my hopes. \n\n Tut, tut!  said Mr. Lorry;  what is this despondency in the brave\nlittle breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie. \n\nBut the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,\nfor all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nCalm in Storm\n\n\nDoctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his\nabsence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be\nkept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that\nnot until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she\nknow that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all\nages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been\ndarkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been\ntainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon\nthe prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that\nsome had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.\n\nTo Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on\nwhich he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a\nscene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had\nfound a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were\nbrought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth\nto be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back\nto their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he\nhad announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen\nyears a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the\nbody so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this\nman was Defarge.\n\nThat, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,\nthat his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard\nto the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some\ndirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life\nand liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as\na notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded\nto him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and\nexamined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when\nthe tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible\nto the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,\nthe man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that\nthe prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held\ninviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner\nwas removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the\nDoctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and\nassure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,\ndelivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had\noften drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and\nhad remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.\n\nThe sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by\nintervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were\nsaved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against\nthose who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had\nbeen discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had\nthrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress\nthe wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him\nin the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies\nof their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this\nawful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man\nwith the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him\ncarefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged\nanew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes\nwith his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.\n\nAs Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of\nhis friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that\nsuch dread experiences would revive the old danger.\n\nBut, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never\nat all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor\nfelt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time\nhe felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which\ncould break the prison door of his daughter s husband, and deliver him.\n It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.\nAs my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be\nhelpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid\nof Heaven I will do it!  Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw\nthe kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing\nof the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a\nclock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which\nhad lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.\n\nGreater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would\nhave yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself\nin his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees\nof mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his\npersonal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician\nof three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie\nthat her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the\ngeneral body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet\nmessages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself\nsent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor s hand), but she was\nnot permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of\nplots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were\nknown to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.\n\nThis new life of the Doctor s was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the\nsagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.\nNothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;\nbut he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that\ntime, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter\nand his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.\nNow that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through\nthat old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles s\nultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,\nthat he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to\ntrust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself\nand Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and\naffection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in\nrendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him.  All\ncurious to see,  thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way,  but all\nnatural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it\ncouldn t be in better hands. \n\nBut, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get\nCharles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,\nthe public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new\nera began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of\nLiberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death\nagainst the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the\ngreat towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise\nagainst the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils\nof France, as if the dragon s teeth had been sown broadcast, and\nhad yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and\nalluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of\nthe North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds\nand among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the\nfruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.\nWhat private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year\nOne of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,\nand with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!\n\nThere was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no\nmeasurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when\ntime was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other\ncount of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever\nof a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the\nunnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the\nhead of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the\nhead of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned\nwidowhood and misery, to turn it grey.\n\nAnd yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in\nall such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A\nrevolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand\nrevolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,\nwhich struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over\nany good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged\nwith people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;\nthese things became the established order and nature of appointed\nthings, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.\nAbove all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before\nthe general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the\nsharp female called La Guillotine.\n\nIt was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,\nit infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a\npeculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which\nshaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window\nand sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the\nhuman race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts\nfrom which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and\nbelieved in where the Cross was denied.\n\nIt sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,\nwere a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young\nDevil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed\nthe eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and\ngood. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one\ndead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.\nThe name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief\nfunctionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his\nnamesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God s own Temple every\nday.\n\nAmong these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked\nwith a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his\nend, never doubting that he would save Lucie s husband at last. Yet the\ncurrent of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time\naway so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three\nmonths when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more\nwicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,\nthat the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the\nviolently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares\nunder the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the\nterrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at\nthat day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable\nin hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and\nvictims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the\nappearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all\nother men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if\nhe had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were\na Spirit moving among mortals.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nThe Wood-Sawyer\n\n\nOne year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never\nsure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her\nhusband s head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the\ntumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright\nwomen, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and\nold; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all\ndaily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,\nand carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.\nLiberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to\nbestow, O Guillotine!\n\nIf the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,\nhad stunned the Doctor s daughter into awaiting the result in idle\ndespair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from\nthe hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in\nthe garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was\ntruest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good\nwill always be.\n\nAs soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father\nhad entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little\nhousehold as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had\nits appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,\nas regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The\nslight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief\nthat they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy\nreturn, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the\nsolemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many\nunhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only\noutspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.\n\nShe did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to\nmourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well\nattended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,\nand the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,\nthing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at\nnight on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had\nrepressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,\nwas on him. He always resolutely answered:  Nothing can happen to him\nwithout my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie. \n\nThey had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her\nfather said to her, on coming home one evening:\n\n My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can\nsometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to\nit--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you\nin the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can\nshow you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even\nif you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition. \n\n O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day. \n\nFrom that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the\nclock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.\nWhen it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they\nwent together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a\nsingle day.\n\nIt was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel\nof a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that\nend; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed\nher.\n\n Good day, citizeness. \n\n Good day, citizen. \n\nThis mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been\nestablished voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;\nbut, was now law for everybody.\n\n Walking here again, citizeness? \n\n You see me, citizen! \n\nThe wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he\nhad once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed\nat the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent\nbars, peeped through them jocosely.\n\n But it s not my business,  said he. And went on sawing his wood.\n\nNext day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she\nappeared.\n\n What? Walking here again, citizeness? \n\n Yes, citizen. \n\n Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness? \n\n Do I say yes, mamma?  whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.\n\n Yes, dearest. \n\n Yes, citizen. \n\n Ah! But it s not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I\ncall it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head\ncomes! \n\nThe billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.\n\n I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!\nLoo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.\nTickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the\nfamily! \n\nLucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was\nimpossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in\nhis sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him\nfirst, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.\n\nHe was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten\nhim in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart\nup to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,\nwith his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work.  But it s\nnot my business!  he would generally say at those times, and would\nbriskly fall to his sawing again.\n\nIn all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of\nspring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again\nin the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at\nthis place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.\nHer husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in\nfive or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not\nfor a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did\nsee her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have\nwaited out the day, seven days a week.\n\nThese occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her\nfather walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing\nafternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild\nrejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,\ndecorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;\nalso, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription\n(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.\nLiberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!\n\nThe miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole\nsurface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got\nsomebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in\nwith most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike\nand cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his\nsaw inscribed as his  Little Sainte Guillotine --for the great sharp\nfemale was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he\nwas not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.\n\nBut, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement\nand a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment\nafterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the\nprison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with\nThe Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and\nthey were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music\nthan their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,\nkeeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.\nMen and women danced together, women danced together, men danced\ntogether, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a\nmere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they\nfilled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly\napparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They\nadvanced, retreated, struck at one another s hands, clutched at one\nanother s heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round\nin pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest\nlinked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,\nand in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they\nall stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then\nreversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped\nagain, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width\nof the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high\nup, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible\nas this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once\ninnocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into\na means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the\nheart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how\nwarped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly\nbosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child s head thus distracted, the\ndelicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of\nthe disjointed time.\n\nThis was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and\nbewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer s house, the feathery snow\nfell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.\n\n O my father!  for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she\nhad momentarily darkened with her hand;  such a cruel, bad sight. \n\n I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don t be\nfrightened! Not one of them would harm you. \n\n I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my\nhusband, and the mercies of these people-- \n\n We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to\nthe window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may\nkiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof. \n\n I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it! \n\n You cannot see him, my poor dear? \n\n No, father,  said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,\n no. \n\nA footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge.  I salute you, citizeness, \n from the Doctor.  I salute you, citizen.  This in passing. Nothing more.\nMadame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.\n\n Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness\nand courage, for his sake. That was well done;  they had left the spot;\n it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow. \n\n For to-morrow! \n\n There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions\nto be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned\nbefore the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know\nthat he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the\nConciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid? \n\nShe could scarcely answer,  I trust in you. \n\n Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall\nbe restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every\nprotection. I must see Lorry. \n\nHe stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They\nboth knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring\naway with their dread loads over the hushing snow.\n\n I must see Lorry,  the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.\n\nThe staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He\nand his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated\nand made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No\nbetter man living to hold fast by what Tellson s had in keeping, and to\nhold his peace.\n\nA murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted\nthe approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the\nBank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and\ndeserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:\nNational Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,\nFraternity, or Death!\n\nWho could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the\nchair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,\nagitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did\nhe appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and\nturning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,\nhe said:  Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow? \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nTriumph\n\n\nThe dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined\nJury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were\nread out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The\nstandard gaoler-joke was,  Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you\ninside there! \n\n Charles Evr monde, called Darnay! \n\nSo at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.\n\nWhen a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved\nfor those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles\nEvr monde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen\nhundreds pass away so.\n\nHis bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them\nto assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the\nlist, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three\nnames, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so\nsummoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been\nguillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber\nwhere Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his\narrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human\ncreature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the\nscaffold.\n\nThere were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was\nsoon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force\nwere engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little\nconcert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears\nthere; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be\nrefilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the\ncommon rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs\nwho kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from\ninsensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the\ntime. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour\nor intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to\nbrave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere\nboastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In\nseasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the\ndisease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have\nlike wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke\nthem.\n\nThe passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its\nvermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were\nput to the bar before Charles Darnay s name was called. All the fifteen\nwere condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.\n\n Charles Evr monde, called Darnay,  was at length arraigned.\n\nHis judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap\nand tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking\nat the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the\nusual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the\nhonest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never\nwithout its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing\nspirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,\nanticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,\nthe greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore\nknives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many\nknitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under\nher arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom\nhe had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly\nremembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in\nhis ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed\nin the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to\nhimself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to\nbe waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at\nthe Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,\nin his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.\nLorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who\nwore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the\nCarmagnole.\n\nCharles Evr monde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor\nas an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree\nwhich banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the\ndecree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was\nthe decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.\n\n Take off his head!  cried the audience.  An enemy to the Republic! \n\nThe President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the\nprisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in\nEngland?\n\nUndoubtedly it was.\n\nWas he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?\n\nNot an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.\n\nWhy not? the President desired to know.\n\nBecause he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful\nto him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left\nhis country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present\nacceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in\nEngland, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.\n\nWhat proof had he of this?\n\nHe handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and\nAlexandre Manette.\n\nBut he had married in England? the President reminded him.\n\nTrue, but not an English woman.\n\nA citizeness of France?\n\nYes. By birth.\n\nHer name and family?\n\n Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who\nsits there. \n\nThis answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation\nof the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were\nthe people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious\ncountenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as\nif with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.\n\nOn these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot\naccording to Doctor Manette s reiterated instructions. The same cautious\ncounsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every\ninch of his road.\n\nThe President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not\nsooner?\n\nHe had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means\nof living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,\nhe lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.\nHe had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of\na French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his\nabsence. He had come back, to save a citizen s life, and to bear his\ntestimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal\nin the eyes of the Republic?\n\nThe populace cried enthusiastically,  No!  and the President rang his\nbell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry  No! \n until they left off, of their own will.\n\nThe President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained\nthat the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence\nto the citizen s letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,\nbut which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before\nthe President.\n\nThe Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that\nit would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced\nand read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen\nGabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the\npressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of\nenemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly\noverlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out\nof the Tribunal s patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he\nhad been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury s\ndeclaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was\nanswered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evr monde,\ncalled Darnay.\n\nDoctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,\nand the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he\nproceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his\nrelease from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in\nEngland, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in\ntheir exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat\ngovernment there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as\nthe foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these\ncircumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the\nstraightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the\npopulace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur\nLorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,\nhad been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his\naccount of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that\nthey were ready with their votes if the President were content to\nreceive them.\n\nAt every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace\nset up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner s\nfavour, and the President declared him free.\n\nThen, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace\nsometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards\ngenerosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against\ntheir swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of\nthese motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,\nto a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner\nwas the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood\nat another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the\nprisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after\nhis long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from\nexhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same\npeople, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with\nthe very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the\nstreets.\n\nHis removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,\nrescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried\ntogether, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not\nassisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate\nitself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to\nhim before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four\nhours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign\nof Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words,  Long live the\nRepublic! \n\nThe five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,\nfor when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great\ncrowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in\nCourt--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the\nconcourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by\nturns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of\nwhich the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the\nshore.\n\nThey put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had\ntaken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.\nOver the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they\nhad bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not\neven the Doctor s entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home\non men s shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,\nand casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that\nhe more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he\nwas in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.\n\nIn wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing\nhim out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the\nprevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as\nthey had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried\nhim thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father\nhad gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his\nfeet, she dropped insensible in his arms.\n\nAs he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his\nface and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come\ntogether unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the\nrest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.\nThen, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the\ncrowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and\noverflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river s bank,\nand over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled\nthem away.\n\nAfter grasping the Doctor s hand, as he stood victorious and proud\nbefore him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in\nbreathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;\nafter kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round\nhis neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who\nlifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their\nrooms.\n\n Lucie! My own! I am safe. \n\n O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have\nprayed to Him. \n\nThey all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in\nhis arms, he said to her:\n\n And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France\ncould have done what he has done for me. \n\nShe laid her head upon her father s breast, as she had laid his poor\nhead on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he\nhad made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his\nstrength.  You must not be weak, my darling,  he remonstrated;  don t\ntremble so. I have saved him. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nA Knock at the Door\n\n\n I have saved him.  It was not another of the dreams in which he had\noften come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a\nvague but heavy fear was upon her.\n\nAll the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately\nrevengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on\nvague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that\nmany as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to\nher, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her\nheart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.\nThe shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now\nthe dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued\nthem, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to\nhis real presence and trembled more.\n\nHer father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this\nwoman s weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,\nno One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task\nhe had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let\nthem all lean upon him.\n\nTheir housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was\nthe safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but\nbecause they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,\nhad had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards\nthe living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and\npartly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and\ncitizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them\noccasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by\nMr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every\nnight.\n\nIt was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,\nEquality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every\nhouse, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters\nof a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.\nJerry Cruncher s name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down\nbelow; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name\nhimself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had\nemployed to add to the list the name of Charles Evr monde, called\nDarnay.\n\nIn the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual\nharmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor s little household, as\nin very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted\nwere purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small\nshops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as\npossible for talk and envy, was the general desire.\n\nFor some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the\noffice of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the\nbasket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were\nlighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home\nsuch purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long\nassociation with a French family, might have known as much of their\nlanguage as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that\ndirection; consequently she knew no more of that  nonsense  (as she was\npleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing\nwas to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any\nintroduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be\nthe name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold\nof it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always\nmade a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,\none finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.\n\n Now, Mr. Cruncher,  said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;\n if you are ready, I am. \n\nJerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross s service. He had worn\nall his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.\n\n There s all manner of things wanted,  said Miss Pross,  and we shall\nhave a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts\nthese Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it. \n\n It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think, \n retorted Jerry,  whether they drink your health or the Old Un s. \n\n Who s he?  said Miss Pross.\n\nMr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning  Old\nNick s. \n\n Ha!  said Miss Pross,  it doesn t need an interpreter to explain the\nmeaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it s Midnight Murder,\nand Mischief. \n\n Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!  cried Lucie.\n\n Yes, yes, yes, I ll be cautious,  said Miss Pross;  but I may say\namong ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey\nsmotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the\nstreets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!\nTake care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don t move your\npretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!\nMay I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go? \n\n I think you may take that liberty,  the Doctor answered, smiling.\n\n For gracious sake, don t talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of\nthat,  said Miss Pross.\n\n Hush, dear! Again?  Lucie remonstrated.\n\n Well, my sweet,  said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically,  the\nshort and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious\nMajesty King George the Third;  Miss Pross curtseyed at the name;  and\nas such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish\ntricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King! \n\nMr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words\nafter Miss Pross, like somebody at church.\n\n I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you\nhad never taken that cold in your voice,  said Miss Pross, approvingly.\n But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there --it was the good creature s\nway to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety\nwith them all, and to come at it in this chance manner-- is there any\nprospect yet, of our getting out of this place? \n\n I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet. \n\n Heigh-ho-hum!  said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she\nglanced at her darling s golden hair in the light of the fire,  then we\nmust have patience and wait: that s all. We must hold up our heads and\nfight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don t\nyou move, Ladybird! \n\nThey went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the\nchild, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the\nBanking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in\na corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie\nsat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,\nin a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of\na great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out\na captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and\nquiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.\n\n What is that?  she cried, all at once.\n\n My dear!  said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand\non hers,  command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The\nleast thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father s daughter! \n\n I thought, my father,  said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face\nand in a faltering voice,  that I heard strange feet upon the stairs. \n\n My love, the staircase is as still as Death. \n\nAs he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.\n\n Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him! \n\n My child,  said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her\nshoulder,  I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go\nto the door. \n\nHe took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,\nand opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough\nmen in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.\n\n The Citizen Evr monde, called Darnay,  said the first.\n\n Who seeks him?  answered Darnay.\n\n I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evr monde; I saw you before the\nTribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic. \n\nThe four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging\nto him.\n\n Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner? \n\n It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will\nknow to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow. \n\nDoctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he\nstood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,\nmoved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting\nthe speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red\nwoollen shirt, said:\n\n You know him, you have said. Do you know me? \n\n Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor. \n\n We all know you, Citizen Doctor,  said the other three.\n\nHe looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,\nafter a pause:\n\n Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen? \n\n Citizen Doctor,  said the first, reluctantly,  he has been denounced to\nthe Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,  pointing out the second who\nhad entered,  is from Saint Antoine. \n\nThe citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:\n\n He is accused by Saint Antoine. \n\n Of what?  asked the Doctor.\n\n Citizen Doctor,  said the first, with his former reluctance,  ask no\nmore. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as\na good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.\nThe People is supreme. Evr monde, we are pressed. \n\n One word,  the Doctor entreated.  Will you tell me who denounced him? \n\n It is against rule,  answered the first;  but you can ask Him of Saint\nAntoine here. \n\nThe Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his\nfeet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:\n\n Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by\nthe Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other. \n\n What other? \n\n Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then,  said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look,  you will be\nanswered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nA Hand at Cards\n\n\nHappily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her\nway along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the\nPont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases\nshe had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They\nboth looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they\npassed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and\nturned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It\nwas a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing\nlights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were\nstationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the\nRepublic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got\nundeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never\ngrown, for the National Razor shaved him close.\n\nHaving purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil\nfor the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.\nAfter peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the\nGood Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,\nonce (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather\ntook her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same\ndescription they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was\nnot so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her\nopinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,\nattended by her cavalier.\n\nSlightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,\nplaying with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,\nbare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of\nthe others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be\nresumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the\npopular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,\nlike slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached\nthe counter, and showed what they wanted.\n\nAs their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a\ncorner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No\nsooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped\nher hands.\n\nIn a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was\nassassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the\nlikeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only\nsaw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all\nthe outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,\nevidently English.\n\nWhat was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the\nGood Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very\nvoluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss\nPross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no\nears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that\nnot only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,\nMr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual\naccount--was in a state of the greatest wonder.\n\n What is the matter?  said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;\nspeaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in\nEnglish.\n\n Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!  cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.\n After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,\ndo I find you here! \n\n Don t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?  asked the\nman, in a furtive, frightened way.\n\n Brother, brother!  cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears.  Have I ever\nbeen so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question? \n\n Then hold your meddlesome tongue,  said Solomon,  and come out, if you\nwant to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who s this man? \n\nMiss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means\naffectionate brother, said through her tears,  Mr. Cruncher. \n\n Let him come out too,  said Solomon.  Does he think me a ghost? \n\nApparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a\nword, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule\nthrough her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did\nso, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus\nof Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French\nlanguage, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and\npursuits.\n\n Now,  said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner,  what do you\nwant? \n\n How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away\nfrom!  cried Miss Pross,  to give me such a greeting, and show me no\naffection. \n\n There. Confound it! There,  said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross s\nlips with his own.  Now are you content? \n\nMiss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.\n\n If you expect me to be surprised,  said her brother Solomon,  I am not\nsurprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If\nyou really don t want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you\ndo--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I\nam an official. \n\n My English brother Solomon,  mourned Miss Pross, casting up her\ntear-fraught eyes,  that had the makings in him of one of the best and\ngreatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and\nsuch foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in\nhis-- \n\n I said so!  cried her brother, interrupting.  I knew it. You want to be\nthe death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just\nas I am getting on! \n\n The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!  cried Miss Pross.  Far\nrather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever\nloved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,\nand tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will\ndetain you no longer. \n\nGood Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any\nculpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years\nago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent\nher money and left her!\n\nHe was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging\ncondescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative\nmerits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,\nall the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,\nhoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular\nquestion:\n\n I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,\nor Solomon John? \n\nThe official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not\npreviously uttered a word.\n\n Come!  said Mr. Cruncher.  Speak out, you know.  (Which, by the way,\nwas more than he could do himself.)  John Solomon, or Solomon John? She\ncalls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know\nyou re John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that\nname of Pross, likewise. That warn t your name over the water. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n Well, I don t know all I mean, for I can t call to mind what your name\nwas, over the water. \n\n No? \n\n No. But I ll swear it was a name of two syllables. \n\n Indeed? \n\n Yes. T other one s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness\nat the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to\nyourself, was you called at that time? \n\n Barsad,  said another voice, striking in.\n\n That s the name for a thousand pound!  cried Jerry.\n\nThe speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind\nhim under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher s\nelbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.\n\n Don t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry s, to his\nsurprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself\nelsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present\nmyself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a\nbetter employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad\nwas not a Sheep of the Prisons. \n\nSheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,\nwho was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--\n\n I ll tell you,  said Sydney.  I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out\nof the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,\nan hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember\nfaces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having\na reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with\nthe misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your\ndirection. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and\nsat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved\nconversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the\nnature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed\nto shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad. \n\n What purpose?  the spy asked.\n\n It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the\nstreet. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your\ncompany--at the office of Tellson s Bank, for instance? \n\n Under a threat? \n\n Oh! Did I say that? \n\n Then, why should I go there? \n\n Really, Mr. Barsad, I can t say, if you can t. \n\n Do you mean that you won t say, sir?  the spy irresolutely asked.\n\n You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won t. \n\nCarton s negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his\nquickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,\nand with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and\nmade the most of it.\n\n Now, I told you so,  said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his\nsister;  if any trouble comes of this, it s your doing. \n\n Come, come, Mr. Barsad!  exclaimed Sydney.  Don t be ungrateful.\nBut for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so\npleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual\nsatisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank? \n\n I ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I ll go with you. \n\n I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her\nown street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,\nat this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort\nknows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry s with us. Are we\nready? Come then! \n\nMiss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life\nremembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney s arm and looked up\nin his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced\npurpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only\ncontradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was\ntoo much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved\nher affection, and with Sydney s friendly reassurances, adequately to\nheed what she observed.\n\nThey left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.\nLorry s, which was within a few minutes  walk. John Barsad, or Solomon\nPross, walked at his side.\n\nMr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery\nlittle log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the\npicture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson s, who had looked\ninto the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years\nago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with\nwhich he saw a stranger.\n\n Miss Pross s brother, sir,  said Sydney.  Mr. Barsad. \n\n Barsad?  repeated the old gentleman,  Barsad? I have an association\nwith the name--and with the face. \n\n I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,  observed Carton,\ncoolly.  Pray sit down. \n\nAs he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,\nby saying to him with a frown,  Witness at that trial.  Mr. Lorry\nimmediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised\nlook of abhorrence.\n\n Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate\nbrother you have heard of,  said Sydney,  and has acknowledged the\nrelationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again. \n\nStruck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed,  What do you\ntell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about\nto return to him! \n\n Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad? \n\n Just now, if at all. \n\n Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,  said Sydney,  and I\nhave it from Mr. Barsad s communication to a friend and brother Sheep\nover a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the\nmessengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no\nearthly doubt that he is retaken. \n\nMr. Lorry s business eye read in the speaker s face that it was loss\nof time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something\nmight depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was\nsilently attentive.\n\n Now, I trust,  said Sydney to him,  that the name and influence of\nDoctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he\nwould be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?-- \n\n Yes; I believe so. \n\n --In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own\nto you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette s not having had the\npower to prevent this arrest. \n\n He may not have known of it beforehand,  said Mr. Lorry.\n\n But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how\nidentified he is with his son-in-law. \n\n That s true,  Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his\nchin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.\n\n In short,  said Sydney,  this is a desperate time, when desperate games\nare played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I\nwill play the losing one. No man s life here is worth purchase. Any one\ncarried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the\nstake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend\nin the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.\nBarsad. \n\n You need have good cards, sir,  said the spy.\n\n I ll run them over. I ll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a\nbrute I am; I wish you d give me a little brandy. \n\nIt was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another\nglassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.\n\n Mr. Barsad,  he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking\nover a hand at cards:  Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican\ncommittees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,\nso much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman\nis less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a\nFrenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.\nThat s a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican\nFrench government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic\nEnglish government, the enemy of France and freedom. That s an excellent\ncard. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.\nBarsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the\nspy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,\nthe English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so\ndifficult to find. That s a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my\nhand, Mr. Barsad? \n\n Not to understand your play,  returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.\n\n I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section\nCommittee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don t\nhurry. \n\nHe drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and\ndrank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself\ninto a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he\npoured out and drank another glassful.\n\n Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time. \n\nIt was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards\nin it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable\nemployment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing\nthere--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for\nvaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern\ndate--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in\nFrance: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen\nthere: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He\nknew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint\nAntoine and Defarge s wine-shop; had received from the watchful police\nsuch heads of information concerning Doctor Manette s imprisonment,\nrelease, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to\nfamiliar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame\nDefarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered\nwith fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he\ntalked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.\nHe had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over\nagain produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the\nguillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as\nhe was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that\nhe was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of\nhis utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning\nterror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such\ngrave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw\nthat the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many\nproofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash\nhis last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon\nterrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify\nthe holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.\n\n You scarcely seem to like your hand,  said Sydney, with the greatest\ncomposure.  Do you play? \n\n I think, sir,  said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.\nLorry,  I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to\nput it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can\nunder any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace\nof which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is\nconsidered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by\nsomebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean\nhimself as to make himself one? \n\n I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,  said Carton, taking the answer on himself,\nand looking at his watch,  without any scruple, in a very few minutes. \n\n I should have hoped, gentlemen both,  said the spy, always striving to\nhook Mr. Lorry into the discussion,  that your respect for my sister-- \n\n I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally\nrelieving her of her brother,  said Sydney Carton.\n\n You think not, sir? \n\n I have thoroughly made up my mind about it. \n\nThe smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his\nostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,\nreceived such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a\nmystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and\nfailed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air\nof contemplating cards:\n\n And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I\nhave another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and\nfellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;\nwho was he? \n\n French. You don t know him,  said the spy, quickly.\n\n French, eh?  repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him\nat all, though he echoed his word.  Well; he may be. \n\n Is, I assure you,  said the spy;  though it s not important. \n\n Though it s not important,  repeated Carton, in the same mechanical\nway-- though it s not important--No, it s not important. No. Yet I know\nthe face. \n\n I think not. I am sure not. It can t be,  said the spy.\n\n It-can t-be,  muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his\nglass (which fortunately was a small one) again.  Can t-be. Spoke good\nFrench. Yet like a foreigner, I thought? \n\n Provincial,  said the spy.\n\n No. Foreign!  cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a\nlight broke clearly on his mind.  Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We\nhad that man before us at the Old Bailey. \n\n Now, there you are hasty, sir,  said Barsad, with a smile that gave his\naquiline nose an extra inclination to one side;  there you really give\nme an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this\ndistance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I\nattended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church\nof Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard\nmultitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped\nto lay him in his coffin. \n\nHere, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable\ngoblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it\nto be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the\nrisen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher s head.\n\n Let us be reasonable,  said the spy,  and let us be fair. To show you\nhow mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will\nlay before you a certificate of Cly s burial, which I happened to have\ncarried in my pocket-book,  with a hurried hand he produced and opened\nit,  ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take\nit in your hand; it s no forgery. \n\nHere, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and\nMr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more\nviolently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the\ncrumpled horn in the house that Jack built.\n\nUnseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on\nthe shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.\n\n That there Roger Cly, master,  said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and\niron-bound visage.  So _you_ put him in his coffin? \n\n I did. \n\n Who took him out of it? \n\nBarsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered,  What do you mean? \n\n I mean,  said Mr. Cruncher,  that he warn t never in it. No! Not he!\nI ll have my head took off, if he was ever in it. \n\nThe spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in\nunspeakable astonishment at Jerry.\n\n I tell you,  said Jerry,  that you buried paving-stones and earth in\nthat there coffin. Don t go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a\ntake in. Me and two more knows it. \n\n How do you know it? \n\n What s that to you? Ecod!  growled Mr. Cruncher,  it s you I have got a\nold grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!\nI d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea. \n\nSydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at\nthis turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and\nexplain himself.\n\n At another time, sir,  he returned, evasively,  the present time is\nill-conwenient for explainin . What I stand to, is, that he knows well\nwot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,\nin so much as a word of one syllable, and I ll either catch hold of his\nthroat and choke him for half a guinea;  Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as\nquite a liberal offer;  or I ll out and announce him. \n\n Humph! I see one thing,  said Carton.  I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.\nImpossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for\nyou to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another\naristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has\nthe mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!\nA plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong\ncard--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play? \n\n No!  returned the spy.  I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular\nwith the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk\nof being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that\nhe never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this\nman knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me. \n\n Never you trouble your head about this man,  retorted the contentious\nMr. Cruncher;  you ll have trouble enough with giving your attention to\nthat gentleman. And look here! Once more! --Mr. Cruncher could not\nbe restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his\nliberality-- I d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a\nguinea. \n\nThe Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,\nwith more decision,  It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and\ncan t overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?\nNow, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my\noffice, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my\nlife to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,\nI should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate\nhere. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my\nway through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with\nme? \n\n Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie? \n\n I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible, \n said the spy, firmly.\n\n Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the\nConciergerie? \n\n I am sometimes. \n\n You can be when you choose? \n\n I can pass in and out when I choose. \n\nSydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out\nupon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he\nsaid, rising:\n\n So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that\nthe merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come\ninto the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nThe Game Made\n\n\nWhile Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining\ndark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked\nat Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman s\nmanner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the\nleg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,\nand were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very\nquestionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry s eye caught\nhis, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the\nhollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an\ninfirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.\n\n Jerry,  said Mr. Lorry.  Come here. \n\nMr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance\nof him.\n\n What have you been, besides a messenger? \n\nAfter some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,\nMr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying,  Agicultooral\ncharacter. \n\n My mind misgives me much,  said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger\nat him,  that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson s\nas a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous\ndescription. If you have, don t expect me to befriend you when you\nget back to England. If you have, don t expect me to keep your secret.\nTellson s shall not be imposed upon. \n\n I hope, sir,  pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher,  that a gentleman like\nyourself wot I ve had the honour of odd jobbing till I m grey at it,\nwould think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don t say it\nis, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if\nit wos, it wouldn t, even then, be all o  one side. There d be two sides\nto it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking\nup their guineas where a honest tradesman don t pick up his\nfardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor\nyet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson s, and a cocking\ntheir medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going\nout to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.\nWell, that  ud be imposing, too, on Tellson s. For you cannot sarse the\ngoose and not the gander. And here s Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos\nin the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,\na floppin  again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark\nruinating! Whereas them medical doctors  wives don t flop--catch  em at\nit! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,\nand how can you rightly have one without t other? Then, wot with\nundertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot\nwith private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn t get\nmuch by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never\nprosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He d never have no good of it; he d want\nall along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being\nonce in--even if it wos so. \n\n Ugh!  cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless,  I am shocked at\nthe sight of you. \n\n Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,  pursued Mr. Cruncher,\n even if it wos so, which I don t say it is-- \n\n Don t prevaricate,  said Mr. Lorry.\n\n No, I will _not_, sir,  returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were\nfurther from his thoughts or practice-- which I don t say it is--wot I\nwould humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at\nthat there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to\nbe a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till\nyour heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it\nwos so, which I still don t say it is (for I will not prewaricate to\nyou, sir), let that there boy keep his father s place, and take care of\nhis mother; don t blow upon that boy s father--do not do it, sir--and\nlet that father go into the line of the reg lar diggin , and make amends\nfor what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin  of  em in with\na will, and with conwictions respectin  the futur  keepin  of  em safe.\nThat, Mr. Lorry,  said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his\narm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his\ndiscourse,  is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don t\nsee all this here a goin  on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects\nwithout heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down\nto porterage and hardly that, without havin  his serious thoughts of\nthings. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin  of you\nfur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good\ncause when I might have kep  it back. \n\n That at least is true,  said Mr. Lorry.  Say no more now. It may be\nthat I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in\naction--not in words. I want no more words. \n\nMr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy\nreturned from the dark room.  Adieu, Mr. Barsad,  said the former;  our\narrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me. \n\nHe sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they\nwere alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?\n\n Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access\nto him, once. \n\nMr. Lorry s countenance fell.\n\n It is all I could do,  said Carton.  To propose too much, would be\nto put this man s head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing\nworse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the\nweakness of the position. There is no help for it. \n\n But access to him,  said Mr. Lorry,  if it should go ill before the\nTribunal, will not save him. \n\n I never said it would. \n\nMr. Lorry s eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his\ndarling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually\nweakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,\nand his tears fell.\n\n You are a good man and a true friend,  said Carton, in an altered\nvoice.  Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my\nfather weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your\nsorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,\nhowever. \n\nThough he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there\nwas a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,\nthat Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly\nunprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.\n\n To return to poor Darnay,  said Carton.  Don t tell Her of this\ninterview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see\nhim. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey\nto him the means of anticipating the sentence. \n\nMr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to\nsee if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and\nevidently understood it.\n\n She might think a thousand things,  Carton said,  and any of them would\nonly add to her trouble. Don t speak of me to her. As I said to you when\nI first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any\nlittle helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.\nYou are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night. \n\n I am going now, directly. \n\n I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance\non you. How does she look? \n\n Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful. \n\n Ah! \n\nIt was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It\nattracted Mr. Lorry s eyes to Carton s face, which was turned to the\nfire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),\npassed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a\nwild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little\nflaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat\nand top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their\nlight surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,\nall untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was\nsufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;\nhis boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had\nbroken under the weight of his foot.\n\n I forgot it,  he said.\n\nMr. Lorry s eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the\nwasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having\nthe expression of prisoners  faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly\nreminded of that expression.\n\n And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?  said Carton, turning\nto him.\n\n Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so\nunexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to\nhave left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have\nmy Leave to Pass. I was ready to go. \n\nThey were both silent.\n\n Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?  said Carton, wistfully.\n\n I am in my seventy-eighth year. \n\n You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;\ntrusted, respected, and looked up to? \n\n I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I\nmay say that I was a man of business when a boy. \n\n See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss\nyou when you leave it empty! \n\n A solitary old bachelor,  answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head.  There\nis nobody to weep for me. \n\n How can you say that? Wouldn t She weep for you? Wouldn t her child? \n\n Yes, yes, thank God. I didn t quite mean what I said. \n\n It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not? \n\n Surely, surely. \n\n If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,\n I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or\nrespect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no\nregard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by! \nyour seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they\nnot? \n\n You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be. \n\nSydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a\nfew moments, said:\n\n I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the\ndays when you sat at your mother s knee, seem days of very long ago? \n\nResponding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:\n\n Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw\ncloser and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and\nnearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and\npreparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances\nthat had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),\nand by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not\nso real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me. \n\n I understand the feeling!  exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush.  And\nyou are the better for it? \n\n I hope so. \n\nCarton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with\nhis outer coat;  But you,  said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme,  you\nare young. \n\n Yes,  said Carton.  I am not old, but my young way was never the way to\nage. Enough of me. \n\n And of me, I am sure,  said Mr. Lorry.  Are you going out? \n\n I ll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless\nhabits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don t be\nuneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow? \n\n Yes, unhappily. \n\n I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a\nplace for me. Take my arm, sir. \n\nMr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A\nfew minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry s destination. Carton left him\nthere; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate\nagain when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to\nthe prison every day.  She came out here,  he said, looking about him,\n turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in\nher steps. \n\nIt was ten o clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,\nwhere she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having\nclosed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.\n\n Good night, citizen,  said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the\nman eyed him inquisitively.\n\n Good night, citizen. \n\n How goes the Republic? \n\n You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount\nto a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being\nexhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber! \n\n Do you often go to see him-- \n\n Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work? \n\n Never. \n\n Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,\ncitizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less\nthan two pipes. Word of honour! \n\nAs the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain\nhow he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire\nto strike the life out of him, that he turned away.\n\n But you are not English,  said the wood-sawyer,  though you wear\nEnglish dress? \n\n Yes,  said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.\n\n You speak like a Frenchman. \n\n I am an old student here. \n\n Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman. \n\n Good night, citizen. \n\n But go and see that droll dog,  the little man persisted, calling after\nhim.  And take a pipe with you! \n\nSydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of\nthe street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap\nof paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered\nthe way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,\nfor the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of\nterror--he stopped at a chemist s shop, which the owner was closing with\nhis own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill\nthoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.\n\nGiving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his\ncounter, he laid the scrap of paper before him.  Whew!  the chemist\nwhistled softly, as he read it.  Hi! hi! hi! \n\nSydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:\n\n For you, citizen? \n\n For me. \n\n You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the\nconsequences of mixing them? \n\n Perfectly. \n\nCertain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by\none, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,\nand deliberately left the shop.  There is nothing more to do,  said he,\nglancing upward at the moon,  until to-morrow. I can t sleep. \n\nIt was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words\naloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of\nnegligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who\nhad wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into\nhis road and saw its end.\n\nLong ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a\nyouth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His\nmother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been\nread at his father s grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark\nstreets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing\non high above him.  I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:\nhe that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and\nwhosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die. \n\nIn a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow\nrising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,\nand for to-morrow s victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,\nand still of to-morrow s and to-morrow s, the chain of association that\nbrought the words home, like a rusty old ship s anchor from the deep,\nmight have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and\nwent on.\n\nWith a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were\ngoing to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors\nsurrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers\nwere said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length\nof self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and\nprofligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon\nthe gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets\nalong which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and\nmaterial, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among\nthe people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn\ninterest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its\nshort nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for\nthe lighter streets.\n\nFew coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be\nsuspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy\nshoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the\npeople poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At\none of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking\nfor a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,\nand before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.\n\n I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth\nin me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and\nbelieveth in me, shall never die. \n\nNow, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words\nwere in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm\nand steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he\nheard them always.\n\nThe night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the\nwater as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the\npicturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light\nof the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the\nsky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,\nand for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to\nDeath s dominion.\n\nBut, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden\nof the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.\nAnd looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light\nappeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river\nsparkled under it.\n\nThe strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial\nfriend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the\nhouses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the\nbank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little\nlonger, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the\nstream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.-- Like me. \n\nA trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then\nglided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track\nin the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart\nfor a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,\nended in the words,  I am the resurrection and the life. \n\nMr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise\nwhere the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a\nlittle coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh\nhimself, went out to the place of trial.\n\nThe court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell\naway from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.\nMr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,\nsitting beside her father.\n\nWhen her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so\nsustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying\ntenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy\nblood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If\nthere had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney\nCarton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.\n\nBefore that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,\nensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have\nbeen no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not\nfirst been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the\nRevolution was to scatter them all to the winds.\n\nEvery eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good\nrepublicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day\nafter. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and\nhis fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance\ngave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,\ncannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.\nAntoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.\n\nEvery eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.\nNo favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,\nmurderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye\nin the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one\nanother, before bending forward with a strained attention.\n\nCharles Evr monde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and\nretaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and\nDenounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,\none of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished\nprivileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evr monde,\ncalled Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.\n\nTo this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.\n\nThe President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?\n\n Openly, President. \n\n By whom? \n\n Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine. \n\n Good. \n\n Th r se Defarge, his wife. \n\n Good. \n\n Alexandre Manette, physician. \n\nA great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor\nManette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.\n\n President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and\na fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My\ndaughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who\nand where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband\nof my child! \n\n Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of\nthe Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer\nto you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the\nRepublic. \n\nLoud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and\nwith warmth resumed.\n\n If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child\nherself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is\nto follow. In the meanwhile, be silent! \n\nFrantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with\nhis eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew\ncloser to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,\nand restored the usual hand to his mouth.\n\nDefarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his\nbeing heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of\nhis having been a mere boy in the Doctor s service, and of the release,\nand of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.\nThis short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.\n\n You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen? \n\n I believe so. \n\nHere, an excited woman screeched from the crowd:  You were one of the\nbest patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day\nthere, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when\nit fell. Patriots, I speak the truth! \n\nIt was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,\nthus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The\nVengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked,  I defy that bell! \n wherein she was likewise much commended.\n\n Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,\ncitizen. \n\n I knew,  said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the\nbottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;\n I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell\nknown as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He\nknew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,\nwhen he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,\nwhen the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to\nthe cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a\ngaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a\nstone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is\nthat written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens\nof the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.\nI confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of\nthe President. \n\n Let it be read. \n\nIn a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking\nlovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with\nsolicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the\nreader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge\nnever taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there\nintent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as\nfollows.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nThe Substance of the Shadow\n\n\n I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and\nafterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful\ncell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write\nit at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it\nin the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a\nplace of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I\nand my sorrows are dust.\n\n These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with\ndifficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed\nwith blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope\nhas quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have\nnoted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I\nsolemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right\nmind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the\ntruth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they\nbe ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.\n\n One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the\ntwenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired\npart of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,\nat an hour s distance from my place of residence in the Street of the\nSchool of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very\nfast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it\nmight otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a\nvoice called to the driver to stop.\n\n The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,\nand the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage\nwas then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the\ndoor and alight before I came up with it.\n\n I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to\nconceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,\nI also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather\nyounger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,\nand (as far as I could see) face too.\n\n You are Doctor Manette?  said one.\n\n I am. \n\n Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,  said the other;  the young\nphysician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two\nhas made a rising reputation in Paris? \n\n Gentlemen,  I returned,  I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so\ngraciously. \n\n We have been to your residence,  said the first,  and not being\nso fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were\nprobably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of\novertaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage? \n\n The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words\nwere spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.\nThey were armed. I was not.\n\n Gentlemen,  said I,  pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me\nthe honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to\nwhich I am summoned. \n\n The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second.  Doctor,\nyour clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,\nour confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for\nyourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to\nenter the carriage? \n\n I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both\nentered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The\ncarriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.\n\n I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that\nit is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took\nplace, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make\nthe broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my\npaper in its hiding-place.\n\n        *****\n\n The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and\nemerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the\nBarrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards\nwhen I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently\nstopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by\na damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had\noverflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in\nanswer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck\nthe man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.\n\n There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,\nfor I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the\nother of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner\nwith his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly\nalike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.\n\n From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found\nlocked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had\nrelocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was\nconducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we\nascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,\nlying on a bed.\n\n The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much\npast twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to\nher sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were\nall portions of a gentleman s dress. On one of them, which was a fringed\nscarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,\nand the letter E.\n\n I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;\nfor, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the\nedge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was\nin danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve\nher breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the\ncorner caught my sight.\n\n I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her\nand keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and\nwild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the\nwords,  My husband, my father, and my brother!  and then counted up to\ntwelve, and said,  Hush!  For an instant, and no more, she would pause\nto listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she\nwould repeat the cry,  My husband, my father, and my brother!  and\nwould count up to twelve, and say,  Hush!  There was no variation in the\norder, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment s\npause, in the utterance of these sounds.\n\n How long,  I asked,  has this lasted? \n\n To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the\nyounger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It\nwas the elder who replied,  Since about this hour last night. \n\n She has a husband, a father, and a brother? \n\n A brother. \n\n I do not address her brother? \n\n He answered with great contempt,  No. \n\n She has some recent association with the number twelve? \n\n The younger brother impatiently rejoined,  With twelve o clock? \n\n See, gentlemen,  said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast,  how\nuseless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming\nto see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There\nare no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place. \n\n The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily,  There is\na case of medicines here;  and brought it from a closet, and put it on\nthe table.\n\n        *****\n\n I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my\nlips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were\npoisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.\n\n Do you doubt them?  asked the younger brother.\n\n You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,  I replied, and said no\nmore.\n\n I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many\nefforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it\nafter a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then\nsat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman\nin attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into\na corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently\nfurnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick\nold hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the\nsound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular\nsuccession, with the cry,  My husband, my father, and my brother!  the\ncounting up to twelve, and  Hush!  The frenzy was so violent, that I had\nnot unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to\nthem, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement\nin the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer s breast had this much\nsoothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the\nfigure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more\nregular.\n\n For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by\nthe side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,\nbefore the elder said:\n\n There is another patient. \n\n I was startled, and asked,  Is it a pressing case? \n\n You had better see,  he carelessly answered; and took up a light.\n\n        *****\n\n The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which\nwas a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling\nto a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and\nthere were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of\nthe place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to\npass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial\nand unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in\nthis my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my\ncaptivity, as I saw them all that night.\n\n On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a\nhandsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.\nHe lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his\nbreast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see\nwhere his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see\nthat he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.\n\n I am a doctor, my poor fellow,  said I.  Let me examine it. \n\n I do not want it examined,  he answered;  let it be. \n\n It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.\nThe wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours\nbefore, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to\nwithout delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder\nbrother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was\nebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all\nas if he were a fellow-creature.\n\n How has this been done, monsieur?  said I.\n\n A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,\nand has fallen by my brother s sword--like a gentleman. \n\n There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this\nanswer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to\nhave that different order of creature dying there, and that it would\nhave been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his\nvermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about\nthe boy, or about his fate.\n\n The boy s eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now\nslowly moved to me.\n\n Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are\nproud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but\nwe have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor? \n\n The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the\ndistance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.\n\n I said,  I have seen her. \n\n She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these\nNobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we\nhave had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say\nso. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a\ntenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man s who stands there.\nThe other is his brother, the worst of a bad race. \n\n It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force\nto speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.\n\n We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs\nare by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to\nwork for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged\nto feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden\nfor our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and\nplundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we\nate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his\npeople should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,\nand hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a\ndreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should\nmost pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable\nrace die out! \n\n I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth\nlike a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people\nsomewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the\ndying boy.\n\n Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,\npoor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort\nhim in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not\nbeen married many weeks, when that man s brother saw her and admired\nher, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among\nus! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and\nhated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two\nthen, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her\nwilling? \n\n The boy s eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the\nlooker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two\nopposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this\nBastille; the gentleman s, all negligent indifference; the peasant s, all\ntrodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.\n\n You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to\nharness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and\ndrove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their\ngrounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep\nmay not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at\nnight, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was\nnot persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he\ncould find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the\nbell, and died on her bosom. \n\n Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to\ntell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as\nhe forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his\nwound.\n\n Then, with that man s permission and even with his aid, his\nbrother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his\nbrother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if\nit is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,\nfor a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the\ntidings home, our father s heart burst; he never spoke one of the words\nthat filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place\nbeyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be\n_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed\nin--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was\nsomewhere here? \n\n The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around\nhim. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled\nover the floor, as if there had been a struggle.\n\n She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was\ndead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck\nat me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to\nmake him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword\nthat he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust\nat me with all his skill for his life. \n\n My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of\na broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman s. In\nanother place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier s.\n\n Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he? \n\n He is not here,  I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he\nreferred to the brother.\n\n He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the\nman who was here? Turn my face to him. \n\n I did so, raising the boy s head against my knee. But, invested for the\nmoment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging\nme to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.\n\n Marquis,  said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and\nhis right hand raised,  in the days when all these things are to be\nanswered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to\nanswer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that\nI do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,\nI summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them\nseparately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do\nit. \n\n Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his\nforefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the\nfinger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him\ndown dead.\n\n        *****\n\n When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving\nin precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last\nfor many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the\ngrave.\n\n I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of\nthe bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing\nquality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order\nof her words. They were always  My husband, my father, and my brother!\nOne, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,\ntwelve. Hush! \n\n This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had\ncome and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to\nfalter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and\nby-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.\n\n It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and\nfearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to\ncompose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew\nher condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being\na mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had\nhad of her.\n\n Is she dead?  asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the\nelder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.\n\n Not dead,  said I;  but like to die. \n\n What strength there is in these common bodies!  he said, looking down\nat her with some curiosity.\n\n There is prodigious strength,  I answered him,  in sorrow and\ndespair. \n\n He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a\nchair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a\nsubdued voice,\n\n Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I\nrecommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,\nand, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful\nof your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,\nand not spoken of. \n\n I listened to the patient s breathing, and avoided answering.\n\n Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor? \n\n Monsieur,  said I,  in my profession, the communications of patients\nare always received in confidence.  I was guarded in my answer, for I\nwas troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.\n\n Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the\npulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I\nresumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.\n\n        *****\n\n I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so\nfearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total\ndarkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or\nfailure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that\nwas ever spoken between me and those brothers.\n\n She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few\nsyllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She\nasked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It\nwas in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her\nhead upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.\n\n I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the\nbrothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until\nthen, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the\nwoman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind\nthe curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to\nthat, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as\nif--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.\n\n I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger\nbrother s (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that\npeasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind\nof either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading\nto the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger\nbrother s eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,\nfor knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to\nme than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance\nin the mind of the elder, too.\n\n My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,\nanswering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone\nwith her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and\nall her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.\n\n The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride\naway. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with\ntheir riding-whips, and loitering up and down.\n\n At last she is dead?  said the elder, when I went in.\n\n She is dead,  said I.\n\n I congratulate you, my brother,  were his words as he turned round.\n\n He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now\ngave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on\nthe table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept\nnothing.\n\n Pray excuse me,  said I.  Under the circumstances, no. \n\n They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to\nthem, and we parted without another word on either side.\n\n        *****\n\n I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I\nhave written with this gaunt hand.\n\n Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a\nlittle box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously\nconsidered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately\nto the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been\nsummoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the\ncircumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities\nof the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be\nheard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a\nprofound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state\nin my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but\nI was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were\ncompromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.\n\n I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that\nnight. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.\nIt was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just\ncompleted, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.\n\n        *****\n\n I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is\nso cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so\ndreadful.\n\n The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long\nlife. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the\nwife of the Marquis St. Evr monde. I connected the title by which the\nboy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered\non the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I\nhad seen that nobleman very lately.\n\n My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our\nconversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I\nknow not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and\nin part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband s\nshare in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl\nwas dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,\nin secret, a woman s sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of\nHeaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.\n\n She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and\nher greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing\nbut that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her\ninducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope\nthat I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this\nwretched hour I am ignorant of both.\n\n        *****\n\n These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,\nyesterday. I must finish my record to-day.\n\n She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How\ncould she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence\nwas all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her\nhusband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a\npretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.\n\n For his sake, Doctor,  she said, pointing to him in tears,  I would do\nall I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his\ninheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent\natonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What\nI have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few\njewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the\ncompassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if\nthe sister can be discovered. \n\n She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him,  It is for thine own dear\nsake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?  The child answered her\nbravely,  Yes!  I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and\nwent away caressing him. I never saw her more.\n\n As she had mentioned her husband s name in the faith that I knew it,\nI added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not\ntrusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.\n\n That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o clock, a man in\na black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed\nmy servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came\ninto the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!\nMy fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at\nthe gate, standing silent behind him.\n\n An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,\nhe had a coach in waiting.\n\n It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the\nhouse, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and\nmy arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark\ncorner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from\nhis pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light\nof a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.\nNot a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living\ngrave.\n\n If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the\nbrothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of\nmy dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or\ndead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,\nnow I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that\nthey have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the\nlast of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last\nnight of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times\nwhen all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven\nand to earth. \n\nA terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A\nsound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but\nblood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,\nand there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.\n\nLittle need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show\nhow the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured\nBastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their\ntime. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been\nanathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.\nThe man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have\nsustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.\n\nAnd all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a\nwell-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One\nof the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of\nthe questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and\nself-immolations on the people s altar. Therefore when the President\nsaid (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good\nphysician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by\nrooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel\na sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an\norphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of\nhuman sympathy.\n\n Much influence around him, has that Doctor?  murmured Madame Defarge,\nsmiling to The Vengeance.  Save him now, my Doctor, save him! \n\nAt every juryman s vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and\nroar.\n\nUnanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy\nof the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the\nConciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nDusk\n\n\nThe wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under\nthe sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no\nsound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was\nshe of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment\nit, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.\n\nThe Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,\nthe Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court s\nemptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood\nstretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face\nbut love and consolation.\n\n If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if\nyou would have so much compassion for us! \n\nThere was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had\ntaken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the\nshow in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest,  Let her embrace\nhim then; it is but a moment.  It was silently acquiesced in, and they\npassed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by\nleaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.\n\n Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We\nshall meet again, where the weary are at rest! \n\nThey were her husband s words, as he held her to his bosom.\n\n I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don t suffer\nfor me. A parting blessing for our child. \n\n I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by\nyou. \n\n My husband. No! A moment!  He was tearing himself apart from her.\n We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart\nby-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God\nwill raise up friends for her, as He did for me. \n\nHer father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both\nof them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:\n\n No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel\nto us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what\nyou underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We\nknow now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for\nher dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and\nduty. Heaven be with you! \n\nHer father s only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,\nand wring them with a shriek of anguish.\n\n It could not be otherwise,  said the prisoner.  All things have worked\ntogether as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to\ndischarge my poor mother s trust that first brought my fatal presence\nnear you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in\nnature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven\nbless you! \n\nAs he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him\nwith her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and\nwith a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting\nsmile. As he went out at the prisoners  door, she turned, laid her head\nlovingly on her father s breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his\nfeet.\n\nThen, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,\nSydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were\nwith her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.\nYet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a\nflush of pride in it.\n\n Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight. \n\nHe carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a\ncoach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat\nbeside the driver.\n\nWhen they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not\nmany hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of\nthe street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up\nthe staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where\nher child and Miss Pross wept over her.\n\n Don t recall her to herself,  he said, softly, to the latter,  she is\nbetter so. Don t revive her to consciousness, while she only faints. \n\n Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!  cried little Lucie, springing up and\nthrowing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief.  Now that\nyou have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to\nsave papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who\nlove her, bear to see her so? \n\nHe bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He\nput her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.\n\n Before I go,  he said, and paused-- I may kiss her? \n\nIt was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face\nwith his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to\nhim, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a\nhandsome old lady, that she heard him say,  A life you love. \n\nWhen he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry\nand her father, who were following, and said to the latter:\n\n You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least\nbe tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to\nyou, and very recognisant of your services; are they not? \n\n Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the\nstrongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.  He returned the\nanswer in great trouble, and very slowly.\n\n Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few\nand short, but try. \n\n I intend to try. I will not rest a moment. \n\n That s well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before\nnow--though never,  he added, with a smile and a sigh together,  such\ngreat things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse\nit, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it\nwere not. \n\n I will go,  said Doctor Manette,  to the Prosecutor and the President\nstraight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will\nwrite too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no\none will be accessible until dark. \n\n That s true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the\nforlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you\nspeed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen\nthese dread powers, Doctor Manette? \n\n Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from\nthis. \n\n It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I\ngo to Mr. Lorry s at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from\nour friend or from yourself? \n\n Yes. \n\n May you prosper! \n\nMr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the\nshoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.\n\n I have no hope,  said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.\n\n Nor have I. \n\n If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare\nhim--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man s\nto them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the\ncourt. \n\n And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound. \n\nMr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.\n\n Don t despond,  said Carton, very gently;  don t grieve. I encouraged\nDoctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be\nconsolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think  his life was wantonly\nthrown away or wasted,  and that might trouble her. \n\n Yes, yes, yes,  returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes,  you are right.\nBut he will perish; there is no real hope. \n\n Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,  echoed Carton.\n\nAnd walked with a settled step, down-stairs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\nDarkness\n\n\nSydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go.  At\nTellson s banking-house at nine,  he said, with a musing face.  Shall I\ndo well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that\nthese people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound\nprecaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!\nLet me think it out! \n\nChecking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a\nturn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought\nin his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was\nconfirmed.  It is best,  he said, finally resolved,  that these people\nshould know there is such a man as I here.  And he turned his face\ntowards Saint Antoine.\n\nDefarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in\nthe Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city\nwell, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained\nits situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined\nat a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the\nfirst time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he\nhad taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had\ndropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry s hearth like a man who had\ndone with it.\n\nIt was as late as seven o clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out\ninto the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he\nstopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered\nthe disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and\nhis wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge s, and went in.\n\nThere happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the\nrestless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon\nthe Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the\nDefarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like\na regular member of the establishment.\n\nAs Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent\nFrench) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless\nglance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced\nto him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.\n\nHe repeated what he had already said.\n\n English?  asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark\neyebrows.\n\nAfter looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were\nslow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign\naccent.  Yes, madame, yes. I am English! \n\nMadame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he\ntook up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its\nmeaning, he heard her say,  I swear to you, like Evr monde! \n\nDefarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.\n\n How? \n\n Good evening. \n\n Oh! Good evening, citizen,  filling his glass.  Ah! and good wine. I\ndrink to the Republic. \n\nDefarge went back to the counter, and said,  Certainly, a little like. \n Madame sternly retorted,  I tell you a good deal like.  Jacques Three\npacifically remarked,  He is so much in your mind, see you, madame. \n The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh,  Yes, my faith! And you\nare looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more\nto-morrow! \n\nCarton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow\nforefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning\ntheir arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence\nof a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without\ndisturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed\ntheir conversation.\n\n It is true what madame says,  observed Jacques Three.  Why stop? There\nis great force in that. Why stop? \n\n Well, well,  reasoned Defarge,  but one must stop somewhere. After all,\nthe question is still where? \n\n At extermination,  said madame.\n\n Magnificent!  croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly\napproved.\n\n Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,  said Defarge, rather\ntroubled;  in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has\nsuffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when\nthe paper was read. \n\n I have observed his face!  repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.\n Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the\nface of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face! \n\n And you have observed, my wife,  said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,\n the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him! \n\n I have observed his daughter,  repeated madame;  yes, I have observed\nhis daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I\nhave observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and\nI have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my\nfinger--!  She seemed to raise it (the listener s eyes were always on\nhis paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as\nif the axe had dropped.\n\n The citizeness is superb!  croaked the Juryman.\n\n She is an Angel!  said The Vengeance, and embraced her.\n\n As to thee,  pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband,  if it\ndepended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this\nman even now. \n\n No!  protested Defarge.  Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I\nwould leave the matter there. I say, stop there. \n\n See you then, Jacques,  said Madame Defarge, wrathfully;  and see you,\ntoo, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as\ntyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,\ndoomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so. \n\n It is so,  assented Defarge, without being asked.\n\n In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds\nthis paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the\nnight when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,\nby the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so. \n\n It is so,  assented Defarge.\n\n That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is\nburnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between\nthose iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is\nthat so. \n\n It is so,  assented Defarge again.\n\n I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two\nhands as I smite it now, and I tell him,  Defarge, I was brought up\namong the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured\nby the two Evr monde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my\nfamily. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground\nwas my sister, that husband was my sister s husband, that unborn child\nwas their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,\nthose dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things\ndescends to me!  Ask him, is that so. \n\n It is so,  assented Defarge once more.\n\n Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,  returned madame;  but don t\ntell me. \n\nBoth her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature\nof her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing\nher--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed\na few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but\nonly elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply.  Tell\nthe Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me! \n\nCustomers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer\npaid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as\na stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge\ntook him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.\nThe English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might\nbe a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and\ndeep.\n\nBut, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the\nprison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present\nhimself in Mr. Lorry s room again, where he found the old gentleman\nwalking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie\nuntil just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and\nkeep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the\nbanking-house towards four o clock. She had some faint hopes that his\nmediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been\nmore than five hours gone: where could he be?\n\nMr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and\nhe being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he\nshould go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.\nIn the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.\n\nHe waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette\ndid not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and\nbrought none. Where could he be?\n\nThey were discussing this question, and were almost building up some\nweak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on\nthe stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was\nlost.\n\nWhether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that\ntime traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at\nthem, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.\n\n I cannot find it,  said he,  and I must have it. Where is it? \n\nHis head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look\nstraying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.\n\n Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I\ncan t find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must\nfinish those shoes. \n\nThey looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.\n\n Come, come!  said he, in a whimpering miserable way;  let me get to\nwork. Give me my work. \n\nReceiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the\nground, like a distracted child.\n\n Don t torture a poor forlorn wretch,  he implored them, with a dreadful\ncry;  but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are\nnot done to-night? \n\nLost, utterly lost!\n\nIt was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,\nthat--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and\nsoothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should\nhave his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the\nembers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret\ntime were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into\nthe exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.\n\nAffected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle\nof ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely\ndaughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both\ntoo strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with\none meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:\n\n The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken\nto her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to\nme? Don t ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and\nexact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one. \n\n I do not doubt it,  answered Mr. Lorry.  Say on. \n\nThe figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously\nrocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as\nthey would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the\nnight.\n\nCarton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his\nfeet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to\ncarry the lists of his day s duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton\ntook it up, and there was a folded paper in it.  We should look\nat this!  he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and\nexclaimed,  Thank _God!_ \n\n What is it?  asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.\n\n A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,  he put his hand in\nhis coat, and took another paper from it,  that is the certificate which\nenables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,\nan Englishman? \n\nMr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.\n\n Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you\nremember, and I had better not take it into the prison. \n\n Why not? \n\n I don t know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor\nManette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him\nand his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the\nfrontier! You see? \n\n Yes! \n\n Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,\nyesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don t stay to look; put it\nup carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until\nwithin this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is\ngood, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to\nthink, will be. \n\n They are not in danger? \n\n They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame\nDefarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that\nwoman s, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong\ncolours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He\nconfirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,\nis under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by\nMadame Defarge as to his having seen Her --he never mentioned Lucie s\nname-- making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that\nthe pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will\ninvolve her life--and perhaps her child s--and perhaps her father s--for\nboth have been seen with her at that place. Don t look so horrified. You\nwill save them all. \n\n Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how? \n\n I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend\non no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place\nuntil after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;\nmore probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to\nmourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her\nfather would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the\ninveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that\nstrength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me? \n\n So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for\nthe moment I lose sight,  touching the back of the Doctor s chair,  even\nof this distress. \n\n You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast\nas quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been\ncompleted for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your\nhorses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o clock in the\nafternoon. \n\n It shall be done! \n\nHis manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the\nflame, and was as quick as youth.\n\n You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?\nTell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child\nand her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head\nbeside her husband s cheerfully.  He faltered for an instant; then went\non as before.  For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her\nthe necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell\nher that it was her husband s last arrangement. Tell her that more\ndepends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her\nfather, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not? \n\n I am sure of it. \n\n I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in\nthe courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.\nThe moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away. \n\n I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances? \n\n You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will\nreserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and\nthen for England! \n\n Why, then,  said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady\nhand,  it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young\nand ardent man at my side. \n\n By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will\ninfluence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one\nanother. \n\n Nothing, Carton. \n\n Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for\nany reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must\ninevitably be sacrificed. \n\n I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully. \n\n And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye! \n\nThough he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even\nput the old man s hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He\nhelped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,\nas to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find\nwhere the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought\nto have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the\ncourtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in\nthe memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to\nit--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained\nthere for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of\nher room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a\nFarewell.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\nFifty-two\n\n\nIn the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited\ntheir fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were\nto roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless\neverlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants\nwere appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,\nthe blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set\napart.\n\nTwo score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,\nwhose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose\npoverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered\nin the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;\nand the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,\nintolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally\nwithout distinction.\n\nCharles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no\nflattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line\nof the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had\nfully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,\nthat he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could\navail him nothing.\n\nNevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh\nbefore him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life\nwas strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts\nand degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and\nwhen he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,\nthis was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,\na turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against\nresignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and\nchild who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a\nselfish thing.\n\nBut, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there\nwas no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same\nroad wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate\nhim. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind\nenjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,\nby degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his\nthoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.\n\nBefore it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had\ntravelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means\nof writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the\nprison lamps should be extinguished.\n\nHe wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing\nof her father s imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,\nand that he had been as ignorant as she of his father s and uncle s\nresponsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had\nalready explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name\nhe had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that\nher father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he\nhad still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,\nfor her father s sake, never to seek to know whether her father had\nbecome oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled\nto him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on\nthat old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had\npreserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that\nhe had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no\nmention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had\ndiscovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He\nbesought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console\nher father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think\nof, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly\nreproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint\nsakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and\nblessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their\ndear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her\nfather.\n\nTo her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her\nfather that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And\nhe told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any\ndespondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be\ntending.\n\nTo Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.\nThat done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm\nattachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so\nfull of the others, that he never once thought of him.\n\nHe had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When\nhe lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.\n\nBut, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining\nforms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had\nnothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of\nheart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and\nhe had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even\nsuffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there\nwas no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the\nsombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it\nflashed upon his mind,  this is the day of my death! \n\nThus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads\nwere to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could\nmeet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking\nthoughts, which was very difficult to master.\n\nHe had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How\nhigh it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be\nstood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed\nred, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,\nor might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise\ndirected by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless\ntimes. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no\nfear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what\nto do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the\nfew swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like\nthe wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.\n\nThe hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the\nnumbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for\never, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard\ncontest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed\nhim, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly\nrepeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.\nHe could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for\nhimself and for them.\n\nTwelve gone for ever.\n\nHe had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would\nbe summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily\nand slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two\nbefore his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the\ninterval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.\n\nWalking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very\ndifferent man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,\nhe heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had\nmeasured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his\nrecovered self-possession, he thought,  There is but another now,  and\nturned to walk again.\n\nFootsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.\n\nThe key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or\nas it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English:  He has never seen\nme here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose\nno time! \n\nThe door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him\nface to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his\nfeatures, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.\n\nThere was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the\nfirst moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own\nimagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner s\nhand, and it was his real grasp.\n\n Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?  he said.\n\n I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You\nare not --the apprehension came suddenly into his mind-- a prisoner? \n\n No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers\nhere, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your\nwife, dear Darnay. \n\nThe prisoner wrung his hand.\n\n I bring you a request from her. \n\n What is it? \n\n A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you\nin the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well\nremember. \n\nThe prisoner turned his face partly aside.\n\n You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have\nno time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you\nwear, and draw on these of mine. \n\nThere was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.\nCarton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got\nhim down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.\n\n Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to\nthem. Quick! \n\n Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You\nwill only die with me. It is madness. \n\n It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you\nto pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change\nthat cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do\nit, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like\nthis of mine! \n\nWith wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,\nthat appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.\nThe prisoner was like a young child in his hands.\n\n Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never\ncan be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you\nnot to add your death to the bitterness of mine. \n\n Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,\nrefuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand\nsteady enough to write? \n\n It was when you came in. \n\n Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick! \n\nPressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.\nCarton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.\n\n Write exactly as I speak. \n\n To whom do I address it? \n\n To no one.  Carton still had his hand in his breast.\n\n Do I date it? \n\n No. \n\nThe prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with\nhis hand in his breast, looked down.\n\n If you remember,  said Carton, dictating,  the words that passed\nbetween us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.\nYou do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them. \n\nHe was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look\nup in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon\nsomething.\n\n Have you written  forget them ?  Carton asked.\n\n I have. Is that a weapon in your hand? \n\n No; I am not armed. \n\n What is it in your hand? \n\n You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.  He\ndictated again.  I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove\nthem. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.  As he said these\nwords with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly\nmoved down close to the writer s face.\n\nThe pen dropped from Darnay s fingers on the table, and he looked about\nhim vacantly.\n\n What vapour is that?  he asked.\n\n Vapour? \n\n Something that crossed me? \n\n I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen\nand finish. Hurry, hurry! \n\nAs if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the\nprisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton\nwith clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his\nhand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.\n\n Hurry, hurry! \n\nThe prisoner bent over the paper, once more.\n\n If it had been otherwise;  Carton s hand was again watchfully and\nsoftly stealing down;  I never should have used the longer opportunity.\nIf it had been otherwise;  the hand was at the prisoner s face;  I\nshould but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been\notherwise--  Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into\nunintelligible signs.\n\nCarton s hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up\nwith a reproachful look, but Carton s hand was close and firm at his\nnostrils, and Carton s left arm caught him round the waist. For a few\nseconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his\nlife for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on\nthe ground.\n\nQuickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton\ndressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back\nhis hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he\nsoftly called,  Enter there! Come in!  and the Spy presented himself.\n\n You see?  said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the\ninsensible figure, putting the paper in the breast:  is your hazard very\ngreat? \n\n Mr. Carton,  the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers,  my\nhazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to\nthe whole of your bargain. \n\n Don t fear me. I will be true to the death. \n\n You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being\nmade right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear. \n\n Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the\nrest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and\ntake me to the coach. \n\n You?  said the Spy nervously.\n\n Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which\nyou brought me in? \n\n Of course. \n\n I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you\ntake me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has\nhappened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.\nQuick! Call assistance! \n\n You swear not to betray me?  said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a\nlast moment.\n\n Man, man!  returned Carton, stamping his foot;  have I sworn by no\nsolemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious\nmoments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place\nhim yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him\nyourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of\nlast night, and his promise of last night, and drive away! \n\nThe Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his\nforehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.\n\n How, then?  said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure.  So\nafflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of\nSainte Guillotine? \n\n A good patriot,  said the other,  could hardly have been more afflicted\nif the Aristocrat had drawn a blank. \n\nThey raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had\nbrought to the door, and bent to carry it away.\n\n The time is short, Evr monde,  said the Spy, in a warning voice.\n\n I know it well,  answered Carton.  Be careful of my friend, I entreat\nyou, and leave me. \n\n Come, then, my children,  said Barsad.  Lift him, and come away! \n\nThe door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of\nlistening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote\nsuspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,\nfootsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry\nmade, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he\nsat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.\n\nSounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then\nbegan to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and\nfinally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely\nsaying,  Follow me, Evr monde!  and he followed into a large dark room,\nat a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows\nwithin, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern\nthe others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were\nstanding; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;\nbut, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking\nfixedly at the ground.\n\nAs he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two\nwere brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,\nas having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of\ndiscovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young\nwoman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was\nno vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from\nthe seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.\n\n Citizen Evr monde,  she said, touching him with her cold hand.  I am a\npoor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force. \n\nHe murmured for answer:  True. I forget what you were accused of? \n\n Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it\nlikely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature\nlike me? \n\nThe forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears\nstarted from his eyes.\n\n I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evr monde, but I have done nothing. I\nam not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good\nto us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,\nCitizen Evr monde. Such a poor weak little creature! \n\nAs the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it\nwarmed and softened to this pitiable girl.\n\n I heard you were released, Citizen Evr monde. I hoped it was true? \n\n It was. But, I was again taken and condemned. \n\n If I may ride with you, Citizen Evr monde, will you let me hold your\nhand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me\nmore courage. \n\nAs the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in\nthem, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young\nfingers, and touched his lips.\n\n Are you dying for him?  she whispered.\n\n And his wife and child. Hush! Yes. \n\n O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger? \n\n Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last. \n\n        *****\n\nThe same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that\nsame hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about\nit, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.\n\n Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers! \n\nThe papers are handed out, and read.\n\n Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he? \n\nThis is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man\npointed out.\n\n Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The\nRevolution-fever will have been too much for him? \n\nGreatly too much for him.\n\n Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she? \n\nThis is she.\n\n Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evr monde; is it not? \n\nIt is.\n\n Hah! Evr monde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.\nThis is she? \n\nShe and no other.\n\n Kiss me, child of Evr monde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;\nsomething new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.\nEnglish. Which is he? \n\nHe lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.\n\n Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon? \n\nIt is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that\nhe is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is\nunder the displeasure of the Republic.\n\n Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the\ndispleasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.\nJarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he? \n\n I am he. Necessarily, being the last. \n\nIt is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It\nis Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach\ndoor, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the\ncarriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it\ncarries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to\nthe coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its\nmother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of\nan aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.\n\n Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned. \n\n One can depart, citizen? \n\n One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey! \n\n I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed! \n\nThese are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and\nlooks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there\nis the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.\n\n Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster? \n asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.\n\n It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;\nit would rouse suspicion. \n\n Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! \n\n The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued. \n\nHouses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,\ndye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless\ntrees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on\neither side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the\nstones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and\nsloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our\nwild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing\nanything but stopping.\n\nOut of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary\nfarms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,\navenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back\nby another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,\nno. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!\nthe posting-house.\n\nLeisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in\nthe little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it\nof ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible\nexistence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and\nplaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count\ntheir money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.\nAll the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would\nfar outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.\n\nAt length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left\nbehind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and\non the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with\nanimated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their\nhaunches. We are pursued?\n\n Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then! \n\n What is it?  asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.\n\n How many did they say? \n\n I do not understand you. \n\n --At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day? \n\n Fifty-two. \n\n I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it\nforty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes\nhandsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop! \n\nThe night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and\nto speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,\nby his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help\nus! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.\n\nThe wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and\nthe moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of\nus; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\nThe Knitting Done\n\n\nIn that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate\nMadame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and\nJacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame\nDefarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,\nerst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the\nconference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who\nwas not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.\n\n But our Defarge,  said Jacques Three,  is undoubtedly a good\nRepublican? Eh? \n\n There is no better,  the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill\nnotes,  in France. \n\n Peace, little Vengeance,  said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with\na slight frown on her lieutenant s lips,  hear me speak. My husband,\nfellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved\nwell of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has\nhis weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor. \n\n It is a great pity,  croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,\nwith his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth;  it is not quite like a good\ncitizen; it is a thing to regret. \n\n See you,  said madame,  I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear\nhis head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to\nme. But, the Evr monde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and\nchild must follow the husband and father. \n\n She has a fine head for it,  croaked Jacques Three.  I have seen blue\neyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held\nthem up.  Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.\n\nMadame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.\n\n The child also,  observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment\nof his words,  has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child\nthere. It is a pretty sight! \n\n In a word,  said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,\n I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since\nlast night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;\nbut also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,\nand then they might escape. \n\n That must never be,  croaked Jacques Three;  no one must escape. We\nhave not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day. \n\n In a word,  Madame Defarge went on,  my husband has not my reason for\npursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for\nregarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,\ntherefore. Come hither, little citizen. \n\nThe wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the\nsubmission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.\n\n Touching those signals, little citizen,  said Madame Defarge, sternly,\n that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them\nthis very day? \n\n Ay, ay, why not!  cried the sawyer.  Every day, in all weathers, from\ntwo to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes\nwithout. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes. \n\nHe made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental\nimitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had\nnever seen.\n\n Clearly plots,  said Jacques Three.  Transparently! \n\n There is no doubt of the Jury?  inquired Madame Defarge, letting her\neyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.\n\n Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my\nfellow-Jurymen. \n\n Now, let me see,  said Madame Defarge, pondering again.  Yet once more!\nCan I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can\nI spare him? \n\n He would count as one head,  observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.\n We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think. \n\n He was signalling with her when I saw her,  argued Madame Defarge;  I\ncannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and\ntrust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a\nbad witness. \n\nThe Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent\nprotestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of\nwitnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a\ncelestial witness.\n\n He must take his chance,  said Madame Defarge.  No, I cannot spare\nhim! You are engaged at three o clock; you are going to see the batch of\nto-day executed.--You? \n\nThe question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in\nthe affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent\nof Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of\nRepublicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of\nsmoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national\nbarber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been\nsuspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at\nhim out of Madame Defarge s head) of having his small individual fears\nfor his own personal safety, every hour in the day.\n\n I,  said madame,  am equally engaged at the same place. After it is\nover--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we\nwill give information against these people at my Section. \n\nThe wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the\ncitizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded\nher glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and\nhid his confusion over the handle of his saw.\n\nMadame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to\nthe door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:\n\n She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will\nbe mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the\njustice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.\nI will go to her. \n\n What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!  exclaimed Jacques\nThree, rapturously.  Ah, my cherished!  cried The Vengeance; and\nembraced her.\n\n Take you my knitting,  said Madame Defarge, placing it in her\nlieutenant s hands,  and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep\nme my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a\ngreater concourse than usual, to-day. \n\n I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,  said The Vengeance with\nalacrity, and kissing her cheek.  You will not be late? \n\n I shall be there before the commencement. \n\n And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,  said\nThe Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the\nstreet,  before the tumbrils arrive! \n\nMadame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and\nmight be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the\nmud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the\nJuryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative\nof her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.\n\nThere were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully\ndisfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded\nthan this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a\nstrong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great\ndetermination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart\nto its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an\ninstinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have\nheaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood\nwith a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,\nopportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without\npity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of\nher.\n\nIt was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of\nhis forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that\nhis wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was\ninsufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and\nher prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made\nhopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had\nbeen laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which\nshe had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had\nbeen ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any\nsofter feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who\nsent her there.\n\nSuch a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly\nworn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her\ndark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her\nbosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened\ndagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such\na character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually\nwalked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown\nsea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.\n\nNow, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment\nwaiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,\nthe difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry s\nattention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,\nbut it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining\nit and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their\nescape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.\nFinally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross\nand Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at\nthree o clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.\nUnencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,\npassing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in\nadvance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours\nof the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.\n\nSeeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that\npressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had\nbeheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had\npassed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding\ntheir arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,\ntaking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the\nelse-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.\n\n Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,  said Miss Pross, whose agitation\nwas so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:\n what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another\ncarriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken\nsuspicion. \n\n My opinion, miss,  returned Mr. Cruncher,  is as you re right. Likewise\nwot I ll stand by you, right or wrong. \n\n I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,  said\nMiss Pross, wildly crying,  that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are\n_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher? \n\n Respectin  a future spear o  life, miss,  returned Mr. Cruncher,  I\nhope so. Respectin  any present use o  this here blessed old head o \nmine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o \ntwo promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here\ncrisis? \n\n Oh, for gracious sake!  cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying,  record\nthem at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man. \n\n First,  said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with\nan ashy and solemn visage,  them poor things well out o  this, never no\nmore will I do it, never no more! \n\n I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,  returned Miss Pross,  that you\nnever will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it\nnecessary to mention more particularly what it is. \n\n No, miss,  returned Jerry,  it shall not be named to you. Second: them\npoor things well out o  this, and never no more will I interfere with\nMrs. Cruncher s flopping, never no more! \n\n Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,  said Miss Pross,\nstriving to dry her eyes and compose herself,  I have no doubt it\nis best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own\nsuperintendence.--O my poor darlings! \n\n I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,  proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a\nmost alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit-- and let my words\nbe took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my\nopinions respectin  flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only\nhope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present\ntime. \n\n There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,  cried the distracted\nMiss Pross,  and I hope she finds it answering her expectations. \n\n Forbid it,  proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,\nadditional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold\nout,  as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my\nearnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn t all\nflop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get  em out o  this here dismal\nrisk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!  This was Mr. Cruncher s\nconclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.\n\nAnd still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came\nnearer and nearer.\n\n If we ever get back to our native land,  said Miss Pross,  you may rely\nupon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and\nunderstand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events\nyou may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in\nearnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.\nCruncher, let us think! \n\nStill, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer\nand nearer.\n\n If you were to go before,  said Miss Pross,  and stop the vehicle and\nhorses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn t\nthat be best? \n\nMr. Cruncher thought it might be best.\n\n Where could you wait for me?  asked Miss Pross.\n\nMr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but\nTemple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame\nDefarge was drawing very near indeed.\n\n By the cathedral door,  said Miss Pross.  Would it be much out of\nthe way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two\ntowers? \n\n No, miss,  answered Mr. Cruncher.\n\n Then, like the best of men,  said Miss Pross,  go to the posting-house\nstraight, and make that change. \n\n I am doubtful,  said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,\n about leaving of you, you see. We don t know what may happen. \n\n Heaven knows we don t,  returned Miss Pross,  but have no fear for me.\nTake me in at the cathedral, at Three o Clock, or as near it as you can,\nand I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain\nof it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives\nthat may depend on both of us! \n\nThis exordium, and Miss Pross s two hands in quite agonised entreaty\nclasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he\nimmediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself\nto follow as she had proposed.\n\nThe having originated a precaution which was already in course of\nexecution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing\nher appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the\nstreets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty\nminutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.\n\nAfraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted\nrooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door\nin them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,\nwhich were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she\ncould not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the\ndripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there\nwas no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried\nout, for she saw a figure standing in the room.\n\nThe basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of\nMadame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,\nthose feet had come to meet that water.\n\nMadame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said,  The wife of Evr monde;\nwhere is she? \n\nIt flashed upon Miss Pross s mind that the doors were all standing open,\nand would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were\nfour in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before\nthe door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.\n\nMadame Defarge s dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,\nand rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful\nabout her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,\nof her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different\nway, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.\n\n You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,  said Miss\nPross, in her breathing.  Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of\nme. I am an Englishwoman. \n\nMadame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of\nMiss Pross s own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,\nhard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a\nwoman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that\nMiss Pross was the family s devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well\nthat Madame Defarge was the family s malevolent enemy.\n\n On my way yonder,  said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of\nher hand towards the fatal spot,  where they reserve my chair and my\nknitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I\nwish to see her. \n\n I know that your intentions are evil,  said Miss Pross,  and you may\ndepend upon it, I ll hold my own against them. \n\nEach spoke in her own language; neither understood the other s words;\nboth were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what\nthe unintelligible words meant.\n\n It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this\nmoment,  said Madame Defarge.  Good patriots will know what that means.\nLet me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear? \n\n If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,  returned Miss Pross,  and I\nwas an English four-poster, they shouldn t loose a splinter of me. No,\nyou wicked foreign woman; I am your match. \n\nMadame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in\ndetail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set\nat naught.\n\n Woman imbecile and pig-like!  said Madame Defarge, frowning.  I take no\nanswer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand\nto see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her! \n This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.\n\n I little thought,  said Miss Pross,  that I should ever want to\nunderstand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,\nexcept the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any\npart of it. \n\nNeither of them for a single moment released the other s eyes. Madame\nDefarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross\nfirst became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.\n\n I am a Briton,  said Miss Pross,  I am desperate. I don t care an\nEnglish Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the\ngreater hope there is for my Ladybird. I ll not leave a handful of that\ndark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me! \n\nThus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes\nbetween every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.\nThus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.\n\nBut, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the\nirrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame\nDefarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness.  Ha, ha!  she\nlaughed,  you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that\nDoctor.  Then she raised her voice and called out,  Citizen Doctor! Wife\nof Evr monde! Child of Evr monde! Any person but this miserable fool,\nanswer the Citizeness Defarge! \n\nPerhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the\nexpression of Miss Pross s face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from\neither suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.\nThree of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.\n\n Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there\nare odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind\nyou! Let me look. \n\n Never!  said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as\nMadame Defarge understood the answer.\n\n If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and\nbrought back,  said Madame Defarge to herself.\n\n As long as you don t know whether they are in that room or not, you are\nuncertain what to do,  said Miss Pross to herself;  and you shall not\nknow that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know\nthat, you shall not leave here while I can hold you. \n\n I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,\nI will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,  said\nMadame Defarge.\n\n We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are\nnot likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,\nwhile every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to\nmy darling,  said Miss Pross.\n\nMadame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the\nmoment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.\nIt was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,\nwith the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,\nclasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle\nthat they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her\nface; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and\nclung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.\n\nSoon, Madame Defarge s hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled\nwaist.  It is under my arm,  said Miss Pross, in smothered tones,  you\nshall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold\nyou till one or other of us faints or dies! \n\nMadame Defarge s hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw\nwhat it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood\nalone--blinded with smoke.\n\nAll this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful\nstillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman\nwhose body lay lifeless on the ground.\n\nIn the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the\nbody as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for\nfruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of\nwhat she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to\ngo in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to\nget the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,\nout on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking\naway the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe\nand to cry, and then got up and hurried away.\n\nBy good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have\ngone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she\nwas naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement\nlike any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of\ngripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her\ndress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a\nhundred ways.\n\nIn crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving\nat the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,\nshe thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if\nit were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains\ndiscovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and\ncharged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the\nescort appeared, took her in, and took her away.\n\n Is there any noise in the streets?  she asked him.\n\n The usual noises,  Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the\nquestion and by her aspect.\n\n I don t hear you,  said Miss Pross.  What do you say? \n\nIt was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could\nnot hear him.  So I ll nod my head,  thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed,  at\nall events she ll see that.  And she did.\n\n Is there any noise in the streets now?  asked Miss Pross again,\npresently.\n\nAgain Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.\n\n I don t hear it. \n\n Gone deaf in an hour?  said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind\nmuch disturbed;  wot s come to her? \n\n I feel,  said Miss Pross,  as if there had been a flash and a crash,\nand that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life. \n\n Blest if she ain t in a queer condition!  said Mr. Cruncher, more and\nmore disturbed.  Wot can she have been a takin , to keep her courage up?\nHark! There s the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss? \n\n I can hear,  said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her,  nothing. O,\nmy good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,\nand that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be\nbroken any more as long as my life lasts. \n\n If she don t hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their\njourney s end,  said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder,  it s my\nopinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world. \n\nAnd indeed she never did.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\nThe Footsteps Die Out For Ever\n\n\nAlong the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six\ntumbrils carry the day s wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and\ninsatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,\nare fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in\nFrance, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,\na root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under\nconditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush\nhumanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will\ntwist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of\nrapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield\nthe same fruit according to its kind.\n\nSix tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what\nthey were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be\nthe carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the\ntoilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father s\nhouse but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!\nNo; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order\nof the Creator, never reverses his transformations.  If thou be changed\ninto this shape by the will of God,  say the seers to the enchanted, in\nthe wise Arabian stories,  then remain so! But, if thou wear this\nform through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect! \n Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.\n\nAs the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up\na long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces\nare thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.\nSo used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that\nin many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the\nhands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in\nthe tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;\nthen he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a\ncurator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to\ntell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.\n\nOf the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all\nthings on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with\na lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with\ndrooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so\nheedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as\nthey have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,\nand think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and\nhe a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made\ndrunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole\nnumber appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.\n\nThere is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,\nand faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some\nquestion. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is\nalways followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The\nhorsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with\ntheir swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands\nat the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a\nmere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has\nno curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the\ngirl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised\nagainst him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he\nshakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily\ntouch his face, his arms being bound.\n\nOn the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands\nthe Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.\nHe looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself,  Has he\nsacrificed me?  when his face clears, as he looks into the third.\n\n Which is Evr monde?  says a man behind him.\n\n That. At the back there. \n\n With his hand in the girl s? \n\n Yes. \n\nThe man cries,  Down, Evr monde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!\nDown, Evr monde! \n\n Hush, hush!  the Spy entreats him, timidly.\n\n And why not, citizen? \n\n He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.\nLet him be at peace. \n\nBut the man continuing to exclaim,  Down, Evr monde!  the face of\nEvr monde is for a moment turned towards him. Evr monde then sees the\nSpy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.\n\nThe clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the\npopulace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and\nend. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and\nclose behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following\nto the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of\npublic diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the\nfore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.\n\n Th r se!  she cries, in her shrill tones.  Who has seen her? Th r se\nDefarge! \n\n She never missed before,  says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.\n\n No; nor will she miss now,  cries The Vengeance, petulantly.  Th r se. \n\n Louder,  the woman recommends.\n\nAy! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear\nthee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet\nit will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,\nlingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread\ndeeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far\nenough to find her!\n\n Bad Fortune!  cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair,  and\nhere are the tumbrils! And Evr monde will be despatched in a wink, and\nshe not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for\nher. I cry with vexation and disappointment! \n\nAs The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils\nbegin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are\nrobed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who\nscarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could\nthink and speak, count One.\n\nThe second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And\nthe knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.\n\nThe supposed Evr monde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next\nafter him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but\nstill holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the\ncrashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into\nhis face and thanks him.\n\n But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am\nnaturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been\nable to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might\nhave hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by\nHeaven. \n\n Or you to me,  says Sydney Carton.  Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,\nand mind no other object. \n\n I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let\nit go, if they are rapid. \n\n They will be rapid. Fear not! \n\nThe two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as\nif they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to\nheart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart\nand differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home\ntogether, and to rest in her bosom.\n\n Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I\nam very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little. \n\n Tell me what it is. \n\n I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I\nlove very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a\nfarmer s house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows\nnothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I\ntell her! It is better as it is. \n\n Yes, yes: better as it is. \n\n What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still\nthinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so\nmuch support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,\nand they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may\nlive a long time: she may even live to be old. \n\n What then, my gentle sister? \n\n Do you think:  the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much\nendurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:\n that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land\nwhere I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered? \n\n It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there. \n\n You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the\nmoment come? \n\n Yes. \n\nShe kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.\nThe spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than\na sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before\nhim--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.\n\n I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth\nin me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and\nbelieveth in me shall never die. \n\nThe murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing\non of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells\nforward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.\nTwenty-Three.\n\n        *****\n\nThey said of him, about the city that night, that it was the\npeacefullest man s face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked\nsublime and prophetic.\n\nOne of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked\nat the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to\nwrite down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any\nutterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:\n\n I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,\nlong ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of\nthe old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease\nout of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people\nrising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in\ntheir triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil\nof this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural\nbirth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.\n\n I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,\nprosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see\nHer with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,\naged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his\nhealing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their\nfriend, in ten years  time enriching them with all he has, and passing\ntranquilly to his reward.\n\n I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of\ntheir descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping\nfor me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their\ncourse done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know\nthat each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other s soul,\nthan I was in the souls of both.\n\n I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man\nwinning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him\nwinning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the\nlight of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,\nfore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,\nwith a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to\nlook upon, with not a trace of this day s disfigurement--and I hear him\ntell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.\n\n It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a\nfar, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known. "
    },
    {
        "title": "Les Miserables",
        "author": "Victor Hugo",
        "category": "Historical Fiction",
        "EN": "PREFACE\n\n\nSo long as there shall exist, by virtue of law and custom, decrees of\ndamnation pronounced by society, artificially creating hells amid the\ncivilization of earth, and adding the element of human fate to divine\ndestiny; so long as the three great problems of the century the\ndegradation of man through pauperism, the corruption of woman through\nhunger, the crippling of children through lack of light are unsolved;\nso long as social asphyxia is possible in any part of the world; in\nother words, and with a still wider significance, so long as ignorance\nand poverty exist on earth, books of the nature of Les Mis rables\ncannot fail to be of use.\n\nHAUTEVILLE HOUSE, 1862.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME I\nFANTINE\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIRST A JUST MAN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I M. MYRIEL\n\n\nIn 1815, M. Charles-Fran ois-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D  He was\nan old man of about seventy-five years of age; he had occupied the see\nof D  since 1806.\n\nAlthough this detail has no connection whatever with the real substance\nof what we are about to relate, it will not be superfluous, if merely\nfor the sake of exactness in all points, to mention here the various\nrumors and remarks which had been in circulation about him from the\nvery moment when he arrived in the diocese. True or false, that which\nis said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and\nabove all in their destinies, as that which they do. M. Myriel was the\nson of a councillor of the Parliament of Aix; hence he belonged to the\nnobility of the bar. It was said that his father, destining him to be\nthe heir of his own post, had married him at a very early age, eighteen\nor twenty, in accordance with a custom which is rather widely prevalent\nin parliamentary families. In spite of this marriage, however, it was\nsaid that Charles Myriel created a great deal of talk. He was well\nformed, though rather short in stature, elegant, graceful, intelligent;\nthe whole of the first portion of his life had been devoted to the\nworld and to gallantry.\n\nThe Revolution came; events succeeded each other with precipitation;\nthe parliamentary families, decimated, pursued, hunted down, were\ndispersed. M. Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy at the very beginning\nof the Revolution. There his wife died of a malady of the chest, from\nwhich she had long suffered. He had no children. What took place next\nin the fate of M. Myriel? The ruin of the French society of the olden\ndays, the fall of his own family, the tragic spectacles of  93, which\nwere, perhaps, even more alarming to the emigrants who viewed them from\na distance, with the magnifying powers of terror, did these cause the\nideas of renunciation and solitude to germinate in him? Was he, in the\nmidst of these distractions, these affections which absorbed his life,\nsuddenly smitten with one of those mysterious and terrible blows which\nsometimes overwhelm, by striking to his heart, a man whom public\ncatastrophes would not shake, by striking at his existence and his\nfortune? No one could have told: all that was known was, that when he\nreturned from Italy he was a priest.\n\nIn 1804, M. Myriel was the Cur  of B  [Brignolles]. He was already\nadvanced in years, and lived in a very retired manner.\n\nAbout the epoch of the coronation, some petty affair connected with his\ncuracy just what, is not precisely known took him to Paris. Among other\npowerful persons to whom he went to solicit aid for his parishioners\nwas M. le Cardinal Fesch. One day, when the Emperor had come to visit\nhis uncle, the worthy Cur , who was waiting in the anteroom, found\nhimself present when His Majesty passed. Napoleon, on finding himself\nobserved with a certain curiosity by this old man, turned round and\nsaid abruptly: \n\n Who is this good man who is staring at me? \n\n\n Sire,  said M. Myriel,  you are looking at a good man, and I at a\ngreat man. Each of us can profit by it. \n\n\nThat very evening, the Emperor asked the Cardinal the name of the Cur ,\nand some time afterwards M. Myriel was utterly astonished to learn that\nhe had been appointed Bishop of D \n\nWhat truth was there, after all, in the stories which were invented as\nto the early portion of M. Myriel s life? No one knew. Very few\nfamilies had been acquainted with the Myriel family before the\nRevolution.\n\nM. Myriel had to undergo the fate of every newcomer in a little town,\nwhere there are many mouths which talk, and very few heads which think.\nHe was obliged to undergo it although he was a bishop, and because he\nwas a bishop. But after all, the rumors with which his name was\nconnected were rumors only, noise, sayings, words; less than\nwords _palabres_, as the energetic language of the South expresses it.\n\nHowever that may be, after nine years of episcopal power and of\nresidence in D , all the stories and subjects of conversation which\nengross petty towns and petty people at the outset had fallen into\nprofound oblivion. No one would have dared to mention them; no one\nwould have dared to recall them.\n\nM. Myriel had arrived at D  accompanied by an elderly spinster,\nMademoiselle Baptistine, who was his sister, and ten years his junior.\n\nTheir only domestic was a female servant of the same age as\nMademoiselle Baptistine, and named Madame Magloire, who, after having\nbeen _the servant of M. le Cur _, now assumed the double title of maid\nto Mademoiselle and housekeeper to Monseigneur.\n\nMademoiselle Baptistine was a long, pale, thin, gentle creature; she\nrealized the ideal expressed by the word  respectable ; for it seems\nthat a woman must needs be a mother in order to be venerable. She had\nnever been pretty; her whole life, which had been nothing but a\nsuccession of holy deeds, had finally conferred upon her a sort of\npallor and transparency; and as she advanced in years she had acquired\nwhat may be called the beauty of goodness. What had been leanness in\nher youth had become transparency in her maturity; and this diaphaneity\nallowed the angel to be seen. She was a soul rather than a virgin. Her\nperson seemed made of a shadow; there was hardly sufficient body to\nprovide for sex; a little matter enclosing a light; large eyes forever\ndrooping; a mere pretext for a soul s remaining on the earth.\n\nMadame Magloire was a little, fat, white old woman, corpulent and\nbustling; always out of breath, in the first place, because of her\nactivity, and in the next, because of her asthma.\n\nOn his arrival, M. Myriel was installed in the episcopal palace with\nthe honors required by the Imperial decrees, which class a bishop\nimmediately after a major-general. The mayor and the president paid the\nfirst call on him, and he, in turn, paid the first call on the general\nand the prefect.\n\nThe installation over, the town waited to see its bishop at work.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II M. MYRIEL BECOMES M. WELCOME\n\n\nThe episcopal palace of D  adjoins the hospital.\n\nThe episcopal palace was a huge and beautiful house, built of stone at\nthe beginning of the last century by M. Henri Puget, Doctor of Theology\nof the Faculty of Paris, Abb  of Simore, who had been Bishop of D  in\n1712. This palace was a genuine seignorial residence. Everything about\nit had a grand air, the apartments of the Bishop, the drawing-rooms,\nthe chambers, the principal courtyard, which was very large, with walks\nencircling it under arcades in the old Florentine fashion, and gardens\nplanted with magnificent trees. In the dining-room, a long and superb\ngallery which was situated on the ground floor and opened on the\ngardens, M. Henri Puget had entertained in state, on July 29, 1714, My\nLords Charles Br lart de Genlis, archbishop; Prince d Embrun; Antoine\nde Mesgrigny, the capuchin, Bishop of Grasse; Philippe de Vend me,\nGrand Prior of France, Abb  of Saint Honor  de L rins; Fran ois de\nBerton de Crillon, bishop, Baron de Vence; C sar de Sabran de\nForcalquier, bishop, Seignor of Gland ve; and Jean Soanen, Priest of\nthe Oratory, preacher in ordinary to the king, bishop, Seignor of\nSenez. The portraits of these seven reverend personages decorated this\napartment; and this memorable date, the 29th of July, 1714, was there\nengraved in letters of gold on a table of white marble.\n\nThe hospital was a low and narrow building of a single story, with a\nsmall garden.\n\nThree days after his arrival, the Bishop visited the hospital. The\nvisit ended, he had the director requested to be so good as to come to\nhis house.\n\n Monsieur the director of the hospital,  said he to him,  how many sick\npeople have you at the present moment? \n\n\n Twenty-six, Monseigneur. \n\n\n That was the number which I counted,  said the Bishop.\n\n The beds,  pursued the director,  are very much crowded against each\nother. \n\n\n That is what I observed. \n\n\n The halls are nothing but rooms, and it is with difficulty that the\nair can be changed in them. \n\n\n So it seems to me. \n\n\n And then, when there is a ray of sun, the garden is very small for the\nconvalescents. \n\n\n That was what I said to myself. \n\n\n In case of epidemics, we have had the typhus fever this year; we had\nthe sweating sickness two years ago, and a hundred patients at\ntimes, we know not what to do. \n\n\n That is the thought which occurred to me. \n\n\n What would you have, Monseigneur?  said the director.  One must resign\none s self. \n\n\nThis conversation took place in the gallery dining-room on the ground\nfloor.\n\nThe Bishop remained silent for a moment; then he turned abruptly to the\ndirector of the hospital.\n\n Monsieur,  said he,  how many beds do you think this hall alone would\nhold? \n\n\n Monseigneur s dining-room?  exclaimed the stupefied director.\n\nThe Bishop cast a glance round the apartment, and seemed to be taking\nmeasures and calculations with his eyes.\n\n It would hold full twenty beds,  said he, as though speaking to\nhimself. Then, raising his voice: \n\n Hold, Monsieur the director of the hospital, I will tell you\nsomething. There is evidently a mistake here. There are thirty-six of\nyou, in five or six small rooms. There are three of us here, and we\nhave room for sixty. There is some mistake, I tell you; you have my\nhouse, and I have yours. Give me back my house; you are at home here. \n\n\nOn the following day the thirty-six patients were installed in the\nBishop s palace, and the Bishop was settled in the hospital.\n\nM. Myriel had no property, his family having been ruined by the\nRevolution. His sister was in receipt of a yearly income of five\nhundred francs, which sufficed for her personal wants at the vicarage.\nM. Myriel received from the State, in his quality of bishop, a salary\nof fifteen thousand francs. On the very day when he took up his abode\nin the hospital, M. Myriel settled on the disposition of this sum once\nfor all, in the following manner. We transcribe here a note made by his\nown hand: \n\nNOTE ON THE REGULATION OF MY HOUSEHOLD EXPENSES.\n\nFor the little seminary . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    1,500 livres\nSociety of the  mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . .      100    \n For the Lazarists of Montdidier . . . . . . . . . .      100    \n Seminary for foreign missions in Paris  . . . . . .      200    \n Congregation of the Holy Spirit . . . . . . . . . .      150    \n Religious establishments of the Holy Land . . . . .      100    \n Charitable maternity societies  . . . . . . . . . .      300    \n Extra, for that of Arles  . . . . . . . . . . . . .       50    \n Work for the amelioration of prisons  . . . . . . .      400    \n Work for the relief and delivery of prisoners . . .      500    \n To liberate fathers of families incarcerated for debt  1,000    \n Addition to the salary of the poor teachers of the\ndiocese  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    2,000    \n Public granary of the Hautes-Alpes  . . . . . . . .      100    \n Congregation of the ladies of D , of Manosque, and of\nSisteron, for the gratuitous instruction of poor\ngirls  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    1,500    \n For the poor  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    6,000    \n My personal expenses  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .    1,000    \n  \nTotal  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   15,000    \n\n\nM. Myriel made no change in this arrangement during the entire period\nthat he occupied the see of D  As has been seen, he called it\n_regulating his household expenses_.\n\nThis arrangement was accepted with absolute submission by Mademoiselle\nBaptistine. This holy woman regarded Monseigneur of D  as at one and\nthe same time her brother and her bishop, her friend according to the\nflesh and her superior according to the Church. She simply loved and\nvenerated him. When he spoke, she bowed; when he acted, she yielded her\nadherence. Their only servant, Madame Magloire, grumbled a little. It\nwill be observed that Monsieur the Bishop had reserved for himself only\none thousand livres, which, added to the pension of Mademoiselle\nBaptistine, made fifteen hundred francs a year. On these fifteen\nhundred francs these two old women and the old man subsisted.\n\nAnd when a village curate came to D , the Bishop still found means to\nentertain him, thanks to the severe economy of Madame Magloire, and to\nthe intelligent administration of Mademoiselle Baptistine.\n\nOne day, after he had been in D  about three months, the Bishop said: \n\n And still I am quite cramped with it all! \n\n\n I should think so!  exclaimed Madame Magloire.  Monseigneur has not\neven claimed the allowance which the department owes him for the\nexpense of his carriage in town, and for his journeys about the\ndiocese. It was customary for bishops in former days. \n\n\n Hold!  cried the Bishop,  you are quite right, Madame Magloire. \n\n\nAnd he made his demand.\n\nSome time afterwards the General Council took this demand under\nconsideration, and voted him an annual sum of three thousand francs,\nunder this heading: _Allowance to M. the Bishop for expenses of\ncarriage, expenses of posting, and expenses of pastoral visits._\n\nThis provoked a great outcry among the local burgesses; and a senator\nof the Empire, a former member of the Council of the Five Hundred which\nfavored the 18 Brumaire, and who was provided with a magnificent\nsenatorial office in the vicinity of the town of D , wrote to M. Bigot\nde Pr ameneu, the minister of public worship, a very angry and\nconfidential note on the subject, from which we extract these authentic\nlines: \n\n Expenses of carriage? What can be done with it in a town of less than\nfour thousand inhabitants? Expenses of journeys? What is the use of\nthese trips, in the first place? Next, how can the posting be\naccomplished in these mountainous parts? There are no roads. No one\ntravels otherwise than on horseback. Even the bridge between Durance\nand Ch teau-Arnoux can barely support ox-teams. These priests are all\nthus, greedy and avaricious. This man played the good priest when he\nfirst came. Now he does like the rest; he must have a carriage and a\nposting-chaise, he must have luxuries, like the bishops of the olden\ndays. Oh, all this priesthood! Things will not go well, M. le Comte,\nuntil the Emperor has freed us from these black-capped rascals. Down\nwith the Pope! [Matters were getting embroiled with Rome.] For my part,\nI am for C sar alone.  Etc., etc.\n\nOn the other hand, this affair afforded great delight to Madame\nMagloire.  Good,  said she to Mademoiselle Baptistine;  Monseigneur\nbegan with other people, but he has had to wind up with himself, after\nall. He has regulated all his charities. Now here are three thousand\nfrancs for us! At last! \n\n\nThat same evening the Bishop wrote out and handed to his sister a\nmemorandum conceived in the following terms: \n\nEXPENSES OF CARRIAGE AND CIRCUIT.\n\nFor furnishing meat soup to the patients in the hospital. 1,500 livres\nFor the maternity charitable society of Aix . . . . . . .   250    \n For the maternity charitable society of Draguignan  . . .   250    \n For foundlings  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   500    \n For orphans   . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   500    \n  -\nTotal  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3,000    \n\n\nSuch was M. Myriel s budget.\n\nAs for the chance episcopal perquisites, the fees for marriage bans,\ndispensations, private baptisms, sermons, benedictions, of churches or\nchapels, marriages, etc., the Bishop levied them on the wealthy with\nall the more asperity, since he bestowed them on the needy.\n\nAfter a time, offerings of money flowed in. Those who had and those who\nlacked knocked at M. Myriel s door, the latter in search of the alms\nwhich the former came to deposit. In less than a year the Bishop had\nbecome the treasurer of all benevolence and the cashier of all those in\ndistress. Considerable sums of money passed through his hands, but\nnothing could induce him to make any change whatever in his mode of\nlife, or add anything superfluous to his bare necessities.\n\nFar from it. As there is always more wretchedness below than there is\nbrotherhood above, all was given away, so to speak, before it was\nreceived. It was like water on dry soil; no matter how much money he\nreceived, he never had any. Then he stripped himself.\n\nThe usage being that bishops shall announce their baptismal names at\nthe head of their charges and their pastoral letters, the poor people\nof the country-side had selected, with a sort of affectionate instinct,\namong the names and prenomens of their bishop, that which had a meaning\nfor them; and they never called him anything except Monseigneur\nBienvenu [Welcome]. We will follow their example, and will also call\nhim thus when we have occasion to name him. Moreover, this appellation\npleased him.\n\n I like that name,  said he.  Bienvenu makes up for the Monseigneur. \n\n\nWe do not claim that the portrait herewith presented is probable; we\nconfine ourselves to stating that it resembles the original.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III A HARD BISHOPRIC FOR A GOOD BISHOP\n\n\nThe Bishop did not omit his pastoral visits because he had converted\nhis carriage into alms. The diocese of D  is a fatiguing one. There\nare very few plains and a great many mountains; hardly any roads, as we\nhave just seen; thirty-two curacies, forty-one vicarships, and two\nhundred and eighty-five auxiliary chapels. To visit all these is quite\na task.\n\nThe Bishop managed to do it. He went on foot when it was in the\nneighborhood, in a tilted spring-cart when it was on the plain, and on\na donkey in the mountains. The two old women accompanied him. When the\ntrip was too hard for them, he went alone.\n\nOne day he arrived at Senez, which is an ancient episcopal city. He was\nmounted on an ass. His purse, which was very dry at that moment, did\nnot permit him any other equipage. The mayor of the town came to\nreceive him at the gate of the town, and watched him dismount from his\nass, with scandalized eyes. Some of the citizens were laughing around\nhim.  Monsieur the Mayor,  said the Bishop,  and Messieurs Citizens, I\nperceive that I shock you. You think it very arrogant in a poor priest\nto ride an animal which was used by Jesus Christ. I have done so from\nnecessity, I assure you, and not from vanity. \n\n\nIn the course of these trips he was kind and indulgent, and talked\nrather than preached. He never went far in search of his arguments and\nhis examples. He quoted to the inhabitants of one district the example\nof a neighboring district. In the cantons where they were harsh to the\npoor, he said:  Look at the people of Brian on! They have conferred on\nthe poor, on widows and orphans, the right to have their meadows mown\nthree days in advance of every one else. They rebuild their houses for\nthem gratuitously when they are ruined. Therefore it is a country which\nis blessed by God. For a whole century, there has not been a single\nmurderer among them. \n\n\nIn villages which were greedy for profit and harvest, he said:  Look at\nthe people of Embrun! If, at the harvest season, the father of a family\nhas his son away on service in the army, and his daughters at service\nin the town, and if he is ill and incapacitated, the cur  recommends\nhim to the prayers of the congregation; and on Sunday, after the mass,\nall the inhabitants of the village men, women, and children go to the\npoor man s field and do his harvesting for him, and carry his straw and\nhis grain to his granary.  To families divided by questions of money\nand inheritance he said:  Look at the mountaineers of Devolny, a\ncountry so wild that the nightingale is not heard there once in fifty\nyears. Well, when the father of a family dies, the boys go off to seek\ntheir fortunes, leaving the property to the girls, so that they may\nfind husbands.  To the cantons which had a taste for lawsuits, and\nwhere the farmers ruined themselves in stamped paper, he said:  Look at\nthose good peasants in the valley of Queyras! There are three thousand\nsouls of them. Mon Dieu! it is like a little republic. Neither judge\nnor bailiff is known there. The mayor does everything. He allots the\nimposts, taxes each person conscientiously, judges quarrels for\nnothing, divides inheritances without charge, pronounces sentences\ngratuitously; and he is obeyed, because he is a just man among simple\nmen.  To villages where he found no schoolmaster, he quoted once more\nthe people of Queyras:  Do you know how they manage?  he said.  Since a\nlittle country of a dozen or fifteen hearths cannot always support a\nteacher, they have schoolmasters who are paid by the whole valley, who\nmake the round of the villages, spending a week in this one, ten days\nin that, and instruct them. These teachers go to the fairs. I have seen\nthem there. They are to be recognized by the quill pens which they wear\nin the cord of their hat. Those who teach reading only have one pen;\nthose who teach reading and reckoning have two pens; those who teach\nreading, reckoning, and Latin have three pens. But what a disgrace to\nbe ignorant! Do like the people of Queyras! \n\n\nThus he discoursed gravely and paternally; in default of examples, he\ninvented parables, going directly to the point, with few phrases and\nmany images, which characteristic formed the real eloquence of Jesus\nChrist. And being convinced himself, he was persuasive.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV WORKS CORRESPONDING TO WORDS\n\n\nHis conversation was gay and affable. He put himself on a level with\nthe two old women who had passed their lives beside him. When he\nlaughed, it was the laugh of a schoolboy. Madame Magloire liked to call\nhim Your Grace [_Votre Grandeur_]. One day he rose from his armchair,\nand went to his library in search of a book. This book was on one of\nthe upper shelves. As the bishop was rather short of stature, he could\nnot reach it.  Madame Magloire,  said he,  fetch me a chair. My\ngreatness [_grandeur_] does not reach as far as that shelf. \n\n\nOne of his distant relatives, Madame la Comtesse de L , rarely allowed\nan opportunity to escape of enumerating, in his presence, what she\ndesignated as  the expectations  of her three sons. She had numerous\nrelatives, who were very old and near to death, and of whom her sons\nwere the natural heirs. The youngest of the three was to receive from a\ngrandaunt a good hundred thousand livres of income; the second was the\nheir by entail to the title of the Duke, his uncle; the eldest was to\nsucceed to the peerage of his grandfather. The Bishop was accustomed to\nlisten in silence to these innocent and pardonable maternal boasts. On\none occasion, however, he appeared to be more thoughtful than usual,\nwhile Madame de L  was relating once again the details of all these\ninheritances and all these  expectations.  She interrupted herself\nimpatiently:  Mon Dieu, cousin! What are you thinking about?   I am\nthinking,  replied the Bishop,  of a singular remark, which is to be\nfound, I believe, in St. Augustine, Place your hopes in the man from\nwhom you do not inherit. \n\n\nAt another time, on receiving a notification of the decease of a\ngentleman of the country-side, wherein not only the dignities of the\ndead man, but also the feudal and noble qualifications of all his\nrelatives, spread over an entire page:  What a stout back Death has! \nhe exclaimed.  What a strange burden of titles is cheerfully imposed on\nhim, and how much wit must men have, in order thus to press the tomb\ninto the service of vanity! \n\n\nHe was gifted, on occasion, with a gentle raillery, which almost always\nconcealed a serious meaning. In the course of one Lent, a youthful\nvicar came to D , and preached in the cathedral. He was tolerably\neloquent. The subject of his sermon was charity. He urged the rich to\ngive to the poor, in order to avoid hell, which he depicted in the most\nfrightful manner of which he was capable, and to win paradise, which he\nrepresented as charming and desirable. Among the audience there was a\nwealthy retired merchant, who was somewhat of a usurer, named M.\nG borand, who had amassed two millions in the manufacture of coarse\ncloth, serges, and woollen galloons. Never in his whole life had M.\nG borand bestowed alms on any poor wretch. After the delivery of that\nsermon, it was observed that he gave a sou every Sunday to the poor old\nbeggar-women at the door of the cathedral. There were six of them to\nshare it. One day the Bishop caught sight of him in the act of\nbestowing this charity, and said to his sister, with a smile,  There is\nM. G borand purchasing paradise for a sou. \n\n\nWhen it was a question of charity, he was not to be rebuffed even by a\nrefusal, and on such occasions he gave utterance to remarks which\ninduced reflection. Once he was begging for the poor in a drawing-room\nof the town; there was present the Marquis de Champtercier, a wealthy\nand avaricious old man, who contrived to be, at one and the same time,\nan ultra-royalist and an ultra-Voltairian. This variety of man has\nactually existed. When the Bishop came to him, he touched his arm,\n_ You must give me something, M. le Marquis. _ The Marquis turned round\nand answered dryly, _ I have poor people of my own, Monseigneur.   Give\nthem to me, _ replied the Bishop.\n\nOne day he preached the following sermon in the cathedral: \n\n My very dear brethren, my good friends, there are thirteen hundred and\ntwenty thousand peasants  dwellings in France which have but three\nopenings; eighteen hundred and seventeen thousand hovels which have but\ntwo openings, the door and one window; and three hundred and forty-six\nthousand cabins besides which have but one opening, the door. And this\narises from a thing which is called the tax on doors and windows. Just\nput poor families, old women and little children, in those buildings,\nand behold the fevers and maladies which result! Alas! God gives air to\nmen; the law sells it to them. I do not blame the law, but I bless God.\nIn the department of the Is re, in the Var, in the two departments of\nthe Alpes, the Hautes, and the Basses, the peasants have not even\nwheelbarrows; they transport their manure on the backs of men; they\nhave no candles, and they burn resinous sticks, and bits of rope dipped\nin pitch. That is the state of affairs throughout the whole of the\nhilly country of Dauphin . They make bread for six months at one time;\nthey bake it with dried cow-dung. In the winter they break this bread\nup with an axe, and they soak it for twenty-four hours, in order to\nrender it eatable. My brethren, have pity! behold the suffering on all\nsides of you! \n\n\nBorn a Proven al, he easily familiarized himself with the dialect of\nthe south. He said, _ En b ! moussu, s s sag ? _ as in lower Languedoc;\n_ Ont  anaras passa? _ as in the Basses-Alpes; _ Puerte un bouen moutu\nembe un bouen fromage grase, _ as in upper Dauphin . This pleased the\npeople extremely, and contributed not a little to win him access to all\nspirits. He was perfectly at home in the thatched cottage and in the\nmountains. He understood how to say the grandest things in the most\nvulgar of idioms. As he spoke all tongues, he entered into all hearts.\n\nMoreover, he was the same towards people of the world and towards the\nlower classes. He condemned nothing in haste and without taking\ncircumstances into account. He said,  Examine the road over which the\nfault has passed. \n\n\nBeing, as he described himself with a smile, an _ex-sinner_, he had\nnone of the asperities of austerity, and he professed, with a good deal\nof distinctness, and without the frown of the ferociously virtuous, a\ndoctrine which may be summed up as follows: \n\n Man has upon him his flesh, which is at once his burden and his\ntemptation. He drags it with him and yields to it. He must watch it,\ncheck it, repress it, and obey it only at the last extremity. There may\nbe some fault even in this obedience; but the fault thus committed is\nvenial; it is a fall, but a fall on the knees which may terminate in\nprayer.\n\n To be a saint is the exception; to be an upright man is the rule. Err,\nfall, sin if you will, but be upright.\n\n The least possible sin is the law of man. No sin at all is the dream\nof the angel. All which is terrestrial is subject to sin. Sin is a\ngravitation. \n\n\nWhen he saw everyone exclaiming very loudly, and growing angry very\nquickly,  Oh! oh!  he said, with a smile;  to all appearance, this is a\ngreat crime which all the world commits. These are hypocrisies which\nhave taken fright, and are in haste to make protest and to put\nthemselves under shelter. \n\n\nHe was indulgent towards women and poor people, on whom the burden of\nhuman society rest. He said,  The faults of women, of children, of the\nfeeble, the indigent, and the ignorant, are the fault of the husbands,\nthe fathers, the masters, the strong, the rich, and the wise. \n\n\nHe said, moreover,  Teach those who are ignorant as many things as\npossible; society is culpable, in that it does not afford instruction\ngratis; it is responsible for the night which it produces. This soul is\nfull of shadow; sin is therein committed. The guilty one is not the\nperson who has committed the sin, but the person who has created the\nshadow. \n\n\nIt will be perceived that he had a peculiar manner of his own of\njudging things: I suspect that he obtained it from the Gospel.\n\nOne day he heard a criminal case, which was in preparation and on the\npoint of trial, discussed in a drawing-room. A wretched man, being at\nthe end of his resources, had coined counterfeit money, out of love for\na woman, and for the child which he had had by her. Counterfeiting was\nstill punishable with death at that epoch. The woman had been arrested\nin the act of passing the first false piece made by the man. She was\nheld, but there were no proofs except against her. She alone could\naccuse her lover, and destroy him by her confession. She denied; they\ninsisted. She persisted in her denial. Thereupon an idea occurred to\nthe attorney for the crown. He invented an infidelity on the part of\nthe lover, and succeeded, by means of fragments of letters cunningly\npresented, in persuading the unfortunate woman that she had a rival,\nand that the man was deceiving her. Thereupon, exasperated by jealousy,\nshe denounced her lover, confessed all, proved all.\n\nThe man was ruined. He was shortly to be tried at Aix with his\naccomplice. They were relating the matter, and each one was expressing\nenthusiasm over the cleverness of the magistrate. By bringing jealousy\ninto play, he had caused the truth to burst forth in wrath, he had\neduced the justice of revenge. The Bishop listened to all this in\nsilence. When they had finished, he inquired, \n\n Where are this man and woman to be tried? \n\n\n At the Court of Assizes. \n\n\nHe went on,  And where will the advocate of the crown be tried? \n\n\nA tragic event occurred at D  A man was condemned to death for murder.\nHe was a wretched fellow, not exactly educated, not exactly ignorant,\nwho had been a mountebank at fairs, and a writer for the public. The\ntown took a great interest in the trial. On the eve of the day fixed\nfor the execution of the condemned man, the chaplain of the prison fell\nill. A priest was needed to attend the criminal in his last moments.\nThey sent for the cur . It seems that he refused to come, saying,  That\nis no affair of mine. I have nothing to do with that unpleasant task,\nand with that mountebank: I, too, am ill; and besides, it is not my\nplace.  This reply was reported to the Bishop, who said, _ Monsieur le\nCur  is right: it is not his place; it is mine. _\n\nHe went instantly to the prison, descended to the cell of the\n mountebank,  called him by name, took him by the hand, and spoke to\nhim. He passed the entire day with him, forgetful of food and sleep,\npraying to God for the soul of the condemned man, and praying the\ncondemned man for his own. He told him the best truths, which are also\nthe most simple. He was father, brother, friend; he was bishop only to\nbless. He taught him everything, encouraged and consoled him. The man\nwas on the point of dying in despair. Death was an abyss to him. As he\nstood trembling on its mournful brink, he recoiled with horror. He was\nnot sufficiently ignorant to be absolutely indifferent. His\ncondemnation, which had been a profound shock, had, in a manner, broken\nthrough, here and there, that wall which separates us from the mystery\nof things, and which we call life. He gazed incessantly beyond this\nworld through these fatal breaches, and beheld only darkness. The\nBishop made him see light.\n\nOn the following day, when they came to fetch the unhappy wretch, the\nBishop was still there. He followed him, and exhibited himself to the\neyes of the crowd in his purple camail and with his episcopal cross\nupon his neck, side by side with the criminal bound with cords.\n\nHe mounted the tumbril with him, he mounted the scaffold with him. The\nsufferer, who had been so gloomy and cast down on the preceding day,\nwas radiant. He felt that his soul was reconciled, and he hoped in God.\nThe Bishop embraced him, and at the moment when the knife was about to\nfall, he said to him:  God raises from the dead him whom man slays; he\nwhom his brothers have rejected finds his Father once more. Pray,\nbelieve, enter into life: the Father is there.  When he descended from\nthe scaffold, there was something in his look which made the people\ndraw aside to let him pass. They did not know which was most worthy of\nadmiration, his pallor or his serenity. On his return to the humble\ndwelling, which he designated, with a smile, as _his palace_, he said\nto his sister, _ I have just officiated pontifically. _\n\nSince the most sublime things are often those which are the least\nunderstood, there were people in the town who said, when commenting on\nthis conduct of the Bishop, _ It is affectation. _\n\nThis, however, was a remark which was confined to the drawing-rooms.\nThe populace, which perceives no jest in holy deeds, was touched, and\nadmired him.\n\nAs for the Bishop, it was a shock to him to have beheld the guillotine,\nand it was a long time before he recovered from it.\n\nIn fact, when the scaffold is there, all erected and prepared, it has\nsomething about it which produces hallucination. One may feel a certain\nindifference to the death penalty, one may refrain from pronouncing\nupon it, from saying yes or no, so long as one has not seen a\nguillotine with one s own eyes: but if one encounters one of them, the\nshock is violent; one is forced to decide, and to take part for or\nagainst. Some admire it, like de Maistre; others execrate it, like\nBeccaria. The guillotine is the concretion of the law; it is called\n_vindicate_; it is not neutral, and it does not permit you to remain\nneutral. He who sees it shivers with the most mysterious of shivers.\nAll social problems erect their interrogation point around this\nchopping-knife. The scaffold is a vision. The scaffold is not a piece\nof carpentry; the scaffold is not a machine; the scaffold is not an\ninert bit of mechanism constructed of wood, iron and cords.\n\nIt seems as though it were a being, possessed of I know not what sombre\ninitiative; one would say that this piece of carpenter s work saw, that\nthis machine heard, that this mechanism understood, that this wood,\nthis iron, and these cords were possessed of will. In the frightful\nmeditation into which its presence casts the soul the scaffold appears\nin terrible guise, and as though taking part in what is going on. The\nscaffold is the accomplice of the executioner; it devours, it eats\nflesh, it drinks blood; the scaffold is a sort of monster fabricated by\nthe judge and the carpenter, a spectre which seems to live with a\nhorrible vitality composed of all the death which it has inflicted.\n\nTherefore, the impression was terrible and profound; on the day\nfollowing the execution, and on many succeeding days, the Bishop\nappeared to be crushed. The almost violent serenity of the funereal\nmoment had disappeared; the phantom of social justice tormented him.\nHe, who generally returned from all his deeds with a radiant\nsatisfaction, seemed to be reproaching himself. At times he talked to\nhimself, and stammered lugubrious monologues in a low voice. This is\none which his sister overheard one evening and preserved:  I did not\nthink that it was so monstrous. It is wrong to become absorbed in the\ndivine law to such a degree as not to perceive human law. Death belongs\nto God alone. By what right do men touch that unknown thing? \n\n\nIn course of time these impressions weakened and probably vanished.\nNevertheless, it was observed that the Bishop thenceforth avoided\npassing the place of execution.\n\nM. Myriel could be summoned at any hour to the bedside of the sick and\ndying. He did not ignore the fact that therein lay his greatest duty\nand his greatest labor. Widowed and orphaned families had no need to\nsummon him; he came of his own accord. He understood how to sit down\nand hold his peace for long hours beside the man who had lost the wife\nof his love, of the mother who had lost her child. As he knew the\nmoment for silence he knew also the moment for speech. Oh, admirable\nconsoler! He sought not to efface sorrow by forgetfulness, but to\nmagnify and dignify it by hope. He said: \n\n Have a care of the manner in which you turn towards the dead. Think\nnot of that which perishes. Gaze steadily. You will perceive the living\nlight of your well-beloved dead in the depths of heaven.  He knew that\nfaith is wholesome. He sought to counsel and calm the despairing man,\nby pointing out to him the resigned man, and to transform the grief\nwhich gazes upon a grave by showing him the grief which fixes its gaze\nupon a star.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V MONSEIGNEUR BIENVENU MADE HIS CASSOCKS LAST TOO LONG\n\n\nThe private life of M. Myriel was filled with the same thoughts as his\npublic life. The voluntary poverty in which the Bishop of D  lived,\nwould have been a solemn and charming sight for any one who could have\nviewed it close at hand.\n\nLike all old men, and like the majority of thinkers, he slept little.\nThis brief slumber was profound. In the morning he meditated for an\nhour, then he said his mass, either at the cathedral or in his own\nhouse. His mass said, he broke his fast on rye bread dipped in the milk\nof his own cows. Then he set to work.\n\nA Bishop is a very busy man: he must every day receive the secretary of\nthe bishopric, who is generally a canon, and nearly every day his\nvicars-general. He has congregations to reprove, privileges to grant, a\nwhole ecclesiastical library to examine, prayer-books, diocesan\ncatechisms, books of hours, etc., charges to write, sermons to\nauthorize, cur s and mayors to reconcile, a clerical correspondence, an\nadministrative correspondence; on one side the State, on the other the\nHoly See; and a thousand matters of business.\n\nWhat time was left to him, after these thousand details of business,\nand his offices and his breviary, he bestowed first on the necessitous,\nthe sick, and the afflicted; the time which was left to him from the\nafflicted, the sick, and the necessitous, he devoted to work. Sometimes\nhe dug in his garden; again, he read or wrote. He had but one word for\nboth these kinds of toil; he called them _gardening_.  The mind is a\ngarden,  said he.\n\nTowards midday, when the weather was fine, he went forth and took a\nstroll in the country or in town, often entering lowly dwellings. He\nwas seen walking alone, buried in his own thoughts, his eyes cast down,\nsupporting himself on his long cane, clad in his wadded purple garment\nof silk, which was very warm, wearing purple stockings inside his\ncoarse shoes, and surmounted by a flat hat which allowed three golden\ntassels of large bullion to droop from its three points.\n\nIt was a perfect festival wherever he appeared. One would have said\nthat his presence had something warming and luminous about it. The\nchildren and the old people came out to the doorsteps for the Bishop as\nfor the sun. He bestowed his blessing, and they blessed him. They\npointed out his house to any one who was in need of anything.\n\n[Illustration: The Comforter]\n\nHere and there he halted, accosted the little boys and girls, and\nsmiled upon the mothers. He visited the poor so long as he had any\nmoney; when he no longer had any, he visited the rich.\n\nAs he made his cassocks last a long while, and did not wish to have it\nnoticed, he never went out in the town without his wadded purple cloak.\nThis inconvenienced him somewhat in summer.\n\nOn his return, he dined. The dinner resembled his breakfast.\n\nAt half-past eight in the evening he supped with his sister, Madame\nMagloire standing behind them and serving them at table. Nothing could\nbe more frugal than this repast. If, however, the Bishop had one of his\ncur s to supper, Madame Magloire took advantage of the opportunity to\nserve Monseigneur with some excellent fish from the lake, or with some\nfine game from the mountains. Every cur  furnished the pretext for a\ngood meal: the Bishop did not interfere. With that exception, his\nordinary diet consisted only of vegetables boiled in water, and oil\nsoup. Thus it was said in the town, _when the Bishop does not indulge\nin the cheer of a cur , he indulges in the cheer of a trappist_.\n\nAfter supper he conversed for half an hour with Mademoiselle Baptistine\nand Madame Magloire; then he retired to his own room and set to\nwriting, sometimes on loose sheets, and again on the margin of some\nfolio. He was a man of letters and rather learned. He left behind him\nfive or six very curious manuscripts; among others, a dissertation on\nthis verse in Genesis, _In the beginning, the spirit of God floated\nupon the waters_. With this verse he compares three texts: the Arabic\nverse which says, _The winds of God blew;_ Flavius Josephus who says,\n_A wind from above was precipitated upon the earth;_ and finally, the\nChaldaic paraphrase of Onkelos, which renders it, _A wind coming from\nGod blew upon the face of the waters_. In another dissertation, he\nexamines the theological works of Hugo, Bishop of Ptolema s,\ngreat-grand-uncle to the writer of this book, and establishes the fact,\nthat to this bishop must be attributed the divers little works\npublished during the last century, under the pseudonym of Barleycourt.\n\nSometimes, in the midst of his reading, no matter what the book might\nbe which he had in his hand, he would suddenly fall into a profound\nmeditation, whence he only emerged to write a few lines on the pages of\nthe volume itself. These lines have often no connection whatever with\nthe book which contains them. We now have under our eyes a note written\nby him on the margin of a quarto entitled _Correspondence of Lord\nGermain with Generals Clinton, Cornwallis, and the Admirals on the\nAmerican station. Versailles, Poin ot, book-seller; and Paris, Pissot,\nbookseller, Quai des Augustins._\n\nHere is the note: \n\n Oh, you who are!\n\n Ecclesiastes calls you the All-powerful; the Maccabees call you the\nCreator; the Epistle to the Ephesians calls you liberty; Baruch calls\nyou Immensity; the Psalms call you Wisdom and Truth; John calls you\nLight; the Books of Kings call you Lord; Exodus calls you Providence;\nLeviticus, Sanctity; Esdras, Justice; the creation calls you God; man\ncalls you Father; but Solomon calls you Compassion, and that is the\nmost beautiful of all your names. \n\n\nToward nine o clock in the evening the two women retired and betook\nthemselves to their chambers on the first floor, leaving him alone\nuntil morning on the ground floor.\n\nIt is necessary that we should, in this place, give an exact idea of\nthe dwelling of the Bishop of D \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI WHO GUARDED HIS HOUSE FOR HIM\n\n\nThe house in which he lived consisted, as we have said, of a ground\nfloor, and one story above; three rooms on the ground floor, three\nchambers on the first, and an attic above. Behind the house was a\ngarden, a quarter of an acre in extent. The two women occupied the\nfirst floor; the Bishop was lodged below. The first room, opening on\nthe street, served him as dining-room, the second was his bedroom, and\nthe third his oratory. There was no exit possible from this oratory,\nexcept by passing through the bedroom, nor from the bedroom, without\npassing through the dining-room. At the end of the suite, in the\noratory, there was a detached alcove with a bed, for use in cases of\nhospitality. The Bishop offered this bed to country curates whom\nbusiness or the requirements of their parishes brought to D \n\nThe pharmacy of the hospital, a small building which had been added to\nthe house, and abutted on the garden, had been transformed into a\nkitchen and cellar. In addition to this, there was in the garden a\nstable, which had formerly been the kitchen of the hospital, and in\nwhich the Bishop kept two cows. No matter what the quantity of milk\nthey gave, he invariably sent half of it every morning to the sick\npeople in the hospital.\n\n_ I am paying my tithes, _ he said.\n\nHis bedroom was tolerably large, and rather difficult to warm in bad\nweather. As wood is extremely dear at D , he hit upon the idea of\nhaving a compartment of boards constructed in the cow-shed. Here he\npassed his evenings during seasons of severe cold: he called it his\n_winter salon_.\n\nIn this winter salon, as in the dining-room, there was no other\nfurniture than a square table in white wood, and four straw-seated\nchairs. In addition to this the dining-room was ornamented with an\nantique sideboard, painted pink, in water colors. Out of a similar\nsideboard, properly draped with white napery and imitation lace, the\nBishop had constructed the altar which decorated his oratory.\n\nHis wealthy penitents and the sainted women of D  had more than once\nassessed themselves to raise the money for a new altar for\nMonseigneur s oratory; on each occasion he had taken the money and had\ngiven it to the poor.  The most beautiful of altars,  he said,  is the\nsoul of an unhappy creature consoled and thanking God. \n\n\nIn his oratory there were two straw prie-Dieu, and there was an\narmchair, also in straw, in his bedroom. When, by chance, he received\nseven or eight persons at one time, the prefect, or the general, or the\nstaff of the regiment in garrison, or several pupils from the little\nseminary, the chairs had to be fetched from the winter salon in the\nstable, the prie-Dieu from the oratory, and the armchair from the\nbedroom: in this way as many as eleven chairs could be collected for\nthe visitors. A room was dismantled for each new guest.\n\nIt sometimes happened that there were twelve in the party; the Bishop\nthen relieved the embarrassment of the situation by standing in front\nof the chimney if it was winter, or by strolling in the garden if it\nwas summer.\n\nThere was still another chair in the detached alcove, but the straw was\nhalf gone from it, and it had but three legs, so that it was of service\nonly when propped against the wall. Mademoiselle Baptistine had also in\nher own room a very large easy-chair of wood, which had formerly been\ngilded, and which was covered with flowered pekin; but they had been\nobliged to hoist this berg re up to the first story through the window,\nas the staircase was too narrow; it could not, therefore, be reckoned\namong the possibilities in the way of furniture.\n\nMademoiselle Baptistine s ambition had been to be able to purchase a\nset of drawing-room furniture in yellow Utrecht velvet, stamped with a\nrose pattern, and with mahogany in swan s neck style, with a sofa. But\nthis would have cost five hundred francs at least, and in view of the\nfact that she had only been able to lay by forty-two francs and ten\nsous for this purpose in the course of five years, she had ended by\nrenouncing the idea. However, who is there who has attained his ideal?\n\nNothing is more easy to present to the imagination than the Bishop s\nbedchamber. A glazed door opened on the garden; opposite this was the\nbed, a hospital bed of iron, with a canopy of green serge; in the\nshadow of the bed, behind a curtain, were the utensils of the toilet,\nwhich still betrayed the elegant habits of the man of the world: there\nwere two doors, one near the chimney, opening into the oratory; the\nother near the bookcase, opening into the dining-room. The bookcase was\na large cupboard with glass doors filled with books; the chimney was of\nwood painted to represent marble, and habitually without fire. In the\nchimney stood a pair of firedogs of iron, ornamented above with two\ngarlanded vases, and flutings which had formerly been silvered with\nsilver leaf, which was a sort of episcopal luxury; above the\nchimney-piece hung a crucifix of copper, with the silver worn off,\nfixed on a background of threadbare velvet in a wooden frame from which\nthe gilding had fallen; near the glass door a large table with an\ninkstand, loaded with a confusion of papers and with huge volumes;\nbefore the table an armchair of straw; in front of the bed a prie-Dieu,\nborrowed from the oratory.\n\nTwo portraits in oval frames were fastened to the wall on each side of\nthe bed. Small gilt inscriptions on the plain surface of the cloth at\nthe side of these figures indicated that the portraits represented, one\nthe Abb  of Chaliot, bishop of Saint Claude; the other, the Abb \nTourteau, vicar-general of Agde, abb  of Grand-Champ, order of C teaux,\ndiocese of Chartres. When the Bishop succeeded to this apartment, after\nthe hospital patients, he had found these portraits there, and had left\nthem. They were priests, and probably donors two reasons for respecting\nthem. All that he knew about these two persons was, that they had been\nappointed by the king, the one to his bishopric, the other to his\nbenefice, on the same day, the 27th of April, 1785. Madame Magloire\nhaving taken the pictures down to dust, the Bishop had discovered these\nparticulars written in whitish ink on a little square of paper,\nyellowed by time, and attached to the back of the portrait of the Abb \nof Grand-Champ with four wafers.\n\nAt his window he had an antique curtain of a coarse woollen stuff,\nwhich finally became so old, that, in order to avoid the expense of a\nnew one, Madame Magloire was forced to take a large seam in the very\nmiddle of it. This seam took the form of a cross. The Bishop often\ncalled attention to it:  How delightful that is!  he said.\n\nAll the rooms in the house, without exception, those on the ground\nfloor as well as those on the first floor, were white-washed, which is\na fashion in barracks and hospitals.\n\nHowever, in their latter years, Madame Magloire discovered beneath the\npaper which had been washed over, paintings, ornamenting the apartment\nof Mademoiselle Baptistine, as we shall see further on. Before becoming\na hospital, this house had been the ancient parliament house of the\nBourgeois. Hence this decoration. The chambers were paved in red\nbricks, which were washed every week, with straw mats in front of all\nthe beds. Altogether, this dwelling, which was attended to by the two\nwomen, was exquisitely clean from top to bottom. This was the sole\nluxury which the Bishop permitted. He said, _ That takes nothing from\nthe poor. _\n\nIt must be confessed, however, that he still retained from his former\npossessions six silver knives and forks and a soup-ladle, which Madame\nMagloire contemplated every day with delight, as they glistened\nsplendidly upon the coarse linen cloth. And since we are now painting\nthe Bishop of D  as he was in reality, we must add that he had said\nmore than once,  I find it difficult to renounce eating from silver\ndishes. \n\n\nTo this silverware must be added two large candlesticks of massive\nsilver, which he had inherited from a great-aunt. These candlesticks\nheld two wax candles, and usually figured on the Bishop s\nchimney-piece. When he had any one to dinner, Madame Magloire lighted\nthe two candles and set the candlesticks on the table.\n\nIn the Bishop s own chamber, at the head of his bed, there was a small\ncupboard, in which Madame Magloire locked up the six silver knives and\nforks and the big spoon every night. But it is necessary to add, that\nthe key was never removed.\n\nThe garden, which had been rather spoiled by the ugly buildings which\nwe have mentioned, was composed of four alleys in cross-form, radiating\nfrom a tank. Another walk made the circuit of the garden, and skirted\nthe white wall which enclosed it. These alleys left behind them four\nsquare plots rimmed with box. In three of these, Madame Magloire\ncultivated vegetables; in the fourth, the Bishop had planted some\nflowers; here and there stood a few fruit-trees. Madame Magloire had\nonce remarked, with a sort of gentle malice:  Monseigneur, you who turn\neverything to account, have, nevertheless, one useless plot. It would\nbe better to grow salads there than bouquets.   Madame Magloire, \nretorted the Bishop,  you are mistaken. The beautiful is as useful as\nthe useful.  He added after a pause,  More so, perhaps. \n\n\nThis plot, consisting of three or four beds, occupied the Bishop almost\nas much as did his books. He liked to pass an hour or two there,\ntrimming, hoeing, and making holes here and there in the earth, into\nwhich he dropped seeds. He was not as hostile to insects as a gardener\ncould have wished to see him. Moreover, he made no pretensions to\nbotany; he ignored groups and consistency; he made not the slightest\neffort to decide between Tournefort and the natural method; he took\npart neither with the buds against the cotyledons, nor with Jussieu\nagainst Linn us. He did not study plants; he loved flowers. He\nrespected learned men greatly; he respected the ignorant still more;\nand, without ever failing in these two respects, he watered his\nflower-beds every summer evening with a tin watering-pot painted green.\n\nThe house had not a single door which could be locked. The door of the\ndining-room, which, as we have said, opened directly on the cathedral\nsquare, had formerly been ornamented with locks and bolts like the door\nof a prison. The Bishop had had all this ironwork removed, and this\ndoor was never fastened, either by night or by day, with anything\nexcept the latch. All that the first passer-by had to do at any hour,\nwas to give it a push. At first, the two women had been very much tried\nby this door, which was never fastened, but Monsieur de D  had said to\nthem,  Have bolts put on your rooms, if that will please you.  They had\nended by sharing his confidence, or by at least acting as though they\nshared it. Madame Magloire alone had frights from time to time. As for\nthe Bishop, his thought can be found explained, or at least indicated,\nin the three lines which he wrote on the margin of a Bible,  This is\nthe shade of difference: the door of the physician should never be\nshut, the door of the priest should always be open. \n\n\nOn another book, entitled _Philosophy of the Medical Science_, he had\nwritten this other note:  Am not I a physician like them? I also have\nmy patients, and then, too, I have some whom I call my unfortunates. \n\n\nAgain he wrote:  Do not inquire the name of him who asks a shelter of\nyou. The very man who is embarrassed by his name is the one who needs\nshelter. \n\n\nIt chanced that a worthy cur , I know not whether it was the cur  of\nCouloubroux or the cur  of Pompierry, took it into his head to ask him\none day, probably at the instigation of Madame Magloire, whether\nMonsieur was sure that he was not committing an indiscretion, to a\ncertain extent, in leaving his door unfastened day and night, at the\nmercy of any one who should choose to enter, and whether, in short, he\ndid not fear lest some misfortune might occur in a house so little\nguarded. The Bishop touched his shoulder, with gentle gravity, and said\nto him, _ Nisi Dominus custodierit domum, in vanum vigilant qui\ncustodiunt eam,  Unless the Lord guard the house, in vain do they watch\nwho guard it._\n\nThen he spoke of something else.\n\nHe was fond of saying,  There is a bravery of the priest as well as the\nbravery of a colonel of dragoons, only,  he added,  ours must be\ntranquil. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII CRAVATTE\n\n\nIt is here that a fact falls naturally into place, which we must not\nomit, because it is one of the sort which show us best what sort of a\nman the Bishop of D  was.\n\nAfter the destruction of the band of Gaspard B s, who had infested the\ngorges of Ollioules, one of his lieutenants, Cravatte, took refuge in\nthe mountains. He concealed himself for some time with his bandits, the\nremnant of Gaspard B s s troop, in the county of Nice; then he made his\nway to Pi dmont, and suddenly reappeared in France, in the vicinity of\nBarcelonette. He was first seen at Jauziers, then at Tuiles. He hid\nhimself in the caverns of the Joug-de-l Aigle, and thence he descended\ntowards the hamlets and villages through the ravines of Ubaye and\nUbayette.\n\nHe even pushed as far as Embrun, entered the cathedral one night, and\ndespoiled the sacristy. His highway robberies laid waste the\ncountry-side. The gendarmes were set on his track, but in vain. He\nalways escaped; sometimes he resisted by main force. He was a bold\nwretch. In the midst of all this terror the Bishop arrived. He was\nmaking his circuit to Chastelar. The mayor came to meet him, and urged\nhim to retrace his steps. Cravatte was in possession of the mountains\nas far as Arche, and beyond; there was danger even with an escort; it\nmerely exposed three or four unfortunate gendarmes to no purpose.\n\n Therefore,  said the Bishop,  I intend to go without escort. \n\n\n You do not really mean that, Monseigneur!  exclaimed the mayor.\n\n I do mean it so thoroughly that I absolutely refuse any gendarmes, and\nshall set out in an hour. \n\n\n Set out? \n\n\n Set out. \n\n\n Alone? \n\n\n Alone. \n\n\n Monseigneur, you will not do that! \n\n\n There exists yonder in the mountains,  said the Bishop,  a tiny\ncommunity no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years.\nThey are my good friends, those gentle and honest shepherds. They own\none goat out of every thirty that they tend. They make very pretty\nwoollen cords of various colors, and they play the mountain airs on\nlittle flutes with six holes. They need to be told of the good God now\nand then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid? What would\nthey say if I did not go? \n\n\n But the brigands, Monseigneur? \n\n\n Hold,  said the Bishop,  I must think of that. You are right. I may\nmeet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God. \n\n\n But, Monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves! \n\n\n Monsieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock of wolves\nthat Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of\nProvidence? \n\n\n They will rob you, Monseigneur. \n\n\n I have nothing. \n\n\n They will kill you. \n\n\n An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayers?\nBah! To what purpose? \n\n\n Oh, mon Dieu! what if you should meet them! \n\n\n I should beg alms of them for my poor. \n\n\n Do not go, Monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! You are risking your\nlife! \n\n\n Monsieur le maire,  said the Bishop,  is that really all? I am not in\nthe world to guard my own life, but to guard souls. \n\n\nThey had to allow him to do as he pleased. He set out, accompanied only\nby a child who offered to serve as a guide. His obstinacy was bruited\nabout the country-side, and caused great consternation.\n\nHe would take neither his sister nor Madame Magloire. He traversed the\nmountain on mule-back, encountered no one, and arrived safe and sound\nat the residence of his  good friends,  the shepherds. He remained\nthere for a fortnight, preaching, administering the sacrament,\nteaching, exhorting. When the time of his departure approached, he\nresolved to chant a _Te Deum_ pontifically. He mentioned it to the\ncur . But what was to be done? There were no episcopal ornaments. They\ncould only place at his disposal a wretched village sacristy, with a\nfew ancient chasubles of threadbare damask adorned with imitation lace.\n\n Bah!  said the Bishop.  Let us announce our _Te Deum_ from the pulpit,\nnevertheless, Monsieur le Cur . Things will arrange themselves. \n\n\nThey instituted a search in the churches of the neighborhood. All the\nmagnificence of these humble parishes combined would not have sufficed\nto clothe the chorister of a cathedral properly.\n\nWhile they were thus embarrassed, a large chest was brought and\ndeposited in the presbytery for the Bishop, by two unknown horsemen,\nwho departed on the instant. The chest was opened; it contained a cope\nof cloth of gold, a mitre ornamented with diamonds, an archbishop s\ncross, a magnificent crosier, all the pontifical vestments which had\nbeen stolen a month previously from the treasury of Notre Dame\nd Embrun. In the chest was a paper, on which these words were written,\n_ From Cravatte to Monseigneur Bienvenu. _\n\n Did not I say that things would come right of themselves?  said the\nBishop. Then he added, with a smile,  To him who contents himself with\nthe surplice of a curate, God sends the cope of an archbishop. \n\n\n Monseigneur,  murmured the cur , throwing back his head with a smile.\n God or the Devil. \n\n\nThe Bishop looked steadily at the cur , and repeated with authority,\n God! \n\n\nWhen he returned to Chastelar, the people came out to stare at him as\nat a curiosity, all along the road. At the priest s house in Chastelar\nhe rejoined Mademoiselle Baptistine and Madame Magloire, who were\nwaiting for him, and he said to his sister:  Well! was I in the right?\nThe poor priest went to his poor mountaineers with empty hands, and he\nreturns from them with his hands full. I set out bearing only my faith\nin God; I have brought back the treasure of a cathedral. \n\n\nThat evening, before he went to bed, he said again:  Let us never fear\nrobbers nor murderers. Those are dangers from without, petty dangers.\nLet us fear ourselves. Prejudices are the real robbers; vices are the\nreal murderers. The great dangers lie within ourselves. What matters it\nwhat threatens our head or our purse! Let us think only of that which\nthreatens our soul. \n\n\nThen, turning to his sister:  Sister, never a precaution on the part of\nthe priest, against his fellow-man. That which his fellow does, God\npermits. Let us confine ourselves to prayer, when we think that a\ndanger is approaching us. Let us pray, not for ourselves, but that our\nbrother may not fall into sin on our account. \n\n\nHowever, such incidents were rare in his life. We relate those of which\nwe know; but generally he passed his life in doing the same things at\nthe same moment. One month of his year resembled one hour of his day.\n\nAs to what became of  the treasure  of the cathedral of Embrun, we\nshould be embarrassed by any inquiry in that direction. It consisted of\nvery handsome things, very tempting things, and things which were very\nwell adapted to be stolen for the benefit of the unfortunate. Stolen\nthey had already been elsewhere. Half of the adventure was completed;\nit only remained to impart a new direction to the theft, and to cause\nit to take a short trip in the direction of the poor. However, we make\nno assertions on this point. Only, a rather obscure note was found\namong the Bishop s papers, which may bear some relation to this matter,\nand which is couched in these terms, _ The question is, to decide\nwhether this should be turned over to the cathedral or to the\nhospital. _\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII PHILOSOPHY AFTER DRINKING\n\n\nThe senator above mentioned was a clever man, who had made his own way,\nheedless of those things which present obstacles, and which are called\nconscience, sworn faith, justice, duty: he had marched straight to his\ngoal, without once flinching in the line of his advancement and his\ninterest. He was an old attorney, softened by success; not a bad man by\nany means, who rendered all the small services in his power to his\nsons, his sons-in-law, his relations, and even to his friends, having\nwisely seized upon, in life, good sides, good opportunities, good\nwindfalls. Everything else seemed to him very stupid. He was\nintelligent, and just sufficiently educated to think himself a disciple\nof Epicurus; while he was, in reality, only a product of\nPigault-Lebrun. He laughed willingly and pleasantly over infinite and\neternal things, and at the  crotchets of that good old fellow the\nBishop.  He even sometimes laughed at him with an amiable authority in\nthe presence of M. Myriel himself, who listened to him.\n\nOn some semi-official occasion or other, I do not recollect what,\nCount*** [this senator] and M. Myriel were to dine with the prefect. At\ndessert, the senator, who was slightly exhilarated, though still\nperfectly dignified, exclaimed: \n\n Egad, Bishop, let s have a discussion. It is hard for a senator and a\nbishop to look at each other without winking. We are two augurs. I am\ngoing to make a confession to you. I have a philosophy of my own. \n\n\n And you are right,  replied the Bishop.  As one makes one s\nphilosophy, so one lies on it. You are on the bed of purple, senator. \n\n\nThe senator was encouraged, and went on: \n\n Let us be good fellows. \n\n\n Good devils even,  said the Bishop.\n\n I declare to you,  continued the senator,  that the Marquis d Argens,\nPyrrhon, Hobbes, and M. Naigeon are no rascals. I have all the\nphilosophers in my library gilded on the edges. \n\n\n Like yourself, Count,  interposed the Bishop.\n\nThe senator resumed: \n\n I hate Diderot; he is an ideologist, a declaimer, and a revolutionist,\na believer in God at bottom, and more bigoted than Voltaire. Voltaire\nmade sport of Needham, and he was wrong, for Needham s eels prove that\nGod is useless. A drop of vinegar in a spoonful of flour paste supplies\nthe _fiat lux_. Suppose the drop to be larger and the spoonful bigger;\nyou have the world. Man is the eel. Then what is the good of the\nEternal Father? The Jehovah hypothesis tires me, Bishop. It is good for\nnothing but to produce shallow people, whose reasoning is hollow. Down\nwith that great All, which torments me! Hurrah for Zero which leaves me\nin peace! Between you and me, and in order to empty my sack, and make\nconfession to my pastor, as it behooves me to do, I will admit to you\nthat I have good sense. I am not enthusiastic over your Jesus, who\npreaches renunciation and sacrifice to the last extremity.  Tis the\ncounsel of an avaricious man to beggars. Renunciation; why? Sacrifice;\nto what end? I do not see one wolf immolating himself for the happiness\nof another wolf. Let us stick to nature, then. We are at the top; let\nus have a superior philosophy. What is the advantage of being at the\ntop, if one sees no further than the end of other people s noses? Let\nus live merrily. Life is all. That man has another future elsewhere, on\nhigh, below, anywhere, I don t believe; not one single word of it. Ah!\nsacrifice and renunciation are recommended to me; I must take heed to\neverything I do; I must cudgel my brains over good and evil, over the\njust and the unjust, over the _fas_ and the _nefas_. Why? Because I\nshall have to render an account of my actions. When? After death. What\na fine dream! After my death it will be a very clever person who can\ncatch me. Have a handful of dust seized by a shadow-hand, if you can.\nLet us tell the truth, we who are initiated, and who have raised the\nveil of Isis: there is no such thing as either good or evil; there is\nvegetation. Let us seek the real. Let us get to the bottom of it. Let\nus go into it thoroughly. What the deuce! let us go to the bottom of\nit! We must scent out the truth; dig in the earth for it, and seize it.\nThen it gives you exquisite joys. Then you grow strong, and you laugh.\nI am square on the bottom, I am. Immortality, Bishop, is a chance, a\nwaiting for dead men s shoes. Ah! what a charming promise! trust to it,\nif you like! What a fine lot Adam has! We are souls, and we shall be\nangels, with blue wings on our shoulder-blades. Do come to my\nassistance: is it not Tertullian who says that the blessed shall travel\nfrom star to star? Very well. We shall be the grasshoppers of the\nstars. And then, besides, we shall see God. Ta, ta, ta! What twaddle\nall these paradises are! God is a nonsensical monster. I would not say\nthat in the _Moniteur_, egad! but I may whisper it among friends.\n_Inter pocula_. To sacrifice the world to paradise is to let slip the\nprey for the shadow. Be the dupe of the infinite! I m not such a fool.\nI am a nought. I call myself Monsieur le Comte Nought, senator. Did I\nexist before my birth? No. Shall I exist after death? No. What am I? A\nlittle dust collected in an organism. What am I to do on this earth?\nThe choice rests with me: suffer or enjoy. Whither will suffering lead\nme? To nothingness; but I shall have suffered. Whither will enjoyment\nlead me? To nothingness; but I shall have enjoyed myself. My choice is\nmade. One must eat or be eaten. I shall eat. It is better to be the\ntooth than the grass. Such is my wisdom. After which, go whither I push\nthee, the grave-digger is there; the Pantheon for some of us: all falls\ninto the great hole. End. _Finis_. Total liquidation. This is the\nvanishing-point. Death is death, believe me. I laugh at the idea of\nthere being any one who has anything to tell me on that subject. Fables\nof nurses; bugaboo for children; Jehovah for men. No; our to-morrow is\nthe night. Beyond the tomb there is nothing but equal nothingness. You\nhave been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent de Paul it makes no\ndifference. That is the truth. Then live your life, above all things.\nMake use of your _I_ while you have it. In truth, Bishop, I tell you\nthat I have a philosophy of my own, and I have my philosophers. I don t\nlet myself be taken in with that nonsense. Of course, there must be\nsomething for those who are down, for the barefooted beggars,\nknife-grinders, and miserable wretches. Legends, chim ras, the soul,\nimmortality, paradise, the stars, are provided for them to swallow.\nThey gobble it down. They spread it on their dry bread. He who has\nnothing else has the good God. That is the least he can have. I oppose\nno objection to that; but I reserve Monsieur Naigeon for myself. The\ngood God is good for the populace. \n\n\nThe Bishop clapped his hands.\n\n That s talking!  he exclaimed.  What an excellent and really\nmarvellous thing is this materialism! Not every one who wants it can\nhave it. Ah! when one does have it, one is no longer a dupe, one does\nnot stupidly allow one s self to be exiled like Cato, nor stoned like\nStephen, nor burned alive like Jeanne d Arc. Those who have succeeded\nin procuring this admirable materialism have the joy of feeling\nthemselves irresponsible, and of thinking that they can devour\neverything without uneasiness, places, sinecures, dignities, power,\nwhether well or ill acquired, lucrative recantations, useful\ntreacheries, savory capitulations of conscience, and that they shall\nenter the tomb with their digestion accomplished. How agreeable that\nis! I do not say that with reference to you, senator. Nevertheless, it\nis impossible for me to refrain from congratulating you. You great\nlords have, so you say, a philosophy of your own, and for yourselves,\nwhich is exquisite, refined, accessible to the rich alone, good for all\nsauces, and which seasons the voluptuousness of life admirably. This\nphilosophy has been extracted from the depths, and unearthed by special\nseekers. But you are good-natured princes, and you do not think it a\nbad thing that belief in the good God should constitute the philosophy\nof the people, very much as the goose stuffed with chestnuts is the\ntruffled turkey of the poor. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX THE BROTHER AS DEPICTED BY THE SISTER\n\n\nIn order to furnish an idea of the private establishment of the Bishop\nof D , and of the manner in which those two sainted women subordinated\ntheir actions, their thoughts, their feminine instincts even, which are\neasily alarmed, to the habits and purposes of the Bishop, without his\neven taking the trouble of speaking in order to explain them, we cannot\ndo better than transcribe in this place a letter from Mademoiselle\nBaptistine to Madame the Vicomtess de Boischevron, the friend of her\nchildhood. This letter is in our possession.\n\nD , Dec. 16, 18 . MY GOOD MADAM: Not a day passes without our speaking\nof you. It is our established custom; but there is another reason\nbesides. Just imagine, while washing and dusting the ceilings and\nwalls, Madam Magloire has made some discoveries; now our two chambers\nhung with antique paper whitewashed over, would not discredit a ch teau\nin the style of yours. Madam Magloire has pulled off all the paper.\nThere were things beneath. My drawing-room, which contains no\nfurniture, and which we use for spreading out the linen after washing,\nis fifteen feet in height, eighteen square, with a ceiling which was\nformerly painted and gilded, and with beams, as in yours. This was\ncovered with a cloth while this was the hospital. And the woodwork was\nof the era of our grandmothers. But my room is the one you ought to\nsee. Madam Magloire has discovered, under at least ten thicknesses of\npaper pasted on top, some paintings, which without being good are very\ntolerable. The subject is Telemachus being knighted by Minerva in some\ngardens, the name of which escapes me. In short, where the Roman ladies\nrepaired on one single night. What shall I say to you? I have Romans,\nand Roman ladies [here occurs an illegible word], and the whole train.\nMadam Magloire has cleaned it all off; this summer she is going to have\nsome small injuries repaired, and the whole revarnished, and my chamber\nwill be a regular museum. She has also found in a corner of the attic\ntwo wooden pier-tables of ancient fashion. They asked us two crowns of\nsix francs each to regild them, but it is much better to give the money\nto the poor; and they are very ugly besides, and I should much prefer a\nround table of mahogany.\n\nI am always very happy. My brother is so good. He gives all he has to\nthe poor and sick. We are very much cramped. The country is trying in\nthe winter, and we really must do something for those who are in need.\nWe are almost comfortably lighted and warmed. You see that these are\ngreat treats.\n\nMy brother has ways of his own. When he talks, he says that a bishop\nought to be so. Just imagine! the door of our house is never fastened.\nWhoever chooses to enter finds himself at once in my brother s room. He\nfears nothing, even at night. That is his sort of bravery, he says.\n\nHe does not wish me or Madame Magloire feel any fear for him. He\nexposes himself to all sorts of dangers, and he does not like to have\nus even seem to notice it. One must know how to understand him.\n\nHe goes out in the rain, he walks in the water, he travels in winter.\nHe fears neither suspicious roads nor dangerous encounters, nor night.\n\nLast year he went quite alone into a country of robbers. He would not\ntake us. He was absent for a fortnight. On his return nothing had\nhappened to him; he was thought to be dead, but was perfectly well, and\nsaid,  This is the way I have been robbed!  And then he opened a trunk\nfull of jewels, all the jewels of the cathedral of Embrun, which the\nthieves had given him.\n\nWhen he returned on that occasion, I could not refrain from scolding\nhim a little, taking care, however, not to speak except when the\ncarriage was making a noise, so that no one might hear me.\n\nAt first I used to say to myself,  There are no dangers which will stop\nhim; he is terrible.  Now I have ended by getting used to it. I make a\nsign to Madam Magloire that she is not to oppose him. He risks himself\nas he sees fit. I carry off Madam Magloire, I enter my chamber, I pray\nfor him and fall asleep. I am at ease, because I know that if anything\nwere to happen to him, it would be the end of me. I should go to the\ngood God with my brother and my bishop. It has cost Madam Magloire more\ntrouble than it did me to accustom herself to what she terms his\nimprudences. But now the habit has been acquired. We pray together, we\ntremble together, and we fall asleep. If the devil were to enter this\nhouse, he would be allowed to do so. After all, what is there for us to\nfear in this house? There is always some one with us who is stronger\nthan we. The devil may pass through it, but the good God dwells here.\n\nThis suffices me. My brother has no longer any need of saying a word to\nme. I understand him without his speaking, and we abandon ourselves to\nthe care of Providence. That is the way one has to do with a man who\npossesses grandeur of soul.\n\nI have interrogated my brother with regard to the information which you\ndesire on the subject of the Faux family. You are aware that he knows\neverything, and that he has memories, because he is still a very good\nroyalist. They really are a very ancient Norman family of the\ngeneralship of Caen. Five hundred years ago there was a Raoul de Faux,\na Jean de Faux, and a Thomas de Faux, who were gentlemen, and one of\nwhom was a seigneur de Rochefort. The last was Guy- tienne-Alexandre,\nand was commander of a regiment, and something in the light horse of\nBretagne. His daughter, Marie-Louise, married Adrien-Charles de\nGramont, son of the Duke Louis de Gramont, peer of France, colonel of\nthe French guards, and lieutenant-general of the army. It is written\nFaux, Fauq, and Faoucq.\n\nGood Madame, recommend us to the prayers of your sainted relative,\nMonsieur the Cardinal. As for your dear Sylvanie, she has done well in\nnot wasting the few moments which she passes with you in writing to me.\nShe is well, works as you would wish, and loves me.\n\nThat is all that I desire. The souvenir which she sent through you\nreached me safely, and it makes me very happy. My health is not so very\nbad, and yet I grow thinner every day. Farewell; my paper is at an end,\nand this forces me to leave you. A thousand good wishes.\n\nBAPTISTINE.\n\nP.S. Your grand nephew is charming. Do you know that he will soon be\nfive years old? Yesterday he saw some one riding by on horseback who\nhad on knee-caps, and he said,  What has he got on his knees?  He is a\ncharming child! His little brother is dragging an old broom about the\nroom, like a carriage, and saying,  Hu! \n\n\nAs will be perceived from this letter, these two women understood how\nto mould themselves to the Bishop s ways with that special feminine\ngenius which comprehends the man better than he comprehends himself.\nThe Bishop of D , in spite of the gentle and candid air which never\ndeserted him, sometimes did things that were grand, bold, and\nmagnificent, without seeming to have even a suspicion of the fact. They\ntrembled, but they let him alone. Sometimes Madame Magloire essayed a\nremonstrance in advance, but never at the time, nor afterwards. They\nnever interfered with him by so much as a word or sign, in any action\nonce entered upon. At certain moments, without his having occasion to\nmention it, when he was not even conscious of it himself in all\nprobability, so perfect was his simplicity, they vaguely felt that he\nwas acting as a bishop; then they were nothing more than two shadows in\nthe house. They served him passively; and if obedience consisted in\ndisappearing, they disappeared. They understood, with an admirable\ndelicacy of instinct, that certain cares may be put under constraint.\nThus, even when believing him to be in peril, they understood, I will\nnot say his thought, but his nature, to such a degree that they no\nlonger watched over him. They confided him to God.\n\nMoreover, Baptistine said, as we have just read, that her brother s end\nwould prove her own. Madame Magloire did not say this, but she knew it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X THE BISHOP IN THE PRESENCE OF AN UNKNOWN LIGHT\n\n\nAt an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the\npreceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be\nbelieved, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains\ninfested with bandits.\n\nIn the country near D  a man lived quite alone. This man, we will\nstate at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G \n\nMember of the Convention, G  was mentioned with a sort of horror in\nthe little world of D  A member of the Convention can you imagine such\na thing? That existed from the time when people called each other\n_thou_, and when they said  citizen.  This man was almost a monster. He\nhad not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a\nquasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such\na man had not been brought before a provost s court, on the return of\nthe legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you\nplease; clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for\nlife. An example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all\nthe rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture.\n\nWas G  a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by the\nelement of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for\nthe death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of\nexile, and had been able to remain in France.\n\nHe dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far\nfrom any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild\nvalley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of\nfield, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by.\nSince he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had\ndisappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as\nthough it had been the dwelling of a hangman.\n\nNevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to\ntime he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked\nthe valley of the former member of the Convention, and he said,  There\nis a soul yonder which is lonely. \n\n\nAnd he added, deep in his own mind,  I owe him a visit. \n\n\nBut, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first\nblush, appeared to him after a moment s reflection, as strange,\nimpossible, and almost repulsive. For, at bottom, he shared the general\nimpression, and the old member of the Convention inspired him, without\nhis being clearly conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment\nwhich borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word\nestrangement.\n\nStill, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No.\nBut what a sheep!\n\nThe good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction;\nthen he returned.\n\nFinally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young\nshepherd, who served the member of the Convention in his hovel, had\ncome in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying, that\nparalysis was gaining on him, and that he would not live over\nnight. Thank God!  some added.\n\nThe Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too\nthreadbare cassock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening\nbreeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out.\n\nThe sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop\narrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the\nheart, he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over\na ditch, leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs,\nentered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of\nboldness, and suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind\nlofty brambles, he caught sight of the cavern.\n\nIt was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed\nagainst the outside.\n\nNear the door, in an old wheel-chair, the armchair of the peasants,\nthere was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun.\n\nNear the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was\noffering the old man a jar of milk.\n\nWhile the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke:  Thank you,  he\nsaid,  I need nothing.  And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the\nchild.\n\nThe Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the\nold man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the\nsurprise which a man can still feel after a long life.\n\n This is the first time since I have been here,  said he,  that any one\nhas entered here. Who are you, sir? \n\n\nThe Bishop answered: \n\n My name is Bienvenu Myriel. \n\n\n Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the\npeople call Monseigneur Welcome? \n\n\n I am. \n\n\nThe old man resumed with a half-smile\n\n In that case, you are my bishop? \n\n\n Something of that sort. \n\n\n Enter, sir. \n\n\nThe member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the\nBishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark: \n\n I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not\nseem to me to be ill. \n\n\n Monsieur,  replied the old man,  I am going to recover. \n\n\nHe paused, and then said: \n\n I shall die three hours hence. \n\n\nThen he continued: \n\n I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws\non. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended\nto my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the\nheart, I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself\nwheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me; it\ndoes not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who\nis on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at\nthat moment. One has one s caprices; I should have liked to last until\nthe dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be\nnight then. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair.\nOne has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by\nstarlight. \n\n\nThe old man turned to the shepherd lad: \n\n Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired. \n\n\nThe child entered the hut.\n\nThe old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking\nto himself: \n\n I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors. \n\n\nThe Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did\nnot think he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the\nwhole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated\nlike the rest: he, who on occasion, was so fond of laughing at  His\nGrace,  was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and\nhe was almost tempted to retort  citizen.  He was assailed by a fancy\nfor peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but\nwhich was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of\nthe Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the\npowerful ones of the earth; for the first time in his life, probably,\nthe Bishop felt in a mood to be severe.\n\nMeanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a\nmodest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly,\nthat humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning\nto dust.\n\nThe Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained his\ncuriosity, which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not\nrefrain from examining the member of the Convention with an attention\nwhich, as it did not have its course in sympathy, would have served his\nconscience as a matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A\nmember of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being\noutside the pale of the law, even of the law of charity. G , calm, his\nbody almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those\noctogenarians who form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist.\nThe Revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In\nthis old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so\nnear to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear\nglance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders,\nthere was something calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the\nMohammedan angel of the sepulchre, would have turned back, and thought\nthat he had mistaken the door. G  seemed to be dying because he willed\nit so. There was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless.\nIt was there that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and\ndead, but his head survived with all the power of life, and seemed full\nof light. G , at this solemn moment, resembled the king in that tale\nof the Orient who was flesh above and marble below.\n\nThere was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exordium was abrupt.\n\n I congratulate you,  said he, in the tone which one uses for a\nreprimand.  You did not vote for the death of the king, after all. \n\n\nThe old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter\nmeaning underlying the words  after all.  He replied. The smile had\nquite disappeared from his face.\n\n Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the\ntyrant. \n\n\nIt was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity.\n\n What do you mean to say?  resumed the Bishop.\n\n I mean to say that man has a tyrant, ignorance. I voted for the death\nof that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority\nfalsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man\nshould be governed only by science. \n\n\n And conscience,  added the Bishop.\n\n It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science\nwhich we have within us. \n\n\nMonseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language,\nwhich was very new to him.\n\nThe member of the Convention resumed: \n\n So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said  no.  I did not think that\nI had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate\nevil. I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of\nprostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night\nfor the child. In voting for the Republic, I voted for that. I voted\nfor fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of\nprejudices and errors. The crumbling away of prejudices and errors\ncauses light. We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old\nworld, that vase of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon\nthe human race, an urn of joy. \n\n\n Mixed joy,  said the Bishop.\n\n You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the\npast, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas! The work\nwas incomplete, I admit: we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we\nwere not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is\nnot sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer;\nthe wind is still there. \n\n\n You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a\ndemolition complicated with wrath. \n\n\n Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of\nprogress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French\nRevolution is the most important step of the human race since the\nadvent of Christ. Incomplete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all\nthe unknown social quantities; it softened spirits, it calmed,\nappeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over\nthe earth. It was a good thing. The French Revolution is the\nconsecration of humanity. \n\n\nThe Bishop could not refrain from murmuring: \n\n Yes?  93! \n\n\nThe member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with\nan almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is\ncapable of exclamation: \n\n Ah, there you go;  93! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been\nforming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen\nhundred years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial. \n\n\nThe Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within\nhim had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a good face on the\nmatter. He replied: \n\n The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name\nof pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt\nshould commit no error.  And he added, regarding the member of the\nConvention steadily the while,  Louis XVII.? \n\n\nThe conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop s\narm.\n\n Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent\nchild? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal\nchild? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche,\nan innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Gr ve,\nuntil death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of\nCartouche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an\ninnocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime\nof having been grandson of Louis XV. \n\n\n Monsieur,  said the Bishop,  I like not this conjunction of names. \n\n\n Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object? \n\n\nA momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come,\nand yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken.\n\nThe conventionary resumed: \n\n Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ\nloved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge,\nfull of lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried,\n_ Sinite parvulos, _ he made no distinction between the little\nchildren. It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the\nDauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is\nits own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august\nin rags as in fleurs de lys. \n\n\n That is true,  said the Bishop in a low voice.\n\n I persist,  continued the conventionary G   You have mentioned Louis\nXVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we weep for all the\ninnocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted?\nI agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back\nfurther than  93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will\nweep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep\nwith me over the children of the people. \n\n\n I weep for all,  said the Bishop.\n\n Equally!  exclaimed conventionary G ;  and if the balance must\nincline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been suffering\nlonger. \n\n\nAnother silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He\nraised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb\nand his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and\njudges, and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces\nof the death agony. It was almost an explosion.\n\n Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And hold! that\nis not all, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me\nabout Louis XVII.? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these\nparts I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside,\nand seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me\nin a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must\nadmit; but that signifies nothing: clever men have so many ways of\nimposing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear\nthe sound of your carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice\nat the fork of the roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you. You\nhave told me that you are the Bishop; but that affords me no\ninformation as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my\nquestion. Who are you? You are a bishop; that is to say, a prince of\nthe church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and\nrevenues, who have vast prebends, the bishopric of D  fifteen thousand\nfrancs settled income, ten thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five\nthousand francs, who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good\ncheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a\nlackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in\ntheir carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot! You are\na prelate, revenues, palace, horses, servants, good table, all the\nsensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like the rest,\nyou enjoy it; it is well; but this says either too much or too little;\nthis does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of\nthe man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me.\nTo whom do I speak? Who are you? \n\n\nThe Bishop hung his head and replied, _ Vermis sum_ I am a worm. \n\n\n A worm of the earth in a carriage?  growled the conventionary.\n\nIt was the conventionary s turn to be arrogant, and the Bishop s to be\nhumble.\n\nThe Bishop resumed mildly: \n\n So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces\noff behind the trees yonder, how my good table and the moor-hens which\nI eat on Friday, how my twenty-five thousand francs income, how my\npalace and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty, and that  93\nwas not inexorable. \n\n\nThe conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep\naway a cloud.\n\n Before replying to you,  he said,  I beseech you to pardon me. I have\njust committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are my guest, I\nowe you courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine\nmyself to combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are\nadvantages which I hold over you in the debate; but good taste dictates\nthat I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them\nin the future. \n\n\n I thank you,  said the Bishop.\n\nG  resumed.\n\n Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where\nwere we? What were you saying to me? That  93 was inexorable? \n\n\n Inexorable; yes,  said the Bishop.  What think you of Marat clapping\nhis hands at the guillotine? \n\n\n What think you of Bossuet chanting the _Te Deum_ over the\ndragonnades? \n\n\nThe retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the\ndirectness of a point of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply\noccurred to him; but he was offended by this mode of alluding to\nBossuet. The best of minds will have their fetiches, and they sometimes\nfeel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of logic.\n\nThe conventionary began to pant; the asthma of the agony which is\nmingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice; still, there was a\nperfect lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on: \n\n Let me say a few words more in this and that direction; I am willing.\nApart from the Revolution, which, taken as a whole, is an immense human\naffirmation,  93 is, alas! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir;\nbut what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name\ndo you give to Montrevel? Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal; but what is\nyour opinion as to Lamoignon-B ville? Maillard is terrible; but\nSaulx-Tavannes, if you please? Duch ne senior is ferocious; but what\nepithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-Tet \nis a monster; but not so great a one as M. the Marquis de Louvois. Sir,\nsir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen; but I am\nalso sorry for that poor Huguenot woman, who, in 1685, under Louis the\nGreat, sir, while with a nursing infant, was bound, naked to the waist,\nto a stake, and the child kept at a distance; her breast swelled with\nmilk and her heart with anguish; the little one, hungry and pale,\nbeheld that breast and cried and agonized; the executioner said to the\nwoman, a mother and a nurse,  Abjure!  giving her her choice between\nthe death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you\nto that torture of Tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in\nmind sir: the French Revolution had its reasons for existence; its\nwrath will be absolved by the future; its result is the world made\nbetter. From its most terrible blows there comes forth a caress for the\nhuman race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the advantage; moreover,\nI am dying. \n\n\nAnd ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary concluded his\nthoughts in these tranquil words: \n\n Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are\nover, this fact is recognized, that the human race has been treated\nharshly, but that it has progressed. \n\n\nThe conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all\nthe inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remained, however, and from\nthis intrenchment, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu s\nresistance, came forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the\nharshness of the beginning: \n\n Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor.\nHe who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race. \n\n\nThe former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized\nwith a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a\ntear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down\nhis livid cheek, and he said, almost in a stammer, quite low, and to\nhimself, while his eyes were plunged in the depths: \n\n O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest! \n\n\nThe Bishop experienced an indescribable shock.\n\nAfter a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said: \n\n The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person\nwould be without limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it\nwould not exist. There is, then, an _I_. That _I_ of the infinite is\nGod. \n\n\nThe dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice, and with\nthe shiver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some one. When he had\nspoken, his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident\nthat he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been\nleft to him. That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in\ndeath. The supreme moment was approaching.\n\nThe Bishop understood this; time pressed; it was as a priest that he\nhad come: from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme\nemotion; he gazed at those closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and\nice-cold hand in his, and bent over the dying man.\n\n This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be\nregrettable if we had met in vain? \n\n\nThe conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom\nwas imprinted on his countenance.\n\n Bishop,  said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his\ndignity of soul than from the failing of his strength,  I have passed\nmy life in meditation, study, and contemplation. I was sixty years of\nage when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with\nits affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them; tyrannies\nexisted, I destroyed them; rights and principles existed, I proclaimed\nand confessed them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it; France\nwas menaced, I offered my breast. I was not rich; I am poor. I have\nbeen one of the masters of the state; the vaults of the treasury were\nencumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up\nthe walls, which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of\ngold and silver; I dined in Dead Tree Street, at twenty-two sous. I\nhave succored the oppressed, I have comforted the suffering. I tore the\ncloth from the altar, it is true; but it was to bind up the wounds of\nmy country. I have always upheld the march forward of the human race,\nforward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress\nwithout pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own\nadversaries, men of your profession. And there is at Peteghem, in\nFlanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer\npalace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu,\nwhich I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according to my powers, and\nall the good that I was able. After which, I was hunted down, pursued,\npersecuted, blackened, jeered at, scorned, cursed, proscribed. For many\nyears past, I with my white hair have been conscious that many people\nthink they have the right to despise me; to the poor ignorant masses I\npresent the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolation of\nhatred, without hating any one myself. Now I am eighty-six years old; I\nam on the point of death. What is it that you have come to ask of me? \n\n\n_ Your blessing, _ said the Bishop.\n\nAnd he knelt down.\n\nWhen the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary\nhad become august. He had just expired.\n\nThe Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be\nknown to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following\nmorning some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about\nmember of the Convention G ; he contented himself with pointing\nheavenward.\n\nFrom that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling\ntowards all children and sufferers.\n\nAny allusion to  that old wretch of a G  caused him to fall into a\nsingular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul\nbefore his, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did\nnot count for something in his approach to perfection.\n\nThis  pastoral visit  naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of\ncomment in all the little local coteries.\n\n Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a\nbishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those\nrevolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be\nseen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried\noff by the devil. \n\n\nOne day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself\nspiritual, addressed this sally to him,  Monseigneur, people are\ninquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red cap! Oh! oh!\nthat s a coarse color,  replied the Bishop.  It is lucky that those who\ndespise it in a cap revere it in a hat. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI A RESTRICTION\n\n\nWe should incur a great risk of deceiving ourselves, were we to\nconclude from this that Monseigneur Welcome was  a philosophical\nbishop,  or a  patriotic cur .  His meeting, which may almost be\ndesignated as his union, with conventionary G , left behind it in his\nmind a sort of astonishment, which rendered him still more gentle. That\nis all.\n\nAlthough Monseigneur Bienvenu was far from being a politician, this is,\nperhaps, the place to indicate very briefly what his attitude was in\nthe events of that epoch, supposing that Monseigneur Bienvenu ever\ndreamed of having an attitude.\n\nLet us, then, go back a few years.\n\nSome time after the elevation of M. Myriel to the episcopate, the\nEmperor had made him a baron of the Empire, in company with many other\nbishops. The arrest of the Pope took place, as every one knows, on the\nnight of the 5th to the 6th of July, 1809; on this occasion, M. Myriel\nwas summoned by Napoleon to the synod of the bishops of France and\nItaly convened at Paris. This synod was held at Notre-Dame, and\nassembled for the first time on the 15th of June, 1811, under the\npresidency of Cardinal Fesch. M. Myriel was one of the ninety-five\nbishops who attended it. But he was present only at one sitting and at\nthree or four private conferences. Bishop of a mountain diocese, living\nso very close to nature, in rusticity and deprivation, it appeared that\nhe imported among these eminent personages, ideas which altered the\ntemperature of the assembly. He very soon returned to D  He was\ninterrogated as to this speedy return, and he replied: _ I embarrassed\nthem. The outside air penetrated to them through me. I produced on them\nthe effect of an open door. _\n\nOn another occasion he said, _ What would you have? Those gentlemen are\nprinces. I am only a poor peasant bishop. _\n\nThe fact is that he displeased them. Among other strange things, it is\nsaid that he chanced to remark one evening, when he found himself at\nthe house of one of his most notable colleagues:  What beautiful\nclocks! What beautiful carpets! What beautiful liveries! They must be a\ngreat trouble. I would not have all those superfluities, crying\nincessantly in my ears:  There are people who are hungry! There are\npeople who are cold! There are poor people! There are poor people! \n\n\nLet us remark, by the way, that the hatred of luxury is not an\nintelligent hatred. This hatred would involve the hatred of the arts.\nNevertheless, in churchmen, luxury is wrong, except in connection with\nrepresentations and ceremonies. It seems to reveal habits which have\nvery little that is charitable about them. An opulent priest is a\ncontradiction. The priest must keep close to the poor. Now, can one\ncome in contact incessantly night and day with all this distress, all\nthese misfortunes, and this poverty, without having about one s own\nperson a little of that misery, like the dust of labor? Is it possible\nto imagine a man near a brazier who is not warm? Can one imagine a\nworkman who is working near a furnace, and who has neither a singed\nhair, nor blackened nails, nor a drop of sweat, nor a speck of ashes on\nhis face? The first proof of charity in the priest, in the bishop\nespecially, is poverty.\n\nThis is, no doubt, what the Bishop of D  thought.\n\nIt must not be supposed, however, that he shared what we call the\n ideas of the century  on certain delicate points. He took very little\npart in the theological quarrels of the moment, and maintained silence\non questions in which Church and State were implicated; but if he had\nbeen strongly pressed, it seems that he would have been found to be an\nultramontane rather than a gallican. Since we are making a portrait,\nand since we do not wish to conceal anything, we are forced to add that\nhe was glacial towards Napoleon in his decline. Beginning with 1813, he\ngave in his adherence to or applauded all hostile manifestations. He\nrefused to see him, as he passed through on his return from the island\nof Elba, and he abstained from ordering public prayers for the Emperor\nin his diocese during the Hundred Days.\n\nBesides his sister, Mademoiselle Baptistine, he had two brothers, one a\ngeneral, the other a prefect. He wrote to both with tolerable\nfrequency. He was harsh for a time towards the former, because, holding\na command in Provence at the epoch of the disembarkation at Cannes, the\ngeneral had put himself at the head of twelve hundred men and had\npursued the Emperor as though the latter had been a person whom one is\ndesirous of allowing to escape. His correspondence with the other\nbrother, the ex-prefect, a fine, worthy man who lived in retirement at\nParis, Rue Cassette, remained more affectionate.\n\nThus Monseigneur Bienvenu also had his hour of party spirit, his hour\nof bitterness, his cloud. The shadow of the passions of the moment\ntraversed this grand and gentle spirit occupied with eternal things.\nCertainly, such a man would have done well not to entertain any\npolitical opinions. Let there be no mistake as to our meaning: we are\nnot confounding what is called  political opinions  with the grand\naspiration for progress, with the sublime faith, patriotic, democratic,\nhumane, which in our day should be the very foundation of every\ngenerous intellect. Without going deeply into questions which are only\nindirectly connected with the subject of this book, we will simply say\nthis: It would have been well if Monseigneur Bienvenu had not been a\nRoyalist, and if his glance had never been, for a single instant,\nturned away from that serene contemplation in which is distinctly\ndiscernible, above the fictions and the hatreds of this world, above\nthe stormy vicissitudes of human things, the beaming of those three\npure radiances, truth, justice, and charity.\n\nWhile admitting that it was not for a political office that God created\nMonseigneur Welcome, we should have understood and admired his protest\nin the name of right and liberty, his proud opposition, his just but\nperilous resistance to the all-powerful Napoleon. But that which\npleases us in people who are rising pleases us less in the case of\npeople who are falling. We only love the fray so long as there is\ndanger, and in any case, the combatants of the first hour have alone\nthe right to be the exterminators of the last. He who has not been a\nstubborn accuser in prosperity should hold his peace in the face of\nruin. The denunciator of success is the only legitimate executioner of\nthe fall. As for us, when Providence intervenes and strikes, we let it\nwork. 1812 commenced to disarm us. In 1813 the cowardly breach of\nsilence of that taciturn legislative body, emboldened by catastrophe,\npossessed only traits which aroused indignation. And it was a crime to\napplaud, in 1814, in the presence of those marshals who betrayed; in\nthe presence of that senate which passed from one dunghill to another,\ninsulting after having deified; in the presence of that idolatry which\nwas loosing its footing and spitting on its idol, it was a duty to turn\naside the head. In 1815, when the supreme disasters filled the air,\nwhen France was seized with a shiver at their sinister approach, when\nWaterloo could be dimly discerned opening before Napoleon, the mournful\nacclamation of the army and the people to the condemned of destiny had\nnothing laughable in it, and, after making all allowance for the\ndespot, a heart like that of the Bishop of D , ought not perhaps to\nhave failed to recognize the august and touching features presented by\nthe embrace of a great nation and a great man on the brink of the\nabyss.\n\nWith this exception, he was in all things just, true, equitable,\nintelligent, humble and dignified, beneficent and kindly, which is only\nanother sort of benevolence. He was a priest, a sage, and a man. It\nmust be admitted, that even in the political views with which we have\njust reproached him, and which we are disposed to judge almost with\nseverity, he was tolerant and easy, more so, perhaps, than we who are\nspeaking here. The porter of the town-hall had been placed there by the\nEmperor. He was an old non-commissioned officer of the old guard, a\nmember of the Legion of Honor at Austerlitz, as much of a Bonapartist\nas the eagle. This poor fellow occasionally let slip inconsiderate\nremarks, which the law then stigmatized as _seditious speeches_. After\nthe imperial profile disappeared from the Legion of Honor, he never\ndressed himself in his regimentals, as he said, so that he should not\nbe obliged to wear his cross. He had himself devoutly removed the\nimperial effigy from the cross which Napoleon had given him; this made\na hole, and he would not put anything in its place. _ I will die, _ he\nsaid, _ rather than wear the three frogs upon my heart! _ He liked to\nscoff aloud at Louis XVIII.  The gouty old creature in English\ngaiters!  he said; _ let him take himself off to Prussia with that\nqueue of his. _ He was happy to combine in the same imprecation the two\nthings which he most detested, Prussia and England. He did it so often\nthat he lost his place. There he was, turned out of the house, with his\nwife and children, and without bread. The Bishop sent for him, reproved\nhim gently, and appointed him beadle in the cathedral.\n\nIn the course of nine years Monseigneur Bienvenu had, by dint of holy\ndeeds and gentle manners, filled the town of D with a sort of tender\nand filial reverence. Even his conduct towards Napoleon had been\naccepted and tacitly pardoned, as it were, by the people, the good and\nweakly flock who adored their emperor, but loved their bishop.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII THE SOLITUDE OF MONSEIGNEUR WELCOME\n\n\nA bishop is almost always surrounded by a full squadron of little\nabb s, just as a general is by a covey of young officers. This is what\nthat charming Saint Fran ois de Sales calls somewhere  les pr tres\nblancs-becs,  callow priests. Every career has its aspirants, who form\na train for those who have attained eminence in it. There is no power\nwhich has not its dependents. There is no fortune which has not its\ncourt. The seekers of the future eddy around the splendid present.\nEvery metropolis has its staff of officials. Every bishop who possesses\nthe least influence has about him his patrol of cherubim from the\nseminary, which goes the round, and maintains good order in the\nepiscopal palace, and mounts guard over monseigneur s smile. To please\na bishop is equivalent to getting one s foot in the stirrup for a\nsub-diaconate. It is necessary to walk one s path discreetly; the\napostleship does not disdain the canonship.\n\nJust as there are bigwigs elsewhere, there are big mitres in the\nChurch. These are the bishops who stand well at Court, who are rich,\nwell endowed, skilful, accepted by the world, who know how to pray, no\ndoubt, but who know also how to beg, who feel little scruple at making\na whole diocese dance attendance in their person, who are connecting\nlinks between the sacristy and diplomacy, who are abb s rather than\npriests, prelates rather than bishops. Happy those who approach them!\nBeing persons of influence, they create a shower about them, upon the\nassiduous and the favored, and upon all the young men who understand\nthe art of pleasing, of large parishes, prebends, archidiaconates,\nchaplaincies, and cathedral posts, while awaiting episcopal honors. As\nthey advance themselves, they cause their satellites to progress also;\nit is a whole solar system on the march. Their radiance casts a gleam\nof purple over their suite. Their prosperity is crumbled up behind the\nscenes, into nice little promotions. The larger the diocese of the\npatron, the fatter the curacy for the favorite. And then, there is\nRome. A bishop who understands how to become an archbishop, an\narchbishop who knows how to become a cardinal, carries you with him as\nconclavist; you enter a court of papal jurisdiction, you receive the\npallium, and behold! you are an auditor, then a papal chamberlain, then\nmonsignor, and from a Grace to an Eminence is only a step, and between\nthe Eminence and the Holiness there is but the smoke of a ballot. Every\nskull-cap may dream of the tiara. The priest is nowadays the only man\nwho can become a king in a regular manner; and what a king! the supreme\nking. Then what a nursery of aspirations is a seminary! How many\nblushing choristers, how many youthful abb s bear on their heads\nPerrette s pot of milk! Who knows how easy it is for ambition to call\nitself vocation? in good faith, perchance, and deceiving itself,\ndevotee that it is.\n\nMonseigneur Bienvenu, poor, humble, retiring, was not accounted among\nthe big mitres. This was plain from the complete absence of young\npriests about him. We have seen that he  did not take  in Paris. Not a\nsingle future dreamed of engrafting itself on this solitary old man.\nNot a single sprouting ambition committed the folly of putting forth\nits foliage in his shadow. His canons and grand-vicars were good old\nmen, rather vulgar like himself, walled up like him in this diocese,\nwithout exit to a cardinalship, and who resembled their bishop, with\nthis difference, that they were finished and he was completed. The\nimpossibility of growing great under Monseigneur Bienvenu was so well\nunderstood, that no sooner had the young men whom he ordained left the\nseminary than they got themselves recommended to the archbishops of Aix\nor of Auch, and went off in a great hurry. For, in short, we repeat it,\nmen wish to be pushed. A saint who dwells in a paroxysm of abnegation\nis a dangerous neighbor; he might communicate to you, by contagion, an\nincurable poverty, an anchylosis of the joints, which are useful in\nadvancement, and in short, more renunciation than you desire; and this\ninfectious virtue is avoided. Hence the isolation of Monseigneur\nBienvenu. We live in the midst of a gloomy society. Success; that is\nthe lesson which falls drop by drop from the slope of corruption.\n\nBe it said in passing, that success is a very hideous thing. Its false\nresemblance to merit deceives men. For the masses, success has almost\nthe same profile as supremacy. Success, that Men chmus of talent, has\none dupe, history. Juvenal and Tacitus alone grumble at it. In our day,\na philosophy which is almost official has entered into its service,\nwears the livery of success, and performs the service of its\nantechamber. Succeed: theory. Prosperity argues capacity. Win in the\nlottery, and behold! you are a clever man. He who triumphs is\nvenerated. Be born with a silver spoon in your mouth! everything lies\nin that. Be lucky, and you will have all the rest; be happy, and people\nwill think you great. Outside of five or six immense exceptions, which\ncompose the splendor of a century, contemporary admiration is nothing\nbut short-sightedness. Gilding is gold. It does no harm to be the first\narrival by pure chance, so long as you do arrive. The common herd is an\nold Narcissus who adores himself, and who applauds the vulgar herd.\nThat enormous ability by virtue of which one is Moses,  schylus, Dante,\nMichael Angelo, or Napoleon, the multitude awards on the spot, and by\nacclamation, to whomsoever attains his object, in whatsoever it may\nconsist. Let a notary transfigure himself into a deputy: let a false\nCorneille compose _Tiridate;_ let a eunuch come to possess a harem; let\na military Prudhomme accidentally win the decisive battle of an epoch;\nlet an apothecary invent cardboard shoe-soles for the army of the\nSambre-and-Meuse, and construct for himself, out of this cardboard,\nsold as leather, four hundred thousand francs of income; let a\npork-packer espouse usury, and cause it to bring forth seven or eight\nmillions, of which he is the father and of which it is the mother; let\na preacher become a bishop by force of his nasal drawl; let the steward\nof a fine family be so rich on retiring from service that he is made\nminister of finances, and men call that Genius, just as they call the\nface of Mousqueton _Beauty_, and the mien of Claude _Majesty_. With the\nconstellations of space they confound the stars of the abyss which are\nmade in the soft mire of the puddle by the feet of ducks.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII WHAT HE BELIEVED\n\n\nWe are not obliged to sound the Bishop of D  on the score of\northodoxy. In the presence of such a soul we feel ourselves in no mood\nbut respect. The conscience of the just man should be accepted on his\nword. Moreover, certain natures being given, we admit the possible\ndevelopment of all beauties of human virtue in a belief that differs\nfrom our own.\n\nWhat did he think of this dogma, or of that mystery? These secrets of\nthe inner tribunal of the conscience are known only to the tomb, where\nsouls enter naked. The point on which we are certain is, that the\ndifficulties of faith never resolved themselves into hypocrisy in his\ncase. No decay is possible to the diamond. He believed to the extent of\nhis powers. _ Credo in Patrem, _ he often exclaimed. Moreover, he drew\nfrom good works that amount of satisfaction which suffices to the\nconscience, and which whispers to a man,  Thou art with God! \n\n\nThe point which we consider it our duty to note is, that outside of and\nbeyond his faith, as it were, the Bishop possessed an excess of love.\nIt was in that quarter, _quia multum amavit_, because he loved\nmuch that he was regarded as vulnerable by  serious men,   grave\npersons  and  reasonable people ; favorite locutions of our sad world\nwhere egotism takes its word of command from pedantry. What was this\nexcess of love? It was a serene benevolence which overflowed men, as we\nhave already pointed out, and which, on occasion, extended even to\nthings. He lived without disdain. He was indulgent towards God s\ncreation. Every man, even the best, has within him a thoughtless\nharshness which he reserves for animals. The Bishop of D  had none of\nthat harshness, which is peculiar to many priests, nevertheless. He did\nnot go as far as the Brahmin, but he seemed to have weighed this saying\nof Ecclesiastes:  Who knoweth whither the soul of the animal goeth? \nHideousness of aspect, deformity of instinct, troubled him not, and did\nnot arouse his indignation. He was touched, almost softened by them. It\nseemed as though he went thoughtfully away to seek beyond the bounds of\nlife which is apparent, the cause, the explanation, or the excuse for\nthem. He seemed at times to be asking God to commute these penalties.\nHe examined without wrath, and with the eye of a linguist who is\ndeciphering a palimpsest, that portion of chaos which still exists in\nnature. This reverie sometimes caused him to utter odd sayings. One\nmorning he was in his garden, and thought himself alone, but his sister\nwas walking behind him, unseen by him: suddenly he paused and gazed at\nsomething on the ground; it was a large, black, hairy, frightful\nspider. His sister heard him say: \n\n Poor beast! It is not its fault! \n\n\nWhy not mention these almost divinely childish sayings of kindness?\nPuerile they may be; but these sublime puerilities were peculiar to\nSaint Francis d Assisi and of Marcus Aurelius. One day he sprained his\nankle in his effort to avoid stepping on an ant. Thus lived this just\nman. Sometimes he fell asleep in his garden, and then there was nothing\nmore venerable possible.\n\nMonseigneur Bienvenu had formerly been, if the stories anent his youth,\nand even in regard to his manhood, were to be believed, a passionate,\nand, possibly, a violent man. His universal suavity was less an\ninstinct of nature than the result of a grand conviction which had\nfiltered into his heart through the medium of life, and had trickled\nthere slowly, thought by thought; for, in a character, as in a rock,\nthere may exist apertures made by drops of water. These hollows are\nuneffaceable; these formations are indestructible.\n\nIn 1815, as we think we have already said, he reached his seventy-fifth\nbirthday, but he did not appear to be more than sixty. He was not tall;\nhe was rather plump; and, in order to combat this tendency, he was fond\nof taking long strolls on foot; his step was firm, and his form was but\nslightly bent, a detail from which we do not pretend to draw any\nconclusion. Gregory XVI., at the age of eighty, held himself erect and\nsmiling, which did not prevent him from being a bad bishop. Monseigneur\nWelcome had what the people term a  fine head,  but so amiable was he\nthat they forgot that it was fine.\n\nWhen he conversed with that infantile gayety which was one of his\ncharms, and of which we have already spoken, people felt at their ease\nwith him, and joy seemed to radiate from his whole person. His fresh\nand ruddy complexion, his very white teeth, all of which he had\npreserved, and which were displayed by his smile, gave him that open\nand easy air which cause the remark to be made of a man,  He s a good\nfellow ; and of an old man,  He is a fine man.  That, it will be\nrecalled, was the effect which he produced upon Napoleon. On the first\nencounter, and to one who saw him for the first time, he was nothing,\nin fact, but a fine man. But if one remained near him for a few hours,\nand beheld him in the least degree pensive, the fine man became\ngradually transfigured, and took on some imposing quality, I know not\nwhat; his broad and serious brow, rendered august by his white locks,\nbecame august also by virtue of meditation; majesty radiated from his\ngoodness, though his goodness ceased not to be radiant; one experienced\nsomething of the emotion which one would feel on beholding a smiling\nangel slowly unfold his wings, without ceasing to smile. Respect, an\nunutterable respect, penetrated you by degrees and mounted to your\nheart, and one felt that one had before him one of those strong,\nthoroughly tried, and indulgent souls where thought is so grand that it\ncan no longer be anything but gentle.\n\nAs we have seen, prayer, the celebration of the offices of religion,\nalms-giving, the consolation of the afflicted, the cultivation of a bit\nof land, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, renunciation, confidence,\nstudy, work, filled every day of his life. _Filled_ is exactly the\nword; certainly the Bishop s day was quite full to the brim, of good\nwords and good deeds. Nevertheless, it was not complete if cold or\nrainy weather prevented his passing an hour or two in his garden before\ngoing to bed, and after the two women had retired. It seemed to be a\nsort of rite with him, to prepare himself for slumber by meditation in\nthe presence of the grand spectacles of the nocturnal heavens.\nSometimes, if the two old women were not asleep, they heard him pacing\nslowly along the walks at a very advanced hour of the night. He was\nthere alone, communing with himself, peaceful, adoring, comparing the\nserenity of his heart with the serenity of the ether, moved amid the\ndarkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the\ninvisible splendor of God, opening his heart to the thoughts which fall\nfrom the Unknown. At such moments, while he offered his heart at the\nhour when nocturnal flowers offer their perfume, illuminated like a\nlamp amid the starry night, as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the\nmidst of the universal radiance of creation, he could not have told\nhimself, probably, what was passing in his spirit; he felt something\ntake its flight from him, and something descend into him. Mysterious\nexchange of the abysses of the soul with the abysses of the universe!\n\nHe thought of the grandeur and presence of God; of the future eternity,\nthat strange mystery; of the eternity past, a mystery still more\nstrange; of all the infinities, which pierced their way into all his\nsenses, beneath his eyes; and, without seeking to comprehend the\nincomprehensible, he gazed upon it. He did not study God; he was\ndazzled by him. He considered those magnificent conjunctions of atoms,\nwhich communicate aspects to matter, reveal forces by verifying them,\ncreate individualities in unity, proportions in extent, the innumerable\nin the infinite, and, through light, produce beauty. These conjunctions\nare formed and dissolved incessantly; hence life and death.\n\nHe seated himself on a wooden bench, with his back against a decrepit\nvine; he gazed at the stars, past the puny and stunted silhouettes of\nhis fruit-trees. This quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, so\nencumbered with mean buildings and sheds, was dear to him, and\nsatisfied his wants.\n\nWhat more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure of his\nlife, where there was so little leisure, between gardening in the\ndaytime and contemplation at night? Was not this narrow enclosure, with\nthe heavens for a ceiling, sufficient to enable him to adore God in his\nmost divine works, in turn? Does not this comprehend all, in fact? and\nwhat is there left to desire beyond it? A little garden in which to\nwalk, and immensity in which to dream. At one s feet that which can be\ncultivated and plucked; over head that which one can study and meditate\nupon: some flowers on earth, and all the stars in the sky.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV WHAT HE THOUGHT\n\n\nOne last word.\n\nSince this sort of details might, particularly at the present moment,\nand to use an expression now in fashion, give to the Bishop of D  a\ncertain  pantheistical  physiognomy, and induce the belief, either to\nhis credit or discredit, that he entertained one of those personal\nphilosophies which are peculiar to our century, which sometimes spring\nup in solitary spirits, and there take on a form and grow until they\nusurp the place of religion, we insist upon it, that not one of those\npersons who knew Monseigneur Welcome would have thought himself\nauthorized to think anything of the sort. That which enlightened this\nman was his heart. His wisdom was made of the light which comes from\nthere.\n\nNo systems; many works. Abstruse speculations contain vertigo; no,\nthere is nothing to indicate that he risked his mind in apocalypses.\nThe apostle may be daring, but the bishop must be timid. He would\nprobably have felt a scruple at sounding too far in advance certain\nproblems which are, in a manner, reserved for terrible great minds.\nThere is a sacred horror beneath the porches of the enigma; those\ngloomy openings stand yawning there, but something tells you, you, a\npasser-by in life, that you must not enter. Woe to him who penetrates\nthither!\n\nGeniuses in the impenetrable depths of abstraction and pure\nspeculation, situated, so to speak, above all dogmas, propose their\nideas to God. Their prayer audaciously offers discussion. Their\nadoration interrogates. This is direct religion, which is full of\nanxiety and responsibility for him who attempts its steep cliffs.\n\nHuman meditation has no limits. At his own risk and peril, it analyzes\nand digs deep into its own bedazzlement. One might almost say, that by\na sort of splendid reaction, it with it dazzles nature; the mysterious\nworld which surrounds us renders back what it has received; it is\nprobable that the contemplators are contemplated. However that may be,\nthere are on earth men who are they men? perceive distinctly at the\nverge of the horizons of reverie the heights of the absolute, and who\nhave the terrible vision of the infinite mountain. Monseigneur Welcome\nwas one of these men; Monseigneur Welcome was not a genius. He would\nhave feared those sublimities whence some very great men even, like\nSwedenborg and Pascal, have slipped into insanity. Certainly, these\npowerful reveries have their moral utility, and by these arduous paths\none approaches to ideal perfection. As for him, he took the path which\nshortens, the Gospel s.\n\nHe did not attempt to impart to his chasuble the folds of Elijah s\nmantle; he projected no ray of future upon the dark groundswell of\nevents; he did not see to condense in flame the light of things; he had\nnothing of the prophet and nothing of the magician about him. This\nhumble soul loved, and that was all.\n\nThat he carried prayer to the pitch of a superhuman aspiration is\nprobable: but one can no more pray too much than one can love too much;\nand if it is a heresy to pray beyond the texts, Saint Theresa and Saint\nJerome would be heretics.\n\nHe inclined towards all that groans and all that expiates. The universe\nappeared to him like an immense malady; everywhere he felt fever,\neverywhere he heard the sound of suffering, and, without seeking to\nsolve the enigma, he strove to dress the wound. The terrible spectacle\nof created things developed tenderness in him; he was occupied only in\nfinding for himself, and in inspiring others with the best way to\ncompassionate and relieve. That which exists was for this good and rare\npriest a permanent subject of sadness which sought consolation.\n\nThere are men who toil at extracting gold; he toiled at the extraction\nof pity. Universal misery was his mine. The sadness which reigned\neverywhere was but an excuse for unfailing kindness. _Love each other;_\nhe declared this to be complete, desired nothing further, and that was\nthe whole of his doctrine. One day, that man who believed himself to be\na  philosopher,  the senator who has already been alluded to, said to\nthe Bishop:  Just survey the spectacle of the world: all war against\nall; the strongest has the most wit. Your _love each other_ is\nnonsense. _ Well, _ replied Monseigneur Welcome, without contesting\nthe point, _ if it is nonsense, the soul should shut itself up in it,\nas the pearl in the oyster. _ Thus he shut himself up, he lived there,\nhe was absolutely satisfied with it, leaving on one side the prodigious\nquestions which attract and terrify, the fathomless perspectives of\nabstraction, the precipices of metaphysics all those profundities which\nconverge, for the apostle in God, for the atheist in nothingness;\ndestiny, good and evil, the way of being against being, the conscience\nof man, the thoughtful somnambulism of the animal, the transformation\nin death, the recapitulation of existences which the tomb contains, the\nincomprehensible grafting of successive loves on the persistent _I_,\nthe essence, the substance, the Nile, and the Ens, the soul, nature,\nliberty, necessity; perpendicular problems, sinister obscurities, where\nlean the gigantic archangels of the human mind; formidable abysses,\nwhich Lucretius, Manou, Saint Paul, Dante, contemplate with eyes\nflashing lightning, which seems by its steady gaze on the infinite to\ncause stars to blaze forth there.\n\nMonseigneur Bienvenu was simply a man who took note of the exterior of\nmysterious questions without scrutinizing them, and without troubling\nhis own mind with them, and who cherished in his own soul a grave\nrespect for darkness.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SECOND THE FALL\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE EVENING OF A DAY OF WALKING\n\n\nEarly in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man\nwho was travelling on foot entered the little town of D  The few\ninhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at the\nmoment stared at this traveller with a sort of uneasiness. It was\ndifficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a\nman of medium stature, thickset and robust, in the prime of life. He\nmight have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a\ndrooping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned and tanned by\nsun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt of coarse\nyellow linen, fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor, permitted\na view of his hairy breast: he had a cravat twisted into a string;\ntrousers of blue drilling, worn and threadbare, white on one knee and\ntorn on the other; an old gray, tattered blouse, patched on one of the\nelbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine; a tightly packed\nsoldier knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new, on his back; an\nenormous, knotty stick in his hand; iron-shod shoes on his stockingless\nfeet; a shaved head and a long beard.\n\nThe sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust, added I know not\nwhat sordid quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was closely\ncut, yet bristling, for it had begun to grow a little, and did not seem\nto have been cut for some time.\n\nNo one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passer-by. Whence came\nhe? From the south; from the seashore, perhaps, for he made his\nentrance into D  by the same street which, seven months previously,\nhad witnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from\nCannes to Paris. This man must have been walking all day. He seemed\nvery much fatigued. Some women of the ancient market town which is\nsituated below the city had seen him pause beneath the trees of the\nboulevard Gassendi, and drink at the fountain which stands at the end\nof the promenade. He must have been very thirsty: for the children who\nfollowed him saw him stop again for a drink, two hundred paces further\non, at the fountain in the market-place.\n\nOn arriving at the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turned to the left,\nand directed his steps toward the town-hall. He entered, then came out\na quarter of an hour later. A gendarme was seated near the door, on the\nstone bench which General Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to\nread to the frightened throng of the inhabitants of D  the\nproclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly\nsaluted the gendarme.\n\nThe gendarme, without replying to his salute, stared attentively at\nhim, followed him for a while with his eyes, and then entered the\ntown-hall.\n\nThere then existed at D  a fine inn at the sign of the _Cross of\nColbas_. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquin Labarre, a man\nof consideration in the town on account of his relationship to another\nLabarre, who kept the inn of the _Three Dauphins_ in Grenoble, and had\nserved in the Guides. At the time of the Emperor s landing, many rumors\nhad circulated throughout the country with regard to this inn of the\n_Three Dauphins_. It was said that General Bertrand, disguised as a\ncarter, had made frequent trips thither in the month of January, and\nthat he had distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers and handfuls\nof gold to the citizens. The truth is, that when the Emperor entered\nGrenoble he had refused to install himself at the hotel of the\nprefecture; he had thanked the mayor, saying, _ I am going to the house\nof a brave man of my acquaintance ;_ and he had betaken himself to the\n_Three Dauphins_. This glory of the Labarre of the _Three Dauphins_ was\nreflected upon the Labarre of the _Cross of Colbas_, at a distance of\nfive and twenty leagues. It was said of him in the town, _ That is the\ncousin of the man of Grenoble. _\n\nThe man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the\ncountry-side. He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with the\nstreet. All the stoves were lighted; a huge fire blazed gayly in the\nfireplace. The host, who was also the chief cook, was going from one\nstew-pan to another, very busily superintending an excellent dinner\ndesigned for the wagoners, whose loud talking, conversation, and\nlaughter were audible from an adjoining apartment. Any one who has\ntravelled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer than\nwagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and heather-cocks,\nwas turning on a long spit before the fire; on the stove, two huge\ncarps from Lake Lauzet and a trout from Lake Alloz were cooking.\n\nThe host, hearing the door open and seeing a newcomer enter, said,\nwithout raising his eyes from his stoves: \n\n What do you wish, sir? \n\n\n Food and lodging,  said the man.\n\n Nothing easier,  replied the host. At that moment he turned his head,\ntook in the traveller s appearance with a single glance, and added,  By\npaying for it. \n\n\nThe man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse, and\nanswered,  I have money. \n\n\n In that case, we are at your service,  said the host.\n\nThe man put his purse back in his pocket, removed his knapsack from his\nback, put it on the ground near the door, retained his stick in his\nhand, and seated himself on a low stool close to the fire. D  is in\nthe mountains. The evenings are cold there in October.\n\nBut as the host went back and forth, he scrutinized the traveller.\n\n Will dinner be ready soon?  said the man.\n\n Immediately,  replied the landlord.\n\nWhile the newcomer was warming himself before the fire, with his back\nturned, the worthy host, Jacquin Labarre, drew a pencil from his\npocket, then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lying on\na small table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or\ntwo, folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper\nto a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and\nlackey. The landlord whispered a word in the scullion s ear, and the\nchild set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall.\n\nThe traveller saw nothing of all this.\n\nOnce more he inquired,  Will dinner be ready soon? \n\n\n Immediately,  responded the host.\n\nThe child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it\neagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read it\nattentively, then tossed his head, and remained thoughtful for a\nmoment. Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who\nappeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene.\n\n I cannot receive you, sir,  said he.\n\nThe man half rose.\n\n What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you want me to pay\nyou in advance? I have money, I tell you. \n\n\n It is not that. \n\n\n What then? \n\n\n You have money \n\n\n Yes,  said the man.\n\n And I,  said the host,  have no room. \n\n\nThe man resumed tranquilly,  Put me in the stable. \n\n\n I cannot. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n The horses take up all the space. \n\n\n Very well!  retorted the man;  a corner of the loft then, a truss of\nstraw. We will see about that after dinner. \n\n\n I cannot give you any dinner. \n\n\nThis declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger\nas grave. He rose.\n\n Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise.\nI have travelled twelve leagues. I pay. I wish to eat. \n\n\n I have nothing,  said the landlord.\n\nThe man burst out laughing, and turned towards the fireplace and the\nstoves:  Nothing! and all that? \n\n\n All that is engaged. \n\n\n By whom? \n\n\n By messieurs the wagoners. \n\n\n How many are there of them? \n\n\n Twelve. \n\n\n There is enough food there for twenty. \n\n\n They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance. \n\n\nThe man seated himself again, and said, without raising his voice,  I\nam at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain. \n\n\nThen the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him\nstart,  Go away! \n\n\nAt that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting some\nbrands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turned\nquickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed\nsteadily at him and added, still in a low voice:  Stop! there s enough\nof that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name\nis Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw\nyou come in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this\nwas the reply that was sent to me. Can you read? \n\n\nSo saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper which\nhad just travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the\ntown-hall to the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord\nresumed after a pause.\n\n I am in the habit of being polite to every one. Go away! \n\n\nThe man dropped his head, picked up the knapsack which he had deposited\non the ground, and took his departure.\n\nHe chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a venture,\nkeeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not\nturn round a single time. Had he done so, he would have seen the host\nof the _Cross of Colbas_ standing on his threshold, surrounded by all\nthe guests of his inn, and all the passers-by in the street, talking\nvivaciously, and pointing him out with his finger; and, from the\nglances of terror and distrust cast by the group, he might have divined\nthat his arrival would speedily become an event for the whole town.\n\nHe saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behind\nthem. They know but too well the evil fate which follows them.\n\nThus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasing, traversing\nat random streets of which he knew nothing, forgetful of his fatigue,\nas is often the case when a man is sad. All at once he felt the pangs\nof hunger sharply. Night was drawing near. He glanced about him, to see\nwhether he could not discover some shelter.\n\nThe fine hostelry was closed to him; he was seeking some very humble\npublic house, some hovel, however lowly.\n\nJust then a light flashed up at the end of the streets; a pine branch\nsuspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against the white sky\nof the twilight. He proceeded thither.\n\nIt proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is in\nthe Rue de Chaffaut.\n\nThe wayfarer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into\nthe interior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated\nby a small lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men\nwere engaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself. An\niron pot, suspended from a crane, bubbled over the flame.\n\nThe entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an inn, is\nby two doors. One opens on the street, the other upon a small yard\nfilled with manure. The traveller dare not enter by the street door. He\nslipped into the yard, halted again, then raised the latch timidly and\nopened the door.\n\n Who goes there?  said the master.\n\n Some one who wants supper and bed. \n\n\n Good. We furnish supper and bed here. \n\n\nHe entered. All the men who were drinking turned round. The lamp\nilluminated him on one side, the firelight on the other. They examined\nhim for some time while he was taking off his knapsack.\n\nThe host said to him,  There is the fire. The supper is cooking in the\npot. Come and warm yourself, comrade. \n\n\nHe approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out his\nfeet, which were exhausted with fatigue, to the fire; a fine odor was\nemitted by the pot. All that could be distinguished of his face,\nbeneath his cap, which was well pulled down, assumed a vague appearance\nof comfort, mingled with that other poignant aspect which habitual\nsuffering bestows.\n\nIt was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. This\nphysiognomy was strangely composed; it began by seeming humble, and\nended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a fire\nbeneath brushwood.\n\nOne of the men seated at the table, however, was a fishmonger who,\nbefore entering the public house of the Rue de Chaffaut, had been to\nstable his horse at Labarre s. It chanced that he had that very morning\nencountered this unprepossessing stranger on the road between Bras\nd Asse and I have forgotten the name. I think it was Escoublon. Now,\nwhen he met him, the man, who then seemed already extremely weary, had\nrequested him to take him on his crupper; to which the fishmonger had\nmade no reply except by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a\nmember half an hour previously of the group which surrounded Jacquin\nLabarre, and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of the\nmorning to the people at the _Cross of Colbas_. From where he sat he\nmade an imperceptible sign to the tavern-keeper. The tavern-keeper went\nto him. They exchanged a few words in a low tone. The man had again\nbecome absorbed in his reflections.\n\nThe tavern-keeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly on\nthe shoulder of the man, and said to him: \n\n You are going to get out of here. \n\n\nThe stranger turned round and replied gently,  Ah! You know? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n I was sent away from the other inn. \n\n\n And you are to be turned out of this one. \n\n\n Where would you have me go? \n\n\n Elsewhere. \n\n\nThe man took his stick and his knapsack and departed.\n\nAs he went out, some children who had followed him from the _Cross of\nColbas_, and who seemed to be lying in wait for him, threw stones at\nhim. He retraced his steps in anger, and threatened them with his\nstick: the children dispersed like a flock of birds.\n\nHe passed before the prison. At the door hung an iron chain attached to\na bell. He rang.\n\nThe wicket opened.\n\n Turnkey,  said he, removing his cap politely,  will you have the\nkindness to admit me, and give me a lodging for the night? \n\n\nA voice replied: \n\n The prison is not an inn. Get yourself arrested, and you will be\nadmitted. \n\n\nThe wicket closed again.\n\nHe entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some of\nthem are enclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to the\nstreet. In the midst of these gardens and hedges he caught sight of a\nsmall house of a single story, the window of which was lighted up. He\npeered through the pane as he had done at the public house. Within was\na large whitewashed room, with a bed draped in printed cotton stuff,\nand a cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a double-barrelled\ngun hanging on the wall. A table was spread in the centre of the room.\nA copper lamp illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linen, the\npewter jug shining like silver, and filled with wine, and the brown,\nsmoking soup-tureen. At this table sat a man of about forty, with a\nmerry and open countenance, who was dandling a little child on his\nknees. Close by a very young woman was nursing another child. The\nfather was laughing, the child was laughing, the mother was smiling.\n\nThe stranger paused a moment in reverie before this tender and calming\nspectacle. What was taking place within him? He alone could have told.\nIt is probable that he thought that this joyous house would be\nhospitable, and that, in a place where he beheld so much happiness, he\nwould find perhaps a little pity.\n\nHe tapped on the pane with a very small and feeble knock.\n\nThey did not hear him.\n\nHe tapped again.\n\nHe heard the woman say,  It seems to me, husband, that some one is\nknocking. \n\n\n No,  replied the husband.\n\nHe tapped a third time.\n\nThe husband rose, took the lamp, and went to the door, which he opened.\n\nHe was a man of lofty stature, half peasant, half artisan. He wore a\nhuge leather apron, which reached to his left shoulder, and which a\nhammer, a red handkerchief, a powder-horn, and all sorts of objects\nwhich were upheld by the girdle, as in a pocket, caused to bulge out.\nHe carried his head thrown backwards; his shirt, widely opened and\nturned back, displayed his bull neck, white and bare. He had thick\neyelashes, enormous black whiskers, prominent eyes, the lower part of\nhis face like a snout; and besides all this, that air of being on his\nown ground, which is indescribable.\n\n Pardon me, sir,  said the wayfarer,  Could you, in consideration of\npayment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in\nthe garden, in which to sleep? Tell me; can you? For money? \n\n\n Who are you?  demanded the master of the house.\n\nThe man replied:  I have just come from Puy-Moisson. I have walked all\nday long. I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you? if I pay? \n\n\n I would not refuse,  said the peasant,  to lodge any respectable man\nwho would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn? \n\n\n There is no room. \n\n\n Bah! Impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you\nbeen to Labarre? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\nThe traveller replied with embarrassment:  I do not know. He did not\nreceive me. \n\n\n Have you been to What s-his-name s, in the Rue Chaffaut? \n\n\nThe stranger s embarrassment increased; he stammered,  He did not\nreceive me either. \n\n\nThe peasant s countenance assumed an expression of distrust; he\nsurveyed the newcomer from head to feet, and suddenly exclaimed, with a\nsort of shudder: \n\n Are you the man? \n\n\nHe cast a fresh glance upon the stranger, took three steps backwards,\nplaced the lamp on the table, and took his gun down from the wall.\n\nMeanwhile, at the words, _Are you the man?_ the woman had risen, had\nclasped her two children in her arms, and had taken refuge\nprecipitately behind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger,\nwith her bosom uncovered, and with frightened eyes, as she murmured in\na low tone, _ Tso-maraude. _1\n\nAll this took place in less time than it requires to picture it to\none s self. After having scrutinized the man for several moments, as\none scrutinizes a viper, the master of the house returned to the door\nand said: \n\n Clear out! \n\n\n For pity s sake, a glass of water,  said the man.\n\n A shot from my gun!  said the peasant.\n\nThen he closed the door violently, and the man heard him shoot two\nlarge bolts. A moment later, the window-shutter was closed, and the\nsound of a bar of iron which was placed against it was audible outside.\n\nNight continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing. By the\nlight of the expiring day the stranger perceived, in one of the gardens\nwhich bordered the street, a sort of hut, which seemed to him to be\nbuilt of sods. He climbed over the wooden fence resolutely, and found\nhimself in the garden. He approached the hut; its door consisted of a\nvery low and narrow aperture, and it resembled those buildings which\nroad-laborers construct for themselves along the roads. He thought\nwithout doubt, that it was, in fact, the dwelling of a road-laborer; he\nwas suffering from cold and hunger, but this was, at least, a shelter\nfrom the cold. This sort of dwelling is not usually occupied at night.\nHe threw himself flat on his face, and crawled into the hut. It was\nwarm there, and he found a tolerably good bed of straw. He lay, for a\nmoment, stretched out on this bed, without the power to make a\nmovement, so fatigued was he. Then, as the knapsack on his back was in\nhis way, and as it furnished, moreover, a pillow ready to his hand, he\nset about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment, a ferocious\ngrowl became audible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog\nwas outlined in the darkness at the entrance of the hut.\n\nIt was a dog s kennel.\n\nHe was himself vigorous and formidable; he armed himself with his\nstaff, made a shield of his knapsack, and made his way out of the\nkennel in the best way he could, not without enlarging the rents in his\nrags.\n\nHe left the garden in the same manner, but backwards, being obliged, in\norder to keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that man uvre\nwith his stick which masters in that sort of fencing designate as _la\nrose couverte_.\n\nWhen he had, not without difficulty, repassed the fence, and found\nhimself once more in the street, alone, without refuge, without\nshelter, without a roof over his head, chased even from that bed of\nstraw and from that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated\nhimself on a stone, and it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim,\n I am not even a dog! \n\n\nHe soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town,\nhoping to find some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford\nhim shelter.\n\nHe walked thus for some time, with his head still drooping. When he\nfelt himself far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and\ngazed searchingly about him. He was in a field. Before him was one of\nthose low hills covered with close-cut stubble, which, after the\nharvest, resemble shaved heads.\n\nThe horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity of\nnight; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed to rest\nupon the hill itself, and which were mounting and filling the whole\nsky. Meanwhile, as the moon was about to rise, and as there was still\nfloating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness of twilight, these\nclouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort of whitish arch, whence a\ngleam of light fell upon the earth.\n\nThe earth was thus better lighted than the sky, which produces a\nparticularly sinister effect, and the hill, whose contour was poor and\nmean, was outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon. The whole\neffect was hideous, petty, lugubrious, and narrow.\n\nThere was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree,\nwhich writhed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer.\n\nThis man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits of\nintelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious\naspects of things; nevertheless, there was something in that sky, in\nthat hill, in that plain, in that tree, which was so profoundly\ndesolate, that after a moment of immobility and reverie he turned back\nabruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile.\n\nHe retraced his steps; the gates of D  were closed. D , which had\nsustained sieges during the wars of religion, was still surrounded in\n1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have been\ndemolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town\nagain.\n\nIt might have been eight o clock in the evening. As he was not\nacquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random.\n\nIn this way he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary. As he\npassed through the Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church.\n\nAt the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It is\nthere that the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial Guard\nto the army, brought from the Island of Elba and dictated by Napoleon\nhimself, were printed for the first time.\n\nWorn out with fatigue, and no longer entertaining any hope, he lay down\non a stone bench which stands at the doorway of this printing office.\n\nAt that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man\nstretched out in the shadow.  What are you doing there, my friend? \nsaid she.\n\nHe answered harshly and angrily:  As you see, my good woman, I am\nsleeping.  The good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact, was\nthe Marquise de R \n\n On this bench?  she went on.\n\n I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years,  said the man;\n to-day I have a mattress of stone. \n\n\n You have been a soldier? \n\n\n Yes, my good woman, a soldier. \n\n\n Why do you not go to the inn? \n\n\n Because I have no money. \n\n\n Alas!  said Madame de R ,  I have only four sous in my purse. \n\n\n Give it to me all the same. \n\n\nThe man took the four sous. Madame de R  continued:  You cannot obtain\nlodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It is\nimpossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, no\ndoubt. Some one might have given you a lodging out of charity. \n\n\n I have knocked at all doors. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n I have been driven away everywhere. \n\n\nThe  good woman  touched the man s arm, and pointed out to him on the\nother side of the street a small, low house, which stood beside the\nBishop s palace.\n\n You have knocked at all doors? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Have you knocked at that one? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Knock there. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II PRUDENCE COUNSELLED TO WISDOM.\n\n\nThat evening, the Bishop of D , after his promenade through the town,\nremained shut up rather late in his room. He was busy over a great work\non _Duties_, which was never completed, unfortunately. He was carefully\ncompiling everything that the Fathers and the doctors have said on this\nimportant subject. His book was divided into two parts: firstly, the\nduties of all; secondly, the duties of each individual, according to\nthe class to which he belongs. The duties of all are the great duties.\nThere are four of these. Saint Matthew points them out: duties towards\nGod (_Matt._ vi.); duties towards one s self (_Matt._ v. 29, 30);\nduties towards one s neighbor (_Matt._ vii. 12); duties towards animals\n(_Matt._ vi. 20, 25). As for the other duties the Bishop found them\npointed out and prescribed elsewhere: to sovereigns and subjects, in\nthe Epistle to the Romans; to magistrates, to wives, to mothers, to\nyoung men, by Saint Peter; to husbands, fathers, children and servants,\nin the Epistle to the Ephesians; to the faithful, in the Epistle to the\nHebrews; to virgins, in the Epistle to the Corinthians. Out of these\nprecepts he was laboriously constructing a harmonious whole, which he\ndesired to present to souls.\n\nAt eight o clock he was still at work, writing with a good deal of\ninconvenience upon little squares of paper, with a big book open on his\nknees, when Madame Magloire entered, according to her wont, to get the\nsilver-ware from the cupboard near his bed. A moment later, the Bishop,\nknowing that the table was set, and that his sister was probably\nwaiting for him, shut his book, rose from his table, and entered the\ndining-room.\n\nThe dining-room was an oblong apartment, with a fireplace, which had a\ndoor opening on the street (as we have said), and a window opening on\nthe garden.\n\nMadame Magloire was, in fact, just putting the last touches to the\ntable.\n\nAs she performed this service, she was conversing with Mademoiselle\nBaptistine.\n\nA lamp stood on the table; the table was near the fireplace. A wood\nfire was burning there.\n\nOne can easily picture to one s self these two women, both of whom were\nover sixty years of age. Madame Magloire small, plump, vivacious;\nMademoiselle Baptistine gentle, slender, frail, somewhat taller than\nher brother, dressed in a gown of puce-colored silk, of the fashion of\n1806, which she had purchased at that date in Paris, and which had\nlasted ever since. To borrow vulgar phrases, which possess the merit of\ngiving utterance in a single word to an idea which a whole page would\nhardly suffice to express, Madame Magloire had the air of a _peasant_,\nand Mademoiselle Baptistine that of a _lady_. Madame Magloire wore a\nwhite quilted cap, a gold Jeannette cross on a velvet ribbon upon her\nneck, the only bit of feminine jewelry that there was in the house, a\nvery white fichu puffing out from a gown of coarse black woollen stuff,\nwith large, short sleeves, an apron of cotton cloth in red and green\nchecks, knotted round the waist with a green ribbon, with a stomacher\nof the same attached by two pins at the upper corners, coarse shoes on\nher feet, and yellow stockings, like the women of Marseilles.\nMademoiselle Baptistine s gown was cut on the patterns of 1806, with a\nshort waist, a narrow, sheath-like skirt, puffed sleeves, with flaps\nand buttons. She concealed her gray hair under a frizzed wig known as\nthe _baby_ wig. Madame Magloire had an intelligent, vivacious, and\nkindly air; the two corners of her mouth unequally raised, and her\nupper lip, which was larger than the lower, imparted to her a rather\ncrabbed and imperious look. So long as Monseigneur held his peace, she\ntalked to him resolutely with a mixture of respect and freedom; but as\nsoon as Monseigneur began to speak, as we have seen, she obeyed\npassively like her mistress. Mademoiselle Baptistine did not even\nspeak. She confined herself to obeying and pleasing him. She had never\nbeen pretty, even when she was young; she had large, blue, prominent\neyes, and a long arched nose; but her whole visage, her whole person,\nbreathed forth an ineffable goodness, as we stated in the beginning.\nShe had always been predestined to gentleness; but faith, charity,\nhope, those three virtues which mildly warm the soul, had gradually\nelevated that gentleness to sanctity. Nature had made her a lamb,\nreligion had made her an angel. Poor sainted virgin! Sweet memory which\nhas vanished!\n\nMademoiselle Baptistine has so often narrated what passed at the\nepiscopal residence that evening, that there are many people now living\nwho still recall the most minute details.\n\nAt the moment when the Bishop entered, Madame Magloire was talking with\nconsiderable vivacity. She was haranguing Mademoiselle Baptistine on a\nsubject which was familiar to her and to which the Bishop was also\naccustomed. The question concerned the lock upon the entrance door.\n\nIt appears that while procuring some provisions for supper, Madame\nMagloire had heard things in divers places. People had spoken of a\nprowler of evil appearance; a suspicious vagabond had arrived who must\nbe somewhere about the town, and those who should take it into their\nheads to return home late that night might be subjected to unpleasant\nencounters. The police was very badly organized, moreover, because\nthere was no love lost between the Prefect and the Mayor, who sought to\ninjure each other by making things happen. It behooved wise people to\nplay the part of their own police, and to guard themselves well, and\ncare must be taken to duly close, bar and barricade their houses, and\nto _fasten the doors well_.\n\nMadame Magloire emphasized these last words; but the Bishop had just\ncome from his room, where it was rather cold. He seated himself in\nfront of the fire, and warmed himself, and then fell to thinking of\nother things. He did not take up the remark dropped with design by\nMadame Magloire. She repeated it. Then Mademoiselle Baptistine,\ndesirous of satisfying Madame Magloire without displeasing her brother,\nventured to say timidly: \n\n Did you hear what Madame Magloire is saying, brother? \n\n\n I have heard something of it in a vague way,  replied the Bishop. Then\nhalf-turning in his chair, placing his hands on his knees, and raising\ntowards the old servant woman his cordial face, which so easily grew\njoyous, and which was illuminated from below by the firelight, Come,\nwhat is the matter? What is the matter? Are we in any great danger? \n\n\nThen Madame Magloire began the whole story afresh, exaggerating it a\nlittle without being aware of the fact. It appeared that a Bohemian, a\nbare-footed vagabond, a sort of dangerous mendicant, was at that moment\nin the town. He had presented himself at Jacquin Labarre s to obtain\nlodgings, but the latter had not been willing to take him in. He had\nbeen seen to arrive by the way of the boulevard Gassendi and roam about\nthe streets in the gloaming. A gallows-bird with a terrible face.\n\n Really!  said the Bishop.\n\nThis willingness to interrogate encouraged Madame Magloire; it seemed\nto her to indicate that the Bishop was on the point of becoming\nalarmed; she pursued triumphantly: \n\n Yes, Monseigneur. That is how it is. There will be some sort of\ncatastrophe in this town to-night. Every one says so. And withal, the\npolice is so badly regulated  (a useful repetition).  The idea of\nliving in a mountainous country, and not even having lights in the\nstreets at night! One goes out. Black as ovens, indeed! And I say,\nMonseigneur, and Mademoiselle there says with me \n\n\n I,  interrupted his sister,  say nothing. What my brother does is well\ndone. \n\n\nMadame Magloire continued as though there had been no protest: \n\n We say that this house is not safe at all; that if Monseigneur will\npermit, I will go and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and\nreplace the ancient locks on the doors; we have them, and it is only\nthe work of a moment; for I say that nothing is more terrible than a\ndoor which can be opened from the outside with a latch by the first\npasser-by; and I say that we need bolts, Monseigneur, if only for this\nnight; moreover, Monseigneur has the habit of always saying  come in ;\nand besides, even in the middle of the night, O mon Dieu! there is no\nneed to ask permission. \n\n\nAt that moment there came a tolerably violent knock on the door.\n\n Come in,  said the Bishop.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE HEROISM OF PASSIVE OBEDIENCE.\n\n\nThe door opened.\n\nIt opened wide with a rapid movement, as though some one had given it\nan energetic and resolute push.\n\nA man entered.\n\nWe already know the man. It was the wayfarer whom we have seen\nwandering about in search of shelter.\n\nHe entered, advanced a step, and halted, leaving the door open behind\nhim. He had his knapsack on his shoulders, his cudgel in his hand, a\nrough, audacious, weary, and violent expression in his eyes. The fire\non the hearth lighted him up. He was hideous. It was a sinister\napparition.\n\nMadame Magloire had not even the strength to utter a cry. She trembled,\nand stood with her mouth wide open.\n\nMademoiselle Baptistine turned round, beheld the man entering, and half\nstarted up in terror; then, turning her head by degrees towards the\nfireplace again, she began to observe her brother, and her face became\nonce more profoundly calm and serene.\n\nThe Bishop fixed a tranquil eye on the man.\n\nAs he opened his mouth, doubtless to ask the newcomer what he desired,\nthe man rested both hands on his staff, directed his gaze at the old\nman and the two women, and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he\nsaid, in a loud voice: \n\n See here. My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict from the galleys. I\nhave passed nineteen years in the galleys. I was liberated four days\nago, and am on my way to Pontarlier, which is my destination. I have\nbeen walking for four days since I left Toulon. I have travelled a\ndozen leagues to-day on foot. This evening, when I arrived in these\nparts, I went to an inn, and they turned me out, because of my yellow\npassport, which I had shown at the town-hall. I had to do it. I went to\nan inn. They said to me,  Be off,  at both places. No one would take\nme. I went to the prison; the jailer would not admit me. I went into a\ndog s kennel; the dog bit me and chased me off, as though he had been a\nman. One would have said that he knew who I was. I went into the\nfields, intending to sleep in the open air, beneath the stars. There\nwere no stars. I thought it was going to rain, and I re-entered the\ntown, to seek the recess of a doorway. Yonder, in the square, I meant\nto sleep on a stone bench. A good woman pointed out your house to me,\nand said to me,  Knock there!  I have knocked. What is this place? Do\nyou keep an inn? I have money savings. One hundred and nine francs\nfifteen sous, which I earned in the galleys by my labor, in the course\nof nineteen years. I will pay. What is that to me? I have money. I am\nvery weary; twelve leagues on foot; I am very hungry. Are you willing\nthat I should remain? \n\n\n Madame Magloire,  said the Bishop,  you will set another place. \n\n\nThe man advanced three paces, and approached the lamp which was on the\ntable.  Stop,  he resumed, as though he had not quite understood;\n that s not it. Did you hear? I am a galley-slave; a convict. I come\nfrom the galleys.  He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow\npaper, which he unfolded.  Here s my passport. Yellow, as you see. This\nserves to expel me from every place where I go. Will you read it? I\nknow how to read. I learned in the galleys. There is a school there for\nthose who choose to learn. Hold, this is what they put on this\npassport:  Jean Valjean, discharged convict, native of that is nothing\nto you has been nineteen years in the galleys: five years for\nhouse-breaking and burglary; fourteen years for having attempted to\nescape on four occasions. He is a very dangerous man.  There! Every one\nhas cast me out. Are you willing to receive me? Is this an inn? Will\nyou give me something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable? \n\n\n Madame Magloire,  said the Bishop,  you will put white sheets on the\nbed in the alcove.  We have already explained the character of the two\nwomen s obedience.\n\nMadame Magloire retired to execute these orders.\n\nThe Bishop turned to the man.\n\n Sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We are going to sup in a few\nmoments, and your bed will be prepared while you are supping. \n\n\nAt this point the man suddenly comprehended. The expression of his\nface, up to that time sombre and harsh, bore the imprint of\nstupefaction, of doubt, of joy, and became extraordinary. He began\nstammering like a crazy man: \n\n Really? What! You will keep me? You do not drive me forth? A convict!\nYou call me _sir!_ You do not address me as _thou?_  Get out of here,\nyou dog!  is what people always say to me. I felt sure that you would\nexpel me, so I told you at once who I am. Oh, what a good woman that\nwas who directed me hither! I am going to sup! A bed with a mattress\nand sheets, like the rest of the world! a bed! It is nineteen years\nsince I have slept in a bed! You actually do not want me to go! You are\ngood people. Besides, I have money. I will pay well. Pardon me,\nmonsieur the inn-keeper, but what is your name? I will pay anything you\nask. You are a fine man. You are an inn-keeper, are you not? \n\n\n I am,  replied the Bishop,  a priest who lives here. \n\n\n A priest!  said the man.  Oh, what a fine priest! Then you are not\ngoing to demand any money of me? You are the cur , are you not? the\ncur  of this big church? Well! I am a fool, truly! I had not perceived\nyour skull-cap. \n\n\nAs he spoke, he deposited his knapsack and his cudgel in a corner,\nreplaced his passport in his pocket, and seated himself. Mademoiselle\nBaptistine gazed mildly at him. He continued:\n\n You are humane, Monsieur le Cur ; you have not scorned me. A good\npriest is a very good thing. Then you do not require me to pay? \n\n\n No,  said the Bishop;  keep your money. How much have you? Did you not\ntell me one hundred and nine francs? \n\n\n And fifteen sous,  added the man.\n\n One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous. And how long did it take you\nto earn that? \n\n\n Nineteen years. \n\n\n Nineteen years! \n\n\nThe Bishop sighed deeply.\n\nThe man continued:  I have still the whole of my money. In four days I\nhave spent only twenty-five sous, which I earned by helping unload some\nwagons at Grasse. Since you are an abb , I will tell you that we had a\nchaplain in the galleys. And one day I saw a bishop there. Monseigneur\nis what they call him. He was the Bishop of Majore at Marseilles. He is\nthe cur  who rules over the other cur s, you understand. Pardon me, I\nsay that very badly; but it is such a far-off thing to me! You\nunderstand what we are! He said mass in the middle of the galleys, on\nan altar. He had a pointed thing, made of gold, on his head; it\nglittered in the bright light of midday. We were all ranged in lines on\nthe three sides, with cannons with lighted matches facing us. We could\nnot see very well. He spoke; but he was too far off, and we did not\nhear. That is what a bishop is like. \n\n\nWhile he was speaking, the Bishop had gone and shut the door, which had\nremained wide open.\n\nMadame Magloire returned. She brought a silver fork and spoon, which\nshe placed on the table.\n\n Madame Magloire,  said the Bishop,  place those things as near the\nfire as possible.  And turning to his guest:  The night wind is harsh\non the Alps. You must be cold, sir. \n\n\nEach time that he uttered the word _sir_, in his voice which was so\ngently grave and polished, the man s face lighted up. _Monsieur_ to a\nconvict is like a glass of water to one of the shipwrecked of the\n_Medusa_. Ignominy thirsts for consideration.\n\n This lamp gives a very bad light,  said the Bishop.\n\nMadame Magloire understood him, and went to get the two silver\ncandlesticks from the chimney-piece in Monseigneur s bed-chamber, and\nplaced them, lighted, on the table.\n\n Monsieur le Cur ,  said the man,  you are good; you do not despise me.\nYou receive me into your house. You light your candles for me. Yet I\nhave not concealed from you whence I come and that I am an unfortunate\nman. \n\n\nThe Bishop, who was sitting close to him, gently touched his hand.  You\ncould not help telling me who you were. This is not my house; it is the\nhouse of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters\nwhether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are\nhungry and thirsty; you are welcome. And do not thank me; do not say\nthat I receive you in my house. No one is at home here, except the man\nwho needs a refuge. I say to you, who are passing by, that you are much\nmore at home here than I am myself. Everything here is yours. What need\nhave I to know your name? Besides, before you told me you had one which\nI knew. \n\n\nThe man opened his eyes in astonishment.\n\n Really? You knew what I was called? \n\n\n Yes,  replied the Bishop,  you are called my brother. \n\n\n Stop, Monsieur le Cur ,  exclaimed the man.  I was very hungry when I\nentered here; but you are so good, that I no longer know what has\nhappened to me. \n\n\nThe Bishop looked at him, and said, \n\n You have suffered much? \n\n\n Oh, the red coat, the ball on the ankle, a plank to sleep on, heat,\ncold, toil, the convicts, the thrashings, the double chain for nothing,\nthe cell for one word; even sick and in bed, still the chain! Dogs,\ndogs are happier! Nineteen years! I am forty-six. Now there is the\nyellow passport. That is what it is like. \n\n\n Yes,  resumed the Bishop,  you have come from a very sad place.\nListen. There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of a\nrepentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If\nyou emerge from that sad place with thoughts of hatred and of wrath\nagainst mankind, you are deserving of pity; if you emerge with thoughts\nof good-will and of peace, you are more worthy than any one of us. \n\n\nIn the meantime, Madame Magloire had served supper: soup, made with\nwater, oil, bread, and salt; a little bacon, a bit of mutton, figs, a\nfresh cheese, and a large loaf of rye bread. She had, of her own\naccord, added to the Bishop s ordinary fare a bottle of his old Mauves\nwine.\n\nThe Bishop s face at once assumed that expression of gayety which is\npeculiar to hospitable natures.  To table!  he cried vivaciously. As\nwas his custom when a stranger supped with him, he made the man sit on\nhis right. Mademoiselle Baptistine, perfectly peaceable and natural,\ntook her seat at his left.\n\nThe Bishop asked a blessing; then helped the soup himself, according to\nhis custom. The man began to eat with avidity.\n\nAll at once the Bishop said:  It strikes me there is something missing\non this table. \n\n\nMadame Magloire had, in fact, only placed the three sets of forks and\nspoons which were absolutely necessary. Now, it was the usage of the\nhouse, when the Bishop had any one to supper, to lay out the whole six\nsets of silver on the table-cloth an innocent ostentation. This\ngraceful semblance of luxury was a kind of child s play, which was full\nof charm in that gentle and severe household, which raised poverty into\ndignity.\n\nMadame Magloire understood the remark, went out without saying a word,\nand a moment later the three sets of silver forks and spoons demanded\nby the Bishop were glittering upon the cloth, symmetrically arranged\nbefore the three persons seated at the table.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV DETAILS CONCERNING THE CHEESE-DAIRIES OF PONTARLIER.\n\n\nNow, in order to convey an idea of what passed at that table, we cannot\ndo better than to transcribe here a passage from one of Mademoiselle\nBaptistine s letters to Madame Boischevron, wherein the conversation\nbetween the convict and the Bishop is described with ingenious\nminuteness.\n\n . . . This man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracity\nof a starving man. However, after supper he said:\n\n Monsieur le Cur  of the good God, all this is far too good for me;\nbut I must say that the carters who would not allow me to eat with them\nkeep a better table than you do. \n\n Between ourselves, the remark rather shocked me. My brother replied: \n\n They are more fatigued than I. \n\n No,  returned the man,  they have more money. You are poor; I see\nthat plainly. You cannot be even a curate. Are you really a cur ? Ah,\nif the good God were but just, you certainly ought to be a cur ! \n\n The good God is more than just,  said my brother.\n\n A moment later he added: \n\n Monsieur Jean Valjean, is it to Pontarlier that you are going? \n\n With my road marked out for me. \n\n I think that is what the man said. Then he went on: \n\n I must be on my way by daybreak to-morrow. Travelling is hard. If the\nnights are cold, the days are hot. \n\n You are going to a good country,  said my brother.  During the\nRevolution my family was ruined. I took refuge in Franche-Comt  at\nfirst, and there I lived for some time by the toil of my hands. My will\nwas good. I found plenty to occupy me. One has only to choose. There\nare paper mills, tanneries, distilleries, oil factories, watch\nfactories on a large scale, steel mills, copper works, twenty iron\nfoundries at least, four of which, situated at Lods, at Ch tillon, at\nAudincourt, and at Beure, are tolerably large. \n\n I think I am not mistaken in saying that those are the names which my\nbrother mentioned. Then he interrupted himself and addressed me: \n\n Have we not some relatives in those parts, my dear sister? \n\n I replied, \n\n We did have some; among others, M. de Lucenet, who was captain of the\ngates at Pontarlier under the old r gime. \n\n Yes,  resumed my brother;  but in  93, one had no longer any\nrelatives, one had only one s arms. I worked. They have, in the country\nof Pontarlier, whither you are going, Monsieur Valjean, a truly\npatriarchal and truly charming industry, my sister. It is their\ncheese-dairies, which they call _fruiti res_. \n\n Then my brother, while urging the man to eat, explained to him, with\ngreat minuteness, what these _fruiti res_ of Pontarlier were; that they\nwere divided into two classes: the _big barns_ which belong to the\nrich, and where there are forty or fifty cows which produce from seven\nto eight thousand cheeses each summer, and the _associated fruiti res_,\nwhich belong to the poor; these are the peasants of mid-mountain, who\nhold their cows in common, and share the proceeds.  They engage the\nservices of a cheese-maker, whom they call the _grurin_; the _grurin_\nreceives the milk of the associates three times a day, and marks the\nquantity on a double tally. It is towards the end of April that the\nwork of the cheese-dairies begins; it is towards the middle of June\nthat the cheese-makers drive their cows to the mountains. \n\n The man recovered his animation as he ate. My brother made him drink\nthat good Mauves wine, which he does not drink himself, because he says\nthat wine is expensive. My brother imparted all these details with that\neasy gayety of his with which you are acquainted, interspersing his\nwords with graceful attentions to me. He recurred frequently to that\ncomfortable trade of _grurin_, as though he wished the man to\nunderstand, without advising him directly and harshly, that this would\nafford him a refuge. One thing struck me. This man was what I have told\nyou. Well, neither during supper, nor during the entire evening, did my\nbrother utter a single word, with the exception of a few words about\nJesus when he entered, which could remind the man of what he was, nor\nof what my brother was. To all appearances, it was an occasion for\npreaching him a little sermon, and of impressing the Bishop on the\nconvict, so that a mark of the passage might remain behind. This might\nhave appeared to any one else who had this, unfortunate man in his\nhands to afford a chance to nourish his soul as well as his body, and\nto bestow upon him some reproach, seasoned with moralizing and advice,\nor a little commiseration, with an exhortation to conduct himself\nbetter in the future. My brother did not even ask him from what country\nhe came, nor what was his history. For in his history there is a fault,\nand my brother seemed to avoid everything which could remind him of it.\nTo such a point did he carry it, that at one time, when my brother was\nspeaking of the mountaineers of Pontarlier, _who exercise a gentle\nlabor near heaven, and who_, he added, _are happy because they are\ninnocent_, he stopped short, fearing lest in this remark there might\nhave escaped him something which might wound the man. By dint of\nreflection, I think I have comprehended what was passing in my\nbrother s heart. He was thinking, no doubt, that this man, whose name\nis Jean Valjean, had his misfortune only too vividly present in his\nmind; that the best thing was to divert him from it, and to make him\nbelieve, if only momentarily, that he was a person like any other, by\ntreating him just in his ordinary way. Is not this indeed, to\nunderstand charity well? Is there not, dear Madame, something truly\nevangelical in this delicacy which abstains from sermon, from\nmoralizing, from allusions? and is not the truest pity, when a man has\na sore point, not to touch it at all? It has seemed to me that this\nmight have been my brother s private thought. In any case, what I can\nsay is that, if he entertained all these ideas, he gave no sign of\nthem; from beginning to end, even to me he was the same as he is every\nevening, and he supped with this Jean Valjean with the same air and in\nthe same manner in which he would have supped with M. G d on le\nPr vost, or with the curate of the parish.\n\n Towards the end, when he had reached the figs, there came a knock at\nthe door. It was Mother Gerbaud, with her little one in her arms. My\nbrother kissed the child on the brow, and borrowed fifteen sous which I\nhad about me to give to Mother Gerbaud. The man was not paying much\nheed to anything then. He was no longer talking, and he seemed very\nmuch fatigued. After poor old Gerbaud had taken her departure, my\nbrother said grace; then he turned to the man and said to him,  You\nmust be in great need of your bed.  Madame Magloire cleared the table\nvery promptly. I understood that we must retire, in order to allow this\ntraveller to go to sleep, and we both went upstairs. Nevertheless, I\nsent Madame Magloire down a moment later, to carry to the man s bed a\ngoat skin from the Black Forest, which was in my room. The nights are\nfrigid, and that keeps one warm. It is a pity that this skin is old;\nall the hair is falling out. My brother bought it while he was in\nGermany, at Tottlingen, near the sources of the Danube, as well as the\nlittle ivory-handled knife which I use at table.\n\n Madame Magloire returned immediately. We said our prayers in the\ndrawing-room, where we hang up the linen, and then we each retired to\nour own chambers, without saying a word to each other. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V TRANQUILLITY\n\n\nAfter bidding his sister good night, Monseigneur Bienvenu took one of\nthe two silver candlesticks from the table, handed the other to his\nguest, and said to him, \n\n Monsieur, I will conduct you to your room. \n\n\nThe man followed him.\n\nAs might have been observed from what has been said above, the house\nwas so arranged that in order to pass into the oratory where the alcove\nwas situated, or to get out of it, it was necessary to traverse the\nBishop s bedroom.\n\nAt the moment when he was crossing this apartment, Madame Magloire was\nputting away the silverware in the cupboard near the head of the bed.\nThis was her last care every evening before she went to bed.\n\nThe Bishop installed his guest in the alcove. A fresh white bed had\nbeen prepared there. The man set the candle down on a small table.\n\n Well,  said the Bishop,  may you pass a good night. To-morrow morning,\nbefore you set out, you shall drink a cup of warm milk from our cows. \n\n\n Thanks, Monsieur l Abb ,  said the man.\n\nHardly had he pronounced these words full of peace, when all of a\nsudden, and without transition, he made a strange movement, which would\nhave frozen the two sainted women with horror, had they witnessed it.\nEven at this day it is difficult for us to explain what inspired him at\nthat moment. Did he intend to convey a warning or to throw out a\nmenace? Was he simply obeying a sort of instinctive impulse which was\nobscure even to himself? He turned abruptly to the old man, folded his\narms, and bending upon his host a savage gaze, he exclaimed in a hoarse\nvoice: \n\n Ah! really! You lodge me in your house, close to yourself like this? \n\n\nHe broke off, and added with a laugh in which there lurked something\nmonstrous: \n\n Have you really reflected well? How do you know that I have not been\nan assassin? \n\n\nThe Bishop replied: \n\n That is the concern of the good God. \n\n\nThen gravely, and moving his lips like one who is praying or talking to\nhimself, he raised two fingers of his right hand and bestowed his\nbenediction on the man, who did not bow, and without turning his head\nor looking behind him, he returned to his bedroom.\n\nWhen the alcove was in use, a large serge curtain drawn from wall to\nwall concealed the altar. The Bishop knelt before this curtain as he\npassed and said a brief prayer. A moment later he was in his garden,\nwalking, meditating, contemplating, his heart and soul wholly absorbed\nin those grand and mysterious things which God shows at night to the\neyes which remain open.\n\nAs for the man, he was actually so fatigued that he did not even profit\nby the nice white sheets. Snuffing out his candle with his nostrils\nafter the manner of convicts, he dropped, all dressed as he was, upon\nthe bed, where he immediately fell into a profound sleep.\n\nMidnight struck as the Bishop returned from his garden to his\napartment.\n\nA few minutes later all were asleep in the little house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI JEAN VALJEAN\n\n\nTowards the middle of the night Jean Valjean woke.\n\nJean Valjean came from a poor peasant family of Brie. He had not\nlearned to read in his childhood. When he reached man s estate, he\nbecame a tree-pruner at Faverolles. His mother was named Jeanne\nMathieu; his father was called Jean Valjean or Vlajean, probably a\nsobriquet, and a contraction of _voil _ Jean,  here s Jean. \n\n\nJean Valjean was of that thoughtful but not gloomy disposition which\nconstitutes the peculiarity of affectionate natures. On the whole,\nhowever, there was something decidedly sluggish and insignificant about\nJean Valjean in appearance, at least. He had lost his father and mother\nat a very early age. His mother had died of a milk fever, which had not\nbeen properly attended to. His father, a tree-pruner, like himself, had\nbeen killed by a fall from a tree. All that remained to Jean Valjean\nwas a sister older than himself, a widow with seven children, boys and\ngirls. This sister had brought up Jean Valjean, and so long as she had\na husband she lodged and fed her young brother.\n\nThe husband died. The eldest of the seven children was eight years old.\nThe youngest, one.\n\nJean Valjean had just attained his twenty-fifth year. He took the\nfather s place, and, in his turn, supported the sister who had brought\nhim up. This was done simply as a duty and even a little churlishly on\nthe part of Jean Valjean. Thus his youth had been spent in rude and\nill-paid toil. He had never known a  kind woman friend  in his native\nparts. He had not had the time to fall in love.\n\nHe returned at night weary, and ate his broth without uttering a word.\nHis sister, mother Jeanne, often took the best part of his repast from\nhis bowl while he was eating, a bit of meat, a slice of bacon, the\nheart of the cabbage, to give to one of her children. As he went on\neating, with his head bent over the table and almost into his soup, his\nlong hair falling about his bowl and concealing his eyes, he had the\nair of perceiving nothing and allowing it. There was at Faverolles, not\nfar from the Valjean thatched cottage, on the other side of the lane, a\nfarmer s wife named Marie-Claude; the Valjean children, habitually\nfamished, sometimes went to borrow from Marie-Claude a pint of milk, in\ntheir mother s name, which they drank behind a hedge or in some alley\ncorner, snatching the jug from each other so hastily that the little\ngirls spilled it on their aprons and down their necks. If their mother\nhad known of this marauding, she would have punished the delinquents\nseverely. Jean Valjean gruffly and grumblingly paid Marie-Claude for\nthe pint of milk behind their mother s back, and the children were not\npunished.\n\nIn pruning season he earned eighteen sous a day; then he hired out as a\nhay-maker, as laborer, as neat-herd on a farm, as a drudge. He did\nwhatever he could. His sister worked also but what could she do with\nseven little children? It was a sad group enveloped in misery, which\nwas being gradually annihilated. A very hard winter came. Jean had no\nwork. The family had no bread. No bread literally. Seven children!\n\nOne Sunday evening, Maubert Isabeau, the baker on the Church Square at\nFaverolles, was preparing to go to bed, when he heard a violent blow on\nthe grated front of his shop. He arrived in time to see an arm passed\nthrough a hole made by a blow from a fist, through the grating and the\nglass. The arm seized a loaf of bread and carried it off. Isabeau ran\nout in haste; the robber fled at the full speed of his legs. Isabeau\nran after him and stopped him. The thief had flung away the loaf, but\nhis arm was still bleeding. It was Jean Valjean.\n\nThis took place in 1795. Jean Valjean was taken before the tribunals of\nthe time for theft and breaking and entering an inhabited house at\nnight. He had a gun which he used better than any one else in the\nworld, he was a bit of a poacher, and this injured his case. There\nexists a legitimate prejudice against poachers. The poacher, like the\nsmuggler, smacks too strongly of the brigand. Nevertheless, we will\nremark cursorily, there is still an abyss between these races of men\nand the hideous assassin of the towns. The poacher lives in the forest,\nthe smuggler lives in the mountains or on the sea. The cities make\nferocious men because they make corrupt men. The mountain, the sea, the\nforest, make savage men; they develop the fierce side, but often\nwithout destroying the humane side.\n\nJean Valjean was pronounced guilty. The terms of the Code were\nexplicit. There occur formidable hours in our civilization; there are\nmoments when the penal laws decree a shipwreck. What an ominous minute\nis that in which society draws back and consummates the irreparable\nabandonment of a sentient being! Jean Valjean was condemned to five\nyears in the galleys.\n\nOn the 22d of April, 1796, the victory of Montenotte, won by the\ngeneral-in-chief of the army of Italy, whom the message of the\nDirectory to the Five Hundred, of the 2d of Flor al, year IV., calls\nBuona-Parte, was announced in Paris; on that same day a great gang of\ngalley-slaves was put in chains at Bic tre. Jean Valjean formed a part\nof that gang. An old turnkey of the prison, who is now nearly eighty\nyears old, still recalls perfectly that unfortunate wretch who was\nchained to the end of the fourth line, in the north angle of the\ncourtyard. He was seated on the ground like the others. He did not seem\nto comprehend his position, except that it was horrible. It is probable\nthat he, also, was disentangling from amid the vague ideas of a poor\nman, ignorant of everything, something excessive. While the bolt of his\niron collar was being riveted behind his head with heavy blows from the\nhammer, he wept, his tears stifled him, they impeded his speech; he\nonly managed to say from time to time,  I was a tree-pruner at\nFaverolles.  Then still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered\nit gradually seven times, as though he were touching in succession\nseven heads of unequal heights, and from this gesture it was divined\nthat the thing which he had done, whatever it was, he had done for the\nsake of clothing and nourishing seven little children.\n\nHe set out for Toulon. He arrived there, after a journey of\ntwenty-seven days, on a cart, with a chain on his neck. At Toulon he\nwas clothed in the red cassock. All that had constituted his life, even\nto his name, was effaced; he was no longer even Jean Valjean; he was\nnumber 24,601. What became of his sister? What became of the seven\nchildren? Who troubled himself about that? What becomes of the handful\nof leaves from the young tree which is sawed off at the root?\n\nIt is always the same story. These poor living beings, these creatures\nof God, henceforth without support, without guide, without refuge,\nwandered away at random, who even knows? each in his own direction\nperhaps, and little by little buried themselves in that cold mist which\nengulfs solitary destinies; gloomy shades, into which disappear in\nsuccession so many unlucky heads, in the sombre march of the human\nrace. They quitted the country. The clock-tower of what had been their\nvillage forgot them; the boundary line of what had been their field\nforgot them; after a few years  residence in the galleys, Jean Valjean\nhimself forgot them. In that heart, where there had been a wound, there\nwas a scar. That is all. Only once, during all the time which he spent\nat Toulon, did he hear his sister mentioned. This happened, I think,\ntowards the end of the fourth year of his captivity. I know not through\nwhat channels the news reached him. Some one who had known them in\ntheir own country had seen his sister. She was in Paris. She lived in a\npoor street near Saint-Sulpice, in the Rue du Gindre. She had with her\nonly one child, a little boy, the youngest. Where were the other six?\nPerhaps she did not know herself. Every morning she went to a printing\noffice, No. 3 Rue du Sabot, where she was a folder and stitcher. She\nwas obliged to be there at six o clock in the morning long before\ndaylight in winter. In the same building with the printing office there\nwas a school, and to this school she took her little boy, who was seven\nyears old. But as she entered the printing office at six, and the\nschool only opened at seven, the child had to wait in the courtyard,\nfor the school to open, for an hour one hour of a winter night in the\nopen air! They would not allow the child to come into the printing\noffice, because he was in the way, they said. When the workmen passed\nin the morning, they beheld this poor little being seated on the\npavement, overcome with drowsiness, and often fast asleep in the\nshadow, crouched down and doubled up over his basket. When it rained,\nan old woman, the portress, took pity on him; she took him into her\nden, where there was a pallet, a spinning-wheel, and two wooden chairs,\nand the little one slumbered in a corner, pressing himself close to the\ncat that he might suffer less from cold. At seven o clock the school\nopened, and he entered. That is what was told to Jean Valjean.\n\nThey talked to him about it for one day; it was a moment, a flash, as\nthough a window had suddenly been opened upon the destiny of those\nthings whom he had loved; then all closed again. He heard nothing more\nforever. Nothing from them ever reached him again; he never beheld\nthem; he never met them again; and in the continuation of this mournful\nhistory they will not be met with any more.\n\nTowards the end of this fourth year Jean Valjean s turn to escape\narrived. His comrades assisted him, as is the custom in that sad place.\nHe escaped. He wandered for two days in the fields at liberty, if being\nat liberty is to be hunted, to turn the head every instant, to quake at\nthe slightest noise, to be afraid of everything, of a smoking roof, of\na passing man, of a barking dog, of a galloping horse, of a striking\nclock, of the day because one can see, of the night because one cannot\nsee, of the highway, of the path, of a bush, of sleep. On the evening\nof the second day he was captured. He had neither eaten nor slept for\nthirty-six hours. The maritime tribunal condemned him, for this crime,\nto a prolongation of his term for three years, which made eight years.\nIn the sixth year his turn to escape occurred again; he availed himself\nof it, but could not accomplish his flight fully. He was missing at\nroll-call. The cannon were fired, and at night the patrol found him\nhidden under the keel of a vessel in process of construction; he\nresisted the galley guards who seized him. Escape and rebellion. This\ncase, provided for by a special code, was punished by an addition of\nfive years, two of them in the double chain. Thirteen years. In the\ntenth year his turn came round again; he again profited by it; he\nsucceeded no better. Three years for this fresh attempt. Sixteen years.\nFinally, I think it was during his thirteenth year, he made a last\nattempt, and only succeeded in getting retaken at the end of four hours\nof absence. Three years for those four hours. Nineteen years. In\nOctober, 1815, he was released; he had entered there in 1796, for\nhaving broken a pane of glass and taken a loaf of bread.\n\nRoom for a brief parenthesis. This is the second time, during his\nstudies on the penal question and damnation by law, that the author of\nthis book has come across the theft of a loaf of bread as the point of\ndeparture for the disaster of a destiny. Claude Gaux had stolen a loaf;\nJean Valjean had stolen a loaf. English statistics prove the fact that\nfour thefts out of five in London have hunger for their immediate\ncause.\n\nJean Valjean had entered the galleys sobbing and shuddering; he emerged\nimpassive. He had entered in despair; he emerged gloomy.\n\nWhat had taken place in that soul?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE INTERIOR OF DESPAIR\n\n\nLet us try to say it.\n\nIt is necessary that society should look at these things, because it is\nitself which creates them.\n\nHe was, as we have said, an ignorant man, but he was not a fool. The\nlight of nature was ignited in him. Unhappiness, which also possesses a\nclearness of vision of its own, augmented the small amount of daylight\nwhich existed in this mind. Beneath the cudgel, beneath the chain, in\nthe cell, in hardship, beneath the burning sun of the galleys, upon the\nplank bed of the convict, he withdrew into his own consciousness and\nmeditated.\n\nHe constituted himself the tribunal.\n\nHe began by putting himself on trial.\n\nHe recognized the fact that he was not an innocent man unjustly\npunished. He admitted that he had committed an extreme and blameworthy\nact; that that loaf of bread would probably not have been refused to\nhim had he asked for it; that, in any case, it would have been better\nto wait until he could get it through compassion or through work; that\nit is not an unanswerable argument to say,  Can one wait when one is\nhungry?  That, in the first place, it is very rare for any one to die\nof hunger, literally; and next, that, fortunately or unfortunately, man\nis so constituted that he can suffer long and much, both morally and\nphysically, without dying; that it is therefore necessary to have\npatience; that that would even have been better for those poor little\nchildren; that it had been an act of madness for him, a miserable,\nunfortunate wretch, to take society at large violently by the collar,\nand to imagine that one can escape from misery through theft; that that\nis in any case a poor door through which to escape from misery through\nwhich infamy enters; in short, that he was in the wrong.\n\nThen he asked himself: \n\nWhether he had been the only one in fault in his fatal history. Whether\nit was not a serious thing, that he, a laborer, out of work, that he,\nan industrious man, should have lacked bread. And whether, the fault\nonce committed and confessed, the chastisement had not been ferocious\nand disproportioned. Whether there had not been more abuse on the part\nof the law, in respect to the penalty, than there had been on the part\nof the culprit in respect to his fault. Whether there had not been an\nexcess of weights in one balance of the scale, in the one which\ncontains expiation. Whether the over-weight of the penalty was not\nequivalent to the annihilation of the crime, and did not result in\nreversing the situation, of replacing the fault of the delinquent by\nthe fault of the repression, of converting the guilty man into the\nvictim, and the debtor into the creditor, and of ranging the law\ndefinitely on the side of the man who had violated it.\n\nWhether this penalty, complicated by successive aggravations for\nattempts at escape, had not ended in becoming a sort of outrage\nperpetrated by the stronger upon the feebler, a crime of society\nagainst the individual, a crime which was being committed afresh every\nday, a crime which had lasted nineteen years.\n\nHe asked himself whether human society could have the right to force\nits members to suffer equally in one case for its own unreasonable lack\nof foresight, and in the other case for its pitiless foresight; and to\nseize a poor man forever between a defect and an excess, a default of\nwork and an excess of punishment.\n\nWhether it was not outrageous for society to treat thus precisely those\nof its members who were the least well endowed in the division of goods\nmade by chance, and consequently the most deserving of consideration.\n\nThese questions put and answered, he judged society and condemned it.\n\nHe condemned it to his hatred.\n\nHe made it responsible for the fate which he was suffering, and he said\nto himself that it might be that one day he should not hesitate to call\nit to account. He declared to himself that there was no equilibrium\nbetween the harm which he had caused and the harm which was being done\nto him; he finally arrived at the conclusion that his punishment was\nnot, in truth, unjust, but that it most assuredly was iniquitous.\n\nAnger may be both foolish and absurd; one can be irritated wrongfully;\none is exasperated only when there is some show of right on one s side\nat bottom. Jean Valjean felt himself exasperated.\n\nAnd besides, human society had done him nothing but harm; he had never\nseen anything of it save that angry face which it calls Justice, and\nwhich it shows to those whom it strikes. Men had only touched him to\nbruise him. Every contact with them had been a blow. Never, since his\ninfancy, since the days of his mother, of his sister, had he ever\nencountered a friendly word and a kindly glance. From suffering to\nsuffering, he had gradually arrived at the conviction that life is a\nwar; and that in this war he was the conquered. He had no other weapon\nthan his hate. He resolved to whet it in the galleys and to bear it\naway with him when he departed.\n\nThere was at Toulon a school for the convicts, kept by the Ignorantin\nfriars, where the most necessary branches were taught to those of the\nunfortunate men who had a mind for them. He was of the number who had a\nmind. He went to school at the age of forty, and learned to read, to\nwrite, to cipher. He felt that to fortify his intelligence was to\nfortify his hate. In certain cases, education and enlightenment can\nserve to eke out evil.\n\nThis is a sad thing to say; after having judged society, which had\ncaused his unhappiness, he judged Providence, which had made society,\nand he condemned it also.\n\nThus during nineteen years of torture and slavery, this soul mounted\nand at the same time fell. Light entered it on one side, and darkness\non the other.\n\nJean Valjean had not, as we have seen, an evil nature. He was still\ngood when he arrived at the galleys. He there condemned society, and\nfelt that he was becoming wicked; he there condemned Providence, and\nwas conscious that he was becoming impious.\n\nIt is difficult not to indulge in meditation at this point.\n\nDoes human nature thus change utterly and from top to bottom? Can the\nman created good by God be rendered wicked by man? Can the soul be\ncompletely made over by fate, and become evil, fate being evil? Can the\nheart become misshapen and contract incurable deformities and\ninfirmities under the oppression of a disproportionate unhappiness, as\nthe vertebral column beneath too low a vault? Is there not in every\nhuman soul, was there not in the soul of Jean Valjean in particular, a\nfirst spark, a divine element, incorruptible in this world, immortal in\nthe other, which good can develop, fan, ignite, and make to glow with\nsplendor, and which evil can never wholly extinguish?\n\nGrave and obscure questions, to the last of which every physiologist\nwould probably have responded no, and that without hesitation, had he\nbeheld at Toulon, during the hours of repose, which were for Jean\nValjean hours of reverie, this gloomy galley-slave, seated with folded\narms upon the bar of some capstan, with the end of his chain thrust\ninto his pocket to prevent its dragging, serious, silent, and\nthoughtful, a pariah of the laws which regarded the man with wrath,\ncondemned by civilization, and regarding heaven with severity.\n\nCertainly, and we make no attempt to dissimulate the fact, the\nobserving physiologist would have beheld an irremediable misery; he\nwould, perchance, have pitied this sick man, of the law s making; but\nhe would not have even essayed any treatment; he would have turned\naside his gaze from the caverns of which he would have caught a glimpse\nwithin this soul, and, like Dante at the portals of hell, he would have\neffaced from this existence the word which the finger of God has,\nnevertheless, inscribed upon the brow of every man, hope.\n\nWas this state of his soul, which we have attempted to analyze, as\nperfectly clear to Jean Valjean as we have tried to render it for those\nwho read us? Did Jean Valjean distinctly perceive, after their\nformation, and had he seen distinctly during the process of their\nformation, all the elements of which his moral misery was composed? Had\nthis rough and unlettered man gathered a perfectly clear perception of\nthe succession of ideas through which he had, by degrees, mounted and\ndescended to the lugubrious aspects which had, for so many years,\nformed the inner horizon of his spirit? Was he conscious of all that\npassed within him, and of all that was working there? That is something\nwhich we do not presume to state; it is something which we do not even\nbelieve. There was too much ignorance in Jean Valjean, even after his\nmisfortune, to prevent much vagueness from still lingering there. At\ntimes he did not rightly know himself what he felt. Jean Valjean was in\nthe shadows; he suffered in the shadows; he hated in the shadows; one\nmight have said that he hated in advance of himself. He dwelt\nhabitually in this shadow, feeling his way like a blind man and a\ndreamer. Only, at intervals, there suddenly came to him, from without\nand from within, an access of wrath, a surcharge of suffering, a livid\nand rapid flash which illuminated his whole soul, and caused to appear\nabruptly all around him, in front, behind, amid the gleams of a\nfrightful light, the hideous precipices and the sombre perspective of\nhis destiny.\n\nThe flash passed, the night closed in again; and where was he? He no\nlonger knew. The peculiarity of pains of this nature, in which that\nwhich is pitiless that is to say, that which is\nbrutalizing predominates, is to transform a man, little by little, by a\nsort of stupid transfiguration, into a wild beast; sometimes into a\nferocious beast.\n\nJean Valjean s successive and obstinate attempts at escape would alone\nsuffice to prove this strange working of the law upon the human soul.\nJean Valjean would have renewed these attempts, utterly useless and\nfoolish as they were, as often as the opportunity had presented itself,\nwithout reflecting for an instant on the result, nor on the experiences\nwhich he had already gone through. He escaped impetuously, like the\nwolf who finds his cage open. Instinct said to him,  Flee!  Reason\nwould have said,  Remain!  But in the presence of so violent a\ntemptation, reason vanished; nothing remained but instinct. The beast\nalone acted. When he was recaptured, the fresh severities inflicted on\nhim only served to render him still more wild.\n\nOne detail, which we must not omit, is that he possessed a physical\nstrength which was not approached by a single one of the denizens of\nthe galleys. At work, at paying out a cable or winding up a capstan,\nJean Valjean was worth four men. He sometimes lifted and sustained\nenormous weights on his back; and when the occasion demanded it, he\nreplaced that implement which is called a jack-screw, and was formerly\ncalled _orgueil_ [pride], whence, we may remark in passing, is derived\nthe name of the Rue Montorgueil, near the Halles [Fishmarket] in Paris.\nHis comrades had nicknamed him Jean the Jack-screw. Once, when they\nwere repairing the balcony of the town-hall at Toulon, one of those\nadmirable caryatids of Puget, which support the balcony, became\nloosened, and was on the point of falling. Jean Valjean, who was\npresent, supported the caryatid with his shoulder, and gave the workmen\ntime to arrive.\n\nHis suppleness even exceeded his strength. Certain convicts who were\nforever dreaming of escape, ended by making a veritable science of\nforce and skill combined. It is the science of muscles. An entire\nsystem of mysterious statics is daily practised by prisoners, men who\nare forever envious of the flies and birds. To climb a vertical\nsurface, and to find points of support where hardly a projection was\nvisible, was play to Jean Valjean. An angle of the wall being given,\nwith the tension of his back and legs, with his elbows and his heels\nfitted into the unevenness of the stone, he raised himself as if by\nmagic to the third story. He sometimes mounted thus even to the roof of\nthe galley prison.\n\nHe spoke but little. He laughed not at all. An excessive emotion was\nrequired to wring from him, once or twice a year, that lugubrious laugh\nof the convict, which is like the echo of the laugh of a demon. To all\nappearance, he seemed to be occupied in the constant contemplation of\nsomething terrible.\n\nHe was absorbed, in fact.\n\nAthwart the unhealthy perceptions of an incomplete nature and a crushed\nintelligence, he was confusedly conscious that some monstrous thing was\nresting on him. In that obscure and wan shadow within which he crawled,\neach time that he turned his neck and essayed to raise his glance, he\nperceived with terror, mingled with rage, a sort of frightful\naccumulation of things, collecting and mounting above him, beyond the\nrange of his vision, laws, prejudices, men, and deeds, whose outlines\nescaped him, whose mass terrified him, and which was nothing else than\nthat prodigious pyramid which we call civilization. He distinguished,\nhere and there in that swarming and formless mass, now near him, now\nafar off and on inaccessible table-lands, some group, some detail,\nvividly illuminated; here the galley-sergeant and his cudgel; there the\ngendarme and his sword; yonder the mitred archbishop; away at the top,\nlike a sort of sun, the Emperor, crowned and dazzling. It seemed to him\nthat these distant splendors, far from dissipating his night, rendered\nit more funereal and more black. All this laws, prejudices, deeds, men,\nthings went and came above him, over his head, in accordance with the\ncomplicated and mysterious movement which God imparts to civilization,\nwalking over him and crushing him with I know not what peacefulness in\nits cruelty and inexorability in its indifference. Souls which have\nfallen to the bottom of all possible misfortune, unhappy men lost in\nthe lowest of those limbos at which no one any longer looks, the\nreproved of the law, feel the whole weight of this human society, so\nformidable for him who is without, so frightful for him who is beneath,\nresting upon their heads.\n\nIn this situation Jean Valjean meditated; and what could be the nature\nof his meditation?\n\nIf the grain of millet beneath the millstone had thoughts, it would,\ndoubtless, think that same thing which Jean Valjean thought.\n\nAll these things, realities full of spectres, phantasmagories full of\nrealities, had eventually created for him a sort of interior state\nwhich is almost indescribable.\n\nAt times, amid his convict toil, he paused. He fell to thinking. His\nreason, at one and the same time riper and more troubled than of yore,\nrose in revolt. Everything which had happened to him seemed to him\nabsurd; everything that surrounded him seemed to him impossible. He\nsaid to himself,  It is a dream.  He gazed at the galley-sergeant\nstanding a few paces from him; the galley-sergeant seemed a phantom to\nhim. All of a sudden the phantom dealt him a blow with his cudgel.\n\nVisible nature hardly existed for him. It would almost be true to say\nthat there existed for Jean Valjean neither sun, nor fine summer days,\nnor radiant sky, nor fresh April dawns. I know not what vent-hole\ndaylight habitually illumined his soul.\n\nTo sum up, in conclusion, that which can be summed up and translated\ninto positive results in all that we have just pointed out, we will\nconfine ourselves to the statement that, in the course of nineteen\nyears, Jean Valjean, the inoffensive tree-pruner of Faverolles, the\nformidable convict of Toulon, had become capable, thanks to the manner\nin which the galleys had moulded him, of two sorts of evil action:\nfirstly, of evil action which was rapid, unpremeditated, dashing,\nentirely instinctive, in the nature of reprisals for the evil which he\nhad undergone; secondly, of evil action which was serious, grave,\nconsciously argued out and premeditated, with the false ideas which\nsuch a misfortune can furnish. His deliberate deeds passed through\nthree successive phases, which natures of a certain stamp can alone\ntraverse, reasoning, will, perseverance. He had for moving causes his\nhabitual wrath, bitterness of soul, a profound sense of indignities\nsuffered, the reaction even against the good, the innocent, and the\njust, if there are any such. The point of departure, like the point of\narrival, for all his thoughts, was hatred of human law; that hatred\nwhich, if it be not arrested in its development by some providential\nincident, becomes, within a given time, the hatred of society, then the\nhatred of the human race, then the hatred of creation, and which\nmanifests itself by a vague, incessant, and brutal desire to do harm to\nsome living being, no matter whom. It will be perceived that it was not\nwithout reason that Jean Valjean s passport described him as _a very\ndangerous man_.\n\nFrom year to year this soul had dried away slowly, but with fatal\nsureness. When the heart is dry, the eye is dry. On his departure from\nthe galleys it had been nineteen years since he had shed a tear.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII BILLOWS AND SHADOWS\n\n\nA man overboard!\n\nWhat matters it? The vessel does not halt. The wind blows. That sombre\nship has a path which it is forced to pursue. It passes on.\n\nThe man disappears, then reappears; he plunges, he rises again to the\nsurface; he calls, he stretches out his arms; he is not heard. The\nvessel, trembling under the hurricane, is wholly absorbed in its own\nworkings; the passengers and sailors do not even see the drowning man;\nhis miserable head is but a speck amid the immensity of the waves. He\ngives vent to desperate cries from out of the depths. What a spectre is\nthat retreating sail! He gazes and gazes at it frantically. It\nretreats, it grows dim, it diminishes in size. He was there but just\nnow, he was one of the crew, he went and came along the deck with the\nrest, he had his part of breath and of sunlight, he was a living man.\nNow, what has taken place? He has slipped, he has fallen; all is at an\nend.\n\nHe is in the tremendous sea. Under foot he has nothing but what flees\nand crumbles. The billows, torn and lashed by the wind, encompass him\nhideously; the tossings of the abyss bear him away; all the tongues of\nwater dash over his head; a populace of waves spits upon him; confused\nopenings half devour him; every time that he sinks, he catches glimpses\nof precipices filled with night; frightful and unknown vegetations\nseize him, knot about his feet, draw him to them; he is conscious that\nhe is becoming an abyss, that he forms part of the foam; the waves toss\nhim from one to another; he drinks in the bitterness; the cowardly\nocean attacks him furiously, to drown him; the enormity plays with his\nagony. It seems as though all that water were hate.\n\nNevertheless, he struggles.\n\nHe tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he makes an\neffort; he swims. He, his petty strength all exhausted instantly,\ncombats the inexhaustible.\n\nWhere, then, is the ship? Yonder. Barely visible in the pale shadows of\nthe horizon.\n\nThe wind blows in gusts; all the foam overwhelms him. He raises his\neyes and beholds only the lividness of the clouds. He witnesses, amid\nhis death-pangs, the immense madness of the sea. He is tortured by this\nmadness; he hears noises strange to man, which seem to come from beyond\nthe limits of the earth, and from one knows not what frightful region\nbeyond.\n\nThere are birds in the clouds, just as there are angels above human\ndistresses; but what can they do for him? They sing and fly and float,\nand he, he rattles in the death agony.\n\nHe feels himself buried in those two infinities, the ocean and the sky,\nat one and the same time: the one is a tomb; the other is a shroud.\n\nNight descends; he has been swimming for hours; his strength is\nexhausted; that ship, that distant thing in which there were men, has\nvanished; he is alone in the formidable twilight gulf; he sinks, he\nstiffens himself, he twists himself; he feels under him the monstrous\nbillows of the invisible; he shouts.\n\nThere are no more men. Where is God?\n\nHe shouts. Help! Help! He still shouts on.\n\nNothing on the horizon; nothing in heaven.\n\nHe implores the expanse, the waves, the seaweed, the reef; they are\ndeaf. He beseeches the tempest; the imperturbable tempest obeys only\nthe infinite.\n\nAround him darkness, fog, solitude, the stormy and nonsentient tumult,\nthe undefined curling of those wild waters. In him horror and fatigue.\nBeneath him the depths. Not a point of support. He thinks of the gloomy\nadventures of the corpse in the limitless shadow. The bottomless cold\nparalyzes him. His hands contract convulsively; they close, and grasp\nnothingness. Winds, clouds, whirlwinds, gusts, useless stars! What is\nto be done? The desperate man gives up; he is weary, he chooses the\nalternative of death; he resists not; he lets himself go; he abandons\nhis grip; and then he tosses forevermore in the lugubrious dreary\ndepths of engulfment.\n\nOh, implacable march of human societies! Oh, losses of men and of souls\non the way! Ocean into which falls all that the law lets slip!\nDisastrous absence of help! Oh, moral death!\n\nThe sea is the inexorable social night into which the penal laws fling\ntheir condemned. The sea is the immensity of wretchedness.\n\nThe soul, going downstream in this gulf, may become a corpse. Who shall\nresuscitate it?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX NEW TROUBLES\n\n\nWhen the hour came for him to take his departure from the galleys, when\nJean Valjean heard in his ear the strange words, _Thou art free!_ the\nmoment seemed improbable and unprecedented; a ray of vivid light, a ray\nof the true light of the living, suddenly penetrated within him. But it\nwas not long before this ray paled. Jean Valjean had been dazzled by\nthe idea of liberty. He had believed in a new life. He very speedily\nperceived what sort of liberty it is to which a yellow passport is\nprovided.\n\nAnd this was encompassed with much bitterness. He had calculated that\nhis earnings, during his sojourn in the galleys, ought to amount to a\nhundred and seventy-one francs. It is but just to add that he had\nforgotten to include in his calculations the forced repose of Sundays\nand festival days during nineteen years, which entailed a diminution of\nabout eighty francs. At all events, his hoard had been reduced by\nvarious local levies to the sum of one hundred and nine francs fifteen\nsous, which had been counted out to him on his departure. He had\nunderstood nothing of this, and had thought himself wronged. Let us say\nthe word robbed.\n\nOn the day following his liberation, he saw, at Grasse, in front of an\norange-flower distillery, some men engaged in unloading bales. He\noffered his services. Business was pressing; they were accepted. He set\nto work. He was intelligent, robust, adroit; he did his best; the\nmaster seemed pleased. While he was at work, a gendarme passed,\nobserved him, and demanded his papers. It was necessary to show him the\nyellow passport. That done, Jean Valjean resumed his labor. A little\nwhile before he had questioned one of the workmen as to the amount\nwhich they earned each day at this occupation; he had been told _thirty\nsous_. When evening arrived, as he was forced to set out again on the\nfollowing day, he presented himself to the owner of the distillery and\nrequested to be paid. The owner did not utter a word, but handed him\nfifteen sous. He objected. He was told, _ That is enough for thee. _ He\npersisted. The master looked him straight between the eyes, and said to\nhim _ Beware of the prison. _\n\nThere, again, he considered that he had been robbed.\n\nSociety, the State, by diminishing his hoard, had robbed him wholesale.\nNow it was the individual who was robbing him at retail.\n\nLiberation is not deliverance. One gets free from the galleys, but not\nfrom the sentence.\n\nThat is what happened to him at Grasse. We have seen in what manner he\nwas received at D \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X THE MAN AROUSED\n\n\nAs the Cathedral clock struck two in the morning, Jean Valjean awoke.\n\nWhat woke him was that his bed was too good. It was nearly twenty years\nsince he had slept in a bed, and, although he had not undressed, the\nsensation was too novel not to disturb his slumbers.\n\nHe had slept more than four hours. His fatigue had passed away. He was\naccustomed not to devote many hours to repose.\n\nHe opened his eyes and stared into the gloom which surrounded him; then\nhe closed them again, with the intention of going to sleep once more.\n\nWhen many varied sensations have agitated the day, when various matters\npreoccupy the mind, one falls asleep once, but not a second time. Sleep\ncomes more easily than it returns. This is what happened to Jean\nValjean. He could not get to sleep again, and he fell to thinking.\n\nHe was at one of those moments when the thoughts which one has in one s\nmind are troubled. There was a sort of dark confusion in his brain. His\nmemories of the olden time and of the immediate present floated there\npell-mell and mingled confusedly, losing their proper forms, becoming\ndisproportionately large, then suddenly disappearing, as in a muddy and\nperturbed pool. Many thoughts occurred to him; but there was one which\nkept constantly presenting itself afresh, and which drove away all\nothers. We will mention this thought at once: he had observed the six\nsets of silver forks and spoons and the ladle which Madame Magloire had\nplaced on the table.\n\nThose six sets of silver haunted him. They were there. A few paces\ndistant. Just as he was traversing the adjoining room to reach the one\nin which he then was, the old servant-woman had been in the act of\nplacing them in a little cupboard near the head of the bed. He had\ntaken careful note of this cupboard. On the right, as you entered from\nthe dining-room. They were solid. And old silver. From the ladle one\ncould get at least two hundred francs. Double what he had earned in\nnineteen years. It is true that he would have earned more if  the\n_administration_ had not _robbed him_. \n\n\nHis mind wavered for a whole hour in fluctuations with which there was\ncertainly mingled some struggle. Three o clock struck. He opened his\neyes again, drew himself up abruptly into a sitting posture, stretched\nout his arm and felt of his knapsack, which he had thrown down on a\ncorner of the alcove; then he hung his legs over the edge of the bed,\nand placed his feet on the floor, and thus found himself, almost\nwithout knowing it, seated on his bed.\n\nHe remained for a time thoughtfully in this attitude, which would have\nbeen suggestive of something sinister for any one who had seen him thus\nin the dark, the only person awake in that house where all were\nsleeping. All of a sudden he stooped down, removed his shoes and placed\nthem softly on the mat beside the bed; then he resumed his thoughtful\nattitude, and became motionless once more.\n\nThroughout this hideous meditation, the thoughts which we have above\nindicated moved incessantly through his brain; entered, withdrew,\nre-entered, and in a manner oppressed him; and then he thought, also,\nwithout knowing why, and with the mechanical persistence of reverie, of\na convict named Brevet, whom he had known in the galleys, and whose\ntrousers had been upheld by a single suspender of knitted cotton. The\ncheckered pattern of that suspender recurred incessantly to his mind.\n\nHe remained in this situation, and would have so remained indefinitely,\neven until daybreak, had not the clock struck one the half or quarter\nhour. It seemed to him that that stroke said to him,  Come on! \n\n\nHe rose to his feet, hesitated still another moment, and listened; all\nwas quiet in the house; then he walked straight ahead, with short\nsteps, to the window, of which he caught a glimpse. The night was not\nvery dark; there was a full moon, across which coursed large clouds\ndriven by the wind. This created, outdoors, alternate shadow and gleams\nof light, eclipses, then bright openings of the clouds; and indoors a\nsort of twilight. This twilight, sufficient to enable a person to see\nhis way, intermittent on account of the clouds, resembled the sort of\nlivid light which falls through an air-hole in a cellar, before which\nthe passers-by come and go. On arriving at the window, Jean Valjean\nexamined it. It had no grating; it opened in the garden and was\nfastened, according to the fashion of the country, only by a small pin.\nHe opened it; but as a rush of cold and piercing air penetrated the\nroom abruptly, he closed it again immediately. He scrutinized the\ngarden with that attentive gaze which studies rather than looks. The\ngarden was enclosed by a tolerably low white wall, easy to climb. Far\naway, at the extremity, he perceived tops of trees, spaced at regular\nintervals, which indicated that the wall separated the garden from an\navenue or lane planted with trees.\n\nHaving taken this survey, he executed a movement like that of a man who\nhas made up his mind, strode to his alcove, grasped his knapsack,\nopened it, fumbled in it, pulled out of it something which he placed on\nthe bed, put his shoes into one of his pockets, shut the whole thing up\nagain, threw the knapsack on his shoulders, put on his cap, drew the\nvisor down over his eyes, felt for his cudgel, went and placed it in\nthe angle of the window; then returned to the bed, and resolutely\nseized the object which he had deposited there. It resembled a short\nbar of iron, pointed like a pike at one end. It would have been\ndifficult to distinguish in that darkness for what employment that bit\nof iron could have been designed. Perhaps it was a lever; possibly it\nwas a club.\n\nIn the daytime it would have been possible to recognize it as nothing\nmore than a miner s candlestick. Convicts were, at that period,\nsometimes employed in quarrying stone from the lofty hills which\nenviron Toulon, and it was not rare for them to have miners  tools at\ntheir command. These miners  candlesticks are of massive iron,\nterminated at the lower extremity by a point, by means of which they\nare stuck into the rock.\n\nHe took the candlestick in his right hand; holding his breath and\ntrying to deaden the sound of his tread, he directed his steps to the\ndoor of the adjoining room, occupied by the Bishop, as we already know.\n\nOn arriving at this door, he found it ajar. The Bishop had not closed\nit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI WHAT HE DOES\n\n\nJean Valjean listened. Not a sound.\n\nHe gave the door a push.\n\nHe pushed it gently with the tip of his finger, lightly, with the\nfurtive and uneasy gentleness of a cat which is desirous of entering.\n\nThe door yielded to this pressure, and made an imperceptible and silent\nmovement, which enlarged the opening a little.\n\nHe waited a moment; then gave the door a second and a bolder push.\n\nIt continued to yield in silence. The opening was now large enough to\nallow him to pass. But near the door there stood a little table, which\nformed an embarrassing angle with it, and barred the entrance.\n\nJean Valjean recognized the difficulty. It was necessary, at any cost,\nto enlarge the aperture still further.\n\nHe decided on his course of action, and gave the door a third push,\nmore energetic than the two preceding. This time a badly oiled hinge\nsuddenly emitted amid the silence a hoarse and prolonged cry.\n\nJean Valjean shuddered. The noise of the hinge rang in his ears with\nsomething of the piercing and formidable sound of the trump of the Day\nof Judgment.\n\nIn the fantastic exaggerations of the first moment he almost imagined\nthat that hinge had just become animated, and had suddenly assumed a\nterrible life, and that it was barking like a dog to arouse every one,\nand warn and to wake those who were asleep. He halted, shuddering,\nbewildered, and fell back from the tips of his toes upon his heels. He\nheard the arteries in his temples beating like two forge hammers, and\nit seemed to him that his breath issued from his breast with the roar\nof the wind issuing from a cavern. It seemed impossible to him that the\nhorrible clamor of that irritated hinge should not have disturbed the\nentire household, like the shock of an earthquake; the door, pushed by\nhim, had taken the alarm, and had shouted; the old man would rise at\nonce; the two old women would shriek out; people would come to their\nassistance; in less than a quarter of an hour the town would be in an\nuproar, and the gendarmerie on hand. For a moment he thought himself\nlost.\n\nHe remained where he was, petrified like the statue of salt, not daring\nto make a movement. Several minutes elapsed. The door had fallen wide\nopen. He ventured to peep into the next room. Nothing had stirred\nthere. He lent an ear. Nothing was moving in the house. The noise made\nby the rusty hinge had not awakened any one.\n\nThis first danger was past; but there still reigned a frightful tumult\nwithin him. Nevertheless, he did not retreat. Even when he had thought\nhimself lost, he had not drawn back. His only thought now was to finish\nas soon as possible. He took a step and entered the room.\n\nThis room was in a state of perfect calm. Here and there vague and\nconfused forms were distinguishable, which in the daylight were papers\nscattered on a table, open folios, volumes piled upon a stool, an\narmchair heaped with clothing, a prie-Dieu, and which at that hour were\nonly shadowy corners and whitish spots. Jean Valjean advanced with\nprecaution, taking care not to knock against the furniture. He could\nhear, at the extremity of the room, the even and tranquil breathing of\nthe sleeping Bishop.\n\nHe suddenly came to a halt. He was near the bed. He had arrived there\nsooner than he had thought for.\n\nNature sometimes mingles her effects and her spectacles with our\nactions with sombre and intelligent appropriateness, as though she\ndesired to make us reflect. For the last half-hour a large cloud had\ncovered the heavens. At the moment when Jean Valjean paused in front of\nthe bed, this cloud parted, as though on purpose, and a ray of light,\ntraversing the long window, suddenly illuminated the Bishop s pale\nface. He was sleeping peacefully. He lay in his bed almost completely\ndressed, on account of the cold of the Basses-Alps, in a garment of\nbrown wool, which covered his arms to the wrists. His head was thrown\nback on the pillow, in the careless attitude of repose; his hand,\nadorned with the pastoral ring, and whence had fallen so many good\ndeeds and so many holy actions, was hanging over the edge of the bed.\nHis whole face was illumined with a vague expression of satisfaction,\nof hope, and of felicity. It was more than a smile, and almost a\nradiance. He bore upon his brow the indescribable reflection of a light\nwhich was invisible. The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a\nmysterious heaven.\n\nA reflection of that heaven rested on the Bishop.\n\nIt was, at the same time, a luminous transparency, for that heaven was\nwithin him. That heaven was his conscience.\n\n[Illustration: The Fall]\n\nAt the moment when the ray of moonlight superposed itself, so to speak,\nupon that inward radiance, the sleeping Bishop seemed as in a glory. It\nremained, however, gentle and veiled in an ineffable half-light. That\nmoon in the sky, that slumbering nature, that garden without a quiver,\nthat house which was so calm, the hour, the moment, the silence, added\nsome solemn and unspeakable quality to the venerable repose of this\nman, and enveloped in a sort of serene and majestic aureole that white\nhair, those closed eyes, that face in which all was hope and all was\nconfidence, that head of an old man, and that slumber of an infant.\n\nThere was something almost divine in this man, who was thus august,\nwithout being himself aware of it.\n\nJean Valjean was in the shadow, and stood motionless, with his iron\ncandlestick in his hand, frightened by this luminous old man. Never had\nhe beheld anything like this. This confidence terrified him. The moral\nworld has no grander spectacle than this: a troubled and uneasy\nconscience, which has arrived on the brink of an evil action,\ncontemplating the slumber of the just.\n\nThat slumber in that isolation, and with a neighbor like himself, had\nabout it something sublime, of which he was vaguely but imperiously\nconscious.\n\nNo one could have told what was passing within him, not even himself.\nIn order to attempt to form an idea of it, it is necessary to think of\nthe most violent of things in the presence of the most gentle. Even on\nhis visage it would have been impossible to distinguish anything with\ncertainty. It was a sort of haggard astonishment. He gazed at it, and\nthat was all. But what was his thought? It would have been impossible\nto divine it. What was evident was, that he was touched and astounded.\nBut what was the nature of this emotion?\n\nHis eye never quitted the old man. The only thing which was clearly to\nbe inferred from his attitude and his physiognomy was a strange\nindecision. One would have said that he was hesitating between the two\nabysses, the one in which one loses one s self and that in which one\nsaves one s self. He seemed prepared to crush that skull or to kiss\nthat hand.\n\nAt the expiration of a few minutes his left arm rose slowly towards his\nbrow, and he took off his cap; then his arm fell back with the same\ndeliberation, and Jean Valjean fell to meditating once more, his cap in\nhis left hand, his club in his right hand, his hair bristling all over\nhis savage head.\n\nThe Bishop continued to sleep in profound peace beneath that terrifying\ngaze.\n\nThe gleam of the moon rendered confusedly visible the crucifix over the\nchimney-piece, which seemed to be extending its arms to both of them,\nwith a benediction for one and pardon for the other.\n\nSuddenly Jean Valjean replaced his cap on his brow; then stepped\nrapidly past the bed, without glancing at the Bishop, straight to the\ncupboard, which he saw near the head; he raised his iron candlestick as\nthough to force the lock; the key was there; he opened it; the first\nthing which presented itself to him was the basket of silverware; he\nseized it, traversed the chamber with long strides, without taking any\nprecautions and without troubling himself about the noise, gained the\ndoor, re-entered the oratory, opened the window, seized his cudgel,\nbestrode the window-sill of the ground floor, put the silver into his\nknapsack, threw away the basket, crossed the garden, leaped over the\nwall like a tiger, and fled.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII THE BISHOP WORKS\n\n\nThe next morning at sunrise Monseigneur Bienvenu was strolling in his\ngarden. Madame Magloire ran up to him in utter consternation.\n\n Monseigneur, Monseigneur!  she exclaimed,  does your Grace know where\nthe basket of silver is? \n\n\n Yes,  replied the Bishop.\n\n Jesus the Lord be blessed!  she resumed;  I did not know what had\nbecome of it. \n\n\nThe Bishop had just picked up the basket in a flower-bed. He presented\nit to Madame Magloire.\n\n Here it is. \n\n\n Well!  said she.  Nothing in it! And the silver? \n\n\n Ah,  returned the Bishop,  so it is the silver which troubles you? I\ndon t know where it is. \n\n\n Great, good God! It is stolen! That man who was here last night has\nstolen it. \n\n\nIn a twinkling, with all the vivacity of an alert old woman, Madame\nMagloire had rushed to the oratory, entered the alcove, and returned to\nthe Bishop. The Bishop had just bent down, and was sighing as he\nexamined a plant of cochlearia des Guillons, which the basket had\nbroken as it fell across the bed. He rose up at Madame Magloire s cry.\n\n Monseigneur, the man is gone! The silver has been stolen! \n\n\nAs she uttered this exclamation, her eyes fell upon a corner of the\ngarden, where traces of the wall having been scaled were visible. The\ncoping of the wall had been torn away.\n\n Stay! yonder is the way he went. He jumped over into Cochefilet Lane.\nAh, the abomination! He has stolen our silver! \n\n\nThe Bishop remained silent for a moment; then he raised his grave eyes,\nand said gently to Madame Magloire: \n\n And, in the first place, was that silver ours? \n\n\nMadame Magloire was speechless. Another silence ensued; then the Bishop\nwent on: \n\n Madame Magloire, I have for a long time detained that silver\nwrongfully. It belonged to the poor. Who was that man? A poor man,\nevidently. \n\n\n Alas! Jesus!  returned Madame Magloire.  It is not for my sake, nor\nfor Mademoiselle s. It makes no difference to us. But it is for the\nsake of Monseigneur. What is Monseigneur to eat with now? \n\n\nThe Bishop gazed at her with an air of amazement.\n\n Ah, come! Are there no such things as pewter forks and spoons? \n\n\nMadame Magloire shrugged her shoulders.\n\n Pewter has an odor. \n\n\n Iron forks and spoons, then. \n\n\nMadame Magloire made an expressive grimace.\n\n Iron has a taste. \n\n\n Very well,  said the Bishop;  wooden ones then. \n\n\nA few moments later he was breakfasting at the very table at which Jean\nValjean had sat on the previous evening. As he ate his breakfast,\nMonseigneur Welcome remarked gayly to his sister, who said nothing, and\nto Madame Magloire, who was grumbling under her breath, that one really\ndoes not need either fork or spoon, even of wood, in order to dip a bit\nof bread in a cup of milk.\n\n A pretty idea, truly,  said Madame Magloire to herself, as she went\nand came,  to take in a man like that! and to lodge him close to one s\nself! And how fortunate that he did nothing but steal! Ah, mon Dieu! it\nmakes one shudder to think of it! \n\n\nAs the brother and sister were about to rise from the table, there came\na knock at the door.\n\n Come in,  said the Bishop.\n\nThe door opened. A singular and violent group made its appearance on\nthe threshold. Three men were holding a fourth man by the collar. The\nthree men were gendarmes; the other was Jean Valjean.\n\nA brigadier of gendarmes, who seemed to be in command of the group, was\nstanding near the door. He entered and advanced to the Bishop, making a\nmilitary salute.\n\n Monseigneur  said he.\n\nAt this word, Jean Valjean, who was dejected and seemed overwhelmed,\nraised his head with an air of stupefaction.\n\n Monseigneur!  he murmured.  So he is not the cur ? \n\n\n Silence!  said the gendarme.  He is Monseigneur the Bishop. \n\n\nIn the meantime, Monseigneur Bienvenu had advanced as quickly as his\ngreat age permitted.\n\n Ah! here you are!  he exclaimed, looking at Jean Valjean.  I am glad\nto see you. Well, but how is this? I gave you the candlesticks too,\nwhich are of silver like the rest, and for which you can certainly get\ntwo hundred francs. Why did you not carry them away with your forks and\nspoons? \n\n\nJean Valjean opened his eyes wide, and stared at the venerable Bishop\nwith an expression which no human tongue can render any account of.\n\n Monseigneur,  said the brigadier of gendarmes,  so what this man said\nis true, then? We came across him. He was walking like a man who is\nrunning away. We stopped him to look into the matter. He had this\nsilver \n\n\n And he told you,  interposed the Bishop with a smile,  that it had\nbeen given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom he had\npassed the night? I see how the matter stands. And you have brought him\nback here? It is a mistake. \n\n\n In that case,  replied the brigadier,  we can let him go? \n\n\n Certainly,  replied the Bishop.\n\nThe gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who recoiled.\n\n Is it true that I am to be released?  he said, in an almost\ninarticulate voice, and as though he were talking in his sleep.\n\n Yes, thou art released; dost thou not understand?  said one of the\ngendarmes.\n\n My friend,  resumed the Bishop,  before you go, here are your\ncandlesticks. Take them. \n\n\nHe stepped to the chimney-piece, took the two silver candlesticks, and\nbrought them to Jean Valjean. The two women looked on without uttering\na word, without a gesture, without a look which could disconcert the\nBishop.\n\nJean Valjean was trembling in every limb. He took the two candlesticks\nmechanically, and with a bewildered air.\n\n Now,  said the Bishop,  go in peace. By the way, when you return, my\nfriend, it is not necessary to pass through the garden. You can always\nenter and depart through the street door. It is never fastened with\nanything but a latch, either by day or by night. \n\n\nThen, turning to the gendarmes: \n\n You may retire, gentlemen. \n\n\nThe gendarmes retired.\n\nJean Valjean was like a man on the point of fainting.\n\nThe Bishop drew near to him, and said in a low voice: \n\n Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money\nin becoming an honest man. \n\n\nJean Valjean, who had no recollection of ever having promised anything,\nremained speechless. The Bishop had emphasized the words when he\nuttered them. He resumed with solemnity: \n\n Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good.\nIt is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts\nand the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII LITTLE GERVAIS\n\n\nJean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from it. He set\nout at a very hasty pace through the fields, taking whatever roads and\npaths presented themselves to him, without perceiving that he was\nincessantly retracing his steps. He wandered thus the whole morning,\nwithout having eaten anything and without feeling hungry. He was the\nprey of a throng of novel sensations. He was conscious of a sort of\nrage; he did not know against whom it was directed. He could not have\ntold whether he was touched or humiliated. There came over him at\nmoments a strange emotion which he resisted and to which he opposed the\nhardness acquired during the last twenty years of his life. This state\nof mind fatigued him. He perceived with dismay that the sort of\nfrightful calm which the injustice of his misfortune had conferred upon\nhim was giving way within him. He asked himself what would replace\nthis. At times he would have actually preferred to be in prison with\nthe gendarmes, and that things should not have happened in this way; it\nwould have agitated him less. Although the season was tolerably far\nadvanced, there were still a few late flowers in the hedge-rows here\nand there, whose odor as he passed through them in his march recalled\nto him memories of his childhood. These memories were almost\nintolerable to him, it was so long since they had recurred to him.\n\nUnutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all day long.\n\nAs the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows athwart the\nsoil from every pebble, Jean Valjean sat down behind a bush upon a\nlarge ruddy plain, which was absolutely deserted. There was nothing on\nthe horizon except the Alps. Not even the spire of a distant village.\nJean Valjean might have been three leagues distant from D  A path\nwhich intersected the plain passed a few paces from the bush.\n\nIn the middle of this meditation, which would have contributed not a\nlittle to render his rags terrifying to any one who might have\nencountered him, a joyous sound became audible.\n\nHe turned his head and saw a little Savoyard, about ten years of age,\ncoming up the path and singing, his hurdy-gurdy on his hip, and his\nmarmot-box on his back.\n\nOne of those gay and gentle children, who go from land to land\naffording a view of their knees through the holes in their trousers.\n\nWithout stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from time to\ntime, and played at knuckle-bones with some coins which he had in his\nhand his whole fortune, probably.\n\nAmong this money there was one forty-sou piece.\n\nThe child halted beside the bush, without perceiving Jean Valjean, and\ntossed up his handful of sous, which, up to that time, he had caught\nwith a good deal of adroitness on the back of his hand.\n\nThis time the forty-sou piece escaped him, and went rolling towards the\nbrushwood until it reached Jean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean set his foot upon it.\n\nIn the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had caught\nsight of him.\n\nHe showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to the man.\n\nThe spot was absolutely solitary. As far as the eye could see there was\nnot a person on the plain or on the path. The only sound was the tiny,\nfeeble cries of a flock of birds of passage, which was traversing the\nheavens at an immense height. The child was standing with his back to\nthe sun, which cast threads of gold in his hair and empurpled with its\nblood-red gleam the savage face of Jean Valjean.\n\n Sir,  said the little Savoyard, with that childish confidence which is\ncomposed of ignorance and innocence,  my money. \n\n\n What is your name?  said Jean Valjean.\n\n Little Gervais, sir. \n\n\n Go away,  said Jean Valjean.\n\n Sir,  resumed the child,  give me back my money. \n\n\nJean Valjean dropped his head, and made no reply.\n\nThe child began again,  My money, sir. \n\n\nJean Valjean s eyes remained fixed on the earth.\n\n My piece of money!  cried the child,  my white piece! my silver! \n\n\nIt seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped\nhim by the collar of his blouse and shook him. At the same time he made\nan effort to displace the big iron-shod shoe which rested on his\ntreasure.\n\n I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous! \n\n\nThe child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still remained seated.\nHis eyes were troubled. He gazed at the child, in a sort of amazement,\nthen he stretched out his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a\nterrible voice,  Who s there? \n\n\n I, sir,  replied the child.  Little Gervais! I! Give me back my forty\nsous, if you please! Take your foot away, sir, if you please! \n\n\nThen irritated, though he was so small, and becoming almost menacing: \n\n Come now, will you take your foot away? Take your foot away, or we ll\nsee! \n\n\n Ah! It s still you!  said Jean Valjean, and rising abruptly to his\nfeet, his foot still resting on the silver piece, he added: \n\n Will you take yourself off! \n\n\nThe frightened child looked at him, then began to tremble from head to\nfoot, and after a few moments of stupor he set out, running at the top\nof his speed, without daring to turn his neck or to utter a cry.\n\nNevertheless, lack of breath forced him to halt after a certain\ndistance, and Jean Valjean heard him sobbing, in the midst of his own\nreverie.\n\nAt the end of a few moments the child had disappeared.\n\nThe sun had set.\n\nThe shadows were descending around Jean Valjean. He had eaten nothing\nall day; it is probable that he was feverish.\n\nHe had remained standing and had not changed his attitude after the\nchild s flight. The breath heaved his chest at long and irregular\nintervals. His gaze, fixed ten or twelve paces in front of him, seemed\nto be scrutinizing with profound attention the shape of an ancient\nfragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass. All at once\nhe shivered; he had just begun to feel the chill of evening.\n\nHe settled his cap more firmly on his brow, sought mechanically to\ncross and button his blouse, advanced a step and stopped to pick up his\ncudgel.\n\nAt that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piece, which his foot\nhad half ground into the earth, and which was shining among the\npebbles. It was as though he had received a galvanic shock.  What is\nthis?  he muttered between his teeth. He recoiled three paces, then\nhalted, without being able to detach his gaze from the spot which his\nfoot had trodden but an instant before, as though the thing which lay\nglittering there in the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him.\n\nAt the expiration of a few moments he darted convulsively towards the\nsilver coin, seized it, and straightened himself up again and began to\ngaze afar off over the plain, at the same time casting his eyes towards\nall points of the horizon, as he stood there erect and shivering, like\na terrified wild animal which is seeking refuge.\n\nHe saw nothing. Night was falling, the plain was cold and vague, great\nbanks of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight.\n\nHe said,  Ah!  and set out rapidly in the direction in which the child\nhad disappeared. After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him\nand saw nothing.\n\nThen he shouted with all his might: \n\n Little Gervais! Little Gervais! \n\n\nHe paused and waited.\n\nThere was no reply.\n\nThe landscape was gloomy and deserted. He was encompassed by space.\nThere was nothing around him but an obscurity in which his gaze was\nlost, and a silence which engulfed his voice.\n\nAn icy north wind was blowing, and imparted to things around him a sort\nof lugubrious life. The bushes shook their thin little arms with\nincredible fury. One would have said that they were threatening and\npursuing some one.\n\nHe set out on his march again, then he began to run; and from time to\ntime he halted and shouted into that solitude, with a voice which was\nthe most formidable and the most disconsolate that it was possible to\nhear,  Little Gervais! Little Gervais! \n\n\nAssuredly, if the child had heard him, he would have been alarmed and\nwould have taken good care not to show himself. But the child was no\ndoubt already far away.\n\nHe encountered a priest on horseback. He stepped up to him and said: \n\n Monsieur le Cur , have you seen a child pass? \n\n\n No,  said the priest.\n\n One named Little Gervais? \n\n\n I have seen no one. \n\n\nHe drew two five-franc pieces from his money-bag and handed them to the\npriest.\n\n Monsieur le Cur , this is for your poor people. Monsieur le Cur , he\nwas a little lad, about ten years old, with a marmot, I think, and a\nhurdy-gurdy. One of those Savoyards, you know? \n\n\n I have not seen him. \n\n\n Little Gervais? There are no villages here? Can you tell me? \n\n\n If he is like what you say, my friend, he is a little stranger. Such\npersons pass through these parts. We know nothing of them. \n\n\nJean Valjean seized two more coins of five francs each with violence,\nand gave them to the priest.\n\n For your poor,  he said.\n\nThen he added, wildly: \n\n Monsieur l Abb , have me arrested. I am a thief. \n\n\nThe priest put spurs to his horse and fled in haste, much alarmed.\n\nJean Valjean set out on a run, in the direction which he had first\ntaken.\n\nIn this way he traversed a tolerably long distance, gazing, calling,\nshouting, but he met no one. Two or three times he ran across the plain\ntowards something which conveyed to him the effect of a human being\nreclining or crouching down; it turned out to be nothing but brushwood\nor rocks nearly on a level with the earth. At length, at a spot where\nthree paths intersected each other, he stopped. The moon had risen. He\nsent his gaze into the distance and shouted for the last time,  Little\nGervais! Little Gervais! Little Gervais!  His shout died away in the\nmist, without even awakening an echo. He murmured yet once more,\n Little Gervais!  but in a feeble and almost inarticulate voice. It was\nhis last effort; his legs gave way abruptly under him, as though an\ninvisible power had suddenly overwhelmed him with the weight of his\nevil conscience; he fell exhausted, on a large stone, his fists\nclenched in his hair and his face on his knees, and he cried,  I am a\nwretch! \n\n\nThen his heart burst, and he began to cry. It was the first time that\nhe had wept in nineteen years.\n\nWhen Jean Valjean left the Bishop s house, he was, as we have seen,\nquite thrown out of everything that had been his thought hitherto. He\ncould not yield to the evidence of what was going on within him. He\nhardened himself against the angelic action and the gentle words of the\nold man.  You have promised me to become an honest man. I buy your\nsoul. I take it away from the spirit of perversity; I give it to the\ngood God. \n\n\nThis recurred to his mind unceasingly. To this celestial kindness he\nopposed pride, which is the fortress of evil within us. He was\nindistinctly conscious that the pardon of this priest was the greatest\nassault and the most formidable attack which had moved him yet; that\nhis obduracy was finally settled if he resisted this clemency; that if\nhe yielded, he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the\nactions of other men had filled his soul through so many years, and\nwhich pleased him; that this time it was necessary to conquer or to be\nconquered; and that a struggle, a colossal and final struggle, had been\nbegun between his viciousness and the goodness of that man.\n\nIn the presence of these lights, he proceeded like a man who is\nintoxicated. As he walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a\ndistinct perception of what might result to him from his adventure at\nD ? Did he understand all those mysterious murmurs which warn or\nimportune the spirit at certain moments of life? Did a voice whisper in\nhis ear that he had just passed the solemn hour of his destiny; that\nthere no longer remained a middle course for him; that if he were not\nhenceforth the best of men, he would be the worst; that it behooved him\nnow, so to speak, to mount higher than the Bishop, or fall lower than\nthe convict; that if he wished to become good he must become an angel;\nthat if he wished to remain evil, he must become a monster?\n\nHere, again, some questions must be put, which we have already put to\nourselves elsewhere: did he catch some shadow of all this in his\nthought, in a confused way? Misfortune certainly, as we have said, does\nform the education of the intelligence; nevertheless, it is doubtful\nwhether Jean Valjean was in a condition to disentangle all that we have\nhere indicated. If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught glimpses\nof, rather than saw them, and they only succeeded in throwing him into\nan unutterable and almost painful state of emotion. On emerging from\nthat black and deformed thing which is called the galleys, the Bishop\nhad hurt his soul, as too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes on\nemerging from the dark. The future life, the possible life which\noffered itself to him henceforth, all pure and radiant, filled him with\ntremors and anxiety. He no longer knew where he really was. Like an\nowl, who should suddenly see the sun rise, the convict had been dazzled\nand blinded, as it were, by virtue.\n\nThat which was certain, that which he did not doubt, was that he was no\nlonger the same man, that everything about him was changed, that it was\nno longer in his power to make it as though the Bishop had not spoken\nto him and had not touched him.\n\nIn this state of mind he had encountered little Gervais, and had robbed\nhim of his forty sous. Why? He certainly could not have explained it;\nwas this the last effect and the supreme effort, as it were, of the\nevil thoughts which he had brought away from the galleys, a remnant of\nimpulse, a result of what is called in statics, _acquired force?_ It\nwas that, and it was also, perhaps, even less than that. Let us say it\nsimply, it was not he who stole; it was not the man; it was the beast,\nwho, by habit and instinct, had simply placed his foot upon that money,\nwhile the intelligence was struggling amid so many novel and hitherto\nunheard-of thoughts besetting it.\n\nWhen intelligence reawakened and beheld that action of the brute, Jean\nValjean recoiled with anguish and uttered a cry of terror.\n\n[Illustration: Awakened]\n\nIt was because, strange phenomenon, and one which was possible only in\nthe situation in which he found himself, in stealing the money from\nthat child, he had done a thing of which he was no longer capable.\n\nHowever that may be, this last evil action had a decisive effect on\nhim; it abruptly traversed that chaos which he bore in his mind, and\ndispersed it, placed on one side the thick obscurity, and on the other\nthe light, and acted on his soul, in the state in which it then was, as\ncertain chemical reagents act upon a troubled mixture by precipitating\none element and clarifying the other.\n\nFirst of all, even before examining himself and reflecting, all\nbewildered, like one who seeks to save himself, he tried to find the\nchild in order to return his money to him; then, when he recognized the\nfact that this was impossible, he halted in despair. At the moment when\nhe exclaimed  I am a wretch!  he had just perceived what he was, and he\nwas already separated from himself to such a degree, that he seemed to\nhimself to be no longer anything more than a phantom, and as if he had,\nthere before him, in flesh and blood, the hideous galley-convict, Jean\nValjean, cudgel in hand, his blouse on his hips, his knapsack filled\nwith stolen objects on his back, with his resolute and gloomy visage,\nwith his thoughts filled with abominable projects.\n\nExcess of unhappiness had, as we have remarked, made him in some sort a\nvisionary. This, then, was in the nature of a vision. He actually saw\nthat Jean Valjean, that sinister face, before him. He had almost\nreached the point of asking himself who that man was, and he was\nhorrified by him.\n\nHis brain was going through one of those violent and yet perfectly calm\nmoments in which reverie is so profound that it absorbs reality. One no\nlonger beholds the object which one has before one, and one sees, as\nthough apart from one s self, the figures which one has in one s own\nmind.\n\nThus he contemplated himself, so to speak, face to face, and at the\nsame time, athwart this hallucination, he perceived in a mysterious\ndepth a sort of light which he at first took for a torch. On\nscrutinizing this light which appeared to his conscience with more\nattention, he recognized the fact that it possessed a human form and\nthat this torch was the Bishop.\n\nHis conscience weighed in turn these two men thus placed before it, the\nBishop and Jean Valjean. Nothing less than the first was required to\nsoften the second. By one of those singular effects, which are peculiar\nto this sort of ecstasies, in proportion as his reverie continued, as\nthe Bishop grew great and resplendent in his eyes, so did Jean Valjean\ngrow less and vanish. After a certain time he was no longer anything\nmore than a shade. All at once he disappeared. The Bishop alone\nremained; he filled the whole soul of this wretched man with a\nmagnificent radiance.\n\nJean Valjean wept for a long time. He wept burning tears, he sobbed\nwith more weakness than a woman, with more fright than a child.\n\nAs he wept, daylight penetrated more and more clearly into his soul; an\nextraordinary light; a light at once ravishing and terrible. His past\nlife, his first fault, his long expiation, his external brutishness,\nhis internal hardness, his dismissal to liberty, rejoicing in manifold\nplans of vengeance, what had happened to him at the Bishop s, the last\nthing that he had done, that theft of forty sous from a child, a crime\nall the more cowardly, and all the more monstrous since it had come\nafter the Bishop s pardon, all this recurred to his mind and appeared\nclearly to him, but with a clearness which he had never hitherto\nwitnessed. He examined his life, and it seemed horrible to him; his\nsoul, and it seemed frightful to him. In the meantime a gentle light\nrested over this life and this soul. It seemed to him that he beheld\nSatan by the light of Paradise.\n\nHow many hours did he weep thus? What did he do after he had wept?\nWhither did he go! No one ever knew. The only thing which seems to be\nauthenticated is that that same night the carrier who served Grenoble\nat that epoch, and who arrived at D  about three o clock in the\nmorning, saw, as he traversed the street in which the Bishop s\nresidence was situated, a man in the attitude of prayer, kneeling on\nthe pavement in the shadow, in front of the door of Monseigneur\nWelcome.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THIRD IN THE YEAR 1817\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE YEAR 1817\n\n\n1817 is the year which Louis XVIII., with a certain royal assurance\nwhich was not wanting in pride, entitled the twenty-second of his\nreign. It is the year in which M. Brugui re de Sorsum was celebrated.\nAll the hairdressers  shops, hoping for powder and the return of the\nroyal bird, were besmeared with azure and decked with fleurs-de-lys. It\nwas the candid time at which Count Lynch sat every Sunday as\nchurch-warden in the church-warden s pew of Saint-Germain-des-Pr s, in\nhis costume of a peer of France, with his red ribbon and his long nose\nand the majesty of profile peculiar to a man who has performed a\nbrilliant action. The brilliant action performed by M. Lynch was this:\nbeing mayor of Bordeaux, on the 12th of March, 1814, he had surrendered\nthe city a little too promptly to M. the Duke d Angoul me. Hence his\npeerage. In 1817 fashion swallowed up little boys of from four to six\nyears of age in vast caps of morocco leather with ear-tabs resembling\nEsquimaux mitres. The French army was dressed in white, after the mode\nof the Austrian; the regiments were called legions; instead of numbers\nthey bore the names of departments; Napoleon was at St. Helena; and\nsince England refused him green cloth, he was having his old coats\nturned. In 1817 Pelligrini sang; Mademoiselle Bigottini danced; Potier\nreigned; Odry did not yet exist. Madame Saqui had succeeded to Forioso.\nThere were still Prussians in France. M. Delalot was a personage.\nLegitimacy had just asserted itself by cutting off the hand, then the\nhead, of Pleignier, of Carbonneau, and of Tolleron. The Prince de\nTalleyrand, grand chamberlain, and the Abb  Louis, appointed minister\nof finance, laughed as they looked at each other, with the laugh of the\ntwo augurs; both of them had celebrated, on the 14th of July, 1790, the\nmass of federation in the Champ de Mars; Talleyrand had said it as\nbishop, Louis had served it in the capacity of deacon. In 1817, in the\nside-alleys of this same Champ de Mars, two great cylinders of wood\nmight have been seen lying in the rain, rotting amid the grass, painted\nblue, with traces of eagles and bees, from which the gilding was\nfalling. These were the columns which two years before had upheld the\nEmperor s platform in the Champ de Mai. They were blackened here and\nthere with the scorches of the bivouac of Austrians encamped near\nGros-Caillou. Two or three of these columns had disappeared in these\nbivouac fires, and had warmed the large hands of the Imperial troops.\nThe Field of May had this remarkable point: that it had been held in\nthe month of June and in the Field of March (Mars). In this year, 1817,\ntwo things were popular: the Voltaire-Touquet and the snuff-box _  la\nCharter_. The most recent Parisian sensation was the crime of Dautun,\nwho had thrown his brother s head into the fountain of the\nFlower-Market.\n\nThey had begun to feel anxious at the Naval Department, on account of\nthe lack of news from that fatal frigate, _The Medusa_, which was\ndestined to cover Chaumareix with infamy and G ricault with glory.\nColonel Selves was going to Egypt to become Soliman-Pasha. The palace\nof Thermes, in the Rue de La Harpe, served as a shop for a cooper. On\nthe platform of the octagonal tower of the Hotel de Cluny, the little\nshed of boards, which had served as an observatory to Messier, the\nnaval astronomer under Louis XVI., was still to be seen. The Duchesse\nde Duras read to three or four friends her unpublished _Ourika_, in her\nboudoir furnished by X. in sky-blue satin. The N s were scratched off\nthe Louvre. The bridge of Austerlitz had abdicated, and was entitled\nthe bridge of the King s Garden [du Jardin du Roi], a double enigma,\nwhich disguised the bridge of Austerlitz and the Jardin des Plantes at\none stroke. Louis XVIII., much preoccupied while annotating Horace with\nthe corner of his finger-nail, heroes who have become emperors, and\nmakers of wooden shoes who have become dauphins, had two\nanxieties, Napoleon and Mathurin Bruneau. The French Academy had given\nfor its prize subject, _The Happiness procured through Study_. M.\nBellart was officially eloquent. In his shadow could be seen\ngerminating that future advocate-general of Bro , dedicated to the\nsarcasms of Paul-Louis Courier. There was a false Chateaubriand, named\nMarchangy, in the interim, until there should be a false Marchangy,\nnamed d Arlincourt. _Claire d Albe_ and _Malek-Adel_ were masterpieces;\nMadame Cottin was proclaimed the chief writer of the epoch. The\nInstitute had the academician, Napoleon Bonaparte, stricken from its\nlist of members. A royal ordinance erected Angoul me into a naval\nschool; for the Duc d Angoul me, being lord high admiral, it was\nevident that the city of Angoul me had all the qualities of a seaport;\notherwise the monarchical principle would have received a wound. In the\nCouncil of Ministers the question was agitated whether vignettes\nrepresenting slack-rope performances, which adorned Franconi s\nadvertising posters, and which attracted throngs of street urchins,\nshould be tolerated. M. Pa r, the author of _Agnese_, a good sort of\nfellow, with a square face and a wart on his cheek, directed the little\nprivate concerts of the Marquise de Sasenaye in the Rue Ville l v que.\nAll the young girls were singing the _Hermit of Saint-Avelle_, with\nwords by Edmond G raud. _The Yellow Dwarf_ was transferred into\n_Mirror_. The Caf  Lemblin stood up for the Emperor, against the Caf \nValois, which upheld the Bourbons. The Duc de Berri, already surveyed\nfrom the shadow by Louvel, had just been married to a princess of\nSicily. Madame de Sta l had died a year previously. The body-guard\nhissed Mademoiselle Mars. The grand newspapers were all very small.\nTheir form was restricted, but their liberty was great. The\n_Constitutionnel_ was constitutional. _La Minerve_ called Chateaubriand\n_Chateaubriant_. That _t_ made the good middle-class people laugh\nheartily at the expense of the great writer. In journals which sold\nthemselves, prostituted journalists, insulted the exiles of 1815. David\nhad no longer any talent, Arnault had no longer any wit, Carnot was no\nlonger honest, Soult had won no battles; it is true that Napoleon had\nno longer any genius. No one is ignorant of the fact that letters sent\nto an exile by post very rarely reached him, as the police made it\ntheir religious duty to intercept them. This is no new fact; Descartes\ncomplained of it in his exile. Now David, having, in a Belgian\npublication, shown some displeasure at not receiving letters which had\nbeen written to him, it struck the royalist journals as amusing; and\nthey derided the prescribed man well on this occasion. What separated\ntwo men more than an abyss was to say, the _regicides_, or to say the\n_voters_; to say the _enemies_, or to say the _allies_; to say\n_Napoleon_, or to say _Buonaparte_. All sensible people were agreed\nthat the era of revolution had been closed forever by King Louis\nXVIII., surnamed  The Immortal Author of the Charter.  On the platform\nof the Pont-Neuf, the word _Redivivus_ was carved on the pedestal that\nawaited the statue of Henry IV. M. Piet, in the Rue Th r se, No. 4, was\nmaking the rough draft of his privy assembly to consolidate the\nmonarchy. The leaders of the Right said at grave conjunctures,  We must\nwrite to Bacot.  MM. Canuel, O Mahoney, and De Chappedelaine were\npreparing the sketch, to some extent with Monsieur s approval, of what\nwas to become later on  The Conspiracy of the Bord de l Eau of the\nwaterside. L pingle Noire was already plotting in his own quarter.\nDelaverderie was conferring with Trogoff. M. Decazes, who was liberal\nto a degree, reigned. Chateaubriand stood every morning at his window\nat No. 27 Rue Saint-Dominique, clad in footed trousers, and slippers,\nwith a madras kerchief knotted over his gray hair, with his eyes fixed\non a mirror, a complete set of dentist s instruments spread out before\nhim, cleaning his teeth, which were charming, while he dictated _The\nMonarchy according to the Charter_ to M. Pilorge, his secretary.\nCriticism, assuming an authoritative tone, preferred Lafon to Talma. M.\nde F letez signed himself A.; M. Hoffmann signed himself Z. Charles\nNodier wrote _Th r se Aubert_. Divorce was abolished. Lyceums called\nthemselves colleges. The collegians, decorated on the collar with a\ngolden fleur-de-lys, fought each other _apropos_ of the King of Rome.\nThe counter-police of the ch teau had denounced to her Royal Highness\nMadame, the portrait, everywhere exhibited, of M. the Duc d Orl ans,\nwho made a better appearance in his uniform of a colonel-general of\nhussars than M. the Duc de Berri, in his uniform of colonel-general of\ndragoons a serious inconvenience. The city of Paris was having the dome\nof the Invalides regilded at its own expense. Serious men asked\nthemselves what M. de Trinquelague would do on such or such an\noccasion; M. Clausel de Montals differed on divers points from M.\nClausel de Coussergues; M. de Salaberry was not satisfied. The comedian\nPicard, who belonged to the Academy, which the comedian Moli re had not\nbeen able to do, had _The Two Philiberts_ played at the Od on, upon\nwhose pediment the removal of the letters still allowed THEATRE OF THE\nEMPRESS to be plainly read. People took part for or against Cugnet de\nMontarlot. Fabvier was factious; Bavoux was revolutionary. The Liberal,\nP licier, published an edition of Voltaire, with the following title:\n_Works of Voltaire_, of the French Academy.  That will attract\npurchasers,  said the ingenious editor. The general opinion was that M.\nCharles Loyson would be the genius of the century; envy was beginning\nto gnaw at him a sign of glory; and this verse was composed on him: \n\n Even when Loyson steals, one feels that he has paws. \n\n\nAs Cardinal Fesch refused to resign, M. de Pins, Archbishop of Amasie,\nadministered the diocese of Lyons. The quarrel over the valley of\nDappes was begun between Switzerland and France by a memoir from\nCaptain, afterwards General Dufour. Saint-Simon, ignored, was erecting\nhis sublime dream. There was a celebrated Fourier at the Academy of\nScience, whom posterity has forgotten; and in some garret an obscure\nFourier, whom the future will recall. Lord Byron was beginning to make\nhis mark; a note to a poem by Millevoye introduced him to France in\nthese terms: _a certain Lord Baron_. David d Angers was trying to work\nin marble. The Abb  Caron was speaking, in terms of praise, to a\nprivate gathering of seminarists in the blind alley of Feuillantines,\nof an unknown priest, named F licit -Robert, who, at a latter date,\nbecame Lamennais. A thing which smoked and clattered on the Seine with\nthe noise of a swimming dog went and came beneath the windows of the\nTuileries, from the Pont Royal to the Pont Louis XV.; it was a piece of\nmechanism which was not good for much; a sort of plaything, the idle\ndream of a dream-ridden inventor; an utopia a steamboat. The Parisians\nstared indifferently at this useless thing. M. de Vaublanc, the\nreformer of the Institute by a coup d tat, the distinguished author of\nnumerous academicians, ordinances, and batches of members, after having\ncreated them, could not succeed in becoming one himself. The Faubourg\nSaint-Germain and the pavilion de Marsan wished to have M. Delaveau for\nprefect of police, on account of his piety. Dupuytren and R camier\nentered into a quarrel in the amphitheatre of the School of Medicine,\nand threatened each other with their fists on the subject of the\ndivinity of Jesus Christ. Cuvier, with one eye on Genesis and the other\non nature, tried to please bigoted reaction by reconciling fossils with\ntexts and by making mastodons flatter Moses.\n\nM. Fran ois de Neufch teau, the praiseworthy cultivator of the memory\nof Parmentier, made a thousand efforts to have _pomme de terre_\n[potato] pronounced _parmenti re_, and succeeded therein not at all.\nThe Abb  Gr goire, ex-bishop, ex-conventionary, ex-senator, had passed,\nin the royalist polemics, to the state of  Infamous Gr goire.  The\nlocution of which we have made use _passed to the state of_ has been\ncondemned as a neologism by M. Royer Collard. Under the third arch of\nthe Pont de J na, the new stone with which, the two years previously,\nthe mining aperture made by Bl cher to blow up the bridge had been\nstopped up, was still recognizable on account of its whiteness. Justice\nsummoned to its bar a man who, on seeing the Comte d Artois enter Notre\nDame, had said aloud: _ Sapristi! I regret the time when I saw\nBonaparte and Talma enter the Bel Sauvage, arm in arm. _ A seditious\nutterance. Six months in prison. Traitors showed themselves unbuttoned;\nmen who had gone over to the enemy on the eve of battle made no secret\nof their recompense, and strutted immodestly in the light of day, in\nthe cynicism of riches and dignities; deserters from Ligny and\nQuatre-Bras, in the brazenness of their well-paid turpitude, exhibited\ntheir devotion to the monarchy in the most barefaced manner.\n\nThis is what floats up confusedly, pell-mell, for the year 1817, and is\nnow forgotten. History neglects nearly all these particulars, and\ncannot do otherwise; the infinity would overwhelm it. Nevertheless,\nthese details, which are wrongly called trivial, there are no trivial\nfacts in humanity, nor little leaves in vegetation, are useful. It is\nof the physiognomy of the years that the physiognomy of the centuries\nis composed. In this year of 1817 four young Parisians arranged  a fine\nfarce. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II A DOUBLE QUARTETTE\n\n\nThese Parisians came, one from Toulouse, another from Limoges, the\nthird from Cahors, and the fourth from Montauban; but they were\nstudents; and when one says student, one says Parisian: to study in\nParis is to be born in Paris.\n\nThese young men were insignificant; every one has seen such faces; four\nspecimens of humanity taken at random; neither good nor bad, neither\nwise nor ignorant, neither geniuses nor fools; handsome, with that\ncharming April which is called twenty years. They were four Oscars;\nfor, at that epoch, Arthurs did not yet exist. _Burn for him the\nperfumes of Araby!_ exclaimed romance. _Oscar advances. Oscar, I shall\nbehold him!_ People had just emerged from Ossian; elegance was\nScandinavian and Caledonian; the pure English style was only to prevail\nlater, and the first of the Arthurs, Wellington, had but just won the\nbattle of Waterloo.\n\nThese Oscars bore the names, one of F lix Tholomy s, of Toulouse; the\nsecond, Listolier, of Cahors; the next, Fameuil, of Limoges; the last,\nBlachevelle, of Montauban. Naturally, each of them had his mistress.\nBlachevelle loved Favourite, so named because she had been in England;\nListolier adored Dahlia, who had taken for her nickname the name of a\nflower; Fameuil idolized Z phine, an abridgment of Jos phine; Tholomy s\nhad Fantine, called the Blonde, because of her beautiful, sunny hair.\n\nFavourite, Dahlia, Z phine, and Fantine were four ravishing young\nwomen, perfumed and radiant, still a little like working-women, and not\nyet entirely divorced from their needles; somewhat disturbed by\nintrigues, but still retaining on their faces something of the serenity\nof toil, and in their souls that flower of honesty which survives the\nfirst fall in woman. One of the four was called the young, because she\nwas the youngest of them, and one was called the old; the old one was\ntwenty-three. Not to conceal anything, the three first were more\nexperienced, more heedless, and more emancipated into the tumult of\nlife than Fantine the Blonde, who was still in her first illusions.\n\nDahlia, Z phine, and especially Favourite, could not have said as much.\nThere had already been more than one episode in their romance, though\nhardly begun; and the lover who had borne the name of Adolph in the\nfirst chapter had turned out to be Alphonse in the second, and Gustave\nin the third. Poverty and coquetry are two fatal counsellors; one\nscolds and the other flatters, and the beautiful daughters of the\npeople have both of them whispering in their ear, each on its own side.\nThese badly guarded souls listen. Hence the falls which they\naccomplish, and the stones which are thrown at them. They are\noverwhelmed with splendor of all that is immaculate and inaccessible.\nAlas! what if the Jungfrau were hungry?\n\nFavourite having been in England, was admired by Dahlia and Z phine.\nShe had had an establishment of her own very early in life. Her father\nwas an old unmarried professor of mathematics, a brutal man and a\nbraggart, who went out to give lessons in spite of his age. This\nprofessor, when he was a young man, had one day seen a chambermaid s\ngown catch on a fender; he had fallen in love in consequence of this\naccident. The result had been Favourite. She met her father from time\nto time, and he bowed to her. One morning an old woman with the air of\na devotee, had entered her apartments, and had said to her,  You do not\nknow me, Mamemoiselle?   No.   I am your mother.  Then the old woman\nopened the sideboard, and ate and drank, had a mattress which she owned\nbrought in, and installed herself. This cross and pious old mother\nnever spoke to Favourite, remained hours without uttering a word,\nbreakfasted, dined, and supped for four, and went down to the porter s\nquarters for company, where she spoke ill of her daughter.\n\nIt was having rosy nails that were too pretty which had drawn Dahlia to\nListolier, to others perhaps, to idleness. How could she make such\nnails work? She who wishes to remain virtuous must not have pity on her\nhands. As for Z phine, she had conquered Fameuil by her roguish and\ncaressing little way of saying  Yes, sir. \n\n\nThe young men were comrades; the young girls were friends. Such loves\nare always accompanied by such friendships.\n\nGoodness and philosophy are two distinct things; the proof of this is\nthat, after making all due allowances for these little irregular\nhouseholds, Favourite, Z phine, and Dahlia were philosophical young\nwomen, while Fantine was a good girl.\n\nGood! some one will exclaim; and Tholomy s? Solomon would reply that\nlove forms a part of wisdom. We will confine ourselves to saying that\nthe love of Fantine was a first love, a sole love, a faithful love.\n\nShe alone, of all the four, was not called  thou  by a single one of\nthem.\n\nFantine was one of those beings who blossom, so to speak, from the\ndregs of the people. Though she had emerged from the most unfathomable\ndepths of social shadow, she bore on her brow the sign of the anonymous\nand the unknown. She was born at M. sur M. Of what parents? Who can\nsay? She had never known father or mother. She was called Fantine. Why\nFantine? She had never borne any other name. At the epoch of her birth\nthe Directory still existed. She had no family name; she had no family;\nno baptismal name; the Church no longer existed. She bore the name\nwhich pleased the first random passer-by, who had encountered her, when\na very small child, running bare-legged in the street. She received the\nname as she received the water from the clouds upon her brow when it\nrained. She was called little Fantine. No one knew more than that. This\nhuman creature had entered life in just this way. At the age of ten,\nFantine quitted the town and went to service with some farmers in the\nneighborhood. At fifteen she came to Paris  to seek her fortune. \nFantine was beautiful, and remained pure as long as she could. She was\na lovely blonde, with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her\ndowry; but her gold was on her head, and her pearls were in her mouth.\n\nShe worked for her living; then, still for the sake of her living, for\nthe heart, also, has its hunger, she loved.\n\nShe loved Tholomy s.\n\nAn amour for him; passion for her. The streets of the Latin quarter,\nfilled with throngs of students and grisettes, saw the beginning of\ntheir dream. Fantine had long evaded Tholomy s in the mazes of the hill\nof the Pantheon, where so many adventurers twine and untwine, but in\nsuch a way as constantly to encounter him again. There is a way of\navoiding which resembles seeking. In short, the eclogue took place.\n\nBlachevelle, Listolier, and Fameuil formed a sort of group of which\nTholomy s was the head. It was he who possessed the wit.\n\nTholomy s was the antique old student; he was rich; he had an income of\nfour thousand francs; four thousand francs! a splendid scandal on Mount\nSainte-Genevi ve. Tholomy s was a fast man of thirty, and badly\npreserved. He was wrinkled and toothless, and he had the beginning of a\nbald spot, of which he himself said with sadness, _the skull at thirty,\nthe knee at forty_. His digestion was mediocre, and he had been\nattacked by a watering in one eye. But in proportion as his youth\ndisappeared, gayety was kindled; he replaced his teeth with\nbuffooneries, his hair with mirth, his health with irony, his weeping\neye laughed incessantly. He was dilapidated but still in flower. His\nyouth, which was packing up for departure long before its time, beat a\nretreat in good order, bursting with laughter, and no one saw anything\nbut fire. He had had a piece rejected at the Vaudeville. He made a few\nverses now and then. In addition to this he doubted everything to the\nlast degree, which is a vast force in the eyes of the weak. Being thus\nironical and bald, he was the leader. _Iron_ is an English word. Is it\npossible that irony is derived from it?\n\nOne day Tholomy s took the three others aside, with the gesture of an\noracle, and said to them: \n\n Fantine, Dahlia, Z phine, and Favourite have been teasing us for\nnearly a year to give them a surprise. We have promised them solemnly\nthat we would. They are forever talking about it to us, to me in\nparticular, just as the old women in Naples cry to Saint Januarius,\n _Faccia gialluta, fa o miracolo_, Yellow face, perform thy miracle, \nso our beauties say to me incessantly,  Tholomy s, when will you bring\nforth your surprise?  At the same time our parents keep writing to us.\nPressure on both sides. The moment has arrived, it seems to me; let us\ndiscuss the question. \n\n\nThereupon, Tholomy s lowered his voice and articulated something so\nmirthful, that a vast and enthusiastic grin broke out upon the four\nmouths simultaneously, and Blachevelle exclaimed,  That is an idea. \n\n\nA smoky tap-room presented itself; they entered, and the remainder of\ntheir confidential colloquy was lost in shadow.\n\nThe result of these shades was a dazzling pleasure party which took\nplace on the following Sunday, the four young men inviting the four\nyoung girls.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III FOUR AND FOUR\n\n\nIt is hard nowadays to picture to one s self what a pleasure-trip of\nstudents and grisettes to the country was like, forty-five years ago.\nThe suburbs of Paris are no longer the same; the physiognomy of what\nmay be called circumparisian life has changed completely in the last\nhalf-century; where there was the cuckoo, there is the railway car;\nwhere there was a tender-boat, there is now the steamboat; people speak\nof F camp nowadays as they spoke of Saint-Cloud in those days. The\nParis of 1862 is a city which has France for its outskirts.\n\nThe four couples conscientiously went through with all the country\nfollies possible at that time. The vacation was beginning, and it was a\nwarm, bright, summer day. On the preceding day, Favourite, the only one\nwho knew how to write, had written the following to Tholomy s in the\nname of the four:  It is a good hour to emerge from happiness.  That is\nwhy they rose at five o clock in the morning. Then they went to\nSaint-Cloud by the coach, looked at the dry cascade and exclaimed,\n This must be very beautiful when there is water!  They breakfasted at\nthe _T te-Noir_, where Castaing had not yet been; they treated\nthemselves to a game of ring-throwing under the quincunx of trees of\nthe grand fountain; they ascended Diogenes  lantern, they gambled for\nmacaroons at the roulette establishment of the Pont de S vres, picked\nbouquets at Pateaux, bought reed-pipes at Neuilly, ate apple tarts\neverywhere, and were perfectly happy.\n\nThe young girls rustled and chatted like warblers escaped from their\ncage. It was a perfect delirium. From time to time they bestowed little\ntaps on the young men. Matutinal intoxication of life! adorable years!\nthe wings of the dragonfly quiver. Oh, whoever you may be, do you not\nremember? Have you rambled through the brushwood, holding aside the\nbranches, on account of the charming head which is coming on behind\nyou? Have you slid, laughing, down a slope all wet with rain, with a\nbeloved woman holding your hand, and crying,  Ah, my new boots! what a\nstate they are in! \n\n\nLet us say at once that that merry obstacle, a shower, was lacking in\nthe case of this good-humored party, although Favourite had said as\nthey set out, with a magisterial and maternal tone, _ The slugs are\ncrawling in the paths, a sign of rain, children. _\n\nAll four were madly pretty. A good old classic poet, then famous, a\ngood fellow who had an  l onore, M. le Chevalier de Labouisse, as he\nstrolled that day beneath the chestnut-trees of Saint-Cloud, saw them\npass about ten o clock in the morning, and exclaimed,  There is one too\nmany of them,  as he thought of the Graces. Favourite, Blachevelle s\nfriend, the one aged three and twenty, the old one, ran on in front\nunder the great green boughs, jumped the ditches, stalked distractedly\nover bushes, and presided over this merry-making with the spirit of a\nyoung female faun. Z phine and Dahlia, whom chance had made beautiful\nin such a way that they set each off when they were together, and\ncompleted each other, never left each other, more from an instinct of\ncoquetry than from friendship, and clinging to each other, they assumed\nEnglish poses; the first _keepsakes_ had just made their appearance,\nmelancholy was dawning for women, as later on, Byronism dawned for men;\nand the hair of the tender sex began to droop dolefully. Z phine and\nDahlia had their hair dressed in rolls. Listolier and Fameuil, who were\nengaged in discussing their professors, explained to Fantine the\ndifference that existed between M. Delvincourt and M. Blondeau.\n\nBlachevelle seemed to have been created expressly to carry Favourite s\nsingle-bordered, imitation India shawl of Ternaux s manufacture, on his\narm on Sundays.\n\nTholomy s followed, dominating the group. He was very gay, but one felt\nthe force of government in him; there was dictation in his joviality;\nhis principal ornament was a pair of trousers of elephant-leg pattern\nof nankeen, with straps of braided copper wire; he carried a stout\nrattan worth two hundred francs in his hand, and, as he treated himself\nto everything, a strange thing called a cigar in his mouth. Nothing was\nsacred to him; he smoked.\n\n That Tholomy s is astounding!  said the others, with veneration.  What\ntrousers! What energy! \n\n\nAs for Fantine, she was a joy to behold. Her splendid teeth had\nevidently received an office from God, laughter. She preferred to carry\nher little hat of sewed straw, with its long white strings, in her hand\nrather than on her head. Her thick blond hair, which was inclined to\nwave, and which easily uncoiled, and which it was necessary to fasten\nup incessantly, seemed made for the flight of Galatea under the\nwillows. Her rosy lips babbled enchantingly. The corners of her mouth\nvoluptuously turned up, as in the antique masks of Erigone, had an air\nof encouraging the audacious; but her long, shadowy lashes drooped\ndiscreetly over the jollity of the lower part of the face as though to\ncall a halt. There was something indescribably harmonious and striking\nabout her entire dress. She wore a gown of mauve bar ge, little reddish\nbrown buskins, whose ribbons traced an X on her fine, white,\nopen-worked stockings, and that sort of muslin spencer, a Marseilles\ninvention, whose name, _canezou_, a corruption of the words _quinze\nao t_, pronounced after the fashion of the Canebi re, signifies fine\nweather, heat, and midday. The three others, less timid, as we have\nalready said, wore low-necked dresses without disguise, which in\nsummer, beneath flower-adorned hats, are very graceful and enticing;\nbut by the side of these audacious outfits, blond Fantine s _canezou_,\nwith its transparencies, its indiscretion, and its reticence,\nconcealing and displaying at one and the same time, seemed an alluring\ngodsend of decency, and the famous Court of Love, presided over by the\nVicomtesse de Cette, with the sea-green eyes, would, perhaps, have\nawarded the prize for coquetry to this _canezou_, in the contest for\nthe prize of modesty. The most ingenious is, at times, the wisest. This\ndoes happen.\n\nBrilliant of face, delicate of profile, with eyes of a deep blue, heavy\nlids, feet arched and small, wrists and ankles admirably formed, a\nwhite skin which, here and there allowed the azure branching of the\nveins to be seen, joy, a cheek that was young and fresh, the robust\nthroat of the Juno of  gina, a strong and supple nape of the neck,\nshoulders modelled as though by Coustou, with a voluptuous dimple in\nthe middle, visible through the muslin; a gayety cooled by dreaminess;\nsculptural and exquisite such was Fantine; and beneath these feminine\nadornments and these ribbons one could divine a statue, and in that\nstatue a soul.\n\nFantine was beautiful, without being too conscious of it. Those rare\ndreamers, mysterious priests of the beautiful who silently confront\neverything with perfection, would have caught a glimpse in this little\nworking-woman, through the transparency of her Parisian grace, of the\nancient sacred euphony. This daughter of the shadows was thoroughbred.\nShe was beautiful in the two ways style and rhythm. Style is the form\nof the ideal; rhythm is its movement.\n\nWe have said that Fantine was joy; she was also modesty.\n\nTo an observer who studied her attentively, that which breathed from\nher athwart all the intoxication of her age, the season, and her love\naffair, was an invincible expression of reserve and modesty. She\nremained a little astonished. This chaste astonishment is the shade of\ndifference which separates Psyche from Venus. Fantine had the long,\nwhite, fine fingers of the vestal virgin who stirs the ashes of the\nsacred fire with a golden pin. Although she would have refused nothing\nto Tholomy s, as we shall have more than ample opportunity to see, her\nface in repose was supremely virginal; a sort of serious and almost\naustere dignity suddenly overwhelmed her at certain times, and there\nwas nothing more singular and disturbing than to see gayety become so\nsuddenly extinct there, and meditation succeed to cheerfulness without\nany transition state. This sudden and sometimes severely accentuated\ngravity resembled the disdain of a goddess. Her brow, her nose, her\nchin, presented that equilibrium of outline which is quite distinct\nfrom equilibrium of proportion, and from which harmony of countenance\nresults; in the very characteristic interval which separates the base\nof the nose from the upper lip, she had that imperceptible and charming\nfold, a mysterious sign of chastity, which makes Barberousse fall in\nlove with a Diana found in the treasures of Iconia.\n\nLove is a fault; so be it. Fantine was innocence floating high over\nfault.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THOLOMY S IS SO MERRY THAT HE SINGS A SPANISH DITTY\n\n\nThat day was composed of dawn, from one end to the other. All nature\nseemed to be having a holiday, and to be laughing. The flower-beds of\nSaint-Cloud perfumed the air; the breath of the Seine rustled the\nleaves vaguely; the branches gesticulated in the wind, bees pillaged\nthe jasmines; a whole bohemia of butterflies swooped down upon the\nyarrow, the clover, and the sterile oats; in the august park of the\nKing of France there was a pack of vagabonds, the birds.\n\nThe four merry couples, mingled with the sun, the fields, the flowers,\nthe trees, were resplendent.\n\nAnd in this community of Paradise, talking, singing, running, dancing,\nchasing butterflies, plucking convolvulus, wetting their pink,\nopen-work stockings in the tall grass, fresh, wild, without malice, all\nreceived, to some extent, the kisses of all, with the exception of\nFantine, who was hedged about with that vague resistance of hers\ncomposed of dreaminess and wildness, and who was in love.  You always\nhave a queer look about you,  said Favourite to her.\n\nSuch things are joys. These passages of happy couples are a profound\nappeal to life and nature, and make a caress and light spring forth\nfrom everything. There was once a fairy who created the fields and\nforests expressly for those in love, in that eternal hedge-school of\nlovers, which is forever beginning anew, and which will last as long as\nthere are hedges and scholars. Hence the popularity of spring among\nthinkers. The patrician and the knife-grinder, the duke and the peer,\nthe limb of the law, the courtiers and townspeople, as they used to say\nin olden times, all are subjects of this fairy. They laugh and hunt,\nand there is in the air the brilliance of an apotheosis what a\ntransfiguration effected by love! Notaries  clerks are gods. And the\nlittle cries, the pursuits through the grass, the waists embraced on\nthe fly, those jargons which are melodies, those adorations which burst\nforth in the manner of pronouncing a syllable, those cherries torn from\none mouth by another, all this blazes forth and takes its place among\nthe celestial glories. Beautiful women waste themselves sweetly. They\nthink that this will never come to an end. Philosophers, poets,\npainters, observe these ecstasies and know not what to make of it, so\ngreatly are they dazzled by it. The departure for Cythera! exclaims\nWatteau; Lancret, the painter of plebeians, contemplates his bourgeois,\nwho have flitted away into the azure sky; Diderot stretches out his\narms to all these love idyls, and d Urf  mingles druids with them.\n\nAfter breakfast the four couples went to what was then called the\nKing s Square to see a newly arrived plant from India, whose name\nescapes our memory at this moment, and which, at that epoch, was\nattracting all Paris to Saint-Cloud. It was an odd and charming shrub\nwith a long stem, whose numerous branches, bristling and leafless and\nas fine as threads, were covered with a million tiny white rosettes;\nthis gave the shrub the air of a head of hair studded with flowers.\nThere was always an admiring crowd about it.\n\nAfter viewing the shrub, Tholomy s exclaimed,  I offer you asses!  and\nhaving agreed upon a price with the owner of the asses, they returned\nby way of Vanvres and Issy. At Issy an incident occurred. The truly\nnational park, at that time owned by Bourguin the contractor, happened\nto be wide open. They passed the gates, visited the manikin anchorite\nin his grotto, tried the mysterious little effects of the famous\ncabinet of mirrors, the wanton trap worthy of a satyr become a\nmillionaire or of Turcaret metamorphosed into a Priapus. They had\nstoutly shaken the swing attached to the two chestnut-trees celebrated\nby the Abb  de Bernis. As he swung these beauties, one after the other,\nproducing folds in the fluttering skirts which Greuze would have found\nto his taste, amid peals of laughter, the Toulousan Tholomy s, who was\nsomewhat of a Spaniard, Toulouse being the cousin of Tolosa, sang, to a\nmelancholy chant, the old ballad _gallega_, probably inspired by some\nlovely maid dashing in full flight upon a rope between two trees: \n\n Soy de Badajoz,\nAmor me llama,\nToda mi alma,\nEs en mi ojos,\nPorque ense as,\nA tuas piernas.\n\n Badajoz is my home,\nAnd Love is my name;\nTo my eyes in flame,\nAll my soul doth come;\nFor instruction meet\nI receive at thy feet \n\n\nFantine alone refused to swing.\n\n I don t like to have people put on airs like that,  muttered\nFavourite, with a good deal of acrimony.\n\nAfter leaving the asses there was a fresh delight; they crossed the\nSeine in a boat, and proceeding from Passy on foot they reached the\nbarrier of l toile. They had been up since five o clock that morning,\nas the reader will remember; but _bah! there is no such thing as\nfatigue on Sunday_, said Favourite; _on Sunday fatigue does not work_.\n\nAbout three o clock the four couples, frightened at their happiness,\nwere sliding down the Russian mountains, a singular edifice which then\noccupied the heights of Beaujon, and whose undulating line was visible\nabove the trees of the Champs- lys es.\n\nFrom time to time Favourite exclaimed: \n\n And the surprise? I claim the surprise. \n\n\n Patience,  replied Tholomy s.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V AT BOMBARDA S\n\n\nThe Russian mountains having been exhausted, they began to think about\ndinner; and the radiant party of eight, somewhat weary at last, became\nstranded in Bombarda s public house, a branch establishment which had\nbeen set up in the Champs- lys es by that famous restaurant-keeper,\nBombarda, whose sign could then be seen in the Rue de Rivoli, near\nDelorme Alley.\n\nA large but ugly room, with an alcove and a bed at the end (they had\nbeen obliged to put up with this accommodation in view of the Sunday\ncrowd); two windows whence they could survey beyond the elms, the quay\nand the river; a magnificent August sunlight lightly touching the\npanes; two tables; upon one of them a triumphant mountain of bouquets,\nmingled with the hats of men and women; at the other the four couples\nseated round a merry confusion of platters, dishes, glasses, and\nbottles; jugs of beer mingled with flasks of wine; very little order on\nthe table, some disorder beneath it;\n\n They made beneath the table\nA noise, a clatter of the feet that was abominable, \n\n\nsays Moli re.\n\nThis was the state which the shepherd idyl, begun at five o clock in\nthe morning, had reached at half-past four in the afternoon. The sun\nwas setting; their appetites were satisfied.\n\nThe Champs- lys es, filled with sunshine and with people, were nothing\nbut light and dust, the two things of which glory is composed. The\nhorses of Marly, those neighing marbles, were prancing in a cloud of\ngold. Carriages were going and coming. A squadron of magnificent\nbody-guards, with their clarions at their head, were descending the\nAvenue de Neuilly; the white flag, showing faintly rosy in the setting\nsun, floated over the dome of the Tuileries. The Place de la Concorde,\nwhich had become the Place Louis XV. once more, was choked with happy\npromenaders. Many wore the silver fleur-de-lys suspended from the\nwhite-watered ribbon, which had not yet wholly disappeared from\nbutton-holes in the year 1817. Here and there choruses of little girls\nthrew to the winds, amid the passers-by, who formed into circles and\napplauded, the then celebrated Bourbon air, which was destined to\nstrike the Hundred Days with lightning, and which had for its refrain: \n\n Rendez-nous notre p re de Gand,\nRendez-nous notre p re. \n\n Give us back our father from Ghent,\nGive us back our father. \n\n\nGroups of dwellers in the suburbs, in Sunday array, sometimes even\ndecorated with the fleur-de-lys, like the bourgeois, scattered over the\nlarge square and the Marigny square, were playing at rings and\nrevolving on the wooden horses; others were engaged in drinking; some\njourneyman printers had on paper caps; their laughter was audible.\nEverything was radiant. It was a time of undisputed peace and profound\nroyalist security; it was the epoch when a special and private report\nof Chief of Police Angl s to the King, on the subject of the suburbs of\nParis, terminated with these lines: \n\n Taking all things into consideration, Sire, there is nothing to be\nfeared from these people. They are as heedless and as indolent as cats.\nThe populace is restless in the provinces; it is not in Paris. These\nare very pretty men, Sire. It would take all of two of them to make one\nof your grenadiers. There is nothing to be feared on the part of the\npopulace of Paris the capital. It is remarkable that the stature of\nthis population should have diminished in the last fifty years; and the\npopulace of the suburbs is still more puny than at the time of the\nRevolution. It is not dangerous. In short, it is an amiable rabble. \n\n\nPrefects of the police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform\nitself into a lion; that does happen, however, and in that lies the\nmiracle wrought by the populace of Paris. Moreover, the cat so despised\nby Count Angl s possessed the esteem of the republics of old. In their\neyes it was liberty incarnate; and as though to serve as pendant to the\nMinerva Aptera of the Pir us, there stood on the public square in\nCorinth the colossal bronze figure of a cat. The ingenuous police of\nthe Restoration beheld the populace of Paris in too  rose-colored  a\nlight; it is not so much of  an amiable rabble  as it is thought. The\nParisian is to the Frenchman what the Athenian was to the Greek: no one\nsleeps more soundly than he, no one is more frankly frivolous and lazy\nthan he, no one can better assume the air of forgetfulness; let him not\nbe trusted nevertheless; he is ready for any sort of cool deed; but\nwhen there is glory at the end of it, he is worthy of admiration in\nevery sort of fury. Give him a pike, he will produce the 10th of\nAugust; give him a gun, you will have Austerlitz. He is Napoleon s stay\nand Danton s resource. Is it a question of country, he enlists; is it a\nquestion of liberty, he tears up the pavements. Beware! his hair filled\nwith wrath, is epic; his blouse drapes itself like the folds of a\nchlamys. Take care! he will make of the first Rue Gren tat which comes\nto hand Caudine Forks. When the hour strikes, this man of the faubourgs\nwill grow in stature; this little man will arise, and his gaze will be\nterrible, and his breath will become a tempest, and there will issue\nforth from that slender chest enough wind to disarrange the folds of\nthe Alps. It is, thanks to the suburban man of Paris, that the\nRevolution, mixed with arms, conquers Europe. He sings; it is his\ndelight. Proportion his song to his nature, and you will see! As long\nas he has for refrain nothing but _la Carmagnole_, he only overthrows\nLouis XVI.; make him sing the _Marseillaise_, and he will free the\nworld.\n\nThis note jotted down on the margin of Angl s  report, we will return\nto our four couples. The dinner, as we have said, was drawing to its\nclose.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI A CHAPTER IN WHICH THEY ADORE EACH OTHER\n\n\nChat at table, the chat of love; it is as impossible to reproduce one\nas the other; the chat of love is a cloud; the chat at table is smoke.\n\nFameuil and Dahlia were humming. Tholomy s was drinking. Z phine was\nlaughing, Fantine smiling, Listolier blowing a wooden trumpet which he\nhad purchased at Saint-Cloud.\n\nFavourite gazed tenderly at Blachevelle and said: \n\n Blachevelle, I adore you. \n\n\nThis called forth a question from Blachevelle: \n\n What would you do, Favourite, if I were to cease to love you? \n\n\n I!  cried Favourite.  Ah! Do not say that even in jest! If you were to\ncease to love me, I would spring after you, I would scratch you, I\nshould rend you, I would throw you into the water, I would have you\narrested. \n\n\nBlachevelle smiled with the voluptuous self-conceit of a man who is\ntickled in his self-love. Favourite resumed: \n\n Yes, I would scream to the police! Ah! I should not restrain myself,\nnot at all! Rabble! \n\n\nBlachevelle threw himself back in his chair, in an ecstasy, and closed\nboth eyes proudly.\n\nDahlia, as she ate, said in a low voice to Favourite, amid the uproar: \n\n So you really idolize him deeply, that Blachevelle of yours? \n\n\n I? I detest him,  replied Favourite in the same tone, seizing her fork\nagain.  He is avaricious. I love the little fellow opposite me in my\nhouse. He is very nice, that young man; do you know him? One can see\nthat he is an actor by profession. I love actors. As soon as he comes\nin, his mother says to him:  Ah! mon Dieu! my peace of mind is gone.\nThere he goes with his shouting. But, my dear, you are splitting my\nhead!  So he goes up to rat-ridden garrets, to black holes, as high as\nhe can mount, and there he sets to singing, declaiming, how do I know\nwhat? so that he can be heard downstairs! He earns twenty sous a day at\nan attorney s by penning quibbles. He is the son of a former precentor\nof Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. Ah! he is very nice. He idolizes me so,\nthat one day when he saw me making batter for some pancakes, he said to\nme: _ Mamselle, make your gloves into fritters, and I will eat them. _\nIt is only artists who can say such things as that. Ah! he is very\nnice. I am in a fair way to go out of my head over that little fellow.\nNever mind; I tell Blachevelle that I adore him how I lie! Hey! How I\ndo lie! \n\n\nFavourite paused, and then went on: \n\n I am sad, you see, Dahlia. It has done nothing but rain all summer;\nthe wind irritates me; the wind does not abate. Blachevelle is very\nstingy; there are hardly any green peas in the market; one does not\nknow what to eat. I have the spleen, as the English say, butter is so\ndear! and then you see it is horrible, here we are dining in a room\nwith a bed in it, and that disgusts me with life. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE WISDOM OF THOLOMY S\n\n\nIn the meantime, while some sang, the rest talked together tumultuously\nall at once; it was no longer anything but noise. Tholomy s intervened.\n\n Let us not talk at random nor too fast,  he exclaimed.  Let us\nreflect, if we wish to be brilliant. Too much improvisation empties the\nmind in a stupid way. Running beer gathers no froth. No haste,\ngentlemen. Let us mingle majesty with the feast. Let us eat with\nmeditation; let us make haste slowly. Let us not hurry. Consider the\nspringtime; if it makes haste, it is done for; that is to say, it gets\nfrozen. Excess of zeal ruins peach-trees and apricot-trees. Excess of\nzeal kills the grace and the mirth of good dinners. No zeal, gentlemen!\nGrimod de la Reyni re agrees with Talleyrand. \n\n\nA hollow sound of rebellion rumbled through the group.\n\n Leave us in peace, Tholomy s,  said Blachevelle.\n\n Down with the tyrant!  said Fameuil.\n\n Bombarda, Bombance, and Bambochel!  cried Listolier.\n\n Sunday exists,  resumed Fameuil.\n\n We are sober,  added Listolier.\n\n Tholomy s,  remarked Blachevelle,  contemplate my calmness [_mon\ncalme_]. \n\n\n You are the Marquis of that,  retorted Tholomy s.\n\nThis mediocre play upon words produced the effect of a stone in a pool.\nThe Marquis de Montcalm was at that time a celebrated royalist. All the\nfrogs held their peace.\n\n Friends,  cried Tholomy s, with the accent of a man who had recovered\nhis empire,  Come to yourselves. This pun which has fallen from the\nskies must not be received with too much stupor. Everything which falls\nin that way is not necessarily worthy of enthusiasm and respect. The\npun is the dung of the mind which soars. The jest falls, no matter\nwhere; and the mind after producing a piece of stupidity plunges into\nthe azure depths. A whitish speck flattened against the rock does not\nprevent the condor from soaring aloft. Far be it from me to insult the\npun! I honor it in proportion to its merits; nothing more. All the most\naugust, the most sublime, the most charming of humanity, and perhaps\noutside of humanity, have made puns. Jesus Christ made a pun on St.\nPeter, Moses on Isaac,  schylus on Polynices, Cleopatra on Octavius.\nAnd observe that Cleopatra s pun preceded the battle of Actium, and\nthat had it not been for it, no one would have remembered the city of\nToryne, a Greek name which signifies a ladle. That once conceded, I\nreturn to my exhortation. I repeat, brothers, I repeat, no zeal, no\nhubbub, no excess; even in witticisms, gayety, jollities, or plays on\nwords. Listen to me. I have the prudence of Amphiara s and the baldness\nof C sar. There must be a limit, even to rebuses. _Est modus in rebus_.\n\n There must be a limit, even to dinners. You are fond of apple\nturnovers, ladies; do not indulge in them to excess. Even in the matter\nof turnovers, good sense and art are requisite. Gluttony chastises the\nglutton, _Gula punit Gulax_. Indigestion is charged by the good God\nwith preaching morality to stomachs. And remember this: each one of our\npassions, even love, has a stomach which must not be filled too full.\nIn all things the word _finis_ must be written in good season;\nself-control must be exercised when the matter becomes urgent; the bolt\nmust be drawn on appetite; one must set one s own fantasy to the\nviolin, and carry one s self to the post. The sage is the man who knows\nhow, at a given moment, to effect his own arrest. Have some confidence\nin me, for I have succeeded to some extent in my study of the law,\naccording to the verdict of my examinations, for I know the difference\nbetween the question put and the question pending, for I have sustained\na thesis in Latin upon the manner in which torture was administered at\nRome at the epoch when Munatius Demens was qu stor of the Parricide;\nbecause I am going to be a doctor, apparently it does not follow that\nit is absolutely necessary that I should be an imbecile. I recommend\nyou to moderation in your desires. It is true that my name is F lix\nTholomy s; I speak well. Happy is he who, when the hour strikes, takes\na heroic resolve, and abdicates like Sylla or Origenes. \n\n\nFavourite listened with profound attention.\n\n F lix,  said she,  what a pretty word! I love that name. It is Latin;\nit means prosper. \n\n\nTholomy s went on: \n\n Quirites, gentlemen, caballeros, my friends. Do you wish never to feel\nthe prick, to do without the nuptial bed, and to brave love? Nothing\nmore simple. Here is the receipt: lemonade, excessive exercise, hard\nlabor; work yourself to death, drag blocks, sleep not, hold vigil,\ngorge yourself with nitrous beverages, and potions of nymph as; drink\nemulsions of poppies and agnus castus; season this with a strict diet,\nstarve yourself, and add thereto cold baths, girdles of herbs, the\napplication of a plate of lead, lotions made with the subacetate of\nlead, and fomentations of oxycrat. \n\n\n I prefer a woman,  said Listolier.\n\n Woman,  resumed Tholomy s;  distrust her. Woe to him who yields\nhimself to the unstable heart of woman! Woman is perfidious and\ndisingenuous. She detests the serpent from professional jealousy. The\nserpent is the shop over the way. \n\n\n Tholomy s!  cried Blachevelle,  you are drunk! \n\n\n Pardieu,  said Tholomy s.\n\n Then be gay,  resumed Blachevelle.\n\n I agree to that,  responded Tholomy s.\n\nAnd, refilling his glass, he rose.\n\n Glory to wine! _Nunc te, Bacche, canam!_ Pardon me ladies; that is\nSpanish. And the proof of it, se oras, is this: like people, like cask.\nThe arrobe of Castille contains sixteen litres; the cantaro of\nAlicante, twelve; the almude of the Canaries, twenty-five; the cuartin\nof the Balearic Isles, twenty-six; the boot of Tzar Peter, thirty. Long\nlive that Tzar who was great, and long live his boot, which was still\ngreater! Ladies, take the advice of a friend; make a mistake in your\nneighbor if you see fit. The property of love is to err. A love affair\nis not made to crouch down and brutalize itself like an English\nserving-maid who has callouses on her knees from scrubbing. It is not\nmade for that; it errs gayly, our gentle love. It has been said, error\nis human; I say, error is love. Ladies, I idolize you all. O Z phine, O\nJos phine, face more than irregular, you would be charming were you not\nall askew. You have the air of a pretty face upon which some one has\nsat down by mistake. As for Favourite, O nymphs and muses! one day when\nBlachevelle was crossing the gutter in the Rue Gu rin-Boisseau, he\nespied a beautiful girl with white stockings well drawn up, which\ndisplayed her legs. This prologue pleased him, and Blachevelle fell in\nlove. The one he loved was Favourite. O Favourite, thou hast Ionian\nlips. There was a Greek painter named Euphorion, who was surnamed the\npainter of the lips. That Greek alone would have been worthy to paint\nthy mouth. Listen! before thee, there was never a creature worthy of\nthe name. Thou wert made to receive the apple like Venus, or to eat it\nlike Eve; beauty begins with thee. I have just referred to Eve; it is\nthou who hast created her. Thou deservest the letters-patent of the\nbeautiful woman. O Favourite, I cease to address you as  thou,  because\nI pass from poetry to prose. You were speaking of my name a little\nwhile ago. That touched me; but let us, whoever we may be, distrust\nnames. They may delude us. I am called F lix, and I am not happy. Words\nare liars. Let us not blindly accept the indications which they afford\nus. It would be a mistake to write to Li ge 2 for corks, and to Pau for\ngloves. Miss Dahlia, were I in your place, I would call myself Rosa. A\nflower should smell sweet, and woman should have wit. I say nothing of\nFantine; she is a dreamer, a musing, thoughtful, pensive person; she is\na phantom possessed of the form of a nymph and the modesty of a nun,\nwho has strayed into the life of a grisette, but who takes refuge in\nillusions, and who sings and prays and gazes into the azure without\nvery well knowing what she sees or what she is doing, and who, with her\neyes fixed on heaven, wanders in a garden where there are more birds\nthan are in existence. O Fantine, know this: I, Tholomy s, I am an\nillusion; but she does not even hear me, that blond maid of Chimeras!\nas for the rest, everything about her is freshness, suavity, youth,\nsweet morning light. O Fantine, maid worthy of being called Marguerite\nor Pearl, you are a woman from the beauteous Orient. Ladies, a second\npiece of advice: do not marry; marriage is a graft; it takes well or\nill; avoid that risk. But bah! what am I saying? I am wasting my words.\nGirls are incurable on the subject of marriage, and all that we wise\nmen can say will not prevent the waistcoat-makers and the\nshoe-stitchers from dreaming of husbands studded with diamonds. Well,\nso be it; but, my beauties, remember this, you eat too much sugar. You\nhave but one fault, O woman, and that is nibbling sugar. O nibbling\nsex, your pretty little white teeth adore sugar. Now, heed me well,\nsugar is a salt. All salts are withering. Sugar is the most desiccating\nof all salts; it sucks the liquids of the blood through the veins;\nhence the coagulation, and then the solidification of the blood; hence\ntubercles in the lungs, hence death. That is why diabetes borders on\nconsumption. Then, do not crunch sugar, and you will live. I turn to\nthe men: gentlemen, make conquest, rob each other of your well-beloved\nwithout remorse. Chassez across. In love there are no friends.\nEverywhere where there is a pretty woman hostility is open. No quarter,\nwar to the death! a pretty woman is a _casus belli_; a pretty woman is\nflagrant misdemeanor. All the invasions of history have been determined\nby petticoats. Woman is man s right. Romulus carried off the Sabines;\nWilliam carried off the Saxon women; C sar carried off the Roman women.\nThe man who is not loved soars like a vulture over the mistresses of\nother men; and for my own part, to all those unfortunate men who are\nwidowers, I throw the sublime proclamation of Bonaparte to the army of\nItaly:  Soldiers, you are in need of everything; the enemy has it. \n\n\nTholomy s paused.\n\n Take breath, Tholomy s,  said Blachevelle.\n\nAt the same moment Blachevelle, supported by Listolier and Fameuil,\nstruck up to a plaintive air, one of those studio songs composed of the\nfirst words which come to hand, rhymed richly and not at all, as\ndestitute of sense as the gesture of the tree and the sound of the\nwind, which have their birth in the vapor of pipes, and are dissipated\nand take their flight with them. This is the couplet by which the group\nreplied to Tholomy s  harangue: \n\n The father turkey-cocks so grave\nSome money to an agent gave,\nThat master good Clermont-Tonnerre\nMight be made pope on Saint Johns  day fair.\nBut this good Clermont could not be\nMade pope, because no priest was he;\nAnd then their agent, whose wrath burned,\nWith all their money back returned. \n\n\nThis was not calculated to calm Tholomy s  improvisation; he emptied\nhis glass, filled, refilled it, and began again: \n\n Down with wisdom! Forget all that I have said. Let us be neither\nprudes nor prudent men nor prudhommes. I propose a toast to mirth; be\nmerry. Let us complete our course of law by folly and eating!\nIndigestion and the digest. Let Justinian be the male, and Feasting,\nthe female! Joy in the depths! Live, O creation! The world is a great\ndiamond. I am happy. The birds are astonishing. What a festival\neverywhere! The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou. Summer, I salute\nthee! O Luxembourg! O Georgics of the Rue Madame, and of the All e de\nl Observatoire! O pensive infantry soldiers! O all those charming\nnurses who, while they guard the children, amuse themselves! The pampas\nof America would please me if I had not the arcades of the Od on. My\nsoul flits away into the virgin forests and to the savannas. All is\nbeautiful. The flies buzz in the sun. The sun has sneezed out the\nhumming bird. Embrace me, Fantine! \n\n\nHe made a mistake and embraced Favourite.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE DEATH OF A HORSE\n\n\n The dinners are better at  don s than at Bombarda s,  exclaimed\nZ phine.\n\n I prefer Bombarda to  don,  declared Blachevelle.  There is more\nluxury. It is more Asiatic. Look at the room downstairs; there are\nmirrors [_glaces_] on the walls. \n\n\n I prefer them [_glaces_, ices] on my plate,  said Favourite.\n\nBlachevelle persisted: \n\n Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bombarda s and of\nbone at  don s. Now, silver is more valuable than bone. \n\n\n Except for those who have a silver chin,  observed Tholomy s.\n\nHe was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visible from\nBombarda s windows.\n\nA pause ensued.\n\n Tholomy s,  exclaimed Fameuil,  Listolier and I were having a\ndiscussion just now. \n\n\n A discussion is a good thing,  replied Tholomy s;  a quarrel is\nbetter. \n\n\n We were disputing about philosophy. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza? \n\n\n D saugiers,  said Tholomy s.\n\nThis decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went on: \n\n I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since we can still\ntalk nonsense. For that I return thanks to the immortal gods. We lie.\nOne lies, but one laughs. One affirms, but one doubts. The unexpected\nbursts forth from the syllogism. That is fine. There are still human\nbeings here below who know how to open and close the surprise box of\nthe paradox merrily. This, ladies, which you are drinking with so\ntranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from the vineyard of\nCoural das Freiras, which is three hundred and seventeen fathoms above\nthe level of the sea. Attention while you drink! three hundred and\nseventeen fathoms! and Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house\nkeeper, gives you those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for four\nfrancs and fifty centimes. \n\n\nAgain Fameuil interrupted him: \n\n Tholomy s, your opinions fix the law. Who is your favorite author? \n\n\n Ber \n\n\n Quin? \n\n\n No; Choux. \n\n\nAnd Tholomy s continued: \n\n Honor to Bombarda! He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he could\nbut get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thygelion of Ch ronea if he\ncould bring me a Greek courtesan; for, oh, ladies! there were Bombardas\nin Greece and in Egypt. Apuleius tells us of them. Alas! always the\nsame, and nothing new; nothing more unpublished by the creator in\ncreation! _Nil sub sole novum_, says Solomon; _amor omnibus idem_, says\nVirgil; and Carabine mounts with Carabin into the bark at Saint-Cloud,\nas Aspasia embarked with Pericles upon the fleet at Samos. One last\nword. Do you know what Aspasia was, ladies? Although she lived at an\nepoch when women had, as yet, no soul, she was a soul; a soul of a rosy\nand purple hue, more ardent hued than fire, fresher than the dawn.\nAspasia was a creature in whom two extremes of womanhood met; she was\nthe goddess prostitute; Socrates plus Manon Lescaut. Aspasia was\ncreated in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus. \n\n\nTholomy s, once started, would have found some difficulty in stopping,\nhad not a horse fallen down upon the quay just at that moment. The\nshock caused the cart and the orator to come to a dead halt. It was a\nBeauceron mare, old and thin, and one fit for the knacker, which was\ndragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Bombarda s, the\nworn-out, exhausted beast had refused to proceed any further. This\nincident attracted a crowd. Hardly had the cursing and indignant carter\nhad time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word, _M tin_ (the\njade), backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip, when the jade fell,\nnever to rise again. On hearing the hubbub made by the passers-by,\nTholomy s  merry auditors turned their heads, and Tholomy s took\nadvantage of the opportunity to bring his allocution to a close with\nthis melancholy strophe: \n\n Elle  tait de ce monde ou coucous et carrosses\nOnt le m me destin;\nEt, rosse, elle a v cu ce que vivant les rosses,\nL espace d un m tin!  3\n\n Poor horse!  sighed Fantine.\n\nAnd Dahlia exclaimed: \n\n There is Fantine on the point of crying over horses. How can one be\nsuch a pitiful fool as that! \n\n\nAt that moment Favourite, folding her arms and throwing her head back,\nlooked resolutely at Tholomy s and said: \n\n Come, now! the surprise? \n\n\n Exactly. The moment has arrived,  replied Tholomy s.  Gentlemen, the\nhour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck. Wait for us a\nmoment, ladies. \n\n\n It begins with a kiss,  said Blachevelle.\n\n On the brow,  added Tholomy s.\n\nEach gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress s brow; then all four\nfiled out through the door, with their fingers on their lips.\n\nFavourite clapped her hands on their departure.\n\n It is beginning to be amusing already,  said she.\n\n Don t be too long,  murmured Fantine;  we are waiting for you. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX A MERRY END TO MIRTH\n\n\nWhen the young girls were left alone, they leaned two by two on the\nwindow-sills, chatting, craning out their heads, and talking from one\nwindow to the other.\n\nThey saw the young men emerge from the Caf  Bombarda arm in arm. The\nlatter turned round, made signs to them, smiled, and disappeared in\nthat dusty Sunday throng which makes a weekly invasion into the\nChamps- lys es.\n\n Don t be long!  cried Fantine.\n\n What are they going to bring us?  said Z phine.\n\n It will certainly be something pretty,  said Dahlia.\n\n For my part,  said Favourite,  I want it to be of gold. \n\n\nTheir attention was soon distracted by the movements on the shore of\nthe lake, which they could see through the branches of the large trees,\nand which diverted them greatly.\n\nIt was the hour for the departure of the mail-coaches and diligences.\nNearly all the stage-coaches for the south and west passed through the\nChamps- lys es. The majority followed the quay and went through the\nPassy Barrier. From moment to moment, some huge vehicle, painted yellow\nand black, heavily loaded, noisily harnessed, rendered shapeless by\ntrunks, tarpaulins, and valises, full of heads which immediately\ndisappeared, rushed through the crowd with all the sparks of a forge,\nwith dust for smoke, and an air of fury, grinding the pavements,\nchanging all the paving-stones into steels. This uproar delighted the\nyoung girls. Favourite exclaimed: \n\n What a row! One would say that it was a pile of chains flying away. \n\n\nIt chanced that one of these vehicles, which they could only see with\ndifficulty through the thick elms, halted for a moment, then set out\nagain at a gallop. This surprised Fantine.\n\n That s odd!  said she.  I thought the diligence never stopped. \n\n\nFavourite shrugged her shoulders.\n\n This Fantine is surprising. I am coming to take a look at her out of\ncuriosity. She is dazzled by the simplest things. Suppose a case: I am\na traveller; I say to the diligence,  I will go on in advance; you\nshall pick me up on the quay as you pass.  The diligence passes, sees\nme, halts, and takes me. That is done every day. You do not know life,\nmy dear. \n\n\nIn this manner a certain time elapsed. All at once Favourite made a\nmovement, like a person who is just waking up.\n\n Well,  said she,  and the surprise? \n\n\n Yes, by the way,  joined in Dahlia,  the famous surprise? \n\n\n They are a very long time about it!  said Fantine.\n\nAs Fantine concluded this sigh, the waiter who had served them at\ndinner entered. He held in his hand something which resembled a letter.\n\n What is that?  demanded Favourite.\n\nThe waiter replied: \n\n It is a paper that those gentlemen left for these ladies. \n\n\n Why did you not bring it at once? \n\n\n Because,  said the waiter,  the gentlemen ordered me not to deliver it\nto the ladies for an hour. \n\n\nFavourite snatched the paper from the waiter s hand. It was, in fact, a\nletter.\n\n Stop!  said she;  there is no address; but this is what is written on\nit \n\n\n THIS IS THE SURPRISE. \n\n\nShe tore the letter open hastily, opened it, and read [she knew how to\nread]: \n\n OUR BELOVED: \n\n You must know that we have parents. Parents you do not know much about\nsuch things. They are called fathers and mothers by the civil code,\nwhich is puerile and honest. Now, these parents groan, these old folks\nimplore us, these good men and these good women call us prodigal sons;\nthey desire our return, and offer to kill calves for us. Being\nvirtuous, we obey them. At the hour when you read this, five fiery\nhorses will be bearing us to our papas and mammas. We are pulling up\nour stakes, as Bossuet says. We are going; we are gone. We flee in the\narms of Laffitte and on the wings of Caillard. The Toulouse diligence\ntears us from the abyss, and the abyss is you, O our little beauties!\nWe return to society, to duty, to respectability, at full trot, at the\nrate of three leagues an hour. It is necessary for the good of the\ncountry that we should be, like the rest of the world, prefects,\nfathers of families, rural police, and councillors of state. Venerate\nus. We are sacrificing ourselves. Mourn for us in haste, and replace us\nwith speed. If this letter lacerates you, do the same by it. Adieu.\n\n For the space of nearly two years we have made you happy. We bear you\nno grudge for that.                                  Signed:\nBLACHEVELLE.\nFAMUEIL.\nLISTOLIER.\nF LIX THOLOMY S.\n\n\n _Postscriptum_. The dinner is paid for. \n\n\nThe four young women looked at each other.\n\nFavourite was the first to break the silence.\n\n Well!  she exclaimed,  it s a very pretty farce, all the same. \n\n\n It is very droll,  said Z phine.\n\n That must have been Blachevelle s idea,  resumed Favourite.  It makes\nme in love with him. No sooner is he gone than he is loved. This is an\nadventure, indeed. \n\n\n No,  said Dahlia;  it was one of Tholomy s  ideas. That is evident.\n\n In that case,  retorted Favourite,  death to Blachevelle, and long\nlive Tholomy s! \n\n\n Long live Tholomy s!  exclaimed Dahlia and Z phine.\n\nAnd they burst out laughing.\n\nFantine laughed with the rest.\n\nAn hour later, when she had returned to her room, she wept. It was her\nfirst love affair, as we have said; she had given herself to this\nTholomy s as to a husband, and the poor girl had a child.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FOURTH TO CONFIDE IS SOMETIMES TO DELIVER INTO A PERSON S POWER\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I ONE MOTHER MEETS ANOTHER MOTHER\n\n\nThere was, at Montfermeil, near Paris, during the first quarter of this\ncentury, a sort of cook-shop which no longer exists. This cook-shop was\nkept by some people named Th nardier, husband and wife. It was situated\nin Boulanger Lane. Over the door there was a board nailed flat against\nthe wall. Upon this board was painted something which resembled a man\ncarrying another man on his back, the latter wearing the big gilt\nepaulettes of a general, with large silver stars; red spots represented\nblood; the rest of the picture consisted of smoke, and probably\nrepresented a battle. Below ran this inscription: AT THE SIGN OF\nSERGEANT OF WATERLOO (_Au Sargent de Waterloo_).\n\nNothing is more common than a cart or a truck at the door of a\nhostelry. Nevertheless, the vehicle, or, to speak more accurately, the\nfragment of a vehicle, which encumbered the street in front of the\ncook-shop of the _Sergeant of Waterloo_, one evening in the spring of\n1818, would certainly have attracted, by its mass, the attention of any\npainter who had passed that way.\n\nIt was the fore-carriage of one of those trucks which are used in\nwooded tracts of country, and which serve to transport thick planks and\nthe trunks of trees. This fore-carriage was composed of a massive iron\naxle-tree with a pivot, into which was fitted a heavy shaft, and which\nwas supported by two huge wheels. The whole thing was compact,\noverwhelming, and misshapen. It seemed like the gun-carriage of an\nenormous cannon. The ruts of the road had bestowed on the wheels, the\nfellies, the hub, the axle, and the shaft, a layer of mud, a hideous\nyellowish daubing hue, tolerably like that with which people are fond\nof ornamenting cathedrals. The wood was disappearing under mud, and the\niron beneath rust. Under the axle-tree hung, like drapery, a huge\nchain, worthy of some Goliath of a convict. This chain suggested, not\nthe beams, which it was its office to transport, but the mastodons and\nmammoths which it might have served to harness; it had the air of the\ngalleys, but of cyclopean and superhuman galleys, and it seemed to have\nbeen detached from some monster. Homer would have bound Polyphemus with\nit, and Shakespeare, Caliban.\n\nWhy was that fore-carriage of a truck in that place in the street? In\nthe first place, to encumber the street; next, in order that it might\nfinish the process of rusting. There is a throng of institutions in the\nold social order, which one comes across in this fashion as one walks\nabout outdoors, and which have no other reasons for existence than the\nabove.\n\nThe centre of the chain swung very near the ground in the middle, and\nin the loop, as in the rope of a swing, there were seated and grouped,\non that particular evening, in exquisite interlacement, two little\ngirls; one about two years and a half old, the other, eighteen months;\nthe younger in the arms of the other. A handkerchief, cleverly knotted\nabout them, prevented their falling out. A mother had caught sight of\nthat frightful chain, and had said,  Come! there s a plaything for my\nchildren. \n\n\nThe two children, who were dressed prettily and with some elegance,\nwere radiant with pleasure; one would have said that they were two\nroses amid old iron; their eyes were a triumph; their fresh cheeks were\nfull of laughter. One had chestnut hair; the other, brown. Their\ninnocent faces were two delighted surprises; a blossoming shrub which\ngrew near wafted to the passers-by perfumes which seemed to emanate\nfrom them; the child of eighteen months displayed her pretty little\nbare stomach with the chaste indecency of childhood. Above and around\nthese two delicate heads, all made of happiness and steeped in light,\nthe gigantic fore-carriage, black with rust, almost terrible, all\nentangled in curves and wild angles, rose in a vault, like the entrance\nof a cavern. A few paces apart, crouching down upon the threshold of\nthe hostelry, the mother, not a very prepossessing woman, by the way,\nthough touching at that moment, was swinging the two children by means\nof a long cord, watching them carefully, for fear of accidents, with\nthat animal and celestial expression which is peculiar to maternity. At\nevery backward and forward swing the hideous links emitted a strident\nsound, which resembled a cry of rage; the little girls were in\necstasies; the setting sun mingled in this joy, and nothing could be\nmore charming than this caprice of chance which had made of a chain of\nTitans the swing of cherubim.\n\nAs she rocked her little ones, the mother hummed in a discordant voice\na romance then celebrated: \n\n It must be, said a warrior. \n\n\nHer song, and the contemplation of her daughters, prevented her hearing\nand seeing what was going on in the street.\n\nIn the meantime, some one had approached her, as she was beginning the\nfirst couplet of the romance, and suddenly she heard a voice saying\nvery near her ear: \n\n You have two beautiful children there, Madame. \n\n\n To the fair and tender Imogene \n\n\nreplied the mother, continuing her romance; then she turned her head.\n\nA woman stood before her, a few paces distant. This woman also had a\nchild, which she carried in her arms.\n\nShe was carrying, in addition, a large carpet-bag, which seemed very\nheavy.\n\nThis woman s child was one of the most divine creatures that it is\npossible to behold. It was a girl, two or three years of age. She could\nhave entered into competition with the two other little ones, so far as\nthe coquetry of her dress was concerned; she wore a cap of fine linen,\nribbons on her bodice, and Valenciennes lace on her cap. The folds of\nher skirt were raised so as to permit a view of her white, firm, and\ndimpled leg. She was admirably rosy and healthy. The little beauty\ninspired a desire to take a bite from the apples of her cheeks. Of her\neyes nothing could be known, except that they must be very large, and\nthat they had magnificent lashes. She was asleep.\n\nShe slept with that slumber of absolute confidence peculiar to her age.\nThe arms of mothers are made of tenderness; in them children sleep\nprofoundly.\n\nAs for the mother, her appearance was sad and poverty-stricken. She was\ndressed like a working-woman who is inclined to turn into a peasant\nagain. She was young. Was she handsome? Perhaps; but in that attire it\nwas not apparent. Her hair, a golden lock of which had escaped, seemed\nvery thick, but was severely concealed beneath an ugly, tight, close,\nnun-like cap, tied under the chin. A smile displays beautiful teeth\nwhen one has them; but she did not smile. Her eyes did not seem to have\nbeen dry for a very long time. She was pale; she had a very weary and\nrather sickly appearance. She gazed upon her daughter asleep in her\narms with the air peculiar to a mother who has nursed her own child. A\nlarge blue handkerchief, such as the Invalides use, was folded into a\nfichu, and concealed her figure clumsily. Her hands were sunburnt and\nall dotted with freckles, her forefinger was hardened and lacerated\nwith the needle; she wore a cloak of coarse brown woollen stuff, a\nlinen gown, and coarse shoes. It was Fantine.\n\nIt was Fantine, but difficult to recognize. Nevertheless, on\nscrutinizing her attentively, it was evident that she still retained\nher beauty. A melancholy fold, which resembled the beginning of irony,\nwrinkled her right cheek. As for her toilette, that aerial toilette of\nmuslin and ribbons, which seemed made of mirth, of folly, and of music,\nfull of bells, and perfumed with lilacs had vanished like that\nbeautiful and dazzling hoar-frost which is mistaken for diamonds in the\nsunlight; it melts and leaves the branch quite black.\n\nTen months had elapsed since the  pretty farce. \n\n\nWhat had taken place during those ten months? It can be divined.\n\nAfter abandonment, straightened circumstances. Fantine had immediately\nlost sight of Favourite, Z phine and Dahlia; the bond once broken on\nthe side of the men, it was loosed between the women; they would have\nbeen greatly astonished had any one told them a fortnight later, that\nthey had been friends; there no longer existed any reason for such a\nthing. Fantine had remained alone. The father of her child gone, alas!\nsuch ruptures are irrevocable, she found herself absolutely isolated,\nminus the habit of work and plus the taste for pleasure. Drawn away by\nher _liaison_ with Tholomy s to disdain the pretty trade which she\nknew, she had neglected to keep her market open; it was now closed to\nher. She had no resource. Fantine barely knew how to read, and did not\nknow how to write; in her childhood she had only been taught to sign\nher name; she had a public letter-writer indite an epistle to\nTholomy s, then a second, then a third. Tholomy s replied to none of\nthem. Fantine heard the gossips say, as they looked at her child:  Who\ntakes those children seriously! One only shrugs one s shoulders over\nsuch children!  Then she thought of Tholomy s, who had shrugged his\nshoulders over his child, and who did not take that innocent being\nseriously; and her heart grew gloomy toward that man. But what was she\nto do? She no longer knew to whom to apply. She had committed a fault,\nbut the foundation of her nature, as will be remembered, was modesty\nand virtue. She was vaguely conscious that she was on the verge of\nfalling into distress, and of gliding into a worse state. Courage was\nnecessary; she possessed it, and held herself firm. The idea of\nreturning to her native town of M. sur M. occurred to her. There, some\none might possibly know her and give her work; yes, but it would be\nnecessary to conceal her fault. In a confused way she perceived the\nnecessity of a separation which would be more painful than the first\none. Her heart contracted, but she took her resolution. Fantine, as we\nshall see, had the fierce bravery of life. She had already valiantly\nrenounced finery, had dressed herself in linen, and had put all her\nsilks, all her ornaments, all her ribbons, and all her laces on her\ndaughter, the only vanity which was left to her, and a holy one it was.\nShe sold all that she had, which produced for her two hundred francs;\nher little debts paid, she had only about eighty francs left. At the\nage of twenty-two, on a beautiful spring morning, she quitted Paris,\nbearing her child on her back. Any one who had seen these two pass\nwould have had pity on them. This woman had, in all the world, nothing\nbut her child, and the child had, in all the world, no one but this\nwoman. Fantine had nursed her child, and this had tired her chest, and\nshe coughed a little.\n\nWe shall have no further occasion to speak of M. F lix Tholomy s. Let\nus confine ourselves to saying, that, twenty years later, under King\nLouis Philippe, he was a great provincial lawyer, wealthy and\ninfluential, a wise elector, and a very severe juryman; he was still a\nman of pleasure.\n\nTowards the middle of the day, after having, from time to time, for the\nsake of resting herself, travelled, for three or four sous a league, in\nwhat was then known as the _Petites Voitures des Environs de Paris_,\nthe  little suburban coach service,  Fantine found herself at\nMontfermeil, in the alley Boulanger.\n\nAs she passed the Th nardier hostelry, the two little girls, blissful\nin the monster swing, had dazzled her in a manner, and she had halted\nin front of that vision of joy.\n\nCharms exist. These two little girls were a charm to this mother.\n\nShe gazed at them in much emotion. The presence of angels is an\nannouncement of Paradise. She thought that, above this inn, she beheld\nthe mysterious HERE of Providence. These two little creatures were\nevidently happy. She gazed at them, she admired them, in such emotion\nthat at the moment when their mother was recovering her breath between\ntwo couplets of her song, she could not refrain from addressing to her\nthe remark which we have just read: \n\n You have two pretty children, Madame. \n\n\nThe most ferocious creatures are disarmed by caresses bestowed on their\nyoung.\n\nThe mother raised her head and thanked her, and bade the wayfarer sit\ndown on the bench at the door, she herself being seated on the\nthreshold. The two women began to chat.\n\n My name is Madame Th nardier,  said the mother of the two little\ngirls.  We keep this inn. \n\n\nThen, her mind still running on her romance, she resumed humming\nbetween her teeth: \n\n It must be so; I am a knight,\nAnd I am off to Palestine. \n\n\nThis Madame Th nardier was a sandy-complexioned woman, thin and\nangular the type of the soldier s wife in all its unpleasantness; and\nwhat was odd, with a languishing air, which she owed to her perusal of\nromances. She was a simpering, but masculine creature. Old romances\nproduce that effect when rubbed against the imagination of cook-shop\nwoman. She was still young; she was barely thirty. If this crouching\nwoman had stood upright, her lofty stature and her frame of a\nperambulating colossus suitable for fairs, might have frightened the\ntraveller at the outset, troubled her confidence, and disturbed what\ncaused what we have to relate to vanish. A person who is seated instead\nof standing erect destinies hang upon such a thing as that.\n\nThe traveller told her story, with slight modifications.\n\nThat she was a working-woman; that her husband was dead; that her work\nin Paris had failed her, and that she was on her way to seek it\nelsewhere, in her own native parts; that she had left Paris that\nmorning on foot; that, as she was carrying her child, and felt\nfatigued, she had got into the Villemomble coach when she met it; that\nfrom Villemomble she had come to Montfermeil on foot; that the little\none had walked a little, but not much, because she was so young, and\nthat she had been obliged to take her up, and the jewel had fallen\nasleep.\n\nAt this word she bestowed on her daughter a passionate kiss, which woke\nher. The child opened her eyes, great blue eyes like her mother s, and\nlooked at what? Nothing; with that serious and sometimes severe air of\nlittle children, which is a mystery of their luminous innocence in the\npresence of our twilight of virtue. One would say that they feel\nthemselves to be angels, and that they know us to be men. Then the\nchild began to laugh; and although the mother held fast to her, she\nslipped to the ground with the unconquerable energy of a little being\nwhich wished to run. All at once she caught sight of the two others in\nthe swing, stopped short, and put out her tongue, in sign of\nadmiration.\n\nMother Th nardier released her daughters, made them descend from the\nswing, and said: \n\n Now amuse yourselves, all three of you. \n\n\nChildren become acquainted quickly at that age, and at the expiration\nof a minute the little Th nardiers were playing with the newcomer at\nmaking holes in the ground, which was an immense pleasure.\n\nThe newcomer was very gay; the goodness of the mother is written in the\ngayety of the child; she had seized a scrap of wood which served her\nfor a shovel, and energetically dug a cavity big enough for a fly. The\ngrave-digger s business becomes a subject for laughter when performed\nby a child.\n\nThe two women pursued their chat.\n\n What is your little one s name? \n\n\n Cosette. \n\n\nFor Cosette, read Euphrasie. The child s name was Euphrasie. But out of\nEuphrasie the mother had made Cosette by that sweet and graceful\ninstinct of mothers and of the populace which changes Josepha into\nPepita, and Fran oise into Sillette. It is a sort of derivative which\ndisarranges and disconcerts the whole science of etymologists. We have\nknown a grandmother who succeeded in turning Theodore into Gnon.\n\n How old is she? \n\n\n She is going on three. \n\n\n That is the age of my eldest. \n\n\nIn the meantime, the three little girls were grouped in an attitude of\nprofound anxiety and blissfulness; an event had happened; a big worm\nhad emerged from the ground, and they were afraid; and they were in\necstasies over it.\n\nTheir radiant brows touched each other; one would have said that there\nwere three heads in one aureole.\n\n How easily children get acquainted at once!  exclaimed Mother\nTh nardier;  one would swear that they were three sisters! \n\n\nThis remark was probably the spark which the other mother had been\nwaiting for. She seized the Th nardier s hand, looked at her fixedly,\nand said: \n\n Will you keep my child for me? \n\n\nThe Th nardier made one of those movements of surprise which signify\nneither assent nor refusal.\n\nCosette s mother continued: \n\n You see, I cannot take my daughter to the country. My work will not\npermit it. With a child one can find no situation. People are\nridiculous in the country. It was the good God who caused me to pass\nyour inn. When I caught sight of your little ones, so pretty, so clean,\nand so happy, it overwhelmed me. I said:  Here is a good mother. That\nis just the thing; that will make three sisters.  And then, it will not\nbe long before I return. Will you keep my child for me? \n\n\n I must see about it,  replied the Th nardier.\n\n I will give you six francs a month. \n\n\nHere a man s voice called from the depths of the cook-shop: \n\n Not for less than seven francs. And six months paid in advance. \n\n\n Six times seven makes forty-two,  said the Th nardier.\n\n I will give it,  said the mother.\n\n And fifteen francs in addition for preliminary expenses,  added the\nman s voice.\n\n Total, fifty-seven francs,  said Madame Th nardier. And she hummed\nvaguely, with these figures: \n\n It must be, said a warrior. \n\n\n I will pay it,  said the mother.  I have eighty francs. I shall have\nenough left to reach the country, by travelling on foot. I shall earn\nmoney there, and as soon as I have a little I will return for my\ndarling. \n\n\nThe man s voice resumed: \n\n The little one has an outfit? \n\n\n That is my husband,  said the Th nardier.\n\n Of course she has an outfit, the poor treasure. I understood perfectly\nthat it was your husband. And a beautiful outfit, too! a senseless\noutfit, everything by the dozen, and silk gowns like a lady. It is\nhere, in my carpet-bag. \n\n\n You must hand it over,  struck in the man s voice again.\n\n Of course I shall give it to you,  said the mother.  It would be very\nqueer if I were to leave my daughter quite naked! \n\n\nThe master s face appeared.\n\n That s good,  said he.\n\nThe bargain was concluded. The mother passed the night at the inn, gave\nup her money and left her child, fastened her carpet-bag once more, now\nreduced in volume by the removal of the outfit, and light henceforth\nand set out on the following morning, intending to return soon. People\narrange such departures tranquilly; but they are despairs!\n\nA neighbor of the Th nardiers met this mother as she was setting out,\nand came back with the remark: \n\n I have just seen a woman crying in the street so that it was enough to\nrend your heart. \n\n\nWhen Cosette s mother had taken her departure, the man said to the\nwoman: \n\n That will serve to pay my note for one hundred and ten francs which\nfalls due to-morrow; I lacked fifty francs. Do you know that I should\nhave had a bailiff and a protest after me? You played the mouse-trap\nnicely with your young ones. \n\n\n Without suspecting it,  said the woman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II FIRST SKETCH OF TWO UNPREPOSSESSING FIGURES\n\n\nThe mouse which had been caught was a pitiful specimen; but the cat\nrejoices even over a lean mouse.\n\nWho were these Th nardiers?\n\nLet us say a word or two of them now. We will complete the sketch later\non.\n\nThese beings belonged to that bastard class composed of coarse people\nwho have been successful, and of intelligent people who have descended\nin the scale, which is between the class called  middle  and the class\ndenominated as  inferior,  and which combines some of the defects of\nthe second with nearly all the vices of the first, without possessing\nthe generous impulse of the workingman nor the honest order of the\nbourgeois.\n\nThey were of those dwarfed natures which, if a dull fire chances to\nwarm them up, easily become monstrous. There was in the woman a\nsubstratum of the brute, and in the man the material for a blackguard.\nBoth were susceptible, in the highest degree, of the sort of hideous\nprogress which is accomplished in the direction of evil. There exist\ncrab-like souls which are continually retreating towards the darkness,\nretrograding in life rather than advancing, employing experience to\naugment their deformity, growing incessantly worse, and becoming more\nand more impregnated with an ever-augmenting blackness. This man and\nwoman possessed such souls.\n\nTh nardier, in particular, was troublesome for a physiognomist. One can\nonly look at some men to distrust them; for one feels that they are\ndark in both directions. They are uneasy in the rear and threatening in\nfront. There is something of the unknown about them. One can no more\nanswer for what they have done than for what they will do. The shadow\nwhich they bear in their glance denounces them. From merely hearing\nthem utter a word or seeing them make a gesture, one obtains a glimpse\nof sombre secrets in their past and of sombre mysteries in their\nfuture.\n\nThis Th nardier, if he himself was to be believed, had been a soldier a\nsergeant, he said. He had probably been through the campaign of 1815,\nand had even conducted himself with tolerable valor, it would seem. We\nshall see later on how much truth there was in this. The sign of his\nhostelry was in allusion to one of his feats of arms. He had painted it\nhimself; for he knew how to do a little of everything, and badly.\n\nIt was at the epoch when the ancient classical romance which, after\nhaving been _Cl lie_, was no longer anything but _Lodo ska_, still\nnoble, but ever more and more vulgar, having fallen from Mademoiselle\nde Scud ri to Madame Bournon-Malarme, and from Madame de Lafayette to\nMadame Barth lemy-Hadot, was setting the loving hearts of the\nportresses of Paris aflame, and even ravaging the suburbs to some\nextent. Madame Th nardier was just intelligent enough to read this sort\nof books. She lived on them. In them she drowned what brains she\npossessed. This had given her, when very young, and even a little\nlater, a sort of pensive attitude towards her husband, a scamp of a\ncertain depth, a ruffian lettered to the extent of the grammar, coarse\nand fine at one and the same time, but, so far as sentimentalism was\nconcerned, given to the perusal of Pigault-Lebrun, and  in what\nconcerns the sex,  as he said in his jargon a downright, unmitigated\nlout. His wife was twelve or fifteen years younger than he was. Later\non, when her hair, arranged in a romantically drooping fashion, began\nto grow gray, when the Meg ra began to be developed from the Pamela,\nthe female Th nardier was nothing but a coarse, vicious woman, who had\ndabbled in stupid romances. Now, one cannot read nonsense with\nimpunity. The result was that her eldest daughter was named  ponine; as\nfor the younger, the poor little thing came near being called Gulnare;\nI know not to what diversion, effected by a romance of Ducray-Dumenil,\nshe owed the fact that she merely bore the name of Azelma.\n\nHowever, we will remark by the way, everything was not ridiculous and\nsuperficial in that curious epoch to which we are alluding, and which\nmay be designated as the anarchy of baptismal names. By the side of\nthis romantic element which we have just indicated there is the social\nsymptom. It is not rare for the neatherd s boy nowadays to bear the\nname of Arthur, Alfred, or Alphonse, and for the vicomte if there are\nstill any vicomtes to be called Thomas, Pierre, or Jacques. This\ndisplacement, which places the  elegant  name on the plebeian and the\nrustic name on the aristocrat, is nothing else than an eddy of\nequality. The irresistible penetration of the new inspiration is there\nas everywhere else. Beneath this apparent discord there is a great and\na profound thing, the French Revolution.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE LARK\n\n\nIt is not all in all sufficient to be wicked in order to prosper. The\ncook-shop was in a bad way.\n\nThanks to the traveller s fifty-seven francs, Th nardier had been able\nto avoid a protest and to honor his signature. On the following month\nthey were again in need of money. The woman took Cosette s outfit to\nParis, and pawned it at the pawnbroker s for sixty francs. As soon as\nthat sum was spent, the Th nardiers grew accustomed to look on the\nlittle girl merely as a child whom they were caring for out of charity;\nand they treated her accordingly. As she had no longer any clothes,\nthey dressed her in the cast-off petticoats and chemises of the\nTh nardier brats; that is to say, in rags. They fed her on what all the\nrest had left a little better than the dog, a little worse than the\ncat. Moreover, the cat and the dog were her habitual table-companions;\nCosette ate with them under the table, from a wooden bowl similar to\ntheirs.\n\nThe mother, who had established herself, as we shall see later on, at\nM. sur M., wrote, or, more correctly, caused to be written, a letter\nevery month, that she might have news of her child. The Th nardiers\nreplied invariably,  Cosette is doing wonderfully well. \n\n\nAt the expiration of the first six months the mother sent seven francs\nfor the seventh month, and continued her remittances with tolerable\nregularity from month to month. The year was not completed when\nTh nardier said:  A fine favor she is doing us, in sooth! What does she\nexpect us to do with her seven francs?  and he wrote to demand twelve\nfrancs. The mother, whom they had persuaded into the belief that her\nchild was happy,  and was coming on well,  submitted, and forwarded the\ntwelve francs.\n\nCertain natures cannot love on the one hand without hating on the\nother. Mother Th nardier loved her two daughters passionately, which\ncaused her to hate the stranger.\n\nIt is sad to think that the love of a mother can possess villainous\naspects. Little as was the space occupied by Cosette, it seemed to her\nas though it were taken from her own, and that that little child\ndiminished the air which her daughters breathed. This woman, like many\nwomen of her sort, had a load of caresses and a burden of blows and\ninjuries to dispense each day. If she had not had Cosette, it is\ncertain that her daughters, idolized as they were, would have received\nthe whole of it; but the stranger did them the service to divert the\nblows to herself. Her daughters received nothing but caresses. Cosette\ncould not make a motion which did not draw down upon her head a heavy\nshower of violent blows and unmerited chastisement. The sweet, feeble\nbeing, who should not have understood anything of this world or of God,\nincessantly punished, scolded, ill-used, beaten, and seeing beside her\ntwo little creatures like herself, who lived in a ray of dawn!\n\nMadame Th nardier was vicious with Cosette.  ponine and Azelma were\nvicious. Children at that age are only copies of their mother. The size\nis smaller; that is all.\n\nA year passed; then another.\n\nPeople in the village said: \n\n Those Th nardiers are good people. They are not rich, and yet they are\nbringing up a poor child who was abandoned on their hands! \n\n\nThey thought that Cosette s mother had forgotten her.\n\nIn the meanwhile, Th nardier, having learned, it is impossible to say\nby what obscure means, that the child was probably a bastard, and that\nthe mother could not acknowledge it, exacted fifteen francs a month,\nsaying that  the creature  was growing and  eating,  and threatening to\nsend her away.  Let her not bother me,  he exclaimed,  or I ll fire her\nbrat right into the middle of her secrets. I must have an increase. \nThe mother paid the fifteen francs.\n\nFrom year to year the child grew, and so did her wretchedness.\n\nAs long as Cosette was little, she was the scape-goat of the two other\nchildren; as soon as she began to develop a little, that is to say,\nbefore she was even five years old, she became the servant of the\nhousehold.\n\nFive years old! the reader will say; that is not probable. Alas! it is\ntrue. Social suffering begins at all ages. Have we not recently seen\nthe trial of a man named Dumollard, an orphan turned bandit, who, from\nthe age of five, as the official documents state, being alone in the\nworld,  worked for his living and stole ?\n\nCosette was made to run on errands, to sweep the rooms, the courtyard,\nthe street, to wash the dishes, to even carry burdens. The Th nardiers\nconsidered themselves all the more authorized to behave in this manner,\nsince the mother, who was still at M. sur M., had become irregular in\nher payments. Some months she was in arrears.\n\nIf this mother had returned to Montfermeil at the end of these three\nyears, she would not have recognized her child. Cosette, so pretty and\nrosy on her arrival in that house, was now thin and pale. She had an\nindescribably uneasy look.  The sly creature,  said the Th nardiers.\n\nInjustice had made her peevish, and misery had made her ugly. Nothing\nremained to her except her beautiful eyes, which inspired pain,\nbecause, large as they were, it seemed as though one beheld in them a\nstill larger amount of sadness.\n\nIt was a heart-breaking thing to see this poor child, not yet six years\nold, shivering in the winter in her old rags of linen, full of holes,\nsweeping the street before daylight, with an enormous broom in her tiny\nred hands, and a tear in her great eyes.\n\n[Illustration: Cossette Sweeping]\n\nShe was called the _Lark_ in the neighborhood. The populace, who are\nfond of these figures of speech, had taken a fancy to bestow this name\non this trembling, frightened, and shivering little creature, no bigger\nthan a bird, who was awake every morning before any one else in the\nhouse or the village, and was always in the street or the fields before\ndaybreak.\n\nOnly the little lark never sang.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIFTH THE DESCENT\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE HISTORY OF A PROGRESS IN BLACK GLASS TRINKETS\n\n\nAnd in the meantime, what had become of that mother who according to\nthe people at Montfermeil, seemed to have abandoned her child? Where\nwas she? What was she doing?\n\nAfter leaving her little Cosette with the Th nardiers, she had\ncontinued her journey, and had reached M. sur M.\n\nThis, it will be remembered, was in 1818.\n\nFantine had quitted her province ten years before. M. sur M. had\nchanged its aspect. While Fantine had been slowly descending from\nwretchedness to wretchedness, her native town had prospered.\n\nAbout two years previously one of those industrial facts which are the\ngrand events of small districts had taken place.\n\nThis detail is important, and we regard it as useful to develop it at\nlength; we should almost say, to underline it.\n\nFrom time immemorial, M. sur M. had had for its special industry the\nimitation of English jet and the black glass trinkets of Germany. This\nindustry had always vegetated, on account of the high price of the raw\nmaterial, which reacted on the manufacture. At the moment when Fantine\nreturned to M. sur M., an unheard-of transformation had taken place in\nthe production of  black goods.  Towards the close of 1815 a man, a\nstranger, had established himself in the town, and had been inspired\nwith the idea of substituting, in this manufacture, gum-lac for resin,\nand, for bracelets in particular, slides of sheet-iron simply laid\ntogether, for slides of soldered sheet-iron.\n\nThis very small change had effected a revolution.\n\nThis very small change had, in fact, prodigiously reduced the cost of\nthe raw material, which had rendered it possible in the first place, to\nraise the price of manufacture, a benefit to the country; in the second\nplace, to improve the workmanship, an advantage to the consumer; in the\nthird place, to sell at a lower price, while trebling the profit, which\nwas a benefit to the manufacturer.\n\nThus three results ensued from one idea.\n\nIn less than three years the inventor of this process had become rich,\nwhich is good, and had made every one about him rich, which is better.\nHe was a stranger in the Department. Of his origin, nothing was known;\nof the beginning of his career, very little. It was rumored that he had\ncome to town with very little money, a few hundred francs at the most.\n\nIt was from this slender capital, enlisted in the service of an\ningenious idea, developed by method and thought, that he had drawn his\nown fortune, and the fortune of the whole countryside.\n\nOn his arrival at M. sur M. he had only the garments, the appearance,\nand the language of a workingman.\n\nIt appears that on the very day when he made his obscure entry into the\nlittle town of M. sur M., just at nightfall, on a December evening,\nknapsack on back and thorn club in hand, a large fire had broken out in\nthe town-hall. This man had rushed into the flames and saved, at the\nrisk of his own life, two children who belonged to the captain of the\ngendarmerie; this is why they had forgotten to ask him for his\npassport. Afterwards they had learned his name. He was called Father\nMadeleine.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II MADELEINE\n\n\nHe was a man about fifty years of age, who had a preoccupied air, and\nwho was good. That was all that could be said about him.\n\nThanks to the rapid progress of the industry which he had so admirably\nreconstructed, M. sur M. had become a rather important centre of trade.\nSpain, which consumes a good deal of black jet, made enormous purchases\nthere each year. M. sur M. almost rivalled London and Berlin in this\nbranch of commerce. Father Madeleine s profits were such, that at the\nend of the second year he was able to erect a large factory, in which\nthere were two vast workrooms, one for the men, and the other for\nwomen. Any one who was hungry could present himself there, and was sure\nof finding employment and bread. Father Madeleine required of the men\ngood will, of the women pure morals, and of all, probity. He had\nseparated the work-rooms in order to separate the sexes, and so that\nthe women and girls might remain discreet. On this point he was\ninflexible. It was the only thing in which he was in a manner\nintolerant. He was all the more firmly set on this severity, since M.\nsur M., being a garrison town, opportunities for corruption abounded.\nHowever, his coming had been a boon, and his presence was a godsend.\nBefore Father Madeleine s arrival, everything had languished in the\ncountry; now everything lived with a healthy life of toil. A strong\ncirculation warmed everything and penetrated everywhere. Slack seasons\nand wretchedness were unknown. There was no pocket so obscure that it\nhad not a little money in it; no dwelling so lowly that there was not\nsome little joy within it.\n\nFather Madeleine gave employment to every one. He exacted but one\nthing: Be an honest man. Be an honest woman.\n\nAs we have said, in the midst of this activity of which he was the\ncause and the pivot, Father Madeleine made his fortune; but a singular\nthing in a simple man of business, it did not seem as though that were\nhis chief care. He appeared to be thinking much of others, and little\nof himself. In 1820 he was known to have a sum of six hundred and\nthirty thousand francs lodged in his name with Laffitte; but before\nreserving these six hundred and thirty thousand francs, he had spent\nmore than a million for the town and its poor.\n\nThe hospital was badly endowed; he founded six beds there. M. sur M. is\ndivided into the upper and the lower town. The lower town, in which he\nlived, had but one school, a miserable hovel, which was falling to\nruin: he constructed two, one for girls, the other for boys. He\nallotted a salary from his own funds to the two instructors, a salary\ntwice as large as their meagre official salary, and one day he said to\nsome one who expressed surprise,  The two prime functionaries of the\nstate are the nurse and the schoolmaster.  He created at his own\nexpense an infant school, a thing then almost unknown in France, and a\nfund for aiding old and infirm workmen. As his factory was a centre, a\nnew quarter, in which there were a good many indigent families, rose\nrapidly around him; he established there a free dispensary.\n\nAt first, when they watched his beginnings, the good souls said,  He s\na jolly fellow who means to get rich.  When they saw him enriching the\ncountry before he enriched himself, the good souls said,  He is an\nambitious man.  This seemed all the more probable since the man was\nreligious, and even practised his religion to a certain degree, a thing\nwhich was very favorably viewed at that epoch. He went regularly to low\nmass every Sunday. The local deputy, who nosed out all rivalry\neverywhere, soon began to grow uneasy over this religion. This deputy\nhad been a member of the legislative body of the Empire, and shared the\nreligious ideas of a father of the Oratoire, known under the name of\nFouch , Duc d Otrante, whose creature and friend he had been. He\nindulged in gentle raillery at God with closed doors. But when he\nbeheld the wealthy manufacturer Madeleine going to low mass at seven\no clock, he perceived in him a possible candidate, and resolved to\noutdo him; he took a Jesuit confessor, and went to high mass and to\nvespers. Ambition was at that time, in the direct acceptation of the\nword, a race to the steeple. The poor profited by this terror as well\nas the good God, for the honorable deputy also founded two beds in the\nhospital, which made twelve.\n\nNevertheless, in 1819 a rumor one morning circulated through the town\nto the effect that, on the representations of the prefect and in\nconsideration of the services rendered by him to the country, Father\nMadeleine was to be appointed by the King, mayor of M. sur M. Those who\nhad pronounced this newcomer to be  an ambitious fellow,  seized with\ndelight on this opportunity which all men desire, to exclaim,  There!\nwhat did we say!  All M. sur M. was in an uproar. The rumor was well\nfounded. Several days later the appointment appeared in the _Moniteur_.\nOn the following day Father Madeleine refused.\n\nIn this same year of 1819 the products of the new process invented by\nMadeleine figured in the industrial exhibition; when the jury made\ntheir report, the King appointed the inventor a chevalier of the Legion\nof Honor. A fresh excitement in the little town. Well, so it was the\ncross that he wanted! Father Madeleine refused the cross.\n\nDecidedly this man was an enigma. The good souls got out of their\npredicament by saying,  After all, he is some sort of an adventurer. \n\n\nWe have seen that the country owed much to him; the poor owed him\neverything; he was so useful and he was so gentle that people had been\nobliged to honor and respect him. His workmen, in particular, adored\nhim, and he endured this adoration with a sort of melancholy gravity.\nWhen he was known to be rich,  people in society  bowed to him, and he\nreceived invitations in the town; he was called, in town, Monsieur\nMadeleine; his workmen and the children continued to call him Father\nMadeleine, and that was what was most adapted to make him smile. In\nproportion as he mounted, throve, invitations rained down upon him.\n Society  claimed him for its own. The prim little drawing-rooms on M.\nsur M., which, of course, had at first been closed to the artisan,\nopened both leaves of their folding-doors to the millionnaire. They\nmade a thousand advances to him. He refused.\n\nThis time the good gossips had no trouble.  He is an ignorant man, of\nno education. No one knows where he came from. He would not know how to\nbehave in society. It has not been absolutely proved that he knows how\nto read. \n\n\nWhen they saw him making money, they said,  He is a man of business. \nWhen they saw him scattering his money about, they said,  He is an\nambitious man.  When he was seen to decline honors, they said,  He is\nan adventurer.  When they saw him repulse society, they said,  He is a\nbrute. \n\n\nIn 1820, five years after his arrival in M. sur M., the services which\nhe had rendered to the district were so dazzling, the opinion of the\nwhole country round about was so unanimous, that the King again\nappointed him mayor of the town. He again declined; but the prefect\nresisted his refusal, all the notabilities of the place came to implore\nhim, the people in the street besought him; the urging was so vigorous\nthat he ended by accepting. It was noticed that the thing which seemed\nchiefly to bring him to a decision was the almost irritated apostrophe\naddressed to him by an old woman of the people, who called to him from\nher threshold, in an angry way: _ A good mayor is a useful thing. Is he\ndrawing back before the good which he can do? _\n\nThis was the third phase of his ascent. Father Madeleine had become\nMonsieur Madeleine. Monsieur Madeleine became Monsieur le Maire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III SUMS DEPOSITED WITH LAFFITTE\n\n\nOn the other hand, he remained as simple as on the first day. He had\ngray hair, a serious eye, the sunburned complexion of a laborer, the\nthoughtful visage of a philosopher. He habitually wore a hat with a\nwide brim, and a long coat of coarse cloth, buttoned to the chin. He\nfulfilled his duties as mayor; but, with that exception, he lived in\nsolitude. He spoke to but few people. He avoided polite attentions; he\nescaped quickly; he smiled to relieve himself of the necessity of\ntalking; he gave, in order to get rid of the necessity for smiling. The\nwomen said of him,  What a good-natured bear!  His pleasure consisted\nin strolling in the fields.\n\nHe always took his meals alone, with an open book before him, which he\nread. He had a well-selected little library. He loved books; books are\ncold but safe friends. In proportion as leisure came to him with\nfortune, he seemed to take advantage of it to cultivate his mind. It\nhad been observed that, ever since his arrival at M. sur M., his\nlanguage had grown more polished, more choice, and more gentle with\nevery passing year. He liked to carry a gun with him on his strolls,\nbut he rarely made use of it. When he did happen to do so, his shooting\nwas something so infallible as to inspire terror. He never killed an\ninoffensive animal. He never shot at a little bird.\n\nAlthough he was no longer young, it was thought that he was still\nprodigiously strong. He offered his assistance to any one who was in\nneed of it, lifted a horse, released a wheel clogged in the mud, or\nstopped a runaway bull by the horns. He always had his pockets full of\nmoney when he went out; but they were empty on his return. When he\npassed through a village, the ragged brats ran joyously after him, and\nsurrounded him like a swarm of gnats.\n\nIt was thought that he must, in the past, have lived a country life,\nsince he knew all sorts of useful secrets, which he taught to the\npeasants. He taught them how to destroy scurf on wheat, by sprinkling\nit and the granary and inundating the cracks in the floor with a\nsolution of common salt; and how to chase away weevils by hanging up\norviot in bloom everywhere, on the walls and the ceilings, among the\ngrass and in the houses.\n\nHe had  recipes  for exterminating from a field, blight, tares,\nfoxtail, and all parasitic growths which destroy the wheat. He defended\na rabbit warren against rats, simply by the odor of a guinea-pig which\nhe placed in it.\n\nOne day he saw some country people busily engaged in pulling up\nnettles; he examined the plants, which were uprooted and already dried,\nand said:  They are dead. Nevertheless, it would be a good thing to\nknow how to make use of them. When the nettle is young, the leaf makes\nan excellent vegetable; when it is older, it has filaments and fibres\nlike hemp and flax. Nettle cloth is as good as linen cloth. Chopped up,\nnettles are good for poultry; pounded, they are good for horned cattle.\nThe seed of the nettle, mixed with fodder, gives gloss to the hair of\nanimals; the root, mixed with salt, produces a beautiful yellow\ncoloring-matter. Moreover, it is an excellent hay, which can be cut\ntwice. And what is required for the nettle? A little soil, no care, no\nculture. Only the seed falls as it is ripe, and it is difficult to\ncollect it. That is all. With the exercise of a little care, the nettle\ncould be made useful; it is neglected and it becomes hurtful. It is\nexterminated. How many men resemble the nettle!  He added, after a\npause:  Remember this, my friends: there are no such things as bad\nplants or bad men. There are only bad cultivators. \n\n\nThe children loved him because he knew how to make charming little\ntrifles of straw and cocoanuts.\n\nWhen he saw the door of a church hung in black, he entered: he sought\nout funerals as other men seek christenings. Widowhood and the grief of\nothers attracted him, because of his great gentleness; he mingled with\nthe friends clad in mourning, with families dressed in black, with the\npriests groaning around a coffin. He seemed to like to give to his\nthoughts for text these funereal psalmodies filled with the vision of\nthe other world. With his eyes fixed on heaven, he listened with a sort\nof aspiration towards all the mysteries of the infinite, those sad\nvoices which sing on the verge of the obscure abyss of death.\n\nHe performed a multitude of good actions, concealing his agency in them\nas a man conceals himself because of evil actions. He penetrated houses\nprivately, at night; he ascended staircases furtively. A poor wretch on\nreturning to his attic would find that his door had been opened,\nsometimes even forced, during his absence. The poor man made a clamor\nover it: some malefactor had been there! He entered, and the first\nthing he beheld was a piece of gold lying forgotten on some piece of\nfurniture. The  malefactor  who had been there was Father Madeleine.\n\nHe was affable and sad. The people said:  There is a rich man who has\nnot a haughty air. There is a happy man who has not a contented air. \n\n\nSome people maintained that he was a mysterious person, and that no one\never entered his chamber, which was a regular anchorite s cell,\nfurnished with winged hour-glasses and enlivened by cross-bones and\nskulls of dead men! This was much talked of, so that one of the elegant\nand malicious young women of M. sur M. came to him one day, and asked:\n Monsieur le Maire, pray show us your chamber. It is said to be a\ngrotto.  He smiled, and introduced them instantly into this  grotto. \nThey were well punished for their curiosity. The room was very simply\nfurnished in mahogany, which was rather ugly, like all furniture of\nthat sort, and hung with paper worth twelve sous. They could see\nnothing remarkable about it, except two candlesticks of antique pattern\nwhich stood on the chimney-piece and appeared to be silver,  for they\nwere hall-marked,  an observation full of the type of wit of petty\ntowns.\n\nNevertheless, people continued to say that no one ever got into the\nroom, and that it was a hermit s cave, a mysterious retreat, a hole, a\ntomb.\n\nIt was also whispered about that he had  immense  sums deposited with\nLaffitte, with this peculiar feature, that they were always at his\nimmediate disposal, so that, it was added, M. Madeleine could make his\nappearance at Laffitte s any morning, sign a receipt, and carry off his\ntwo or three millions in ten minutes. In reality,  these two or three\nmillions  were reducible, as we have said, to six hundred and thirty or\nforty thousand francs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV M. MADELEINE IN MOURNING\n\n\nAt the beginning of 1820 the newspapers announced the death of M.\nMyriel, Bishop of D , surnamed  Monseigneur Bienvenu,  who had died in\nthe odor of sanctity at the age of eighty-two.\n\nThe Bishop of D  to supply here a detail which the papers omitted had\nbeen blind for many years before his death, and content to be blind, as\nhis sister was beside him.\n\nLet us remark by the way, that to be blind and to be loved, is, in\nfact, one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness upon this\nearth, where nothing is complete. To have continually at one s side a\nwoman, a daughter, a sister, a charming being, who is there because you\nneed her and because she cannot do without you; to know that we are\nindispensable to a person who is necessary to us; to be able to\nincessantly measure one s affection by the amount of her presence which\nshe bestows on us, and to say to ourselves,  Since she consecrates the\nwhole of her time to me, it is because I possess the whole of her\nheart ; to behold her thought in lieu of her face; to be able to verify\nthe fidelity of one being amid the eclipse of the world; to regard the\nrustle of a gown as the sound of wings; to hear her come and go,\nretire, speak, return, sing, and to think that one is the centre of\nthese steps, of this speech; to manifest at each instant one s personal\nattraction; to feel one s self all the more powerful because of one s\ninfirmity; to become in one s obscurity, and through one s obscurity,\nthe star around which this angel gravitates, few felicities equal this.\nThe supreme happiness of life consists in the conviction that one is\nloved; loved for one s own sake let us say rather, loved in spite of\none s self; this conviction the blind man possesses. To be served in\ndistress is to be caressed. Does he lack anything? No. One does not\nlose the sight when one has love. And what love! A love wholly\nconstituted of virtue! There is no blindness where there is certainty.\nSoul seeks soul, gropingly, and finds it. And this soul, found and\ntested, is a woman. A hand sustains you; it is hers: a mouth lightly\ntouches your brow; it is her mouth: you hear a breath very near you; it\nis hers. To have everything of her, from her worship to her pity, never\nto be left, to have that sweet weakness aiding you, to lean upon that\nimmovable reed, to touch Providence with one s hands, and to be able to\ntake it in one s arms, God made tangible, what bliss! The heart, that\nobscure, celestial flower, undergoes a mysterious blossoming. One would\nnot exchange that shadow for all brightness! The angel soul is there,\nuninterruptedly there; if she departs, it is but to return again; she\nvanishes like a dream, and reappears like reality. One feels warmth\napproaching, and behold! she is there. One overflows with serenity,\nwith gayety, with ecstasy; one is a radiance amid the night. And there\nare a thousand little cares. Nothings, which are enormous in that void.\nThe most ineffable accents of the feminine voice employed to lull you,\nand supplying the vanished universe to you. One is caressed with the\nsoul. One sees nothing, but one feels that one is adored. It is a\nparadise of shadows.\n\nIt was from this paradise that Monseigneur Welcome had passed to the\nother.\n\nThe announcement of his death was reprinted by the local journal of M.\nsur M. On the following day, M. Madeleine appeared clad wholly in\nblack, and with crape on his hat.\n\nThis mourning was noticed in the town, and commented on. It seemed to\nthrow a light on M. Madeleine s origin. It was concluded that some\nrelationship existed between him and the venerable Bishop. _ He has\ngone into mourning for the Bishop of D _ said the drawing-rooms; this\nraised M. Madeleine s credit greatly, and procured for him, instantly\nand at one blow, a certain consideration in the noble world of M. sur\nM. The microscopic Faubourg Saint-Germain of the place meditated\nraising the quarantine against M. Madeleine, the probable relative of a\nbishop. M. Madeleine perceived the advancement which he had obtained,\nby the more numerous courtesies of the old women and the more plentiful\nsmiles of the young ones. One evening, a ruler in that petty great\nworld, who was curious by right of seniority, ventured to ask him,  M.\nle Maire is doubtless a cousin of the late Bishop of D ? \n\n\nHe said,  No, Madame. \n\n\n But,  resumed the dowager,  you are wearing mourning for him. \n\n\nHe replied,  It is because I was a servant in his family in my youth. \n\n\nAnother thing which was remarked, was, that every time that he\nencountered in the town a young Savoyard who was roaming about the\ncountry and seeking chimneys to sweep, the mayor had him summoned,\ninquired his name, and gave him money. The little Savoyards told each\nother about it: a great many of them passed that way.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V VAGUE FLASHES ON THE HORIZON\n\n\nLittle by little, and in the course of time, all this opposition\nsubsided. There had at first been exercised against M. Madeleine, in\nvirtue of a sort of law which all those who rise must submit to,\nblackening and calumnies; then they grew to be nothing more than\nill-nature, then merely malicious remarks, then even this entirely\ndisappeared; respect became complete, unanimous, cordial, and towards\n1821 the moment arrived when the word  Monsieur le Maire  was\npronounced at M. sur M. with almost the same accent as  Monseigneur the\nBishop  had been pronounced in D  in 1815. People came from a distance\nof ten leagues around to consult M. Madeleine. He put an end to\ndifferences, he prevented lawsuits, he reconciled enemies. Every one\ntook him for the judge, and with good reason. It seemed as though he\nhad for a soul the book of the natural law. It was like an epidemic of\nveneration, which in the course of six or seven years gradually took\npossession of the whole district.\n\nOne single man in the town, in the arrondissement, absolutely escaped\nthis contagion, and, whatever Father Madeleine did, remained his\nopponent as though a sort of incorruptible and imperturbable instinct\nkept him on the alert and uneasy. It seems, in fact, as though there\nexisted in certain men a veritable bestial instinct, though pure and\nupright, like all instincts, which creates antipathies and sympathies,\nwhich fatally separates one nature from another nature, which does not\nhesitate, which feels no disquiet, which does not hold its peace, and\nwhich never belies itself, clear in its obscurity, infallible,\nimperious, intractable, stubborn to all counsels of the intelligence\nand to all the dissolvents of reason, and which, in whatever manner\ndestinies are arranged, secretly warns the man-dog of the presence of\nthe man-cat, and the man-fox of the presence of the man-lion.\n\nIt frequently happened that when M. Madeleine was passing along a\nstreet, calm, affectionate, surrounded by the blessings of all, a man\nof lofty stature, clad in an iron-gray frock-coat, armed with a heavy\ncane, and wearing a battered hat, turned round abruptly behind him, and\nfollowed him with his eyes until he disappeared, with folded arms and a\nslow shake of the head, and his upper lip raised in company with his\nlower to his nose, a sort of significant grimace which might be\ntranslated by:  What is that man, after all? I certainly have seen him\nsomewhere. In any case, I am not his dupe. \n\n\nThis person, grave with a gravity which was almost menacing, was one of\nthose men who, even when only seen by a rapid glimpse, arrest the\nspectator s attention.\n\nHis name was Javert, and he belonged to the police.\n\nAt M. sur M. he exercised the unpleasant but useful functions of an\ninspector. He had not seen Madeleine s beginnings. Javert owed the post\nwhich he occupied to the protection of M. Chabouillet, the secretary of\nthe Minister of State, Comte Angl s, then prefect of police at Paris.\nWhen Javert arrived at M. sur M. the fortune of the great manufacturer\nwas already made, and Father Madeleine had become Monsieur Madeleine.\n\nCertain police officers have a peculiar physiognomy, which is\ncomplicated with an air of baseness mingled with an air of authority.\nJavert possessed this physiognomy minus the baseness.\n\nIt is our conviction that if souls were visible to the eyes, we should\nbe able to see distinctly that strange thing that each one individual\nof the human race corresponds to some one of the species of the animal\ncreation; and we could easily recognize this truth, hardly perceived by\nthe thinker, that from the oyster to the eagle, from the pig to the\ntiger, all animals exist in man, and that each one of them is in a man.\nSometimes even several of them at a time.\n\nAnimals are nothing else than the figures of our virtues and our vices,\nstraying before our eyes, the visible phantoms of our souls. God shows\nthem to us in order to induce us to reflect. Only since animals are\nmere shadows, God has not made them capable of education in the full\nsense of the word; what is the use? On the contrary, our souls being\nrealities and having a goal which is appropriate to them, God has\nbestowed on them intelligence; that is to say, the possibility of\neducation. Social education, when well done, can always draw from a\nsoul, of whatever sort it may be, the utility which it contains.\n\nThis, be it said, is of course from the restricted point of view of the\nterrestrial life which is apparent, and without prejudging the profound\nquestion of the anterior or ulterior personality of the beings which\nare not man. The visible _I_ in nowise authorizes the thinker to deny\nthe latent _I_. Having made this reservation, let us pass on.\n\nNow, if the reader will admit, for a moment, with us, that in every man\nthere is one of the animal species of creation, it will be easy for us\nto say what there was in Police Officer Javert.\n\nThe peasants of Asturias are convinced that in every litter of wolves\nthere is one dog, which is killed by the mother because, otherwise, as\nhe grew up, he would devour the other little ones.\n\nGive to this dog-son of a wolf a human face, and the result will be\nJavert.\n\nJavert had been born in prison, of a fortune-teller, whose husband was\nin the galleys. As he grew up, he thought that he was outside the pale\nof society, and he despaired of ever re-entering it. He observed that\nsociety unpardoningly excludes two classes of men, those who attack it\nand those who guard it; he had no choice except between these two\nclasses; at the same time, he was conscious of an indescribable\nfoundation of rigidity, regularity, and probity, complicated with an\ninexpressible hatred for the race of bohemians whence he was sprung. He\nentered the police; he succeeded there. At forty years of age he was an\ninspector.\n\nDuring his youth he had been employed in the convict establishments of\nthe South.\n\nBefore proceeding further, let us come to an understanding as to the\nwords,  human face,  which we have just applied to Javert.\n\nThe human face of Javert consisted of a flat nose, with two deep\nnostrils, towards which enormous whiskers ascended on his cheeks. One\nfelt ill at ease when he saw these two forests and these two caverns\nfor the first time. When Javert laughed, and his laugh was rare and\nterrible, his thin lips parted and revealed to view not only his teeth,\nbut his gums, and around his nose there formed a flattened and savage\nfold, as on the muzzle of a wild beast. Javert, serious, was a\nwatchdog; when he laughed, he was a tiger. As for the rest, he had very\nlittle skull and a great deal of jaw; his hair concealed his forehead\nand fell over his eyebrows; between his eyes there was a permanent,\ncentral frown, like an imprint of wrath; his gaze was obscure; his\nmouth pursed up and terrible; his air that of ferocious command.\n\nThis man was composed of two very simple and two very good sentiments,\ncomparatively; but he rendered them almost bad, by dint of exaggerating\nthem, respect for authority, hatred of rebellion; and in his eyes,\nmurder, robbery, all crimes, are only forms of rebellion. He enveloped\nin a blind and profound faith every one who had a function in the\nstate, from the prime minister to the rural policeman. He covered with\nscorn, aversion, and disgust every one who had once crossed the legal\nthreshold of evil. He was absolute, and admitted no exceptions. On the\none hand, he said,  The functionary can make no mistake; the magistrate\nis never the wrong.  On the other hand, he said,  These men are\nirremediably lost. Nothing good can come from them.  He fully shared\nthe opinion of those extreme minds which attribute to human law I know\nnot what power of making, or, if the reader will have it so, of\nauthenticating, demons, and who place a Styx at the base of society. He\nwas stoical, serious, austere; a melancholy dreamer, humble and\nhaughty, like fanatics. His glance was like a gimlet, cold and\npiercing. His whole life hung on these two words: watchfulness and\nsupervision. He had introduced a straight line into what is the most\ncrooked thing in the world; he possessed the conscience of his\nusefulness, the religion of his functions, and he was a spy as other\nmen are priests. Woe to the man who fell into his hands! He would have\narrested his own father, if the latter had escaped from the galleys,\nand would have denounced his mother, if she had broken her ban. And he\nwould have done it with that sort of inward satisfaction which is\nconferred by virtue. And, withal, a life of privation, isolation,\nabnegation, chastity, with never a diversion. It was implacable duty;\nthe police understood, as the Spartans understood Sparta, a pitiless\nlying in wait, a ferocious honesty, a marble informer, Brutus in\nVidocq.\n\nJavert s whole person was expressive of the man who spies and who\nwithdraws himself from observation. The mystical school of Joseph de\nMaistre, which at that epoch seasoned with lofty cosmogony those things\nwhich were called the ultra newspapers, would not have failed to\ndeclare that Javert was a symbol. His brow was not visible; it\ndisappeared beneath his hat: his eyes were not visible, since they were\nlost under his eyebrows: his chin was not visible, for it was plunged\nin his cravat: his hands were not visible; they were drawn up in his\nsleeves: and his cane was not visible; he carried it under his coat.\nBut when the occasion presented itself, there was suddenly seen to\nemerge from all this shadow, as from an ambuscade, a narrow and angular\nforehead, a baleful glance, a threatening chin, enormous hands, and a\nmonstrous cudgel.\n\nIn his leisure moments, which were far from frequent, he read, although\nhe hated books; this caused him to be not wholly illiterate. This could\nbe recognized by some emphasis in his speech.\n\nAs we have said, he had no vices. When he was pleased with himself, he\npermitted himself a pinch of snuff. Therein lay his connection with\nhumanity.\n\nThe reader will have no difficulty in understanding that Javert was the\nterror of that whole class which the annual statistics of the Ministry\nof Justice designates under the rubric, Vagrants. The name of Javert\nrouted them by its mere utterance; the face of Javert petrified them at\nsight.\n\nSuch was this formidable man.\n\nJavert was like an eye constantly fixed on M. Madeleine. An eye full of\nsuspicion and conjecture. M. Madeleine had finally perceived the fact;\nbut it seemed to be of no importance to him. He did not even put a\nquestion to Javert; he neither sought nor avoided him; he bore that\nembarrassing and almost oppressive gaze without appearing to notice it.\nHe treated Javert with ease and courtesy, as he did all the rest of the\nworld.\n\nIt was divined, from some words which escaped Javert, that he had\nsecretly investigated, with that curiosity which belongs to the race,\nand into which there enters as much instinct as will, all the anterior\ntraces which Father Madeleine might have left elsewhere. He seemed to\nknow, and he sometimes said in covert words, that some one had gleaned\ncertain information in a certain district about a family which had\ndisappeared. Once he chanced to say, as he was talking to himself,  I\nthink I have him!  Then he remained pensive for three days, and uttered\nnot a word. It seemed that the thread which he thought he held had\nbroken.\n\nMoreover, and this furnishes the necessary corrective for the too\nabsolute sense which certain words might present, there can be nothing\nreally infallible in a human creature, and the peculiarity of instinct\nis that it can become confused, thrown off the track, and defeated.\nOtherwise, it would be superior to intelligence, and the beast would be\nfound to be provided with a better light than man.\n\nJavert was evidently somewhat disconcerted by the perfect naturalness\nand tranquillity of M. Madeleine.\n\nOne day, nevertheless, his strange manner appeared to produce an\nimpression on M. Madeleine. It was on the following occasion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI FATHER FAUCHELEVENT\n\n\nOne morning M. Madeleine was passing through an unpaved alley of M. sur\nM.; he heard a noise, and saw a group some distance away. He\napproached. An old man named Father Fauchelevent had just fallen\nbeneath his cart, his horse having tumbled down.\n\nThis Fauchelevent was one of the few enemies whom M. Madeleine had at\nthat time. When Madeleine arrived in the neighborhood, Fauchelevent, an\nex-notary and a peasant who was almost educated, had a business which\nwas beginning to be in a bad way. Fauchelevent had seen this simple\nworkman grow rich, while he, a lawyer, was being ruined. This had\nfilled him with jealousy, and he had done all he could, on every\noccasion, to injure Madeleine. Then bankruptcy had come; and as the old\nman had nothing left but a cart and a horse, and neither family nor\nchildren, he had turned carter.\n\nThe horse had two broken legs and could not rise. The old man was\ncaught in the wheels. The fall had been so unlucky that the whole\nweight of the vehicle rested on his breast. The cart was quite heavily\nladen. Father Fauchelevent was rattling in the throat in the most\nlamentable manner. They had tried, but in vain, to drag him out. An\nunmethodical effort, aid awkwardly given, a wrong shake, might kill\nhim. It was impossible to disengage him otherwise than by lifting the\nvehicle off of him. Javert, who had come up at the moment of the\naccident, had sent for a jack-screw.\n\nM. Madeleine arrived. People stood aside respectfully.\n\n Help!  cried old Fauchelevent.  Who will be good and save the old\nman? \n\n\nM. Madeleine turned towards those present: \n\n Is there a jack-screw to be had? \n\n\n One has been sent for,  answered the peasant.\n\n How long will it take to get it? \n\n\n They have gone for the nearest, to Flachot s place, where there is a\nfarrier; but it makes no difference; it will take a good quarter of an\nhour. \n\n\n A quarter of an hour!  exclaimed Madeleine.\n\nIt had rained on the preceding night; the soil was soaked.\n\nThe cart was sinking deeper into the earth every moment, and crushing\nthe old carter s breast more and more. It was evident that his ribs\nwould be broken in five minutes more.\n\n It is impossible to wait another quarter of an hour,  said Madeleine\nto the peasants, who were staring at him.\n\n We must! \n\n\n But it will be too late then! Don t you see that the cart is sinking? \n\n\n Well! \n\n\n Listen,  resumed Madeleine;  there is still room enough under the cart\nto allow a man to crawl beneath it and raise it with his back. Only\nhalf a minute, and the poor man can be taken out. Is there any one here\nwho has stout loins and heart? There are five louis d or to be earned! \n\n\nNot a man in the group stirred.\n\n Ten louis,  said Madeleine.\n\nThe persons present dropped their eyes. One of them muttered:  A man\nwould need to be devilish strong. And then he runs the risk of getting\ncrushed! \n\n\n Come,  began Madeleine again,  twenty louis. \n\n\nThe same silence.\n\n It is not the will which is lacking,  said a voice.\n\nM. Madeleine turned round, and recognized Javert. He had not noticed\nhim on his arrival.\n\nJavert went on: \n\n It is strength. One would have to be a terrible man to do such a thing\nas lift a cart like that on his back. \n\n\nThen, gazing fixedly at M. Madeleine, he went on, emphasizing every\nword that he uttered: \n\n Monsieur Madeleine, I have never known but one man capable of doing\nwhat you ask. \n\n\nMadeleine shuddered.\n\nJavert added, with an air of indifference, but without removing his\neyes from Madeleine: \n\n He was a convict. \n\n\n Ah!  said Madeleine.\n\n In the galleys at Toulon. \n\n\nMadeleine turned pale.\n\nMeanwhile, the cart continued to sink slowly. Father Fauchelevent\nrattled in the throat, and shrieked: \n\n I am strangling! My ribs are breaking! a screw! something! Ah! \n\n\nMadeleine glanced about him.\n\n Is there, then, no one who wishes to earn twenty louis and save the\nlife of this poor old man? \n\n\nNo one stirred. Javert resumed: \n\n I have never known but one man who could take the place of a screw,\nand he was that convict. \n\n\n Ah! It is crushing me!  cried the old man.\n\nMadeleine raised his head, met Javert s falcon eye still fixed upon\nhim, looked at the motionless peasants, and smiled sadly. Then, without\nsaying a word, he fell on his knees, and before the crowd had even had\ntime to utter a cry, he was underneath the vehicle.\n\nA terrible moment of expectation and silence ensued.\n\nThey beheld Madeleine, almost flat on his stomach beneath that terrible\nweight, make two vain efforts to bring his knees and his elbows\ntogether. They shouted to him,  Father Madeleine, come out!  Old\nFauchelevent himself said to him,  Monsieur Madeleine, go away! You see\nthat I am fated to die! Leave me! You will get yourself crushed also! \nMadeleine made no reply.\n\nAll the spectators were panting. The wheels had continued to sink, and\nit had become almost impossible for Madeleine to make his way from\nunder the vehicle.\n\nSuddenly the enormous mass was seen to quiver, the cart rose slowly,\nthe wheels half emerged from the ruts. They heard a stifled voice\ncrying,  Make haste! Help!  It was Madeleine, who had just made a final\neffort.\n\nThey rushed forwards. The devotion of a single man had given force and\ncourage to all. The cart was raised by twenty arms. Old Fauchelevent\nwas saved.\n\nMadeleine rose. He was pale, though dripping with perspiration. His\nclothes were torn and covered with mud. All wept. The old man kissed\nhis knees and called him the good God. As for him, he bore upon his\ncountenance an indescribable expression of happy and celestial\nsuffering, and he fixed his tranquil eye on Javert, who was still\nstaring at him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII FAUCHELEVENT BECOMES A GARDENER IN PARIS\n\n\nFauchelevent had dislocated his kneepan in his fall. Father Madeleine\nhad him conveyed to an infirmary which he had established for his\nworkmen in the factory building itself, and which was served by two\nsisters of charity. On the following morning the old man found a\nthousand-franc bank-note on his night-stand, with these words in Father\nMadeleine s writing: _ I purchase your horse and cart. _ The cart was\nbroken, and the horse was dead. Fauchelevent recovered, but his knee\nremained stiff. M. Madeleine, on the recommendation of the sisters of\ncharity and of his priest, got the good man a place as gardener in a\nfemale convent in the Rue Saint-Antoine in Paris.\n\nSome time afterwards, M. Madeleine was appointed mayor. The first time\nthat Javert beheld M. Madeleine clothed in the scarf which gave him\nauthority over the town, he felt the sort of shudder which a watch-dog\nmight experience on smelling a wolf in his master s clothes. From that\ntime forth he avoided him as much as he possibly could. When the\nrequirements of the service imperatively demanded it, and he could not\ndo otherwise than meet the mayor, he addressed him with profound\nrespect.\n\nThis prosperity created at M. sur M. by Father Madeleine had, besides\nthe visible signs which we have mentioned, another symptom which was\nnonetheless significant for not being visible. This never deceives.\nWhen the population suffers, when work is lacking, when there is no\ncommerce, the tax-payer resists imposts through penury, he exhausts and\noversteps his respite, and the state expends a great deal of money in\nthe charges for compelling and collection. When work is abundant, when\nthe country is rich and happy, the taxes are paid easily and cost the\nstate nothing. It may be said, that there is one infallible thermometer\nof the public misery and riches, the cost of collecting the taxes. In\nthe course of seven years the expense of collecting the taxes had\ndiminished three-fourths in the arrondissement of M. sur M., and this\nled to this arrondissement being frequently cited from all the rest by\nM. de Vill le, then Minister of Finance.\n\nSuch was the condition of the country when Fantine returned thither. No\none remembered her. Fortunately, the door of M. Madeleine s factory was\nlike the face of a friend. She presented herself there, and was\nadmitted to the women s workroom. The trade was entirely new to\nFantine; she could not be very skilful at it, and she therefore earned\nbut little by her day s work; but it was sufficient; the problem was\nsolved; she was earning her living.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII MADAME VICTURNIEN EXPENDS THIRTY FRANCS ON MORALITY\n\n\nWhen Fantine saw that she was making her living, she felt joyful for a\nmoment. To live honestly by her own labor, what mercy from heaven! The\ntaste for work had really returned to her. She bought a looking-glass,\ntook pleasure in surveying in it her youth, her beautiful hair, her\nfine teeth; she forgot many things; she thought only of Cosette and of\nthe possible future, and was almost happy. She hired a little room and\nfurnished on credit on the strength of her future work a lingering\ntrace of her improvident ways. As she was not able to say that she was\nmarried she took good care, as we have seen, not to mention her little\ngirl.\n\nAt first, as the reader has seen, she paid the Th nardiers promptly. As\nshe only knew how to sign her name, she was obliged to write through a\npublic letter-writer.\n\nShe wrote often, and this was noticed. It began to be said in an\nundertone, in the women s workroom, that Fantine  wrote letters  and\nthat  she had ways about her. \n\n\nThere is no one for spying on people s actions like those who are not\nconcerned in them. Why does that gentleman never come except at\nnightfall? Why does Mr. So-and-So never hang his key on its nail on\nTuesday? Why does he always take the narrow streets? Why does Madame\nalways descend from her hackney-coach before reaching her house? Why\ndoes she send out to purchase six sheets of note paper, when she has a\n whole stationer s shop full of it?  etc. There exist beings who, for\nthe sake of obtaining the key to these enigmas, which are, moreover, of\nno consequence whatever to them, spend more money, waste more time,\ntake more trouble, than would be required for ten good actions, and\nthat gratuitously, for their own pleasure, without receiving any other\npayment for their curiosity than curiosity. They will follow up such\nand such a man or woman for whole days; they will do sentry duty for\nhours at a time on the corners of the streets, under alley-way doors at\nnight, in cold and rain; they will bribe errand-porters, they will make\nthe drivers of hackney-coaches and lackeys tipsy, buy a waiting-maid,\nsuborn a porter. Why? For no reason. A pure passion for seeing,\nknowing, and penetrating into things. A pure itch for talking. And\noften these secrets once known, these mysteries made public, these\nenigmas illuminated by the light of day, bring on catastrophies, duels,\nfailures, the ruin of families, and broken lives, to the great joy of\nthose who have  found out everything,  without any interest in the\nmatter, and by pure instinct. A sad thing.\n\nCertain persons are malicious solely through a necessity for talking.\nTheir conversation, the chat of the drawing-room, gossip of the\nanteroom, is like those chimneys which consume wood rapidly; they need\na great amount of combustibles; and their combustibles are furnished by\ntheir neighbors.\n\nSo Fantine was watched.\n\nIn addition, many a one was jealous of her golden hair and of her white\nteeth.\n\nIt was remarked that in the workroom she often turned aside, in the\nmidst of the rest, to wipe away a tear. These were the moments when she\nwas thinking of her child; perhaps, also, of the man whom she had\nloved.\n\nBreaking the gloomy bonds of the past is a mournful task.\n\nIt was observed that she wrote twice a month at least, and that she\npaid the carriage on the letter. They managed to obtain the address:\n_Monsieur, Monsieur Th nardier, inn-keeper at Montfermeil_. The public\nwriter, a good old man who could not fill his stomach with red wine\nwithout emptying his pocket of secrets, was made to talk in the\nwine-shop. In short, it was discovered that Fantine had a child.  She\nmust be a pretty sort of a woman.  An old gossip was found, who made\nthe trip to Montfermeil, talked to the Th nardiers, and said on her\nreturn:  For my five and thirty francs I have freed my mind. I have\nseen the child. \n\n\nThe gossip who did this thing was a gorgon named Madame Victurnien, the\nguardian and door-keeper of every one s virtue. Madame Victurnien was\nfifty-six, and re-enforced the mask of ugliness with the mask of age. A\nquavering voice, a whimsical mind. This old dame had once been\nyoung astonishing fact! In her youth, in  93, she had married a monk\nwho had fled from his cloister in a red cap, and passed from the\nBernardines to the Jacobins. She was dry, rough, peevish, sharp,\ncaptious, almost venomous; all this in memory of her monk, whose widow\nshe was, and who had ruled over her masterfully and bent her to his\nwill. She was a nettle in which the rustle of the cassock was visible.\nAt the Restoration she had turned bigot, and that with so much energy\nthat the priests had forgiven her her monk. She had a small property,\nwhich she bequeathed with much ostentation to a religious community.\nShe was in high favor at the episcopal palace of Arras. So this Madame\nVicturnien went to Montfermeil, and returned with the remark,  I have\nseen the child. \n\n\nAll this took time. Fantine had been at the factory for more than a\nyear, when, one morning, the superintendent of the workroom handed her\nfifty francs from the mayor, told her that she was no longer employed\nin the shop, and requested her, in the mayor s name, to leave the\nneighborhood.\n\nThis was the very month when the Th nardiers, after having demanded\ntwelve francs instead of six, had just exacted fifteen francs instead\nof twelve.\n\nFantine was overwhelmed. She could not leave the neighborhood; she was\nin debt for her rent and furniture. Fifty francs was not sufficient to\ncancel this debt. She stammered a few supplicating words. The\nsuperintendent ordered her to leave the shop on the instant. Besides,\nFantine was only a moderately good workwoman. Overcome with shame, even\nmore than with despair, she quitted the shop, and returned to her room.\nSo her fault was now known to every one.\n\nShe no longer felt strong enough to say a word. She was advised to see\nthe mayor; she did not dare. The mayor had given her fifty francs\nbecause he was good, and had dismissed her because he was just. She\nbowed before the decision.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX MADAME VICTURNIEN S SUCCESS\n\n\nSo the monk s widow was good for something.\n\nBut M. Madeleine had heard nothing of all this. Life is full of just\nsuch combinations of events. M. Madeleine was in the habit of almost\nnever entering the women s workroom.\n\nAt the head of this room he had placed an elderly spinster, whom the\npriest had provided for him, and he had full confidence in this\nsuperintendent, a truly respectable person, firm, equitable, upright,\nfull of the charity which consists in giving, but not having in the\nsame degree that charity which consists in understanding and in\nforgiving. M. Madeleine relied wholly on her. The best men are often\nobliged to delegate their authority. It was with this full power, and\nthe conviction that she was doing right, that the superintendent had\ninstituted the suit, judged, condemned, and executed Fantine.\n\nAs regards the fifty francs, she had given them from a fund which M.\nMadeleine had intrusted to her for charitable purposes, and for giving\nassistance to the workwomen, and of which she rendered no account.\n\nFantine tried to obtain a situation as a servant in the neighborhood;\nshe went from house to house. No one would have her. She could not\nleave town. The second-hand dealer, to whom she was in debt for her\nfurniture and what furniture! said to her,  If you leave, I will have\nyou arrested as a thief.  The householder, whom she owed for her rent,\nsaid to her,  You are young and pretty; you can pay.  She divided the\nfifty francs between the landlord and the furniture-dealer, returned to\nthe latter three-quarters of his goods, kept only necessaries, and\nfound herself without work, without a trade, with nothing but her bed,\nand still about fifty francs in debt.\n\nShe began to make coarse shirts for soldiers of the garrison, and\nearned twelve sous a day. Her daughter cost her ten. It was at this\npoint that she began to pay the Th nardiers irregularly.\n\nHowever, the old woman who lighted her candle for her when she returned\nat night, taught her the art of living in misery. Back of living on\nlittle, there is the living on nothing. These are the two chambers; the\nfirst is dark, the second is black.\n\nFantine learned how to live without fire entirely in the winter; how to\ngive up a bird which eats a half a farthing s worth of millet every two\ndays; how to make a coverlet of one s petticoat, and a petticoat of\none s coverlet; how to save one s candle, by taking one s meals by the\nlight of the opposite window. No one knows all that certain feeble\ncreatures, who have grown old in privation and honesty, can get out of\na sou. It ends by being a talent. Fantine acquired this sublime talent,\nand regained a little courage.\n\nAt this epoch she said to a neighbor,  Bah! I say to myself, by only\nsleeping five hours, and working all the rest of the time at my sewing,\nI shall always manage to nearly earn my bread. And, then, when one is\nsad, one eats less. Well, sufferings, uneasiness, a little bread on one\nhand, trouble on the other, all this will support me. \n\n\nIt would have been a great happiness to have her little girl with her\nin this distress. She thought of having her come. But what then! Make\nher share her own destitution! And then, she was in debt to the\nTh nardiers! How could she pay them? And the journey! How pay for that?\n\nThe old woman who had given her lessons in what may be called the life\nof indigence, was a sainted spinster named Marguerite, who was pious\nwith a true piety, poor and charitable towards the poor, and even\ntowards the rich, knowing how to write just sufficiently to sign\nherself Marguerite, and believing in God, which is science.\n\nThere are many such virtuous people in this lower world; some day they\nwill be in the world above. This life has a morrow.\n\nAt first, Fantine had been so ashamed that she had not dared to go out.\n\nWhen she was in the street, she divined that people turned round behind\nher, and pointed at her; every one stared at her and no one greeted\nher; the cold and bitter scorn of the passers-by penetrated her very\nflesh and soul like a north wind.\n\nIt seems as though an unfortunate woman were utterly bare beneath the\nsarcasm and the curiosity of all in small towns. In Paris, at least, no\none knows you, and this obscurity is a garment. Oh! how she would have\nliked to betake herself to Paris! Impossible!\n\nShe was obliged to accustom herself to disrepute, as she had accustomed\nherself to indigence. Gradually she decided on her course. At the\nexpiration of two or three months she shook off her shame, and began to\ngo about as though there were nothing the matter.  It is all the same\nto me,  she said.\n\nShe went and came, bearing her head well up, with a bitter smile, and\nwas conscious that she was becoming brazen-faced.\n\nMadame Victurnien sometimes saw her passing, from her window, noticed\nthe distress of  that creature  who,  thanks to her,  had been  put\nback in her proper place,  and congratulated herself. The happiness of\nthe evil-minded is black.\n\nExcess of toil wore out Fantine, and the little dry cough which\ntroubled her increased. She sometimes said to her neighbor, Marguerite,\n Just feel how hot my hands are! \n\n\nNevertheless, when she combed her beautiful hair in the morning with an\nold broken comb, and it flowed about her like floss silk, she\nexperienced a moment of happy coquetry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X RESULT OF THE SUCCESS\n\n\nShe had been dismissed towards the end of the winter; the summer\npassed, but winter came again. Short days, less work. Winter: no\nwarmth, no light, no noonday, the evening joining on to the morning,\nfogs, twilight; the window is gray; it is impossible to see clearly at\nit. The sky is but a vent-hole. The whole day is a cavern. The sun has\nthe air of a beggar. A frightful season! Winter changes the water of\nheaven and the heart of man into a stone. Her creditors harrassed her.\n\nFantine earned too little. Her debts had increased. The Th nardiers,\nwho were not promptly paid, wrote to her constantly letters whose\ncontents drove her to despair, and whose carriage ruined her. One day\nthey wrote to her that her little Cosette was entirely naked in that\ncold weather, that she needed a woollen skirt, and that her mother must\nsend at least ten francs for this. She received the letter, and crushed\nit in her hands all day long. That evening she went into a barber s\nshop at the corner of the street, and pulled out her comb. Her\nadmirable golden hair fell to her knees.\n\n What splendid hair!  exclaimed the barber.\n\n How much will you give me for it?  said she.\n\n Ten francs. \n\n\n Cut it off. \n\n\nShe purchased a knitted petticoat and sent it to the Th nardiers. This\npetticoat made the Th nardiers furious. It was the money that they\nwanted. They gave the petticoat to  ponine. The poor Lark continued to\nshiver.\n\nFantine thought:  My child is no longer cold. I have clothed her with\nmy hair.  She put on little round caps which concealed her shorn head,\nand in which she was still pretty.\n\nDark thoughts held possession of Fantine s heart.\n\nWhen she saw that she could no longer dress her hair, she began to hate\nevery one about her. She had long shared the universal veneration for\nFather Madeleine; yet, by dint of repeating to herself that it was he\nwho had discharged her, that he was the cause of her unhappiness, she\ncame to hate him also, and most of all. When she passed the factory in\nworking hours, when the workpeople were at the door, she affected to\nlaugh and sing.\n\nAn old workwoman who once saw her laughing and singing in this fashion\nsaid,  There s a girl who will come to a bad end. \n\n\nShe took a lover, the first who offered, a man whom she did not love,\nout of bravado and with rage in her heart. He was a miserable scamp, a\nsort of mendicant musician, a lazy beggar, who beat her, and who\nabandoned her as she had taken him, in disgust.\n\nShe adored her child.\n\nThe lower she descended, the darker everything grew about her, the more\nradiant shone that little angel at the bottom of her heart. She said,\n When I get rich, I will have my Cosette with me;  and she laughed. Her\ncough did not leave her, and she had sweats on her back.\n\nOne day she received from the Th nardiers a letter couched in the\nfollowing terms:  Cosette is ill with a malady which is going the\nrounds of the neighborhood. A miliary fever, they call it. Expensive\ndrugs are required. This is ruining us, and we can no longer pay for\nthem. If you do not send us forty francs before the week is out, the\nlittle one will be dead. \n\n\nShe burst out laughing, and said to her old neighbor:  Ah! they are\ngood! Forty francs! the idea! That makes two napoleons! Where do they\nthink I am to get them? These peasants are stupid, truly. \n\n\nNevertheless she went to a dormer window in the staircase and read the\nletter once more. Then she descended the stairs and emerged, running\nand leaping and still laughing.\n\nSome one met her and said to her,  What makes you so gay? \n\n\nShe replied:  A fine piece of stupidity that some country people have\nwritten to me. They demand forty francs of me. So much for you, you\npeasants! \n\n\nAs she crossed the square, she saw a great many people collected around\na carriage of eccentric shape, upon the top of which stood a man\ndressed in red, who was holding forth. He was a quack dentist on his\nrounds, who was offering to the public full sets of teeth, opiates,\npowders and elixirs.\n\nFantine mingled in the group, and began to laugh with the rest at the\nharangue, which contained slang for the populace and jargon for\nrespectable people. The tooth-puller espied the lovely, laughing girl,\nand suddenly exclaimed:  You have beautiful teeth, you girl there, who\nare laughing; if you want to sell me your palettes, I will give you a\ngold napoleon apiece for them. \n\n\n What are my palettes?  asked Fantine.\n\n The palettes,  replied the dental professor,  are the front teeth, the\ntwo upper ones. \n\n\n How horrible!  exclaimed Fantine.\n\n Two napoleons!  grumbled a toothless old woman who was present.\n Here s a lucky girl! \n\n\nFantine fled and stopped her ears that she might not hear the hoarse\nvoice of the man shouting to her:  Reflect, my beauty! two napoleons;\nthey may prove of service. If your heart bids you, come this evening to\nthe inn of the _Tillac d Argent_; you will find me there. \n\n\nFantine returned home. She was furious, and related the occurrence to\nher good neighbor Marguerite:  Can you understand such a thing? Is he\nnot an abominable man? How can they allow such people to go about the\ncountry! Pull out my two front teeth! Why, I should be horrible! My\nhair will grow again, but my teeth! Ah! what a monster of a man! I\nshould prefer to throw myself head first on the pavement from the fifth\nstory! He told me that he should be at the _Tillac d Argent_ this\nevening. \n\n\n And what did he offer?  asked Marguerite.\n\n Two napoleons. \n\n\n That makes forty francs. \n\n\n Yes,  said Fantine;  that makes forty francs. \n\n\nShe remained thoughtful, and began her work. At the expiration of a\nquarter of an hour she left her sewing and went to read the\nTh nardiers  letter once more on the staircase.\n\nOn her return, she said to Marguerite, who was at work beside her: \n\n What is a miliary fever? Do you know? \n\n\n Yes,  answered the old spinster;  it is a disease. \n\n\n Does it require many drugs? \n\n\n Oh! terrible drugs. \n\n\n How does one get it? \n\n\n It is a malady that one gets without knowing how. \n\n\n Then it attacks children? \n\n\n Children in particular. \n\n\n Do people die of it? \n\n\n They may,  said Marguerite.\n\nFantine left the room and went to read her letter once more on the\nstaircase.\n\nThat evening she went out, and was seen to turn her steps in the\ndirection of the Rue de Paris, where the inns are situated.\n\nThe next morning, when Marguerite entered Fantine s room before\ndaylight, for they always worked together, and in this manner used only\none candle for the two, she found Fantine seated on her bed, pale and\nfrozen. She had not lain down. Her cap had fallen on her knees. Her\ncandle had burned all night, and was almost entirely consumed.\nMarguerite halted on the threshold, petrified at this tremendous\nwastefulness, and exclaimed: \n\n Lord! the candle is all burned out! Something has happened. \n\n\nThen she looked at Fantine, who turned toward her her head bereft of\nits hair.\n\nFantine had grown ten years older since the preceding night.\n\n Jesus!  said Marguerite,  what is the matter with you, Fantine? \n\n\n Nothing,  replied Fantine.  Quite the contrary. My child will not die\nof that frightful malady, for lack of succor. I am content. \n\n\nSo saying, she pointed out to the spinster two napoleons which were\nglittering on the table.\n\n Ah! Jesus God!  cried Marguerite.  Why, it is a fortune! Where did you\nget those louis d or? \n\n\n I got them,  replied Fantine.\n\nAt the same time she smiled. The candle illuminated her countenance. It\nwas a bloody smile. A reddish saliva soiled the corners of her lips,\nand she had a black hole in her mouth.\n\nThe two teeth had been extracted.\n\nShe sent the forty francs to Montfermeil.\n\nAfter all it was a ruse of the Th nardiers to obtain money. Cosette was\nnot ill.\n\nFantine threw her mirror out of the window. She had long since quitted\nher cell on the second floor for an attic with only a latch to fasten\nit, next the roof; one of those attics whose extremity forms an angle\nwith the floor, and knocks you on the head every instant. The poor\noccupant can reach the end of his chamber as he can the end of his\ndestiny, only by bending over more and more.\n\nShe had no longer a bed; a rag which she called her coverlet, a\nmattress on the floor, and a seatless chair still remained. A little\nrosebush which she had, had dried up, forgotten, in one corner. In the\nother corner was a butter-pot to hold water, which froze in winter, and\nin which the various levels of the water remained long marked by these\ncircles of ice. She had lost her shame; she lost her coquetry. A final\nsign. She went out, with dirty caps. Whether from lack of time or from\nindifference, she no longer mended her linen. As the heels wore out,\nshe dragged her stockings down into her shoes. This was evident from\nthe perpendicular wrinkles. She patched her bodice, which was old and\nworn out, with scraps of calico which tore at the slightest movement.\nThe people to whom she was indebted made  scenes  and gave her no\npeace. She found them in the street, she found them again on her\nstaircase. She passed many a night weeping and thinking. Her eyes were\nvery bright, and she felt a steady pain in her shoulder towards the top\nof the left shoulder-blade. She coughed a great deal. She deeply hated\nFather Madeleine, but made no complaint. She sewed seventeen hours a\nday; but a contractor for the work of prisons, who made the prisoners\nwork at a discount, suddenly made prices fall, which reduced the daily\nearnings of working-women to nine sous. Seventeen hours of toil, and\nnine sous a day! Her creditors were more pitiless than ever. The\nsecond-hand dealer, who had taken back nearly all his furniture, said\nto her incessantly,  When will you pay me, you hussy?  What did they\nwant of her, good God! She felt that she was being hunted, and\nsomething of the wild beast developed in her. About the same time,\nTh nardier wrote to her that he had waited with decidedly too much\namiability and that he must have a hundred francs at once; otherwise he\nwould turn little Cosette out of doors, convalescent as she was from\nher heavy illness, into the cold and the streets, and that she might do\nwhat she liked with herself, and die if she chose.  A hundred francs, \nthought Fantine.  But in what trade can one earn a hundred sous a day? \n\n\n Come!  said she,  let us sell what is left. \n\n\nThe unfortunate girl became a woman of the town.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI CHRISTUS NOS LIBERAVIT\n\n\nWhat is this history of Fantine? It is society purchasing a slave.\n\nFrom whom? From misery.\n\nFrom hunger, cold, isolation, destitution. A dolorous bargain. A soul\nfor a morsel of bread. Misery offers; society accepts.\n\nThe sacred law of Jesus Christ governs our civilization, but it does\nnot, as yet, permeate it; it is said that slavery has disappeared from\nEuropean civilization. This is a mistake. It still exists; but it\nweighs only upon the woman, and it is called prostitution.\n\nIt weighs upon the woman, that is to say, upon grace, weakness, beauty,\nmaternity. This is not one of the least of man s disgraces.\n\nAt the point in this melancholy drama which we have now reached,\nnothing is left to Fantine of that which she had formerly been.\n\nShe has become marble in becoming mire. Whoever touches her feels cold.\nShe passes; she endures you; she ignores you; she is the severe and\ndishonored figure. Life and the social order have said their last word\nfor her. All has happened to her that will happen to her. She has felt\neverything, borne everything, experienced everything, suffered\neverything, lost everything, mourned everything. She is resigned, with\nthat resignation which resembles indifference, as death resembles\nsleep. She no longer avoids anything. Let all the clouds fall upon her,\nand all the ocean sweep over her! What matters it to her? She is a\nsponge that is soaked.\n\nAt least, she believes it to be so; but it is an error to imagine that\nfate can be exhausted, and that one has reached the bottom of anything\nwhatever.\n\nAlas! What are all these fates, driven on pell-mell? Whither are they\ngoing? Why are they thus?\n\nHe who knows that sees the whole of the shadow.\n\nHe is alone. His name is God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII M. BAMATABOIS S INACTIVITY\n\n\nThere is in all small towns, and there was at M. sur M. in particular,\na class of young men who nibble away an income of fifteen hundred\nfrancs with the same air with which their prototypes devour two hundred\nthousand francs a year in Paris. These are beings of the great neuter\nspecies: impotent men, parasites, cyphers, who have a little land, a\nlittle folly, a little wit; who would be rustics in a drawing-room, and\nwho think themselves gentlemen in the dram-shop; who say,  My fields,\nmy peasants, my woods ; who hiss actresses at the theatre to prove that\nthey are persons of taste; quarrel with the officers of the garrison to\nprove that they are men of war; hunt, smoke, yawn, drink, smell of\ntobacco, play billiards, stare at travellers as they descend from the\ndiligence, live at the caf , dine at the inn, have a dog which eats the\nbones under the table, and a mistress who eats the dishes on the table;\nwho stick at a sou, exaggerate the fashions, admire tragedy, despise\nwomen, wear out their old boots, copy London through Paris, and Paris\nthrough the medium of Pont- -Mousson, grow old as dullards, never work,\nserve no use, and do no great harm.\n\nM. F lix Tholomy s, had he remained in his own province and never\nbeheld Paris, would have been one of these men.\n\nIf they were richer, one would say,  They are dandies;  if they were\npoorer, one would say,  They are idlers.  They are simply men without\nemployment. Among these unemployed there are bores, the bored,\ndreamers, and some knaves.\n\nAt that period a dandy was composed of a tall collar, a big cravat, a\nwatch with trinkets, three vests of different colors, worn one on top\nof the other the red and blue inside; of a short-waisted olive coat,\nwith a codfish tail, a double row of silver buttons set close to each\nother and running up to the shoulder; and a pair of trousers of a\nlighter shade of olive, ornamented on the two seams with an indefinite,\nbut always uneven, number of lines, varying from one to eleven a limit\nwhich was never exceeded. Add to this, high shoes with little irons on\nthe heels, a tall hat with a narrow brim, hair worn in a tuft, an\nenormous cane, and conversation set off by puns of Potier. Over all,\nspurs and a moustache. At that epoch moustaches indicated the\nbourgeois, and spurs the pedestrian.\n\nThe provincial dandy wore the longest of spurs and the fiercest of\nmoustaches.\n\nIt was the period of the conflict of the republics of South America\nwith the King of Spain, of Bolivar against Morillo. Narrow-brimmed hats\nwere royalist, and were called _morillos_; liberals wore hats with wide\nbrims, which were called _bolivars_.\n\nEight or ten months, then, after that which is related in the preceding\npages, towards the first of January, 1823, on a snowy evening, one of\nthese dandies, one of these unemployed, a  right thinker,  for he wore\na morillo, and was, moreover, warmly enveloped in one of those large\ncloaks which completed the fashionable costume in cold weather, was\namusing himself by tormenting a creature who was prowling about in a\nball-dress, with neck uncovered and flowers in her hair, in front of\nthe officers  caf . This dandy was smoking, for he was decidedly\nfashionable.\n\nEach time that the woman passed in front of him, he bestowed on her,\ntogether with a puff from his cigar, some apostrophe which he\nconsidered witty and mirthful, such as,  How ugly you are! Will you get\nout of my sight? You have no teeth!  etc., etc. This gentleman was\nknown as M. Bamatabois. The woman, a melancholy, decorated spectre\nwhich went and came through the snow, made him no reply, did not even\nglance at him, and nevertheless continued her promenade in silence, and\nwith a sombre regularity, which brought her every five minutes within\nreach of this sarcasm, like the condemned soldier who returns under the\nrods. The small effect which he produced no doubt piqued the lounger;\nand taking advantage of a moment when her back was turned, he crept up\nbehind her with the gait of a wolf, and stifling his laugh, bent down,\npicked up a handful of snow from the pavement, and thrust it abruptly\ninto her back, between her bare shoulders. The woman uttered a roar,\nwhirled round, gave a leap like a panther, and hurled herself upon the\nman, burying her nails in his face, with the most frightful words which\ncould fall from the guard-room into the gutter. These insults, poured\nforth in a voice roughened by brandy, did, indeed, proceed in hideous\nwise from a mouth which lacked its two front teeth. It was Fantine.\n\nAt the noise thus produced, the officers ran out in throngs from the\ncaf , passers-by collected, and a large and merry circle, hooting and\napplauding, was formed around this whirlwind composed of two beings,\nwhom there was some difficulty in recognizing as a man and a woman: the\nman struggling, his hat on the ground; the woman striking out with feet\nand fists, bareheaded, howling, minus hair and teeth, livid with wrath,\nhorrible.\n\nSuddenly a man of lofty stature emerged vivaciously from the crowd,\nseized the woman by her satin bodice, which was covered with mud, and\nsaid to her,  Follow me! \n\n\nThe woman raised her head; her furious voice suddenly died away. Her\neyes were glassy; she turned pale instead of livid, and she trembled\nwith a quiver of terror. She had recognized Javert.\n\nThe dandy took advantage of the incident to make his escape.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII THE SOLUTION OF SOME QUESTIONS CONNECTED WITH THE\nMUNICIPAL POLICE\n\n\nJavert thrust aside the spectators, broke the circle, and set out with\nlong strides towards the police station, which is situated at the\nextremity of the square, dragging the wretched woman after him. She\nyielded mechanically. Neither he nor she uttered a word. The cloud of\nspectators followed, jesting, in a paroxysm of delight. Supreme misery\nan occasion for obscenity.\n\nOn arriving at the police station, which was a low room, warmed by a\nstove, with a glazed and grated door opening on the street, and guarded\nby a detachment, Javert opened the door, entered with Fantine, and shut\nthe door behind him, to the great disappointment of the curious, who\nraised themselves on tiptoe, and craned their necks in front of the\nthick glass of the station-house, in their effort to see. Curiosity is\na sort of gluttony. To see is to devour.\n\nOn entering, Fantine fell down in a corner, motionless and mute,\ncrouching down like a terrified dog.\n\nThe sergeant of the guard brought a lighted candle to the table. Javert\nseated himself, drew a sheet of stamped paper from his pocket, and\nbegan to write.\n\nThis class of women is consigned by our laws entirely to the discretion\nof the police. The latter do what they please, punish them, as seems\ngood to them, and confiscate at their will those two sorry things which\nthey entitle their industry and their liberty. Javert was impassive;\nhis grave face betrayed no emotion whatever. Nevertheless, he was\nseriously and deeply preoccupied. It was one of those moments when he\nwas exercising without control, but subject to all the scruples of a\nsevere conscience, his redoubtable discretionary power. At that moment\nhe was conscious that his police agent s stool was a tribunal. He was\nentering judgment. He judged and condemned. He summoned all the ideas\nwhich could possibly exist in his mind, around the great thing which he\nwas doing. The more he examined the deed of this woman, the more\nshocked he felt. It was evident that he had just witnessed the\ncommission of a crime. He had just beheld, yonder, in the street,\nsociety, in the person of a freeholder and an elector, insulted and\nattacked by a creature who was outside all pales. A prostitute had made\nan attempt on the life of a citizen. He had seen that, he, Javert. He\nwrote in silence.\n\nWhen he had finished he signed the paper, folded it, and said to the\nsergeant of the guard, as he handed it to him,  Take three men and\nconduct this creature to jail. \n\n\nThen, turning to Fantine,  You are to have six months of it.  The\nunhappy woman shuddered.\n\n Six months! six months of prison!  she exclaimed.  Six months in which\nto earn seven sous a day! But what will become of Cosette? My daughter!\nmy daughter! But I still owe the Th nardiers over a hundred francs; do\nyou know that, Monsieur Inspector? \n\n\nShe dragged herself across the damp floor, among the muddy boots of all\nthose men, without rising, with clasped hands, and taking great strides\non her knees.\n\n Monsieur Javert,  said she,  I beseech your mercy. I assure you that I\nwas not in the wrong. If you had seen the beginning, you would have\nseen. I swear to you by the good God that I was not to blame! That\ngentleman, the bourgeois, whom I do not know, put snow in my back. Has\nany one the right to put snow down our backs when we are walking along\npeaceably, and doing no harm to any one? I am rather ill, as you see.\nAnd then, he had been saying impertinent things to me for a long time:\n You are ugly! you have no teeth!  I know well that I have no longer\nthose teeth. I did nothing; I said to myself,  The gentleman is amusing\nhimself.  I was honest with him; I did not speak to him. It was at that\nmoment that he put the snow down my back. Monsieur Javert, good\nMonsieur Inspector! is there not some person here who saw it and can\ntell you that this is quite true? Perhaps I did wrong to get angry. You\nknow that one is not master of one s self at the first moment. One\ngives way to vivacity; and then, when some one puts something cold down\nyour back just when you are not expecting it! I did wrong to spoil that\ngentleman s hat. Why did he go away? I would ask his pardon. Oh, my\nGod! It makes no difference to me whether I ask his pardon. Do me the\nfavor to-day, for this once, Monsieur Javert. Hold! you do not know\nthat in prison one can earn only seven sous a day; it is not the\ngovernment s fault, but seven sous is one s earnings; and just fancy, I\nmust pay one hundred francs, or my little girl will be sent to me. Oh,\nmy God! I cannot have her with me. What I do is so vile! Oh, my\nCosette! Oh, my little angel of the Holy Virgin! what will become of\nher, poor creature? I will tell you: it is the Th nardiers,\ninn-keepers, peasants; and such people are unreasonable. They want\nmoney. Don t put me in prison! You see, there is a little girl who will\nbe turned out into the street to get along as best she may, in the very\nheart of the winter; and you must have pity on such a being, my good\nMonsieur Javert. If she were older, she might earn her living; but it\ncannot be done at that age. I am not a bad woman at bottom. It is not\ncowardliness and gluttony that have made me what I am. If I have drunk\nbrandy, it was out of misery. I do not love it; but it benumbs the\nsenses. When I was happy, it was only necessary to glance into my\nclosets, and it would have been evident that I was not a coquettish and\nuntidy woman. I had linen, a great deal of linen. Have pity on me,\nMonsieur Javert! \n\n\nShe spoke thus, rent in twain, shaken with sobs, blinded with tears,\nher neck bare, wringing her hands, and coughing with a dry, short\ncough, stammering softly with a voice of agony. Great sorrow is a\ndivine and terrible ray, which transfigures the unhappy. At that moment\nFantine had become beautiful once more. From time to time she paused,\nand tenderly kissed the police agent s coat. She would have softened a\nheart of granite; but a heart of wood cannot be softened.\n\n Come!  said Javert,  I have heard you out. Have you entirely finished?\nYou will get six months. Now march! The Eternal Father in person could\ndo nothing more. \n\n\nAt these solemn words, _ the Eternal Father in person could do nothing\nmore, _ she understood that her fate was sealed. She sank down,\nmurmuring,  Mercy! \n\n\nJavert turned his back.\n\nThe soldiers seized her by the arms.\n\nA few moments earlier a man had entered, but no one had paid any heed\nto him. He shut the door, leaned his back against it, and listened to\nFantine s despairing supplications.\n\nAt the instant when the soldiers laid their hands upon the unfortunate\nwoman, who would not rise, he emerged from the shadow, and said: \n\n One moment, if you please. \n\n\nJavert raised his eyes and recognized M. Madeleine. He removed his hat,\nand, saluting him with a sort of aggrieved awkwardness: \n\n Excuse me, Mr. Mayor \n\n\nThe words  Mr. Mayor  produced a curious effect upon Fantine. She rose\nto her feet with one bound, like a spectre springing from the earth,\nthrust aside the soldiers with both arms, walked straight up to M.\nMadeleine before any one could prevent her, and gazing intently at him,\nwith a bewildered air, she cried: \n\n Ah! so it is you who are M. le Maire! \n\n\nThen she burst into a laugh, and spit in his face.\n\nM. Madeleine wiped his face, and said: \n\n Inspector Javert, set this woman at liberty. \n\n\nJavert felt that he was on the verge of going mad. He experienced at\nthat moment, blow upon blow and almost simultaneously, the most violent\nemotions which he had ever undergone in all his life. To see a woman of\nthe town spit in the mayor s face was a thing so monstrous that, in his\nmost daring flights of fancy, he would have regarded it as a sacrilege\nto believe it possible. On the other hand, at the very bottom of his\nthought, he made a hideous comparison as to what this woman was, and as\nto what this mayor might be; and then he, with horror, caught a glimpse\nof I know not what simple explanation of this prodigious attack. But\nwhen he beheld that mayor, that magistrate, calmly wipe his face and\nsay, _ Set this woman at liberty, _ he underwent a sort of intoxication\nof amazement; thought and word failed him equally; the sum total of\npossible astonishment had been exceeded in his case. He remained mute.\n\nThe words had produced no less strange an effect on Fantine. She raised\nher bare arm, and clung to the damper of the stove, like a person who\nis reeling. Nevertheless, she glanced about her, and began to speak in\na low voice, as though talking to herself: \n\n At liberty! I am to be allowed to go! I am not to go to prison for six\nmonths! Who said that? It is not possible that any one could have said\nthat. I did not hear aright. It cannot have been that monster of a\nmayor! Was it you, my good Monsieur Javert, who said that I was to be\nset free? Oh, see here! I will tell you about it, and you will let me\ngo. That monster of a mayor, that old blackguard of a mayor, is the\ncause of all. Just imagine, Monsieur Javert, he turned me out! all\nbecause of a pack of rascally women, who gossip in the workroom. If\nthat is not a horror, what is? To dismiss a poor girl who is doing her\nwork honestly! Then I could no longer earn enough, and all this misery\nfollowed. In the first place, there is one improvement which these\ngentlemen of the police ought to make, and that is, to prevent prison\ncontractors from wronging poor people. I will explain it to you, you\nsee: you are earning twelve sous at shirt-making, the price falls to\nnine sous; and it is not enough to live on. Then one has to become\nwhatever one can. As for me, I had my little Cosette, and I was\nactually forced to become a bad woman. Now you understand how it is\nthat that blackguard of a mayor caused all the mischief. After that I\nstamped on that gentleman s hat in front of the officers  caf ; but he\nhad spoiled my whole dress with snow. We women have but one silk dress\nfor evening wear. You see that I did not do wrong deliberately truly,\nMonsieur Javert; and everywhere I behold women who are far more wicked\nthan I, and who are much happier. O Monsieur Javert! it was you who\ngave orders that I am to be set free, was it not? Make inquiries, speak\nto my landlord; I am paying my rent now; they will tell you that I am\nperfectly honest. Ah! my God! I beg your pardon; I have unintentionally\ntouched the damper of the stove, and it has made it smoke. \n\n\nM. Madeleine listened to her with profound attention. While she was\nspeaking, he fumbled in his waistcoat, drew out his purse and opened\nit. It was empty. He put it back in his pocket. He said to Fantine,\n How much did you say that you owed? \n\n\nFantine, who was looking at Javert only, turned towards him: \n\n Was I speaking to you? \n\n\nThen, addressing the soldiers: \n\n Say, you fellows, did you see how I spit in his face? Ah! you old\nwretch of a mayor, you came here to frighten me, but I m not afraid of\nyou. I am afraid of Monsieur Javert. I am afraid of my good Monsieur\nJavert! \n\n\nSo saying, she turned to the inspector again: \n\n And yet, you see, Mr. Inspector, it is necessary to be just. I\nunderstand that you are just, Mr. Inspector; in fact, it is perfectly\nsimple: a man amuses himself by putting snow down a woman s back, and\nthat makes the officers laugh; one must divert themselves in some way;\nand we well, we are here for them to amuse themselves with, of course!\nAnd then, you, you come; you are certainly obliged to preserve order,\nyou lead off the woman who is in the wrong; but on reflection, since\nyou are a good man, you say that I am to be set at liberty; it is for\nthe sake of the little one, for six months in prison would prevent my\nsupporting my child.  Only, don t do it again, you hussy!  Oh! I won t\ndo it again, Monsieur Javert! They may do whatever they please to me\nnow; I will not stir. But to-day, you see, I cried because it hurt me.\nI was not expecting that snow from the gentleman at all; and then as I\ntold you, I am not well; I have a cough; I seem to have a burning ball\nin my stomach, and the doctor tells me,  Take care of yourself.  Here,\nfeel, give me your hand; don t be afraid it is here. \n\n\nShe no longer wept, her voice was caressing; she placed Javert s coarse\nhand on her delicate, white throat and looked smilingly at him.\n\nAll at once she rapidly adjusted her disordered garments, dropped the\nfolds of her skirt, which had been pushed up as she dragged herself\nalong, almost to the height of her knee, and stepped towards the door,\nsaying to the soldiers in a low voice, and with a friendly nod: \n\n Children, Monsieur l Inspecteur has said that I am to be released, and\nI am going. \n\n\nShe laid her hand on the latch of the door. One step more and she would\nbe in the street.\n\nJavert up to that moment had remained erect, motionless, with his eyes\nfixed on the ground, cast athwart this scene like some displaced\nstatue, which is waiting to be put away somewhere.\n\nThe sound of the latch roused him. He raised his head with an\nexpression of sovereign authority, an expression all the more alarming\nin proportion as the authority rests on a low level, ferocious in the\nwild beast, atrocious in the man of no estate.\n\n Sergeant!  he cried,  don t you see that that jade is walking off! Who\nbade you let her go? \n\n\n I,  said Madeleine.\n\nFantine trembled at the sound of Javert s voice, and let go of the\nlatch as a thief relinquishes the article which he has stolen. At the\nsound of Madeleine s voice she turned around, and from that moment\nforth she uttered no word, nor dared so much as to breathe freely, but\nher glance strayed from Madeleine to Javert, and from Javert to\nMadeleine in turn, according to which was speaking.\n\nIt was evident that Javert must have been exasperated beyond measure\nbefore he would permit himself to apostrophize the sergeant as he had\ndone, after the mayor s suggestion that Fantine should be set at\nliberty. Had he reached the point of forgetting the mayor s presence?\nHad he finally declared to himself that it was impossible that any\n authority  should have given such an order, and that the mayor must\ncertainly have said one thing by mistake for another, without intending\nit? Or, in view of the enormities of which he had been a witness for\nthe past two hours, did he say to himself, that it was necessary to\nrecur to supreme resolutions, that it was indispensable that the small\nshould be made great, that the police spy should transform himself into\na magistrate, that the policeman should become a dispenser of justice,\nand that, in this prodigious extremity, order, law, morality,\ngovernment, society in its entirety, was personified in him, Javert?\n\nHowever that may be, when M. Madeleine uttered that word, _I_, as we\nhave just heard, Police Inspector Javert was seen to turn toward the\nmayor, pale, cold, with blue lips, and a look of despair, his whole\nbody agitated by an imperceptible quiver and an unprecedented\noccurrence, and say to him, with downcast eyes but a firm voice: \n\n Mr. Mayor, that cannot be. \n\n\n Why not?  said M. Madeleine.\n\n This miserable woman has insulted a citizen. \n\n\n Inspector Javert,  replied the mayor, in a calm and conciliating tone,\n listen. You are an honest man, and I feel no hesitation in explaining\nmatters to you. Here is the true state of the case: I was passing\nthrough the square just as you were leading this woman away; there were\nstill groups of people standing about, and I made inquiries and learned\neverything; it was the townsman who was in the wrong and who should\nhave been arrested by properly conducted police. \n\n\nJavert retorted: \n\n This wretch has just insulted Monsieur le Maire. \n\n\n That concerns me,  said M. Madeleine.  My own insult belongs to me, I\nthink. I can do what I please about it. \n\n\n I beg Monsieur le Maire s pardon. The insult is not to him but to the\nlaw. \n\n\n Inspector Javert,  replied M. Madeleine,  the highest law is\nconscience. I have heard this woman; I know what I am doing. \n\n\n And I, Mr. Mayor, do not know what I see. \n\n\n Then content yourself with obeying. \n\n\n I am obeying my duty. My duty demands that this woman shall serve six\nmonths in prison. \n\n\nM. Madeleine replied gently: \n\n Heed this well; she will not serve a single day. \n\n\nAt this decisive word, Javert ventured to fix a searching look on the\nmayor and to say, but in a tone of voice that was still profoundly\nrespectful: \n\n I am sorry to oppose Monsieur le Maire; it is for the first time in my\nlife, but he will permit me to remark that I am within the bounds of my\nauthority. I confine myself, since Monsieur le Maire desires it, to the\nquestion of the gentleman. I was present. This woman flung herself on\nMonsieur Bamatabois, who is an elector and the proprietor of that\nhandsome house with a balcony, which forms the corner of the esplanade,\nthree stories high and entirely of cut stone. Such things as there are\nin the world! In any case, Monsieur le Maire, this is a question of\npolice regulations in the streets, and concerns me, and I shall detain\nthis woman Fantine. \n\n\nThen M. Madeleine folded his arms, and said in a severe voice which no\none in the town had heard hitherto: \n\n The matter to which you refer is one connected with the municipal\npolice. According to the terms of articles nine, eleven, fifteen, and\nsixty-six of the code of criminal examination, I am the judge. I order\nthat this woman shall be set at liberty. \n\n\nJavert ventured to make a final effort.\n\n But, Mr. Mayor \n\n\n I refer you to article eighty-one of the law of the 13th of December,\n1799, in regard to arbitrary detention. \n\n\n Monsieur le Maire, permit me \n\n\n Not another word. \n\n\n But \n\n\n Leave the room,  said M. Madeleine.\n\nJavert received the blow erect, full in the face, in his breast, like a\nRussian soldier. He bowed to the very earth before the mayor and left\nthe room.\n\nFantine stood aside from the door and stared at him in amazement as he\npassed.\n\nNevertheless, she also was the prey to a strange confusion. She had\njust seen herself a subject of dispute between two opposing powers. She\nhad seen two men who held in their hands her liberty, her life, her\nsoul, her child, in combat before her very eyes; one of these men was\ndrawing her towards darkness, the other was leading her back towards\nthe light. In this conflict, viewed through the exaggerations of\nterror, these two men had appeared to her like two giants; the one\nspoke like her demon, the other like her good angel. The angel had\nconquered the demon, and, strange to say, that which made her shudder\nfrom head to foot was the fact that this angel, this liberator, was the\nvery man whom she abhorred, that mayor whom she had so long regarded as\nthe author of all her woes, that Madeleine! And at the very moment when\nshe had insulted him in so hideous a fashion, he had saved her! Had\nshe, then, been mistaken? Must she change her whole soul? She did not\nknow; she trembled. She listened in bewilderment, she looked on in\naffright, and at every word uttered by M. Madeleine she felt the\nfrightful shades of hatred crumble and melt within her, and something\nwarm and ineffable, indescribable, which was both joy, confidence and\nlove, dawn in her heart.\n\nWhen Javert had taken his departure, M. Madeleine turned to her and\nsaid to her in a deliberate voice, like a serious man who does not wish\nto weep and who finds some difficulty in speaking: \n\n I have heard you. I knew nothing about what you have mentioned. I\nbelieve that it is true, and I feel that it is true. I was even\nignorant of the fact that you had left my shop. Why did you not apply\nto me? But here; I will pay your debts, I will send for your child, or\nyou shall go to her. You shall live here, in Paris, or where you\nplease. I undertake the care of your child and yourself. You shall not\nwork any longer if you do not like. I will give all the money you\nrequire. You shall be honest and happy once more. And listen! I declare\nto you that if all is as you say, and I do not doubt it, you have never\nceased to be virtuous and holy in the sight of God. Oh! poor woman. \n\n\nThis was more than Fantine could bear. To have Cosette! To leave this\nlife of infamy. To live free, rich, happy, respectable with Cosette; to\nsee all these realities of paradise blossom of a sudden in the midst of\nher misery. She stared stupidly at this man who was talking to her, and\ncould only give vent to two or three sobs,  Oh! Oh! Oh! \n\n\nHer limbs gave way beneath her, she knelt in front of M. Madeleine, and\nbefore he could prevent her he felt her grasp his hand and press her\nlips to it.\n\nThen she fainted.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SIXTH JAVERT\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE BEGINNING OF REPOSE\n\n\nM. Madeleine had Fantine removed to that infirmary which he had\nestablished in his own house. He confided her to the sisters, who put\nher to bed. A burning fever had come on. She passed a part of the night\nin delirium and raving. At length, however, she fell asleep.\n\nOn the morrow, towards midday, Fantine awoke. She heard some one\nbreathing close to her bed; she drew aside the curtain and saw M.\nMadeleine standing there and looking at something over her head. His\ngaze was full of pity, anguish, and supplication. She followed its\ndirection, and saw that it was fixed on a crucifix which was nailed to\nthe wall.\n\nThenceforth, M. Madeleine was transfigured in Fantine s eyes. He seemed\nto her to be clothed in light. He was absorbed in a sort of prayer. She\ngazed at him for a long time without daring to interrupt him. At last\nshe said timidly: \n\n What are you doing? \n\n\nM. Madeleine had been there for an hour. He had been waiting for\nFantine to awake. He took her hand, felt of her pulse, and replied: \n\n How do you feel? \n\n\n Well, I have slept,  she replied;  I think that I am better. It is\nnothing. \n\n\nHe answered, responding to the first question which she had put to him\nas though he had just heard it: \n\n I was praying to the martyr there on high. \n\n\nAnd he added in his own mind,  For the martyr here below. \n\n\nM. Madeleine had passed the night and the morning in making inquiries.\nHe knew all now. He knew Fantine s history in all its heart-rending\ndetails. He went on: \n\n You have suffered much, poor mother. Oh! do not complain; you now have\nthe dowry of the elect. It is thus that men are transformed into\nangels. It is not their fault they do not know how to go to work\notherwise. You see this hell from which you have just emerged is the\nfirst form of heaven. It was necessary to begin there. \n\n\nHe sighed deeply. But she smiled on him with that sublime smile in\nwhich two teeth were lacking.\n\nThat same night, Javert wrote a letter. The next morning be posted it\nhimself at the office of M. sur M. It was addressed to Paris, and the\nsuperscription ran: _To Monsieur Chabouillet, Secretary of Monsieur le\nPr fet of Police_. As the affair in the station-house had been bruited\nabout, the post-mistress and some other persons who saw the letter\nbefore it was sent off, and who recognized Javert s handwriting on the\ncover, thought that he was sending in his resignation.\n\nM. Madeleine made haste to write to the Th nardiers. Fantine owed them\none hundred and twenty francs. He sent them three hundred francs,\ntelling them to pay themselves from that sum, and to fetch the child\ninstantly to M. sur M., where her sick mother required her presence.\n\nThis dazzled Th nardier.  The devil!  said the man to his wife;  don t\nlet s allow the child to go. This lark is going to turn into a milch\ncow. I see through it. Some ninny has taken a fancy to the mother. \n\n\nHe replied with a very well drawn-up bill for five hundred and some odd\nfrancs. In this memorandum two indisputable items figured up over three\nhundred francs, one for the doctor, the other for the apothecary who\nhad attended and physicked  ponine and Azelma through two long\nillnesses. Cosette, as we have already said, had not been ill. It was\nonly a question of a trifling substitution of names. At the foot of the\nmemorandum Th nardier wrote, _Received on account, three hundred\nfrancs_.\n\nM. Madeleine immediately sent three hundred francs more, and wrote,\n Make haste to bring Cosette. \n\n\n Christi!  said Th nardier,  let s not give up the child. \n\n\nIn the meantime, Fantine did not recover. She still remained in the\ninfirmary.\n\nThe sisters had at first only received and nursed  that woman  with\nrepugnance. Those who have seen the bas-reliefs of Rheims will recall\nthe inflation of the lower lip of the wise virgins as they survey the\nfoolish virgins. The ancient scorn of the vestals for the ambubaj  is\none of the most profound instincts of feminine dignity; the sisters\nfelt it with the double force contributed by religion. But in a few\ndays Fantine disarmed them. She said all kinds of humble and gentle\nthings, and the mother in her provoked tenderness. One day the sisters\nheard her say amid her fever:  I have been a sinner; but when I have my\nchild beside me, it will be a sign that God has pardoned me. While I\nwas leading a bad life, I should not have liked to have my Cosette with\nme; I could not have borne her sad, astonished eyes. It was for her\nsake that I did evil, and that is why God pardons me. I shall feel the\nbenediction of the good God when Cosette is here. I shall gaze at her;\nit will do me good to see that innocent creature. She knows nothing at\nall. She is an angel, you see, my sisters. At that age the wings have\nnot fallen off. \n\n\nM. Madeleine went to see her twice a day, and each time she asked him: \n\n Shall I see my Cosette soon? \n\n\nHe answered: \n\n To-morrow, perhaps. She may arrive at any moment. I am expecting her. \n\n\nAnd the mother s pale face grew radiant.\n\n Oh!  she said,  how happy I am going to be! \n\n\nWe have just said that she did not recover her health. On the contrary,\nher condition seemed to become more grave from week to week. That\nhandful of snow applied to her bare skin between her shoulder-blades\nhad brought about a sudden suppression of perspiration, as a\nconsequence of which the malady which had been smouldering within her\nfor many years was violently developed at last. At that time people\nwere beginning to follow the fine La nnec s fine suggestions in the\nstudy and treatment of chest maladies. The doctor sounded Fantine s\nchest and shook his head.\n\nM. Madeleine said to the doctor: \n\n Well? \n\n\n Has she not a child which she desires to see?  said the doctor.\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Well! Make haste and get it here! \n\n\nM. Madeleine shuddered.\n\nFantine inquired: \n\n What did the doctor say? \n\n\nM. Madeleine forced himself to smile.\n\n He said that your child was to be brought speedily. That that would\nrestore your health. \n\n\n Oh!  she rejoined,  he is right! But what do those Th nardiers mean by\nkeeping my Cosette from me! Oh! she is coming. At last I behold\nhappiness close beside me! \n\n\nIn the meantime Th nardier did not  let go of the child,  and gave a\nhundred insufficient reasons for it. Cosette was not quite well enough\nto take a journey in the winter. And then, there still remained some\npetty but pressing debts in the neighborhood, and they were collecting\nthe bills for them, etc., etc.\n\n I shall send some one to fetch Cosette!  said Father Madeleine.  If\nnecessary, I will go myself. \n\n\nHe wrote the following letter to Fantine s dictation, and made her sign\nit: \n\n MONSIEUR TH NARDIER: \nYou will deliver Cosette to this person.\nYou will be paid for all the little things.\nI have the honor to salute you with respect.\n FANTINE. \n\n\nIn the meantime a serious incident occurred. Carve as we will the\nmysterious block of which our life is made, the black vein of destiny\nconstantly reappears in it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II HOW JEAN MAY BECOME CHAMP\n\n\nOne morning M. Madeleine was in his study, occupied in arranging in\nadvance some pressing matters connected with the mayor s office, in\ncase he should decide to take the trip to Montfermeil, when he was\ninformed that Police Inspector Javert was desirous of speaking with\nhim. Madeleine could not refrain from a disagreeable impression on\nhearing this name. Javert had avoided him more than ever since the\naffair of the police-station, and M. Madeleine had not seen him.\n\n Admit him,  he said.\n\nJavert entered.\n\nM. Madeleine had retained his seat near the fire, pen in hand, his eyes\nfixed on the docket which he was turning over and annotating, and which\ncontained the trials of the commission on highways for the infraction\nof police regulations. He did not disturb himself on Javert s account.\nHe could not help thinking of poor Fantine, and it suited him to be\nglacial in his manner.\n\nJavert bestowed a respectful salute on the mayor, whose back was turned\nto him. The mayor did not look at him, but went on annotating this\ndocket.\n\nJavert advanced two or three paces into the study, and halted, without\nbreaking the silence.\n\nIf any physiognomist who had been familiar with Javert, and who had\nmade a lengthy study of this savage in the service of civilization,\nthis singular composite of the Roman, the Spartan, the monk, and the\ncorporal, this spy who was incapable of a lie, this unspotted police\nagent if any physiognomist had known his secret and long-cherished\naversion for M. Madeleine, his conflict with the mayor on the subject\nof Fantine, and had examined Javert at that moment, he would have said\nto himself,  What has taken place?  It was evident to any one\nacquainted with that clear, upright, sincere, honest, austere, and\nferocious conscience, that Javert had but just gone through some great\ninterior struggle. Javert had nothing in his soul which he had not also\nin his countenance. Like violent people in general, he was subject to\nabrupt changes of opinion. His physiognomy had never been more peculiar\nand startling. On entering he bowed to M. Madeleine with a look in\nwhich there was neither rancor, anger, nor distrust; he halted a few\npaces in the rear of the mayor s armchair, and there he stood,\nperfectly erect, in an attitude almost of discipline, with the cold,\ningenuous roughness of a man who has never been gentle and who has\nalways been patient; he waited without uttering a word, without making\na movement, in genuine humility and tranquil resignation, calm,\nserious, hat in hand, with eyes cast down, and an expression which was\nhalf-way between that of a soldier in the presence of his officer and a\ncriminal in the presence of his judge, until it should please the mayor\nto turn round. All the sentiments as well as all the memories which one\nmight have attributed to him had disappeared. That face, as\nimpenetrable and simple as granite, no longer bore any trace of\nanything but a melancholy depression. His whole person breathed\nlowliness and firmness and an indescribable courageous despondency.\n\nAt last the mayor laid down his pen and turned half round.\n\n Well! What is it? What is the matter, Javert? \n\n\nJavert remained silent for an instant as though collecting his ideas,\nthen raised his voice with a sort of sad solemnity, which did not,\nhowever, preclude simplicity.\n\n This is the matter, Mr. Mayor; a culpable act has been committed. \n\n\n What act? \n\n\n An inferior agent of the authorities has failed in respect, and in the\ngravest manner, towards a magistrate. I have come to bring the fact to\nyour knowledge, as it is my duty to do. \n\n\n Who is the agent?  asked M. Madeleine.\n\n I,  said Javert.\n\n You? \n\n\n I. \n\n\n And who is the magistrate who has reason to complain of the agent? \n\n\n You, Mr. Mayor. \n\n\nM. Madeleine sat erect in his armchair. Javert went on, with a severe\nair and his eyes still cast down.\n\n Mr. Mayor, I have come to request you to instigate the authorities to\ndismiss me. \n\n\nM. Madeleine opened his mouth in amazement. Javert interrupted him: \n\n You will say that I might have handed in my resignation, but that does\nnot suffice. Handing in one s resignation is honorable. I have failed\nin my duty; I ought to be punished; I must be turned out. \n\n\nAnd after a pause he added: \n\n Mr. Mayor, you were severe with me the other day, and unjustly. Be so\nto-day, with justice. \n\n\n Come, now! Why?  exclaimed M. Madeleine.  What nonsense is this? What\nis the meaning of this? What culpable act have you been guilty of\ntowards me? What have you done to me? What are your wrongs with regard\nto me? You accuse yourself; you wish to be superseded \n\n\n Turned out,  said Javert.\n\n Turned out; so it be, then. That is well. I do not understand. \n\n\n You shall understand, Mr. Mayor. \n\n\nJavert sighed from the very bottom of his chest, and resumed, still\ncoldly and sadly: \n\n Mr. Mayor, six weeks ago, in consequence of the scene over that woman,\nI was furious, and I informed against you. \n\n\n Informed against me! \n\n\n At the Prefecture of Police in Paris. \n\n\nM. Madeleine, who was not in the habit of laughing much oftener than\nJavert himself, burst out laughing now: \n\n As a mayor who had encroached on the province of the police? \n\n\n As an ex-convict. \n\n\nThe mayor turned livid.\n\nJavert, who had not raised his eyes, went on: \n\n I thought it was so. I had had an idea for a long time; a resemblance;\ninquiries which you had caused to be made at Faverolles; the strength\nof your loins; the adventure with old Fauchelevant; your skill in\nmarksmanship; your leg, which you drag a little; I hardly know what\nall, absurdities! But, at all events, I took you for a certain Jean\nValjean. \n\n\n A certain What did you say the name was? \n\n\n Jean Valjean. He was a convict whom I was in the habit of seeing\ntwenty years ago, when I was adjutant-guard of convicts at Toulon. On\nleaving the galleys, this Jean Valjean, as it appears, robbed a bishop;\nthen he committed another theft, accompanied with violence, on a public\nhighway on the person of a little Savoyard. He disappeared eight years\nago, no one knows how, and he has been sought, I fancied. In short, I\ndid this thing! Wrath impelled me; I denounced you at the Prefecture! \n\n\nM. Madeleine, who had taken up the docket again several moments before\nthis, resumed with an air of perfect indifference: \n\n And what reply did you receive? \n\n\n That I was mad. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n Well, they were right. \n\n\n It is lucky that you recognize the fact. \n\n\n I am forced to do so, since the real Jean Valjean has been found. \n\n\nThe sheet of paper which M. Madeleine was holding dropped from his\nhand; he raised his head, gazed fixedly at Javert, and said with his\nindescribable accent: \n\n Ah! \n\n\nJavert continued: \n\n This is the way it is, Mr. Mayor. It seems that there was in the\nneighborhood near Ailly-le-Haut-Clocher an old fellow who was called\nFather Champmathieu. He was a very wretched creature. No one paid any\nattention to him. No one knows what such people subsist on. Lately,\nlast autumn, Father Champmathieu was arrested for the theft of some\ncider apples from Well, no matter, a theft had been committed, a wall\nscaled, branches of trees broken. My Champmathieu was arrested. He\nstill had the branch of apple-tree in his hand. The scamp is locked up.\nUp to this point it was merely an affair of a misdemeanor. But here is\nwhere Providence intervened.\n\n The jail being in a bad condition, the examining magistrate finds it\nconvenient to transfer Champmathieu to Arras, where the departmental\nprison is situated. In this prison at Arras there is an ex-convict\nnamed Brevet, who is detained for I know not what, and who has been\nappointed turnkey of the house, because of good behavior. Mr. Mayor, no\nsooner had Champmathieu arrived than Brevet exclaims:  Eh! Why, I know\nthat man! He is a _fagot!_4 Take a good look at me, my good man! You\nare Jean Valjean!   Jean Valjean! who s Jean Valjean?  Champmathieu\nfeigns astonishment.  Don t play the innocent dodge,  says Brevet.  You\nare Jean Valjean! You have been in the galleys of Toulon; it was twenty\nyears ago; we were there together.  Champmathieu denies it. Parbleu!\nYou understand. The case is investigated. The thing was well ventilated\nfor me. This is what they discovered: This Champmathieu had been,\nthirty years ago, a pruner of trees in various localities, notably at\nFaverolles. There all trace of him was lost. A long time afterwards he\nwas seen again in Auvergne; then in Paris, where he is said to have\nbeen a wheelwright, and to have had a daughter, who was a laundress;\nbut that has not been proved. Now, before going to the galleys for\ntheft, what was Jean Valjean? A pruner of trees. Where? At Faverolles.\nAnother fact. This Valjean s Christian name was Jean, and his mother s\nsurname was Mathieu. What more natural to suppose than that, on\nemerging from the galleys, he should have taken his mother s name for\nthe purpose of concealing himself, and have called himself Jean\nMathieu? He goes to Auvergne. The local pronunciation turns _Jean_ into\n_Chan_ he is called Chan Mathieu. Our man offers no opposition, and\nbehold him transformed into Champmathieu. You follow me, do you not?\nInquiries were made at Faverolles. The family of Jean Valjean is no\nlonger there. It is not known where they have gone. You know that among\nthose classes a family often disappears. Search was made, and nothing\nwas found. When such people are not mud, they are dust. And then, as\nthe beginning of the story dates thirty years back, there is no longer\nany one at Faverolles who knew Jean Valjean. Inquiries were made at\nToulon. Besides Brevet, there are only two convicts in existence who\nhave seen Jean Valjean; they are Cochepaille and Chenildieu, and are\nsentenced for life. They are taken from the galleys and confronted with\nthe pretended Champmathieu. They do not hesitate; he is Jean Valjean\nfor them as well as for Brevet. The same age, he is fifty-four, the\nsame height, the same air, the same man; in short, it is he. It was\nprecisely at this moment that I forwarded my denunciation to the\nPrefecture in Paris. I was told that I had lost my reason, and that\nJean Valjean is at Arras, in the power of the authorities. You can\nimagine whether this surprised me, when I thought that I had that same\nJean Valjean here. I write to the examining judge; he sends for me;\nChampmathieu is conducted to me \n\n\n Well?  interposed M. Madeleine.\n\nJavert replied, his face incorruptible, and as melancholy as ever: \n\n Mr. Mayor, the truth is the truth. I am sorry; but that man is Jean\nValjean. I recognized him also. \n\n\nM. Madeleine resumed in, a very low voice: \n\n You are sure? \n\n\nJavert began to laugh, with that mournful laugh which comes from\nprofound conviction.\n\n O! Sure! \n\n\nHe stood there thoughtfully for a moment, mechanically taking pinches\nof powdered wood for blotting ink from the wooden bowl which stood on\nthe table, and he added: \n\n And even now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean, I do not see how\nI could have thought otherwise. I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayor. \n\n\nJavert, as he addressed these grave and supplicating words to the man,\nwho six weeks before had humiliated him in the presence of the whole\nstation-house, and bade him  leave the room, Javert, that haughty man,\nwas unconsciously full of simplicity and dignity, M. Madeleine made no\nother reply to his prayer than the abrupt question: \n\n And what does this man say? \n\n\n Ah! Indeed, Mr. Mayor, it s a bad business. If he is Jean Valjean, he\nhas his previous conviction against him. To climb a wall, to break a\nbranch, to purloin apples, is a mischievous trick in a child; for a man\nit is a misdemeanor; for a convict it is a crime. Robbing and\nhousebreaking it is all there. It is no longer a question of\ncorrectional police; it is a matter for the Court of Assizes. It is no\nlonger a matter of a few days in prison; it is the galleys for life.\nAnd then, there is the affair with the little Savoyard, who will\nreturn, I hope. The deuce! there is plenty to dispute in the matter, is\nthere not? Yes, for any one but Jean Valjean. But Jean Valjean is a sly\ndog. That is the way I recognized him. Any other man would have felt\nthat things were getting hot for him; he would struggle, he would cry\nout the kettle sings before the fire; he would not be Jean Valjean, _et\ncetera_. But he has not the appearance of understanding; he says,  I am\nChampmathieu, and I won t depart from that!  He has an astonished air,\nhe pretends to be stupid; it is far better. Oh! the rogue is clever!\nBut it makes no difference. The proofs are there. He has been\nrecognized by four persons; the old scamp will be condemned. The case\nhas been taken to the Assizes at Arras. I shall go there to give my\ntestimony. I have been summoned. \n\n\nM. Madeleine had turned to his desk again, and taken up his docket, and\nwas turning over the leaves tranquilly, reading and writing by turns,\nlike a busy man. He turned to Javert: \n\n That will do, Javert. In truth, all these details interest me but\nlittle. We are wasting our time, and we have pressing business on hand.\nJavert, you will betake yourself at once to the house of the woman\nBuseaupied, who sells herbs at the corner of the Rue Saint-Saulve. You\nwill tell her that she must enter her complaint against carter Pierre\nChesnelong. The man is a brute, who came near crushing this woman and\nher child. He must be punished. You will then go to M. Charcellay, Rue\nMontre-de-Champigny. He complained that there is a gutter on the\nadjoining house which discharges rain-water on his premises, and is\nundermining the foundations of his house. After that, you will verify\nthe infractions of police regulations which have been reported to me in\nthe Rue Guibourg, at Widow Doris s, and Rue du Garraud-Blanc, at Madame\nRen e le Boss s, and you will prepare documents. But I am giving you a\ngreat deal of work. Are you not to be absent? Did you not tell me that\nyou were going to Arras on that matter in a week or ten days? \n\n\n Sooner than that, Mr. Mayor. \n\n\n On what day, then? \n\n\n Why, I thought that I had said to Monsieur le Maire that the case was\nto be tried to-morrow, and that I am to set out by diligence to-night. \n\n\nM. Madeleine made an imperceptible movement.\n\n And how long will the case last? \n\n\n One day, at the most. The judgment will be pronounced to-morrow\nevening at latest. But I shall not wait for the sentence, which is\ncertain; I shall return here as soon as my deposition has been taken. \n\n\n That is well,  said M. Madeleine.\n\nAnd he dismissed Javert with a wave of the hand.\n\nJavert did not withdraw.\n\n Excuse me, Mr. Mayor,  said he.\n\n What is it now?  demanded M. Madeleine.\n\n Mr. Mayor, there is still something of which I must remind you. \n\n\n What is it? \n\n\n That I must be dismissed. \n\n\nM. Madeleine rose.\n\n Javert, you are a man of honor, and I esteem you. You exaggerate your\nfault. Moreover, this is an offence which concerns me. Javert, you\ndeserve promotion instead of degradation. I wish you to retain your\npost. \n\n\nJavert gazed at M. Madeleine with his candid eyes, in whose depths his\nnot very enlightened but pure and rigid conscience seemed visible, and\nsaid in a tranquil voice: \n\n Mr. Mayor, I cannot grant you that. \n\n\n I repeat,  replied M. Madeleine,  that the matter concerns me. \n\n\nBut Javert, heeding his own thought only, continued: \n\n So far as exaggeration is concerned, I am not exaggerating. This is\nthe way I reason: I have suspected you unjustly. That is nothing. It is\nour right to cherish suspicion, although suspicion directed above\nourselves is an abuse. But without proofs, in a fit of rage, with the\nobject of wreaking my vengeance, I have denounced you as a convict,\nyou, a respectable man, a mayor, a magistrate! That is serious, very\nserious. I have insulted authority in your person, I, an agent of the\nauthorities! If one of my subordinates had done what I have done, I\nshould have declared him unworthy of the service, and have expelled\nhim. Well? Stop, Mr. Mayor; one word more. I have often been severe in\nthe course of my life towards others. That is just. I have done well.\nNow, if I were not severe towards myself, all the justice that I have\ndone would become injustice. Ought I to spare myself more than others?\nNo! What! I should be good for nothing but to chastise others, and not\nmyself! Why, I should be a blackguard! Those who say,  That blackguard\nof a Javert!  would be in the right. Mr. Mayor, I do not desire that\nyou should treat me kindly; your kindness roused sufficient bad blood\nin me when it was directed to others. I want none of it for myself. The\nkindness which consists in upholding a woman of the town against a\ncitizen, the police agent against the mayor, the man who is down\nagainst the man who is up in the world, is what I call false kindness.\nThat is the sort of kindness which disorganizes society. Good God! it\nis very easy to be kind; the difficulty lies in being just. Come! if\nyou had been what I thought you, I should not have been kind to you,\nnot I! You would have seen! Mr. Mayor, I must treat myself as I would\ntreat any other man. When I have subdued malefactors, when I have\nproceeded with vigor against rascals, I have often said to myself,  If\nyou flinch, if I ever catch you in fault, you may rest at your ease!  I\nhave flinched, I have caught myself in a fault. So much the worse!\nCome, discharged, cashiered, expelled! That is well. I have arms. I\nwill till the soil; it makes no difference to me. Mr. Mayor, the good\nof the service demands an example. I simply require the discharge of\nInspector Javert. \n\n\nAll this was uttered in a proud, humble, despairing, yet convinced\ntone, which lent indescribable grandeur to this singular, honest man.\n\n We shall see,  said M. Madeleine.\n\nAnd he offered him his hand.\n\nJavert recoiled, and said in a wild voice: \n\n Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, but this must not be. A mayor does not offer his\nhand to a police spy. \n\n\nHe added between his teeth: \n\n A police spy, yes; from the moment when I have misused the police. I\nam no more than a police spy. \n\n\nThen he bowed profoundly, and directed his steps towards the door.\n\nThere he wheeled round, and with eyes still downcast: \n\n Mr. Mayor,  he said,  I shall continue to serve until I am\nsuperseded. \n\n\nHe withdrew. M. Madeleine remained thoughtfully listening to the firm,\nsure step, which died away on the pavement of the corridor.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SEVENTH THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I SISTER SIMPLICE\n\n\nThe incidents the reader is about to peruse were not all known at M.\nsur M. But the small portion of them which became known left such a\nmemory in that town that a serious gap would exist in this book if we\ndid not narrate them in their most minute details. Among these details\nthe reader will encounter two or three improbable circumstances, which\nwe preserve out of respect for the truth.\n\nOn the afternoon following the visit of Javert, M. Madeleine went to\nsee Fantine according to his wont.\n\nBefore entering Fantine s room, he had Sister Simplice summoned.\n\nThe two nuns who performed the services of nurse in the infirmary,\nLazariste ladies, like all sisters of charity, bore the names of Sister\nPerp tue and Sister Simplice.\n\nSister Perp tue was an ordinary villager, a sister of charity in a\ncoarse style, who had entered the service of God as one enters any\nother service. She was a nun as other women are cooks. This type is not\nso very rare. The monastic orders gladly accept this heavy peasant\nearthenware, which is easily fashioned into a Capuchin or an Ursuline.\nThese rustics are utilized for the rough work of devotion. The\ntransition from a drover to a Carmelite is not in the least violent;\nthe one turns into the other without much effort; the fund of ignorance\ncommon to the village and the cloister is a preparation ready at hand,\nand places the boor at once on the same footing as the monk: a little\nmore amplitude in the smock, and it becomes a frock. Sister Perp tue\nwas a robust nun from Marines near Pontoise, who chattered her patois,\ndroned, grumbled, sugared the potion according to the bigotry or the\nhypocrisy of the invalid, treated her patients abruptly, roughly, was\ncrabbed with the dying, almost flung God in their faces, stoned their\ndeath agony with prayers mumbled in a rage; was bold, honest, and\nruddy.\n\nSister Simplice was white, with a waxen pallor. Beside Sister Perp tue,\nshe was the taper beside the candle. Vincent de Paul has divinely\ntraced the features of the Sister of Charity in these admirable words,\nin which he mingles as much freedom as servitude:  They shall have for\ntheir convent only the house of the sick; for cell only a hired room;\nfor chapel only their parish church; for cloister only the streets of\nthe town and the wards of the hospitals; for enclosure only obedience;\nfor gratings only the fear of God; for veil only modesty.  This ideal\nwas realized in the living person of Sister Simplice: she had never\nbeen young, and it seemed as though she would never grow old. No one\ncould have told Sister Simplice s age. She was a person we dare not say\na woman who was gentle, austere, well-bred, cold, and who had never\nlied. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile; but she was more\nsolid than granite. She touched the unhappy with fingers that were\ncharmingly pure and fine. There was, so to speak, silence in her\nspeech; she said just what was necessary, and she possessed a tone of\nvoice which would have equally edified a confessional or enchanted a\ndrawing-room. This delicacy accommodated itself to the serge gown,\nfinding in this harsh contact a continual reminder of heaven and of\nGod. Let us emphasize one detail. Never to have lied, never to have\nsaid, for any interest whatever, even in indifference, any single thing\nwhich was not the truth, the sacred truth, was Sister Simplice s\ndistinctive trait; it was the accent of her virtue. She was almost\nrenowned in the congregation for this imperturbable veracity. The Abb \nSicard speaks of Sister Simplice in a letter to the deaf-mute Massieu.\nHowever pure and sincere we may be, we all bear upon our candor the\ncrack of the little, innocent lie. She did not. Little lie, innocent\nlie does such a thing exist? To lie is the absolute form of evil. To\nlie a little is not possible: he who lies, lies the whole lie. To lie\nis the very face of the demon. Satan has two names; he is called Satan\nand Lying. That is what she thought; and as she thought, so she did.\nThe result was the whiteness which we have mentioned a whiteness which\ncovered even her lips and her eyes with radiance. Her smile was white,\nher glance was white. There was not a single spider s web, not a grain\nof dust, on the glass window of that conscience. On entering the order\nof Saint Vincent de Paul, she had taken the name of Simplice by special\nchoice. Simplice of Sicily, as we know, is the saint who preferred to\nallow both her breasts to be torn off rather than to say that she had\nbeen born at Segesta when she had been born at Syracuse a lie which\nwould have saved her. This patron saint suited this soul.\n\nSister Simplice, on her entrance into the order, had had two faults\nwhich she had gradually corrected: she had a taste for dainties, and\nshe liked to receive letters. She never read anything but a book of\nprayers printed in Latin, in coarse type. She did not understand Latin,\nbut she understood the book.\n\nThis pious woman had conceived an affection for Fantine, probably\nfeeling a latent virtue there, and she had devoted herself almost\nexclusively to her care.\n\nM. Madeleine took Sister Simplice apart and recommended Fantine to her\nin a singular tone, which the sister recalled later on.\n\nOn leaving the sister, he approached Fantine.\n\nFantine awaited M. Madeleine s appearance every day as one awaits a ray\nof warmth and joy. She said to the sisters,  I only live when Monsieur\nle Maire is here. \n\n\nShe had a great deal of fever that day. As soon as she saw M. Madeleine\nshe asked him: \n\n And Cosette? \n\n\nHe replied with a smile: \n\n Soon. \n\n\nM. Madeleine was the same as usual with Fantine. Only he remained an\nhour instead of half an hour, to Fantine s great delight. He urged\nevery one repeatedly not to allow the invalid to want for anything. It\nwas noticed that there was a moment when his countenance became very\nsombre. But this was explained when it became known that the doctor had\nbent down to his ear and said to him,  She is losing ground fast. \n\n\nThen he returned to the town-hall, and the clerk observed him\nattentively examining a road map of France which hung in his study. He\nwrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE PERSPICACITY OF MASTER SCAUFFLAIRE\n\n\nFrom the town-hall he betook himself to the extremity of the town, to a\nFleming named Master Scaufflaer, French Scaufflaire, who let out\n horses and cabriolets as desired. \n\n\nIn order to reach this Scaufflaire, the shortest way was to take the\nlittle-frequented street in which was situated the parsonage of the\nparish in which M. Madeleine resided. The cur  was, it was said, a\nworthy, respectable, and sensible man. At the moment when M. Madeleine\narrived in front of the parsonage there was but one passer-by in the\nstreet, and this person noticed this: After the mayor had passed the\npriest s house he halted, stood motionless, then turned about, and\nretraced his steps to the door of the parsonage, which had an iron\nknocker. He laid his hand quickly on the knocker and lifted it; then he\npaused again and stopped short, as though in thought, and after the\nlapse of a few seconds, instead of allowing the knocker to fall\nabruptly, he placed it gently, and resumed his way with a sort of haste\nwhich had not been apparent previously.\n\nM. Madeleine found Master Scaufflaire at home, engaged in stitching a\nharness over.\n\n Master Scaufflaire,  he inquired,  have you a good horse? \n\n\n Mr. Mayor,  said the Fleming,  all my horses are good. What do you\nmean by a good horse? \n\n\n I mean a horse which can travel twenty leagues in a day. \n\n\n The deuce!  said the Fleming.  Twenty leagues! \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Hitched to a cabriolet? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n And how long can he rest at the end of his journey? \n\n\n He must be able to set out again on the next day if necessary. \n\n\n To traverse the same road? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n The deuce! the deuce! And it is twenty leagues? \n\n\nM. Madeleine drew from his pocket the paper on which he had pencilled\nsome figures. He showed it to the Fleming. The figures were 5, 6, 8 .\n\n You see,  he said,  total, nineteen and a half; as well say twenty\nleagues. \n\n\n Mr. Mayor,  returned the Fleming,  I have just what you want. My\nlittle white horse you may have seen him pass occasionally; he is a\nsmall beast from Lower Boulonnais. He is full of fire. They wanted to\nmake a saddle-horse of him at first. Bah! He reared, he kicked, he laid\neverybody flat on the ground. He was thought to be vicious, and no one\nknew what to do with him. I bought him. I harnessed him to a carriage.\nThat is what he wanted, sir; he is as gentle as a girl; he goes like\nthe wind. Ah! indeed he must not be mounted. It does not suit his ideas\nto be a saddle-horse. Every one has his ambition.  Draw? Yes. Carry?\nNo.  We must suppose that is what he said to himself. \n\n\n And he will accomplish the trip? \n\n\n Your twenty leagues all at a full trot, and in less than eight hours.\nBut here are the conditions. \n\n\n State them. \n\n\n In the first place, you will give him half an hour s breathing spell\nmidway of the road; he will eat; and some one must be by while he is\neating to prevent the stable boy of the inn from stealing his oats; for\nI have noticed that in inns the oats are more often drunk by the stable\nmen than eaten by the horses. \n\n\n Some one will be by. \n\n\n In the second place is the cabriolet for Monsieur le Maire? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Does Monsieur le Maire know how to drive? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Well, Monsieur le Maire will travel alone and without baggage, in\norder not to overload the horse? \n\n\n Agreed. \n\n\n But as Monsieur le Maire will have no one with him, he will be obliged\nto take the trouble himself of seeing that the oats are not stolen. \n\n\n That is understood. \n\n\n I am to have thirty francs a day. The days of rest to be paid for\nalso not a farthing less; and the beast s food to be at Monsieur le\nMaire s expense. \n\n\nM. Madeleine drew three napoleons from his purse and laid them on the\ntable.\n\n Here is the pay for two days in advance. \n\n\n Fourthly, for such a journey a cabriolet would be too heavy, and would\nfatigue the horse. Monsieur le Maire must consent to travel in a little\ntilbury that I own. \n\n\n I consent to that. \n\n\n It is light, but it has no cover. \n\n\n That makes no difference to me. \n\n\n Has Monsieur le Maire reflected that we are in the middle of winter? \n\n\nM. Madeleine did not reply. The Fleming resumed: \n\n That it is very cold? \n\n\nM. Madeleine preserved silence.\n\nMaster Scaufflaire continued: \n\n That it may rain? \n\n\nM. Madeleine raised his head and said: \n\n The tilbury and the horse will be in front of my door to-morrow\nmorning at half-past four o clock. \n\n\n Of course, Monsieur le Maire,  replied Scaufflaire; then, scratching a\nspeck in the wood of the table with his thumb-nail, he resumed with\nthat careless air which the Flemings understand so well how to mingle\nwith their shrewdness: \n\n But this is what I am thinking of now: Monsieur le Maire has not told\nme where he is going. Where is Monsieur le Maire going? \n\n\nHe had been thinking of nothing else since the beginning of the\nconversation, but he did not know why he had not dared to put the\nquestion.\n\n Are your horse s forelegs good?  said M. Madeleine.\n\n Yes, Monsieur le Maire. You must hold him in a little when going down\nhill. Are there many descends between here and the place whither you\nare going? \n\n\n Do not forget to be at my door at precisely half-past four o clock\nto-morrow morning,  replied M. Madeleine; and he took his departure.\n\nThe Fleming remained  utterly stupid,  as he himself said some time\nafterwards.\n\nThe mayor had been gone two or three minutes when the door opened\nagain; it was the mayor once more.\n\nHe still wore the same impassive and preoccupied air.\n\n Monsieur Scaufflaire,  said he,  at what sum do you estimate the value\nof the horse and tilbury which you are to let to me, the one bearing\nthe other? \n\n\n The one dragging the other, Monsieur le Maire,  said the Fleming, with\na broad smile.\n\n So be it. Well? \n\n\n Does Monsieur le Maire wish to purchase them or me? \n\n\n No; but I wish to guarantee you in any case. You shall give me back\nthe sum at my return. At what value do you estimate your horse and\ncabriolet? \n\n\n Five hundred francs, Monsieur le Maire. \n\n\n Here it is. \n\n\nM. Madeleine laid a bank-bill on the table, then left the room; and\nthis time he did not return.\n\nMaster Scaufflaire experienced a frightful regret that he had not said\na thousand francs. Besides the horse and tilbury together were worth\nbut a hundred crowns.\n\nThe Fleming called his wife, and related the affair to her.  Where the\ndevil could Monsieur le Maire be going?  They held counsel together.\n He is going to Paris,  said the wife.  I don t believe it,  said the\nhusband.\n\nM. Madeleine had forgotten the paper with the figures on it, and it lay\non the chimney-piece. The Fleming picked it up and studied it.  Five,\nsix, eight and a half? That must designate the posting relays.  He\nturned to his wife: \n\n I have found out. \n\n\n What? \n\n\n It is five leagues from here to Hesdin, six from Hesdin to Saint-Pol,\neight and a half from Saint-Pol to Arras. He is going to Arras. \n\n\nMeanwhile, M. Madeleine had returned home. He had taken the longest way\nto return from Master Scaufflaire s, as though the parsonage door had\nbeen a temptation for him, and he had wished to avoid it. He ascended\nto his room, and there he shut himself up, which was a very simple act,\nsince he liked to go to bed early. Nevertheless, the portress of the\nfactory, who was, at the same time, M. Madeleine s only servant,\nnoticed that the latter s light was extinguished at half-past eight,\nand she mentioned it to the cashier when he came home, adding: \n\n Is Monsieur le Maire ill? I thought he had a rather singular air. \n\n\nThis cashier occupied a room situated directly under M. Madeleine s\nchamber. He paid no heed to the portress s words, but went to bed and\nto sleep. Towards midnight he woke up with a start; in his sleep he had\nheard a noise above his head. He listened; it was a footstep pacing\nback and forth, as though some one were walking in the room above him.\nHe listened more attentively, and recognized M. Madeleine s step. This\nstruck him as strange; usually, there was no noise in M. Madeleine s\nchamber until he rose in the morning. A moment later the cashier heard\na noise which resembled that of a cupboard being opened, and then shut\nagain; then a piece of furniture was disarranged; then a pause ensued;\nthen the step began again. The cashier sat up in bed, quite awake now,\nand staring; and through his window-panes he saw the reddish gleam of a\nlighted window reflected on the opposite wall; from the direction of\nthe rays, it could only come from the window of M. Madeleine s chamber.\nThe reflection wavered, as though it came rather from a fire which had\nbeen lighted than from a candle. The shadow of the window-frame was not\nshown, which indicated that the window was wide open. The fact that\nthis window was open in such cold weather was surprising. The cashier\nfell asleep again. An hour or two later he waked again. The same step\nwas still passing slowly and regularly back and forth overhead.\n\nThe reflection was still visible on the wall, but now it was pale and\npeaceful, like the reflection of a lamp or of a candle. The window was\nstill open.\n\nThis is what had taken place in M. Madeleine s room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III A TEMPEST IN A SKULL\n\n\nThe reader has, no doubt, already divined that M. Madeleine is no other\nthan Jean Valjean.\n\nWe have already gazed into the depths of this conscience; the moment\nhas now come when we must take another look into it. We do so not\nwithout emotion and trepidation. There is nothing more terrible in\nexistence than this sort of contemplation. The eye of the spirit can\nnowhere find more dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man; it\ncan fix itself on no other thing which is more formidable, more\ncomplicated, more mysterious, and more infinite. There is a spectacle\nmore grand than the sea; it is heaven: there is a spectacle more grand\nthan heaven; it is the inmost recesses of the soul.\n\nTo make the poem of the human conscience, were it only with reference\nto a single man, were it only in connection with the basest of men,\nwould be to blend all epics into one superior and definitive epic.\nConscience is the chaos of chim ras, of lusts, and of temptations; the\nfurnace of dreams; the lair of ideas of which we are ashamed; it is the\npandemonium of sophisms; it is the battlefield of the passions.\nPenetrate, at certain hours, past the livid face of a human being who\nis engaged in reflection, and look behind, gaze into that soul, gaze\ninto that obscurity. There, beneath that external silence, battles of\ngiants, like those recorded in Homer, are in progress; skirmishes of\ndragons and hydras and swarms of phantoms, as in Milton; visionary\ncircles, as in Dante. What a solemn thing is this infinity which every\nman bears within him, and which he measures with despair against the\ncaprices of his brain and the actions of his life!\n\nAlighieri one day met with a sinister-looking door, before which he\nhesitated. Here is one before us, upon whose threshold we hesitate. Let\nus enter, nevertheless.\n\nWe have but little to add to what the reader already knows of what had\nhappened to Jean Valjean after the adventure with Little Gervais. From\nthat moment forth he was, as we have seen, a totally different man.\nWhat the Bishop had wished to make of him, that he carried out. It was\nmore than a transformation; it was a transfiguration.\n\nHe succeeded in disappearing, sold the Bishop s silver, reserving only\nthe candlesticks as a souvenir, crept from town to town, traversed\nFrance, came to M. sur M., conceived the idea which we have mentioned,\naccomplished what we have related, succeeded in rendering himself safe\nfrom seizure and inaccessible, and, thenceforth, established at M. sur\nM., happy in feeling his conscience saddened by the past and the first\nhalf of his existence belied by the last, he lived in peace, reassured\nand hopeful, having henceforth only two thoughts, to conceal his name\nand to sanctify his life; to escape men and to return to God.\n\nThese two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind that they\nformed but a single one there; both were equally absorbing and\nimperative and ruled his slightest actions. In general, they conspired\nto regulate the conduct of his life; they turned him towards the gloom;\nthey rendered him kindly and simple; they counselled him to the same\nthings. Sometimes, however, they conflicted. In that case, as the\nreader will remember, the man whom all the country of M. sur M. called\nM. Madeleine did not hesitate to sacrifice the first to the second his\nsecurity to his virtue. Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his\nprudence, he had preserved the Bishop s candlesticks, worn mourning for\nhim, summoned and interrogated all the little Savoyards who passed that\nway, collected information regarding the families at Faverolles, and\nsaved old Fauchelevent s life, despite the disquieting insinuations of\nJavert. It seemed, as we have already remarked, as though he thought,\nfollowing the example of all those who have been wise, holy, and just,\nthat his first duty was not towards himself.\n\nAt the same time, it must be confessed, nothing just like this had yet\npresented itself.\n\nNever had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man whose sufferings\nwe are narrating, engaged in so serious a struggle. He understood this\nconfusedly but profoundly at the very first words pronounced by Javert,\nwhen the latter entered his study. At the moment when that name, which\nhe had buried beneath so many layers, was so strangely articulated, he\nwas struck with stupor, and as though intoxicated with the sinister\neccentricity of his destiny; and through this stupor he felt that\nshudder which precedes great shocks. He bent like an oak at the\napproach of a storm, like a soldier at the approach of an assault. He\nfelt shadows filled with thunders and lightnings descending upon his\nhead. As he listened to Javert, the first thought which occurred to him\nwas to go, to run and denounce himself, to take that Champmathieu out\nof prison and place himself there; this was as painful and as poignant\nas an incision in the living flesh. Then it passed away, and he said to\nhimself,  We will see! We will see!  He repressed this first, generous\ninstinct, and recoiled before heroism.\n\nIt would be beautiful, no doubt, after the Bishop s holy words, after\nso many years of repentance and abnegation, in the midst of a penitence\nadmirably begun, if this man had not flinched for an instant, even in\nthe presence of so terrible a conjecture, but had continued to walk\nwith the same step towards this yawning precipice, at the bottom of\nwhich lay heaven; that would have been beautiful; but it was not thus.\nWe must render an account of the things which went on in this soul, and\nwe can only tell what there was there. He was carried away, at first,\nby the instinct of self-preservation; he rallied all his ideas in\nhaste, stifled his emotions, took into consideration Javert s presence,\nthat great danger, postponed all decision with the firmness of terror,\nshook off thought as to what he had to do, and resumed his calmness as\na warrior picks up his buckler.\n\nHe remained in this state during the rest of the day, a whirlwind\nwithin, a profound tranquillity without. He took no  preservative\nmeasures,  as they may be called. Everything was still confused, and\njostling together in his brain. His trouble was so great that he could\nnot perceive the form of a single idea distinctly, and he could have\ntold nothing about himself, except that he had received a great blow.\n\nHe repaired to Fantine s bed of suffering, as usual, and prolonged his\nvisit, through a kindly instinct, telling himself that he must behave\nthus, and recommend her well to the sisters, in case he should be\nobliged to be absent himself. He had a vague feeling that he might be\nobliged to go to Arras; and without having the least in the world made\nup his mind to this trip, he said to himself that being, as he was,\nbeyond the shadow of any suspicion, there could be nothing out of the\nway in being a witness to what was to take place, and he engaged the\ntilbury from Scaufflaire in order to be prepared in any event.\n\nHe dined with a good deal of appetite.\n\nOn returning to his room, he communed with himself.\n\nHe examined the situation, and found it unprecedented; so unprecedented\nthat in the midst of his reverie he rose from his chair, moved by some\ninexplicable impulse of anxiety, and bolted his door. He feared lest\nsomething more should enter. He was barricading himself against\npossibilities.\n\nA moment later he extinguished his light; it embarrassed him.\n\nIt seemed to him as though he might be seen.\n\nBy whom?\n\nAlas! That on which he desired to close the door had already entered;\nthat which he desired to blind was staring him in the face, his\nconscience.\n\nHis conscience; that is to say, God.\n\nNevertheless, he deluded himself at first; he had a feeling of security\nand of solitude; the bolt once drawn, he thought himself impregnable;\nthe candle extinguished, he felt himself invisible. Then he took\npossession of himself: he set his elbows on the table, leaned his head\non his hand, and began to meditate in the dark.\n\n Where do I stand? Am not I dreaming? What have I heard? Is it really\ntrue that I have seen that Javert, and that he spoke to me in that\nmanner? Who can that Champmathieu be? So he resembles me! Is it\npossible? When I reflect that yesterday I was so tranquil, and so far\nfrom suspecting anything! What was I doing yesterday at this hour? What\nis there in this incident? What will the end be? What is to be done? \n\n\nThis was the torment in which he found himself. His brain had lost its\npower of retaining ideas; they passed like waves, and he clutched his\nbrow in both hands to arrest them.\n\nNothing but anguish extricated itself from this tumult which\noverwhelmed his will and his reason, and from which he sought to draw\nproof and resolution.\n\nHis head was burning. He went to the window and threw it wide open.\nThere were no stars in the sky. He returned and seated himself at the\ntable.\n\nThe first hour passed in this manner.\n\nGradually, however, vague outlines began to take form and to fix\nthemselves in his meditation, and he was able to catch a glimpse with\nprecision of the reality, not the whole situation, but some of the\ndetails. He began by recognizing the fact that, critical and\nextraordinary as was this situation, he was completely master of it.\n\nThis only caused an increase of his stupor.\n\nIndependently of the severe and religious aim which he had assigned to\nhis actions, all that he had made up to that day had been nothing but a\nhole in which to bury his name. That which he had always feared most of\nall in his hours of self-communion, during his sleepless nights, was to\never hear that name pronounced; he had said to himself, that that would\nbe the end of all things for him; that on the day when that name made\nits reappearance it would cause his new life to vanish from about him,\nand who knows? perhaps even his new soul within him, also. He shuddered\nat the very thought that this was possible. Assuredly, if any one had\nsaid to him at such moments that the hour would come when that name\nwould ring in his ears, when the hideous words, Jean Valjean, would\nsuddenly emerge from the darkness and rise in front of him, when that\nformidable light, capable of dissipating the mystery in which he had\nenveloped himself, would suddenly blaze forth above his head, and that\nthat name would not menace him, that that light would but produce an\nobscurity more dense, that this rent veil would but increase the\nmystery, that this earthquake would solidify his edifice, that this\nprodigious incident would have no other result, so far as he was\nconcerned, if so it seemed good to him, than that of rendering his\nexistence at once clearer and more impenetrable, and that, out of his\nconfrontation with the phantom of Jean Valjean, the good and worthy\ncitizen Monsieur Madeleine would emerge more honored, more peaceful,\nand more respected than ever if any one had told him that, he would\nhave tossed his head and regarded the words as those of a madman. Well,\nall this was precisely what had just come to pass; all that\naccumulation of impossibilities was a fact, and God had permitted these\nwild fancies to become real things!\n\nHis reverie continued to grow clearer. He came more and more to an\nunderstanding of his position.\n\nIt seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some inexplicable\ndream, and that he found himself slipping down a declivity in the\nmiddle of the night, erect, shivering, holding back all in vain, on the\nvery brink of the abyss. He distinctly perceived in the darkness a\nstranger, a man unknown to him, whom destiny had mistaken for him, and\nwhom she was thrusting into the gulf in his stead; in order that the\ngulf might close once more, it was necessary that some one, himself or\nthat other man, should fall into it: he had only let things take their\ncourse.\n\nThe light became complete, and he acknowledged this to himself: That\nhis place was empty in the galleys; that do what he would, it was still\nawaiting him; that the theft from little Gervais had led him back to\nit; that this vacant place would await him, and draw him on until he\nfilled it; that this was inevitable and fatal; and then he said to\nhimself,  that, at this moment, he had a substitute; that it appeared\nthat a certain Champmathieu had that ill luck, and that, as regards\nhimself, being present in the galleys in the person of that\nChampmathieu, present in society under the name of M. Madeleine, he had\nnothing more to fear, provided that he did not prevent men from sealing\nover the head of that Champmathieu this stone of infamy which, like the\nstone of the sepulchre, falls once, never to rise again. \n\n\nAll this was so strange and so violent, that there suddenly took place\nin him that indescribable movement, which no man feels more than two or\nthree times in the course of his life, a sort of convulsion of the\nconscience which stirs up all that there is doubtful in the heart,\nwhich is composed of irony, of joy, and of despair, and which may be\ncalled an outburst of inward laughter.\n\nHe hastily relighted his candle.\n\n Well, what then?  he said to himself;  what am I afraid of? What is\nthere in all that for me to think about? I am safe; all is over. I had\nbut one partly open door through which my past might invade my life,\nand behold that door is walled up forever! That Javert, who has been\nannoying me so long; that terrible instinct which seemed to have\ndivined me, which had divined me good God! and which followed me\neverywhere; that frightful hunting-dog, always making a point at me, is\nthrown off the scent, engaged elsewhere, absolutely turned from the\ntrail: henceforth he is satisfied; he will leave me in peace; he has\nhis Jean Valjean. Who knows? it is even probable that he will wish to\nleave town! And all this has been brought about without any aid from\nme, and I count for nothing in it! Ah! but where is the misfortune in\nthis? Upon my honor, people would think, to see me, that some\ncatastrophe had happened to me! After all, if it does bring harm to\nsome one, that is not my fault in the least: it is Providence which has\ndone it all; it is because it wishes it so to be, evidently. Have I the\nright to disarrange what it has arranged? What do I ask now? Why should\nI meddle? It does not concern me; what! I am not satisfied: but what\nmore do I want? The goal to which I have aspired for so many years, the\ndream of my nights, the object of my prayers to Heaven, security, I\nhave now attained; it is God who wills it; I can do nothing against the\nwill of God, and why does God will it? In order that I may continue\nwhat I have begun, that I may do good, that I may one day be a grand\nand encouraging example, that it may be said at last, that a little\nhappiness has been attached to the penance which I have undergone, and\nto that virtue to which I have returned. Really, I do not understand\nwhy I was afraid, a little while ago, to enter the house of that good\ncur , and to ask his advice; this is evidently what he would have said\nto me: It is settled; let things take their course; let the good God do\nas he likes! \n\n\nThus did he address himself in the depths of his own conscience,\nbending over what may be called his own abyss; he rose from his chair,\nand began to pace the room:  Come,  said he,  let us think no more\nabout it; my resolve is taken!  but he felt no joy.\n\nQuite the reverse.\n\nOne can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea than one can\nthe sea from returning to the shore: the sailor calls it the tide; the\nguilty man calls it remorse; God upheaves the soul as he does the\nocean.\n\nAfter the expiration of a few moments, do what he would, he resumed the\ngloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke and he who listened,\nsaying that which he would have preferred to ignore, and listened to\nthat which he would have preferred not to hear, yielding to that\nmysterious power which said to him:  Think!  as it said to another\ncondemned man, two thousand years ago,  March on! \n\n\nBefore proceeding further, and in order to make ourselves fully\nunderstood, let us insist upon one necessary observation.\n\nIt is certain that people do talk to themselves; there is no living\nbeing who has not done it. It may even be said that the word is never a\nmore magnificent mystery than when it goes from thought to conscience\nwithin a man, and when it returns from conscience to thought; it is in\nthis sense only that the words so often employed in this chapter, _he\nsaid, he exclaimed_, must be understood; one speaks to one s self,\ntalks to one s self, exclaims to one s self without breaking the\nexternal silence; there is a great tumult; everything about us talks\nexcept the mouth. The realities of the soul are nonetheless realities\nbecause they are not visible and palpable.\n\nSo he asked himself where he stood. He interrogated himself upon that\n settled resolve.  He confessed to himself that all that he had just\narranged in his mind was monstrous, that  to let things take their\ncourse, to let the good God do as he liked,  was simply horrible; to\nallow this error of fate and of men to be carried out, not to hinder\nit, to lend himself to it through his silence, to do nothing, in short,\nwas to do everything! that this was hypocritical baseness in the last\ndegree! that it was a base, cowardly, sneaking, abject, hideous crime!\n\nFor the first time in eight years, the wretched man had just tasted the\nbitter savor of an evil thought and of an evil action.\n\nHe spit it out with disgust.\n\nHe continued to question himself. He asked himself severely what he had\nmeant by this,  My object is attained!  He declared to himself that his\nlife really had an object; but what object? To conceal his name? To\ndeceive the police? Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all\nthat he had done? Had he not another and a grand object, which was the\ntrue one to save, not his person, but his soul; to become honest and\ngood once more; to be a just man? Was it not that above all, that\nalone, which he had always desired, which the Bishop had enjoined upon\nhim to shut the door on his past? But he was not shutting it! great\nGod! he was re-opening it by committing an infamous action! He was\nbecoming a thief once more, and the most odious of thieves! He was\nrobbing another of his existence, his life, his peace, his place in the\nsunshine. He was becoming an assassin. He was murdering, morally\nmurdering, a wretched man. He was inflicting on him that frightful\nliving death, that death beneath the open sky, which is called the\ngalleys. On the other hand, to surrender himself to save that man,\nstruck down with so melancholy an error, to resume his own name, to\nbecome once more, out of duty, the convict Jean Valjean, that was, in\ntruth, to achieve his resurrection, and to close forever that hell\nwhence he had just emerged; to fall back there in appearance was to\nescape from it in reality. This must be done! He had done nothing if he\ndid not do all this; his whole life was useless; all his penitence was\nwasted. There was no longer any need of saying,  What is the use?  He\nfelt that the Bishop was there, that the Bishop was present all the\nmore because he was dead, that the Bishop was gazing fixedly at him,\nthat henceforth Mayor Madeleine, with all his virtues, would be\nabominable to him, and that the convict Jean Valjean would be pure and\nadmirable in his sight; that men beheld his mask, but that the Bishop\nsaw his face; that men saw his life, but that the Bishop beheld his\nconscience. So he must go to Arras, deliver the false Jean Valjean, and\ndenounce the real one. Alas! that was the greatest of sacrifices, the\nmost poignant of victories, the last step to take; but it must be done.\nSad fate! he would enter into sanctity only in the eyes of God when he\nreturned to infamy in the eyes of men.\n\n Well,  said he,  let us decide upon this; let us do our duty; let us\nsave this man.  He uttered these words aloud, without perceiving that\nhe was speaking aloud.\n\nHe took his books, verified them, and put them in order. He flung in\nthe fire a bundle of bills which he had against petty and embarrassed\ntradesmen. He wrote and sealed a letter, and on the envelope it might\nhave been read, had there been any one in his chamber at the moment,\n_To Monsieur Laffitte, Banker, Rue d Artois, Paris_. He drew from his\nsecretary a pocket-book which contained several bank-notes and the\npassport of which he had made use that same year when he went to the\nelections.\n\nAny one who had seen him during the execution of these various acts,\ninto which there entered such grave thought, would have had no\nsuspicion of what was going on within him. Only occasionally did his\nlips move; at other times he raised his head and fixed his gaze upon\nsome point of the wall, as though there existed at that point something\nwhich he wished to elucidate or interrogate.\n\nWhen he had finished the letter to M. Laffitte, he put it into his\npocket, together with the pocket-book, and began his walk once more.\n\nHis reverie had not swerved from its course. He continued to see his\nduty clearly, written in luminous letters, which flamed before his eyes\nand changed its place as he altered the direction of his glance: \n\n_ Go! Tell your name! Denounce yourself! _\n\nIn the same way he beheld, as though they had passed before him in\nvisible forms, the two ideas which had, up to that time, formed the\ndouble rule of his soul, the concealment of his name, the\nsanctification of his life. For the first time they appeared to him as\nabsolutely distinct, and he perceived the distance which separated\nthem. He recognized the fact that one of these ideas was, necessarily,\ngood, while the other might become bad; that the first was\nself-devotion, and that the other was personality; that the one said,\n_my neighbour_, and that the other said, _myself_; that one emanated\nfrom the light, and the other from darkness.\n\nThey were antagonistic. He saw them in conflict. In proportion as he\nmeditated, they grew before the eyes of his spirit. They had now\nattained colossal statures, and it seemed to him that he beheld within\nhimself, in that infinity of which we were recently speaking, in the\nmidst of the darkness and the lights, a goddess and a giant contending.\n\nHe was filled with terror; but it seemed to him that the good thought\nwas getting the upper hand.\n\nHe felt that he was on the brink of the second decisive crisis of his\nconscience and of his destiny; that the Bishop had marked the first\nphase of his new life, and that Champmathieu marked the second. After\nthe grand crisis, the grand test.\n\nBut the fever, allayed for an instant, gradually resumed possession of\nhim. A thousand thoughts traversed his mind, but they continued to\nfortify him in his resolution.\n\nOne moment he said to himself that he was, perhaps, taking the matter\ntoo keenly; that, after all, this Champmathieu was not interesting, and\nthat he had actually been guilty of theft.\n\nHe answered himself:  If this man has, indeed, stolen a few apples,\nthat means a month in prison. It is a long way from that to the\ngalleys. And who knows? Did he steal? Has it been proved? The name of\nJean Valjean overwhelms him, and seems to dispense with proofs. Do not\nthe attorneys for the Crown always proceed in this manner? He is\nsupposed to be a thief because he is known to be a convict. \n\n\nIn another instant the thought had occurred to him that, when he\ndenounced himself, the heroism of his deed might, perhaps, be taken\ninto consideration, and his honest life for the last seven years, and\nwhat he had done for the district, and that they would have mercy on\nhim.\n\nBut this supposition vanished very quickly, and he smiled bitterly as\nhe remembered that the theft of the forty sous from little Gervais put\nhim in the position of a man guilty of a second offence after\nconviction, that this affair would certainly come up, and, according to\nthe precise terms of the law, would render him liable to penal\nservitude for life.\n\nHe turned aside from all illusions, detached himself more and more from\nearth, and sought strength and consolation elsewhere. He told himself\nthat he must do his duty; that perhaps he should not be more unhappy\nafter doing his duty than after having avoided it; that if he _allowed\nthings to take their own course_, if he remained at M. sur M., his\nconsideration, his good name, his good works, the deference and\nveneration paid to him, his charity, his wealth, his popularity, his\nvirtue, would be seasoned with a crime. And what would be the taste of\nall these holy things when bound up with this hideous thing? while, if\nhe accomplished his sacrifice, a celestial idea would be mingled with\nthe galleys, the post, the iron necklet, the green cap, unceasing toil,\nand pitiless shame.\n\nAt length he told himself that it must be so, that his destiny was thus\nallotted, that he had not authority to alter the arrangements made on\nhigh, that, in any case, he must make his choice: virtue without and\nabomination within, or holiness within and infamy without.\n\nThe stirring up of these lugubrious ideas did not cause his courage to\nfail, but his brain grow weary. He began to think of other things, of\nindifferent matters, in spite of himself.\n\nThe veins in his temples throbbed violently; he still paced to and fro;\nmidnight sounded first from the parish church, then from the town-hall;\nhe counted the twelve strokes of the two clocks, and compared the\nsounds of the two bells; he recalled in this connection the fact that,\na few days previously, he had seen in an ironmonger s shop an ancient\nclock for sale, upon which was written the name, _Antoine-Albin de\nRomainville_.\n\nHe was cold; he lighted a small fire; it did not occur to him to close\nthe window.\n\nIn the meantime he had relapsed into his stupor; he was obliged to make\na tolerably vigorous effort to recall what had been the subject of his\nthoughts before midnight had struck; he finally succeeded in doing\nthis.\n\n Ah! yes,  he said to himself,  I had resolved to inform against\nmyself. \n\n\nAnd then, all of a sudden, he thought of Fantine.\n\n Hold!  said he,  and what about that poor woman? \n\n\nHere a fresh crisis declared itself.\n\nFantine, by appearing thus abruptly in his reverie, produced the effect\nof an unexpected ray of light; it seemed to him as though everything\nabout him were undergoing a change of aspect: he exclaimed: \n\n Ah! but I have hitherto considered no one but myself; it is proper for\nme to hold my tongue or to denounce myself, to conceal my person or to\nsave my soul, to be a despicable and respected magistrate, or an\ninfamous and venerable convict; it is I, it is always I and nothing but\nI: but, good God! all this is egotism; these are diverse forms of\negotism, but it is egotism all the same. What if I were to think a\nlittle about others? The highest holiness is to think of others; come,\nlet us examine the matter. The _I_ excepted, the _I_ effaced, the _I_\nforgotten, what would be the result of all this? What if I denounce\nmyself? I am arrested; this Champmathieu is released; I am put back in\nthe galleys; that is well and what then? What is going on here? Ah!\nhere is a country, a town, here are factories, an industry, workers,\nboth men and women, aged grandsires, children, poor people! All this I\nhave created; all these I provide with their living; everywhere where\nthere is a smoking chimney, it is I who have placed the brand on the\nhearth and meat in the pot; I have created ease, circulation, credit;\nbefore me there was nothing; I have elevated, vivified, informed with\nlife, fecundated, stimulated, enriched the whole country-side; lacking\nme, the soul is lacking; I take myself off, everything dies: and this\nwoman, who has suffered so much, who possesses so many merits in spite\nof her fall; the cause of all whose misery I have unwittingly been! And\nthat child whom I meant to go in search of, whom I have promised to her\nmother; do I not also owe something to this woman, in reparation for\nthe evil which I have done her? If I disappear, what happens? The\nmother dies; the child becomes what it can; that is what will take\nplace, if I denounce myself. If I do not denounce myself? come, let us\nsee how it will be if I do not denounce myself. \n\n\nAfter putting this question to himself, he paused; he seemed to undergo\na momentary hesitation and trepidation; but it did not last long, and\nhe answered himself calmly: \n\n Well, this man is going to the galleys; it is true, but what the\ndeuce! he has stolen! There is no use in my saying that he has not been\nguilty of theft, for he has! I remain here; I go on: in ten years I\nshall have made ten millions; I scatter them over the country; I have\nnothing of my own; what is that to me? It is not for myself that I am\ndoing it; the prosperity of all goes on augmenting; industries are\naroused and animated; factories and shops are multiplied; families, a\nhundred families, a thousand families, are happy; the district becomes\npopulated; villages spring up where there were only farms before; farms\nrise where there was nothing; wretchedness disappears, and with\nwretchedness debauchery, prostitution, theft, murder; all vices\ndisappear, all crimes: and this poor mother rears her child; and behold\na whole country rich and honest! Ah! I was a fool! I was absurd! what\nwas that I was saying about denouncing myself? I really must pay\nattention and not be precipitate about anything. What! because it would\nhave pleased me to play the grand and generous; this is melodrama,\nafter all; because I should have thought of no one but myself, the\nidea! for the sake of saving from a punishment, a trifle exaggerated,\nperhaps, but just at bottom, no one knows whom, a thief, a\ngood-for-nothing, evidently, a whole country-side must perish! a poor\nwoman must die in the hospital! a poor little girl must die in the\nstreet! like dogs; ah, this is abominable! And without the mother even\nhaving seen her child once more, almost without the child s having\nknown her mother; and all that for the sake of an old wretch of an\napple-thief who, most assuredly, has deserved the galleys for something\nelse, if not for that; fine scruples, indeed, which save a guilty man\nand sacrifice the innocent, which save an old vagabond who has only a\nfew years to live at most, and who will not be more unhappy in the\ngalleys than in his hovel, and which sacrifice a whole population,\nmothers, wives, children. This poor little Cosette who has no one in\nthe world but me, and who is, no doubt, blue with cold at this moment\nin the den of those Th nardiers; those peoples are rascals; and I was\ngoing to neglect my duty towards all these poor creatures; and I was\ngoing off to denounce myself; and I was about to commit that\nunspeakable folly! Let us put it at the worst: suppose that there is a\nwrong action on my part in this, and that my conscience will reproach\nme for it some day, to accept, for the good of others, these reproaches\nwhich weigh only on myself; this evil action which compromises my soul\nalone; in that lies self-sacrifice; in that alone there is virtue. \n\n\nHe rose and resumed his march; this time, he seemed to be content.\n\nDiamonds are found only in the dark places of the earth; truths are\nfound only in the depths of thought. It seemed to him, that, after\nhaving descended into these depths, after having long groped among the\ndarkest of these shadows, he had at last found one of these diamonds,\none of these truths, and that he now held it in his hand, and he was\ndazzled as he gazed upon it.\n\n Yes,  he thought,  this is right; I am on the right road; I have the\nsolution; I must end by holding fast to something; my resolve is taken;\nlet things take their course; let us no longer vacillate; let us no\nlonger hang back; this is for the interest of all, not for my own; I am\nMadeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to the man who is Jean Valjean!\nI am no longer he; I do not know that man; I no longer know anything;\nit turns out that some one is Jean Valjean at the present moment; let\nhim look out for himself; that does not concern me; it is a fatal name\nwhich was floating abroad in the night; if it halts and descends on a\nhead, so much the worse for that head. \n\n\nHe looked into the little mirror which hung above his chimney-piece,\nand said: \n\n Hold! it has relieved me to come to a decision; I am quite another man\nnow. \n\n\nHe proceeded a few paces further, then he stopped short.\n\n Come!  he said,  I must not flinch before any of the consequences of\nthe resolution which I have once adopted; there are still threads which\nattach me to that Jean Valjean; they must be broken; in this very room\nthere are objects which would betray me, dumb things which would bear\nwitness against me; it is settled; all these things must disappear. \n\n\nHe fumbled in his pocket, drew out his purse, opened it, and took out a\nsmall key; he inserted the key in a lock whose aperture could hardly be\nseen, so hidden was it in the most sombre tones of the design which\ncovered the wall-paper; a secret receptacle opened, a sort of false\ncupboard constructed in the angle between the wall and the\nchimney-piece; in this hiding-place there were some rags a blue linen\nblouse, an old pair of trousers, an old knapsack, and a huge thorn\ncudgel shod with iron at both ends. Those who had seen Jean Valjean at\nthe epoch when he passed through D  in October, 1815, could easily\nhave recognized all the pieces of this miserable outfit.\n\nHe had preserved them as he had preserved the silver candlesticks, in\norder to remind himself continually of his starting-point, but he had\nconcealed all that came from the galleys, and he had allowed the\ncandlesticks which came from the Bishop to be seen.\n\nHe cast a furtive glance towards the door, as though he feared that it\nwould open in spite of the bolt which fastened it; then, with a quick\nand abrupt movement, he took the whole in his arms at once, without\nbestowing so much as a glance on the things which he had so religiously\nand so perilously preserved for so many years, and flung them all,\nrags, cudgel, knapsack, into the fire.\n\n[Illustration: Candlesticks Into the Fire]\n\nHe closed the false cupboard again, and with redoubled precautions,\nhenceforth unnecessary, since it was now empty, he concealed the door\nbehind a heavy piece of furniture, which he pushed in front of it.\n\nAfter the lapse of a few seconds, the room and the opposite wall were\nlighted up with a fierce, red, tremulous glow. Everything was on fire;\nthe thorn cudgel snapped and threw out sparks to the middle of the\nchamber.\n\nAs the knapsack was consumed, together with the hideous rags which it\ncontained, it revealed something which sparkled in the ashes. By\nbending over, one could have readily recognized a coin, no doubt the\nforty-sou piece stolen from the little Savoyard.\n\nHe did not look at the fire, but paced back and forth with the same\nstep.\n\nAll at once his eye fell on the two silver candlesticks, which shone\nvaguely on the chimney-piece, through the glow.\n\n Hold!  he thought;  the whole of Jean Valjean is still in them. They\nmust be destroyed also. \n\n\nHe seized the two candlesticks.\n\nThere was still fire enough to allow of their being put out of shape,\nand converted into a sort of unrecognizable bar of metal.\n\nHe bent over the hearth and warmed himself for a moment. He felt a\nsense of real comfort.  How good warmth is!  said he.\n\nHe stirred the live coals with one of the candlesticks.\n\nA minute more, and they were both in the fire.\n\nAt that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him\nshouting:  Jean Valjean! Jean Valjean! \n\n\nHis hair rose upright: he became like a man who is listening to some\nterrible thing.\n\n Yes, that s it! finish!  said the voice.  Complete what you are about!\nDestroy these candlesticks! Annihilate this souvenir! Forget the\nBishop! Forget everything! Destroy this Champmathieu, do! That is\nright! Applaud yourself! So it is settled, resolved, fixed, agreed:\nhere is an old man who does not know what is wanted of him, who has,\nperhaps, done nothing, an innocent man, whose whole misfortune lies in\nyour name, upon whom your name weighs like a crime, who is about to be\ntaken for you, who will be condemned, who will finish his days in\nabjectness and horror. That is good! Be an honest man yourself; remain\nMonsieur le Maire; remain honorable and honored; enrich the town;\nnourish the indigent; rear the orphan; live happy, virtuous, and\nadmired; and, during this time, while you are here in the midst of joy\nand light, there will be a man who will wear your red blouse, who will\nbear your name in ignominy, and who will drag your chain in the\ngalleys. Yes, it is well arranged thus. Ah, wretch! \n\n\nThe perspiration streamed from his brow. He fixed a haggard eye on the\ncandlesticks. But that within him which had spoken had not finished.\nThe voice continued: \n\n Jean Valjean, there will be around you many voices, which will make a\ngreat noise, which will talk very loud, and which will bless you, and\nonly one which no one will hear, and which will curse you in the dark.\nWell! listen, infamous man! All those benedictions will fall back\nbefore they reach heaven, and only the malediction will ascend to God. \n\n\nThis voice, feeble at first, and which had proceeded from the most\nobscure depths of his conscience, had gradually become startling and\nformidable, and he now heard it in his very ear. It seemed to him that\nit had detached itself from him, and that it was now speaking outside\nof him. He thought that he heard the last words so distinctly, that he\nglanced around the room in a sort of terror.\n\n Is there any one here?  he demanded aloud, in utter bewilderment.\n\nThen he resumed, with a laugh which resembled that of an idiot: \n\n How stupid I am! There can be no one! \n\n\nThere was some one; but the person who was there was of those whom the\nhuman eye cannot see.\n\nHe placed the candlesticks on the chimney-piece.\n\nThen he resumed his monotonous and lugubrious tramp, which troubled the\ndreams of the sleeping man beneath him, and awoke him with a start.\n\nThis tramping to and fro soothed and at the same time intoxicated him.\nIt sometimes seems, on supreme occasions, as though people moved about\nfor the purpose of asking advice of everything that they may encounter\nby change of place. After the lapse of a few minutes he no longer knew\nhis position.\n\nHe now recoiled in equal terror before both the resolutions at which he\nhad arrived in turn. The two ideas which counselled him appeared to him\nequally fatal. What a fatality! What conjunction that that Champmathieu\nshould have been taken for him; to be overwhelmed by precisely the\nmeans which Providence seemed to have employed, at first, to strengthen\nhis position!\n\nThere was a moment when he reflected on the future. Denounce himself,\ngreat God! Deliver himself up! With immense despair he faced all that\nhe should be obliged to leave, all that he should be obliged to take up\nonce more. He should have to bid farewell to that existence which was\nso good, so pure, so radiant, to the respect of all, to honor, to\nliberty. He should never more stroll in the fields; he should never\nmore hear the birds sing in the month of May; he should never more\nbestow alms on the little children; he should never more experience the\nsweetness of having glances of gratitude and love fixed upon him; he\nshould quit that house which he had built, that little chamber!\nEverything seemed charming to him at that moment. Never again should he\nread those books; never more should he write on that little table of\nwhite wood; his old portress, the only servant whom he kept, would\nnever more bring him his coffee in the morning. Great God! instead of\nthat, the convict gang, the iron necklet, the red waistcoat, the chain\non his ankle, fatigue, the cell, the camp bed all those horrors which\nhe knew so well! At his age, after having been what he was! If he were\nonly young again! but to be addressed in his old age as  thou  by any\none who pleased; to be searched by the convict-guard; to receive the\ngalley-sergeant s cudgellings; to wear iron-bound shoes on his bare\nfeet; to have to stretch out his leg night and morning to the hammer of\nthe roundsman who visits the gang; to submit to the curiosity of\nstrangers, who would be told:  That man yonder is the famous Jean\nValjean, who was mayor of M. sur M. ; and at night, dripping with\nperspiration, overwhelmed with lassitude, their green caps drawn over\ntheir eyes, to remount, two by two, the ladder staircase of the galleys\nbeneath the sergeant s whip. Oh, what misery! Can destiny, then, be as\nmalicious as an intelligent being, and become as monstrous as the human\nheart?\n\nAnd do what he would, he always fell back upon the heartrending dilemma\nwhich lay at the foundation of his reverie:  Should he remain in\nparadise and become a demon? Should he return to hell and become an\nangel? \n\n\nWhat was to be done? Great God! what was to be done?\n\nThe torment from which he had escaped with so much difficulty was\nunchained afresh within him. His ideas began to grow confused once\nmore; they assumed a kind of stupefied and mechanical quality which is\npeculiar to despair. The name of Romainville recurred incessantly to\nhis mind, with the two verses of a song which he had heard in the past.\nHe thought that Romainville was a little grove near Paris, where young\nlovers go to pluck lilacs in the month of April.\n\nHe wavered outwardly as well as inwardly. He walked like a little child\nwho is permitted to toddle alone.\n\nAt intervals, as he combated his lassitude, he made an effort to\nrecover the mastery of his mind. He tried to put to himself, for the\nlast time, and definitely, the problem over which he had, in a manner,\nfallen prostrate with fatigue: Ought he to denounce himself? Ought he\nto hold his peace? He could not manage to see anything distinctly. The\nvague aspects of all the courses of reasoning which had been sketched\nout by his meditations quivered and vanished, one after the other, into\nsmoke. He only felt that, to whatever course of action he made up his\nmind, something in him must die, and that of necessity, and without his\nbeing able to escape the fact; that he was entering a sepulchre on the\nright hand as much as on the left; that he was passing through a death\nagony, the agony of his happiness, or the agony of his virtue.\n\nAlas! all his resolution had again taken possession of him. He was no\nfurther advanced than at the beginning.\n\nThus did this unhappy soul struggle in its anguish. Eighteen hundred\nyears before this unfortunate man, the mysterious Being in whom are\nsummed up all the sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity had\nalso long thrust aside with his hand, while the olive-trees quivered in\nthe wild wind of the infinite, the terrible cup which appeared to Him\ndripping with darkness and overflowing with shadows in the depths all\nstudded with stars.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV FORMS ASSUMED BY SUFFERING DURING SLEEP\n\n\nThree o clock in the morning had just struck, and he had been walking\nthus for five hours, almost uninterruptedly, when he at length allowed\nhimself to drop into his chair.\n\nThere he fell asleep and had a dream.\n\nThis dream, like the majority of dreams, bore no relation to the\nsituation, except by its painful and heart-rending character, but it\nmade an impression on him. This nightmare struck him so forcibly that\nhe wrote it down later on. It is one of the papers in his own\nhandwriting which he has bequeathed to us. We think that we have here\nreproduced the thing in strict accordance with the text.\n\nOf whatever nature this dream may be, the history of this night would\nbe incomplete if we were to omit it: it is the gloomy adventure of an\nailing soul.\n\nHere it is. On the envelope we find this line inscribed,  The Dream I\nhad that Night. \n\n\n I was in a plain; a vast, gloomy plain, where there was no grass. It\ndid not seem to me to be daylight nor yet night.\n\n I was walking with my brother, the brother of my childish years, the\nbrother of whom, I must say, I never think, and whom I now hardly\nremember.\n\n We were conversing and we met some passers-by. We were talking of a\nneighbor of ours in former days, who had always worked with her window\nopen from the time when she came to live on the street. As we talked we\nfelt cold because of that open window.\n\n There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He\nwas entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse which\nwas earth color. The man had no hair; we could see his skull and the\nveins on it. In his hand he held a switch which was as supple as a\nvine-shoot and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed and said nothing\nto us.\n\n My brother said to me,  Let us take to the hollow road. \n\n There existed a hollow way wherein one saw neither a single shrub nor\na spear of moss. Everything was dirt-colored, even the sky. After\nproceeding a few paces, I received no reply when I spoke: I perceived\nthat my brother was no longer with me.\n\n I entered a village which I espied. I reflected that it must be\nRomainville. (Why Romainville?)5\n\n The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered a second\nstreet. Behind the angle formed by the two streets, a man was standing\nerect against the wall. I said to this man: \n\n What country is this? Where am I?  The man made no reply. I saw the\ndoor of a house open, and I entered.\n\n The first chamber was deserted. I entered the second. Behind the door\nof this chamber a man was standing erect against the wall. I inquired\nof this man,  Whose house is this? Where am I?  The man replied not.\n\n The house had a garden. I quitted the house and entered the garden.\nThe garden was deserted. Behind the first tree I found a man standing\nupright. I said to this man,  What garden is this? Where am I?  The man\ndid not answer.\n\n I strolled into the village, and perceived that it was a town. All the\nstreets were deserted, all the doors were open. Not a single living\nbeing was passing in the streets, walking through the chambers or\nstrolling in the gardens. But behind each angle of the walls, behind\neach door, behind each tree, stood a silent man. Only one was to be\nseen at a time. These men watched me pass.\n\n I left the town and began to ramble about the fields.\n\n After the lapse of some time I turned back and saw a great crowd\ncoming up behind me. I recognized all the men whom I had seen in that\ntown. They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in a hurry, yet\nthey walked faster than I did. They made no noise as they walked. In an\ninstant this crowd had overtaken and surrounded me. The faces of these\nmen were earthen in hue.\n\n Then the first one whom I had seen and questioned on entering the town\nsaid to me: \n\n Whither are you going! Do you not know that you have been dead this\nlong time? \n\n I opened my mouth to reply, and I perceived that there was no one near\nme. \n\n\nHe woke. He was icy cold. A wind which was chill like the breeze of\ndawn was rattling the leaves of the window, which had been left open on\ntheir hinges. The fire was out. The candle was nearing its end. It was\nstill black night.\n\nHe rose, he went to the window. There were no stars in the sky even\nyet.\n\nFrom his window the yard of the house and the street were visible. A\nsharp, harsh noise, which made him drop his eyes, resounded from the\nearth.\n\nBelow him he perceived two red stars, whose rays lengthened and\nshortened in a singular manner through the darkness.\n\nAs his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep,  Hold! \nsaid he,  there are no stars in the sky. They are on earth now. \n\n\nBut this confusion vanished; a second sound similar to the first roused\nhim thoroughly; he looked and recognized the fact that these two stars\nwere the lanterns of a carriage. By the light which they cast he was\nable to distinguish the form of this vehicle. It was a tilbury\nharnessed to a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the\ntrampling of the horse s hoofs on the pavement.\n\n What vehicle is this?  he said to himself.  Who is coming here so\nearly in the morning? \n\n\nAt that moment there came a light tap on the door of his chamber.\n\nHe shuddered from head to foot, and cried in a terrible voice: \n\n Who is there? \n\n\nSome one said: \n\n I, Monsieur le Maire. \n\n\nHe recognized the voice of the old woman who was his portress.\n\n Well!  he replied,  what is it? \n\n\n Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o clock in the morning. \n\n\n What is that to me? \n\n\n The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire. \n\n\n What cabriolet? \n\n\n The tilbury. \n\n\n What tilbury? \n\n\n Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury? \n\n\n No,  said he.\n\n The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur le Maire. \n\n\n What coachman? \n\n\n M. Scaufflaire s coachman. \n\n\n M. Scaufflaire? \n\n\nThat name sent a shudder over him, as though a flash of lightning had\npassed in front of his face.\n\n Ah! yes,  he resumed;  M. Scaufflaire! \n\n\nIf the old woman could have seen him at that moment, she would have\nbeen frightened.\n\nA tolerably long silence ensued. He examined the flame of the candle\nwith a stupid air, and from around the wick he took some of the burning\nwax, which he rolled between his fingers. The old woman waited for him.\nShe even ventured to uplift her voice once more: \n\n What am I to say, Monsieur le Maire? \n\n\n Say that it is well, and that I am coming down. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V HINDRANCES\n\n\nThe posting service from Arras to M. sur M. was still operated at this\nperiod by small mail-wagons of the time of the Empire. These\nmail-wagons were two-wheeled cabriolets, upholstered inside with\nfawn-colored leather, hung on springs, and having but two seats, one\nfor the postboy, the other for the traveller. The wheels were armed\nwith those long, offensive axles which keep other vehicles at a\ndistance, and which may still be seen on the road in Germany. The\ndespatch box, an immense oblong coffer, was placed behind the vehicle\nand formed a part of it. This coffer was painted black, and the\ncabriolet yellow.\n\nThese vehicles, which have no counterparts nowadays, had something\ndistorted and hunchbacked about them; and when one saw them passing in\nthe distance, and climbing up some road to the horizon, they resembled\nthe insects which are called, I think, termites, and which, though with\nbut little corselet, drag a great train behind them. But they travelled\nat a very rapid rate. The post-wagon which set out from Arras at one\no clock every night, after the mail from Paris had passed, arrived at\nM. sur M. a little before five o clock in the morning.\n\nThat night the wagon which was descending to M. sur M. by the Hesdin\nroad, collided at the corner of a street, just as it was entering the\ntown, with a little tilbury harnessed to a white horse, which was going\nin the opposite direction, and in which there was but one person, a man\nenveloped in a mantle. The wheel of the tilbury received quite a\nviolent shock. The postman shouted to the man to stop, but the\ntraveller paid no heed and pursued his road at full gallop.\n\n That man is in a devilish hurry!  said the postman.\n\nThe man thus hastening on was the one whom we have just seen struggling\nin convulsions which are certainly deserving of pity.\n\nWhither was he going? He could not have told. Why was he hastening? He\ndid not know. He was driving at random, straight ahead. Whither? To\nArras, no doubt; but he might have been going elsewhere as well. At\ntimes he was conscious of it, and he shuddered. He plunged into the\nnight as into a gulf. Something urged him forward; something drew him\non. No one could have told what was taking place within him; every one\nwill understand it. What man is there who has not entered, at least\nonce in his life, into that obscure cavern of the unknown?\n\nHowever, he had resolved on nothing, decided nothing, formed no plan,\ndone nothing. None of the actions of his conscience had been decisive.\nHe was, more than ever, as he had been at the first moment.\n\nWhy was he going to Arras?\n\nHe repeated what he had already said to himself when he had hired\nScaufflaire s cabriolet: that, whatever the result was to be, there was\nno reason why he should not see with his own eyes, and judge of matters\nfor himself; that this was even prudent; that he must know what took\nplace; that no decision could be arrived at without having observed and\nscrutinized; that one made mountains out of everything from a distance;\nthat, at any rate, when he should have seen that Champmathieu, some\nwretch, his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow him\nto go to the galleys in his stead; that Javert would indeed be there;\nand that Brevet, that Chenildieu, that Cochepaille, old convicts who\nhad known him; but they certainly would not recognize him; bah! what an\nidea! that Javert was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth; that\nall conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Champmathieu, and\nthat there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures;\nthat accordingly there was no danger.\n\nThat it was, no doubt, a dark moment, but that he should emerge from\nit; that, after all, he held his destiny, however bad it might be, in\nhis own hand; that he was master of it. He clung to this thought.\n\nAt bottom, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go\nto Arras.\n\nNevertheless, he was going thither.\n\nAs he meditated, he whipped up his horse, which was proceeding at that\nfine, regular, and even trot which accomplishes two leagues and a half\nan hour.\n\nIn proportion as the cabriolet advanced, he felt something within him\ndraw back.\n\nAt daybreak he was in the open country; the town of M. sur M. lay far\nbehind him. He watched the horizon grow white; he stared at all the\nchilly figures of a winter s dawn as they passed before his eyes, but\nwithout seeing them. The morning has its spectres as well as the\nevening. He did not see them; but without his being aware of it, and by\nmeans of a sort of penetration which was almost physical, these black\nsilhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister\nquality to the violent state of his soul.\n\nEach time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which\nsometimes border on the highway, he said to himself,  And yet there are\npeople there within who are sleeping! \n\n\nThe trot of the horse, the bells on the harness, the wheels on the\nroad, produced a gentle, monotonous noise. These things are charming\nwhen one is joyous, and lugubrious when one is sad.\n\nIt was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin. He halted in front of\nthe inn, to allow the horse a breathing spell, and to have him given\nsome oats.\n\nThe horse belonged, as Scaufflaire had said, to that small race of the\nBoulonnais, which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough\nneck and shoulders, but which has a broad chest, a large crupper, thin,\nfine legs, and solid hoofs a homely, but a robust and healthy race. The\nexcellent beast had travelled five leagues in two hours, and had not a\ndrop of sweat on his loins.\n\nHe did not get out of the tilbury. The stableman who brought the oats\nsuddenly bent down and examined the left wheel.\n\n Are you going far in this condition?  said the man.\n\nHe replied, with an air of not having roused himself from his reverie: \n\n Why? \n\n\n Have you come from a great distance?  went on the man.\n\n Five leagues. \n\n\n Ah! \n\n\n Why do you say,  Ah? \n\n\nThe man bent down once more, was silent for a moment, with his eyes\nfixed on the wheel; then he rose erect and said: \n\n Because, though this wheel has travelled five leagues, it certainly\nwill not travel another quarter of a league. \n\n\nHe sprang out of the tilbury.\n\n What is that you say, my friend? \n\n\n I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagues\nwithout you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Just\nsee here! \n\n\nThe wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered by\nthe mail-wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub, so that the\nnut no longer held firm.\n\n My friend,  he said to the stableman,  is there a wheelwright here? \n\n\n Certainly, sir. \n\n\n Do me the service to go and fetch him. \n\n\n He is only a step from here. Hey! Master Bourgaillard! \n\n\nMaster Bourgaillard, the wheelwright, was standing on his own\nthreshold. He came, examined the wheel and made a grimace like a\nsurgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken.\n\n Can you repair this wheel immediately? \n\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n\n When can I set out again? \n\n\n To-morrow. \n\n\n To-morrow! \n\n\n There is a long day s work on it. Are you in a hurry, sir? \n\n\n In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an hour at the latest. \n\n\n Impossible, sir. \n\n\n I will pay whatever you ask. \n\n\n Impossible. \n\n\n Well, in two hours, then. \n\n\n Impossible to-day. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur\nwill not be able to start before to-morrow morning. \n\n\n The matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if you were to replace\nthis wheel instead of repairing it? \n\n\n How so? \n\n\n You are a wheelwright? \n\n\n Certainly, sir. \n\n\n Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again at\nonce. \n\n\n A spare wheel? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels make\na pair. Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard. \n\n\n In that case, sell me a pair of wheels. \n\n\n Not all wheels fit all axles, sir. \n\n\n Try, nevertheless. \n\n\n It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels. We are but\na poor country here. \n\n\n Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have? \n\n\nThe wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury was a\nhired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders.\n\n You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I had one, I\nwould not let it to you! \n\n\n Well, sell it to me, then. \n\n\n I have none. \n\n\n What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see. \n\n\n We live in a poor country. There is, in truth,  added the wheelwright,\n an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois of\nthe town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on\nthe thirty-sixth of the month never, that is to say. I might let that\nto you, for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must not see it\npass and then, it is a calash; it would require two horses. \n\n\n I will take two post-horses. \n\n\n Where is Monsieur going? \n\n\n To Arras. \n\n\n And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day? \n\n\n Yes, of course. \n\n\n By taking two post-horses? \n\n\n Why not? \n\n\n Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four o clock\nto-morrow morning? \n\n\n Certainly not. \n\n\n There is one thing to be said about that, you see, by taking\npost-horses Monsieur has his passport? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Well, by taking post-horses, Monsieur cannot reach Arras before\nto-morrow. We are on a crossroad. The relays are badly served, the\nhorses are in the fields. The season for ploughing is just beginning;\nheavy teams are required, and horses are seized upon everywhere, from\nthe post as well as elsewhere. Monsieur will have to wait three or four\nhours at the least at every relay. And, then, they drive at a walk.\nThere are many hills to ascend. \n\n\n Come then, I will go on horseback. Unharness the cabriolet. Some one\ncan surely sell me a saddle in the neighborhood. \n\n\n Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle? \n\n\n That is true; you remind me of that; he will not bear it. \n\n\n Then \n\n\n But I can surely hire a horse in the village? \n\n\n A horse to travel to Arras at one stretch? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n That would require such a horse as does not exist in these parts. You\nwould have to buy it to begin with, because no one knows you. But you\nwill not find one for sale nor to let, for five hundred francs, or for\na thousand. \n\n\n What am I to do? \n\n\n The best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man, and\nset out on your journey to-morrow. \n\n\n To-morrow will be too late. \n\n\n The deuce! \n\n\n Is there not a mail-wagon which runs to Arras? When will it pass? \n\n\n To-night. Both the posts pass at night; the one going as well as the\none coming. \n\n\n What! It will take you a day to mend this wheel? \n\n\n A day, and a good long one. \n\n\n If you set two men to work? \n\n\n If I set ten men to work. \n\n\n What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes? \n\n\n That could be done with the spokes, not with the hub; and the felly is\nin a bad state, too. \n\n\n Is there any one in this village who lets out teams? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Is there another wheelwright? \n\n\nThe stableman and the wheelwright replied in concert, with a toss of\nthe head.\n\n No. \n\n\nHe felt an immense joy.\n\nIt was evident that Providence was intervening. That it was it who had\nbroken the wheel of the tilbury and who was stopping him on the road.\nHe had not yielded to this sort of first summons; he had just made\nevery possible effort to continue the journey; he had loyally and\nscrupulously exhausted all means; he had been deterred neither by the\nseason, nor fatigue, nor by the expense; he had nothing with which to\nreproach himself. If he went no further, that was no fault of his. It\ndid not concern him further. It was no longer his fault. It was not the\nact of his own conscience, but the act of Providence.\n\nHe breathed again. He breathed freely and to the full extent of his\nlungs for the first time since Javert s visit. It seemed to him that\nthe hand of iron which had held his heart in its grasp for the last\ntwenty hours had just released him.\n\nIt seemed to him that God was for him now, and was manifesting Himself.\n\nHe said to himself that he had done all he could, and that now he had\nnothing to do but retrace his steps quietly.\n\nIf his conversation with the wheelwright had taken place in a chamber\nof the inn, it would have had no witnesses, no one would have heard\nhim, things would have rested there, and it is probable that we should\nnot have had to relate any of the occurrences which the reader is about\nto peruse; but this conversation had taken place in the street. Any\ncolloquy in the street inevitably attracts a crowd. There are always\npeople who ask nothing better than to become spectators. While he was\nquestioning the wheelwright, some people who were passing back and\nforth halted around them. After listening for a few minutes, a young\nlad, to whom no one had paid any heed, detached himself from the group\nand ran off.\n\nAt the moment when the traveller, after the inward deliberation which\nwe have just described, resolved to retrace his steps, this child\nreturned. He was accompanied by an old woman.\n\n Monsieur,  said the woman,  my boy tells me that you wish to hire a\ncabriolet. \n\n\nThese simple words uttered by an old woman led by a child made the\nperspiration trickle down his limbs. He thought that he beheld the hand\nwhich had relaxed its grasp reappear in the darkness behind him, ready\nto seize him once more.\n\nHe answered: \n\n Yes, my good woman; I am in search of a cabriolet which I can hire. \n\n\nAnd he hastened to add: \n\n But there is none in the place. \n\n\n Certainly there is,  said the old woman.\n\n Where?  interpolated the wheelwright.\n\n At my house,  replied the old woman.\n\nHe shuddered. The fatal hand had grasped him again.\n\nThe old woman really had in her shed a sort of basket spring-cart. The\nwheelwright and the stable-man, in despair at the prospect of the\ntraveller escaping their clutches, interfered.\n\n It was a frightful old trap; it rests flat on the axle; it is an\nactual fact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs;\nthe rain came into it; the wheels were rusted and eaten with moisture;\nit would not go much further than the tilbury; a regular ramshackle old\nstage-wagon; the gentleman would make a great mistake if he trusted\nhimself to it,  etc., etc.\n\nAll this was true; but this trap, this ramshackle old vehicle, this\nthing, whatever it was, ran on its two wheels and could go to Arras.\n\nHe paid what was asked, left the tilbury with the wheelwright to be\nrepaired, intending to reclaim it on his return, had the white horse\nput to the cart, climbed into it, and resumed the road which he had\nbeen travelling since morning.\n\nAt the moment when the cart moved off, he admitted that he had felt, a\nmoment previously, a certain joy in the thought that he should not go\nwhither he was now proceeding. He examined this joy with a sort of\nwrath, and found it absurd. Why should he feel joy at turning back?\nAfter all, he was taking this trip of his own free will. No one was\nforcing him to it.\n\nAnd assuredly nothing would happen except what he should choose.\n\nAs he left Hesdin, he heard a voice shouting to him:  Stop! Stop!  He\nhalted the cart with a vigorous movement which contained a feverish and\nconvulsive element resembling hope.\n\nIt was the old woman s little boy.\n\n Monsieur,  said the latter,  it was I who got the cart for you. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n You have not given me anything. \n\n\nHe who gave to all so readily thought this demand exorbitant and almost\nodious.\n\n Ah! it s you, you scamp?  said he;  you shall have nothing. \n\n\nHe whipped up his horse and set off at full speed.\n\nHe had lost a great deal of time at Hesdin. He wanted to make it good.\nThe little horse was courageous, and pulled for two; but it was the\nmonth of February, there had been rain; the roads were bad. And then,\nit was no longer the tilbury. The cart was very heavy, and in addition,\nthere were many ascents.\n\nHe took nearly four hours to go from Hesdin to Saint-Pol; four hours\nfor five leagues.\n\nAt Saint-Pol he had the horse unharnessed at the first inn he came to\nand led to the stable; as he had promised Scaufflaire, he stood beside\nthe manger while the horse was eating; he thought of sad and confusing\nthings.\n\nThe inn-keeper s wife came to the stable.\n\n Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast? \n\n\n Come, that is true; I even have a good appetite. \n\n\nHe followed the woman, who had a rosy, cheerful face; she led him to\nthe public room where there were tables covered with waxed cloth.\n\n Make haste!  said he;  I must start again; I am in a hurry. \n\n\nA big Flemish servant-maid placed his knife and fork in all haste; he\nlooked at the girl with a sensation of comfort.\n\n That is what ailed me,  he thought;  I had not breakfasted. \n\n\nHis breakfast was served; he seized the bread, took a mouthful, and\nthen slowly replaced it on the table, and did not touch it again.\n\nA carter was eating at another table; he said to this man: \n\n Why is their bread so bitter here? \n\n\nThe carter was a German and did not understand him.\n\nHe returned to the stable and remained near the horse.\n\nAn hour later he had quitted Saint-Pol and was directing his course\ntowards Tinques, which is only five leagues from Arras.\n\nWhat did he do during this journey? Of what was he thinking? As in the\nmorning, he watched the trees, the thatched roofs, the tilled fields\npass by, and the way in which the landscape, broken at every turn of\nthe road, vanished; this is a sort of contemplation which sometimes\nsuffices to the soul, and almost relieves it from thought. What is more\nmelancholy and more profound than to see a thousand objects for the\nfirst and the last time? To travel is to be born and to die at every\ninstant; perhaps, in the vaguest region of his mind, he did make\ncomparisons between the shifting horizon and our human existence: all\nthe things of life are perpetually fleeing before us; the dark and\nbright intervals are intermingled; after a dazzling moment, an eclipse;\nwe look, we hasten, we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing;\neach event is a turn in the road, and, all at once, we are old; we feel\na shock; all is black; we distinguish an obscure door; the gloomy horse\nof life, which has been drawing us halts, and we see a veiled and\nunknown person unharnessing amid the shadows.\n\nTwilight was falling when the children who were coming out of school\nbeheld this traveller enter Tinques; it is true that the days were\nstill short; he did not halt at Tinques; as he emerged from the\nvillage, a laborer, who was mending the road with stones, raised his\nhead and said to him: \n\n That horse is very much fatigued. \n\n\nThe poor beast was, in fact, going at a walk.\n\n Are you going to Arras?  added the road-mender.\n\n Yes. \n\n\n If you go on at that rate you will not arrive very early. \n\n\nHe stopped his horse, and asked the laborer: \n\n How far is it from here to Arras? \n\n\n Nearly seven good leagues. \n\n\n How is that? the posting guide only says five leagues and a quarter. \n\n\n Ah!  returned the road-mender,  so you don t know that the road is\nunder repair? You will find it barred a quarter of an hour further on;\nthere is no way to proceed further. \n\n\n Really? \n\n\n You will take the road on the left, leading to Carency; you will cross\nthe river; when you reach Camblin, you will turn to the right; that is\nthe road to Mont-Saint- loy which leads to Arras. \n\n\n But it is night, and I shall lose my way. \n\n\n You do not belong in these parts? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n And, besides, it is all crossroads; stop! sir,  resumed the\nroad-mender;  shall I give you a piece of advice? your horse is tired;\nreturn to Tinques; there is a good inn there; sleep there; you can\nreach Arras to-morrow. \n\n\n I must be there this evening. \n\n\n That is different; but go to the inn all the same, and get an extra\nhorse; the stable-boy will guide you through the crossroads. \n\n\nHe followed the road-mender s advice, retraced his steps, and, half an\nhour later, he passed the same spot again, but this time at full speed,\nwith a good horse to aid; a stable-boy, who called himself a postilion,\nwas seated on the shaft of the cariole.\n\nStill, he felt that he had lost time.\n\nNight had fully come.\n\nThey turned into the crossroad; the way became frightfully bad; the\ncart lurched from one rut to the other; he said to the postilion: \n\n Keep at a trot, and you shall have a double fee. \n\n\nIn one of the jolts, the whiffle-tree broke.\n\n There s the whiffle-tree broken, sir,  said the postilion;  I don t\nknow how to harness my horse now; this road is very bad at night; if\nyou wish to return and sleep at Tinques, we could be in Arras early\nto-morrow morning. \n\n\nHe replied,  Have you a bit of rope and a knife? \n\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n\nHe cut a branch from a tree and made a whiffle-tree of it.\n\nThis caused another loss of twenty minutes; but they set out again at a\ngallop.\n\nThe plain was gloomy; low-hanging, black, crisp fogs crept over the\nhills and wrenched themselves away like smoke: there were whitish\ngleams in the clouds; a strong breeze which blew in from the sea\nproduced a sound in all quarters of the horizon, as of some one moving\nfurniture; everything that could be seen assumed attitudes of terror.\nHow many things shiver beneath these vast breaths of the night!\n\nHe was stiff with cold; he had eaten nothing since the night before; he\nvaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain in the\nneighborhood of D , eight years previously, and it seemed but\nyesterday.\n\nThe hour struck from a distant tower; he asked the boy: \n\n What time is it? \n\n\n Seven o clock, sir; we shall reach Arras at eight; we have but three\nleagues still to go. \n\n\nAt that moment, he for the first time indulged in this reflection,\nthinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him sooner: that\nall this trouble which he was taking was, perhaps, useless; that he did\nnot know so much as the hour of the trial; that he should, at least,\nhave informed himself of that; that he was foolish to go thus straight\nahead without knowing whether he would be of any service or not; then\nhe sketched out some calculations in his mind: that, ordinarily, the\nsittings of the Court of Assizes began at nine o clock in the morning;\nthat it could not be a long affair; that the theft of the apples would\nbe very brief; that there would then remain only a question of\nidentity, four or five depositions, and very little for the lawyers to\nsay; that he should arrive after all was over.\n\nThe postilion whipped up the horses; they had crossed the river and\nleft Mont-Saint- loy behind them.\n\nThe night grew more profound.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI SISTER SIMPLICE PUT TO THE PROOF\n\n\nBut at that moment Fantine was joyous.\n\nShe had passed a very bad night; her cough was frightful; her fever had\ndoubled in intensity; she had had dreams: in the morning, when the\ndoctor paid his visit, she was delirious; he assumed an alarmed look,\nand ordered that he should be informed as soon as M. Madeleine arrived.\n\nAll the morning she was melancholy, said but little, and laid plaits in\nher sheets, murmuring the while, in a low voice, calculations which\nseemed to be calculations of distances. Her eyes were hollow and\nstaring. They seemed almost extinguished at intervals, then lighted up\nagain and shone like stars. It seems as though, at the approach of a\ncertain dark hour, the light of heaven fills those who are quitting the\nlight of earth.\n\nEach time that Sister Simplice asked her how she felt, she replied\ninvariably,  Well. I should like to see M. Madeleine. \n\n\nSome months before this, at the moment when Fantine had just lost her\nlast modesty, her last shame, and her last joy, she was the shadow of\nherself; now she was the spectre of herself. Physical suffering had\ncompleted the work of moral suffering. This creature of five and twenty\nhad a wrinkled brow, flabby cheeks, pinched nostrils, teeth from which\nthe gums had receded, a leaden complexion, a bony neck, prominent\nshoulder-blades, frail limbs, a clayey skin, and her golden hair was\ngrowing out sprinkled with gray. Alas! how illness improvises old-age!\n\nAt midday the physician returned, gave some directions, inquired\nwhether the mayor had made his appearance at the infirmary, and shook\nhis head.\n\nM. Madeleine usually came to see the invalid at three o clock. As\nexactness is kindness, he was exact.\n\nAbout half-past two, Fantine began to be restless. In the course of\ntwenty minutes, she asked the nun more than ten times,  What time is\nit, sister? \n\n\nThree o clock struck. At the third stroke, Fantine sat up in bed; she\nwho could, in general, hardly turn over, joined her yellow, fleshless\nhands in a sort of convulsive clasp, and the nun heard her utter one of\nthose profound sighs which seem to throw off dejection. Then Fantine\nturned and looked at the door.\n\nNo one entered; the door did not open.\n\nShe remained thus for a quarter of an hour, her eyes riveted on the\ndoor, motionless and apparently holding her breath. The sister dared\nnot speak to her. The clock struck a quarter past three. Fantine fell\nback on her pillow.\n\nShe said nothing, but began to plait the sheets once more.\n\nHalf an hour passed, then an hour, no one came; every time the clock\nstruck, Fantine started up and looked towards the door, then fell back\nagain.\n\nHer thought was clearly perceptible, but she uttered no name, she made\nno complaint, she blamed no one. But she coughed in a melancholy way.\nOne would have said that something dark was descending upon her. She\nwas livid and her lips were blue. She smiled now and then.\n\nFive o clock struck. Then the sister heard her say, very low and\ngently,  He is wrong not to come to-day, since I am going away\nto-morrow. \n\n\nSister Simplice herself was surprised at M. Madeleine s delay.\n\nIn the meantime, Fantine was staring at the tester of her bed. She\nseemed to be endeavoring to recall something. All at once she began to\nsing in a voice as feeble as a breath. The nun listened. This is what\nFantine was singing: \n\n Lovely things we will buy\nAs we stroll the faubourgs through.\nRoses are pink, corn-flowers are blue,\nI love my love, corn-flowers are blue.\n\n\n Yestere en the Virgin Mary came near my stove, in a broidered mantle\nclad, and said to me,  Here, hide  neath my veil the child whom you one\nday begged from me. Haste to the city, buy linen, buy a needle, buy\nthread. \n\n Lovely things we will buy\nAs we stroll the faubourgs through.\n\n\n Dear Holy Virgin, beside my stove I have set a cradle with ribbons\ndecked. God may give me his loveliest star; I prefer the child thou\nhast granted me.  Madame, what shall I do with this linen fine? Make\nof it clothes for thy new-born babe. \n\n Roses are pink and corn-flowers are blue,\nI love my love, and corn-flowers are blue.\n\n\n Wash this linen. Where? In the stream. Make of it, soiling not,\nspoiling not, a petticoat fair with its bodice fine, which I will\nembroider and fill with flowers. Madame, the child is no longer here;\nwhat is to be done? Then make of it a winding-sheet in which to bury\nme. \n\n Lovely things we will buy\nAs we stroll the faubourgs through,\nRoses are pink, corn-flowers are blue,\nI love my love, corn-flowers are blue. \n\n\nThis song was an old cradle romance with which she had, in former days,\nlulled her little Cosette to sleep, and which had never recurred to her\nmind in all the five years during which she had been parted from her\nchild. She sang it in so sad a voice, and to so sweet an air, that it\nwas enough to make any one, even a nun, weep. The sister, accustomed as\nshe was to austerities, felt a tear spring to her eyes.\n\nThe clock struck six. Fantine did not seem to hear it. She no longer\nseemed to pay attention to anything about her.\n\nSister Simplice sent a serving-maid to inquire of the portress of the\nfactory, whether the mayor had returned, and if he would not come to\nthe infirmary soon. The girl returned in a few minutes.\n\nFantine was still motionless and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.\n\nThe servant informed Sister Simplice in a very low tone, that the mayor\nhad set out that morning before six o clock, in a little tilbury\nharnessed to a white horse, cold as the weather was; that he had gone\nalone, without even a driver; that no one knew what road he had taken;\nthat people said he had been seen to turn into the road to Arras; that\nothers asserted that they had met him on the road to Paris. That when\nhe went away he had been very gentle, as usual, and that he had merely\ntold the portress not to expect him that night.\n\nWhile the two women were whispering together, with their backs turned\nto Fantine s bed, the sister interrogating, the servant conjecturing,\nFantine, with the feverish vivacity of certain organic maladies, which\nunite the free movements of health with the frightful emaciation of\ndeath, had raised herself to her knees in bed, with her shrivelled\nhands resting on the bolster, and her head thrust through the opening\nof the curtains, and was listening. All at once she cried: \n\n You are speaking of M. Madeleine! Why are you talking so low? What is\nhe doing? Why does he not come? \n\n\nHer voice was so abrupt and hoarse that the two women thought they\nheard the voice of a man; they wheeled round in affright.\n\n Answer me!  cried Fantine.\n\nThe servant stammered: \n\n The portress told me that he could not come to-day. \n\n\n Be calm, my child,  said the sister;  lie down again. \n\n\nFantine, without changing her attitude, continued in a loud voice, and\nwith an accent that was both imperious and heart-rending: \n\n He cannot come? Why not? You know the reason. You are whispering it to\neach other there. I want to know it. \n\n\nThe servant-maid hastened to say in the nun s ear,  Say that he is busy\nwith the city council. \n\n\nSister Simplice blushed faintly, for it was a lie that the maid had\nproposed to her.\n\nOn the other hand, it seemed to her that the mere communication of the\ntruth to the invalid would, without doubt, deal her a terrible blow,\nand that this was a serious matter in Fantine s present state. Her\nflush did not last long; the sister raised her calm, sad eyes to\nFantine, and said,  Monsieur le Maire has gone away. \n\n\nFantine raised herself and crouched on her heels in the bed: her eyes\nsparkled; indescribable joy beamed from that melancholy face.\n\n Gone!  she cried;  he has gone to get Cosette. \n\n\nThen she raised her arms to heaven, and her white face became\nineffable; her lips moved; she was praying in a low voice.\n\nWhen her prayer was finished,  Sister,  she said,  I am willing to lie\ndown again; I will do anything you wish; I was naughty just now; I beg\nyour pardon for having spoken so loud; it is very wrong to talk loudly;\nI know that well, my good sister, but, you see, I am very happy: the\ngood God is good; M. Madeleine is good; just think! he has gone to\nMontfermeil to get my little Cosette. \n\n\nShe lay down again, with the nun s assistance, helped the nun to\narrange her pillow, and kissed the little silver cross which she wore\non her neck, and which Sister Simplice had given her.\n\n My child,  said the sister,  try to rest now, and do not talk any\nmore. \n\n\nFantine took the sister s hand in her moist hands, and the latter was\npained to feel that perspiration.\n\n He set out this morning for Paris; in fact, he need not even go\nthrough Paris; Montfermeil is a little to the left as you come thence.\nDo you remember how he said to me yesterday, when I spoke to him of\nCosette, _Soon, soon?_ He wants to give me a surprise, you know! he\nmade me sign a letter so that she could be taken from the Th nardiers;\nthey cannot say anything, can they? they will give back Cosette, for\nthey have been paid; the authorities will not allow them to keep the\nchild since they have received their pay. Do not make signs to me that\nI must not talk, sister! I am extremely happy; I am doing well; I am\nnot ill at all any more; I am going to see Cosette again; I am even\nquite hungry; it is nearly five years since I saw her last; you cannot\nimagine how much attached one gets to children, and then, she will be\nso pretty; you will see! If you only knew what pretty little rosy\nfingers she had! In the first place, she will have very beautiful\nhands; she had ridiculous hands when she was only a year old; like\nthis! she must be a big girl now; she is seven years old; she is quite\na young lady; I call her Cosette, but her name is really Euphrasie.\nStop! this morning I was looking at the dust on the chimney-piece, and\nI had a sort of idea come across me, like that, that I should see\nCosette again soon. Mon Dieu! how wrong it is not to see one s children\nfor years! One ought to reflect that life is not eternal. Oh, how good\nM. le Maire is to go! it is very cold! it is true; he had on his cloak,\nat least? he will be here to-morrow, will he not? to-morrow will be a\nfestival day; to-morrow morning, sister, you must remind me to put on\nmy little cap that has lace on it. What a place that Montfermeil is! I\ntook that journey on foot once; it was very long for me, but the\ndiligences go very quickly! he will be here to-morrow with Cosette: how\nfar is it from here to Montfermeil? \n\n\nThe sister, who had no idea of distances, replied,  Oh, I think that he\nwill be here to-morrow. \n\n\n To-morrow! to-morrow!  said Fantine,  I shall see Cosette to-morrow!\nyou see, good sister of the good God, that I am no longer ill; I am\nmad; I could dance if any one wished it. \n\n\nA person who had seen her a quarter of an hour previously would not\nhave understood the change; she was all rosy now; she spoke in a lively\nand natural voice; her whole face was one smile; now and then she\ntalked, she laughed softly; the joy of a mother is almost infantile.\n\n Well,  resumed the nun,  now that you are happy, mind me, and do not\ntalk any more. \n\n\nFantine laid her head on her pillow and said in a low voice:  Yes, lie\ndown again; be good, for you are going to have your child; Sister\nSimplice is right; every one here is right. \n\n\nAnd then, without stirring, without even moving her head, she began to\nstare all about her with wide-open eyes and a joyous air, and she said\nnothing more.\n\nThe sister drew the curtains together again, hoping that she would fall\ninto a doze. Between seven and eight o clock the doctor came; not\nhearing any sound, he thought Fantine was asleep, entered softly, and\napproached the bed on tiptoe; he opened the curtains a little, and, by\nthe light of the taper, he saw Fantine s big eyes gazing at him.\n\nShe said to him,  She will be allowed to sleep beside me in a little\nbed, will she not, sir? \n\n\nThe doctor thought that she was delirious. She added: \n\n See! there is just room. \n\n\nThe doctor took Sister Simplice aside, and she explained matters to\nhim; that M. Madeleine was absent for a day or two, and that in their\ndoubt they had not thought it well to undeceive the invalid, who\nbelieved that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil; that it was possible,\nafter all, that her guess was correct: the doctor approved.\n\nHe returned to Fantine s bed, and she went on: \n\n You see, when she wakes up in the morning, I shall be able to say good\nmorning to her, poor kitten, and when I cannot sleep at night, I can\nhear her asleep; her little gentle breathing will do me good. \n\n\n Give me your hand,  said the doctor.\n\nShe stretched out her arm, and exclaimed with a laugh: \n\n Ah, hold! in truth, you did not know it; I am cured; Cosette will\narrive to-morrow. \n\n\nThe doctor was surprised; she was better; the pressure on her chest had\ndecreased; her pulse had regained its strength; a sort of life had\nsuddenly supervened and reanimated this poor, worn-out creature.\n\n Doctor,  she went on,  did the sister tell you that M. le Maire has\ngone to get that mite of a child? \n\n\nThe doctor recommended silence, and that all painful emotions should be\navoided; he prescribed an infusion of pure chinchona, and, in case the\nfever should increase again during the night, a calming potion. As he\ntook his departure, he said to the sister: \n\n She is doing better; if good luck willed that the mayor should\nactually arrive to-morrow with the child, who knows? there are crises\nso astounding; great joy has been known to arrest maladies; I know well\nthat this is an organic disease, and in an advanced state, but all\nthose things are such mysteries: we may be able to save her. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE TRAVELLER ON HIS ARRIVAL TAKES PRECAUTIONS FOR\nDEPARTURE\n\n\nIt was nearly eight o clock in the evening when the cart, which we left\non the road, entered the porte-coch re of the Hotel de la Poste in\nArras; the man whom we have been following up to this moment alighted\nfrom it, responded with an abstracted air to the attentions of the\npeople of the inn, sent back the extra horse, and with his own hands\nled the little white horse to the stable; then he opened the door of a\nbilliard-room which was situated on the ground floor, sat down there,\nand leaned his elbows on a table; he had taken fourteen hours for the\njourney which he had counted on making in six; he did himself the\njustice to acknowledge that it was not his fault, but at bottom, he was\nnot sorry.\n\nThe landlady of the hotel entered.\n\n Does Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require supper? \n\n\nHe made a sign of the head in the negative.\n\n The stableman says that Monsieur s horse is extremely fatigued. \n\n\nHere he broke his silence.\n\n Will not the horse be in a condition to set out again to-morrow\nmorning? \n\n\n Oh, Monsieur! he must rest for two days at least. \n\n\nHe inquired: \n\n Is not the posting-station located here? \n\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n\nThe hostess conducted him to the office; he showed his passport, and\ninquired whether there was any way of returning that same night to M.\nsur M. by the mail-wagon; the seat beside the post-boy chanced to be\nvacant; he engaged it and paid for it.  Monsieur,  said the clerk,  do\nnot fail to be here ready to start at precisely one o clock in the\nmorning. \n\n\nThis done, he left the hotel and began to wander about the town.\n\nHe was not acquainted with Arras; the streets were dark, and he walked\non at random; but he seemed bent upon not asking the way of the\npassers-by. He crossed the little river Crinchon, and found himself in\na labyrinth of narrow alleys where he lost his way. A citizen was\npassing along with a lantern. After some hesitation, he decided to\napply to this man, not without having first glanced behind and in front\nof him, as though he feared lest some one should hear the question\nwhich he was about to put.\n\n Monsieur,  said he,  where is the court-house, if you please. \n\n\n You do not belong in town, sir?  replied the bourgeois, who was an\noldish man;  well, follow me. I happen to be going in the direction of\nthe court-house, that is to say, in the direction of the hotel of the\nprefecture; for the court-house is undergoing repairs just at this\nmoment, and the courts are holding their sittings provisionally in the\nprefecture. \n\n\n Is it there that the Assizes are held?  he asked.\n\n Certainly, sir; you see, the prefecture of to-day was the bishop s\npalace before the Revolution. M. de Conzi , who was bishop in  82,\nbuilt a grand hall there. It is in this grand hall that the court is\nheld. \n\n\nOn the way, the bourgeois said to him: \n\n If Monsieur desires to witness a case, it is rather late. The sittings\ngenerally close at six o clock. \n\n\nWhen they arrived on the grand square, however, the man pointed out to\nhim four long windows all lighted up, in the front of a vast and gloomy\nbuilding.\n\n Upon my word, sir, you are in luck; you have arrived in season. Do you\nsee those four windows? That is the Court of Assizes. There is light\nthere, so they are not through. The matter must have been greatly\nprotracted, and they are holding an evening session. Do you take an\ninterest in this affair? Is it a criminal case? Are you a witness? \n\n\nHe replied: \n\n I have not come on any business; I only wish to speak to one of the\nlawyers. \n\n\n That is different,  said the bourgeois.  Stop, sir; here is the door\nwhere the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase. \n\n\nHe conformed to the bourgeois s directions, and a few minutes later he\nwas in a hall containing many people, and where groups, intermingled\nwith lawyers in their gowns, were whispering together here and there.\n\nIt is always a heart-breaking thing to see these congregations of men\nrobed in black, murmuring together in low voices, on the threshold of\nthe halls of justice. It is rare that charity and pity are the outcome\nof these words. Condemnations pronounced in advance are more likely to\nbe the result. All these groups seem to the passing and thoughtful\nobserver so many sombre hives where buzzing spirits construct in\nconcert all sorts of dark edifices.\n\nThis spacious hall, illuminated by a single lamp, was the old hall of\nthe episcopal palace, and served as the large hall of the palace of\njustice. A double-leaved door, which was closed at that moment,\nseparated it from the large apartment where the court was sitting.\n\nThe obscurity was such that he did not fear to accost the first lawyer\nwhom he met.\n\n What stage have they reached, sir?  he asked.\n\n It is finished,  said the lawyer.\n\n Finished! \n\n\nThis word was repeated in such accents that the lawyer turned round.\n\n Excuse me sir; perhaps you are a relative? \n\n\n No; I know no one here. Has judgment been pronounced? \n\n\n Of course. Nothing else was possible. \n\n\n To penal servitude? \n\n\n For life. \n\n\nHe continued, in a voice so weak that it was barely audible: \n\n Then his identity was established? \n\n\n What identity?  replied the lawyer.  There was no identity to be\nestablished. The matter was very simple. The woman had murdered her\nchild; the infanticide was proved; the jury threw out the question of\npremeditation, and she was condemned for life. \n\n\n So it was a woman?  said he.\n\n Why, certainly. The Limosin woman. Of what are you speaking? \n\n\n Nothing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the hall is still\nlighted? \n\n\n For another case, which was begun about two hours ago. \n\n\n What other case? \n\n\n Oh! this one is a clear case also. It is about a sort of blackguard; a\nman arrested for a second offence; a convict who has been guilty of\ntheft. I don t know his name exactly. There s a bandit s phiz for you!\nI d send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone. \n\n\n Is there any way of getting into the court-room, sir?  said he.\n\n I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However, the\nhearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out, and when the\nhearing is resumed, you might make an effort. \n\n\n Where is the entrance? \n\n\n Through yonder large door. \n\n\nThe lawyer left him. In the course of a few moments he had experienced,\nalmost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other, all\npossible emotions. The words of this indifferent spectator had, in\nturn, pierced his heart like needles of ice and like blades of fire.\nWhen he saw that nothing was settled, he breathed freely once more; but\nhe could not have told whether what he felt was pain or pleasure.\n\nHe drew near to many groups and listened to what they were saying. The\ndocket of the session was very heavy; the president had appointed for\nthe same day two short and simple cases. They had begun with the\ninfanticide, and now they had reached the convict, the old offender,\nthe  return horse.  This man had stolen apples, but that did not appear\nto be entirely proved; what had been proved was, that he had already\nbeen in the galleys at Toulon. It was that which lent a bad aspect to\nhis case. However, the man s examination and the depositions of the\nwitnesses had been completed, but the lawyer s plea, and the speech of\nthe public prosecutor were still to come; it could not be finished\nbefore midnight. The man would probably be condemned; the\nattorney-general was very clever, and never _missed_ his culprits; he\nwas a brilliant fellow who wrote verses.\n\nAn usher stood at the door communicating with the hall of the Assizes.\nHe inquired of this usher: \n\n Will the door be opened soon, sir? \n\n\n It will not be opened at all,  replied the usher.\n\n What! It will not be opened when the hearing is resumed? Is not the\nhearing suspended? \n\n\n The hearing has just been begun again,  replied the usher,  but the\ndoor will not be opened again. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n Because the hall is full. \n\n\n What! There is not room for one more? \n\n\n Not another one. The door is closed. No one can enter now. \n\n\nThe usher added after a pause:  There are, to tell the truth, two or\nthree extra places behind Monsieur le Pr sident, but Monsieur le\nPr sident only admits public functionaries to them. \n\n\nSo saying, the usher turned his back.\n\nHe retired with bowed head, traversed the antechamber, and slowly\ndescended the stairs, as though hesitating at every step. It is\nprobable that he was holding counsel with himself. The violent conflict\nwhich had been going on within him since the preceding evening was not\nyet ended; and every moment he encountered some new phase of it. On\nreaching the landing-place, he leaned his back against the balusters\nand folded his arms. All at once he opened his coat, drew out his\npocket-book, took from it a pencil, tore out a leaf, and upon that leaf\nhe wrote rapidly, by the light of the street lantern, this line: _M.\nMadeleine, Mayor of M. sur M._; then he ascended the stairs once more\nwith great strides, made his way through the crowd, walked straight up\nto the usher, handed him the paper, and said in an authoritative\nmanner: \n\n Take this to Monsieur le Pr sident. \n\n\nThe usher took the paper, cast a glance upon it, and obeyed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII AN ENTRANCE BY FAVOR\n\n\nAlthough he did not suspect the fact, the mayor of M. sur M. enjoyed a\nsort of celebrity. For the space of seven years his reputation for\nvirtue had filled the whole of Bas Boulonnais; it had eventually passed\nthe confines of a small district and had been spread abroad through two\nor three neighboring departments. Besides the service which he had\nrendered to the chief town by resuscitating the black jet industry,\nthere was not one out of the hundred and forty communes of the\narrondissement of M. sur M. which was not indebted to him for some\nbenefit. He had even at need contrived to aid and multiply the\nindustries of other arrondissements. It was thus that he had, when\noccasion offered, supported with his credit and his funds the linen\nfactory at Boulogne, the flax-spinning industry at Fr vent, and the\nhydraulic manufacture of cloth at Boubers-sur-Canche. Everywhere the\nname of M. Madeleine was pronounced with veneration. Arras and Douai\nenvied the happy little town of M. sur M. its mayor.\n\nThe Councillor of the Royal Court of Douai, who was presiding over this\nsession of the Assizes at Arras, was acquainted, in common with the\nrest of the world, with this name which was so profoundly and\nuniversally honored. When the usher, discreetly opening the door which\nconnected the council-chamber with the court-room, bent over the back\nof the President s armchair and handed him the paper on which was\ninscribed the line which we have just perused, adding:  The gentleman\ndesires to be present at the trial,  the President, with a quick and\ndeferential movement, seized a pen and wrote a few words at the bottom\nof the paper and returned it to the usher, saying,  Admit him. \n\n\nThe unhappy man whose history we are relating had remained near the\ndoor of the hall, in the same place and the same attitude in which the\nusher had left him. In the midst of his reverie he heard some one\nsaying to him,  Will Monsieur do me the honor to follow me?  It was the\nsame usher who had turned his back upon him but a moment previously,\nand who was now bowing to the earth before him. At the same time, the\nusher handed him the paper. He unfolded it, and as he chanced to be\nnear the light, he could read it.\n\n The President of the Court of Assizes presents his respects to M.\nMadeleine. \n\n\nHe crushed the paper in his hand as though those words contained for\nhim a strange and bitter aftertaste.\n\nHe followed the usher.\n\nA few minutes later he found himself alone in a sort of wainscoted\ncabinet of severe aspect, lighted by two wax candles, placed upon a\ntable with a green cloth. The last words of the usher who had just\nquitted him still rang in his ears:  Monsieur, you are now in the\ncouncil-chamber; you have only to turn the copper handle of yonder\ndoor, and you will find yourself in the court-room, behind the\nPresident s chair.  These words were mingled in his thoughts with a\nvague memory of narrow corridors and dark staircases which he had\nrecently traversed.\n\nThe usher had left him alone. The supreme moment had arrived. He sought\nto collect his faculties, but could not. It is chiefly at the moment\nwhen there is the greatest need for attaching them to the painful\nrealities of life, that the threads of thought snap within the brain.\nHe was in the very place where the judges deliberated and condemned.\nWith stupid tranquillity he surveyed this peaceful and terrible\napartment, where so many lives had been broken, which was soon to ring\nwith his name, and which his fate was at that moment traversing. He\nstared at the wall, then he looked at himself, wondering that it should\nbe that chamber and that it should be he.\n\nHe had eaten nothing for four and twenty hours; he was worn out by the\njolts of the cart, but he was not conscious of it. It seemed to him\nthat he felt nothing.\n\nHe approached a black frame which was suspended on the wall, and which\ncontained, under glass, an ancient autograph letter of Jean Nicolas\nPache, mayor of Paris and minister, and dated, through an error, no\ndoubt, the _9th of June_, of the year II., and in which Pache forwarded\nto the commune the list of ministers and deputies held in arrest by\nthem. Any spectator who had chanced to see him at that moment, and who\nhad watched him, would have imagined, doubtless, that this letter\nstruck him as very curious, for he did not take his eyes from it, and\nhe read it two or three times. He read it without paying any attention\nto it, and unconsciously. He was thinking of Fantine and Cosette.\n\nAs he dreamed, he turned round, and his eyes fell upon the brass knob\nof the door which separated him from the Court of Assizes. He had\nalmost forgotten that door. His glance, calm at first, paused there,\nremained fixed on that brass handle, then grew terrified, and little by\nlittle became impregnated with fear. Beads of perspiration burst forth\namong his hair and trickled down upon his temples.\n\nAt a certain moment he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of\nauthority mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and\nwhich does so well convey, _ Pardieu! who compels me to this? _ Then he\nwheeled briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had\nentered in front of him, went to it, opened it, and passed out. He was\nno longer in that chamber; he was outside in a corridor, a long, narrow\ncorridor, broken by steps and gratings, making all sorts of angles,\nlighted here and there by lanterns similar to the night taper of\ninvalids, the corridor through which he had approached. He breathed, he\nlistened; not a sound in front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as\nthough pursued.\n\nWhen he had turned many angles in this corridor, he still listened. The\nsame silence reigned, and there was the same darkness around him. He\nwas out of breath; he staggered; he leaned against the wall. The stone\nwas cold; the perspiration lay ice-cold on his brow; he straightened\nhimself up with a shiver.\n\nThen, there alone in the darkness, trembling with cold and with\nsomething else, too, perchance, he meditated.\n\nHe had meditated all night long; he had meditated all the day: he heard\nwithin him but one voice, which said,  Alas! \n\n\nA quarter of an hour passed thus. At length he bowed his head, sighed\nwith agony, dropped his arms, and retraced his steps. He walked slowly,\nand as though crushed. It seemed as though some one had overtaken him\nin his flight and was leading him back.\n\nHe re-entered the council-chamber. The first thing he caught sight of\nwas the knob of the door. This knob, which was round and of polished\nbrass, shone like a terrible star for him. He gazed at it as a lamb\nmight gaze into the eye of a tiger.\n\nHe could not take his eyes from it. From time to time he advanced a\nstep and approached the door.\n\nHad he listened, he would have heard the sound of the adjoining hall\nlike a sort of confused murmur; but he did not listen, and he did not\nhear.\n\nSuddenly, without himself knowing how it happened, he found himself\nnear the door; he grasped the knob convulsively; the door opened.\n\nHe was in the court-room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX A PLACE WHERE CONVICTIONS ARE IN PROCESS OF FORMATION\n\n\nHe advanced a pace, closed the door mechanically behind him, and\nremained standing, contemplating what he saw.\n\nIt was a vast and badly lighted apartment, now full of uproar, now full\nof silence, where all the apparatus of a criminal case, with its petty\nand mournful gravity in the midst of the throng, was in process of\ndevelopment.\n\nAt the one end of the hall, the one where he was, were judges, with\nabstracted air, in threadbare robes, who were gnawing their nails or\nclosing their eyelids; at the other end, a ragged crowd; lawyers in all\nsorts of attitudes; soldiers with hard but honest faces; ancient,\nspotted woodwork, a dirty ceiling, tables covered with serge that was\nyellow rather than green; doors blackened by handmarks; tap-room lamps\nwhich emitted more smoke than light, suspended from nails in the\nwainscot; on the tables candles in brass candlesticks; darkness,\nugliness, sadness; and from all this there was disengaged an austere\nand august impression, for one there felt that grand human thing which\nis called the law, and that grand divine thing which is called justice.\n\nNo one in all that throng paid any attention to him; all glances were\ndirected towards a single point, a wooden bench placed against a small\ndoor, in the stretch of wall on the President s left; on this bench,\nilluminated by several candles, sat a man between two gendarmes.\n\nThis man was _the_ man.\n\nHe did not seek him; he saw him; his eyes went thither naturally, as\nthough they had known beforehand where that figure was.\n\nHe thought he was looking at himself, grown old; not absolutely the\nsame in face, of course, but exactly similar in attitude and aspect,\nwith his bristling hair, with that wild and uneasy eye, with that\nblouse, just as it was on the day when he entered D , full of hatred,\nconcealing his soul in that hideous mass of frightful thoughts which he\nhad spent nineteen years in collecting on the floor of the prison.\n\nHe said to himself with a shudder,  Good God! shall I become like that\nagain? \n\n\nThis creature seemed to be at least sixty; there was something\nindescribably coarse, stupid, and frightened about him.\n\nAt the sound made by the opening door, people had drawn aside to make\nway for him; the President had turned his head, and, understanding that\nthe personage who had just entered was the mayor of M. sur M., he had\nbowed to him; the attorney-general, who had seen M. Madeleine at M. sur\nM., whither the duties of his office had called him more than once,\nrecognized him and saluted him also: he had hardly perceived it; he was\nthe victim of a sort of hallucination; he was watching.\n\nJudges, clerks, gendarmes, a throng of cruelly curious heads, all these\nhe had already beheld once, in days gone by, twenty-seven years before;\nhe had encountered those fatal things once more; there they were; they\nmoved; they existed; it was no longer an effort of his memory, a mirage\nof his thought; they were real gendarmes and real judges, a real crowd,\nand real men of flesh and blood: it was all over; he beheld the\nmonstrous aspects of his past reappear and live once more around him,\nwith all that there is formidable in reality.\n\nAll this was yawning before him.\n\nHe was horrified by it; he shut his eyes, and exclaimed in the deepest\nrecesses of his soul,  Never! \n\n\nAnd by a tragic play of destiny which made all his ideas tremble, and\nrendered him nearly mad, it was another self of his that was there! all\ncalled that man who was being tried Jean Valjean.\n\nUnder his very eyes, unheard-of vision, he had a sort of representation\nof the most horrible moment of his life, enacted by his spectre.\n\nEverything was there; the apparatus was the same, the hour of the\nnight, the faces of the judges, of soldiers, and of spectators; all\nwere the same, only above the President s head there hung a crucifix,\nsomething which the courts had lacked at the time of his condemnation:\nGod had been absent when he had been judged.\n\nThere was a chair behind him; he dropped into it, terrified at the\nthought that he might be seen; when he was seated, he took advantage of\na pile of cardboard boxes, which stood on the judge s desk, to conceal\nhis face from the whole room; he could now see without being seen; he\nhad fully regained consciousness of the reality of things; gradually he\nrecovered; he attained that phase of composure where it is possible to\nlisten.\n\nM. Bamatabois was one of the jurors.\n\nHe looked for Javert, but did not see him; the seat of the witnesses\nwas hidden from him by the clerk s table, and then, as we have just\nsaid, the hall was sparely lighted.\n\nAt the moment of this entrance, the defendant s lawyer had just\nfinished his plea.\n\nThe attention of all was excited to the highest pitch; the affair had\nlasted for three hours: for three hours that crowd had been watching a\nstrange man, a miserable specimen of humanity, either profoundly stupid\nor profoundly subtle, gradually bending beneath the weight of a\nterrible likeness. This man, as the reader already knows, was a\nvagabond who had been found in a field carrying a branch laden with\nripe apples, broken in the orchard of a neighbor, called the Pierron\norchard. Who was this man? an examination had been made; witnesses had\nbeen heard, and they were unanimous; light had abounded throughout the\nentire debate; the accusation said:  We have in our grasp not only a\nmarauder, a stealer of fruit; we have here, in our hands, a bandit, an\nold offender who has broken his ban, an ex-convict, a miscreant of the\nmost dangerous description, a malefactor named Jean Valjean, whom\njustice has long been in search of, and who, eight years ago, on\nemerging from the galleys at Toulon, committed a highway robbery,\naccompanied by violence, on the person of a child, a Savoyard named\nLittle Gervais; a crime provided for by article 383 of the Penal Code,\nthe right to try him for which we reserve hereafter, when his identity\nshall have been judicially established. He has just committed a fresh\ntheft; it is a case of a second offence; condemn him for the fresh\ndeed; later on he will be judged for the old crime.  In the face of\nthis accusation, in the face of the unanimity of the witnesses, the\naccused appeared to be astonished more than anything else; he made\nsigns and gestures which were meant to convey No, or else he stared at\nthe ceiling: he spoke with difficulty, replied with embarrassment, but\nhis whole person, from head to foot, was a denial; he was an idiot in\nthe presence of all these minds ranged in order of battle around him,\nand like a stranger in the midst of this society which was seizing fast\nupon him; nevertheless, it was a question of the most menacing future\nfor him; the likeness increased every moment, and the entire crowd\nsurveyed, with more anxiety than he did himself, that sentence\nfreighted with calamity, which descended ever closer over his head;\nthere was even a glimpse of a possibility afforded; besides the\ngalleys, a possible death penalty, in case his identity were\nestablished, and the affair of Little Gervais were to end thereafter in\ncondemnation. Who was this man? what was the nature of his apathy? was\nit imbecility or craft? Did he understand too well, or did he not\nunderstand at all? these were questions which divided the crowd, and\nseemed to divide the jury; there was something both terrible and\npuzzling in this case: the drama was not only melancholy; it was also\nobscure.\n\nThe counsel for the defence had spoken tolerably well, in that\nprovincial tongue which has long constituted the eloquence of the bar,\nand which was formerly employed by all advocates, at Paris as well as\nat Romorantin or at Montbrison, and which to-day, having become\nclassic, is no longer spoken except by the official orators of\nmagistracy, to whom it is suited on account of its grave sonorousness\nand its majestic stride; a tongue in which a husband is called _a\nconsort_, and a woman _a spouse_; Paris, _the centre of art and\ncivilization_; the king, _the monarch_; Monseigneur the Bishop, _a\nsainted pontiff_; the district-attorney, _the eloquent interpreter of\npublic prosecution_; the arguments, _the accents which we have just\nlistened to_; the age of Louis XIV., _the grand age_; a theatre, _the\ntemple of Melpomene_; the reigning family, _the august blood of our\nkings_; a concert, _a musical solemnity_; the General Commandant of the\nprovince, _the illustrious warrior, who, etc._; the pupils in the\nseminary, _these tender levities_; errors imputed to newspapers, _the\nimposture which distills its venom through the columns of those\norgans_; etc. The lawyer had, accordingly, begun with an explanation as\nto the theft of the apples, an awkward matter couched in fine style;\nbut B nigne Bossuet himself was obliged to allude to a chicken in the\nmidst of a funeral oration, and he extricated himself from the\nsituation in stately fashion. The lawyer established the fact that the\ntheft of the apples had not been circumstantially proved. His client,\nwhom he, in his character of counsel, persisted in calling\nChampmathieu, had not been seen scaling that wall nor breaking that\nbranch by any one. He had been taken with that branch (which the lawyer\npreferred to call a _bough_) in his possession; but he said that he had\nfound it broken off and lying on the ground, and had picked it up.\nWhere was there any proof to the contrary? No doubt that branch had\nbeen broken off and concealed after the scaling of the wall, then\nthrown away by the alarmed marauder; there was no doubt that there had\nbeen a thief in the case. But what proof was there that that thief had\nbeen Champmathieu? One thing only. His character as an ex-convict. The\nlawyer did not deny that that character appeared to be, unhappily, well\nattested; the accused had resided at Faverolles; the accused had\nexercised the calling of a tree-pruner there; the name of Champmathieu\nmight well have had its origin in Jean Mathieu; all that was true, in\nshort, four witnesses recognize Champmathieu, positively and without\nhesitation, as that convict, Jean Valjean; to these signs, to this\ntestimony, the counsel could oppose nothing but the denial of his\nclient, the denial of an interested party; but supposing that he was\nthe convict Jean Valjean, did that prove that he was the thief of the\napples? that was a presumption at the most, not a proof. The prisoner,\nit was true, and his counsel,  in good faith,  was obliged to admit it,\nhad adopted  a bad system of defence.  He obstinately denied\neverything, the theft and his character of convict. An admission upon\nthis last point would certainly have been better, and would have won\nfor him the indulgence of his judges; the counsel had advised him to do\nthis; but the accused had obstinately refused, thinking, no doubt, that\nhe would save everything by admitting nothing. It was an error; but\nought not the paucity of this intelligence to be taken into\nconsideration? This man was visibly stupid. Long-continued wretchedness\nin the galleys, long misery outside the galleys, had brutalized him,\netc. He defended himself badly; was that a reason for condemning him?\nAs for the affair with Little Gervais, the counsel need not discuss it;\nit did not enter into the case. The lawyer wound up by beseeching the\njury and the court, if the identity of Jean Valjean appeared to them to\nbe evident, to apply to him the police penalties which are provided for\na criminal who has broken his ban, and not the frightful chastisement\nwhich descends upon the convict guilty of a second offence.\n\nThe district-attorney answered the counsel for the defence. He was\nviolent and florid, as district-attorneys usually are.\n\nHe congratulated the counsel for the defence on his  loyalty,  and\nskilfully took advantage of this loyalty. He reached the accused\nthrough all the concessions made by his lawyer. The advocate had seemed\nto admit that the prisoner was Jean Valjean. He took note of this. So\nthis man was Jean Valjean. This point had been conceded to the\naccusation and could no longer be disputed. Here, by means of a clever\nautonomasia which went back to the sources and causes of crime, the\ndistrict-attorney thundered against the immorality of the romantic\nschool, then dawning under the name of _the Satanic school_, which had\nbeen bestowed upon it by the critics of the _Quotidienne_ and the\n_Oriflamme_; he attributed, not without some probability, to the\ninfluence of this perverse literature the crime of Champmathieu, or\nrather, to speak more correctly, of Jean Valjean. Having exhausted\nthese considerations, he passed on to Jean Valjean himself. Who was\nthis Jean Valjean? Description of Jean Valjean: a monster spewed forth,\netc. The model for this sort of description is contained in the tale of\nTh ram ne, which is not useful to tragedy, but which every day renders\ngreat services to judicial eloquence. The audience and the jury\n shuddered.  The description finished, the district-attorney resumed\nwith an oratorical turn calculated to raise the enthusiasm of the\njournal of the prefecture to the highest pitch on the following day:\nAnd it is such a man, etc., etc., etc., vagabond, beggar, without means\nof existence, etc., etc., inured by his past life to culpable deeds,\nand but little reformed by his sojourn in the galleys, as was proved by\nthe crime committed against Little Gervais, etc., etc.; it is such a\nman, caught upon the highway in the very act of theft, a few paces from\na wall that had been scaled, still holding in his hand the object\nstolen, who denies the crime, the theft, the climbing the wall; denies\neverything; denies even his own identity! In addition to a hundred\nother proofs, to which we will not recur, four witnesses recognize\nhim Javert, the upright inspector of police; Javert, and three of his\nformer companions in infamy, the convicts Brevet, Chenildieu, and\nCochepaille. What does he offer in opposition to this overwhelming\nunanimity? His denial. What obduracy! You will do justice, gentlemen of\nthe jury, etc., etc. While the district-attorney was speaking, the\naccused listened to him open-mouthed, with a sort of amazement in which\nsome admiration was assuredly blended. He was evidently surprised that\na man could talk like that. From time to time, at those  energetic \nmoments of the prosecutor s speech, when eloquence which cannot contain\nitself overflows in a flood of withering epithets and envelops the\naccused like a storm, he moved his head slowly from right to left and\nfrom left to right in the sort of mute and melancholy protest with\nwhich he had contented himself since the beginning of the argument. Two\nor three times the spectators who were nearest to him heard him say in\na low voice,  That is what comes of not having asked M. Baloup.  The\ndistrict-attorney directed the attention of the jury to this stupid\nattitude, evidently deliberate, which denoted not imbecility, but\ncraft, skill, a habit of deceiving justice, and which set forth in all\nits nakedness the  profound perversity  of this man. He ended by making\nhis reserves on the affair of Little Gervais and demanding a severe\nsentence.\n\nAt that time, as the reader will remember, it was penal servitude for\nlife.\n\nThe counsel for the defence rose, began by complimenting Monsieur\nl Avocat-General on his  admirable speech,  then replied as best he\ncould; but he weakened; the ground was evidently slipping away from\nunder his feet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X THE SYSTEM OF DENIALS\n\n\nThe moment for closing the debate had arrived. The President had the\naccused stand up, and addressed to him the customary question,  Have\nyou anything to add to your defence? \n\n\nThe man did not appear to understand, as he stood there, twisting in\nhis hands a terrible cap which he had.\n\nThe President repeated the question.\n\nThis time the man heard it. He seemed to understand. He made a motion\nlike a man who is just waking up, cast his eyes about him, stared at\nthe audience, the gendarmes, his counsel, the jury, the court, laid his\nmonstrous fist on the rim of woodwork in front of his bench, took\nanother look, and all at once, fixing his glance upon the\ndistrict-attorney, he began to speak. It was like an eruption. It\nseemed, from the manner in which the words escaped from his\nmouth, incoherent, impetuous, pell-mell, tumbling over each other, as\nthough they were all pressing forward to issue forth at once. He said: \n\n This is what I have to say. That I have been a wheelwright in Paris,\nand that it was with Monsieur Baloup. It is a hard trade. In the\nwheelwright s trade one works always in the open air, in courtyards,\nunder sheds when the masters are good, never in closed workshops,\nbecause space is required, you see. In winter one gets so cold that one\nbeats one s arms together to warm one s self; but the masters don t\nlike it; they say it wastes time. Handling iron when there is ice\nbetween the paving-stones is hard work. That wears a man out quickly.\nOne is old while he is still quite young in that trade. At forty a man\nis done for. I was fifty-three. I was in a bad state. And then, workmen\nare so mean! When a man is no longer young, they call him nothing but\nan old bird, old beast! I was not earning more than thirty sous a day.\nThey paid me as little as possible. The masters took advantage of my\nage and then I had my daughter, who was a laundress at the river. She\nearned a little also. It sufficed for us two. She had trouble, also;\nall day long up to her waist in a tub, in rain, in snow. When the wind\ncuts your face, when it freezes, it is all the same; you must still\nwash. There are people who have not much linen, and wait until late; if\nyou do not wash, you lose your custom. The planks are badly joined, and\nwater drops on you from everywhere; you have your petticoats all damp\nabove and below. That penetrates. She has also worked at the laundry of\nthe Enfants-Rouges, where the water comes through faucets. You are not\nin the tub there; you wash at the faucet in front of you, and rinse in\na basin behind you. As it is enclosed, you are not so cold; but there\nis that hot steam, which is terrible, and which ruins your eyes. She\ncame home at seven o clock in the evening, and went to bed at once, she\nwas so tired. Her husband beat her. She is dead. We have not been very\nhappy. She was a good girl, who did not go to the ball, and who was\nvery peaceable. I remember one Shrove-Tuesday when she went to bed at\neight o clock. There, I am telling the truth; you have only to ask. Ah,\nyes! how stupid I am! Paris is a gulf. Who knows Father Champmathieu\nthere? But M. Baloup does, I tell you. Go see at M. Baloup s; and after\nall, I don t know what is wanted of me. \n\n\nThe man ceased speaking, and remained standing. He had said these\nthings in a loud, rapid, hoarse voice, with a sort of irritated and\nsavage ingenuousness. Once he paused to salute some one in the crowd.\nThe sort of affirmations which he seemed to fling out before him at\nrandom came like hiccoughs, and to each he added the gesture of a\nwood-cutter who is splitting wood. When he had finished, the audience\nburst into a laugh. He stared at the public, and, perceiving that they\nwere laughing, and not understanding why, he began to laugh himself.\n\nIt was inauspicious.\n\nThe President, an attentive and benevolent man, raised his voice.\n\nHe reminded  the gentlemen of the jury  that  the sieur Baloup,\nformerly a master-wheelwright, with whom the accused stated that he had\nserved, had been summoned in vain. He had become bankrupt, and was not\nto be found.  Then turning to the accused, he enjoined him to listen to\nwhat he was about to say, and added:  You are in a position where\nreflection is necessary. The gravest presumptions rest upon you, and\nmay induce vital results. Prisoner, in your own interests, I summon you\nfor the last time to explain yourself clearly on two points. In the\nfirst place, did you or did you not climb the wall of the Pierron\norchard, break the branch, and steal the apples; that is to say, commit\nthe crime of breaking in and theft? In the second place, are you the\ndischarged convict, Jean Valjean yes or no? \n\n\nThe prisoner shook his head with a capable air, like a man who has\nthoroughly understood, and who knows what answer he is going to make.\nHe opened his mouth, turned towards the President, and said: \n\n In the first place \n\n\nThen he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held his peace.\n\n Prisoner,  said the district-attorney, in a severe voice;  pay\nattention. You are not answering anything that has been asked of you.\nYour embarrassment condemns you. It is evident that your name is not\nChampmathieu; that you are the convict, Jean Valjean, concealed first\nunder the name of Jean Mathieu, which was the name of his mother; that\nyou went to Auvergne; that you were born at Faverolles, where you were\na pruner of trees. It is evident that you have been guilty of entering,\nand of the theft of ripe apples from the Pierron orchard. The gentlemen\nof the jury will form their own opinion. \n\n[Illustration: Father Champmathieu on Trial]\n\nThe prisoner had finally resumed his seat; he arose abruptly when the\ndistrict-attorney had finished, and exclaimed: \n\n You are very wicked; that you are! This what I wanted to say; I could\nnot find words for it at first. I have stolen nothing. I am a man who\ndoes not have something to eat every day. I was coming from Ailly; I\nwas walking through the country after a shower, which had made the\nwhole country yellow: even the ponds were overflowed, and nothing\nsprang from the sand any more but the little blades of grass at the\nwayside. I found a broken branch with apples on the ground; I picked up\nthe branch without knowing that it would get me into trouble. I have\nbeen in prison, and they have been dragging me about for the last three\nmonths; more than that I cannot say; people talk against me, they tell\nme,  Answer!  The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow, and\nsays to me in a low voice,  Come, answer!  I don t know how to explain;\nI have no education; I am a poor man; that is where they wrong me,\nbecause they do not see this. I have not stolen; I picked up from the\nground things that were lying there. You say, Jean Valjean, Jean\nMathieu! I don t know those persons; they are villagers. I worked for\nM. Baloup, Boulevard de l H pital; my name is Champmathieu. You are\nvery clever to tell me where I was born; I don t know myself: it s not\neverybody who has a house in which to come into the world; that would\nbe too convenient. I think that my father and mother were people who\nstrolled along the highways; I know nothing different. When I was a\nchild, they called me _young fellow_; now they call me _old Fellow_;\nthose are my baptismal names; take that as you like. I have been in\nAuvergne; I have been at Faverolles. Pardi. Well! can t a man have been\nin Auvergne, or at Faverolles, without having been in the galleys? I\ntell you that I have not stolen, and that I am Father Champmathieu; I\nhave been with M. Baloup; I have had a settled residence. You worry me\nwith your nonsense, there! Why is everybody pursuing me so furiously? \n\n\nThe district-attorney had remained standing; he addressed the\nPresident: \n\n Monsieur le Pr sident, in view of the confused but exceedingly clever\ndenials of the prisoner, who would like to pass himself off as an\nidiot, but who will not succeed in so doing, we shall attend to\nthat, we demand that it shall please you and that it shall please the\ncourt to summon once more into this place the convicts Brevet,\nCochepaille, and Chenildieu, and Police-Inspector Javert, and question\nthem for the last time as to the identity of the prisoner with the\nconvict Jean Valjean. \n\n\n I would remind the district-attorney,  said the President,  that\nPolice-Inspector Javert, recalled by his duties to the capital of a\nneighboring arrondissement, left the court-room and the town as soon as\nhe had made his deposition; we have accorded him permission, with the\nconsent of the district-attorney and of the counsel for the prisoner. \n\n\n That is true, Mr. President,  responded the district-attorney.  In the\nabsence of sieur Javert, I think it my duty to remind the gentlemen of\nthe jury of what he said here a few hours ago. Javert is an estimable\nman, who does honor by his rigorous and strict probity to inferior but\nimportant functions. These are the terms of his deposition:  I do not\neven stand in need of circumstantial proofs and moral presumptions to\ngive the lie to the prisoner s denial. I recognize him perfectly. The\nname of this man is not Champmathieu; he is an ex-convict named Jean\nValjean, and is very vicious and much to be feared. It is only with\nextreme regret that he was released at the expiration of his term. He\nunderwent nineteen years of penal servitude for theft. He made five or\nsix attempts to escape. Besides the theft from Little Gervais, and from\nthe Pierron orchard, I suspect him of a theft committed in the house of\nHis Grace the late Bishop of D  I often saw him at the time when I was\nadjutant of the galley-guard at the prison in Toulon. I repeat that I\nrecognize him perfectly. \n\n\nThis extremely precise statement appeared to produce a vivid impression\non the public and on the jury. The district-attorney concluded by\ninsisting, that in default of Javert, the three witnesses Brevet,\nChenildieu, and Cochepaille should be heard once more and solemnly\ninterrogated.\n\nThe President transmitted the order to an usher, and, a moment later,\nthe door of the witnesses  room opened. The usher, accompanied by a\ngendarme ready to lend him armed assistance, introduced the convict\nBrevet. The audience was in suspense; and all breasts heaved as though\nthey had contained but one soul.\n\nThe ex-convict Brevet wore the black and gray waistcoat of the central\nprisons. Brevet was a person sixty years of age, who had a sort of\nbusiness man s face, and the air of a rascal. The two sometimes go\ntogether. In prison, whither fresh misdeeds had led him, he had become\nsomething in the nature of a turnkey. He was a man of whom his\nsuperiors said,  He tries to make himself of use.  The chaplains bore\ngood testimony as to his religious habits. It must not be forgotten\nthat this passed under the Restoration.\n\n Brevet,  said the President,  you have undergone an ignominious\nsentence, and you cannot take an oath. \n\n\nBrevet dropped his eyes.\n\n Nevertheless,  continued the President,  even in the man whom the law\nhas degraded, there may remain, when the divine mercy permits it, a\nsentiment of honor and of equity. It is to this sentiment that I appeal\nat this decisive hour. If it still exists in you, and I hope it\ndoes, reflect before replying to me: consider on the one hand, this\nman, whom a word from you may ruin; on the other hand, justice, which a\nword from you may enlighten. The instant is solemn; there is still time\nto retract if you think you have been mistaken. Rise, prisoner. Brevet,\ntake a good look at the accused, recall your souvenirs, and tell us on\nyour soul and conscience, if you persist in recognizing this man as\nyour former companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean? \n\n\nBrevet looked at the prisoner, then turned towards the court.\n\n Yes, Mr. President, I was the first to recognize him, and I stick to\nit; that man is Jean Valjean, who entered at Toulon in 1796, and left\nin 1815. I left a year later. He has the air of a brute now; but it\nmust be because age has brutalized him; he was sly at the galleys: I\nrecognize him positively. \n\n\n Take your seat,  said the President.  Prisoner, remain standing. \n\n\nChenildieu was brought in, a prisoner for life, as was indicated by his\nred cassock and his green cap. He was serving out his sentence at the\ngalleys of Toulon, whence he had been brought for this case. He was a\nsmall man of about fifty, brisk, wrinkled, frail, yellow, brazen-faced,\nfeverish, who had a sort of sickly feebleness about all his limbs and\nhis whole person, and an immense force in his glance. His companions in\nthe galleys had nicknamed him _I-deny-God_ (_Je-nie Dieu_, Chenildieu).\n\nThe President addressed him in nearly the same words which he had used\nto Brevet. At the moment when he reminded him of his infamy which\ndeprived him of the right to take an oath, Chenildieu raised his head\nand looked the crowd in the face. The President invited him to\nreflection, and asked him as he had asked Brevet, if he persisted in\nrecognition of the prisoner.\n\nChenildieu burst out laughing.\n\n Pardieu, as if I didn t recognize him! We were attached to the same\nchain for five years. So you are sulking, old fellow? \n\n\n Go take your seat,  said the President.\n\nThe usher brought in Cochepaille. He was another convict for life, who\nhad come from the galleys, and was dressed in red, like Chenildieu, was\na peasant from Lourdes, and a half-bear of the Pyrenees. He had guarded\nthe flocks among the mountains, and from a shepherd he had slipped into\na brigand. Cochepaille was no less savage and seemed even more stupid\nthan the prisoner. He was one of those wretched men whom nature has\nsketched out for wild beasts, and on whom society puts the finishing\ntouches as convicts in the galleys.\n\nThe President tried to touch him with some grave and pathetic words,\nand asked him, as he had asked the other two, if he persisted, without\nhesitation or trouble, in recognizing the man who was standing before\nhim.\n\n He is Jean Valjean,  said Cochepaille.  He was even called\nJean-the-Screw, because he was so strong. \n\n\nEach of these affirmations from these three men, evidently sincere and\nin good faith, had raised in the audience a murmur of bad augury for\nthe prisoner, a murmur which increased and lasted longer each time that\na fresh declaration was added to the proceeding.\n\nThe prisoner had listened to them, with that astounded face which was,\naccording to the accusation, his principal means of defence; at the\nfirst, the gendarmes, his neighbors, had heard him mutter between his\nteeth:  Ah, well, he s a nice one!  after the second, he said, a little\nlouder, with an air that was almost that of satisfaction,  Good!  at\nthe third, he cried,  Famous! \n\n\nThe President addressed him: \n\n Have you heard, prisoner? What have you to say? \n\n\nHe replied: \n\n I say,  Famous! \n\n\nAn uproar broke out among the audience, and was communicated to the\njury; it was evident that the man was lost.\n\n Ushers,  said the President,  enforce silence! I am going to sum up\nthe arguments. \n\n\nAt that moment there was a movement just beside the President; a voice\nwas heard crying: \n\n Brevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! look here! \n\n\nAll who heard that voice were chilled, so lamentable and terrible was\nit; all eyes were turned to the point whence it had proceeded. A man,\nplaced among the privileged spectators who were seated behind the\ncourt, had just risen, had pushed open the half-door which separated\nthe tribunal from the audience, and was standing in the middle of the\nhall; the President, the district-attorney, M. Bamatabois, twenty\npersons, recognized him, and exclaimed in concert: \n\n M. Madeleine! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI CHAMPMATHIEU MORE AND MORE ASTONISHED\n\n\nIt was he, in fact. The clerk s lamp illumined his countenance. He held\nhis hat in his hand; there was no disorder in his clothing; his coat\nwas carefully buttoned; he was very pale, and he trembled slightly; his\nhair, which had still been gray on his arrival in Arras, was now\nentirely white: it had turned white during the hour he had sat there.\n\nAll heads were raised: the sensation was indescribable; there was a\nmomentary hesitation in the audience, the voice had been so\nheart-rending; the man who stood there appeared so calm that they did\nnot understand at first. They asked themselves whether he had indeed\nuttered that cry; they could not believe that that tranquil man had\nbeen the one to give that terrible outcry.\n\nThis indecision only lasted a few seconds. Even before the President\nand the district-attorney could utter a word, before the ushers and the\ngendarmes could make a gesture, the man whom all still called, at that\nmoment, M. Madeleine, had advanced towards the witnesses Cochepaille,\nBrevet, and Chenildieu.\n\n Do you not recognize me?  said he.\n\nAll three remained speechless, and indicated by a sign of the head that\nthey did not know him. Cochepaille, who was intimidated, made a\nmilitary salute. M. Madeleine turned towards the jury and the court,\nand said in a gentle voice: \n\n Gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released! Mr.\nPresident, have me arrested. He is not the man whom you are in search\nof; it is I: I am Jean Valjean. \n\n\nNot a mouth breathed; the first commotion of astonishment had been\nfollowed by a silence like that of the grave; those within the hall\nexperienced that sort of religious terror which seizes the masses when\nsomething grand has been done.\n\nIn the meantime, the face of the President was stamped with sympathy\nand sadness; he had exchanged a rapid sign with the district-attorney\nand a few low-toned words with the assistant judges; he addressed the\npublic, and asked in accents which all understood: \n\n Is there a physician present? \n\n\nThe district-attorney took the word: \n\n Gentlemen of the jury, the very strange and unexpected incident which\ndisturbs the audience inspires us, like yourselves, only with a\nsentiment which it is unnecessary for us to express. You all know, by\nreputation at least, the honorable M. Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M.; if\nthere is a physician in the audience, we join the President in\nrequesting him to attend to M. Madeleine, and to conduct him to his\nhome. \n\n\nM. Madeleine did not allow the district-attorney to finish; he\ninterrupted him in accents full of suavity and authority. These are the\nwords which he uttered; here they are literally, as they were written\ndown, immediately after the trial by one of the witnesses to this\nscene, and as they now ring in the ears of those who heard them nearly\nforty years ago: \n\n I thank you, Mr. District-Attorney, but I am not mad; you shall see;\nyou were on the point of committing a great error; release this man! I\nam fulfilling a duty; I am that miserable criminal. I am the only one\nhere who sees the matter clearly, and I am telling you the truth. God,\nwho is on high, looks down on what I am doing at this moment, and that\nsuffices. You can take me, for here I am: but I have done my best; I\nconcealed myself under another name; I have become rich; I have become\na mayor; I have tried to re-enter the ranks of the honest. It seems\nthat that is not to be done. In short, there are many things which I\ncannot tell. I will not narrate the story of my life to you; you will\nhear it one of these days. I robbed Monseigneur the Bishop, it is true;\nit is true that I robbed Little Gervais; they were right in telling you\nthat Jean Valjean was a very vicious wretch. Perhaps it was not\naltogether his fault. Listen, honorable judges! a man who has been so\ngreatly humbled as I have has neither any remonstrances to make to\nProvidence, nor any advice to give to society; but, you see, the infamy\nfrom which I have tried to escape is an injurious thing; the galleys\nmake the convict what he is; reflect upon that, if you please. Before\ngoing to the galleys, I was a poor peasant, with very little\nintelligence, a sort of idiot; the galleys wrought a change in me. I\nwas stupid; I became vicious: I was a block of wood; I became a\nfirebrand. Later on, indulgence and kindness saved me, as severity had\nruined me. But, pardon me, you cannot understand what I am saying. You\nwill find at my house, among the ashes in the fireplace, the forty-sou\npiece which I stole, seven years ago, from Little Gervais. I have\nnothing farther to add; take me. Good God! the district-attorney shakes\nhis head; you say,  M. Madeleine has gone mad!  you do not believe me!\nthat is distressing. Do not, at least, condemn this man! What! these\nmen do not recognize me! I wish Javert were here; he would recognize\nme. \n\n\nNothing can reproduce the sombre and kindly melancholy of tone which\naccompanied these words.\n\nHe turned to the three convicts, and said: \n\n Well, I recognize you; do you remember, Brevet? \n\n\nHe paused, hesitated for an instant, and said: \n\n Do you remember the knitted suspenders with a checked pattern which\nyou wore in the galleys? \n\n\nBrevet gave a start of surprise, and surveyed him from head to foot\nwith a frightened air. He continued: \n\n Chenildieu, you who conferred on yourself the name of  Jenie-Dieu, \nyour whole right shoulder bears a deep burn, because you one day laid\nyour shoulder against the chafing-dish full of coals, in order to\nefface the three letters T. F. P., which are still visible,\nnevertheless; answer, is this true? \n\n\n It is true,  said Chenildieu.\n\nHe addressed himself to Cochepaille: \n\n Cochepaille, you have, near the bend in your left arm, a date stamped\nin blue letters with burnt powder; the date is that of the landing of\nthe Emperor at Cannes, March 1, 1815; pull up your sleeve! \n\n\nCochepaille pushed up his sleeve; all eyes were focused on him and on\nhis bare arm.\n\nA gendarme held a light close to it; there was the date.\n\nThe unhappy man turned to the spectators and the judges with a smile\nwhich still rends the hearts of all who saw it whenever they think of\nit. It was a smile of triumph; it was also a smile of despair.\n\n You see plainly,  he said,  that I am Jean Valjean. \n\n\nIn that chamber there were no longer either judges, accusers, nor\ngendarmes; there was nothing but staring eyes and sympathizing hearts.\nNo one recalled any longer the part that each might be called upon to\nplay; the district-attorney forgot he was there for the purpose of\nprosecuting, the President that he was there to preside, the counsel\nfor the defence that he was there to defend. It was a striking\ncircumstance that no question was put, that no authority intervened.\nThe peculiarity of sublime spectacles is, that they capture all souls\nand turn witnesses into spectators. No one, probably, could have\nexplained what he felt; no one, probably, said to himself that he was\nwitnessing the splendid outburst of a grand light: all felt themselves\ninwardly dazzled.\n\nIt was evident that they had Jean Valjean before their eyes. That was\nclear. The appearance of this man had sufficed to suffuse with light\nthat matter which had been so obscure but a moment previously, without\nany further explanation: the whole crowd, as by a sort of electric\nrevelation, understood instantly and at a single glance the simple and\nmagnificent history of a man who was delivering himself up so that\nanother man might not be condemned in his stead. The details, the\nhesitations, little possible oppositions, were swallowed up in that\nvast and luminous fact.\n\nIt was an impression which vanished speedily, but which was\nirresistible at the moment.\n\n I do not wish to disturb the court further,  resumed Jean Valjean.  I\nshall withdraw, since you do not arrest me. I have many things to do.\nThe district-attorney knows who I am; he knows whither I am going; he\ncan have me arrested when he likes. \n\n\nHe directed his steps towards the door. Not a voice was raised, not an\narm extended to hinder him. All stood aside. At that moment there was\nabout him that divine something which causes multitudes to stand aside\nand make way for a man. He traversed the crowd slowly. It was never\nknown who opened the door, but it is certain that he found the door\nopen when he reached it. On arriving there he turned round and said: \n\n I am at your command, Mr. District-Attorney. \n\n\nThen he addressed the audience: \n\n All of you, all who are present consider me worthy of pity, do you\nnot? Good God! When I think of what I was on the point of doing, I\nconsider that I am to be envied. Nevertheless, I should have preferred\nnot to have had this occur. \n\n\nHe withdrew, and the door closed behind him as it had opened, for those\nwho do certain sovereign things are always sure of being served by some\none in the crowd.\n\nLess than an hour after this, the verdict of the jury freed the said\nChampmathieu from all accusations; and Champmathieu, being at once\nreleased, went off in a state of stupefaction, thinking that all men\nwere fools, and comprehending nothing of this vision.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK EIGHTH A COUNTER-BLOW\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I IN WHAT MIRROR M. MADELEINE CONTEMPLATES HIS HAIR\n\n\nThe day had begun to dawn. Fantine had passed a sleepless and feverish\nnight, filled with happy visions; at daybreak she fell asleep. Sister\nSimplice, who had been watching with her, availed herself of this\nslumber to go and prepare a new potion of chinchona. The worthy sister\nhad been in the laboratory of the infirmary but a few moments, bending\nover her drugs and phials, and scrutinizing things very closely, on\naccount of the dimness which the half-light of dawn spreads over all\nobjects. Suddenly she raised her head and uttered a faint shriek. M.\nMadeleine stood before her; he had just entered silently.\n\n Is it you, Mr. Mayor?  she exclaimed.\n\nHe replied in a low voice: \n\n How is that poor woman? \n\n\n Not so bad just now; but we have been very uneasy. \n\n\nShe explained to him what had passed: that Fantine had been very ill\nthe day before, and that she was better now, because she thought that\nthe mayor had gone to Montfermeil to get her child. The sister dared\nnot question the mayor; but she perceived plainly from his air that he\nhad not come from there.\n\n All that is good,  said he;  you were right not to undeceive her. \n\n\n Yes,  responded the sister;  but now, Mr. Mayor, she will see you and\nwill not see her child. What shall we say to her? \n\n\nHe reflected for a moment.\n\n God will inspire us,  said he.\n\n But we cannot tell a lie,  murmured the sister, half aloud.\n\nIt was broad daylight in the room. The light fell full on M.\nMadeleine s face. The sister chanced to raise her eyes to it.\n\n Good God, sir!  she exclaimed;  what has happened to you? Your hair is\nperfectly white! \n\n\n White!  said he.\n\nSister Simplice had no mirror. She rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out\nthe little glass which the doctor of the infirmary used to see whether\na patient was dead and whether he no longer breathed. M. Madeleine took\nthe mirror, looked at his hair, and said: \n\n Well! \n\n\nHe uttered the word indifferently, and as though his mind were on\nsomething else.\n\nThe sister felt chilled by something strange of which she caught a\nglimpse in all this.\n\nHe inquired: \n\n Can I see her? \n\n\n Is not Monsieur le Maire going to have her child brought back to her? \nsaid the sister, hardly venturing to put the question.\n\n Of course; but it will take two or three days at least. \n\n\n If she were not to see Monsieur le Maire until that time,  went on the\nsister, timidly,  she would not know that Monsieur le Maire had\nreturned, and it would be easy to inspire her with patience; and when\nthe child arrived, she would naturally think Monsieur le Maire had just\ncome with the child. We should not have to enact a lie. \n\n\nM. Madeleine seemed to reflect for a few moments; then he said with his\ncalm gravity: \n\n No, sister, I must see her. I may, perhaps, be in haste. \n\n\nThe nun did not appear to notice this word  perhaps,  which\ncommunicated an obscure and singular sense to the words of the mayor s\nspeech. She replied, lowering her eyes and her voice respectfully: \n\n In that case, she is asleep; but Monsieur le Maire may enter. \n\n\nHe made some remarks about a door which shut badly, and the noise of\nwhich might awaken the sick woman; then he entered Fantine s chamber,\napproached the bed and drew aside the curtains. She was asleep. Her\nbreath issued from her breast with that tragic sound which is peculiar\nto those maladies, and which breaks the hearts of mothers when they are\nwatching through the night beside their sleeping child who is condemned\nto death. But this painful respiration hardly troubled a sort of\nineffable serenity which overspread her countenance, and which\ntransfigured her in her sleep. Her pallor had become whiteness; her\ncheeks were crimson; her long golden lashes, the only beauty of her\nyouth and her virginity which remained to her, palpitated, though they\nremained closed and drooping. Her whole person was trembling with an\nindescribable unfolding of wings, all ready to open wide and bear her\naway, which could be felt as they rustled, though they could not be\nseen. To see her thus, one would never have dreamed that she was an\ninvalid whose life was almost despaired of. She resembled rather\nsomething on the point of soaring away than something on the point of\ndying.\n\nThe branch trembles when a hand approaches it to pluck a flower, and\nseems to both withdraw and to offer itself at one and the same time.\nThe human body has something of this tremor when the instant arrives in\nwhich the mysterious fingers of Death are about to pluck the soul.\n\nM. Madeleine remained for some time motionless beside that bed, gazing\nin turn upon the sick woman and the crucifix, as he had done two months\nbefore, on the day when he had come for the first time to see her in\nthat asylum. They were both still there in the same attitude she\nsleeping, he praying; only now, after the lapse of two months, her hair\nwas gray and his was white.\n\nThe sister had not entered with him. He stood beside the bed, with his\nfinger on his lips, as though there were some one in the chamber whom\nhe must enjoin to silence.\n\nShe opened her eyes, saw him, and said quietly, with a smile: \n\n And Cosette? \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II FANTINE HAPPY\n\n\nShe made no movement of either surprise or of joy; she was joy itself.\nThat simple question,  And Cosette?  was put with so profound a faith,\nwith so much certainty, with such a complete absence of disquiet and of\ndoubt, that he found not a word of reply. She continued: \n\n I knew that you were there. I was asleep, but I saw you. I have seen\nyou for a long, long time. I have been following you with my eyes all\nnight long. You were in a glory, and you had around you all sorts of\ncelestial forms. \n\n\nHe raised his glance to the crucifix.\n\n But,  she resumed,  tell me where Cosette is. Why did not you place\nher on my bed against the moment of my waking? \n\n\nHe made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able to\nrecall.\n\nFortunately, the doctor had been warned, and he now made his\nappearance. He came to the aid of M. Madeleine.\n\n Calm yourself, my child,  said the doctor;  your child is here. \n\n\nFantine s eyes beamed and filled her whole face with light. She clasped\nher hands with an expression which contained all that is possible to\nprayer in the way of violence and tenderness.\n\n Oh!  she exclaimed,  bring her to me! \n\n\nTouching illusion of a mother! Cosette was, for her, still the little\nchild who is carried.\n\n Not yet,  said the doctor,  not just now. You still have some fever.\nThe sight of your child would agitate you and do you harm. You must be\ncured first. \n\n\nShe interrupted him impetuously: \n\n But I am cured! Oh, I tell you that I am cured! What an ass that\ndoctor is! The idea! I want to see my child! \n\n\n You see,  said the doctor,  how excited you become. So long as you are\nin this state I shall oppose your having your child. It is not enough\nto see her; it is necessary that you should live for her. When you are\nreasonable, I will bring her to you myself. \n\n\nThe poor mother bowed her head.\n\n I beg your pardon, doctor, I really beg your pardon. Formerly I should\nnever have spoken as I have just done; so many misfortunes have\nhappened to me, that I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I\nunderstand you; you fear the emotion. I will wait as long as you like,\nbut I swear to you that it would not have harmed me to see my daughter.\nI have been seeing her; I have not taken my eyes from her since\nyesterday evening. Do you know? If she were brought to me now, I should\ntalk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I\nshould desire to see my daughter, who has been brought to me expressly\nfrom Montfermeil? I am not angry. I know well that I am about to be\nhappy. All night long I have seen white things, and persons who smiled\nat me. When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette. I\nhave no longer any fever; I am well. I am perfectly conscious that\nthere is nothing the matter with me any more; but I am going to behave\nas though I were ill, and not stir, to please these ladies here. When\nit is seen that I am very calm, they will say,  She must have her\nchild. \n\n\nM. Madeleine was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She turned towards\nhim; she was making a visible effort to be calm and  very good,  as she\nexpressed it in the feebleness of illness which resembles infancy, in\norder that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make no difficulty\nabout bringing Cosette to her. But while she controlled herself she\ncould not refrain from questioning M. Madeleine.\n\n Did you have a pleasant trip, Monsieur le Maire? Oh! how good you were\nto go and get her for me! Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the\njourney well? Alas! she will not recognize me. She must have forgotten\nme by this time, poor darling! Children have no memories. They are like\nbirds. A child sees one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow, and\nthinks of nothing any longer. And did she have white linen? Did those\nTh nardiers keep her clean? How have they fed her? Oh! if you only knew\nhow I have suffered, putting such questions as that to myself during\nall the time of my wretchedness. Now, it is all past. I am happy. Oh,\nhow I should like to see her! Do you think her pretty, Monsieur le\nMaire? Is not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in\nthat diligence! Could she not be brought for just one little instant?\nShe might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me; you are the\nmaster; it could be so if you chose! \n\n\nHe took her hand.  Cosette is beautiful,  he said,  Cosette is well.\nYou shall see her soon; but calm yourself; you are talking with too\nmuch vivacity, and you are throwing your arms out from under the\nclothes, and that makes you cough. \n\n\nIn fact, fits of coughing interrupted Fantine at nearly every word.\n\nFantine did not murmur; she feared that she had injured by her too\npassionate lamentations the confidence which she was desirous of\ninspiring, and she began to talk of indifferent things.\n\n Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on pleasure\nparties in summer. Are the Th nardiers prosperous? There are not many\ntravellers in their parts. That inn of theirs is a sort of a\ncook-shop. \n\n\nM. Madeleine was still holding her hand, and gazing at her with\nanxiety; it was evident that he had come to tell her things before\nwhich his mind now hesitated. The doctor, having finished his visit,\nretired. Sister Simplice remained alone with them.\n\nBut in the midst of this pause Fantine exclaimed: \n\n I hear her! mon Dieu, I hear her! \n\n\nShe stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held her breath,\nand began to listen with rapture.\n\nThere was a child playing in the yard the child of the portress or of\nsome work-woman. It was one of those accidents which are always\noccurring, and which seem to form a part of the mysterious\nstage-setting of mournful scenes. The child a little girl was going and\ncoming, running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her\nvoice. Alas! in what are the plays of children not intermingled. It was\nthis little girl whom Fantine heard singing.\n\n Oh!  she resumed,  it is my Cosette! I recognize her voice. \n\n\nThe child retreated as it had come; the voice died away. Fantine\nlistened for a while longer, then her face clouded over, and M.\nMadeleine heard her say, in a low voice:  How wicked that doctor is not\nto allow me to see my daughter! That man has an evil countenance, that\nhe has. \n\n\nBut the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She\ncontinued to talk to herself, with her head resting on the pillow:  How\nhappy we are going to be! We shall have a little garden the very first\nthing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the\ngarden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell.\nShe will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then\nshe will take her first communion. Ah! when will she take her first\ncommunion? \n\n\nShe began to reckon on her fingers.\n\n One, two, three, four she is seven years old. In five years she will\nhave a white veil, and openwork stockings; she will look like a little\nwoman. O my good sister, you do not know how foolish I become when I\nthink of my daughter s first communion! \n\n\nShe began to laugh.\n\nHe had released Fantine s hand. He listened to her words as one listens\nto the sighing of the breeze, with his eyes on the ground, his mind\nabsorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she ceased\nspeaking, and this caused him to raise his head mechanically. Fantine\nhad become terrible.\n\nShe no longer spoke, she no longer breathed; she had raised herself to\na sitting posture, her thin shoulder emerged from her chemise; her\nface, which had been radiant but a moment before, was ghastly, and she\nseemed to have fixed her eyes, rendered large with terror, on something\nalarming at the other extremity of the room.\n\n Good God!  he exclaimed;  what ails you, Fantine? \n\n\nShe made no reply; she did not remove her eyes from the object which\nshe seemed to see. She removed one hand from his arm, and with the\nother made him a sign to look behind him.\n\nHe turned, and beheld Javert.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III JAVERT SATISFIED\n\n\nThis is what had taken place.\n\nThe half-hour after midnight had just struck when M. Madeleine quitted\nthe Hall of Assizes in Arras. He regained his inn just in time to set\nout again by the mail-wagon, in which he had engaged his place. A\nlittle before six o clock in the morning he had arrived at M. sur M.,\nand his first care had been to post a letter to M. Laffitte, then to\nenter the infirmary and see Fantine.\n\nHowever, he had hardly quitted the audience hall of the Court of\nAssizes, when the district-attorney, recovering from his first shock,\nhad taken the word to deplore the mad deed of the honorable mayor of M.\nsur M., to declare that his convictions had not been in the least\nmodified by that curious incident, which would be explained thereafter,\nand to demand, in the meantime, the condemnation of that Champmathieu,\nwho was evidently the real Jean Valjean. The district-attorney s\npersistence was visibly at variance with the sentiments of every one,\nof the public, of the court, and of the jury. The counsel for the\ndefence had some difficulty in refuting this harangue and in\nestablishing that, in consequence of the revelations of M. Madeleine,\nthat is to say, of the real Jean Valjean, the aspect of the matter had\nbeen thoroughly altered, and that the jury had before their eyes now\nonly an innocent man. Thence the lawyer had drawn some epiphonemas, not\nvery fresh, unfortunately, upon judicial errors, etc., etc.; the\nPresident, in his summing up, had joined the counsel for the defence,\nand in a few minutes the jury had thrown Champmathieu out of the case.\n\nNevertheless, the district-attorney was bent on having a Jean Valjean;\nand as he had no longer Champmathieu, he took Madeleine.\n\nImmediately after Champmathieu had been set at liberty, the\ndistrict-attorney shut himself up with the President. They conferred\n as to the necessity of seizing the person of M. le Maire of M. sur M. \nThis phrase, in which there was a great deal of _of_, is the\ndistrict-attorney s, written with his own hand, on the minutes of his\nreport to the attorney-general. His first emotion having passed off,\nthe President did not offer many objections. Justice must, after all,\ntake its course. And then, when all was said, although the President\nwas a kindly and a tolerably intelligent man, he was, at the same time,\na devoted and almost an ardent royalist, and he had been shocked to\nhear the Mayor of M. sur M. say the _Emperor_, and not _Bonaparte_,\nwhen alluding to the landing at Cannes.\n\nThe order for his arrest was accordingly despatched. The\ndistrict-attorney forwarded it to M. sur M. by a special messenger, at\nfull speed, and entrusted its execution to Police Inspector Javert.\n\nThe reader knows that Javert had returned to M. sur M. immediately\nafter having given his deposition.\n\nJavert was just getting out of bed when the messenger handed him the\norder of arrest and the command to produce the prisoner.\n\nThe messenger himself was a very clever member of the police, who, in\ntwo words, informed Javert of what had taken place at Arras. The order\nof arrest, signed by the district-attorney, was couched in these words:\n Inspector Javert will apprehend the body of the Sieur Madeleine, mayor\nof M. sur M., who, in this day s session of the court, was recognized\nas the liberated convict, Jean Valjean. \n\n\nAny one who did not know Javert, and who had chanced to see him at the\nmoment when he penetrated the antechamber of the infirmary, could have\ndivined nothing of what had taken place, and would have thought his air\nthe most ordinary in the world. He was cool, calm, grave, his gray hair\nwas perfectly smooth upon his temples, and he had just mounted the\nstairs with his habitual deliberation. Any one who was thoroughly\nacquainted with him, and who had examined him attentively at the\nmoment, would have shuddered. The buckle of his leather stock was under\nhis left ear instead of at the nape of his neck. This betrayed unwonted\nagitation.\n\nJavert was a complete character, who never had a wrinkle in his duty or\nin his uniform; methodical with malefactors, rigid with the buttons of\nhis coat.\n\nThat he should have set the buckle of his stock awry, it was\nindispensable that there should have taken place in him one of those\nemotions which may be designated as internal earthquakes.\n\nHe had come in a simple way, had made a requisition on the neighboring\npost for a corporal and four soldiers, had left the soldiers in the\ncourtyard, had had Fantine s room pointed out to him by the portress,\nwho was utterly unsuspicious, accustomed as she was to seeing armed men\ninquiring for the mayor.\n\nOn arriving at Fantine s chamber, Javert turned the handle, pushed the\ndoor open with the gentleness of a sick-nurse or a police spy, and\nentered.\n\nProperly speaking, he did not enter. He stood erect in the half-open\ndoor, his hat on his head and his left hand thrust into his coat, which\nwas buttoned up to the chin. In the bend of his elbow the leaden head\nof his enormous cane, which was hidden behind him, could be seen.\n\nThus he remained for nearly a minute, without his presence being\nperceived. All at once Fantine raised her eyes, saw him, and made M.\nMadeleine turn round.\n\nThe instant that Madeleine s glance encountered Javert s glance,\nJavert, without stirring, without moving from his post, without\napproaching him, became terrible. No human sentiment can be as terrible\nas joy.\n\nIt was the visage of a demon who has just found his damned soul.\n\nThe satisfaction of at last getting hold of Jean Valjean caused all\nthat was in his soul to appear in his countenance. The depths having\nbeen stirred up, mounted to the surface. The humiliation of having, in\nsome slight degree, lost the scent, and of having indulged, for a few\nmoments, in an error with regard to Champmathieu, was effaced by pride\nat having so well and accurately divined in the first place, and of\nhaving for so long cherished a just instinct. Javert s content shone\nforth in his sovereign attitude. The deformity of triumph overspread\nthat narrow brow. All the demonstrations of horror which a satisfied\nface can afford were there.\n\nJavert was in heaven at that moment. Without putting the thing clearly\nto himself, but with a confused intuition of the necessity of his\npresence and of his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light,\nand truth in their celestial function of crushing out evil. Behind him\nand around him, at an infinite distance, he had authority, reason, the\ncase judged, the legal conscience, the public prosecution, all the\nstars; he was protecting order, he was causing the law to yield up its\nthunders, he was avenging society, he was lending a helping hand to the\nabsolute, he was standing erect in the midst of a glory. There existed\nin his victory a remnant of defiance and of combat. Erect, haughty,\nbrilliant, he flaunted abroad in open day the superhuman bestiality of\na ferocious archangel. The terrible shadow of the action which he was\naccomplishing caused the vague flash of the social sword to be visible\nin his clenched fist; happy and indignant, he held his heel upon crime,\nvice, rebellion, perdition, hell; he was radiant, he exterminated, he\nsmiled, and there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous Saint\nMichael.\n\nJavert, though frightful, had nothing ignoble about him.\n\nProbity, sincerity, candor, conviction, the sense of duty, are things\nwhich may become hideous when wrongly directed; but which, even when\nhideous, remain grand: their majesty, the majesty peculiar to the human\nconscience, clings to them in the midst of horror; they are virtues\nwhich have one vice, error. The honest, pitiless joy of a fanatic in\nthe full flood of his atrocity preserves a certain lugubriously\nvenerable radiance. Without himself suspecting the fact, Javert in his\nformidable happiness was to be pitied, as is every ignorant man who\ntriumphs. Nothing could be so poignant and so terrible as this face,\nwherein was displayed all that may be designated as the evil of the\ngood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV AUTHORITY REASSERTS ITS RIGHTS\n\n\nFantine had not seen Javert since the day on which the mayor had torn\nher from the man. Her ailing brain comprehended nothing, but the only\nthing which she did not doubt was that he had come to get her. She\ncould not endure that terrible face; she felt her life quitting her;\nshe hid her face in both hands, and shrieked in her anguish: \n\n Monsieur Madeleine, save me! \n\n\nJean Valjean we shall henceforth not speak of him otherwise had risen.\nHe said to Fantine in the gentlest and calmest of voices: \n\n Be at ease; it is not for you that he is come. \n\n\nThen he addressed Javert, and said: \n\n I know what you want. \n\n\nJavert replied: \n\n Be quick about it! \n\n\nThere lay in the inflection of voice which accompanied these words\nsomething indescribably fierce and frenzied. Javert did not say,  Be\nquick about it!  he said  Bequiabouit. \n\n\nNo orthography can do justice to the accent with which it was uttered:\nit was no longer a human word: it was a roar.\n\nHe did not proceed according to his custom, he did not enter into the\nmatter, he exhibited no warrant of arrest. In his eyes, Jean Valjean\nwas a sort of mysterious combatant, who was not to be laid hands upon,\na wrestler in the dark whom he had had in his grasp for the last five\nyears, without being able to throw him. This arrest was not a\nbeginning, but an end. He confined himself to saying,  Be quick about\nit! \n\n\nAs he spoke thus, he did not advance a single step; he hurled at Jean\nValjean a glance which he threw out like a grappling-hook, and with\nwhich he was accustomed to draw wretches violently to him.\n\nIt was this glance which Fantine had felt penetrating to the very\nmarrow of her bones two months previously.\n\nAt Javert s exclamation, Fantine opened her eyes once more. But the\nmayor was there; what had she to fear?\n\nJavert advanced to the middle of the room, and cried: \n\n See here now! Art thou coming? \n\n\nThe unhappy woman glanced about her. No one was present excepting the\nnun and the mayor. To whom could that abject use of  thou  be\naddressed? To her only. She shuddered.\n\nThen she beheld a most unprecedented thing, a thing so unprecedented\nthat nothing equal to it had appeared to her even in the blackest\ndeliriums of fever.\n\nShe beheld Javert, the police spy, seize the mayor by the collar; she\nsaw the mayor bow his head. It seemed to her that the world was coming\nto an end.\n\nJavert had, in fact, grasped Jean Valjean by the collar.\n\n Monsieur le Maire!  shrieked Fantine.\n\nJavert burst out laughing with that frightful laugh which displayed all\nhis gums.\n\n There is no longer any Monsieur le Maire here! \n\n\nJean Valjean made no attempt to disengage the hand which grasped the\ncollar of his coat. He said: \n\n Javert \n\n\nJavert interrupted him:  Call me Mr. Inspector. \n\n\n Monsieur,  said Jean Valjean,  I should like to say a word to you in\nprivate. \n\n\n Aloud! Say it aloud!  replied Javert;  people are in the habit of\ntalking aloud to me. \n\n\nJean Valjean went on in a lower tone: \n\n I have a request to make of you \n\n\n I tell you to speak loud. \n\n\n But you alone should hear it \n\n\n What difference does that make to me? I shall not listen. \n\n\nJean Valjean turned towards him and said very rapidly and in a very low\nvoice: \n\n Grant me three days  grace! three days in which to go and fetch the\nchild of this unhappy woman. I will pay whatever is necessary. You\nshall accompany me if you choose. \n\n\n You are making sport of me!  cried Javert.  Come now, I did not think\nyou such a fool! You ask me to give you three days in which to run\naway! You say that it is for the purpose of fetching that creature s\nchild! Ah! Ah! That s good! That s really capital! \n\n\nFantine was seized with a fit of trembling.\n\n My child!  she cried,  to go and fetch my child! She is not here,\nthen! Answer me, sister; where is Cosette? I want my child! Monsieur\nMadeleine! Monsieur le Maire! \n\n\nJavert stamped his foot.\n\n And now there s the other one! Will you hold your tongue, you hussy?\nIt s a pretty sort of a place where convicts are magistrates, and where\nwomen of the town are cared for like countesses! Ah! But we are going\nto change all that; it is high time! \n\n\nHe stared intently at Fantine, and added, once more taking into his\ngrasp Jean Valjean s cravat, shirt and collar: \n\n I tell you that there is no Monsieur Madeleine and that there is no\nMonsieur le Maire. There is a thief, a brigand, a convict named Jean\nValjean! And I have him in my grasp! That s what there is! \n\n\nFantine raised herself in bed with a bound, supporting herself on her\nstiffened arms and on both hands: she gazed at Jean Valjean, she gazed\nat Javert, she gazed at the nun, she opened her mouth as though to\nspeak; a rattle proceeded from the depths of her throat, her teeth\nchattered; she stretched out her arms in her agony, opening her hands\nconvulsively, and fumbling about her like a drowning person; then\nsuddenly fell back on her pillow.\n\nHer head struck the head-board of the bed and fell forwards on her\nbreast, with gaping mouth and staring, sightless eyes.\n\nShe was dead.\n\nJean Valjean laid his hand upon the detaining hand of Javert, and\nopened it as he would have opened the hand of a baby; then he said to\nJavert: \n\n You have murdered that woman. \n\n\n Let s have an end of this!  shouted Javert, in a fury;  I am not here\nto listen to argument. Let us economize all that; the guard is below;\nmarch on instantly, or you ll get the thumb-screws! \n\n\nIn the corner of the room stood an old iron bedstead, which was in a\ndecidedly decrepit state, and which served the sisters as a camp-bed\nwhen they were watching with the sick. Jean Valjean stepped up to this\nbed, in a twinkling wrenched off the head-piece, which was already in a\ndilapidated condition, an easy matter to muscles like his, grasped the\nprincipal rod like a bludgeon, and glanced at Javert. Javert retreated\ntowards the door. Jean Valjean, armed with his bar of iron, walked\nslowly up to Fantine s couch. When he arrived there he turned and said\nto Javert, in a voice that was barely audible: \n\n I advise you not to disturb me at this moment. \n\n\nOne thing is certain, and that is, that Javert trembled.\n\nIt did occur to him to summon the guard, but Jean Valjean might avail\nhimself of that moment to effect his escape; so he remained, grasped\nhis cane by the small end, and leaned against the door-post, without\nremoving his eyes from Jean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean rested his elbow on the knob at the head of the bed, and\nhis brow on his hand, and began to contemplate the motionless body of\nFantine, which lay extended there. He remained thus, mute, absorbed,\nevidently with no further thought of anything connected with this life.\nUpon his face and in his attitude there was nothing but inexpressible\npity. After a few moments of this meditation he bent towards Fantine,\nand spoke to her in a low voice.\n\nWhat did he say to her? What could this man, who was reproved, say to\nthat woman, who was dead? What words were those? No one on earth heard\nthem. Did the dead woman hear them? There are some touching illusions\nwhich are, perhaps, sublime realities. The point as to which there\nexists no doubt is, that Sister Simplice, the sole witness of the\nincident, often said that at the moment that Jean Valjean whispered in\nFantine s ear, she distinctly beheld an ineffable smile dawn on those\npale lips, and in those dim eyes, filled with the amazement of the\ntomb.\n\nJean Valjean took Fantine s head in both his hands, and arranged it on\nthe pillow as a mother might have done for her child; then he tied the\nstring of her chemise, and smoothed her hair back under her cap. That\ndone, he closed her eyes.\n\nFantine s face seemed strangely illuminated at that moment.\n\nDeath, that signifies entrance into the great light.\n\nFantine s hand was hanging over the side of the bed. Jean Valjean knelt\ndown before that hand, lifted it gently, and kissed it.\n\nThen he rose, and turned to Javert.\n\n Now,  said he,  I am at your disposal. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V A SUITABLE TOMB\n\n\nJavert deposited Jean Valjean in the city prison.\n\nThe arrest of M. Madeleine occasioned a sensation, or rather, an\nextraordinary commotion in M. sur M. We are sorry that we cannot\nconceal the fact, that at the single word,  He was a convict,  nearly\nevery one deserted him. In less than two hours all the good that he had\ndone had been forgotten, and he was nothing but a  convict from the\ngalleys.  It is just to add that the details of what had taken place at\nArras were not yet known. All day long conversations like the following\nwere to be heard in all quarters of the town: \n\n You don t know? He was a liberated convict!   Who?   The mayor.   Bah!\nM. Madeleine?   Yes.   Really?   His name was not Madeleine at all; he\nhad a frightful name, B jean, Bojean, Boujean.   Ah! Good God!   He has\nbeen arrested.   Arrested!   In prison, in the city prison, while\nwaiting to be transferred.   Until he is transferred!   He is to be\ntransferred!   Where is he to be taken?   He will be tried at the\nAssizes for a highway robbery which he committed long ago.   Well! I\nsuspected as much. That man was too good, too perfect, too affected. He\nrefused the cross; he bestowed sous on all the little scamps he came\nacross. I always thought there was some evil history back of all that. \n\n\nThe  drawing-rooms  particularly abounded in remarks of this nature.\n\nOne old lady, a subscriber to the _Drapeau Blanc_, made the following\nremark, the depth of which it is impossible to fathom: \n\n I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapartists! \n\n\nIt was thus that the phantom which had been called M. Madeleine\nvanished from M. sur M. Only three or four persons in all the town\nremained faithful to his memory. The old portress who had served him\nwas among the number.\n\nOn the evening of that day the worthy old woman was sitting in her\nlodge, still in a thorough fright, and absorbed in sad reflections. The\nfactory had been closed all day, the carriage gate was bolted, the\nstreet was deserted. There was no one in the house but the two nuns,\nSister Perp tue and Sister Simplice, who were watching beside the body\nof Fantine.\n\nTowards the hour when M. Madeleine was accustomed to return home, the\ngood portress rose mechanically, took from a drawer the key of M.\nMadeleine s chamber, and the flat candlestick which he used every\nevening to go up to his quarters; then she hung the key on the nail\nwhence he was accustomed to take it, and set the candlestick on one\nside, as though she was expecting him. Then she sat down again on her\nchair, and became absorbed in thought once more. The poor, good old\nwoman had done all this without being conscious of it.\n\nIt was only at the expiration of two hours that she roused herself from\nher reverie, and exclaimed,  Hold! My good God Jesus! And I hung his\nkey on the nail! \n\n\nAt that moment the small window in the lodge opened, a hand passed\nthrough, seized the key and the candlestick, and lighted the taper at\nthe candle which was burning there.\n\nThe portress raised her eyes, and stood there with gaping mouth, and a\nshriek which she confined to her throat.\n\nShe knew that hand, that arm, the sleeve of that coat.\n\nIt was M. Madeleine.\n\nIt was several seconds before she could speak; she had a _seizure_, as\nshe said herself, when she related the adventure afterwards.\n\n Good God, Monsieur le Maire,  she cried at last,  I thought you were \n\n\nShe stopped; the conclusion of her sentence would have been lacking in\nrespect towards the beginning. Jean Valjean was still Monsieur le Maire\nto her.\n\nHe finished her thought.\n\n In prison,  said he.  I was there; I broke a bar of one of the\nwindows; I let myself drop from the top of a roof, and here I am. I am\ngoing up to my room; go and find Sister Simplice for me. She is with\nthat poor woman, no doubt. \n\n\nThe old woman obeyed in all haste.\n\nHe gave her no orders; he was quite sure that she would guard him\nbetter than he should guard himself.\n\nNo one ever found out how he had managed to get into the courtyard\nwithout opening the big gates. He had, and always carried about him, a\npass-key which opened a little side-door; but he must have been\nsearched, and his latch-key must have been taken from him. This point\nwas never explained.\n\nHe ascended the staircase leading to his chamber. On arriving at the\ntop, he left his candle on the top step of his stairs, opened his door\nwith very little noise, went and closed his window and his shutters by\nfeeling, then returned for his candle and re-entered his room.\n\nIt was a useful precaution; it will be recollected that his window\ncould be seen from the street.\n\nHe cast a glance about him, at his table, at his chair, at his bed\nwhich had not been disturbed for three days. No trace of the disorder\nof the night before last remained. The portress had  done up  his room;\nonly she had picked out of the ashes and placed neatly on the table the\ntwo iron ends of the cudgel and the forty-sou piece which had been\nblackened by the fire.\n\nHe took a sheet of paper, on which he wrote:  These are the two tips of\nmy iron-shod cudgel and the forty-sou piece stolen from Little Gervais,\nwhich I mentioned at the Court of Assizes,  and he arranged this piece\nof paper, the bits of iron, and the coin in such a way that they were\nthe first things to be seen on entering the room. From a cupboard he\npulled out one of his old shirts, which he tore in pieces. In the\nstrips of linen thus prepared he wrapped the two silver candlesticks.\nHe betrayed neither haste nor agitation; and while he was wrapping up\nthe Bishop s candlesticks, he nibbled at a piece of black bread. It was\nprobably the prison-bread which he had carried with him in his flight.\n\nThis was proved by the crumbs which were found on the floor of the room\nwhen the authorities made an examination later on.\n\nThere came two taps at the door.\n\n Come in,  said he.\n\nIt was Sister Simplice.\n\nShe was pale; her eyes were red; the candle which she carried trembled\nin her hand. The peculiar feature of the violences of destiny is, that\nhowever polished or cool we may be, they wring human nature from our\nvery bowels, and force it to reappear on the surface. The emotions of\nthat day had turned the nun into a woman once more. She had wept, and\nshe was trembling.\n\nJean Valjean had just finished writing a few lines on a paper, which he\nhanded to the nun, saying,  Sister, you will give this to Monsieur le\nCur . \n\n\nThe paper was not folded. She cast a glance upon it.\n\n You can read it,  said he.\n\nShe read: \n\n I beg Monsieur le Cur  to keep an eye on all that I leave behind me.\nHe will be so good as to pay out of it the expenses of my trial, and of\nthe funeral of the woman who died yesterday. The rest is for the poor. \n\n\nThe sister tried to speak, but she only managed to stammer a few\ninarticulate sounds. She succeeded in saying, however: \n\n Does not Monsieur le Maire desire to take a last look at that poor,\nunhappy woman? \n\n\n No,  said he;  I am pursued; it would only end in their arresting me\nin that room, and that would disturb her. \n\n\nHe had hardly finished when a loud noise became audible on the\nstaircase. They heard a tumult of ascending footsteps, and the old\nportress saying in her loudest and most piercing tones: \n\n My good sir, I swear to you by the good God, that not a soul has\nentered this house all day, nor all the evening, and that I have not\neven left the door. \n\n\nA man responded: \n\n But there is a light in that room, nevertheless. \n\n\nThey recognized Javert s voice.\n\nThe chamber was so arranged that the door in opening masked the corner\nof the wall on the right. Jean Valjean blew out the light and placed\nhimself in this angle. Sister Simplice fell on her knees near the\ntable.\n\nThe door opened.\n\nJavert entered.\n\nThe whispers of many men and the protestations of the portress were\naudible in the corridor.\n\nThe nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying.\n\nThe candle was on the chimney-piece, and gave but very little light.\n\nJavert caught sight of the nun and halted in amazement.\n\nIt will be remembered that the fundamental point in Javert, his\nelement, the very air he breathed, was veneration for all authority.\nThis was impregnable, and admitted of neither objection nor\nrestriction. In his eyes, of course, the ecclesiastical authority was\nthe chief of all; he was religious, superficial and correct on this\npoint as on all others. In his eyes, a priest was a mind, who never\nmakes a mistake; a nun was a creature who never sins; they were souls\nwalled in from this world, with a single door which never opened except\nto allow the truth to pass through.\n\nOn perceiving the sister, his first movement was to retire.\n\nBut there was also another duty which bound him and impelled him\nimperiously in the opposite direction. His second movement was to\nremain and to venture on at least one question.\n\nThis was Sister Simplice, who had never told a lie in her life. Javert\nknew it, and held her in special veneration in consequence.\n\n Sister,  said he,  are you alone in this room? \n\n\nA terrible moment ensued, during which the poor portress felt as though\nshe should faint.\n\nThe sister raised her eyes and answered: \n\n Yes. \n\n\n Then,  resumed Javert,  you will excuse me if I persist; it is my\nduty; you have not seen a certain person a man this evening? He has\nescaped; we are in search of him that Jean Valjean; you have not seen\nhim? \n\n\nThe sister replied: \n\n No. \n\n\nShe lied. She had lied twice in succession, one after the other,\nwithout hesitation, promptly, as a person does when sacrificing\nherself.\n\n Pardon me,  said Javert, and he retired with a deep bow.\n\nO sainted maid! you left this world many years ago; you have rejoined\nyour sisters, the virgins, and your brothers, the angels, in the light;\nmay this lie be counted to your credit in paradise!\n\nThe sister s affirmation was for Javert so decisive a thing that he did\nnot even observe the singularity of that candle which had but just been\nextinguished, and which was still smoking on the table.\n\nAn hour later, a man, marching amid trees and mists, was rapidly\ndeparting from M. sur M. in the direction of Paris. That man was Jean\nValjean. It has been established by the testimony of two or three\ncarters who met him, that he was carrying a bundle; that he was dressed\nin a blouse. Where had he obtained that blouse? No one ever found out.\nBut an aged workman had died in the infirmary of the factory a few days\nbefore, leaving behind him nothing but his blouse. Perhaps that was the\none.\n\nOne last word about Fantine.\n\nWe all have a mother, the earth. Fantine was given back to that mother.\n\nThe cur  thought that he was doing right, and perhaps he really was, in\nreserving as much money as possible from what Jean Valjean had left for\nthe poor. Who was concerned, after all? A convict and a woman of the\ntown. That is why he had a very simple funeral for Fantine, and reduced\nit to that strictly necessary form known as the pauper s grave.\n\nSo Fantine was buried in the free corner of the cemetery which belongs\nto anybody and everybody, and where the poor are lost. Fortunately, God\nknows where to find the soul again. Fantine was laid in the shade,\namong the first bones that came to hand; she was subjected to the\npromiscuousness of ashes. She was thrown into the public grave. Her\ngrave resembled her bed.\n\n[THE END OF VOLUME I  FANTINE ]\n\n[Illustration: Frontispiece Volume Two]\n\n[Illustration: Titlepage Volume Two]\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME II\nCOSETTE\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIRST WATERLOO\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I WHAT IS MET WITH ON THE WAY FROM NIVELLES\n\n\nLast year (1861), on a beautiful May morning, a traveller, the person\nwho is telling this story, was coming from Nivelles, and directing his\ncourse towards La Hulpe. He was on foot. He was pursuing a broad paved\nroad, which undulated between two rows of trees, over the hills which\nsucceed each other, raise the road and let it fall again, and produce\nsomething in the nature of enormous waves.\n\nHe had passed Lillois and Bois-Seigneur-Isaac. In the west he perceived\nthe slate-roofed tower of Braine-l Alleud, which has the form of a\nreversed vase. He had just left behind a wood upon an eminence; and at\nthe angle of the crossroad, by the side of a sort of mouldy gibbet\nbearing the inscription _Ancient Barrier No. 4_, a public house,\nbearing on its front this sign: _At the Four Winds_ (Aux Quatre Vents).\n_ chabeau, Private Caf _.\n\nA quarter of a league further on, he arrived at the bottom of a little\nvalley, where there is water which passes beneath an arch made through\nthe embankment of the road. The clump of sparsely planted but very\ngreen trees, which fills the valley on one side of the road, is\ndispersed over the meadows on the other, and disappears gracefully and\nas in order in the direction of Braine-l Alleud.\n\nOn the right, close to the road, was an inn, with a four-wheeled cart\nat the door, a large bundle of hop-poles, a plough, a heap of dried\nbrushwood near a flourishing hedge, lime smoking in a square hole, and\na ladder suspended along an old penthouse with straw partitions. A\nyoung girl was weeding in a field, where a huge yellow poster, probably\nof some outside spectacle, such as a parish festival, was fluttering in\nthe wind. At one corner of the inn, beside a pool in which a flotilla\nof ducks was navigating, a badly paved path plunged into the bushes.\nThe wayfarer struck into this.\n\nAfter traversing a hundred paces, skirting a wall of the fifteenth\ncentury, surmounted by a pointed gable, with bricks set in contrast, he\nfound himself before a large door of arched stone, with a rectilinear\nimpost, in the sombre style of Louis XIV., flanked by two flat\nmedallions. A severe fa ade rose above this door; a wall, perpendicular\nto the fa ade, almost touched the door, and flanked it with an abrupt\nright angle. In the meadow before the door lay three harrows, through\nwhich, in disorder, grew all the flowers of May. The door was closed.\nThe two decrepit leaves which barred it were ornamented with an old\nrusty knocker.\n\nThe sun was charming; the branches had that soft shivering of May,\nwhich seems to proceed rather from the nests than from the wind. A\nbrave little bird, probably a lover, was carolling in a distracted\nmanner in a large tree.\n\nThe wayfarer bent over and examined a rather large circular excavation,\nresembling the hollow of a sphere, in the stone on the left, at the\nfoot of the pier of the door.\n\nAt this moment the leaves of the door parted, and a peasant woman\nemerged.\n\nShe saw the wayfarer, and perceived what he was looking at.\n\n It was a French cannon-ball which made that,  she said to him. And she\nadded: \n\n That which you see there, higher up in the door, near a nail, is the\nhole of a big iron bullet as large as an egg. The bullet did not pierce\nthe wood. \n\n\n What is the name of this place?  inquired the wayfarer.\n\n Hougomont,  said the peasant woman.\n\nThe traveller straightened himself up. He walked on a few paces, and\nwent off to look over the tops of the hedges. On the horizon through\nthe trees, he perceived a sort of little elevation, and on this\nelevation something which at that distance resembled a lion.\n\nHe was on the battle-field of Waterloo.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II HOUGOMONT\n\n\nHougomont, this was a funereal spot, the beginning of the obstacle, the\nfirst resistance, which that great wood-cutter of Europe, called\nNapoleon, encountered at Waterloo, the first knot under the blows of\nhis axe.\n\nIt was a ch teau; it is no longer anything but a farm. For the\nantiquary, Hougomont is _Hugomons_. This manor was built by Hugo, Sire\nof Somerel, the same who endowed the sixth chaplaincy of the Abbey of\nVilliers.\n\nThe traveller pushed open the door, elbowed an ancient calash under the\nporch, and entered the courtyard.\n\nThe first thing which struck him in this paddock was a door of the\nsixteenth century, which here simulates an arcade, everything else\nhaving fallen prostrate around it. A monumental aspect often has its\nbirth in ruin. In a wall near the arcade opens another arched door, of\nthe time of Henry IV., permitting a glimpse of the trees of an orchard;\nbeside this door, a manure-hole, some pickaxes, some shovels, some\ncarts, an old well, with its flagstone and its iron reel, a chicken\njumping, and a turkey spreading its tail, a chapel surmounted by a\nsmall bell-tower, a blossoming pear-tree trained in espalier against\nthe wall of the chapel behold the court, the conquest of which was one\nof Napoleon s dreams. This corner of earth, could he but have seized\nit, would, perhaps, have given him the world likewise. Chickens are\nscattering its dust abroad with their beaks. A growl is audible; it is\na huge dog, who shows his teeth and replaces the English.\n\nThe English behaved admirably there. Cooke s four companies of guards\nthere held out for seven hours against the fury of an army.\n\nHougomont viewed on the map, as a geometrical plan, comprising\nbuildings and enclosures, presents a sort of irregular rectangle, one\nangle of which is nicked out. It is this angle which contains the\nsouthern door, guarded by this wall, which commands it only a gun s\nlength away. Hougomont has two doors, the southern door, that of the\nch teau; and the northern door, belonging to the farm. Napoleon sent\nhis brother J r me against Hougomont; the divisions of Foy,\nGuilleminot, and Bachelu hurled themselves against it; nearly the\nentire corps of Reille was employed against it, and miscarried;\nKellermann s balls were exhausted on this heroic section of wall.\nBauduin s brigade was not strong enough to force Hougomont on the\nnorth, and the brigade of Soye could not do more than effect the\nbeginning of a breach on the south, but without taking it.\n\nThe farm buildings border the courtyard on the south. A bit of the\nnorth door, broken by the French, hangs suspended to the wall. It\nconsists of four planks nailed to two cross-beams, on which the scars\nof the attack are visible.\n\nThe northern door, which was beaten in by the French, and which has had\na piece applied to it to replace the panel suspended on the wall,\nstands half-open at the bottom of the paddock; it is cut squarely in\nthe wall, built of stone below, of brick above which closes in the\ncourtyard on the north. It is a simple door for carts, such as exist in\nall farms, with the two large leaves made of rustic planks: beyond lie\nthe meadows. The dispute over this entrance was furious. For a long\ntime, all sorts of imprints of bloody hands were visible on the\ndoor-posts. It was there that Bauduin was killed.\n\nThe storm of the combat still lingers in this courtyard; its horror is\nvisible there; the confusion of the fray was petrified there; it lives\nand it dies there; it was only yesterday. The walls are in the death\nagony, the stones fall; the breaches cry aloud; the holes are wounds;\nthe drooping, quivering trees seem to be making an effort to flee.\n\nThis courtyard was more built up in 1815 than it is to-day. Buildings\nwhich have since been pulled down then formed redans and angles.\n\nThe English barricaded themselves there; the French made their way in,\nbut could not stand their ground. Beside the chapel, one wing of the\nch teau, the only ruin now remaining of the manor of Hougomont, rises\nin a crumbling state, disembowelled, one might say. The ch teau served\nfor a dungeon, the chapel for a block-house. There men exterminated\neach other. The French, fired on from every point, from behind the\nwalls, from the summits of the garrets, from the depths of the cellars,\nthrough all the casements, through all the air-holes, through every\ncrack in the stones, fetched fagots and set fire to walls and men; the\nreply to the grape-shot was a conflagration.\n\nIn the ruined wing, through windows garnished with bars of iron, the\ndismantled chambers of the main building of brick are visible; the\nEnglish guards were in ambush in these rooms; the spiral of the\nstaircase, cracked from the ground floor to the very roof, appears like\nthe inside of a broken shell. The staircase has two stories; the\nEnglish, besieged on the staircase, and massed on its upper steps, had\ncut off the lower steps. These consisted of large slabs of blue stone,\nwhich form a heap among the nettles. Half a score of steps still cling\nto the wall; on the first is cut the figure of a trident. These\ninaccessible steps are solid in their niches. All the rest resembles a\njaw which has been denuded of its teeth. There are two old trees there:\none is dead; the other is wounded at its base, and is clothed with\nverdure in April. Since 1815 it has taken to growing through the\nstaircase.\n\nA massacre took place in the chapel. The interior, which has recovered\nits calm, is singular. The mass has not been said there since the\ncarnage. Nevertheless, the altar has been left there an altar of\nunpolished wood, placed against a background of roughhewn stone. Four\nwhitewashed walls, a door opposite the altar, two small arched windows;\nover the door a large wooden crucifix, below the crucifix a square\nair-hole stopped up with a bundle of hay; on the ground, in one corner,\nan old window-frame with the glass all broken to pieces such is the\nchapel. Near the altar there is nailed up a wooden statue of Saint\nAnne, of the fifteenth century; the head of the infant Jesus has been\ncarried off by a large ball. The French, who were masters of the chapel\nfor a moment, and were then dislodged, set fire to it. The flames\nfilled this building; it was a perfect furnace; the door was burned,\nthe floor was burned, the wooden Christ was not burned. The fire preyed\nupon his feet, of which only the blackened stumps are now to be seen;\nthen it stopped, a miracle, according to the assertion of the people of\nthe neighborhood. The infant Jesus, decapitated, was less fortunate\nthan the Christ.\n\nThe walls are covered with inscriptions. Near the feet of Christ this\nname is to be read: _Henquinez_. Then these others: _Conde de Rio Maior\nMarques y Marquesa de Almagro (Habana)_. There are French names with\nexclamation points, a sign of wrath. The wall was freshly whitewashed\nin 1849. The nations insulted each other there.\n\nIt was at the door of this chapel that the corpse was picked up which\nheld an axe in its hand; this corpse was Sub-Lieutenant Legros.\n\nOn emerging from the chapel, a well is visible on the left. There are\ntwo in this courtyard. One inquires, Why is there no bucket and pulley\nto this? It is because water is no longer drawn there. Why is water not\ndrawn there? Because it is full of skeletons.\n\nThe last person who drew water from the well was named Guillaume van\nKylsom. He was a peasant who lived at Hougomont, and was gardener\nthere. On the 18th of June, 1815, his family fled and concealed\nthemselves in the woods.\n\nThe forest surrounding the Abbey of Villiers sheltered these\nunfortunate people who had been scattered abroad, for many days and\nnights. There are at this day certain traces recognizable, such as old\nboles of burned trees, which mark the site of these poor bivouacs\ntrembling in the depths of the thickets.\n\nGuillaume van Kylsom remained at Hougomont,  to guard the ch teau,  and\nconcealed himself in the cellar. The English discovered him there. They\ntore him from his hiding-place, and the combatants forced this\nfrightened man to serve them, by administering blows with the flats of\ntheir swords. They were thirsty; this Guillaume brought them water. It\nwas from this well that he drew it. Many drank there their last\ndraught. This well where drank so many of the dead was destined to die\nitself.\n\nAfter the engagement, they were in haste to bury the dead bodies. Death\nhas a fashion of harassing victory, and she causes the pest to follow\nglory. The typhus is a concomitant of triumph. This well was deep, and\nit was turned into a sepulchre. Three hundred dead bodies were cast\ninto it. With too much haste perhaps. Were they all dead? Legend says\nthey were not. It seems that on the night succeeding the interment,\nfeeble voices were heard calling from the well.\n\nThis well is isolated in the middle of the courtyard. Three walls, part\nstone, part brick, and simulating a small, square tower, and folded\nlike the leaves of a screen, surround it on all sides. The fourth side\nis open. It is there that the water was drawn. The wall at the bottom\nhas a sort of shapeless loophole, possibly the hole made by a shell.\nThis little tower had a platform, of which only the beams remain. The\niron supports of the well on the right form a cross. On leaning over,\nthe eye is lost in a deep cylinder of brick which is filled with a\nheaped-up mass of shadows. The base of the walls all about the well is\nconcealed in a growth of nettles.\n\nThis well has not in front of it that large blue slab which forms the\ntable for all wells in Belgium. The slab has here been replaced by a\ncross-beam, against which lean five or six shapeless fragments of\nknotty and petrified wood which resemble huge bones. There is no longer\neither pail, chain, or pulley; but there is still the stone basin which\nserved the overflow. The rain-water collects there, and from time to\ntime a bird of the neighboring forests comes thither to drink, and then\nflies away. One house in this ruin, the farmhouse, is still inhabited.\nThe door of this house opens on the courtyard. Upon this door, beside a\npretty Gothic lock-plate, there is an iron handle with trefoils placed\nslanting. At the moment when the Hanoverian lieutenant, Wilda, grasped\nthis handle in order to take refuge in the farm, a French sapper hewed\noff his hand with an axe.\n\nThe family who occupy the house had for their grandfather Guillaume van\nKylsom, the old gardener, dead long since. A woman with gray hair said\nto us:  I was there. I was three years old. My sister, who was older,\nwas terrified and wept. They carried us off to the woods. I went there\nin my mother s arms. We glued our ears to the earth to hear. I imitated\nthe cannon, and went _boum! boum!_ \n\n\nA door opening from the courtyard on the left led into the orchard, so\nwe were told. The orchard is terrible.\n\nIt is in three parts; one might almost say, in three acts. The first\npart is a garden, the second is an orchard, the third is a wood. These\nthree parts have a common enclosure: on the side of the entrance, the\nbuildings of the ch teau and the farm; on the left, a hedge; on the\nright, a wall; and at the end, a wall. The wall on the right is of\nbrick, the wall at the bottom is of stone. One enters the garden first.\nIt slopes downwards, is planted with gooseberry bushes, choked with a\nwild growth of vegetation, and terminated by a monumental terrace of\ncut stone, with balustrade with a double curve.\n\nIt was a seignorial garden in the first French style which preceded Le\nN tre; to-day it is ruins and briars. The pilasters are surmounted by\nglobes which resemble cannon-balls of stone. Forty-three balusters can\nstill be counted on their sockets; the rest lie prostrate in the grass.\nAlmost all bear scratches of bullets. One broken baluster is placed on\nthe pediment like a fractured leg.\n\nIt was in this garden, further down than the orchard, that six\nlight-infantry men of the 1st, having made their way thither, and being\nunable to escape, hunted down and caught like bears in their dens,\naccepted the combat with two Hanoverian companies, one of which was\narmed with carbines. The Hanoverians lined this balustrade and fired\nfrom above. The infantry men, replying from below, six against two\nhundred, intrepid and with no shelter save the currant-bushes, took a\nquarter of an hour to die.\n\nOne mounts a few steps and passes from the garden into the orchard,\nproperly speaking. There, within the limits of those few square\nfathoms, fifteen hundred men fell in less than an hour. The wall seems\nready to renew the combat. Thirty-eight loopholes, pierced by the\nEnglish at irregular heights, are there still. In front of the sixth\nare placed two English tombs of granite. There are loopholes only in\nthe south wall, as the principal attack came from that quarter. The\nwall is hidden on the outside by a tall hedge; the French came up,\nthinking that they had to deal only with a hedge, crossed it, and found\nthe wall both an obstacle and an ambuscade, with the English guards\nbehind it, the thirty-eight loopholes firing at once a shower of\ngrape-shot and balls, and Soye s brigade was broken against it. Thus\nWaterloo began.\n\nNevertheless, the orchard was taken. As they had no ladders, the French\nscaled it with their nails. They fought hand to hand amid the trees.\nAll this grass has been soaked in blood. A battalion of Nassau, seven\nhundred strong, was overwhelmed there. The outside of the wall, against\nwhich Kellermann s two batteries were trained, is gnawed by grape-shot.\n\nThis orchard is sentient, like others, in the month of May. It has its\nbuttercups and its daisies; the grass is tall there; the cart-horses\nbrowse there; cords of hair, on which linen is drying, traverse the\nspaces between the trees and force the passer-by to bend his head; one\nwalks over this uncultivated land, and one s foot dives into\nmole-holes. In the middle of the grass one observes an uprooted\ntree-bole which lies there all verdant. Major Blackmann leaned against\nit to die. Beneath a great tree in the neighborhood fell the German\ngeneral, Duplat, descended from a French family which fled on the\nrevocation of the Edict of Nantes. An aged and falling apple-tree leans\nfar over to one side, its wound dressed with a bandage of straw and of\nclayey loam. Nearly all the apple-trees are falling with age. There is\nnot one which has not had its bullet or its biscayan.6 The skeletons of\ndead trees abound in this orchard. Crows fly through their branches,\nand at the end of it is a wood full of violets.\n\nBauduin killed, Foy wounded, conflagration, massacre, carnage, a\nrivulet formed of English blood, French blood, German blood mingled in\nfury, a well crammed with corpses, the regiment of Nassau and the\nregiment of Brunswick destroyed, Duplat killed, Blackmann killed, the\nEnglish Guards mutilated, twenty French battalions, besides the forty\nfrom Reille s corps, decimated, three thousand men in that hovel of\nHougomont alone cut down, slashed to pieces, shot, burned, with their\nthroats cut, and all this so that a peasant can say to-day to the\ntraveller: _Monsieur, give me three francs, and if you like, I will\nexplain to you the affair of Waterloo!_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE EIGHTEENTH OF JUNE, 1815\n\n\nLet us turn back, that is one of the story-teller s rights, and put\nourselves once more in the year 1815, and even a little earlier than\nthe epoch when the action narrated in the first part of this book took\nplace.\n\nIf it had not rained in the night between the 17th and the 18th of\nJune, 1815, the fate of Europe would have been different. A few drops\nof water, more or less, decided the downfall of Napoleon. All that\nProvidence required in order to make Waterloo the end of Austerlitz was\na little more rain, and a cloud traversing the sky out of season\nsufficed to make a world crumble.\n\nThe battle of Waterloo could not be begun until half-past eleven\no clock, and that gave Bl cher time to come up. Why? Because the ground\nwas wet. The artillery had to wait until it became a little firmer\nbefore they could man uvre.\n\nNapoleon was an artillery officer, and felt the effects of this. The\nfoundation of this wonderful captain was the man who, in the report to\nthe Directory on Aboukir, said: _Such a one of our balls killed six\nmen_. All his plans of battle were arranged for projectiles. The key to\nhis victory was to make the artillery converge on one point. He treated\nthe strategy of the hostile general like a citadel, and made a breach\nin it. He overwhelmed the weak point with grape-shot; he joined and\ndissolved battles with cannon. There was something of the sharpshooter\nin his genius. To beat in squares, to pulverize regiments, to break\nlines, to crush and disperse masses, for him everything lay in this, to\nstrike, strike, strike incessantly, and he intrusted this task to the\ncannon-ball. A redoubtable method, and one which, united with genius,\nrendered this gloomy athlete of the pugilism of war invincible for the\nspace of fifteen years.\n\nOn the 18th of June, 1815, he relied all the more on his artillery,\nbecause he had numbers on his side. Wellington had only one hundred and\nfifty-nine mouths of fire; Napoleon had two hundred and forty.\n\nSuppose the soil dry, and the artillery capable of moving, the action\nwould have begun at six o clock in the morning. The battle would have\nbeen won and ended at two o clock, three hours before the change of\nfortune in favor of the Prussians. What amount of blame attaches to\nNapoleon for the loss of this battle? Is the shipwreck due to the\npilot?\n\nWas it the evident physical decline of Napoleon that complicated this\nepoch by an inward diminution of force? Had the twenty years of war\nworn out the blade as it had worn the scabbard, the soul as well as the\nbody? Did the veteran make himself disastrously felt in the leader? In\na word, was this genius, as many historians of note have thought,\nsuffering from an eclipse? Did he go into a frenzy in order to disguise\nhis weakened powers from himself? Did he begin to waver under the\ndelusion of a breath of adventure? Had he become a grave matter in a\ngeneral unconscious of peril? Is there an age, in this class of\nmaterial great men, who may be called the giants of action, when genius\ngrows short-sighted? Old age has no hold on the geniuses of the ideal;\nfor the Dantes and Michael Angelos to grow old is to grow in greatness;\nis it to grow less for the Hannibals and the Bonapartes? Had Napoleon\nlost the direct sense of victory? Had he reached the point where he\ncould no longer recognize the reef, could no longer divine the snare,\nno longer discern the crumbling brink of abysses? Had he lost his power\nof scenting out catastrophes? He who had in former days known all the\nroads to triumph, and who, from the summit of his chariot of lightning,\npointed them out with a sovereign finger, had he now reached that state\nof sinister amazement when he could lead his tumultuous legions\nharnessed to it, to the precipice? Was he seized at the age of\nforty-six with a supreme madness? Was that titanic charioteer of\ndestiny no longer anything more than an immense dare-devil?\n\nWe do not think so.\n\nHis plan of battle was, by the confession of all, a masterpiece. To go\nstraight to the centre of the Allies  line, to make a breach in the\nenemy, to cut them in two, to drive the British half back on Hal, and\nthe Prussian half on Tongres, to make two shattered fragments of\nWellington and Bl cher, to carry Mont-Saint-Jean, to seize Brussels, to\nhurl the German into the Rhine, and the Englishman into the sea. All\nthis was contained in that battle, according to Napoleon. Afterwards\npeople would see.\n\nOf course, we do not here pretend to furnish a history of the battle of\nWaterloo; one of the scenes of the foundation of the story which we are\nrelating is connected with this battle, but this history is not our\nsubject; this history, moreover, has been finished, and finished in a\nmasterly manner, from one point of view by Napoleon, and from another\npoint of view by a whole pleiad of historians.7\n\nAs for us, we leave the historians at loggerheads; we are but a distant\nwitness, a passer-by on the plain, a seeker bending over that soil all\nmade of human flesh, taking appearances for realities, perchance; we\nhave no right to oppose, in the name of science, a collection of facts\nwhich contain illusions, no doubt; we possess neither military practice\nnor strategic ability which authorize a system; in our opinion, a chain\nof accidents dominated the two leaders at Waterloo; and when it becomes\na question of destiny, that mysterious culprit, we judge like that\ningenious judge, the populace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV A\n\n\nThose persons who wish to gain a clear idea of the battle of Waterloo\nhave only to place, mentally, on the ground, a capital A. The left limb\nof the A is the road to Nivelles, the right limb is the road to\nGenappe, the tie of the A is the hollow road to Ohain from\nBraine-l Alleud. The top of the A is Mont-Saint-Jean, where Wellington\nis; the lower left tip is Hougomont, where Reille is stationed with\nJ r me Bonaparte; the right tip is the Belle-Alliance, where Napoleon\nwas. At the centre of this chord is the precise point where the final\nword of the battle was pronounced. It was there that the lion has been\nplaced, the involuntary symbol of the supreme heroism of the Imperial\nGuard.\n\nThe triangle included in the top of the A, between the two limbs and\nthe tie, is the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean. The dispute over this\nplateau constituted the whole battle. The wings of the two armies\nextended to the right and left of the two roads to Genappe and\nNivelles; d Erlon facing Picton, Reille facing Hill.\n\nBehind the tip of the A, behind the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean, is the\nforest of Soignes.\n\nAs for the plain itself, let the reader picture to himself a vast\nundulating sweep of ground; each rise commands the next rise, and all\nthe undulations mount towards Mont-Saint-Jean, and there end in the\nforest.\n\nTwo hostile troops on a field of battle are two wrestlers. It is a\nquestion of seizing the opponent round the waist. The one seeks to trip\nup the other. They clutch at everything: a bush is a point of support;\nan angle of the wall offers them a rest to the shoulder; for the lack\nof a hovel under whose cover they can draw up, a regiment yields its\nground; an unevenness in the ground, a chance turn in the landscape, a\ncross-path encountered at the right moment, a grove, a ravine, can stay\nthe heel of that colossus which is called an army, and prevent its\nretreat. He who quits the field is beaten; hence the necessity\ndevolving on the responsible leader, of examining the most\ninsignificant clump of trees, and of studying deeply the slightest\nrelief in the ground.\n\nThe two generals had attentively studied the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean,\nnow called the plain of Waterloo. In the preceding year, Wellington,\nwith the sagacity of foresight, had examined it as the possible seat of\na great battle. Upon this spot, and for this duel, on the 18th of June,\nWellington had the good post, Napoleon the bad post. The English army\nwas stationed above, the French army below.\n\nIt is almost superfluous here to sketch the appearance of Napoleon on\nhorseback, glass in hand, upon the heights of Rossomme, at daybreak, on\nJune 18, 1815. All the world has seen him before we can show him. That\ncalm profile under the little three-cornered hat of the school of\nBrienne, that green uniform, the white revers concealing the star of\nthe Legion of Honor, his great coat hiding his epaulets, the corner of\nred ribbon peeping from beneath his vest, his leather trousers, the\nwhite horse with the saddle-cloth of purple velvet bearing on the\ncorners crowned N s and eagles, Hessian boots over silk stockings,\nsilver spurs, the sword of Marengo, that whole figure of the last of\nthe C sars is present to all imaginations, saluted with acclamations by\nsome, severely regarded by others.\n\nThat figure stood for a long time wholly in the light; this arose from\na certain legendary dimness evolved by the majority of heroes, and\nwhich always veils the truth for a longer or shorter time; but to-day\nhistory and daylight have arrived.\n\nThat light called history is pitiless; it possesses this peculiar and\ndivine quality, that, pure light as it is, and precisely because it is\nwholly light, it often casts a shadow in places where people had\nhitherto beheld rays; from the same man it constructs two different\nphantoms, and the one attacks the other and executes justice on it, and\nthe shadows of the despot contend with the brilliancy of the leader.\nHence arises a truer measure in the definitive judgments of nations.\nBabylon violated lessens Alexander, Rome enchained lessens C sar,\nJerusalem murdered lessens Titus, tyranny follows the tyrant. It is a\nmisfortune for a man to leave behind him the night which bears his\nform.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V THE QUID OBSCURUM OF BATTLES\n\n\nEvery one is acquainted with the first phase of this battle; a\nbeginning which was troubled, uncertain, hesitating, menacing to both\narmies, but still more so for the English than for the French.\n\nIt had rained all night, the earth had been cut up by the downpour, the\nwater had accumulated here and there in the hollows of the plain as if\nin casks; at some points the gear of the artillery carriages was buried\nup to the axles, the circingles of the horses were dripping with liquid\nmud. If the wheat and rye trampled down by this cohort of transports on\nthe march had not filled in the ruts and strewn a litter beneath the\nwheels, all movement, particularly in the valleys, in the direction of\nPapelotte would have been impossible.\n\nThe affair began late. Napoleon, as we have already explained, was in\nthe habit of keeping all his artillery well in hand, like a pistol,\naiming it now at one point, now at another, of the battle; and it had\nbeen his wish to wait until the horse batteries could move and gallop\nfreely. In order to do that it was necessary that the sun should come\nout and dry the soil. But the sun did not make its appearance. It was\nno longer the rendezvous of Austerlitz. When the first cannon was\nfired, the English general, Colville, looked at his watch, and noted\nthat it was thirty-five minutes past eleven.\n\nThe action was begun furiously, with more fury, perhaps, than the\nEmperor would have wished, by the left wing of the French resting on\nHougomont. At the same time Napoleon attacked the centre by hurling\nQuiot s brigade on La Haie-Sainte, and Ney pushed forward the right\nwing of the French against the left wing of the English, which rested\non Papelotte.\n\nThe attack on Hougomont was something of a feint; the plan was to draw\nWellington thither, and to make him swerve to the left. This plan would\nhave succeeded if the four companies of the English guards and the\nbrave Belgians of Perponcher s division had not held the position\nsolidly, and Wellington, instead of massing his troops there, could\nconfine himself to despatching thither, as reinforcements, only four\nmore companies of guards and one battalion from Brunswick.\n\nThe attack of the right wing of the French on Papelotte was calculated,\nin fact, to overthrow the English left, to cut off the road to\nBrussels, to bar the passage against possible Prussians, to force\nMont-Saint-Jean, to turn Wellington back on Hougomont, thence on\nBraine-l Alleud, thence on Hal; nothing easier. With the exception of a\nfew incidents this attack succeeded. Papelotte was taken; La\nHaie-Sainte was carried.\n\nA detail to be noted. There was in the English infantry, particularly\nin Kempt s brigade, a great many raw recruits. These young soldiers\nwere valiant in the presence of our redoubtable infantry; their\ninexperience extricated them intrepidly from the dilemma; they\nperformed particularly excellent service as skirmishers: the soldier\nskirmisher, left somewhat to himself, becomes, so to speak, his own\ngeneral. These recruits displayed some of the French ingenuity and\nfury. This novice of an infantry had dash. This displeased Wellington.\n\nAfter the taking of La Haie-Sainte the battle wavered.\n\nThere is in this day an obscure interval, from midday to four o clock;\nthe middle portion of this battle is almost indistinct, and\nparticipates in the sombreness of the hand-to-hand conflict. Twilight\nreigns over it. We perceive vast fluctuations in that fog, a dizzy\nmirage, paraphernalia of war almost unknown to-day, pendant colbacks,\nfloating sabre-taches, cross-belts, cartridge-boxes for grenades,\nhussar dolmans, red boots with a thousand wrinkles, heavy shakos\ngarlanded with torsades, the almost black infantry of Brunswick mingled\nwith the scarlet infantry of England, the English soldiers with great,\nwhite circular pads on the slopes of their shoulders for epaulets, the\nHanoverian light-horse with their oblong casques of leather, with brass\nhands and red horse-tails, the Scotch with their bare knees and plaids,\nthe great white gaiters of our grenadiers; pictures, not strategic\nlines what Salvator Rosa requires, not what is suited to the needs of\nGribeauval.\n\nA certain amount of tempest is always mingled with a battle. _Quid\nobscurum, quid divinum_. Each historian traces, to some extent, the\nparticular feature which pleases him amid this pell-mell. Whatever may\nbe the combinations of the generals, the shock of armed masses has an\nincalculable ebb. During the action the plans of the two leaders enter\ninto each other and become mutually thrown out of shape. Such a point\nof the field of battle devours more combatants than such another, just\nas more or less spongy soils soak up more or less quickly the water\nwhich is poured on them. It becomes necessary to pour out more soldiers\nthan one would like; a series of expenditures which are the unforeseen.\nThe line of battle waves and undulates like a thread, the trails of\nblood gush illogically, the fronts of the armies waver, the regiments\nform capes and gulfs as they enter and withdraw; all these reefs are\ncontinually moving in front of each other. Where the infantry stood the\nartillery arrives, the cavalry rushes in where the artillery was, the\nbattalions are like smoke. There was something there; seek it. It has\ndisappeared; the open spots change place, the sombre folds advance and\nretreat, a sort of wind from the sepulchre pushes forward, hurls back,\ndistends, and disperses these tragic multitudes. What is a fray? an\noscillation? The immobility of a mathematical plan expresses a minute,\nnot a day. In order to depict a battle, there is required one of those\npowerful painters who have chaos in their brushes. Rembrandt is better\nthan Vandermeulen; Vandermeulen, exact at noon, lies at three o clock.\nGeometry is deceptive; the hurricane alone is trustworthy. That is what\nconfers on Folard the right to contradict Polybius. Let us add, that\nthere is a certain instant when the battle degenerates into a combat,\nbecomes specialized, and disperses into innumerable detailed feats,\nwhich, to borrow the expression of Napoleon himself,  belong rather to\nthe biography of the regiments than to the history of the army.  The\nhistorian has, in this case, the evident right to sum up the whole. He\ncannot do more than seize the principal outlines of the struggle, and\nit is not given to any one narrator, however conscientious he may be,\nto fix, absolutely, the form of that horrible cloud which is called a\nbattle.\n\nThis, which is true of all great armed encounters, is particularly\napplicable to Waterloo.\n\nNevertheless, at a certain moment in the afternoon the battle came to a\npoint.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI FOUR O CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON\n\n\nTowards four o clock the condition of the English army was serious. The\nPrince of Orange was in command of the centre, Hill of the right wing,\nPicton of the left wing. The Prince of Orange, desperate and intrepid,\nshouted to the Hollando-Belgians:  Nassau! Brunswick! Never retreat! \nHill, having been weakened, had come up to the support of Wellington;\nPicton was dead. At the very moment when the English had captured from\nthe French the flag of the 105th of the line, the French had killed the\nEnglish general, Picton, with a bullet through the head. The battle\nhad, for Wellington, two bases of action, Hougomont and La Haie-Sainte;\nHougomont still held out, but was on fire; La Haie-Sainte was taken. Of\nthe German battalion which defended it, only forty-two men survived;\nall the officers, except five, were either dead or captured. Three\nthousand combatants had been massacred in that barn. A sergeant of the\nEnglish Guards, the foremost boxer in England, reputed invulnerable by\nhis companions, had been killed there by a little French drummer-boy.\nBaring had been dislodged, Alten put to the sword. Many flags had been\nlost, one from Alten s division, and one from the battalion of\nLunenburg, carried by a prince of the house of Deux-Ponts. The Scotch\nGrays no longer existed; Ponsonby s great dragoons had been hacked to\npieces. That valiant cavalry had bent beneath the lancers of Bro and\nbeneath the cuirassiers of Travers; out of twelve hundred horses, six\nhundred remained; out of three lieutenant-colonels, two lay on the\nearth, Hamilton wounded, Mater slain. Ponsonby had fallen, riddled by\nseven lance-thrusts. Gordon was dead. Marsh was dead. Two divisions,\nthe fifth and the sixth, had been annihilated.\n\nHougomont injured, La Haie-Sainte taken, there now existed but one\nrallying-point, the centre. That point still held firm. Wellington\nreinforced it. He summoned thither Hill, who was at Merle-Braine; he\nsummoned Chass , who was at Braine-l Alleud.\n\nThe centre of the English army, rather concave, very dense, and very\ncompact, was strongly posted. It occupied the plateau of\nMont-Saint-Jean, having behind it the village, and in front of it the\nslope, which was tolerably steep then. It rested on that stout stone\ndwelling which at that time belonged to the domain of Nivelles, and\nwhich marks the intersection of the roads a pile of the sixteenth\ncentury, and so robust that the cannon-balls rebounded from it without\ninjuring it. All about the plateau the English had cut the hedges here\nand there, made embrasures in the hawthorn-trees, thrust the throat of\na cannon between two branches, embattled the shrubs. There artillery\nwas ambushed in the brushwood. This punic labor, incontestably\nauthorized by war, which permits traps, was so well done, that Haxo,\nwho had been despatched by the Emperor at nine o clock in the morning\nto reconnoitre the enemy s batteries, had discovered nothing of it, and\nhad returned and reported to Napoleon that there were no obstacles\nexcept the two barricades which barred the road to Nivelles and to\nGenappe. It was at the season when the grain is tall; on the edge of\nthe plateau a battalion of Kempt s brigade, the 95th, armed with\ncarabines, was concealed in the tall wheat.\n\nThus assured and buttressed, the centre of the Anglo-Dutch army was\nwell posted. The peril of this position lay in the forest of Soignes,\nthen adjoining the field of battle, and intersected by the ponds of\nGroenendael and Boitsfort. An army could not retreat thither without\ndissolving; the regiments would have broken up immediately there. The\nartillery would have been lost among the morasses. The retreat,\naccording to many a man versed in the art, though it is disputed by\nothers, would have been a disorganized flight.\n\nTo this centre, Wellington added one of Chass s brigades taken from\nthe right wing, and one of Wincke s brigades taken from the left wing,\nplus Clinton s division. To his English, to the regiments of Halkett,\nto the brigades of Mitchell, to the guards of Maitland, he gave as\nreinforcements and aids, the infantry of Brunswick, Nassau s\ncontingent, Kielmansegg s Hanoverians, and Ompteda s Germans. This\nplaced twenty-six battalions under his hand. _The right wing_, as\nCharras says, _was thrown back on the centre_. An enormous battery was\nmasked by sacks of earth at the spot where there now stands what is\ncalled the  Museum of Waterloo.  Besides this, Wellington had, behind a\nrise in the ground, Somerset s Dragoon Guards, fourteen hundred horse\nstrong. It was the remaining half of the justly celebrated English\ncavalry. Ponsonby destroyed, Somerset remained.\n\nThe battery, which, if completed, would have been almost a redoubt, was\nranged behind a very low garden wall, backed up with a coating of bags\nof sand and a large slope of earth. This work was not finished; there\nhad been no time to make a palisade for it.\n\nWellington, uneasy but impassive, was on horseback, and there remained\nthe whole day in the same attitude, a little in advance of the old mill\nof Mont-Saint-Jean, which is still in existence, beneath an elm, which\nan Englishman, an enthusiastic vandal, purchased later on for two\nhundred francs, cut down, and carried off. Wellington was coldly\nheroic. The bullets rained about him. His aide-de-camp, Gordon, fell at\nhis side. Lord Hill, pointing to a shell which had burst, said to him:\n My lord, what are your orders in case you are killed?   To do like\nme,  replied Wellington. To Clinton he said laconically,  To hold this\nspot to the last man.  The day was evidently turning out ill.\nWellington shouted to his old companions of Talavera, of Vittoria, of\nSalamanca:  Boys, can retreat be thought of? Think of old England! \n\n\nTowards four o clock, the English line drew back. Suddenly nothing was\nvisible on the crest of the plateau except the artillery and the\nsharpshooters; the rest had disappeared: the regiments, dislodged by\nthe shells and the French bullets, retreated into the bottom, now\nintersected by the back road of the farm of Mont-Saint-Jean; a\nretrograde movement took place, the English front hid itself,\nWellington drew back.  The beginning of retreat!  cried Napoleon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII NAPOLEON IN A GOOD HUMOR\n\n\nThe Emperor, though ill and discommoded on horseback by a local\ntrouble, had never been in a better humor than on that day. His\nimpenetrability had been smiling ever since the morning. On the 18th of\nJune, that profound soul masked by marble beamed blindly. The man who\nhad been gloomy at Austerlitz was gay at Waterloo. The greatest\nfavorites of destiny make mistakes. Our joys are composed of shadow.\nThe supreme smile is God s alone.\n\n_Ridet C sar, Pompeius flebit_, said the legionaries of the Fulminatrix\nLegion. Pompey was not destined to weep on that occasion, but it is\ncertain that C sar laughed. While exploring on horseback at one o clock\non the preceding night, in storm and rain, in company with Bertrand,\nthe communes in the neighborhood of Rossomme, satisfied at the sight of\nthe long line of the English camp-fires illuminating the whole horizon\nfrom Frischemont to Braine-l Alleud, it had seemed to him that fate, to\nwhom he had assigned a day on the field of Waterloo, was exact to the\nappointment; he stopped his horse, and remained for some time\nmotionless, gazing at the lightning and listening to the thunder; and\nthis fatalist was heard to cast into the darkness this mysterious\nsaying,  We are in accord.  Napoleon was mistaken. They were no longer\nin accord.\n\nHe took not a moment for sleep; every instant of that night was marked\nby a joy for him. He traversed the line of the principal outposts,\nhalting here and there to talk to the sentinels. At half-past two, near\nthe wood of Hougomont, he heard the tread of a column on the march; he\nthought at the moment that it was a retreat on the part of Wellington.\nHe said:  It is the rear-guard of the English getting under way for the\npurpose of decamping. I will take prisoners the six thousand English\nwho have just arrived at Ostend.  He conversed expansively; he regained\nthe animation which he had shown at his landing on the first of March,\nwhen he pointed out to the Grand-Marshal the enthusiastic peasant of\nthe Gulf Juan, and cried,  Well, Bertrand, here is a reinforcement\nalready!  On the night of the 17th to the 18th of June he rallied\nWellington.  That little Englishman needs a lesson,  said Napoleon. The\nrain redoubled in violence; the thunder rolled while the Emperor was\nspeaking.\n\nAt half-past three o clock in the morning, he lost one illusion;\nofficers who had been despatched to reconnoitre announced to him that\nthe enemy was not making any movement. Nothing was stirring; not a\nbivouac-fire had been extinguished; the English army was asleep. The\nsilence on earth was profound; the only noise was in the heavens. At\nfour o clock, a peasant was brought in to him by the scouts; this\npeasant had served as guide to a brigade of English cavalry, probably\nVivian s brigade, which was on its way to take up a position in the\nvillage of Ohain, at the extreme left. At five o clock, two Belgian\ndeserters reported to him that they had just quitted their regiment,\nand that the English army was ready for battle.  So much the better! \nexclaimed Napoleon.  I prefer to overthrow them rather than to drive\nthem back. \n\n\nIn the morning he dismounted in the mud on the slope which forms an\nangle with the Plancenoit road, had a kitchen table and a peasant s\nchair brought to him from the farm of Rossomme, seated himself, with a\ntruss of straw for a carpet, and spread out on the table the chart of\nthe battle-field, saying to Soult as he did so,  A pretty\nchecker-board. \n\n\nIn consequence of the rains during the night, the transports of\nprovisions, embedded in the soft roads, had not been able to arrive by\nmorning; the soldiers had had no sleep; they were wet and fasting. This\ndid not prevent Napoleon from exclaiming cheerfully to Ney,  We have\nninety chances out of a hundred.  At eight o clock the Emperor s\nbreakfast was brought to him. He invited many generals to it. During\nbreakfast, it was said that Wellington had been to a ball two nights\nbefore, in Brussels, at the Duchess of Richmond s; and Soult, a rough\nman of war, with a face of an archbishop, said,  The ball takes place\nto-day.  The Emperor jested with Ney, who said,  Wellington will not be\nso simple as to wait for Your Majesty.  That was his way, however.  He\nwas fond of jesting,  says Fleury de Chaboulon.  A merry humor was at\nthe foundation of his character,  says Gourgaud.  He abounded in\npleasantries, which were more peculiar than witty,  says Benjamin\nConstant. These gayeties of a giant are worthy of insistence. It was he\nwho called his grenadiers  his grumblers ; he pinched their ears; he\npulled their moustaches.  The Emperor did nothing but play pranks on\nus,  is the remark of one of them. During the mysterious trip from the\nisland of Elba to France, on the 27th of February, on the open sea, the\nFrench brig of war, _Le Z phyr_, having encountered the brig\n_L Inconstant_, on which Napoleon was concealed, and having asked the\nnews of Napoleon from _L Inconstant_, the Emperor, who still wore in\nhis hat the white and amaranthine cockade sown with bees, which he had\nadopted at the isle of Elba, laughingly seized the speaking-trumpet,\nand answered for himself,  The Emperor is well.  A man who laughs like\nthat is on familiar terms with events. Napoleon indulged in many fits\nof this laughter during the breakfast at Waterloo. After breakfast he\nmeditated for a quarter of an hour; then two generals seated themselves\non the truss of straw, pen in hand and their paper on their knees, and\nthe Emperor dictated to them the order of battle.\n\nAt nine o clock, at the instant when the French army, ranged in\nechelons and set in motion in five columns, had deployed the divisions\nin two lines, the artillery between the brigades, the music at their\nhead; as they beat the march, with rolls on the drums and the blasts of\ntrumpets, mighty, vast, joyous, a sea of casques, of sabres, and of\nbayonets on the horizon, the Emperor was touched, and twice exclaimed,\n Magnificent! Magnificent! \n\n\nBetween nine o clock and half-past ten the whole army, incredible as it\nmay appear, had taken up its position and ranged itself in six lines,\nforming, to repeat the Emperor s expression,  the figure of six V s.  A\nfew moments after the formation of the battle-array, in the midst of\nthat profound silence, like that which heralds the beginning of a\nstorm, which precedes engagements, the Emperor tapped Haxo on the\nshoulder, as he beheld the three batteries of twelve-pounders, detached\nby his orders from the corps of Erlon, Reille, and Lobau, and destined\nto begin the action by taking Mont-Saint-Jean, which was situated at\nthe intersection of the Nivelles and the Genappe roads, and said to\nhim,  There are four and twenty handsome maids, General. \n\n\nSure of the issue, he encouraged with a smile, as they passed before\nhim, the company of sappers of the first corps, which he had appointed\nto barricade Mont-Saint-Jean as soon as the village should be carried.\nAll this serenity had been traversed by but a single word of haughty\npity; perceiving on his left, at a spot where there now stands a large\ntomb, those admirable Scotch Grays, with their superb horses, massing\nthemselves, he said,  It is a pity. \n\n\nThen he mounted his horse, advanced beyond Rossomme, and selected for\nhis post of observation a contracted elevation of turf to the right of\nthe road from Genappe to Brussels, which was his second station during\nthe battle. The third station, the one adopted at seven o clock in the\nevening, between La Belle-Alliance and La Haie-Sainte, is formidable;\nit is a rather elevated knoll, which still exists, and behind which the\nguard was massed on a slope of the plain. Around this knoll the balls\nrebounded from the pavements of the road, up to Napoleon himself. As at\nBrienne, he had over his head the shriek of the bullets and of the\nheavy artillery. Mouldy cannon-balls, old sword-blades, and shapeless\nprojectiles, eaten up with rust, were picked up at the spot where his\nhorse s feet stood. _Scabra rubigine_. A few years ago, a shell of\nsixty pounds, still charged, and with its fuse broken off level with\nthe bomb, was unearthed. It was at this last post that the Emperor said\nto his guide, Lacoste, a hostile and terrified peasant, who was\nattached to the saddle of a hussar, and who turned round at every\ndischarge of canister and tried to hide behind Napoleon:  Fool, it is\nshameful! You ll get yourself killed with a ball in the back.  He who\nwrites these lines has himself found, in the friable soil of this\nknoll, on turning over the sand, the remains of the neck of a bomb,\ndisintegrated, by the oxidization of six and forty years, and old\nfragments of iron which parted like elder-twigs between the fingers.\n\nEvery one is aware that the variously inclined undulations of the\nplains, where the engagement between Napoleon and Wellington took\nplace, are no longer what they were on June 18, 1815. By taking from\nthis mournful field the wherewithal to make a monument to it, its real\nrelief has been taken away, and history, disconcerted, no longer finds\nher bearings there. It has been disfigured for the sake of glorifying\nit. Wellington, when he beheld Waterloo once more, two years later,\nexclaimed,  They have altered my field of battle!  Where the great\npyramid of earth, surmounted by the lion, rises to-day, there was a\nhillock which descended in an easy slope towards the Nivelles road, but\nwhich was almost an escarpment on the side of the highway to Genappe.\nThe elevation of this escarpment can still be measured by the height of\nthe two knolls of the two great sepulchres which enclose the road from\nGenappe to Brussels: one, the English tomb, is on the left; the other,\nthe German tomb, is on the right. There is no French tomb. The whole of\nthat plain is a sepulchre for France. Thanks to the thousands upon\nthousands of cartloads of earth employed in the hillock one hundred and\nfifty feet in height and half a mile in circumference, the plateau of\nMont-Saint-Jean is now accessible by an easy slope. On the day of\nbattle, particularly on the side of La Haie-Sainte, it was abrupt and\ndifficult of approach. The slope there is so steep that the English\ncannon could not see the farm, situated in the bottom of the valley,\nwhich was the centre of the combat. On the 18th of June, 1815, the\nrains had still farther increased this acclivity, the mud complicated\nthe problem of the ascent, and the men not only slipped back, but stuck\nfast in the mire. Along the crest of the plateau ran a sort of trench\nwhose presence it was impossible for the distant observer to divine.\n\nWhat was this trench? Let us explain. Braine-l Alleud is a Belgian\nvillage; Ohain is another. These villages, both of them concealed in\ncurves of the landscape, are connected by a road about a league and a\nhalf in length, which traverses the plain along its undulating level,\nand often enters and buries itself in the hills like a furrow, which\nmakes a ravine of this road in some places. In 1815, as at the present\nday, this road cut the crest of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean between\nthe two highways from Genappe and Nivelles; only, it is now on a level\nwith the plain; it was then a hollow way. Its two slopes have been\nappropriated for the monumental hillock. This road was, and still is, a\ntrench throughout the greater portion of its course; a hollow trench,\nsometimes a dozen feet in depth, and whose banks, being too steep,\ncrumbled away here and there, particularly in winter, under driving\nrains. Accidents happened here. The road was so narrow at the\nBraine-l Alleud entrance that a passer-by was crushed by a cart, as is\nproved by a stone cross which stands near the cemetery, and which gives\nthe name of the dead, _Monsieur Bernard Debrye, Merchant of Brussels_,\nand the date of the accident, _February, 1637_.8 It was so deep on the\ntable-land of Mont-Saint-Jean that a peasant, Mathieu Nicaise, was\ncrushed there, in 1783, by a slide from the slope, as is stated on\nanother stone cross, the top of which has disappeared in the process of\nclearing the ground, but whose overturned pedestal is still visible on\nthe grassy slope to the left of the highway between La Haie-Sainte and\nthe farm of Mont-Saint-Jean.\n\nOn the day of battle, this hollow road whose existence was in no way\nindicated, bordering the crest of Mont-Saint-Jean, a trench at the\nsummit of the escarpment, a rut concealed in the soil, was invisible;\nthat is to say, terrible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE EMPEROR PUTS A QUESTION TO THE GUIDE LACOSTE\n\n\nSo, on the morning of Waterloo, Napoleon was content.\n\nHe was right; the plan of battle conceived by him was, as we have seen,\nreally admirable.\n\nThe battle once begun, its very various changes, the resistance of\nHougomont; the tenacity of La Haie-Sainte; the killing of Bauduin; the\ndisabling of Foy; the unexpected wall against which Soye s brigade was\nshattered; Guilleminot s fatal heedlessness when he had neither petard\nnor powder sacks; the miring of the batteries; the fifteen unescorted\npieces overwhelmed in a hollow way by Uxbridge; the small effect of the\nbombs falling in the English lines, and there embedding themselves in\nthe rain-soaked soil, and only succeeding in producing volcanoes of\nmud, so that the canister was turned into a splash; the uselessness of\nPir s demonstration on Braine-l Alleud; all that cavalry, fifteen\nsquadrons, almost exterminated; the right wing of the English badly\nalarmed, the left wing badly cut into; Ney s strange mistake in\nmassing, instead of echelonning the four divisions of the first corps;\nmen delivered over to grape-shot, arranged in ranks twenty-seven deep\nand with a frontage of two hundred; the frightful holes made in these\nmasses by the cannon-balls; attacking columns disorganized; the\nside-battery suddenly unmasked on their flank; Bourgeois, Donzelot, and\nDurutte compromised; Quiot repulsed; Lieutenant Vieux, that Hercules\ngraduated at the Polytechnic School, wounded at the moment when he was\nbeating in with an axe the door of La Haie-Sainte under the downright\nfire of the English barricade which barred the angle of the road from\nGenappe to Brussels; Marcognet s division caught between the infantry\nand the cavalry, shot down at the very muzzle of the guns amid the\ngrain by Best and Pack, put to the sword by Ponsonby; his battery of\nseven pieces spiked; the Prince of Saxe-Weimar holding and guarding, in\nspite of the Comte d Erlon, both Frischemont and Smohain; the flag of\nthe 105th taken, the flag of the 45th captured; that black Prussian\nhussar stopped by runners of the flying column of three hundred light\ncavalry on the scout between Wavre and Plancenoit; the alarming things\nthat had been said by prisoners; Grouchy s delay; fifteen hundred men\nkilled in the orchard of Hougomont in less than an hour; eighteen\nhundred men overthrown in a still shorter time about La\nHaie-Sainte, all these stormy incidents passing like the clouds of\nbattle before Napoleon, had hardly troubled his gaze and had not\novershadowed that face of imperial certainty. Napoleon was accustomed\nto gaze steadily at war; he never added up the heart-rending details,\ncipher by cipher; ciphers mattered little to him, provided that they\nfurnished the total victory; he was not alarmed if the beginnings did\ngo astray, since he thought himself the master and the possessor at the\nend; he knew how to wait, supposing himself to be out of the question,\nand he treated destiny as his equal: he seemed to say to fate, Thou\nwilt not dare.\n\nComposed half of light and half of shadow, Napoleon thought himself\nprotected in good and tolerated in evil. He had, or thought that he\nhad, a connivance, one might almost say a complicity, of events in his\nfavor, which was equivalent to the invulnerability of antiquity.\n\nNevertheless, when one has B r sina, Leipzig, and Fontainebleau behind\none, it seems as though one might distrust Waterloo. A mysterious frown\nbecomes perceptible in the depths of the heavens.\n\nAt the moment when Wellington retreated, Napoleon shuddered. He\nsuddenly beheld the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean cleared, and the van\nof the English army disappear. It was rallying, but hiding itself. The\nEmperor half rose in his stirrups. The lightning of victory flashed\nfrom his eyes.\n\nWellington, driven into a corner at the forest of Soignes and\ndestroyed that was the definitive conquest of England by France; it was\nCr cy, Poitiers, Malplaquet, and Ramillies avenged. The man of Marengo\nwas wiping out Agincourt.\n\nSo the Emperor, meditating on this terrible turn of fortune, swept his\nglass for the last time over all the points of the field of battle. His\nguard, standing behind him with grounded arms, watched him from below\nwith a sort of religion. He pondered; he examined the slopes, noted the\ndeclivities, scrutinized the clumps of trees, the square of rye, the\npath; he seemed to be counting each bush. He gazed with some intentness\nat the English barricades of the two highways, two large abatis of\ntrees, that on the road to Genappe above La Haie-Sainte, armed with two\ncannon, the only ones out of all the English artillery which commanded\nthe extremity of the field of battle, and that on the road to Nivelles\nwhere gleamed the Dutch bayonets of Chass s brigade. Near this\nbarricade he observed the old chapel of Saint Nicholas, painted white,\nwhich stands at the angle of the crossroad near Braine-l Alleud; he\nbent down and spoke in a low voice to the guide Lacoste. The guide made\na negative sign with his head, which was probably perfidious.\n\nThe Emperor straightened himself up and fell to thinking.\n\nWellington had drawn back.\n\nAll that remained to do was to complete this retreat by crushing him.\n\nNapoleon turning round abruptly, despatched an express at full speed to\nParis to announce that the battle was won.\n\nNapoleon was one of those geniuses from whom thunder darts.\n\nHe had just found his clap of thunder.\n\nHe gave orders to Milhaud s cuirassiers to carry the table-land of\nMont-Saint-Jean.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX THE UNEXPECTED\n\n\nThere were three thousand five hundred of them. They formed a front a\nquarter of a league in extent. They were giant men, on colossal horses.\nThere were six and twenty squadrons of them; and they had behind them\nto support them Lefebvre-Desnouettes s division, the one hundred and\nsix picked gendarmes, the light cavalry of the Guard, eleven hundred\nand ninety-seven men, and the lancers of the guard of eight hundred and\neighty lances. They wore casques without horse-tails, and cuirasses of\nbeaten iron, with horse-pistols in their holsters, and long\nsabre-swords. That morning the whole army had admired them, when, at\nnine o clock, with braying of trumpets and all the music playing  Let\nus watch o er the Safety of the Empire,  they had come in a solid\ncolumn, with one of their batteries on their flank, another in their\ncentre, and deployed in two ranks between the roads to Genappe and\nFrischemont, and taken up their position for battle in that powerful\nsecond line, so cleverly arranged by Napoleon, which, having on its\nextreme left Kellermann s cuirassiers and on its extreme right\nMilhaud s cuirassiers, had, so to speak, two wings of iron.\n\nAide-de-camp Bernard carried them the Emperor s orders. Ney drew his\nsword and placed himself at their head. The enormous squadrons were set\nin motion.\n\nThen a formidable spectacle was seen.\n\nAll their cavalry, with upraised swords, standards and trumpets flung\nto the breeze, formed in columns by divisions, descended, by a\nsimultaneous movement and like one man, with the precision of a brazen\nbattering-ram which is effecting a breach, the hill of La Belle\nAlliance, plunged into the terrible depths in which so many men had\nalready fallen, disappeared there in the smoke, then emerging from that\nshadow, reappeared on the other side of the valley, still compact and\nin close ranks, mounting at a full trot, through a storm of grape-shot\nwhich burst upon them, the terrible muddy slope of the table-land of\nMont-Saint-Jean. They ascended, grave, threatening, imperturbable; in\nthe intervals between the musketry and the artillery, their colossal\ntrampling was audible. Being two divisions, there were two columns of\nthem; Wathier s division held the right, Delort s division was on the\nleft. It seemed as though two immense adders of steel were to be seen\ncrawling towards the crest of the table-land. It traversed the battle\nlike a prodigy.\n\nNothing like it had been seen since the taking of the great redoubt of\nthe Muskowa by the heavy cavalry; Murat was lacking here, but Ney was\nagain present. It seemed as though that mass had become a monster and\nhad but one soul. Each column undulated and swelled like the ring of a\npolyp. They could be seen through a vast cloud of smoke which was rent\nhere and there. A confusion of helmets, of cries, of sabres, a stormy\nheaving of the cruppers of horses amid the cannons and the flourish of\ntrumpets, a terrible and disciplined tumult; over all, the cuirasses\nlike the scales on the hydra.\n\nThese narrations seemed to belong to another age. Something parallel to\nthis vision appeared, no doubt, in the ancient Orphic epics, which told\nof the centaurs, the old hippanthropes, those Titans with human heads\nand equestrian chests who scaled Olympus at a gallop, horrible,\ninvulnerable, sublime gods and beasts.\n\nOdd numerical coincidence, twenty-six battalions rode to meet\ntwenty-six battalions. Behind the crest of the plateau, in the shadow\nof the masked battery, the English infantry, formed into thirteen\nsquares, two battalions to the square, in two lines, with seven in the\nfirst line, six in the second, the stocks of their guns to their\nshoulders, taking aim at that which was on the point of appearing,\nwaited, calm, mute, motionless. They did not see the cuirassiers, and\nthe cuirassiers did not see them. They listened to the rise of this\nflood of men. They heard the swelling noise of three thousand horse,\nthe alternate and symmetrical tramp of their hoofs at full trot, the\njingling of the cuirasses, the clang of the sabres and a sort of grand\nand savage breathing. There ensued a most terrible silence; then, all\nat once, a long file of uplifted arms, brandishing sabres, appeared\nabove the crest, and casques, trumpets, and standards, and three\nthousand heads with gray moustaches, shouting,  Vive l Empereur!  All\nthis cavalry debouched on the plateau, and it was like the appearance\nof an earthquake.\n\nAll at once, a tragic incident; on the English left, on our right, the\nhead of the column of cuirassiers reared up with a frightful clamor. On\narriving at the culminating point of the crest, ungovernable, utterly\ngiven over to fury and their course of extermination of the squares and\ncannon, the cuirassiers had just caught sight of a trench, a trench\nbetween them and the English. It was the hollow road of Ohain.\n\nIt was a terrible moment. The ravine was there, unexpected, yawning,\ndirectly under the horses  feet, two fathoms deep between its double\nslopes; the second file pushed the first into it, and the third pushed\non the second; the horses reared and fell backward, landed on their\nhaunches, slid down, all four feet in the air, crushing and\noverwhelming the riders; and there being no means of retreat, the whole\ncolumn being no longer anything more than a projectile, the force which\nhad been acquired to crush the English crushed the French; the\ninexorable ravine could only yield when filled; horses and riders\nrolled there pell-mell, grinding each other, forming but one mass of\nflesh in this gulf: when this trench was full of living men, the rest\nmarched over them and passed on. Almost a third of Dubois s brigade\nfell into that abyss.\n\nThis began the loss of the battle.\n\nA local tradition, which evidently exaggerates matters, says that two\nthousand horses and fifteen hundred men were buried in the hollow road\nof Ohain. This figure probably comprises all the other corpses which\nwere flung into this ravine the day after the combat.\n\nLet us note in passing that it was Dubois s sorely tried brigade which,\nan hour previously, making a charge to one side, had captured the flag\nof the Lunenburg battalion.\n\nNapoleon, before giving the order for this charge of Milhaud s\ncuirassiers, had scrutinized the ground, but had not been able to see\nthat hollow road, which did not even form a wrinkle on the surface of\nthe plateau. Warned, nevertheless, and put on the alert by the little\nwhite chapel which marks its angle of junction with the Nivelles\nhighway, he had probably put a question as to the possibility of an\nobstacle, to the guide Lacoste. The guide had answered No. We might\nalmost affirm that Napoleon s catastrophe originated in that sign of a\npeasant s head.\n\nOther fatalities were destined to arise.\n\nWas it possible that Napoleon should have won that battle? We answer\nNo. Why? Because of Wellington? Because of Bl cher? No. Because of God.\n\nBonaparte victor at Waterloo; that does not come within the law of the\nnineteenth century. Another series of facts was in preparation, in\nwhich there was no longer any room for Napoleon. The ill will of events\nhad declared itself long before.\n\nIt was time that this vast man should fall.\n\nThe excessive weight of this man in human destiny disturbed the\nbalance. This individual alone counted for more than a universal group.\nThese plethoras of all human vitality concentrated in a single head;\nthe world mounting to the brain of one man, this would be mortal to\ncivilization were it to last. The moment had arrived for the\nincorruptible and supreme equity to alter its plan. Probably the\nprinciples and the elements, on which the regular gravitations of the\nmoral, as of the material, world depend, had complained. Smoking blood,\nover-filled cemeteries, mothers in tears, these are formidable\npleaders. When the earth is suffering from too heavy a burden, there\nare mysterious groanings of the shades, to which the abyss lends an\near.\n\nNapoleon had been denounced in the infinite and his fall had been\ndecided on.\n\nHe embarrassed God.\n\nWaterloo is not a battle; it is a change of front on the part of the\nUniverse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X THE PLATEAU OF MONT-SAINT-JEAN\n\n\nThe battery was unmasked at the same moment with the ravine.\n\nSixty cannons and the thirteen squares darted lightning point-blank on\nthe cuirassiers. The intrepid General Delort made the military salute\nto the English battery.\n\nThe whole of the flying artillery of the English had re-entered the\nsquares at a gallop. The cuirassiers had not had even the time for a\nhalt. The disaster of the hollow road had decimated, but not\ndiscouraged them. They belonged to that class of men who, when\ndiminished in number, increase in courage.\n\nWathier s column alone had suffered in the disaster; Delort s column,\nwhich Ney had deflected to the left, as though he had a presentiment of\nan ambush, had arrived whole.\n\nThe cuirassiers hurled themselves on the English squares.\n\nAt full speed, with bridles loose, swords in their teeth, pistols in\nfist, such was the attack.\n\nThere are moments in battles in which the soul hardens the man until\nthe soldier is changed into a statue, and when all this flesh turns\ninto granite. The English battalions, desperately assaulted, did not\nstir.\n\nThen it was terrible.\n\nAll the faces of the English squares were attacked at once. A frenzied\nwhirl enveloped them. That cold infantry remained impassive. The first\nrank knelt and received the cuirassiers on their bayonets, the second\nranks shot them down; behind the second rank the cannoneers charged\ntheir guns, the front of the square parted, permitted the passage of an\neruption of grape-shot, and closed again. The cuirassiers replied by\ncrushing them. Their great horses reared, strode across the ranks,\nleaped over the bayonets and fell, gigantic, in the midst of these four\nliving wells. The cannon-balls ploughed furrows in these cuirassiers;\nthe cuirassiers made breaches in the squares. Files of men disappeared,\nground to dust under the horses. The bayonets plunged into the bellies\nof these centaurs; hence a hideousness of wounds which has probably\nnever been seen anywhere else. The squares, wasted by this mad cavalry,\nclosed up their ranks without flinching. Inexhaustible in the matter of\ngrape-shot, they created explosions in their assailants  midst. The\nform of this combat was monstrous. These squares were no longer\nbattalions, they were craters; those cuirassiers were no longer\ncavalry, they were a tempest. Each square was a volcano attacked by a\ncloud; lava contended with lightning.\n\nThe square on the extreme right, the most exposed of all, being in the\nair, was almost annihilated at the very first shock. lt was formed of\nthe 75th regiment of Highlanders. The bagpipe-player in the centre\ndropped his melancholy eyes, filled with the reflections of the forests\nand the lakes, in profound inattention, while men were being\nexterminated around him, and seated on a drum, with his pibroch under\nhis arm, played the Highland airs. These Scotchmen died thinking of Ben\nLothian, as did the Greeks recalling Argos. The sword of a cuirassier,\nwhich hewed down the bagpipes and the arm which bore it, put an end to\nthe song by killing the singer.\n\nThe cuirassiers, relatively few in number, and still further diminished\nby the catastrophe of the ravine, had almost the whole English army\nagainst them, but they multiplied themselves so that each man of them\nwas equal to ten. Nevertheless, some Hanoverian battalions yielded.\nWellington perceived it, and thought of his cavalry. Had Napoleon at\nthat same moment thought of his infantry, he would have won the battle.\nThis forgetfulness was his great and fatal mistake.\n\nAll at once, the cuirassiers, who had been the assailants, found\nthemselves assailed. The English cavalry was at their back. Before them\ntwo squares, behind them Somerset; Somerset meant fourteen hundred\ndragoons of the guard. On the right, Somerset had Dornberg with the\nGerman light-horse, and on his left, Trip with the Belgian carabineers;\nthe cuirassiers attacked on the flank and in front, before and in the\nrear, by infantry and cavalry, had to face all sides. What mattered it\nto them? They were a whirlwind. Their valor was something\nindescribable.\n\nIn addition to this, they had behind them the battery, which was still\nthundering. It was necessary that it should be so, or they could never\nhave been wounded in the back. One of their cuirasses, pierced on the\nshoulder by a ball from a biscayan,9 is in the collection of the\nWaterloo Museum.\n\nFor such Frenchmen nothing less than such Englishmen was needed. It was\nno longer a hand-to-hand conflict; it was a shadow, a fury, a dizzy\ntransport of souls and courage, a hurricane of lightning swords. In an\ninstant the fourteen hundred dragoon guards numbered only eight\nhundred. Fuller, their lieutenant-colonel, fell dead. Ney rushed up\nwith the lancers and Lefebvre-Desnouettes s light-horse. The plateau of\nMont-Saint-Jean was captured, recaptured, captured again. The\ncuirassiers quitted the cavalry to return to the infantry; or, to put\nit more exactly, the whole of that formidable rout collared each other\nwithout releasing the other. The squares still held firm.\n\nThere were a dozen assaults. Ney had four horses killed under him. Half\nthe cuirassiers remained on the plateau. This conflict lasted two\nhours.\n\nThe English army was profoundly shaken. There is no doubt that, had\nthey not been enfeebled in their first shock by the disaster of the\nhollow road the cuirassiers would have overwhelmed the centre and\ndecided the victory. This extraordinary cavalry petrified Clinton, who\nhad seen Talavera and Badajoz. Wellington, three-quarters vanquished,\nadmired heroically. He said in an undertone,  Sublime! \n\n\nThe cuirassiers annihilated seven squares out of thirteen, took or\nspiked sixty pieces of ordnance, and captured from the English\nregiments six flags, which three cuirassiers and three chasseurs of the\nGuard bore to the Emperor, in front of the farm of La Belle Alliance.\n\nWellington s situation had grown worse. This strange battle was like a\nduel between two raging, wounded men, each of whom, still fighting and\nstill resisting, is expending all his blood.\n\nWhich of the two will be the first to fall?\n\nThe conflict on the plateau continued.\n\nWhat had become of the cuirassiers? No one could have told. One thing\nis certain, that on the day after the battle, a cuirassier and his\nhorse were found dead among the woodwork of the scales for vehicles at\nMont-Saint-Jean, at the very point where the four roads from Nivelles,\nGenappe, La Hulpe, and Brussels meet and intersect each other. This\nhorseman had pierced the English lines. One of the men who picked up\nthe body still lives at Mont-Saint-Jean. His name is Dehaze. He was\neighteen years old at that time.\n\nWellington felt that he was yielding. The crisis was at hand.\n\nThe cuirassiers had not succeeded, since the centre was not broken\nthrough. As every one was in possession of the plateau, no one held it,\nand in fact it remained, to a great extent, with the English.\nWellington held the village and the culminating plain; Ney had only the\ncrest and the slope. They seemed rooted in that fatal soil on both\nsides.\n\nBut the weakening of the English seemed irremediable. The bleeding of\nthat army was horrible. Kempt, on the left wing, demanded\nreinforcements.  There are none,  replied Wellington;  he must let\nhimself be killed!  Almost at that same moment, a singular coincidence\nwhich paints the exhaustion of the two armies, Ney demanded infantry\nfrom Napoleon, and Napoleon exclaimed,  Infantry! Where does he expect\nme to get it? Does he think I can make it? \n\n\nNevertheless, the English army was in the worse case of the two. The\nfurious onsets of those great squadrons with cuirasses of iron and\nbreasts of steel had ground the infantry to nothing. A few men\nclustered round a flag marked the post of a regiment; such and such a\nbattalion was commanded only by a captain or a lieutenant; Alten s\ndivision, already so roughly handled at La Haie-Sainte, was almost\ndestroyed; the intrepid Belgians of Van Kluze s brigade strewed the\nrye-fields all along the Nivelles road; hardly anything was left of\nthose Dutch grenadiers, who, intermingled with Spaniards in our ranks\nin 1811, fought against Wellington; and who, in 1815, rallied to the\nEnglish standard, fought against Napoleon. The loss in officers was\nconsiderable. Lord Uxbridge, who had his leg buried on the following\nday, had his knee shattered. If, on the French side, in that tussle of\nthe cuirassiers, Delort, l H ritier, Colbert, Dnop, Travers, and\nBlancard were disabled, on the side of the English there was Alten\nwounded, Barne wounded, Delancey killed, Van Meeren killed, Ompteda\nkilled, the whole of Wellington s staff decimated, and England had the\nworse of it in that bloody scale. The second regiment of foot-guards\nhad lost five lieutenant-colonels, four captains, and three ensigns;\nthe first battalion of the 30th infantry had lost 24 officers and 1,200\nsoldiers; the 79th Highlanders had lost 24 officers wounded, 18\nofficers killed, 450 soldiers killed. The Hanoverian hussars of\nCumberland, a whole regiment, with Colonel Hacke at its head, who was\ndestined to be tried later on and cashiered, had turned bridle in the\npresence of the fray, and had fled to the forest of Soignes, sowing\ndefeat all the way to Brussels. The transports, ammunition-wagons, the\nbaggage-wagons, the wagons filled with wounded, on perceiving that the\nFrench were gaining ground and approaching the forest, rushed headlong\nthither. The Dutch, mowed down by the French cavalry, cried,  Alarm! \nFrom Vert-Coucou to Groenendael, for a distance of nearly two leagues\nin the direction of Brussels, according to the testimony of\neye-witnesses who are still alive, the roads were encumbered with\nfugitives. This panic was such that it attacked the Prince de Cond  at\nMechlin, and Louis XVIII. at Ghent. With the exception of the feeble\nreserve echelonned behind the ambulance established at the farm of\nMont-Saint-Jean, and of Vivian s and Vandeleur s brigades, which\nflanked the left wing, Wellington had no cavalry left. A number of\nbatteries lay unhorsed. These facts are attested by Siborne; and\nPringle, exaggerating the disaster, goes so far as to say that the\nAnglo-Dutch army was reduced to thirty-four thousand men. The Iron Duke\nremained calm, but his lips blanched. Vincent, the Austrian\ncommissioner, Alava, the Spanish commissioner, who were present at the\nbattle in the English staff, thought the Duke lost. At five o clock\nWellington drew out his watch, and he was heard to murmur these\nsinister words,  Bl cher, or night! \n\n\nIt was at about that moment that a distant line of bayonets gleamed on\nthe heights in the direction of Frischemont.\n\nHere comes the change of face in this giant drama.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI A BAD GUIDE TO NAPOLEON; A GOOD GUIDE TO B LOW\n\n\nThe painful surprise of Napoleon is well known. Grouchy hoped for,\nBl cher arriving. Death instead of life.\n\nFate has these turns; the throne of the world was expected; it was\nSaint Helena that was seen.\n\nIf the little shepherd who served as guide to B low, Bl cher s\nlieutenant, had advised him to debouch from the forest above\nFrischemont, instead of below Plancenoit, the form of the nineteenth\ncentury might, perhaps, have been different. Napoleon would have won\nthe battle of Waterloo. By any other route than that below Plancenoit,\nthe Prussian army would have come out upon a ravine impassable for\nartillery, and B low would not have arrived.\n\nNow the Prussian general, Muffling, declares that one hour s delay, and\nBl cher would not have found Wellington on his feet.  The battle was\nlost. \n\n\nIt was time that B low should arrive, as will be seen. He had,\nmoreover, been very much delayed. He had bivouacked at Dion-le-Mont,\nand had set out at daybreak; but the roads were impassable, and his\ndivisions stuck fast in the mire. The ruts were up to the hubs of the\ncannons. Moreover, he had been obliged to pass the Dyle on the narrow\nbridge of Wavre; the street leading to the bridge had been fired by the\nFrench, so the caissons and ammunition-wagons could not pass between\ntwo rows of burning houses, and had been obliged to wait until the\nconflagration was extinguished. It was midday before B low s vanguard\nhad been able to reach Chapelle-Saint-Lambert.\n\nHad the action been begun two hours earlier, it would have been over at\nfour o clock, and Bl cher would have fallen on the battle won by\nNapoleon. Such are these immense risks proportioned to an infinite\nwhich we cannot comprehend.\n\nThe Emperor had been the first, as early as midday, to descry with his\nfield-glass, on the extreme horizon, something which had attracted his\nattention. He had said,  I see yonder a cloud, which seems to me to be\ntroops.  Then he asked the Duc de Dalmatie,  Soult, what do you see in\nthe direction of Chapelle-Saint-Lambert?  The marshal, levelling his\nglass, answered,  Four or five thousand men, Sire; evidently Grouchy. \nBut it remained motionless in the mist. All the glasses of the staff\nhad studied  the cloud  pointed out by the Emperor. Some said:  It is\ntrees.  The truth is, that the cloud did not move. The Emperor detached\nDomon s division of light cavalry to reconnoitre in that quarter.\n\nB low had not moved, in fact. His vanguard was very feeble, and could\naccomplish nothing. He was obliged to wait for the body of the army\ncorps, and he had received orders to concentrate his forces before\nentering into line; but at five o clock, perceiving Wellington s peril,\nBl cher ordered B low to attack, and uttered these remarkable words:\n We must give air to the English army. \n\n\nA little later, the divisions of Losthin, Hiller, Hacke, and Ryssel\ndeployed before Lobau s corps, the cavalry of Prince William of Prussia\ndebouched from the forest of Paris, Plancenoit was in flames, and the\nPrussian cannon-balls began to rain even upon the ranks of the guard in\nreserve behind Napoleon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII THE GUARD\n\n\nEvery one knows the rest, the irruption of a third army; the battle\nbroken to pieces; eighty-six mouths of fire thundering simultaneously;\nPirch the first coming up with B low; Zieten s cavalry led by Bl cher\nin person, the French driven back; Marcognet swept from the plateau of\nOhain; Durutte dislodged from Papelotte; Donzelot and Quiot retreating;\nLobau caught on the flank; a fresh battle precipitating itself on our\ndismantled regiments at nightfall; the whole English line resuming the\noffensive and thrust forward; the gigantic breach made in the French\narmy; the English grape-shot and the Prussian grape-shot aiding each\nother; the extermination; disaster in front; disaster on the flank; the\nGuard entering the line in the midst of this terrible crumbling of all\nthings.\n\nConscious that they were about to die, they shouted,  Vive l Empereur! \nHistory records nothing more touching than that agony bursting forth in\nacclamations.\n\nThe sky had been overcast all day long. All of a sudden, at that very\nmoment, it was eight o clock in the evening the clouds on the horizon\nparted, and allowed the grand and sinister glow of the setting sun to\npass through, athwart the elms on the Nivelles road. They had seen it\nrise at Austerlitz.\n\nEach battalion of the Guard was commanded by a general for this final\ncatastrophe. Friant, Michel, Roguet, Harlet, Mallet, Poret de Morvan,\nwere there. When the tall caps of the grenadiers of the Guard, with\ntheir large plaques bearing the eagle appeared, symmetrical, in line,\ntranquil, in the midst of that combat, the enemy felt a respect for\nFrance; they thought they beheld twenty victories entering the field of\nbattle, with wings outspread, and those who were the conquerors,\nbelieving themselves to be vanquished, retreated; but Wellington\nshouted,  Up, Guards, and aim straight!  The red regiment of English\nguards, lying flat behind the hedges, sprang up, a cloud of grape-shot\nriddled the tricolored flag and whistled round our eagles; all hurled\nthemselves forwards, and the final carnage began. In the darkness, the\nImperial Guard felt the army losing ground around it, and in the vast\nshock of the rout it heard the desperate flight which had taken the\nplace of the  Vive l Empereur!  and, with flight behind it, it\ncontinued to advance, more crushed, losing more men at every step that\nit took. There were none who hesitated, no timid men in its ranks. The\nsoldier in that troop was as much of a hero as the general. Not a man\nwas missing in that suicide.\n\nNey, bewildered, great with all the grandeur of accepted death, offered\nhimself to all blows in that tempest. He had his fifth horse killed\nunder him there. Perspiring, his eyes aflame, foaming at the mouth,\nwith uniform unbuttoned, one of his epaulets half cut off by a\nsword-stroke from a horseguard, his plaque with the great eagle dented\nby a bullet; bleeding, bemired, magnificent, a broken sword in his\nhand, he said,  Come and see how a Marshal of France dies on the field\nof battle!  But in vain; he did not die. He was haggard and angry. At\nDrouet d Erlon he hurled this question,  Are you not going to get\nyourself killed?  In the midst of all that artillery engaged in\ncrushing a handful of men, he shouted:  So there is nothing for me! Oh!\nI should like to have all these English bullets enter my bowels! \nUnhappy man, thou wert reserved for French bullets!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII THE CATASTROPHE\n\n\nThe rout behind the Guard was melancholy.\n\nThe army yielded suddenly on all sides at once, Hougomont, La\nHaie-Sainte, Papelotte, Plancenoit. The cry  Treachery!  was followed\nby a cry of  Save yourselves who can!  An army which is disbanding is\nlike a thaw. All yields, splits, cracks, floats, rolls, falls, jostles,\nhastens, is precipitated. The disintegration is unprecedented. Ney\nborrows a horse, leaps upon it, and without hat, cravat, or sword,\nplaces himself across the Brussels road, stopping both English and\nFrench. He strives to detain the army, he recalls it to its duty, he\ninsults it, he clings to the rout. He is overwhelmed. The soldiers fly\nfrom him, shouting,  Long live Marshal Ney!  Two of Durutte s regiments\ngo and come in affright as though tossed back and forth between the\nswords of the Uhlans and the fusillade of the brigades of Kempt, Best,\nPack, and Rylandt; the worst of hand-to-hand conflicts is the defeat;\nfriends kill each other in order to escape; squadrons and battalions\nbreak and disperse against each other, like the tremendous foam of\nbattle. Lobau at one extremity, and Reille at the other, are drawn into\nthe tide. In vain does Napoleon erect walls from what is left to him of\nhis Guard; in vain does he expend in a last effort his last serviceable\nsquadrons. Quiot retreats before Vivian, Kellermann before Vandeleur,\nLobau before B low, Morand before Pirch, Domon and Subervic before\nPrince William of Prussia; Guyot, who led the Emperor s squadrons to\nthe charge, falls beneath the feet of the English dragoons. Napoleon\ngallops past the line of fugitives, harangues, urges, threatens,\nentreats them. All the mouths which in the morning had shouted,  Long\nlive the Emperor!  remain gaping; they hardly recognize him. The\nPrussian cavalry, newly arrived, dashes forwards, flies, hews, slashes,\nkills, exterminates. Horses lash out, the cannons flee; the soldiers of\nthe artillery-train unharness the caissons and use the horses to make\ntheir escape; transports overturned, with all four wheels in the air,\nclog the road and occasion massacres. Men are crushed, trampled down,\nothers walk over the dead and the living. Arms are lost. A dizzy\nmultitude fills the roads, the paths, the bridges, the plains, the\nhills, the valleys, the woods, encumbered by this invasion of forty\nthousand men. Shouts despair, knapsacks and guns flung among the rye,\npassages forced at the point of the sword, no more comrades, no more\nofficers, no more generals, an inexpressible terror. Zieten putting\nFrance to the sword at its leisure. Lions converted into goats. Such\nwas the flight.\n\nAt Genappe, an effort was made to wheel about, to present a battle\nfront, to draw up in line. Lobau rallied three hundred men. The\nentrance to the village was barricaded, but at the first volley of\nPrussian canister, all took to flight again, and Lobau was taken. That\nvolley of grape-shot can be seen to-day imprinted on the ancient gable\nof a brick building on the right of the road at a few minutes  distance\nbefore you enter Genappe. The Prussians threw themselves into Genappe,\nfurious, no doubt, that they were not more entirely the conquerors. The\npursuit was stupendous. Bl cher ordered extermination. Roguet had set\nthe lugubrious example of threatening with death any French grenadier\nwho should bring him a Prussian prisoner. Bl cher outdid Roguet.\nDuhesme, the general of the Young Guard, hemmed in at the doorway of an\ninn at Genappe, surrendered his sword to a huzzar of death, who took\nthe sword and slew the prisoner. The victory was completed by the\nassassination of the vanquished. Let us inflict punishment, since we\nare history: old Bl cher disgraced himself. This ferocity put the\nfinishing touch to the disaster. The desperate route traversed Genappe,\ntraversed Quatre-Bras, traversed Gosselies, traversed Frasnes,\ntraversed Charleroi, traversed Thuin, and only halted at the frontier.\nAlas! and who, then, was fleeing in that manner? The Grand Army.\n\nThis vertigo, this terror, this downfall into ruin of the loftiest\nbravery which ever astounded history, is that causeless? No. The shadow\nof an enormous right is projected athwart Waterloo. It is the day of\ndestiny. The force which is mightier than man produced that day. Hence\nthe terrified wrinkle of those brows; hence all those great souls\nsurrendering their swords. Those who had conquered Europe have fallen\nprone on the earth, with nothing left to say nor to do, feeling the\npresent shadow of a terrible presence. _Hoc erat in fatis_. That day\nthe perspective of the human race underwent a change. Waterloo is the\nhinge of the nineteenth century. The disappearance of the great man was\nnecessary to the advent of the great century. Some one, a person to\nwhom one replies not, took the responsibility on himself. The panic of\nheroes can be explained. In the battle of Waterloo there is something\nmore than a cloud, there is something of the meteor. God has passed by.\n\nAt nightfall, in a meadow near Genappe, Bernard and Bertrand seized by\nthe skirt of his coat and detained a man, haggard, pensive, sinister,\ngloomy, who, dragged to that point by the current of the rout, had just\ndismounted, had passed the bridle of his horse over his arm, and with\nwild eye was returning alone to Waterloo. It was Napoleon, the immense\nsomnambulist of this dream which had crumbled, essaying once more to\nadvance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV THE LAST SQUARE\n\n\nSeveral squares of the Guard, motionless amid this stream of the\ndefeat, as rocks in running water, held their own until night. Night\ncame, death also; they awaited that double shadow, and, invincible,\nallowed themselves to be enveloped therein. Each regiment, isolated\nfrom the rest, and having no bond with the army, now shattered in every\npart, died alone. They had taken up position for this final action,\nsome on the heights of Rossomme, others on the plain of\nMont-Saint-Jean. There, abandoned, vanquished, terrible, those gloomy\nsquares endured their death-throes in formidable fashion. Ulm, Wagram,\nJena, Friedland, died with them.\n\nAt twilight, towards nine o clock in the evening, one of them was left\nat the foot of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean. In that fatal valley, at\nthe foot of that declivity which the cuirassiers had ascended, now\ninundated by the masses of the English, under the converging fires of\nthe victorious hostile cavalry, under a frightful density of\nprojectiles, this square fought on. It was commanded by an obscure\nofficer named Cambronne. At each discharge, the square diminished and\nreplied. It replied to the grape-shot with a fusillade, continually\ncontracting its four walls. The fugitives pausing breathless for a\nmoment in the distance, listened in the darkness to that gloomy and\never-decreasing thunder.\n\nWhen this legion had been reduced to a handful, when nothing was left\nof their flag but a rag, when their guns, the bullets all gone, were no\nlonger anything but clubs, when the heap of corpses was larger than the\ngroup of survivors, there reigned among the conquerors, around those\nmen dying so sublimely, a sort of sacred terror, and the English\nartillery, taking breath, became silent. This furnished a sort of\nrespite. These combatants had around them something in the nature of a\nswarm of spectres, silhouettes of men on horseback, the black profiles\nof cannon, the white sky viewed through wheels and gun-carriages, the\ncolossal death s-head, which the heroes saw constantly through the\nsmoke, in the depths of the battle, advanced upon them and gazed at\nthem. Through the shades of twilight they could hear the pieces being\nloaded; the matches all lighted, like the eyes of tigers at night,\nformed a circle round their heads; all the lintstocks of the English\nbatteries approached the cannons, and then, with emotion, holding the\nsupreme moment suspended above these men, an English general, Colville\naccording to some, Maitland according to others, shouted to them,\n Surrender, brave Frenchmen!  Cambronne replied,  . \n\n\n{EDITOR S COMMENTARY: Another edition of this book has the word\n Merde!  in lieu of the   above.}\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV CAMBRONNE\n\n\nIf any French reader object to having his susceptibilities offended,\none would have to refrain from repeating in his presence what is\nperhaps the finest reply that a Frenchman ever made. This would enjoin\nus from consigning something sublime to History.\n\nAt our own risk and peril, let us violate this injunction.\n\nNow, then, among those giants there was one Titan, Cambronne.\n\nTo make that reply and then perish, what could be grander? For being\nwilling to die is the same as to die; and it was not this man s fault\nif he survived after he was shot.\n\nThe winner of the battle of Waterloo was not Napoleon, who was put to\nflight; nor Wellington, giving way at four o clock, in despair at five;\nnor Bl cher, who took no part in the engagement. The winner of Waterloo\nwas Cambronne.\n\nTo thunder forth such a reply at the lightning-flash that kills you is\nto conquer!\n\nThus to answer the Catastrophe, thus to speak to Fate, to give this\npedestal to the future lion, to hurl such a challenge to the midnight\nrainstorm, to the treacherous wall of Hougomont, to the sunken road of\nOhain, to Grouchy s delay, to Bl cher s arrival, to be Irony itself in\nthe tomb, to act so as to stand upright though fallen, to drown in two\nsyllables the European coalition, to offer kings privies which the\nC sars once knew, to make the lowest of words the most lofty by\nentwining with it the glory of France, insolently to end Waterloo with\nMardigras, to finish Leonidas with Rabellais, to set the crown on this\nvictory by a word impossible to speak, to lose the field and preserve\nhistory, to have the laugh on your side after such a carnage, this is\nimmense!\n\nIt was an insult such as a thunder-cloud might hurl! It reaches the\ngrandeur of  schylus!\n\nCambronne s reply produces the effect of a violent break.  Tis like the\nbreaking of a heart under a weight of scorn.  Tis the overflow of agony\nbursting forth. Who conquered? Wellington? No! Had it not been for\nBl cher, he was lost. Was it Bl cher? No! If Wellington had not begun,\nBl cher could not have finished. This Cambronne, this man spending his\nlast hour, this unknown soldier, this infinitesimal of war, realizes\nthat here is a falsehood, a falsehood in a catastrophe, and so doubly\nagonizing; and at the moment when his rage is bursting forth because of\nit, he is offered this mockery, life! How could he restrain himself?\nYonder are all the kings of Europe, the general s flushed with victory,\nthe Jupiter s darting thunderbolts; they have a hundred thousand\nvictorious soldiers, and back of the hundred thousand a million; their\ncannon stand with yawning mouths, the match is lighted; they grind down\nunder their heels the Imperial guards, and the grand army; they have\njust crushed Napoleon, and only Cambronne remains, only this earthworm\nis left to protest. He will protest. Then he seeks for the appropriate\nword as one seeks for a sword. His mouth froths, and the froth is the\nword. In face of this mean and mighty victory, in face of this victory\nwhich counts none victorious, this desperate soldier stands erect. He\ngrants its overwhelming immensity, but he establishes its triviality;\nand he does more than spit upon it. Borne down by numbers, by superior\nforce, by brute matter, he finds in his soul an expression:\n_ Excr ment! _ We repeat it, to use that word, to do thus, to invent\nsuch an expression, is to be the conqueror!\n\nThe spirit of mighty days at that portentous moment made its descent on\nthat unknown man. Cambronne invents the word for Waterloo as Rouget\ninvents the  Marseillaise,  under the visitation of a breath from on\nhigh. An emanation from the divine whirlwind leaps forth and comes\nsweeping over these men, and they shake, and one of them sings the song\nsupreme, and the other utters the frightful cry.\n\nThis challenge of titanic scorn Cambronne hurls not only at Europe in\nthe name of the Empire, that would be a trifle: he hurls it at the past\nin the name of the Revolution. It is heard, and Cambronne is recognized\nas possessed by the ancient spirit of the Titans. Danton seems to be\nspeaking! Kl ber seems to be bellowing!\n\nAt that word from Cambronne, the English voice responded,  Fire!  The\nbatteries flamed, the hill trembled, from all those brazen mouths\nbelched a last terrible gush of grape-shot; a vast volume of smoke,\nvaguely white in the light of the rising moon, rolled out, and when the\nsmoke dispersed, there was no longer anything there. That formidable\nremnant had been annihilated; the Guard was dead. The four walls of the\nliving redoubt lay prone, and hardly was there discernible, here and\nthere, even a quiver in the bodies; it was thus that the French\nlegions, greater than the Roman legions, expired on Mont-Saint-Jean, on\nthe soil watered with rain and blood, amid the gloomy grain, on the\nspot where nowadays Joseph, who drives the post-wagon from Nivelles,\npasses whistling, and cheerfully whipping up his horse at four o clock\nin the morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI QUOT LIBRAS IN DUCE?\n\n\nThe battle of Waterloo is an enigma. It is as obscure to those who won\nit as to those who lost it. For Napoleon it was a panic;10 Bl cher sees\nnothing in it but fire; Wellington understands nothing in regard to it.\nLook at the reports. The bulletins are confused, the commentaries\ninvolved. Some stammer, others lisp. Jomini divides the battle of\nWaterloo into four moments; Muffling cuts it up into three changes;\nCharras alone, though we hold another judgment than his on some points,\nseized with his haughty glance the characteristic outlines of that\ncatastrophe of human genius in conflict with divine chance. All the\nother historians suffer from being somewhat dazzled, and in this\ndazzled state they fumble about. It was a day of lightning brilliancy;\nin fact, a crumbling of the military monarchy which, to the vast\nstupefaction of kings, drew all the kingdoms after it the fall of\nforce, the defeat of war.\n\nIn this event, stamped with superhuman necessity, the part played by\nmen amounts to nothing.\n\nIf we take Waterloo from Wellington and Bl cher, do we thereby deprive\nEngland and Germany of anything? No. Neither that illustrious England\nnor that august Germany enter into the problem of Waterloo. Thank\nHeaven, nations are great, independently of the lugubrious feats of the\nsword. Neither England, nor Germany, nor France is contained in a\nscabbard. At this epoch when Waterloo is only a clashing of swords,\nabove Bl cher, Germany has Schiller; above Wellington, England has\nByron. A vast dawn of ideas is the peculiarity of our century, and in\nthat aurora England and Germany have a magnificent radiance. They are\nmajestic because they think. The elevation of level which they\ncontribute to civilization is intrinsic with them; it proceeds from\nthemselves and not from an accident. The aggrandizement which they have\nbrought to the nineteenth century has not Waterloo as its source. It is\nonly barbarous peoples who undergo rapid growth after a victory. That\nis the temporary vanity of torrents swelled by a storm. Civilized\npeople, especially in our day, are neither elevated nor abased by the\ngood or bad fortune of a captain. Their specific gravity in the human\nspecies results from something more than a combat. Their honor, thank\nGod! their dignity, their intelligence, their genius, are not numbers\nwhich those gamblers, heroes and conquerors, can put in the lottery of\nbattles. Often a battle is lost and progress is conquered. There is\nless glory and more liberty. The drum holds its peace; reason takes the\nword. It is a game in which he who loses wins. Let us, therefore, speak\nof Waterloo coldly from both sides. Let us render to chance that which\nis due to chance, and to God that which is due to God. What is\nWaterloo? A victory? No. The winning number in the lottery.\n\nThe quine 11 won by Europe, paid by France.\n\nIt was not worthwhile to place a lion there.\n\nWaterloo, moreover, is the strangest encounter in history. Napoleon and\nWellington. They are not enemies; they are opposites. Never did God,\nwho is fond of antitheses, make a more striking contrast, a more\nextraordinary comparison. On one side, precision, foresight, geometry,\nprudence, an assured retreat, reserves spared, with an obstinate\ncoolness, an imperturbable method, strategy, which takes advantage of\nthe ground, tactics, which preserve the equilibrium of battalions,\ncarnage, executed according to rule, war regulated, watch in hand,\nnothing voluntarily left to chance, the ancient classic courage,\nabsolute regularity; on the other, intuition, divination, military\noddity, superhuman instinct, a flaming glance, an indescribable\nsomething which gazes like an eagle, and which strikes like the\nlightning, a prodigious art in disdainful impetuosity, all the\nmysteries of a profound soul, associated with destiny; the stream, the\nplain, the forest, the hill, summoned, and in a manner, forced to obey,\nthe despot going even so far as to tyrannize over the field of battle;\nfaith in a star mingled with strategic science, elevating but\nperturbing it. Wellington was the Bar me of war; Napoleon was its\nMichael Angelo; and on this occasion, genius was vanquished by\ncalculation. On both sides some one was awaited. It was the exact\ncalculator who succeeded. Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy; he did not\ncome. Wellington expected Bl cher; he came.\n\nWellington is classic war taking its revenge. Bonaparte, at his\ndawning, had encountered him in Italy, and beaten him superbly. The old\nowl had fled before the young vulture. The old tactics had been not\nonly struck as by lightning, but disgraced. Who was that Corsican of\nsix and twenty? What signified that splendid ignoramus, who, with\neverything against him, nothing in his favor, without provisions,\nwithout ammunition, without cannon, without shoes, almost without an\narmy, with a mere handful of men against masses, hurled himself on\nEurope combined, and absurdly won victories in the impossible? Whence\nhad issued that fulminating convict, who almost without taking breath,\nand with the same set of combatants in hand, pulverized, one after the\nother, the five armies of the emperor of Germany, upsetting Beaulieu on\nAlvinzi, Wurmser on Beaulieu, M las on Wurmser, Mack on M las? Who was\nthis novice in war with the effrontery of a luminary? The academical\nmilitary school excommunicated him, and as it lost its footing; hence,\nthe implacable rancor of the old C sarism against the new; of the\nregular sword against the flaming sword; and of the exchequer against\ngenius. On the 18th of June, 1815, that rancor had the last word, and\nbeneath Lodi, Montebello, Montenotte, Mantua, Arcola, it wrote:\nWaterloo. A triumph of the mediocres which is sweet to the majority.\nDestiny consented to this irony. In his decline, Napoleon found\nWurmser, the younger, again in front of him.\n\nIn fact, to get Wurmser, it sufficed to blanch the hair of Wellington.\n\nWaterloo is a battle of the first order, won by a captain of the\nsecond.\n\nThat which must be admired in the battle of Waterloo, is England; the\nEnglish firmness, the English resolution, the English blood; the superb\nthing about England there, no offence to her, was herself. It was not\nher captain; it was her army.\n\nWellington, oddly ungrateful, declares in a letter to Lord Bathurst,\nthat his army, the army which fought on the 18th of June, 1815, was a\n detestable army.  What does that sombre intermingling of bones buried\nbeneath the furrows of Waterloo think of that?\n\nEngland has been too modest in the matter of Wellington. To make\nWellington so great is to belittle England. Wellington is nothing but a\nhero like many another. Those Scotch Grays, those Horse Guards, those\nregiments of Maitland and of Mitchell, that infantry of Pack and Kempt,\nthat cavalry of Ponsonby and Somerset, those Highlanders playing the\npibroch under the shower of grape-shot, those battalions of Rylandt,\nthose utterly raw recruits, who hardly knew how to handle a musket\nholding their own against Essling s and Rivoli s old troops, that is\nwhat was grand. Wellington was tenacious; in that lay his merit, and we\nare not seeking to lessen it: but the least of his foot-soldiers and of\nhis cavalry would have been as solid as he. The iron soldier is worth\nas much as the Iron Duke. As for us, all our glorification goes to the\nEnglish soldier, to the English army, to the English people. If trophy\nthere be, it is to England that the trophy is due. The column of\nWaterloo would be more just, if, instead of the figure of a man, it\nbore on high the statue of a people.\n\nBut this great England will be angry at what we are saying here. She\nstill cherishes, after her own 1688 and our 1789, the feudal illusion.\nShe believes in heredity and hierarchy. This people, surpassed by none\nin power and glory, regards itself as a nation, and not as a people.\nAnd as a people, it willingly subordinates itself and takes a lord for\nits head. As a workman, it allows itself to be disdained; as a soldier,\nit allows itself to be flogged.\n\nIt will be remembered, that at the battle of Inkermann a sergeant who\nhad, it appears, saved the army, could not be mentioned by Lord Paglan,\nas the English military hierarchy does not permit any hero below the\ngrade of an officer to be mentioned in the reports.\n\nThat which we admire above all, in an encounter of the nature of\nWaterloo, is the marvellous cleverness of chance. A nocturnal rain, the\nwall of Hougomont, the hollow road of Ohain, Grouchy deaf to the\ncannon, Napoleon s guide deceiving him, B low s guide enlightening\nhim, the whole of this cataclysm is wonderfully conducted.\n\nOn the whole, let us say it plainly, it was more of a massacre than of\na battle at Waterloo.\n\nOf all pitched battles, Waterloo is the one which has the smallest\nfront for such a number of combatants. Napoleon three-quarters of a\nleague; Wellington, half a league; seventy-two thousand combatants on\neach side. From this denseness the carnage arose.\n\nThe following calculation has been made, and the following proportion\nestablished: Loss of men: at Austerlitz, French, fourteen per cent;\nRussians, thirty per cent; Austrians, forty-four per cent. At Wagram,\nFrench, thirteen per cent; Austrians, fourteen. At the Moskowa, French,\nthirty-seven per cent; Russians, forty-four. At Bautzen, French,\nthirteen per cent; Russians and Prussians, fourteen. At Waterloo,\nFrench, fifty-six per cent; the Allies, thirty-one. Total for Waterloo,\nforty-one per cent; one hundred and forty-four thousand combatants;\nsixty thousand dead.\n\nTo-day the field of Waterloo has the calm which belongs to the earth,\nthe impassive support of man, and it resembles all plains.\n\nAt night, moreover, a sort of visionary mist arises from it; and if a\ntraveller strolls there, if he listens, if he watches, if he dreams\nlike Virgil in the fatal plains of Philippi, the hallucination of the\ncatastrophe takes possession of him. The frightful 18th of June lives\nagain; the false monumental hillock disappears, the lion vanishes in\nair, the battle-field resumes its reality, lines of infantry undulate\nover the plain, furious gallops traverse the horizon; the frightened\ndreamer beholds the flash of sabres, the gleam of bayonets, the flare\nof bombs, the tremendous interchange of thunders; he hears, as it were,\nthe death rattle in the depths of a tomb, the vague clamor of the\nbattle phantom; those shadows are grenadiers, those lights are\ncuirassiers; that skeleton Napoleon, that other skeleton is Wellington;\nall this no longer exists, and yet it clashes together and combats\nstill; and the ravines are empurpled, and the trees quiver, and there\nis fury even in the clouds and in the shadows; all those terrible\nheights, Hougomont, Mont-Saint-Jean, Frischemont, Papelotte,\nPlancenoit, appear confusedly crowned with whirlwinds of spectres\nengaged in exterminating each other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII IS WATERLOO TO BE CONSIDERED GOOD?\n\n\nThere exists a very respectable liberal school which does not hate\nWaterloo. We do not belong to it. To us, Waterloo is but the stupefied\ndate of liberty. That such an eagle should emerge from such an egg is\ncertainly unexpected.\n\nIf one places one s self at the culminating point of view of the\nquestion, Waterloo is intentionally a counter-revolutionary victory. It\nis Europe against France; it is Petersburg, Berlin, and Vienna against\nParis; it is the _statu quo_ against the initiative; it is the 14th of\nJuly, 1789, attacked through the 20th of March, 1815; it is the\nmonarchies clearing the decks in opposition to the indomitable French\nrioting. The final extinction of that vast people which had been in\neruption for twenty-six years such was the dream. The solidarity of the\nBrunswicks, the Nassaus, the Romanoffs, the Hohenzollerns, the\nHapsburgs with the Bourbons. Waterloo bears divine right on its\ncrupper. It is true, that the Empire having been despotic, the kingdom\nby the natural reaction of things, was forced to be liberal, and that a\nconstitutional order was the unwilling result of Waterloo, to the great\nregret of the conquerors. It is because revolution cannot be really\nconquered, and that being providential and absolutely fatal, it is\nalways cropping up afresh: before Waterloo, in Bonaparte overthrowing\nthe old thrones; after Waterloo, in Louis XVIII. granting and\nconforming to the charter. Bonaparte places a postilion on the throne\nof Naples, and a sergeant on the throne of Sweden, employing inequality\nto demonstrate equality; Louis XVIII. at Saint-Ouen countersigns the\ndeclaration of the rights of man. If you wish to gain an idea of what\nrevolution is, call it Progress; and if you wish to acquire an idea of\nthe nature of progress, call it To-morrow. To-morrow fulfils its work\nirresistibly, and it is already fulfilling it to-day. It always reaches\nits goal strangely. It employs Wellington to make of Foy, who was only\na soldier, an orator. Foy falls at Hougomont and rises again in the\ntribune. Thus does progress proceed. There is no such thing as a bad\ntool for that workman. It does not become disconcerted, but adjusts to\nits divine work the man who has bestridden the Alps, and the good old\ntottering invalid of Father  lys e. It makes use of the gouty man as\nwell as of the conqueror; of the conqueror without, of the gouty man\nwithin. Waterloo, by cutting short the demolition of European thrones\nby the sword, had no other effect than to cause the revolutionary work\nto be continued in another direction. The slashers have finished; it\nwas the turn of the thinkers. The century that Waterloo was intended to\narrest has pursued its march. That sinister victory was vanquished by\nliberty.\n\nIn short, and incontestably, that which triumphed at Waterloo; that\nwhich smiled in Wellington s rear; that which brought him all the\nmarshals  staffs of Europe, including, it is said, the staff of a\nmarshal of France; that which joyously trundled the barrows full of\nbones to erect the knoll of the lion; that which triumphantly inscribed\non that pedestal the date  _June_ 18, 1815 ; that which encouraged\nBl cher, as he put the flying army to the sword; that which, from the\nheights of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean, hovered over France as over\nits prey, was the counter-revolution. It was the counter-revolution\nwhich murmured that infamous word  dismemberment.  On arriving in\nParis, it beheld the crater close at hand; it felt those ashes which\nscorched its feet, and it changed its mind; it returned to the stammer\nof a charter.\n\nLet us behold in Waterloo only that which is in Waterloo. Of\nintentional liberty there is none. The counter-revolution was\ninvoluntarily liberal, in the same manner as, by a corresponding\nphenomenon, Napoleon was involuntarily revolutionary. On the 18th of\nJune, 1815, the mounted Robespierre was hurled from his saddle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII A RECRUDESCENCE OF DIVINE RIGHT\n\n\nEnd of the dictatorship. A whole European system crumbled away.\n\nThe Empire sank into a gloom which resembled that of the Roman world as\nit expired. Again we behold the abyss, as in the days of the\nbarbarians; only the barbarism of 1815, which must be called by its pet\nname of the counter-revolution, was not long breathed, soon fell to\npanting, and halted short. The Empire was bewept, let us acknowledge\nthe fact, and bewept by heroic eyes. If glory lies in the sword\nconverted into a sceptre, the Empire had been glory in person. It had\ndiffused over the earth all the light which tyranny can give a sombre\nlight. We will say more; an obscure light. Compared to the true\ndaylight, it is night. This disappearance of night produces the effect\nof an eclipse.\n\nLouis XVIII. re-entered Paris. The circling dances of the 8th of July\neffaced the enthusiasms of the 20th of March. The Corsican became the\nantithesis of the Bearnese. The flag on the dome of the Tuileries was\nwhite. The exile reigned. Hartwell s pine table took its place in front\nof the fleur-de-lys-strewn throne of Louis XIV. Bouvines and Fontenoy\nwere mentioned as though they had taken place on the preceding day,\nAusterlitz having become antiquated. The altar and the throne\nfraternized majestically. One of the most undisputed forms of the\nhealth of society in the nineteenth century was established over\nFrance, and over the continent. Europe adopted the white cockade.\nTrestaillon was celebrated. The device _non pluribus impar_ reappeared\non the stone rays representing a sun upon the front of the barracks on\nthe Quai d Orsay. Where there had been an Imperial Guard, there was now\na red house. The Arc du Carrousel, all laden with badly borne\nvictories, thrown out of its element among these novelties, a little\nashamed, it may be, of Marengo and Arcola, extricated itself from its\npredicament with the statue of the Duc d Angoul me. The cemetery of the\nMadeleine, a terrible pauper s grave in 1793, was covered with jasper\nand marble, since the bones of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette lay in\nthat dust.\n\nIn the moat of Vincennes a sepulchral shaft sprang from the earth,\nrecalling the fact that the Duc d Enghien had perished in the very\nmonth when Napoleon was crowned. Pope Pius VII., who had performed the\ncoronation very near this death, tranquilly bestowed his blessing on\nthe fall as he had bestowed it on the elevation. At Schoenbrunn there\nwas a little shadow, aged four, whom it was seditious to call the King\nof Rome. And these things took place, and the kings resumed their\nthrones, and the master of Europe was put in a cage, and the old regime\nbecame the new regime, and all the shadows and all the light of the\nearth changed place, because, on the afternoon of a certain summer s\nday, a shepherd said to a Prussian in the forest,  Go this way, and not\nthat! \n\n\nThis 1815 was a sort of lugubrious April. Ancient unhealthy and\npoisonous realities were covered with new appearances. A lie wedded\n1789; the right divine was masked under a charter; fictions became\nconstitutional; prejudices, superstitions and mental reservations, with\nArticle 14 in the heart, were varnished over with liberalism. It was\nthe serpent s change of skin.\n\nMan had been rendered both greater and smaller by Napoleon. Under this\nreign of splendid matter, the ideal had received the strange name of\nideology! It is a grave imprudence in a great man to turn the future\ninto derision. The populace, however, that food for cannon which is so\nfond of the cannoneer, sought him with its glance. Where is he? What is\nhe doing?  Napoleon is dead,  said a passer-by to a veteran of Marengo\nand Waterloo.  He dead!  cried the soldier;  you don t know him. \nImagination distrusted this man, even when overthrown. The depths of\nEurope were full of darkness after Waterloo. Something enormous\nremained long empty through Napoleon s disappearance.\n\nThe kings placed themselves in this void. Ancient Europe profited by it\nto undertake reforms. There was a Holy Alliance; _Belle-Alliance_,\nBeautiful Alliance, the fatal field of Waterloo had said in advance.\n\nIn presence and in face of that antique Europe reconstructed, the\nfeatures of a new France were sketched out. The future, which the\nEmperor had rallied, made its entry. On its brow it bore the star,\nLiberty. The glowing eyes of all young generations were turned on it.\nSingular fact! people were, at one and the same time, in love with the\nfuture, Liberty, and the past, Napoleon. Defeat had rendered the\nvanquished greater. Bonaparte fallen seemed more lofty than Napoleon\nerect. Those who had triumphed were alarmed. England had him guarded by\nHudson Lowe, and France had him watched by Montchenu. His folded arms\nbecame a source of uneasiness to thrones. Alexander called him  my\nsleeplessness.  This terror was the result of the quantity of\nrevolution which was contained in him. That is what explains and\nexcuses Bonapartist liberalism. This phantom caused the old world to\ntremble. The kings reigned, but ill at their ease, with the rock of\nSaint Helena on the horizon.\n\nWhile Napoleon was passing through the death struggle at Longwood, the\nsixty thousand men who had fallen on the field of Waterloo were quietly\nrotting, and something of their peace was shed abroad over the world.\nThe Congress of Vienna made the treaties in 1815, and Europe called\nthis the Restoration.\n\nThis is what Waterloo was.\n\nBut what matters it to the Infinite? all that tempest, all that cloud,\nthat war, then that peace? All that darkness did not trouble for a\nmoment the light of that immense Eye before which a grub skipping from\none blade of grass to another equals the eagle soaring from belfry to\nbelfry on the towers of Notre Dame.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX THE BATTLE-FIELD AT NIGHT\n\n\nLet us return it is a necessity in this book to that fatal\nbattle-field.\n\nOn the 18th of June the moon was full. Its light favored Bl cher s\nferocious pursuit, betrayed the traces of the fugitives, delivered up\nthat disastrous mass to the eager Prussian cavalry, and aided the\nmassacre. Such tragic favors of the night do occur sometimes during\ncatastrophes.\n\nAfter the last cannon-shot had been fired, the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean\nremained deserted.\n\nThe English occupied the encampment of the French; it is the usual sign\nof victory to sleep in the bed of the vanquished. They established\ntheir bivouac beyond Rossomme. The Prussians, let loose on the\nretreating rout, pushed forward. Wellington went to the village of\nWaterloo to draw up his report to Lord Bathurst.\n\nIf ever the _sic vos non vobis_ was applicable, it certainly is to that\nvillage of Waterloo. Waterloo took no part, and lay half a league from\nthe scene of action. Mont-Saint-Jean was cannonaded, Hougomont was\nburned, La Haie-Sainte was taken by assault, Papelotte was burned,\nPlancenoit was burned, La Belle-Alliance beheld the embrace of the two\nconquerors; these names are hardly known, and Waterloo, which worked\nnot in the battle, bears off all the honor.\n\nWe are not of the number of those who flatter war; when the occasion\npresents itself, we tell the truth about it. War has frightful beauties\nwhich we have not concealed; it has also, we acknowledge, some hideous\nfeatures. One of the most surprising is the prompt stripping of the\nbodies of the dead after the victory. The dawn which follows a battle\nalways rises on naked corpses.\n\nWho does this? Who thus soils the triumph? What hideous, furtive hand\nis that which is slipped into the pocket of victory? What pickpockets\nare they who ply their trade in the rear of glory? Some\nphilosophers Voltaire among the number affirm that it is precisely\nthose persons who have made the glory. It is the same men, they say;\nthere is no relief corps; those who are erect pillage those who are\nprone on the earth. The hero of the day is the vampire of the night.\nOne has assuredly the right, after all, to strip a corpse a bit when\none is the author of that corpse. For our own part, we do not think so;\nit seems to us impossible that the same hand should pluck laurels and\npurloin the shoes from a dead man.\n\nOne thing is certain, which is, that generally after conquerors follow\nthieves. But let us leave the soldier, especially the contemporary\nsoldier, out of the question.\n\nEvery army has a rear-guard, and it is that which must be blamed.\nBat-like creatures, half brigands and lackeys; all the sorts of\nvespertillos that that twilight called war engenders; wearers of\nuniforms, who take no part in the fighting; pretended invalids;\nformidable limpers; interloping sutlers, trotting along in little\ncarts, sometimes accompanied by their wives, and stealing things which\nthey sell again; beggars offering themselves as guides to officers;\nsoldiers  servants; marauders; armies on the march in days gone by, we\nare not speaking of the present, dragged all this behind them, so that\nin the special language they are called  stragglers.  No army, no\nnation, was responsible for those beings; they spoke Italian and\nfollowed the Germans, then spoke French and followed the English. It\nwas by one of these wretches, a Spanish straggler who spoke French,\nthat the Marquis of Fervacques, deceived by his Picard jargon, and\ntaking him for one of our own men, was traitorously slain and robbed on\nthe battle-field itself, in the course of the night which followed the\nvictory of Cerisoles. The rascal sprang from this marauding. The\ndetestable maxim, _Live on the enemy!_ produced this leprosy, which a\nstrict discipline alone could heal. There are reputations which are\ndeceptive; one does not always know why certain generals, great in\nother directions, have been so popular. Turenne was adored by his\nsoldiers because he tolerated pillage; evil permitted constitutes part\nof goodness. Turenne was so good that he allowed the Palatinate to be\ndelivered over to fire and blood. The marauders in the train of an army\nwere more or less in number, according as the chief was more or less\nsevere. Hoche and Marceau had no stragglers; Wellington had few, and we\ndo him the justice to mention it.\n\nNevertheless, on the night from the 18th to the 19th of June, the dead\nwere robbed. Wellington was rigid; he gave orders that any one caught\nin the act should be shot; but rapine is tenacious. The marauders stole\nin one corner of the battlefield while others were being shot in\nanother.\n\nThe moon was sinister over this plain.\n\nTowards midnight, a man was prowling about, or rather, climbing in the\ndirection of the hollow road of Ohain. To all appearance he was one of\nthose whom we have just described, neither English nor French, neither\npeasant nor soldier, less a man than a ghoul attracted by the scent of\nthe dead bodies having theft for his victory, and come to rifle\nWaterloo. He was clad in a blouse that was something like a great coat;\nhe was uneasy and audacious; he walked forwards and gazed behind him.\nWho was this man? The night probably knew more of him than the day. He\nhad no sack, but evidently he had large pockets under his coat. From\ntime to time he halted, scrutinized the plain around him as though to\nsee whether he were observed, bent over abruptly, disturbed something\nsilent and motionless on the ground, then rose and fled. His sliding\nmotion, his attitudes, his mysterious and rapid gestures, caused him to\nresemble those twilight larv  which haunt ruins, and which ancient\nNorman legends call the Alleurs.\n\nCertain nocturnal wading birds produce these silhouettes among the\nmarshes.\n\nA glance capable of piercing all that mist deeply would have perceived\nat some distance a sort of little sutler s wagon with a fluted wicker\nhood, harnessed to a famished nag which was cropping the grass across\nits bit as it halted, hidden, as it were, behind the hovel which\nadjoins the highway to Nivelles, at the angle of the road from\nMont-Saint-Jean to Braine l Alleud; and in the wagon, a sort of woman\nseated on coffers and packages. Perhaps there was some connection\nbetween that wagon and that prowler.\n\nThe darkness was serene. Not a cloud in the zenith. What matters it if\nthe earth be red! the moon remains white; these are the indifferences\nof the sky. In the fields, branches of trees broken by grape-shot, but\nnot fallen, upheld by their bark, swayed gently in the breeze of night.\nA breath, almost a respiration, moved the shrubbery. Quivers which\nresembled the departure of souls ran through the grass.\n\nIn the distance the coming and going of patrols and the general rounds\nof the English camp were audible.\n\nHougomont and La Haie-Sainte continued to burn, forming, one in the\nwest, the other in the east, two great flames which were joined by the\ncordon of bivouac fires of the English, like a necklace of rubies with\ntwo carbuncles at the extremities, as they extended in an immense\nsemicircle over the hills along the horizon.\n\nWe have described the catastrophe of the road of Ohain. The heart is\nterrified at the thought of what that death must have been to so many\nbrave men.\n\nIf there is anything terrible, if there exists a reality which\nsurpasses dreams, it is this: to live, to see the sun; to be in full\npossession of virile force; to possess health and joy; to laugh\nvaliantly; to rush towards a glory which one sees dazzling in front of\none; to feel in one s breast lungs which breathe, a heart which beats,\na will which reasons; to speak, think, hope, love; to have a mother, to\nhave a wife, to have children; to have the light and all at once, in\nthe space of a shout, in less than a minute, to sink into an abyss; to\nfall, to roll, to crush, to be crushed; to see ears of wheat, flowers,\nleaves, branches; not to be able to catch hold of anything; to feel\none s sword useless, men beneath one, horses on top of one; to struggle\nin vain, since one s bones have been broken by some kick in the\ndarkness; to feel a heel which makes one s eyes start from their\nsockets; to bite horses  shoes in one s rage; to stifle, to yell, to\nwrithe; to be beneath, and to say to one s self,  But just a little\nwhile ago I was a living man! \n\n\nThere, where that lamentable disaster had uttered its death-rattle, all\nwas silence now. The edges of the hollow road were encumbered with\nhorses and riders, inextricably heaped up. Terrible entanglement! There\nwas no longer any slope, for the corpses had levelled the road with the\nplain, and reached the brim like a well-filled bushel of barley. A heap\nof dead bodies in the upper part, a river of blood in the lower\npart such was that road on the evening of the 18th of June, 1815. The\nblood ran even to the Nivelles highway, and there overflowed in a large\npool in front of the abatis of trees which barred the way, at a spot\nwhich is still pointed out.\n\nIt will be remembered that it was at the opposite point, in the\ndirection of the Genappe road, that the destruction of the cuirassiers\nhad taken place. The thickness of the layer of bodies was proportioned\nto the depth of the hollow road. Towards the middle, at the point where\nit became level, where Delort s division had passed, the layer of\ncorpses was thinner.\n\nThe nocturnal prowler whom we have just shown to the reader was going\nin that direction. He was searching that vast tomb. He gazed about. He\npassed the dead in some sort of hideous review. He walked with his feet\nin the blood.\n\nAll at once he paused.\n\nA few paces in front of him, in the hollow road, at the point where the\npile of dead came to an end, an open hand, illumined by the moon,\nprojected from beneath that heap of men. That hand had on its finger\nsomething sparkling, which was a ring of gold.\n\nThe man bent over, remained in a crouching attitude for a moment, and\nwhen he rose there was no longer a ring on the hand.\n\nHe did not precisely rise; he remained in a stooping and frightened\nattitude, with his back turned to the heap of dead, scanning the\nhorizon on his knees, with the whole upper portion of his body\nsupported on his two forefingers, which rested on the earth, and his\nhead peering above the edge of the hollow road. The jackal s four paws\nsuit some actions.\n\nThen coming to a decision, he rose to his feet.\n\nAt that moment, he gave a terrible start. He felt some one clutch him\nfrom behind.\n\nHe wheeled round; it was the open hand, which had closed, and had\nseized the skirt of his coat.\n\nAn honest man would have been terrified; this man burst into a laugh.\n\n Come,  said he,  it s only a dead body. I prefer a spook to a\ngendarme. \n\n\nBut the hand weakened and released him. Effort is quickly exhausted in\nthe grave.\n\n Well now,  said the prowler,  is that dead fellow alive? Let s see. \n\n\nHe bent down again, fumbled among the heap, pushed aside everything\nthat was in his way, seized the hand, grasped the arm, freed the head,\npulled out the body, and a few moments later he was dragging the\nlifeless, or at least the unconscious, man, through the shadows of\nhollow road. He was a cuirassier, an officer, and even an officer of\nconsiderable rank; a large gold epaulette peeped from beneath the\ncuirass; this officer no longer possessed a helmet. A furious sword-cut\nhad scarred his face, where nothing was discernible but blood.\n\nHowever, he did not appear to have any broken limbs, and, by some happy\nchance, if that word is permissible here, the dead had been vaulted\nabove him in such a manner as to preserve him from being crushed. His\neyes were still closed.\n\nOn his cuirass he wore the silver cross of the Legion of Honor.\n\nThe prowler tore off this cross, which disappeared into one of the\ngulfs which he had beneath his great coat.\n\nThen he felt of the officer s fob, discovered a watch there, and took\npossession of it. Next he searched his waistcoat, found a purse and\npocketed it.\n\nWhen he had arrived at this stage of succor which he was administering\nto this dying man, the officer opened his eyes.\n\n Thanks,  he said feebly.\n\nThe abruptness of the movements of the man who was manipulating him,\nthe freshness of the night, the air which he could inhale freely, had\nroused him from his lethargy.\n\nThe prowler made no reply. He raised his head. A sound of footsteps was\naudible in the plain; some patrol was probably approaching.\n\nThe officer murmured, for the death agony was still in his voice: \n\n Who won the battle? \n\n\n The English,  answered the prowler.\n\nThe officer went on: \n\n Look in my pockets; you will find a watch and a purse. Take them. \n\n\nIt was already done.\n\nThe prowler executed the required feint, and said: \n\n There is nothing there. \n\n\n I have been robbed,  said the officer;  I am sorry for that. You\nshould have had them. \n\n\nThe steps of the patrol became more and more distinct.\n\n Some one is coming,  said the prowler, with the movement of a man who\nis taking his departure.\n\nThe officer raised his arm feebly, and detained him.\n\n You have saved my life. Who are you? \n\n\nThe prowler answered rapidly, and in a low voice: \n\n Like yourself, I belonged to the French army. I must leave you. If\nthey were to catch me, they would shoot me. I have saved your life. Now\nget out of the scrape yourself. \n\n\n What is your rank? \n\n\n Sergeant. \n\n\n What is your name? \n\n\n Th nardier. \n\n\n I shall not forget that name,  said the officer;  and do you remember\nmine. My name is Pontmercy. \n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SECOND THE SHIP ORION\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I NUMBER 24,601 BECOMES NUMBER 9,430\n\n\nJean Valjean had been recaptured.\n\nThe reader will be grateful to us if we pass rapidly over the sad\ndetails. We will confine ourselves to transcribing two paragraphs\npublished by the journals of that day, a few months after the\nsurprising events which had taken place at M. sur M.\n\nThese articles are rather summary. It must be remembered, that at that\nepoch the _Gazette des Tribunaux_ was not yet in existence.\n\nWe borrow the first from the _Drapeau Blanc_. It bears the date of July\n25, 1823.\n\nAn arrondissement of the Pas de Calais has just been the theatre of an\nevent quite out of the ordinary course. A man, who was a stranger in\nthe Department, and who bore the name of M. Madeleine, had, thanks to\nthe new methods, resuscitated some years ago an ancient local industry,\nthe manufacture of jet and of black glass trinkets. He had made his\nfortune in the business, and that of the arrondissement as well, we\nwill admit. He had been appointed mayor, in recognition of his\nservices. The police discovered that M. Madeleine was no other than an\nex-convict who had broken his ban, condemned in 1796 for theft, and\nnamed Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean has been recommitted to prison. It\nappears that previous to his arrest he had succeeded in withdrawing\nfrom the hands of M. Laffitte, a sum of over half a million which he\nhad lodged there, and which he had, moreover, and by perfectly\nlegitimate means, acquired in his business. No one has been able to\ndiscover where Jean Valjean has concealed this money since his return\nto prison at Toulon.\n\nThe second article, which enters a little more into detail, is an\nextract from the _Journal de Paris_, of the same date.\n\nA former convict, who had been liberated, named Jean Valjean, has just\nappeared before the Court of Assizes of the Var, under circumstances\ncalculated to attract attention. This wretch had succeeded in escaping\nthe vigilance of the police, he had changed his name, and had succeeded\nin getting himself appointed mayor of one of our small northern towns;\nin this town he had established a considerable commerce. He has at last\nbeen unmasked and arrested, thanks to the indefatigable zeal of the\npublic prosecutor. He had for his concubine a woman of the town, who\ndied of a shock at the moment of his arrest. This scoundrel, who is\nendowed with Herculean strength, found means to escape; but three or\nfour days after his flight the police laid their hands on him once\nmore, in Paris itself, at the very moment when he was entering one of\nthose little vehicles which run between the capital and the village of\nMontfermeil (Seine-et-Oise). He is said to have profited by this\ninterval of three or four days of liberty, to withdraw a considerable\nsum deposited by him with one of our leading bankers. This sum has been\nestimated at six or seven hundred thousand francs. If the indictment is\nto be trusted, he has hidden it in some place known to himself alone,\nand it has not been possible to lay hands on it. However that may be,\nthe said Jean Valjean has just been brought before the Assizes of the\nDepartment of the Var as accused of highway robbery accompanied with\nviolence, about eight years ago, on the person of one of those honest\nchildren who, as the patriarch of Ferney has said, in immortal verse,\n\n . . . Arrive from Savoy every year,\nAnd who, with gentle hands, do clear\nThose long canals choked up with soot. \n\n\nThis bandit refused to defend himself. It was proved by the skilful and\neloquent representative of the public prosecutor, that the theft was\ncommitted in complicity with others, and that Jean Valjean was a member\nof a band of robbers in the south. Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty\nand was condemned to the death penalty in consequence. This criminal\nrefused to lodge an appeal. The king, in his inexhaustible clemency,\nhas deigned to commute his penalty to that of penal servitude for life.\nJean Valjean was immediately taken to the prison at Toulon.\n\nThe reader has not forgotten that Jean Valjean had religious habits at\nM. sur M. Some papers, among others the _Constitutional_, presented\nthis commutation as a triumph of the priestly party.\n\nJean Valjean changed his number in the galleys. He was called 9,430.\n\nHowever, and we will mention it at once in order that we may not be\nobliged to recur to the subject, the prosperity of M. sur M. vanished\nwith M. Madeleine; all that he had foreseen during his night of fever\nand hesitation was realized; lacking him, there actually was _a soul\nlacking_. After this fall, there took place at M. sur M. that\negotistical division of great existences which have fallen, that fatal\ndismemberment of flourishing things which is accomplished every day,\nobscurely, in the human community, and which history has noted only\nonce, because it occurred after the death of Alexander. Lieutenants are\ncrowned kings; superintendents improvise manufacturers out of\nthemselves. Envious rivalries arose. M. Madeleine s vast workshops were\nshut; his buildings fell to ruin, his workmen were scattered. Some of\nthem quitted the country, others abandoned the trade. Thenceforth,\neverything was done on a small scale, instead of on a grand scale; for\nlucre instead of the general good. There was no longer a centre;\neverywhere there was competition and animosity. M. Madeleine had\nreigned over all and directed all. No sooner had he fallen, than each\npulled things to himself; the spirit of combat succeeded to the spirit\nof organization, bitterness to cordiality, hatred of one another to the\nbenevolence of the founder towards all; the threads which M. Madeleine\nhad set were tangled and broken, the methods were adulterated, the\nproducts were debased, confidence was killed; the market diminished,\nfor lack of orders; salaries were reduced, the workshops stood still,\nbankruptcy arrived. And then there was nothing more for the poor. All\nhad vanished.\n\nThe state itself perceived that some one had been crushed somewhere.\nLess than four years after the judgment of the Court of Assizes\nestablishing the identity of Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine, for the\nbenefit of the galleys, the cost of collecting taxes had doubled in the\narrondissement of M. sur M.; and M. de Vill le called attention to the\nfact in the rostrum, in the month of February, 1827.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II IN WHICH THE READER WILL PERUSE TWO VERSES, WHICH ARE OF THE\nDEVIL S COMPOSITION, POSSIBLY\n\n\nBefore proceeding further, it will be to the purpose to narrate in some\ndetail, a singular occurrence which took place at about the same epoch,\nin Montfermeil, and which is not lacking in coincidence with certain\nconjectures of the indictment.\n\nThere exists in the region of Montfermeil a very ancient superstition,\nwhich is all the more curious and all the more precious, because a\npopular superstition in the vicinity of Paris is like an aloe in\nSiberia. We are among those who respect everything which is in the\nnature of a rare plant. Here, then, is the superstition of Montfermeil:\nit is thought that the devil, from time immemorial, has selected the\nforest as a hiding-place for his treasures. Goodwives affirm that it is\nno rarity to encounter at nightfall, in secluded nooks of the forest, a\nblack man with the air of a carter or a wood-chopper, wearing wooden\nshoes, clad in trousers and a blouse of linen, and recognizable by the\nfact, that, instead of a cap or hat, he has two immense horns on his\nhead. This ought, in fact, to render him recognizable. This man is\nhabitually engaged in digging a hole. There are three ways of profiting\nby such an encounter. The first is to approach the man and speak to\nhim. Then it is seen that the man is simply a peasant, that he appears\nblack because it is nightfall; that he is not digging any hole\nwhatever, but is cutting grass for his cows, and that what had been\ntaken for horns is nothing but a dung-fork which he is carrying on his\nback, and whose teeth, thanks to the perspective of evening, seemed to\nspring from his head. The man returns home and dies within the week.\nThe second way is to watch him, to wait until he has dug his hole,\nuntil he has filled it and has gone away; then to run with great speed\nto the trench, to open it once more and to seize the  treasure  which\nthe black man has necessarily placed there. In this case one dies\nwithin the month. Finally, the last method is not to speak to the black\nman, not to look at him, and to flee at the best speed of one s legs.\nOne then dies within the year.\n\nAs all three methods are attended with their special inconveniences,\nthe second, which at all events, presents some advantages, among others\nthat of possessing a treasure, if only for a month, is the one most\ngenerally adopted. So bold men, who are tempted by every chance, have\nquite frequently, as we are assured, opened the holes excavated by the\nblack man, and tried to rob the devil. The success of the operation\nappears to be but moderate. At least, if the tradition is to be\nbelieved, and in particular the two enigmatical lines in barbarous\nLatin, which an evil Norman monk, a bit of a sorcerer, named Tryphon\nhas left on this subject. This Tryphon is buried at the Abbey of\nSaint-Georges de Bocherville, near Rouen, and toads spawn on his grave.\n\nAccordingly, enormous efforts are made. Such trenches are ordinarily\nextremely deep; a man sweats, digs, toils all night for it must be done\nat night; he wets his shirt, burns out his candle, breaks his mattock,\nand when he arrives at the bottom of the hole, when he lays his hand on\nthe  treasure,  what does he find? What is the devil s treasure? A sou,\nsometimes a crown-piece, a stone, a skeleton, a bleeding body,\nsometimes a spectre folded in four like a sheet of paper in a\nportfolio, sometimes nothing. This is what Tryphon s verses seem to\nannounce to the indiscreet and curious: \n\n Fodit, et in fossa thesauros condit opaca,\nAs, nummas, lapides, cadaver, simulacra, nihilque. \n\n\nIt seems that in our day there is sometimes found a powder-horn with\nbullets, sometimes an old pack of cards greasy and worn, which has\nevidently served the devil. Tryphon does not record these two finds,\nsince Tryphon lived in the twelfth century, and since the devil does\nnot appear to have had the wit to invent powder before Roger Bacon s\ntime, and cards before the time of Charles VI.\n\nMoreover, if one plays at cards, one is sure to lose all that one\npossesses! and as for the powder in the horn, it possesses the property\nof making your gun burst in your face.\n\nNow, a very short time after the epoch when it seemed to the\nprosecuting attorney that the liberated convict Jean Valjean during his\nflight of several days had been prowling around Montfermeil, it was\nremarked in that village that a certain old road-laborer, named\nBoulatruelle, had  peculiar ways  in the forest. People thereabouts\nthought they knew that this Boulatruelle had been in the galleys. He\nwas subjected to certain police supervision, and, as he could find work\nnowhere, the administration employed him at reduced rates as a\nroad-mender on the crossroad from Gagny to Lagny.\n\nThis Boulatruelle was a man who was viewed with disfavor by the\ninhabitants of the district as too respectful, too humble, too prompt\nin removing his cap to every one, and trembling and smiling in the\npresence of the gendarmes, probably affiliated to robber bands, they\nsaid; suspected of lying in ambush at verge of copses at nightfall. The\nonly thing in his favor was that he was a drunkard.\n\nThis is what people thought they had noticed: \n\nOf late, Boulatruelle had taken to quitting his task of stone-breaking\nand care of the road at a very early hour, and to betaking himself to\nthe forest with his pickaxe. He was encountered towards evening in the\nmost deserted clearings, in the wildest thickets; and he had the\nappearance of being in search of something, and sometimes he was\ndigging holes. The goodwives who passed took him at first for\nBeelzebub; then they recognized Boulatruelle, and were not in the least\nreassured thereby. These encounters seemed to cause Boulatruelle a\nlively displeasure. It was evident that he sought to hide, and that\nthere was some mystery in what he was doing.\n\nIt was said in the village:  It is clear that the devil has appeared.\nBoulatruelle has seen him, and is on the search. In sooth, he is\ncunning enough to pocket Lucifer s hoard. \n\n\nThe Voltairians added,  Will Boulatruelle catch the devil, or will the\ndevil catch Boulatruelle?  The old women made a great many signs of the\ncross.\n\nIn the meantime, Boulatruelle s man uvres in the forest ceased; and he\nresumed his regular occupation of roadmending; and people gossiped of\nsomething else.\n\nSome persons, however, were still curious, surmising that in all this\nthere was probably no fabulous treasure of the legends, but some fine\nwindfall of a more serious and palpable sort than the devil s\nbank-bills, and that the road-mender had half discovered the secret.\nThe most  puzzled  were the schoolmaster and Th nardier, the proprietor\nof the tavern, who was everybody s friend, and had not disdained to\nally himself with Boulatruelle.\n\n He has been in the galleys,  said Th nardier.  Eh! Good God! no one\nknows who has been there or will be there. \n\n\nOne evening the schoolmaster affirmed that in former times the law\nwould have instituted an inquiry as to what Boulatruelle did in the\nforest, and that the latter would have been forced to speak, and that\nhe would have been put to the torture in case of need, and that\nBoulatruelle would not have resisted the water test, for example.  Let\nus put him to the wine test,  said Th nardier.\n\nThey made an effort, and got the old road-mender to drinking.\nBoulatruelle drank an enormous amount, but said very little. He\ncombined with admirable art, and in masterly proportions, the thirst of\na gormandizer with the discretion of a judge. Nevertheless, by dint of\nreturning to the charge and of comparing and putting together the few\nobscure words which he did allow to escape him, this is what Th nardier\nand the schoolmaster imagined that they had made out: \n\nOne morning, when Boulatruelle was on his way to his work, at daybreak,\nhe had been surprised to see, at a nook of the forest in the\nunderbrush, a shovel and a pickaxe, _concealed, as one might say_.\n\nHowever, he might have supposed that they were probably the shovel and\npick of Father Six-Fours, the water-carrier, and would have thought no\nmore about it. But, on the evening of that day, he saw, without being\nseen himself, as he was hidden by a large tree,  a person who did not\nbelong in those parts, and whom he, Boulatruelle, knew well,  directing\nhis steps towards the densest part of the wood. Translation by\nTh nardier: _A comrade of the galleys_. Boulatruelle obstinately\nrefused to reveal his name. This person carried a package something\nsquare, like a large box or a small trunk. Surprise on the part of\nBoulatruelle. However, it was only after the expiration of seven or\neight minutes that the idea of following that  person  had occurred to\nhim. But it was too late; the person was already in the thicket, night\nhad descended, and Boulatruelle had not been able to catch up with him.\nThen he had adopted the course of watching for him at the edge of the\nwoods.  It was moonlight.  Two or three hours later, Boulatruelle had\nseen this person emerge from the brushwood, carrying no longer the\ncoffer, but a shovel and pick. Boulatruelle had allowed the person to\npass, and had not dreamed of accosting him, because he said to himself\nthat the other man was three times as strong as he was, and armed with\na pickaxe, and that he would probably knock him over the head on\nrecognizing him, and on perceiving that he was recognized. Touching\neffusion of two old comrades on meeting again. But the shovel and pick\nhad served as a ray of light to Boulatruelle; he had hastened to the\nthicket in the morning, and had found neither shovel nor pick. From\nthis he had drawn the inference that this person, once in the forest,\nhad dug a hole with his pick, buried the coffer, and reclosed the hole\nwith his shovel. Now, the coffer was too small to contain a body;\ntherefore it contained money. Hence his researches. Boulatruelle had\nexplored, sounded, searched the entire forest and the thicket, and had\ndug wherever the earth appeared to him to have been recently turned up.\nIn vain.\n\nHe had  ferreted out  nothing. No one in Montfermeil thought any more\nabout it. There were only a few brave gossips, who said,  You may be\ncertain that the mender on the Gagny road did not take all that trouble\nfor nothing; he was sure that the devil had come. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE ANKLE-CHAIN MUST HAVE UNDERGONE A CERTAIN PREPARATORY\nMANIPULATION TO BE THUS BROKEN WITH A BLOW FROM A HAMMER\n\n\nTowards the end of October, in that same year, 1823, the inhabitants of\nToulon beheld the entry into their port, after heavy weather, and for\nthe purpose of repairing some damages, of the ship _Orion_, which was\nemployed later at Brest as a school-ship, and which then formed a part\nof the Mediterranean squadron.\n\nThis vessel, battered as it was, for the sea had handled it\nroughly, produced a fine effect as it entered the roads. It flew some\ncolors which procured for it the regulation salute of eleven guns,\nwhich it returned, shot for shot; total, twenty-two. It has been\ncalculated that what with salvos, royal and military politenesses,\ncourteous exchanges of uproar, signals of etiquette, formalities of\nroadsteads and citadels, sunrises and sunsets, saluted every day by all\nfortresses and all ships of war, openings and closings of ports, etc.,\nthe civilized world, discharged all over the earth, in the course of\nfour and twenty hours, one hundred and fifty thousand useless shots. At\nsix francs the shot, that comes to nine hundred thousand francs a day,\nthree hundred millions a year, which vanish in smoke. This is a mere\ndetail. All this time the poor were dying of hunger.\n\nThe year 1823 was what the Restoration called  the epoch of the Spanish\nwar. \n\n\nThis war contained many events in one, and a quantity of peculiarities.\nA grand family affair for the house of Bourbon; the branch of France\nsuccoring and protecting the branch of Madrid, that is to say,\nperforming an act devolving on the elder; an apparent return to our\nnational traditions, complicated by servitude and by subjection to the\ncabinets of the North; M. le Duc d Angoul me, surnamed by the liberal\nsheets _the hero of Andujar_, compressing in a triumphal attitude that\nwas somewhat contradicted by his peaceable air, the ancient and very\npowerful terrorism of the Holy Office at variance with the chimerical\nterrorism of the liberals; the _sansculottes_ resuscitated, to the\ngreat terror of dowagers, under the name of _descamisados_; monarchy\nopposing an obstacle to progress described as anarchy; the theories of\n 89 roughly interrupted in the sap; a European halt, called to the\nFrench idea, which was making the tour of the world; beside the son of\nFrance as generalissimo, the Prince de Carignan, afterwards Charles\nAlbert, enrolling himself in that crusade of kings against people as a\nvolunteer, with grenadier epaulets of red worsted; the soldiers of the\nEmpire setting out on a fresh campaign, but aged, saddened, after eight\nyears of repose, and under the white cockade; the tricolored standard\nwaved abroad by a heroic handful of Frenchmen, as the white standard\nhad been thirty years earlier at Coblentz; monks mingled with our\ntroops; the spirit of liberty and of novelty brought to its senses by\nbayonets; principles slaughtered by cannonades; France undoing by her\narms that which she had done by her mind; in addition to this, hostile\nleaders sold, soldiers hesitating, cities besieged by millions; no\nmilitary perils, and yet possible explosions, as in every mine which is\nsurprised and invaded; but little bloodshed, little honor won, shame\nfor some, glory for no one. Such was this war, made by the princes\ndescended from Louis XIV., and conducted by generals who had been under\nNapoleon. Its sad fate was to recall neither the grand war nor grand\npolitics.\n\nSome feats of arms were serious; the taking of the Trocad ro, among\nothers, was a fine military action; but after all, we repeat, the\ntrumpets of this war give back a cracked sound, the whole effect was\nsuspicious; history approves of France for making a difficulty about\naccepting this false triumph. It seemed evident that certain Spanish\nofficers charged with resistance yielded too easily; the idea of\ncorruption was connected with the victory; it appears as though\ngenerals and not battles had been won, and the conquering soldier\nreturned humiliated. A debasing war, in short, in which the _Bank of\nFrance_ could be read in the folds of the flag.\n\nSoldiers of the war of 1808, on whom Saragossa had fallen in formidable\nruin, frowned in 1823 at the easy surrender of citadels, and began to\nregret Palafox. It is the nature of France to prefer to have\nRostopchine rather than Ballesteros in front of her.\n\nFrom a still more serious point of view, and one which it is also\nproper to insist upon here, this war, which wounded the military spirit\nof France, enraged the democratic spirit. It was an enterprise of\nenthralment. In that campaign, the object of the French soldier, the\nson of democracy, was the conquest of a yoke for others. A hideous\ncontradiction. France is made to arouse the soul of nations, not to\nstifle it. All the revolutions of Europe since 1792 are the French\nRevolution: liberty darts rays from France. That is a solar fact. Blind\nis he who will not see! It was Bonaparte who said it.\n\nThe war of 1823, an outrage on the generous Spanish nation, was then,\nat the same time, an outrage on the French Revolution. It was France\nwho committed this monstrous violence; by foul means, for, with the\nexception of wars of liberation, everything that armies do is by foul\nmeans. The words _passive obedience_ indicate this. An army is a\nstrange masterpiece of combination where force results from an enormous\nsum of impotence. Thus is war, made by humanity against humanity,\ndespite humanity, explained.\n\nAs for the Bourbons, the war of 1823 was fatal to them. They took it\nfor a success. They did not perceive the danger that lies in having an\nidea slain to order. They went astray, in their innocence, to such a\ndegree that they introduced the immense enfeeblement of a crime into\ntheir establishment as an element of strength. The spirit of the ambush\nentered into their politics. 1830 had its germ in 1823. The Spanish\ncampaign became in their counsels an argument for force and for\nadventures by right Divine. France, having re-established _el rey\nnetto_ in Spain, might well have re-established the absolute king at\nhome. They fell into the alarming error of taking the obedience of the\nsoldier for the consent of the nation. Such confidence is the ruin of\nthrones. It is not permitted to fall asleep, either in the shadow of a\nmachineel tree, nor in the shadow of an army.\n\nLet us return to the ship _Orion_.\n\nDuring the operations of the army commanded by the prince\ngeneralissimo, a squadron had been cruising in the Mediterranean. We\nhave just stated that the _Orion_ belonged to this fleet, and that\naccidents of the sea had brought it into port at Toulon.\n\nThe presence of a vessel of war in a port has something about it which\nattracts and engages a crowd. It is because it is great, and the crowd\nloves what is great.\n\nA ship of the line is one of the most magnificent combinations of the\ngenius of man with the powers of nature.\n\nA ship of the line is composed, at the same time, of the heaviest and\nthe lightest of possible matter, for it deals at one and the same time\nwith three forms of substance, solid, liquid, and fluid, and it must do\nbattle with all three. It has eleven claws of iron with which to seize\nthe granite on the bottom of the sea, and more wings and more antenn \nthan winged insects, to catch the wind in the clouds. Its breath pours\nout through its hundred and twenty cannons as through enormous\ntrumpets, and replies proudly to the thunder. The ocean seeks to lead\nit astray in the alarming sameness of its billows, but the vessel has\nits soul, its compass, which counsels it and always shows it the north.\nIn the blackest nights, its lanterns supply the place of the stars.\nThus, against the wind, it has its cordage and its canvas; against the\nwater, wood; against the rocks, its iron, brass, and lead; against the\nshadows, its light; against immensity, a needle.\n\nIf one wishes to form an idea of all those gigantic proportions which,\ntaken as a whole, constitute the ship of the line, one has only to\nenter one of the six-story covered construction stocks, in the ports of\nBrest or Toulon. The vessels in process of construction are under a\nbell-glass there, as it were. This colossal beam is a yard; that great\ncolumn of wood which stretches out on the earth as far as the eye can\nreach is the main-mast. Taking it from its root in the stocks to its\ntip in the clouds, it is sixty fathoms long, and its diameter at its\nbase is three feet. The English main-mast rises to a height of two\nhundred and seventeen feet above the water-line. The navy of our\nfathers employed cables, ours employs chains. The simple pile of chains\non a ship of a hundred guns is four feet high, twenty feet in breadth,\nand eight feet in depth. And how much wood is required to make this\nship? Three thousand cubic metres. It is a floating forest.\n\nAnd moreover, let this be borne in mind, it is only a question here of\nthe military vessel of forty years ago, of the simple sailing-vessel;\nsteam, then in its infancy, has since added new miracles to that\nprodigy which is called a war vessel. At the present time, for example,\nthe mixed vessel with a screw is a surprising machine, propelled by\nthree thousand square metres of canvas and by an engine of two thousand\nfive hundred horse-power.\n\nNot to mention these new marvels, the ancient vessel of Christopher\nColumbus and of De Ruyter is one of the masterpieces of man. It is as\ninexhaustible in force as is the Infinite in gales; it stores up the\nwind in its sails, it is precise in the immense vagueness of the\nbillows, it floats, and it reigns.\n\nThere comes an hour, nevertheless, when the gale breaks that sixty-foot\nyard like a straw, when the wind bends that mast four hundred feet\ntall, when that anchor, which weighs tens of thousands, is twisted in\nthe jaws of the waves like a fisherman s hook in the jaws of a pike,\nwhen those monstrous cannons utter plaintive and futile roars, which\nthe hurricane bears forth into the void and into night, when all that\npower and all that majesty are engulfed in a power and majesty which\nare superior.\n\nEvery time that immense force is displayed to culminate in an immense\nfeebleness it affords men food for thought. Hence in the ports curious\npeople abound around these marvellous machines of war and of\nnavigation, without being able to explain perfectly to themselves why.\nEvery day, accordingly, from morning until night, the quays, sluices,\nand the jetties of the port of Toulon were covered with a multitude of\nidlers and loungers, as they say in Paris, whose business consisted in\nstaring at the _Orion_.\n\nThe _Orion_ was a ship that had been ailing for a long time; in the\ncourse of its previous cruises thick layers of barnacles had collected\non its keel to such a degree as to deprive it of half its speed; it had\ngone into the dry dock the year before this, in order to have the\nbarnacles scraped off, then it had put to sea again; but this cleaning\nhad affected the bolts of the keel: in the neighborhood of the Balearic\nIsles the sides had been strained and had opened; and, as the plating\nin those days was not of sheet iron, the vessel had sprung a leak. A\nviolent equinoctial gale had come up, which had first staved in a\ngrating and a porthole on the larboard side, and damaged the\nforetop-gallant-shrouds; in consequence of these injuries, the _Orion_\nhad run back to Toulon.\n\nIt anchored near the Arsenal; it was fully equipped, and repairs were\nbegun. The hull had received no damage on the starboard, but some of\nthe planks had been unnailed here and there, according to custom, to\npermit of air entering the hold.\n\nOne morning the crowd which was gazing at it witnessed an accident.\n\n[Illustration: The Ship Orion, an Accident]\n\nThe crew was busy bending the sails; the topman, who had to take the\nupper corner of the main-top-sail on the starboard, lost his balance;\nhe was seen to waver; the multitude thronging the Arsenal quay uttered\na cry; the man s head overbalanced his body; the man fell around the\nyard, with his hands outstretched towards the abyss; on his way he\nseized the footrope, first with one hand, then with the other, and\nremained hanging from it: the sea lay below him at a dizzy depth; the\nshock of his fall had imparted to the foot-rope a violent swinging\nmotion; the man swayed back and forth at the end of that rope, like a\nstone in a sling.\n\nIt was incurring a frightful risk to go to his assistance; not one of\nthe sailors, all fishermen of the coast, recently levied for the\nservice, dared to attempt it. In the meantime, the unfortunate topman\nwas losing his strength; his anguish could not be discerned on his\nface, but his exhaustion was visible in every limb; his arms were\ncontracted in horrible twitchings; every effort which he made to\nre-ascend served but to augment the oscillations of the foot-rope; he\ndid not shout, for fear of exhausting his strength. All were awaiting\nthe minute when he should release his hold on the rope, and, from\ninstant to instant, heads were turned aside that his fall might not be\nseen. There are moments when a bit of rope, a pole, the branch of a\ntree, is life itself, and it is a terrible thing to see a living being\ndetach himself from it and fall like a ripe fruit.\n\nAll at once a man was seen climbing into the rigging with the agility\nof a tiger-cat; this man was dressed in red; he was a convict; he wore\na green cap; he was a life convict. On arriving on a level with the\ntop, a gust of wind carried away his cap, and allowed a perfectly white\nhead to be seen: he was not a young man.\n\nA convict employed on board with a detachment from the galleys had, in\nfact, at the very first instant, hastened to the officer of the watch,\nand, in the midst of the consternation and the hesitation of the crew,\nwhile all the sailors were trembling and drawing back, he had asked the\nofficer s permission to risk his life to save the topman; at an\naffirmative sign from the officer he had broken the chain riveted to\nhis ankle with one blow of a hammer, then he had caught up a rope, and\nhad dashed into the rigging: no one noticed, at the instant, with what\nease that chain had been broken; it was only later on that the incident\nwas recalled.\n\nIn a twinkling he was on the yard; he paused for a few seconds and\nappeared to be measuring it with his eye; these seconds, during which\nthe breeze swayed the topman at the extremity of a thread, seemed\ncenturies to those who were looking on. At last, the convict raised his\neyes to heaven and advanced a step: the crowd drew a long breath. He\nwas seen to run out along the yard: on arriving at the point, he\nfastened the rope which he had brought to it, and allowed the other end\nto hang down, then he began to descend the rope, hand over hand, and\nthen, and the anguish was indescribable, instead of one man suspended\nover the gulf, there were two.\n\nOne would have said it was a spider coming to seize a fly, only here\nthe spider brought life, not death. Ten thousand glances were fastened\non this group; not a cry, not a word; the same tremor contracted every\nbrow; all mouths held their breath as though they feared to add the\nslightest puff to the wind which was swaying the two unfortunate men.\n\nIn the meantime, the convict had succeeded in lowering himself to a\nposition near the sailor. It was high time; one minute more, and the\nexhausted and despairing man would have allowed himself to fall into\nthe abyss. The convict had moored him securely with the cord to which\nhe clung with one hand, while he was working with the other. At last,\nhe was seen to climb back on the yard, and to drag the sailor up after\nhim; he held him there a moment to allow him to recover his strength,\nthen he grasped him in his arms and carried him, walking on the yard\nhimself to the cap, and from there to the main-top, where he left him\nin the hands of his comrades.\n\nAt that moment the crowd broke into applause: old convict-sergeants\namong them wept, and women embraced each other on the quay, and all\nvoices were heard to cry with a sort of tender rage,  Pardon for that\nman! \n\n\nHe, in the meantime, had immediately begun to make his descent to\nrejoin his detachment. In order to reach them the more speedily, he\ndropped into the rigging, and ran along one of the lower yards; all\neyes were following him. At a certain moment fear assailed them;\nwhether it was that he was fatigued, or that his head turned, they\nthought they saw him hesitate and stagger. All at once the crowd\nuttered a loud shout: the convict had fallen into the sea.\n\nThe fall was perilous. The frigate _Alg siras_ was anchored alongside\nthe _Orion_, and the poor convict had fallen between the two vessels:\nit was to be feared that he would slip under one or the other of them.\nFour men flung themselves hastily into a boat; the crowd cheered them\non; anxiety again took possession of all souls; the man had not risen\nto the surface; he had disappeared in the sea without leaving a ripple,\nas though he had fallen into a cask of oil: they sounded, they dived.\nIn vain. The search was continued until the evening: they did not even\nfind the body.\n\nOn the following day the Toulon newspaper printed these lines: \n\n Nov. 17, 1823. Yesterday, a convict belonging to the detachment on\nboard of the _Orion_, on his return from rendering assistance to a\nsailor, fell into the sea and was drowned. The body has not yet been\nfound; it is supposed that it is entangled among the piles of the\nArsenal point: this man was committed under the number 9,430, and his\nname was Jean Valjean. \n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THIRD ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE PROMISE MADE TO THE DEAD WOMAN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE WATER QUESTION AT MONTFERMEIL\n\n\nMontfermeil is situated between Livry and Chelles, on the southern edge\nof that lofty table-land which separates the Ourcq from the Marne. At\nthe present day it is a tolerably large town, ornamented all the year\nthrough with plaster villas, and on Sundays with beaming bourgeois. In\n1823 there were at Montfermeil neither so many white houses nor so many\nwell-satisfied citizens: it was only a village in the forest. Some\npleasure-houses of the last century were to be met with there, to be\nsure, which were recognizable by their grand air, their balconies in\ntwisted iron, and their long windows, whose tiny panes cast all sorts\nof varying shades of green on the white of the closed shutters; but\nMontfermeil was nonetheless a village. Retired cloth-merchants and\nrusticating attorneys had not discovered it as yet; it was a peaceful\nand charming place, which was not on the road to anywhere: there people\nlived, and cheaply, that peasant rustic life which is so bounteous and\nso easy; only, water was rare there, on account of the elevation of the\nplateau.\n\nIt was necessary to fetch it from a considerable distance; the end of\nthe village towards Gagny drew its water from the magnificent ponds\nwhich exist in the woods there. The other end, which surrounds the\nchurch and which lies in the direction of Chelles, found drinking-water\nonly at a little spring half-way down the slope, near the road to\nChelles, about a quarter of an hour from Montfermeil.\n\nThus each household found it hard work to keep supplied with water. The\nlarge houses, the aristocracy, of which the Th nardier tavern formed a\npart, paid half a farthing a bucketful to a man who made a business of\nit, and who earned about eight sous a day in his enterprise of\nsupplying Montfermeil with water; but this good man only worked until\nseven o clock in the evening in summer, and five in winter; and night\nonce come and the shutters on the ground floor once closed, he who had\nno water to drink went to fetch it for himself or did without it.\n\nThis constituted the terror of the poor creature whom the reader has\nprobably not forgotten, little Cosette. It will be remembered that\nCosette was useful to the Th nardiers in two ways: they made the mother\npay them, and they made the child serve them. So when the mother ceased\nto pay altogether, the reason for which we have read in preceding\nchapters, the Th nardiers kept Cosette. She took the place of a servant\nin their house. In this capacity she it was who ran to fetch water when\nit was required. So the child, who was greatly terrified at the idea of\ngoing to the spring at night, took great care that water should never\nbe lacking in the house.\n\nChristmas of the year 1823 was particularly brilliant at Montfermeil.\nThe beginning of the winter had been mild; there had been neither snow\nnor frost up to that time. Some mountebanks from Paris had obtained\npermission of the mayor to erect their booths in the principal street\nof the village, and a band of itinerant merchants, under protection of\nthe same tolerance, had constructed their stalls on the Church Square,\nand even extended them into Boulanger Alley, where, as the reader will\nperhaps remember, the Th nardiers  hostelry was situated. These people\nfilled the inns and drinking-shops, and communicated to that tranquil\nlittle district a noisy and joyous life. In order to play the part of a\nfaithful historian, we ought even to add that, among the curiosities\ndisplayed in the square, there was a menagerie, in which frightful\nclowns, clad in rags and coming no one knew whence, exhibited to the\npeasants of Montfermeil in 1823 one of those horrible Brazilian\nvultures, such as our Royal Museum did not possess until 1845, and\nwhich have a tricolored cockade for an eye. I believe that naturalists\ncall this bird Caracara Polyborus; it belongs to the order of the\nApicides, and to the family of the vultures. Some good old Bonapartist\nsoldiers, who had retired to the village, went to see this creature\nwith great devotion. The mountebanks gave out that the tricolored\ncockade was a unique phenomenon made by God expressly for their\nmenagerie.\n\nOn Christmas eve itself, a number of men, carters, and peddlers, were\nseated at table, drinking and smoking around four or five candles in\nthe public room of Th nardier s hostelry. This room resembled all\ndrinking-shop rooms, tables, pewter jugs, bottles, drinkers, smokers;\nbut little light and a great deal of noise. The date of the year 1823\nwas indicated, nevertheless, by two objects which were then fashionable\nin the bourgeois class: to wit, a kaleidoscope and a lamp of ribbed\ntin. The female Th nardier was attending to the supper, which was\nroasting in front of a clear fire; her husband was drinking with his\ncustomers and talking politics.\n\nBesides political conversations which had for their principal subjects\nthe Spanish war and M. le Duc d Angoul me, strictly local parentheses,\nlike the following, were audible amid the uproar: \n\n About Nanterre and Suresnes the vines have flourished greatly. When\nten pieces were reckoned on there have been twelve. They have yielded a\ngreat deal of juice under the press.   But the grapes cannot be ripe? \n In those parts the grapes should not be ripe; the wine turns oily as\nsoon as spring comes.   Then it is very thin wine?   There are wines\npoorer even than these. The grapes must be gathered while green.  Etc.\n\nOr a miller would call out: \n\n Are we responsible for what is in the sacks? We find in them a\nquantity of small seed which we cannot sift out, and which we are\nobliged to send through the mill-stones; there are tares, fennel,\nvetches, hempseed, fox-tail, and a host of other weeds, not to mention\npebbles, which abound in certain wheat, especially in Breton wheat. I\nam not fond of grinding Breton wheat, any more than long-sawyers like\nto saw beams with nails in them. You can judge of the bad dust that\nmakes in grinding. And then people complain of the flour. They are in\nthe wrong. The flour is no fault of ours. \n\n\nIn a space between two windows a mower, who was seated at table with a\nlanded proprietor who was fixing on a price for some meadow work to be\nperformed in the spring, was saying: \n\n It does no harm to have the grass wet. It cuts better. Dew is a good\nthing, sir. It makes no difference with that grass. Your grass is young\nand very hard to cut still. It s terribly tender. It yields before the\niron.  Etc.\n\nCosette was in her usual place, seated on the cross-bar of the kitchen\ntable near the chimney. She was in rags; her bare feet were thrust into\nwooden shoes, and by the firelight she was engaged in knitting woollen\nstockings destined for the young Th nardiers. A very young kitten was\nplaying about among the chairs. Laughter and chatter were audible in\nthe adjoining room, from two fresh children s voices: it was  ponine\nand Azelma.\n\nIn the chimney-corner a cat-o -nine-tails was hanging on a nail.\n\nAt intervals the cry of a very young child, which was somewhere in the\nhouse, rang through the noise of the dram-shop. It was a little boy who\nhad been born to the Th nardiers during one of the preceding\nwinters, she did not know why,  she said,  the result of the\ncold, and who was a little more than three years old. The mother had\nnursed him, but she did not love him. When the persistent clamor of the\nbrat became too annoying,  Your son is squalling,  Th nardier would\nsay;  do go and see what he wants.   Bah!  the mother would reply,  he\nbothers me.  And the neglected child continued to shriek in the dark.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II TWO COMPLETE PORTRAITS\n\n\nSo far in this book the Th nardiers have been viewed only in profile;\nthe moment has arrived for making the circuit of this couple, and\nconsidering it under all its aspects.\n\nTh nardier had just passed his fiftieth birthday; Madame Th nardier was\napproaching her forties, which is equivalent to fifty in a woman; so\nthat there existed a balance of age between husband and wife.\n\nOur readers have possibly preserved some recollection of this\nTh nardier woman, ever since her first appearance, tall, blond, red,\nfat, angular, square, enormous, and agile; she belonged, as we have\nsaid, to the race of those colossal wild women, who contort themselves\nat fairs with paving-stones hanging from their hair. She did everything\nabout the house, made the beds, did the washing, the cooking, and\neverything else. Cosette was her only servant; a mouse in the service\nof an elephant. Everything trembled at the sound of her voice, window\npanes, furniture, and people. Her big face, dotted with red blotches,\npresented the appearance of a skimmer. She had a beard. She was an\nideal market-porter dressed in woman s clothes. She swore splendidly;\nshe boasted of being able to crack a nut with one blow of her fist.\nExcept for the romances which she had read, and which made the affected\nlady peep through the ogress at times, in a very queer way, the idea\nwould never have occurred to any one to say of her,  That is a woman. \nThis Th nardier female was like the product of a wench engrafted on a\nfishwife. When one heard her speak, one said,  That is a gendarme ;\nwhen one saw her drink, one said,  That is a carter ; when one saw her\nhandle Cosette, one said,  That is the hangman.  One of her teeth\nprojected when her face was in repose.\n\nTh nardier was a small, thin, pale, angular, bony, feeble man, who had\na sickly air and who was wonderfully healthy. His cunning began here;\nhe smiled habitually, by way of precaution, and was almost polite to\neverybody, even to the beggar to whom he refused half a farthing. He\nhad the glance of a pole-cat and the bearing of a man of letters. He\ngreatly resembled the portraits of the Abb  Delille. His coquetry\nconsisted in drinking with the carters. No one had ever succeeded in\nrendering him drunk. He smoked a big pipe. He wore a blouse, and under\nhis blouse an old black coat. He made pretensions to literature and to\nmaterialism. There were certain names which he often pronounced to\nsupport whatever things he might be saying, Voltaire, Raynal, Parny,\nand, singularly enough, Saint Augustine. He declared that he had  a\nsystem.  In addition, he was a great swindler. A _filousophe_\n[philosophe], a scientific thief. The species does exist. It will be\nremembered that he pretended to have served in the army; he was in the\nhabit of relating with exuberance, how, being a sergeant in the 6th or\nthe 9th light something or other, at Waterloo, he had alone, and in the\npresence of a squadron of death-dealing hussars, covered with his body\nand saved from death, in the midst of the grape-shot,  a general, who\nhad been dangerously wounded.  Thence arose for his wall the flaring\nsign, and for his inn the name which it bore in the neighborhood, of\n the cabaret of the Sergeant of Waterloo.  He was a liberal, a classic,\nand a Bonapartist. He had subscribed for the Champ d Asile. It was said\nin the village that he had studied for the priesthood.\n\nWe believe that he had simply studied in Holland for an inn-keeper.\nThis rascal of composite order was, in all probability, some Fleming\nfrom Lille, in Flanders, a Frenchman in Paris, a Belgian at Brussels,\nbeing comfortably astride of both frontiers. As for his prowess at\nWaterloo, the reader is already acquainted with that. It will be\nperceived that he exaggerated it a trifle. Ebb and flow, wandering,\nadventure, was the leven of his existence; a tattered conscience\nentails a fragmentary life, and, apparently at the stormy epoch of June\n18, 1815, Th nardier belonged to that variety of marauding sutlers of\nwhich we have spoken, beating about the country, selling to some,\nstealing from others, and travelling like a family man, with wife and\nchildren, in a rickety cart, in the rear of troops on the march, with\nan instinct for always attaching himself to the victorious army. This\ncampaign ended, and having, as he said,  some quibus,  he had come to\nMontfermeil and set up an inn there.\n\nThis _quibus_, composed of purses and watches, of gold rings and silver\ncrosses, gathered in harvest-time in furrows sown with corpses, did not\namount to a large total, and did not carry this sutler turned\neating-house-keeper very far.\n\nTh nardier had that peculiar rectilinear something about his gestures\nwhich, accompanied by an oath, recalls the barracks, and by a sign of\nthe cross, the seminary. He was a fine talker. He allowed it to be\nthought that he was an educated man. Nevertheless, the schoolmaster had\nnoticed that he pronounced improperly.12\n\nHe composed the travellers  tariff card in a superior manner, but\npractised eyes sometimes spied out orthographical errors in it.\nTh nardier was cunning, greedy, slothful, and clever. He did not\ndisdain his servants, which caused his wife to dispense with them. This\ngiantess was jealous. It seemed to her that that thin and yellow little\nman must be an object coveted by all.\n\nTh nardier, who was, above all, an astute and well-balanced man, was a\nscamp of a temperate sort. This is the worst species; hypocrisy enters\ninto it.\n\nIt is not that Th nardier was not, on occasion, capable of wrath to\nquite the same degree as his wife; but this was very rare, and at such\ntimes, since he was enraged with the human race in general, as he bore\nwithin him a deep furnace of hatred. And since he was one of those\npeople who are continually avenging their wrongs, who accuse everything\nthat passes before them of everything which has befallen them, and who\nare always ready to cast upon the first person who comes to hand, as a\nlegitimate grievance, the sum total of the deceptions, the\nbankruptcies, and the calamities of their lives, when all this leaven\nwas stirred up in him and boiled forth from his mouth and eyes, he was\nterrible. Woe to the person who came under his wrath at such a time!\n\nIn addition to his other qualities, Th nardier was attentive and\npenetrating, silent or talkative, according to circumstances, and\nalways highly intelligent. He had something of the look of sailors, who\nare accustomed to screw up their eyes to gaze through marine glasses.\nTh nardier was a statesman.\n\nEvery newcomer who entered the tavern said, on catching sight of Madame\nTh nardier,  There is the master of the house.  A mistake. She was not\neven the mistress. The husband was both master and mistress. She\nworked; he created. He directed everything by a sort of invisible and\nconstant magnetic action. A word was sufficient for him, sometimes a\nsign; the mastodon obeyed. Th nardier was a sort of special and\nsovereign being in Madame Th nardier s eyes, though she did not\nthoroughly realize it. She was possessed of virtues after her own kind;\nif she had ever had a disagreement as to any detail with  Monsieur\nTh nardier, which was an inadmissible hypothesis, by the way, she\nwould not have blamed her husband in public on any subject whatever.\nShe would never have committed  before strangers  that mistake so often\ncommitted by women, and which is called in parliamentary language,\n exposing the crown.  Although their concord had only evil as its\nresult, there was contemplation in Madame Th nardier s submission to\nher husband. That mountain of noise and of flesh moved under the little\nfinger of that frail despot. Viewed on its dwarfed and grotesque side,\nthis was that grand and universal thing, the adoration of mind by\nmatter; for certain ugly features have a cause in the very depths of\neternal beauty. There was an unknown quantity about Th nardier; hence\nthe absolute empire of the man over that woman. At certain moments she\nbeheld him like a lighted candle; at others she felt him like a claw.\n\nThis woman was a formidable creature who loved no one except her\nchildren, and who did not fear any one except her husband. She was a\nmother because she was mammiferous. But her maternity stopped short\nwith her daughters, and, as we shall see, did not extend to boys. The\nman had but one thought, how to enrich himself.\n\nHe did not succeed in this. A theatre worthy of this great talent was\nlacking. Th nardier was ruining himself at Montfermeil, if ruin is\npossible to zero; in Switzerland or in the Pyrenees this penniless\nscamp would have become a millionaire; but an inn-keeper must browse\nwhere fate has hitched him.\n\nIt will be understood that the word _inn-keeper_ is here employed in a\nrestricted sense, and does not extend to an entire class.\n\nIn this same year, 1823, Th nardier was burdened with about fifteen\nhundred francs  worth of petty debts, and this rendered him anxious.\n\nWhatever may have been the obstinate injustice of destiny in this case,\nTh nardier was one of those men who understand best, with the most\nprofundity and in the most modern fashion, that thing which is a virtue\namong barbarous peoples and an object of merchandise among civilized\npeoples, hospitality. Besides, he was an admirable poacher, and quoted\nfor his skill in shooting. He had a certain cold and tranquil laugh,\nwhich was particularly dangerous.\n\nHis theories as a landlord sometimes burst forth in lightning flashes.\nHe had professional aphorisms, which he inserted into his wife s mind.\n The duty of the inn-keeper,  he said to her one day, violently, and in\na low voice,  is to sell to the first comer, stews, repose, light,\nfire, dirty sheets, a servant, lice, and a smile; to stop passers-by,\nto empty small purses, and to honestly lighten heavy ones; to shelter\ntravelling families respectfully: to shave the man, to pluck the woman,\nto pick the child clean; to quote the window open, the window shut, the\nchimney-corner, the armchair, the chair, the ottoman, the stool, the\nfeather-bed, the mattress and the truss of straw; to know how much the\nshadow uses up the mirror, and to put a price on it; and, by five\nhundred thousand devils, to make the traveller pay for everything, even\nfor the flies which his dog eats! \n\n\nThis man and this woman were ruse and rage wedded a hideous and\nterrible team.\n\nWhile the husband pondered and combined, Madame Th nardier thought not\nof absent creditors, took no heed of yesterday nor of to-morrow, and\nlived in a fit of anger, all in a minute.\n\nSuch were these two beings. Cosette was between them, subjected to\ntheir double pressure, like a creature who is at the same time being\nground up in a mill and pulled to pieces with pincers. The man and the\nwoman each had a different method: Cosette was overwhelmed with\nblows this was the woman s; she went barefooted in winter that was the\nman s doing.\n\nCosette ran upstairs and down, washed, swept, rubbed, dusted, ran,\nfluttered about, panted, moved heavy articles, and weak as she was, did\nthe coarse work. There was no mercy for her; a fierce mistress and\nvenomous master. The Th nardier hostelry was like a spider s web, in\nwhich Cosette had been caught, and where she lay trembling. The ideal\nof oppression was realized by this sinister household. It was something\nlike the fly serving the spiders.\n\nThe poor child passively held her peace.\n\nWhat takes place within these souls when they have but just quitted\nGod, find themselves thus, at the very dawn of life, very small and in\nthe midst of men all naked!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III MEN MUST HAVE WINE, AND HORSES MUST HAVE WATER\n\n\nFour new travellers had arrived.\n\nCosette was meditating sadly; for, although she was only eight years\nold, she had already suffered so much that she reflected with the\nlugubrious air of an old woman. Her eye was black in consequence of a\nblow from Madame Th nardier s fist, which caused the latter to remark\nfrom time to time,  How ugly she is with her fist-blow on her eye! \n\n\nCosette was thinking that it was dark, very dark, that the pitchers and\ncaraffes in the chambers of the travellers who had arrived must have\nbeen filled and that there was no more water in the cistern.\n\nShe was somewhat reassured because no one in the Th nardier\nestablishment drank much water. Thirsty people were never lacking\nthere; but their thirst was of the sort which applies to the jug rather\nthan to the pitcher. Any one who had asked for a glass of water among\nall those glasses of wine would have appeared a savage to all these\nmen. But there came a moment when the child trembled; Madame Th nardier\nraised the cover of a stew-pan which was boiling on the stove, then\nseized a glass and briskly approached the cistern. She turned the\nfaucet; the child had raised her head and was following all the woman s\nmovements. A thin stream of water trickled from the faucet, and half\nfilled the glass.  Well,  said she,  there is no more water!  A\nmomentary silence ensued. The child did not breathe.\n\n Bah!  resumed Madame Th nardier, examining the half-filled glass,\n this will be enough. \n\n\nCosette applied herself to her work once more, but for a quarter of an\nhour she felt her heart leaping in her bosom like a big snow-flake.\n\nShe counted the minutes that passed in this manner, and wished it were\nthe next morning.\n\nFrom time to time one of the drinkers looked into the street, and\nexclaimed,  It s as black as an oven!  or,  One must needs be a cat to\ngo about the streets without a lantern at this hour!  And Cosette\ntrembled.\n\nAll at once one of the pedlers who lodged in the hostelry entered, and\nsaid in a harsh voice: \n\n My horse has not been watered. \n\n\n Yes, it has,  said Madame Th nardier.\n\n I tell you that it has not,  retorted the pedler.\n\nCosette had emerged from under the table.\n\n Oh, yes, sir!  said she,  the horse has had a drink; he drank out of a\nbucket, a whole bucketful, and it was I who took the water to him, and\nI spoke to him. \n\n\nIt was not true; Cosette lied.\n\n There s a brat as big as my fist who tells lies as big as the house, \nexclaimed the pedler.  I tell you that he has not been watered, you\nlittle jade! He has a way of blowing when he has had no water, which I\nknow well. \n\n\nCosette persisted, and added in a voice rendered hoarse with anguish,\nand which was hardly audible: \n\n And he drank heartily. \n\n\n Come,  said the pedler, in a rage,  this won t do at all, let my horse\nbe watered, and let that be the end of it! \n\n\nCosette crept under the table again.\n\n In truth, that is fair!  said Madame Th nardier,  if the beast has not\nbeen watered, it must be. \n\n\nThen glancing about her: \n\n Well, now! Where s that other beast? \n\n\nShe bent down and discovered Cosette cowering at the other end of the\ntable, almost under the drinkers  feet.\n\n Are you coming?  shrieked Madame Th nardier.\n\nCosette crawled out of the sort of hole in which she had hidden\nherself. The Th nardier resumed: \n\n Mademoiselle Dog-lack-name, go and water that horse. \n\n\n But, Madame,  said Cosette, feebly,  there is no water. \n\n\nThe Th nardier threw the street door wide open: \n\n Well, go and get some, then! \n\n\nCosette dropped her head, and went for an empty bucket which stood near\nthe chimney-corner.\n\nThis bucket was bigger than she was, and the child could have set down\nin it at her ease.\n\nThe Th nardier returned to her stove, and tasted what was in the\nstewpan, with a wooden spoon, grumbling the while: \n\n There s plenty in the spring. There never was such a malicious\ncreature as that. I think I should have done better to strain my\nonions. \n\n\nThen she rummaged in a drawer which contained sous, pepper, and\nshallots.\n\n See here, Mam selle Toad,  she added,  on your way back, you will get\na big loaf from the baker. Here s a fifteen-sou piece. \n\n\nCosette had a little pocket on one side of her apron; she took the coin\nwithout saying a word, and put it in that pocket.\n\nThen she stood motionless, bucket in hand, the open door before her.\nShe seemed to be waiting for some one to come to her rescue.\n\n Get along with you!  screamed the Th nardier.\n\nCosette went out. The door closed behind her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV ENTRANCE ON THE SCENE OF A DOLL\n\n\nThe line of open-air booths starting at the church, extended, as the\nreader will remember, as far as the hostelry of the Th nardiers. These\nbooths were all illuminated, because the citizens would soon pass on\ntheir way to the midnight mass, with candles burning in paper funnels,\nwhich, as the schoolmaster, then seated at the table at the\nTh nardiers  observed, produced  a magical effect.  In compensation,\nnot a star was visible in the sky.\n\nThe last of these stalls, established precisely opposite the\nTh nardiers  door, was a toy-shop all glittering with tinsel, glass,\nand magnificent objects of tin. In the first row, and far forwards, the\nmerchant had placed on a background of white napkins, an immense doll,\nnearly two feet high, who was dressed in a robe of pink crepe, with\ngold wheat-ears on her head, which had real hair and enamel eyes. All\nthat day, this marvel had been displayed to the wonderment of all\npassers-by under ten years of age, without a mother being found in\nMontfermeil sufficiently rich or sufficiently extravagant to give it to\nher child.  ponine and Azelma had passed hours in contemplating it, and\nCosette herself had ventured to cast a glance at it, on the sly, it is\ntrue.\n\nAt the moment when Cosette emerged, bucket in hand, melancholy and\novercome as she was, she could not refrain from lifting her eyes to\nthat wonderful doll, towards _the lady_, as she called it. The poor\nchild paused in amazement. She had not yet beheld that doll close to.\nThe whole shop seemed a palace to her: the doll was not a doll; it was\na vision. It was joy, splendor, riches, happiness, which appeared in a\nsort of chimerical halo to that unhappy little being so profoundly\nengulfed in gloomy and chilly misery. With the sad and innocent\nsagacity of childhood, Cosette measured the abyss which separated her\nfrom that doll. She said to herself that one must be a queen, or at\nleast a princess, to have a  thing  like that. She gazed at that\nbeautiful pink dress, that beautiful smooth hair, and she thought,  How\nhappy that doll must be!  She could not take her eyes from that\nfantastic stall. The more she looked, the more dazzled she grew. She\nthought she was gazing at paradise. There were other dolls behind the\nlarge one, which seemed to her to be fairies and genii. The merchant,\nwho was pacing back and forth in front of his shop, produced on her\nsomewhat the effect of being the Eternal Father.\n\nIn this adoration she forgot everything, even the errand with which she\nwas charged.\n\nAll at once the Th nardier s coarse voice recalled her to reality:\n What, you silly jade! you have not gone? Wait! I ll give it to you! I\nwant to know what you are doing there! Get along, you little monster! \n\n\nThe Th nardier had cast a glance into the street, and had caught sight\nof Cosette in her ecstasy.\n\nCosette fled, dragging her pail, and taking the longest strides of\nwhich she was capable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V THE LITTLE ONE ALL ALONE\n\n\nAs the Th nardier hostelry was in that part of the village which is\nnear the church, it was to the spring in the forest in the direction of\nChelles that Cosette was obliged to go for her water.\n\nShe did not glance at the display of a single other merchant. So long\nas she was in Boulanger Lane and in the neighborhood of the church, the\nlighted stalls illuminated the road; but soon the last light from the\nlast stall vanished. The poor child found herself in the dark. She\nplunged into it. Only, as a certain emotion overcame her, she made as\nmuch motion as possible with the handle of the bucket as she walked\nalong. This made a noise which afforded her company.\n\nThe further she went, the denser the darkness became. There was no one\nin the streets. However, she did encounter a woman, who turned around\non seeing her, and stood still, muttering between her teeth:  Where can\nthat child be going? Is it a werewolf child?  Then the woman recognized\nCosette.  Well,  said she,  it s the Lark! \n\n\nIn this manner Cosette traversed the labyrinth of tortuous and deserted\nstreets which terminate in the village of Montfermeil on the side of\nChelles. So long as she had the houses or even the walls only on both\nsides of her path, she proceeded with tolerable boldness. From time to\ntime she caught the flicker of a candle through the crack of a\nshutter this was light and life; there were people there, and it\nreassured her. But in proportion as she advanced, her pace slackened\nmechanically, as it were. When she had passed the corner of the last\nhouse, Cosette paused. It had been hard to advance further than the\nlast stall; it became impossible to proceed further than the last\nhouse. She set her bucket on the ground, thrust her hand into her hair,\nand began slowly to scratch her head, a gesture peculiar to children\nwhen terrified and undecided what to do. It was no longer Montfermeil;\nit was the open fields. Black and desert space was before her. She\ngazed in despair at that darkness, where there was no longer any one,\nwhere there were beasts, where there were spectres, possibly. She took\na good look, and heard the beasts walking on the grass, and she\ndistinctly saw spectres moving in the trees. Then she seized her bucket\nagain; fear had lent her audacity.  Bah!  said she;  I will tell him\nthat there was no more water!  And she resolutely re-entered\nMontfermeil.\n\nHardly had she gone a hundred paces when she paused and began to\nscratch her head again. Now it was the Th nardier who appeared to her,\nwith her hideous, hyena mouth, and wrath flashing in her eyes. The\nchild cast a melancholy glance before her and behind her. What was she\nto do? What was to become of her? Where was she to go? In front of her\nwas the spectre of the Th nardier; behind her all the phantoms of the\nnight and of the forest. It was before the Th nardier that she\nrecoiled. She resumed her path to the spring, and began to run. She\nemerged from the village, she entered the forest at a run, no longer\nlooking at or listening to anything. She only paused in her course when\nher breath failed her; but she did not halt in her advance. She went\nstraight before her in desperation.\n\nAs she ran she felt like crying.\n\nThe nocturnal quivering of the forest surrounded her completely.\n\nShe no longer thought, she no longer saw. The immensity of night was\nfacing this tiny creature. On the one hand, all shadow; on the other,\nan atom.\n\nIt was only seven or eight minutes  walk from the edge of the woods to\nthe spring. Cosette knew the way, through having gone over it many\ntimes in daylight. Strange to say, she did not get lost. A remnant of\ninstinct guided her vaguely. But she did not turn her eyes either to\nright or to left, for fear of seeing things in the branches and in the\nbrushwood. In this manner she reached the spring.\n\nIt was a narrow, natural basin, hollowed out by the water in a clayey\nsoil, about two feet deep, surrounded with moss and with those tall,\ncrimped grasses which are called Henry IV. s frills, and paved with\nseveral large stones. A brook ran out of it, with a tranquil little\nnoise.\n\nCosette did not take time to breathe. It was very dark, but she was in\nthe habit of coming to this spring. She felt with her left hand in the\ndark for a young oak which leaned over the spring, and which usually\nserved to support her, found one of its branches, clung to it, bent\ndown, and plunged the bucket in the water. She was in a state of such\nviolent excitement that her strength was trebled. While thus bent over,\nshe did not notice that the pocket of her apron had emptied itself into\nthe spring. The fifteen-sou piece fell into the water. Cosette neither\nsaw nor heard it fall. She drew out the bucket nearly full, and set it\non the grass.\n\nThat done, she perceived that she was worn out with fatigue. She would\nhave liked to set out again at once, but the effort required to fill\nthe bucket had been such that she found it impossible to take a step.\nShe was forced to sit down. She dropped on the grass, and remained\ncrouching there.\n\nShe shut her eyes; then she opened them again, without knowing why, but\nbecause she could not do otherwise. The agitated water in the bucket\nbeside her was describing circles which resembled tin serpents.\n\nOverhead the sky was covered with vast black clouds, which were like\nmasses of smoke. The tragic mask of shadow seemed to bend vaguely over\nthe child.\n\nJupiter was setting in the depths.\n\nThe child stared with bewildered eyes at this great star, with which\nshe was unfamiliar, and which terrified her. The planet was, in fact,\nvery near the horizon and was traversing a dense layer of mist which\nimparted to it a horrible ruddy hue. The mist, gloomily empurpled,\nmagnified the star. One would have called it a luminous wound.\n\nA cold wind was blowing from the plain. The forest was dark, not a leaf\nwas moving; there were none of the vague, fresh gleams of summertide.\nGreat boughs uplifted themselves in frightful wise. Slender and\nmisshapen bushes whistled in the clearings. The tall grasses undulated\nlike eels under the north wind. The nettles seemed to twist long arms\nfurnished with claws in search of prey. Some bits of dry heather,\ntossed by the breeze, flew rapidly by, and had the air of fleeing in\nterror before something which was coming after. On all sides there were\nlugubrious stretches.\n\nThe darkness was bewildering. Man requires light. Whoever buries\nhimself in the opposite of day feels his heart contract. When the eye\nsees black, the heart sees trouble. In an eclipse in the night, in the\nsooty opacity, there is anxiety even for the stoutest of hearts. No one\nwalks alone in the forest at night without trembling. Shadows and\ntrees two formidable densities. A chimerical reality appears in the\nindistinct depths. The inconceivable is outlined a few paces distant\nfrom you with a spectral clearness. One beholds floating, either in\nspace or in one s own brain, one knows not what vague and intangible\nthing, like the dreams of sleeping flowers. There are fierce attitudes\non the horizon. One inhales the effluvia of the great black void. One\nis afraid to glance behind him, yet desirous of doing so. The cavities\nof night, things grown haggard, taciturn profiles which vanish when one\nadvances, obscure dishevelments, irritated tufts, livid pools, the\nlugubrious reflected in the funereal, the sepulchral immensity of\nsilence, unknown but possible beings, bendings of mysterious branches,\nalarming torsos of trees, long handfuls of quivering plants, against\nall this one has no protection. There is no hardihood which does not\nshudder and which does not feel the vicinity of anguish. One is\nconscious of something hideous, as though one s soul were becoming\namalgamated with the darkness. This penetration of the shadows is\nindescribably sinister in the case of a child.\n\nForests are apocalypses, and the beating of the wings of a tiny soul\nproduces a sound of agony beneath their monstrous vault.\n\nWithout understanding her sensations, Cosette was conscious that she\nwas seized upon by that black enormity of nature; it was no longer\nterror alone which was gaining possession of her; it was something more\nterrible even than terror; she shivered. There are no words to express\nthe strangeness of that shiver which chilled her to the very bottom of\nher heart; her eye grew wild; she thought she felt that she should not\nbe able to refrain from returning there at the same hour on the morrow.\n\nThen, by a sort of instinct, she began to count aloud, one, two, three,\nfour, and so on up to ten, in order to escape from that singular state\nwhich she did not understand, but which terrified her, and, when she\nhad finished, she began again; this restored her to a true perception\nof the things about her. Her hands, which she had wet in drawing the\nwater, felt cold; she rose; her terror, a natural and unconquerable\nterror, had returned: she had but one thought now, to flee at full\nspeed through the forest, across the fields to the houses, to the\nwindows, to the lighted candles. Her glance fell upon the water which\nstood before her; such was the fright which the Th nardier inspired in\nher, that she dared not flee without that bucket of water: she seized\nthe handle with both hands; she could hardly lift the pail.\n\nIn this manner she advanced a dozen paces, but the bucket was full; it\nwas heavy; she was forced to set it on the ground once more. She took\nbreath for an instant, then lifted the handle of the bucket again, and\nresumed her march, proceeding a little further this time, but again she\nwas obliged to pause. After some seconds of repose she set out again.\nShe walked bent forward, with drooping head, like an old woman; the\nweight of the bucket strained and stiffened her thin arms. The iron\nhandle completed the benumbing and freezing of her wet and tiny hands;\nshe was forced to halt from time to time, and each time that she did\nso, the cold water which splashed from the pail fell on her bare legs.\nThis took place in the depths of a forest, at night, in winter, far\nfrom all human sight; she was a child of eight: no one but God saw that\nsad thing at the moment.\n\nAnd her mother, no doubt, alas!\n\nFor there are things that make the dead open their eyes in their\ngraves.\n\nShe panted with a sort of painful rattle; sobs contracted her throat,\nbut she dared not weep, so afraid was she of the Th nardier, even at a\ndistance: it was her custom to imagine the Th nardier always present.\n\nHowever, she could not make much headway in that manner, and she went\non very slowly. In spite of diminishing the length of her stops, and of\nwalking as long as possible between them, she reflected with anguish\nthat it would take her more than an hour to return to Montfermeil in\nthis manner, and that the Th nardier would beat her. This anguish was\nmingled with her terror at being alone in the woods at night; she was\nworn out with fatigue, and had not yet emerged from the forest. On\narriving near an old chestnut-tree with which she was acquainted, made\na last halt, longer than the rest, in order that she might get well\nrested; then she summoned up all her strength, picked up her bucket\nagain, and courageously resumed her march, but the poor little\ndesperate creature could not refrain from crying,  O my God! my God! \n\n\nAt that moment she suddenly became conscious that her bucket no longer\nweighed anything at all: a hand, which seemed to her enormous, had just\nseized the handle, and lifted it vigorously. She raised her head. A\nlarge black form, straight and erect, was walking beside her through\nthe darkness; it was a man who had come up behind her, and whose\napproach she had not heard. This man, without uttering a word, had\nseized the handle of the bucket which she was carrying.\n\nThere are instincts for all the encounters of life.\n\nThe child was not afraid.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI WHICH POSSIBLY PROVES BOULATRUELLE S INTELLIGENCE\n\n\nOn the afternoon of that same Christmas Day, 1823, a man had walked for\nrather a long time in the most deserted part of the Boulevard de\nl H pital in Paris. This man had the air of a person who is seeking\nlodgings, and he seemed to halt, by preference, at the most modest\nhouses on that dilapidated border of the faubourg Saint-Marceau.\n\nWe shall see further on that this man had, in fact, hired a chamber in\nthat isolated quarter.\n\nThis man, in his attire, as in all his person, realized the type of\nwhat may be called the well-bred mendicant, extreme wretchedness\ncombined with extreme cleanliness. This is a very rare mixture which\ninspires intelligent hearts with that double respect which one feels\nfor the man who is very poor, and for the man who is very worthy. He\nwore a very old and very well brushed round hat; a coarse coat, worn\nperfectly threadbare, of an ochre yellow, a color that was not in the\nleast eccentric at that epoch; a large waistcoat with pockets of a\nvenerable cut; black breeches, worn gray at the knee, stockings of\nblack worsted; and thick shoes with copper buckles. He would have been\npronounced a preceptor in some good family, returned from the\nemigration. He would have been taken for more than sixty years of age,\nfrom his perfectly white hair, his wrinkled brow, his livid lips, and\nhis countenance, where everything breathed depression and weariness of\nlife. Judging from his firm tread, from the singular vigor which\nstamped all his movements, he would have hardly been thought fifty. The\nwrinkles on his brow were well placed, and would have disposed in his\nfavor any one who observed him attentively. His lip contracted with a\nstrange fold which seemed severe, and which was humble. There was in\nthe depth of his glance an indescribable melancholy serenity. In his\nleft hand he carried a little bundle tied up in a handkerchief; in his\nright he leaned on a sort of a cudgel, cut from some hedge. This stick\nhad been carefully trimmed, and had an air that was not too\nthreatening; the most had been made of its knots, and it had received a\ncoral-like head, made from red wax: it was a cudgel, and it seemed to\nbe a cane.\n\nThere are but few passers-by on that boulevard, particularly in the\nwinter. The man seemed to avoid them rather than to seek them, but this\nwithout any affectation.\n\nAt that epoch, King Louis XVIII. went nearly every day to\nChoisy-le-Roi: it was one of his favorite excursions. Towards two\no clock, almost invariably, the royal carriage and cavalcade was seen\nto pass at full speed along the Boulevard de l H pital.\n\nThis served in lieu of a watch or clock to the poor women of the\nquarter who said,  It is two o clock; there he is returning to the\nTuileries. \n\n\nAnd some rushed forward, and others drew up in line, for a passing king\nalways creates a tumult; besides, the appearance and disappearance of\nLouis XVIII. produced a certain effect in the streets of Paris. It was\nrapid but majestic. This impotent king had a taste for a fast gallop;\nas he was not able to walk, he wished to run: that cripple would gladly\nhave had himself drawn by the lightning. He passed, pacific and severe,\nin the midst of naked swords. His massive couch, all covered with\ngilding, with great branches of lilies painted on the panels, thundered\nnoisily along. There was hardly time to cast a glance upon it. In the\nrear angle on the right there was visible on tufted cushions of white\nsatin a large, firm, and ruddy face, a brow freshly powdered _ \nl oiseau royal_, a proud, hard, crafty eye, the smile of an educated\nman, two great epaulets with bullion fringe floating over a bourgeois\ncoat, the Golden Fleece, the cross of Saint Louis, the cross of the\nLegion of Honor, the silver plaque of the Saint-Esprit, a huge belly,\nand a wide blue ribbon: it was the king. Outside of Paris, he held his\nhat decked with white ostrich plumes on his knees enwrapped in high\nEnglish gaiters; when he re-entered the city, he put on his hat and\nsaluted rarely; he stared coldly at the people, and they returned it in\nkind. When he appeared for the first time in the Saint-Marceau quarter,\nthe whole success which he produced is contained in this remark of an\ninhabitant of the faubourg to his comrade,  That big fellow yonder is\nthe government. \n\n\nThis infallible passage of the king at the same hour was, therefore,\nthe daily event of the Boulevard de l H pital.\n\nThe promenader in the yellow coat evidently did not belong in the\nquarter, and probably did not belong in Paris, for he was ignorant as\nto this detail. When, at two o clock, the royal carriage, surrounded by\na squadron of the body-guard all covered with silver lace, debouched on\nthe boulevard, after having made the turn of the Salp tri re, he\nappeared surprised and almost alarmed. There was no one but himself in\nthis cross-lane. He drew up hastily behind the corner of the wall of an\nenclosure, though this did not prevent M. le Duc de Havr  from spying\nhim out.\n\nM. le Duc de Havr , as captain of the guard on duty that day, was\nseated in the carriage, opposite the king. He said to his Majesty,\n Yonder is an evil-looking man.  Members of the police, who were\nclearing the king s route, took equal note of him: one of them received\nan order to follow him. But the man plunged into the deserted little\nstreets of the faubourg, and as twilight was beginning to fall, the\nagent lost trace of him, as is stated in a report addressed that same\nevening to M. le Comte d Angl s, Minister of State, Prefect of Police.\n\nWhen the man in the yellow coat had thrown the agent off his track, he\nredoubled his pace, not without turning round many a time to assure\nhimself that he was not being followed. At a quarter-past four, that is\nto say, when night was fully come, he passed in front of the theatre of\nthe Porte Saint-Martin, where _The Two Convicts_ was being played that\nday. This poster, illuminated by the theatre lanterns, struck him; for,\nalthough he was walking rapidly, he halted to read it. An instant later\nhe was in the blind alley of La Planchette, and he entered the _Plat\nd Etain_ [the Pewter Platter], where the office of the coach for Lagny\nwas then situated. This coach set out at half-past four. The horses\nwere harnessed, and the travellers, summoned by the coachman, were\nhastily climbing the lofty iron ladder of the vehicle.\n\nThe man inquired: \n\n Have you a place? \n\n\n Only one beside me on the box,  said the coachman.\n\n I will take it. \n\n\n Climb up. \n\n\nNevertheless, before setting out, the coachman cast a glance at the\ntraveller s shabby dress, at the diminutive size of his bundle, and\nmade him pay his fare.\n\n Are you going as far as Lagny?  demanded the coachman.\n\n Yes,  said the man.\n\nThe traveller paid to Lagny.\n\nThey started. When they had passed the barrier, the coachman tried to\nenter into conversation, but the traveller only replied in\nmonosyllables. The coachman took to whistling and swearing at his\nhorses.\n\nThe coachman wrapped himself up in his cloak. It was cold. The man did\nnot appear to be thinking of that. Thus they passed Gournay and\nNeuilly-sur-Marne.\n\nTowards six o clock in the evening they reached Chelles. The coachman\ndrew up in front of the carters  inn installed in the ancient buildings\nof the Royal Abbey, to give his horses a breathing spell.\n\n I get down here,  said the man.\n\nHe took his bundle and his cudgel and jumped down from the vehicle.\n\nAn instant later he had disappeared.\n\nHe did not enter the inn.\n\nWhen the coach set out for Lagny a few minutes later, it did not\nencounter him in the principal street of Chelles.\n\nThe coachman turned to the inside travellers.\n\n There,  said he,  is a man who does not belong here, for I do not know\nhim. He had not the air of owning a sou, but he does not consider\nmoney; he pays to Lagny, and he goes only as far as Chelles. It is\nnight; all the houses are shut; he does not enter the inn, and he is\nnot to be found. So he has dived through the earth. \n\n\nThe man had not plunged into the earth, but he had gone with great\nstrides through the dark, down the principal street of Chelles, then he\nhad turned to the right before reaching the church, into the crossroad\nleading to Montfermeil, like a person who was acquainted with the\ncountry and had been there before.\n\nHe followed this road rapidly. At the spot where it is intersected by\nthe ancient tree-bordered road which runs from Gagny to Lagny, he heard\npeople coming. He concealed himself precipitately in a ditch, and there\nwaited until the passers-by were at a distance. The precaution was\nnearly superfluous, however; for, as we have already said, it was a\nvery dark December night. Not more than two or three stars were visible\nin the sky.\n\nIt is at this point that the ascent of the hill begins. The man did not\nreturn to the road to Montfermeil; he struck across the fields to the\nright, and entered the forest with long strides.\n\nOnce in the forest he slackened his pace, and began a careful\nexamination of all the trees, advancing, step by step, as though\nseeking and following a mysterious road known to himself alone. There\ncame a moment when he appeared to lose himself, and he paused in\nindecision. At last he arrived, by dint of feeling his way inch by\ninch, at a clearing where there was a great heap of whitish stones. He\nstepped up briskly to these stones, and examined them attentively\nthrough the mists of night, as though he were passing them in review. A\nlarge tree, covered with those excrescences which are the warts of\nvegetation, stood a few paces distant from the pile of stones. He went\nup to this tree and passed his hand over the bark of the trunk, as\nthough seeking to recognize and count all the warts.\n\nOpposite this tree, which was an ash, there was a chestnut-tree,\nsuffering from a peeling of the bark, to which a band of zinc had been\nnailed by way of dressing. He raised himself on tiptoe and touched this\nband of zinc.\n\nThen he trod about for awhile on the ground comprised in the space\nbetween the tree and the heap of stones, like a person who is trying to\nassure himself that the soil has not recently been disturbed.\n\nThat done, he took his bearings, and resumed his march through the\nforest.\n\nIt was the man who had just met Cosette.\n\nAs he walked through the thicket in the direction of Montfermeil, he\nhad espied that tiny shadow moving with a groan, depositing a burden on\nthe ground, then taking it up and setting out again. He drew near, and\nperceived that it was a very young child, laden with an enormous bucket\nof water. Then he approached the child, and silently grasped the handle\nof the bucket.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII COSETTE SIDE BY SIDE WITH THE STRANGER IN THE DARK\n\n\nCosette, as we have said, was not frightened.\n\nThe man accosted her. He spoke in a voice that was grave and almost\nbass.\n\n My child, what you are carrying is very heavy for you. \n\n\nCosette raised her head and replied: \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n\n Give it to me,  said the man;  I will carry it for you. \n\n\nCosette let go of the bucket-handle. The man walked along beside her.\n\n It really is very heavy,  he muttered between his teeth. Then he\nadded: \n\n How old are you, little one? \n\n\n Eight, sir. \n\n\n And have you come from far like this? \n\n\n From the spring in the forest. \n\n\n Are you going far? \n\n\n A good quarter of an hour s walk from here. \n\n\nThe man said nothing for a moment; then he remarked abruptly: \n\n So you have no mother. \n\n\n I don t know,  answered the child.\n\nBefore the man had time to speak again, she added: \n\n I don t think so. Other people have mothers. I have none. \n\n\nAnd after a silence she went on: \n\n I think that I never had any. \n\n\nThe man halted; he set the bucket on the ground, bent down and placed\nboth hands on the child s shoulders, making an effort to look at her\nand to see her face in the dark.\n\nCosette s thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light\nin the sky.\n\n What is your name?  said the man.\n\n Cosette. \n\n\nThe man seemed to have received an electric shock. He looked at her\nonce more; then he removed his hands from Cosette s shoulders, seized\nthe bucket, and set out again.\n\nAfter a moment he inquired: \n\n Where do you live, little one? \n\n\n At Montfermeil, if you know where that is. \n\n\n That is where we are going? \n\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n\nHe paused; then began again: \n\n Who sent you at such an hour to get water in the forest? \n\n\n It was Madame Th nardier. \n\n\nThe man resumed, in a voice which he strove to render indifferent, but\nin which there was, nevertheless, a singular tremor: \n\n What does your Madame Th nardier do? \n\n\n She is my mistress,  said the child.  She keeps the inn. \n\n\n The inn?  said the man.  Well, I am going to lodge there to-night.\nShow me the way. \n\n\n We are on the way there,  said the child.\n\nThe man walked tolerably fast. Cosette followed him without difficulty.\nShe no longer felt any fatigue. From time to time she raised her eyes\ntowards the man, with a sort of tranquillity and an indescribable\nconfidence. She had never been taught to turn to Providence and to\npray; nevertheless, she felt within her something which resembled hope\nand joy, and which mounted towards heaven.\n\nSeveral minutes elapsed. The man resumed: \n\n Is there no servant in Madame Th nardier s house? \n\n\n No, sir. \n\n\n Are you alone there? \n\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n\nAnother pause ensued. Cosette lifted up her voice: \n\n That is to say, there are two little girls. \n\n\n What little girls? \n\n\n Ponine and Zelma. \n\n\nThis was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear to the\nfemale Th nardier.\n\n Who are Ponine and Zelma? \n\n\n They are Madame Th nardier s young ladies; her daughters, as you would\nsay. \n\n\n And what do those girls do? \n\n\n Oh!  said the child,  they have beautiful dolls; things with gold in\nthem, all full of affairs. They play; they amuse themselves. \n\n\n All day long? \n\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n\n And you? \n\n\n I? I work. \n\n\n All day long? \n\n\nThe child raised her great eyes, in which hung a tear, which was not\nvisible because of the darkness, and replied gently: \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n\nAfter an interval of silence she went on: \n\n Sometimes, when I have finished my work and they let me, I amuse\nmyself, too. \n\n\n How do you amuse yourself? \n\n\n In the best way I can. They let me alone; but I have not many\nplaythings. Ponine and Zelma will not let me play with their dolls. I\nhave only a little lead sword, no longer than that. \n\n\nThe child held up her tiny finger.\n\n And it will not cut? \n\n\n Yes, sir,  said the child;  it cuts salad and the heads of flies. \n\n\nThey reached the village. Cosette guided the stranger through the\nstreets. They passed the bakeshop, but Cosette did not think of the\nbread which she had been ordered to fetch. The man had ceased to ply\nher with questions, and now preserved a gloomy silence.\n\nWhen they had left the church behind them, the man, on perceiving all\nthe open-air booths, asked Cosette: \n\n So there is a fair going on here? \n\n\n No, sir; it is Christmas. \n\n\nAs they approached the tavern, Cosette timidly touched his arm: \n\n Monsieur? \n\n\n What, my child? \n\n\n We are quite near the house. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n Will you let me take my bucket now? \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n If Madame sees that some one has carried it for me, she will beat me. \n\n\nThe man handed her the bucket. An instant later they were at the tavern\ndoor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF RECEIVING INTO ONE S HOUSE A POOR\nMAN WHO MAY BE A RICH MAN\n\n\nCosette could not refrain from casting a sidelong glance at the big\ndoll, which was still displayed at the toy-merchant s; then she\nknocked. The door opened. The Th nardier appeared with a candle in her\nhand.\n\n Ah! so it s you, you little wretch! good mercy, but you ve taken your\ntime! The hussy has been amusing herself! \n\n\n Madame,  said Cosette, trembling all over,  here s a gentleman who\nwants a lodging. \n\n\nThe Th nardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace,\na change of aspect common to tavern-keepers, and eagerly sought the\nnewcomer with her eyes.\n\n This is the gentleman?  said she.\n\n Yes, Madame,  replied the man, raising his hand to his hat.\n\nWealthy travellers are not so polite. This gesture, and an inspection\nof the stranger s costume and baggage, which the Th nardier passed in\nreview with one glance, caused the amiable grimace to vanish, and the\ngruff mien to reappear. She resumed dryly: \n\n Enter, my good man. \n\n\nThe  good man  entered. The Th nardier cast a second glance at him,\npaid particular attention to his frock-coat, which was absolutely\nthreadbare, and to his hat, which was a little battered, and, tossing\nher head, wrinkling her nose, and screwing up her eyes, she consulted\nher husband, who was still drinking with the carters. The husband\nreplied by that imperceptible movement of the forefinger, which, backed\nup by an inflation of the lips, signifies in such cases: A regular\nbeggar. Thereupon, the Th nardier exclaimed: \n\n Ah! see here, my good man; I am very sorry, but I have no room left. \n\n\n Put me where you like,  said the man;  in the attic, in the stable. I\nwill pay as though I occupied a room. \n\n\n Forty sous. \n\n\n Forty sous; agreed. \n\n\n Very well, then! \n\n\n Forty sous!  said a carter, in a low tone, to the Th nardier woman;\n why, the charge is only twenty sous! \n\n\n It is forty in his case,  retorted the Th nardier, in the same tone.\n I don t lodge poor folks for less. \n\n\n That s true,  added her husband, gently;  it ruins a house to have\nsuch people in it. \n\n\nIn the meantime, the man, laying his bundle and his cudgel on a bench,\nhad seated himself at a table, on which Cosette made haste to place a\nbottle of wine and a glass. The merchant who had demanded the bucket of\nwater took it to his horse himself. Cosette resumed her place under the\nkitchen table, and her knitting.\n\nThe man, who had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had\npoured out for himself, observed the child with peculiar attention.\n\nCosette was ugly. If she had been happy, she might have been pretty. We\nhave already given a sketch of that sombre little figure. Cosette was\nthin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but she seemed to be\nhardly six. Her large eyes, sunken in a sort of shadow, were almost put\nout with weeping. The corners of her mouth had that curve of habitual\nanguish which is seen in condemned persons and desperately sick people.\nHer hands were, as her mother had divined,  ruined with chilblains. \nThe fire which illuminated her at that moment brought into relief all\nthe angles of her bones, and rendered her thinness frightfully\napparent. As she was always shivering, she had acquired the habit of\npressing her knees one against the other. Her entire clothing was but a\nrag which would have inspired pity in summer, and which inspired horror\nin winter. All she had on was hole-ridden linen, not a scrap of\nwoollen. Her skin was visible here and there and everywhere black and\nblue spots could be descried, which marked the places where the\nTh nardier woman had touched her. Her naked legs were thin and red. The\nhollows in her neck were enough to make one weep. This child s whole\nperson, her mien, her attitude, the sound of her voice, the intervals\nwhich she allowed to elapse between one word and the next, her glance,\nher silence, her slightest gesture, expressed and betrayed one sole\nidea, fear.\n\nFear was diffused all over her; she was covered with it, so to speak;\nfear drew her elbows close to her hips, withdrew her heels under her\npetticoat, made her occupy as little space as possible, allowed her\nonly the breath that was absolutely necessary, and had become what\nmight be called the habit of her body, admitting of no possible\nvariation except an increase. In the depths of her eyes there was an\nastonished nook where terror lurked.\n\nHer fear was such, that on her arrival, wet as she was, Cosette did not\ndare to approach the fire and dry herself, but sat silently down to her\nwork again.\n\nThe expression in the glance of that child of eight years was\nhabitually so gloomy, and at times so tragic, that it seemed at certain\nmoments as though she were on the verge of becoming an idiot or a\ndemon.\n\nAs we have stated, she had never known what it is to pray; she had\nnever set foot in a church.  Have I the time?  said the Th nardier.\n\nThe man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette.\n\nAll at once, the Th nardier exclaimed: \n\n By the way, where s that bread? \n\n\nCosette, according to her custom whenever the Th nardier uplifted her\nvoice, emerged with great haste from beneath the table.\n\nShe had completely forgotten the bread. She had recourse to the\nexpedient of children who live in a constant state of fear. She lied.\n\n Madame, the baker s shop was shut. \n\n\n You should have knocked. \n\n\n I did knock, Madame. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n He did not open the door. \n\n\n I ll find out to-morrow whether that is true,  said the Th nardier;\n and if you are telling me a lie, I ll lead you a pretty dance. In the\nmeantime, give me back my fifteen-sou piece. \n\n\nCosette plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, and turned\ngreen. The fifteen-sou piece was not there.\n\n Ah, come now,  said Madame Th nardier,  did you hear me? \n\n\nCosette turned her pocket inside out; there was nothing in it. What\ncould have become of that money? The unhappy little creature could not\nfind a word to say. She was petrified.\n\n Have you lost that fifteen-sou piece?  screamed the Th nardier,\nhoarsely,  or do you want to rob me of it? \n\n\nAt the same time, she stretched out her arm towards the\ncat-o -nine-tails which hung on a nail in the chimney-corner.\n\nThis formidable gesture restored to Cosette sufficient strength to\nshriek: \n\n Mercy, Madame, Madame! I will not do so any more! \n\n\nThe Th nardier took down the whip.\n\nIn the meantime, the man in the yellow coat had been fumbling in the\nfob of his waistcoat, without any one having noticed his movements.\nBesides, the other travellers were drinking or playing cards, and were\nnot paying attention to anything.\n\nCosette contracted herself into a ball, with anguish, within the angle\nof the chimney, endeavoring to gather up and conceal her poor half-nude\nlimbs. The Th nardier raised her arm.\n\n Pardon me, Madame,  said the man,  but just now I caught sight of\nsomething which had fallen from this little one s apron pocket, and\nrolled aside. Perhaps this is it. \n\n\nAt the same time he bent down and seemed to be searching on the floor\nfor a moment.\n\n Exactly; here it is,  he went on, straightening himself up.\n\nAnd he held out a silver coin to the Th nardier.\n\n Yes, that s it,  said she.\n\nIt was not it, for it was a twenty-sou piece; but the Th nardier found\nit to her advantage. She put the coin in her pocket, and confined\nherself to casting a fierce glance at the child, accompanied with the\nremark,  Don t let this ever happen again! \n\n\nCosette returned to what the Th nardier called  her kennel,  and her\nlarge eyes, which were riveted on the traveller, began to take on an\nexpression such as they had never worn before. Thus far it was only an\ninnocent amazement, but a sort of stupefied confidence was mingled with\nit.\n\n By the way, would you like some supper?  the Th nardier inquired of\nthe traveller.\n\nHe made no reply. He appeared to be absorbed in thought.\n\n What sort of a man is that?  she muttered between her teeth.  He s\nsome frightfully poor wretch. He hasn t a sou to pay for a supper. Will\nhe even pay me for his lodging? It s very lucky, all the same, that it\ndid not occur to him to steal the money that was on the floor. \n\n\nIn the meantime, a door had opened, and  ponine and Azelma entered.\n\nThey were two really pretty little girls, more bourgeois than peasant\nin looks, and very charming; the one with shining chestnut tresses, the\nother with long black braids hanging down her back, both vivacious,\nneat, plump, rosy, and healthy, and a delight to the eye. They were\nwarmly clad, but with so much maternal art that the thickness of the\nstuffs did not detract from the coquetry of arrangement. There was a\nhint of winter, though the springtime was not wholly effaced. Light\nemanated from these two little beings. Besides this, they were on the\nthrone. In their toilettes, in their gayety, in the noise which they\nmade, there was sovereignty. When they entered, the Th nardier said to\nthem in a grumbling tone which was full of adoration,  Ah! there you\nare, you children! \n\n\nThen drawing them, one after the other to her knees, smoothing their\nhair, tying their ribbons afresh, and then releasing them with that\ngentle manner of shaking off which is peculiar to mothers, she\nexclaimed,  What frights they are! \n\n\nThey went and seated themselves in the chimney-corner. They had a doll,\nwhich they turned over and over on their knees with all sorts of joyous\nchatter. From time to time Cosette raised her eyes from her knitting,\nand watched their play with a melancholy air.\n\n ponine and Azelma did not look at Cosette. She was the same as a dog\nto them. These three little girls did not yet reckon up four and twenty\nyears between them, but they already represented the whole society of\nman; envy on the one side, disdain on the other.\n\nThe doll of the Th nardier sisters was very much faded, very old, and\nmuch broken; but it seemed nonetheless admirable to Cosette, who had\nnever had a doll in her life, _a real doll_, to make use of the\nexpression which all children will understand.\n\nAll at once, the Th nardier, who had been going back and forth in the\nroom, perceived that Cosette s mind was distracted, and that, instead\nof working, she was paying attention to the little ones at their play.\n\n Ah! I ve caught you at it!  she cried.  So that s the way you work!\nI ll make you work to the tune of the whip; that I will. \n\n\nThe stranger turned to the Th nardier, without quitting his chair.\n\n Bah, Madame,  he said, with an almost timid air,  let her play! \n\n\nSuch a wish expressed by a traveller who had eaten a slice of mutton\nand had drunk a couple of bottles of wine with his supper, and who had\nnot the air of being frightfully poor, would have been equivalent to an\norder. But that a man with such a hat should permit himself such a\ndesire, and that a man with such a coat should permit himself to have a\nwill, was something which Madame Th nardier did not intend to tolerate.\nShe retorted with acrimony: \n\n She must work, since she eats. I don t feed her to do nothing. \n\n\n What is she making?  went on the stranger, in a gentle voice which\ncontrasted strangely with his beggarly garments and his porter s\nshoulders.\n\nThe Th nardier deigned to reply: \n\n Stockings, if you please. Stockings for my little girls, who have\nnone, so to speak, and who are absolutely barefoot just now. \n\n\nThe man looked at Cosette s poor little red feet, and continued: \n\n When will she have finished this pair of stockings? \n\n\n She has at least three or four good days  work on them still, the lazy\ncreature! \n\n\n And how much will that pair of stockings be worth when she has\nfinished them? \n\n\nThe Th nardier cast a glance of disdain on him.\n\n Thirty sous at least. \n\n\n Will you sell them for five francs?  went on the man.\n\n Good heavens!  exclaimed a carter who was listening, with a loud\nlaugh;  five francs! the deuce, I should think so! five balls! \n\n\nTh nardier thought it time to strike in.\n\n Yes, sir; if such is your fancy, you will be allowed to have that pair\nof stockings for five francs. We can refuse nothing to travellers. \n\n\n You must pay on the spot,  said the Th nardier, in her curt and\nperemptory fashion.\n\n I will buy that pair of stockings,  replied the man,  and,  he added,\ndrawing a five-franc piece from his pocket, and laying it on the table,\n I will pay for them. \n\n\nThen he turned to Cosette.\n\n Now I own your work; play, my child. \n\n\nThe carter was so much touched by the five-franc piece, that he\nabandoned his glass and hastened up.\n\n But it s true!  he cried, examining it.  A real hind wheel! and not\ncounterfeit! \n\n\nTh nardier approached and silently put the coin in his pocket.\n\nThe Th nardier had no reply to make. She bit her lips, and her face\nassumed an expression of hatred.\n\nIn the meantime, Cosette was trembling. She ventured to ask: \n\n Is it true, Madame? May I play? \n\n\n Play!  said the Th nardier, in a terrible voice.\n\n Thanks, Madame,  said Cosette.\n\nAnd while her mouth thanked the Th nardier, her whole little soul\nthanked the traveller.\n\nTh nardier had resumed his drinking; his wife whispered in his ear: \n\n Who can this yellow man be? \n\n\n I have seen millionaires with coats like that,  replied Th nardier, in\na sovereign manner.\n\nCosette had dropped her knitting, but had not left her seat. Cosette\nalways moved as little as possible. She picked up some old rags and her\nlittle lead sword from a box behind her.\n\n ponine and Azelma paid no attention to what was going on. They had\njust executed a very important operation; they had just got hold of the\ncat. They had thrown their doll on the ground, and  ponine, who was the\nelder, was swathing the little cat, in spite of its mewing and its\ncontortions, in a quantity of clothes and red and blue scraps. While\nperforming this serious and difficult work she was saying to her sister\nin that sweet and adorable language of children, whose grace, like the\nsplendor of the butterfly s wing, vanishes when one essays to fix it\nfast.\n\n You see, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other. She twists,\nshe cries, she is warm. See, sister, let us play with her. She shall be\nmy little girl. I will be a lady. I will come to see you, and you shall\nlook at her. Gradually, you will perceive her whiskers, and that will\nsurprise you. And then you will see her ears, and then you will see her\ntail and it will amaze you. And you will say to me,  Ah! Mon Dieu!  and\nI will say to you:  Yes, Madame, it is my little girl. Little girls are\nmade like that just at present. \n\n\nAzelma listened admiringly to  ponine.\n\nIn the meantime, the drinkers had begun to sing an obscene song, and to\nlaugh at it until the ceiling shook. Th nardier accompanied and\nencouraged them.\n\nAs birds make nests out of everything, so children make a doll out of\nanything which comes to hand. While  ponine and Azelma were bundling up\nthe cat, Cosette, on her side, had dressed up her sword. That done, she\nlaid it in her arms, and sang to it softly, to lull it to sleep.\n\nThe doll is one of the most imperious needs and, at the same time, one\nof the most charming instincts of feminine childhood. To care for, to\nclothe, to deck, to dress, to undress, to redress, to teach, scold a\nlittle, to rock, to dandle, to lull to sleep, to imagine that something\nis some one, therein lies the whole woman s future. While dreaming and\nchattering, making tiny outfits, and baby clothes, while sewing little\ngowns, and corsages and bodices, the child grows into a young girl, the\nyoung girl into a big girl, the big girl into a woman. The first child\nis the continuation of the last doll.\n\nA little girl without a doll is almost as unhappy, and quite as\nimpossible, as a woman without children.\n\nSo Cosette had made herself a doll out of the sword.\n\nMadame Th nardier approached _the yellow man_;  My husband is right, \nshe thought;  perhaps it is M. Laffitte; there are such queer rich\nmen! \n\n\nShe came and set her elbows on the table.\n\n Monsieur,  said she. At this word, _Monsieur_, the man turned; up to\nthat time, the Th nardier had addressed him only as _brave homme_ or\n_bonhomme_.\n\n You see, sir,  she pursued, assuming a sweetish air that was even more\nrepulsive to behold than her fierce mien,  I am willing that the child\nshould play; I do not oppose it, but it is good for once, because you\nare generous. You see, she has nothing; she must needs work. \n\n\n Then this child is not yours?  demanded the man.\n\n Oh! mon Dieu! no, sir! she is a little beggar whom we have taken in\nthrough charity; a sort of imbecile child. She must have water on the\nbrain; she has a large head, as you see. We do what we can for her, for\nwe are not rich; we have written in vain to her native place, and have\nreceived no reply these six months. It must be that her mother is\ndead. \n\n\n Ah!  said the man, and fell into his reverie once more.\n\n Her mother didn t amount to much,  added the Th nardier;  she\nabandoned her child. \n\n\nDuring the whole of this conversation Cosette, as though warned by some\ninstinct that she was under discussion, had not taken her eyes from the\nTh nardier s face; she listened vaguely; she caught a few words here\nand there.\n\nMeanwhile, the drinkers, all three-quarters intoxicated, were repeating\ntheir unclean refrain with redoubled gayety; it was a highly spiced and\nwanton song, in which the Virgin and the infant Jesus were introduced.\nThe Th nardier went off to take part in the shouts of laughter.\nCosette, from her post under the table, gazed at the fire, which was\nreflected from her fixed eyes. She had begun to rock the sort of baby\nwhich she had made, and, as she rocked it, she sang in a low voice,  My\nmother is dead! my mother is dead! my mother is dead! \n\n\nOn being urged afresh by the hostess, the yellow man,  the\nmillionaire,  consented at last to take supper.\n\n What does Monsieur wish? \n\n\n Bread and cheese,  said the man.\n\n Decidedly, he is a beggar  thought Madame Th nardier.\n\nThe drunken men were still singing their song, and the child under the\ntable was singing hers.\n\nAll at once, Cosette paused; she had just turned round and caught sight\nof the little Th nardiers  doll, which they had abandoned for the cat\nand had left on the floor a few paces from the kitchen table.\n\nThen she dropped the swaddled sword, which only half met her needs, and\ncast her eyes slowly round the room. Madame Th nardier was whispering\nto her husband and counting over some money; Ponine and Zelma were\nplaying with the cat; the travellers were eating or drinking or\nsinging; not a glance was fixed on her. She had not a moment to lose;\nshe crept out from under the table on her hands and knees, made sure\nonce more that no one was watching her; then she slipped quickly up to\nthe doll and seized it. An instant later she was in her place again,\nseated motionless, and only turned so as to cast a shadow on the doll\nwhich she held in her arms. The happiness of playing with a doll was so\nrare for her that it contained all the violence of voluptuousness.\n\nNo one had seen her, except the traveller, who was slowly devouring his\nmeagre supper.\n\nThis joy lasted about a quarter of an hour.\n\nBut with all the precautions that Cosette had taken she did not\nperceive that one of the doll s legs stuck out and that the fire on the\nhearth lighted it up very vividly. That pink and shining foot,\nprojecting from the shadow, suddenly struck the eye of Azelma, who said\nto  ponine,  Look! sister. \n\n\nThe two little girls paused in stupefaction; Cosette had dared to take\ntheir doll!\n\n ponine rose, and, without releasing the cat, she ran to her mother,\nand began to tug at her skirt.\n\n Let me alone!  said her mother;  what do you want? \n\n\n Mother,  said the child,  look there! \n\n\nAnd she pointed to Cosette.\n\nCosette, absorbed in the ecstasies of possession, no longer saw or\nheard anything.\n\nMadame Th nardier s countenance assumed that peculiar expression which\nis composed of the terrible mingled with the trifles of life, and which\nhas caused this style of woman to be named _Megaeras_.\n\nOn this occasion, wounded pride exasperated her wrath still further.\nCosette had overstepped all bounds; Cosette had laid violent hands on\nthe doll belonging to  these young ladies.  A czarina who should see a\nmuzhik trying on her imperial son s blue ribbon would wear no other\nface.\n\nShe shrieked in a voice rendered hoarse with indignation: \n\n Cosette! \n\n\nCosette started as though the earth had trembled beneath her; she\nturned round.\n\n Cosette!  repeated the Th nardier.\n\nCosette took the doll and laid it gently on the floor with a sort of\nveneration, mingled with despair; then, without taking her eyes from\nit, she clasped her hands, and, what is terrible to relate of a child\nof that age, she wrung them; then not one of the emotions of the day,\nneither the trip to the forest, nor the weight of the bucket of water,\nnor the loss of the money, nor the sight of the whip, nor even the sad\nwords which she had heard Madame Th nardier utter had been able to\nwring this from her she wept; she burst out sobbing.\n\nMeanwhile, the traveller had risen to his feet.\n\n What is the matter?  he said to the Th nardier.\n\n Don t you see?  said the Th nardier, pointing to the _corpus delicti_\nwhich lay at Cosette s feet.\n\n Well, what of it?  resumed the man.\n\n That beggar,  replied the Th nardier,  has permitted herself to touch\nthe children s doll! \n\n\n All this noise for that!  said the man;  well, what if she did play\nwith that doll? \n\n\n She touched it with her dirty hands!  pursued the Th nardier,  with\nher frightful hands! \n\n\nHere Cosette redoubled her sobs.\n\n Will you stop your noise?  screamed the Th nardier.\n\nThe man went straight to the street door, opened it, and stepped out.\n\nAs soon as he had gone, the Th nardier profited by his absence to give\nCosette a hearty kick under the table, which made the child utter loud\ncries.\n\nThe door opened again, the man reappeared; he carried in both hands the\nfabulous doll which we have mentioned, and which all the village brats\nhad been staring at ever since the morning, and he set it upright in\nfront of Cosette, saying: \n\n Here; this is for you. \n\n\nIt must be supposed that in the course of the hour and more which he\nhad spent there he had taken confused notice through his reverie of\nthat toy shop, lighted up by fire-pots and candles so splendidly that\nit was visible like an illumination through the window of the\ndrinking-shop.\n\nCosette raised her eyes; she gazed at the man approaching her with that\ndoll as she might have gazed at the sun; she heard the unprecedented\nwords,  It is for you ; she stared at him; she stared at the doll; then\nshe slowly retreated, and hid herself at the extreme end, under the\ntable in a corner of the wall.\n\nShe no longer cried; she no longer wept; she had the appearance of no\nlonger daring to breathe.\n\nThe Th nardier,  ponine, and Azelma were like statues also; the very\ndrinkers had paused; a solemn silence reigned through the whole room.\n\nMadame Th nardier, petrified and mute, recommenced her conjectures:\n Who is that old fellow? Is he a poor man? Is he a millionaire? Perhaps\nhe is both; that is to say, a thief. \n\n\nThe face of the male Th nardier presented that expressive fold which\naccentuates the human countenance whenever the dominant instinct\nappears there in all its bestial force. The tavern-keeper stared\nalternately at the doll and at the traveller; he seemed to be scenting\nout the man, as he would have scented out a bag of money. This did not\nlast longer than the space of a flash of lightning. He stepped up to\nhis wife and said to her in a low voice: \n\n That machine costs at least thirty francs. No nonsense. Down on your\nbelly before that man! \n\n\nGross natures have this in common with _na ve_ natures, that they\npossess no transition state.\n\n Well, Cosette,  said the Th nardier, in a voice that strove to be\nsweet, and which was composed of the bitter honey of malicious women,\n aren t you going to take your doll? \n\n\nCosette ventured to emerge from her hole.\n\n The gentleman has given you a doll, my little Cosette,  said\nTh nardier, with a caressing air.  Take it; it is yours. \n\n\nCosette gazed at the marvellous doll in a sort of terror. Her face was\nstill flooded with tears, but her eyes began to fill, like the sky at\ndaybreak, with strange beams of joy. What she felt at that moment was a\nlittle like what she would have felt if she had been abruptly told,\n Little one, you are the Queen of France. \n\n\nIt seemed to her that if she touched that doll, lightning would dart\nfrom it.\n\nThis was true, up to a certain point, for she said to herself that the\nTh nardier would scold and beat her.\n\nNevertheless, the attraction carried the day. She ended by drawing near\nand murmuring timidly as she turned towards Madame Th nardier: \n\n May I, Madame? \n\n\nNo words can render that air, at once despairing, terrified, and\necstatic.\n\n Pardi!  cried the Th nardier,  it is yours. The gentleman has given it\nto you. \n\n\n Truly, sir?  said Cosette.  Is it true? Is the  lady  mine? \n\n\nThe stranger s eyes seemed to be full of tears. He appeared to have\nreached that point of emotion where a man does not speak for fear lest\nhe should weep. He nodded to Cosette, and placed the  lady s  hand in\nher tiny hand.\n\nCosette hastily withdrew her hand, as though that of the  lady \nscorched her, and began to stare at the floor. We are forced to add\nthat at that moment she stuck out her tongue immoderately. All at once\nshe wheeled round and seized the doll in a transport.\n\n I shall call her Catherine,  she said.\n\nIt was an odd moment when Cosette s rags met and clasped the ribbons\nand fresh pink muslins of the doll.\n\n Madame,  she resumed,  may I put her on a chair? \n\n\n Yes, my child,  replied the Th nardier.\n\nIt was now the turn of  ponine and Azelma to gaze at Cosette with envy.\n\nCosette placed Catherine on a chair, then seated herself on the floor\nin front of her, and remained motionless, without uttering a word, in\nan attitude of contemplation.\n\n Play, Cosette,  said the stranger.\n\n Oh! I am playing,  returned the child.\n\nThis stranger, this unknown individual, who had the air of a visit\nwhich Providence was making on Cosette, was the person whom the\nTh nardier hated worse than any one in the world at that moment.\nHowever, it was necessary to control herself. Habituated as she was to\ndissimulation through endeavoring to copy her husband in all his\nactions, these emotions were more than she could endure. She made haste\nto send her daughters to bed, then she asked the man s _permission_ to\nsend Cosette off also;  for she has worked hard all day,  she added\nwith a maternal air. Cosette went off to bed, carrying Catherine in her\narms.\n\nFrom time to time the Th nardier went to the other end of the room\nwhere her husband was, to _relieve her soul_, as she said. She\nexchanged with her husband words which were all the more furious\nbecause she dared not utter them aloud.\n\n Old beast! What has he got in his belly, to come and upset us in this\nmanner! To want that little monster to play! to give away forty-franc\ndolls to a jade that I would sell for forty sous, so I would! A little\nmore and he will be saying _Your Majesty_ to her, as though to the\nDuchesse de Berry! Is there any sense in it? Is he mad, then, that\nmysterious old fellow? \n\n\n Why! it is perfectly simple,  replied Th nardier,  if that amuses him!\nIt amuses you to have the little one work; it amuses him to have her\nplay. He s all right. A traveller can do what he pleases when he pays\nfor it. If the old fellow is a philanthropist, what is that to you? If\nhe is an imbecile, it does not concern you. What are you worrying for,\nso long as he has money? \n\n\nThe language of a master, and the reasoning of an innkeeper, neither of\nwhich admitted of any reply.\n\nThe man had placed his elbows on the table, and resumed his thoughtful\nattitude. All the other travellers, both pedlers and carters, had\nwithdrawn a little, and had ceased singing. They were staring at him\nfrom a distance, with a sort of respectful awe. This poorly dressed\nman, who drew  hind-wheels  from his pocket with so much ease, and who\nlavished gigantic dolls on dirty little brats in wooden shoes, was\ncertainly a magnificent fellow, and one to be feared.\n\nMany hours passed. The midnight mass was over, the chimes had ceased,\nthe drinkers had taken their departure, the drinking-shop was closed,\nthe public room was deserted, the fire extinct, the stranger still\nremained in the same place and the same attitude. From time to time he\nchanged the elbow on which he leaned. That was all; but he had not said\na word since Cosette had left the room.\n\nThe Th nardiers alone, out of politeness and curiosity, had remained in\nthe room.\n\n Is he going to pass the night in that fashion?  grumbled the\nTh nardier. When two o clock in the morning struck, she declared\nherself vanquished, and said to her husband,  I m going to bed. Do as\nyou like.  Her husband seated himself at a table in the corner, lighted\na candle, and began to read the _Courrier Fran ais_.\n\nA good hour passed thus. The worthy inn-keeper had perused the\n_Courrier Fran ais_ at least three times, from the date of the number\nto the printer s name. The stranger did not stir.\n\nTh nardier fidgeted, coughed, spit, blew his nose, and creaked his\nchair. Not a movement on the man s part.  Is he asleep?  thought\nTh nardier. The man was not asleep, but nothing could arouse him.\n\nAt last Th nardier took off his cap, stepped gently up to him, and\nventured to say: \n\n Is not Monsieur going to his repose? \n\n\n_Not going to bed_ would have seemed to him excessive and familiar. _To\nrepose_ smacked of luxury and respect. These words possess the\nmysterious and admirable property of swelling the bill on the following\nday. A chamber where one _sleeps_ costs twenty sous; a chamber in which\none _reposes_ costs twenty francs.\n\n Well!  said the stranger,  you are right. Where is your stable? \n\n\n Sir!  exclaimed Th nardier, with a smile,  I will conduct you, sir. \n\n\nHe took the candle; the man picked up his bundle and cudgel, and\nTh nardier conducted him to a chamber on the first floor, which was of\nrare splendor, all furnished in mahogany, with a low bedstead,\ncurtained with red calico.\n\n What is this?  said the traveller.\n\n It is really our bridal chamber,  said the tavern-keeper.  My wife and\nI occupy another. This is only entered three or four times a year. \n\n\n I should have liked the stable quite as well,  said the man, abruptly.\n\nTh nardier pretended not to hear this unamiable remark.\n\nHe lighted two perfectly fresh wax candles which figured on the\nchimney-piece. A very good fire was flickering on the hearth.\n\nOn the chimney-piece, under a glass globe, stood a woman s head-dress\nin silver wire and orange flowers.\n\n And what is this?  resumed the stranger.\n\n That, sir,  said Th nardier,  is my wife s wedding bonnet. \n\n\nThe traveller surveyed the object with a glance which seemed to say,\n There really was a time, then, when that monster was a maiden? \n\n\nTh nardier lied, however. When he had leased this paltry building for\nthe purpose of converting it into a tavern, he had found this chamber\ndecorated in just this manner, and had purchased the furniture and\nobtained the orange flowers at second hand, with the idea that this\nwould cast a graceful shadow on  his spouse,  and would result in what\nthe English call respectability for his house.\n\nWhen the traveller turned round, the host had disappeared. Th nardier\nhad withdrawn discreetly, without venturing to wish him a good night,\nas he did not wish to treat with disrespectful cordiality a man whom he\nproposed to fleece royally the following morning.\n\nThe inn-keeper retired to his room. His wife was in bed, but she was\nnot asleep. When she heard her husband s step she turned over and said\nto him: \n\n Do you know, I m going to turn Cosette out of doors to-morrow. \n\n\nTh nardier replied coldly: \n\n How you do go on! \n\n\nThey exchanged no further words, and a few moments later their candle\nwas extinguished.\n\nAs for the traveller, he had deposited his cudgel and his bundle in a\ncorner. The landlord once gone, he threw himself into an armchair and\nremained for some time buried in thought. Then he removed his shoes,\ntook one of the two candles, blew out the other, opened the door, and\nquitted the room, gazing about him like a person who is in search of\nsomething. He traversed a corridor and came upon a staircase. There he\nheard a very faint and gentle sound like the breathing of a child. He\nfollowed this sound, and came to a sort of triangular recess built\nunder the staircase, or rather formed by the staircase itself. This\nrecess was nothing else than the space under the steps. There, in the\nmidst of all sorts of old papers and potsherds, among dust and spiders \nwebs, was a bed if one can call by the name of bed a straw pallet so\nfull of holes as to display the straw, and a coverlet so tattered as to\nshow the pallet. No sheets. This was placed on the floor.\n\nIn this bed Cosette was sleeping.\n\nThe man approached and gazed down upon her.\n\nCosette was in a profound sleep; she was fully dressed. In the winter\nshe did not undress, in order that she might not be so cold.\n\nAgainst her breast was pressed the doll, whose large eyes, wide open,\nglittered in the dark. From time to time she gave vent to a deep sigh\nas though she were on the point of waking, and she strained the doll\nalmost convulsively in her arms. Beside her bed there was only one of\nher wooden shoes.\n\nA door which stood open near Cosette s pallet permitted a view of a\nrather large, dark room. The stranger stepped into it. At the further\nextremity, through a glass door, he saw two small, very white beds.\nThey belonged to  ponine and Azelma. Behind these beds, and half\nhidden, stood an uncurtained wicker cradle, in which the little boy who\nhad cried all the evening lay asleep.\n\nThe stranger conjectured that this chamber connected with that of the\nTh nardier pair. He was on the point of retreating when his eye fell\nupon the fireplace one of those vast tavern chimneys where there is\nalways so little fire when there is any fire at all, and which are so\ncold to look at. There was no fire in this one, there was not even\nashes; but there was something which attracted the stranger s gaze,\nnevertheless. It was two tiny children s shoes, coquettish in shape and\nunequal in size. The traveller recalled the graceful and immemorial\ncustom in accordance with which children place their shoes in the\nchimney on Christmas eve, there to await in the darkness some sparkling\ngift from their good fairy.  ponine and Azelma had taken care not to\nomit this, and each of them had set one of her shoes on the hearth.\n\nThe traveller bent over them.\n\nThe fairy, that is to say, their mother, had already paid her visit,\nand in each he saw a brand-new and shining ten-sou piece.\n\nThe man straightened himself up, and was on the point of withdrawing,\nwhen far in, in the darkest corner of the hearth, he caught sight of\nanother object. He looked at it, and recognized a wooden shoe, a\nfrightful shoe of the coarsest description, half dilapidated and all\ncovered with ashes and dried mud. It was Cosette s sabot. Cosette, with\nthat touching trust of childhood, which can always be deceived yet\nnever discouraged, had placed her shoe on the hearth-stone also.\n\nHope in a child who has never known anything but despair is a sweet and\ntouching thing.\n\nThere was nothing in this wooden shoe.\n\nThe stranger fumbled in his waistcoat, bent over and placed a louis\nd or in Cosette s shoe.\n\nThen he regained his own chamber with the stealthy tread of a wolf.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX  TH NARDIER AND HIS MAN UVRES\n\n\nOn the following morning, two hours at least before day-break,\nTh nardier, seated beside a candle in the public room of the tavern,\npen in hand, was making out the bill for the traveller with the yellow\ncoat.\n\nHis wife, standing beside him, and half bent over him, was following\nhim with her eyes. They exchanged not a word. On the one hand, there\nwas profound meditation, on the other, the religious admiration with\nwhich one watches the birth and development of a marvel of the human\nmind. A noise was audible in the house; it was the Lark sweeping the\nstairs.\n\nAfter the lapse of a good quarter of an hour, and some erasures,\nTh nardier produced the following masterpiece: \n\nBILL OF THE GENTLEMAN IN No. 1.\n\nSupper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .     3 francs.\nChamber  . . . . . . . . . . . . . .     10    \nCandle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .      5    \nFire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .      4    \nService  . . . . . . . . . . . . . .      1    \n                                           \nTotal . . . . . .                        23 francs.\n\n\nService was written _servisse_.\n\n Twenty-three francs!  cried the woman, with an enthusiasm which was\nmingled with some hesitation.\n\nLike all great artists, Th nardier was dissatisfied.\n\n Peuh!  he exclaimed.\n\nIt was the accent of Castlereagh auditing France s bill at the Congress\nof Vienna.\n\n Monsieur Th nardier, you are right; he certainly owes that,  murmured\nthe wife, who was thinking of the doll bestowed on Cosette in the\npresence of her daughters.  It is just, but it is too much. He will not\npay it. \n\n\nTh nardier laughed coldly, as usual, and said: \n\n He will pay. \n\n\nThis laugh was the supreme assertion of certainty and authority. That\nwhich was asserted in this manner must needs be so. His wife did not\ninsist.\n\nShe set about arranging the table; her husband paced the room. A moment\nlater he added: \n\n I owe full fifteen hundred francs! \n\n\nHe went and seated himself in the chimney-corner, meditating, with his\nfeet among the warm ashes.\n\n Ah! by the way,  resumed his wife,  you don t forget that I m going to\nturn Cosette out of doors to-day? The monster! She breaks my heart with\nthat doll of hers! I d rather marry Louis XVIII. than keep her another\nday in the house! \n\n\nTh nardier lighted his pipe, and replied between two puffs: \n\n You will hand that bill to the man. \n\n\nThen he went out.\n\nHardly had he left the room when the traveller entered.\n\nTh nardier instantly reappeared behind him and remained motionless in\nthe half-open door, visible only to his wife.\n\nThe yellow man carried his bundle and his cudgel in his hand.\n\n Up so early?  said Madame Th nardier;  is Monsieur leaving us\nalready? \n\n\nAs she spoke thus, she was twisting the bill about in her hands with an\nembarrassed air, and making creases in it with her nails. Her hard face\npresented a shade which was not habitual with it, timidity and\nscruples.\n\nTo present such a bill to a man who had so completely the air  of a\npoor wretch  seemed difficult to her.\n\nThe traveller appeared to be preoccupied and absent-minded. He\nreplied: \n\n Yes, Madame, I am going. \n\n\n So Monsieur has no business in Montfermeil? \n\n\n No, I was passing through. That is all. What do I owe you, Madame,  he\nadded.\n\nThe Th nardier silently handed him the folded bill.\n\nThe man unfolded the paper and glanced at it; but his thoughts were\nevidently elsewhere.\n\n Madame,  he resumed,  is business good here in Montfermeil? \n\n\n So so, Monsieur,  replied the Th nardier, stupefied at not witnessing\nanother sort of explosion.\n\nShe continued, in a dreary and lamentable tone: \n\n Oh! Monsieur, times are so hard! and then, we have so few bourgeois in\nthe neighborhood! All the people are poor, you see. If we had not, now\nand then, some rich and generous travellers like Monsieur, we should\nnot get along at all. We have so many expenses. Just see, that child is\ncosting us our very eyes. \n\n\n What child? \n\n\n Why, the little one, you know! Cosette the Lark, as she is called\nhereabouts! \n\n\n Ah!  said the man.\n\nShe went on: \n\n How stupid these peasants are with their nicknames! She has more the\nair of a bat than of a lark. You see, sir, we do not ask charity, and\nwe cannot bestow it. We earn nothing and we have to pay out a great\ndeal. The license, the imposts, the door and window tax, the\nhundredths! Monsieur is aware that the government demands a terrible\ndeal of money. And then, I have my daughters. I have no need to bring\nup other people s children. \n\n\nThe man resumed, in that voice which he strove to render indifferent,\nand in which there lingered a tremor: \n\n What if one were to rid you of her? \n\n\n Who? Cosette? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\nThe landlady s red and violent face brightened up hideously.\n\n Ah! sir, my dear sir, take her, keep her, lead her off, carry her\naway, sugar her, stuff her with truffles, drink her, eat her, and the\nblessings of the good holy Virgin and of all the saints of paradise be\nupon you! \n\n\n Agreed. \n\n\n Really! You will take her away? \n\n\n I will take her away. \n\n\n Immediately? \n\n\n Immediately. Call the child. \n\n\n Cosette!  screamed the Th nardier.\n\n In the meantime,  pursued the man,  I will pay you what I owe you. How\nmuch is it? \n\n\nHe cast a glance on the bill, and could not restrain a start of\nsurprise: \n\n Twenty-three francs! \n\n\nHe looked at the landlady, and repeated: \n\n Twenty-three francs? \n\n\nThere was in the enunciation of these words, thus repeated, an accent\nbetween an exclamation and an interrogation point.\n\nThe Th nardier had had time to prepare herself for the shock. She\nreplied, with assurance: \n\n Good gracious, yes, sir, it is twenty-three francs. \n\n\nThe stranger laid five five-franc pieces on the table.\n\n Go and get the child,  said he.\n\nAt that moment Th nardier advanced to the middle of the room, and\nsaid: \n\n Monsieur owes twenty-six sous. \n\n\n Twenty-six sous!  exclaimed his wife.\n\n Twenty sous for the chamber,  resumed Th nardier, coldly,  and six\nsous for his supper. As for the child, I must discuss that matter a\nlittle with the gentleman. Leave us, wife. \n\n\nMadame Th nardier was dazzled as with the shock caused by unexpected\nlightning flashes of talent. She was conscious that a great actor was\nmaking his entrance on the stage, uttered not a word in reply, and left\nthe room.\n\nAs soon as they were alone, Th nardier offered the traveller a chair.\nThe traveller seated himself; Th nardier remained standing, and his\nface assumed a singular expression of good-fellowship and simplicity.\n\n Sir,  said he,  what I have to say to you is this, that I adore that\nchild. \n\n\nThe stranger gazed intently at him.\n\n What child? \n\n\nTh nardier continued: \n\n How strange it is, one grows attached. What money is that? Take back\nyour hundred-sou piece. I adore the child. \n\n\n Whom do you mean?  demanded the stranger.\n\n Eh! our little Cosette! Are you not intending to take her away from\nus? Well, I speak frankly; as true as you are an honest man, I will not\nconsent to it. I shall miss that child. I saw her first when she was a\ntiny thing. It is true that she costs us money; it is true that she has\nher faults; it is true that we are not rich; it is true that I have\npaid out over four hundred francs for drugs for just one of her\nillnesses! But one must do something for the good God s sake. She has\nneither father nor mother. I have brought her up. I have bread enough\nfor her and for myself. In truth, I think a great deal of that child.\nYou understand, one conceives an affection for a person; I am a good\nsort of a beast, I am; I do not reason; I love that little girl; my\nwife is quick-tempered, but she loves her also. You see, she is just\nthe same as our own child. I want to keep her to babble about the\nhouse. \n\n\nThe stranger kept his eye intently fixed on Th nardier. The latter\ncontinued: \n\n Excuse me, sir, but one does not give away one s child to a passer-by,\nlike that. I am right, am I not? Still, I don t say you are rich; you\nhave the air of a very good man, if it were for her happiness. But one\nmust find out that. You understand: suppose that I were to let her go\nand to sacrifice myself, I should like to know what becomes of her; I\nshould not wish to lose sight of her; I should like to know with whom\nshe is living, so that I could go to see her from time to time; so that\nshe may know that her good foster-father is alive, that he is watching\nover her. In short, there are things which are not possible. I do not\neven know your name. If you were to take her away, I should say:  Well,\nand the Lark, what has become of her?  One must, at least, see some\npetty scrap of paper, some trifle in the way of a passport, you know! \n\n\nThe stranger, still surveying him with that gaze which penetrates, as\nthe saying goes, to the very depths of the conscience, replied in a\ngrave, firm voice: \n\n Monsieur Th nardier, one does not require a passport to travel five\nleagues from Paris. If I take Cosette away, I shall take her away, and\nthat is the end of the matter. You will not know my name, you will not\nknow my residence, you will not know where she is; and my intention is\nthat she shall never set eyes on you again so long as she lives. I\nbreak the thread which binds her foot, and she departs. Does that suit\nyou? Yes or no? \n\n\nSince geniuses, like demons, recognize the presence of a superior God\nby certain signs, Th nardier comprehended that he had to deal with a\nvery strong person. It was like an intuition; he comprehended it with\nhis clear and sagacious promptitude. While drinking with the carters,\nsmoking, and singing coarse songs on the preceding evening, he had\ndevoted the whole of the time to observing the stranger, watching him\nlike a cat, and studying him like a mathematician. He had watched him,\nboth on his own account, for the pleasure of the thing, and through\ninstinct, and had spied upon him as though he had been paid for so\ndoing. Not a movement, not a gesture, on the part of the man in the\nyellow great-coat had escaped him. Even before the stranger had so\nclearly manifested his interest in Cosette, Th nardier had divined his\npurpose. He had caught the old man s deep glances returning constantly\nto the child. Who was this man? Why this interest? Why this hideous\ncostume, when he had so much money in his purse? Questions which he put\nto himself without being able to solve them, and which irritated him.\nHe had pondered it all night long. He could not be Cosette s father.\nWas he her grandfather? Then why not make himself known at once? When\none has a right, one asserts it. This man evidently had no right over\nCosette. What was it, then? Th nardier lost himself in conjectures. He\ncaught glimpses of everything, but he saw nothing. Be that as it may,\non entering into conversation with the man, sure that there was some\nsecret in the case, that the latter had some interest in remaining in\nthe shadow, he felt himself strong; when he perceived from the\nstranger s clear and firm retort, that this mysterious personage was\nmysterious in so simple a way, he became conscious that he was weak. He\nhad expected nothing of the sort. His conjectures were put to the rout.\nHe rallied his ideas. He weighed everything in the space of a second.\nTh nardier was one of those men who take in a situation at a glance. He\ndecided that the moment had arrived for proceeding straightforward, and\nquickly at that. He did as great leaders do at the decisive moment,\nwhich they know that they alone recognize; he abruptly unmasked his\nbatteries.\n\n Sir,  said he,  I am in need of fifteen hundred francs. \n\n\nThe stranger took from his side pocket an old pocketbook of black\nleather, opened it, drew out three bank-bills, which he laid on the\ntable. Then he placed his large thumb on the notes and said to the\ninn-keeper: \n\n Go and fetch Cosette. \n\n\nWhile this was taking place, what had Cosette been doing?\n\nOn waking up, Cosette had run to get her shoe. In it she had found the\ngold piece. It was not a Napoleon; it was one of those perfectly new\ntwenty-franc pieces of the Restoration, on whose effigy the little\nPrussian queue had replaced the laurel wreath. Cosette was dazzled. Her\ndestiny began to intoxicate her. She did not know what a gold piece\nwas; she had never seen one; she hid it quickly in her pocket, as\nthough she had stolen it. Still, she felt that it really was hers; she\nguessed whence her gift had come, but the joy which she experienced was\nfull of fear. She was happy; above all she was stupefied. Such\nmagnificent and beautiful things did not appear real. The doll\nfrightened her, the gold piece frightened her. She trembled vaguely in\nthe presence of this magnificence. The stranger alone did not frighten\nher. On the contrary, he reassured her. Ever since the preceding\nevening, amid all her amazement, even in her sleep, she had been\nthinking in her little childish mind of that man who seemed to be so\npoor and so sad, and who was so rich and so kind. Everything had\nchanged for her since she had met that good man in the forest. Cosette,\nless happy than the most insignificant swallow of heaven, had never\nknown what it was to take refuge under a mother s shadow and under a\nwing. For the last five years, that is to say, as far back as her\nmemory ran, the poor child had shivered and trembled. She had always\nbeen exposed completely naked to the sharp wind of adversity; now it\nseemed to her she was clothed. Formerly her soul had seemed cold, now\nit was warm. Cosette was no longer afraid of the Th nardier. She was no\nlonger alone; there was some one there.\n\nShe hastily set about her regular morning duties. That louis, which she\nhad about her, in the very apron pocket whence the fifteen-sou piece\nhad fallen on the night before, distracted her thoughts. She dared not\ntouch it, but she spent five minutes in gazing at it, with her tongue\nhanging out, if the truth must be told. As she swept the staircase, she\npaused, remained standing there motionless, forgetful of her broom and\nof the entire universe, occupied in gazing at that star which was\nblazing at the bottom of her pocket.\n\nIt was during one of these periods of contemplation that the Th nardier\njoined her. She had gone in search of Cosette at her husband s orders.\nWhat was quite unprecedented, she neither struck her nor said an\ninsulting word to her.\n\n Cosette,  she said, almost gently,  come immediately. \n\n\nAn instant later Cosette entered the public room.\n\nThe stranger took up the bundle which he had brought and untied it.\nThis bundle contained a little woollen gown, an apron, a fustian\nbodice, a kerchief, a petticoat, woollen stockings, shoes a complete\noutfit for a girl of seven years. All was black.\n\n My child,  said the man,  take these, and go and dress yourself\nquickly. \n\n\nDaylight was appearing when those of the inhabitants of Montfermeil who\nhad begun to open their doors beheld a poorly clad old man leading a\nlittle girl dressed in mourning, and carrying a pink doll in her arms,\npass along the road to Paris. They were going in the direction of\nLivry.\n\nIt was our man and Cosette.\n\nNo one knew the man; as Cosette was no longer in rags, many did not\nrecognize her. Cosette was going away. With whom? She did not know.\nWhither? She knew not. All that she understood was that she was leaving\nthe Th nardier tavern behind her. No one had thought of bidding her\nfarewell, nor had she thought of taking leave of any one. She was\nleaving that hated and hating house.\n\nPoor, gentle creature, whose heart had been repressed up to that hour!\n\nCosette walked along gravely, with her large eyes wide open, and gazing\nat the sky. She had put her louis in the pocket of her new apron. From\ntime to time, she bent down and glanced at it; then she looked at the\ngood man. She felt something as though she were beside the good God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X HE WHO SEEKS TO BETTER HIMSELF MAY RENDER HIS SITUATION WORSE\n\n\nMadame Th nardier had allowed her husband to have his own way, as was\nher wont. She had expected great results. When the man and Cosette had\ntaken their departure, Th nardier allowed a full quarter of an hour to\nelapse; then he took her aside and showed her the fifteen hundred\nfrancs.\n\n Is that all?  said she.\n\nIt was the first time since they had set up housekeeping that she had\ndared to criticise one of the master s acts.\n\nThe blow told.\n\n You are right, in sooth,  said he;  I am a fool. Give me my hat. \n\n\nHe folded up the three bank-bills, thrust them into his pocket, and ran\nout in all haste; but he made a mistake and turned to the right first.\nSome neighbors, of whom he made inquiries, put him on the track again;\nthe Lark and the man had been seen going in the direction of Livry. He\nfollowed these hints, walking with great strides, and talking to\nhimself the while: \n\n That man is evidently a million dressed in yellow, and I am an animal.\nFirst he gave twenty sous, then five francs, then fifty francs, then\nfifteen hundred francs, all with equal readiness. He would have given\nfifteen thousand francs. But I shall overtake him. \n\n\nAnd then, that bundle of clothes prepared beforehand for the child; all\nthat was singular; many mysteries lay concealed under it. One does not\nlet mysteries out of one s hand when one has once grasped them. The\nsecrets of the wealthy are sponges of gold; one must know how to\nsubject them to pressure. All these thoughts whirled through his brain.\n I am an animal,  said he.\n\nWhen one leaves Montfermeil and reaches the turn which the road takes\nthat runs to Livry, it can be seen stretching out before one to a great\ndistance across the plateau. On arriving there, he calculated that he\nought to be able to see the old man and the child. He looked as far as\nhis vision reached, and saw nothing. He made fresh inquiries, but he\nhad wasted time. Some passers-by informed him that the man and child of\nwhom he was in search had gone towards the forest in the direction of\nGagny. He hastened in that direction.\n\nThey were far in advance of him; but a child walks slowly, and he\nwalked fast; and then, he was well acquainted with the country.\n\nAll at once he paused and dealt himself a blow on his forehead like a\nman who has forgotten some essential point and who is ready to retrace\nhis steps.\n\n I ought to have taken my gun,  said he to himself.\n\nTh nardier was one of those double natures which sometimes pass through\nour midst without our being aware of the fact, and who disappear\nwithout our finding them out, because destiny has only exhibited one\nside of them. It is the fate of many men to live thus half submerged.\nIn a calm and even situation, Th nardier possessed all that is required\nto make we will not say to be what people have agreed to call an honest\ntrader, a good bourgeois. At the same time certain circumstances being\ngiven, certain shocks arriving to bring his under-nature to the\nsurface, he had all the requisites for a blackguard. He was a\nshopkeeper in whom there was some taint of the monster. Satan must have\noccasionally crouched down in some corner of the hovel in which\nTh nardier dwelt, and have fallen a-dreaming in the presence of this\nhideous masterpiece.\n\nAfter a momentary hesitation: \n\n Bah!  he thought;  they will have time to make their escape. \n\n\nAnd he pursued his road, walking rapidly straight ahead, and with\nalmost an air of certainty, with the sagacity of a fox scenting a covey\nof partridges.\n\nIn truth, when he had passed the ponds and had traversed in an oblique\ndirection the large clearing which lies on the right of the Avenue de\nBellevue, and reached that turf alley which nearly makes the circuit of\nthe hill, and covers the arch of the ancient aqueduct of the Abbey of\nChelles, he caught sight, over the top of the brushwood, of the hat on\nwhich he had already erected so many conjectures; it was that man s\nhat. The brushwood was not high. Th nardier recognized the fact that\nthe man and Cosette were sitting there. The child could not be seen on\naccount of her small size, but the head of her doll was visible.\n\nTh nardier was not mistaken. The man was sitting there, and letting\nCosette get somewhat rested. The inn-keeper walked round the brushwood\nand presented himself abruptly to the eyes of those whom he was in\nsearch of.\n\n Pardon, excuse me, sir,  he said, quite breathless,  but here are your\nfifteen hundred francs. \n\n\nSo saying, he handed the stranger the three bank-bills.\n\nThe man raised his eyes.\n\n What is the meaning of this? \n\n\nTh nardier replied respectfully: \n\n It means, sir, that I shall take back Cosette. \n\n\nCosette shuddered, and pressed close to the old man.\n\nHe replied, gazing to the very bottom of Th nardier s eyes the while,\nand enunciating every syllable distinctly: \n\n You are go-ing to take back Co-sette? \n\n\n Yes, sir, I am. I will tell you; I have considered the matter. In\nfact, I have not the right to give her to you. I am an honest man, you\nsee; this child does not belong to me; she belongs to her mother. It\nwas her mother who confided her to me; I can only resign her to her\nmother. You will say to me,  But her mother is dead.  Good; in that\ncase I can only give the child up to the person who shall bring me a\nwriting, signed by her mother, to the effect that I am to hand the\nchild over to the person therein mentioned; that is clear. \n\n\nThe man, without making any reply, fumbled in his pocket, and\nTh nardier beheld the pocket-book of bank-bills make its appearance\nonce more.\n\nThe tavern-keeper shivered with joy.\n\n Good!  thought he;  let us hold firm; he is going to bribe me! \n\n\nBefore opening the pocket-book, the traveller cast a glance about him:\nthe spot was absolutely deserted; there was not a soul either in the\nwoods or in the valley. The man opened his pocket-book once more and\ndrew from it, not the handful of bills which Th nardier expected, but a\nsimple little paper, which he unfolded and presented fully open to the\ninn-keeper, saying: \n\n You are right; read! \n\n\nTh nardier took the paper and read: \n\n M. SUR M., March 25, 1823.\n\n MONSIEUR TH NARDIER: \n\nYou will deliver Cosette to this person.\nYou will be paid for all the little things.\nI have the honor to salute you with respect,\nFANTINE. \n\n\n You know that signature?  resumed the man.\n\nIt certainly was Fantine s signature; Th nardier recognized it.\n\nThere was no reply to make; he experienced two violent vexations, the\nvexation of renouncing the bribery which he had hoped for, and the\nvexation of being beaten; the man added: \n\n You may keep this paper as your receipt. \n\n\nTh nardier retreated in tolerably good order.\n\n This signature is fairly well imitated,  he growled between his teeth;\n however, let it go! \n\n\nThen he essayed a desperate effort.\n\n It is well, sir,  he said,  since you are the person, but I must be\npaid for all those little things. A great deal is owing to me. \n\n\nThe man rose to his feet, filliping the dust from his threadbare\nsleeve: \n\n Monsieur Th nardier, in January last, the mother reckoned that she\nowed you one hundred and twenty francs. In February, you sent her a\nbill of five hundred francs; you received three hundred francs at the\nend of February, and three hundred francs at the beginning of March.\nSince then nine months have elapsed, at fifteen francs a month, the\nprice agreed upon, which makes one hundred and thirty-five francs. You\nhad received one hundred francs too much; that makes thirty-five still\nowing you. I have just given you fifteen hundred francs. \n\n\nTh nardier s sensations were those of the wolf at the moment when he\nfeels himself nipped and seized by the steel jaw of the trap.\n\n Who is this devil of a man?  he thought.\n\nHe did what the wolf does: he shook himself. Audacity had succeeded\nwith him once.\n\n Monsieur-I-don t-know-your-name,  he said resolutely, and this time\ncasting aside all respectful ceremony,  I shall take back Cosette if\nyou do not give me a thousand crowns. \n\n\nThe stranger said tranquilly: \n\n Come, Cosette. \n\n\nHe took Cosette by his left hand, and with his right he picked up his\ncudgel, which was lying on the ground.\n\nTh nardier noted the enormous size of the cudgel and the solitude of\nthe spot.\n\nThe man plunged into the forest with the child, leaving the inn-keeper\nmotionless and speechless.\n\nWhile they were walking away, Th nardier scrutinized his huge\nshoulders, which were a little rounded, and his great fists.\n\nThen, bringing his eyes back to his own person, they fell upon his\nfeeble arms and his thin hands.  I really must have been exceedingly\nstupid not to have thought to bring my gun,  he said to himself,  since\nI was going hunting! \n\n\nHowever, the inn-keeper did not give up.\n\n I want to know where he is going,  said he, and he set out to follow\nthem at a distance. Two things were left on his hands, an irony in the\nshape of the paper signed _Fantine_, and a consolation, the fifteen\nhundred francs.\n\nThe man led Cosette off in the direction of Livry and Bondy. He walked\nslowly, with drooping head, in an attitude of reflection and sadness.\nThe winter had thinned out the forest, so that Th nardier did not lose\nthem from sight, although he kept at a good distance. The man turned\nround from time to time, and looked to see if he was being followed.\nAll at once he caught sight of Th nardier. He plunged suddenly into the\nbrushwood with Cosette, where they could both hide themselves.  The\ndeuce!  said Th nardier, and he redoubled his pace.\n\nThe thickness of the undergrowth forced him to draw nearer to them.\nWhen the man had reached the densest part of the thicket, he wheeled\nround. It was in vain that Th nardier sought to conceal himself in the\nbranches; he could not prevent the man seeing him. The man cast upon\nhim an uneasy glance, then elevated his head and continued his course.\nThe inn-keeper set out again in pursuit. Thus they continued for two or\nthree hundred paces. All at once the man turned round once more; he saw\nthe inn-keeper. This time he gazed at him with so sombre an air that\nTh nardier decided that it was  useless  to proceed further. Th nardier\nretraced his steps.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI NUMBER 9,430 REAPPEARS, AND COSETTE WINS IT IN THE LOTTERY\n\n\nJean Valjean was not dead.\n\nWhen he fell into the sea, or rather, when he threw himself into it, he\nwas not ironed, as we have seen. He swam under water until he reached a\nvessel at anchor, to which a boat was moored. He found means of hiding\nhimself in this boat until night. At night he swam off again, and\nreached the shore a little way from Cape Brun. There, as he did not\nlack money, he procured clothing. A small country-house in the\nneighborhood of Balaguier was at that time the dressing-room of escaped\nconvicts, a lucrative specialty. Then Jean Valjean, like all the sorry\nfugitives who are seeking to evade the vigilance of the law and social\nfatality, pursued an obscure and undulating itinerary. He found his\nfirst refuge at Pradeaux, near Beausset. Then he directed his course\ntowards Grand-Villard, near Brian on, in the Hautes-Alpes. It was a\nfumbling and uneasy flight, a mole s track, whose branchings are\nuntraceable. Later on, some trace of his passage into Ain, in the\nterritory of Civrieux, was discovered; in the Pyrenees, at Accons; at\nthe spot called Grange-de-Doumec, near the market of Chavailles, and in\nthe environs of Perigueux at Brunies, canton of La Chapelle-Gonaguet.\nHe reached Paris. We have just seen him at Montfermeil.\n\nHis first care on arriving in Paris had been to buy mourning clothes\nfor a little girl of from seven to eight years of age; then to procure\na lodging. That done, he had betaken himself to Montfermeil. It will be\nremembered that already, during his preceding escape, he had made a\nmysterious trip thither, or somewhere in that neighborhood, of which\nthe law had gathered an inkling.\n\nHowever, he was thought to be dead, and this still further increased\nthe obscurity which had gathered about him. At Paris, one of the\njournals which chronicled the fact fell into his hands. He felt\nreassured and almost at peace, as though he had really been dead.\n\nOn the evening of the day when Jean Valjean rescued Cosette from the\nclaws of the Th nardiers, he returned to Paris. He re-entered it at\nnightfall, with the child, by way of the Barrier Monceaux. There he\nentered a cabriolet, which took him to the esplanade of the\nObservatoire. There he got out, paid the coachman, took Cosette by the\nhand, and together they directed their steps through the\ndarkness, through the deserted streets which adjoin the Ourcine and the\nGlaci re, towards the Boulevard de l H pital.\n\nThe day had been strange and filled with emotions for Cosette. They had\neaten some bread and cheese purchased in isolated taverns, behind\nhedges; they had changed carriages frequently; they had travelled short\ndistances on foot. She made no complaint, but she was weary, and Jean\nValjean perceived it by the way she dragged more and more on his hand\nas she walked. He took her on his back. Cosette, without letting go of\nCatherine, laid her head on Jean Valjean s shoulder, and there fell\nasleep.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FOURTH THE GORBEAU HOVEL\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: The Gorbeau Hovel]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I MASTER GORBEAU\n\n\nForty years ago, a rambler who had ventured into that unknown country\nof the Salp tri re, and who had mounted to the Barri re d Italie by way\nof the boulevard, reached a point where it might be said that Paris\ndisappeared. It was no longer solitude, for there were passers-by; it\nwas not the country, for there were houses and streets; it was not the\ncity, for the streets had ruts like highways, and the grass grew in\nthem; it was not a village, the houses were too lofty. What was it,\nthen? It was an inhabited spot where there was no one; it was a desert\nplace where there was some one; it was a boulevard of the great city, a\nstreet of Paris; more wild at night than the forest, more gloomy by day\nthan a cemetery.\n\nIt was the old quarter of the March -aux-Chevaux.\n\nThe rambler, if he risked himself outside the four decrepit walls of\nthis March -aux-Chevaux; if he consented even to pass beyond the Rue du\nPetit-Banquier, after leaving on his right a garden protected by high\nwalls; then a field in which tan-bark mills rose like gigantic beaver\nhuts; then an enclosure encumbered with timber, with a heap of stumps,\nsawdust, and shavings, on which stood a large dog, barking; then a\nlong, low, utterly dilapidated wall, with a little black door in\nmourning, laden with mosses, which were covered with flowers in the\nspring; then, in the most deserted spot, a frightful and decrepit\nbuilding, on which ran the inscription in large letters: POST NO\nBILLS, this daring rambler would have reached little known latitudes at\nthe corner of the Rue des Vignes-Saint-Marcel. There, near a factory,\nand between two garden walls, there could be seen, at that epoch, a\nmean building, which, at the first glance, seemed as small as a\nthatched hovel, and which was, in reality, as large as a cathedral. It\npresented its side and gable to the public road; hence its apparent\ndiminutiveness. Nearly the whole of the house was hidden. Only the door\nand one window could be seen.\n\nThis hovel was only one story high.\n\nThe first detail that struck the observer was, that the door could\nnever have been anything but the door of a hovel, while the window, if\nit had been carved out of dressed stone instead of being in rough\nmasonry, might have been the lattice of a lordly mansion.\n\nThe door was nothing but a collection of worm-eaten planks roughly\nbound together by cross-beams which resembled roughly hewn logs. It\nopened directly on a steep staircase of lofty steps, muddy, chalky,\nplaster-stained, dusty steps, of the same width as itself, which could\nbe seen from the street, running straight up like a ladder and\ndisappearing in the darkness between two walls. The top of the\nshapeless bay into which this door shut was masked by a narrow\nscantling in the centre of which a triangular hole had been sawed,\nwhich served both as wicket and air-hole when the door was closed. On\nthe inside of the door the figures 52 had been traced with a couple of\nstrokes of a brush dipped in ink, and above the scantling the same hand\nhad daubed the number 50, so that one hesitated. Where was one? Above\nthe door it said,  Number 50 ; the inside replied,  no, Number 52.  No\none knows what dust-colored figures were suspended like draperies from\nthe triangular opening.\n\nThe window was large, sufficiently elevated, garnished with Venetian\nblinds, and with a frame in large square panes; only these large panes\nwere suffering from various wounds, which were both concealed and\nbetrayed by an ingenious paper bandage. And the blinds, dislocated and\nunpasted, threatened passers-by rather than screened the occupants. The\nhorizontal slats were missing here and there and had been na vely\nreplaced with boards nailed on perpendicularly; so that what began as a\nblind ended as a shutter. This door with an unclean, and this window\nwith an honest though dilapidated air, thus beheld on the same house,\nproduced the effect of two incomplete beggars walking side by side,\nwith different miens beneath the same rags, the one having always been\na mendicant, and the other having once been a gentleman.\n\nThe staircase led to a very vast edifice which resembled a shed which\nhad been converted into a house. This edifice had, for its intestinal\ntube, a long corridor, on which opened to right and left sorts of\ncompartments of varied dimensions which were inhabitable under stress\nof circumstances, and rather more like stalls than cells. These\nchambers received their light from the vague waste grounds in the\nneighborhood.\n\nAll this was dark, disagreeable, wan, melancholy, sepulchral; traversed\naccording as the crevices lay in the roof or in the door, by cold rays\nor by icy winds. An interesting and picturesque peculiarity of this\nsort of dwelling is the enormous size of the spiders.\n\nTo the left of the entrance door, on the boulevard side, at about the\nheight of a man from the ground, a small window which had been walled\nup formed a square niche full of stones which the children had thrown\nthere as they passed by.\n\nA portion of this building has recently been demolished. From what\nstill remains of it one can form a judgment as to what it was in former\ndays. As a whole, it was not over a hundred years old. A hundred years\nis youth in a church and age in a house. It seems as though man s\nlodging partook of his ephemeral character, and God s house of his\neternity.\n\nThe postmen called the house Number 50-52; but it was known in the\nneighborhood as the Gorbeau house.\n\nLet us explain whence this appellation was derived.\n\nCollectors of petty details, who become herbalists of anecdotes, and\nprick slippery dates into their memories with a pin, know that there\nwas in Paris, during the last century, about 1770, two attorneys at the\nCh telet named, one Corbeau (Raven), the other Renard (Fox). The two\nnames had been forestalled by La Fontaine. The opportunity was too fine\nfor the lawyers; they made the most of it. A parody was immediately put\nin circulation in the galleries of the court-house, in verses that\nlimped a little: \n\nMa tre Corbeau, sur un dossier perch ,\nTenait dans son bec une saisie ex cutoire;\nMa tre Renard, par l odeur all ch ,\nLui fit   peu pr s cette histoire:\nH ! bonjour.  Etc.13\n\n\n\nThe two honest practitioners, embarrassed by the jests, and finding the\nbearing of their heads interfered with by the shouts of laughter which\nfollowed them, resolved to get rid of their names, and hit upon the\nexpedient of applying to the king.\n\nTheir petition was presented to Louis XV. on the same day when the\nPapal Nuncio, on the one hand, and the Cardinal de la Roche-Aymon on\nthe other, both devoutly kneeling, were each engaged in putting on, in\nhis Majesty s presence, a slipper on the bare feet of Madame du Barry,\nwho had just got out of bed. The king, who was laughing, continued to\nlaugh, passed gayly from the two bishops to the two lawyers, and\nbestowed on these limbs of the law their former names, or nearly so. By\nthe kings command, Ma tre Corbeau was permitted to add a tail to his\ninitial letter and to call himself Gorbeau. Ma tre Renard was less\nlucky; all he obtained was leave to place a P in front of his R, and to\ncall himself Prenard; so that the second name bore almost as much\nresemblance as the first.\n\nNow, according to local tradition, this Ma tre Gorbeau had been the\nproprietor of the building numbered 50-52 on the Boulevard de\nl H pital. He was even the author of the monumental window.\n\nHence the edifice bore the name of the Gorbeau house.\n\nOpposite this house, among the trees of the boulevard, rose a great elm\nwhich was three-quarters dead; almost directly facing it opens the Rue\nde la Barri re des Gobelins, a street then without houses, unpaved,\nplanted with unhealthy trees, which was green or muddy according to the\nseason, and which ended squarely in the exterior wall of Paris. An odor\nof copperas issued in puffs from the roofs of the neighboring factory.\n\nThe barrier was close at hand. In 1823 the city wall was still in\nexistence.\n\nThis barrier itself evoked gloomy fancies in the mind. It was the road\nto Bic tre. It was through it that, under the Empire and the\nRestoration, prisoners condemned to death re-entered Paris on the day\nof their execution. It was there, that, about 1829, was committed that\nmysterious assassination, called  The assassination of the\nFontainebleau barrier,  whose authors justice was never able to\ndiscover; a melancholy problem which has never been elucidated, a\nfrightful enigma which has never been unriddled. Take a few steps, and\nyou come upon that fatal Rue Croulebarbe, where Ulbach stabbed the\ngoat-girl of Ivry to the sound of thunder, as in the melodramas. A few\npaces more, and you arrive at the abominable pollarded elms of the\nBarri re Saint-Jacques, that expedient of the philanthropist to conceal\nthe scaffold, that miserable and shameful Place de Gr ve of a\nshop-keeping and bourgeois society, which recoiled before the death\npenalty, neither daring to abolish it with grandeur, nor to uphold it\nwith authority.\n\nLeaving aside this Place Saint-Jacques, which was, as it were,\npredestined, and which has always been horrible, probably the most\nmournful spot on that mournful boulevard, seven and thirty years ago,\nwas the spot which even to-day is so unattractive, where stood the\nbuilding Number 50-52.\n\nBourgeois houses only began to spring up there twenty-five years later.\nThe place was unpleasant. In addition to the gloomy thoughts which\nassailed one there, one was conscious of being between the Salp tri re,\na glimpse of whose dome could be seen, and Bic tre, whose outskirts one\nwas fairly touching; that is to say, between the madness of women and\nthe madness of men. As far as the eye could see, one could perceive\nnothing but the abattoirs, the city wall, and the fronts of a few\nfactories, resembling barracks or monasteries; everywhere about stood\nhovels, rubbish, ancient walls blackened like cerecloths, new white\nwalls like winding-sheets; everywhere parallel rows of trees, buildings\nerected on a line, flat constructions, long, cold rows, and the\nmelancholy sadness of right angles. Not an unevenness of the ground,\nnot a caprice in the architecture, not a fold. The _ensemble_ was\nglacial, regular, hideous. Nothing oppresses the heart like symmetry.\nIt is because symmetry is ennui, and ennui is at the very foundation of\ngrief. Despair yawns. Something more terrible than a hell where one\nsuffers may be imagined, and that is a hell where one is bored. If such\na hell existed, that bit of the Boulevard de l H pital might have\nformed the entrance to it.\n\nNevertheless, at nightfall, at the moment when the daylight is\nvanishing, especially in winter, at the hour when the twilight breeze\ntears from the elms their last russet leaves, when the darkness is deep\nand starless, or when the moon and the wind are making openings in the\nclouds and losing themselves in the shadows, this boulevard suddenly\nbecomes frightful. The black lines sink inwards and are lost in the\nshades, like morsels of the infinite. The passer-by cannot refrain from\nrecalling the innumerable traditions of the place which are connected\nwith the gibbet. The solitude of this spot, where so many crimes have\nbeen committed, had something terrible about it. One almost had a\npresentiment of meeting with traps in that darkness; all the confused\nforms of the darkness seemed suspicious, and the long, hollow square,\nof which one caught a glimpse between each tree, seemed graves: by day\nit was ugly; in the evening melancholy; by night it was sinister.\n\nIn summer, at twilight, one saw, here and there, a few old women seated\nat the foot of the elm, on benches mouldy with rain. These good old\nwomen were fond of begging.\n\nHowever, this quarter, which had a superannuated rather than an antique\nair, was tending even then to transformation. Even at that time any one\nwho was desirous of seeing it had to make haste. Each day some detail\nof the whole effect was disappearing. For the last twenty years the\nstation of the Orleans railway has stood beside the old faubourg and\ndistracted it, as it does to-day. Wherever it is placed on the borders\nof a capital, a railway station is the death of a suburb and the birth\nof a city. It seems as though, around these great centres of the\nmovements of a people, the earth, full of germs, trembled and yawned,\nto engulf the ancient dwellings of men and to allow new ones to spring\nforth, at the rattle of these powerful machines, at the breath of these\nmonstrous horses of civilization which devour coal and vomit fire. The\nold houses crumble and new ones rise.\n\nSince the Orleans railway has invaded the region of the Salp tri re,\nthe ancient, narrow streets which adjoin the moats Saint-Victor and the\nJardin des Plantes tremble, as they are violently traversed three or\nfour times each day by those currents of coach fiacres and omnibuses\nwhich, in a given time, crowd back the houses to the right and the\nleft; for there are things which are odd when said that are rigorously\nexact; and just as it is true to say that in large cities the sun makes\nthe southern fronts of houses to vegetate and grow, it is certain that\nthe frequent passage of vehicles enlarges streets. The symptoms of a\nnew life are evident. In this old provincial quarter, in the wildest\nnooks, the pavement shows itself, the sidewalks begin to crawl and to\ngrow longer, even where there are as yet no pedestrians. One morning, a\nmemorable morning in July, 1845, black pots of bitumen were seen\nsmoking there; on that day it might be said that civilization had\narrived in the Rue de l Ourcine, and that Paris had entered the suburb\nof Saint-Marceau.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II A NEST FOR OWL AND A WARBLER\n\n\nIt was in front of this Gorbeau house that Jean Valjean halted. Like\nwild birds, he had chosen this desert place to construct his nest.\n\nHe fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, drew out a sort of a pass-key,\nopened the door, entered, closed it again carefully, and ascended the\nstaircase, still carrying Cosette.\n\nAt the top of the stairs he drew from his pocket another key, with\nwhich he opened another door. The chamber which he entered, and which\nhe closed again instantly, was a kind of moderately spacious attic,\nfurnished with a mattress laid on the floor, a table, and several\nchairs; a stove in which a fire was burning, and whose embers were\nvisible, stood in one corner. A lantern on the boulevard cast a vague\nlight into this poor room. At the extreme end there was a dressing-room\nwith a folding bed; Jean Valjean carried the child to this bed and laid\nher down there without waking her.\n\nHe struck a match and lighted a candle. All this was prepared\nbeforehand on the table, and, as he had done on the previous evening,\nhe began to scrutinize Cosette s face with a gaze full of ecstasy, in\nwhich the expression of kindness and tenderness almost amounted to\naberration. The little girl, with that tranquil confidence which\nbelongs only to extreme strength and extreme weakness, had fallen\nasleep without knowing with whom she was, and continued to sleep\nwithout knowing where she was.\n\nJean Valjean bent down and kissed that child s hand.\n\nNine months before he had kissed the hand of the mother, who had also\njust fallen asleep.\n\nThe same sad, piercing, religious sentiment filled his heart.\n\nHe knelt beside Cosette s bed.\n\nlt was broad daylight, and the child still slept. A wan ray of the\nDecember sun penetrated the window of the attic and lay upon the\nceiling in long threads of light and shade. All at once a heavily laden\ncarrier s cart, which was passing along the boulevard, shook the frail\nbed, like a clap of thunder, and made it quiver from top to bottom.\n\n Yes, madame!  cried Cosette, waking with a start,  here I am! here I\nam! \n\n\nAnd she sprang out of bed, her eyes still half shut with the heaviness\nof sleep, extending her arms towards the corner of the wall.\n\n Ah! mon Dieu, my broom!  said she.\n\nShe opened her eyes wide now, and beheld the smiling countenance of\nJean Valjean.\n\n Ah! so it is true!  said the child.  Good morning, Monsieur. \n\n\nChildren accept joy and happiness instantly and familiarly, being\nthemselves by nature joy and happiness.\n\nCosette caught sight of Catherine at the foot of her bed, and took\npossession of her, and, as she played, she put a hundred questions to\nJean Valjean. Where was she? Was Paris very large? Was Madame\nTh nardier very far away? Was she to go back? etc., etc. All at once\nshe exclaimed,  How pretty it is here! \n\n\nIt was a frightful hole, but she felt free.\n\n Must I sweep?  she resumed at last.\n\n Play!  said Jean Valjean.\n\nThe day passed thus. Cosette, without troubling herself to understand\nanything, was inexpressibly happy with that doll and that kind man.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III TWO MISFORTUNES MAKE ONE PIECE OF GOOD FORTUNE\n\n\nOn the following morning, at daybreak, Jean Valjean was still by\nCosette s bedside; he watched there motionless, waiting for her to\nwake.\n\nSome new thing had come into his soul.\n\nJean Valjean had never loved anything; for twenty-five years he had\nbeen alone in the world. He had never been father, lover, husband,\nfriend. In the prison he had been vicious, gloomy, chaste, ignorant,\nand shy. The heart of that ex-convict was full of virginity. His sister\nand his sister s children had left him only a vague and far-off memory\nwhich had finally almost completely vanished; he had made every effort\nto find them, and not having been able to find them, he had forgotten\nthem. Human nature is made thus; the other tender emotions of his\nyouth, if he had ever had any, had fallen into an abyss.\n\nWhen he saw Cosette, when he had taken possession of her, carried her\noff, and delivered her, he felt his heart moved within him.\n\nAll the passion and affection within him awoke, and rushed towards that\nchild. He approached the bed, where she lay sleeping, and trembled with\njoy. He suffered all the pangs of a mother, and he knew not what it\nmeant; for that great and singular movement of a heart which begins to\nlove is a very obscure and a very sweet thing.\n\nPoor old man, with a perfectly new heart!\n\nOnly, as he was five and fifty, and Cosette eight years of age, all\nthat might have been love in the whole course of his life flowed\ntogether into a sort of ineffable light.\n\nIt was the second white apparition which he had encountered. The Bishop\nhad caused the dawn of virtue to rise on his horizon; Cosette caused\nthe dawn of love to rise.\n\nThe early days passed in this dazzled state.\n\nCosette, on her side, had also, unknown to herself, become another\nbeing, poor little thing! She was so little when her mother left her,\nthat she no longer remembered her. Like all children, who resemble\nyoung shoots of the vine, which cling to everything, she had tried to\nlove; she had not succeeded. All had repulsed her, the Th nardiers,\ntheir children, other children. She had loved the dog, and he had died,\nafter which nothing and nobody would have anything to do with her. It\nis a sad thing to say, and we have already intimated it, that, at eight\nyears of age, her heart was cold. It was not her fault; it was not the\nfaculty of loving that she lacked; alas! it was the possibility. Thus,\nfrom the very first day, all her sentient and thinking powers loved\nthis kind man. She felt that which she had never felt before a\nsensation of expansion.\n\nThe man no longer produced on her the effect of being old or poor; she\nthought Jean Valjean handsome, just as she thought the hovel pretty.\n\nThese are the effects of the dawn, of childhood, of joy. The novelty of\nthe earth and of life counts for something here. Nothing is so charming\nas the coloring reflection of happiness on a garret. We all have in our\npast a delightful garret.\n\nNature, a difference of fifty years, had set a profound gulf between\nJean Valjean and Cosette; destiny filled in this gulf. Destiny suddenly\nunited and wedded with its irresistible power these two uprooted\nexistences, differing in age, alike in sorrow. One, in fact, completed\nthe other. Cosette s instinct sought a father, as Jean Valjean s\ninstinct sought a child. To meet was to find each other. At the\nmysterious moment when their hands touched, they were welded together.\nWhen these two souls perceived each other, they recognized each other\nas necessary to each other, and embraced each other closely.\n\nTaking the words in their most comprehensive and absolute sense, we may\nsay that, separated from every one by the walls of the tomb, Jean\nValjean was the widower, and Cosette was the orphan: this situation\ncaused Jean Valjean to become Cosette s father after a celestial\nfashion.\n\nAnd in truth, the mysterious impression produced on Cosette in the\ndepths of the forest of Chelles by the hand of Jean Valjean grasping\nhers in the dark was not an illusion, but a reality. The entrance of\nthat man into the destiny of that child had been the advent of God.\n\nMoreover, Jean Valjean had chosen his refuge well. There he seemed\nperfectly secure.\n\nThe chamber with a dressing-room, which he occupied with Cosette, was\nthe one whose window opened on the boulevard. This being the only\nwindow in the house, no neighbors  glances were to be feared from\nacross the way or at the side.\n\nThe ground floor of Number 50-52, a sort of dilapidated penthouse,\nserved as a wagon-house for market-gardeners, and no communication\nexisted between it and the first story. It was separated by the\nflooring, which had neither traps nor stairs, and which formed the\ndiaphragm of the building, as it were. The first story contained, as we\nhave said, numerous chambers and several attics, only one of which was\noccupied by the old woman who took charge of Jean Valjean s\nhousekeeping; all the rest was uninhabited.\n\nIt was this old woman, ornamented with the name of the _principal\nlodger_, and in reality intrusted with the functions of portress, who\nhad let him the lodging on Christmas eve. He had represented himself to\nher as a gentleman of means who had been ruined by Spanish bonds, who\nwas coming there to live with his little daughter. He had paid her six\nmonths in advance, and had commissioned the old woman to furnish the\nchamber and dressing-room, as we have seen. It was this good woman who\nhad lighted the fire in the stove, and prepared everything on the\nevening of their arrival.\n\nWeek followed week; these two beings led a happy life in that hovel.\n\nCosette laughed, chattered, and sang from daybreak. Children have their\nmorning song as well as birds.\n\nIt sometimes happened that Jean Valjean clasped her tiny red hand, all\ncracked with chilblains, and kissed it. The poor child, who was used to\nbeing beaten, did not know the meaning of this, and ran away in\nconfusion.\n\nAt times she became serious and stared at her little black gown.\nCosette was no longer in rags; she was in mourning. She had emerged\nfrom misery, and she was entering into life.\n\nJean Valjean had undertaken to teach her to read. Sometimes, as he made\nthe child spell, he remembered that it was with the idea of doing evil\nthat he had learned to read in prison. This idea had ended in teaching\na child to read. Then the ex-convict smiled with the pensive smile of\nthe angels.\n\nHe felt in it a premeditation from on high, the will of some one who\nwas not man, and he became absorbed in reverie. Good thoughts have\ntheir abysses as well as evil ones.\n\nTo teach Cosette to read, and to let her play, this constituted nearly\nthe whole of Jean Valjean s existence. And then he talked of her\nmother, and he made her pray.\n\nShe called him _father_, and knew no other name for him.\n\nHe passed hours in watching her dressing and undressing her doll, and\nin listening to her prattle. Life, henceforth, appeared to him to be\nfull of interest; men seemed to him good and just; he no longer\nreproached any one in thought; he saw no reason why he should not live\nto be a very old man, now that this child loved him. He saw a whole\nfuture stretching out before him, illuminated by Cosette as by a\ncharming light. The best of us are not exempt from egotistical\nthoughts. At times, he reflected with a sort of joy that she would be\nugly.\n\nThis is only a personal opinion; but, to utter our whole thought, at\nthe point where Jean Valjean had arrived when he began to love Cosette,\nit is by no means clear to us that he did not need this encouragement\nin order that he might persevere in well-doing. He had just viewed the\nmalice of men and the misery of society under a new aspect incomplete\naspects, which unfortunately only exhibited one side of the truth, the\nfate of woman as summed up in Fantine, and public authority as\npersonified in Javert. He had returned to prison, this time for having\ndone right; he had quaffed fresh bitterness; disgust and lassitude were\noverpowering him; even the memory of the Bishop probably suffered a\ntemporary eclipse, though sure to reappear later on luminous and\ntriumphant; but, after all, that sacred memory was growing dim. Who\nknows whether Jean Valjean had not been on the eve of growing\ndiscouraged and of falling once more? He loved and grew strong again.\nAlas! he walked with no less indecision than Cosette. He protected her,\nand she strengthened him. Thanks to him, she could walk through life;\nthanks to her, he could continue in virtue. He was that child s stay,\nand she was his prop. Oh, unfathomable and divine mystery of the\nbalances of destiny!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE REMARKS OF THE PRINCIPAL TENANT\n\n\nJean Valjean was prudent enough never to go out by day. Every evening,\nat twilight, he walked for an hour or two, sometimes alone, often with\nCosette, seeking the most deserted side alleys of the boulevard, and\nentering churches at nightfall. He liked to go to Saint-M dard, which\nis the nearest church. When he did not take Cosette with him, she\nremained with the old woman; but the child s delight was to go out with\nthe good man. She preferred an hour with him to all her rapturous\n_t te- -t tes_ with Catherine. He held her hand as they walked, and\nsaid sweet things to her.\n\nIt turned out that Cosette was a very gay little person.\n\nThe old woman attended to the housekeeping and cooking and went to\nmarket.\n\nThey lived soberly, always having a little fire, but like people in\nvery moderate circumstances. Jean Valjean had made no alterations in\nthe furniture as it was the first day; he had merely had the glass door\nleading to Cosette s dressing-room replaced by a solid door.\n\nHe still wore his yellow coat, his black breeches, and his old hat. In\nthe street, he was taken for a poor man. It sometimes happened that\nkind-hearted women turned back to bestow a sou on him. Jean Valjean\naccepted the sou with a deep bow. It also happened occasionally that he\nencountered some poor wretch asking alms; then he looked behind him to\nmake sure that no one was observing him, stealthily approached the\nunfortunate man, put a piece of money into his hand, often a silver\ncoin, and walked rapidly away. This had its disadvantages. He began to\nbe known in the neighborhood under the name of _the beggar who gives\nalms_.\n\nThe old _principal lodger_, a cross-looking creature, who was\nthoroughly permeated, so far as her neighbors were concerned, with the\ninquisitiveness peculiar to envious persons, scrutinized Jean Valjean a\ngreat deal, without his suspecting the fact. She was a little deaf,\nwhich rendered her talkative. There remained to her from her past, two\nteeth, one above, the other below, which she was continually knocking\nagainst each other. She had questioned Cosette, who had not been able\nto tell her anything, since she knew nothing herself except that she\nhad come from Montfermeil. One morning, this spy saw Jean Valjean, with\nan air which struck the old gossip as peculiar, entering one of the\nuninhabited compartments of the hovel. She followed him with the step\nof an old cat, and was able to observe him without being seen, through\na crack in the door, which was directly opposite him. Jean Valjean had\nhis back turned towards this door, by way of greater security, no\ndoubt. The old woman saw him fumble in his pocket and draw thence a\ncase, scissors, and thread; then he began to rip the lining of one of\nthe skirts of his coat, and from the opening he took a bit of yellowish\npaper, which he unfolded. The old woman recognized, with terror, the\nfact that it was a bank-bill for a thousand francs. It was the second\nor third only that she had seen in the course of her existence. She\nfled in alarm.\n\nA moment later, Jean Valjean accosted her, and asked her to go and get\nthis thousand-franc bill changed for him, adding that it was his\nquarterly income, which he had received the day before.  Where? \nthought the old woman.  He did not go out until six o clock in the\nevening, and the government bank certainly is not open at that hour. \nThe old woman went to get the bill changed, and mentioned her surmises.\nThat thousand-franc note, commented on and multiplied, produced a vast\namount of terrified discussion among the gossips of the Rue des Vignes\nSaint-Marcel.\n\nA few days later, it chanced that Jean Valjean was sawing some wood, in\nhis shirt-sleeves, in the corridor. The old woman was in the chamber,\nputting things in order. She was alone. Cosette was occupied in\nadmiring the wood as it was sawed. The old woman caught sight of the\ncoat hanging on a nail, and examined it. The lining had been sewed up\nagain. The good woman felt of it carefully, and thought she observed in\nthe skirts and revers thicknesses of paper. More thousand-franc\nbank-bills, no doubt!\n\nShe also noticed that there were all sorts of things in the pockets.\nNot only the needles, thread, and scissors which she had seen, but a\nbig pocket-book, a very large knife, and a suspicious\ncircumstance several wigs of various colors. Each pocket of this coat\nhad the air of being in a manner provided against unexpected accidents.\n\nThus the inhabitants of the house reached the last days of winter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V A FIVE-FRANC PIECE FALLS ON THE GROUND AND PRODUCES A TUMULT\n\n\nNear Saint-M dard s church there was a poor man who was in the habit of\ncrouching on the brink of a public well which had been condemned, and\non whom Jean Valjean was fond of bestowing charity. He never passed\nthis man without giving him a few sous. Sometimes he spoke to him.\nThose who envied this mendicant said that he belonged to the police. He\nwas an ex-beadle of seventy-five, who was constantly mumbling his\nprayers.\n\nOne evening, as Jean Valjean was passing by, when he had not Cosette\nwith him, he saw the beggar in his usual place, beneath the lantern\nwhich had just been lighted. The man seemed engaged in prayer,\naccording to his custom, and was much bent over. Jean Valjean stepped\nup to him and placed his customary alms in his hand. The mendicant\nraised his eyes suddenly, stared intently at Jean Valjean, then dropped\nhis head quickly. This movement was like a flash of lightning. Jean\nValjean was seized with a shudder. It seemed to him that he had just\ncaught sight, by the light of the street lantern, not of the placid and\nbeaming visage of the old beadle, but of a well-known and startling\nface. He experienced the same impression that one would have on finding\none s self, all of a sudden, face to face, in the dark, with a tiger.\nHe recoiled, terrified, petrified, daring neither to breathe, to speak,\nto remain, nor to flee, staring at the beggar who had dropped his head,\nwhich was enveloped in a rag, and no longer appeared to know that he\nwas there. At this strange moment, an instinct possibly the mysterious\ninstinct of self-preservation, restrained Jean Valjean from uttering a\nword. The beggar had the same figure, the same rags, the same\nappearance as he had every day.  Bah!  said Jean Valjean,  I am mad! I\nam dreaming! Impossible!  And he returned profoundly troubled.\n\nHe hardly dared to confess, even to himself, that the face which he\nthought he had seen was the face of Javert.\n\nThat night, on thinking the matter over, he regretted not having\nquestioned the man, in order to force him to raise his head a second\ntime.\n\nOn the following day, at nightfall, he went back. The beggar was at his\npost.  Good day, my good man,  said Jean Valjean, resolutely, handing\nhim a sou. The beggar raised his head, and replied in a whining voice,\n Thanks, my good sir.  It was unmistakably the ex-beadle.\n\nJean Valjean felt completely reassured. He began to laugh.  How the\ndeuce could I have thought that I saw Javert there?  he thought.  Am I\ngoing to lose my eyesight now?  And he thought no more about it.\n\nA few days afterwards, it might have been at eight o clock in the\nevening, he was in his room, and engaged in making Cosette spell aloud,\nwhen he heard the house door open and then shut again. This struck him\nas singular. The old woman, who was the only inhabitant of the house\nexcept himself, always went to bed at nightfall, so that she might not\nburn out her candles. Jean Valjean made a sign to Cosette to be quiet.\nHe heard some one ascending the stairs. It might possibly be the old\nwoman, who might have fallen ill and have been out to the apothecary s.\nJean Valjean listened.\n\nThe step was heavy, and sounded like that of a man; but the old woman\nwore stout shoes, and there is nothing which so strongly resembles the\nstep of a man as that of an old woman. Nevertheless, Jean Valjean blew\nout his candle.\n\nHe had sent Cosette to bed, saying to her in a low voice,  Get into bed\nvery softly ; and as he kissed her brow, the steps paused.\n\nJean Valjean remained silent, motionless, with his back towards the\ndoor, seated on the chair from which he had not stirred, and holding\nhis breath in the dark.\n\nAfter the expiration of a rather long interval, he turned round, as he\nheard nothing more, and, as he raised his eyes towards the door of his\nchamber, he saw a light through the keyhole. This light formed a sort\nof sinister star in the blackness of the door and the wall. There was\nevidently some one there, who was holding a candle in his hand and\nlistening.\n\nSeveral minutes elapsed thus, and the light retreated. But he heard no\nsound of footsteps, which seemed to indicate that the person who had\nbeen listening at the door had removed his shoes.\n\nJean Valjean threw himself, all dressed as he was, on his bed, and\ncould not close his eyes all night.\n\nAt daybreak, just as he was falling into a doze through fatigue, he was\nawakened by the creaking of a door which opened on some attic at the\nend of the corridor, then he heard the same masculine footstep which\nhad ascended the stairs on the preceding evening. The step was\napproaching. He sprang off the bed and applied his eye to the keyhole,\nwhich was tolerably large, hoping to see the person who had made his\nway by night into the house and had listened at his door, as he passed.\nIt was a man, in fact, who passed, this time without pausing, in front\nof Jean Valjean s chamber. The corridor was too dark to allow of the\nperson s face being distinguished; but when the man reached the\nstaircase, a ray of light from without made it stand out like a\nsilhouette, and Jean Valjean had a complete view of his back. The man\nwas of lofty stature, clad in a long frock-coat, with a cudgel under\nhis arm. The formidable neck and shoulders belonged to Javert.\n\nJean Valjean might have attempted to catch another glimpse of him\nthrough his window opening on the boulevard, but he would have been\nobliged to open the window: he dared not.\n\nIt was evident that this man had entered with a key, and like himself.\nWho had given him that key? What was the meaning of this?\n\nWhen the old woman came to do the work, at seven o clock in the\nmorning, Jean Valjean cast a penetrating glance on her, but he did not\nquestion her. The good woman appeared as usual.\n\nAs she swept up she remarked to him: \n\n Possibly Monsieur may have heard some one come in last night? \n\n\nAt that age, and on that boulevard, eight o clock in the evening was\nthe dead of the night.\n\n That is true, by the way,  he replied, in the most natural tone\npossible.  Who was it? \n\n\n It was a new lodger who has come into the house,  said the old woman.\n\n And what is his name? \n\n\n I don t know exactly; Dumont, or Daumont, or some name of that sort. \n\n\n And who is this Monsieur Dumont? \n\n\nThe old woman gazed at him with her little polecat eyes, and answered: \n\n A gentleman of property, like yourself. \n\n\nPerhaps she had no ulterior meaning. Jean Valjean thought he perceived\none.\n\nWhen the old woman had taken her departure, he did up a hundred francs\nwhich he had in a cupboard, into a roll, and put it in his pocket. In\nspite of all the precautions which he took in this operation so that he\nmight not be heard rattling silver, a hundred-sou piece escaped from\nhis hands and rolled noisily on the floor.\n\nWhen darkness came on, he descended and carefully scrutinized both\nsides of the boulevard. He saw no one. The boulevard appeared to be\nabsolutely deserted. It is true that a person can conceal himself\nbehind trees.\n\nHe went upstairs again.\n\n Come.  he said to Cosette.\n\nHe took her by the hand, and they both went out.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIFTH FOR A BLACK HUNT, A MUTE PACK\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE ZIGZAGS OF STRATEGY\n\n\nAn observation here becomes necessary, in view of the pages which the\nreader is about to peruse, and of others which will be met with further\non.\n\nThe author of this book, who regrets the necessity of mentioning\nhimself, has been absent from Paris for many years. Paris has been\ntransformed since he quitted it. A new city has arisen, which is, after\na fashion, unknown to him. There is no need for him to say that he\nloves Paris: Paris is his mind s natal city. In consequence of\ndemolitions and reconstructions, the Paris of his youth, that Paris\nwhich he bore away religiously in his memory, is now a Paris of days\ngone by. He must be permitted to speak of that Paris as though it still\nexisted. It is possible that when the author conducts his readers to a\nspot and says,  In such a street there stands such and such a house, \nneither street nor house will any longer exist in that locality.\nReaders may verify the facts if they care to take the trouble. For his\nown part, he is unacquainted with the new Paris, and he writes with the\nold Paris before his eyes in an illusion which is precious to him. It\nis a delight to him to dream that there still lingers behind him\nsomething of that which he beheld when he was in his own country, and\nthat all has not vanished. So long as you go and come in your native\nland, you imagine that those streets are a matter of indifference to\nyou; that those windows, those roofs, and those doors are nothing to\nyou; that those walls are strangers to you; that those trees are merely\nthe first encountered haphazard; that those houses, which you do not\nenter, are useless to you; that the pavements which you tread are\nmerely stones. Later on, when you are no longer there, you perceive\nthat the streets are dear to you; that you miss those roofs, those\ndoors; and that those walls are necessary to you, those trees are well\nbeloved by you; that you entered those houses which you never entered,\nevery day, and that you have left a part of your heart, of your blood,\nof your soul, in those pavements. All those places which you no longer\nbehold, which you may never behold again, perchance, and whose memory\nyou have cherished, take on a melancholy charm, recur to your mind with\nthe melancholy of an apparition, make the holy land visible to you, and\nare, so to speak, the very form of France, and you love them; and you\ncall them up as they are, as they were, and you persist in this, and\nyou will submit to no change: for you are attached to the figure of\nyour fatherland as to the face of your mother.\n\nMay we, then, be permitted to speak of the past in the present? That\nsaid, we beg the reader to take note of it, and we continue.\n\nJean Valjean instantly quitted the boulevard and plunged into the\nstreets, taking the most intricate lines which he could devise,\nreturning on his track at times, to make sure that he was not being\nfollowed.\n\n[Illustration: The Black Hunt]\n\nThis man uvre is peculiar to the hunted stag. On soil where an imprint\nof the track may be left, this man uvre possesses, among other\nadvantages, that of deceiving the huntsmen and the dogs, by throwing\nthem on the wrong scent. In venery this is called _false\nre-imbushment_.\n\nThe moon was full that night. Jean Valjean was not sorry for this. The\nmoon, still very close to the horizon, cast great masses of light and\nshadow in the streets. Jean Valjean could glide along close to the\nhouses on the dark side, and yet keep watch on the light side. He did\nnot, perhaps, take sufficiently into consideration the fact that the\ndark side escaped him. Still, in the deserted lanes which lie near the\nRue Poliveau, he thought he felt certain that no one was following him.\n\nCosette walked on without asking any questions. The sufferings of the\nfirst six years of her life had instilled something passive into her\nnature. Moreover, and this is a remark to which we shall frequently\nhave occasion to recur, she had grown used, without being herself aware\nof it, to the peculiarities of this good man and to the freaks of\ndestiny. And then she was with him, and she felt safe.\n\nJean Valjean knew no more where he was going than did Cosette. He\ntrusted in God, as she trusted in him. It seemed as though he also were\nclinging to the hand of some one greater than himself; he thought he\nfelt a being leading him, though invisible. However, he had no settled\nidea, no plan, no project. He was not even absolutely sure that it was\nJavert, and then it might have been Javert, without Javert knowing that\nhe was Jean Valjean. Was not he disguised? Was not he believed to be\ndead? Still, queer things had been going on for several days. He wanted\nno more of them. He was determined not to return to the Gorbeau house.\nLike the wild animal chased from its lair, he was seeking a hole in\nwhich he might hide until he could find one where he might dwell.\n\nJean Valjean described many and varied labyrinths in the Mouffetard\nquarter, which was already asleep, as though the discipline of the\nMiddle Ages and the yoke of the curfew still existed; he combined in\nvarious manners, with cunning strategy, the Rue Censier and the Rue\nCopeau, the Rue du Battoir-Saint-Victor and the Rue du Puits l Ermite.\nThere are lodging houses in this locality, but he did not even enter\none, finding nothing which suited him. He had no doubt that if any one\nhad chanced to be upon his track, they would have lost it.\n\nAs eleven o clock struck from Saint- tienne-du-Mont, he was traversing\nthe Rue de Pontoise, in front of the office of the commissary of\npolice, situated at No. 14. A few moments later, the instinct of which\nwe have spoken above made him turn round. At that moment he saw\ndistinctly, thanks to the commissary s lantern, which betrayed them,\nthree men who were following him closely, pass, one after the other,\nunder that lantern, on the dark side of the street. One of the three\nentered the alley leading to the commissary s house. The one who\nmarched at their head struck him as decidedly suspicious.\n\n Come, child,  he said to Cosette; and he made haste to quit the Rue\nPontoise.\n\nHe took a circuit, turned into the Passage des Patriarches, which was\nclosed on account of the hour, strode along the Rue de l p e-de-Bois\nand the Rue de l Arbal te, and plunged into the Rue des Postes.\n\nAt that time there was a square formed by the intersection of streets,\nwhere the College Rollin stands to-day, and where the Rue\nNeuve-Sainte-Genevi ve turns off.\n\nIt is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevi ve is an\nold street, and that a posting-chaise does not pass through the Rue des\nPostes once in ten years. In the thirteenth century this Rue des Postes\nwas inhabited by potters, and its real name is Rue des Pots.\n\nThe moon cast a livid light into this open space. Jean Valjean went\ninto ambush in a doorway, calculating that if the men were still\nfollowing him, he could not fail to get a good look at them, as they\ntraversed this illuminated space.\n\nIn point of fact, three minutes had not elapsed when the men made their\nappearance. There were four of them now. All were tall, dressed in\nlong, brown coats, with round hats, and huge cudgels in their hands.\nTheir great stature and their vast fists rendered them no less alarming\nthan did their sinister stride through the darkness. One would have\npronounced them four spectres disguised as bourgeois.\n\nThey halted in the middle of the space and formed a group, like men in\nconsultation. They had an air of indecision. The one who appeared to be\ntheir leader turned round and pointed hastily with his right hand in\nthe direction which Jean Valjean had taken; another seemed to indicate\nthe contrary direction with considerable obstinacy. At the moment when\nthe first man wheeled round, the moon fell full in his face. Jean\nValjean recognized Javert perfectly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II IT IS LUCKY THAT THE PONT D AUSTERLITZ BEARS CARRIAGES\n\n\nUncertainty was at an end for Jean Valjean: fortunately it still lasted\nfor the men. He took advantage of their hesitation. It was time lost\nfor them, but gained for him. He slipped from under the gate where he\nhad concealed himself, and went down the Rue des Postes, towards the\nregion of the Jardin des Plantes. Cosette was beginning to be tired. He\ntook her in his arms and carried her. There were no passers-by, and the\nstreet lanterns had not been lighted on account of there being a moon.\n\nHe redoubled his pace.\n\nIn a few strides he had reached the Goblet potteries, on the front of\nwhich the moonlight rendered distinctly legible the ancient\ninscription: \n\nDe Goblet fils c est ici la fabrique;\nVenez choisir des cruches et des brocs,\nDes pots   fleurs, des tuyaux, de la brique.\n  tout venant le C ur vend des Carreaux.14\n\n\nHe left behind him the Rue de la Clef, then the Fountain Saint-Victor,\nskirted the Jardin des Plantes by the lower streets, and reached the\nquay. There he turned round. The quay was deserted. The streets were\ndeserted. There was no one behind him. He drew a long breath.\n\nHe gained the Pont d Austerlitz.\n\nTolls were still collected there at that epoch.\n\nHe presented himself at the toll office and handed over a sou.\n\n It is two sous,  said the old soldier in charge of the bridge.  You\nare carrying a child who can walk. Pay for two. \n\n\nHe paid, vexed that his passage should have aroused remark. Every\nflight should be an imperceptible slipping away.\n\nA heavy cart was crossing the Seine at the same time as himself, and on\nits way, like him, to the right bank. This was of use to him. He could\ntraverse the bridge in the shadow of the cart.\n\nTowards the middle of the Bridge, Cosette, whose feet were benumbed,\nwanted to walk. He set her on the ground and took her hand again.\n\nThe bridge once crossed, he perceived some timber-yards on his right.\nHe directed his course thither. In order to reach them, it was\nnecessary to risk himself in a tolerably large unsheltered and\nilluminated space. He did not hesitate. Those who were on his track had\nevidently lost the scent, and Jean Valjean believed himself to be out\nof danger. Hunted, yes; followed, no.\n\nA little street, the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, opened out\nbetween two timber-yards enclosed in walls. This street was dark and\nnarrow and seemed made expressly for him. Before entering it he cast a\nglance behind him.\n\nFrom the point where he stood he could see the whole extent of the Pont\nd Austerlitz.\n\nFour shadows were just entering on the bridge.\n\nThese shadows had their backs turned to the Jardin des Plantes and were\non their way to the right bank.\n\nThese four shadows were the four men.\n\nJean Valjean shuddered like the wild beast which is recaptured.\n\nOne hope remained to him; it was, that the men had not, perhaps,\nstepped on the bridge, and had not caught sight of him while he was\ncrossing the large illuminated space, holding Cosette by the hand.\n\nIn that case, by plunging into the little street before him, he might\nescape, if he could reach the timber-yards, the marshes, the\nmarket-gardens, the uninhabited ground which was not built upon.\n\nIt seemed to him that he might commit himself to that silent little\nstreet. He entered it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III TO WIT, THE PLAN OF PARIS IN 1727\n\n\nThree hundred paces further on, he arrived at a point where the street\nforked. It separated into two streets, which ran in a slanting line,\none to the right, and the other to the left.\n\nJean Valjean had before him what resembled the two branches of a Y.\nWhich should he choose? He did not hesitate, but took the one on the\nright.\n\nWhy?\n\nBecause that to the left ran towards a suburb, that is to say, towards\ninhabited regions, and the right branch towards the open country, that\nis to say, towards deserted regions.\n\nHowever, they no longer walked very fast. Cosette s pace retarded Jean\nValjean s.\n\nHe took her up and carried her again. Cosette laid her head on the\nshoulder of the good man and said not a word.\n\nHe turned round from time to time and looked behind him. He took care\nto keep always on the dark side of the street. The street was straight\nin his rear. The first two or three times that he turned round he saw\nnothing; the silence was profound, and he continued his march somewhat\nreassured. All at once, on turning round, he thought he perceived in\nthe portion of the street which he had just passed through, far off in\nthe obscurity, something which was moving.\n\nHe rushed forward precipitately rather than walked, hoping to find some\nside-street, to make his escape through it, and thus to break his scent\nonce more.\n\nHe arrived at a wall.\n\nThis wall, however, did not absolutely prevent further progress; it was\na wall which bordered a transverse street, in which the one he had\ntaken ended.\n\nHere again, he was obliged to come to a decision; should he go to the\nright or to the left.\n\nHe glanced to the right. The fragmentary lane was prolonged between\nbuildings which were either sheds or barns, then ended at a blind\nalley. The extremity of the cul-de-sac was distinctly visible, a lofty\nwhite wall.\n\nHe glanced to the left. On that side the lane was open, and about two\nhundred paces further on, ran into a street of which it was the\naffluent. On that side lay safety.\n\nAt the moment when Jean Valjean was meditating a turn to the left, in\nan effort to reach the street which he saw at the end of the lane, he\nperceived a sort of motionless, black statue at the corner of the lane\nand the street towards which he was on the point of directing his\nsteps.\n\nIt was some one, a man, who had evidently just been posted there, and\nwho was barring the passage and waiting.\n\nJean Valjean recoiled.\n\nThe point of Paris where Jean Valjean found himself, situated between\nthe Faubourg Saint-Antoine and la R p e, is one of those which recent\nimprovements have transformed from top to bottom, resulting in\ndisfigurement according to some, and in a transfiguration according to\nothers. The market-gardens, the timber-yards, and the old buildings\nhave been effaced. To-day, there are brand-new, wide streets, arenas,\ncircuses, hippodromes, railway stations, and a prison, Mazas, there;\nprogress, as the reader sees, with its antidote.\n\nHalf a century ago, in that ordinary, popular tongue, which is all\ncompounded of traditions, which persists in calling the Institut _les\nQuatre-Nations_, and the Opera-Comique _Feydeau_, the precise spot\nwhither Jean Valjean had arrived was called _le Petit-Picpus_. The\nPorte Saint-Jacques, the Porte Paris, the Barri re des Sergents, the\nPorcherons, la Galiote, les C lestins, les Capucins, le Mail, la\nBourbe, l Arbre de Cracovie, la Petite-Pologne these are the names of\nold Paris which survive amid the new. The memory of the populace hovers\nover these relics of the past.\n\nLe Petit-Picpus, which, moreover, hardly ever had any existence, and\nnever was more than the outline of a quarter, had nearly the monkish\naspect of a Spanish town. The roads were not much paved; the streets\nwere not much built up. With the exception of the two or three streets,\nof which we shall presently speak, all was wall and solitude there. Not\na shop, not a vehicle, hardly a candle lighted here and there in the\nwindows; all lights extinguished after ten o clock. Gardens, convents,\ntimber-yards, marshes; occasional lowly dwellings and great walls as\nhigh as the houses.\n\nSuch was this quarter in the last century. The Revolution snubbed it\nsoundly. The republican government demolished and cut through it.\nRubbish shoots were established there. Thirty years ago, this quarter\nwas disappearing under the erasing process of new buildings. To-day, it\nhas been utterly blotted out. The Petit-Picpus, of which no existing\nplan has preserved a trace, is indicated with sufficient clearness in\nthe plan of 1727, published at Paris by Denis Thierry, Rue\nSaint-Jacques, opposite the Rue du Pl tre; and at Lyons, by Jean Girin,\nRue Merci re, at the sign of Prudence. Petit-Picpus had, as we have\njust mentioned, a Y of streets, formed by the Rue du\nChemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, which spread out in two branches, taking on\nthe left the name of Little Picpus Street, and on the right the name of\nthe Rue Polonceau. The two limbs of the Y were connected at the apex as\nby a bar; this bar was called Rue Droit-Mur. The Rue Polonceau ended\nthere; Rue Petit-Picpus passed on, and ascended towards the Lenoir\nmarket. A person coming from the Seine reached the extremity of the Rue\nPolonceau, and had on his right the Rue Droit-Mur, turning abruptly at\na right angle, in front of him the wall of that street, and on his\nright a truncated prolongation of the Rue Droit-Mur, which had no issue\nand was called the Cul-de-Sac Genrot.\n\nIt was here that Jean Valjean stood.\n\nAs we have just said, on catching sight of that black silhouette\nstanding on guard at the angle of the Rue Droit-Mur and the Rue\nPetit-Picpus, he recoiled. There could be no doubt of it. That phantom\nwas lying in wait for him.\n\nWhat was he to do?\n\nThe time for retreating was passed. That which he had perceived in\nmovement an instant before, in the distant darkness, was Javert and his\nsquad without a doubt. Javert was probably already at the commencement\nof the street at whose end Jean Valjean stood. Javert, to all\nappearances, was acquainted with this little labyrinth, and had taken\nhis precautions by sending one of his men to guard the exit. These\nsurmises, which so closely resembled proofs, whirled suddenly, like a\nhandful of dust caught up by an unexpected gust of wind, through Jean\nValjean s mournful brain. He examined the Cul-de-Sac Genrot; there he\nwas cut off. He examined the Rue Petit-Picpus; there stood a sentinel.\nHe saw that black form standing out in relief against the white\npavement, illuminated by the moon; to advance was to fall into this\nman s hands; to retreat was to fling himself into Javert s arms. Jean\nValjean felt himself caught, as in a net, which was slowly contracting;\nhe gazed heavenward in despair.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE GROPINGS OF FLIGHT\n\n\nIn order to understand what follows, it is requisite to form an exact\nidea of the Droit-Mur lane, and, in particular, of the angle which one\nleaves on the left when one emerges from the Rue Polonceau into this\nlane. Droit-Mur lane was almost entirely bordered on the right, as far\nas the Rue Petit-Picpus, by houses of mean aspect; on the left by a\nsolitary building of severe outlines, composed of numerous parts which\ngrew gradually higher by a story or two as they approached the Rue\nPetit-Picpus side; so that this building, which was very lofty on the\nRue Petit-Picpus side, was tolerably low on the side adjoining the Rue\nPolonceau. There, at the angle of which we have spoken, it descended to\nsuch a degree that it consisted of merely a wall. This wall did not\nabut directly on the street; it formed a deeply retreating niche,\nconcealed by its two corners from two observers who might have been,\none in the Rue Polonceau, the other in the Rue Droit-Mur.\n\nBeginning with these angles of the niche, the wall extended along the\nRue Polonceau as far as a house which bore the number 49, and along the\nRue Droit-Mur, where the fragment was much shorter, as far as the\ngloomy building which we have mentioned and whose gable it intersected,\nthus forming another retreating angle in the street. This gable was\nsombre of aspect; only one window was visible, or, to speak more\ncorrectly, two shutters covered with a sheet of zinc and kept\nconstantly closed.\n\nThe state of the places of which we are here giving a description is\nrigorously exact, and will certainly awaken a very precise memory in\nthe mind of old inhabitants of the quarter.\n\nThe niche was entirely filled by a thing which resembled a colossal and\nwretched door; it was a vast, formless assemblage of perpendicular\nplanks, the upper ones being broader than the lower, bound together by\nlong transverse strips of iron. At one side there was a carriage gate\nof the ordinary dimensions, and which had evidently not been cut more\nthan fifty years previously.\n\nA linden-tree showed its crest above the niche, and the wall was\ncovered with ivy on the side of the Rue Polonceau.\n\nIn the imminent peril in which Jean Valjean found himself, this sombre\nbuilding had about it a solitary and uninhabited look which tempted\nhim. He ran his eyes rapidly over it; he said to himself, that if he\ncould contrive to get inside it, he might save himself. First he\nconceived an idea, then a hope.\n\nIn the central portion of the front of this building, on the Rue\nDroit-Mur side, there were at all the windows of the different stories\nancient cistern pipes of lead. The various branches of the pipes which\nled from one central pipe to all these little basins sketched out a\nsort of tree on the front. These ramifications of pipes with their\nhundred elbows imitated those old leafless vine-stocks which writhe\nover the fronts of old farm-houses.\n\nThis odd espalier, with its branches of lead and iron, was the first\nthing that struck Jean Valjean. He seated Cosette with her back against\na stone post, with an injunction to be silent, and ran to the spot\nwhere the conduit touched the pavement. Perhaps there was some way of\nclimbing up by it and entering the house. But the pipe was dilapidated\nand past service, and hardly hung to its fastenings. Moreover, all the\nwindows of this silent dwelling were grated with heavy iron bars, even\nthe attic windows in the roof. And then, the moon fell full upon that\nfa ade, and the man who was watching at the corner of the street would\nhave seen Jean Valjean in the act of climbing. And finally, what was to\nbe done with Cosette? How was she to be drawn up to the top of a\nthree-story house?\n\nHe gave up all idea of climbing by means of the drain-pipe, and crawled\nalong the wall to get back into the Rue Polonceau.\n\nWhen he reached the slant of the wall where he had left Cosette, he\nnoticed that no one could see him there. As we have just explained, he\nwas concealed from all eyes, no matter from which direction they were\napproaching; besides this, he was in the shadow. Finally, there were\ntwo doors; perhaps they might be forced. The wall above which he saw\nthe linden-tree and the ivy evidently abutted on a garden where he\ncould, at least, hide himself, although there were as yet no leaves on\nthe trees, and spend the remainder of the night.\n\nTime was passing; he must act quickly.\n\nHe felt over the carriage door, and immediately recognized the fact\nthat it was impracticable outside and in.\n\nHe approached the other door with more hope; it was frightfully\ndecrepit; its very immensity rendered it less solid; the planks were\nrotten; the iron bands there were only three of them were rusted. It\nseemed as though it might be possible to pierce this worm-eaten\nbarrier.\n\nOn examining it he found that the door was not a door; it had neither\nhinges, cross-bars, lock, nor fissure in the middle; the iron bands\ntraversed it from side to side without any break. Through the crevices\nin the planks he caught a view of unhewn slabs and blocks of stone\nroughly cemented together, which passers-by might still have seen there\nten years ago. He was forced to acknowledge with consternation that\nthis apparent door was simply the wooden decoration of a building\nagainst which it was placed. It was easy to tear off a plank; but then,\none found one s self face to face with a wall.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V WHICH WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE WITH GAS LANTERNS\n\n\nAt that moment a heavy and measured sound began to be audible at some\ndistance. Jean Valjean risked a glance round the corner of the street.\nSeven or eight soldiers, drawn up in a platoon, had just debouched into\nthe Rue Polonceau. He saw the gleam of their bayonets. They were\nadvancing towards him; these soldiers, at whose head he distinguished\nJavert s tall figure, advanced slowly and cautiously. They halted\nfrequently; it was plain that they were searching all the nooks of the\nwalls and all the embrasures of the doors and alleys.\n\nThis was some patrol that Javert had encountered there could be no\nmistake as to this surmise and whose aid he had demanded.\n\nJavert s two acolytes were marching in their ranks.\n\nAt the rate at which they were marching, and in consideration of the\nhalts which they were making, it would take them about a quarter of an\nhour to reach the spot where Jean Valjean stood. It was a frightful\nmoment. A few minutes only separated Jean Valjean from that terrible\nprecipice which yawned before him for the third time. And the galleys\nnow meant not only the galleys, but Cosette lost to him forever; that\nis to say, a life resembling the interior of a tomb.\n\nThere was but one thing which was possible.\n\nJean Valjean had this peculiarity, that he carried, as one might say,\ntwo beggar s pouches: in one he kept his saintly thoughts; in the other\nthe redoubtable talents of a convict. He rummaged in the one or the\nother, according to circumstances.\n\nAmong his other resources, thanks to his numerous escapes from the\nprison at Toulon, he was, as it will be remembered, a past master in\nthe incredible art of crawling up without ladder or climbing-irons, by\nsheer muscular force, by leaning on the nape of his neck, his\nshoulders, his hips, and his knees, by helping himself on the rare\nprojections of the stone, in the right angle of a wall, as high as the\nsixth story, if need be; an art which has rendered so celebrated and so\nalarming that corner of the wall of the Conciergerie of Paris by which\nBattemolle, condemned to death, made his escape twenty years ago.\n\nJean Valjean measured with his eyes the wall above which he espied the\nlinden; it was about eighteen feet in height. The angle which it formed\nwith the gable of the large building was filled, at its lower\nextremity, by a mass of masonry of a triangular shape, probably\nintended to preserve that too convenient corner from the rubbish of\nthose dirty creatures called the passers-by. This practice of filling\nup corners of the wall is much in use in Paris.\n\nThis mass was about five feet in height; the space above the summit of\nthis mass which it was necessary to climb was not more than fourteen\nfeet.\n\nThe wall was surmounted by a flat stone without a coping.\n\nCosette was the difficulty, for she did not know how to climb a wall.\nShould he abandon her? Jean Valjean did not once think of that. It was\nimpossible to carry her. A man s whole strength is required to\nsuccessfully carry out these singular ascents. The least burden would\ndisturb his centre of gravity and pull him downwards.\n\nA rope would have been required; Jean Valjean had none. Where was he to\nget a rope at midnight, in the Rue Polonceau? Certainly, if Jean\nValjean had had a kingdom, he would have given it for a rope at that\nmoment.\n\nAll extreme situations have their lightning flashes which sometimes\ndazzle, sometimes illuminate us.\n\nJean Valjean s despairing glance fell on the street lantern-post of the\nblind alley Genrot.\n\nAt that epoch there were no gas-jets in the streets of Paris. At\nnightfall lanterns placed at regular distances were lighted; they were\nascended and descended by means of a rope, which traversed the street\nfrom side to side, and was adjusted in a groove of the post. The pulley\nover which this rope ran was fastened underneath the lantern in a\nlittle iron box, the key to which was kept by the lamp-lighter, and the\nrope itself was protected by a metal case.\n\nJean Valjean, with the energy of a supreme struggle, crossed the street\nat one bound, entered the blind alley, broke the latch of the little\nbox with the point of his knife, and an instant later he was beside\nCosette once more. He had a rope. These gloomy inventors of expedients\nwork rapidly when they are fighting against fatality.\n\nWe have already explained that the lanterns had not been lighted that\nnight. The lantern in the Cul-de-Sac Genrot was thus naturally extinct,\nlike the rest; and one could pass directly under it without even\nnoticing that it was no longer in its place.\n\nNevertheless, the hour, the place, the darkness, Jean Valjean s\nabsorption, his singular gestures, his goings and comings, all had\nbegun to render Cosette uneasy. Any other child than she would have\ngiven vent to loud shrieks long before. She contented herself with\nplucking Jean Valjean by the skirt of his coat. They could hear the\nsound of the patrol s approach ever more and more distinctly.\n\n Father,  said she, in a very low voice,  I am afraid. Who is coming\nyonder? \n\n\n Hush!  replied the unhappy man;  it is Madame Th nardier. \n\n\nCosette shuddered. He added: \n\n Say nothing. Don t interfere with me. If you cry out, if you weep, the\nTh nardier is lying in wait for you. She is coming to take you back. \n\n\nThen, without haste, but without making a useless movement, with firm\nand curt precision, the more remarkable at a moment when the patrol and\nJavert might come upon him at any moment, he undid his cravat, passed\nit round Cosette s body under the armpits, taking care that it should\nnot hurt the child, fastened this cravat to one end of the rope, by\nmeans of that knot which seafaring men call a  swallow knot,  took the\nother end of the rope in his teeth, pulled off his shoes and stockings,\nwhich he threw over the wall, stepped upon the mass of masonry, and\nbegan to raise himself in the angle of the wall and the gable with as\nmuch solidity and certainty as though he had the rounds of a ladder\nunder his feet and elbows. Half a minute had not elapsed when he was\nresting on his knees on the wall.\n\nCosette gazed at him in stupid amazement, without uttering a word. Jean\nValjean s injunction, and the name of Madame Th nardier, had chilled\nher blood.\n\nAll at once she heard Jean Valjean s voice crying to her, though in a\nvery low tone: \n\n Put your back against the wall. \n\n\nShe obeyed.\n\n Don t say a word, and don t be alarmed,  went on Jean Valjean.\n\nAnd she felt herself lifted from the ground.\n\nBefore she had time to recover herself, she was on the top of the wall.\n\nJean Valjean grasped her, put her on his back, took her two tiny hands\nin his large left hand, lay down flat on his stomach and crawled along\non top of the wall as far as the cant. As he had guessed, there stood a\nbuilding whose roof started from the top of the wooden barricade and\ndescended to within a very short distance of the ground, with a gentle\nslope which grazed the linden-tree. A lucky circumstance, for the wall\nwas much higher on this side than on the street side. Jean Valjean\ncould only see the ground at a great depth below him.\n\nHe had just reached the slope of the roof, and had not yet left the\ncrest of the wall, when a violent uproar announced the arrival of the\npatrol. The thundering voice of Javert was audible: \n\n Search the blind alley! The Rue Droit-Mur is guarded! so is the Rue\nPetit-Picpus. I ll answer for it that he is in the blind alley. \n\n\nThe soldiers rushed into the Genrot alley.\n\nJean Valjean allowed himself to slide down the roof, still holding fast\nto Cosette, reached the linden-tree, and leaped to the ground. Whether\nfrom terror or courage, Cosette had not breathed a sound, though her\nhands were a little abraded.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE BEGINNING OF AN ENIGMA\n\n\nJean Valjean found himself in a sort of garden which was very vast and\nof singular aspect; one of those melancholy gardens which seem made to\nbe looked at in winter and at night. This garden was oblong in shape,\nwith an alley of large poplars at the further end, tolerably tall\nforest trees in the corners, and an unshaded space in the centre, where\ncould be seen a very large, solitary tree, then several fruit-trees,\ngnarled and bristling like bushes, beds of vegetables, a melon patch,\nwhose glass frames sparkled in the moonlight, and an old well. Here and\nthere stood stone benches which seemed black with moss. The alleys were\nbordered with gloomy and very erect little shrubs. The grass had half\ntaken possession of them, and a green mould covered the rest.\n\nJean Valjean had beside him the building whose roof had served him as a\nmeans of descent, a pile of fagots, and, behind the fagots, directly\nagainst the wall, a stone statue, whose mutilated face was no longer\nanything more than a shapeless mask which loomed vaguely through the\ngloom.\n\nThe building was a sort of ruin, where dismantled chambers were\ndistinguishable, one of which, much encumbered, seemed to serve as a\nshed.\n\nThe large building of the Rue Droit-Mur, which had a wing on the Rue\nPetit-Picpus, turned two fa ades, at right angles, towards this garden.\nThese interior fa ades were even more tragic than the exterior. All the\nwindows were grated. Not a gleam of light was visible at any one of\nthem. The upper story had scuttles like prisons. One of those fa ades\ncast its shadow on the other, which fell over the garden like an\nimmense black pall.\n\nNo other house was visible. The bottom of the garden was lost in mist\nand darkness. Nevertheless, walls could be confusedly made out, which\nintersected as though there were more cultivated land beyond, and the\nlow roofs of the Rue Polonceau.\n\nNothing more wild and solitary than this garden could be imagined.\nThere was no one in it, which was quite natural in view of the hour;\nbut it did not seem as though this spot were made for any one to walk\nin, even in broad daylight.\n\nJean Valjean s first care had been to get hold of his shoes and put\nthem on again, then to step under the shed with Cosette. A man who is\nfleeing never thinks himself sufficiently hidden. The child, whose\nthoughts were still on the Th nardier, shared his instinct for\nwithdrawing from sight as much as possible.\n\nCosette trembled and pressed close to him. They heard the tumultuous\nnoise of the patrol searching the blind alley and the streets; the\nblows of their gun-stocks against the stones; Javert s appeals to the\npolice spies whom he had posted, and his imprecations mingled with\nwords which could not be distinguished.\n\nAt the expiration of a quarter of an hour it seemed as though that\nspecies of stormy roar were becoming more distant. Jean Valjean held\nhis breath.\n\nHe had laid his hand lightly on Cosette s mouth.\n\nHowever, the solitude in which he stood was so strangely calm, that\nthis frightful uproar, close and furious as it was, did not disturb him\nby so much as the shadow of a misgiving. It seemed as though those\nwalls had been built of the deaf stones of which the Scriptures speak.\n\nAll at once, in the midst of this profound calm, a fresh sound arose; a\nsound as celestial, divine, ineffable, ravishing, as the other had been\nhorrible. It was a hymn which issued from the gloom, a dazzling burst\nof prayer and harmony in the obscure and alarming silence of the night;\nwomen s voices, but voices composed at one and the same time of the\npure accents of virgins and the innocent accents of children, voices\nwhich are not of the earth, and which resemble those that the newborn\ninfant still hears, and which the dying man hears already. This song\nproceeded from the gloomy edifice which towered above the garden. At\nthe moment when the hubbub of demons retreated, one would have said\nthat a choir of angels was approaching through the gloom.\n\nCosette and Jean Valjean fell on their knees.\n\nThey knew not what it was, they knew not where they were; but both of\nthem, the man and the child, the penitent and the innocent, felt that\nthey must kneel.\n\nThese voices had this strange characteristic, that they did not prevent\nthe building from seeming to be deserted. It was a supernatural chant\nin an uninhabited house.\n\nWhile these voices were singing, Jean Valjean thought of nothing. He no\nlonger beheld the night; he beheld a blue sky. It seemed to him that he\nfelt those wings which we all have within us, unfolding.\n\nThe song died away. It may have lasted a long time. Jean Valjean could\nnot have told. Hours of ecstasy are never more than a moment.\n\nAll fell silent again. There was no longer anything in the street;\nthere was nothing in the garden. That which had menaced, that which had\nreassured him, all had vanished. The breeze swayed a few dry weeds on\nthe crest of the wall, and they gave out a faint, sweet, melancholy\nsound.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII CONTINUATION OF THE ENIGMA\n\n\nThe night wind had risen, which indicated that it must be between one\nand two o clock in the morning. Poor Cosette said nothing. As she had\nseated herself beside him and leaned her head against him, Jean Valjean\nhad fancied that she was asleep. He bent down and looked at her.\nCosette s eyes were wide open, and her thoughtful air pained Jean\nValjean.\n\nShe was still trembling.\n\n Are you sleepy?  said Jean Valjean.\n\n I am very cold,  she replied.\n\nA moment later she resumed: \n\n Is she still there? \n\n\n Who?  said Jean Valjean.\n\n Madame Th nardier. \n\n\nJean Valjean had already forgotten the means which he had employed to\nmake Cosette keep silent.\n\n Ah!  said he,  she is gone. You need fear nothing further. \n\n\nThe child sighed as though a load had been lifted from her breast.\n\nThe ground was damp, the shed open on all sides, the breeze grew more\nkeen every instant. The goodman took off his coat and wrapped it round\nCosette.\n\n Are you less cold now?  said he.\n\n Oh, yes, father. \n\n\n Well, wait for me a moment. I will soon be back. \n\n\nHe quitted the ruin and crept along the large building, seeking a\nbetter shelter. He came across doors, but they were closed. There were\nbars at all the windows of the ground floor.\n\nJust after he had turned the inner angle of the edifice, he observed\nthat he was coming to some arched windows, where he perceived a light.\nHe stood on tiptoe and peeped through one of these windows. They all\nopened on a tolerably vast hall, paved with large flagstones, cut up by\narcades and pillars, where only a tiny light and great shadows were\nvisible. The light came from a taper which was burning in one corner.\nThe apartment was deserted, and nothing was stirring in it.\nNevertheless, by dint of gazing intently he thought he perceived on the\nground something which appeared to be covered with a winding-sheet, and\nwhich resembled a human form. This form was lying face downward, flat\non the pavement, with the arms extended in the form of a cross, in the\nimmobility of death. One would have said, judging from a sort of\nserpent which undulated over the floor, that this sinister form had a\nrope round its neck.\n\nThe whole chamber was bathed in that mist of places which are sparely\nilluminated, which adds to horror.\n\nJean Valjean often said afterwards, that, although many funereal\nspectres had crossed his path in life, he had never beheld anything\nmore blood-curdling and terrible than that enigmatical form\naccomplishing some inexplicable mystery in that gloomy place, and\nbeheld thus at night. It was alarming to suppose that that thing was\nperhaps dead; and still more alarming to think that it was perhaps\nalive.\n\nHe had the courage to plaster his face to the glass, and to watch\nwhether the thing would move. In spite of his remaining thus what\nseemed to him a very long time, the outstretched form made no movement.\nAll at once he felt himself overpowered by an inexpressible terror, and\nhe fled. He began to run towards the shed, not daring to look behind\nhim. It seemed to him, that if he turned his head, he should see that\nform following him with great strides and waving its arms.\n\nHe reached the ruin all out of breath. His knees were giving way\nbeneath him; the perspiration was pouring from him.\n\nWhere was he? Who could ever have imagined anything like that sort of\nsepulchre in the midst of Paris! What was this strange house? An\nedifice full of nocturnal mystery, calling to souls through the\ndarkness with the voice of angels, and when they came, offering them\nabruptly that terrible vision; promising to open the radiant portals of\nheaven, and then opening the horrible gates of the tomb! And it\nactually was an edifice, a house, which bore a number on the street! It\nwas not a dream! He had to touch the stones to convince himself that\nsuch was the fact.\n\nCold, anxiety, uneasiness, the emotions of the night, had given him a\ngenuine fever, and all these ideas were clashing together in his brain.\n\nHe stepped up to Cosette. She was asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE ENIGMA BECOMES DOUBLY MYSTERIOUS\n\n\nThe child had laid her head on a stone and fallen asleep.\n\nHe sat down beside her and began to think. Little by little, as he\ngazed at her, he grew calm and regained possession of his freedom of\nmind.\n\nHe clearly perceived this truth, the foundation of his life henceforth,\nthat so long as she was there, so long as he had her near him, he\nshould need nothing except for her, he should fear nothing except for\nher. He was not even conscious that he was very cold, since he had\ntaken off his coat to cover her.\n\nNevertheless, athwart this reverie into which he had fallen he had\nheard for some time a peculiar noise. It was like the tinkling of a\nbell. This sound proceeded from the garden. It could be heard\ndistinctly though faintly. It resembled the faint, vague music produced\nby the bells of cattle at night in the pastures.\n\nThis noise made Valjean turn round.\n\nHe looked and saw that there was some one in the garden.\n\nA being resembling a man was walking amid the bell-glasses of the melon\nbeds, rising, stooping, halting, with regular movements, as though he\nwere dragging or spreading out something on the ground. This person\nappeared to limp.\n\nJean Valjean shuddered with the continual tremor of the unhappy. For\nthem everything is hostile and suspicious. They distrust the day\nbecause it enables people to see them, and the night because it aids in\nsurprising them. A little while before he had shivered because the\ngarden was deserted, and now he shivered because there was some one\nthere.\n\nHe fell back from chimerical terrors to real terrors. He said to\nhimself that Javert and the spies had, perhaps, not taken their\ndeparture; that they had, no doubt, left people on the watch in the\nstreet; that if this man should discover him in the garden, he would\ncry out for help against thieves and deliver him up. He took the\nsleeping Cosette gently in his arms and carried her behind a heap of\nold furniture, which was out of use, in the most remote corner of the\nshed. Cosette did not stir.\n\nFrom that point he scrutinized the appearance of the being in the melon\npatch. The strange thing about it was, that the sound of the bell\nfollowed each of this man s movements. When the man approached, the\nsound approached; when the man retreated, the sound retreated; if he\nmade any hasty gesture, a tremolo accompanied the gesture; when he\nhalted, the sound ceased. It appeared evident that the bell was\nattached to that man; but what could that signify? Who was this man who\nhad a bell suspended about him like a ram or an ox?\n\nAs he put these questions to himself, he touched Cosette s hands. They\nwere icy cold.\n\n Ah! good God!  he cried.\n\nHe spoke to her in a low voice: \n\n Cosette! \n\n\nShe did not open her eyes.\n\nHe shook her vigorously.\n\nShe did not wake.\n\n Is she dead?  he said to himself, and sprang to his feet, quivering\nfrom head to foot.\n\nThe most frightful thoughts rushed pell-mell through his mind. There\nare moments when hideous surmises assail us like a cohort of furies,\nand violently force the partitions of our brains. When those we love\nare in question, our prudence invents every sort of madness. He\nremembered that sleep in the open air on a cold night may be fatal.\n\nCosette was pale, and had fallen at full length on the ground at his\nfeet, without a movement.\n\nHe listened to her breathing: she still breathed, but with a\nrespiration which seemed to him weak and on the point of extinction.\n\nHow was he to warm her back to life? How was he to rouse her? All that\nwas not connected with this vanished from his thoughts. He rushed\nwildly from the ruin.\n\nIt was absolutely necessary that Cosette should be in bed and beside a\nfire in less than a quarter of an hour.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX THE MAN WITH THE BELL\n\n\nHe walked straight up to the man whom he saw in the garden. He had\ntaken in his hand the roll of silver which was in the pocket of his\nwaistcoat.\n\nThe man s head was bent down, and he did not see him approaching. In a\nfew strides Jean Valjean stood beside him.\n\nJean Valjean accosted him with the cry: \n\n One hundred francs! \n\n\nThe man gave a start and raised his eyes.\n\n You can earn a hundred francs,  went on Jean Valjean,  if you will\ngrant me shelter for this night. \n\n\nThe moon shone full upon Jean Valjean s terrified countenance.\n\n What! so it is you, Father Madeleine!  said the man.\n\nThat name, thus pronounced, at that obscure hour, in that unknown spot,\nby that strange man, made Jean Valjean start back.\n\nHe had expected anything but that. The person who thus addressed him\nwas a bent and lame old man, dressed almost like a peasant, who wore on\nhis left knee a leather knee-cap, whence hung a moderately large bell.\nHis face, which was in the shadow, was not distinguishable.\n\nHowever, the goodman had removed his cap, and exclaimed, trembling all\nover: \n\n Ah, good God! How come you here, Father Madeleine? Where did you\nenter? Dieu-J sus! Did you fall from heaven? There is no trouble about\nthat: if ever you do fall, it will be from there. And what a state you\nare in! You have no cravat; you have no hat; you have no coat! Do you\nknow, you would have frightened any one who did not know you? No coat!\nLord God! Are the saints going mad nowadays? But how did you get in\nhere? \n\n\nHis words tumbled over each other. The goodman talked with a rustic\nvolubility, in which there was nothing alarming. All this was uttered\nwith a mixture of stupefaction and _na ve_ kindliness.\n\n Who are you? and what house is this?  demanded Jean Valjean.\n\n Ah! pardieu, this is too much!  exclaimed the old man.  I am the\nperson for whom you got the place here, and this house is the one where\nyou had me placed. What! You don t recognize me? \n\n\n No,  said Jean Valjean;  and how happens it that you know me? \n\n\n You saved my life,  said the man.\n\nHe turned. A ray of moonlight outlined his profile, and Jean Valjean\nrecognized old Fauchelevent.\n\n Ah!  said Jean Valjean,  so it is you? Yes, I recollect you. \n\n\n That is very lucky,  said the old man, in a reproachful tone.\n\n And what are you doing here?  resumed Jean Valjean.\n\n Why, I am covering my melons, of course! \n\n\nIn fact, at the moment when Jean Valjean accosted him, old Fauchelevent\nheld in his hand the end of a straw mat which he was occupied in\nspreading over the melon bed. During the hour or thereabouts that he\nhad been in the garden he had already spread out a number of them. It\nwas this operation which had caused him to execute the peculiar\nmovements observed from the shed by Jean Valjean.\n\nHe continued: \n\n I said to myself,  The moon is bright: it is going to freeze. What if\nI were to put my melons into their greatcoats?  And,  he added, looking\nat Jean Valjean with a broad smile, pardieu! you ought to have done\nthe same! But how do you come here? \n\n\nJean Valjean, finding himself known to this man, at least only under\nthe name of Madeleine, thenceforth advanced only with caution. He\nmultiplied his questions. Strange to say, their r les seemed to be\nreversed. It was he, the intruder, who interrogated.\n\n And what is this bell which you wear on your knee? \n\n\n This,  replied Fauchelevent,  is so that I may be avoided. \n\n\n What! so that you may be avoided? \n\n\nOld Fauchelevent winked with an indescribable air.\n\n Ah, goodness! there are only women in this house many young girls. It\nappears that I should be a dangerous person to meet. The bell gives\nthem warning. When I come, they go. \n\n\n What house is this? \n\n\n Come, you know well enough. \n\n\n But I do not. \n\n\n Not when you got me the place here as gardener? \n\n\n Answer me as though I knew nothing. \n\n\n Well, then, this is the Petit-Picpus convent. \n\n\nMemories recurred to Jean Valjean. Chance, that is to say, Providence,\nhad cast him into precisely that convent in the Quartier Saint-Antoine\nwhere old Fauchelevent, crippled by the fall from his cart, had been\nadmitted on his recommendation two years previously. He repeated, as\nthough talking to himself: \n\n The Petit-Picpus convent. \n\n\n Exactly,  returned old Fauchelevent.  But to come to the point, how\nthe deuce did you manage to get in here, you, Father Madeleine? No\nmatter if you are a saint; you are a man as well, and no man enters\nhere. \n\n\n You certainly are here. \n\n\n There is no one but me. \n\n\n Still,  said Jean Valjean,  I must stay here. \n\n\n Ah, good God!  cried Fauchelevent.\n\nJean Valjean drew near to the old man, and said to him in a grave\nvoice: \n\n Father Fauchelevent, I saved your life. \n\n\n I was the first to recall it,  returned Fauchelevent.\n\n Well, you can do to-day for me that which I did for you in the olden\ndays. \n\n\nFauchelevent took in his aged, trembling, and wrinkled hands Jean\nValjean s two robust hands, and stood for several minutes as though\nincapable of speaking. At length he exclaimed: \n\n Oh! that would be a blessing from the good God, if I could make you\nsome little return for that! Save your life! Monsieur le Maire, dispose\nof the old man! \n\n\nA wonderful joy had transfigured this old man. His countenance seemed\nto emit a ray of light.\n\n What do you wish me to do?  he resumed.\n\n That I will explain to you. You have a chamber? \n\n\n I have an isolated hovel yonder, behind the ruins of the old convent,\nin a corner which no one ever looks into. There are three rooms in it. \n\n\nThe hut was, in fact, so well hidden behind the ruins, and so cleverly\narranged to prevent it being seen, that Jean Valjean had not perceived\nit.\n\n Good,  said Jean Valjean.  Now I am going to ask two things of you. \n\n\n What are they, Mr. Mayor? \n\n\n In the first place, you are not to tell any one what you know about\nme. In the second, you are not to try to find out anything more. \n\n\n As you please. I know that you can do nothing that is not honest, that\nyou have always been a man after the good God s heart. And then,\nmoreover, you it was who placed me here. That concerns you. I am at\nyour service. \n\n\n That is settled then. Now, come with me. We will go and get the\nchild. \n\n\n Ah!  said Fauchelevent,  so there is a child? \n\n\nHe added not a word further, and followed Jean Valjean as a dog follows\nhis master.\n\nLess than half an hour afterwards Cosette, who had grown rosy again\nbefore the flame of a good fire, was lying asleep in the old gardener s\nbed. Jean Valjean had put on his cravat and coat once more; his hat,\nwhich he had flung over the wall, had been found and picked up. While\nJean Valjean was putting on his coat, Fauchelevent had removed the bell\nand kneecap, which now hung on a nail beside a vintage basket that\nadorned the wall. The two men were warming themselves with their elbows\nresting on a table upon which Fauchelevent had placed a bit of cheese,\nblack bread, a bottle of wine, and two glasses, and the old man was\nsaying to Jean Valjean, as he laid his hand on the latter s knee:  Ah!\nFather Madeleine! You did not recognize me immediately; you save\npeople s lives, and then you forget them! That is bad! But they\nremember you! You are an ingrate! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X WHICH EXPLAINS HOW JAVERT GOT ON THE SCENT\n\n\nThe events of which we have just beheld the reverse side, so to speak,\nhad come about in the simplest possible manner.\n\nWhen Jean Valjean, on the evening of the very day when Javert had\narrested him beside Fantine s death-bed, had escaped from the town jail\nof M. sur M., the police had supposed that he had betaken himself to\nParis. Paris is a maelstrom where everything is lost, and everything\ndisappears in this belly of the world, as in the belly of the sea. No\nforest hides a man as does that crowd. Fugitives of every sort know\nthis. They go to Paris as to an abyss; there are gulfs which save. The\npolice know it also, and it is in Paris that they seek what they have\nlost elsewhere. They sought the ex-mayor of M. sur M. Javert was\nsummoned to Paris to throw light on their researches. Javert had, in\nfact, rendered powerful assistance in the recapture of Jean Valjean.\nJavert s zeal and intelligence on that occasion had been remarked by M.\nChabouillet, secretary of the Prefecture under Comte Angl s. M.\nChabouillet, who had, moreover, already been Javert s patron, had the\ninspector of M. sur M. attached to the police force of Paris. There\nJavert rendered himself useful in divers and, though the word may seem\nstrange for such services, honorable manners.\n\nHe no longer thought of Jean Valjean, the wolf of to-day causes these\ndogs who are always on the chase to forget the wolf of yesterday, when,\nin December, 1823, he read a newspaper, he who never read newspapers;\nbut Javert, a monarchical man, had a desire to know the particulars of\nthe triumphal entry of the  Prince Generalissimo  into Bayonne. Just as\nhe was finishing the article, which interested him; a name, the name of\nJean Valjean, attracted his attention at the bottom of a page. The\npaper announced that the convict Jean Valjean was dead, and published\nthe fact in such formal terms that Javert did not doubt it. He confined\nhimself to the remark,  That s a good entry.  Then he threw aside the\npaper, and thought no more about it.\n\nSome time afterwards, it chanced that a police report was transmitted\nfrom the prefecture of the Seine-et-Oise to the prefecture of police in\nParis, concerning the abduction of a child, which had taken place,\nunder peculiar circumstances, as it was said, in the commune of\nMontfermeil. A little girl of seven or eight years of age, the report\nsaid, who had been intrusted by her mother to an inn-keeper of that\nneighborhood, had been stolen by a stranger; this child answered to the\nname of Cosette, and was the daughter of a girl named Fantine, who had\ndied in the hospital, it was not known where or when.\n\nThis report came under Javert s eye and set him to thinking.\n\nThe name of Fantine was well known to him. He remembered that Jean\nValjean had made him, Javert, burst into laughter, by asking him for a\nrespite of three days, for the purpose of going to fetch that\ncreature s child. He recalled the fact that Jean Valjean had been\narrested in Paris at the very moment when he was stepping into the\ncoach for Montfermeil. Some signs had made him suspect at the time that\nthis was the second occasion of his entering that coach, and that he\nhad already, on the previous day, made an excursion to the neighborhood\nof that village, for he had not been seen in the village itself. What\nhad he been intending to do in that region of Montfermeil? It could not\neven be surmised. Javert understood it now. Fantine s daughter was\nthere. Jean Valjean was going there in search of her. And now this\nchild had been stolen by a stranger! Who could that stranger be? Could\nit be Jean Valjean? But Jean Valjean was dead. Javert, without saying\nanything to anybody, took the coach from the _Pewter Platter_,\nCul-de-Sac de la Planchette, and made a trip to Montfermeil.\n\nHe expected to find a great deal of light on the subject there; he\nfound a great deal of obscurity.\n\nFor the first few days the Th nardiers had chattered in their rage. The\ndisappearance of the Lark had created a sensation in the village. He\nimmediately obtained numerous versions of the story, which ended in the\nabduction of a child. Hence the police report. But their first vexation\nhaving passed off, Th nardier, with his wonderful instinct, had very\nquickly comprehended that it is never advisable to stir up the\nprosecutor of the Crown, and that his complaints with regard to the\n_abduction_ of Cosette would have as their first result to fix upon\nhimself, and upon many dark affairs which he had on hand, the\nglittering eye of justice. The last thing that owls desire is to have a\ncandle brought to them. And in the first place, how explain the fifteen\nhundred francs which he had received? He turned squarely round, put a\ngag on his wife s mouth, and feigned astonishment when the _stolen\nchild_ was mentioned to him. He understood nothing about it; no doubt\nhe had grumbled for awhile at having that dear little creature  taken\nfrom him  so hastily; he should have liked to keep her two or three\ndays longer, out of tenderness; but her  grandfather  had come for her\nin the most natural way in the world. He added the  grandfather,  which\nproduced a good effect. This was the story that Javert hit upon when he\narrived at Montfermeil. The grandfather caused Jean Valjean to vanish.\n\nNevertheless, Javert dropped a few questions, like plummets, into\nTh nardier s history.  Who was that grandfather? and what was his\nname?  Th nardier replied with simplicity:  He is a wealthy farmer. I\nsaw his passport. I think his name was M. Guillaume Lambert. \n\n\nLambert is a respectable and extremely reassuring name. Thereupon\nJavert returned to Paris.\n\n Jean Valjean is certainly dead,  said he,  and I am a ninny. \n\n\nHe had again begun to forget this history, when, in the course of\nMarch, 1824, he heard of a singular personage who dwelt in the parish\nof Saint-M dard and who had been surnamed  the mendicant who gives\nalms.  This person, the story ran, was a man of means, whose name no\none knew exactly, and who lived alone with a little girl of eight\nyears, who knew nothing about herself, save that she had come from\nMontfermeil. Montfermeil! that name was always coming up, and it made\nJavert prick up his ears. An old beggar police spy, an ex-beadle, to\nwhom this person had given alms, added a few more details. This\ngentleman of property was very shy, never coming out except in the\nevening, speaking to no one, except, occasionally to the poor, and\nnever allowing any one to approach him. He wore a horrible old yellow\nfrock-coat, which was worth many millions, being all wadded with\nbank-bills. This piqued Javert s curiosity in a decided manner. In\norder to get a close look at this fantastic gentleman without alarming\nhim, he borrowed the beadle s outfit for a day, and the place where the\nold spy was in the habit of crouching every evening, whining orisons\nthrough his nose, and playing the spy under cover of prayer.\n\n The suspected individual  did indeed approach Javert thus disguised,\nand bestow alms on him. At that moment Javert raised his head, and the\nshock which Jean Valjean received on recognizing Javert was equal to\nthe one received by Javert when he thought he recognized Jean Valjean.\n\nHowever, the darkness might have misled him; Jean Valjean s death was\nofficial; Javert cherished very grave doubts; and when in doubt,\nJavert, the man of scruples, never laid a finger on any one s collar.\n\nHe followed his man to the Gorbeau house, and got  the old woman  to\ntalking, which was no difficult matter. The old woman confirmed the\nfact regarding the coat lined with millions, and narrated to him the\nepisode of the thousand-franc bill. She had seen it! She had handled\nit! Javert hired a room; that evening he installed himself in it. He\ncame and listened at the mysterious lodger s door, hoping to catch the\nsound of his voice, but Jean Valjean saw his candle through the\nkey-hole, and foiled the spy by keeping silent.\n\nOn the following day Jean Valjean decamped; but the noise made by the\nfall of the five-franc piece was noticed by the old woman, who, hearing\nthe rattling of coin, suspected that he might be intending to leave,\nand made haste to warn Javert. At night, when Jean Valjean came out,\nJavert was waiting for him behind the trees of the boulevard with two\nmen.\n\nJavert had demanded assistance at the Prefecture, but he had not\nmentioned the name of the individual whom he hoped to seize; that was\nhis secret, and he had kept it for three reasons: in the first place,\nbecause the slightest indiscretion might put Jean Valjean on the alert;\nnext, because, to lay hands on an ex-convict who had made his escape\nand was reputed dead, on a criminal whom justice had formerly classed\nforever as _among malefactors of the most dangerous sort_, was a\nmagnificent success which the old members of the Parisian police would\nassuredly not leave to a newcomer like Javert, and he was afraid of\nbeing deprived of his convict; and lastly, because Javert, being an\nartist, had a taste for the unforeseen. He hated those well-heralded\nsuccesses which are talked of long in advance and have had the bloom\nbrushed off. He preferred to elaborate his masterpieces in the dark and\nto unveil them suddenly at the last.\n\nJavert had followed Jean Valjean from tree to tree, then from corner to\ncorner of the street, and had not lost sight of him for a single\ninstant; even at the moments when Jean Valjean believed himself to be\nthe most secure Javert s eye had been on him. Why had not Javert\narrested Jean Valjean? Because he was still in doubt.\n\nIt must be remembered that at that epoch the police was not precisely\nat its ease; the free press embarrassed it; several arbitrary arrests\ndenounced by the newspapers, had echoed even as far as the Chambers,\nand had rendered the Prefecture timid. Interference with individual\nliberty was a grave matter. The police agents were afraid of making a\nmistake; the prefect laid the blame on them; a mistake meant dismissal.\nThe reader can imagine the effect which this brief paragraph,\nreproduced by twenty newspapers, would have caused in Paris:\n Yesterday, an aged grandfather, with white hair, a respectable and\nwell-to-do gentleman, who was walking with his grandchild, aged eight,\nwas arrested and conducted to the agency of the Prefecture as an\nescaped convict! \n\n\nLet us repeat in addition that Javert had scruples of his own;\ninjunctions of his conscience were added to the injunctions of the\nprefect. He was really in doubt.\n\nJean Valjean turned his back on him and walked in the dark.\n\nSadness, uneasiness, anxiety, depression, this fresh misfortune of\nbeing forced to flee by night, to seek a chance refuge in Paris for\nCosette and himself, the necessity of regulating his pace to the pace\nof the child all this, without his being aware of it, had altered Jean\nValjean s walk, and impressed on his bearing such senility, that the\npolice themselves, incarnate in the person of Javert, might, and did in\nfact, make a mistake. The impossibility of approaching too close, his\ncostume of an _ migr _ preceptor, the declaration of Th nardier which\nmade a grandfather of him, and, finally, the belief in his death in\nprison, added still further to the uncertainty which gathered thick in\nJavert s mind.\n\nFor an instant it occurred to him to make an abrupt demand for his\npapers; but if the man was not Jean Valjean, and if this man was not a\ngood, honest old fellow living on his income, he was probably some\nmerry blade deeply and cunningly implicated in the obscure web of\nParisian misdeeds, some chief of a dangerous band, who gave alms to\nconceal his other talents, which was an old dodge. He had trusty\nfellows, accomplices  retreats in case of emergencies, in which he\nwould, no doubt, take refuge. All these turns which he was making\nthrough the streets seemed to indicate that he was not a simple and\nhonest man. To arrest him too hastily would be  to kill the hen that\nlaid the golden eggs.  Where was the inconvenience in waiting? Javert\nwas very sure that he would not escape.\n\nThus he proceeded in a tolerably perplexed state of mind, putting to\nhimself a hundred questions about this enigmatical personage.\n\nIt was only quite late in the Rue de Pontoise, that, thanks to the\nbrilliant light thrown from a dram-shop, he decidedly recognized Jean\nValjean.\n\nThere are in this world two beings who give a profound start, the\nmother who recovers her child and the tiger who recovers his prey.\nJavert gave that profound start.\n\nAs soon as he had positively recognized Jean Valjean, the formidable\nconvict, he perceived that there were only three of them, and he asked\nfor reinforcements at the police station of the Rue de Pontoise. One\nputs on gloves before grasping a thorn cudgel.\n\nThis delay and the halt at the Carrefour Rollin to consult with his\nagents came near causing him to lose the trail. He speedily divined,\nhowever, that Jean Valjean would want to put the river between his\npursuers and himself. He bent his head and reflected like a blood-hound\nwho puts his nose to the ground to make sure that he is on the right\nscent. Javert, with his powerful rectitude of instinct, went straight\nto the bridge of Austerlitz. A word with the toll-keeper furnished him\nwith the information which he required:  Have you seen a man with a\nlittle girl?   I made him pay two sous,  replied the toll-keeper.\nJavert reached the bridge in season to see Jean Valjean traverse the\nsmall illuminated spot on the other side of the water, leading Cosette\nby the hand. He saw him enter the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine; he\nremembered the Cul-de-Sac Genrot arranged there like a trap, and of the\nsole exit of the Rue Droit-Mur into the Rue Petit-Picpus. _He made sure\nof his back burrows_, as huntsmen say; he hastily despatched one of his\nagents, by a roundabout way, to guard that issue. A patrol which was\nreturning to the Arsenal post having passed him, he made a requisition\non it, and caused it to accompany him. In such games soldiers are aces.\nMoreover, the principle is, that in order to get the best of a wild\nboar, one must employ the science of venery and plenty of dogs. These\ncombinations having been effected, feeling that Jean Valjean was caught\nbetween the blind alley Genrot on the right, his agent on the left, and\nhimself, Javert, in the rear, he took a pinch of snuff.\n\nThen he began the game. He experienced one ecstatic and infernal\nmoment; he allowed his man to go on ahead, knowing that he had him\nsafe, but desirous of postponing the moment of arrest as long as\npossible, happy at the thought that he was taken and yet at seeing him\nfree, gloating over him with his gaze, with that voluptuousness of the\nspider which allows the fly to flutter, and of the cat which lets the\nmouse run. Claws and talons possess a monstrous sensuality, the obscure\nmovements of the creature imprisoned in their pincers. What a delight\nthis strangling is!\n\nJavert was enjoying himself. The meshes of his net were stoutly\nknotted. He was sure of success; all he had to do now was to close his\nhand.\n\nAccompanied as he was, the very idea of resistance was impossible,\nhowever vigorous, energetic, and desperate Jean Valjean might be.\n\n[Illustration: Javert on the Hunt]\n\nJavert advanced slowly, sounding, searching on his way all the nooks of\nthe street like so many pockets of thieves.\n\nWhen he reached the centre of the web he found the fly no longer there.\n\nHis exasperation can be imagined.\n\nHe interrogated his sentinel of the Rues Droit-Mur and Petit-Picpus;\nthat agent, who had remained imperturbably at his post, had not seen\nthe man pass.\n\nIt sometimes happens that a stag is lost head and horns; that is to\nsay, he escapes although he has the pack on his very heels, and then\nthe oldest huntsmen know not what to say. Duvivier, Ligniville, and\nDesprez halt short. In a discomfiture of this sort, Artonge exclaims,\n It was not a stag, but a sorcerer.  Javert would have liked to utter\nthe same cry.\n\nHis disappointment bordered for a moment on despair and rage.\n\nIt is certain that Napoleon made mistakes during the war with Russia,\nthat Alexander committed blunders in the war in India, that C sar made\nmistakes in the war in Africa, that Cyrus was at fault in the war in\nScythia, and that Javert blundered in this campaign against Jean\nValjean. He was wrong, perhaps, in hesitating in his recognition of the\nexconvict. The first glance should have sufficed him. He was wrong in\nnot arresting him purely and simply in the old building; he was wrong\nin not arresting him when he positively recognized him in the Rue de\nPontoise. He was wrong in taking counsel with his auxiliaries in the\nfull light of the moon in the Carrefour Rollin. Advice is certainly\nuseful; it is a good thing to know and to interrogate those of the dogs\nwho deserve confidence; but the hunter cannot be too cautious when he\nis chasing uneasy animals like the wolf and the convict. Javert, by\ntaking too much thought as to how he should set the bloodhounds of the\npack on the trail, alarmed the beast by giving him wind of the dart,\nand so made him run. Above all, he was wrong in that after he had\npicked up the scent again on the bridge of Austerlitz, he played that\nformidable and puerile game of keeping such a man at the end of a\nthread. He thought himself stronger than he was, and believed that he\ncould play at the game of the mouse and the lion. At the same time, he\nreckoned himself as too weak, when he judged it necessary to obtain\nreinforcement. Fatal precaution, waste of precious time! Javert\ncommitted all these blunders, and nonetheless was one of the cleverest\nand most correct spies that ever existed. He was, in the full force of\nthe term, what is called in venery a _knowing dog_. But what is there\nthat is perfect?\n\nGreat strategists have their eclipses.\n\nThe greatest follies are often composed, like the largest ropes, of a\nmultitude of strands. Take the cable thread by thread, take all the\npetty determining motives separately, and you can break them one after\nthe other, and you say,  That is all there is of it!  Braid them, twist\nthem together; the result is enormous: it is Attila hesitating between\nMarcian on the east and Valentinian on the west; it is Hannibal\ntarrying at Capua; it is Danton falling asleep at Arcis-sur-Aube.\n\nHowever that may be, even at the moment when he saw that Jean Valjean\nhad escaped him, Javert did not lose his head. Sure that the convict\nwho had broken his ban could not be far off, he established sentinels,\nhe organized traps and ambuscades, and beat the quarter all that night.\nThe first thing he saw was the disorder in the street lantern whose\nrope had been cut. A precious sign which, however, led him astray,\nsince it caused him to turn all his researches in the direction of the\nCul-de-Sac Genrot. In this blind alley there were tolerably low walls\nwhich abutted on gardens whose bounds adjoined the immense stretches of\nwaste land. Jean Valjean evidently must have fled in that direction.\nThe fact is, that had he penetrated a little further in the Cul-de-Sac\nGenrot, he would probably have done so and have been lost. Javert\nexplored these gardens and these waste stretches as though he had been\nhunting for a needle.\n\nAt daybreak he left two intelligent men on the outlook, and returned to\nthe Prefecture of Police, as much ashamed as a police spy who had been\ncaptured by a robber might have been.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SIXTH LE PETIT-PICPUS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I NUMBER 62 RUE PETIT-PICPUS\n\n\nNothing, half a century ago, more resembled every other carriage gate\nthan the carriage gate of Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. This entrance,\nwhich usually stood ajar in the most inviting fashion, permitted a view\nof two things, neither of which have anything very funereal about\nthem, a courtyard surrounded by walls hung with vines, and the face of\na lounging porter. Above the wall, at the bottom of the court, tall\ntrees were visible. When a ray of sunlight enlivened the courtyard,\nwhen a glass of wine cheered up the porter, it was difficult to pass\nNumber 62 Little Picpus Street without carrying away a smiling\nimpression of it. Nevertheless, it was a sombre place of which one had\nhad a glimpse.\n\nThe threshold smiled; the house prayed and wept.\n\nIf one succeeded in passing the porter, which was not easy, which was\neven nearly impossible for every one, for there was an _open sesame!_\nwhich it was necessary to know, if, the porter once passed, one entered\na little vestibule on the right, on which opened a staircase shut in\nbetween two walls and so narrow that only one person could ascend it at\na time, if one did not allow one s self to be alarmed by a daubing of\ncanary yellow, with a dado of chocolate which clothed this staircase,\nif one ventured to ascend it, one crossed a first landing, then a\nsecond, and arrived on the first story at a corridor where the yellow\nwash and the chocolate-hued plinth pursued one with a peaceable\npersistency. Staircase and corridor were lighted by two beautiful\nwindows. The corridor took a turn and became dark. If one doubled this\ncape, one arrived a few paces further on, in front of a door which was\nall the more mysterious because it was not fastened. If one opened it,\none found one s self in a little chamber about six feet square, tiled,\nwell-scrubbed, clean, cold, and hung with nankin paper with green\nflowers, at fifteen sous the roll. A white, dull light fell from a\nlarge window, with tiny panes, on the left, which usurped the whole\nwidth of the room. One gazed about, but saw no one; one listened, one\nheard neither a footstep nor a human murmur. The walls were bare, the\nchamber was not furnished; there was not even a chair.\n\nOne looked again, and beheld on the wall facing the door a quadrangular\nhole, about a foot square, with a grating of interlacing iron bars,\nblack, knotted, solid, which formed squares I had almost said meshes of\nless than an inch and a half in diagonal length. The little green\nflowers of the nankin paper ran in a calm and orderly manner to those\niron bars, without being startled or thrown into confusion by their\nfunereal contact. Supposing that a living being had been so wonderfully\nthin as to essay an entrance or an exit through the square hole, this\ngrating would have prevented it. It did not allow the passage of the\nbody, but it did allow the passage of the eyes; that is to say, of the\nmind. This seems to have occurred to them, for it had been re-enforced\nby a sheet of tin inserted in the wall a little in the rear, and\npierced with a thousand holes more microscopic than the holes of a\nstrainer. At the bottom of this plate, an aperture had been pierced\nexactly similar to the orifice of a letter box. A bit of tape attached\nto a bell-wire hung at the right of the grated opening.\n\nIf the tape was pulled, a bell rang, and one heard a voice very near at\nhand, which made one start.\n\n Who is there?  the voice demanded.\n\nIt was a woman s voice, a gentle voice, so gentle that it was mournful.\n\nHere, again, there was a magical word which it was necessary to know.\nIf one did not know it, the voice ceased, the wall became silent once\nmore, as though the terrified obscurity of the sepulchre had been on\nthe other side of it.\n\nIf one knew the password, the voice resumed,  Enter on the right. \n\n\nOne then perceived on the right, facing the window, a glass door\nsurmounted by a frame glazed and painted gray. On raising the latch and\ncrossing the threshold, one experienced precisely the same impression\nas when one enters at the theatre into a grated _baignoire_, before the\ngrating is lowered and the chandelier is lighted. One was, in fact, in\na sort of theatre-box, narrow, furnished with two old chairs, and a\nmuch-frayed straw matting, sparely illuminated by the vague light from\nthe glass door; a regular box, with its front just of a height to lean\nupon, bearing a tablet of black wood. This box was grated, only the\ngrating of it was not of gilded wood, as at the opera; it was a\nmonstrous lattice of iron bars, hideously interlaced and riveted to the\nwall by enormous fastenings which resembled clenched fists.\n\nThe first minutes passed; when one s eyes began to grow used to this\ncellar-like half-twilight, one tried to pass the grating, but got no\nfurther than six inches beyond it. There he encountered a barrier of\nblack shutters, re-enforced and fortified with transverse beams of wood\npainted a gingerbread yellow. These shutters were divided into long,\nnarrow slats, and they masked the entire length of the grating. They\nwere always closed. At the expiration of a few moments one heard a\nvoice proceeding from behind these shutters, and saying: \n\n I am here. What do you wish with me? \n\n\nIt was a beloved, sometimes an adored, voice. No one was visible.\nHardly the sound of a breath was audible. It seemed as though it were a\nspirit which had been evoked, that was speaking to you across the walls\nof the tomb.\n\nIf one chanced to be within certain prescribed and very rare\nconditions, the slat of one of the shutters opened opposite you; the\nevoked spirit became an apparition. Behind the grating, behind the\nshutter, one perceived so far as the grating permitted sight, a head,\nof which only the mouth and the chin were visible; the rest was covered\nwith a black veil. One caught a glimpse of a black guimpe, and a form\nthat was barely defined, covered with a black shroud. That head spoke\nwith you, but did not look at you and never smiled at you.\n\nThe light which came from behind you was adjusted in such a manner that\nyou saw her in the white, and she saw you in the black. This light was\nsymbolical.\n\nNevertheless, your eyes plunged eagerly through that opening which was\nmade in that place shut off from all glances. A profound vagueness\nenveloped that form clad in mourning. Your eyes searched that\nvagueness, and sought to make out the surroundings of the apparition.\nAt the expiration of a very short time you discovered that you could\nsee nothing. What you beheld was night, emptiness, shadows, a wintry\nmist mingled with a vapor from the tomb, a sort of terrible peace, a\nsilence from which you could gather nothing, not even sighs, a gloom in\nwhich you could distinguish nothing, not even phantoms.\n\nWhat you beheld was the interior of a cloister.\n\nIt was the interior of that severe and gloomy edifice which was called\nthe Convent of the Bernardines of the Perpetual Adoration. The box in\nwhich you stood was the parlor. The first voice which had addressed you\nwas that of the portress who always sat motionless and silent, on the\nother side of the wall, near the square opening, screened by the iron\ngrating and the plate with its thousand holes, as by a double visor.\nThe obscurity which bathed the grated box arose from the fact that the\nparlor, which had a window on the side of the world, had none on the\nside of the convent. Profane eyes must see nothing of that sacred\nplace.\n\nNevertheless, there was something beyond that shadow; there was a\nlight; there was life in the midst of that death. Although this was the\nmost strictly walled of all convents, we shall endeavor to make our way\ninto it, and to take the reader in, and to say, without transgressing\nthe proper bounds, things which story-tellers have never seen, and\nhave, therefore, never described.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE OBEDIENCE OF MARTIN VERGA\n\n\nThis convent, which in 1824 had already existed for many a long year in\nthe Rue Petit-Picpus, was a community of Bernardines of the obedience\nof Martin Verga.\n\nThese Bernardines were attached, in consequence, not to Clairvaux, like\nthe Bernardine monks, but to C teaux, like the Benedictine monks. In\nother words, they were the subjects, not of Saint Bernard, but of Saint\nBeno t.\n\nAny one who has turned over old folios to any extent knows that Martin\nVerga founded in 1425 a congregation of Bernardines-Benedictines, with\nSalamanca for the head of the order, and Alcala as the branch\nestablishment.\n\nThis congregation had sent out branches throughout all the Catholic\ncountries of Europe.\n\nThere is nothing unusual in the Latin Church in these grafts of one\norder on another. To mention only a single order of Saint-Beno t, which\nis here in question: there are attached to this order, without counting\nthe obedience of Martin Verga, four congregations, two in Italy,\nMont-Cassin and Sainte-Justine of Padua; two in France, Cluny and\nSaint-Maur; and nine orders, Vallombrosa, Granmont, the C lestins, the\nCamaldules, the Carthusians, the Humili s, the Olivateurs, the\nSilvestrins, and lastly, C teaux; for C teaux itself, a trunk for other\norders, is only an offshoot of Saint-Beno t. C teaux dates from Saint\nRobert, Abb  de Molesme, in the diocese of Langres, in 1098. Now it was\nin 529 that the devil, having retired to the desert of Subiaco he was\nold had he turned hermit? was chased from the ancient temple of Apollo,\nwhere he dwelt, by Saint-Beno t, then aged seventeen.\n\nAfter the rule of the Carmelites, who go barefoot, wear a bit of willow\non their throats, and never sit down, the harshest rule is that of the\nBernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga. They are clothed in black,\nwith a guimpe, which, in accordance with the express command of\nSaint-Beno t, mounts to the chin. A robe of serge with large sleeves, a\nlarge woollen veil, the guimpe which mounts to the chin cut square on\nthe breast, the band which descends over their brow to their eyes, this\nis their dress. All is black except the band, which is white. The\nnovices wear the same habit, but all in white. The professed nuns also\nwear a rosary at their side.\n\nThe Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga practise the Perpetual\nAdoration, like the Benedictines called Ladies of the Holy Sacrament,\nwho, at the beginning of this century, had two houses in Paris, one at\nthe Temple, the other in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevi ve. However, the\nBernardines-Benedictines of the Petit-Picpus, of whom we are speaking,\nwere a totally different order from the Ladies of the Holy Sacrament,\ncloistered in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevi ve and at the Temple. There\nwere numerous differences in their rule; there were some in their\ncostume. The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Petit-Picpus wore the\nblack guimpe, and the Benedictines of the Holy Sacrament and of the Rue\nNeuve-Sainte-Genevi ve wore a white one, and had, besides, on their\nbreasts, a Holy Sacrament about three inches long, in silver gilt or\ngilded copper. The nuns of the Petit-Picpus did not wear this Holy\nSacrament. The Perpetual Adoration, which was common to the house of\nthe Petit-Picpus and to the house of the Temple, leaves those two\norders perfectly distinct. Their only resemblance lies in this practice\nof the Ladies of the Holy Sacrament and the Bernardines of Martin\nVerga, just as there existed a similarity in the study and the\nglorification of all the mysteries relating to the infancy, the life,\nand death of Jesus Christ and the Virgin, between the two orders, which\nwere, nevertheless, widely separated, and on occasion even hostile. The\nOratory of Italy, established at Florence by Philip de Neri, and the\nOratory of France, established by Pierre de B rulle. The Oratory of\nFrance claimed the precedence, since Philip de Neri was only a saint,\nwhile B rulle was a cardinal.\n\nLet us return to the harsh Spanish rule of Martin Verga.\n\nThe Bernardines-Benedictines of this obedience fast all the year round,\nabstain from meat, fast in Lent and on many other days which are\npeculiar to them, rise from their first sleep, from one to three\no clock in the morning, to read their breviary and chant matins, sleep\nin all seasons between serge sheets and on straw, make no use of the\nbath, never light a fire, scourge themselves every Friday, observe the\nrule of silence, speak to each other only during the recreation hours,\nwhich are very brief, and wear drugget chemises for six months in the\nyear, from September 14th, which is the Exaltation of the Holy Cross,\nuntil Easter. These six months are a modification: the rule says all\nthe year, but this drugget chemise, intolerable in the heat of summer,\nproduced fevers and nervous spasms. The use of it had to be restricted.\nEven with this palliation, when the nuns put on this chemise on the\n14th of September, they suffer from fever for three or four days.\nObedience, poverty, chastity, perseverance in their seclusion, these\nare their vows, which the rule greatly aggravates.\n\nThe prioress is elected for three years by the mothers, who are called\n_m res vocales_ because they have a voice in the chapter. A prioress\ncan only be re-elected twice, which fixes the longest possible reign of\na prioress at nine years.\n\nThey never see the officiating priest, who is always hidden from them\nby a serge curtain nine feet in height. During the sermon, when the\npreacher is in the chapel, they drop their veils over their faces. They\nmust always speak low, walk with their eyes on the ground and their\nheads bowed. One man only is allowed to enter the convent, the\narchbishop of the diocese.\n\nThere is really one other, the gardener. But he is always an old man,\nand, in order that he may always be alone in the garden, and that the\nnuns may be warned to avoid him, a bell is attached to his knee.\n\nTheir submission to the prioress is absolute and passive. It is the\ncanonical subjection in the full force of its abnegation. As at the\nvoice of Christ, _ut voci Christi_, at a gesture, at the first sign,\n_ad nutum, ad primum signum_, immediately, with cheerfulness, with\nperseverance, with a certain blind obedience, _prompte, hilariter,\nperseveranter et c ca quadam obedientia_, as the file in the hand of\nthe workman, _quasi limam in manibus fabri_, without power to read or\nto write without express permission, _legere vel scribere non\naddiscerit sine expressa superioris licentia_.\n\nEach one of them in turn makes what they call _reparation_. The\nreparation is the prayer for all the sins, for all the faults, for all\nthe dissensions, for all the violations, for all the iniquities, for\nall the crimes committed on earth. For the space of twelve consecutive\nhours, from four o clock in the afternoon till four o clock in the\nmorning, or from four o clock in the morning until four o clock in the\nafternoon, the sister who is making _reparation_ remains on her knees\non the stone before the Holy Sacrament, with hands clasped, a rope\naround her neck. When her fatigue becomes unendurable, she prostrates\nherself flat on her face against the earth, with her arms outstretched\nin the form of a cross; this is her only relief. In this attitude she\nprays for all the guilty in the universe. This is great to sublimity.\n\nAs this act is performed in front of a post on which burns a candle, it\nis called without distinction, _to make reparation_ or _to be at the\npost_. The nuns even prefer, out of humility, this last expression,\nwhich contains an idea of torture and abasement.\n\n_To make reparation_ is a function in which the whole soul is absorbed.\nThe sister at the post would not turn round were a thunderbolt to fall\ndirectly behind her.\n\nBesides this, there is always a sister kneeling before the Holy\nSacrament. This station lasts an hour. They relieve each other like\nsoldiers on guard. This is the Perpetual Adoration.\n\nThe prioresses and the mothers almost always bear names stamped with\npeculiar solemnity, recalling, not the saints and martyrs, but moments\nin the life of Jesus Christ: as Mother Nativity, Mother Conception,\nMother Presentation, Mother Passion. But the names of saints are not\ninterdicted.\n\nWhen one sees them, one never sees anything but their mouths.\n\nAll their teeth are yellow. No tooth-brush ever entered that convent.\nBrushing one s teeth is at the top of a ladder at whose bottom is the\nloss of one s soul.\n\nThey never say _my_. They possess nothing of their own, and they must\nnot attach themselves to anything. They call everything _our_; thus:\nour veil, our chaplet; if they were speaking of their chemise, they\nwould say _our chemise_. Sometimes they grow attached to some petty\nobject, to a book of hours, a relic, a medal that has been blessed. As\nsoon as they become aware that they are growing attached to this\nobject, they must give it up. They recall the words of Saint Th r se,\nto whom a great lady said, as she was on the point of entering her\norder,  Permit me, mother, to send for a Bible to which I am greatly\nattached.   Ah, you are attached to something! In that case, do not\nenter our order! \n\n\nEvery person whatever is forbidden to shut herself up, to have _a place\nof her own, a chamber_. They live with their cells open. When they\nmeet, one says,  Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the\naltar!  The other responds,  Forever.  The same ceremony when one taps\nat the other s door. Hardly has she touched the door when a soft voice\non the other side is heard to say hastily,  Forever!  Like all\npractices, this becomes mechanical by force of habit; and one sometimes\nsays _forever_ before the other has had time to say the rather long\nsentence,  Praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar. \n\n\nAmong the Visitandines the one who enters says:  Ave Maria,  and the\none whose cell is entered says,  Gratia plena.  It is their way of\nsaying good day, which is in fact full of grace.\n\nAt each hour of the day three supplementary strokes sound from the\nchurch bell of the convent. At this signal prioress, vocal mothers,\nprofessed nuns, lay-sisters, novices, postulants, interrupt what they\nare saying, what they are doing, or what they are thinking, and all say\nin unison if it is five o clock, for instance,  At five o clock and at\nall hours praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar! \nIf it is eight o clock,  At eight o clock and at all hours!  and so on,\naccording to the hour.\n\nThis custom, the object of which is to break the thread of thought and\nto lead it back constantly to God, exists in many communities; the\nformula alone varies. Thus at The Infant Jesus they say,  At this hour\nand at every hour may the love of Jesus kindle my heart!  The\nBernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga, cloistered fifty years ago at\nPetit-Picpus, chant the offices to a solemn psalmody, a pure Gregorian\nchant, and always with full voice during the whole course of the\noffice. Everywhere in the missal where an asterisk occurs they pause,\nand say in a low voice,  Jesus-Marie-Joseph.  For the office of the\ndead they adopt a tone so low that the voices of women can hardly\ndescend to such a depth. The effect produced is striking and tragic.\n\nThe nuns of the Petit-Picpus had made a vault under their grand altar\nfor the burial of their community. _The Government_, as they say, does\nnot permit this vault to receive coffins so they leave the convent when\nthey die. This is an affliction to them, and causes them consternation\nas an infraction of the rules.\n\nThey had obtained a mediocre consolation at best, permission to be\ninterred at a special hour and in a special corner in the ancient\nVaugirard cemetery, which was made of land which had formerly belonged\nto their community.\n\nOn Fridays the nuns hear high mass, vespers, and all the offices, as on\nSunday. They scrupulously observe in addition all the little festivals\nunknown to people of the world, of which the Church of France was so\nprodigal in the olden days, and of which it is still prodigal in Spain\nand Italy. Their stations in the chapel are interminable. As for the\nnumber and duration of their prayers we can convey no better idea of\nthem than by quoting the ingenuous remark of one of them:  The prayers\nof the postulants are frightful, the prayers of the novices are still\nworse, and the prayers of the professed nuns are still worse. \n\n\nOnce a week the chapter assembles: the prioress presides; the vocal\nmothers assist. Each sister kneels in turn on the stones, and confesses\naloud, in the presence of all, the faults and sins which she has\ncommitted during the week. The vocal mothers consult after each\nconfession and inflict the penance aloud.\n\nBesides this confession in a loud tone, for which all faults in the\nleast serious are reserved, they have for their venial offences what\nthey call the _coulpe. To make one s coulpe_ means to prostrate one s\nself flat on one s face during the office in front of the prioress\nuntil the latter, who is never called anything but _our mother_,\nnotifies the culprit by a slight tap of her foot against the wood of\nher stall that she can rise. The _coulpe_ or _peccavi_, is made for a\nvery small matter a broken glass, a torn veil, an involuntary delay of\na few seconds at an office, a false note in church, etc.; this\nsuffices, and the _coulpe_ is made. The _coulpe_ is entirely\nspontaneous; it is the culpable person herself (the word is\netymologically in its place here) who judges herself and inflicts it on\nherself. On festival days and Sundays four mother precentors intone the\noffices before a large reading-desk with four places. One day one of\nthe mother precentors intoned a psalm beginning with _Ecce_, and\ninstead of _Ecce_ she uttered aloud the three notes _do si sol_; for\nthis piece of absent-mindedness she underwent a _coulpe_ which lasted\nduring the whole service: what rendered the fault enormous was the fact\nthat the chapter had laughed.\n\nWhen a nun is summoned to the parlor, even were it the prioress\nherself, she drops her veil, as will be remembered, so that only her\nmouth is visible.\n\nThe prioress alone can hold communication with strangers. The others\ncan see only their immediate family, and that very rarely. If, by\nchance, an outsider presents herself to see a nun, or one whom she has\nknown and loved in the outer world, a regular series of negotiations is\nrequired. If it is a woman, the authorization may sometimes be granted;\nthe nun comes, and they talk to her through the shutters, which are\nopened only for a mother or sister. It is unnecessary to say that\npermission is always refused to men.\n\nSuch is the rule of Saint-Beno t, aggravated by Martin Verga.\n\nThese nuns are not gay, rosy, and fresh, as the daughters of other\norders often are. They are pale and grave. Between 1825 and 1830 three\nof them went mad.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III AUSTERITIES\n\n\nOne is a postulant for two years at least, often for four; a novice for\nfour. It is rare that the definitive vows can be pronounced earlier\nthan the age of twenty-three or twenty-four years. The\nBernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga do not admit widows to their\norder.\n\nIn their cells, they deliver themselves up to many unknown macerations,\nof which they must never speak.\n\nOn the day when a novice makes her profession, she is dressed in her\nhandsomest attire, she is crowned with white roses, her hair is brushed\nuntil it shines, and curled. Then she prostrates herself; a great black\nveil is thrown over her, and the office for the dead is sung. Then the\nnuns separate into two files; one file passes close to her, saying in\nplaintive accents,  Our sister is dead ; and the other file responds in\na voice of ecstasy,  Our sister is alive in Jesus Christ! \n\n\nAt the epoch when this story takes place, a boarding-school was\nattached to the convent a boarding-school for young girls of noble and\nmostly wealthy families, among whom could be remarked Mademoiselle de\nSaint-Aulaire and de B lissen, and an English girl bearing the\nillustrious Catholic name of Talbot. These young girls, reared by these\nnuns between four walls, grew up with a horror of the world and of the\nage. One of them said to us one day,  The sight of the street pavement\nmade me shudder from head to foot.  They were dressed in blue, with a\nwhite cap and a Holy Spirit of silver gilt or of copper on their\nbreast. On certain grand festival days, particularly Saint Martha s\nday, they were permitted, as a high favor and a supreme happiness, to\ndress themselves as nuns and to carry out the offices and practice of\nSaint-Beno t for a whole day. In the early days the nuns were in the\nhabit of lending them their black garments. This seemed profane, and\nthe prioress forbade it. Only the novices were permitted to lend. It is\nremarkable that these performances, tolerated and encouraged, no doubt,\nin the convent out of a secret spirit of proselytism and in order to\ngive these children a foretaste of the holy habit, were a genuine\nhappiness and a real recreation for the scholars. They simply amused\nthemselves with it. _It was new; it gave them a change_. Candid reasons\nof childhood, which do not, however, succeed in making us worldlings\ncomprehend the felicity of holding a holy water sprinkler in one s hand\nand standing for hours together singing hard enough for four in front\nof a reading-desk.\n\nThe pupils conformed, with the exception of the austerities, to all the\npractices of the convent. There was a certain young woman who entered\nthe world, and who after many years of married life had not succeeded\nin breaking herself of the habit of saying in great haste whenever any\none knocked at her door,  forever!  Like the nuns, the pupils saw their\nrelatives only in the parlor. Their very mothers did not obtain\npermission to embrace them. The following illustrates to what a degree\nseverity on that point was carried. One day a young girl received a\nvisit from her mother, who was accompanied by a little sister three\nyears of age. The young girl wept, for she wished greatly to embrace\nher sister. Impossible. She begged that, at least, the child might be\npermitted to pass her little hand through the bars so that she could\nkiss it. This was almost indignantly refused.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV GAYETIES\n\n\nNonetheless, these young girls filled this grave house with charming\nsouvenirs.\n\nAt certain hours childhood sparkled in that cloister. The recreation\nhour struck. A door swung on its hinges. The birds said,  Good; here\ncome the children!  An irruption of youth inundated that garden\nintersected with a cross like a shroud. Radiant faces, white foreheads,\ninnocent eyes, full of merry light, all sorts of auroras, were\nscattered about amid these shadows. After the psalmodies, the bells,\nthe peals, and knells and offices, the sound of these little girls\nburst forth on a sudden more sweetly than the noise of bees. The hive\nof joy was opened, and each one brought her honey. They played, they\ncalled to each other, they formed into groups, they ran about; pretty\nlittle white teeth chattered in the corners; the veils superintended\nthe laughs from a distance, shades kept watch of the sunbeams, but what\nmattered it? Still they beamed and laughed. Those four lugubrious walls\nhad their moment of dazzling brilliancy. They looked on, vaguely\nblanched with the reflection of so much joy at this sweet swarming of\nthe hives. It was like a shower of roses falling athwart this house of\nmourning. The young girls frolicked beneath the eyes of the nuns; the\ngaze of impeccability does not embarrass innocence. Thanks to these\nchildren, there was, among so many austere hours, one hour of\ningenuousness. The little ones skipped about; the elder ones danced. In\nthis cloister play was mingled with heaven. Nothing is so delightful\nand so august as all these fresh, expanding young souls. Homer would\nhave come thither to laugh with Perrault; and there was in that black\ngarden, youth, health, noise, cries, giddiness, pleasure, happiness\nenough to smooth out the wrinkles of all their ancestresses, those of\nthe epic as well as those of the fairy-tale, those of the throne as\nwell as those of the thatched cottage from Hecuba to la M re-Grand.\n\nIn that house more than anywhere else, perhaps, arise those children s\nsayings which are so graceful and which evoke a smile that is full of\nthoughtfulness. It was between those four gloomy walls that a child of\nfive years exclaimed one day:  Mother! one of the big girls has just\ntold me that I have only nine years and ten months longer to remain\nhere. What happiness! \n\n\nIt was here, too, that this memorable dialogue took place: \n\n_A Vocal Mother_. Why are you weeping, my child?\n\n_The child_ (aged six). I told Alix that I knew my French history. She\nsays that I do not know it, but I do.\n\n_Alix_, the big girl (aged nine). No; she does not know it.\n\n_The Mother_. How is that, my child?\n\n_Alix_. She told me to open the book at random and to ask her any\nquestion in the book, and she would answer it.\n\n Well? \n\n\n She did not answer it. \n\n\n Let us see about it. What did you ask her? \n\n\n I opened the book at random, as she proposed, and I put the first\nquestion that I came across. \n\n\n And what was the question? \n\n\n It was,  What happened after that? \n\n\nIt was there that that profound remark was made anent a rather greedy\nparoquet which belonged to a lady boarder: \n\n How well bred! it eats the top of the slice of bread and butter just\nlike a person! \n\n\nIt was on one of the flagstones of this cloister that there was once\npicked up a confession which had been written out in advance, in order\nthat she might not forget it, by a sinner of seven years: \n\n Father, I accuse myself of having been avaricious.\n\n Father, I accuse myself of having been an adulteress.\n\n Father, I accuse myself of having raised my eyes to the gentlemen. \n\n\nIt was on one of the turf benches of this garden that a rosy mouth six\nyears of age improvised the following tale, which was listened to by\nblue eyes aged four and five years: \n\n There were three little cocks who owned a country where there were a\ngreat many flowers. They plucked the flowers and put them in their\npockets. After that they plucked the leaves and put them in their\nplaythings. There was a wolf in that country; there was a great deal of\nforest; and the wolf was in the forest; and he ate the little cocks. \n\n\nAnd this other poem: \n\n There came a blow with a stick.\n\n It was Punchinello who bestowed it on the cat.\n\n It was not good for her; it hurt her.\n\n Then a lady put Punchinello in prison. \n\n\nIt was there that a little abandoned child, a foundling whom the\nconvent was bringing up out of charity, uttered this sweet and\nheart-breaking saying. She heard the others talking of their mothers,\nand she murmured in her corner: \n\n As for me, my mother was not there when I was born! \n\n\nThere was a stout portress who could always be seen hurrying through\nthe corridors with her bunch of keys, and whose name was Sister Agatha.\nThe _big big girls_ those over ten years of age called her\n_Agathocles_.\n\nThe refectory, a large apartment of an oblong square form, which\nreceived no light except through a vaulted cloister on a level with the\ngarden, was dark and damp, and, as the children say, full of beasts.\nAll the places round about furnished their contingent of insects.\n\nEach of its four corners had received, in the language of the pupils, a\nspecial and expressive name. There was Spider corner, Caterpillar\ncorner, Wood-louse corner, and Cricket corner.\n\nCricket corner was near the kitchen and was highly esteemed. It was not\nso cold there as elsewhere. From the refectory the names had passed to\nthe boarding-school, and there served as in the old College Mazarin to\ndistinguish four nations. Every pupil belonged to one of these four\nnations according to the corner of the refectory in which she sat at\nmeals. One day Monseigneur the Archbishop while making his pastoral\nvisit saw a pretty little rosy girl with beautiful golden hair enter\nthe class-room through which he was passing.\n\nHe inquired of another pupil, a charming brunette with rosy cheeks, who\nstood near him: \n\n Who is that? \n\n\n She is a spider, Monseigneur. \n\n\n Bah! And that one yonder? \n\n\n She is a cricket. \n\n\n And that one? \n\n\n She is a caterpillar. \n\n\n Really! and yourself? \n\n\n I am a wood-louse, Monseigneur. \n\n\nEvery house of this sort has its own peculiarities. At the beginning of\nthis century  couen was one of those strict and graceful places where\nyoung girls pass their childhood in a shadow that is almost august. At\n couen, in order to take rank in the procession of the Holy Sacrament,\na distinction was made between virgins and florists. There were also\nthe  dais  and the  censors, the first who held the cords of the dais,\nand the others who carried incense before the Holy Sacrament. The\nflowers belonged by right to the florists. Four  virgins  walked in\nadvance. On the morning of that great day it was no rare thing to hear\nthe question put in the dormitory,  Who is a virgin? \n\n\nMadame Campan used to quote this saying of a  little one  of seven\nyears, to a  big girl  of sixteen, who took the head of the procession,\nwhile she, the little one, remained at the rear,  You are a virgin, but\nI am not. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V DISTRACTIONS\n\n\nAbove the door of the refectory this prayer, which was called the\n_white Paternoster_, and which possessed the property of bearing people\nstraight to paradise, was inscribed in large black letters: \n\n Little white Paternoster, which God made, which God said, which God\nplaced in paradise. In the evening, when I went to bed, I found three\nangels sitting on my bed, one at the foot, two at the head, the good\nVirgin Mary in the middle, who told me to lie down without hesitation.\nThe good God is my father, the good Virgin is my mother, the three\napostles are my brothers, the three virgins are my sisters. The shirt\nin which God was born envelopes my body; Saint Margaret s cross is\nwritten on my breast. Madame the Virgin was walking through the\nmeadows, weeping for God, when she met M. Saint John.  Monsieur Saint\nJohn, whence come you?   I come from _Ave Salus_.   You have not seen\nthe good God; where is he?   He is on the tree of the Cross, his feet\nhanging, his hands nailed, a little cap of white thorns on his head. \nWhoever shall say this thrice at eventide, thrice in the morning, shall\nwin paradise at the last. \n\n\nIn 1827 this characteristic orison had disappeared from the wall under\na triple coating of daubing paint. At the present time it is finally\ndisappearing from the memories of several who were young girls then,\nand who are old women now.\n\nA large crucifix fastened to the wall completed the decoration of this\nrefectory, whose only door, as we think we have mentioned, opened on\nthe garden. Two narrow tables, each flanked by two wooden benches,\nformed two long parallel lines from one end to the other of the\nrefectory. The walls were white, the tables were black; these two\nmourning colors constitute the only variety in convents. The meals were\nplain, and the food of the children themselves severe. A single dish of\nmeat and vegetables combined, or salt fish such was their luxury. This\nmeagre fare, which was reserved for the pupils alone, was,\nnevertheless, an exception. The children ate in silence, under the eye\nof the mother whose turn it was, who, if a fly took a notion to fly or\nto hum against the rule, opened and shut a wooden book from time to\ntime. This silence was seasoned with the lives of the saints, read\naloud from a little pulpit with a desk, which was situated at the foot\nof the crucifix. The reader was one of the big girls, in weekly turn.\nAt regular distances, on the bare tables, there were large, varnished\nbowls in which the pupils washed their own silver cups and knives and\nforks, and into which they sometimes threw some scrap of tough meat or\nspoiled fish; this was punished. These bowls were called _ronds d eau_.\nThe child who broke the silence  made a cross with her tongue.  Where?\nOn the ground. She licked the pavement. The dust, that end of all joys,\nwas charged with the chastisement of those poor little rose-leaves\nwhich had been guilty of chirping.\n\nThere was in the convent a book which has never been printed except as\na _unique copy_, and which it is forbidden to read. It is the rule of\nSaint-Beno t. An arcanum which no profane eye must penetrate. _Nemo\nregulas, seu constitutiones nostras, externis communicabit_.\n\nThe pupils one day succeeded in getting possession of this book, and\nset to reading it with avidity, a reading which was often interrupted\nby the fear of being caught, which caused them to close the volume\nprecipitately.\n\nFrom the great danger thus incurred they derived but a very moderate\namount of pleasure. The most  interesting thing  they found were some\nunintelligible pages about the sins of young boys.\n\nThey played in an alley of the garden bordered with a few shabby\nfruit-trees. In spite of the extreme surveillance and the severity of\nthe punishments administered, when the wind had shaken the trees, they\nsometimes succeeded in picking up a green apple or a spoiled apricot or\nan inhabited pear on the sly. I will now cede the privilege of speech\nto a letter which lies before me, a letter written five and twenty\nyears ago by an old pupil, now Madame la Duchesse de  , one of the\nmost elegant women in Paris. I quote literally:  One hides one s pear\nor one s apple as best one may. When one goes upstairs to put the veil\non the bed before supper, one stuffs them under one s pillow and at\nnight one eats them in bed, and when one cannot do that, one eats them\nin the closet.  That was one of their greatest luxuries.\n\nOnce it was at the epoch of the visit from the archbishop to the\nconvent one of the young girls, Mademoiselle Bouchard, who was\nconnected with the Montmorency family, laid a wager that she would ask\nfor a day s leave of absence an enormity in so austere a community. The\nwager was accepted, but not one of those who bet believed that she\nwould do it. When the moment came, as the archbishop was passing in\nfront of the pupils, Mademoiselle Bouchard, to the indescribable terror\nof her companions, stepped out of the ranks, and said,  Monseigneur, a\nday s leave of absence.  Mademoiselle Bouchard was tall, blooming, with\nthe prettiest little rosy face in the world. M. de Qu len smiled and\nsaid,  What, my dear child, a day s leave of absence! Three days if you\nlike. I grant you three days.  The prioress could do nothing; the\narchbishop had spoken. Horror of the convent, but joy of the pupil. The\neffect may be imagined.\n\nThis stern cloister was not so well walled off, however, but that the\nlife of the passions of the outside world, drama, and even romance, did\nnot make their way in. To prove this, we will confine ourselves to\nrecording here and to briefly mentioning a real and incontestable fact,\nwhich, however, bears no reference in itself to, and is not connected\nby any thread whatever with the story which we are relating. We mention\nthe fact for the sake of completing the physiognomy of the convent in\nthe reader s mind.\n\nAbout this time there was in the convent a mysterious person who was\nnot a nun, who was treated with great respect, and who was addressed as\n_Madame Albertine_. Nothing was known about her, save that she was mad,\nand that in the world she passed for dead. Beneath this history it was\nsaid there lay the arrangements of fortune necessary for a great\nmarriage.\n\nThis woman, hardly thirty years of age, of dark complexion and\ntolerably pretty, had a vague look in her large black eyes. Could she\nsee? There was some doubt about this. She glided rather than walked,\nshe never spoke; it was not quite known whether she breathed. Her\nnostrils were livid and pinched as after yielding up their last sigh.\nTo touch her hand was like touching snow. She possessed a strange\nspectral grace. Wherever she entered, people felt cold. One day a\nsister, on seeing her pass, said to another sister,  She passes for a\ndead woman.   Perhaps she is one,  replied the other.\n\nA hundred tales were told of Madame Albertine. This arose from the\neternal curiosity of the pupils. In the chapel there was a gallery\ncalled _L il de B uf_. It was in this gallery, which had only a\ncircular bay, an _ il de b uf_, that Madame Albertine listened to the\noffices. She always occupied it alone because this gallery, being on\nthe level of the first story, the preacher or the officiating priest\ncould be seen, which was interdicted to the nuns. One day the pulpit\nwas occupied by a young priest of high rank, M. Le Duc de Rohan, peer\nof France, officer of the Red Musketeers in 1815 when he was Prince de\nL on, and who died afterward, in 1830, as cardinal and Archbishop of\nBesan on. It was the first time that M. de Rohan had preached at the\nPetit-Picpus convent. Madame Albertine usually preserved perfect\ncalmness and complete immobility during the sermons and services. That\nday, as soon as she caught sight of M. de Rohan, she half rose, and\nsaid, in a loud voice, amid the silence of the chapel,  Ah! Auguste! \nThe whole community turned their heads in amazement, the preacher\nraised his eyes, but Madame Albertine had relapsed into her immobility.\nA breath from the outer world, a flash of life, had passed for an\ninstant across that cold and lifeless face and had then vanished, and\nthe mad woman had become a corpse again.\n\nThose two words, however, had set every one in the convent who had the\nprivilege of speech to chattering. How many things were contained in\nthat  Ah! Auguste!  what revelations! M. de Rohan s name really was\nAuguste. It was evident that Madame Albertine belonged to the very\nhighest society, since she knew M. de Rohan, and that her own rank\nthere was of the highest, since she spoke thus familiarly of so great a\nlord, and that there existed between them some connection, of\nrelationship, perhaps, but a very close one in any case, since she knew\nhis  pet name. \n\n\nTwo very severe duchesses, Mesdames de Choiseul and de S rent, often\nvisited the community, whither they penetrated, no doubt, in virtue of\nthe privilege _Magnates mulieres_, and caused great consternation in\nthe boarding-school. When these two old ladies passed by, all the poor\nyoung girls trembled and dropped their eyes.\n\nMoreover, M. de Rohan, quite unknown to himself, was an object of\nattention to the school-girls. At that epoch he had just been made,\nwhile waiting for the episcopate, vicar-general of the Archbishop of\nParis. It was one of his habits to come tolerably often to celebrate\nthe offices in the chapel of the nuns of the Petit-Picpus. Not one of\nthe young recluses could see him, because of the serge curtain, but he\nhad a sweet and rather shrill voice, which they had come to know and to\ndistinguish. He had been a mousquetaire, and then, he was said to be\nvery coquettish, that his handsome brown hair was very well dressed in\na roll around his head, and that he had a broad girdle of magnificent\nmoire, and that his black cassock was of the most elegant cut in the\nworld. He held a great place in all these imaginations of sixteen\nyears.\n\nNot a sound from without made its way into the convent. But there was\none year when the sound of a flute penetrated thither. This was an\nevent, and the girls who were at school there at the time still recall\nit.\n\nIt was a flute which was played in the neighborhood. This flute always\nplayed the same air, an air which is very far away nowadays, My\nZ tulb , come reign o er my soul, and it was heard two or three times\na day. The young girls passed hours in listening to it, the vocal\nmothers were upset by it, brains were busy, punishments descended in\nshowers. This lasted for several months. The girls were all more or\nless in love with the unknown musician. Each one dreamed that she was\nZ tulb . The sound of the flute proceeded from the direction of the Rue\nDroit-Mur; and they would have given anything, compromised everything,\nattempted anything for the sake of seeing, of catching a glance, if\nonly for a second, of the  young man  who played that flute so\ndeliciously, and who, no doubt, played on all these souls at the same\ntime. There were some who made their escape by a back door, and\nascended to the third story on the Rue Droit-Mur side, in order to\nattempt to catch a glimpse through the gaps. Impossible! One even went\nso far as to thrust her arm through the grating, and to wave her white\nhandkerchief. Two were still bolder. They found means to climb on a\nroof, and risked their lives there, and succeeded at last in seeing\n the young man.  He was an old _ migr _ gentleman, blind and penniless,\nwho was playing his flute in his attic, in order to pass the time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE LITTLE CONVENT\n\n\nIn this enclosure of the Petit-Picpus there were three perfectly\ndistinct buildings, the Great Convent, inhabited by the nuns, the\nBoarding-school, where the scholars were lodged; and lastly, what was\ncalled the Little Convent. It was a building with a garden, in which\nlived all sorts of aged nuns of various orders, the relics of cloisters\ndestroyed in the Revolution; a reunion of all the black, gray, and\nwhite medleys of all communities and all possible varieties; what might\nbe called, if such a coupling of words is permissible, a sort of\nharlequin convent.\n\nWhen the Empire was established, all these poor old dispersed and\nexiled women had been accorded permission to come and take shelter\nunder the wings of the Bernardines-Benedictines. The government paid\nthem a small pension, the ladies of the Petit-Picpus received them\ncordially. It was a singular pell-mell. Each followed her own rule.\nSometimes the pupils of the boarding-school were allowed, as a great\nrecreation, to pay them a visit; the result is, that all those young\nmemories have retained among other souvenirs that of Mother\nSainte-Bazile, Mother Sainte-Scolastique, and Mother Jacob.\n\nOne of these refugees found herself almost at home. She was a nun of\nSainte-Aure, the only one of her order who had survived. The ancient\nconvent of the ladies of Sainte-Aure occupied, at the beginning of the\neighteenth century, this very house of the Petit-Picpus, which belonged\nlater to the Benedictines of Martin Verga. This holy woman, too poor to\nwear the magnificent habit of her order, which was a white robe with a\nscarlet scapulary, had piously put it on a little manikin, which she\nexhibited with complacency and which she bequeathed to the house at her\ndeath. In 1824, only one nun of this order remained; to-day, there\nremains only a doll.\n\nIn addition to these worthy mothers, some old society women had\nobtained permission of the prioress, like Madame Albertine, to retire\ninto the Little Convent. Among the number were Madame Beaufort\nd Hautpoul and Marquise Dufresne. Another was never known in the\nconvent except by the formidable noise which she made when she blew her\nnose. The pupils called her Madame Vacarmini (hubbub).\n\nAbout 1820 or 1821, Madame de Genlis, who was at that time editing a\nlittle periodical publication called _l Intr pide_, asked to be allowed\nto enter the convent of the Petit-Picpus as lady resident. The Duc\nd Orl ans recommended her. Uproar in the hive; the vocal-mothers were\nall in a flutter; Madame de Genlis had made romances. But she declared\nthat she was the first to detest them, and then, she had reached her\nfierce stage of devotion. With the aid of God, and of the Prince, she\nentered. She departed at the end of six or eight months, alleging as a\nreason, that there was no shade in the garden. The nuns were delighted.\nAlthough very old, she still played the harp, and did it very well.\n\nWhen she went away she left her mark in her cell. Madame de Genlis was\nsuperstitious and a Latinist. These two words furnish a tolerably good\nprofile of her. A few years ago, there were still to be seen, pasted in\nthe inside of a little cupboard in her cell in which she locked up her\nsilverware and her jewels, these five lines in Latin, written with her\nown hand in red ink on yellow paper, and which, in her opinion,\npossessed the property of frightening away robbers: \n\nImparibus meritis pendent tria corpora ramis:\nDismas et Gesmas, media est divina potestas;\nAlta petit Dismas, infelix, infima, Gesmas;\nNos et res nostras conservet summa potestas.\nHos versus dicas, ne tu furto tua perdas.15\n\n\nThese verses in sixth century Latin raise the question whether the two\nthieves of Calvary were named, as is commonly believed, Dismas and\nGestas, or Dismas and Gesmas. This orthography might have confounded\nthe pretensions put forward in the last century by the Vicomte de\nGestas, of a descent from the wicked thief. However, the useful virtue\nattached to these verses forms an article of faith in the order of the\nHospitallers.\n\nThe church of the house, constructed in such a manner as to separate\nthe Great Convent from the Boarding-school like a veritable\nintrenchment, was, of course, common to the Boarding-school, the Great\nConvent, and the Little Convent. The public was even admitted by a sort\nof lazaretto entrance on the street. But all was so arranged, that none\nof the inhabitants of the cloister could see a face from the outside\nworld. Suppose a church whose choir is grasped in a gigantic hand, and\nfolded in such a manner as to form, not, as in ordinary churches, a\nprolongation behind the altar, but a sort of hall, or obscure cellar,\nto the right of the officiating priest; suppose this hall to be shut\noff by a curtain seven feet in height, of which we have already spoken;\nin the shadow of that curtain, pile up on wooden stalls the nuns in the\nchoir on the left, the school-girls on the right, the lay-sisters and\nthe novices at the bottom, and you will have some idea of the nuns of\nthe Petit-Picpus assisting at divine service. That cavern, which was\ncalled the choir, communicated with the cloister by a lobby. The church\nwas lighted from the garden. When the nuns were present at services\nwhere their rule enjoined silence, the public was warned of their\npresence only by the folding seats of the stalls noisily rising and\nfalling.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII SOME SILHOUETTES OF THIS DARKNESS\n\n\nDuring the six years which separate 1819 from 1825, the prioress of the\nPetit-Picpus was Mademoiselle de Blemeur, whose name, in religion, was\nMother Innocente. She came of the family of Marguerite de Blemeur,\nauthor of _Lives of the Saints of the Order of Saint-Beno t_. She had\nbeen re-elected. She was a woman about sixty years of age, short,\nthick,  singing like a cracked pot,  says the letter which we have\nalready quoted; an excellent woman, moreover, and the only merry one in\nthe whole convent, and for that reason adored. She was learned,\nerudite, wise, competent, curiously proficient in history, crammed with\nLatin, stuffed with Greek, full of Hebrew, and more of a Benedictine\nmonk than a Benedictine nun.\n\nThe sub-prioress was an old Spanish nun, Mother Cineres, who was almost\nblind.\n\nThe most esteemed among the vocal mothers were Mother Sainte-Honorine;\nthe treasurer, Mother Sainte-Gertrude, the chief mistress of the\nnovices; Mother-Saint-Ange, the assistant mistress; Mother\nAnnonciation, the sacristan; Mother Saint-Augustin, the nurse, the only\none in the convent who was malicious; then Mother Sainte-Mechtilde\n(Mademoiselle Gauvain), very young and with a beautiful voice; Mother\ndes Anges (Mademoiselle Drouet), who had been in the convent of the\nFilles-Dieu, and in the convent du Tr sor, between Gisors and Magny;\nMother Saint-Joseph (Mademoiselle de Cogolludo), Mother Sainte-Ad laide\n(Mademoiselle d Auverney), Mother Mis ricorde (Mademoiselle de\nCifuentes, who could not resist austerities), Mother Compassion\n(Mademoiselle de la Milti re, received at the age of sixty in defiance\nof the rule, and very wealthy); Mother Providence (Mademoiselle de\nLaudini re), Mother Pr sentation (Mademoiselle de Siguenza), who was\nprioress in 1847; and finally, Mother Sainte-C ligne (sister of the\nsculptor Ceracchi), who went mad; Mother Sainte-Chantal (Mademoiselle\nde Suzon), who went mad.\n\nThere was also, among the prettiest of them, a charming girl of three\nand twenty, who was from the Isle de Bourbon, a descendant of the\nChevalier Roze, whose name had been Mademoiselle Roze, and who was\ncalled Mother Assumption.\n\nMother Sainte-Mechtilde, intrusted with the singing and the choir, was\nfond of making use of the pupils in this quarter. She usually took a\ncomplete scale of them, that is to say, seven, from ten to sixteen\nyears of age, inclusive, of assorted voices and sizes, whom she made\nsing standing, drawn up in a line, side by side, according to age, from\nthe smallest to the largest. This presented to the eye, something in\nthe nature of a reed-pipe of young girls, a sort of living Pan-pipe\nmade of angels.\n\nThose of the lay-sisters whom the scholars loved most were Sister\nEuphrasie, Sister Sainte-Margu rite, Sister Sainte-Marthe, who was in\nher dotage, and Sister Sainte-Michel, whose long nose made them laugh.\n\nAll these women were gentle with the children. The nuns were severe\nonly towards themselves. No fire was lighted except in the school, and\nthe food was choice compared to that in the convent. Moreover, they\nlavished a thousand cares on their scholars. Only, when a child passed\nnear a nun and addressed her, the nun never replied.\n\nThis rule of silence had had this effect, that throughout the whole\nconvent, speech had been withdrawn from human creatures, and bestowed\non inanimate objects. Now it was the church-bell which spoke, now it\nwas the gardener s bell. A very sonorous bell, placed beside the\nportress, and which was audible throughout the house, indicated by its\nvaried peals, which formed a sort of acoustic telegraph, all the\nactions of material life which were to be performed, and summoned to\nthe parlor, in case of need, such or such an inhabitant of the house.\nEach person and each thing had its own peal. The prioress had one and\none, the sub-prioress one and two. Six-five announced lessons, so that\nthe pupils never said  to go to lessons,  but  to go to six-five. \nFour-four was Madame de Genlis s signal. It was very often heard.\n C est le diable a quatre, it s the very deuce said the uncharitable.\nTennine strokes announced a great event. It was the opening of _the\ndoor of seclusion_, a frightful sheet of iron bristling with bolts\nwhich only turned on its hinges in the presence of the archbishop.\n\nWith the exception of the archbishop and the gardener, no man entered\nthe convent, as we have already said. The schoolgirls saw two others:\none, the chaplain, the Abb  Ban s, old and ugly, whom they were\npermitted to contemplate in the choir, through a grating; the other the\ndrawing-master, M. Ansiaux, whom the letter, of which we have perused a\nfew lines, calls _M. Anciot_, and describes as _a frightful old\nhunchback_.\n\nIt will be seen that all these men were carefully chosen.\n\nSuch was this curious house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII POST CORDA LAPIDES\n\n\nAfter having sketched its moral face, it will not prove unprofitable to\npoint out, in a few words, its material configuration. The reader\nalready has some idea of it.\n\nThe convent of the Petit-Picpus-Sainte-Antoine filled almost the whole\nof the vast trapezium which resulted from the intersection of the Rue\nPolonceau, the Rue Droit-Mur, the Rue Petit-Picpus, and the unused\nlane, called Rue Aumarais on old plans. These four streets surrounded\nthis trapezium like a moat. The convent was composed of several\nbuildings and a garden. The principal building, taken in its entirety,\nwas a juxtaposition of hybrid constructions which, viewed from a\nbird s-eye view, outlined, with considerable exactness, a gibbet laid\nflat on the ground. The main arm of the gibbet occupied the whole of\nthe fragment of the Rue Droit-Mur comprised between the Rue\nPetit-Picpus and the Rue Polonceau; the lesser arm was a lofty, gray,\nsevere grated fa ade which faced the Rue Petit-Picpus; the carriage\nentrance No. 62 marked its extremity. Towards the centre of this fa ade\nwas a low, arched door, whitened with dust and ashes, where the spiders\nwove their webs, and which was open only for an hour or two on Sundays,\nand on rare occasions, when the coffin of a nun left the convent. This\nwas the public entrance of the church. The elbow of the gibbet was a\nsquare hall which was used as the servants  hall, and which the nuns\ncalled _the buttery_. In the main arm were the cells of the mothers,\nthe sisters, and the novices. In the lesser arm lay the kitchens, the\nrefectory, backed up by the cloisters and the church. Between the door\nNo. 62 and the corner of the closed Aumarais Lane, was the school,\nwhich was not visible from without. The remainder of the trapezium\nformed the garden, which was much lower than the level of the Rue\nPolonceau, which caused the walls to be very much higher on the inside\nthan on the outside. The garden, which was slightly arched, had in its\ncentre, on the summit of a hillock, a fine pointed and conical\nfir-tree, whence ran, as from the peaked boss of a shield, four grand\nalleys, and, ranged by twos in between the branchings of these, eight\nsmall ones, so that, if the enclosure had been circular, the\ngeometrical plan of the alleys would have resembled a cross superposed\non a wheel. As the alleys all ended in the very irregular walls of the\ngarden, they were of unequal length. They were bordered with currant\nbushes. At the bottom, an alley of tall poplars ran from the ruins of\nthe old convent, which was at the angle of the Rue Droit-Mur to the\nhouse of the Little Convent, which was at the angle of the Aumarais\nLane. In front of the Little Convent was what was called the little\ngarden. To this whole, let the reader add a courtyard, all sorts of\nvaried angles formed by the interior buildings, prison walls, the long\nblack line of roofs which bordered the other side of the Rue Polonceau\nfor its sole perspective and neighborhood, and he will be able to form\nfor himself a complete image of what the house of the Bernardines of\nthe Petit-Picpus was forty years ago. This holy house had been built on\nthe precise site of a famous tennis-ground of the fourteenth to the\nsixteenth century, which was called the  tennis-ground of the eleven\nthousand devils. \n\n\nAll these streets, moreover, were more ancient than Paris. These names,\nDroit-Mur and Aumarais, are very ancient; the streets which bear them\nare very much more ancient still. Aumarais Lane was called Maugout\nLane; the Rue Droit-Mur was called the Rue des  glantiers, for God\nopened flowers before man cut stones.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX A CENTURY UNDER A GUIMPE\n\n\nSince we are engaged in giving details as to what the convent of the\nPetit-Picpus was in former times, and since we have ventured to open a\nwindow on that discreet retreat, the reader will permit us one other\nlittle digression, utterly foreign to this book, but characteristic and\nuseful, since it shows that the cloister even has its original figures.\n\nIn the Little Convent there was a centenarian who came from the Abbey\nof Fontevrault. She had even been in society before the Revolution. She\ntalked a great deal of M. de Miromesnil, Keeper of the Seals under\nLouis XVI. and of a Presidentess Duplat, with whom she had been very\nintimate. It was her pleasure and her vanity to drag in these names on\nevery pretext. She told wonders of the Abbey of Fontevrault, that it\nwas like a city, and that there were streets in the monastery.\n\nShe talked with a Picard accent which amused the pupils. Every year,\nshe solemnly renewed her vows, and at the moment of taking the oath,\nshe said to the priest,  Monseigneur Saint-Fran ois gave it to\nMonseigneur Saint-Julien, Monseigneur Saint-Julien gave it to\nMonseigneur Saint-Eusebius, Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius gave it to\nMonseigneur Saint-Procopius, etc., etc.; and thus I give it to you,\nfather.  And the school-girls would begin to laugh, not in their\nsleeves, but under their veils; charming little stifled laughs which\nmade the vocal mothers frown.\n\nOn another occasion, the centenarian was telling stories. She said that\n_in her youth the Bernardine monks were every whit as good as the\nmousquetaires_. It was a century which spoke through her, but it was\nthe eighteenth century. She told about the custom of the four wines,\nwhich existed before the Revolution in Champagne and Bourgogne. When a\ngreat personage, a marshal of France, a prince, a duke, and a peer,\ntraversed a town in Burgundy or Champagne, the city fathers came out to\nharangue him and presented him with four silver gondolas into which\nthey had poured four different sorts of wine. On the first goblet this\ninscription could be read, _monkey wine_; on the second, _lion wine_;\non the third, _sheep wine_; on the fourth, _hog wine_. These four\nlegends express the four stages descended by the drunkard; the first,\nintoxication, which enlivens; the second, that which irritates; the\nthird, that which dulls; and the fourth, that which brutalizes.\n\nIn a cupboard, under lock and key, she kept a mysterious object of\nwhich she thought a great deal. The rule of Fontevrault did not forbid\nthis. She would not show this object to anyone. She shut herself up,\nwhich her rule allowed her to do, and hid herself, every time that she\ndesired to contemplate it. If she heard a footstep in the corridor, she\nclosed the cupboard again as hastily as it was possible with her aged\nhands. As soon as it was mentioned to her, she became silent, she who\nwas so fond of talking. The most curious were baffled by her silence\nand the most tenacious by her obstinacy. Thus it furnished a subject of\ncomment for all those who were unoccupied or bored in the convent. What\ncould that treasure of the centenarian be, which was so precious and so\nsecret? Some holy book, no doubt? Some unique chaplet? Some authentic\nrelic? They lost themselves in conjectures. When the poor old woman\ndied, they rushed to her cupboard more hastily than was fitting,\nperhaps, and opened it. They found the object beneath a triple linen\ncloth, like some consecrated paten. It was a Faenza platter\nrepresenting little Loves flitting away pursued by apothecary lads\narmed with enormous syringes. The chase abounds in grimaces and in\ncomical postures. One of the charming little Loves is already fairly\nspitted. He is resisting, fluttering his tiny wings, and still making\nan effort to fly, but the dancer is laughing with a satanical air.\nMoral: Love conquered by the colic. This platter, which is very\ncurious, and which had, possibly, the honor of furnishing Moli re with\nan idea, was still in existence in September, 1845; it was for sale by\na bric- -brac merchant in the Boulevard Beaumarchais.\n\nThis good old woman would not receive any visits from outside\n_because_, said she, the _parlor is too gloomy_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X ORIGIN OF THE PERPETUAL ADORATION\n\n\nHowever, this almost sepulchral parlor, of which we have sought to\nconvey an idea, is a purely local trait which is not reproduced with\nthe same severity in other convents. At the convent of the Rue du\nTemple, in particular, which belonged, in truth, to another order, the\nblack shutters were replaced by brown curtains, and the parlor itself\nwas a salon with a polished wood floor, whose windows were draped in\nwhite muslin curtains and whose walls admitted all sorts of frames, a\nportrait of a Benedictine nun with unveiled face, painted bouquets, and\neven the head of a Turk.\n\nIt is in that garden of the Temple convent, that stood that famous\nchestnut-tree which was renowned as the finest and the largest in\nFrance, and which bore the reputation among the good people of the\neighteenth century of being _the father of all the chestnut trees of\nthe realm_.\n\nAs we have said, this convent of the Temple was occupied by\nBenedictines of the Perpetual Adoration, Benedictines quite different\nfrom those who depended on C teaux. This order of the Perpetual\nAdoration is not very ancient and does not go back more than two\nhundred years. In 1649 the holy sacrament was profaned on two occasions\na few days apart, in two churches in Paris, at Saint-Sulpice and at\nSaint-Jean en Gr ve, a rare and frightful sacrilege which set the whole\ntown in an uproar. M. the Prior and Vicar-General of Saint-Germain des\nPr s ordered a solemn procession of all his clergy, in which the Pope s\nNuncio officiated. But this expiation did not satisfy two sainted\nwomen, Madame Courtin, Marquise de Boucs, and the Comtesse de\nCh teauvieux. This outrage committed on  the most holy sacrament of the\naltar,  though but temporary, would not depart from these holy souls,\nand it seemed to them that it could only be extenuated by a  Perpetual\nAdoration  in some female monastery. Both of them, one in 1652, the\nother in 1653, made donations of notable sums to Mother Catherine de\nBar, called of the Holy Sacrament, a Benedictine nun, for the purpose\nof founding, to this pious end, a monastery of the order of\nSaint-Beno t; the first permission for this foundation was given to\nMother Catherine de Bar by M. de Metz, Abb  of Saint-Germain,  on\ncondition that no woman could be received unless she contributed three\nhundred livres income, which amounts to six thousand livres, to the\nprincipal.  After the Abb  of Saint-Germain, the king accorded\nletters-patent; and all the rest, abbatial charter, and royal letters,\nwas confirmed in 1654 by the Chamber of Accounts and the Parliament.\n\nSuch is the origin of the legal consecration of the establishment of\nthe Benedictines of the Perpetual Adoration of the Holy Sacrament at\nParis. Their first convent was  a new building  in the Rue Cassette,\nout of the contributions of Mesdames de Boucs and de Ch teauvieux.\n\nThis order, as it will be seen, was not to be confounded with the\nBenedictine nuns of C teaux. It mounted back to the Abb  of\nSaint-Germain des Pr s, in the same manner that the ladies of the\nSacred Heart go back to the general of the Jesuits, and the sisters of\ncharity to the general of the Lazarists.\n\nIt was also totally different from the Bernardines of the Petit-Picpus,\nwhose interior we have just shown. In 1657, Pope Alexander VII. had\nauthorized, by a special brief, the Bernardines of the Rue\nPetit-Picpus, to practise the Perpetual Adoration like the Benedictine\nnuns of the Holy Sacrament. But the two orders remained distinct\nnonetheless.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI END OF THE PETIT-PICPUS\n\n\nAt the beginning of the Restoration, the convent of the Petit-Picpus\nwas in its decay; this forms a part of the general death of the order,\nwhich, after the eighteenth century, has been disappearing like all the\nreligious orders. Contemplation is, like prayer, one of humanity s\nneeds; but, like everything which the Revolution touched, it will be\ntransformed, and from being hostile to social progress, it will become\nfavorable to it.\n\nThe house of the Petit-Picpus was becoming rapidly depopulated. In\n1840, the Little Convent had disappeared, the school had disappeared.\nThere were no longer any old women, nor young girls; the first were\ndead, the latter had taken their departure. _Volaverunt_.\n\nThe rule of the Perpetual Adoration is so rigid in its nature that it\nalarms, vocations recoil before it, the order receives no recruits. In\n1845, it still obtained lay-sisters here and there. But of professed\nnuns, none at all. Forty years ago, the nuns numbered nearly a hundred;\nfifteen years ago there were not more than twenty-eight of them. How\nmany are there to-day? In 1847, the prioress was young, a sign that the\ncircle of choice was restricted. She was not forty years old. In\nproportion as the number diminishes, the fatigue increases, the service\nof each becomes more painful; the moment could then be seen drawing\nnear when there would be but a dozen bent and aching shoulders to bear\nthe heavy rule of Saint-Beno t. The burden is implacable, and remains\nthe same for the few as for the many. It weighs down, it crushes. Thus\nthey die. At the period when the author of this book still lived in\nParis, two died. One was twenty-five years old, the other twenty-three.\nThis latter can say, like Julia Alpinula: _ Hic jaceo. Vixi annos\nviginti et tres.  _ It is in consequence of this decay that the convent\ngave up the education of girls.\n\nWe have not felt able to pass before this extraordinary house without\nentering it, and without introducing the minds which accompany us, and\nwhich are listening to our tale, to the profit of some, perchance, of\nthe melancholy history of Jean Valjean. We have penetrated into this\ncommunity, full of those old practices which seem so novel to-day. It\nis the closed garden, _hortus conclusus_. We have spoken of this\nsingular place in detail, but with respect, in so far, at least, as\ndetail and respect are compatible. We do not understand all, but we\ninsult nothing. We are equally far removed from the hosanna of Joseph\nde Maistre, who wound up by anointing the executioner, and from the\nsneer of Voltaire, who even goes so far as to ridicule the cross.\n\nAn illogical act on Voltaire s part, we may remark, by the way; for\nVoltaire would have defended Jesus as he defended Calas; and even for\nthose who deny superhuman incarnations, what does the crucifix\nrepresent? The assassinated sage.\n\nIn this nineteenth century, the religious idea is undergoing a crisis.\nPeople are unlearning certain things, and they do well, provided that,\nwhile unlearning them they learn this: There is no vacuum in the human\nheart. Certain demolitions take place, and it is well that they do, but\non condition that they are followed by reconstructions.\n\nIn the meantime, let us study things which are no more. It is necessary\nto know them, if only for the purpose of avoiding them. The\ncounterfeits of the past assume false names, and gladly call themselves\nthe future. This spectre, this past, is given to falsifying its own\npassport. Let us inform ourselves of the trap. Let us be on our guard.\nThe past has a visage, superstition, and a mask, hypocrisy. Let us\ndenounce the visage and let us tear off the mask.\n\nAs for convents, they present a complex problem, a question of\ncivilization, which condemns them; a question of liberty, which\nprotects them.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SEVENTH PARENTHESIS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE CONVENT AS AN ABSTRACT IDEA\n\n\nThis book is a drama, whose leading personage is the Infinite.\n\nMan is the second.\n\nSuch being the case, and a convent having happened to be on our road,\nit has been our duty to enter it. Why? Because the convent, which is\ncommon to the Orient as well as to the Occident, to antiquity as well\nas to modern times, to paganism, to Buddhism, to Mahometanism, as well\nas to Christianity, is one of the optical apparatuses applied by man to\nthe Infinite.\n\nThis is not the place for enlarging disproportionately on certain\nideas; nevertheless, while absolutely maintaining our reserves, our\nrestrictions, and even our indignations, we must say that every time we\nencounter man in the Infinite, either well or ill understood, we feel\nourselves overpowered with respect. There is, in the synagogue, in the\nmosque, in the pagoda, in the wigwam, a hideous side which we execrate,\nand a sublime side, which we adore. What a contemplation for the mind,\nand what endless food for thought, is the reverberation of God upon the\nhuman wall!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE CONVENT AS AN HISTORICAL FACT\n\n\nFrom the point of view of history, of reason, and of truth, monasticism\nis condemned. Monasteries, when they abound in a nation, are clogs in\nits circulation, cumbrous establishments, centres of idleness where\ncentres of labor should exist. Monastic communities are to the great\nsocial community what the mistletoe is to the oak, what the wart is to\nthe human body. Their prosperity and their fatness mean the\nimpoverishment of the country. The monastic regime, good at the\nbeginning of civilization, useful in the reduction of the brutal by the\nspiritual, is bad when peoples have reached their manhood. Moreover,\nwhen it becomes relaxed, and when it enters into its period of\ndisorder, it becomes bad for the very reasons which rendered it\nsalutary in its period of purity, because it still continues to set the\nexample.\n\nClaustration has had its day. Cloisters, useful in the early education\nof modern civilization, have embarrassed its growth, and are injurious\nto its development. So far as institution and formation with relation\nto man are concerned, monasteries, which were good in the tenth\ncentury, questionable in the fifteenth, are detestable in the\nnineteenth. The leprosy of monasticism has gnawed nearly to a skeleton\ntwo wonderful nations, Italy and Spain; the one the light, the other\nthe splendor of Europe for centuries; and, at the present day, these\ntwo illustrious peoples are but just beginning to convalesce, thanks to\nthe healthy and vigorous hygiene of 1789 alone.\n\nThe convent the ancient female convent in particular, such as it still\npresents itself on the threshold of this century, in Italy, in Austria,\nin Spain is one of the most sombre concretions of the Middle Ages. The\ncloister, that cloister, is the point of intersection of horrors. The\nCatholic cloister, properly speaking, is wholly filled with the black\nradiance of death.\n\nThe Spanish convent is the most funereal of all. There rise, in\nobscurity, beneath vaults filled with gloom, beneath domes vague with\nshadow, massive altars of Babel, as high as cathedrals; there immense\nwhite crucifixes hang from chains in the dark; there are extended, all\nnude on the ebony, great Christs of ivory; more than bleeding, bloody;\nhideous and magnificent, with their elbows displaying the bones, their\nknee-pans showing their integuments, their wounds showing their flesh,\ncrowned with silver thorns, nailed with nails of gold, with blood drops\nof rubies on their brows, and diamond tears in their eyes. The diamonds\nand rubies seem wet, and make veiled beings in the shadow below weep,\ntheir sides bruised with the hair shirt and their iron-tipped scourges,\ntheir breasts crushed with wicker hurdles, their knees excoriated with\nprayer; women who think themselves wives, spectres who think themselves\nseraphim. Do these women think? No. Have they any will? No. Do they\nlove? No. Do they live? No. Their nerves have turned to bone; their\nbones have turned to stone. Their veil is of woven night. Their breath\nunder their veil resembles the indescribably tragic respiration of\ndeath. The abbess, a spectre, sanctifies them and terrifies them. The\nimmaculate one is there, and very fierce. Such are the ancient\nmonasteries of Spain. Liars of terrible devotion, caverns of virgins,\nferocious places.\n\nCatholic Spain is more Roman than Rome herself. The Spanish convent\nwas, above all others, the Catholic convent. There was a flavor of the\nOrient about it. The archbishop, the kislar-aga of heaven, locked up\nand kept watch over this seraglio of souls reserved for God. The nun\nwas the odalisque, the priest was the eunuch. The fervent were chosen\nin dreams and possessed Christ. At night, the beautiful, nude young man\ndescended from the cross and became the ecstasy of the cloistered one.\nLofty walls guarded the mystic sultana, who had the crucified for her\nsultan, from all living distraction. A glance on the outer world was\ninfidelity. The _in pace_ replaced the leather sack. That which was\ncast into the sea in the East was thrown into the ground in the West.\nIn both quarters, women wrung their hands; the waves for the first, the\ngrave for the last; here the drowned, there the buried. Monstrous\nparallel.\n\nTo-day the upholders of the past, unable to deny these things, have\nadopted the expedient of smiling at them. There has come into fashion a\nstrange and easy manner of suppressing the revelations of history, of\ninvalidating the commentaries of philosophy, of eliding all\nembarrassing facts and all gloomy questions. _A matter for\ndeclamations_, say the clever. Declamations, repeat the foolish.\nJean-Jacques a declaimer; Diderot a declaimer; Voltaire on Calas,\nLabarre, and Sirven, declaimers. I know not who has recently discovered\nthat Tacitus was a declaimer, that Nero was a victim, and that pity is\ndecidedly due to  that poor Holofernes. \n\n\nFacts, however, are awkward things to disconcert, and they are\nobstinate. The author of this book has seen, with his own eyes, eight\nleagues distant from Brussels, there are relics of the Middle Ages\nthere which are attainable for everybody, at the Abbey of Villers, the\nhole of the oubliettes, in the middle of the field which was formerly\nthe courtyard of the cloister, and on the banks of the Thil, four stone\ndungeons, half under ground, half under the water. They were _in pace_.\nEach of these dungeons has the remains of an iron door, a vault, and a\ngrated opening which, on the outside, is two feet above the level of\nthe river, and on the inside, six feet above the level of the ground.\nFour feet of river flow past along the outside wall. The ground is\nalways soaked. The occupant of the _in pace_ had this wet soil for his\nbed. In one of these dungeons, there is a fragment of an iron necklet\nriveted to the wall; in another, there can be seen a square box made of\nfour slabs of granite, too short for a person to lie down in, too low\nfor him to stand upright in. A human being was put inside, with a\ncoverlid of stone on top. This exists. It can be seen. It can be\ntouched. These _in pace_, these dungeons, these iron hinges, these\nnecklets, that lofty peep-hole on a level with the river s current,\nthat box of stone closed with a lid of granite like a tomb, with this\ndifference, that the dead man here was a living being, that soil which\nis but mud, that vault hole, those oozing walls, what declaimers!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III ON WHAT CONDITIONS ONE CAN RESPECT THE PAST\n\n\nMonasticism, such as it existed in Spain, and such as it still exists\nin Thibet, is a sort of phthisis for civilization. It stops life short.\nIt simply depopulates. Claustration, castration. It has been the\nscourge of Europe. Add to this the violence so often done to the\nconscience, the forced vocations, feudalism bolstered up by the\ncloister, the right of the first-born pouring the excess of the family\ninto monasticism, the ferocities of which we have just spoken, the _in\npace_, the closed mouths, the walled-up brains, so many unfortunate\nminds placed in the dungeon of eternal vows, the taking of the habit,\nthe interment of living souls. Add individual tortures to national\ndegradations, and, whoever you may be, you will shudder before the\nfrock and the veil, those two winding-sheets of human devising.\nNevertheless, at certain points and in certain places, in spite of\nphilosophy, in spite of progress, the spirit of the cloister persists\nin the midst of the nineteenth century, and a singular ascetic\nrecrudescence is, at this moment, astonishing the civilized world. The\nobstinacy of antiquated institutions in perpetuating themselves\nresembles the stubbornness of the rancid perfume which should claim our\nhair, the pretensions of the spoiled fish which should persist in being\neaten, the persecution of the child s garment which should insist on\nclothing the man, the tenderness of corpses which should return to\nembrace the living.\n\n Ingrates!  says the garment,  I protected you in inclement weather.\nWhy will you have nothing to do with me?   I have just come from the\ndeep sea,  says the fish.  I have been a rose,  says the perfume.  I\nhave loved you,  says the corpse.  I have civilized you,  says the\nconvent.\n\nTo this there is but one reply:  In former days. \n\n\nTo dream of the indefinite prolongation of defunct things, and of the\ngovernment of men by embalming, to restore dogmas in a bad condition,\nto regild shrines, to patch up cloisters, to rebless reliquaries, to\nrefurnish superstitions, to revictual fanaticisms, to put new handles\non holy water brushes and militarism, to reconstitute monasticism and\nmilitarism, to believe in the salvation of society by the\nmultiplication of parasites, to force the past on the present, this\nseems strange. Still, there are theorists who hold such theories. These\ntheorists, who are in other respects people of intelligence, have a\nvery simple process; they apply to the past a glazing which they call\nsocial order, divine right, morality, family, the respect of elders,\nantique authority, sacred tradition, legitimacy, religion; and they go\nabout shouting,  Look! take this, honest people.  This logic was known\nto the ancients. The soothsayers practise it. They rubbed a black\nheifer over with chalk, and said,  She is white, _Bos cretatus_. \n\n\nAs for us, we respect the past here and there, and we spare it, above\nall, provided that it consents to be dead. If it insists on being\nalive, we attack it, and we try to kill it.\n\nSuperstitions, bigotries, affected devotion, prejudices, those forms,\nall forms as they are, are tenacious of life; they have teeth and nails\nin their smoke, and they must be clasped close, body to body, and war\nmust be made on them, and that without truce; for it is one of the\nfatalities of humanity to be condemned to eternal combat with phantoms.\nIt is difficult to seize darkness by the throat, and to hurl it to the\nearth.\n\nA convent in France, in the broad daylight of the nineteenth century,\nis a college of owls facing the light. A cloister, caught in the very\nact of asceticism, in the very heart of the city of  89 and of 1830 and\nof 1848, Rome blossoming out in Paris, is an anachronism. In ordinary\ntimes, in order to dissolve an anachronism and to cause it to vanish,\none has only to make it spell out the date. But we are not in ordinary\ntimes.\n\nLet us fight.\n\nLet us fight, but let us make a distinction. The peculiar property of\ntruth is never to commit excesses. What need has it of exaggeration?\nThere is that which it is necessary to destroy, and there is that which\nit is simply necessary to elucidate and examine. What a force is kindly\nand serious examination! Let us not apply a flame where only a light is\nrequired.\n\nSo, given the nineteenth century, we are opposed, as a general\nproposition, and among all peoples, in Asia as well as in Europe, in\nIndia as well as in Turkey, to ascetic claustration. Whoever says\ncloister, says marsh. Their putrescence is evident, their stagnation is\nunhealthy, their fermentation infects people with fever, and etiolates\nthem; their multiplication becomes a plague of Egypt. We cannot think\nwithout affright of those lands where fakirs, bonzes, santons, Greek\nmonks, marabouts, talapoins, and dervishes multiply even like swarms of\nvermin.\n\nThis said, the religious question remains. This question has certain\nmysterious, almost formidable sides; may we be permitted to look at it\nfixedly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE CONVENT FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF PRINCIPLES\n\n\nMen unite themselves and dwell in communities. By virtue of what right?\nBy virtue of the right of association.\n\nThey shut themselves up at home. By virtue of what right? By virtue of\nthe right which every man has to open or shut his door.\n\nThey do not come forth. By virtue of what right? By virtue of the right\nto go and come, which implies the right to remain at home.\n\nThere, at home, what do they do?\n\nThey speak in low tones; they drop their eyes; they toil. They renounce\nthe world, towns, sensualities, pleasures, vanities, pride, interests.\nThey are clothed in coarse woollen or coarse linen. Not one of them\npossesses in his own right anything whatever. On entering there, each\none who was rich makes himself poor. What he has, he gives to all. He\nwho was what is called noble, a gentleman and a lord, is the equal of\nhim who was a peasant. The cell is identical for all. All undergo the\nsame tonsure, wear the same frock, eat the same black bread, sleep on\nthe same straw, die on the same ashes. The same sack on their backs,\nthe same rope around their loins. If the decision has been to go\nbarefoot, all go barefoot. There may be a prince among them; that\nprince is the same shadow as the rest. No titles. Even family names\nhave disappeared. They bear only first names. All are bowed beneath the\nequality of baptismal names. They have dissolved the carnal family, and\nconstituted in their community a spiritual family. They have no other\nrelatives than all men. They succor the poor, they care for the sick.\nThey elect those whom they obey. They call each other  my brother. \n\n\nYou stop me and exclaim,  But that is the ideal convent! \n\n\nIt is sufficient that it may be the possible convent, that I should\ntake notice of it.\n\nThence it results that, in the preceding book, I have spoken of a\nconvent with respectful accents. The Middle Ages cast aside, Asia cast\naside, the historical and political question held in reserve, from the\npurely philosophical point of view, outside the requirements of\nmilitant policy, on condition that the monastery shall be absolutely a\nvoluntary matter and shall contain only consenting parties, I shall\nalways consider a cloistered community with a certain attentive, and,\nin some respects, a deferential gravity.\n\nWherever there is a community, there is a commune; where there is a\ncommune, there is right. The monastery is the product of the formula:\nEquality, Fraternity. Oh! how grand is liberty! And what a splendid\ntransfiguration! Liberty suffices to transform the monastery into a\nrepublic.\n\nLet us continue.\n\nBut these men, or these women who are behind these four walls. They\ndress themselves in coarse woollen, they are equals, they call each\nother brothers, that is well; but they do something else?\n\nYes.\n\nWhat?\n\nThey gaze on the darkness, they kneel, and they clasp their hands.\n\nWhat does this signify?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V PRAYER\n\n\nThey pray.\n\nTo whom?\n\nTo God.\n\nTo pray to God, what is the meaning of these words?\n\nIs there an infinite beyond us? Is that infinite there, inherent,\npermanent; necessarily substantial, since it is infinite; and because,\nif it lacked matter it would be bounded; necessarily intelligent, since\nit is infinite, and because, if it lacked intelligence, it would end\nthere? Does this infinite awaken in us the idea of essence, while we\ncan attribute to ourselves only the idea of existence? In other terms,\nis it not the absolute, of which we are only the relative?\n\nAt the same time that there is an infinite without us, is there not an\ninfinite within us? Are not these two infinites (what an alarming\nplural!) superposed, the one upon the other? Is not this second\ninfinite, so to speak, subjacent to the first? Is it not the latter s\nmirror, reflection, echo, an abyss which is concentric with another\nabyss? Is this second infinity intelligent also? Does it think? Does it\nlove? Does it will? If these two infinities are intelligent, each of\nthem has a will principle, and there is an _I_ in the upper infinity as\nthere is an _I_ in the lower infinity. The _I_ below is the soul; the\n_I_ on high is God.\n\nTo place the infinity here below in contact, by the medium of thought,\nwith the infinity on high, is called praying.\n\nLet us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad. We must\nreform and transform. Certain faculties in man are directed towards the\nUnknown; thought, reverie, prayer. The Unknown is an ocean. What is\nconscience? It is the compass of the Unknown. Thought, reverie,\nprayer, these are great and mysterious radiations. Let us respect them.\nWhither go these majestic irradiations of the soul? Into the shadow;\nthat is to say, to the light.\n\nThe grandeur of democracy is to disown nothing and to deny nothing of\nhumanity. Close to the right of the man, beside it, at the least, there\nexists the right of the soul.\n\nTo crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law. Let\nus not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree of\ncreation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars. We\nhave a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery against\nthe miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject the absurd, to\nadmit, as an inexplicable fact, only what is necessary, to purify\nbelief, to remove superstitions from above religion; to clear God of\ncaterpillars.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE ABSOLUTE GOODNESS OF PRAYER\n\n\nWith regard to the modes of prayer, all are good, provided that they\nare sincere. Turn your book upside down and be in the infinite.\n\nThere is, as we know, a philosophy which denies the infinite. There is\nalso a philosophy, pathologically classified, which denies the sun;\nthis philosophy is called blindness.\n\nTo erect a sense which we lack into a source of truth, is a fine blind\nman s self-sufficiency.\n\nThe curious thing is the haughty, superior, and compassionate airs\nwhich this groping philosophy assumes towards the philosophy which\nbeholds God. One fancies he hears a mole crying,  I pity them with\ntheir sun! \n\n\nThere are, as we know, powerful and illustrious atheists. At bottom,\nled back to the truth by their very force, they are not absolutely sure\nthat they are atheists; it is with them only a question of definition,\nand in any case, if they do not believe in God, being great minds, they\nprove God.\n\nWe salute them as philosophers, while inexorably denouncing their\nphilosophy.\n\nLet us go on.\n\nThe remarkable thing about it is, also, their facility in paying\nthemselves off with words. A metaphysical school of the North,\nimpregnated to some extent with fog, has fancied that it has worked a\nrevolution in human understanding by replacing the word Force with the\nword Will.\n\nTo say:  the plant wills,  instead of:  the plant grows : this would be\nfecund in results, indeed, if we were to add:  the universe wills. \nWhy? Because it would come to this: the plant wills, therefore it has\nan _I_; the universe wills, therefore it has a God.\n\nAs for us, who, however, in contradistinction to this school, reject\nnothing _a priori_, a will in the plant, accepted by this school,\nappears to us more difficult to admit than a will in the universe\ndenied by it.\n\nTo deny the will of the infinite, that is to say, God, is impossible on\nany other conditions than a denial of the infinite. We have\ndemonstrated this.\n\nThe negation of the infinite leads straight to nihilism. Everything\nbecomes  a mental conception. \n\n\nWith nihilism, no discussion is possible; for the nihilist logic doubts\nthe existence of its interlocutor, and is not quite sure that it exists\nitself.\n\nFrom its point of view, it is possible that it may be for itself, only\n a mental conception. \n\n\nOnly, it does not perceive that all which it has denied it admits in\nthe lump, simply by the utterance of the word, mind.\n\nIn short, no way is open to the thought by a philosophy which makes all\nend in the monosyllable, No.\n\nTo No there is only one reply, Yes.\n\nNihilism has no point.\n\nThere is no such thing as nothingness. Zero does not exist. Everything\nis something. Nothing is nothing.\n\nMan lives by affirmation even more than by bread.\n\nEven to see and to show does not suffice. Philosophy should be an\nenergy; it should have for effort and effect to ameliorate the\ncondition of man. Socrates should enter into Adam and produce Marcus\nAurelius; in other words, the man of wisdom should be made to emerge\nfrom the man of felicity. Eden should be changed into a Lyceum. Science\nshould be a cordial. To enjoy, what a sad aim, and what a paltry\nambition! The brute enjoys. To offer thought to the thirst of men, to\ngive them all as an elixir the notion of God, to make conscience and\nscience fraternize in them, to render them just by this mysterious\nconfrontation; such is the function of real philosophy. Morality is a\nblossoming out of truths. Contemplation leads to action. The absolute\nshould be practicable. It is necessary that the ideal should be\nbreathable, drinkable, and eatable to the human mind. It is the ideal\nwhich has the right to say: _Take, this is my body, this is my blood_.\nWisdom is holy communion. It is on this condition that it ceases to be\na sterile love of science and becomes the one and sovereign mode of\nhuman rallying, and that philosophy herself is promoted to religion.\n\nPhilosophy should not be a corbel erected on mystery to gaze upon it at\nits ease, without any other result than that of being convenient to\ncuriosity.\n\nFor our part, adjourning the development of our thought to another\noccasion, we will confine ourselves to saying that we neither\nunderstand man as a point of departure nor progress as an end, without\nthose two forces which are their two motors: faith and love.\n\nProgress is the goal, the ideal is the type.\n\nWhat is this ideal? It is God.\n\nIdeal, absolute, perfection, infinity: identical words.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII PRECAUTIONS TO BE OBSERVED IN BLAME\n\n\nHistory and philosophy have eternal duties, which are, at the same\ntime, simple duties; to combat Caiphas the High-priest, Draco the\nLawgiver, Trimalcion the Legislator, Tiberius the Emperor; this is\nclear, direct, and limpid, and offers no obscurity.\n\nBut the right to live apart, even with its inconveniences and its\nabuses, insists on being stated and taken into account. Cenobitism is a\nhuman problem.\n\nWhen one speaks of convents, those abodes of error, but of innocence,\nof aberration but of good-will, of ignorance but of devotion, of\ntorture but of martyrdom, it always becomes necessary to say either yes\nor no.\n\nA convent is a contradiction. Its object, salvation; its means thereto,\nsacrifice. The convent is supreme egoism having for its result supreme\nabnegation.\n\nTo abdicate with the object of reigning seems to be the device of\nmonasticism.\n\nIn the cloister, one suffers in order to enjoy. One draws a bill of\nexchange on death. One discounts in terrestrial gloom celestial light.\nIn the cloister, hell is accepted in advance as a post obit on\nparadise.\n\nThe taking of the veil or the frock is a suicide paid for with\neternity.\n\nIt does not seem to us, that on such a subject mockery is permissible.\nAll about it is serious, the good as well as the bad.\n\nThe just man frowns, but never smiles with a malicious sneer. We\nunderstand wrath, but not malice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII FAITH, LAW\n\n\nA few words more.\n\nWe blame the church when she is saturated with intrigues, we despise\nthe spiritual which is harsh toward the temporal; but we everywhere\nhonor the thoughtful man.\n\nWe salute the man who kneels.\n\nA faith; this is a necessity for man. Woe to him who believes nothing.\n\nOne is not unoccupied because one is absorbed. There is visible labor\nand invisible labor.\n\nTo contemplate is to labor, to think is to act.\n\nFolded arms toil, clasped hands work. A gaze fixed on heaven is a work.\n\nThales remained motionless for four years. He founded philosophy.\n\nIn our opinion, cenobites are not lazy men, and recluses are not\nidlers.\n\nTo meditate on the Shadow is a serious thing.\n\nWithout invalidating anything that we have just said, we believe that a\nperpetual memory of the tomb is proper for the living. On this point,\nthe priest and the philosopher agree. _We must die_. The Abb  de la\nTrappe replies to Horace.\n\nTo mingle with one s life a certain presence of the sepulchre, this is\nthe law of the sage; and it is the law of the ascetic. In this respect,\nthe ascetic and the sage converge. There is a material growth; we admit\nit. There is a moral grandeur; we hold to that. Thoughtless and\nvivacious spirits say: \n\n What is the good of those motionless figures on the side of mystery?\nWhat purpose do they serve? What do they do? \n\n\nAlas! In the presence of the darkness which environs us, and which\nawaits us, in our ignorance of what the immense dispersion will make of\nus, we reply:  There is probably no work more divine than that\nperformed by these souls.  And we add:  There is probably no work which\nis more useful. \n\n\nThere certainly must be some who pray constantly for those who never\npray at all.\n\nIn our opinion the whole question lies in the amount of thought that is\nmingled with prayer.\n\nLeibnitz praying is grand, Voltaire adoring is fine. _Deo erexit\nVoltaire_.\n\nWe are for religion as against religions.\n\nWe are of the number who believe in the wretchedness of orisons, and\nthe sublimity of prayer.\n\nMoreover, at this minute which we are now traversing, a minute which\nwill not, fortunately, leave its impress on the nineteenth century, at\nthis hour, when so many men have low brows and souls but little\nelevated, among so many mortals whose morality consists in enjoyment,\nand who are busied with the brief and misshapen things of matter,\nwhoever exiles himself seems worthy of veneration to us.\n\nThe monastery is a renunciation. Sacrifice wrongly directed is still\nsacrifice. To mistake a grave error for a duty has a grandeur of its\nown.\n\nTaken by itself, and ideally, and in order to examine the truth on all\nsides until all aspects have been impartially exhausted, the monastery,\nthe female convent in particular, for in our century it is woman who\nsuffers the most, and in this exile of the cloister there is something\nof protestation, the female convent has incontestably a certain\nmajesty.\n\nThis cloistered existence which is so austere, so depressing, a few of\nwhose features we have just traced, is not life, for it is not liberty;\nit is not the tomb, for it is not plenitude; it is the strange place\nwhence one beholds, as from the crest of a lofty mountain, on one side\nthe abyss where we are, on the other, the abyss whither we shall go; it\nis the narrow and misty frontier separating two worlds, illuminated and\nobscured by both at the same time, where the ray of life which has\nbecome enfeebled is mingled with the vague ray of death; it is the half\nobscurity of the tomb.\n\nWe, who do not believe what these women believe, but who, like them,\nlive by faith, we have never been able to think without a sort of\ntender and religious terror, without a sort of pity, that is full of\nenvy, of those devoted, trembling and trusting creatures, of these\nhumble and august souls, who dare to dwell on the very brink of the\nmystery, waiting between the world which is closed and heaven which is\nnot yet open, turned towards the light which one cannot see, possessing\nthe sole happiness of thinking that they know where it is, aspiring\ntowards the gulf, and the unknown, their eyes fixed motionless on the\ndarkness, kneeling, bewildered, stupefied, shuddering, half lifted, at\ntimes, by the deep breaths of eternity.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK EIGHTH CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I WHICH TREATS OF THE MANNER OF ENTERING A CONVENT\n\n\nIt was into this house that Jean Valjean had, as Fauchelevent expressed\nit,  fallen from the sky. \n\n\nHe had scaled the wall of the garden which formed the angle of the Rue\nPolonceau. That hymn of the angels which he had heard in the middle of\nthe night, was the nuns chanting matins; that hall, of which he had\ncaught a glimpse in the gloom, was the chapel. That phantom which he\nhad seen stretched on the ground was the sister who was making\nreparation; that bell, the sound of which had so strangely surprised\nhim, was the gardener s bell attached to the knee of Father\nFauchelevent.\n\nCosette once put to bed, Jean Valjean and Fauchelevent had, as we have\nalready seen, supped on a glass of wine and a bit of cheese before a\ngood, crackling fire; then, the only bed in the hut being occupied by\nCosette, each threw himself on a truss of straw.\n\nBefore he shut his eyes, Jean Valjean said:  I must remain here\nhenceforth.  This remark trotted through Fauchelevent s head all night\nlong.\n\nTo tell the truth, neither of them slept.\n\nJean Valjean, feeling that he was discovered and that Javert was on his\nscent, understood that he and Cosette were lost if they returned to\nParis. Then the new storm which had just burst upon him had stranded\nhim in this cloister. Jean Valjean had, henceforth, but one thought, to\nremain there. Now, for an unfortunate man in his position, this convent\nwas both the safest and the most dangerous of places; the most\ndangerous, because, as no men might enter there, if he were discovered,\nit was a flagrant offence, and Jean Valjean would find but one step\nintervening between the convent and prison; the safest, because, if he\ncould manage to get himself accepted there and remain there, who would\never seek him in such a place? To dwell in an impossible place was\nsafety.\n\nOn his side, Fauchelevent was cudgelling his brains. He began by\ndeclaring to himself that he understood nothing of the matter. How had\nM. Madeleine got there, when the walls were what they were? Cloister\nwalls are not to be stepped over. How did he get there with a child?\nOne cannot scale a perpendicular wall with a child in one s arms. Who\nwas that child? Where did they both come from? Since Fauchelevent had\nlived in the convent, he had heard nothing of M. sur M., and he knew\nnothing of what had taken place there. Father Madeleine had an air\nwhich discouraged questions; and besides, Fauchelevent said to himself:\n One does not question a saint.  M. Madeleine had preserved all his\nprestige in Fauchelevent s eyes. Only, from some words which Jean\nValjean had let fall, the gardener thought he could draw the inference\nthat M. Madeleine had probably become bankrupt through the hard times,\nand that he was pursued by his creditors; or that he had compromised\nhimself in some political affair, and was in hiding; which last did not\ndisplease Fauchelevent, who, like many of our peasants of the North,\nhad an old fund of Bonapartism about him. While in hiding, M. Madeleine\nhad selected the convent as a refuge, and it was quite simple that he\nshould wish to remain there. But the inexplicable point, to which\nFauchelevent returned constantly and over which he wearied his brain,\nwas that M. Madeleine should be there, and that he should have that\nlittle girl with him. Fauchelevent saw them, touched them, spoke to\nthem, and still did not believe it possible. The incomprehensible had\njust made its entrance into Fauchelevent s hut. Fauchelevent groped\nabout amid conjectures, and could see nothing clearly but this:  M.\nMadeleine saved my life.  This certainty alone was sufficient and\ndecided his course. He said to himself:  It is my turn now.  He added\nin his conscience:  M. Madeleine did not stop to deliberate when it was\na question of thrusting himself under the cart for the purpose of\ndragging me out.  He made up his mind to save M. Madeleine.\n\nNevertheless, he put many questions to himself and made himself divers\nreplies:  After what he did for me, would I save him if he were a\nthief? Just the same. If he were an assassin, would I save him? Just\nthe same. Since he is a saint, shall I save him? Just the same. \n\n\nBut what a problem it was to manage to have him remain in the convent!\nFauchelevent did not recoil in the face of this almost chimerical\nundertaking; this poor peasant of Picardy without any other ladder than\nhis self-devotion, his good will, and a little of that old rustic\ncunning, on this occasion enlisted in the service of a generous\nenterprise, undertook to scale the difficulties of the cloister, and\nthe steep escarpments of the rule of Saint-Beno t. Father Fauchelevent\nwas an old man who had been an egoist all his life, and who, towards\nthe end of his days, halt, infirm, with no interest left to him in the\nworld, found it sweet to be grateful, and perceiving a generous action\nto be performed, flung himself upon it like a man, who at the moment\nwhen he is dying, should find close to his hand a glass of good wine\nwhich he had never tasted, and should swallow it with avidity. We may\nadd, that the air which he had breathed for many years in this convent\nhad destroyed all personality in him, and had ended by rendering a good\naction of some kind absolutely necessary to him.\n\nSo he took his resolve: to devote himself to M. Madeleine.\n\nWe have just called him a _poor peasant of Picardy_. That description\nis just, but incomplete. At the point of this story which we have now\nreached, a little of Father Fauchelevent s physiology becomes useful.\nHe was a peasant, but he had been a notary, which added trickery to his\ncunning, and penetration to his ingenuousness. Having, through various\ncauses, failed in his business, he had descended to the calling of a\ncarter and a laborer. But, in spite of oaths and lashings, which horses\nseem to require, something of the notary had lingered in him. He had\nsome natural wit; he talked good grammar; he conversed, which is a rare\nthing in a village; and the other peasants said of him:  He talks\nalmost like a gentleman with a hat.  Fauchelevent belonged, in fact, to\nthat species, which the impertinent and flippant vocabulary of the last\ncentury qualified as _demi-bourgeois, demi-lout_, and which the\nmetaphors showered by the ch teau upon the thatched cottage ticketed in\nthe pigeon-hole of the plebeian: _rather rustic, rather citified;\npepper and salt_. Fauchelevent, though sorely tried and harshly used by\nfate, worn out, a sort of poor, threadbare old soul, was, nevertheless,\nan impulsive man, and extremely spontaneous in his actions; a precious\nquality which prevents one from ever being wicked. His defects and his\nvices, for he had some, were all superficial; in short, his physiognomy\nwas of the kind which succeeds with an observer. His aged face had none\nof those disagreeable wrinkles at the top of the forehead, which\nsignify malice or stupidity.\n\nAt daybreak, Father Fauchelevent opened his eyes, after having done an\nenormous deal of thinking, and beheld M. Madeleine seated on his truss\nof straw, and watching Cosette s slumbers. Fauchelevent sat up and\nsaid: \n\n Now that you are here, how are you going to contrive to enter? \n\n\nThis remark summed up the situation and aroused Jean Valjean from his\nreverie.\n\nThe two men took counsel together.\n\n In the first place,  said Fauchelevent,  you will begin by not setting\nfoot outside of this chamber, either you or the child. One step in the\ngarden and we are done for. \n\n\n That is true. \n\n\n Monsieur Madeleine,  resumed Fauchelevent,  you have arrived at a very\nauspicious moment, I mean to say a very inauspicious moment; one of the\nladies is very ill. This will prevent them from looking much in our\ndirection. It seems that she is dying. The prayers of the forty hours\nare being said. The whole community is in confusion. That occupies\nthem. The one who is on the point of departure is a saint. In fact, we\nare all saints here; all the difference between them and me is that\nthey say  our cell,  and that I say  my cabin.  The prayers for the\ndying are to be said, and then the prayers for the dead. We shall be at\npeace here for to-day; but I will not answer for to-morrow. \n\n\n Still,  observed Jean Valjean,  this cottage is in the niche of the\nwall, it is hidden by a sort of ruin, there are trees, it is not\nvisible from the convent. \n\n\n And I add that the nuns never come near it. \n\n\n Well?  said Jean Valjean.\n\nThe interrogation mark which accentuated this  well  signified:  it\nseems to me that one may remain concealed here?  It was to this\ninterrogation point that Fauchelevent responded: \n\n There are the little girls. \n\n\n What little girls?  asked Jean Valjean.\n\nJust as Fauchelevent opened his mouth to explain the words which he had\nuttered, a bell emitted one stroke.\n\n The nun is dead,  said he.  There is the knell. \n\n\nAnd he made a sign to Jean Valjean to listen.\n\nThe bell struck a second time.\n\n It is the knell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bell will continue to strike\nonce a minute for twenty-four hours, until the body is taken from the\nchurch. You see, they play. At recreation hours it suffices to have a\nball roll aside, to send them all hither, in spite of prohibitions, to\nhunt and rummage for it all about here. Those cherubs are devils. \n\n\n Who?  asked Jean Valjean.\n\n The little girls. You would be very quickly discovered. They would\nshriek:  Oh! a man!  There is no danger to-day. There will be no\nrecreation hour. The day will be entirely devoted to prayers. You hear\nthe bell. As I told you, a stroke each minute. It is the death knell. \n\n\n I understand, Father Fauchelevent. There are pupils. \n\n\nAnd Jean Valjean thought to himself: \n\n Here is Cosette s education already provided. \n\n\nFauchelevent exclaimed: \n\n Pardine! There are little girls indeed! And they would bawl around\nyou! And they would rush off! To be a man here is to have the plague.\nYou see how they fasten a bell to my paw as though I were a wild\nbeast. \n\n\nJean Valjean fell into more and more profound thought. This convent\nwould be our salvation,  he murmured.\n\nThen he raised his voice: \n\n Yes, the difficulty is to remain here. \n\n\n No,  said Fauchelevent,  the difficulty is to get out. \n\n\nJean Valjean felt the blood rush back to his heart.\n\n To get out! \n\n\n Yes, Monsieur Madeleine. In order to return here it is first necessary\nto get out. \n\n\nAnd after waiting until another stroke of the knell had sounded,\nFauchelevent went on: \n\n You must not be found here in this fashion. Whence come you? For me,\nyou fall from heaven, because I know you; but the nuns require one to\nenter by the door. \n\n\nAll at once they heard a rather complicated pealing from another bell.\n\n Ah!  said Fauchelevent,  they are ringing up the vocal mothers. They\nare going to the chapter. They always hold a chapter when any one dies.\nShe died at daybreak. People generally do die at daybreak. But cannot\nyou get out by the way in which you entered? Come, I do not ask for the\nsake of questioning you, but how did you get in? \n\n\nJean Valjean turned pale; the very thought of descending again into\nthat terrible street made him shudder. You make your way out of a\nforest filled with tigers, and once out of it, imagine a friendly\ncounsel that shall advise you to return thither! Jean Valjean pictured\nto himself the whole police force still engaged in swarming in that\nquarter, agents on the watch, sentinels everywhere, frightful fists\nextended towards his collar, Javert at the corner of the intersection\nof the streets perhaps.\n\n Impossible!  said he.  Father Fauchelevent, say that I fell from the\nsky. \n\n\n But I believe it, I believe it,  retorted Fauchelevent.  You have no\nneed to tell me that. The good God must have taken you in his hand for\nthe purpose of getting a good look at you close to, and then dropped\nyou. Only, he meant to place you in a man s convent; he made a mistake.\nCome, there goes another peal, that is to order the porter to go and\ninform the municipality that the dead-doctor is to come here and view a\ncorpse. All that is the ceremony of dying. These good ladies are not at\nall fond of that visit. A doctor is a man who does not believe in\nanything. He lifts the veil. Sometimes he lifts something else too. How\nquickly they have had the doctor summoned this time! What is the\nmatter? Your little one is still asleep. What is her name? \n\n\n Cosette. \n\n\n She is your daughter? You are her grandfather, that is? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n It will be easy enough for her to get out of here. I have my service\ndoor which opens on the courtyard. I knock. The porter opens; I have my\nvintage basket on my back, the child is in it, I go out. Father\nFauchelevent goes out with his basket that is perfectly natural. You\nwill tell the child to keep very quiet. She will be under the cover. I\nwill leave her for whatever time is required with a good old friend, a\nfruit-seller whom I know in the Rue Chemin-Vert, who is deaf, and who\nhas a little bed. I will shout in the fruit-seller s ear, that she is a\nniece of mine, and that she is to keep her for me until to-morrow. Then\nthe little one will re-enter with you; for I will contrive to have you\nre-enter. It must be done. But how will you manage to get out? \n\n\nJean Valjean shook his head.\n\n No one must see me, the whole point lies there, Father Fauchelevent.\nFind some means of getting me out in a basket, under cover, like\nCosette. \n\n\nFauchelevent scratched the lobe of his ear with the middle finger of\nhis left hand, a sign of serious embarrassment.\n\nA third peal created a diversion.\n\n That is the dead-doctor taking his departure,  said Fauchelevent.  He\nhas taken a look and said:  She is dead, that is well.  When the doctor\nhas signed the passport for paradise, the undertaker s company sends a\ncoffin. If it is a mother, the mothers lay her out; if she is a sister,\nthe sisters lay her out. After which, I nail her up. That forms a part\nof my gardener s duty. A gardener is a bit of a grave-digger. She is\nplaced in a lower hall of the church which communicates with the\nstreet, and into which no man may enter save the doctor of the dead. I\ndon t count the undertaker s men and myself as men. It is in that hall\nthat I nail up the coffin. The undertaker s men come and get it, and\nwhip up, coachman! that s the way one goes to heaven. They fetch a box\nwith nothing in it, they take it away again with something in it.\nThat s what a burial is like. _De profundis_. \n\n\nA horizontal ray of sunshine lightly touched the face of the sleeping\nCosette, who lay with her mouth vaguely open, and had the air of an\nangel drinking in the light. Jean Valjean had fallen to gazing at her.\nHe was no longer listening to Fauchelevent.\n\nThat one is not listened to is no reason for preserving silence. The\ngood old gardener went on tranquilly with his babble: \n\n The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery. They declare that they are\ngoing to suppress that Vaugirard cemetery. It is an ancient cemetery\nwhich is outside the regulations, which has no uniform, and which is\ngoing to retire. It is a shame, for it is convenient. I have a friend\nthere, Father Mestienne, the grave-digger. The nuns here possess one\nprivilege, it is to be taken to that cemetery at nightfall. There is a\nspecial permission from the Prefecture on their behalf. But how many\nevents have happened since yesterday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and\nFather Madeleine \n\n\n Is buried,  said Jean Valjean, smiling sadly.\n\nFauchelevent caught the word.\n\n Goodness! if you were here for good, it would be a real burial. \n\n\nA fourth peal burst out. Fauchelevent hastily detached the belled\nknee-cap from its nail and buckled it on his knee again.\n\n This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. Good, now I am\npricking myself on the tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine, don t\nstir from here, and wait for me. Something new has come up. If you are\nhungry, there is wine, bread and cheese. \n\n\nAnd he hastened out of the hut, crying:  Coming! coming! \n\n\nJean Valjean watched him hurrying across the garden as fast as his\ncrooked leg would permit, casting a sidelong glance by the way on his\nmelon patch.\n\nLess than ten minutes later, Father Fauchelevent, whose bell put the\nnuns in his road to flight, tapped gently at a door, and a gentle voice\nreplied: _ Forever! Forever!  _ that is to say: _ Enter.  _\n\nThe door was the one leading to the parlor reserved for seeing the\ngardener on business. This parlor adjoined the chapter hall. The\nprioress, seated on the only chair in the parlor, was waiting for\nFauchelevent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II FAUCHELEVENT IN THE PRESENCE OF A DIFFICULTY\n\n\nIt is the peculiarity of certain persons and certain professions,\nnotably priests and nuns, to wear a grave and agitated air on critical\noccasions. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, this double form of\npreoccupation was imprinted on the countenance of the prioress, who was\nthat wise and charming Mademoiselle de Blemeur, Mother Innocente, who\nwas ordinarily cheerful.\n\nThe gardener made a timid bow, and remained at the door of the cell.\nThe prioress, who was telling her beads, raised her eyes and said: \n\n Ah! it is you, Father Fauvent. \n\n\nThis abbreviation had been adopted in the convent.\n\nFauchelevent bowed again.\n\n Father Fauvent, I have sent for you. \n\n\n Here I am, reverend Mother. \n\n\n I have something to say to you. \n\n\n And so have I,  said Fauchelevent with a boldness which caused him\ninward terror,  I have something to say to the very reverend Mother. \n\n\nThe prioress stared at him.\n\n Ah! you have a communication to make to me. \n\n\n A request. \n\n\n Very well, speak. \n\n\nGoodman Fauchelevent, the ex-notary, belonged to the category of\npeasants who have assurance. A certain clever ignorance constitutes a\nforce; you do not distrust it, and you are caught by it. Fauchelevent\nhad been a success during the something more than two years which he\nhad passed in the convent. Always solitary and busied about his\ngardening, he had nothing else to do than to indulge his curiosity. As\nhe was at a distance from all those veiled women passing to and fro, he\nsaw before him only an agitation of shadows. By dint of attention and\nsharpness he had succeeded in clothing all those phantoms with flesh,\nand those corpses were alive for him. He was like a deaf man whose\nsight grows keener, and like a blind man whose hearing becomes more\nacute. He had applied himself to riddling out the significance of the\ndifferent peals, and he had succeeded, so that this taciturn and\nenigmatical cloister possessed no secrets for him; the sphinx babbled\nall her secrets in his ear. Fauchelevent knew all and concealed all;\nthat constituted his art. The whole convent thought him stupid. A great\nmerit in religion. The vocal mothers made much of Fauchelevent. He was\na curious mute. He inspired confidence. Moreover, he was regular, and\nnever went out except for well-demonstrated requirements of the orchard\nand vegetable garden. This discretion of conduct had inured to his\ncredit. Nonetheless, he had set two men to chattering: the porter, in\nthe convent, and he knew the singularities of their parlor, and the\ngrave-digger, at the cemetery, and he was acquainted with the\npeculiarities of their sepulture; in this way, he possessed a double\nlight on the subject of these nuns, one as to their life, the other as\nto their death. But he did not abuse his knowledge. The congregation\nthought a great deal of him. Old, lame, blind to everything, probably a\nlittle deaf into the bargain, what qualities! They would have found it\ndifficult to replace him.\n\nThe goodman, with the assurance of a person who feels that he is\nappreciated, entered into a rather diffuse and very deep rustic\nharangue to the reverend prioress. He talked a long time about his age,\nhis infirmities, the surcharge of years counting double for him\nhenceforth, of the increasing demands of his work, of the great size of\nthe garden, of nights which must be passed, like the last, for\ninstance, when he had been obliged to put straw mats over the melon\nbeds, because of the moon, and he wound up as follows:  That he had a\nbrother (the prioress made a movement), a brother no longer young (a\nsecond movement on the part of the prioress, but one expressive of\nreassurance), that, if he might be permitted, this brother would come\nand live with him and help him, that he was an excellent gardener, that\nthe community would receive from him good service, better than his own;\nthat, otherwise, if his brother were not admitted, as he, the elder,\nfelt that his health was broken and that he was insufficient for the\nwork, he should be obliged, greatly to his regret, to go away; and that\nhis brother had a little daughter whom he would bring with him, who\nmight be reared for God in the house, and who might, who knows, become\na nun some day. \n\n\nWhen he had finished speaking, the prioress stayed the slipping of her\nrosary between her fingers, and said to him: \n\n Could you procure a stout iron bar between now and this evening? \n\n\n For what purpose? \n\n\n To serve as a lever. \n\n\n Yes, reverend Mother,  replied Fauchelevent.\n\nThe prioress, without adding a word, rose and entered the adjoining\nroom, which was the hall of the chapter, and where the vocal mothers\nwere probably assembled. Fauchelevent was left alone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III MOTHER INNOCENTE\n\n\nAbout a quarter of an hour elapsed. The prioress returned and seated\nherself once more on her chair.\n\nThe two interlocutors seemed preoccupied. We will present a\nstenographic report of the dialogue which then ensued, to the best of\nour ability.\n\n Father Fauvent! \n\n\n Reverend Mother! \n\n\n Do you know the chapel? \n\n\n I have a little cage there, where I hear the mass and the offices. \n\n\n And you have been in the choir in pursuance of your duties? \n\n\n Two or three times. \n\n\n There is a stone to be raised. \n\n\n Heavy? \n\n\n The slab of the pavement which is at the side of the altar. \n\n\n The slab which closes the vault? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n It would be a good thing to have two men for it. \n\n\n Mother Ascension, who is as strong as a man, will help you. \n\n\n A woman is never a man. \n\n\n We have only a woman here to help you. Each one does what he can.\nBecause Dom Mabillon gives four hundred and seventeen epistles of Saint\nBernard, while Merlonus Horstius only gives three hundred and\nsixty-seven, I do not despise Merlonus Horstius. \n\n\n Neither do I. \n\n\n Merit consists in working according to one s strength. A cloister is\nnot a dock-yard. \n\n\n And a woman is not a man. But my brother is the strong one, though! \n\n\n And can you get a lever? \n\n\n That is the only sort of key that fits that sort of door. \n\n\n There is a ring in the stone. \n\n\n I will put the lever through it. \n\n\n And the stone is so arranged that it swings on a pivot. \n\n\n That is good, reverend Mother. I will open the vault. \n\n\n And the four Mother Precentors will help you. \n\n\n And when the vault is open? \n\n\n It must be closed again. \n\n\n Will that be all? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Give me your orders, very reverend Mother. \n\n\n Fauvent, we have confidence in you. \n\n\n I am here to do anything you wish. \n\n\n And to hold your peace about everything! \n\n\n Yes, reverend Mother. \n\n\n When the vault is open \n\n\n I will close it again. \n\n\n But before that \n\n\n What, reverend Mother? \n\n\n Something must be lowered into it. \n\n\nA silence ensued. The prioress, after a pout of the under lip which\nresembled hesitation, broke it.\n\n Father Fauvent! \n\n\n Reverend Mother! \n\n\n You know that a mother died this morning? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Did you not hear the bell? \n\n\n Nothing can be heard at the bottom of the garden. \n\n\n Really? \n\n\n I can hardly distinguish my own signal. \n\n\n She died at daybreak. \n\n\n And then, the wind did not blow in my direction this morning. \n\n\n It was Mother Crucifixion. A blessed woman. \n\n\nThe prioress paused, moved her lips, as though in mental prayer, and\nresumed: \n\n Three years ago, Madame de B thune, a Jansenist, turned orthodox,\nmerely from having seen Mother Crucifixion at prayer. \n\n\n Ah! yes, now I hear the knell, reverend Mother. \n\n\n The mothers have taken her to the dead-room, which opens on the\nchurch. \n\n\n I know. \n\n\n No other man than you can or must enter that chamber. See to that. A\nfine sight it would be, to see a man enter the dead-room! \n\n\n More often! \n\n\n Hey? \n\n\n More often! \n\n\n What do you say? \n\n\n I say more often. \n\n\n More often than what? \n\n\n Reverend Mother, I did not say more often than what, I said more\noften. \n\n\n I don t understand you. Why do you say more often? \n\n\n In order to speak like you, reverend Mother. \n\n\n But I did not say  more often. \n\n\nAt that moment, nine o clock struck.\n\n At nine o clock in the morning and at all hours, praised and adored be\nthe most Holy Sacrament of the altar,  said the prioress.\n\n Amen,  said Fauchelevent.\n\nThe clock struck opportunely. It cut  more often  short. It is\nprobable, that had it not been for this, the prioress and Fauchelevent\nwould never have unravelled that skein.\n\nFauchelevent mopped his forehead.\n\nThe prioress indulged in another little inward murmur, probably sacred,\nthen raised her voice: \n\n In her lifetime, Mother Crucifixion made converts; after her death,\nshe will perform miracles. \n\n\n She will!  replied Father Fauchelevent, falling into step, and\nstriving not to flinch again.\n\n Father Fauvent, the community has been blessed in Mother Crucifixion.\nNo doubt, it is not granted to every one to die, like Cardinal de\nB rulle, while saying the holy mass, and to breathe forth their souls\nto God, while pronouncing these words: _Hanc igitur oblationem_. But\nwithout attaining to such happiness, Mother Crucifixion s death was\nvery precious. She retained her consciousness to the very last moment.\nShe spoke to us, then she spoke to the angels. She gave us her last\ncommands. If you had a little more faith, and if you could have been in\nher cell, she would have cured your leg merely by touching it. She\nsmiled. We felt that she was regaining her life in God. There was\nsomething of paradise in that death. \n\n\nFauchelevent thought that it was an orison which she was finishing.\n\n Amen,  said he.\n\n Father Fauvent, what the dead wish must be done. \n\n\nThe prioress took off several beads of her chaplet. Fauchelevent held\nhis peace.\n\nShe went on: \n\n I have consulted upon this point many ecclesiastics laboring in Our\nLord, who occupy themselves in the exercises of the clerical life, and\nwho bear wonderful fruit. \n\n\n Reverend Mother, you can hear the knell much better here than in the\ngarden. \n\n\n Besides, she is more than a dead woman, she is a saint. \n\n\n Like yourself, reverend Mother. \n\n\n She slept in her coffin for twenty years, by express permission of our\nHoly Father, Pius VII. \n\n\n The one who crowned the Emp Buonaparte. \n\n\nFor a clever man like Fauchelevent, this allusion was an awkward one.\nFortunately, the prioress, completely absorbed in her own thoughts, did\nnot hear it. She continued: \n\n Father Fauvent? \n\n\n Reverend Mother? \n\n\n Saint Didorus, Archbishop of Cappadocia, desired that this single word\nmight be inscribed on his tomb: _Acarus_, which signifies, a worm of\nthe earth; this was done. Is this true? \n\n\n Yes, reverend Mother. \n\n\n The blessed Mezzocane, Abbot of Aquila, wished to be buried beneath\nthe gallows; this was done. \n\n\n That is true. \n\n\n Saint Terentius, Bishop of Port, where the mouth of the Tiber empties\ninto the sea, requested that on his tomb might be engraved the sign\nwhich was placed on the graves of parricides, in the hope that\npassers-by would spit on his tomb. This was done. The dead must be\nobeyed. \n\n\n So be it. \n\n\n The body of Bernard Guidonis, born in France near Roche-Abeille, was,\nas he had ordered, and in spite of the king of Castile, borne to the\nchurch of the Dominicans in Limoges, although Bernard Guidonis was\nBishop of Tuy in Spain. Can the contrary be affirmed? \n\n\n For that matter, no, reverend Mother. \n\n\n The fact is attested by Plantavit de la Fosse. \n\n\nSeveral beads of the chaplet were told off, still in silence. The\nprioress resumed: \n\n Father Fauvent, Mother Crucifixion will be interred in the coffin in\nwhich she has slept for the last twenty years. \n\n\n That is just. \n\n\n It is a continuation of her slumber. \n\n\n So I shall have to nail up that coffin? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n And we are to reject the undertaker s coffin? \n\n\n Precisely. \n\n\n I am at the orders of the very reverend community. \n\n\n The four Mother Precentors will assist you. \n\n\n In nailing up the coffin? I do not need them. \n\n\n No. In lowering the coffin. \n\n\n Where? \n\n\n Into the vault. \n\n\n What vault? \n\n\n Under the altar. \n\n\nFauchelevent started.\n\n The vault under the altar? \n\n\n Under the altar. \n\n\n But \n\n\n You will have an iron bar. \n\n\n Yes, but \n\n\n You will raise the stone with the bar by means of the ring. \n\n\n But \n\n\n The dead must be obeyed. To be buried in the vault under the altar of\nthe chapel, not to go to profane earth; to remain there in death where\nshe prayed while living; such was the last wish of Mother Crucifixion.\nShe asked it of us; that is to say, commanded us. \n\n\n But it is forbidden. \n\n\n Forbidden by men, enjoined by God. \n\n\n What if it became known? \n\n\n We have confidence in you. \n\n\n Oh! I am a stone in your walls. \n\n\n The chapter assembled. The vocal mothers, whom I have just consulted\nagain, and who are now deliberating, have decided that Mother\nCrucifixion shall be buried, according to her wish, in her own coffin,\nunder our altar. Think, Father Fauvent, if she were to work miracles\nhere! What a glory of God for the community! And miracles issue from\ntombs. \n\n\n But, reverend Mother, if the agent of the sanitary commission \n\n\n Saint Beno t II., in the matter of sepulture, resisted Constantine\nPogonatus. \n\n\n But the commissary of police \n\n\n Chonodemaire, one of the seven German kings who entered among the\nGauls under the Empire of Constantius, expressly recognized the right\nof nuns to be buried in religion, that is to say, beneath the altar. \n\n\n But the inspector from the Prefecture \n\n\n The world is nothing in the presence of the cross. Martin, the\neleventh general of the Carthusians, gave to his order this device:\n_Stat crux dum volvitur orbis_. \n\n\n Amen,  said Fauchelevent, who imperturbably extricated himself in this\nmanner from the dilemma, whenever he heard Latin.\n\nAny audience suffices for a person who has held his peace too long. On\nthe day when the rhetorician Gymnastoras left his prison, bearing in\nhis body many dilemmas and numerous syllogisms which had struck in, he\nhalted in front of the first tree which he came to, harangued it and\nmade very great efforts to convince it. The prioress, who was usually\nsubjected to the barrier of silence, and whose reservoir was overfull,\nrose and exclaimed with the loquacity of a dam which has broken away: \n\n I have on my right Beno t and on my left Bernard. Who was Bernard? The\nfirst abbot of Clairvaux. Fontaines in Burgundy is a country that is\nblest because it gave him birth. His father was named T celin, and his\nmother Al the. He began at C teaux, to end in Clairvaux; he was\nordained abbot by the bishop of Ch lon-sur-Sa ne, Guillaume de\nChampeaux; he had seven hundred novices, and founded a hundred and\nsixty monasteries; he overthrew Abeilard at the council of Sens in\n1140, and Pierre de Bruys and Henry his disciple, and another sort of\nerring spirits who were called the Apostolics; he confounded Arnauld de\nBrescia, darted lightning at the monk Raoul, the murderer of the Jews,\ndominated the council of Reims in 1148, caused the condemnation of\nGilbert de Por a, Bishop of Poitiers, caused the condemnation of  on de\nl toile, arranged the disputes of princes, enlightened King Louis the\nYoung, advised Pope Eugene III., regulated the Temple, preached the\ncrusade, performed two hundred and fifty miracles during his lifetime,\nand as many as thirty-nine in one day. Who was Beno t? He was the\npatriarch of Mont-Cassin; he was the second founder of the Saintet \nClaustrale, he was the Basil of the West. His order has produced forty\npopes, two hundred cardinals, fifty patriarchs, sixteen hundred\narchbishops, four thousand six hundred bishops, four emperors, twelve\nempresses, forty-six kings, forty-one queens, three thousand six\nhundred canonized saints, and has been in existence for fourteen\nhundred years. On one side Saint Bernard, on the other the agent of the\nsanitary department! On one side Saint Beno t, on the other the\ninspector of public ways! The state, the road commissioners, the public\nundertaker, regulations, the administration, what do we know of all\nthat? There is not a chance passer-by who would not be indignant to see\nhow we are treated. We have not even the right to give our dust to\nJesus Christ! Your sanitary department is a revolutionary invention.\nGod subordinated to the commissary of police; such is the age. Silence,\nFauvent! \n\n\nFauchelevent was but ill at ease under this shower bath. The prioress\ncontinued: \n\n No one doubts the right of the monastery to sepulture. Only fanatics\nand those in error deny it. We live in times of terrible confusion. We\ndo not know that which it is necessary to know, and we know that which\nwe should ignore. We are ignorant and impious. In this age there exist\npeople who do not distinguish between the very great Saint Bernard and\nthe Saint Bernard denominated of the poor Catholics, a certain good\necclesiastic who lived in the thirteenth century. Others are so\nblasphemous as to compare the scaffold of Louis XVI. to the cross of\nJesus Christ. Louis XVI. was merely a king. Let us beware of God! There\nis no longer just nor unjust. The name of Voltaire is known, but not\nthe name of C sar de Bus. Nevertheless, C sar de Bus is a man of\nblessed memory, and Voltaire one of unblessed memory. The last\narch-bishop, the Cardinal de P rigord, did not even know that Charles\nde Gondren succeeded to Berulle, and Fran ois Bourgoin to Gondren, and\nJean-Fran ois Senault to Bourgoin, and Father Sainte-Marthe to\nJean-Fran ois Senault. The name of Father Coton is known, not because\nhe was one of the three who urged the foundation of the Oratorie, but\nbecause he furnished Henri IV., the Huguenot king, with the material\nfor an oath. That which pleases people of the world in Saint Fran ois\nde Sales, is that he cheated at play. And then, religion is attacked.\nWhy? Because there have been bad priests, because Sagittaire, Bishop of\nGap, was the brother of Salone, Bishop of Embrun, and because both of\nthem followed Mommol. What has that to do with the question? Does that\nprevent Martin de Tours from being a saint, and giving half of his\ncloak to a beggar? They persecute the saints. They shut their eyes to\nthe truth. Darkness is the rule. The most ferocious beasts are beasts\nwhich are blind. No one thinks of hell as a reality. Oh! how wicked\npeople are! By order of the king signifies to-day, by order of the\nrevolution. One no longer knows what is due to the living or to the\ndead. A holy death is prohibited. Burial is a civil matter. This is\nhorrible. Saint Leo II. wrote two special letters, one to Pierre\nNotaire, the other to the king of the Visigoths, for the purpose of\ncombating and rejecting, in questions touching the dead, the authority\nof the exarch and the supremacy of the Emperor. Gauthier, Bishop of\nCh lons, held his own in this matter against Otho, Duke of Burgundy.\nThe ancient magistracy agreed with him. In former times we had voices\nin the chapter, even on matters of the day. The Abbot of C teaux, the\ngeneral of the order, was councillor by right of birth to the\nparliament of Burgundy. We do what we please with our dead. Is not the\nbody of Saint Beno t himself in France, in the abbey of Fleury, called\nSaint Beno t-sur-Loire, although he died in Italy at Mont-Cassin, on\nSaturday, the 21st of the month of March, of the year 543? All this is\nincontestable. I abhor psalm-singers, I hate priors, I execrate\nheretics, but I should detest yet more any one who should maintain the\ncontrary. One has only to read Arnoul Wion, Gabriel Bucelin, Trithemus,\nMaurolics, and Dom Luc d Achery. \n\n\nThe prioress took breath, then turned to Fauchelevent.\n\n Is it settled, Father Fauvent? \n\n\n It is settled, reverend Mother. \n\n\n We may depend on you? \n\n\n I will obey. \n\n\n That is well. \n\n\n I am entirely devoted to the convent. \n\n\n That is understood. You will close the coffin. The sisters will carry\nit to the chapel. The office for the dead will then be said. Then we\nshall return to the cloister. Between eleven o clock and midnight, you\nwill come with your iron bar. All will be done in the most profound\nsecrecy. There will be in the chapel only the four Mother Precentors,\nMother Ascension and yourself. \n\n\n And the sister at the post? \n\n\n She will not turn round. \n\n\n But she will hear. \n\n\n She will not listen. Besides, what the cloister knows the world learns\nnot. \n\n\nA pause ensued. The prioress went on: \n\n You will remove your bell. It is not necessary that the sister at the\npost should perceive your presence. \n\n\n Reverend Mother? \n\n\n What, Father Fauvent? \n\n\n Has the doctor for the dead paid his visit? \n\n\n He will pay it at four o clock to-day. The peal which orders the\ndoctor for the dead to be summoned has already been rung. But you do\nnot understand any of the peals? \n\n\n I pay no attention to any but my own. \n\n\n That is well, Father Fauvent. \n\n\n Reverend Mother, a lever at least six feet long will be required. \n\n\n Where will you obtain it? \n\n\n Where gratings are not lacking, iron bars are not lacking. I have my\nheap of old iron at the bottom of the garden. \n\n\n About three-quarters of an hour before midnight; do not forget. \n\n\n Reverend Mother? \n\n\n What? \n\n\n If you were ever to have any other jobs of this sort, my brother is\nthe strong man for you. A perfect Turk! \n\n\n You will do it as speedily as possible. \n\n\n I cannot work very fast. I am infirm; that is why I require an\nassistant. I limp. \n\n\n To limp is no sin, and perhaps it is a blessing. The Emperor Henry\nII., who combated Antipope Gregory and re-established Beno t VIII., has\ntwo surnames, the Saint and the Lame. \n\n\n Two surtouts are a good thing,  murmured Fauchelevent, who really was\na little hard of hearing.\n\n Now that I think of it, Father Fauvent, let us give a whole hour to\nit. That is not too much. Be near the principal altar, with your iron\nbar, at eleven o clock. The office begins at midnight. Everything must\nhave been completed a good quarter of an hour before that. \n\n\n I will do anything to prove my zeal towards the community. These are\nmy orders. I am to nail up the coffin. At eleven o clock exactly, I am\nto be in the chapel. The Mother Precentors will be there. Mother\nAscension will be there. Two men would be better. However, never mind!\nI shall have my lever. We will open the vault, we will lower the\ncoffin, and we will close the vault again. After which, there will be\nno trace of anything. The government will have no suspicion. Thus all\nhas been arranged, reverend Mother? \n\n\n No! \n\n\n What else remains? \n\n\n The empty coffin remains. \n\n\nThis produced a pause. Fauchelevent meditated. The prioress meditated.\n\n What is to be done with that coffin, Father Fauvent? \n\n\n It will be given to the earth. \n\n\n Empty? \n\n\nAnother silence. Fauchelevent made, with his left hand, that sort of a\ngesture which dismisses a troublesome subject.\n\n Reverend Mother, I am the one who is to nail up the coffin in the\nbasement of the church, and no one can enter there but myself, and I\nwill cover the coffin with the pall. \n\n\n Yes, but the bearers, when they place it in the hearse and lower it\ninto the grave, will be sure to feel that there is nothing in it. \n\n\n Ah! the de !  exclaimed Fauchelevent.\n\nThe prioress began to make the sign of the cross, and looked fixedly at\nthe gardener. The _vil_ stuck fast in his throat.\n\nHe made haste to improvise an expedient to make her forget the oath.\n\n I will put earth in the coffin, reverend Mother. That will produce the\neffect of a corpse. \n\n\n You are right. Earth, that is the same thing as man. So you will\nmanage the empty coffin? \n\n\n I will make that my special business. \n\n\nThe prioress s face, up to that moment troubled and clouded, grew\nserene once more. She made the sign of a superior dismissing an\ninferior to him. Fauchelevent went towards the door. As he was on the\npoint of passing out, the prioress raised her voice gently: \n\n I am pleased with you, Father Fauvent; bring your brother to me\nto-morrow, after the burial, and tell him to fetch his daughter. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV IN WHICH JEAN VALJEAN HAS QUITE THE AIR OF HAVING READ\nAUSTIN CASTILLEJO\n\n\nThe strides of a lame man are like the ogling glances of a one-eyed\nman; they do not reach their goal very promptly. Moreover, Fauchelevent\nwas in a dilemma. He took nearly a quarter of an hour to return to his\ncottage in the garden. Cosette had waked up. Jean Valjean had placed\nher near the fire. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, Jean\nValjean was pointing out to her the vintner s basket on the wall, and\nsaying to her,  Listen attentively to me, my little Cosette. We must go\naway from this house, but we shall return to it, and we shall be very\nhappy here. The good man who lives here is going to carry you off on\nhis back in that. You will wait for me at a lady s house. I shall come\nto fetch you. Obey, and say nothing, above all things, unless you want\nMadame Th nardier to get you again! \n\n\nCosette nodded gravely.\n\nJean Valjean turned round at the noise made by Fauchelevent opening the\ndoor.\n\n Well? \n\n\n Everything is arranged, and nothing is,  said Fauchelevent.  I have\npermission to bring you in; but before bringing you in you must be got\nout. That s where the difficulty lies. It is easy enough with the\nchild. \n\n\n You will carry her out? \n\n\n And she will hold her tongue? \n\n\n I answer for that. \n\n\n But you, Father Madeleine? \n\n\nAnd, after a silence, fraught with anxiety, Fauchelevent exclaimed: \n\n Why, get out as you came in! \n\n\nJean Valjean, as in the first instance, contented himself with saying,\n Impossible. \n\n\nFauchelevent grumbled, more to himself than to Jean Valjean: \n\n There is another thing which bothers me. I have said that I would put\nearth in it. When I come to think it over, the earth instead of the\ncorpse will not seem like the real thing, it won t do, it will get\ndisplaced, it will move about. The men will bear it. You understand,\nFather Madeleine, the government will notice it. \n\n\nJean Valjean stared him straight in the eye and thought that he was\nraving.\n\nFauchelevent went on: \n\n How the de uce are you going to get out? It must all be done by\nto-morrow morning. It is to-morrow that I am to bring you in. The\nprioress expects you. \n\n\nThen he explained to Jean Valjean that this was his recompense for a\nservice which he, Fauchelevent, was to render to the community. That it\nfell among his duties to take part in their burials, that he nailed up\nthe coffins and helped the grave-digger at the cemetery. That the nun\nwho had died that morning had requested to be buried in the coffin\nwhich had served her for a bed, and interred in the vault under the\naltar of the chapel. That the police regulations forbade this, but that\nshe was one of those dead to whom nothing is refused. That the prioress\nand the vocal mothers intended to fulfil the wish of the deceased. That\nit was so much the worse for the government. That he, Fauchelevent, was\nto nail up the coffin in the cell, raise the stone in the chapel, and\nlower the corpse into the vault. And that, by way of thanks, the\nprioress was to admit his brother to the house as a gardener, and his\nniece as a pupil. That his brother was M. Madeleine, and that his niece\nwas Cosette. That the prioress had told him to bring his brother on the\nfollowing evening, after the counterfeit interment in the cemetery. But\nthat he could not bring M. Madeleine in from the outside if M.\nMadeleine was not outside. That that was the first problem. And then,\nthat there was another: the empty coffin.\n\n What is that empty coffin?  asked Jean Valjean.\n\nFauchelevent replied: \n\n The coffin of the administration. \n\n\n What coffin? What administration? \n\n\n A nun dies. The municipal doctor comes and says,  A nun has died.  The\ngovernment sends a coffin. The next day it sends a hearse and\nundertaker s men to get the coffin and carry it to the cemetery. The\nundertaker s men will come and lift the coffin; there will be nothing\nin it. \n\n\n Put something in it. \n\n\n A corpse? I have none. \n\n\n No. \n\n\n What then? \n\n\n A living person. \n\n\n What person? \n\n\n Me!  said Jean Valjean.\n\nFauchelevent, who was seated, sprang up as though a bomb had burst\nunder his chair.\n\n You! \n\n\n Why not? \n\n\nJean Valjean gave way to one of those rare smiles which lighted up his\nface like a flash from heaven in the winter.\n\n You know, Fauchelevent, what you have said:  Mother Crucifixion is\ndead.  and I add:  and Father Madeleine is buried. \n\n\n Ah! good, you can laugh, you are not speaking seriously. \n\n\n Very seriously, I must get out of this place. \n\n\n Certainly. \n\n\n l have told you to find a basket, and a cover for me also. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n The basket will be of pine, and the cover a black cloth. \n\n\n In the first place, it will be a white cloth. Nuns are buried in\nwhite. \n\n\n Let it be a white cloth, then. \n\n\n You are not like other men, Father Madeleine. \n\n\nTo behold such devices, which are nothing else than the savage and\ndaring inventions of the galleys, spring forth from the peaceable\nthings which surrounded him, and mingle with what he called the  petty\ncourse of life in the convent,  caused Fauchelevent as much amazement\nas a gull fishing in the gutter of the Rue Saint-Denis would inspire in\na passer-by.\n\nJean Valjean went on: \n\n The problem is to get out of here without being seen. This offers the\nmeans. But give me some information, in the first place. How is it\nmanaged? Where is this coffin? \n\n\n The empty one? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Downstairs, in what is called the dead-room. It stands on two\ntrestles, under the pall. \n\n\n How long is the coffin? \n\n\n Six feet. \n\n\n What is this dead-room? \n\n\n It is a chamber on the ground floor which has a grated window opening\non the garden, which is closed on the outside by a shutter, and two\ndoors; one leads into the convent, the other into the church. \n\n\n What church? \n\n\n The church in the street, the church which any one can enter. \n\n\n Have you the keys to those two doors? \n\n\n No; I have the key to the door which communicates with the convent;\nthe porter has the key to the door which communicates with the church. \n\n\n When does the porter open that door? \n\n\n Only to allow the undertaker s men to enter, when they come to get the\ncoffin. When the coffin has been taken out, the door is closed again. \n\n\n Who nails up the coffin? \n\n\n I do. \n\n\n Who spreads the pall over it? \n\n\n I do. \n\n\n Are you alone? \n\n\n Not another man, except the police doctor, can enter the dead-room.\nThat is even written on the wall. \n\n\n Could you hide me in that room to-night when every one is asleep? \n\n\n No. But I could hide you in a small, dark nook which opens on the\ndead-room, where I keep my tools to use for burials, and of which I\nhave the key. \n\n\n At what time will the hearse come for the coffin to-morrow? \n\n\n About three o clock in the afternoon. The burial will take place at\nthe Vaugirard cemetery a little before nightfall. It is not very near. \n\n\n I will remain concealed in your tool-closet all night and all the\nmorning. And how about food? I shall be hungry. \n\n\n I will bring you something. \n\n\n You can come and nail me up in the coffin at two o clock. \n\n\nFauchelevent recoiled and cracked his finger-joints.\n\n But that is impossible! \n\n\n Bah! Impossible to take a hammer and drive some nails in a plank? \n\n\nWhat seemed unprecedented to Fauchelevent was, we repeat, a simple\nmatter to Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean had been in worse straits than\nthis. Any man who has been a prisoner understands how to contract\nhimself to fit the diameter of the escape. The prisoner is subject to\nflight as the sick man is subject to a crisis which saves or kills him.\nAn escape is a cure. What does not a man undergo for the sake of a\ncure? To have himself nailed up in a case and carried off like a bale\nof goods, to live for a long time in a box, to find air where there is\nnone, to economize his breath for hours, to know how to stifle without\ndying this was one of Jean Valjean s gloomy talents.\n\nMoreover, a coffin containing a living being, that convict s\nexpedient, is also an imperial expedient. If we are to credit the monk\nAustin Castillejo, this was the means employed by Charles the Fifth,\ndesirous of seeing the Plombes for the last time after his abdication.\n\nHe had her brought into and carried out of the monastery of Saint-Yuste\nin this manner.\n\nFauchelevent, who had recovered himself a little, exclaimed: \n\n But how will you manage to breathe? \n\n\n I will breathe. \n\n\n In that box! The mere thought of it suffocates me. \n\n\n You surely must have a gimlet, you will make a few holes here and\nthere, around my mouth, and you will nail the top plank on loosely. \n\n\n Good! And what if you should happen to cough or to sneeze? \n\n\n A man who is making his escape does not cough or sneeze. \n\n\nAnd Jean Valjean added: \n\n Father Fauchelevent, we must come to a decision: I must either be\ncaught here, or accept this escape through the hearse. \n\n\nEvery one has noticed the taste which cats have for pausing and\nlounging between the two leaves of a half-shut door. Who is there who\nhas not said to a cat,  Do come in!  There are men who, when an\nincident stands half-open before them, have the same tendency to halt\nin indecision between two resolutions, at the risk of getting crushed\nthrough the abrupt closing of the adventure by fate. The over-prudent,\ncats as they are, and because they are cats, sometimes incur more\ndanger than the audacious. Fauchelevent was of this hesitating nature.\nBut Jean Valjean s coolness prevailed over him in spite of himself. He\ngrumbled: \n\n Well, since there is no other means. \n\n\nJean Valjean resumed: \n\n The only thing which troubles me is what will take place at the\ncemetery. \n\n\n That is the very point that is not troublesome,  exclaimed\nFauchelevent.  If you are sure of coming out of the coffin all right, I\nam sure of getting you out of the grave. The grave-digger is a\ndrunkard, and a friend of mine. He is Father Mestienne. An old fellow\nof the old school. The grave-digger puts the corpses in the grave, and\nI put the grave-digger in my pocket. I will tell you what will take\nplace. They will arrive a little before dusk, three-quarters of an hour\nbefore the gates of the cemetery are closed. The hearse will drive\ndirectly up to the grave. I shall follow; that is my business. I shall\nhave a hammer, a chisel, and some pincers in my pocket. The hearse\nhalts, the undertaker s men knot a rope around your coffin and lower\nyou down. The priest says the prayers, makes the sign of the cross,\nsprinkles the holy water, and takes his departure. I am left alone with\nFather Mestienne. He is my friend, I tell you. One of two things will\nhappen, he will either be sober, or he will not be sober. If he is not\ndrunk, I shall say to him:  Come and drink a bout while the _Bon Coing_\n[the Good Quince] is open.  I carry him off, I get him drunk, it does\nnot take long to make Father Mestienne drunk, he always has the\nbeginning of it about him, I lay him under the table, I take his card,\nso that I can get into the cemetery again, and I return without him.\nThen you have no longer any one but me to deal with. If he is drunk, I\nshall say to him:  Be off; I will do your work for you.  Off he goes,\nand I drag you out of the hole. \n\n\nJean Valjean held out his hand, and Fauchelevent precipitated himself\nupon it with the touching effusion of a peasant.\n\n That is settled, Father Fauchelevent. All will go well. \n\n\n Provided nothing goes wrong,  thought Fauchelevent.  In that case, it\nwould be terrible. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO BE DRUNK IN ORDER TO BE IMMORTAL\n\n\nOn the following day, as the sun was declining, the very rare\npassers-by on the Boulevard du Maine pulled off their hats to an\nold-fashioned hearse, ornamented with skulls, cross-bones, and tears.\nThis hearse contained a coffin covered with a white cloth over which\nspread a large black cross, like a huge corpse with drooping arms. A\nmourning-coach, in which could be seen a priest in his surplice, and a\nchoir boy in his red cap, followed. Two undertaker s men in gray\nuniforms trimmed with black walked on the right and the left of the\nhearse. Behind it came an old man in the garments of a laborer, who\nlimped along. The procession was going in the direction of the\nVaugirard cemetery.\n\nThe handle of a hammer, the blade of a cold chisel, and the antenn  of\na pair of pincers were visible, protruding from the man s pocket.\n\nThe Vaugirard cemetery formed an exception among the cemeteries of\nParis. It had its peculiar usages, just as it had its carriage entrance\nand its house door, which old people in the quarter, who clung\ntenaciously to ancient words, still called the _porte cavali re_ and\nthe _porte pi tonne_.16 The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Rue\nPetit-Picpus had obtained permission, as we have already stated, to be\nburied there in a corner apart, and at night, the plot of land having\nformerly belonged to their community. The grave-diggers being thus\nbound to service in the evening in summer and at night in winter, in\nthis cemetery, they were subjected to a special discipline. The gates\nof the Paris cemeteries closed, at that epoch, at sundown, and this\nbeing a municipal regulation, the Vaugirard cemetery was bound by it\nlike the rest. The carriage gate and the house door were two contiguous\ngrated gates, adjoining a pavilion built by the architect Perronet, and\ninhabited by the door-keeper of the cemetery. These gates, therefore,\nswung inexorably on their hinges at the instant when the sun\ndisappeared behind the dome of the Invalides. If any grave-digger were\ndelayed after that moment in the cemetery, there was but one way for\nhim to get out his grave-digger s card furnished by the department of\npublic funerals. A sort of letter-box was constructed in the porter s\nwindow. The grave-digger dropped his card into this box, the porter\nheard it fall, pulled the rope, and the small door opened. If the man\nhad not his card, he mentioned his name, the porter, who was sometimes\nin bed and asleep, rose, came out and identified the man, and opened\nthe gate with his key; the grave-digger stepped out, but had to pay a\nfine of fifteen francs.\n\nThis cemetery, with its peculiarities outside the regulations,\nembarrassed the symmetry of the administration. It was suppressed a\nlittle later than 1830. The cemetery of Mont-Parnasse, called the\nEastern cemetery, succeeded to it, and inherited that famous dram-shop\nnext to the Vaugirard cemetery, which was surmounted by a quince\npainted on a board, and which formed an angle, one side on the\ndrinkers  tables, and the other on the tombs, with this sign: _Au Bon\nCoing_.\n\nThe Vaugirard cemetery was what may be called a faded cemetery. It was\nfalling into disuse. Dampness was invading it, the flowers were\ndeserting it. The bourgeois did not care much about being buried in the\nVaugirard; it hinted at poverty. P re-Lachaise if you please! to be\nburied in P re-Lachaise is equivalent to having furniture of mahogany.\nIt is recognized as elegant. The Vaugirard cemetery was a venerable\nenclosure, planted like an old-fashioned French garden. Straight\nalleys, box, thuya-trees, holly, ancient tombs beneath aged\ncypress-trees, and very tall grass. In the evening it was tragic there.\nThere were very lugubrious lines about it.\n\nThe sun had not yet set when the hearse with the white pall and the\nblack cross entered the avenue of the Vaugirard cemetery. The lame man\nwho followed it was no other than Fauchelevent.\n\nThe interment of Mother Crucifixion in the vault under the altar, the\nexit of Cosette, the introduction of Jean Valjean to the dead-room, all\nhad been executed without difficulty, and there had been no hitch.\n\nLet us remark in passing, that the burial of Mother Crucifixion under\nthe altar of the convent is a perfectly venial offence in our sight. It\nis one of the faults which resemble a duty. The nuns had committed it,\nnot only without difficulty, but even with the applause of their own\nconsciences. In the cloister, what is called the  government  is only\nan intermeddling with authority, an interference which is always\nquestionable. In the first place, the rule; as for the code, we shall\nsee. Make as many laws as you please, men; but keep them for\nyourselves. The tribute to C sar is never anything but the remnants of\nthe tribute to God. A prince is nothing in the presence of a principle.\n\nFauchelevent limped along behind the hearse in a very contented frame\nof mind. His twin plots, the one with the nuns, the one for the\nconvent, the other against it, the other with M. Madeleine, had\nsucceeded, to all appearance. Jean Valjean s composure was one of those\npowerful tranquillities which are contagious. Fauchelevent no longer\nfelt doubtful as to his success.\n\nWhat remained to be done was a mere nothing. Within the last two years,\nhe had made good Father Mestienne, a chubby-cheeked person, drunk at\nleast ten times. He played with Father Mestienne. He did what he liked\nwith him. He made him dance according to his whim. Mestienne s head\nadjusted itself to the cap of Fauchelevent s will. Fauchelevent s\nconfidence was perfect.\n\nAt the moment when the convoy entered the avenue leading to the\ncemetery, Fauchelevent glanced cheerfully at the hearse, and said half\naloud, as he rubbed his big hands: \n\n Here s a fine farce! \n\n\nAll at once the hearse halted; it had reached the gate. The permission\nfor interment must be exhibited. The undertaker s man addressed himself\nto the porter of the cemetery. During this colloquy, which always is\nproductive of a delay of from one to two minutes, some one, a stranger,\ncame and placed himself behind the hearse, beside Fauchelevent. He was\na sort of laboring man, who wore a waistcoat with large pockets and\ncarried a mattock under his arm.\n\nFauchelevent surveyed this stranger.\n\n Who are you?  he demanded.\n\n The man replied: \n\n The grave-digger. \n\n\nIf a man could survive the blow of a cannon-ball full in the breast, he\nwould make the same face that Fauchelevent made.\n\n The grave-digger? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n You? \n\n\n I. \n\n\n Father Mestienne is the grave-digger. \n\n\n He was. \n\n\n What! He was? \n\n\n He is dead. \n\n\nFauchelevent had expected anything but this, that a grave-digger could\ndie. It is true, nevertheless, that grave-diggers do die themselves. By\ndint of excavating graves for other people, one hollows out one s own.\n\nFauchelevent stood there with his mouth wide open. He had hardly the\nstrength to stammer: \n\n But it is not possible! \n\n\n It is so. \n\n\n But,  he persisted feebly,  Father Mestienne is the grave-digger. \n\n\n After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier. Peasant, my\nname is Gribier. \n\n\nFauchelevent, who was deadly pale, stared at this Gribier.\n\nHe was a tall, thin, livid, utterly funereal man. He had the air of an\nunsuccessful doctor who had turned grave-digger.\n\nFauchelevent burst out laughing.\n\n Ah!  said he,  what queer things do happen! Father Mestienne is dead,\nbut long live little Father Lenoir! Do you know who little Father\nLenoir is? He is a jug of red wine. It is a jug of Sur ne, morbigou! of\nreal Paris Sur ne? Ah! So old Mestienne is dead! I am sorry for it; he\nwas a jolly fellow. But you are a jolly fellow, too. Are you not,\ncomrade? We ll go and have a drink together presently. \n\n\nThe man replied: \n\n I have been a student. I passed my fourth examination. I never drink. \n\n\nThe hearse had set out again, and was rolling up the grand alley of the\ncemetery.\n\nFauchelevent had slackened his pace. He limped more out of anxiety than\nfrom infirmity.\n\nThe grave-digger walked on in front of him.\n\nFauchelevent passed the unexpected Gribier once more in review.\n\nHe was one of those men who, though very young, have the air of age,\nand who, though slender, are extremely strong.\n\n Comrade!  cried Fauchelevent.\n\nThe man turned round.\n\n I am the convent grave-digger. \n\n\n My colleague,  said the man.\n\nFauchelevent, who was illiterate but very sharp, understood that he had\nto deal with a formidable species of man, with a fine talker. He\nmuttered:\n\n So Father Mestienne is dead. \n\n\nThe man replied: \n\n Completely. The good God consulted his note-book which shows when the\ntime is up. It was Father Mestienne s turn. Father Mestienne died. \n\n\nFauchelevent repeated mechanically:  The good God \n\n\n The good God,  said the man authoritatively.  According to the\nphilosophers, the Eternal Father; according to the Jacobins, the\nSupreme Being. \n\n\n Shall we not make each other s acquaintance?  stammered Fauchelevent.\n\n It is made. You are a peasant, I am a Parisian. \n\n\n People do not know each other until they have drunk together. He who\nempties his glass empties his heart. You must come and have a drink\nwith me. Such a thing cannot be refused. \n\n\n Business first. \n\n\nFauchelevent thought:  I am lost. \n\n\nThey were only a few turns of the wheel distant from the small alley\nleading to the nuns  corner.\n\nThe grave-digger resumed: \n\n Peasant, I have seven small children who must be fed. As they must\neat, I cannot drink. \n\n\nAnd he added, with the satisfaction of a serious man who is turning a\nphrase well: \n\n Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst. \n\n\nThe hearse skirted a clump of cypress-trees, quitted the grand alley,\nturned into a narrow one, entered the waste land, and plunged into a\nthicket. This indicated the immediate proximity of the place of\nsepulture. Fauchelevent slackened his pace, but he could not detain the\nhearse. Fortunately, the soil, which was light and wet with the winter\nrains, clogged the wheels and retarded its speed.\n\nHe approached the grave-digger.\n\n They have such a nice little Argenteuil wine,  murmured Fauchelevent.\n\n Villager,  retorted the man,  I ought not be a grave-digger. My father\nwas a porter at the Prytaneum [Town-Hall]. He destined me for\nliterature. But he had reverses. He had losses on  change. I was\nobliged to renounce the profession of author. But I am still a public\nwriter. \n\n\n So you are not a grave-digger, then?  returned Fauchelevent, clutching\nat this branch, feeble as it was.\n\n The one does not hinder the other. I cumulate. \n\n\nFauchelevent did not understand this last word.\n\n Come have a drink,  said he.\n\nHere a remark becomes necessary. Fauchelevent, whatever his anguish,\noffered a drink, but he did not explain himself on one point; who was\nto pay? Generally, Fauchelevent offered and Father Mestienne paid. An\noffer of a drink was the evident result of the novel situation created\nby the new grave-digger, and it was necessary to make this offer, but\nthe old gardener left the proverbial quarter of an hour named after\nRabelais in the dark, and that not unintentionally. As for himself,\nFauchelevent did not wish to pay, troubled as he was.\n\nThe grave-digger went on with a superior smile: \n\n One must eat. I have accepted Father Mestienne s reversion. One gets\nto be a philosopher when one has nearly completed his classes. To the\nlabor of the hand I join the labor of the arm. I have my scrivener s\nstall in the market of the Rue de S vres. You know? the Umbrella\nMarket. All the cooks of the Red Cross apply to me. I scribble their\ndeclarations of love to the raw soldiers. In the morning I write love\nletters; in the evening I dig graves. Such is life, rustic. \n\n\nThe hearse was still advancing. Fauchelevent, uneasy to the last\ndegree, was gazing about him on all sides. Great drops of perspiration\ntrickled down from his brow.\n\n But,  continued the grave-digger,  a man cannot serve two mistresses.\nI must choose between the pen and the mattock. The mattock is ruining\nmy hand. \n\n\nThe hearse halted.\n\nThe choir boy alighted from the mourning-coach, then the priest.\n\nOne of the small front wheels of the hearse had run up a little on a\npile of earth, beyond which an open grave was visible.\n\n What a farce this is!  repeated Fauchelevent in consternation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI BETWEEN FOUR PLANKS\n\n\nWho was in the coffin? The reader knows. Jean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean had arranged things so that he could exist there, and he\ncould almost breathe.\n\nIt is a strange thing to what a degree security of conscience confers\nsecurity of the rest. Every combination thought out by Jean Valjean had\nbeen progressing, and progressing favorably, since the preceding day.\nHe, like Fauchelevent, counted on Father Mestienne. He had no doubt as\nto the end. Never was there a more critical situation, never more\ncomplete composure.\n\nThe four planks of the coffin breathe out a kind of terrible peace. It\nseemed as though something of the repose of the dead entered into Jean\nValjean s tranquillity.\n\nFrom the depths of that coffin he had been able to follow, and he had\nfollowed, all the phases of the terrible drama which he was playing\nwith death.\n\nShortly after Fauchelevent had finished nailing on the upper plank,\nJean Valjean had felt himself carried out, then driven off. He knew,\nfrom the diminution in the jolting, when they left the pavements and\nreached the earth road. He had divined, from a dull noise, that they\nwere crossing the bridge of Austerlitz. At the first halt, he had\nunderstood that they were entering the cemetery; at the second halt, he\nsaid to himself: \n\n Here is the grave. \n\n\nSuddenly, he felt hands seize the coffin, then a harsh grating against\nthe planks; he explained it to himself as the rope which was being\nfastened round the casket in order to lower it into the cavity.\n\nThen he experienced a giddiness.\n\nThe undertaker s man and the grave-digger had probably allowed the\ncoffin to lose its balance, and had lowered the head before the foot.\nHe recovered himself fully when he felt himself horizontal and\nmotionless. He had just touched the bottom.\n\nHe had a certain sensation of cold.\n\nA voice rose above him, glacial and solemn. He heard Latin words, which\nhe did not understand, pass over him, so slowly that he was able to\ncatch them one by one: \n\n_ Qui dormiunt in terr  pulvere, evigilabunt; alii in vitam  ternam, et\nalii in approbrium, ut videant semper.  _\n\nA child s voice said: \n\n_ De profundis.  _\n\nThe grave voice began again: \n\n_ Requiem  ternam dona ei, Domine.  _\n\nThe child s voice responded: \n\n_ Et lux perpetua luceat ei.  _\n\nHe heard something like the gentle patter of several drops of rain on\nthe plank which covered him. It was probably the holy water.\n\nHe thought:  This will be over soon now. Patience for a little while\nlonger. The priest will take his departure. Fauchelevent will take\nMestienne off to drink. I shall be left. Then Fauchelevent will return\nalone, and I shall get out. That will be the work of a good hour. \n\n\nThe grave voice resumed\n\n_ Requiescat in pace.  _\n\nAnd the child s voice said: \n\n_ Amen.  _\n\nJean Valjean strained his ears, and heard something like retreating\nfootsteps.\n\n There, they are going now,  thought he.  I am alone. \n\n\nAll at once, he heard over his head a sound which seemed to him to be a\nclap of thunder.\n\nIt was a shovelful of earth falling on the coffin.\n\nA second shovelful fell.\n\nOne of the holes through which he breathed had just been stopped up.\n\nA third shovelful of earth fell.\n\nThen a fourth.\n\nThere are things which are too strong for the strongest man. Jean\nValjean lost consciousness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND THE ORIGIN OF THE SAYING: DON T LOSE\nTHE CARD\n\n\nThis is what had taken place above the coffin in which lay Jean\nValjean.\n\nWhen the hearse had driven off, when the priest and the choir boy had\nentered the carriage again and taken their departure, Fauchelevent, who\nhad not taken his eyes from the grave-digger, saw the latter bend over\nand grasp his shovel, which was sticking upright in the heap of dirt.\n\nThen Fauchelevent took a supreme resolve.\n\nHe placed himself between the grave and the grave-digger, crossed his\narms and said: \n\n I am the one to pay! \n\n\nThe grave-digger stared at him in amazement, and replied: \n\n What s that, peasant? \n\n\nFauchelevent repeated: \n\n I am the one who pays! \n\n\n What? \n\n\n For the wine. \n\n\n What wine? \n\n\n That Argenteuil wine. \n\n\n Where is the Argenteuil? \n\n\n At the _Bon Coing_. \n\n\n Go to the devil!  said the grave-digger.\n\nAnd he flung a shovelful of earth on the coffin.\n\nThe coffin gave back a hollow sound. Fauchelevent felt himself stagger\nand on the point of falling headlong into the grave himself. He shouted\nin a voice in which the strangling sound of the death rattle began to\nmingle: \n\n Comrade! Before the _Bon Coing_ is shut! \n\n\nThe grave-digger took some more earth on his shovel. Fauchelevent\ncontinued.\n\n I will pay. \n\n\nAnd he seized the man s arm.\n\n Listen to me, comrade. I am the convent grave-digger, I have come to\nhelp you. It is a business which can be performed at night. Let us\nbegin, then, by going for a drink. \n\n\nAnd as he spoke, and clung to this desperate insistence, this\nmelancholy reflection occurred to him:  And if he drinks, will he get\ndrunk? \n\n\n Provincial,  said the man,  if you positively insist upon it, I\nconsent. We will drink. After work, never before. \n\n\nAnd he flourished his shovel briskly. Fauchelevent held him back.\n\n It is Argenteuil wine, at six. \n\n\n Oh, come,  said the grave-digger,  you are a bell-ringer. Ding dong,\nding dong, that s all you know how to say. Go hang yourself. \n\n\nAnd he threw in a second shovelful.\n\nFauchelevent had reached a point where he no longer knew what he was\nsaying.\n\n Come along and drink,  he cried,  since it is I who pays the bill. \n\n\n When we have put the child to bed,  said the grave-digger.\n\nHe flung in a third shovelful.\n\nThen he thrust his shovel into the earth and added: \n\n It s cold to-night, you see, and the corpse would shriek out after us\nif we were to plant her there without a coverlet. \n\n\nAt that moment, as he loaded his shovel, the grave-digger bent over,\nand the pocket of his waistcoat gaped. Fauchelevent s wild gaze fell\nmechanically into that pocket, and there it stopped.\n\nThe sun was not yet hidden behind the horizon; there was still light\nenough to enable him to distinguish something white at the bottom of\nthat yawning pocket.\n\nThe sum total of lightning that the eye of a Picard peasant can\ncontain, traversed Fauchelevent s pupils. An idea had just occurred to\nhim.\n\nHe thrust his hand into the pocket from behind, without the\ngrave-digger, who was wholly absorbed in his shovelful of earth,\nobserving it, and pulled out the white object which lay at the bottom\nof it.\n\nThe man sent a fourth shovelful tumbling into the grave.\n\nJust as he turned round to get the fifth, Fauchelevent looked calmly at\nhim and said: \n\n By the way, you new man, have you your card? \n\n\nThe grave-digger paused.\n\n What card? \n\n\n The sun is on the point of setting. \n\n\n That s good, it is going to put on its nightcap. \n\n\n The gate of the cemetery will close immediately. \n\n\n Well, what then? \n\n\n Have you your card? \n\n\n Ah! my card?  said the grave-digger.\n\nAnd he fumbled in his pocket.\n\nHaving searched one pocket, he proceeded to search the other. He passed\non to his fobs, explored the first, returned to the second.\n\n Why, no,  said he,  I have not my card. I must have forgotten it. \n\n\n Fifteen francs fine,  said Fauchelevent.\n\nThe grave-digger turned green. Green is the pallor of livid people.\n\n Ah! J sus-mon-Dieu-bancroche- -bas-la-lune! 17 he exclaimed.  Fifteen\nfrancs fine! \n\n\n Three pieces of a hundred sous,  said Fauchelevent.\n\nThe grave-digger dropped his shovel.\n\nFauchelevent s turn had come.\n\n Ah, come now, conscript,  said Fauchelevent,  none of this despair.\nThere is no question of committing suicide and benefiting the grave.\nFifteen francs is fifteen francs, and besides, you may not be able to\npay it. I am an old hand, you are a new one. I know all the ropes and\nthe devices. I will give you some friendly advice. One thing is clear,\nthe sun is on the point of setting, it is touching the dome now, the\ncemetery will be closed in five minutes more. \n\n\n That is true,  replied the man.\n\n Five minutes more and you will not have time to fill the grave, it is\nas hollow as the devil, this grave, and to reach the gate in season to\npass it before it is shut. \n\n\n That is true. \n\n\n In that case, a fine of fifteen francs. \n\n\n Fifteen francs. \n\n\n But you have time. Where do you live? \n\n\n A couple of steps from the barrier, a quarter of an hour from here.\nNo. 87 Rue de Vaugirard. \n\n\n You have just time to get out by taking to your heels at your best\nspeed. \n\n\n That is exactly so. \n\n\n Once outside the gate, you gallop home, you get your card, you return,\nthe cemetery porter admits you. As you have your card, there will be\nnothing to pay. And you will bury your corpse. I ll watch it for you in\nthe meantime, so that it shall not run away. \n\n\n I am indebted to you for my life, peasant. \n\n\n Decamp!  said Fauchelevent.\n\nThe grave-digger, overwhelmed with gratitude, shook his hand and set\noff on a run.\n\nWhen the man had disappeared in the thicket, Fauchelevent listened\nuntil he heard his footsteps die away in the distance, then he leaned\nover the grave, and said in a low tone: \n\n Father Madeleine! \n\n\nThere was no reply.\n\nFauchelevent was seized with a shudder. He tumbled rather than climbed\ninto the grave, flung himself on the head of the coffin and cried: \n\n Are you there? \n\n\nSilence in the coffin.\n\nFauchelevent, hardly able to draw his breath for trembling, seized his\ncold chisel and his hammer, and pried up the coffin lid.\n\nJean Valjean s face appeared in the twilight; it was pale and his eyes\nwere closed.\n\nFauchelevent s hair rose upright on his head, he sprang to his feet,\nthen fell back against the side of the grave, ready to swoon on the\ncoffin. He stared at Jean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean lay there pallid and motionless.\n\nFauchelevent murmured in a voice as faint as a sigh: \n\n He is dead! \n\n\nAnd, drawing himself up, and folding his arms with such violence that\nhis clenched fists came in contact with his shoulders, he cried: \n\n And this is the way I save his life! \n\n\nThen the poor man fell to sobbing. He soliloquized the while, for it is\nan error to suppose that the soliloquy is unnatural. Powerful emotion\noften talks aloud.\n\n It is Father Mestienne s fault. Why did that fool die? What need was\nthere for him to give up the ghost at the very moment when no one was\nexpecting it? It is he who has killed M. Madeleine. Father Madeleine!\nHe is in the coffin. It is quite handy. All is over. Now, is there any\nsense in these things? Ah! my God! he is dead! Well! and his little\ngirl, what am I to do with her? What will the fruit-seller say? The\nidea of its being possible for a man like that to die like this! When I\nthink how he put himself under that cart! Father Madeleine! Father\nMadeleine! Pardine! He was suffocated, I said so. He wouldn t believe\nme. Well! Here s a pretty trick to play! He is dead, that good man, the\nvery best man out of all the good God s good folks! And his little\ngirl! Ah! In the first place, I won t go back there myself. I shall\nstay here. After having done such a thing as that! What s the use of\nbeing two old men, if we are two old fools! But, in the first place,\nhow did he manage to enter the convent? That was the beginning of it\nall. One should not do such things. Father Madeleine! Father Madeleine!\nFather Madeleine! Madeleine! Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le Maire! He\ndoes not hear me. Now get out of this scrape if you can! \n\n\nAnd he tore his hair.\n\nA grating sound became audible through the trees in the distance. It\nwas the cemetery gate closing.\n\nFauchelevent bent over Jean Valjean, and all at once he bounded back\nand recoiled so far as the limits of a grave permit.\n\nJean Valjean s eyes were open and gazing at him.\n\nTo see a corpse is alarming, to behold a resurrection is almost as much\nso. Fauchelevent became like stone, pale, haggard, overwhelmed by all\nthese excesses of emotion, not knowing whether he had to do with a\nliving man or a dead one, and staring at Jean Valjean, who was gazing\nat him.\n\n[Illustration: The Resurrection]\n\n I fell asleep,  said Jean Valjean.\n\nAnd he raised himself to a sitting posture.\n\nFauchelevent fell on his knees.\n\n Just, good Virgin! How you frightened me! \n\n\nThen he sprang to his feet and cried: \n\n Thanks, Father Madeleine! \n\n\nJean Valjean had merely fainted. The fresh air had revived him.\n\nJoy is the ebb of terror. Fauchelevent found almost as much difficulty\nin recovering himself as Jean Valjean had.\n\n So you are not dead! Oh! How wise you are! I called you so much that\nyou came back. When I saw your eyes shut, I said:  Good! there he is,\nstifled,  I should have gone raving mad, mad enough for a strait\njacket. They would have put me in Bic tre. What do you suppose I should\nhave done if you had been dead? And your little girl? There s that\nfruit-seller, she would never have understood it! The child is thrust\ninto your arms, and then the grandfather is dead! What a story! good\nsaints of paradise, what a tale! Ah! you are alive, that s the best of\nit! \n\n\n I am cold,  said Jean Valjean.\n\nThis remark recalled Fauchelevent thoroughly to reality, and there was\npressing need of it. The souls of these two men were troubled even when\nthey had recovered themselves, although they did not realize it, and\nthere was about them something uncanny, which was the sinister\nbewilderment inspired by the place.\n\n Let us get out of here quickly,  exclaimed Fauchelevent.\n\nHe fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a gourd with which he had\nprovided himself.\n\n But first, take a drop,  said he.\n\nThe flask finished what the fresh air had begun, Jean Valjean swallowed\na mouthful of brandy, and regained full possession of his faculties.\n\nHe got out of the coffin, and helped Fauchelevent to nail on the lid\nagain.\n\nThree minutes later they were out of the grave.\n\nMoreover, Fauchelevent was perfectly composed. He took his time. The\ncemetery was closed. The arrival of the grave-digger Gribier was not to\nbe apprehended. That  conscript  was at home busily engaged in looking\nfor his card, and at some difficulty in finding it in his lodgings,\nsince it was in Fauchelevent s pocket. Without a card, he could not get\nback into the cemetery.\n\nFauchelevent took the shovel, and Jean Valjean the pick-axe, and\ntogether they buried the empty coffin.\n\nWhen the grave was full, Fauchelevent said to Jean Valjean: \n\n Let us go. I will keep the shovel; do you carry off the mattock. \n\n\nNight was falling.\n\nJean Valjean experienced some difficulty in moving and in walking. He\nhad stiffened himself in that coffin, and had become a little like a\ncorpse. The rigidity of death had seized upon him between those four\nplanks. He had, in a manner, to thaw out, from the tomb.\n\n You are benumbed,  said Fauchelevent.  It is a pity that I have a game\nleg, for otherwise we might step out briskly. \n\n\n Bah!  replied Jean Valjean,  four paces will put life into my legs\nonce more. \n\n\nThey set off by the alleys through which the hearse had passed. On\narriving before the closed gate and the porter s pavilion Fauchelevent,\nwho held the grave-digger s card in his hand, dropped it into the box,\nthe porter pulled the rope, the gate opened, and they went out.\n\n How well everything is going!  said Fauchelevent;  what a capital idea\nthat was of yours, Father Madeleine! \n\n\nThey passed the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest manner in the world.\nIn the neighborhood of the cemetery, a shovel and pick are equal to two\npassports.\n\nThe Rue Vaugirard was deserted.\n\n Father Madeleine,  said Fauchelevent as they went along, and raising\nhis eyes to the houses,  Your eyes are better than mine. Show me No.\n87. \n\n\n Here it is,  said Jean Valjean.\n\n There is no one in the street,  said Fauchelevent.  Give me your\nmattock and wait a couple of minutes for me. \n\n\nFauchelevent entered No. 87, ascended to the very top, guided by the\ninstinct which always leads the poor man to the garret, and knocked in\nthe dark, at the door of an attic.\n\nA voice replied:  Come in. \n\n\nIt was Gribier s voice.\n\nFauchelevent opened the door. The grave-digger s dwelling was, like all\nsuch wretched habitations, an unfurnished and encumbered garret. A\npacking-case a coffin, perhaps took the place of a commode, a\nbutter-pot served for a drinking-fountain, a straw mattress served for\na bed, the floor served instead of tables and chairs. In a corner, on a\ntattered fragment which had been a piece of an old carpet, a thin woman\nand a number of children were piled in a heap. The whole of this\npoverty-stricken interior bore traces of having been overturned. One\nwould have said that there had been an earthquake  for one.  The covers\nwere displaced, the rags scattered about, the jug broken, the mother\nhad been crying, the children had probably been beaten; traces of a\nvigorous and ill-tempered search. It was plain that the grave-digger\nhad made a desperate search for his card, and had made everybody in the\ngarret, from the jug to his wife, responsible for its loss. He wore an\nair of desperation.\n\nBut Fauchelevent was in too great a hurry to terminate this adventure\nto take any notice of this sad side of his success.\n\nHe entered and said: \n\n I have brought you back your shovel and pick. \n\n\nGribier gazed at him in stupefaction.\n\n Is it you, peasant? \n\n\n And to-morrow morning you will find your card with the porter of the\ncemetery. \n\n\nAnd he laid the shovel and mattock on the floor.\n\n What is the meaning of this?  demanded Gribier.\n\n The meaning of it is, that you dropped your card out of your pocket,\nthat I found it on the ground after you were gone, that I have buried\nthe corpse, that I have filled the grave, that I have done your work,\nthat the porter will return your card to you, and that you will not\nhave to pay fifteen francs. There you have it, conscript. \n\n\n Thanks, villager!  exclaimed Gribier, radiant.  The next time I will\npay for the drinks. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII A SUCCESSFUL INTERROGATORY\n\n\nAn hour later, in the darkness of night, two men and a child presented\nthemselves at No. 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. The elder of the men lifted the\nknocker and rapped.\n\nThey were Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, and Cosette.\n\nThe two old men had gone to fetch Cosette from the fruiterer s in the\nRue du Chemin-Vert, where Fauchelevent had deposited her on the\npreceding day. Cosette had passed these twenty-four hours trembling\nsilently and understanding nothing. She trembled to such a degree that\nshe wept. She had neither eaten nor slept. The worthy fruit-seller had\nplied her with a hundred questions, without obtaining any other reply\nthan a melancholy and unvarying gaze. Cosette had betrayed nothing of\nwhat she had seen and heard during the last two days. She divined that\nthey were passing through a crisis. She was deeply conscious that it\nwas necessary to  be good.  Who has not experienced the sovereign power\nof those two words, pronounced with a certain accent in the ear of a\nterrified little being: _Say nothing! _ Fear is mute. Moreover, no one\nguards a secret like a child.\n\nBut when, at the expiration of these lugubrious twenty-four hours, she\nbeheld Jean Valjean again, she gave vent to such a cry of joy, that any\nthoughtful person who had chanced to hear that cry, would have guessed\nthat it issued from an abyss.\n\nFauchelevent belonged to the convent and knew the pass-words. All the\ndoors opened.\n\nThus was solved the double and alarming problem of how to get out and\nhow to get in.\n\nThe porter, who had received his instructions, opened the little\nservant s door which connected the courtyard with the garden, and which\ncould still be seen from the street twenty years ago, in the wall at\nthe bottom of the court, which faced the carriage entrance.\n\nThe porter admitted all three of them through this door, and from that\npoint they reached the inner, reserved parlor where Fauchelevent, on\nthe preceding day, had received his orders from the prioress.\n\nThe prioress, rosary in hand, was waiting for them. A vocal mother,\nwith her veil lowered, stood beside her.\n\nA discreet candle lighted, one might almost say, made a show of\nlighting the parlor.\n\nThe prioress passed Jean Valjean in review. There is nothing which\nexamines like a downcast eye.\n\nThen she questioned him: \n\n You are the brother? \n\n\n Yes, reverend Mother,  replied Fauchelevent.\n\n What is your name? \n\n\nFauchelevent replied: \n\n Ultime Fauchelevent. \n\n\nHe really had had a brother named Ultime, who was dead.\n\n Where do you come from? \n\n\nFauchelevent replied: \n\n From Picquigny, near Amiens. \n\n\n What is your age? \n\n\nFauchelevent replied: \n\n Fifty. \n\n\n What is your profession? \n\n\nFauchelevent replied: \n\n Gardener. \n\n\n Are you a good Christian? \n\n\nFauchelevent replied: \n\n Every one is in the family. \n\n\n Is this your little girl? \n\n\nFauchelevent replied: \n\n Yes, reverend Mother. \n\n\n You are her father? \n\n\nFauchelevent replied: \n\n Her grandfather. \n\n\nThe vocal mother said to the prioress in a low voice\n\n He answers well. \n\n\nJean Valjean had not uttered a single word.\n\nThe prioress looked attentively at Cosette, and said half aloud to the\nvocal mother: \n\n She will grow up ugly. \n\n\nThe two mothers consulted for a few moments in very low tones in the\ncorner of the parlor, then the prioress turned round and said: \n\n Father Fauvent, you will get another knee-cap with a bell. Two will be\nrequired now. \n\n\nOn the following day, therefore, two bells were audible in the garden,\nand the nuns could not resist the temptation to raise the corner of\ntheir veils. At the extreme end of the garden, under the trees, two\nmen, Fauvent and another man, were visible as they dug side by side. An\nenormous event. Their silence was broken to the extent of saying to\neach other:  He is an assistant gardener. \n\n\nThe vocal mothers added:  He is a brother of Father Fauvent. \n\n\nJean Valjean was, in fact, regularly installed; he had his belled\nknee-cap; henceforth he was official. His name was Ultime Fauchelevent.\n\nThe most powerful determining cause of his admission had been the\nprioress s observation upon Cosette:  She will grow up ugly. \n\n\nThe prioress, that pronounced prognosticator, immediately took a fancy\nto Cosette and gave her a place in the school as a charity pupil.\n\nThere is nothing that is not strictly logical about this.\n\nIt is in vain that mirrors are banished from the convent, women are\nconscious of their faces; now, girls who are conscious of their beauty\ndo not easily become nuns; the vocation being voluntary in inverse\nproportion to their good looks, more is to be hoped from the ugly than\nfrom the pretty. Hence a lively taste for plain girls.\n\nThe whole of this adventure increased the importance of good, old\nFauchelevent; he won a triple success; in the eyes of Jean Valjean,\nwhom he had saved and sheltered; in those of grave-digger Gribier, who\nsaid to himself:  He spared me that fine ; with the convent, which,\nbeing enabled, thanks to him, to retain the coffin of Mother\nCrucifixion under the altar, eluded C sar and satisfied God. There was\na coffin containing a body in the Petit-Picpus, and a coffin without a\nbody in the Vaugirard cemetery, public order had no doubt been deeply\ndisturbed thereby, but no one was aware of it.\n\nAs for the convent, its gratitude to Fauchelevent was very great.\nFauchelevent became the best of servitors and the most precious of\ngardeners. Upon the occasion of the archbishop s next visit, the\nprioress recounted the affair to his Grace, making something of a\nconfession at the same time, and yet boasting of her deed. On leaving\nthe convent, the archbishop mentioned it with approval, and in a\nwhisper to M. de Latil, Monsieur s confessor, afterwards Archbishop of\nReims and Cardinal. This admiration for Fauchelevent became widespread,\nfor it made its way to Rome. We have seen a note addressed by the then\nreigning Pope, Leo XII., to one of his relatives, a Monsignor in the\nNuncio s establishment in Paris, and bearing, like himself, the name of\nDella Genga; it contained these lines:  It appears that there is in a\nconvent in Paris an excellent gardener, who is also a holy man, named\nFauvent.  Nothing of this triumph reached Fauchelevent in his hut; he\nwent on grafting, weeding, and covering up his melon beds, without in\nthe least suspecting his excellences and his sanctity. Neither did he\nsuspect his glory, any more than a Durham or Surrey bull whose portrait\nis published in the _London Illustrated News_, with this inscription:\n Bull which carried off the prize at the Cattle Show. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX CLOISTERED\n\n\nCosette continued to hold her tongue in the convent.\n\nIt was quite natural that Cosette should think herself Jean Valjean s\ndaughter. Moreover, as she knew nothing, she could say nothing, and\nthen, she would not have said anything in any case. As we have just\nobserved, nothing trains children to silence like unhappiness. Cosette\nhad suffered so much, that she feared everything, even to speak or to\nbreathe. A single word had so often brought down an avalanche upon her.\nShe had hardly begun to regain her confidence since she had been with\nJean Valjean. She speedily became accustomed to the convent. Only she\nregretted Catherine, but she dared not say so. Once, however, she did\nsay to Jean Valjean:  Father, if I had known, I would have brought her\naway with me. \n\n\nCosette had been obliged, on becoming a scholar in the convent, to don\nthe garb of the pupils of the house. Jean Valjean succeeded in getting\nthem to restore to him the garments which she laid aside. This was the\nsame mourning suit which he had made her put on when she had quitted\nthe Th nardiers  inn. It was not very threadbare even now. Jean Valjean\nlocked up these garments, plus the stockings and the shoes, with a\nquantity of camphor and all the aromatics in which convents abound, in\na little valise which he found means of procuring. He set this valise\non a chair near his bed, and he always carried the key about his\nperson.  Father,  Cosette asked him one day,  what is there in that box\nwhich smells so good? \n\n\nFather Fauchelevent received other recompense for his good action, in\naddition to the glory which we just mentioned, and of which he knew\nnothing; in the first place it made him happy; next, he had much less\nwork, since it was shared. Lastly, as he was very fond of snuff, he\nfound the presence of M. Madeleine an advantage, in that he used three\ntimes as much as he had done previously, and that in an infinitely more\nluxurious manner, seeing that M. Madeleine paid for it.\n\nThe nuns did not adopt the name of Ultime; they called Jean Valjean\n_the other Fauvent_.\n\nIf these holy women had possessed anything of Javert s glance, they\nwould eventually have noticed that when there was any errand to be done\noutside in the behalf of the garden, it was always the elder\nFauchelevent, the old, the infirm, the lame man, who went, and never\nthe other; but whether it is that eyes constantly fixed on God know not\nhow to spy, or whether they were, by preference, occupied in keeping\nwatch on each other, they paid no heed to this.\n\nMoreover, it was well for Jean Valjean that he kept close and did not\nstir out. Javert watched the quarter for more than a month.\n\nThis convent was for Jean Valjean like an island surrounded by gulfs.\nHenceforth, those four walls constituted his world. He saw enough of\nthe sky there to enable him to preserve his serenity, and Cosette\nenough to remain happy.\n\nA very sweet life began for him.\n\nHe inhabited the old hut at the end of the garden, in company with\nFauchelevent. This hovel, built of old rubbish, which was still in\nexistence in 1845, was composed, as the reader already knows, of three\nchambers, all of which were utterly bare and had nothing beyond the\nwalls. The principal one had been given up, by force, for Jean Valjean\nhad opposed it in vain, to M. Madeleine, by Father Fauchelevent. The\nwalls of this chamber had for ornament, in addition to the two nails\nwhereon to hang the knee-cap and the basket, a Royalist bank-note of\n 93, applied to the wall over the chimney-piece, and of which the\nfollowing is an exact facsimile: \n\n[Illustration: Royalist Bank-note]\n\nThis specimen of Vendean paper money had been nailed to the wall by the\npreceding gardener, an old Chouan, who had died in the convent, and\nwhose place Fauchelevent had taken.\n\nJean Valjean worked in the garden every day and made himself very\nuseful. He had formerly been a pruner of trees, and he gladly found\nhimself a gardener once more. It will be remembered that he knew all\nsorts of secrets and receipts for agriculture. He turned these to\nadvantage. Almost all the trees in the orchard were ungrafted, and\nwild. He budded them and made them produce excellent fruit.\n\nCosette had permission to pass an hour with him every day. As the\nsisters were melancholy and he was kind, the child made comparisons and\nadored him. At the appointed hour she flew to the hut. When she entered\nthe lowly cabin, she filled it with paradise. Jean Valjean blossomed\nout and felt his happiness increase with the happiness which he\nafforded Cosette. The joy which we inspire has this charming property,\nthat, far from growing meagre, like all reflections, it returns to us\nmore radiant than ever. At recreation hours, Jean Valjean watched her\nrunning and playing in the distance, and he distinguished her laugh\nfrom that of the rest.\n\nFor Cosette laughed now.\n\nCosette s face had even undergone a change, to a certain extent. The\ngloom had disappeared from it. A smile is the same as sunshine; it\nbanishes winter from the human countenance.\n\nRecreation over, when Cosette went into the house again, Jean Valjean\ngazed at the windows of her class-room, and at night he rose to look at\nthe windows of her dormitory.\n\nGod has his own ways, moreover; the convent contributed, like Cosette,\nto uphold and complete the Bishop s work in Jean Valjean. It is certain\nthat virtue adjoins pride on one side. A bridge built by the devil\nexists there. Jean Valjean had been, unconsciously, perhaps, tolerably\nnear that side and that bridge, when Providence cast his lot in the\nconvent of the Petit-Picpus; so long as he had compared himself only to\nthe Bishop, he had regarded himself as unworthy and had remained\nhumble; but for some time past he had been comparing himself to men in\ngeneral, and pride was beginning to spring up. Who knows? He might have\nended by returning very gradually to hatred.\n\nThe convent stopped him on that downward path.\n\nThis was the second place of captivity which he had seen. In his youth,\nin what had been for him the beginning of his life, and later on, quite\nrecently again, he had beheld another, a frightful place, a terrible\nplace, whose severities had always appeared to him the iniquity of\njustice, and the crime of the law. Now, after the galleys, he saw the\ncloister; and when he meditated how he had formed a part of the\ngalleys, and that he now, so to speak, was a spectator of the cloister,\nhe confronted the two in his own mind with anxiety.\n\nSometimes he crossed his arms and leaned on his hoe, and slowly\ndescended the endless spirals of reverie.\n\nHe recalled his former companions: how wretched they were; they rose at\ndawn, and toiled until night; hardly were they permitted to sleep; they\nlay on camp beds, where nothing was tolerated but mattresses two inches\nthick, in rooms which were heated only in the very harshest months of\nthe year; they were clothed in frightful red blouses; they were\nallowed, as a great favor, linen trousers in the hottest weather, and a\nwoollen carter s blouse on their backs when it was very cold; they\ndrank no wine, and ate no meat, except when they went on  fatigue\nduty.  They lived nameless, designated only by numbers, and converted,\nafter a manner, into ciphers themselves, with downcast eyes, with\nlowered voices, with shorn heads, beneath the cudgel and in disgrace.\n\nThen his mind reverted to the beings whom he had under his eyes.\n\nThese beings also lived with shorn heads, with downcast eyes, with\nlowered voices, not in disgrace, but amid the scoffs of the world, not\nwith their backs bruised with the cudgel, but with their shoulders\nlacerated with their discipline. Their names, also, had vanished from\namong men; they no longer existed except under austere appellations.\nThey never ate meat and they never drank wine; they often remained\nuntil evening without food; they were attired, not in a red blouse, but\nin a black shroud, of woollen, which was heavy in summer and thin in\nwinter, without the power to add or subtract anything from it; without\nhaving even, according to the season, the resource of the linen garment\nor the woollen cloak; and for six months in the year they wore serge\nchemises which gave them fever. They dwelt, not in rooms warmed only\nduring rigorous cold, but in cells where no fire was ever lighted; they\nslept, not on mattresses two inches thick, but on straw. And finally,\nthey were not even allowed their sleep; every night, after a day of\ntoil, they were obliged, in the weariness of their first slumber, at\nthe moment when they were falling sound asleep and beginning to get\nwarm, to rouse themselves, to rise and to go and pray in an ice-cold\nand gloomy chapel, with their knees on the stones.\n\nOn certain days each of these beings in turn had to remain for twelve\nsuccessive hours in a kneeling posture, or prostrate, with face upon\nthe pavement, and arms outstretched in the form of a cross.\n\nThe others were men; these were women.\n\nWhat had those men done? They had stolen, violated, pillaged, murdered,\nassassinated. They were bandits, counterfeiters, poisoners,\nincendiaries, murderers, parricides. What had these women done? They\nhad done nothing whatever.\n\nOn the one hand, highway robbery, fraud, deceit, violence, sensuality,\nhomicide, all sorts of sacrilege, every variety of crime; on the other,\none thing only, innocence.\n\nPerfect innocence, almost caught up into heaven in a mysterious\nassumption, attached to the earth by virtue, already possessing\nsomething of heaven through holiness.\n\nOn the one hand, confidences over crimes, which are exchanged in\nwhispers; on the other, the confession of faults made aloud. And what\ncrimes! And what faults!\n\nOn the one hand, miasms; on the other, an ineffable perfume. On the one\nhand, a moral pest, guarded from sight, penned up under the range of\ncannon, and literally devouring its plague-stricken victims; on the\nother, the chaste flame of all souls on the same hearth. There,\ndarkness; here, the shadow; but a shadow filled with gleams of light,\nand of gleams full of radiance.\n\nTwo strongholds of slavery; but in the first, deliverance possible, a\nlegal limit always in sight, and then, escape. In the second,\nperpetuity; the sole hope, at the distant extremity of the future, that\nfaint light of liberty which men call death.\n\nIn the first, men are bound only with chains; in the other, chained by\nfaith.\n\nWhat flowed from the first? An immense curse, the gnashing of teeth,\nhatred, desperate viciousness, a cry of rage against human society, a\nsarcasm against heaven.\n\nWhat results flowed from the second? Blessings and love.\n\nAnd in these two places, so similar yet so unlike, these two species of\nbeings who were so very unlike, were undergoing the same work,\nexpiation.\n\nJean Valjean understood thoroughly the expiation of the former; that\npersonal expiation, the expiation for one s self. But he did not\nunderstand that of these last, that of creatures without reproach and\nwithout stain, and he trembled as he asked himself: The expiation of\nwhat? What expiation?\n\nA voice within his conscience replied:  The most divine of human\ngenerosities, the expiation for others. \n\n\nHere all personal theory is withheld; we are only the narrator; we\nplace ourselves at Jean Valjean s point of view, and we translate his\nimpressions.\n\nBefore his eyes he had the sublime summit of abnegation, the highest\npossible pitch of virtue; the innocence which pardons men their faults,\nand which expiates in their stead; servitude submitted to, torture\naccepted, punishment claimed by souls which have not sinned, for the\nsake of sparing it to souls which have fallen; the love of humanity\nswallowed up in the love of God, but even there preserving its distinct\nand mediatorial character; sweet and feeble beings possessing the\nmisery of those who are punished and the smile of those who are\nrecompensed.\n\nAnd he remembered that he had dared to murmur!\n\nOften, in the middle of the night, he rose to listen to the grateful\nsong of those innocent creatures weighed down with severities, and the\nblood ran cold in his veins at the thought that those who were justly\nchastised raised their voices heavenward only in blasphemy, and that\nhe, wretch that he was, had shaken his fist at God.\n\nThere was one striking thing which caused him to meditate deeply, like\na warning whisper from Providence itself: the scaling of that wall, the\npassing of those barriers, the adventure accepted even at the risk of\ndeath, the painful and difficult ascent, all those efforts even, which\nhe had made to escape from that other place of expiation, he had made\nin order to gain entrance into this one. Was this a symbol of his\ndestiny? This house was a prison likewise and bore a melancholy\nresemblance to that other one whence he had fled, and yet he had never\nconceived an idea of anything similar.\n\nAgain he beheld gratings, bolts, iron bars to guard whom? Angels.\n\nThese lofty walls which he had seen around tigers, he now beheld once\nmore around lambs.\n\nThis was a place of expiation, and not of punishment; and yet, it was\nstill more austere, more gloomy, and more pitiless than the other.\n\nThese virgins were even more heavily burdened than the convicts. A\ncold, harsh wind, that wind which had chilled his youth, traversed the\nbarred and padlocked grating of the vultures; a still harsher and more\nbiting breeze blew in the cage of these doves.\n\nWhy?\n\nWhen he thought on these things, all that was within him was lost in\namazement before this mystery of sublimity.\n\nIn these meditations, his pride vanished. He scrutinized his own heart\nin all manner of ways; he felt his pettiness, and many a time he wept.\nAll that had entered into his life for the last six months had led him\nback towards the Bishop s holy injunctions; Cosette through love, the\nconvent through humility.\n\nSometimes at eventide, in the twilight, at an hour when the garden was\ndeserted, he could be seen on his knees in the middle of the walk which\nskirted the chapel, in front of the window through which he had gazed\non the night of his arrival, and turned towards the spot where, as he\nknew, the sister was making reparation, prostrated in prayer. Thus he\nprayed as he knelt before the sister.\n\nIt seemed as though he dared not kneel directly before God.\n\nEverything that surrounded him, that peaceful garden, those fragrant\nflowers, those children who uttered joyous cries, those grave and\nsimple women, that silent cloister, slowly permeated him, and little by\nlittle, his soul became compounded of silence like the cloister, of\nperfume like the flowers, of simplicity like the women, of joy like the\nchildren. And then he reflected that these had been two houses of God\nwhich had received him in succession at two critical moments in his\nlife: the first, when all doors were closed and when human society\nrejected him; the second, at a moment when human society had again set\nout in pursuit of him, and when the galleys were again yawning; and\nthat, had it not been for the first, he should have relapsed into\ncrime, and had it not been for the second, into torment.\n\nHis whole heart melted in gratitude, and he loved more and more.\n\nMany years passed in this manner; Cosette was growing up.\n\n[THE END OF VOLUME II  COSETTE ]\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME III\nMARIUS\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Frontispiece Volume Three]\n\n[Illustration: Titlepage Volume Three]\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIRST PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I PARVULUS\n\n\nParis has a child, and the forest has a bird; the bird is called the\nsparrow; the child is called the gamin.\n\nCouple these two ideas which contain, the one all the furnace, the\nother all the dawn; strike these two sparks together, Paris, childhood;\nthere leaps out from them a little being. _Homuncio_, Plautus would\nsay.\n\nThis little being is joyous. He has not food every day, and he goes to\nthe play every evening, if he sees good. He has no shirt on his body,\nno shoes on his feet, no roof over his head; he is like the flies of\nheaven, who have none of these things. He is from seven to thirteen\nyears of age, he lives in bands, roams the streets, lodges in the open\nair, wears an old pair of trousers of his father s, which descend below\nhis heels, an old hat of some other father, which descends below his\nears, a single suspender of yellow listing; he runs, lies in wait,\nrummages about, wastes time, blackens pipes, swears like a convict,\nhaunts the wine-shop, knows thieves, calls gay women _thou_, talks\nslang, sings obscene songs, and has no evil in his heart. This is\nbecause he has in his heart a pearl, innocence; and pearls are not to\nbe dissolved in mud. So long as man is in his childhood, God wills that\nhe shall be innocent.\n\nIf one were to ask that enormous city:  What is this?  she would reply:\n It is my little one. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II SOME OF HIS PARTICULAR CHARACTERISTICS\n\n\nThe gamin the street Arab of Paris is the dwarf of the giant.\n\nLet us not exaggerate, this cherub of the gutter sometimes has a shirt,\nbut, in that case, he owns but one; he sometimes has shoes, but then\nthey have no soles; he sometimes has a lodging, and he loves it, for he\nfinds his mother there; but he prefers the street, because there he\nfinds liberty. He has his own games, his own bits of mischief, whose\nfoundation consists of hatred for the bourgeois; his peculiar\nmetaphors: to be dead is _to eat dandelions by the root_; his own\noccupations, calling hackney-coaches, letting down carriage-steps,\nestablishing means of transit between the two sides of a street in\nheavy rains, which he calls _making the bridge of arts_, crying\ndiscourses pronounced by the authorities in favor of the French people,\ncleaning out the cracks in the pavement; he has his own coinage, which\nis composed of all the little morsels of worked copper which are found\non the public streets. This curious money, which receives the name of\n_loques_ rags has an invariable and well-regulated currency in this\nlittle Bohemia of children.\n\nLastly, he has his own fauna, which he observes attentively in the\ncorners; the lady-bird, the death s-head plant-louse, the\ndaddy-long-legs,  the devil,  a black insect, which menaces by twisting\nabout its tail armed with two horns. He has his fabulous monster, which\nhas scales under its belly, but is not a lizard, which has pustules on\nits back, but is not a toad, which inhabits the nooks of old lime-kilns\nand wells that have run dry, which is black, hairy, sticky, which\ncrawls sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly, which has no cry, but which\nhas a look, and is so terrible that no one has ever beheld it; he calls\nthis monster  the deaf thing.  The search for these  deaf things  among\nthe stones is a joy of formidable nature. Another pleasure consists in\nsuddenly prying up a paving-stone, and taking a look at the wood-lice.\nEach region of Paris is celebrated for the interesting treasures which\nare to be found there. There are ear-wigs in the timber-yards of the\nUrsulines, there are millepeds in the Pantheon, there are tadpoles in\nthe ditches of the Champs-de-Mars.\n\nAs far as sayings are concerned, this child has as many of them as\nTalleyrand. He is no less cynical, but he is more honest. He is endowed\nwith a certain indescribable, unexpected joviality; he upsets the\ncomposure of the shopkeeper with his wild laughter. He ranges boldly\nfrom high comedy to farce.\n\nA funeral passes by. Among those who accompany the dead there is a\ndoctor.  Hey there!  shouts some street Arab,  how long has it been\ncustomary for doctors to carry home their own work? \n\n\nAnother is in a crowd. A grave man, adorned with spectacles and\ntrinkets, turns round indignantly:  You good-for-nothing, you have\nseized my wife s waist! I, sir? Search me! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III HE IS AGREEABLE\n\n\nIn the evening, thanks to a few sous, which he always finds means to\nprocure, the _homuncio_ enters a theatre. On crossing that magic\nthreshold, he becomes transfigured; he was the street Arab, he becomes\nthe titi.18 Theatres are a sort of ship turned upside down with the\nkeel in the air. It is in that keel that the titi huddle together. The\ntiti is to the gamin what the moth is to the larva; the same being\nendowed with wings and soaring. It suffices for him to be there, with\nhis radiance of happiness, with his power of enthusiasm and joy, with\nhis hand-clapping, which resembles a clapping of wings, to confer on\nthat narrow, dark, fetid, sordid, unhealthy, hideous, abominable keel,\nthe name of Paradise.\n\nBestow on an individual the useless and deprive him of the necessary,\nand you have the gamin.\n\nThe gamin is not devoid of literary intuition. His tendency, and we say\nit with the proper amount of regret, would not constitute classic\ntaste. He is not very academic by nature. Thus, to give an example, the\npopularity of Mademoiselle Mars among that little audience of stormy\nchildren was seasoned with a touch of irony. The gamin called her\n_Mademoiselle Muche_ hide yourself. \n\n\nThis being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and fights, has rags like a\nbaby and tatters like a philosopher, fishes in the sewer, hunts in the\ncesspool, extracts mirth from foulness, whips up the squares with his\nwit, grins and bites, whistles and sings, shouts, and shrieks, tempers\nAlleluia with Matanturlurette, chants every rhythm from the De\nProfundis to the Jack-pudding, finds without seeking, knows what he is\nignorant of, is a Spartan to the point of thieving, is mad to wisdom,\nis lyrical to filth, would crouch down on Olympus, wallows in the\ndunghill and emerges from it covered with stars. The gamin of Paris is\nRabelais in this youth.\n\nHe is not content with his trousers unless they have a watch-pocket.\n\nHe is not easily astonished, he is still less easily terrified, he\nmakes songs on superstitions, he takes the wind out of exaggerations,\nhe twits mysteries, he thrusts out his tongue at ghosts, he takes the\npoetry out of stilted things, he introduces caricature into epic\nextravaganzas. It is not that he is prosaic; far from that; but he\nreplaces the solemn vision by the farcical phantasmagoria. If Adamastor\nwere to appear to him, the street Arab would say:  Hi there! The\nbugaboo! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV HE MAY BE OF USE\n\n\nParis begins with the lounger and ends with the street Arab, two beings\nof which no other city is capable; the passive acceptance, which\ncontents itself with gazing, and the inexhaustible initiative;\nPrudhomme and Fouillou. Paris alone has this in its natural history.\nThe whole of the monarchy is contained in the lounger; the whole of\nanarchy in the gamin.\n\nThis pale child of the Parisian faubourgs lives and develops, makes\nconnections,  grows supple  in suffering, in the presence of social\nrealities and of human things, a thoughtful witness. He thinks himself\nheedless; and he is not. He looks and is on the verge of laughter; he\nis on the verge of something else also. Whoever you may be, if your\nname is Prejudice, Abuse, Ignorance, Oppression, Iniquity, Despotism,\nInjustice, Fanaticism, Tyranny, beware of the gaping gamin.\n\nThe little fellow will grow up.\n\nOf what clay is he made? Of the first mud that comes to hand. A handful\nof dirt, a breath, and behold Adam. It suffices for a God to pass by. A\nGod has always passed over the street Arab. Fortune labors at this tiny\nbeing. By the word  fortune  we mean chance, to some extent. That pigmy\nkneaded out of common earth, ignorant, unlettered, giddy, vulgar, low.\nWill that become an Ionian or a B otian? Wait, _currit rota_, the\nSpirit of Paris, that demon which creates the children of chance and\nthe men of destiny, reversing the process of the Latin potter, makes of\na jug an amphora.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V HIS FRONTIERS\n\n\nThe gamin loves the city, he also loves solitude, since he has\nsomething of the sage in him. _Urbis amator_, like Fuscus; _ruris\namator_, like Flaccus.\n\nTo roam thoughtfully about, that is to say, to lounge, is a fine\nemployment of time in the eyes of the philosopher; particularly in that\nrather illegitimate species of campaign, which is tolerably ugly but\nodd and composed of two natures, which surrounds certain great cities,\nnotably Paris. To study the suburbs is to study the amphibious animal.\nEnd of the trees, beginning of the roofs; end of the grass, beginning\nof the pavements; end of the furrows, beginning of the shops, end of\nthe wheel-ruts, beginning of the passions; end of the divine murmur,\nbeginning of the human uproar; hence an extraordinary interest.\n\nHence, in these not very attractive places, indelibly stamped by the\npassing stroller with the epithet: _melancholy_, the apparently\nobjectless promenades of the dreamer.\n\nHe who writes these lines has long been a prowler about the barriers of\nParis, and it is for him a source of profound souvenirs. That\nclose-shaven turf, those pebbly paths, that chalk, those pools, those\nharsh monotonies of waste and fallow lands, the plants of early\nmarket-garden suddenly springing into sight in a bottom, that mixture\nof the savage and the citizen, those vast desert nooks where the\ngarrison drums practise noisily, and produce a sort of lisping of\nbattle, those hermits by day and cut-throats by night, that clumsy mill\nwhich turns in the wind, the hoisting-wheels of the quarries, the\ntea-gardens at the corners of the cemeteries; the mysterious charm of\ngreat, sombre walls squarely intersecting immense, vague stretches of\nland inundated with sunshine and full of butterflies, all this\nattracted him.\n\nThere is hardly any one on earth who is not acquainted with those\nsingular spots, the Glaci re, the Cunette, the hideous wall of Grenelle\nall speckled with balls, Mont-Parnasse, the Fosse-aux-Loups, Aubiers on\nthe bank of the Marne, Mont-Souris, the Tombe-Issoire, the Pierre-Plate\nde Ch tillon, where there is an old, exhausted quarry which no longer\nserves any purpose except to raise mushrooms, and which is closed, on a\nlevel with the ground, by a trap-door of rotten planks. The campagna of\nRome is one idea, the banlieue of Paris is another; to behold nothing\nbut fields, houses, or trees in what a stretch of country offers us, is\nto remain on the surface; all aspects of things are thoughts of God.\nThe spot where a plain effects its junction with a city is always\nstamped with a certain piercing melancholy. Nature and humanity both\nappeal to you at the same time there. Local originalities there make\ntheir appearance.\n\nAny one who, like ourselves, has wandered about in these solitudes\ncontiguous to our faubourgs, which may be designated as the limbos of\nParis, has seen here and there, in the most desert spot, at the most\nunexpected moment, behind a meagre hedge, or in the corner of a\nlugubrious wall, children grouped tumultuously, fetid, muddy, dusty,\nragged, dishevelled, playing hide-and-seek, and crowned with\ncorn-flowers. All of them are little ones who have made their escape\nfrom poor families. The outer boulevard is their breathing space; the\nsuburbs belong to them. There they are eternally playing truant. There\nthey innocently sing their repertory of dirty songs. There they are, or\nrather, there they exist, far from every eye, in the sweet light of May\nor June, kneeling round a hole in the ground, snapping marbles with\ntheir thumbs, quarrelling over half-farthings, irresponsible, volatile,\nfree and happy; and, no sooner do they catch sight of you than they\nrecollect that they have an industry, and that they must earn their\nliving, and they offer to sell you an old woollen stocking filled with\ncockchafers, or a bunch of lilacs. These encounters with strange\nchildren are one of the charming and at the same time poignant graces\nof the environs of Paris.\n\nSometimes there are little girls among the throng of boys, are they\ntheir sisters? who are almost young maidens, thin, feverish, with\nsunburnt hands, covered with freckles, crowned with poppies and ears of\nrye, gay, haggard, barefooted. They can be seen devouring cherries\namong the wheat. In the evening they can be heard laughing. These\ngroups, warmly illuminated by the full glow of midday, or indistinctly\nseen in the twilight, occupy the thoughtful man for a very long time,\nand these visions mingle with his dreams.\n\nParis, centre, banlieue, circumference; this constitutes all the earth\nto those children. They never venture beyond this. They can no more\nescape from the Parisian atmosphere than fish can escape from the\nwater. For them, nothing exists two leagues beyond the barriers: Ivry,\nGentilly, Arcueil, Belleville, Aubervilliers, M nilmontant,\nChoisy-le-Roi, Billancourt, Meudon, Issy, Vanvre, S vres, Puteaux,\nNeuilly, Gennevilliers, Colombes, Romainville, Chatou, Asni res,\nBougival, Nanterre, Enghien, Noisy-le-Sec, Nogent, Gournay, Drancy,\nGonesse; the universe ends there.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI A BIT OF HISTORY\n\n\nAt the epoch, nearly contemporary by the way, when the action of this\nbook takes place, there was not, as there is to-day, a policeman at the\ncorner of every street (a benefit which there is no time to discuss\nhere); stray children abounded in Paris. The statistics give an average\nof two hundred and sixty homeless children picked up annually at that\nperiod, by the police patrols, in unenclosed lands, in houses in\nprocess of construction, and under the arches of the bridges. One of\nthese nests, which has become famous, produced  the swallows of the\nbridge of Arcola.  This is, moreover, the most disastrous of social\nsymptoms. All crimes of the man begin in the vagabondage of the child.\n\nLet us make an exception in favor of Paris, nevertheless. In a relative\nmeasure, and in spite of the souvenir which we have just recalled, the\nexception is just. While in any other great city the vagabond child is\na lost man, while nearly everywhere the child left to itself is, in\nsome sort, sacrificed and abandoned to a kind of fatal immersion in the\npublic vices which devour in him honesty and conscience, the street boy\nof Paris, we insist on this point, however defaced and injured on the\nsurface, is almost intact on the interior. It is a magnificent thing to\nput on record, and one which shines forth in the splendid probity of\nour popular revolutions, that a certain incorruptibility results from\nthe idea which exists in the air of Paris, as salt exists in the water\nof the ocean. To breathe Paris preserves the soul.\n\nWhat we have just said takes away nothing of the anguish of heart which\none experiences every time that one meets one of these children around\nwhom one fancies that he beholds floating the threads of a broken\nfamily. In the civilization of the present day, incomplete as it still\nis, it is not a very abnormal thing to behold these fractured families\npouring themselves out into the darkness, not knowing clearly what has\nbecome of their children, and allowing their own entrails to fall on\nthe public highway. Hence these obscure destinies. This is called, for\nthis sad thing has given rise to an expression,  to be cast on the\npavements of Paris. \n\n\nLet it be said by the way, that this abandonment of children was not\ndiscouraged by the ancient monarchy. A little of Egypt and Bohemia in\nthe lower regions suited the upper spheres, and compassed the aims of\nthe powerful. The hatred of instruction for the children of the people\nwas a dogma. What is the use of  half-lights ? Such was the\ncountersign. Now, the erring child is the corollary of the ignorant\nchild.\n\nBesides this, the monarchy sometimes was in need of children, and in\nthat case it skimmed the streets.\n\nUnder Louis XIV., not to go any further back, the king rightly desired\nto create a fleet. The idea was a good one. But let us consider the\nmeans. There can be no fleet, if, beside the sailing ship, that\nplaything of the winds, and for the purpose of towing it, in case of\nnecessity, there is not the vessel which goes where it pleases, either\nby means of oars or of steam; the galleys were then to the marine what\nsteamers are to-day. Therefore, galleys were necessary; but the galley\nis moved only by the galley-slave; hence, galley-slaves were required.\nColbert had the commissioners of provinces and the parliaments make as\nmany convicts as possible. The magistracy showed a great deal of\ncomplaisance in the matter. A man kept his hat on in the presence of a\nprocession it was a Huguenot attitude; he was sent to the galleys. A\nchild was encountered in the streets; provided that he was fifteen\nyears of age and did not know where he was to sleep, he was sent to the\ngalleys. Grand reign; grand century.\n\nUnder Louis XV. children disappeared in Paris; the police carried them\noff, for what mysterious purpose no one knew. People whispered with\nterror monstrous conjectures as to the king s baths of purple. Barbier\nspeaks ingenuously of these things. It sometimes happened that the\nexempts of the guard, when they ran short of children, took those who\nhad fathers. The fathers, in despair, attacked the exempts. In that\ncase, the parliament intervened and had some one hung. Who? The\nexempts? No, the fathers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE GAMIN SHOULD HAVE HIS PLACE IN THE CLASSIFICATIONS OF\nINDIA\n\n\nThe body of street Arabs in Paris almost constitutes a caste. One might\nalmost say: Not every one who wishes to belong to it can do so.\n\nThis word _gamin_ was printed for the first time, and reached popular\nspeech through the literary tongue, in 1834. It is in a little work\nentitled _Claude Gueux_ that this word made its appearance. The horror\nwas lively. The word passed into circulation.\n\nThe elements which constitute the consideration of the gamins for each\nother are very various. We have known and associated with one who was\ngreatly respected and vastly admired because he had seen a man fall\nfrom the top of the tower of Notre-Dame; another, because he had\nsucceeded in making his way into the rear courtyard where the statues\nof the dome of the Invalides had been temporarily deposited, and had\n prigged  some lead from them; a third, because he had seen a diligence\ntip over; still another, because he  knew  a soldier who came near\nputting out the eye of a citizen.\n\nThis explains that famous exclamation of a Parisian gamin, a profound\nepiphonema, which the vulgar herd laughs at without comprehending, \n_Dieu de Dieu! What ill-luck I do have! to think that I have never yet\nseen anybody tumble from a fifth-story window! _ (_I have_ pronounced\n_I ave_ and _fifth_ pronounced _fift _.)\n\nSurely, this saying of a peasant is a fine one:  Father So-and-So, your\nwife has died of her malady; why did you not send for the doctor? \n What would you have, sir, we poor folks _die of ourselves_.  But if\nthe peasant s whole passivity lies in this saying, the whole of the\nfree-thinking anarchy of the brat of the faubourgs is, assuredly,\ncontained in this other saying. A man condemned to death is listening\nto his confessor in the tumbrel. The child of Paris exclaims:  He is\ntalking to his black cap! Oh, the sneak! \n\n\nA certain audacity on matters of religion sets off the gamin. To be\nstrong-minded is an important item.\n\nTo be present at executions constitutes a duty. He shows himself at the\nguillotine, and he laughs. He calls it by all sorts of pet names: The\nEnd of the Soup, The Growler, The Mother in the Blue (the sky), The\nLast Mouthful, etc., etc. In order not to lose anything of the affair,\nhe scales the walls, he hoists himself to balconies, he ascends trees,\nhe suspends himself to gratings, he clings fast to chimneys. The gamin\nis born a tiler as he is born a mariner. A roof inspires him with no\nmore fear than a mast. There is no festival which comes up to an\nexecution on the Place de Gr ve. Samson and the Abb  Mont s are the\ntruly popular names. They hoot at the victim in order to encourage him.\nThey sometimes admire him. Lacenaire, when a gamin, on seeing the\nhideous Dautin die bravely, uttered these words which contain a future:\n I was jealous of him.  In the brotherhood of gamins Voltaire is not\nknown, but Papavoine is.  Politicians  are confused with assassins in\nthe same legend. They have a tradition as to everybody s last garment.\nIt is known that Tolleron had a fireman s cap, Avril an otter cap,\nLosvel a round hat, that old Delaporte was bald and bareheaded, that\nCastaing was all ruddy and very handsome, that Bories had a romantic\nsmall beard, that Jean Martin kept on his suspenders, that Lecouff  and\nhis mother quarrelled.  Don t reproach each other for your basket, \nshouted a gamin to them. Another, in order to get a look at Debacker as\nhe passed, and being too small in the crowd, caught sight of the\nlantern on the quay and climbed it. A gendarme stationed opposite\nfrowned.  Let me climb up, m sieu le gendarme,  said the gamin. And, to\nsoften the heart of the authorities he added:  I will not fall.   I\ndon t care if you do,  retorted the gendarme.\n\nIn the brotherhood of gamins, a memorable accident counts for a great\ndeal. One reaches the height of consideration if one chances to cut\none s self very deeply,  to the very bone. \n\n\nThe fist is no mediocre element of respect. One of the things that the\ngamin is fondest of saying is:  I am fine and strong, come now!  To be\nleft-handed renders you very enviable. A squint is highly esteemed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A CHARMING SAYING OF THE\nLAST KING\n\n\nIn summer, he metamorphoses himself into a frog; and in the evening,\nwhen night is falling, in front of the bridges of Austerlitz and Jena,\nfrom the tops of coal wagons, and the washerwomen s boats, he hurls\nhimself headlong into the Seine, and into all possible infractions of\nthe laws of modesty and of the police. Nevertheless the police keep an\neye on him, and the result is a highly dramatic situation which once\ngave rise to a fraternal and memorable cry; that cry which was\ncelebrated about 1830, is a strategic warning from gamin to gamin; it\nscans like a verse from Homer, with a notation as inexpressible as the\neleusiac chant of the Panathen a, and in it one encounters again the\nancient Evohe. Here it is:  Oh , Titi, oh ! Here comes the bobby,\nhere comes the p lice, pick up your duds and be off, through the sewer\nwith you! \n\n\nSometimes this gnat that is what he calls himself knows how to read;\nsometimes he knows how to write; he always knows how to daub. He does\nnot hesitate to acquire, by no one knows what mysterious mutual\ninstruction, all the talents which can be of use to the public; from\n1815 to 1830, he imitated the cry of the turkey; from 1830 to 1848, he\nscrawled pears on the walls. One summer evening, when Louis Philippe\nwas returning home on foot, he saw a little fellow, no higher than his\nknee, perspiring and climbing up to draw a gigantic pear in charcoal on\none of the pillars of the gate of Neuilly; the King, with that\ngood-nature which came to him from Henry IV., helped the gamin,\nfinished the pear, and gave the child a louis, saying:  The pear is on\nthat also. 19 The gamin loves uproar. A certain state of violence\npleases him. He execrates  the cur s.  One day, in the Rue de\nl Universit , one of these scamps was putting his thumb to his nose at\nthe carriage gate of No. 69.  Why are you doing that at the gate?  a\npasser-by asked. The boy replied:  There is a cur  there.  It was\nthere, in fact, that the Papal Nuncio lived.\n\nNevertheless, whatever may be the Voltairianism of the small gamin, if\nthe occasion to become a chorister presents itself, it is quite\npossible that he will accept, and in that case he serves the mass\ncivilly. There are two things to which he plays Tantalus, and which he\nalways desires without ever attaining them: to overthrow the\ngovernment, and to get his trousers sewed up again.\n\nThe gamin in his perfect state possesses all the policemen of Paris,\nand can always put the name to the face of any one which he chances to\nmeet. He can tell them off on the tips of his fingers. He studies their\nhabits, and he has special notes on each one of them. He reads the\nsouls of the police like an open book. He will tell you fluently and\nwithout flinching:  Such an one is a _traitor_; such another is very\n_malicious_; such another is _great_; such another is _ridiculous_. \n(All these words: traitor, malicious, great, ridiculous, have a\nparticular meaning in his mouth.) That one imagines that he owns the\nPont-Neuf, and he prevents _people_ from walking on the cornice outside\nthe parapet; that other has a mania for pulling _person s_ ears; etc.,\netc.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX THE OLD SOUL OF GAUL\n\n\nThere was something of that boy in Poquelin, the son of the\nfish-market; Beaumarchais had something of it. Gaminerie is a shade of\nthe Gallic spirit. Mingled with good sense, it sometimes adds force to\nthe latter, as alcohol does to wine. Sometimes it is a defect. Homer\nrepeats himself eternally, granted; one may say that Voltaire plays the\ngamin. Camille Desmoulins was a native of the faubourgs. Championnet,\nwho treated miracles brutally, rose from the pavements of Paris; he\nhad, when a small lad, inundated the porticos of Saint-Jean de\nBeauvais, and of Saint- tienne du Mont; he had addressed the shrine of\nSainte-Genevi ve familiarly to give orders to the phial of Saint\nJanuarius.\n\nThe gamin of Paris is respectful, ironical, and insolent. He has\nvillainous teeth, because he is badly fed and his stomach suffers, and\nhandsome eyes because he has wit. If Jehovah himself were present, he\nwould go hopping up the steps of paradise on one foot. He is strong on\nboxing. All beliefs are possible to him. He plays in the gutter, and\nstraightens himself up with a revolt; his effrontery persists even in\nthe presence of grape-shot; he was a scapegrace, he is a hero; like the\nlittle Theban, he shakes the skin from the lion; Barra the drummer-boy\nwas a gamin of Paris; he Shouts:  Forward!  as the horse of Scripture\nsays  Vah!  and in a moment he has passed from the small brat to the\ngiant.\n\nThis child of the puddle is also the child of the ideal. Measure that\nspread of wings which reaches from Moli re to Barra.\n\nTo sum up the whole, and in one word, the gamin is a being who amuses\nhimself, because he is unhappy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X ECCE PARIS, ECCE HOMO\n\n\nTo sum it all up once more, the Paris gamin of to-day, like the\n_gr culus_ of Rome in days gone by, is the infant populace with the\nwrinkle of the old world on his brow.\n\nThe gamin is a grace to the nation, and at the same time a disease; a\ndisease which must be cured, how? By light.\n\nLight renders healthy.\n\nLight kindles.\n\nAll generous social irradiations spring from science, letters, arts,\neducation. Make men, make men. Give them light that they may warm you.\nSooner or later the splendid question of universal education will\npresent itself with the irresistible authority of the absolute truth;\nand then, those who govern under the superintendence of the French idea\nwill have to make this choice; the children of France or the gamins of\nParis; flames in the light or will-o -the-wisps in the gloom.\n\nThe gamin expresses Paris, and Paris expresses the world.\n\nFor Paris is a total. Paris is the ceiling of the human race. The whole\nof this prodigious city is a foreshortening of dead manners and living\nmanners. He who sees Paris thinks he sees the bottom of all history\nwith heaven and constellations in the intervals. Paris has a capital,\nthe Town-Hall, a Parthenon, Notre-Dame, a Mount Aventine, the Faubourg\nSaint-Antoine, an Asinarium, the Sorbonne, a Pantheon, the Pantheon, a\nVia Sacra, the Boulevard des Italiens, a temple of the winds, opinion;\nand it replaces the Gemoni  by ridicule. Its _majo_ is called  faraud, \nits Transteverin is the man of the faubourgs, its _hammal_ is the\nmarket-porter, its lazzarone is the p gre, its cockney is the native of\nGhent. Everything that exists elsewhere exists at Paris. The fishwoman\nof Dumarsais can retort on the herb-seller of Euripides, the discobols\nVejanus lives again in the Forioso, the tight-rope dancer.\nTherapontigonus Miles could walk arm in arm with Vadebonc ur the\ngrenadier, Damasippus the second-hand dealer would be happy among\nbric- -brac merchants, Vincennes could grasp Socrates in its fist as\njust as Agora could imprison Diderot, Grimod de la Reyni re discovered\nlarded roast beef, as Curtillus invented roast hedgehog, we see the\ntrapeze which figures in Plautus reappear under the vault of the Arc of\nl Etoile, the sword-eater of P cilus encountered by Apuleius is a\nsword-swallower on the Pont-Neuf, the nephew of Rameau and Curculio the\nparasite make a pair, Ergasilus could get himself presented to\nCambac res by d Aigrefeuille; the four dandies of Rome: Alcesimarchus,\nPh dromus, Diabolus, and Argyrippus, descend from Courtille in\nLabatut s posting-chaise; Aulus Gellius would halt no longer in front\nof Congrio than would Charles Nodier in front of Punchinello; Marto is\nnot a tigress, but Pardalisca was not a dragon; Pantolabus the wag\njeers in the Caf  Anglais at Nomentanus the fast liver, Hermogenus is a\ntenor in the Champs- lys es, and round him, Thracius the beggar, clad\nlike Bob che, takes up a collection; the bore who stops you by the\nbutton of your coat in the Tuileries makes you repeat after a lapse of\ntwo thousand years Thesprion s apostrophe: _Quis properantem me\nprehendit pallio? _ The wine on Sur ne is a parody of the wine of Alba,\nthe red border of Desaugiers forms a balance to the great cutting of\nBalatro, P re-Lachaise exhales beneath nocturnal rains the same gleams\nas the Esquili , and the grave of the poor bought for five years, is\ncertainly the equivalent of the slave s hived coffin.\n\nSeek something that Paris has not. The vat of Trophonius contains\nnothing that is not in Mesmer s tub; Ergaphilas lives again in\nCagliostro; the Brahmin V saphant  become incarnate in the Comte de\nSaint-Germain; the cemetery of Saint-M dard works quite as good\nmiracles as the Mosque of Oumoumi  at Damascus.\n\nParis has an  sop-Mayeux, and a Canidia, Mademoiselle Lenormand. It is\nterrified, like Delphos at the fulgurating realities of the vision; it\nmakes tables turn as Dodona did tripods. It places the grisette on the\nthrone, as Rome placed the courtesan there; and, taking it altogether,\nif Louis XV. is worse than Claudian, Madame Dubarry is better than\nMessalina. Paris combines in an unprecedented type, which has existed\nand which we have elbowed, Grecian nudity, the Hebraic ulcer, and the\nGascon pun. It mingles Diogenes, Job, and Jack-pudding, dresses up a\nspectre in old numbers of the _Constitutional_, and makes Chodruc\nDuclos.\n\nAlthough Plutarch says: _the tyrant never grows old_, Rome, under Sylla\nas under Domitian, resigned itself and willingly put water in its wine.\nThe Tiber was a Lethe, if the rather doctrinary eulogium made of it by\nVarus Vibiscus is to be credited: _Contra Gracchos Tiberim habemus,\nBibere Tiberim, id est seditionem oblivisci_. Paris drinks a million\nlitres of water a day, but that does not prevent it from occasionally\nbeating the general alarm and ringing the tocsin.\n\nWith that exception, Paris is amiable. It accepts everything royally;\nit is not too particular about its Venus; its Callipyge is Hottentot;\nprovided that it is made to laugh, it condones; ugliness cheers it,\ndeformity provokes it to laughter, vice diverts it; be eccentric and\nyou may be an eccentric; even hypocrisy, that supreme cynicism, does\nnot disgust it; it is so literary that it does not hold its nose before\nBasile, and is no more scandalized by the prayer of Tartuffe than\nHorace was repelled by the  hiccup  of Priapus. No trait of the\nuniversal face is lacking in the profile of Paris. The bal Mabile is\nnot the polymnia dance of the Janiculum, but the dealer in ladies \nwearing apparel there devours the lorette with her eyes, exactly as the\nprocuress Staphyla lay in wait for the virgin Planesium. The Barri re\ndu Combat is not the Coliseum, but people are as ferocious there as\nthough C sar were looking on. The Syrian hostess has more grace than\nMother Saguet, but, if Virgil haunted the Roman wine-shop, David\nd Angers, Balzac and Charlet have sat at the tables of Parisian\ntaverns. Paris reigns. Geniuses flash forth there, the red tails\nprosper there. Adona  passes on his chariot with its twelve wheels of\nthunder and lightning; Silenus makes his entry there on his ass. For\nSilenus read Ramponneau.\n\nParis is the synonym of Cosmos, Paris is Athens, Sybaris, Jerusalem,\nPantin. All civilizations are there in an abridged form, all barbarisms\nalso. Paris would greatly regret it if it had not a guillotine.\n\nA little of the Place de Gr ve is a good thing. What would all that\neternal festival be without this seasoning? Our laws are wisely\nprovided, and thanks to them, this blade drips on this Shrove Tuesday.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI TO SCOFF, TO REIGN\n\n\nThere is no limit to Paris. No city has had that domination which\nsometimes derides those whom it subjugates. To please you, O Athenians!\nexclaimed Alexander. Paris makes more than the law, it makes the\nfashion; Paris sets more than the fashion, it sets the routine. Paris\nmay be stupid, if it sees fit; it sometimes allows itself this luxury;\nthen the universe is stupid in company with it; then Paris awakes, rubs\nits eyes, says:  How stupid I am!  and bursts out laughing in the face\nof the human race. What a marvel is such a city! it is a strange thing\nthat this grandioseness and this burlesque should be amicable\nneighbors, that all this majesty should not be thrown into disorder by\nall this parody, and that the same mouth can to-day blow into the trump\nof the Judgment Day, and to-morrow into the reed-flute! Paris has a\nsovereign joviality. Its gayety is of the thunder and its farce holds a\nsceptre.\n\nIts tempest sometimes proceeds from a grimace. Its explosions, its\ndays, its masterpieces, its prodigies, its epics, go forth to the\nbounds of the universe, and so also do its cock-and-bull stories. Its\nlaugh is the mouth of a volcano which spatters the whole earth. Its\njests are sparks. It imposes its caricatures as well as its ideal on\npeople; the highest monuments of human civilization accept its ironies\nand lend their eternity to its mischievous pranks. It is superb; it has\na prodigious 14th of July, which delivers the globe; it forces all\nnations to take the oath of tennis; its night of the 4th of August\ndissolves in three hours a thousand years of feudalism; it makes of its\nlogic the muscle of unanimous will; it multiplies itself under all\nsorts of forms of the sublime; it fills with its light Washington,\nKosciusko, Bolivar, Bozzaris, Riego, Bem, Manin, Lopez, John Brown,\nGaribaldi; it is everywhere where the future is being lighted up, at\nBoston in 1779, at the Isle de L on in 1820, at Pesth in 1848, at\nPalermo in 1860, it whispers the mighty countersign: Liberty, in the\near of the American abolitionists grouped about the boat at Harper s\nFerry, and in the ear of the patriots of Ancona assembled in the\nshadow, to the Archi before the Gozzi inn on the seashore; it creates\nCanaris; it creates Quiroga; it creates Pisacane; it irradiates the\ngreat on earth; it was while proceeding whither its breath urge them,\nthat Byron perished at Missolonghi, and that Mazet died at Barcelona;\nit is the tribune under the feet of Mirabeau, and a crater under the\nfeet of Robespierre; its books, its theatre, its art, its science, its\nliterature, its philosophy, are the manuals of the human race; it has\nPascal, R gnier, Corneille, Descartes, Jean-Jacques: Voltaire for all\nmoments, Moli re for all centuries; it makes its language to be talked\nby the universal mouth, and that language becomes the word; it\nconstructs in all minds the idea of progress, the liberating dogmas\nwhich it forges are for the generations trusty friends, and it is with\nthe soul of its thinkers and its poets that all heroes of all nations\nhave been made since 1789; this does not prevent vagabondism, and that\nenormous genius which is called Paris, while transfiguring the world by\nits light, sketches in charcoal Bouginier s nose on the wall of the\ntemple of Theseus and writes _Credeville the thief_ on the Pyramids.\n\nParis is always showing its teeth; when it is not scolding it is\nlaughing.\n\nSuch is Paris. The smoke of its roofs forms the ideas of the universe.\nA heap of mud and stone, if you will, but, above all, a moral being. It\nis more than great, it is immense. Why? Because it is daring.\n\nTo dare; that is the price of progress.\n\nAll sublime conquests are, more or less, the prizes of daring. In order\nthat the Revolution should take place, it does not suffice that\nMontesquieu should foresee it, that Diderot should preach it, that\nBeaumarchais should announce it, that Condorcet should calculate it,\nthat Arouet should prepare it, that Rousseau should premeditate it; it\nis necessary that Danton should dare it.\n\nThe cry: _Audacity! _ is a _Fiat lux_. It is necessary, for the sake of\nthe forward march of the human race, that there should be proud lessons\nof courage permanently on the heights. Daring deeds dazzle history and\nare one of man s great sources of light. The dawn dares when it rises.\nTo attempt, to brave, to persist, to persevere, to be faithful to one s\nself, to grasp fate bodily, to astound catastrophe by the small amount\nof fear that it occasions us, now to affront unjust power, again to\ninsult drunken victory, to hold one s position, to stand one s ground;\nthat is the example which nations need, that is the light which\nelectrifies them. The same formidable lightning proceeds from the torch\nof Prometheus to Cambronne s short pipe.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII THE FUTURE LATENT IN THE PEOPLE\n\n\nAs for the Parisian populace, even when a man grown, it is always the\nstreet Arab; to paint the child is to paint the city; and it is for\nthat reason that we have studied this eagle in this arrant sparrow. It\nis in the faubourgs, above all, we maintain, that the Parisian race\nappears; there is the pure blood; there is the true physiognomy; there\nthis people toils and suffers, and suffering and toil are the two faces\nof man. There exist there immense numbers of unknown beings, among whom\nswarm types of the strangest, from the porter of la R p e to the\nknacker of Montfaucon. _Fex urbis_, exclaims Cicero; _mob_, adds Burke,\nindignantly; rabble, multitude, populace. These are words and quickly\nuttered. But so be it. What does it matter? What is it to me if they do\ngo barefoot! They do not know how to read; so much the worse. Would you\nabandon them for that? Would you turn their distress into a\nmalediction? Cannot the light penetrate these masses? Let us return to\nthat cry: Light! and let us obstinately persist therein! Light! Light!\nWho knows whether these opacities will not become transparent? Are not\nrevolutions transfigurations? Come, philosophers, teach, enlighten,\nlight up, think aloud, speak aloud, hasten joyously to the great sun,\nfraternize with the public place, announce the good news, spend your\nalphabets lavishly, proclaim rights, sing the Marseillaises, sow\nenthusiasms, tear green boughs from the oaks. Make a whirlwind of the\nidea. This crowd may be rendered sublime. Let us learn how to make use\nof that vast conflagration of principles and virtues, which sparkles,\nbursts forth and quivers at certain hours. These bare feet, these bare\narms, these rags, these ignorances, these abjectnesses, these\ndarknesses, may be employed in the conquest of the ideal. Gaze past the\npeople, and you will perceive truth. Let that vile sand which you\ntrample under foot be cast into the furnace, let it melt and seethe\nthere, it will become a splendid crystal, and it is thanks to it that\nGalileo and Newton will discover stars.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII LITTLE GAVROCHE\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Little Gavroche]\n\n\nEight or nine years after the events narrated in the second part of\nthis story, people noticed on the Boulevard du Temple, and in the\nregions of the Ch teau-d Eau, a little boy eleven or twelve years of\nage, who would have realized with tolerable accuracy that ideal of the\ngamin sketched out above, if, with the laugh of his age on his lips, he\nhad not had a heart absolutely sombre and empty. This child was well\nmuffled up in a pair of man s trousers, but he did not get them from\nhis father, and a woman s chemise, but he did not get it from his\nmother. Some people or other had clothed him in rags out of charity.\nStill, he had a father and a mother. But his father did not think of\nhim, and his mother did not love him.\n\nHe was one of those children most deserving of pity, among all, one of\nthose who have father and mother, and who are orphans nevertheless.\n\nThis child never felt so well as when he was in the street. The\npavements were less hard to him than his mother s heart.\n\nHis parents had despatched him into life with a kick.\n\nHe simply took flight.\n\nHe was a boisterous, pallid, nimble, wide-awake, jeering, lad, with a\nvivacious but sickly air. He went and came, sang, played at hopscotch,\nscraped the gutters, stole a little, but, like cats and sparrows, gayly\nlaughed when he was called a rogue, and got angry when called a thief.\nHe had no shelter, no bread, no fire, no love; but he was merry because\nhe was free.\n\nWhen these poor creatures grow to be men, the millstones of the social\norder meet them and crush them, but so long as they are children, they\nescape because of their smallness. The tiniest hole saves them.\n\nNevertheless, abandoned as this child was, it sometimes happened, every\ntwo or three months, that he said,  Come, I ll go and see mamma!  Then\nhe quitted the boulevard, the Cirque, the Porte Saint-Martin, descended\nto the quays, crossed the bridges, reached the suburbs, arrived at the\nSalp tri re, and came to a halt, where? Precisely at that double number\n50-52 with which the reader is acquainted at the Gorbeau hovel.\n\nAt that epoch, the hovel 50-52 generally deserted and eternally\ndecorated with the placard:  Chambers to let,  chanced to be, a rare\nthing, inhabited by numerous individuals who, however, as is always the\ncase in Paris, had no connection with each other. All belonged to that\nindigent class which begins to separate from the lowest of petty\nbourgeoisie in straitened circumstances, and which extends from misery\nto misery into the lowest depths of society down to those two beings in\nwhom all the material things of civilization end, the sewer-man who\nsweeps up the mud, and the rag-picker who collects scraps.\n\nThe  principal lodger  of Jean Valjean s day was dead and had been\nreplaced by another exactly like her. I know not what philosopher has\nsaid:  Old women are never lacking. \n\n\nThis new old woman was named Madame Bourgon, and had nothing remarkable\nabout her life except a dynasty of three paroquets, who had reigned in\nsuccession over her soul.\n\nThe most miserable of those who inhabited the hovel were a family of\nfour persons, consisting of father, mother, and two daughters, already\nwell grown, all four of whom were lodged in the same attic, one of the\ncells which we have already mentioned.\n\nAt first sight, this family presented no very special feature except\nits extreme destitution; the father, when he hired the chamber, had\nstated that his name was Jondrette. Some time after his moving in,\nwhich had borne a singular resemblance to _the entrance of nothing at\nall_, to borrow the memorable expression of the principal tenant, this\nJondrette had said to the woman, who, like her predecessor, was at the\nsame time portress and stair-sweeper:  Mother So-and-So, if any one\nshould chance to come and inquire for a Pole or an Italian, or even a\nSpaniard, perchance, it is I. \n\n\nThis family was that of the merry barefoot boy. He arrived there and\nfound distress, and, what is still sadder, no smile; a cold hearth and\ncold hearts. When he entered, he was asked:  Whence come you?  He\nreplied:  From the street.  When he went away, they asked him:  Whither\nare you going?  He replied:  Into the streets.  His mother said to him:\n What did you come here for? \n\n\nThis child lived, in this absence of affection, like the pale plants\nwhich spring up in cellars. It did not cause him suffering, and he\nblamed no one. He did not know exactly how a father and mother should\nbe.\n\nNevertheless, his mother loved his sisters.\n\nWe have forgotten to mention, that on the Boulevard du Temple this\nchild was called Little Gavroche. Why was he called Little Gavroche?\n\nProbably because his father s name was Jondrette.\n\nIt seems to be the instinct of certain wretched families to break the\nthread.\n\nThe chamber which the Jondrettes inhabited in the Gorbeau hovel was the\nlast at the end of the corridor. The cell next to it was occupied by a\nvery poor young man who was called M. Marius.\n\nLet us explain who this M. Marius was.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SECOND THE GREAT BOURGEOIS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I NINETY YEARS AND THIRTY-TWO TEETH\n\n\nIn the Rue Boucherat, Rue de Normandie and the Rue de Saintonge there\nstill exist a few ancient inhabitants who have preserved the memory of\na worthy man named M. Gillenormand, and who mention him with\ncomplaisance. This good man was old when they were young. This\nsilhouette has not yet entirely disappeared for those who regard with\nmelancholy that vague swarm of shadows which is called the past from\nthe labyrinth of streets in the vicinity of the Temple to which, under\nLouis XIV., the names of all the provinces of France were appended\nexactly as in our day, the streets of the new Tivoli quarter have\nreceived the names of all the capitals of Europe; a progression, by the\nway, in which progress is visible.\n\nM. Gillenormand, who was as much alive as possible in 1831, was one of\nthose men who had become curiosities to be viewed, simply because they\nhave lived a long time, and who are strange because they formerly\nresembled everybody, and now resemble nobody. He was a peculiar old\nman, and in very truth, a man of another age, the real, complete and\nrather haughty bourgeois of the eighteenth century, who wore his good,\nold bourgeoisie with the air with which marquises wear their\nmarquisates. He was over ninety years of age, his walk was erect, he\ntalked loudly, saw clearly, drank neat, ate, slept, and snored. He had\nall thirty-two of his teeth. He only wore spectacles when he read. He\nwas of an amorous disposition, but declared that, for the last ten\nyears, he had wholly and decidedly renounced women. He could no longer\nplease, he said; he did not add:  I am too old,  but:  I am too poor. \nHe said:  If I were not ruined H e!  All he had left, in fact, was an\nincome of about fifteen thousand francs. His dream was to come into an\ninheritance and to have a hundred thousand livres income for\nmistresses. He did not belong, as the reader will perceive, to that\npuny variety of octogenaries who, like M. de Voltaire, have been dying\nall their life; his was no longevity of a cracked pot; this jovial old\nman had always had good health. He was superficial, rapid, easily\nangered. He flew into a passion at everything, generally quite contrary\nto all reason. When contradicted, he raised his cane; he beat people as\nhe had done in the great century. He had a daughter over fifty years of\nage, and unmarried, whom he chastised severely with his tongue, when in\na rage, and whom he would have liked to whip. She seemed to him to be\neight years old. He boxed his servants  ears soundly, and said:  Ah!\ncarogne!  One of his oaths was:  By the pantoufloche of the\npantouflochade!  He had singular freaks of tranquillity; he had himself\nshaved every day by a barber who had been mad and who detested him,\nbeing jealous of M. Gillenormand on account of his wife, a pretty and\ncoquettish barberess. M. Gillenormand admired his own discernment in\nall things, and declared that he was extremely sagacious; here is one\nof his sayings:  I have, in truth, some penetration; I am able to say\nwhen a flea bites me, from what woman it came. \n\n\nThe words which he uttered the most frequently were: _the sensible\nman_, and _nature_. He did not give to this last word the grand\nacceptation which our epoch has accorded to it, but he made it enter,\nafter his own fashion, into his little chimney-corner satires:\n Nature,  he said,  in order that civilization may have a little of\neverything, gives it even specimens of its amusing barbarism. Europe\npossesses specimens of Asia and Africa on a small scale. The cat is a\ndrawing-room tiger, the lizard is a pocket crocodile. The dancers at\nthe opera are pink female savages. They do not eat men, they crunch\nthem; or, magicians that they are, they transform them into oysters and\nswallow them. The Caribbeans leave only the bones, they leave only the\nshell. Such are our morals. We do not devour, we gnaw; we do not\nexterminate, we claw. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II LIKE MASTER, LIKE HOUSE\n\n\nHe lived in the Marais, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6. He owned the\nhouse. This house has since been demolished and rebuilt, and the number\nhas probably been changed in those revolutions of numeration which the\nstreets of Paris undergo. He occupied an ancient and vast apartment on\nthe first floor, between street and gardens, furnished to the very\nceilings with great Gobelins and Beauvais tapestries representing\npastoral scenes; the subjects of the ceilings and the panels were\nrepeated in miniature on the armchairs. He enveloped his bed in a vast,\nnine-leaved screen of Coromandel lacquer. Long, full curtains hung from\nthe windows, and formed great, broken folds that were very magnificent.\nThe garden situated immediately under his windows was attached to that\none of them which formed the angle, by means of a staircase twelve or\nfifteen steps long, which the old gentleman ascended and descended with\ngreat agility. In addition to a library adjoining his chamber, he had a\nboudoir of which he thought a great deal, a gallant and elegant\nretreat, with magnificent hangings of straw, with a pattern of flowers\nand fleurs-de-lys made on the galleys of Louis XIV. and ordered of his\nconvicts by M. de Vivonne for his mistress. M. Gillenormand had\ninherited it from a grim maternal great-aunt, who had died a\ncentenarian. He had had two wives. His manners were something between\nthose of the courtier, which he had never been, and the lawyer, which\nhe might have been. He was gay, and caressing when he had a mind. In\nhis youth he had been one of those men who are always deceived by their\nwives and never by their mistresses, because they are, at the same\ntime, the most sullen of husbands and the most charming of lovers in\nexistence. He was a connoisseur of painting. He had in his chamber a\nmarvellous portrait of no one knows whom, painted by Jordaens, executed\nwith great dashes of the brush, with millions of details, in a confused\nand hap-hazard manner. M. Gillenormand s attire was not the habit of\nLouis XIV. nor yet that of Louis XVI.; it was that of the Incroyables\nof the Directory. He had thought himself young up to that period and\nhad followed the fashions. His coat was of light-weight cloth with\nvoluminous revers, a long swallow-tail and large steel buttons. With\nthis he wore knee-breeches and buckle shoes. He always thrust his hands\ninto his fobs. He said authoritatively:  The French Revolution is a\nheap of blackguards. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III LUC-ESPRIT\n\n\nAt the age of sixteen, one evening at the opera, he had had the honor\nto be stared at through opera-glasses by two beauties at the same\ntime ripe and celebrated beauties then, and sung by Voltaire, the\nCamargo and the Sall . Caught between two fires, he had beaten a heroic\nretreat towards a little dancer, a young girl named Nahenry, who was\nsixteen like himself, obscure as a cat, and with whom he was in love.\nHe abounded in memories. He was accustomed to exclaim:  How pretty she\nwas that Guimard-Guimardini-Guimardinette, the last time I saw her at\nLongchamps, her hair curled in sustained sentiments, with her\ncome-and-see of turquoises, her gown of the color of persons newly\narrived, and her little agitation muff!  He had worn in his young\nmanhood a waistcoat of Nain-Londrin, which he was fond of talking about\neffusively.  I was dressed like a Turk of the Levant Levantin,  said\nhe. Madame de Boufflers, having seen him by chance when he was twenty,\nhad described him as  a charming fool.  He was horrified by all the\nnames which he saw in politics and in power, regarding them as vulgar\nand bourgeois. He read the journals, the _newspapers, the gazettes_ as\nhe said, stifling outbursts of laughter the while.  Oh!  he said,  what\npeople these are! Corbi re! Humann! Casimir P rier! There s a minister\nfor you! I can imagine this in a journal:  M. Gillenorman, minister! \nthat would be a farce. Well! They are so stupid that it would pass ; he\nmerrily called everything by its name, whether decent or indecent, and\ndid not restrain himself in the least before ladies. He uttered coarse\nspeeches, obscenities, and filth with a certain tranquillity and lack\nof astonishment which was elegant. It was in keeping with the\nunceremoniousness of his century. It is to be noted that the age of\nperiphrase in verse was the age of crudities in prose. His god-father\nhad predicted that he would turn out a man of genius, and had bestowed\non him these two significant names: Luc-Esprit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV A CENTENARIAN ASPIRANT\n\n\nHe had taken prizes in his boyhood at the College of Moulins, where he\nwas born, and he had been crowned by the hand of the Duc de Nivernais,\nwhom he called the Duc de Nevers. Neither the Convention, nor the death\nof Louis XVI., nor the Napoleon, nor the return of the Bourbons, nor\nanything else had been able to efface the memory of this crowning. _The\nDuc de Nevers_ was, in his eyes, the great figure of the century.  What\na charming grand seigneur,  he said,  and what a fine air he had with\nhis blue ribbon! \n\n\nIn the eyes of M. Gillenormand, Catherine the Second had made\nreparation for the crime of the partition of Poland by purchasing, for\nthree thousand roubles, the secret of the elixir of gold, from\nBestucheff. He grew animated on this subject:  The elixir of gold,  he\nexclaimed,  the yellow dye of Bestucheff, General Lamotte s drops, in\nthe eighteenth century, this was the great remedy for the catastrophes\nof love, the panacea against Venus, at one louis the half-ounce phial.\nLouis XV. sent two hundred phials of it to the Pope.  He would have\nbeen greatly irritated and thrown off his balance, had any one told him\nthat the elixir of gold is nothing but the perchloride of iron. M.\nGillenormand adored the Bourbons, and had a horror of 1789; he was\nforever narrating in what manner he had saved himself during the\nTerror, and how he had been obliged to display a vast deal of gayety\nand cleverness in order to escape having his head cut off. If any young\nman ventured to pronounce an eulogium on the Republic in his presence,\nhe turned purple and grew so angry that he was on the point of\nswooning. He sometimes alluded to his ninety years, and said,  I hope\nthat I shall not see ninety-three twice.  On these occasions, he hinted\nto people that he meant to live to be a hundred.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V BASQUE AND NICOLETTE\n\n\nHe had theories. Here is one of them:  When a man is passionately fond\nof women, and when he has himself a wife for whom he cares but little,\nwho is homely, cross, legitimate, with plenty of rights, perched on the\ncode, and jealous at need, there is but one way of extricating himself\nfrom the quandry and of procuring peace, and that is to let his wife\ncontrol the purse-strings. This abdication sets him free. Then his wife\nbusies herself, grows passionately fond of handling coin, gets her\nfingers covered with verdigris in the process, undertakes the education\nof half-share tenants and the training of farmers, convokes lawyers,\npresides over notaries, harangues scriveners, visits limbs of the law,\nfollows lawsuits, draws up leases, dictates contracts, feels herself\nthe sovereign, sells, buys, regulates, promises and compromises, binds\nfast and annuls, yields, concedes and retrocedes, arranges,\ndisarranges, hoards, lavishes; she commits follies, a supreme and\npersonal delight, and that consoles her. While her husband disdains\nher, she has the satisfaction of ruining her husband.  This theory M.\nGillenormand had himself applied, and it had become his history. His\nwife the second one had administered his fortune in such a manner that,\none fine day, when M. Gillenormand found himself a widower, there\nremained to him just sufficient to live on, by sinking nearly the whole\nof it in an annuity of fifteen thousand francs, three-quarters of which\nwould expire with him. He had not hesitated on this point, not being\nanxious to leave a property behind him. Besides, he had noticed that\npatrimonies are subject to adventures, and, for instance, become\n_national property_; he had been present at the avatars of consolidated\nthree per cents, and he had no great faith in the Great Book of the\nPublic Debt.  All that s the Rue Quincampois!  he said. His house in\nthe Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire belonged to him, as we have already\nstated. He had two servants,  a male and a female.  When a servant\nentered his establishment, M. Gillenormand re-baptized him. He bestowed\non the men the name of their province: N mois, Comtois, Poitevin,\nPicard. His last valet was a big, foundered, short-winded fellow of\nfifty-five, who was incapable of running twenty paces; but, as he had\nbeen born at Bayonne, M. Gillenormand called him _Basque_. All the\nfemale servants in his house were called Nicolette (even the Magnon, of\nwhom we shall hear more farther on). One day, a haughty cook, a cordon\nbleu, of the lofty race of porters, presented herself.  How much wages\ndo you want a month?  asked M. Gillenormand.  Thirty francs.   What is\nyour name?   Olympie.   You shall have fifty francs, and you shall be\ncalled Nicolette. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI IN WHICH MAGNON AND HER TWO CHILDREN ARE SEEN\n\n\nWith M. Gillenormand, sorrow was converted into wrath; he was furious\nat being in despair. He had all sorts of prejudices and took all sorts\nof liberties. One of the facts of which his exterior relief and his\ninternal satisfaction was composed, was, as we have just hinted, that\nhe had remained a brisk spark, and that he passed energetically for\nsuch. This he called having  royal renown.  This royal renown sometimes\ndrew down upon him singular windfalls. One day, there was brought to\nhim in a basket, as though it had been a basket of oysters, a stout,\nnewly born boy, who was yelling like the deuce, and duly wrapped in\nswaddling-clothes, which a servant-maid, dismissed six months\npreviously, attributed to him. M. Gillenormand had, at that time, fully\ncompleted his eighty-fourth year. Indignation and uproar in the\nestablishment. And whom did that bold hussy think she could persuade to\nbelieve that? What audacity! What an abominable calumny! M.\nGillenormand himself was not at all enraged. He gazed at the brat with\nthe amiable smile of a good man who is flattered by the calumny, and\nsaid in an aside:  Well, what now? What s the matter? You are finely\ntaken aback, and really, you are excessively ignorant. M. le Duc\nd Angoul me, the bastard of his Majesty Charles IX., married a silly\njade of fifteen when he was eighty-five; M. Virginal, Marquis d Alluye,\nbrother to the Cardinal de Sourdis, Archbishop of Bordeaux, had, at the\nage of eighty-three, by the maid of Madame la Pr sidente Jacquin, a\nson, a real child of love, who became a Chevalier of Malta and a\ncounsellor of state; one of the great men of this century, the Abb \nTabaraud, is the son of a man of eighty-seven. There is nothing out of\nthe ordinary in these things. And then, the Bible! Upon that I declare\nthat this little gentleman is none of mine. Let him be taken care of.\nIt is not his fault.  This manner of procedure was good-tempered. The\nwoman, whose name was Magnon, sent him another parcel in the following\nyear. It was a boy again. Thereupon, M. Gillenormand capitulated. He\nsent the two brats back to their mother, promising to pay eighty francs\na month for their maintenance, on the condition that the said mother\nwould not do so any more. He added:  I insist upon it that the mother\nshall treat them well. I shall go to see them from time to time.  And\nthis he did. He had had a brother who was a priest, and who had been\nrector of the Academy of Poitiers for three and thirty years, and had\ndied at seventy-nine.  I lost him young,  said he. This brother, of\nwhom but little memory remains, was a peaceable miser, who, being a\npriest, thought himself bound to bestow alms on the poor whom he met,\nbut he never gave them anything except bad or demonetized sous, thereby\ndiscovering a means of going to hell by way of paradise. As for M.\nGillenormand the elder, he never haggled over his alms-giving, but gave\ngladly and nobly. He was kindly, abrupt, charitable, and if he had been\nrich, his turn of mind would have been magnificent. He desired that all\nwhich concerned him should be done in a grand manner, even his\nrogueries. One day, having been cheated by a business man in a matter\nof inheritance, in a gross and apparent manner, he uttered this solemn\nexclamation:  That was indecently done! I am really ashamed of this\npilfering. Everything has degenerated in this century, even the\nrascals. Morbleu! this is not the way to rob a man of my standing. I am\nrobbed as though in a forest, but badly robbed. _Silv  sint consule\ndign ! _  He had had two wives, as we have already mentioned; by the\nfirst he had had a daughter, who had remained unmarried, and by the\nsecond another daughter, who had died at about the age of thirty, who\nhad wedded, through love, or chance, or otherwise, a soldier of fortune\nwho had served in the armies of the Republic and of the Empire, who had\nwon the cross at Austerlitz and had been made colonel at Waterloo. _ He\nis the disgrace of my family,  _ said the old bourgeois. He took an\nimmense amount of snuff, and had a particularly graceful manner of\nplucking at his lace ruffle with the back of one hand. He believed very\nlittle in God.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII RULE: RECEIVE NO ONE EXCEPT IN THE EVENING\n\n\nSuch was M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormand, who had not lost his hair, which\nwas gray rather than white, and which was always dressed in  dog s\nears.  To sum up, he was venerable in spite of all this.\n\nHe had something of the eighteenth century about him; frivolous and\ngreat.\n\nIn 1814 and during the early years of the Restoration, M. Gillenormand,\nwho was still young, he was only seventy-four, lived in the Faubourg\nSaint Germain, Rue Servandoni, near Saint-Sulpice. He had only retired\nto the Marais when he quitted society, long after attaining the age of\neighty.\n\nAnd, on abandoning society, he had immured himself in his habits. The\nprincipal one, and that which was invariable, was to keep his door\nabsolutely closed during the day, and never to receive any one whatever\nexcept in the evening. He dined at five o clock, and after that his\ndoor was open. That had been the fashion of his century, and he would\nnot swerve from it.  The day is vulgar,  said he,  and deserves only a\nclosed shutter. Fashionable people only light up their minds when the\nzenith lights up its stars.  And he barricaded himself against every\none, even had it been the king himself. This was the antiquated\nelegance of his day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII TWO DO NOT MAKE A PAIR\n\n\nWe have just spoken of M. Gillenormand s two daughters. They had come\ninto the world ten years apart. In their youth they had borne very\nlittle resemblance to each other, either in character or countenance,\nand had also been as little like sisters to each other as possible. The\nyoungest had a charming soul, which turned towards all that belongs to\nthe light, was occupied with flowers, with verses, with music, which\nfluttered away into glorious space, enthusiastic, ethereal, and was\nwedded from her very youth, in ideal, to a vague and heroic figure. The\nelder had also her chimera; she espied in the azure some very wealthy\npurveyor, a contractor, a splendidly stupid husband, a million made\nman, or even a prefect; the receptions of the Prefecture, an usher in\nthe antechamber with a chain on his neck, official balls, the harangues\nof the town-hall, to be  Madame la Pr f te, all this had created a\nwhirlwind in her imagination. Thus the two sisters strayed, each in her\nown dream, at the epoch when they were young girls. Both had wings, the\none like an angel, the other like a goose.\n\nNo ambition is ever fully realized, here below at least. No paradise\nbecomes terrestrial in our day. The younger wedded the man of her\ndreams, but she died. The elder did not marry at all.\n\nAt the moment when she makes her entrance into this history which we\nare relating, she was an antique virtue, an incombustible prude, with\none of the sharpest noses, and one of the most obtuse minds that it is\npossible to see. A characteristic detail; outside of her immediate\nfamily, no one had ever known her first name. She was called\n_Mademoiselle Gillenormand, the elder_.\n\nIn the matter of _cant_, Mademoiselle Gillenormand could have given\npoints to a miss. Her modesty was carried to the other extreme of\nblackness. She cherished a frightful memory of her life; one day, a man\nhad beheld her garter.\n\nAge had only served to accentuate this pitiless modesty. Her guimpe was\nnever sufficiently opaque, and never ascended sufficiently high. She\nmultiplied clasps and pins where no one would have dreamed of looking.\nThe peculiarity of prudery is to place all the more sentinels in\nproportion as the fortress is the less menaced.\n\nNevertheless, let him who can explain these antique mysteries of\ninnocence, she allowed an officer of the Lancers, her grand nephew,\nnamed Th odule, to embrace her without displeasure.\n\nIn spite of this favored Lancer, the label: _Prude_, under which we\nhave classed her, suited her to absolute perfection. Mademoiselle\nGillenormand was a sort of twilight soul. Prudery is a demi-virtue and\na demi-vice.\n\nTo prudery she added bigotry, a well-assorted lining. She belonged to\nthe society of the Virgin, wore a white veil on certain festivals,\nmumbled special orisons, revered  the holy blood,  venerated  the\nsacred heart,  remained for hours in contemplation before a\nrococo-jesuit altar in a chapel which was inaccessible to the rank and\nfile of the faithful, and there allowed her soul to soar among little\nclouds of marble, and through great rays of gilded wood.\n\nShe had a chapel friend, an ancient virgin like herself, named\nMademoiselle Vaubois, who was a positive blockhead, and beside whom\nMademoiselle Gillenormand had the pleasure of being an eagle. Beyond\nthe Agnus Dei and Ave Maria, Mademoiselle Vaubois had no knowledge of\nanything except of the different ways of making preserves. Mademoiselle\nVaubois, perfect in her style, was the ermine of stupidity without a\nsingle spot of intelligence.\n\nLet us say it plainly, Mademoiselle Gillenormand had gained rather than\nlost as she grew older. This is the case with passive natures. She had\nnever been malicious, which is relative kindness; and then, years wear\naway the angles, and the softening which comes with time had come to\nher. She was melancholy with an obscure sadness of which she did not\nherself know the secret. There breathed from her whole person the\nstupor of a life that was finished, and which had never had a\nbeginning.\n\nShe kept house for her father. M. Gillenormand had his daughter near\nhim, as we have seen that Monseigneur Bienvenu had his sister with him.\nThese households comprised of an old man and an old spinster are not\nrare, and always have the touching aspect of two weaknesses leaning on\neach other for support.\n\nThere was also in this house, between this elderly spinster and this\nold man, a child, a little boy, who was always trembling and mute in\nthe presence of M. Gillenormand. M. Gillenormand never addressed this\nchild except in a severe voice, and sometimes, with uplifted cane:\n Here, sir! rascal, scoundrel, come here! Answer me, you scamp! Just\nlet me see you, you good-for-nothing!  etc., etc. He idolized him.\n\nThis was his grandson. We shall meet with this child again later on.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THIRD THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I AN ANCIENT SALON\n\n\nWhen M. Gillenormand lived in the Rue Servandoni, he had frequented\nmany very good and very aristocratic salons. Although a bourgeois, M.\nGillenormand was received in society. As he had a double measure of\nwit, in the first place, that which was born with him, and secondly,\nthat which was attributed to him, he was even sought out and made much\nof. He never went anywhere except on condition of being the chief\nperson there. There are people who will have influence at any price,\nand who will have other people busy themselves over them; when they\ncannot be oracles, they turn wags. M. Gillenormand was not of this\nnature; his domination in the Royalist salons which he frequented cost\nhis self-respect nothing. He was an oracle everywhere. It had happened\nto him to hold his own against M. de Bonald, and even against M.\nBengy-Puy-Vall e.\n\nAbout 1817, he invariably passed two afternoons a week in a house in\nhis own neighborhood, in the Rue F rou, with Madame la Baronne de T., a\nworthy and respectable person, whose husband had been Ambassador of\nFrance to Berlin under Louis XVI. Baron de T., who, during his\nlifetime, had gone very passionately into ecstasies and magnetic\nvisions, had died bankrupt, during the emigration, leaving, as his\nentire fortune, some very curious Memoirs about Mesmer and his tub, in\nten manuscript volumes, bound in red morocco and gilded on the edges.\nMadame de T. had not published the memoirs, out of pride, and\nmaintained herself on a meagre income which had survived no one knew\nhow.\n\nMadame de T. lived far from the Court;  a very mixed society,  as she\nsaid, in a noble isolation, proud and poor. A few friends assembled\ntwice a week about her widowed hearth, and these constituted a purely\nRoyalist salon. They sipped tea there, and uttered groans or cries of\nhorror at the century, the charter, the Bonapartists, the prostitution\nof the blue ribbon, or the Jacobinism of Louis XVIII., according as the\nwind veered towards elegy or dithyrambs; and they spoke in low tones of\nthe hopes which were presented by Monsieur, afterwards Charles X.\n\nThe songs of the fishwomen, in which Napoleon was called _Nicolas_,\nwere received there with transports of joy. Duchesses, the most\ndelicate and charming women in the world, went into ecstasies over\ncouplets like the following, addressed to  the federates : \n\nRefoncez dans vos culottes\nLe bout d  chemis  qui vous pend.\nQu on n  dis  pas qu  les patriotes\nOnt arbor  l  drapeau blanc?20\n\n\nThere they amused themselves with puns which were considered terrible,\nwith innocent plays upon words which they supposed to be venomous, with\nquatrains, with distiches even; thus, upon the Dessolles ministry, a\nmoderate cabinet, of which MM. Decazes and Deserre were members: \n\nPour raffermir le tr ne  branl  sur sa base,\nIl faut changer de sol, et de serre et de case.21\n\n\nOr they drew up a list of the chamber of peers,  an abominably Jacobin\nchamber,  and from this list they combined alliances of names, in such\na manner as to form, for example, phrases like the following: _Damas.\nSabran. Gouvion-Saint-Cyr_. All this was done merrily. In that society,\nthey parodied the Revolution. They used I know not what desires to give\npoint to the same wrath in inverse sense. They sang their little _ a\nira: _ \n\nAh!  a ira  a ira  a ira!\nLes Bonapartistes   la lanterne!\n\n\nSongs are like the guillotine; they chop away indifferently, to-day\nthis head, to-morrow that. It is only a variation.\n\nIn the Fuald s affair, which belongs to this epoch, 1816, they took\npart for Bastide and Jausion, because Fuald s was  a Buonapartist. \nThey designated the liberals as f_riends and brothers_; this\nconstituted the most deadly insult.\n\nLike certain church towers, Madame de T. s salon had two cocks. One of\nthem was M. Gillenormand, the other was Comte de Lamothe-Valois, of\nwhom it was whispered about, with a sort of respect:  Do you know? That\nis the Lamothe of the affair of the necklace.  These singular amnesties\ndo occur in parties.\n\nLet us add the following: in the bourgeoisie, honored situations decay\nthrough too easy relations; one must beware whom one admits; in the\nsame way that there is a loss of caloric in the vicinity of those who\nare cold, there is a diminution of consideration in the approach of\ndespised persons. The ancient society of the upper classes held\nthemselves above this law, as above every other. Marigny, the brother\nof the Pompadour, had his entry with M. le Prince de Soubise. In spite\nof? No, because. Du Barry, the god-father of the Vaubernier, was very\nwelcome at the house of M. le Mar chal de Richelieu. This society is\nOlympus. Mercury and the Prince de Gu men e are at home there. A thief\nis admitted there, provided he be a god.\n\nThe Comte de Lamothe, who, in 1815, was an old man seventy-five years\nof age, had nothing remarkable about him except his silent and\nsententious air, his cold and angular face, his perfectly polished\nmanners, his coat buttoned up to his cravat, and his long legs always\ncrossed in long, flabby trousers of the hue of burnt sienna. His face\nwas the same color as his trousers.\n\nThis M. de Lamothe was  held in consideration  in this salon on account\nof his  celebrity  and, strange to say, though true, because of his\nname of Valois.\n\nAs for M. Gillenormand, his consideration was of absolutely first-rate\nquality. He had, in spite of his levity, and without its interfering in\nany way with his dignity, a certain manner about him which was\nimposing, dignified, honest, and lofty, in a bourgeois fashion; and his\ngreat age added to it. One is not a century with impunity. The years\nfinally produce around a head a venerable dishevelment.\n\nIn addition to this, he said things which had the genuine sparkle of\nthe old rock. Thus, when the King of Prussia, after having restored\nLouis XVIII., came to pay the latter a visit under the name of the\nCount de Ruppin, he was received by the descendant of Louis XIV.\nsomewhat as though he had been the Marquis de Brandebourg, and with the\nmost delicate impertinence. M. Gillenormand approved:  All kings who\nare not the King of France,  said he,  are provincial kings.  One day,\nthe following question was put and the following answer returned in his\npresence:  To what was the editor of the _Courrier Fran ais_\ncondemned?   To be suspended.   _Sus_ is superfluous,  observed M.\nGillenormand.22 Remarks of this nature found a situation.\n\nAt the Te Deum on the anniversary of the return of the Bourbons, he\nsaid, on seeing M. de Talleyrand pass by:  There goes his Excellency\nthe Evil One. \n\n\nM. Gillenormand was always accompanied by his daughter, that tall\nmademoiselle, who was over forty and looked fifty, and by a handsome\nlittle boy of seven years, white, rosy, fresh, with happy and trusting\neyes, who never appeared in that salon without hearing voices murmur\naround him:  How handsome he is! What a pity! Poor child!  This child\nwas the one of whom we dropped a word a while ago. He was called  poor\nchild,  because he had for a father  a brigand of the Loire. \n\n\nThis brigand of the Loire was M. Gillenormand s son-in-law, who has\nalready been mentioned, and whom M. Gillenormand called  the disgrace\nof his family. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II ONE OF THE RED SPECTRES OF THAT EPOCH\n\n\nAny one who had chanced to pass through the little town of Vernon at\nthis epoch, and who had happened to walk across that fine monumental\nbridge, which will soon be succeeded, let us hope, by some hideous iron\ncable bridge, might have observed, had he dropped his eyes over the\nparapet, a man about fifty years of age wearing a leather cap, and\ntrousers and a waistcoat of coarse gray cloth, to which something\nyellow which had been a red ribbon, was sewn, shod with wooden sabots,\ntanned by the sun, his face nearly black and his hair nearly white, a\nlarge scar on his forehead which ran down upon his cheek, bowed, bent,\nprematurely aged, who walked nearly every day, hoe and sickle in hand,\nin one of those compartments surrounded by walls which abut on the\nbridge, and border the left bank of the Seine like a chain of terraces,\ncharming enclosures full of flowers of which one could say, were they\nmuch larger:  these are gardens,  and were they a little smaller:\n these are bouquets.  All these enclosures abut upon the river at one\nend, and on a house at the other. The man in the waistcoat and the\nwooden shoes of whom we have just spoken, inhabited the smallest of\nthese enclosures and the most humble of these houses about 1817. He\nlived there alone and solitary, silently and poorly, with a woman who\nwas neither young nor old, neither homely nor pretty, neither a peasant\nnor a bourgeoise, who served him. The plot of earth which he called his\ngarden was celebrated in the town for the beauty of the flowers which\nhe cultivated there. These flowers were his occupation.\n\nBy dint of labor, of perseverance, of attention, and of buckets of\nwater, he had succeeded in creating after the Creator, and he had\ninvented certain tulips and certain dahlias which seemed to have been\nforgotten by nature. He was ingenious; he had forestalled Soulange\nBodin in the formation of little clumps of earth of heath mould, for\nthe cultivation of rare and precious shrubs from America and China. He\nwas in his alleys from the break of day, in summer, planting, cutting,\nhoeing, watering, walking amid his flowers with an air of kindness,\nsadness, and sweetness, sometimes standing motionless and thoughtful\nfor hours, listening to the song of a bird in the trees, the babble of\na child in a house, or with his eyes fixed on a drop of dew at the tip\nof a spear of grass, of which the sun made a carbuncle. His table was\nvery plain, and he drank more milk than wine. A child could make him\ngive way, and his servant scolded him. He was so timid that he seemed\nshy, he rarely went out, and he saw no one but the poor people who\ntapped at his pane and his cur , the Abb  Mabeuf, a good old man.\nNevertheless, if the inhabitants of the town, or strangers, or any\nchance comers, curious to see his tulips, rang at his little cottage,\nhe opened his door with a smile. He was the  brigand of the Loire. \n\n\nAny one who had, at the same time, read military memoirs, biographies,\nthe _Moniteur_, and the bulletins of the grand army, would have been\nstruck by a name which occurs there with tolerable frequency, the name\nof Georges Pontmercy. When very young, this Georges Pontmercy had been\na soldier in Saintonge s regiment. The revolution broke out.\nSaintonge s regiment formed a part of the army of the Rhine; for the\nold regiments of the monarchy preserved their names of provinces even\nafter the fall of the monarchy, and were only divided into brigades in\n1794. Pontmercy fought at Spire, at Worms, at Neustadt, at Turkheim, at\nAlzey, at Mayence, where he was one of the two hundred who formed\nHouchard s rearguard. It was the twelfth to hold its ground against the\ncorps of the Prince of Hesse, behind the old rampart of Andernach, and\nonly rejoined the main body of the army when the enemy s cannon had\nopened a breach from the cord of the parapet to the foot of the glacis.\nHe was under Kl ber at Marchiennes and at the battle of Mont-Palissel,\nwhere a ball from a bisca en broke his arm. Then he passed to the\nfrontier of Italy, and was one of the thirty grenadiers who defended\nthe Col de Tende with Joubert. Joubert was appointed its\nadjutant-general, and Pontmercy sub-lieutenant. Pontmercy was by\nBerthier s side in the midst of the grape-shot of that day at Lodi\nwhich caused Bonaparte to say:  Berthier has been cannoneer, cavalier,\nand grenadier.  He beheld his old general, Joubert, fall at Novi, at\nthe moment when, with uplifted sabre, he was shouting:  Forward! \nHaving been embarked with his company in the exigencies of the\ncampaign, on board a pinnace which was proceeding from Genoa to some\nobscure port on the coast, he fell into a wasps -nest of seven or eight\nEnglish vessels. The Genoese commander wanted to throw his cannon into\nthe sea, to hide the soldiers between decks, and to slip along in the\ndark as a merchant vessel. Pontmercy had the colors hoisted to the\npeak, and sailed proudly past under the guns of the British frigates.\nTwenty leagues further on, his audacity having increased, he attacked\nwith his pinnace, and captured a large English transport which was\ncarrying troops to Sicily, and which was so loaded down with men and\nhorses that the vessel was sunk to the level of the sea. In 1805 he was\nin that Malher division which took G nzberg from the Archduke\nFerdinand. At Weltingen he received into his arms, beneath a storm of\nbullets, Colonel Maupetit, mortally wounded at the head of the 9th\nDragoons. He distinguished himself at Austerlitz in that admirable\nmarch in echelons effected under the enemy s fire. When the cavalry of\nthe Imperial Russian Guard crushed a battalion of the 4th of the line,\nPontmercy was one of those who took their revenge and overthrew the\nGuard. The Emperor gave him the cross. Pontmercy saw Wurmser at Mantua,\nM las, and Alexandria, Mack at Ulm, made prisoners in succession. He\nformed a part of the eighth corps of the grand army which Mortier\ncommanded, and which captured Hamburg. Then he was transferred to the\n55th of the line, which was the old regiment of Flanders. At Eylau he\nwas in the cemetery where, for the space of two hours, the heroic\nCaptain Louis Hugo, the uncle of the author of this book, sustained\nalone with his company of eighty-three men every effort of the hostile\narmy. Pontmercy was one of the three who emerged alive from that\ncemetery. He was at Friedland. Then he saw Moscow. Then La B r sina,\nthen Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden, Wachau, Leipzig, and the defiles of\nGelenhausen; then Montmirail, Ch teau-Thierry, Craon, the banks of the\nMarne, the banks of the Aisne, and the redoubtable position of Laon. At\nArnay-Le-Duc, being then a captain, he put ten Cossacks to the sword,\nand saved, not his general, but his corporal. He was well slashed up on\nthis occasion, and twenty-seven splinters were extracted from his left\narm alone. Eight days before the capitulation of Paris he had just\nexchanged with a comrade and entered the cavalry. He had what was\ncalled under the old regime, _the double hand_, that is to say, an\nequal aptitude for handling the sabre or the musket as a soldier, or a\nsquadron or a battalion as an officer. It is from this aptitude,\nperfected by a military education, which certain special branches of\nthe service arise, the dragoons, for example, who are both cavalry-men\nand infantry at one and the same time. He accompanied Napoleon to the\nIsland of Elba. At Waterloo, he was chief of a squadron of cuirassiers,\nin Dubois  brigade. It was he who captured the standard of the\nLunenburg battalion. He came and cast the flag at the Emperor s feet.\nHe was covered with blood. While tearing down the banner he had\nreceived a sword-cut across his face. The Emperor, greatly pleased,\nshouted to him:  You are a colonel, you are a baron, you are an officer\nof the Legion of Honor!  Pontmercy replied:  Sire, I thank you for my\nwidow.  An hour later, he fell in the ravine of Ohain. Now, who was\nthis Georges Pontmercy? He was this same  brigand of the Loire. \n\n\nWe have already seen something of his history. After Waterloo,\nPontmercy, who had been pulled out of the hollow road of Ohain, as it\nwill be remembered, had succeeded in joining the army, and had dragged\nhimself from ambulance to ambulance as far as the cantonments of the\nLoire.\n\nThe Restoration had placed him on half-pay, then had sent him into\nresidence, that is to say, under surveillance, at Vernon. King Louis\nXVIII., regarding all that which had taken place during the Hundred\nDays as not having occurred at all, did not recognize his quality as an\nofficer of the Legion of Honor, nor his grade of colonel, nor his title\nof baron. He, on his side, neglected no occasion of signing himself\n Colonel Baron Pontmercy.  He had only an old blue coat, and he never\nwent out without fastening to it his rosette as an officer of the\nLegion of Honor. The Attorney for the Crown had him warned that the\nauthorities would prosecute him for  illegal  wearing of this\ndecoration. When this notice was conveyed to him through an officious\nintermediary, Pontmercy retorted with a bitter smile:  I do not know\nwhether I no longer understand French, or whether you no longer speak\nit; but the fact is that I do not understand.  Then he went out for\neight successive days with his rosette. They dared not interfere with\nhim. Two or three times the Minister of War and the general in command\nof the department wrote to him with the following address: _ A Monsieur\nle Commandant Pontmercy.  _ He sent back the letters with the seals\nunbroken. At the same moment, Napoleon at Saint Helena was treating in\nthe same fashion the missives of Sir Hudson Lowe addressed to _General\nBonaparte_. Pontmercy had ended, may we be pardoned the expression, by\nhaving in his mouth the same saliva as his Emperor.\n\nIn the same way, there were at Rome Carthaginian prisoners who refused\nto salute Flaminius, and who had a little of Hannibal s spirit.\n\nOne day he encountered the district-attorney in one of the streets of\nVernon, stepped up to him, and said:  Mr. Crown Attorney, am I\npermitted to wear my scar? \n\n\nHe had nothing save his meagre half-pay as chief of squadron. He had\nhired the smallest house which he could find at Vernon. He lived there\nalone, we have just seen how. Under the Empire, between two wars, he\nhad found time to marry Mademoiselle Gillenormand. The old bourgeois,\nthoroughly indignant at bottom, had given his consent with a sigh,\nsaying:  The greatest families are forced into it.  In 1815, Madame\nPontmercy, an admirable woman in every sense, by the way, lofty in\nsentiment and rare, and worthy of her husband, died, leaving a child.\nThis child had been the colonel s joy in his solitude; but the\ngrandfather had imperatively claimed his grandson, declaring that if\nthe child were not given to him he would disinherit him. The father had\nyielded in the little one s interest, and had transferred his love to\nflowers.\n\nMoreover, he had renounced everything, and neither stirred up mischief\nnor conspired. He shared his thoughts between the innocent things which\nhe was then doing and the great things which he had done. He passed his\ntime in expecting a pink or in recalling Austerlitz.\n\nM. Gillenormand kept up no relations with his son-in-law. The colonel\nwas  a bandit  to him. M. Gillenormand never mentioned the colonel,\nexcept when he occasionally made mocking allusions to  his Baronship. \nIt had been expressly agreed that Pontmercy should never attempt to see\nhis son nor to speak to him, under penalty of having the latter handed\nover to him disowned and disinherited. For the Gillenormands, Pontmercy\nwas a man afflicted with the plague. They intended to bring up the\nchild in their own way. Perhaps the colonel was wrong to accept these\nconditions, but he submitted to them, thinking that he was doing right\nand sacrificing no one but himself.\n\nThe inheritance of Father Gillenormand did not amount to much; but the\ninheritance of Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder was considerable.\nThis aunt, who had remained unmarried, was very rich on the maternal\nside, and her sister s son was her natural heir. The boy, whose name\nwas Marius, knew that he had a father, but nothing more. No one opened\nhis mouth to him about it. Nevertheless, in the society into which his\ngrandfather took him, whispers, innuendoes, and winks, had eventually\nenlightened the little boy s mind; he had finally understood something\nof the case, and as he naturally took in the ideas and opinions which\nwere, so to speak, the air he breathed, by a sort of infiltration and\nslow penetration, he gradually came to think of his father only with\nshame and with a pain at his heart.\n\nWhile he was growing up in this fashion, the colonel slipped away every\ntwo or three months, came to Paris on the sly, like a criminal breaking\nhis ban, and went and posted himself at Saint-Sulpice, at the hour when\nAunt Gillenormand led Marius to the mass. There, trembling lest the\naunt should turn round, concealed behind a pillar, motionless, not\ndaring to breathe, he gazed at his child. The scarred veteran was\nafraid of that old spinster.\n\nFrom this had arisen his connection with the cur  of Vernon, M. l Abb \nMabeuf.\n\nThat worthy priest was the brother of a warden of Saint-Sulpice, who\nhad often observed this man gazing at his child, and the scar on his\ncheek, and the large tears in his eyes. That man, who had so manly an\nair, yet who was weeping like a woman, had struck the warden. That face\nhad clung to his mind. One day, having gone to Vernon to see his\nbrother, he had encountered Colonel Pontmercy on the bridge, and had\nrecognized the man of Saint-Sulpice. The warden had mentioned the\ncircumstance to the cur , and both had paid the colonel a visit, on\nsome pretext or other. This visit led to others. The colonel, who had\nbeen extremely reserved at first, ended by opening his heart, and the\ncur  and the warden finally came to know the whole history, and how\nPontmercy was sacrificing his happiness to his child s future. This\ncaused the cur  to regard him with veneration and tenderness, and the\ncolonel, on his side, became fond of the cur . And moreover, when both\nare sincere and good, no men so penetrate each other, and so amalgamate\nwith each other, as an old priest and an old soldier. At bottom, the\nman is the same. The one has devoted his life to his country here\nbelow, the other to his country on high; that is the only difference.\n\nTwice a year, on the first of January and on St. George s day, Marius\nwrote duty letters to his father, which were dictated by his aunt, and\nwhich one would have pronounced to be copied from some formula; this\nwas all that M. Gillenormand tolerated; and the father answered them\nwith very tender letters which the grandfather thrust into his pocket\nunread.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III REQUIESCANT\n\n\nMadame de T. s salon was all that Marius Pontmercy knew of the world.\nIt was the only opening through which he could get a glimpse of life.\nThis opening was sombre, and more cold than warmth, more night than\nday, came to him through this skylight. This child, who had been all\njoy and light on entering this strange world, soon became melancholy,\nand, what is still more contrary to his age, grave. Surrounded by all\nthose singular and imposing personages, he gazed about him with serious\namazement. Everything conspired to increase this astonishment in him.\nThere were in Madame de T. s salon some very noble ladies named Mathan,\nNo , L vis, which was pronounced L vi, Cambis, pronounced Cambyse.\nThese antique visages and these Biblical names mingled in the child s\nmind with the Old Testament which he was learning by heart, and when\nthey were all there, seated in a circle around a dying fire, sparely\nlighted by a lamp shaded with green, with their severe profiles, their\ngray or white hair, their long gowns of another age, whose lugubrious\ncolors could not be distinguished, dropping, at rare intervals, words\nwhich were both majestic and severe, little Marius stared at them with\nfrightened eyes, in the conviction that he beheld not women, but\npatriarchs and magi, not real beings, but phantoms.\n\nWith these phantoms, priests were sometimes mingled, frequenters of\nthis ancient salon, and some gentlemen; the Marquis de Sass****,\nprivate secretary to Madame de Berry, the Vicomte de Val***, who\npublished, under the pseudonym of _Charles-Antoine_, monorhymed odes,\nthe Prince de Beauff*******, who, though very young, had a gray head\nand a pretty and witty wife, whose very low-necked toilettes of scarlet\nvelvet with gold torsades alarmed these shadows, the Marquis de C*****\nd E******, the man in all France who best understood  proportioned\npoliteness,  the Comte d Am*****, the kindly man with the amiable chin,\nand the Ch valier de Port-de-Guy, a pillar of the library of the\nLouvre, called the King s cabinet, M. de Port-de-Guy, bald, and rather\naged than old, was wont to relate that in 1793, at the age of sixteen,\nhe had been put in the galleys as refractory and chained with an\noctogenarian, the Bishop of Mirepoix, also refractory, but as a priest,\nwhile he was so in the capacity of a soldier. This was at Toulon. Their\nbusiness was to go at night and gather up on the scaffold the heads and\nbodies of the persons who had been guillotined during the day; they\nbore away on their backs these dripping corpses, and their red\ngalley-slave blouses had a clot of blood at the back of the neck, which\nwas dry in the morning and wet at night. These tragic tales abounded in\nMadame de T. s salon, and by dint of cursing Marat, they applauded\nTrestaillon. Some deputies of the undiscoverable variety played their\nwhist there; M. Thibord du Chalard, M. Lemarchant de Gomicourt, and the\ncelebrated scoffer of the right, M. Cornet-Dincourt. The bailiff de\nFerrette, with his short breeches and his thin legs, sometimes\ntraversed this salon on his way to M. de Talleyrand. He had been M. le\nComte d Artois  companion in pleasures and unlike Aristotle crouching\nunder Campaspe, he had made the Guimard crawl on all fours, and in that\nway he had exhibited to the ages a philosopher avenged by a bailiff. As\nfor the priests, there was the Abb  Halma, the same to whom M. Larose,\nhis collaborator on _la Foudre_, said:  Bah! Who is there who is not\nfifty years old? a few greenhorns perhaps?  The Abb  Letourneur,\npreacher to the King, the Abb  Frayssinous, who was not, as yet, either\ncount, or bishop, or minister, or peer, and who wore an old cassock\nwhose buttons were missing, and the Abb  Keravenant, Cur  of\nSaint-Germain-des-Pr s; also the Pope s Nuncio, then Monsignor Macchi,\nArchbishop of Nisibi, later on Cardinal, remarkable for his long,\npensive nose, and another Monsignor, entitled thus: Abbate Palmieri,\ndomestic prelate, one of the seven participant prothonotaries of the\nHoly See, Canon of the illustrious Liberian basilica, Advocate of the\nsaints, _Postulatore dei Santi_, which refers to matters of\ncanonization, and signifies very nearly: Master of Requests of the\nsection of Paradise. Lastly, two cardinals, M. de la Luzerne, and M. de\nCl****** T*******. The Cardinal of Luzerne was a writer and was\ndestined to have, a few years later, the honor of signing in the\n_Conservateur_ articles side by side with Chateaubriand; M. de Cl******\nT******* was Archbishop of Toul****, and often made trips to Paris, to\nhis nephew, the Marquis de T*******, who was Minister of Marine and\nWar. The Cardinal of Cl****** T******* was a merry little man, who\ndisplayed his red stockings beneath his tucked-up cassock; his\nspecialty was a hatred of the Encyclop dia, and his desperate play at\nbilliards, and persons who, at that epoch, passed through the Rue\nM***** on summer evenings, where the hotel de Cl****** T******* then\nstood, halted to listen to the shock of the balls and the piercing\nvoice of the Cardinal shouting to his conclavist, Monseigneur Cotiret,\nBishop _in partibus_ of Caryste:  Mark, Abb , I make a cannon.  The\nCardinal de Cl****** T******* had been brought to Madame de T. s by his\nmost intimate friend, M. de Roquelaure, former Bishop of Senlis, and\none of the Forty. M. de Roquelaure was notable for his lofty figure and\nhis assiduity at the Academy; through the glass door of the neighboring\nhall of the library where the French Academy then held its meetings,\nthe curious could, on every Tuesday, contemplate the Ex-Bishop of\nSenlis, usually standing erect, freshly powdered, in violet hose, with\nhis back turned to the door, apparently for the purpose of allowing a\nbetter view of his little collar. All these ecclesiastics, though for\nthe most part as much courtiers as churchmen, added to the gravity of\nthe T. salon, whose seigniorial aspect was accentuated by five peers of\nFrance, the Marquis de Vib****, the Marquis de Tal***, the Marquis de\nHerb*******, the Vicomte Damb***, and the Duc de Val********. This Duc\nde Val********, although Prince de Mon***, that is to say a reigning\nprince abroad, had so high an idea of France and its peerage, that he\nviewed everything through their medium. It was he who said:  The\nCardinals are the peers of France of Rome; the lords are the peers of\nFrance of England.  Moreover, as it is indispensable that the\nRevolution should be everywhere in this century, this feudal salon was,\nas we have said, dominated by a bourgeois. M. Gillenormand reigned\nthere.\n\nThere lay the essence and quintessence of the Parisian white society.\nThere reputations, even Royalist reputations, were held in quarantine.\nThere is always a trace of anarchy in renown. Chateaubriand, had he\nentered there, would have produced the effect of P re Duch ne. Some of\nthe scoffed-at did, nevertheless, penetrate thither on sufferance.\nComte Beug*** was received there, subject to correction.\n\nThe  noble  salons of the present day no longer resemble those salons.\nThe Faubourg Saint-Germain reeks of the fagot even now. The Royalists\nof to-day are demagogues, let us record it to their credit.\n\nAt Madame de T. s the society was superior, taste was exquisite and\nhaughty, under the cover of a great show of politeness. Manners there\nadmitted of all sorts of involuntary refinements which were the old\nr gime itself, buried but still alive. Some of these habits, especially\nin the matter of language, seem eccentric. Persons but superficially\nacquainted with them would have taken for provincial that which was\nonly antique. A woman was called _Madame la G n rale. Madame la\nColonelle_ was not entirely disused. The charming Madame de L on, in\nmemory, no doubt, of the Duchesses de Longueville and de Chevreuse,\npreferred this appellation to her title of Princesse. The Marquise de\nCr quy was also called _Madame la Colonelle_.\n\nIt was this little high society which invented at the Tuileries the\nrefinement of speaking to the King in private as _the King_, in the\nthird person, and never as _Your Majesty_, the designation of _Your\nMajesty_ having been  soiled by the usurper. \n\n\nMen and deeds were brought to judgment there. They jeered at the age,\nwhich released them from the necessity of understanding it. They\nabetted each other in amazement. They communicated to each other that\nmodicum of light which they possessed. Methuselah bestowed information\non Epimenides. The deaf man made the blind man acquainted with the\ncourse of things. They declared that the time which had elapsed since\nCoblentz had not existed. In the same manner that Louis XVIII. was by\nthe grace of God, in the five and twentieth year of his reign, the\nemigrants were, by rights, in the five and twentieth year of their\nadolescence.\n\nAll was harmonious; nothing was too much alive; speech hardly amounted\nto a breath; the newspapers, agreeing with the salons, seemed a\npapyrus. There were some young people, but they were rather dead. The\nliveries in the antechamber were antiquated. These utterly obsolete\npersonages were served by domestics of the same stamp.\n\nThey all had the air of having lived a long time ago, and of\nobstinately resisting the sepulchre. Nearly the whole dictionary\nconsisted of _Conserver, Conservation, Conservateur; to be in good\nodor_, that was the point. There are, in fact, aromatics in the\nopinions of these venerable groups, and their ideas smelled of it. It\nwas a mummified society. The masters were embalmed, the servants were\nstuffed with straw.\n\nA worthy old marquise, an _emigr e_ and ruined, who had but a solitary\nmaid, continued to say:  My people. \n\n\nWhat did they do in Madame de T. s salon? They were ultra.\n\nTo be ultra; this word, although what it represents may not have\ndisappeared, has no longer any meaning at the present day. Let us\nexplain it.\n\nTo be ultra is to go beyond. It is to attack the sceptre in the name of\nthe throne, and the mitre in the name of the altar; it is to ill-treat\nthe thing which one is dragging, it is to kick over the traces; it is\nto cavil at the fagot on the score of the amount of cooking received by\nheretics; it is to reproach the idol with its small amount of idolatry;\nit is to insult through excess of respect; it is to discover that the\nPope is not sufficiently papish, that the King is not sufficiently\nroyal, and that the night has too much light; it is to be discontented\nwith alabaster, with snow, with the swan and the lily in the name of\nwhiteness; it is to be a partisan of things to the point of becoming\ntheir enemy; it is to be so strongly for, as to be against.\n\nThe ultra spirit especially characterizes the first phase of the\nRestoration.\n\nNothing in history resembles that quarter of an hour which begins in\n1814 and terminates about 1820, with the advent of M. de Vill le, the\npractical man of the Right. These six years were an extraordinary\nmoment; at one and the same time brilliant and gloomy, smiling and\nsombre, illuminated as by the radiance of dawn and entirely covered, at\nthe same time, with the shadows of the great catastrophes which still\nfilled the horizon and were slowly sinking into the past. There existed\nin that light and that shadow, a complete little new and old world,\ncomic and sad, juvenile and senile, which was rubbing its eyes; nothing\nresembles an awakening like a return; a group which regarded France\nwith ill-temper, and which France regarded with irony; good old owls of\nmarquises by the streetful, who had returned, and of ghosts, the\n former  subjects of amazement at everything, brave and noble gentlemen\nwho smiled at being in France but wept also, delighted to behold their\ncountry once more, in despair at not finding their monarchy; the\nnobility of the Crusades treating the nobility of the Empire, that is\nto say, the nobility of the sword, with scorn; historic races who had\nlost the sense of history; the sons of the companions of Charlemagne\ndisdaining the companions of Napoleon. The swords, as we have just\nremarked, returned the insult; the sword of Fontenoy was laughable and\nnothing but a scrap of rusty iron; the sword of Marengo was odious and\nwas only a sabre. Former days did not recognize Yesterday. People no\nlonger had the feeling for what was grand. There was some one who\ncalled Bonaparte Scapin. This Society no longer exists. Nothing of it,\nwe repeat, exists to-day. When we select from it some one figure at\nrandom, and attempt to make it live again in thought, it seems as\nstrange to us as the world before the Deluge. It is because it, too, as\na matter of fact, has been engulfed in a deluge. It has disappeared\nbeneath two Revolutions. What billows are ideas! How quickly they cover\nall that it is their mission to destroy and to bury, and how promptly\nthey create frightful gulfs!\n\nSuch was the physiognomy of the salons of those distant and candid\ntimes when M. Martainville had more wit than Voltaire.\n\nThese salons had a literature and politics of their own. They believed\nin Fi v e. M. Agier laid down the law in them. They commentated M.\nColnet, the old bookseller and publicist of the Quay Malaquais.\nNapoleon was to them thoroughly the Corsican Ogre. Later on the\nintroduction into history of M. le Marquis de Bonaparte,\nLieutenant-General of the King s armies, was a concession to the spirit\nof the age.\n\nThese salons did not long preserve their purity. Beginning with 1818,\ndoctrinarians began to spring up in them, a disturbing shade. Their way\nwas to be Royalists and to excuse themselves for being so. Where the\nultras were very proud, the doctrinarians were rather ashamed. They had\nwit; they had silence; their political dogma was suitably impregnated\nwith arrogance; they should have succeeded. They indulged, and usefully\ntoo, in excesses in the matter of white neckties and tightly buttoned\ncoats. The mistake or the misfortune of the doctrinarian party was to\ncreate aged youth. They assumed the poses of wise men. They dreamed of\nengrafting a temperate power on the absolute and excessive principle.\nThey opposed, and sometimes with rare intelligence, conservative\nliberalism to the liberalism which demolishes. They were heard to say:\n Thanks for Royalism! It has rendered more than one service. It has\nbrought back tradition, worship, religion, respect. It is faithful,\nbrave, chivalric, loving, devoted. It has mingled, though with regret,\nthe secular grandeurs of the monarchy with the new grandeurs of the\nnation. Its mistake is not to understand the Revolution, the Empire,\nglory, liberty, young ideas, young generations, the age. But this\nmistake which it makes with regard to us, have we not sometimes been\nguilty of it towards them? The Revolution, whose heirs we are, ought to\nbe intelligent on all points. To attack Royalism is a misconstruction\nof liberalism. What an error! And what blindness! Revolutionary France\nis wanting in respect towards historic France, that is to say, towards\nits mother, that is to say, towards itself. After the 5th of September,\nthe nobility of the monarchy is treated as the nobility of the Empire\nwas treated after the 5th of July. They were unjust to the eagle, we\nare unjust to the fleur-de-lys. It seems that we must always have\nsomething to proscribe! Does it serve any purpose to ungild the crown\nof Louis XIV., to scrape the coat of arms of Henry IV.? We scoff at M.\nde Vaublanc for erasing the N s from the bridge of Jena! What was it\nthat he did? What are we doing? Bouvines belongs to us as well as\nMarengo. The fleurs-de-lys are ours as well as the N s. That is our\npatrimony. To what purpose shall we diminish it? We must not deny our\ncountry in the past any more than in the present. Why not accept the\nwhole of history? Why not love the whole of France? \n\n\nIt is thus that doctrinarians criticised and protected Royalism, which\nwas displeased at criticism and furious at protection.\n\nThe ultras marked the first epoch of Royalism, congregation\ncharacterized the second. Skill follows ardor. Let us confine ourselves\nhere to this sketch.\n\nIn the course of this narrative, the author of this book has\nencountered in his path this curious moment of contemporary history; he\nhas been forced to cast a passing glance upon it, and to trace once\nmore some of the singular features of this society which is unknown\nto-day. But he does it rapidly and without any bitter or derisive idea.\nSouvenirs both respectful and affectionate, for they touch his mother,\nattach him to this past. Moreover, let us remark, this same petty world\nhad a grandeur of its own. One may smile at it, but one can neither\ndespise nor hate it. It was the France of former days.\n\nMarius Pontmercy pursued some studies, as all children do. When he\nemerged from the hands of Aunt Gillenormand, his grandfather confided\nhim to a worthy professor of the most purely classic innocence. This\nyoung soul which was expanding passed from a prude to a vulgar pedant.\n\nMarius went through his years of college, then he entered the law\nschool. He was a Royalist, fanatical and severe. He did not love his\ngrandfather much, as the latter s gayety and cynicism repelled him, and\nhis feelings towards his father were gloomy.\n\nHe was, on the whole, a cold and ardent, noble, generous, proud,\nreligious, enthusiastic lad; dignified to harshness, pure to shyness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV END OF THE BRIGAND\n\n\nThe conclusion of Marius  classical studies coincided with M.\nGillenormand s departure from society. The old man bade farewell to the\nFaubourg Saint-Germain and to Madame de T. s salon, and established\nhimself in the Marais, in his house of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.\nThere he had for servants, in addition to the porter, that chambermaid,\nNicolette, who had succeeded to Magnon, and that short-breathed and\npursy Basque, who have been mentioned above.\n\nIn 1827, Marius had just attained his seventeenth year. One evening, on\nhis return home, he saw his grandfather holding a letter in his hand.\n\n Marius,  said M. Gillenormand,  you will set out for Vernon\nto-morrow. \n\n\n Why?  said Marius.\n\n To see your father. \n\n\nMarius was seized with a trembling fit. He had thought of everything\nexcept this that he should one day be called upon to see his father.\nNothing could be more unexpected, more surprising, and, let us admit\nit, more disagreeable to him. It was forcing estrangement into\nreconciliation. It was not an affliction, but it was an unpleasant\nduty.\n\nMarius, in addition to his motives of political antipathy, was\nconvinced that his father, _the slasher_, as M. Gillenormand called him\non his amiable days, did not love him; this was evident, since he had\nabandoned him to others. Feeling that he was not beloved, he did not\nlove.  Nothing is more simple,  he said to himself.\n\nHe was so astounded that he did not question M. Gillenormand. The\ngrandfather resumed: \n\n It appears that he is ill. He demands your presence. \n\n\nAnd after a pause, he added: \n\n Set out to-morrow morning. I think there is a coach which leaves the\nCour des Fontaines at six o clock, and which arrives in the evening.\nTake it. He says that here is haste. \n\n\nThen he crushed the letter in his hand and thrust it into his pocket.\nMarius might have set out that very evening and have been with his\nfather on the following morning. A diligence from the Rue du Bouloi\ntook the trip to Rouen by night at that date, and passed through\nVernon. Neither Marius nor M. Gillenormand thought of making inquiries\nabout it.\n\nThe next day, at twilight, Marius reached Vernon. People were just\nbeginning to light their candles. He asked the first person whom he met\nfor  M. Pontmercy s house.  For in his own mind, he agreed with the\nRestoration, and like it, did not recognize his father s claim to the\ntitle of either colonel or baron.\n\nThe house was pointed out to him. He rang; a woman with a little lamp\nin her hand opened the door.\n\n M. Pontmercy?  said Marius.\n\nThe woman remained motionless.\n\n Is this his house?  demanded Marius.\n\nThe woman nodded affirmatively.\n\n Can I speak with him? \n\n\nThe woman shook her head.\n\n But I am his son!  persisted Marius.  He is expecting me. \n\n\n He no longer expects you,  said the woman.\n\nThen he perceived that she was weeping.\n\nShe pointed to the door of a room on the ground floor; he entered.\n\nIn that room, which was lighted by a tallow candle standing on the\nchimney-piece, there were three men, one standing erect, another\nkneeling, and one lying at full length, on the floor in his shirt. The\none on the floor was the colonel.\n\nThe other two were the doctor, and the priest, who was engaged in\nprayer.\n\nThe colonel had been attacked by brain fever three days previously. As\nhe had a foreboding of evil at the very beginning of his illness, he\nhad written to M. Gillenormand to demand his son. The malady had grown\nworse. On the very evening of Marius  arrival at Vernon, the colonel\nhad had an attack of delirium; he had risen from his bed, in spite of\nthe servant s efforts to prevent him, crying:  My son is not coming! I\nshall go to meet him!  Then he ran out of his room and fell prostrate\non the floor of the antechamber. He had just expired.\n\nThe doctor had been summoned, and the cur . The doctor had arrived too\nlate. The son had also arrived too late.\n\nBy the dim light of the candle, a large tear could be distinguished on\nthe pale and prostrate colonel s cheek, where it had trickled from his\ndead eye. The eye was extinguished, but the tear was not yet dry. That\ntear was his son s delay.\n\nMarius gazed upon that man whom he beheld for the first time, on that\nvenerable and manly face, on those open eyes which saw not, on those\nwhite locks, those robust limbs, on which, here and there, brown lines,\nmarking sword-thrusts, and a sort of red stars, which indicated\nbullet-holes, were visible. He contemplated that gigantic sear which\nstamped heroism on that countenance upon which God had imprinted\ngoodness. He reflected that this man was his father, and that this man\nwas dead, and a chill ran over him.\n\nThe sorrow which he felt was the sorrow which he would have felt in the\npresence of any other man whom he had chanced to behold stretched out\nin death.\n\nAnguish, poignant anguish, was in that chamber. The servant-woman was\nlamenting in a corner, the cur  was praying, and his sobs were audible,\nthe doctor was wiping his eyes; the corpse itself was weeping.\n\nThe doctor, the priest, and the woman gazed at Marius in the midst of\ntheir affliction without uttering a word; he was the stranger there.\nMarius, who was far too little affected, felt ashamed and embarrassed\nat his own attitude; he held his hat in his hand; and he dropped it on\nthe floor, in order to produce the impression that grief had deprived\nhim of the strength to hold it.\n\nAt the same time, he experienced remorse, and he despised himself for\nbehaving in this manner. But was it his fault? He did not love his\nfather? Why should he!\n\nThe colonel had left nothing. The sale of big furniture barely paid the\nexpenses of his burial.\n\nThe servant found a scrap of paper, which she handed to Marius. It\ncontained the following, in the colonel s handwriting: \n\n _For my son_. The Emperor made me a Baron on the battle-field of\nWaterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to this title which I\npurchased with my blood, my son shall take it and bear it. That he will\nbe worthy of it is a matter of course.  Below, the colonel had added:\n At that same battle of Waterloo, a sergeant saved my life. The man s\nname was Th nardier. I think that he has recently been keeping a little\ninn, in a village in the neighborhood of Paris, at Chelles or\nMontfermeil. If my son meets him, he will do all the good he can to\nTh nardier. \n\n\nMarius took this paper and preserved it, not out of duty to his father,\nbut because of that vague respect for death which is always imperious\nin the heart of man.\n\nNothing remained of the colonel. M. Gillenormand had his sword and\nuniform sold to an old-clothes dealer. The neighbors devastated the\ngarden and pillaged the rare flowers. The other plants turned to\nnettles and weeds, and died.\n\nMarius remained only forty-eight hours at Vernon. After the interment\nhe returned to Paris, and applied himself again to his law studies,\nwith no more thought of his father than if the latter had never lived.\nIn two days the colonel was buried, and in three forgotten.\n\nMarius wore crape on his hat. That was all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V THE UTILITY OF GOING TO MASS, IN ORDER TO BECOME A\nREVOLUTIONIST\n\n\nMarius had preserved the religious habits of his childhood. One Sunday,\nwhen he went to hear mass at Saint-Sulpice, at that same chapel of the\nVirgin whither his aunt had led him when a small lad, he placed himself\nbehind a pillar, being more absent-minded and thoughtful than usual on\nthat occasion, and knelt down, without paying any special heed, upon a\nchair of Utrecht velvet, on the back of which was inscribed this name:\n_Monsieur Mabeuf, warden_. Mass had hardly begun when an old man\npresented himself and said to Marius: \n\n This is my place, sir. \n\n\nMarius stepped aside promptly, and the old man took possession of his\nchair.\n\nThe mass concluded, Marius still stood thoughtfully a few paces\ndistant; the old man approached him again and said: \n\n I beg your pardon, sir, for having disturbed you a while ago, and for\nagain disturbing you at this moment; you must have thought me\nintrusive, and I will explain myself. \n\n\n There is no need of that, Sir,  said Marius.\n\n Yes!  went on the old man,  I do not wish you to have a bad opinion of\nme. You see, I am attached to this place. It seems to me that the mass\nis better from here. Why? I will tell you. It is from this place, that\nI have watched a poor, brave father come regularly, every two or three\nmonths, for the last ten years, since he had no other opportunity and\nno other way of seeing his child, because he was prevented by family\narrangements. He came at the hour when he knew that his son would be\nbrought to mass. The little one never suspected that his father was\nthere. Perhaps he did not even know that he had a father, poor\ninnocent! The father kept behind a pillar, so that he might not be\nseen. He gazed at his child and he wept. He adored that little fellow,\npoor man! I could see that. This spot has become sanctified in my\nsight, and I have contracted a habit of coming hither to listen to the\nmass. I prefer it to the stall to which I have a right, in my capacity\nof warden. I knew that unhappy gentleman a little, too. He had a\nfather-in-law, a wealthy aunt, relatives, I don t know exactly what\nall, who threatened to disinherit the child if he, the father, saw him.\nHe sacrificed himself in order that his son might be rich and happy\nsome day. He was separated from him because of political opinions.\nCertainly, I approve of political opinions, but there are people who do\nnot know where to stop. Mon Dieu! a man is not a monster because he was\nat Waterloo; a father is not separated from his child for such a reason\nas that. He was one of Bonaparte s colonels. He is dead, I believe. He\nlived at Vernon, where I have a brother who is a cur , and his name was\nsomething like Pontmarie or Montpercy. He had a fine sword-cut, on my\nhonor. \n\n\n Pontmercy,  suggested Marius, turning pale.\n\n Precisely, Pontmercy. Did you know him? \n\n\n Sir,  said Marius,  he was my father. \n\n\nThe old warden clasped his hands and exclaimed: \n\n Ah! you are the child! Yes, that s true, he must be a man by this\ntime. Well! poor child, you may say that you had a father who loved you\ndearly! \n\n\nMarius offered his arm to the old man and conducted him to his\nlodgings.\n\nOn the following day, he said to M. Gillenormand: \n\n I have arranged a hunting-party with some friends. Will you permit me\nto be absent for three days? \n\n\n Four!  replied his grandfather.  Go and amuse yourself. \n\n\nAnd he said to his daughter in a low tone, and with a wink,  Some love\naffair! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE CONSEQUENCES OF HAVING MET A WARDEN\n\n\nWhere it was that Marius went will be disclosed a little further on.\n\nMarius was absent for three days, then he returned to Paris, went\nstraight to the library of the law-school and asked for the files of\nthe _Moniteur_.\n\nHe read the _Moniteur_, he read all the histories of the Republic and\nthe Empire, the _Memorial de Sainte-H l ne_, all the memoirs, all the\nnewspapers, the bulletins, the proclamations; he devoured everything.\nThe first time that he came across his father s name in the bulletins\nof the grand army, he had a fever for a week. He went to see the\ngenerals under whom Georges Pontmercy had served, among others, Comte\nH. Church-warden Mabeuf, whom he went to see again, told him about the\nlife at Vernon, the colonel s retreat, his flowers, his solitude.\nMarius came to a full knowledge of that rare, sweet, and sublime man,\nthat species of lion-lamb who had been his father.\n\nIn the meanwhile, occupied as he was with this study which absorbed all\nhis moments as well as his thoughts, he hardly saw the Gillenormands at\nall. He made his appearance at meals; then they searched for him, and\nhe was not to be found. Father Gillenormand smiled.  Bah! bah! He is\njust of the age for the girls!  Sometimes the old man added:  The\ndeuce! I thought it was only an affair of gallantry. It seems that it\nis an affair of passion! \n\n\nIt was a passion, in fact. Marius was on the high road to adoring his\nfather.\n\nAt the same time, his ideas underwent an extraordinary change. The\nphases of this change were numerous and successive. As this is the\nhistory of many minds of our day, we think it will prove useful to\nfollow these phases step by step and to indicate them all.\n\nThat history upon which he had just cast his eyes appalled him.\n\nThe first effect was to dazzle him.\n\nUp to that time, the Republic, the Empire, had been to him only\nmonstrous words. The Republic, a guillotine in the twilight; the\nEmpire, a sword in the night. He had just taken a look at it, and where\nhe had expected to find only a chaos of shadows, he had beheld, with a\nsort of unprecedented surprise, mingled with fear and joy, stars\nsparkling, Mirabeau, Vergniaud, Saint-Just, Robespierre, Camille,\nDesmoulins, Danton, and a sun arise, Napoleon. He did not know where he\nstood. He recoiled, blinded by the brilliant lights. Little by little,\nwhen his astonishment had passed off, he grew accustomed to this\nradiance, he contemplated these deeds without dizziness, he examined\nthese personages without terror; the Revolution and the Empire\npresented themselves luminously, in perspective, before his mind s eye;\nhe beheld each of these groups of events and of men summed up in two\ntremendous facts: the Republic in the sovereignty of civil right\nrestored to the masses, the Empire in the sovereignty of the French\nidea imposed on Europe; he beheld the grand figure of the people emerge\nfrom the Revolution, and the grand figure of France spring forth from\nthe Empire. He asserted in his conscience, that all this had been good.\nWhat his dazzled state neglected in this, his first far too synthetic\nestimation, we do not think it necessary to point out here. It is the\nstate of a mind on the march that we are recording. Progress is not\naccomplished in one stage. That stated, once for all, in connection\nwith what precedes as well as with what is to follow, we continue.\n\nHe then perceived that, up to that moment, he had comprehended his\ncountry no more than he had comprehended his father. He had not known\neither the one or the other, and a sort of voluntary night had obscured\nhis eyes. Now he saw, and on the one hand he admired, while on the\nother he adored.\n\nHe was filled with regret and remorse, and he reflected in despair that\nall he had in his soul could now be said only to the tomb. Oh! if his\nfather had still been in existence, if he had still had him, if God, in\nhis compassion and his goodness, had permitted his father to be still\namong the living, how he would have run, how he would have precipitated\nhimself, how he would have cried to his father:  Father! Here I am! It\nis I! I have the same heart as thou! I am thy son!  How he would have\nembraced that white head, bathed his hair in tears, gazed upon his\nscar, pressed his hands, adored his garment, kissed his feet! Oh! Why\nhad his father died so early, before his time, before the justice, the\nlove of his son had come to him? Marius had a continual sob in his\nheart, which said to him every moment:  Alas!  At the same time, he\nbecame more truly serious, more truly grave, more sure of his thought\nand his faith. At each instant, gleams of the true came to complete his\nreason. An inward growth seemed to be in progress within him. He was\nconscious of a sort of natural enlargement, which gave him two things\nthat were new to him his father and his country.\n\nAs everything opens when one has a key, so he explained to himself that\nwhich he had hated, he penetrated that which he had abhorred;\nhenceforth he plainly perceived the providential, divine and human\nsense of the great things which he had been taught to detest, and of\nthe great men whom he had been instructed to curse. When he reflected\non his former opinions, which were but those of yesterday, and which,\nnevertheless, seemed to him already so very ancient, he grew indignant,\nyet he smiled.\n\nFrom the rehabilitation of his father, he naturally passed to the\nrehabilitation of Napoleon.\n\nBut the latter, we will confess, was not effected without labor.\n\nFrom his infancy, he had been imbued with the judgments of the party of\n1814, on Bonaparte. Now, all the prejudices of the Restoration, all its\ninterests, all its instincts tended to disfigure Napoleon. It execrated\nhim even more than it did Robespierre. It had very cleverly turned to\nsufficiently good account the fatigue of the nation, and the hatred of\nmothers. Bonaparte had become an almost fabulous monster, and in order\nto paint him to the imagination of the people, which, as we lately\npointed out, resembles the imagination of children, the party of 1814\nmade him appear under all sorts of terrifying masks in succession, from\nthat which is terrible though it remains grandiose to that which is\nterrible and becomes grotesque, from Tiberius to the bugaboo. Thus, in\nspeaking of Bonaparte, one was free to sob or to puff up with laughter,\nprovided that hatred lay at the bottom. Marius had never\nentertained about _that man_, as he was called any other ideas in his\nmind. They had combined with the tenacity which existed in his nature.\nThere was in him a headstrong little man who hated Napoleon.\n\nOn reading history, on studying him, especially in the documents and\nmaterials for history, the veil which concealed Napoleon from the eyes\nof Marius was gradually rent. He caught a glimpse of something immense,\nand he suspected that he had been deceived up to that moment, on the\nscore of Bonaparte as about all the rest; each day he saw more\ndistinctly; and he set about mounting, slowly, step by step, almost\nregretfully in the beginning, then with intoxication and as though\nattracted by an irresistible fascination, first the sombre steps, then\nthe vaguely illuminated steps, at last the luminous and splendid steps\nof enthusiasm.\n\nOne night, he was alone in his little chamber near the roof. His candle\nwas burning; he was reading, with his elbows resting on his table close\nto the open window. All sorts of reveries reached him from space, and\nmingled with his thoughts. What a spectacle is the night! One hears\ndull sounds, without knowing whence they proceed; one beholds Jupiter,\nwhich is twelve hundred times larger than the earth, glowing like a\nfirebrand, the azure is black, the stars shine; it is formidable.\n\nHe was perusing the bulletins of the grand army, those heroic strophes\npenned on the field of battle; there, at intervals, he beheld his\nfather s name, always the name of the Emperor; the whole of that great\nEmpire presented itself to him; he felt a flood swelling and rising\nwithin him; it seemed to him at moments that his father passed close to\nhim like a breath, and whispered in his ear; he gradually got into a\nsingular state; he thought that he heard drums, cannon, trumpets, the\nmeasured tread of battalions, the dull and distant gallop of the\ncavalry; from time to time, his eyes were raised heavenward, and gazed\nupon the colossal constellations as they gleamed in the measureless\ndepths of space, then they fell upon his book once more, and there they\nbeheld other colossal things moving confusedly. His heart contracted\nwithin him. He was in a transport, trembling, panting. All at once,\nwithout himself knowing what was in him, and what impulse he was\nobeying, he sprang to his feet, stretched both arms out of the window,\ngazed intently into the gloom, the silence, the infinite darkness, the\neternal immensity, and exclaimed:  Long live the Emperor! \n\n\nFrom that moment forth, all was over; the Ogre of Corsica, the\nusurper, the tyrant, the monster who was the lover of his own\nsisters, the actor who took lessons of Talma, the poisoner of\nJaffa, the tiger, Buonaparte, all this vanished, and gave place in his\nmind to a vague and brilliant radiance in which shone, at an\ninaccessible height, the pale marble phantom of C sar. The Emperor had\nbeen for his father only the well-beloved captain whom one admires, for\nwhom one sacrifices one s self; he was something more to Marius. He was\nthe predestined constructor of the French group, succeeding the Roman\ngroup in the domination of the universe. He was a prodigious architect,\nof a destruction, the continuer of Charlemagne, of Louis XI., of Henry\nIV., of Richelieu, of Louis XIV., and of the Committee of Public\nSafety, having his spots, no doubt, his faults, his crimes even, being\na man, that is to say; but august in his faults, brilliant in his\nspots, powerful in his crime.\n\nHe was the predestined man, who had forced all nations to say:  The\ngreat nation!  He was better than that, he was the very incarnation of\nFrance, conquering Europe by the sword which he grasped, and the world\nby the light which he shed. Marius saw in Bonaparte the dazzling\nspectre which will always rise upon the frontier, and which will guard\nthe future. Despot but dictator; a despot resulting from a republic and\nsumming up a revolution. Napoleon became for him the man-people as\nJesus Christ is the man-God.\n\nIt will be perceived, that like all new converts to a religion, his\nconversion intoxicated him, he hurled himself headlong into adhesion\nand he went too far. His nature was so constructed; once on the\ndownward slope, it was almost impossible for him to put on the drag.\nFanaticism for the sword took possession of him, and complicated in his\nmind his enthusiasm for the idea. He did not perceive that, along with\ngenius, and pell-mell, he was admitting force, that is to say, that he\nwas installing in two compartments of his idolatry, on the one hand\nthat which is divine, on the other that which is brutal. In many\nrespects, he had set about deceiving himself otherwise. He admitted\neverything. There is a way of encountering error while on one s way to\nthe truth. He had a violent sort of good faith which took everything in\nthe lump. In the new path which he had entered on, in judging the\nmistakes of the old regime, as in measuring the glory of Napoleon, he\nneglected the attenuating circumstances.\n\nAt all events, a tremendous step had been taken. Where he had formerly\nbeheld the fall of the monarchy, he now saw the advent of France. His\norientation had changed. What had been his East became the West. He had\nturned squarely round.\n\nAll these revolutions were accomplished within him, without his family\nobtaining an inkling of the case.\n\nWhen, during this mysterious labor, he had entirely shed his old\nBourbon and ultra skin, when he had cast off the aristocrat, the\nJacobite and the Royalist, when he had become thoroughly a\nrevolutionist, profoundly democratic and republican, he went to an\nengraver on the Quai des Orf vres and ordered a hundred cards bearing\nthis name: _Le Baron Marius Pontmercy_.\n\nThis was only the strictly logical consequence of the change which had\ntaken place in him, a change in which everything gravitated round his\nfather.\n\nOnly, as he did not know any one and could not sow his cards with any\nporter, he put them in his pocket.\n\nBy another natural consequence, in proportion as he drew nearer to his\nfather, to the latter s memory, and to the things for which the colonel\nhad fought five and twenty years before, he receded from his\ngrandfather. We have long ago said, that M. Gillenormand s temper did\nnot please him. There already existed between them all the dissonances\nof the grave young man and the frivolous old man. The gayety of G ronte\nshocks and exasperates the melancholy of Werther. So long as the same\npolitical opinions and the same ideas had been common to them both,\nMarius had met M. Gillenormand there as on a bridge. When the bridge\nfell, an abyss was formed. And then, over and above all, Marius\nexperienced unutterable impulses to revolt, when he reflected that it\nwas M. Gillenormand who had, from stupid motives, torn him ruthlessly\nfrom the colonel, thus depriving the father of the child, and the child\nof the father.\n\nBy dint of pity for his father, Marius had nearly arrived at aversion\nfor his grandfather.\n\nNothing of this sort, however, was betrayed on the exterior, as we have\nalready said. Only he grew colder and colder; laconic at meals, and\nrare in the house. When his aunt scolded him for it, he was very gentle\nand alleged his studies, his lectures, the examinations, etc., as a\npretext. His grandfather never departed from his infallible diagnosis:\n In love! I know all about it. \n\n\nFrom time to time Marius absented himself.\n\n Where is it that he goes off like this?  said his aunt.\n\nOn one of these trips, which were always very brief, he went to\nMontfermeil, in order to obey the injunction which his father had left\nhim, and he sought the old sergeant to Waterloo, the inn-keeper\nTh nardier. Th nardier had failed, the inn was closed, and no one knew\nwhat had become of him. Marius was away from the house for four days on\nthis quest.\n\n He is getting decidedly wild,  said his grandfather.\n\nThey thought they had noticed that he wore something on his breast,\nunder his shirt, which was attached to his neck by a black ribbon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII SOME PETTICOAT\n\n\nWe have mentioned a lancer.\n\nHe was a great-grand-nephew of M. Gillenormand, on the paternal side,\nwho led a garrison life, outside the family and far from the domestic\nhearth. Lieutenant Th odule Gillenormand fulfilled all the conditions\nrequired to make what is called a fine officer. He had  a lady s\nwaist,  a victorious manner of trailing his sword and of twirling his\nmoustache in a hook. He visited Paris very rarely, and so rarely that\nMarius had never seen him. The cousins knew each other only by name. We\nthink we have said that Th odule was the favorite of Aunt Gillenormand,\nwho preferred him because she did not see him. Not seeing people\npermits one to attribute to them all possible perfections.\n\nOne morning, Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder returned to her\napartment as much disturbed as her placidity was capable of allowing.\nMarius had just asked his grandfather s permission to take a little\ntrip, adding that he meant to set out that very evening.  Go!  had been\nhis grandfather s reply, and M. Gillenormand had added in an aside, as\nhe raised his eyebrows to the top of his forehead:  Here he is passing\nthe night out again.  Mademoiselle Gillenormand had ascended to her\nchamber greatly puzzled, and on the staircase had dropped this\nexclamation:  This is too much! and this interrogation:  But where is\nit that he goes?  She espied some adventure of the heart, more or less\nillicit, a woman in the shadow, a rendezvous, a mystery, and she would\nnot have been sorry to thrust her spectacles into the affair. Tasting a\nmystery resembles getting the first flavor of a scandal; sainted souls\ndo not detest this. There is some curiosity about scandal in the secret\ncompartments of bigotry.\n\nSo she was the prey of a vague appetite for learning a history.\n\nIn order to get rid of this curiosity which agitated her a little\nbeyond her wont, she took refuge in her talents, and set about\nscalloping, with one layer of cotton after another, one of those\nembroideries of the Empire and the Restoration, in which there are\nnumerous cart-wheels. The work was clumsy, the worker cross. She had\nbeen seated at this for several hours when the door opened.\nMademoiselle Gillenormand raised her nose. Lieutenant Th odule stood\nbefore her, making the regulation salute. She uttered a cry of delight.\nOne may be old, one may be a prude, one may be pious, one may be an\naunt, but it is always agreeable to see a lancer enter one s chamber.\n\n You here, Th odule!  she exclaimed.\n\n On my way through town, aunt. \n\n\n Embrace me. \n\n\n Here goes!  said Th odule.\n\nAnd he kissed her. Aunt Gillenormand went to her writing-desk and\nopened it.\n\n You will remain with us a week at least? \n\n\n I leave this very evening, aunt. \n\n\n It is not possible! \n\n\n Mathematically! \n\n\n Remain, my little Th odule, I beseech you. \n\n\n My heart says  yes,  but my orders say  no.  The matter is simple.\nThey are changing our garrison; we have been at Melun, we are being\ntransferred to Gaillon. It is necessary to pass through Paris in order\nto get from the old post to the new one. I said:  I am going to see my\naunt. \n\n\n Here is something for your trouble. \n\n\nAnd she put ten louis into his hand.\n\n For my pleasure, you mean to say, my dear aunt. \n\n\nTh odule kissed her again, and she experienced the joy of having some\nof the skin scratched from her neck by the braidings on his uniform.\n\n Are you making the journey on horseback, with your regiment?  she\nasked him.\n\n No, aunt. I wanted to see you. I have special permission. My servant\nis taking my horse; I am travelling by diligence. And, by the way, I\nwant to ask you something. \n\n\n What is it? \n\n\n Is my cousin Marius Pontmercy travelling so, too? \n\n\n How do you know that?  said his aunt, suddenly pricked to the quick\nwith a lively curiosity.\n\n On my arrival, I went to the diligence to engage my seat in the\ncoup . \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n A traveller had already come to engage a seat in the imperial. I saw\nhis name on the card. \n\n\n What name? \n\n\n Marius Pontmercy. \n\n\n The wicked fellow!  exclaimed his aunt.  Ah! your cousin is not a\nsteady lad like yourself. To think that he is to pass the night in a\ndiligence! \n\n\n Just as I am going to do. \n\n\n But you it is your duty; in his case, it is wildness. \n\n\n Bosh!  said Th odule.\n\nHere an event occurred to Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder, an idea\nstruck her. If she had been a man, she would have slapped her brow. She\napostrophized Th odule: \n\n Are you aware whether your cousin knows you? \n\n\n No. I have seen him; but he has never deigned to notice me. \n\n\n So you are going to travel together? \n\n\n He in the imperial, I in the coup . \n\n\n Where does this diligence run? \n\n\n To Andelys. \n\n\n Then that is where Marius is going? \n\n\n Unless, like myself, he should stop on the way. I get down at Vernon,\nin order to take the branch coach for Gaillon. I know nothing of\nMarius  plan of travel. \n\n\n Marius! what an ugly name! what possessed them to name him Marius?\nWhile you, at least, are called Th odule. \n\n\n I would rather be called Alfred,  said the officer.\n\n Listen, Th odule. \n\n\n I am listening, aunt. \n\n\n Pay attention. \n\n\n I am paying attention. \n\n\n You understand? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Well, Marius absents himself! \n\n\n Eh! eh! \n\n\n He travels. \n\n\n Ah! ah! \n\n\n He spends the night out. \n\n\n Oh! oh! \n\n\n We should like to know what there is behind all this. \n\n\nTh odule replied with the composure of a man of bronze: \n\n Some petticoat or other. \n\n\nAnd with that inward laugh which denotes certainty, he added: \n\n A lass. \n\n\n That is evident,  exclaimed his aunt, who thought she heard M.\nGillenormand speaking, and who felt her conviction become irresistible\nat that word _fillette_, accentuated in almost the very same fashion by\nthe granduncle and the grandnephew. She resumed: \n\n Do us a favor. Follow Marius a little. He does not know you, it will\nbe easy. Since a lass there is, try to get a sight of her. You must\nwrite us the tale. It will amuse his grandfather. \n\n\nTh odule had no excessive taste for this sort of spying; but he was\nmuch touched by the ten louis, and he thought he saw a chance for a\npossible sequel. He accepted the commission and said:  As you please,\naunt. \n\n\nAnd he added in an aside, to himself:  Here I am a duenna. \n\n\nMademoiselle Gillenormand embraced him.\n\n You are not the man to play such pranks, Th odule. You obey\ndiscipline, you are the slave of orders, you are a man of scruples and\nduty, and you would not quit your family to go and see a creature. \n\n\nThe lancer made the pleased grimace of Cartouche when praised for his\nprobity.\n\nMarius, on the evening following this dialogue, mounted the diligence\nwithout suspecting that he was watched. As for the watcher, the first\nthing he did was to fall asleep. His slumber was complete and\nconscientious. Argus snored all night long.\n\nAt daybreak, the conductor of the diligence shouted:  Vernon! relay of\nVernon! Travellers for Vernon!  And Lieutenant Th odule woke.\n\n Good,  he growled, still half asleep,  this is where I get out. \n\n\nThen, as his memory cleared by degrees, the effect of waking, he\nrecalled his aunt, the ten louis, and the account which he had\nundertaken to render of the deeds and proceedings of Marius. This set\nhim to laughing.\n\n Perhaps he is no longer in the coach,  he thought, as he rebuttoned\nthe waistcoat of his undress uniform.  He may have stopped at Poissy;\nhe may have stopped at Triel; if he did not get out at Meulan, he may\nhave got out at Mantes, unless he got out at Rolleboise, or if he did\nnot go on as far as Pacy, with the choice of turning to the left at\n vreus, or to the right at Laroche-Guyon. Run after him, aunty. What\nthe devil am I to write to that good old soul? \n\n\nAt that moment a pair of black trousers descending from the imperial,\nmade its appearance at the window of the coup .\n\n Can that be Marius?  said the lieutenant.\n\nIt was Marius.\n\nA little peasant girl, all entangled with the horses and the postilions\nat the end of the vehicle, was offering flowers to the travellers.\n Give your ladies flowers!  she cried.\n\nMarius approached her and purchased the finest flowers in her flat\nbasket.\n\n Come now,  said Th odule, leaping down from the coup ,  this piques my\ncuriosity. Who the deuce is he going to carry those flowers to? She\nmust be a splendidly handsome woman for so fine a bouquet. I want to\nsee her. \n\n\nAnd no longer in pursuance of orders, but from personal curiosity, like\ndogs who hunt on their own account, he set out to follow Marius.\n\nMarius paid no attention to Th odule. Elegant women descended from the\ndiligence; he did not glance at them. He seemed to see nothing around\nhim.\n\n He is pretty deeply in love!  thought Th odule.\n\nMarius directed his steps towards the church.\n\n Capital,  said Th odule to himself.  Rendezvous seasoned with a bit of\nmass are the best sort. Nothing is so exquisite as an ogle which passes\nover the good God s head. \n\n\nOn arriving at the church, Marius did not enter it, but skirted the\napse. He disappeared behind one of the angles of the apse.\n\n The rendezvous is appointed outside,  said Th odule.  Let s have a\nlook at the lass. \n\n\nAnd he advanced on the tips of his boots towards the corner which\nMarius had turned.\n\nOn arriving there, he halted in amazement.\n\nMarius, with his forehead clasped in his hands, was kneeling upon the\ngrass on a grave. He had strewn his bouquet there. At the extremity of\nthe grave, on a little swelling which marked the head, there stood a\ncross of black wood with this name in white letters: COLONEL BARON\nPONTMERCY. Marius  sobs were audible.\n\nThe  lass  was a grave.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII MARBLE AGAINST GRANITE\n\n\nIt was hither that Marius had come on the first occasion of his\nabsenting himself from Paris. It was hither that he had come every time\nthat M. Gillenormand had said:  He is sleeping out. \n\n\nLieutenant Th odule was absolutely put out of countenance by this\nunexpected encounter with a sepulchre; he experienced a singular and\ndisagreeable sensation which he was incapable of analyzing, and which\nwas composed of respect for the tomb, mingled with respect for the\ncolonel. He retreated, leaving Marius alone in the cemetery, and there\nwas discipline in this retreat. Death appeared to him with large\nepaulets, and he almost made the military salute to him. Not knowing\nwhat to write to his aunt, he decided not to write at all; and it is\nprobable that nothing would have resulted from the discovery made by\nTh odule as to the love affairs of Marius, if, by one of those\nmysterious arrangements which are so frequent in chance, the scene at\nVernon had not had an almost immediate counter-shock at Paris.\n\nMarius returned from Vernon on the third day, in the middle of the\nmorning, descended at his grandfather s door, and, wearied by the two\nnights spent in the diligence, and feeling the need of repairing his\nloss of sleep by an hour at the swimming-school, he mounted rapidly to\nhis chamber, took merely time enough to throw off his travelling-coat,\nand the black ribbon which he wore round his neck, and went off to the\nbath.\n\nM. Gillenormand, who had risen betimes like all old men in good health,\nhad heard his entrance, and had made haste to climb, as quickly as his\nold legs permitted, the stairs to the upper story where Marius lived,\nin order to embrace him, and to question him while so doing, and to\nfind out where he had been.\n\nBut the youth had taken less time to descend than the old man had to\nascend, and when Father Gillenormand entered the attic, Marius was no\nlonger there.\n\nThe bed had not been disturbed, and on the bed lay, outspread, but not\ndefiantly the great-coat and the black ribbon.\n\n I like this better,  said M. Gillenormand.\n\nAnd a moment later, he made his entrance into the salon, where\nMademoiselle Gillenormand was already seated, busily embroidering her\ncart-wheels.\n\nThe entrance was a triumphant one.\n\nM. Gillenormand held in one hand the great-coat, and in the other the\nneck-ribbon, and exclaimed: \n\n Victory! We are about to penetrate the mystery! We are going to learn\nthe most minute details; we are going to lay our finger on the\ndebaucheries of our sly friend! Here we have the romance itself. I have\nthe portrait! \n\n\nIn fact, a case of black shagreen, resembling a medallion portrait, was\nsuspended from the ribbon.\n\nThe old man took this case and gazed at it for some time without\nopening it, with that air of enjoyment, rapture, and wrath, with which\na poor hungry fellow beholds an admirable dinner which is not for him,\npass under his very nose.\n\n For this evidently is a portrait. I know all about such things. That\nis worn tenderly on the heart. How stupid they are! Some abominable\nfright that will make us shudder, probably! Young men have such bad\ntaste nowadays! \n\n\n Let us see, father,  said the old spinster.\n\nThe case opened by the pressure of a spring. They found in it nothing\nbut a carefully folded paper.\n\n_ From the same to the same, _ said M. Gillenormand, bursting with\nlaughter.  I know what it is. A billet-doux. \n\n\n Ah! let us read it!  said the aunt.\n\nAnd she put on her spectacles. They unfolded the paper and read as\nfollows: \n\n _For my son_. The Emperor made me a Baron on the battlefield of\nWaterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to this title which I\npurchased with my blood, my son shall take it and bear it. That he will\nbe worthy of it is a matter of course. \n\n\nThe feelings of father and daughter cannot be described. They felt\nchilled as by the breath of a death s-head. They did not exchange a\nword.\n\nOnly, M. Gillenormand said in a low voice and as though speaking to\nhimself: \n\n It is the slasher s handwriting. \n\n\nThe aunt examined the paper, turned it about in all directions, then\nput it back in its case.\n\nAt the same moment a little oblong packet, enveloped in blue paper,\nfell from one of the pockets of the great-coat. Mademoiselle\nGillenormand picked it up and unfolded the blue paper.\n\nIt contained Marius  hundred cards. She handed one of them to M.\nGillenormand, who read: _Le Baron Marius Pontmercy_.\n\nThe old man rang the bell. Nicolette came. M. Gillenormand took the\nribbon, the case, and the coat, flung them all on the floor in the\nmiddle of the room, and said: \n\n Carry those duds away. \n\n\nA full hour passed in the most profound silence. The old man and the\nold spinster had seated themselves with their backs to each other, and\nwere thinking, each on his own account, the same things, in all\nprobability.\n\nAt the expiration of this hour, Aunt Gillenormand said: A pretty state\nof things! \n\n\nA few moments later, Marius made his appearance. He entered. Even\nbefore he had crossed the threshold, he saw his grandfather holding one\nof his own cards in his hand, and on catching sight of him, the latter\nexclaimed with his air of bourgeois and grinning superiority which was\nsomething crushing: \n\n Well! well! well! well! well! so you are a baron now. I present you my\ncompliments. What is the meaning of this? \n\n\nMarius reddened slightly and replied: \n\n It means that I am the son of my father. \n\n\nM. Gillenormand ceased to laugh, and said harshly: \n\n I am your father. \n\n\n My father,  retorted Marius, with downcast eyes and a severe air,  was\na humble and heroic man, who served the Republic and France gloriously,\nwho was great in the greatest history that men have ever made, who\nlived in the bivouac for a quarter of a century, beneath grape-shot and\nbullets, in snow and mud by day, beneath rain at night, who captured\ntwo flags, who received twenty wounds, who died forgotten and\nabandoned, and who never committed but one mistake, which was to love\ntoo fondly two ingrates, his country and myself. \n\n\nThis was more than M. Gillenormand could bear to hear. At the word\n_republic_, he rose, or, to speak more correctly, he sprang to his\nfeet. Every word that Marius had just uttered produced on the visage of\nthe old Royalist the effect of the puffs of air from a forge upon a\nblazing brand. From a dull hue he had turned red, from red, purple, and\nfrom purple, flame-colored.\n\n Marius!  he cried.  Abominable child! I do not know what your father\nwas! I do not wish to know! I know nothing about that, and I do not\nknow him! But what I do know is, that there never was anything but\nscoundrels among those men! They were all rascals, assassins, red-caps,\nthieves! I say all! I say all! I know not one! I say all! Do you hear\nme, Marius! See here, you are no more a baron than my slipper is! They\nwere all bandits in the service of Robespierre! All who served\nB-u-o-napart  were brigands! They were all traitors who betrayed,\nbetrayed, betrayed their legitimate king! All cowards who fled before\nthe Prussians and the English at Waterloo! That is what I do know!\nWhether Monsieur your father comes in that category, I do not know! I\nam sorry for it, so much the worse, your humble servant! \n\n\nIn his turn, it was Marius who was the firebrand and M. Gillenormand\nwho was the bellows. Marius quivered in every limb, he did not know\nwhat would happen next, his brain was on fire. He was the priest who\nbeholds all his sacred wafers cast to the winds, the fakir who beholds\na passer-by spit upon his idol. It could not be that such things had\nbeen uttered in his presence. What was he to do? His father had just\nbeen trampled under foot and stamped upon in his presence, but by whom?\nBy his grandfather. How was he to avenge the one without outraging the\nother? It was impossible for him to insult his grandfather and it was\nequally impossible for him to leave his father unavenged. On the one\nhand was a sacred grave, on the other hoary locks.\n\nHe stood there for several moments, staggering as though intoxicated,\nwith all this whirlwind dashing through his head; then he raised his\neyes, gazed fixedly at his grandfather, and cried in a voice of\nthunder: \n\n Down with the Bourbons, and that great hog of a Louis XVIII.! \n\n\nLouis XVIII. had been dead for four years; but it was all the same to\nhim.\n\nThe old man, who had been crimson, turned whiter than his hair. He\nwheeled round towards a bust of M. le Duc de Berry, which stood on the\nchimney-piece, and made a profound bow, with a sort of peculiar\nmajesty. Then he paced twice, slowly and in silence, from the fireplace\nto the window and from the window to the fireplace, traversing the\nwhole length of the room, and making the polished floor creak as though\nhe had been a stone statue walking.\n\nOn his second turn, he bent over his daughter, who was watching this\nencounter with the stupefied air of an antiquated lamb, and said to her\nwith a smile that was almost calm:  A baron like this gentleman, and a\nbourgeois like myself cannot remain under the same roof. \n\n\nAnd drawing himself up, all at once, pallid, trembling, terrible, with\nhis brow rendered more lofty by the terrible radiance of wrath, he\nextended his arm towards Marius and shouted to him: \n\n Be off! \n\n\nMarius left the house.\n\nOn the following day, M. Gillenormand said to his daughter:\n\n You will send sixty pistoles every six months to that blood-drinker,\nand you will never mention his name to me. \n\n\nHaving an immense reserve fund of wrath to get rid of, and not knowing\nwhat to do with it, he continued to address his daughter as _you_\ninstead of _thou_ for the next three months.\n\nMarius, on his side, had gone forth in indignation. There was one\ncircumstance which, it must be admitted, aggravated his exasperation.\nThere are always petty fatalities of the sort which complicate domestic\ndramas. They augment the grievances in such cases, although, in\nreality, the wrongs are not increased by them. While carrying Marius \n duds  precipitately to his chamber, at his grandfather s command,\nNicolette had, inadvertently, let fall, probably, on the attic\nstaircase, which was dark, that medallion of black shagreen which\ncontained the paper penned by the colonel. Neither paper nor case could\nafterwards be found. Marius was convinced that  Monsieur\nGillenormand from that day forth he never alluded to him otherwise had\nflung  his father s testament  in the fire. He knew by heart the few\nlines which the colonel had written, and, consequently, nothing was\nlost. But the paper, the writing, that sacred relic, all that was his\nvery heart. What had been done with it?\n\nMarius had taken his departure without saying whither he was going, and\nwithout knowing where, with thirty francs, his watch, and a few clothes\nin a hand-bag. He had entered a hackney-coach, had engaged it by the\nhour, and had directed his course at hap-hazard towards the Latin\nquarter.\n\nWhat was to become of Marius?\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FOURTH THE FRIENDS OF THE A B C\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I A GROUP WHICH BARELY MISSED BECOMING HISTORIC\n\n\nAt that epoch, which was, to all appearances indifferent, a certain\nrevolutionary quiver was vaguely current. Breaths which had started\nforth from the depths of  89 and  93 were in the air. Youth was on the\npoint, may the reader pardon us the word, of moulting. People were\nundergoing a transformation, almost without being conscious of it,\nthrough the movement of the age. The needle which moves round the\ncompass also moves in souls. Each person was taking that step in\nadvance which he was bound to take. The Royalists were becoming\nliberals, liberals were turning democrats. It was a flood tide\ncomplicated with a thousand ebb movements; the peculiarity of ebbs is\nto create intermixtures; hence the combination of very singular ideas;\npeople adored both Napoleon and liberty. We are making history here.\nThese were the mirages of that period. Opinions traverse phases.\nVoltairian royalism, a quaint variety, had a no less singular sequel,\nBonapartist liberalism.\n\nOther groups of minds were more serious. In that direction, they\nsounded principles, they attached themselves to the right. They grew\nenthusiastic for the absolute, they caught glimpses of infinite\nrealizations; the absolute, by its very rigidity, urges spirits towards\nthe sky and causes them to float in illimitable space. There is nothing\nlike dogma for bringing forth dreams. And there is nothing like dreams\nfor engendering the future. Utopia to-day, flesh and blood to-morrow.\n\nThese advanced opinions had a double foundation. A beginning of mystery\nmenaced  the established order of things,  which was suspicious and\nunderhand. A sign which was revolutionary to the highest degree. The\nsecond thoughts of power meet the second thoughts of the populace in\nthe mine. The incubation of insurrections gives the retort to the\npremeditation of _coups d tat_.\n\nThere did not, as yet, exist in France any of those vast underlying\norganizations, like the German _tugendbund_ and Italian Carbonarism;\nbut here and there there were dark underminings, which were in process\nof throwing off shoots. The Cougourde was being outlined at Aix; there\nexisted at Paris, among other affiliations of that nature, the society\nof the Friends of the A B C.\n\nWhat were these Friends of the A B C? A society which had for its\nobject apparently the education of children, in reality the elevation\nof man.\n\nThey declared themselves the Friends of the A B C, the _Abaiss _, the\ndebased, that is to say, the people. They wished to elevate the people.\nIt was a pun which we should do wrong to smile at. Puns are sometimes\nserious factors in politics; witness the _Castratus ad castra_, which\nmade a general of the army of Narses; witness: _Barbari et Barberini_;\nwitness: _Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram_, etc., etc.\n\nThe Friends of the A B C were not numerous, it was a secret society in\nthe state of embryo, we might almost say a coterie, if coteries ended\nin heroes. They assembled in Paris in two localities, near the\nfish-market, in a wine-shop called _Corinthe_, of which more will be\nheard later on, and near the Pantheon in a little caf  in the Rue\nSaint-Michel called the _Caf  Musain_, now torn down; the first of\nthese meeting-places was close to the workingman, the second to the\nstudents.\n\nThe assemblies of the Friends of the A B C were usually held in a back\nroom of the Caf  Musain.\n\nThis hall, which was tolerably remote from the caf , with which it was\nconnected by an extremely long corridor, had two windows and an exit\nwith a private stairway on the little Rue des Gr s. There they smoked\nand drank, and gambled and laughed. There they conversed in very loud\ntones about everything, and in whispers of other things. An old map of\nFrance under the Republic was nailed to the wall, a sign quite\nsufficient to excite the suspicion of a police agent.\n\nThe greater part of the Friends of the A B C were students, who were on\ncordial terms with the working classes. Here are the names of the\nprincipal ones. They belong, in a certain measure, to history:\nEnjolras, Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel,\nLesgle or Laigle, Joly, Grantaire.\n\nThese young men formed a sort of family, through the bond of\nfriendship. All, with the exception of Laigle, were from the South.\n\n[Illustration: Friends of the a B C]\n\nThis was a remarkable group. It vanished in the invisible depths which\nlie behind us. At the point of this drama which we have now reached, it\nwill not perhaps be superfluous to throw a ray of light upon these\nyouthful heads, before the reader beholds them plunging into the shadow\nof a tragic adventure.\n\nEnjolras, whose name we have mentioned first of all, the reader shall\nsee why later on, was an only son and wealthy.\n\nEnjolras was a charming young man, who was capable of being terrible.\nHe was angelically handsome. He was a savage Antinous. One would have\nsaid, to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had\nalready, in some previous state of existence, traversed the\nrevolutionary apocalypse. He possessed the tradition of it as though he\nhad been a witness. He was acquainted with all the minute details of\nthe great affair. A pontifical and warlike nature, a singular thing in\na youth. He was an officiating priest and a man of war; from the\nimmediate point of view, a soldier of the democracy; above the\ncontemporary movement, the priest of the ideal. His eyes were deep, his\nlids a little red, his lower lip was thick and easily became\ndisdainful, his brow was lofty. A great deal of brow in a face is like\na great deal of horizon in a view. Like certain young men at the\nbeginning of this century and the end of the last, who became\nillustrious at an early age, he was endowed with excessive youth, and\nwas as rosy as a young girl, although subject to hours of pallor.\nAlready a man, he still seemed a child. His two and twenty years\nappeared to be but seventeen; he was serious, it did not seem as though\nhe were aware there was on earth a thing called woman. He had but one\npassion the right; but one thought to overthrow the obstacle. On Mount\nAventine, he would have been Gracchus; in the Convention, he would have\nbeen Saint-Just. He hardly saw the roses, he ignored spring, he did not\nhear the carolling of the birds; the bare throat of Evadne would have\nmoved him no more than it would have moved Aristogeiton; he, like\nHarmodius, thought flowers good for nothing except to conceal the\nsword. He was severe in his enjoyments. He chastely dropped his eyes\nbefore everything which was not the Republic. He was the marble lover\nof liberty. His speech was harshly inspired, and had the thrill of a\nhymn. He was subject to unexpected outbursts of soul. Woe to the\nlove-affair which should have risked itself beside him! If any grisette\nof the Place Cambrai or the Rue Saint-Jean-de-Beauvais, seeing that\nface of a youth escaped from college, that page s mien, those long,\ngolden lashes, those blue eyes, that hair billowing in the wind, those\nrosy cheeks, those fresh lips, those exquisite teeth, had conceived an\nappetite for that complete aurora, and had tried her beauty on\nEnjolras, an astounding and terrible glance would have promptly shown\nher the abyss, and would have taught her not to confound the mighty\ncherub of Ezekiel with the gallant Cherubino of Beaumarchais.\n\nBy the side of Enjolras, who represented the logic of the Revolution,\nCombeferre represented its philosophy. Between the logic of the\nRevolution and its philosophy there exists this difference that its\nlogic may end in war, whereas its philosophy can end only in peace.\nCombeferre complemented and rectified Enjolras. He was less lofty, but\nbroader. He desired to pour into all minds the extensive principles of\ngeneral ideas: he said:  Revolution, but civilization ; and around the\nmountain peak he opened out a vast view of the blue sky. The Revolution\nwas more adapted for breathing with Combeferre than with Enjolras.\nEnjolras expressed its divine right, and Combeferre its natural right.\nThe first attached himself to Robespierre; the second confined himself\nto Condorcet. Combeferre lived the life of all the rest of the world\nmore than did Enjolras. If it had been granted to these two young men\nto attain to history, the one would have been the just, the other the\nwise man. Enjolras was the more virile, Combeferre the more humane.\n_Homo_ and _vir_, that was the exact effect of their different shades.\nCombeferre was as gentle as Enjolras was severe, through natural\nwhiteness. He loved the word _citizen_, but he preferred the word\n_man_. He would gladly have said: _Hombre_, like the Spanish. He read\neverything, went to the theatres, attended the courses of public\nlecturers, learned the polarization of light from Arago, grew\nenthusiastic over a lesson in which Geoffroy Sainte-Hilaire explained\nthe double function of the external carotid artery, and the internal,\nthe one which makes the face, and the one which makes the brain; he\nkept up with what was going on, followed science step by step, compared\nSaint-Simon with Fourier, deciphered hieroglyphics, broke the pebble\nwhich he found and reasoned on geology, drew from memory a silkworm\nmoth, pointed out the faulty French in the Dictionary of the Academy,\nstudied Puys gur and Deleuze, affirmed nothing, not even miracles;\ndenied nothing, not even ghosts; turned over the files of the\n_Moniteur_, reflected. He declared that the future lies in the hand of\nthe schoolmaster, and busied himself with educational questions. He\ndesired that society should labor without relaxation at the elevation\nof the moral and intellectual level, at coining science, at putting\nideas into circulation, at increasing the mind in youthful persons, and\nhe feared lest the present poverty of method, the paltriness from a\nliterary point of view confined to two or three centuries called\nclassic, the tyrannical dogmatism of official pedants, scholastic\nprejudices and routines should end by converting our colleges into\nartificial oyster beds. He was learned, a purist, exact, a graduate of\nthe Polytechnic, a close student, and at the same time, thoughtful\n even to chim ras,  so his friends said. He believed in all dreams,\nrailroads, the suppression of suffering in chirurgical operations, the\nfixing of images in the dark chamber, the electric telegraph, the\nsteering of balloons. Moreover, he was not much alarmed by the citadels\nerected against the human mind in every direction, by superstition,\ndespotism, and prejudice. He was one of those who think that science\nwill eventually turn the position. Enjolras was a chief, Combeferre was\na guide. One would have liked to fight under the one and to march\nbehind the other. It is not that Combeferre was not capable of\nfighting, he did not refuse a hand-to-hand combat with the obstacle,\nand to attack it by main force and explosively; but it suited him\nbetter to bring the human race into accord with its destiny gradually,\nby means of education, the inculcation of axioms, the promulgation of\npositive laws; and, between two lights, his preference was rather for\nillumination than for conflagration. A conflagration can create an\naurora, no doubt, but why not await the dawn? A volcano illuminates,\nbut daybreak furnishes a still better illumination. Possibly,\nCombeferre preferred the whiteness of the beautiful to the blaze of the\nsublime. A light troubled by smoke, progress purchased at the expense\nof violence, only half satisfied this tender and serious spirit. The\nheadlong precipitation of a people into the truth, a  93, terrified\nhim; nevertheless, stagnation was still more repulsive to him, in it he\ndetected putrefaction and death; on the whole, he preferred scum to\nmiasma, and he preferred the torrent to the cesspool, and the falls of\nNiagara to the lake of Montfaucon. In short, he desired neither halt\nnor haste. While his tumultuous friends, captivated by the absolute,\nadored and invoked splendid revolutionary adventures, Combeferre was\ninclined to let progress, good progress, take its own course; he may\nhave been cold, but he was pure; methodical, but irreproachable;\nphlegmatic, but imperturbable. Combeferre would have knelt and clasped\nhis hands to enable the future to arrive in all its candor, and that\nnothing might disturb the immense and virtuous evolution of the races.\n_The good must be innocent_, he repeated incessantly. And in fact, if\nthe grandeur of the Revolution consists in keeping the dazzling ideal\nfixedly in view, and of soaring thither athwart the lightnings, with\nfire and blood in its talons, the beauty of progress lies in being\nspotless; and there exists between Washington, who represents the one,\nand Danton, who incarnates the other, that difference which separates\nthe swan from the angel with the wings of an eagle.\n\nJean Prouvaire was a still softer shade than Combeferre. His name was\nJehan, owing to that petty momentary freak which mingled with the\npowerful and profound movement whence sprang the very essential study\nof the Middle Ages. Jean Prouvaire was in love; he cultivated a pot of\nflowers, played on the flute, made verses, loved the people, pitied\nwoman, wept over the child, confounded God and the future in the same\nconfidence, and blamed the Revolution for having caused the fall of a\nroyal head, that of Andr  Ch nier. His voice was ordinarily delicate,\nbut suddenly grew manly. He was learned even to erudition, and almost\nan Orientalist. Above all, he was good; and, a very simple thing to\nthose who know how nearly goodness borders on grandeur, in the matter\nof poetry, he preferred the immense. He knew Italian, Latin, Greek, and\nHebrew; and these served him only for the perusal of four poets: Dante,\nJuvenal,  schylus, and Isaiah. In French, he preferred Corneille to\nRacine, and Agrippa d Aubign  to Corneille. He loved to saunter through\nfields of wild oats and corn-flowers, and busied himself with clouds\nnearly as much as with events. His mind had two attitudes, one on the\nside towards man, the other on that towards God; he studied or he\ncontemplated. All day long, he buried himself in social questions,\nsalary, capital, credit, marriage, religion, liberty of thought,\neducation, penal servitude, poverty, association, property, production\nand sharing, the enigma of this lower world which covers the human\nant-hill with darkness; and at night, he gazed upon the planets, those\nenormous beings. Like Enjolras, he was wealthy and an only son. He\nspoke softly, bowed his head, lowered his eyes, smiled with\nembarrassment, dressed badly, had an awkward air, blushed at a mere\nnothing, and was very timid. Yet he was intrepid.\n\nFeuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father and\nmother, who earned with difficulty three francs a day, and had but one\nthought, to deliver the world. He had one other preoccupation, to\neducate himself; he called this also, delivering himself. He had taught\nhimself to read and write; everything that he knew, he had learned by\nhimself. Feuilly had a generous heart. The range of his embrace was\nimmense. This orphan had adopted the peoples. As his mother had failed\nhim, he meditated on his country. He brooded with the profound\ndivination of the man of the people, over what we now call the _idea of\nthe nationality_, had learned history with the express object of raging\nwith full knowledge of the case. In this club of young Utopians,\noccupied chiefly with France, he represented the outside world. He had\nfor his specialty Greece, Poland, Hungary, Roumania, Italy. He uttered\nthese names incessantly, appropriately and inappropriately, with the\ntenacity of right. The violations of Turkey on Greece and Thessaly, of\nRussia on Warsaw, of Austria on Venice, enraged him. Above all things,\nthe great violence of 1772 aroused him. There is no more sovereign\neloquence than the true in indignation; he was eloquent with that\neloquence. He was inexhaustible on that infamous date of 1772, on the\nsubject of that noble and valiant race suppressed by treason, and that\nthree-sided crime, on that monstrous ambush, the prototype and pattern\nof all those horrible suppressions of states, which, since that time,\nhave struck many a noble nation, and have annulled their certificate of\nbirth, so to speak. All contemporary social crimes have their origin in\nthe partition of Poland. The partition of Poland is a theorem of which\nall present political outrages are the corollaries. There has not been\na despot, nor a traitor for nearly a century back, who has not signed,\napproved, counter-signed, and copied, _ne variatur_, the partition of\nPoland. When the record of modern treasons was examined, that was the\nfirst thing which made its appearance. The congress of Vienna consulted\nthat crime before consummating its own. 1772 sounded the onset; 1815\nwas the death of the game. Such was Feuilly s habitual text. This poor\nworkingman had constituted himself the tutor of Justice, and she\nrecompensed him by rendering him great. The fact is, that there is\neternity in right. Warsaw can no more be Tartar than Venice can be\nTeuton. Kings lose their pains and their honor in the attempt to make\nthem so. Sooner or later, the submerged part floats to the surface and\nreappears. Greece becomes Greece again, Italy is once more Italy. The\nprotest of right against the deed persists forever. The theft of a\nnation cannot be allowed by prescription. These lofty deeds of\nrascality have no future. A nation cannot have its mark extracted like\na pocket handkerchief.\n\nCourfeyrac had a father who was called M. de Courfeyrac. One of the\nfalse ideas of the bourgeoisie under the Restoration as regards\naristocracy and the nobility was to believe in the particle. The\nparticle, as every one knows, possesses no significance. But the\nbourgeois of the epoch of _la Minerve_ estimated so highly that poor\n_de_, that they thought themselves bound to abdicate it. M. de\nChauvelin had himself called M. Chauvelin; M. de Caumartin, M.\nCaumartin; M. de Constant de Robecque, Benjamin Constant; M. de\nLafayette, M. Lafayette. Courfeyrac had not wished to remain behind the\nrest, and called himself plain Courfeyrac.\n\nWe might almost, so far as Courfeyrac is concerned, stop here, and\nconfine ourselves to saying with regard to what remains:  For\nCourfeyrac, see Tholomy s. \n\n\nCourfeyrac had, in fact, that animation of youth which may be called\nthe _beaut  du diable_ of the mind. Later on, this disappears like the\nplayfulness of the kitten, and all this grace ends, with the bourgeois,\non two legs, and with the tomcat, on four paws.\n\nThis sort of wit is transmitted from generation to generation of the\nsuccessive levies of youth who traverse the schools, who pass it from\nhand to hand, _quasi cursores_, and is almost always exactly the same;\nso that, as we have just pointed out, any one who had listened to\nCourfeyrac in 1828 would have thought he heard Tholomy s in 1817. Only,\nCourfeyrac was an honorable fellow. Beneath the apparent similarities\nof the exterior mind, the difference between him and Tholomy s was very\ngreat. The latent man which existed in the two was totally different in\nthe first from what it was in the second. There was in Tholomy s a\ndistrict attorney, and in Courfeyrac a paladin.\n\nEnjolras was the chief, Combeferre was the guide, Courfeyrac was the\ncentre. The others gave more light, he shed more warmth; the truth is,\nthat he possessed all the qualities of a centre, roundness and\nradiance.\n\nBahorel had figured in the bloody tumult of June, 1822, on the occasion\nof the burial of young Lallemand.\n\nBahorel was a good-natured mortal, who kept bad company, brave, a\nspendthrift, prodigal, and to the verge of generosity, talkative, and\nat times eloquent, bold to the verge of effrontery; the best fellow\npossible; he had daring waistcoats, and scarlet opinions; a wholesale\nblusterer, that is to say, loving nothing so much as a quarrel, unless\nit were an uprising; and nothing so much as an uprising, unless it were\na revolution; always ready to smash a window-pane, then to tear up the\npavement, then to demolish a government, just to see the effect of it;\na student in his eleventh year. He had nosed about the law, but did not\npractise it. He had taken for his device:  Never a lawyer,  and for his\narmorial bearings a nightstand in which was visible a square cap. Every\ntime that he passed the law-school, which rarely happened, he buttoned\nup his frock-coat, the paletot had not yet been invented, and took\nhygienic precautions. Of the school porter he said:  What a fine old\nman!  and of the dean, M. Delvincourt:  What a monument!  In his\nlectures he espied subjects for ballads, and in his professors\noccasions for caricature. He wasted a tolerably large allowance,\nsomething like three thousand francs a year, in doing nothing.\n\nHe had peasant parents whom he had contrived to imbue with respect for\ntheir son.\n\nHe said of them:  They are peasants and not bourgeois; that is the\nreason they are intelligent. \n\n\nBahorel, a man of caprice, was scattered over numerous caf s; the\nothers had habits, he had none. He sauntered. To stray is human. To\nsaunter is Parisian. In reality, he had a penetrating mind and was more\nof a thinker than appeared to view.\n\nHe served as a connecting link between the Friends of the A B C and\nother still unorganized groups, which were destined to take form later\non.\n\nIn this conclave of young heads, there was one bald member.\n\nThe Marquis d Avaray, whom Louis XVIII. made a duke for having assisted\nhim to enter a hackney-coach on the day when he emigrated, was wont to\nrelate, that in 1814, on his return to France, as the King was\ndisembarking at Calais, a man handed him a petition.\n\n What is your request?  said the King.\n\n Sire, a post-office. \n\n\n What is your name? \n\n\n L Aigle. \n\n\nThe King frowned, glanced at the signature of the petition and beheld\nthe name written thus: LESGLE. This non-Bonaparte orthography touched\nthe King and he began to smile.  Sire,  resumed the man with the\npetition,  I had for ancestor a keeper of the hounds surnamed\nLesgueules. This surname furnished my name. I am called Lesgueules, by\ncontraction Lesgle, and by corruption l Aigle.  This caused the King to\nsmile broadly. Later on he gave the man the posting office of Meaux,\neither intentionally or accidentally.\n\nThe bald member of the group was the son of this Lesgle, or L gle, and\nhe signed himself, L gle [de Meaux]. As an abbreviation, his companions\ncalled him Bossuet.\n\nBossuet was a gay but unlucky fellow. His specialty was not to succeed\nin anything. As an offset, he laughed at everything. At five and twenty\nhe was bald. His father had ended by owning a house and a field; but\nhe, the son, had made haste to lose that house and field in a bad\nspeculation. He had nothing left. He possessed knowledge and wit, but\nall he did miscarried. Everything failed him and everybody deceived\nhim; what he was building tumbled down on top of him. If he were\nsplitting wood, he cut off a finger. If he had a mistress, he speedily\ndiscovered that he had a friend also. Some misfortune happened to him\nevery moment, hence his joviality. He said:  I live under falling\ntiles.  He was not easily astonished, because, for him, an accident was\nwhat he had foreseen, he took his bad luck serenely, and smiled at the\nteasing of fate, like a person who is listening to pleasantries. He was\npoor, but his fund of good humor was inexhaustible. He soon reached his\nlast sou, never his last burst of laughter. When adversity entered his\ndoors, he saluted this old acquaintance cordially, he tapped all\ncatastrophes on the stomach; he was familiar with fatality to the point\nof calling it by its nickname:  Good day, Guignon,  he said to it.\n\nThese persecutions of fate had rendered him inventive. He was full of\nresources. He had no money, but he found means, when it seemed good to\nhim, to indulge in  unbridled extravagance.  One night, he went so far\nas to eat a  hundred francs  in a supper with a wench, which inspired\nhim to make this memorable remark in the midst of the orgy:  Pull off\nmy boots, you five-louis jade. \n\n\nBossuet was slowly directing his steps towards the profession of a\nlawyer; he was pursuing his law studies after the manner of Bahorel.\nBossuet had not much domicile, sometimes none at all. He lodged now\nwith one, now with another, most often with Joly. Joly was studying\nmedicine. He was two years younger than Bossuet.\n\nJoly was the  malade imaginaire  junior. What he had won in medicine\nwas to be more of an invalid than a doctor. At three and twenty he\nthought himself a valetudinarian, and passed his life in inspecting his\ntongue in the mirror. He affirmed that man becomes magnetic like a\nneedle, and in his chamber he placed his bed with its head to the\nsouth, and the foot to the north, so that, at night, the circulation of\nhis blood might not be interfered with by the great electric current of\nthe globe. During thunder storms, he felt his pulse. Otherwise, he was\nthe gayest of them all. All these young, maniacal, puny, merry\nincoherences lived in harmony together, and the result was an eccentric\nand agreeable being whom his comrades, who were prodigal of winged\nconsonants, called Jolllly.  You may fly away on the four _L s_,  Jean\nProuvaire said to him.23\n\nJoly had a trick of touching his nose with the tip of his cane, which\nis an indication of a sagacious mind.\n\nAll these young men who differed so greatly, and who, on the whole, can\nonly be discussed seriously, held the same religion: Progress.\n\nAll were the direct sons of the French Revolution. The most giddy of\nthem became solemn when they pronounced that date:  89. Their fathers\nin the flesh had been, either royalists, doctrinaires, it matters not\nwhat; this confusion anterior to themselves, who were young, did not\nconcern them at all; the pure blood of principle ran in their veins.\nThey attached themselves, without intermediate shades, to incorruptible\nright and absolute duty.\n\nAffiliated and initiated, they sketched out the ideal underground.\n\nAmong all these glowing hearts and thoroughly convinced minds, there\nwas one sceptic. How came he there? By juxtaposition. This sceptic s\nname was Grantaire, and he was in the habit of signing himself with\nthis rebus: R. Grantaire was a man who took good care not to believe in\nanything. Moreover, he was one of the students who had learned the most\nduring their course at Paris; he knew that the best coffee was to be\nhad at the Caf  Lemblin, and the best billiards at the Caf  Voltaire,\nthat good cakes and lasses were to be found at the Ermitage, on the\nBoulevard du Maine, spatchcocked chickens at Mother Sauget s, excellent\nmatelotes at the Barri re de la Cunette, and a certain thin white wine\nat the Barri re du Compat. He knew the best place for everything; in\naddition, boxing and foot-fencing and some dances; and he was a\nthorough single-stick player. He was a tremendous drinker to boot. He\nwas inordinately homely: the prettiest boot-stitcher of that day, Irma\nBoissy, enraged with his homeliness, pronounced sentence on him as\nfollows:  Grantaire is impossible ; but Grantaire s fatuity was not to\nbe disconcerted. He stared tenderly and fixedly at all women, with the\nair of saying to them all:  If I only chose!  and of trying to make his\ncomrades believe that he was in general demand.\n\nAll those words: rights of the people, rights of man, the social\ncontract, the French Revolution, the Republic, democracy, humanity,\ncivilization, religion, progress, came very near to signifying nothing\nwhatever to Grantaire. He smiled at them. Scepticism, that caries of\nthe intelligence, had not left him a single whole idea. He lived with\nirony. This was his axiom:  There is but one certainty, my full glass. \nHe sneered at all devotion in all parties, the father as well as the\nbrother, Robespierre junior as well as Loizerolles.  They are greatly\nin advance to be dead,  he exclaimed. He said of the crucifix:  There\nis a gibbet which has been a success.  A rover, a gambler, a libertine,\noften drunk, he displeased these young dreamers by humming incessantly:\n J aimons les filles, et j aimons le bon vin.  Air: Vive Henri IV.\n\nHowever, this sceptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticism was neither a\ndogma, nor an idea, nor an art, nor a science; it was a man: Enjolras.\nGrantaire admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras. To whom did this\nanarchical scoffer unite himself in this phalanx of absolute minds? To\nthe most absolute. In what manner had Enjolras subjugated him? By his\nideas? No. By his character. A phenomenon which is often observable. A\nsceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of\ncomplementary colors. That which we lack attracts us. No one loves the\nlight like the blind man. The dwarf adores the drum-major. The toad\nalways has his eyes fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in\nits flight. Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar\nin Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras. That chaste, healthy, firm,\nupright, hard, candid nature charmed him, without his being clearly\naware of it, and without the idea of explaining it to himself having\noccurred to him. He admired his opposite by instinct. His soft,\nyielding, dislocated, sickly, shapeless ideas attached themselves to\nEnjolras as to a spinal column. His moral backbone leaned on that\nfirmness. Grantaire in the presence of Enjolras became some one once\nmore. He was, himself, moreover, composed of two elements, which were,\nto all appearance, incompatible. He was ironical and cordial. His\nindifference loved. His mind could get along without belief, but his\nheart could not get along without friendship. A profound contradiction;\nfor an affection is a conviction. His nature was thus constituted.\nThere are men who seem to be born to be the reverse, the obverse, the\nwrong side. They are Pollux, Patrocles, Nisus, Eudamidas, Ephestion,\nPechmeja. They only exist on condition that they are backed up with\nanother man; their name is a sequel, and is only written preceded by\nthe conjunction _and_; and their existence is not their own; it is the\nother side of an existence which is not theirs. Grantaire was one of\nthese men. He was the obverse of Enjolras.\n\nOne might almost say that affinities begin with the letters of the\nalphabet. In the series O and P are inseparable. You can, at will,\npronounce O and P or Orestes and Pylades.\n\nGrantaire, Enjolras  true satellite, inhabited this circle of young\nmen; he lived there, he took no pleasure anywhere but there; he\nfollowed them everywhere. His joy was to see these forms go and come\nthrough the fumes of wine. They tolerated him on account of his good\nhumor.\n\nEnjolras, the believer, disdained this sceptic; and, a sober man\nhimself, scorned this drunkard. He accorded him a little lofty pity.\nGrantaire was an unaccepted Pylades. Always harshly treated by\nEnjolras, roughly repulsed, rejected yet ever returning to the charge,\nhe said of Enjolras:  What fine marble! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II BLONDEAU S FUNERAL ORATION BY BOSSUET\n\n\nOn a certain afternoon, which had, as will be seen hereafter, some\ncoincidence with the events heretofore related, Laigle de Meaux was to\nbe seen leaning in a sensual manner against the doorpost of the Caf \nMusain. He had the air of a caryatid on a vacation; he carried nothing\nbut his reverie, however. He was staring at the Place Saint-Michel. To\nlean one s back against a thing is equivalent to lying down while\nstanding erect, which attitude is not hated by thinkers. Laigle de\nMeaux was pondering without melancholy, over a little misadventure\nwhich had befallen him two days previously at the law-school, and which\nhad modified his personal plans for the future, plans which were rather\nindistinct in any case.\n\nReverie does not prevent a cab from passing by, nor the dreamer from\ntaking note of that cab. Laigle de Meaux, whose eyes were straying\nabout in a sort of diffuse lounging, perceived, athwart his\nsomnambulism, a two-wheeled vehicle proceeding through the place, at a\nfoot pace and apparently in indecision. For whom was this cabriolet?\nWhy was it driving at a walk? Laigle took a survey. In it, beside the\ncoachman, sat a young man, and in front of the young man lay a rather\nbulky hand-bag. The bag displayed to passers-by the following name\ninscribed in large black letters on a card which was sewn to the stuff:\nMARIUS PONTMERCY.\n\nThis name caused Laigle to change his attitude. He drew himself up and\nhurled this apostrophe at the young man in the cabriolet: \n\n Monsieur Marius Pontmercy! \n\n\nThe cabriolet thus addressed came to a halt.\n\nThe young man, who also seemed deeply buried in thought, raised his\neyes: \n\n Hey?  said he.\n\n You are M. Marius Pontmercy? \n\n\n Certainly. \n\n\n I was looking for you,  resumed Laigle de Meaux.\n\n How so?  demanded Marius; for it was he: in fact, he had just quitted\nhis grandfather s, and had before him a face which he now beheld for\nthe first time.  I do not know you. \n\n\n Neither do I know you,  responded Laigle.\n\nMarius thought he had encountered a wag, the beginning of a\nmystification in the open street. He was not in a very good humor at\nthe moment. He frowned. Laigle de Meaux went on imperturbably: \n\n You were not at the school day before yesterday. \n\n\n That is possible. \n\n\n That is certain. \n\n\n You are a student?  demanded Marius.\n\n Yes, sir. Like yourself. Day before yesterday, I entered the school,\nby chance. You know, one does have such freaks sometimes. The professor\nwas just calling the roll. You are not unaware that they are very\nridiculous on such occasions. At the third call, unanswered, your name\nis erased from the list. Sixty francs in the gulf. \n\n\nMarius began to listen.\n\n It was Blondeau who was making the call. You know Blondeau, he has a\nvery pointed and very malicious nose, and he delights to scent out the\nabsent. He slyly began with the letter P. I was not listening, not\nbeing compromised by that letter. The call was not going badly. No\nerasures; the universe was present. Blondeau was grieved. I said to\nmyself:  Blondeau, my love, you will not get the very smallest sort of\nan execution to-day.  All at once Blondeau calls,  Marius Pontmercy! \nNo one answers. Blondeau, filled with hope, repeats more loudly:\n Marius Pontmercy!  And he takes his pen. Monsieur, I have bowels of\ncompassion. I said to myself hastily:  Here s a brave fellow who is\ngoing to get scratched out. Attention. Here is a veritable mortal who\nis not exact. He s not a good student. Here is none of your\nheavy-sides, a student who studies, a greenhorn pedant, strong on\nletters, theology, science, and sapience, one of those dull wits cut by\nthe square; a pin by profession. He is an honorable idler who lounges,\nwho practises country jaunts, who cultivates the grisette, who pays\ncourt to the fair sex, who is at this very moment, perhaps, with my\nmistress. Let us save him. Death to Blondeau!  At that moment, Blondeau\ndipped his pen in, all black with erasures in the ink, cast his yellow\neyes round the audience room, and repeated for the third time:  Marius\nPontmercy!  I replied:  Present!  This is why you were not crossed\noff. \n\n\n Monsieur!  said Marius.\n\n And why I was,  added Laigle de Meaux.\n\n I do not understand you,  said Marius.\n\nLaigle resumed: \n\n Nothing is more simple. I was close to the desk to reply, and close to\nthe door for the purpose of flight. The professor gazed at me with a\ncertain intensity. All of a sudden, Blondeau, who must be the malicious\nnose alluded to by Boileau, skipped to the letter L. L is my letter. I\nam from Meaux, and my name is Lesgle. \n\n\n L Aigle!  interrupted Marius,  what fine name! \n\n\n Monsieur, Blondeau came to this fine name, and called:  Laigle!  I\nreply:  Present!  Then Blondeau gazes at me, with the gentleness of a\ntiger, and says to me:  If you are Pontmercy, you are not Laigle.  A\nphrase which has a disobliging air for you, but which was lugubrious\nonly for me. That said, he crossed me off. \n\n\nMarius exclaimed: \n\n I am mortified, sir \n\n\n First of all,  interposed Laigle,  I demand permission to embalm\nBlondeau in a few phrases of deeply felt eulogium. I will assume that\nhe is dead. There will be no great change required in his gauntness, in\nhis pallor, in his coldness, and in his smell. And I say:  _Erudimini\nqui judicatis terram_. Here lies Blondeau, Blondeau the Nose, Blondeau\nNasica, the ox of discipline, _bos disciplin _, the bloodhound of the\npassword, the angel of the roll-call, who was upright, square, exact,\nrigid, honest, and hideous. God crossed him off as he crossed me off. \n\n\nMarius resumed: \n\n I am very sorry \n\n\n Young man,  said Laigle de Meaux,  let this serve you as a lesson. In\nfuture, be exact. \n\n\n I really beg you a thousand pardons. \n\n\n Do not expose your neighbor to the danger of having his name erased\nagain. \n\n\n I am extremely sorry \n\n\nLaigle burst out laughing.\n\n And I am delighted. I was on the brink of becoming a lawyer. This\nerasure saves me. I renounce the triumphs of the bar. I shall not\ndefend the widow, and I shall not attack the orphan. No more toga, no\nmore stage. Here is my erasure all ready for me. It is to you that I am\nindebted for it, Monsieur Pontmercy. I intend to pay a solemn call of\nthanks upon you. Where do you live? \n\n\n In this cab,  said Marius.\n\n A sign of opulence,  retorted Laigle calmly.  I congratulate you. You\nhave there a rent of nine thousand francs per annum. \n\n\nAt that moment, Courfeyrac emerged from the caf .\n\nMarius smiled sadly.\n\n I have paid this rent for the last two hours, and I aspire to get rid\nof it; but there is a sort of history attached to it, and I don t know\nwhere to go. \n\n\n Come to my place, sir,  said Courfeyrac.\n\n I have the priority,  observed Laigle,  but I have no home. \n\n\n Hold your tongue, Bossuet,  said Courfeyrac.\n\n Bossuet,  said Marius,  but I thought that your name was Laigle. \n\n\n De Meaux,  replied Laigle;  by metaphor, Bossuet. \n\n\nCourfeyrac entered the cab.\n\n Coachman,  said he,  hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques. \n\n\nAnd that very evening, Marius found himself installed in a chamber of\nthe hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques side by side with Courfeyrac.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III MARIUS  ASTONISHMENTS\n\n\nIn a few days, Marius had become Courfeyrac s friend. Youth is the\nseason for prompt welding and the rapid healing of scars. Marius\nbreathed freely in Courfeyrac s society, a decidedly new thing for him.\nCourfeyrac put no questions to him. He did not even think of such a\nthing. At that age, faces disclose everything on the spot. Words are\nsuperfluous. There are young men of whom it can be said that their\ncountenances chatter. One looks at them and one knows them.\n\nOne morning, however, Courfeyrac abruptly addressed this interrogation\nto him: \n\n By the way, have you any political opinions? \n\n\n The idea!  said Marius, almost affronted by the question.\n\n What are you? \n\n\n A democrat-Bonapartist. \n\n\n The gray hue of a reassured rat,  said Courfeyrac.\n\nOn the following day, Courfeyrac introduced Marius at the Caf  Musain.\nThen he whispered in his ear, with a smile:  I must give you your entry\nto the revolution.  And he led him to the hall of the Friends of the A\nB C. He presented him to the other comrades, saying this simple word\nwhich Marius did not understand:  A pupil. \n\n\nMarius had fallen into a wasps -nest of wits. However, although he was\nsilent and grave, he was, nonetheless, both winged and armed.\n\nMarius, up to that time solitary and inclined to soliloquy, and to\nasides, both by habit and by taste, was a little fluttered by this\ncovey of young men around him. All these various initiatives solicited\nhis attention at once, and pulled him about. The tumultuous movements\nof these minds at liberty and at work set his ideas in a whirl.\nSometimes, in his trouble, they fled so far from him, that he had\ndifficulty in recovering them. He heard them talk of philosophy, of\nliterature, of art, of history, of religion, in unexpected fashion. He\ncaught glimpses of strange aspects; and, as he did not place them in\nproper perspective, he was not altogether sure that it was not chaos\nthat he grasped. On abandoning his grandfather s opinions for the\nopinions of his father, he had supposed himself fixed; he now\nsuspected, with uneasiness, and without daring to avow it to himself,\nthat he was not. The angle at which he saw everything began to be\ndisplaced anew. A certain oscillation set all the horizons of his\nbrains in motion. An odd internal upsetting. He almost suffered from\nit.\n\nIt seemed as though there were no  consecrated things  for those young\nmen. Marius heard singular propositions on every sort of subject, which\nembarrassed his still timid mind.\n\nA theatre poster presented itself, adorned with the title of a tragedy\nfrom the ancient repertory called classic:  Down with tragedy dear to\nthe bourgeois!  cried Bahorel. And Marius heard Combeferre reply: \n\n You are wrong, Bahorel. The bourgeoisie loves tragedy, and the\nbourgeoisie must be left at peace on that score. Bewigged tragedy has a\nreason for its existence, and I am not one of those who, by order of\n schylus, contest its right to existence. There are rough outlines in\nnature; there are, in creation, ready-made parodies; a beak which is\nnot a beak, wings which are not wings, gills which are not gills, paws\nwhich are not paws, a cry of pain which arouses a desire to laugh,\nthere is the duck. Now, since poultry exists by the side of the bird, I\ndo not see why classic tragedy should not exist in the face of antique\ntragedy. \n\n\nOr chance decreed that Marius should traverse Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau\nbetween Enjolras and Courfeyrac.\n\nCourfeyrac took his arm: \n\n Pay attention. This is the Rue Pl tri re, now called Rue Jean-Jacques\nRousseau, on account of a singular household which lived in it sixty\nyears ago. This consisted of Jean-Jacques and Th r se. From time to\ntime, little beings were born there. Th r se gave birth to them,\nJean-Jacques represented them as foundlings. \n\n\nAnd Enjolras addressed Courfeyrac roughly: \n\n Silence in the presence of Jean-Jacques! I admire that man. He denied\nhis own children, that may be; but he adopted the people. \n\n\nNot one of these young men articulated the word: The Emperor. Jean\nProuvaire alone sometimes said Napoleon; all the others said\n Bonaparte.  Enjolras pronounced it  Buonaparte. \n\n\nMarius was vaguely surprised. _Initium sapienti _.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE BACK ROOM OF THE CAF  MUSAIN\n\n\nOne of the conversations among the young men, at which Marius was\npresent and in which he sometimes joined, was a veritable shock to his\nmind.\n\nThis took place in the back room of the Caf  Musain. Nearly all the\nFriends of the A B C had convened that evening. The argand lamp was\nsolemnly lighted. They talked of one thing and another, without passion\nand with noise. With the exception of Enjolras and Marius, who held\ntheir peace, all were haranguing rather at hap-hazard. Conversations\nbetween comrades sometimes are subject to these peaceable tumults. It\nwas a game and an uproar as much as a conversation. They tossed words\nto each other and caught them up in turn. They were chattering in all\nquarters.\n\nNo woman was admitted to this back room, except Louison, the\ndish-washer of the caf , who passed through it from time to time, to go\nto her washing in the  lavatory. \n\n\nGrantaire, thoroughly drunk, was deafening the corner of which he had\ntaken possession, reasoning and contradicting at the top of his lungs,\nand shouting: \n\n I am thirsty. Mortals, I am dreaming: that the tun of Heidelberg has\nan attack of apoplexy, and that I am one of the dozen leeches which\nwill be applied to it. I want a drink. I desire to forget life. Life is\na hideous invention of I know not whom. It lasts no time at all, and is\nworth nothing. One breaks one s neck in living. Life is a theatre set\nin which there are but few practicable entrances. Happiness is an\nantique reliquary painted on one side only. Ecclesiastes says:  All is\nvanity.  I agree with that good man, who never existed, perhaps. Zero\nnot wishing to go stark naked, clothed himself in vanity. O vanity! The\npatching up of everything with big words! a kitchen is a laboratory, a\ndancer is a professor, an acrobat is a gymnast, a boxer is a pugilist,\nan apothecary is a chemist, a wigmaker is an artist, a hodman is an\narchitect, a jockey is a sportsman, a wood-louse is a pterigybranche.\nVanity has a right and a wrong side; the right side is stupid, it is\nthe negro with his glass beads; the wrong side is foolish, it is the\nphilosopher with his rags. I weep over the one and I laugh over the\nother. What are called honors and dignities, and even dignity and\nhonor, are generally of pinchbeck. Kings make playthings of human\npride. Caligula made a horse a consul; Charles II. made a knight of a\nsirloin. Wrap yourself up now, then, between Consul Incitatus and\nBaronet Roastbeef. As for the intrinsic value of people, it is no\nlonger respectable in the least. Listen to the panegyric which neighbor\nmakes of neighbor. White on white is ferocious; if the lily could\nspeak, what a setting down it would give the dove! A bigoted woman\nprating of a devout woman is more venomous than the asp and the cobra.\nIt is a shame that I am ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass\nof things; but I know nothing. For instance, I have always been witty;\nwhen I was a pupil of Gros, instead of daubing wretched little\npictures, I passed my time in pilfering apples; _rapin_24 is the\nmasculine of _rapine_. So much for myself; as for the rest of you, you\nare worth no more than I am. I scoff at your perfections, excellencies,\nand qualities. Every good quality tends towards a defect; economy\nborders on avarice, the generous man is next door to the prodigal, the\nbrave man rubs elbows with the braggart; he who says very pious says a\ntrifle bigoted; there are just as many vices in virtue as there are\nholes in Diogenes  cloak. Whom do you admire, the slain or the slayer,\nC sar or Brutus? Generally men are in favor of the slayer. Long live\nBrutus, he has slain! There lies the virtue. Virtue, granted, but\nmadness also. There are queer spots on those great men. The Brutus who\nkilled C sar was in love with the statue of a little boy. This statue\nwas from the hand of the Greek sculptor Strongylion, who also carved\nthat figure of an Amazon known as the Beautiful Leg, Eucnemos, which\nNero carried with him in his travels. This Strongylion left but two\nstatues which placed Nero and Brutus in accord. Brutus was in love with\nthe one, Nero with the other. All history is nothing but wearisome\nrepetition. One century is the plagiarist of the other. The battle of\nMarengo copies the battle of Pydna; the Tolbiac of Clovis and the\nAusterlitz of Napoleon are as like each other as two drops of water. I\ndon t attach much importance to victory. Nothing is so stupid as to\nconquer; true glory lies in convincing. But try to prove something! If\nyou are content with success, what mediocrity, and with conquering,\nwhat wretchedness! Alas, vanity and cowardice everywhere. Everything\nobeys success, even grammar. _Si volet usus_, says Horace. Therefore I\ndisdain the human race. Shall we descend to the party at all? Do you\nwish me to begin admiring the peoples? What people, if you please?\nShall it be Greece? The Athenians, those Parisians of days gone by,\nslew Phocion, as we might say Coligny, and fawned upon tyrants to such\nan extent that Anacephorus said of Pisistratus:  His urine attracts the\nbees.  The most prominent man in Greece for fifty years was that\ngrammarian Philetas, who was so small and so thin that he was obliged\nto load his shoes with lead in order not to be blown away by the wind.\nThere stood on the great square in Corinth a statue carved by Silanion\nand catalogued by Pliny; this statue represented Episthates. What did\nEpisthates do? He invented a trip. That sums up Greece and glory. Let\nus pass on to others. Shall I admire England? Shall I admire France?\nFrance? Why? Because of Paris? I have just told you my opinion of\nAthens. England? Why? Because of London? I hate Carthage. And then,\nLondon, the metropolis of luxury, is the headquarters of wretchedness.\nThere are a hundred deaths a year of hunger in the parish of\nCharing-Cross alone. Such is Albion. I add, as the climax, that I have\nseen an Englishwoman dancing in a wreath of roses and blue spectacles.\nA fig then for England! If I do not admire John Bull, shall I admire\nBrother Jonathan? I have but little taste for that slave-holding\nbrother. Take away _Time is money_, what remains of England? Take away\n_Cotton is king_, what remains of America? Germany is the lymph, Italy\nis the bile. Shall we go into ecstasies over Russia? Voltaire admired\nit. He also admired China. I admit that Russia has its beauties, among\nothers, a stout despotism; but I pity the despots. Their health is\ndelicate. A decapitated Alexis, a poignarded Peter, a strangled Paul,\nanother Paul crushed flat with kicks, divers Ivans strangled, with\ntheir throats cut, numerous Nicholases and Basils poisoned, all this\nindicates that the palace of the Emperors of Russia is in a condition\nof flagrant insalubrity. All civilized peoples offer this detail to the\nadmiration of the thinker; war; now, war, civilized war, exhausts and\nsums up all the forms of ruffianism, from the brigandage of the\nTrabuceros in the gorges of Mont Jaxa to the marauding of the Comanche\nIndians in the Doubtful Pass.  Bah!  you will say to me,  but Europe is\ncertainly better than Asia?  I admit that Asia is a farce; but I do not\nprecisely see what you find to laugh at in the Grand Lama, you peoples\nof the west, who have mingled with your fashions and your elegances all\nthe complicated filth of majesty, from the dirty chemise of Queen\nIsabella to the chamber-chair of the Dauphin. Gentlemen of the human\nrace, I tell you, not a bit of it! It is at Brussels that the most beer\nis consumed, at Stockholm the most brandy, at Madrid the most\nchocolate, at Amsterdam the most gin, at London the most wine, at\nConstantinople the most coffee, at Paris the most absinthe; there are\nall the useful notions. Paris carries the day, in short. In Paris, even\nthe rag-pickers are sybarites; Diogenes would have loved to be a\nrag-picker of the Place Maubert better than to be a philosopher at the\nPir us. Learn this in addition; the wineshops of the rag-pickers are\ncalled _bibines_; the most celebrated are the _Saucepan_ and _The\nSlaughter-House_. Hence, tea-gardens, goguettes, caboulots, bouibuis,\nmastroquets, bastringues, manezingues, bibines of the rag-pickers,\ncaravanseries of the caliphs, I certify to you, I am a voluptuary, I\neat at Richard s at forty sous a head, I must have Persian carpets to\nroll naked Cleopatra in! Where is Cleopatra? Ah! So it is you, Louison.\nGood day. \n\n\nThus did Grantaire, more than intoxicated, launch into speech, catching\nat the dish-washer in her passage, from his corner in the back room of\nthe Caf  Musain.\n\nBossuet, extending his hand towards him, tried to impose silence on\nhim, and Grantaire began again worse than ever: \n\n Aigle de Meaux, down with your paws. You produce on me no effect with\nyour gesture of Hippocrates refusing Artaxerxes  bric- -brac. I excuse\nyou from the task of soothing me. Moreover, I am sad. What do you wish\nme to say to you? Man is evil, man is deformed; the butterfly is a\nsuccess, man is a failure. God made a mistake with that animal. A crowd\noffers a choice of ugliness. The first comer is a wretch,\n_Femme_ woman rhymes with _inf me_, infamous. Yes, I have the spleen,\ncomplicated with melancholy, with homesickness, plus hypochondria, and\nI am vexed and I rage, and I yawn, and I am bored, and I am tired to\ndeath, and I am stupid! Let God go to the devil! \n\n\n Silence then, capital R!  resumed Bossuet, who was discussing a point\nof law behind the scenes, and who was plunged more than waist high in a\nphrase of judicial slang, of which this is the conclusion: \n\n And as for me, although I am hardly a legist, and at the most, an\namateur attorney, I maintain this: that, in accordance with the terms\nof the customs of Normandy, at Saint-Michel, and for each year, an\nequivalent must be paid to the profit of the lord of the manor, saving\nthe rights of others, and by all and several, the proprietors as well\nas those seized with inheritance, and that, for all emphyteuses,\nleases, freeholds, contracts of domain, mortgages \n\n\n Echo, plaintive nymph,  hummed Grantaire.\n\nNear Grantaire, an almost silent table, a sheet of paper, an inkstand\nand a pen between two glasses of brandy, announced that a vaudeville\nwas being sketched out.\n\nThis great affair was being discussed in a low voice, and the two heads\nat work touched each other:  Let us begin by finding names. When one\nhas the names, one finds the subject. \n\n\n That is true. Dictate. I will write. \n\n\n Monsieur Dorimon. \n\n\n An independent gentleman? \n\n\n Of course. \n\n\n His daughter, C lestine. \n\n\n tine. What next? \n\n\n Colonel Sainval. \n\n\n Sainval is stale. I should say Valsin. \n\n\nBeside the vaudeville aspirants, another group, which was also taking\nadvantage of the uproar to talk low, was discussing a duel. An old\nfellow of thirty was counselling a young one of eighteen, and\nexplaining to him what sort of an adversary he had to deal with.\n\n The deuce! Look out for yourself. He is a fine swordsman. His play is\nneat. He has the attack, no wasted feints, wrist, dash, lightning, a\njust parade, mathematical parries, _bigre!_ and he is left-handed. \n\n\nIn the angle opposite Grantaire, Joly and Bahorel were playing\ndominoes, and talking of love.\n\n You are in luck, that you are,  Joly was saying.  You have a mistress\nwho is always laughing. \n\n\n That is a fault of hers,  returned Bahorel.  One s mistress does wrong\nto laugh. That encourages one to deceive her. To see her gay removes\nyour remorse; if you see her sad, your conscience pricks you. \n\n\n Ingrate! a woman who laughs is such a good thing! And you never\nquarrel! \n\n\n That is because of the treaty which we have made. On forming our\nlittle Holy Alliance we assigned ourselves each our frontier, which we\nnever cross. What is situated on the side of winter belongs to Vaud, on\nthe side of the wind to Gex. Hence the peace. \n\n\n Peace is happiness digesting. \n\n\n And you, Jolllly, where do you stand in your entanglement with\nMamselle you know whom I mean? \n\n\n She sulks at me with cruel patience. \n\n\n Yet you are a lover to soften the heart with gauntness. \n\n\n Alas! \n\n\n In your place, I would let her alone. \n\n\n That is easy enough to say. \n\n\n And to do. Is not her name Musichetta? \n\n\n Yes. Ah! my poor Bahorel, she is a superb girl, very literary, with\ntiny feet, little hands, she dresses well, and is white and dimpled,\nwith the eyes of a fortune-teller. I am wild over her. \n\n\n My dear fellow, then in order to please her, you must be elegant, and\nproduce effects with your knees. Buy a good pair of trousers of\ndouble-milled cloth at Staub s. That will assist. \n\n\n At what price?  shouted Grantaire.\n\nThe third corner was delivered up to a poetical discussion. Pagan\nmythology was giving battle to Christian mythology. The question was\nabout Olympus, whose part was taken by Jean Prouvaire, out of pure\nromanticism.\n\nJean Prouvaire was timid only in repose. Once excited, he burst forth,\na sort of mirth accentuated his enthusiasm, and he was at once both\nlaughing and lyric.\n\n Let us not insult the gods,  said he.  The gods may not have taken\ntheir departure. Jupiter does not impress me as dead. The gods are\ndreams, you say. Well, even in nature, such as it is to-day, after the\nflight of these dreams, we still find all the grand old pagan myths.\nSuch and such a mountain with the profile of a citadel, like the\nVignemale, for example, is still to me the headdress of Cybele; it has\nnot been proved to me that Pan does not come at night to breathe into\nthe hollow trunks of the willows, stopping up the holes in turn with\nhis fingers, and I have always believed that Io had something to do\nwith the cascade of Pissevache. \n\n\nIn the last corner, they were talking politics. The Charter which had\nbeen granted was getting roughly handled. Combeferre was upholding it\nweakly. Courfeyrac was energetically making a breach in it. On the\ntable lay an unfortunate copy of the famous Touquet Charter. Courfeyrac\nhad seized it, and was brandishing it, mingling with his arguments the\nrattling of this sheet of paper.\n\n In the first place, I won t have any kings; if it were only from an\neconomical point of view, I don t want any; a king is a parasite. One\ndoes not have kings gratis. Listen to this: the dearness of kings. At\nthe death of Fran ois I., the national debt of France amounted to an\nincome of thirty thousand livres; at the death of Louis XIV. it was two\nmilliards, six hundred millions, at twenty-eight livres the mark, which\nwas equivalent in 1760, according to Desmarets, to four milliards, five\nhundred millions, which would to-day be equivalent to twelve milliards.\nIn the second place, and no offence to Combeferre, a charter granted is\nbut a poor expedient of civilization. To save the transition, to soften\nthe passage, to deaden the shock, to cause the nation to pass\ninsensibly from the monarchy to democracy by the practice of\nconstitutional fictions, what detestable reasons all those are! No! no!\nlet us never enlighten the people with false daylight. Principles\ndwindle and pale in your constitutional cellar. No illegitimacy, no\ncompromise, no grant from the king to the people. In all such grants\nthere is an Article 14. By the side of the hand which gives there is\nthe claw which snatches back. I refuse your charter point-blank. A\ncharter is a mask; the lie lurks beneath it. A people which accepts a\ncharter abdicates. The law is only the law when entire. No! no\ncharter! \n\n\nIt was winter; a couple of fagots were crackling in the fireplace. This\nwas tempting, and Courfeyrac could not resist. He crumpled the poor\nTouquet Charter in his fist, and flung it in the fire. The paper\nflashed up. Combeferre watched the masterpiece of Louis XVIII. burn\nphilosophically, and contented himself with saying: \n\n The charter metamorphosed into flame. \n\n\nAnd sarcasms, sallies, jests, that French thing which is called\n_entrain_, and that English thing which is called humor, good and bad\ntaste, good and bad reasons, all the wild pyrotechnics of dialogue,\nmounting together and crossing from all points of the room, produced a\nsort of merry bombardment over their heads.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V ENLARGEMENT OF HORIZON\n\n\nThe shocks of youthful minds among themselves have this admirable\nproperty, that one can never foresee the spark, nor divine the\nlightning flash. What will dart out presently? No one knows. The burst\nof laughter starts from a tender feeling.\n\nAt the moment of jest, the serious makes its entry. Impulses depend on\nthe first chance word. The spirit of each is sovereign, jest suffices\nto open the field to the unexpected. These are conversations with\nabrupt turns, in which the perspective changes suddenly. Chance is the\nstage-manager of such conversations.\n\nA severe thought, starting oddly from a clash of words, suddenly\ntraversed the conflict of quips in which Grantaire, Bahorel, Prouvaire,\nBossuet, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were confusedly fencing.\n\nHow does a phrase crop up in a dialogue? Whence comes it that it\nsuddenly impresses itself on the attention of those who hear it? We\nhave just said, that no one knows anything about it. In the midst of\nthe uproar, Bossuet all at once terminated some apostrophe to\nCombeferre, with this date: \n\n June 18th, 1815, Waterloo. \n\n\nAt this name of Waterloo, Marius, who was leaning his elbows on a\ntable, beside a glass of water, removed his wrist from beneath his\nchin, and began to gaze fixedly at the audience.\n\n Pardieu!  exclaimed Courfeyrac ( Parbleu  was falling into disuse at\nthis period),  that number 18 is strange and strikes me. It is\nBonaparte s fatal number. Place Louis in front and Brumaire behind, you\nhave the whole destiny of the man, with this significant peculiarity,\nthat the end treads close on the heels of the commencement. \n\n\nEnjolras, who had remained mute up to that point, broke the silence and\naddressed this remark to Combeferre: \n\n You mean to say, the crime and the expiation. \n\n\nThis word _crime_ overpassed the measure of what Marius, who was\nalready greatly agitated by the abrupt evocation of Waterloo, could\naccept.\n\nHe rose, walked slowly to the map of France spread out on the wall, and\nat whose base an island was visible in a separate compartment, laid his\nfinger on this compartment and said: \n\n Corsica, a little island which has rendered France very great. \n\n\nThis was like a breath of icy air. All ceased talking. They felt that\nsomething was on the point of occurring.\n\nBahorel, replying to Bossuet, was just assuming an attitude of the\ntorso to which he was addicted. He gave it up to listen.\n\nEnjolras, whose blue eye was not fixed on any one, and who seemed to be\ngazing at space, replied, without glancing at Marius: \n\n France needs no Corsica to be great. France is great because she is\nFrance. _Quia nomina leo_. \n\n\nMarius felt no desire to retreat; he turned towards Enjolras, and his\nvoice burst forth with a vibration which came from a quiver of his very\nbeing: \n\n God forbid that I should diminish France! But amalgamating Napoleon\nwith her is not diminishing her. Come! let us argue the question. I am\na newcomer among you, but I will confess that you amaze me. Where do we\nstand? Who are we? Who are you? Who am I? Let us come to an explanation\nabout the Emperor. I hear you say _Buonaparte_, accenting the _u_ like\nthe Royalists. I warn you that my grandfather does better still; he\nsays _Buonapart _ . I thought you were young men. Where, then, is your\nenthusiasm? And what are you doing with it? Whom do you admire, if you\ndo not admire the Emperor? And what more do you want? If you will have\nnone of that great man, what great men would you like? He had\neverything. He was complete. He had in his brain the sum of human\nfaculties. He made codes like Justinian, he dictated like C sar, his\nconversation was mingled with the lightning-flash of Pascal, with the\nthunderclap of Tacitus, he made history and he wrote it, his bulletins\nare Iliads, he combined the cipher of Newton with the metaphor of\nMahomet, he left behind him in the East words as great as the pyramids,\nat Tilsit he taught Emperors majesty, at the Academy of Sciences he\nreplied to Laplace, in the Council of State he held his own against\nMerlin, he gave a soul to the geometry of the first, and to the\nchicanery of the last, he was a legist with the attorneys and sidereal\nwith the astronomers; like Cromwell blowing out one of two candles, he\nwent to the Temple to bargain for a curtain tassel; he saw everything;\nhe knew everything; which did not prevent him from laughing\ngood-naturedly beside the cradle of his little child; and all at once,\nfrightened Europe lent an ear, armies put themselves in motion, parks\nof artillery rumbled, pontoons stretched over the rivers, clouds of\ncavalry galloped in the storm, cries, trumpets, a trembling of thrones\nin every direction, the frontiers of kingdoms oscillated on the map,\nthe sound of a superhuman sword was heard, as it was drawn from its\nsheath; they beheld him, him, rise erect on the horizon with a blazing\nbrand in his hand, and a glow in his eyes, unfolding amid the thunder,\nhis two wings, the grand army and the old guard, and he was the\narchangel of war! \n\n\nAll held their peace, and Enjolras bowed his head. Silence always\nproduces somewhat the effect of acquiescence, of the enemy being driven\nto the wall. Marius continued with increased enthusiasm, and almost\nwithout pausing for breath: \n\n Let us be just, my friends! What a splendid destiny for a nation to be\nthe Empire of such an Emperor, when that nation is France and when it\nadds its own genius to the genius of that man! To appear and to reign,\nto march and to triumph, to have for halting-places all capitals, to\ntake his grenadiers and to make kings of them, to decree the falls of\ndynasties, and to transfigure Europe at the pace of a charge; to make\nyou feel that when you threaten you lay your hand on the hilt of the\nsword of God; to follow in a single man, Hannibal, C sar, Charlemagne;\nto be the people of some one who mingles with your dawns the startling\nannouncement of a battle won, to have the cannon of the Invalides to\nrouse you in the morning, to hurl into abysses of light prodigious\nwords which flame forever, Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram!\nTo cause constellations of victories to flash forth at each instant\nfrom the zenith of the centuries, to make the French Empire a pendant\nto the Roman Empire, to be the great nation and to give birth to the\ngrand army, to make its legions fly forth over all the earth, as a\nmountain sends out its eagles on all sides to conquer, to dominate, to\nstrike with lightning, to be in Europe a sort of nation gilded through\nglory, to sound athwart the centuries a trumpet-blast of Titans, to\nconquer the world twice, by conquest and by dazzling, that is sublime;\nand what greater thing is there? \n\n\n To be free,  said Combeferre.\n\nMarius lowered his head in his turn; that cold and simple word had\ntraversed his epic effusion like a blade of steel, and he felt it\nvanishing within him. When he raised his eyes, Combeferre was no longer\nthere. Probably satisfied with his reply to the apotheosis, he had just\ntaken his departure, and all, with the exception of Enjolras, had\nfollowed him. The room had been emptied. Enjolras, left alone with\nMarius, was gazing gravely at him. Marius, however, having rallied his\nideas to some extent, did not consider himself beaten; there lingered\nin him a trace of inward fermentation which was on the point, no doubt,\nof translating itself into syllogisms arrayed against Enjolras, when\nall of a sudden, they heard some one singing on the stairs as he went.\nIt was Combeferre, and this is what he was singing: \n\n Si C sar m avait donn \nLa gloire et la guerre,\nEt qu il me fallait quitter\nL amour de ma m re,\nJe dirais au grand C sar:\nReprends ton sceptre et ton char,\nJ aime mieux ma m re,   gu !\nJ aime mieux ma m re! 25\n\n\nThe wild and tender accents with which Combeferre sang communicated to\nthis couplet a sort of strange grandeur. Marius, thoughtfully, and with\nhis eyes diked on the ceiling, repeated almost mechanically:  My\nmother? \n\n\nAt that moment, he felt Enjolras  hand on his shoulder.\n\n Citizen,  said Enjolras to him,  my mother is the Republic. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI RES ANGUSTA\n\n\nThat evening left Marius profoundly shaken, and with a melancholy\nshadow in his soul. He felt what the earth may possibly feel, at the\nmoment when it is torn open with the iron, in order that grain may be\ndeposited within it; it feels only the wound; the quiver of the germ\nand the joy of the fruit only arrive later.\n\nMarius was gloomy. He had but just acquired a faith; must he then\nreject it already? He affirmed to himself that he would not. He\ndeclared to himself that he would not doubt, and he began to doubt in\nspite of himself. To stand between two religions, from one of which you\nhave not as yet emerged, and another into which you have not yet\nentered, is intolerable; and twilight is pleasing only to bat-like\nsouls. Marius was clear-eyed, and he required the true light. The\nhalf-lights of doubt pained him. Whatever may have been his desire to\nremain where he was, he could not halt there, he was irresistibly\nconstrained to continue, to advance, to examine, to think, to march\nfurther. Whither would this lead him? He feared, after having taken so\nmany steps which had brought him nearer to his father, to now take a\nstep which should estrange him from that father. His discomfort was\naugmented by all the reflections which occurred to him. An escarpment\nrose around him. He was in accord neither with his grandfather nor with\nhis friends; daring in the eyes of the one, he was behind the times in\nthe eyes of the others, and he recognized the fact that he was doubly\nisolated, on the side of age and on the side of youth. He ceased to go\nto the Caf  Musain.\n\nIn the troubled state of his conscience, he no longer thought of\ncertain serious sides of existence. The realities of life do not allow\nthemselves to be forgotten. They soon elbowed him abruptly.\n\nOne morning, the proprietor of the hotel entered Marius  room and said\nto him: \n\n Monsieur Courfeyrac answered for you. \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n But I must have my money. \n\n\n Request Courfeyrac to come and talk with me,  said Marius.\n\nCourfeyrac having made his appearance, the host left them. Marius then\ntold him what it had not before occurred to him to relate, that he was\nthe same as alone in the world, and had no relatives.\n\n What is to become of you?  said Courfeyrac.\n\n I do not know in the least,  replied Marius.\n\n What are you going to do? \n\n\n I do not know. \n\n\n Have you any money? \n\n\n Fifteen francs. \n\n\n Do you want me to lend you some? \n\n\n Never. \n\n\n Have you clothes? \n\n\n Here is what I have. \n\n\n Have you trinkets? \n\n\n A watch. \n\n\n Silver? \n\n\n Gold; here it is. \n\n\n I know a clothes-dealer who will take your frock-coat and a pair of\ntrousers. \n\n\n That is good. \n\n\n You will then have only a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, a hat and a\ncoat. \n\n\n And my boots. \n\n\n What! you will not go barefoot? What opulence! \n\n\n That will be enough. \n\n\n I know a watchmaker who will buy your watch. \n\n\n That is good. \n\n\n No; it is not good. What will you do after that? \n\n\n Whatever is necessary. Anything honest, that is to say. \n\n\n Do you know English? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Do you know German? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n So much the worse. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n Because one of my friends, a publisher, is getting up a sort of an\nencyclop dia, for which you might have translated English or German\narticles. It is badly paid work, but one can live by it. \n\n\n I will learn English and German. \n\n\n And in the meanwhile? \n\n\n In the meanwhile I will live on my clothes and my watch. \n\n\nThe clothes-dealer was sent for. He paid twenty francs for the cast-off\ngarments. They went to the watchmaker s. He bought the watch for\nforty-five francs.\n\n That is not bad,  said Marius to Courfeyrac, on their return to the\nhotel,  with my fifteen francs, that makes eighty. \n\n\n And the hotel bill?  observed Courfeyrac.\n\n Hello, I had forgotten that,  said Marius.\n\nThe landlord presented his bill, which had to be paid on the spot. It\namounted to seventy francs.\n\n I have ten francs left,  said Marius.\n\n The deuce,  exclaimed Courfeyrac,  you will eat up five francs while\nyou are learning English, and five while learning German. That will be\nswallowing a tongue very fast, or a hundred sous very slowly. \n\n\nIn the meantime Aunt Gillenormand, a rather good-hearted person at\nbottom in difficulties, had finally hunted up Marius  abode.\n\nOne morning, on his return from the law-school, Marius found a letter\nfrom his aunt, and the _sixty pistoles_, that is to say, six hundred\nfrancs in gold, in a sealed box.\n\nMarius sent back the thirty louis to his aunt, with a respectful\nletter, in which he stated that he had sufficient means of subsistence\nand that he should be able thenceforth to supply all his needs. At that\nmoment, he had three francs left.\n\nHis aunt did not inform his grandfather of this refusal for fear of\nexasperating him. Besides, had he not said:  Let me never hear the name\nof that blood-drinker again! \n\n\nMarius left the hotel de la Porte Saint-Jacques, as he did not wish to\nrun in debt there.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIFTH THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I MARIUS INDIGENT\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Excellence of Misfortune]\n\n\nLife became hard for Marius. It was nothing to eat his clothes and his\nwatch. He ate of that terrible, inexpressible thing that is called _de\nla vache enrag _; that is to say, he endured great hardships and\nprivations. A terrible thing it is, containing days without bread,\nnights without sleep, evenings without a candle, a hearth without a\nfire, weeks without work, a future without hope, a coat out at the\nelbows, an old hat which evokes the laughter of young girls, a door\nwhich one finds locked on one at night because one s rent is not paid,\nthe insolence of the porter and the cook-shop man, the sneers of\nneighbors, humiliations, dignity trampled on, work of whatever nature\naccepted, disgusts, bitterness, despondency. Marius learned how all\nthis is eaten, and how such are often the only things which one has to\ndevour. At that moment of his existence when a man needs his pride,\nbecause he needs love, he felt that he was jeered at because he was\nbadly dressed, and ridiculous because he was poor. At the age when\nyouth swells the heart with imperial pride, he dropped his eyes more\nthan once on his dilapidated boots, and he knew the unjust shame and\nthe poignant blushes of wretchedness. Admirable and terrible trial from\nwhich the feeble emerge base, from which the strong emerge sublime. A\ncrucible into which destiny casts a man, whenever it desires a\nscoundrel or a demi-god.\n\nFor many great deeds are performed in petty combats. There are\ninstances of bravery ignored and obstinate, which defend themselves\nstep by step in that fatal onslaught of necessities and turpitudes.\nNoble and mysterious triumphs which no eye beholds, which are requited\nwith no renown, which are saluted with no trumpet blast. Life,\nmisfortune, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are the fields of battle\nwhich have their heroes; obscure heroes, who are, sometimes, grander\nthan the heroes who win renown.\n\nFirm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a\nstep-mother, is sometimes a mother; destitution gives birth to might of\nsoul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; unhappiness is a good\nmilk for the magnanimous.\n\nThere came a moment in Marius  life, when he swept his own landing,\nwhen he bought his sou s worth of Brie cheese at the fruiterer s, when\nhe waited until twilight had fallen to slip into the baker s and\npurchase a loaf, which he carried off furtively to his attic as though\nhe had stolen it. Sometimes there could be seen gliding into the\nbutcher s shop on the corner, in the midst of the bantering cooks who\nelbowed him, an awkward young man, carrying big books under his arm,\nwho had a timid yet angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from a\nbrow whereon stood drops of perspiration, made a profound bow to the\nbutcher s astonished wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid six or seven\nsous for it, wrapped it up in a paper, put it under his arm, between\ntwo books, and went away. It was Marius. On this cutlet, which he\ncooked for himself, he lived for three days.\n\nOn the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the fat, on the\nthird he gnawed the bone. Aunt Gillenormand made repeated attempts, and\nsent him the sixty pistoles several times. Marius returned them on\nevery occasion, saying that he needed nothing.\n\nHe was still in mourning for his father when the revolution which we\nhave just described was effected within him. From that time forth, he\nhad not put off his black garments. But his garments were quitting him.\nThe day came when he had no longer a coat. The trousers would go next.\nWhat was to be done? Courfeyrac, to whom he had, on his side, done some\ngood turns, gave him an old coat. For thirty sous, Marius got it turned\nby some porter or other, and it was a new coat. But this coat was\ngreen. Then Marius ceased to go out until after nightfall. This made\nhis coat black. As he wished always to appear in mourning, he clothed\nhimself with the night.\n\nIn spite of all this, he got admitted to practice as a lawyer. He was\nsupposed to live in Courfeyrac s room, which was decent, and where a\ncertain number of law-books backed up and completed by several\ndilapidated volumes of romance, passed as the library required by the\nregulations. He had his letters addressed to Courfeyrac s quarters.\n\nWhen Marius became a lawyer, he informed his grandfather of the fact in\na letter which was cold but full of submission and respect. M.\nGillenormand trembled as he took the letter, read it, tore it in four\npieces, and threw it into the waste-basket. Two or three days later,\nMademoiselle Gillenormand heard her father, who was alone in his room,\ntalking aloud to himself. He always did this whenever he was greatly\nagitated. She listened, and the old man was saying:  If you were not a\nfool, you would know that one cannot be a baron and a lawyer at the\nsame time. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II MARIUS POOR\n\n\nIt is the same with wretchedness as with everything else. It ends by\nbecoming bearable. It finally assumes a form, and adjusts itself. One\nvegetates, that is to say, one develops in a certain meagre fashion,\nwhich is, however, sufficient for life. This is the mode in which the\nexistence of Marius Pontmercy was arranged:\n\nHe had passed the worst straits; the narrow pass was opening out a\nlittle in front of him. By dint of toil, perseverance, courage, and\nwill, he had managed to draw from his work about seven hundred francs a\nyear. He had learned German and English; thanks to Courfeyrac, who had\nput him in communication with his friend the publisher, Marius filled\nthe modest post of utility man in the literature of the publishing\nhouse. He drew up prospectuses, translated newspapers, annotated\neditions, compiled biographies, etc.; net product, year in and year\nout, seven hundred francs. He lived on it. How? Not so badly. We will\nexplain.\n\nMarius occupied in the Gorbeau house, for an annual sum of thirty\nfrancs, a den minus a fireplace, called a cabinet, which contained only\nthe most indispensable articles of furniture. This furniture belonged\nto him. He gave three francs a month to the old _principal tenant_ to\ncome and sweep his hole, and to bring him a little hot water every\nmorning, a fresh egg, and a penny roll. He breakfasted on this egg and\nroll. His breakfast varied in cost from two to four sous, according as\neggs were dear or cheap. At six o clock in the evening he descended the\nRue Saint-Jacques to dine at Rousseau s, opposite Basset s, the\nstamp-dealer s, on the corner of the Rue des Mathurins. He ate no soup.\nHe took a six-sou plate of meat, a half-portion of vegetables for three\nsous, and a three-sou dessert. For three sous he got as much bread as\nhe wished. As for wine, he drank water. When he paid at the desk where\nMadam Rousseau, at that period still plump and rosy majestically\npresided, he gave a sou to the waiter, and Madam Rousseau gave him a\nsmile. Then he went away. For sixteen sous he had a smile and a dinner.\n\nThis Restaurant Rousseau, where so few bottles and so many water\ncarafes were emptied, was a calming potion rather than a restaurant. It\nno longer exists. The proprietor had a fine nickname: he was called\n_Rousseau the Aquatic_.\n\nThus, breakfast four sous, dinner sixteen sous; his food cost him\ntwenty sous a day; which made three hundred and sixty-five francs a\nyear. Add the thirty francs for rent, and the thirty-six francs to the\nold woman, plus a few trifling expenses; for four hundred and fifty\nfrancs, Marius was fed, lodged, and waited on. His clothing cost him a\nhundred francs, his linen fifty francs, his washing fifty francs; the\nwhole did not exceed six hundred and fifty francs. He was rich. He\nsometimes lent ten francs to a friend. Courfeyrac had once been able to\nborrow sixty francs of him. As far as fire was concerned, as Marius had\nno fireplace, he had  simplified matters. \n\n\nMarius always had two complete suits of clothes, the one old,  for\nevery day ; the other, brand new for special occasions. Both were\nblack. He had but three shirts, one on his person, the second in the\ncommode, and the third in the washerwoman s hands. He renewed them as\nthey wore out. They were always ragged, which caused him to button his\ncoat to the chin.\n\nIt had required years for Marius to attain to this flourishing\ncondition. Hard years; difficult, some of them, to traverse, others to\nclimb. Marius had not failed for a single day. He had endured\neverything in the way of destitution; he had done everything except\ncontract debts. He did himself the justice to say that he had never\nowed any one a sou. A debt was, to him, the beginning of slavery. He\neven said to himself, that a creditor is worse than a master; for the\nmaster possesses only your person, a creditor possesses your dignity\nand can administer to it a box on the ear. Rather than borrow, he went\nwithout food. He had passed many a day fasting. Feeling that all\nextremes meet, and that, if one is not on one s guard, lowered fortunes\nmay lead to baseness of soul, he kept a jealous watch on his pride.\nSuch and such a formality or action, which, in any other situation\nwould have appeared merely a deference to him, now seemed insipidity,\nand he nerved himself against it. His face wore a sort of severe flush.\nHe was timid even to rudeness.\n\nDuring all these trials he had felt himself encouraged and even\nuplifted, at times, by a secret force that he possessed within himself.\nThe soul aids the body, and at certain moments, raises it. It is the\nonly bird which bears up its own cage.\n\nBesides his father s name, another name was graven in Marius  heart,\nthe name of Th nardier. Marius, with his grave and enthusiastic nature,\nsurrounded with a sort of aureole the man to whom, in his thoughts, he\nowed his father s life, that intrepid sergeant who had saved the\ncolonel amid the bullets and the cannon-balls of Waterloo. He never\nseparated the memory of this man from the memory of his father, and he\nassociated them in his veneration. It was a sort of worship in two\nsteps, with the grand altar for the colonel and the lesser one for\nTh nardier. What redoubled the tenderness of his gratitude towards\nTh nardier, was the idea of the distress into which he knew that\nTh nardier had fallen, and which had engulfed the latter. Marius had\nlearned at Montfermeil of the ruin and bankruptcy of the unfortunate\ninn-keeper. Since that time, he had made unheard-of efforts to find\ntraces of him and to reach him in that dark abyss of misery in which\nTh nardier had disappeared. Marius had beaten the whole country; he had\ngone to Chelles, to Bondy, to Gourney, to Nogent, to Lagny. He had\npersisted for three years, expending in these explorations the little\nmoney which he had laid by. No one had been able to give him any news\nof Th nardier: he was supposed to have gone abroad. His creditors had\nalso sought him, with less love than Marius, but with as much\nassiduity, and had not been able to lay their hands on him. Marius\nblamed himself, and was almost angry with himself for his lack of\nsuccess in his researches. It was the only debt left him by the\ncolonel, and Marius made it a matter of honor to pay it.  What,  he\nthought,  when my father lay dying on the field of battle, did\nTh nardier contrive to find him amid the smoke and the grape-shot, and\nbear him off on his shoulders, and yet he owed him nothing, and I, who\nowe so much to Th nardier, cannot join him in this shadow where he is\nlying in the pangs of death, and in my turn bring him back from death\nto life! Oh! I will find him!  To find Th nardier, in fact, Marius\nwould have given one of his arms, to rescue him from his misery, he\nwould have sacrificed all his blood. To see Th nardier, to render\nTh nardier some service, to say to him:  You do not know me; well, I do\nknow you! Here I am. Dispose of me!  This was Marius  sweetest and most\nmagnificent dream.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III MARIUS GROWN UP\n\n\nAt this epoch, Marius was twenty years of age. It was three years since\nhe had left his grandfather. Both parties had remained on the same\nterms, without attempting to approach each other, and without seeking\nto see each other. Besides, what was the use of seeing each other?\nMarius was the brass vase, while Father Gillenormand was the iron pot.\n\nWe admit that Marius was mistaken as to his grandfather s heart. He had\nimagined that M. Gillenormand had never loved him, and that that\ncrusty, harsh, and smiling old fellow who cursed, shouted, and stormed\nand brandished his cane, cherished for him, at the most, only that\naffection, which is at once slight and severe, of the dotards of\ncomedy. Marius was in error. There are fathers who do not love their\nchildren; there exists no grandfather who does not adore his grandson.\nAt bottom, as we have said, M. Gillenormand idolized Marius. He\nidolized him after his own fashion, with an accompaniment of\nsnappishness and boxes on the ear; but, this child once gone, he felt a\nblack void in his heart; he would allow no one to mention the child to\nhim, and all the while secretly regretted that he was so well obeyed.\nAt first, he hoped that this Buonapartist, this Jacobin, this\nterrorist, this Septembrist, would return. But the weeks passed by,\nyears passed; to M. Gillenormand s great despair, the  blood-drinker \ndid not make his appearance.  I could not do otherwise than turn him\nout,  said the grandfather to himself, and he asked himself:  If the\nthing were to do over again, would I do it?  His pride instantly\nanswered  yes,  but his aged head, which he shook in silence, replied\nsadly  no.  He had his hours of depression. He missed Marius. Old men\nneed affection as they need the sun. It is warmth. Strong as his nature\nwas, the absence of Marius had wrought some change in him. Nothing in\nthe world could have induced him to take a step towards  that rogue ;\nbut he suffered. He never inquired about him, but he thought of him\nincessantly. He lived in the Marais in a more and more retired manner;\nhe was still merry and violent as of old, but his merriment had a\nconvulsive harshness, and his violences always terminated in a sort of\ngentle and gloomy dejection. He sometimes said:  Oh! if he only would\nreturn, what a good box on the ear I would give him! \n\n\nAs for his aunt, she thought too little to love much; Marius was no\nlonger for her much more than a vague black form; and she eventually\ncame to occupy herself with him much less than with the cat or the\nparoquet which she probably had. What augmented Father Gillenormand s\nsecret suffering was, that he locked it all up within his breast, and\ndid not allow its existence to be divined. His sorrow was like those\nrecently invented furnaces which consume their own smoke. It sometimes\nhappened that officious busybodies spoke to him of Marius, and asked\nhim:  What is your grandson doing?   What has become of him?  The old\nbourgeois replied with a sigh, that he was a sad case, and giving a\nfillip to his cuff, if he wished to appear gay:  Monsieur le Baron de\nPontmercy is practising pettifogging in some corner or other. \n\n\nWhile the old man regretted, Marius applauded himself. As is the case\nwith all good-hearted people, misfortune had eradicated his bitterness.\nHe only thought of M. Gillenormand in an amiable light, but he had set\nhis mind on not receiving anything more from the man who _had been\nunkind to his father_. This was the mitigated translation of his first\nindignation. Moreover, he was happy at having suffered, and at\nsuffering still. It was for his father s sake. The hardness of his life\nsatisfied and pleased him. He said to himself with a sort of joy that \n_it was certainly the least he could do_; that it was an\nexpiation; that, had it not been for that, he would have been punished\nin some other way and later on for his impious indifference towards his\nfather, and such a father! that it would not have been just that his\nfather should have all the suffering, and he none of it; and that, in\nany case, what were his toils and his destitution compared with the\ncolonel s heroic life? that, in short, the only way for him to approach\nhis father and resemble him, was to be brave in the face of indigence,\nas the other had been valiant before the enemy; and that that was, no\ndoubt, what the colonel had meant to imply by the words:  He will be\nworthy of it.  Words which Marius continued to wear, not on his breast,\nsince the colonel s writing had disappeared, but in his heart.\n\nAnd then, on the day when his grandfather had turned him out of doors,\nhe had been only a child, now he was a man. He felt it. Misery, we\nrepeat, had been good for him. Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, has\nthis magnificent property about it, that it turns the whole will\ntowards effort, and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty\ninstantly lays material life bare and renders it hideous; hence\ninexpressible bounds towards the ideal life. The wealthy young man has\na hundred coarse and brilliant distractions, horse races, hunting,\ndogs, tobacco, gaming, good repasts, and all the rest of it;\noccupations for the baser side of the soul, at the expense of the\nloftier and more delicate sides. The poor young man wins his bread with\ndifficulty; he eats; when he has eaten, he has nothing more but\nmeditation. He goes to the spectacles which God furnishes gratis; he\ngazes at the sky, space, the stars, flowers, children, the humanity\namong which he is suffering, the creation amid which he beams. He gazes\nso much on humanity that he perceives its soul, he gazes upon creation\nto such an extent that he beholds God. He dreams, he feels himself\ngreat; he dreams on, and feels himself tender. From the egotism of the\nman who suffers he passes to the compassion of the man who meditates.\nAn admirable sentiment breaks forth in him, forgetfulness of self and\npity for all. As he thinks of the innumerable enjoyments which nature\noffers, gives, and lavishes to souls which stand open, and refuses to\nsouls that are closed, he comes to pity, he the millionnaire of the\nmind, the millionnaire of money. All hatred departs from his heart, in\nproportion as light penetrates his spirit. And is he unhappy? No. The\nmisery of a young man is never miserable. The first young lad who comes\nto hand, however poor he may be, with his strength, his health, his\nrapid walk, his brilliant eyes, his warmly circulating blood, his black\nhair, his red lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will always\narouse the envy of an aged emperor. And then, every morning, he sets\nhimself afresh to the task of earning his bread; and while his hands\nearn his bread, his dorsal column gains pride, his brain gathers ideas.\nHis task finished, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplation,\nto joys; he beholds his feet set in afflictions, in obstacles, on the\npavement, in the nettles, sometimes in the mire; his head in the light.\nHe is firm, serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with\nlittle, kindly; and he thanks God for having bestowed on him those two\nforms of riches which many a rich man lacks: work, which makes him\nfree; and thought, which makes him dignified.\n\nThis is what had happened with Marius. To tell the truth, he inclined a\nlittle too much to the side of contemplation. From the day when he had\nsucceeded in earning his living with some approach to certainty, he had\nstopped, thinking it good to be poor, and retrenching time from his\nwork to give to thought; that is to say, he sometimes passed entire\ndays in meditation, absorbed, engulfed, like a visionary, in the mute\nvoluptuousness of ecstasy and inward radiance. He had thus propounded\nthe problem of his life: to toil as little as possible at material\nlabor, in order to toil as much as possible at the labor which is\nimpalpable; in other words, to bestow a few hours on real life, and to\ncast the rest to the infinite. As he believed that he lacked nothing,\nhe did not perceive that contemplation, thus understood, ends by\nbecoming one of the forms of idleness; that he was contenting himself\nwith conquering the first necessities of life, and that he was resting\nfrom his labors too soon.\n\nIt was evident that, for this energetic and enthusiastic nature, this\ncould only be a transitory state, and that, at the first shock against\nthe inevitable complications of destiny, Marius would awaken.\n\nIn the meantime, although he was a lawyer, and whatever Father\nGillenormand thought about the matter, he was not practising, he was\nnot even pettifogging. Meditation had turned him aside from pleading.\nTo haunt attorneys, to follow the court, to hunt up cases what a bore!\nWhy should he do it? He saw no reason for changing the manner of\ngaining his livelihood! The obscure and ill-paid publishing\nestablishment had come to mean for him a sure source of work which did\nnot involve too much labor, as we have explained, and which sufficed\nfor his wants.\n\nOne of the publishers for whom he worked, M. Magimel, I think, offered\nto take him into his own house, to lodge him well, to furnish him with\nregular occupation, and to give him fifteen hundred francs a year. To\nbe well lodged! Fifteen hundred francs! No doubt. But renounce his\nliberty! Be on fixed wages! A sort of hired man of letters! According\nto Marius  opinion, if he accepted, his position would become both\nbetter and worse at the same time, he acquired comfort, and lost his\ndignity; it was a fine and complete unhappiness converted into a\nrepulsive and ridiculous state of torture: something like the case of a\nblind man who should recover the sight of one eye. He refused.\n\nMarius dwelt in solitude. Owing to his taste for remaining outside of\neverything, and through having been too much alarmed, he had not\nentered decidedly into the group presided over by Enjolras. They had\nremained good friends; they were ready to assist each other on occasion\nin every possible way; but nothing more. Marius had two friends: one\nyoung, Courfeyrac; and one old, M. Mabeuf. He inclined more to the old\nman. In the first place, he owed to him the revolution which had taken\nplace within him; to him he was indebted for having known and loved his\nfather.  He operated on me for a cataract,  he said.\n\nThe churchwarden had certainly played a decisive part.\n\nIt was not, however, that M. Mabeuf had been anything but the calm and\nimpassive agent of Providence in this connection. He had enlightened\nMarius by chance and without being aware of the fact, as does a candle\nwhich some one brings; he had been the candle and not the some one.\n\nAs for Marius  inward political revolution, M. Mabeuf was totally\nincapable of comprehending it, of willing or of directing it.\n\nAs we shall see M. Mabeuf again, later on, a few words will not be\nsuperfluous.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV M. MABEUF\n\n\nOn the day when M. Mabeuf said to Marius:  Certainly I approve of\npolitical opinions,  he expressed the real state of his mind. All\npolitical opinions were matters of indifference to him, and he approved\nthem all, without distinction, provided they left him in peace, as the\nGreeks called the Furies  the beautiful, the good, the charming,  the\nEumenides. M. Mabeuf s political opinion consisted in a passionate love\nfor plants, and, above all, for books. Like all the rest of the world,\nhe possessed the termination in _ist_, without which no one could exist\nat that time, but he was neither a Royalist, a Bonapartist, a Chartist,\nan Orleanist, nor an Anarchist; he was a _bouquinist_, a collector of\nold books. He did not understand how men could busy themselves with\nhating each other because of silly stuff like the charter, democracy,\nlegitimacy, monarchy, the republic, etc., when there were in the world\nall sorts of mosses, grasses, and shrubs which they might be looking\nat, and heaps of folios, and even of 32mos, which they might turn over.\nHe took good care not to become useless; having books did not prevent\nhis reading, being a botanist did not prevent his being a gardener.\nWhen he made Pontmercy s acquaintance, this sympathy had existed\nbetween the colonel and himself that what the colonel did for flowers,\nhe did for fruits. M. Mabeuf had succeeded in producing seedling pears\nas savory as the pears of St. Germain; it is from one of his\ncombinations, apparently, that the October Mirabelle, now celebrated\nand no less perfumed than the summer Mirabelle, owes its origin. He\nwent to mass rather from gentleness than from piety, and because, as he\nloved the faces of men, but hated their noise, he found them assembled\nand silent only in church. Feeling that he must be something in the\nState, he had chosen the career of warden. However, he had never\nsucceeded in loving any woman as much as a tulip bulb, nor any man as\nmuch as an Elzevir. He had long passed sixty, when, one day, some one\nasked him:  Have you never been married?   I have forgotten,  said he.\nWhen it sometimes happened to him and to whom does it not happen? to\nsay:  Oh! if I were only rich!  it was not when ogling a pretty girl,\nas was the case with Father Gillenormand, but when contemplating an old\nbook. He lived alone with an old housekeeper. He was somewhat gouty,\nand when he was asleep, his aged fingers, stiffened with rheumatism,\nlay crooked up in the folds of his sheets. He had composed and\npublished a _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_, with colored plates,\na work which enjoyed a tolerable measure of esteem and which sold well.\nPeople rang his bell, in the Rue M si res, two or three times a day, to\nask for it. He drew as much as two thousand francs a year from it; this\nconstituted nearly the whole of his fortune. Although poor, he had had\nthe talent to form for himself, by dint of patience, privations, and\ntime, a precious collection of rare copies of every sort. He never went\nout without a book under his arm, and he often returned with two. The\nsole decoration of the four rooms on the ground floor, which composed\nhis lodgings, consisted of framed herbariums, and engravings of the old\nmasters. The sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood. He had never\napproached a cannon in his life, even at the Invalides. He had a\npassable stomach, a brother who was a cur , perfectly white hair, no\nteeth, either in his mouth or his mind, a trembling in every limb, a\nPicard accent, an infantile laugh, the air of an old sheep, and he was\neasily frightened. Add to this, that he had no other friendship, no\nother acquaintance among the living, than an old bookseller of the\nPorte-Saint-Jacques, named Royal. His dream was to naturalize indigo in\nFrance.\n\nHis servant was also a sort of innocent. The poor good old woman was a\nspinster. Sultan, her cat, which might have mewed Allegri s miserere in\nthe Sixtine Chapel, had filled her heart and sufficed for the quantity\nof passion which existed in her. None of her dreams had ever proceeded\nas far as man. She had never been able to get further than her cat.\nLike him, she had a moustache. Her glory consisted in her caps, which\nwere always white. She passed her time, on Sundays, after mass, in\ncounting over the linen in her chest, and in spreading out on her bed\nthe dresses in the piece which she bought and never had made up. She\nknew how to read. M. Mabeuf had nicknamed her Mother Plutarque.\n\nM. Mabeuf had taken a fancy to Marius, because Marius, being young and\ngentle, warmed his age without startling his timidity. Youth combined\nwith gentleness produces on old people the effect of the sun without\nwind. When Marius was saturated with military glory, with gunpowder,\nwith marches and countermarches, and with all those prodigious battles\nin which his father had given and received such tremendous blows of the\nsword, he went to see M. Mabeuf, and M. Mabeuf talked to him of his\nhero from the point of view of flowers.\n\nHis brother the cur  died about 1830, and almost immediately, as when\nthe night is drawing on, the whole horizon grew dark for M. Mabeuf. A\nnotary s failure deprived him of the sum of ten thousand francs, which\nwas all that he possessed in his brother s right and his own. The\nRevolution of July brought a crisis to publishing. In a period of\nembarrassment, the first thing which does not sell is a _Flora. The\nFlora of the Environs of Cauteretz_ stopped short. Weeks passed by\nwithout a single purchaser. Sometimes M. Mabeuf started at the sound of\nthe bell.  Monsieur,  said Mother Plutarque sadly,  it is the\nwater-carrier.  In short, one day, M. Mabeuf quitted the Rue M si res,\nabdicated the functions of warden, gave up Saint-Sulpice, sold not a\npart of his books, but of his prints, that to which he was the least\nattached, and installed himself in a little house on the Rue\nMontparnasse, where, however, he remained but one quarter for two\nreasons: in the first place, the ground floor and the garden cost three\nhundred francs, and he dared not spend more than two hundred francs on\nhis rent; in the second, being near Faton s shooting-gallery, he could\nhear the pistol-shots; which was intolerable to him.\n\nHe carried off his _Flora_, his copper-plates, his herbariums, his\nportfolios, and his books, and established himself near the\nSalp tri re, in a sort of thatched cottage of the village of\nAusterlitz, where, for fifty crowns a year, he got three rooms and a\ngarden enclosed by a hedge, and containing a well. He took advantage of\nthis removal to sell off nearly all his furniture. On the day of his\nentrance into his new quarters, he was very gay, and drove the nails on\nwhich his engravings and herbariums were to hang, with his own hands,\ndug in his garden the rest of the day, and at night, perceiving that\nMother Plutarque had a melancholy air, and was very thoughtful, he\ntapped her on the shoulder and said to her with a smile:  We have the\nindigo! \n\n\nOnly two visitors, the bookseller of the Porte-Saint-Jacques and\nMarius, were admitted to view the thatched cottage at Austerlitz, a\nbrawling name which was, to tell the truth, extremely disagreeable to\nhim.\n\nHowever, as we have just pointed out, brains which are absorbed in some\nbit of wisdom, or folly, or, as it often happens, in both at once, are\nbut slowly accessible to the things of actual life. Their own destiny\nis a far-off thing to them. There results from such concentration a\npassivity, which, if it were the outcome of reasoning, would resemble\nphilosophy. One declines, descends, trickles away, even crumbles away,\nand yet is hardly conscious of it one s self. It always ends, it is\ntrue, in an awakening, but the awakening is tardy. In the meantime, it\nseems as though we held ourselves neutral in the game which is going on\nbetween our happiness and our unhappiness. We are the stake, and we\nlook on at the game with indifference.\n\nIt is thus that, athwart the cloud which formed about him, when all his\nhopes were extinguished one after the other, M. Mabeuf remained rather\npuerilely, but profoundly serene. His habits of mind had the regular\nswing of a pendulum. Once mounted on an illusion, he went for a very\nlong time, even after the illusion had disappeared. A clock does not\nstop short at the precise moment when the key is lost.\n\nM. Mabeuf had his innocent pleasures. These pleasures were inexpensive\nand unexpected; the merest chance furnished them. One day, Mother\nPlutarque was reading a romance in one corner of the room. She was\nreading aloud, finding that she understood better thus. To read aloud\nis to assure one s self of what one is reading. There are people who\nread very loud, and who have the appearance of giving themselves their\nword of honor as to what they are perusing.\n\nIt was with this sort of energy that Mother Plutarque was reading the\nromance which she had in hand. M. Mabeuf heard her without listening to\nher.\n\nIn the course of her reading, Mother Plutarque came to this phrase. It\nwas a question of an officer of dragoons and a beauty: \n\n The beauty pouted, and the dragoon \n\n\nHere she interrupted herself to wipe her glasses.\n\n Bouddha and the Dragon,  struck in M. Mabeuf in a low voice.  Yes, it\nis true that there was a dragon, which, from the depths of its cave,\nspouted flame through his maw and set the heavens on fire. Many stars\nhad already been consumed by this monster, which, besides, had the\nclaws of a tiger. Bouddha went into its den and succeeded in converting\nthe dragon. That is a good book that you are reading, Mother Plutarque.\nThere is no more beautiful legend in existence. \n\n\nAnd M. Mabeuf fell into a delicious reverie.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V POVERTY A GOOD NEIGHBOR FOR MISERY\n\n\nMarius liked this candid old man who saw himself gradually falling into\nthe clutches of indigence, and who came to feel astonishment, little by\nlittle, without, however, being made melancholy by it. Marius met\nCourfeyrac and sought out M. Mabeuf. Very rarely, however; twice a\nmonth at most.\n\nMarius  pleasure consisted in taking long walks alone on the outer\nboulevards, or in the Champs-de-Mars, or in the least frequented alleys\nof the Luxembourg. He often spent half a day in gazing at a market\ngarden, the beds of lettuce, the chickens on the dung-heap, the horse\nturning the water-wheel. The passers-by stared at him in surprise, and\nsome of them thought his attire suspicious and his mien sinister. He\nwas only a poor young man dreaming in an objectless way.\n\nIt was during one of his strolls that he had hit upon the Gorbeau\nhouse, and, tempted by its isolation and its cheapness, had taken up\nhis abode there. He was known there only under the name of M. Marius.\n\nSome of his father s old generals or old comrades had invited him to go\nand see them, when they learned about him. Marius had not refused their\ninvitations. They afforded opportunities of talking about his father.\nThus he went from time to time, to Comte Pajol, to General Bellavesne,\nto General Fririon, to the Invalides. There was music and dancing\nthere. On such evenings, Marius put on his new coat. But he never went\nto these evening parties or balls except on days when it was freezing\ncold, because he could not afford a carriage, and he did not wish to\narrive with boots otherwise than like mirrors.\n\nHe said sometimes, but without bitterness:  Men are so made that in a\ndrawing-room you may be soiled everywhere except on your shoes. In\norder to insure a good reception there, only one irreproachable thing\nis asked of you; your conscience? No, your boots. \n\n\nAll passions except those of the heart are dissipated by reverie.\nMarius  political fevers vanished thus. The Revolution of 1830 assisted\nin the process, by satisfying and calming him. He remained the same,\nsetting aside his fits of wrath. He still held the same opinions. Only,\nthey had been tempered. To speak accurately, he had no longer any\nopinions, he had sympathies. To what party did he belong? To the party\nof humanity. Out of humanity he chose France; out of the Nation he\nchose the people; out of the people he chose the woman. It was to that\npoint above all, that his pity was directed. Now he preferred an idea\nto a deed, a poet to a hero, and he admired a book like Job more than\nan event like Marengo. And then, when, after a day spent in meditation,\nhe returned in the evening through the boulevards, and caught a glimpse\nthrough the branches of the trees of the fathomless space beyond, the\nnameless gleams, the abyss, the shadow, the mystery, all that which is\nonly human seemed very pretty indeed to him.\n\nHe thought that he had, and he really had, in fact, arrived at the\ntruth of life and of human philosophy, and he had ended by gazing at\nnothing but heaven, the only thing which Truth can perceive from the\nbottom of her well.\n\nThis did not prevent him from multiplying his plans, his combinations,\nhis scaffoldings, his projects for the future. In this state of\nreverie, an eye which could have cast a glance into Marius  interior\nwould have been dazzled with the purity of that soul. In fact, had it\nbeen given to our eyes of the flesh to gaze into the consciences of\nothers, we should be able to judge a man much more surely according to\nwhat he dreams, than according to what he thinks. There is will in\nthought, there is none in dreams. Reverie, which is utterly\nspontaneous, takes and keeps, even in the gigantic and the ideal, the\nform of our spirit. Nothing proceeds more directly and more sincerely\nfrom the very depth of our soul, than our unpremeditated and boundless\naspirations towards the splendors of destiny. In these aspirations,\nmuch more than in deliberate, rational co-ordinated ideas, is the real\ncharacter of a man to be found. Our chim ras are the things which the\nmost resemble us. Each one of us dreams of the unknown and the\nimpossible in accordance with his nature.\n\nTowards the middle of this year 1831, the old woman who waited on\nMarius told him that his neighbors, the wretched Jondrette family, had\nbeen turned out of doors. Marius, who passed nearly the whole of his\ndays out of the house, hardly knew that he had any neighbors.\n\n Why are they turned out?  he asked.\n\n Because they do not pay their rent; they owe for two quarters. \n\n\n How much is it? \n\n\n Twenty francs,  said the old woman.\n\nMarius had thirty francs saved up in a drawer.\n\n Here,  he said to the old woman,  take these twenty-five francs. Pay\nfor the poor people and give them five francs, and do not tell them\nthat it was I. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE SUBSTITUTE\n\n\nIt chanced that the regiment to which Lieutenant Th odule belonged came\nto perform garrison duty in Paris. This inspired Aunt Gillenormand with\na second idea. She had, on the first occasion, hit upon the plan of\nhaving Marius spied upon by Th odule; now she plotted to have Th odule\ntake Marius  place.\n\nAt all events and in case the grandfather should feel the vague need of\na young face in the house, these rays of dawn are sometimes sweet to\nruin, it was expedient to find another Marius.  Take it as a simple\nerratum,  she thought,  such as one sees in books. For Marius, read\nTh odule. \n\n\nA grandnephew is almost the same as a grandson; in default of a lawyer\none takes a lancer.\n\nOne morning, when M. Gillenormand was about to read something in the\n_Quotidienne_, his daughter entered and said to him in her sweetest\nvoice; for the question concerned her favorite: \n\n Father, Th odule is coming to present his respects to you this\nmorning. \n\n\n Who s Th odule? \n\n\n Your grandnephew. \n\n\n Ah!  said the grandfather.\n\nThen he went back to his reading, thought no more of his grandnephew,\nwho was merely some Th odule or other, and soon flew into a rage, which\nalmost always happened when he read. The  sheet  which he held,\nalthough Royalist, of course, announced for the following day, without\nany softening phrases, one of these little events which were of daily\noccurrence at that date in Paris:  That the students of the schools of\nlaw and medicine were to assemble on the Place du Panth on, at\nmidday, to deliberate.  The discussion concerned one of the questions\nof the moment, the artillery of the National Guard, and a conflict\nbetween the Minister of War and  the citizen s militia,  on the subject\nof the cannon parked in the courtyard of the Louvre. The students were\nto  deliberate  over this. It did not take much more than this to swell\nM. Gillenormand s rage.\n\nHe thought of Marius, who was a student, and who would probably go with\nthe rest, to  deliberate, at midday, on the Place du Panth on. \n\n\nAs he was indulging in this painful dream, Lieutenant Th odule entered\nclad in plain clothes as a bourgeois, which was clever of him, and was\ndiscreetly introduced by Mademoiselle Gillenormand. The lancer had\nreasoned as follows:  The old druid has not sunk all his money in a\nlife pension. It is well to disguise one s self as a civilian from time\nto time. \n\n\nMademoiselle Gillenormand said aloud to her father: \n\n Th odule, your grandnephew. \n\n\nAnd in a low voice to the lieutenant: \n\n Approve of everything. \n\n\nAnd she withdrew.\n\nThe lieutenant, who was but little accustomed to such venerable\nencounters, stammered with some timidity:  Good day, uncle, and made a\nsalute composed of the involuntary and mechanical outline of the\nmilitary salute finished off as a bourgeois salute.\n\n Ah! so it s you; that is well, sit down,  said the old gentleman.\n\nThat said, he totally forgot the lancer.\n\nTh odule seated himself, and M. Gillenormand rose.\n\nM. Gillenormand began to pace back and forth, his hands in his pockets,\ntalking aloud, and twitching, with his irritated old fingers, at the\ntwo watches which he wore in his two fobs.\n\n That pack of brats! they convene on the Place du Panth on! by my life!\nurchins who were with their nurses but yesterday! If one were to\nsqueeze their noses, milk would burst out. And they deliberate\nto-morrow, at midday. What are we coming to? What are we coming to? It\nis clear that we are making for the abyss. That is what the\n_descamisados_ have brought us to! To deliberate on the citizen\nartillery! To go and jabber in the open air over the jibes of the\nNational Guard! And with whom are they to meet there? Just see whither\nJacobinism leads. I will bet anything you like, a million against a\ncounter, that there will be no one there but returned convicts and\nreleased galley-slaves. The Republicans and the galley-slaves, they\nform but one nose and one handkerchief. Carnot used to say:  Where\nwould you have me go, traitor?  Fouch  replied:  Wherever you please,\nimbecile!  That s what the Republicans are like. \n\n\n That is true,  said Th odule.\n\nM. Gillenormand half turned his head, saw Th odule, and went on: \n\n When one reflects that that scoundrel was so vile as to turn\ncarbonaro! Why did you leave my house? To go and become a Republican!\nPssst! In the first place, the people want none of your republic, they\nhave common sense, they know well that there always have been kings,\nand that there always will be; they know well that the people are only\nthe people, after all, they make sport of it, of your republic do you\nunderstand, idiot? Is it not a horrible caprice? To fall in love with\nP re Duchesne, to make sheep s-eyes at the guillotine, to sing\nromances, and play on the guitar under the balcony of  93 it s enough\nto make one spit on all these young fellows, such fools are they! They\nare all alike. Not one escapes. It suffices for them to breathe the air\nwhich blows through the street to lose their senses. The nineteenth\ncentury is poison. The first scamp that happens along lets his beard\ngrow like a goat s, thinks himself a real scoundrel, and abandons his\nold relatives. He s a Republican, he s a romantic. What does that mean,\nromantic? Do me the favor to tell me what it is. All possible follies.\nA year ago, they ran to _Hernani_. Now, I just ask you, _Hernani!_\nantitheses! abominations which are not even written in French! And\nthen, they have cannons in the courtyard of the Louvre. Such are the\nrascalities of this age! \n\n\n You are right, uncle,  said Th odule.\n\nM. Gillenormand resumed: \n\n Cannons in the courtyard of the Museum! For what purpose? Do you want\nto fire grape-shot at the Apollo Belvedere? What have those cartridges\nto do with the Venus de Medici? Oh! the young men of the present day\nare all blackguards! What a pretty creature is their Benjamin Constant!\nAnd those who are not rascals are simpletons! They do all they can to\nmake themselves ugly, they are badly dressed, they are afraid of women,\nin the presence of petticoats they have a mendicant air which sets the\ngirls into fits of laughter; on my word of honor, one would say the\npoor creatures were ashamed of love. They are deformed, and they\ncomplete themselves by being stupid; they repeat the puns of Tiercelin\nand Potier, they have sack coats, stablemen s waistcoats, shirts of\ncoarse linen, trousers of coarse cloth, boots of coarse leather, and\ntheir rigmarole resembles their plumage. One might make use of their\njargon to put new soles on their old shoes. And all this awkward batch\nof brats has political opinions, if you please. Political opinions\nshould be strictly forbidden. They fabricate systems, they recast\nsociety, they demolish the monarchy, they fling all laws to the earth,\nthey put the attic in the cellar s place and my porter in the place of\nthe King, they turn Europe topsy-turvy, they reconstruct the world, and\nall their love affairs consist in staring slily at the ankles of the\nlaundresses as these women climb into their carts. Ah! Marius! Ah! you\nblackguard! to go and vociferate on the public place! to discuss, to\ndebate, to take measures! They call that measures, just God! Disorder\nhumbles itself and becomes silly. I have seen chaos, I now see a mess.\nStudents deliberating on the National Guard, such a thing could not be\nseen among the Ogibewas nor the Cadodaches! Savages who go naked, with\ntheir noddles dressed like a shuttlecock, with a club in their paws,\nare less of brutes than those bachelors of arts! The four-penny\nmonkeys! And they set up for judges! Those creatures deliberate and\nratiocinate! The end of the world is come! This is plainly the end of\nthis miserable terraqueous globe! A final hiccough was required, and\nFrance has emitted it. Deliberate, my rascals! Such things will happen\nso long as they go and read the newspapers under the arcades of the\nOd on. That costs them a sou, and their good sense, and their\nintelligence, and their heart and their soul, and their wits. They\nemerge thence, and decamp from their families. All newspapers are\npests; all, even the _Drapeau Blanc!_ At bottom, Martainville was a\nJacobin. Ah! just Heaven! you may boast of having driven your\ngrandfather to despair, that you may! \n\n\n That is evident,  said Th odule.\n\nAnd profiting by the fact that M. Gillenormand was taking breath, the\nlancer added in a magisterial manner: \n\n There should be no other newspaper than the _Moniteur_, and no other\nbook than the _Annuaire Militaire_. \n\n\nM. Gillenormand continued: \n\n It is like their Siey s! A regicide ending in a senator; for that is\nthe way they always end. They give themselves a scar with the address\nof _thou_ as citizens, in order to get themselves called, eventually,\n_Monsieur le Comte_. Monsieur le Comte as big as my arm, assassins of\nSeptember. The philosopher Siey s! I will do myself the justice to say,\nthat I have never had any better opinion of the philosophies of all\nthose philosophers, than of the spectacles of the grimacer of Tivoli!\nOne day I saw the Senators cross the Quai Malplaquet in mantles of\nviolet velvet sown with bees, with hats   la Henri IV. They were\nhideous. One would have pronounced them monkeys from the tiger s court.\nCitizens, I declare to you, that your progress is madness, that your\nhumanity is a dream, that your revolution is a crime, that your\nrepublic is a monster, that your young and virgin France comes from the\nbrothel, and I maintain it against all, whoever you may be, whether\njournalists, economists, legists, or even were you better judges of\nliberty, of equality, and fraternity than the knife of the guillotine!\nAnd that I announce to you, my fine fellows! \n\n\n Parbleu!  cried the lieutenant,  that is wonderfully true. \n\n\nM. Gillenormand paused in a gesture which he had begun, wheeled round,\nstared Lancer Th odule intently in the eyes, and said to him: \n\n You are a fool. \n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SIXTH THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE SOBRIQUET: MODE OF FORMATION OF FAMILY NAMES\n\n\nMarius was, at this epoch, a handsome young man, of medium stature,\nwith thick and intensely black hair, a lofty and intelligent brow,\nwell-opened and passionate nostrils, an air of calmness and sincerity,\nand with something indescribably proud, thoughtful, and innocent over\nhis whole countenance. His profile, all of whose lines were rounded,\nwithout thereby losing their firmness, had a certain Germanic\nsweetness, which has made its way into the French physiognomy by way of\nAlsace and Lorraine, and that complete absence of angles which rendered\nthe Sicambres so easily recognizable among the Romans, and which\ndistinguishes the leonine from the aquiline race. He was at that period\nof life when the mind of men who think is composed, in nearly equal\nparts, of depth and ingenuousness. A grave situation being given, he\nhad all that is required to be stupid: one more turn of the key, and he\nmight be sublime. His manners were reserved, cold, polished, not very\ngenial. As his mouth was charming, his lips the reddest, and his teeth\nthe whitest in the world, his smile corrected the severity of his face,\nas a whole. At certain moments, that pure brow and that voluptuous\nsmile presented a singular contrast. His eyes were small, but his\nglance was large.\n\nAt the period of his most abject misery, he had observed that young\ngirls turned round when he passed by, and he fled or hid, with death in\nhis soul. He thought that they were staring at him because of his old\nclothes, and that they were laughing at them; the fact is, that they\nstared at him because of his grace, and that they dreamed of him.\n\nThis mute misunderstanding between him and the pretty passers-by had\nmade him shy. He chose none of them for the excellent reason that he\nfled from all of them. He lived thus indefinitely, stupidly, as\nCourfeyrac said.\n\nCourfeyrac also said to him:  Do not aspire to be venerable  [they\ncalled each other _thou_; it is the tendency of youthful friendships to\nslip into this mode of address].  Let me give you a piece of advice, my\ndear fellow. Don t read so many books, and look a little more at the\nlasses. The jades have some good points about them, O Marius! By dint\nof fleeing and blushing, you will become brutalized. \n\n\nOn other occasions, Courfeyrac encountered him and said: Good morning,\nMonsieur l Abb ! \n\n\nWhen Courfeyrac had addressed to him some remark of this nature, Marius\navoided women, both young and old, more than ever for a week to come,\nand he avoided Courfeyrac to boot.\n\nNevertheless, there existed in all the immensity of creation, two women\nwhom Marius did not flee, and to whom he paid no attention whatever. In\ntruth, he would have been very much amazed if he had been informed that\nthey were women. One was the bearded old woman who swept out his\nchamber, and caused Courfeyrac to say:  Seeing that his servant woman\nwears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard.  The other was a\nsort of little girl whom he saw very often, and whom he never looked\nat.\n\nFor more than a year, Marius had noticed in one of the walks of the\nLuxembourg, the one which skirts the parapet of the P pini re, a man\nand a very young girl, who were almost always seated side by side on\nthe same bench, at the most solitary end of the alley, on the Rue de\nl Ouest side. Every time that that chance which meddles with the\nstrolls of persons whose gaze is turned inwards, led Marius to that\nwalk, and it was nearly every day, he found this couple there. The man\nappeared to be about sixty years of age; he seemed sad and serious; his\nwhole person presented the robust and weary aspect peculiar to military\nmen who have retired from the service. If he had worn a decoration,\nMarius would have said:  He is an ex-officer.  He had a kindly but\nunapproachable air, and he never let his glance linger on the eyes of\nany one. He wore blue trousers, a blue frock coat and a broad-brimmed\nhat, which always appeared to be new, a black cravat, a quaker shirt,\nthat is to say, it was dazzlingly white, but of coarse linen. A\ngrisette who passed near him one day, said:  Here s a very tidy\nwidower.  His hair was very white.\n\nThe first time that the young girl who accompanied him came and seated\nherself on the bench which they seemed to have adopted, she was a sort\nof child thirteen or fourteen years of age, so thin as to be almost\nhomely, awkward, insignificant, and with a possible promise of handsome\neyes. Only, they were always raised with a sort of displeasing\nassurance. Her dress was both aged and childish, like the dress of the\nscholars in a convent; it consisted of a badly cut gown of black\nmerino. They had the air of being father and daughter.\n\nMarius scanned this old man, who was not yet aged, and this little\ngirl, who was not yet a person, for a few days, and thereafter paid no\nattention to them. They, on their side, did not appear even to see him.\nThey conversed together with a peaceful and indifferent air. The girl\nchattered incessantly and merrily. The old man talked but little, and,\nat times, he fixed on her eyes overflowing with an ineffable paternity.\n\nMarius had acquired the mechanical habit of strolling in that walk. He\ninvariably found them there.\n\nThis is the way things went: \n\nMarius liked to arrive by the end of the alley which was furthest from\ntheir bench; he walked the whole length of the alley, passed in front\nof them, then returned to the extremity whence he had come, and began\nagain. This he did five or six times in the course of his promenade,\nand the promenade was taken five or six times a week, without its\nhaving occurred to him or to these people to exchange a greeting. That\npersonage, and that young girl, although they appeared, and perhaps\nbecause they appeared, to shun all glances, had, naturally, caused some\nattention on the part of the five or six students who strolled along\nthe P pini re from time to time; the studious after their lectures, the\nothers after their game of billiards. Courfeyrac, who was among the\nlast, had observed them several times, but, finding the girl homely, he\nhad speedily and carefully kept out of the way. He had fled,\ndischarging at them a sobriquet, like a Parthian dart. Impressed solely\nwith the child s gown and the old man s hair, he had dubbed the\ndaughter Mademoiselle Lanoire, and the father, Monsieur Leblanc, so\nthat as no one knew them under any other title, this nickname became a\nlaw in the default of any other name. The students said:  Ah! Monsieur\nLeblanc is on his bench.  And Marius, like the rest, had found it\nconvenient to call this unknown gentleman Monsieur Leblanc.\n\nWe shall follow their example, and we shall say M. Leblanc, in order to\nfacilitate this tale.\n\nSo Marius saw them nearly every day, at the same hour, during the first\nyear. He found the man to his taste, but the girl insipid.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II LUX FACTA EST\n\n\nDuring the second year, precisely at the point in this history which\nthe reader has now reached, it chanced that this habit of the\nLuxembourg was interrupted, without Marius himself being quite aware\nwhy, and nearly six months elapsed, during which he did not set foot in\nthe alley. One day, at last, he returned thither once more; it was a\nserene summer morning, and Marius was in joyous mood, as one is when\nthe weather is fine. It seemed to him that he had in his heart all the\nsongs of the birds that he was listening to, and all the bits of blue\nsky of which he caught glimpses through the leaves of the trees.\n\nHe went straight to  his alley,  and when he reached the end of it he\nperceived, still on the same bench, that well-known couple. Only, when\nhe approached, it certainly was the same man; but it seemed to him that\nit was no longer the same girl. The person whom he now beheld was a\ntall and beautiful creature, possessed of all the most charming lines\nof a woman at the precise moment when they are still combined with all\nthe most ingenuous graces of the child; a pure and fugitive moment,\nwhich can be expressed only by these two words, fifteen years.  She\nhad wonderful brown hair, shaded with threads of gold, a brow that\nseemed made of marble, cheeks that seemed made of rose-leaf, a pale\nflush, an agitated whiteness, an exquisite mouth, whence smiles darted\nlike sunbeams, and words like music, a head such as Raphael would have\ngiven to Mary, set upon a neck that Jean Goujon would have attributed\nto a Venus. And, in order that nothing might be lacking to this\nbewitching face, her nose was not handsome it was pretty; neither\nstraight nor curved, neither Italian nor Greek; it was the Parisian\nnose, that is to say, spiritual, delicate, irregular, pure, which\ndrives painters to despair, and charms poets.\n\nWhen Marius passed near her, he could not see her eyes, which were\nconstantly lowered. He saw only her long chestnut lashes, permeated\nwith shadow and modesty.\n\nThis did not prevent the beautiful child from smiling as she listened\nto what the white-haired old man was saying to her, and nothing could\nbe more fascinating than that fresh smile, combined with those drooping\neyes.\n\nFor a moment, Marius thought that she was another daughter of the same\nman, a sister of the former, no doubt. But when the invariable habit of\nhis stroll brought him, for the second time, near the bench, and he had\nexamined her attentively, he recognized her as the same. In six months\nthe little girl had become a young maiden; that was all. Nothing is\nmore frequent than this phenomenon. There is a moment when girls\nblossom out in the twinkling of an eye, and become roses all at once.\nOne left them children but yesterday; today, one finds them disquieting\nto the feelings.\n\nThis child had not only grown, she had become idealized. As three days\nin April suffice to cover certain trees with flowers, six months had\nsufficed to clothe her with beauty. Her April had arrived.\n\nOne sometimes sees people, who, poor and mean, seem to wake up, pass\nsuddenly from indigence to luxury, indulge in expenditures of all\nsorts, and become dazzling, prodigal, magnificent, all of a sudden.\nThat is the result of having pocketed an income; a note fell due\nyesterday. The young girl had received her quarterly income.\n\nAnd then, she was no longer the school-girl with her felt hat, her\nmerino gown, her scholar s shoes, and red hands; taste had come to her\nwith beauty; she was a well-dressed person, clad with a sort of rich\nand simple elegance, and without affectation. She wore a dress of black\ndamask, a cape of the same material, and a bonnet of white crape. Her\nwhite gloves displayed the delicacy of the hand which toyed with the\ncarved, Chinese ivory handle of a parasol, and her silken shoe outlined\nthe smallness of her foot. When one passed near her, her whole toilette\nexhaled a youthful and penetrating perfume.\n\nAs for the man, he was the same as usual.\n\nThe second time that Marius approached her, the young girl raised her\neyelids; her eyes were of a deep, celestial blue, but in that veiled\nazure, there was, as yet, nothing but the glance of a child. She looked\nat Marius indifferently, as she would have stared at the brat running\nbeneath the sycamores, or the marble vase which cast a shadow on the\nbench, and Marius, on his side, continued his promenade, and thought\nabout something else.\n\nHe passed near the bench where the young girl sat, five or six times,\nbut without even turning his eyes in her direction.\n\nOn the following days, he returned, as was his wont, to the Luxembourg;\nas usual, he found there  the father and daughter;  but he paid no\nfurther attention to them. He thought no more about the girl now that\nshe was beautiful than he had when she was homely. He passed very near\nthe bench where she sat, because such was his habit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III EFFECT OF THE SPRING\n\n\nOne day, the air was warm, the Luxembourg was inundated with light and\nshade, the sky was as pure as though the angels had washed it that\nmorning, the sparrows were giving vent to little twitters in the depths\nof the chestnut-trees. Marius had thrown open his whole soul to nature,\nhe was not thinking of anything, he simply lived and breathed, he\npassed near the bench, the young girl raised her eyes to him, the two\nglances met.\n\nWhat was there in the young girl s glance on this occasion? Marius\ncould not have told. There was nothing and there was everything. It was\na strange flash.\n\nShe dropped her eyes, and he pursued his way.\n\nWhat he had just seen was no longer the ingenuous and simple eye of a\nchild; it was a mysterious gulf which had half opened, then abruptly\nclosed again.\n\nThere comes a day when the young girl glances in this manner. Woe to\nhim who chances to be there!\n\nThat first gaze of a soul which does not, as yet, know itself, is like\nthe dawn in the sky. It is the awakening of something radiant and\nstrange. Nothing can give any idea of the dangerous charm of that\nunexpected gleam, which flashes suddenly and vaguely forth from\nadorable shadows, and which is composed of all the innocence of the\npresent, and of all the passion of the future. It is a sort of\nundecided tenderness which reveals itself by chance, and which waits.\nIt is a snare which the innocent maiden sets unknown to herself, and in\nwhich she captures hearts without either wishing or knowing it. It is a\nvirgin looking like a woman.\n\nIt is rare that a profound reverie does not spring from that glance,\nwhere it falls. All purities and all candors meet in that celestial and\nfatal gleam which, more than all the best-planned tender glances of\ncoquettes, possesses the magic power of causing the sudden blossoming,\nin the depths of the soul, of that sombre flower, impregnated with\nperfume and with poison, which is called love.\n\nThat evening, on his return to his garret, Marius cast his eyes over\nhis garments, and perceived, for the first time, that he had been so\nslovenly, indecorous, and inconceivably stupid as to go for his walk in\nthe Luxembourg with his  every-day clothes,  that is to say, with a hat\nbattered near the band, coarse carter s boots, black trousers which\nshowed white at the knees, and a black coat which was pale at the\nelbows.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV BEGINNING OF A GREAT MALADY\n\n\nOn the following day, at the accustomed hour, Marius drew from his\nwardrobe his new coat, his new trousers, his new hat, and his new\nboots; he clothed himself in this complete panoply, put on his gloves,\na tremendous luxury, and set off for the Luxembourg.\n\nOn the way thither, he encountered Courfeyrac, and pretended not to see\nhim. Courfeyrac, on his return home, said to his friends: \n\n I have just met Marius  new hat and new coat, with Marius inside them.\nHe was going to pass an examination, no doubt. He looked utterly\nstupid. \n\n\nOn arriving at the Luxembourg, Marius made the tour of the fountain\nbasin, and stared at the swans; then he remained for a long time in\ncontemplation before a statue whose head was perfectly black with\nmould, and one of whose hips was missing. Near the basin there was a\nbourgeois forty years of age, with a prominent stomach, who was holding\nby the hand a little urchin of five, and saying to him:  Shun excess,\nmy son, keep at an equal distance from despotism and from anarchy. \nMarius listened to this bourgeois. Then he made the circuit of the\nbasin once more. At last he directed his course towards  his alley, \nslowly, and as if with regret. One would have said that he was both\nforced to go there and withheld from doing so. He did not perceive it\nhimself, and thought that he was doing as he always did.\n\nOn turning into the walk, he saw M. Leblanc and the young girl at the\nother end,  on their bench.  He buttoned his coat up to the very top,\npulled it down on his body so that there might be no wrinkles,\nexamined, with a certain complaisance, the lustrous gleams of his\ntrousers, and marched on the bench. This march savored of an attack,\nand certainly of a desire for conquest. So I say that he marched on the\nbench, as I should say:  Hannibal marched on Rome. \n\n\nHowever, all his movements were purely mechanical, and he had\ninterrupted none of the habitual preoccupations of his mind and labors.\nAt that moment, he was thinking that the _Manuel du Baccalaur at_ was a\nstupid book, and that it must have been drawn up by rare idiots, to\nallow of three tragedies of Racine and only one comedy of Moli re being\nanalyzed therein as masterpieces of the human mind. There was a\npiercing whistling going on in his ears. As he approached the bench, he\nheld fast to the folds in his coat, and fixed his eyes on the young\ngirl. It seemed to him that she filled the entire extremity of the\nalley with a vague blue light.\n\nIn proportion as he drew near, his pace slackened more and more. On\narriving at some little distance from the bench, and long before he had\nreached the end of the walk, he halted, and could not explain to\nhimself why he retraced his steps. He did not even say to himself that\nhe would not go as far as the end. It was only with difficulty that the\nyoung girl could have perceived him in the distance and noted his fine\nappearance in his new clothes. Nevertheless, he held himself very\nerect, in case any one should be looking at him from behind.\n\nHe attained the opposite end, then came back, and this time he\napproached a little nearer to the bench. He even got to within three\nintervals of trees, but there he felt an indescribable impossibility of\nproceeding further, and he hesitated. He thought he saw the young\ngirl s face bending towards him. But he exerted a manly and violent\neffort, subdued his hesitation, and walked straight ahead. A few\nseconds later, he rushed in front of the bench, erect and firm,\nreddening to the very ears, without daring to cast a glance either to\nthe right or to the left, with his hand thrust into his coat like a\nstatesman. At the moment when he passed, under the cannon of the\nplace, he felt his heart beat wildly. As on the preceding day, she wore\nher damask gown and her crape bonnet. He heard an ineffable voice,\nwhich must have been  her voice.  She was talking tranquilly. She was\nvery pretty. He felt it, although he made no attempt to see her.  She\ncould not, however,  he thought,  help feeling esteem and consideration\nfor me, if she only knew that I am the veritable author of the\ndissertation on Marcos Obr gon de la Ronde, which M. Fran ois de\nNeufch teau put, as though it were his own, at the head of his edition\nof _Gil Blas_.  He went beyond the bench as far as the extremity of the\nwalk, which was very near, then turned on his heel and passed once more\nin front of the lovely girl. This time, he was very pale. Moreover, all\nhis emotions were disagreeable. As he went further from the bench and\nthe young girl, and while his back was turned to her, he fancied that\nshe was gazing after him, and that made him stumble.\n\nHe did not attempt to approach the bench again; he halted near the\nmiddle of the walk, and there, a thing which he never did, he sat down,\nand reflecting in the most profoundly indistinct depths of his spirit,\nthat after all, it was hard that persons whose white bonnet and black\ngown he admired should be absolutely insensible to his splendid\ntrousers and his new coat.\n\nAt the expiration of a quarter of an hour, he rose, as though he were\non the point of again beginning his march towards that bench which was\nsurrounded by an aureole. But he remained standing there, motionless.\nFor the first time in fifteen months, he said to himself that that\ngentleman who sat there every day with his daughter, had, on his side,\nnoticed him, and probably considered his assiduity singular.\n\nFor the first time, also, he was conscious of some irreverence in\ndesignating that stranger, even in his secret thoughts, by the\nsobriquet of M. Leblanc.\n\nHe stood thus for several minutes, with drooping head, tracing figures\nin the sand, with the cane which he held in his hand.\n\nThen he turned abruptly in the direction opposite to the bench, to M.\nLeblanc and his daughter, and went home.\n\nThat day he forgot to dine. At eight o clock in the evening he\nperceived this fact, and as it was too late to go down to the Rue\nSaint-Jacques, he said:  Never mind!  and ate a bit of bread.\n\nHe did not go to bed until he had brushed his coat and folded it up\nwith great care.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V DIVERS CLAPS OF THUNDER FALL ON MA AM BOUGON\n\n\nOn the following day, Ma am Bougon, as Courfeyrac styled the old\nportress-principal-tenant, housekeeper of the Gorbeau hovel, Ma am\nBougon, whose name was, in reality, Madame Burgon, as we have found\nout, but this iconoclast, Courfeyrac, respected nothing, Ma am Bougon\nobserved, with stupefaction, that M. Marius was going out again in his\nnew coat.\n\nHe went to the Luxembourg again, but he did not proceed further than\nhis bench midway of the alley. He seated himself there, as on the\npreceding day, surveying from a distance, and clearly making out, the\nwhite bonnet, the black dress, and above all, that blue light. He did\nnot stir from it, and only went home when the gates of the Luxembourg\nclosed. He did not see M. Leblanc and his daughter retire. He concluded\nthat they had quitted the garden by the gate on the Rue de l Ouest.\nLater on, several weeks afterwards, when he came to think it over, he\ncould never recall where he had dined that evening.\n\nOn the following day, which was the third, Ma am Bougon was\nthunderstruck. Marius went out in his new coat.  Three days in\nsuccession!  she exclaimed.\n\nShe tried to follow him, but Marius walked briskly, and with immense\nstrides; it was a hippopotamus undertaking the pursuit of a chamois.\nShe lost sight of him in two minutes, and returned breathless,\nthree-quarters choked with asthma, and furious.  If there is any\nsense,  she growled,  in putting on one s best clothes every day, and\nmaking people run like this! \n\n\nMarius betook himself to the Luxembourg.\n\nThe young girl was there with M. Leblanc. Marius approached as near as\nhe could, pretending to be busy reading a book, but he halted afar off,\nthen returned and seated himself on his bench, where he spent four\nhours in watching the house-sparrows who were skipping about the walk,\nand who produced on him the impression that they were making sport of\nhim.\n\nA fortnight passed thus. Marius went to the Luxembourg no longer for\nthe sake of strolling there, but to seat himself always in the same\nspot, and that without knowing why. Once arrived there, he did not\nstir. He put on his new coat every morning, for the purpose of not\nshowing himself, and he began all over again on the morrow.\n\nShe was decidedly a marvellous beauty. The only remark approaching a\ncriticism, that could be made, was, that the contradiction between her\ngaze, which was melancholy, and her smile, which was merry, gave a\nrather wild effect to her face, which sometimes caused this sweet\ncountenance to become strange without ceasing to be charming.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI TAKEN PRISONER\n\n\nOn one of the last days of the second week, Marius was seated on his\nbench, as usual, holding in his hand an open book, of which he had not\nturned a page for the last two hours. All at once he started. An event\nwas taking place at the other extremity of the walk. Leblanc and his\ndaughter had just left their seat, and the daughter had taken her\nfather s arm, and both were advancing slowly, towards the middle of the\nalley where Marius was. Marius closed his book, then opened it again,\nthen forced himself to read; he trembled; the aureole was coming\nstraight towards him.  Ah! good Heavens!  thought he,  I shall not have\ntime to strike an attitude.  Still the white-haired man and the girl\nadvanced. It seemed to him that this lasted for a century, and that it\nwas but a second.  What are they coming in this direction for?  he\nasked himself.  What! She will pass here? Her feet will tread this\nsand, this walk, two paces from me?  He was utterly upset, he would\nhave liked to be very handsome, he would have liked to own the cross.\nHe heard the soft and measured sound of their approaching footsteps. He\nimagined that M. Leblanc was darting angry glances at him.  Is that\ngentleman going to address me?  he thought to himself. He dropped his\nhead; when he raised it again, they were very near him. The young girl\npassed, and as she passed, she glanced at him. She gazed steadily at\nhim, with a pensive sweetness which thrilled Marius from head to foot.\nIt seemed to him that she was reproaching him for having allowed so\nlong a time to elapse without coming as far as her, and that she was\nsaying to him:  I am coming myself.  Marius was dazzled by those eyes\nfraught with rays and abysses.\n\nHe felt his brain on fire. She had come to him, what joy! And then, how\nshe had looked at him! She appeared to him more beautiful than he had\never seen her yet. Beautiful with a beauty which was wholly feminine\nand angelic, with a complete beauty which would have made Petrarch sing\nand Dante kneel. It seemed to him that he was floating free in the\nazure heavens. At the same time, he was horribly vexed because there\nwas dust on his boots.\n\nHe thought he felt sure that she had looked at his boots too.\n\nHe followed her with his eyes until she disappeared. Then he started up\nand walked about the Luxembourg garden like a madman. It is possible\nthat, at times, he laughed to himself and talked aloud. He was so\ndreamy when he came near the children s nurses, that each one of them\nthought him in love with her.\n\nHe quitted the Luxembourg, hoping to find her again in the street.\n\nHe encountered Courfeyrac under the arcades of the Od on, and said to\nhim:  Come and dine with me.  They went off to Rousseau s and spent six\nfrancs. Marius ate like an ogre. He gave the waiter six sous. At\ndessert, he said to Courfeyrac.  Have you read the paper? What a fine\ndiscourse Audry de Puyraveau delivered! \n\n\nHe was desperately in love.\n\nAfter dinner, he said to Courfeyrac:  I will treat you to the play. \nThey went to the Porte-Sainte-Martin to see Fr d rick in _l Auberge des\nAdrets_. Marius was enormously amused.\n\nAt the same time, he had a redoubled attack of shyness. On emerging\nfrom the theatre, he refused to look at the garter of a modiste who was\nstepping across a gutter, and Courfeyrac, who said:  I should like to\nput that woman in my collection,  almost horrified him.\n\nCourfeyrac invited him to breakfast at the Caf  Voltaire on the\nfollowing morning. Marius went thither, and ate even more than on the\npreceding evening. He was very thoughtful and very merry. One would\nhave said that he was taking advantage of every occasion to laugh\nuproariously. He tenderly embraced some man or other from the\nprovinces, who was presented to him. A circle of students formed round\nthe table, and they spoke of the nonsense paid for by the State which\nwas uttered from the rostrum in the Sorbonne, then the conversation\nfell upon the faults and omissions in Guicherat s dictionaries and\ngrammars. Marius interrupted the discussion to exclaim:  But it is very\nagreeable, all the same to have the cross! \n\n\n That s queer!  whispered Courfeyrac to Jean Prouvaire.\n\n No,  responded Prouvaire,  that s serious. \n\n\nIt was serious; in fact, Marius had reached that first violent and\ncharming hour with which grand passions begin.\n\nA glance had wrought all this.\n\nWhen the mine is charged, when the conflagration is ready, nothing is\nmore simple. A glance is a spark.\n\nIt was all over with him. Marius loved a woman. His fate was entering\nthe unknown.\n\nThe glance of women resembles certain combinations of wheels, which are\ntranquil in appearance yet formidable. You pass close to them every\nday, peaceably and with impunity, and without a suspicion of anything.\nA moment arrives when you forget that the thing is there. You go and\ncome, dream, speak, laugh. All at once you feel yourself clutched; all\nis over. The wheels hold you fast, the glance has ensnared you. It has\ncaught you, no matter where or how, by some portion of your thought\nwhich was fluttering loose, by some distraction which had attacked you.\nYou are lost. The whole of you passes into it. A chain of mysterious\nforces takes possession of you. You struggle in vain; no more human\nsuccor is possible. You go on falling from gearing to gearing, from\nagony to agony, from torture to torture, you, your mind, your fortune,\nyour future, your soul; and, according to whether you are in the power\nof a wicked creature, or of a noble heart, you will not escape from\nthis terrifying machine otherwise than disfigured with shame, or\ntransfigured by passion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII ADVENTURES OF THE LETTER U DELIVERED OVER TO CONJECTURES\n\n\nIsolation, detachment, from everything, pride, independence, the taste\nof nature, the absence of daily and material activity, the life within\nhimself, the secret conflicts of chastity, a benevolent ecstasy towards\nall creation, had prepared Marius for this possession which is called\npassion. His worship of his father had gradually become a religion,\nand, like all religions, it had retreated to the depths of his soul.\nSomething was required in the foreground. Love came.\n\nA full month elapsed, during which Marius went every day to the\nLuxembourg. When the hour arrived, nothing could hold him back. He is\non duty,  said Courfeyrac. Marius lived in a state of delight. It is\ncertain that the young girl did look at him.\n\nHe had finally grown bold, and approached the bench. Still, he did not\npass in front of it any more, in obedience to the instinct of timidity\nand to the instinct of prudence common to lovers. He considered it\nbetter not to attract  the attention of the father.  He combined his\nstations behind the trees and the pedestals of the statues with a\nprofound diplomacy, so that he might be seen as much as possible by the\nyoung girl and as little as possible by the old gentleman. Sometimes,\nhe remained motionless by the half-hour together in the shade of a\nLeonidas or a Spartacus, holding in his hand a book, above which his\neyes, gently raised, sought the beautiful girl, and she, on her side,\nturned her charming profile towards him with a vague smile. While\nconversing in the most natural and tranquil manner in the world with\nthe white-haired man, she bent upon Marius all the reveries of a\nvirginal and passionate eye. Ancient and time-honored man uvre which\nEve understood from the very first day of the world, and which every\nwoman understands from the very first day of her life! her mouth\nreplied to one, and her glance replied to another.\n\nIt must be supposed, that M. Leblanc finally noticed something, for\noften, when Marius arrived, he rose and began to walk about. He had\nabandoned their accustomed place and had adopted the bench by the\nGladiator, near the other end of the walk, as though with the object of\nseeing whether Marius would pursue them thither. Marius did not\nunderstand, and committed this error.  The father  began to grow\ninexact, and no longer brought  his daughter  every day. Sometimes, he\ncame alone. Then Marius did not stay. Another blunder.\n\nMarius paid no heed to these symptoms. From the phase of timidity, he\nhad passed, by a natural and fatal progress, to the phase of blindness.\nHis love increased. He dreamed of it every night. And then, an\nunexpected bliss had happened to him, oil on the fire, a redoubling of\nthe shadows over his eyes. One evening, at dusk, he had found, on the\nbench which  M. Leblanc and his daughter  had just quitted, a\nhandkerchief, a very simple handkerchief, without embroidery, but\nwhite, and fine, and which seemed to him to exhale ineffable perfume.\nHe seized it with rapture. This handkerchief was marked with the\nletters U. F. Marius knew nothing about this beautiful child, neither\nher family name, her Christian name nor her abode; these two letters\nwere the first thing of her that he had gained possession of, adorable\ninitials, upon which he immediately began to construct his scaffolding.\nU was evidently the Christian name.  Ursule!  he thought,  what a\ndelicious name!  He kissed the handkerchief, drank it in, placed it on\nhis heart, on his flesh, during the day, and at night, laid it beneath\nhis lips that he might fall asleep on it.\n\n I feel that her whole soul lies within it!  he exclaimed.\n\nThis handkerchief belonged to the old gentleman, who had simply let it\nfall from his pocket.\n\nIn the days which followed the finding of this treasure, he only\ndisplayed himself at the Luxembourg in the act of kissing the\nhandkerchief and laying it on his heart. The beautiful child understood\nnothing of all this, and signified it to him by imperceptible signs.\n\n O modesty!  said Marius.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE VETERANS THEMSELVES CAN BE HAPPY\n\n\nSince we have pronounced the word modesty, and since we conceal\nnothing, we ought to say that once, nevertheless, in spite of his\necstasies,  his Ursule  caused him very serious grief. It was on one of\nthe days when she persuaded M. Leblanc to leave the bench and stroll\nalong the walk. A brisk May breeze was blowing, which swayed the crests\nof the plaintain-trees. The father and daughter, arm in arm, had just\npassed Marius  bench. Marius had risen to his feet behind them, and was\nfollowing them with his eyes, as was fitting in the desperate situation\nof his soul.\n\nAll at once, a gust of wind, more merry than the rest, and probably\ncharged with performing the affairs of Springtime, swept down from the\nnursery, flung itself on the alley, enveloped the young girl in a\ndelicious shiver, worthy of Virgil s nymphs, and the fawns of\nTheocritus, and lifted her dress, the robe more sacred than that of\nIsis, almost to the height of her garter. A leg of exquisite shape\nappeared. Marius saw it. He was exasperated and furious.\n\nThe young girl had hastily thrust down her dress, with a divinely\ntroubled motion, but he was nonetheless angry for all that. He was\nalone in the alley, it is true. But there might have been some one\nthere. And what if there had been some one there! Can any one\ncomprehend such a thing? What she had just done is horrible! Alas, the\npoor child had done nothing; there had been but one culprit, the wind;\nbut Marius, in whom quivered the Bartholo who exists in Cherubin, was\ndetermined to be vexed, and was jealous of his own shadow. It is thus,\nin fact, that the harsh and capricious jealousy of the flesh awakens in\nthe human heart, and takes possession of it, even without any right.\nMoreover, setting aside even that jealousy, the sight of that charming\nleg had contained nothing agreeable for him; the white stocking of the\nfirst woman he chanced to meet would have afforded him more pleasure.\n\nWhen  his Ursule,  after having reached the end of the walk, retraced\nher steps with M. Leblanc, and passed in front of the bench on which\nMarius had seated himself once more, Marius darted a sullen and\nferocious glance at her. The young girl gave way to that slight\nstraightening up with a backward movement, accompanied by a raising of\nthe eyelids, which signifies:  Well, what is the matter? \n\n\nThis was  their first quarrel. \n\n\nMarius had hardly made this scene at her with his eyes, when some one\ncrossed the walk. It was a veteran, very much bent, extremely wrinkled,\nand pale, in a uniform of the Louis XV. pattern, bearing on his breast\nthe little oval plaque of red cloth, with the crossed swords, the\nsoldier s cross of Saint-Louis, and adorned, in addition, with a\ncoat-sleeve, which had no arm within it, with a silver chin and a\nwooden leg. Marius thought he perceived that this man had an extremely\nwell satisfied air. It even struck him that the aged cynic, as he\nhobbled along past him, addressed to him a very fraternal and very\nmerry wink, as though some chance had created an understanding between\nthem, and as though they had shared some piece of good luck together.\nWhat did that relic of Mars mean by being so contented? What had passed\nbetween that wooden leg and the other? Marius reached a paroxysm of\njealousy. Perhaps he was there!  he said to himself;  perhaps he\nsaw! And he felt a desire to exterminate the veteran.\n\nWith the aid of time, all points grow dull. Marius  wrath against\n Ursule,  just and legitimate as it was, passed off. He finally\npardoned her; but this cost him a great effort; he sulked for three\ndays.\n\nNevertheless, in spite of all this, and because of all this, his\npassion augmented and grew to madness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX ECLIPSE\n\n\nThe reader has just seen how Marius discovered, or thought that he\ndiscovered, that _She_ was named Ursule.\n\nAppetite grows with loving. To know that her name was Ursule was a\ngreat deal; it was very little. In three or four weeks, Marius had\ndevoured this bliss. He wanted another. He wanted to know where she\nlived.\n\nHe had committed his first blunder, by falling into the ambush of the\nbench by the Gladiator. He had committed a second, by not remaining at\nthe Luxembourg when M. Leblanc came thither alone. He now committed a\nthird, and an immense one. He followed  Ursule. \n\n\nShe lived in the Rue de l Ouest, in the most unfrequented spot, in a\nnew, three-story house, of modest appearance.\n\nFrom that moment forth, Marius added to his happiness of seeing her at\nthe Luxembourg the happiness of following her home.\n\nHis hunger was increasing. He knew her first name, at least, a charming\nname, a genuine woman s name; he knew where she lived; he wanted to\nknow who she was.\n\nOne evening, after he had followed them to their dwelling, and had seen\nthem disappear through the carriage gate, he entered in their train and\nsaid boldly to the porter: \n\n Is that the gentleman who lives on the first floor, who has just come\nin? \n\n\n No,  replied the porter.  He is the gentleman on the third floor. \n\n\nAnother step gained. This success emboldened Marius.\n\n On the front?  he asked.\n\n Parbleu!  said the porter,  the house is only built on the street. \n\n\n And what is that gentleman s business?  began Marius again.\n\n He is a gentleman of property, sir. A very kind man who does good to\nthe unfortunate, though not rich himself. \n\n\n What is his name?  resumed Marius.\n\nThe porter raised his head and said: \n\n Are you a police spy, sir? \n\n\nMarius went off quite abashed, but delighted. He was getting on.\n\n Good,  thought he,  I know that her name is Ursule, that she is the\ndaughter of a gentleman who lives on his income, and that she lives\nthere, on the third floor, in the Rue de l Ouest. \n\n\nOn the following day, M. Leblanc and his daughter made only a very\nbrief stay in the Luxembourg; they went away while it was still broad\ndaylight. Marius followed them to the Rue de l Ouest, as he had taken\nup the habit of doing. On arriving at the carriage entrance M. Leblanc\nmade his daughter pass in first, then paused, before crossing the\nthreshold, and stared intently at Marius.\n\nOn the next day they did not come to the Luxembourg. Marius waited for\nthem all day in vain.\n\nAt nightfall, he went to the Rue de l Ouest, and saw a light in the\nwindows of the third story.\n\nHe walked about beneath the windows until the light was extinguished.\n\nThe next day, no one at the Luxembourg. Marius waited all day, then\nwent and did sentinel duty under their windows. This carried him on to\nten o clock in the evening.\n\nHis dinner took care of itself. Fever nourishes the sick man, and love\nthe lover.\n\nHe spent a week in this manner. M. Leblanc no longer appeared at the\nLuxembourg.\n\nMarius indulged in melancholy conjectures; he dared not watch the\nporte-coch re during the day; he contented himself with going at night\nto gaze upon the red light of the windows. At times he saw shadows flit\nacross them, and his heart began to beat.\n\nOn the eighth day, when he arrived under the windows, there was no\nlight in them.\n\n Hello!  he said,  the lamp is not lighted yet. But it is dark. Can\nthey have gone out?  He waited until ten o clock. Until midnight. Until\none in the morning. Not a light appeared in the windows of the third\nstory, and no one entered the house.\n\nHe went away in a very gloomy frame of mind.\n\nOn the morrow, for he only existed from morrow to morrow, there was, so\nto speak, no to-day for him, on the morrow, he found no one at the\nLuxembourg; he had expected this. At dusk, he went to the house.\n\nNo light in the windows; the shades were drawn; the third floor was\ntotally dark.\n\nMarius rapped at the porte-coch re, entered, and said to the porter: \n\n The gentleman on the third floor? \n\n\n Has moved away,  replied the porter.\n\nMarius reeled and said feebly: \n\n How long ago? \n\n\n Yesterday. \n\n\n Where is he living now? \n\n\n I don t know anything about it. \n\n\n So he has not left his new address? \n\n\n No. \n\n\nAnd the porter, raising his eyes, recognized Marius.\n\n Come! So it s you!  said he;  but you are decidedly a spy then? \n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SEVENTH PATRON MINETTE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I MINES AND MINERS\n\n\nHuman societies all have what is called in theatrical parlance, _a\nthird lower floor_. The social soil is everywhere undermined, sometimes\nfor good, sometimes for evil. These works are superposed one upon the\nother. There are superior mines and inferior mines. There is a top and\na bottom in this obscure sub-soil, which sometimes gives way beneath\ncivilization, and which our indifference and heedlessness trample under\nfoot. The Encyclopedia, in the last century, was a mine that was almost\nopen to the sky. The shades, those sombre hatchers of primitive\nChristianity, only awaited an opportunity to bring about an explosion\nunder the C sars and to inundate the human race with light. For in the\nsacred shadows there lies latent light. Volcanoes are full of a shadow\nthat is capable of flashing forth. Every form begins by being night.\nThe catacombs, in which the first mass was said, were not alone the\ncellar of Rome, they were the vaults of the world.\n\nBeneath the social construction, that complicated marvel of a\nstructure, there are excavations of all sorts. There is the religious\nmine, the philosophical mine, the economic mine, the revolutionary\nmine. Such and such a pick-axe with the idea, such a pick with ciphers.\nSuch another with wrath. People hail and answer each other from one\ncatacomb to another. Utopias travel about underground, in the pipes.\nThere they branch out in every direction. They sometimes meet, and\nfraternize there. Jean-Jacques lends his pick to Diogenes, who lends\nhim his lantern. Sometimes they enter into combat there. Calvin seizes\nSocinius by the hair. But nothing arrests nor interrupts the tension of\nall these energies toward the goal, and the vast, simultaneous\nactivity, which goes and comes, mounts, descends, and mounts again in\nthese obscurities, and which immense unknown swarming slowly transforms\nthe top and the bottom and the inside and the outside. Society hardly\neven suspects this digging which leaves its surface intact and changes\nits bowels. There are as many different subterranean stages as there\nare varying works, as there are extractions. What emerges from these\ndeep excavations? The future.\n\nThe deeper one goes, the more mysterious are the toilers. The work is\ngood, up to a degree which the social philosophies are able to\nrecognize; beyond that degree it is doubtful and mixed; lower down, it\nbecomes terrible. At a certain depth, the excavations are no longer\npenetrable by the spirit of civilization, the limit breathable by man\nhas been passed; a beginning of monsters is possible.\n\nThe descending scale is a strange one; and each one of the rungs of\nthis ladder corresponds to a stage where philosophy can find foothold,\nand where one encounters one of these workmen, sometimes divine,\nsometimes misshapen. Below John Huss, there is Luther; below Luther,\nthere is Descartes; below Descartes, there is Voltaire; below Voltaire,\nthere is Condorcet; below Condorcet, there is Robespierre; below\nRobespierre, there is Marat; below Marat there is Babeuf. And so it\ngoes on. Lower down, confusedly, at the limit which separates the\nindistinct from the invisible, one perceives other gloomy men, who\nperhaps do not exist as yet. The men of yesterday are spectres; those\nof to-morrow are forms. The eye of the spirit distinguishes them but\nobscurely. The embryonic work of the future is one of the visions of\nphilosophy.\n\nA world in limbo, in the state of f tus, what an unheard-of spectre!\n\nSaint-Simon, Owen, Fourier, are there also, in lateral galleries.\n\nSurely, although a divine and invisible chain unknown to themselves,\nbinds together all these subterranean pioneers who, almost always,\nthink themselves isolated, and who are not so, their works vary\ngreatly, and the light of some contrasts with the blaze of others. The\nfirst are paradisiacal, the last are tragic. Nevertheless, whatever may\nbe the contrast, all these toilers, from the highest to the most\nnocturnal, from the wisest to the most foolish, possess one likeness,\nand this is it: disinterestedness. Marat forgets himself like Jesus.\nThey throw themselves on one side, they omit themselves, they think not\nof themselves. They have a glance, and that glance seeks the absolute.\nThe first has the whole heavens in his eyes; the last, enigmatical\nthough he may be, has still, beneath his eyelids, the pale beam of the\ninfinite. Venerate the man, whoever he may be, who has this sign the\nstarry eye.\n\nThe shadowy eye is the other sign.\n\nWith it, evil commences. Reflect and tremble in the presence of any one\nwho has no glance at all. The social order has its black miners.\n\nThere is a point where depth is tantamount to burial, and where light\nbecomes extinct.\n\nBelow all these mines which we have just mentioned, below all these\ngalleries, below this whole immense, subterranean, venous system of\nprogress and utopia, much further on in the earth, much lower than\nMarat, lower than Babeuf, lower, much lower, and without any connection\nwith the upper levels, there lies the last mine. A formidable spot.\nThis is what we have designated as the _le troisi me dessous_. It is\nthe grave of shadows. It is the cellar of the blind. _Inferi_.\n\nThis communicates with the abyss.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE LOWEST DEPTHS\n\n\nThere disinterestedness vanishes. The demon is vaguely outlined; each\none is for himself. The _I_ in the eyes howls, seeks, fumbles, and\ngnaws. The social Ugolino is in this gulf.\n\nThe wild spectres who roam in this grave, almost beasts, almost\nphantoms, are not occupied with universal progress; they are ignorant\nboth of the idea and of the word; they take no thought for anything but\nthe satisfaction of their individual desires. They are almost\nunconscious, and there exists within them a sort of terrible\nobliteration. They have two mothers, both step-mothers, ignorance and\nmisery. They have a guide, necessity; and for all forms of\nsatisfaction, appetite. They are brutally voracious, that is to say,\nferocious, not after the fashion of the tyrant, but after the fashion\nof the tiger. From suffering these spectres pass to crime; fatal\naffiliation, dizzy creation, logic of darkness. That which crawls in\nthe social third lower level is no longer complaint stifled by the\nabsolute; it is the protest of matter. Man there becomes a dragon. To\nbe hungry, to be thirsty that is the point of departure; to be\nSatan that is the point reached. From that vault Lacenaire emerges.\n\nWe have just seen, in Book Fourth, one of the compartments of the upper\nmine, of the great political, revolutionary, and philosophical\nexcavation. There, as we have just said, all is pure, noble, dignified,\nhonest. There, assuredly, one might be misled; but error is worthy of\nveneration there, so thoroughly does it imply heroism. The work there\neffected, taken as a whole has a name: Progress.\n\nThe moment has now come when we must take a look at other depths,\nhideous depths. There exists beneath society, we insist upon this\npoint, and there will exist, until that day when ignorance shall be\ndissipated, the great cavern of evil.\n\nThis cavern is below all, and is the foe of all. It is hatred, without\nexception. This cavern knows no philosophers; its dagger has never cut\na pen. Its blackness has no connection with the sublime blackness of\nthe inkstand. Never have the fingers of night which contract beneath\nthis stifling ceiling, turned the leaves of a book nor unfolded a\nnewspaper. Babeuf is a speculator to Cartouche; Marat is an aristocrat\nto Schinderhannes. This cavern has for its object the destruction of\neverything.\n\nOf everything. Including the upper superior mines, which it execrates.\nIt not only undermines, in its hideous swarming, the actual social\norder; it undermines philosophy, it undermines human thought, it\nundermines civilization, it undermines revolution, it undermines\nprogress. Its name is simply theft, prostitution, murder,\nassassination. It is darkness, and it desires chaos. Its vault is\nformed of ignorance.\n\nAll the others, those above it, have but one object to suppress it. It\nis to this point that philosophy and progress tend, with all their\norgans simultaneously, by their amelioration of the real, as well as by\ntheir contemplation of the absolute. Destroy the cavern Ignorance and\nyou destroy the lair Crime.\n\nLet us condense, in a few words, a part of what we have just written.\nThe only social peril is darkness.\n\nHumanity is identity. All men are made of the same clay. There is no\ndifference, here below, at least, in predestination. The same shadow in\nfront, the same flesh in the present, the same ashes afterwards. But\nignorance, mingled with the human paste, blackens it. This incurable\nblackness takes possession of the interior of a man and is there\nconverted into evil.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III BABET, GUEULEMER, CLAQUESOUS, AND MONTPARNASSE\n\n\nA quartette of ruffians, Claquesous, Gueulemer, Babet, and Montparnasse\ngoverned the third lower floor of Paris, from 1830 to 1835.\n\nGueulemer was a Hercules of no defined position. For his lair he had\nthe sewer of the Arche-Marion. He was six feet high, his pectoral\nmuscles were of marble, his biceps of brass, his breath was that of a\ncavern, his torso that of a colossus, his head that of a bird. One\nthought one beheld the Farnese Hercules clad in duck trousers and a\ncotton velvet waistcoat. Gueulemer, built after this sculptural\nfashion, might have subdued monsters; he had found it more expeditious\nto be one. A low brow, large temples, less than forty years of age, but\nwith crow s-feet, harsh, short hair, cheeks like a brush, a beard like\nthat of a wild boar; the reader can see the man before him. His muscles\ncalled for work, his stupidity would have none of it. He was a great,\nidle force. He was an assassin through coolness. He was thought to be a\ncreole. He had, probably, somewhat to do with Marshal Brune, having\nbeen a porter at Avignon in 1815. After this stage, he had turned\nruffian.\n\nThe diaphaneity of Babet contrasted with the grossness of Gueulemer.\nBabet was thin and learned. He was transparent but impenetrable.\nDaylight was visible through his bones, but nothing through his eyes.\nHe declared that he was a chemist. He had been a jack of all trades. He\nhad played in vaudeville at Saint-Mihiel. He was a man of purpose, a\nfine talker, who underlined his smiles and accentuated his gestures.\nHis occupation consisted in selling, in the open air, plaster busts and\nportraits of  the head of the State.  In addition to this, he extracted\nteeth. He had exhibited phenomena at fairs, and he had owned a booth\nwith a trumpet and this poster:  Babet, Dental Artist, Member of the\nAcademies, makes physical experiments on metals and metalloids,\nextracts teeth, undertakes stumps abandoned by his brother\npractitioners. Price: one tooth, one franc, fifty centimes; two teeth,\ntwo francs; three teeth, two francs, fifty. Take advantage of this\nopportunity.  This _Take advantage of this opportunity_ meant: Have as\nmany teeth extracted as possible. He had been married and had had\nchildren. He did not know what had become of his wife and children. He\nhad lost them as one loses his handkerchief. Babet read the papers, a\nstriking exception in the world to which he belonged. One day, at the\nperiod when he had his family with him in his booth on wheels, he had\nread in the _Messager_, that a woman had just given birth to a child,\nwho was doing well, and had a calf s muzzle, and he exclaimed:  There s\na fortune! my wife has not the wit to present me with a child like\nthat! \n\n\nLater on he had abandoned everything, in order to  undertake Paris. \nThis was his expression.\n\nWho was Claquesous? He was night. He waited until the sky was daubed\nwith black, before he showed himself. At nightfall he emerged from the\nhole whither he returned before daylight. Where was this hole? No one\nknew. He only addressed his accomplices in the most absolute darkness,\nand with his back turned to them. Was his name Claquesous? Certainly\nnot. If a candle was brought, he put on a mask. He was a ventriloquist.\nBabet said:  Claquesous is a nocturne for two voices.  Claquesous was\nvague, terrible, and a roamer. No one was sure whether he had a name,\nClaquesous being a sobriquet; none was sure that he had a voice, as his\nstomach spoke more frequently than his voice; no one was sure that he\nhad a face, as he was never seen without his mask. He disappeared as\nthough he had vanished into thin air; when he appeared, it was as\nthough he sprang from the earth.\n\nA lugubrious being was Montparnasse. Montparnasse was a child; less\nthan twenty years of age, with a handsome face, lips like cherries,\ncharming black hair, the brilliant light of springtime in his eyes; he\nhad all vices and aspired to all crimes.\n\nThe digestion of evil aroused in him an appetite for worse. It was the\nstreet boy turned pickpocket, and a pickpocket turned garroter. He was\ngenteel, effeminate, graceful, robust, sluggish, ferocious. The rim of\nhis hat was curled up on the left side, in order to make room for a\ntuft of hair, after the style of 1829. He lived by robbery with\nviolence. His coat was of the best cut, but threadbare. Montparnasse\nwas a fashion-plate in misery and given to the commission of murders.\nThe cause of all this youth s crimes was the desire to be well-dressed.\nThe first grisette who had said to him:  You are handsome!  had cast\nthe stain of darkness into his heart, and had made a Cain of this Abel.\nFinding that he was handsome, he desired to be elegant: now, the height\nof elegance is idleness; idleness in a poor man means crime. Few\nprowlers were so dreaded as Montparnasse. At eighteen, he had already\nnumerous corpses in his past. More than one passer-by lay with\noutstretched arms in the presence of this wretch, with his face in a\npool of blood. Curled, pomaded, with laced waist, the hips of a woman,\nthe bust of a Prussian officer, the murmur of admiration from the\nboulevard wenches surrounding him, his cravat knowingly tied, a\nbludgeon in his pocket, a flower in his buttonhole; such was this dandy\nof the sepulchre.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV COMPOSITION OF THE TROUPE\n\n\nThese four ruffians formed a sort of Proteus, winding like a serpent\namong the police, and striving to escape Vidocq s indiscreet glances\n under divers forms, tree, flame, fountain,  lending each other their\nnames and their traps, hiding in their own shadows, boxes with secret\ncompartments and refuges for each other, stripping off their\npersonalities, as one removes his false nose at a masked ball,\nsometimes simplifying matters to the point of consisting of but one\nindividual, sometimes multiplying themselves to such a point that\nCoco-Latour himself took them for a whole throng.\n\nThese four men were not four men; they were a sort of mysterious robber\nwith four heads, operating on a grand scale on Paris; they were that\nmonstrous polyp of evil, which inhabits the crypt of society.\n\nThanks to their ramifications, and to the network underlying their\nrelations, Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Montparnasse were charged\nwith the general enterprise of the ambushes of the department of the\nSeine. The inventors of ideas of that nature, men with nocturnal\nimaginations, applied to them to have their ideas executed. They\nfurnished the canvas to the four rascals, and the latter undertook the\npreparation of the scenery. They labored at the stage setting. They\nwere always in a condition to lend a force proportioned and suitable to\nall crimes which demanded a lift of the shoulder, and which were\nsufficiently lucrative. When a crime was in quest of arms, they\nunder-let their accomplices. They kept a troupe of actors of the\nshadows at the disposition of all underground tragedies.\n\nThey were in the habit of assembling at nightfall, the hour when they\nwoke up, on the plains which adjoin the Salp tri re. There they held\ntheir conferences. They had twelve black hours before them; they\nregulated their employment accordingly.\n\n_Patron-Minette_, such was the name which was bestowed in the\nsubterranean circulation on the association of these four men. In the\nfantastic, ancient, popular parlance, which is vanishing day by day,\n_Patron-Minette_ signifies the morning, the same as _entre chien et\nloup_ between dog and wolf signifies the evening. This appellation,\n_Patron-Minette_, was probably derived from the hour at which their\nwork ended, the dawn being the vanishing moment for phantoms and for\nthe separation of ruffians. These four men were known under this title.\nWhen the President of the Assizes visited Lacenaire in his prison, and\nquestioned him concerning a misdeed which Lacenaire denied,  Who did\nit?  demanded the President. Lacenaire made this response, enigmatical\nso far as the magistrate was concerned, but clear to the police:\n Perhaps it was Patron-Minette. \n\n\nA piece can sometimes be divined on the enunciation of the personages;\nin the same manner a band can almost be judged from the list of\nruffians composing it. Here are the appellations to which the principal\nmembers of Patron-Minette answered, for the names have survived in\nspecial memoirs.\n\nPanchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille.\n\nBrujon. [There was a Brujon dynasty; we cannot refrain from\ninterpolating this word.]\n\nBoulatruelle, the road-mender already introduced.\n\nLaveuve.\n\nFinist re.\n\nHom re-Hogu, a negro.\n\nMardisoir. (Tuesday evening.)\n\nD p che. (Make haste.)\n\nFauntleroy, alias Bouqueti re (the Flower Girl).\n\nGlorieux, a discharged convict.\n\nBarrecarrosse (Stop-carriage), called Monsieur Dupont.\n\nL Esplanade-du-Sud.\n\nPoussagrive.\n\nCarmagnolet.\n\nKruideniers, called Bizarro.\n\nMangedentelle. (Lace-eater.)\n\nLes-pieds-en-l Air. (Feet in the air.)\n\nDemi-Liard, called Deux-Milliards.\n\nEtc., etc.\n\nWe pass over some, and not the worst of them. These names have faces\nattached. They do not express merely beings, but species. Each one of\nthese names corresponds to a variety of those misshapen fungi from the\nunder side of civilization.\n\nThose beings, who were not very lavish with their countenances, were\nnot among the men whom one sees passing along the streets. Fatigued by\nthe wild nights which they passed, they went off by day to sleep,\nsometimes in the lime-kilns, sometimes in the abandoned quarries of\nMontmatre or Montrouge, sometimes in the sewers. They ran to earth.\n\nWhat became of these men? They still exist. They have always existed.\nHorace speaks of them: _Ambubaiarum collegia, pharmacopol , mendici,\nmim _; and so long as society remains what it is, they will remain what\nthey are. Beneath the obscure roof of their cavern, they are\ncontinually born again from the social ooze. They return, spectres, but\nalways identical; only, they no longer bear the same names and they are\nno longer in the same skins. The individuals extirpated, the tribe\nsubsists.\n\nThey always have the same faculties. From the vagrant to the tramp, the\nrace is maintained in its purity. They divine purses in pockets, they\nscent out watches in fobs. Gold and silver possess an odor for them.\nThere exist ingenuous bourgeois, of whom it might be said, that they\nhave a  stealable  air. These men patiently pursue these bourgeois.\nThey experience the quivers of a spider at the passage of a stranger or\nof a man from the country.\n\nThese men are terrible, when one encounters them, or catches a glimpse\nof them, towards midnight, on a deserted boulevard. They do not seem to\nbe men but forms composed of living mists; one would say that they\nhabitually constitute one mass with the shadows, that they are in no\nwise distinct from them, that they possess no other soul than the\ndarkness, and that it is only momentarily and for the purpose of living\nfor a few minutes a monstrous life, that they have separated from the\nnight.\n\nWhat is necessary to cause these spectres to vanish? Light. Light in\nfloods. Not a single bat can resist the dawn. Light up society from\nbelow.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK EIGHTH THE WICKED POOR MAN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I MARIUS, WHILE SEEKING A GIRL IN A BONNET, ENCOUNTERS A MAN IN\nA CAP\n\n\nSummer passed, then the autumn; winter came. Neither M. Leblanc nor the\nyoung girl had again set foot in the Luxembourg garden. Thenceforth,\nMarius had but one thought, to gaze once more on that sweet and\nadorable face. He sought constantly, he sought everywhere; he found\nnothing. He was no longer Marius, the enthusiastic dreamer, the firm,\nresolute, ardent man, the bold defier of fate, the brain which erected\nfuture on future, the young spirit encumbered with plans, with\nprojects, with pride, with ideas and wishes; he was a lost dog. He fell\ninto a black melancholy. All was over. Work disgusted him, walking\ntired him. Vast nature, formerly so filled with forms, lights, voices,\ncounsels, perspectives, horizons, teachings, now lay empty before him.\nIt seemed to him that everything had disappeared.\n\nHe thought incessantly, for he could not do otherwise; but he no longer\ntook pleasure in his thoughts. To everything that they proposed to him\nin a whisper, he replied in his darkness:  What is the use? \n\n\nHe heaped a hundred reproaches on himself.  Why did I follow her? I was\nso happy at the mere sight of her! She looked at me; was not that\nimmense? She had the air of loving me. Was not that everything? I\nwished to have, what? There was nothing after that. I have been absurd.\nIt is my own fault,  etc., etc. Courfeyrac, to whom he confided\nnothing, it was his nature, but who made some little guess at\neverything, that was his nature, had begun by congratulating him on\nbeing in love, though he was amazed at it; then, seeing Marius fall\ninto this melancholy state, he ended by saying to him:  I see that you\nhave been simply an animal. Here, come to the Chaumi re. \n\n\nOnce, having confidence in a fine September sun, Marius had allowed\nhimself to be taken to the ball at Sceaux by Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and\nGrantaire, hoping, what a dream! that he might, perhaps, find her\nthere. Of course he did not see the one he sought. But this is the\nplace, all the same, where all lost women are found,  grumbled\nGrantaire in an aside. Marius left his friends at the ball and returned\nhome on foot, alone, through the night, weary, feverish, with sad and\ntroubled eyes, stunned by the noise and dust of the merry wagons filled\nwith singing creatures on their way home from the feast, which passed\nclose to him, as he, in his discouragement, breathed in the acrid scent\nof the walnut-trees, along the road, in order to refresh his head.\n\nHe took to living more and more alone, utterly overwhelmed, wholly\ngiven up to his inward anguish, going and coming in his pain like the\nwolf in the trap, seeking the absent one everywhere, stupefied by love.\n\nOn another occasion, he had an encounter which produced on him a\nsingular effect. He met, in the narrow streets in the vicinity of the\nBoulevard des Invalides, a man dressed like a workingman and wearing a\ncap with a long visor, which allowed a glimpse of locks of very white\nhair. Marius was struck with the beauty of this white hair, and\nscrutinized the man, who was walking slowly and as though absorbed in\npainful meditation. Strange to say, he thought that he recognized M.\nLeblanc. The hair was the same, also the profile, so far as the cap\npermitted a view of it, the mien identical, only more depressed. But\nwhy these workingman s clothes? What was the meaning of this? What\nsignified that disguise? Marius was greatly astonished. When he\nrecovered himself, his first impulse was to follow the man; who knows\nwhether he did not hold at last the clue which he was seeking? In any\ncase, he must see the man near at hand, and clear up the mystery. But\nthe idea occurred to him too late, the man was no longer there. He had\nturned into some little side street, and Marius could not find him.\nThis encounter occupied his mind for three days and then was effaced.\n After all,  he said to himself,  it was probably only a resemblance. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II TREASURE TROVE\n\n\nMarius had not left the Gorbeau house. He paid no attention to any one\nthere.\n\nAt that epoch, to tell the truth, there were no other inhabitants in\nthe house, except himself and those Jondrettes whose rent he had once\npaid, without, moreover, ever having spoken to either father, mother,\nor daughters. The other lodgers had moved away or had died, or had been\nturned out in default of payment.\n\nOne day during that winter, the sun had shown itself a little in the\nafternoon, but it was the 2d of February, that ancient Candlemas day\nwhose treacherous sun, the precursor of a six weeks  cold spell,\ninspired Mathieu Laensberg with these two lines, which have with\njustice remained classic: \n\nQu il luise ou qu il luiserne,\nL ours rentre dans en sa caverne.26\n\n\nMarius had just emerged from his: night was falling. It was the hour\nfor his dinner; for he had been obliged to take to dining again, alas!\noh, infirmities of ideal passions!\n\nHe had just crossed his threshold, where Ma am Bougon was sweeping at\nthe moment, as she uttered this memorable monologue: \n\n What is there that is cheap now? Everything is dear. There is nothing\nin the world that is cheap except trouble; you can get that for\nnothing, the trouble of the world! \n\n\nMarius slowly ascended the boulevard towards the barrier, in order to\nreach the Rue Saint-Jacques. He was walking along with drooping head.\n\nAll at once, he felt some one elbow him in the dusk; he wheeled round,\nand saw two young girls clad in rags, the one tall and slim, the other\na little shorter, who were passing rapidly, all out of breath, in\nterror, and with the appearance of fleeing; they had been coming to\nmeet him, had not seen him, and had jostled him as they passed. Through\nthe twilight, Marius could distinguish their livid faces, their wild\nheads, their dishevelled hair, their hideous bonnets, their ragged\npetticoats, and their bare feet. They were talking as they ran. The\ntaller said in a very low voice: \n\n The bobbies have come. They came near nabbing me at the half-circle. \nThe other answered:  I saw them. I bolted, bolted, bolted! \n\n\nThrough this repulsive slang, Marius understood that gendarmes or the\npolice had come near apprehending these two children, and that the\nlatter had escaped.\n\nThey plunged among the trees of the boulevard behind him, and there\ncreated, for a few minutes, in the gloom, a sort of vague white spot,\nthen disappeared.\n\nMarius had halted for a moment.\n\nHe was about to pursue his way, when his eye lighted on a little\ngrayish package lying on the ground at his feet. He stooped and picked\nit up. It was a sort of envelope which appeared to contain papers.\n\n Good,  he said to himself,  those unhappy girls dropped it. \n\n\nHe retraced his steps, he called, he did not find them; he reflected\nthat they must already be far away, put the package in his pocket, and\nwent off to dine.\n\nOn the way, he saw in an alley of the Rue Mouffetard, a child s coffin,\ncovered with a black cloth resting on three chairs, and illuminated by\na candle. The two girls of the twilight recurred to his mind.\n\n Poor mothers!  he thought.  There is one thing sadder than to see\none s children die; it is to see them leading an evil life. \n\n\nThen those shadows which had varied his melancholy vanished from his\nthoughts, and he fell back once more into his habitual preoccupations.\nHe fell to thinking once more of his six months of love and happiness\nin the open air and the broad daylight, beneath the beautiful trees of\nLuxembourg.\n\n How gloomy my life has become!  he said to himself.  Young girls are\nalways appearing to me, only formerly they were angels and now they are\nghouls. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III QUADRIFRONS\n\n\nThat evening, as he was undressing preparatory to going to bed, his\nhand came in contact, in the pocket of his coat, with the packet which\nhe had picked up on the boulevard. He had forgotten it. He thought that\nit would be well to open it, and that this package might possibly\ncontain the address of the young girls, if it really belonged to them,\nand, in any case, the information necessary to a restitution to the\nperson who had lost it.\n\nHe opened the envelope.\n\nIt was not sealed and contained four letters, also unsealed.\n\nThey bore addresses.\n\nAll four exhaled a horrible odor of tobacco.\n\nThe first was addressed: _ To Madame, Madame la Marquise de Grucheray,\nthe place opposite the Chamber of Deputies, No. _\n\nMarius said to himself, that he should probably find in it the\ninformation which he sought, and that, moreover, the letter being open,\nit was probable that it could be read without impropriety.\n\nIt was conceived as follows: \n\nMadame la Marquise: The virtue of clemency and piety is that which most\nclosely unites sosiety. Turn your Christian spirit and cast a look of\ncompassion on this unfortunate Spanish victim of loyalty and attachment\nto the sacred cause of legitimacy, who has given with his blood,\nconsecrated his fortune, evverything, to defend that cause, and to-day\nfinds himself in the greatest missery. He doubts not that your\nhonorable person will grant succor to preserve an existence exteremely\npainful for a military man of education and honor full of wounds,\ncounts in advance on the humanity which animates you and on the\ninterest which Madame la Marquise bears to a nation so unfortunate.\nTheir prayer will not be in vain, and their gratitude will preserve\ntheirs charming souvenir.\n\nMy respectful sentiments, with which I have the honor to be\n\n    Madame,\n    DON ALVAR S, Spanish Captain of Cavalry, a royalist who has take\n    refuge in France, who finds himself on travells for his country,\n    and the resources are lacking him to continue his travells.\n\n\nNo address was joined to the signature. Marius hoped to find the\naddress in the second letter, whose superscription read: _  Madame,\nMadame la Comtesse de Montvernet, Rue Cassette, No. 9_. This is what\nMarius read in it: \n\n    MADAME LA COMTESSE:  It is an unhappy mother of a family of six\n    children the last of which is only eight months old.  I sick since\n    my last confinement, abandoned by my husband five months ago,\n    haveing no resources in the world the most frightful indigance.\n\n    In the hope of Madame la Comtesse, she has the honor to be, Madame,\n    with profound respect,\n    \n    MISTRESS BALIZARD.\n\n\nMarius turned to the third letter, which was a petition like the\npreceding; he read: \n\n    Monsieur PABOURGEOT, Elector, wholesale stocking merchant, Rue\n    Saint-Denis on the corner of the Rue aux Fers.\n\n    I permit myself to address you this letter to beg you to grant me\n    the pretious favor of your simpaties and to interest yourself in a\n    man of letters who has just sent a drama to the Th tre-Fran ais.\n    The subject is historical, and the action takes place in Auvergne\n    in the time of the Empire; the style, I think, is natural, laconic,\n    and may have some merit. There are couplets to be sung in four\n    places. The comic, the serious, the unexpected, are mingled in a\n    variety of characters, and a tinge of romanticism lightly spread\n    through all the intrigue which proceeds misteriously, and ends,\n    after striking altarations, in the midst of many beautiful strokes\n    of brilliant scenes.\n\n    My principal object is to satisfi the desire which progressively\n    animates the man of our century, that is to say, the fashion, that\n    capritious and bizarre weathervane which changes at almost every\n    new wind.\n\n    In spite of these qualities I have reason to fear that jealousy,\n    the egotism of priviliged authors, may obtaine my exclusion from\n    the theatre, for I am not ignorant of the mortifications with which\n    newcomers are treated.\n\n    Monsiuer Pabourgeot, your just reputation as an enlightened\n    protector of men of litters emboldens me to send you my daughter\n    who will explain our indigant situation to you, lacking bread and\n    fire in this wynter season.  When I say to you that I beg you to\n    accept the dedication of my drama which I desire to make to you and\n    of all those that I shall make, is to prove to you how great is my\n    ambition to have the honor of sheltering myself under your\n    protection, and of adorning my writings with your name.  If you\n    deign to honor me with the most modest offering, I shall\n    immediately occupy myself in making a piesse of verse to pay you my\n    tribute of gratitude. Which I shall endeavor to render this piesse\n    as perfect as possible, will be sent to you before it is inserted\n    at the beginning of the drama and delivered on the stage.\n\nTo Monsieur\nand Madame Pabourgeot,\nMy most respectful complements,\nGENFLOT, man of letters.\n\nP. S. Even if it is only forty sous.\n\n    Excuse me for sending my daughter and not presenting myself, but\n    sad motives connected with the toilet do not permit me, alas! to go\n    out.\n\n\nFinally, Marius opened the fourth letter. The address ran: _To the\nbenevolent Gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques-du-haut-Pas_. It\ncontained the following lines: \n\n    BENEVOLENT MAN: If you deign to accompany my daughter, you will\n    behold a misserable calamity, and I will show you my certificates.\n\n    At the aspect of these writings your generous soul will be moved\n    with a sentiment of obvious benevolence, for true philosophers\n    always feel lively emotions.\n\n    Admit, compassionate man, that it is necessary to suffer the most\n    cruel need, and that it is very painful, for the sake of obtaining\n    a little relief, to get oneself attested by the authorities as\n    though one were not free to suffer and to die of inanition while\n    waiting to have our misery relieved.  Destinies are very fatal for\n    several and too prodigal or too protecting for others.\n\n    I await your presence or your offering, if you deign to make one,\n    and I beseech you to accept the respectful sentiments with which I\n    have the honor to be,\n\ntruly magnanimous man,\nyour very humble\nand very obedient servant,\nP. FABANTOU, dramatic artist.\n\n\nAfter perusing these four letters, Marius did not find himself much\nfurther advanced than before.\n\nIn the first place, not one of the signers gave his address.\n\nThen, they seemed to come from four different individuals, Don Alvar s,\nMistress Balizard, the poet Genflot, and dramatic artist Fabantou; but\nthe singular thing about these letters was, that all four were written\nby the same hand.\n\nWhat conclusion was to be drawn from this, except that they all come\nfrom the same person?\n\nMoreover, and this rendered the conjecture all the more probable, the\ncoarse and yellow paper was the same in all four, the odor of tobacco\nwas the same, and, although an attempt had been made to vary the style,\nthe same orthographical faults were reproduced with the greatest\ntranquillity, and the man of letters Genflot was no more exempt from\nthem than the Spanish captain.\n\nIt was waste of trouble to try to solve this petty mystery. Had it not\nbeen a chance find, it would have borne the air of a mystification.\nMarius was too melancholy to take even a chance pleasantry well, and to\nlend himself to a game which the pavement of the street seemed desirous\nof playing with him. It seemed to him that he was playing the part of\nthe blind man in blind man s buff between the four letters, and that\nthey were making sport of him.\n\nNothing, however, indicated that these letters belonged to the two\nyoung girls whom Marius had met on the boulevard. After all, they were\nevidently papers of no value. Marius replaced them in their envelope,\nflung the whole into a corner and went to bed. About seven o clock in\nthe morning, he had just risen and breakfasted, and was trying to\nsettle down to work, when there came a soft knock at his door.\n\nAs he owned nothing, he never locked his door, unless occasionally,\nthough very rarely, when he was engaged in some pressing work. Even\nwhen absent he left his key in the lock.  You will be robbed,  said\nMa am Bougon.  Of what?  said Marius. The truth is, however, that he\nhad, one day, been robbed of an old pair of boots, to the great triumph\nof Ma am Bougon.\n\nThere came a second knock, as gentle as the first.\n\n Come in,  said Marius.\n\nThe door opened.\n\n What do you want, Ma am Bougon?  asked Marius, without raising his\neyes from the books and manuscripts on his table.\n\nA voice which did not belong to Ma am Bougon replied: \n\n Excuse me, sir \n\n\nIt was a dull, broken, hoarse, strangled voice, the voice of an old\nman, roughened with brandy and liquor.\n\nMarius turned round hastily, and beheld a young girl.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV A ROSE IN MISERY\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Rose in Misery]\n\n\nA very young girl was standing in the half-open door. The dormer window\nof the garret, through which the light fell, was precisely opposite the\ndoor, and illuminated the figure with a wan light. She was a frail,\nemaciated, slender creature; there was nothing but a chemise and a\npetticoat upon that chilled and shivering nakedness. Her girdle was a\nstring, her head ribbon a string, her pointed shoulders emerged from\nher chemise, a blond and lymphatic pallor, earth-colored collar-bones,\nred hands, a half-open and degraded mouth, missing teeth, dull, bold,\nbase eyes; she had the form of a young girl who has missed her youth,\nand the look of a corrupt old woman; fifty years mingled with fifteen;\none of those beings which are both feeble and horrible, and which cause\nthose to shudder whom they do not cause to weep.\n\nMarius had risen, and was staring in a sort of stupor at this being,\nwho was almost like the forms of the shadows which traverse dreams.\n\nThe most heart-breaking thing of all was, that this young girl had not\ncome into the world to be homely. In her early childhood she must even\nhave been pretty. The grace of her age was still struggling against the\nhideous, premature decrepitude of debauchery and poverty. The remains\nof beauty were dying away in that face of sixteen, like the pale\nsunlight which is extinguished under hideous clouds at dawn on a\nwinter s day.\n\nThat face was not wholly unknown to Marius. He thought he remembered\nhaving seen it somewhere.\n\n What do you wish, Mademoiselle?  he asked.\n\nThe young girl replied in her voice of a drunken convict: \n\n Here is a letter for you, Monsieur Marius. \n\n\nShe called Marius by his name; he could not doubt that he was the\nperson whom she wanted; but who was this girl? How did she know his\nname?\n\nWithout waiting for him to tell her to advance, she entered. She\nentered resolutely, staring, with a sort of assurance that made the\nheart bleed, at the whole room and the unmade bed. Her feet were bare.\nLarge holes in her petticoat permitted glimpses of her long legs and\nher thin knees. She was shivering.\n\nShe held a letter in her hand, which she presented to Marius.\n\nMarius, as he opened the letter, noticed that the enormous wafer which\nsealed it was still moist. The message could not have come from a\ndistance. He read: \n\n    MY AMIABLE NEIGHBOR, YOUNG MAN:  I have learned of your goodness to\n    me, that you paid my rent six months ago.  I bless you, young man.\n    My eldest daughter will tell you that we have been without a morsel\n    of bread for two days, four persons and my spouse ill.  If I am not\n    deseaved in my opinion, I think I may hope that your generous heart\n    will melt at this statement and the desire will subjugate you to be\n    propitious to me by daigning to lavish on me a slight favor.\n\n    I am with the distinguished consideration which is due to the\n    benefactors of humanity, \n\n    JONDRETTE.\n\n    P.S. My eldest daughter will await your orders, dear Monsieur Marius.\n\n\nThis letter, coming in the very midst of the mysterious adventure which\nhad occupied Marius  thoughts ever since the preceding evening, was\nlike a candle in a cellar. All was suddenly illuminated.\n\nThis letter came from the same place as the other four. There was the\nsame writing, the same style, the same orthography, the same paper, the\nsame odor of tobacco.\n\nThere were five missives, five histories, five signatures, and a single\nsigner. The Spanish Captain Don Alvar s, the unhappy Mistress Balizard,\nthe dramatic poet Genflot, the old comedian Fabantou, were all four\nnamed Jondrette, if, indeed, Jondrette himself were named Jondrette.\n\nMarius had lived in the house for a tolerably long time, and he had\nhad, as we have said, but very rare occasion to see, to even catch a\nglimpse of, his extremely mean neighbors. His mind was elsewhere, and\nwhere the mind is, there the eyes are also. He had been obliged more\nthan once to pass the Jondrettes in the corridor or on the stairs; but\nthey were mere forms to him; he had paid so little heed to them, that,\non the preceding evening, he had jostled the Jondrette girls on the\nboulevard, without recognizing them, for it had evidently been they,\nand it was with great difficulty that the one who had just entered his\nroom had awakened in him, in spite of disgust and pity, a vague\nrecollection of having met her elsewhere.\n\nNow he saw everything clearly. He understood that his neighbor\nJondrette, in his distress, exercised the industry of speculating on\nthe charity of benevolent persons, that he procured addresses, and that\nhe wrote under feigned names to people whom he judged to be wealthy and\ncompassionate, letters which his daughters delivered at their risk and\nperil, for this father had come to such a pass, that he risked his\ndaughters; he was playing a game with fate, and he used them as the\nstake. Marius understood that probably, judging from their flight on\nthe evening before, from their breathless condition, from their terror\nand from the words of slang which he had overheard, these unfortunate\ncreatures were plying some inexplicably sad profession, and that the\nresult of the whole was, in the midst of human society, as it is now\nconstituted, two miserable beings who were neither girls nor women, a\nspecies of impure and innocent monsters produced by misery.\n\nSad creatures, without name, or sex, or age, to whom neither good nor\nevil were any longer possible, and who, on emerging from childhood,\nhave already nothing in this world, neither liberty, nor virtue, nor\nresponsibility. Souls which blossomed out yesterday, and are faded\nto-day, like those flowers let fall in the streets, which are soiled\nwith every sort of mire, while waiting for some wheel to crush them.\nNevertheless, while Marius bent a pained and astonished gaze on her,\nthe young girl was wandering back and forth in the garret with the\naudacity of a spectre. She kicked about, without troubling herself as\nto her nakedness. Occasionally her chemise, which was untied and torn,\nfell almost to her waist. She moved the chairs about, she disarranged\nthe toilet articles which stood on the commode, she handled Marius \nclothes, she rummaged about to see what there was in the corners.\n\n Hullo!  said she,  you have a mirror! \n\n\nAnd she hummed scraps of vaudevilles, as though she had been alone,\nfrolicsome refrains which her hoarse and guttural voice rendered\nlugubrious.\n\nAn indescribable constraint, weariness, and humiliation were\nperceptible beneath this hardihood. Effrontery is a disgrace.\n\nNothing could be more melancholy than to see her sport about the room,\nand, so to speak, flit with the movements of a bird which is frightened\nby the daylight, or which has broken its wing. One felt that under\nother conditions of education and destiny, the gay and over-free mien\nof this young girl might have turned out sweet and charming. Never,\neven among animals, does the creature born to be a dove change into an\nosprey. That is only to be seen among men.\n\nMarius reflected, and allowed her to have her way.\n\nShe approached the table.\n\n Ah!  said she,  books! \n\n\nA flash pierced her glassy eye. She resumed, and her accent expressed\nthe happiness which she felt in boasting of something, to which no\nhuman creature is insensible: \n\n I know how to read, I do! \n\n\nShe eagerly seized a book which lay open on the table, and read with\ntolerable fluency: \n\n General Bauduin received orders to take the ch teau of Hougomont\nwhich stands in the middle of the plain of Waterloo, with five\nbattalions of his brigade. \n\n\nShe paused.\n\n Ah! Waterloo! I know about that. It was a battle long ago. My father\nwas there. My father has served in the armies. We are fine Bonapartists\nin our house, that we are! Waterloo was against the English. \n\n\nShe laid down the book, caught up a pen, and exclaimed: \n\n And I know how to write, too! \n\n\nShe dipped her pen in the ink, and turning to Marius: \n\n Do you want to see? Look here, I m going to write a word to show you. \n\n\nAnd before he had time to answer, she wrote on a sheet of white paper,\nwhich lay in the middle of the table:  The bobbies are here. \n\n\nThen throwing down the pen: \n\n There are no faults of orthography. You can look. We have received an\neducation, my sister and I. We have not always been as we are now. We\nwere not made \n\n\nHere she paused, fixed her dull eyes on Marius, and burst out laughing,\nsaying, with an intonation which contained every form of anguish,\nstifled by every form of cynicism: \n\n Bah! \n\n\nAnd she began to hum these words to a gay air: \n\n J ai faim, mon p re. \nPas de fricot.\nJ ai froid, ma m re.\nPas de tricot.\n    Grelotte,\n    Lolotte!\n    Sanglote,\n    Jacquot! \n\nI am hungry, father.\nI have no food.\nI am cold, mother.\nI have no clothes.\n    Lolotte!\n    Shiver,\n    Sob,\n    Jacquot! \n\n\nShe had hardly finished this couplet, when she exclaimed: \n\n Do you ever go to the play, Monsieur Marius? I do. I have a little\nbrother who is a friend of the artists, and who gives me tickets\nsometimes. But I don t like the benches in the galleries. One is\ncramped and uncomfortable there. There are rough people there\nsometimes; and people who smell bad. \n\n\nThen she scrutinized Marius, assumed a singular air and said: \n\n Do you know, Mr. Marius, that you are a very handsome fellow? \n\n\nAnd at the same moment the same idea occurred to them both, and made\nher smile and him blush. She stepped up to him, and laid her hand on\nhis shoulder:  You pay no heed to me, but I know you, Mr. Marius. I\nmeet you here on the staircase, and then I often see you going to a\nperson named Father Mabeuf who lives in the direction of Austerlitz,\nsometimes when I have been strolling in that quarter. It is very\nbecoming to you to have your hair tumbled thus. \n\n\nShe tried to render her voice soft, but only succeeded in making it\nvery deep. A portion of her words was lost in the transit from her\nlarynx to her lips, as though on a piano where some notes are missing.\n\nMarius had retreated gently.\n\n Mademoiselle,  said he, with his cool gravity,  I have here a package\nwhich belongs to you, I think. Permit me to return it to you. \n\n\nAnd he held out the envelope containing the four letters.\n\nShe clapped her hands and exclaimed: \n\n We have been looking everywhere for that! \n\n\nThen she eagerly seized the package and opened the envelope, saying as\nshe did so: \n\n Dieu de Dieu! how my sister and I have hunted! And it was you who\nfound it! On the boulevard, was it not? It must have been on the\nboulevard? You see, we let it fall when we were running. It was that\nbrat of a sister of mine who was so stupid. When we got home, we could\nnot find it anywhere. As we did not wish to be beaten, as that is\nuseless, as that is entirely useless, as that is absolutely useless, we\nsaid that we had carried the letters to the proper persons, and that\nthey had said to us:  Nix.  So here they are, those poor letters! And\nhow did you find out that they belonged to me? Ah! yes, the writing. So\nit was you that we jostled as we passed last night. We couldn t see. I\nsaid to my sister:  Is it a gentleman?  My sister said to me:  I think\nit is a gentleman. \n\n\nIn the meanwhile she had unfolded the petition addressed to  the\nbenevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. \n\n\n Here!  said she,  this is for that old fellow who goes to mass. By the\nway, this is his hour. I ll go and carry it to him. Perhaps he will\ngive us something to breakfast on. \n\n\nThen she began to laugh again, and added: \n\n Do you know what it will mean if we get a breakfast today? It will\nmean that we shall have had our breakfast of the day before yesterday,\nour breakfast of yesterday, our dinner of to-day, and all that at once,\nand this morning. Come! Parbleu! if you are not satisfied, dogs,\nburst! \n\n\nThis reminded Marius of the wretched girl s errand to himself. He\nfumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and found nothing there.\n\nThe young girl went on, and seemed to have no consciousness of Marius \npresence.\n\n I often go off in the evening. Sometimes I don t come home again. Last\nwinter, before we came here, we lived under the arches of the bridges.\nWe huddled together to keep from freezing. My little sister cried. How\nmelancholy the water is! When I thought of drowning myself, I said to\nmyself:  No, it s too cold.  I go out alone, whenever I choose, I\nsometimes sleep in the ditches. Do you know, at night, when I walk\nalong the boulevard, I see the trees like forks, I see houses, all\nblack and as big as Notre Dame, I fancy that the white walls are the\nriver, I say to myself:  Why, there s water there!  The stars are like\nthe lamps in illuminations, one would say that they smoked and that the\nwind blew them out, I am bewildered, as though horses were breathing in\nmy ears; although it is night, I hear hand-organs and\nspinning-machines, and I don t know what all. I think people are\nflinging stones at me, I flee without knowing whither, everything\nwhirls and whirls. You feel very queer when you have had no food. \n\n\nAnd then she stared at him with a bewildered air.\n\nBy dint of searching and ransacking his pockets, Marius had finally\ncollected five francs sixteen sous. This was all he owned in the world\nfor the moment.  At all events,  he thought,  there is my dinner for\nto-day, and to-morrow we will see.  He kept the sixteen sous, and\nhanded the five francs to the young girl.\n\nShe seized the coin.\n\n Good!  said she,  the sun is shining! \n\n\nAnd, as though the sun had possessed the property of melting the\navalanches of slang in her brain, she went on: \n\n Five francs! the shiner! a monarch! in this hole! Ain t this fine!\nYou re a jolly thief! I m your humble servant! Bravo for the good\nfellows! Two days  wine! and meat! and stew! we ll have a royal feast!\nand a good fill! \n\n\nShe pulled her chemise up on her shoulders, made a low bow to Marius,\nthen a familiar sign with her hand, and went towards the door, saying: \n\n Good morning, sir. It s all right. I ll go and find my old man. \n\n\nAs she passed, she caught sight of a dry crust of bread on the commode,\nwhich was moulding there amid the dust; she flung herself upon it and\nbit into it, muttering: \n\n That s good! it s hard! it breaks my teeth! \n\n\nThen she departed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V A PROVIDENTIAL PEEP-HOLE\n\n\nMarius had lived for five years in poverty, in destitution, even in\ndistress, but he now perceived that he had not known real misery. True\nmisery he had but just had a view of. It was its spectre which had just\npassed before his eyes. In fact, he who has only beheld the misery of\nman has seen nothing; the misery of woman is what he must see; he who\nhas seen only the misery of woman has seen nothing; he must see the\nmisery of the child.\n\nWhen a man has reached his last extremity, he has reached his last\nresources at the same time. Woe to the defenceless beings who surround\nhim! Work, wages, bread, fire, courage, good will, all fail him\nsimultaneously. The light of day seems extinguished without, the moral\nlight within; in these shadows man encounters the feebleness of the\nwoman and the child, and bends them violently to ignominy.\n\nThen all horrors become possible. Despair is surrounded with fragile\npartitions which all open on either vice or crime.\n\nHealth, youth, honor, all the shy delicacies of the young body, the\nheart, virginity, modesty, that epidermis of the soul, are manipulated\nin sinister wise by that fumbling which seeks resources, which\nencounters opprobrium, and which accommodates itself to it. Fathers,\nmothers, children, brothers, sisters, men, women, daughters, adhere and\nbecome incorporated, almost like a mineral formation, in that dusky\npromiscuousness of sexes, relationships, ages, infamies, and\ninnocences. They crouch, back to back, in a sort of hut of fate. They\nexchange woe-begone glances. Oh, the unfortunate wretches! How pale\nthey are! How cold they are! It seems as though they dwelt in a planet\nmuch further from the sun than ours.\n\nThis young girl was to Marius a sort of messenger from the realm of sad\nshadows. She revealed to him a hideous side of the night.\n\nMarius almost reproached himself for the preoccupations of reverie and\npassion which had prevented his bestowing a glance on his neighbors up\nto that day. The payment of their rent had been a mechanical movement,\nwhich any one would have yielded to; but he, Marius, should have done\nbetter than that. What! only a wall separated him from those abandoned\nbeings who lived gropingly in the dark outside the pale of the rest of\nthe world, he was elbow to elbow with them, he was, in some sort, the\nlast link of the human race which they touched, he heard them live, or\nrather, rattle in the death agony beside him, and he paid no heed to\nthem! Every day, every instant, he heard them walking on the other side\nof the wall, he heard them go, and come, and speak, and he did not even\nlend an ear! And groans lay in those words, and he did not even listen\nto them, his thoughts were elsewhere, given up to dreams, to impossible\nradiances, to loves in the air, to follies; and all the while, human\ncreatures, his brothers in Jesus Christ, his brothers in the people,\nwere agonizing in vain beside him! He even formed a part of their\nmisfortune, and he aggravated it. For if they had had another neighbor\nwho was less chimerical and more attentive, any ordinary and charitable\nman, evidently their indigence would have been noticed, their signals\nof distress would have been perceived, and they would have been taken\nhold of and rescued! They appeared very corrupt and very depraved, no\ndoubt, very vile, very odious even; but those who fall without becoming\ndegraded are rare; besides, there is a point where the unfortunate and\nthe infamous unite and are confounded in a single word, a fatal word,\n_the miserable_; whose fault is this? And then should not the charity\nbe all the more profound, in proportion as the fall is great?\n\nWhile reading himself this moral lesson, for there were occasions on\nwhich Marius, like all truly honest hearts, was his own pedagogue and\nscolded himself more than he deserved, he stared at the wall which\nseparated him from the Jondrettes, as though he were able to make his\ngaze, full of pity, penetrate that partition and warm these wretched\npeople. The wall was a thin layer of plaster upheld by lathes and\nbeams, and, as the reader had just learned, it allowed the sound of\nvoices and words to be clearly distinguished. Only a man as dreamy as\nMarius could have failed to perceive this long before. There was no\npaper pasted on the wall, either on the side of the Jondrettes or on\nthat of Marius; the coarse construction was visible in its nakedness.\nMarius examined the partition, almost unconsciously; sometimes reverie\nexamines, observes, and scrutinizes as thought would. All at once he\nsprang up; he had just perceived, near the top, close to the ceiling, a\ntriangular hole, which resulted from the space between three lathes.\nThe plaster which should have filled this cavity was missing, and by\nmounting on the commode, a view could be had through this aperture into\nthe Jondrettes  attic. Commiseration has, and should have, its\ncuriosity. This aperture formed a sort of peep-hole. It is permissible\nto gaze at misfortune like a traitor in order to succor it.27\n\n Let us get some little idea of what these people are like,  thought\nMarius,  and in what condition they are. \n\n\nHe climbed upon the commode, put his eye to the crevice, and looked.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE WILD MAN IN HIS LAIR\n\n\nCities, like forests, have their caverns in which all the most wicked\nand formidable creatures which they contain conceal themselves. Only,\nin cities, that which thus conceals itself is ferocious, unclean, and\npetty, that is to say, ugly; in forests, that which conceals itself is\nferocious, savage, and grand, that is to say, beautiful. Taking one\nlair with another, the beast s is preferable to the man s. Caverns are\nbetter than hovels.\n\nWhat Marius now beheld was a hovel.\n\nMarius was poor, and his chamber was poverty-stricken, but as his\npoverty was noble, his garret was neat. The den upon which his eye now\nrested was abject, dirty, fetid, pestiferous, mean, sordid. The only\nfurniture consisted of a straw chair, an infirm table, some old bits of\ncrockery, and in two of the corners, two indescribable pallets; all the\nlight was furnished by a dormer window of four panes, draped with\nspiders  webs. Through this aperture there penetrated just enough light\nto make the face of a man appear like the face of a phantom. The walls\nhad a leprous aspect, and were covered with seams and scars, like a\nvisage disfigured by some horrible malady; a repulsive moisture exuded\nfrom them. Obscene sketches roughly sketched with charcoal could be\ndistinguished upon them.\n\nThe chamber which Marius occupied had a dilapidated brick pavement;\nthis one was neither tiled nor planked; its inhabitants stepped\ndirectly on the antique plaster of the hovel, which had grown black\nunder the long-continued pressure of feet. Upon this uneven floor,\nwhere the dirt seemed to be fairly incrusted, and which possessed but\none virginity, that of the broom, were capriciously grouped\nconstellations of old shoes, socks, and repulsive rags; however, this\nroom had a fireplace, so it was let for forty francs a year. There was\nevery sort of thing in that fireplace, a brazier, a pot, broken boards,\nrags suspended from nails, a bird-cage, ashes, and even a little fire.\nTwo brands were smouldering there in a melancholy way.\n\nOne thing which added still more to the horrors of this garret was,\nthat it was large. It had projections and angles and black holes, the\nlower sides of roofs, bays, and promontories. Hence horrible,\nunfathomable nooks where it seemed as though spiders as big as one s\nfist, wood-lice as large as one s foot, and perhaps even who\nknows? some monstrous human beings, must be hiding.\n\nOne of the pallets was near the door, the other near the window. One\nend of each touched the fireplace and faced Marius. In a corner near\nthe aperture through which Marius was gazing, a colored engraving in a\nblack frame was suspended to a nail on the wall, and at its bottom, in\nlarge letters, was the inscription: THE DREAM. This represented a\nsleeping woman, and a child, also asleep, the child on the woman s lap,\nan eagle in a cloud, with a crown in his beak, and the woman thrusting\nthe crown away from the child s head, without awaking the latter; in\nthe background, Napoleon in a glory, leaning on a very blue column with\na yellow capital ornamented with this inscription:\n\nMARINGO\nAUSTERLITS\nIENA\nWAGRAMME\nELOT\n\n\nBeneath this frame, a sort of wooden panel, which was no longer than it\nwas broad, stood on the ground and rested in a sloping attitude against\nthe wall. It had the appearance of a picture with its face turned to\nthe wall, of a frame probably showing a daub on the other side, of some\npier-glass detached from a wall and lying forgotten there while waiting\nto be rehung.\n\nNear the table, upon which Marius descried a pen, ink, and paper, sat a\nman about sixty years of age, small, thin, livid, haggard, with a\ncunning, cruel, and uneasy air; a hideous scoundrel.\n\nIf Lavater had studied this visage, he would have found the vulture\nmingled with the attorney there, the bird of prey and the pettifogger\nrendering each other mutually hideous and complementing each other; the\npettifogger making the bird of prey ignoble, the bird of prey making\nthe pettifogger horrible.\n\nThis man had a long gray beard. He was clad in a woman s chemise, which\nallowed his hairy breast and his bare arms, bristling with gray hair,\nto be seen. Beneath this chemise, muddy trousers and boots through\nwhich his toes projected were visible.\n\nHe had a pipe in his mouth and was smoking. There was no bread in the\nhovel, but there was still tobacco.\n\nHe was writing probably some more letters like those which Marius had\nread.\n\nOn the corner of the table lay an ancient, dilapidated, reddish volume,\nand the size, which was the antique 12mo of reading-rooms, betrayed a\nromance. On the cover sprawled the following title, printed in large\ncapitals:\n\nGOD; THE KING; HONOR AND THE LADIES;\nby\nDUCRAY DUMINIL,\n1814.\n\nAs the man wrote, he talked aloud, and Marius heard his words: \n\n The idea that there is no equality, even when you are dead! Just look\nat P re-Lachaise! The great, those who are rich, are up above, in the\nacacia alley, which is paved. They can reach it in a carriage. The\nlittle people, the poor, the unhappy, well, what of them? they are put\ndown below, where the mud is up to your knees, in the damp places. They\nare put there so that they will decay the sooner! You cannot go to see\nthem without sinking into the earth. \n\n\nHe paused, smote the table with his fist, and added, as he ground his\nteeth: \n\n Oh! I could eat the whole world! \n\n\nA big woman, who might be forty years of age, or a hundred, was\ncrouching near the fireplace on her bare heels.\n\nShe, too, was clad only in a chemise and a knitted petticoat patched\nwith bits of old cloth. A coarse linen apron concealed the half of her\npetticoat. Although this woman was doubled up and bent together, it\ncould be seen that she was of very lofty stature. She was a sort of\ngiant, beside her husband. She had hideous hair, of a reddish blond\nwhich was turning gray, and which she thrust back from time to time,\nwith her enormous shining hands, with their flat nails.\n\nBeside her, on the floor, wide open, lay a book of the same form as the\nother, and probably a volume of the same romance.\n\nOn one of the pallets, Marius caught a glimpse of a sort of tall pale\nyoung girl, who sat there half naked and with pendant feet, and who did\nnot seem to be listening or seeing or living.\n\nNo doubt the younger sister of the one who had come to his room.\n\nShe seemed to be eleven or twelve years of age. On closer scrutiny it\nwas evident that she really was fourteen. She was the child who had\nsaid, on the boulevard the evening before:  I bolted, bolted, bolted! \n\n\nShe was of that puny sort which remains backward for a long time, then\nsuddenly starts up rapidly. It is indigence which produces these\nmelancholy human plants. These creatures have neither childhood nor\nyouth. At fifteen years of age they appear to be twelve, at sixteen\nthey seem twenty. To-day a little girl, to-morrow a woman. One might\nsay that they stride through life, in order to get through with it the\nmore speedily.\n\nAt this moment, this being had the air of a child.\n\nMoreover, no trace of work was revealed in that dwelling; no\nhandicraft, no spinning-wheel, not a tool. In one corner lay some\nironmongery of dubious aspect. It was the dull listlessness which\nfollows despair and precedes the death agony.\n\nMarius gazed for a while at this gloomy interior, more terrifying than\nthe interior of a tomb, for the human soul could be felt fluttering\nthere, and life was palpitating there. The garret, the cellar, the\nlowly ditch where certain indigent wretches crawl at the very bottom of\nthe social edifice, is not exactly the sepulchre, but only its\nantechamber; but, as the wealthy display their greatest magnificence at\nthe entrance of their palaces, it seems that death, which stands\ndirectly side by side with them, places its greatest miseries in that\nvestibule.\n\nThe man held his peace, the woman spoke no word, the young girl did not\neven seem to breathe. The scratching of the pen on the paper was\naudible.\n\nThe man grumbled, without pausing in his writing.  Canaille! canaille!\neverybody is canaille! \n\n\nThis variation to Solomon s exclamation elicited a sigh from the woman.\n\n Calm yourself, my little friend,  she said.  Don t hurt yourself, my\ndear. You are too good to write to all those people, husband. \n\n\nBodies press close to each other in misery, as in cold, but hearts draw\napart. This woman must have loved this man, to all appearance, judging\nfrom the amount of love within her; but probably, in the daily and\nreciprocal reproaches of the horrible distress which weighed on the\nwhole group, this had become extinct. There no longer existed in her\nanything more than the ashes of affection for her husband.\nNevertheless, caressing appellations had survived, as is often the\ncase. She called him: _My dear, my little friend, my good man_, etc.,\nwith her mouth while her heart was silent.\n\nThe man resumed his writing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII STRATEGY AND TACTICS\n\n\nMarius, with a load upon his breast, was on the point of descending\nfrom the species of observatory which he had improvised, when a sound\nattracted his attention and caused him to remain at his post.\n\nThe door of the attic had just burst open abruptly. The eldest girl\nmade her appearance on the threshold. On her feet, she had large,\ncoarse, men s shoes, bespattered with mud, which had splashed even to\nher red ankles, and she was wrapped in an old mantle which hung in\ntatters. Marius had not seen it on her an hour previously, but she had\nprobably deposited it at his door, in order that she might inspire the\nmore pity, and had picked it up again on emerging. She entered, pushed\nthe door to behind her, paused to take breath, for she was completely\nbreathless, then exclaimed with an expression of triumph and joy: \n\n He is coming! \n\n\nThe father turned his eyes towards her, the woman turned her head, the\nlittle sister did not stir.\n\n Who?  demanded her father.\n\n The gentleman! \n\n\n The philanthropist? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n From the church of Saint-Jacques? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n That old fellow? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n And he is coming? \n\n\n He is following me. \n\n\n You are sure? \n\n\n I am sure. \n\n\n There, truly, he is coming? \n\n\n He is coming in a fiacre. \n\n\n In a fiacre. He is Rothschild. \n\n\nThe father rose.\n\n How are you sure? If he is coming in a fiacre, how is it that you\narrive before him? You gave him our address at least? Did you tell him\nthat it was the last door at the end of the corridor, on the right? If\nhe only does not make a mistake! So you found him at the church? Did he\nread my letter? What did he say to you? \n\n\n Ta, ta, ta,  said the girl,  how you do gallop on, my good man! See\nhere: I entered the church, he was in his usual place, I made him a\nreverence, and I handed him the letter; he read it and said to me:\n Where do you live, my child?  I said:  Monsieur, I will show you.  He\nsaid to me:  No, give me your address, my daughter has some purchases\nto make, I will take a carriage and reach your house at the same time\nthat you do.  I gave him the address. When I mentioned the house, he\nseemed surprised and hesitated for an instant, then he said:  Never\nmind, I will come.  When the mass was finished, I watched him leave the\nchurch with his daughter, and I saw them enter a carriage. I certainly\ndid tell him the last door in the corridor, on the right. \n\n\n And what makes you think that he will come? \n\n\n I have just seen the fiacre turn into the Rue Petit-Banquier. That is\nwhat made me run so. \n\n\n How do you know that it was the same fiacre? \n\n\n Because I took notice of the number, so there! \n\n\n What was the number? \n\n\n 440. \n\n\n Good, you are a clever girl. \n\n\nThe girl stared boldly at her father, and showing the shoes which she\nhad on her feet: \n\n A clever girl, possibly; but I tell you I won t put these shoes on\nagain, and that I won t, for the sake of my health, in the first place,\nand for the sake of cleanliness, in the next. I don t know anything\nmore irritating than shoes that squelch, and go _ghi, ghi, ghi,_ the\nwhole time. I prefer to go barefoot. \n\n\n You are right,  said her father, in a sweet tone which contrasted with\nthe young girl s rudeness,  but then, you will not be allowed to enter\nchurches, for poor people must have shoes to do that. One cannot go\nbarefoot to the good God,  he added bitterly.\n\nThen, returning to the subject which absorbed him: \n\n So you are sure that he will come? \n\n\n He is following on my heels,  said she.\n\nThe man started up. A sort of illumination appeared on his countenance.\n\n Wife!  he exclaimed,  you hear. Here is the philanthropist. Extinguish\nthe fire. \n\n\nThe stupefied mother did not stir.\n\nThe father, with the agility of an acrobat, seized a broken-nosed jug\nwhich stood on the chimney, and flung the water on the brands.\n\nThen, addressing his eldest daughter: \n\n Here you! Pull the straw off that chair! \n\n\nHis daughter did not understand.\n\nHe seized the chair, and with one kick he rendered it seatless. His leg\npassed through it.\n\nAs he withdrew his leg, he asked his daughter: \n\n Is it cold? \n\n\n Very cold. It is snowing. \n\n\nThe father turned towards the younger girl who sat on the bed near the\nwindow, and shouted to her in a thundering voice: \n\n Quick! get off that bed, you lazy thing! will you never do anything?\nBreak a pane of glass! \n\n\nThe little girl jumped off the bed with a shiver.\n\n Break a pane!  he repeated.\n\nThe child stood still in bewilderment.\n\n Do you hear me?  repeated her father,  I tell you to break a pane! \n\n\nThe child, with a sort of terrified obedience, rose on tiptoe, and\nstruck a pane with her fist. The glass broke and fell with a loud\nclatter.\n\n Good,  said the father.\n\nHe was grave and abrupt. His glance swept rapidly over all the crannies\nof the garret. One would have said that he was a general making the\nfinal preparation at the moment when the battle is on the point of\nbeginning.\n\nThe mother, who had not said a word so far, now rose and demanded in a\ndull, slow, languid voice, whence her words seemed to emerge in a\ncongealed state: \n\n What do you mean to do, my dear? \n\n\n Get into bed,  replied the man.\n\nHis intonation admitted of no deliberation. The mother obeyed, and\nthrew herself heavily on one of the pallets.\n\nIn the meantime, a sob became audible in one corner.\n\n What s that?  cried the father.\n\nThe younger daughter exhibited her bleeding fist, without quitting the\ncorner in which she was cowering. She had wounded herself while\nbreaking the window; she went off, near her mother s pallet and wept\nsilently.\n\nIt was now the mother s turn to start up and exclaim: \n\n Just see there! What follies you commit! She has cut herself breaking\nthat pane for you! \n\n\n So much the better!  said the man.  I foresaw that. \n\n\n What? So much the better?  retorted his wife.\n\n Peace!  replied the father,  I suppress the liberty of the press. \n\n\nThen tearing the woman s chemise which he was wearing, he made a strip\nof cloth with which he hastily swathed the little girl s bleeding\nwrist.\n\nThat done, his eye fell with a satisfied expression on his torn\nchemise.\n\n And the chemise too,  said he,  this has a good appearance. \n\n\nAn icy breeze whistled through the window and entered the room. The\nouter mist penetrated thither and diffused itself like a whitish sheet\nof wadding vaguely spread by invisible fingers. Through the broken pane\nthe snow could be seen falling. The snow promised by the Candlemas sun\nof the preceding day had actually come.\n\nThe father cast a glance about him as though to make sure that he had\nforgotten nothing. He seized an old shovel and spread ashes over the\nwet brands in such a manner as to entirely conceal them.\n\nThen drawing himself up and leaning against the chimney-piece: \n\n Now,  said he,  we can receive the philanthropist. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE RAY OF LIGHT IN THE HOVEL\n\n\nThe big girl approached and laid her hand in her father s.\n\n Feel how cold I am,  said she.\n\n Bah!  replied the father,  I am much colder than that. \n\n\nThe mother exclaimed impetuously: \n\n You always have something better than any one else, so you do! even\nbad things. \n\n\n Down with you!  said the man.\n\nThe mother, being eyed after a certain fashion, held her tongue.\n\nSilence reigned for a moment in the hovel. The elder girl was removing\nthe mud from the bottom of her mantle, with a careless air; her younger\nsister continued to sob; the mother had taken the latter s head between\nher hands, and was covering it with kisses, whispering to her the\nwhile: \n\n My treasure, I entreat you, it is nothing of consequence, don t cry,\nyou will anger your father. \n\n\n No!  exclaimed the father,  quite the contrary! sob! sob! that s\nright. \n\n\nThen turning to the elder: \n\n There now! He is not coming! What if he were not to come! I shall have\nextinguished my fire, wrecked my chair, torn my shirt, and broken my\npane all for nothing. \n\n\n And wounded the child!  murmured the mother.\n\n Do you know,  went on the father,  that it s beastly cold in this\ndevil s garret! What if that man should not come! Oh! See there, you!\nHe makes us wait! He says to himself:  Well! they will wait for me!\nThat s what they re there for.  Oh! how I hate them, and with what joy,\njubilation, enthusiasm, and satisfaction I could strangle all those\nrich folks! all those rich folks! These men who pretend to be\ncharitable, who put on airs, who go to mass, who make presents to the\npriesthood, _preachy, preachy_, in their skullcaps, and who think\nthemselves above us, and who come for the purpose of humiliating us,\nand to bring us  clothes,  as they say! old duds that are not worth\nfour sous! And bread! That s not what I want, pack of rascals that they\nare, it s money! Ah! money! Never! Because they say that we would go\noff and drink it up, and that we are drunkards and idlers! And they!\nWhat are they, then, and what have they been in their time! Thieves!\nThey never could have become rich otherwise! Oh! Society ought to be\ngrasped by the four corners of the cloth and tossed into the air, all\nof it! It would all be smashed, very likely, but at least, no one would\nhave anything, and there would be that much gained! But what is that\nblockhead of a benevolent gentleman doing? Will he come? Perhaps the\nanimal has forgotten the address! I ll bet that that old beast \n\n\nAt that moment there came a light tap at the door, the man rushed to it\nand opened it, exclaiming, amid profound bows and smiles of adoration: \n\n Enter, sir! Deign to enter, most respected benefactor, and your\ncharming young lady, also. \n\n\nA man of ripe age and a young girl made their appearance on the\nthreshold of the attic.\n\nMarius had not quitted his post. His feelings for the moment surpassed\nthe powers of the human tongue.\n\nIt was She!\n\nWhoever has loved knows all the radiant meanings contained in those\nthree letters of that word: She.\n\nIt was certainly she. Marius could hardly distinguish her through the\nluminous vapor which had suddenly spread before his eyes. It was that\nsweet, absent being, that star which had beamed upon him for six\nmonths; it was those eyes, that brow, that mouth, that lovely vanished\nface which had created night by its departure. The vision had been\neclipsed, now it reappeared.\n\nIt reappeared in that gloom, in that garret, in that misshapen attic,\nin all that horror.\n\nMarius shuddered in dismay. What! It was she! The palpitations of his\nheart troubled his sight. He felt that he was on the brink of bursting\ninto tears! What! He beheld her again at last, after having sought her\nso long! It seemed to him that he had lost his soul, and that he had\njust found it again.\n\nShe was the same as ever, only a little pale; her delicate face was\nframed in a bonnet of violet velvet, her figure was concealed beneath a\npelisse of black satin. Beneath her long dress, a glimpse could be\ncaught of her tiny foot shod in a silken boot.\n\nShe was still accompanied by M. Leblanc.\n\nShe had taken a few steps into the room, and had deposited a tolerably\nbulky parcel on the table.\n\nThe eldest Jondrette girl had retired behind the door, and was staring\nwith sombre eyes at that velvet bonnet, that silk mantle, and that\ncharming, happy face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX JONDRETTE COMES NEAR WEEPING\n\n\nThe hovel was so dark, that people coming from without felt on entering\nit the effect produced on entering a cellar. The two newcomers\nadvanced, therefore, with a certain hesitation, being hardly able to\ndistinguish the vague forms surrounding them, while they could be\nclearly seen and scrutinized by the eyes of the inhabitants of the\ngarret, who were accustomed to this twilight.\n\nM. Leblanc approached, with his sad but kindly look, and said to\nJondrette the father: \n\n Monsieur, in this package you will find some new clothes and some\nwoollen stockings and blankets. \n\n\n Our angelic benefactor overwhelms us,  said Jondrette, bowing to the\nvery earth.\n\nThen, bending down to the ear of his eldest daughter, while the two\nvisitors were engaged in examining this lamentable interior, he added\nin a low and rapid voice: \n\n Hey? What did I say? Duds! No money! They are all alike! By the way,\nhow was the letter to that old blockhead signed? \n\n\n Fabantou,  replied the girl.\n\n The dramatic artist, good! \n\n\nIt was lucky for Jondrette, that this had occurred to him, for at the\nvery moment, M. Leblanc turned to him, and said to him with the air of\na person who is seeking to recall a name: \n\n I see that you are greatly to be pitied, Monsieur \n\n\n Fabantou,  replied Jondrette quickly.\n\n Monsieur Fabantou, yes, that is it. I remember. \n\n\n Dramatic artist, sir, and one who has had some success. \n\n\nHere Jondrette evidently judged the moment propitious for capturing the\n philanthropist.  He exclaimed with an accent which smacked at the same\ntime of the vainglory of the mountebank at fairs, and the humility of\nthe mendicant on the highway: \n\n A pupil of Talma! Sir! I am a pupil of Talma! Fortune formerly smiled\non me Alas! Now it is misfortune s turn. You see, my benefactor, no\nbread, no fire. My poor babes have no fire! My only chair has no seat!\nA broken pane! And in such weather! My spouse in bed! Ill! \n\n\n Poor woman!  said M. Leblanc.\n\n My child wounded!  added Jondrette.\n\nThe child, diverted by the arrival of the strangers, had fallen to\ncontemplating  the young lady,  and had ceased to sob.\n\n Cry! bawl!  said Jondrette to her in a low voice.\n\nAt the same time he pinched her sore hand. All this was done with the\ntalent of a juggler.\n\nThe little girl gave vent to loud shrieks.\n\nThe adorable young girl, whom Marius, in his heart, called  his\nUrsule,  approached her hastily.\n\n Poor, dear child!  said she.\n\n You see, my beautiful young lady,  pursued Jondrette  her bleeding\nwrist! It came through an accident while working at a machine to earn\nsix sous a day. It may be necessary to cut off her arm. \n\n\n Really?  said the old gentleman, in alarm.\n\nThe little girl, taking this seriously, fell to sobbing more violently\nthan ever.\n\n Alas! yes, my benefactor!  replied the father.\n\nFor several minutes, Jondrette had been scrutinizing  the benefactor \nin a singular fashion. As he spoke, he seemed to be examining the other\nattentively, as though seeking to summon up his recollections. All at\nonce, profiting by a moment when the newcomers were questioning the\nchild with interest as to her injured hand, he passed near his wife,\nwho lay in her bed with a stupid and dejected air, and said to her in a\nrapid but very low tone: \n\n Take a look at that man! \n\n\nThen, turning to M. Leblanc, and continuing his lamentations: \n\n You see, sir! All the clothing that I have is my wife s chemise! And\nall torn at that! In the depths of winter! I can t go out for lack of a\ncoat. If I had a coat of any sort, I would go and see Mademoiselle\nMars, who knows me and is very fond of me. Does she not still reside in\nthe Rue de la Tour-des-Dames? Do you know, sir? We played together in\nthe provinces. I shared her laurels. C lim ne would come to my succor,\nsir! Elmire would bestow alms on B lisaire! But no, nothing! And not a\nsou in the house! My wife ill, and not a sou! My daughter dangerously\ninjured, not a sou! My wife suffers from fits of suffocation. It comes\nfrom her age, and besides, her nervous system is affected. She ought to\nhave assistance, and my daughter also! But the doctor! But the\napothecary! How am I to pay them? I would kneel to a penny, sir! Such\nis the condition to which the arts are reduced. And do you know, my\ncharming young lady, and you, my generous protector, do you know, you\nwho breathe forth virtue and goodness, and who perfume that church\nwhere my daughter sees you every day when she says her prayers? For I\nhave brought up my children religiously, sir. I did not want them to\ntake to the theatre. Ah! the hussies! If I catch them tripping! I do\nnot jest, that I don t! I read them lessons on honor, on morality, on\nvirtue! Ask them! They have got to walk straight. They are none of your\nunhappy wretches who begin by having no family, and end by espousing\nthe public. One is Mamselle Nobody, and one becomes Madame Everybody.\nDeuce take it! None of that in the Fabantou family! I mean to bring\nthem up virtuously, and they shall be honest, and nice, and believe in\nGod, by the sacred name! Well, sir, my worthy sir, do you know what is\ngoing to happen to-morrow? To-morrow is the fourth day of February, the\nfatal day, the last day of grace allowed me by my landlord; if by this\nevening I have not paid my rent, to-morrow my oldest daughter, my\nspouse with her fever, my child with her wound, we shall all four be\nturned out of here and thrown into the street, on the boulevard,\nwithout shelter, in the rain, in the snow. There, sir. I owe for four\nquarters a whole year! that is to say, sixty francs. \n\n\nJondrette lied. Four quarters would have amounted to only forty francs,\nand he could not owe four, because six months had not elapsed since\nMarius had paid for two.\n\nM. Leblanc drew five francs from his pocket and threw them on the\ntable.\n\nJondrette found time to mutter in the ear of his eldest daughter: \n\n The scoundrel! What does he think I can do with his five francs? That\nwon t pay me for my chair and pane of glass! That s what comes of\nincurring expenses! \n\n\nIn the meanwhile, M. Leblanc had removed the large brown great-coat\nwhich he wore over his blue coat, and had thrown it over the back of\nthe chair.\n\n Monsieur Fabantou,  he said,  these five francs are all that I have\nabout me, but I shall now take my daughter home, and I will return this\nevening, it is this evening that you must pay, is it not? \n\n\nJondrette s face lighted up with a strange expression. He replied\nvivaciously: \n\n Yes, respected sir. At eight o clock, I must be at my landlord s. \n\n\n I will be here at six, and I will fetch you the sixty francs. \n\n\n My benefactor!  exclaimed Jondrette, overwhelmed. And he added, in a\nlow tone:  Take a good look at him, wife! \n\n\nM. Leblanc had taken the arm of the young girl, once more, and had\nturned towards the door.\n\n Farewell until this evening, my friends!  said he.\n\n Six o clock?  said Jondrette.\n\n Six o clock precisely. \n\n\nAt that moment, the overcoat lying on the chair caught the eye of the\nelder Jondrette girl.\n\n You are forgetting your coat, sir,  said she.\n\nJondrette darted an annihilating look at his daughter, accompanied by a\nformidable shrug of the shoulders.\n\nM. Leblanc turned back and said, with a smile: \n\n I have not forgotten it, I am leaving it. \n\n\n O my protector!  said Jondrette,  my august benefactor, I melt into\ntears! Permit me to accompany you to your carriage. \n\n\n If you come out,  answered M. Leblanc,  put on this coat. It really is\nvery cold. \n\n\nJondrette did not need to be told twice. He hastily donned the brown\ngreat-coat. And all three went out, Jondrette preceding the two\nstrangers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X TARIFF OF LICENSED CABS: TWO FRANCS AN HOUR\n\n\nMarius had lost nothing of this entire scene, and yet, in reality, had\nseen nothing. His eyes had remained fixed on the young girl, his heart\nhad, so to speak, seized her and wholly enveloped her from the moment\nof her very first step in that garret. During her entire stay there, he\nhad lived that life of ecstasy which suspends material perceptions and\nprecipitates the whole soul on a single point. He contemplated, not\nthat girl, but that light which wore a satin pelisse and a velvet\nbonnet. The star Sirius might have entered the room, and he would not\nhave been any more dazzled.\n\nWhile the young girl was engaged in opening the package, unfolding the\nclothing and the blankets, questioning the sick mother kindly, and the\nlittle injured girl tenderly, he watched her every movement, he sought\nto catch her words. He knew her eyes, her brow, her beauty, her form,\nher walk, he did not know the sound of her voice. He had once fancied\nthat he had caught a few words at the Luxembourg, but he was not\nabsolutely sure of the fact. He would have given ten years of his life\nto hear it, in order that he might bear away in his soul a little of\nthat music. But everything was drowned in the lamentable exclamations\nand trumpet bursts of Jondrette. This added a touch of genuine wrath to\nMarius  ecstasy. He devoured her with his eyes. He could not believe\nthat it really was that divine creature whom he saw in the midst of\nthose vile creatures in that monstrous lair. It seemed to him that he\nbeheld a humming-bird in the midst of toads.\n\nWhen she took her departure, he had but one thought, to follow her, to\ncling to her trace, not to quit her until he learned where she lived,\nnot to lose her again, at least, after having so miraculously\nre-discovered her. He leaped down from the commode and seized his hat.\nAs he laid his hand on the lock of the door, and was on the point of\nopening it, a sudden reflection caused him to pause. The corridor was\nlong, the staircase steep, Jondrette was talkative, M. Leblanc had, no\ndoubt, not yet regained his carriage; if, on turning round in the\ncorridor, or on the staircase, he were to catch sight of him, Marius,\nin that house, he would, evidently, take the alarm, and find means to\nescape from him again, and this time it would be final. What was he to\ndo? Should he wait a little? But while he was waiting, the carriage\nmight drive off. Marius was perplexed. At last he accepted the risk and\nquitted his room.\n\nThere was no one in the corridor. He hastened to the stairs. There was\nno one on the staircase. He descended in all haste, and reached the\nboulevard in time to see a fiacre turning the corner of the Rue du\nPetit-Banquier, on its way back to Paris.\n\nMarius rushed headlong in that direction. On arriving at the angle of\nthe boulevard, he caught sight of the fiacre again, rapidly descending\nthe Rue Mouffetard; the carriage was already a long way off, and there\nwas no means of overtaking it; what! run after it? Impossible; and\nbesides, the people in the carriage would assuredly notice an\nindividual running at full speed in pursuit of a fiacre, and the father\nwould recognize him. At that moment, wonderful and unprecedented good\nluck, Marius perceived an empty cab passing along the boulevard. There\nwas but one thing to be done, to jump into this cab and follow the\nfiacre. That was sure, efficacious, and free from danger.\n\nMarius made the driver a sign to halt, and called to him: \n\n By the hour? \n\n\nMarius wore no cravat, he had on his working-coat, which was destitute\nof buttons, his shirt was torn along one of the plaits on the bosom.\n\nThe driver halted, winked, and held out his left hand to Marius,\nrubbing his forefinger gently with his thumb.\n\n What is it?  said Marius.\n\n Pay in advance,  said the coachman.\n\nMarius recollected that he had but sixteen sous about him.\n\n How much?  he demanded.\n\n Forty sous. \n\n\n I will pay on my return. \n\n\nThe driver s only reply was to whistle the air of La Palisse and to\nwhip up his horse.\n\nMarius stared at the retreating cabriolet with a bewildered air. For\nthe lack of four and twenty sous, he was losing his joy, his happiness,\nhis love! He had seen, and he was becoming blind again. He reflected\nbitterly, and it must be confessed, with profound regret, on the five\nfrancs which he had bestowed, that very morning, on that miserable\ngirl. If he had had those five francs, he would have been saved, he\nwould have been born again, he would have emerged from the limbo and\ndarkness, he would have made his escape from isolation and spleen, from\nhis widowed state; he might have re-knotted the black thread of his\ndestiny to that beautiful golden thread, which had just floated before\nhis eyes and had broken at the same instant, once more! He returned to\nhis hovel in despair.\n\nHe might have told himself that M. Leblanc had promised to return in\nthe evening, and that all he had to do was to set about the matter more\nskilfully, so that he might follow him on that occasion; but, in his\ncontemplation, it is doubtful whether he had heard this.\n\nAs he was on the point of mounting the staircase, he perceived, on the\nother side of the boulevard, near the deserted wall skirting the Rue De\nla Barri re-des-Gobelins, Jondrette, wrapped in the  philanthropist s \ngreat-coat, engaged in conversation with one of those men of\ndisquieting aspect who have been dubbed by common consent, _prowlers of\nthe barriers_; people of equivocal face, of suspicious monologues, who\npresent the air of having evil minds, and who generally sleep in the\ndaytime, which suggests the supposition that they work by night.\n\nThese two men, standing there motionless and in conversation, in the\nsnow which was falling in whirlwinds, formed a group that a policeman\nwould surely have observed, but which Marius hardly noticed.\n\nStill, in spite of his mournful preoccupation, he could not refrain\nfrom saying to himself that this prowler of the barriers with whom\nJondrette was talking resembled a certain Panchaud, alias Printanier,\nalias Bigrenaille, whom Courfeyrac had once pointed out to him as a\nvery dangerous nocturnal roamer. This man s name the reader has learned\nin the preceding book. This Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias\nBigrenaille, figured later on in many criminal trials, and became a\nnotorious rascal. He was at that time only a famous rascal. To-day he\nexists in the state of tradition among ruffians and assassins. He was\nat the head of a school towards the end of the last reign. And in the\nevening, at nightfall, at the hour when groups form and talk in\nwhispers, he was discussed at La Force in the Fosse-aux-Lions. One\nmight even, in that prison, precisely at the spot where the sewer which\nserved the unprecedented escape, in broad daylight, of thirty\nprisoners, in 1843, passes under the culvert, read his name, PANCHAUD,\naudaciously carved by his own hand on the wall of the sewer, during one\nof his attempts at flight. In 1832, the police already had their eye on\nhim, but he had not as yet made a serious beginning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI OFFERS OF SERVICE FROM MISERY TO WRETCHEDNESS\n\n\nMarius ascended the stairs of the hovel with slow steps; at the moment\nwhen he was about to re-enter his cell, he caught sight of the elder\nJondrette girl following him through the corridor. The very sight of\nthis girl was odious to him; it was she who had his five francs, it was\ntoo late to demand them back, the cab was no longer there, the fiacre\nwas far away. Moreover, she would not have given them back. As for\nquestioning her about the residence of the persons who had just been\nthere, that was useless; it was evident that she did not know, since\nthe letter signed Fabantou had been addressed  to the benevolent\ngentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. \n\n\nMarius entered his room and pushed the door to after him.\n\nIt did not close; he turned round and beheld a hand which held the door\nhalf open.\n\n What is it?  he asked,  who is there? \n\n\nIt was the Jondrette girl.\n\n Is it you?  resumed Marius almost harshly,  still you! What do you\nwant with me? \n\n\nShe appeared to be thoughtful and did not look at him. She no longer\nhad the air of assurance which had characterized her that morning. She\ndid not enter, but held back in the darkness of the corridor, where\nMarius could see her through the half-open door.\n\n Come now, will you answer?  cried Marius.  What do you want with me? \n\n\nShe raised her dull eyes, in which a sort of gleam seemed to flicker\nvaguely, and said: \n\n Monsieur Marius, you look sad. What is the matter with you? \n\n\n With me!  said Marius.\n\n Yes, you. \n\n\n There is nothing the matter with me. \n\n\n Yes, there is! \n\n\n No. \n\n\n I tell you there is! \n\n\n Let me alone! \n\n\nMarius gave the door another push, but she retained her hold on it.\n\n Stop,  said she,  you are in the wrong. Although you are not rich, you\nwere kind this morning. Be so again now. You gave me something to eat,\nnow tell me what ails you. You are grieved, that is plain. I do not\nwant you to be grieved. What can be done for it? Can I be of any\nservice? Employ me. I do not ask for your secrets, you need not tell\nthem to me, but I may be of use, nevertheless. I may be able to help\nyou, since I help my father. When it is necessary to carry letters, to\ngo to houses, to inquire from door to door, to find out an address, to\nfollow any one, I am of service. Well, you may assuredly tell me what\nis the matter with you, and I will go and speak to the persons;\nsometimes it is enough if some one speaks to the persons, that suffices\nto let them understand matters, and everything comes right. Make use of\nme. \n\n\nAn idea flashed across Marius  mind. What branch does one disdain when\none feels that one is falling?\n\nHe drew near to the Jondrette girl.\n\n Listen  he said to her.\n\nShe interrupted him with a gleam of joy in her eyes.\n\n Oh yes, do call me _thou!_ I like that better. \n\n\n Well,  he resumed,  thou hast brought hither that old gentleman and\nhis daughter! \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Dost thou know their address? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Find it for me. \n\n\nThe Jondrette s dull eyes had grown joyous, and they now became gloomy.\n\n Is that what you want?  she demanded.\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Do you know them? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n That is to say,  she resumed quickly,  you do not know her, but you\nwish to know her. \n\n\nThis _them_ which had turned into _her_ had something indescribably\nsignificant and bitter about it.\n\n Well, can you do it?  said Marius.\n\n You shall have the beautiful lady s address. \n\n\nThere was still a shade in the words  the beautiful lady  which\ntroubled Marius. He resumed: \n\n Never mind, after all, the address of the father and daughter. Their\naddress, indeed! \n\n\nShe gazed fixedly at him.\n\n What will you give me? \n\n\n Anything you like. \n\n\n Anything I like? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n You shall have the address. \n\n\nShe dropped her head; then, with a brusque movement, she pulled to the\ndoor, which closed behind her.\n\nMarius found himself alone.\n\nHe dropped into a chair, with his head and both elbows on his bed,\nabsorbed in thoughts which he could not grasp, and as though a prey to\nvertigo. All that had taken place since the morning, the appearance of\nthe angel, her disappearance, what that creature had just said to him,\na gleam of hope floating in an immense despair, this was what filled\nhis brain confusedly.\n\nAll at once he was violently aroused from his reverie.\n\nHe heard the shrill, hard voice of Jondrette utter these words, which\nwere fraught with a strange interest for him: \n\n I tell you that I am sure of it, and that I recognized him. \n\n\nOf whom was Jondrette speaking? Whom had he recognized? M. Leblanc? The\nfather of  his Ursule ? What! Did Jondrette know him? Was Marius about\nto obtain in this abrupt and unexpected fashion all the information\nwithout which his life was so dark to him? Was he about to learn at\nlast who it was that he loved, who that young girl was? Who her father\nwas? Was the dense shadow which enwrapped them on the point of being\ndispelled? Was the veil about to be rent? Ah! Heavens!\n\nHe bounded rather than climbed upon his commode, and resumed his post\nnear the little peep-hole in the partition wall.\n\nAgain he beheld the interior of Jondrette s hovel.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII THE USE MADE OF M. LEBLANC S FIVE-FRANC PIECE\n\n\nNothing in the aspect of the family was altered, except that the wife\nand daughters had levied on the package and put on woollen stockings\nand jackets. Two new blankets were thrown across the two beds.\n\nJondrette had evidently just returned. He still had the breathlessness\nof out of doors. His daughters were seated on the floor near the\nfireplace, the elder engaged in dressing the younger s wounded hand.\nHis wife had sunk back on the bed near the fireplace, with a face\nindicative of astonishment. Jondrette was pacing up and down the garret\nwith long strides. His eyes were extraordinary.\n\nThe woman, who seemed timid and overwhelmed with stupor in the presence\nof her husband, turned to say: \n\n What, really? You are sure? \n\n\n Sure! Eight years have passed! But I recognize him! Ah! I recognize\nhim. I knew him at once! What! Didn t it force itself on you? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n But I told you:  Pay attention!  Why, it is his figure, it is his\nface, only older, there are people who do not grow old, I don t know\nhow they manage it, it is the very sound of his voice. He is better\ndressed, that is all! Ah! you mysterious old devil, I ve got you, that\nI have! \n\n\nHe paused, and said to his daughters: \n\n Get out of here, you! It s queer that it didn t strike you! \n\n\nThey arose to obey.\n\nThe mother stammered: \n\n With her injured hand. \n\n\n The air will do it good,  said Jondrette.  Be off. \n\n\nIt was plain that this man was of the sort to whom no one offers to\nreply. The two girls departed.\n\nAt the moment when they were about to pass through the door, the father\ndetained the elder by the arm, and said to her with a peculiar accent: \n\n You will be here at five o clock precisely. Both of you. I shall need\nyou. \n\n\nMarius redoubled his attention.\n\nOn being left alone with his wife, Jondrette began to pace the room\nagain, and made the tour of it two or three times in silence. Then he\nspent several minutes in tucking the lower part of the woman s chemise\nwhich he wore into his trousers.\n\nAll at once, he turned to the female Jondrette, folded his arms and\nexclaimed: \n\n And would you like to have me tell you something? The young lady \n\n\n Well, what?  retorted his wife,  the young lady? \n\n\nMarius could not doubt that it was really she of whom they were\nspeaking. He listened with ardent anxiety. His whole life was in his\nears.\n\nBut Jondrette had bent over and spoke to his wife in a whisper. Then he\nstraightened himself up and concluded aloud: \n\n It is she! \n\n\n That one?  said his wife.\n\n That very one,  said the husband.\n\nNo expression can reproduce the significance of the mother s words.\nSurprise, rage, hate, wrath, were mingled and combined in one monstrous\nintonation. The pronunciation of a few words, the name, no doubt, which\nher husband had whispered in her ear, had sufficed to rouse this huge,\nsomnolent woman, and from being repulsive she became terrible.\n\n It is not possible!  she cried.  When I think that my daughters are\ngoing barefoot, and have not a gown to their backs! What! A satin\npelisse, a velvet bonnet, boots, and everything; more than two hundred\nfrancs  worth of clothes! so that one would think she was a lady! No,\nyou are mistaken! Why, in the first place, the other was hideous, and\nthis one is not so bad-looking! She really is not bad-looking! It can t\nbe she! \n\n\n I tell you that it is she. You will see. \n\n\nAt this absolute assertion, the Jondrette woman raised her large, red,\nblonde face and stared at the ceiling with a horrible expression. At\nthat moment, she seemed to Marius even more to be feared than her\nhusband. She was a sow with the look of a tigress.\n\n What!  she resumed,  that horrible, beautiful young lady, who gazed at\nmy daughters with an air of pity, she is that beggar brat! Oh! I should\nlike to kick her stomach in for her! \n\n\nShe sprang off of the bed, and remained standing for a moment, her hair\nin disorder, her nostrils dilating, her mouth half open, her fists\nclenched and drawn back. Then she fell back on the bed once more. The\nman paced to and fro and paid no attention to his female.\n\nAfter a silence lasting several minutes, he approached the female\nJondrette, and halted in front of her, with folded arms, as he had done\na moment before: \n\n And shall I tell you another thing? \n\n\n What is it?  she asked.\n\nHe answered in a low, curt voice: \n\n My fortune is made. \n\n\nThe woman stared at him with the look that signifies:  Is the person\nwho is addressing me on the point of going mad? \n\n\nHe went on: \n\n Thunder! It was not so very long ago that I was a parishioner of the\nparish of\ndie-of-hunger-if-you-have-a-fire,-die-of-cold-if-you-have-bread! I have\nhad enough of misery! my share and other people s share! I am not\njoking any longer, I don t find it comic any more, I ve had enough of\npuns, good God! no more farces, Eternal Father! I want to eat till I am\nfull, I want to drink my fill! to gormandize! to sleep! to do nothing!\nI want to have my turn, so I do, come now! before I die! I want to be a\nbit of a millionnaire! \n\n\nHe took a turn round the hovel, and added: \n\n Like other people. \n\n\n What do you mean by that?  asked the woman.\n\nHe shook his head, winked, screwed up one eye, and raised his voice\nlike a medical professor who is about to make a demonstration: \n\n What do I mean by that? Listen! \n\n\n Hush!  muttered the woman,  not so loud! These are matters which must\nnot be overheard. \n\n\n Bah! Who s here? Our neighbor? I saw him go out a little while ago.\nBesides, he doesn t listen, the big booby. And I tell you that I saw\nhim go out. \n\n\nNevertheless, by a sort of instinct, Jondrette lowered his voice,\nalthough not sufficiently to prevent Marius hearing his words. One\nfavorable circumstance, which enabled Marius not to lose a word of this\nconversation was the falling snow which deadened the sound of vehicles\non the boulevard.\n\nThis is what Marius heard: \n\n Listen carefully. The Cr sus is caught, or as good as caught! That s\nall settled already. Everything is arranged. I have seen some people.\nHe will come here this evening at six o clock. To bring sixty francs,\nthe rascal! Did you notice how I played that game on him, my sixty\nfrancs, my landlord, my fourth of February? I don t even owe for one\nquarter! Isn t he a fool! So he will come at six o clock! That s the\nhour when our neighbor goes to his dinner. Mother Bougon is off washing\ndishes in the city. There s not a soul in the house. The neighbor never\ncomes home until eleven o clock. The children shall stand on watch. You\nshall help us. He will give in. \n\n\n And what if he does not give in?  demanded his wife.\n\nJondrette made a sinister gesture, and said: \n\n We ll fix him. \n\n\nAnd he burst out laughing.\n\nThis was the first time Marius had seen him laugh. The laugh was cold\nand sweet, and provoked a shudder.\n\nJondrette opened a cupboard near the fireplace, and drew from it an old\ncap, which he placed on his head, after brushing it with his sleeve.\n\n Now,  said he,  I m going out. I have some more people that I must\nsee. Good ones. You ll see how well the whole thing will work. I shall\nbe away as short a time as possible, it s a fine stroke of business, do\nyou look after the house. \n\n\nAnd with both fists thrust into the pockets of his trousers, he stood\nfor a moment in thought, then exclaimed: \n\n Do you know, it s mighty lucky, by the way, that he didn t recognize\nme! If he had recognized me on his side, he would not have come back\nagain. He would have slipped through our fingers! It was my beard that\nsaved us! my romantic beard! my pretty little romantic beard! \n\n\nAnd again he broke into a laugh.\n\nHe stepped to the window. The snow was still falling, and streaking the\ngray of the sky.\n\n What beastly weather!  said he.\n\nThen lapping his overcoat across his breast: \n\n This rind is too large for me. Never mind,  he added,  he did a\ndevilish good thing in leaving it for me, the old scoundrel! If it\nhadn t been for that, I couldn t have gone out, and everything would\nhave gone wrong! What small points things hang on, anyway! \n\n\nAnd pulling his cap down over his eyes, he quitted the room.\n\nHe had barely had time to take half a dozen steps from the door, when\nthe door opened again, and his savage but intelligent face made its\nappearance once more in the opening.\n\n I came near forgetting,  said he.  You are to have a brazier of\ncharcoal ready. \n\n\nAnd he flung into his wife s apron the five-franc piece which the\n philanthropist  had left with him.\n\n A brazier of charcoal?  asked his wife.\n\n Yes. \n\n\n How many bushels? \n\n\n Two good ones. \n\n\n That will come to thirty sous. With the rest I will buy something for\ndinner. \n\n\n The devil, no. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n Don t go and spend the hundred-sou piece. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n Because I shall have to buy something, too. \n\n\n What? \n\n\n Something. \n\n\n How much shall you need? \n\n\n Whereabouts in the neighborhood is there an ironmonger s shop? \n\n\n Rue Mouffetard. \n\n\n Ah! yes, at the corner of a street; I can see the shop. \n\n\n But tell me how much you will need for what you have to purchase? \n\n\n Fifty sous three francs. \n\n\n There won t be much left for dinner. \n\n\n Eating is not the point to-day. There s something better to be done. \n\n\n That s enough, my jewel. \n\n\nAt this word from his wife, Jondrette closed the door again, and this\ntime, Marius heard his step die away in the corridor of the hovel, and\ndescend the staircase rapidly.\n\nAt that moment, one o clock struck from the church of Saint-M dard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII SOLUS CUM SOLO, IN LOCO REMOTO, NON COGITABUNTUR ORARE\nPATER NOSTER\n\n\nMarius, dreamer as he was, was, as we have said, firm and energetic by\nnature. His habits of solitary meditation, while they had developed in\nhim sympathy and compassion, had, perhaps, diminished the faculty for\nirritation, but had left intact the power of waxing indignant; he had\nthe kindliness of a brahmin, and the severity of a judge; he took pity\nupon a toad, but he crushed a viper. Now, it was into a hole of vipers\nthat his glance had just been directed, it was a nest of monsters that\nhe had beneath his eyes.\n\n These wretches must be stamped upon,  said he.\n\nNot one of the enigmas which he had hoped to see solved had been\nelucidated; on the contrary, all of them had been rendered more dense,\nif anything; he knew nothing more about the beautiful maiden of the\nLuxembourg and the man whom he called M. Leblanc, except that Jondrette\nwas acquainted with them. Athwart the mysterious words which had been\nuttered, the only thing of which he caught a distinct glimpse was the\nfact that an ambush was in course of preparation, a dark but terrible\ntrap; that both of them were incurring great danger, she probably, her\nfather certainly; that they must be saved; that the hideous plots of\nthe Jondrettes must be thwarted, and the web of these spiders broken.\n\nHe scanned the female Jondrette for a moment. She had pulled an old\nsheet-iron stove from a corner, and she was rummaging among the old\nheap of iron.\n\nHe descended from the commode as softly as possible, taking care not to\nmake the least noise. Amid his terror as to what was in preparation,\nand in the horror with which the Jondrettes had inspired him, he\nexperienced a sort of joy at the idea that it might be granted to him\nperhaps to render a service to the one whom he loved.\n\nBut how was it to be done? How warn the persons threatened? He did not\nknow their address. They had reappeared for an instant before his eyes,\nand had then plunged back again into the immense depths of Paris.\nShould he wait for M. Leblanc at the door that evening at six o clock,\nat the moment of his arrival, and warn him of the trap? But Jondrette\nand his men would see him on the watch, the spot was lonely, they were\nstronger than he, they would devise means to seize him or to get him\naway, and the man whom Marius was anxious to save would be lost. One\no clock had just struck, the trap was to be sprung at six. Marius had\nfive hours before him.\n\nThere was but one thing to be done.\n\nHe put on his decent coat, knotted a silk handkerchief round his neck,\ntook his hat, and went out, without making any more noise than if he\nhad been treading on moss with bare feet.\n\nMoreover, the Jondrette woman continued to rummage among her old iron.\n\nOnce outside of the house, he made for the Rue du Petit-Banquier.\n\nHe had almost reached the middle of this street, near a very low wall\nwhich a man can easily step over at certain points, and which abuts on\na waste space, and was walking slowly, in consequence of his\npreoccupied condition, and the snow deadened the sound of his steps;\nall at once he heard voices talking very close by. He turned his head,\nthe street was deserted, there was not a soul in it, it was broad\ndaylight, and yet he distinctly heard voices.\n\nIt occurred to him to glance over the wall which he was skirting.\n\nThere, in fact, sat two men, flat on the snow, with their backs against\nthe wall, talking together in subdued tones.\n\nThese two persons were strangers to him; one was a bearded man in a\nblouse, and the other a long-haired individual in rags. The bearded man\nhad on a fez, the other s head was bare, and the snow had lodged in his\nhair.\n\nBy thrusting his head over the wall, Marius could hear their remarks.\n\nThe hairy one jogged the other man s elbow and said: \n\n With the assistance of Patron-Minette, it can t fail. \n\n\n Do you think so?  said the bearded man.\n\nAnd the long-haired one began again: \n\n It s as good as a warrant for each one, of five hundred balls, and the\nworst that can happen is five years, six years, ten years at the most! \n\n\nThe other replied with some hesitation, and shivering beneath his fez: \n\n That s a real thing. You can t go against such things. \n\n\n I tell you that the affair can t go wrong,  resumed the long-haired\nman.  Father What s-his-name s team will be already harnessed. \n\n\nThen they began to discuss a melodrama that they had seen on the\npreceding evening at the Ga t  Theatre.\n\nMarius went his way.\n\nIt seemed to him that the mysterious words of these men, so strangely\nhidden behind that wall, and crouching in the snow, could not but bear\nsome relation to Jondrette s abominable projects. That must be _the\naffair_.\n\nHe directed his course towards the faubourg Saint-Marceau and asked at\nthe first shop he came to where he could find a commissary of police.\n\nHe was directed to Rue de Pontoise, No. 14.\n\nThither Marius betook himself.\n\nAs he passed a baker s shop, he bought a two-penny roll, and ate it,\nforeseeing that he should not dine.\n\nOn the way, he rendered justice to Providence. He reflected that had he\nnot given his five francs to the Jondrette girl in the morning, he\nwould have followed M. Leblanc s fiacre, and consequently have remained\nignorant of everything, and that there would have been no obstacle to\nthe trap of the Jondrettes and that M. Leblanc would have been lost,\nand his daughter with him, no doubt.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV IN WHICH A POLICE AGENT BESTOWS TWO FISTFULS ON A LAWYER\n\n\nOn arriving at No. 14, Rue de Pontoise, he ascended to the first floor\nand inquired for the commissary of police.\n\n The commissary of police is not here,  said a clerk;  but there is an\ninspector who takes his place. Would you like to speak to him? Are you\nin haste? \n\n\n Yes,  said Marius.\n\nThe clerk introduced him into the commissary s office. There stood a\ntall man behind a grating, leaning against a stove, and holding up with\nboth hands the tails of a vast topcoat, with three collars. His face\nwas square, with a thin, firm mouth, thick, gray, and very ferocious\nwhiskers, and a look that was enough to turn your pockets inside out.\nOf that glance it might have been well said, not that it penetrated,\nbut that it searched.\n\nThis man s air was not much less ferocious nor less terrible than\nJondrette s; the dog is, at times, no less terrible to meet than the\nwolf.\n\n What do you want?  he said to Marius, without adding  monsieur. \n\n\n Is this Monsieur le Commissaire de Police? \n\n\n He is absent. I am here in his stead. \n\n\n The matter is very private. \n\n\n Then speak. \n\n\n And great haste is required. \n\n\n Then speak quick. \n\n\nThis calm, abrupt man was both terrifying and reassuring at one and the\nsame time. He inspired fear and confidence. Marius related the\nadventure to him: That a person with whom he was not acquainted\notherwise than by sight, was to be inveigled into a trap that very\nevening; that, as he occupied the room adjoining the den, he, Marius\nPontmercy, a lawyer, had heard the whole plot through the partition;\nthat the wretch who had planned the trap was a certain Jondrette; that\nthere would be accomplices, probably some prowlers of the barriers,\namong others a certain Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille;\nthat Jondrette s daughters were to lie in wait; that there was no way\nof warning the threatened man, since he did not even know his name; and\nthat, finally, all this was to be carried out at six o clock that\nevening, at the most deserted point of the Boulevard de l H pital, in\nhouse No. 50-52.\n\nAt the sound of this number, the inspector raised his head, and said\ncoldly: \n\n So it is in the room at the end of the corridor? \n\n\n Precisely,  answered Marius, and he added:  Are you acquainted with\nthat house? \n\n\nThe inspector remained silent for a moment, then replied, as he warmed\nthe heel of his boot at the door of the stove: \n\n Apparently. \n\n\nHe went on, muttering between his teeth, and not addressing Marius so\nmuch as his cravat: \n\n Patron-Minette must have had a hand in this. \n\n\nThis word struck Marius.\n\n Patron-Minette,  said he,  I did hear that word pronounced, in fact. \n\n\nAnd he repeated to the inspector the dialogue between the long-haired\nman and the bearded man in the snow behind the wall of the Rue du\nPetit-Banquier.\n\nThe inspector muttered: \n\n The long-haired man must be Brujon, and the bearded one Demi-Liard,\nalias Deux-Milliards. \n\n\nHe had dropped his eyelids again, and became absorbed in thought.\n\n As for Father What s-his-name, I think I recognize him. Here, I ve\nburned my coat. They always have too much fire in these cursed stoves.\nNumber 50-52. Former property of Gorbeau. \n\n\nThen he glanced at Marius.\n\n You saw only that bearded and that long-haired man? \n\n\n And Panchaud. \n\n\n You didn t see a little imp of a dandy prowling about the premises? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Nor a big lump of matter, resembling an elephant in the Jardin des\nPlantes? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Nor a scamp with the air of an old red tail? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n As for the fourth, no one sees him, not even his adjutants, clerks,\nand employees. It is not surprising that you did not see him. \n\n\n No. Who are all those persons?  asked Marius.\n\nThe inspector answered: \n\n Besides, this is not the time for them. \n\n\nHe relapsed into silence, then resumed: \n\n 50-52. I know that barrack. Impossible to conceal ourselves inside it\nwithout the artists seeing us, and then they will get off simply by\ncountermanding the vaudeville. They are so modest! An audience\nembarrasses them. None of that, none of that. I want to hear them sing\nand make them dance. \n\n\nThis monologue concluded, he turned to Marius, and demanded, gazing at\nhim intently the while: \n\n Are you afraid? \n\n\n Of what?  said Marius.\n\n Of these men? \n\n\n No more than yourself!  retorted Marius rudely, who had begun to\nnotice that this police agent had not yet said  monsieur  to him.\n\nThe inspector stared still more intently at Marius, and continued with\nsententious solemnity: \n\n There, you speak like a brave man, and like an honest man. Courage\ndoes not fear crime, and honesty does not fear authority. \n\n\nMarius interrupted him: \n\n That is well, but what do you intend to do? \n\n\nThe inspector contented himself with the remark: \n\n The lodgers have pass-keys with which to get in at night. You must\nhave one. \n\n\n Yes,  said Marius.\n\n Have you it about you? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Give it to me,  said the inspector.\n\nMarius took his key from his waistcoat pocket, handed it to the\ninspector and added: \n\n If you will take my advice, you will come in force. \n\n\nThe inspector cast on Marius such a glance as Voltaire might have\nbestowed on a provincial academician who had suggested a rhyme to him;\nwith one movement he plunged his hands, which were enormous, into the\ntwo immense pockets of his top-coat, and pulled out two small steel\npistols, of the sort called  knock-me-downs.  Then he presented them to\nMarius, saying rapidly, in a curt tone: \n\n Take these. Go home. Hide in your chamber, so that you may be supposed\nto have gone out. They are loaded. Each one carries two balls. You will\nkeep watch; there is a hole in the wall, as you have informed me. These\nmen will come. Leave them to their own devices for a time. When you\nthink matters have reached a crisis, and that it is time to put a stop\nto them, fire a shot. Not too soon. The rest concerns me. A shot into\nthe ceiling, the air, no matter where. Above all things, not too soon.\nWait until they begin to put their project into execution; you are a\nlawyer; you know the proper point.  Marius took the pistols and put\nthem in the side pocket of his coat.\n\n That makes a lump that can be seen,  said the inspector.  Put them in\nyour trousers pocket. \n\n\nMarius hid the pistols in his trousers pockets.\n\n Now,  pursued the inspector,  there is not a minute more to be lost by\nany one. What time is it? Half-past two. Seven o clock is the hour? \n\n\n Six o clock,  answered Marius.\n\n I have plenty of time,  said the inspector,  but no more than enough.\nDon t forget anything that I have said to you. Bang. A pistol shot. \n\n\n Rest easy,  said Marius.\n\nAnd as Marius laid his hand on the handle of the door on his way out,\nthe inspector called to him: \n\n By the way, if you have occasion for my services between now and then,\ncome or send here. You will ask for Inspector Javert. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV JONDRETTE MAKES HIS PURCHASES\n\n\nA few moments later, about three o clock, Courfeyrac chanced to be\npassing along the Rue Mouffetard in company with Bossuet. The snow had\nredoubled in violence, and filled the air. Bossuet was just saying to\nCourfeyrac: \n\n One would say, to see all these snow-flakes fall, that there was a\nplague of white butterflies in heaven.  All at once, Bossuet caught\nsight of Marius coming up the street towards the barrier with a\npeculiar air.\n\n Hold!  said Bossuet.  There s Marius. \n\n\n I saw him,  said Courfeyrac.  Don t let s speak to him. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n He is busy. \n\n\n With what? \n\n\n Don t you see his air? \n\n\n What air? \n\n\n He has the air of a man who is following some one. \n\n\n That s true,  said Bossuet.\n\n Just see the eyes he is making!  said Courfeyrac.\n\n But who the deuce is he following? \n\n\n Some fine, flowery bonneted wench! He s in love. \n\n\n But,  observed Bossuet,  I don t see any wench nor any flowery bonnet\nin the street. There s not a woman round. \n\n\nCourfeyrac took a survey, and exclaimed: \n\n He s following a man! \n\n\nA man, in fact, wearing a gray cap, and whose gray beard could be\ndistinguished, although they only saw his back, was walking along about\ntwenty paces in advance of Marius.\n\nThis man was dressed in a great-coat which was perfectly new and too\nlarge for him, and in a frightful pair of trousers all hanging in rags\nand black with mud.\n\nBossuet burst out laughing.\n\n Who is that man? \n\n\n He?  retorted Courfeyrac,  he s a poet. Poets are very fond of wearing\nthe trousers of dealers in rabbit skins and the overcoats of peers of\nFrance. \n\n\n Let s see where Marius will go,  said Bossuet;  let s see where the\nman is going, let s follow them, hey? \n\n\n Bossuet!  exclaimed Courfeyrac,  eagle of Meaux! You are a prodigious\nbrute. Follow a man who is following another man, indeed! \n\n\nThey retraced their steps.\n\nMarius had, in fact, seen Jondrette passing along the Rue Mouffetard,\nand was spying on his proceedings.\n\nJondrette walked straight ahead, without a suspicion that he was\nalready held by a glance.\n\nHe quitted the Rue Mouffetard, and Marius saw him enter one of the most\nterrible hovels in the Rue Gracieuse; he remained there about a quarter\nof an hour, then returned to the Rue Mouffetard. He halted at an\nironmonger s shop, which then stood at the corner of the Rue\nPierre-Lombard, and a few minutes later Marius saw him emerge from the\nshop, holding in his hand a huge cold chisel with a white wood handle,\nwhich he concealed beneath his great-coat. At the top of the Rue\nPetit-Gentilly he turned to the left and proceeded rapidly to the Rue\ndu Petit-Banquier. The day was declining; the snow, which had ceased\nfor a moment, had just begun again. Marius posted himself on the watch\nat the very corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier, which was deserted, as\nusual, and did not follow Jondrette into it. It was lucky that he did\nso, for, on arriving in the vicinity of the wall where Marius had heard\nthe long-haired man and the bearded man conversing, Jondrette turned\nround, made sure that no one was following him, did not see him, then\nsprang across the wall and disappeared.\n\nThe waste land bordered by this wall communicated with the back yard of\nan ex-livery stable-keeper of bad repute, who had failed and who still\nkept a few old single-seated berlins under his sheds.\n\nMarius thought that it would be wise to profit by Jondrette s absence\nto return home; moreover, it was growing late; every evening, Ma am\nBougon when she set out for her dish-washing in town, had a habit of\nlocking the door, which was always closed at dusk. Marius had given his\nkey to the inspector of police; it was important, therefore, that he\nshould make haste.\n\nEvening had arrived, night had almost closed in; on the horizon and in\nthe immensity of space, there remained but one spot illuminated by the\nsun, and that was the moon.\n\nIt was rising in a ruddy glow behind the low dome of Salp tri re.\n\nMarius returned to No. 50-52 with great strides. The door was still\nopen when he arrived. He mounted the stairs on tip-toe and glided along\nthe wall of the corridor to his chamber. This corridor, as the reader\nwill remember, was bordered on both sides by attics, all of which were,\nfor the moment, empty and to let. Ma am Bougon was in the habit of\nleaving all the doors open. As he passed one of these attics, Marius\nthought he perceived in the uninhabited cell the motionless heads of\nfour men, vaguely lighted up by a remnant of daylight, falling through\na dormer window.\n\nMarius made no attempt to see, not wishing to be seen himself. He\nsucceeded in reaching his chamber without being seen and without making\nany noise. It was high time. A moment later he heard Ma am Bougon take\nher departure, locking the door of the house behind her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND THE WORDS TO AN ENGLISH AIR WHICH\nWAS IN FASHION IN 1832\n\n\nMarius seated himself on his bed. It might have been half-past five\no clock. Only half an hour separated him from what was about to happen.\nHe heard the beating of his arteries as one hears the ticking of a\nwatch in the dark. He thought of the double march which was going on at\nthat moment in the dark, crime advancing on one side, justice coming up\non the other. He was not afraid, but he could not think without a\nshudder of what was about to take place. As is the case with all those\nwho are suddenly assailed by an unforeseen adventure, the entire day\nproduced upon him the effect of a dream, and in order to persuade\nhimself that he was not the prey of a nightmare, he had to feel the\ncold barrels of the steel pistols in his trousers pockets.\n\nIt was no longer snowing; the moon disengaged itself more and more\nclearly from the mist, and its light, mingled with the white reflection\nof the snow which had fallen, communicated to the chamber a sort of\ntwilight aspect.\n\nThere was a light in the Jondrette den. Marius saw the hole in the wall\nshining with a reddish glow which seemed bloody to him.\n\nIt was true that the light could not be produced by a candle. However,\nthere was not a sound in the Jondrette quarters, not a soul was moving\nthere, not a soul speaking, not a breath; the silence was glacial and\nprofound, and had it not been for that light, he might have thought\nhimself next door to a sepulchre.\n\nMarius softly removed his boots and pushed them under his bed.\n\nSeveral minutes elapsed. Marius heard the lower door turn on its\nhinges; a heavy step mounted the staircase, and hastened along the\ncorridor; the latch of the hovel was noisily lifted; it was Jondrette\nreturning.\n\nInstantly, several voices arose. The whole family was in the garret.\nOnly, it had been silent in the master s absence, like wolf whelps in\nthe absence of the wolf.\n\n It s I,  said he.\n\n Good evening, daddy,  yelped the girls.\n\n Well?  said the mother.\n\n All s going first-rate,  responded Jondrette,  but my feet are beastly\ncold. Good! You have dressed up. You have done well! You must inspire\nconfidence. \n\n\n All ready to go out. \n\n\n Don t forget what I told you. You will do everything sure? \n\n\n Rest easy. \n\n\n Because  said Jondrette. And he left the phrase unfinished.\n\nMarius heard him lay something heavy on the table, probably the chisel\nwhich he had purchased.\n\n By the way,  said Jondrette,  have you been eating here? \n\n\n Yes,  said the mother.  I got three large potatoes and some salt. I\ntook advantage of the fire to cook them. \n\n\n Good,  returned Jondrette.  To-morrow I will take you out to dine with\nme. We will have a duck and fixings. You shall dine like Charles the\nTenth; all is going well! \n\n\nThen he added: \n\n The mouse-trap is open. The cats are there. \n\n\nHe lowered his voice still further, and said: \n\n Put this in the fire. \n\n\nMarius heard a sound of charcoal being knocked with the tongs or some\niron utensil, and Jondrette continued: \n\n Have you greased the hinges of the door so that they will not squeak? \n\n\n Yes,  replied the mother.\n\n What time is it? \n\n\n Nearly six. The half-hour struck from Saint-M dard a while ago. \n\n\n The devil!  ejaculated Jondrette;  the children must go and watch.\nCome you, do you listen here. \n\n\nA whispering ensued.\n\nJondrette s voice became audible again: \n\n Has old Bougon left? \n\n\n Yes,  said the mother.\n\n Are you sure that there is no one in our neighbor s room? \n\n\n He has not been in all day, and you know very well that this is his\ndinner hour. \n\n\n You are sure? \n\n\n Sure. \n\n\n All the same,  said Jondrette,  there s no harm in going to see\nwhether he is there. Here, my girl, take the candle and go there. \n\n\nMarius fell on his hands and knees and crawled silently under his bed.\n\nHardly had he concealed himself, when he perceived a light through the\ncrack of his door.\n\n P pa,  cried a voice,  he is not in here. \n\n\nHe recognized the voice of the eldest daughter.\n\n Did you go in?  demanded her father.\n\n No,  replied the girl,  but as his key is in the door, he must be\nout. \n\n\nThe father exclaimed: \n\n Go in, nevertheless. \n\n\nThe door opened, and Marius saw the tall Jondrette come in with a\ncandle in her hand. She was as she had been in the morning, only still\nmore repulsive in this light.\n\nShe walked straight up to the bed. Marius endured an indescribable\nmoment of anxiety; but near the bed there was a mirror nailed to the\nwall, and it was thither that she was directing her steps. She raised\nherself on tiptoe and looked at herself in it. In the neighboring room,\nthe sound of iron articles being moved was audible.\n\nShe smoothed her hair with the palm of her hand, and smiled into the\nmirror, humming with her cracked and sepulchral voice: \n\nNos amours ont dur  toute une semaine,\nMais que du bonheur les instants sont courts!\nS adorer huit jours, c tait bien la peine!\nLe temps des amours devrait durer toujours!\nDevrait durer toujours! devrait durer toujours!28\n\n\nIn the meantime, Marius trembled. It seemed impossible to him that she\nshould not hear his breathing.\n\nShe stepped to the window and looked out with the half-foolish way she\nhad.\n\n How ugly Paris is when it has put on a white chemise!  said she.\n\nShe returned to the mirror and began again to put on airs before it,\nscrutinizing herself full-face and three-quarters face in turn.\n\n Well!  cried her father,  what are you about there? \n\n\n I am looking under the bed and the furniture,  she replied, continuing\nto arrange her hair;  there s no one here. \n\n\n Booby!  yelled her father.  Come here this minute! And don t waste any\ntime about it! \n\n\n Coming! Coming!  said she.  One has no time for anything in this\nhovel! \n\n\nShe hummed: \n\nVous me quittez pour aller   la gloire;\nMon triste c ur suivra partout.29\n\n\nShe cast a parting glance in the mirror and went out, shutting the door\nbehind her.\n\nA moment more, and Marius heard the sound of the two young girls  bare\nfeet in the corridor, and Jondrette s voice shouting to them: \n\n Pay strict heed! One on the side of the barrier, the other at the\ncorner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier. Don t lose sight for a moment of\nthe door of this house, and the moment you see anything, rush here on\nthe instant! as hard as you can go! You have a key to get in. \n\n\nThe eldest girl grumbled: \n\n The idea of standing watch in the snow barefoot! \n\n\n To-morrow you shall have some dainty little green silk boots!  said\nthe father.\n\nThey ran downstairs, and a few seconds later the shock of the outer\ndoor as it banged to announced that they were outside.\n\nThere now remained in the house only Marius, the Jondrettes and\nprobably, also, the mysterious persons of whom Marius had caught a\nglimpse in the twilight, behind the door of the unused attic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII THE USE MADE OF MARIUS  FIVE-FRANC PIECE\n\n\nMarius decided that the moment had now arrived when he must resume his\npost at his observatory. In a twinkling, and with the agility of his\nage, he had reached the hole in the partition.\n\nHe looked.\n\nThe interior of the Jondrette apartment presented a curious aspect, and\nMarius found an explanation of the singular light which he had noticed.\nA candle was burning in a candlestick covered with verdigris, but that\nwas not what really lighted the chamber. The hovel was completely\nilluminated, as it were, by the reflection from a rather large\nsheet-iron brazier standing in the fireplace, and filled with burning\ncharcoal, the brazier prepared by the Jondrette woman that morning. The\ncharcoal was glowing hot and the brazier was red; a blue flame\nflickered over it, and helped him to make out the form of the chisel\npurchased by Jondrette in the Rue Pierre-Lombard, where it had been\nthrust into the brazier to heat. In one corner, near the door, and as\nthough prepared for some definite use, two heaps were visible, which\nappeared to be, the one a heap of old iron, the other a heap of ropes.\nAll this would have caused the mind of a person who knew nothing of\nwhat was in preparation, to waver between a very sinister and a very\nsimple idea. The lair thus lighted up more resembled a forge than a\nmouth of hell, but Jondrette, in this light, had rather the air of a\ndemon than of a smith.\n\nThe heat of the brazier was so great, that the candle on the table was\nmelting on the side next the chafing-dish, and was drooping over. An\nold dark-lantern of copper, worthy of Diogenes turned Cartouche, stood\non the chimney-piece.\n\nThe brazier, placed in the fireplace itself, beside the nearly extinct\nbrands, sent its vapors up the chimney, and gave out no odor.\n\nThe moon, entering through the four panes of the window, cast its\nwhiteness into the crimson and flaming garret; and to the poetic spirit\nof Marius, who was dreamy even in the moment of action, it was like a\nthought of heaven mingled with the misshapen reveries of earth.\n\nA breath of air which made its way in through the open pane, helped to\ndissipate the smell of the charcoal and to conceal the presence of the\nbrazier.\n\nThe Jondrette lair was, if the reader recalls what we have said of the\nGorbeau building, admirably chosen to serve as the theatre of a violent\nand sombre deed, and as the envelope for a crime. It was the most\nretired chamber in the most isolated house on the most deserted\nboulevard in Paris. If the system of ambush and traps had not already\nexisted, they would have been invented there.\n\nThe whole thickness of a house and a multitude of uninhabited rooms\nseparated this den from the boulevard, and the only window that existed\nopened on waste lands enclosed with walls and palisades.\n\nJondrette had lighted his pipe, seated himself on the seatless chair,\nand was engaged in smoking. His wife was talking to him in a low tone.\n\nIf Marius had been Courfeyrac, that is to say, one of those men who\nlaugh on every occasion in life, he would have burst with laughter when\nhis gaze fell on the Jondrette woman. She had on a black bonnet with\nplumes not unlike the hats of the heralds-at-arms at the coronation of\nCharles X., an immense tartan shawl over her knitted petticoat, and the\nman s shoes which her daughter had scorned in the morning. It was this\ntoilette which had extracted from Jondrette the exclamation:  Good! You\nhave dressed up. You have done well. You must inspire confidence! \n\n\nAs for Jondrette, he had not taken off the new surtout, which was too\nlarge for him, and which M. Leblanc had given him, and his costume\ncontinued to present that contrast of coat and trousers which\nconstituted the ideal of a poet in Courfeyrac s eyes.\n\nAll at once, Jondrette lifted up his voice: \n\n By the way! Now that I think of it. In this weather, he will come in a\ncarriage. Light the lantern, take it and go downstairs. You will stand\nbehind the lower door. The very moment that you hear the carriage stop,\nyou will open the door, instantly, he will come up, you will light the\nstaircase and the corridor, and when he enters here, you will go\ndownstairs again as speedily as possible, you will pay the coachman,\nand dismiss the fiacre. \n\n\n And the money?  inquired the woman.\n\nJondrette fumbled in his trousers pocket and handed her five francs.\n\n What s this?  she exclaimed.\n\nJondrette replied with dignity: \n\n That is the monarch which our neighbor gave us this morning. \n\n\nAnd he added: \n\n Do you know what? Two chairs will be needed here. \n\n\n What for? \n\n\n To sit on. \n\n\nMarius felt a cold chill pass through his limbs at hearing this mild\nanswer from Jondrette.\n\n Pardieu! I ll go and get one of our neighbor s. \n\n\nAnd with a rapid movement, she opened the door of the den, and went out\ninto the corridor.\n\nMarius absolutely had not the time to descend from the commode, reach\nhis bed, and conceal himself beneath it.\n\n Take the candle,  cried Jondrette.\n\n No,  said she,  it would embarrass me, I have the two chairs to carry.\nThere is moonlight. \n\n\nMarius heard Mother Jondrette s heavy hand fumbling at his lock in the\ndark. The door opened. He remained nailed to the spot with the shock\nand with horror.\n\nThe Jondrette entered.\n\nThe dormer window permitted the entrance of a ray of moonlight between\ntwo blocks of shadow. One of these blocks of shadow entirely covered\nthe wall against which Marius was leaning, so that he disappeared\nwithin it.\n\nMother Jondrette raised her eyes, did not see Marius, took the two\nchairs, the only ones which Marius possessed, and went away, letting\nthe door fall heavily to behind her.\n\nShe re-entered the lair.\n\n Here are the two chairs. \n\n\n And here is the lantern. Go down as quick as you can. \n\n\nShe hastily obeyed, and Jondrette was left alone.\n\nHe placed the two chairs on opposite sides of the table, turned the\nchisel in the brazier, set in front of the fireplace an old screen\nwhich masked the chafing-dish, then went to the corner where lay the\npile of rope, and bent down as though to examine something. Marius then\nrecognized the fact, that what he had taken for a shapeless mass was a\nvery well-made rope-ladder, with wooden rungs and two hooks with which\nto attach it.\n\nThis ladder, and some large tools, veritable masses of iron, which were\nmingled with the old iron piled up behind the door, had not been in the\nJondrette hovel in the morning, and had evidently been brought thither\nin the afternoon, during Marius  absence.\n\n Those are the utensils of an edge-tool maker,  thought Marius.\n\nHad Marius been a little more learned in this line, he would have\nrecognized in what he took for the engines of an edge-tool maker,\ncertain instruments which will force a lock or pick a lock, and others\nwhich will cut or slice, the two families of tools which burglars call\n_cadets_ and _fauchants_.\n\nThe fireplace and the two chairs were exactly opposite Marius. The\nbrazier being concealed, the only light in the room was now furnished\nby the candle; the smallest bit of crockery on the table or on the\nchimney-piece cast a large shadow. There was something indescribably\ncalm, threatening, and hideous about this chamber. One felt that there\nexisted in it the anticipation of something terrible.\n\nJondrette had allowed his pipe to go out, a serious sign of\npreoccupation, and had again seated himself. The candle brought out the\nfierce and the fine angles of his countenance. He indulged in scowls\nand in abrupt unfoldings of the right hand, as though he were\nresponding to the last counsels of a sombre inward monologue. In the\ncourse of one of these dark replies which he was making to himself, he\npulled the table drawer rapidly towards him, took out a long kitchen\nknife which was concealed there, and tried the edge of its blade on his\nnail. That done, he put the knife back in the drawer and shut it.\n\nMarius, on his side, grasped the pistol in his right pocket, drew it\nout and cocked it.\n\nThe pistol emitted a sharp, clear click, as he cocked it.\n\nJondrette started, half rose, listened a moment, then began to laugh\nand said: \n\n What a fool I am! It s the partition cracking! \n\n\nMarius kept the pistol in his hand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII MARIUS  TWO CHAIRS FORM A VIS-A-VIS\n\n\nSuddenly, the distant and melancholy vibration of a clock shook the\npanes. Six o clock was striking from Saint-M dard.\n\nJondrette marked off each stroke with a toss of his head. When the\nsixth had struck, he snuffed the candle with his fingers.\n\nThen he began to pace up and down the room, listened at the corridor,\nwalked on again, then listened once more.\n\n Provided only that he comes!  he muttered, then he returned to his\nchair.\n\nHe had hardly reseated himself when the door opened.\n\nMother Jondrette had opened it, and now remained in the corridor making\na horrible, amiable grimace, which one of the holes of the dark-lantern\nilluminated from below.\n\n Enter, sir,  she said.\n\n Enter, my benefactor,  repeated Jondrette, rising hastily.\n\nM. Leblanc made his appearance.\n\nHe wore an air of serenity which rendered him singularly venerable.\n\nHe laid four louis on the table.\n\n Monsieur Fabantou,  said he,  this is for your rent and your most\npressing necessities. We will attend to the rest hereafter. \n\n\n May God requite it to you, my generous benefactor!  said Jondrette.\n\nAnd rapidly approaching his wife: \n\n Dismiss the carriage! \n\n\nShe slipped out while her husband was lavishing salutes and offering M.\nLeblanc a chair. An instant later she returned and whispered in his\near: \n\n Tis done. \n\n\nThe snow, which had not ceased falling since the morning, was so deep\nthat the arrival of the fiacre had not been audible, and they did not\nnow hear its departure.\n\nMeanwhile, M. Leblanc had seated himself.\n\nJondrette had taken possession of the other chair, facing M. Leblanc.\n\nNow, in order to form an idea of the scene which is to follow, let the\nreader picture to himself in his own mind, a cold night, the solitudes\nof the Salp tri re covered with snow and white as winding-sheets in the\nmoonlight, the taper-like lights of the street lanterns which shone\nredly here and there along those tragic boulevards, and the long rows\nof black elms, not a passer-by for perhaps a quarter of a league\naround, the Gorbeau hovel, at its highest pitch of silence, of horror,\nand of darkness; in that building, in the midst of those solitudes, in\nthe midst of that darkness, the vast Jondrette garret lighted by a\nsingle candle, and in that den two men seated at a table, M. Leblanc\ntranquil, Jondrette smiling and alarming, the Jondrette woman, the\nfemale wolf, in one corner, and, behind the partition, Marius,\ninvisible, erect, not losing a word, not missing a single movement, his\neye on the watch, and pistol in hand.\n\nHowever, Marius experienced only an emotion of horror, but no fear. He\nclasped the stock of the pistol firmly and felt reassured.  I shall be\nable to stop that wretch whenever I please,  he thought.\n\nHe felt that the police were there somewhere in ambuscade, waiting for\nthe signal agreed upon and ready to stretch out their arm.\n\nMoreover, he was in hopes, that this violent encounter between\nJondrette and M. Leblanc would cast some light on all the things which\nhe was interested in learning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX OCCUPYING ONE S SELF WITH OBSCURE DEPTHS\n\n\nHardly was M. Leblanc seated, when he turned his eyes towards the\npallets, which were empty.\n\n How is the poor little wounded girl?  he inquired.\n\n Bad,  replied Jondrette with a heart-broken and grateful smile,  very\nbad, my worthy sir. Her elder sister has taken her to the Bourbe to\nhave her hurt dressed. You will see them presently; they will be back\nimmediately. \n\n\n Madame Fabantou seems to me to be better,  went on M. Leblanc, casting\nhis eyes on the eccentric costume of the Jondrette woman, as she stood\nbetween him and the door, as though already guarding the exit, and\ngazed at him in an attitude of menace and almost of combat.\n\n She is dying,  said Jondrette.  But what do you expect, sir! She has\nso much courage, that woman has! She s not a woman, she s an ox. \n\n\nThe Jondrette, touched by his compliment, deprecated it with the\naffected airs of a flattered monster.\n\n You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jondrette! \n\n\n Jondrette!  said M. Leblanc,  I thought your name was Fabantou? \n\n\n Fabantou, alias Jondrette!  replied the husband hurriedly.  An\nartistic sobriquet! \n\n\nAnd launching at his wife a shrug of the shoulders which M. Leblanc did\nnot catch, he continued with an emphatic and caressing inflection of\nvoice: \n\n Ah! we have had a happy life together, this poor darling and I! What\nwould there be left for us if we had not that? We are so wretched, my\nrespectable sir! We have arms, but there is no work! We have the will,\nno work! I don t know how the government arranges that, but, on my word\nof honor, sir, I am not Jacobin, sir, I am not a bousingot.30 I don t\nwish them any evil, but if I were the ministers, on my most sacred\nword, things would be different. Here, for instance, I wanted to have\nmy girls taught the trade of paper-box makers. You will say to me:\n What! a trade?  Yes! A trade! A simple trade! A bread-winner! What a\nfall, my benefactor! What a degradation, when one has been what we have\nbeen! Alas! There is nothing left to us of our days of prosperity! One\nthing only, a picture, of which I think a great deal, but which I am\nwilling to part with, for I must live! Item, one must live! \n\n\nWhile Jondrette thus talked, with an apparent incoherence which\ndetracted nothing from the thoughtful and sagacious expression of his\nphysiognomy, Marius raised his eyes, and perceived at the other end of\nthe room a person whom he had not seen before. A man had just entered,\nso softly that the door had not been heard to turn on its hinges. This\nman wore a violet knitted vest, which was old, worn, spotted, cut and\ngaping at every fold, wide trousers of cotton velvet, wooden shoes on\nhis feet, no shirt, had his neck bare, his bare arms tattooed, and his\nface smeared with black. He had seated himself in silence on the\nnearest bed, and, as he was behind Jondrette, he could only be\nindistinctly seen.\n\nThat sort of magnetic instinct which turns aside the gaze, caused M.\nLeblanc to turn round almost at the same moment as Marius. He could not\nrefrain from a gesture of surprise which did not escape Jondrette.\n\n Ah! I see!  exclaimed Jondrette, buttoning up his coat with an air of\ncomplaisance,  you are looking at your overcoat? It fits me! My faith,\nbut it fits me! \n\n\n Who is that man?  said M. Leblanc.\n\n Him?  ejaculated Jondrette,  he s a neighbor of mine. Don t pay any\nattention to him. \n\n\nThe neighbor was a singular-looking individual. However, manufactories\nof chemical products abound in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Many of the\nworkmen might have black faces. Besides this, M. Leblanc s whole person\nwas expressive of candid and intrepid confidence.\n\nHe went on: \n\n Excuse me; what were you saying, M. Fabantou? \n\n\n I was telling you, sir, and dear protector,  replied Jondrette placing\nhis elbows on the table and contemplating M. Leblanc with steady and\ntender eyes, not unlike the eyes of the boa-constrictor,  I was telling\nyou, that I have a picture to sell. \n\n\nA slight sound came from the door. A second man had just entered and\nseated himself on the bed, behind Jondrette.\n\nLike the first, his arms were bare, and he had a mask of ink or\nlampblack.\n\nAlthough this man had, literally, glided into the room, he had not been\nable to prevent M. Leblanc catching sight of him.\n\n Don t mind them,  said Jondrette,  they are people who belong in the\nhouse. So I was saying, that there remains in my possession a valuable\npicture. But stop, sir, take a look at it. \n\n\nHe rose, went to the wall at the foot of which stood the panel which we\nhave already mentioned, and turned it round, still leaving it supported\nagainst the wall. It really was something which resembled a picture,\nand which the candle illuminated, somewhat. Marius could make nothing\nout of it, as Jondrette stood between the picture and him; he only saw\na coarse daub, and a sort of principal personage colored with the harsh\ncrudity of foreign canvasses and screen paintings.\n\n What is that?  asked M. Leblanc.\n\nJondrette exclaimed: \n\n A painting by a master, a picture of great value, my benefactor! I am\nas much attached to it as I am to my two daughters; it recalls\nsouvenirs to me! But I have told you, and I will not take it back, that\nI am so wretched that I will part with it. \n\n\nEither by chance, or because he had begun to feel a dawning uneasiness,\nM. Leblanc s glance returned to the bottom of the room as he examined\nthe picture.\n\nThere were now four men, three seated on the bed, one standing near the\ndoor-post, all four with bare arms and motionless, with faces smeared\nwith black. One of those on the bed was leaning against the wall, with\nclosed eyes, and it might have been supposed that he was asleep. He was\nold; his white hair contrasting with his blackened face produced a\nhorrible effect. The other two seemed to be young; one wore a beard,\nthe other wore his hair long. None of them had on shoes; those who did\nnot wear socks were barefooted.\n\nJondrette noticed that M. Leblanc s eye was fixed on these men.\n\n They are friends. They are neighbors,  said he.  Their faces are black\nbecause they work in charcoal. They are chimney-builders. Don t trouble\nyourself about them, my benefactor, but buy my picture. Have pity on my\nmisery. I will not ask you much for it. How much do you think it is\nworth? \n\n\n Well,  said M. Leblanc, looking Jondrette full in the eye, and with\nthe manner of a man who is on his guard,  it is some signboard for a\ntavern, and is worth about three francs. \n\n\nJondrette replied sweetly: \n\n Have you your pocket-book with you? I should be satisfied with a\nthousand crowns. \n\n\nM. Leblanc sprang up, placed his back against the wall, and cast a\nrapid glance around the room. He had Jondrette on his left, on the side\nnext the window, and the Jondrette woman and the four men on his right,\non the side next the door. The four men did not stir, and did not even\nseem to be looking on.\n\nJondrette had again begun to speak in a plaintive tone, with so vague\nan eye, and so lamentable an intonation, that M. Leblanc might have\nsupposed that what he had before him was a man who had simply gone mad\nwith misery.\n\n If you do not buy my picture, my dear benefactor,  said Jondrette,  I\nshall be left without resources; there will be nothing left for me but\nto throw myself into the river. When I think that I wanted to have my\ntwo girls taught the middle-class paper-box trade, the making of boxes\nfor New Year s gifts! Well! A table with a board at the end to keep the\nglasses from falling off is required, then a special stove is needed, a\npot with three compartments for the different degrees of strength of\nthe paste, according as it is to be used for wood, paper, or stuff, a\nparing-knife to cut the cardboard, a mould to adjust it, a hammer to\nnail the steels, pincers, how the devil do I know what all? And all\nthat in order to earn four sous a day! And you have to work fourteen\nhours a day! And each box passes through the workwoman s hands thirteen\ntimes! And you can t wet the paper! And you mustn t spot anything! And\nyou must keep the paste hot. The devil, I tell you! Four sous a day!\nHow do you suppose a man is to live? \n\n\nAs he spoke, Jondrette did not look at M. Leblanc, who was observing\nhim. M. Leblanc s eye was fixed on Jondrette, and Jondrette s eye was\nfixed on the door. Marius  eager attention was transferred from one to\nthe other. M. Leblanc seemed to be asking himself:  Is this man an\nidiot?  Jondrette repeated two or three distinct times, with all manner\nof varying inflections of the whining and supplicating order:  There is\nnothing left for me but to throw myself into the river! I went down\nthree steps at the side of the bridge of Austerlitz the other day for\nthat purpose. \n\n\nAll at once his dull eyes lighted up with a hideous flash; the little\nman drew himself up and became terrible, took a step toward M. Leblanc\nand cried in a voice of thunder:  That has nothing to do with the\nquestion! Do you know me? \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX THE TRAP\n\n\nThe door of the garret had just opened abruptly, and allowed a view of\nthree men clad in blue linen blouses, and masked with masks of black\npaper. The first was thin, and had a long, iron-tipped cudgel; the\nsecond, who was a sort of colossus, carried, by the middle of the\nhandle, with the blade downward, a butcher s pole-axe for slaughtering\ncattle. The third, a man with thick-set shoulders, not so slender as\nthe first, held in his hand an enormous key stolen from the door of\nsome prison.\n\nIt appeared that the arrival of these men was what Jondrette had been\nwaiting for. A rapid dialogue ensued between him and the man with the\ncudgel, the thin one.\n\n Is everything ready?  said Jondrette.\n\n Yes,  replied the thin man.\n\n Where is Montparnasse? \n\n\n The young principal actor stopped to chat with your girl. \n\n\n Which? \n\n\n The eldest. \n\n\n Is there a carriage at the door? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Is the team harnessed? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n With two good horses? \n\n\n Excellent. \n\n\n Is it waiting where I ordered? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Good,  said Jondrette.\n\nM. Leblanc was very pale. He was scrutinizing everything around him in\nthe den, like a man who understands what he has fallen into, and his\nhead, directed in turn toward all the heads which surrounded him, moved\non his neck with an astonished and attentive slowness, but there was\nnothing in his air which resembled fear. He had improvised an\nintrenchment out of the table; and the man, who but an instant\npreviously, had borne merely the appearance of a kindly old man, had\nsuddenly become a sort of athlete, and placed his robust fist on the\nback of his chair, with a formidable and surprising gesture.\n\nThis old man, who was so firm and so brave in the presence of such a\ndanger, seemed to possess one of those natures which are as courageous\nas they are kind, both easily and simply. The father of a woman whom we\nlove is never a stranger to us. Marius felt proud of that unknown man.\n\nThree of the men, of whom Jondrette had said:  They are\nchimney-builders,  had armed themselves from the pile of old iron, one\nwith a heavy pair of shears, the second with weighing-tongs, the third\nwith a hammer, and had placed themselves across the entrance without\nuttering a syllable. The old man had remained on the bed, and had\nmerely opened his eyes. The Jondrette woman had seated herself beside\nhim.\n\nMarius decided that in a few seconds more the moment for intervention\nwould arrive, and he raised his right hand towards the ceiling, in the\ndirection of the corridor, in readiness to discharge his pistol.\n\nJondrette having terminated his colloquy with the man with the cudgel,\nturned once more to M. Leblanc, and repeated his question, accompanying\nit with that low, repressed, and terrible laugh which was peculiar to\nhim: \n\n So you do not recognize me? \n\n\nM. Leblanc looked him full in the face, and replied: \n\n No. \n\n\nThen Jondrette advanced to the table. He leaned across the candle,\ncrossing his arms, putting his angular and ferocious jaw close to M.\nLeblanc s calm face, and advancing as far as possible without forcing\nM. Leblanc to retreat, and, in this posture of a wild beast who is\nabout to bite, he exclaimed: \n\n My name is not Fabantou, my name is not Jondrette, my name is\nTh nardier. I am the inn-keeper of Montfermeil! Do you understand?\nTh nardier! Now do you know me? \n\n\nAn almost imperceptible flush crossed M. Leblanc s brow, and he replied\nwith a voice which neither trembled nor rose above its ordinary level,\nwith his accustomed placidity: \n\n No more than before. \n\n\nMarius did not hear this reply. Any one who had seen him at that moment\nthrough the darkness would have perceived that he was haggard, stupid,\nthunder-struck. At the moment when Jondrette said:  My name is\nTh nardier,  Marius had trembled in every limb, and had leaned against\nthe wall, as though he felt the cold of a steel blade through his\nheart. Then his right arm, all ready to discharge the signal shot,\ndropped slowly, and at the moment when Jondrette repeated,  Th nardier,\ndo you understand?  Marius s faltering fingers had come near letting\nthe pistol fall. Jondrette, by revealing his identity, had not moved M.\nLeblanc, but he had quite upset Marius. That name of Th nardier, with\nwhich M. Leblanc did not seem to be acquainted, Marius knew well. Let\nthe reader recall what that name meant to him! That name he had worn on\nhis heart, inscribed in his father s testament! He bore it at the\nbottom of his mind, in the depths of his memory, in that sacred\ninjunction:  A certain Th nardier saved my life. If my son encounters\nhim, he will do him all the good that lies in his power.  That name, it\nwill be remembered, was one of the pieties of his soul; he mingled it\nwith the name of his father in his worship. What! This man was that\nTh nardier, that inn-keeper of Montfermeil whom he had so long and so\nvainly sought! He had found him at last, and how? His father s saviour\nwas a ruffian! That man, to whose service Marius was burning to devote\nhimself, was a monster! That liberator of Colonel Pontmercy was on the\npoint of committing a crime whose scope Marius did not, as yet, clearly\ncomprehend, but which resembled an assassination! And against whom,\ngreat God! what a fatality! What a bitter mockery of fate! His father\nhad commanded him from the depths of his coffin to do all the good in\nhis power to this Th nardier, and for four years Marius had cherished\nno other thought than to acquit this debt of his father s, and at the\nmoment when he was on the eve of having a brigand seized in the very\nact of crime by justice, destiny cried to him:  This is Th nardier!  He\ncould at last repay this man for his father s life, saved amid a\nhail-storm of grape-shot on the heroic field of Waterloo, and repay it\nwith the scaffold! He had sworn to himself that if ever he found that\nTh nardier, he would address him only by throwing himself at his feet;\nand now he actually had found him, but it was only to deliver him over\nto the executioner! His father said to him:  Succor Th nardier!  And he\nreplied to that adored and sainted voice by crushing Th nardier! He was\nabout to offer to his father in his grave the spectacle of that man who\nhad torn him from death at the peril of his own life, executed on the\nPlace Saint-Jacques through the means of his son, of that Marius to\nwhom he had entrusted that man by his will! And what a mockery to have\nso long worn on his breast his father s last commands, written in his\nown hand, only to act in so horribly contrary a sense! But, on the\nother hand, now look on that trap and not prevent it! Condemn the\nvictim and to spare the assassin! Could one be held to any gratitude\ntowards so miserable a wretch? All the ideas which Marius had cherished\nfor the last four years were pierced through and through, as it were,\nby this unforeseen blow.\n\nHe shuddered. Everything depended on him. Unknown to themselves, he\nheld in his hand all those beings who were moving about there before\nhis eyes. If he fired his pistol, M. Leblanc was saved, and Th nardier\nlost; if he did not fire, M. Leblanc would be sacrificed, and, who\nknows? Th nardier would escape. Should he dash down the one or allow\nthe other to fall? Remorse awaited him in either case.\n\nWhat was he to do? What should he choose? Be false to the most\nimperious souvenirs, to all those solemn vows to himself, to the most\nsacred duty, to the most venerated text! Should he ignore his father s\ntestament, or allow the perpetration of a crime! On the one hand, it\nseemed to him that he heard  his Ursule  supplicating for her father\nand on the other, the colonel commending Th nardier to his care. He\nfelt that he was going mad. His knees gave way beneath him. And he had\nnot even the time for deliberation, so great was the fury with which\nthe scene before his eyes was hastening to its catastrophe. It was like\na whirlwind of which he had thought himself the master, and which was\nnow sweeping him away. He was on the verge of swooning.\n\nIn the meantime, Th nardier, whom we shall henceforth call by no other\nname, was pacing up and down in front of the table in a sort of frenzy\nand wild triumph.\n\nHe seized the candle in his fist, and set it on the chimney-piece with\nso violent a bang that the wick came near being extinguished, and the\ntallow bespattered the wall.\n\nThen he turned to M. Leblanc with a horrible look, and spit out these\nwords: \n\n Done for! Smoked brown! Cooked! Spitchcocked! \n\n\nAnd again he began to march back and forth, in full eruption.\n\n Ah!  he cried,  so I ve found you again at last, Mister\nphilanthropist! Mister threadbare millionnaire! Mister giver of dolls!\nyou old ninny! Ah! so you don t recognize me! No, it wasn t you who\ncame to Montfermeil, to my inn, eight years ago, on Christmas eve,\n1823! It wasn t you who carried off that Fantine s child from me! The\nLark! It wasn t you who had a yellow great-coat! No! Nor a package of\nduds in your hand, as you had this morning here! Say, wife, it seems to\nbe his mania to carry packets of woollen stockings into houses! Old\ncharity monger, get out with you! Are you a hosier, Mister\nmillionnaire? You give away your stock in trade to the poor, holy man!\nWhat bosh! merry Andrew! Ah! and you don t recognize me? Well, I\nrecognize you, that I do! I recognized you the very moment you poked\nyour snout in here. Ah! you ll find out presently, that it isn t all\nroses to thrust yourself in that fashion into people s houses, under\nthe pretext that they are taverns, in wretched clothes, with the air of\na poor man, to whom one would give a sou, to deceive persons, to play\nthe generous, to take away their means of livelihood, and to make\nthreats in the woods, and you can t call things quits because\nafterwards, when people are ruined, you bring a coat that is too large,\nand two miserable hospital blankets, you old blackguard, you\nchild-stealer! \n\n\nHe paused, and seemed to be talking to himself for a moment. One would\nhave said that his wrath had fallen into some hole, like the Rhone;\nthen, as though he were concluding aloud the things which he had been\nsaying to himself in a whisper, he smote the table with his fist, and\nshouted: \n\n And with his goody-goody air! \n\n\nAnd, apostrophizing M. Leblanc: \n\n Parbleu! You made game of me in the past! You are the cause of all my\nmisfortunes! For fifteen hundred francs you got a girl whom I had, and\nwho certainly belonged to rich people, and who had already brought in a\ngreat deal of money, and from whom I might have extracted enough to\nlive on all my life! A girl who would have made up to me for everything\nthat I lost in that vile cook-shop, where there was nothing but one\ncontinual row, and where, like a fool, I ate up my last farthing! Oh! I\nwish all the wine folks drank in my house had been poison to those who\ndrank it! Well, never mind! Say, now! You must have thought me\nridiculous when you went off with the Lark! You had your cudgel in the\nforest. You were the stronger. Revenge. I m the one to hold the trumps\nto-day! You re in a sorry case, my good fellow! Oh, but I can laugh!\nReally, I laugh! Didn t he fall into the trap! I told him that I was an\nactor, that my name was Fabantou, that I had played comedy with\nMamselle Mars, with Mamselle Muche, that my landlord insisted on being\npaid tomorrow, the 4th of February, and he didn t even notice that the\n8th of January, and not the 4th of February is the time when the\nquarter runs out! Absurd idiot! And the four miserable Philippes which\nhe has brought me! Scoundrel! He hadn t the heart even to go as high as\na hundred francs! And how he swallowed my platitudes! That did amuse\nme. I said to myself:  Blockhead! Come, I ve got you! I lick your paws\nthis morning, but I ll gnaw your heart this evening! \n\n\nTh nardier paused. He was out of breath. His little, narrow chest\npanted like a forge bellows. His eyes were full of the ignoble\nhappiness of a feeble, cruel, and cowardly creature, which finds that\nit can, at last, harass what it has feared, and insult what it has\nflattered, the joy of a dwarf who should be able to set his heel on the\nhead of Goliath, the joy of a jackal which is beginning to rend a sick\nbull, so nearly dead that he can no longer defend himself, but\nsufficiently alive to suffer still.\n\nM. Leblanc did not interrupt him, but said to him when he paused: \n\n I do not know what you mean to say. You are mistaken in me. I am a\nvery poor man, and anything but a millionnaire. I do not know you. You\nare mistaking me for some other person. \n\n\n Ah!  roared Th nardier hoarsely,  a pretty lie! You stick to that\npleasantry, do you! You re floundering, my old buck! Ah! You don t\nremember! You don t see who I am? \n\n\n Excuse me, sir,  said M. Leblanc with a politeness of accent, which at\nthat moment seemed peculiarly strange and powerful,  I see that you are\na villain! \n\n\nWho has not remarked the fact that odious creatures possess a\nsusceptibility of their own, that monsters are ticklish! At this word\n villain,  the female Th nardier sprang from the bed, Th nardier\ngrasped his chair as though he were about to crush it in his hands.\n Don t you stir!  he shouted to his wife; and, turning to M. Leblanc: \n\n Villain! Yes, I know that you call us that, you rich gentlemen! Stop!\nit s true that I became bankrupt, that I am in hiding, that I have no\nbread, that I have not a single sou, that I am a villain! It s three\ndays since I have had anything to eat, so I m a villain! Ah! you folks\nwarm your feet, you have Sakoski boots, you have wadded great-coats,\nlike archbishops, you lodge on the first floor in houses that have\nporters, you eat truffles, you eat asparagus at forty francs the bunch\nin the month of January, and green peas, you gorge yourselves, and when\nyou want to know whether it is cold, you look in the papers to see what\nthe engineer Chevalier s thermometer says about it. We, it is we who\nare thermometers. We don t need to go out and look on the quay at the\ncorner of the Tour de l Horologe, to find out the number of degrees of\ncold; we feel our blood congealing in our veins, and the ice forming\nround our hearts, and we say:  There is no God!  And you come to our\ncaverns, yes our caverns, for the purpose of calling us villains! But\nwe ll devour you! But we ll devour you, poor little things! Just see\nhere, Mister millionnaire: I have been a solid man, I have held a\nlicense, I have been an elector, I am a bourgeois, that I am! And it s\nquite possible that you are not! \n\n\nHere Th nardier took a step towards the men who stood near the door,\nand added with a shudder: \n\n When I think that he has dared to come here and talk to me like a\ncobbler! \n\n\nThen addressing M. Leblanc with a fresh outburst of frenzy: \n\n And listen to this also, Mister philanthropist! I m not a suspicious\ncharacter, not a bit of it! I m not a man whose name nobody knows, and\nwho comes and abducts children from houses! I m an old French soldier,\nI ought to have been decorated! I was at Waterloo, so I was! And in the\nbattle I saved a general called the Comte of I don t know what. He told\nme his name, but his beastly voice was so weak that I didn t hear. All\nI caught was Merci [thanks]. I d rather have had his name than his\nthanks. That would have helped me to find him again. The picture that\nyou see here, and which was painted by David at Bruqueselles, do you\nknow what it represents? It represents me. David wished to immortalize\nthat feat of prowess. I have that general on my back, and I am carrying\nhim through the grape-shot. There s the history of it! That general\nnever did a single thing for me; he was no better than the rest! But\nnonetheless, I saved his life at the risk of my own, and I have the\ncertificate of the fact in my pocket! I am a soldier of Waterloo, by\nall the furies! And now that I have had the goodness to tell you all\nthis, let s have an end of it. I want money, I want a deal of money, I\nmust have an enormous lot of money, or I ll exterminate you, by the\nthunder of the good God! \n\n\nMarius had regained some measure of control over his anguish, and was\nlistening. The last possibility of doubt had just vanished. It\ncertainly was the Th nardier of the will. Marius shuddered at that\nreproach of ingratitude directed against his father, and which he was\non the point of so fatally justifying. His perplexity was redoubled.\n\nMoreover, there was in all these words of Th nardier, in his accent, in\nhis gesture, in his glance which darted flames at every word, there\nwas, in this explosion of an evil nature disclosing everything, in that\nmixture of braggadocio and abjectness, of pride and pettiness, of rage\nand folly, in that chaos of real griefs and false sentiments, in that\nimmodesty of a malicious man tasting the voluptuous delights of\nviolence, in that shameless nudity of a repulsive soul, in that\nconflagration of all sufferings combined with all hatreds, something\nwhich was as hideous as evil, and as heart-rending as the truth.\n\nThe picture of the master, the painting by David which he had proposed\nthat M. Leblanc should purchase, was nothing else, as the reader has\ndivined, than the sign of his tavern painted, as it will be remembered,\nby himself, the only relic which he had preserved from his shipwreck at\nMontfermeil.\n\nAs he had ceased to intercept Marius  visual ray, Marius could examine\nthis thing, and in the daub, he actually did recognize a battle, a\nbackground of smoke, and a man carrying another man. It was the group\ncomposed of Pontmercy and Th nardier; the sergeant the rescuer, the\ncolonel rescued. Marius was like a drunken man; this picture restored\nhis father to life in some sort; it was no longer the signboard of the\nwine-shop at Montfermeil, it was a resurrection; a tomb had yawned, a\nphantom had risen there. Marius heard his heart beating in his temples,\nhe had the cannon of Waterloo in his ears, his bleeding father, vaguely\ndepicted on that sinister panel terrified him, and it seemed to him\nthat the misshapen spectre was gazing intently at him.\n\nWhen Th nardier had recovered his breath, he turned his bloodshot eyes\non M. Leblanc, and said to him in a low, curt voice: \n\n What have you to say before we put the handcuffs on you? \n\n\nM. Leblanc held his peace.\n\nIn the midst of this silence, a cracked voice launched this lugubrious\nsarcasm from the corridor: \n\n If there s any wood to be split, I m there! \n\n\nIt was the man with the axe, who was growing merry.\n\nAt the same moment, an enormous, bristling, and clayey face made its\nappearance at the door, with a hideous laugh which exhibited not teeth,\nbut fangs.\n\nIt was the face of the man with the butcher s axe.\n\n Why have you taken off your mask?  cried Th nardier in a rage.\n\n For fun,  retorted the man.\n\nFor the last few minutes M. Leblanc had appeared to be watching and\nfollowing all the movements of Th nardier, who, blinded and dazzled by\nhis own rage, was stalking to and fro in the den with full confidence\nthat the door was guarded, and of holding an unarmed man fast, he being\narmed himself, of being nine against one, supposing that the female\nTh nardier counted for but one man.\n\nDuring his address to the man with the pole-axe, he had turned his back\nto M. Leblanc.\n\nM. Leblanc seized this moment, overturned the chair with his foot and\nthe table with his fist, and with one bound, with prodigious agility,\nbefore Th nardier had time to turn round, he had reached the window. To\nopen it, to scale the frame, to bestride it, was the work of a second\nonly. He was half out when six robust fists seized him and dragged him\nback energetically into the hovel. These were the three\n chimney-builders,  who had flung themselves upon him. At the same time\nthe Th nardier woman had wound her hands in his hair.\n\nAt the trampling which ensued, the other ruffians rushed up from the\ncorridor. The old man on the bed, who seemed under the influence of\nwine, descended from the pallet and came reeling up, with a\nstone-breaker s hammer in his hand.\n\nOne of the  chimney-builders,  whose smirched face was lighted up by\nthe candle, and in whom Marius recognized, in spite of his daubing,\nPanchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, lifted above M.\nLeblanc s head a sort of bludgeon made of two balls of lead, at the two\nends of a bar of iron.\n\nMarius could not resist this sight.  My father,  he thought,  forgive\nme! \n\n\nAnd his finger sought the trigger of his pistol.\n\nThe shot was on the point of being discharged when Th nardier s voice\nshouted: \n\n Don t harm him! \n\n\nThis desperate attempt of the victim, far from exasperating Th nardier,\nhad calmed him. There existed in him two men, the ferocious man and the\nadroit man. Up to that moment, in the excess of his triumph in the\npresence of the prey which had been brought down, and which did not\nstir, the ferocious man had prevailed; when the victim struggled and\ntried to resist, the adroit man reappeared and took the upper hand.\n\n Don t hurt him!  he repeated, and without suspecting it, his first\nsuccess was to arrest the pistol in the act of being discharged, and to\nparalyze Marius, in whose opinion the urgency of the case disappeared,\nand who, in the face of this new phase, saw no inconvenience in waiting\na while longer.\n\nWho knows whether some chance would not arise which would deliver him\nfrom the horrible alternative of allowing Ursule s father to perish, or\nof destroying the colonel s saviour?\n\nA herculean struggle had begun. With one blow full in the chest, M.\nLeblanc had sent the old man tumbling, rolling in the middle of the\nroom, then with two backward sweeps of his hand he had overthrown two\nmore assailants, and he held one under each of his knees; the wretches\nwere rattling in the throat beneath this pressure as under a granite\nmillstone; but the other four had seized the formidable old man by both\narms and the back of his neck, and were holding him doubled up over the\ntwo  chimney-builders  on the floor.\n\nThus, the master of some and mastered by the rest, crushing those\nbeneath him and stifling under those on top of him, endeavoring in vain\nto shake off all the efforts which were heaped upon him, M. Leblanc\ndisappeared under the horrible group of ruffians like the wild boar\nbeneath a howling pile of dogs and hounds.\n\nThey succeeded in overthrowing him upon the bed nearest the window, and\nthere they held him in awe. The Th nardier woman had not released her\nclutch on his hair.\n\n Don t you mix yourself up in this affair,  said Th nardier.  You ll\ntear your shawl. \n\n\nThe Th nardier obeyed, as the female wolf obeys the male wolf, with a\ngrowl.\n\n Now,  said Th nardier,  search him, you other fellows! \n\n\nM. Leblanc seemed to have renounced the idea of resistance.\n\nThey searched him.\n\nHe had nothing on his person except a leather purse containing six\nfrancs, and his handkerchief.\n\nTh nardier put the handkerchief into his own pocket.\n\n What! No pocket-book?  he demanded.\n\n No, nor watch,  replied one of the  chimney-builders. \n\n\n Never mind,  murmured the masked man who carried the big key, in the\nvoice of a ventriloquist,  he s a tough old fellow. \n\n\nTh nardier went to the corner near the door, picked up a bundle of\nropes and threw them at the men.\n\n Tie him to the leg of the bed,  said he.\n\nAnd, catching sight of the old man who had been stretched across the\nroom by the blow from M. Leblanc s fist, and who made no movement, he\nadded: \n\n Is Boulatruelle dead? \n\n\n No,  replied Bigrenaille,  he s drunk. \n\n\n Sweep him into a corner,  said Th nardier.\n\nTwo of the  chimney-builders  pushed the drunken man into the corner\nnear the heap of old iron with their feet.\n\n Babet,  said Th nardier in a low tone to the man with the cudgel,  why\ndid you bring so many; they were not needed. \n\n\n What can you do?  replied the man with the cudgel,  they all wanted to\nbe in it. This is a bad season. There s no business going on. \n\n\nThe pallet on which M. Leblanc had been thrown was a sort of hospital\nbed, elevated on four coarse wooden legs, roughly hewn.\n\nM. Leblanc let them take their own course.\n\nThe ruffians bound him securely, in an upright attitude, with his feet\non the ground at the head of the bed, the end which was most remote\nfrom the window, and nearest to the fireplace.\n\nWhen the last knot had been tied, Th nardier took a chair and seated\nhimself almost facing M. Leblanc.\n\nTh nardier no longer looked like himself; in the course of a few\nmoments his face had passed from unbridled violence to tranquil and\ncunning sweetness.\n\nMarius found it difficult to recognize in that polished smile of a man\nin official life the almost bestial mouth which had been foaming but a\nmoment before; he gazed with amazement on that fantastic and alarming\nmetamorphosis, and he felt as a man might feel who should behold a\ntiger converted into a lawyer.\n\n Monsieur  said Th nardier.\n\nAnd dismissing with a gesture the ruffians who still kept their hands\non M. Leblanc: \n\n Stand off a little, and let me have a talk with the gentleman. \n\n\nAll retired towards the door.\n\nHe went on: \n\n Monsieur, you did wrong to try to jump out of the window. You might\nhave broken your leg. Now, if you will permit me, we will converse\nquietly. In the first place, I must communicate to you an observation\nwhich I have made which is, that you have not uttered the faintest\ncry. \n\n\nTh nardier was right, this detail was correct, although it had escaped\nMarius in his agitation. M. Leblanc had barely pronounced a few words,\nwithout raising his voice, and even during his struggle with the six\nruffians near the window he had preserved the most profound and\nsingular silence.\n\nTh nardier continued: \n\n Mon Dieu! You might have shouted  stop thief  a bit, and I should not\nhave thought it improper.  Murder!  That, too, is said occasionally,\nand, so far as I am concerned, I should not have taken it in bad part.\nIt is very natural that you should make a little row when you find\nyourself with persons who don t inspire you with sufficient confidence.\nYou might have done that, and no one would have troubled you on that\naccount. You would not even have been gagged. And I will tell you why.\nThis room is very private. That s its only recommendation, but it has\nthat in its favor. You might fire off a mortar and it would produce\nabout as much noise at the nearest police station as the snores of a\ndrunken man. Here a cannon would make a _boum_, and the thunder would\nmake a _pouf_. It s a handy lodging. But, in short, you did not shout,\nand it is better so. I present you my compliments, and I will tell you\nthe conclusion that I draw from that fact: My dear sir, when a man\nshouts, who comes? The police. And after the police? Justice. Well! You\nhave not made an outcry; that is because you don t care to have the\npolice and the courts come in any more than we do. It is because, I\nhave long suspected it, you have some interest in hiding something. On\nour side we have the same interest. So we can come to an\nunderstanding. \n\n\nAs he spoke thus, it seemed as though Th nardier, who kept his eyes\nfixed on M. Leblanc, were trying to plunge the sharp points which\ndarted from the pupils into the very conscience of his prisoner.\nMoreover, his language, which was stamped with a sort of moderated,\nsubdued insolence and crafty insolence, was reserved and almost choice,\nand in that rascal, who had been nothing but a robber a short time\npreviously, one now felt  the man who had studied for the priesthood. \n\n\nThe silence preserved by the prisoner, that precaution which had been\ncarried to the point of forgetting all anxiety for his own life, that\nresistance opposed to the first impulse of nature, which is to utter a\ncry, all this, it must be confessed, now that his attention had been\ncalled to it, troubled Marius, and affected him with painful\nastonishment.\n\nTh nardier s well-grounded observation still further obscured for\nMarius the dense mystery which enveloped that grave and singular person\non whom Courfeyrac had bestowed the sobriquet of Monsieur Leblanc.\n\nBut whoever he was, bound with ropes, surrounded with executioners,\nhalf plunged, so to speak, in a grave which was closing in upon him to\nthe extent of a degree with every moment that passed, in the presence\nof Th nardier s wrath, as in the presence of his sweetness, this man\nremained impassive; and Marius could not refrain from admiring at such\na moment the superbly melancholy visage.\n\nHere, evidently, was a soul which was inaccessible to terror, and which\ndid not know the meaning of despair. Here was one of those men who\ncommand amazement in desperate circumstances. Extreme as was the\ncrisis, inevitable as was the catastrophe, there was nothing here of\nthe agony of the drowning man, who opens his horror-filled eyes under\nthe water.\n\nTh nardier rose in an unpretending manner, went to the fireplace,\nshoved aside the screen, which he leaned against the neighboring\npallet, and thus unmasked the brazier full of glowing coals, in which\nthe prisoner could plainly see the chisel white-hot and spotted here\nand there with tiny scarlet stars.\n\nThen Th nardier returned to his seat beside M. Leblanc.\n\n I continue,  said he.  We can come to an understanding. Let us arrange\nthis matter in an amicable way. I was wrong to lose my temper just now,\nI don t know what I was thinking of, I went a great deal too far, I\nsaid extravagant things. For example, because you are a millionnaire, I\ntold you that I exacted money, a lot of money, a deal of money. That\nwould not be reasonable. Mon Dieu, in spite of your riches, you have\nexpenses of your own who has not? I don t want to ruin you, I am not a\ngreedy fellow, after all. I am not one of those people who, because\nthey have the advantage of the position, profit by the fact to make\nthemselves ridiculous. Why, I m taking things into consideration and\nmaking a sacrifice on my side. I only want two hundred thousand\nfrancs. \n\n\nM. Leblanc uttered not a word.\n\nTh nardier went on: \n\n You see that I put not a little water in my wine; I m very moderate. I\ndon t know the state of your fortune, but I do know that you don t\nstick at money, and a benevolent man like yourself can certainly give\ntwo hundred thousand francs to the father of a family who is out of\nluck. Certainly, you are reasonable, too; you haven t imagined that I\nshould take all the trouble I have to-day and organized this affair\nthis evening, which has been labor well bestowed, in the opinion of\nthese gentlemen, merely to wind up by asking you for enough to go and\ndrink red wine at fifteen sous and eat veal at Desnoyer s. Two hundred\nthousand francs it s surely worth all that. This trifle once out of\nyour pocket, I guarantee you that that s the end of the matter, and\nthat you have no further demands to fear. You will say to me:  But I\nhaven t two hundred thousand francs about me.  Oh! I m not\nextortionate. I don t demand that. I only ask one thing of you. Have\nthe goodness to write what I am about to dictate to you. \n\n\nHere Th nardier paused; then he added, emphasizing his words, and\ncasting a smile in the direction of the brazier: \n\n I warn you that I shall not admit that you don t know how to write. \n\n\nA grand inquisitor might have envied that smile.\n\nTh nardier pushed the table close to M. Leblanc, and took an inkstand,\na pen, and a sheet of paper from the drawer which he left half open,\nand in which gleamed the long blade of the knife.\n\nHe placed the sheet of paper before M. Leblanc.\n\n Write,  said he.\n\nThe prisoner spoke at last.\n\n How do you expect me to write? I am bound. \n\n\n That s true, excuse me!  ejaculated Th nardier,  you are quite right. \n\n\nAnd turning to Bigrenaille: \n\n Untie the gentleman s right arm. \n\n\nPanchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, executed Th nardier s\norder.\n\nWhen the prisoner s right arm was free, Th nardier dipped the pen in\nthe ink and presented it to him.\n\n Understand thoroughly, sir, that you are in our power, at our\ndiscretion, that no human power can get you out of this, and that we\nshall be really grieved if we are forced to proceed to disagreeable\nextremities. I know neither your name, nor your address, but I warn\nyou, that you will remain bound until the person charged with carrying\nthe letter which you are about to write shall have returned. Now, be so\ngood as to write. \n\n\n What?  demanded the prisoner.\n\n I will dictate. \n\n\nM. Leblanc took the pen.\n\nTh nardier began to dictate: \n\n My daughter \n\n\nThe prisoner shuddered, and raised his eyes to Th nardier.\n\n Put down  My dear daughter  said Th nardier.\n\nM. Leblanc obeyed.\n\nTh nardier continued: \n\n Come instantly \n\n\nHe paused: \n\n You address her as _thou_, do you not? \n\n\n Who?  asked M. Leblanc.\n\n Parbleu!  cried Th nardier,  the little one, the Lark. \n\n\nM. Leblanc replied without the slightest apparent emotion: \n\n I do not know what you mean. \n\n\n Go on, nevertheless,  ejaculated Th nardier, and he continued to\ndictate: \n\n Come immediately, I am in absolute need of thee. The person who will\ndeliver this note to thee is instructed to conduct thee to me. I am\nwaiting for thee. Come with confidence. \n\n\nM. Leblanc had written the whole of this.\n\nTh nardier resumed: \n\n Ah! erase  come with confidence ; that might lead her to suppose that\neverything was not as it should be, and that distrust is possible. \n\n\nM. Leblanc erased the three words.\n\n Now,  pursued Th nardier,  sign it. What s your name? \n\n\nThe prisoner laid down the pen and demanded: \n\n For whom is this letter? \n\n\n You know well,  retorted Th nardier,  for the little one I just told\nyou so. \n\n\nIt was evident that Th nardier avoided naming the young girl in\nquestion. He said  the Lark,  he said  the little one,  but he did not\npronounce her name the precaution of a clever man guarding his secret\nfrom his accomplices. To mention the name was to deliver the whole\n affair  into their hands, and to tell them more about it than there\nwas any need of their knowing.\n\nHe went on: \n\n Sign. What is your name? \n\n\n Urbain Fabre,  said the prisoner.\n\nTh nardier, with the movement of a cat, dashed his hand into his pocket\nand drew out the handkerchief which had been seized on M. Leblanc. He\nlooked for the mark on it, and held it close to the candle.\n\n U. F. That s it. Urbain Fabre. Well, sign it U. F. \n\n\nThe prisoner signed.\n\n As two hands are required to fold the letter, give it to me, I will\nfold it. \n\n\nThat done, Th nardier resumed: \n\n Address it,  Mademoiselle Fabre,  at your house. I know that you live\na long distance from here, near Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, because you\ngo to mass there every day, but I don t know in what street. I see that\nyou understand your situation. As you have not lied about your name,\nyou will not lie about your address. Write it yourself. \n\n\nThe prisoner paused thoughtfully for a moment, then he took the pen and\nwrote: \n\n Mademoiselle Fabre, at M. Urbain Fabre s, Rue Saint-Dominique-D Enfer,\nNo. 17. \n\n\nTh nardier seized the letter with a sort of feverish convulsion.\n\n Wife!  he cried.\n\nThe Th nardier woman hastened to him.\n\n Here s the letter. You know what you have to do. There is a carriage\nat the door. Set out at once, and return ditto. \n\n\nAnd addressing the man with the meat-axe: \n\n Since you have taken off your nose-screen, accompany the mistress. You\nwill get up behind the fiacre. You know where you left the team? \n\n\n Yes,  said the man.\n\nAnd depositing his axe in a corner, he followed Madame Th nardier.\n\nAs they set off, Th nardier thrust his head through the half-open door,\nand shouted into the corridor: \n\n Above all things, don t lose the letter! remember that you carry two\nhundred thousand francs with you! \n\n\nThe Th nardier s hoarse voice replied: \n\n Be easy. I have it in my bosom. \n\n\nA minute had not elapsed, when the sound of the cracking of a whip was\nheard, which rapidly retreated and died away.\n\n Good!  growled Th nardier.  They re going at a fine pace. At such a\ngallop, the bourgeoise will be back inside three-quarters of an hour. \n\n\nHe drew a chair close to the fireplace, folding his arms, and\npresenting his muddy boots to the brazier.\n\n My feet are cold!  said he.\n\nOnly five ruffians now remained in the den with Th nardier and the\nprisoner.\n\nThese men, through the black masks or paste which covered their faces,\nand made of them, at fear s pleasure, charcoal-burners, negroes, or\ndemons, had a stupid and gloomy air, and it could be felt that they\nperpetrated a crime like a bit of work, tranquilly, without either\nwrath or mercy, with a sort of ennui. They were crowded together in one\ncorner like brutes, and remained silent.\n\nTh nardier warmed his feet.\n\nThe prisoner had relapsed into his taciturnity. A sombre calm had\nsucceeded to the wild uproar which had filled the garret but a few\nmoments before.\n\nThe candle, on which a large  stranger  had formed, cast but a dim\nlight in the immense hovel, the brazier had grown dull, and all those\nmonstrous heads cast misshapen shadows on the walls and ceiling.\n\nNo sound was audible except the quiet breathing of the old drunken man,\nwho was fast asleep.\n\nMarius waited in a state of anxiety that was augmented by every trifle.\nThe enigma was more impenetrable than ever.\n\nWho was this  little one  whom Th nardier had called the Lark? Was she\nhis  Ursule ? The prisoner had not seemed to be affected by that word,\n the Lark,  and had replied in the most natural manner in the world:  I\ndo not know what you mean.  On the other hand, the two letters U. F.\nwere explained; they meant Urbain Fabre; and Ursule was no longer named\nUrsule. This was what Marius perceived most clearly of all.\n\nA sort of horrible fascination held him nailed to his post, from which\nhe was observing and commanding this whole scene. There he stood,\nalmost incapable of movement or reflection, as though annihilated by\nthe abominable things viewed at such close quarters. He waited, in the\nhope of some incident, no matter of what nature, since he could not\ncollect his thoughts and did not know upon what course to decide.\n\n In any case,  he said,  if she is the Lark, I shall see her, for the\nTh nardier woman is to bring her hither. That will be the end, and then\nI will give my life and my blood if necessary, but I will deliver her!\nNothing shall stop me. \n\n\nNearly half an hour passed in this manner. Th nardier seemed to be\nabsorbed in gloomy reflections, the prisoner did not stir. Still,\nMarius fancied that at intervals, and for the last few moments, he had\nheard a faint, dull noise in the direction of the prisoner.\n\nAll at once, Th nardier addressed the prisoner:\n\n By the way, Monsieur Fabre, I might as well say it to you at once. \n\n\nThese few words appeared to be the beginning of an explanation. Marius\nstrained his ears.\n\n My wife will be back shortly, don t get impatient. I think that the\nLark really is your daughter, and it seems to me quite natural that you\nshould keep her. Only, listen to me a bit. My wife will go and hunt her\nup with your letter. I told my wife to dress herself in the way she\ndid, so that your young lady might make no difficulty about following\nher. They will both enter the carriage with my comrade behind.\nSomewhere, outside the barrier, there is a trap harnessed to two very\ngood horses. Your young lady will be taken to it. She will alight from\nthe fiacre. My comrade will enter the other vehicle with her, and my\nwife will come back here to tell us:  It s done.  As for the young\nlady, no harm will be done to her; the trap will conduct her to a place\nwhere she will be quiet, and just as soon as you have handed over to me\nthose little two hundred thousand francs, she will be returned to you.\nIf you have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to\nthe Lark, that s all. \n\n\nThe prisoner uttered not a syllable. After a pause, Th nardier\ncontinued: \n\n It s very simple, as you see. There ll be no harm done unless you wish\nthat there should be harm done. I m telling you how things stand. I\nwarn you so that you may be prepared. \n\n\nHe paused: the prisoner did not break the silence, and Th nardier\nresumed: \n\n As soon as my wife returns and says to me:  The Lark is on the way, \nwe will release you, and you will be free to go and sleep at home. You\nsee that our intentions are not evil. \n\n\nTerrible images passed through Marius  mind. What! That young girl whom\nthey were abducting was not to be brought back? One of those monsters\nwas to bear her off into the darkness? Whither? And what if it were\nshe!\n\nIt was clear that it was she. Marius felt his heart stop beating.\n\nWhat was he to do? Discharge the pistol? Place all those scoundrels in\nthe hands of justice? But the horrible man with the meat-axe would,\nnonetheless, be out of reach with the young girl, and Marius reflected\non Th nardier s words, of which he perceived the bloody significance:\n If you have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to\nthe Lark. \n\n\nNow, it was not alone by the colonel s testament, it was by his own\nlove, it was by the peril of the one he loved, that he felt himself\nrestrained.\n\nThis frightful situation, which had already lasted above half an hour,\nwas changing its aspect every moment.\n\nMarius had sufficient strength of mind to review in succession all the\nmost heart-breaking conjectures, seeking hope and finding none.\n\nThe tumult of his thoughts contrasted with the funereal silence of the\nden.\n\nIn the midst of this silence, the door at the bottom of the staircase\nwas heard to open and shut again.\n\nThe prisoner made a movement in his bonds.\n\n Here s the bourgeoise,  said Th nardier.\n\nHe had hardly uttered the words, when the Th nardier woman did in fact\nrush hastily into the room, red, panting, breathless, with flaming\neyes, and cried, as she smote her huge hands on her thighs\nsimultaneously: \n\n False address! \n\n\nThe ruffian who had gone with her made his appearance behind her and\npicked up his axe again.\n\nShe resumed: \n\n Nobody there! Rue Saint-Dominique, No. 17, no Monsieur Urbain Fabre!\nThey know not what it means! \n\n\nShe paused, choking, then went on: \n\n Monsieur Th nardier! That old fellow has duped you! You are too good,\nyou see! If it had been me, I d have chopped the beast in four quarters\nto begin with! And if he had acted ugly, I d have boiled him alive! He\nwould have been obliged to speak, and say where the girl is, and where\nhe keeps his shiners! That s the way I should have managed matters!\nPeople are perfectly right when they say that men are a deal stupider\nthan women! Nobody at No. 17. It s nothing but a big carriage gate! No\nMonsieur Fabre in the Rue Saint-Dominique! And after all that racing\nand fee to the coachman and all! I spoke to both the porter and the\nportress, a fine, stout woman, and they know nothing about him! \n\n\nMarius breathed freely once more.\n\nShe, Ursule or the Lark, he no longer knew what to call her, was safe.\n\nWhile his exasperated wife vociferated, Th nardier had seated himself\non the table.\n\nFor several minutes he uttered not a word, but swung his right foot,\nwhich hung down, and stared at the brazier with an air of savage\nreverie.\n\nFinally, he said to the prisoner, with a slow and singularly ferocious\ntone:\n\n A false address? What did you expect to gain by that? \n\n\n To gain time!  cried the prisoner in a thundering voice, and at the\nsame instant he shook off his bonds; they were cut. The prisoner was\nonly attached to the bed now by one leg.\n\nBefore the seven men had time to collect their senses and dash forward,\nhe had bent down into the fireplace, had stretched out his hand to the\nbrazier, and had then straightened himself up again, and now\nTh nardier, the female Th nardier, and the ruffians, huddled in\namazement at the extremity of the hovel, stared at him in stupefaction,\nas almost free and in a formidable attitude, he brandished above his\nhead the red-hot chisel, which emitted a threatening glow.\n\nThe judicial examination to which the ambush in the Gorbeau house\neventually gave rise, established the fact that a large sou piece, cut\nand worked in a peculiar fashion, was found in the garret, when the\npolice made their descent on it. This sou piece was one of those\nmarvels of industry, which are engendered by the patience of the\ngalleys in the shadows and for the shadows, marvels which are nothing\nelse than instruments of escape. These hideous and delicate products of\nwonderful art are to jewellers  work what the metaphors of slang are to\npoetry. There are Benvenuto Cellinis in the galleys, just as there are\nVillons in language. The unhappy wretch who aspires to deliverance\nfinds means sometimes without tools, sometimes with a common\nwooden-handled knife, to saw a sou into two thin plates, to hollow out\nthese plates without affecting the coinage stamp, and to make a furrow\non the edge of the sou in such a manner that the plates will adhere\nagain. This can be screwed together and unscrewed at will; it is a box.\nIn this box he hides a watch-spring, and this watch-spring, properly\nhandled, cuts good-sized chains and bars of iron. The unfortunate\nconvict is supposed to possess merely a sou; not at all, he possesses\nliberty. It was a large sou of this sort which, during the subsequent\nsearch of the police, was found under the bed near the window. They\nalso found a tiny saw of blue steel which would fit the sou.\n\nIt is probable that the prisoner had this sou piece on his person at\nthe moment when the ruffians searched him, that he contrived to conceal\nit in his hand, and that afterward, having his right hand free, he\nunscrewed it, and used it as a saw to cut the cords which fastened him,\nwhich would explain the faint noise and almost imperceptible movements\nwhich Marius had observed.\n\nAs he had not been able to bend down, for fear of betraying himself, he\nhad not cut the bonds of his left leg.\n\nThe ruffians had recovered from their first surprise.\n\n Be easy,  said Bigrenaille to Th nardier.  He still holds by one leg,\nand he can t get away. I ll answer for that. I tied that paw for him. \n\n\nIn the meanwhile, the prisoner had begun to speak: \n\n You are wretches, but my life is not worth the trouble of defending\nit. When you think that you can make me speak, that you can make me\nwrite what I do not choose to write, that you can make me say what I do\nnot choose to say \n\n\nHe stripped up his left sleeve, and added: \n\n See here. \n\n\nAt the same moment he extended his arm, and laid the glowing chisel\nwhich he held in his left hand by its wooden handle on his bare flesh.\n\nThe crackling of the burning flesh became audible, and the odor\npeculiar to chambers of torture filled the hovel.\n\n[Illustration: Red Hot Chisel]\n\nMarius reeled in utter horror, the very ruffians shuddered, hardly a\nmuscle of the old man s face contracted, and while the red-hot iron\nsank into the smoking wound, impassive and almost august, he fixed on\nTh nardier his beautiful glance, in which there was no hatred, and\nwhere suffering vanished in serene majesty.\n\nWith grand and lofty natures, the revolts of the flesh and the senses\nwhen subjected to physical suffering cause the soul to spring forth,\nand make it appear on the brow, just as rebellions among the soldiery\nforce the captain to show himself.\n\n Wretches!  said he,  have no more fear of me than I have for you! \n\n\nAnd, tearing the chisel from the wound, he hurled it through the\nwindow, which had been left open; the horrible, glowing tool\ndisappeared into the night, whirling as it flew, and fell far away on\nthe snow.\n\nThe prisoner resumed: \n\n Do what you please with me.  He was disarmed.\n\n Seize him!  said Th nardier.\n\nTwo of the ruffians laid their hands on his shoulder, and the masked\nman with the ventriloquist s voice took up his station in front of him,\nready to smash his skull at the slightest movement.\n\nAt the same time, Marius heard below him, at the base of the partition,\nbut so near that he could not see who was speaking, this colloquy\nconducted in a low tone: \n\n There is only one thing left to do. \n\n\n Cut his throat. \n\n\n That s it. \n\n\nIt was the husband and wife taking counsel together.\n\nTh nardier walked slowly towards the table, opened the drawer, and took\nout the knife. Marius fretted with the handle of his pistol.\nUnprecedented perplexity! For the last hour he had had two voices in\nhis conscience, the one enjoining him to respect his father s\ntestament, the other crying to him to rescue the prisoner. These two\nvoices continued uninterruptedly that struggle which tormented him to\nagony. Up to that moment he had cherished a vague hope that he should\nfind some means of reconciling these two duties, but nothing within the\nlimits of possibility had presented itself.\n\nHowever, the peril was urgent, the last bounds of delay had been\nreached; Th nardier was standing thoughtfully a few paces distant from\nthe prisoner.\n\nMarius cast a wild glance about him, the last mechanical resource of\ndespair. All at once a shudder ran through him.\n\nAt his feet, on the table, a bright ray of light from the full moon\nilluminated and seemed to point out to him a sheet of paper. On this\npaper he read the following line written that very morning, in large\nletters, by the eldest of the Th nardier girls: \n\n THE BOBBIES ARE HERE. \n\n\nAn idea, a flash, crossed Marius  mind; this was the expedient of which\nhe was in search, the solution of that frightful problem which was\ntorturing him, of sparing the assassin and saving the victim.\n\nHe knelt down on his commode, stretched out his arm, seized the sheet\nof paper, softly detached a bit of plaster from the wall, wrapped the\npaper round it, and tossed the whole through the crevice into the\nmiddle of the den.\n\nIt was high time. Th nardier had conquered his last fears or his last\nscruples, and was advancing on the prisoner.\n\n Something is falling!  cried the Th nardier woman.\n\n What is it?  asked her husband.\n\nThe woman darted forward and picked up the bit of plaster. She handed\nit to her husband.\n\n Where did this come from?  demanded Th nardier.\n\n Pardie!  ejaculated his wife,  where do you suppose it came from?\nThrough the window, of course. \n\n\n I saw it pass,  said Bigrenaille.\n\nTh nardier rapidly unfolded the paper and held it close to the candle.\n\n It s in  ponine s handwriting. The devil! \n\n\nHe made a sign to his wife, who hastily drew near, and showed her the\nline written on the sheet of paper, then he added in a subdued voice: \n\n Quick! The ladder! Let s leave the bacon in the mousetrap and decamp! \n\n\n Without cutting that man s throat?  asked, the Th nardier woman.\n\n We haven t the time. \n\n\n Through what?  resumed Bigrenaille.\n\n Through the window,  replied Th nardier.  Since Ponine has thrown the\nstone through the window, it indicates that the house is not watched on\nthat side. \n\n\nThe mask with the ventriloquist s voice deposited his huge key on the\nfloor, raised both arms in the air, and opened and clenched his fists,\nthree times rapidly without uttering a word.\n\nThis was the signal like the signal for clearing the decks for action\non board ship.\n\nThe ruffians who were holding the prisoner released him; in the\ntwinkling of an eye the rope ladder was unrolled outside the window,\nand solidly fastened to the sill by the two iron hooks.\n\nThe prisoner paid no attention to what was going on around him. He\nseemed to be dreaming or praying.\n\nAs soon as the ladder was arranged, Th nardier cried:\n\n Come! the bourgeoise first! \n\n\nAnd he rushed headlong to the window.\n\nBut just as he was about to throw his leg over, Bigrenaille seized him\nroughly by the collar.\n\n Not much, come now, you old dog, after us! \n\n\n After us!  yelled the ruffians.\n\n You are children,  said Th nardier,  we are losing time. The police\nare on our heels. \n\n\n Well,  said the ruffians,  let s draw lots to see who shall go down\nfirst. \n\n\nTh nardier exclaimed: \n\n Are you mad! Are you crazy! What a pack of boobies! You want to waste\ntime, do you? Draw lots, do you? By a wet finger, by a short straw!\nWith written names! Thrown into a hat! \n\n\n Would you like my hat?  cried a voice on the threshold.\n\nAll wheeled round. It was Javert.\n\nHe had his hat in his hand, and was holding it out to them with a\nsmile.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI ONE SHOULD ALWAYS BEGIN BY ARRESTING THE VICTIMS\n\n\nAt nightfall, Javert had posted his men and had gone into ambush\nhimself between the trees of the Rue de la Barri re-des-Gobelins which\nfaced the Gorbeau house, on the other side of the boulevard. He had\nbegun operations by opening  his pockets,  and dropping into it the two\nyoung girls who were charged with keeping a watch on the approaches to\nthe den. But he had only  caged  Azelma. As for  ponine, she was not at\nher post, she had disappeared, and he had not been able to seize her.\nThen Javert had made a point and had bent his ear to waiting for the\nsignal agreed upon. The comings and goings of the fiacres had greatly\nagitated him. At last, he had grown impatient, and, _sure that there\nwas a nest there_, sure of being in  luck,  having recognized many of\nthe ruffians who had entered, he had finally decided to go upstairs\nwithout waiting for the pistol-shot.\n\nIt will be remembered that he had Marius  pass-key.\n\nHe had arrived just in the nick of time.\n\nThe terrified ruffians flung themselves on the arms which they had\nabandoned in all the corners at the moment of flight. In less than a\nsecond, these seven men, horrible to behold, had grouped themselves in\nan attitude of defence, one with his meat-axe, another with his key,\nanother with his bludgeon, the rest with shears, pincers, and hammers.\nTh nardier had his knife in his fist. The Th nardier woman snatched up\nan enormous paving-stone which lay in the angle of the window and\nserved her daughters as an ottoman.\n\n[Illustration: Snatched up a Paving Stone]\n\nJavert put on his hat again, and advanced a couple of paces into the\nroom, with arms folded, his cane under one arm, his sword in its\nsheath.\n\n Halt there,  said he.  You shall not go out by the window, you shall\ngo through the door. It s less unhealthy. There are seven of you, there\nare fifteen of us. Don t let s fall to collaring each other like men of\nAuvergne. \n\n\nBigrenaille drew out a pistol which he had kept concealed under his\nblouse, and put it in Th nardier s hand, whispering in the latter s\near: \n\n It s Javert. I don t dare fire at that man. Do you dare? \n\n\n Parbleu!  replied Th nardier.\n\n Well, then, fire. \n\n\nTh nardier took the pistol and aimed at Javert.\n\nJavert, who was only three paces from him, stared intently at him and\ncontented himself with saying: \n\n Come now, don t fire. You ll miss fire. \n\n\nTh nardier pulled the trigger. The pistol missed fire.\n\n Didn t I tell you so!  ejaculated Javert.\n\nBigrenaille flung his bludgeon at Javert s feet.\n\n You re the emperor of the fiends! I surrender. \n\n\n And you?  Javert asked the rest of the ruffians.\n\nThey replied: \n\n So do we. \n\n\nJavert began again calmly: \n\n That s right, that s good, I said so, you are nice fellows. \n\n\n I only ask one thing,  said Bigrenaille,  and that is, that I may not\nbe denied tobacco while I am in confinement. \n\n\n Granted,  said Javert.\n\nAnd turning round and calling behind him: \n\n Come in now! \n\n\nA squad of policemen, sword in hand, and agents armed with bludgeons\nand cudgels, rushed in at Javert s summons. They pinioned the ruffians.\n\nThis throng of men, sparely lighted by the single candle, filled the\nden with shadows.\n\n Handcuff them all!  shouted Javert.\n\n Come on!  cried a voice which was not the voice of a man, but of which\nno one would ever have said:  It is a woman s voice. \n\n\nThe Th nardier woman had entrenched herself in one of the angles of the\nwindow, and it was she who had just given vent to this roar.\n\nThe policemen and agents recoiled.\n\nShe had thrown off her shawl, but retained her bonnet; her husband, who\nwas crouching behind her, was almost hidden under the discarded shawl,\nand she was shielding him with her body, as she elevated the\npaving-stone above her head with the gesture of a giantess on the point\nof hurling a rock.\n\n Beware!  she shouted.\n\nAll crowded back towards the corridor. A broad open space was cleared\nin the middle of the garret.\n\nThe Th nardier woman cast a glance at the ruffians who had allowed\nthemselves to be pinioned, and muttered in hoarse and guttural\naccents: \n\n The cowards! \n\n\nJavert smiled, and advanced across the open space which the Th nardier\nwas devouring with her eyes.\n\n Don t come near me,  she cried,  or I ll crush you. \n\n\n What a grenadier!  ejaculated Javert;  you ve got a beard like a man,\nmother, but I have claws like a woman. \n\n\nAnd he continued to advance.\n\nThe Th nardier, dishevelled and terrible, set her feet far apart, threw\nherself backwards, and hurled the paving-stone at Javert s head. Javert\nducked, the stone passed over him, struck the wall behind, knocked off\na huge piece of plastering, and, rebounding from angle to angle across\nthe hovel, now luckily almost empty, rested at Javert s feet.\n\nAt the same moment, Javert reached the Th nardier couple. One of his\nbig hands descended on the woman s shoulder; the other on the husband s\nhead.\n\n The handcuffs!  he shouted.\n\nThe policemen trooped in in force, and in a few seconds Javert s order\nhad been executed.\n\nThe Th nardier female, overwhelmed, stared at her pinioned hands, and\nat those of her husband, who had dropped to the floor, and exclaimed,\nweeping: \n\n My daughters! \n\n\n They are in the jug,  said Javert.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the agents had caught sight of the drunken man asleep\nbehind the door, and were shaking him: \n\nHe awoke, stammering: \n\n Is it all over, Jondrette? \n\n\n Yes,  replied Javert.\n\nThe six pinioned ruffians were standing, and still preserved their\nspectral mien; all three besmeared with black, all three masked.\n\n Keep on your masks,  said Javert.\n\nAnd passing them in review with a glance of a Frederick II. at a\nPotsdam parade, he said to the three  chimney-builders : \n\n Good day, Bigrenaille! good day, Brujon! good day, Deuxmilliards! \n\n\nThen turning to the three masked men, he said to the man with the\nmeat-axe: \n\n Good day, Gueulemer! \n\n\nAnd to the man with the cudgel: \n\n Good day, Babet! \n\n\nAnd to the ventriloquist: \n\n Your health, Claquesous. \n\n\nAt that moment, he caught sight of the ruffians  prisoner, who, ever\nsince the entrance of the police, had not uttered a word, and had held\nhis head down.\n\n Untie the gentleman!  said Javert,  and let no one go out! \n\n\nThat said, he seated himself with sovereign dignity before the table,\nwhere the candle and the writing-materials still remained, drew a\nstamped paper from his pocket, and began to prepare his report.\n\nWhen he had written the first lines, which are formulas that never\nvary, he raised his eyes: \n\n Let the gentleman whom these gentlemen bound step forward. \n\n\nThe policemen glanced round them.\n\n Well,  said Javert,  where is he? \n\n\nThe prisoner of the ruffians, M. Leblanc, M. Urbain Fabre, the father\nof Ursule or the Lark, had disappeared.\n\nThe door was guarded, but the window was not. As soon as he had found\nhimself released from his bonds, and while Javert was drawing up his\nreport, he had taken advantage of confusion, the crowd, the darkness,\nand of a moment when the general attention was diverted from him, to\ndash out of the window.\n\nAn agent sprang to the opening and looked out. He saw no one outside.\n\nThe rope ladder was still shaking.\n\n The devil!  ejaculated Javert between his teeth,  he must have been\nthe most valuable of the lot. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII THE LITTLE ONE WHO WAS CRYING IN VOLUME TWO\n\n\nOn the day following that on which these events took place in the house\non the Boulevard de l H pital, a child, who seemed to be coming from\nthe direction of the bridge of Austerlitz, was ascending the side-alley\non the right in the direction of the Barri re de Fontainebleau.\n\nNight had fully come.\n\nThis lad was pale, thin, clad in rags, with linen trousers in the month\nof February, and was singing at the top of his voice.\n\nAt the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier, a bent old woman was\nrummaging in a heap of refuse by the light of a street lantern; the\nchild jostled her as he passed, then recoiled, exclaiming: \n\n Hello! And I took it for an enormous, enormous dog! \n\n\nHe pronounced the word _enormous_ the second time with a jeering swell\nof the voice which might be tolerably well represented by capitals:  an\nenormous, ENORMOUS dog. \n\n\nThe old woman straightened herself up in a fury.\n\n Nasty brat!  she grumbled.  If I hadn t been bending over, I know well\nwhere I would have planted my foot on you. \n\n\nThe boy was already far away.\n\n Kisss! kisss!  he cried.  After that, I don t think I was mistaken! \n\n\nThe old woman, choking with indignation, now rose completely upright,\nand the red gleam of the lantern fully lighted up her livid face, all\nhollowed into angles and wrinkles, with crow s-feet meeting the corners\nof her mouth.\n\nHer body was lost in the darkness, and only her head was visible. One\nwould have pronounced her a mask of Decrepitude carved out by a light\nfrom the night.\n\nThe boy surveyed her.\n\n Madame,  said he,  does not possess that style of beauty which pleases\nme. \n\n\nHe then pursued his road, and resumed his song: \n\n Le roi Coupdesabot\nS en allait   la chasse,\n  la chasse aux corbeaux \n\n\nAt the end of these three lines he paused. He had arrived in front of\nNo. 50-52, and finding the door fastened, he began to assault it with\nresounding and heroic kicks, which betrayed rather the man s shoes that\nhe was wearing than the child s feet which he owned.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the very old woman whom he had encountered at the\ncorner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier hastened up behind him, uttering\nclamorous cries and indulging in lavish and exaggerated gestures.\n\n What s this? What s this? Lord God! He s battering the door down! He s\nknocking the house down. \n\n\nThe kicks continued.\n\nThe old woman strained her lungs.\n\n Is that the way buildings are treated nowadays? \n\n\nAll at once she paused.\n\nShe had recognized the gamin.\n\n What! so it s that imp! \n\n\n Why, it s the old lady,  said the lad.  Good day, Bougonmuche. I have\ncome to see my ancestors. \n\n\nThe old woman retorted with a composite grimace, and a wonderful\nimprovisation of hatred taking advantage of feebleness and ugliness,\nwhich was, unfortunately, wasted in the dark: \n\n There s no one here. \n\n\n Bah!  retorted the boy,  where s my father? \n\n\n At La Force. \n\n\n Come, now! And my mother? \n\n\n At Saint-Lazare. \n\n\n Well! And my sisters? \n\n\n At the Madelonettes. \n\n\nThe lad scratched his head behind his ear, stared at Ma am Bougon, and\nsaid: \n\n Ah! \n\n\nThen he executed a pirouette on his heel; a moment later, the old\nwoman, who had remained on the door-step, heard him singing in his\nclear, young voice, as he plunged under the black elm-trees, in the\nwintry wind: \n\n Le roi Coupdesabot\nS en allait   la chasse,\n  la chasse aux corbeaux,\nMont  sur deux  chasses.\nQuand on passait dessous,\nOn lui payait deux sous. 31\n\n\n[THE END OF VOLUME III  MARIUS ]\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME IV\nSAINT-DENIS\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Frontispiece Volume Four]\n\n[Illustration: Titlepage Volume Four]\n\nTHE IDYL IN THE RUE PLUMET AND THE EPIC IN THE RUE SAINT-DENIS\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIRST A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I WELL CUT\n\n\n1831 and 1832, the two years which are immediately connected with the\nRevolution of July, form one of the most peculiar and striking moments\nof history. These two years rise like two mountains midway between\nthose which precede and those which follow them. They have a\nrevolutionary grandeur. Precipices are to be distinguished there. The\nsocial masses, the very assizes of civilization, the solid group of\nsuperposed and adhering interests, the century-old profiles of the\nancient French formation, appear and disappear in them every instant,\nathwart the storm clouds of systems, of passions, and of theories.\nThese appearances and disappearances have been designated as movement\nand resistance. At intervals, truth, that daylight of the human soul,\ncan be descried shining there.\n\nThis remarkable epoch is decidedly circumscribed and is beginning to be\nsufficiently distant from us to allow of our grasping the principal\nlines even at the present day.\n\nWe shall make the attempt.\n\nThe Restoration had been one of those intermediate phases, hard to\ndefine, in which there is fatigue, buzzing, murmurs, sleep, tumult, and\nwhich are nothing else than the arrival of a great nation at a\nhalting-place.\n\nThese epochs are peculiar and mislead the politicians who desire to\nconvert them to profit. In the beginning, the nation asks nothing but\nrepose; it thirsts for but one thing, peace; it has but one ambition,\nto be small. Which is the translation of remaining tranquil. Of great\nevents, great hazards, great adventures, great men, thank God, we have\nseen enough, we have them heaped higher than our heads. We would\nexchange C sar for Prusias, and Napoleon for the King of Yvetot.  What\na good little king was he!  We have marched since daybreak, we have\nreached the evening of a long and toilsome day; we have made our first\nchange with Mirabeau, the second with Robespierre, the third with\nBonaparte; we are worn out. Each one demands a bed.\n\nDevotion which is weary, heroism which has grown old, ambitions which\nare sated, fortunes which are made, seek, demand, implore, solicit,\nwhat? A shelter. They have it. They take possession of peace, of\ntranquillity, of leisure; behold, they are content. But, at the same\ntime certain facts arise, compel recognition, and knock at the door in\ntheir turn. These facts are the products of revolutions and wars, they\nare, they exist, they have the right to install themselves in society,\nand they do install themselves therein; and most of the time, facts are\nthe stewards of the household and fouriers32 who do nothing but prepare\nlodgings for principles.\n\nThis, then, is what appears to philosophical politicians: \n\nAt the same time that weary men demand repose, accomplished facts\ndemand guarantees. Guarantees are the same to facts that repose is to\nmen.\n\nThis is what England demanded of the Stuarts after the Protector; this\nis what France demanded of the Bourbons after the Empire.\n\nThese guarantees are a necessity of the times. They must be accorded.\nPrinces  grant  them, but in reality, it is the force of things which\ngives them. A profound truth, and one useful to know, which the Stuarts\ndid not suspect in 1662 and which the Bourbons did not even obtain a\nglimpse of in 1814.\n\nThe predestined family, which returned to France when Napoleon fell,\nhad the fatal simplicity to believe that it was itself which bestowed,\nand that what it had bestowed it could take back again; that the House\nof Bourbon possessed the right divine, that France possessed nothing,\nand that the political right conceded in the charter of Louis XVIII.\nwas merely a branch of the right divine, was detached by the House of\nBourbon and graciously given to the people until such day as it should\nplease the King to reassume it. Still, the House of Bourbon should have\nfelt, from the displeasure created by the gift, that it did not come\nfrom it.\n\nThis house was churlish to the nineteenth century. It put on an\nill-tempered look at every development of the nation. To make use of a\ntrivial word, that is to say, of a popular and a true word, it looked\nglum. The people saw this.\n\nIt thought it possessed strength because the Empire had been carried\naway before it like a theatrical stage-setting. It did not perceive\nthat it had, itself, been brought in in the same fashion. It did not\nperceive that it also lay in that hand which had removed Napoleon.\n\nIt thought that it had roots, because it was the past. It was mistaken;\nit formed a part of the past, but the whole past was France. The roots\nof French society were not fixed in the Bourbons, but in the nations.\nThese obscure and lively roots constituted, not the right of a family,\nbut the history of a people. They were everywhere, except under the\nthrone.\n\nThe House of Bourbon was to France the illustrious and bleeding knot in\nher history, but was no longer the principal element of her destiny,\nand the necessary base of her politics. She could get along without the\nBourbons; she had done without them for two and twenty years; there had\nbeen a break of continuity; they did not suspect the fact. And how\nshould they have suspected it, they who fancied that Louis XVII.\nreigned on the 9th of Thermidor, and that Louis XVIII. was reigning at\nthe battle of Marengo? Never, since the origin of history, had princes\nbeen so blind in the presence of facts and the portion of divine\nauthority which facts contain and promulgate. Never had that pretension\nhere below which is called the right of kings denied to such a point\nthe right from on high.\n\nA capital error which led this family to lay its hand once more on the\nguarantees  granted  in 1814, on the concessions, as it termed them.\nSad. A sad thing! What it termed its concessions were our conquests;\nwhat it termed our encroachments were our rights.\n\nWhen the hour seemed to it to have come, the Restoration, supposing\nitself victorious over Bonaparte and well-rooted in the country, that\nis to say, believing itself to be strong and deep, abruptly decided on\nits plan of action, and risked its stroke. One morning it drew itself\nup before the face of France, and, elevating its voice, it contested\nthe collective title and the individual right of the nation to\nsovereignty, of the citizen to liberty. In other words, it denied to\nthe nation that which made it a nation, and to the citizen that which\nmade him a citizen.\n\nThis is the foundation of those famous acts which are called the\nordinances of July. The Restoration fell.\n\nIt fell justly. But, we admit, it had not been absolutely hostile to\nall forms of progress. Great things had been accomplished, with it\nalongside.\n\nUnder the Restoration, the nation had grown accustomed to calm\ndiscussion, which had been lacking under the Republic, and to grandeur\nin peace, which had been wanting under the Empire. France free and\nstrong had offered an encouraging spectacle to the other peoples of\nEurope. The Revolution had had the word under Robespierre; the cannon\nhad had the word under Bonaparte; it was under Louis XVIII. and Charles\nX. that it was the turn of intelligence to have the word. The wind\nceased, the torch was lighted once more. On the lofty heights, the pure\nlight of mind could be seen flickering. A magnificent, useful, and\ncharming spectacle. For a space of fifteen years, those great\nprinciples which are so old for the thinker, so new for the statesman,\ncould be seen at work in perfect peace, on the public square; equality\nbefore the law, liberty of conscience, liberty of speech, liberty of\nthe press, the accessibility of all aptitudes to all functions. Thus it\nproceeded until 1830. The Bourbons were an instrument of civilization\nwhich broke in the hands of Providence.\n\nThe fall of the Bourbons was full of grandeur, not on their side, but\non the side of the nation. They quitted the throne with gravity, but\nwithout authority; their descent into the night was not one of those\nsolemn disappearances which leave a sombre emotion in history; it was\nneither the spectral calm of Charles I., nor the eagle scream of\nNapoleon. They departed, that is all. They laid down the crown, and\nretained no aureole. They were worthy, but they were not august. They\nlacked, in a certain measure, the majesty of their misfortune. Charles\nX. during the voyage from Cherbourg, causing a round table to be cut\nover into a square table, appeared to be more anxious about imperilled\netiquette than about the crumbling monarchy. This diminution saddened\ndevoted men who loved their persons, and serious men who honored their\nrace. The populace was admirable. The nation, attacked one morning with\nweapons, by a sort of royal insurrection, felt itself in the possession\nof so much force that it did not go into a rage. It defended itself,\nrestrained itself, restored things to their places, the government to\nlaw, the Bourbons to exile, alas! and then halted! It took the old king\nCharles X. from beneath that dais which had sheltered Louis XIV. and\nset him gently on the ground. It touched the royal personages only with\nsadness and precaution. It was not one man, it was not a few men, it\nwas France, France entire, France victorious and intoxicated with her\nvictory, who seemed to be coming to herself, and who put into practice,\nbefore the eyes of the whole world, these grave words of Guillaume du\nVair after the day of the Barricades: \n\n It is easy for those who are accustomed to skim the favors of the\ngreat, and to spring, like a bird from bough to bough, from an\nafflicted fortune to a flourishing one, to show themselves harsh\ntowards their Prince in his adversity; but as for me, the fortune of my\nKings and especially of my afflicted Kings, will always be venerable to\nme. \n\n\nThe Bourbons carried away with them respect, but not regret. As we have\njust stated, their misfortune was greater than they were. They faded\nout in the horizon.\n\nThe Revolution of July instantly had friends and enemies throughout the\nentire world. The first rushed toward her with joy and enthusiasm, the\nothers turned away, each according to his nature. At the first blush,\nthe princes of Europe, the owls of this dawn, shut their eyes, wounded\nand stupefied, and only opened them to threaten. A fright which can be\ncomprehended, a wrath which can be pardoned. This strange revolution\nhad hardly produced a shock; it had not even paid to vanquished royalty\nthe honor of treating it as an enemy, and of shedding its blood. In the\neyes of despotic governments, who are always interested in having\nliberty calumniate itself, the Revolution of July committed the fault\nof being formidable and of remaining gentle. Nothing, however, was\nattempted or plotted against it. The most discontented, the most\nirritated, the most trembling, saluted it; whatever our egotism and our\nrancor may be, a mysterious respect springs from events in which we are\nsensible of the collaboration of some one who is working above man.\n\nThe Revolution of July is the triumph of right overthrowing the fact. A\nthing which is full of splendor.\n\nRight overthrowing the fact. Hence the brilliancy of the Revolution of\n1830, hence, also, its mildness. Right triumphant has no need of being\nviolent.\n\nRight is the just and the true.\n\nThe property of right is to remain eternally beautiful and pure. The\nfact, even when most necessary to all appearances, even when most\nthoroughly accepted by contemporaries, if it exist only as a fact, and\nif it contain only too little of right, or none at all, is infallibly\ndestined to become, in the course of time, deformed, impure, perhaps,\neven monstrous. If one desires to learn at one blow, to what degree of\nhideousness the fact can attain, viewed at the distance of centuries,\nlet him look at Machiavelli. Machiavelli is not an evil genius, nor a\ndemon, nor a miserable and cowardly writer; he is nothing but the fact.\nAnd he is not only the Italian fact; he is the European fact, the fact\nof the sixteenth century. He seems hideous, and so he is, in the\npresence of the moral idea of the nineteenth.\n\nThis conflict of right and fact has been going on ever since the origin\nof society. To terminate this duel, to amalgamate the pure idea with\nthe humane reality, to cause right to penetrate pacifically into the\nfact and the fact into right, that is the task of sages.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II BADLY SEWED\n\n\nBut the task of sages is one thing, the task of clever men is another.\nThe Revolution of 1830 came to a sudden halt.\n\nAs soon as a revolution has made the coast, the skilful make haste to\nprepare the shipwreck.\n\nThe skilful in our century have conferred on themselves the title of\nStatesmen; so that this word, _statesmen_, has ended by becoming\nsomewhat of a slang word. It must be borne in mind, in fact, that\nwherever there is nothing but skill, there is necessarily pettiness. To\nsay  the skilful  amounts to saying  the mediocre. \n\n\nIn the same way, to say  statesmen  is sometimes equivalent to saying\n traitors.  If, then, we are to believe the skilful, revolutions like\nthe Revolution of July are severed arteries; a prompt ligature is\nindispensable. The right, too grandly proclaimed, is shaken. Also,\nright once firmly fixed, the state must be strengthened. Liberty once\nassured, attention must be directed to power.\n\nHere the sages are not, as yet, separated from the skilful, but they\nbegin to be distrustful. Power, very good. But, in the first place,\nwhat is power? In the second, whence comes it? The skilful do not seem\nto hear the murmured objection, and they continue their man uvres.\n\nAccording to the politicians, who are ingenious in putting the mask of\nnecessity on profitable fictions, the first requirement of a people\nafter a revolution, when this people forms part of a monarchical\ncontinent, is to procure for itself a dynasty. In this way, say they,\npeace, that is to say, time to dress our wounds, and to repair the\nhouse, can be had after a revolution. The dynasty conceals the\nscaffolding and covers the ambulance. Now, it is not always easy to\nprocure a dynasty.\n\nIf it is absolutely necessary, the first man of genius or even the\nfirst man of fortune who comes to hand suffices for the manufacturing\nof a king. You have, in the first case, Napoleon; in the second,\nIturbide.\n\nBut the first family that comes to hand does not suffice to make a\ndynasty. There is necessarily required a certain modicum of antiquity\nin a race, and the wrinkle of the centuries cannot be improvised.\n\nIf we place ourselves at the point of view of the  statesmen,  after\nmaking all allowances, of course, after a revolution, what are the\nqualities of the king which result from it? He may be and it is useful\nfor him to be a revolutionary; that is to say, a participant in his own\nperson in that revolution, that he should have lent a hand to it, that\nhe should have either compromised or distinguished himself therein,\nthat he should have touched the axe or wielded the sword in it.\n\nWhat are the qualities of a dynasty? It should be national; that is to\nsay, revolutionary at a distance, not through acts committed, but by\nreason of ideas accepted. It should be composed of past and be\nhistoric; be composed of future and be sympathetic.\n\nAll this explains why the early revolutions contented themselves with\nfinding a man, Cromwell or Napoleon; and why the second absolutely\ninsisted on finding a family, the House of Brunswick or the House of\nOrleans.\n\nRoyal houses resemble those Indian fig-trees, each branch of which,\nbending over to the earth, takes root and becomes a fig-tree itself.\nEach branch may become a dynasty. On the sole condition that it shall\nbend down to the people.\n\nSuch is the theory of the skilful.\n\nHere, then, lies the great art: to make a little render to success the\nsound of a catastrophe in order that those who profit by it may tremble\nfrom it also, to season with fear every step that is taken, to augment\nthe curve of the transition to the point of retarding progress, to dull\nthat aurora, to denounce and retrench the harshness of enthusiasm, to\ncut all angles and nails, to wad triumph, to muffle up right, to\nenvelop the giant-people in flannel, and to put it to bed very\nspeedily, to impose a diet on that excess of health, to put Hercules on\nthe treatment of a convalescent, to dilute the event with the\nexpedient, to offer to spirits thirsting for the ideal that nectar\nthinned out with a potion, to take one s precautions against too much\nsuccess, to garnish the revolution with a shade.\n\n1830 practised this theory, already applied to England by 1688.\n\n1830 is a revolution arrested midway. Half of progress, quasi-right.\nNow, logic knows not the  almost,  absolutely as the sun knows not the\ncandle.\n\nWho arrests revolutions half-way? The bourgeoisie?\n\nWhy?\n\nBecause the bourgeoisie is interest which has reached satisfaction.\nYesterday it was appetite, to-day it is plenitude, to-morrow it will be\nsatiety.\n\nThe phenomenon of 1814 after Napoleon was reproduced in 1830 after\nCharles X.\n\nThe attempt has been made, and wrongly, to make a class of the\nbourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie is simply the contented portion of the\npeople. The bourgeois is the man who now has time to sit down. A chair\nis not a caste.\n\nBut through a desire to sit down too soon, one may arrest the very\nmarch of the human race. This has often been the fault of the\nbourgeoisie.\n\nOne is not a class because one has committed a fault. Selfishness is\nnot one of the divisions of the social order.\n\nMoreover, we must be just to selfishness. The state to which that part\nof the nation which is called the bourgeoisie aspired after the shock\nof 1830 was not the inertia which is complicated with indifference and\nlaziness, and which contains a little shame; it was not the slumber\nwhich presupposes a momentary forgetfulness accessible to dreams; it\nwas the halt.\n\nThe halt is a word formed of a singular double and almost contradictory\nsense: a troop on the march, that is to say, movement; a stand, that is\nto say, repose.\n\nThe halt is the restoration of forces; it is repose armed and on the\nalert; it is the accomplished fact which posts sentinels and holds\nitself on its guard.\n\nThe halt presupposes the combat of yesterday and the combat of\nto-morrow.\n\nIt is the partition between 1830 and 1848.\n\nWhat we here call combat may also be designated as progress.\n\nThe bourgeoisie then, as well as the statesmen, required a man who\nshould express this word Halt. An Although-Because. A composite\nindividuality, signifying revolution and signifying stability, in other\nterms, strengthening the present by the evident compatibility of the\npast with the future.\n\nThis man was  already found.  His name was Louis Philippe d Orleans.\n\nThe 221 made Louis Philippe King. Lafayette undertook the coronation.\n\nHe called it _the best of republics_. The town-hall of Paris took the\nplace of the Cathedral of Rheims.\n\nThis substitution of a half-throne for a whole throne was  the work of\n1830. \n\n\nWhen the skilful had finished, the immense vice of their solution\nbecame apparent. All this had been accomplished outside the bounds of\nabsolute right. Absolute right cried:  I protest!  then, terrible to\nsay, it retired into the darkness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III LOUIS PHILIPPE\n\n\nRevolutions have a terrible arm and a happy hand, they strike firmly\nand choose well. Even incomplete, even debased and abused and reduced\nto the state of a junior revolution like the Revolution of 1830, they\nnearly always retain sufficient providential lucidity to prevent them\nfrom falling amiss. Their eclipse is never an abdication.\n\nNevertheless, let us not boast too loudly; revolutions also may be\ndeceived, and grave errors have been seen.\n\nLet us return to 1830. 1830, in its deviation, had good luck. In the\nestablishment which entitled itself order after the revolution had been\ncut short, the King amounted to more than royalty. Louis Philippe was a\nrare man.\n\nThe son of a father to whom history will accord certain attenuating\ncircumstances, but also as worthy of esteem as that father had been of\nblame; possessing all private virtues and many public virtues; careful\nof his health, of his fortune, of his person, of his affairs, knowing\nthe value of a minute and not always the value of a year; sober,\nserene, peaceable, patient; a good man and a good prince; sleeping with\nhis wife, and having in his palace lackeys charged with the duty of\nshowing the conjugal bed to the bourgeois, an ostentation of the\nregular sleeping-apartment which had become useful after the former\nillegitimate displays of the elder branch; knowing all the languages of\nEurope, and, what is more rare, all the languages of all interests, and\nspeaking them; an admirable representative of the  middle class,  but\noutstripping it, and in every way greater than it; possessing excellent\nsense, while appreciating the blood from which he had sprung, counting\nmost of all on his intrinsic worth, and, on the question of his race,\nvery particular, declaring himself Orleans and not Bourbon; thoroughly\nthe first Prince of the Blood Royal while he was still only a Serene\nHighness, but a frank bourgeois from the day he became king; diffuse in\npublic, concise in private; reputed, but not proved to be a miser; at\nbottom, one of those economists who are readily prodigal at their own\nfancy or duty; lettered, but not very sensitive to letters; a\ngentleman, but not a chevalier; simple, calm, and strong; adored by his\nfamily and his household; a fascinating talker, an undeceived\nstatesman, inwardly cold, dominated by immediate interest, always\ngoverning at the shortest range, incapable of rancor and of gratitude,\nmaking use without mercy of superiority on mediocrity, clever in\ngetting parliamentary majorities to put in the wrong those mysterious\nunanimities which mutter dully under thrones; unreserved, sometimes\nimprudent in his lack of reserve, but with marvellous address in that\nimprudence; fertile in expedients, in countenances, in masks; making\nFrance fear Europe and Europe France! Incontestably fond of his\ncountry, but preferring his family; assuming more domination than\nauthority and more authority than dignity, a disposition which has this\nunfortunate property, that as it turns everything to success, it admits\nof ruse and does not absolutely repudiate baseness, but which has this\nvaluable side, that it preserves politics from violent shocks, the\nstate from fractures, and society from catastrophes; minute, correct,\nvigilant, attentive, sagacious, indefatigable; contradicting himself at\ntimes and giving himself the lie; bold against Austria at Ancona,\nobstinate against England in Spain, bombarding Antwerp, and paying off\nPritchard; singing the Marseillaise with conviction, inaccessible to\ndespondency, to lassitude, to the taste for the beautiful and the\nideal, to daring generosity, to Utopia, to chim ras, to wrath, to\nvanity, to fear; possessing all the forms of personal intrepidity; a\ngeneral at Valmy; a soldier at Jemappes; attacked eight times by\nregicides and always smiling. Brave as a grenadier, courageous as a\nthinker; uneasy only in the face of the chances of a European shaking\nup, and unfitted for great political adventures; always ready to risk\nhis life, never his work; disguising his will in influence, in order\nthat he might be obeyed as an intelligence rather than as a king;\nendowed with observation and not with divination; not very attentive to\nminds, but knowing men, that is to say requiring to see in order to\njudge; prompt and penetrating good sense, practical wisdom, easy\nspeech, prodigious memory; drawing incessantly on this memory, his only\npoint of resemblance with C sar, Alexander, and Napoleon; knowing\ndeeds, facts, details, dates, proper names, ignorant of tendencies,\npassions, the diverse geniuses of the crowd, the interior aspirations,\nthe hidden and obscure uprisings of souls, in a word, all that can be\ndesignated as the invisible currents of consciences; accepted by the\nsurface, but little in accord with France lower down; extricating\nhimself by dint of tact; governing too much and not enough; his own\nfirst minister; excellent at creating out of the pettiness of realities\nan obstacle to the immensity of ideas; mingling a genuine creative\nfaculty of civilization, of order and organization, an indescribable\nspirit of proceedings and chicanery, the founder and lawyer of a\ndynasty; having something of Charlemagne and something of an attorney;\nin short, a lofty and original figure, a prince who understood how to\ncreate authority in spite of the uneasiness of France, and power in\nspite of the jealousy of Europe. Louis Philippe will be classed among\nthe eminent men of his century, and would be ranked among the most\nillustrious governors of history had he loved glory but a little, and\nif he had had the sentiment of what is great to the same degree as the\nfeeling for what is useful.\n\nLouis Philippe had been handsome, and in his old age he remained\ngraceful; not always approved by the nation, he always was so by the\nmasses; he pleased. He had that gift of charming. He lacked majesty; he\nwore no crown, although a king, and no white hair, although an old man;\nhis manners belonged to the old regime and his habits to the new; a\nmixture of the noble and the bourgeois which suited 1830; Louis\nPhilippe was transition reigning; he had preserved the ancient\npronunciation and the ancient orthography which he placed at the\nservice of opinions modern; he loved Poland and Hungary, but he wrote\n_les Polonois_, and he pronounced _les Hongrais_. He wore the uniform\nof the national guard, like Charles X., and the ribbon of the Legion of\nHonor, like Napoleon.\n\nHe went a little to chapel, not at all to the chase, never to the\nopera. Incorruptible by sacristans, by whippers-in, by ballet-dancers;\nthis made a part of his bourgeois popularity. He had no heart. He went\nout with his umbrella under his arm, and this umbrella long formed a\npart of his aureole. He was a bit of a mason, a bit of a gardener,\nsomething of a doctor; he bled a postilion who had tumbled from his\nhorse; Louis Philippe no more went about without his lancet, than did\nHenri IV. without his poniard. The Royalists jeered at this ridiculous\nking, the first who had ever shed blood with the object of healing.\n\nFor the grievances against Louis Philippe, there is one deduction to be\nmade; there is that which accuses royalty, that which accuses the\nreign, that which accuses the King; three columns which all give\ndifferent totals. Democratic right confiscated, progress becomes a\nmatter of secondary interest, the protests of the street violently\nrepressed, military execution of insurrections, the rising passed over\nby arms, the Rue Transnonain, the counsels of war, the absorption of\nthe real country by the legal country, on half shares with three\nhundred thousand privileged persons, these are the deeds of royalty;\nBelgium refused, Algeria too harshly conquered, and, as in the case of\nIndia by the English, with more barbarism than civilization, the breach\nof faith, to Abd-el-Kader, Blaye, Deutz bought, Pritchard paid, these\nare the doings of the reign; the policy which was more domestic than\nnational was the doing of the King.\n\nAs will be seen, the proper deduction having been made, the King s\ncharge is decreased.\n\nThis is his great fault; he was modest in the name of France.\n\nWhence arises this fault?\n\nWe will state it.\n\nLouis Philippe was rather too much of a paternal king; that incubation\nof a family with the object of founding a dynasty is afraid of\neverything and does not like to be disturbed; hence excessive timidity,\nwhich is displeasing to the people, who have the 14th of July in their\ncivil and Austerlitz in their military tradition.\n\nMoreover, if we deduct the public duties which require to be fulfilled\nfirst of all, that deep tenderness of Louis Philippe towards his family\nwas deserved by the family. That domestic group was worthy of\nadmiration. Virtues there dwelt side by side with talents. One of Louis\nPhilippe s daughters, Marie d Orleans, placed the name of her race\namong artists, as Charles d Orleans had placed it among poets. She made\nof her soul a marble which she named Jeanne d Arc. Two of Louis\nPhilippe s daughters elicited from Metternich this eulogium:  They are\nyoung people such as are rarely seen, and princes such as are never\nseen. \n\n\nThis, without any dissimulation, and also without any exaggeration, is\nthe truth about Louis Philippe.\n\nTo be Prince Equality, to bear in his own person the contradiction of\nthe Restoration and the Revolution, to have that disquieting side of\nthe revolutionary which becomes reassuring in governing power, therein\nlay the fortune of Louis Philippe in 1830; never was there a more\ncomplete adaptation of a man to an event; the one entered into the\nother, and the incarnation took place. Louis Philippe is 1830 made man.\nMoreover, he had in his favor that great recommendation to the throne,\nexile. He had been proscribed, a wanderer, poor. He had lived by his\nown labor. In Switzerland, this heir to the richest princely domains in\nFrance had sold an old horse in order to obtain bread. At Reichenau, he\ngave lessons in mathematics, while his sister Adelaide did wool work\nand sewed. These souvenirs connected with a king rendered the\nbourgeoisie enthusiastic. He had, with his own hands, demolished the\niron cage of Mont-Saint-Michel, built by Louis XI., and used by Louis\nXV. He was the companion of Dumouriez, he was the friend of Lafayette;\nhe had belonged to the Jacobins  club; Mirabeau had slapped him on the\nshoulder; Danton had said to him:  Young man!  At the age of four and\ntwenty, in  93, being then M. de Chartres, he had witnessed, from the\ndepth of a box, the trial of Louis XVI., so well named _that poor\ntyrant_. The blind clairvoyance of the Revolution, breaking royalty in\nthe King and the King with royalty, did so almost without noticing the\nman in the fierce crushing of the idea, the vast storm of the\nAssembly-Tribunal, the public wrath interrogating, Capet not knowing\nwhat to reply, the alarming, stupefied vacillation by that royal head\nbeneath that sombre breath, the relative innocence of all in that\ncatastrophe, of those who condemned as well as of the man condemned, he\nhad looked on those things, he had contemplated that giddiness; he had\nseen the centuries appear before the bar of the Assembly-Convention; he\nhad beheld, behind Louis XVI., that unfortunate passer-by who was made\nresponsible, the terrible culprit, the monarchy, rise through the\nshadows; and there had lingered in his soul the respectful fear of\nthese immense justices of the populace, which are almost as impersonal\nas the justice of God.\n\nThe trace left in him by the Revolution was prodigious. Its memory was\nlike a living imprint of those great years, minute by minute. One day,\nin the presence of a witness whom we are not permitted to doubt, he\nrectified from memory the whole of the letter A in the alphabetical\nlist of the Constituent Assembly.\n\nLouis Philippe was a king of the broad daylight. While he reigned the\npress was free, the tribune was free, conscience and speech were free.\nThe laws of September are open to sight. Although fully aware of the\ngnawing power of light on privileges, he left his throne exposed to the\nlight. History will do justice to him for this loyalty.\n\nLouis Philippe, like all historical men who have passed from the scene,\nis to-day put on his trial by the human conscience. His case is, as\nyet, only in the lower court.\n\nThe hour when history speaks with its free and venerable accent, has\nnot yet sounded for him; the moment has not come to pronounce a\ndefinite judgment on this king; the austere and illustrious historian\nLouis Blanc has himself recently softened his first verdict; Louis\nPhilippe was elected by those two _almosts_ which are called the 221\nand 1830, that is to say, by a half-Parliament, and a half-revolution;\nand in any case, from the superior point of view where philosophy must\nplace itself, we cannot judge him here, as the reader has seen above,\nexcept with certain reservations in the name of the absolute democratic\nprinciple; in the eyes of the absolute, outside these two rights, the\nright of man in the first place, the right of the people in the second,\nall is usurpation; but what we can say, even at the present day, that\nafter making these reserves is, that to sum up the whole, and in\nwhatever manner he is considered, Louis Philippe, taken in himself, and\nfrom the point of view of human goodness, will remain, to use the\nantique language of ancient history, one of the best princes who ever\nsat on a throne.\n\nWhat is there against him? That throne. Take away Louis Philippe the\nking, there remains the man. And the man is good. He is good at times\neven to the point of being admirable. Often, in the midst of his\ngravest souvenirs, after a day of conflict with the whole diplomacy of\nthe continent, he returned at night to his apartments, and there,\nexhausted with fatigue, overwhelmed with sleep, what did he do? He took\na death sentence and passed the night in revising a criminal suit,\nconsidering it something to hold his own against Europe, but that it\nwas a still greater matter to rescue a man from the executioner. He\nobstinately maintained his opinion against his keeper of the seals; he\ndisputed the ground with the guillotine foot by foot against the crown\nattorneys, those _chatterers of the law_, as he called them. Sometimes\nthe pile of sentences covered his table; he examined them all; it was\nanguish to him to abandon these miserable, condemned heads. One day, he\nsaid to the same witness to whom we have recently referred:  I won\nseven last night.  During the early years of his reign, the death\npenalty was as good as abolished, and the erection of a scaffold was a\nviolence committed against the King. The Gr ve having disappeared with\nthe elder branch, a bourgeois place of execution was instituted under\nthe name of the Barri re-Saint-Jacques;  practical men  felt the\nnecessity of a quasi-legitimate guillotine; and this was one of the\nvictories of Casimir P rier, who represented the narrow sides of the\nbourgeoisie, over Louis Philippe, who represented its liberal sides.\nLouis Philippe annotated Beccaria with his own hand. After the Fieschi\nmachine, he exclaimed:  What a pity that I was not wounded! Then I\nmight have pardoned!  On another occasion, alluding to the resistance\noffered by his ministry, he wrote in connection with a political\ncriminal, who is one of the most generous figures of our day:  His\npardon is granted; it only remains for me to obtain it.  Louis Philippe\nwas as gentle as Louis IX. and as kindly as Henri IV.\n\nNow, to our mind, in history, where kindness is the rarest of pearls,\nthe man who is kindly almost takes precedence of the man who is great.\n\nLouis Philippe having been severely judged by some, harshly, perhaps,\nby others, it is quite natural that a man, himself a phantom at the\npresent day, who knew that king, should come and testify in his favor\nbefore history; this deposition, whatever else it may be, is evidently\nand above all things, entirely disinterested; an epitaph penned by a\ndead man is sincere; one shade may console another shade; the sharing\nof the same shadows confers the right to praise it; it is not greatly\nto be feared that it will ever be said of two tombs in exile:  This one\nflattered the other. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV CRACKS BENEATH THE FOUNDATION\n\n\nAt the moment when the drama which we are narrating is on the point of\npenetrating into the depths of one of the tragic clouds which envelop\nthe beginning of Louis Philippe s reign, it was necessary that there\nshould be no equivoque, and it became requisite that this book should\noffer some explanation with regard to this king.\n\nLouis Philippe had entered into possession of his royal authority\nwithout violence, without any direct action on his part, by virtue of a\nrevolutionary change, evidently quite distinct from the real aim of the\nRevolution, but in which he, the Duc d Orl ans, exercised no personal\ninitiative. He had been born a Prince, and he believed himself to have\nbeen elected King. He had not served this mandate on himself; he had\nnot taken it; it had been offered to him, and he had accepted it;\nconvinced, wrongly, to be sure, but convinced nevertheless, that the\noffer was in accordance with right and that the acceptance of it was in\naccordance with duty. Hence his possession was in good faith. Now, we\nsay it in good conscience, Louis Philippe being in possession in\nperfect good faith, and the democracy being in good faith in its\nattack, the amount of terror discharged by the social conflicts weighs\nneither on the King nor on the democracy. A clash of principles\nresembles a clash of elements. The ocean defends the water, the\nhurricane defends the air, the King defends Royalty, the democracy\ndefends the people; the relative, which is the monarchy, resists the\nabsolute, which is the republic; society bleeds in this conflict, but\nthat which constitutes its suffering to-day will constitute its safety\nlater on; and, in any case, those who combat are not to be blamed; one\nof the two parties is evidently mistaken; the right is not, like the\nColossus of Rhodes, on two shores at once, with one foot on the\nrepublic, and one in Royalty; it is indivisible, and all on one side;\nbut those who are in error are so sincerely; a blind man is no more a\ncriminal than a Vendean is a ruffian. Let us, then, impute to the\nfatality of things alone these formidable collisions. Whatever the\nnature of these tempests may be, human irresponsibility is mingled with\nthem.\n\nLet us complete this exposition.\n\nThe government of 1840 led a hard life immediately. Born yesterday, it\nwas obliged to fight to-day.\n\nHardly installed, it was already everywhere conscious of vague\nmovements of traction on the apparatus of July so recently laid, and so\nlacking in solidity.\n\nResistance was born on the morrow; perhaps even, it was born on the\npreceding evening. From month to month the hostility increased, and\nfrom being concealed it became patent.\n\nThe Revolution of July, which gained but little acceptance outside of\nFrance by kings, had been diversely interpreted in France, as we have\nsaid.\n\nGod delivers over to men his visible will in events, an obscure text\nwritten in a mysterious tongue. Men immediately make translations of\nit; translations hasty, incorrect, full of errors, of gaps, and of\nnonsense. Very few minds comprehend the divine language. The most\nsagacious, the calmest, the most profound, decipher slowly, and when\nthey arrive with their text, the task has long been completed; there\nare already twenty translations on the public place. From each\nremaining springs a party, and from each misinterpretation a faction;\nand each party thinks that it alone has the true text, and each faction\nthinks that it possesses the light.\n\nPower itself is often a faction.\n\nThere are, in revolutions, swimmers who go against the current; they\nare the old parties.\n\nFor the old parties who clung to heredity by the grace of God, think\nthat revolutions, having sprung from the right to revolt, one has the\nright to revolt against them. Error. For in these revolutions, the one\nwho revolts is not the people; it is the king. Revolution is precisely\nthe contrary of revolt. Every revolution, being a normal outcome,\ncontains within itself its legitimacy, which false revolutionists\nsometimes dishonor, but which remains even when soiled, which survives\neven when stained with blood.\n\nRevolutions spring not from an accident, but from necessity. A\nrevolution is a return from the fictitious to the real. It is because\nit must be that it is.\n\nNonetheless did the old legitimist parties assail the Revolution of\n1830 with all the vehemence which arises from false reasoning. Errors\nmake excellent projectiles. They strike it cleverly in its vulnerable\nspot, in default of a cuirass, in its lack of logic; they attacked this\nrevolution in its royalty. They shouted to it:  Revolution, why this\nking?  Factions are blind men who aim correctly.\n\nThis cry was uttered equally by the republicans. But coming from them,\nthis cry was logical. What was blindness in the legitimists was\nclearness of vision in the democrats. 1830 had bankrupted the people.\nThe enraged democracy reproached it with this.\n\nBetween the attack of the past and the attack of the future, the\nestablishment of July struggled. It represented the minute at\nloggerheads on the one hand with the monarchical centuries, on the\nother hand with eternal right.\n\nIn addition, and beside all this, as it was no longer revolution and\nhad become a monarchy, 1830 was obliged to take precedence of all\nEurope. To keep the peace, was an increase of complication. A harmony\nestablished contrary to sense is often more onerous than a war. From\nthis secret conflict, always muzzled, but always growling, was born\narmed peace, that ruinous expedient of civilization which in the\nharness of the European cabinets is suspicious in itself. The Royalty\nof July reared up, in spite of the fact that it caught it in the\nharness of European cabinets. Metternich would gladly have put it in\nkicking-straps. Pushed on in France by progress, it pushed on the\nmonarchies, those loiterers in Europe. After having been towed, it\nundertook to tow.\n\nMeanwhile, within her, pauperism, the proletariat, salary, education,\npenal servitude, prostitution, the fate of the woman, wealth, misery,\nproduction, consumption, division, exchange, coin, credit, the rights\nof capital, the rights of labor, all these questions were multiplied\nabove society, a terrible slope.\n\nOutside of political parties properly so called, another movement\nbecame manifest. Philosophical fermentation replied to democratic\nfermentation. The elect felt troubled as well as the masses; in another\nmanner, but quite as much.\n\nThinkers meditated, while the soil, that is to say, the people,\ntraversed by revolutionary currents, trembled under them with\nindescribably vague epileptic shocks. These dreamers, some isolated,\nothers united in families and almost in communion, turned over social\nquestions in a pacific but profound manner; impassive miners, who\ntranquilly pushed their galleries into the depths of a volcano, hardly\ndisturbed by the dull commotion and the furnaces of which they caught\nglimpses.\n\nThis tranquillity was not the least beautiful spectacle of this\nagitated epoch.\n\nThese men left to political parties the question of rights, they\noccupied themselves with the question of happiness.\n\nThe well-being of man, that was what they wanted to extract from\nsociety.\n\nThey raised material questions, questions of agriculture, of industry,\nof commerce, almost to the dignity of a religion. In civilization, such\nas it has formed itself, a little by the command of God, a great deal\nby the agency of man, interests combine, unite, and amalgamate in a\nmanner to form a veritable hard rock, in accordance with a dynamic law,\npatiently studied by economists, those geologists of politics. These\nmen who grouped themselves under different appellations, but who may\nall be designated by the generic title of socialists, endeavored to\npierce that rock and to cause it to spout forth the living waters of\nhuman felicity.\n\nFrom the question of the scaffold to the question of war, their works\nembraced everything. To the rights of man, as proclaimed by the French\nRevolution, they added the rights of woman and the rights of the child.\n\nThe reader will not be surprised if, for various reasons, we do not\nhere treat in a thorough manner, from the theoretical point of view,\nthe questions raised by socialism. We confine ourselves to indicating\nthem.\n\nAll the problems that the socialists proposed to themselves, cosmogonic\nvisions, reverie and mysticism being cast aside, can be reduced to two\nprincipal problems.\n\nFirst problem: To produce wealth.\n\nSecond problem: To share it.\n\nThe first problem contains the question of work.\n\nThe second contains the question of salary.\n\nIn the first problem the employment of forces is in question.\n\nIn the second, the distribution of enjoyment.\n\nFrom the proper employment of forces results public power.\n\nFrom a good distribution of enjoyments results individual happiness.\n\nBy a good distribution, not an equal but an equitable distribution must\nbe understood.\n\nFrom these two things combined, the public power without, individual\nhappiness within, results social prosperity.\n\nSocial prosperity means the man happy, the citizen free, the nation\ngreat.\n\nEngland solves the first of these two problems. She creates wealth\nadmirably, she divides it badly. This solution which is complete on one\nside only leads her fatally to two extremes: monstrous opulence,\nmonstrous wretchedness. All enjoyments for some, all privations for the\nrest, that is to say, for the people; privilege, exception, monopoly,\nfeudalism, born from toil itself. A false and dangerous situation,\nwhich sates public power or private misery, which sets the roots of the\nState in the sufferings of the individual. A badly constituted grandeur\nin which are combined all the material elements and into which no moral\nelement enters.\n\nCommunism and agrarian law think that they solve the second problem.\nThey are mistaken. Their division kills production. Equal partition\nabolishes emulation; and consequently labor. It is a partition made by\nthe butcher, which kills that which it divides. It is therefore\nimpossible to pause over these pretended solutions. Slaying wealth is\nnot the same thing as dividing it.\n\nThe two problems require to be solved together, to be well solved. The\ntwo problems must be combined and made but one.\n\nSolve only the first of the two problems; you will be Venice, you will\nbe England. You will have, like Venice, an artificial power, or, like\nEngland, a material power; you will be the wicked rich man. You will\ndie by an act of violence, as Venice died, or by bankruptcy, as England\nwill fall. And the world will allow to die and fall all that is merely\nselfishness, all that does not represent for the human race either a\nvirtue or an idea.\n\nIt is well understood here, that by the words Venice, England, we\ndesignate not the peoples, but social structures; the oligarchies\nsuperposed on nations, and not the nations themselves. The nations\nalways have our respect and our sympathy. Venice, as a people, will\nlive again; England, the aristocracy, will fall, but England, the\nnation, is immortal. That said, we continue.\n\nSolve the two problems, encourage the wealthy, and protect the poor,\nsuppress misery, put an end to the unjust farming out of the feeble by\nthe strong, put a bridle on the iniquitous jealousy of the man who is\nmaking his way against the man who has reached the goal, adjust,\nmathematically and fraternally, salary to labor, mingle gratuitous and\ncompulsory education with the growth of childhood, and make of science\nthe base of manliness, develop minds while keeping arms busy, be at one\nand the same time a powerful people and a family of happy men, render\nproperty democratic, not by abolishing it, but by making it universal,\nso that every citizen, without exception, may be a proprietor, an\neasier matter than is generally supposed; in two words, learn how to\nproduce wealth and how to distribute it, and you will have at once\nmoral and material greatness; and you will be worthy to call yourself\nFrance.\n\nThis is what socialism said outside and above a few sects which have\ngone astray; that is what it sought in facts, that is what it sketched\nout in minds.\n\nEfforts worthy of admiration! Sacred attempts!\n\nThese doctrines, these theories, these resistances, the unforeseen\nnecessity for the statesman to take philosophers into account, confused\nevidences of which we catch a glimpse, a new system of politics to be\ncreated, which shall be in accord with the old world without too much\ndisaccord with the new revolutionary ideal, a situation in which it\nbecame necessary to use Lafayette to defend Polignac, the intuition of\nprogress transparent beneath the revolt, the chambers and streets, the\ncompetitions to be brought into equilibrium around him, his faith in\nthe Revolution, perhaps an eventual indefinable resignation born of the\nvague acceptance of a superior definitive right, his desire to remain\nof his race, his domestic spirit, his sincere respect for the people,\nhis own honesty, preoccupied Louis Philippe almost painfully, and there\nwere moments when strong and courageous as he was, he was overwhelmed\nby the difficulties of being a king.\n\nHe felt under his feet a formidable disaggregation, which was not,\nnevertheless, a reduction to dust, France being more France than ever.\n\nPiles of shadows covered the horizon. A strange shade, gradually\ndrawing nearer, extended little by little over men, over things, over\nideas; a shade which came from wraths and systems. Everything which had\nbeen hastily stifled was moving and fermenting. At times the conscience\nof the honest man resumed its breathing, so great was the discomfort of\nthat air in which sophisms were intermingled with truths. Spirits\ntrembled in the social anxiety like leaves at the approach of a storm.\nThe electric tension was such that at certain instants, the first\ncomer, a stranger, brought light. Then the twilight obscurity closed in\nagain. At intervals, deep and dull mutterings allowed a judgment to be\nformed as to the quantity of thunder contained by the cloud.\n\nTwenty months had barely elapsed since the Revolution of July, the year\n1832 had opened with an aspect of something impending and threatening.\n\nThe distress of the people, the laborers without bread, the last Prince\nde Cond  engulfed in the shadows, Brussels expelling the Nassaus as\nParis did the Bourbons, Belgium offering herself to a French Prince and\ngiving herself to an English Prince, the Russian hatred of Nicolas,\nbehind us the demons of the South, Ferdinand in Spain, Miguel in\nPortugal, the earth quaking in Italy, Metternich extending his hand\nover Bologna, France treating Austria sharply at Ancona, at the North\nno one knew what sinister sound of the hammer nailing up Poland in her\ncoffin, irritated glances watching France narrowly all over Europe,\nEngland, a suspected ally, ready to give a push to that which was\ntottering and to hurl herself on that which should fall, the peerage\nsheltering itself behind Beccaria to refuse four heads to the law, the\nfleurs-de-lys erased from the King s carriage, the cross torn from\nNotre Dame, Lafayette lessened, Laffitte ruined, Benjamin Constant dead\nin indigence, Casimir P rier dead in the exhaustion of his power;\npolitical and social malady breaking out simultaneously in the two\ncapitals of the kingdom, the one in the city of thought, the other in\nthe city of toil; at Paris civil war, at Lyons servile war; in the two\ncities, the same glare of the furnace; a crater-like crimson on the\nbrow of the people; the South rendered fanatic, the West troubled, the\nDuchesse de Berry in la Vend e, plots, conspiracies, risings, cholera,\nadded the sombre roar of tumult of events to the sombre roar of ideas.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V FACTS WHENCE HISTORY SPRINGS AND WHICH HISTORY IGNORES\n\n\nTowards the end of April, everything had become aggravated. The\nfermentation entered the boiling state. Ever since 1830, petty partial\nrevolts had been going on here and there, which were quickly\nsuppressed, but ever bursting forth afresh, the sign of a vast\nunderlying conflagration. Something terrible was in preparation.\nGlimpses could be caught of the features still indistinct and\nimperfectly lighted, of a possible revolution. France kept an eye on\nParis; Paris kept an eye on the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.\n\nThe Faubourg Saint-Antoine, which was in a dull glow, was beginning its\nebullition.\n\n[Illustration: A Street Orator]\n\nThe wine-shops of the Rue de Charonne were, although the union of the\ntwo epithets seems singular when applied to wine-shops, grave and\nstormy.\n\nThe government was there purely and simply called in question. There\npeople publicly discussed the _question of fighting or of keeping\nquiet_. There were back shops where workingmen were made to swear that\nthey would hasten into the street at the first cry of alarm, and  that\nthey would fight without counting the number of the enemy.  This\nengagement once entered into, a man seated in the corner of the\nwine-shop  assumed a sonorous tone,  and said,  You understand! You\nhave sworn! \n\n\nSometimes they went upstairs, to a private room on the first floor, and\nthere scenes that were almost masonic were enacted. They made the\ninitiated take oaths _to render service to himself as well as to the\nfathers of families_. That was the formula.\n\nIn the tap-rooms,  subversive  pamphlets were read. _They treated the\ngovernment with contempt_, says a secret report of that time.\n\nWords like the following could be heard there: \n\n I don t know the names of the leaders. We folks shall not know the day\nuntil two hours beforehand.  One workman said:  There are three hundred\nof us, let each contribute ten sous, that will make one hundred and\nfifty francs with which to procure powder and shot. \n\n\nAnother said:  I don t ask for six months, I don t ask for even two. In\nless than a fortnight we shall be parallel with the government. With\ntwenty-five thousand men we can face them.  Another said:  I don t\nsleep at night, because I make cartridges all night.  From time to\ntime, men  of bourgeois appearance, and in good coats  came and  caused\nembarrassment,  and with the air of  command,  shook hands with _the\nmost important_, and then went away. They never stayed more than ten\nminutes. Significant remarks were exchanged in a low tone:  The plot is\nripe, the matter is arranged.   It was murmured by all who were there, \nto borrow the very expression of one of those who were present. The\nexaltation was such that one day, a workingman exclaimed, before the\nwhole wine-shop:  We have no arms!  One of his comrades replied:  The\nsoldiers have!  thus parodying without being aware of the fact,\nBonaparte s proclamation to the army in Italy:  When they had anything\nof a more secret nature on hand,  adds one report,  they did not\ncommunicate it to each other.  It is not easy to understand what they\ncould conceal after what they said.\n\nThese reunions were sometimes periodical. At certain ones of them,\nthere were never more than eight or ten persons present, and they were\nalways the same. In others, any one entered who wished, and the room\nwas so full that they were forced to stand. Some went thither through\nenthusiasm and passion; others because it _was on their way to their\nwork_. As during the Revolution, there were patriotic women in some of\nthese wine-shops who embraced newcomers.\n\nOther expressive facts came to light.\n\nA man would enter a shop, drink, and go his way with the remark:\n Wine-merchant, the revolution will pay what is due to you. \n\n\nRevolutionary agents were appointed in a wine-shop facing the Rue de\nCharonne. The balloting was carried on in their caps.\n\nWorkingmen met at the house of a fencing-master who gave lessons in the\nRue de Cotte. There there was a trophy of arms formed of wooden\nbroadswords, canes, clubs, and foils. One day, the buttons were removed\nfrom the foils.\n\nA workman said:  There are twenty-five of us, but they don t count on\nme, because I am looked upon as a machine.  Later on, that machine\nbecame Quenisset.\n\nThe indefinite things which were brewing gradually acquired a strange\nand indescribable notoriety. A woman sweeping off her doorsteps said to\nanother woman:  For a long time, there has been a strong force busy\nmaking cartridges.  In the open street, proclamation could be seen\naddressed to the National Guard in the departments. One of these\nproclamations was signed: _Burtot, wine-merchant_.\n\nOne day a man with his beard worn like a collar and with an Italian\naccent mounted a stone post at the door of a liquor-seller in the\nMarch  Lenoir, and read aloud a singular document, which seemed to\nemanate from an occult power. Groups formed around him, and applauded.\n\nThe passages which touched the crowd most deeply were collected and\nnoted down.  Our doctrines are trammelled, our proclamations torn, our\nbill-stickers are spied upon and thrown into prison. The breakdown\nwhich has recently taken place in cottons has converted to us many\nmediums. The future of nations is being worked out in our obscure\nranks. Here are the fixed terms: action or reaction, revolution or\ncounter-revolution. For, at our epoch, we no longer believe either in\ninertia or in immobility. For the people against the people, that is\nthe question. There is no other. On the day when we cease to suit\nyou, break us, but up to that day, help us to march on.  All this in\nbroad daylight.\n\nOther deeds, more audacious still, were suspicious in the eyes of the\npeople by reason of their very audacity. On the 4th of April, 1832, a\npasser-by mounted the post on the corner which forms the angle of the\nRue Sainte-Marguerite and shouted:  I am a Babouvist!  But beneath\nBabeuf, the people scented Gisquet.\n\nAmong other things, this man said: \n\n Down with property! The opposition of the left is cowardly and\ntreacherous. When it wants to be on the right side, it preaches\nrevolution, it is democratic in order to escape being beaten, and\nroyalist so that it may not have to fight. The republicans are beasts\nwith feathers. Distrust the republicans, citizens of the laboring\nclasses. \n\n\n Silence, citizen spy!  cried an artisan.\n\nThis shout put an end to the discourse.\n\nMysterious incidents occurred.\n\nAt nightfall, a workingman encountered near the canal a  very well\ndressed man,  who said to him:  Whither are you bound, citizen?   Sir, \nreplied the workingman,  I have not the honor of your acquaintance.   I\nknow you very well, however.  And the man added:  Don t be alarmed, I\nam an agent of the committee. You are suspected of not being quite\nfaithful. You know that if you reveal anything, there is an eye fixed\non you.  Then he shook hands with the workingman and went away, saying:\n We shall meet again soon. \n\n\nThe police, who were on the alert, collected singular dialogues, not\nonly in the wine-shops, but in the street.\n\n Get yourself received very soon,  said a weaver to a cabinet-maker.\n\n Why? \n\n\n There is going to be a shot to fire. \n\n\nTwo ragged pedestrians exchanged these remarkable replies, fraught with\nevident Jacquerie: \n\n Who governs us? \n\n\n M. Philippe. \n\n\n No, it is the bourgeoisie. \n\n\nThe reader is mistaken if he thinks that we take the word _Jacquerie_\nin a bad sense. The Jacques were the poor.\n\nOn another occasion two men were heard to say to each other as they\npassed by:  We have a good plan of attack. \n\n\nOnly the following was caught of a private conversation between four\nmen who were crouching in a ditch of the circle of the Barri re du\nTr ne: \n\n Everything possible will be done to prevent his walking about Paris\nany more. \n\n\nWho was the _he?_ Menacing obscurity.\n\n The principal leaders,  as they said in the faubourg, held themselves\napart. It was supposed that they met for consultation in a wine-shop\nnear the point Saint-Eustache. A certain Aug , chief of the Society aid\nfor tailors, Rue Mond tour, had the reputation of serving as\nintermediary central between the leaders and the Faubourg\nSaint-Antoine.\n\nNevertheless, there was always a great deal of mystery about these\nleaders, and no certain fact can invalidate the singular arrogance of\nthis reply made later on by a man accused before the Court of Peers: \n\n Who was your leader? \n\n\n_ I knew of none and I recognized none. _\n\nThere was nothing but words, transparent but vague; sometimes idle\nreports, rumors, hearsay. Other indications cropped up.\n\nA carpenter, occupied in nailing boards to a fence around the ground on\nwhich a house was in process of construction, in the Rue de Reuilly\nfound on that plot the torn fragment of a letter on which were still\nlegible the following lines: \n\nThe committee must take measures to prevent recruiting in the sections\nfor the different societies.\n\nAnd, as a postscript: \n\nWe have learned that there are guns in the Rue du\nFaubourg-Poissonni re, No. 5 [bis], to the number of five or six\nthousand, in the house of a gunsmith in that court. The section owns no\narms.\n\nWhat excited the carpenter and caused him to show this thing to his\nneighbors was the fact, that a few paces further on he picked up\nanother paper, torn like the first, and still more significant, of\nwhich we reproduce a facsimile, because of the historical interest\nattaching to these strange documents: \n\n[Illustration]\n\n+ +\n| Q | C | D | E | Learn this list by heart.  After so doing            |\n| | | | | | you will tear it up.  The men admitted will do the same    |\n| | | | | | when you have transmitted their orders to them. Health and |\n| | | | | | Fraternity, u og a  fe L.                                  |\n+ +\n\nIt was only later on that the persons who were in the secret of this\nfind at the time, learned the significance of those four capital\nletters: _quinturions, centurions, decurions,  claireurs_ [scouts], and\nthe sense of the letters: _u og a  fe_, which was a date, and meant\nApril 15th, 1832. Under each capital letter were inscribed names\nfollowed by very characteristic notes. Thus: Q. _Bannerel_. 8 guns, 83\ncartridges. A safe man. C. _Boubi re_. 1 pistol, 40 cartridges. D.\n_Rollet_. 1 foil, 1 pistol, 1 pound of powder. E. _Tessier_. 1 sword, 1\ncartridge-box. Exact.  _Terreur_. 8 guns. Brave, etc.\n\nFinally, this carpenter found, still in the same enclosure, a third\npaper on which was written in pencil, but very legibly, this sort of\nenigmatical list: \n\nUnit :  Blanchard: Arbre-Sec. 6.\nBarra.  Soize.  Salle-au-Comte.\nKosciusko. Aubry the Butcher?\nJ. J. R.\nCaius Gracchus.\nRight of revision.  Dufond.  Four.\nFall of the Girondists.  Derbac.  Maubu e.\nWashington.  Pinson.  1 pistol, 86 cartridges.\nMarseillaise.\nSovereignty of the people. Michel. Quincampoix. Sword.\nHoche.\nMarceau.  Plato.  Arbre-Sec.\nWarsaw.  Tilly, crier of the Populaire.\n\n\nThe honest bourgeois into whose hands this list fell knew its\nsignificance. It appears that this list was the complete nomenclature\nof the sections of the fourth arondissement of the Society of the\nRights of Man, with the names and dwellings of the chiefs of sections.\nTo-day, when all these facts which were obscure are nothing more than\nhistory, we may publish them. It should be added, that the foundation\nof the Society of the Rights of Man seems to have been posterior to the\ndate when this paper was found. Perhaps this was only a rough draft.\n\nStill, according to all the remarks and the words, according to written\nnotes, material facts begin to make their appearance.\n\nIn the Rue Popincourt, in the house of a dealer in bric- -brac, there\nwere seized seven sheets of gray paper, all folded alike lengthwise and\nin four; these sheets enclosed twenty-six squares of this same gray\npaper folded in the form of a cartridge, and a card, on which was\nwritten the following: \n\nSaltpetre . . . . . . . . . . .  12 ounces.\nSulphur   . . . . . . . . . . .   2 ounces.\nCharcoal  . . . . . . . . . . .   2 ounces and a half.\nWater     . . . . . . . . . . .   2 ounces.\n\n\nThe report of the seizure stated that the drawer exhaled a strong smell\nof powder.\n\nA mason returning from his day s work, left behind him a little package\non a bench near the bridge of Austerlitz. This package was taken to the\npolice station. It was opened, and in it were found two printed\ndialogues, signed _Lahauti re_, a song entitled:  Workmen, band\ntogether,  and a tin box full of cartridges.\n\nOne artisan drinking with a comrade made the latter feel him to see how\nwarm he was; the other man felt a pistol under his waistcoat.\n\nIn a ditch on the boulevard, between P re-Lachaise and the Barri re du\nTr ne, at the most deserted spot, some children, while playing,\ndiscovered beneath a mass of shavings and refuse bits of wood, a bag\ncontaining a bullet-mould, a wooden punch for the preparation of\ncartridges, a wooden bowl, in which there were grains of\nhunting-powder, and a little cast-iron pot whose interior presented\nevident traces of melted lead.\n\nPolice agents, making their way suddenly and unexpectedly at five\no clock in the morning, into the dwelling of a certain Pardon, who was\nafterwards a member of the Barricade-Merry section and got himself\nkilled in the insurrection of April, 1834, found him standing near his\nbed, and holding in his hand some cartridges which he was in the act of\npreparing.\n\nTowards the hour when workingmen repose, two men were seen to meet\nbetween the Barri re Picpus and the Barri re Charenton in a little lane\nbetween two walls, near a wine-shop, in front of which there was a  Jeu\nde Siam. 33 One drew a pistol from beneath his blouse and handed it to\nthe other. As he was handing it to him, he noticed that the\nperspiration of his chest had made the powder damp. He primed the\npistol and added more powder to what was already in the pan. Then the\ntwo men parted.\n\nA certain Gallais, afterwards killed in the Rue Beaubourg in the affair\nof April, boasted of having in his house seven hundred cartridges and\ntwenty-four flints.\n\nThe government one day received a warning that arms and two hundred\nthousand cartridges had just been distributed in the faubourg. On the\nfollowing week thirty thousand cartridges were distributed. The\nremarkable point about it was, that the police were not able to seize a\nsingle one.\n\nAn intercepted letter read:  The day is not far distant when, within\nfour hours by the clock, eighty thousand patriots will be under arms. \n\n\nAll this fermentation was public, one might almost say tranquil. The\napproaching insurrection was preparing its storm calmly in the face of\nthe government. No singularity was lacking to this still subterranean\ncrisis, which was already perceptible. The bourgeois talked peaceably\nto the working-classes of what was in preparation. They said:  How is\nthe rising coming along?  in the same tone in which they would have\nsaid:  How is your wife? \n\n\nA furniture-dealer, of the Rue Moreau, inquired:  Well, when are you\ngoing to make the attack? \n\n\nAnother shop-keeper said: \n\n The attack will be made soon. \n\n\n I know it. A month ago, there were fifteen thousand of you, now there\nare twenty-five thousand.  He offered his gun, and a neighbor offered a\nsmall pistol which he was willing to sell for seven francs.\n\nMoreover, the revolutionary fever was growing. Not a point in Paris nor\nin France was exempt from it. The artery was beating everywhere. Like\nthose membranes which arise from certain inflammations and form in the\nhuman body, the network of secret societies began to spread all over\nthe country. From the associations of the Friends of the People, which\nwas at the same time public and secret, sprang the Society of the\nRights of Man, which also dated from one of the orders of the day:\n_Pluvi se, Year 40 of the republican era_, which was destined to\nsurvive even the mandate of the Court of Assizes which pronounced its\ndissolution, and which did not hesitate to bestow on its sections\nsignificant names like the following: \n\nPikes.\nTocsin.\nSignal cannon.\nPhrygian cap.\nJanuary 21.\nThe beggars.\nThe vagabonds.\nForward march.\nRobespierre.\nLevel.\n a Ira.\n\n\nThe Society of the Rights of Man engendered the Society of Action.\nThese were impatient individuals who broke away and hastened ahead.\nOther associations sought to recruit themselves from the great mother\nsocieties. The members of sections complained that they were torn\nasunder. Thus, the Gallic Society, and the committee of organization of\nthe Municipalities. Thus the associations for the liberty of the press,\nfor individual liberty, for the instruction of the people against\nindirect taxes. Then the Society of Equal Workingmen which was divided\ninto three fractions, the levellers, the communists, the reformers.\nThen the Army of the Bastilles, a sort of cohort organized on a\nmilitary footing, four men commanded by a corporal, ten by a sergeant,\ntwenty by a sub-lieutenant, forty by a lieutenant; there were never\nmore than five men who knew each other. Creation where precaution is\ncombined with audacity and which seemed stamped with the genius of\nVenice.\n\nThe central committee, which was at the head, had two arms, the Society\nof Action, and the Army of the Bastilles.\n\nA legitimist association, the Chevaliers of Fidelity, stirred about\namong these the republican affiliations. It was denounced and\nrepudiated there.\n\nThe Parisian societies had ramifications in the principal cities,\nLyons, Nantes, Lille, Marseilles, and each had its Society of the\nRights of Man, the Charbonni re, and The Free Men. All had a\nrevolutionary society which was called the Cougourde. We have already\nmentioned this word.\n\nIn Paris, the Faubourg Saint-Marceau kept up an equal buzzing with the\nFaubourg Saint-Antoine, and the schools were no less moved than the\nfaubourgs. A caf  in the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe and the wine-shop of the\n_Seven Billiards_, Rue des Mathurins-Saint-Jacques, served as rallying\npoints for the students. The Society of the Friends of the A B C\naffiliated to the Mutualists of Angers, and to the Cougourde of Aix,\nmet, as we have seen, in the Caf  Musain. These same young men\nassembled also, as we have stated already, in a restaurant wine-shop of\nthe Rue Mond tour which was called Corinthe. These meetings were\nsecret. Others were as public as possible, and the reader can judge of\ntheir boldness from these fragments of an interrogatory undergone in\none of the ulterior prosecutions:  Where was this meeting held?   In\nthe Rue de la Paix.   At whose house?   In the street.   What sections\nwere there?   Only one.   Which?   The Manuel section.   Who was its\nleader?   I.   You are too young to have decided alone upon the bold\ncourse of attacking the government. Where did your instructions come\nfrom?   From the central committee. \n\n\nThe army was mined at the same time as the population, as was proved\nsubsequently by the operations of B ford, Luneville, and  pinard. They\ncounted on the fifty-second regiment, on the fifth, on the eighth, on\nthe thirty-seventh, and on the twentieth light cavalry. In Burgundy and\nin the southern towns they planted the liberty tree; that is to say, a\npole surmounted by a red cap.\n\nSuch was the situation.\n\nThe Faubourg Saint-Antoine, more than any other group of the\npopulation, as we stated in the beginning, accentuated this situation\nand made it felt. That was the sore point. This old faubourg, peopled\nlike an ant-hill, laborious, courageous, and angry as a hive of bees,\nwas quivering with expectation and with the desire for a tumult.\nEverything was in a state of agitation there, without any interruption,\nhowever, of the regular work. It is impossible to convey an idea of\nthis lively yet sombre physiognomy. In this faubourg exists poignant\ndistress hidden under attic roofs; there also exist rare and ardent\nminds. It is particularly in the matter of distress and intelligence\nthat it is dangerous to have extremes meet.\n\nThe Faubourg Saint-Antoine had also other causes to tremble; for it\nreceived the counter-shock of commercial crises, of failures, strikes,\nslack seasons, all inherent to great political disturbances. In times\nof revolution misery is both cause and effect. The blow which it deals\nrebounds upon it. This population full of proud virtue, capable to the\nhighest degree of latent heat, always ready to fly to arms, prompt to\nexplode, irritated, deep, undermined, seemed to be only awaiting the\nfall of a spark. Whenever certain sparks float on the horizon chased by\nthe wind of events, it is impossible not to think of the Faubourg\nSaint-Antoine and of the formidable chance which has placed at the very\ngates of Paris that powder-house of suffering and ideas.\n\nThe wine-shops of the _Faubourg Antoine_, which have been more than\nonce drawn in the sketches which the reader has just perused, possess\nhistorical notoriety. In troublous times people grow intoxicated there\nmore on words than on wine. A sort of prophetic spirit and an afflatus\nof the future circulates there, swelling hearts and enlarging souls.\nThe cabarets of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine resemble those taverns of\nMont Aventine erected on the cave of the Sibyl and communicating with\nthe profound and sacred breath; taverns where the tables were almost\ntripods, and where was drunk what Ennius calls the _sibylline wine_.\n\nThe Faubourg Saint-Antoine is a reservoir of people. Revolutionary\nagitations create fissures there, through which trickles the popular\nsovereignty. This sovereignty may do evil; it can be mistaken like any\nother; but, even when led astray, it remains great. We may say of it as\nof the blind cyclops, _Ingens_.\n\nIn  93, according as the idea which was floating about was good or\nevil, according as it was the day of fanaticism or of enthusiasm, there\nleaped forth from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine now savage legions, now\nheroic bands.\n\nSavage. Let us explain this word. When these bristling men, who in the\nearly days of the revolutionary chaos, tattered, howling, wild, with\nuplifted bludgeon, pike on high, hurled themselves upon ancient Paris\nin an uproar, what did they want? They wanted an end to oppression, an\nend to tyranny, an end to the sword, work for men, instruction for the\nchild, social sweetness for the woman, liberty, equality, fraternity,\nbread for all, the idea for all, the Edenizing of the world. Progress;\nand that holy, sweet, and good thing, progress, they claimed in\nterrible wise, driven to extremities as they were, half naked, club in\nfist, a roar in their mouths. They were savages, yes; but the savages\nof civilization.\n\nThey proclaimed right furiously; they were desirous, if only with fear\nand trembling, to force the human race to paradise. They seemed\nbarbarians, and they were saviours. They demanded light with the mask\nof night.\n\nFacing these men, who were ferocious, we admit, and terrifying, but\nferocious and terrifying for good ends, there are other men, smiling,\nembroidered, gilded, beribboned, starred, in silk stockings, in white\nplumes, in yellow gloves, in varnished shoes, who, with their elbows on\na velvet table, beside a marble chimney-piece, insist gently on\ndemeanor and the preservation of the past, of the Middle Ages, of\ndivine right, of fanaticism, of innocence, of slavery, of the death\npenalty, of war, glorifying in low tones and with politeness, the\nsword, the stake, and the scaffold. For our part, if we were forced to\nmake a choice between the barbarians of civilization and the civilized\nmen of barbarism, we should choose the barbarians.\n\nBut, thank Heaven, still another choice is possible. No perpendicular\nfall is necessary, in front any more than in the rear.\n\nNeither despotism nor terrorism. We desire progress with a gentle\nslope.\n\nGod takes care of that. God s whole policy consists in rendering slopes\nless steep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI ENJOLRAS AND HIS LIEUTENANTS\n\n\nIt was about this epoch that Enjolras, in view of a possible\ncatastrophe, instituted a kind of mysterious census.\n\nAll were present at a secret meeting at the Caf  Musain.\n\nEnjolras said, mixing his words with a few half-enigmatical but\nsignificant metaphors: \n\n It is proper that we should know where we stand and on whom we may\ncount. If combatants are required, they must be provided. It can do no\nharm to have something with which to strike. Passers-by always have\nmore chance of being gored when there are bulls on the road than when\nthere are none. Let us, therefore, reckon a little on the herd. How\nmany of us are there? There is no question of postponing this task\nuntil to-morrow. Revolutionists should always be hurried; progress has\nno time to lose. Let us mistrust the unexpected. Let us not be caught\nunprepared. We must go over all the seams that we have made and see\nwhether they hold fast. This business ought to be concluded to-day.\nCourfeyrac, you will see the polytechnic students. It is their day to\ngo out. To-day is Wednesday. Feuilly, you will see those of the\nGlaci re, will you not? Combeferre has promised me to go to Picpus.\nThere is a perfect swarm and an excellent one there. Bahorel will visit\nthe Estrapade. Prouvaire, the masons are growing lukewarm; you will\nbring us news from the lodge of the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honor . Joly\nwill go to Dupuytren s clinical lecture, and feel the pulse of the\nmedical school. Bossuet will take a little turn in the court and talk\nwith the young law licentiates. I will take charge of the Cougourde\nmyself. \n\n\n That arranges everything,  said Courfeyrac.\n\n No. \n\n\n What else is there? \n\n\n A very important thing. \n\n\n What is that?  asked Courfeyrac.\n\n The Barri re du Maine,  replied Enjolras.\n\nEnjolras remained for a moment as though absorbed in reflection, then\nhe resumed: \n\n At the Barri re du Maine there are marble-workers, painters, and\njourneymen in the studios of sculptors. They are an enthusiastic\nfamily, but liable to cool off. I don t know what has been the matter\nwith them for some time past. They are thinking of something else. They\nare becoming extinguished. They pass their time playing dominoes. There\nis urgent need that some one should go and talk with them a little, but\nwith firmness. They meet at Richefeu s. They are to be found there\nbetween twelve and one o clock. Those ashes must be fanned into a glow.\nFor that errand I had counted on that abstracted Marius, who is a good\nfellow on the whole, but he no longer comes to us. I need some one for\nthe Barri re du Maine. I have no one. \n\n\n What about me?  said Grantaire.  Here am I. \n\n\n You? \n\n\n I. \n\n\n You indoctrinate republicans! you warm up hearts that have grown cold\nin the name of principle! \n\n\n Why not? \n\n\n Are you good for anything? \n\n\n I have a vague ambition in that direction,  said Grantaire.\n\n You do not believe in everything. \n\n\n I believe in you. \n\n\n Grantaire will you do me a service? \n\n\n Anything. I ll black your boots. \n\n\n Well, don t meddle with our affairs. Sleep yourself sober from your\nabsinthe. \n\n\n You are an ingrate, Enjolras. \n\n\n You the man to go to the Barri re du Maine! You capable of it! \n\n\n I am capable of descending the Rue de Gr s, of crossing the Place\nSaint-Michel, of sloping through the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, of taking\nthe Rue de Vaugirard, of passing the Carmelites, of turning into the\nRue d Assas, of reaching the Rue du Cherche-Midi, of leaving behind me\nthe Conseil de Guerre, of pacing the Rue des Vieilles-Tuileries, of\nstriding across the boulevard, of following the Chauss e du Maine, of\npassing the barrier, and entering Richefeu s. I am capable of that. My\nshoes are capable of that. \n\n\n Do you know anything of those comrades who meet at Richefeu s? \n\n\n Not much. We only address each other as _thou_. \n\n\n What will you say to them? \n\n\n I will speak to them of Robespierre, pardi! Of Danton. Of principles. \n\n\n You? \n\n\n I. But I don t receive justice. When I set about it, I am terrible. I\nhave read Prudhomme, I know the Social Contract, I know my constitution\nof the year Two by heart.  The liberty of one citizen ends where the\nliberty of another citizen begins.  Do you take me for a brute? I have\nan old bank-bill of the Republic in my drawer. The Rights of Man, the\nsovereignty of the people, sapristi! I am even a bit of a H bertist. I\ncan talk the most superb twaddle for six hours by the clock, watch in\nhand. \n\n\n Be serious,  said Enjolras.\n\n I am wild,  replied Grantaire.\n\nEnjolras meditated for a few moments, and made the gesture of a man who\nhas taken a resolution.\n\n Grantaire,  he said gravely,  I consent to try you. You shall go to\nthe Barri re du Maine. \n\n\nGrantaire lived in furnished lodgings very near the Caf  Musain. He\nwent out, and five minutes later he returned. He had gone home to put\non a Robespierre waistcoat.\n\n Red,  said he as he entered, and he looked intently at Enjolras. Then,\nwith the palm of his energetic hand, he laid the two scarlet points of\nthe waistcoat across his breast.\n\nAnd stepping up to Enjolras, he whispered in his ear: \n\n Be easy. \n\n\nHe jammed his hat on resolutely and departed.\n\nA quarter of an hour later, the back room of the Caf  Musain was\ndeserted. All the friends of the A B C were gone, each in his own\ndirection, each to his own task. Enjolras, who had reserved the\nCougourde of Aix for himself, was the last to leave.\n\nThose members of the Cougourde of Aix who were in Paris then met on the\nplain of Issy, in one of the abandoned quarries which are so numerous\nin that side of Paris.\n\nAs Enjolras walked towards this place, he passed the whole situation in\nreview in his own mind. The gravity of events was self-evident. When\nfacts, the premonitory symptoms of latent social malady, move heavily,\nthe slightest complication stops and entangles them. A phenomenon\nwhence arises ruin and new births. Enjolras descried a luminous\nuplifting beneath the gloomy skirts of the future. Who knows? Perhaps\nthe moment was at hand. The people were again taking possession of\nright, and what a fine spectacle! The revolution was again majestically\ntaking possession of France and saying to the world:  The sequel\nto-morrow!  Enjolras was content. The furnace was being heated. He had\nat that moment a powder train of friends scattered all over Paris. He\ncomposed, in his own mind, with Combeferre s philosophical and\npenetrating eloquence, Feuilly s cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac s\ndash, Bahorel s smile, Jean Prouvaire s melancholy, Joly s science,\nBossuet s sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly\neverywhere at once. All hands to work. Surely, the result would answer\nto the effort. This was well. This made him think of Grantaire.\n\n Hold,  said he to himself,  the Barri re du Maine will not take me far\nout of my way. What if I were to go on as far as Richefeu s? Let us\nhave a look at what Grantaire is about, and see how he is getting on. \n\n\nOne o clock was striking from the Vaugirard steeple when Enjolras\nreached the Richefeu smoking-room.\n\nHe pushed open the door, entered, folded his arms, letting the door\nfall to and strike his shoulders, and gazed at that room filled with\ntables, men, and smoke.\n\nA voice broke forth from the mist of smoke, interrupted by another\nvoice. It was Grantaire holding a dialogue with an adversary.\n\nGrantaire was sitting opposite another figure, at a marble Saint-Anne\ntable, strewn with grains of bran and dotted with dominos. He was\nhammering the table with his fist, and this is what Enjolras heard: \n\n Double-six. \n\n\n Fours. \n\n\n The pig! I have no more. \n\n\n You are dead. A two. \n\n\n Six. \n\n\n Three. \n\n\n One. \n\n\n It s my move. \n\n\n Four points. \n\n\n Not much. \n\n\n It s your turn. \n\n\n I have made an enormous mistake. \n\n\n You are doing well. \n\n\n Fifteen. \n\n\n Seven more. \n\n\n That makes me twenty-two.  [Thoughtfully,  Twenty-two! ]\n\n You weren t expecting that double-six. If I had placed it at the\nbeginning, the whole play would have been changed. \n\n\n A two again. \n\n\n One. \n\n\n One! Well, five. \n\n\n I haven t any. \n\n\n It was your play, I believe? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Blank. \n\n\n What luck he has! Ah! You are lucky! [Long reverie.] Two. \n\n\n One. \n\n\n Neither five nor one. That s bad for you. \n\n\n Domino. \n\n\n Plague take it! \n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SECOND PONINE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE LARK S MEADOW\n\n\nMarius had witnessed the unexpected termination of the ambush upon\nwhose track he had set Javert; but Javert had no sooner quitted the\nbuilding, bearing off his prisoners in three hackney-coaches, than\nMarius also glided out of the house. It was only nine o clock in the\nevening. Marius betook himself to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was no longer\nthe imperturbable inhabitant of the Latin Quarter, he had gone to live\nin the Rue de la Verrerie  for political reasons ; this quarter was one\nwhere, at that epoch, insurrection liked to install itself. Marius said\nto Courfeyrac:  I have come to sleep with you.  Courfeyrac dragged a\nmattress off his bed, which was furnished with two, spread it out on\nthe floor, and said:  There. \n\n\nAt seven o clock on the following morning, Marius returned to the\nhovel, paid the quarter s rent which he owed to Ma am Bougon, had his\nbooks, his bed, his table, his commode, and his two chairs loaded on a\nhand-cart and went off without leaving his address, so that when Javert\nreturned in the course of the morning, for the purpose of questioning\nMarius as to the events of the preceding evening, he found only Ma am\nBougon, who answered:  Moved away! \n\n\nMa am Bougon was convinced that Marius was to some extent an accomplice\nof the robbers who had been seized the night before.  Who would ever\nhave said it?  she exclaimed to the portresses of the quarter,  a young\nman like that, who had the air of a girl! \n\n\nMarius had two reasons for this prompt change of residence. The first\nwas, that he now had a horror of that house, where he had beheld, so\nclose at hand, and in its most repulsive and most ferocious\ndevelopment, a social deformity which is, perhaps, even more terrible\nthan the wicked rich man, the wicked poor man. The second was, that he\ndid not wish to figure in the lawsuit which would insue in all\nprobability, and be brought in to testify against Th nardier.\n\nJavert thought that the young man, whose name he had forgotten, was\nafraid, and had fled, or perhaps, had not even returned home at the\ntime of the ambush; he made some efforts to find him, however, but\nwithout success.\n\nA month passed, then another. Marius was still with Courfeyrac. He had\nlearned from a young licentiate in law, an habitual frequenter of the\ncourts, that Th nardier was in close confinement. Every Monday, Marius\nhad five francs handed in to the clerk s office of La Force for\nTh nardier.\n\nAs Marius had no longer any money, he borrowed the five francs from\nCourfeyrac. It was the first time in his life that he had ever borrowed\nmoney. These periodical five francs were a double riddle to Courfeyrac\nwho lent and to Th nardier who received them.  To whom can they go? \nthought Courfeyrac.  Whence can this come to me?  Th nardier asked\nhimself.\n\nMoreover, Marius was heart-broken. Everything had plunged through a\ntrap-door once more. He no longer saw anything before him; his life was\nagain buried in mystery where he wandered fumblingly. He had for a\nmoment beheld very close at hand, in that obscurity, the young girl\nwhom he loved, the old man who seemed to be her father, those unknown\nbeings, who were his only interest and his only hope in this world;\nand, at the very moment when he thought himself on the point of\ngrasping them, a gust had swept all these shadows away. Not a spark of\ncertainty and truth had been emitted even in the most terrible of\ncollisions. No conjecture was possible. He no longer knew even the name\nthat he thought he knew. It certainly was not Ursule. And the Lark was\na nickname. And what was he to think of the old man? Was he actually in\nhiding from the police? The white-haired workman whom Marius had\nencountered in the vicinity of the Invalides recurred to his mind. It\nnow seemed probable that that workingman and M. Leblanc were one and\nthe same person. So he disguised himself? That man had his heroic and\nhis equivocal sides. Why had he not called for help? Why had he fled?\nWas he, or was he not, the father of the young girl? Was he, in short,\nthe man whom Th nardier thought that he recognized? Th nardier might\nhave been mistaken. These formed so many insoluble problems. All this,\nit is true, detracted nothing from the angelic charms of the young girl\nof the Luxembourg. Heart-rending distress; Marius bore a passion in his\nheart, and night over his eyes. He was thrust onward, he was drawn, and\nhe could not stir. All had vanished, save love. Of love itself he had\nlost the instincts and the sudden illuminations. Ordinarily, this flame\nwhich burns us lights us also a little, and casts some useful gleams\nwithout. But Marius no longer even heard these mute counsels of\npassion. He never said to himself:  What if I were to go to such a\nplace? What if I were to try such and such a thing?  The girl whom he\ncould no longer call Ursule was evidently somewhere; nothing warned\nMarius in what direction he should seek her. His whole life was now\nsummed up in two words; absolute uncertainty within an impenetrable\nfog. To see her once again; he still aspired to this, but he no longer\nexpected it.\n\nTo crown all, his poverty had returned. He felt that icy breath close\nto him, on his heels. In the midst of his torments, and long before\nthis, he had discontinued his work, and nothing is more dangerous than\ndiscontinued work; it is a habit which vanishes. A habit which is easy\nto get rid of, and difficult to take up again.\n\nA certain amount of dreaming is good, like a narcotic in discreet\ndoses. It lulls to sleep the fevers of the mind at labor, which are\nsometimes severe, and produces in the spirit a soft and fresh vapor\nwhich corrects the over-harsh contours of pure thought, fills in gaps\nhere and there, binds together and rounds off the angles of the ideas.\nBut too much dreaming sinks and drowns. Woe to the brain-worker who\nallows himself to fall entirely from thought into reverie! He thinks\nthat he can re-ascend with equal ease, and he tells himself that, after\nall, it is the same thing. Error!\n\nThought is the toil of the intelligence, reverie its voluptuousness. To\nreplace thought with reverie is to confound a poison with a food.\n\nMarius had begun in that way, as the reader will remember. Passion had\nsupervened and had finished the work of precipitating him into chim ras\nwithout object or bottom. One no longer emerges from one s self except\nfor the purpose of going off to dream. Idle production. Tumultuous and\nstagnant gulf. And, in proportion as labor diminishes, needs increase.\nThis is a law. Man, in a state of reverie, is generally prodigal and\nslack; the unstrung mind cannot hold life within close bounds.\n\nThere is, in that mode of life, good mingled with evil, for if\nenervation is baleful, generosity is good and healthful. But the poor\nman who is generous and noble, and who does not work, is lost.\nResources are exhausted, needs crop up.\n\nFatal declivity down which the most honest and the firmest as well as\nthe most feeble and most vicious are drawn, and which ends in one of\ntwo holds, suicide or crime.\n\nBy dint of going outdoors to think, the day comes when one goes out to\nthrow one s self in the water.\n\nExcess of reverie breeds men like Escousse and Lebras.\n\nMarius was descending this declivity at a slow pace, with his eyes\nfixed on the girl whom he no longer saw. What we have just written\nseems strange, and yet it is true. The memory of an absent being\nkindles in the darkness of the heart; the more it has disappeared, the\nmore it beams; the gloomy and despairing soul sees this light on its\nhorizon; the star of the inner night. She that was Marius  whole\nthought. He meditated of nothing else; he was confusedly conscious that\nhis old coat was becoming an impossible coat, and that his new coat was\ngrowing old, that his shirts were wearing out, that his hat was wearing\nout, that his boots were giving out, and he said to himself:  If I\ncould but see her once again before I die! \n\n\nOne sweet idea alone was left to him, that she had loved him, that her\nglance had told him so, that she did not know his name, but that she\ndid know his soul, and that, wherever she was, however mysterious the\nplace, she still loved him perhaps. Who knows whether she were not\nthinking of him as he was thinking of her? Sometimes, in those\ninexplicable hours such as are experienced by every heart that loves,\nthough he had no reasons for anything but sadness and yet felt an\nobscure quiver of joy, he said to himself:  It is her thoughts that are\ncoming to me!  Then he added:  Perhaps my thoughts reach her also. \n\n\nThis illusion, at which he shook his head a moment later, was\nsufficient, nevertheless, to throw beams, which at times resembled\nhope, into his soul. From time to time, especially at that evening hour\nwhich is the most depressing to even the dreamy, he allowed the purest,\nthe most impersonal, the most ideal of the reveries which filled his\nbrain, to fall upon a notebook which contained nothing else. He called\nthis  writing to her. \n\n\nIt must not be supposed that his reason was deranged. Quite the\ncontrary. He had lost the faculty of working and of moving firmly\ntowards any fixed goal, but he was endowed with more clear-sightedness\nand rectitude than ever. Marius surveyed by a calm and real, although\npeculiar light, what passed before his eyes, even the most indifferent\ndeeds and men; he pronounced a just criticism on everything with a sort\nof honest dejection and candid disinterestedness. His judgment, which\nwas almost wholly disassociated from hope, held itself aloof and soared\non high.\n\nIn this state of mind nothing escaped him, nothing deceived him, and\nevery moment he was discovering the foundation of life, of humanity,\nand of destiny. Happy, even in the midst of anguish, is he to whom God\nhas given a soul worthy of love and of unhappiness! He who has not\nviewed the things of this world and the heart of man under this double\nlight has seen nothing and knows nothing of the true.\n\nThe soul which loves and suffers is in a state of sublimity.\n\nHowever, day followed day, and nothing new presented itself. It merely\nseemed to him, that the sombre space which still remained to be\ntraversed by him was growing shorter with every instant. He thought\nthat he already distinctly perceived the brink of the bottomless abyss.\n\n What!  he repeated to himself,  shall I not see her again before\nthen! \n\n\nWhen you have ascended the Rue Saint-Jacques, left the barrier on one\nside and followed the old inner boulevard for some distance, you reach\nthe Rue de la Sant , then the Glaci re, and, a little while before\narriving at the little river of the Gobelins, you come to a sort of\nfield which is the only spot in the long and monotonous chain of the\nboulevards of Paris, where Ruysdael would be tempted to sit down.\n\nThere is something indescribable there which exhales grace, a green\nmeadow traversed by tightly stretched lines, from which flutter rags\ndrying in the wind, and an old market-gardener s house, built in the\ntime of Louis XIII., with its great roof oddly pierced with dormer\nwindows, dilapidated palisades, a little water amid poplar-trees,\nwomen, voices, laughter; on the horizon the Panth on, the pole of the\nDeaf-Mutes, the Val-de-Gr ce, black, squat, fantastic, amusing,\nmagnificent, and in the background, the severe square crests of the\ntowers of Notre Dame.\n\nAs the place is worth looking at, no one goes thither. Hardly one cart\nor wagoner passes in a quarter of an hour.\n\nIt chanced that Marius  solitary strolls led him to this plot of\nground, near the water. That day, there was a rarity on the boulevard,\na passer-by. Marius, vaguely impressed with the almost savage beauty of\nthe place, asked this passer-by: What is the name of this spot? \n\n\nThe person replied:  It is the Lark s meadow. \n\n\nAnd he added:  It was here that Ulbach killed the shepherdess of Ivry. \n\n\nBut after the word  Lark  Marius heard nothing more. These sudden\ncongealments in the state of reverie, which a single word suffices to\nevoke, do occur. The entire thought is abruptly condensed around an\nidea, and it is no longer capable of perceiving anything else.\n\nThe Lark was the appellation which had replaced Ursule in the depths of\nMarius  melancholy. Stop,  said he with a sort of unreasoning stupor\npeculiar to these mysterious asides,  this is her meadow. I shall know\nwhere she lives now. \n\n\nIt was absurd, but irresistible.\n\nAnd every day he returned to that meadow of the Lark.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II EMBRYONIC FORMATION OF CRIMES IN THE INCUBATION OF PRISONS\n\n\nJavert s triumph in the Gorbeau hovel seemed complete, but had not been\nso.\n\nIn the first place, and this constituted the principal anxiety, Javert\nhad not taken the prisoner prisoner. The assassinated man who flees is\nmore suspicious than the assassin, and it is probable that this\npersonage, who had been so precious a capture for the ruffians, would\nbe no less fine a prize for the authorities.\n\nAnd then, Montparnasse had escaped Javert.\n\nAnother opportunity of laying hands on that  devil s dandy  must be\nwaited for. Montparnasse had, in fact, encountered  ponine as she stood\non the watch under the trees of the boulevard, and had led her off,\npreferring to play Nemorin with the daughter rather than Schinderhannes\nwith the father. It was well that he did so. He was free. As for\n ponine, Javert had caused her to be seized; a mediocre consolation.\n ponine had joined Azelma at Les Madelonettes.\n\nAnd finally, on the way from the Gorbeau house to La Force, one of the\nprincipal prisoners, Claquesous, had been lost. It was not known how\nthis had been effected, the police agents and the sergeants  could not\nunderstand it at all.  He had converted himself into vapor, he had\nslipped through the handcuffs, he had trickled through the crevices of\nthe carriage, the fiacre was cracked, and he had fled; all that they\nwere able to say was, that on arriving at the prison, there was no\nClaquesous. Either the fairies or the police had had a hand in it. Had\nClaquesous melted into the shadows like a snow-flake in water? Had\nthere been unavowed connivance of the police agents? Did this man\nbelong to the double enigma of order and disorder? Was he concentric\nwith infraction and repression? Had this sphinx his fore paws in crime\nand his hind paws in authority? Javert did not accept such\ncomminations, and would have bristled up against such compromises; but\nhis squad included other inspectors besides himself, who were more\ninitiated than he, perhaps, although they were his subordinates in the\nsecrets of the Prefecture, and Claquesous had been such a villain that\nhe might make a very good agent. It is an excellent thing for\nruffianism and an admirable thing for the police to be on such intimate\njuggling terms with the night. These double-edged rascals do exist.\nHowever that may be, Claquesous had gone astray and was not found\nagain. Javert appeared to be more irritated than amazed at this.\n\nAs for Marius,  that booby of a lawyer,  who had probably become\nfrightened, and whose name Javert had forgotten, Javert attached very\nlittle importance to him. Moreover, a lawyer can be hunted up at any\ntime. But was he a lawyer after all?\n\nThe investigation had begun.\n\nThe magistrate had thought it advisable not to put one of these men of\nthe band of Patron Minette in close confinement, in the hope that he\nwould chatter. This man was Brujon, the long-haired man of the Rue du\nPetit-Banquier. He had been let loose in the Charlemagne courtyard, and\nthe eyes of the watchers were fixed on him.\n\nThis name of Brujon is one of the souvenirs of La Force. In that\nhideous courtyard, called the court of the B timent-Neuf (New\nBuilding), which the administration called the court Saint-Bernard, and\nwhich the robbers called the Fosse-aux-Lions (The Lion s Ditch), on\nthat wall covered with scales and leprosy, which rose on the left to a\nlevel with the roofs, near an old door of rusty iron which led to the\nancient chapel of the ducal residence of La Force, then turned in a\ndormitory for ruffians, there could still be seen, twelve years ago, a\nsort of fortress roughly carved in the stone with a nail, and beneath\nit this signature: \n\nBRUJON, 1811.\n\nThe Brujon of 1811 was the father of the Brujon of 1832.\n\nThe latter, of whom the reader caught but a glimpse at the Gorbeau\nhouse, was a very cunning and very adroit young spark, with a\nbewildered and plaintive air. It was in consequence of this plaintive\nair that the magistrate had released him, thinking him more useful in\nthe Charlemagne yard than in close confinement.\n\nRobbers do not interrupt their profession because they are in the hands\nof justice. They do not let themselves be put out by such a trifle as\nthat. To be in prison for one crime is no reason for not beginning on\nanother crime. They are artists, who have one picture in the salon, and\nwho toil, nonetheless, on a new work in their studios.\n\nBrujon seemed to be stupefied by prison. He could sometimes be seen\nstanding by the hour together in front of the sutler s window in the\nCharlemagne yard, staring like an idiot at the sordid list of prices\nwhich began with: _garlic_, 62 _centimes_, and ended with: _cigar_, 5\n_centimes_. Or he passed his time in trembling, chattering his teeth,\nsaying that he had a fever, and inquiring whether one of the eight and\ntwenty beds in the fever ward was vacant.\n\nAll at once, towards the end of February, 1832, it was discovered that\nBrujon, that somnolent fellow, had had three different commissions\nexecuted by the errand-men of the establishment, not under his own\nname, but in the name of three of his comrades; and they had cost him\nin all fifty sous, an exorbitant outlay which attracted the attention\nof the prison corporal.\n\nInquiries were instituted, and on consulting the tariff of commissions\nposted in the convict s parlor, it was learned that the fifty sous\ncould be analyzed as follows: three commissions; one to the Panth on,\nten sous; one to Val-de-Gr ce, fifteen sous; and one to the Barri re de\nGrenelle, twenty-five sous. This last was the dearest of the whole\ntariff. Now, at the Panth on, at the Val-de-Gr ce, and at the Barri re\nde Grenelle were situated the domiciles of the three very redoubtable\nprowlers of the barriers, Kruideniers, alias Bizarro, Glorieux, an\nex-convict, and Barre-Carosse, upon whom the attention of the police\nwas directed by this incident. It was thought that these men were\nmembers of Patron Minette; two of those leaders, Babet and Gueulemer,\nhad been captured. It was supposed that the messages, which had been\naddressed, not to houses, but to people who were waiting for them in\nthe street, must have contained information with regard to some crime\nthat had been plotted. They were in possession of other indications;\nthey laid hand on the three prowlers, and supposed that they had\ncircumvented some one or other of Brujon s machinations.\n\nAbout a week after these measures had been taken, one night, as the\nsuperintendent of the watch, who had been inspecting the lower\ndormitory in the B timent-Neuf, was about to drop his chestnut in the\nbox this was the means adopted to make sure that the watchmen performed\ntheir duties punctually; every hour a chestnut must be dropped into all\nthe boxes nailed to the doors of the dormitories a watchman looked\nthrough the peep-hole of the dormitory and beheld Brujon sitting on his\nbed and writing something by the light of the hall-lamp. The guardian\nentered, Brujon was put in a solitary cell for a month, but they were\nnot able to seize what he had written. The police learned nothing\nfurther about it.\n\nWhat is certain is, that on the following morning, a  postilion  was\nflung from the Charlemagne yard into the Lions  Ditch, over the\nfive-story building which separated the two court-yards.\n\nWhat prisoners call a  postilion  is a pallet of bread artistically\nmoulded, which is sent _into Ireland_, that is to say, over the roofs\nof a prison, from one courtyard to another. Etymology: over England;\nfrom one land to another; _into Ireland_. This little pellet falls in\nthe yard. The man who picks it up opens it and finds in it a note\naddressed to some prisoner in that yard. If it is a prisoner who finds\nthe treasure, he forwards the note to its destination; if it is a\nkeeper, or one of the prisoners secretly sold who are called _sheep_ in\nprisons and _foxes_ in the galleys, the note is taken to the office and\nhanded over to the police.\n\nOn this occasion, the postilion reached its address, although the\nperson to whom it was addressed was, at that moment, in solitary\nconfinement. This person was no other than Babet, one of the four heads\nof Patron Minette.\n\nThe postilion contained a roll of paper on which only these two lines\nwere written: \n\n Babet. There is an affair in the Rue Plumet. A gate on a garden. \n\n\nThis is what Brujon had written the night before.\n\nIn spite of male and female searchers, Babet managed to pass the note\non from La Force to the Salp tri re, to a  good friend  whom he had and\nwho was shut up there. This woman in turn transmitted the note to\nanother woman of her acquaintance, a certain Magnon, who was strongly\nsuspected by the police, though not yet arrested. This Magnon, whose\nname the reader has already seen, had relations with the Th nardier,\nwhich will be described in detail later on, and she could, by going to\nsee  ponine, serve as a bridge between the Salp tri re and Les\nMadelonettes.\n\nIt happened, that at precisely that moment, as proofs were wanting in\nthe investigation directed against Th nardier in the matter of his\ndaughters,  ponine and Azelma were released. When  ponine came out,\nMagnon, who was watching the gate of the Madelonettes, handed her\nBrujon s note to Babet, charging her to look into the matter.\n\n ponine went to the Rue Plumet, recognized the gate and the garden,\nobserved the house, spied, lurked, and, a few days later, brought to\nMagnon, who delivers in the Rue Clocheperce, a biscuit, which Magnon\ntransmitted to Babet s mistress in the Salp tri re. A biscuit, in the\nshady symbolism of prisons, signifies: Nothing to be done.\n\nSo that in less than a week from that time, as Brujon and Babet met in\nthe circle of La Force, the one on his way to the examination, the\nother on his way from it: \n\n Well?  asked Brujon,  the Rue P.? \n\n\n Biscuit,  replied Babet. Thus did the f tus of crime engendered by\nBrujon in La Force miscarry.\n\nThis miscarriage had its consequences, however, which were perfectly\ndistinct from Brujon s programme. The reader will see what they were.\n\nOften when we think we are knotting one thread, we are tying quite\nanother.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III APPARITION TO FATHER MABEUF\n\n\nMarius no longer went to see any one, but he sometimes encountered\nFather Mabeuf by chance.\n\nWhile Marius was slowly descending those melancholy steps which may be\ncalled the cellar stairs, and which lead to places without light, where\nthe happy can be heard walking overhead, M. Mabeuf was descending on\nhis side.\n\nThe _Flora of Cauteretz_ no longer sold at all. The experiments on\nindigo had not been successful in the little garden of Austerlitz,\nwhich had a bad exposure. M. Mabeuf could cultivate there only a few\nplants which love shade and dampness. Nevertheless, he did not become\ndiscouraged. He had obtained a corner in the Jardin des Plantes, with a\ngood exposure, to make his trials with indigo  at his own expense.  For\nthis purpose he had pawned his copperplates of the _Flora_. He had\nreduced his breakfast to two eggs, and he left one of these for his old\nservant, to whom he had paid no wages for the last fifteen months. And\noften his breakfast was his only meal. He no longer smiled with his\ninfantile smile, he had grown morose and no longer received visitors.\nMarius did well not to dream of going thither. Sometimes, at the hour\nwhen M. Mabeuf was on his way to the Jardin des Plantes, the old man\nand the young man passed each other on the Boulevard de l H pital. They\ndid not speak, and only exchanged a melancholy sign of the head. A\nheart-breaking thing it is that there comes a moment when misery looses\nbonds! Two men who have been friends become two chance passers-by.\n\nRoyol the bookseller was dead. M. Mabeuf no longer knew his books, his\ngarden, or his indigo: these were the three forms which happiness,\npleasure, and hope had assumed for him. This sufficed him for his\nliving. He said to himself:  When I shall have made my balls of\nblueing, I shall be rich, I will withdraw my copperplates from the\npawn-shop, I will put my _Flora_ in vogue again with trickery, plenty\nof money and advertisements in the newspapers and I will buy, I know\nwell where, a copy of Pierre de M dine s _Art de Naviguer_, with\nwood-cuts, edition of 1655.  In the meantime, he toiled all day over\nhis plot of indigo, and at night he returned home to water his garden,\nand to read his books. At that epoch, M. Mabeuf was nearly eighty years\nof age.\n\nOne evening he had a singular apparition.\n\nHe had returned home while it was still broad daylight. Mother\nPlutarque, whose health was declining, was ill and in bed. He had dined\non a bone, on which a little meat lingered, and a bit of bread that he\nhad found on the kitchen table, and had seated himself on an overturned\nstone post, which took the place of a bench in his garden.\n\nNear this bench there rose, after the fashion in orchard-gardens, a\nsort of large chest, of beams and planks, much dilapidated, a\nrabbit-hutch on the ground floor, a fruit-closet on the first. There\nwas nothing in the hutch, but there were a few apples in the\nfruit-closet, the remains of the winter s provision.\n\nM. Mabeuf had set himself to turning over and reading, with the aid of\nhis glasses, two books of which he was passionately fond and in which,\na serious thing at his age, he was interested. His natural timidity\nrendered him accessible to the acceptance of superstitions in a certain\ndegree. The first of these books was the famous treatise of President\nDelancre, _De l Inconstance des D mons_; the other was a quarto by\nMutor de la Rubaudi re, _Sur les Diables de Vauvert et les Gobelins de\nla Bi vre_. This last-mentioned old volume interested him all the more,\nbecause his garden had been one of the spots haunted by goblins in\nformer times. The twilight had begun to whiten what was on high and to\nblacken all below. As he read, over the top of the book which he held\nin his hand, Father Mabeuf was surveying his plants, and among others a\nmagnificent rhododendron which was one of his consolations; four days\nof heat, wind, and sun without a drop of rain, had passed; the stalks\nwere bending, the buds drooping, the leaves falling; all this needed\nwater, the rhododendron was particularly sad. Father Mabeuf was one of\nthose persons for whom plants have souls. The old man had toiled all\nday over his indigo plot, he was worn out with fatigue, but he rose,\nlaid his books on the bench, and walked, all bent over and with\ntottering footsteps, to the well, but when he had grasped the chain, he\ncould not even draw it sufficiently to unhook it. Then he turned round\nand cast a glance of anguish toward heaven which was becoming studded\nwith stars.\n\nThe evening had that serenity which overwhelms the troubles of man\nbeneath an indescribably mournful and eternal joy. The night promised\nto be as arid as the day had been.\n\n Stars everywhere!  thought the old man;  not the tiniest cloud! Not a\ndrop of water! \n\n\nAnd his head, which had been upraised for a moment, fell back upon his\nbreast.\n\nHe raised it again, and once more looked at the sky, murmuring: \n\n A tear of dew! A little pity! \n\n\nHe tried again to unhook the chain of the well, and could not.\n\nAt that moment, he heard a voice saying: \n\n Father Mabeuf, would you like to have me water your garden for you? \n\n\nAt the same time, a noise as of a wild animal passing became audible in\nthe hedge, and he beheld emerging from the shrubbery a sort of tall,\nslender girl, who drew herself up in front of him and stared boldly at\nhim. She had less the air of a human being than of a form which had\njust blossomed forth from the twilight.\n\nBefore Father Mabeuf, who was easily terrified, and who was, as we have\nsaid, quick to take alarm, was able to reply by a single syllable, this\nbeing, whose movements had a sort of odd abruptness in the darkness,\nhad unhooked the chain, plunged in and withdrawn the bucket, and filled\nthe watering-pot, and the goodman beheld this apparition, which had\nbare feet and a tattered petticoat, running about among the flower-beds\ndistributing life around her. The sound of the watering-pot on the\nleaves filled Father Mabeuf s soul with ecstasy. It seemed to him that\nthe rhododendron was happy now.\n\nThe first bucketful emptied, the girl drew a second, then a third. She\nwatered the whole garden.\n\nThere was something about her, as she thus ran about among paths, where\nher outline appeared perfectly black, waving her angular arms, and with\nher fichu all in rags, that resembled a bat.\n\nWhen she had finished, Father Mabeuf approached her with tears in his\neyes, and laid his hand on her brow.\n\n God will bless you,  said he,  you are an angel since you take care of\nthe flowers. \n\n\n No,  she replied.  I am the devil, but that s all the same to me. \n\n\nThe old man exclaimed, without either waiting for or hearing her\nresponse: \n\n What a pity that I am so unhappy and so poor, and that I can do\nnothing for you! \n\n\n You can do something,  said she.\n\n What? \n\n\n Tell me where M. Marius lives. \n\n\nThe old man did not understand.  What Monsieur Marius? \n\n\nHe raised his glassy eyes and seemed to be seeking something that had\nvanished.\n\n A young man who used to come here. \n\n\nIn the meantime, M. Mabeuf had searched his memory.\n\n Ah! yes  he exclaimed.  I know what you mean. Wait! Monsieur\nMarius the Baron Marius Pontmercy, parbleu! He lives, or rather, he no\nlonger lives, ah well, I don t know. \n\n\nAs he spoke, he had bent over to train a branch of rhododendron, and he\ncontinued: \n\n Hold, I know now. He very often passes along the boulevard, and goes\nin the direction of the Glaci re, Rue Croulebarbe. The meadow of the\nLark. Go there. It is not hard to meet him. \n\n\nWhen M. Mabeuf straightened himself up, there was no longer any one\nthere; the girl had disappeared.\n\nHe was decidedly terrified.\n\n Really,  he thought,  if my garden had not been watered, I should\nthink that she was a spirit. \n\n\nAn hour later, when he was in bed, it came back to him, and as he fell\nasleep, at that confused moment when thought, like that fabulous bird\nwhich changes itself into a fish in order to cross the sea, little by\nlittle assumes the form of a dream in order to traverse slumber, he\nsaid to himself in a bewildered way: \n\n In sooth, that greatly resembles what Rubaudi re narrates of the\ngoblins. Could it have been a goblin? \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV AN APPARITION TO MARIUS\n\n\nSome days after this visit of a  spirit  to Farmer Mabeuf, one\nmorning, it was on a Monday, the day when Marius borrowed the\nhundred-sou piece from Courfeyrac for Th nardier Marius had put this\ncoin in his pocket, and before carrying it to the clerk s office, he\nhad gone  to take a little stroll,  in the hope that this would make\nhim work on his return. It was always thus, however. As soon as he\nrose, he seated himself before a book and a sheet of paper in order to\nscribble some translation; his task at that epoch consisted in turning\ninto French a celebrated quarrel between Germans, the Gans and Savigny\ncontroversy; he took Savigny, he took Gans, read four lines, tried to\nwrite one, could not, saw a star between him and his paper, and rose\nfrom his chair, saying:  I shall go out. That will put me in spirits. \n\n\nAnd off he went to the Lark s meadow.\n\nThere he beheld more than ever the star, and less than ever Savigny and\nGans.\n\nHe returned home, tried to take up his work again, and did not succeed;\nthere was no means of re-knotting a single one of the threads which\nwere broken in his brain; then he said to himself:  I will not go out\nto-morrow. It prevents my working.  And he went out every day.\n\nHe lived in the Lark s meadow more than in Courfeyrac s lodgings. That\nwas his real address: Boulevard de la Sant , at the seventh tree from\nthe Rue Croulebarbe.\n\nThat morning he had quitted the seventh tree and had seated himself on\nthe parapet of the River des Gobelins. A cheerful sunlight penetrated\nthe freshly unfolded and luminous leaves.\n\nHe was dreaming of  Her.  And his meditation turning to a reproach,\nfell back upon himself; he reflected dolefully on his idleness, his\nparalysis of soul, which was gaining on him, and of that night which\nwas growing more dense every moment before him, to such a point that he\nno longer even saw the sun.\n\nNevertheless, athwart this painful extrication of indistinct ideas\nwhich was not even a monologue, so feeble had action become in him, and\nhe had no longer the force to care to despair, athwart this melancholy\nabsorption, sensations from without did reach him. He heard behind him,\nbeneath him, on both banks of the river, the laundresses of the\nGobelins beating their linen, and above his head, the birds chattering\nand singing in the elm-trees. On the one hand, the sound of liberty,\nthe careless happiness of the leisure which has wings; on the other,\nthe sound of toil. What caused him to meditate deeply, and almost\nreflect, were two cheerful sounds.\n\nAll at once, in the midst of his dejected ecstasy, he heard a familiar\nvoice saying: \n\n Come! Here he is! \n\n\nHe raised his eyes, and recognized that wretched child who had come to\nhim one morning, the elder of the Th nardier daughters,  ponine; he\nknew her name now. Strange to say, she had grown poorer and prettier,\ntwo steps which it had not seemed within her power to take. She had\naccomplished a double progress, towards the light and towards distress.\nShe was barefooted and in rags, as on the day when she had so\nresolutely entered his chamber, only her rags were two months older\nnow, the holes were larger, the tatters more sordid. It was the same\nharsh voice, the same brow dimmed and wrinkled with tan, the same free,\nwild, and vacillating glance. She had besides, more than formerly, in\nher face that indescribably terrified and lamentable something which\nsojourn in a prison adds to wretchedness.\n\nShe had bits of straw and hay in her hair, not like Ophelia through\nhaving gone mad from the contagion of Hamlet s madness, but because she\nhad slept in the loft of some stable.\n\nAnd in spite of it all, she was beautiful. What a star art thou, O\nyouth!\n\nIn the meantime, she had halted in front of Marius with a trace of joy\nin her livid countenance, and something which resembled a smile.\n\nShe stood for several moments as though incapable of speech.\n\n So I have met you at last!  she said at length.  Father Mabeuf was\nright, it was on this boulevard! How I have hunted for you! If you only\nknew! Do you know? I have been in the jug. A fortnight! They let me\nout! seeing that there was nothing against me, and that, moreover, I\nhad not reached years of discretion. I lack two months of it. Oh! how I\nhave hunted for you! These six weeks! So you don t live down there any\nmore? \n\n\n No,  said Marius.\n\n Ah! I understand. Because of that affair. Those take-downs are\ndisagreeable. You cleared out. Come now! Why do you wear old hats like\nthis! A young man like you ought to have fine clothes. Do you know,\nMonsieur Marius, Father Mabeuf calls you Baron Marius, I don t know\nwhat. It isn t true that you are a baron? Barons are old fellows, they\ngo to the Luxembourg, in front of the ch teau, where there is the most\nsun, and they read the _Quotidienne_ for a sou. I once carried a letter\nto a baron of that sort. He was over a hundred years old. Say, where do\nyou live now? \n\n\nMarius made no reply.\n\n Ah!  she went on,  you have a hole in your shirt. I must sew it up for\nyou. \n\n\nShe resumed with an expression which gradually clouded over: \n\n You don t seem glad to see me. \n\n\nMarius held his peace; she remained silent for a moment, then\nexclaimed: \n\n But if I choose, nevertheless, I could force you to look glad! \n\n\n What?  demanded Marius.  What do you mean? \n\n\n Ah! you used to call me _thou_,  she retorted.\n\n Well, then, what dost thou mean? \n\n\nShe bit her lips; she seemed to hesitate, as though a prey to some sort\nof inward conflict. At last she appeared to come to a decision.\n\n So much the worse, I don t care. You have a melancholy air, I want you\nto be pleased. Only promise me that you will smile. I want to see you\nsmile and hear you say:  Ah, well, that s good.  Poor Mr. Marius! you\nknow? You promised me that you would give me anything I like \n\n\n Yes! Only speak! \n\n\nShe looked Marius full in the eye, and said: \n\n I have the address. \n\n\nMarius turned pale. All the blood flowed back to his heart.\n\n What address? \n\n\n The address that you asked me to get! \n\n\nShe added, as though with an effort: \n\n The address you know very well! \n\n\n Yes!  stammered Marius.\n\n Of that young lady. \n\n\nThis word uttered, she sighed deeply.\n\nMarius sprang from the parapet on which he had been sitting and seized\nher hand distractedly.\n\n Oh! Well! lead me thither! Tell me! Ask of me anything you wish! Where\nis it? \n\n\n Come with me,  she responded.  I don t know the street or number very\nwell; it is in quite the other direction from here, but I know the\nhouse well, I will take you to it. \n\n\nShe withdrew her hand and went on, in a tone which could have rent the\nheart of an observer, but which did not even graze Marius in his\nintoxicated and ecstatic state: \n\n Oh! how glad you are! \n\n\nA cloud swept across Marius  brow. He seized  ponine by the arm: \n\n Swear one thing to me! \n\n\n Swear!  said she,  what does that mean? Come! You want me to swear? \n\n\nAnd she laughed.\n\n Your father! promise me,  ponine! Swear to me that you will not give\nthis address to your father! \n\n\nShe turned to him with a stupefied air.\n\n ponine! How do you know that my name is  ponine? \n\n\n Promise what I tell you! \n\n\nBut she did not seem to hear him.\n\n That s nice! You have called me  ponine! \n\n\nMarius grasped both her arms at once.\n\n But answer me, in the name of Heaven! pay attention to what I am\nsaying to you, swear to me that you will not tell your father this\naddress that you know! \n\n\n My father!  said she.  Ah yes, my father! Be at ease. He s in close\nconfinement. Besides, what do I care for my father! \n\n\n But you do not promise me!  exclaimed Marius.\n\n Let go of me!  she said, bursting into a laugh,  how you do shake me!\nYes! Yes! I promise that! I swear that to you! What is that to me? I\nwill not tell my father the address. There! Is that right? Is that it? \n\n\n Nor to any one?  said Marius.\n\n Nor to any one. \n\n\n Now,  resumed Marius,  take me there. \n\n\n Immediately? \n\n\n Immediately. \n\n\n Come along. Ah! how pleased he is!  said she.\n\nAfter a few steps she halted.\n\n You are following me too closely, Monsieur Marius. Let me go on ahead,\nand follow me so, without seeming to do it. A nice young man like you\nmust not be seen with a woman like me. \n\n\nNo tongue can express all that lay in that word, _woman_, thus\npronounced by that child.\n\nShe proceeded a dozen paces and then halted once more; Marius joined\nher. She addressed him sideways, and without turning towards him: \n\n By the way, you know that you promised me something? \n\n\nMarius fumbled in his pocket. All that he owned in the world was the\nfive francs intended for Th nardier the father. He took them and laid\nthem in  ponine s hand.\n\nShe opened her fingers and let the coin fall to the ground, and gazed\nat him with a gloomy air.\n\n I don t want your money,  said she.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THIRD THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE HOUSE WITH A SECRET\n\n\nAbout the middle of the last century, a chief justice in the Parliament\nof Paris having a mistress and concealing the fact, for at that period\nthe grand seignors displayed their mistresses, and the bourgeois\nconcealed them, had  a little house  built in the Faubourg\nSaint-Germain, in the deserted Rue Blomet, which is now called Rue\nPlumet, not far from the spot which was then designated as _Combat des\nAnimaux_.\n\nThis house was composed of a single-storied pavilion; two rooms on the\nground floor, two chambers on the first floor, a kitchen downstairs, a\nboudoir upstairs, an attic under the roof, the whole preceded by a\ngarden with a large gate opening on the street. This garden was about\nan acre and a half in extent. This was all that could be seen by\npassers-by; but behind the pavilion there was a narrow courtyard, and\nat the end of the courtyard a low building consisting of two rooms and\na cellar, a sort of preparation destined to conceal a child and nurse\nin case of need. This building communicated in the rear by a masked\ndoor which opened by a secret spring, with a long, narrow, paved\nwinding corridor, open to the sky, hemmed in with two lofty walls,\nwhich, hidden with wonderful art, and lost as it were between garden\nenclosures and cultivated land, all of whose angles and detours it\nfollowed, ended in another door, also with a secret lock which opened a\nquarter of a league away, almost in another quarter, at the solitary\nextremity of the Rue du Babylone.\n\nThrough this the chief justice entered, so that even those who were\nspying on him and following him would merely have observed that the\njustice betook himself every day in a mysterious way somewhere, and\nwould never have suspected that to go to the Rue de Babylone was to go\nto the Rue Blomet. Thanks to clever purchasers of land, the magistrate\nhad been able to make a secret, sewer-like passage on his own property,\nand consequently, without interference. Later on, he had sold in little\nparcels, for gardens and market gardens, the lots of ground adjoining\nthe corridor, and the proprietors of these lots on both sides thought\nthey had a party wall before their eyes, and did not even suspect the\nlong, paved ribbon winding between two walls amid their flower-beds and\ntheir orchards. Only the birds beheld this curiosity. It is probable\nthat the linnets and tomtits of the last century gossiped a great deal\nabout the chief justice.\n\nThe pavilion, built of stone in the taste of Mansard, wainscoted and\nfurnished in the Watteau style, rocaille on the inside, old-fashioned\non the outside, walled in with a triple hedge of flowers, had something\ndiscreet, coquettish, and solemn about it, as befits a caprice of love\nand magistracy.\n\nThis house and corridor, which have now disappeared, were in existence\nfifteen years ago. In  93 a coppersmith had purchased the house with\nthe idea of demolishing it, but had not been able to pay the price; the\nnation made him bankrupt. So that it was the house which demolished the\ncoppersmith. After that, the house remained uninhabited, and fell\nslowly to ruin, as does every dwelling to which the presence of man\ndoes not communicate life. It had remained fitted with its old\nfurniture, was always for sale or to let, and the ten or a dozen people\nwho passed through the Rue Plumet were warned of the fact by a yellow\nand illegible bit of writing which had hung on the garden wall since\n1819.\n\nTowards the end of the Restoration, these same passers-by might have\nnoticed that the bill had disappeared, and even that the shutters on\nthe first floor were open. The house was occupied, in fact. The windows\nhad short curtains, a sign that there was a woman about.\n\nIn the month of October, 1829, a man of a certain age had presented\nhimself and had hired the house just as it stood, including, of course,\nthe back building and the lane which ended in the Rue de Babylone. He\nhad had the secret openings of the two doors to this passage repaired.\nThe house, as we have just mentioned, was still very nearly furnished\nwith the justice s old fitting; the new tenant had ordered some\nrepairs, had added what was lacking here and there, had replaced the\npaving-stones in the yard, bricks in the floors, steps in the stairs,\nmissing bits in the inlaid floors and the glass in the lattice windows,\nand had finally installed himself there with a young girl and an\nelderly maid-servant, without commotion, rather like a person who is\nslipping in than like a man who is entering his own house. The\nneighbors did not gossip about him, for the reason that there were no\nneighbors.\n\nThis unobtrusive tenant was Jean Valjean, the young girl was Cosette.\nThe servant was a woman named Toussaint, whom Jean Valjean had saved\nfrom the hospital and from wretchedness, and who was elderly, a\nstammerer, and from the provinces, three qualities which had decided\nJean Valjean to take her with him. He had hired the house under the\nname of M. Fauchelevent, independent gentleman. In all that has been\nrelated heretofore, the reader has, doubtless, been no less prompt than\nTh nardier to recognize Jean Valjean.\n\nWhy had Jean Valjean quitted the convent of the Petit-Picpus? What had\nhappened?\n\nNothing had happened.\n\nIt will be remembered that Jean Valjean was happy in the convent, so\nhappy that his conscience finally took the alarm. He saw Cosette every\nday, he felt paternity spring up and develop within him more and more,\nhe brooded over the soul of that child, he said to himself that she was\nhis, that nothing could take her from him, that this would last\nindefinitely, that she would certainly become a nun, being thereto\ngently incited every day, that thus the convent was henceforth the\nuniverse for her as it was for him, that he should grow old there, and\nthat she would grow up there, that she would grow old there, and that\nhe should die there; that, in short, delightful hope, no separation was\npossible. On reflecting upon this, he fell into perplexity. He\ninterrogated himself. He asked himself if all that happiness were\nreally his, if it were not composed of the happiness of another, of the\nhappiness of that child which he, an old man, was confiscating and\nstealing; if that were not theft? He said to himself, that this child\nhad a right to know life before renouncing it, that to deprive her in\nadvance, and in some sort without consulting her, of all joys, under\nthe pretext of saving her from all trials, to take advantage of her\nignorance of her isolation, in order to make an artificial vocation\ngerminate in her, was to rob a human creature of its nature and to lie\nto God. And who knows if, when she came to be aware of all this some\nday, and found herself a nun to her sorrow, Cosette would not come to\nhate him? A last, almost selfish thought, and less heroic than the\nrest, but which was intolerable to him. He resolved to quit the\nconvent.\n\nHe resolved on this; he recognized with anguish, the fact that it was\nnecessary. As for objections, there were none. Five years  sojourn\nbetween these four walls and of disappearance had necessarily destroyed\nor dispersed the elements of fear. He could return tranquilly among\nmen. He had grown old, and all had undergone a change. Who would\nrecognize him now? And then, to face the worst, there was danger only\nfor himself, and he had no right to condemn Cosette to the cloister for\nthe reason that he had been condemned to the galleys. Besides, what is\ndanger in comparison with the right? Finally, nothing prevented his\nbeing prudent and taking his precautions.\n\nAs for Cosette s education, it was almost finished and complete.\n\nHis determination once taken, he awaited an opportunity. It was not\nlong in presenting itself. Old Fauchelevent died.\n\nJean Valjean demanded an audience with the revered prioress and told\nher that, having come into a little inheritance at the death of his\nbrother, which permitted him henceforth to live without working, he\nshould leave the service of the convent and take his daughter with him;\nbut that, as it was not just that Cosette, since she had not taken the\nvows, should have received her education gratuitously, he humbly begged\nthe Reverend Prioress to see fit that he should offer to the community,\nas indemnity, for the five years which Cosette had spent there, the sum\nof five thousand francs.\n\nIt was thus that Jean Valjean quitted the convent of the Perpetual\nAdoration.\n\nOn leaving the convent, he took in his own arms the little valise the\nkey to which he still wore on his person, and would permit no porter to\ntouch it. This puzzled Cosette, because of the odor of embalming which\nproceeded from it.\n\nLet us state at once, that this trunk never quitted him more. He always\nhad it in his chamber. It was the first and only thing sometimes, that\nhe carried off in his moving when he moved about. Cosette laughed at\nit, and called this valise his _inseparable_, saying:  I am jealous of\nit. \n\n\nNevertheless, Jean Valjean did not reappear in the open air without\nprofound anxiety.\n\nHe discovered the house in the Rue Plumet, and hid himself from sight\nthere. Henceforth he was in the possession of the name: Ultime\nFauchelevent.\n\nAt the same time he hired two other apartments in Paris, in order that\nhe might attract less attention than if he were to remain always in the\nsame quarter, and so that he could, at need, take himself off at the\nslightest disquietude which should assail him, and in short, so that he\nmight not again be caught unprovided as on the night when he had so\nmiraculously escaped from Javert. These two apartments were very\npitiable, poor in appearance, and in two quarters which were far remote\nfrom each other, the one in the Rue de l Ouest, the other in the Rue de\nl Homme Arm .\n\nHe went from time to time, now to the Rue de l Homme Arm , now to the\nRue de l Ouest, to pass a month or six weeks, without taking Toussaint.\nHe had himself served by the porters, and gave himself out as a\ngentleman from the suburbs, living on his funds, and having a little\ntemporary resting-place in town. This lofty virtue had three domiciles\nin Paris for the sake of escaping from the police.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II JEAN VALJEAN AS A NATIONAL GUARD\n\n\nHowever, properly speaking, he lived in the Rue Plumet, and he had\narranged his existence there in the following fashion: \n\nCosette and the servant occupied the pavilion; she had the big\nsleeping-room with the painted pier-glasses, the boudoir with the\ngilded fillets, the justice s drawing-room furnished with tapestries\nand vast armchairs; she had the garden. Jean Valjean had a canopied bed\nof antique damask in three colors and a beautiful Persian rug purchased\nin the Rue du Figuier-Saint-Paul at Mother Gaucher s, put into\nCosette s chamber, and, in order to redeem the severity of these\nmagnificent old things, he had amalgamated with this bric- -brac all\nthe gay and graceful little pieces of furniture suitable to young\ngirls, an  tag re, a bookcase filled with gilt-edged books, an\ninkstand, a blotting-book, paper, a work-table incrusted with mother of\npearl, a silver-gilt dressing-case, a toilet service in Japanese\nporcelain. Long damask curtains with a red foundation and three colors,\nlike those on the bed, hung at the windows of the first floor. On the\nground floor, the curtains were of tapestry. All winter long, Cosette s\nlittle house was heated from top to bottom. Jean Valjean inhabited the\nsort of porter s lodge which was situated at the end of the back\ncourtyard, with a mattress on a folding-bed, a white wood table, two\nstraw chairs, an earthenware water-jug, a few old volumes on a shelf,\nhis beloved valise in one corner, and never any fire. He dined with\nCosette, and he had a loaf of black bread on the table for his own use.\n\nWhen Toussaint came, he had said to her:  It is the young lady who is\nthe mistress of this house. And you, monsieur?  Toussaint replied in\namazement. I am a much better thing than the master, I am the father. \n\n\nCosette had been taught housekeeping in the convent, and she regulated\ntheir expenditure, which was very modest. Every day, Jean Valjean put\nhis arm through Cosette s and took her for a walk. He led her to the\nLuxembourg, to the least frequented walk, and every Sunday he took her\nto mass at Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, because that was a long way off.\nAs it was a very poor quarter, he bestowed alms largely there, and the\npoor people surrounded him in church, which had drawn down upon him\nTh nardier s epistle:  To the benevolent gentleman of the church of\nSaint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas.  He was fond of taking Cosette to visit the\npoor and the sick. No stranger ever entered the house in the Rue\nPlumet. Toussaint brought their provisions, and Jean Valjean went\nhimself for water to a fountain nearby on the boulevard. Their wood and\nwine were put into a half-subterranean hollow lined with rock-work\nwhich lay near the Rue de Babylone and which had formerly served the\nchief-justice as a grotto; for at the epoch of follies and  Little\nHouses  no love was without a grotto.\n\nIn the door opening on the Rue de Babylone, there was a box destined\nfor the reception of letters and papers; only, as the three inhabitants\nof the pavilion in the Rue Plumet received neither papers nor letters,\nthe entire usefulness of that box, formerly the go-between of a love\naffair, and the confidant of a love-lorn lawyer, was now limited to the\ntax-collector s notices, and the summons of the guard. For M.\nFauchelevent, independent gentleman, belonged to the national guard; he\nhad not been able to escape through the fine meshes of the census of\n1831. The municipal information collected at that time had even reached\nthe convent of the Petit-Picpus, a sort of impenetrable and holy cloud,\nwhence Jean Valjean had emerged in venerable guise, and, consequently,\nworthy of mounting guard in the eyes of the town-hall.\n\nThree or four times a year, Jean Valjean donned his uniform and mounted\nguard; he did this willingly, however; it was a correct disguise which\nmixed him with every one, and yet left him solitary. Jean Valjean had\njust attained his sixtieth birthday, the age of legal exemption; but he\ndid not appear to be over fifty; moreover, he had no desire to escape\nhis sergeant-major nor to quibble with Comte de Lobau; he possessed no\ncivil status, he was concealing his name, he was concealing his\nidentity, so he concealed his age, he concealed everything; and, as we\nhave just said, he willingly did his duty as a national guard; the sum\nof his ambition lay in resembling any other man who paid his taxes.\nThis man had for his ideal, within, the angel, without, the bourgeois.\n\nLet us note one detail, however; when Jean Valjean went out with\nCosette, he dressed as the reader has already seen, and had the air of\na retired officer. When he went out alone, which was generally at\nnight, he was always dressed in a workingman s trousers and blouse, and\nwore a cap which concealed his face. Was this precaution or humility?\nBoth. Cosette was accustomed to the enigmatical side of her destiny,\nand hardly noticed her father s peculiarities. As for Toussaint, she\nvenerated Jean Valjean, and thought everything he did right.\n\nOne day, her butcher, who had caught a glimpse of Jean Valjean, said to\nher:  That s a queer fish.  She replied:  He s a saint. \n\n\nNeither Jean Valjean nor Cosette nor Toussaint ever entered or emerged\nexcept by the door on the Rue de Babylone. Unless seen through the\ngarden gate it would have been difficult to guess that they lived in\nthe Rue Plumet. That gate was always closed. Jean Valjean had left the\ngarden uncultivated, in order not to attract attention.\n\nIn this, possibly, he made a mistake.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III FOLIIS AC FRONDIBUS\n\n\nThe garden thus left to itself for more than half a century had become\nextraordinary and charming. The passers-by of forty years ago halted to\ngaze at it, without a suspicion of the secrets which it hid in its\nfresh and verdant depths. More than one dreamer of that epoch often\nallowed his thoughts and his eyes to penetrate indiscreetly between the\nbars of that ancient, padlocked gate, twisted, tottering, fastened to\ntwo green and moss-covered pillars, and oddly crowned with a pediment\nof undecipherable arabesque.\n\nThere was a stone bench in one corner, one or two mouldy statues,\nseveral lattices which had lost their nails with time, were rotting on\nthe wall, and there were no walks nor turf; but there was enough grass\neverywhere. Gardening had taken its departure, and nature had returned.\nWeeds abounded, which was a great piece of luck for a poor corner of\nland. The festival of gilliflowers was something splendid. Nothing in\nthis garden obstructed the sacred effort of things towards life;\nvenerable growth reigned there among them. The trees had bent over\ntowards the nettles, the plant had sprung upward, the branch had\ninclined, that which crawls on the earth had gone in search of that\nwhich expands in the air, that which floats on the wind had bent over\ntowards that which trails in the moss; trunks, boughs, leaves, fibres,\nclusters, tendrils, shoots, spines, thorns, had mingled, crossed,\nmarried, confounded themselves in each other; vegetation in a deep and\nclose embrace, had celebrated and accomplished there, under the\nwell-pleased eye of the Creator, in that enclosure three hundred feet\nsquare, the holy mystery of fraternity, symbol of the human fraternity.\nThis garden was no longer a garden, it was a colossal thicket, that is\nto say, something as impenetrable as a forest, as peopled as a city,\nquivering like a nest, sombre like a cathedral, fragrant like a\nbouquet, solitary as a tomb, living as a throng.\n\nIn Flor al34 this enormous thicket, free behind its gate and within its\nfour walls, entered upon the secret labor of germination, quivered in\nthe rising sun, almost like an animal which drinks in the breaths of\ncosmic love, and which feels the sap of April rising and boiling in its\nveins, and shakes to the wind its enormous wonderful green locks,\nsprinkled on the damp earth, on the defaced statues, on the crumbling\nsteps of the pavilion, and even on the pavement of the deserted street,\nflowers like stars, dew like pearls, fecundity, beauty, life, joy,\nperfumes. At midday, a thousand white butterflies took refuge there,\nand it was a divine spectacle to see that living summer snow whirling\nabout there in flakes amid the shade. There, in those gay shadows of\nverdure, a throng of innocent voices spoke sweetly to the soul, and\nwhat the twittering forgot to say the humming completed. In the\nevening, a dreamy vapor exhaled from the garden and enveloped it; a\nshroud of mist, a calm and celestial sadness covered it; the\nintoxicating perfume of the honeysuckles and convolvulus poured out\nfrom every part of it, like an exquisite and subtle poison; the last\nappeals of the woodpeckers and the wagtails were audible as they dozed\namong the branches; one felt the sacred intimacy of the birds and the\ntrees; by day the wings rejoice the leaves, by night the leaves protect\nthe wings.\n\nIn winter the thicket was black, dripping, bristling, shivering, and\nallowed some glimpse of the house. Instead of flowers on the branches\nand dew in the flowers, the long silvery tracks of the snails were\nvisible on the cold, thick carpet of yellow leaves; but in any fashion,\nunder any aspect, at all seasons, spring, winter, summer, autumn, this\ntiny enclosure breathed forth melancholy, contemplation, solitude,\nliberty, the absence of man, the presence of God; and the rusty old\ngate had the air of saying:  This garden belongs to me. \n\n\nIt was of no avail that the pavements of Paris were there on every\nside, the classic and splendid hotels of the Rue de Varennes a couple\nof paces away, the dome of the Invalides close at hand, the Chamber of\nDeputies not far off; the carriages of the Rue de Bourgogne and of the\nRue Saint-Dominique rumbled luxuriously, in vain, in the vicinity, in\nvain did the yellow, brown, white, and red omnibuses cross each other s\ncourse at the neighboring crossroads; the Rue Plumet was the desert;\nand the death of the former proprietors, the revolution which had\npassed over it, the crumbling away of ancient fortunes, absence,\nforgetfulness, forty years of abandonment and widowhood, had sufficed\nto restore to this privileged spot ferns, mulleins, hemlock, yarrow,\ntall weeds, great crimped plants, with large leaves of pale green\ncloth, lizards, beetles, uneasy and rapid insects; to cause to spring\nforth from the depths of the earth and to reappear between those four\nwalls a certain indescribable and savage grandeur; and for nature,\nwhich disconcerts the petty arrangements of man, and which sheds\nherself always thoroughly where she diffuses herself at all, in the ant\nas well as in the eagle, to blossom out in a petty little Parisian\ngarden with as much rude force and majesty as in a virgin forest of the\nNew World.\n\nNothing is small, in fact; any one who is subject to the profound and\npenetrating influence of nature knows this. Although no absolute\nsatisfaction is given to philosophy, either to circumscribe the cause\nor to limit the effect, the contemplator falls into those unfathomable\necstasies caused by these decompositions of force terminating in unity.\nEverything toils at everything.\n\nAlgebra is applied to the clouds; the radiation of the star profits the\nrose; no thinker would venture to affirm that the perfume of the\nhawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who, then, can calculate the\ncourse of a molecule? How do we know that the creation of worlds is not\ndetermined by the fall of grains of sand? Who knows the reciprocal ebb\nand flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely little, the\nreverberations of causes in the precipices of being, and the avalanches\nof creation? The tiniest worm is of importance; the great is little,\nthe little is great; everything is balanced in necessity; alarming\nvision for the mind. There are marvellous relations between beings and\nthings; in that inexhaustible whole, from the sun to the grub, nothing\ndespises the other; all have need of each other. The light does not\nbear away terrestrial perfumes into the azure depths, without knowing\nwhat it is doing; the night distributes stellar essences to the\nsleeping flowers. All birds that fly have round their leg the thread of\nthe infinite. Germination is complicated with the bursting forth of a\nmeteor and with the peck of a swallow cracking its egg, and it places\non one level the birth of an earthworm and the advent of Socrates.\nWhere the telescope ends, the microscope begins. Which of the two\npossesses the larger field of vision? Choose. A bit of mould is a\npleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars. The same\npromiscuousness, and yet more unprecedented, exists between the things\nof the intelligence and the facts of substance. Elements and principles\nmingle, combine, wed, multiply with each other, to such a point that\nthe material and the moral world are brought eventually to the same\nclearness. The phenomenon is perpetually returning upon itself. In the\nvast cosmic exchanges the universal life goes and comes in unknown\nquantities, rolling entirely in the invisible mystery of effluvia,\nemploying everything, not losing a single dream, not a single slumber,\nsowing an animalcule here, crumbling to bits a planet there,\noscillating and winding, making of light a force and of thought an\nelement, disseminated and invisible, dissolving all, except that\ngeometrical point, the _I_; bringing everything back to the soul-atom;\nexpanding everything in God, entangling all activity, from summit to\nbase, in the obscurity of a dizzy mechanism, attaching the flight of an\ninsect to the movement of the earth, subordinating, who knows? Were it\nonly by the identity of the law, the evolution of the comet in the\nfirmament to the whirling of the infusoria in the drop of water. A\nmachine made of mind. Enormous gearing, the prime motor of which is the\ngnat, and whose final wheel is the zodiac.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV CHANGE OF GATE\n\n\nIt seemed that this garden, created in olden days to conceal wanton\nmysteries, had been transformed and become fitted to shelter chaste\nmysteries. There were no longer either arbors, or bowling greens, or\ntunnels, or grottos; there was a magnificent, dishevelled obscurity\nfalling like a veil over all. Paphos had been made over into Eden. It\nis impossible to say what element of repentance had rendered this\nretreat wholesome. This flower-girl now offered her blossom to the\nsoul. This coquettish garden, formerly decidedly compromised, had\nreturned to virginity and modesty. A justice assisted by a gardener, a\ngoodman who thought that he was a continuation of Lamoignon, and\nanother goodman who thought that he was a continuation of Len tre, had\nturned it about, cut, ruffled, decked, moulded it to gallantry; nature\nhad taken possession of it once more, had filled it with shade, and had\narranged it for love.\n\nThere was, also, in this solitude, a heart which was quite ready. Love\nhad only to show himself; he had here a temple composed of verdure,\ngrass, moss, the sight of birds, tender shadows, agitated branches, and\na soul made of sweetness, of faith, of candor, of hope, of aspiration,\nand of illusion.\n\nCosette had left the convent when she was still almost a child; she was\na little more than fourteen, and she was at the  ungrateful age ; we\nhave already said, that with the exception of her eyes, she was homely\nrather than pretty; she had no ungraceful feature, but she was awkward,\nthin, timid and bold at once, a grown-up little girl, in short.\n\nHer education was finished, that is to say, she has been taught\nreligion, and even and above all, devotion; then  history,  that is to\nsay the thing that bears that name in convents, geography, grammar, the\nparticiples, the kings of France, a little music, a little drawing,\netc.; but in all other respects she was utterly ignorant, which is a\ngreat charm and a great peril. The soul of a young girl should not be\nleft in the dark; later on, mirages that are too abrupt and too lively\nare formed there, as in a dark chamber. She should be gently and\ndiscreetly enlightened, rather with the reflection of realities than\nwith their harsh and direct light. A useful and graciously austere\nhalf-light which dissipates puerile fears and obviates falls. There is\nnothing but the maternal instinct, that admirable intuition composed of\nthe memories of the virgin and the experience of the woman, which knows\nhow this half-light is to be created and of what it should consist.\n\nNothing supplies the place of this instinct. All the nuns in the world\nare not worth as much as one mother in the formation of a young girl s\nsoul.\n\nCosette had had no mother. She had only had many mothers, in the\nplural.\n\nAs for Jean Valjean, he was, indeed, all tenderness, all solicitude;\nbut he was only an old man and he knew nothing at all.\n\nNow, in this work of education, in this grave matter of preparing a\nwoman for life, what science is required to combat that vast ignorance\nwhich is called innocence!\n\nNothing prepares a young girl for passions like the convent. The\nconvent turns the thoughts in the direction of the unknown. The heart,\nthus thrown back upon itself, works downward within itself, since it\ncannot overflow, and grows deep, since it cannot expand. Hence visions,\nsuppositions, conjectures, outlines of romances, a desire for\nadventures, fantastic constructions, edifices built wholly in the inner\nobscurity of the mind, sombre and secret abodes where the passions\nimmediately find a lodgement as soon as the open gate permits them to\nenter. The convent is a compression which, in order to triumph over the\nhuman heart, should last during the whole life.\n\nOn quitting the convent, Cosette could have found nothing more sweet\nand more dangerous than the house in the Rue Plumet. It was the\ncontinuation of solitude with the beginning of liberty; a garden that\nwas closed, but a nature that was acrid, rich, voluptuous, and\nfragrant; the same dreams as in the convent, but with glimpses of young\nmen; a grating, but one that opened on the street.\n\nStill, when she arrived there, we repeat, she was only a child. Jean\nValjean gave this neglected garden over to her.  Do what you like with\nit,  he said to her. This amused Cosette; she turned over all the\nclumps and all the stones, she hunted for  beasts ; she played in it,\nwhile awaiting the time when she would dream in it; she loved this\ngarden for the insects that she found beneath her feet amid the grass,\nwhile awaiting the day when she would love it for the stars that she\nwould see through the boughs above her head.\n\nAnd then, she loved her father, that is to say, Jean Valjean, with all\nher soul, with an innocent filial passion which made the goodman a\nbeloved and charming companion to her. It will be remembered that M.\nMadeleine had been in the habit of reading a great deal. Jean Valjean\nhad continued this practice; he had come to converse well; he possessed\nthe secret riches and the eloquence of a true and humble mind which has\nspontaneously cultivated itself. He retained just enough sharpness to\nseason his kindness; his mind was rough and his heart was soft. During\ntheir conversations in the Luxembourg, he gave her explanations of\neverything, drawing on what he had read, and also on what he had\nsuffered. As she listened to him, Cosette s eyes wandered vaguely\nabout.\n\nThis simple man sufficed for Cosette s thought, the same as the wild\ngarden sufficed for her eyes. When she had had a good chase after the\nbutterflies, she came panting up to him and said:  Ah! How I have run! \nHe kissed her brow.\n\nCosette adored the goodman. She was always at his heels. Where Jean\nValjean was, there happiness was. Jean Valjean lived neither in the\npavilion nor the garden; she took greater pleasure in the paved back\ncourtyard, than in the enclosure filled with flowers, and in his little\nlodge furnished with straw-seated chairs than in the great drawing-room\nhung with tapestry, against which stood tufted easy-chairs. Jean\nValjean sometimes said to her, smiling at his happiness in being\nimportuned:  Do go to your own quarters! Leave me alone a little! \n\n\nShe gave him those charming and tender scoldings which are so graceful\nwhen they come from a daughter to her father.\n\n Father, I am very cold in your rooms; why don t you have a carpet here\nand a stove? \n\n\n Dear child, there are so many people who are better than I and who\nhave not even a roof over their heads. \n\n\n Then why is there a fire in my rooms, and everything that is needed? \n\n\n Because you are a woman and a child. \n\n\n Bah! must men be cold and feel uncomfortable? \n\n\n Certain men. \n\n\n That is good, I shall come here so often that you will be obliged to\nhave a fire. \n\n\nAnd again she said to him: \n\n Father, why do you eat horrible bread like that? \n\n\n Because, my daughter. \n\n\n Well, if you eat it, I will eat it too. \n\n\nThen, in order to prevent Cosette eating black bread, Jean Valjean ate\nwhite bread.\n\nCosette had but a confused recollection of her childhood. She prayed\nmorning and evening for her mother whom she had never known. The\nTh nardiers had remained with her as two hideous figures in a dream.\nShe remembered that she had gone  one day, at night,  to fetch water in\na forest. She thought that it had been very far from Paris. It seemed\nto her that she had begun to live in an abyss, and that it was Jean\nValjean who had rescued her from it. Her childhood produced upon her\nthe effect of a time when there had been nothing around her but\nmillepeds, spiders, and serpents. When she meditated in the evening,\nbefore falling asleep, as she had not a very clear idea that she was\nJean Valjean s daughter, and that he was her father, she fancied that\nthe soul of her mother had passed into that good man and had come to\ndwell near her.\n\nWhen he was seated, she leaned her cheek against his white hair, and\ndropped a silent tear, saying to herself:  Perhaps this man is my\nmother. \n\n\nCosette, although this is a strange statement to make, in the profound\nignorance of a girl brought up in a convent, maternity being also\nabsolutely unintelligible to virginity, had ended by fancying that she\nhad had as little mother as possible. She did not even know her\nmother s name. Whenever she asked Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean remained\nsilent. If she repeated her question, he responded with a smile. Once\nshe insisted; the smile ended in a tear.\n\nThis silence on the part of Jean Valjean covered Fantine with darkness.\n\nWas it prudence? Was it respect? Was it a fear that he should deliver\nthis name to the hazards of another memory than his own?\n\nSo long as Cosette had been small, Jean Valjean had been willing to\ntalk to her of her mother; when she became a young girl, it was\nimpossible for him to do so. It seemed to him that he no longer dared.\nWas it because of Cosette? Was it because of Fantine? He felt a certain\nreligious horror at letting that shadow enter Cosette s thought; and of\nplacing a third in their destiny. The more sacred this shade was to\nhim, the more did it seem that it was to be feared. He thought of\nFantine, and felt himself overwhelmed with silence.\n\nThrough the darkness, he vaguely perceived something which appeared to\nhave its finger on its lips. Had all the modesty which had been in\nFantine, and which had violently quitted her during her lifetime,\nreturned to rest upon her after her death, to watch in indignation over\nthe peace of that dead woman, and in its shyness, to keep her in her\ngrave? Was Jean Valjean unconsciously submitting to the pressure? We\nwho believe in death, are not among the number who will reject this\nmysterious explanation.\n\nHence the impossibility of uttering, even for Cosette, that name of\nFantine.\n\nOne day Cosette said to him: \n\n Father, I saw my mother in a dream last night. She had two big wings.\nMy mother must have been almost a saint during her life. \n\n\n Through martyrdom,  replied Jean Valjean.\n\nHowever, Jean Valjean was happy.\n\nWhen Cosette went out with him, she leaned on his arm, proud and happy,\nin the plenitude of her heart. Jean Valjean felt his heart melt within\nhim with delight, at all these sparks of a tenderness so exclusive, so\nwholly satisfied with himself alone. The poor man trembled, inundated\nwith angelic joy; he declared to himself ecstatically that this would\nlast all their lives; he told himself that he really had not suffered\nsufficiently to merit so radiant a bliss, and he thanked God, in the\ndepths of his soul, for having permitted him to be loved thus, he, a\nwretch, by that innocent being.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V THE ROSE PERCEIVES THAT IT IS AN ENGINE OF WAR\n\n\nOne day, Cosette chanced to look at herself in her mirror, and she said\nto herself:  Really!  It seemed to her almost that she was pretty. This\nthrew her in a singularly troubled state of mind. Up to that moment she\nhad never thought of her face. She saw herself in her mirror, but she\ndid not look at herself. And then, she had so often been told that she\nwas homely; Jean Valjean alone said gently:  No indeed! no indeed!  At\nall events, Cosette had always thought herself homely, and had grown up\nin that belief with the easy resignation of childhood. And here, all at\nonce, was her mirror saying to her, as Jean Valjean had said:  No\nindeed!  That night, she did not sleep.  What if I were pretty!  she\nthought.  How odd it would be if I were pretty!  And she recalled those\nof her companions whose beauty had produced a sensation in the convent,\nand she said to herself:  What! Am I to be like Mademoiselle\nSo-and-So? \n\n\nThe next morning she looked at herself again, not by accident this\ntime, and she was assailed with doubts:  Where did I get such an idea? \nsaid she;  no, I am ugly.  She had not slept well, that was all, her\neyes were sunken and she was pale. She had not felt very joyous on the\npreceding evening in the belief that she was beautiful, but it made her\nvery sad not to be able to believe in it any longer. She did not look\nat herself again, and for more than a fortnight she tried to dress her\nhair with her back turned to the mirror.\n\nIn the evening, after dinner, she generally embroidered in wool or did\nsome convent needlework in the drawing-room, and Jean Valjean read\nbeside her. Once she raised her eyes from her work, and was rendered\nquite uneasy by the manner in which her father was gazing at her.\n\nOn another occasion, she was passing along the street, and it seemed to\nher that some one behind her, whom she did not see, said:  A pretty\nwoman! but badly dressed.   Bah!  she thought,  he does not mean me. I\nam well dressed and ugly.  She was then wearing a plush hat and her\nmerino gown.\n\nAt last, one day when she was in the garden, she heard poor old\nToussaint saying:  Do you notice how pretty Cosette is growing, sir? \nCosette did not hear her father s reply, but Toussaint s words caused a\nsort of commotion within her. She fled from the garden, ran up to her\nroom, flew to the looking-glass, it was three months since she had\nlooked at herself, and gave vent to a cry. She had just dazzled\nherself.\n\nShe was beautiful and lovely; she could not help agreeing with\nToussaint and her mirror. Her figure was formed, her skin had grown\nwhite, her hair was lustrous, an unaccustomed splendor had been lighted\nin her blue eyes. The consciousness of her beauty burst upon her in an\ninstant, like the sudden advent of daylight; other people noticed it\nalso, Toussaint had said so, it was evidently she of whom the passer-by\nhad spoken, there could no longer be any doubt of that; she descended\nto the garden again, thinking herself a queen, imagining that she heard\nthe birds singing, though it was winter, seeing the sky gilded, the sun\namong the trees, flowers in the thickets, distracted, wild, in\ninexpressible delight.\n\nJean Valjean, on his side, experienced a deep and undefinable\noppression at heart.\n\nIn fact, he had, for some time past, been contemplating with terror\nthat beauty which seemed to grow more radiant every day on Cosette s\nsweet face. The dawn that was smiling for all was gloomy for him.\n\nCosette had been beautiful for a tolerably long time before she became\naware of it herself. But, from the very first day, that unexpected\nlight which was rising slowly and enveloping the whole of the young\ngirl s person, wounded Jean Valjean s sombre eye. He felt that it was a\nchange in a happy life, a life so happy that he did not dare to move\nfor fear of disarranging something. This man, who had passed through\nall manner of distresses, who was still all bleeding from the bruises\nof fate, who had been almost wicked and who had become almost a saint,\nwho, after having dragged the chain of the galleys, was now dragging\nthe invisible but heavy chain of indefinite misery, this man whom the\nlaw had not released from its grasp and who could be seized at any\nmoment and brought back from the obscurity of his virtue to the broad\ndaylight of public opprobrium, this man accepted all, excused all,\npardoned all, and merely asked of Providence, of man, of the law, of\nsociety, of nature, of the world, one thing, that Cosette might love\nhim!\n\nThat Cosette might continue to love him! That God would not prevent the\nheart of the child from coming to him, and from remaining with him!\nBeloved by Cosette, he felt that he was healed, rested, appeased,\nloaded with benefits, recompensed, crowned. Beloved by Cosette, it was\nwell with him! He asked nothing more! Had any one said to him:  Do you\nwant anything better?  he would have answered:  No.  God might have\nsaid to him:  Do you desire heaven?  and he would have replied:  I\nshould lose by it. \n\n\nEverything which could affect this situation, if only on the surface,\nmade him shudder like the beginning of something new. He had never\nknown very distinctly himself what the beauty of a woman means; but he\nunderstood instinctively, that it was something terrible.\n\nHe gazed with terror on this beauty, which was blossoming out ever more\ntriumphant and superb beside him, beneath his very eyes, on the\ninnocent and formidable brow of that child, from the depths of her\nhomeliness, of his old age, of his misery, of his reprobation.\n\nHe said to himself:  How beautiful she is! What is to become of me? \n\n\nThere, moreover, lay the difference between his tenderness and the\ntenderness of a mother. What he beheld with anguish, a mother would\nhave gazed upon with joy.\n\nThe first symptoms were not long in making their appearance.\n\nOn the very morrow of the day on which she had said to herself:\n Decidedly I am beautiful!  Cosette began to pay attention to her\ntoilet. She recalled the remark of that passer-by:  Pretty, but badly\ndressed,  the breath of an oracle which had passed beside her and had\nvanished, after depositing in her heart one of the two germs which are\ndestined, later on, to fill the whole life of woman, coquetry. Love is\nthe other.\n\nWith faith in her beauty, the whole feminine soul expanded within her.\nShe conceived a horror for her merinos, and shame for her plush hat.\nHer father had never refused her anything. She at once acquired the\nwhole science of the bonnet, the gown, the mantle, the boot, the cuff,\nthe stuff which is in fashion, the color which is becoming, that\nscience which makes of the Parisian woman something so charming, so\ndeep, and so dangerous. The words _heady woman_ were invented for the\nParisienne.\n\nIn less than a month, little Cosette, in that Thebaid of the Rue de\nBabylone, was not only one of the prettiest, but one of the  best\ndressed  women in Paris, which means a great deal more.\n\nShe would have liked to encounter her  passer-by,  to see what he would\nsay, and to  teach him a lesson!  The truth is, that she was ravishing\nin every respect, and that she distinguished the difference between a\nbonnet from G rard and one from Herbaut in the most marvellous way.\n\nJean Valjean watched these ravages with anxiety. He who felt that he\ncould never do anything but crawl, walk at the most, beheld wings\nsprouting on Cosette.\n\nMoreover, from the mere inspection of Cosette s toilet, a woman would\nhave recognized the fact that she had no mother. Certain little\nproprieties, certain special conventionalities, were not observed by\nCosette. A mother, for instance, would have told her that a young girl\ndoes not dress in damask.\n\nThe first day that Cosette went out in her black damask gown and\nmantle, and her white crape bonnet, she took Jean Valjean s arm, gay,\nradiant, rosy, proud, dazzling.  Father,  she said,  how do you like me\nin this guise?  Jean Valjean replied in a voice which resembled the\nbitter voice of an envious man:  Charming!  He was the same as usual\nduring their walk. On their return home, he asked Cosette: \n\n Won t you put on that other gown and bonnet again, you know the ones I\nmean? \n\n\nThis took place in Cosette s chamber. Cosette turned towards the\nwardrobe where her cast-off schoolgirl s clothes were hanging.\n\n That disguise!  said she.  Father, what do you want me to do with it?\nOh no, the idea! I shall never put on those horrors again. With that\nmachine on my head, I have the air of Madame Mad-dog. \n\n\nJean Valjean heaved a deep sigh.\n\nFrom that moment forth, he noticed that Cosette, who had always\nheretofore asked to remain at home, saying:  Father, I enjoy myself\nmore here with you,  now was always asking to go out. In fact, what is\nthe use of having a handsome face and a delicious costume if one does\nnot display them?\n\nHe also noticed that Cosette had no longer the same taste for the back\ngarden. Now she preferred the garden, and did not dislike to promenade\nback and forth in front of the railed fence. Jean Valjean, who was shy,\nnever set foot in the garden. He kept to his back yard, like a dog.\n\nCosette, in gaining the knowledge that she was beautiful, lost the\ngrace of ignoring it. An exquisite grace, for beauty enhanced by\ningenuousness is ineffable, and nothing is so adorable as a dazzling\nand innocent creature who walks along, holding in her hand the key to\nparadise without being conscious of it. But what she had lost in\ningenuous grace, she gained in pensive and serious charm. Her whole\nperson, permeated with the joy of youth, of innocence, and of beauty,\nbreathed forth a splendid melancholy.\n\nIt was at this epoch that Marius, after the lapse of six months, saw\nher once more at the Luxembourg.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE BATTLE BEGUN\n\n\nCosette in her shadow, like Marius in his, was all ready to take fire.\nDestiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, slowly drew together\nthese two beings, all charged and all languishing with the stormy\nelectricity of passion, these two souls which were laden with love as\ntwo clouds are laden with lightning, and which were bound to overflow\nand mingle in a look like the clouds in a flash of fire.\n\nThe glance has been so much abused in love romances that it has finally\nfallen into disrepute. One hardly dares to say, nowadays, that two\nbeings fell in love because they looked at each other. That is the way\npeople do fall in love, nevertheless, and the only way. The rest is\nnothing, but the rest comes afterwards. Nothing is more real than these\ngreat shocks which two souls convey to each other by the exchange of\nthat spark.\n\nAt that particular hour when Cosette unconsciously darted that glance\nwhich troubled Marius, Marius had no suspicion that he had also\nlaunched a look which disturbed Cosette.\n\nHe caused her the same good and the same evil.\n\nShe had been in the habit of seeing him for a long time, and she had\nscrutinized him as girls scrutinize and see, while looking elsewhere.\nMarius still considered Cosette ugly, when she had already begun to\nthink Marius handsome. But as he paid no attention to her, the young\nman was nothing to her.\n\nStill, she could not refrain from saying to herself that he had\nbeautiful hair, beautiful eyes, handsome teeth, a charming tone of\nvoice when she heard him conversing with his comrades, that he held\nhimself badly when he walked, if you like, but with a grace that was\nall his own, that he did not appear to be at all stupid, that his whole\nperson was noble, gentle, simple, proud, and that, in short, though he\nseemed to be poor, yet his air was fine.\n\nOn the day when their eyes met at last, and said to each other those\nfirst, obscure, and ineffable things which the glance lisps, Cosette\ndid not immediately understand. She returned thoughtfully to the house\nin the Rue de l Ouest, where Jean Valjean, according to his custom, had\ncome to spend six weeks. The next morning, on waking, she thought of\nthat strange young man, so long indifferent and icy, who now seemed to\npay attention to her, and it did not appear to her that this attention\nwas the least in the world agreeable to her. She was, on the contrary,\nsomewhat incensed at this handsome and disdainful individual. A\nsubstratum of war stirred within her. It struck her, and the idea\ncaused her a wholly childish joy, that she was going to take her\nrevenge at last.\n\nKnowing that she was beautiful, she was thoroughly conscious, though in\nan indistinct fashion, that she possessed a weapon. Women play with\ntheir beauty as children do with a knife. They wound themselves.\n\nThe reader will recall Marius  hesitations, his palpitations, his\nterrors. He remained on his bench and did not approach. This vexed\nCosette. One day, she said to Jean Valjean:  Father, let us stroll\nabout a little in that direction.  Seeing that Marius did not come to\nher, she went to him. In such cases, all women resemble Mahomet. And\nthen, strange to say, the first symptom of true love in a young man is\ntimidity; in a young girl it is boldness. This is surprising, and yet\nnothing is more simple. It is the two sexes tending to approach each\nother and assuming, each the other s qualities.\n\nThat day, Cosette s glance drove Marius beside himself, and Marius \nglance set Cosette to trembling. Marius went away confident, and\nCosette uneasy. From that day forth, they adored each other.\n\nThe first thing that Cosette felt was a confused and profound\nmelancholy. It seemed to her that her soul had become black since the\nday before. She no longer recognized it. The whiteness of soul in young\ngirls, which is composed of coldness and gayety, resembles snow. It\nmelts in love, which is its sun.\n\nCosette did not know what love was. She had never heard the word\nuttered in its terrestrial sense. On the books of profane music which\nentered the convent, _amour_ (love) was replaced by _tambour_ (drum) or\n_pandour_. This created enigmas which exercised the imaginations of the\n_big girls_, such as: _Ah, how delightful is the drum! _ or, _Pity is\nnot a pandour_. But Cosette had left the convent too early to have\noccupied herself much with the  drum.  Therefore, she did not know what\nname to give to what she now felt. Is any one the less ill because one\ndoes not know the name of one s malady?\n\nShe loved with all the more passion because she loved ignorantly. She\ndid not know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, useful or\ndangerous, eternal or temporary, allowable or prohibited; she loved.\nShe would have been greatly astonished, had any one said to her:  You\ndo not sleep? But that is forbidden! You do not eat? Why, that is very\nbad! You have oppressions and palpitations of the heart? That must not\nbe! You blush and turn pale, when a certain being clad in black appears\nat the end of a certain green walk? But that is abominable!  She would\nnot have understood, and she would have replied:  What fault is there\nof mine in a matter in which I have no power and of which I know\nnothing? \n\n\nIt turned out that the love which presented itself was exactly suited\nto the state of her soul. It was a sort of admiration at a distance, a\nmute contemplation, the deification of a stranger. It was the\napparition of youth to youth, the dream of nights become a reality yet\nremaining a dream, the longed-for phantom realized and made flesh at\nlast, but having as yet, neither name, nor fault, nor spot, nor\nexigence, nor defect; in a word, the distant lover who lingered in the\nideal, a chim ra with a form. Any nearer and more palpable meeting\nwould have alarmed Cosette at this first stage, when she was still half\nimmersed in the exaggerated mists of the cloister. She had all the\nfears of children and all the fears of nuns combined. The spirit of the\nconvent, with which she had been permeated for the space of five years,\nwas still in the process of slow evaporation from her person, and made\neverything tremble around her. In this situation he was not a lover, he\nwas not even an admirer, he was a vision. She set herself to adoring\nMarius as something charming, luminous, and impossible.\n\nAs extreme innocence borders on extreme coquetry, she smiled at him\nwith all frankness.\n\nEvery day, she looked forward to the hour for their walk with\nimpatience, she found Marius there, she felt herself unspeakably happy,\nand thought in all sincerity that she was expressing her whole thought\nwhen she said to Jean Valjean: \n\n What a delicious garden that Luxembourg is! \n\n\nMarius and Cosette were in the dark as to one another. They did not\naddress each other, they did not salute each other, they did not know\neach other; they saw each other; and like stars of heaven which are\nseparated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing at each other.\n\nIt was thus that Cosette gradually became a woman and developed,\nbeautiful and loving, with a consciousness of her beauty, and in\nignorance of her love. She was a coquette to boot through her\nignorance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII TO ONE SADNESS OPPOSE A SADNESS AND A HALF\n\n\nAll situations have their instincts. Old and eternal Mother Nature\nwarned Jean Valjean in a dim way of the presence of Marius. Jean\nValjean shuddered to the very bottom of his soul. Jean Valjean saw\nnothing, knew nothing, and yet he scanned with obstinate attention, the\ndarkness in which he walked, as though he felt on one side of him\nsomething in process of construction, and on the other, something which\nwas crumbling away. Marius, also warned, and, in accordance with the\ndeep law of God, by that same Mother Nature, did all he could to keep\nout of sight of  the father.  Nevertheless, it came to pass that Jean\nValjean sometimes espied him. Marius  manners were no longer in the\nleast natural. He exhibited ambiguous prudence and awkward daring. He\nno longer came quite close to them as formerly. He seated himself at a\ndistance and pretended to be reading; why did he pretend that? Formerly\nhe had come in his old coat, now he wore his new one every day; Jean\nValjean was not sure that he did not have his hair curled, his eyes\nwere very queer, he wore gloves; in short, Jean Valjean cordially\ndetested this young man.\n\nCosette allowed nothing to be divined. Without knowing just what was\nthe matter with her she was convinced that there was something in it,\nand that it must be concealed.\n\nThere was a coincidence between the taste for the toilet which had\nrecently come to Cosette, and the habit of new clothes developed by\nthat stranger which was very repugnant to Jean Valjean. It might be\naccidental, no doubt, certainly, but it was a menacing accident.\n\nHe never opened his mouth to Cosette about this stranger. One day,\nhowever, he could not refrain from so doing, and, with that vague\ndespair which suddenly casts the lead into the depths of its despair,\nhe said to her:  What a very pedantic air that young man has! \n\n\nCosette, but a year before only an indifferent little girl, would have\nreplied:  Why, no, he is charming.  Ten years later, with the love of\nMarius in her heart, she would have answered:  A pedant, and\ninsufferable to the sight! You are right! At the moment in life and\nthe heart which she had then attained, she contented herself with\nreplying, with supreme calmness:  That young man! \n\n\nAs though she now beheld him for the first time in her life.\n\n How stupid I am!  thought Jean Valjean.  She had not noticed him. It\nis I who have pointed him out to her. \n\n\nOh, simplicity of the old! oh, the depth of children!\n\nIt is one of the laws of those fresh years of suffering and trouble, of\nthose vivacious conflicts between a first love and the first obstacles,\nthat the young girl does not allow herself to be caught in any trap\nwhatever, and that the young man falls into every one. Jean Valjean had\ninstituted an undeclared war against Marius, which Marius, with the\nsublime stupidity of his passion and his age, did not divine. Jean\nValjean laid a host of ambushes for him; he changed his hour, he\nchanged his bench, he forgot his handkerchief, he came alone to the\nLuxembourg; Marius dashed headlong into all these snares; and to all\nthe interrogation marks planted by Jean Valjean in his pathway, he\ningenuously answered  yes.  But Cosette remained immured in her\napparent unconcern and in her imperturbable tranquillity, so that Jean\nValjean arrived at the following conclusion:  That ninny is madly in\nlove with Cosette, but Cosette does not even know that he exists. \n\n\nNonetheless did he bear in his heart a mournful tremor. The minute when\nCosette would love might strike at any moment. Does not everything\nbegin with indifference?\n\nOnly once did Cosette make a mistake and alarm him. He rose from his\nseat to depart, after a stay of three hours, and she said:  What,\nalready? \n\n\nJean Valjean had not discontinued his trips to the Luxembourg, as he\ndid not wish to do anything out of the way, and as, above all things,\nhe feared to arouse Cosette; but during the hours which were so sweet\nto the lovers, while Cosette was sending her smile to the intoxicated\nMarius, who perceived nothing else now, and who now saw nothing in all\nthe world but an adored and radiant face, Jean Valjean was fixing on\nMarius flashing and terrible eyes. He, who had finally come to believe\nhimself incapable of a malevolent feeling, experienced moments when\nMarius was present, in which he thought he was becoming savage and\nferocious once more, and he felt the old depths of his soul, which had\nformerly contained so much wrath, opening once more and rising up\nagainst that young man. It almost seemed to him that unknown craters\nwere forming in his bosom.\n\nWhat! he was there, that creature! What was he there for? He came\ncreeping about, smelling out, examining, trying! He came, saying:  Hey!\nWhy not?  He came to prowl about his, Jean Valjean s, life! to prowl\nabout his happiness, with the purpose of seizing it and bearing it\naway!\n\nJean Valjean added:  Yes, that s it! What is he in search of? An\nadventure! What does he want? A love affair! A love affair! And I?\nWhat! I have been first, the most wretched of men, and then the most\nunhappy, and I have traversed sixty years of life on my knees, I have\nsuffered everything that man can suffer, I have grown old without\nhaving been young, I have lived without a family, without relatives,\nwithout friends, without life, without children, I have left my blood\non every stone, on every bramble, on every mile-post, along every wall,\nI have been gentle, though others have been hard to me, and kind,\nalthough others have been malicious, I have become an honest man once\nmore, in spite of everything, I have repented of the evil that I have\ndone and have forgiven the evil that has been done to me, and at the\nmoment when I receive my recompense, at the moment when it is all over,\nat the moment when I am just touching the goal, at the moment when I\nhave what I desire, it is well, it is good, I have paid, I have earned\nit, all this is to take flight, all this will vanish, and I shall lose\nCosette, and I shall lose my life, my joy, my soul, because it has\npleased a great booby to come and lounge at the Luxembourg. \n\n\nThen his eyes were filled with a sad and extraordinary gleam.\n\nIt was no longer a man gazing at a man; it was no longer an enemy\nsurveying an enemy. It was a dog scanning a thief.\n\nThe reader knows the rest. Marius pursued his senseless course. One day\nhe followed Cosette to the Rue de l Ouest. Another day he spoke to the\nporter. The porter, on his side, spoke, and said to Jean Valjean:\n Monsieur, who is that curious young man who is asking for you?  On the\nmorrow Jean Valjean bestowed on Marius that glance which Marius at last\nperceived. A week later, Jean Valjean had taken his departure. He swore\nto himself that he would never again set foot either in the Luxembourg\nor in the Rue de l Ouest. He returned to the Rue Plumet.\n\nCosette did not complain, she said nothing, she asked no questions, she\ndid not seek to learn his reasons; she had already reached the point\nwhere she was afraid of being divined, and of betraying herself. Jean\nValjean had no experience of these miseries, the only miseries which\nare charming and the only ones with which he was not acquainted; the\nconsequence was that he did not understand the grave significance of\nCosette s silence.\n\nHe merely noticed that she had grown sad, and he grew gloomy. On his\nside and on hers, inexperience had joined issue.\n\nOnce he made a trial. He asked Cosette: \n\n Would you like to come to the Luxembourg? \n\n\nA ray illuminated Cosette s pale face.\n\n Yes,  said she.\n\nThey went thither. Three months had elapsed. Marius no longer went\nthere. Marius was not there.\n\nOn the following day, Jean Valjean asked Cosette again: \n\n Would you like to come to the Luxembourg? \n\n\nShe replied, sadly and gently: \n\n No. \n\n\nJean Valjean was hurt by this sadness, and heart-broken at this\ngentleness.\n\nWhat was going on in that mind which was so young and yet already so\nimpenetrable? What was on its way there within? What was taking place\nin Cosette s soul? Sometimes, instead of going to bed, Jean Valjean\nremained seated on his pallet, with his head in his hands, and he\npassed whole nights asking himself:  What has Cosette in her mind?  and\nin thinking of the things that she might be thinking about.\n\nOh! at such moments, what mournful glances did he cast towards that\ncloister, that chaste peak, that abode of angels, that inaccessible\nglacier of virtue! How he contemplated, with despairing ecstasy, that\nconvent garden, full of ignored flowers and cloistered virgins, where\nall perfumes and all souls mount straight to heaven! How he adored that\nEden forever closed against him, whence he had voluntarily and madly\nemerged! How he regretted his abnegation and his folly in having\nbrought Cosette back into the world, poor hero of sacrifice, seized and\nhurled to the earth by his very self-devotion! How he said to himself,\n What have I done? \n\n\nHowever, nothing of all this was perceptible to Cosette. No ill-temper,\nno harshness. His face was always serene and kind. Jean Valjean s\nmanners were more tender and more paternal than ever. If anything could\nhave betrayed his lack of joy, it was his increased suavity.\n\nOn her side, Cosette languished. She suffered from the absence of\nMarius as she had rejoiced in his presence, peculiarly, without exactly\nbeing conscious of it. When Jean Valjean ceased to take her on their\ncustomary strolls, a feminine instinct murmured confusedly, at the\nbottom of her heart, that she must not seem to set store on the\nLuxembourg garden, and that if this proved to be a matter of\nindifference to her, her father would take her thither once more. But\ndays, weeks, months, elapsed. Jean Valjean had tacitly accepted\nCosette s tacit consent. She regretted it. It was too late. So Marius\nhad disappeared; all was over. The day on which she returned to the\nLuxembourg, Marius was no longer there. What was to be done? Should she\never find him again? She felt an anguish at her heart, which nothing\nrelieved, and which augmented every day; she no longer knew whether it\nwas winter or summer, whether it was raining or shining, whether the\nbirds were singing, whether it was the season for dahlias or daisies,\nwhether the Luxembourg was more charming than the Tuileries, whether\nthe linen which the laundress brought home was starched too much or not\nenough, whether Toussaint had done  her marketing  well or ill; and she\nremained dejected, absorbed, attentive to but a single thought, her\neyes vague and staring as when one gazes by night at a black and\nfathomless spot where an apparition has vanished.\n\nHowever, she did not allow Jean Valjean to perceive anything of this,\nexcept her pallor.\n\nShe still wore her sweet face for him.\n\nThis pallor sufficed but too thoroughly to trouble Jean Valjean.\nSometimes he asked her: \n\n What is the matter with you? \n\n\nShe replied:  There is nothing the matter with me. \n\n\nAnd after a silence, when she divined that he was sad also, she would\nadd: \n\n And you, father is there anything wrong with you? \n\n\n With me? Nothing,  said he.\n\nThese two beings who had loved each other so exclusively, and with so\ntouching an affection, and who had lived so long for each other now\nsuffered side by side, each on the other s account; without\nacknowledging it to each other, without anger towards each other, and\nwith a smile.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE CHAIN-GANG\n\n\nJean Valjean was the more unhappy of the two. Youth, even in its\nsorrows, always possesses its own peculiar radiance.\n\nAt times, Jean Valjean suffered so greatly that he became puerile. It\nis the property of grief to cause the childish side of man to reappear.\nHe had an unconquerable conviction that Cosette was escaping from him.\nHe would have liked to resist, to retain her, to arouse her enthusiasm\nby some external and brilliant matter. These ideas, puerile, as we have\njust said, and at the same time senile, conveyed to him, by their very\nchildishness, a tolerably just notion of the influence of gold lace on\nthe imaginations of young girls. He once chanced to see a general on\nhorseback, in full uniform, pass along the street, Comte Coutard, the\ncommandant of Paris. He envied that gilded man; what happiness it would\nbe, he said to himself, if he could put on that suit which was an\nincontestable thing; and if Cosette could behold him thus, she would be\ndazzled, and when he had Cosette on his arm and passed the gates of the\nTuileries, the guard would present arms to him, and that would suffice\nfor Cosette, and would dispel her idea of looking at young men.\n\nAn unforeseen shock was added to these sad reflections.\n\nIn the isolated life which they led, and since they had come to dwell\nin the Rue Plumet, they had contracted one habit. They sometimes took a\npleasure trip to see the sun rise, a mild species of enjoyment which\nbefits those who are entering life and those who are quitting it.\n\nFor those who love solitude, a walk in the early morning is equivalent\nto a stroll by night, with the cheerfulness of nature added. The\nstreets are deserted and the birds are singing. Cosette, a bird\nherself, liked to rise early. These matutinal excursions were planned\non the preceding evening. He proposed, and she agreed. It was arranged\nlike a plot, they set out before daybreak, and these trips were so many\nsmall delights for Cosette. These innocent eccentricities please young\npeople.\n\nJean Valjean s inclination led him, as we have seen, to the least\nfrequented spots, to solitary nooks, to forgotten places. There then\nexisted, in the vicinity of the barriers of Paris, a sort of poor\nmeadows, which were almost confounded with the city, where grew in\nsummer sickly grain, and which, in autumn, after the harvest had been\ngathered, presented the appearance, not of having been reaped, but\npeeled. Jean Valjean loved to haunt these fields. Cosette was not bored\nthere. It meant solitude to him and liberty to her. There, she became a\nlittle girl once more, she could run and almost play; she took off her\nhat, laid it on Jean Valjean s knees, and gathered bunches of flowers.\nShe gazed at the butterflies on the flowers, but did not catch them;\ngentleness and tenderness are born with love, and the young girl who\ncherishes within her breast a trembling and fragile ideal has mercy on\nthe wing of a butterfly. She wove garlands of poppies, which she placed\non her head, and which, crossed and penetrated with sunlight, glowing\nuntil they flamed, formed for her rosy face a crown of burning embers.\n\nEven after their life had grown sad, they kept up their custom of early\nstrolls.\n\nOne morning in October, therefore, tempted by the serene perfection of\nthe autumn of 1831, they set out, and found themselves at break of day\nnear the Barri re du Maine. It was not dawn, it was daybreak; a\ndelightful and stern moment. A few constellations here and there in the\ndeep, pale azure, the earth all black, the heavens all white, a quiver\namid the blades of grass, everywhere the mysterious chill of twilight.\nA lark, which seemed mingled with the stars, was carolling at a\nprodigious height, and one would have declared that that hymn of\npettiness calmed immensity. In the East, the Val-de-Gr ce projected its\ndark mass on the clear horizon with the sharpness of steel; Venus\ndazzlingly brilliant was rising behind that dome and had the air of a\nsoul making its escape from a gloomy edifice.\n\nAll was peace and silence; there was no one on the road; a few stray\nlaborers, of whom they caught barely a glimpse, were on their way to\ntheir work along the side-paths.\n\nJean Valjean was sitting in a cross-walk on some planks deposited at\nthe gate of a timber-yard. His face was turned towards the highway, his\nback towards the light; he had forgotten the sun which was on the point\nof rising; he had sunk into one of those profound absorptions in which\nthe mind becomes concentrated, which imprison even the eye, and which\nare equivalent to four walls. There are meditations which may be called\nvertical; when one is at the bottom of them, time is required to return\nto earth. Jean Valjean had plunged into one of these reveries. He was\nthinking of Cosette, of the happiness that was possible if nothing came\nbetween him and her, of the light with which she filled his life, a\nlight which was but the emanation of her soul. He was almost happy in\nhis reverie. Cosette, who was standing beside him, was gazing at the\nclouds as they turned rosy.\n\nAll at once Cosette exclaimed:  Father, I should think some one was\ncoming yonder.  Jean Valjean raised his eyes.\n\nCosette was right. The causeway which leads to the ancient Barri re du\nMaine is a prolongation, as the reader knows, of the Rue de S vres, and\nis cut at right angles by the inner boulevard. At the elbow of the\ncauseway and the boulevard, at the spot where it branches, they heard a\nnoise which it was difficult to account for at that hour, and a sort of\nconfused pile made its appearance. Some shapeless thing which was\ncoming from the boulevard was turning into the road.\n\nIt grew larger, it seemed to move in an orderly manner, though it was\nbristling and quivering; it seemed to be a vehicle, but its load could\nnot be distinctly made out. There were horses, wheels, shouts; whips\nwere cracking. By degrees the outlines became fixed, although bathed in\nshadows. It was a vehicle, in fact, which had just turned from the\nboulevard into the highway, and which was directing its course towards\nthe barrier near which sat Jean Valjean; a second, of the same aspect,\nfollowed, then a third, then a fourth; seven chariots made their\nappearance in succession, the heads of the horses touching the rear of\nthe wagon in front. Figures were moving on these vehicles, flashes were\nvisible through the dusk as though there were naked swords there, a\nclanking became audible which resembled the rattling of chains, and as\nthis something advanced, the sound of voices waxed louder, and it\nturned into a terrible thing such as emerges from the cave of dreams.\n\nAs it drew nearer, it assumed a form, and was outlined behind the trees\nwith the pallid hue of an apparition; the mass grew white; the day,\nwhich was slowly dawning, cast a wan light on this swarming heap which\nwas at once both sepulchral and living, the heads of the figures turned\ninto the faces of corpses, and this is what it proved to be: \n\nSeven wagons were driving in a file along the road. The first six were\nsingularly constructed. They resembled coopers  drays; they consisted\nof long ladders placed on two wheels and forming barrows at their rear\nextremities. Each dray, or rather let us say, each ladder, was attached\nto four horses harnessed tandem. On these ladders strange clusters of\nmen were being drawn. In the faint light, these men were to be divined\nrather than seen. Twenty-four on each vehicle, twelve on a side, back\nto back, facing the passers-by, their legs dangling in the air, this\nwas the manner in which these men were travelling, and behind their\nbacks they had something which clanked, and which was a chain, and on\ntheir necks something which shone, and which was an iron collar. Each\nman had his collar, but the chain was for all; so that if these four\nand twenty men had occasion to alight from the dray and walk, they were\nseized with a sort of inexorable unity, and were obliged to wind over\nthe ground with the chain for a backbone, somewhat after the fashion of\nmillepeds. In the back and front of each vehicle, two men armed with\nmuskets stood erect, each holding one end of the chain under his foot.\nThe iron necklets were square. The seventh vehicle, a huge rack-sided\nbaggage wagon, without a hood, had four wheels and six horses, and\ncarried a sonorous pile of iron boilers, cast-iron pots, braziers, and\nchains, among which were mingled several men who were pinioned and\nstretched at full length, and who seemed to be ill. This wagon, all\nlattice-work, was garnished with dilapidated hurdles which appeared to\nhave served for former punishments. These vehicles kept to the middle\nof the road. On each side marched a double hedge of guards of infamous\naspect, wearing three-cornered hats, like the soldiers under the\nDirectory, shabby, covered with spots and holes, muffled in uniforms of\nveterans and the trousers of undertakers  men, half gray, half blue,\nwhich were almost hanging in rags, with red epaulets, yellow shoulder\nbelts, short sabres, muskets, and cudgels; they were a species of\nsoldier-blackguards. These myrmidons seemed composed of the abjectness\nof the beggar and the authority of the executioner. The one who\nappeared to be their chief held a postilion s whip in his hand. All\nthese details, blurred by the dimness of dawn, became more and more\nclearly outlined as the light increased. At the head and in the rear of\nthe convoy rode mounted gendarmes, serious and with sword in fist.\n\nThis procession was so long that when the first vehicle reached the\nbarrier, the last was barely debauching from the boulevard. A throng,\nsprung, it is impossible to say whence, and formed in a twinkling, as\nis frequently the case in Paris, pressed forward from both sides of the\nroad and looked on. In the neighboring lanes the shouts of people\ncalling to each other and the wooden shoes of market-gardeners\nhastening up to gaze were audible.\n\nThe men massed upon the drays allowed themselves to be jolted along in\nsilence. They were livid with the chill of morning. They all wore linen\ntrousers, and their bare feet were thrust into wooden shoes. The rest\nof their costume was a fantasy of wretchedness. Their accoutrements\nwere horribly incongruous; nothing is more funereal than the harlequin\nin rags. Battered felt hats, tarpaulin caps, hideous woollen nightcaps,\nand, side by side with a short blouse, a black coat broken at the\nelbow; many wore women s headgear, others had baskets on their heads;\nhairy breasts were visible, and through the rent in their garments\ntattooed designs could be descried; temples of Love, flaming hearts,\nCupids; eruptions and unhealthy red blotches could also be seen. Two or\nthree had a straw rope attached to the cross-bar of the dray, and\nsuspended under them like a stirrup, which supported their feet. One of\nthem held in his hand and raised to his mouth something which had the\nappearance of a black stone and which he seemed to be gnawing; it was\nbread which he was eating. There were no eyes there which were not\neither dry, dulled, or flaming with an evil light. The escort troop\ncursed, the men in chains did not utter a syllable; from time to time\nthe sound of a blow became audible as the cudgels descended on\nshoulder-blades or skulls; some of these men were yawning; their rags\nwere terrible; their feet hung down, their shoulders oscillated, their\nheads clashed together, their fetters clanked, their eyes glared\nferociously, their fists clenched or fell open inertly like the hands\nof corpses; in the rear of the convoy ran a band of children screaming\nwith laughter.\n\nThis file of vehicles, whatever its nature was, was mournful. It was\nevident that to-morrow, that an hour hence, a pouring rain might\ndescend, that it might be followed by another and another, and that\ntheir dilapidated garments would be drenched, that once soaked, these\nmen would not get dry again, that once chilled, they would not again\nget warm, that their linen trousers would be glued to their bones by\nthe downpour, that the water would fill their shoes, that no lashes\nfrom the whips would be able to prevent their jaws from chattering,\nthat the chain would continue to bind them by the neck, that their legs\nwould continue to dangle, and it was impossible not to shudder at the\nsight of these human beings thus bound and passive beneath the cold\nclouds of autumn, and delivered over to the rain, to the blast, to all\nthe furies of the air, like trees and stones.\n\nBlows from the cudgel were not omitted even in the case of the sick\nmen, who lay there knotted with ropes and motionless on the seventh\nwagon, and who appeared to have been tossed there like sacks filled\nwith misery.\n\nSuddenly, the sun made its appearance; the immense light of the Orient\nburst forth, and one would have said that it had set fire to all those\nferocious heads. Their tongues were unloosed; a conflagration of grins,\noaths, and songs exploded. The broad horizontal sheet of light severed\nthe file in two parts, illuminating heads and bodies, leaving feet and\nwheels in the obscurity. Thoughts made their appearance on these faces;\nit was a terrible moment; visible demons with their masks removed,\nfierce souls laid bare. Though lighted up, this wild throng remained in\ngloom. Some, who were gay, had in their mouths quills through which\nthey blew vermin over the crowd, picking out the women; the dawn\naccentuated these lamentable profiles with the blackness of its\nshadows; there was not one of these creatures who was not deformed by\nreason of wretchedness; and the whole was so monstrous that one would\nhave said that the sun s brilliancy had been changed into the glare of\nthe lightning. The wagon-load which headed the line had struck up a\nsong, and were shouting at the top of their voices with a haggard\njoviality, a pot-pourri by Desaugiers, then famous, called _The\nVestal_; the trees shivered mournfully; in the cross-lanes,\ncountenances of bourgeois listened in an idiotic delight to these\ncoarse strains droned by spectres.\n\nAll sorts of distress met in this procession as in chaos; here were to\nbe found the facial angles of every sort of beast, old men, youths,\nbald heads, gray beards, cynical monstrosities, sour resignation,\nsavage grins, senseless attitudes, snouts surmounted by caps, heads\nlike those of young girls with corkscrew curls on the temples,\ninfantile visages, and by reason of that, horrible thin skeleton faces,\nto which death alone was lacking. On the first cart was a negro, who\nhad been a slave, in all probability, and who could make a comparison\nof his chains. The frightful leveller from below, shame, had passed\nover these brows; at that degree of abasement, the last transformations\nwere suffered by all in their extremest depths, and ignorance,\nconverted into dulness, was the equal of intelligence converted into\ndespair. There was no choice possible between these men who appeared to\nthe eye as the flower of the mud. It was evident that the person who\nhad had the ordering of that unclean procession had not classified\nthem. These beings had been fettered and coupled pell-mell, in\nalphabetical disorder, probably, and loaded hap-hazard on those carts.\nNevertheless, horrors, when grouped together, always end by evolving a\nresult; all additions of wretched men give a sum total, each chain\nexhaled a common soul, and each dray-load had its own physiognomy. By\nthe side of the one where they were singing, there was one where they\nwere howling; a third where they were begging; one could be seen in\nwhich they were gnashing their teeth; another load menaced the\nspectators, another blasphemed God; the last was as silent as the tomb.\nDante would have thought that he beheld his seven circles of hell on\nthe march. The march of the damned to their tortures, performed in\nsinister wise, not on the formidable and flaming chariot of the\nApocalypse, but, what was more mournful than that, on the gibbet cart.\n\nOne of the guards, who had a hook on the end of his cudgel, made a\npretence from time to time, of stirring up this mass of human filth. An\nold woman in the crowd pointed them out to her little boy five years\nold, and said to him:  Rascal, let that be a warning to you! \n\n\nAs the songs and blasphemies increased, the man who appeared to be the\ncaptain of the escort cracked his whip, and at that signal a fearful\ndull and blind flogging, which produced the sound of hail, fell upon\nthe seven dray-loads; many roared and foamed at the mouth; which\nredoubled the delight of the street urchins who had hastened up, a\nswarm of flies on these wounds.\n\nJean Valjean s eyes had assumed a frightful expression. They were no\nlonger eyes; they were those deep and glassy objects which replace the\nglance in the case of certain wretched men, which seem unconscious of\nreality, and in which flames the reflection of terrors and of\ncatastrophes. He was not looking at a spectacle, he was seeing a\nvision. He tried to rise, to flee, to make his escape; he could not\nmove his feet. Sometimes, the things that you see seize upon you and\nhold you fast. He remained nailed to the spot, petrified, stupid,\nasking himself, athwart confused and inexpressible anguish, what this\nsepulchral persecution signified, and whence had come that pandemonium\nwhich was pursuing him. All at once, he raised his hand to his brow, a\ngesture habitual to those whose memory suddenly returns; he remembered\nthat this was, in fact, the usual itinerary, that it was customary to\nmake this detour in order to avoid all possibility of encountering\nroyalty on the road to Fontainebleau, and that, five and thirty years\nbefore, he had himself passed through that barrier.\n\nCosette was no less terrified, but in a different way. She did not\nunderstand; what she beheld did not seem to her to be possible; at\nlength she cried: \n\n Father! What are those men in those carts? \n\n\nJean Valjean replied:  Convicts. \n\n\n Whither are they going? \n\n\n To the galleys. \n\n\nAt that moment, the cudgelling, multiplied by a hundred hands, became\nzealous, blows with the flat of the sword were mingled with it, it was\na perfect storm of whips and clubs; the convicts bent before it, a\nhideous obedience was evoked by the torture, and all held their peace,\ndarting glances like chained wolves.\n\nCosette trembled in every limb; she resumed: \n\n Father, are they still men? \n\n\n Sometimes,  answered the unhappy man.\n\nIt was the chain-gang, in fact, which had set out before daybreak from\nBic tre, and had taken the road to Mans in order to avoid\nFontainebleau, where the King then was. This caused the horrible\njourney to last three or four days longer; but torture may surely be\nprolonged with the object of sparing the royal personage a sight of it.\n\nJean Valjean returned home utterly overwhelmed. Such encounters are\nshocks, and the memory that they leave behind them resembles a thorough\nshaking up.\n\nNevertheless, Jean Valjean did not observe that, on his way back to the\nRue de Babylone with Cosette, the latter was plying him with other\nquestions on the subject of what they had just seen; perhaps he was too\nmuch absorbed in his own dejection to notice her words and reply to\nthem. But when Cosette was leaving him in the evening, to betake\nherself to bed, he heard her say in a low voice, and as though talking\nto herself:  It seems to me, that if I were to find one of those men in\nmy pathway, oh, my God, I should die merely from the sight of him close\nat hand. \n\n\nFortunately, chance ordained that on the morrow of that tragic day,\nthere was some official solemnity apropos of I know not what, f tes in\nParis, a review in the Champ de Mars, jousts on the Seine, theatrical\nperformances in the Champs- lys es, fireworks at the Arc de l toile,\nilluminations everywhere. Jean Valjean did violence to his habits, and\ntook Cosette to see these rejoicings, for the purpose of diverting her\nfrom the memory of the day before, and of effacing, beneath the smiling\ntumult of all Paris, the abominable thing which had passed before her.\nThe review with which the festival was spiced made the presence of\nuniforms perfectly natural; Jean Valjean donned his uniform of a\nnational guard with the vague inward feeling of a man who is betaking\nhimself to shelter. However, this trip seemed to attain its object.\nCosette, who made it her law to please her father, and to whom,\nmoreover, all spectacles were a novelty, accepted this diversion with\nthe light and easy good grace of youth, and did not pout too\ndisdainfully at that flutter of enjoyment called a public f te; so that\nJean Valjean was able to believe that he had succeeded, and that no\ntrace of that hideous vision remained.\n\nSome days later, one morning, when the sun was shining brightly, and\nthey were both on the steps leading to the garden, another infraction\nof the rules which Jean Valjean seemed to have imposed upon himself,\nand to the custom of remaining in her chamber which melancholy had\ncaused Cosette to adopt, Cosette, in a wrapper, was standing erect in\nthat negligent attire of early morning which envelops young girls in an\nadorable way and which produces the effect of a cloud drawn over a\nstar; and, with her head bathed in light, rosy after a good sleep,\nsubmitting to the gentle glances of the tender old man, she was picking\na daisy to pieces. Cosette did not know the delightful legend, _I love\na little, passionately, etc_. who was there who could have taught her?\nShe was handling the flower instinctively, innocently, without a\nsuspicion that to pluck a daisy apart is to do the same by a heart. If\nthere were a fourth, and smiling Grace called Melancholy, she would\nhave worn the air of that Grace. Jean Valjean was fascinated by the\ncontemplation of those tiny fingers on that flower, and forgetful of\neverything in the radiance emitted by that child. A red-breast was\nwarbling in the thicket, on one side. White cloudlets floated across\nthe sky, so gayly, that one would have said that they had just been set\nat liberty. Cosette went on attentively tearing the leaves from her\nflower; she seemed to be thinking about something; but whatever it was,\nit must be something charming; all at once she turned her head over her\nshoulder with the delicate languor of a swan, and said to Jean Valjean:\n Father, what are the galleys like? \n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FOURTH SUCCOR FROM BELOW MAY TURN OUT TO BE SUCCOR FROM ON HIGH\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I A WOUND WITHOUT, HEALING WITHIN\n\n\nThus their life clouded over by degrees.\n\nBut one diversion, which had formerly been a happiness, remained to\nthem, which was to carry bread to those who were hungry, and clothing\nto those who were cold. Cosette often accompanied Jean Valjean on these\nvisits to the poor, on which they recovered some remnants of their\nformer free intercourse; and sometimes, when the day had been a good\none, and they had assisted many in distress, and cheered and warmed\nmany little children, Cosette was rather merry in the evening. It was\nat this epoch that they paid their visit to the Jondrette den.\n\nOn the day following that visit, Jean Valjean made his appearance in\nthe pavilion in the morning, calm as was his wont, but with a large\nwound on his left arm which was much inflamed, and very angry, which\nresembled a burn, and which he explained in some way or other. This\nwound resulted in his being detained in the house for a month with\nfever. He would not call in a doctor. When Cosette urged him,  Call the\ndog-doctor,  said he.\n\nCosette dressed the wound morning and evening with so divine an air and\nsuch angelic happiness at being of use to him, that Jean Valjean felt\nall his former joy returning, his fears and anxieties dissipating, and\nhe gazed at Cosette, saying:  Oh! what a kindly wound! Oh! what a good\nmisfortune! \n\n\nCosette on perceiving that her father was ill, had deserted the\npavilion and again taken a fancy to the little lodging and the back\ncourtyard. She passed nearly all her days beside Jean Valjean and read\nto him the books which he desired. Generally they were books of travel.\nJean Valjean was undergoing a new birth; his happiness was reviving in\nthese ineffable rays; the Luxembourg, the prowling young stranger,\nCosette s coldness, all these clouds upon his soul were growing dim. He\nhad reached the point where he said to himself:  I imagined all that. I\nam an old fool. \n\n\nHis happiness was so great that the horrible discovery of the\nTh nardiers made in the Jondrette hovel, unexpected as it was, had,\nafter a fashion, glided over him unnoticed. He had succeeded in making\nhis escape; all trace of him was lost what more did he care for! he\nonly thought of those wretched beings to pity them.  Here they are in\nprison, and henceforth they will be incapacitated for doing any harm, \nhe thought,  but what a lamentable family in distress! \n\n\nAs for the hideous vision of the Barri re du Maine, Cosette had not\nreferred to it again.\n\nSister Sainte-Mechtilde had taught Cosette music in the convent;\nCosette had the voice of a linnet with a soul, and sometimes, in the\nevening, in the wounded man s humble abode, she warbled melancholy\nsongs which delighted Jean Valjean.\n\nSpring came; the garden was so delightful at that season of the year,\nthat Jean Valjean said to Cosette: \n\n You never go there; I want you to stroll in it. \n\n\n As you like, father,  said Cosette.\n\nAnd for the sake of obeying her father, she resumed her walks in the\ngarden, generally alone, for, as we have mentioned, Jean Valjean, who\nwas probably afraid of being seen through the fence, hardly ever went\nthere.\n\nJean Valjean s wound had created a diversion.\n\nWhen Cosette saw that her father was suffering less, that he was\nconvalescing, and that he appeared to be happy, she experienced a\ncontentment which she did not even perceive, so gently and naturally\nhad it come. Then, it was in the month of March, the days were growing\nlonger, the winter was departing, the winter always bears away with it\na portion of our sadness; then came April, that daybreak of summer,\nfresh as dawn always is, gay like every childhood; a little inclined to\nweep at times like the new-born being that it is. In that month, nature\nhas charming gleams which pass from the sky, from the trees, from the\nmeadows and the flowers into the heart of man.\n\nCosette was still too young to escape the penetrating influence of that\nApril joy which bore so strong a resemblance to herself. Insensibly,\nand without her suspecting the fact, the blackness departed from her\nspirit. In spring, sad souls grow light, as light falls into cellars at\nmidday. Cosette was no longer sad. However, though this was so, she did\nnot account for it to herself. In the morning, about ten o clock, after\nbreakfast, when she had succeeded in enticing her father into the\ngarden for a quarter of an hour, and when she was pacing up and down in\nthe sunlight in front of the steps, supporting his left arm for him,\nshe did not perceive that she laughed every moment and that she was\nhappy.\n\nJean Valjean, intoxicated, beheld her growing fresh and rosy once more.\n\n Oh! What a good wound!  he repeated in a whisper.\n\nAnd he felt grateful to the Th nardiers.\n\nHis wound once healed, he resumed his solitary twilight strolls.\n\nIt is a mistake to suppose that a person can stroll alone in that\nfashion in the uninhabited regions of Paris without meeting with some\nadventure.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II MOTHER PLUTARQUE FINDS NO DIFFICULTY IN EXPLAINING A\nPHENOMENON\n\n\nOne evening, little Gavroche had had nothing to eat; he remembered that\nhe had not dined on the preceding day either; this was becoming\ntiresome. He resolved to make an effort to secure some supper. He\nstrolled out beyond the Salp tri re into deserted regions; that is\nwhere windfalls are to be found; where there is no one, one always\nfinds something. He reached a settlement which appeared to him to be\nthe village of Austerlitz.\n\nIn one of his preceding lounges he had noticed there an old garden\nhaunted by an old man and an old woman, and in that garden, a passable\napple-tree. Beside the apple-tree stood a sort of fruit-house, which\nwas not securely fastened, and where one might contrive to get an\napple. One apple is a supper; one apple is life. That which was Adam s\nruin might prove Gavroche s salvation. The garden abutted on a\nsolitary, unpaved lane, bordered with brushwood while awaiting the\narrival of houses; the garden was separated from it by a hedge.\n\nGavroche directed his steps towards this garden; he found the lane, he\nrecognized the apple-tree, he verified the fruit-house, he examined the\nhedge; a hedge means merely one stride. The day was declining, there\nwas not even a cat in the lane, the hour was propitious. Gavroche began\nthe operation of scaling the hedge, then suddenly paused. Some one was\ntalking in the garden. Gavroche peeped through one of the breaks in the\nhedge.\n\n[Illustration: Succor from Below]\n\nA couple of paces distant, at the foot of the hedge on the other side,\nexactly at the point where the gap which he was meditating would have\nbeen made, there was a sort of recumbent stone which formed a bench,\nand on this bench was seated the old man of the garden, while the old\nwoman was standing in front of him. The old woman was grumbling.\nGavroche, who was not very discreet, listened.\n\n Monsieur Mabeuf!  said the old woman.\n\n Mabeuf!  thought Gavroche,  that name is a perfect farce. \n\n\nThe old man who was thus addressed, did not stir. The old woman\nrepeated: \n\n Monsieur Mabeuf! \n\n\nThe old man, without raising his eyes from the ground, made up his mind\nto answer: \n\n What is it, Mother Plutarque? \n\n\n Mother Plutarque!  thought Gavroche,  another farcical name. \n\n\nMother Plutarque began again, and the old man was forced to accept the\nconversation: \n\n The landlord is not pleased. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n We owe three quarters rent. \n\n\n In three months, we shall owe him for four quarters. \n\n\n He says that he will turn you out to sleep. \n\n\n I will go. \n\n\n The green-grocer insists on being paid. She will no longer leave her\nfagots. What will you warm yourself with this winter? We shall have no\nwood. \n\n\n There is the sun. \n\n\n The butcher refuses to give credit; he will not let us have any more\nmeat. \n\n\n That is quite right. I do not digest meat well. It is too heavy. \n\n\n What shall we have for dinner? \n\n\n Bread. \n\n\n The baker demands a settlement, and says,  no money, no bread. \n\n\n That is well. \n\n\n What will you eat? \n\n\n We have apples in the apple-room. \n\n\n But, Monsieur, we can t live like that without money. \n\n\n I have none. \n\n\nThe old woman went away, the old man remained alone. He fell into\nthought. Gavroche became thoughtful also. It was almost dark.\n\nThe first result of Gavroche s meditation was, that instead of scaling\nthe hedge, he crouched down under it. The branches stood apart a little\nat the foot of the thicket.\n\n Come,  exclaimed Gavroche mentally,  here s a nook!  and he curled up\nin it. His back was almost in contact with Father Mabeuf s bench. He\ncould hear the octogenarian breathe.\n\nThen, by way of dinner, he tried to sleep.\n\nIt was a cat-nap, with one eye open. While he dozed, Gavroche kept on\nthe watch.\n\nThe twilight pallor of the sky blanched the earth, and the lane formed\na livid line between two rows of dark bushes.\n\nAll at once, in this whitish band, two figures made their appearance.\nOne was in front, the other some distance in the rear.\n\n There come two creatures,  muttered Gavroche.\n\nThe first form seemed to be some elderly bourgeois, who was bent and\nthoughtful, dressed more than plainly, and who was walking slowly\nbecause of his age, and strolling about in the open evening air.\n\nThe second was straight, firm, slender. It regulated its pace by that\nof the first; but in the voluntary slowness of its gait, suppleness and\nagility were discernible. This figure had also something fierce and\ndisquieting about it, the whole shape was that of what was then called\n_an elegant_; the hat was of good shape, the coat black, well cut,\nprobably of fine cloth, and well fitted in at the waist. The head was\nheld erect with a sort of robust grace, and beneath the hat the pale\nprofile of a young man could be made out in the dim light. The profile\nhad a rose in its mouth. This second form was well known to Gavroche;\nit was Montparnasse.\n\nHe could have told nothing about the other, except that he was a\nrespectable old man.\n\nGavroche immediately began to take observations.\n\nOne of these two pedestrians evidently had a project connected with the\nother. Gavroche was well placed to watch the course of events. The\nbedroom had turned into a hiding-place at a very opportune moment.\n\nMontparnasse on the hunt at such an hour, in such a place, betokened\nsomething threatening. Gavroche felt his gamin s heart moved with\ncompassion for the old man.\n\nWhat was he to do? Interfere? One weakness coming to the aid of\nanother! It would be merely a laughing matter for Montparnasse.\nGavroche did not shut his eyes to the fact that the old man, in the\nfirst place, and the child in the second, would make but two mouthfuls\nfor that redoubtable ruffian eighteen years of age.\n\nWhile Gavroche was deliberating, the attack took place, abruptly and\nhideously. The attack of the tiger on the wild ass, the attack of the\nspider on the fly. Montparnasse suddenly tossed away his rose, bounded\nupon the old man, seized him by the collar, grasped and clung to him,\nand Gavroche with difficulty restrained a scream. A moment later one of\nthese men was underneath the other, groaning, struggling, with a knee\nof marble upon his breast. Only, it was not just what Gavroche had\nexpected. The one who lay on the earth was Montparnasse; the one who\nwas on top was the old man. All this took place a few paces distant\nfrom Gavroche.\n\nThe old man had received the shock, had returned it, and that in such a\nterrible fashion, that in a twinkling, the assailant and the assailed\nhad exchanged r les.\n\n Here s a hearty veteran!  thought Gavroche.\n\nHe could not refrain from clapping his hands. But it was applause\nwasted. It did not reach the combatants, absorbed and deafened as they\nwere, each by the other, as their breath mingled in the struggle.\n\nSilence ensued. Montparnasse ceased his struggles. Gavroche indulged in\nthis aside:  Can he be dead! \n\n\nThe goodman had not uttered a word, nor given vent to a cry. He rose to\nhis feet, and Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse: \n\n Get up. \n\n\nMontparnasse rose, but the goodman held him fast. Montparnasse s\nattitude was the humiliated and furious attitude of the wolf who has\nbeen caught by a sheep.\n\nGavroche looked on and listened, making an effort to reinforce his eyes\nwith his ears. He was enjoying himself immensely.\n\nHe was repaid for his conscientious anxiety in the character of a\nspectator. He was able to catch on the wing a dialogue which borrowed\nfrom the darkness an indescribably tragic accent. The goodman\nquestioned, Montparnasse replied.\n\n How old are you? \n\n\n Nineteen. \n\n\n You are strong and healthy. Why do you not work? \n\n\n It bores me. \n\n\n What is your trade? \n\n\n An idler. \n\n\n Speak seriously. Can anything be done for you? What would you like to\nbe? \n\n\n A thief. \n\n\nA pause ensued. The old man seemed absorbed in profound thought. He\nstood motionless, and did not relax his hold on Montparnasse.\n\nEvery moment the vigorous and agile young ruffian indulged in the\ntwitchings of a wild beast caught in a snare. He gave a jerk, tried a\ncrook of the knee, twisted his limbs desperately, and made efforts to\nescape.\n\nThe old man did not appear to notice it, and held both his arms with\none hand, with the sovereign indifference of absolute force.\n\nThe old man s reverie lasted for some time, then, looking steadily at\nMontparnasse, he addressed to him in a gentle voice, in the midst of\nthe darkness where they stood, a solemn harangue, of which Gavroche did\nnot lose a single syllable: \n\n My child, you are entering, through indolence, on one of the most\nlaborious of lives. Ah! You declare yourself to be an idler! prepare to\ntoil. There is a certain formidable machine, have you seen it? It is\nthe rolling-mill. You must be on your guard against it, it is crafty\nand ferocious; if it catches hold of the skirt of your coat, you will\nbe drawn in bodily. That machine is laziness. Stop while there is yet\ntime, and save yourself! Otherwise, it is all over with you; in a short\ntime you will be among the gearing. Once entangled, hope for nothing\nmore. Toil, lazybones! there is no more repose for you! The iron hand\nof implacable toil has seized you. You do not wish to earn your living,\nto have a task, to fulfil a duty! It bores you to be like other men?\nWell! You will be different. Labor is the law; he who rejects it will\nfind ennui his torment. You do not wish to be a workingman, you will be\na slave. Toil lets go of you on one side only to grasp you again on the\nother. You do not desire to be its friend, you shall be its negro\nslave. Ah! You would have none of the honest weariness of men, you\nshall have the sweat of the damned. Where others sing, you will rattle\nin your throat. You will see afar off, from below, other men at work;\nit will seem to you that they are resting. The laborer, the harvester,\nthe sailor, the blacksmith, will appear to you in glory like the\nblessed spirits in paradise. What radiance surrounds the forge! To\nguide the plough, to bind the sheaves, is joy. The bark at liberty in\nthe wind, what delight! Do you, lazy idler, delve, drag on, roll,\nmarch! Drag your halter. You are a beast of burden in the team of hell!\nAh! To do nothing is your object. Well, not a week, not a day, not an\nhour shall you have free from oppression. You will be able to lift\nnothing without anguish. Every minute that passes will make your\nmuscles crack. What is a feather to others will be a rock to you. The\nsimplest things will become steep acclivities. Life will become\nmonstrous all about you. To go, to come, to breathe, will be just so\nmany terrible labors. Your lungs will produce on you the effect of\nweighing a hundred pounds. Whether you shall walk here rather than\nthere, will become a problem that must be solved. Any one who wants to\ngo out simply gives his door a push, and there he is in the open air.\nIf you wish to go out, you will be obliged to pierce your wall. What\ndoes every one who wants to step into the street do? He goes\ndownstairs; you will tear up your sheets, little by little you will\nmake of them a rope, then you will climb out of your window, and you\nwill suspend yourself by that thread over an abyss, and it will be\nnight, amid storm, rain, and the hurricane, and if the rope is too\nshort, but one way of descending will remain to you, to fall. To drop\nhap-hazard into the gulf, from an unknown height, on what? On what is\nbeneath, on the unknown. Or you will crawl up a chimney-flue, at the\nrisk of burning; or you will creep through a sewer-pipe, at the risk of\ndrowning; I do not speak of the holes that you will be obliged to mask,\nof the stones which you will have to take up and replace twenty times a\nday, of the plaster that you will have to hide in your straw pallet. A\nlock presents itself; the bourgeois has in his pocket a key made by a\nlocksmith. If you wish to pass out, you will be condemned to execute a\nterrible work of art; you will take a large sou, you will cut it in two\nplates; with what tools? You will have to invent them. That is your\nbusiness. Then you will hollow out the interior of these plates, taking\ngreat care of the outside, and you will make on the edges a thread, so\nthat they can be adjusted one upon the other like a box and its cover.\nThe top and bottom thus screwed together, nothing will be suspected. To\nthe overseers it will be only a sou; to you it will be a box. What will\nyou put in this box? A small bit of steel. A watch-spring, in which you\nwill have cut teeth, and which will form a saw. With this saw, as long\nas a pin, and concealed in a sou, you will cut the bolt of the lock,\nyou will sever bolts, the padlock of your chain, and the bar at your\nwindow, and the fetter on your leg. This masterpiece finished, this\nprodigy accomplished, all these miracles of art, address, skill, and\npatience executed, what will be your recompense if it becomes known\nthat you are the author? The dungeon. There is your future. What\nprecipices are idleness and pleasure! Do you know that to do nothing is\na melancholy resolution? To live in idleness on the property of\nsociety! to be useless, that is to say, pernicious! This leads straight\nto the depth of wretchedness. Woe to the man who desires to be a\nparasite! He will become vermin! Ah! So it does not please you to work?\nAh! You have but one thought, to drink well, to eat well, to sleep\nwell. You will drink water, you will eat black bread, you will sleep on\na plank with a fetter whose cold touch you will feel on your flesh all\nnight long, riveted to your limbs. You will break those fetters, you\nwill flee. That is well. You will crawl on your belly through the\nbrushwood, and you will eat grass like the beasts of the forest. And\nyou will be recaptured. And then you will pass years in a dungeon,\nriveted to a wall, groping for your jug that you may drink, gnawing at\na horrible loaf of darkness which dogs would not touch, eating beans\nthat the worms have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in a\ncellar. Ah! Have pity on yourself, you miserable young child, who were\nsucking at nurse less than twenty years ago, and who have, no doubt, a\nmother still alive! I conjure you, listen to me, I entreat you. You\ndesire fine black cloth, varnished shoes, to have your hair curled and\nsweet-smelling oils on your locks, to please low women, to be handsome.\nYou will be shaven clean, and you will wear a red blouse and wooden\nshoes. You want rings on your fingers, you will have an iron necklet on\nyour neck. If you glance at a woman, you will receive a blow. And you\nwill enter there at the age of twenty. And you will come out at fifty!\nYou will enter young, rosy, fresh, with brilliant eyes, and all your\nwhite teeth, and your handsome, youthful hair; you will come out\nbroken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, with white locks! Ah! my\npoor child, you are on the wrong road; idleness is counselling you\nbadly; the hardest of all work is thieving. Believe me, do not\nundertake that painful profession of an idle man. It is not comfortable\nto become a rascal. It is less disagreeable to be an honest man. Now\ngo, and ponder on what I have said to you. By the way, what did you\nwant of me? My purse? Here it is. \n\n\nAnd the old man, releasing Montparnasse, put his purse in the latter s\nhand; Montparnasse weighed it for a moment, after which he allowed it\nto slide gently into the back pocket of his coat, with the same\nmechanical precaution as though he had stolen it.\n\nAll this having been said and done, the goodman turned his back and\ntranquilly resumed his stroll.\n\n The blockhead!  muttered Montparnasse.\n\nWho was this goodman? The reader has, no doubt, already divined.\n\nMontparnasse watched him with amazement, as he disappeared in the dusk.\nThis contemplation was fatal to him.\n\nWhile the old man was walking away, Gavroche drew near.\n\nGavroche had assured himself, with a sidelong glance, that Father\nMabeuf was still sitting on his bench, probably sound asleep. Then the\ngamin emerged from his thicket, and began to crawl after Montparnasse\nin the dark, as the latter stood there motionless. In this manner he\ncame up to Montparnasse without being seen or heard, gently insinuated\nhis hand into the back pocket of that frock-coat of fine black cloth,\nseized the purse, withdrew his hand, and having recourse once more to\nhis crawling, he slipped away like an adder through the shadows.\nMontparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard, and who was engaged\nin thought for the first time in his life, perceived nothing. When\nGavroche had once more attained the point where Father Mabeuf was, he\nflung the purse over the hedge, and fled as fast as his legs would\ncarry him.\n\nThe purse fell on Father Mabeuf s foot. This commotion roused him.\n\nHe bent over and picked up the purse.\n\nHe did not understand in the least, and opened it.\n\nThe purse had two compartments; in one of them there was some small\nchange; in the other lay six napoleons.\n\nM. Mabeuf, in great alarm, referred the matter to his housekeeper.\n\n That has fallen from heaven,  said Mother Plutarque.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIFTH THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BEGINNING\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I SOLITUDE AND THE BARRACKS COMBINED\n\n\nCosette s grief, which had been so poignant and lively four or five\nmonths previously, had, without her being conscious of the fact,\nentered upon its convalescence. Nature, spring, youth, love for her\nfather, the gayety of the birds and flowers, caused something almost\nresembling forgetfulness to filter gradually, drop by drop, into that\nsoul, which was so virgin and so young. Was the fire wholly extinct\nthere? Or was it merely that layers of ashes had formed? The truth is,\nthat she hardly felt the painful and burning spot any longer.\n\nOne day she suddenly thought of Marius:  Why!  said she,  I no longer\nthink of him. \n\n\nThat same week, she noticed a very handsome officer of lancers, with a\nwasp-like waist, a delicious uniform, the cheeks of a young girl, a\nsword under his arm, waxed moustaches, and a glazed schapka, passing\nthe gate. Moreover, he had light hair, prominent blue eyes, a round\nface, was vain, insolent and good-looking; quite the reverse of Marius.\nHe had a cigar in his mouth. Cosette thought that this officer\ndoubtless belonged to the regiment in barracks in the Rue de Babylone.\n\nOn the following day, she saw him pass again. She took note of the\nhour.\n\nFrom that time forth, was it chance? she saw him pass nearly every day.\n\nThe officer s comrades perceived that there was, in that  badly kept \ngarden, behind that malicious rococo fence, a very pretty creature, who\nwas almost always there when the handsome lieutenant, who is not\nunknown to the reader, and whose name was Th odule Gillenormand, passed\nby.\n\n See here!  they said to him,  there s a little creature there who is\nmaking eyes at you, look. \n\n\n Have I the time,  replied the lancer,  to look at all the girls who\nlook at me? \n\n\nThis was at the precise moment when Marius was descending heavily\ntowards agony, and was saying:  If I could but see her before I\ndie! Had his wish been realized, had he beheld Cosette at that moment\ngazing at the lancer, he would not have been able to utter a word, and\nhe would have expired with grief.\n\nWhose fault was it? No one s.\n\nMarius possessed one of those temperaments which bury themselves in\nsorrow and there abide; Cosette was one of those persons who plunge\ninto sorrow and emerge from it again.\n\nCosette was, moreover, passing through that dangerous period, the fatal\nphase of feminine reverie abandoned to itself, in which the isolated\nheart of a young girl resembles the tendrils of the vine which cling,\nas chance directs, to the capital of a marble column or to the post of\na wine-shop: A rapid and decisive moment, critical for every orphan, be\nshe rich or poor, for wealth does not prevent a bad choice;\nmisalliances are made in very high circles, real misalliance is that of\nsouls; and as many an unknown young man, without name, without birth,\nwithout fortune, is a marble column which bears up a temple of grand\nsentiments and grand ideas, so such and such a man of the world\nsatisfied and opulent, who has polished boots and varnished words, if\nlooked at not outside, but inside, a thing which is reserved for his\nwife, is nothing more than a block obscurely haunted by violent,\nunclean, and vinous passions; the post of a drinking-shop.\n\nWhat did Cosette s soul contain? Passion calmed or lulled to sleep;\nsomething limpid, brilliant, troubled to a certain depth, and gloomy\nlower down. The image of the handsome officer was reflected in the\nsurface. Did a souvenir linger in the depths? Quite at the\nbottom? Possibly. Cosette did not know.\n\nA singular incident supervened.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II COSETTE S APPREHENSIONS\n\n\nDuring the first fortnight in April, Jean Valjean took a journey. This,\nas the reader knows, happened from time to time, at very long\nintervals. He remained absent a day or two days at the utmost. Where\ndid he go? No one knew, not even Cosette. Once only, on the occasion of\none of these departures, she had accompanied him in a hackney-coach as\nfar as a little blind-alley at the corner of which she read: _Impasse\nde la Planchette_. There he alighted, and the coach took Cosette back\nto the Rue de Babylone. It was usually when money was lacking in the\nhouse that Jean Valjean took these little trips.\n\nSo Jean Valjean was absent. He had said:  I shall return in three\ndays. \n\n\nThat evening, Cosette was alone in the drawing-room. In order to get\nrid of her ennui, she had opened her piano-organ, and had begun to\nsing, accompanying herself the while, the chorus from _Euryanthe_:\n Hunters astray in the wood!  which is probably the most beautiful\nthing in all the sphere of music. When she had finished, she remained\nwrapped in thought.\n\nAll at once, it seemed to her that she heard the sound of footsteps in\nthe garden.\n\nIt could not be her father, he was absent; it could not be Toussaint,\nshe was in bed, and it was ten o clock at night.\n\nShe stepped to the shutter of the drawing-room, which was closed, and\nlaid her ear against it.\n\nIt seemed to her that it was the tread of a man, and that he was\nwalking very softly.\n\nShe mounted rapidly to the first floor, to her own chamber, opened a\nsmall wicket in her shutter, and peeped into the garden. The moon was\nat the full. Everything could be seen as plainly as by day.\n\nThere was no one there.\n\nShe opened the window. The garden was absolutely calm, and all that was\nvisible was that the street was deserted as usual.\n\nCosette thought that she had been mistaken. She thought that she had\nheard a noise. It was a hallucination produced by the melancholy and\nmagnificent chorus of Weber, which lays open before the mind terrified\ndepths, which trembles before the gaze like a dizzy forest, and in\nwhich one hears the crackling of dead branches beneath the uneasy tread\nof the huntsmen of whom one catches a glimpse through the twilight.\n\nShe thought no more about it.\n\nMoreover, Cosette was not very timid by nature. There flowed in her\nveins some of the blood of the bohemian and the adventuress who runs\nbarefoot. It will be remembered that she was more of a lark than a\ndove. There was a foundation of wildness and bravery in her.\n\nOn the following day, at an earlier hour, towards nightfall, she was\nstrolling in the garden. In the midst of the confused thoughts which\noccupied her, she fancied that she caught for an instant a sound\nsimilar to that of the preceding evening, as though some one were\nwalking beneath the trees in the dusk, and not very far from her; but\nshe told herself that nothing so closely resembles a step on the grass\nas the friction of two branches which have moved from side to side, and\nshe paid no heed to it. Besides, she could see nothing.\n\nShe emerged from  the thicket ; she had still to cross a small lawn to\nregain the steps.\n\nThe moon, which had just risen behind her, cast Cosette s shadow in\nfront of her upon this lawn, as she came out from the shrubbery.\n\nCosette halted in alarm.\n\nBeside her shadow, the moon outlined distinctly upon the turf another\nshadow, which was particularly startling and terrible, a shadow which\nhad a round hat.\n\nIt was the shadow of a man, who must have been standing on the border\nof the clump of shrubbery, a few paces in the rear of Cosette.\n\nShe stood for a moment without the power to speak, or cry, or call, or\nstir, or turn her head.\n\nThen she summoned up all her courage, and turned round resolutely.\n\nThere was no one there.\n\nShe glanced on the ground. The figure had disappeared.\n\nShe re-entered the thicket, searched the corners boldly, went as far as\nthe gate, and found nothing.\n\nShe felt herself absolutely chilled with terror. Was this another\nhallucination? What! Two days in succession! One hallucination might\npass, but two hallucinations? The disquieting point about it was, that\nthe shadow had assuredly not been a phantom. Phantoms do not wear round\nhats.\n\nOn the following day Jean Valjean returned. Cosette told him what she\nthought she had heard and seen. She wanted to be reassured and to see\nher father shrug his shoulders and say to her:  You are a little\ngoose. \n\n\nJean Valjean grew anxious.\n\n It cannot be anything,  said he.\n\nHe left her under some pretext, and went into the garden, and she saw\nhim examining the gate with great attention.\n\nDuring the night she woke up; this time she was sure, and she\ndistinctly heard some one walking close to the flight of steps beneath\nher window. She ran to her little wicket and opened it. In point of\nfact, there was a man in the garden, with a large club in his hand.\nJust as she was about to scream, the moon lighted up the man s profile.\nIt was her father. She returned to her bed, saying to herself:  He is\nvery uneasy! \n\n\nJean Valjean passed that night and the two succeeding nights in the\ngarden. Cosette saw him through the hole in her shutter.\n\nOn the third night, the moon was on the wane, and had begun to rise\nlater; at one o clock in the morning, possibly, she heard a loud burst\nof laughter and her father s voice calling her: \n\n Cosette! \n\n\nShe jumped out of bed, threw on her dressing-gown, and opened her\nwindow.\n\nHer father was standing on the grass-plot below.\n\n I have waked you for the purpose of reassuring you,  said he;  look,\nthere is your shadow with the round hat. \n\n\nAnd he pointed out to her on the turf a shadow cast by the moon, and\nwhich did indeed, bear considerable resemblance to the spectre of a man\nwearing a round hat. It was the shadow produced by a chimney-pipe of\nsheet iron, with a hood, which rose above a neighboring roof.\n\nCosette joined in his laughter, all her lugubrious suppositions were\nallayed, and the next morning, as she was at breakfast with her father,\nshe made merry over the sinister garden haunted by the shadows of iron\nchimney-pots.\n\nJean Valjean became quite tranquil once more; as for Cosette, she did\nnot pay much attention to the question whether the chimney-pot was\nreally in the direction of the shadow which she had seen, or thought\nshe had seen, and whether the moon had been in the same spot in the\nsky.\n\nShe did not question herself as to the peculiarity of a chimney-pot\nwhich is afraid of being caught in the act, and which retires when some\none looks at its shadow, for the shadow had taken the alarm when\nCosette had turned round, and Cosette had thought herself very sure of\nthis. Cosette s serenity was fully restored. The proof appeared to her\nto be complete, and it quite vanished from her mind, whether there\ncould possibly be any one walking in the garden during the evening or\nat night.\n\nA few days later, however, a fresh incident occurred.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III ENRICHED WITH COMMENTARIES BY TOUSSAINT\n\n\nIn the garden, near the railing on the street, there was a stone bench,\nscreened from the eyes of the curious by a plantation of yoke-elms, but\nwhich could, in case of necessity, be reached by an arm from the\noutside, past the trees and the gate.\n\nOne evening during that same month of April, Jean Valjean had gone out;\nCosette had seated herself on this bench after sundown. The breeze was\nblowing briskly in the trees, Cosette was meditating; an objectless\nsadness was taking possession of her little by little, that invincible\nsadness evoked by the evening, and which arises, perhaps, who knows,\nfrom the mystery of the tomb which is ajar at that hour.\n\nPerhaps Fantine was within that shadow.\n\nCosette rose, slowly made the tour of the garden, walking on the grass\ndrenched in dew, and saying to herself, through the species of\nmelancholy somnambulism in which she was plunged:  Really, one needs\nwooden shoes for the garden at this hour. One takes cold. \n\n\nShe returned to the bench.\n\nAs she was about to resume her seat there, she observed on the spot\nwhich she had quitted, a tolerably large stone which had, evidently,\nnot been there a moment before.\n\nCosette gazed at the stone, asking herself what it meant. All at once\nthe idea occurred to her that the stone had not reached the bench all\nby itself, that some one had placed it there, that an arm had been\nthrust through the railing, and this idea appeared to alarm her. This\ntime, the fear was genuine; the stone was there. No doubt was possible;\nshe did not touch it, fled without glancing behind her, took refuge in\nthe house, and immediately closed with shutter, bolt, and bar the\ndoor-like window opening on the flight of steps. She inquired of\nToussaint: \n\n Has my father returned yet? \n\n\n Not yet, Mademoiselle. \n\n\n[We have already noted once for all the fact that Toussaint stuttered.\nMay we be permitted to dispense with it for the future. The musical\nnotation of an infirmity is repugnant to us.]\n\nJean Valjean, a thoughtful man, and given to nocturnal strolls, often\nreturned quite late at night.\n\n Toussaint,  went on Cosette,  are you careful to thoroughly barricade\nthe shutters opening on the garden, at least with bars, in the evening,\nand to put the little iron things in the little rings that close them? \n\n\n Oh! be easy on that score, Miss. \n\n\nToussaint did not fail in her duty, and Cosette was well aware of the\nfact, but she could not refrain from adding: \n\n It is so solitary here. \n\n\n So far as that is concerned,  said Toussaint,  it is true. We might be\nassassinated before we had time to say _ouf!_ And Monsieur does not\nsleep in the house, to boot. But fear nothing, Miss, I fasten the\nshutters up like prisons. Lone women! That is enough to make one\nshudder, I believe you! Just imagine, what if you were to see men enter\nyour chamber at night and say:  Hold your tongue!  and begin to cut\nyour throat. It s not the dying so much; you die, for one must die, and\nthat s all right; it s the abomination of feeling those people touch\nyou. And then, their knives; they can t be able to cut well with them!\nAh, good gracious! \n\n\n Be quiet,  said Cosette.  Fasten everything thoroughly. \n\n\nCosette, terrified by the melodrama improvised by Toussaint, and\npossibly, also, by the recollection of the apparitions of the past\nweek, which recurred to her memory, dared not even say to her:  Go and\nlook at the stone which has been placed on the bench!  for fear of\nopening the garden gate and allowing  the men  to enter. She saw that\nall the doors and windows were carefully fastened, made Toussaint go\nall over the house from garret to cellar, locked herself up in her own\nchamber, bolted her door, looked under her couch, went to bed and slept\nbadly. All night long she saw that big stone, as large as a mountain\nand full of caverns.\n\nAt sunrise, the property of the rising sun is to make us laugh at all\nour terrors of the past night, and our laughter is in direct proportion\nto our terror which they have caused, at sunrise Cosette, when she\nwoke, viewed her fright as a nightmare, and said to herself:  What have\nI been thinking of? It is like the footsteps that I thought I heard a\nweek or two ago in the garden at night! It is like the shadow of the\nchimney-pot! Am I becoming a coward?  The sun, which was glowing\nthrough the crevices in her shutters, and turning the damask curtains\ncrimson, reassured her to such an extent that everything vanished from\nher thoughts, even the stone.\n\n There was no more a stone on the bench than there was a man in a round\nhat in the garden; I dreamed about the stone, as I did all the rest. \n\n\nShe dressed herself, descended to the garden, ran to the bench, and\nbroke out in a cold perspiration. The stone was there.\n\nBut this lasted only for a moment. That which is terror by night is\ncuriosity by day.\n\n Bah!  said she,  come, let us see what it is. \n\n\nShe lifted the stone, which was tolerably large. Beneath it was\nsomething which resembled a letter. It was a white envelope. Cosette\nseized it. There was no address on one side, no seal on the other. Yet\nthe envelope, though unsealed, was not empty. Papers could be seen\ninside.\n\nCosette examined it. It was no longer alarm, it was no longer\ncuriosity; it was a beginning of anxiety.\n\nCosette drew from the envelope its contents, a little notebook of\npaper, each page of which was numbered and bore a few lines in a very\nfine and rather pretty handwriting, as Cosette thought.\n\nCosette looked for a name; there was none. To whom was this addressed?\nTo her, probably, since a hand had deposited the packet on her bench.\nFrom whom did it come? An irresistible fascination took possession of\nher; she tried to turn away her eyes from the leaflets which were\ntrembling in her hand, she gazed at the sky, the street, the acacias\nall bathed in light, the pigeons fluttering over a neighboring roof,\nand then her glance suddenly fell upon the manuscript, and she said to\nherself that she must know what it contained.\n\nThis is what she read.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV A HEART BENEATH A STONE\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Cosette With Letter]\n\n\nThe reduction of the universe to a single being, the expansion of a\nsingle being even to God, that is love.\n\nLove is the salutation of the angels to the stars.\n\nHow sad is the soul, when it is sad through love!\n\nWhat a void in the absence of the being who, by herself alone fills the\nworld! Oh! how true it is that the beloved being becomes God. One could\ncomprehend that God might be jealous of this had not God the Father of\nall evidently made creation for the soul, and the soul for love.\n\nThe glimpse of a smile beneath a white crape bonnet with a lilac\ncurtain is sufficient to cause the soul to enter into the palace of\ndreams.\n\nGod is behind everything, but everything hides God. Things are black,\ncreatures are opaque. To love a being is to render that being\ntransparent.\n\nCertain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the\nattitude of the body may be, the soul is on its knees.\n\nParted lovers beguile absence by a thousand chimerical devices, which\npossess, however, a reality of their own. They are prevented from\nseeing each other, they cannot write to each other; they discover a\nmultitude of mysterious means to correspond. They send each other the\nsong of the birds, the perfume of the flowers, the smiles of children,\nthe light of the sun, the sighings of the breeze, the rays of stars,\nall creation. And why not? All the works of God are made to serve love.\nLove is sufficiently potent to charge all nature with its messages.\n\nOh Spring! Thou art a letter that I write to her.\n\nThe future belongs to hearts even more than it does to minds. Love,\nthat is the only thing that can occupy and fill eternity. In the\ninfinite, the inexhaustible is requisite.\n\nLove participates of the soul itself. It is of the same nature. Like\nit, it is the divine spark; like it, it is incorruptible, indivisible,\nimperishable. It is a point of fire that exists within us, which is\nimmortal and infinite, which nothing can confine, and which nothing can\nextinguish. We feel it burning even to the very marrow of our bones,\nand we see it beaming in the very depths of heaven.\n\nOh Love! Adorations! voluptuousness of two minds which understand each\nother, of two hearts which exchange with each other, of two glances\nwhich penetrate each other! You will come to me, will you not, bliss!\nstrolls by twos in the solitudes! Blessed and radiant days! I have\nsometimes dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves from\nthe lives of the angels and came here below to traverse the destinies\nof men.\n\nGod can add nothing to the happiness of those who love, except to give\nthem endless duration. After a life of love, an eternity of love is, in\nfact, an augmentation; but to increase in intensity even the ineffable\nfelicity which love bestows on the soul even in this world, is\nimpossible, even to God. God is the plenitude of heaven; love is the\nplenitude of man.\n\nYou look at a star for two reasons, because it is luminous, and because\nit is impenetrable. You have beside you a sweeter radiance and a\ngreater mystery, woman.\n\nAll of us, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings. We lack air\nand we stifle. Then we die. To die for lack of love is horrible.\nSuffocation of the soul.\n\nWhen love has fused and mingled two beings in a sacred and angelic\nunity, the secret of life has been discovered so far as they are\nconcerned; they are no longer anything more than the two boundaries of\nthe same destiny; they are no longer anything but the two wings of the\nsame spirit. Love, soar.\n\nOn the day when a woman as she passes before you emits light as she\nwalks, you are lost, you love. But one thing remains for you to do: to\nthink of her so intently that she is constrained to think of you.\n\nWhat love commences can be finished by God alone.\n\nTrue love is in despair and is enchanted over a glove lost or a\nhandkerchief found, and eternity is required for its devotion and its\nhopes. It is composed both of the infinitely great and the infinitely\nlittle.\n\nIf you are a stone, be adamant; if you are a plant, be the sensitive\nplant; if you are a man, be love.\n\nNothing suffices for love. We have happiness, we desire paradise; we\npossess paradise, we desire heaven.\n\nOh ye who love each other, all this is contained in love. Understand\nhow to find it there. Love has contemplation as well as heaven, and\nmore than heaven, it has voluptuousness.\n\n Does she still come to the Luxembourg?   No, sir.   This is the church\nwhere she attends mass, is it not?   She no longer comes here.   Does\nshe still live in this house?   She has moved away.   Where has she\ngone to dwell? \n\n\n She did not say. \n\n\nWhat a melancholy thing not to know the address of one s soul!\n\nLove has its childishness, other passions have their pettinesses. Shame\non the passions which belittle man! Honor to the one which makes a\nchild of him!\n\nThere is one strange thing, do you know it? I dwell in the night. There\nis a being who carried off my sky when she went away.\n\nOh! would that we were lying side by side in the same grave, hand in\nhand, and from time to time, in the darkness, gently caressing a\nfinger, that would suffice for my eternity!\n\nYe who suffer because ye love, love yet more. To die of love, is to\nlive in it.\n\nLove. A sombre and starry transfiguration is mingled with this torture.\nThere is ecstasy in agony.\n\nOh joy of the birds! It is because they have nests that they sing.\n\nLove is a celestial respiration of the air of paradise.\n\nDeep hearts, sage minds, take life as God has made it; it is a long\ntrial, an incomprehensible preparation for an unknown destiny. This\ndestiny, the true one, begins for a man with the first step inside the\ntomb. Then something appears to him, and he begins to distinguish the\ndefinitive. The definitive, meditate upon that word. The living\nperceive the infinite; the definitive permits itself to be seen only by\nthe dead. In the meanwhile, love and suffer, hope and contemplate. Woe,\nalas! to him who shall have loved only bodies, forms, appearances!\nDeath will deprive him of all. Try to love souls, you will find them\nagain.\n\nI encountered in the street, a very poor young man who was in love. His\nhat was old, his coat was worn, his elbows were in holes; water\ntrickled through his shoes, and the stars through his soul.\n\nWhat a grand thing it is to be loved! What a far grander thing it is to\nlove! The heart becomes heroic, by dint of passion. It is no longer\ncomposed of anything but what is pure; it no longer rests on anything\nthat is not elevated and great. An unworthy thought can no more\ngerminate in it, than a nettle on a glacier. The serene and lofty soul,\ninaccessible to vulgar passions and emotions, dominating the clouds and\nthe shades of this world, its follies, its lies, its hatreds, its\nvanities, its miseries, inhabits the blue of heaven, and no longer\nfeels anything but profound and subterranean shocks of destiny, as the\ncrests of mountains feel the shocks of earthquake.\n\nIf there did not exist some one who loved, the sun would become\nextinct.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V COSETTE AFTER THE LETTER\n\n\nAs Cosette read, she gradually fell into thought. At the very moment\nwhen she raised her eyes from the last line of the note-book, the\nhandsome officer passed triumphantly in front of the gate, it was his\nhour; Cosette thought him hideous.\n\nShe resumed her contemplation of the book. It was written in the most\ncharming of chirography, thought Cosette; in the same hand, but with\ndivers inks, sometimes very black, again whitish, as when ink has been\nadded to the inkstand, and consequently on different days. It was,\nthen, a mind which had unfolded itself there, sigh by sigh,\nirregularly, without order, without choice, without object, hap-hazard.\nCosette had never read anything like it. This manuscript, in which she\nalready perceived more light than obscurity, produced upon her the\neffect of a half-open sanctuary. Each one of these mysterious lines\nshone before her eyes and inundated her heart with a strange radiance.\nThe education which she had received had always talked to her of the\nsoul, and never of love, very much as one might talk of the firebrand\nand not of the flame. This manuscript of fifteen pages suddenly and\nsweetly revealed to her all of love, sorrow, destiny, life, eternity,\nthe beginning, the end. It was as if a hand had opened and suddenly\nflung upon her a handful of rays of light. In these few lines she felt\na passionate, ardent, generous, honest nature, a sacred will, an\nimmense sorrow, and an immense despair, a suffering heart, an ecstasy\nfully expanded. What was this manuscript? A letter. A letter without\nname, without address, without date, without signature, pressing and\ndisinterested, an enigma composed of truths, a message of love made to\nbe brought by an angel and read by a virgin, an appointment made beyond\nthe bounds of earth, the love-letter of a phantom to a shade. It was an\nabsent one, tranquil and dejected, who seemed ready to take refuge in\ndeath and who sent to the absent love, his lady, the secret of fate,\nthe key of life, love. This had been written with one foot in the grave\nand one finger in heaven. These lines, which had fallen one by one on\nthe paper, were what might be called drops of soul.\n\nNow, from whom could these pages come? Who could have penned them?\n\nCosette did not hesitate a moment. One man only.\n\nHe!\n\nDay had dawned once more in her spirit; all had reappeared. She felt an\nunheard-of joy, and a profound anguish. It was he! he who had written!\nhe was there! it was he whose arm had been thrust through that railing!\nWhile she was forgetful of him, he had found her again! But had she\nforgotten him? No, never! She was foolish to have thought so for a\nsingle moment. She had always loved him, always adored him. The fire\nhad been smothered, and had smouldered for a time, but she saw all\nplainly now; it had but made headway, and now it had burst forth\nafresh, and had inflamed her whole being. This note-book was like a\nspark which had fallen from that other soul into hers. She felt the\nconflagration starting up once more.\n\nShe imbued herself thoroughly with every word of the manuscript:  Oh\nyes!  said she,  how perfectly I recognize all that! That is what I had\nalready read in his eyes.  As she was finishing it for the third time,\nLieutenant Th odule passed the gate once more, and rattled his spurs\nupon the pavement. Cosette was forced to raise her eyes. She thought\nhim insipid, silly, stupid, useless, foppish, displeasing, impertinent,\nand extremely ugly. The officer thought it his duty to smile at her.\n\nShe turned away as in shame and indignation. She would gladly have\nthrown something at his head.\n\nShe fled, re-entered the house, and shut herself up in her chamber to\nperuse the manuscript once more, to learn it by heart, and to dream.\nWhen she had thoroughly mastered it she kissed it and put it in her\nbosom.\n\nAll was over, Cosette had fallen back into deep, seraphic love. The\nabyss of Eden had yawned once more.\n\nAll day long, Cosette remained in a sort of bewilderment. She scarcely\nthought, her ideas were in the state of a tangled skein in her brain,\nshe could not manage to conjecture anything, she hoped through a\ntremor, what? vague things. She dared make herself no promises, and she\ndid not wish to refuse herself anything. Flashes of pallor passed over\nher countenance, and shivers ran through her frame. It seemed to her,\nat intervals, that she was entering the land of chim ras; she said to\nherself:  Is this reality?  Then she felt of the dear paper within her\nbosom under her gown, she pressed it to her heart, she felt its angles\nagainst her flesh; and if Jean Valjean had seen her at the moment, he\nwould have shuddered in the presence of that luminous and unknown joy,\nwhich overflowed from beneath her eyelids. Oh yes!  she thought,  it\nis certainly he! This comes from him, and is for me! \n\n\nAnd she told herself that an intervention of the angels, a celestial\nchance, had given him back to her.\n\nOh transfiguration of love! Oh dreams! That celestial chance, that\nintervention of the angels, was a pellet of bread tossed by one thief\nto another thief, from the Charlemagne Courtyard to the Lion s Ditch,\nover the roofs of La Force.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI OLD PEOPLE ARE MADE TO GO OUT OPPORTUNELY\n\n\nWhen evening came, Jean Valjean went out; Cosette dressed herself. She\narranged her hair in the most becoming manner, and she put on a dress\nwhose bodice had received one snip of the scissors too much, and which,\nthrough this slope, permitted a view of the beginning of her throat,\nand was, as young girls say,  a trifle indecent.  It was not in the\nleast indecent, but it was prettier than usual. She made her toilet\nthus without knowing why she did so.\n\nDid she mean to go out? No.\n\nWas she expecting a visitor? No.\n\nAt dusk, she went down to the garden. Toussaint was busy in her\nkitchen, which opened on the back yard.\n\nShe began to stroll about under the trees, thrusting aside the branches\nfrom time to time with her hand, because there were some which hung\nvery low.\n\nIn this manner she reached the bench.\n\nThe stone was still there.\n\nShe sat down, and gently laid her white hand on this stone as though\nshe wished to caress and thank it.\n\nAll at once, she experienced that indefinable impression which one\nundergoes when there is some one standing behind one, even when she\ndoes not see the person.\n\nShe turned her head and rose to her feet.\n\nIt was he.\n\nHis head was bare. He appeared to have grown thin and pale. His black\nclothes were hardly discernible. The twilight threw a wan light on his\nfine brow, and covered his eyes in shadows. Beneath a veil of\nincomparable sweetness, he had something about him that suggested death\nand night. His face was illuminated by the light of the dying day, and\nby the thought of a soul that is taking flight.\n\nHe seemed to be not yet a ghost, and he was no longer a man.\n\nHe had flung away his hat in the thicket, a few paces distant.\n\nCosette, though ready to swoon, uttered no cry. She retreated slowly,\nfor she felt herself attracted. He did not stir. By virtue of something\nineffable and melancholy which enveloped him, she felt the look in his\neyes which she could not see.\n\nCosette, in her retreat, encountered a tree and leaned against it. Had\nit not been for this tree, she would have fallen.\n\nThen she heard his voice, that voice which she had really never heard,\nbarely rising above the rustle of the leaves, and murmuring: \n\n Pardon me, here I am. My heart is full. I could not live on as I was\nliving, and I have come. Have you read what I placed there on the\nbench? Do you recognize me at all? Have no fear of me. It is a long\ntime, you remember the day, since you looked at me at the Luxembourg,\nnear the Gladiator. And the day when you passed before me? It was on\nthe 16th of June and the 2d of July. It is nearly a year ago. I have\nnot seen you for a long time. I inquired of the woman who let the\nchairs, and she told me that she no longer saw you. You lived in the\nRue de l Ouest, on the third floor, in the front apartments of a new\nhouse, you see that I know! I followed you. What else was there for me\nto do? And then you disappeared. I thought I saw you pass once, while I\nwas reading the newspapers under the arcade of the Od on. I ran after\nyou. But no. It was a person who had a bonnet like yours. At night I\ncame hither. Do not be afraid, no one sees me. I come to gaze upon your\nwindows near at hand. I walk very softly, so that you may not hear, for\nyou might be alarmed. The other evening I was behind you, you turned\nround, I fled. Once, I heard you singing. I was happy. Did it affect\nyou because I heard you singing through the shutters? That could not\nhurt you. No, it is not so? You see, you are my angel! Let me come\nsometimes; I think that I am going to die. If you only knew! I adore\nyou. Forgive me, I speak to you, but I do not know what I am saying; I\nmay have displeased you; have I displeased you? \n\n\n Oh! my mother!  said she.\n\nAnd she sank down as though on the point of death.\n\nHe grasped her, she fell, he took her in his arms, he pressed her\nclose, without knowing what he was doing. He supported her, though he\nwas tottering himself. It was as though his brain were full of smoke;\nlightnings darted between his lips; his ideas vanished; it seemed to\nhim that he was accomplishing some religious act, and that he was\ncommitting a profanation. Moreover, he had not the least passion for\nthis lovely woman whose force he felt against his breast. He was beside\nhimself with love.\n\nShe took his hand and laid it on her heart. He felt the paper there, he\nstammered: \n\n You love me, then? \n\n\nShe replied in a voice so low that it was no longer anything more than\na barely audible breath: \n\n Hush! Thou knowest it! \n\n\nAnd she hid her blushing face on the breast of the superb and\nintoxicated young man.\n\nHe fell upon the bench, and she beside him. They had no words more. The\nstars were beginning to gleam. How did it come to pass that their lips\nmet? How comes it to pass that the birds sing, that snow melts, that\nthe rose unfolds, that May expands, that the dawn grows white behind\nthe black trees on the shivering crest of the hills?\n\nA kiss, and that was all.\n\nBoth started, and gazed into the darkness with sparkling eyes.\n\nThey felt neither the cool night, nor the cold stone, nor the damp\nearth, nor the wet grass; they looked at each other, and their hearts\nwere full of thoughts. They had clasped hands unconsciously.\n\nShe did not ask him, she did not even wonder, how he had entered there,\nand how he had made his way into the garden. It seemed so simple to her\nthat he should be there!\n\nFrom time to time, Marius  knee touched Cosette s knee, and both\nshivered.\n\nAt intervals, Cosette stammered a word. Her soul fluttered on her lips\nlike a drop of dew on a flower.\n\nLittle by little they began to talk to each other. Effusion followed\nsilence, which is fulness. The night was serene and splendid overhead.\nThese two beings, pure as spirits, told each other everything, their\ndreams, their intoxications, their ecstasies, their chim ras, their\nweaknesses, how they had adored each other from afar, how they had\nlonged for each other, their despair when they had ceased to see each\nother. They confided to each other in an ideal intimacy, which nothing\ncould augment, their most secret and most mysterious thoughts. They\nrelated to each other, with candid faith in their illusions, all that\nlove, youth, and the remains of childhood which still lingered about\nthem, suggested to their minds. Their two hearts poured themselves out\ninto each other in such wise, that at the expiration of a quarter of an\nhour, it was the young man who had the young girl s soul, and the young\ngirl who had the young man s soul. Each became permeated with the\nother, they were enchanted with each other, they dazzled each other.\n\nWhen they had finished, when they had told each other everything, she\nlaid her head on his shoulder and asked him: \n\n What is your name? \n\n\n My name is Marius,  said he.  And yours? \n\n\n My name is Cosette. \n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SIXTH LITTLE GAVROCHE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE MALICIOUS PLAYFULNESS OF THE WIND\n\n\nSince 1823, when the tavern of Montfermeil was on the way to shipwreck\nand was being gradually engulfed, not in the abyss of a bankruptcy, but\nin the cesspool of petty debts, the Th nardier pair had had two other\nchildren; both males. That made five; two girls and three boys.\n\nMadame Th nardier had got rid of the last two, while they were still\nyoung and very small, with remarkable luck.\n\n_Got rid of_ is the word. There was but a mere fragment of nature in\nthat woman. A phenomenon, by the way, of which there is more than one\nexample extant. Like the Mar chale de La Mothe-Houdancourt, the\nTh nardier was a mother to her daughters only. There her maternity\nended. Her hatred of the human race began with her own sons. In the\ndirection of her sons her evil disposition was uncompromising, and her\nheart had a lugubrious wall in that quarter. As the reader has seen,\nshe detested the eldest; she cursed the other two. Why? Because. The\nmost terrible of motives, the most unanswerable of retorts Because.  I\nhave no need of a litter of squalling brats,  said this mother.\n\nLet us explain how the Th nardiers had succeeded in getting rid of\ntheir last two children; and even in drawing profit from the operation.\n\nThe woman Magnon, who was mentioned a few pages further back, was the\nsame one who had succeeded in making old Gillenormand support the two\nchildren which she had had. She lived on the Quai des C lestins, at the\ncorner of this ancient street of the Petit-Musc which afforded her the\nopportunity of changing her evil repute into good odor. The reader will\nremember the great epidemic of croup which ravaged the river districts\nof the Seine in Paris thirty-five years ago, and of which science took\nadvantage to make experiments on a grand scale as to the efficacy of\ninhalations of alum, so beneficially replaced at the present day by the\nexternal tincture of iodine. During this epidemic, the Magnon lost both\nher boys, who were still very young, one in the morning, the other in\nthe evening of the same day. This was a blow. These children were\nprecious to their mother; they represented eighty francs a month. These\neighty francs were punctually paid in the name of M. Gillenormand, by\ncollector of his rents, M. Barge, a retired tip-staff, in the Rue du\nRoi-de-Sicile. The children dead, the income was at an end. The Magnon\nsought an expedient. In that dark free-masonry of evil of which she\nformed a part, everything is known, all secrets are kept, and all lend\nmutual aid. Magnon needed two children; the Th nardiers had two. The\nsame sex, the same age. A good arrangement for the one, a good\ninvestment for the other. The little Th nardiers became little Magnons.\nMagnon quitted the Quai des C lestins and went to live in the Rue\nClocheperce. In Paris, the identity which binds an individual to\nhimself is broken between one street and another.\n\nThe registry office being in no way warned, raised no objections, and\nthe substitution was effected in the most simple manner in the world.\nOnly, the Th nardier exacted for this loan of her children, ten francs\na month, which Magnon promised to pay, and which she actually did pay.\nIt is unnecessary to add that M. Gillenormand continued to perform his\ncompact. He came to see the children every six months. He did not\nperceive the change.  Monsieur,  Magnon said to him,  how much they\nresemble you! \n\n\nTh nardier, to whom avatars were easy, seized this occasion to become\nJondrette. His two daughters and Gavroche had hardly had time to\ndiscover that they had two little brothers. When a certain degree of\nmisery is reached, one is overpowered with a sort of spectral\nindifference, and one regards human beings as though they were\nspectres. Your nearest relations are often no more for you than vague\nshadowy forms, barely outlined against a nebulous background of life\nand easily confounded again with the invisible.\n\nOn the evening of the day when she had handed over her two little ones\nto Magnon, with express intention of renouncing them forever, the\nTh nardier had felt, or had appeared to feel, a scruple. She said to\nher husband:  But this is abandoning our children!  Th nardier,\nmasterful and phlegmatic, cauterized the scruple with this saying:\n Jean Jacques Rousseau did even better!  From scruples, the mother\nproceeded to uneasiness:  But what if the police were to annoy us? Tell\nme, Monsieur Th nardier, is what we have done permissible?  Th nardier\nreplied:  Everything is permissible. No one will see anything but true\nblue in it. Besides, no one has any interest in looking closely after\nchildren who have not a sou. \n\n\nMagnon was a sort of fashionable woman in the sphere of crime. She was\ncareful about her toilet. She shared her lodgings, which were furnished\nin an affected and wretched style, with a clever gallicized English\nthief. This English woman, who had become a naturalized Parisienne,\nrecommended by very wealthy relations, intimately connected with the\nmedals in the Library and Mademoiselle Mar s diamonds, became\ncelebrated later on in judicial accounts. She was called _Mamselle\nMiss_.\n\nThe two little creatures who had fallen to Magnon had no reason to\ncomplain of their lot. Recommended by the eighty francs, they were well\ncared for, as is everything from which profit is derived; they were\nneither badly clothed, nor badly fed; they were treated almost like\n little gentlemen, better by their false mother than by their real\none. Magnon played the lady, and talked no thieves  slang in their\npresence.\n\nThus passed several years. Th nardier augured well from the fact. One\nday, he chanced to say to Magnon as she handed him his monthly stipend\nof ten francs:  The father must give them some education. \n\n\nAll at once, these two poor children, who had up to that time been\nprotected tolerably well, even by their evil fate, were abruptly hurled\ninto life and forced to begin it for themselves.\n\nA wholesale arrest of malefactors, like that in the Jondrette garret,\nnecessarily complicated by investigations and subsequent\nincarcerations, is a veritable disaster for that hideous and occult\ncounter-society which pursues its existence beneath public society; an\nadventure of this description entails all sorts of catastrophes in that\nsombre world. The Th nardier catastrophe involved the catastrophe of\nMagnon.\n\nOne day, a short time after Magnon had handed to  ponine the note\nrelating to the Rue Plumet, a sudden raid was made by the police in the\nRue Clocheperce; Magnon was seized, as was also Mamselle Miss; and all\nthe inhabitants of the house, which was of a suspicious character, were\ngathered into the net. While this was going on, the two little boys\nwere playing in the back yard, and saw nothing of the raid. When they\ntried to enter the house again, they found the door fastened and the\nhouse empty. A cobbler opposite called them to him, and delivered to\nthem a paper which  their mother  had left for them. On this paper\nthere was an address: _M. Barge, collector of rents, Rue du\nRoi-de-Sicile, No_. 8. The proprietor of the stall said to them:  You\ncannot live here any longer. Go there. It is nearby. The first street\non the left. Ask your way from this paper. \n\n\nThe children set out, the elder leading the younger, and holding in his\nhand the paper which was to guide them. It was cold, and his benumbed\nlittle fingers could not close very firmly, and they did not keep a\nvery good hold on the paper. At the corner of the Rue Clocheperce, a\ngust of wind tore it from him, and as night was falling, the child was\nnot able to find it again.\n\nThey began to wander aimlessly through the streets.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II IN WHICH LITTLE GAVROCHE EXTRACTS PROFIT FROM NAPOLEON THE\nGREAT\n\n\nSpring in Paris is often traversed by harsh and piercing breezes which\ndo not precisely chill but freeze one; these north winds which sadden\nthe most beautiful days produce exactly the effect of those puffs of\ncold air which enter a warm room through the cracks of a badly fitting\ndoor or window. It seems as though the gloomy door of winter had\nremained ajar, and as though the wind were pouring through it. In the\nspring of 1832, the epoch when the first great epidemic of this century\nbroke out in Europe, these north gales were more harsh and piercing\nthan ever. It was a door even more glacial than that of winter which\nwas ajar. It was the door of the sepulchre. In these winds one felt the\nbreath of the cholera.\n\nFrom a meteorological point of view, these cold winds possessed this\npeculiarity, that they did not preclude a strong electric tension.\nFrequent storms, accompanied by thunder and lightning, burst forth at\nthis epoch.\n\nOne evening, when these gales were blowing rudely, to such a degree\nthat January seemed to have returned and that the bourgeois had resumed\ntheir cloaks, Little Gavroche, who was always shivering gayly under his\nrags, was standing as though in ecstasy before a wig-maker s shop in\nthe vicinity of the Orme-Saint-Gervais. He was adorned with a woman s\nwoollen shawl, picked up no one knows where, and which he had converted\ninto a neck comforter. Little Gavroche appeared to be engaged in intent\nadmiration of a wax bride, in a low-necked dress, and crowned with\norange-flowers, who was revolving in the window, and displaying her\nsmile to passers-by, between two argand lamps; but in reality, he was\ntaking an observation of the shop, in order to discover whether he\ncould not  prig  from the shop-front a cake of soap, which he would\nthen proceed to sell for a sou to a  hair-dresser  in the suburbs. He\nhad often managed to breakfast off of such a roll. He called his\nspecies of work, for which he possessed special aptitude,  shaving\nbarbers. \n\n\nWhile contemplating the bride, and eyeing the cake of soap, he muttered\nbetween his teeth:  Tuesday. It was not Tuesday. Was it Tuesday?\nPerhaps it was Tuesday. Yes, it was Tuesday. \n\n\nNo one has ever discovered to what this monologue referred.\n\nYes, perchance, this monologue had some connection with the last\noccasion on which he had dined, three days before, for it was now\nFriday.\n\nThe barber in his shop, which was warmed by a good stove, was shaving a\ncustomer and casting a glance from time to time at the enemy, that\nfreezing and impudent street urchin both of whose hands were in his\npockets, but whose mind was evidently unsheathed.\n\nWhile Gavroche was scrutinizing the shop-window and the cakes of\nwindsor soap, two children of unequal stature, very neatly dressed, and\nstill smaller than himself, one apparently about seven years of age,\nthe other five, timidly turned the handle and entered the shop, with a\nrequest for something or other, alms possibly, in a plaintive murmur\nwhich resembled a groan rather than a prayer. They both spoke at once,\nand their words were unintelligible because sobs broke the voice of the\nyounger, and the teeth of the elder were chattering with cold. The\nbarber wheeled round with a furious look, and without abandoning his\nrazor, thrust back the elder with his left hand and the younger with\nhis knee, and slammed his door, saying:  The idea of coming in and\nfreezing everybody for nothing! \n\n\nThe two children resumed their march in tears. In the meantime, a cloud\nhad risen; it had begun to rain.\n\nLittle Gavroche ran after them and accosted them: \n\n What s the matter with you, brats? \n\n\n We don t know where we are to sleep,  replied the elder.\n\n Is that all?  said Gavroche.  A great matter, truly. The idea of\nbawling about that. They must be greenies! \n\n\nAnd adopting, in addition to his superiority, which was rather\nbantering, an accent of tender authority and gentle patronage: \n\n Come along with me, young  uns! \n\n\n Yes, sir,  said the elder.\n\nAnd the two children followed him as they would have followed an\narchbishop. They had stopped crying.\n\nGavroche led them up the Rue Saint-Antoine in the direction of the\nBastille.\n\nAs Gavroche walked along, he cast an indignant backward glance at the\nbarber s shop.\n\n That fellow has no heart, the whiting, 35 he muttered.  He s an\nEnglishman. \n\n\nA woman who caught sight of these three marching in a file, with\nGavroche at their head, burst into noisy laughter. This laugh was\nwanting in respect towards the group.\n\n Good day, Mamselle Omnibus,  said Gavroche to her.\n\nAn instant later, the wig-maker occurred to his mind once more, and he\nadded: \n\n I am making a mistake in the beast; he s not a whiting, he s a\nserpent. Barber, I ll go and fetch a locksmith, and I ll have a bell\nhung to your tail. \n\n\nThis wig-maker had rendered him aggressive. As he strode over a gutter,\nhe apostrophized a bearded portress who was worthy to meet Faust on the\nBrocken, and who had a broom in her hand.\n\n Madam,  said he,  so you are going out with your horse? \n\n\nAnd thereupon, he spattered the polished boots of a pedestrian.\n\n You scamp!  shouted the furious pedestrian.\n\nGavroche elevated his nose above his shawl.\n\n Is Monsieur complaining? \n\n\n Of you!  ejaculated the man.\n\n The office is closed,  said Gavroche,  I do not receive any more\ncomplaints. \n\n\nIn the meanwhile, as he went on up the street, he perceived a\nbeggar-girl, thirteen or fourteen years old, and clad in so short a\ngown that her knees were visible, lying thoroughly chilled under a\nporte-coch re. The little girl was getting to be too old for such a\nthing. Growth does play these tricks. The petticoat becomes short at\nthe moment when nudity becomes indecent.\n\n Poor girl!  said Gavroche.  She hasn t even trousers. Hold on, take\nthis. \n\n\nAnd unwinding all the comfortable woollen which he had around his neck,\nhe flung it on the thin and purple shoulders of the beggar-girl, where\nthe scarf became a shawl once more.\n\nThe child stared at him in astonishment, and received the shawl in\nsilence. When a certain stage of distress has been reached in his\nmisery, the poor man no longer groans over evil, no longer returns\nthanks for good.\n\nThat done:  Brrr!  said Gavroche, who was shivering more than Saint\nMartin, for the latter retained one-half of his cloak.\n\nAt this _brrr!_ the downpour of rain, redoubled in its spite, became\nfurious. The wicked skies punish good deeds.\n\n Ah, come now!  exclaimed Gavroche,  what s the meaning of this? It s\nre-raining! Good Heavens, if it goes on like this, I shall stop my\nsubscription. \n\n\nAnd he set out on the march once more.\n\n It s all right,  he resumed, casting a glance at the beggar-girl, as\nshe coiled up under the shawl,  she s got a famous peel. \n\n\nAnd looking up at the clouds he exclaimed: \n\n Caught! \n\n\nThe two children followed close on his heels.\n\nAs they were passing one of these heavy grated lattices, which indicate\na baker s shop, for bread is put behind bars like gold, Gavroche turned\nround: \n\n Ah, by the way, brats, have we dined? \n\n\n Monsieur,  replied the elder,  we have had nothing to eat since this\nmorning. \n\n\n So you have neither father nor mother?  resumed Gavroche majestically.\n\n Excuse us, sir, we have a papa and a mamma, but we don t know where\nthey are. \n\n\n Sometimes that s better than knowing where they are,  said Gavroche,\nwho was a thinker.\n\n We have been wandering about these two hours,  continued the elder,\n we have hunted for things at the corners of the streets, but we have\nfound nothing. \n\n\n I know,  ejaculated Gavroche,  it s the dogs who eat everything. \n\n\nHe went on, after a pause: \n\n Ah! we have lost our authors. We don t know what we have done with\nthem. This should not be, gamins. It s stupid to let old people stray\noff like that. Come now! we must have a snooze all the same. \n\n\nHowever, he asked them no questions. What was more simple than that\nthey should have no dwelling place!\n\nThe elder of the two children, who had almost entirely recovered the\nprompt heedlessness of childhood, uttered this exclamation: \n\n It s queer, all the same. Mamma told us that she would take us to get\na blessed spray on Palm Sunday. \n\n\n Bosh,  said Gavroche.\n\n Mamma,  resumed the elder,  is a lady who lives with Mamselle Miss. \n\n\n Tanfl te!  retorted Gavroche.\n\nMeanwhile he had halted, and for the last two minutes he had been\nfeeling and fumbling in all sorts of nooks which his rags contained.\n\nAt last he tossed his head with an air intended to be merely satisfied,\nbut which was triumphant, in reality.\n\n Let us be calm, young  uns. Here s supper for three. \n\n\nAnd from one of his pockets he drew forth a sou.\n\nWithout allowing the two urchins time for amazement, he pushed both of\nthem before him into the baker s shop, and flung his sou on the\ncounter, crying: \n\n Boy! five centimes  worth of bread. \n\n\nThe baker, who was the proprietor in person, took up a loaf and a\nknife.\n\n In three pieces, my boy!  went on Gavroche.\n\nAnd he added with dignity: \n\n There are three of us. \n\n\nAnd seeing that the baker, after scrutinizing the three customers, had\ntaken down a black loaf, he thrust his finger far up his nose with an\ninhalation as imperious as though he had had a pinch of the great\nFrederick s snuff on the tip of his thumb, and hurled this indignant\napostrophe full in the baker s face: \n\n Keksek a? \n\n\nThose of our readers who might be tempted to espy in this\ninterpellation of Gavroche s to the baker a Russian or a Polish word,\nor one of those savage cries which the Yoways and the Botocudos hurl at\neach other from bank to bank of a river, athwart the solitudes, are\nwarned that it is a word which they [our readers] utter every day, and\nwhich takes the place of the phrase:  Qu est-ce que c est que cela? \nThe baker understood perfectly, and replied: \n\n Well! It s bread, and very good bread of the second quality. \n\n\n You mean _larton brutal_ [black bread]!  retorted Gavroche, calmly and\ncoldly disdainful.  White bread, boy! white bread [_larton savonn _]!\nI m standing treat. \n\n\nThe baker could not repress a smile, and as he cut the white bread he\nsurveyed them in a compassionate way which shocked Gavroche.\n\n Come, now, baker s boy!  said he,  what are you taking our measure\nlike that for? \n\n\nAll three of them placed end to end would have hardly made a measure.\n\nWhen the bread was cut, the baker threw the sou into his drawer, and\nGavroche said to the two children: \n\n Grub away. \n\n\nThe little boys stared at him in surprise.\n\nGavroche began to laugh.\n\n Ah! hullo, that s so! they don t understand yet, they re too small. \n\n\nAnd he repeated: \n\n Eat away. \n\n\nAt the same time, he held out a piece of bread to each of them.\n\nAnd thinking that the elder, who seemed to him the more worthy of his\nconversation, deserved some special encouragement and ought to be\nrelieved from all hesitation to satisfy his appetite, he added, as he\nhanded him the largest share: \n\n Ram that into your muzzle. \n\n\nOne piece was smaller than the others; he kept this for himself.\n\nThe poor children, including Gavroche, were famished. As they tore\ntheir bread apart in big mouthfuls, they blocked up the shop of the\nbaker, who, now that they had paid their money, looked angrily at them.\n\n Let s go into the street again,  said Gavroche.\n\nThey set off once more in the direction of the Bastille.\n\nFrom time to time, as they passed the lighted shop-windows, the\nsmallest halted to look at the time on a leaden watch which was\nsuspended from his neck by a cord.\n\n Well, he is a very green  un,  said Gavroche.\n\nThen, becoming thoughtful, he muttered between his teeth: \n\n All the same, if I had charge of the babes I d lock  em up better than\nthat. \n\n\nJust as they were finishing their morsel of bread, and had reached the\nangle of that gloomy Rue des Ballets, at the other end of which the low\nand threatening wicket of La Force was visible: \n\n Hullo, is that you, Gavroche?  said some one.\n\n Hullo, is that you, Montparnasse?  said Gavroche.\n\nA man had just accosted the street urchin, and the man was no other\nthan Montparnasse in disguise, with blue spectacles, but recognizable\nto Gavroche.\n\n The bow-wows!  went on Gavroche,  you ve got a hide the color of a\nlinseed plaster, and blue specs like a doctor. You re putting on style,\n pon my word! \n\n\n Hush!  ejaculated Montparnasse,  not so loud. \n\n\nAnd he drew Gavroche hastily out of range of the lighted shops.\n\nThe two little ones followed mechanically, holding each other by the\nhand.\n\nWhen they were ensconced under the arch of a porte-coch re, sheltered\nfrom the rain and from all eyes: \n\n Do you know where I m going?  demanded Montparnasse.\n\n To the Abbey of Ascend-with-Regret, 36 replied Gavroche.\n\n Joker! \n\n\nAnd Montparnasse went on: \n\n I m going to find Babet. \n\n\n Ah!  exclaimed Gavroche,  so her name is Babet. \n\n\nMontparnasse lowered his voice: \n\n Not she, he. \n\n\n Ah! Babet. \n\n\n Yes, Babet. \n\n\n I thought he was buckled. \n\n\n He has undone the buckle,  replied Montparnasse.\n\nAnd he rapidly related to the gamin how, on the morning of that very\nday, Babet, having been transferred to La Conciergerie, had made his\nescape, by turning to the left instead of to the right in  the police\noffice. \n\n\nGavroche expressed his admiration for this skill.\n\n What a dentist!  he cried.\n\nMontparnasse added a few details as to Babet s flight, and ended with: \n\n Oh! That s not all. \n\n\nGavroche, as he listened, had seized a cane that Montparnasse held in\nhis hand, and mechanically pulled at the upper part, and the blade of a\ndagger made its appearance.\n\n Ah!  he exclaimed, pushing the dagger back in haste,  you have brought\nalong your gendarme disguised as a bourgeois. \n\n\nMontparnasse winked.\n\n The deuce!  resumed Gavroche,  so you re going to have a bout with the\nbobbies? \n\n\n You can t tell,  replied Montparnasse with an indifferent air.  It s\nalways a good thing to have a pin about one. \n\n\nGavroche persisted: \n\n What are you up to to-night? \n\n\nAgain Montparnasse took a grave tone, and said, mouthing every\nsyllable:  Things. \n\n\nAnd abruptly changing the conversation: \n\n By the way! \n\n\n What? \n\n\n Something happened t other day. Fancy. I meet a bourgeois. He makes me\na present of a sermon and his purse. I put it in my pocket. A minute\nlater, I feel in my pocket. There s nothing there. \n\n\n Except the sermon,  said Gavroche.\n\n But you,  went on Montparnasse,  where are you bound for now? \n\n\nGavroche pointed to his two prot g s, and said: \n\n I m going to put these infants to bed. \n\n\n Whereabouts is the bed? \n\n\n At my house. \n\n\n Where s your house? \n\n\n At my house. \n\n\n So you have a lodging? \n\n\n Yes, I have. \n\n\n And where is your lodging? \n\n\n In the elephant,  said Gavroche.\n\nMontparnasse, though not naturally inclined to astonishment, could not\nrestrain an exclamation.\n\n In the elephant! \n\n\n Well, yes, in the elephant!  retorted Gavroche.  Kek aa? \n\n\nThis is another word of the language which no one writes, and which\nevery one speaks.\n\nKek aa signifies: _Qu est que c est que cela a? _ [What s the matter\nwith that?]\n\nThe urchin s profound remark recalled Montparnasse to calmness and good\nsense. He appeared to return to better sentiments with regard to\nGavroche s lodging.\n\n Of course,  said he,  yes, the elephant. Is it comfortable there? \n\n\n Very,  said Gavroche.  It s really bully there. There ain t any\ndraughts, as there are under the bridges. \n\n\n How do you get in? \n\n\n Oh, I get in. \n\n\n So there is a hole?  demanded Montparnasse.\n\n Parbleu! I should say so. But you mustn t tell. It s between the fore\nlegs. The bobbies haven t seen it. \n\n\n And you climb up? Yes, I understand. \n\n\n A turn of the hand, cric, crac, and it s all over, no one there. \n\n\nAfter a pause, Gavroche added: \n\n I shall have a ladder for these children. \n\n\nMontparnasse burst out laughing: \n\n Where the devil did you pick up those young  uns? \n\n\nGavroche replied with great simplicity: \n\n They are some brats that a wig-maker made me a present of. \n\n\nMeanwhile, Montparnasse had fallen to thinking: \n\n You recognized me very readily,  he muttered.\n\nHe took from his pocket two small objects which were nothing more than\ntwo quills wrapped in cotton, and thrust one up each of his nostrils.\nThis gave him a different nose.\n\n That changes you,  remarked Gavroche,  you are less homely so, you\nought to keep them on all the time. \n\n\nMontparnasse was a handsome fellow, but Gavroche was a tease.\n\n Seriously,  demanded Montparnasse,  how do you like me so? \n\n\nThe sound of his voice was different also. In a twinkling, Montparnasse\nhad become unrecognizable.\n\n Oh! Do play Porrichinelle for us!  exclaimed Gavroche.\n\nThe two children, who had not been listening up to this point, being\noccupied themselves in thrusting their fingers up their noses, drew\nnear at this name, and stared at Montparnasse with dawning joy and\nadmiration.\n\nUnfortunately, Montparnasse was troubled.\n\nHe laid his hand on Gavroche s shoulder, and said to him, emphasizing\nhis words:  Listen to what I tell you, boy! if I were on the square\nwith my dog, my knife, and my wife, and if you were to squander ten\nsous on me, I wouldn t refuse to work, but this isn t Shrove Tuesday. \n\n\nThis odd phrase produced a singular effect on the gamin. He wheeled\nround hastily, darted his little sparkling eyes about him with profound\nattention, and perceived a police sergeant standing with his back to\nthem a few paces off. Gavroche allowed an:  Ah! good!  to escape him,\nbut immediately suppressed it, and shaking Montparnasse s hand: \n\n Well, good evening,  said he,  I m going off to my elephant with my\nbrats. Supposing that you should need me some night, you can come and\nhunt me up there. I lodge on the entresol. There is no porter. You will\ninquire for Monsieur Gavroche. \n\n\n Very good,  said Montparnasse.\n\nAnd they parted, Montparnasse betaking himself in the direction of the\nGr ve, and Gavroche towards the Bastille. The little one of five,\ndragged along by his brother who was dragged by Gavroche, turned his\nhead back several times to watch  Porrichinelle  as he went.\n\nThe ambiguous phrase by means of which Montparnasse had warned Gavroche\nof the presence of the policeman, contained no other talisman than the\nassonance _dig_ repeated five or six times in different forms. This\nsyllable, _dig_, uttered alone or artistically mingled with the words\nof a phrase, means:  Take care, we can no longer talk freely.  There\nwas besides, in Montparnasse s sentence, a literary beauty which was\nlost upon Gavroche, that is _mon dogue, ma dague et ma digue_, a slang\nexpression of the Temple, which signifies my dog, my knife, and my\nwife, greatly in vogue among clowns and the red-tails in the great\ncentury when Moli re wrote and Callot drew.\n\nTwenty years ago, there was still to be seen in the southwest corner of\nthe Place de la Bastille, near the basin of the canal, excavated in the\nancient ditch of the fortress-prison, a singular monument, which has\nalready been effaced from the memories of Parisians, and which deserved\nto leave some trace, for it was the idea of a  member of the Institute,\nthe General-in-chief of the army of Egypt. \n\n\nWe say monument, although it was only a rough model. But this model\nitself, a marvellous sketch, the grandiose skeleton of an idea of\nNapoleon s, which successive gusts of wind have carried away and\nthrown, on each occasion, still further from us, had become historical\nand had acquired a certain definiteness which contrasted with its\nprovisional aspect. It was an elephant forty feet high, constructed of\ntimber and masonry, bearing on its back a tower which resembled a\nhouse, formerly painted green by some dauber, and now painted black by\nheaven, the wind, and time. In this deserted and unprotected corner of\nthe place, the broad brow of the colossus, his trunk, his tusks, his\ntower, his enormous crupper, his four feet, like columns produced, at\nnight, under the starry heavens, a surprising and terrible form. It was\na sort of symbol of popular force. It was sombre, mysterious, and\nimmense. It was some mighty, visible phantom, one knew not what,\nstanding erect beside the invisible spectre of the Bastille.\n\nFew strangers visited this edifice, no passer-by looked at it. It was\nfalling into ruins; every season the plaster which detached itself from\nits sides formed hideous wounds upon it.  The  diles,  as the\nexpression ran in elegant dialect, had forgotten it ever since 1814.\nThere it stood in its corner, melancholy, sick, crumbling, surrounded\nby a rotten palisade, soiled continually by drunken coachmen; cracks\nmeandered athwart its belly, a lath projected from its tail, tall grass\nflourished between its legs; and, as the level of the place had been\nrising all around it for a space of thirty years, by that slow and\ncontinuous movement which insensibly elevates the soil of large towns,\nit stood in a hollow, and it looked as though the ground were giving\nway beneath it. It was unclean, despised, repulsive, and superb, ugly\nin the eyes of the bourgeois, melancholy in the eyes of the thinker.\nThere was something about it of the dirt which is on the point of being\nswept out, and something of the majesty which is on the point of being\ndecapitated. As we have said, at night, its aspect changed. Night is\nthe real element of everything that is dark. As soon as twilight\ndescended, the old elephant became transfigured; he assumed a tranquil\nand redoubtable appearance in the formidable serenity of the shadows.\nBeing of the past, he belonged to night; and obscurity was in keeping\nwith his grandeur.\n\nThis rough, squat, heavy, hard, austere, almost misshapen, but\nassuredly majestic monument, stamped with a sort of magnificent and\nsavage gravity, has disappeared, and left to reign in peace, a sort of\ngigantic stove, ornamented with its pipe, which has replaced the sombre\nfortress with its nine towers, very much as the bourgeoisie replaces\nthe feudal classes. It is quite natural that a stove should be the\nsymbol of an epoch in which a pot contains power. This epoch will pass\naway, people have already begun to understand that, if there can be\nforce in a boiler, there can be no force except in the brain; in other\nwords, that which leads and drags on the world, is not locomotives, but\nideas. Harness locomotives to ideas, that is well done; but do not\nmistake the horse for the rider.\n\nAt all events, to return to the Place de la Bastille, the architect of\nthis elephant succeeded in making a grand thing out of plaster; the\narchitect of the stove has succeeded in making a pretty thing out of\nbronze.\n\nThis stove-pipe, which has been baptized by a sonorous name, and called\nthe column of July, this monument of a revolution that miscarried, was\nstill enveloped in 1832, in an immense shirt of woodwork, which we\nregret, for our part, and by a vast plank enclosure, which completed\nthe task of isolating the elephant.\n\nIt was towards this corner of the place, dimly lighted by the\nreflection of a distant street lamp, that the gamin guided his two\n brats. \n\n\nThe reader must permit us to interrupt ourselves here and to remind him\nthat we are dealing with simple reality, and that twenty years ago, the\ntribunals were called upon to judge, under the charge of vagabondage,\nand mutilation of a public monument, a child who had been caught asleep\nin this very elephant of the Bastille. This fact noted, we proceed.\n\nOn arriving in the vicinity of the colossus, Gavroche comprehended the\neffect which the infinitely great might produce on the infinitely\nsmall, and said: \n\n Don t be scared, infants. \n\n\nThen he entered through a gap in the fence into the elephant s\nenclosure and helped the young ones to clamber through the breach. The\ntwo children, somewhat frightened, followed Gavroche without uttering a\nword, and confided themselves to this little Providence in rags which\nhad given them bread and had promised them a shelter.\n\nThere, extended along the fence, lay a ladder which by day served the\nlaborers in the neighboring timber-yard. Gavroche raised it with\nremarkable vigor, and placed it against one of the elephant s forelegs.\nNear the point where the ladder ended, a sort of black hole in the\nbelly of the colossus could be distinguished.\n\nGavroche pointed out the ladder and the hole to his guests, and said to\nthem: \n\n Climb up and go in. \n\n\nThe two little boys exchanged terrified glances.\n\n You re afraid, brats!  exclaimed Gavroche.\n\nAnd he added: \n\n You shall see! \n\n\nHe clasped the rough leg of the elephant, and in a twinkling, without\ndeigning to make use of the ladder, he had reached the aperture. He\nentered it as an adder slips through a crevice, and disappeared within,\nand an instant later, the two children saw his head, which looked pale,\nappear vaguely, on the edge of the shadowy hole, like a wan and whitish\nspectre.\n\n Well!  he exclaimed,  climb up, young  uns! You ll see how snug it is\nhere! Come up, you!  he said to the elder,  I ll lend you a hand. \n\n\nThe little fellows nudged each other, the gamin frightened and inspired\nthem with confidence at one and the same time, and then, it was raining\nvery hard. The elder one undertook the risk. The younger, on seeing his\nbrother climbing up, and himself left alone between the paws of this\nhuge beast, felt greatly inclined to cry, but he did not dare.\n\nThe elder lad climbed, with uncertain steps, up the rungs of the\nladder; Gavroche, in the meanwhile, encouraging him with exclamations\nlike a fencing-master to his pupils, or a muleteer to his mules.\n\n Don t be afraid! That s it! Come on! Put your feet there! Give us your\nhand here! Boldly! \n\n\nAnd when the child was within reach, he seized him suddenly and\nvigorously by the arm, and pulled him towards him.\n\n Nabbed!  said he.\n\nThe brat had passed through the crack.\n\n Now,  said Gavroche,  wait for me. Be so good as to take a seat,\nMonsieur. \n\n\nAnd making his way out of the hole as he had entered it, he slipped\ndown the elephant s leg with the agility of a monkey, landed on his\nfeet in the grass, grasped the child of five round the body, and\nplanted him fairly in the middle of the ladder, then he began to climb\nup behind him, shouting to the elder: \n\n I m going to boost him, do you tug. \n\n\nAnd in another instant, the small lad was pushed, dragged, pulled,\nthrust, stuffed into the hole, before he had time to recover himself,\nand Gavroche, entering behind him, and repulsing the ladder with a kick\nwhich sent it flat on the grass, began to clap his hands and to cry: \n\n Here we are! Long live General Lafayette! \n\n\nThis explosion over, he added: \n\n Now, young  uns, you are in my house. \n\n\nGavroche was at home, in fact.\n\nOh, unforeseen utility of the useless! Charity of great things!\nGoodness of giants! This huge monument, which had embodied an idea of\nthe Emperor s, had become the box of a street urchin. The brat had been\naccepted and sheltered by the colossus. The bourgeois decked out in\ntheir Sunday finery who passed the elephant of the Bastille, were fond\nof saying as they scanned it disdainfully with their prominent eyes:\n What s the good of that?  It served to save from the cold, the frost,\nthe hail, and rain, to shelter from the winds of winter, to preserve\nfrom slumber in the mud which produces fever, and from slumber in the\nsnow which produces death, a little being who had no father, no mother,\nno bread, no clothes, no refuge. It served to receive the innocent whom\nsociety repulsed. It served to diminish public crime. It was a lair\nopen to one against whom all doors were shut. It seemed as though the\nmiserable old mastodon, invaded by vermin and oblivion, covered with\nwarts, with mould, and ulcers, tottering, worm-eaten, abandoned,\ncondemned, a sort of mendicant colossus, asking alms in vain with a\nbenevolent look in the midst of the crossroads, had taken pity on that\nother mendicant, the poor pygmy, who roamed without shoes to his feet,\nwithout a roof over his head, blowing on his fingers, clad in rags, fed\non rejected scraps. That was what the elephant of the Bastille was good\nfor. This idea of Napoleon, disdained by men, had been taken back by\nGod. That which had been merely illustrious, had become august. In\norder to realize his thought, the Emperor should have had porphyry,\nbrass, iron, gold, marble; the old collection of planks, beams and\nplaster sufficed for God. The Emperor had had the dream of a genius; in\nthat Titanic elephant, armed, prodigious, with trunk uplifted, bearing\nits tower and scattering on all sides its merry and vivifying waters,\nhe wished to incarnate the people. God had done a grander thing with\nit, he had lodged a child there.\n\nThe hole through which Gavroche had entered was a breach which was\nhardly visible from the outside, being concealed, as we have stated,\nbeneath the elephant s belly, and so narrow that it was only cats and\nhomeless children who could pass through it.\n\n Let s begin,  said Gavroche,  by telling the porter that we are not at\nhome. \n\n\nAnd plunging into the darkness with the assurance of a person who is\nwell acquainted with his apartments, he took a plank and stopped up the\naperture.\n\nAgain Gavroche plunged into the obscurity. The children heard the\ncrackling of the match thrust into the phosphoric bottle. The chemical\nmatch was not yet in existence; at that epoch the Fumade steel\nrepresented progress.\n\nA sudden light made them blink; Gavroche had just managed to ignite one\nof those bits of cord dipped in resin which are called _cellar rats_.\nThe _cellar rat_, which emitted more smoke than light, rendered the\ninterior of the elephant confusedly visible.\n\nGavroche s two guests glanced about them, and the sensation which they\nexperienced was something like that which one would feel if shut up in\nthe great tun of Heidelberg, or, better still, like what Jonah must\nhave felt in the biblical belly of the whale. An entire and gigantic\nskeleton appeared enveloping them. Above, a long brown beam, whence\nstarted at regular distances, massive, arching ribs, represented the\nvertebral column with its sides, stalactites of plaster depended from\nthem like entrails, and vast spiders  webs stretching from side to\nside, formed dirty diaphragms. Here and there, in the corners, were\nvisible large blackish spots which had the appearance of being alive,\nand which changed places rapidly with an abrupt and frightened\nmovement.\n\nFragments which had fallen from the elephant s back into his belly had\nfilled up the cavity, so that it was possible to walk upon it as on a\nfloor.\n\nThe smaller child nestled up against his brother, and whispered to\nhim: \n\n It s black. \n\n\nThis remark drew an exclamation from Gavroche. The petrified air of the\ntwo brats rendered some shock necessary.\n\n What s that you are gabbling about there?  he exclaimed.  Are you\nscoffing at me? Are you turning up your noses? Do you want the\nTuileries? Are you brutes? Come, say! I warn you that I don t belong to\nthe regiment of simpletons. Ah, come now, are you brats from the Pope s\nestablishment? \n\n\nA little roughness is good in cases of fear. It is reassuring. The two\nchildren drew close to Gavroche.\n\nGavroche, paternally touched by this confidence, passed from grave to\ngentle, and addressing the smaller: \n\n Stupid,  said he, accenting the insulting word, with a caressing\nintonation,  it s outside that it is black. Outside it s raining, here\nit does not rain; outside it s cold, here there s not an atom of wind;\noutside there are heaps of people, here there s no one; outside there\nain t even the moon, here there s my candle, confound it! \n\n\nThe two children began to look upon the apartment with less terror; but\nGavroche allowed them no more time for contemplation.\n\n Quick,  said he.\n\nAnd he pushed them towards what we are very glad to be able to call the\nend of the room.\n\nThere stood his bed.\n\nGavroche s bed was complete; that is to say, it had a mattress, a\nblanket, and an alcove with curtains.\n\nThe mattress was a straw mat, the blanket a rather large strip of gray\nwoollen stuff, very warm and almost new. This is what the alcove\nconsisted of: \n\nThree rather long poles, thrust into and consolidated, with the rubbish\nwhich formed the floor, that is to say, the belly of the elephant, two\nin front and one behind, and united by a rope at their summits, so as\nto form a pyramidal bundle. This cluster supported a trellis-work of\nbrass wire which was simply placed upon it, but artistically applied,\nand held by fastenings of iron wire, so that it enveloped all three\nholes. A row of very heavy stones kept this network down to the floor\nso that nothing could pass under it. This grating was nothing else than\na piece of the brass screens with which aviaries are covered in\nmenageries. Gavroche s bed stood as in a cage, behind this net. The\nwhole resembled an Esquimaux tent.\n\nThis trellis-work took the place of curtains.\n\nGavroche moved aside the stones which fastened the net down in front,\nand the two folds of the net which lapped over each other fell apart.\n\n Down on all fours, brats!  said Gavroche.\n\nHe made his guests enter the cage with great precaution, then he\ncrawled in after them, pulled the stones together, and closed the\nopening hermetically again.\n\nAll three had stretched out on the mat. Gavroche still had the _cellar\nrat_ in his hand.\n\n Now,  said he,  go to sleep! I m going to suppress the candelabra. \n\n\n Monsieur,  the elder of the brothers asked Gavroche, pointing to the\nnetting,  what s that for? \n\n\n That,  answered Gavroche gravely,  is for the rats. Go to sleep! \n\n\nNevertheless, he felt obliged to add a few words of instruction for the\nbenefit of these young creatures, and he continued: \n\n It s a thing from the Jardin des Plantes. It s used for fierce\nanimals. There s a whole shopful of them there. All you ve got to do is\nto climb over a wall, crawl through a window, and pass through a door.\nYou can get as much as you want. \n\n\nAs he spoke, he wrapped the younger one up bodily in a fold of the\nblanket, and the little one murmured: \n\n Oh! how good that is! It s warm! \n\n\nGavroche cast a pleased eye on the blanket.\n\n That s from the Jardin des Plantes, too,  said he.  I took that from\nthe monkeys. \n\n\nAnd, pointing out to the eldest the mat on which he was lying, a very\nthick and admirably made mat, he added: \n\n That belonged to the giraffe. \n\n\nAfter a pause he went on: \n\n The beasts had all these things. I took them away from them. It didn t\ntrouble them. I told them:  It s for the elephant. \n\n\nHe paused, and then resumed: \n\n You crawl over the walls and you don t care a straw for the\ngovernment. So there now! \n\n\nThe two children gazed with timid and stupefied respect on this\nintrepid and ingenious being, a vagabond like themselves, isolated like\nthemselves, frail like themselves, who had something admirable and\nall-powerful about him, who seemed supernatural to them, and whose\nphysiognomy was composed of all the grimaces of an old mountebank,\nmingled with the most ingenuous and charming smiles.\n\n Monsieur,  ventured the elder timidly,  you are not afraid of the\npolice, then? \n\n\nGavroche contented himself with replying: \n\n Brat! Nobody says  police,  they say  bobbies. \n\n\nThe smaller had his eyes wide open, but he said nothing. As he was on\nthe edge of the mat, the elder being in the middle, Gavroche tucked the\nblanket round him as a mother might have done, and heightened the mat\nunder his head with old rags, in such a way as to form a pillow for the\nchild. Then he turned to the elder: \n\n Hey! We re jolly comfortable here, ain t we? \n\n\n Ah, yes!  replied the elder, gazing at Gavroche with the expression of\na saved angel.\n\nThe two poor little children who had been soaked through, began to grow\nwarm once more.\n\n Ah, by the way,  continued Gavroche,  what were you bawling about? \n\n\nAnd pointing out the little one to his brother: \n\n A mite like that, I ve nothing to say about, but the idea of a big\nfellow like you crying! It s idiotic; you looked like a calf. \n\n\n Gracious,  replied the child,  we have no lodging. \n\n\n Bother!  retorted Gavroche,  you don t say  lodgings,  you say\n crib. \n\n\n And then, we were afraid of being alone like that at night. \n\n\n You don t say  night,  you say  darkmans. \n\n\n Thank you, sir,  said the child.\n\n Listen,  went on Gavroche,  you must never bawl again over anything.\nI ll take care of you. You shall see what fun we ll have. In summer,\nwe ll go to the Glaci re with Navet, one of my pals, we ll bathe in the\nGare, we ll run stark naked in front of the rafts on the bridge at\nAusterlitz, that makes the laundresses raging. They scream, they get\nmad, and if you only knew how ridiculous they are! We ll go and see the\nman-skeleton. And then I ll take you to the play. I ll take you to see\nFr d rick Lema tre. I have tickets, I know some of the actors, I even\nplayed in a piece once. There were a lot of us fellers, and we ran\nunder a cloth, and that made the sea. I ll get you an engagement at my\ntheatre. We ll go to see the savages. They ain t real, those savages\nain t. They wear pink tights that go all in wrinkles, and you can see\nwhere their elbows have been darned with white. Then, we ll go to the\nOpera. We ll get in with the hired applauders. The Opera claque is well\nmanaged. I wouldn t associate with the claque on the boulevard. At the\nOpera, just fancy! some of them pay twenty sous, but they re ninnies.\nThey re called dishclouts. And then we ll go to see the guillotine\nwork. I ll show you the executioner. He lives in the Rue des Marais.\nMonsieur Sanson. He has a letter-box at his door. Ah! we ll have famous\nfun! \n\n\nAt that moment a drop of wax fell on Gavroche s finger, and recalled\nhim to the realities of life.\n\n The deuce!  said he,  there s the wick giving out. Attention! I can t\nspend more than a sou a month on my lighting. When a body goes to bed,\nhe must sleep. We haven t the time to read M. Paul de Kock s romances.\nAnd besides, the light might pass through the cracks of the\nporte-coch re, and all the bobbies need to do is to see it. \n\n\n And then,  remarked the elder timidly, he alone dared talk to\nGavroche, and reply to him,  a spark might fall in the straw, and we\nmust look out and not burn the house down. \n\n\n People don t say  burn the house down,  remarked Gavroche,  they say\n blaze the crib. \n\n\nThe storm increased in violence, and the heavy downpour beat upon the\nback of the colossus amid claps of thunder.  You re taken in, rain! \nsaid Gavroche.  It amuses me to hear the decanter run down the legs of\nthe house. Winter is a stupid; it wastes its merchandise, it loses its\nlabor, it can t wet us, and that makes it kick up a row, old\nwater-carrier that it is. \n\n\nThis allusion to the thunder, all the consequences of which Gavroche,\nin his character of a philosopher of the nineteenth century, accepted,\nwas followed by a broad flash of lightning, so dazzling that a hint of\nit entered the belly of the elephant through the crack. Almost at the\nsame instant, the thunder rumbled with great fury. The two little\ncreatures uttered a shriek, and started up so eagerly that the network\ncame near being displaced, but Gavroche turned his bold face to them,\nand took advantage of the clap of thunder to burst into a laugh.\n\n Calm down, children. Don t topple over the edifice. That s fine,\nfirst-class thunder; all right. That s no slouch of a streak of\nlightning. Bravo for the good God! Deuce take it! It s almost as good\nas it is at the Ambigu. \n\n\nThat said, he restored order in the netting, pushed the two children\ngently down on the bed, pressed their knees, in order to stretch them\nout at full length, and exclaimed: \n\n Since the good God is lighting his candle, I can blow out mine. Now,\nbabes, now, my young humans, you must shut your peepers. It s very bad\nnot to sleep. It ll make you swallow the strainer, or, as they say, in\nfashionable society, stink in the gullet. Wrap yourself up well in the\nhide! I m going to put out the light. Are you ready? \n\n\n Yes,  murmured the elder,  I m all right. I seem to have feathers\nunder my head. \n\n\n People don t say  head,  cried Gavroche,  they say  nut . \n\n\nThe two children nestled close to each other, Gavroche finished\narranging them on the mat, drew the blanket up to their very ears, then\nrepeated, for the third time, his injunction in the hieratical tongue: \n\n Shut your peepers! \n\n\nAnd he snuffed out his tiny light.\n\nHardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar trembling began\nto affect the netting under which the three children lay.\n\nIt consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a metallic\nsound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire. This was\naccompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries.\n\nThe little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub overhead, and\nchilled with terror, jogged his brother s elbow; but the elder brother\nhad already shut his peepers, as Gavroche had ordered. Then the little\none, who could no longer control his terror, questioned Gavroche, but\nin a very low tone, and with bated breath: \n\n Sir? \n\n\n Hey?  said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes.\n\n What is that? \n\n\n It s the rats,  replied Gavroche.\n\nAnd he laid his head down on the mat again.\n\nThe rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass of the\nelephant, and who were the living black spots which we have already\nmentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle, so long as\nit had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern, which was the same as\ntheir city, had returned to darkness, scenting what the good\nstory-teller Perrault calls  fresh meat,  they had hurled themselves in\nthrongs on Gavroche s tent, had climbed to the top of it, and had begun\nto bite the meshes as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap.\n\nStill the little one could not sleep.\n\n Sir?  he began again.\n\n Hey?  said Gavroche.\n\n What are rats? \n\n\n They are mice. \n\n\nThis explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white mice\nin the course of his life, and he was not afraid of them. Nevertheless,\nhe lifted up his voice once more.\n\n Sir? \n\n\n Hey?  said Gavroche again.\n\n Why don t you have a cat? \n\n\n I did have one,  replied Gavroche,  I brought one here, but they ate\nher. \n\n\nThis second explanation undid the work of the first, and the little\nfellow began to tremble again.\n\nThe dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time: \n\n Monsieur? \n\n\n Hey? \n\n\n Who was it that was eaten? \n\n\n The cat. \n\n\n And who ate the cat? \n\n\n The rats. \n\n\n The mice? \n\n\n Yes, the rats. \n\n\nThe child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of mice which ate\ncats, pursued: \n\n Sir, would those mice eat us? \n\n\n Wouldn t they just!  ejaculated Gavroche.\n\nThe child s terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added: \n\n Don t be afraid. They can t get in. And besides, I m here! Here, catch\nhold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers! \n\n\nAt the same time Gavroche grasped the little fellow s hand across his\nbrother. The child pressed the hand close to him, and felt reassured.\nCourage and strength have these mysterious ways of communicating\nthemselves. Silence reigned round them once more, the sound of their\nvoices had frightened off the rats; at the expiration of a few minutes,\nthey came raging back, but in vain, the three little fellows were fast\nasleep and heard nothing more.\n\nThe hours of the night fled away. Darkness covered the vast Place de la\nBastille. A wintry gale, which mingled with the rain, blew in gusts,\nthe patrol searched all the doorways, alleys, enclosures, and obscure\nnooks, and in their search for nocturnal vagabonds they passed in\nsilence before the elephant; the monster, erect, motionless, staring\nopen-eyed into the shadows, had the appearance of dreaming happily over\nhis good deed; and sheltered from heaven and from men the three poor\nsleeping children.\n\nIn order to understand what is about to follow, the reader must\nremember, that, at that epoch, the Bastille guard-house was situated at\nthe other end of the square, and that what took place in the vicinity\nof the elephant could neither be seen nor heard by the sentinel.\n\nTowards the end of that hour which immediately precedes the dawn, a man\nturned from the Rue Saint-Antoine at a run, made the circuit of the\nenclosure of the column of July, and glided between the palings until\nhe was underneath the belly of the elephant. If any light had\nilluminated that man, it might have been divined from the thorough\nmanner in which he was soaked that he had passed the night in the rain.\nArrived beneath the elephant, he uttered a peculiar cry, which did not\nbelong to any human tongue, and which a paroquet alone could have\nimitated. Twice he repeated this cry, of whose orthography the\nfollowing barely conveys an idea: \n\n Kirikikiou! \n\n\nAt the second cry, a clear, young, merry voice responded from the belly\nof the elephant: \n\n Yes! \n\n\nAlmost immediately, the plank which closed the hole was drawn aside,\nand gave passage to a child who descended the elephant s leg, and fell\nbriskly near the man. It was Gavroche. The man was Montparnasse.\n\nAs for his cry of _Kirikikiou_, that was, doubtless, what the child had\nmeant, when he said: \n\n You will ask for Monsieur Gavroche. \n\n\nOn hearing it, he had waked with a start, had crawled out of his\n alcove,  pushing apart the netting a little, and carefully drawing it\ntogether again, then he had opened the trap, and descended.\n\nThe man and the child recognized each other silently amid the gloom:\nMontparnasse confined himself to the remark: \n\n We need you. Come, lend us a hand. \n\n\nThe lad asked for no further enlightenment.\n\n I m with you,  said he.\n\nAnd both took their way towards the Rue Saint-Antoine, whence\nMontparnasse had emerged, winding rapidly through the long file of\nmarket-gardeners  carts which descend towards the markets at that hour.\n\nThe market-gardeners, crouching, half-asleep, in their wagons, amid the\nsalads and vegetables, enveloped to their very eyes in their mufflers\non account of the beating rain, did not even glance at these strange\npedestrians.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE VICISSITUDES OF FLIGHT\n\n\nThis is what had taken place that same night at the La Force: \n\nAn escape had been planned between Babet, Brujon, Guelemer, and\nTh nardier, although Th nardier was in close confinement. Babet had\narranged the matter for his own benefit, on the same day, as the reader\nhas seen from Montparnasse s account to Gavroche. Montparnasse was to\nhelp them from outside.\n\nBrujon, after having passed a month in the punishment cell, had had\ntime, in the first place, to weave a rope, in the second, to mature a\nplan. In former times, those severe places where the discipline of the\nprison delivers the convict into his own hands, were composed of four\nstone walls, a stone ceiling, a flagged pavement, a camp bed, a grated\nwindow, and a door lined with iron, and were called _dungeons_; but the\ndungeon was judged to be too terrible; nowadays they are composed of an\niron door, a grated window, a camp bed, a flagged pavement, four stone\nwalls, and a stone ceiling, and are called _chambers of punishment_. A\nlittle light penetrates towards midday. The inconvenient point about\nthese chambers which, as the reader sees, are not dungeons, is that\nthey allow the persons who should be at work to think.\n\nSo Brujon meditated, and he emerged from the chamber of punishment with\na rope. As he had the name of being very dangerous in the Charlemagne\ncourtyard, he was placed in the New Building. The first thing he found\nin the New Building was Guelemer, the second was a nail; Guelemer, that\nis to say, crime; a nail, that is to say, liberty. Brujon, of whom it\nis high time that the reader should have a complete idea, was, with an\nappearance of delicate health and a profoundly premeditated languor, a\npolished, intelligent sprig, and a thief, who had a caressing glance,\nand an atrocious smile. His glance resulted from his will, and his\nsmile from his nature. His first studies in his art had been directed\nto roofs. He had made great progress in the industry of the men who\ntear off lead, who plunder the roofs and despoil the gutters by the\nprocess called _double pickings_.\n\nThe circumstance which put the finishing touch on the moment peculiarly\nfavorable for an attempt at escape, was that the roofers were re-laying\nand re-jointing, at that very moment, a portion of the slates on the\nprison. The Saint-Bernard courtyard was no longer absolutely isolated\nfrom the Charlemagne and the Saint-Louis courts. Up above there were\nscaffoldings and ladders; in other words, bridges and stairs in the\ndirection of liberty.\n\nThe New Building, which was the most cracked and decrepit thing to be\nseen anywhere in the world, was the weak point in the prison. The walls\nwere eaten by saltpetre to such an extent that the authorities had been\nobliged to line the vaults of the dormitories with a sheathing of wood,\nbecause stones were in the habit of becoming detached and falling on\nthe prisoners in their beds. In spite of this antiquity, the\nauthorities committed the error of confining in the New Building the\nmost troublesome prisoners, of placing there  the hard cases,  as they\nsay in prison parlance.\n\nThe New Building contained four dormitories, one above the other, and a\ntop story which was called the Bel-Air (Fine-Air). A large\nchimney-flue, probably from some ancient kitchen of the Dukes de la\nForce, started from the ground floor, traversed all four stories, cut\nthe dormitories, where it figured as a flattened pillar, into two\nportions, and finally pierced the roof.\n\nGuelemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been placed,\nby way of precaution, on the lower story. Chance ordained that the\nheads of their beds should rest against the chimney.\n\nTh nardier was directly over their heads in the top story known as\nFine-Air. The pedestrian who halts on the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine,\nafter passing the barracks of the firemen, in front of the\nporte-coch re of the bathing establishment, beholds a yard full of\nflowers and shrubs in wooden boxes, at the extremity of which spreads\nout a little white rotunda with two wings, brightened up with green\nshutters, the bucolic dream of Jean Jacques.\n\nNot more than ten years ago, there rose above that rotunda an enormous\nblack, hideous, bare wall by which it was backed up.\n\nThis was the outer wall of La Force.\n\nThis wall, beside that rotunda, was Milton viewed through Berquin.\n\nLofty as it was, this wall was overtopped by a still blacker roof,\nwhich could be seen beyond. This was the roof of the New Building.\nThere one could descry four dormer-windows, guarded with bars; they\nwere the windows of the Fine-Air.\n\nA chimney pierced the roof; this was the chimney which traversed the\ndormitories.\n\nThe Bel-Air, that top story of the New Building, was a sort of large\nhall, with a Mansard roof, guarded with triple gratings and double\ndoors of sheet iron, which were studded with enormous bolts. When one\nentered from the north end, one had on one s left the four\ndormer-windows, on one s right, facing the windows, at regular\nintervals, four square, tolerably vast cages, separated by narrow\npassages, built of masonry to about the height of the elbow, and the\nrest, up to the roof, of iron bars.\n\nTh nardier had been in solitary confinement in one of these cages since\nthe night of the 3d of February. No one was ever able to discover how,\nand by what connivance, he succeeded in procuring, and secreting a\nbottle of wine, invented, so it is said, by Desrues, with which a\nnarcotic is mixed, and which the band of the _Endormeurs_, or\n_Sleep-compellers_, rendered famous.\n\nThere are, in many prisons, treacherous employees, half-jailers,\nhalf-thieves, who assist in escapes, who sell to the police an\nunfaithful service, and who turn a penny whenever they can.\n\nOn that same night, then, when Little Gavroche picked up the two lost\nchildren, Brujon and Guelemer, who knew that Babet, who had escaped\nthat morning, was waiting for them in the street as well as\nMontparnasse, rose softly, and with the nail which Brujon had found,\nbegan to pierce the chimney against which their beds stood. The rubbish\nfell on Brujon s bed, so that they were not heard. Showers mingled with\nthunder shook the doors on their hinges, and created in the prison a\nterrible and opportune uproar. Those of the prisoners who woke,\npretended to fall asleep again, and left Guelemer and Brujon to their\nown devices. Brujon was adroit; Guelemer was vigorous. Before any sound\nhad reached the watcher, who was sleeping in the grated cell which\nopened into the dormitory, the wall had been pierced, the chimney\nscaled, the iron grating which barred the upper orifice of the flue\nforced, and the two redoubtable ruffians were on the roof. The wind and\nrain redoubled, the roof was slippery.\n\n What a good night to leg it!  said Brujon.\n\nAn abyss six feet broad and eighty feet deep separated them from the\nsurrounding wall. At the bottom of this abyss, they could see the\nmusket of a sentinel gleaming through the gloom. They fastened one end\nof the rope which Brujon had spun in his dungeon to the stumps of the\niron bars which they had just wrenched off, flung the other over the\nouter wall, crossed the abyss at one bound, clung to the coping of the\nwall, got astride of it, let themselves slip, one after the other,\nalong the rope, upon a little roof which touches the bath-house, pulled\ntheir rope after them, jumped down into the courtyard of the\nbath-house, traversed it, pushed open the porter s wicket, beside which\nhung his rope, pulled this, opened the porte-coch re, and found\nthemselves in the street.\n\nThree-quarters of an hour had not elapsed since they had risen in bed\nin the dark, nail in hand, and their project in their heads.\n\nA few moments later they had joined Babet and Montparnasse, who were\nprowling about the neighborhood.\n\nThey had broken their rope in pulling it after them, and a bit of it\nremained attached to the chimney on the roof. They had sustained no\nother damage, however, than that of scratching nearly all the skin off\ntheir hands.\n\nThat night, Th nardier was warned, without any one being able to\nexplain how, and was not asleep.\n\nTowards one o clock in the morning, the night being very dark, he saw\ntwo shadows pass along the roof, in the rain and squalls, in front of\nthe dormer-window which was opposite his cage. One halted at the\nwindow, long enough to dart in a glance. This was Brujon.\n\nTh nardier recognized him, and understood. This was enough.\n\nTh nardier, rated as a burglar, and detained as a measure of precaution\nunder the charge of organizing a nocturnal ambush, with armed force,\nwas kept in sight. The sentry, who was relieved every two hours,\nmarched up and down in front of his cage with loaded musket. The\nFine-Air was lighted by a skylight. The prisoner had on his feet\nfetters weighing fifty pounds. Every day, at four o clock in the\nafternoon, a jailer, escorted by two dogs, this was still in vogue at\nthat time, entered his cage, deposited beside his bed a loaf of black\nbread weighing two pounds, a jug of water, a bowl filled with rather\nthin bouillon, in which swam a few Mayagan beans, inspected his irons\nand tapped the bars. This man and his dogs made two visits during the\nnight.\n\nTh nardier had obtained permission to keep a sort of iron bolt which he\nused to spike his bread into a crack in the wall,  in order to preserve\nit from the rats,  as he said. As Th nardier was kept in sight, no\nobjection had been made to this spike. Still, it was remembered\nafterwards, that one of the jailers had said:  It would be better to\nlet him have only a wooden spike. \n\n\nAt two o clock in the morning, the sentinel, who was an old soldier,\nwas relieved, and replaced by a conscript. A few moments later, the man\nwith the dogs paid his visit, and went off without noticing anything,\nexcept, possibly, the excessive youth and  the rustic air  of the  raw\nrecruit.  Two hours afterwards, at four o clock, when they came to\nrelieve the conscript, he was found asleep on the floor, lying like a\nlog near Th nardier s cage. As for Th nardier, he was no longer there.\nThere was a hole in the ceiling of his cage, and, above it, another\nhole in the roof. One of the planks of his bed had been wrenched off,\nand probably carried away with him, as it was not found. They also\nseized in his cell a half-empty bottle which contained the remains of\nthe stupefying wine with which the soldier had been drugged. The\nsoldier s bayonet had disappeared.\n\nAt the moment when this discovery was made, it was assumed that\nTh nardier was out of reach. The truth is, that he was no longer in the\nNew Building, but that he was still in great danger.\n\nTh nardier, on reaching the roof of the New Building, had found the\nremains of Brujon s rope hanging to the bars of the upper trap of the\nchimney, but, as this broken fragment was much too short, he had not\nbeen able to escape by the outer wall, as Brujon and Guelemer had done.\n\nWhen one turns from the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile,\none almost immediately encounters a repulsive ruin. There stood on that\nspot, in the last century, a house of which only the back wall now\nremains, a regular wall of masonry, which rises to the height of the\nthird story between the adjoining buildings. This ruin can be\nrecognized by two large square windows which are still to be seen\nthere; the middle one, that nearest the right gable, is barred with a\nworm-eaten beam adjusted like a prop. Through these windows there was\nformerly visible a lofty and lugubrious wall, which was a fragment of\nthe outer wall of La Force.\n\nThe empty space on the street left by the demolished house is\nhalf-filled by a fence of rotten boards, shored up by five stone posts.\nIn this recess lies concealed a little shanty which leans against the\nportion of the ruin which has remained standing. The fence has a gate,\nwhich, a few years ago, was fastened only by a latch.\n\nIt was the crest of this ruin that Th nardier had succeeded in\nreaching, a little after one o clock in the morning.\n\nHow had he got there? That is what no one has ever been able to explain\nor understand. The lightning must, at the same time, have hindered and\nhelped him. Had he made use of the ladders and scaffoldings of the\nslaters to get from roof to roof, from enclosure to enclosure, from\ncompartment to compartment, to the buildings of the Charlemagne court,\nthen to the buildings of the Saint-Louis court, to the outer wall, and\nthence to the hut on the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile? But in that itinerary\nthere existed breaks which seemed to render it an impossibility. Had he\nplaced the plank from his bed like a bridge from the roof of the\nFine-Air to the outer wall, and crawled flat, on his belly on the\ncoping of the outer wall the whole distance round the prison as far as\nthe hut? But the outer wall of La Force formed a crenellated and\nunequal line; it mounted and descended, it dropped at the firemen s\nbarracks, it rose towards the bath-house, it was cut in twain by\nbuildings, it was not even of the same height on the Hotel Lamoignon as\non the Rue Pav e; everywhere occurred falls and right angles; and then,\nthe sentinels must have espied the dark form of the fugitive; hence,\nthe route taken by Th nardier still remains rather inexplicable. In two\nmanners, flight was impossible. Had Th nardier, spurred on by that\nthirst for liberty which changes precipices into ditches, iron bars\ninto wattles of osier, a legless man into an athlete, a gouty man into\na bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into intelligence, and\nintelligence into genius, had Th nardier invented a third mode? No one\nhas ever found out.\n\nThe marvels of escape cannot always be accounted for. The man who makes\nhis escape, we repeat, is inspired; there is something of the star and\nof the lightning in the mysterious gleam of flight; the effort towards\ndeliverance is no less surprising than the flight towards the sublime,\nand one says of the escaped thief:  How did he contrive to scale that\nwall?  in the same way that one says of Corneille:  Where did he find\n_the means of dying?_ \n\n\nAt all events, dripping with perspiration, drenched with rain, with his\nclothes hanging in ribbons, his hands flayed, his elbows bleeding, his\nknees torn, Th nardier had reached what children, in their figurative\nlanguage, call _the edge_ of the wall of the ruin, there he had\nstretched himself out at full length, and there his strength had failed\nhim. A steep escarpment three stories high separated him from the\npavement of the street.\n\nThe rope which he had was too short.\n\nThere he waited, pale, exhausted, desperate with all the despair which\nhe had undergone, still hidden by the night, but telling himself that\nthe day was on the point of dawning, alarmed at the idea of hearing the\nneighboring clock of Saint-Paul strike four within a few minutes, an\nhour when the sentinel was relieved and when the latter would be found\nasleep under the pierced roof, staring in horror at a terrible depth,\nat the light of the street lanterns, the wet, black pavement, that\npavement longed for yet frightful, which meant death, and which meant\nliberty.\n\nHe asked himself whether his three accomplices in flight had succeeded,\nif they had heard him, and if they would come to his assistance. He\nlistened. With the exception of the patrol, no one had passed through\nthe street since he had been there. Nearly the whole of the descent of\nthe market-gardeners from Montreuil, from Charonne, from Vincennes, and\nfrom Bercy to the markets was accomplished through the Rue\nSaint-Antoine.\n\nFour o clock struck. Th nardier shuddered. A few moments later, that\nterrified and confused uproar which follows the discovery of an escape\nbroke forth in the prison. The sound of doors opening and shutting, the\ncreaking of gratings on their hinges, a tumult in the guard-house, the\nhoarse shouts of the turnkeys, the shock of musket-butts on the\npavement of the courts, reached his ears. Lights ascended and descended\npast the grated windows of the dormitories, a torch ran along the\nridge-pole of the top story of the New Building, the firemen belonging\nin the barracks on the right had been summoned. Their helmets, which\nthe torch lighted up in the rain, went and came along the roofs. At the\nsame time, Th nardier perceived in the direction of the Bastille a wan\nwhiteness lighting up the edge of the sky in doleful wise.\n\nHe was on top of a wall ten inches wide, stretched out under the heavy\nrains, with two gulfs to right and left, unable to stir, subject to the\ngiddiness of a possible fall, and to the horror of a certain arrest,\nand his thoughts, like the pendulum of a clock, swung from one of these\nideas to the other:  Dead if I fall, caught if I stay.  In the midst of\nthis anguish, he suddenly saw, the street being still dark, a man who\nwas gliding along the walls and coming from the Rue Pav e, halt in the\nrecess above which Th nardier was, as it were, suspended. Here this man\nwas joined by a second, who walked with the same caution, then by a\nthird, then by a fourth. When these men were re-united, one of them\nlifted the latch of the gate in the fence, and all four entered the\nenclosure in which the shanty stood. They halted directly under\nTh nardier. These men had evidently chosen this vacant space in order\nthat they might consult without being seen by the passers-by or by the\nsentinel who guards the wicket of La Force a few paces distant. It must\nbe added, that the rain kept this sentinel blocked in his box.\nTh nardier, not being able to distinguish their visages, lent an ear to\ntheir words with the desperate attention of a wretch who feels himself\nlost.\n\nTh nardier saw something resembling a gleam of hope flash before his\neyes, these men conversed in slang.\n\nThe first said in a low but distinct voice: \n\n Let s cut. What are we up to here? \n\n\nThe second replied:  It s raining hard enough to put out the very\ndevil s fire. And the bobbies will be along instanter. There s a\nsoldier on guard yonder. We shall get nabbed here. \n\n\nThese two words, _icigo_ and _icicaille_, both of which mean _ici_, and\nwhich belong, the first to the slang of the barriers, the second to the\nslang of the Temple, were flashes of light for Th nardier. By the\n_icigo_ he recognized Brujon, who was a prowler of the barriers, by the\n_icicaille_ he knew Babet, who, among his other trades, had been an\nold-clothes broker at the Temple.\n\nThe antique slang of the great century is no longer spoken except in\nthe Temple, and Babet was really the only person who spoke it in all\nits purity. Had it not been for the _icicaille_, Th nardier would not\nhave recognized him, for he had entirely changed his voice.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the third man had intervened.\n\n There s no hurry yet, let s wait a bit. How do we know that he doesn t\nstand in need of us? \n\n\nBy this, which was nothing but French, Th nardier recognized\nMontparnasse, who made it a point in his elegance to understand all\nslangs and to speak none of them.\n\nAs for the fourth, he held his peace, but his huge shoulders betrayed\nhim. Th nardier did not hesitate. It was Guelemer.\n\nBrujon replied almost impetuously but still in a low tone: \n\n What are you jabbering about? The tavern-keeper hasn t managed to cut\nhis stick. He don t tumble to the racket, that he don t! You have to be\na pretty knowing cove to tear up your shirt, cut up your sheet to make\na rope, punch holes in doors, get up false papers, make false keys,\nfile your irons, hang out your cord, hide yourself, and disguise\nyourself! The old fellow hasn t managed to play it, he doesn t\nunderstand how to work the business. \n\n\nBabet added, still in that classical slang which was spoken by\nPoulailler and Cartouche, and which is to the bold, new, highly colored\nand risky argot used by Brujon what the language of Racine is to the\nlanguage of Andr  Chenier: \n\n Your tavern-keeper must have been nabbed in the act. You have to be\nknowing. He s only a greenhorn. He must have let himself be taken in by\na bobby, perhaps even by a sheep who played it on him as his pal.\nListen, Montparnasse, do you hear those shouts in the prison? You have\nseen all those lights. He s recaptured, there! He ll get off with\ntwenty years. I ain t afraid, I ain t a coward, but there ain t\nanything more to do, or otherwise they d lead us a dance. Don t get\nmad, come with us, let s go drink a bottle of old wine together. \n\n\n One doesn t desert one s friends in a scrape,  grumbled Montparnasse.\n\n I tell you he s nabbed!  retorted Brujon.  At the present moment, the\ninn-keeper ain t worth a ha penny. We can t do nothing for him. Let s\nbe off. Every minute I think a bobby has got me in his fist. \n\n\nMontparnasse no longer offered more than a feeble resistance; the fact\nis, that these four men, with the fidelity of ruffians who never\nabandon each other, had prowled all night long about La Force, great as\nwas their peril, in the hope of seeing Th nardier make his appearance\non the top of some wall. But the night, which was really growing too\nfine, for the downpour was such as to render all the streets\ndeserted, the cold which was overpowering them, their soaked garments,\ntheir hole-ridden shoes, the alarming noise which had just burst forth\nin the prison, the hours which had elapsed, the patrol which they had\nencountered, the hope which was vanishing, all urged them to beat a\nretreat. Montparnasse himself, who was, perhaps, almost Th nardier s\nson-in-law, yielded. A moment more, and they would be gone. Th nardier\nwas panting on his wall like the shipwrecked sufferers of the _M duse_\non their raft when they beheld the vessel which had appeared in sight\nvanish on the horizon.\n\nHe dared not call to them; a cry might be heard and ruin everything. An\nidea occurred to him, a last idea, a flash of inspiration; he drew from\nhis pocket the end of Brujon s rope, which he had detached from the\nchimney of the New Building, and flung it into the space enclosed by\nthe fence.\n\nThis rope fell at their feet.\n\n A widow, 37 said Babet.\n\n My tortouse! 38 said Brujon.\n\n The tavern-keeper is there,  said Montparnasse.\n\nThey raised their eyes. Th nardier thrust out his head a very little.\n\n Quick!  said Montparnasse,  have you the other end of the rope,\nBrujon? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Knot the two pieces together, we ll fling him the rope, he can fasten\nit to the wall, and he ll have enough of it to get down with. \n\n\nTh nardier ran the risk, and spoke: \n\n I am paralyzed with cold. \n\n\n We ll warm you up. \n\n\n I can t budge. \n\n\n Let yourself slide, we ll catch you. \n\n\n My hands are benumbed. \n\n\n Only fasten the rope to the wall. \n\n\n I can t. \n\n\n Then one of us must climb up,  said Montparnasse.\n\n Three stories!  ejaculated Brujon.\n\nAn ancient plaster flue, which had served for a stove that had been\nused in the shanty in former times, ran along the wall and mounted\nalmost to the very spot where they could see Th nardier. This flue,\nthen much damaged and full of cracks, has since fallen, but the marks\nof it are still visible.\n\nIt was very narrow.\n\n One might get up by the help of that,  said Montparnasse.\n\n By that flue?  exclaimed Babet,  a grown-up cove, never! it would take\na brat. \n\n A brat must be got,  resumed Brujon.\n\n Where are we to find a young  un?  said Guelemer.\n\n Wait,  said Montparnasse.  I ve got the very article. \n\nHe opened the gate of the fence very softly, made sure that no one was\npassing along the street, stepped out cautiously, shut the gate behind\nhim, and set off at a run in the direction of the Bastille.\n\nSeven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Th nardier;\nBabet, Brujon, and Guelemer did not open their lips; at last the gate\nopened once more, and Montparnasse appeared, breathless, and followed\nby Gavroche. The rain still rendered the street completely deserted.\n\nLittle Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the forms of these\nruffians with a tranquil air. The water was dripping from his hair.\nGuelemer addressed him: \n\n Are you a man, young  un? \n\nGavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied: \n\n A young  un like me s a man, and men like you are babes. \n\n\n The brat s tongue s well hung!  exclaimed Babet.\n\n The Paris brat ain t made of straw,  added Brujon.\n\n What do you want?  asked Gavroche.\n\nMontparnasse answered: \n\n Climb up that flue. \n\n With this rope,  said Babet.\n\n And fasten it,  continued Brujon.\n\n To the top of the wall,  went on Babet.\n\n To the cross-bar of the window,  added Brujon.\n\n And then?  said Gavroche.\n\n There!  said Guelemer.\n\nThe gamin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the windows, and made\nthat indescribable and disdainful noise with his lips which signifies: \n\n Is that all! \n\n\n There s a man up there whom you are to save,  resumed Montparnasse.\n\n Will you?  began Brujon again.\n\n Greenhorn!  replied the lad, as though the question appeared a most\nunprecedented one to him.\n\nAnd he took off his shoes.\n\nGuelemer seized Gavroche by one arm, set him on the roof of the shanty,\nwhose worm-eaten planks bent beneath the urchin s weight, and handed\nhim the rope which Brujon had knotted together during Montparnasse s\nabsence. The gamin directed his steps towards the flue, which it was\neasy to enter, thanks to a large crack which touched the roof. At the\nmoment when he was on the point of ascending, Th nardier, who saw life\nand safety approaching, bent over the edge of the wall; the first light\nof dawn struck white upon his brow dripping with sweat, upon his livid\ncheek-bones, his sharp and savage nose, his bristling gray beard, and\nGavroche recognized him.\n\n Hullo! it s my father! Oh, that won t hinder. \n\n\nAnd taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely began the ascent.\n\nHe reached the summit of the hut, bestrode the old wall as though it\nhad been a horse, and knotted the rope firmly to the upper cross-bar of\nthe window.\n\nA moment later, Th nardier was in the street.\n\nAs soon as he touched the pavement, as soon as he found himself out of\ndanger, he was no longer either weary, or chilled or trembling; the\nterrible things from which he had escaped vanished like smoke, all that\nstrange and ferocious mind awoke once more, and stood erect and free,\nready to march onward.\n\nThese were this man s first words: \n\n Now, whom are we to eat? \n\n\nIt is useless to explain the sense of this frightfully transparent\nremark, which signifies both to kill, to assassinate, and to plunder.\n_To eat_, true sense: _to devour_.\n\n Let s get well into a corner,  said Brujon.  Let s settle it in three\nwords, and part at once. There was an affair that promised well in the\nRue Plumet, a deserted street, an isolated house, an old rotten gate on\na garden, and lone women. \n\n\n Well! why not?  demanded Th nardier.\n\n Your girl,  ponine, went to see about the matter,  replied Babet.\n\n And she brought a biscuit to Magnon,  added Guelemer.  Nothing to be\nmade there. \n\n\n The girl s no fool,  said Th nardier.  Still, it must be seen to. \n\n\n Yes, yes,  said Brujon,  it must be looked up. \n\n\nIn the meanwhile, none of the men seemed to see Gavroche, who, during\nthis colloquy, had seated himself on one of the fence-posts; he waited\na few moments, thinking that perhaps his father would turn towards him,\nthen he put on his shoes again, and said: \n\n Is that all? You don t want any more, my men? Now you re out of your\nscrape. I m off. I must go and get my brats out of bed. \n\nAnd off he went.\n\nThe five men emerged, one after another, from the enclosure.\n\nWhen Gavroche had disappeared at the corner of the Rue des Ballets,\nBabet took Th nardier aside.\n\n Did you take a good look at that young  un?  he asked.\n\n What young  un? \n\n The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope. \n\n Not particularly. \n\n Well, I don t know, but it strikes me that it was your son. \n\n Bah!  said Th nardier,  do you think so? \n\n\n\n\nBOOK SEVENTH SLANG\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Slang]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I ORIGIN\n\n\n_Pigritia_ is a terrible word.\n\nIt engenders a whole world, _la p gre_, for which read _theft_, and a\nhell, _la p grenne_, for which read _hunger_.\n\nThus, idleness is the mother.\n\nShe has a son, theft, and a daughter, hunger.\n\nWhere are we at this moment? In the land of slang.\n\nWhat is slang? It is at one and the same time, a nation and a dialect;\nit is theft in its two kinds; people and language.\n\nWhen, four and thirty years ago, the narrator of this grave and sombre\nhistory introduced into a work written with the same aim as this39 a\nthief who talked argot, there arose amazement and clamor. What! How!\nArgot! Why, argot is horrible! It is the language of prisons, galleys,\nconvicts, of everything that is most abominable in society!  etc., etc.\n\nWe have never understood this sort of objections.\n\nSince that time, two powerful romancers, one of whom is a profound\nobserver of the human heart, the other an intrepid friend of the\npeople, Balzac and Eug ne Sue, having represented their ruffians as\ntalking their natural language, as the author of _The Last Day of a\nCondemned Man_ did in 1828, the same objections have been raised.\nPeople repeated:  What do authors mean by that revolting dialect? Slang\nis odious! Slang makes one shudder! \n\n\nWho denies that? Of course it does.\n\nWhen it is a question of probing a wound, a gulf, a society, since when\nhas it been considered wrong to go too far? to go to the bottom? We\nhave always thought that it was sometimes a courageous act, and, at\nleast, a simple and useful deed, worthy of the sympathetic attention\nwhich duty accepted and fulfilled merits. Why should one not explore\neverything, and study everything? Why should one halt on the way? The\nhalt is a matter depending on the sounding-line, and not on the\nleadsman.\n\nCertainly, too, it is neither an attractive nor an easy task to\nundertake an investigation into the lowest depths of the social order,\nwhere terra firma comes to an end and where mud begins, to rummage in\nthose vague, murky waves, to follow up, to seize and to fling, still\nquivering, upon the pavement that abject dialect which is dripping with\nfilth when thus brought to the light, that pustulous vocabulary each\nword of which seems an unclean ring from a monster of the mire and the\nshadows. Nothing is more lugubrious than the contemplation thus in its\nnudity, in the broad light of thought, of the horrible swarming of\nslang. It seems, in fact, to be a sort of horrible beast made for the\nnight which has just been torn from its cesspool. One thinks one\nbeholds a frightful, living, and bristling thicket which quivers,\nrustles, wavers, returns to shadow, threatens and glares. One word\nresembles a claw, another an extinguished and bleeding eye, such and\nsuch a phrase seems to move like the claw of a crab. All this is alive\nwith the hideous vitality of things which have been organized out of\ndisorganization.\n\nNow, when has horror ever excluded study? Since when has malady\nbanished medicine? Can one imagine a naturalist refusing to study the\nviper, the bat, the scorpion, the centipede, the tarantula, and one who\nwould cast them back into their darkness, saying:  Oh! how ugly that\nis!  The thinker who should turn aside from slang would resemble a\nsurgeon who should avert his face from an ulcer or a wart. He would be\nlike a philologist refusing to examine a fact in language, a\nphilosopher hesitating to scrutinize a fact in humanity. For, it must\nbe stated to those who are ignorant of the case, that argot is both a\nliterary phenomenon and a social result. What is slang, properly\nspeaking? It is the language of wretchedness.\n\nWe may be stopped; the fact may be put to us in general terms, which is\none way of attenuating it; we may be told, that all trades,\nprofessions, it may be added, all the accidents of the social hierarchy\nand all forms of intelligence, have their own slang. The merchant who\nsays:  Montpellier not active, Marseilles fine quality,  the broker on\n change who says:  Assets at end of current month,  the gambler who\nsays: _ Tiers et tout, refait de pique, _ the sheriff of the Norman\nIsles who says:  The holder in fee reverting to his landed estate\ncannot claim the fruits of that estate during the hereditary seizure of\nthe real estate by the mortgagor,  the playwright who says:  The piece\nwas hissed,  the comedian who says:  I ve made a hit,  the philosopher\nwho says:  Phenomenal triplicity,  the huntsman who says: _ Voileci\nallais, Voileci fuyant, _ the phrenologist who says:  Amativeness,\ncombativeness, secretiveness,  the infantry soldier who says:  My\nshooting-iron,  the cavalry-man who says:  My turkey-cock,  the\nfencing-master who says:  Tierce, quarte, break,  the printer who says:\n My shooting-stick and galley, all, printer, fencing-master, cavalry\ndragoon, infantry-man, phrenologist, huntsman, philosopher, comedian,\nplaywright, sheriff, gambler, stock-broker, and merchant, speak slang.\nThe painter who says:  My grinder,  the notary who says:  My\nSkip-the-Gutter,  the hairdresser who says:  My mealyback,  the cobbler\nwho says:  My cub,  talks slang. Strictly speaking, if one absolutely\ninsists on the point, all the different fashions of saying the right\nand the left, the sailor s _port_ and _starboard_, the scene-shifter s\n_court-side_, and _garden-side_, the beadle s _Gospel-side_ and\n_Epistle-side_, are slang. There is the slang of the affected lady as\nwell as of the _pr cieuses_. The Hotel Rambouillet nearly adjoins the\nCour des Miracles. There is a slang of duchesses, witness this phrase\ncontained in a love-letter from a very great lady and a very pretty\nwoman of the Restoration:  You will find in this gossip a fultitude of\nreasons why I should libertize. 40 Diplomatic ciphers are slang; the\npontifical chancellery by using 26 for Rome, _grkztntgzyal_ for\ndespatch, and _abfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI_. for the Duc de Modena, speaks\nslang. The physicians of the Middle Ages who, for carrot, radish, and\nturnip, said _Opoponach, perfroschinum, reptitalmus, dracatholicum,\nangelorum, postmegorum_, talked slang. The sugar-manufacturer who says:\n Loaf, clarified, lumps, bastard, common, burnt, this honest\nmanufacturer talks slang. A certain school of criticism twenty years\nago, which used to say:  Half of the works of Shakespeare consists of\nplays upon words and puns, talked slang. The poet, and the artist who,\nwith profound understanding, would designate M. de Montmorency as  a\nbourgeois,  if he were not a judge of verses and statues, speak slang.\nThe classic Academician who calls flowers  Flora,  fruits,  Pomona, \nthe sea,  Neptune,  love,  fires,  beauty,  charms,  a horse,  a\ncourser,  the white or tricolored cockade,  the rose of Bellona,  the\nthree-cornered hat,  Mars  triangle, that classical Academician talks\nslang. Algebra, medicine, botany, have each their slang. The tongue\nwhich is employed on board ship, that wonderful language of the sea,\nwhich is so complete and so picturesque, which was spoken by Jean Bart,\nDuquesne, Suffren, and Duperr , which mingles with the whistling of the\nrigging, the sound of the speaking-trumpets, the shock of the\nboarding-irons, the roll of the sea, the wind, the gale, the cannon, is\nwholly a heroic and dazzling slang, which is to the fierce slang of the\nthieves what the lion is to the jackal.\n\nNo doubt. But say what we will, this manner of understanding the word\n_slang_ is an extension which every one will not admit. For our part,\nwe reserve to the word its ancient and precise, circumscribed and\ndetermined significance, and we restrict slang to slang. The veritable\nslang and the slang that is pre-eminently slang, if the two words can\nbe coupled thus, the slang immemorial which was a kingdom, is nothing\nelse, we repeat, than the homely, uneasy, crafty, treacherous,\nvenomous, cruel, equivocal, vile, profound, fatal tongue of\nwretchedness. There exists, at the extremity of all abasement and all\nmisfortunes, a last misery which revolts and makes up its mind to enter\ninto conflict with the whole mass of fortunate facts and reigning\nrights; a fearful conflict, where, now cunning, now violent, unhealthy\nand ferocious at one and the same time, it attacks the social order\nwith pin-pricks through vice, and with club-blows through crime. To\nmeet the needs of this conflict, wretchedness has invented a language\nof combat, which is slang.\n\nTo keep afloat and to rescue from oblivion, to hold above the gulf,\nwere it but a fragment of some language which man has spoken and which\nwould, otherwise, be lost, that is to say, one of the elements, good or\nbad, of which civilization is composed, or by which it is complicated,\nto extend the records of social observation; is to serve civilization\nitself. This service Plautus rendered, consciously or unconsciously, by\nmaking two Carthaginian soldiers talk Ph nician; that service Moli re\nrendered, by making so many of his characters talk Levantine and all\nsorts of dialects. Here objections spring up afresh. Ph nician, very\ngood! Levantine, quite right! Even dialect, let that pass! They are\ntongues which have belonged to nations or provinces; but slang! What is\nthe use of preserving slang? What is the good of assisting slang  to\nsurvive ?\n\nTo this we reply in one word, only. Assuredly, if the tongue which a\nnation or a province has spoken is worthy of interest, the language\nwhich has been spoken by a misery is still more worthy of attention and\nstudy.\n\nIt is the language which has been spoken, in France, for example, for\nmore than four centuries, not only by a misery, but by every possible\nhuman misery.\n\nAnd then, we insist upon it, the study of social deformities and\ninfirmities, and the task of pointing them out with a view to remedy,\nis not a business in which choice is permitted. The historian of\nmanners and ideas has no less austere a mission than the historian of\nevents. The latter has the surface of civilization, the conflicts of\ncrowns, the births of princes, the marriages of kings, battles,\nassemblages, great public men, revolutions in the daylight, everything\non the exterior; the other historian has the interior, the depths, the\npeople who toil, suffer, wait, the oppressed woman, the agonizing\nchild, the secret war between man and man, obscure ferocities,\nprejudices, plotted iniquities, the subterranean, the indistinct\ntremors of multitudes, the die-of-hunger, the counter-blows of the law,\nthe secret evolution of souls, the go-bare-foot, the bare-armed, the\ndisinherited, the orphans, the unhappy, and the infamous, all the forms\nwhich roam through the darkness. He must descend with his heart full of\ncharity, and severity at the same time, as a brother and as a judge, to\nthose impenetrable casemates where crawl, pell-mell, those who bleed\nand those who deal the blow, those who weep and those who curse, those\nwho fast and those who devour, those who endure evil and those who\ninflict it. Have these historians of hearts and souls duties at all\ninferior to the historians of external facts? Does any one think that\nAlighieri has any fewer things to say than Machiavelli? Is the under\nside of civilization any less important than the upper side merely\nbecause it is deeper and more sombre? Do we really know the mountain\nwell when we are not acquainted with the cavern?\n\nLet us say, moreover, parenthetically, that from a few words of what\nprecedes a marked separation might be inferred between the two classes\nof historians which does not exist in our mind. No one is a good\nhistorian of the patent, visible, striking, and public life of peoples,\nif he is not, at the same time, in a certain measure, the historian of\ntheir deep and hidden life; and no one is a good historian of the\ninterior unless he understands how, at need, to be the historian of the\nexterior also. The history of manners and ideas permeates the history\nof events, and this is true reciprocally. They constitute two different\norders of facts which correspond to each other, which are always\ninterlaced, and which often bring forth results. All the lineaments\nwhich providence traces on the surface of a nation have their\nparallels, sombre but distinct, in their depths, and all convulsions of\nthe depths produce ebullitions on the surface. True history being a\nmixture of all things, the true historian mingles in everything.\n\nMan is not a circle with a single centre; he is an ellipse with a\ndouble focus. Facts form one of these, and ideas the other.\n\nSlang is nothing but a dressing-room where the tongue having some bad\naction to perform, disguises itself. There it clothes itself in\nword-masks, in metaphor-rags. In this guise it becomes horrible.\n\nOne finds it difficult to recognize. Is it really the French tongue,\nthe great human tongue? Behold it ready to step upon the stage and to\nretort upon crime, and prepared for all the employments of the\nrepertory of evil. It no longer walks, it hobbles; it limps on the\ncrutch of the Court of Miracles, a crutch metamorphosable into a club;\nit is called vagrancy; every sort of spectre, its dressers, have\npainted its face, it crawls and rears, the double gait of the reptile.\nHenceforth, it is apt at all r les, it is made suspicious by the\ncounterfeiter, covered with verdigris by the forger, blacked by the\nsoot of the incendiary; and the murderer applies its rouge.\n\nWhen one listens, by the side of honest men, at the portals of society,\none overhears the dialogues of those who are on the outside. One\ndistinguishes questions and replies. One perceives, without\nunderstanding it, a hideous murmur, sounding almost like human accents,\nbut more nearly resembling a howl than an articulate word. It is slang.\nThe words are misshapen and stamped with an indescribable and fantastic\nbestiality. One thinks one hears hydras talking.\n\nIt is unintelligible in the dark. It gnashes and whispers, completing\nthe gloom with mystery. It is black in misfortune, it is blacker still\nin crime; these two blacknesses amalgamated, compose slang. Obscurity\nin the atmosphere, obscurity in acts, obscurity in voices. Terrible,\ntoad-like tongue which goes and comes, leaps, crawls, slobbers, and\nstirs about in monstrous wise in that immense gray fog composed of rain\nand night, of hunger, of vice, of falsehood, of injustice, of nudity,\nof suffocation, and of winter, the high noonday of the miserable.\n\nLet us have compassion on the chastised. Alas! Who are we ourselves?\nWho am I who now address you? Who are you who are listening to me? And\nare you very sure that we have done nothing before we were born? The\nearth is not devoid of resemblance to a jail. Who knows whether man is\nnot a recaptured offender against divine justice? Look closely at life.\nIt is so made, that everywhere we feel the sense of punishment.\n\nAre you what is called a happy man? Well! you are sad every day. Each\nday has its own great grief or its little care. Yesterday you were\ntrembling for a health that is dear to you, to-day you fear for your\nown; to-morrow it will be anxiety about money, the day after to-morrow\nthe diatribe of a slanderer, the day after that, the misfortune of some\nfriend; then the prevailing weather, then something that has been\nbroken or lost, then a pleasure with which your conscience and your\nvertebral column reproach you; again, the course of public affairs.\nThis without reckoning in the pains of the heart. And so it goes on.\nOne cloud is dispelled, another forms. There is hardly one day out of a\nhundred which is wholly joyous and sunny. And you belong to that small\nclass who are happy! As for the rest of mankind, stagnating night rests\nupon them.\n\nThoughtful minds make but little use of the phrase: the fortunate and\nthe unfortunate. In this world, evidently the vestibule of another,\nthere are no fortunate.\n\nThe real human division is this: the luminous and the shady. To\ndiminish the number of the shady, to augment the number of the\nluminous, that is the object. That is why we cry: Education! science!\nTo teach reading, means to light the fire; every syllable spelled out\nsparkles.\n\nHowever, he who says light does not, necessarily, say joy. People\nsuffer in the light; excess burns. The flame is the enemy of the wing.\nTo burn without ceasing to fly, therein lies the marvel of genius.\n\nWhen you shall have learned to know, and to love, you will still\nsuffer. The day is born in tears. The luminous weep, if only over those\nin darkness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II ROOTS\n\n\nSlang is the tongue of those who sit in darkness.\n\nThought is moved in its most sombre depths, social philosophy is bidden\nto its most poignant meditations, in the presence of that enigmatic\ndialect at once so blighted and rebellious. Therein lies chastisement\nmade visible. Every syllable has an air of being marked. The words of\nthe vulgar tongue appear therein wrinkled and shrivelled, as it were,\nbeneath the hot iron of the executioner. Some seem to be still smoking.\nSuch and such a phrase produces upon you the effect of the shoulder of\na thief branded with the fleur-de-lys, which has suddenly been laid\nbare. Ideas almost refuse to be expressed in these substantives which\nare fugitives from justice. Metaphor is sometimes so shameless, that\none feels that it has worn the iron neck-fetter.\n\nMoreover, in spite of all this, and because of all this, this strange\ndialect has by rights, its own compartment in that great impartial case\nof pigeon-holes where there is room for the rusty farthing as well as\nfor the gold medal, and which is called literature. Slang, whether the\npublic admit the fact or not has its syntax and its poetry. It is a\nlanguage. Yes, by the deformity of certain terms, we recognize the fact\nthat it was chewed by Mandrin, and by the splendor of certain\nmetonymies, we feel that Villon spoke it.\n\nThat exquisite and celebrated verse \n\nMais o  sont les neiges d antan?\nBut where are the snows of years gone by?\n\n\nis a verse of slang. _Antan ante annum_ is a word of Thunes slang,\nwhich signified the past year, and by extension, _formerly_.\nThirty-five years ago, at the epoch of the departure of the great\nchain-gang, there could be read in one of the cells at Bic tre, this\nmaxim engraved with a nail on the wall by a king of Thunes condemned to\nthe galleys: _Les dabs d antan trimaient siempre pour la pierre du\nCo sre_. This means _Kings in days gone by always went and had\nthemselves anointed_. In the opinion of that king, anointment meant the\ngalleys.\n\nThe word _d carade_, which expresses the departure of heavy vehicles at\na gallop, is attributed to Villon, and it is worthy of him. This word,\nwhich strikes fire with all four of its feet, sums up in a masterly\nonomatop ia the whole of La Fontaine s admirable verse: \n\nSix forts chevaux tiraient un coche.\nSix stout horses drew a coach.\n\n\nFrom a purely literary point of view, few studies would prove more\ncurious and fruitful than the study of slang. It is a whole language\nwithin a language, a sort of sickly excrescence, an unhealthy graft\nwhich has produced a vegetation, a parasite which has its roots in the\nold Gallic trunk, and whose sinister foliage crawls all over one side\nof the language. This is what may be called the first, the vulgar\naspect of slang. But, for those who study the tongue as it should be\nstudied, that is to say, as geologists study the earth, slang appears\nlike a veritable alluvial deposit. According as one digs a longer or\nshorter distance into it, one finds in slang, below the old popular\nFrench, Proven al, Spanish, Italian, Levantine, that language of the\nMediterranean ports, English and German, the Romance language in its\nthree varieties, French, Italian, and Romance Romance, Latin, and\nfinally Basque and Celtic. A profound and unique formation. A\nsubterranean edifice erected in common by all the miserable. Each\naccursed race has deposited its layer, each suffering has dropped its\nstone there, each heart has contributed its pebble. A throng of evil,\nbase, or irritated souls, who have traversed life and have vanished\ninto eternity, linger there almost entirely visible still beneath the\nform of some monstrous word.\n\nDo you want Spanish? The old Gothic slang abounded in it. Here is\n_boffete_, a box on the ear, which is derived from _bofeton; vantane_,\nwindow (later on _vanterne_), which comes from _vantana; gat_, cat,\nwhich comes from _gato; acite_, oil, which comes from _aceyte_. Do you\nwant Italian? Here is _spade_, sword, which comes from _spada; carvel_,\nboat, which comes from _caravella_. Do you want English? Here is\n_bichot_, which comes from _bishop; raille_, spy, which comes from\n_rascal, rascalion; pilche_, a case, which comes from _pilcher_, a\nsheath. Do you want German? Here is the _caleur_, the waiter,\n_kellner_; the _hers_, the master, _herzog_ (duke). Do you want Latin?\nHere is _frangir_, to break, _frangere; affurer_, to steal, _fur;\ncadene_, chain, _catena_. There is one word which crops up in every\nlanguage of the continent, with a sort of mysterious power and\nauthority. It is the word _magnus_; the Scotchman makes of it his\n_mac_, which designates the chief of the clan; Mac-Farlane,\nMac-Callumore, the great Farlane, the great Callumore41; slang turns it\ninto _meck_ and later _le meg_, that is to say, God. Would you like\nBasque? Here is _gahisto_, the devil, which comes from _ga ztoa_, evil;\n_sorgabon_, good night, which comes from _gabon_, good evening. Do you\nwant Celtic? Here is _blavin_, a handkerchief, which comes from\n_blavet_, gushing water; _m nesse_, a woman (in a bad sense), which\ncomes from _meinec_, full of stones; _barant_, brook, from _baranton_,\nfountain; _goffeur_, locksmith, from _goff_, blacksmith; _guedouze_,\ndeath, which comes from _guenn-du_, black-white. Finally, would you\nlike history? Slang calls crowns _les malt ses_, a souvenir of the coin\nin circulation on the galleys of Malta.\n\nIn addition to the philological origins just indicated, slang possesses\nother and still more natural roots, which spring, so to speak, from the\nmind of man itself.\n\nIn the first place, the direct creation of words. Therein lies the\nmystery of tongues. To paint with words, which contains figures one\nknows not how or why, is the primitive foundation of all human\nlanguages, what may be called their granite.\n\nSlang abounds in words of this description, immediate words, words\ncreated instantaneously no one knows either where or by whom, without\netymology, without analogies, without derivatives, solitary, barbarous,\nsometimes hideous words, which at times possess a singular power of\nexpression and which live. The executioner, _le taule_; the forest, _le\nsabri_; fear, flight, _taf_; the lackey, _le larbin_; the mineral, the\nprefect, the minister, _pharos_; the devil, _le rabouin_. Nothing is\nstranger than these words which both mask and reveal. Some, _le\nrabouin_, for example, are at the same time grotesque and terrible, and\nproduce on you the effect of a cyclopean grimace.\n\nIn the second place, metaphor. The peculiarity of a language which is\ndesirous of saying all yet concealing all is that it is rich in\nfigures. Metaphor is an enigma, wherein the thief who is plotting a\nstroke, the prisoner who is arranging an escape, take refuge. No idiom\nis more metaphorical than slang: _d visser le coco_ (to unscrew the\nnut), to twist the neck; _tortiller_ (to wriggle), to eat; _ tre\ngerb _, to be tried; _a rat_, a bread thief; _il lansquine_, it rains,\na striking, ancient figure which partly bears its date about it, which\nassimilates long oblique lines of rain, with the dense and slanting\npikes of the lancers, and which compresses into a single word the\npopular expression: it rains halberds. Sometimes, in proportion as\nslang progresses from the first epoch to the second, words pass from\nthe primitive and savage sense to the metaphorical sense. The devil\nceases to be _le rabouin_, and becomes _le boulanger_ (the baker), who\nputs the bread into the oven. This is more witty, but less grand,\nsomething like Racine after Corneille, like Euripides after  schylus.\nCertain slang phrases which participate in the two epochs and have at\nonce the barbaric character and the metaphorical character resemble\nphantasmagories. _Les sorgueuers vont solliciter des gails   la\nlune_ the prowlers are going to steal horses by night, this passes\nbefore the mind like a group of spectres. One knows not what one sees.\n\nIn the third place, the expedient. Slang lives on the language. It uses\nit in accordance with its fancy, it dips into it hap-hazard, and it\noften confines itself, when occasion arises, to alter it in a gross and\nsummary fashion. Occasionally, with the ordinary words thus deformed\nand complicated with words of pure slang, picturesque phrases are\nformed, in which there can be felt the mixture of the two preceding\nelements, the direct creation and the metaphor: _le cab jaspine, je\nmarronne que la roulotte de Pantin trime dans le sabri_, the dog is\nbarking, I suspect that the diligence for Paris is passing through the\nwoods. _Le dab est sinve, la dabuge est merloussi re, la f e est\nbative_, the bourgeois is stupid, the bourgeoise is cunning, the\ndaughter is pretty. Generally, to throw listeners off the track, slang\nconfines itself to adding to all the words of the language without\ndistinction, an ignoble tail, a termination in _aille_, in _orgue_, in\n_iergue_, or in _uche_. Thus: _Vousiergue trouvaille bonorgue ce\ngigotmuche?_ Do you think that leg of mutton good? A phrase addressed\nby Cartouche to a turnkey in order to find out whether the sum offered\nfor his escape suited him.\n\nThe termination in _mar_ has been added recently.\n\nSlang, being the dialect of corruption, quickly becomes corrupted\nitself. Besides this, as it is always seeking concealment, as soon as\nit feels that it is understood, it changes its form. Contrary to what\nhappens with every other vegetation, every ray of light which falls\nupon it kills whatever it touches. Thus slang is in constant process of\ndecomposition and recomposition; an obscure and rapid work which never\npauses. It passes over more ground in ten years than a language in ten\ncenturies. Thus _le larton_ (bread) becomes _le lartif; le gail_\n(horse) becomes _le gaye; la fertanche_ (straw) becomes _la fertille;\nle momignard_ (brat), _le momacque; les fiques_ (duds), _frusques; la\nchique_ (the church), _l grugeoir; le colabre_ (neck), _le colas_. The\ndevil is at first, _gahisto_, then _le rabouin_, then _the baker_; the\npriest is a _ratichon_, then the boar (_le sanglier_); the dagger is\n_le vingt-deux_ (twenty-two), then _le surin_, then _le lingre_; the\npolice are _railles_, then _roussins_, then _rousses_, then _marchands\nde lacets_ (dealers in stay-laces), then _coquers_, then _cognes_; the\nexecutioner is _le taule_, then _Charlot, l atigeur_, then _le\nbecquillard_. In the seventeenth century, to fight was  to give each\nother snuff ; in the nineteenth it is  to chew each other s throats. \nThere have been twenty different phrases between these two extremes.\nCartouche s talk would have been Hebrew to Lacenaire. All the words of\nthis language are perpetually engaged in flight like the men who utter\nthem.\n\nStill, from time to time, and in consequence of this very movement, the\nancient slang crops up again and becomes new once more. It has its\nheadquarters where it maintains its sway. The Temple preserved the\nslang of the seventeenth century; Bic tre, when it was a prison,\npreserved the slang of Thunes. There one could hear the termination in\n_anche_ of the old Thuneurs. _Boyanches-tu_ (bois-tu), do you drink?\nBut perpetual movement remains its law, nevertheless.\n\nIf the philosopher succeeds in fixing, for a moment, for purposes of\nobservation, this language which is incessantly evaporating, he falls\ninto doleful and useful meditation. No study is more efficacious and\nmore fecund in instruction. There is not a metaphor, not an analogy, in\nslang, which does not contain a lesson. Among these men, to beat means\nto feign; one beats a malady; ruse is their strength.\n\nFor them, the idea of the man is not separated from the idea of\ndarkness. The night is called _la sorgue_; man, _l orgue_. Man is a\nderivative of the night.\n\nThey have taken up the practice of considering society in the light of\nan atmosphere which kills them, of a fatal force, and they speak of\ntheir liberty as one would speak of his health. A man under arrest is a\n_sick man_; one who is condemned is a _dead man_.\n\nThe most terrible thing for the prisoner within the four walls in which\nhe is buried, is a sort of glacial chastity, and he calls the dungeon\nthe _castus_. In that funereal place, life outside always presents\nitself under its most smiling aspect. The prisoner has irons on his\nfeet; you think, perhaps, that his thought is that it is with the feet\nthat one walks? No; he is thinking that it is with the feet that one\ndances; so, when he has succeeded in severing his fetters, his first\nidea is that now he can dance, and he calls the saw the _bastringue_\n(public-house ball). A name is a centre; profound assimilation. The\nruffian has two heads, one of which reasons out his actions and leads\nhim all his life long, and the other which he has upon his shoulders on\nthe day of his death; he calls the head which counsels him in crime _la\nsorbonne_, and the head which expiates it _la tronche_. When a man has\nno longer anything but rags upon his body and vices in his heart, when\nhe has arrived at that double moral and material degradation which the\nword blackguard characterizes in its two acceptations, he is ripe for\ncrime; he is like a well-whetted knife; he has two cutting edges, his\ndistress and his malice; so slang does not say a blackguard, it says\n_un r guis _. What are the galleys? A brazier of damnation, a hell. The\nconvict calls himself a _fagot_. And finally, what name do malefactors\ngive to their prison? The _college_. A whole penitentiary system can be\nevolved from that word.\n\nDoes the reader wish to know where the majority of the songs of the\ngalleys, those refrains called in the special vocabulary _lirlonfa_,\nhave had their birth?\n\nLet him listen to what follows: \n\nThere existed at the Ch telet in Paris a large and long cellar. This\ncellar was eight feet below the level of the Seine. It had neither\nwindows nor air-holes, its only aperture was the door; men could enter\nthere, air could not. This vault had for ceiling a vault of stone, and\nfor floor ten inches of mud. It was flagged; but the pavement had\nrotted and cracked under the oozing of the water. Eight feet above the\nfloor, a long and massive beam traversed this subterranean excavation\nfrom side to side; from this beam hung, at short distances apart,\nchains three feet long, and at the end of these chains there were rings\nfor the neck. In this vault, men who had been condemned to the galleys\nwere incarcerated until the day of their departure for Toulon. They\nwere thrust under this beam, where each one found his fetters swinging\nin the darkness and waiting for him.\n\nThe chains, those pendant arms, and the necklets, those open hands,\ncaught the unhappy wretches by the throat. They were rivetted and left\nthere. As the chain was too short, they could not lie down. They\nremained motionless in that cavern, in that night, beneath that beam,\nalmost hanging, forced to unheard-of efforts to reach their bread, jug,\nor their vault overhead, mud even to mid-leg, filth flowing to their\nvery calves, broken asunder with fatigue, with thighs and knees giving\nway, clinging fast to the chain with their hands in order to obtain\nsome rest, unable to sleep except when standing erect, and awakened\nevery moment by the strangling of the collar; some woke no more. In\norder to eat, they pushed the bread, which was flung to them in the\nmud, along their leg with their heel until it reached their hand.\n\nHow long did they remain thus? One month, two months, six months\nsometimes; one stayed a year. It was the antechamber of the galleys.\nMen were put there for stealing a hare from the king. In this\nsepulchre-hell, what did they do? What man can do in a sepulchre, they\nwent through the agonies of death, and what can man do in hell, they\nsang; for song lingers where there is no longer any hope. In the waters\nof Malta, when a galley was approaching, the song could be heard before\nthe sound of the oars. Poor Survincent, the poacher, who had gone\nthrough the prison-cellar of the Ch telet, said:  It was the rhymes\nthat kept me up.  Uselessness of poetry. What is the good of rhyme?\n\nIt is in this cellar that nearly all the slang songs had their birth.\nIt is from the dungeon of the Grand-Ch telet of Paris that comes the\nmelancholy refrain of the Montgomery galley: _ Timaloumisaine,\ntimaloumison. _ The majority of these songs are melancholy; some are\ngay; one is tender: \n\n    Icicaille est la theatre\n    Du petit dardant.\n\n    Here is the theatre\n    Of the little archer (Cupid).\n\n\nDo what you will, you cannot annihilate that eternal relic in the heart\nof man, love.\n\nIn this world of dismal deeds, people keep their secrets. The secret is\nthe thing above all others. The secret, in the eyes of these wretches,\nis unity which serves as a base of union. To betray a secret is to tear\nfrom each member of this fierce community something of his own\npersonality. To inform against, in the energetic slang dialect, is\ncalled:  to eat the bit.  As though the informer drew to himself a\nlittle of the substance of all and nourished himself on a bit of each\none s flesh.\n\nWhat does it signify to receive a box on the ear? Commonplace metaphor\nreplies:  It is to see thirty-six candles.  Here slang intervenes and\ntakes it up: Candle, _camoufle_. Thereupon, the ordinary tongue gives\n_camouflet_42 as the synonym for _soufflet_. Thus, by a sort of\ninfiltration from below upwards, with the aid of metaphor, that\nincalculable, trajectory slang mounts from the cavern to the Academy;\nand Poulailler saying:  I light my _camoufle_,  causes Voltaire to\nwrite:  Langleviel La Beaumelle deserves a hundred _camouflets_. \n\n\nResearches in slang mean discoveries at every step. Study and\ninvestigation of this strange idiom lead to the mysterious point of\nintersection of regular society with society which is accursed.\n\nThe thief also has his food for cannon, stealable matter, you, I,\nwhoever passes by; _le pantre_. (_Pan_, everybody.)\n\nSlang is language turned convict.\n\nThat the thinking principle of man be thrust down ever so low, that it\ncan be dragged and pinioned there by obscure tyrannies of fatality,\nthat it can be bound by no one knows what fetters in that abyss, is\nsufficient to create consternation.\n\nOh, poor thought of miserable wretches!\n\nAlas! will no one come to the succor of the human soul in that\ndarkness? Is it her destiny there to await forever the mind, the\nliberator, the immense rider of Pegasi and hippogriffs, the combatant\nof heroes of the dawn who shall descend from the azure between two\nwings, the radiant knight of the future? Will she forever summon in\nvain to her assistance the lance of light of the ideal? Is she\ncondemned to hear the fearful approach of Evil through the density of\nthe gulf, and to catch glimpses, nearer and nearer at hand, beneath the\nhideous water of that dragon s head, that maw streaked with foam, and\nthat writhing undulation of claws, swellings, and rings? Must it remain\nthere, without a gleam of light, without hope, given over to that\nterrible approach, vaguely scented out by the monster, shuddering,\ndishevelled, wringing its arms, forever chained to the rock of night, a\nsombre Andromeda white and naked amid the shadows!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III SLANG WHICH WEEPS AND SLANG WHICH LAUGHS\n\n\nAs the reader perceives, slang in its entirety, slang of four hundred\nyears ago, like the slang of to-day, is permeated with that sombre,\nsymbolical spirit which gives to all words a mien which is now\nmournful, now menacing. One feels in it the wild and ancient sadness of\nthose vagrants of the Court of Miracles who played at cards with packs\nof their own, some of which have come down to us. The eight of clubs,\nfor instance, represented a huge tree bearing eight enormous trefoil\nleaves, a sort of fantastic personification of the forest. At the foot\nof this tree a fire was burning, over which three hares were roasting a\nhuntsman on a spit, and behind him, on another fire, hung a steaming\npot, whence emerged the head of a dog. Nothing can be more melancholy\nthan these reprisals in painting, by a pack of cards, in the presence\nof stakes for the roasting of smugglers and of the cauldron for the\nboiling of counterfeiters. The diverse forms assumed by thought in the\nrealm of slang, even song, even raillery, even menace, all partook of\nthis powerless and dejected character. All the songs, the melodies of\nsome of which have been collected, were humble and lamentable to the\npoint of evoking tears. The _p gre_ is always the poor _p gre_, and he\nis always the hare in hiding, the fugitive mouse, the flying bird. He\nhardly complains, he contents himself with sighing; one of his moans\nhas come down to us:  I do not understand how God, the father of men,\ncan torture his children and his grandchildren and hear them cry,\nwithout himself suffering torture. 43 The wretch, whenever he has time\nto think, makes himself small before the low, and frail in the presence\nof society; he lies down flat on his face, he entreats, he appeals to\nthe side of compassion; we feel that he is conscious of his guilt.\n\nTowards the middle of the last century a change took place, prison\nsongs and thieves  ritournelles assumed, so to speak, an insolent and\njovial mien. The plaintive _malur _ was replaced by the _larifla_. We\nfind in the eighteenth century, in nearly all the songs of the galleys\nand prisons, a diabolical and enigmatical gayety. We hear this strident\nand lilting refrain which we should say had been lighted up by a\nphosphorescent gleam, and which seems to have been flung into the\nforest by a will-o -the-wisp playing the fife: \n\nMiralabi suslababo\nMirliton ribonribette\nSurlababi mirlababo\nMirliton ribonribo.\n\n\nThis was sung in a cellar or in a nook of the forest while cutting a\nman s throat.\n\nA serious symptom. In the eighteenth century, the ancient melancholy of\nthe dejected classes vanishes. They began to laugh. They rally the\n_grand meg_ and the _grand dab_. Given Louis XV. they call the King of\nFrance  le Marquis de Pantin.  And behold, they are almost gay. A sort\nof gleam proceeds from these miserable wretches, as though their\nconsciences were not heavy within them any more. These lamentable\ntribes of darkness have no longer merely the desperate audacity of\nactions, they possess the heedless audacity of mind. A sign that they\nare losing the sense of their criminality, and that they feel, even\namong thinkers and dreamers, some indefinable support which the latter\nthemselves know not of. A sign that theft and pillage are beginning to\nfilter into doctrines and sophisms, in such a way as to lose somewhat\nof their ugliness, while communicating much of it to sophisms and\ndoctrines. A sign, in short, of some outbreak which is prodigious and\nnear unless some diversion shall arise.\n\nLet us pause a moment. Whom are we accusing here? Is it the eighteenth\ncentury? Is it philosophy? Certainly not. The work of the eighteenth\ncentury is healthy and good and wholesome. The encyclopedists, Diderot\nat their head; the physiocrates, Turgot at their head; the\nphilosophers, Voltaire at their head; the Utopians, Rousseau at their\nhead, these are four sacred legions. Humanity s immense advance towards\nthe light is due to them. They are the four vanguards of the human\nrace, marching towards the four cardinal points of progress. Diderot\ntowards the beautiful, Turgot towards the useful, Voltaire towards the\ntrue, Rousseau towards the just. But by the side of and above the\nphilosophers, there were the sophists, a venomous vegetation mingled\nwith a healthy growth, hemlock in the virgin forest. While the\nexecutioner was burning the great books of the liberators of the\ncentury on the grand staircase of the court-house, writers now\nforgotten were publishing, with the King s sanction, no one knows what\nstrangely disorganizing writings, which were eagerly read by the\nunfortunate. Some of these publications, odd to say, which were\npatronized by a prince, are to be found in the Secret Library. These\nfacts, significant but unknown, were imperceptible on the surface.\nSometimes, in the very obscurity of a fact lurks its danger. It is\nobscure because it is underhand. Of all these writers, the one who\nprobably then excavated in the masses the most unhealthy gallery was\nRestif de La Bretonne.\n\nThis work, peculiar to the whole of Europe, effected more ravages in\nGermany than anywhere else. In Germany, during a given period, summed\nup by Schiller in his famous drama _The Robbers_, theft and pillage\nrose up in protest against property and labor, assimilated certain\nspecious and false elementary ideas, which, though just in appearance,\nwere absurd in reality, enveloped themselves in these ideas,\ndisappeared within them, after a fashion, assumed an abstract name,\npassed into the state of theory, and in that shape circulated among the\nlaborious, suffering, and honest masses, unknown even to the imprudent\nchemists who had prepared the mixture, unknown even to the masses who\naccepted it. Whenever a fact of this sort presents itself, the case is\ngrave. Suffering engenders wrath; and while the prosperous classes\nblind themselves or fall asleep, which is the same thing as shutting\none s eyes, the hatred of the unfortunate classes lights its torch at\nsome aggrieved or ill-made spirit which dreams in a corner, and sets\nitself to the scrutiny of society. The scrutiny of hatred is a terrible\nthing.\n\nHence, if the ill-fortune of the times so wills it, those fearful\ncommotions which were formerly called _jacqueries_, beside which purely\npolitical agitations are the merest child s play, which are no longer\nthe conflict of the oppressed and the oppressor, but the revolt of\ndiscomfort against comfort. Then everything crumbles.\n\nJacqueries are earthquakes of the people.\n\nIt is this peril, possibly imminent towards the close of the eighteenth\ncentury, which the French Revolution, that immense act of probity, cut\nshort.\n\nThe French Revolution, which is nothing else than the idea armed with\nthe sword, rose erect, and, with the same abrupt movement, closed the\ndoor of ill and opened the door of good.\n\nIt put a stop to torture, promulgated the truth, expelled miasma,\nrendered the century healthy, crowned the populace.\n\nIt may be said of it that it created man a second time, by giving him a\nsecond soul, the right.\n\nThe nineteenth century has inherited and profited by its work, and\nto-day, the social catastrophe to which we lately alluded is simply\nimpossible. Blind is he who announces it! Foolish is he who fears it!\nRevolution is the vaccine of Jacquerie.\n\nThanks to the Revolution, social conditions have changed. Feudal and\nmonarchical maladies no longer run in our blood. There is no more of\nthe Middle Ages in our constitution. We no longer live in the days when\nterrible swarms within made irruptions, when one heard beneath his feet\nthe obscure course of a dull rumble, when indescribable elevations from\nmole-like tunnels appeared on the surface of civilization, where the\nsoil cracked open, where the roofs of caverns yawned, and where one\nsuddenly beheld monstrous heads emerging from the earth.\n\nThe revolutionary sense is a moral sense. The sentiment of right, once\ndeveloped, develops the sentiment of duty. The law of all is liberty,\nwhich ends where the liberty of others begins, according to\nRobespierre s admirable definition. Since  89, the whole people has\nbeen dilating into a sublime individual; there is not a poor man, who,\npossessing his right, has not his ray of sun; the die-of-hunger feels\nwithin him the honesty of France; the dignity of the citizen is an\ninternal armor; he who is free is scrupulous; he who votes reigns.\nHence incorruptibility; hence the miscarriage of unhealthy lusts; hence\neyes heroically lowered before temptations. The revolutionary\nwholesomeness is such, that on a day of deliverance, a 14th of July, a\n10th of August, there is no longer any populace. The first cry of the\nenlightened and increasing throngs is: death to thieves! Progress is an\nhonest man; the ideal and the absolute do not filch\npocket-handkerchiefs. By whom were the wagons containing the wealth of\nthe Tuileries escorted in 1848? By the rag-pickers of the Faubourg\nSaint-Antoine. Rags mounted guard over the treasure. Virtue rendered\nthese tatterdemalions resplendent. In those wagons in chests, hardly\nclosed, and some, even, half-open, amid a hundred dazzling caskets, was\nthat ancient crown of France, studded with diamonds, surmounted by the\ncarbuncle of royalty, by the Regent diamond, which was worth thirty\nmillions. Barefooted, they guarded that crown.\n\nHence, no more Jacquerie. I regret it for the sake of the skilful. The\nold fear has produced its last effects in that quarter; and henceforth\nit can no longer be employed in politics. The principal spring of the\nred spectre is broken. Every one knows it now. The scare-crow scares no\nlonger. The birds take liberties with the mannikin, foul creatures\nalight upon it, the bourgeois laugh at it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE TWO DUTIES: TO WATCH AND TO HOPE\n\n\nThis being the case, is all social danger dispelled? Certainly not.\nThere is no Jacquerie; society may rest assured on that point; blood\nwill no longer rush to its head. But let society take heed to the\nmanner in which it breathes. Apoplexy is no longer to be feared, but\nphthisis is there. Social phthisis is called misery.\n\nOne can perish from being undermined as well as from being struck by\nlightning.\n\nLet us not weary of repeating, and sympathetic souls must not forget\nthat this is the first of fraternal obligations, and selfish hearts\nmust understand that the first of political necessities consists in\nthinking first of all of the disinherited and sorrowing throngs, in\nsolacing, airing, enlightening, loving them, in enlarging their horizon\nto a magnificent extent, in lavishing upon them education in every\nform, in offering them the example of labor, never the example of\nidleness, in diminishing the individual burden by enlarging the notion\nof the universal aim, in setting a limit to poverty without setting a\nlimit to wealth, in creating vast fields of public and popular\nactivity, in having, like Briareus, a hundred hands to extend in all\ndirections to the oppressed and the feeble, in employing the collective\npower for that grand duty of opening workshops for all arms, schools\nfor all aptitudes, and laboratories for all degrees of intelligence, in\naugmenting salaries, diminishing trouble, balancing what should be and\nwhat is, that is to say, in proportioning enjoyment to effort and a\nglut to need; in a word, in evolving from the social apparatus more\nlight and more comfort for the benefit of those who suffer and those\nwho are ignorant.\n\nAnd, let us say it, all this is but the beginning. The true question is\nthis: labor cannot be a law without being a right.\n\nWe will not insist upon this point; this is not the proper place for\nthat.\n\nIf nature calls itself Providence, society should call itself\nforesight.\n\nIntellectual and moral growth is no less indispensable than material\nimprovement. To know is a sacrament, to think is the prime necessity,\ntruth is nourishment as well as grain. A reason which fasts from\nscience and wisdom grows thin. Let us enter equal complaint against\nstomachs and minds which do not eat. If there is anything more\nheart-breaking than a body perishing for lack of bread, it is a soul\nwhich is dying from hunger for the light.\n\nThe whole of progress tends in the direction of solution. Some day we\nshall be amazed. As the human race mounts upward, the deep layers\nemerge naturally from the zone of distress. The obliteration of misery\nwill be accomplished by a simple elevation of level.\n\nWe should do wrong were we to doubt this blessed consummation.\n\nThe past is very strong, it is true, at the present moment. It\ncensures. This rejuvenation of a corpse is surprising. Behold, it is\nwalking and advancing. It seems a victor; this dead body is a\nconqueror. He arrives with his legions, superstitions, with his sword,\ndespotism, with his banner, ignorance; a while ago, he won ten battles.\nHe advances, he threatens, he laughs, he is at our doors. Let us not\ndespair, on our side. Let us sell the field on which Hannibal is\nencamped.\n\nWhat have we to fear, we who believe?\n\nNo such thing as a back-flow of ideas exists any more than there exists\na return of a river on its course.\n\nBut let those who do not desire a future reflect on this matter. When\nthey say  no  to progress, it is not the future but themselves that\nthey are condemning. They are giving themselves a sad malady; they are\ninoculating themselves with the past. There is but one way of rejecting\nTo-morrow, and that is to die.\n\nNow, no death, that of the body as late as possible, that of the soul\nnever, this is what we desire.\n\nYes, the enigma will utter its word, the sphinx will speak, the problem\nwill be solved.\n\nYes, the people, sketched out by the eighteenth century, will be\nfinished by the nineteenth. He who doubts this is an idiot! The future\nblossoming, the near blossoming forth of universal well-being, is a\ndivinely fatal phenomenon.\n\nImmense combined propulsions direct human affairs and conduct them\nwithin a given time to a logical state, that is to say, to a state of\nequilibrium; that is to say, to equity. A force composed of earth and\nheaven results from humanity and governs it; this force is a worker of\nmiracles; marvellous issues are no more difficult to it than\nextraordinary vicissitudes. Aided by science, which comes from one man,\nand by the event, which comes from another, it is not greatly alarmed\nby these contradictions in the attitude of problems, which seem\nimpossibilities to the vulgar herd. It is no less skilful at causing a\nsolution to spring forth from the reconciliation of ideas, than a\nlesson from the reconciliation of facts, and we may expect anything\nfrom that mysterious power of progress, which brought the Orient and\nthe Occident face to face one fine day, in the depths of a sepulchre,\nand made the imaums converse with Bonaparte in the interior of the\nGreat Pyramid.\n\nIn the meantime, let there be no halt, no hesitation, no pause in the\ngrandiose onward march of minds. Social philosophy consists essentially\nin science and peace. Its object is, and its result must be, to\ndissolve wrath by the study of antagonisms. It examines, it\nscrutinizes, it analyzes; then it puts together once more, it proceeds\nby means of reduction, discarding all hatred.\n\nMore than once, a society has been seen to give way before the wind\nwhich is let loose upon mankind; history is full of the shipwrecks of\nnations and empires; manners, customs, laws, religions, and some fine\nday that unknown force, the hurricane, passes by and bears them all\naway. The civilizations of India, of Chaldea, of Persia, of Syria, of\nEgypt, have disappeared one after the other. Why? We know not. What are\nthe causes of these disasters? We do not know. Could these societies\nhave been saved? Was it their fault? Did they persist in the fatal vice\nwhich destroyed them? What is the amount of suicide in these terrible\ndeaths of a nation and a race? Questions to which there exists no\nreply. Darkness enwraps condemned civilizations. They sprung a leak,\nthen they sank. We have nothing more to say; and it is with a sort of\nterror that we look on, at the bottom of that sea which is called the\npast, behind those colossal waves, at the shipwreck of those immense\nvessels, Babylon, Nineveh, Tarsus, Thebes, Rome, beneath the fearful\ngusts which emerge from all the mouths of the shadows. But shadows are\nthere, and light is here. We are not acquainted with the maladies of\nthese ancient civilizations, we do not know the infirmities of our own.\nEverywhere upon it we have the right of light, we contemplate its\nbeauties, we lay bare its defects. Where it is ill, we probe; and the\nsickness once diagnosed, the study of the cause leads to the discovery\nof the remedy. Our civilization, the work of twenty centuries, is its\nlaw and its prodigy; it is worth the trouble of saving. It will be\nsaved. It is already much to have solaced it; its enlightenment is yet\nanother point. All the labors of modern social philosophies must\nconverge towards this point. The thinker of to-day has a great duty to\nauscultate civilization.\n\nWe repeat, that this auscultation brings encouragement; it is by this\npersistence in encouragement that we wish to conclude these pages, an\naustere interlude in a mournful drama. Beneath the social mortality, we\nfeel human imperishableness. The globe does not perish, because it has\nthese wounds, craters, eruptions, sulphur pits, here and there, nor\nbecause of a volcano which ejects its pus. The maladies of the people\ndo not kill man.\n\nAnd yet, any one who follows the course of social clinics shakes his\nhead at times. The strongest, the tenderest, the most logical have\ntheir hours of weakness.\n\nWill the future arrive? It seems as though we might almost put this\nquestion, when we behold so much terrible darkness. Melancholy\nface-to-face encounter of selfish and wretched. On the part of the\nselfish, the prejudices, shadows of costly education, appetite\nincreasing through intoxication, a giddiness of prosperity which dulls,\na fear of suffering which, in some, goes as far as an aversion for the\nsuffering, an implacable satisfaction, the _I_ so swollen that it bars\nthe soul; on the side of the wretched covetousness, envy, hatred of\nseeing others enjoy, the profound impulses of the human beast towards\nassuaging its desires, hearts full of mist, sadness, need, fatality,\nimpure and simple ignorance.\n\nShall we continue to raise our eyes to heaven? is the luminous point\nwhich we distinguish there one of those which vanish? The ideal is\nfrightful to behold, thus lost in the depths, small, isolated,\nimperceptible, brilliant, but surrounded by those great, black menaces,\nmonstrously heaped around it; yet no more in danger than a star in the\nmaw of the clouds.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK EIGHTH ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I FULL LIGHT\n\n\nThe reader has probably understood that  ponine, having recognized\nthrough the gate, the inhabitant of that Rue Plumet whither Magnon had\nsent her, had begun by keeping the ruffians away from the Rue Plumet,\nand had then conducted Marius thither, and that, after many days spent\nin ecstasy before that gate, Marius, drawn on by that force which draws\nthe iron to the magnet and a lover towards the stones of which is built\nthe house of her whom he loves, had finally entered Cosette s garden as\nRomeo entered the garden of Juliet. This had even proved easier for him\nthan for Romeo; Romeo was obliged to scale a wall, Marius had only to\nuse a little force on one of the bars of the decrepit gate which\nvacillated in its rusty recess, after the fashion of old people s\nteeth. Marius was slender and readily passed through.\n\nAs there was never any one in the street, and as Marius never entered\nthe garden except at night, he ran no risk of being seen.\n\nBeginning with that blessed and holy hour when a kiss betrothed these\ntwo souls, Marius was there every evening. If, at that period of her\nexistence, Cosette had fallen in love with a man in the least\nunscrupulous or debauched, she would have been lost; for there are\ngenerous natures which yield themselves, and Cosette was one of them.\nOne of woman s magnanimities is to yield. Love, at the height where it\nis absolute, is complicated with some indescribably celestial blindness\nof modesty. But what dangers you run, O noble souls! Often you give the\nheart, and we take the body. Your heart remains with you, you gaze upon\nit in the gloom with a shudder. Love has no middle course; it either\nruins or it saves. All human destiny lies in this dilemma. This\ndilemma, ruin, or safety, is set forth no more inexorably by any\nfatality than by love. Love is life, if it is not death. Cradle; also\ncoffin. The same sentiment says  yes  and  no  in the human heart. Of\nall the things that God has made, the human heart is the one which\nsheds the most light, alas! and the most darkness.\n\nGod willed that Cosette s love should encounter one of the loves which\nsave.\n\nThroughout the whole of the month of May of that year 1832, there were\nthere, in every night, in that poor, neglected garden, beneath that\nthicket which grew thicker and more fragrant day by day, two beings\ncomposed of all chastity, all innocence, overflowing with all the\nfelicity of heaven, nearer to the archangels than to mankind, pure,\nhonest, intoxicated, radiant, who shone for each other amid the\nshadows. It seemed to Cosette that Marius had a crown, and to Marius\nthat Cosette had a nimbus. They touched each other, they gazed at each\nother, they clasped each other s hands, they pressed close to each\nother; but there was a distance which they did not pass. Not that they\nrespected it; they did not know of its existence. Marius was conscious\nof a barrier, Cosette s innocence; and Cosette of a support, Marius \nloyalty. The first kiss had also been the last. Marius, since that\ntime, had not gone further than to touch Cosette s hand, or her\nkerchief, or a lock of her hair, with his lips. For him, Cosette was a\nperfume and not a woman. He inhaled her. She refused nothing, and he\nasked nothing. Cosette was happy, and Marius was satisfied. They lived\nin this ecstatic state which can be described as the dazzling of one\nsoul by another soul. It was the ineffable first embrace of two maiden\nsouls in the ideal. Two swans meeting on the Jungfrau.\n\nAt that hour of love, an hour when voluptuousness is absolutely mute,\nbeneath the omnipotence of ecstasy, Marius, the pure and seraphic\nMarius, would rather have gone to a woman of the town than have raised\nCosette s robe to the height of her ankle. Once, in the moonlight,\nCosette stooped to pick up something on the ground, her bodice fell\napart and permitted a glimpse of the beginning of her throat. Marius\nturned away his eyes.\n\nWhat took place between these two beings? Nothing. They adored each\nother.\n\nAt night, when they were there, that garden seemed a living and a\nsacred spot. All flowers unfolded around them and sent them incense;\nand they opened their souls and scattered them over the flowers. The\nwanton and vigorous vegetation quivered, full of strength and\nintoxication, around these two innocents, and they uttered words of\nlove which set the trees to trembling.\n\nWhat words were these? Breaths. Nothing more. These breaths sufficed to\ntrouble and to touch all nature round about. Magic power which we\nshould find it difficult to understand were we to read in a book these\nconversations which are made to be borne away and dispersed like smoke\nwreaths by the breeze beneath the leaves. Take from those murmurs of\ntwo lovers that melody which proceeds from the soul and which\naccompanies them like a lyre, and what remains is nothing more than a\nshade; you say:  What! is that all!  eh! yes, childish prattle,\nrepetitions, laughter at nothing, nonsense, everything that is deepest\nand most sublime in the world! The only things which are worth the\ntrouble of saying and hearing!\n\nThe man who has never heard, the man who has never uttered these\nabsurdities, these paltry remarks, is an imbecile and a malicious\nfellow. Cosette said to Marius: \n\n Dost thou know? \n\n\n[In all this and athwart this celestial maidenliness, and without\neither of them being able to say how it had come about, they had begun\nto call each other _thou_.]\n\n Dost thou know? My name is Euphrasie. \n\n\n Euphrasie? Why, no, thy name is Cosette. \n\n\n Oh! Cosette is a very ugly name that was given to me when I was a\nlittle thing. But my real name is Euphrasie. Dost thou like that\nname Euphrasie? \n\n\n Yes. But Cosette is not ugly. \n\n\n Do you like it better than Euphrasie? \n\n\n Why, yes. \n\n\n Then I like it better too. Truly, it is pretty, Cosette. Call me\nCosette. \n\n\nAnd the smile that she added made of this dialogue an idyl worthy of a\ngrove situated in heaven. On another occasion she gazed intently at him\nand exclaimed: \n\n Monsieur, you are handsome, you are good-looking, you are witty, you\nare not at all stupid, you are much more learned than I am, but I bid\nyou defiance with this word: I love you! \n\n\nAnd Marius, in the very heavens, thought he heard a strain sung by a\nstar.\n\nOr she bestowed on him a gentle tap because he coughed, and she said to\nhim: \n\n Don t cough, sir; I will not have people cough on my domain without my\npermission. It s very naughty to cough and to disturb me. I want you to\nbe well, because, in the first place, if you were not well, I should be\nvery unhappy. What should I do then? \n\n\nAnd this was simply divine.\n\nOnce Marius said to Cosette: \n\n Just imagine, I thought at one time that your name was Ursule. \n\n\nThis made both of them laugh the whole evening.\n\nIn the middle of another conversation, he chanced to exclaim: \n\n Oh! One day, at the Luxembourg, I had a good mind to finish breaking\nup a veteran!  But he stopped short, and went no further. He would have\nbeen obliged to speak to Cosette of her garter, and that was\nimpossible. This bordered on a strange theme, the flesh, before which\nthat immense and innocent love recoiled with a sort of sacred fright.\n\nMarius pictured life with Cosette to himself like this, without\nanything else; to come every evening to the Rue Plumet, to displace the\nold and accommodating bar of the chief-justice s gate, to sit elbow to\nelbow on that bench, to gaze through the trees at the scintillation of\nthe on-coming night, to fit a fold of the knee of his trousers into the\nample fall of Cosette s gown, to caress her thumb-nail, to call her\n_thou_, to smell of the same flower, one after the other, forever,\nindefinitely. During this time, clouds passed above their heads. Every\ntime that the wind blows it bears with it more of the dreams of men\nthan of the clouds of heaven.\n\nThis chaste, almost shy love was not devoid of gallantry, by any means.\nTo pay compliments to the woman whom a man loves is the first method of\nbestowing caresses, and he is half audacious who tries it. A compliment\nis something like a kiss through a veil. Voluptuousness mingles there\nwith its sweet tiny point, while it hides itself. The heart draws back\nbefore voluptuousness only to love the more. Marius  blandishments, all\nsaturated with fancy, were, so to speak, of azure hue. The birds when\nthey fly up yonder, in the direction of the angels, must hear such\nwords. There were mingled with them, nevertheless, life, humanity, all\nthe positiveness of which Marius was capable. It was what is said in\nthe bower, a prelude to what will be said in the chamber; a lyrical\neffusion, strophe and sonnet intermingled, pleasing hyperboles of\ncooing, all the refinements of adoration arranged in a bouquet and\nexhaling a celestial perfume, an ineffable twitter of heart to heart.\n\n Oh!  murmured Marius,  how beautiful you are! I dare not look at you.\nIt is all over with me when I contemplate you. You are a grace. I know\nnot what is the matter with me. The hem of your gown, when the tip of\nyour shoe peeps from beneath, upsets me. And then, what an enchanted\ngleam when you open your thought even but a little! You talk\nastonishingly good sense. It seems to me at times that you are a dream.\nSpeak, I listen, I admire. Oh Cosette! how strange it is and how\ncharming! I am really beside myself. You are adorable, Mademoiselle. I\nstudy your feet with the microscope and your soul with the telescope. \n\n\nAnd Cosette answered: \n\n I have been loving a little more all the time that has passed since\nthis morning. \n\n\nQuestions and replies took care of themselves in this dialogue, which\nalways turned with mutual consent upon love, as the little pith figures\nalways turn on their peg.\n\nCosette s whole person was ingenuousness, ingenuity, transparency,\nwhiteness, candor, radiance. It might have been said of Cosette that\nshe was clear. She produced on those who saw her the sensation of April\nand dawn. There was dew in her eyes. Cosette was a condensation of the\nauroral light in the form of a woman.\n\nIt was quite simple that Marius should admire her, since he adored her.\nBut the truth is, that this little school-girl, fresh from the convent,\ntalked with exquisite penetration and uttered, at times, all sorts of\ntrue and delicate sayings. Her prattle was conversation. She never made\na mistake about anything, and she saw things justly. The woman feels\nand speaks with the tender instinct of the heart, which is infallible.\n\nNo one understands so well as a woman, how to say things that are, at\nonce, both sweet and deep. Sweetness and depth, they are the whole of\nwoman; in them lies the whole of heaven.\n\nIn this full felicity, tears welled up to their eyes every instant. A\ncrushed lady-bug, a feather fallen from a nest, a branch of hawthorn\nbroken, aroused their pity, and their ecstasy, sweetly mingled with\nmelancholy, seemed to ask nothing better than to weep. The most\nsovereign symptom of love is a tenderness that is, at times, almost\nunbearable.\n\nAnd, in addition to this, all these contradictions are the lightning\nplay of love, they were fond of laughing, they laughed readily and with\na delicious freedom, and so familiarly that they sometimes presented\nthe air of two boys.\n\nStill, though unknown to hearts intoxicated with purity, nature is\nalways present and will not be forgotten. She is there with her brutal\nand sublime object; and however great may be the innocence of souls,\none feels in the most modest private interview, the adorable and\nmysterious shade which separates a couple of lovers from a pair of\nfriends.\n\nThey idolized each other.\n\nThe permanent and the immutable are persistent. People live, they\nsmile, they laugh, they make little grimaces with the tips of their\nlips, they interlace their fingers, they call each other _thou_, and\nthat does not prevent eternity.\n\nTwo lovers hide themselves in the evening, in the twilight, in the\ninvisible, with the birds, with the roses; they fascinate each other in\nthe darkness with their hearts which they throw into their eyes, they\nmurmur, they whisper, and in the meantime, immense librations of the\nplanets fill the infinite universe.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE BEWILDERMENT OF PERFECT HAPPINESS\n\n\nThey existed vaguely, frightened at their happiness. They did not\nnotice the cholera which decimated Paris precisely during that very\nmonth. They had confided in each other as far as possible, but this had\nnot extended much further than their names. Marius had told Cosette\nthat he was an orphan, that his name was Marius Pontmercy, that he was\na lawyer, that he lived by writing things for publishers, that his\nfather had been a colonel, that the latter had been a hero, and that\nhe, Marius, was on bad terms with his grandfather who was rich. He had\nalso hinted at being a baron, but this had produced no effect on\nCosette. She did not know the meaning of the word. Marius was Marius.\nOn her side, she had confided to him that she had been brought up at\nthe Petit-Picpus convent, that her mother, like his own, was dead, that\nher father s name was M. Fauchelevent, that he was very good, that he\ngave a great deal to the poor, but that he was poor himself, and that\nhe denied himself everything though he denied her nothing.\n\nStrange to say, in the sort of symphony which Marius had lived since he\nhad been in the habit of seeing Cosette, the past, even the most recent\npast, had become so confused and distant to him, that what Cosette told\nhim satisfied him completely. It did not even occur to him to tell her\nabout the nocturnal adventure in the hovel, about Th nardier, about the\nburn, and about the strange attitude and singular flight of her father.\nMarius had momentarily forgotten all this; in the evening he did not\neven know that there had been a morning, what he had done, where he had\nbreakfasted, nor who had spoken to him; he had songs in his ears which\nrendered him deaf to every other thought; he only existed at the hours\nwhen he saw Cosette. Then, as he was in heaven, it was quite natural\nthat he should forget earth. Both bore languidly the indefinable burden\nof immaterial pleasures. Thus lived these somnambulists who are called\nlovers.\n\nAlas! Who is there who has not felt all these things? Why does there\ncome an hour when one emerges from this azure, and why does life go on\nafterwards?\n\nLoving almost takes the place of thinking. Love is an ardent\nforgetfulness of all the rest. Then ask logic of passion if you will.\nThere is no more absolute logical sequence in the human heart than\nthere is a perfect geometrical figure in the celestial mechanism. For\nCosette and Marius nothing existed except Marius and Cosette. The\nuniverse around them had fallen into a hole. They lived in a golden\nminute. There was nothing before them, nothing behind. It hardly\noccurred to Marius that Cosette had a father. His brain was dazzled and\nobliterated. Of what did these lovers talk then? We have seen, of the\nflowers, and the swallows, the setting sun and the rising moon, and all\nsorts of important things. They had told each other everything except\neverything. The everything of lovers is nothing. But the father, the\nrealities, that lair, the ruffians, that adventure, to what purpose?\nAnd was he very sure that this nightmare had actually existed? They\nwere two, and they adored each other, and beyond that there was\nnothing. Nothing else existed. It is probable that this vanishing of\nhell in our rear is inherent to the arrival of paradise. Have we beheld\ndemons? Are there any? Have we trembled? Have we suffered? We no longer\nknow. A rosy cloud hangs over it.\n\nSo these two beings lived in this manner, high aloft, with all that\nimprobability which is in nature; neither at the nadir nor at the\nzenith, between man and seraphim, above the mire, below the ether, in\nthe clouds; hardly flesh and blood, soul and ecstasy from head to foot;\nalready too sublime to walk the earth, still too heavily charged with\nhumanity to disappear in the blue, suspended like atoms which are\nwaiting to be precipitated; apparently beyond the bounds of destiny;\nignorant of that rut; yesterday, to-day, to-morrow; amazed, rapturous,\nfloating, soaring; at times so light that they could take their flight\nout into the infinite; almost prepared to soar away to all eternity.\nThey slept wide-awake, thus sweetly lulled. Oh! splendid lethargy of\nthe real overwhelmed by the ideal.\n\nSometimes, beautiful as Cosette was, Marius shut his eyes in her\npresence. The best way to look at the soul is through closed eyes.\n\nMarius and Cosette never asked themselves whither this was to lead\nthem. They considered that they had already arrived. It is a strange\nclaim on man s part to wish that love should lead to something.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE BEGINNING OF SHADOW\n\n\nJean Valjean suspected nothing.\n\nCosette, who was rather less dreamy than Marius, was gay, and that\nsufficed for Jean Valjean s happiness. The thoughts which Cosette\ncherished, her tender preoccupations, Marius  image which filled her\nheart, took away nothing from the incomparable purity of her beautiful,\nchaste, and smiling brow. She was at the age when the virgin bears her\nlove as the angel his lily. So Jean Valjean was at ease. And then, when\ntwo lovers have come to an understanding, things always go well; the\nthird party who might disturb their love is kept in a state of perfect\nblindness by a restricted number of precautions which are always the\nsame in the case of all lovers. Thus, Cosette never objected to any of\nJean Valjean s proposals. Did she want to take a walk?  Yes, dear\nlittle father.  Did she want to stay at home? Very good. Did he wish to\npass the evening with Cosette? She was delighted. As he always went to\nbed at ten o clock, Marius did not come to the garden on such occasions\nuntil after that hour, when, from the street, he heard Cosette open the\nlong glass door on the veranda. Of course, no one ever met Marius in\nthe daytime. Jean Valjean never even dreamed any longer that Marius was\nin existence. Only once, one morning, he chanced to say to Cosette:\n Why, you have whitewash on your back!  On the previous evening,\nMarius, in a transport, had pushed Cosette against the wall.\n\nOld Toussaint, who retired early, thought of nothing but her sleep, and\nwas as ignorant of the whole matter as Jean Valjean.\n\nMarius never set foot in the house. When he was with Cosette, they hid\nthemselves in a recess near the steps, in order that they might neither\nbe seen nor heard from the street, and there they sat, frequently\ncontenting themselves, by way of conversation, with pressing each\nother s hands twenty times a minute as they gazed at the branches of\nthe trees. At such times, a thunderbolt might have fallen thirty paces\nfrom them, and they would not have noticed it, so deeply was the\nreverie of the one absorbed and sunk in the reverie of the other.\n\nLimpid purity. Hours wholly white; almost all alike. This sort of love\nis a recollection of lily petals and the plumage of the dove.\n\nThe whole extent of the garden lay between them and the street. Every\ntime that Marius entered and left, he carefully adjusted the bar of the\ngate in such a manner that no displacement was visible.\n\nHe usually went away about midnight, and returned to Courfeyrac s\nlodgings. Courfeyrac said to Bahorel: \n\n Would you believe it? Marius comes home nowadays at one o clock in the\nmorning. \n\n\nBahorel replied: \n\n What do you expect? There s always a petard in a seminary fellow. \n\n\nAt times, Courfeyrac folded his arms, assumed a serious air, and said\nto Marius: \n\n You are getting irregular in your habits, young man. \n\n\nCourfeyrac, being a practical man, did not take in good part this\nreflection of an invisible paradise upon Marius; he was not much in the\nhabit of concealed passions; it made him impatient, and now and then he\ncalled upon Marius to come back to reality.\n\nOne morning, he threw him this admonition: \n\n My dear fellow, you produce upon me the effect of being located in the\nmoon, the realm of dreams, the province of illusions, capital,\nsoap-bubble. Come, be a good boy, what s her name? \n\n\nBut nothing could induce Marius  to talk.  They might have torn out his\nnails before one of the two sacred syllables of which that ineffable\nname, Cosette, was composed. True love is as luminous as the dawn and\nas silent as the tomb. Only, Courfeyrac saw this change in Marius, that\nhis taciturnity was of the beaming order.\n\nDuring this sweet month of May, Marius and Cosette learned to know\nthese immense delights. To dispute and to say _you_ for _thou_, simply\nthat they might say _thou_ the better afterwards. To talk at great\nlength with very minute details, of persons in whom they took not the\nslightest interest in the world; another proof that in that ravishing\nopera called love, the libretto counts for almost nothing;\n\nFor Marius, to listen to Cosette discussing finery;\n\nFor Cosette, to listen to Marius talk in politics;\n\nTo listen, knee pressed to knee, to the carriages rolling along the Rue\nde Babylone;\n\nTo gaze upon the same planet in space, or at the same glowworm gleaming\nin the grass;\n\nTo hold their peace together; a still greater delight than\nconversation;\n\nEtc., etc.\n\nIn the meantime, divers complications were approaching.\n\nOne evening, Marius was on his way to the rendezvous, by way of the\nBoulevard des Invalides. He habitually walked with drooping head. As he\nwas on the point of turning the corner of the Rue Plumet, he heard some\none quite close to him say: \n\n Good evening, Monsieur Marius. \n\n\nHe raised his head and recognized  ponine.\n\nThis produced a singular effect upon him. He had not thought of that\ngirl a single time since the day when she had conducted him to the Rue\nPlumet, he had not seen her again, and she had gone completely out of\nhis mind. He had no reasons for anything but gratitude towards her, he\nowed her his happiness, and yet, it was embarrassing to him to meet\nher.\n\nIt is an error to think that passion, when it is pure and happy, leads\nman to a state of perfection; it simply leads him, as we have noted, to\na state of oblivion. In this situation, man forgets to be bad, but he\nalso forgets to be good. Gratitude, duty, matters essential and\nimportant to be remembered, vanish. At any other time, Marius would\nhave behaved quite differently to  ponine. Absorbed in Cosette, he had\nnot even clearly put it to himself that this  ponine was named  ponine\nTh nardier, and that she bore the name inscribed in his father s will,\nthat name, for which, but a few months before, he would have so\nardently sacrificed himself. We show Marius as he was. His father\nhimself was fading out of his soul to some extent, under the splendor\nof his love.\n\nHe replied with some embarrassment: \n\n Ah! so it s you,  ponine? \n\n\n Why do you call me _you?_ Have I done anything to you? \n\n\n No,  he answered.\n\nCertainly, he had nothing against her. Far from it. Only, he felt that\nhe could not do otherwise, now that he used _thou_ to Cosette, than say\n_you_ to  ponine.\n\nAs he remained silent, she exclaimed: \n\n Say \n\n\nThen she paused. It seemed as though words failed that creature\nformerly so heedless and so bold. She tried to smile and could not.\nThen she resumed: \n\n Well? \n\n\nThen she paused again, and remained with downcast eyes.\n\n Good evening, Mr. Marius,  said she suddenly and abruptly; and away\nshe went.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV A CAB RUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG\n\n\nThe following day was the 3d of June, 1832, a date which it is\nnecessary to indicate on account of the grave events which at that\nepoch hung on the horizon of Paris in the state of lightning-charged\nclouds. Marius, at nightfall, was pursuing the same road as on the\npreceding evening, with the same thoughts of delight in his heart, when\nhe caught sight of  ponine approaching, through the trees of the\nboulevard. Two days in succession this was too much. He turned hastily\naside, quitted the boulevard, changed his course and went to the Rue\nPlumet through the Rue Monsieur.\n\nThis caused  ponine to follow him to the Rue Plumet, a thing which she\nhad not yet done. Up to that time, she had contented herself with\nwatching him on his passage along the boulevard without ever seeking to\nencounter him. It was only on the evening before that she had attempted\nto address him.\n\nSo  ponine followed him, without his suspecting the fact. She saw him\ndisplace the bar and slip into the garden.\n\nShe approached the railing, felt of the bars one after the other, and\nreadily recognized the one which Marius had moved.\n\nShe murmured in a low voice and in gloomy accents: \n\n None of that, Lisette! \n\n\nShe seated herself on the underpinning of the railing, close beside the\nbar, as though she were guarding it. It was precisely at the point\nwhere the railing touched the neighboring wall. There was a dim nook\nthere, in which  ponine was entirely concealed.\n\nShe remained thus for more than an hour, without stirring and without\nbreathing, a prey to her thoughts.\n\nTowards ten o clock in the evening, one of the two or three persons who\npassed through the Rue Plumet, an old, belated bourgeois who was making\nhaste to escape from this deserted spot of evil repute, as he skirted\nthe garden railings and reached the angle which it made with the wall,\nheard a dull and threatening voice saying: \n\n I m no longer surprised that he comes here every evening. \n\n\nThe passer-by cast a glance around him, saw no one, dared not peer into\nthe black niche, and was greatly alarmed. He redoubled his pace.\n\nThis passer-by had reason to make haste, for a very few instants later,\nsix men, who were marching separately and at some distance from each\nother, along the wall, and who might have been taken for a gray patrol,\nentered the Rue Plumet.\n\nThe first to arrive at the garden railing halted, and waited for the\nothers; a second later, all six were reunited.\n\nThese men began to talk in a low voice.\n\n This is the place,  said one of them.\n\n Is there a _cab_ [dog] in the garden?  asked another.\n\n I don t know. In any case, I have fetched a ball that we ll make him\neat. \n\n\n Have you some putty to break the pane with? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n The railing is old,  interpolated a fifth, who had the voice of a\nventriloquist.\n\n So much the better,  said the second who had spoken.  It won t screech\nunder the saw, and it won t be hard to cut. \n\n\nThe sixth, who had not yet opened his lips, now began to inspect the\ngate, as  ponine had done an hour earlier, grasping each bar in\nsuccession, and shaking them cautiously.\n\nThus he came to the bar which Marius had loosened. As he was on the\npoint of grasping this bar, a hand emerged abruptly from the darkness,\nfell upon his arm; he felt himself vigorously thrust aside by a push in\nthe middle of his breast, and a hoarse voice said to him, but not\nloudly: \n\n There s a dog. \n\n\nAt the same moment, he perceived a pale girl standing before him.\n\nThe man underwent that shock which the unexpected always brings. He\nbristled up in hideous wise; nothing is so formidable to behold as\nferocious beasts who are uneasy; their terrified air evokes terror.\n\nHe recoiled and stammered: \n\n What jade is this? \n\n\n Your daughter. \n\n\nIt was, in fact,  ponine, who had addressed Th nardier.\n\nAt the apparition of  ponine, the other five, that is to say,\nClaquesous, Guelemer, Babet, Brujon, and Montparnasse had noiselessly\ndrawn near, without precipitation, without uttering a word, with the\nsinister slowness peculiar to these men of the night.\n\nSome indescribable but hideous tools were visible in their hands.\nGuelemer held one of those pairs of curved pincers which prowlers call\n_fanchons_.\n\n Ah, see here, what are you about there? What do you want with us? Are\nyou crazy?  exclaimed Th nardier, as loudly as one can exclaim and\nstill speak low;  what have you come here to hinder our work for? \n\n\n ponine burst out laughing, and threw herself on his neck.\n\n I am here, little father, because I am here. Isn t a person allowed to\nsit on the stones nowadays? It s you who ought not to be here. What\nhave you come here for, since it s a biscuit? I told Magnon so. There s\nnothing to be done here. But embrace me, my good little father! It s a\nlong time since I ve seen you! So you re out? \n\n\nTh nardier tried to disentangle himself from  ponine s arms, and\ngrumbled: \n\n That s good. You ve embraced me. Yes, I m out. I m not in. Now, get\naway with you. \n\n\nBut  ponine did not release her hold, and redoubled her caresses.\n\n But how did you manage it, little pa? You must have been very clever\nto get out of that. Tell me about it! And my mother? Where is mother?\nTell me about mamma. \n\n\nTh nardier replied: \n\n She s well. I don t know, let me alone, and be off, I tell you. \n\n\n I won t go, so there now,  pouted  ponine like a spoiled child;  you\nsend me off, and it s four months since I saw you, and I ve hardly had\ntime to kiss you. \n\n\nAnd she caught her father round the neck again.\n\n Come, now, this is stupid!  said Babet.\n\n Make haste!  said Guelemer,  the cops may pass. \n\n\nThe ventriloquist s voice repeated his distich: \n\n     Nous n  sommes pas le jour de l an,\n    A b coter papa, maman. \n\n     This isn t New Year s day\n    To peck at pa and ma. \n\n\n ponine turned to the five ruffians.\n\n Why, it s Monsieur Brujon. Good day, Monsieur Babet. Good day,\nMonsieur Claquesous. Don t you know me, Monsieur Guelemer? How goes it,\nMontparnasse? \n\n\n Yes, they know you!  ejaculated Th nardier.  But good day, good\nevening, sheer off! leave us alone! \n\n\n It s the hour for foxes, not for chickens,  said Montparnasse.\n\n You see the job we have on hand here,  added Babet.\n\n ponine caught Montparnasse s hand.\n\n Take care,  said he,  you ll cut yourself, I ve a knife open. \n\n\n My little Montparnasse,  responded  ponine very gently,  you must have\nconfidence in people. I am the daughter of my father, perhaps. Monsieur\nBabet, Monsieur Guelemer, I m the person who was charged to investigate\nthis matter. \n\n\nIt is remarkable that  ponine did not talk slang. That frightful tongue\nhad become impossible to her since she had known Marius.\n\nShe pressed in her hand, small, bony, and feeble as that of a skeleton,\nGuelemer s huge, coarse fingers, and continued: \n\n You know well that I m no fool. Ordinarily, I am believed. I have\nrendered you service on various occasions. Well, I have made inquiries;\nyou will expose yourselves to no purpose, you see. I swear to you that\nthere is nothing in this house. \n\n\n There are lone women,  said Guelemer.\n\n No, the persons have moved away. \n\n\n The candles haven t, anyway!  ejaculated Babet.\n\nAnd he pointed out to  ponine, across the tops of the trees, a light\nwhich was wandering about in the mansard roof of the pavilion. It was\nToussaint, who had stayed up to spread out some linen to dry.\n\n ponine made a final effort.\n\n Well,  said she,  they re very poor folks, and it s a hovel where\nthere isn t a sou. \n\n\n Go to the devil!  cried Th nardier.  When we ve turned the house\nupside down and put the cellar at the top and the attic below, we ll\ntell you what there is inside, and whether it s francs or sous or\nhalf-farthings. \n\n\nAnd he pushed her aside with the intention of entering.\n\n My good friend, Mr. Montparnasse,  said  ponine,  I entreat you, you\nare a good fellow, don t enter. \n\n\n Take care, you ll cut yourself,  replied Montparnasse.\n\nTh nardier resumed in his decided tone: \n\n Decamp, my girl, and leave men to their own affairs! \n\n\n ponine released Montparnasse s hand, which she had grasped again, and\nsaid: \n\n So you mean to enter this house? \n\n\n Rather!  grinned the ventriloquist.\n\nThen she set her back against the gate, faced the six ruffians who were\narmed to the teeth, and to whom the night lent the visages of demons,\nand said in a firm, low voice: \n\n Well, I don t mean that you shall. \n\n\nThey halted in amazement. The ventriloquist, however, finished his\ngrin. She went on: \n\n Friends! Listen well. This is not what you want. Now I m talking. In\nthe first place, if you enter this garden, if you lay a hand on this\ngate, I ll scream, I ll beat on the door, I ll rouse everybody, I ll\nhave the whole six of you seized, I ll call the police. \n\n\n She d do it, too,  said Th nardier in a low tone to Brujon and the\nventriloquist.\n\nShe shook her head and added: \n\n Beginning with my father! \n\n\nTh nardier stepped nearer.\n\n Not so close, my good man!  said she.\n\nHe retreated, growling between his teeth: \n\n Why, what s the matter with her? \n\n\nAnd he added: \n\n Bitch! \n\n\nShe began to laugh in a terrible way: \n\n As you like, but you shall not enter here. I m not the daughter of a\ndog, since I m the daughter of a wolf. There are six of you, what\nmatters that to me? You are men. Well, I m a woman. You don t frighten\nme. I tell you that you shan t enter this house, because it doesn t\nsuit me. If you approach, I ll bark. I told you, I m the dog, and I\ndon t care a straw for you. Go your way, you bore me! Go where you\nplease, but don t come here, I forbid it! You can use your knives. I ll\nuse kicks; it s all the same to me, come on! \n\n\nShe advanced a pace nearer the ruffians, she was terrible, she burst\nout laughing: \n\n Pardine! I m not afraid. I shall be hungry this summer, and I shall be\ncold this winter. Aren t they ridiculous, these ninnies of men, to\nthink they can scare a girl! What! Scare? Oh, yes, much! Because you\nhave finical poppets of mistresses who hide under the bed when you put\non a big voice, forsooth! I ain t afraid of anything, that I ain t! \n\n\nShe fastened her intent gaze upon Th nardier and said: \n\n Not even of you, father! \n\n\nThen she continued, as she cast her blood-shot, spectre-like eyes upon\nthe ruffians in turn: \n\n What do I care if I m picked up to-morrow morning on the pavement of\nthe Rue Plumet, killed by the blows of my father s club, or whether I m\nfound a year from now in the nets at Saint-Cloud or the Isle of Swans\nin the midst of rotten old corks and drowned dogs? \n\n\nShe was forced to pause; she was seized by a dry cough, her breath came\nfrom her weak and narrow chest like the death-rattle.\n\nShe resumed: \n\n I have only to cry out, and people will come, and then slap, bang!\nThere are six of you; I represent the whole world. \n\n\nTh nardier made a movement towards her.\n\n Don t approach!  she cried.\n\nHe halted, and said gently: \n\n Well, no; I won t approach, but don t speak so loud. So you intend to\nhinder us in our work, my daughter? But we must earn our living all the\nsame. Have you no longer any kind feeling for your father? \n\n\n You bother me,  said  ponine.\n\n But we must live, we must eat \n\n\n Burst! \n\n\nSo saying, she seated herself on the underpinning of the fence and\nhummed: \n\n     Mon bras si dodu,\n    Ma jambe bien faite\n    Et le temps perdu. \n\n     My arm so plump,\n    My leg well formed,\n    And time wasted. \n\n\nShe had set her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and she\nswung her foot with an air of indifference. Her tattered gown permitted\na view of her thin shoulder-blades. The neighboring street lantern\nilluminated her profile and her attitude. Nothing more resolute and\nmore surprising could be seen.\n\nThe six rascals, speechless and gloomy at being held in check by a\ngirl, retreated beneath the shadow cast by the lantern, and held\ncounsel with furious and humiliated shrugs.\n\nIn the meantime she stared at them with a stern but peaceful air.\n\n There s something the matter with her,  said Babet.  A reason. Is she\nin love with the dog? It s a shame to miss this, anyway. Two women, an\nold fellow who lodges in the back-yard, and curtains that ain t so bad\nat the windows. The old cove must be a Jew. I think the job s a good\none. \n\n\n Well, go in, then, the rest of you,  exclaimed Montparnasse.  Do the\njob. I ll stay here with the girl, and if she fails us \n\n\nHe flashed the knife, which he held open in his hand, in the light of\nthe lantern.\n\nTh nardier said not a word, and seemed ready for whatever the rest\npleased.\n\nBrujon, who was somewhat of an oracle, and who had, as the reader\nknows,  put up the job,  had not as yet spoken. He seemed thoughtful.\nHe had the reputation of not sticking at anything, and it was known\nthat he had plundered a police post simply out of bravado. Besides this\nhe made verses and songs, which gave him great authority.\n\nBabet interrogated him: \n\n You say nothing, Brujon? \n\n\nBrujon remained silent an instant longer, then he shook his head in\nvarious ways, and finally concluded to speak: \n\n See here; this morning I came across two sparrows fighting, this\nevening I jostled a woman who was quarrelling. All that s bad. Let s\nquit. \n\n\nThey went away.\n\nAs they went, Montparnasse muttered: \n\n Never mind! if they had wanted, I d have cut her throat. \n\n\nBabet responded\n\n I wouldn t. I don t hit a lady. \n\n\nAt the corner of the street they halted and exchanged the following\nenigmatical dialogue in a low tone: \n\n Where shall we go to sleep to-night? \n\n\n Under Pantin [Paris]. \n\n\n Have you the key to the gate, Th nardier? \n\n\n Pardi. \n\n\n ponine, who never took her eyes off of them, saw them retreat by the\nroad by which they had come. She rose and began to creep after them\nalong the walls and the houses. She followed them thus as far as the\nboulevard.\n\nThere they parted, and she saw these six men plunge into the gloom,\nwhere they appeared to melt away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V THINGS OF THE NIGHT\n\n\nAfter the departure of the ruffians, the Rue Plumet resumed its\ntranquil, nocturnal aspect. That which had just taken place in this\nstreet would not have astonished a forest. The lofty trees, the copses,\nthe heaths, the branches rudely interlaced, the tall grass, exist in a\nsombre manner; the savage swarming there catches glimpses of sudden\napparitions of the invisible; that which is below man distinguishes,\nthrough the mists, that which is beyond man; and the things of which we\nliving beings are ignorant there meet face to face in the night.\nNature, bristling and wild, takes alarm at certain approaches in which\nshe fancies that she feels the supernatural. The forces of the gloom\nknow each other, and are strangely balanced by each other. Teeth and\nclaws fear what they cannot grasp. Blood-drinking bestiality, voracious\nappetites, hunger in search of prey, the armed instincts of nails and\njaws which have for source and aim the belly, glare and smell out\nuneasily the impassive spectral forms straying beneath a shroud, erect\nin its vague and shuddering robe, and which seem to them to live with a\ndead and terrible life. These brutalities, which are only matter,\nentertain a confused fear of having to deal with the immense obscurity\ncondensed into an unknown being. A black figure barring the way stops\nthe wild beast short. That which emerges from the cemetery intimidates\nand disconcerts that which emerges from the cave; the ferocious fear\nthe sinister; wolves recoil when they encounter a ghoul.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI MARIUS BECOMES PRACTICAL ONCE MORE TO THE EXTENT OF GIVING\nCOSETTE HIS ADDRESS\n\n\nWhile this sort of a dog with a human face was mounting guard over the\ngate, and while the six ruffians were yielding to a girl, Marius was by\nCosette s side.\n\nNever had the sky been more studded with stars and more charming, the\ntrees more trembling, the odor of the grass more penetrating; never had\nthe birds fallen asleep among the leaves with a sweeter noise; never\nhad all the harmonies of universal serenity responded more thoroughly\nto the inward music of love; never had Marius been more captivated,\nmore happy, more ecstatic.\n\nBut he had found Cosette sad; Cosette had been weeping. Her eyes were\nred.\n\nThis was the first cloud in that wonderful dream.\n\nMarius  first word had been:  What is the matter? \n\n\nAnd she had replied:  This. \n\n\nThen she had seated herself on the bench near the steps, and while he\ntremblingly took his place beside her, she had continued: \n\n My father told me this morning to hold myself in readiness, because he\nhas business, and we may go away from here. \n\n\nMarius shivered from head to foot.\n\nWhen one is at the end of one s life, to die means to go away; when one\nis at the beginning of it, to go away means to die.\n\nFor the last six weeks, Marius had little by little, slowly, by\ndegrees, taken possession of Cosette each day. As we have already\nexplained, in the case of first love, the soul is taken long before the\nbody; later on, one takes the body long before the soul; sometimes one\ndoes not take the soul at all; the Faublas and the Prudhommes add:\n Because there is none ; but the sarcasm is, fortunately, a blasphemy.\nSo Marius possessed Cosette, as spirits possess, but he enveloped her\nwith all his soul, and seized her jealously with incredible conviction.\nHe possessed her smile, her breath, her perfume, the profound radiance\nof her blue eyes, the sweetness of her skin when he touched her hand,\nthe charming mark which she had on her neck, all her thoughts.\nTherefore, he possessed all Cosette s dreams.\n\nHe incessantly gazed at, and he sometimes touched lightly with his\nbreath, the short locks on the nape of her neck, and he declared to\nhimself that there was not one of those short hairs which did not\nbelong to him, Marius. He gazed upon and adored the things that she\nwore, her knot of ribbon, her gloves, her sleeves, her shoes, her\ncuffs, as sacred objects of which he was the master. He dreamed that he\nwas the lord of those pretty shell combs which she wore in her hair,\nand he even said to himself, in confused and suppressed stammerings of\nvoluptuousness which did not make their way to the light, that there\nwas not a ribbon of her gown, not a mesh in her stockings, not a fold\nin her bodice, which was not his. Beside Cosette he felt himself beside\nhis own property, his own thing, his own despot and his slave. It\nseemed as though they had so intermingled their souls, that it would\nhave been impossible to tell them apart had they wished to take them\nback again. This is mine.   No, it is mine.   I assure you that you\nare mistaken. This is my property.   What you are taking as your own is\nmyself. Marius was something that made a part of Cosette, and Cosette\nwas something which made a part of Marius. Marius felt Cosette within\nhim. To have Cosette, to possess Cosette, this, to him, was not to be\ndistinguished from breathing. It was in the midst of this faith, of\nthis intoxication, of this virgin possession, unprecedented and\nabsolute, of this sovereignty, that these words:  We are going away, \nfell suddenly, at a blow, and that the harsh voice of reality cried to\nhim:  Cosette is not yours! \n\n\nMarius awoke. For six weeks Marius had been living, as we have said,\noutside of life; those words, _going away!_ caused him to re-enter it\nharshly.\n\nHe found not a word to say. Cosette merely felt that his hand was very\ncold. She said to him in her turn:  What is the matter? \n\n\nHe replied in so low a tone that Cosette hardly heard him: \n\n I did not understand what you said. \n\n\nShe began again: \n\n This morning my father told me to settle all my little affairs and to\nhold myself in readiness, that he would give me his linen to put in a\ntrunk, that he was obliged to go on a journey, that we were to go away,\nthat it is necessary to have a large trunk for me and a small one for\nhim, and that all is to be ready in a week from now, and that we might\ngo to England. \n\n\n But this is outrageous!  exclaimed Marius.\n\nIt is certain, that, at that moment, no abuse of power, no violence,\nnot one of the abominations of the worst tyrants, no action of Busiris,\nof Tiberius, or of Henry VIII., could have equalled this in atrocity,\nin the opinion of Marius; M. Fauchelevent taking his daughter off to\nEngland because he had business there.\n\nHe demanded in a weak voice: \n\n And when do you start? \n\n\n He did not say when. \n\n\n And when shall you return? \n\n\n He did not say when. \n\n\nMarius rose and said coldly: \n\n Cosette, shall you go? \n\n\nCosette turned toward him her beautiful eyes, all filled with anguish,\nand replied in a sort of bewilderment: \n\n Where? \n\n\n To England. Shall you go? \n\n\n Why do you say _you_ to me? \n\n\n I ask you whether you will go? \n\n\n What do you expect me to do?  she said, clasping her hands.\n\n So, you will go? \n\n\n If my father goes. \n\n\n So, you will go? \n\n\nCosette took Marius  hand, and pressed it without replying.\n\n Very well,  said Marius,  then I will go elsewhere. \n\n\nCosette felt rather than understood the meaning of these words. She\nturned so pale that her face shone white through the gloom. She\nstammered: \n\n What do you mean? \n\n\nMarius looked at her, then raised his eyes to heaven, and answered:\n Nothing. \n\n\nWhen his eyes fell again, he saw Cosette smiling at him. The smile of a\nwoman whom one loves possesses a visible radiance, even at night.\n\n How silly we are! Marius, I have an idea. \n\n\n What is it? \n\n\n If we go away, do you go too! I will tell you where! Come and join me\nwherever I am. \n\n\nMarius was now a thoroughly roused man. He had fallen back into\nreality. He cried to Cosette: \n\n Go away with you! Are you mad? Why, I should have to have money, and I\nhave none! Go to England? But I am in debt now, I owe, I don t know how\nmuch, more than ten louis to Courfeyrac, one of my friends with whom\nyou are not acquainted! I have an old hat which is not worth three\nfrancs, I have a coat which lacks buttons in front, my shirt is all\nragged, my elbows are torn, my boots let in the water; for the last six\nweeks I have not thought about it, and I have not told you about it.\nYou only see me at night, and you give me your love; if you were to see\nme in the daytime, you would give me a sou! Go to England! Eh! I\nhaven t enough to pay for a passport! \n\n\nHe threw himself against a tree which was close at hand, erect, his\nbrow pressed close to the bark, feeling neither the wood which flayed\nhis skin, nor the fever which was throbbing in his temples, and there\nhe stood motionless, on the point of falling, like the statue of\ndespair.\n\nHe remained a long time thus. One could remain for eternity in such\nabysses. At last he turned round. He heard behind him a faint stifled\nnoise, which was sweet yet sad.\n\nIt was Cosette sobbing.\n\nShe had been weeping for more than two hours beside Marius as he\nmeditated.\n\nHe came to her, fell at her knees, and slowly prostrating himself, he\ntook the tip of her foot which peeped out from beneath her robe, and\nkissed it.\n\nShe let him have his way in silence. There are moments when a woman\naccepts, like a sombre and resigned goddess, the religion of love.\n\n Do not weep,  he said.\n\nShe murmured: \n\n Not when I may be going away, and you cannot come! \n\n\nHe went on: \n\n Do you love me? \n\n\nShe replied, sobbing, by that word from paradise which is never more\ncharming than amid tears: \n\n I adore you! \n\n\nHe continued in a tone which was an indescribable caress: \n\n Do not weep. Tell me, will you do this for me, and cease to weep? \n\n\n Do you love me?  said she.\n\nHe took her hand.\n\n Cosette, I have never given my word of honor to any one, because my\nword of honor terrifies me. I feel that my father is by my side. Well,\nI give you my most sacred word of honor, that if you go away I shall\ndie. \n\n\nIn the tone with which he uttered these words there lay a melancholy so\nsolemn and so tranquil, that Cosette trembled. She felt that chill\nwhich is produced by a true and gloomy thing as it passes by. The shock\nmade her cease weeping.\n\n Now, listen,  said he,  do not expect me to-morrow. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n Do not expect me until the day after to-morrow. \n\n\n Oh! Why? \n\n\n You will see. \n\n\n A day without seeing you! But that is impossible! \n\n\n Let us sacrifice one day in order to gain our whole lives, perhaps. \n\n\nAnd Marius added in a low tone and in an aside: \n\n He is a man who never changes his habits, and he has never received\nany one except in the evening. \n\n\n Of what man are you speaking?  asked Cosette.\n\n I? I said nothing. \n\n\n What do you hope, then? \n\n\n Wait until the day after to-morrow. \n\n\n You wish it? \n\n\n Yes, Cosette. \n\n\nShe took his head in both her hands, raising herself on tiptoe in order\nto be on a level with him, and tried to read his hope in his eyes.\n\nMarius resumed: \n\n Now that I think of it, you ought to know my address: something might\nhappen, one never knows; I live with that friend named Courfeyrac, Rue\nde la Verrerie, No. 16. \n\n\nHe searched in his pocket, pulled out his penknife, and with the blade\nhe wrote on the plaster of the wall: \n\n_ 16 Rue de la Verrerie. _\n\nIn the meantime, Cosette had begun to gaze into his eyes once more.\n\n Tell me your thought, Marius; you have some idea. Tell it to me. Oh!\ntell me, so that I may pass a pleasant night. \n\n\n This is my idea: that it is impossible that God should mean to part\nus. Wait; expect me the day after to-morrow. \n\n\n What shall I do until then?  said Cosette.  You are outside, you go,\nand come! How happy men are! I shall remain entirely alone! Oh! How sad\nI shall be! What is it that you are going to do to-morrow evening? tell\nme. \n\n\n I am going to try something. \n\n\n Then I will pray to God and I will think of you here, so that you may\nbe successful. I will question you no further, since you do not wish\nit. You are my master. I shall pass the evening to-morrow in singing\nthat music from _Euryanthe_ that you love, and that you came one\nevening to listen to, outside my shutters. But day after to-morrow you\nwill come early. I shall expect you at dusk, at nine o clock precisely,\nI warn you. Mon Dieu! how sad it is that the days are so long! On the\nstroke of nine, do you understand, I shall be in the garden. \n\n\n And I also. \n\n\nAnd without having uttered it, moved by the same thought, impelled by\nthose electric currents which place lovers in continual communication,\nboth being intoxicated with delight even in their sorrow, they fell\ninto each other s arms, without perceiving that their lips met while\ntheir uplifted eyes, overflowing with rapture and full of tears, gazed\nupon the stars.\n\nWhen Marius went forth, the street was deserted. This was the moment\nwhen  ponine was following the ruffians to the boulevard.\n\nWhile Marius had been dreaming with his head pressed to the tree, an\nidea had crossed his mind; an idea, alas! that he himself judged to be\nsenseless and impossible. He had come to a desperate decision.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE OLD HEART AND THE YOUNG HEART IN THE PRESENCE OF EACH\nOTHER\n\n\nAt that epoch, Father Gillenormand was well past his ninety-first\nbirthday. He still lived with Mademoiselle Gillenormand in the Rue des\nFilles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the old house which he owned. He was, as\nthe reader will remember, one of those antique old men who await death\nperfectly erect, whom age bears down without bending, and whom even\nsorrow cannot curve.\n\nStill, his daughter had been saying for some time:  My father is\nsinking.  He no longer boxed the maids  ears; he no longer thumped the\nlanding-place so vigorously with his cane when Basque was slow in\nopening the door. The Revolution of July had exasperated him for the\nspace of barely six months. He had viewed, almost tranquilly, that\ncoupling of words, in the _Moniteur:_ M. Humblot-Cont , peer of France.\nThe fact is, that the old man was deeply dejected. He did not bend, he\ndid not yield; this was no more a characteristic of his physical than\nof his moral nature, but he felt himself giving way internally. For\nfour years he had been waiting for Marius, with his foot firmly\nplanted, that is the exact word, in the conviction that that\ngood-for-nothing young scamp would ring at his door some day or other;\nnow he had reached the point, where, at certain gloomy hours, he said\nto himself, that if Marius made him wait much longer It was not death\nthat was insupportable to him; it was the idea that perhaps he should\nnever see Marius again. The idea of never seeing Marius again had never\nentered his brain until that day; now the thought began to recur to\nhim, and it chilled him. Absence, as is always the case in genuine and\nnatural sentiments, had only served to augment the grandfather s love\nfor the ungrateful child, who had gone off like a flash. It is during\nDecember nights, when the cold stands at ten degrees, that one thinks\noftenest of the son.\n\nM. Gillenormand was, or thought himself, above all things, incapable of\ntaking a single step, he the grandfather, towards his grandson;  I\nwould die rather,  he said to himself. He did not consider himself as\nthe least to blame; but he thought of Marius only with profound\ntenderness, and the mute despair of an elderly, kindly old man who is\nabout to vanish in the dark.\n\nHe began to lose his teeth, which added to his sadness.\n\nM. Gillenormand, without however acknowledging it to himself, for it\nwould have rendered him furious and ashamed, had never loved a mistress\nas he loved Marius.\n\nHe had had placed in his chamber, opposite the head of his bed, so that\nit should be the first thing on which his eyes fell on waking, an old\nportrait of his other daughter, who was dead, Madame Pontmercy, a\nportrait which had been taken when she was eighteen. He gazed\nincessantly at that portrait. One day, he happened to say, as he gazed\nupon it: \n\n I think the likeness is strong. \n\n\n To my sister?  inquired Mademoiselle Gillenormand.  Yes, certainly. \n\n\nThe old man added: \n\n And to him also. \n\n\nOnce as he sat with his knees pressed together, and his eyes almost\nclosed, in a despondent attitude, his daughter ventured to say to him: \n\n Father, are you as angry with him as ever? \n\n\nShe paused, not daring to proceed further.\n\n With whom?  he demanded.\n\n With that poor Marius. \n\n\nHe raised his aged head, laid his withered and emaciated fist on the\ntable, and exclaimed in his most irritated and vibrating tone: \n\n Poor Marius, do you say! That gentleman is a knave, a wretched\nscoundrel, a vain little ingrate, a heartless, soulless, haughty, and\nwicked man! \n\n\nAnd he turned away so that his daughter might not see the tear that\nstood in his eye.\n\nThree days later he broke a silence which had lasted four hours, to say\nto his daughter point-blank: \n\n I had the honor to ask Mademoiselle Gillenormand never to mention him\nto me. \n\n\nAunt Gillenormand renounced every effort, and pronounced this acute\ndiagnosis:  My father never cared very much for my sister after her\nfolly. It is clear that he detests Marius. \n\n\n After her folly  meant:  after she had married the colonel. \n\n\nHowever, as the reader has been able to conjecture, Mademoiselle\nGillenormand had failed in her attempt to substitute her favorite, the\nofficer of lancers, for Marius. The substitute, Th odule, had not been\na success. M. Gillenormand had not accepted the _quid pro quo_. A\nvacancy in the heart does not accommodate itself to a stop-gap.\nTh odule, on his side, though he scented the inheritance, was disgusted\nat the task of pleasing. The goodman bored the lancer; and the lancer\nshocked the goodman. Lieutenant Th odule was gay, no doubt, but a\nchatter-box, frivolous, but vulgar; a high liver, but a frequenter of\nbad company; he had mistresses, it is true, and he had a great deal to\nsay about them, it is true also; but he talked badly. All his good\nqualities had a defect. M. Gillenormand was worn out with hearing him\ntell about the love affairs that he had in the vicinity of the barracks\nin the Rue de Babylone. And then, Lieutenant Gillenormand sometimes\ncame in his uniform, with the tricolored cockade. This rendered him\ndownright intolerable. Finally, Father Gillenormand had said to his\ndaughter:  I ve had enough of that Th odule. I haven t much taste for\nwarriors in time of peace. Receive him if you choose. I don t know but\nI prefer slashers to fellows that drag their swords. The clash of\nblades in battle is less dismal, after all, than the clank of the\nscabbard on the pavement. And then, throwing out your chest like a\nbully and lacing yourself like a girl, with stays under your cuirass,\nis doubly ridiculous. When one is a veritable man, one holds equally\naloof from swagger and from affected airs. He is neither a blusterer\nnor a finnicky-hearted man. Keep your Th odule for yourself. \n\n\nIt was in vain that his daughter said to him:  But he is your\ngrandnephew, nevertheless, it turned out that M. Gillenormand, who was\na grandfather to the very finger-tips, was not in the least a\ngrand-uncle.\n\nIn fact, as he had good sense, and as he had compared the two, Th odule\nhad only served to make him regret Marius all the more.\n\nOne evening, it was the 24th of June, which did not prevent Father\nGillenormand having a rousing fire on the hearth, he had dismissed his\ndaughter, who was sewing in a neighboring apartment. He was alone in\nhis chamber, amid its pastoral scenes, with his feet propped on the\nandirons, half enveloped in his huge screen of coromandel lacquer, with\nits nine leaves, with his elbow resting on a table where burned two\ncandles under a green shade, engulfed in his tapestry armchair, and in\nhis hand a book which he was not reading. He was dressed, according to\nhis wont, like an _incroyable_, and resembled an antique portrait by\nGarat. This would have made people run after him in the street, had not\nhis daughter covered him up, whenever he went out, in a vast bishop s\nwadded cloak, which concealed his attire. At home, he never wore a\ndressing gown, except when he rose and retired.  It gives one a look of\nage,  said he.\n\nFather Gillenormand was thinking of Marius lovingly and bitterly; and,\nas usual, bitterness predominated. His tenderness once soured always\nended by boiling and turning to indignation. He had reached the point\nwhere a man tries to make up his mind and to accept that which rends\nhis heart. He was explaining to himself that there was no longer any\nreason why Marius should return, that if he intended to return, he\nshould have done it long ago, that he must renounce the idea. He was\ntrying to accustom himself to the thought that all was over, and that\nhe should die without having beheld  that gentleman  again. But his\nwhole nature revolted; his aged paternity would not consent to this.\n Well!  said he, this was his doleful refrain, he will not return! \nHis bald head had fallen upon his breast, and he fixed a melancholy and\nirritated gaze upon the ashes on his hearth.\n\nIn the very midst of his reverie, his old servant Basque entered, and\ninquired: \n\n Can Monsieur receive M. Marius? \n\n\nThe old man sat up erect, pallid, and like a corpse which rises under\nthe influence of a galvanic shock. All his blood had retreated to his\nheart. He stammered: \n\n M. Marius what? \n\n\n I don t know,  replied Basque, intimidated and put out of countenance\nby his master s air;  I have not seen him. Nicolette came in and said\nto me:  There s a young man here; say that it is M. Marius. \n\n\nFather Gillenormand stammered in a low voice: \n\n Show him in. \n\n\nAnd he remained in the same attitude, with shaking head, and his eyes\nfixed on the door. It opened once more. A young man entered. It was\nMarius.\n\nMarius halted at the door, as though waiting to be bidden to enter.\n\nHis almost squalid attire was not perceptible in the obscurity caused\nby the shade. Nothing could be seen but his calm, grave, but strangely\nsad face.\n\nIt was several minutes before Father Gillenormand, dulled with\namazement and joy, could see anything except a brightness as when one\nis in the presence of an apparition. He was on the point of swooning;\nhe saw Marius through a dazzling light. It certainly was he, it\ncertainly was Marius.\n\nAt last! After the lapse of four years! He grasped him entire, so to\nspeak, in a single glance. He found him noble, handsome, distinguished,\nwell-grown, a complete man, with a suitable mien and a charming air. He\nfelt a desire to open his arms, to call him, to fling himself forward;\nhis heart melted with rapture, affectionate words swelled and\noverflowed his breast; at length all his tenderness came to the light\nand reached his lips, and, by a contrast which constituted the very\nfoundation of his nature, what came forth was harshness. He said\nabruptly: \n\n What have you come here for? \n\n\nMarius replied with embarrassment: \n\n Monsieur \n\n\nM. Gillenormand would have liked to have Marius throw himself into his\narms. He was displeased with Marius and with himself. He was conscious\nthat he was brusque, and that Marius was cold. It caused the goodman\nunendurable and irritating anxiety to feel so tender and forlorn\nwithin, and only to be able to be hard outside. Bitterness returned. He\ninterrupted Marius in a peevish tone: \n\n Then why did you come? \n\n\nThat  then  signified: _If you do not come to embrace me_. Marius\nlooked at his grandfather, whose pallor gave him a face of marble.\n\n Monsieur \n\n\n Have you come to beg my pardon? Do you acknowledge your faults? \n\n\nHe thought he was putting Marius on the right road, and that  the\nchild  would yield. Marius shivered; it was the denial of his father\nthat was required of him; he dropped his eyes and replied: \n\n No, sir. \n\n\n Then,  exclaimed the old man impetuously, with a grief that was\npoignant and full of wrath,  what do you want of me? \n\n\nMarius clasped his hands, advanced a step, and said in a feeble and\ntrembling voice: \n\n Sir, have pity on me. \n\n\nThese words touched M. Gillenormand; uttered a little sooner, they\nwould have rendered him tender, but they came too late. The grandfather\nrose; he supported himself with both hands on his cane; his lips were\nwhite, his brow wavered, but his lofty form towered above Marius as he\nbowed.\n\n Pity on you, sir! It is youth demanding pity of the old man of\nninety-one! You are entering into life, I am leaving it; you go to the\nplay, to balls, to the caf , to the billiard-hall; you have wit, you\nplease the women, you are a handsome fellow; as for me, I spit on my\nbrands in the heart of summer; you are rich with the only riches that\nare really such, I possess all the poverty of age; infirmity,\nisolation! You have your thirty-two teeth, a good digestion, bright\neyes, strength, appetite, health, gayety, a forest of black hair; I\nhave no longer even white hair, I have lost my teeth, I am losing my\nlegs, I am losing my memory; there are three names of streets that I\nconfound incessantly, the Rue Charlot, the Rue du Chaume, and the Rue\nSaint-Claude, that is what I have come to; you have before you the\nwhole future, full of sunshine, and I am beginning to lose my sight, so\nfar am I advancing into the night; you are in love, that is a matter of\ncourse, I am beloved by no one in all the world; and you ask pity of\nme! Parbleu! Moli re forgot that. If that is the way you jest at the\ncourthouse, Messieurs the lawyers, I sincerely compliment you. You are\ndroll. \n\n\nAnd the octogenarian went on in a grave and angry voice: \n\n Come, now, what do you want of me? \n\n\n Sir,  said Marius,  I know that my presence is displeasing to you, but\nI have come merely to ask one thing of you, and then I shall go away\nimmediately. \n\n\n You are a fool!  said the old man.  Who said that you were to go\naway? \n\n\nThis was the translation of the tender words which lay at the bottom of\nhis heart: \n\n Ask my pardon! Throw yourself on my neck! \n\n\nM. Gillenormand felt that Marius would leave him in a few moments, that\nhis harsh reception had repelled the lad, that his hardness was driving\nhim away; he said all this to himself, and it augmented his grief; and\nas his grief was straightway converted into wrath, it increased his\nharshness. He would have liked to have Marius understand, and Marius\ndid not understand, which made the goodman furious.\n\nHe began again: \n\n What! you deserted me, your grandfather, you left my house to go no\none knows whither, you drove your aunt to despair, you went off, it is\neasily guessed, to lead a bachelor life; it s more convenient, to play\nthe dandy, to come in at all hours, to amuse yourself; you have given\nme no signs of life, you have contracted debts without even telling me\nto pay them, you have become a smasher of windows and a blusterer, and,\nat the end of four years, you come to me, and that is all you have to\nsay to me! \n\n\nThis violent fashion of driving a grandson to tenderness was productive\nonly of silence on the part of Marius. M. Gillenormand folded his arms;\na gesture which with him was peculiarly imperious, and apostrophized\nMarius bitterly: \n\n Let us make an end of this. You have come to ask something of me, you\nsay? Well, what? What is it? Speak! \n\n\n Sir,  said Marius, with the look of a man who feels that he is falling\nover a precipice,  I have come to ask your permission to marry. \n\n\nM. Gillenormand rang the bell. Basque opened the door half-way.\n\n Call my daughter. \n\n\nA second later, the door was opened once more, Mademoiselle\nGillenormand did not enter, but showed herself; Marius was standing,\nmute, with pendant arms and the face of a criminal; M. Gillenormand was\npacing back and forth in the room. He turned to his daughter and said\nto her: \n\n Nothing. It is Monsieur Marius. Say good day to him. Monsieur wishes\nto marry. That s all. Go away. \n\n\nThe curt, hoarse sound of the old man s voice announced a strange\ndegree of excitement. The aunt gazed at Marius with a frightened air,\nhardly appeared to recognize him, did not allow a gesture or a syllable\nto escape her, and disappeared at her father s breath more swiftly than\na straw before the hurricane.\n\nIn the meantime, Father Gillenormand had returned and placed his back\nagainst the chimney-piece once more.\n\n You marry! At one and twenty! You have arranged that! You have only a\npermission to ask! a formality. Sit down, sir. Well, you have had a\nrevolution since I had the honor to see you last. The Jacobins got the\nupper hand. You must have been delighted. Are you not a Republican\nsince you are a Baron? You can make that agree. The Republic makes a\ngood sauce for the barony. Are you one of those decorated by July? Have\nyou taken the Louvre at all, sir? Quite near here, in the Rue\nSaint-Antoine, opposite the Rue des Nonamdi res, there is a cannon-ball\nincrusted in the wall of the third story of a house with this\ninscription:  July 28th, 1830.  Go take a look at that. It produces a\ngood effect. Ah! those friends of yours do pretty things. By the way,\naren t they erecting a fountain in the place of the monument of M. le\nDuc de Berry? So you want to marry? Whom? Can one inquire without\nindiscretion? \n\n\nHe paused, and, before Marius had time to answer, he added violently: \n\n Come now, you have a profession? A fortune made? How much do you earn\nat your trade of lawyer? \n\n\n Nothing,  said Marius, with a sort of firmness and resolution that was\nalmost fierce.\n\n Nothing? Then all that you have to live upon is the twelve hundred\nlivres that I allow you? \n\n\nMarius did not reply. M. Gillenormand continued: \n\n Then I understand the girl is rich? \n\n\n As rich as I am. \n\n\n What! No dowry? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Expectations? \n\n\n I think not. \n\n\n Utterly naked! What s the father? \n\n\n I don t know. \n\n\n And what s her name? \n\n\n Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. \n\n\n Fauchewhat? \n\n\n Fauchelevent. \n\n\n Pttt!  ejaculated the old gentleman.\n\n Sir!  exclaimed Marius.\n\nM. Gillenormand interrupted him with the tone of a man who is speaking\nto himself: \n\n That s right, one and twenty years of age, no profession, twelve\nhundred livres a year, Madame la Baronne de Pontmercy will go and\npurchase a couple of sous  worth of parsley from the fruiterer. \n\n\n Sir,  repeated Marius, in the despair at the last hope, which was\nvanishing,  I entreat you! I conjure you in the name of Heaven, with\nclasped hands, sir, I throw myself at your feet, permit me to marry\nher! \n\n\nThe old man burst into a shout of strident and mournful laughter,\ncoughing and laughing at the same time.\n\n Ah! ah! ah! You said to yourself:  Pardine! I ll go hunt up that old\nblockhead, that absurd numskull! What a shame that I m not twenty-five!\nHow I d treat him to a nice respectful summons! How nicely I d get\nalong without him! It s nothing to me, I d say to him:  You re only too\nhappy to see me, you old idiot, I want to marry, I desire to wed\nMamselle No-matter-whom, daughter of Monsieur No-matter-what, I have no\nshoes, she has no chemise, that just suits; I want to throw my career,\nmy future, my youth, my life to the dogs; I wish to take a plunge into\nwretchedness with a woman around my neck, that s an idea, and you must\nconsent to it!  and the old fossil will consent.  Go, my lad, do as you\nlike, attach your paving-stone, marry your Pousselevent, your\nCoupelevent Never, sir, never! \n\n\n Father \n\n\n Never! \n\n\nAt the tone in which that  never  was uttered, Marius lost all hope. He\ntraversed the chamber with slow steps, with bowed head, tottering and\nmore like a dying man than like one merely taking his departure. M.\nGillenormand followed him with his eyes, and at the moment when the\ndoor opened, and Marius was on the point of going out, he advanced four\npaces, with the senile vivacity of impetuous and spoiled old gentlemen,\nseized Marius by the collar, brought him back energetically into the\nroom, flung him into an armchair and said to him: \n\n Tell me all about it! \n\n\n It was that single word  father  which had effected this revolution.\n\nMarius stared at him in bewilderment. M. Gillenormand s mobile face was\nno longer expressive of anything but rough and ineffable good-nature.\nThe grandsire had given way before the grandfather.\n\n Come, see here, speak, tell me about your love affairs, jabber, tell\nme everything! Sapristi! how stupid young folks are! \n\n\n Father  repeated Marius.\n\nThe old man s entire countenance lighted up with indescribable\nradiance.\n\n Yes, that s right, call me father, and you ll see! \n\n\nThere was now something so kind, so gentle, so openhearted, and so\npaternal in this brusqueness, that Marius, in the sudden transition\nfrom discouragement to hope, was stunned and intoxicated by it, as it\nwere. He was seated near the table, the light from the candles brought\nout the dilapidation of his costume, which Father Gillenormand regarded\nwith amazement.\n\n Well, father  said Marius.\n\n Ah, by the way,  interrupted M. Gillenormand,  you really have not a\npenny then? You are dressed like a pickpocket. \n\n\nHe rummaged in a drawer, drew forth a purse, which he laid on the\ntable:  Here are a hundred louis, buy yourself a hat. \n\n\n Father,  pursued Marius,  my good father, if you only knew! I love\nher. You cannot imagine it; the first time I saw her was at the\nLuxembourg, she came there; in the beginning, I did not pay much heed\nto her, and then, I don t know how it came about, I fell in love with\nher. Oh! how unhappy that made me! Now, at last, I see her every day,\nat her own home, her father does not know it, just fancy, they are\ngoing away, it is in the garden that we meet, in the evening, her\nfather means to take her to England, then I said to myself:  I ll go\nand see my grandfather and tell him all about the affair. I should go\nmad first, I should die, I should fall ill, I should throw myself into\nthe water. I absolutely must marry her, since I should go mad\notherwise.  This is the whole truth, and I do not think that I have\nomitted anything. She lives in a garden with an iron fence, in the Rue\nPlumet. It is in the neighborhood of the Invalides. \n\n\nFather Gillenormand had seated himself, with a beaming countenance,\nbeside Marius. As he listened to him and drank in the sound of his\nvoice, he enjoyed at the same time a protracted pinch of snuff. At the\nwords  Rue Plumet  he interrupted his inhalation and allowed the\nremainder of his snuff to fall upon his knees.\n\n The Rue Plumet, the Rue Plumet, did you say? Let us see! Are there not\nbarracks in that vicinity? Why, yes, that s it. Your cousin Th odule\nhas spoken to me about it. The lancer, the officer. A gay girl, my good\nfriend, a gay girl! Pardieu, yes, the Rue Plumet. It is what used to be\ncalled the Rue Blomet. It all comes back to me now. I have heard of\nthat little girl of the iron railing in the Rue Plumet. In a garden, a\nPamela. Your taste is not bad. She is said to be a very tidy creature.\nBetween ourselves, I think that simpleton of a lancer has been courting\nher a bit. I don t know where he did it. However, that s not to the\npurpose. Besides, he is not to be believed. He brags, Marius! I think\nit quite proper that a young man like you should be in love. It s the\nright thing at your age. I like you better as a lover than as a\nJacobin. I like you better in love with a petticoat, sapristi! with\ntwenty petticoats, than with M. de Robespierre. For my part, I will do\nmyself the justice to say, that in the line of _sans-culottes_, I have\nnever loved any one but women. Pretty girls are pretty girls, the\ndeuce! There s no objection to that. As for the little one, she\nreceives you without her father s knowledge. That s in the established\norder of things. I have had adventures of that same sort myself. More\nthan one. Do you know what is done then? One does not take the matter\nferociously; one does not precipitate himself into the tragic; one does\nnot make one s mind to marriage and M. le Maire with his scarf. One\nsimply behaves like a fellow of spirit. One shows good sense. Slip\nalong, mortals; don t marry. You come and look up your grandfather, who\nis a good-natured fellow at bottom, and who always has a few rolls of\nlouis in an old drawer; you say to him:  See here, grandfather.  And\nthe grandfather says:  That s a simple matter. Youth must amuse itself,\nand old age must wear out. I have been young, you will be old. Come, my\nboy, you shall pass it on to your grandson. Here are two hundred\npistoles. Amuse yourself, deuce take it!  Nothing better! That s the\nway the affair should be treated. You don t marry, but that does no\nharm. You understand me? \n\n\nMarius, petrified and incapable of uttering a syllable, made a sign\nwith his head that he did not.\n\nThe old man burst out laughing, winked his aged eye, gave him a slap on\nthe knee, stared him full in the face with a mysterious and beaming\nair, and said to him, with the tenderest of shrugs of the shoulder: \n\n Booby! make her your mistress. \n\n\nMarius turned pale. He had understood nothing of what his grandfather\nhad just said. This twaddle about the Rue Blomet, Pamela, the barracks,\nthe lancer, had passed before Marius like a dissolving view. Nothing of\nall that could bear any reference to Cosette, who was a lily. The good\nman was wandering in his mind. But this wandering terminated in words\nwhich Marius did understand, and which were a mortal insult to Cosette.\nThose words,  make her your mistress,  entered the heart of the strict\nyoung man like a sword.\n\nHe rose, picked up his hat which lay on the floor, and walked to the\ndoor with a firm, assured step. There he turned round, bowed deeply to\nhis grandfather, raised his head erect again, and said: \n\n Five years ago you insulted my father; to-day you have insulted my\nwife. I ask nothing more of you, sir. Farewell. \n\n\nFather Gillenormand, utterly confounded, opened his mouth, extended his\narms, tried to rise, and before he could utter a word, the door closed\nonce more, and Marius had disappeared.\n\nThe old man remained for several minutes motionless and as though\nstruck by lightning, without the power to speak or breathe, as though a\nclenched fist grasped his throat. At last he tore himself from his\narmchair, ran, so far as a man can run at ninety-one, to the door,\nopened it, and cried: \n\n Help! Help! \n\n\nHis daughter made her appearance, then the domestics. He began again,\nwith a pitiful rattle:  Run after him! Bring him back! What have I done\nto him? He is mad! He is going away! Ah! my God! Ah! my God! This time\nhe will not come back! \n\n\nHe went to the window which looked out on the street, threw it open\nwith his aged and palsied hands, leaned out more than half-way, while\nBasque and Nicolette held him behind, and shouted: \n\n Marius! Marius! Marius! Marius! \n\n\nBut Marius could no longer hear him, for at that moment he was turning\nthe corner of the Rue Saint-Louis.\n\nThe octogenarian raised his hands to his temples two or three times\nwith an expression of anguish, recoiled tottering, and fell back into\nan armchair, pulseless, voiceless, tearless, with quivering head and\nlips which moved with a stupid air, with nothing in his eyes and\nnothing any longer in his heart except a gloomy and profound something\nwhich resembled night.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK NINTH WHITHER ARE THEY GOING?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I JEAN VALJEAN\n\n\nThat same day, towards four o clock in the afternoon, Jean Valjean was\nsitting alone on the back side of one of the most solitary slopes in\nthe Champ-de-Mars. Either from prudence, or from a desire to meditate,\nor simply in consequence of one of those insensible changes of habit\nwhich gradually introduce themselves into the existence of every one,\nhe now rarely went out with Cosette. He had on his workman s waistcoat,\nand trousers of gray linen; and his long-visored cap concealed his\ncountenance.\n\nHe was calm and happy now beside Cosette; that which had, for a time,\nalarmed and troubled him had been dissipated; but for the last week or\ntwo, anxieties of another nature had come up. One day, while walking on\nthe boulevard, he had caught sight of Th nardier; thanks to his\ndisguise, Th nardier had not recognized him; but since that day, Jean\nValjean had seen him repeatedly, and he was now certain that Th nardier\nwas prowling about in their neighborhood.\n\nThis had been sufficient to make him come to a decision.\n\nMoreover, Paris was not tranquil: political troubles presented this\ninconvenient feature, for any one who had anything to conceal in his\nlife, that the police had grown very uneasy and very suspicious, and\nthat while seeking to ferret out a man like P pin or Morey, they might\nvery readily discover a man like Jean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean had made up his mind to quit Paris, and even France, and\ngo over to England.\n\nHe had warned Cosette. He wished to set out before the end of the week.\n\nHe had seated himself on the slope in the Champ-de-Mars, turning over\nall sorts of thoughts in his mind, Th nardier, the police, the journey,\nand the difficulty of procuring a passport.\n\nHe was troubled from all these points of view.\n\nLast of all, an inexplicable circumstance which had just attracted his\nattention, and from which he had not yet recovered, had added to his\nstate of alarm.\n\nOn the morning of that very day, when he alone of the household was\nstirring, while strolling in the garden before Cosette s shutters were\nopen, he had suddenly perceived on the wall, the following line,\nengraved, probably with a nail: \n\n_16 Rue de la Verrerie_.\n\nThis was perfectly fresh, the grooves in the ancient black mortar were\nwhite, a tuft of nettles at the foot of the wall was powdered with the\nfine, fresh plaster.\n\nThis had probably been written on the preceding night.\n\nWhat was this? A signal for others? A warning for himself?\n\nIn any case, it was evident that the garden had been violated, and that\nstrangers had made their way into it.\n\nHe recalled the odd incidents which had already alarmed the household.\n\nHis mind was now filling in this canvas.\n\nHe took good care not to speak to Cosette of the line written on the\nwall, for fear of alarming her.\n\nIn the midst of his preoccupations, he perceived, from a shadow cast by\nthe sun, that some one had halted on the crest of the slope immediately\nbehind him.\n\nHe was on the point of turning round, when a paper folded in four fell\nupon his knees as though a hand had dropped it over his head.\n\nHe took the paper, unfolded it, and read these words written in large\ncharacters, with a pencil: \n\n MOVE AWAY FROM YOUR HOUSE. \n\n\nJean Valjean sprang hastily to his feet; there was no one on the slope;\nhe gazed all around him and perceived a creature larger than a child,\nnot so large as a man, clad in a gray blouse and trousers of\ndust-colored cotton velvet, who was jumping over the parapet and who\nslipped into the moat of the Champ-de-Mars.\n\nJean Valjean returned home at once, in a very thoughtful mood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II MARIUS\n\n\nMarius had left M. Gillenormand in despair. He had entered the house\nwith very little hope, and quitted it with immense despair.\n\nHowever, and those who have observed the depths of the human heart will\nunderstand this, the officer, the lancer, the ninny, Cousin Th odule,\nhad left no trace in his mind. Not the slightest. The dramatic poet\nmight, apparently, expect some complications from this revelation made\npoint-blank by the grandfather to the grandson. But what the drama\nwould gain thereby, truth would lose. Marius was at an age when one\nbelieves nothing in the line of evil; later on comes the age when one\nbelieves everything. Suspicions are nothing else than wrinkles. Early\nyouth has none of them. That which overwhelmed Othello glides innocuous\nover Candide. Suspect Cosette! There are hosts of crimes which Marius\ncould sooner have committed.\n\nHe began to wander about the streets, the resource of those who suffer.\nHe thought of nothing, so far as he could afterwards remember. At two\no clock in the morning he returned to Courfeyrac s quarters and flung\nhimself, without undressing, on his mattress. The sun was shining\nbrightly when he sank into that frightful leaden slumber which permits\nideas to go and come in the brain. When he awoke, he saw Courfeyrac,\nEnjolras, Feuilly, and Combeferre standing in the room with their hats\non and all ready to go out.\n\nCourfeyrac said to him: \n\n Are you coming to General Lamarque s funeral? \n\n\nIt seemed to him that Courfeyrac was speaking Chinese.\n\nHe went out some time after them. He put in his pocket the pistols\nwhich Javert had given him at the time of the adventure on the 3d of\nFebruary, and which had remained in his hands. These pistols were still\nloaded. It would be difficult to say what vague thought he had in his\nmind when he took them with him.\n\nAll day long he prowled about, without knowing where he was going; it\nrained at times, he did not perceive it; for his dinner, he purchased a\npenny roll at a baker s, put it in his pocket and forgot it. It appears\nthat he took a bath in the Seine without being aware of it. There are\nmoments when a man has a furnace within his skull. Marius was passing\nthrough one of those moments. He no longer hoped for anything; this\nstep he had taken since the preceding evening. He waited for night with\nfeverish impatience, he had but one idea clearly before his mind; this\nwas, that at nine o clock he should see Cosette. This last happiness\nnow constituted his whole future; after that, gloom. At intervals, as\nhe roamed through the most deserted boulevards, it seemed to him that\nhe heard strange noises in Paris. He thrust his head out of his reverie\nand said:  Is there fighting on hand? \n\n\nAt nightfall, at nine o clock precisely, as he had promised Cosette, he\nwas in the Rue Plumet. When he approached the grating he forgot\neverything. It was forty-eight hours since he had seen Cosette; he was\nabout to behold her once more; every other thought was effaced, and he\nfelt only a profound and unheard-of joy. Those minutes in which one\nlives centuries always have this sovereign and wonderful property, that\nat the moment when they are passing they fill the heart completely.\n\nMarius displaced the bar, and rushed headlong into the garden. Cosette\nwas not at the spot where she ordinarily waited for him. He traversed\nthe thicket, and approached the recess near the flight of steps:  She\nis waiting for me there,  said he. Cosette was not there. He raised his\neyes, and saw that the shutters of the house were closed. He made the\ntour of the garden, the garden was deserted. Then he returned to the\nhouse, and, rendered senseless by love, intoxicated, terrified,\nexasperated with grief and uneasiness, like a master who returns home\nat an evil hour, he tapped on the shutters. He knocked and knocked\nagain, at the risk of seeing the window open, and her father s gloomy\nface make its appearance, and demand:  What do you want?  This was\nnothing in comparison with what he dimly caught a glimpse of. When he\nhad rapped, he lifted up his voice and called Cosette. Cosette!  he\ncried;  Cosette!  he repeated imperiously. There was no reply. All was\nover. No one in the garden; no one in the house.\n\nMarius fixed his despairing eyes on that dismal house, which was as\nblack and as silent as a tomb and far more empty. He gazed at the stone\nseat on which he had passed so many adorable hours with Cosette. Then\nhe seated himself on the flight of steps, his heart filled with\nsweetness and resolution, he blessed his love in the depths of his\nthought, and he said to himself that, since Cosette was gone, all that\nthere was left for him was to die.\n\nAll at once he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the street,\nand which was calling to him through the trees: \n\n Mr. Marius! \n\n\nHe started to his feet.\n\n Hey?  said he.\n\n Mr. Marius, are you there? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Mr. Marius,  went on the voice,  your friends are waiting for you at\nthe barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie. \n\n\nThis voice was not wholly unfamiliar to him. It resembled the hoarse,\nrough voice of  ponine. Marius hastened to the gate, thrust aside the\nmovable bar, passed his head through the aperture, and saw some one who\nappeared to him to be a young man, disappearing at a run into the\ngloom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III M. MABEUF\n\n\nJean Valjean s purse was of no use to M. Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf, in his\nvenerable, infantile austerity, had not accepted the gift of the stars;\nhe had not admitted that a star could coin itself into louis d or. He\nhad not divined that what had fallen from heaven had come from\nGavroche. He had taken the purse to the police commissioner of the\nquarter, as a lost article placed by the finder at the disposal of\nclaimants. The purse was actually lost. It is unnecessary to say that\nno one claimed it, and that it did not succor M. Mabeuf.\n\nMoreover, M. Mabeuf had continued his downward course.\n\nHis experiments on indigo had been no more successful in the Jardin des\nPlantes than in his garden at Austerlitz. The year before he had owed\nhis housekeeper s wages; now, as we have seen, he owed three quarters\nof his rent. The pawnshop had sold the plates of his _Flora_ after the\nexpiration of thirteen months. Some coppersmith had made stewpans of\nthem. His copper plates gone, and being unable to complete even the\nincomplete copies of his _Flora_ which were in his possession, he had\ndisposed of the text, at a miserable price, as waste paper, to a\nsecond-hand bookseller. Nothing now remained to him of his life s work.\nHe set to work to eat up the money for these copies. When he saw that\nthis wretched resource was becoming exhausted, he gave up his garden\nand allowed it to run to waste. Before this, a long time before, he had\ngiven up his two eggs and the morsel of beef which he ate from time to\ntime. He dined on bread and potatoes. He had sold the last of his\nfurniture, then all duplicates of his bedding, his clothing and his\nblankets, then his herbariums and prints; but he still retained his\nmost precious books, many of which were of the greatest rarity, among\nothers, _Les Quadrins Historiques de la Bible_, edition of 1560; _La\nConcordance des Bibles_, by Pierre de Besse; _Les Marguerites de la\nMarguerite_, of Jean de La Haye, with a dedication to the Queen of\nNavarre; the book _de la Charge et Dignit  de l Ambassadeur_, by the\nSieur de Villiers Hotman; a _Florilegium Rabbinicum_ of 1644; a\n_Tibullus_ of 1567, with this magnificent inscription: _Venetiis, in\n dibus Manutianis_; and lastly, a Diogenes Laertius, printed at Lyons\nin 1644, which contained the famous variant of the manuscript 411,\nthirteenth century, of the Vatican, and those of the two manuscripts of\nVenice, 393 and 394, consulted with such fruitful results by Henri\nEstienne, and all the passages in Doric dialect which are only found in\nthe celebrated manuscript of the twelfth century belonging to the\nNaples Library. M. Mabeuf never had any fire in his chamber, and went\nto bed at sundown, in order not to consume any candles. It seemed as\nthough he had no longer any neighbors: people avoided him when he went\nout; he perceived the fact. The wretchedness of a child interests a\nmother, the wretchedness of a young man interests a young girl, the\nwretchedness of an old man interests no one. It is, of all distresses,\nthe coldest. Still, Father Mabeuf had not entirely lost his childlike\nserenity. His eyes acquired some vivacity when they rested on his\nbooks, and he smiled when he gazed at the Diogenes Laertius, which was\na unique copy. His bookcase with glass doors was the only piece of\nfurniture which he had kept beyond what was strictly indispensable.\n\nOne day, Mother Plutarque said to him: \n\n I have no money to buy any dinner. \n\n\nWhat she called dinner was a loaf of bread and four or five potatoes.\n\n On credit?  suggested M. Mabeuf.\n\n You know well that people refuse me. \n\n\nM. Mabeuf opened his bookcase, took a long look at all his books, one\nafter another, as a father obliged to decimate his children would gaze\nupon them before making a choice, then seized one hastily, put it in\nunder his arm and went out. He returned two hours later, without\nanything under his arm, laid thirty sous on the table, and said: \n\n You will get something for dinner. \n\n\nFrom that moment forth, Mother Plutarque saw a sombre veil, which was\nnever more lifted, descend over the old man s candid face.\n\nOn the following day, on the day after, and on the day after that, it\nhad to be done again.\n\nM. Mabeuf went out with a book and returned with a coin. As the\nsecond-hand dealers perceived that he was forced to sell, they\npurchased of him for twenty sous that for which he had paid twenty\nfrancs, sometimes at those very shops. Volume by volume, the whole\nlibrary went the same road. He said at times:  But I am eighty;  as\nthough he cherished some secret hope that he should arrive at the end\nof his days before reaching the end of his books. His melancholy\nincreased. Once, however, he had a pleasure. He had gone out with a\nRobert Estienne, which he had sold for thirty-five sous under the Quai\nMalaquais, and he returned with an Aldus which he had bought for forty\nsous in the Rue des Gr s. I owe five sous,  he said, beaming on Mother\nPlutarque. That day he had no dinner.\n\nHe belonged to the Horticultural Society. His destitution became known\nthere. The president of the society came to see him, promised to speak\nto the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce about him, and did\nso. Why, what!  exclaimed the Minister,  I should think so! An old\nsavant! a botanist! an inoffensive man! Something must be done for\nhim!  On the following day, M. Mabeuf received an invitation to dine\nwith the Minister. Trembling with joy, he showed the letter to Mother\nPlutarque.  We are saved!  said he. On the day appointed, he went to\nthe Minister s house. He perceived that his ragged cravat, his long,\nsquare coat, and his waxed shoes astonished the ushers. No one spoke to\nhim, not even the Minister. About ten o clock in the evening, while he\nwas still waiting for a word, he heard the Minister s wife, a beautiful\nwoman in a low-necked gown whom he had not ventured to approach,\ninquire:  Who is that old gentleman?  He returned home on foot at\nmidnight, in a driving rain-storm. He had sold an Elzevir to pay for a\ncarriage in which to go thither.\n\nHe had acquired the habit of reading a few pages in his Diogenes\nLaertius every night, before he went to bed. He knew enough Greek to\nenjoy the peculiarities of the text which he owned. He had now no other\nenjoyment. Several weeks passed. All at once, Mother Plutarque fell\nill. There is one thing sadder than having no money with which to buy\nbread at the baker s and that is having no money to purchase drugs at\nthe apothecary s. One evening, the doctor had ordered a very expensive\npotion. And the malady was growing worse; a nurse was required. M.\nMabeuf opened his bookcase; there was nothing there. The last volume\nhad taken its departure. All that was left to him was Diogenes\nLaertius. He put this unique copy under his arm, and went out. It was\nthe 4th of June, 1832; he went to the Porte Saint-Jacques, to Royal s\nsuccessor, and returned with one hundred francs. He laid the pile of\nfive-franc pieces on the old serving-woman s nightstand, and returned\nto his chamber without saying a word.\n\nOn the following morning, at dawn, he seated himself on the overturned\npost in his garden, and he could be seen over the top of the hedge,\nsitting the whole morning motionless, with drooping head, his eyes\nvaguely fixed on the withered flower-beds. It rained at intervals; the\nold man did not seem to perceive the fact.\n\nIn the afternoon, extraordinary noises broke out in Paris. They\nresembled shots and the clamors of a multitude.\n\nFather Mabeuf raised his head. He saw a gardener passing, and\ninquired: \n\n What is it? \n\n\nThe gardener, spade on back, replied in the most unconcerned tone: \n\n It is the riots. \n\n\n What riots? \n\n\n Yes, they are fighting. \n\n\n Why are they fighting? \n\n\n Ah, good Heavens!  ejaculated the gardener.\n\n In what direction?  went on M. Mabeuf.\n\n In the neighborhood of the Arsenal. \n\n\nFather Mabeuf went to his room, took his hat, mechanically sought for a\nbook to place under his arm, found none, said:  Ah! truly!  and went\noff with a bewildered air.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK TENTH THE 5TH OF JUNE, 1832\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE SURFACE OF THE QUESTION\n\n\nOf what is revolt composed? Of nothing and of everything. Of an\nelectricity disengaged, little by little, of a flame suddenly darting\nforth, of a wandering force, of a passing breath. This breath\nencounters heads which speak, brains which dream, souls which suffer,\npassions which burn, wretchedness which howls, and bears them away.\n\nWhither?\n\nAt random. Athwart the state, the laws, athwart prosperity and the\ninsolence of others.\n\nIrritated convictions, embittered enthusiasms, agitated indignations,\ninstincts of war which have been repressed, youthful courage which has\nbeen exalted, generous blindness; curiosity, the taste for change, the\nthirst for the unexpected, the sentiment which causes one to take\npleasure in reading the posters for the new play, and love, the\nprompter s whistle, at the theatre; the vague hatreds, rancors,\ndisappointments, every vanity which thinks that destiny has bankrupted\nit; discomfort, empty dreams, ambitions that are hedged about, whoever\nhopes for a downfall, some outcome, in short, at the very bottom, the\nrabble, that mud which catches fire, such are the elements of revolt.\nThat which is grandest and that which is basest; the beings who prowl\noutside of all bounds, awaiting an occasion, bohemians, vagrants,\nvagabonds of the crossroads, those who sleep at night in a desert of\nhouses with no other roof than the cold clouds of heaven, those who,\neach day, demand their bread from chance and not from toil, the unknown\nof poverty and nothingness, the bare-armed, the bare-footed, belong to\nrevolt. Whoever cherishes in his soul a secret revolt against any deed\nwhatever on the part of the state, of life or of fate, is ripe for\nriot, and, as soon as it makes its appearance, he begins to quiver, and\nto feel himself borne away with the whirlwind.\n\nRevolt is a sort of waterspout in the social atmosphere which forms\nsuddenly in certain conditions of temperature, and which, as it eddies\nabout, mounts, descends, thunders, tears, razes, crushes, demolishes,\nuproots, bearing with it great natures and small, the strong man and\nthe feeble mind, the tree trunk and the stalk of straw. Woe to him whom\nit bears away as well as to him whom it strikes! It breaks the one\nagainst the other.\n\nIt communicates to those whom it seizes an indescribable and\nextraordinary power. It fills the firstcomer with the force of events;\nit converts everything into projectiles. It makes a cannon-ball of a\nrough stone, and a general of a porter.\n\nIf we are to believe certain oracles of crafty political views, a\nlittle revolt is desirable from the point of view of power. System:\nrevolt strengthens those governments which it does not overthrow. It\nputs the army to the test; it consecrates the bourgeoisie, it draws out\nthe muscles of the police; it demonstrates the force of the social\nframework. It is an exercise in gymnastics; it is almost hygiene. Power\nis in better health after a revolt, as a man is after a good rubbing\ndown.\n\nRevolt, thirty years ago, was regarded from still other points of view.\n\nThere is for everything a theory, which proclaims itself  good sense ;\nPhilintus against Alcestis; mediation offered between the false and the\ntrue; explanation, admonition, rather haughty extenuation which,\nbecause it is mingled with blame and excuse, thinks itself wisdom, and\nis often only pedantry. A whole political school called  the golden\nmean  has been the outcome of this. As between cold water and hot\nwater, it is the lukewarm water party. This school with its false\ndepth, all on the surface, which dissects effects without going back to\nfirst causes, chides from its height of a demi-science, the agitation\nof the public square.\n\nIf we listen to this school,  The riots which complicated the affair of\n1830 deprived that great event of a portion of its purity. The\nRevolution of July had been a fine popular gale, abruptly followed by\nblue sky. They made the cloudy sky reappear. They caused that\nrevolution, at first so remarkable for its unanimity, to degenerate\ninto a quarrel. In the Revolution of July, as in all progress\naccomplished by fits and starts, there had been secret fractures; these\nriots rendered them perceptible. It might have been said:  Ah! this is\nbroken.  After the Revolution of July, one was sensible only of\ndeliverance; after the riots, one was conscious of a catastrophe.\n\n All revolt closes the shops, depresses the funds, throws the Exchange\ninto consternation, suspends commerce, clogs business, precipitates\nfailures; no more money, private fortunes rendered uneasy, public\ncredit shaken, industry disconcerted, capital withdrawing, work at a\ndiscount, fear everywhere; counter-shocks in every town. Hence gulfs.\nIt has been calculated that the first day of a riot costs France twenty\nmillions, the second day forty, the third sixty, a three days  uprising\ncosts one hundred and twenty millions, that is to say, if only the\nfinancial result be taken into consideration, it is equivalent to a\ndisaster, a shipwreck or a lost battle, which should annihilate a fleet\nof sixty ships of the line.\n\n No doubt, historically, uprisings have their beauty; the war of the\npavements is no less grandiose, and no less pathetic, than the war of\nthickets: in the one there is the soul of forests, in the other the\nheart of cities; the one has Jean Chouan, the other has a Jeanne.\nRevolts have illuminated with a red glare all the most original points\nof the Parisian character, generosity, devotion, stormy gayety,\nstudents proving that bravery forms part of intelligence, the National\nGuard invincible, bivouacs of shopkeepers, fortresses of street\nurchins, contempt of death on the part of passers-by. Schools and\nlegions clashed together. After all, between the combatants, there was\nonly a difference of age; the race is the same; it is the same stoical\nmen who died at the age of twenty for their ideas, at forty for their\nfamilies. The army, always a sad thing in civil wars, opposed prudence\nto audacity. Uprisings, while proving popular intrepidity, also\neducated the courage of the bourgeois.\n\n This is well. But is all this worth the bloodshed? And to the\nbloodshed add the future darkness, progress compromised, uneasiness\namong the best men, honest liberals in despair, foreign absolutism\nhappy in these wounds dealt to revolution by its own hand, the\nvanquished of 1830 triumphing and saying:  We told you so!  Add Paris\nenlarged, possibly, but France most assuredly diminished. Add, for all\nmust needs be told, the massacres which have too often dishonored the\nvictory of order grown ferocious over liberty gone mad. To sum up all,\nuprisings have been disastrous. \n\n\nThus speaks that approximation to wisdom with which the bourgeoisie,\nthat approximation to the people, so willingly contents itself.\n\nFor our parts, we reject this word _uprisings_ as too large, and\nconsequently as too convenient. We make a distinction between one\npopular movement and another popular movement. We do not inquire\nwhether an uprising costs as much as a battle. Why a battle, in the\nfirst place? Here the question of war comes up. Is war less of a\nscourge than an uprising is of a calamity? And then, are all uprisings\ncalamities? And what if the revolt of July did cost a hundred and\ntwenty millions? The establishment of Philip V. in Spain cost France\ntwo milliards. Even at the same price, we should prefer the 14th of\nJuly. However, we reject these figures, which appear to be reasons and\nwhich are only words. An uprising being given, we examine it by itself.\nIn all that is said by the doctrinarian objection above presented,\nthere is no question of anything but effect, we seek the cause.\n\nWe will be explicit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE ROOT OF THE MATTER\n\n\nThere is such a thing as an uprising, and there is such a thing as\ninsurrection; these are two separate phases of wrath; one is in the\nwrong, the other is in the right. In democratic states, the only ones\nwhich are founded on justice, it sometimes happens that the fraction\nusurps; then the whole rises and the necessary claim of its rights may\nproceed as far as resort to arms. In all questions which result from\ncollective sovereignty, the war of the whole against the fraction is\ninsurrection; the attack of the fraction against the whole is revolt;\naccording as the Tuileries contain a king or the Convention, they are\njustly or unjustly attacked. The same cannon, pointed against the\npopulace, is wrong on the 10th of August, and right on the 14th of\nVend miaire. Alike in appearance, fundamentally different in reality;\nthe Swiss defend the false, Bonaparte defends the true. That which\nuniversal suffrage has effected in its liberty and in its sovereignty\ncannot be undone by the street. It is the same in things pertaining\npurely to civilization; the instinct of the masses, clear-sighted\nto-day, may be troubled to-morrow. The same fury legitimate when\ndirected against Terray and absurd when directed against Turgot. The\ndestruction of machines, the pillage of warehouses, the breaking of\nrails, the demolition of docks, the false routes of multitudes, the\nrefusal by the people of justice to progress, Ramus assassinated by\nstudents, Rousseau driven out of Switzerland and stoned, that is\nrevolt. Israel against Moses, Athens against Phocian, Rome against\nCicero, that is an uprising; Paris against the Bastille, that is\ninsurrection. The soldiers against Alexander, the sailors against\nChristopher Columbus, this is the same revolt; impious revolt; why?\nBecause Alexander is doing for Asia with the sword that which\nChristopher Columbus is doing for America with the compass; Alexander\nlike Columbus, is finding a world. These gifts of a world to\ncivilization are such augmentations of light, that all resistance in\nthat case is culpable. Sometimes the populace counterfeits fidelity to\nitself. The masses are traitors to the people. Is there, for example,\nanything stranger than that long and bloody protest of dealers in\ncontraband salt, a legitimate chronic revolt, which, at the decisive\nmoment, on the day of salvation, at the very hour of popular victory,\nespouses the throne, turns into _chouannerie_, and, from having been an\ninsurrection against, becomes an uprising for, sombre masterpieces of\nignorance! The contraband salt dealer escapes the royal gibbets, and\nwith a rope s end round his neck, mounts the white cockade.  Death to\nthe salt duties,  brings forth,  Long live the King!  The assassins of\nSaint-Barth lemy, the cut-throats of September, the manslaughterers of\nAvignon, the assassins of Coligny, the assassins of Madam Lamballe, the\nassassins of Brune, Miquelets, Verdets, Cadenettes, the companions of\nJ hu, the chevaliers of Brassard, behold an uprising. La Vend e is a\ngrand, catholic uprising. The sound of right in movement is\nrecognizable, it does not always proceed from the trembling of excited\nmasses; there are mad rages, there are cracked bells, all tocsins do\nnot give out the sound of bronze. The brawl of passions and ignorances\nis quite another thing from the shock of progress. Show me in what\ndirection you are going. Rise, if you will, but let it be that you may\ngrow great. There is no insurrection except in a forward direction. Any\nother sort of rising is bad; every violent step towards the rear is a\nrevolt; to retreat is to commit a deed of violence against the human\nrace. Insurrection is a fit of rage on the part of truth; the pavements\nwhich the uprising disturbs give forth the spark of right. These\npavements bequeath to the uprising only their mud. Danton against Louis\nXIV. is insurrection; H bert against Danton is revolt.\n\nHence it results that if insurrection in given cases may be, as\nLafayette says, the most holy of duties, an uprising may be the most\nfatal of crimes.\n\nThere is also a difference in the intensity of heat; insurrection is\noften a volcano, revolt is often only a fire of straw.\n\nRevolt, as we have said, is sometimes found among those in power.\nPolignac is a rioter; Camille Desmoulins is one of the governing\npowers.\n\nInsurrection is sometimes resurrection.\n\nThe solution of everything by universal suffrage being an absolutely\nmodern fact, and all history anterior to this fact being, for the space\nof four thousand years, filled with violated right, and the suffering\nof peoples, each epoch of history brings with it that protest of which\nit is capable. Under the C sars, there was no insurrection, but there\nwas Juvenal.\n\nThe _facit indignatio_ replaces the Gracchi.\n\nUnder the C sars, there is the exile to Syene; there is also the man of\nthe _Annales_. We do not speak of the immense exile of Patmos who, on\nhis part also, overwhelms the real world with a protest in the name of\nthe ideal world, who makes of his vision an enormous satire and casts\non Rome-Nineveh, on Rome-Babylon, on Rome-Sodom, the flaming reflection\nof the Apocalypse. John on his rock is the sphinx on its pedestal; we\nmay understand him, he is a Jew, and it is Hebrew; but the man who\nwrites the _Annales_ is of the Latin race, let us rather say he is a\nRoman.\n\nAs the Neros reign in a black way, they should be painted to match. The\nwork of the graving-tool alone would be too pale; there must be poured\ninto the channel a concentrated prose which bites.\n\nDespots count for something in the question of philosophers. A word\nthat is chained is a terrible word. The writer doubles and trebles his\nstyle when silence is imposed on a nation by its master. From this\nsilence there arises a certain mysterious plenitude which filters into\nthought and there congeals into bronze. The compression of history\nproduces conciseness in the historian. The granite solidity of such and\nsuch a celebrated prose is nothing but the accumulation effected by the\ntyrant.\n\nTyranny constrains the writer to conditions of diameter which are\naugmentations of force. The Ciceronian period, which hardly sufficed\nfor Verres, would be blunted on Caligula. The less spread of sail in\nthe phrase, the more intensity in the blow. Tacitus thinks with all his\nmight.\n\nThe honesty of a great heart, condensed in justice and truth,\noverwhelms as with lightning.\n\nBe it remarked, in passing, that Tacitus is not historically superposed\nupon C sar. The Tiberii were reserved for him. C sar and Tacitus are\ntwo successive phenomena, a meeting between whom seems to be\nmysteriously avoided, by the One who, when He sets the centuries on the\nstage, regulates the entrances and the exits. C sar is great, Tacitus\nis great; God spares these two greatnesses by not allowing them to\nclash with one another. The guardian of justice, in striking C sar,\nmight strike too hard and be unjust. God does not will it. The great\nwars of Africa and Spain, the pirates of Sicily destroyed, civilization\nintroduced into Gaul, into Britanny, into Germany, all this glory\ncovers the Rubicon. There is here a sort of delicacy of the divine\njustice, hesitating to let loose upon the illustrious usurper the\nformidable historian, sparing C sar Tacitus, and according extenuating\ncircumstances to genius.\n\nCertainly, despotism remains despotism, even under the despot of\ngenius. There is corruption under all illustrious tyrants, but the\nmoral pest is still more hideous under infamous tyrants. In such\nreigns, nothing veils the shame; and those who make examples, Tacitus\nas well as Juvenal, slap this ignominy which cannot reply, in the face,\nmore usefully in the presence of all humanity.\n\nRome smells worse under Vitellius than under Sylla. Under Claudius and\nunder Domitian, there is a deformity of baseness corresponding to the\nrepulsiveness of the tyrant. The villainy of slaves is a direct product\nof the despot; a miasma exhales from these cowering consciences wherein\nthe master is reflected; public powers are unclean; hearts are small;\nconsciences are dull, souls are like vermin; thus it is under\nCaracalla, thus it is under Commodus, thus it is under Heliogabalus,\nwhile, from the Roman Senate, under C sar, there comes nothing but the\nodor of the dung which is peculiar to the eyries of the eagles.\n\nHence the advent, apparently tardy, of the Tacituses and the Juvenals;\nit is in the hour for evidence, that the demonstrator makes his\nappearance.\n\nBut Juvenal and Tacitus, like Isaiah in Biblical times, like Dante in\nthe Middle Ages, is man; riot and insurrection are the multitude, which\nis sometimes right and sometimes wrong.\n\nIn the majority of cases, riot proceeds from a material fact;\ninsurrection is always a moral phenomenon. Riot is Masaniello;\ninsurrection, Spartacus. Insurrection borders on mind, riot on the\nstomach; Gaster grows irritated; but Gaster, assuredly, is not always\nin the wrong. In questions of famine, riot, Buzan ais, for example,\nholds a true, pathetic, and just point of departure. Nevertheless, it\nremains a riot. Why? It is because, right at bottom, it was wrong in\nform. Shy although in the right, violent although strong, it struck at\nrandom; it walked like a blind elephant; it left behind it the corpses\nof old men, of women, and of children; it wished the blood of\ninoffensive and innocent persons without knowing why. The nourishment\nof the people is a good object; to massacre them is a bad means.\n\nAll armed protests, even the most legitimate, even that of the 10th of\nAugust, even that of July 14th, begin with the same troubles. Before\nthe right gets set free, there is foam and tumult. In the beginning,\nthe insurrection is a riot, just as a river is a torrent. Ordinarily it\nends in that ocean: revolution. Sometimes, however, coming from those\nlofty mountains which dominate the moral horizon, justice, wisdom,\nreason, right, formed of the pure snow of the ideal, after a long fall\nfrom rock to rock, after having reflected the sky in its transparency\nand increased by a hundred affluents in the majestic mien of triumph,\ninsurrection is suddenly lost in some quagmire, as the Rhine is in a\nswamp.\n\nAll this is of the past, the future is another thing. Universal\nsuffrage has this admirable property, that it dissolves riot in its\ninception, and, by giving the vote to insurrection, it deprives it of\nits arms. The disappearance of wars, of street wars as well as of wars\non the frontiers, such is the inevitable progression. Whatever To-day\nmay be, To-morrow will be peace.\n\nHowever, insurrection, riot, and points of difference between the\nformer and the latter, the bourgeois, properly speaking, knows nothing\nof such shades. In his mind, all is sedition, rebellion pure and\nsimple, the revolt of the dog against his master, an attempt to bite\nwhom must be punished by the chain and the kennel, barking, snapping,\nuntil such day as the head of the dog, suddenly enlarged, is outlined\nvaguely in the gloom face to face with the lion.\n\nThen the bourgeois shouts:  Long live the people! \n\n\nThis explanation given, what does the movement of June, 1832, signify,\nso far as history is concerned? Is it a revolt? Is it an insurrection?\n\nIt may happen to us, in placing this formidable event on the stage, to\nsay revolt now and then, but merely to distinguish superficial facts,\nand always preserving the distinction between revolt, the form, and\ninsurrection, the foundation.\n\nThis movement of 1832 had, in its rapid outbreak and in its melancholy\nextinction, so much grandeur, that even those who see in it only an\nuprising, never refer to it otherwise than with respect. For them, it\nis like a relic of 1830. Excited imaginations, say they, are not to be\ncalmed in a day. A revolution cannot be cut off short. It must needs\nundergo some undulations before it returns to a state of rest, like a\nmountain sinking into the plain. There are no Alps without their Jura,\nnor Pyrenees without the Asturias.\n\nThis pathetic crisis of contemporary history which the memory of\nParisians calls  the epoch of the riots,  is certainly a characteristic\nhour amid the stormy hours of this century. A last word, before we\nenter on the recital.\n\nThe facts which we are about to relate belong to that dramatic and\nliving reality, which the historian sometimes neglects for lack of time\nand space. There, nevertheless, we insist upon it, is life,\npalpitation, human tremor. Petty details, as we think we have already\nsaid, are, so to speak, the foliage of great events, and are lost in\nthe distance of history. The epoch, surnamed  of the riots,  abounds in\ndetails of this nature. Judicial inquiries have not revealed, and\nperhaps have not sounded the depths, for another reason than history.\nWe shall therefore bring to light, among the known and published\npeculiarities, things which have not heretofore been known, about facts\nover which have passed the forgetfulness of some, and the death of\nothers. The majority of the actors in these gigantic scenes have\ndisappeared; beginning with the very next day they held their peace;\nbut of what we shall relate, we shall be able to say:  We have seen\nthis.  We alter a few names, for history relates and does not inform\nagainst, but the deed which we shall paint will be genuine. In\naccordance with the conditions of the book which we are now writing, we\nshall show only one side and one episode, and certainly, the least\nknown at that, of the two days, the 5th and the 6th of June, 1832, but\nwe shall do it in such wise that the reader may catch a glimpse,\nbeneath the gloomy veil which we are about to lift, of the real form of\nthis frightful public adventure.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III A BURIAL; AN OCCASION TO BE BORN AGAIN\n\n\nIn the spring of 1832, although the cholera had been chilling all minds\nfor the last three months and had cast over their agitation an\nindescribable and gloomy pacification, Paris had already long been ripe\nfor commotion. As we have said, the great city resembles a piece of\nartillery; when it is loaded, it suffices for a spark to fall, and the\nshot is discharged. In June, 1832, the spark was the death of General\nLamarque.\n\nLamarque was a man of renown and of action. He had had in succession,\nunder the Empire and under the Restoration, the sorts of bravery\nrequisite for the two epochs, the bravery of the battle-field and the\nbravery of the tribune. He was as eloquent as he had been valiant; a\nsword was discernible in his speech. Like Foy, his predecessor, after\nupholding the command, he upheld liberty; he sat between the left and\nthe extreme left, beloved of the people because he accepted the chances\nof the future, beloved of the populace because he had served the\nEmperor well; he was, in company with Comtes G rard and Drouet, one of\nNapoleon s marshals _in petto_. The treaties of 1815 removed him as a\npersonal offence. He hated Wellington with a downright hatred which\npleased the multitude; and, for seventeen years, he majestically\npreserved the sadness of Waterloo, paying hardly any attention to\nintervening events. In his death agony, at his last hour, he clasped to\nhis breast a sword which had been presented to him by the officers of\nthe Hundred Days. Napoleon had died uttering the word _army_, Lamarque\nuttering the word _country_.\n\nHis death, which was expected, was dreaded by the people as a loss, and\nby the government as an occasion. This death was an affliction. Like\neverything that is bitter, affliction may turn to revolt. This is what\ntook place.\n\nOn the preceding evening, and on the morning of the 5th of June, the\nday appointed for Lamarque s burial, the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, which\nthe procession was to touch at, assumed a formidable aspect. This\ntumultuous network of streets was filled with rumors. They armed\nthemselves as best they might. Joiners carried off door-weights of\ntheir establishment  to break down doors.  One of them had made himself\na dagger of a stocking-weaver s hook by breaking off the hook and\nsharpening the stump. Another, who was in a fever  to attack,  slept\nwholly dressed for three days. A carpenter named Lombier met a comrade,\nwho asked him:  Whither are you going?   Eh! well, I have no weapons. \n What then?   I m going to my timber-yard to get my compasses.   What\nfor?   I don t know,  said Lombier. A certain Jacqueline, an\nexpeditious man, accosted some passing artisans:  Come here, you!  He\ntreated them to ten sous  worth of wine and said:  Have you work? \n No.   Go to Filspierre, between the Barri re Charonne and the Barri re\nMontreuil, and you will find work.  At Filspierre s they found\ncartridges and arms. Certain well-known leaders were going the rounds,\nthat is to say, running from one house to another, to collect their\nmen. At Barth lemy s, near the Barri re du Tr ne, at Capel s, near the\nPetit-Chapeau, the drinkers accosted each other with a grave air. They\nwere heard to say:  Have you your pistol?   Under my blouse.   And\nyou?   Under my shirt.  In the Rue Traversi re, in front of the Bland\nworkshop, and in the yard of the Maison-Brul e, in front of tool-maker\nBernier s, groups whispered together. Among them was observed a certain\nMavot, who never remained more than a week in one shop, as the masters\nalways discharged him  because they were obliged to dispute with him\nevery day.  Mavot was killed on the following day at the barricade of\nthe Rue M nilmontant. Pretot, who was destined to perish also in the\nstruggle, seconded Mavot, and to the question:  What is your object? \nhe replied: _ Insurrection. _ Workmen assembled at the corner of the\nRue de Bercy, waited for a certain Lemarin, the revolutionary agent for\nthe Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Watchwords were exchanged almost publicly.\n\nOn the 5th of June, accordingly, a day of mingled rain and sun, General\nLamarque s funeral procession traversed Paris with official military\npomp, somewhat augmented through precaution. Two battalions, with\ndraped drums and reversed arms, ten thousand National Guards, with\ntheir swords at their sides, escorted the coffin. The hearse was drawn\nby young men. The officers of the Invalides came immediately behind it,\nbearing laurel branches. Then came an innumerable, strange, agitated\nmultitude, the sectionaries of the Friends of the People, the Law\nSchool, the Medical School, refugees of all nationalities, and Spanish,\nItalian, German, and Polish flags, tricolored horizontal banners, every\npossible sort of banner, children waving green boughs, stone-cutters\nand carpenters who were on strike at the moment, printers who were\nrecognizable by their paper caps, marching two by two, three by three,\nuttering cries, nearly all of them brandishing sticks, some brandishing\nsabres, without order and yet with a single soul, now a tumultuous\nrout, again a column. Squads chose themselves leaders; a man armed with\na pair of pistols in full view, seemed to pass the host in review, and\nthe files separated before him. On the side alleys of the boulevards,\nin the branches of the trees, on balconies, in windows, on the roofs,\nswarmed the heads of men, women, and children; all eyes were filled\nwith anxiety. An armed throng was passing, and a terrified throng\nlooked on.\n\nThe Government, on its side, was taking observations. It observed with\nits hand on its sword. Four squadrons of carabineers could be seen in\nthe Place Louis XV. in their saddles, with their trumpets at their\nhead, cartridge-boxes filled and muskets loaded, all in readiness to\nmarch; in the Latin country and at the Jardin des Plantes, the\nMunicipal Guard echelonned from street to street; at the\nHalle-aux-Vins, a squadron of dragoons; at the Gr ve half of the 12th\nLight Infantry, the other half being at the Bastille; the 6th Dragoons\nat the C lestins; and the courtyard of the Louvre full of artillery.\nThe remainder of the troops were confined to their barracks, without\nreckoning the regiments of the environs of Paris. Power being uneasy,\nheld suspended over the menacing multitude twenty-four thousand\nsoldiers in the city and thirty thousand in the banlieue.\n\nDivers reports were in circulation in the cort ge. Legitimist tricks\nwere hinted at; they spoke of the Duc de Reichstadt, whom God had\nmarked out for death at that very moment when the populace were\ndesignating him for the Empire. One personage, whose name has remained\nunknown, announced that at a given hour two overseers who had been won\nover, would throw open the doors of a factory of arms to the people.\nThat which predominated on the uncovered brows of the majority of those\npresent was enthusiasm mingled with dejection. Here and there, also, in\nthat multitude given over to such violent but noble emotions, there\nwere visible genuine visages of criminals and ignoble mouths which\nsaid:  Let us plunder!  There are certain agitations which stir up the\nbottoms of marshes and make clouds of mud rise through the water. A\nphenomenon to which  well drilled  policemen are no strangers.\n\nThe procession proceeded, with feverish slowness, from the house of the\ndeceased, by way of the boulevards as far as the Bastille. It rained\nfrom time to time; the rain mattered nothing to that throng. Many\nincidents, the coffin borne round the Vendome column, stones thrown at\nthe Duc de Fitz-James, who was seen on a balcony with his hat on his\nhead, the Gallic cock torn from a popular flag and dragged in the mire,\na policeman wounded with a blow from a sword at the Porte Saint-Martin,\nan officer of the 12th Light Infantry saying aloud:  I am a\nRepublican,  the Polytechnic School coming up unexpectedly against\norders to remain at home, the shouts of:  Long live the Polytechnique!\nLong live the Republic!  marked the passage of the funeral train. At\nthe Bastille, long files of curious and formidable people who descended\nfrom the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, effected a junction with the\nprocession, and a certain terrible seething began to agitate the\nthrong.\n\nOne man was heard to say to another:  Do you see that fellow with a red\nbeard, he s the one who will give the word when we are to fire.  It\nappears that this red beard was present, at another riot, the Qu nisset\naffair, entrusted with this same function.\n\nThe hearse passed the Bastille, traversed the small bridge, and reached\nthe esplanade of the bridge of Austerlitz. There it halted. The crowd,\nsurveyed at that moment with a bird s-eye view, would have presented\nthe aspect of a comet whose head was on the esplanade and whose tail\nspread out over the Quai Bourdon, covered the Bastille, and was\nprolonged on the boulevard as far as the Porte Saint-Martin. A circle\nwas traced around the hearse. The vast rout held their peace. Lafayette\nspoke and bade Lamarque farewell. This was a touching and august\ninstant, all heads uncovered, all hearts beat high.\n\nAll at once, a man on horseback, clad in black, made his appearance in\nthe middle of the group with a red flag, others say, with a pike\nsurmounted with a red liberty-cap. Lafayette turned aside his head.\nExelmans quitted the procession.\n\nThis red flag raised a storm, and disappeared in the midst of it. From\nthe Boulevard Bourdon to the bridge of Austerlitz one of those clamors\nwhich resemble billows stirred the multitude. Two prodigious shouts\nwent up:  Lamarque to the Pantheon! Lafayette to the Town-hall!  Some\nyoung men, amid the declamations of the throng, harnessed themselves\nand began to drag Lamarque in the hearse across the bridge of\nAusterlitz and Lafayette in a hackney-coach along the Quai Morland.\n\nIn the crowd which surrounded and cheered Lafayette, it was noticed\nthat a German showed himself named Ludwig Snyder, who died a\ncentenarian afterwards, who had also been in the war of 1776, and who\nhad fought at Trenton under Washington, and at Brandywine under\nLafayette.\n\nIn the meantime, the municipal cavalry on the left bank had been set in\nmotion, and came to bar the bridge, on the right bank the dragoons\nemerged from the C lestins and deployed along the Quai Morland. The men\nwho were dragging Lafayette suddenly caught sight of them at the corner\nof the quay and shouted:  The dragoons!  The dragoons advanced at a\nwalk, in silence, with their pistols in their holsters, their swords in\ntheir scabbards, their guns slung in their leather sockets, with an air\nof gloomy expectation.\n\nThey halted two hundred paces from the little bridge. The carriage in\nwhich sat Lafayette advanced to them, their ranks opened and allowed it\nto pass, and then closed behind it. At that moment the dragoons and the\ncrowd touched. The women fled in terror. What took place during that\nfatal minute? No one can say. It is the dark moment when two clouds\ncome together. Some declare that a blast of trumpets sounding the\ncharge was heard in the direction of the Arsenal, others that a blow\nfrom a dagger was given by a child to a dragoon. The fact is, that\nthree shots were suddenly discharged: the first killed Cholet, chief of\nthe squadron, the second killed an old deaf woman who was in the act of\nclosing her window, the third singed the shoulder of an officer; a\nwoman screamed:  They are beginning too soon!  and all at once, a\nsquadron of dragoons which had remained in the barracks up to this\ntime, was seen to debouch at a gallop with bared swords, through the\nRue Bassompierre and the Boulevard Bourdon, sweeping all before them.\n\nThen all is said, the tempest is loosed, stones rain down, a fusillade\nbreaks forth, many precipitate themselves to the bottom of the bank,\nand pass the small arm of the Seine, now filled in, the timber-yards of\nthe Isle Louviers, that vast citadel ready to hand, bristle with\ncombatants, stakes are torn up, pistol-shots fired, a barricade begun,\nthe young men who are thrust back pass the Austerlitz bridge with the\nhearse at a run, and the municipal guard, the carabineers rush up, the\ndragoons ply their swords, the crowd disperses in all directions, a\nrumor of war flies to all four quarters of Paris, men shout:  To arms! \nthey run, tumble down, flee, resist. Wrath spreads abroad the riot as\nwind spreads a fire.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE EBULLITIONS OF FORMER DAYS\n\n\nNothing is more extraordinary than the first breaking out of a riot.\nEverything bursts forth everywhere at once. Was it foreseen? Yes. Was\nit prepared? No. Whence comes it? From the pavements. Whence falls it?\nFrom the clouds. Here insurrection assumes the character of a plot;\nthere of an improvisation. The first comer seizes a current of the\nthrong and leads it whither he wills. A beginning full of terror, in\nwhich is mingled a sort of formidable gayety. First come clamors, the\nshops are closed, the displays of the merchants disappear; then come\nisolated shots; people flee; blows from gun-stocks beat against\nportes-coch res, servants can be heard laughing in the courtyards of\nhouses and saying:  There s going to be a row! \n\n\nA quarter of an hour had not elapsed when this is what was taking place\nat twenty different spots in Paris at once.\n\nIn the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie, twenty young men, bearded\nand with long hair, entered a dram-shop and emerged a moment later,\ncarrying a horizontal tricolored flag covered with crape, and having at\ntheir head three men armed, one with a sword, one with a gun, and the\nthird with a pike.\n\nIn the Rue des Nonaindi res, a very well-dressed bourgeois, who had a\nprominent belly, a sonorous voice, a bald head, a lofty brow, a black\nbeard, and one of these stiff moustaches which will not lie flat,\noffered cartridges publicly to passers-by.\n\nIn the Rue Saint-Pierre-Montmartre, men with bare arms carried about a\nblack flag, on which could be read in white letters this inscription:\n Republic or Death!  In the Rue des Je neurs, Rue du Cadran, Rue\nMontorgueil, Rue Mandar, groups appeared waving flags on which could be\ndistinguished in gold letters, the word _section_ with a number. One of\nthese flags was red and blue with an almost imperceptible stripe of\nwhite between.\n\nThey pillaged a factory of small-arms on the Boulevard Saint-Martin,\nand three armorers  shops, the first in the Rue Beaubourg, the second\nin the Rue Michel-le-Comte, the other in the Rue du Temple. In a few\nminutes, the thousand hands of the crowd had seized and carried off two\nhundred and thirty guns, nearly all double-barrelled, sixty-four\nswords, and eighty-three pistols. In order to provide more arms, one\nman took the gun, the other the bayonet.\n\nOpposite the Quai de la Gr ve, young men armed with muskets installed\nthemselves in the houses of some women for the purpose of firing. One\nof them had a flint-lock. They rang, entered, and set about making\ncartridges. One of these women relates:  I did not know what cartridges\nwere; it was my husband who told me. \n\n\nOne cluster broke into a curiosity shop in the Rue des\nVieilles-Haudriettes, and seized yataghans and Turkish arms.\n\nThe body of a mason who had been killed by a gun-shot lay in the Rue de\nla Perle.\n\nAnd then on the right bank, the left bank, on the quays, on the\nboulevards, in the Latin country, in the quarter of the Halles, panting\nmen, artisans, students, members of sections read proclamations and\nshouted:  To arms!  broke street lanterns, unharnessed carriages,\nunpaved the streets, broke in the doors of houses, uprooted trees,\nrummaged cellars, rolled out hogsheads, heaped up paving-stones, rough\nslabs, furniture and planks, and made barricades.\n\nThey forced the bourgeois to assist them in this. They entered the\ndwellings of women, they forced them to hand over the swords and guns\nof their absent husbands, and they wrote on the door, with whiting:\n The arms have been delivered ; some signed  their names  to receipts\nfor the guns and swords and said:  Send for them to-morrow at the\nMayor s office.  They disarmed isolated sentinels and National\nGuardsmen in the streets on their way to the Townhall. They tore the\nepaulets from officers. In the Rue du Cimiti re-Saint-Nicholas, an\nofficer of the National Guard, on being pursued by a crowd armed with\nclubs and foils, took refuge with difficulty in a house, whence he was\nonly able to emerge at nightfall and in disguise.\n\nIn the Quartier Saint-Jacques, the students swarmed out of their hotels\nand ascended the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe to the Caf  du Progr ss, or\ndescended to the Caf  des Sept-Billards, in the Rue des Mathurins.\nThere, in front of the door, young men mounted on the stone\ncorner-posts, distributed arms. They plundered the timber-yard in the\nRue Transnonain in order to obtain material for barricades. On a single\npoint the inhabitants resisted, at the corner of the Rue Sainte-Avoye\nand the Rue Simon-Le-Franc, where they destroyed the barricade with\ntheir own hands. At a single point the insurgents yielded; they\nabandoned a barricade begun in the Rue de Temple after having fired on\na detachment of the National Guard, and fled through the Rue de la\nCorderie. The detachment picked up in the barricade a red flag, a\npackage of cartridges, and three hundred pistol-balls. The National\nGuardsmen tore up the flag, and carried off its tattered remains on the\npoints of their bayonets.\n\nAll that we are here relating slowly and successively took place\nsimultaneously at all points of the city in the midst of a vast tumult,\nlike a mass of tongues of lightning in one clap of thunder. In less\nthan an hour, twenty-seven barricades sprang out of the earth in the\nquarter of the Halles alone. In the centre was that famous house No.\n50, which was the fortress of Jeanne and her six hundred companions,\nand which, flanked on the one hand by a barricade at Saint-Merry, and\non the other by a barricade of the Rue Maubu e, commanded three\nstreets, the Rue des Arcis, the Rue Saint-Martin, and the Rue\nAubry-le-Boucher, which it faced. The barricades at right angles fell\nback, the one of the Rue Montorgueil on the Grande-Truanderie, the\nother of the Rue Geoffroy-Langevin on the Rue Sainte-Avoye. Without\nreckoning innumerable barricades in twenty other quarters of Paris, in\nthe Marais, at Mont-Sainte-Genevi ve; one in the Rue M nilmontant,\nwhere was visible a porte-coch re torn from its hinges; another near\nthe little bridge of the H tel-Dieu made with an  cossais,  which had\nbeen unharnessed and overthrown, three hundred paces from the\nPrefecture of Police.\n\nAt the barricade of the Rue des M n triers, a well-dressed man\ndistributed money to the workmen. At the barricade of the Rue Grenetat,\na horseman made his appearance and handed to the one who seemed to be\nthe commander of the barricade what had the appearance of a roll of\nsilver.  Here,  said he,  this is to pay expenses, wine, et c tera.  A\nlight-haired young man, without a cravat, went from barricade to\nbarricade, carrying pass-words. Another, with a naked sword, a blue\npolice cap on his head, placed sentinels. In the interior, beyond the\nbarricades, the wine-shops and porters  lodges were converted into\nguard-houses. Otherwise the riot was conducted after the most\nscientific military tactics. The narrow, uneven, sinuous streets, full\nof angles and turns, were admirably chosen; the neighborhood of the\nHalles, in particular, a network of streets more intricate than a\nforest. The Society of the Friends of the People had, it was said,\nundertaken to direct the insurrection in the Quartier Sainte-Avoye. A\nman killed in the Rue du Ponceau who was searched had on his person a\nplan of Paris.\n\nThat which had really undertaken the direction of the uprising was a\nsort of strange impetuosity which was in the air. The insurrection had\nabruptly built barricades with one hand, and with the other seized\nnearly all the posts of the garrison. In less than three hours, like a\ntrain of powder catching fire, the insurgents had invaded and occupied,\non the right bank, the Arsenal, the Mayoralty of the Place Royale, the\nwhole of the Marais, the Popincourt arms manufactory, la Galiote, the\nCh teau-d Eau, and all the streets near the Halles; on the left bank,\nthe barracks of the Veterans, Sainte-P lagie, the Place Maubert, the\npowder magazine of the Deux-Moulins, and all the barriers. At five\no clock in the evening, they were masters of the Bastille, of the\nLingerie, of the Blancs-Manteaux; their scouts had reached the Place\ndes Victoires, and menaced the Bank, the Petits-P res barracks, and the\nPost-Office. A third of Paris was in the hands of the rioters.\n\nThe conflict had been begun on a gigantic scale at all points; and, as\na result of the disarming domiciliary visits, and armorers  shops\nhastily invaded, was, that the combat which had begun with the throwing\nof stones was continued with gun-shots.\n\nAbout six o clock in the evening, the Passage du Saumon became the\nfield of battle. The uprising was at one end, the troops were at the\nother. They fired from one gate to the other. An observer, a dreamer,\nthe author of this book, who had gone to get a near view of this\nvolcano, found himself in the passage between the two fires. All that\nhe had to protect him from the bullets was the swell of the two\nhalf-columns which separate the shops; he remained in this delicate\nsituation for nearly half an hour.\n\nMeanwhile the call to arms was beaten, the National Guard armed in\nhaste, the legions emerged from the Mayoralities, the regiments from\ntheir barracks. Opposite the passage de l Ancre a drummer received a\nblow from a dagger. Another, in the Rue du Cygne, was assailed by\nthirty young men who broke his instrument, and took away his sword.\nAnother was killed in the Rue Grenier-Saint-Lazare. In the Rue\nMichel-le-Comte, three officers fell dead one after the other. Many of\nthe Municipal Guards, on being wounded, in the Rue des Lombards,\nretreated.\n\nIn front of the Cour-Batave, a detachment of National Guards found a\nred flag bearing the following inscription: _Republican revolution, No.\n127_. Was this a revolution, in fact?\n\nThe insurrection had made of the centre of Paris a sort of\ninextricable, tortuous, colossal citadel.\n\nThere was the hearth; there, evidently, was the question. All the rest\nwas nothing but skirmishes. The proof that all would be decided there\nlay in the fact that there was no fighting going on there as yet.\n\nIn some regiments, the soldiers were uncertain, which added to the\nfearful uncertainty of the crisis. They recalled the popular ovation\nwhich had greeted the neutrality of the 53d of the Line in July, 1830.\nTwo intrepid men, tried in great wars, the Marshal Lobau and General\nBugeaud, were in command, Bugeaud under Lobau. Enormous patrols,\ncomposed of battalions of the Line, enclosed in entire companies of the\nNational Guard, and preceded by a commissary of police wearing his\nscarf of office, went to reconnoitre the streets in rebellion. The\ninsurgents, on their side, placed videttes at the corners of all open\nspaces, and audaciously sent their patrols outside the barricades. Each\nside was watching the other. The Government, with an army in its hand,\nhesitated; the night was almost upon them, and the Saint-Merry tocsin\nbegan to make itself heard. The Minister of War at that time, Marshal\nSoult, who had seen Austerlitz, regarded this with a gloomy air.\n\nThese old sailors, accustomed to correct man uvres and having as\nresource and guide only tactics, that compass of battles, are utterly\ndisconcerted in the presence of that immense foam which is called\npublic wrath.\n\nThe National Guards of the suburbs rushed up in haste and disorder. A\nbattalion of the 12th Light came at a run from Saint-Denis, the 14th of\nthe Line arrived from Courbevoie, the batteries of the Military School\nhad taken up their position on the Carrousel; cannons were descending\nfrom Vincennes.\n\nSolitude was formed around the Tuileries. Louis Philippe was perfectly\nserene.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V ORIGINALITY OF PARIS\n\n\nDuring the last two years, as we have said, Paris had witnessed more\nthan one insurrection. Nothing is, generally, more singularly calm than\nthe physiognomy of Paris during an uprising beyond the bounds of the\nrebellious quarters. Paris very speedily accustoms herself to\nanything, it is only a riot, and Paris has so many affairs on hand,\nthat she does not put herself out for so small a matter. These colossal\ncities alone can offer such spectacles. These immense enclosures alone\ncan contain at the same time civil war and an odd and indescribable\ntranquillity. Ordinarily, when an insurrection commences, when the\nshop-keeper hears the drum, the call to arms, the general alarm, he\ncontents himself with the remark: \n\n There appears to be a squabble in the Rue Saint-Martin. \n\n\nOr: \n\n In the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. \n\n\nOften he adds carelessly: \n\n Or somewhere in that direction. \n\n\nLater on, when the heart-rending and mournful hubbub of musketry and\nfiring by platoons becomes audible, the shopkeeper says: \n\n It s getting hot! Hullo, it s getting hot! \n\n\nA moment later, the riot approaches and gains in force, he shuts up his\nshop precipitately, hastily dons his uniform, that is to say, he places\nhis merchandise in safety and risks his own person.\n\nMen fire in a square, in a passage, in a blind alley; they take and\nre-take the barricade; blood flows, the grape-shot riddles the fronts\nof the houses, the balls kill people in their beds, corpses encumber\nthe streets. A few streets away, the shock of billiard-balls can be\nheard in the caf s.\n\nThe theatres open their doors and present vaudevilles; the curious\nlaugh and chat a couple of paces distant from these streets filled with\nwar. Hackney-carriages go their way; passers-by are going to a dinner\nsomewhere in town. Sometimes in the very quarter where the fighting is\ngoing on.\n\nIn 1831, a fusillade was stopped to allow a wedding party to pass.\n\nAt the time of the insurrection of 1839, in the Rue Saint-Martin a\nlittle, infirm old man, pushing a hand-cart surmounted by a tricolored\nrag, in which he had carafes filled with some sort of liquid, went and\ncame from barricade to troops and from troops to the barricade,\noffering his glasses of cocoa impartially, now to the Government, now\nto anarchy.\n\nNothing can be stranger; and this is the peculiar character of\nuprisings in Paris, which cannot be found in any other capital. To this\nend, two things are requisite, the size of Paris and its gayety. The\ncity of Voltaire and Napoleon is necessary.\n\nOn this occasion, however, in the resort to arms of June 5th, 1832, the\ngreat city felt something which was, perhaps, stronger than itself. It\nwas afraid.\n\nClosed doors, windows, and shutters were to be seen everywhere, in the\nmost distant and most  disinterested  quarters. The courageous took to\narms, the poltroons hid. The busy and heedless passer-by disappeared.\nMany streets were empty at four o clock in the morning.\n\nAlarming details were hawked about, fatal news was disseminated, that\n_they_ were masters of the Bank; that there were six hundred of them in\nthe Cloister of Saint-Merry alone, entrenched and embattled in the\nchurch; that the line was not to be depended on; that Armand Carrel had\nbeen to see Marshal Clausel and that the Marshal had said:  Get a\nregiment first ; that Lafayette was ill, but that he had said to them,\nnevertheless:  I am with you. I will follow you wherever there is room\nfor a chair ; that one must be on one s guard; that at night there\nwould be people pillaging isolated dwellings in the deserted corners of\nParis (there the imagination of the police, that Anne Radcliffe mixed\nup with the Government was recognizable); that a battery had been\nestablished in the Rue Aubry le Boucher; that Lobau and Bugeaud were\nputting their heads together, and that, at midnight, or at daybreak at\nlatest, four columns would march simultaneously on the centre of the\nuprising, the first coming from the Bastille, the second from the Porte\nSaint-Martin, the third from the Gr ve, the fourth from the Halles;\nthat perhaps, also, the troops would evacuate Paris and withdraw to the\nChamp-de-Mars; that no one knew what would happen, but that this time,\nit certainly was serious.\n\nPeople busied themselves over Marshal Soult s hesitations. Why did not\nhe attack at once? It is certain that he was profoundly absorbed. The\nold lion seemed to scent an unknown monster in that gloom.\n\nEvening came, the theatres did not open; the patrols circulated with an\nair of irritation; passers-by were searched; suspicious persons were\narrested. By nine o clock, more than eight hundred persons had been\narrested, the Prefecture of Police was encumbered with them, so was the\nConciergerie, so was La Force.\n\nAt the Conciergerie in particular, the long vault which is called the\nRue de Paris was littered with trusses of straw upon which lay a heap\nof prisoners, whom the man of Lyons, Lagrange, harangued valiantly. All\nthat straw rustled by all these men, produced the sound of a heavy\nshower. Elsewhere prisoners slept in the open air in the meadows, piled\non top of each other.\n\nAnxiety reigned everywhere, and a certain tremor which was not habitual\nwith Paris.\n\nPeople barricaded themselves in their houses; wives and mothers were\nuneasy; nothing was to be heard but this:  Ah! my God! He has not come\nhome!  There was hardly even the distant rumble of a vehicle to be\nheard.\n\nPeople listened on their thresholds, to the rumors, the shouts, the\ntumult, the dull and indistinct sounds, to the things that were said:\n It is cavalry,  or:  Those are the caissons galloping,  to the\ntrumpets, the drums, the firing, and, above all, to that lamentable\nalarm peal from Saint-Merry.\n\nThey waited for the first cannon-shot. Men sprang up at the corners of\nthe streets and disappeared, shouting:  Go home!  And people made haste\nto bolt their doors. They said:  How will all this end?  From moment to\nmoment, in proportion as the darkness descended, Paris seemed to take\non a more mournful hue from the formidable flaming of the revolt.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK ELEVENTH THE ATOM FRATERNIZES WITH THE HURRICANE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I SOME EXPLANATIONS WITH REGARD TO THE ORIGIN OF GAVROCHE S\nPOETRY. THE INFLUENCE OF AN ACADEMICIAN ON THIS POETRY\n\n\nAt the instant when the insurrection, arising from the shock of the\npopulace and the military in front of the Arsenal, started a movement\nin advance and towards the rear in the multitude which was following\nthe hearse and which, through the whole length of the boulevards,\nweighed, so to speak, on the head of the procession, there arose a\nfrightful ebb. The rout was shaken, their ranks were broken, all ran,\nfled, made their escape, some with shouts of attack, others with the\npallor of flight. The great river which covered the boulevards divided\nin a twinkling, overflowed to right and left, and spread in torrents\nover two hundred streets at once with the roar of a sewer that has\nbroken loose.\n\nAt that moment, a ragged child who was coming down through the Rue\nM nilmontant, holding in his hand a branch of blossoming laburnum which\nhe had just plucked on the heights of Belleville, caught sight of an\nold holster-pistol in the show-window of a bric- -brac merchant s shop.\n\n Mother What s-your-name, I m going to borrow your machine. \n\n\nAnd off he ran with the pistol.\n\nTwo minutes later, a flood of frightened bourgeois who were fleeing\nthrough the Rue Amelot and the Rue Basse, encountered the lad\nbrandishing his pistol and singing: \n\nLa nuit on ne voit rien,\nLe jour on voit tr s bien,\nD un  crit apocryphe\nLe bourgeois s bouriffe,\nPratiquez la vertu,\nTutu, chapeau pointu!44\n\n\nIt was little Gavroche on his way to the wars.\n\nOn the boulevard he noticed that the pistol had no trigger.\n\nWho was the author of that couplet which served to punctuate his march,\nand of all the other songs which he was fond of singing on occasion? We\nknow not. Who does know? Himself, perhaps. However, Gavroche was well\nup in all the popular tunes in circulation, and he mingled with them\nhis own chirpings. An observing urchin and a rogue, he made a potpourri\nof the voices of nature and the voices of Paris. He combined the\nrepertory of the birds with the repertory of the workshops. He was\nacquainted with thieves, a tribe contiguous to his own. He had, it\nappears, been for three months apprenticed to a printer. He had one day\nexecuted a commission for M. Baour-Lormian, one of the Forty. Gavroche\nwas a gamin of letters.\n\nMoreover, Gavroche had no suspicion of the fact that when he had\noffered the hospitality of his elephant to two brats on that\nvillainously rainy night, it was to his own brothers that he had played\nthe part of Providence. His brothers in the evening, his father in the\nmorning; that is what his night had been like. On quitting the Rue des\nBallets at daybreak, he had returned in haste to the elephant, had\nartistically extracted from it the two brats, had shared with them some\nsort of breakfast which he had invented, and had then gone away,\nconfiding them to that good mother, the street, who had brought him up,\nalmost entirely. On leaving them, he had appointed to meet them at the\nsame spot in the evening, and had left them this discourse by way of a\nfarewell:  I break a cane, otherwise expressed, I cut my stick, or, as\nthey say at the court, I file off. If you don t find papa and mamma,\nyoung  uns, come back here this evening. I ll scramble you up some\nsupper, and I ll give you a shakedown.  The two children, picked up by\nsome policeman and placed in the refuge, or stolen by some mountebank,\nor having simply strayed off in that immense Chinese puzzle of a Paris,\ndid not return. The lowest depths of the actual social world are full\nof these lost traces. Gavroche did not see them again. Ten or twelve\nweeks had elapsed since that night. More than once he had scratched the\nback of his head and said:  Where the devil are my two children? \n\n\nIn the meantime, he had arrived, pistol in hand, in the Rue du\nPont-aux-Choux. He noticed that there was but one shop open in that\nstreet, and, a matter worthy of reflection, that was a pastry-cook s\nshop. This presented a providential occasion to eat another\napple-turnover before entering the unknown. Gavroche halted, fumbled in\nhis fob, turned his pocket inside out, found nothing, not even a sou,\nand began to shout:  Help! \n\n\nIt is hard to miss the last cake.\n\nNevertheless, Gavroche pursued his way.\n\nTwo minutes later he was in the Rue Saint-Louis. While traversing the\nRue du Parc-Royal, he felt called upon to make good the loss of the\napple-turnover which had been impossible, and he indulged himself in\nthe immense delight of tearing down the theatre posters in broad\ndaylight.\n\nA little further on, on catching sight of a group of\ncomfortable-looking persons, who seemed to be landed proprietors, he\nshrugged his shoulders and spit out at random before him this mouthful\nof philosophical bile as they passed:\n\n How fat those moneyed men are! They re drunk! They just wallow in good\ndinners. Ask  em what they do with their money. They don t know. They\neat it, that s what they do! As much as their bellies will hold. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II GAVROCHE ON THE MARCH\n\n\nThe brandishing of a triggerless pistol, grasped in one s hand in the\nopen street, is so much of a public function that Gavroche felt his\nfervor increasing with every moment. Amid the scraps of the\nMarseillaise which he was singing, he shouted: \n\n All goes well. I suffer a great deal in my left paw, I m all broken up\nwith rheumatism, but I m satisfied, citizens. All that the bourgeois\nhave to do is to bear themselves well, I ll sneeze them out subversive\ncouplets. What are the police spies? Dogs. And I d just like to have\none of them at the end of my pistol. I m just from the boulevard, my\nfriends. It s getting hot there, it s getting into a little boil, it s\nsimmering. It s time to skim the pot. Forward march, men! Let an impure\nblood inundate the furrows! I give my days to my country, I shall never\nsee my concubine more, Nini, finished, yes, Nini? But never mind! Long\nlive joy! Let s fight, crebleu! I ve had enough of despotism. \n\n\nAt that moment, the horse of a lancer of the National Guard having\nfallen, Gavroche laid his pistol on the pavement, and picked up the\nman, then he assisted in raising the horse. After which he picked up\nhis pistol and resumed his way. In the Rue de Thorigny, all was peace\nand silence. This apathy, peculiar to the Marais, presented a contrast\nwith the vast surrounding uproar. Four gossips were chatting in a\ndoorway.\n\nScotland has trios of witches, Paris has quartettes of old gossiping\nhags; and the  Thou shalt be King  could be quite as mournfully hurled\nat Bonaparte in the Carrefour Baudoyer as at Macbeth on the heath of\nArmuyr. The croak would be almost identical.\n\nThe gossips of the Rue de Thorigny busied themselves only with their\nown concerns. Three of them were portresses, and the fourth was a\nrag-picker with her basket on her back.\n\nAll four of them seemed to be standing at the four corners of old age,\nwhich are decrepitude, decay, ruin, and sadness.\n\nThe rag-picker was humble. In this open-air society, it is the\nrag-picker who salutes and the portress who patronizes. This is caused\nby the corner for refuse, which is fat or lean, according to the will\nof the portresses, and after the fancy of the one who makes the heap.\nThere may be kindness in the broom.\n\nThis rag-picker was a grateful creature, and she smiled, with what a\nsmile! on the three portresses. Things of this nature were said: \n\n Ah, by the way, is your cat still cross? \n\n\n Good gracious, cats are naturally the enemies of dogs, you know. It s\nthe dogs who complain. \n\n\n And people also. \n\n\n But the fleas from a cat don t go after people. \n\n\n That s not the trouble, dogs are dangerous. I remember one year when\nthere were so many dogs that it was necessary to put it in the\nnewspapers. That was at the time when there were at the Tuileries great\nsheep that drew the little carriage of the King of Rome. Do you\nremember the King of Rome? \n\n\n I liked the Duc de Bordeau better. \n\n\n I knew Louis XVIII. I prefer Louis XVIII. \n\n\n Meat is awfully dear, isn t it, Mother Patagon? \n\n\n Ah! don t mention it, the butcher s shop is a horror. A horrible\nhorror one can t afford anything but the poor cuts nowadays. \n\n\nHere the rag-picker interposed: \n\n Ladies, business is dull. The refuse heaps are miserable. No one\nthrows anything away any more. They eat everything. \n\n\n There are poorer people than you, la Vargoul me. \n\n\n Ah, that s true,  replied the rag-picker, with deference,  I have a\nprofession. \n\n\nA pause succeeded, and the rag-picker, yielding to that necessity for\nboasting which lies at the bottom of man, added: \n\n In the morning, on my return home, I pick over my basket, I sort my\nthings. This makes heaps in my room. I put the rags in a basket, the\ncores and stalks in a bucket, the linen in my cupboard, the woollen\nstuff in my commode, the old papers in the corner of the window, the\nthings that are good to eat in my bowl, the bits of glass in my\nfireplace, the old shoes behind my door, and the bones under my bed. \n\n\nGavroche had stopped behind her and was listening.\n\n Old ladies,  said he,  what do you mean by talking politics? \n\n\nHe was assailed by a broadside, composed of a quadruple howl.\n\n Here s another rascal. \n\n\n What s that he s got in his paddle? A pistol? \n\n\n Well, I d like to know what sort of a beggar s brat this is? \n\n\n That sort of animal is never easy unless he s overturning the\nauthorities. \n\n\nGavroche disdainfully contented himself, by way of reprisal, with\nelevating the tip of his nose with his thumb and opening his hand wide.\n\nThe rag-picker cried: \n\n You malicious, bare-pawed little wretch! \n\n\nThe one who answered to the name of Patagon clapped her hands together\nin horror.\n\n There s going to be evil doings, that s certain. The errand-boy next\ndoor has a little pointed beard, I have seen him pass every day with a\nyoung person in a pink bonnet on his arm; to-day I saw him pass, and he\nhad a gun on his arm. Mame Bacheux says, that last week there was a\nrevolution at at at where s the calf! at Pontoise. And then, there you\nsee him, that horrid scamp, with his pistol! It seems that the\nC lestins are full of pistols. What do you suppose the Government can\ndo with good-for-nothings who don t know how to do anything but\ncontrive ways of upsetting the world, when we had just begun to get a\nlittle quiet after all the misfortunes that have happened, good Lord!\nto that poor queen whom I saw pass in the tumbril! And all this is\ngoing to make tobacco dearer. It s infamous! And I shall certainly go\nto see him beheaded on the guillotine, the wretch! \n\n\n You ve got the sniffles, old lady,  said Gavroche.  Blow your\npromontory. \n\n\nAnd he passed on. When he was in the Rue Pav e, the rag-picker occurred\nto his mind, and he indulged in this soliloquy: \n\n You re in the wrong to insult the revolutionists, Mother\nDust-Heap-Corner. This pistol is in your interests. It s so that you\nmay have more good things to eat in your basket. \n\n\nAll at once, he heard a shout behind him; it was the portress Patagon\nwho had followed him, and who was shaking her fist at him in the\ndistance and crying: \n\n You re nothing but a bastard. \n\n\n Oh! Come now,  said Gavroche,  I don t care a brass farthing for\nthat! \n\n\nShortly afterwards, he passed the Hotel Lamoignon. There he uttered\nthis appeal: \n\n Forward march to the battle! \n\n\nAnd he was seized with a fit of melancholy. He gazed at his pistol with\nan air of reproach which seemed an attempt to appease it: \n\n I m going off,  said he,  but you won t go off! \n\n\nOne dog may distract the attention from another dog.45 A very gaunt\npoodle came along at the moment. Gavroche felt compassion for him.\n\n My poor doggy,  said he,  you must have gone and swallowed a cask, for\nall the hoops are visible. \n\n\nThen he directed his course towards l Orme-Saint-Gervais.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III JUST INDIGNATION OF A HAIR-DRESSER\n\n\nThe worthy hair-dresser who had chased from his shop the two little\nfellows to whom Gavroche had opened the paternal interior of the\nelephant was at that moment in his shop engaged in shaving an old\nsoldier of the legion who had served under the Empire. They were\ntalking. The hair-dresser had, naturally, spoken to the veteran of the\nriot, then of General Lamarque, and from Lamarque they had passed to\nthe Emperor. Thence sprang up a conversation between barber and soldier\nwhich Prudhomme, had he been present, would have enriched with\narabesques, and which he would have entitled:  Dialogue between the\nrazor and the sword. \n\n\n How did the Emperor ride, sir?  said the barber.\n\n Badly. He did not know how to fall so he never fell. \n\n\n Did he have fine horses? He must have had fine horses! \n\n\n On the day when he gave me my cross, I noticed his beast. It was a\nracing mare, perfectly white. Her ears were very wide apart, her saddle\ndeep, a fine head marked with a black star, a very long neck, strongly\narticulated knees, prominent ribs, oblique shoulders and a powerful\ncrupper. A little more than fifteen hands in height. \n\n\n A pretty horse,  remarked the hair-dresser.\n\n It was His Majesty s beast. \n\n\nThe hair-dresser felt, that after this observation, a short silence\nwould be fitting, so he conformed himself to it, and then went on: \n\n The Emperor was never wounded but once, was he, sir? \n\n\nThe old soldier replied with the calm and sovereign tone of a man who\nhad been there: \n\n In the heel. At Ratisbon. I never saw him so well dressed as on that\nday. He was as neat as a new sou. \n\n\n And you, Mr. Veteran, you must have been often wounded? \n\n\n I?  said the soldier,  ah! not to amount to anything. At Marengo, I\nreceived two sabre-blows on the back of my neck, a bullet in the right\narm at Austerlitz, another in the left hip at Jena. At Friedland, a\nthrust from a bayonet, there, at the Moskowa seven or eight\nlance-thrusts, no matter where, at Lutzen a splinter of a shell crushed\none of my fingers. Ah! and then at Waterloo, a ball from a bisca en in\nthe thigh, that s all. \n\n\n How fine that is!  exclaimed the hair-dresser, in Pindaric accents,\n to die on the field of battle! On my word of honor, rather than die in\nbed, of an illness, slowly, a bit by bit each day, with drugs,\ncataplasms, syringes, medicines, I should prefer to receive a\ncannon-ball in my belly! \n\n\n You re not over fastidious,  said the soldier.\n\nHe had hardly spoken when a fearful crash shook the shop. The\nshow-window had suddenly been fractured.\n\nThe wig-maker turned pale.\n\n Ah, good God!  he exclaimed,  it s one of them! \n\n\n What? \n\n\n A cannon-ball. \n\n\n Here it is,  said the soldier.\n\nAnd he picked up something that was rolling about the floor. It was a\npebble.\n\nThe hair-dresser ran to the broken window and beheld Gavroche fleeing\nat the full speed, towards the March  Saint-Jean. As he passed the\nhair-dresser s shop Gavroche, who had the two brats still in his mind,\nhad not been able to resist the impulse to say good day to him, and had\nflung a stone through his panes.\n\n You see!  shrieked the hair-dresser, who from white had turned blue,\n that fellow returns and does mischief for the pure pleasure of it.\nWhat has any one done to that gamin? \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE CHILD IS AMAZED AT THE OLD MAN\n\n\nIn the meantime, in the March  Saint-Jean, where the post had already\nbeen disarmed, Gavroche had just  effected a junction  with a band led\nby Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Feuilly. They were armed after\na fashion. Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire had found them and swelled the\ngroup. Enjolras had a double-barrelled hunting-gun, Combeferre the gun\nof a National Guard bearing the number of his legion, and in his belt,\ntwo pistols which his unbuttoned coat allowed to be seen, Jean\nProuvaire an old cavalry musket, Bahorel a rifle; Courfeyrac was\nbrandishing an unsheathed sword-cane. Feuilly, with a naked sword in\nhis hand, marched at their head shouting:  Long live Poland! \n\n\nThey reached the Quai Morland. Cravatless, hatless, breathless, soaked\nby the rain, with lightning in their eyes. Gavroche accosted them\ncalmly: \n\n Where are we going? \n\n\n Come along,  said Courfeyrac.\n\nBehind Feuilly marched, or rather bounded, Bahorel, who was like a fish\nin water in a riot. He wore a scarlet waistcoat, and indulged in the\nsort of words which break everything. His waistcoat astounded a\npasser-by, who cried in bewilderment: \n\n Here are the reds! \n\n\n The reds, the reds!  retorted Bahorel.  A queer kind of fear,\nbourgeois. For my part I don t tremble before a poppy, the little red\nhat inspires me with no alarm. Take my advice, bourgeois, let s leave\nfear of the red to horned cattle. \n\n\nHe caught sight of a corner of the wall on which was placarded the most\npeaceable sheet of paper in the world, a permission to eat eggs, a\nLenten admonition addressed by the Archbishop of Paris to his  flock. \n\n\nBahorel exclaimed: \n\n Flock ; a polite way of saying geese. \n\n\nAnd he tore the charge from the nail. This conquered Gavroche. From\nthat instant Gavroche set himself to study Bahorel.\n\n Bahorel,  observed Enjolras,  you are wrong. You should have let that\ncharge alone, he is not the person with whom we have to deal, you are\nwasting your wrath to no purpose. Take care of your supply. One does\nnot fire out of the ranks with the soul any more than with a gun. \n\n\n Each one in his own fashion, Enjolras,  retorted Bahorel.  This\nbishop s prose shocks me; I want to eat eggs without being permitted.\nYour style is the hot and cold; I am amusing myself. Besides, I m not\nwasting myself, I m getting a start; and if I tore down that charge,\nHercle!  twas only to whet my appetite. \n\n\nThis word, _Hercle_, struck Gavroche. He sought all occasions for\nlearning, and that tearer-down of posters possessed his esteem. He\ninquired of him: \n\n What does _Hercle_ mean? \n\n\nBahorel answered: \n\n It means cursed name of a dog, in Latin. \n\n\nHere Bahorel recognized at a window a pale young man with a black beard\nwho was watching them as they passed, probably a Friend of the A B C.\nHe shouted to him: \n\n Quick, cartridges, _para bellum_. \n\n\n A fine man! that s true,  said Gavroche, who now understood Latin.\n\nA tumultuous retinue accompanied them, students, artists, young men\naffiliated to the Cougourde of Aix, artisans, longshoremen, armed with\nclubs and bayonets; some, like Combeferre, with pistols thrust into\ntheir trousers.\n\nAn old man, who appeared to be extremely aged, was walking in the band.\n\nHe had no arms, and he made great haste, so that he might not be left\nbehind, although he had a thoughtful air.\n\nGavroche caught sight of him: \n\n Keksek a?  said he to Courfeyrac.\n\n He s an old duffer. \n\n\nIt was M. Mabeuf.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V THE OLD MAN\n\n\nLet us recount what had taken place.\n\nEnjolras and his friends had been on the Boulevard Bourdon, near the\npublic storehouses, at the moment when the dragoons had made their\ncharge. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre were among those who had\ntaken to the Rue Bassompierre, shouting:  To the barricades!  In the\nRue Lesdigui res they had met an old man walking along. What had\nattracted their attention was that the goodman was walking in a\nzig-zag, as though he were intoxicated. Moreover, he had his hat in his\nhand, although it had been raining all the morning, and was raining\npretty briskly at the very time. Courfeyrac had recognized Father\nMabeuf. He knew him through having many times accompanied Marius as far\nas his door. As he was acquainted with the peaceful and more than timid\nhabits of the old beadle-book-collector, and was amazed at the sight of\nhim in the midst of that uproar, a couple of paces from the cavalry\ncharges, almost in the midst of a fusillade, hatless in the rain, and\nstrolling about among the bullets, he had accosted him, and the\nfollowing dialogue had been exchanged between the rioter of fire and\nthe octogenarian: \n\n M. Mabeuf, go to your home. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n There s going to be a row. \n\n\n That s well. \n\n\n Thrusts with the sword and firing, M. Mabeuf. \n\n\n That is well. \n\n\n Firing from cannon. \n\n\n That is good. Where are the rest of you going? \n\n\n We are going to fling the government to the earth. \n\n\n That is good. \n\n\nAnd he had set out to follow them. From that moment forth he had not\nuttered a word. His step had suddenly become firm; artisans had offered\nhim their arms; he had refused with a sign of the head. He advanced\nnearly to the front rank of the column, with the movement of a man who\nis marching and the countenance of a man who is sleeping.\n\n What a fierce old fellow!  muttered the students. The rumor spread\nthrough the troop that he was a former member of the Convention, an old\nregicide. The mob had turned in through the Rue de la Verrerie.\n\nLittle Gavroche marched in front with that deafening song which made of\nhim a sort of trumpet.\n\nHe sang:\n\n Voici la lune qui para t,\nQuand irons-nous dans la for t?\nDemandait Charlot   Charlotte.\n\nTou tou tou\nPour Chatou.\nJe n ai qu un Dieu, qu un roi, qu un liard, et qu une botte.\n\n Pour avoir bu de grand matin\nLa ros e   m me le thym,\nDeux moineaux  taient en ribotte.\n\nZi zi zi\nPour Passy.\nJe n ai qu un Dieu, qu un roi, qu un liard, et qu une botte.\n\n Et ces deux pauvres petits loups,\nComme deux grives  taient so ls;\nUn tigre en riait dans sa grotte.\n\nDon don don\nPour Meudon.\nJe n ai qu un Dieu, qu un roi, qu un liard, et qu une botte.\n\n L un jurait et l autre sacrait.\nQuand irons nous dans la for t?\nDemandait Charlot   Charlotte.\n\nTin tin tin\nPour Pantin.\nJe n ai qu un Dieu, qu un roi, qu un liard, et qu une botte. 46\n\n\nThey directed their course towards Saint-Merry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI RECRUITS\n\n\nThe band augmented every moment. Near the Rue des Billettes, a man of\nlofty stature, whose hair was turning gray, and whose bold and daring\nmien was remarked by Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre, but whom\nnone of them knew, joined them. Gavroche, who was occupied in singing,\nwhistling, humming, running on ahead and pounding on the shutters of\nthe shops with the butt of his triggerless pistol; paid no attention to\nthis man.\n\nIt chanced that in the Rue de la Verrerie, they passed in front of\nCourfeyrac s door.\n\n This happens just right,  said Courfeyrac,  I have forgotten my purse,\nand I have lost my hat. \n\n\nHe quitted the mob and ran up to his quarters at full speed. He seized\nan old hat and his purse.\n\nHe also seized a large square coffer, of the dimensions of a large\nvalise, which was concealed under his soiled linen.\n\nAs he descended again at a run, the portress hailed him: \n\n Monsieur de Courfeyrac! \n\n\n What s your name, portress? \n\n\nThe portress stood bewildered.\n\n Why, you know perfectly well, I m the concierge; my name is Mother\nVeuvain. \n\n\n Well, if you call me Monsieur de Courfeyrac again, I shall call you\nMother de Veuvain. Now speak, what s the matter? What do you want? \n\n\n There is some one who wants to speak with you. \n\n\n Who is it? \n\n\n I don t know. \n\n\n Where is he? \n\n\n In my lodge. \n\n\n The devil!  ejaculated Courfeyrac.\n\n But the person has been waiting your return for over an hour,  said\nthe portress.\n\nAt the same time, a sort of pale, thin, small, freckled, and youthful\nartisan, clad in a tattered blouse and patched trousers of ribbed\nvelvet, and who had rather the air of a girl accoutred as a man than of\na man, emerged from the lodge and said to Courfeyrac in a voice which\nwas not the least in the world like a woman s voice: \n\n Monsieur Marius, if you please. \n\n\n He is not here. \n\n\n Will he return this evening? \n\n\n I know nothing about it. \n\n\nAnd Courfeyrac added: \n\n For my part, I shall not return. \n\n\nThe young man gazed steadily at him and said: \n\n Why not? \n\n\n Because. \n\n\n Where are you going, then? \n\n\n What business is that of yours? \n\n\n Would you like to have me carry your coffer for you? \n\n\n I am going to the barricades. \n\n\n Would you like to have me go with you? \n\n\n If you like!  replied Courfeyrac.  The street is free, the pavements\nbelong to every one. \n\n\nAnd he made his escape at a run to join his friends. When he had\nrejoined them, he gave the coffer to one of them to carry. It was only\na quarter of an hour after this that he saw the young man, who had\nactually followed them.\n\nA mob does not go precisely where it intends. We have explained that a\ngust of wind carries it away. They overshot Saint-Merry and found\nthemselves, without precisely knowing how, in the Rue Saint-Denis.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK TWELFTH CORINTHE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I HISTORY OF CORINTHE FROM ITS FOUNDATION\n\n\nThe Parisians who nowadays on entering on the Rue Rambuteau at the end\nnear the Halles, notice on their right, opposite the Rue Mond tour, a\nbasket-maker s shop having for its sign a basket in the form of\nNapoleon the Great with this inscription: \n\nNAPOLEON IS MADE\nWHOLLY OF WILLOW,\n\n\nhave no suspicion of the terrible scenes which this very spot witnessed\nhardly thirty years ago.\n\nIt was there that lay the Rue de la Chanvrerie, which ancient deeds\nspell Chanverrerie, and the celebrated public-house called _Corinthe_.\n\nThe reader will remember all that has been said about the barricade\neffected at this point, and eclipsed, by the way, by the barricade\nSaint-Merry. It was on this famous barricade of the Rue de la\nChanvrerie, now fallen into profound obscurity, that we are about to\nshed a little light.\n\nMay we be permitted to recur, for the sake of clearness in the recital,\nto the simple means which we have already employed in the case of\nWaterloo. Persons who wish to picture to themselves in a tolerably\nexact manner the constitution of the houses which stood at that epoch\nnear the Pointe Saint-Eustache, at the northeast angle of the Halles of\nParis, where to-day lies the embouchure of the Rue Rambuteau, have only\nto imagine an N touching the Rue Saint-Denis with its summit and the\nHalles with its base, and whose two vertical bars should form the Rue\nde la Grande-Truanderie, and the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and whose\ntransverse bar should be formed by the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The\nold Rue Mond tour cut the three strokes of the N at the most crooked\nangles. So that the labyrinthine confusion of these four streets\nsufficed to form, on a space three fathoms square, between the Halles\nand the Rue Saint-Denis on the one hand, and between the Rue du Cygne\nand the Rue des Pr cheurs on the other, seven islands of houses, oddly\ncut up, of varying sizes, placed crosswise and hap-hazard, and barely\nseparated, like the blocks of stone in a dock, by narrow crannies.\n\nWe say narrow crannies, and we can give no more just idea of those\ndark, contracted, many-angled alleys, lined with eight-story buildings.\nThese buildings were so decrepit that, in the Rue de la Chanvrerie and\nthe Rue de la Petite-Truanderie, the fronts were shored up with beams\nrunning from one house to another. The street was narrow and the gutter\nbroad, the pedestrian there walked on a pavement that was always wet,\nskirting little stalls resembling cellars, big posts encircled with\niron hoops, excessive heaps of refuse, and gates armed with enormous,\ncentury-old gratings. The Rue Rambuteau has devastated all that.\n\nThe name of Mond tour paints marvellously well the sinuosities of that\nwhole set of streets. A little further on, they are found still better\nexpressed by the _Rue Pirouette_, which ran into the Rue Mond tour.\n\nThe passer-by who got entangled from the Rue Saint-Denis in the Rue de\nla Chanvrerie beheld it gradually close in before him as though he had\nentered an elongated funnel. At the end of this street, which was very\nshort, he found further passage barred in the direction of the Halles\nby a tall row of houses, and he would have thought himself in a blind\nalley, had he not perceived on the right and left two dark cuts through\nwhich he could make his escape. This was the Rue Mond tour, which on\none side ran into the Rue de Pr cheurs, and on the other into the Rue\ndu Cygne and the Petite-Truanderie. At the bottom of this sort of\ncul-de-sac, at the angle of the cutting on the right, there was to be\nseen a house which was not so tall as the rest, and which formed a sort\nof cape in the street. It is in this house, of two stories only, that\nan illustrious wine-shop had been merrily installed three hundred years\nbefore. This tavern created a joyous noise in the very spot which old\nTheophilus described in the following couplet: \n\nL  branle le squelette horrible\nD un pauvre amant qui se pendit.47\n\n\nThe situation was good, and tavern-keepers succeeded each other there,\nfrom father to son.\n\nIn the time of Mathurin Regnier, this cabaret was called the\n_Pot-aux-Roses_, and as the rebus was then in fashion, it had for its\nsign-board, a post (_poteau_) painted rose-color. In the last century,\nthe worthy Natoire, one of the fantastic masters nowadays despised by\nthe stiff school, having got drunk many times in this wine-shop at the\nvery table where Regnier had drunk his fill, had painted, by way of\ngratitude, a bunch of Corinth grapes on the pink post. The keeper of\nthe cabaret, in his joy, had changed his device and had caused to be\nplaced in gilt letters beneath the bunch these words:  At the Bunch of\nCorinth Grapes  (_ Au Raisin de Corinthe _). Hence the name of\nCorinthe. Nothing is more natural to drunken men than ellipses. The\nellipsis is the zig-zag of the phrase. Corinthe gradually dethroned the\nPot-aux-Roses. The last proprietor of the dynasty, Father Hucheloup, no\nlonger acquainted even with the tradition, had the post painted blue.\n\nA room on the ground floor, where the bar was situated, one on the\nfirst floor containing a billiard-table, a wooden spiral staircase\npiercing the ceiling, wine on the tables, smoke on the walls, candles\nin broad daylight, this was the style of this cabaret. A staircase with\na trap-door in the lower room led to the cellar. On the second floor\nwere the lodgings of the Hucheloup family. They were reached by a\nstaircase which was a ladder rather than a staircase, and had for their\nentrance only a private door in the large room on the first floor.\nUnder the roof, in two mansard attics, were the nests for the servants.\nThe kitchen shared the ground floor with the tap-room.\n\nFather Hucheloup had, possibly, been born a chemist, but the fact is\nthat he was a cook; people did not confine themselves to drinking alone\nin his wine-shop, they also ate there. Hucheloup had invented a capital\nthing which could be eaten nowhere but in his house, stuffed carps,\nwhich he called _carpes au gras_. These were eaten by the light of a\ntallow candle or of a lamp of the time of Louis XVI., on tables to\nwhich were nailed waxed cloths in lieu of table-cloths. People came\nthither from a distance. Hucheloup, one fine morning, had seen fit to\nnotify passers-by of this  specialty ; he had dipped a brush in a pot\nof black paint, and as he was an orthographer on his own account, as\nwell as a cook after his own fashion, he had improvised on his wall\nthis remarkable inscription: \n\nCARPES HO GRAS.\n\nOne winter, the rain-storms and the showers had taken a fancy to\nobliterate the S which terminated the first word, and the G which began\nthe third; this is what remained: \n\nCARPE HO RAS.\n\nTime and rain assisting, a humble gastronomical announcement had become\na profound piece of advice.\n\nIn this way it came about, that though he knew no French, Father\nHucheloup understood Latin, that he had evoked philosophy from his\nkitchen, and that, desirous simply of effacing Lent, he had equalled\nHorace. And the striking thing about it was, that that also meant:\n Enter my wine-shop. \n\n\nNothing of all this is in existence now. The Mond tour labyrinth was\ndisembowelled and widely opened in 1847, and probably no longer exists\nat the present moment. The Rue de la Chanvrerie and Corinthe have\ndisappeared beneath the pavement of the Rue Rambuteau.\n\nAs we have already said, Corinthe was the meeting-place if not the\nrallying-point, of Courfeyrac and his friends. It was Grantaire who had\ndiscovered Corinthe. He had entered it on account of the _Carpe horas_,\nand had returned thither on account of the _Carpes au gras_. There they\ndrank, there they ate, there they shouted; they did not pay much, they\npaid badly, they did not pay at all, but they were always welcome.\nFather Hucheloup was a jovial host.\n\nHucheloup, that amiable man, as was just said, was a wine-shop-keeper\nwith a moustache; an amusing variety. He always had an ill-tempered\nair, seemed to wish to intimidate his customers, grumbled at the people\nwho entered his establishment, and had rather the mien of seeking a\nquarrel with them than of serving them with soup. And yet, we insist\nupon the word, people were always welcome there. This oddity had\nattracted customers to his shop, and brought him young men, who said to\neach other:  Come hear Father Hucheloup growl.  He had been a\nfencing-master. All of a sudden, he would burst out laughing. A big\nvoice, a good fellow. He had a comic foundation under a tragic\nexterior, he asked nothing better than to frighten you, very much like\nthose snuff-boxes which are in the shape of a pistol. The detonation\nmakes one sneeze.\n\nMother Hucheloup, his wife, was a bearded and a very homely creature.\n\nAbout 1830, Father Hucheloup died. With him disappeared the secret of\nstuffed carps. His inconsolable widow continued to keep the wine-shop.\nBut the cooking deteriorated, and became execrable; the wine, which had\nalways been bad, became fearfully bad. Nevertheless, Courfeyrac and his\nfriends continued to go to Corinthe, out of pity, as Bossuet said.\n\nThe Widow Hucheloup was breathless and misshapen and given to rustic\nrecollections. She deprived them of their flatness by her\npronunciation. She had a way of her own of saying things, which spiced\nher reminiscences of the village and of her springtime. It had formerly\nbeen her delight, so she affirmed, to hear the _loups-de-gorge_\n(_rouges-gorges_) _chanter dans les ogrepines_ (_aub pines_) to hear\nthe redbreasts sing in the hawthorn-trees.\n\nThe hall on the first floor, where  the restaurant  was situated, was a\nlarge and long apartment encumbered with stools, chairs, benches, and\ntables, and with a crippled, lame, old billiard-table. It was reached\nby a spiral staircase which terminated in the corner of the room at a\nsquare hole like the hatchway of a ship.\n\nThis room, lighted by a single narrow window, and by a lamp that was\nalways burning, had the air of a garret. All the four-footed furniture\ncomported itself as though it had but three legs the whitewashed walls\nhad for their only ornament the following quatrain in honor of Mame\nHucheloup: \n\nElle  tonne   dix pas, elle  pouvente   deux,\nUne verrue habite en son nez hasardeux;\nOn tremble   chaque instant qu elle ne vous la mouche\nEt qu un beau jour son nez ne tombe dans sa bouche.48\n\n\nThis was scrawled in charcoal on the wall.\n\nMame Hucheloup, a good likeness, went and came from morning till night\nbefore this quatrain with the most perfect tranquillity. Two\nserving-maids, named Matelote and Gibelotte,49 and who had never been\nknown by any other names, helped Mame Hucheloup to set on the tables\nthe jugs of poor wine, and the various broths which were served to the\nhungry patrons in earthenware bowls. Matelote, large, plump, redhaired,\nand noisy, the favorite ex-sultana of the defunct Hucheloup, was\nhomelier than any mythological monster, be it what it may; still, as it\nbecomes the servant to always keep in the rear of the mistress, she was\nless homely than Mame Hucheloup. Gibelotte, tall, delicate, white with\na lymphatic pallor, with circles round her eyes, and drooping lids,\nalways languid and weary, afflicted with what may be called chronic\nlassitude, the first up in the house and the last in bed, waited on\nevery one, even the other maid, silently and gently, smiling through\nher fatigue with a vague and sleepy smile.\n\nBefore entering the restaurant room, the visitor read on the door the\nfollowing line written there in chalk by Courfeyrac: \n\nR gale si tu peux et mange si tu l oses.50\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II PRELIMINARY GAYETIES\n\n\nLaigle de Meaux, as the reader knows, lived more with Joly than\nelsewhere. He had a lodging, as a bird has one on a branch. The two\nfriends lived together, ate together, slept together. They had\neverything in common, even Musichetta, to some extent. They were, what\nthe subordinate monks who accompany monks are called, _bini_. On the\nmorning of the 5th of June, they went to Corinthe to breakfast. Joly,\nwho was all stuffed up, had a catarrh which Laigle was beginning to\nshare. Laigle s coat was threadbare, but Joly was well dressed.\n\nIt was about nine o clock in the morning, when they opened the door of\nCorinthe.\n\nThey ascended to the first floor.\n\nMatelote and Gibelotte received them.\n\n Oysters, cheese, and ham,  said Laigle.\n\nAnd they seated themselves at a table.\n\nThe wine-shop was empty; there was no one there but themselves.\n\nGibelotte, knowing Joly and Laigle, set a bottle of wine on the table.\n\nWhile they were busy with their first oysters, a head appeared at the\nhatchway of the staircase, and a voice said: \n\n I am passing by. I smell from the street a delicious odor of Brie\ncheese. I enter.  It was Grantaire.\n\nGrantaire took a stool and drew up to the table.\n\nAt the sight of Grantaire, Gibelotte placed two bottles of wine on the\ntable.\n\nThat made three.\n\n Are you going to drink those two bottles?  Laigle inquired of\nGrantaire.\n\nGrantaire replied: \n\n All are ingenious, thou alone art ingenuous. Two bottles never yet\nastonished a man. \n\n\nThe others had begun by eating, Grantaire began by drinking. Half a\nbottle was rapidly gulped down.\n\n So you have a hole in your stomach?  began Laigle again.\n\n You have one in your elbow,  said Grantaire.\n\nAnd after having emptied his glass, he added: \n\n Ah, by the way, Laigle of the funeral oration, your coat is old. \n\n\n I should hope so,  retorted Laigle.  That s why we get on well\ntogether, my coat and I. It has acquired all my folds, it does not bind\nme anywhere, it is moulded on my deformities, it falls in with all my\nmovements, I am only conscious of it because it keeps me warm. Old\ncoats are just like old friends. \n\n\n That s true,  ejaculated Joly, striking into the dialogue,  an old\ngoat is an old abi  (_ami_, friend).\n\n Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed up,  said\nGrantaire.\n\n Grantaire,  demanded Laigle,  have you just come from the boulevard? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n We have just seen the head of the procession pass, Joly and I. \n\n\n It s a marvellous sight,  said Joly.\n\n How quiet this street is!  exclaimed Laigle.  Who would suspect that\nParis was turned upside down? How plainly it is to be seen that in\nformer days there were nothing but convents here! In this neighborhood!\nDu Breul and Sauval give a list of them, and so does the Abb  Lebeuf.\nThey were all round here, they fairly swarmed, booted and barefooted,\nshaven, bearded, gray, black, white, Franciscans, Minims, Capuchins,\nCarmelites, Little Augustines, Great Augustines, old Augustines there\nwas no end of them. \n\n\n Don t let s talk of monks,  interrupted Grantaire,  it makes one want\nto scratch one s self. \n\n\nThen he exclaimed: \n\n Bouh! I ve just swallowed a bad oyster. Now hypochondria is taking\npossession of me again. The oysters are spoiled, the servants are ugly.\nI hate the human race. I just passed through the Rue Richelieu, in\nfront of the big public library. That pile of oyster-shells which is\ncalled a library is disgusting even to think of. What paper! What ink!\nWhat scrawling! And all that has been written! What rascal was it who\nsaid that man was a featherless biped?51 And then, I met a pretty girl\nof my acquaintance, who is as beautiful as the spring, worthy to be\ncalled Flor al, and who is delighted, enraptured, as happy as the\nangels, because a wretch yesterday, a frightful banker all spotted with\nsmall-pox, deigned to take a fancy to her! Alas! woman keeps on the\nwatch for a protector as much as for a lover; cats chase mice as well\nas birds. Two months ago that young woman was virtuous in an attic, she\nadjusted little brass rings in the eyelet-holes of corsets, what do you\ncall it? She sewed, she had a camp bed, she dwelt beside a pot of\nflowers, she was contented. Now here she is a bankeress. This\ntransformation took place last night. I met the victim this morning in\nhigh spirits. The hideous point about it is, that the jade is as pretty\nto-day as she was yesterday. Her financier did not show in her face.\nRoses have this advantage or disadvantage over women, that the traces\nleft upon them by caterpillars are visible. Ah! there is no morality on\nearth. I call to witness the myrtle, the symbol of love, the laurel,\nthe symbol of air, the olive, that ninny, the symbol of peace, the\napple-tree which came nearest rangling Adam with its pips, and the\nfig-tree, the grandfather of petticoats. As for right, do you know what\nright is? The Gauls covet Clusium, Rome protects Clusium, and demands\nwhat wrong Clusium has done to them. Brennus answers:  The wrong that\nAlba did to you, the wrong that Fiden  did to you, the wrong that the\nEques, the Volsci, and the Sabines have done to you. They were your\nneighbors. The Clusians are ours. We understand neighborliness just as\nyou do. You have stolen Alba, we shall take Clusium.  Rome said:  You\nshall not take Clusium.  Brennus took Rome. Then he cried:  V  victis! \nThat is what right is. Ah! what beasts of prey there are in this world!\nWhat eagles! It makes my flesh creep. \n\n\nHe held out his glass to Joly, who filled it, then he drank and went\non, having hardly been interrupted by this glass of wine, of which no\none, not even himself, had taken any notice: \n\n Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker who takes the\ngrisette is an eagle. There is no more modesty in the one case than in\nthe other. So we believe in nothing. There is but one reality: drink.\nWhatever your opinion may be in favor of the lean cock, like the Canton\nof Uri, or in favor of the fat cock, like the Canton of Glaris, it\nmatters little, drink. You talk to me of the boulevard, of that\nprocession, _et c tera, et c tera_. Come now, is there going to be\nanother revolution? This poverty of means on the part of the good God\nastounds me. He has to keep greasing the groove of events every moment.\nThere is a hitch, it won t work. Quick, a revolution! The good God has\nhis hands perpetually black with that cart-grease. If I were in his\nplace, I d be perfectly simple about it, I would not wind up my\nmechanism every minute, I d lead the human race in a straightforward\nway, I d weave matters mesh by mesh, without breaking the thread, I\nwould have no provisional arrangements, I would have no extraordinary\nrepertory. What the rest of you call progress advances by means of two\nmotors, men and events. But, sad to say, from time to time, the\nexceptional becomes necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices neither for\nevent nor for men: among men geniuses are required, among events\nrevolutions. Great accidents are the law; the order of things cannot do\nwithout them; and, judging from the apparition of comets, one would be\ntempted to think that Heaven itself finds actors needed for its\nperformance. At the moment when one expects it the least, God placards\na meteor on the wall of the firmament. Some queer star turns up,\nunderlined by an enormous tail. And that causes the death of C sar.\nBrutus deals him a blow with a knife, and God a blow with a comet.\n_Crac_, and behold an aurora borealis, behold a revolution, behold a\ngreat man;  93 in big letters, Napoleon on guard, the comet of 1811 at\nthe head of the poster. Ah! what a beautiful blue theatre all studded\nwith unexpected flashes! Boum! Boum! extraordinary show! Raise your\neyes, boobies. Everything is in disorder, the star as well as the\ndrama. Good God, it is too much and not enough. These resources,\ngathered from exception, seem magnificence and poverty. My friends,\nProvidence has come down to expedients. What does a revolution prove?\nThat God is in a quandry. He effects a _coup d tat_ because he, God,\nhas not been able to make both ends meet. In fact, this confirms me in\nmy conjectures as to Jehovah s fortune; and when I see so much distress\nin heaven and on earth, from the bird who has not a grain of millet to\nmyself without a hundred thousand livres of income, when I see human\ndestiny, which is very badly worn, and even royal destiny, which is\nthreadbare, witness the Prince de Cond  hung, when I see winter, which\nis nothing but a rent in the zenith through which the wind blows, when\nI see so many rags even in the perfectly new purple of the morning on\nthe crests of hills, when I see the drops of dew, those mock pearls,\nwhen I see the frost, that paste, when I see humanity ripped apart and\nevents patched up, and so many spots on the sun and so many holes in\nthe moon, when I see so much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is\nnot rich. The appearance exists, it is true, but I feel that he is hard\nup. He gives a revolution as a tradesman whose money-box is empty gives\na ball. God must not be judged from appearances. Beneath the gilding of\nheaven I perceive a poverty-stricken universe. Creation is bankrupt.\nThat is why I am discontented. Here it is the 4th of June, it is almost\nnight; ever since this morning I have been waiting for daylight to\ncome; it has not come, and I bet that it won t come all day. This is\nthe inexactness of an ill-paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly\narranged, nothing fits anything else, this old world is all warped, I\ntake my stand on the opposition, everything goes awry; the universe is\na tease. It s like children, those who want them have none, and those\nwho don t want them have them. Total: I m vexed. Besides, Laigle de\nMeaux, that bald-head, offends my sight. It humiliates me to think that\nI am of the same age as that baldy. However, I criticise, but I do not\ninsult. The universe is what it is. I speak here without evil intent\nand to ease my conscience. Receive, Eternal Father, the assurance of my\ndistinguished consideration. Ah! by all the saints of Olympus and by\nall the gods of paradise, I was not intended to be a Parisian, that is\nto say, to rebound forever, like a shuttlecock between two battledores,\nfrom the group of the loungers to the group of the roysterers. I was\nmade to be a Turk, watching oriental houris all day long, executing\nthose exquisite Egyptian dances, as sensuous as the dream of a chaste\nman, or a Beauceron peasant, or a Venetian gentleman surrounded by\ngentlewoman, or a petty German prince, furnishing the half of a\nfoot-soldier to the Germanic confederation, and occupying his leisure\nwith drying his breeches on his hedge, that is to say, his frontier.\nThose are the positions for which I was born! Yes, I have said a Turk,\nand I will not retract. I do not understand how people can habitually\ntake Turks in bad part; Mohammed had his good points; respect for the\ninventor of seraglios with houris and paradises with odalisques! Let us\nnot insult Mohammedanism, the only religion which is ornamented with a\nhen-roost! Now, I insist on a drink. The earth is a great piece of\nstupidity. And it appears that they are going to fight, all those\nimbeciles, and to break each other s profiles and to massacre each\nother in the heart of summer, in the month of June, when they might go\noff with a creature on their arm, to breathe the immense heaps of\nnew-mown hay in the meadows! Really, people do commit altogether too\nmany follies. An old broken lantern which I have just seen at a\nbric- -brac merchant s suggests a reflection to my mind; it is time to\nenlighten the human race. Yes, behold me sad again. That s what comes\nof swallowing an oyster and a revolution the wrong way! I am growing\nmelancholy once more. Oh! frightful old world. People strive, turn each\nother out, prostitute themselves, kill each other, and get used to it! \n\n\nAnd Grantaire, after this fit of eloquence, had a fit of coughing,\nwhich was well earned.\n\n  propos of revolution,  said Joly,  it is decidedly abberent that\nBarius is in lub. \n\n\n Does any one know with whom?  demanded Laigle.\n\n Do. \n\n\n No? \n\n\n Do! I tell you. \n\n\n Marius  love affairs!  exclaimed Grantaire.  I can imagine it. Marius\nis a fog, and he must have found a vapor. Marius is of the race of\npoets. He who says poet, says fool, madman, _Tymbr us Apollo_. Marius\nand his Marie, or his Marion, or his Maria, or his Mariette. They must\nmake a queer pair of lovers. I know just what it is like. Ecstasies in\nwhich they forget to kiss. Pure on earth, but joined in heaven. They\nare souls possessed of senses. They lie among the stars. \n\n\nGrantaire was attacking his second bottle and, possibly, his second\nharangue, when a new personage emerged from the square aperture of the\nstairs. It was a boy less than ten years of age, ragged, very small,\nyellow, with an odd phiz, a vivacious eye, an enormous amount of hair\ndrenched with rain, and wearing a contented air.\n\nThe child unhesitatingly making his choice among the three, addressed\nhimself to Laigle de Meaux.\n\n Are you Monsieur Bossuet? \n\n\n That is my nickname,  replied Laigle.  What do you want with me? \n\n\n This. A tall blonde fellow on the boulevard said to me:  Do you know\nMother Hucheloup?  I said:  Yes, Rue Chanvrerie, the old man s widow; \nhe said to me:  Go there. There you will find M. Bossuet. Tell him from\nme:  A B C .  It s a joke that they re playing on you, isn t it. He\ngave me ten sous. \n\n\n Joly, lend me ten sous,  said Laigle; and, turning to Grantaire:\n Grantaire, lend me ten sous. \n\n\nThis made twenty sous, which Laigle handed to the lad.\n\n Thank you, sir,  said the urchin.\n\n What is your name?  inquired Laigle.\n\n Navet, Gavroche s friend. \n\n\n Stay with us,  said Laigle.\n\n Breakfast with us,  said Grantaire.\n\nThe child replied: \n\n I can t, I belong in the procession, I m the one to shout  Down with\nPolignac! \n\n\nAnd executing a prolonged scrape of his foot behind him, which is the\nmost respectful of all possible salutes, he took his departure.\n\nThe child gone, Grantaire took the word: \n\n That is the pure-bred gamin. There are a great many varieties of the\ngamin species. The notary s gamin is called Skip-the-Gutter, the cook s\ngamin is called a scullion, the baker s gamin is called a _mitron_, the\nlackey s gamin is called a groom, the marine gamin is called the\ncabin-boy, the soldier s gamin is called the drummer-boy, the painter s\ngamin is called paint-grinder, the tradesman s gamin is called an\nerrand-boy, the courtesan gamin is called the minion, the kingly gamin\nis called the dauphin, the god gamin is called the bambino. \n\n\nIn the meantime, Laigle was engaged in reflection; he said half aloud: \n\n A B C, that is to say: the burial of Lamarque. \n\n\n The tall blonde,  remarked Grantaire,  is Enjolras, who is sending you\na warning. \n\n\n Shall we go?  ejaculated Bossuet.\n\n It s raiding,  said Joly.  I have sworn to go through fire, but not\nthrough water. I don t wand to ged a gold. \n\n\n I shall stay here,  said Grantaire.  I prefer a breakfast to a\nhearse. \n\n\n Conclusion: we remain,  said Laigle.  Well, then, let us drink.\nBesides, we might miss the funeral without missing the riot. \n\n\n Ah! the riot, I am with you!  cried Joly.\n\nLaigle rubbed his hands.\n\n Now we re going to touch up the revolution of 1830. As a matter of\nfact, it does hurt the people along the seams. \n\n\n I don t think much of your revolution,  said Grantaire.  I don t\nexecrate this Government. It is the crown tempered by the cotton\nnight-cap. It is a sceptre ending in an umbrella. In fact, I think that\nto-day, with the present weather, Louis Philippe might utilize his\nroyalty in two directions, he might extend the tip of the sceptre end\nagainst the people, and open the umbrella end against heaven. \n\n\nThe room was dark, large clouds had just finished the extinction of\ndaylight. There was no one in the wine-shop, or in the street, every\none having gone off  to watch events. \n\n\n Is it midday or midnight?  cried Bossuet.  You can t see your hand\nbefore your face. Gibelotte, fetch a light. \n\n\nGrantaire was drinking in a melancholy way.\n\n Enjolras disdains me,  he muttered.  Enjolras said:  Joly is ill,\nGrantaire is drunk.  It was to Bossuet that he sent Navet. If he had\ncome for me, I would have followed him. So much the worse for Enjolras!\nI won t go to his funeral. \n\n\nThis resolution once arrived at, Bossuet, Joly, and Grantaire did not\nstir from the wine-shop. By two o clock in the afternoon, the table at\nwhich they sat was covered with empty bottles. Two candles were burning\non it, one in a flat copper candlestick which was perfectly green, the\nother in the neck of a cracked carafe. Grantaire had seduced Joly and\nBossuet to wine; Bossuet and Joly had conducted Grantaire back towards\ncheerfulness.\n\nAs for Grantaire, he had got beyond wine, that merely moderate inspirer\nof dreams, ever since midday. Wine enjoys only a conventional\npopularity with serious drinkers. There is, in fact, in the matter of\ninebriety, white magic and black magic; wine is only white magic.\nGrantaire was a daring drinker of dreams. The blackness of a terrible\nfit of drunkenness yawning before him, far from arresting him,\nattracted him. He had abandoned the bottle and taken to the beerglass.\nThe beer-glass is the abyss. Having neither opium nor hashish on hand,\nand being desirous of filling his brain with twilight, he had had\nrecourse to that fearful mixture of brandy, stout, absinthe, which\nproduces the most terrible of lethargies. It is of these three vapors,\nbeer, brandy, and absinthe, that the lead of the soul is composed. They\nare three grooms; the celestial butterfly is drowned in them; and there\nare formed there in a membranous smoke, vaguely condensed into the wing\nof the bat, three mute furies, Nightmare, Night, and Death, which hover\nabout the slumbering Psyche.\n\nGrantaire had not yet reached that lamentable phase; far from it. He\nwas tremendously gay, and Bossuet and Joly retorted. They clinked\nglasses. Grantaire added to the eccentric accentuation of words and\nideas, a peculiarity of gesture; he rested his left fist on his knee\nwith dignity, his arm forming a right angle, and, with cravat untied,\nseated astride a stool, his full glass in his right hand, he hurled\nsolemn words at the big maid-servant Matelote: \n\n Let the doors of the palace be thrown open! Let every one be a member\nof the French Academy and have the right to embrace Madame Hucheloup.\nLet us drink. \n\n\nAnd turning to Madame Hucheloup, he added: \n\n Woman ancient and consecrated by use, draw near that I may contemplate\nthee! \n\n\nAnd Joly exclaimed: \n\n Matelote and Gibelotte, dod t gib Grantaire anything more to drink. He\nhas already devoured, since this bording, in wild prodigality, two\nfrancs and ninety-five centibes. \n\n\nAnd Grantaire began again: \n\n Who has been unhooking the stars without my permission, and putting\nthem on the table in the guise of candles? \n\n\nBossuet, though very drunk, preserved his equanimity.\n\nHe was seated on the sill of the open window, wetting his back in the\nfalling rain, and gazing at his two friends.\n\nAll at once, he heard a tumult behind him, hurried footsteps, cries of\n To arms!  He turned round and saw in the Rue Saint-Denis, at the end\nof the Rue de la Chanvrerie, Enjolras passing, gun in hand, and\nGavroche with his pistol, Feuilly with his sword, Courfeyrac with his\nsword, and Jean Prouvaire with his blunderbuss, Combeferre with his\ngun, Bahorel with his gun, and the whole armed and stormy rabble which\nwas following them.\n\nThe Rue de la Chanvrerie was not more than a gunshot long. Bossuet\nimprovised a speaking-trumpet from his two hands placed around his\nmouth, and shouted: \n\n Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! Hoh e! \n\n\nCourfeyrac heard the shout, caught sight of Bossuet, and advanced a few\npaces into the Rue de la Chanvrerie, shouting:  What do you want? \nwhich crossed a  Where are you going? \n\n\n To make a barricade,  replied Courfeyrac.\n\n Well, here! This is a good place! Make it here! \n\n\n That s true, Aigle,  said Courfeyrac.\n\nAnd at a signal from Courfeyrac, the mob flung themselves into the Rue\nde la Chanvrerie.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III NIGHT BEGINS TO DESCEND UPON GRANTAIRE\n\n\nThe spot was, in fact, admirably adapted, the entrance to the street\nwidened out, the other extremity narrowed together into a pocket\nwithout exit. Corinthe created an obstacle, the Rue Mond tour was\neasily barricaded on the right and the left, no attack was possible\nexcept from the Rue Saint-Denis, that is to say, in front, and in full\nsight. Bossuet had the comprehensive glance of a fasting Hannibal.\n\nTerror had seized on the whole street at the irruption of the mob.\nThere was not a passer-by who did not get out of sight. In the space of\na flash of lightning, in the rear, to right and left, shops, stables,\narea-doors, windows, blinds, attic skylights, shutters of every\ndescription were closed, from the ground floor to the roof. A terrified\nold woman fixed a mattress in front of her window on two clothes-poles\nfor drying linen, in order to deaden the effect of musketry. The\nwine-shop alone remained open; and that for a very good reason, that\nthe mob had rushed into it. Ah my God! Ah my God!  sighed Mame\nHucheloup.\n\nBossuet had gone down to meet Courfeyrac.\n\nJoly, who had placed himself at the window, exclaimed: \n\n Courfeyrac, you ought to have brought an umbrella. You will gatch\ngold. \n\n\nIn the meantime, in the space of a few minutes, twenty iron bars had\nbeen wrenched from the grated front of the wine-shop, ten fathoms of\nstreet had been unpaved; Gavroche and Bahorel had seized in its\npassage, and overturned, the dray of a lime-dealer named Anceau; this\ndray contained three barrels of lime, which they placed beneath the\npiles of paving-stones: Enjolras raised the cellar trap, and all the\nwidow Hucheloup s empty casks were used to flank the barrels of lime;\nFeuilly, with his fingers skilled in painting the delicate sticks of\nfans, had backed up the barrels and the dray with two massive heaps of\nblocks of rough stone. Blocks which were improvised like the rest and\nprocured no one knows where. The beams which served as props were torn\nfrom the neighboring house-fronts and laid on the casks. When Bossuet\nand Courfeyrac turned round, half the street was already barred with a\nrampart higher than a man. There is nothing like the hand of the\npopulace for building everything that is built by demolishing.\n\nMatelote and Gibelotte had mingled with the workers. Gibelotte went and\ncame loaded with rubbish. Her lassitude helped on the barricade. She\nserved the barricade as she would have served wine, with a sleepy air.\n\nAn omnibus with two white horses passed the end of the street.\n\nBossuet strode over the paving-stones, ran to it, stopped the driver,\nmade the passengers alight, offered his hand to  the ladies,  dismissed\nthe conductor, and returned, leading the vehicle and the horses by the\nbridle.\n\n Omnibuses,  said he,  do not pass the Corinthe. _Non licet omnibus\nadire Corinthum_. \n\n\nAn instant later, the horses were unharnessed and went off at their\nwill, through the Rue Mond tour, and the omnibus lying on its side\ncompleted the bar across the street.\n\nMame Hucheloup, quite upset, had taken refuge in the first story.\n\nHer eyes were vague, and stared without seeing anything, and she cried\nin a low tone. Her terrified shrieks did not dare to emerge from her\nthroat.\n\n The end of the world has come,  she muttered.\n\nJoly deposited a kiss on Mame Hucheloup s fat, red, wrinkled neck, and\nsaid to Grantaire:  My dear fellow, I have always regarded a woman s\nneck as an infinitely delicate thing. \n\n\nBut Grantaire attained to the highest regions of dithryamb. Matelote\nhad mounted to the first floor once more, Grantaire seized her round\nher waist, and gave vent to long bursts of laughter at the window.\n\n Matelote is homely!  he cried:  Matelote is of a dream of ugliness!\nMatelote is a chim ra. This is the secret of her birth: a Gothic\nPygmalion, who was making gargoyles for cathedrals, fell in love with\none of them, the most horrible, one fine morning. He besought Love to\ngive it life, and this produced Matelote. Look at her, citizens! She\nhas chromate-of-lead-colored hair, like Titian s mistress, and she is a\ngood girl. I guarantee that she will fight well. Every good girl\ncontains a hero. As for Mother Hucheloup, she s an old warrior. Look at\nher moustaches! She inherited them from her husband. A hussar indeed!\nShe will fight too. These two alone will strike terror to the heart of\nthe banlieue. Comrades, we shall overthrow the government as true as\nthere are fifteen intermediary acids between margaric acid and formic\nacid; however, that is a matter of perfect indifference to me.\nGentlemen, my father always detested me because I could not understand\nmathematics. I understand only love and liberty. I am Grantaire, the\ngood fellow. Having never had any money, I never acquired the habit of\nit, and the result is that I have never lacked it; but, if I had been\nrich, there would have been no more poor people! You would have seen!\nOh, if the kind hearts only had fat purses, how much better things\nwould go! I picture myself Jesus Christ with Rothschild s fortune! How\nmuch good he would do! Matelote, embrace me! You are voluptuous and\ntimid! You have cheeks which invite the kiss of a sister, and lips\nwhich claim the kiss of a lover. \n\n\n Hold your tongue, you cask!  said Courfeyrac.\n\nGrantaire retorted: \n\n I am the capitoul52 and the master of the floral games! \n\n\nEnjolras, who was standing on the crest of the barricade, gun in hand,\nraised his beautiful, austere face. Enjolras, as the reader knows, had\nsomething of the Spartan and of the Puritan in his composition. He\nwould have perished at Thermopyl  with Leonidas, and burned at Drogheda\nwith Cromwell.\n\n Grantaire,  he shouted,  go get rid of the fumes of your wine\nsomewhere else than here. This is the place for enthusiasm, not for\ndrunkenness. Don t disgrace the barricade! \n\n\nThis angry speech produced a singular effect on Grantaire. One would\nhave said that he had had a glass of cold water flung in his face. He\nseemed to be rendered suddenly sober.\n\nHe sat down, put his elbows on a table near the window, looked at\nEnjolras with indescribable gentleness, and said to him: \n\n Let me sleep here. \n\n\n Go and sleep somewhere else,  cried Enjolras.\n\nBut Grantaire, still keeping his tender and troubled eyes fixed on him,\nreplied: \n\n Let me sleep here, until I die. \n\n\nEnjolras regarded him with disdainful eyes: \n\n Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of\nliving, and of dying. \n\n\nGrantaire replied in a grave tone: \n\n You will see. \n\n\nHe stammered a few more unintelligible words, then his head fell\nheavily on the table, and, as is the usual effect of the second period\nof inebriety, into which Enjolras had roughly and abruptly thrust him,\nan instant later he had fallen asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV AN ATTEMPT TO CONSOLE THE WIDOW HUCHELOUP\n\n\nBahorel, in ecstasies over the barricade, shouted: \n\n Here s the street in its low-necked dress! How well it looks! \n\n\nCourfeyrac, as he demolished the wine-shop to some extent, sought to\nconsole the widowed proprietress.\n\n Mother Hucheloup, weren t you complaining the other day because you\nhad had a notice served on you for infringing the law, because\nGibelotte shook a counterpane out of your window? \n\n\n Yes, my good Monsieur Courfeyrac. Ah! good Heavens, are you going to\nput that table of mine in your horror, too? And it was for the\ncounterpane, and also for a pot of flowers which fell from the attic\nwindow into the street, that the government collected a fine of a\nhundred francs. If that isn t an abomination, what is! \n\n\n Well, Mother Hucheloup, we are avenging you. \n\n\nMother Hucheloup did not appear to understand very clearly the benefit\nwhich she was to derive from these reprisals made on her account. She\nwas satisfied after the manner of that Arab woman, who, having received\na box on the ear from her husband, went to complain to her father, and\ncried for vengeance, saying:  Father, you owe my husband affront for\naffront.  The father asked:  On which cheek did you receive the blow? \n On the left cheek.  The father slapped her right cheek and said:  Now\nyou are satisfied. Go tell your husband that he boxed my daughter s\nears, and that I have accordingly boxed his wife s. \n\n\nThe rain had ceased. Recruits had arrived. Workmen had brought under\ntheir blouses a barrel of powder, a basket containing bottles of\nvitriol, two or three carnival torches, and a basket filled with\nfire-pots,  left over from the King s festival.  This festival was very\nrecent, having taken place on the 1st of May. It was said that these\nmunitions came from a grocer in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine named P pin.\nThey smashed the only street lantern in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the\nlantern corresponding to one in the Rue Saint-Denis, and all the\nlanterns in the surrounding streets, de Mond tour, du Cygne, des\nPr cheurs, and de la Grande and de la Petite-Truanderie.\n\nEnjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac directed everything. Two\nbarricades were now in process of construction at once, both of them\nresting on the Corinthe house and forming a right angle; the larger\nshut off the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the other closed the Rue Mond tour,\non the side of the Rue de Cygne. This last barricade, which was very\nnarrow, was constructed only of casks and paving-stones. There were\nabout fifty workers on it; thirty were armed with guns; for, on their\nway, they had effected a wholesale loan from an armorer s shop.\n\nNothing could be more bizarre and at the same time more motley than\nthis troop. One had a round-jacket, a cavalry sabre, and two\nholster-pistols, another was in his shirt-sleeves, with a round hat,\nand a powder-horn slung at his side, a third wore a plastron of nine\nsheets of gray paper and was armed with a saddler s awl. There was one\nwho was shouting:  Let us exterminate them to the last man and die at\nthe point of our bayonet.  This man had no bayonet. Another spread out\nover his coat the cross-belt and cartridge-box of a National Guardsman,\nthe cover of the cartridge-box being ornamented with this inscription\nin red worsted: _Public Order_. There were a great many guns bearing\nthe numbers of the legions, few hats, no cravats, many bare arms, some\npikes. Add to this, all ages, all sorts of faces, small, pale young\nmen, and bronzed longshoremen. All were in haste; and as they helped\neach other, they discussed the possible chances. That they would\nreceive succor about three o clock in the morning that they were sure\nof one regiment, that Paris would rise. Terrible sayings with which was\nmingled a sort of cordial joviality. One would have pronounced them\nbrothers, but they did not know each other s names. Great perils have\nthis fine characteristic, that they bring to light the fraternity of\nstrangers. A fire had been lighted in the kitchen, and there they were\nengaged in moulding into bullets, pewter mugs, spoons, forks, and all\nthe brass table-ware of the establishment. In the midst of it all, they\ndrank. Caps and buckshot were mixed pell-mell on the tables with\nglasses of wine. In the billiard-hall, Mame Hucheloup, Matelote, and\nGibelotte, variously modified by terror, which had stupefied one,\nrendered another breathless, and roused the third, were tearing up old\ndish-cloths and making lint; three insurgents were assisting them,\nthree bushy-haired, jolly blades with beards and moustaches, who\nplucked away at the linen with the fingers of seamstresses and who made\nthem tremble.\n\nThe man of lofty stature whom Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras had\nobserved at the moment when he joined the mob at the corner of the Rue\ndes Billettes, was at work on the smaller barricade and was making\nhimself useful there. Gavroche was working on the larger one. As for\nthe young man who had been waiting for Courfeyrac at his lodgings, and\nwho had inquired for M. Marius, he had disappeared at about the time\nwhen the omnibus had been overturned.\n\nGavroche, completely carried away and radiant, had undertaken to get\neverything in readiness. He went, came, mounted, descended, re-mounted,\nwhistled, and sparkled. He seemed to be there for the encouragement of\nall. Had he any incentive? Yes, certainly, his poverty; had he wings?\nyes, certainly, his joy. Gavroche was a whirlwind. He was constantly\nvisible, he was incessantly audible. He filled the air, as he was\neverywhere at once. He was a sort of almost irritating ubiquity; no\nhalt was possible with him. The enormous barricade felt him on its\nhaunches. He troubled the loungers, he excited the idle, he reanimated\nthe weary, he grew impatient over the thoughtful, he inspired gayety in\nsome, and breath in others, wrath in others, movement in all, now\npricking a student, now biting an artisan; he alighted, paused, flew\noff again, hovered over the tumult, and the effort, sprang from one\nparty to another, murmuring and humming, and harassed the whole\ncompany; a fly on the immense revolutionary coach.\n\nPerpetual motion was in his little arms and perpetual clamor in his\nlittle lungs.\n\n Courage! more paving-stones! more casks! more machines! Where are you\nnow? A hod of plaster for me to stop this hole with! Your barricade is\nvery small. It must be carried up. Put everything on it, fling\neverything there, stick it all in. Break down the house. A barricade is\nMother Gibou s tea. Hullo, here s a glass door. \n\n\nThis elicited an exclamation from the workers.\n\n A glass door? what do you expect us to do with a glass door,\ntubercle? \n\n\n Hercules yourselves!  retorted Gavroche.  A glass door is an excellent\nthing in a barricade. It does not prevent an attack, but it prevents\nthe enemy taking it. So you ve never prigged apples over a wall where\nthere were broken bottles? A glass door cuts the corns of the National\nGuard when they try to mount on the barricade. Pardi! glass is a\ntreacherous thing. Well, you haven t a very wildly lively imagination,\ncomrades. \n\n\nHowever, he was furious over his triggerless pistol. He went from one\nto another, demanding:  A gun, I want a gun! Why don t you give me a\ngun? \n\n\n Give you a gun!  said Combeferre.\n\n Come now!  said Gavroche,  why not? I had one in 1830 when we had a\ndispute with Charles X. \n\n\nEnjolras shrugged his shoulders.\n\n When there are enough for the men, we will give some to the children. \n\n\nGavroche wheeled round haughtily, and answered: \n\n If you are killed before me, I shall take yours. \n\n\n Gamin!  said Enjolras.\n\n Greenhorn!  said Gavroche.\n\nA dandy who had lost his way and who lounged past the end of the street\ncreated a diversion! Gavroche shouted to him: \n\n Come with us, young fellow! well now, don t we do anything for this\nold country of ours? \n\n\nThe dandy fled.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V PREPARATIONS\n\n\nThe journals of the day which said that that _nearly impregnable\nstructure_, of the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, as they call\nit, reached to the level of the first floor, were mistaken. The fact\nis, that it did not exceed an average height of six or seven feet. It\nwas built in such a manner that the combatants could, at their will,\neither disappear behind it or dominate the barrier and even scale its\ncrest by means of a quadruple row of paving-stones placed on top of\neach other and arranged as steps in the interior. On the outside, the\nfront of the barricade, composed of piles of paving-stones and casks\nbound together by beams and planks, which were entangled in the wheels\nof Anceau s dray and of the overturned omnibus, had a bristling and\ninextricable aspect.\n\nAn aperture large enough to allow a man to pass through had been made\nbetween the wall of the houses and the extremity of the barricade which\nwas furthest from the wine-shop, so that an exit was possible at this\npoint. The pole of the omnibus was placed upright and held up with\nropes, and a red flag, fastened to this pole, floated over the\nbarricade.\n\nThe little Mond tour barricade, hidden behind the wine-shop building,\nwas not visible. The two barricades united formed a veritable redoubt.\nEnjolras and Courfeyrac had not thought fit to barricade the other\nfragment of the Rue Mond tour which opens through the Rue des Pr cheurs\nan issue into the Halles, wishing, no doubt, to preserve a possible\ncommunication with the outside, and not entertaining much fear of an\nattack through the dangerous and difficult street of the Rue des\nPr cheurs.\n\nWith the exception of this issue which was left free, and which\nconstituted what Folard in his strategical style would have termed a\nbranch and taking into account, also, the narrow cutting arranged on\nthe Rue de la Chanvrerie, the interior of the barricade, where the\nwine-shop formed a salient angle, presented an irregular square, closed\non all sides. There existed an interval of twenty paces between the\ngrand barrier and the lofty houses which formed the background of the\nstreet, so that one might say that the barricade rested on these\nhouses, all inhabited, but closed from top to bottom.\n\nAll this work was performed without any hindrance, in less than an\nhour, and without this handful of bold men seeing a single bear-skin\ncap or a single bayonet make their appearance. The very bourgeois who\nstill ventured at this hour of riot to enter the Rue Saint-Denis cast a\nglance at the Rue de la Chanvrerie, caught sight of the barricade, and\nredoubled their pace.\n\nThe two barricades being finished, and the flag run up, a table was\ndragged out of the wine-shop; and Courfeyrac mounted on the table.\nEnjolras brought the square coffer, and Courfeyrac opened it. This\ncoffer was filled with cartridges. When the mob saw the cartridges, a\ntremor ran through the bravest, and a momentary silence ensued.\n\nCourfeyrac distributed them with a smile.\n\nEach one received thirty cartridges. Many had powder, and set about\nmaking others with the bullets which they had run. As for the barrel of\npowder, it stood on a table on one side, near the door, and was held in\nreserve.\n\nThe alarm beat which ran through all Paris, did not cease, but it had\nfinally come to be nothing more than a monotonous noise to which they\nno longer paid any attention. This noise retreated at times, and again\ndrew near, with melancholy undulations.\n\nThey loaded the guns and carbines, all together, without haste, with\nsolemn gravity. Enjolras went and stationed three sentinels outside the\nbarricades, one in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the second in the Rue des\nPr cheurs, the third at the corner of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie.\n\nThen, the barricades having been built, the posts assigned, the guns\nloaded, the sentinels stationed, they waited, alone in those\nredoubtable streets through which no one passed any longer, surrounded\nby those dumb houses which seemed dead and in which no human movement\npalpitated, enveloped in the deepening shades of twilight which was\ndrawing on, in the midst of that silence through which something could\nbe felt advancing, and which had about it something tragic and\nterrifying, isolated, armed, determined, and tranquil.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI WAITING\n\n\nDuring those hours of waiting, what did they do?\n\nWe must needs tell, since this is a matter of history.\n\nWhile the men made bullets and the women lint, while a large saucepan\nof melted brass and lead, destined to the bullet-mould smoked over a\nglowing brazier, while the sentinels watched, weapon in hand, on the\nbarricade, while Enjolras, whom it was impossible to divert, kept an\neye on the sentinels, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly,\nBossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and some others, sought each other out and\nunited as in the most peaceful days of their conversations in their\nstudent life, and, in one corner of this wine-shop which had been\nconverted into a casement, a couple of paces distant from the redoubt\nwhich they had built, with their carbines loaded and primed resting\nagainst the backs of their chairs, these fine young fellows, so close\nto a supreme hour, began to recite love verses.\n\nWhat verses? These: \n\nVous rappelez-vous notre douce vie,\nLorsque nous  tions si jeunes tous deux,\nEt que nous n avions au c ur d autre envie\nQue d tre bien mis et d tre amoureux,\n\nLorsqu en ajoutant votre  ge   mon  ge,\nNous ne comptions pas   deux quarante ans,\nEt que, dans notre humble et petit m nage,\nTout, m me l hiver, nous  tait printemps?\n\nBeaux jours! Manuel  tait fier et sage,\nParis s asseyait   de saints banquets,\nFoy lan ait la foudre, et votre corsage\nAvait une  pingle o  je me piquais.\n\nTout vous contemplait. Avocat sans causes,\nQuand je vous menais au Prado d ner,\nVous  tiez jolie au point que les roses\nMe faisaient l effet de se retourner.\n\nJe les entendais dire: Est elle belle!\nComme elle sent bon!  Quels cheveux   flots!\nSous son mantelet elle cache une aile,\nSon bonnet charmant est   peine  clos.\n\nJ errais avec toi, pressant ton bras souple.\nLes passants croyaient que l amour charm \nAvait mari , dans notre heureux couple,\nLe doux mois d avril au beau mois de mai.\n\nNous vivions cach s, contents, porte close,\nD vorant l amour, bon fruit d fendu,\nMa bouche n avait pas dit une chose\nQue d j  ton c ur avait r pondu.\n\nLa Sorbonne  tait l endroit bucolique\nO  je t adorais du soir au matin.\nC est ainsi qu une  me amoureuse applique\nLa carte du Tendre au pays Latin.\n\nO place Maubert! O place Dauphine!\nQuand, dans le taudis frais et printanier,\nTu tirais ton bas sur ta jambe fine,\nJe voyais un astre au fond du grenier.\n\nJ ai fort lu Platon, mais rien ne m en reste;\nMieux que Malebranche et que Lamennais,\nTu me d montrais la bont  c leste\nAvec une fleur que tu me donnais.\n\nJe t ob issais, tu m tais soumise;\nO grenier dor ! te lacer! te voir\nAller et venir d s l aube en chemise,\nMirant ton jeune front   ton vieux miroir.\n\nEt qui donc pourrait perdre la m moire\nDe ces temps d aurore et de firmament,\nDe rubans, de fleurs, de gaze et de moire,\nO  l amour b gaye un argot charmant?\n\nNos jardins  taient un pot de tulipe;\nTu masquais la vitre avec un jupon;\nJe prenais le bol de terre de pipe,\nEt je te donnais le tasse en japon.\n\nEt ces grands malheurs qui nous faisaient rire!\nTon manchon br l , ton boa perdu!\nEt ce cher portrait du divin Shakespeare\nQu un soir pour souper nons avons vendu!\n\nJ tais mendiant et toi charitable.\nJe baisais au vol tes bras frais et ronds.\nDante in folio nous servait de table\nPour manger ga ment un cent de marrons.\n\nLa premi re fois qu en mon joyeux bouge\nJe pris un baiser   ta l vre en feu,\nQuand tu t en allais d coiff e et rouge,\nJe restai tout p le et je crus en Dieu!\n\nTe rappelles-tu nos bonheurs sans nombre,\nEt tous ces fichus chang s en chiffons?\nOh que de soupirs, de nos c urs pleins d ombre,\nSe sont envol s dans les cieux profonds!53\n\n\nThe hour, the spot, these souvenirs of youth recalled, a few stars\nwhich began to twinkle in the sky, the funeral repose of those deserted\nstreets, the imminence of the inexorable adventure, which was in\npreparation, gave a pathetic charm to these verses murmured in a low\ntone in the dusk by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a gentle\npoet.\n\nIn the meantime, a lamp had been lighted in the small barricade, and in\nthe large one, one of those wax torches such as are to be met with on\nShrove-Tuesday in front of vehicles loaded with masks, on their way to\nla Courtille. These torches, as the reader has seen, came from the\nFaubourg Saint-Antoine.\n\nThe torch had been placed in a sort of cage of paving-stones closed on\nthree sides to shelter it from the wind, and disposed in such a fashion\nthat all the light fell on the flag. The street and the barricade\nremained sunk in gloom, and nothing was to be seen except the red flag\nformidably illuminated as by an enormous dark-lantern.\n\nThis light enhanced the scarlet of the flag, with an indescribable and\nterrible purple.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE MAN RECRUITED IN THE RUE DES BILLETTES\n\n\nNight was fully come, nothing made its appearance. All that they heard\nwas confused noises, and at intervals, fusillades; but these were rare,\nbadly sustained and distant. This respite, which was thus prolonged,\nwas a sign that the Government was taking its time, and collecting its\nforces. These fifty men were waiting for sixty thousand.\n\nEnjolras felt attacked by that impatience which seizes on strong souls\non the threshold of redoubtable events. He went in search of Gavroche,\nwho had set to making cartridges in the tap-room, by the dubious light\nof two candles placed on the counter by way of precaution, on account\nof the powder which was scattered on the tables. These two candles cast\nno gleam outside. The insurgents had, moreover, taken pains not to have\nany light in the upper stories.\n\nGavroche was deeply preoccupied at that moment, but not precisely with\nhis cartridges. The man of the Rue des Billettes had just entered the\ntap-room and had seated himself at the table which was the least\nlighted. A musket of large model had fallen to his share, and he held\nit between his legs. Gavroche, who had been, up to that moment,\ndistracted by a hundred  amusing  things, had not even seen this man.\n\nWhen he entered, Gavroche followed him mechanically with his eyes,\nadmiring his gun; then, all at once, when the man was seated, the\nstreet urchin sprang to his feet. Any one who had spied upon that man\nup to that moment, would have seen that he was observing everything in\nthe barricade and in the band of insurgents, with singular attention;\nbut, from the moment when he had entered this room, he had fallen into\na sort of brown study, and no longer seemed to see anything that was\ngoing on. The gamin approached this pensive personage, and began to\nstep around him on tiptoe, as one walks in the vicinity of a person\nwhom one is afraid of waking. At the same time, over his childish\ncountenance which was, at once so impudent and so serious, so giddy and\nso profound, so gay and so heart-breaking, passed all those grimaces of\nan old man which signify: Ah bah! impossible! My sight is bad! I am\ndreaming! can this be? no, it is not! but yes! why, no! etc. Gavroche\nbalanced on his heels, clenched both fists in his pockets, moved his\nneck around like a bird, expended in a gigantic pout all the sagacity\nof his lower lip. He was astounded, uncertain, incredulous, convinced,\ndazzled. He had the mien of the chief of the eunuchs in the slave mart,\ndiscovering a Venus among the blowsy females, and the air of an amateur\nrecognizing a Raphael in a heap of daubs. His whole being was at work,\nthe instinct which scents out, and the intelligence which combines. It\nwas evident that a great event had happened in Gavroche s life.\n\nIt was at the most intense point of this preoccupation that Enjolras\naccosted him.\n\n You are small,  said Enjolras,  you will not be seen. Go out of the\nbarricade, slip along close to the houses, skirmish about a bit in the\nstreets, and come back and tell me what is going on. \n\n\nGavroche raised himself on his haunches.\n\n So the little chaps are good for something! that s very lucky! I ll\ngo! In the meanwhile, trust to the little fellows, and distrust the big\nones.  And Gavroche, raising his head and lowering his voice, added, as\nhe indicated the man of the Rue des Billettes:  Do you see that big\nfellow there? \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n He s a police spy. \n\n\n Are you sure of it? \n\n\n It isn t two weeks since he pulled me off the cornice of the Port\nRoyal, where I was taking the air, by my ear. \n\n\nEnjolras hastily quitted the urchin and murmured a few words in a very\nlow tone to a longshoreman from the winedocks who chanced to be at\nhand. The man left the room, and returned almost immediately,\naccompanied by three others. The four men, four porters with broad\nshoulders, went and placed themselves without doing anything to attract\nhis attention, behind the table on which the man of the Rue des\nBillettes was leaning with his elbows. They were evidently ready to\nhurl themselves upon him.\n\nThen Enjolras approached the man and demanded of him: \n\n Who are you? \n\n\nAt this abrupt query, the man started. He plunged his gaze deep into\nEnjolras  clear eyes and appeared to grasp the latter s meaning. He\nsmiled with a smile than which nothing more disdainful, more energetic,\nand more resolute could be seen in the world, and replied with haughty\ngravity: \n\n I see what it is. Well, yes! \n\n\n You are a police spy? \n\n\n I am an agent of the authorities. \n\n\n And your name? \n\n\n Javert. \n\n\nEnjolras made a sign to the four men. In the twinkling of an eye,\nbefore Javert had time to turn round, he was collared, thrown down,\npinioned and searched.\n\nThey found on him a little round card pasted between two pieces of\nglass, and bearing on one side the arms of France, engraved, and with\nthis motto: _Supervision and vigilance_, and on the other this note:\n JAVERT, inspector of police, aged fifty-two,  and the signature of the\nPrefect of Police of that day, M. Gisquet.\n\nBesides this, he had his watch and his purse, which contained several\ngold pieces. They left him his purse and his watch. Under the watch, at\nthe bottom of his fob, they felt and seized a paper in an envelope,\nwhich Enjolras unfolded, and on which he read these five lines, written\nin the very hand of the Prefect of Police: \n\n As soon as his political mission is accomplished, Inspector Javert\nwill make sure, by special supervision, whether it is true that the\nmalefactors have instituted intrigues on the right bank of the Seine,\nnear the Jena bridge. \n\n\nThe search ended, they lifted Javert to his feet, bound his arms behind\nhis back, and fastened him to that celebrated post in the middle of the\nroom which had formerly given the wine-shop its name.\n\nGavroche, who had looked on at the whole of this scene and had approved\nof everything with a silent toss of his head, stepped up to Javert and\nsaid to him: \n\n It s the mouse who has caught the cat. \n\n\nAll this was so rapidly executed, that it was all over when those about\nthe wine-shop noticed it.\n\nJavert had not uttered a single cry.\n\nAt the sight of Javert bound to the post, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly,\nCombeferre, and the men scattered over the two barricades came running\nup.\n\nJavert, with his back to the post, and so surrounded with ropes that he\ncould not make a movement, raised his head with the intrepid serenity\nof the man who has never lied.\n\n He is a police spy,  said Enjolras.\n\nAnd turning to Javert:  You will be shot ten minutes before the\nbarricade is taken. \n\n\nJavert replied in his most imperious tone: \n\n Why not at once? \n\n\n We are saving our powder. \n\n\n Then finish the business with a blow from a knife. \n\n\n Spy,  said the handsome Enjolras,  we are judges and not assassins. \n\n\nThen he called Gavroche: \n\n Here you! go about your business! Do what I told you! \n\n\n I m going!  cried Gavroche.\n\nAnd halting as he was on the point of setting out: \n\n By the way, you will give me his gun!  and he added:  I leave you the\nmusician, but I want the clarinet. \n\n\nThe gamin made the military salute and passed gayly through the opening\nin the large barricade.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII MANY INTERROGATION POINTS WITH REGARD TO A CERTAIN LE\nCABUC WHOSE NAME MAY NOT HAVE BEEN LE CABUC\n\n\nThe tragic picture which we have undertaken would not be complete, the\nreader would not see those grand moments of social birth-pangs in a\nrevolutionary birth, which contain convulsion mingled with effort, in\ntheir exact and real relief, were we to omit, in the sketch here\noutlined, an incident full of epic and savage horror which occurred\nalmost immediately after Gavroche s departure.\n\nMobs, as the reader knows, are like a snowball, and collect as they\nroll along, a throng of tumultuous men. These men do not ask each other\nwhence they come. Among the passers-by who had joined the rabble led by\nEnjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, there had been a person wearing\nthe jacket of a street porter, which was very threadbare on the\nshoulders, who gesticulated and vociferated, and who had the look of a\ndrunken savage. This man, whose name or nickname was Le Cabuc, and who\nwas, moreover, an utter stranger to those who pretended to know him,\nwas very drunk, or assumed the appearance of being so, and had seated\nhimself with several others at a table which they had dragged outside\nof the wine-shop. This Cabuc, while making those who vied with him\ndrunk seemed to be examining with a thoughtful air the large house at\nthe extremity of the barricade, whose five stories commanded the whole\nstreet and faced the Rue Saint-Denis. All at once he exclaimed: \n\n Do you know, comrades, it is from that house yonder that we must fire.\nWhen we are at the windows, the deuce is in it if any one can advance\ninto the street! \n\n\n Yes, but the house is closed,  said one of the drinkers.\n\n Let us knock! \n\n\n They will not open. \n\n\n Let us break in the door! \n\n\nLe Cabuc runs to the door, which had a very massive knocker, and\nknocks. The door opens not. He strikes a second blow. No one answers. A\nthird stroke. The same silence.\n\n Is there any one here?  shouts Cabuc.\n\nNothing stirs.\n\nThen he seizes a gun and begins to batter the door with the butt end.\n\nIt was an ancient alley door, low, vaulted, narrow, solid, entirely of\noak, lined on the inside with a sheet of iron and iron stays, a genuine\nprison postern. The blows from the butt end of the gun made the house\ntremble, but did not shake the door.\n\nNevertheless, it is probable that the inhabitants were disturbed, for a\ntiny, square window was finally seen to open on the third story, and at\nthis aperture appeared the reverend and terrified face of a gray-haired\nold man, who was the porter, and who held a candle.\n\nThe man who was knocking paused.\n\n Gentlemen,  said the porter,  what do you want? \n\n\n Open!  said Cabuc.\n\n That cannot be, gentlemen. \n\n\n Open, nevertheless. \n\n\n Impossible, gentlemen. \n\n\nLe Cabuc took his gun and aimed at the porter; but as he was below, and\nas it was very dark, the porter did not see him.\n\n Will you open, yes or no? \n\n\n No, gentlemen. \n\n\n Do you say no? \n\n\n I say no, my goo \n\n\nThe porter did not finish. The shot was fired; the ball entered under\nhis chin and came out at the nape of his neck, after traversing the\njugular vein.\n\nThe old man fell back without a sigh. The candle fell and was\nextinguished, and nothing more was to be seen except a motionless head\nlying on the sill of the small window, and a little whitish smoke which\nfloated off towards the roof.\n\n There!  said Le Cabuc, dropping the butt end of his gun to the\npavement.\n\nHe had hardly uttered this word, when he felt a hand laid on his\nshoulder with the weight of an eagle s talon, and he heard a voice\nsaying to him: \n\n On your knees. \n\n\nThe murderer turned round and saw before him Enjolras  cold, white\nface.\n\nEnjolras held a pistol in his hand.\n\nHe had hastened up at the sound of the discharge.\n\nHe had seized Cabuc s collar, blouse, shirt, and suspender with his\nleft hand.\n\n On your knees!  he repeated.\n\nAnd, with an imperious motion, the frail young man of twenty years bent\nthe thickset and sturdy porter like a reed, and brought him to his\nknees in the mire.\n\nLe Cabuc attempted to resist, but he seemed to have been seized by a\nsuperhuman hand.\n\nEnjolras, pale, with bare neck and dishevelled hair, and his woman s\nface, had about him at that moment something of the antique Themis. His\ndilated nostrils, his downcast eyes, gave to his implacable Greek\nprofile that expression of wrath and that expression of Chastity which,\nas the ancient world viewed the matter, befit Justice.\n\nThe whole barricade hastened up, then all ranged themselves in a circle\nat a distance, feeling that it was impossible to utter a word in the\npresence of the thing which they were about to behold.\n\nLe Cabuc, vanquished, no longer tried to struggle, and trembled in\nevery limb.\n\nEnjolras released him and drew out his watch.\n\n Collect yourself,  said he.  Think or pray. You have one minute. \n\n\n Mercy!  murmured the murderer; then he dropped his head and stammered\na few inarticulate oaths.\n\nEnjolras never took his eyes off of him: he allowed a minute to pass,\nthen he replaced his watch in his fob. That done, he grasped Le Cabuc\nby the hair, as the latter coiled himself into a ball at his knees and\nshrieked, and placed the muzzle of the pistol to his ear. Many of those\nintrepid men, who had so tranquilly entered upon the most terrible of\nadventures, turned aside their heads.\n\nAn explosion was heard, the assassin fell to the pavement face\ndownwards.\n\nEnjolras straightened himself up, and cast a convinced and severe\nglance around him. Then he spurned the corpse with his foot and said: \n\n Throw that outside. \n\n\nThree men raised the body of the unhappy wretch, which was still\nagitated by the last mechanical convulsions of the life that had fled,\nand flung it over the little barricade into the Rue Mond tour.\n\nEnjolras was thoughtful. It is impossible to say what grandiose shadows\nslowly spread over his redoubtable serenity. All at once he raised his\nvoice.\n\nA silence fell upon them.\n\n Citizens,  said Enjolras,  what that man did is frightful, what I have\ndone is horrible. He killed, therefore I killed him. I had to do it,\nbecause insurrection must have its discipline. Assassination is even\nmore of a crime here than elsewhere; we are under the eyes of the\nRevolution, we are the priests of the Republic, we are the victims of\nduty, and must not be possible to slander our combat. I have,\ntherefore, tried that man, and condemned him to death. As for myself,\nconstrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I\nhave judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have\ncondemned myself. \n\n\nThose who listened to him shuddered.\n\n We will share thy fate,  cried Combeferre.\n\n So be it,  replied Enjolras.  One word more. In executing this man, I\nhave obeyed necessity; but necessity is a monster of the old world,\nnecessity s name is Fatality. Now, the law of progress is, that\nmonsters shall disappear before the angels, and that Fatality shall\nvanish before Fraternity. It is a bad moment to pronounce the word\nlove. No matter, I do pronounce it. And I glorify it. Love, the future\nis thine. Death, I make use of thee, but I hate thee. Citizens, in the\nfuture there will be neither darkness nor thunderbolts; neither\nferocious ignorance, nor bloody retaliation. As there will be no more\nSatan, there will be no more Michael. In the future no one will kill\nany one else, the earth will beam with radiance, the human race will\nlove. The day will come, citizens, when all will be concord, harmony,\nlight, joy and life; it will come, and it is in order that it may come\nthat we are about to die. \n\n\nEnjolras ceased. His virgin lips closed; and he remained for some time\nstanding on the spot where he had shed blood, in marble immobility. His\nstaring eye caused those about him to speak in low tones.\n\nJean Prouvaire and Combeferre pressed each other s hands silently, and,\nleaning against each other in an angle of the barricade, they watched\nwith an admiration in which there was some compassion, that grave young\nman, executioner and priest, composed of light, like crystal, and also\nof rock.\n\nLet us say at once that later on, after the action, when the bodies\nwere taken to the morgue and searched, a police agent s card was found\non Le Cabuc. The author of this book had in his hands, in 1848, the\nspecial report on this subject made to the Prefect of Police in 1832.\n\nWe will add, that if we are to believe a tradition of the police, which\nis strange but probably well founded, Le Cabuc was Claquesous. The fact\nis, that dating from the death of Le Cabuc, there was no longer any\nquestion of Claquesous. Claquesous had nowhere left any trace of his\ndisappearance; he would seem to have amalgamated himself with the\ninvisible. His life had been all shadows, his end was night.\n\nThe whole insurgent group was still under the influence of the emotion\nof that tragic case which had been so quickly tried and so quickly\nterminated, when Courfeyrac again beheld on the barricade, the small\nyoung man who had inquired of him that morning for Marius.\n\nThis lad, who had a bold and reckless air, had come by night to join\nthe insurgents.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THIRTEENTH MARIUS ENTERS THE SHADOW\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I FROM THE RUE PLUMET TO THE QUARTIER SAINT-DENIS\n\n\nThe voice which had summoned Marius through the twilight to the\nbarricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, had produced on him the effect\nof the voice of destiny. He wished to die; the opportunity presented\nitself; he knocked at the door of the tomb, a hand in the darkness\noffered him the key. These melancholy openings which take place in the\ngloom before despair, are tempting. Marius thrust aside the bar which\nhad so often allowed him to pass, emerged from the garden, and said:  I\nwill go. \n\n\nMad with grief, no longer conscious of anything fixed or solid in his\nbrain, incapable of accepting anything thenceforth of fate after those\ntwo months passed in the intoxication of youth and love, overwhelmed at\nonce by all the reveries of despair, he had but one desire remaining,\nto make a speedy end of all.\n\nHe set out at rapid pace. He found himself most opportunely armed, as\nhe had Javert s pistols with him.\n\nThe young man of whom he thought that he had caught a glimpse, had\nvanished from his sight in the street.\n\nMarius, who had emerged from the Rue Plumet by the boulevard, traversed\nthe Esplanade and the bridge of the Invalides, the Champs- lys es, the\nPlace Louis XV., and reached the Rue de Rivoli. The shops were open\nthere, the gas was burning under the arcades, women were making their\npurchases in the stalls, people were eating ices in the Caf  Laiter,\nand nibbling small cakes at the English pastry-cook s shop. Only a few\nposting-chaises were setting out at a gallop from the H tel des Princes\nand the H tel Meurice.\n\nMarius entered the Rue Saint-Honor  through the Passage Delorme. There\nthe shops were closed, the merchants were chatting in front of their\nhalf-open doors, people were walking about, the street lanterns were\nlighted, beginning with the first floor, all the windows were lighted\nas usual. There was cavalry on the Place du Palais-Royal.\n\nMarius followed the Rue Saint-Honor . In proportion as he left the\nPalais-Royal behind him, there were fewer lighted windows, the shops\nwere fast shut, no one was chatting on the thresholds, the street grew\nsombre, and, at the same time, the crowd increased in density. For the\npassers-by now amounted to a crowd. No one could be seen to speak in\nthis throng, and yet there arose from it a dull, deep murmur.\n\nNear the fountain of the Arbre-Sec, there were  assemblages ,\nmotionless and gloomy groups which were to those who went and came as\nstones in the midst of running water.\n\nAt the entrance to the Rue des Prouvaires, the crowd no longer walked.\nIt formed a resisting, massive, solid, compact, almost impenetrable\nblock of people who were huddled together, and conversing in low tones.\nThere were hardly any black coats or round hats now, but smock frocks,\nblouses, caps, and bristling and cadaverous heads. This multitude\nundulated confusedly in the nocturnal gloom. Its whisperings had the\nhoarse accent of a vibration. Although not one of them was walking, a\ndull trampling was audible in the mire. Beyond this dense portion of\nthe throng, in the Rue du Roule, in the Rue des Prouvaires, and in the\nextension of the Rue Saint-Honor , there was no longer a single window\nin which a candle was burning. Only the solitary and diminishing rows\nof lanterns could be seen vanishing into the street in the distance.\nThe lanterns of that date resembled large red stars, hanging to ropes,\nand shed upon the pavement a shadow which had the form of a huge\nspider. These streets were not deserted. There could be descried piles\nof guns, moving bayonets, and troops bivouacking. No curious observer\npassed that limit. There circulation ceased. There the rabble ended and\nthe army began.\n\nMarius willed with the will of a man who hopes no more. He had been\nsummoned, he must go. He found a means to traverse the throng and to\npass the bivouac of the troops, he shunned the patrols, he avoided the\nsentinels. He made a circuit, reached the Rue de B thisy, and directed\nhis course towards the Halles. At the corner of the Rue des\nBourdonnais, there were no longer any lanterns.\n\nAfter having passed the zone of the crowd, he had passed the limits of\nthe troops; he found himself in something startling. There was no\nlonger a passer-by, no longer a soldier, no longer a light, there was\nno one; solitude, silence, night, I know not what chill which seized\nhold upon one. Entering a street was like entering a cellar.\n\nHe continued to advance.\n\nHe took a few steps. Some one passed close to him at a run. Was it a\nman? Or a woman? Were there many of them? he could not have told. It\nhad passed and vanished.\n\nProceeding from circuit to circuit, he reached a lane which he judged\nto be the Rue de la Poterie; near the middle of this street, he came in\ncontact with an obstacle. He extended his hands. It was an overturned\nwagon; his foot recognized pools of water, gullies, and paving-stones\nscattered and piled up. A barricade had been begun there and abandoned.\nHe climbed over the stones and found himself on the other side of the\nbarrier. He walked very near the street-posts, and guided himself along\nthe walls of the houses. A little beyond the barricade, it seemed to\nhim that he could make out something white in front of him. He\napproached, it took on a form. It was two white horses; the horses of\nthe omnibus harnessed by Bossuet in the morning, who had been straying\nat random all day from street to street, and had finally halted there,\nwith the weary patience of brutes who no more understand the actions of\nmen, than man understands the actions of Providence.\n\nMarius left the horses behind him. As he was approaching a street which\nseemed to him to be the Rue du Contrat-Social, a shot coming no one\nknows whence, and traversing the darkness at random, whistled close by\nhim, and the bullet pierced a brass shaving-dish suspended above his\nhead over a hairdresser s shop. This pierced shaving-dish was still to\nbe seen in 1848, in the Rue du Contrat-Social, at the corner of the\npillars of the market.\n\nThis shot still betokened life. From that instant forth he encountered\nnothing more.\n\nThe whole of this itinerary resembled a descent of black steps.\n\nNevertheless, Marius pressed forward.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II AN OWL S VIEW OF PARIS\n\n\nA being who could have hovered over Paris that night with the wing of\nthe bat or the owl would have had beneath his eyes a gloomy spectacle.\n\nAll that old quarter of the Halles, which is like a city within a city,\nthrough which run the Rues Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin, where a\nthousand lanes cross, and of which the insurgents had made their\nredoubt and their stronghold, would have appeared to him like a dark\nand enormous cavity hollowed out in the centre of Paris. There the\nglance fell into an abyss. Thanks to the broken lanterns, thanks to the\nclosed windows, there all radiance, all life, all sound, all movement\nceased. The invisible police of the insurrection were on the watch\neverywhere, and maintained order, that is to say, night. The necessary\ntactics of insurrection are to drown small numbers in a vast obscurity,\nto multiply every combatant by the possibilities which that obscurity\ncontains. At dusk, every window where a candle was burning received a\nshot. The light was extinguished, sometimes the inhabitant was killed.\nHence nothing was stirring. There was nothing but fright, mourning,\nstupor in the houses; and in the streets, a sort of sacred horror. Not\neven the long rows of windows and stores, the indentations of the\nchimneys, and the roofs, and the vague reflections which are cast back\nby the wet and muddy pavements, were visible. An eye cast upward at\nthat mass of shadows might, perhaps, have caught a glimpse here and\nthere, at intervals, of indistinct gleams which brought out broken and\neccentric lines, and profiles of singular buildings, something like the\nlights which go and come in ruins; it was at such points that the\nbarricades were situated. The rest was a lake of obscurity, foggy,\nheavy, and funereal, above which, in motionless and melancholy\noutlines, rose the tower of Saint-Jacques, the church of Saint-Merry,\nand two or three more of those grand edifices of which man makes giants\nand the night makes phantoms.\n\nAll around this deserted and disquieting labyrinth, in the quarters\nwhere the Parisian circulation had not been annihilated, and where a\nfew street lanterns still burned, the aerial observer might have\ndistinguished the metallic gleam of swords and bayonets, the dull\nrumble of artillery, and the swarming of silent battalions whose ranks\nwere swelling from minute to minute; a formidable girdle which was\nslowly drawing in and around the insurrection.\n\nThe invested quarter was no longer anything more than a monstrous\ncavern; everything there appeared to be asleep or motionless, and, as\nwe have just seen, any street which one might come to offered nothing\nbut darkness.\n\nA wild darkness, full of traps, full of unseen and formidable shocks,\ninto which it was alarming to penetrate, and in which it was terrible\nto remain, where those who entered shivered before those whom they\nawaited, where those who waited shuddered before those who were coming.\nInvisible combatants were entrenched at every corner of the street;\nsnares of the sepulchre concealed in the density of night. All was\nover. No more light was to be hoped for, henceforth, except the\nlightning of guns, no further encounter except the abrupt and rapid\napparition of death. Where? How? When? No one knew, but it was certain\nand inevitable. In this place which had been marked out for the\nstruggle, the Government and the insurrection, the National Guard, and\npopular societies, the bourgeois and the uprising, groping their way,\nwere about to come into contact. The necessity was the same for both.\nThe only possible issue thenceforth was to emerge thence killed or\nconquerors. A situation so extreme, an obscurity so powerful, that the\nmost timid felt themselves seized with resolution, and the most daring\nwith terror.\n\nMoreover, on both sides, the fury, the rage, and the determination were\nequal. For the one party, to advance meant death, and no one dreamed of\nretreating; for the other, to remain meant death, and no one dreamed of\nflight.\n\nIt was indispensable that all should be ended on the following day,\nthat triumph should rest either here or there, that the insurrection\nshould prove itself a revolution or a skirmish. The Government\nunderstood this as well as the parties; the most insignificant\nbourgeois felt it. Hence a thought of anguish which mingled with the\nimpenetrable gloom of this quarter where all was at the point of being\ndecided; hence a redoubled anxiety around that silence whence a\ncatastrophe was on the point of emerging. Here only one sound was\naudible, a sound as heart-rending as the death rattle, as menacing as a\nmalediction, the tocsin of Saint-Merry. Nothing could be more\nblood-curdling than the clamor of that wild and desperate bell, wailing\namid the shadows.\n\nAs it often happens, nature seemed to have fallen into accord with what\nmen were about to do. Nothing disturbed the harmony of the whole\neffect. The stars had disappeared, heavy clouds filled the horizon with\ntheir melancholy folds. A black sky rested on these dead streets, as\nthough an immense winding-sheet were being outspread over this immense\ntomb.\n\nWhile a battle that was still wholly political was in preparation in\nthe same locality which had already witnessed so many revolutionary\nevents, while youth, the secret associations, the schools, in the name\nof principles, and the middle classes, in the name of interests, were\napproaching preparatory to dashing themselves together, clasping and\nthrowing each other, while each one hastened and invited the last and\ndecisive hour of the crisis, far away and quite outside of this fatal\nquarter, in the most profound depths of the unfathomable cavities of\nthat wretched old Paris which disappears under the splendor of happy\nand opulent Paris, the sombre voice of the people could be heard giving\nutterance to a dull roar.\n\nA fearful and sacred voice which is composed of the roar of the brute\nand of the word of God, which terrifies the weak and which warns the\nwise, which comes both from below like the voice of the lion, and from\non high like the voice of the thunder.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE EXTREME EDGE\n\n\nMarius had reached the Halles.\n\nThere everything was still calmer, more obscure and more motionless\nthan in the neighboring streets. One would have said that the glacial\npeace of the sepulchre had sprung forth from the earth and had spread\nover the heavens.\n\nNevertheless, a red glow brought out against this black background the\nlofty roofs of the houses which barred the Rue de la Chanvrerie on the\nSaint-Eustache side. It was the reflection of the torch which was\nburning in the Corinthe barricade. Marius directed his steps towards\nthat red light. It had drawn him to the March -aux-Poir es, and he\ncaught a glimpse of the dark mouth of the Rue des Pr cheurs. He entered\nit. The insurgents  sentinel, who was guarding the other end, did not\nsee him. He felt that he was very close to that which he had come in\nsearch of, and he walked on tiptoe. In this manner he reached the elbow\nof that short section of the Rue Mond tour which was, as the reader\nwill remember, the only communication which Enjolras had preserved with\nthe outside world. At the corner of the last house, on his left, he\nthrust his head forward, and looked into the fragment of the Rue\nMond tour.\n\nA little beyond the angle of the lane and the Rue de la Chanvrerie\nwhich cast a broad curtain of shadow, in which he was himself engulfed,\nhe perceived some light on the pavement, a bit of the wine-shop, and\nbeyond, a flickering lamp within a sort of shapeless wall, and men\ncrouching down with guns on their knees. All this was ten fathoms\ndistant from him. It was the interior of the barricade.\n\nThe houses which bordered the lane on the right concealed the rest of\nthe wine-shop, the large barricade, and the flag from him.\n\nMarius had but a step more to take.\n\nThen the unhappy young man seated himself on a post, folded his arms,\nand fell to thinking about his father.\n\nHe thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercy, who had been so proud a\nsoldier, who had guarded the frontier of France under the Republic, and\nhad touched the frontier of Asia under Napoleon, who had beheld Genoa,\nAlexandria, Milan, Turin, Madrid, Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, Moscow, who\nhad left on all the victorious battle-fields of Europe drops of that\nsame blood, which he, Marius, had in his veins, who had grown gray\nbefore his time in discipline and command, who had lived with his\nsword-belt buckled, his epaulets falling on his breast, his cockade\nblackened with powder, his brow furrowed with his helmet, in barracks,\nin camp, in the bivouac, in ambulances, and who, at the expiration of\ntwenty years, had returned from the great wars with a scarred cheek, a\nsmiling countenance, tranquil, admirable, pure as a child, having done\neverything for France and nothing against her.\n\nHe said to himself that his day had also come now, that his hour had\nstruck, that following his father, he too was about to show himself\nbrave, intrepid, bold, to run to meet the bullets, to offer his breast\nto bayonets, to shed his blood, to seek the enemy, to seek death, that\nhe was about to wage war in his turn and descend to the field of\nbattle, and that the field of battle upon which he was to descend was\nthe street, and that the war in which he was about to engage was civil\nwar!\n\nHe beheld civil war laid open like a gulf before him, and into this he\nwas about to fall. Then he shuddered.\n\nHe thought of his father s sword, which his grandfather had sold to a\nsecond-hand dealer, and which he had so mournfully regretted. He said\nto himself that that chaste and valiant sword had done well to escape\nfrom him, and to depart in wrath into the gloom; that if it had thus\nfled, it was because it was intelligent and because it had foreseen the\nfuture; that it had had a presentiment of this rebellion, the war of\nthe gutters, the war of the pavements, fusillades through\ncellar-windows, blows given and received in the rear; it was because,\ncoming from Marengo and Friedland, it did not wish to go to the Rue de\nla Chanvrerie; it was because, after what it had done with the father,\nit did not wish to do this for the son! He told himself that if that\nsword were there, if after taking possession of it at his father s\npillow, he had dared to take it and carry it off for this combat of\ndarkness between Frenchmen in the streets, it would assuredly have\nscorched his hands and burst out aflame before his eyes, like the sword\nof the angel! He told himself that it was fortunate that it was not\nthere and that it had disappeared, that that was well, that that was\njust, that his grandfather had been the true guardian of his father s\nglory, and that it was far better that the colonel s sword should be\nsold at auction, sold to the old-clothes man, thrown among the old\njunk, than that it should, to-day, wound the side of his country.\n\nAnd then he fell to weeping bitterly.\n\nThis was horrible. But what was he to do? Live without Cosette he could\nnot. Since she was gone, he must needs die. Had he not given her his\nword of honor that he would die? She had gone knowing that; this meant\nthat it pleased her that Marius should die. And then, it was clear that\nshe no longer loved him, since she had departed thus without warning,\nwithout a word, without a letter, although she knew his address! What\nwas the good of living, and why should he live now? And then, what!\nshould he retreat after going so far? should he flee from danger after\nhaving approached it? should he slip away after having come and peeped\ninto the barricade? slip away, all in a tremble, saying:  After all, I\nhave had enough of it as it is. I have seen it, that suffices, this is\ncivil war, and I shall take my leave!  Should he abandon his friends\nwho were expecting him? Who were in need of him possibly! who were a\nmere handful against an army! Should he be untrue at once to his love,\nto country, to his word? Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of\npatriotism? But this was impossible, and if the phantom of his father\nwas there in the gloom, and beheld him retreating, he would beat him on\nthe loins with the flat of his sword, and shout to him:  March on, you\npoltroon! \n\n\nThus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, he dropped\nhis head.\n\nAll at once he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification had just\nbeen effected in his mind. There is a widening of the sphere of thought\nwhich is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave; it makes one see\nclearly to be near death. The vision of the action into which he felt\nthat he was, perhaps, on the point of entering, appeared to him no more\nas lamentable, but as superb. The war of the street was suddenly\ntransfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, before\nthe eye of his thought. All the tumultuous interrogation points of\nreverie recurred to him in throngs, but without troubling him. He left\nnone of them unanswered.\n\nLet us see, why should his father be indignant? Are there not cases\nwhere insurrection rises to the dignity of duty? What was there that\nwas degrading for the son of Colonel Pontmercy in the combat which was\nabout to begin? It is no longer Montmirail nor Champaubert; it is\nsomething quite different. The question is no longer one of sacred\nterritory, but of a holy idea. The country wails, that may be, but\nhumanity applauds. But is it true that the country does wail? France\nbleeds, but liberty smiles; and in the presence of liberty s smile,\nFrance forgets her wound. And then if we look at things from a still\nmore lofty point of view, why do we speak of civil war?\n\nCivil war what does that mean? Is there a foreign war? Is not all war\nbetween men, war between brothers? War is qualified only by its object.\nThere is no such thing as foreign or civil war; there is only just and\nunjust war. Until that day when the grand human agreement is concluded,\nwar, that at least which is the effort of the future, which is\nhastening on against the past, which is lagging in the rear, may be\nnecessary. What have we to reproach that war with? War does not become\na disgrace, the sword does not become a disgrace, except when it is\nused for assassinating the right, progress, reason, civilization,\ntruth. Then war, whether foreign or civil, is iniquitous; it is called\ncrime. Outside the pale of that holy thing, justice, by what right does\none form of man despise another? By what right should the sword of\nWashington disown the pike of Camille Desmoulins? Leonidas against the\nstranger, Timoleon against the tyrant, which is the greater? the one is\nthe defender, the other the liberator. Shall we brand every appeal to\narms within a city s limits without taking the object into a\nconsideration? Then note the infamy of Brutus, Marcel, Arnould von\nBlankenheim, Coligny, Hedgerow war? War of the streets? Why not? That\nwas the war of Ambiorix, of Artevelde, of Marnix, of Pelagius. But\nAmbiorix fought against Rome, Artevelde against France, Marnix against\nSpain, Pelagius against the Moors; all against the foreigner. Well, the\nmonarchy is a foreigner; oppression is a stranger; the right divine is\na stranger. Despotism violates the moral frontier, an invasion violates\nthe geographical frontier. Driving out the tyrant or driving out the\nEnglish, in both cases, regaining possession of one s own territory.\nThere comes an hour when protestation no longer suffices; after\nphilosophy, action is required; live force finishes what the idea has\nsketched out; Prometheus chained begins, Arostogeiton ends; the\nencyclopedia enlightens souls, the 10th of August electrifies them.\nAfter  schylus, Thrasybulus; after Diderot, Danton. Multitudes have a\ntendency to accept the master. Their mass bears witness to apathy. A\ncrowd is easily led as a whole to obedience. Men must be stirred up,\npushed on, treated roughly by the very benefit of their deliverance,\ntheir eyes must be wounded by the true, light must be hurled at them in\nterrible handfuls. They must be a little thunderstruck themselves at\ntheir own well-being; this dazzling awakens them. Hence the necessity\nof tocsins and wars. Great combatants must rise, must enlighten nations\nwith audacity, and shake up that sad humanity which is covered with\ngloom by the right divine, C sarian glory, force, fanaticism,\nirresponsible power, and absolute majesty; a rabble stupidly occupied\nin the contemplation, in their twilight splendor, of these sombre\ntriumphs of the night. Down with the tyrant! Of whom are you speaking?\nDo you call Louis Philippe the tyrant? No; no more than Louis XVI. Both\nof them are what history is in the habit of calling good kings; but\nprinciples are not to be parcelled out, the logic of the true is\nrectilinear, the peculiarity of truth is that it lacks complaisance; no\nconcessions, then; all encroachments on man should be repressed. There\nis a divine right in Louis XVI., there is _because a Bourbon_ in Louis\nPhilippe; both represent in a certain measure the confiscation of\nright, and, in order to clear away universal insurrection, they must be\ncombated; it must be done, France being always the one to begin. When\nthe master falls in France, he falls everywhere. In short, what cause\nis more just, and consequently, what war is greater, than that which\nre-establishes social truth, restores her throne to liberty, restores\nthe people to the people, restores sovereignty to man, replaces the\npurple on the head of France, restores equity and reason in their\nplenitude, suppresses every germ of antagonism by restoring each one to\nhimself, annihilates the obstacle which royalty presents to the whole\nimmense universal concord, and places the human race once more on a\nlevel with the right? These wars build up peace. An enormous fortress\nof prejudices, privileges, superstitions, lies, exactions, abuses,\nviolences, iniquities, and darkness still stands erect in this world,\nwith its towers of hatred. It must be cast down. This monstrous mass\nmust be made to crumble. To conquer at Austerlitz is grand; to take the\nBastille is immense.\n\nThere is no one who has not noticed it in his own case the soul, and\ntherein lies the marvel of its unity complicated with ubiquity, has a\nstrange aptitude for reasoning almost coldly in the most violent\nextremities, and it often happens that heartbroken passion and profound\ndespair in the very agony of their blackest monologues, treat subjects\nand discuss theses. Logic is mingled with convulsion, and the thread of\nthe syllogism floats, without breaking, in the mournful storm of\nthought. This was the situation of Marius  mind.\n\nAs he meditated thus, dejected but resolute, hesitating in every\ndirection, and, in short, shuddering at what he was about to do, his\nglance strayed to the interior of the barricade. The insurgents were\nhere conversing in a low voice, without moving, and there was\nperceptible that quasi-silence which marks the last stage of\nexpectation. Overhead, at the small window in the third story Marius\ndescried a sort of spectator who appeared to him to be singularly\nattentive. This was the porter who had been killed by Le Cabuc. Below,\nby the lights of the torch, which was thrust between the paving-stones,\nthis head could be vaguely distinguished. Nothing could be stranger, in\nthat sombre and uncertain gleam, than that livid, motionless,\nastonished face, with its bristling hair, its eyes fixed and staring,\nand its yawning mouth, bent over the street in an attitude of\ncuriosity. One would have said that the man who was dead was surveying\nthose who were about to die. A long trail of blood which had flowed\nfrom that head, descended in reddish threads from the window to the\nheight of the first floor, where it stopped.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FOURTEENTH THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: The Grandeurs of Despair]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE FLAG: ACT FIRST\n\n\nAs yet, nothing had come. Ten o clock had sounded from Saint-Merry.\nEnjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in\nhand, near the outlet of the grand barricade. They no longer addressed\neach other, they listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most\ndistant sound of marching.\n\nSuddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice,\nwhich seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and began to sing\ndistinctly, to the old popular air of  By the Light of the Moon,  this\nbit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock: \n\nMon nez est en larmes,\nMon ami Bugeaud,\nPr te moi tes gendarmes\nPour leur dire un mot.\nEn capote bleue,\nLa poule au shako,\nVoici la banlieue!\nCo-cocorico!54\n\n\nThey pressed each other s hands.\n\n That is Gavroche,  said Enjolras.\n\n He is warning us,  said Combeferre.\n\nA hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a being more\nagile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche bounded into\nthe barricade, all breathless, saying: \n\n My gun! Here they are! \n\n\nAn electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the sound of\nhands seeking their guns became audible.\n\n Would you like my carbine?  said Enjolras to the lad.\n\n I want a big gun,  replied Gavroche.\n\nAnd he seized Javert s gun.\n\nTwo sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost at the same\nmoment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels from the end of the street,\nand the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the\nLane des Pr cheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that\nnothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and Halles.\n\nThe Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone were dimly\nvisible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered\nto the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a\nsmoke.\n\nEach man had taken up his position for the conflict.\n\nForty-three insurgents, among whom were Enjolras, Combeferre,\nCourfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling inside\nthe large barricade, with their heads on a level with the crest of the\nbarrier, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the stones as\nthough at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Six, commanded by\nFeuilly, had installed themselves, with their guns levelled at their\nshoulders, at the windows of the two stories of Corinthe.\n\nSeveral minutes passed thus, then a sound of footsteps, measured,\nheavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction of\nSaint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then precise, then heavy and\nsonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without intermission, with a\ntranquil and terrible continuity. Nothing was to be heard but this. It\nwas that combined silence and sound, of the statue of the commander,\nbut this stony step had something indescribably enormous and multiple\nabout it which awakened the idea of a throng, and, at the same time,\nthe idea of a spectre. One thought one heard the terrible statue Legion\nmarching onward. This tread drew near; it drew still nearer, and\nstopped. It seemed as though the breathing of many men could be heard\nat the end of the street. Nothing was to be seen, however, but at the\nbottom of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude\nof metallic threads, as fine as needles and almost imperceptible, which\nmoved about like those indescribable phosphoric networks which one sees\nbeneath one s closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at the\nmoment when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and\ngun-barrels confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the\ntorch.\n\nA pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting. All at once, from\nthe depths of this darkness, a voice, which was all the more sinister,\nsince no one was visible, and which appeared to be the gloom itself\nspeaking, shouted: \n\n Who goes there? \n\n\nAt the same time, the click of guns, as they were lowered into\nposition, was heard.\n\nEnjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone: \n\n The French Revolution! \n\n\n Fire!  shouted the voice.\n\nA flash empurpled all the fa ades in the street as though the door of a\nfurnace had been flung open, and hastily closed again.\n\nA fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The red flag fell.\nThe discharge had been so violent and so dense that it had cut the\nstaff, that is to say, the very tip of the omnibus pole.\n\nBullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the houses penetrated\nthe barricade and wounded several men.\n\nThe impression produced by this first discharge was freezing. The\nattack had been rough, and of a nature to inspire reflection in the\nboldest. It was evident that they had to deal with an entire regiment\nat the very least.\n\n Comrades!  shouted Courfeyrac,  let us not waste our powder. Let us\nwait until they are in the street before replying. \n\n\n And, above all,  said Enjolras,  let us raise the flag again. \n\n\nHe picked up the flag, which had fallen precisely at his feet.\n\nOutside, the clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be heard; the\ntroops were re-loading their arms.\n\nEnjolras went on: \n\n Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag on the\nbarricade again? \n\n\nNot a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the very moment when,\nwithout any doubt, it was again the object of their aim, was simply\ndeath. The bravest hesitated to pronounce his own condemnation.\nEnjolras himself felt a thrill. He repeated: \n\n Does no one volunteer? \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE FLAG: ACT SECOND\n\n\nSince they had arrived at Corinthe, and had begun the construction of\nthe barricade, no attention had been paid to Father Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf\nhad not quitted the mob, however; he had entered the ground floor of\nthe wine-shop and had seated himself behind the counter. There he had,\nso to speak, retreated into himself. He no longer seemed to look or to\nthink. Courfeyrac and others had accosted him two or three times,\nwarning him of his peril, beseeching him to withdraw, but he did not\nhear them. When they were not speaking to him, his mouth moved as\nthough he were replying to some one, and as soon as he was addressed,\nhis lips became motionless and his eyes no longer had the appearance of\nbeing alive.\n\nSeveral hours before the barricade was attacked, he had assumed an\nattitude which he did not afterwards abandon, with both fists planted\non his knees and his head thrust forward as though he were gazing over\na precipice. Nothing had been able to move him from this attitude; it\ndid not seem as though his mind were in the barricade. When each had\ngone to take up his position for the combat, there remained in the\ntap-room where Javert was bound to the post, only a single insurgent\nwith a naked sword, watching over Javert, and himself, Mabeuf. At the\nmoment of the attack, at the detonation, the physical shock had reached\nhim and had, as it were, awakened him; he started up abruptly, crossed\nthe room, and at the instant when Enjolras repeated his appeal:  Does\nno one volunteer?  the old man was seen to make his appearance on the\nthreshold of the wine-shop. His presence produced a sort of commotion\nin the different groups. A shout went up: \n\n It is the voter! It is the member of the Convention! It is the\nrepresentative of the people! \n\n\nIt is probable that he did not hear them.\n\nHe strode straight up to Enjolras, the insurgents withdrawing before\nhim with a religious fear; he tore the flag from Enjolras, who recoiled\nin amazement and then, since no one dared to stop or to assist him,\nthis old man of eighty, with shaking head but firm foot, began slowly\nto ascend the staircase of paving-stones arranged in the barricade.\nThis was so melancholy and so grand that all around him cried:  Off\nwith your hats!  At every step that he mounted, it was a frightful\nspectacle; his white locks, his decrepit face, his lofty, bald, and\nwrinkled brow, his amazed and open mouth, his aged arm upholding the\nred banner, rose through the gloom and were enlarged in the bloody\nlight of the torch, and the bystanders thought that they beheld the\nspectre of  93 emerging from the earth, with the flag of terror in his\nhand.\n\nWhen he had reached the last step, when this trembling and terrible\nphantom, erect on that pile of rubbish in the presence of twelve\nhundred invisible guns, drew himself up in the face of death and as\nthough he were more powerful than it, the whole barricade assumed amid\nthe darkness, a supernatural and colossal form.\n\nThere ensued one of those silences which occur only in the presence of\nprodigies. In the midst of this silence, the old man waved the red flag\nand shouted: \n\n Long live the Revolution! Long live the Republic! Fraternity!\nEquality! and Death! \n\n\nThose in the barricade heard a low and rapid whisper, like the murmur\nof a priest who is despatching a prayer in haste. It was probably the\ncommissary of police who was making the legal summons at the other end\nof the street.\n\nThen the same piercing voice which had shouted:  Who goes there? \nshouted: \n\n Retire! \n\n\nM. Mabeuf, pale, haggard, his eyes lighted up with the mournful flame\nof aberration, raised the flag above his head and repeated: \n\n Long live the Republic! \n\n\n Fire!  said the voice.\n\nA second discharge, similar to the first, rained down upon the\nbarricade.\n\nThe old man fell on his knees, then rose again, dropped the flag and\nfell backwards on the pavement, like a log, at full length, with\noutstretched arms.\n\nRivulets of blood flowed beneath him. His aged head, pale and sad,\nseemed to be gazing at the sky.\n\nOne of those emotions which are superior to man, which make him forget\neven to defend himself, seized upon the insurgents, and they approached\nthe body with respectful awe.\n\n What men these regicides were!  said Enjolras.\n\nCourfeyrac bent down to Enjolras  ear: \n\n This is for yourself alone, I do not wish to dampen the enthusiasm.\nBut this man was anything rather than a regicide. I knew him. His name\nwas Father Mabeuf. I do not know what was the matter with him to-day.\nBut he was a brave blockhead. Just look at his head. \n\n\n The head of a blockhead and the heart of a Brutus,  replied Enjolras.\n\nThen he raised his voice: \n\n Citizens! This is the example which the old give to the young. We\nhesitated, he came! We were drawing back, he advanced! This is what\nthose who are trembling with age teach to those who tremble with fear!\nThis aged man is august in the eyes of his country. He has had a long\nlife and a magnificent death! Now, let us place the body under cover,\nthat each one of us may defend this old man dead as he would his father\nliving, and may his presence in our midst render the barricade\nimpregnable! \n\n\nA murmur of gloomy and energetic assent followed these words.\n\nEnjolras bent down, raised the old man s head, and fierce as he was, he\nkissed him on the brow, then, throwing wide his arms, and handling this\ndead man with tender precaution, as though he feared to hurt it, he\nremoved his coat, showed the bloody holes in it to all, and said: \n\n This is our flag now. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III GAVROCHE WOULD HAVE DONE BETTER TO ACCEPT ENJOLRAS  CARBINE\n\n\nThey threw a long black shawl of Widow Hucheloup s over Father Mabeuf.\nSix men made a litter of their guns; on this they laid the body, and\nbore it, with bared heads, with solemn slowness, to the large table in\nthe tap-room.\n\nThese men, wholly absorbed in the grave and sacred task in which they\nwere engaged, thought no more of the perilous situation in which they\nstood.\n\nWhen the corpse passed near Javert, who was still impassive, Enjolras\nsaid to the spy: \n\n It will be your turn presently! \n\n\nDuring all this time, Little Gavroche, who alone had not quitted his\npost, but had remained on guard, thought he espied some men stealthily\napproaching the barricade. All at once he shouted: \n\n Look out! \n\n\nCourfeyrac, Enjolras, Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre, Joly, Bahorel,\nBossuet, and all the rest ran tumultuously from the wine-shop. It was\nalmost too late. They saw a glistening density of bayonets undulating\nabove the barricade. Municipal guards of lofty stature were making\ntheir way in, some striding over the omnibus, others through the cut,\nthrusting before them the urchin, who retreated, but did not flee.\n\nThe moment was critical. It was that first, redoubtable moment of\ninundation, when the stream rises to the level of the levee and when\nthe water begins to filter through the fissures of dike. A second more\nand the barricade would have been taken.\n\nBahorel dashed upon the first municipal guard who was entering, and\nkilled him on the spot with a blow from his gun; the second killed\nBahorel with a blow from his bayonet. Another had already overthrown\nCourfeyrac, who was shouting:  Follow me!  The largest of all, a sort\nof colossus, marched on Gavroche with his bayonet fixed. The urchin\ntook in his arms Javert s immense gun, levelled it resolutely at the\ngiant, and fired. No discharge followed. Javert s gun was not loaded.\nThe municipal guard burst into a laugh and raised his bayonet at the\nchild.\n\nBefore the bayonet had touched Gavroche, the gun slipped from the\nsoldier s grasp, a bullet had struck the municipal guardsman in the\ncentre of the forehead, and he fell over on his back. A second bullet\nstruck the other guard, who had assaulted Courfeyrac in the breast, and\nlaid him low on the pavement.\n\nThis was the work of Marius, who had just entered the barricade.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE BARREL OF POWDER\n\n\nMarius, still concealed in the turn of the Rue Mond tour, had\nwitnessed, shuddering and irresolute, the first phase of the combat.\nBut he had not long been able to resist that mysterious and sovereign\nvertigo which may be designated as the call of the abyss. In the\npresence of the imminence of the peril, in the presence of the death of\nM. Mabeuf, that melancholy enigma, in the presence of Bahorel killed,\nand Courfeyrac shouting:  Follow me!  of that child threatened, of his\nfriends to succor or to avenge, all hesitation had vanished, and he had\nflung himself into the conflict, his two pistols in hand. With his\nfirst shot he had saved Gavroche, and with the second delivered\nCourfeyrac.\n\nAmid the sound of the shots, amid the cries of the assaulted guards,\nthe assailants had climbed the entrenchment, on whose summit Municipal\nGuards, soldiers of the line and National Guards from the suburbs could\nnow be seen, gun in hand, rearing themselves to more than half the\nheight of their bodies.\n\nThey already covered more than two-thirds of the barrier, but they did\nnot leap into the enclosure, as though wavering in the fear of some\ntrap. They gazed into the dark barricade as one would gaze into a\nlion s den. The light of the torch illuminated only their bayonets,\ntheir bear-skin caps, and the upper part of their uneasy and angry\nfaces.\n\nMarius had no longer any weapons; he had flung away his discharged\npistols after firing them; but he had caught sight of the barrel of\npowder in the tap-room, near the door.\n\nAs he turned half round, gazing in that direction, a soldier took aim\nat him. At the moment when the soldier was sighting Marius, a hand was\nlaid on the muzzle of the gun and obstructed it. This was done by some\none who had darted forward, the young workman in velvet trousers. The\nshot sped, traversed the hand and possibly, also, the workman, since he\nfell, but the ball did not strike Marius. All this, which was rather to\nbe apprehended than seen through the smoke, Marius, who was entering\nthe tap-room, hardly noticed. Still, he had, in a confused way,\nperceived that gun-barrel aimed at him, and the hand which had blocked\nit, and he had heard the discharge. But in moments like this, the\nthings which one sees vacillate and are precipitated, and one pauses\nfor nothing. One feels obscurely impelled towards more darkness still,\nand all is cloud.\n\nThe insurgents, surprised but not terrified, had rallied. Enjolras had\nshouted:  Wait! Don t fire at random!  In the first confusion, they\nmight, in fact, wound each other. The majority of them had ascended to\nthe window on the first story and to the attic windows, whence they\ncommanded the assailants.\n\nThe most determined, with Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, and\nCombeferre, had proudly placed themselves with their backs against the\nhouses at the rear, unsheltered and facing the ranks of soldiers and\nguards who crowned the barricade.\n\nAll this was accomplished without haste, with that strange and\nthreatening gravity which precedes engagements. They took aim, point\nblank, on both sides: they were so close that they could talk together\nwithout raising their voices.\n\nWhen they had reached this point where the spark is on the brink of\ndarting forth, an officer in a gorget extended his sword and said: \n\n Lay down your arms! \n\n\n Fire!  replied Enjolras.\n\nThe two discharges took place at the same moment, and all disappeared\nin smoke.\n\nAn acrid and stifling smoke in which dying and wounded lay with weak,\ndull groans. When the smoke cleared away, the combatants on both sides\ncould be seen to be thinned out, but still in the same positions,\nreloading in silence. All at once, a thundering voice was heard,\nshouting: \n\n Be off with you, or I ll blow up the barricade! \n\n\nAll turned in the direction whence the voice proceeded.\n\nMarius had entered the tap-room, and had seized the barrel of powder,\nthen he had taken advantage of the smoke, and the sort of obscure mist\nwhich filled the entrenched enclosure, to glide along the barricade as\nfar as that cage of paving-stones where the torch was fixed. To tear it\nfrom the torch, to replace it by the barrel of powder, to thrust the\npile of stones under the barrel, which was instantly staved in, with a\nsort of horrible obedience, all this had cost Marius but the time\nnecessary to stoop and rise again; and now all, National Guards,\nMunicipal Guards, officers, soldiers, huddled at the other extremity of\nthe barricade, gazed stupidly at him, as he stood with his foot on the\nstones, his torch in his hand, his haughty face illuminated by a fatal\nresolution, drooping the flame of the torch towards that redoubtable\npile where they could make out the broken barrel of powder, and giving\nvent to that startling cry: \n\n Be off with you, or I ll blow up the barricade! \n\n\nMarius on that barricade after the octogenarian was the vision of the\nyoung revolution after the apparition of the old.\n\n Blow up the barricade!  said a sergeant,  and yourself with it! \n\n\nMarius retorted:  And myself also. \n\n\nAnd he dropped the torch towards the barrel of powder.\n\nBut there was no longer any one on the barrier. The assailants,\nabandoning their dead and wounded, flowed back pell-mell and in\ndisorder towards the extremity of the street, and there were again lost\nin the night. It was a headlong flight.\n\nThe barricade was free.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V END OF THE VERSES OF JEAN PROUVAIRE\n\n\nAll flocked around Marius. Courfeyrac flung himself on his neck.\n\n Here you are! \n\n\n What luck!  said Combeferre.\n\n You came in opportunely!  ejaculated Bossuet.\n\n If it had not been for you, I should have been dead!  began Courfeyrac\nagain.\n\n If it had not been for you, I should have been gobbled up!  added\nGavroche.\n\nMarius asked: \n\n Where is the chief? \n\n\n You are he!  said Enjolras.\n\nMarius had had a furnace in his brain all day long; now it was a\nwhirlwind. This whirlwind which was within him, produced on him the\neffect of being outside of him and of bearing him away. It seemed to\nhim that he was already at an immense distance from life. His two\nluminous months of joy and love, ending abruptly at that frightful\nprecipice, Cosette lost to him, that barricade, M. Mabeuf getting\nhimself killed for the Republic, himself the leader of the\ninsurgents, all these things appeared to him like a tremendous\nnightmare. He was obliged to make a mental effort to recall the fact\nthat all that surrounded him was real. Marius had already seen too much\nof life not to know that nothing is more imminent than the impossible,\nand that what it is always necessary to foresee is the unforeseen. He\nhad looked on at his own drama as a piece which one does not\nunderstand.\n\nIn the mists which enveloped his thoughts, he did not recognize Javert,\nwho, bound to his post, had not so much as moved his head during the\nwhole of the attack on the barricade, and who had gazed on the revolt\nseething around him with the resignation of a martyr and the majesty of\na judge. Marius had not even seen him.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the assailants did not stir, they could be heard\nmarching and swarming through at the end of the street but they did not\nventure into it, either because they were awaiting orders or because\nthey were awaiting reinforcements before hurling themselves afresh on\nthis impregnable redoubt. The insurgents had posted sentinels, and some\nof them, who were medical students, set about caring for the wounded.\n\nThey had thrown the tables out of the wine-shop, with the exception of\nthe two tables reserved for lint and cartridges, and of the one on\nwhich lay Father Mabeuf; they had added them to the barricade, and had\nreplaced them in the tap-room with mattresses from the bed of the widow\nHucheloup and her servants. On these mattresses they had laid the\nwounded. As for the three poor creatures who inhabited Corinthe, no one\nknew what had become of them. They were finally found, however, hidden\nin the cellar.\n\nA poignant emotion clouded the joy of the disencumbered barricade.\n\nThe roll was called. One of the insurgents was missing. And who was it?\nOne of the dearest. One of the most valiant. Jean Prouvaire. He was\nsought among the wounded, he was not there. He was sought among the\ndead, he was not there. He was evidently a prisoner. Combeferre said to\nEnjolras: \n\n They have our friend; we have their agent. Are you set on the death of\nthat spy? \n\n\n Yes,  replied Enjolras;  but less so than on the life of Jean\nProuvaire. \n\n\nThis took place in the tap-room near Javert s post.\n\n Well,  resumed Combeferre,  I am going to fasten my handkerchief to my\ncane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer to exchange our man for\ntheirs. \n\n\n Listen,  said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre s arm.\n\nAt the end of the street there was a significant clash of arms.\n\nThey heard a manly voice shout: \n\n Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future! \n\n\nThey recognized the voice of Prouvaire.\n\nA flash passed, a report rang out.\n\nSilence fell again.\n\n They have killed him,  exclaimed Combeferre.\n\nEnjolras glanced at Javert, and said to him: \n\n Your friends have just shot you. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE AGONY OF DEATH AFTER THE AGONY OF LIFE\n\n\nA peculiarity of this species of war is, that the attack of the\nbarricades is almost always made from the front, and that the\nassailants generally abstain from turning the position, either because\nthey fear ambushes, or because they are afraid of getting entangled in\nthe tortuous streets. The insurgents  whole attention had been\ndirected, therefore, to the grand barricade, which was, evidently, the\nspot always menaced, and there the struggle would infallibly\nrecommence. But Marius thought of the little barricade, and went\nthither. It was deserted and guarded only by the fire-pot which\ntrembled between the paving-stones. Moreover, the Mond tour alley, and\nthe branches of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie and the Rue du Cygne\nwere profoundly calm.\n\nAs Marius was withdrawing, after concluding his inspection, he heard\nhis name pronounced feebly in the darkness.\n\n Monsieur Marius! \n\n\nHe started, for he recognized the voice which had called to him two\nhours before through the gate in the Rue Plumet.\n\nOnly, the voice now seemed to be nothing more than a breath.\n\nHe looked about him, but saw no one.\n\nMarius thought he had been mistaken, that it was an illusion added by\nhis mind to the extraordinary realities which were clashing around him.\nHe advanced a step, in order to quit the distant recess where the\nbarricade lay.\n\n Monsieur Marius!  repeated the voice.\n\nThis time he could not doubt that he had heard it distinctly; he looked\nand saw nothing.\n\n At your feet,  said the voice.\n\nHe bent down, and saw in the darkness a form which was dragging itself\ntowards him.\n\nIt was crawling along the pavement. It was this that had spoken to him.\n\nThe fire-pot allowed him to distinguish a blouse, torn trousers of\ncoarse velvet, bare feet, and something which resembled a pool of\nblood. Marius indistinctly made out a pale head which was lifted\ntowards him and which was saying to him: \n\n You do not recognize me? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n ponine. \n\n\nMarius bent hastily down. It was, in fact, that unhappy child. She was\ndressed in men s clothes.\n\n How come you here? What are you doing here? \n\n\n I am dying,  said she.\n\nThere are words and incidents which arouse dejected beings. Marius\ncried out with a start: \n\n You are wounded! Wait, I will carry you into the room! They will\nattend to you there. Is it serious? How must I take hold of you in\norder not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! My God! But why did\nyou come hither? \n\n\nAnd he tried to pass his arm under her, in order to raise her.\n\nShe uttered a feeble cry.\n\n Have I hurt you?  asked Marius.\n\n A little. \n\n\n But I only touched your hand. \n\n\nShe raised her hand to Marius, and in the middle of that hand Marius\nsaw a black hole.\n\n What is the matter with your hand?  said he.\n\n It is pierced. \n\n\n Pierced? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n What with? \n\n\n A bullet. \n\n\n How? \n\n\n Did you see a gun aimed at you? \n\n\n Yes, and a hand stopping it. \n\n\n It was mine. \n\n\nMarius was seized with a shudder.\n\n What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if that is all, it\nis nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound; one\ndoes not die of a pierced hand. \n\n\nShe murmured: \n\n The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back. It is\nuseless to remove me from this spot. I will tell you how you can care\nfor me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on this stone. \n\n\nHe obeyed; she laid her head on Marius  knees, and, without looking at\nhim, she said: \n\n Oh! How good this is! How comfortable this is! There; I no longer\nsuffer. \n\n\nShe remained silent for a moment, then she turned her face with an\neffort, and looked at Marius.\n\n Do you know what, Monsieur Marius? It puzzled me because you entered\nthat garden; it was stupid, because it was I who showed you that house;\nand then, I ought to have said to myself that a young man like you \n\n\nShe paused, and overstepping the sombre transitions that undoubtedly\nexisted in her mind, she resumed with a heartrending smile: \n\n You thought me ugly, didn t you? \n\n\nShe continued: \n\n You see, you are lost! Now, no one can get out of the barricade. It\nwas I who led you here, by the way! You are going to die, I count upon\nthat. And yet, when I saw them taking aim at you, I put my hand on the\nmuzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it was because I wanted to die\nbefore you. When I received that bullet, I dragged myself here, no one\nsaw me, no one picked me up, I was waiting for you, I said:  So he is\nnot coming!  Oh, if you only knew. I bit my blouse, I suffered so! Now\nI am well. Do you remember the day I entered your chamber and when I\nlooked at myself in your mirror, and the day when I came to you on the\nboulevard near the washerwomen? How the birds sang! That was a long\ntime ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you:  I don t want\nyour money.  I hope you picked up your coin? You are not rich. I did\nnot think to tell you to pick it up. The sun was shining bright, and it\nwas not cold. Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? Oh! How happy I am!\nEvery one is going to die. \n\n\nShe had a mad, grave, and heart-breaking air. Her torn blouse disclosed\nher bare throat.\n\nAs she talked, she pressed her pierced hand to her breast, where there\nwas another hole, and whence there spurted from moment to moment a\nstream of blood, like a jet of wine from an open bung-hole.\n\nMarius gazed at this unfortunate creature with profound compassion.\n\n Oh!  she resumed,  it is coming again, I am stifling! \n\n\nShe caught up her blouse and bit it, and her limbs stiffened on the\npavement.\n\nAt that moment the young cock s crow executed by little Gavroche\nresounded through the barricade.\n\nThe child had mounted a table to load his gun, and was singing gayly\nthe song then so popular: \n\n En voyant Lafayette,\nLe gendarme r p te: \nSauvons nous! sauvons nous!\nsauvons nous! \n\n On beholding Lafayette,\nThe gendarme repeats: \nLet us flee! let us flee!\nlet us flee!\n\n\n ponine raised herself and listened; then she murmured: \n\n It is he. \n\n\nAnd turning to Marius: \n\n My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me. \n\n\n Your brother?  inquired Marius, who was meditating in the most bitter\nand sorrowful depths of his heart on the duties to the Th nardiers\nwhich his father had bequeathed to him;  who is your brother? \n\n\n That little fellow. \n\n\n The one who is singing? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\nMarius made a movement.\n\n Oh! don t go away,  said she,  it will not be long now. \n\n\nShe was sitting almost upright, but her voice was very low and broken\nby hiccoughs.\n\nAt intervals, the death rattle interrupted her. She put her face as\nnear that of Marius as possible. She added with a strange expression: \n\n Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter in my\npocket for you. I was told to put it in the post. I kept it. I did not\nwant to have it reach you. But perhaps you will be angry with me for it\nwhen we meet again presently? Take your letter. \n\n\nShe grasped Marius  hand convulsively with her pierced hand, but she no\nlonger seemed to feel her sufferings. She put Marius  hand in the\npocket of her blouse. There, in fact, Marius felt a paper.\n\n Take it,  said she.\n\nMarius took the letter.\n\nShe made a sign of satisfaction and contentment.\n\n Now, for my trouble, promise me \n\n\nAnd she stopped.\n\n What?  asked Marius.\n\n Promise me! \n\n\n I promise. \n\n\n Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead. I shall feel it. \n\n\nShe dropped her head again on Marius  knees, and her eyelids closed. He\nthought the poor soul had departed.  ponine remained motionless. All at\nonce, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she\nslowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity of\ndeath, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to\nproceed from another world: \n\n And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in\nlove with you. \n\n\nShe tried to smile once more and expired.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII GAVROCHE AS A PROFOUND CALCULATOR OF DISTANCES\n\n\nMarius kept his promise. He dropped a kiss on that livid brow, where\nthe icy perspiration stood in beads.\n\nThis was no infidelity to Cosette; it was a gentle and pensive farewell\nto an unhappy soul.\n\nIt was not without a tremor that he had taken the letter which  ponine\nhad given him. He had immediately felt that it was an event of weight.\nHe was impatient to read it. The heart of man is so constituted that\nthe unhappy child had hardly closed her eyes when Marius began to think\nof unfolding this paper.\n\nHe laid her gently on the ground, and went away. Something told him\nthat he could not peruse that letter in the presence of that body.\n\nHe drew near to a candle in the tap-room. It was a small note, folded\nand sealed with a woman s elegant care. The address was in a woman s\nhand and ran: \n\n To Monsieur, Monsieur Marius Pontmercy, at M. Courfeyrac s, Rue de la\nVerrerie, No. 16. \n\n\nHe broke the seal and read: \n\n My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately.\nWe shall be this evening in the Rue de l Homme Arm , No. 7.\nIn a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th. \n\n\nSuch was the innocence of their love that Marius was not even\nacquainted with Cosette s handwriting.\n\nWhat had taken place may be related in a few words.  ponine had been\nthe cause of everything. After the evening of the 3d of June she had\ncherished a double idea, to defeat the projects of her father and the\nruffians on the house of the Rue Plumet, and to separate Marius and\nCosette. She had exchanged rags with the first young scamp she came\nacross who had thought it amusing to dress like a woman, while  ponine\ndisguised herself like a man. It was she who had conveyed to Jean\nValjean in the Champ de Mars the expressive warning:  Leave your\nhouse.  Jean Valjean had, in fact, returned home, and had said to\nCosette:  We set out this evening and we go to the Rue de l Homme Arm \nwith Toussaint. Next week, we shall be in London.  Cosette, utterly\noverwhelmed by this unexpected blow, had hastily penned a couple of\nlines to Marius. But how was she to get the letter to the post? She\nnever went out alone, and Toussaint, surprised at such a commission,\nwould certainly show the letter to M. Fauchelevent. In this dilemma,\nCosette had caught sight through the fence of  ponine in man s clothes,\nwho now prowled incessantly around the garden. Cosette had called to\n this young workman  and had handed him five francs and the letter,\nsaying:  Carry this letter immediately to its address.   ponine had put\nthe letter in her pocket. The next day, on the 5th of June, she went to\nCourfeyrac s quarters to inquire for Marius, not for the purpose of\ndelivering the letter, but, a thing which every jealous and loving soul\nwill comprehend, to see.  There she had waited for Marius, or at least\nfor Courfeyrac, still for the purpose of _seeing_. When Courfeyrac had\ntold her:  We are going to the barricades,  an idea flashed through her\nmind, to fling herself into that death, as she would have done into any\nother, and to thrust Marius into it also. She had followed Courfeyrac,\nhad made sure of the locality where the barricade was in process of\nconstruction; and, quite certain, since Marius had received no warning,\nand since she had intercepted the letter, that he would go at dusk to\nhis trysting place for every evening, she had betaken herself to the\nRue Plumet, had there awaited Marius, and had sent him, in the name of\nhis friends, the appeal which would, she thought, lead him to the\nbarricade. She reckoned on Marius  despair when he should fail to find\nCosette; she was not mistaken. She had returned to the Rue de la\nChanvrerie herself. What she did there the reader has just seen. She\ndied with the tragic joy of jealous hearts who drag the beloved being\ninto their own death, and who say:  No one shall have him! \n\n\nMarius covered Cosette s letter with kisses. So she loved him! For one\nmoment the idea occurred to him that he ought not to die now. Then he\nsaid to himself:  She is going away. Her father is taking her to\nEngland, and my grandfather refuses his consent to the marriage.\nNothing is changed in our fates.  Dreamers like Marius are subject to\nsupreme attacks of dejection, and desperate resolves are the result.\nThe fatigue of living is insupportable; death is sooner over with. Then\nhe reflected that he had still two duties to fulfil: to inform Cosette\nof his death and send her a final farewell, and to save from the\nimpending catastrophe which was in preparation, that poor child,\n ponine s brother and Th nardier s son.\n\nHe had a pocket-book about him; the same one which had contained the\nnote-book in which he had inscribed so many thoughts of love for\nCosette. He tore out a leaf and wrote on it a few lines in pencil: \n\n Our marriage was impossible. I asked my grandfather, he refused; I\nhave no fortune, neither hast thou. I hastened to thee, thou wert no\nlonger there. Thou knowest the promise that I gave thee, I shall keep\nit. I die. I love thee. When thou readest this, my soul will be near\nthee, and thou wilt smile. \n\n\nHaving nothing wherewith to seal this letter, he contented himself with\nfolding the paper in four, and added the address: \n\n To Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent, at M. Fauchelevent s, Rue de\nl Homme Arm , No. 7. \n\n\nHaving folded the letter, he stood in thought for a moment, drew out\nhis pocket-book again, opened it, and wrote, with the same pencil,\nthese four lines on the first page: \n\n My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather, M.\nGillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais. \n\n\nHe put his pocketbook back in his pocket, then he called Gavroche.\n\nThe gamin, at the sound of Marius  voice, ran up to him with his merry\nand devoted air.\n\n Will you do something for me? \n\n\n Anything,  said Gavroche.  Good God! if it had not been for you, I\nshould have been done for. \n\n\n Do you see this letter? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Take it. Leave the barricade instantly  (Gavroche began to scratch his\near uneasily)  and to-morrow morning, you will deliver it at its\naddress to Mademoiselle Cosette, at M. Fauchelevent s, Rue de l Homme\nArm , No. 7. \n\n\nThe heroic child replied\n\n Well, but! in the meanwhile the barricade will be taken, and I shall\nnot be there. \n\n\n The barricade will not be attacked until daybreak, according to all\nappearances, and will not be taken before to-morrow noon. \n\n\nThe fresh respite which the assailants were granting to the barricade\nhad, in fact, been prolonged. It was one of those intermissions which\nfrequently occur in nocturnal combats, which are always followed by an\nincrease of rage.\n\n Well,  said Gavroche,  what if I were to go and carry your letter\nto-morrow? \n\n\n It will be too late. The barricade will probably be blockaded, all the\nstreets will be guarded, and you will not be able to get out. Go at\nonce. \n\n\nGavroche could think of no reply to this, and stood there in\nindecision, scratching his ear sadly.\n\nAll at once, he took the letter with one of those birdlike movements\nwhich were common with him.\n\n All right,  said he.\n\nAnd he started off at a run through Mond tour lane.\n\nAn idea had occurred to Gavroche which had brought him to a decision,\nbut he had not mentioned it for fear that Marius might offer some\nobjection to it.\n\nThis was the idea: \n\n It is barely midnight, the Rue de l Homme Arm  is not far off; I will\ngo and deliver the letter at once, and I shall get back in time. \n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIFTEENTH THE RUE DE L HOMME ARM \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I A DRINKER IS A BABBLER\n\n\nWhat are the convulsions of a city in comparison with the insurrections\nof the soul? Man is a depth still greater than the people. Jean Valjean\nat that very moment was the prey of a terrible upheaval. Every sort of\ngulf had opened again within him. He also was trembling, like Paris, on\nthe brink of an obscure and formidable revolution. A few hours had\nsufficed to bring this about. His destiny and his conscience had\nsuddenly been covered with gloom. Of him also, as well as of Paris, it\nmight have been said:  Two principles are face to face. The white angel\nand the black angel are about to seize each other on the bridge of the\nabyss. Which of the two will hurl the other over? Who will carry the\nday? \n\n\nOn the evening preceding this same 5th of June, Jean Valjean,\naccompanied by Cosette and Toussaint had installed himself in the Rue\nde l Homme Arm . A change awaited him there.\n\nCosette had not quitted the Rue Plumet without making an effort at\nresistance. For the first time since they had lived side by side,\nCosette s will and the will of Jean Valjean had proved to be distinct,\nand had been in opposition, at least, if they had not clashed. There\nhad been objections on one side and inflexibility on the other. The\nabrupt advice:  Leave your house,  hurled at Jean Valjean by a\nstranger, had alarmed him to the extent of rendering him peremptory. He\nthought that he had been traced and followed. Cosette had been obliged\nto give way.\n\nBoth had arrived in the Rue de l Homme Arm  without opening their lips,\nand without uttering a word, each being absorbed in his own personal\npreoccupation; Jean Valjean so uneasy that he did not notice Cosette s\nsadness, Cosette so sad that she did not notice Jean Valjean s\nuneasiness.\n\nJean Valjean had taken Toussaint with him, a thing which he had never\ndone in his previous absences. He perceived the possibility of not\nreturning to the Rue Plumet, and he could neither leave Toussaint\nbehind nor confide his secret to her. Besides, he felt that she was\ndevoted and trustworthy. Treachery between master and servant begins in\ncuriosity. Now Toussaint, as though she had been destined to be Jean\nValjean s servant, was not curious. She stammered in her peasant\ndialect of Barneville:  I am made so; I do my work; the rest is no\naffair of mine. \n\n\nIn this departure from the Rue Plumet, which had been almost a flight,\nJean Valjean had carried away nothing but the little embalmed valise,\nbaptized by Cosette  the inseparable.  Full trunks would have required\nporters, and porters are witnesses. A fiacre had been summoned to the\ndoor on the Rue de Babylone, and they had taken their departure.\n\nIt was with difficulty that Toussaint had obtained permission to pack\nup a little linen and clothes and a few toilet articles. Cosette had\ntaken only her portfolio and her blotting-book.\n\nJean Valjean, with a view to augmenting the solitude and the mystery of\nthis departure, had arranged to quit the pavilion of the Rue Plumet\nonly at dusk, which had allowed Cosette time to write her note to\nMarius. They had arrived in the Rue de l Homme Arm  after night had\nfully fallen.\n\nThey had gone to bed in silence.\n\nThe lodgings in the Rue de l Homme Arm  were situated on a back court,\non the second floor, and were composed of two sleeping-rooms, a\ndining-room and a kitchen adjoining the dining-room, with a garret\nwhere there was a folding-bed, and which fell to Toussaint s share. The\ndining-room was an antechamber as well, and separated the two bedrooms.\nThe apartment was provided with all necessary utensils.\n\nPeople re-acquire confidence as foolishly as they lose it; human nature\nis so constituted. Hardly had Jean Valjean reached the Rue de l Homme\nArm  when his anxiety was lightened and by degrees dissipated. There\nare soothing spots which act in some sort mechanically on the mind. An\nobscure street, peaceable inhabitants. Jean Valjean experienced an\nindescribable contagion of tranquillity in that alley of ancient Paris,\nwhich is so narrow that it is barred against carriages by a transverse\nbeam placed on two posts, which is deaf and dumb in the midst of the\nclamorous city, dimly lighted at midday, and is, so to speak, incapable\nof emotions between two rows of lofty houses centuries old, which hold\ntheir peace like ancients as they are. There was a touch of stagnant\noblivion in that street. Jean Valjean drew his breath once more there.\nHow could he be found there?\n\nHis first care was to place _the inseparable_ beside him.\n\nHe slept well. Night brings wisdom; we may add, night soothes. On the\nfollowing morning he awoke in a mood that was almost gay. He thought\nthe dining-room charming, though it was hideous, furnished with an old\nround table, a long sideboard surmounted by a slanting mirror, a\ndilapidated armchair, and several plain chairs which were encumbered\nwith Toussaint s packages. In one of these packages Jean Valjean s\nuniform of a National Guard was visible through a rent.\n\nAs for Cosette, she had had Toussaint take some broth to her room, and\ndid not make her appearance until evening.\n\nAbout five o clock, Toussaint, who was going and coming and busying\nherself with the tiny establishment, set on the table a cold chicken,\nwhich Cosette, out of deference to her father, consented to glance at.\n\nThat done, Cosette, under the pretext of an obstinate sick headache,\nhad bade Jean Valjean good night and had shut herself up in her\nchamber. Jean Valjean had eaten a wing of the chicken with a good\nappetite, and with his elbows on the table, having gradually recovered\nhis serenity, had regained possession of his sense of security.\n\nWhile he was discussing this modest dinner, he had, twice or thrice,\nnoticed in a confused way, Toussaint s stammering words as she said to\nhim:  Monsieur, there is something going on, they are fighting in\nParis.  But absorbed in a throng of inward calculations, he had paid no\nheed to it. To tell the truth, he had not heard her. He rose and began\nto pace from the door to the window and from the window to the door,\ngrowing ever more serene.\n\nWith this calm, Cosette, his sole anxiety, recurred to his thoughts.\nNot that he was troubled by this headache, a little nervous crisis, a\nyoung girl s fit of sulks, the cloud of a moment, there would be\nnothing left of it in a day or two; but he meditated on the future,\nand, as was his habit, he thought of it with pleasure. After all, he\nsaw no obstacle to their happy life resuming its course. At certain\nhours, everything seems impossible, at others everything appears easy;\nJean Valjean was in the midst of one of these good hours. They\ngenerally succeed the bad ones, as day follows night, by virtue of that\nlaw of succession and of contrast which lies at the very foundation of\nnature, and which superficial minds call antithesis. In this peaceful\nstreet where he had taken refuge, Jean Valjean got rid of all that had\nbeen troubling him for some time past. This very fact, that he had seen\nmany shadows, made him begin to perceive a little azure. To have\nquitted the Rue Plumet without complications or incidents was one good\nstep already accomplished. Perhaps it would be wise to go abroad, if\nonly for a few months, and to set out for London. Well, they would go.\nWhat difference did it make to him whether he was in France or in\nEngland, provided he had Cosette beside him? Cosette was his nation.\nCosette sufficed for his happiness; the idea that he, perhaps, did not\nsuffice for Cosette s happiness, that idea which had formerly been the\ncause of his fever and sleeplessness, did not even present itself to\nhis mind. He was in a state of collapse from all his past sufferings,\nand he was fully entered on optimism. Cosette was by his side, she\nseemed to be his; an optical illusion which every one has experienced.\nHe arranged in his own mind, with all sorts of felicitous devices, his\ndeparture for England with Cosette, and he beheld his felicity\nreconstituted wherever he pleased, in the perspective of his reverie.\n\nAs he paced to and fro with long strides, his glance suddenly\nencountered something strange.\n\nIn the inclined mirror facing him which surmounted the sideboard, he\nsaw the four lines which follow: \n\n My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately. We\nshall be this evening in the Rue de l Homme Arm , No. 7. In a week we\nshall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th. \n\n\nJean Valjean halted, perfectly haggard.\n\nCosette on her arrival had placed her blotting-book on the sideboard in\nfront of the mirror, and, utterly absorbed in her agony of grief, had\nforgotten it and left it there, without even observing that she had\nleft it wide open, and open at precisely the page on which she had laid\nto dry the four lines which she had penned, and which she had given in\ncharge of the young workman in the Rue Plumet. The writing had been\nprinted off on the blotter.\n\nThe mirror reflected the writing.\n\nThe result was, what is called in geometry, _the symmetrical image_; so\nthat the writing, reversed on the blotter, was righted in the mirror\nand presented its natural appearance; and Jean Valjean had beneath his\neyes the letter written by Cosette to Marius on the preceding evening.\n\nIt was simple and withering.\n\nJean Valjean stepped up to the mirror. He read the four lines again,\nbut he did not believe them. They produced on him the effect of\nappearing in a flash of lightning. It was a hallucination, it was\nimpossible. It was not so.\n\nLittle by little, his perceptions became more precise; he looked at\nCosette s blotting-book, and the consciousness of the reality returned\nto him. He caught up the blotter and said:  It comes from there.  He\nfeverishly examined the four lines imprinted on the blotter, the\nreversal of the letters converted into an odd scrawl, and he saw no\nsense in it. Then he said to himself:  But this signifies nothing;\nthere is nothing written here.  And he drew a long breath with\ninexpressible relief. Who has not experienced those foolish joys in\nhorrible instants? The soul does not surrender to despair until it has\nexhausted all illusions.\n\nHe held the blotter in his hand and contemplated it in stupid delight,\nalmost ready to laugh at the hallucination of which he had been the\ndupe. All at once his eyes fell upon the mirror again, and again he\nbeheld the vision. There were the four lines outlined with inexorable\nclearness. This time it was no mirage. The recurrence of a vision is a\nreality; it was palpable, it was the writing restored in the mirror. He\nunderstood.\n\nJean Valjean tottered, dropped the blotter, and fell into the old\narmchair beside the buffet, with drooping head, and glassy eyes, in\nutter bewilderment. He told himself that it was plain, that the light\nof the world had been eclipsed forever, and that Cosette had written\nthat to some one. Then he heard his soul, which had become terrible\nonce more, give vent to a dull roar in the gloom. Try then the effect\nof taking from the lion the dog which he has in his cage!\n\nStrange and sad to say, at that very moment, Marius had not yet\nreceived Cosette s letter; chance had treacherously carried it to Jean\nValjean before delivering it to Marius. Up to that day, Jean Valjean\nhad not been vanquished by trial. He had been subjected to fearful\nproofs; no violence of bad fortune had been spared him; the ferocity of\nfate, armed with all vindictiveness and all social scorn, had taken him\nfor her prey and had raged against him. He had accepted every extremity\nwhen it had been necessary; he had sacrificed his inviolability as a\nreformed man, had yielded up his liberty, risked his head, lost\neverything, suffered everything, and he had remained disinterested and\nstoical to such a point that he might have been thought to be absent\nfrom himself like a martyr. His conscience inured to every assault of\ndestiny, might have appeared to be forever impregnable. Well, any one\nwho had beheld his spiritual self would have been obliged to concede\nthat it weakened at that moment. It was because, of all the tortures\nwhich he had undergone in the course of this long inquisition to which\ndestiny had doomed him, this was the most terrible. Never had such\npincers seized him hitherto. He felt the mysterious stirring of all his\nlatent sensibilities. He felt the plucking at the strange chord. Alas!\nthe supreme trial, let us say rather, the only trial, is the loss of\nthe beloved being.\n\nPoor old Jean Valjean certainly did not love Cosette otherwise than as\na father; but we have already remarked, above, that into this paternity\nthe widowhood of his life had introduced all the shades of love; he\nloved Cosette as his daughter, and he loved her as his mother, and he\nloved her as his sister; and, as he had never had either a woman to\nlove or a wife, as nature is a creditor who accepts no protest, that\nsentiment also, the most impossible to lose, was mingled with the rest,\nvague, ignorant, pure with the purity of blindness, unconscious,\ncelestial, angelic, divine; less like a sentiment than like an\ninstinct, less like an instinct than like an imperceptible and\ninvisible but real attraction; and love, properly speaking, was, in his\nimmense tenderness for Cosette, like the thread of gold in the\nmountain, concealed and virgin.\n\nLet the reader recall the situation of heart which we have already\nindicated. No marriage was possible between them; not even that of\nsouls; and yet, it is certain that their destinies were wedded. With\nthe exception of Cosette, that is to say, with the exception of a\nchildhood, Jean Valjean had never, in the whole of his long life, known\nanything of that which may be loved. The passions and loves which\nsucceed each other had not produced in him those successive green\ngrowths, tender green or dark green, which can be seen in foliage which\npasses through the winter and in men who pass fifty. In short, and we\nhave insisted on it more than once, all this interior fusion, all this\nwhole, of which the sum total was a lofty virtue, ended in rendering\nJean Valjean a father to Cosette. A strange father, forged from the\ngrandfather, the son, the brother, and the husband, that existed in\nJean Valjean; a father in whom there was included even a mother; a\nfather who loved Cosette and adored her, and who held that child as his\nlight, his home, his family, his country, his paradise.\n\nThus when he saw that the end had absolutely come, that she was\nescaping from him, that she was slipping from his hands, that she was\ngliding from him, like a cloud, like water, when he had before his eyes\nthis crushing proof:  another is the goal of her heart, another is the\nwish of her life; there is a dearest one, I am no longer anything but\nher father, I no longer exist ; when he could no longer doubt, when he\nsaid to himself:  She is going away from me!  the grief which he felt\nsurpassed the bounds of possibility. To have done all that he had done\nfor the purpose of ending like this! And the very idea of being\nnothing! Then, as we have just said, a quiver of revolt ran through him\nfrom head to foot. He felt, even in the very roots of his hair, the\nimmense reawakening of egotism, and the _I_ in this man s abyss howled.\n\nThere is such a thing as the sudden giving way of the inward subsoil. A\ndespairing certainty does not make its way into a man without thrusting\naside and breaking certain profound elements which, in some cases, are\nthe very man himself. Grief, when it attains this shape, is a headlong\nflight of all the forces of the conscience. These are fatal crises. Few\namong us emerge from them still like ourselves and firm in duty. When\nthe limit of endurance is overstepped, the most imperturbable virtue is\ndisconcerted. Jean Valjean took the blotter again, and convinced\nhimself afresh; he remained bowed and as though petrified and with\nstaring eyes, over those four unobjectionable lines; and there arose\nwithin him such a cloud that one might have thought that everything in\nthis soul was crumbling away.\n\nHe examined this revelation, athwart the exaggerations of reverie, with\nan apparent and terrifying calmness, for it is a fearful thing when a\nman s calmness reaches the coldness of the statue.\n\nHe measured the terrible step which his destiny had taken without his\nhaving a suspicion of the fact; he recalled his fears of the preceding\nsummer, so foolishly dissipated; he recognized the precipice, it was\nstill the same; only, Jean Valjean was no longer on the brink, he was\nat the bottom of it.\n\nThe unprecedented and heart-rending thing about it was that he had\nfallen without perceiving it. All the light of his life had departed,\nwhile he still fancied that he beheld the sun.\n\nHis instinct did not hesitate. He put together certain circumstances,\ncertain dates, certain blushes and certain pallors on Cosette s part,\nand he said to himself:  It is he. \n\n\nThe divination of despair is a sort of mysterious bow which never\nmisses its aim. He struck Marius with his first conjecture. He did not\nknow the name, but he found the man instantly. He distinctly perceived,\nin the background of the implacable conjuration of his memories, the\nunknown prowler of the Luxembourg, that wretched seeker of love\nadventures, that idler of romance, that idiot, that coward, for it is\ncowardly to come and make eyes at young girls who have beside them a\nfather who loves them.\n\nAfter he had thoroughly verified the fact that this young man was at\nthe bottom of this situation, and that everything proceeded from that\nquarter, he, Jean Valjean, the regenerated man, the man who had so\nlabored over his soul, the man who had made so many efforts to resolve\nall life, all misery, and all unhappiness into love, looked into his\nown breast and there beheld a spectre, Hate.\n\nGreat griefs contain something of dejection. They discourage one with\nexistence. The man into whom they enter feels something within him\nwithdraw from him. In his youth, their visits are lugubrious; later on\nthey are sinister. Alas, if despair is a fearful thing when the blood\nis hot, when the hair is black, when the head is erect on the body like\nthe flame on the torch, when the roll of destiny still retains its full\nthickness, when the heart, full of desirable love, still possesses\nbeats which can be returned to it, when one has time for redress, when\nall women and all smiles and all the future and all the horizon are\nbefore one, when the force of life is complete, what is it in old age,\nwhen the years hasten on, growing ever paler, to that twilight hour\nwhen one begins to behold the stars of the tomb?\n\nWhile he was meditating, Toussaint entered. Jean Valjean rose and asked\nher: \n\n In what quarter is it? Do you know? \n\n\nToussaint was struck dumb, and could only answer him: \n\n What is it, sir? \n\n\nJean Valjean began again:  Did you not tell me that just now that there\nis fighting going on? \n\n\n Ah! yes, sir,  replied Toussaint.  It is in the direction of\nSaint-Merry. \n\n\nThere is a mechanical movement which comes to us, unconsciously, from\nthe most profound depths of our thought. It was, no doubt, under the\nimpulse of a movement of this sort, and of which he was hardly\nconscious, that Jean Valjean, five minutes later, found himself in the\nstreet.\n\nBareheaded, he sat upon the stone post at the door of his house. He\nseemed to be listening.\n\nNight had come.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE STREET URCHIN AN ENEMY OF LIGHT\n\n\nHow long did he remain thus? What was the ebb and flow of this tragic\nmeditation? Did he straighten up? Did he remain bowed? Had he been bent\nto breaking? Could he still rise and regain his footing in his\nconscience upon something solid? He probably would not have been able\nto tell himself.\n\nThe street was deserted. A few uneasy bourgeois, who were rapidly\nreturning home, hardly saw him. Each one for himself in times of peril.\nThe lamp-lighter came as usual to light the lantern which was situated\nprecisely opposite the door of No. 7, and then went away. Jean Valjean\nwould not have appeared like a living man to any one who had examined\nhim in that shadow. He sat there on the post of his door, motionless as\na form of ice. There is congealment in despair. The alarm bells and a\nvague and stormy uproar were audible. In the midst of all these\nconvulsions of the bell mingled with the revolt, the clock of\nSaint-Paul struck eleven, gravely and without haste; for the tocsin is\nman; the hour is God. The passage of the hour produced no effect on\nJean Valjean; Jean Valjean did not stir. Still, at about that moment, a\nbrusque report burst forth in the direction of the Halles, a second yet\nmore violent followed; it was probably that attack on the barricade in\nthe Rue de la Chanvrerie which we have just seen repulsed by Marius. At\nthis double discharge, whose fury seemed augmented by the stupor of the\nnight, Jean Valjean started; he rose, turning towards the quarter\nwhence the noise proceeded; then he fell back upon the post again,\nfolded his arms, and his head slowly sank on his bosom again.\n\nHe resumed his gloomy dialogue with himself.\n\nAll at once, he raised his eyes; some one was walking in the street, he\nheard steps near him. He looked, and by the light of the lanterns, in\nthe direction of the street which ran into the Rue-aux-Archives, he\nperceived a young, livid, and beaming face.\n\nGavroche had just arrived in the Rue de l Homme Arm .\n\nGavroche was staring into the air, apparently in search of something.\nHe saw Jean Valjean perfectly well but he took no notice of him.\n\nGavroche after staring into the air, stared below; he raised himself on\ntiptoe, and felt of the doors and windows of the ground floor; they\nwere all shut, bolted, and padlocked. After having authenticated the\nfronts of five or six barricaded houses in this manner, the urchin\nshrugged his shoulders, and took himself to task in these terms: \n\n Pardi! \n\n\nThen he began to stare into the air again.\n\nJean Valjean, who, an instant previously, in his then state of mind,\nwould not have spoken to or even answered any one, felt irresistibly\nimpelled to accost that child.\n\n What is the matter with you, my little fellow?  he said.\n\n The matter with me is that I am hungry,  replied Gavroche frankly. And\nhe added:  Little fellow yourself. \n\n\nJean Valjean fumbled in his fob and pulled out a five-franc piece.\n\nBut Gavroche, who was of the wagtail species, and who skipped\nvivaciously from one gesture to another, had just picked up a stone. He\nhad caught sight of the lantern.\n\n See here,  said he,  you still have your lanterns here. You are\ndisobeying the regulations, my friend. This is disorderly. Smash that\nfor me. \n\n\nAnd he flung the stone at the lantern, whose broken glass fell with\nsuch a clatter that the bourgeois in hiding behind their curtains in\nthe opposite house cried:  There is  Ninety-three  come again. \n\n\nThe lantern oscillated violently, and went out. The street had suddenly\nbecome black.\n\n That s right, old street,  ejaculated Gavroche,  put on your\nnight-cap. \n\n\nAnd turning to Jean Valjean: \n\n What do you call that gigantic monument that you have there at the end\nof the street? It s the Archives, isn t it? I must crumble up those big\nstupids of pillars a bit and make a nice barricade out of them. \n\n\nJean Valjean stepped up to Gavroche.\n\n Poor creature,  he said in a low tone, and speaking to himself,  he is\nhungry. \n\n\nAnd he laid the hundred-sou piece in his hand.\n\nGavroche raised his face, astonished at the size of this sou; he stared\nat it in the darkness, and the whiteness of the big sou dazzled him. He\nknew five-franc pieces by hearsay; their reputation was agreeable to\nhim; he was delighted to see one close to. He said: \n\n Let us contemplate the tiger. \n\n\nHe gazed at it for several minutes in ecstasy; then, turning to Jean\nValjean, he held out the coin to him, and said majestically to him: \n\n Bourgeois, I prefer to smash lanterns. Take back your ferocious beast.\nYou can t bribe me. That has got five claws; but it doesn t scratch\nme. \n\n\n Have you a mother?  asked Jean Valjean.\n\nGavroche replied: \n\n More than you have, perhaps. \n\n\n Well,  returned Jean Valjean,  keep the money for your mother! \n\n\nGavroche was touched. Moreover, he had just noticed that the man who\nwas addressing him had no hat, and this inspired him with confidence.\n\n Truly,  said he,  so it wasn t to keep me from breaking the lanterns? \n\n\n Break whatever you please. \n\n\n You re a fine man,  said Gavroche.\n\nAnd he put the five-franc piece into one of his pockets.\n\nHis confidence having increased, he added: \n\n Do you belong in this street? \n\n\n Yes, why? \n\n\n Can you tell me where No. 7 is? \n\n\n What do you want with No. 7? \n\n\nHere the child paused, he feared that he had said too much; he thrust\nhis nails energetically into his hair and contented himself with\nreplying: \n\n Ah! Here it is. \n\n\nAn idea flashed through Jean Valjean s mind. Anguish does have these\ngleams. He said to the lad: \n\n Are you the person who is bringing a letter that I am expecting? \n\n\n You?  said Gavroche.  You are not a woman. \n\n\n The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, is it not? \n\n\n Cosette,  muttered Gavroche.  Yes, I believe that is the queer name. \n\n\n Well,  resumed Jean Valjean,  I am the person to whom you are to\ndeliver the letter. Give it here. \n\n\n In that case, you must know that I was sent from the barricade. \n\n\n Of course,  said Jean Valjean.\n\nGavroche engulfed his hand in another of his pockets and drew out a\npaper folded in four.\n\nThen he made the military salute.\n\n Respect for despatches,  said he.  It comes from the Provisional\nGovernment. \n\n\n Give it to me,  said Jean Valjean.\n\nGavroche held the paper elevated above his head.\n\n Don t go and fancy it s a love letter. It is for a woman, but it s for\nthe people. We men fight and we respect the fair sex. We are not as\nthey are in fine society, where there are lions who send chickens55 to\ncamels. \n\n\n Give it to me. \n\n\n After all,  continued Gavroche,  you have the air of an honest man. \n\n\n Give it to me quick. \n\n\n Catch hold of it. \n\n\nAnd he handed the paper to Jean Valjean.\n\n And make haste, Monsieur What s-your-name, for Mamselle Cosette is\nwaiting. \n\n\nGavroche was satisfied with himself for having produced this remark.\n\nJean Valjean began again: \n\n Is it to Saint-Merry that the answer is to be sent? \n\n\n There you are making some of those bits of pastry vulgarly called\n_brioches_ [blunders]. This letter comes from the barricade of the Rue\nde la Chanvrerie, and I m going back there. Good evening, citizen. \n\n\nThat said, Gavroche took himself off, or, to describe it more exactly,\nfluttered away in the direction whence he had come with a flight like\nthat of an escaped bird. He plunged back into the gloom as though he\nmade a hole in it, with the rigid rapidity of a projectile; the alley\nof l Homme Arm  became silent and solitary once more; in a twinkling,\nthat strange child, who had about him something of the shadow and of\nthe dream, had buried himself in the mists of the rows of black houses,\nand was lost there, like smoke in the dark; and one might have thought\nthat he had dissipated and vanished, had there not taken place, a few\nminutes after his disappearance, a startling shiver of glass, and had\nnot the magnificent crash of a lantern rattling down on the pavement\nonce more abruptly awakened the indignant bourgeois. It was Gavroche\nupon his way through the Rue du Chaume.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III WHILE COSETTE AND TOUSSAINT ARE ASLEEP\n\n\nJean Valjean went into the house with Marius  letter.\n\nHe groped his way up the stairs, as pleased with the darkness as an owl\nwho grips his prey, opened and shut his door softly, listened to see\nwhether he could hear any noise, made sure that, to all appearances,\nCosette and Toussaint were asleep, and plunged three or four matches\ninto the bottle of the Fumade lighter before he could evoke a spark, so\ngreatly did his hand tremble. What he had just done smacked of theft.\nAt last the candle was lighted; he leaned his elbows on the table,\nunfolded the paper, and read.\n\nIn violent emotions, one does not read, one flings to the earth, so to\nspeak, the paper which one holds, one clutches it like a victim, one\ncrushes it, one digs into it the nails of one s wrath, or of one s joy;\none hastens to the end, one leaps to the beginning; attention is at\nfever heat; it takes up in the gross, as it were, the essential points;\nit seizes on one point, and the rest disappears. In Marius  note to\nCosette, Jean Valjean saw only these words: \n\n I die. When thou readest this, my soul will be near thee. \n\n\nIn the presence of these two lines, he was horribly dazzled; he\nremained for a moment, crushed, as it were, by the change of emotion\nwhich was taking place within him, he stared at Marius  note with a\nsort of intoxicated amazement, he had before his eyes that splendor,\nthe death of a hated individual.\n\nHe uttered a frightful cry of inward joy. So it was all over. The\ncatastrophe had arrived sooner than he had dared to hope. The being who\nobstructed his destiny was disappearing. That man had taken himself off\nof his own accord, freely, willingly. This man was going to his death,\nand he, Jean Valjean, had had no hand in the matter, and it was through\nno fault of his. Perhaps, even, he is already dead. Here his fever\nentered into calculations. No, he is not dead yet. The letter had\nevidently been intended for Cosette to read on the following morning;\nafter the two discharges that were heard between eleven o clock and\nmidnight, nothing more has taken place; the barricade will not be\nattacked seriously until daybreak; but that makes no difference, from\nthe moment when  that man  is concerned in this war, he is lost; he is\ncaught in the gearing. Jean Valjean felt himself delivered. So he was\nabout to find himself alone with Cosette once more. The rivalry would\ncease; the future was beginning again. He had but to keep this note in\nhis pocket. Cosette would never know what had become of that man. All\nthat there requires to be done is to let things take their own course.\nThis man cannot escape. If he is not already dead, it is certain that\nhe is about to die. What good fortune!\n\nHaving said all this to himself, he became gloomy.\n\nThen he went downstairs and woke up the porter.\n\nAbout an hour later, Jean Valjean went out in the complete costume of a\nNational Guard, and with his arms. The porter had easily found in the\nneighborhood the wherewithal to complete his equipment. He had a loaded\ngun and a cartridge-box filled with cartridges.\n\nHe strode off in the direction of the markets.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV GAVROCHE S EXCESS OF ZEAL\n\n\nIn the meantime, Gavroche had had an adventure.\n\nGavroche, after having conscientiously stoned the lantern in the Rue du\nChaume, entered the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, and not seeing  even\na cat  there, he thought the opportunity a good one to strike up all\nthe song of which he was capable. His march, far from being retarded by\nhis singing, was accelerated by it. He began to sow along the sleeping\nor terrified houses these incendiary couplets: \n\n L oiseau m dit dans les charmilles,\nEt pr tend qu hier Atala\nAvec un Russe s en alla.\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Mon ami Pierrot, tu babilles,\nParce que l autre jour Mila\nCogna sa vitre et m appela,\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Les dr lesses sont fort gentilles,\nLeur poison qui m ensorcela\nGriserait Monsieur Orfila.\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n J aime l amour et les bisbilles,\nJ aime Agn s, j aime Pam la,\nLise en m allumant se br la.\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Jadis, quand je vis les mantilles\nDe Suzette et de Z ila,\nMon  me   leurs plis se m la,\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Amour, quand dans l ombre o  tu brilles,\nTu coiffes de roses Lola,\nJe me damnerais pour cela.\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Jeanne   ton miroir tu t habilles!\nMon c ur un beau jour s envola.\nJe crois que c est Jeanne qui l a.\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Le soir, en sortant des quadrilles,\nJe montre aux  toiles Stella,\nEt je leur dis:  Regardez-la. \nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la. 56\n\n\nGavroche, as he sang, was lavish of his pantomime. Gesture is the\nstrong point of the refrain. His face, an inexhaustible repertory of\nmasks, produced grimaces more convulsing and more fantastic than the\nrents of a cloth torn in a high gale. Unfortunately, as he was alone,\nand as it was night, this was neither seen nor even visible. Such\nwastes of riches do occur.\n\nAll at once, he stopped short.\n\n Let us interrupt the romance,  said he.\n\nHis feline eye had just descried, in the recess of a carriage door,\nwhat is called in painting, an _ensemble_, that is to say, a person and\na thing; the thing was a hand-cart, the person was a man from Auvergene\nwho was sleeping therein.\n\nThe shafts of the cart rested on the pavement, and the Auvergnat s head\nwas supported against the front of the cart. His body was coiled up on\nthis inclined plane and his feet touched the ground.\n\nGavroche, with his experience of the things of this world, recognized a\ndrunken man. He was some corner errand-man who had drunk too much and\nwas sleeping too much.\n\n There now,  thought Gavroche,  that s what the summer nights are good\nfor. We ll take the cart for the Republic, and leave the Auvergnat for\nthe Monarchy. \n\n\nHis mind had just been illuminated by this flash of light: \n\n How bully that cart would look on our barricade! \n\n\nThe Auvergnat was snoring.\n\nGavroche gently tugged at the cart from behind, and at the Auvergnat\nfrom the front, that is to say, by the feet, and at the expiration of\nanother minute the imperturbable Auvergnat was reposing flat on the\npavement.\n\nThe cart was free.\n\nGavroche, habituated to facing the unexpected in all quarters, had\neverything about him. He fumbled in one of his pockets, and pulled from\nit a scrap of paper and a bit of red pencil filched from some\ncarpenter.\n\nHe wrote: \n\n_ French Republic. _\n\n Received thy cart. \n\nAnd he signed it:   GAVROCHE. \n\n\nThat done, he put the paper in the pocket of the still snoring\nAuvergnat s velvet vest, seized the cart shafts in both hands, and set\noff in the direction of the Halles, pushing the cart before him at a\nhard gallop with a glorious and triumphant uproar.\n\nThis was perilous. There was a post at the Royal Printing\nEstablishment. Gavroche did not think of this. This post was occupied\nby the National Guards of the suburbs. The squad began to wake up, and\nheads were raised from camp beds. Two street lanterns broken in\nsuccession, that ditty sung at the top of the lungs. This was a great\ndeal for those cowardly streets, which desire to go to sleep at sunset,\nand which put the extinguisher on their candles at such an early hour.\nFor the last hour, that boy had been creating an uproar in that\npeaceable arrondissement, the uproar of a fly in a bottle. The sergeant\nof the banlieue lent an ear. He waited. He was a prudent man.\n\nThe mad rattle of the cart, filled to overflowing the possible measure\nof waiting, and decided the sergeant to make a reconnaisance.\n\n There s a whole band of them there!  said he,  let us proceed gently. \n\n\nIt was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from its box and\nthat it was stalking abroad through the quarter.\n\nAnd the sergeant ventured out of the post with cautious tread.\n\nAll at once, Gavroche, pushing his cart in front of him, and at the\nvery moment when he was about to turn into the Rue des\nVieilles-Haudriettes, found himself face to face with a uniform, a\nshako, a plume, and a gun.\n\nFor the second time, he stopped short.\n\n Hullo,  said he,  it s him. Good day, public order. \n\n\nGavroche s amazement was always brief and speedily thawed.\n\n Where are you going, you rascal?  shouted the sergeant.\n\n Citizen,  retorted Gavroche,  I haven t called you  bourgeois  yet.\nWhy do you insult me? \n\n\n Where are you going, you rogue? \n\n\n Monsieur,  retorted Gavroche,  perhaps you were a man of wit\nyesterday, but you have degenerated this morning. \n\n\n I ask you where are you going, you villain? \n\n\nGavroche replied: \n\n You speak prettily. Really, no one would suppose you as old as you\nare. You ought to sell all your hair at a hundred francs apiece. That\nwould yield you five hundred francs. \n\n\n Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going,\nbandit? \n\n\nGavroche retorted again: \n\n What villainous words! You must wipe your mouth better the first time\nthat they give you suck. \n\n\nThe sergeant lowered his bayonet.\n\n Will you tell me where you are going, you wretch? \n\n\n General,  said Gavroche  I m on my way to look for a doctor for my\nwife who is in labor. \n\n\n To arms!  shouted the sergeant.\n\nThe master-stroke of strong men consists in saving themselves by the\nvery means that have ruined them; Gavroche took in the whole situation\nat a glance. It was the cart which had told against him, it was the\ncart s place to protect him.\n\nAt the moment when the sergeant was on the point of making his descent\non Gavroche, the cart, converted into a projectile and launched with\nall the latter s might, rolled down upon him furiously, and the\nsergeant, struck full in the stomach, tumbled over backwards into the\ngutter while his gun went off in the air.\n\nThe men of the post had rushed out pell-mell at the sergeant s shout;\nthe shot brought on a general random discharge, after which they\nreloaded their weapons and began again.\n\nThis blind-man s-buff musketry lasted for a quarter of an hour and\nkilled several panes of glass.\n\nIn the meanwhile, Gavroche, who had retraced his steps at full speed,\nhalted five or six streets distant and seated himself, panting, on the\nstone post which forms the corner of the Enfants-Rouges.\n\nHe listened.\n\nAfter panting for a few minutes, he turned in the direction where the\nfusillade was raging, lifted his left hand to a level with his nose and\nthrust it forward three times, as he slapped the back of his head with\nhis right hand; an imperious gesture in which Parisian street-urchindom\nhas condensed French irony, and which is evidently efficacious, since\nit has already lasted half a century.\n\nThis gayety was troubled by one bitter reflection.\n\n Yes,  said he,  I m splitting with laughter, I m twisting with\ndelight, I abound in joy, but I m losing my way, I shall have to take a\nroundabout way. If I only reach the barricade in season! \n\n\nThereupon he set out again on a run.\n\nAnd as he ran: \n\n Ah, by the way, where was I?  said he.\n\nAnd he resumed his ditty, as he plunged rapidly through the streets,\nand this is what died away in the gloom: \n\n Mais il reste encore des bastilles,\nEt je vais mettre le hol \nDans l ordre public que voil .\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Quelqu un veut-il jouer aux quilles?\nTout l ancien monde s croula\nQuand la grosse boule roula.\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Vieux bon peuple,   coups de b quilles,\nCassons ce Louvre o  s tala\nLa monarchie en falbala.\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la.\n\n Nous en avons forc  les grilles,\nLe roi Charles-Dix ce jour-l ,\nTenait mal et se d colla.\nO  vont les belles filles,\nLon la. 57\n\n\nThe post s recourse to arms was not without result. The cart was\nconquered, the drunken man was taken prisoner. The first was put in the\npound, the second was later on somewhat harassed before the councils of\nwar as an accomplice. The public ministry of the day proved its\nindefatigable zeal in the defence of society, in this instance.\n\nGavroche s adventure, which has lingered as a tradition in the quarters\nof the Temple, is one of the most terrible souvenirs of the elderly\nbourgeois of the Marais, and is entitled in their memories:  The\nnocturnal attack by the post of the Royal Printing Establishment. \n\n\n[THE END OF VOLUME IV  SAINT DENIS ]\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME V\nJEAN VALJEAN\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Frontispiece Volume Five]\n\n[Illustration: Titlepage Volume Five]\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIRST THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE CHARYBDIS OF THE FAUBOURG SAINT ANTOINE AND THE SCYLLA OF\nTHE FAUBOURG DU TEMPLE\n\n\nThe two most memorable barricades which the observer of social maladies\ncan name do not belong to the period in which the action of this work\nis laid. These two barricades, both of them symbols, under two\ndifferent aspects, of a redoubtable situation, sprang from the earth at\nthe time of the fatal insurrection of June, 1848, the greatest war of\nthe streets that history has ever beheld.\n\nIt sometimes happens that, even contrary to principles, even contrary\nto liberty, equality, and fraternity, even contrary to the universal\nvote, even contrary to the government, by all for all, from the depths\nof its anguish, of its discouragements and its destitutions, of its\nfevers, of its distresses, of its miasmas, of its ignorances, of its\ndarkness, that great and despairing body, the rabble, protests against,\nand that the populace wages battle against, the people.\n\nBeggars attack the common right; the ochlocracy rises against demos.\n\nThese are melancholy days; for there is always a certain amount of\nnight even in this madness, there is suicide in this duel, and those\nwords which are intended to be insults beggars, canaille, ochlocracy,\npopulace exhibit, alas! rather the fault of those who reign than the\nfault of those who suffer; rather the fault of the privileged than the\nfault of the disinherited.\n\nFor our own part, we never pronounce those words without pain and\nwithout respect, for when philosophy fathoms the facts to which they\ncorrespond, it often finds many a grandeur beside these miseries.\nAthens was an ochlocracy; the beggars were the making of Holland; the\npopulace saved Rome more than once; and the rabble followed Jesus\nChrist.\n\nThere is no thinker who has not at times contemplated the magnificences\nof the lower classes.\n\nIt was of this rabble that Saint Jerome was thinking, no doubt, and of\nall these poor people and all these vagabonds and all these miserable\npeople whence sprang the apostles and the martyrs, when he uttered this\nmysterious saying: _ Fex urbis, lex orbis, _ the dregs of the city, the\nlaw of the earth.\n\nThe exasperations of this crowd which suffers and bleeds, its violences\ncontrary to all sense, directed against the principles which are its\nlife, its masterful deeds against the right, are its popular _coups\nd tat_ and should be repressed. The man of probity sacrifices himself,\nand out of his very love for this crowd, he combats it. But how\nexcusable he feels it even while holding out against it! How he\nvenerates it even while resisting it! This is one of those rare moments\nwhen, while doing that which it is one s duty to do, one feels\nsomething which disconcerts one, and which would dissuade one from\nproceeding further; one persists, it is necessary, but conscience,\nthough satisfied, is sad, and the accomplishment of duty is complicated\nwith a pain at the heart.\n\nJune, 1848, let us hasten to say, was an exceptional fact, and almost\nimpossible of classification, in the philosophy of history. All the\nwords which we have just uttered, must be discarded, when it becomes a\nquestion of this extraordinary revolt, in which one feels the holy\nanxiety of toil claiming its rights. It was necessary to combat it, and\nthis was a duty, for it attacked the republic. But what was June, 1848,\nat bottom? A revolt of the people against itself.\n\nWhere the subject is not lost sight of, there is no digression; may we,\nthen, be permitted to arrest the reader s attention for a moment on the\ntwo absolutely unique barricades of which we have just spoken and which\ncharacterized this insurrection.\n\nOne blocked the entrance to the Faubourg Saint Antoine; the other\ndefended the approach to the Faubourg du Temple; those before whom\nthese two fearful masterpieces of civil war reared themselves beneath\nthe brilliant blue sky of June, will never forget them.\n\nThe Saint-Antoine barricade was tremendous; it was three stories high,\nand seven hundred feet wide. It barred the vast opening of the\nfaubourg, that is to say, three streets, from angle to angle; ravined,\njagged, cut up, divided, crenelated, with an immense rent, buttressed\nwith piles that were bastions in themselves throwing out capes here and\nthere, powerfully backed up by two great promontories of houses of the\nfaubourg, it reared itself like a cyclopean dike at the end of the\nformidable place which had seen the 14th of July. Nineteen barricades\nwere ranged, one behind the other, in the depths of the streets behind\nthis principal barricade. At the very sight of it, one felt the\nagonizing suffering in the immense faubourg, which had reached that\npoint of extremity when a distress may become a catastrophe. Of what\nwas that barricade made? Of the ruins of three six-story houses\ndemolished expressly, said some. Of the prodigy of all wraths, said\nothers. It wore the lamentable aspect of all constructions of hatred,\nruin. It might be asked: Who built this? It might also be said: Who\ndestroyed this? It was the improvisation of the ebullition. Hold! take\nthis door! this grating! this penthouse! this chimney-piece! this\nbroken brazier! this cracked pot! Give all! cast away all! Push this\nroll, dig, dismantle, overturn, ruin everything! It was the\ncollaboration of the pavement, the block of stone, the beam, the bar of\niron, the rag, the scrap, the broken pane, the unseated chair, the\ncabbage-stalk, the tatter, the rag, and the malediction. It was grand\nand it was petty. It was the abyss parodied on the public place by\nhubbub. The mass beside the atom; the strip of ruined wall and the\nbroken bowl, threatening fraternization of every sort of rubbish.\nSisyphus had thrown his rock there and Job his potsherd. Terrible, in\nshort. It was the acropolis of the barefooted. Overturned carts broke\nthe uniformity of the slope; an immense dray was spread out there\ncrossways, its axle pointing heavenward, and seemed a scar on that\ntumultuous fa ade; an omnibus hoisted gayly, by main force, to the very\nsummit of the heap, as though the architects of this bit of savagery\nhad wished to add a touch of the street urchin humor to their terror,\npresented its horseless, unharnessed pole to no one knows what horses\nof the air. This gigantic heap, the alluvium of the revolt, figured to\nthe mind an Ossa on Pelion of all revolutions;  93 on  89, the 9th of\nThermidor on the 10th of August, the 18th of Brumaire on the 11th of\nJanuary, Vendemiaire on Prairial, 1848 on 1830. The situation deserved\nthe trouble and this barricade was worthy to figure on the very spot\nwhence the Bastille had disappeared. If the ocean made dikes, it is\nthus that it would build. The fury of the flood was stamped upon this\nshapeless mass. What flood? The crowd. One thought one beheld hubbub\npetrified. One thought one heard humming above this barricade as though\nthere had been over their hive, enormous, dark bees of violent\nprogress. Was it a thicket? Was it a bacchanalia? Was it a fortress?\nVertigo seemed to have constructed it with blows of its wings. There\nwas something of the cesspool in that redoubt and something Olympian in\nthat confusion. One there beheld in a pell-mell full of despair, the\nrafters of roofs, bits of garret windows with their figured paper,\nwindow sashes with their glass planted there in the ruins awaiting the\ncannon, wrecks of chimneys, cupboards, tables, benches, howling\ntopsyturveydom, and those thousand poverty-stricken things, the very\nrefuse of the mendicant, which contain at the same time fury and\nnothingness. One would have said that it was the tatters of a people,\nrags of wood, of iron, of bronze, of stone, and that the Faubourg Saint\nAntoine had thrust it there at its door, with a colossal flourish of\nthe broom making of its misery its barricade. Blocks resembling\nheadsman s blocks, dislocated chains, pieces of woodwork with brackets\nhaving the form of gibbets, horizontal wheels projecting from the\nrubbish, amalgamated with this edifice of anarchy the sombre figure of\nthe old tortures endured by the people. The barricade Saint Antoine\nconverted everything into a weapon; everything that civil war could\nthrow at the head of society proceeded thence; it was not combat, it\nwas a paroxysm; the carbines which defended this redoubt, among which\nthere were some blunderbusses, sent bits of earthenware bones,\ncoat-buttons, even the casters from night-stands, dangerous projectiles\non account of the brass. This barricade was furious; it hurled to the\nclouds an inexpressible clamor; at certain moments, when provoking the\narmy, it was covered with throngs and tempest; a tumultuous crowd of\nflaming heads crowned it; a swarm filled it; it had a thorny crest of\nguns, of sabres, of cudgels, of axes, of pikes and of bayonets; a vast\nred flag flapped in the wind; shouts of command, songs of attack, the\nroll of drums, the sobs of women and bursts of gloomy laughter from the\nstarving were to be heard there. It was huge and living, and, like the\nback of an electric beast, there proceeded from it little flashes of\nlightning. The spirit of revolution covered with its cloud this summit\nwhere rumbled that voice of the people which resembles the voice of\nGod; a strange majesty was emitted by this titanic basket of rubbish.\nIt was a heap of filth and it was Sinai.\n\nAs we have said previously, it attacked in the name of the\nrevolution what? The revolution. It that barricade, chance, hazard,\ndisorder, terror, misunderstanding, the unknown had facing it the\nConstituent Assembly, the sovereignty of the people, universal\nsuffrage, the nation, the republic; and it was the Carmagnole bidding\ndefiance to the Marseillaise.\n\nImmense but heroic defiance, for the old faubourg is a hero.\n\nThe faubourg and its redoubt lent each other assistance. The faubourg\nshouldered the redoubt, the redoubt took its stand under cover of the\nfaubourg. The vast barricade spread out like a cliff against which the\nstrategy of the African generals dashed itself. Its caverns, its\nexcrescences, its warts, its gibbosities, grimaced, so to speak, and\ngrinned beneath the smoke. The mitraille vanished in shapelessness; the\nbombs plunged into it; bullets only succeeded in making holes in it;\nwhat was the use of cannonading chaos? and the regiments, accustomed to\nthe fiercest visions of war, gazed with uneasy eyes on that species of\nredoubt, a wild beast in its boar-like bristling and a mountain by its\nenormous size.\n\nA quarter of a league away, from the corner of the Rue du Temple which\ndebouches on the boulevard near the Ch teau-d Eau, if one thrust one s\nhead bodily beyond the point formed by the front of the Dallemagne\nshop, one perceived in the distance, beyond the canal, in the street\nwhich mounts the slopes of Belleville at the culminating point of the\nrise, a strange wall reaching to the second story of the house fronts,\na sort of hyphen between the houses on the right and the houses on the\nleft, as though the street had folded back on itself its loftiest wall\nin order to close itself abruptly. This wall was built of\npaving-stones. It was straight, correct, cold, perpendicular, levelled\nwith the square, laid out by rule and line. Cement was lacking, of\ncourse, but, as in the case of certain Roman walls, without interfering\nwith its rigid architecture. The entablature was mathematically\nparallel with the base. From distance to distance, one could\ndistinguish on the gray surface, almost invisible loopholes which\nresembled black threads. These loopholes were separated from each other\nby equal spaces. The street was deserted as far as the eye could reach.\nAll windows and doors were closed. In the background rose this barrier,\nwhich made a blind thoroughfare of the street, a motionless and\ntranquil wall; no one was visible, nothing was audible; not a cry, not\na sound, not a breath. A sepulchre.\n\nThe dazzling sun of June inundated this terrible thing with light.\n\nIt was the barricade of the Faubourg of the Temple.\n\nAs soon as one arrived on the spot, and caught sight of it, it was\nimpossible, even for the boldest, not to become thoughtful before this\nmysterious apparition. It was adjusted, jointed, imbricated,\nrectilinear, symmetrical and funereal. Science and gloom met there. One\nfelt that the chief of this barricade was a geometrician or a spectre.\nOne looked at it and spoke low.\n\nFrom time to time, if some soldier, an officer or representative of the\npeople, chanced to traverse the deserted highway, a faint, sharp\nwhistle was heard, and the passer-by fell dead or wounded, or, if he\nescaped the bullet, sometimes a bisca en was seen to ensconce itself in\nsome closed shutter, in the interstice between two blocks of stone, or\nin the plaster of a wall. For the men in the barricade had made\nthemselves two small cannons out of two cast-iron lengths of gas-pipe,\nplugged up at one end with tow and fire-clay. There was no waste of\nuseless powder. Nearly every shot told. There were corpses here and\nthere, and pools of blood on the pavement. I remember a white butterfly\nwhich went and came in the street. Summer does not abdicate.\n\nIn the neighborhood, the spaces beneath the portes-coch res were\nencumbered with wounded.\n\nOne felt oneself aimed at by some person whom one did not see, and one\nunderstood that guns were levelled at the whole length of the street.\n\nMassed behind the sort of sloping ridge which the vaulted canal forms\nat the entrance to the Faubourg du Temple, the soldiers of the\nattacking column, gravely and thoughtfully, watched this dismal\nredoubt, this immobility, this passivity, whence sprang death. Some\ncrawled flat on their faces as far as the crest of the curve of the\nbridge, taking care that their shakos did not project beyond it.\n\nThe valiant Colonel Monteynard admired this barricade with a\nshudder. How that is built!  he said to a Representative.  Not one\npaving-stone projects beyond its neighbor. It is made of porcelain. At\nthat moment, a bullet broke the cross on his breast, and he fell.\n\n The cowards!  people said.  Let them show themselves. Let us see them!\nThey dare not! They are hiding! \n\n\nThe barricade of the Faubourg du Temple, defended by eighty men,\nattacked by ten thousand, held out for three days. On the fourth, they\ndid as at Zaatcha, as at Constantine, they pierced the houses, they\ncame over the roofs, the barricade was taken. Not one of the eighty\ncowards thought of flight, all were killed there with the exception of\nthe leader, Barth lemy, of whom we shall speak presently.\n\nThe Saint-Antoine barricade was the tumult of thunders; the barricade\nof the Temple was silence. The difference between these two redoubts\nwas the difference between the formidable and the sinister. One seemed\na maw; the other a mask.\n\nAdmitting that the gigantic and gloomy insurrection of June was\ncomposed of a wrath and of an enigma, one divined in the first\nbarricade the dragon, and behind the second the sphinx.\n\nThese two fortresses had been erected by two men named, the one,\nCournet, the other, Barth lemy. Cournet made the Saint-Antoine\nbarricade; Barth lemy the barricade of the Temple. Each was the image\nof the man who had built it.\n\nCournet was a man of lofty stature; he had broad shoulders, a red face,\na crushing fist, a bold heart, a loyal soul, a sincere and terrible\neye. Intrepid, energetic, irascible, stormy; the most cordial of men,\nthe most formidable of combatants. War, strife, conflict, were the very\nair he breathed and put him in a good humor. He had been an officer in\nthe navy, and, from his gestures and his voice, one divined that he\nsprang from the ocean, and that he came from the tempest; he carried\nthe hurricane on into battle. With the exception of the genius, there\nwas in Cournet something of Danton, as, with the exception of the\ndivinity, there was in Danton something of Hercules.\n\nBarth lemy, thin, feeble, pale, taciturn, was a sort of tragic street\nurchin, who, having had his ears boxed by a policeman, lay in wait for\nhim, and killed him, and at seventeen was sent to the galleys. He came\nout and made this barricade.\n\nLater on, fatal circumstance, in London, proscribed by all, Barth lemy\nslew Cournet. It was a funereal duel. Some time afterwards, caught in\nthe gearing of one of those mysterious adventures in which passion\nplays a part, a catastrophe in which French justice sees extenuating\ncircumstances, and in which English justice sees only death, Barth lemy\nwas hanged. The sombre social construction is so made that, thanks to\nmaterial destitution, thanks to moral obscurity, that unhappy being who\npossessed an intelligence, certainly firm, possibly great, began in\nFrance with the galleys, and ended in England with the gallows.\nBarth lemy, on occasion, flew but one flag, the black flag.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II WHAT IS TO BE DONE IN THE ABYSS IF ONE DOES NOT CONVERSE\n\n\nSixteen years count in the subterranean education of insurrection, and\nJune, 1848, knew a great deal more about it than June, 1832. So the\nbarricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was only an outline, and an\nembryo compared to the two colossal barricades which we have just\nsketched; but it was formidable for that epoch.\n\nThe insurgents under the eye of Enjolras, for Marius no longer looked\nafter anything, had made good use of the night. The barricade had been\nnot only repaired, but augmented. They had raised it two feet. Bars of\niron planted in the pavement resembled lances in rest. All sorts of\nrubbish brought and added from all directions complicated the external\nconfusion. The redoubt had been cleverly made over, into a wall on the\ninside and a thicket on the outside.\n\nThe staircase of paving-stones which permitted one to mount it like the\nwall of a citadel had been reconstructed.\n\nThe barricade had been put in order, the tap-room disencumbered, the\nkitchen appropriated for the ambulance, the dressing of the wounded\ncompleted, the powder scattered on the ground and on the tables had\nbeen gathered up, bullets run, cartridges manufactured, lint scraped,\nthe fallen weapons re-distributed, the interior of the redoubt cleaned,\nthe rubbish swept up, corpses removed.\n\nThey laid the dead in a heap in the Mond tour lane, of which they were\nstill the masters. The pavement was red for a long time at that spot.\nAmong the dead there were four National Guardsmen of the suburbs.\nEnjolras had their uniforms laid aside.\n\nEnjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras was a\ncommand. Still, only three or four took advantage of it.\n\nFeuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription on the\nwall which faced the tavern: \n\nLONG LIVE THE PEOPLES!\n\nThese four words, hollowed out in the rough stone with a nail, could be\nstill read on the wall in 1848.\n\nThe three women had profited by the respite of the night to vanish\ndefinitely; which allowed the insurgents to breathe more freely.\n\nThey had found means of taking refuge in some neighboring house.\n\nThe greater part of the wounded were able, and wished, to fight still.\nOn a litter of mattresses and trusses of straw in the kitchen, which\nhad been converted into an ambulance, there were five men gravely\nwounded, two of whom were municipal guardsmen. The municipal guardsmen\nwere attended to first.\n\nIn the tap-room there remained only Mabeuf under his black cloth and\nJavert bound to his post.\n\n This is the hall of the dead,  said Enjolras.\n\nIn the interior of this hall, barely lighted by a candle at one end,\nthe mortuary table being behind the post like a horizontal bar, a sort\nof vast, vague cross resulted from Javert erect and Mabeuf lying prone.\n\nThe pole of the omnibus, although snapped off by the fusillade, was\nstill sufficiently upright to admit of their fastening the flag to it.\n\nEnjolras, who possessed that quality of a leader, of always doing what\nhe said, attached to this staff the bullet-ridden and bloody coat of\nthe old man s.\n\nNo repast had been possible. There was neither bread nor meat. The\nfifty men in the barricade had speedily exhausted the scanty provisions\nof the wine-shop during the sixteen hours which they had passed there.\nAt a given moment, every barricade inevitably becomes the raft of _la\nM duse_. They were obliged to resign themselves to hunger. They had\nthen reached the first hours of that Spartan day of the 6th of June\nwhen, in the barricade Saint-Merry, Jeanne, surrounded by the\ninsurgents who demanded bread, replied to all combatants crying:\n Something to eat!  with:  Why? It is three o clock; at four we shall\nbe dead. \n\n\nAs they could no longer eat, Enjolras forbade them to drink. He\ninterdicted wine, and portioned out the brandy.\n\nThey had found in the cellar fifteen full bottles hermetically sealed.\nEnjolras and Combeferre examined them. Combeferre when he came up again\nsaid: It s the old stock of Father Hucheloup, who began business as a\ngrocer. It must be real wine,  observed Bossuet.  It s lucky that\nGrantaire is asleep. If he were on foot, there would be a good deal of\ndifficulty in saving those bottles. Enjolras, in spite of all murmurs,\nplaced his veto on the fifteen bottles, and, in order that no one might\ntouch them, he had them placed under the table on which Father Mabeuf\nwas lying.\n\nAbout two o clock in the morning, they reckoned up their strength.\nThere were still thirty-seven of them.\n\nThe day began to dawn. The torch, which had been replaced in its cavity\nin the pavement, had just been extinguished. The interior of the\nbarricade, that species of tiny courtyard appropriated from the street,\nwas bathed in shadows, and resembled, athwart the vague, twilight\nhorror, the deck of a disabled ship. The combatants, as they went and\ncame, moved about there like black forms. Above that terrible\nnesting-place of gloom the stories of the mute houses were lividly\noutlined; at the very top, the chimneys stood palely out. The sky was\nof that charming, undecided hue, which may be white and may be blue.\nBirds flew about in it with cries of joy. The lofty house which formed\nthe back of the barricade, being turned to the East, had upon its roof\na rosy reflection. The morning breeze ruffled the gray hair on the head\nof the dead man at the third-story window.\n\n I am delighted that the torch has been extinguished,  said Courfeyrac\nto Feuilly.  That torch flickering in the wind annoyed me. It had the\nappearance of being afraid. The light of torches resembles the wisdom\nof cowards; it gives a bad light because it trembles. \n\n\nDawn awakens minds as it does the birds; all began to talk.\n\nJoly, perceiving a cat prowling on a gutter, extracted philosophy from\nit.\n\n What is the cat?  he exclaimed.  It is a corrective. The good God,\nhaving made the mouse, said:  Hullo! I have committed a blunder.  And\nso he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse. The mouse,\nplus the cat, is the proof of creation revised and corrected. \n\n\nCombeferre, surrounded by students and artisans, was speaking of the\ndead, of Jean Prouvaire, of Bahorel, of Mabeuf, and even of Cabuc, and\nof Enjolras  sad severity. He said: \n\n Harmodius and Aristogiton, Brutus, Chereas, Stephanus, Cromwell,\nCharlotte Corday, Sand, have all had their moment of agony when it was\ntoo late. Our hearts quiver so, and human life is such a mystery that,\neven in the case of a civic murder, even in a murder for liberation, if\nthere be such a thing, the remorse for having struck a man surpasses\nthe joy of having served the human race. \n\n\nAnd, such are the windings of the exchange of speech, that, a moment\nlater, by a transition brought about through Jean Prouvaire s verses,\nCombeferre was comparing the translators of the Georgics, Raux with\nCournand, Cournand with Delille, pointing out the passages translated\nby Malfil tre, particularly the prodigies of C sar s death; and at that\nword, C sar, the conversation reverted to Brutus.\n\n C sar,  said Combeferre,  fell justly. Cicero was severe towards\nC sar, and he was right. That severity is not diatribe. When Zo lus\ninsults Homer, when M vius insults Virgil, when Vis  insults Moli re,\nwhen Pope insults Shakspeare, when Frederic insults Voltaire, it is an\nold law of envy and hatred which is being carried out; genius attracts\ninsult, great men are always more or less barked at. But Zo lus and\nCicero are two different persons. Cicero is an arbiter in thought, just\nas Brutus is an arbiter by the sword. For my own part, I blame that\nlast justice, the blade; but, antiquity admitted it. C sar, the\nviolator of the Rubicon, conferring, as though they came from him, the\ndignities which emanated from the people, not rising at the entrance of\nthe senate, committed the acts of a king and almost of a tyrant, _regia\nac pene tyrannica_. He was a great man; so much the worse, or so much\nthe better; the lesson is but the more exalted. His twenty-three wounds\ntouch me less than the spitting in the face of Jesus Christ. C sar is\nstabbed by the senators; Christ is cuffed by lackeys. One feels the God\nthrough the greater outrage. \n\n\nBossuet, who towered above the interlocutors from the summit of a heap\nof paving-stones, exclaimed, rifle in hand: \n\n Oh Cydathen um, Oh Myrrhinus, Oh Probalinthus, Oh graces of the\n antides! Oh! Who will grant me to pronounce the verses of Homer like a\nGreek of Laurium or of Edapteon? \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III LIGHT AND SHADOW\n\n\nEnjolras had been to make a reconnaissance. He had made his way out\nthrough Mond tour lane, gliding along close to the houses.\n\nThe insurgents, we will remark, were full of hope. The manner in which\nthey had repulsed the attack of the preceding night had caused them to\nalmost disdain in advance the attack at dawn. They waited for it with a\nsmile. They had no more doubt as to their success than as to their\ncause. Moreover, succor was, evidently, on the way to them. They\nreckoned on it. With that facility of triumphant prophecy which is one\nof the sources of strength in the French combatant, they divided the\nday which was at hand into three distinct phases. At six o clock in the\nmorning a regiment  which had been labored with,  would turn; at noon,\nthe insurrection of all Paris; at sunset, revolution.\n\nThey heard the alarm bell of Saint-Merry, which had not been silent for\nan instant since the night before; a proof that the other barricade,\nthe great one, Jeanne s, still held out.\n\nAll these hopes were exchanged between the different groups in a sort\nof gay and formidable whisper which resembled the warlike hum of a hive\nof bees.\n\nEnjolras reappeared. He returned from his sombre eagle flight into\nouter darkness. He listened for a moment to all this joy with folded\narms, and one hand on his mouth. Then, fresh and rosy in the growing\nwhiteness of the dawn, he said:\n\n The whole army of Paris is to strike. A third of the army is bearing\ndown upon the barricades in which you now are. There is the National\nGuard in addition. I have picked out the shakos of the fifth of the\nline, and the standard-bearers of the sixth legion. In one hour you\nwill be attacked. As for the populace, it was seething yesterday,\nto-day it is not stirring. There is nothing to expect; nothing to hope\nfor. Neither from a faubourg nor from a regiment. You are abandoned. \n\n\nThese words fell upon the buzzing of the groups, and produced on them\nthe effect caused on a swarm of bees by the first drops of a storm. A\nmoment of indescribable silence ensued, in which death might have been\nheard flitting by.\n\nThis moment was brief.\n\nA voice from the obscurest depths of the groups shouted to Enjolras:\n\n So be it. Let us raise the barricade to a height of twenty feet, and\nlet us all remain in it. Citizens, let us offer the protests of\ncorpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans, the\nrepublicans do not abandon the people. \n\n\nThese words freed the thought of all from the painful cloud of\nindividual anxieties. It was hailed with an enthusiastic acclamation.\n\nNo one ever has known the name of the man who spoke thus; he was some\nunknown blouse-wearer, a stranger, a man forgotten, a passing hero,\nthat great anonymous, always mingled in human crises and in social\ngeneses who, at a given moment, utters in a supreme fashion the\ndecisive word, and who vanishes into the shadows after having\nrepresented for a minute, in a lightning flash, the people and God.\n\nThis inexorable resolution so thoroughly impregnated the air of the 6th\nof June, 1832, that, almost at the very same hour, on the barricade\nSaint-Merry, the insurgents were raising that clamor which has become a\nmatter of history and which has been consigned to the documents in the\ncase: What matters it whether they come to our assistance or not? Let\nus get ourselves killed here, to the very last man. \n\n\nAs the reader sees, the two barricades, though materially isolated,\nwere in communication with each other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV MINUS FIVE, PLUS ONE\n\n\nAfter the man who decreed the  protest of corpses  had spoken, and had\ngiven this formula of their common soul, there issued from all mouths a\nstrangely satisfied and terrible cry, funereal in sense and triumphant\nin tone:\n\n Long live death! Let us all remain here! \n\n\n Why all?  said Enjolras.\n\n All! All! \n\n\nEnjolras resumed:\n\n The position is good; the barricade is fine. Thirty men are enough.\nWhy sacrifice forty? \n\n\nThey replied:\n\n Because not one will go away. \n\n\n Citizens,  cried Enjolras, and there was an almost irritated vibration\nin his voice,  this republic is not rich enough in men to indulge in\nuseless expenditure of them. Vain-glory is waste. If the duty of some\nis to depart, that duty should be fulfilled like any other. \n\n\nEnjolras, the man-principle, had over his co-religionists that sort of\nomnipotent power which emanates from the absolute. Still, great as was\nthis omnipotence, a murmur arose. A leader to the very finger-tips,\nEnjolras, seeing that they murmured, insisted. He resumed haughtily:\n\n Let those who are afraid of not numbering more than thirty say so. \n\n\nThe murmurs redoubled.\n\n Besides,  observed a voice in one group,  it is easy enough to talk\nabout leaving. The barricade is hemmed in. \n\n\n Not on the side of the Halles,  said Enjolras.  The Rue Mond tour is\nfree, and through the Rue des Pr cheurs one can reach the March  des\nInnocents. \n\n\n And there,  went on another voice,  you would be captured. You would\nfall in with some grand guard of the line or the suburbs; they will spy\na man passing in blouse and cap.  Whence come you?   Don t you belong\nto the barricade?  And they will look at your hands. You smell of\npowder. Shot. \n\n\nEnjolras, without making any reply, touched Combeferre s shoulder, and\nthe two entered the tap-room.\n\nThey emerged thence a moment later. Enjolras held in his outstretched\nhands the four uniforms which he had laid aside. Combeferre followed,\ncarrying the shoulder-belts and the shakos.\n\n With this uniform,  said Enjolras,  you can mingle with the ranks and\nescape; here is enough for four.  And he flung on the ground, deprived\nof its pavement, the four uniforms.\n\nNo wavering took place in his stoical audience. Combeferre took the\nword.\n\n Come,  said he,  you must have a little pity. Do you know what the\nquestion is here? It is a question of women. See here. Are there women\nor are there not? Are there children or are there not? Are there\nmothers, yes or no, who rock cradles with their foot and who have a lot\nof little ones around them? Let that man of you who has never beheld a\nnurse s breast raise his hand. Ah! you want to get yourselves killed,\nso do I I, who am speaking to you; but I do not want to feel the\nphantoms of women wreathing their arms around me. Die, if you will, but\ndon t make others die. Suicides like that which is on the brink of\naccomplishment here are sublime; but suicide is narrow, and does not\nadmit of extension; and as soon as it touches your neighbors, suicide\nis murder. Think of the little blond heads; think of the white locks.\nListen, Enjolras has just told me that he saw at the corner of the Rue\ndu Cygne a lighted casement, a candle in a poor window, on the fifth\nfloor, and on the pane the quivering shadow of the head of an old\nwoman, who had the air of having spent the night in watching. Perhaps\nshe is the mother of some one of you. Well, let that man go, and make\nhaste, to say to his mother:  Here I am, mother!  Let him feel at ease,\nthe task here will be performed all the same. When one supports one s\nrelatives by one s toil, one has not the right to sacrifice one s self.\nThat is deserting one s family. And those who have daughters! what are\nyou thinking of? You get yourselves killed, you are dead, that is well.\nAnd tomorrow? Young girls without bread that is a terrible thing. Man\nbegs, woman sells. Ah! those charming and gracious beings, so gracious\nand so sweet, who have bonnets of flowers, who fill the house with\npurity, who sing and prattle, who are like a living perfume, who prove\nthe existence of angels in heaven by the purity of virgins on earth,\nthat Jeanne, that Lise, that Mimi, those adorable and honest creatures\nwho are your blessings and your pride, ah! good God, they will suffer\nhunger! What do you want me to say to you? There is a market for human\nflesh; and it is not with your shadowy hands, shuddering around them,\nthat you will prevent them from entering it! Think of the street, think\nof the pavement covered with passers-by, think of the shops past which\nwomen go and come with necks all bare, and through the mire. These\nwomen, too, were pure once. Think of your sisters, those of you who\nhave them. Misery, prostitution, the police, Saint-Lazare that is what\nthose beautiful, delicate girls, those fragile marvels of modesty,\ngentleness and loveliness, fresher than lilacs in the month of May,\nwill come to. Ah! you have got yourselves killed! You are no longer on\nhand! That is well; you have wished to release the people from Royalty,\nand you deliver over your daughters to the police. Friends, have a\ncare, have mercy. Women, unhappy women, we are not in the habit of\nbestowing much thought on them. We trust to the women not having\nreceived a man s education, we prevent their reading, we prevent their\nthinking, we prevent their occupying themselves with politics; will you\nprevent them from going to the dead-house this evening, and recognizing\nyour bodies? Let us see, those who have families must be tractable, and\nshake hands with us and take themselves off, and leave us here alone to\nattend to this affair. I know well that courage is required to leave,\nthat it is hard; but the harder it is, the more meritorious. You say:\n I have a gun, I am at the barricade; so much the worse, I shall remain\nthere.  So much the worse is easily said. My friends, there is a\nmorrow; you will not be here to-morrow, but your families will; and\nwhat sufferings! See, here is a pretty, healthy child, with cheeks like\nan apple, who babbles, prattles, chatters, who laughs, who smells sweet\nbeneath your kiss, and do you know what becomes of him when he is\nabandoned? I have seen one, a very small creature, no taller than that.\nHis father was dead. Poor people had taken him in out of charity, but\nthey had bread only for themselves. The child was always hungry. It was\nwinter. He did not cry. You could see him approach the stove, in which\nthere was never any fire, and whose pipe, you know, was of mastic and\nyellow clay. His breathing was hoarse, his face livid, his limbs\nflaccid, his belly prominent. He said nothing. If you spoke to him, he\ndid not answer. He is dead. He was taken to the Necker Hospital, where\nI saw him. I was house-surgeon in that hospital. Now, if there are any\nfathers among you, fathers whose happiness it is to stroll on Sundays\nholding their child s tiny hand in their robust hand, let each one of\nthose fathers imagine that this child is his own. That poor brat, I\nremember, and I seem to see him now, when he lay nude on the dissecting\ntable, how his ribs stood out on his skin like the graves beneath the\ngrass in a cemetery. A sort of mud was found in his stomach. There were\nashes in his teeth. Come, let us examine ourselves conscientiously and\ntake counsel with our heart. Statistics show that the mortality among\nabandoned children is fifty-five per cent. I repeat, it is a question\nof women, it concerns mothers, it concerns young girls, it concerns\nlittle children. Who is talking to you of yourselves? We know well what\nyou are; we know well that you are all brave, parbleu! we know well\nthat you all have in your souls the joy and the glory of giving your\nlife for the great cause; we know well that you feel yourselves elected\nto die usefully and magnificently, and that each one of you clings to\nhis share in the triumph. Very well. But you are not alone in this\nworld. There are other beings of whom you must think. You must not be\negoists. \n\n\nAll dropped their heads with a gloomy air.\n\nStrange contradictions of the human heart at its most sublime moments.\nCombeferre, who spoke thus, was not an orphan. He recalled the mothers\nof other men, and forgot his own. He was about to get himself killed.\nHe was  an egoist. \n\n\nMarius, fasting, fevered, having emerged in succession from all hope,\nand having been stranded in grief, the most sombre of shipwrecks, and\nsaturated with violent emotions and conscious that the end was near,\nhad plunged deeper and deeper into that visionary stupor which always\nprecedes the fatal hour voluntarily accepted.\n\nA physiologist might have studied in him the growing symptoms of that\nfebrile absorption known to, and classified by, science, and which is\nto suffering what voluptuousness is to pleasure. Despair, also, has its\necstasy. Marius had reached this point. He looked on at everything as\nfrom without; as we have said, things which passed before him seemed\nfar away; he made out the whole, but did not perceive the details. He\nbeheld men going and coming as through a flame. He heard voices\nspeaking as at the bottom of an abyss.\n\nBut this moved him. There was in this scene a point which pierced and\nroused even him. He had but one idea now, to die; and he did not wish\nto be turned aside from it, but he reflected, in his gloomy\nsomnambulism, that while destroying himself, he was not prohibited from\nsaving some one else.\n\nHe raised his voice.\n\n Enjolras and Combeferre are right,  said he;  no unnecessary\nsacrifice. I join them, and you must make haste. Combeferre has said\nconvincing things to you. There are some among you who have families,\nmothers, sisters, wives, children. Let such leave the ranks. \n\n\nNo one stirred.\n\n Married men and the supporters of families, step out of the ranks! \nrepeated Marius.\n\nHis authority was great. Enjolras was certainly the head of the\nbarricade, but Marius was its savior.\n\n I order it,  cried Enjolras.\n\n I entreat you,  said Marius.\n\nThen, touched by Combeferre s words, shaken by Enjolras  order, touched\nby Marius  entreaty, these heroic men began to denounce each other. It\nis true,  said one young man to a full grown man,  you are the father\nof a family. Go. It is your duty rather,  retorted the man,  you have\ntwo sisters whom you maintain. And an unprecedented controversy broke\nforth. Each struggled to determine which should not allow himself to be\nplaced at the door of the tomb.\n\n Make haste,  said Courfeyrac,  in another quarter of an hour it will\nbe too late. \n\n\n Citizens,  pursued Enjolras,  this is the Republic, and universal\nsuffrage reigns. Do you yourselves designate those who are to go. \n\n\nThey obeyed. After the expiration of a few minutes, five were\nunanimously selected and stepped out of the ranks.\n\n There are five of them!  exclaimed Marius.\n\nThere were only four uniforms.\n\n Well,  began the five,  one must stay behind. \n\n\nAnd then a struggle arose as to who should remain, and who should find\nreasons for the others not remaining. The generous quarrel began\nafresh.\n\n You have a wife who loves you. You have your aged mother.  You\nhave neither father nor mother, and what is to become of your three\nlittle brothers? You are the father of five children. You have a\nright to live, you are only seventeen, it is too early for you to die. \n\n\nThese great revolutionary barricades were assembling points for\nheroism. The improbable was simple there. These men did not astonish\neach other.\n\n Be quick,  repeated Courfeyrac.\n\nMen shouted to Marius from the groups:\n\n Do you designate who is to remain. \n\n\n Yes,  said the five,  choose. We will obey you. \n\n\nMarius did not believe that he was capable of another emotion. Still,\nat this idea, that of choosing a man for death, his blood rushed back\nto his heart. He would have turned pale, had it been possible for him\nto become any paler.\n\nHe advanced towards the five, who smiled upon him, and each, with his\neyes full of that grand flame which one beholds in the depths of\nhistory hovering over Thermopyl , cried to him:\n\n Me! me! me! \n\n\nAnd Marius stupidly counted them; there were still five of them! Then\nhis glance dropped to the four uniforms.\n\nAt that moment, a fifth uniform fell, as if from heaven, upon the other\nfour.\n\nThe fifth man was saved.\n\nMarius raised his eyes and recognized M. Fauchelevent.\n\nJean Valjean had just entered the barricade.\n\nHe had arrived by way of Mond tour lane, whither by dint of inquiries\nmade, or by instinct, or chance. Thanks to his dress of a National\nGuardsman, he had made his way without difficulty.\n\nThe sentinel stationed by the insurgents in the Rue Mond tour had no\noccasion to give the alarm for a single National Guardsman, and he had\nallowed the latter to entangle himself in the street, saying to\nhimself:  Probably it is a reinforcement, in any case it is a\nprisoner.  The moment was too grave to admit of the sentinel abandoning\nhis duty and his post of observation.\n\nAt the moment when Jean Valjean entered the redoubt, no one had noticed\nhim, all eyes being fixed on the five chosen men and the four uniforms.\nJean Valjean also had seen and heard, and he had silently removed his\ncoat and flung it on the pile with the rest.\n\nThe emotion aroused was indescribable.\n\n Who is this man?  demanded Bossuet.\n\n He is a man who saves others,  replied Combeferre.\n\nMarius added in a grave voice:\n\n I know him. \n\n\nThis guarantee satisfied every one.\n\nEnjolras turned to Jean Valjean.\n\n Welcome, citizen. \n\n\nAnd he added:\n\n You know that we are about to die. \n\n\nJean Valjean, without replying, helped the insurgent whom he was saving\nto don his uniform.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V THE HORIZON WHICH ONE BEHOLDS FROM THE SUMMIT OF A BARRICADE\n\n\nThe situation of all in that fatal hour and that pitiless place, had as\nresult and culminating point Enjolras  supreme melancholy.\n\nEnjolras bore within him the plenitude of the revolution; he was\nincomplete, however, so far as the absolute can be so; he had too much\nof Saint-Just about him, and not enough of Anacharsis Cloots; still,\nhis mind, in the society of the Friends of the A B C, had ended by\nundergoing a certain polarization from Combeferre s ideas; for some\ntime past, he had been gradually emerging from the narrow form of\ndogma, and had allowed himself to incline to the broadening influence\nof progress, and he had come to accept, as a definitive and magnificent\nevolution, the transformation of the great French Republic, into the\nimmense human republic. As far as the immediate means were concerned, a\nviolent situation being given, he wished to be violent; on that point,\nhe never varied; and he remained of that epic and redoubtable school\nwhich is summed up in the words:  Eighty-three.  Enjolras was standing\nerect on the staircase of paving-stones, one elbow resting on the stock\nof his gun. He was engaged in thought; he quivered, as at the passage\nof prophetic breaths; places where death is have these effects of\ntripods. A sort of stifled fire darted from his eyes, which were filled\nwith an inward look. All at once he threw back his head, his blond\nlocks fell back like those of an angel on the sombre quadriga made of\nstars, they were like the mane of a startled lion in the flaming of an\nhalo, and Enjolras cried:\n\n Citizens, do you picture the future to yourselves? The streets of\ncities inundated with light, green branches on the thresholds, nations\nsisters, men just, old men blessing children, the past loving the\npresent, thinkers entirely at liberty, believers on terms of full\nequality, for religion heaven, God the direct priest, human conscience\nbecome an altar, no more hatreds, the fraternity of the workshop and\nthe school, for sole penalty and recompense fame, work for all, right\nfor all, peace over all, no more bloodshed, no more wars, happy\nmothers! To conquer matter is the first step; to realize the ideal is\nthe second. Reflect on what progress has already accomplished.\nFormerly, the first human races beheld with terror the hydra pass\nbefore their eyes, breathing on the waters, the dragon which vomited\nflame, the griffin who was the monster of the air, and who flew with\nthe wings of an eagle and the talons of a tiger; fearful beasts which\nwere above man. Man, nevertheless, spread his snares, consecrated by\nintelligence, and finally conquered these monsters. We have vanquished\nthe hydra, and it is called the locomotive; we are on the point of\nvanquishing the griffin, we already grasp it, and it is called the\nballoon. On the day when this Promethean task shall be accomplished,\nand when man shall have definitely harnessed to his will the triple\nChim ra of antiquity, the hydra, the dragon and the griffin, he will be\nthe master of water, fire, and of air, and he will be for the rest of\nanimated creation that which the ancient gods formerly were to him.\nCourage, and onward! Citizens, whither are we going? To science made\ngovernment, to the force of things become the sole public force, to the\nnatural law, having in itself its sanction and its penalty and\npromulgating itself by evidence, to a dawn of truth corresponding to a\ndawn of day. We are advancing to the union of peoples; we are advancing\nto the unity of man. No more fictions; no more parasites. The real\ngoverned by the true, that is the goal. Civilization will hold its\nassizes at the summit of Europe, and, later on, at the centre of\ncontinents, in a grand parliament of the intelligence. Something\nsimilar has already been seen. The amphictyons had two sittings a year,\none at Delphos the seat of the gods, the other at Thermopyl , the place\nof heroes. Europe will have her amphictyons; the globe will have its\namphictyons. France bears this sublime future in her breast. This is\nthe gestation of the nineteenth century. That which Greece sketched out\nis worthy of being finished by France. Listen to me, you, Feuilly,\nvaliant artisan, man of the people. I revere you. Yes, you clearly\nbehold the future, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor\nmother, Feuilly; you adopted humanity for your mother and right for\nyour father. You are about to die, that is to say to triumph, here.\nCitizens, whatever happens to-day, through our defeat as well as\nthrough our victory, it is a revolution that we are about to create. As\nconflagrations light up a whole city, so revolutions illuminate the\nwhole human race. And what is the revolution that we shall cause? I\nhave just told you, the Revolution of the True. From a political point\nof view, there is but a single principle; the sovereignty of man over\nhimself. This sovereignty of myself over myself is called Liberty.\nWhere two or three of these sovereignties are combined, the state\nbegins. But in that association there is no abdication. Each\nsovereignty concedes a certain quantity of itself, for the purpose of\nforming the common right. This quantity is the same for all of us. This\nidentity of concession which each makes to all, is called Equality.\nCommon right is nothing else than the protection of all beaming on the\nright of each. This protection of all over each is called Fraternity.\nThe point of intersection of all these assembled sovereignties is\ncalled society. This intersection being a junction, this point is a\nknot. Hence what is called the social bond. Some say social contract;\nwhich is the same thing, the word contract being etymologically formed\nwith the idea of a bond. Let us come to an understanding about\nequality; for, if liberty is the summit, equality is the base.\nEquality, citizens, is not wholly a surface vegetation, a society of\ngreat blades of grass and tiny oaks; a proximity of jealousies which\nrender each other null and void; legally speaking, it is all aptitudes\npossessed of the same opportunity; politically, it is all votes\npossessed of the same weight; religiously, it is all consciences\npossessed of the same right. Equality has an organ: gratuitous and\nobligatory instruction. The right to the alphabet, that is where the\nbeginning must be made. The primary school imposed on all, the\nsecondary school offered to all, that is the law. From an identical\nschool, an identical society will spring. Yes, instruction! light!\nlight! everything comes from light, and to it everything returns.\nCitizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century\nwill be happy. Then, there will be nothing more like the history of\nold, we shall no longer, as to-day, have to fear a conquest, an\ninvasion, a usurpation, a rivalry of nations, arms in hand, an\ninterruption of civilization depending on a marriage of kings, on a\nbirth in hereditary tyrannies, a partition of peoples by a congress, a\ndismemberment because of the failure of a dynasty, a combat of two\nreligions meeting face to face, like two bucks in the dark, on the\nbridge of the infinite; we shall no longer have to fear famine, farming\nout, prostitution arising from distress, misery from the failure of\nwork and the scaffold and the sword, and battles and the ruffianism of\nchance in the forest of events. One might almost say: There will be no\nmore events. We shall be happy. The human race will accomplish its law,\nas the terrestrial globe accomplishes its law; harmony will be\nre-established between the soul and the star; the soul will gravitate\naround the truth, as the planet around the light. Friends, the present\nhour in which I am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are\nterrible purchases of the future. A revolution is a toll. Oh! the human\nrace will be delivered, raised up, consoled! We affirm it on this\nbarrier. Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the\nheights of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the point of junction, of\nthose who think and of those who suffer; this barricade is not made of\npaving-stones, nor of joists, nor of bits of iron; it is made of two\nheaps, a heap of ideas, and a heap of woes. Here misery meets the\nideal. The day embraces the night, and says to it:  I am about to die,\nand thou shalt be born again with me.  From the embrace of all\ndesolations faith leaps forth. Sufferings bring hither their agony and\nideas their immortality. This agony and this immortality are about to\njoin and constitute our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the\nradiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the\ndawn. \n\n\nEnjolras paused rather than became silent; his lips continued to move\nsilently, as though he were talking to himself, which caused them all\nto gaze attentively at him, in the endeavor to hear more. There was no\napplause; but they whispered together for a long time. Speech being a\nbreath, the rustling of intelligences resembles the rustling of leaves.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI MARIUS HAGGARD, JAVERT LACONIC\n\n\nLet us narrate what was passing in Marius  thoughts.\n\nLet the reader recall the state of his soul. We have just recalled it,\neverything was a vision to him now. His judgment was disturbed. Marius,\nlet us insist on this point, was under the shadow of the great, dark\nwings which are spread over those in the death agony. He felt that he\nhad entered the tomb, it seemed to him that he was already on the other\nside of the wall, and he no longer beheld the faces of the living\nexcept with the eyes of one dead.\n\nHow did M. Fauchelevent come there? Why was he there? What had he come\nthere to do? Marius did not address all these questions to himself.\nBesides, since our despair has this peculiarity, that it envelops\nothers as well as ourselves, it seemed logical to him that all the\nworld should come thither to die.\n\nOnly, he thought of Cosette with a pang at his heart.\n\nHowever, M. Fauchelevent did not speak to him, did not look at him, and\nhad not even the air of hearing him, when Marius raised his voice to\nsay:  I know him. \n\n\nAs far as Marius was concerned, this attitude of M. Fauchelevent was\ncomforting, and, if such a word can be used for such impressions, we\nshould say that it pleased him. He had always felt the absolute\nimpossibility of addressing that enigmatical man, who was, in his eyes,\nboth equivocal and imposing. Moreover, it had been a long time since he\nhad seen him; and this still further augmented the impossibility for\nMarius  timid and reserved nature.\n\nThe five chosen men left the barricade by way of Mond tour lane; they\nbore a perfect resemblance to members of the National Guard. One of\nthem wept as he took his leave. Before setting out, they embraced those\nwho remained.\n\nWhen the five men sent back to life had taken their departure, Enjolras\nthought of the man who had been condemned to death.\n\nHe entered the tap-room. Javert, still bound to the post, was engaged\nin meditation.\n\n Do you want anything?  Enjolras asked him.\n\nJavert replied:  When are you going to kill me? \n\n\n Wait. We need all our cartridges just at present. \n\n\n Then give me a drink,  said Javert.\n\nEnjolras himself offered him a glass of water, and, as Javert was\npinioned, he helped him to drink.\n\n Is that all?  inquired Enjolras.\n\n I am uncomfortable against this post,  replied Javert.  You are not\ntender to have left me to pass the night here. Bind me as you please,\nbut you surely might lay me out on a table like that other man. \n\n\nAnd with a motion of the head, he indicated the body of M. Mabeuf.\n\nThere was, as the reader will remember, a long, broad table at the end\nof the room, on which they had been running bullets and making\ncartridges. All the cartridges having been made, and all the powder\nused, this table was free.\n\nAt Enjolras  command, four insurgents unbound Javert from the post.\nWhile they were loosing him, a fifth held a bayonet against his breast.\n\nLeaving his arms tied behind his back, they placed about his feet a\nslender but stout whip-cord, as is done to men on the point of mounting\nthe scaffold, which allowed him to take steps about fifteen inches in\nlength, and made him walk to the table at the end of the room, where\nthey laid him down, closely bound about the middle of the body.\n\nBy way of further security, and by means of a rope fastened to his\nneck, they added to the system of ligatures which rendered every\nattempt at escape impossible, that sort of bond which is called in\nprisons a martingale, which, starting at the neck, forks on the\nstomach, and meets the hands, after passing between the legs.\n\nWhile they were binding Javert, a man standing on the threshold was\nsurveying him with singular attention. The shadow cast by this man made\nJavert turn his head. He raised his eyes, and recognized Jean Valjean.\nHe did not even start, but dropped his lids proudly and confined\nhimself to the remark:  It is perfectly simple. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE SITUATION BECOMES AGGRAVATED\n\n\nThe daylight was increasing rapidly. Not a window was opened, not a\ndoor stood ajar; it was the dawn but not the awaking. The end of the\nRue de la Chanvrerie, opposite the barricade, had been evacuated by the\ntroops, as we have stated, it seemed to be free, and presented itself\nto passers-by with a sinister tranquillity. The Rue Saint-Denis was as\ndumb as the avenue of Sphinxes at Thebes. Not a living being in the\ncrossroads, which gleamed white in the light of the sun. Nothing is so\nmournful as this light in deserted streets. Nothing was to be seen, but\nthere was something to be heard. A mysterious movement was going on at\na certain distance. It was evident that the critical moment was\napproaching. As on the previous evening, the sentinels had come in; but\nthis time all had come.\n\nThe barricade was stronger than on the occasion of the first attack.\nSince the departure of the five, they had increased its height still\nfurther.\n\nOn the advice of the sentinel who had examined the region of the\nHalles, Enjolras, for fear of a surprise in the rear, came to a serious\ndecision. He had the small gut of the Mond tour lane, which had been\nleft open up to that time, barricaded. For this purpose, they tore up\nthe pavement for the length of several houses more. In this manner, the\nbarricade, walled on three streets, in front on the Rue de la\nChanvrerie, to the left on the Rues du Cygne and de la Petite\nTruanderie, to the right on the Rue Mond tour, was really almost\nimpregnable; it is true that they were fatally hemmed in there. It had\nthree fronts, but no exit. A fortress but a rat hole too,  said\nCourfeyrac with a laugh.\n\nEnjolras had about thirty paving-stones  torn up in excess,  said\nBossuet, piled up near the door of the wine-shop.\n\nThe silence was now so profound in the quarter whence the attack must\nneeds come, that Enjolras had each man resume his post of battle.\n\nAn allowance of brandy was doled out to each.\n\nNothing is more curious than a barricade preparing for an assault. Each\nman selects his place as though at the theatre. They jostle, and elbow\nand crowd each other. There are some who make stalls of paving-stones.\nHere is a corner of the wall which is in the way, it is removed; here\nis a redan which may afford protection, they take shelter behind it.\nLeft-handed men are precious; they take the places that are\ninconvenient to the rest. Many arrange to fight in a sitting posture.\nThey wish to be at ease to kill, and to die comfortably. In the sad war\nof June, 1848, an insurgent who was a formidable marksman, and who was\nfiring from the top of a terrace upon a roof, had a reclining-chair\nbrought there for his use; a charge of grape-shot found him out there.\n\nAs soon as the leader has given the order to clear the decks for\naction, all disorderly movements cease; there is no more pulling from\none another; there are no more coteries; no more asides, there is no\nmore holding aloof; everything in their spirits converges in, and\nchanges into, a waiting for the assailants. A barricade before the\narrival of danger is chaos; in danger, it is discipline itself. Peril\nproduces order.\n\nAs soon as Enjolras had seized his double-barrelled rifle, and had\nplaced himself in a sort of embrasure which he had reserved for\nhimself, all the rest held their peace. A series of faint, sharp noises\nresounded confusedly along the wall of paving-stones. It was the men\ncocking their guns.\n\nMoreover, their attitudes were prouder, more confident than ever; the\nexcess of sacrifice strengthens; they no longer cherished any hope, but\nthey had despair, despair, the last weapon, which sometimes gives\nvictory; Virgil has said so. Supreme resources spring from extreme\nresolutions. To embark in death is sometimes the means of escaping a\nshipwreck; and the lid of the coffin becomes a plank of safety.\n\nAs on the preceding evening, the attention of all was directed, we\nmight almost say leaned upon, the end of the street, now lighted up and\nvisible.\n\nThey had not long to wait. A stir began distinctly in the Saint-Leu\nquarter, but it did not resemble the movement of the first attack. A\nclashing of chains, the uneasy jolting of a mass, the click of brass\nskipping along the pavement, a sort of solemn uproar, announced that\nsome sinister construction of iron was approaching. There arose a\ntremor in the bosoms of these peaceful old streets, pierced and built\nfor the fertile circulation of interests and ideas, and which are not\nmade for the horrible rumble of the wheels of war.\n\nThe fixity of eye in all the combatants upon the extremity of the\nstreet became ferocious.\n\nA cannon made its appearance.\n\nArtillery-men were pushing the piece; it was in firing trim; the\nfore-carriage had been detached; two upheld the gun-carriage, four were\nat the wheels; others followed with the caisson. They could see the\nsmoke of the burning lint-stock.\n\n Fire!  shouted Enjolras.\n\nThe whole barricade fired, the report was terrible; an avalanche of\nsmoke covered and effaced both cannon and men; after a few seconds, the\ncloud dispersed, and the cannon and men reappeared; the gun-crew had\njust finished rolling it slowly, correctly, without haste, into\nposition facing the barricade. Not one of them had been struck. Then\nthe captain of the piece, bearing down upon the breech in order to\nraise the muzzle, began to point the cannon with the gravity of an\nastronomer levelling a telescope.\n\n Bravo for the cannoneers!  cried Bossuet.\n\nAnd the whole barricade clapped their hands.\n\nA moment later, squarely planted in the very middle of the street,\nastride of the gutter, the piece was ready for action. A formidable\npair of jaws yawned on the barricade.\n\n Come, merrily now!  ejaculated Courfeyrac.  That s the brutal part of\nit. After the fillip on the nose, the blow from the fist. The army is\nreaching out its big paw to us. The barricade is going to be severely\nshaken up. The fusillade tries, the cannon takes. \n\n\n It is a piece of eight, new model, brass,  added Combeferre.  Those\npieces are liable to burst as soon as the proportion of ten parts of\ntin to one hundred of brass is exceeded. The excess of tin renders them\ntoo tender. Then it comes to pass that they have caves and chambers\nwhen looked at from the vent hole. In order to obviate this danger, and\nto render it possible to force the charge, it may become necessary to\nreturn to the process of the fourteenth century, hooping, and to\nencircle the piece on the outside with a series of unwelded steel\nbands, from the breech to the trunnions. In the meantime, they remedy\nthis defect as best they may; they manage to discover where the holes\nare located in the vent of a cannon, by means of a searcher. But there\nis a better method, with Gribeauval s movable star. \n\n\n In the sixteenth century,  remarked Bossuet,  they used to rifle\ncannon. \n\n\n Yes,  replied Combeferre,  that augments the projectile force, but\ndiminishes the accuracy of the firing. In firing at short range, the\ntrajectory is not as rigid as could be desired, the parabola is\nexaggerated, the line of the projectile is no longer sufficiently\nrectilinear to allow of its striking intervening objects, which is,\nnevertheless, a necessity of battle, the importance of which increases\nwith the proximity of the enemy and the precipitation of the discharge.\nThis defect of the tension of the curve of the projectile in the rifled\ncannon of the sixteenth century arose from the smallness of the charge;\nsmall charges for that sort of engine are imposed by the ballistic\nnecessities, such, for instance, as the preservation of the\ngun-carriage. In short, that despot, the cannon, cannot do all that it\ndesires; force is a great weakness. A cannon-ball only travels six\nhundred leagues an hour; light travels seventy thousand leagues a\nsecond. Such is the superiority of Jesus Christ over Napoleon. \n\n\n Reload your guns,  said Enjolras.\n\nHow was the casing of the barricade going to behave under the\ncannon-balls? Would they effect a breach? That was the question. While\nthe insurgents were reloading their guns, the artillery-men were\nloading the cannon.\n\nThe anxiety in the redoubt was profound.\n\nThe shot sped the report burst forth.\n\n Present!  shouted a joyous voice.\n\nAnd Gavroche flung himself into the barricade just as the ball dashed\nagainst it.\n\nHe came from the direction of the Rue du Cygne, and he had nimbly\nclimbed over the auxiliary barricade which fronted on the labyrinth of\nthe Rue de la Petite Truanderie.\n\nGavroche produced a greater sensation in the barricade than the\ncannon-ball.\n\nThe ball buried itself in the mass of rubbish. At the most there was an\nomnibus wheel broken, and the old Anceau cart was demolished. On seeing\nthis, the barricade burst into a laugh.\n\n Go on!  shouted Bossuet to the artillerists.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE ARTILLERY-MEN COMPEL PEOPLE TO TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY\n\n\nThey flocked round Gavroche. But he had no time to tell anything.\nMarius drew him aside with a shudder.\n\n What are you doing here? \n\n\n Hullo!  said the child,  what are you doing here yourself? \n\n\nAnd he stared at Marius intently with his epic effrontery. His eyes\ngrew larger with the proud light within them.\n\nIt was with an accent of severity that Marius continued:\n\n Who told you to come back? Did you deliver my letter at the address? \n\n\nGavroche was not without some compunctions in the matter of that\nletter. In his haste to return to the barricade, he had got rid of it\nrather than delivered it. He was forced to acknowledge to himself that\nhe had confided it rather lightly to that stranger whose face he had\nnot been able to make out. It is true that the man was bareheaded, but\nthat was not sufficient. In short, he had been administering to himself\nlittle inward remonstrances and he feared Marius  reproaches. In order\nto extricate himself from the predicament, he took the simplest course;\nhe lied abominably.\n\n Citizen, I delivered the letter to the porter. The lady was asleep.\nShe will have the letter when she wakes up. \n\n\nMarius had had two objects in sending that letter: to bid farewell to\nCosette and to save Gavroche. He was obliged to content himself with\nthe half of his desire.\n\nThe despatch of his letter and the presence of M. Fauchelevent in the\nbarricade, was a coincidence which occurred to him. He pointed out M.\nFauchelevent to Gavroche.\n\n Do you know that man? \n\n\n No,  said Gavroche.\n\nGavroche had, in fact, as we have just mentioned, seen Jean Valjean\nonly at night.\n\nThe troubled and unhealthy conjectures which had outlined themselves in\nMarius  mind were dissipated. Did he know M. Fauchelevent s opinions?\nPerhaps M. Fauchelevent was a republican. Hence his very natural\npresence in this combat.\n\nIn the meanwhile, Gavroche was shouting, at the other end of the\nbarricade:  My gun! \n\n\nCourfeyrac had it returned to him.\n\nGavroche warned  his comrades  as he called them, that the barricade\nwas blocked. He had had great difficulty in reaching it. A battalion of\nthe line whose arms were piled in the Rue de la Petite Truanderie was\non the watch on the side of the Rue du Cygne; on the opposite side, the\nmunicipal guard occupied the Rue des Pr cheurs. The bulk of the army\nwas facing them in front.\n\nThis information given, Gavroche added:\n\n I authorize you to hit  em a tremendous whack. \n\n\nMeanwhile, Enjolras was straining his ears and watching at his\nembrasure.\n\nThe assailants, dissatisfied, no doubt, with their shot, had not\nrepeated it.\n\nA company of infantry of the line had come up and occupied the end of\nthe street behind the piece of ordnance. The soldiers were tearing up\nthe pavement and constructing with the stones a small, low wall, a sort\nof side-work not more than eighteen inches high, and facing the\nbarricade. In the angle at the left of this epaulement, there was\nvisible the head of the column of a battalion from the suburbs massed\nin the Rue Saint-Denis.\n\nEnjolras, on the watch, thought he distinguished the peculiar sound\nwhich is produced when the shells of grape-shot are drawn from the\ncaissons, and he saw the commander of the piece change the elevation\nand incline the mouth of the cannon slightly to the left. Then the\ncannoneers began to load the piece. The chief seized the lint-stock\nhimself and lowered it to the vent.\n\n Down with your heads, hug the wall!  shouted Enjolras,  and all on\nyour knees along the barricade! \n\n\nThe insurgents who were straggling in front of the wine-shop, and who\nhad quitted their posts of combat on Gavroche s arrival, rushed\npell-mell towards the barricade; but before Enjolras  order could be\nexecuted, the discharge took place with the terrifying rattle of a\nround of grape-shot. This is what it was, in fact.\n\nThe charge had been aimed at the cut in the redoubt, and had there\nrebounded from the wall; and this terrible rebound had produced two\ndead and three wounded.\n\nIf this were continued, the barricade was no longer tenable. The\ngrape-shot made its way in.\n\nA murmur of consternation arose.\n\n Let us prevent the second discharge,  said Enjolras.\n\nAnd, lowering his rifle, he took aim at the captain of the gun, who, at\nthat moment, was bearing down on the breach of his gun and rectifying\nand definitely fixing its pointing.\n\nThe captain of the piece was a handsome sergeant of artillery, very\nyoung, blond, with a very gentle face, and the intelligent air peculiar\nto that predestined and redoubtable weapon which, by dint of perfecting\nitself in horror, must end in killing war.\n\nCombeferre, who was standing beside Enjolras, scrutinized this young\nman.\n\n What a pity!  said Combeferre.  What hideous things these butcheries\nare! Come, when there are no more kings, there will be no more war.\nEnjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant, you are not looking at\nhim. Fancy, he is a charming young man; he is intrepid; it is evident\nthat he is thoughtful; those young artillery-men are very well\neducated; he has a father, a mother, a family; he is probably in love;\nhe is not more than five and twenty at the most; he might be your\nbrother. \n\n\n He is,  said Enjolras.\n\n Yes,  replied Combeferre,  he is mine too. Well, let us not kill him. \n\n\n Let me alone. It must be done. \n\n\nAnd a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras  marble cheek.\n\nAt the same moment, he pressed the trigger of his rifle. The flame\nleaped forth. The artillery-man turned round twice, his arms extended\nin front of him, his head uplifted, as though for breath, then he fell\nwith his side on the gun, and lay there motionless. They could see his\nback, from the centre of which there flowed directly a stream of blood.\nThe ball had traversed his breast from side to side. He was dead.\n\nHe had to be carried away and replaced by another. Several minutes were\nthus gained, in fact.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX EMPLOYMENT OF THE OLD TALENTS OF A POACHER AND THAT\nINFALLIBLE MARKSMANSHIP WHICH INFLUENCED THE CONDEMNATION OF 1796\n\n\nOpinions were exchanged in the barricade. The firing from the gun was\nabout to begin again. Against that grape-shot, they could not hold out\na quarter of an hour longer. It was absolutely necessary to deaden the\nblows.\n\nEnjolras issued this command:\n\n We must place a mattress there. \n\n\n We have none,  said Combeferre,  the wounded are lying on them. \n\n\nJean Valjean, who was seated apart on a stone post, at the corner of\nthe tavern, with his gun between his knees, had, up to that moment,\ntaken no part in anything that was going on. He did not appear to hear\nthe combatants saying around him:  Here is a gun that is doing\nnothing. \n\n\nAt the order issued by Enjolras, he rose.\n\nIt will be remembered that, on the arrival of the rabble in the Rue de\nla Chanvrerie, an old woman, foreseeing the bullets, had placed her\nmattress in front of her window. This window, an attic window, was on\nthe roof of a six-story house situated a little beyond the barricade.\nThe mattress, placed cross-wise, supported at the bottom on two poles\nfor drying linen, was upheld at the top by two ropes, which, at that\ndistance, looked like two threads, and which were attached to two nails\nplanted in the window frames. These ropes were distinctly visible, like\nhairs, against the sky.\n\n Can some one lend me a double-barrelled rifle?  said Jean Valjean.\n\nEnjolras, who had just re-loaded his, handed it to him.\n\nJean Valjean took aim at the attic window and fired.\n\nOne of the mattress ropes was cut.\n\nThe mattress now hung by one thread only.\n\nJean Valjean fired the second charge. The second rope lashed the panes\nof the attic window. The mattress slipped between the two poles and\nfell into the street.\n\nThe barricade applauded.\n\nAll voices cried:\n\n Here is a mattress! \n\n\n Yes,  said Combeferre,  but who will go and fetch it? \n\n\nThe mattress had, in fact, fallen outside the barricade, between\nbesiegers and besieged. Now, the death of the sergeant of artillery\nhaving exasperated the troop, the soldiers had, for several minutes,\nbeen lying flat on their stomachs behind the line of paving-stones\nwhich they had erected, and, in order to supply the forced silence of\nthe piece, which was quiet while its service was in course of\nreorganization, they had opened fire on the barricade. The insurgents\ndid not reply to this musketry, in order to spare their ammunition. The\nfusillade broke against the barricade; but the street, which it filled,\nwas terrible.\n\nJean Valjean stepped out of the cut, entered the street, traversed the\nstorm of bullets, walked up to the mattress, hoisted it upon his back,\nand returned to the barricade.\n\nHe placed the mattress in the cut with his own hands. He fixed it there\nagainst the wall in such a manner that the artillery-men should not see\nit.\n\nThat done, they awaited the next discharge of grape-shot.\n\nIt was not long in coming.\n\nThe cannon vomited forth its package of buckshot with a roar. But there\nwas no rebound. The effect which they had foreseen had been attained.\nThe barricade was saved.\n\n Citizen,  said Enjolras to Jean Valjean,  the Republic thanks you. \n\n\nBossuet admired and laughed. He exclaimed:\n\n It is immoral that a mattress should have so much power. Triumph of\nthat which yields over that which strikes with lightning. But never\nmind, glory to the mattress which annuls a cannon! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X DAWN\n\n\nAt that moment, Cosette awoke.\n\nHer chamber was narrow, neat, unobtrusive, with a long sash-window,\nfacing the East on the back court-yard of the house.\n\nCosette knew nothing of what was going on in Paris. She had not been\nthere on the preceding evening, and she had already retired to her\nchamber when Toussaint had said:\n\n It appears that there is a row. \n\n\nCosette had slept only a few hours, but soundly. She had had sweet\ndreams, which possibly arose from the fact that her little bed was very\nwhite. Some one, who was Marius, had appeared to her in the light. She\nawoke with the sun in her eyes, which, at first, produced on her the\neffect of being a continuation of her dream. Her first thought on\nemerging from this dream was a smiling one. Cosette felt herself\nthoroughly reassured. Like Jean Valjean, she had, a few hours\npreviously, passed through that reaction of the soul which absolutely\nwill not hear of unhappiness. She began to cherish hope, with all her\nmight, without knowing why. Then she felt a pang at her heart. It was\nthree days since she had seen Marius. But she said to herself that he\nmust have received her letter, that he knew where she was, and that he\nwas so clever that he would find means of reaching her. And that\ncertainly to-day, and perhaps that very morning. It was broad daylight,\nbut the rays of light were very horizontal; she thought that it was\nvery early, but that she must rise, nevertheless, in order to receive\nMarius.\n\nShe felt that she could not live without Marius, and that,\nconsequently, that was sufficient and that Marius would come. No\nobjection was valid. All this was certain. It was monstrous enough\nalready to have suffered for three days. Marius absent three days, this\nwas horrible on the part of the good God. Now, this cruel teasing from\non high had been gone through with. Marius was about to arrive, and he\nwould bring good news. Youth is made thus; it quickly dries its eyes;\nit finds sorrow useless and does not accept it. Youth is the smile of\nthe future in the presence of an unknown quantity, which is itself. It\nis natural to it to be happy. It seems as though its respiration were\nmade of hope.\n\nMoreover, Cosette could not remember what Marius had said to her on the\nsubject of this absence which was to last only one day, and what\nexplanation of it he had given her. Every one has noticed with what\nnimbleness a coin which one has dropped on the ground rolls away and\nhides, and with what art it renders itself undiscoverable. There are\nthoughts which play us the same trick; they nestle away in a corner of\nour brain; that is the end of them; they are lost; it is impossible to\nlay the memory on them. Cosette was somewhat vexed at the useless\nlittle effort made by her memory. She told herself, that it was very\nnaughty and very wicked of her, to have forgotten the words uttered by\nMarius.\n\nShe sprang out of bed and accomplished the two ablutions of soul and\nbody, her prayers and her toilet.\n\nOne may, in a case of exigency, introduce the reader into a nuptial\nchamber, not into a virginal chamber. Verse would hardly venture it,\nprose must not.\n\nIt is the interior of a flower that is not yet unfolded, it is\nwhiteness in the dark, it is the private cell of a closed lily, which\nmust not be gazed upon by man so long as the sun has not gazed upon it.\nWoman in the bud is sacred. That innocent bud which opens, that\nadorable half-nudity which is afraid of itself, that white foot which\ntakes refuge in a slipper, that throat which veils itself before a\nmirror as though a mirror were an eye, that chemise which makes haste\nto rise up and conceal the shoulder for a creaking bit of furniture or\na passing vehicle, those cords tied, those clasps fastened, those laces\ndrawn, those tremors, those shivers of cold and modesty, that exquisite\naffright in every movement, that almost winged uneasiness where there\nis no cause for alarm, the successive phases of dressing, as charming\nas the clouds of dawn, it is not fitting that all this should be\nnarrated, and it is too much to have even called attention to it.\n\nThe eye of man must be more religious in the presence of the rising of\na young girl than in the presence of the rising of a star. The\npossibility of hurting should inspire an augmentation of respect. The\ndown on the peach, the bloom on the plum, the radiated crystal of the\nsnow, the wing of the butterfly powdered with feathers, are coarse\ncompared to that chastity which does not even know that it is chaste.\nThe young girl is only the flash of a dream, and is not yet a statue.\nHer bed-chamber is hidden in the sombre part of the ideal. The\nindiscreet touch of a glance brutalizes this vague penumbra. Here,\ncontemplation is profanation.\n\nWe shall, therefore, show nothing of that sweet little flutter of\nCosette s rising.\n\nAn oriental tale relates how the rose was made white by God, but that\nAdam looked upon her when she was unfolding, and she was ashamed and\nturned crimson. We are of the number who fall speechless in the\npresence of young girls and flowers, since we think them worthy of\nveneration.\n\nCosette dressed herself very hastily, combed and dressed her hair,\nwhich was a very simple matter in those days, when women did not swell\nout their curls and bands with cushions and puffs, and did not put\ncrinoline in their locks. Then she opened the window and cast her eyes\naround her in every direction, hoping to descry some bit of the street,\nan angle of the house, an edge of pavement, so that she might be able\nto watch for Marius there. But no view of the outside was to be had.\nThe back court was surrounded by tolerably high walls, and the outlook\nwas only on several gardens. Cosette pronounced these gardens hideous:\nfor the first time in her life, she found flowers ugly. The smallest\nscrap of the gutter of the street would have met her wishes better. She\ndecided to gaze at the sky, as though she thought that Marius might\ncome from that quarter.\n\nAll at once, she burst into tears. Not that this was fickleness of\nsoul; but hopes cut in twain by dejection that was her case. She had a\nconfused consciousness of something horrible. Thoughts were rife in the\nair, in fact. She told herself that she was not sure of anything, that\nto withdraw herself from sight was to be lost; and the idea that Marius\ncould return to her from heaven appeared to her no longer charming but\nmournful.\n\nThen, as is the nature of these clouds, calm returned to her, and hope\nand a sort of unconscious smile, which yet indicated trust in God.\n\nEvery one in the house was still asleep. A country-like silence\nreigned. Not a shutter had been opened. The porter s lodge was closed.\nToussaint had not risen, and Cosette, naturally, thought that her\nfather was asleep. She must have suffered much, and she must have still\nbeen suffering greatly, for she said to herself, that her father had\nbeen unkind; but she counted on Marius. The eclipse of such a light was\ndecidedly impossible. Now and then, she heard sharp shocks in the\ndistance, and she said:  It is odd that people should be opening and\nshutting their carriage gates so early.  They were the reports of the\ncannon battering the barricade.\n\nA few feet below Cosette s window, in the ancient and perfectly black\ncornice of the wall, there was a martin s nest; the curve of this nest\nformed a little projection beyond the cornice, so that from above it\nwas possible to look into this little paradise. The mother was there,\nspreading her wings like a fan over her brood; the father fluttered\nabout, flew away, then came back, bearing in his beak food and kisses.\nThe dawning day gilded this happy thing, the great law,  Multiply,  lay\nthere smiling and august, and that sweet mystery unfolded in the glory\nof the morning. Cosette, with her hair in the sunlight, her soul\nabsorbed in chim ras, illuminated by love within and by the dawn\nwithout, bent over mechanically, and almost without daring to avow to\nherself that she was thinking at the same time of Marius, began to gaze\nat these birds, at this family, at that male and female, that mother\nand her little ones, with the profound trouble which a nest produces on\na virgin.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI THE SHOT WHICH MISSES NOTHING AND KILLS NO ONE\n\n\nThe assailants  fire continued. Musketry and grape-shot alternated, but\nwithout committing great ravages, to tell the truth. The top alone of\nthe Corinthe fa ade suffered; the window on the first floor, and the\nattic window in the roof, riddled with buckshot and bisca ens, were\nslowly losing their shape. The combatants who had been posted there had\nbeen obliged to withdraw. However, this is according to the tactics of\nbarricades; to fire for a long while, in order to exhaust the\ninsurgents  ammunition, if they commit the mistake of replying. When it\nis perceived, from the slackening of their fire, that they have no more\npowder and ball, the assault is made. Enjolras had not fallen into this\ntrap; the barricade did not reply.\n\nAt every discharge by platoons, Gavroche puffed out his cheek with his\ntongue, a sign of supreme disdain.\n\n Good for you,  said he,  rip up the cloth. We want some lint. \n\n\nCourfeyrac called the grape-shot to order for the little effect which\nit produced, and said to the cannon:\n\n You are growing diffuse, my good fellow. \n\n\nOne gets puzzled in battle, as at a ball. It is probable that this\nsilence on the part of the redoubt began to render the besiegers\nuneasy, and to make them fear some unexpected incident, and that they\nfelt the necessity of getting a clear view behind that heap of\npaving-stones, and of knowing what was going on behind that impassable\nwall which received blows without retorting. The insurgents suddenly\nperceived a helmet glittering in the sun on a neighboring roof. A\nfireman had placed his back against a tall chimney, and seemed to be\nacting as sentinel. His glance fell directly down into the barricade.\n\n There s an embarrassing watcher,  said Enjolras.\n\nJean Valjean had returned Enjolras  rifle, but he had his own gun.\n\nWithout saying a word, he took aim at the fireman, and, a second later,\nthe helmet, smashed by a bullet, rattled noisily into the street. The\nterrified soldier made haste to disappear. A second observer took his\nplace. This one was an officer. Jean Valjean, who had re-loaded his\ngun, took aim at the newcomer and sent the officer s casque to join the\nsoldier s. The officer did not persist, and retired speedily. This time\nthe warning was understood. No one made his appearance thereafter on\nthat roof; and the idea of spying on the barricade was abandoned.\n\n Why did you not kill the man?  Bossuet asked Jean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean made no reply.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII DISORDER A PARTISAN OF ORDER\n\n\nBossuet muttered in Combeferre s ear:\n\n He did not answer my question. \n\n\n He is a man who does good by gun-shots,  said Combeferre.\n\nThose who have preserved some memory of this already distant epoch know\nthat the National Guard from the suburbs was valiant against\ninsurrections. It was particularly zealous and intrepid in the days of\nJune, 1832. A certain good dram-shop keeper of Pantin des Vertus or la\nCunette, whose  establishment  had been closed by the riots, became\nleonine at the sight of his deserted dance-hall, and got himself killed\nto preserve the order represented by a tea-garden. In that bourgeois\nand heroic time, in the presence of ideas which had their knights,\ninterests had their paladins. The prosiness of the originators\ndetracted nothing from the bravery of the movement. The diminution of a\npile of crowns made bankers sing the Marseillaise. They shed their\nblood lyrically for the counting-house; and they defended the shop,\nthat immense diminutive of the fatherland, with Laced monian\nenthusiasm.\n\nAt bottom, we will observe, there was nothing in all this that was not\nextremely serious. It was social elements entering into strife, while\nawaiting the day when they should enter into equilibrium.\n\nAnother sign of the times was the anarchy mingled with governmentalism\n[the barbarous name of the correct party]. People were for order in\ncombination with lack of discipline.\n\nThe drum suddenly beat capricious calls, at the command of such or such\na Colonel of the National Guard; such and such a captain went into\naction through inspiration; such and such National Guardsmen fought,\n for an idea,  and on their own account. At critical moments, on  days \nthey took counsel less of their leaders than of their instincts. There\nexisted in the army of order, veritable guerilleros, some of the sword,\nlike Fannicot, others of the pen, like Henri Fonfr de.\n\nCivilization, unfortunately, represented at this epoch rather by an\naggregation of interests than by a group of principles, was or thought\nitself, in peril; it set up the cry of alarm; each, constituting\nhimself a centre, defended it, succored it, and protected it with his\nown head; and the first comer took it upon himself to save society.\n\nZeal sometimes proceeded to extermination. A platoon of the National\nGuard would constitute itself on its own authority a private council of\nwar, and judge and execute a captured insurgent in five minutes. It was\nan improvisation of this sort that had slain Jean Prouvaire. Fierce\nLynch law, with which no one party had any right to reproach the rest,\nfor it has been applied by the Republic in America, as well as by the\nmonarchy in Europe. This Lynch law was complicated with mistakes. On\none day of rioting, a young poet, named Paul Aim  Garnier, was pursued\nin the Place Royale, with a bayonet at his loins, and only escaped by\ntaking refuge under the porte-coch re of No. 6. They shouted: There s\nanother of those Saint-Simonians!  and they wanted to kill him. Now, he\nhad under his arm a volume of the memoirs of the Duc de Saint-Simon. A\nNational Guard had read the words _Saint-Simon_ on the book, and had\nshouted:  Death! \n\n\nOn the 6th of June, 1832, a company of the National Guards from the\nsuburbs, commanded by the Captain Fannicot, above mentioned, had itself\ndecimated in the Rue de la Chanvrerie out of caprice and its own good\npleasure. This fact, singular though it may seem, was proved at the\njudicial investigation opened in consequence of the insurrection of\n1832. Captain Fannicot, a bold and impatient bourgeois, a sort of\ncondottiere of the order of those whom we have just characterized, a\nfanatical and intractable governmentalist, could not resist the\ntemptation to fire prematurely, and the ambition of capturing the\nbarricade alone and unaided, that is to say, with his company.\nExasperated by the successive apparition of the red flag and the old\ncoat which he took for the black flag, he loudly blamed the generals\nand chiefs of the corps, who were holding council and did not think\nthat the moment for the decisive assault had arrived, and who were\nallowing  the insurrection to fry in its own fat,  to use the\ncelebrated expression of one of them. For his part, he thought the\nbarricade ripe, and as that which is ripe ought to fall, he made the\nattempt.\n\nHe commanded men as resolute as himself,  raging fellows,  as a witness\nsaid. His company, the same which had shot Jean Prouvaire the poet, was\nthe first of the battalion posted at the angle of the street. At the\nmoment when they were least expecting it, the captain launched his men\nagainst the barricade. This movement, executed with more good will than\nstrategy, cost the Fannicot company dear. Before it had traversed two\nthirds of the street it was received by a general discharge from the\nbarricade. Four, the most audacious, who were running on in front, were\nmown down point-blank at the very foot of the redoubt, and this\ncourageous throng of National Guards, very brave men but lacking in\nmilitary tenacity, were forced to fall back, after some hesitation,\nleaving fifteen corpses on the pavement. This momentary hesitation gave\nthe insurgents time to re-load their weapons, and a second and very\ndestructive discharge struck the company before it could regain the\ncorner of the street, its shelter. A moment more, and it was caught\nbetween two fires, and it received the volley from the battery piece\nwhich, not having received the order, had not discontinued its firing.\n\nThe intrepid and imprudent Fannicot was one of the dead from this\ngrape-shot. He was killed by the cannon, that is to say, by order.\n\nThis attack, which was more furious than serious, irritated\nEnjolras. The fools!  said he.  They are getting their own men killed\nand they are using up our ammunition for nothing. \n\n\nEnjolras spoke like the real general of insurrection which he was.\nInsurrection and repression do not fight with equal weapons.\nInsurrection, which is speedily exhausted, has only a certain number of\nshots to fire and a certain number of combatants to expend. An empty\ncartridge-box, a man killed, cannot be replaced. As repression has the\narmy, it does not count its men, and, as it has Vincennes, it does not\ncount its shots. Repression has as many regiments as the barricade has\nmen, and as many arsenals as the barricade has cartridge-boxes. Thus\nthey are struggles of one against a hundred, which always end in\ncrushing the barricade; unless the revolution, uprising suddenly,\nflings into the balance its flaming archangel s sword. This does happen\nsometimes. Then everything rises, the pavements begin to seethe,\npopular redoubts abound. Paris quivers supremely, the _quid divinum_ is\ngiven forth, a 10th of August is in the air, a 29th of July is in the\nair, a wonderful light appears, the yawning maw of force draws back,\nand the army, that lion, sees before it, erect and tranquil, that\nprophet, France.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII PASSING GLEAMS\n\n\nIn the chaos of sentiments and passions which defend a barricade, there\nis a little of everything; there is bravery, there is youth, honor,\nenthusiasm, the ideal, conviction, the rage of the gambler, and, above\nall, intermittences of hope.\n\nOne of these intermittences, one of these vague quivers of hope\nsuddenly traversed the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie at the\nmoment when it was least expected.\n\n Listen,  suddenly cried Enjolras, who was still on the watch,  it\nseems to me that Paris is waking up. \n\n\nIt is certain that, on the morning of the 6th of June, the insurrection\nbroke out afresh for an hour or two, to a certain extent. The obstinacy\nof the alarm peal of Saint-Merry reanimated some fancies. Barricades\nwere begun in the Rue du Poirier and the Rue des Gravilliers. In front\nof the Porte Saint-Martin, a young man, armed with a rifle, attacked\nalone a squadron of cavalry. In plain sight, on the open boulevard, he\nplaced one knee on the ground, shouldered his weapon, fired, killed the\ncommander of the squadron, and turned away, saying:  There s another\nwho will do us no more harm. \n\n\nHe was put to the sword. In the Rue Saint-Denis, a woman fired on the\nNational Guard from behind a lowered blind. The slats of the blind\ncould be seen to tremble at every shot. A child fourteen years of age\nwas arrested in the Rue de la Cossonerie, with his pockets full of\ncartridges. Many posts were attacked. At the entrance to the Rue\nBertin-Poir e, a very lively and utterly unexpected fusillade welcomed\na regiment of cuirrassiers, at whose head marched Marshal General\nCavaignac de Barague. In the Rue Planche-Mibray, they threw old pieces\nof pottery and household utensils down on the soldiers from the roofs;\na bad sign; and when this matter was reported to Marshal Soult,\nNapoleon s old lieutenant grew thoughtful, as he recalled Suchet s\nsaying at Saragossa:  We are lost when the old women empty their pots\nde chambre on our heads. \n\n\nThese general symptoms which presented themselves at the moment when it\nwas thought that the uprising had been rendered local, this fever of\nwrath, these sparks which flew hither and thither above those deep\nmasses of combustibles which are called the faubourgs of Paris, all\nthis, taken together, disturbed the military chiefs. They made haste to\nstamp out these beginnings of conflagration.\n\nThey delayed the attack on the barricades Maubu e, de la Chanvrerie and\nSaint-Merry until these sparks had been extinguished, in order that\nthey might have to deal with the barricades only and be able to finish\nthem at one blow. Columns were thrown into the streets where there was\nfermentation, sweeping the large, sounding the small, right and left,\nnow slowly and cautiously, now at full charge. The troops broke in the\ndoors of houses whence shots had been fired; at the same time,\nman uvres by the cavalry dispersed the groups on the boulevards. This\nrepression was not effected without some commotion, and without that\ntumultuous uproar peculiar to collisions between the army and the\npeople. This was what Enjolras had caught in the intervals of the\ncannonade and the musketry. Moreover, he had seen wounded men passing\nthe end of the street in litters, and he said to Courfeyrac: Those\nwounded do not come from us. \n\n\nTheir hope did not last long; the gleam was quickly eclipsed. In less\nthan half an hour, what was in the air vanished, it was a flash of\nlightning unaccompanied by thunder, and the insurgents felt that sort\nof leaden cope, which the indifference of the people casts over\nobstinate and deserted men, fall over them once more.\n\nThe general movement, which seemed to have assumed a vague outline, had\nmiscarried; and the attention of the minister of war and the strategy\nof the generals could now be concentrated on the three or four\nbarricades which still remained standing.\n\nThe sun was mounting above the horizon.\n\nAn insurgent hailed Enjolras.\n\n We are hungry here. Are we really going to die like this, without\nanything to eat? \n\n\nEnjolras, who was still leaning on his elbows at his embrasure, made an\naffirmative sign with his head, but without taking his eyes from the\nend of the street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV WHEREIN WILL APPEAR THE NAME OF ENJOLRAS  MISTRESS\n\n\nCourfeyrac, seated on a paving-stone beside Enjolras, continued to\ninsult the cannon, and each time that that gloomy cloud of projectiles\nwhich is called grape-shot passed overhead with its terrible sound he\nassailed it with a burst of irony.\n\n You are wearing out your lungs, poor, brutal, old fellow, you pain me,\nyou are wasting your row. That s not thunder, it s a cough. \n\n\nAnd the bystanders laughed.\n\nCourfeyrac and Bossuet, whose brave good humor increased with the\nperil, like Madame Scarron, replaced nourishment with pleasantry, and,\nas wine was lacking, they poured out gayety to all.\n\n I admire Enjolras,  said Bossuet.  His impassive temerity astounds me.\nHe lives alone, which renders him a little sad, perhaps; Enjolras\ncomplains of his greatness, which binds him to widowhood. The rest of\nus have mistresses, more or less, who make us crazy, that is to say,\nbrave. When a man is as much in love as a tiger, the least that he can\ndo is to fight like a lion. That is one way of taking our revenge for\nthe capers that mesdames our grisettes play on us. Roland gets himself\nkilled for Ang lique; all our heroism comes from our women. A man\nwithout a woman is a pistol without a trigger; it is the woman that\nsets the man off. Well, Enjolras has no woman. He is not in love, and\nyet he manages to be intrepid. It is a thing unheard of that a man\nshould be as cold as ice and as bold as fire. \n\n\nEnjolras did not appear to be listening, but had any one been near him,\nthat person would have heard him mutter in a low voice:  Patria. \n\n\nBossuet was still laughing when Courfeyrac exclaimed:\n\n News! \n\n\nAnd assuming the tone of an usher making an announcement, he added:\n\n My name is Eight-Pounder. \n\n\nIn fact, a new personage had entered on the scene. This was a second\npiece of ordnance.\n\nThe artillery-men rapidly performed their man uvres in force and placed\nthis second piece in line with the first.\n\nThis outlined the catastrophe.\n\nA few minutes later, the two pieces, rapidly served, were firing\npoint-blank at the redoubt; the platoon firing of the line and of the\nsoldiers from the suburbs sustained the artillery.\n\nAnother cannonade was audible at some distance. At the same time that\nthe two guns were furiously attacking the redoubt from the Rue de la\nChanvrerie, two other cannons, trained one from the Rue Saint-Denis,\nthe other from the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, were riddling the Saint-Merry\nbarricade. The four cannons echoed each other mournfully.\n\nThe barking of these sombre dogs of war replied to each other.\n\nOne of the two pieces which was now battering the barricade on the Rue\nde la Chanvrerie was firing grape-shot, the other balls.\n\nThe piece which was firing balls was pointed a little high, and the aim\nwas calculated so that the ball struck the extreme edge of the upper\ncrest of the barricade, and crumbled the stone down upon the\ninsurgents, mingled with bursts of grape-shot.\n\nThe object of this mode of firing was to drive the insurgents from the\nsummit of the redoubt, and to compel them to gather close in the\ninterior, that is to say, this announced the assault.\n\nThe combatants once driven from the crest of the barricade by balls,\nand from the windows of the cabaret by grape-shot, the attacking\ncolumns could venture into the street without being picked off,\nperhaps, even, without being seen, could briskly and suddenly scale the\nredoubt, as on the preceding evening, and, who knows? take it by\nsurprise.\n\n It is absolutely necessary that the inconvenience of those guns should\nbe diminished,  said Enjolras, and he shouted:  Fire on the\nartillery-men! \n\n\nAll were ready. The barricade, which had long been silent, poured forth\na desperate fire; seven or eight discharges followed, with a sort of\nrage and joy; the street was filled with blinding smoke, and, at the\nend of a few minutes, athwart this mist all streaked with flame, two\nthirds of the gunners could be distinguished lying beneath the wheels\nof the cannons. Those who were left standing continued to serve the\npieces with severe tranquillity, but the fire had slackened.\n\n Things are going well now,  said Bossuet to Enjolras.  Success. \n\n\nEnjolras shook his head and replied:\n\n Another quarter of an hour of this success, and there will not be any\ncartridges left in the barricade. \n\n\nIt appears that Gavroche overheard this remark.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV GAVROCHE OUTSIDE\n\n\nCourfeyrac suddenly caught sight of some one at the base of the\nbarricade, outside in the street, amid the bullets.\n\nGavroche had taken a bottle basket from the wine-shop, had made his way\nout through the cut, and was quietly engaged in emptying the full\ncartridge-boxes of the National Guardsmen who had been killed on the\nslope of the redoubt, into his basket.\n\n What are you doing there?  asked Courfeyrac.\n\nGavroche raised his face: \n\n I m filling my basket, citizen. \n\n\n Don t you see the grape-shot? \n\n\nGavroche replied:\n\n Well, it is raining. What then? \n\n\nCourfeyrac shouted: Come in! \n\n\n Instanter,  said Gavroche.\n\nAnd with a single bound he plunged into the street.\n\nIt will be remembered that Fannicot s company had left behind it a\ntrail of bodies. Twenty corpses lay scattered here and there on the\npavement, through the whole length of the street. Twenty cartouches for\nGavroche meant a provision of cartridges for the barricade.\n\nThe smoke in the street was like a fog. Whoever has beheld a cloud\nwhich has fallen into a mountain gorge between two peaked escarpments\ncan imagine this smoke rendered denser and thicker by two gloomy rows\nof lofty houses. It rose gradually and was incessantly renewed; hence a\ntwilight which made even the broad daylight turn pale. The combatants\ncould hardly see each other from one end of the street to the other,\nshort as it was.\n\nThis obscurity, which had probably been desired and calculated on by\nthe commanders who were to direct the assault on the barricade, was\nuseful to Gavroche.\n\nBeneath the folds of this veil of smoke, and thanks to his small size,\nhe could advance tolerably far into the street without being seen. He\nrifled the first seven or eight cartridge-boxes without much danger.\n\nHe crawled flat on his belly, galloped on all fours, took his basket in\nhis teeth, twisted, glided, undulated, wound from one dead body to\nanother, and emptied the cartridge-box or cartouche as a monkey opens a\nnut.\n\nThey did not dare to shout to him to return from the barricade, which\nwas quite near, for fear of attracting attention to him.\n\nOn one body, that of a corporal, he found a powder-flask.\n\n For thirst,  said he, putting it in his pocket.\n\nBy dint of advancing, he reached a point where the fog of the fusillade\nbecame transparent. So that the sharpshooters of the line ranged on the\noutlook behind their paving-stone dike and the sharpshooters of the\nbanlieue massed at the corner of the street suddenly pointed out to\neach other something moving through the smoke.\n\nAt the moment when Gavroche was relieving a sergeant, who was lying\nnear a stone door-post, of his cartridges, a bullet struck the body.\n\n Fichtre!  ejaculated Gavroche.  They are killing my dead men for me. \n\n\nA second bullet struck a spark from the pavement beside him. A third\noverturned his basket.\n\nGavroche looked and saw that this came from the men of the banlieue.\n\nHe sprang to his feet, stood erect, with his hair flying in the wind,\nhis hands on his hips, his eyes fixed on the National Guardsmen who\nwere firing, and sang:\n\n On est laid   Nanterre,\nC est la faute   Voltaire;\nEt b te   Palaiseau,\nC est la faute   Rousseau. \n\n Men are ugly at Nanterre,\n Tis the fault of Voltaire;\nAnd dull at Palaiseau,\n Tis the fault of Rousseau. \n\n\nThen he picked up his basket, replaced the cartridges which had fallen\nfrom it, without missing a single one, and, advancing towards the\nfusillade, set about plundering another cartridge-box. There a fourth\nbullet missed him, again. Gavroche sang:\n\n Je ne suis pas notaire,\nC est la faute   Voltaire;\nJe suis un petit oiseau,\nC est la faute   Rousseau. \n\n I am not a notary,\n Tis the fault of Voltaire;\nI m a little bird,\n Tis the fault of Rousseau. \n\n\nA fifth bullet only succeeded in drawing from him a third couplet.\n\n Joie est mon caract re,\nC est la faute   Voltaire;\nMis re est mon trousseau,\nC est la faute   Rousseau. \n\n Joy is my character,\n Tis the fault of Voltaire;\nMisery is my trousseau,\n Tis the fault of Rousseau. \n\n\nThus it went on for some time.\n\nIt was a charming and terrible sight. Gavroche, though shot at, was\nteasing the fusillade. He had the air of being greatly diverted. It was\nthe sparrow pecking at the sportsmen. To each discharge he retorted\nwith a couplet. They aimed at him constantly, and always missed him.\nThe National Guardsmen and the soldiers laughed as they took aim at\nhim. He lay down, sprang to his feet, hid in the corner of a doorway,\nthen made a bound, disappeared, reappeared, scampered away, returned,\nreplied to the grape-shot with his thumb at his nose, and, all the\nwhile, went on pillaging the cartouches, emptying the cartridge-boxes,\nand filling his basket. The insurgents, panting with anxiety, followed\nhim with their eyes. The barricade trembled; he sang. He was not a\nchild, he was not a man; he was a strange gamin-fairy. He might have\nbeen called the invulnerable dwarf of the fray. The bullets flew after\nhim, he was more nimble than they. He played a fearful game of hide and\nseek with death; every time that the flat-nosed face of the spectre\napproached, the urchin administered to it a fillip.\n\nOne bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than the rest,\nfinally struck the will-o -the-wisp of a child. Gavroche was seen to\nstagger, then he sank to the earth. The whole barricade gave vent to a\ncry; but there was something of Ant us in that pygmy; for the gamin to\ntouch the pavement is the same as for the giant to touch the earth;\nGavroche had fallen only to rise again; he remained in a sitting\nposture, a long thread of blood streaked his face, he raised both arms\nin the air, glanced in the direction whence the shot had come, and\nbegan to sing:\n\n Je suis tomb  par terre,\nC est la faute   Voltaire;\nLe nez dans le ruisseau,\nC est la faute   . . .  \n\n I have fallen to the earth,\n Tis the fault of Voltaire;\nWith my nose in the gutter,\n Tis the fault of . . .  \n\n\nHe did not finish. A second bullet from the same marksman stopped him\nshort. This time he fell face downward on the pavement, and moved no\nmore. This grand little soul had taken its flight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI HOW FROM A BROTHER ONE BECOMES A FATHER\n\n\nAt that same moment, in the garden of the Luxembourg, for the gaze of\nthe drama must be everywhere present, two children were holding each\nother by the hand. One might have been seven years old, the other five.\nThe rain having soaked them, they were walking along the paths on the\nsunny side; the elder was leading the younger; they were pale and\nragged; they had the air of wild birds. The smaller of them said:  I am\nvery hungry. \n\n\nThe elder, who was already somewhat of a protector, was leading his\nbrother with his left hand and in his right he carried a small stick.\n\nThey were alone in the garden. The garden was deserted, the gates had\nbeen closed by order of the police, on account of the insurrection. The\ntroops who had been bivouacking there had departed for the exigencies\nof combat.\n\nHow did those children come there? Perhaps they had escaped from some\nguard-house which stood ajar; perhaps there was in the vicinity, at the\nBarri re d Enfer; or on the Esplanade de l Observatoire, or in the\nneighboring carrefour, dominated by the pediment on which could be\nread: _Invenerunt parvulum pannis involutum_, some mountebank s booth\nfrom which they had fled; perhaps they had, on the preceding evening,\nescaped the eye of the inspectors of the garden at the hour of closing,\nand had passed the night in some one of those sentry-boxes where people\nread the papers? The fact is, they were stray lambs and they seemed\nfree. To be astray and to seem free is to be lost. These poor little\ncreatures were, in fact, lost.\n\nThese two children were the same over whom Gavroche had been put to\nsome trouble, as the reader will recollect. Children of the\nTh nardiers, leased out to Magnon, attributed to M. Gillenormand, and\nnow leaves fallen from all these rootless branches, and swept over the\nground by the wind. Their clothing, which had been clean in Magnon s\nday, and which had served her as a prospectus with M. Gillenormand, had\nbeen converted into rags.\n\nHenceforth these beings belonged to the statistics as  Abandoned\nchildren,  whom the police take note of, collect, mislay and find again\non the pavements of Paris.\n\nIt required the disturbance of a day like that to account for these\nmiserable little creatures being in that garden. If the superintendents\nhad caught sight of them, they would have driven such rags forth. Poor\nlittle things do not enter public gardens; still, people should reflect\nthat, as children, they have a right to flowers.\n\nThese children were there, thanks to the locked gates. They were there\ncontrary to the regulations. They had slipped into the garden and there\nthey remained. Closed gates do not dismiss the inspectors, oversight is\nsupposed to continue, but it grows slack and reposes; and the\ninspectors, moved by the public anxiety and more occupied with the\noutside than the inside, no longer glanced into the garden, and had not\nseen the two delinquents.\n\nIt had rained the night before, and even a little in the morning. But\nin June, showers do not count for much. An hour after a storm, it can\nhardly be seen that the beautiful blonde day has wept. The earth, in\nsummer, is as quickly dried as the cheek of a child. At that period of\nthe solstice, the light of full noonday is, so to speak, poignant. It\ntakes everything. It applies itself to the earth, and superposes itself\nwith a sort of suction. One would say that the sun was thirsty. A\nshower is but a glass of water; a rainstorm is instantly drunk up. In\nthe morning everything was dripping, in the afternoon everything is\npowdered over.\n\nNothing is so worthy of admiration as foliage washed by the rain and\nwiped by the rays of sunlight; it is warm freshness. The gardens and\nmeadows, having water at their roots, and sun in their flowers, become\nperfuming-pans of incense, and smoke with all their odors at once.\nEverything smiles, sings and offers itself. One feels gently\nintoxicated. The springtime is a provisional paradise, the sun helps\nman to have patience.\n\nThere are beings who demand nothing further; mortals, who, having the\nazure of heaven, say:  It is enough!  dreamers absorbed in the\nwonderful, dipping into the idolatry of nature, indifferent to good and\nevil, contemplators of cosmos and radiantly forgetful of man, who do\nnot understand how people can occupy themselves with the hunger of\nthese, and the thirst of those, with the nudity of the poor in winter,\nwith the lymphatic curvature of the little spinal column, with the\npallet, the attic, the dungeon, and the rags of shivering young girls,\nwhen they can dream beneath the trees; peaceful and terrible spirits\nthey, and pitilessly satisfied. Strange to say, the infinite suffices\nthem. That great need of man, the finite, which admits of embrace, they\nignore. The finite which admits of progress and sublime toil, they do\nnot think about. The indefinite, which is born from the human and\ndivine combination of the infinite and the finite, escapes them.\nProvided that they are face to face with immensity, they smile. Joy\nnever, ecstasy forever. Their life lies in surrendering their\npersonality in contemplation. The history of humanity is for them only\na detailed plan. All is not there; the true All remains without; what\nis the use of busying oneself over that detail, man? Man suffers, that\nis quite possible; but look at Aldebaran rising! The mother has no more\nmilk, the new-born babe is dying. I know nothing about that, but just\nlook at this wonderful rosette which a slice of wood-cells of the pine\npresents under the microscope! Compare the most beautiful Mechlin lace\nto that if you can! These thinkers forget to love. The zodiac thrives\nwith them to such a point that it prevents their seeing the weeping\nchild. God eclipses their souls. This is a family of minds which are,\nat once, great and petty. Horace was one of them; so was Goethe. La\nFontaine perhaps; magnificent egoists of the infinite, tranquil\nspectators of sorrow, who do not behold Nero if the weather be fair,\nfor whom the sun conceals the funeral pile, who would look on at an\nexecution by the guillotine in the search for an effect of light, who\nhear neither the cry nor the sob, nor the death rattle, nor the alarm\npeal, for whom everything is well, since there is a month of May, who,\nso long as there are clouds of purple and gold above their heads,\ndeclare themselves content, and who are determined to be happy until\nthe radiance of the stars and the songs of the birds are exhausted.\n\nThese are dark radiances. They have no suspicion that they are to be\npitied. Certainly they are so. He who does not weep does not see. They\nare to be admired and pitied, as one would both pity and admire a being\nat once night and day, without eyes beneath his lashes but with a star\non his brow.\n\nThe indifference of these thinkers, is, according to some, a superior\nphilosophy. That may be; but in this superiority there is some\ninfirmity. One may be immortal and yet limp: witness Vulcan. One may be\nmore than man and less than man. There is incomplete immensity in\nnature. Who knows whether the sun is not a blind man?\n\nBut then, what? In whom can we trust? _Solem quis dicere falsum\naudeat?_ Who shall dare to say that the sun is false? Thus certain\ngeniuses, themselves, certain Very-Lofty mortals, man-stars, may be\nmistaken? That which is on high at the summit, at the crest, at the\nzenith, that which sends down so much light on the earth, sees but\nlittle, sees badly, sees not at all? Is not this a desperate state of\nthings? No. But what is there, then, above the sun? The god.\n\nOn the 6th of June, 1832, about eleven o clock in the morning, the\nLuxembourg, solitary and depopulated, was charming. The quincunxes and\nflower-beds shed forth balm and dazzling beauty into the sunlight. The\nbranches, wild with the brilliant glow of midday, seemed endeavoring to\nembrace. In the sycamores there was an uproar of linnets, sparrows\ntriumphed, woodpeckers climbed along the chestnut trees, administering\nlittle pecks on the bark. The flower-beds accepted the legitimate\nroyalty of the lilies; the most august of perfumes is that which\nemanates from whiteness. The peppery odor of the carnations was\nperceptible. The old crows of Marie de Medici were amorous in the tall\ntrees. The sun gilded, empurpled, set fire to and lighted up the\ntulips, which are nothing but all the varieties of flame made into\nflowers. All around the banks of tulips the bees, the sparks of these\nflame-flowers, hummed. All was grace and gayety, even the impending\nrain; this relapse, by which the lilies of the valley and the\nhoneysuckles were destined to profit, had nothing disturbing about it;\nthe swallows indulged in the charming threat of flying low. He who was\nthere aspired to happiness; life smelled good; all nature exhaled\ncandor, help, assistance, paternity, caress, dawn. The thoughts which\nfell from heaven were as sweet as the tiny hand of a baby when one\nkisses it.\n\nThe statues under the trees, white and nude, had robes of shadow\npierced with light; these goddesses were all tattered with sunlight;\nrays hung from them on all sides. Around the great fountain, the earth\nwas already dried up to the point of being burnt. There was sufficient\nbreeze to raise little insurrections of dust here and there. A few\nyellow leaves, left over from the autumn, chased each other merrily,\nand seemed to be playing tricks on each other.\n\nThis abundance of light had something indescribably reassuring about\nit. Life, sap, heat, odors overflowed; one was conscious, beneath\ncreation, of the enormous size of the source; in all these breaths\npermeated with love, in this interchange of reverberations and\nreflections, in this marvellous expenditure of rays, in this infinite\noutpouring of liquid gold, one felt the prodigality of the\ninexhaustible; and, behind this splendor as behind a curtain of flame,\none caught a glimpse of God, that millionaire of stars.\n\nThanks to the sand, there was not a speck of mud; thanks to the rain,\nthere was not a grain of ashes. The clumps of blossoms had just been\nbathed; every sort of velvet, satin, gold and varnish, which springs\nfrom the earth in the form of flowers, was irreproachable. This\nmagnificence was cleanly. The grand silence of happy nature filled the\ngarden. A celestial silence that is compatible with a thousand sorts of\nmusic, the cooing of nests, the buzzing of swarms, the flutterings of\nthe breeze. All the harmony of the season was complete in one gracious\nwhole; the entrances and exits of spring took place in proper order;\nthe lilacs ended; the jasmines began; some flowers were tardy, some\ninsects in advance of their time; the van-guard of the red June\nbutterflies fraternized with the rear-guard of the white butterflies of\nMay. The plantain trees were getting their new skins. The breeze\nhollowed out undulations in the magnificent enormity of the\nchestnut-trees. It was splendid. A veteran from the neighboring\nbarracks, who was gazing through the fence, said:  Here is the Spring\npresenting arms and in full uniform. \n\n\nAll nature was breakfasting; creation was at table; this was its hour;\nthe great blue cloth was spread in the sky, and the great green cloth\non earth; the sun lighted it all up brilliantly. God was serving the\nuniversal repast. Each creature had his pasture or his mess. The\nring-dove found his hemp-seed, the chaffinch found his millet, the\ngoldfinch found chickweed, the red-breast found worms, the green finch\nfound flies, the fly found infusori , the bee found flowers. They ate\neach other somewhat, it is true, which is the misery of evil mixed with\ngood; but not a beast of them all had an empty stomach.\n\nThe two little abandoned creatures had arrived in the vicinity of the\ngrand fountain, and, rather bewildered by all this light, they tried to\nhide themselves, the instinct of the poor and the weak in the presence\nof even impersonal magnificence; and they kept behind the swans  hutch.\n\nHere and there, at intervals, when the wind blew, shouts, clamor, a\nsort of tumultuous death rattle, which was the firing, and dull blows,\nwhich were discharges of cannon, struck the ear confusedly. Smoke hung\nover the roofs in the direction of the Halles. A bell, which had the\nair of an appeal, was ringing in the distance.\n\nThese children did not appear to notice these noises. The little one\nrepeated from time to time:  I am hungry. \n\n\nAlmost at the same instant with the children, another couple approached\nthe great basin. They consisted of a goodman, about fifty years of age,\nwho was leading by the hand a little fellow of six. No doubt, a father\nand his son. The little man of six had a big brioche.\n\nAt that epoch, certain houses abutting on the river, in the Rues Madame\nand d Enfer, had keys to the Luxembourg garden, of which the lodgers\nenjoyed the use when the gates were shut, a privilege which was\nsuppressed later on. This father and son came from one of these houses,\nno doubt.\n\nThe two poor little creatures watched  that gentleman  approaching, and\nhid themselves a little more thoroughly.\n\nHe was a bourgeois. The same person, perhaps, whom Marius had one day\nheard, through his love fever, near the same grand basin, counselling\nhis son  to avoid excesses.  He had an affable and haughty air, and a\nmouth which was always smiling, since it did not shut. This mechanical\nsmile, produced by too much jaw and too little skin, shows the teeth\nrather than the soul. The child, with his brioche, which he had bitten\ninto but had not finished eating, seemed satiated. The child was\ndressed as a National Guardsman, owing to the insurrection, and the\nfather had remained clad as a bourgeois out of prudence.\n\nFather and son halted near the fountain where two swans were sporting.\nThis bourgeois appeared to cherish a special admiration for the swans.\nHe resembled them in this sense, that he walked like them.\n\nFor the moment, the swans were swimming, which is their principal\ntalent, and they were superb.\n\nIf the two poor little beings had listened and if they had been of an\nage to understand, they might have gathered the words of this grave\nman. The father was saying to his son:\n\n The sage lives content with little. Look at me, my son. I do not love\npomp. I am never seen in clothes decked with gold lace and stones; I\nleave that false splendor to badly organized souls. \n\n\nHere the deep shouts which proceeded from the direction of the Halles\nburst out with fresh force of bell and uproar.\n\n What is that?  inquired the child.\n\nThe father replied:\n\n It is the Saturnalia. \n\n\nAll at once, he caught sight of the two little ragged boys behind the\ngreen swan-hutch.\n\n There is the beginning,  said he.\n\nAnd, after a pause, he added:\n\n Anarchy is entering this garden. \n\n\nIn the meanwhile, his son took a bite of his brioche, spit it out, and,\nsuddenly burst out crying.\n\n What are you crying about?  demanded his father.\n\n I am not hungry any more,  said the child.\n\nThe father s smile became more accentuated.\n\n One does not need to be hungry in order to eat a cake. \n\n\n My cake tires me. It is stale. \n\n\n Don t you want any more of it? \n\n\n No. \n\n\nThe father pointed to the swans.\n\n Throw it to those palmipeds. \n\n\nThe child hesitated. A person may not want any more of his cake; but\nthat is no reason for giving it away.\n\nThe father went on:\n\n Be humane. You must have compassion on animals. \n\n\nAnd, taking the cake from his son, he flung it into the basin.\n\nThe cake fell very near the edge.\n\nThe swans were far away, in the centre of the basin, and busy with some\nprey. They had seen neither the bourgeois nor the brioche.\n\nThe bourgeois, feeling that the cake was in danger of being wasted, and\nmoved by this useless shipwreck, entered upon a telegraphic agitation,\nwhich finally attracted the attention of the swans.\n\nThey perceived something floating, steered for the edge like ships, as\nthey are, and slowly directed their course toward the brioche, with the\nstupid majesty which befits white creatures.\n\n The swans [_cygnes_] understand signs [_signes_],  said the bourgeois,\ndelighted to make a jest.\n\nAt that moment, the distant tumult of the city underwent another sudden\nincrease. This time it was sinister. There are some gusts of wind which\nspeak more distinctly than others. The one which was blowing at that\nmoment brought clearly defined drum-beats, clamors, platoon firing, and\nthe dismal replies of the tocsin and the cannon. This coincided with a\nblack cloud which suddenly veiled the sun.\n\nThe swans had not yet reached the brioche.\n\n Let us return home,  said the father,  they are attacking the\nTuileries. \n\n\nHe grasped his son s hand again. Then he continued:\n\n From the Tuileries to the Luxembourg, there is but the distance which\nseparates Royalty from the peerage; that is not far. Shots will soon\nrain down. \n\n\nHe glanced at the cloud.\n\n Perhaps it is rain itself that is about to shower down; the sky is\njoining in; the younger branch is condemned. Let us return home\nquickly. \n\n\n I should like to see the swans eat the brioche,  said the child.\n\nThe father replied:\n\n That would be imprudent. \n\n\nAnd he led his little bourgeois away.\n\nThe son, regretting the swans, turned his head back toward the basin\nuntil a corner of the quincunxes concealed it from him.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the two little waifs had approached the brioche at\nthe same time as the swans. It was floating on the water. The smaller\nof them stared at the cake, the elder gazed after the retreating\nbourgeois.\n\nFather and son entered the labyrinth of walks which leads to the grand\nflight of steps near the clump of trees on the side of the Rue Madame.\n\nAs soon as they had disappeared from view, the elder child hastily\nflung himself flat on his stomach on the rounding curb of the basin,\nand clinging to it with his left hand, and leaning over the water, on\nthe verge of falling in, he stretched out his right hand with his stick\ntowards the cake. The swans, perceiving the enemy, made haste, and in\nso doing, they produced an effect of their breasts which was of service\nto the little fisher; the water flowed back before the swans, and one\nof these gentle concentric undulations softly floated the brioche\ntowards the child s wand. Just as the swans came up, the stick touched\nthe cake. The child gave it a brisk rap, drew in the brioche,\nfrightened away the swans, seized the cake, and sprang to his feet. The\ncake was wet; but they were hungry and thirsty. The elder broke the\ncake into two portions, a large one and a small one, took the small one\nfor himself, gave the large one to his brother, and said to him:\n\n Ram that into your muzzle. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII MORTUUS PATER FILIUM MORITURUM EXPECTAT\n\n\nMarius dashed out of the barricade, Combeferre followed him. But he was\ntoo late. Gavroche was dead. Combeferre brought back the basket of\ncartridges; Marius bore the child.\n\n Alas!  he thought,  that which the father had done for his father, he\nwas requiting to the son; only, Th nardier had brought back his father\nalive; he was bringing back the child dead. \n\n\nWhen Marius re-entered the redoubt with Gavroche in his arms, his face,\nlike the child, was inundated with blood.\n\nAt the moment when he had stooped to lift Gavroche, a bullet had grazed\nhis head; he had not noticed it.\n\nCourfeyrac untied his cravat and with it bandaged Marius  brow.\n\nThey laid Gavroche on the same table with Mabeuf, and spread over the\ntwo corpses the black shawl. There was enough of it for both the old\nman and the child.\n\nCombeferre distributed the cartridges from the basket which he had\nbrought in.\n\nThis gave each man fifteen rounds to fire.\n\nJean Valjean was still in the same place, motionless on his stone post.\nWhen Combeferre offered him his fifteen cartridges, he shook his head.\n\n Here s a rare eccentric,  said Combeferre in a low voice to Enjolras.\n He finds a way of not fighting in this barricade. \n\n\n Which does not prevent him from defending it,  responded Enjolras.\n\n Heroism has its originals,  resumed Combeferre.\n\nAnd Courfeyrac, who had overheard, added:\n\n He is another sort from Father Mabeuf. \n\n\nOne thing which must be noted is, that the fire which was battering the\nbarricade hardly disturbed the interior. Those who have never traversed\nthe whirlwind of this sort of war can form no idea of the singular\nmoments of tranquillity mingled with these convulsions. Men go and\ncome, they talk, they jest, they lounge. Some one whom we know heard a\ncombatant say to him in the midst of the grape-shot:  We are here as at\na bachelor breakfast.  The redoubt of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, we\nrepeat, seemed very calm within. All mutations and all phases had been,\nor were about to be, exhausted. The position, from critical, had become\nmenacing, and, from menacing, was probably about to become desperate.\nIn proportion as the situation grew gloomy, the glow of heroism\nempurpled the barricade more and more. Enjolras, who was grave,\ndominated it, in the attitude of a young Spartan sacrificing his naked\nsword to the sombre genius, Epidotas.\n\nCombeferre, wearing an apron, was dressing the wounds: Bossuet and\nFeuilly were making cartridges with the powder-flask picked up by\nGavroche on the dead corporal, and Bossuet said to Feuilly:  We are\nsoon to take the diligence for another planet ; Courfeyrac was\ndisposing and arranging on some paving-stones which he had reserved for\nhimself near Enjolras, a complete arsenal, his sword-cane, his gun, two\nholster pistols, and a cudgel, with the care of a young girl setting a\nsmall dunkerque in order. Jean Valjean stared silently at the wall\nopposite him. An artisan was fastening Mother Hucheloup s big straw hat\non his head with a string,  for fear of sun-stroke,  as he said. The\nyoung men from the Cougourde d Aix were chatting merrily among\nthemselves, as though eager to speak patois for the last time. Joly,\nwho had taken Widow Hucheloup s mirror from the wall, was examining his\ntongue in it. Some combatants, having discovered a few crusts of rather\nmouldy bread, in a drawer, were eagerly devouring them. Marius was\ndisturbed with regard to what his father was about to say to him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII THE VULTURE BECOME PREY\n\n\nWe must insist upon one psychological fact peculiar to barricades.\nNothing which is characteristic of that surprising war of the streets\nshould be omitted.\n\nWhatever may have been the singular inward tranquillity which we have\njust mentioned, the barricade, for those who are inside it, remains,\nnonetheless, a vision.\n\nThere is something of the apocalypse in civil war, all the mists of the\nunknown are commingled with fierce flashes, revolutions are sphinxes,\nand any one who has passed through a barricade thinks he has traversed\na dream.\n\nThe feelings to which one is subject in these places we have pointed\nout in the case of Marius, and we shall see the consequences; they are\nboth more and less than life. On emerging from a barricade, one no\nlonger knows what one has seen there. One has been terrible, but one\nknows it not. One has been surrounded with conflicting ideas which had\nhuman faces; one s head has been in the light of the future. There were\ncorpses lying prone there, and phantoms standing erect. The hours were\ncolossal and seemed hours of eternity. One has lived in death. Shadows\nhave passed by. What were they?\n\nOne has beheld hands on which there was blood; there was a deafening\nhorror; there was also a frightful silence; there were open mouths\nwhich shouted, and other open mouths which held their peace; one was in\nthe midst of smoke, of night, perhaps. One fancied that one had touched\nthe sinister ooze of unknown depths; one stares at something red on\none s finger nails. One no longer remembers anything.\n\nLet us return to the Rue de la Chanvrerie.\n\nAll at once, between two discharges, the distant sound of a clock\nstriking the hour became audible.\n\n It is midday,  said Combeferre.\n\nThe twelve strokes had not finished striking when Enjolras sprang to\nhis feet, and from the summit of the barricade hurled this thundering\nshout:\n\n Carry stones up into the houses; line the windowsills and the roofs\nwith them. Half the men to their guns, the other half to the\npaving-stones. There is not a minute to be lost. \n\n\nA squad of sappers and miners, axe on shoulder, had just made their\nappearance in battle array at the end of the street.\n\nThis could only be the head of a column; and of what column? The\nattacking column, evidently; the sappers charged with the demolition of\nthe barricade must always precede the soldiers who are to scale it.\n\nThey were, evidently, on the brink of that moment which M.\nClermont-Tonnerre, in 1822, called  the tug of war. \n\n\nEnjolras  order was executed with the correct haste which is peculiar\nto ships and barricades, the only two scenes of combat where escape is\nimpossible. In less than a minute, two thirds of the stones which\nEnjolras had had piled up at the door of Corinthe had been carried up\nto the first floor and the attic, and before a second minute had\nelapsed, these stones, artistically set one upon the other, walled up\nthe sash-window on the first floor and the windows in the roof to half\ntheir height. A few loop-holes carefully planned by Feuilly, the\nprincipal architect, allowed of the passage of the gun-barrels. This\narmament of the windows could be effected all the more easily since the\nfiring of grape-shot had ceased. The two cannons were now discharging\nball against the centre of the barrier in order to make a hole there,\nand, if possible, a breach for the assault.\n\nWhen the stones destined to the final defence were in place, Enjolras\nhad the bottles which he had set under the table where Mabeuf lay,\ncarried to the first floor.\n\n Who is to drink that?  Bossuet asked him.\n\n They,  replied Enjolras.\n\nThen they barricaded the window below, and held in readiness the iron\ncross-bars which served to secure the door of the wine-shop at night.\n\nThe fortress was complete. The barricade was the rampart, the wine-shop\nwas the dungeon. With the stones which remained they stopped up the\noutlet.\n\nAs the defenders of a barricade are always obliged to be sparing of\ntheir ammunition, and as the assailants know this, the assailants\ncombine their arrangements with a sort of irritating leisure, expose\nthemselves to fire prematurely, though in appearance more than in\nreality, and take their ease. The preparations for attack are always\nmade with a certain methodical deliberation; after which, the lightning\nstrikes.\n\nThis deliberation permitted Enjolras to take a review of everything and\nto perfect everything. He felt that, since such men were to die, their\ndeath ought to be a masterpiece.\n\nHe said to Marius:  We are the two leaders. I will give the last orders\ninside. Do you remain outside and observe. \n\n\nMarius posted himself on the lookout upon the crest of the barricade.\n\nEnjolras had the door of the kitchen, which was the ambulance, as the\nreader will remember, nailed up.\n\n No splashing of the wounded,  he said.\n\nHe issued his final orders in the tap-room in a curt, but profoundly\ntranquil tone; Feuilly listened and replied in the name of all.\n\n On the first floor, hold your axes in readiness to cut the staircase.\nHave you them? \n\n\n Yes,  said Feuilly.\n\n How many? \n\n\n Two axes and a pole-axe. \n\n\n That is good. There are now twenty-six combatants of us on foot. How\nmany guns are there? \n\n\n Thirty-four. \n\n\n Eight too many. Keep those eight guns loaded like the rest and at\nhand. Swords and pistols in your belts. Twenty men to the barricade.\nSix ambushed in the attic windows, and at the window on the first floor\nto fire on the assailants through the loop-holes in the stones. Let not\na single worker remain inactive here. Presently, when the drum beats\nthe assault, let the twenty below stairs rush to the barricade. The\nfirst to arrive will have the best places. \n\n\nThese arrangements made, he turned to Javert and said:\n\n I am not forgetting you. \n\n\nAnd, laying a pistol on the table, he added:\n\n The last man to leave this room will smash the skull of this spy. \n\n\n Here?  inquired a voice.\n\n No, let us not mix their corpses with our own. The little barricade of\nthe Mond tour lane can be scaled. It is only four feet high. The man is\nwell pinioned. He shall be taken thither and put to death. \n\n\nThere was some one who was more impassive at that moment than Enjolras,\nit was Javert. Here Jean Valjean made his appearance.\n\nHe had been lost among the group of insurgents. He stepped forth and\nsaid to Enjolras:\n\n You are the commander? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n You thanked me a while ago. \n\n\n In the name of the Republic. The barricade has two saviors, Marius\nPontmercy and yourself. \n\n\n Do you think that I deserve a recompense? \n\n\n Certainly. \n\n\n Well, I request one. \n\n\n What is it? \n\n\n That I may blow that man s brains out. \n\n\nJavert raised his head, saw Jean Valjean, made an almost imperceptible\nmovement, and said:\n\n That is just. \n\n\nAs for Enjolras, he had begun to re-load his rifle; he cut his eyes\nabout him:\n\n No objections. \n\n\nAnd he turned to Jean Valjean:\n\n Take the spy. \n\n\nJean Valjean did, in fact, take possession of Javert, by seating\nhimself on the end of the table. He seized the pistol, and a faint\nclick announced that he had cocked it.\n\nAlmost at the same moment, a blast of trumpets became audible.\n\n Take care!  shouted Marius from the top of the barricade.\n\nJavert began to laugh with that noiseless laugh which was peculiar to\nhim, and gazing intently at the insurgents, he said to them:\n\n You are in no better case than I am. \n\n\n All out!  shouted Enjolras.\n\nThe insurgents poured out tumultuously, and, as they went, received in\nthe back, may we be permitted the expression, this sally of Javert s:\n\n We shall meet again shortly! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX JEAN VALJEAN TAKES HIS REVENGE\n\n\nWhen Jean Valjean was left alone with Javert, he untied the rope which\nfastened the prisoner across the middle of the body, and the knot of\nwhich was under the table. After this he made him a sign to rise.\n\nJavert obeyed with that indefinable smile in which the supremacy of\nenchained authority is condensed.\n\nJean Valjean took Javert by the martingale, as one would take a beast\nof burden by the breast-band, and, dragging the latter after him,\nemerged from the wine-shop slowly, because Javert, with his impeded\nlimbs, could take only very short steps.\n\nJean Valjean had the pistol in his hand.\n\nIn this manner they crossed the inner trapezium of the barricade. The\ninsurgents, all intent on the attack, which was imminent, had their\nbacks turned to these two.\n\nMarius alone, stationed on one side, at the extreme left of the\nbarricade, saw them pass. This group of victim and executioner was\nilluminated by the sepulchral light which he bore in his own soul.\n\nJean Valjean with some difficulty, but without relaxing his hold for a\nsingle instant, made Javert, pinioned as he was, scale the little\nentrenchment in the Mond tour lane.\n\nWhen they had crossed this barrier, they found themselves alone in the\nlane. No one saw them. Among the heap they could distinguish a livid\nface, streaming hair, a pierced hand and the half nude breast of a\nwoman. It was  ponine. The corner of the houses hid them from the\ninsurgents. The corpses carried away from the barricade formed a\nterrible pile a few paces distant.\n\nJavert gazed askance at this body, and, profoundly calm, said in a low\ntone:\n\n It strikes me that I know that girl. \n\n\nThen he turned to Jean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean thrust the pistol under his arm and fixed on Javert a look\nwhich it required no words to interpret:  Javert, it is I. \n\n\nJavert replied:\n\n Take your revenge. \n\n\nJean Valjean drew from his pocket a knife, and opened it.\n\n A clasp-knife!  exclaimed Javert,  you are right. That suits you\nbetter. \n\n\nJean Valjean cut the martingale which Javert had about his neck, then\nhe cut the cords on his wrists, then, stooping down, he cut the cord on\nhis feet; and, straightening himself up, he said to him:\n\n You are free. \n\n\nJavert was not easily astonished. Still, master of himself though he\nwas, he could not repress a start. He remained open-mouthed and\nmotionless.\n\nJean Valjean continued:\n\n I do not think that I shall escape from this place. But if, by chance,\nI do, I live, under the name of Fauchelevent, in the Rue de l Homme\nArm , No. 7. \n\n\nJavert snarled like a tiger, which made him half open one corner of his\nmouth, and he muttered between his teeth:\n\n Have a care. \n\n\n Go,  said Jean Valjean.\n\nJavert began again:\n\n Thou saidst Fauchelevent, Rue de l Homme Arm ? \n\n\n Number 7. \n\n\nJavert repeated in a low voice: Number 7. \n\n\nHe buttoned up his coat once more, resumed the military stiffness\nbetween his shoulders, made a half turn, folded his arms and,\nsupporting his chin on one of his hands, he set out in the direction of\nthe Halles. Jean Valjean followed him with his eyes:\n\nA few minutes later, Javert turned round and shouted to Jean Valjean:\n\n You annoy me. Kill me, rather. \n\n\nJavert himself did not notice that he no longer addressed Jean Valjean\nas  thou. \n\n\n Be off with you,  said Jean Valjean.\n\nJavert retreated slowly. A moment later he turned the corner of the Rue\ndes Pr cheurs.\n\nWhen Javert had disappeared, Jean Valjean fired his pistol in the air.\n\nThen he returned to the barricade and said:\n\n It is done. \n\n\nIn the meanwhile, this is what had taken place.\n\nMarius, more intent on the outside than on the interior, had not, up to\nthat time, taken a good look at the pinioned spy in the dark background\nof the tap-room.\n\nWhen he beheld him in broad daylight, striding over the barricade in\norder to proceed to his death, he recognized him. Something suddenly\nrecurred to his mind. He recalled the inspector of the Rue de Pontoise,\nand the two pistols which the latter had handed to him and which he,\nMarius, had used in this very barricade, and not only did he recall his\nface, but his name as well.\n\nThis recollection was misty and troubled, however, like all his ideas.\n\nIt was not an affirmation that he made, but a question which he put to\nhimself:\n\n Is not that the inspector of police who told me that his name was\nJavert? \n\n\nPerhaps there was still time to intervene in behalf of that man. But,\nin the first place, he must know whether this was Javert.\n\nMarius called to Enjolras, who had just stationed himself at the other\nextremity of the barricade:\n\n Enjolras! \n\n\n What? \n\n\n What is the name of yonder man? \n\n\n What man? \n\n\n The police agent. Do you know his name? \n\n\n Of course. He told us. \n\n\n What is it? \n\n\n Javert. \n\n\nMarius sprang to his feet.\n\nAt that moment, they heard the report of the pistol.\n\nJean Valjean reappeared and cried:  It is done. \n\n\nA gloomy chill traversed Marius  heart.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX THE DEAD ARE IN THE RIGHT AND THE LIVING ARE NOT IN THE\nWRONG\n\n\nThe death agony of the barricade was about to begin.\n\nEverything contributed to its tragic majesty at that supreme moment; a\nthousand mysterious crashes in the air, the breath of armed masses set\nin movement in the streets which were not visible, the intermittent\ngallop of cavalry, the heavy shock of artillery on the march, the\nfiring by squads, and the cannonades crossing each other in the\nlabyrinth of Paris, the smokes of battle mounting all gilded above the\nroofs, indescribable and vaguely terrible cries, lightnings of menace\neverywhere, the tocsin of Saint-Merry, which now had the accents of a\nsob, the mildness of the weather, the splendor of the sky filled with\nsun and clouds, the beauty of the day, and the alarming silence of the\nhouses.\n\nFor, since the preceding evening, the two rows of houses in the Rue de\nla Chanvrerie had become two walls; ferocious walls, doors closed,\nwindows closed, shutters closed.\n\nIn those days, so different from those in which we live, when the hour\nwas come, when the people wished to put an end to a situation, which\nhad lasted too long, with a charter granted or with a legal country,\nwhen universal wrath was diffused in the atmosphere, when the city\nconsented to the tearing up of the pavements, when insurrection made\nthe bourgeoisie smile by whispering its password in its ear, then the\ninhabitant, thoroughly penetrated with the revolt, so to speak, was the\nauxiliary of the combatant, and the house fraternized with the\nimprovised fortress which rested on it. When the situation was not\nripe, when the insurrection was not decidedly admitted, when the masses\ndisowned the movement, all was over with the combatants, the city was\nchanged into a desert around the revolt, souls grew chilled, refuges\nwere nailed up, and the street turned into a defile to help the army to\ntake the barricade.\n\nA people cannot be forced, through surprise, to walk more quickly than\nit chooses. Woe to whomsoever tries to force its hand! A people does\nnot let itself go at random. Then it abandons the insurrection to\nitself. The insurgents become noxious, infected with the plague. A\nhouse is an escarpment, a door is a refusal, a fa ade is a wall. This\nwall hears, sees and will not. It might open and save you. No. This\nwall is a judge. It gazes at you and condemns you. What dismal things\nare closed houses. They seem dead, they are living. Life which is, as\nit were, suspended there, persists there. No one has gone out of them\nfor four and twenty hours, but no one is missing from them. In the\ninterior of that rock, people go and come, go to bed and rise again;\nthey are a family party there; there they eat and drink; they are\nafraid, a terrible thing! Fear excuses this fearful lack of\nhospitality; terror is mixed with it, an extenuating circumstance.\nSometimes, even, and this has been actually seen, fear turns to\npassion; fright may change into fury, as prudence does into rage; hence\nthis wise saying:  The enraged moderates.  There are outbursts of\nsupreme terror, whence springs wrath like a mournful smoke. What do\nthese people want? What have they come there to do? Let them get out of\nthe scrape. So much the worse for them. It is their fault. They are\nonly getting what they deserve. It does not concern us. Here is our\npoor street all riddled with balls. They are a pack of rascals. Above\nall things, don t open the door. And the house assumes the air of a\ntomb. The insurgent is in the death-throes in front of that house; he\nsees the grape-shot and naked swords drawing near; if he cries, he\nknows that they are listening to him, and that no one will come; there\nstand walls which might protect him, there are men who might save him;\nand these walls have ears of flesh, and these men have bowels of stone.\n\nWhom shall he reproach?\n\nNo one and every one.\n\nThe incomplete times in which we live.\n\nIt is always at its own risk and peril that Utopia is converted into\nrevolution, and from philosophical protest becomes an armed protest,\nand from Minerva turns to Pallas.\n\nThe Utopia which grows impatient and becomes revolt knows what awaits\nit; it almost always comes too soon. Then it becomes resigned, and\nstoically accepts catastrophe in lieu of triumph. It serves those who\ndeny it without complaint, even excusing them, and even disculpates\nthem, and its magnanimity consists in consenting to abandonment. It is\nindomitable in the face of obstacles and gentle towards ingratitude.\n\nIs this ingratitude, however?\n\nYes, from the point of view of the human race.\n\nNo, from the point of view of the individual.\n\nProgress is man s mode of existence. The general life of the human race\nis called Progress, the collective stride of the human race is called\nProgress. Progress advances; it makes the great human and terrestrial\njourney towards the celestial and the divine; it has its halting places\nwhere it rallies the laggard troop, it has its stations where it\nmeditates, in the presence of some splendid Canaan suddenly unveiled on\nits horizon, it has its nights when it sleeps; and it is one of the\npoignant anxieties of the thinker that he sees the shadow resting on\nthe human soul, and that he gropes in darkness without being able to\nawaken that slumbering Progress.\n\n God is dead, perhaps,  said Gerard de Nerval one day to the writer of\nthese lines, confounding progress with God, and taking the interruption\nof movement for the death of Being.\n\nHe who despairs is in the wrong. Progress infallibly awakes, and, in\nshort, we may say that it marches on, even when it is asleep, for it\nhas increased in size. When we behold it erect once more, we find it\ntaller. To be always peaceful does not depend on progress any more than\nit does on the stream; erect no barriers, cast in no boulders;\nobstacles make water froth and humanity boil. Hence arise troubles; but\nafter these troubles, we recognize the fact that ground has been\ngained. Until order, which is nothing else than universal peace, has\nbeen established, until harmony and unity reign, progress will have\nrevolutions as its halting-places.\n\nWhat, then, is progress? We have just enunciated it; the permanent life\nof the peoples.\n\nNow, it sometimes happens, that the momentary life of individuals\noffers resistance to the eternal life of the human race.\n\nLet us admit without bitterness, that the individual has his distinct\ninterests, and can, without forfeiture, stipulate for his interest, and\ndefend it; the present has its pardonable dose of egotism; momentary\nlife has its rights, and is not bound to sacrifice itself constantly to\nthe future. The generation which is passing in its turn over the earth,\nis not forced to abridge it for the sake of the generations, its equal,\nafter all, who will have their turn later on. I exist,  murmurs that\nsome one whose name is All.  I am young and in love, I am old and I\nwish to repose, I am the father of a family, I toil, I prosper, I am\nsuccessful in business, I have houses to lease, I have money in the\ngovernment funds, I am happy, I have a wife and children, I have all\nthis, I desire to live, leave me in peace. Hence, at certain hours, a\nprofound cold broods over the magnanimous vanguard of the human race.\n\nUtopia, moreover, we must admit, quits its radiant sphere when it makes\nwar. It, the truth of to-morrow, borrows its mode of procedure, battle,\nfrom the lie of yesterday. It, the future, behaves like the past. It,\npure idea, becomes a deed of violence. It complicates its heroism with\na violence for which it is just that it should be held to answer; a\nviolence of occasion and expedient, contrary to principle, and for\nwhich it is fatally punished. The Utopia, insurrection, fights with the\nold military code in its fist; it shoots spies, it executes traitors;\nit suppresses living beings and flings them into unknown darkness. It\nmakes use of death, a serious matter. It seems as though Utopia had no\nlonger any faith in radiance, its irresistible and incorruptible force.\nIt strikes with the sword. Now, no sword is simple. Every blade has two\nedges; he who wounds with the one is wounded with the other.\n\nHaving made this reservation, and made it with all severity, it is\nimpossible for us not to admire, whether they succeed or not, those the\nglorious combatants of the future, the confessors of Utopia. Even when\nthey miscarry, they are worthy of veneration; and it is, perhaps, in\nfailure, that they possess the most majesty. Victory, when it is in\naccord with progress, merits the applause of the people; but a heroic\ndefeat merits their tender compassion. The one is magnificent, the\nother sublime. For our own part, we prefer martyrdom to success. John\nBrown is greater than Washington, and Pisacane is greater than\nGaribaldi.\n\nIt certainly is necessary that some one should take the part of the\nvanquished.\n\nWe are unjust towards these great men who attempt the future, when they\nfail.\n\nRevolutionists are accused of sowing fear abroad. Every barricade seems\na crime. Their theories are incriminated, their aim suspected, their\nulterior motive is feared, their conscience denounced. They are\nreproached with raising, erecting, and heaping up, against the reigning\nsocial state, a mass of miseries, of griefs, of iniquities, of wrongs,\nof despairs, and of tearing from the lowest depths blocks of shadow in\norder therein to embattle themselves and to combat. People shout to\nthem:  You are tearing up the pavements of hell!  They might reply:\n That is because our barricade is made of good intentions. \n\n\nThe best thing, assuredly, is the pacific solution. In short, let us\nagree that when we behold the pavement, we think of the bear, and it is\na good will which renders society uneasy. But it depends on society to\nsave itself, it is to its own good will that we make our appeal. No\nviolent remedy is necessary. To study evil amiably, to prove its\nexistence, then to cure it. It is to this that we invite it.\n\nHowever that may be, even when fallen, above all when fallen, these\nmen, who at every point of the universe, with their eyes fixed on\nFrance, are striving for the grand work with the inflexible logic of\nthe ideal, are august; they give their life a free offering to\nprogress; they accomplish the will of Providence; they perform a\nreligious act. At the appointed hour, with as much disinterestedness as\nan actor who answers to his cue, in obedience to the divine\nstage-manager, they enter the tomb. And this hopeless combat, this\nstoical disappearance they accept in order to bring about the supreme\nand universal consequences, the magnificent and irresistibly human\nmovement begun on the 14th of July, 1789; these soldiers are priests.\nThe French revolution is an act of God.\n\nMoreover, there are, and it is proper to add this distinction to the\ndistinctions already pointed out in another chapter, there are accepted\nrevolutions, revolutions which are called revolutions; there are\nrefused revolutions, which are called riots.\n\nAn insurrection which breaks out, is an idea which is passing its\nexamination before the people. If the people lets fall a black ball,\nthe idea is dried fruit; the insurrection is a mere skirmish.\n\nWaging war at every summons and every time that Utopia desires it, is\nnot the thing for the peoples. Nations have not always and at every\nhour the temperament of heroes and martyrs.\n\nThey are positive. _A priori_, insurrection is repugnant to them, in\nthe first place, because it often results in a catastrophe, in the\nsecond place, because it always has an abstraction as its point of\ndeparture.\n\nBecause, and this is a noble thing, it is always for the ideal, and for\nthe ideal alone, that those who sacrifice themselves do thus sacrifice\nthemselves. An insurrection is an enthusiasm. Enthusiasm may wax wroth;\nhence the appeal to arms. But every insurrection, which aims at a\ngovernment or a r gime, aims higher. Thus, for instance, and we insist\nupon it, what the chiefs of the insurrection of 1832, and, in\nparticular, the young enthusiasts of the Rue de la Chanvrerie were\ncombating, was not precisely Louis Philippe. The majority of them, when\ntalking freely, did justice to this king who stood midway between\nmonarchy and revolution; no one hated him. But they attacked the\nyounger branch of the divine right in Louis Philippe as they had\nattacked its elder branch in Charles X.; and that which they wished to\noverturn in overturning royalty in France, was, as we have explained,\nthe usurpation of man over man, and of privilege over right in the\nentire universe. Paris without a king has as result the world without\ndespots. This is the manner in which they reasoned. Their aim was\ndistant no doubt, vague perhaps, and it retreated in the face of their\nefforts; but it was great.\n\nThus it is. And we sacrifice ourselves for these visions, which are\nalmost always illusions for the sacrificed, but illusions with which,\nafter all, the whole of human certainty is mingled. We throw ourselves\ninto these tragic affairs and become intoxicated with that which we are\nabout to do. Who knows? We may succeed. We are few in number, we have a\nwhole army arrayed against us; but we are defending right, the natural\nlaw, the sovereignty of each one over himself from which no abdication\nis possible, justice and truth, and in case of need, we die like the\nthree hundred Spartans. We do not think of Don Quixote but of Leonidas.\nAnd we march straight before us, and once pledged, we do not draw back,\nand we rush onwards with head held low, cherishing as our hope an\nunprecedented victory, revolution completed, progress set free again,\nthe aggrandizement of the human race, universal deliverance; and in the\nevent of the worst, Thermopyl .\n\nThese passages of arms for the sake of progress often suffer shipwreck,\nand we have just explained why. The crowd is restive in the presence of\nthe impulses of paladins. Heavy masses, the multitudes which are\nfragile because of their very weight, fear adventures; and there is a\ntouch of adventure in the ideal.\n\nMoreover, and we must not forget this, interests which are not very\nfriendly to the ideal and the sentimental are in the way. Sometimes the\nstomach paralyzes the heart.\n\nThe grandeur and beauty of France lies in this, that she takes less\nfrom the stomach than other nations: she more easily knots the rope\nabout her loins. She is the first awake, the last asleep. She marches\nforwards. She is a seeker.\n\nThis arises from the fact that she is an artist.\n\nThe ideal is nothing but the culminating point of logic, the same as\nthe beautiful is nothing but the summit of the true. Artistic peoples\nare also consistent peoples. To love beauty is to see the light. That\nis why the torch of Europe, that is to say of civilization, was first\nborne by Greece, who passed it on to Italy, who handed it on to France.\nDivine, illuminating nations of scouts! _Vit lampada tradunt_.\n\nIt is an admirable thing that the poetry of a people is the element of\nits progress. The amount of civilization is measured by the quantity of\nimagination. Only, a civilizing people should remain a manly people.\nCorinth, yes; Sybaris, no. Whoever becomes effeminate makes himself a\nbastard. He must be neither a dilettante nor a virtuoso: but he must be\nartistic. In the matter of civilization, he must not refine, but he\nmust sublime. On this condition, one gives to the human race the\npattern of the ideal.\n\nThe modern ideal has its type in art, and its means is science. It is\nthrough science that it will realize that august vision of the poets,\nthe socially beautiful. Eden will be reconstructed by A+B. At the point\nwhich civilization has now reached, the exact is a necessary element of\nthe splendid, and the artistic sentiment is not only served, but\ncompleted by the scientific organ; dreams must be calculated. Art,\nwhich is the conqueror, should have for support science, which is the\nwalker; the solidity of the creature which is ridden is of importance.\nThe modern spirit is the genius of Greece with the genius of India as\nits vehicle; Alexander on the elephant.\n\nRaces which are petrified in dogma or demoralized by lucre are unfit to\nguide civilization. Genuflection before the idol or before money wastes\naway the muscles which walk and the will which advances. Hieratic or\nmercantile absorption lessens a people s power of radiance, lowers its\nhorizon by lowering its level, and deprives it of that intelligence, at\nonce both human and divine of the universal goal, which makes\nmissionaries of nations. Babylon has no ideal; Carthage has no ideal.\nAthens and Rome have and keep, throughout all the nocturnal darkness of\nthe centuries, halos of civilization.\n\nFrance is in the same quality of race as Greece and Italy. She is\nAthenian in the matter of beauty, and Roman in her greatness. Moreover,\nshe is good. She gives herself. Oftener than is the case with other\nraces, is she in the humor for self-devotion and sacrifice. Only, this\nhumor seizes upon her, and again abandons her. And therein lies the\ngreat peril for those who run when she desires only to walk, or who\nwalk on when she desires to halt. France has her relapses into\nmaterialism, and, at certain instants, the ideas which obstruct that\nsublime brain have no longer anything which recalls French greatness\nand are of the dimensions of a Missouri or a South Carolina. What is to\nbe done in such a case? The giantess plays at being a dwarf; immense\nFrance has her freaks of pettiness. That is all.\n\nTo this there is nothing to say. Peoples, like planets, possess the\nright to an eclipse. And all is well, provided that the light returns\nand that the eclipse does not degenerate into night. Dawn and\nresurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light is identical\nwith the persistence of the _I_.\n\nLet us state these facts calmly. Death on the barricade or the tomb in\nexile, is an acceptable occasion for devotion. The real name of\ndevotion is disinterestedness. Let the abandoned allow themselves to be\nabandoned, let the exiled allow themselves to be exiled, and let us\nconfine ourselves to entreating great nations not to retreat too far,\nwhen they do retreat. One must not push too far in descent under\npretext of a return to reason.\n\nMatter exists, the minute exists, interest exists, the stomach exists;\nbut the stomach must not be the sole wisdom. The life of the moment has\nits rights, we admit, but permanent life has its rights also. Alas! the\nfact that one is mounted does not preclude a fall. This can be seen in\nhistory more frequently than is desirable: A nation is great, it tastes\nthe ideal, then it bites the mire, and finds it good; and if it be\nasked how it happens that it has abandoned Socrates for Falstaff, it\nreplies:  Because I love statesmen. \n\n\nOne word more before returning to our subject, the conflict.\n\nA battle like the one which we are engaged in describing is nothing\nelse than a convulsion towards the ideal. Progress trammelled is\nsickly, and is subject to these tragic epilepsies. With that malady of\nprogress, civil war, we have been obliged to come in contact in our\npassage. This is one of the fatal phases, at once act and entr acte of\nthat drama whose pivot is a social condemnation, and whose veritable\ntitle is _Progress_.\n\nProgress!\n\nThe cry to which we frequently give utterance is our whole thought;\nand, at the point of this drama which we have now reached, the idea\nwhich it contains having still more than one trial to undergo, it is,\nperhaps, permitted to us, if not to lift the veil from it, to at least\nallow its light to shine through.\n\nThe book which the reader has under his eye at this moment is, from one\nend to the other, as a whole and in detail, whatever may be its\nintermittences, exceptions and faults, the march from evil to good,\nfrom the unjust to the just, from night to day, from appetite to\nconscience, from rottenness to life, from hell to heaven, from\nnothingness to God. Point of departure: matter; point of arrival: the\nsoul. The hydra at the beginning, the angel at the end.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI THE HEROES\n\n\nAll at once, the drum beat the charge.\n\nThe attack was a hurricane. On the evening before, in the darkness, the\nbarricade had been approached silently, as by a boa. Now, in broad\ndaylight, in that widening street, surprise was decidedly impossible,\nrude force had, moreover, been unmasked, the cannon had begun the roar,\nthe army hurled itself on the barricade. Fury now became skill. A\npowerful detachment of infantry of the line, broken at regular\nintervals, by the National Guard and the Municipal Guard on foot, and\nsupported by serried masses which could be heard though not seen,\ndebauched into the street at a run, with drums beating, trumpets\nbraying, bayonets levelled, the sappers at their head, and,\nimperturbable under the projectiles, charged straight for the barricade\nwith the weight of a brazen beam against a wall.\n\nThe wall held firm.\n\nThe insurgents fired impetuously. The barricade once scaled had a mane\nof lightning flashes. The assault was so furious, that for one moment,\nit was inundated with assailants; but it shook off the soldiers as the\nlion shakes off the dogs, and it was only covered with besiegers as the\ncliff is covered with foam, to reappear, a moment later, beetling,\nblack and formidable.\n\nThe column, forced to retreat, remained massed in the street,\nunprotected but terrible, and replied to the redoubt with a terrible\ndischarge of musketry. Any one who has seen fireworks will recall the\nsheaf formed of interlacing lightnings which is called a bouquet. Let\nthe reader picture to himself this bouquet, no longer vertical but\nhorizontal, bearing a bullet, buckshot or a bisca en at the tip of each\none of its jets of flame, and picking off dead men one after another\nfrom its clusters of lightning. The barricade was underneath it.\n\nOn both sides, the resolution was equal. The bravery exhibited there\nwas almost barbarous and was complicated with a sort of heroic ferocity\nwhich began by the sacrifice of self.\n\nThis was the epoch when a National Guardsman fought like a Zouave. The\ntroop wished to make an end of it, insurrection was desirous of\nfighting. The acceptance of the death agony in the flower of youth and\nin the flush of health turns intrepidity into frenzy. In this fray,\neach one underwent the broadening growth of the death hour. The street\nwas strewn with corpses.\n\nThe barricade had Enjolras at one of its extremities and Marius at the\nother. Enjolras, who carried the whole barricade in his head, reserved\nand sheltered himself; three soldiers fell, one after the other, under\nhis embrasure, without having even seen him; Marius fought unprotected.\nHe made himself a target. He stood with more than half his body above\nthe breastworks. There is no more violent prodigal than the avaricious\nman who takes the bit in his teeth; there is no man more terrible in\naction than a dreamer. Marius was formidable and pensive. In battle he\nwas as in a dream. One would have pronounced him a phantom engaged in\nfiring a gun.\n\nThe insurgents  cartridges were giving out; but not their sarcasms. In\nthis whirlwind of the sepulchre in which they stood, they laughed.\n\nCourfeyrac was bareheaded.\n\n What have you done with your hat?  Bossuet asked him.\n\nCourfeyrac replied:\n\n They have finally taken it away from me with cannon-balls. \n\n\nOr they uttered haughty comments.\n\n Can any one understand,  exclaimed Feuilly bitterly,  those men, [and\nhe cited names, well-known names, even celebrated names, some belonging\nto the old army] who had promised to join us, and taken an oath to aid\nus, and who had pledged their honor to it, and who are our generals,\nand who abandon us! \n\n\nAnd Combeferre restricted himself to replying with a grave smile.\n\n There are people who observe the rules of honor as one observes the\nstars, from a great distance. \n\n\nThe interior of the barricade was so strewn with torn cartridges that\none would have said that there had been a snowstorm.\n\nThe assailants had numbers in their favor; the insurgents had position.\nThey were at the top of a wall, and they thundered point-blank upon the\nsoldiers tripping over the dead and wounded and entangled in the\nescarpment. This barricade, constructed as it was and admirably\nbuttressed, was really one of those situations where a handful of men\nhold a legion in check. Nevertheless, the attacking column, constantly\nrecruited and enlarged under the shower of bullets, drew inexorably\nnearer, and now, little by little, step by step, but surely, the army\nclosed in around the barricade as the vice grasps the wine-press.\n\nOne assault followed another. The horror of the situation kept\nincreasing.\n\nThen there burst forth on that heap of paving-stones, in that Rue de la\nChanvrerie, a battle worthy of a wall of Troy. These haggard, ragged,\nexhausted men, who had had nothing to eat for four and twenty hours,\nwho had not slept, who had but a few more rounds to fire, who were\nfumbling in their pockets which had been emptied of cartridges, nearly\nall of whom were wounded, with head or arm bandaged with black and\nblood-stained linen, with holes in their clothes from which the blood\ntrickled, and who were hardly armed with poor guns and notched swords,\nbecame Titans. The barricade was ten times attacked, approached,\nassailed, scaled, and never captured.\n\nIn order to form an idea of this struggle, it is necessary to imagine\nfire set to a throng of terrible courages, and then to gaze at the\nconflagration. It was not a combat, it was the interior of a furnace;\nthere mouths breathed the flame; there countenances were extraordinary.\nThe human form seemed impossible there, the combatants flamed forth\nthere, and it was formidable to behold the going and coming in that red\nglow of those salamanders of the fray.\n\nThe successive and simultaneous scenes of this grand slaughter we\nrenounce all attempts at depicting. The epic alone has the right to\nfill twelve thousand verses with a battle.\n\nOne would have pronounced this that hell of Brahmanism, the most\nredoubtable of the seventeen abysses, which the Veda calls the Forest\nof Swords.\n\nThey fought hand to hand, foot to foot, with pistol shots, with blows\nof the sword, with their fists, at a distance, close at hand, from\nabove, from below, from everywhere, from the roofs of the houses, from\nthe windows of the wine-shop, from the cellar windows, whither some had\ncrawled. They were one against sixty.\n\nThe fa ade of Corinthe, half demolished, was hideous. The window,\ntattooed with grape-shot, had lost glass and frame and was nothing now\nbut a shapeless hole, tumultuously blocked with paving-stones.\n\nBossuet was killed; Feuilly was killed; Courfeyrac was killed;\nCombeferre, transfixed by three blows from a bayonet in the breast at\nthe moment when he was lifting up a wounded soldier, had only time to\ncast a glance to heaven when he expired.\n\nMarius, still fighting, was so riddled with wounds, particularly in the\nhead, that his countenance disappeared beneath the blood, and one would\nhave said that his face was covered with a red kerchief.\n\nEnjolras alone was not struck. When he had no longer any weapon, he\nreached out his hands to right and left and an insurgent thrust some\narm or other into his fist. All he had left was the stumps of four\nswords; one more than Fran ois I. at Marignan. Homer says:  Diomedes\ncuts the throat of Axylus, son of Teuthranis, who dwelt in happy\nArisba; Euryalus, son of Mecist us, exterminates Dresos and Opheltios,\nEsepius, and that Pedasus whom the naiad Abarbarea bore to the\nblameless Bucolion; Ulysses overthrows Pidytes of Percosius;\nAntilochus, Ablerus; Polyp tes, Astyalus; Polydamas, Otos, of Cyllene;\nand Teucer, Aretaon. Meganthios dies under the blows of Euripylus \npike. Agamemnon, king of the heroes, flings to earth Elatos, born in\nthe rocky city which is laved by the sounding river Satno s.  In our\nold poems of exploits, Esplandian attacks the giant marquis Swantibore\nwith a cobbler s shoulder-stick of fire, and the latter defends himself\nby stoning the hero with towers which he plucks up by the roots. Our\nancient mural frescoes show us the two Dukes of Bretagne and Bourbon,\narmed, emblazoned and crested in war-like guise, on horseback and\napproaching each other, their battle-axes in hand, masked with iron,\ngloved with iron, booted with iron, the one caparisoned in ermine, the\nother draped in azure: Bretagne with his lion between the two horns of\nhis crown, Bourbon helmeted with a monster fleur de lys on his visor.\nBut, in order to be superb, it is not necessary to wear, like Yvon, the\nducal morion, to have in the fist, like Esplandian, a living flame, or,\nlike Phyles, father of Polydamas, to have brought back from Ephyra a\ngood suit of mail, a present from the king of men, Euphetes; it\nsuffices to give one s life for a conviction or a loyalty. This\ningenuous little soldier, yesterday a peasant of Bauce or Limousin, who\nprowls with his clasp-knife by his side, around the children s nurses\nin the Luxembourg garden, this pale young student bent over a piece of\nanatomy or a book, a blond youth who shaves his beard with\nscissors, take both of them, breathe upon them with a breath of duty,\nplace them face to face in the Carrefour Boucherat or in the blind\nalley Planche-Mibray, and let the one fight for his flag, and the other\nfor his ideal, and let both of them imagine that they are fighting for\ntheir country; the struggle will be colossal; and the shadow which this\nraw recruit and this sawbones in conflict will produce in that grand\nepic field where humanity is striving, will equal the shadow cast by\nMegaryon, King of Lycia, tiger-filled, crushing in his embrace the\nimmense body of Ajax, equal to the gods.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII FOOT TO FOOT\n\n\nWhen there were no longer any of the leaders left alive, except\nEnjolras and Marius at the two extremities of the barricade, the\ncentre, which had so long sustained Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly\nand Combeferre, gave way. The cannon, though it had not effected a\npracticable breach, had made a rather large hollow in the middle of the\nredoubt; there, the summit of the wall had disappeared before the\nballs, and had crumbled away; and the rubbish which had fallen, now\ninside, now outside, had, as it accumulated, formed two piles in the\nnature of slopes on the two sides of the barrier, one on the inside,\nthe other on the outside. The exterior slope presented an inclined\nplane to the attack.\n\nA final assault was there attempted, and this assault succeeded. The\nmass bristling with bayonets and hurled forward at a run, came up with\nirresistible force, and the serried front of battle of the attacking\ncolumn made its appearance through the smoke on the crest of the\nbattlements. This time, it was decisive. The group of insurgents who\nwere defending the centre retreated in confusion.\n\nThen the gloomy love of life awoke once more in some of them. Many,\nfinding themselves under the muzzles of this forest of guns, did not\nwish to die. This is a moment when the instinct of self-preservation\nemits howls, when the beast reappears in men. They were hemmed in by\nthe lofty, six-story house which formed the background of their\nredoubt. This house might prove their salvation. The building was\nbarricaded, and walled, as it were, from top to bottom. Before the\ntroops of the line had reached the interior of the redoubt, there was\ntime for a door to open and shut, the space of a flash of lightning was\nsufficient for that, and the door of that house, suddenly opened a\ncrack and closed again instantly, was life for these despairing men.\nBehind this house, there were streets, possible flight, space. They set\nto knocking at that door with the butts of their guns, and with kicks,\nshouting, calling, entreating, wringing their hands. No one opened.\nFrom the little window on the third floor, the head of the dead man\ngazed down upon them.\n\nBut Enjolras and Marius, and the seven or eight rallied about them,\nsprang forward and protected them. Enjolras had shouted to the\nsoldiers:  Don t advance!  and as an officer had not obeyed, Enjolras\nhad killed the officer. He was now in the little inner court of the\nredoubt, with his back planted against the Corinthe building, a sword\nin one hand, a rifle in the other, holding open the door of the\nwine-shop which he barred against assailants. He shouted to the\ndesperate men: There is but one door open; this one. And shielding\nthem with his body, and facing an entire battalion alone, he made them\npass in behind him. All precipitated themselves thither. Enjolras,\nexecuting with his rifle, which he now used like a cane, what\nsingle-stick players call a  covered rose  round his head, levelled the\nbayonets around and in front of him, and was the last to enter; and\nthen ensued a horrible moment, when the soldiers tried to make their\nway in, and the insurgents strove to bar them out. The door was slammed\nwith such violence, that, as it fell back into its frame, it showed the\nfive fingers of a soldier who had been clinging to it, cut off and\nglued to the post.\n\nMarius remained outside. A shot had just broken his collar bone, he\nfelt that he was fainting and falling. At that moment, with eyes\nalready shut, he felt the shock of a vigorous hand seizing him, and the\nswoon in which his senses vanished, hardly allowed him time for the\nthought, mingled with a last memory of Cosette: I am taken prisoner. I\nshall be shot. \n\n\nEnjolras, not seeing Marius among those who had taken refuge in the\nwine-shop, had the same idea. But they had reached a moment when each\nman has not the time to meditate on his own death. Enjolras fixed the\nbar across the door, and bolted it, and double-locked it with key and\nchain, while those outside were battering furiously at it, the soldiers\nwith the butts of their muskets, the sappers with their axes. The\nassailants were grouped about that door. The siege of the wine-shop was\nnow beginning.\n\nThe soldiers, we will observe, were full of wrath.\n\nThe death of the artillery-sergeant had enraged them, and then, a still\nmore melancholy circumstance. During the few hours which had preceded\nthe attack, it had been reported among them that the insurgents were\nmutilating their prisoners, and that there was the headless body of a\nsoldier in the wine-shop. This sort of fatal rumor is the usual\naccompaniment of civil wars, and it was a false report of this kind\nwhich, later on, produced the catastrophe of the Rue Transnonain.\n\nWhen the door was barricaded, Enjolras said to the others:\n\n Let us sell our lives dearly. \n\n\nThen he approached the table on which lay Mabeuf and Gavroche. Beneath\nthe black cloth two straight and rigid forms were visible, one large,\nthe other small, and the two faces were vaguely outlined beneath the\ncold folds of the shroud. A hand projected from beneath the winding\nsheet and hung near the floor. It was that of the old man.\n\nEnjolras bent down and kissed that venerable hand, just as he had\nkissed his brow on the preceding evening.\n\nThese were the only two kisses which he had bestowed in the course of\nhis life.\n\nLet us abridge the tale. The barricade had fought like a gate of\nThebes; the wine-shop fought like a house of Saragossa. These\nresistances are dogged. No quarter. No flag of truce possible. Men are\nwilling to die, provided their opponent will kill them.\n\nWhen Suchet says: Capitulate, Palafox replies:  After the war with\ncannon, the war with knives.  Nothing was lacking in the capture by\nassault of the Hucheloup wine-shop; neither paving-stones raining from\nthe windows and the roof on the besiegers and exasperating the soldiers\nby crushing them horribly, nor shots fired from the attic-windows and\nthe cellar, nor the fury of attack, nor, finally, when the door\nyielded, the frenzied madness of extermination. The assailants, rushing\ninto the wine-shop, their feet entangled in the panels of the door\nwhich had been beaten in and flung on the ground, found not a single\ncombatant there. The spiral staircase, hewn asunder with the axe, lay\nin the middle of the tap-room, a few wounded men were just breathing\ntheir last, every one who was not killed was on the first floor, and\nfrom there, through the hole in the ceiling, which had formed the\nentrance of the stairs, a terrific fire burst forth. It was the last of\ntheir cartridges. When they were exhausted, when these formidable men\non the point of death had no longer either powder or ball, each grasped\nin his hands two of the bottles which Enjolras had reserved, and of\nwhich we have spoken, and held the scaling party in check with these\nfrightfully fragile clubs. They were bottles of aquafortis.\n\nWe relate these gloomy incidents of carnage as they occurred. The\nbesieged man, alas! converts everything into a weapon. Greek fire did\nnot disgrace Archimedes, boiling pitch did not disgrace Bayard. All war\nis a thing of terror, and there is no choice in it. The musketry of the\nbesiegers, though confined and embarrassed by being directed from below\nupwards, was deadly. The rim of the hole in the ceiling was speedily\nsurrounded by heads of the slain, whence dripped long, red and smoking\nstreams, the uproar was indescribable; a close and burning smoke almost\nproduced night over this combat. Words are lacking to express horror\nwhen it has reached this pitch. There were no longer men in this\nconflict, which was now infernal. They were no longer giants matched\nwith colossi. It resembled Milton and Dante rather than Homer. Demons\nattacked, spectres resisted.\n\nIt was heroism become monstrous.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII ORESTES FASTING AND PYLADES DRUNK\n\n\nAt length, by dint of mounting on each other s backs, aiding themselves\nwith the skeleton of the staircase, climbing up the walls, clinging to\nthe ceiling, slashing away at the very brink of the trap-door, the last\none who offered resistance, a score of assailants, soldiers, National\nGuardsmen, municipal guardsmen, in utter confusion, the majority\ndisfigured by wounds in the face during that redoubtable ascent,\nblinded by blood, furious, rendered savage, made an irruption into the\napartment on the first floor. There they found only one man still on\nhis feet, Enjolras. Without cartridges, without sword, he had nothing\nin his hand now but the barrel of his gun whose stock he had broken\nover the head of those who were entering. He had placed the billiard\ntable between his assailants and himself; he had retreated into the\ncorner of the room, and there, with haughty eye, and head borne high,\nwith this stump of a weapon in his hand, he was still so alarming as to\nspeedily create an empty space around him. A cry arose:\n\n He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is well\nthat he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot\nhim down on the spot. \n\n\n Shoot me,  said Enjolras.\n\nAnd flinging away his bit of gun-barrel, and folding his arms, he\noffered his breast.\n\nThe audacity of a fine death always affects men. As soon as Enjolras\nfolded his arms and accepted his end, the din of strife ceased in the\nroom, and this chaos suddenly stilled into a sort of sepulchral\nsolemnity. The menacing majesty of Enjolras disarmed and motionless,\nappeared to oppress this tumult, and this young man, haughty, bloody,\nand charming, who alone had not a wound, who was as indifferent as an\ninvulnerable being, seemed, by the authority of his tranquil glance, to\nconstrain this sinister rabble to kill him respectfully. His beauty, at\nthat moment augmented by his pride, was resplendent, and he was fresh\nand rosy after the fearful four and twenty hours which had just\nelapsed, as though he could no more be fatigued than wounded. It was of\nhim, possibly, that a witness spoke afterwards, before the council of\nwar:  There was an insurgent whom I heard called Apollo.  A National\nGuardsman who had taken aim at Enjolras, lowered his gun, saying:  It\nseems to me that I am about to shoot a flower. \n\n\nTwelve men formed into a squad in the corner opposite Enjolras, and\nsilently made ready their guns.\n\nThen a sergeant shouted:\n\n Take aim! \n\n\nAn officer intervened.\n\n Wait. \n\n\nAnd addressing Enjolras:\n\n Do you wish to have your eyes bandaged? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\nGrantaire had waked up a few moments before.\n\nGrantaire, it will be remembered, had been asleep ever since the\npreceding evening in the upper room of the wine-shop, seated on a chair\nand leaning on the table.\n\nHe realized in its fullest sense the old metaphor of  dead drunk.  The\nhideous potion of absinthe-porter and alcohol had thrown him into a\nlethargy. His table being small, and not suitable for the barricade, he\nhad been left in possession of it. He was still in the same posture,\nwith his breast bent over the table, his head lying flat on his arms,\nsurrounded by glasses, beer-jugs and bottles. His was the overwhelming\nslumber of the torpid bear and the satiated leech. Nothing had had any\neffect upon it, neither the fusillade, nor the cannon-balls, nor the\ngrape-shot which had made its way through the window into the room\nwhere he was. Nor the tremendous uproar of the assault. He merely\nreplied to the cannonade, now and then, by a snore. He seemed to be\nwaiting there for a bullet which should spare him the trouble of\nwaking. Many corpses were strewn around him; and, at the first glance,\nthere was nothing to distinguish him from those profound sleepers of\ndeath.\n\nNoise does not rouse a drunken man; silence awakens him. The fall of\neverything around him only augmented Grantaire s prostration; the\ncrumbling of all things was his lullaby. The sort of halt which the\ntumult underwent in the presence of Enjolras was a shock to this heavy\nslumber. It had the effect of a carriage going at full speed, which\nsuddenly comes to a dead stop. The persons dozing within it wake up.\nGrantaire rose to his feet with a start, stretched out his arms, rubbed\nhis eyes, stared, yawned, and understood.\n\nA fit of drunkenness reaching its end resembles a curtain which is torn\naway. One beholds, at a single glance and as a whole, all that it has\nconcealed. All suddenly presents itself to the memory; and the drunkard\nwho has known nothing of what has been taking place during the last\ntwenty-four hours, has no sooner opened his eyes than he is perfectly\ninformed. Ideas recur to him with abrupt lucidity; the obliteration of\nintoxication, a sort of steam which has obscured the brain, is\ndissipated, and makes way for the clear and sharply outlined\nimportunity of realities.\n\nRelegated, as he was, to one corner, and sheltered behind the\nbilliard-table, the soldiers whose eyes were fixed on Enjolras, had not\neven noticed Grantaire, and the sergeant was preparing to repeat his\norder:  Take aim!  when all at once, they heard a strong voice shout\nbeside them:\n\n Long live the Republic! I m one of them. \n\n\nGrantaire had risen. The immense gleam of the whole combat which he had\nmissed, and in which he had had no part, appeared in the brilliant\nglance of the transfigured drunken man.\n\nHe repeated:  Long live the Republic!  crossed the room with a firm\nstride and placed himself in front of the guns beside Enjolras.\n\n Finish both of us at one blow,  said he.\n\nAnd turning gently to Enjolras, he said to him:\n\n Do you permit it? \n\n\nEnjolras pressed his hand with a smile.\n\nThis smile was not ended when the report resounded.\n\nEnjolras, pierced by eight bullets, remained leaning against the wall,\nas though the balls had nailed him there. Only, his head was bowed.\n\nGrantaire fell at his feet, as though struck by a thunderbolt.\n\nA few moments later, the soldiers dislodged the last remaining\ninsurgents, who had taken refuge at the top of the house. They fired\ninto the attic through a wooden lattice. They fought under the very\nroof. They flung bodies, some of them still alive, out through the\nwindows. Two light-infantrymen, who tried to lift the shattered\nomnibus, were slain by two shots fired from the attic. A man in a\nblouse was flung down from it, with a bayonet wound in the abdomen, and\nbreathed his last on the ground. A soldier and an insurgent slipped\ntogether on the sloping slates of the roof, and, as they would not\nrelease each other, they fell, clasped in a ferocious embrace. A\nsimilar conflict went on in the cellar. Shouts, shots, a fierce\ntrampling. Then silence. The barricade was captured.\n\nThe soldiers began to search the houses round about, and to pursue the\nfugitives.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV PRISONER\n\n\nMarius was, in fact, a prisoner.\n\nThe hand which had seized him from behind and whose grasp he had felt\nat the moment of his fall and his loss of consciousness was that of\nJean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean had taken no other part in the combat than to expose\nhimself in it. Had it not been for him, no one, in that supreme phase\nof agony, would have thought of the wounded. Thanks to him, everywhere\npresent in the carnage, like a providence, those who fell were picked\nup, transported to the tap-room, and cared for. In the intervals, he\nreappeared on the barricade. But nothing which could resemble a blow,\nan attack or even personal defence proceeded from his hands. He held\nhis peace and lent succor. Moreover, he had received only a few\nscratches. The bullets would have none of him. If suicide formed part\nof what he had meditated on coming to this sepulchre, to that spot, he\nhad not succeeded. But we doubt whether he had thought of suicide, an\nirreligious act.\n\nJean Valjean, in the thick cloud of the combat, did not appear to see\nMarius; the truth is, that he never took his eyes from the latter. When\na shot laid Marius low, Jean Valjean leaped forward with the agility of\na tiger, fell upon him as on his prey, and bore him off.\n\nThe whirlwind of the attack was, at that moment, so violently\nconcentrated upon Enjolras and upon the door of the wine-shop, that no\none saw Jean Valjean sustaining the fainting Marius in his arms,\ntraverse the unpaved field of the barricade and disappear behind the\nangle of the Corinthe building.\n\nThe reader will recall this angle which formed a sort of cape on the\nstreet; it afforded shelter from the bullets, the grape-shot, and all\neyes, and a few square feet of space. There is sometimes a chamber\nwhich does not burn in the midst of a conflagration, and in the midst\nof raging seas, beyond a promontory or at the extremity of a blind\nalley of shoals, a tranquil nook. It was in this sort of fold in the\ninterior trapezium of the barricade, that  ponine had breathed her\nlast.\n\nThere Jean Valjean halted, let Marius slide to the ground, placed his\nback against the wall, and cast his eyes about him.\n\nThe situation was alarming.\n\nFor an instant, for two or three perhaps, this bit of wall was a\nshelter, but how was he to escape from this massacre? He recalled the\nanguish which he had suffered in the Rue Polonceau eight years before,\nand in what manner he had contrived to make his escape; it was\ndifficult then, to-day it was impossible. He had before him that deaf\nand implacable house, six stories in height, which appeared to be\ninhabited only by a dead man leaning out of his window; he had on his\nright the rather low barricade, which shut off the Rue de la Petite\nTruanderie; to pass this obstacle seemed easy, but beyond the crest of\nthe barrier a line of bayonets was visible. The troops of the line were\nposted on the watch behind that barricade. It was evident, that to pass\nthe barricade was to go in quest of the fire of the platoon, and that\nany head which should run the risk of lifting itself above the top of\nthat wall of stones would serve as a target for sixty shots. On his\nleft he had the field of battle. Death lurked round the corner of that\nwall.\n\nWhat was to be done?\n\nOnly a bird could have extricated itself from this predicament.\n\nAnd it was necessary to decide on the instant, to devise some\nexpedient, to come to some decision. Fighting was going on a few paces\naway; fortunately, all were raging around a single point, the door of\nthe wine-shop; but if it should occur to one soldier, to one single\nsoldier, to turn the corner of the house, or to attack him on the\nflank, all was over.\n\nJean Valjean gazed at the house facing him, he gazed at the barricade\nat one side of him, then he looked at the ground, with the violence of\nthe last extremity, bewildered, and as though he would have liked to\npierce a hole there with his eyes.\n\nBy dint of staring, something vaguely striking in such an agony began\nto assume form and outline at his feet, as though it had been a power\nof glance which made the thing desired unfold. A few paces distant he\nperceived, at the base of the small barrier so pitilessly guarded and\nwatched on the exterior, beneath a disordered mass of paving-stones\nwhich partly concealed it, an iron grating, placed flat and on a level\nwith the soil. This grating, made of stout, transverse bars, was about\ntwo feet square. The frame of paving-stones which supported it had been\ntorn up, and it was, as it were, unfastened.\n\nThrough the bars a view could be had of a dark aperture, something like\nthe flue of a chimney, or the pipe of a cistern. Jean Valjean darted\nforward. His old art of escape rose to his brain like an illumination.\nTo thrust aside the stones, to raise the grating, to lift Marius, who\nwas as inert as a dead body, upon his shoulders, to descend, with this\nburden on his loins, and with the aid of his elbows and knees into that\nsort of well, fortunately not very deep, to let the heavy trap, upon\nwhich the loosened stones rolled down afresh, fall into its place\nbehind him, to gain his footing on a flagged surface three metres below\nthe surface, all this was executed like that which one does in dreams,\nwith the strength of a giant and the rapidity of an eagle; this took\nonly a few minutes.\n\nJean Valjean found himself with Marius, who was still unconscious, in a\nsort of long, subterranean corridor.\n\nThere reigned profound peace, absolute silence, night.\n\nThe impression which he had formerly experienced when falling from the\nwall into the convent recurred to him. Only, what he was carrying\nto-day was not Cosette; it was Marius. He could barely hear the\nformidable tumult in the wine-shop, taken by assault, like a vague\nmurmur overhead.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SECOND THE INTESTINE OF THE LEVIATHAN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE LAND IMPOVERISHED BY THE SEA\n\n\nParis casts twenty-five millions yearly into the water. And this\nwithout metaphor. How, and in what manner? Day and night. With what\nobject? With no object. With what intention? With no intention. Why?\nFor no reason. By means of what organ? By means of its intestine. What\nis its intestine? The sewer.\n\nTwenty-five millions is the most moderate approximative figure which\nthe valuations of special science have set upon it.\n\nScience, after having long groped about, now knows that the most\nfecundating and the most efficacious of fertilizers is human manure.\nThe Chinese, let us confess it to our shame, knew it before us. Not a\nChinese peasant it is Eckberg who says this, goes to town without\nbringing back with him, at the two extremities of his bamboo pole, two\nfull buckets of what we designate as filth. Thanks to human dung, the\nearth in China is still as young as in the days of Abraham. Chinese\nwheat yields a hundred fold of the seed. There is no guano comparable\nin fertility with the detritus of a capital. A great city is the most\nmighty of dung-makers. Certain success would attend the experiment of\nemploying the city to manure the plain. If our gold is manure, our\nmanure, on the other hand, is gold.\n\nWhat is done with this golden manure? It is swept into the abyss.\n\nFleets of vessels are despatched, at great expense, to collect the dung\nof petrels and penguins at the South Pole, and the incalculable element\nof opulence which we have on hand, we send to the sea. All the human\nand animal manure which the world wastes, restored to the land instead\nof being cast into the water, would suffice to nourish the world.\n\nThose heaps of filth at the gate-posts, those tumbrils of mud which\njolt through the street by night, those terrible casks of the street\ndepartment, those fetid drippings of subterranean mire, which the\npavements hide from you, do you know what they are? They are the meadow\nin flower, the green grass, wild thyme, thyme and sage, they are game,\nthey are cattle, they are the satisfied bellows of great oxen in the\nevening, they are perfumed hay, they are golden wheat, they are the\nbread on your table, they are the warm blood in your veins, they are\nhealth, they are joy, they are life. This is the will of that\nmysterious creation which is transformation on earth and\ntransfiguration in heaven.\n\nRestore this to the great crucible; your abundance will flow forth from\nit. The nutrition of the plains furnishes the nourishment of men.\n\nYou have it in your power to lose this wealth, and to consider me\nridiculous to boot. This will form the master-piece of your ignorance.\n\nStatisticians have calculated that France alone makes a deposit of half\na milliard every year, in the Atlantic, through the mouths of her\nrivers. Note this: with five hundred millions we could pay one quarter\nof the expenses of our budget. The cleverness of man is such that he\nprefers to get rid of these five hundred millions in the gutter. It is\nthe very substance of the people that is carried off, here drop by\ndrop, there wave after wave, the wretched outpour of our sewers into\nthe rivers, and the gigantic collection of our rivers into the ocean.\nEvery hiccough of our sewers costs us a thousand francs. From this\nspring two results, the land impoverished, and the water tainted.\nHunger arising from the furrow, and disease from the stream.\n\nIt is notorious, for example, that at the present hour, the Thames is\npoisoning London.\n\nSo far as Paris is concerned, it has become indispensable of late, to\ntransport the mouths of the sewers downstream, below the last bridge.\n\nA double tubular apparatus, provided with valves and sluices, sucking\nup and driving back, a system of elementary drainage, simple as the\nlungs of a man, and which is already in full working order in many\ncommunities in England, would suffice to conduct the pure water of the\nfields into our cities, and to send back to the fields the rich water\nof the cities, and this easy exchange, the simplest in the world, would\nretain among us the five hundred millions now thrown away. People are\nthinking of other things.\n\nThe process actually in use does evil, with the intention of doing\ngood. The intention is good, the result is melancholy. Thinking to\npurge the city, the population is blanched like plants raised in\ncellars. A sewer is a mistake. When drainage, everywhere, with its\ndouble function, restoring what it takes, shall have replaced the\nsewer, which is a simple impoverishing washing, then, this being\ncombined with the data of a now social economy, the product of the\nearth will be increased tenfold, and the problem of misery will be\nsingularly lightened. Add the suppression of parasitism, and it will be\nsolved.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the public wealth flows away to the river, and\nleakage takes place. Leakage is the word. Europe is being ruined in\nthis manner by exhaustion.\n\nAs for France, we have just cited its figures. Now, Paris contains one\ntwenty-fifth of the total population of France, and Parisian guano\nbeing the richest of all, we understate the truth when we value the\nloss on the part of Paris at twenty-five millions in the half milliard\nwhich France annually rejects. These twenty-five millions, employed in\nassistance and enjoyment, would double the splendor of Paris. The city\nspends them in sewers. So that we may say that Paris s great\nprodigality, its wonderful festival, its Beaujon folly, its orgy, its\nstream of gold from full hands, its pomp, its luxury, its magnificence,\nis its sewer system.\n\nIt is in this manner that, in the blindness of a poor political\neconomy, we drown and allow to float downstream and to be lost in the\ngulfs the well-being of all. There should be nets at Saint-Cloud for\nthe public fortune.\n\nEconomically considered, the matter can be summed up thus: Paris is a\nspendthrift. Paris, that model city, that patron of well-arranged\ncapitals, of which every nation strives to possess a copy, that\nmetropolis of the ideal, that august country of the initiative, of\nimpulse and of effort, that centre and that dwelling of minds, that\nnation-city, that hive of the future, that marvellous combination of\nBabylon and Corinth, would make a peasant of the Fo-Kian shrug his\nshoulders, from the point of view which we have just indicated.\n\nImitate Paris and you will ruin yourselves.\n\nMoreover, and particularly in this immemorial and senseless waste,\nParis is itself an imitator.\n\nThese surprising exhibitions of stupidity are not novel; this is no\nyoung folly. The ancients did like the moderns.  The sewers of Rome, \nsays Liebig,  have absorbed all the well-being of the Roman peasant. \nWhen the Campagna of Rome was ruined by the Roman sewer, Rome exhausted\nItaly, and when she had put Italy in her sewer, she poured in Sicily,\nthen Sardinia, then Africa. The sewer of Rome has engulfed the world.\nThis cesspool offered its engulfment to the city and the universe.\n_Urbi et orbi_. Eternal city, unfathomable sewer.\n\nRome sets the example for these things as well as for others.\n\nParis follows this example with all the stupidity peculiar to\nintelligent towns.\n\nFor the requirements of the operation upon the subject of which we have\njust explained our views, Paris has beneath it another Paris; a Paris\nof sewers; which has its streets, its crossroads, its squares, its\nblind-alleys, its arteries, and its circulation, which is of mire and\nminus the human form.\n\nFor nothing must be flattered, not even a great people; where there is\neverything there is also ignominy by the side of sublimity; and, if\nParis contains Athens, the city of light, Tyre, the city of might,\nSparta, the city of virtue, Nineveh, the city of marvels, it also\ncontains Lutetia, the city of mud.\n\nHowever, the stamp of its power is there also, and the Titanic sink of\nParis realizes, among monuments, that strange ideal realized in\nhumanity by some men like Macchiavelli, Bacon and Mirabeau, grandiose\nvileness.\n\nThe sub-soil of Paris, if the eye could penetrate its surface, would\npresent the aspect of a colossal madrepore. A sponge has no more\npartitions and ducts than the mound of earth for a circuit of six\nleagues round about, on which rests the great and ancient city. Not to\nmention its catacombs, which are a separate cellar, not to mention the\ninextricable trellis-work of gas pipes, without reckoning the vast\ntubular system for the distribution of fresh water which ends in the\npillar fountains, the sewers alone form a tremendous, shadowy network\nunder the two banks; a labyrinth which has its slope for its guiding\nthread.\n\nThere appears, in the humid mist, the rat which seems the product to\nwhich Paris has given birth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II ANCIENT HISTORY OF THE SEWER\n\n\nLet the reader imagine Paris lifted off like a cover, the subterranean\nnetwork of sewers, from a bird s-eye view, will outline on the banks a\nspecies of large branch grafted on the river. On the right bank, the\nbelt sewer will form the trunk of this branch, the secondary ducts will\nform the branches, and those without exit the twigs.\n\nThis figure is but a summary one and half exact, the right angle, which\nis the customary angle of this species of subterranean ramifications,\nbeing very rare in vegetation.\n\nA more accurate image of this strange geometrical plan can be formed by\nsupposing that one is viewing some eccentric oriental alphabet, as\nintricate as a thicket, against a background of shadows, and the\nmisshapen letters should be welded one to another in apparent\nconfusion, and as at haphazard, now by their angles, again by their\nextremities.\n\nSinks and sewers played a great part in the Middle Ages, in the Lower\nEmpire and in the Orient of old. The masses regarded these beds of\ndecomposition, these monstrous cradles of death, with a fear that was\nalmost religious. The vermin ditch of Benares is no less conducive to\ngiddiness than the lions  ditch of Babylon. Teglath-Phalasar, according\nto the rabbinical books, swore by the sink of Nineveh. It was from the\nsewer of M nster that John of Leyden produced his false moon, and it\nwas from the cesspool of Kekscheb that oriental menalchme, Mokanna, the\nveiled prophet of Khorassan, caused his false sun to emerge.\n\nThe history of men is reflected in the history of sewers. The\nGermoni 58 narrated Rome. The sewer of Paris has been an ancient and\nformidable thing. It has been a sepulchre, it has served as an asylum.\nCrime, intelligence, social protest, liberty of conscience, thought,\ntheft, all that human laws persecute or have persecuted, is hidden in\nthat hole; the _maillotins_ in the fourteenth century, the _tire-laine_\nof the fifteenth, the Huguenots in the sixteenth, Morin s _illuminated_\nin the seventeenth, the _chauffeurs_ [brigands] in the eighteenth. A\nhundred years ago, the nocturnal blow of the dagger emerged thence, the\npickpocket in danger slipped thither; the forest had its cave, Paris\nhad its sewer. Vagrancy, that Gallic _picareria_, accepted the sewer as\nthe adjunct of the Cour des Miracles, and at evening, it returned\nthither, fierce and sly, through the Maubu e outlet, as into a\nbed-chamber.\n\nIt was quite natural, that those who had the blind-alley Vide-Gousset,\n[Empty-Pocket] or the Rue Coupe-Gorge [Cut-Throat], for the scene of\ntheir daily labor, should have for their domicile by night the culvert\nof the Chemin-Vert, or the catch basin of Hurepoix. Hence a throng of\nsouvenirs. All sorts of phantoms haunt these long, solitary corridors;\neverywhere is putrescence and miasma; here and there are\nbreathing-holes, where Villon within converses with Rabelais without.\n\nThe sewer in ancient Paris is the rendezvous of all exhaustions and of\nall attempts. Political economy therein spies a detritus, social\nphilosophy there beholds a residuum.\n\nThe sewer is the conscience of the city. Everything there converges and\nconfronts everything else. In that livid spot there are shades, but\nthere are no longer any secrets. Each thing bears its true form, or at\nleast, its definitive form. The mass of filth has this in its favor,\nthat it is not a liar. Ingenuousness has taken refuge there. The mask\nof Basil is to be found there, but one beholds its cardboard and its\nstrings and the inside as well as the outside, and it is accentuated by\nhonest mud. Scapin s false nose is its next-door neighbor. All the\nuncleannesses of civilization, once past their use, fall into this\ntrench of truth, where the immense social sliding ends. They are there\nengulfed, but they display themselves there. This mixture is a\nconfession. There, no more false appearances, no plastering over is\npossible, filth removes its shirt, absolute denudation puts to the rout\nall illusions and mirages, there is nothing more except what really\nexists, presenting the sinister form of that which is coming to an end.\nThere, the bottom of a bottle indicates drunkenness, a basket-handle\ntells a tale of domesticity; there the core of an apple which has\nentertained literary opinions becomes an apple-core once more; the\neffigy on the big sou becomes frankly covered with verdigris, Caiphas \nspittle meets Falstaff s puking, the louis-d or which comes from the\ngaming-house jostles the nail whence hangs the rope s end of the\nsuicide. A livid f tus rolls along, enveloped in the spangles which\ndanced at the Opera last Shrove-Tuesday, a cap which has pronounced\njudgment on men wallows beside a mass of rottenness which was formerly\nMargoton s petticoat; it is more than fraternization, it is equivalent\nto addressing each other as _thou_. All which was formerly rouged, is\nwashed free. The last veil is torn away. A sewer is a cynic. It tells\neverything.\n\nThe sincerity of foulness pleases us, and rests the soul. When one has\npassed one s time in enduring upon earth the spectacle of the great\nairs which reasons of state, the oath, political sagacity, human\njustice, professional probity, the austerities of situation,\nincorruptible robes all assume, it solaces one to enter a sewer and to\nbehold the mire which befits it.\n\nThis is instructive at the same time. We have just said that history\npasses through the sewer. The Saint-Barth lemys filter through there,\ndrop by drop, between the paving-stones. Great public assassinations,\npolitical and religious butcheries, traverse this underground passage\nof civilization, and thrust their corpses there. For the eye of the\nthinker, all historic murderers are to be found there, in that hideous\npenumbra, on their knees, with a scrap of their winding-sheet for an\napron, dismally sponging out their work. Louis XI. is there with\nTristan, Fran ois I. with Duprat, Charles IX. is there with his mother,\nRichelieu is there with Louis XIII., Louvois is there, Letellier is\nthere, H bert and Maillard are there, scratching the stones, and trying\nto make the traces of their actions disappear. Beneath these vaults one\nhears the brooms of spectres. One there breathes the enormous fetidness\nof social catastrophes. One beholds reddish reflections in the corners.\nThere flows a terrible stream, in which bloody hands have been washed.\n\nThe social observer should enter these shadows. They form a part of his\nlaboratory. Philosophy is the microscope of the thought. Everything\ndesires to flee from it, but nothing escapes it. Tergiversation is\nuseless. What side of oneself does one display in evasions? the\nshameful side. Philosophy pursues with its glance, probes the evil, and\ndoes not permit it to escape into nothingness. In the obliteration of\nthings which disappear, in the watching of things which vanish, it\nrecognizes all. It reconstructs the purple from the rag, and the woman\nfrom the scrap of her dress. From the cesspool, it reconstitutes the\ncity; from mud, it reconstructs manners; from the potsherd it infers\nthe amphora or the jug. By the imprint of a finger-nail on a piece of\nparchment, it recognizes the difference which separates the Jewry of\nthe Judengasse from the Jewry of the Ghetto. It re-discovers in what\nremains that which has been, good, evil, the true, the blood-stain of\nthe palace, the ink-blot of the cavern, the drop of sweat from the\nbrothel, trials undergone, temptations welcomed, orgies cast forth, the\nturn which characters have taken as they became abased, the trace of\nprostitution in souls of which their grossness rendered them capable,\nand on the vesture of the porters of Rome the mark of Messalina s\nelbowing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III BRUNESEAU\n\n\nThe sewer of Paris in the Middle Ages was legendary. In the sixteenth\ncentury, Henri II. attempted a bore, which failed. Not a hundred years\nago, the cesspool, Mercier attests the fact, was abandoned to itself,\nand fared as best it might.\n\nSuch was this ancient Paris, delivered over to quarrels, to indecision,\nand to gropings. It was tolerably stupid for a long time. Later on,  89\nshowed how understanding comes to cities. But in the good, old times,\nthe capital had not much head. It did not know how to manage its own\naffairs either morally or materially, and could not sweep out filth any\nbetter than it could abuses. Everything presented an obstacle,\neverything raised a question. The sewer, for example, was refractory to\nevery itinerary. One could no more find one s bearings in the sewer\nthan one could understand one s position in the city; above the\nunintelligible, below the inextricable; beneath the confusion of\ntongues there reigned the confusion of caverns; D dalus backed up\nBabel.\n\nSometimes the Paris sewer took a notion to overflow, as though this\nmisunderstood Nile were suddenly seized with a fit of rage. There\noccurred, infamous to relate, inundations of the sewer. At times, that\nstomach of civilization digested badly, the cesspool flowed back into\nthe throat of the city, and Paris got an after-taste of her own filth.\nThese resemblances of the sewer to remorse had their good points; they\nwere warnings; very badly accepted, however; the city waxed indignant\nat the audacity of its mire, and did not admit that the filth should\nreturn. Drive it out better.\n\nThe inundation of 1802 is one of the actual memories of Parisians of\nthe age of eighty. The mud spread in cross-form over the Place des\nVictoires, where stands the statue of Louis XIV.; it entered the Rue\nSaint-Honor  by the two mouths to the sewer in the Champs- lys es, the\nRue Saint-Florentin through the Saint-Florentin sewer, the Rue\nPierre- -Poisson through the sewer de la Sonnerie, the Rue Popincourt,\nthrough the sewer of the Chemin-Vert, the Rue de la Roquette, through\nthe sewer of the Rue de Lappe; it covered the drain of the Rue des\nChamps- lys es to the height of thirty-five centimetres; and, to the\nSouth, through the vent of the Seine, performing its functions in\ninverse sense, it penetrated the Rue Mazarine, the Rue de l chaud ,\nand the Rue des Marais, where it stopped at a distance of one hundred\nand nine metres, a few paces distant from the house in which Racine had\nlived, respecting, in the seventeenth century, the poet more than the\nKing. It attained its maximum depth in the Rue Saint-Pierre, where it\nrose to the height of three feet above the flag-stones of the\nwater-spout, and its maximum length in the Rue Saint-Sabin, where it\nspread out over a stretch two hundred and thirty-eight metres in\nlength.\n\nAt the beginning of this century, the sewer of Paris was still a\nmysterious place. Mud can never enjoy a good fame; but in this case its\nevil renown reached the verge of the terrible. Paris knew, in a\nconfused way, that she had under her a terrible cavern. People talked\nof it as of that monstrous bed of Thebes in which swarmed centipedes\nfifteen long feet in length, and which might have served Behemoth for a\nbathtub. The great boots of the sewermen never ventured further than\ncertain well-known points. We were then very near the epoch when the\nscavenger s carts, from the summit of which Sainte-Foix fraternized\nwith the Marquis de Cr qui, discharged their loads directly into the\nsewer. As for cleaning out, that function was entrusted to the pouring\nrains which encumbered rather than swept away. Rome left some poetry to\nher sewer, and called it the Gemoni ; Paris insulted hers, and entitled\nit the Polypus-Hole. Science and superstition were in accord, in\nhorror. The Polypus hole was no less repugnant to hygiene than to\nlegend. The goblin was developed under the fetid covering of the\nMouffetard sewer; the corpses of the Marmousets had been cast into the\nsewer de la Barillerie; Fagon attributed the redoubtable malignant\nfever of 1685 to the great hiatus of the sewer of the Marais, which\nremained yawning until 1833 in the Rue Saint-Louis, almost opposite the\nsign of the _Gallant Messenger_. The mouth of the sewer of the Rue de\nla Mortellerie was celebrated for the pestilences which had their\nsource there; with its grating of iron, with points simulating a row of\nteeth, it was like a dragon s maw in that fatal street, breathing forth\nhell upon men. The popular imagination seasoned the sombre Parisian\nsink with some indescribably hideous intermixture of the infinite. The\nsewer had no bottom. The sewer was the lower world. The idea of\nexploring these leprous regions did not even occur to the police. To\ntry that unknown thing, to cast the plummet into that shadow, to set\nout on a voyage of discovery in that abyss who would have dared? It was\nalarming. Nevertheless, some one did present himself. The cesspool had\nits Christopher Columbus.\n\nOne day, in 1805, during one of the rare apparitions which the Emperor\nmade in Paris, the Minister of the Interior, some Decr s or Cr tet or\nother, came to the master s intimate levee. In the Carrousel there was\naudible the clanking of swords of all those extraordinary soldiers of\nthe great Republic, and of the great Empire; then Napoleon s door was\nblocked with heroes; men from the Rhine, from the Escaut, from the\nAdige, and from the Nile; companions of Joubert, of Desaix, of Marceau,\nof Hoche, of Kl ber; the a rostiers of Fleurus, the grenadiers of\nMayence, the pontoon-builders of Genoa, hussars whom the Pyramids had\nlooked down upon, artillerists whom Junot s cannon-ball had spattered\nwith mud, cuirassiers who had taken by assault the fleet lying at\nanchor in the Zuyderzee; some had followed Bonaparte upon the bridge of\nLodi, others had accompanied Murat in the trenches of Mantua, others\nhad preceded Lannes in the hollow road of Montebello. The whole army of\nthat day was present there, in the court-yard of the Tuileries,\nrepresented by a squadron or a platoon, and guarding Napoleon in\nrepose; and that was the splendid epoch when the grand army had Marengo\nbehind it and Austerlitz before it. Sire,  said the Minister of the\nInterior to Napoleon,  yesterday I saw the most intrepid man in your\nEmpire. What man is that?  said the Emperor brusquely,  and what has\nhe done? He wants to do something, Sire. What is it? To visit the\nsewers of Paris. \n\n\nThis man existed and his name was Bruneseau.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nThe visit took place. It was a formidable campaign; a nocturnal battle\nagainst pestilence and suffocation. It was, at the same time, a voyage\nof discovery. One of the survivors of this expedition, an intelligent\nworkingman, who was very young at the time, related curious details\nwith regard to it, several years ago, which Bruneseau thought himself\nobliged to omit in his report to the prefect of police, as unworthy of\nofficial style. The processes of disinfection were, at that epoch,\nextremely rudimentary. Hardly had Bruneseau crossed the first\narticulations of that subterranean network, when eight laborers out of\nthe twenty refused to go any further. The operation was complicated;\nthe visit entailed the necessity of cleaning; hence it was necessary to\ncleanse and at the same time, to proceed; to note the entrances of\nwater, to count the gratings and the vents, to lay out in detail the\nbranches, to indicate the currents at the point where they parted, to\ndefine the respective bounds of the divers basins, to sound the small\nsewers grafted on the principal sewer, to measure the height under the\nkey-stone of each drain, and the width, at the spring of the vaults as\nwell as at the bottom, in order to determine the arrangements with\nregard to the level of each water-entrance, either of the bottom of the\narch, or on the soil of the street. They advanced with toil. The\nlanterns pined away in the foul atmosphere. From time to time, a\nfainting sewerman was carried out. At certain points, there were\nprecipices. The soil had given away, the pavement had crumbled, the\nsewer had changed into a bottomless well; they found nothing solid; a\nman disappeared suddenly; they had great difficulty in getting him out\nagain. On the advice of Fourcroy, they lighted large cages filled with\ntow steeped in resin, from time to time, in spots which had been\nsufficiently disinfected. In some places, the wall was covered with\nmisshapen fungi, one would have said tumors; the very stone seemed\ndiseased within this unbreathable atmosphere.\n\nBruneseau, in his exploration, proceeded down hill. At the point of\nseparation of the two water-conduits of the Grand-Hurleur, he\ndeciphered upon a projecting stone the date of 1550; this stone\nindicated the limits where Philibert Delorme, charged by Henri II. with\nvisiting the subterranean drains of Paris, had halted. This stone was\nthe mark of the sixteenth century on the sewer; Bruneseau found the\nhandiwork of the seventeenth century once more in the Ponceau drain of\nthe old Rue Vieille-du-Temple, vaulted between 1600 and 1650; and the\nhandiwork of the eighteenth in the western section of the collecting\ncanal, walled and vaulted in 1740. These two vaults, especially the\nless ancient, that of 1740, were more cracked and decrepit than the\nmasonry of the belt sewer, which dated from 1412, an epoch when the\nbrook of fresh water of M nilmontant was elevated to the dignity of the\nGrand Sewer of Paris, an advancement analogous to that of a peasant who\nshould become first _valet de chambre_ to the King; something like\nGros-Jean transformed into Lebel.\n\nHere and there, particularly beneath the Court-House, they thought they\nrecognized the hollows of ancient dungeons, excavated in the very sewer\nitself. Hideous _in-pace_. An iron neck-collar was hanging in one of\nthese cells. They walled them all up. Some of their finds were\nsingular; among others, the skeleton of an ourang-outan, who had\ndisappeared from the Jardin des Plantes in 1800, a disappearance\nprobably connected with the famous and indisputable apparition of the\ndevil in the Rue des Bernardins, in the last year of the eighteenth\ncentury. The poor devil had ended by drowning himself in the sewer.\n\nBeneath this long, arched drain which terminated at the Arche-Marion, a\nperfectly preserved rag-picker s basket excited the admiration of all\nconnoisseurs. Everywhere, the mire, which the sewermen came to handle\nwith intrepidity, abounded in precious objects, jewels of gold and\nsilver, precious stones, coins. If a giant had filtered this cesspool,\nhe would have had the riches of centuries in his lair. At the point\nwhere the two branches of the Rue du Temple and of the Rue Sainte-Avoye\nseparate, they picked up a singular Huguenot medal in copper, bearing\non one side the pig hooded with a cardinal s hat, and on the other, a\nwolf with a tiara on his head.\n\nThe most surprising rencounter was at the entrance to the Grand Sewer.\nThis entrance had formerly been closed by a grating of which nothing\nbut the hinges remained. From one of these hinges hung a dirty and\nshapeless rag which, arrested there in its passage, no doubt, had\nfloated there in the darkness and finished its process of being torn\napart. Bruneseau held his lantern close to this rag and examined it. It\nwas of very fine batiste, and in one of the corners, less frayed than\nthe rest, they made out a heraldic coronet and embroidered above these\nseven letters: LAVBESP. The crown was the coronet of a Marquis, and the\nseven letters signified _Laubespine_. They recognized the fact, that\nwhat they had before their eyes was a morsel of the shroud of Marat.\nMarat in his youth had had amorous intrigues. This was when he was a\nmember of the household of the Comte d Artois, in the capacity of\nphysician to the Stables. From these love affairs, historically proved,\nwith a great lady, he had retained this sheet. As a waif or a souvenir.\nAt his death, as this was the only linen of any fineness which he had\nin his house, they buried him in it. Some old women had shrouded him\nfor the tomb in that swaddling-band in which the tragic Friend of the\npeople had enjoyed voluptuousness. Bruneseau passed on. They left that\nrag where it hung; they did not put the finishing touch to it. Did this\narise from scorn or from respect? Marat deserved both. And then,\ndestiny was there sufficiently stamped to make them hesitate to touch\nit. Besides, the things of the sepulchre must be left in the spot which\nthey select. In short, the relic was a strange one. A Marquise had\nslept in it; Marat had rotted in it; it had traversed the Pantheon to\nend with the rats of the sewer. This chamber rag, of which Watteau\nwould formerly have joyfully sketched every fold, had ended in becoming\nworthy of the fixed gaze of Dante.\n\nThe whole visit to the subterranean stream of filth of Paris lasted\nseven years, from 1805 to 1812. As he proceeded, Bruneseau drew,\ndirected, and completed considerable works; in 1808 he lowered the arch\nof the Ponceau, and, everywhere creating new lines, he pushed the\nsewer, in 1809, under the Rue Saint-Denis as far as the fountain of the\nInnocents; in 1810, under the Rue Froidmanteau and under the\nSalp tri re; in 1811 under the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-P res, under the\nRue du Mail, under the Rue de l charpe, under the Place Royale; in\n1812, under the Rue de la Paix, and under the Chauss e d Antin. At the\nsame time, he had the whole network disinfected and rendered healthful.\nIn the second year of his work, Bruneseau engaged the assistance of his\nson-in-law Nargaud.\n\nIt was thus that, at the beginning of the century, ancient society\ncleansed its double bottom, and performed the toilet of its sewer.\nThere was that much clean, at all events.\n\nTortuous, cracked, unpaved, full of fissures, intersected by gullies,\njolted by eccentric elbows, mounting and descending illogically, fetid,\nwild, fierce, submerged in obscurity, with cicatrices on its pavements\nand scars on its walls, terrible, such was, retrospectively viewed, the\nantique sewer of Paris. Ramifications in every direction, crossings, of\ntrenches, branches, goose-feet, stars, as in military mines, c cum,\nblind alleys, vaults lined with saltpetre, pestiferous pools, scabby\nsweats, on the walls, drops dripping from the ceilings, darkness;\nnothing could equal the horror of this old, waste crypt, the digestive\napparatus of Babylon, a cavern, ditch, gulf pierced with streets, a\ntitanic mole-burrow, where the mind seems to behold that enormous blind\nmole, the past, prowling through the shadows, in the filth which has\nbeen splendor.\n\nThis, we repeat, was the sewer of the past.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V PRESENT PROGRESS\n\n\nTo-day the sewer is clean, cold, straight, correct. It almost realizes\nthe ideal of what is understood in England by the word  respectable. \nIt is proper and grayish; laid out by rule and line; one might almost\nsay as though it came out of a bandbox. It resembles a tradesman who\nhas become a councillor of state. One can almost see distinctly there.\nThe mire there comports itself with decency. At first, one might\nreadily mistake it for one of those subterranean corridors, which were\nso common in former days, and so useful in flights of monarchs and\nprinces, in those good old times,  when the people loved their kings. \nThe present sewer is a beautiful sewer; the pure style reigns there;\nthe classical rectilinear alexandrine which, driven out of poetry,\nappears to have taken refuge in architecture, seems mingled with all\nthe stones of that long, dark and whitish vault; each outlet is an\narcade; the Rue de Rivoli serves as pattern even in the sewer. However,\nif the geometrical line is in place anywhere, it is certainly in the\ndrainage trench of a great city. There, everything should be\nsubordinated to the shortest road. The sewer has, nowadays, assumed a\ncertain official aspect. The very police reports, of which it sometimes\nforms the subject, no longer are wanting in respect towards it. The\nwords which characterize it in administrative language are sonorous and\ndignified. What used to be called a gut is now called a gallery; what\nused to be called a hole is now called a surveying orifice. Villon\nwould no longer meet with his ancient temporary provisional lodging.\nThis network of cellars has its immemorial population of prowlers,\nrodents, swarming in greater numbers than ever; from time to time, an\naged and veteran rat risks his head at the window of the sewer and\nsurveys the Parisians; but even these vermin grow tame, so satisfied\nare they with their subterranean palace. The cesspool no longer retains\nanything of its primitive ferocity. The rain, which in former days\nsoiled the sewer, now washes it. Nevertheless, do not trust yourself\ntoo much to it. Miasmas still inhabit it. It is more hypocritical than\nirreproachable. The prefecture of police and the commission of health\nhave done their best. But, in spite of all the processes of\ndisinfection, it exhales, a vague, suspicious odor like Tartuffe after\nconfession.\n\nLet us confess, that, taking it all in all, this sweeping is a homage\nwhich the sewer pays to civilization, and as, from this point of view,\nTartuffe s conscience is a progress over the Augean stables, it is\ncertain that the sewers of Paris have been improved.\n\nIt is more than progress; it is transmutation. Between the ancient and\nthe present sewer there is a revolution. What has effected this\nrevolution?\n\nThe man whom all the world forgets, and whom we have mentioned,\nBruneseau.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI FUTURE PROGRESS\n\n\nThe excavation of the sewer of Paris has been no slight task. The last\nten centuries have toiled at it without being able to bring it to a\ntermination, any more than they have been able to finish Paris. The\nsewer, in fact, receives all the counter-shocks of the growth of Paris.\nWithin the bosom of the earth, it is a sort of mysterious polyp with a\nthousand antenn , which expands below as the city expands above. Every\ntime that the city cuts a street, the sewer stretches out an arm. The\nold monarchy had constructed only twenty-three thousand three hundred\nmetres of sewers; that was where Paris stood in this respect on the\nfirst of January, 1806. Beginning with this epoch, of which we shall\nshortly speak, the work was usefully and energetically resumed and\nprosecuted; Napoleon built the figures are curious four thousand eight\nhundred and four metres; Louis XVIII., five thousand seven hundred and\nnine; Charles X., ten thousand eight hundred and thirty-six;\nLouis-Philippe, eighty-nine thousand and twenty; the Republic of 1848,\ntwenty-three thousand three hundred and eighty-one; the present\ngovernment, seventy thousand five hundred; in all, at the present time,\ntwo hundred and twenty-six thousand six hundred and ten metres; sixty\nleagues of sewers; the enormous entrails of Paris. An obscure\nramification ever at work; a construction which is immense and ignored.\n\nAs the reader sees, the subterranean labyrinth of Paris is to-day more\nthan ten times what it was at the beginning of the century. It is\ndifficult to form any idea of all the perseverance and the efforts\nwhich have been required to bring this cesspool to the point of\nrelative perfection in which it now is. It was with great difficulty\nthat the ancient monarchical provostship and, during the last ten years\nof the eighteenth century, the revolutionary mayoralty, had succeeded\nin perforating the five leagues of sewer which existed previous to\n1806. All sorts of obstacles hindered this operation, some peculiar to\nthe soil, others inherent in the very prejudices of the laborious\npopulation of Paris. Paris is built upon a soil which is singularly\nrebellious to the pick, the hoe, the bore, and to human manipulation.\nThere is nothing more difficult to pierce and to penetrate than the\ngeological formation upon which is superposed the marvellous historical\nformation called Paris; as soon as work in any form whatsoever is begun\nand adventures upon this stretch of alluvium, subterranean resistances\nabound. There are liquid clays, springs, hard rocks, and those soft and\ndeep quagmires which special science calls _moutardes_.59 The pick\nadvances laboriously through the calcareous layers alternating with\nvery slender threads of clay, and schistose beds in plates incrusted\nwith oyster-shells, the contemporaries of the pre-Adamite oceans.\nSometimes a rivulet suddenly bursts through a vault that has been\nbegun, and inundates the laborers; or a layer of marl is laid bare, and\nrolls down with the fury of a cataract, breaking the stoutest\nsupporting beams like glass. Quite recently, at Villette, when it\nbecame necessary to pass the collecting sewer under the Saint-Martin\ncanal without interrupting navigation or emptying the canal, a fissure\nappeared in the basin of the canal, water suddenly became abundant in\nthe subterranean tunnel, which was beyond the power of the pumping\nengines; it was necessary to send a diver to explore the fissure which\nhad been made in the narrow entrance of the grand basin, and it was not\nwithout great difficulty that it was stopped up. Elsewhere near the\nSeine, and even at a considerable distance from the river, as for\ninstance, at Belleville, Grand-Rue and Lumi re Passage, quicksands are\nencountered in which one sticks fast, and in which a man sinks visibly.\nAdd suffocation by miasmas, burial by slides, and sudden crumbling of\nthe earth. Add the typhus, with which the workmen become slowly\nimpregnated. In our own day, after having excavated the gallery of\nClichy, with a banquette to receive the principal water-conduit of\nOurcq, a piece of work which was executed in a trench ten metres deep;\nafter having, in the midst of land-slides, and with the aid of\nexcavations often putrid, and of shoring up, vaulted the Bi vre from\nthe Boulevard de l H pital, as far as the Seine; after having, in order\nto deliver Paris from the floods of Montmartre and in order to provide\nan outlet for that river-like pool nine hectares in extent, which\ncrouched near the Barri re des Martyrs, after having, let us state,\nconstructed the line of sewers from the Barri re Blanche to the road of\nAubervilliers, in four months, working day and night, at a depth of\neleven metres; after having a thing heretofore unseen made a\nsubterranean sewer in the Rue Barre-du-Bec, without a trench, six\nmetres below the surface, the superintendent, Monnot, died. After\nhaving vaulted three thousand metres of sewer in all quarters of the\ncity, from the Rue Traversi re-Saint-Antoine to the Rue de l Ourcine,\nafter having freed the Carrefour Censier-Mouffetard from inundations of\nrain by means of the branch of the Arbal te, after having built the\nSaint-Georges sewer, on rock and concrete in the fluid sands, after\nhaving directed the formidable lowering of the flooring of the vault\ntimber in the Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth branch, Duleau the engineer died.\nThere are no bulletins for such acts of bravery as these, which are\nmore useful, nevertheless, than the brutal slaughter of the field of\nbattle.\n\nThe sewers of Paris in 1832 were far from being what they are to-day.\nBruneseau had given the impulse, but the cholera was required to bring\nabout the vast reconstruction which took place later on. It is\nsurprising to say, for example, that in 1821, a part of the belt sewer,\ncalled the Grand Canal, as in Venice, still stood stagnating uncovered\nto the sky, in the Rue des Gourdes. It was only in 1821 that the city\nof Paris found in its pocket the two hundred and sixty-thousand eighty\nfrancs and six centimes required for covering this mass of filth. The\nthree absorbing wells, of the Combat, the Cunette, and Saint-Mand ,\nwith their discharging mouths, their apparatus, their cesspools, and\ntheir depuratory branches, only date from 1836. The intestinal sewer of\nParis has been made over anew, and, as we have said, it has been\nextended more than tenfold within the last quarter of a century.\n\nThirty years ago, at the epoch of the insurrection of the 5th and 6th\nof June, it was still, in many localities, nearly the same ancient\nsewer. A very great number of streets which are now convex were then\nsunken causeways. At the end of a slope, where the tributaries of a\nstreet or crossroads ended, there were often to be seen large, square\ngratings with heavy bars, whose iron, polished by the footsteps of the\nthrong, gleamed dangerous and slippery for vehicles, and caused horses\nto fall. The official language of the Roads and Bridges gave to these\ngratings the expressive name of _Cassis_.60\n\nIn 1832, in a number of streets, in the Rue de l toile, the Rue\nSaint-Louis, the Rue du Temple, the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, the Rue\nNotre-Dame de Nazareth, the Rue Folie-M ricourt, the Quai aux Fleurs,\nthe Rue du Petit-Musc, the Rue du Normandie, the Rue Pont-Aux-Biches,\nthe Rue des Marais, the Faubourg Saint-Martin, the Rue Notre Dame\ndes-Victoires, the Faubourg Montmartre, the Rue Grange-Bateli re, in\nthe Champs- lys es, the Rue Jacob, the Rue de Tournon, the ancient\ngothic sewer still cynically displayed its maw. It consisted of\nenormous voids of stone catch-basins sometimes surrounded by stone\nposts, with monumental effrontery.\n\nParis in 1806 still had nearly the same sewers numerically as stated in\n1663; five thousand three hundred fathoms. After Bruneseau, on the 1st\nof January, 1832, it had forty thousand three hundred metres. Between\n1806 and 1831, there had been built, on an average, seven hundred and\nfifty metres annually, afterwards eight and even ten thousand metres of\ngalleries were constructed every year, in masonry, of small stones,\nwith hydraulic mortar which hardens under water, on a cement\nfoundation. At two hundred francs the metre, the sixty leagues of\nParis  sewers of the present day represent forty-eight millions.\n\nIn addition to the economic progress which we have indicated at the\nbeginning, grave problems of public hygiene are connected with that\nimmense question: the sewers of Paris.\n\nParis is the centre of two sheets, a sheet of water and a sheet of air.\nThe sheet of water, lying at a tolerably great depth underground, but\nalready sounded by two bores, is furnished by the layer of green clay\nsituated between the chalk and the Jurassic lime-stone; this layer may\nbe represented by a disk five and twenty leagues in circumference; a\nmultitude of rivers and brooks ooze there; one drinks the Seine, the\nMarne, the Yonne, the Oise, the Aisne, the Cher, the Vienne and the\nLoire in a glass of water from the well of Grenelle. The sheet of water\nis healthy, it comes from heaven in the first place and next from the\nearth; the sheet of air is unhealthy, it comes from the sewer. All the\nmiasms of the cesspool are mingled with the breath of the city; hence\nthis bad breath. The air taken from above a dung-heap, as has been\nscientifically proved, is purer than the air taken from above Paris. In\na given time, with the aid of progress, mechanisms become perfected,\nand as light increases, the sheet of water will be employed to purify\nthe sheet of air; that is to say, to wash the sewer. The reader knows,\nthat by  washing the sewer  we mean: the restitution of the filth to\nthe earth; the return to the soil of dung and of manure to the fields.\nThrough this simple act, the entire social community will experience a\ndiminution of misery and an augmentation of health. At the present\nhour, the radiation of diseases from Paris extends to fifty leagues\naround the Louvre, taken as the hub of this pestilential wheel.\n\nWe might say that, for ten centuries, the cesspool has been the disease\nof Paris. The sewer is the blemish which Paris has in her blood. The\npopular instinct has never been deceived in it. The occupation of\nsewermen was formerly almost as perilous, and almost as repugnant to\nthe people, as the occupation of knacker, which was so long held in\nhorror and handed over to the executioner. High wages were necessary to\ninduce a mason to disappear in that fetid mine; the ladder of the\ncesspool cleaner hesitated to plunge into it; it was said, in\nproverbial form:  to descend into the sewer is to enter the grave;  and\nall sorts of hideous legends, as we have said, covered this colossal\nsink with terror; a dread sink-hole which bears the traces of the\nrevolutions of the globe as of the revolutions of man, and where are to\nbe found vestiges of all cataclysms from the shells of the Deluge to\nthe rag of Marat.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THIRD MUD BUT THE SOUL\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE SEWER AND ITS SURPRISES\n\n\nIt was in the sewers of Paris that Jean Valjean found himself.\n\nStill another resemblance between Paris and the sea. As in the ocean,\nthe diver may disappear there.\n\nThe transition was an unheard-of one. In the very heart of the city,\nJean Valjean had escaped from the city, and, in the twinkling of an\neye, in the time required to lift the cover and to replace it, he had\npassed from broad daylight to complete obscurity, from midday to\nmidnight, from tumult to silence, from the whirlwind of thunders to the\nstagnation of the tomb, and, by a vicissitude far more tremendous even\nthan that of the Rue Polonceau, from the most extreme peril to the most\nabsolute obscurity.\n\nAn abrupt fall into a cavern; a disappearance into the secret trap-door\nof Paris; to quit that street where death was on every side, for that\nsort of sepulchre where there was life, was a strange instant. He\nremained for several seconds as though bewildered; listening,\nstupefied. The waste-trap of safety had suddenly yawned beneath him.\nCelestial goodness had, in a manner, captured him by treachery.\nAdorable ambuscades of providence!\n\nOnly, the wounded man did not stir, and Jean Valjean did not know\nwhether that which he was carrying in that grave was a living being or\na dead corpse.\n\nHis first sensation was one of blindness. All of a sudden, he could see\nnothing. It seemed to him too, that, in one instant, he had become\ndeaf. He no longer heard anything. The frantic storm of murder which\nhad been let loose a few feet above his head did not reach him, thanks\nto the thickness of the earth which separated him from it, as we have\nsaid, otherwise than faintly and indistinctly, and like a rumbling, in\nthe depths. He felt that the ground was solid under his feet; that was\nall; but that was enough. He extended one arm and then the other,\ntouched the walls on both sides, and perceived that the passage was\nnarrow; he slipped, and thus perceived that the pavement was wet. He\ncautiously put forward one foot, fearing a hole, a sink, some gulf; he\ndiscovered that the paving continued. A gust of fetidness informed him\nof the place in which he stood.\n\nAfter the lapse of a few minutes, he was no longer blind. A little\nlight fell through the man-hole through which he had descended, and his\neyes became accustomed to this cavern. He began to distinguish\nsomething. The passage in which he had burrowed no other word can\nbetter express the situation was walled in behind him. It was one of\nthose blind alleys, which the special jargon terms branches. In front\nof him there was another wall, a wall like night. The light of the\nair-hole died out ten or twelve paces from the point where Jean Valjean\nstood, and barely cast a wan pallor on a few metres of the damp walls\nof the sewer. Beyond, the opaqueness was massive; to penetrate thither\nseemed horrible, an entrance into it appeared like an engulfment. A man\ncould, however, plunge into that wall of fog and it was necessary so to\ndo. Haste was even requisite. It occurred to Jean Valjean that the\ngrating which he had caught sight of under the flag-stones might also\ncatch the eye of the soldiery, and that everything hung upon this\nchance. They also might descend into that well and search it. There was\nnot a minute to be lost. He had deposited Marius on the ground, he\npicked him up again, that is the real word for it, placed him on his\nshoulders once more, and set out. He plunged resolutely into the gloom.\n\nThe truth is, that they were less safe than Jean Valjean fancied.\nPerils of another sort and no less serious were awaiting them,\nperchance. After the lightning-charged whirlwind of the combat, the\ncavern of miasmas and traps; after chaos, the sewer. Jean Valjean had\nfallen from one circle of hell into another.\n\nWhen he had advanced fifty paces, he was obliged to halt. A problem\npresented itself. The passage terminated in another gut which he\nencountered across his path. There two ways presented themselves. Which\nshould he take? Ought he to turn to the left or to the right? How was\nhe to find his bearings in that black labyrinth? This labyrinth, to\nwhich we have already called the reader s attention, has a clue, which\nis its slope. To follow to the slope is to arrive at the river.\n\nThis Jean Valjean instantly comprehended.\n\nHe said to himself that he was probably in the sewer des Halles; that\nif he were to choose the path to the left and follow the slope, he\nwould arrive, in less than a quarter of an hour, at some mouth on the\nSeine between the Pont au Change and the Pont-Neuf, that is to say, he\nwould make his appearance in broad daylight on the most densely peopled\nspot in Paris. Perhaps he would come out on some man-hole at the\nintersection of streets. Amazement of the passers-by at beholding two\nbleeding men emerge from the earth at their feet. Arrival of the\npolice, a call to arms of the neighboring post of guards. Thus they\nwould be seized before they had even got out. It would be better to\nplunge into that labyrinth, to confide themselves to that black gloom,\nand to trust to Providence for the outcome.\n\nHe ascended the incline, and turned to the right.\n\nWhen he had turned the angle of the gallery, the distant glimmer of an\nair-hole disappeared, the curtain of obscurity fell upon him once more,\nand he became blind again. Nevertheless, he advanced as rapidly as\npossible. Marius  two arms were passed round his neck, and the former s\nfeet dragged behind him. He held both these arms with one hand, and\ngroped along the wall with the other. Marius  cheek touched his, and\nclung there, bleeding. He felt a warm stream which came from Marius\ntrickling down upon him and making its way under his clothes. But a\nhumid warmth near his ear, which the mouth of the wounded man touched,\nindicated respiration, and consequently, life. The passage along which\nJean Valjean was now proceeding was not so narrow as the first. Jean\nValjean walked through it with considerable difficulty. The rain of the\npreceding day had not, as yet, entirely run off, and it created a\nlittle torrent in the centre of the bottom, and he was forced to hug\nthe wall in order not to have his feet in the water.\n\nThus he proceeded in the gloom. He resembled the beings of the night\ngroping in the invisible and lost beneath the earth in veins of shadow.\n\nStill, little by little, whether it was that the distant air-holes\nemitted a little wavering light in this opaque gloom, or whether his\neyes had become accustomed to the obscurity, some vague vision returned\nto him, and he began once more to gain a confused idea, now of the wall\nwhich he touched, now of the vault beneath which he was passing. The\npupil dilates in the dark, and the soul dilates in misfortune and ends\nby finding God there.\n\nIt was not easy to direct his course.\n\nThe line of the sewer re-echoes, so to speak, the line of the streets\nwhich lie above it. There were then in Paris two thousand two hundred\nstreets. Let the reader imagine himself beneath that forest of gloomy\nbranches which is called the sewer. The system of sewers existing at\nthat epoch, placed end to end, would have given a length of eleven\nleagues. We have said above, that the actual network, thanks to the\nspecial activity of the last thirty years, was no less than sixty\nleagues in extent.\n\nJean Valjean began by committing a blunder. He thought that he was\nbeneath the Rue Saint-Denis, and it was a pity that it was not so.\nUnder the Rue Saint-Denis there is an old stone sewer which dates from\nLouis XIII. and which runs straight to the collecting sewer, called the\nGrand Sewer, with but a single elbow, on the right, on the elevation of\nthe ancient Cour des Miracles, and a single branch, the Saint-Martin\nsewer, whose four arms describe a cross. But the gut of the\nPetite-Truanderie the entrance to which was in the vicinity of the\nCorinthe wine-shop has never communicated with the sewer of the Rue\nSaint-Denis; it ended at the Montmartre sewer, and it was in this that\nJean Valjean was entangled. There opportunities of losing oneself\nabound. The Montmartre sewer is one of the most labyrinthine of the\nancient network. Fortunately, Jean Valjean had left behind him the\nsewer of the markets whose geometrical plan presents the appearance of\na multitude of parrots  roosts piled on top of each other; but he had\nbefore him more than one embarrassing encounter and more than one\nstreet corner for they are streets presenting itself in the gloom like\nan interrogation point; first, on his left, the vast sewer of the\nPl tri re, a sort of Chinese puzzle, thrusting out and entangling its\nchaos of Ts and Zs under the Post-Office and under the rotunda of the\nWheat Market, as far as the Seine, where it terminates in a Y;\nsecondly, on his right, the curving corridor of the Rue du Cadran with\nits three teeth, which are also blind courts; thirdly, on his left, the\nbranch of the Mail, complicated, almost at its inception, with a sort\nof fork, and proceeding from zig-zag to zig-zag until it ends in the\ngrand crypt of the outlet of the Louvre, truncated and ramified in\nevery direction; and lastly, the blind alley of a passage of the Rue\ndes Je neurs, without counting little ducts here and there, before\nreaching the belt sewer, which alone could conduct him to some issue\nsufficiently distant to be safe.\n\nHad Jean Valjean had any idea of all that we have here pointed out, he\nwould speedily have perceived, merely by feeling the wall, that he was\nnot in the subterranean gallery of the Rue Saint-Denis. Instead of the\nancient stone, instead of the antique architecture, haughty and royal\neven in the sewer, with pavement and string courses of granite and\nmortar costing eight hundred livres the fathom, he would have felt\nunder his hand contemporary cheapness, economical expedients, porous\nstone filled with mortar on a concrete foundation, which costs two\nhundred francs the metre, and the bourgeoise masonry known as _  petits\nmat riaux_ small stuff; but of all this he knew nothing.\n\nHe advanced with anxiety, but with calmness, seeing nothing, knowing\nnothing, buried in chance, that is to say, engulfed in providence.\n\nBy degrees, we will admit, a certain horror seized upon him. The gloom\nwhich enveloped him penetrated his spirit. He walked in an enigma. This\naqueduct of the sewer is formidable; it interlaces in a dizzy fashion.\nIt is a melancholy thing to be caught in this Paris of shadows. Jean\nValjean was obliged to find and even to invent his route without seeing\nit. In this unknown, every step that he risked might be his last. How\nwas he to get out? should he find an issue? should he find it in time?\nwould that colossal subterranean sponge with its stone cavities, allow\nitself to be penetrated and pierced? should he there encounter some\nunexpected knot in the darkness? should he arrive at the inextricable\nand the impassable? would Marius die there of hemorrhage and he of\nhunger? should they end by both getting lost, and by furnishing two\nskeletons in a nook of that night? He did not know. He put all these\nquestions to himself without replying to them. The intestines of Paris\nform a precipice. Like the prophet, he was in the belly of the monster.\n\nAll at once, he had a surprise. At the most unforeseen moment, and\nwithout having ceased to walk in a straight line, he perceived that he\nwas no longer ascending; the water of the rivulet was beating against\nhis heels, instead of meeting him at his toes. The sewer was now\ndescending. Why? Was he about to arrive suddenly at the Seine? This\ndanger was a great one, but the peril of retreating was still greater.\nHe continued to advance.\n\nIt was not towards the Seine that he was proceeding. The ridge which\nthe soil of Paris forms on its right bank empties one of its watersheds\ninto the Seine and the other into the Grand Sewer. The crest of this\nridge which determines the division of the waters describes a very\ncapricious line. The culminating point, which is the point of\nseparation of the currents, is in the Sainte-Avoye sewer, beyond the\nRue Michel-le-Comte, in the sewer of the Louvre, near the boulevards,\nand in the Montmartre sewer, near the Halles. It was this culminating\npoint that Jean Valjean had reached. He was directing his course\ntowards the belt sewer; he was on the right path. But he did not know\nit.\n\nEvery time that he encountered a branch, he felt of its angles, and if\nhe found that the opening which presented itself was smaller than the\npassage in which he was, he did not enter but continued his route,\nrightly judging that every narrower way must needs terminate in a blind\nalley, and could only lead him further from his goal, that is to say,\nthe outlet. Thus he avoided the quadruple trap which was set for him in\nthe darkness by the four labyrinths which we have just enumerated.\n\nAt a certain moment, he perceived that he was emerging from beneath the\nParis which was petrified by the uprising, where the barricades had\nsuppressed circulation, and that he was entering beneath the living and\nnormal Paris. Overhead he suddenly heard a noise as of thunder, distant\nbut continuous. It was the rumbling of vehicles.\n\nHe had been walking for about half an hour, at least according to the\ncalculation which he made in his own mind, and he had not yet thought\nof rest; he had merely changed the hand with which he was holding\nMarius. The darkness was more profound than ever, but its very depth\nreassured him.\n\nAll at once, he saw his shadow in front of him. It was outlined on a\nfaint, almost indistinct reddish glow, which vaguely empurpled the\nflooring vault underfoot, and the vault overhead, and gilded to his\nright and to his left the two viscous walls of the passage. Stupefied,\nhe turned round.\n\nBehind him, in the portion of the passage which he had just passed\nthrough, at a distance which appeared to him immense, piercing the\ndense obscurity, flamed a sort of horrible star which had the air of\nsurveying him.\n\nIt was the gloomy star of the police which was rising in the sewer.\n\nIn the rear of that star eight or ten forms were moving about in a\nconfused way, black, upright, indistinct, horrible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II EXPLANATION\n\n\nOn the day of the sixth of June, a battue of the sewers had been\nordered. It was feared that the vanquished might have taken to them for\nrefuge, and Prefect Gisquet was to search occult Paris while General\nBugeaud swept public Paris; a double and connected operation which\nexacted a double strategy on the part of the public force, represented\nabove by the army and below by the police. Three squads of agents and\nsewermen explored the subterranean drain of Paris, the first on the\nright bank, the second on the left bank, the third in the city. The\nagents of police were armed with carabines, with bludgeons, swords and\npoignards.\n\nThat which was directed at Jean Valjean at that moment, was the lantern\nof the patrol of the right bank.\n\nThis patrol had just visited the curving gallery and the three blind\nalleys which lie beneath the Rue du Cadran. While they were passing\ntheir lantern through the depths of these blind alleys, Jean Valjean\nhad encountered on his path the entrance to the gallery, had perceived\nthat it was narrower than the principal passage and had not penetrated\nthither. He had passed on. The police, on emerging from the gallery du\nCadran, had fancied that they heard the sound of footsteps in the\ndirection of the belt sewer. They were, in fact, the steps of Jean\nValjean. The sergeant in command of the patrol had raised his lantern,\nand the squad had begun to gaze into the mist in the direction whence\nthe sound proceeded.\n\nThis was an indescribable moment for Jean Valjean.\n\nHappily, if he saw the lantern well, the lantern saw him but ill. It\nwas light and he was shadow. He was very far off, and mingled with the\ndarkness of the place. He hugged the wall and halted. Moreover, he did\nnot understand what it was that was moving behind him. The lack of\nsleep and food, and his emotions had caused him also to pass into the\nstate of a visionary. He beheld a gleam, and around that gleam, forms.\nWhat was it? He did not comprehend.\n\nJean Valjean having paused, the sound ceased.\n\nThe men of the patrol listened, and heard nothing, they looked and saw\nnothing. They held a consultation.\n\nThere existed at that epoch at this point of the Montmartre sewer a\nsort of crossroads called _de service_, which was afterwards\nsuppressed, on account of the little interior lake which formed there,\nswallowing up the torrent of rain in heavy storms. The patrol could\nform a cluster in this open space. Jean Valjean saw these spectres form\na sort of circle. These bull-dogs  heads approached each other closely\nand whispered together.\n\nThe result of this council held by the watch dogs was, that they had\nbeen mistaken, that there had been no noise, that it was useless to get\nentangled in the belt sewer, that it would only be a waste of time, but\nthat they ought to hasten towards Saint-Merry; that if there was\nanything to do, and any  bousingot  to track out, it was in that\nquarter.\n\nFrom time to time, parties re-sole their old insults. In 1832, the word\nbousingot formed the interim between the word jacobin, which had become\nobsolete, and the word demagogue which has since rendered such\nexcellent service.\n\nThe sergeant gave orders to turn to the left, towards the watershed of\nthe Seine.\n\nIf it had occurred to them to separate into two squads, and to go in\nboth directions, Jean Valjean would have been captured. All hung on\nthat thread. It is probable that the instructions of the prefecture,\nforeseeing a possibility of combat and insurgents in force, had\nforbidden the patrol to part company. The patrol resumed its march,\nleaving Jean Valjean behind it. Of all this movement, Jean Valjean\nperceived nothing, except the eclipse of the lantern which suddenly\nwheeled round.\n\nBefore taking his departure, the sergeant, in order to acquit his\npoliceman s conscience, discharged his gun in the direction of Jean\nValjean. The detonation rolled from echo to echo in the crypt, like the\nrumbling of that titanic entrail. A bit of plaster which fell into the\nstream and splashed up the water a few paces away from Jean Valjean,\nwarned him that the ball had struck the arch over his head.\n\nSlow and measured steps resounded for some time on the timber work,\ngradually dying away as they retreated to a greater distance; the group\nof black forms vanished, a glimmer of light oscillated and floated,\ncommunicating to the vault a reddish glow which grew fainter, then\ndisappeared; the silence became profound once more, the obscurity\nbecame complete, blindness and deafness resumed possession of the\nshadows; and Jean Valjean, not daring to stir as yet, remained for a\nlong time leaning with his back against the wall, with straining ears,\nand dilated pupils, watching the disappearance of that phantom patrol.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE  SPUN  MAN\n\n\nThis justice must be rendered to the police of that period, that even\nin the most serious public junctures, it imperturbably fulfilled its\nduties connected with the sewers and surveillance. A revolt was, in its\neyes, no pretext for allowing malefactors to take the bit in their own\nmouths, and for neglecting society for the reason that the government\nwas in peril. The ordinary service was performed correctly in company\nwith the extraordinary service, and was not troubled by the latter. In\nthe midst of an incalculable political event already begun, under the\npressure of a possible revolution, a police agent,  spun  a thief\nwithout allowing himself to be distracted by insurrection and\nbarricades.\n\nIt was something precisely parallel which took place on the afternoon\nof the 6th of June on the banks of the Seine, on the slope of the right\nshore, a little beyond the Pont des Invalides.\n\nThere is no longer any bank there now. The aspect of the locality has\nchanged.\n\nOn that bank, two men, separated by a certain distance, seemed to be\nwatching each other while mutually avoiding each other. The one who was\nin advance was trying to get away, the one in the rear was trying to\novertake the other.\n\nIt was like a game of checkers played at a distance and in silence.\nNeither seemed to be in any hurry, and both walked slowly, as though\neach of them feared by too much haste to make his partner redouble his\npace.\n\nOne would have said that it was an appetite following its prey, and\npurposely without wearing the air of doing so. The prey was crafty and\non its guard.\n\nThe proper relations between the hunted pole-cat and the hunting dog\nwere observed. The one who was seeking to escape had an insignificant\nmien and not an impressive appearance; the one who was seeking to seize\nhim was rude of aspect, and must have been rude to encounter.\n\nThe first, conscious that he was the more feeble, avoided the second;\nbut he avoided him in a manner which was deeply furious; any one who\ncould have observed him would have discerned in his eyes the sombre\nhostility of flight, and all the menace that fear contains.\n\nThe shore was deserted; there were no passers-by; not even a boatman\nnor a lighter-man was in the skiffs which were moored here and there.\n\nIt was not easy to see these two men, except from the quay opposite,\nand to any person who had scrutinized them at that distance, the man\nwho was in advance would have appeared like a bristling, tattered, and\nequivocal being, who was uneasy and trembling beneath a ragged blouse,\nand the other like a classic and official personage, wearing the\nfrock-coat of authority buttoned to the chin.\n\nPerchance the reader might recognize these two men, if he were to see\nthem closer at hand.\n\nWhat was the object of the second man?\n\nProbably to succeed in clothing the first more warmly.\n\nWhen a man clothed by the state pursues a man in rags, it is in order\nto make of him a man who is also clothed by the state. Only, the whole\nquestion lies in the color. To be dressed in blue is glorious; to be\ndressed in red is disagreeable.\n\nThere is a purple from below.\n\nIt is probably some unpleasantness and some purple of this sort which\nthe first man is desirous of shirking.\n\nIf the other allowed him to walk on, and had not seized him as yet, it\nwas, judging from all appearances, in the hope of seeing him lead up to\nsome significant meeting-place and to some group worth catching. This\ndelicate operation is called  spinning. \n\n\nWhat renders this conjecture entirely probable is that the buttoned-up\nman, on catching sight from the shore of a hackney-coach on the quay as\nit was passing along empty, made a sign to the driver; the driver\nunderstood, evidently recognized the person with whom he had to deal,\nturned about and began to follow the two men at the top of the quay, at\na foot-pace. This was not observed by the slouching and tattered\npersonage who was in advance.\n\nThe hackney-coach rolled along the trees of the Champs- lys es. The\nbust of the driver, whip in hand, could be seen moving along above the\nparapet.\n\nOne of the secret instructions of the police authorities to their\nagents contains this article:  Always have on hand a hackney-coach, in\ncase of emergency. \n\n\nWhile these two men were man uvring, each on his own side, with\nirreproachable strategy, they approached an inclined plane on the quay\nwhich descended to the shore, and which permitted cab-drivers arriving\nfrom Passy to come to the river and water their horses. This inclined\nplane was suppressed later on, for the sake of symmetry; horses may die\nof thirst, but the eye is gratified.\n\nIt is probable that the man in the blouse had intended to ascend this\ninclined plane, with a view to making his escape into the\nChamps- lys es, a place ornamented with trees, but, in return, much\ninfested with policemen, and where the other could easily exercise\nviolence.\n\nThis point on the quay is not very far distant from the house brought\nto Paris from Moret in 1824, by Colonel Brack, and designated as  the\nhouse of Fran ois I.  A guard house is situated close at hand.\n\nTo the great surprise of his watcher, the man who was being tracked did\nnot mount by the inclined plane for watering. He continued to advance\nalong the quay on the shore.\n\nHis position was visibly becoming critical.\n\nWhat was he intending to do, if not to throw himself into the Seine?\n\nHenceforth, there existed no means of ascending to the quay; there was\nno other inclined plane, no staircase; and they were near the spot,\nmarked by the bend in the Seine towards the Pont de J na, where the\nbank, growing constantly narrower, ended in a slender tongue, and was\nlost in the water. There he would inevitably find himself blocked\nbetween the perpendicular wall on his right, the river on his left and\nin front of him, and the authorities on his heels.\n\nIt is true that this termination of the shore was hidden from sight by\na heap of rubbish six or seven feet in height, produced by some\ndemolition or other. But did this man hope to conceal himself\neffectually behind that heap of rubbish, which one need but skirt? The\nexpedient would have been puerile. He certainly was not dreaming of\nsuch a thing. The innocence of thieves does not extend to that point.\n\nThe pile of rubbish formed a sort of projection at the water s edge,\nwhich was prolonged in a promontory as far as the wall of the quay.\n\nThe man who was being followed arrived at this little mound and went\nround it, so that he ceased to be seen by the other.\n\nThe latter, as he did not see, could not be seen; he took advantage of\nthis fact to abandon all dissimulation and to walk very rapidly. In a\nfew moments, he had reached the rubbish heap and passed round it. There\nhe halted in sheer amazement. The man whom he had been pursuing was no\nlonger there.\n\nTotal eclipse of the man in the blouse.\n\nThe shore, beginning with the rubbish heap, was only about thirty paces\nlong, then it plunged into the water which beat against the wall of the\nquay. The fugitive could not have thrown himself into the Seine without\nbeing seen by the man who was following him. What had become of him?\n\nThe man in the buttoned-up coat walked to the extremity of the shore,\nand remained there in thought for a moment, his fists clenched, his\neyes searching. All at once he smote his brow. He had just perceived,\nat the point where the land came to an end and the water began, a large\niron grating, low, arched, garnished with a heavy lock and with three\nmassive hinges. This grating, a sort of door pierced at the base of the\nquay, opened on the river as well as on the shore. A blackish stream\npassed under it. This stream discharged into the Seine.\n\nBeyond the heavy, rusty iron bars, a sort of dark and vaulted corridor\ncould be descried. The man folded his arms and stared at the grating\nwith an air of reproach.\n\nAs this gaze did not suffice, he tried to thrust it aside; he shook it,\nit resisted solidly. It is probable that it had just been opened,\nalthough no sound had been heard, a singular circumstance in so rusty a\ngrating; but it is certain that it had been closed again. This\nindicated that the man before whom that door had just opened had not a\nhook but a key.\n\nThis evidence suddenly burst upon the mind of the man who was trying to\nmove the grating, and evoked from him this indignant ejaculation:\n\n That is too much! A government key! \n\n\nThen, immediately regaining his composure, he expressed a whole world\nof interior ideas by this outburst of monosyllables accented almost\nironically:  Come! Come! Come! Come! \n\n\nThat said, and in the hope of something or other, either that he should\nsee the man emerge or other men enter, he posted himself on the watch\nbehind a heap of rubbish, with the patient rage of a pointer.\n\nThe hackney-coach, which regulated all its movements on his, had, in\nits turn, halted on the quay above him, close to the parapet. The\ncoachman, foreseeing a prolonged wait, encased his horses  muzzles in\nthe bag of oats which is damp at the bottom, and which is so familiar\nto Parisians, to whom, be it said in parenthesis, the Government\nsometimes applies it. The rare passers-by on the Pont de J na turned\ntheir heads, before they pursued their way, to take a momentary glance\nat these two motionless items in the landscape, the man on the shore,\nthe carriage on the quay.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV HE ALSO BEARS HIS CROSS\n\n\nJean Valjean had resumed his march and had not again paused.\n\nThis march became more and more laborious. The level of these vaults\nvaries; the average height is about five feet, six inches, and has been\ncalculated for the stature of a man; Jean Valjean was forced to bend\nover, in order not to strike Marius against the vault; at every step he\nhad to bend, then to rise, and to feel incessantly of the wall. The\nmoisture of the stones, and the viscous nature of the timber framework\nfurnished but poor supports to which to cling, either for hand or foot.\nHe stumbled along in the hideous dung-heap of the city. The\nintermittent gleams from the air-holes only appeared at very long\nintervals, and were so wan that the full sunlight seemed like the light\nof the moon; all the rest was mist, miasma, opaqueness, blackness. Jean\nValjean was both hungry and thirsty; especially thirsty; and this, like\nthe sea, was a place full of water where a man cannot drink. His\nstrength, which was prodigious, as the reader knows, and which had been\nbut little decreased by age, thanks to his chaste and sober life, began\nto give way, nevertheless. Fatigue began to gain on him; and as his\nstrength decreased, it made the weight of his burden increase. Marius,\nwho was, perhaps, dead, weighed him down as inert bodies weigh. Jean\nValjean held him in such a manner that his chest was not oppressed, and\nso that respiration could proceed as well as possible. Between his legs\nhe felt the rapid gliding of the rats. One of them was frightened to\nsuch a degree that he bit him. From time to time, a breath of fresh air\nreached him through the vent-holes of the mouths of the sewer, and\nreanimated him.\n\nIt might have been three hours past midday when he reached the\nbelt-sewer.\n\nHe was, at first, astonished at this sudden widening. He found himself,\nall at once, in a gallery where his outstretched hands could not reach\nthe two walls, and beneath a vault which his head did not touch. The\nGrand Sewer is, in fact, eight feet wide and seven feet high.\n\nAt the point where the Montmartre sewer joins the Grand Sewer, two\nother subterranean galleries, that of the Rue de Provence, and that of\nthe Abattoir, form a square. Between these four ways, a less sagacious\nman would have remained undecided. Jean Valjean selected the broadest,\nthat is to say, the belt-sewer. But here the question again came\nup should he descend or ascend? He thought that the situation required\nhaste, and that he must now gain the Seine at any risk. In other terms,\nhe must descend. He turned to the left.\n\nIt was well that he did so, for it is an error to suppose that the\nbelt-sewer has two outlets, the one in the direction of Bercy, the\nother towards Passy, and that it is, as its name indicates, the\nsubterranean girdle of the Paris on the right bank. The Grand Sewer,\nwhich is, it must be remembered, nothing else than the old brook of\nM nilmontant, terminates, if one ascends it, in a blind sack, that is\nto say, at its ancient point of departure which was its source, at the\nfoot of the knoll of M nilmontant. There is no direct communication\nwith the branch which collects the waters of Paris beginning with the\nQuartier Popincourt, and which falls into the Seine through the Amelot\nsewer above the ancient Isle Louviers. This branch, which completes the\ncollecting sewer, is separated from it, under the Rue M nilmontant\nitself, by a pile which marks the dividing point of the waters, between\nupstream and downstream. If Jean Valjean had ascended the gallery he\nwould have arrived, after a thousand efforts, and broken down with\nfatigue, and in an expiring condition, in the gloom, at a wall. He\nwould have been lost.\n\nIn case of necessity, by retracing his steps a little way, and entering\nthe passage of the Filles-du-Calvaire, on condition that he did not\nhesitate at the subterranean crossing of the Carrefour Boucherat, and\nby taking the corridor Saint-Louis, then the Saint-Gilles gut on the\nleft, then turning to the right and avoiding the Saint-Sebastian\ngallery, he might have reached the Amelot sewer, and thence, provided\nthat he did not go astray in the sort of F which lies under the\nBastille, he might have attained the outlet on the Seine near the\nArsenal. But in order to do this, he must have been thoroughly familiar\nwith the enormous madrepore of the sewer in all its ramifications and\nin all its openings. Now, we must again insist that he knew nothing of\nthat frightful drain which he was traversing; and had any one asked him\nin what he was, he would have answered:  In the night. \n\n\nHis instinct served him well. To descend was, in fact, possible safety.\n\nHe left on his right the two narrow passages which branch out in the\nform of a claw under the Rue Laffitte and the Rue Saint-Georges and the\nlong, bifurcated corridor of the Chauss e d Antin.\n\nA little beyond an affluent, which was, probably, the Madeleine branch,\nhe halted. He was extremely weary. A passably large air-hole, probably\nthe man-hole in the Rue d Anjou, furnished a light that was almost\nvivid. Jean Valjean, with the gentleness of movement which a brother\nwould exercise towards his wounded brother, deposited Marius on the\nbanquette of the sewer. Marius  blood-stained face appeared under the\nwan light of the air-hole like the ashes at the bottom of a tomb. His\neyes were closed, his hair was plastered down on his temples like a\npainter s brushes dried in red wash; his hands hung limp and dead. A\nclot of blood had collected in the knot of his cravat; his limbs were\ncold, and blood was clotted at the corners of his mouth; his shirt had\nthrust itself into his wounds, the cloth of his coat was chafing the\nyawning gashes in the living flesh. Jean Valjean, pushing aside the\ngarments with the tips of his fingers, laid his hand upon Marius \nbreast; his heart was still beating. Jean Valjean tore up his shirt,\nbandaged the young man s wounds as well as he was able and stopped the\nflowing blood; then bending over Marius, who still lay unconscious and\nalmost without breathing, in that half light, he gazed at him with\ninexpressible hatred.\n\nOn disarranging Marius  garments, he had found two things in his\npockets, the roll which had been forgotten there on the preceding\nevening, and Marius  pocketbook. He ate the roll and opened the\npocketbook. On the first page he found the four lines written by\nMarius. The reader will recall them:\n\n My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather, M.\nGillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais. \n\n\nJean Valjean read these four lines by the light of the air-hole, and\nremained for a moment as though absorbed in thought, repeating in a low\ntone:  Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, number 6, Monsieur Gillenormand.  He\nreplaced the pocketbook in Marius  pocket. He had eaten, his strength\nhad returned to him; he took Marius up once more upon his back, placed\nthe latter s head carefully on his right shoulder, and resumed his\ndescent of the sewer.\n\nThe Grand Sewer, directed according to the course of the valley of\nM nilmontant, is about two leagues long. It is paved throughout a\nnotable portion of its extent.\n\nThis torch of the names of the streets of Paris, with which we are\nilluminating for the reader Jean Valjean s subterranean march, Jean\nValjean himself did not possess. Nothing told him what zone of the city\nhe was traversing, nor what way he had made. Only the growing pallor of\nthe pools of light which he encountered from time to time indicated to\nhim that the sun was withdrawing from the pavement, and that the day\nwould soon be over; and the rolling of vehicles overhead, having become\nintermittent instead of continuous, then having almost ceased, he\nconcluded that he was no longer under central Paris, and that he was\napproaching some solitary region, in the vicinity of the outer\nboulevards, or the extreme outer quays. Where there are fewer houses\nand streets, the sewer has fewer air-holes. The gloom deepened around\nJean Valjean. Nevertheless, he continued to advance, groping his way in\nthe dark.\n\nSuddenly this darkness became terrible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V IN THE CASE OF SAND AS IN THAT OF WOMAN, THERE IS A FINENESS\nWHICH IS TREACHEROUS\n\n\nHe felt that he was entering the water, and that he no longer had a\npavement under his feet, but only mud.\n\nIt sometimes happens, that on certain shores of Bretagne or Scotland a\nman, either a traveller or a fisherman, while walking at low tide on\nthe beach far from shore, suddenly notices that for several minutes\npast, he has been walking with some difficulty. The beach under foot is\nlike pitch; his soles stick fast to it; it is no longer sand, it is\nbird-lime. The strand is perfectly dry, but at every step that he\ntakes, as soon as the foot is raised, the print is filled with water.\nThe eye, however, has perceived no change; the immense beach is smooth\nand tranquil, all the sand has the same aspect, nothing distinguishes\nthe soil that is solid from that which is not solid; the joyous little\ncloud of sand-lice continues to leap tumultuously under the feet of the\npasser-by.\n\nThe man pursues his way, he walks on, turns towards the land, endeavors\nto approach the shore. He is not uneasy. Uneasy about what? Only he is\nconscious that the heaviness of his feet seems to be increasing at\nevery step that he takes. All at once he sinks in. He sinks in two or\nthree inches. Decidedly, he is not on the right road; he halts to get\nhis bearings. Suddenly he glances at his feet; his feet have\ndisappeared. The sand has covered them. He draws his feet out of the\nsand, he tries to retrace his steps, he turns back, he sinks in more\ndeeply than before. The sand is up to his ankles, he tears himself free\nfrom it and flings himself to the left, the sand reaches to mid-leg, he\nflings himself to the right, the sand comes up to his knees. Then, with\nindescribable terror, he recognizes the fact that he is caught in a\nquicksand, and that he has beneath him that frightful medium in which\nneither man can walk nor fish can swim. He flings away his burden, if\nhe have one, he lightens himself, like a ship in distress; it is too\nlate, the sand is above his knees.\n\nHe shouts, he waves his hat, or his handkerchief, the sand continually\ngains on him; if the beach is deserted, if the land is too far away, if\nthe bank of sand is too ill-famed, there is no hero in the\nneighborhood, all is over, he is condemned to be engulfed. He is\ncondemned to that terrible interment, long, infallible, implacable,\nwhich it is impossible to either retard or hasten, which lasts for\nhours, which will not come to an end, which seizes you erect, free, in\nthe flush of health, which drags you down by the feet, which, at every\neffort that you attempt, at every shout that you utter, draws you a\nlittle lower, which has the air of punishing you for your resistance by\na redoubled grasp, which forces a man to return slowly to earth, while\nleaving him time to survey the horizon, the trees, the verdant country,\nthe smoke of the villages on the plain, the sails of the ships on the\nsea, the birds which fly and sing, the sun and the sky. This engulfment\nis the sepulchre which assumes a tide, and which mounts from the depths\nof the earth towards a living man. Each minute is an inexorable\nlayer-out of the dead. The wretched man tries to sit down, to lie down,\nto climb; every movement that he makes buries him deeper; he\nstraightens himself up, he sinks; he feels that he is being swallowed\nup; he shrieks, implores, cries to the clouds, wrings his hands, grows\ndesperate. Behold him in the sand up to his belly, the sand reaches to\nhis breast, he is only a bust now. He uplifts his hands, utters furious\ngroans, clenches his nails on the beach, tries to cling fast to that\nashes, supports himself on his elbows in order to raise himself from\nthat soft sheath, and sobs frantically; the sand mounts higher. The\nsand has reached his shoulders, the sand reaches to his throat; only\nhis face is visible now. His mouth cries aloud, the sand fills it;\nsilence. His eyes still gaze forth, the sand closes them, night. Then\nhis brow decreases, a little hair quivers above the sand; a hand\nprojects, pierces the surface of the beach, waves and disappears.\nSinister obliteration of a man.\n\nSometimes a rider is engulfed with his horse; sometimes the carter is\nswallowed up with his cart; all founders in that strand. It is\nshipwreck elsewhere than in the water. It is the earth drowning a man.\nThe earth, permeated with the ocean, becomes a pitfall. It presents\nitself in the guise of a plain, and it yawns like a wave. The abyss is\nsubject to these treacheries.\n\nThis melancholy fate, always possible on certain sea beaches, was also\npossible, thirty years ago, in the sewers of Paris.\n\nBefore the important works, undertaken in 1833, the subterranean drain\nof Paris was subject to these sudden slides.\n\nThe water filtered into certain subjacent strata, which were\nparticularly friable; the foot-way, which was of flag-stones, as in the\nancient sewers, or of cement on concrete, as in the new galleries,\nhaving no longer an underpinning, gave way. A fold in a flooring of\nthis sort means a crack, means crumbling. The framework crumbled away\nfor a certain length. This crevice, the hiatus of a gulf of mire, was\ncalled a _fontis_, in the special tongue. What is a _fontis?_ It is the\nquicksands of the seashore suddenly encountered under the surface of\nthe earth; it is the beach of Mont Saint-Michel in a sewer. The soaked\nsoil is in a state of fusion, as it were; all its molecules are in\nsuspension in soft medium; it is not earth and it is not water. The\ndepth is sometimes very great. Nothing can be more formidable than such\nan encounter. If the water predominates, death is prompt, the man is\nswallowed up; if earth predominates, death is slow.\n\nCan any one picture to himself such a death? If being swallowed by the\nearth is terrible on the seashore, what is it in a cesspool? Instead of\nthe open air, the broad daylight, the clear horizon, those vast sounds,\nthose free clouds whence rains life, instead of those barks descried in\nthe distance, of that hope under all sorts of forms, of probable\npassers-by, of succor possible up to the very last moment, instead of\nall this, deafness, blindness, a black vault, the inside of a tomb\nalready prepared, death in the mire beneath a cover! slow suffocation\nby filth, a stone box where asphyxia opens its claw in the mire and\nclutches you by the throat; fetidness mingled with the death-rattle;\nslime instead of the strand, sulfuretted hydrogen in place of the\nhurricane, dung in place of the ocean! And to shout, to gnash one s\nteeth, and to writhe, and to struggle, and to agonize, with that\nenormous city which knows nothing of it all, over one s head!\n\nInexpressible is the horror of dying thus! Death sometimes redeems his\natrocity by a certain terrible dignity. On the funeral pile, in\nshipwreck, one can be great; in the flames as in the foam, a superb\nattitude is possible; one there becomes transfigured as one perishes.\nBut not here. Death is filthy. It is humiliating to expire. The supreme\nfloating visions are abject. Mud is synonymous with shame. It is petty,\nugly, infamous. To die in a butt of Malvoisie, like Clarence, is\npermissible; in the ditch of a scavenger, like Escoubleau, is horrible.\nTo struggle therein is hideous; at the same time that one is going\nthrough the death agony, one is floundering about. There are shadows\nenough for hell, and mire enough to render it nothing but a slough, and\nthe dying man knows not whether he is on the point of becoming a\nspectre or a frog.\n\nEverywhere else the sepulchre is sinister; here it is deformed.\n\nThe depth of the _fontis_ varied, as well as their length and their\ndensity, according to the more or less bad quality of the sub-soil.\nSometimes a _fontis_ was three or four feet deep, sometimes eight or\nten; sometimes the bottom was unfathomable. Here the mire was almost\nsolid, there almost liquid. In the Luni re fontis, it would have taken\na man a day to disappear, while he would have been devoured in five\nminutes by the Philippeaux slough. The mire bears up more or less,\naccording to its density. A child can escape where a man will perish.\nThe first law of safety is to get rid of every sort of load. Every\nsewerman who felt the ground giving way beneath him began by flinging\naway his sack of tools, or his back-basket, or his hod.\n\nThe fontis were due to different causes: the friability of the soil;\nsome landslip at a depth beyond the reach of man; the violent summer\nrains; the incessant flooding of winter; long, drizzling showers.\nSometimes the weight of the surrounding houses on a marly or sandy soil\nforced out the vaults of the subterranean galleries and caused them to\nbend aside, or it chanced that a flooring vault burst and split under\nthis crushing thrust. In this manner, the heaping up of the Parth non,\nobliterated, a century ago, a portion of the vaults of Saint-Genevi ve\nhill. When a sewer was broken in under the pressure of the houses, the\nmischief was sometimes betrayed in the street above by a sort of space,\nlike the teeth of a saw, between the paving-stones; this crevice was\ndeveloped in an undulating line throughout the entire length of the\ncracked vault, and then, the evil being visible, the remedy could be\npromptly applied. It also frequently happened, that the interior\nravages were not revealed by any external scar, and in that case, woe\nto the sewermen. When they entered without precaution into the sewer,\nthey were liable to be lost. Ancient registers make mention of several\nscavengers who were buried in fontis in this manner. They give many\nnames; among others, that of the sewerman who was swallowed up in a\nquagmire under the man-hole of the Rue Car me-Prenant, a certain Blaise\nPoutrain; this Blaise Poutrain was the brother of Nicholas Poutrain,\nwho was the last grave-digger of the cemetery called the Charnier des\nInnocents, in 1785, the epoch when that cemetery expired.\n\nThere was also that young and charming Vicomte d Escoubleau, of whom we\nhave just spoken, one of the heroes of the siege of L rida, where they\ndelivered the assault in silk stockings, with violins at their head.\nD Escoubleau, surprised one night at his cousin s, the Duchesse de\nSourdis , was drowned in a quagmire of the Beautreillis sewer, in which\nhe had taken refuge in order to escape from the Duke. Madame de\nSourdis, when informed of his death, demanded her smelling-bottle, and\nforgot to weep, through sniffling at her salts. In such cases, there is\nno love which holds fast; the sewer extinguishes it. Hero refuses to\nwash the body of Leander. Thisbe stops her nose in the presence of\nPyramus and says:  Phew! \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE FONTIS\n\n\nJean Valjean found himself in the presence of a fontis.\n\nThis sort of quagmire was common at that period in the subsoil of the\nChamps- lys es, difficult to handle in the hydraulic works and a bad\npreservative of the subterranean constructions, on account of its\nexcessive fluidity. This fluidity exceeds even the inconsistency of the\nsands of the Quartier Saint-Georges, which could only be conquered by a\nstone construction on a concrete foundation, and the clayey strata,\ninfected with gas, of the Quartier des Martyrs, which are so liquid\nthat the only way in which a passage was effected under the gallery des\nMartyrs was by means of a cast-iron pipe. When, in 1836, the old stone\nsewer beneath the Faubourg Saint-Honor , in which we now see Jean\nValjean, was demolished for the purpose of reconstructing it, the\nquicksand, which forms the subsoil of the Champs- lys es as far as the\nSeine, presented such an obstacle, that the operation lasted nearly six\nmonths, to the great clamor of the dwellers on the riverside,\nparticularly those who had hotels and carriages. The work was more than\nunhealthy; it was dangerous. It is true that they had four months and a\nhalf of rain, and three floods of the Seine.\n\nThe fontis which Jean Valjean had encountered was caused by the\ndownpour of the preceding day. The pavement, badly sustained by the\nsubjacent sand, had given way and had produced a stoppage of the water.\nInfiltration had taken place, a slip had followed. The dislocated\nbottom had sunk into the ooze. To what extent? Impossible to say. The\nobscurity was more dense there than elsewhere. It was a pit of mire in\na cavern of night.\n\nJean Valjean felt the pavement vanishing beneath his feet. He entered\nthis slime. There was water on the surface, slime at the bottom. He\nmust pass it. To retrace his steps was impossible. Marius was dying,\nand Jean Valjean exhausted. Besides, where was he to go? Jean Valjean\nadvanced. Moreover, the pit seemed, for the first few steps, not to be\nvery deep. But in proportion as he advanced, his feet plunged deeper.\nSoon he had the slime up to his calves and water above his knees. He\nwalked on, raising Marius in his arms, as far above the water as he\ncould. The mire now reached to his knees, and the water to his waist.\nHe could no longer retreat. This mud, dense enough for one man, could\nnot, obviously, uphold two. Marius and Jean Valjean would have stood a\nchance of extricating themselves singly. Jean Valjean continued to\nadvance, supporting the dying man, who was, perhaps, a corpse.\n\nThe water came up to his arm-pits; he felt that he was sinking; it was\nonly with difficulty that he could move in the depth of ooze which he\nhad now reached. The density, which was his support, was also an\nobstacle. He still held Marius on high, and with an unheard-of\nexpenditure of force, he advanced still; but he was sinking. He had\nonly his head above the water now and his two arms holding up Marius.\nIn the old paintings of the deluge there is a mother holding her child\nthus.\n\nHe sank still deeper, he turned his face to the rear, to escape the\nwater, and in order that he might be able to breathe; anyone who had\nseen him in that gloom would have thought that what he beheld was a\nmask floating on the shadows; he caught a faint glimpse above him of\nthe drooping head and livid face of Marius; he made a desperate effort\nand launched his foot forward; his foot struck something solid; a point\nof support. It was high time.\n\nHe straightened himself up, and rooted himself upon that point of\nsupport with a sort of fury. This produced upon him the effect of the\nfirst step in a staircase leading back to life.\n\nThe point of support, thus encountered in the mire at the supreme\nmoment, was the beginning of the other watershed of the pavement, which\nhad bent but had not given way, and which had curved under the water\nlike a plank and in a single piece. Well built pavements form a vault\nand possess this sort of firmness. This fragment of the vaulting,\npartly submerged, but solid, was a veritable inclined plane, and, once\non this plane, he was safe. Jean Valjean mounted this inclined plane\nand reached the other side of the quagmire.\n\nAs he emerged from the water, he came in contact with a stone and fell\nupon his knees. He reflected that this was but just, and he remained\nthere for some time, with his soul absorbed in words addressed to God.\n\nHe rose to his feet, shivering, chilled, foul-smelling, bowed beneath\nthe dying man whom he was dragging after him, all dripping with slime,\nand his soul filled with a strange light.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII ONE SOMETIMES RUNS AGROUND WHEN ONE FANCIES THAT ONE IS\nDISEMBARKING\n\n\nHe set out on his way once more.\n\nHowever, although he had not left his life in the fontis, he seemed to\nhave left his strength behind him there. That supreme effort had\nexhausted him. His lassitude was now such that he was obliged to pause\nfor breath every three or four steps, and lean against the wall. Once\nhe was forced to seat himself on the banquette in order to alter\nMarius  position, and he thought that he should have to remain there.\nBut if his vigor was dead, his energy was not. He rose again.\n\nHe walked on desperately, almost fast, proceeded thus for a hundred\npaces, almost without drawing breath, and suddenly came in contact with\nthe wall. He had reached an elbow of the sewer, and, arriving at the\nturn with head bent down, he had struck the wall. He raised his eyes,\nand at the extremity of the vault, far, very far away in front of him,\nhe perceived a light. This time it was not that terrible light; it was\ngood, white light. It was daylight. Jean Valjean saw the outlet.\n\nA damned soul, who, in the midst of the furnace, should suddenly\nperceive the outlet of Gehenna, would experience what Jean Valjean\nfelt. It would fly wildly with the stumps of its burned wings towards\nthat radiant portal. Jean Valjean was no longer conscious of fatigue,\nhe no longer felt Marius  weight, he found his legs once more of steel,\nhe ran rather than walked. As he approached, the outlet became more and\nmore distinctly defined. It was a pointed arch, lower than the vault,\nwhich gradually narrowed, and narrower than the gallery, which closed\nin as the vault grew lower. The tunnel ended like the interior of a\nfunnel; a faulty construction, imitated from the wickets of\npenitentiaries, logical in a prison, illogical in a sewer, and which\nhas since been corrected.\n\nJean Valjean reached the outlet.\n\nThere he halted.\n\nIt certainly was the outlet, but he could not get out.\n\nThe arch was closed by a heavy grating, and the grating, which, to all\nappearance, rarely swung on its rusty hinges, was clamped to its stone\njamb by a thick lock, which, red with rust, seemed like an enormous\nbrick. The keyhole could be seen, and the robust latch, deeply sunk in\nthe iron staple. The door was plainly double-locked. It was one of\nthose prison locks which old Paris was so fond of lavishing.\n\nBeyond the grating was the open air, the river, the daylight, the\nshore, very narrow but sufficient for escape. The distant quays, Paris,\nthat gulf in which one so easily hides oneself, the broad horizon,\nliberty. On the right, downstream, the bridge of J na was discernible,\non the left, upstream, the bridge of the Invalides; the place would\nhave been a propitious one in which to await the night and to escape.\nIt was one of the most solitary points in Paris; the shore which faces\nthe Grand-Caillou. Flies were entering and emerging through the bars of\nthe grating.\n\nIt might have been half-past eight o clock in the evening. The day was\ndeclining.\n\nJean Valjean laid Marius down along the wall, on the dry portion of the\nvaulting, then he went to the grating and clenched both fists round the\nbars; the shock which he gave it was frenzied, but it did not move. The\ngrating did not stir. Jean Valjean seized the bars one after the other,\nin the hope that he might be able to tear away the least solid, and to\nmake of it a lever wherewith to raise the door or to break the lock.\nNot a bar stirred. The teeth of a tiger are not more firmly fixed in\ntheir sockets. No lever; no prying possible. The obstacle was\ninvincible. There was no means of opening the gate.\n\nMust he then stop there? What was he to do? What was to become of him?\nHe had not the strength to retrace his steps, to recommence the journey\nwhich he had already taken. Besides, how was he to again traverse that\nquagmire whence he had only extricated himself as by a miracle? And\nafter the quagmire, was there not the police patrol, which assuredly\ncould not be twice avoided? And then, whither was he to go? What\ndirection should he pursue? To follow the incline would not conduct him\nto his goal. If he were to reach another outlet, he would find it\nobstructed by a plug or a grating. Every outlet was, undoubtedly,\nclosed in that manner. Chance had unsealed the grating through which he\nhad entered, but it was evident that all the other sewer mouths were\nbarred. He had only succeeded in escaping into a prison.\n\nAll was over. Everything that Jean Valjean had done was useless.\nExhaustion had ended in failure.\n\nThey were both caught in the immense and gloomy web of death, and Jean\nValjean felt the terrible spider running along those black strands and\nquivering in the shadows. He turned his back to the grating, and fell\nupon the pavement, hurled to earth rather than seated, close to Marius,\nwho still made no movement, and with his head bent between his knees.\nThis was the last drop of anguish.\n\nOf what was he thinking during this profound depression? Neither of\nhimself nor of Marius. He was thinking of Cosette.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE TORN COAT-TAIL\n\n\nIn the midst of this prostration, a hand was laid on his shoulder, and\na low voice said to him:\n\n Half shares. \n\n\nSome person in that gloom? Nothing so closely resembles a dream as\ndespair. Jean Valjean thought that he was dreaming. He had heard no\nfootsteps. Was it possible? He raised his eyes.\n\nA man stood before him.\n\nThis man was clad in a blouse; his feet were bare; he held his shoes in\nhis left hand; he had evidently removed them in order to reach Jean\nValjean, without allowing his steps to be heard.\n\nJean Valjean did not hesitate for an instant. Unexpected as was this\nencounter, this man was known to him. The man was Th nardier.\n\nAlthough awakened, so to speak, with a start, Jean Valjean, accustomed\nto alarms, and steeled to unforeseen shocks that must be promptly\nparried, instantly regained possession of his presence of mind.\nMoreover, the situation could not be made worse, a certain degree of\ndistress is no longer capable of a crescendo, and Th nardier himself\ncould add nothing to this blackness of this night.\n\nA momentary pause ensued.\n\nTh nardier, raising his right hand to a level with his forehead, formed\nwith it a shade, then he brought his eyelashes together, by screwing up\nhis eyes, a motion which, in connection with a slight contraction of\nthe mouth, characterizes the sagacious attention of a man who is\nendeavoring to recognize another man. He did not succeed. Jean Valjean,\nas we have just stated, had his back turned to the light, and he was,\nmoreover, so disfigured, so bemired, so bleeding that he would have\nbeen unrecognizable in full noonday. On the contrary, illuminated by\nthe light from the grating, a cellar light, it is true, livid, yet\nprecise in its lividness, Th nardier, as the energetic popular metaphor\nexpresses it, immediately  leaped into  Jean Valjean s eyes. This\ninequality of conditions sufficed to assure some advantage to Jean\nValjean in that mysterious duel which was on the point of beginning\nbetween the two situations and the two men. The encounter took place\nbetween Jean Valjean veiled and Th nardier unmasked.\n\nJean Valjean immediately perceived that Th nardier did not recognize\nhim.\n\nThey surveyed each other for a moment in that half-gloom, as though\ntaking each other s measure. Th nardier was the first to break the\nsilence.\n\n How are you going to manage to get out? \n\n\nJean Valjean made no reply. Th nardier continued:\n\n It s impossible to pick the lock of that gate. But still you must get\nout of this. \n\n\n That is true,  said Jean Valjean.\n\n Well, half shares then. \n\n\n What do you mean by that? \n\n\n You have killed that man; that s all right. I have the key. \n\n\nTh nardier pointed to Marius. He went on:\n\n I don t know you, but I want to help you. You must be a friend. \n\n\nJean Valjean began to comprehend. Th nardier took him for an assassin.\n\nTh nardier resumed:\n\n Listen, comrade. You didn t kill that man without looking to see what\nhe had in his pockets. Give me my half. I ll open the door for you. \n\n\nAnd half drawing from beneath his tattered blouse a huge key, he added:\n\n Do you want to see how a key to liberty is made? Look here. \n\n\nJean Valjean  remained stupid the expression belongs to the elder\nCorneille to such a degree that he doubted whether what he beheld was\nreal. It was Providence appearing in horrible guise, and his good angel\nspringing from the earth in the form of Th nardier.\n\nTh nardier thrust his fist into a large pocket concealed under his\nblouse, drew out a rope and offered it to Jean Valjean.\n\n Hold on,  said he,  I ll give you the rope to boot. \n\n\n What is the rope for? \n\n\n You will need a stone also, but you can find one outside. There s a\nheap of rubbish. \n\n\n What am I to do with a stone? \n\n\n Idiot, you ll want to sling that stiff into the river, you ll need a\nstone and a rope, otherwise it would float on the water. \n\n\nJean Valjean took the rope. There is no one who does not occasionally\naccept in this mechanical way.\n\nTh nardier snapped his fingers as though an idea had suddenly occurred\nto him.\n\n Ah, see here, comrade, how did you contrive to get out of that slough\nyonder? I haven t dared to risk myself in it. Phew! you don t smell\ngood. \n\n\nAfter a pause he added:\n\n I m asking you questions, but you re perfectly right not to answer.\nIt s an apprenticeship against that cursed quarter of an hour before\nthe examining magistrate. And then, when you don t talk at all, you run\nno risk of talking too loud. That s no matter, as I can t see your face\nand as I don t know your name, you are wrong in supposing that I don t\nknow who you are and what you want. I twig. You ve broken up that\ngentleman a bit; now you want to tuck him away somewhere. The river,\nthat great hider of folly, is what you want. I ll get you out of your\nscrape. Helping a good fellow in a pinch is what suits me to a hair. \n\n\nWhile expressing his approval of Jean Valjean s silence, he endeavored\nto force him to talk. He jostled his shoulder in an attempt to catch a\nsight of his profile, and he exclaimed, without, however, raising his\ntone:\n\n Apropos of that quagmire, you re a hearty animal. Why didn t you toss\nthe man in there? \n\n\nJean Valjean preserved silence.\n\nTh nardier resumed, pushing the rag which served him as a cravat to the\nlevel of his Adam s apple, a gesture which completes the capable air of\na serious man:\n\n After all, you acted wisely. The workmen, when they come to-morrow to\nstop up that hole, would certainly have found the stiff abandoned\nthere, and it might have been possible, thread by thread, straw by\nstraw, to pick up the scent and reach you. Some one has passed through\nthe sewer. Who? Where did he get out? Was he seen to come out? The\npolice are full of cleverness. The sewer is treacherous and tells tales\nof you. Such a find is a rarity, it attracts attention, very few people\nmake use of the sewers for their affairs, while the river belongs to\neverybody. The river is the true grave. At the end of a month they fish\nup your man in the nets at Saint-Cloud. Well, what does one care for\nthat? It s carrion! Who killed that man? Paris. And justice makes no\ninquiries. You have done well. \n\n\nThe more loquacious Th nardier became, the more mute was Jean Valjean.\n\nAgain Th nardier shook him by the shoulder.\n\n Now let s settle this business. Let s go shares. You have seen my key,\nshow me your money. \n\n\nTh nardier was haggard, fierce, suspicious, rather menacing, yet\namicable.\n\nThere was one singular circumstance; Th nardier s manners were not\nsimple; he had not the air of being wholly at his ease; while affecting\nan air of mystery, he spoke low; from time to time he laid his finger\non his mouth, and muttered,  hush!  It was difficult to divine why.\nThere was no one there except themselves. Jean Valjean thought that\nother ruffians might possibly be concealed in some nook, not very far\noff, and that Th nardier did not care to share with them.\n\nTh nardier resumed:\n\n Let s settle up. How much did the stiff have in his bags? \n\n\nJean Valjean searched his pockets.\n\nIt was his habit, as the reader will remember, to always have some\nmoney about him. The mournful life of expedients to which he had been\ncondemned imposed this as a law upon him. On this occasion, however, he\nhad been caught unprepared. When donning his uniform of a National\nGuardsman on the preceding evening, he had forgotten, dolefully\nabsorbed as he was, to take his pocket-book. He had only some small\nchange in his fob. He turned out his pocket, all soaked with ooze, and\nspread out on the banquette of the vault one louis d or, two five-franc\npieces, and five or six large sous.\n\nTh nardier thrust out his lower lip with a significant twist of the\nneck.\n\n You knocked him over cheap,  said he.\n\nHe set to feeling the pockets of Jean Valjean and Marius, with the\ngreatest familiarity. Jean Valjean, who was chiefly concerned in\nkeeping his back to the light, let him have his way.\n\nWhile handling Marius  coat, Th nardier, with the skill of a\npickpocket, and without being noticed by Jean Valjean, tore off a strip\nwhich he concealed under his blouse, probably thinking that this morsel\nof stuff might serve, later on, to identify the assassinated man and\nthe assassin. However, he found no more than the thirty francs.\n\n That s true,  said he,  both of you together have no more than that. \n\n\nAnd, forgetting his motto:  half shares,  he took all.\n\nHe hesitated a little over the large sous. After due reflection, he\ntook them also, muttering:\n\n Never mind! You cut folks  throats too cheap altogether. \n\n\nThat done, he once more drew the big key from under his blouse.\n\n Now, my friend, you must leave. It s like the fair here, you pay when\nyou go out. You have paid, now clear out. \n\n\nAnd he began to laugh.\n\nHad he, in lending to this stranger the aid of his key, and in making\nsome other man than himself emerge from that portal, the pure and\ndisinterested intention of rescuing an assassin? We may be permitted to\ndoubt this.\n\nTh nardier helped Jean Valjean to replace Marius on his shoulders, then\nhe betook himself to the grating on tiptoe, and barefooted, making Jean\nValjean a sign to follow him, looked out, laid his finger on his mouth,\nand remained for several seconds, as though in suspense; his inspection\nfinished, he placed the key in the lock. The bolt slipped back and the\ngate swung open. It neither grated nor squeaked. It moved very softly.\n\nIt was obvious that this gate and those hinges, carefully oiled, were\nin the habit of opening more frequently than was supposed. This\nsoftness was suspicious; it hinted at furtive goings and comings,\nsilent entrances and exits of nocturnal men, and the wolf-like tread of\ncrime.\n\nThe sewer was evidently an accomplice of some mysterious band. This\ntaciturn grating was a receiver of stolen goods.\n\nTh nardier opened the gate a little way, allowing just sufficient space\nfor Jean Valjean to pass out, closed the grating again, gave the key a\ndouble turn in the lock and plunged back into the darkness, without\nmaking any more noise than a breath. He seemed to walk with the velvet\npaws of a tiger.\n\nA moment later, that hideous providence had retreated into the\ninvisibility.\n\nJean Valjean found himself in the open air.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX MARIUS PRODUCES ON SOME ONE WHO IS A JUDGE OF THE MATTER,\nTHE EFFECT OF BEING DEAD\n\n\nHe allowed Marius to slide down upon the shore.\n\nThey were in the open air!\n\nThe miasmas, darkness, horror lay behind him. The pure, healthful,\nliving, joyous air that was easy to breathe inundated him. Everywhere\naround him reigned silence, but that charming silence when the sun has\nset in an unclouded azure sky. Twilight had descended; night was\ndrawing on, the great deliverer, the friend of all those who need a\nmantle of darkness that they may escape from an anguish. The sky\npresented itself in all directions like an enormous calm. The river\nflowed to his feet with the sound of a kiss. The aerial dialogue of the\nnests bidding each other good night in the elms of the Champs- lys es\nwas audible. A few stars, daintily piercing the pale blue of the\nzenith, and visible to reverie alone, formed imperceptible little\nsplendors amid the immensity. Evening was unfolding over the head of\nJean Valjean all the sweetness of the infinite.\n\nIt was that exquisite and undecided hour which says neither yes nor no.\nNight was already sufficiently advanced to render it possible to lose\noneself at a little distance and yet there was sufficient daylight to\npermit of recognition at close quarters.\n\nFor several seconds, Jean Valjean was irresistibly overcome by that\naugust and caressing serenity; such moments of oblivion do come to men;\nsuffering refrains from harassing the unhappy wretch; everything is\neclipsed in the thoughts; peace broods over the dreamer like night;\nand, beneath the twilight which beams and in imitation of the sky which\nis illuminated, the soul becomes studded with stars. Jean Valjean could\nnot refrain from contemplating that vast, clear shadow which rested\nover him; thoughtfully he bathed in the sea of ecstasy and prayer in\nthe majestic silence of the eternal heavens. Then he bent down swiftly\nto Marius, as though the sentiment of duty had returned to him, and,\ndipping up water in the hollow of his hand, he gently sprinkled a few\ndrops on the latter s face. Marius  eyelids did not open; but his\nhalf-open mouth still breathed.\n\nJean Valjean was on the point of dipping his hand in the river once\nmore, when, all at once, he experienced an indescribable embarrassment,\nsuch as a person feels when there is some one behind him whom he does\nnot see.\n\nWe have already alluded to this impression, with which everyone is\nfamiliar.\n\nHe turned round.\n\nSome one was, in fact, behind him, as there had been a short while\nbefore.\n\nA man of lofty stature, enveloped in a long coat, with folded arms, and\nbearing in his right fist a bludgeon of which the leaden head was\nvisible, stood a few paces in the rear of the spot where Jean Valjean\nwas crouching over Marius.\n\nWith the aid of the darkness, it seemed a sort of apparition. An\nordinary man would have been alarmed because of the twilight, a\nthoughtful man on account of the bludgeon. Jean Valjean recognized\nJavert.\n\nThe reader has divined, no doubt, that Th nardier s pursuer was no\nother than Javert. Javert, after his unlooked-for escape from the\nbarricade, had betaken himself to the prefecture of police, had\nrendered a verbal account to the Prefect in person in a brief audience,\nhad then immediately gone on duty again, which implied the note, the\nreader will recollect, which had been captured on his person a certain\nsurveillance of the shore on the right bank of the Seine near the\nChamps- lys es, which had, for some time past, aroused the attention of\nthe police. There he had caught sight of Th nardier and had followed\nhim. The reader knows the rest.\n\nThus it will be easily understood that that grating, so obligingly\nopened to Jean Valjean, was a bit of cleverness on Th nardier s part.\nTh nardier intuitively felt that Javert was still there; the man spied\nupon has a scent which never deceives him; it was necessary to fling a\nbone to that sleuth-hound. An assassin, what a godsend! Such an\nopportunity must never be allowed to slip. Th nardier, by putting Jean\nValjean outside in his stead, provided a prey for the police, forced\nthem to relinquish his scent, made them forget him in a bigger\nadventure, repaid Javert for his waiting, which always flatters a spy,\nearned thirty francs, and counted with certainty, so far as he himself\nwas concerned, on escaping with the aid of this diversion.\n\nJean Valjean had fallen from one danger upon another.\n\nThese two encounters, this falling one after the other, from Th nardier\nupon Javert, was a rude shock.\n\nJavert did not recognize Jean Valjean, who, as we have stated, no\nlonger looked like himself. He did not unfold his arms, he made sure of\nhis bludgeon in his fist, by an imperceptible movement, and said in a\ncurt, calm voice:\n\n Who are you? \n\n\n I. \n\n\n Who is  I ? \n\n\n Jean Valjean. \n\n\nJavert thrust his bludgeon between his teeth, bent his knees, inclined\nhis body, laid his two powerful hands on the shoulders of Jean Valjean,\nwhich were clamped within them as in a couple of vices, scrutinized\nhim, and recognized him. Their faces almost touched. Javert s look was\nterrible.\n\nJean Valjean remained inert beneath Javert s grasp, like a lion\nsubmitting to the claws of a lynx.\n\n Inspector Javert,  said he,  you have me in your power. Moreover, I\nhave regarded myself as your prisoner ever since this morning. I did\nnot give you my address with any intention of escaping from you. Take\nme. Only grant me one favor. \n\n\nJavert did not appear to hear him. He kept his eyes riveted on Jean\nValjean. His chin being contracted, thrust his lips upwards towards his\nnose, a sign of savage reverie. At length he released Jean Valjean,\nstraightened himself stiffly up without bending, grasped his bludgeon\nagain firmly, and, as though in a dream, he murmured rather than\nuttered this question:\n\n What are you doing here? And who is this man? \n\n\nHe still abstained from addressing Jean Valjean as _thou_.\n\nJean Valjean replied, and the sound of his voice appeared to rouse\nJavert:\n\n It is with regard to him that I desire to speak to you. Dispose of me\nas you see fit; but first help me to carry him home. That is all that I\nask of you. \n\n\nJavert s face contracted as was always the case when any one seemed to\nthink him capable of making a concession. Nevertheless, he did not say\n no. \n\n\nAgain he bent over, drew from his pocket a handkerchief which he\nmoistened in the water and with which he then wiped Marius \nblood-stained brow.\n\n This man was at the barricade,  said he in a low voice and as though\nspeaking to himself.  He is the one they called Marius. \n\n\nA spy of the first quality, who had observed everything, listened to\neverything, and taken in everything, even when he thought that he was\nto die; who had played the spy even in his agony, and who, with his\nelbows leaning on the first step of the sepulchre, had taken notes.\n\nHe seized Marius  hand and felt his pulse.\n\n He is wounded,  said Jean Valjean.\n\n He is a dead man,  said Javert.\n\nJean Valjean replied:\n\n No. Not yet. \n\n\n So you have brought him thither from the barricade?  remarked Javert.\n\nHis preoccupation must indeed have been very profound for him not to\ninsist on this alarming rescue through the sewer, and for him not to\neven notice Jean Valjean s silence after his question.\n\nJean Valjean, on his side, seemed to have but one thought. He resumed:\n\n He lives in the Marais, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, with his\ngrandfather. I do not recollect his name. \n\n\nJean Valjean fumbled in Marius  coat, pulled out his pocket-book,\nopened it at the page which Marius had pencilled, and held it out to\nJavert.\n\nThere was still sufficient light to admit of reading. Besides this,\nJavert possessed in his eye the feline phosphorescence of night birds.\nHe deciphered the few lines written by Marius, and muttered:\n Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du Calvaire, No. 6. \n\n\nThen he exclaimed:  Coachman! \n\n\nThe reader will remember that the hackney-coach was waiting in case of\nneed.\n\nJavert kept Marius  pocket-book.\n\nA moment later, the carriage, which had descended by the inclined plane\nof the watering-place, was on the shore. Marius was laid upon the back\nseat, and Javert seated himself on the front seat beside Jean Valjean.\n\nThe door slammed, and the carriage drove rapidly away, ascending the\nquays in the direction of the Bastille.\n\nThey quitted the quays and entered the streets. The coachman, a black\nform on his box, whipped up his thin horses. A glacial silence reigned\nin the carriage. Marius, motionless, with his body resting in the\ncorner, and his head drooping on his breast, his arms hanging, his legs\nstiff, seemed to be awaiting only a coffin; Jean Valjean seemed made of\nshadow, and Javert of stone, and in that vehicle full of night, whose\ninterior, every time that it passed in front of a street lantern,\nappeared to be turned lividly wan, as by an intermittent flash of\nlightning, chance had united and seemed to be bringing face to face the\nthree forms of tragic immobility, the corpse, the spectre, and the\nstatue.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X RETURN OF THE SON WHO WAS PRODIGAL OF HIS LIFE\n\n\nAt every jolt over the pavement, a drop of blood trickled from Marius \nhair.\n\nNight had fully closed in when the carriage arrived at No. 6, Rue des\nFilles-du-Calvaire.\n\nJavert was the first to alight; he made sure with one glance of the\nnumber on the carriage gate, and, raising the heavy knocker of beaten\niron, embellished in the old style, with a male goat and a satyr\nconfronting each other, he gave a violent peal. The gate opened a\nlittle way and Javert gave it a push. The porter half made his\nappearance yawning, vaguely awake, and with a candle in his hand.\n\nEveryone in the house was asleep. People go to bed betimes in the\nMarais, especially on days when there is a revolt. This good, old\nquarter, terrified at the Revolution, takes refuge in slumber, as\nchildren, when they hear the Bugaboo coming, hide their heads hastily\nunder their coverlet.\n\nIn the meantime Jean Valjean and the coachman had taken Marius out of\nthe carriage, Jean Valjean supporting him under the armpits, and the\ncoachman under the knees.\n\nAs they thus bore Marius, Jean Valjean slipped his hand under the\nlatter s clothes, which were broadly rent, felt his breast, and assured\nhimself that his heart was still beating. It was even beating a little\nless feebly, as though the movement of the carriage had brought about a\ncertain fresh access of life.\n\nJavert addressed the porter in a tone befitting the government, and the\npresence of the porter of a factious person.\n\n Some person whose name is Gillenormand? \n\n\n Here. What do you want with him? \n\n\n His son is brought back. \n\n\n His son?  said the porter stupidly.\n\n He is dead. \n\n\nJean Valjean, who, soiled and tattered, stood behind Javert, and whom\nthe porter was surveying with some horror, made a sign to him with his\nhead that this was not so.\n\nThe porter did not appear to understand either Javert s words or Jean\nValjean s sign.\n\nJavert continued:\n\n He went to the barricade, and here he is. \n\n\n To the barricade?  ejaculated the porter.\n\n He has got himself killed. Go waken his father. \n\n\nThe porter did not stir.\n\n Go along with you!  repeated Javert.\n\nAnd he added:\n\n There will be a funeral here to-morrow. \n\n\nFor Javert, the usual incidents of the public highway were\ncategorically classed, which is the beginning of foresight and\nsurveillance, and each contingency had its own compartment; all\npossible facts were arranged in drawers, as it were, whence they\nemerged on occasion, in variable quantities; in the street, uproar,\nrevolt, carnival, and funeral.\n\nThe porter contented himself with waking Basque. Basque woke Nicolette;\nNicolette roused great-aunt Gillenormand.\n\nAs for the grandfather, they let him sleep on, thinking that he would\nhear about the matter early enough in any case.\n\nMarius was carried up to the first floor, without any one in the other\nparts of the house being aware of the fact, and deposited on an old\nsofa in M. Gillenormand s antechamber; and while Basque went in search\nof a physician, and while Nicolette opened the linen-presses, Jean\nValjean felt Javert touch him on the shoulder. He understood and\ndescended the stairs, having behind him the step of Javert who was\nfollowing him.\n\nThe porter watched them take their departure as he had watched their\narrival, in terrified somnolence.\n\nThey entered the carriage once more, and the coachman mounted his box.\n\n Inspector Javert,  said Jean,  grant me yet another favor. \n\n\n What is it?  demanded Javert roughly.\n\n Let me go home for one instant. Then you shall do whatever you like\nwith me. \n\n\nJavert remained silent for a few moments, with his chin drawn back into\nthe collar of his great-coat, then he lowered the glass and front:\n\n Driver,  said he,  Rue de l Homme Arm , No. 7. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI CONCUSSION IN THE ABSOLUTE\n\n\nThey did not open their lips again during the whole space of their\nride.\n\nWhat did Jean Valjean want? To finish what he had begun; to warn\nCosette, to tell her where Marius was, to give her, possibly, some\nother useful information, to take, if he could, certain final measures.\nAs for himself, so far as he was personally concerned, all was over; he\nhad been seized by Javert and had not resisted; any other man than\nhimself in like situation would, perhaps, have had some vague thoughts\nconnected with the rope which Th nardier had given him, and of the bars\nof the first cell that he should enter; but, let us impress it upon the\nreader, after the Bishop, there had existed in Jean Valjean a profound\nhesitation in the presence of any violence, even when directed against\nhimself.\n\nSuicide, that mysterious act of violence against the unknown which may\ncontain, in a measure, the death of the soul, was impossible to Jean\nValjean.\n\nAt the entrance to the Rue de l Homme Arm , the carriage halted, the\nway being too narrow to admit of the entrance of vehicles. Javert and\nJean Valjean alighted.\n\nThe coachman humbly represented to  monsieur l Inspecteur,  that the\nUtrecht velvet of his carriage was all spotted with the blood of the\nassassinated man, and with mire from the assassin. That is the way he\nunderstood it. He added that an indemnity was due him. At the same\ntime, drawing his certificate book from his pocket, he begged the\ninspector to have the goodness to write him  a bit of an attestation. \n\n\nJavert thrust aside the book which the coachman held out to him, and\nsaid:\n\n How much do you want, including your time of waiting and the drive? \n\n\n It comes to seven hours and a quarter,  replied the man,  and my\nvelvet was perfectly new. Eighty francs, Mr. Inspector. \n\n\nJavert drew four napoleons from his pocket and dismissed the carriage.\n\nJean Valjean fancied that it was Javert s intention to conduct him on\nfoot to the post of the Blancs-Manteaux or to the post of the Archives,\nboth of which are close at hand.\n\nThey entered the street. It was deserted as usual. Javert followed Jean\nValjean. They reached No. 7. Jean Valjean knocked. The door opened.\n\n It is well,  said Javert.  Go upstairs. \n\n\nHe added with a strange expression, and as though he were exerting an\neffort in speaking in this manner:\n\n I will wait for you here. \n\n\nJean Valjean looked at Javert. This mode of procedure was but little in\naccord with Javert s habits. However, he could not be greatly surprised\nthat Javert should now have a sort of haughty confidence in him, the\nconfidence of the cat which grants the mouse liberty to the length of\nits claws, seeing that Jean Valjean had made up his mind to surrender\nhimself and to make an end of it. He pushed open the door, entered the\nhouse, called to the porter who was in bed and who had pulled the cord\nfrom his couch:  It is I!  and ascended the stairs.\n\nOn arriving at the first floor, he paused. All sorrowful roads have\ntheir stations. The window on the landing-place, which was a\nsash-window, was open. As in many ancient houses, the staircase got its\nlight from without and had a view on the street. The street-lantern,\nsituated directly opposite, cast some light on the stairs, and thus\neffected some economy in illumination.\n\nJean Valjean, either for the sake of getting the air, or mechanically,\nthrust his head out of this window. He leaned out over the street. It\nis short, and the lantern lighted it from end to end. Jean Valjean was\noverwhelmed with amazement; there was no longer any one there.\n\nJavert had taken his departure.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII THE GRANDFATHER\n\n\nBasque and the porter had carried Marius into the drawing-room, as he\nstill lay stretched out, motionless, on the sofa upon which he had been\nplaced on his arrival. The doctor who had been sent for had hastened\nthither. Aunt Gillenormand had risen.\n\nAunt Gillenormand went and came, in affright, wringing her hands and\nincapable of doing anything but saying:  Heavens! is it possible?  At\ntimes she added:  Everything will be covered with blood.  When her\nfirst horror had passed off, a certain philosophy of the situation\npenetrated her mind, and took form in the exclamation:  It was bound to\nend in this way!  She did not go so far as:  I told you so!  which is\ncustomary on this sort of occasion. At the physician s orders, a camp\nbed had been prepared beside the sofa. The doctor examined Marius, and\nafter having found that his pulse was still beating, that the wounded\nman had no very deep wound on his breast, and that the blood on the\ncorners of his lips proceeded from his nostrils, he had him placed flat\non the bed, without a pillow, with his head on the same level as his\nbody, and even a trifle lower, and with his bust bare in order to\nfacilitate respiration. Mademoiselle Gillenormand, on perceiving that\nthey were undressing Marius, withdrew. She set herself to telling her\nbeads in her own chamber.\n\nThe trunk had not suffered any internal injury; a bullet, deadened by\nthe pocket-book, had turned aside and made the tour of his ribs with a\nhideous laceration, which was of no great depth, and consequently, not\ndangerous. The long, underground journey had completed the dislocation\nof the broken collar-bone, and the disorder there was serious. The arms\nhad been slashed with sabre cuts. Not a single scar disfigured his\nface; but his head was fairly covered with cuts; what would be the\nresult of these wounds on the head? Would they stop short at the hairy\ncuticle, or would they attack the brain? As yet, this could not be\ndecided. A grave symptom was that they had caused a swoon, and that\npeople do not always recover from such swoons. Moreover, the wounded\nman had been exhausted by hemorrhage. From the waist down, the\nbarricade had protected the lower part of the body from injury.\n\nBasque and Nicolette tore up linen and prepared bandages; Nicolette\nsewed them, Basque rolled them. As lint was lacking, the doctor, for\nthe time being, arrested the bleeding with layers of wadding. Beside\nthe bed, three candles burned on a table where the case of surgical\ninstruments lay spread out. The doctor bathed Marius  face and hair\nwith cold water. A full pail was reddened in an instant. The porter,\ncandle in hand, lighted them.\n\nThe doctor seemed to be pondering sadly. From time to time, he made a\nnegative sign with his head, as though replying to some question which\nhe had inwardly addressed to himself.\n\nA bad sign for the sick man are these mysterious dialogues of the\ndoctor with himself.\n\nAt the moment when the doctor was wiping Marius  face, and lightly\ntouching his still closed eyes with his finger, a door opened at the\nend of the drawing-room, and a long, pallid figure made its appearance.\n\nThis was the grandfather.\n\nThe revolt had, for the past two days, deeply agitated, enraged and\nengrossed the mind of M. Gillenormand. He had not been able to sleep on\nthe previous night, and he had been in a fever all day long. In the\nevening, he had gone to bed very early, recommending that everything in\nthe house should be well barred, and he had fallen into a doze through\nsheer fatigue.\n\nOld men sleep lightly; M. Gillenormand s chamber adjoined the\ndrawing-room, and in spite of all the precautions that had been taken,\nthe noise had awakened him. Surprised at the rift of light which he saw\nunder his door, he had risen from his bed, and had groped his way\nthither.\n\nHe stood astonished on the threshold, one hand on the handle of the\nhalf-open door, with his head bent a little forward and quivering, his\nbody wrapped in a white dressing-gown, which was straight and as\ndestitute of folds as a winding-sheet; and he had the air of a phantom\nwho is gazing into a tomb.\n\nHe saw the bed, and on the mattress that young man, bleeding, white\nwith a waxen whiteness, with closed eyes and gaping mouth, and pallid\nlips, stripped to the waist, slashed all over with crimson wounds,\nmotionless and brilliantly lighted up.\n\nThe grandfather trembled from head to foot as powerfully as ossified\nlimbs can tremble, his eyes, whose corne  were yellow on account of his\ngreat age, were veiled in a sort of vitreous glitter, his whole face\nassumed in an instant the earthy angles of a skull, his arms fell\npendent, as though a spring had broken, and his amazement was betrayed\nby the outspreading of the fingers of his two aged hands, which\nquivered all over, his knees formed an angle in front, allowing,\nthrough the opening in his dressing-gown, a view of his poor bare legs,\nall bristling with white hairs, and he murmured:\n\n Marius! \n\n\n Sir,  said Basque,  Monsieur has just been brought back. He went to\nthe barricade, and.... \n\n\n He is dead!  cried the old man in a terrible voice.  Ah! The rascal! \n\n\nThen a sort of sepulchral transformation straightened up this\ncentenarian as erect as a young man.\n\n Sir,  said he,  you are the doctor. Begin by telling me one thing. He\nis dead, is he not? \n\n\nThe doctor, who was at the highest pitch of anxiety, remained silent.\n\nM. Gillenormand wrung his hands with an outburst of terrible laughter.\n\n He is dead! He is dead! He is dead! He has got himself killed on the\nbarricades! Out of hatred to me! He did that to spite me! Ah! You\nblood-drinker! This is the way he returns to me! Misery of my life, he\nis dead! \n\n\nHe went to the window, threw it wide open as though he were stifling,\nand, erect before the darkness, he began to talk into the street, to\nthe night:\n\n Pierced, sabred, exterminated, slashed, hacked in pieces! Just look at\nthat, the villain! He knew well that I was waiting for him, and that I\nhad had his room arranged, and that I had placed at the head of my bed\nhis portrait taken when he was a little child! He knew well that he had\nonly to come back, and that I had been recalling him for years, and\nthat I remained by my fireside, with my hands on my knees, not knowing\nwhat to do, and that I was mad over it! You knew well, that you had but\nto return and to say:  It is I,  and you would have been the master of\nthe house, and that I should have obeyed you, and that you could have\ndone whatever you pleased with your old numskull of a grandfather! you\nknew that well, and you said:\n\n No, he is a Royalist, I will not go! And you went to the barricades,\nand you got yourself killed out of malice! To revenge yourself for what\nI said to you about Monsieur le Duc de Berry. It is infamous! Go to bed\nthen and sleep tranquilly! he is dead, and this is my awakening. \n\n\nThe doctor, who was beginning to be uneasy in both quarters, quitted\nMarius for a moment, went to M. Gillenormand, and took his arm. The\ngrandfather turned round, gazed at him with eyes which seemed\nexaggerated in size and bloodshot, and said to him calmly:\n\n I thank you, sir. I am composed, I am a man, I witnessed the death of\nLouis XVI., I know how to bear events. One thing is terrible and that\nis to think that it is your newspapers which do all the mischief. You\nwill have scribblers, chatterers, lawyers, orators, tribunes,\ndiscussions, progress, enlightenment, the rights of man, the liberty of\nthe press, and this is the way that your children will be brought home\nto you. Ah! Marius! It is abominable! Killed! Dead before me! A\nbarricade! Ah, the scamp! Doctor, you live in this quarter, I believe?\nOh! I know you well. I see your cabriolet pass my window. I am going to\ntell you. You are wrong to think that I am angry. One does not fly into\na rage against a dead man. That would be stupid. This is a child whom I\nhave reared. I was already old while he was very young. He played in\nthe Tuileries garden with his little shovel and his little chair, and\nin order that the inspectors might not grumble, I stopped up the holes\nthat he made in the earth with his shovel, with my cane. One day he\nexclaimed: Down with Louis XVIII.! and off he went. It was no fault of\nmine. He was all rosy and blond. His mother is dead. Have you ever\nnoticed that all little children are blond? Why is it so? He is the son\nof one of those brigands of the Loire, but children are innocent of\ntheir fathers  crimes. I remember when he was no higher than that. He\ncould not manage to pronounce his Ds. He had a way of talking that was\nso sweet and indistinct that you would have thought it was a bird\nchirping. I remember that once, in front of the Hercules Farnese,\npeople formed a circle to admire him and marvel at him, he was so\nhandsome, was that child! He had a head such as you see in pictures. I\ntalked in a deep voice, and I frightened him with my cane, but he knew\nvery well that it was only to make him laugh. In the morning, when he\nentered my room, I grumbled, but he was like the sunlight to me, all\nthe same. One cannot defend oneself against those brats. They take hold\nof you, they hold you fast, they never let you go again. The truth is,\nthat there never was a cupid like that child. Now, what can you say for\nyour Lafayettes, your Benjamin Constants, and your Tirecuir de\nCorcelles who have killed him? This cannot be allowed to pass in this\nfashion. \n\n\nHe approached Marius, who still lay livid and motionless, and to whom\nthe physician had returned, and began once more to wring his hands. The\nold man s pallid lips moved as though mechanically, and permitted the\npassage of words that were barely audible, like breaths in the death\nagony:\n\n Ah! heartless lad! Ah! clubbist! Ah! wretch! Ah! Septembrist! \n\n\nReproaches in the low voice of an agonizing man, addressed to a corpse.\n\nLittle by little, as it is always indispensable that internal eruptions\nshould come to the light, the sequence of words returned, but the\ngrandfather appeared no longer to have the strength to utter them, his\nvoice was so weak, and extinct, that it seemed to come from the other\nside of an abyss:\n\n It is all the same to me, I am going to die too, that I am. And to\nthink that there is not a hussy in Paris who would not have been\ndelighted to make this wretch happy! A scamp who, instead of amusing\nhimself and enjoying life, went off to fight and get himself shot down\nlike a brute! And for whom? Why? For the Republic! Instead of going to\ndance at the Chaumi re, as it is the duty of young folks to do! What s\nthe use of being twenty years old? The Republic, a cursed pretty folly!\nPoor mothers, beget fine boys, do! Come, he is dead. That will make two\nfunerals under the same carriage gate. So you have got yourself\narranged like this for the sake of General Lamarque s handsome eyes!\nWhat had that General Lamarque done to you? A slasher! A chatter-box!\nTo get oneself killed for a dead man! If that isn t enough to drive any\none mad! Just think of it! At twenty! And without so much as turning\nhis head to see whether he was not leaving something behind him! That s\nthe way poor, good old fellows are forced to die alone, nowadays.\nPerish in your corner, owl! Well, after all, so much the better, that\nis what I was hoping for, this will kill me on the spot. I am too old,\nI am a hundred years old, I am a hundred thousand years old, I ought,\nby rights, to have been dead long ago. This blow puts an end to it. So\nall is over, what happiness! What is the good of making him inhale\nammonia and all that parcel of drugs? You are wasting your trouble, you\nfool of a doctor! Come, he s dead, completely dead. I know all about\nit, I am dead myself too. He hasn t done things by half. Yes, this age\nis infamous, infamous and that s what I think of you, of your ideas, of\nyour systems, of your masters, of your oracles, of your doctors, of\nyour scape-graces of writers, of your rascally philosophers, and of all\nthe revolutions which, for the last sixty years, have been frightening\nthe flocks of crows in the Tuileries! But you were pitiless in getting\nyourself killed like this, I shall not even grieve over your death, do\nyou understand, you assassin? \n\n\nAt that moment, Marius slowly opened his eyes, and his glance, still\ndimmed by lethargic wonder, rested on M. Gillenormand.\n\n Marius!  cried the old man.  Marius! My little Marius! my child! my\nwell-beloved son! You open your eyes, you gaze upon me, you are alive,\nthanks! \n\n\nAnd he fell fainting.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FOURTH JAVERT DERAILED\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nJavert passed slowly down the Rue de l Homme Arm .\n\nHe walked with drooping head for the first time in his life, and\nlikewise, for the first time in his life, with his hands behind his\nback.\n\nUp to that day, Javert had borrowed from Napoleon s attitudes, only\nthat which is expressive of resolution, with arms folded across the\nchest; that which is expressive of uncertainty with the hands behind\nthe back had been unknown to him. Now, a change had taken place; his\nwhole person, slow and sombre, was stamped with anxiety.\n\nHe plunged into the silent streets.\n\nNevertheless, he followed one given direction.\n\nHe took the shortest cut to the Seine, reached the Quai des Ormes,\nskirted the quay, passed the Gr ve, and halted at some distance from\nthe post of the Place du Ch telet, at the angle of the Pont Notre-Dame.\nThere, between the Notre-Dame and the Pont au Change on the one hand,\nand the Quai de la M gisserie and the Quai aux Fleurs on the other, the\nSeine forms a sort of square lake, traversed by a rapid.\n\nThis point of the Seine is dreaded by mariners. Nothing is more\ndangerous than this rapid, hemmed in, at that epoch, and irritated by\nthe piles of the mill on the bridge, now demolished. The two bridges,\nsituated thus close together, augment the peril; the water hurries in\nformidable wise through the arches. It rolls in vast and terrible\nwaves; it accumulates and piles up there; the flood attacks the piles\nof the bridges as though in an effort to pluck them up with great\nliquid ropes. Men who fall in there never reappear; the best of\nswimmers are drowned there.\n\nJavert leaned both elbows on the parapet, his chin resting in both\nhands, and, while his nails were mechanically twined in the abundance\nof his whiskers, he meditated.\n\nA novelty, a revolution, a catastrophe had just taken place in the\ndepths of his being; and he had something upon which to examine\nhimself.\n\nJavert was undergoing horrible suffering.\n\nFor several hours, Javert had ceased to be simple. He was troubled;\nthat brain, so limpid in its blindness, had lost its transparency; that\ncrystal was clouded. Javert felt duty divided within his conscience,\nand he could not conceal the fact from himself. When he had so\nunexpectedly encountered Jean Valjean on the banks of the Seine, there\nhad been in him something of the wolf which regains his grip on his\nprey, and of the dog who finds his master again.\n\nHe beheld before him two paths, both equally straight, but he beheld\ntwo; and that terrified him; him, who had never in all his life known\nmore than one straight line. And, the poignant anguish lay in this,\nthat the two paths were contrary to each other. One of these straight\nlines excluded the other. Which of the two was the true one?\n\nHis situation was indescribable.\n\nTo owe his life to a malefactor, to accept that debt and to repay it;\nto be, in spite of himself, on a level with a fugitive from justice,\nand to repay his service with another service; to allow it to be said\nto him,  Go,  and to say to the latter in his turn:  Be free ; to\nsacrifice to personal motives duty, that general obligation, and to be\nconscious, in those personal motives, of something that was also\ngeneral, and, perchance, superior, to betray society in order to remain\ntrue to his conscience; that all these absurdities should be realized\nand should accumulate upon him, this was what overwhelmed him.\n\nOne thing had amazed him, this was that Jean Valjean should have done\nhim a favor, and one thing petrified him, that he, Javert, should have\ndone Jean Valjean a favor.\n\nWhere did he stand? He sought to comprehend his position, and could no\nlonger find his bearings.\n\nWhat was he to do now? To deliver up Jean Valjean was bad; to leave\nJean Valjean at liberty was bad. In the first case, the man of\nauthority fell lower than the man of the galleys, in the second, a\nconvict rose above the law, and set his foot upon it. In both cases,\ndishonor for him, Javert. There was disgrace in any resolution at which\nhe might arrive. Destiny has some extremities which rise\nperpendicularly from the impossible, and beyond which life is no longer\nanything but a precipice. Javert had reached one of those extremities.\n\nOne of his anxieties consisted in being constrained to think. The very\nviolence of all these conflicting emotions forced him to it. Thought\nwas something to which he was unused, and which was peculiarly painful.\n\nIn thought there always exists a certain amount of internal rebellion;\nand it irritated him to have that within him.\n\nThought on any subject whatever, outside of the restricted circle of\nhis functions, would have been for him in any case useless and a\nfatigue; thought on the day which had just passed was a torture.\nNevertheless, it was indispensable that he should take a look into his\nconscience, after such shocks, and render to himself an account of\nhimself.\n\nWhat he had just done made him shudder. He, Javert, had seen fit to\ndecide, contrary to all the regulations of the police, contrary to the\nwhole social and judicial organization, contrary to the entire code,\nupon a release; this had suited him; he had substituted his own affairs\nfor the affairs of the public; was not this unjustifiable? Every time\nthat he brought himself face to face with this deed without a name\nwhich he had committed, he trembled from head to foot. Upon what should\nhe decide? One sole resource remained to him; to return in all haste to\nthe Rue de l Homme Arm , and commit Jean Valjean to prison. It was\nclear that that was what he ought to do. He could not.\n\nSomething barred his way in that direction.\n\nSomething? What? Is there in the world, anything outside of the\ntribunals, executory sentences, the police and the authorities? Javert\nwas overwhelmed.\n\nA galley-slave sacred! A convict who could not be touched by the law!\nAnd that the deed of Javert!\n\nWas it not a fearful thing that Javert and Jean Valjean, the man made\nto proceed with vigor, the man made to submit, that these two men who\nwere both the things of the law, should have come to such a pass, that\nboth of them had set themselves above the law? What then! such\nenormities were to happen and no one was to be punished! Jean Valjean,\nstronger than the whole social order, was to remain at liberty, and he,\nJavert, was to go on eating the government s bread!\n\nHis reverie gradually became terrible.\n\nHe might, athwart this reverie, have also reproached himself on the\nsubject of that insurgent who had been taken to the Rue des\nFilles-du-Calvaire; but he never even thought of that. The lesser fault\nwas lost in the greater. Besides, that insurgent was, obviously, a dead\nman, and, legally, death puts an end to pursuit.\n\nJean Valjean was the load which weighed upon his spirit.\n\nJean Valjean disconcerted him. All the axioms which had served him as\npoints of support all his life long, had crumbled away in the presence\nof this man. Jean Valjean s generosity towards him, Javert, crushed\nhim. Other facts which he now recalled, and which he had formerly\ntreated as lies and folly, now recurred to him as realities. M.\nMadeleine reappeared behind Jean Valjean, and the two figures were\nsuperposed in such fashion that they now formed but one, which was\nvenerable. Javert felt that something terrible was penetrating his\nsoul admiration for a convict. Respect for a galley-slave is that a\npossible thing? He shuddered at it, yet could not escape from it. In\nvain did he struggle, he was reduced to confess, in his inmost heart,\nthe sublimity of that wretch. This was odious.\n\nA benevolent malefactor, merciful, gentle, helpful, clement, a convict,\nreturning good for evil, giving back pardon for hatred, preferring pity\nto vengeance, preferring to ruin himself rather than to ruin his enemy,\nsaving him who had smitten him, kneeling on the heights of virtue, more\nnearly akin to an angel than to a man. Javert was constrained to admit\nto himself that this monster existed.\n\nThings could not go on in this manner.\n\nCertainly, and we insist upon this point, he had not yielded without\nresistance to that monster, to that infamous angel, to that hideous\nhero, who enraged almost as much as he amazed him. Twenty times, as he\nsat in that carriage face to face with Jean Valjean, the legal tiger\nhad roared within him. A score of times he had been tempted to fling\nhimself upon Jean Valjean, to seize him and devour him, that is to say,\nto arrest him. What more simple, in fact? To cry out at the first post\nthat they passed: Here is a fugitive from justice, who has broken his\nban!  to summon the gendarmes and say to them:  This man is yours! \nthen to go off, leaving that condemned man there, to ignore the rest\nand not to meddle further in the matter. This man is forever a prisoner\nof the law; the law may do with him what it will. What could be more\njust? Javert had said all this to himself; he had wished to pass\nbeyond, to act, to apprehend the man, and then, as at present, he had\nnot been able to do it; and every time that his arm had been raised\nconvulsively towards Jean Valjean s collar, his hand had fallen back\nagain, as beneath an enormous weight, and in the depths of his thought\nhe had heard a voice, a strange voice crying to him: It is well.\nDeliver up your savior. Then have the basin of Pontius Pilate brought\nand wash your claws. \n\n\nThen his reflections reverted to himself and beside Jean Valjean\nglorified he beheld himself, Javert, degraded.\n\nA convict was his benefactor!\n\nBut then, why had he permitted that man to leave him alive? He had the\nright to be killed in that barricade. He should have asserted that\nright. It would have been better to summon the other insurgents to his\nsuccor against Jean Valjean, to get himself shot by force.\n\nHis supreme anguish was the loss of certainty. He felt that he had been\nuprooted. The code was no longer anything more than a stump in his\nhand. He had to deal with scruples of an unknown species. There had\ntaken place within him a sentimental revelation entirely distinct from\nlegal affirmation, his only standard of measurement hitherto. To remain\nin his former uprightness did not suffice. A whole order of unexpected\nfacts had cropped up and subjugated him. A whole new world was dawning\non his soul: kindness accepted and repaid, devotion, mercy, indulgence,\nviolences committed by pity on austerity, respect for persons, no more\ndefinitive condemnation, no more conviction, the possibility of a tear\nin the eye of the law, no one knows what justice according to God,\nrunning in inverse sense to justice according to men. He perceived amid\nthe shadows the terrible rising of an unknown moral sun; it horrified\nand dazzled him. An owl forced to the gaze of an eagle.\n\nHe said to himself that it was true that there were exceptional cases,\nthat authority might be put out of countenance, that the rule might be\ninadequate in the presence of a fact, that everything could not be\nframed within the text of the code, that the unforeseen compelled\nobedience, that the virtue of a convict might set a snare for the\nvirtue of the functionary, that destiny did indulge in such ambushes,\nand he reflected with despair that he himself had not even been\nfortified against a surprise.\n\nHe was forced to acknowledge that goodness did exist. This convict had\nbeen good. And he himself, unprecedented circumstance, had just been\ngood also. So he was becoming depraved.\n\nHe found that he was a coward. He conceived a horror of himself.\n\nJavert s ideal, was not to be human, to be grand, to be sublime; it was\nto be irreproachable.\n\nNow, he had just failed in this.\n\nHow had he come to such a pass? How had all this happened? He could not\nhave told himself. He clasped his head in both hands, but in spite of\nall that he could do, he could not contrive to explain it to himself.\n\nHe had certainly always entertained the intention of restoring Jean\nValjean to the law of which Jean Valjean was the captive, and of which\nhe, Javert, was the slave. Not for a single instant while he held him\nin his grasp had he confessed to himself that he entertained the idea\nof releasing him. It was, in some sort, without his consciousness, that\nhis hand had relaxed and had let him go free.\n\nAll sorts of interrogation points flashed before his eyes. He put\nquestions to himself, and made replies to himself, and his replies\nfrightened him. He asked himself:  What has that convict done, that\ndesperate fellow, whom I have pursued even to persecution, and who has\nhad me under his foot, and who could have avenged himself, and who owed\nit both to his rancor and to his safety, in leaving me my life, in\nshowing mercy upon me? His duty? No. Something more. And I in showing\nmercy upon him in my turn what have I done? My duty? No. Something\nmore. So there is something beyond duty?  Here he took fright; his\nbalance became disjointed; one of the scales fell into the abyss, the\nother rose heavenward, and Javert was no less terrified by the one\nwhich was on high than by the one which was below. Without being in the\nleast in the world what is called Voltairian or a philosopher, or\nincredulous, being, on the contrary, respectful by instinct, towards\nthe established church, he knew it only as an august fragment of the\nsocial whole; order was his dogma, and sufficed for him; ever since he\nhad attained to man s estate and the rank of a functionary, he had\ncentred nearly all his religion in the police. Being, and here we\nemploy words without the least irony and in their most serious\nacceptation, being, as we have said, a spy as other men are priests. He\nhad a superior, M. Gisquet; up to that day he had never dreamed of that\nother superior, God.\n\nThis new chief, God, he became unexpectedly conscious of, and he felt\nembarrassed by him. This unforeseen presence threw him off his\nbearings; he did not know what to do with this superior, he, who was\nnot ignorant of the fact that the subordinate is bound always to bow,\nthat he must not disobey, nor find fault, nor discuss, and that, in the\npresence of a superior who amazes him too greatly, the inferior has no\nother resource than that of handing in his resignation.\n\nBut how was he to set about handing in his resignation to God?\n\nHowever things might stand, and it was to this point that he reverted\nconstantly, one fact dominated everything else for him, and that was,\nthat he had just committed a terrible infraction of the law. He had\njust shut his eyes on an escaped convict who had broken his ban. He had\njust set a galley-slave at large. He had just robbed the laws of a man\nwho belonged to them. That was what he had done. He no longer\nunderstood himself. The very reasons for his action escaped him; only\ntheir vertigo was left with him. Up to that moment he had lived with\nthat blind faith which gloomy probity engenders. This faith had quitted\nhim, this probity had deserted him. All that he had believed in melted\naway. Truths which he did not wish to recognize were besieging him,\ninexorably. Henceforth, he must be a different man. He was suffering\nfrom the strange pains of a conscience abruptly operated on for the\ncataract. He saw that which it was repugnant to him to behold. He felt\nhimself emptied, useless, put out of joint with his past life, turned\nout, dissolved. Authority was dead within him. He had no longer any\nreason for existing.\n\nA terrible situation! to be touched.\n\nTo be granite and to doubt! to be the statue of Chastisement cast in\none piece in the mould of the law, and suddenly to become aware of the\nfact that one cherishes beneath one s breast of bronze something absurd\nand disobedient which almost resembles a heart! To come to the pass of\nreturning good for good, although one has said to oneself up to that\nday that that good is evil! to be the watch-dog, and to lick the\nintruder s hand! to be ice and melt! to be the pincers and to turn into\na hand! to suddenly feel one s fingers opening! to relax one s\ngrip, what a terrible thing!\n\nThe man-projectile no longer acquainted with his route and retreating!\n\nTo be obliged to confess this to oneself: infallibility is not\ninfallible, there may exist error in the dogma, all has not been said\nwhen a code speaks, society is not perfect, authority is complicated\nwith vacillation, a crack is possible in the immutable, judges are but\nmen, the law may err, tribunals may make a mistake! to behold a rift in\nthe immense blue pane of the firmament!\n\nThat which was passing in Javert was the Fampoux of a rectilinear\nconscience, the derailment of a soul, the crushing of a probity which\nhad been irresistibly launched in a straight line and was breaking\nagainst God. It certainly was singular that the stoker of order, that\nthe engineer of authority, mounted on the blind iron horse with its\nrigid road, could be unseated by a flash of light! that the immovable,\nthe direct, the correct, the geometrical, the passive, the perfect,\ncould bend! that there should exist for the locomotive a road to\nDamascus!\n\nGod, always within man, and refractory, He, the true conscience, to the\nfalse; a prohibition to the spark to die out; an order to the ray to\nremember the sun; an injunction to the soul to recognize the veritable\nabsolute when confronted with the fictitious absolute, humanity which\ncannot be lost; the human heart indestructible; that splendid\nphenomenon, the finest, perhaps, of all our interior marvels, did\nJavert understand this? Did Javert penetrate it? Did Javert account for\nit to himself? Evidently he did not. But beneath the pressure of that\nincontestable incomprehensibility he felt his brain bursting.\n\nHe was less the man transfigured than the victim of this prodigy. In\nall this he perceived only the tremendous difficulty of existence. It\nseemed to him that, henceforth, his respiration was repressed forever.\nHe was not accustomed to having something unknown hanging over his\nhead.\n\nUp to this point, everything above him had been, to his gaze, merely a\nsmooth, limpid and simple surface; there was nothing incomprehensible,\nnothing obscure; nothing that was not defined, regularly disposed,\nlinked, precise, circumscribed, exact, limited, closed, fully provided\nfor; authority was a plane surface; there was no fall in it, no\ndizziness in its presence. Javert had never beheld the unknown except\nfrom below. The irregular, the unforeseen, the disordered opening of\nchaos, the possible slip over a precipice this was the work of the\nlower regions, of rebels, of the wicked, of wretches. Now Javert threw\nhimself back, and he was suddenly terrified by this unprecedented\napparition: a gulf on high.\n\nWhat! one was dismantled from top to bottom! one was disconcerted,\nabsolutely! In what could one trust! That which had been agreed upon\nwas giving way! What! the defect in society s armor could be discovered\nby a magnanimous wretch! What! an honest servitor of the law could\nsuddenly find himself caught between two crimes the crime of allowing a\nman to escape and the crime of arresting him! everything was not\nsettled in the orders given by the State to the functionary! There\nmight be blind alleys in duty! What, all this was real! was it true\nthat an ex-ruffian, weighed down with convictions, could rise erect and\nend by being in the right? Was this credible? were there cases in which\nthe law should retire before transfigured crime, and stammer its\nexcuses? Yes, that was the state of the case! and Javert saw it! and\nJavert had touched it! and not only could he not deny it, but he had\ntaken part in it. These were realities. It was abominable that actual\nfacts could reach such deformity. If facts did their duty, they would\nconfine themselves to being proofs of the law; facts it is God who\nsends them. Was anarchy, then, on the point of now descending from on\nhigh?\n\nThus, and in the exaggeration of anguish, and the optical illusion of\nconsternation, all that might have corrected and restrained this\nimpression was effaced, and society, and the human race, and the\nuniverse were, henceforth, summed up in his eyes, in one simple and\nterrible feature, thus the penal laws, the thing judged, the force due\nto legislation, the decrees of the sovereign courts, the magistracy,\nthe government, prevention, repression, official cruelty, wisdom, legal\ninfallibility, the principle of authority, all the dogmas on which rest\npolitical and civil security, sovereignty, justice, public truth, all\nthis was rubbish, a shapeless mass, chaos; he himself, Javert, the spy\nof order, incorruptibility in the service of the police, the bull-dog\nprovidence of society, vanquished and hurled to earth; and, erect, at\nthe summit of all that ruin, a man with a green cap on his head and a\nhalo round his brow; this was the astounding confusion to which he had\ncome; this was the fearful vision which he bore within his soul.\n\nWas this to be endured? No.\n\nA violent state, if ever such existed. There were only two ways of\nescaping from it. One was to go resolutely to Jean Valjean, and restore\nto his cell the convict from the galleys. The other....\n\nJavert quitted the parapet, and, with head erect this time, betook\nhimself, with a firm tread, towards the station-house indicated by a\nlantern at one of the corners of the Place du Ch telet.\n\nOn arriving there, he saw through the window a sergeant of police, and\nhe entered. Policemen recognize each other by the very way in which\nthey open the door of a station-house. Javert mentioned his name,\nshowed his card to the sergeant, and seated himself at the table of the\npost on which a candle was burning. On a table lay a pen, a leaden\ninkstand and paper, provided in the event of possible reports and the\norders of the night patrols. This table, still completed by its\nstraw-seated chair, is an institution; it exists in all police\nstations; it is invariably ornamented with a box-wood saucer filled\nwith sawdust and a wafer box of cardboard filled with red wafers, and\nit forms the lowest stage of official style. It is there that the\nliterature of the State has its beginning.\n\nJavert took a pen and a sheet of paper, and began to write. This is\nwhat he wrote:\n\nA FEW OBSERVATIONS FOR THE GOOD OF THE SERVICE.\n\n In the first place:  I beg Monsieur le Pr fet to cast his eyes on\nthis.\n\n Secondly:  prisoners, on arriving after examination, take off their\nshoes and stand barefoot on the flagstones while they are being\nsearched.  Many of them cough on their return to prison. This entails\nhospital expenses.\n\n Thirdly:  the mode of keeping track of a man with relays of police\nagents from distance to distance, is good, but, on important occasions,\nit is requisite that at least two agents should never lose sight of\neach other, so that, in case one agent should, for any cause, grow weak\nin his service, the other may supervise him and take his place.\n\n Fourthly:  it is inexplicable why the special regulation of the prison\nof the Madelonettes interdicts the prisoner from having a chair, even\nby paying for it.\n\n Fifthly:  in the Madelonettes there are only two bars to the canteen,\nso that the canteen woman can touch the prisoners with her hand.\n\n Sixthly:  the prisoners called barkers, who summon the other prisoners\nto the parlor, force the prisoner to pay them two sous to call his name\ndistinctly.  This is a theft.\n\n Seventhly:  for a broken thread ten sous are withheld in the weaving\nshop; this is an abuse of the contractor, since the cloth is none the\nworse for it.\n\n Eighthly:  it is annoying for visitors to La Force to be obliged to\ntraverse the boys  court in order to reach the parlor of\nSainte-Marie-l gyptienne.\n\n Ninthly:  it is a fact that any day gendarmes can be overheard\nrelating in the court-yard of the prefecture the interrogations put by\nthe magistrates to prisoners.  For a gendarme, who should be sworn to\nsecrecy, to repeat what he has heard in the examination room is a grave\ndisorder.\n\n Tenthly:  Mme. Henry is an honest woman; her canteen is very neat; but\nit is bad to have a woman keep the wicket to the mouse-trap of the\nsecret cells.  This is unworthy of the Conciergerie of a great\ncivilization. \n\n\nJavert wrote these lines in his calmest and most correct chirography,\nnot omitting a single comma, and making the paper screech under his\npen. Below the last line he signed:\n\n JAVERT,\n\n Inspector of the 1st class.\n\n The Post of the Place du Ch telet.\n\n June 7th, 1832, about one o clock in the morning. \n\n\n\nJavert dried the fresh ink on the paper, folded it like a letter,\nsealed it, wrote on the back: _Note for the administration_, left it on\nthe table, and quitted the post. The glazed and grated door fell to\nbehind him.\n\nAgain he traversed the Place du Ch telet diagonally, regained the quay,\nand returned with automatic precision to the very point which he had\nabandoned a quarter of an hour previously, leaned on his elbows and\nfound himself again in the same attitude on the same paving-stone of\nthe parapet. He did not appear to have stirred.\n\nThe darkness was complete. It was the sepulchral moment which follows\nmidnight. A ceiling of clouds concealed the stars. Not a single light\nburned in the houses of the city; no one was passing; all of the\nstreets and quays which could be seen were deserted; Notre-Dame and the\ntowers of the Court-House seemed features of the night. A street\nlantern reddened the margin of the quay. The outlines of the bridges\nlay shapeless in the mist one behind the other. Recent rains had\nswollen the river.\n\nThe spot where Javert was leaning was, it will be remembered, situated\nprecisely over the rapids of the Seine, perpendicularly above that\nformidable spiral of whirlpools which loose and knot themselves again\nlike an endless screw.\n\nJavert bent his head and gazed. All was black. Nothing was to be\ndistinguished. A sound of foam was audible; but the river could not be\nseen. At moments, in that dizzy depth, a gleam of light appeared, and\nundulated vaguely, water possessing the power of taking light, no one\nknows whence, and converting it into a snake. The light vanished, and\nall became indistinct once more. Immensity seemed thrown open there.\nWhat lay below was not water, it was a gulf. The wall of the quay,\nabrupt, confused, mingled with the vapors, instantly concealed from\nsight, produced the effect of an escarpment of the infinite. Nothing\nwas to be seen, but the hostile chill of the water and the stale odor\nof the wet stones could be felt. A fierce breath rose from this abyss.\nThe flood in the river, divined rather than perceived, the tragic\nwhispering of the waves, the melancholy vastness of the arches of the\nbridge, the imaginable fall into that gloomy void, into all that shadow\nwas full of horror.\n\nJavert remained motionless for several minutes, gazing at this opening\nof shadow; he considered the invisible with a fixity that resembled\nattention. The water roared. All at once he took off his hat and placed\nit on the edge of the quay. A moment later, a tall black figure, which\na belated passer-by in the distance might have taken for a phantom,\nappeared erect upon the parapet of the quay, bent over towards the\nSeine, then drew itself up again, and fell straight down into the\nshadows; a dull splash followed; and the shadow alone was in the secret\nof the convulsions of that obscure form which had disappeared beneath\nthe water.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIFTH GRANDSON AND GRANDFATHER\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I IN WHICH THE TREE WITH THE ZINC PLASTER APPEARS AGAIN\n\n\nSome time after the events which we have just recorded, Sieur\nBoulatruelle experienced a lively emotion.\n\nSieur Boulatruelle was that road-mender of Montfermeil whom the reader\nhas already seen in the gloomy parts of this book.\n\nBoulatruelle, as the reader may, perchance, recall, was a man who was\noccupied with divers and troublesome matters. He broke stones and\ndamaged travellers on the highway.\n\nRoad-mender and thief as he was, he cherished one dream; he believed in\nthe treasures buried in the forest of Montfermeil. He hoped some day to\nfind the money in the earth at the foot of a tree; in the meanwhile, he\nlived to search the pockets of passers-by.\n\nNevertheless, for an instant, he was prudent. He had just escaped\nneatly. He had been, as the reader is aware, picked up in Jondrette s\ngarret in company with the other ruffians. Utility of a vice: his\ndrunkenness had been his salvation. The authorities had never been able\nto make out whether he had been there in the quality of a robber or a\nman who had been robbed. An order of _nolle prosequi_, founded on his\nwell authenticated state of intoxication on the evening of the ambush,\nhad set him at liberty. He had taken to his heels. He had returned to\nhis road from Gagny to Lagny, to make, under administrative\nsupervision, broken stone for the good of the state, with downcast\nmien, in a very pensive mood, his ardor for theft somewhat cooled; but\nhe was addicted nonetheless tenderly to the wine which had recently\nsaved him.\n\nAs for the lively emotion which he had experienced a short time after\nhis return to his road-mender s turf-thatched cot, here it is:\n\nOne morning, Boulatruelle, while on his way as was his wont, to his\nwork, and possibly also to his ambush, a little before daybreak caught\nsight, through the branches of the trees, of a man, whose back alone he\nsaw, but the shape of whose shoulders, as it seemed to him at that\ndistance and in the early dusk, was not entirely unfamiliar to him.\nBoulatruelle, although intoxicated, had a correct and lucid memory, a\ndefensive arm that is indispensable to any one who is at all in\nconflict with legal order.\n\n Where the deuce have I seen something like that man yonder?  he said\nto himself. But he could make himself no answer, except that the man\nresembled some one of whom his memory preserved a confused trace.\n\nHowever, apart from the identity which he could not manage to catch,\nBoulatruelle put things together and made calculations. This man did\nnot belong in the country-side. He had just arrived there. On foot,\nevidently. No public conveyance passes through Montfermeil at that\nhour. He had walked all night. Whence came he? Not from a very great\ndistance; for he had neither haversack, nor bundle. From Paris, no\ndoubt. Why was he in these woods? why was he there at such an hour?\nwhat had he come there for?\n\nBoulatruelle thought of the treasure. By dint of ransacking his memory,\nhe recalled in a vague way that he had already, many years before, had\na similar alarm in connection with a man who produced on him the effect\nthat he might well be this very individual.\n\n By the deuce,  said Boulatruelle,  I ll find him again. I ll discover\nthe parish of that parishioner. This prowler of Patron-Minette has a\nreason, and I ll know it. People can t have secrets in my forest if I\ndon t have a finger in the pie. \n\n\nHe took his pick-axe which was very sharply pointed.\n\n There now,  he grumbled,  is something that will search the earth and\na man. \n\n\nAnd, as one knots one thread to another thread, he took up the line of\nmarch at his best pace in the direction which the man must follow, and\nset out across the thickets.\n\nWhen he had compassed a hundred strides, the day, which was already\nbeginning to break, came to his assistance. Footprints stamped in the\nsand, weeds trodden down here and there, heather crushed, young\nbranches in the brushwood bent and in the act of straightening\nthemselves up again with the graceful deliberation of the arms of a\npretty woman who stretches herself when she wakes, pointed out to him a\nsort of track. He followed it, then lost it. Time was flying. He\nplunged deeper into the woods and came to a sort of eminence. An early\nhuntsman who was passing in the distance along a path, whistling the\nair of Guillery, suggested to him the idea of climbing a tree. Old as\nhe was, he was agile. There stood close at hand a beech-tree of great\nsize, worthy of Tityrus and of Boulatruelle. Boulatruelle ascended the\nbeech as high as he was able.\n\nThe idea was a good one. On scrutinizing the solitary waste on the side\nwhere the forest is thoroughly entangled and wild, Boulatruelle\nsuddenly caught sight of his man.\n\nHardly had he got his eye upon him when he lost sight of him.\n\nThe man entered, or rather, glided into, an open glade, at a\nconsiderable distance, masked by large trees, but with which\nBoulatruelle was perfectly familiar, on account of having noticed, near\na large pile of porous stones, an ailing chestnut-tree bandaged with a\nsheet of zinc nailed directly upon the bark. This glade was the one\nwhich was formerly called the Blaru-bottom. The heap of stones,\ndestined for no one knows what employment, which was visible there\nthirty years ago, is doubtless still there. Nothing equals a heap of\nstones in longevity, unless it is a board fence. They are temporary\nexpedients. What a reason for lasting!\n\nBoulatruelle, with the rapidity of joy, dropped rather than descended\nfrom the tree. The lair was unearthed, the question now was to seize\nthe beast. That famous treasure of his dreams was probably there.\n\nIt was no small matter to reach that glade. By the beaten paths, which\nindulge in a thousand teasing zigzags, it required a good quarter of an\nhour. In a bee-line, through the underbrush, which is peculiarly dense,\nvery thorny, and very aggressive in that locality, a full half hour was\nnecessary. Boulatruelle committed the error of not comprehending this.\nHe believed in the straight line; a respectable optical illusion which\nruins many a man. The thicket, bristling as it was, struck him as the\nbest road.\n\n Let s take to the wolves  Rue de Rivoli,  said he.\n\nBoulatruelle, accustomed to taking crooked courses, was on this\noccasion guilty of the fault of going straight.\n\nHe flung himself resolutely into the tangle of undergrowth.\n\nHe had to deal with holly bushes, nettles, hawthorns, eglantines,\nthistles, and very irascible brambles. He was much lacerated.\n\nAt the bottom of the ravine he found water which he was obliged to\ntraverse.\n\nAt last he reached the Blaru-bottom, after the lapse of forty minutes,\nsweating, soaked, breathless, scratched, and ferocious.\n\nThere was no one in the glade. Boulatruelle rushed to the heap of\nstones. It was in its place. It had not been carried off.\n\nAs for the man, he had vanished in the forest. He had made his escape.\nWhere? in what direction? into what thicket? Impossible to guess.\n\nAnd, heartrending to say, there, behind the pile of stones, in front of\nthe tree with the sheet of zinc, was freshly turned earth, a pick-axe,\nabandoned or forgotten, and a hole.\n\nThe hole was empty.\n\n Thief!  shrieked Boulatruelle, shaking his fist at the horizon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II MARIUS, EMERGING FROM CIVIL WAR, MAKES READY FOR DOMESTIC\nWAR\n\n\nFor a long time, Marius was neither dead nor alive. For many weeks he\nlay in a fever accompanied by delirium, and by tolerably grave cerebral\nsymptoms, caused more by the shocks of the wounds on the head than by\nthe wounds themselves.\n\nHe repeated Cosette s name for whole nights in the melancholy loquacity\nof fever, and with the sombre obstinacy of agony. The extent of some of\nthe lesions presented a serious danger, the suppuration of large wounds\nbeing always liable to become re-absorbed, and consequently, to kill\nthe sick man, under certain atmospheric conditions; at every change of\nweather, at the slightest storm, the physician was uneasy.\n\n Above all things,  he repeated,  let the wounded man be subjected to\nno emotion.  The dressing of the wounds was complicated and difficult,\nthe fixation of apparatus and bandages by cerecloths not having been\ninvented as yet, at that epoch. Nicolette used up a sheet  as big as\nthe ceiling,  as she put it, for lint. It was not without difficulty\nthat the chloruretted lotions and the nitrate of silver overcame the\ngangrene. As long as there was any danger, M. Gillenormand, seated in\ndespair at his grandson s pillow, was, like Marius, neither alive nor\ndead.\n\nEvery day, sometimes twice a day, a very well dressed gentleman with\nwhite hair, such was the description given by the porter, came to\ninquire about the wounded man, and left a large package of lint for the\ndressings.\n\nFinally, on the 7th of September, four months to a day, after the\nsorrowful night when he had been brought back to his grandfather in a\ndying condition, the doctor declared that he would answer for Marius.\nConvalescence began. But Marius was forced to remain for two months\nmore stretched out on a long chair, on account of the results called up\nby the fracture of his collar-bone. There always is a last wound like\nthat which will not close, and which prolongs the dressings\nindefinitely, to the great annoyance of the sick person.\n\nHowever, this long illness and this long convalescence saved him from\nall pursuit. In France, there is no wrath, not even of a public\ncharacter, which six months will not extinguish. Revolts, in the\npresent state of society, are so much the fault of every one, that they\nare followed by a certain necessity of shutting the eyes.\n\nLet us add, that the inexcusable Gisquet order, which enjoined doctors\nto lodge information against the wounded, having outraged public\nopinion, and not opinion alone, but the King first of all, the wounded\nwere covered and protected by this indignation; and, with the exception\nof those who had been made prisoners in the very act of combat, the\ncouncils of war did not dare to trouble any one. So Marius was left in\npeace.\n\nM. Gillenormand first passed through all manner of anguish, and then\nthrough every form of ecstasy. It was found difficult to prevent his\npassing every night beside the wounded man; he had his big armchair\ncarried to Marius  bedside; he required his daughter to take the finest\nlinen in the house for compresses and bandages. Mademoiselle\nGillenormand, like a sage and elderly person, contrived to spare the\nfine linen, while allowing the grandfather to think that he was obeyed.\nM. Gillenormand would not permit any one to explain to him, that for\nthe preparation of lint batiste is not nearly so good as coarse linen,\nnor new linen as old linen. He was present at all the dressings of the\nwounds from which Mademoiselle Gillenormand modestly absented herself.\nWhen the dead flesh was cut away with scissors, he said:  A e! a e! \nNothing was more touching than to see him with his gentle, senile\npalsy, offer the wounded man a cup of his cooling-draught. He\noverwhelmed the doctor with questions. He did not observe that he asked\nthe same ones over and over again.\n\nOn the day when the doctor announced to him that Marius was out of\ndanger, the good man was in a delirium. He made his porter a present of\nthree louis. That evening, on his return to his own chamber, he danced\na gavotte, using his thumb and forefinger as castanets, and he sang the\nfollowing song:\n\n Jeanne est n e   Foug re      Amour, tu vis en elle;\nVrai nid d une berg re;       Car c est dans sa prunelle\nJ adore son jupon,            Que tu mets ton carquois.\nFripon.                       Narquois!\n\n Moi, je la chante, et j aime,\nPlus que Diane m me,\nJeanne et ses durs tetons\nBretons. 61\n\n\nThen he knelt upon a chair, and Basque, who was watching him through\nthe half-open door, made sure that he was praying.\n\nUp to that time, he had not believed in God.\n\nAt each succeeding phase of improvement, which became more and more\npronounced, the grandfather raved. He executed a multitude of\nmechanical actions full of joy; he ascended and descended the stairs,\nwithout knowing why. A pretty female neighbor was amazed one morning at\nreceiving a big bouquet; it was M. Gillenormand who had sent it to her.\nThe husband made a jealous scene. M. Gillenormand tried to draw\nNicolette upon his knees. He called Marius,  M. le Baron.  He shouted:\n Long live the Republic! \n\n\nEvery moment, he kept asking the doctor:  Is he no longer in danger? \nHe gazed upon Marius with the eyes of a grandmother. He brooded over\nhim while he ate. He no longer knew himself, he no longer rendered\nhimself an account of himself. Marius was the master of the house,\nthere was abdication in his joy, he was the grandson of his grandson.\n\nIn the state of joy in which he then was, he was the most venerable of\nchildren. In his fear lest he might fatigue or annoy the convalescent,\nhe stepped behind him to smile. He was content, joyous, delighted,\ncharming, young. His white locks added a gentle majesty to the gay\nradiance of his visage. When grace is mingled with wrinkles, it is\nadorable. There is an indescribable aurora in beaming old age.\n\nAs for Marius, as he allowed them to dress his wounds and care for him,\nhe had but one fixed idea: Cosette.\n\nAfter the fever and delirium had left him, he did not again pronounce\nher name, and it might have been supposed that he no longer thought of\nher. He held his peace, precisely because his soul was there.\n\nHe did not know what had become of Cosette; the whole affair of the Rue\nde la Chanvrerie was like a cloud in his memory; shadows that were\nalmost indistinct, floated through his mind,  ponine, Gavroche, Mabeuf,\nthe Th nardiers, all his friends gloomily intermingled with the smoke\nof the barricade; the strange passage of M. Fauchelevent through that\nadventure produced on him the effect of a puzzle in a tempest; he\nunderstood nothing connected with his own life, he did not know how nor\nby whom he had been saved, and no one of those around him knew this;\nall that they had been able to tell him was, that he had been brought\nhome at night in a hackney-coach, to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire;\npast, present, future were nothing more to him than the mist of a vague\nidea; but in that fog there was one immovable point, one clear and\nprecise outline, something made of granite, a resolution, a will; to\nfind Cosette once more. For him, the idea of life was not distinct from\nthe idea of Cosette. He had decreed in his heart that he would not\naccept the one without the other, and he was immovably resolved to\nexact of any person whatever, who should desire to force him to\nlive, from his grandfather, from fate, from hell, the restitution of\nhis vanished Eden.\n\nHe did not conceal from himself the fact that obstacles existed.\n\nLet us here emphasize one detail, he was not won over and was but\nlittle softened by all the solicitude and tenderness of his\ngrandfather. In the first place, he was not in the secret; then, in his\nreveries of an invalid, which were still feverish, possibly, he\ndistrusted this tenderness as a strange and novel thing, which had for\nits object his conquest. He remained cold. The grandfather absolutely\nwasted his poor old smile. Marius said to himself that it was all right\nso long as he, Marius, did not speak, and let things take their course;\nbut that when it became a question of Cosette, he would find another\nface, and that his grandfather s true attitude would be unmasked. Then\nthere would be an unpleasant scene; a recrudescence of family\nquestions, a confrontation of positions, every sort of sarcasm and all\nmanner of objections at one and the same time, Fauchelevent,\nCoupelevent, fortune, poverty, a stone about his neck, the future.\nViolent resistance; conclusion: a refusal. Marius stiffened himself in\nadvance.\n\nAnd then, in proportion as he regained life, the old ulcers of his\nmemory opened once more, he reflected again on the past, Colonel\nPontmercy placed himself once more between M. Gillenormand and him,\nMarius, he told himself that he had no true kindness to expect from a\nperson who had been so unjust and so hard to his father. And with\nhealth, there returned to him a sort of harshness towards his\ngrandfather. The old man was gently pained by this. M. Gillenormand,\nwithout however allowing it to appear, observed that Marius, ever since\nthe latter had been brought back to him and had regained consciousness,\nhad not once called him father. It is true that he did not say\n monsieur  to him; but he contrived not to say either the one or the\nother, by means of a certain way of turning his phrases. Obviously, a\ncrisis was approaching.\n\nAs almost always happens in such cases, Marius skirmished before giving\nbattle, by way of proving himself. This is called  feeling the ground. \nOne morning it came to pass that M. Gillenormand spoke slightingly of\nthe Convention, apropos of a newspaper which had fallen into his hands,\nand gave vent to a Royalist harangue on Danton, Saint-Juste and\nRobespierre. The men of  93 were giants,  said Marius with severity.\nThe old man held his peace, and uttered not a sound during the\nremainder of that day.\n\nMarius, who had always present to his mind the inflexible grandfather\nof his early years, interpreted this silence as a profound\nconcentration of wrath, augured from it a hot conflict, and augmented\nhis preparations for the fray in the inmost recesses of his mind.\n\nHe decided that, in case of a refusal, he would tear off his bandages,\ndislocate his collar-bone, that he would lay bare all the wounds which\nhe had left, and would reject all food. His wounds were his munitions\nof war. He would have Cosette or die.\n\nHe awaited the propitious moment with the crafty patience of the sick.\n\nThat moment arrived.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III MARIUS ATTACKED\n\n\nOne day, M. Gillenormand, while his daughter was putting in order the\nphials and cups on the marble of the commode, bent over Marius and said\nto him in his tenderest accents:  Look here, my little Marius, if I\nwere in your place, I would eat meat now in preference to fish. A fried\nsole is excellent to begin a convalescence with, but a good cutlet is\nneeded to put a sick man on his feet. \n\n\nMarius, who had almost entirely recovered his strength, collected the\nwhole of it, drew himself up into a sitting posture, laid his two\nclenched fists on the sheets of his bed, looked his grandfather in the\nface, assumed a terrible air, and said:\n\n This leads me to say something to you. \n\n\n What is it? \n\n\n That I wish to marry. \n\n\n Agreed,  said his grandfather. And he burst out laughing.\n\n How agreed? \n\n\n Yes, agreed. You shall have your little girl. \n\n\nMarius, stunned and overwhelmed with the dazzling shock, trembled in\nevery limb.\n\nM. Gillenormand went on:\n\n Yes, you shall have her, that pretty little girl of yours. She comes\nevery day in the shape of an old gentleman to inquire after you. Ever\nsince you were wounded, she has passed her time in weeping and making\nlint. I have made inquiries. She lives in the Rue de l Homme Arm , No.\n7. Ah! There we have it! Ah! so you want her! Well, you shall have her.\nYou re caught. You had arranged your little plot, you had said to\nyourself: I m going to signify this squarely to my grandfather, to\nthat mummy of the Regency and of the Directory, to that ancient beau,\nto that Dorante turned G ronte; he has indulged in his frivolities\nalso, that he has, and he has had his love affairs, and his grisettes\nand his Cosettes; he has made his rustle, he has had his wings, he has\neaten of the bread of spring; he certainly must remember it.  Ah! you\ntake the cockchafer by the horns. That s good. I offer you a cutlet and\nyou answer me:  By the way, I want to marry.  There s a transition for\nyou! Ah! you reckoned on a bickering! You do not know that I am an old\ncoward. What do you say to that? You are vexed? You did not expect to\nfind your grandfather still more foolish than yourself, you are wasting\nthe discourse which you meant to bestow upon me, Mr. Lawyer, and that s\nvexatious. Well, so much the worse, rage away. I ll do whatever you\nwish, and that cuts you short, imbecile! Listen. I have made my\ninquiries, I m cunning too; she is charming, she is discreet, it is not\ntrue about the lancer, she has made heaps of lint, she s a jewel, she\nadores you, if you had died, there would have been three of us, her\ncoffin would have accompanied mine. I have had an idea, ever since you\nhave been better, of simply planting her at your bedside, but it is\nonly in romances that young girls are brought to the bedsides of\nhandsome young wounded men who interest them. It is not done. What\nwould your aunt have said to it? You were nude three quarters of the\ntime, my good fellow. Ask Nicolette, who has not left you for a moment,\nif there was any possibility of having a woman here. And then, what\nwould the doctor have said? A pretty girl does not cure a man of fever.\nIn short, it s all right, let us say no more about it, all s said,\nall s done, it s all settled, take her. Such is my ferocity. You see, I\nperceived that you did not love me. I said to myself:  Here now, I have\nmy little Cosette right under my hand, I m going to give her to him, he\nwill be obliged to love me a little then, or he must tell the reason\nwhy.  Ah! so you thought that the old man was going to storm, to put on\na big voice, to shout no, and to lift his cane at all that aurora. Not\na bit of it. Cosette, so be it; love, so be it; I ask nothing better.\nPray take the trouble of getting married, sir. Be happy, my\nwell-beloved child. \n\n\nThat said, the old man burst forth into sobs.\n\nAnd he seized Marius  head, and pressed it with both arms against his\nbreast, and both fell to weeping. This is one of the forms of supreme\nhappiness.\n\n Father!  cried Marius.\n\n Ah, so you love me!  said the old man.\n\nAn ineffable moment ensued. They were choking and could not speak.\n\nAt length the old man stammered:\n\n Come! his mouth is unstopped at last. He has said:  Father  to me. \n\n\nMarius disengaged his head from his grandfather s arms, and said\ngently:\n\n But, father, now that I am quite well, it seems to me that I might see\nher. \n\n\n Agreed again, you shall see her to-morrow. \n\n\n Father! \n\n\n What? \n\n\n Why not to-day? \n\n\n Well, to-day then. Let it be to-day. You have called me  father  three\ntimes, and it is worth it. I will attend to it. She shall be brought\nhither. Agreed, I tell you. It has already been put into verse. This is\nthe ending of the elegy of the  Jeune Malade  by Andr  Ch nier, by\nAndr  Ch nier whose throat was cut by the ras . . . by the giants of\n 93. \n\n\nM. Gillenormand fancied that he detected a faint frown on the part of\nMarius, who, in truth, as we must admit, was no longer listening to\nhim, and who was thinking far more of Cosette than of 1793.\n\nThe grandfather, trembling at having so inopportunely introduced Andr \nCh nier, resumed precipitately:\n\n Cut his throat is not the word. The fact is that the great\nrevolutionary geniuses, who were not malicious, that is incontestable,\nwho were heroes, pardi! found that Andr  Ch nier embarrassed them\nsomewhat, and they had him guillot . . . that is to say, those great\nmen on the 7th of Thermidor, besought Andr  Ch nier, in the interests\nof public safety, to be so good as to go.... \n\n\nM. Gillenormand, clutched by the throat by his own phrase, could not\nproceed. Being able neither to finish it nor to retract it, while his\ndaughter arranged the pillow behind Marius, who was overwhelmed with so\nmany emotions, the old man rushed headlong, with as much rapidity as\nhis age permitted, from the bed-chamber, shut the door behind him, and,\npurple, choking and foaming at the mouth, his eyes starting from his\nhead, he found himself nose to nose with honest Basque, who was\nblacking boots in the anteroom. He seized Basque by the collar, and\nshouted full in his face in fury: By the hundred thousand Javottes of\nthe devil, those ruffians did assassinate him! \n\n\n Who, sir? \n\n\n Andr  Ch nier! \n\n\n Yes, sir,  said Basque in alarm.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV MADEMOISELLE GILLENORMAND ENDS BY NO LONGER THINKING IT A\nBAD THING THAT M. FAUCHELEVENT SHOULD HAVE ENTERED WITH SOMETHING UNDER\nHIS ARM\n\n\nCosette and Marius beheld each other once more.\n\nWhat that interview was like we decline to say. There are things which\none must not attempt to depict; the sun is one of them.\n\nThe entire family, including Basque and Nicolette, were assembled in\nMarius  chamber at the moment when Cosette entered it.\n\nPrecisely at that moment, the grandfather was on the point of blowing\nhis nose; he stopped short, holding his nose in his handkerchief, and\ngazing over it at Cosette.\n\nShe appeared on the threshold; it seemed to him that she was surrounded\nby a glory.\n\n Adorable!  he exclaimed.\n\nThen he blew his nose noisily.\n\nCosette was intoxicated, delighted, frightened, in heaven. She was as\nthoroughly alarmed as any one can be by happiness. She stammered all\npale, yet flushed, she wanted to fling herself into Marius  arms, and\ndared not. Ashamed of loving in the presence of all these people.\nPeople are pitiless towards happy lovers; they remain when the latter\nmost desire to be left alone. Lovers have no need of any people\nwhatever.\n\nWith Cosette, and behind her, there had entered a man with white hair\nwho was grave yet smiling, though with a vague and heartrending smile.\nIt was  Monsieur Fauchelevent ; it was Jean Valjean.\n\nHe was very well dressed, as the porter had said, entirely in black, in\nperfectly new garments, and with a white cravat.\n\nThe porter was a thousand leagues from recognizing in this correct\nbourgeois, in this probable notary, the fear-inspiring bearer of the\ncorpse, who had sprung up at his door on the night of the 7th of June,\ntattered, muddy, hideous, haggard, his face masked in blood and mire,\nsupporting in his arms the fainting Marius; still, his porter s scent\nwas aroused. When M. Fauchelevent arrived with Cosette, the porter had\nnot been able to refrain from communicating to his wife this aside:  I\ndon t know why it is, but I can t help fancying that I ve seen that\nface before. \n\n\nM. Fauchelevent in Marius  chamber, remained apart near the door. He\nhad under his arm, a package which bore considerable resemblance to an\noctavo volume enveloped in paper. The enveloping paper was of a\ngreenish hue, and appeared to be mouldy.\n\n Does the gentleman always have books like that under his arm? \nMademoiselle Gillenormand, who did not like books, demanded in a low\ntone of Nicolette.\n\n Well,  retorted M. Gillenormand, who had overheard her, in the same\ntone,  he s a learned man. What then? Is that his fault? Monsieur\nBoulard, one of my acquaintances, never walked out without a book under\nhis arm either, and he always had some old volume hugged to his heart\nlike that. \n\n\nAnd, with a bow, he said aloud:\n\n Monsieur Tranchelevent.... \n\n\nFather Gillenormand did not do it intentionally, but inattention to\nproper names was an aristocratic habit of his.\n\n Monsieur Tranchelevent, I have the honor of asking you, on behalf of\nmy grandson, Baron Marius Pontmercy, for the hand of Mademoiselle. \n\n\nMonsieur Tranchelevent bowed.\n\n That s settled,  said the grandfather.\n\nAnd, turning to Marius and Cosette, with both arms extended in\nblessing, he cried:\n\n Permission to adore each other! \n\n\nThey did not require him to repeat it twice. So much the worse! the\nchirping began. They talked low. Marius, resting on his elbow on his\nreclining chair, Cosette standing beside him.  Oh, heavens!  murmured\nCosette,  I see you once again! it is thou! it is you! The idea of\ngoing and fighting like that! But why? It is horrible. I have been dead\nfor four months. Oh! how wicked it was of you to go to that battle!\nWhat had I done to you? I pardon you, but you will never do it again. A\nlittle while ago, when they came to tell us to come to you, I still\nthought that I was about to die, but it was from joy. I was so sad! I\nhave not taken the time to dress myself, I must frighten people with my\nlooks! What will your relatives say to see me in a crumpled collar? Do\nspeak! You let me do all the talking. We are still in the Rue de\nl Homme Arm . It seems that your shoulder was terrible. They told me\nthat you could put your fist in it. And then, it seems that they cut\nyour flesh with the scissors. That is frightful. I have cried till I\nhave no eyes left. It is queer that a person can suffer like that. Your\ngrandfather has a very kindly air. Don t disturb yourself, don t rise\non your elbow, you will injure yourself. Oh! how happy I am! So our\nunhappiness is over! I am quite foolish. I had things to say to you,\nand I no longer know in the least what they were. Do you still love me?\nWe live in the Rue de l Homme Arm . There is no garden. I made lint all\nthe time; stay, sir, look, it is your fault, I have a callous on my\nfingers. \n\n\n Angel!  said Marius.\n\n_Angel_ is the only word in the language which cannot be worn out. No\nother word could resist the merciless use which lovers make of it.\n\nThen as there were spectators, they paused and said not a word more,\ncontenting themselves with softly touching each other s hands.\n\nM. Gillenormand turned towards those who were in the room and cried:\n\n Talk loud, the rest of you. Make a noise, you people behind the\nscenes. Come, a little uproar, the deuce! so that the children can\nchatter at their ease. \n\n\nAnd, approaching Marius and Cosette, he said to them in a very low\nvoice:\n\n Call each other _thou_. Don t stand on ceremony. \n\n\nAunt Gillenormand looked on in amazement at this irruption of light in\nher elderly household. There was nothing aggressive about this\namazement; it was not the least in the world like the scandalized and\nenvious glance of an owl at two turtledoves, it was the stupid eye of a\npoor innocent seven and fifty years of age; it was a life which had\nbeen a failure gazing at that triumph, love.\n\n Mademoiselle Gillenormand senior,  said her father to her,  I told you\nthat this is what would happen to you. \n\n\nHe remained silent for a moment, and then added:\n\n Look at the happiness of others. \n\n\nThen he turned to Cosette.\n\n How pretty she is! how pretty she is! She s a Greuze. So you are going\nto have that all to yourself, you scamp! Ah! my rogue, you are getting\noff nicely with me, you are happy; if I were not fifteen years too old,\nwe would fight with swords to see which of us should have her. Come\nnow! I am in love with you, mademoiselle. It s perfectly simple. It is\nyour right. You are in the right. Ah! what a sweet, charming little\nwedding this will make! Our parish is Saint-Denis du Saint Sacrament,\nbut I will get a dispensation so that you can be married at Saint-Paul.\nThe church is better. It was built by the Jesuits. It is more\ncoquettish. It is opposite the fountain of Cardinal de Birague. The\nmasterpiece of Jesuit architecture is at Namur. It is called\nSaint-Loup. You must go there after you are married. It is worth the\njourney. Mademoiselle, I am quite of your mind, I think girls ought to\nmarry; that is what they are made for. There is a certain\nSainte-Catherine whom I should always like to see uncoiffed.62 It s a\nfine thing to remain a spinster, but it is chilly. The Bible says:\nMultiply. In order to save the people, Jeanne d Arc is needed; but in\norder to make people, what is needed is Mother Goose. So, marry, my\nbeauties. I really do not see the use in remaining a spinster! I know\nthat they have their chapel apart in the church, and that they fall\nback on the Society of the Virgin; but, sapristi, a handsome husband, a\nfine fellow, and at the expiration of a year, a big, blond brat who\nnurses lustily, and who has fine rolls of fat on his thighs, and who\nmusses up your breast in handfuls with his little rosy paws, laughing\nthe while like the dawn, that s better than holding a candle at\nvespers, and chanting _Turris Eburnea!_ \n\n\nThe grandfather executed a pirouette on his eighty-year-old heels, and\nbegan to talk again like a spring that has broken loose once more:\n\n Ainsi, bornant les cours de tes r vasseries,\nAlcippe, il est donc vrai, dans peu tu te maries. 63\n\n\n By the way! \n\n\n What is it, father? \n\n\n Have not you an intimate friend? \n\n\n Yes, Courfeyrac. \n\n\n What has become of him? \n\n\n He is dead. \n\n\n That is good. \n\n\nHe seated himself near them, made Cosette sit down, and took their four\nhands in his aged and wrinkled hands:\n\n She is exquisite, this darling. She s a masterpiece, this Cosette! She\nis a very little girl and a very great lady. She will only be a\nBaroness, which is a come down for her; she was born a Marquise. What\neyelashes she has! Get it well fixed in your noddles, my children, that\nyou are in the true road. Love each other. Be foolish about it. Love is\nthe folly of men and the wit of God. Adore each other. Only,  he added,\nsuddenly becoming gloomy,  what a misfortune! It has just occurred to\nme! More than half of what I possess is swallowed up in an annuity; so\nlong as I live, it will not matter, but after my death, a score of\nyears hence, ah! my poor children, you will not have a sou! Your\nbeautiful white hands, Madame la Baronne, will do the devil the honor\nof pulling him by the tail. 64\n\nAt this point they heard a grave and tranquil voice say:\n\n Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent possesses six hundred thousand\nfrancs. \n\n\nIt was the voice of Jean Valjean.\n\nSo far he had not uttered a single word, no one seemed to be aware that\nhe was there, and he had remained standing erect and motionless, behind\nall these happy people.\n\n What has Mademoiselle Euphrasie to do with the question?  inquired the\nstartled grandfather.\n\n I am she,  replied Cosette.\n\n Six hundred thousand francs?  resumed M. Gillenormand.\n\n Minus fourteen or fifteen thousand francs, possibly,  said Jean\nValjean.\n\nAnd he laid on the table the package which Mademoiselle Gillenormand\nhad mistaken for a book.\n\nJean Valjean himself opened the package; it was a bundle of bank-notes.\nThey were turned over and counted. There were five hundred notes for a\nthousand francs each, and one hundred and sixty-eight of five hundred.\nIn all, five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs.\n\n This is a fine book,  said M. Gillenormand.\n\n Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!  murmured the aunt.\n\n This arranges things well, does it not, Mademoiselle Gillenormand\nsenior?  said the grandfather.  That devil of a Marius has ferreted out\nthe nest of a millionaire grisette in his tree of dreams! Just trust to\nthe love affairs of young folks now, will you! Students find\nstudentesses with six hundred thousand francs. Cherubino works better\nthan Rothschild. \n\n\n Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!  repeated Mademoiselle\nGillenormand, in a low tone.  Five hundred and eighty-four! one might\nas well say six hundred thousand! \n\n\nAs for Marius and Cosette, they were gazing at each other while this\nwas going on; they hardly heeded this detail.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V DEPOSIT YOUR MONEY IN A FOREST RATHER THAN WITH A NOTARY\n\n\nThe reader has, no doubt, understood, without necessitating a lengthy\nexplanation, that Jean Valjean, after the Champmathieu affair, had been\nable, thanks to his first escape of a few days  duration, to come to\nParis and to withdraw in season, from the hands of Laffitte, the sum\nearned by him, under the name of Monsieur Madeleine, at\nMontreuil-sur-Mer; and that fearing that he might be recaptured, which\neventually happened he had buried and hidden that sum in the forest of\nMontfermeil, in the locality known as the Blaru-bottom. The sum, six\nhundred and thirty thousand francs, all in bank-bills, was not very\nbulky, and was contained in a box; only, in order to preserve the box\nfrom dampness, he had placed it in a coffer filled with chestnut\nshavings. In the same coffer he had placed his other treasures, the\nBishop s candlesticks. It will be remembered that he had carried off\nthe candlesticks when he made his escape from Montreuil-sur-Mer. The\nman seen one evening for the first time by Boulatruelle, was Jean\nValjean. Later on, every time that Jean Valjean needed money, he went\nto get it in the Blaru-bottom. Hence the absences which we have\nmentioned. He had a pickaxe somewhere in the heather, in a hiding-place\nknown to himself alone. When he beheld Marius convalescent, feeling\nthat the hour was at hand, when that money might prove of service, he\nhad gone to get it; it was he again, whom Boulatruelle had seen in the\nwoods, but on this occasion, in the morning instead of in the evening.\nBoulatreulle inherited his pickaxe.\n\nThe actual sum was five hundred and eighty-four thousand, five hundred\nfrancs. Jean Valjean withdrew the five hundred francs for himself. We\nshall see hereafter,  he thought.\n\nThe difference between that sum and the six hundred and thirty thousand\nfrancs withdrawn from Laffitte represented his expenditure in ten\nyears, from 1823 to 1833. The five years of his stay in the convent had\ncost only five thousand francs.\n\nJean Valjean set the two candlesticks on the chimney-piece, where they\nglittered to the great admiration of Toussaint.\n\nMoreover, Jean Valjean knew that he was delivered from Javert. The\nstory had been told in his presence, and he had verified the fact in\nthe _Moniteur_, how a police inspector named Javert had been found\ndrowned under a boat belonging to some laundresses, between the Pont au\nChange and the Pont-Neuf, and that a writing left by this man,\notherwise irreproachable and highly esteemed by his superiors, pointed\nto a fit of mental aberration and a suicide. In fact,  thought Jean\nValjean,  since he left me at liberty, once having got me in his power,\nhe must have been already mad. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE TWO OLD MEN DO EVERYTHING, EACH ONE AFTER HIS OWN\nFASHION, TO RENDER COSETTE HAPPY\n\n\nEverything was made ready for the wedding. The doctor, on being\nconsulted, declared that it might take place in February. It was then\nDecember. A few ravishing weeks of perfect happiness passed.\n\nThe grandfather was not the least happy of them all. He remained for a\nquarter of an hour at a time gazing at Cosette.\n\n The wonderful, beautiful girl!  he exclaimed.  And she has so sweet\nand good an air! she is, without exception, the most charming girl that\nI have ever seen in my life. Later on, she ll have virtues with an odor\nof violets. How graceful! one cannot live otherwise than nobly with\nsuch a creature. Marius, my boy, you are a Baron, you are rich, don t\ngo to pettifogging, I beg of you. \n\n\nCosette and Marius had passed abruptly from the sepulchre to paradise.\nThe transition had not been softened, and they would have been stunned,\nhad they not been dazzled by it.\n\n Do you understand anything about it?  said Marius to Cosette.\n\n No,  replied Cosette,  but it seems to me that the good God is caring\nfor us. \n\n\nJean Valjean did everything, smoothed away every difficulty, arranged\neverything, made everything easy. He hastened towards Cosette s\nhappiness with as much ardor, and, apparently with as much joy, as\nCosette herself.\n\nAs he had been a mayor, he understood how to solve that delicate\nproblem, with the secret of which he alone was acquainted, Cosette s\ncivil status. If he were to announce her origin bluntly, it might\nprevent the marriage, who knows? He extricated Cosette from all\ndifficulties. He concocted for her a family of dead people, a sure\nmeans of not encountering any objections. Cosette was the only scion of\nan extinct family; Cosette was not his own daughter, but the daughter\nof the other Fauchelevent. Two brothers Fauchelevent had been gardeners\nto the convent of the Petit-Picpus. Inquiry was made at that convent;\nthe very best information and the most respectable references abounded;\nthe good nuns, not very apt and but little inclined to fathom questions\nof paternity, and not attaching any importance to the matter, had never\nunderstood exactly of which of the two Fauchelevents Cosette was the\ndaughter. They said what was wanted and they said it with zeal. An\n_acte de notori t _ was drawn up. Cosette became in the eyes of the\nlaw, Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent. She was declared an orphan,\nboth father and mother being dead. Jean Valjean so arranged it that he\nwas appointed, under the name of Fauchelevent, as Cosette s guardian,\nwith M. Gillenormand as supervising guardian over him.\n\nAs for the five hundred and eighty thousand francs, they constituted a\nlegacy bequeathed to Cosette by a dead person, who desired to remain\nunknown. The original legacy had consisted of five hundred and\nninety-four thousand francs; but ten thousand francs had been expended\non the education of Mademoiselle Euphrasie, five thousand francs of\nthat amount having been paid to the convent. This legacy, deposited in\nthe hands of a third party, was to be turned over to Cosette at her\nmajority, or at the date of her marriage. This, taken as a whole, was\nvery acceptable, as the reader will perceive, especially when the sum\ndue was half a million. There were some peculiarities here and there,\nit is true, but they were not noticed; one of the interested parties\nhad his eyes blindfolded by love, the others by the six hundred\nthousand francs.\n\nCosette learned that she was not the daughter of that old man whom she\nhad so long called father. He was merely a kinsman; another\nFauchelevent was her real father. At any other time this would have\nbroken her heart. But at the ineffable moment which she was then\npassing through, it cast but a slight shadow, a faint cloud, and she\nwas so full of joy that the cloud did not last long. She had Marius.\nThe young man arrived, the old man was effaced; such is life.\n\nAnd then, Cosette had, for long years, been habituated to seeing\nenigmas around her; every being who has had a mysterious childhood is\nalways prepared for certain renunciations.\n\nNevertheless, she continued to call Jean Valjean: Father.\n\nCosette, happy as the angels, was enthusiastic over Father\nGillenormand. It is true that he overwhelmed her with gallant\ncompliments and presents. While Jean Valjean was building up for\nCosette a normal situation in society and an unassailable status, M.\nGillenormand was superintending the basket of wedding gifts. Nothing so\namused him as being magnificent. He had given to Cosette a robe of\nBinche guipure which had descended to him from his own grandmother.\n\n These fashions come up again,  said he,  ancient things are the rage,\nand the young women of my old age dress like the old women of my\nchildhood. \n\n\nHe rifled his respectable chests of drawers in Coromandel lacquer, with\nswelling fronts, which had not been opened for years. Let us hear the\nconfession of these dowagers,  he said,  let us see what they have in\ntheir paunches.  He noisily violated the pot-bellied drawers of all his\nwives, of all his mistresses and of all his grandmothers. Pekins,\ndamasks, lampas, painted moires, robes of shot gros de Tours, India\nkerchiefs embroidered in gold that could be washed, dauphines without a\nright or wrong side, in the piece, Genoa and Alen on point lace,\nparures in antique goldsmith s work, ivory bon-bon boxes ornamented\nwith microscopic battles, gewgaws and ribbons he lavished everything on\nCosette. Cosette, amazed, desperately in love with Marius, and wild\nwith gratitude towards M. Gillenormand, dreamed of a happiness without\nlimit clothed in satin and velvet. Her wedding basket seemed to her to\nbe upheld by seraphim. Her soul flew out into the azure depths, with\nwings of Mechlin lace.\n\nThe intoxication of the lovers was only equalled, as we have already\nsaid, by the ecstasy of the grandfather. A sort of flourish of trumpets\nwent on in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.\n\nEvery morning, a fresh offering of bric- -brac from the grandfather to\nCosette. All possible knickknacks glittered around her.\n\nOne day Marius, who was fond of talking gravely in the midst of his\nbliss, said, apropos of I know not what incident:\n\n The men of the revolution are so great, that they have the prestige of\nthe ages, like Cato and like Phocion, and each one of them seems to me\nan antique memory. \n\n\n Moire antique!  exclaimed the old gentleman.  Thanks, Marius. That is\nprecisely the idea of which I was in search. \n\n\nAnd on the following day, a magnificent dress of tea-rose colored moire\nantique was added to Cosette s wedding presents.\n\nFrom these fripperies, the grandfather extracted a bit of wisdom.\n\n Love is all very well; but there must be something else to go with it.\nThe useless must be mingled with happiness. Happiness is only the\nnecessary. Season that enormously with the superfluous for me. A palace\nand her heart. Her heart and the Louvre. Her heart and the grand\nwaterworks of Versailles. Give me my shepherdess and try to make her a\nduchess. Fetch me Phyllis crowned with corn-flowers, and add a hundred\nthousand francs income. Open for me a bucolic perspective as far as you\ncan see, beneath a marble colonnade. I consent to the bucolic and also\nto the fairy spectacle of marble and gold. Dry happiness resembles dry\nbread. One eats, but one does not dine. I want the superfluous, the\nuseless, the extravagant, excess, that which serves no purpose. I\nremember to have seen, in the Cathedral of Strasburg, a clock, as tall\nas a three-story house which marked the hours, which had the kindness\nto indicate the hour, but which had not the air of being made for that;\nand which, after having struck midday, or midnight, midday, the hour of\nthe sun, or midnight, the hour of love, or any other hour that you\nlike, gave you the moon and the stars, the earth and the sea, birds and\nfishes, Ph bus and Ph be, and a host of things which emerged from a\nniche, and the twelve apostles, and the Emperor Charles the Fifth, and\n ponine, and Sabinus, and a throng of little gilded goodmen, who played\non the trumpet to boot. Without reckoning delicious chimes which it\nsprinkled through the air, on every occasion, without any one s knowing\nwhy. Is a petty bald clock-face which merely tells the hour equal to\nthat? For my part, I am of the opinion of the big clock of Strasburg,\nand I prefer it to the cuckoo clock from the Black Forest. \n\n\nM. Gillenormand talked nonsense in connection with the wedding, and all\nthe fripperies of the eighteenth century passed pell-mell through his\ndithyrambs.\n\n You are ignorant of the art of festivals. You do not know how to\norganize a day of enjoyment in this age,  he exclaimed.  Your\nnineteenth century is weak. It lacks excess. It ignores the rich, it\nignores the noble. In everything it is clean-shaven. Your third estate\nis insipid, colorless, odorless, and shapeless. The dreams of your\nbourgeois who set up, as they express it: a pretty boudoir freshly\ndecorated, violet, ebony and calico. Make way! Make way! the Sieur\nCurmudgeon is marrying Mademoiselle Clutch-penny. Sumptuousness and\nsplendor. A louis d or has been stuck to a candle. There s the epoch\nfor you. My demand is that I may flee from it beyond the Sarmatians.\nAh! in 1787, I predict that all was lost, from the day when I beheld\nthe Duc de Rohan, Prince de L on, Duc de Chabot, Duc de Montbazon,\nMarquis de Soubise, Vicomte de Thouars, peer of France, go to\nLongchamps in a tapecu! That has borne its fruits. In this century, men\nattend to business, they gamble on  Change, they win money, they are\nstingy. People take care of their surfaces and varnish them; every one\nis dressed as though just out of a bandbox, washed, soaped, scraped,\nshaved, combed, waked, smoothed, rubbed, brushed, cleaned on the\noutside, irreproachable, polished as a pebble, discreet, neat, and at\nthe same time, death of my life, in the depths of their consciences\nthey have dung-heaps and cesspools that are enough to make a cow-herd\nwho blows his nose in his fingers, recoil. I grant to this age the\ndevice:  Dirty Cleanliness.  Don t be vexed, Marius, give me permission\nto speak; I say no evil of the people as you see, I am always harping\non your people, but do look favorably on my dealing a bit of a slap to\nthe bourgeoisie. I belong to it. He who loves well lashes well.\nThereupon, I say plainly, that nowadays people marry, but that they no\nlonger know how to marry. Ah! it is true, I regret the grace of the\nancient manners. I regret everything about them, their elegance, their\nchivalry, those courteous and delicate ways, that joyous luxury which\nevery one possessed, music forming part of the wedding, a symphony\nabove stairs, a beating of drums below stairs, the dances, the joyous\nfaces round the table, the fine-spun gallant compliments, the songs,\nthe fireworks, the frank laughter, the devil s own row, the huge knots\nof ribbon. I regret the bride s garter. The bride s garter is cousin to\nthe girdle of Venus. On what does the war of Troy turn? On Helen s\ngarter, parbleu! Why did they fight, why did Diomed the divine break\nover the head of Meriones that great brazen helmet of ten points? why\ndid Achilles and Hector hew each other up with vast blows of their\nlances? Because Helen allowed Paris to take her garter. With Cosette s\ngarter, Homer would construct the _Iliad_. He would put in his poem, a\nloquacious old fellow, like me, and he would call him Nestor. My\nfriends, in bygone days, in those amiable days of yore, people married\nwisely; they had a good contract, and then they had a good carouse. As\nsoon as Cujas had taken his departure, Gamacho entered. But, in sooth!\nthe stomach is an agreeable beast which demands its due, and which\nwants to have its wedding also. People supped well, and had at table a\nbeautiful neighbor without a guimpe so that her throat was only\nmoderately concealed. Oh! the large laughing mouths, and how gay we\nwere in those days! youth was a bouquet; every young man terminated in\na branch of lilacs or a tuft of roses; whether he was a shepherd or a\nwarrior; and if, by chance, one was a captain of dragoons, one found\nmeans to call oneself Florian. People thought much of looking well.\nThey embroidered and tinted themselves. A bourgeois had the air of a\nflower, a Marquis had the air of a precious stone. People had no straps\nto their boots, they had no boots. They were spruce, shining, waved,\nlustrous, fluttering, dainty, coquettish, which did not at all prevent\ntheir wearing swords by their sides. The humming-bird has beak and\nclaws. That was the day of the _Galland Indies_. One of the sides of\nthat century was delicate, the other was magnificent; and by the green\ncabbages! people amused themselves. To-day, people are serious. The\nbourgeois is avaricious, the bourgeoise is a prude; your century is\nunfortunate. People would drive away the Graces as being too low in the\nneck. Alas! beauty is concealed as though it were ugliness. Since the\nrevolution, everything, including the ballet-dancers, has had its\ntrousers; a mountebank dancer must be grave; your rigadoons are\ndoctrinarian. It is necessary to be majestic. People would be greatly\nannoyed if they did not carry their chins in their cravats. The ideal\nof an urchin of twenty when he marries, is to resemble M.\nRoyer-Collard. And do you know what one arrives at with that majesty?\nat being petty. Learn this: joy is not only joyous; it is great. But be\nin love gayly then, what the deuce! marry, when you marry, with fever\nand giddiness, and tumult, and the uproar of happiness! Be grave in\nchurch, well and good. But, as soon as the mass is finished, sarpejou!\nyou must make a dream whirl around the bride. A marriage should be\nroyal and chimerical; it should promenade its ceremony from the\ncathedral of Rheims to the pagoda of Chanteloup. I have a horror of a\npaltry wedding. Ventregoulette! be in Olympus for that one day, at\nleast. Be one of the gods. Ah! people might be sylphs. Games and\nLaughter, argiraspides; they are stupids. My friends, every recently\nmade bridegroom ought to be Prince Aldobrandini. Profit by that unique\nminute in life to soar away to the empyrean with the swans and the\neagles, even if you do have to fall back on the morrow into the\nbourgeoisie of the frogs. Don t economize on the nuptials, do not prune\nthem of their splendors; don t scrimp on the day when you beam. The\nwedding is not the housekeeping. Oh! if I were to carry out my fancy,\nit would be gallant, violins would be heard under the trees. Here is my\nprogramme: sky-blue and silver. I would mingle with the festival the\nrural divinities, I would convoke the Dryads and the Nereids. The\nnuptials of Amphitrite, a rosy cloud, nymphs with well dressed locks\nand entirely naked, an Academician offering quatrains to the goddess, a\nchariot drawn by marine monsters.\n\n Triton trottait devant, et tirait de sa conque\nDes sons si ravissants qu il ravissait quiconque! 65\n\n\n there s a festive programme, there s a good one, or else I know\nnothing of such matters, deuce take it! \n\n\nWhile the grandfather, in full lyrical effusion, was listening to\nhimself, Cosette and Marius grew intoxicated as they gazed freely at\neach other.\n\nAunt Gillenormand surveyed all this with her imperturbable placidity.\nWithin the last five or six months she had experienced a certain amount\nof emotions. Marius returned, Marius brought back bleeding, Marius\nbrought back from a barricade, Marius dead, then living, Marius\nreconciled, Marius betrothed, Marius wedding a poor girl, Marius\nwedding a millionairess. The six hundred thousand francs had been her\nlast surprise. Then, her indifference of a girl taking her first\ncommunion returned to her. She went regularly to service, told her\nbeads, read her euchology, mumbled _Aves_ in one corner of the house,\nwhile _I love you_ was being whispered in the other, and she beheld\nMarius and Cosette in a vague way, like two shadows. The shadow was\nherself.\n\nThere is a certain state of inert asceticism in which the soul,\nneutralized by torpor, a stranger to that which may be designated as\nthe business of living, receives no impressions, either human, or\npleasant or painful, with the exception of earthquakes and\ncatastrophes. This devotion, as Father Gillenormand said to his\ndaughter, corresponds to a cold in the head. You smell nothing of life.\nNeither any bad, nor any good odor.\n\nMoreover, the six hundred thousand francs had settled the elderly\nspinster s indecision. Her father had acquired the habit of taking her\nso little into account, that he had not consulted her in the matter of\nconsent to Marius  marriage. He had acted impetuously, according to his\nwont, having, a despot-turned slave, but a single thought, to satisfy\nMarius. As for the aunt, it had not even occurred to him that the aunt\nexisted, and that she could have an opinion of her own, and, sheep as\nshe was, this had vexed her. Somewhat resentful in her inmost soul, but\nimpassible externally, she had said to herself:  My father has settled\nthe question of the marriage without reference to me; I shall settle\nthe question of the inheritance without consulting him.  She was rich,\nin fact, and her father was not. She had reserved her decision on this\npoint. It is probable that, had the match been a poor one, she would\nhave left him poor.  So much the worse for my nephew! he is wedding a\nbeggar, let him be a beggar himself!  But Cosette s half-million\npleased the aunt, and altered her inward situation so far as this pair\nof lovers were concerned. One owes some consideration to six hundred\nthousand francs, and it was evident that she could not do otherwise\nthan leave her fortune to these young people, since they did not need\nit.\n\nIt was arranged that the couple should live with the grandfather M.\nGillenormand insisted on resigning to them his chamber, the finest in\nthe house.  That will make me young again,  he said.  It s an old plan\nof mine. I have always entertained the idea of having a wedding in my\nchamber. \n\n\nHe furnished this chamber with a multitude of elegant trifles. He had\nthe ceiling and walls hung with an extraordinary stuff, which he had by\nhim in the piece, and which he believed to have emanated from Utrecht\nwith a buttercup-colored satin ground, covered with velvet auricula\nblossoms. It was with that stuff,  said he,  that the bed of the\nDuchesse d Anville at la Roche-Guyon was draped. On the chimney-piece,\nhe set a little figure in Saxe porcelain, carrying a muff against her\nnude stomach.\n\nM. Gillenormand s library became the lawyer s study, which Marius\nneeded; a study, it will be remembered, being required by the council\nof the order.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE EFFECTS OF DREAMS MINGLED WITH HAPPINESS\n\n\nThe lovers saw each other every day. Cosette came with M.\nFauchelevent. This is reversing things,  said Mademoiselle\nGillenormand,  to have the bride come to the house to do the courting\nlike this.  But Marius  convalescence had caused the habit to become\nestablished, and the armchairs of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire,\nbetter adapted to interviews than the straw chairs of the Rue de\nl Homme Arm , had rooted it. Marius and M. Fauchelevent saw each other,\nbut did not address each other. It seemed as though this had been\nagreed upon. Every girl needs a chaperon. Cosette could not have come\nwithout M. Fauchelevent. In Marius  eyes, M. Fauchelevent was the\ncondition attached to Cosette. He accepted it. By dint of discussing\npolitical matters, vaguely and without precision, from the point of\nview of the general amelioration of the fate of all men, they came to\nsay a little more than  yes  and  no.  Once, on the subject of\neducation, which Marius wished to have free and obligatory, multiplied\nunder all forms lavished on every one, like the air and the sun in a\nword, respirable for the entire population, they were in unison, and\nthey almost conversed. M. Fauchelevent talked well, and even with a\ncertain loftiness of language still he lacked something indescribable.\nM. Fauchelevent possessed something less and also something more, than\na man of the world.\n\nMarius, inwardly, and in the depths of his thought, surrounded with all\nsorts of mute questions this M. Fauchelevent, who was to him simply\nbenevolent and cold. There were moments when doubts as to his own\nrecollections occurred to him. There was a void in his memory, a black\nspot, an abyss excavated by four months of agony. Many things had been\nlost therein. He had come to the point of asking himself whether it\nwere really a fact that he had seen M. Fauchelevent, so serious and so\ncalm a man, in the barricade.\n\nThis was not, however, the only stupor which the apparitions and the\ndisappearances of the past had left in his mind. It must not be\nsupposed that he was delivered from all those obsessions of the memory\nwhich force us, even when happy, even when satisfied, to glance sadly\nbehind us. The head which does not turn backwards towards horizons that\nhave vanished contains neither thought nor love. At times, Marius\nclasped his face between his hands, and the vague and tumultuous past\ntraversed the twilight which reigned in his brain. Again he beheld\nMabeuf fall, he heard Gavroche singing amid the grape-shot, he felt\nbeneath his lips the cold brow of  ponine; Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean\nProuvaire, Combeferre, Bossuet, Grantaire, all his friends rose erect\nbefore him, then dispersed into thin air. Were all those dear,\nsorrowful, valiant, charming or tragic beings merely dreams? had they\nactually existed? The revolt had enveloped everything in its smoke.\nThese great fevers create great dreams. He questioned himself; he felt\nhimself; all these vanished realities made him dizzy. Where were they\nall then? was it really true that all were dead? A fall into the\nshadows had carried off all except himself. It all seemed to him to\nhave disappeared as though behind the curtain of a theatre. There are\ncurtains like this which drop in life. God passes on to the following\nact.\n\nAnd he himself was he actually the same man? He, the poor man, was\nrich; he, the abandoned, had a family; he, the despairing, was to marry\nCosette. It seemed to him that he had traversed a tomb, and that he had\nentered into it black and had emerged from it white, and in that tomb\nthe others had remained. At certain moments, all these beings of the\npast, returned and present, formed a circle around him, and\novershadowed him; then he thought of Cosette, and recovered his\nserenity; but nothing less than this felicity could have sufficed to\nefface that catastrophe.\n\nM. Fauchelevent almost occupied a place among these vanished beings.\nMarius hesitated to believe that the Fauchelevent of the barricade was\nthe same as this Fauchelevent in flesh and blood, sitting so gravely\nbeside Cosette. The first was, probably, one of those nightmares\noccasioned and brought back by his hours of delirium. However, the\nnatures of both men were rigid, no question from Marius to M.\nFauchelevent was possible. Such an idea had not even occurred to him.\nWe have already indicated this characteristic detail.\n\nTwo men who have a secret in common, and who, by a sort of tacit\nagreement, exchange not a word on the subject, are less rare than is\ncommonly supposed.\n\nOnce only, did Marius make the attempt. He introduced into the\nconversation the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and, turning to M. Fauchelevent,\nhe said to him:\n\n Of course, you are acquainted with that street? \n\n\n What street? \n\n\n The Rue de la Chanvrerie. \n\n\n I have no idea of the name of that street,  replied M. Fauchelevent,\nin the most natural manner in the world.\n\nThe response which bore upon the name of the street and not upon the\nstreet itself, appeared to Marius to be more conclusive than it really\nwas.\n\n Decidedly,  thought he,  I have been dreaming. I have been subject to\na hallucination. It was some one who resembled him. M. Fauchelevent was\nnot there. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII TWO MEN IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND\n\n\nMarius  enchantment, great as it was, could not efface from his mind\nother pre-occupations.\n\nWhile the wedding was in preparation, and while awaiting the date fixed\nupon, he caused difficult and scrupulous retrospective researches to be\nmade.\n\nHe owed gratitude in various quarters; he owed it on his father s\naccount, he owed it on his own.\n\nThere was Th nardier; there was the unknown man who had brought him,\nMarius, back to M. Gillenormand.\n\nMarius endeavored to find these two men, not intending to marry, to be\nhappy, and to forget them, and fearing that, were these debts of\ngratitude not discharged, they would leave a shadow on his life, which\npromised so brightly for the future.\n\nIt was impossible for him to leave all these arrears of suffering\nbehind him, and he wished, before entering joyously into the future, to\nobtain a quittance from the past.\n\nThat Th nardier was a villain detracted nothing from the fact that he\nhad saved Colonel Pontmercy. Th nardier was a ruffian in the eyes of\nall the world except Marius.\n\nAnd Marius, ignorant of the real scene in the battle field of Waterloo,\nwas not aware of the peculiar detail, that his father, so far as\nTh nardier was concerned was in the strange position of being indebted\nto the latter for his life, without being indebted to him for any\ngratitude.\n\nNone of the various agents whom Marius employed succeeded in\ndiscovering any trace of Th nardier. Obliteration appeared to be\ncomplete in that quarter. Madame Th nardier had died in prison pending\nthe trial. Th nardier and his daughter Azelma, the only two remaining\nof that lamentable group, had plunged back into the gloom. The gulf of\nthe social unknown had silently closed above those beings. On the\nsurface there was not visible so much as that quiver, that trembling,\nthose obscure concentric circles which announce that something has\nfallen in, and that the plummet may be dropped.\n\nMadame Th nardier being dead, Boulatruelle being eliminated from the\ncase, Claquesous having disappeared, the principal persons accused\nhaving escaped from prison, the trial connected with the ambush in the\nGorbeau house had come to nothing.\n\nThat affair had remained rather obscure. The bench of Assizes had been\nobliged to content themselves with two subordinates. Panchaud, alias\nPrintanier, alias Bigrenaille, and Demi-Liard, alias Deux-Milliards,\nwho had been inconsistently condemned, after a hearing of both sides of\nthe case, to ten years in the galleys. Hard labor for life had been the\nsentence pronounced against the escaped and contumacious accomplices.\n\nTh nardier, the head and leader, had been, through contumacy, likewise\ncondemned to death.\n\nThis sentence was the only information remaining about Th nardier,\ncasting upon that buried name its sinister light like a candle beside a\nbier.\n\nMoreover, by thrusting Th nardier back into the very remotest depths,\nthrough a fear of being re-captured, this sentence added to the density\nof the shadows which enveloped this man.\n\nAs for the other person, as for the unknown man who had saved Marius,\nthe researches were at first to some extent successful, then came to an\nabrupt conclusion. They succeeded in finding the carriage which had\nbrought Marius to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire on the evening of the\n6th of June.\n\nThe coachman declared that, on the 6th of June, in obedience to the\ncommands of a police-agent, he had stood from three o clock in the\nafternoon until nightfall on the Quai des Champs- lys es, above the\noutlet of the Grand Sewer; that, towards nine o clock in the evening,\nthe grating of the sewer, which abuts on the bank of the river, had\nopened; that a man had emerged therefrom, bearing on his shoulders\nanother man, who seemed to be dead; that the agent, who was on the\nwatch at that point, had arrested the living man and had seized the\ndead man; that, at the order of the police-agent, he, the coachman, had\ntaken  all those folks  into his carriage; that they had first driven\nto the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; that they had there deposited the\ndead man; that the dead man was Monsieur Marius, and that he, the\ncoachman, recognized him perfectly, although he was alive  this time ;\nthat afterwards, they had entered the vehicle again, that he had\nwhipped up his horses; a few paces from the gate of the Archives, they\nhad called to him to halt; that there, in the street, they had paid him\nand left him, and that the police-agent had led the other man away;\nthat he knew nothing more; that the night had been very dark.\n\nMarius, as we have said, recalled nothing. He only remembered that he\nhad been seized from behind by an energetic hand at the moment when he\nwas falling backwards into the barricade; then, everything vanished so\nfar as he was concerned.\n\nHe had only regained consciousness at M. Gillenormand s.\n\nHe was lost in conjectures.\n\nHe could not doubt his own identity. Still, how had it come to pass\nthat, having fallen in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he had been picked up\nby the police-agent on the banks of the Seine, near the Pont des\nInvalides?\n\nSome one had carried him from the Quartier des Halles to the\nChamps- lys es. And how? Through the sewer. Unheard-of devotion!\n\nSome one? Who?\n\nThis was the man for whom Marius was searching.\n\nOf this man, who was his savior, nothing; not a trace; not the faintest\nindication.\n\nMarius, although forced to preserve great reserve, in that direction,\npushed his inquiries as far as the prefecture of police. There, no more\nthan elsewhere, did the information obtained lead to any enlightenment.\n\nThe prefecture knew less about the matter than did the\nhackney-coachman. They had no knowledge of any arrest having been made\non the 6th of June at the mouth of the Grand Sewer.\n\nNo report of any agent had been received there upon this matter, which\nwas regarded at the prefecture as a fable. The invention of this fable\nwas attributed to the coachman.\n\nA coachman who wants a gratuity is capable of anything, even of\nimagination. The fact was assured, nevertheless, and Marius could not\ndoubt it, unless he doubted his own identity, as we have just said.\n\nEverything about this singular enigma was inexplicable.\n\nWhat had become of that man, that mysterious man, whom the coachman had\nseen emerge from the grating of the Grand Sewer bearing upon his back\nthe unconscious Marius, and whom the police-agent on the watch had\narrested in the very act of rescuing an insurgent? What had become of\nthe agent himself?\n\nWhy had this agent preserved silence? Had the man succeeded in making\nhis escape? Had he bribed the agent? Why did this man give no sign of\nlife to Marius, who owed everything to him? His disinterestedness was\nno less tremendous than his devotion. Why had not that man appeared\nagain? Perhaps he was above compensation, but no one is above\ngratitude. Was he dead? Who was the man? What sort of a face had he? No\none could tell him this.\n\nThe coachman answered:  The night was very dark.  Basque and Nicolette,\nall in a flutter, had looked only at their young master all covered\nwith blood.\n\nThe porter, whose candle had lighted the tragic arrival of Marius, had\nbeen the only one to take note of the man in question, and this is the\ndescription that he gave:\n\n That man was terrible. \n\n\nMarius had the blood-stained clothing which he had worn when he had\nbeen brought back to his grandfather preserved, in the hope that it\nwould prove of service in his researches.\n\nOn examining the coat, it was found that one skirt had been torn in a\nsingular way. A piece was missing.\n\nOne evening, Marius was speaking in the presence of Cosette and Jean\nValjean of the whole of that singular adventure, of the innumerable\ninquiries which he had made, and of the fruitlessness of his efforts.\nThe cold countenance of  Monsieur Fauchelevent  angered him.\n\nHe exclaimed, with a vivacity which had something of wrath in it:\n\n Yes, that man, whoever he may have been, was sublime. Do you know what\nhe did, sir? He intervened like an archangel. He must have flung\nhimself into the midst of the battle, have stolen me away, have opened\nthe sewer, have dragged me into it and have carried me through it! He\nmust have traversed more than a league and a half in those frightful\nsubterranean galleries, bent over, weighed down, in the dark, in the\ncesspool, more than a league and a half, sir, with a corpse upon his\nback! And with what object? With the sole object of saving the corpse.\nAnd that corpse I was. He said to himself:  There may still be a\nglimpse of life there, perchance; I will risk my own existence for that\nmiserable spark!  And his existence he risked not once but twenty\ntimes! And every step was a danger. The proof of it is, that on\nemerging from the sewer, he was arrested. Do you know, sir, that that\nman did all this? And he had no recompense to expect. What was I? An\ninsurgent. What was I? One of the conquered. Oh! if Cosette s six\nhundred thousand francs were mine . \n\n\n They are yours,  interrupted Jean Valjean.\n\n Well,  resumed Marius,  I would give them all to find that man once\nmore. \n\n\nJean Valjean remained silent.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SIXTH THE SLEEPLESS NIGHT\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE 16TH OF FEBRUARY, 1833\n\n\nThe night of the 16th to the 17th of February, 1833, was a blessed\nnight. Above its shadows heaven stood open. It was the wedding night of\nMarius and Cosette.\n\nThe day had been adorable.\n\nIt had not been the grand festival dreamed by the grandfather, a fairy\nspectacle, with a confusion of cherubim and Cupids over the heads of\nthe bridal pair, a marriage worthy to form the subject of a painting to\nbe placed over a door; but it had been sweet and smiling.\n\nThe manner of marriage in 1833 was not the same as it is to-day. France\nhad not yet borrowed from England that supreme delicacy of carrying off\none s wife, of fleeing, on coming out of church, of hiding oneself with\nshame from one s happiness, and of combining the ways of a bankrupt\nwith the delights of the Song of Songs. People had not yet grasped to\nthe full the chastity, exquisiteness, and decency of jolting their\nparadise in a posting-chaise, of breaking up their mystery with\nclic-clacs, of taking for a nuptial bed the bed of an inn, and of\nleaving behind them, in a commonplace chamber, at so much a night, the\nmost sacred of the souvenirs of life mingled pell-mell with the\nt te- -t te of the conductor of the diligence and the maid-servant of\nthe inn.\n\nIn this second half of the nineteenth century in which we are now\nliving, the mayor and his scarf, the priest and his chasuble, the law\nand God no longer suffice; they must be eked out by the Postilion de\nLonjumeau; a blue waistcoat turned up with red, and with bell buttons,\na plaque like a vantbrace, knee-breeches of green leather, oaths to the\nNorman horses with their tails knotted up, false galloons, varnished\nhat, long powdered locks, an enormous whip and tall boots. France does\nnot yet carry elegance to the length of doing like the English\nnobility, and raining down on the post-chaise of the bridal pair a hail\nstorm of slippers trodden down at heel and of worn-out shoes, in memory\nof Churchill, afterwards Marlborough, or Malbrouck, who was assailed on\nhis wedding-day by the wrath of an aunt which brought him good luck.\nOld shoes and slippers do not, as yet, form a part of our nuptial\ncelebrations; but patience, as good taste continues to spread, we shall\ncome to that.\n\nIn 1833, a hundred years ago, marriage was not conducted at a full\ntrot.\n\nStrange to say, at that epoch, people still imagined that a wedding was\na private and social festival, that a patriarchal banquet does not\nspoil a domestic solemnity, that gayety, even in excess, provided it be\nhonest, and decent, does happiness no harm, and that, in short, it is a\ngood and a venerable thing that the fusion of these two destinies\nwhence a family is destined to spring, should begin at home, and that\nthe household should thenceforth have its nuptial chamber as its\nwitness.\n\nAnd people were so immodest as to marry in their own homes.\n\nThe marriage took place, therefore, in accordance with this now\nsuperannuated fashion, at M. Gillenormand s house.\n\nNatural and commonplace as this matter of marrying is, the banns to\npublish, the papers to be drawn up, the mayoralty, and the church\nproduce some complication. They could not get ready before the 16th of\nFebruary.\n\nNow, we note this detail, for the pure satisfaction of being exact, it\nchanced that the 16th fell on Shrove Tuesday. Hesitations, scruples,\nparticularly on the part of Aunt Gillenormand.\n\n Shrove Tuesday!  exclaimed the grandfather,  so much the better. There\nis a proverb:\n\n Mariage un Mardi gras\nN aura point enfants ingrats. 66\n\n\nLet us proceed. Here goes for the 16th! Do you want to delay, Marius? \n\n\n No, certainly not!  replied the lover.\n\n Let us marry, then,  cried the grandfather.\n\nAccordingly, the marriage took place on the 16th, notwithstanding the\npublic merrymaking. It rained that day, but there is always in the sky\na tiny scrap of blue at the service of happiness, which lovers see,\neven when the rest of creation is under an umbrella.\n\nOn the preceding evening, Jean Valjean handed to Marius, in the\npresence of M. Gillenormand, the five hundred and eighty-four thousand\nfrancs.\n\nAs the marriage was taking place under the r gime of community of\nproperty, the papers had been simple.\n\nHenceforth, Toussaint was of no use to Jean Valjean; Cosette inherited\nher and promoted her to the rank of lady s maid.\n\nAs for Jean Valjean, a beautiful chamber in the Gillenormand house had\nbeen furnished expressly for him, and Cosette had said to him in such\nan irresistible manner:  Father, I entreat you,  that she had almost\npersuaded him to promise that he would come and occupy it.\n\nA few days before that fixed on for the marriage, an accident happened\nto Jean Valjean; he crushed the thumb of his right hand. This was not a\nserious matter; and he had not allowed any one to trouble himself about\nit, nor to dress it, nor even to see his hurt, not even Cosette.\nNevertheless, this had forced him to swathe his hand in a linen\nbandage, and to carry his arm in a sling, and had prevented his\nsigning. M. Gillenormand, in his capacity of Cosette s\nsupervising-guardian, had supplied his place.\n\nWe will not conduct the reader either to the mayor s office or to the\nchurch. One does not follow a pair of lovers to that extent, and one is\naccustomed to turn one s back on the drama as soon as it puts a wedding\nnosegay in its buttonhole. We will confine ourselves to noting an\nincident which, though unnoticed by the wedding party, marked the\ntransit from the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire to the church of\nSaint-Paul.\n\nAt that epoch, the northern extremity of the Rue Saint-Louis was in\nprocess of repaving. It was barred off, beginning with the Rue du\nParc-Royal. It was impossible for the wedding carriages to go directly\nto Saint-Paul. They were obliged to alter their course, and the\nsimplest way was to turn through the boulevard. One of the invited\nguests observed that it was Shrove Tuesday, and that there would be a\njam of vehicles. Why?  asked M. Gillenormand Because of the\nmaskers. Capital,  said the grandfather,  let us go that way. These\nyoung folks are on the way to be married; they are about to enter the\nserious part of life. This will prepare them for seeing a bit of the\nmasquerade. \n\n\nThey went by way of the boulevard. The first wedding coach held Cosette\nand Aunt Gillenormand, M. Gillenormand and Jean Valjean. Marius, still\nseparated from his betrothed according to usage, did not come until the\nsecond. The nuptial train, on emerging from the Rue des\nFilles-du-Calvaire, became entangled in a long procession of vehicles\nwhich formed an endless chain from the Madeleine to the Bastille, and\nfrom the Bastille to the Madeleine. Maskers abounded on the boulevard.\nIn spite of the fact that it was raining at intervals, Merry-Andrew,\nPantaloon and Clown persisted. In the good humor of that winter of\n1833, Paris had disguised itself as Venice. Such Shrove Tuesdays are no\nlonger to be seen nowadays. Everything which exists being a scattered\nCarnival, there is no longer any Carnival.\n\nThe sidewalks were overflowing with pedestrians and the windows with\ncurious spectators. The terraces which crown the peristyles of the\ntheatres were bordered with spectators. Besides the maskers, they\nstared at that procession peculiar to Shrove Tuesday as to\nLongchamps, of vehicles of every description, citadines, tapissi res,\ncarioles, cabriolets marching in order, rigorously riveted to each\nother by the police regulations, and locked into rails, as it were. Any\none in these vehicles is at once a spectator and a spectacle. Police\nsergeants maintained, on the sides of the boulevard, these two\ninterminable parallel files, moving in contrary directions, and saw to\nit that nothing interfered with that double current, those two brooks\nof carriages, flowing, the one downstream, the other upstream, the one\ntowards the Chauss e d Antin, the other towards the Faubourg\nSaint-Antoine. The carriages of the peers of France and of the\nAmbassadors, emblazoned with coats of arms, held the middle of the way,\ngoing and coming freely. Certain joyous and magnificent trains, notably\nthat of the B uf Gras, had the same privilege. In this gayety of Paris,\nEngland cracked her whip; Lord Seymour s post-chaise, harassed by a\nnickname from the populace, passed with great noise.\n\nIn the double file, along which the municipal guards galloped like\nsheep-dogs, honest family coaches, loaded down with great-aunts and\ngrandmothers, displayed at their doors fresh groups of children in\ndisguise, Clowns of seven years of age, Columbines of six, ravishing\nlittle creatures, who felt that they formed an official part of the\npublic mirth, who were imbued with the dignity of their harlequinade,\nand who possessed the gravity of functionaries.\n\nFrom time to time, a hitch arose somewhere in the procession of\nvehicles; one or other of the two lateral files halted until the knot\nwas disentangled; one carriage delayed sufficed to paralyze the whole\nline. Then they set out again on the march.\n\nThe wedding carriages were in the file proceeding towards the Bastille,\nand skirting the right side of the Boulevard. At the top of the\nPont-aux-Choux, there was a stoppage. Nearly at the same moment, the\nother file, which was proceeding towards the Madeleine, halted also. At\nthat point of the file there was a carriage-load of maskers.\n\nThese carriages, or to speak more correctly, these wagon-loads of\nmaskers are very familiar to Parisians. If they were missing on a\nShrove Tuesday, or at the Mid-Lent, it would be taken in bad part, and\npeople would say:  There s something behind that. Probably the ministry\nis about to undergo a change.  A pile of Cassandras, Harlequins and\nColumbines, jolted along high above the passers-by, all possible\ngrotesquenesses, from the Turk to the savage, Hercules supporting\nMarquises, fishwives who would have made Rabelais stop up his ears just\nas the M nads made Aristophanes drop his eyes, tow wigs, pink tights,\ndandified hats, spectacles of a grimacer, three-cornered hats of Janot\ntormented with a butterfly, shouts directed at pedestrians, fists on\nhips, bold attitudes, bare shoulders, immodesty unchained; a chaos of\nshamelessness driven by a coachman crowned with flowers; this is what\nthat institution was like.\n\nGreece stood in need of the chariot of Thespis, France stands in need\nof the hackney-coach of Vad .\n\nEverything can be parodied, even parody. The Saturnalia, that grimace\nof antique beauty, ends, through exaggeration after exaggeration, in\nShrove Tuesday; and the Bacchanal, formerly crowned with sprays of vine\nleaves and grapes, inundated with sunshine, displaying her marble\nbreast in a divine semi-nudity, having at the present day lost her\nshape under the soaked rags of the North, has finally come to be called\nthe Jack-pudding.\n\nThe tradition of carriage-loads of maskers runs back to the most\nancient days of the monarchy. The accounts of Louis XI. allot to the\nbailiff of the palace  twenty sous, Tournois, for three coaches of\nmascarades in the crossroads.  In our day, these noisy heaps of\ncreatures are accustomed to have themselves driven in some ancient\ncuckoo carriage, whose imperial they load down, or they overwhelm a\nhired landau, with its top thrown back, with their tumultuous groups.\nTwenty of them ride in a carriage intended for six. They cling to the\nseats, to the rumble, on the cheeks of the hood, on the shafts. They\neven bestride the carriage lamps. They stand, sit, lie, with their\nknees drawn up in a knot, and their legs hanging. The women sit on the\nmen s laps. Far away, above the throng of heads, their wild pyramid is\nvisible. These carriage-loads form mountains of mirth in the midst of\nthe rout. Coll , Panard and Piron flow from it, enriched with slang.\nThis carriage which has become colossal through its freight, has an air\nof conquest. Uproar reigns in front, tumult behind. People vociferate,\nshout, howl, there they break forth and writhe with enjoyment; gayety\nroars; sarcasm flames forth, joviality is flaunted like a red flag; two\njades there drag farce blossomed forth into an apotheosis; it is the\ntriumphal car of laughter.\n\nA laughter that is too cynical to be frank. In truth, this laughter is\nsuspicious. This laughter has a mission. It is charged with proving the\nCarnival to the Parisians.\n\nThese fishwife vehicles, in which one feels one knows not what shadows,\nset the philosopher to thinking. There is government therein. There one\nlays one s finger on a mysterious affinity between public men and\npublic women.\n\nIt certainly is sad that turpitude heaped up should give a sum total of\ngayety, that by piling ignominy upon opprobrium the people should be\nenticed, that the system of spying, and serving as caryatids to\nprostitution should amuse the rabble when it confronts them, that the\ncrowd loves to behold that monstrous living pile of tinsel rags, half\ndung, half light, roll by on four wheels howling and laughing, that\nthey should clap their hands at this glory composed of all shames, that\nthere would be no festival for the populace, did not the police\npromenade in their midst these sorts of twenty-headed hydras of joy.\nBut what can be done about it? These be-ribboned and be-flowered\ntumbrils of mire are insulted and pardoned by the laughter of the\npublic. The laughter of all is the accomplice of universal degradation.\nCertain unhealthy festivals disaggregate the people and convert them\ninto the populace. And populaces, like tyrants, require buffoons. The\nKing has Roquelaure, the populace has the Merry-Andrew. Paris is a\ngreat, mad city on every occasion that it is a great sublime city.\nThere the Carnival forms part of politics. Paris, let us confess\nit willingly allows infamy to furnish it with comedy. She only demands\nof her masters when she has masters one thing:  Paint me the mud.  Rome\nwas of the same mind. She loved Nero. Nero was a titanic lighterman.\n\nChance ordained, as we have just said, that one of these shapeless\nclusters of masked men and women, dragged about on a vast calash,\nshould halt on the left of the boulevard, while the wedding train\nhalted on the right. The carriage-load of masks caught sight of the\nwedding carriage containing the bridal party opposite them on the other\nside of the boulevard.\n\n Hullo!  said a masker,  here s a wedding. \n\n\n A sham wedding,  retorted another.  We are the genuine article. \n\n\nAnd, being too far off to accost the wedding party, and fearing also,\nthe rebuke of the police, the two maskers turned their eyes elsewhere.\n\nAt the end of another minute, the carriage-load of maskers had their\nhands full, the multitude set to yelling, which is the crowd s caress\nto masquerades; and the two maskers who had just spoken had to face the\nthrong with their comrades, and did not find the entire repertory of\nprojectiles of the fishmarkets too extensive to retort to the enormous\nverbal attacks of the populace. A frightful exchange of metaphors took\nplace between the maskers and the crowd.\n\nIn the meanwhile, two other maskers in the same carriage, a Spaniard\nwith an enormous nose, an elderly air, and huge black moustache, and a\ngaunt fishwife, who was quite a young girl, masked with a _loup_,67 had\nalso noticed the wedding, and while their companions and the passers-by\nwere exchanging insults, they had held a dialogue in a low voice.\n\nTheir aside was covered by the tumult and was lost in it. The gusts of\nrain had drenched the front of the vehicle, which was wide open; the\nbreezes of February are not warm; as the fishwife, clad in a low-necked\ngown, replied to the Spaniard, she shivered, laughed and coughed.\n\nHere is their dialogue:\n\n Say, now. \n\n\n What, daddy? \n\n\n Do you see that old cove? \n\n\n What old cove? \n\n\n Yonder, in the first wedding-cart, on our side. \n\n\n The one with his arm hung up in a black cravat? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n I m sure that I know him. \n\n\n Ah! \n\n\n I m willing that they should cut my throat, and I m ready to swear\nthat I never said either you, thou, or I, in my life, if I don t know\nthat Parisian.  [_pantinois_.]\n\n Paris in Pantin to-day. \n\n\n Can you see the bride if you stoop down? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n And the bridegroom? \n\n\n There s no bridegroom in that trap. \n\n\n Bah! \n\n\n Unless it s the old fellow. \n\n\n Try to get a sight of the bride by stooping very low. \n\n\n I can t. \n\n\n Never mind, that old cove who has something the matter with his paw I\nknow, and that I m positive. \n\n\n And what good does it do to know him? \n\n\n No one can tell. Sometimes it does! \n\n\n I don t care a hang for old fellows, that I don t! \n\n\n I know him. \n\n\n Know him, if you want to. \n\n\n How the devil does he come to be one of the wedding party? \n\n\n We are in it, too. \n\n\n Where does that wedding come from? \n\n\n How should I know? \n\n\n Listen. \n\n\n Well, what? \n\n\n There s one thing you ought to do. \n\n\n What s that? \n\n\n Get off of our trap and spin that wedding. \n\n\n What for? \n\n\n To find out where it goes, and what it is. Hurry up and jump down,\ntrot, my girl, your legs are young. \n\n\n I can t quit the vehicle. \n\n\n Why not? \n\n\n I m hired. \n\n\n Ah, the devil! \n\n\n I owe my fishwife day to the prefecture. \n\n\n That s true. \n\n\n If I leave the cart, the first inspector who gets his eye on me will\narrest me. You know that well enough. \n\n\n Yes, I do. \n\n\n I m bought by the government for to-day. \n\n\n All the same, that old fellow bothers me. \n\n\n Do the old fellows bother you? But you re not a young girl. \n\n\n He s in the first carriage. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n In the bride s trap. \n\n\n What then? \n\n\n So he is the father. \n\n\n What concern is that of mine? \n\n\n I tell you that he s the father. \n\n\n As if he were the only father. \n\n\n Listen. \n\n\n What? \n\n\n I can t go out otherwise than masked. Here I m concealed, no one knows\nthat I m here. But to-morrow, there will be no more maskers. It s Ash\nWednesday. I run the risk of being nabbed. I must sneak back into my\nhole. But you are free. \n\n\n Not particularly. \n\n\n More than I am, at any rate. \n\n\n Well, what of that? \n\n\n You must try to find out where that wedding party went to. \n\n\n Where it went? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n I know. \n\n\n Where is it going then? \n\n\n To the Cadran-Bleu. \n\n\n In the first place, it s not in that direction. \n\n\n Well! to la Rap e. \n\n\n Or elsewhere. \n\n\n It s free. Wedding parties are at liberty. \n\n\n That s not the point at all. I tell you that you must try to learn for\nme what that wedding is, who that old cove belongs to, and where that\nwedding pair lives. \n\n\n I like that! that would be queer. It s so easy to find out a wedding\nparty that passed through the street on a Shrove Tuesday, a week\nafterwards. A pin in a hay-mow! It ain t possible! \n\n\n That don t matter. You must try. You understand me, Azelma. \n\n\nThe two files resumed their movement on both sides of the boulevard, in\nopposite directions, and the carriage of the maskers lost sight of the\n trap  of the bride.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II JEAN VALJEAN STILL WEARS HIS ARM IN A SLING\n\n\nTo realize one s dream. To whom is this accorded? There must be\nelections for this in heaven; we are all candidates, unknown to\nourselves; the angels vote. Cosette and Marius had been elected.\n\nCosette, both at the mayor s office and at church, was dazzling and\ntouching. Toussaint, assisted by Nicolette, had dressed her.\n\nCosette wore over a petticoat of white taffeta, her robe of Binche\nguipure, a veil of English point, a necklace of fine pearls, a wreath\nof orange flowers; all this was white, and, from the midst of that\nwhiteness she beamed forth. It was an exquisite candor expanding and\nbecoming transfigured in the light. One would have pronounced her a\nvirgin on the point of turning into a goddess.\n\nMarius  handsome hair was lustrous and perfumed; here and there,\nbeneath the thick curls, pale lines the scars of the barricade were\nvisible.\n\nThe grandfather, haughty, with head held high, amalgamating more than\never in his toilet and his manners all the elegances of the epoch of\nBarras, escorted Cosette. He took the place of Jean Valjean, who, on\naccount of his arm being still in a sling, could not give his hand to\nthe bride.\n\nJean Valjean, dressed in black, followed them with a smile.\n\n Monsieur Fauchelevent,  said the grandfather to him,  this is a fine\nday. I vote for the end of afflictions and sorrows. Henceforth, there\nmust be no sadness anywhere. Pardieu, I decree joy! Evil has no right\nto exist. That there should be any unhappy men is, in sooth, a disgrace\nto the azure of the sky. Evil does not come from man, who is good at\nbottom. All human miseries have for their capital and central\ngovernment hell, otherwise, known as the Devil s Tuileries. Good, here\nI am uttering demagogical words! As far as I am concerned, I have no\nlonger any political opinions; let all men be rich, that is to say,\nmirthful, and I confine myself to that. \n\n\nWhen, at the conclusion of all the ceremonies, after having pronounced\nbefore the mayor and before the priest all possible  yesses,  after\nhaving signed the registers at the municipality and at the sacristy,\nafter having exchanged their rings, after having knelt side by side\nunder the pall of white moire in the smoke of the censer, they arrived,\nhand in hand, admired and envied by all, Marius in black, she in white,\npreceded by the suisse, with the epaulets of a colonel, tapping the\npavement with his halberd, between two rows of astonished spectators,\nat the portals of the church, both leaves of which were thrown wide\nopen, ready to enter their carriage again, and all being finished,\nCosette still could not believe that it was real. She looked at Marius,\nshe looked at the crowd, she looked at the sky: it seemed as though she\nfeared that she should wake up from her dream. Her amazed and uneasy\nair added something indescribably enchanting to her beauty. They\nentered the same carriage to return home, Marius beside Cosette; M.\nGillenormand and Jean Valjean sat opposite them; Aunt Gillenormand had\nwithdrawn one degree, and was in the second vehicle.\n\n My children,  said the grandfather,  here you are, Monsieur le Baron\nand Madame la Baronne, with an income of thirty thousand livres. \n\n\nAnd Cosette, nestling close to Marius, caressed his ear with an angelic\nwhisper:  So it is true. My name is Marius. I am Madame Thou. \n\n\nThese two creatures were resplendent. They had reached that irrevocable\nand irrecoverable moment, at the dazzling intersection of all youth and\nall joy. They realized the verses of Jean Prouvaire; they were forty\nyears old taken together. It was marriage sublimated; these two\nchildren were two lilies. They did not see each other, they did not\ncontemplate each other. Cosette perceived Marius in the midst of a\nglory; Marius perceived Cosette on an altar. And on that altar, and in\nthat glory, the two apotheoses mingling, in the background, one knows\nnot how, behind a cloud for Cosette, in a flash for Marius, there was\nthe ideal thing, the real thing, the meeting of the kiss and the dream,\nthe nuptial pillow. All the torments through which they had passed came\nback to them in intoxication. It seemed to them that their sorrows,\ntheir sleepless nights, their tears, their anguish, their terrors,\ntheir despair, converted into caresses and rays of light, rendered\nstill more charming the charming hour which was approaching; and that\ntheir griefs were but so many handmaidens who were preparing the toilet\nof joy. How good it is to have suffered! Their unhappiness formed a\nhalo round their happiness. The long agony of their love was\nterminating in an ascension.\n\nIt was the same enchantment in two souls, tinged with voluptuousness in\nMarius, and with modesty in Cosette. They said to each other in low\ntones:  We will go back to take a look at our little garden in the Rue\nPlumet.  The folds of Cosette s gown lay across Marius.\n\nSuch a day is an ineffable mixture of dream and of reality. One\npossesses and one supposes. One still has time before one to divine.\nThe emotion on that day, of being at midday and of dreaming of midnight\nis indescribable. The delights of these two hearts overflowed upon the\ncrowd, and inspired the passers-by with cheerfulness.\n\nPeople halted in the Rue Saint-Antoine, in front of Saint-Paul, to gaze\nthrough the windows of the carriage at the orange-flowers quivering on\nCosette s head.\n\nThen they returned home to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Marius,\ntriumphant and radiant, mounted side by side with Cosette the staircase\nup which he had been borne in a dying condition. The poor, who had\ntrooped to the door, and who shared their purses, blessed them. There\nwere flowers everywhere. The house was no less fragrant than the\nchurch; after the incense, roses. They thought they heard voices\ncarolling in the infinite; they had God in their hearts; destiny\nappeared to them like a ceiling of stars; above their heads they beheld\nthe light of a rising sun. All at once, the clock struck. Marius\nglanced at Cosette s charming bare arm, and at the rosy things which\nwere vaguely visible through the lace of her bodice, and Cosette,\nintercepting Marius  glance, blushed to her very hair.\n\nQuite a number of old family friends of the Gillenormand family had\nbeen invited; they pressed about Cosette. Each one vied with the rest\nin saluting her as Madame la Baronne.\n\nThe officer, Th odule Gillenormand, now a captain, had come from\nChartres, where he was stationed in garrison, to be present at the\nwedding of his cousin Pontmercy. Cosette did not recognize him.\n\nHe, on his side, habituated as he was to have women consider him\nhandsome, retained no more recollection of Cosette than of any other\nwoman.\n\n How right I was not to believe in that story about the lancer!  said\nFather Gillenormand, to himself.\n\nCosette had never been more tender with Jean Valjean. She was in unison\nwith Father Gillenormand; while he erected joy into aphorisms and\nmaxims, she exhaled goodness like a perfume. Happiness desires that all\nthe world should be happy.\n\nShe regained, for the purpose of addressing Jean Valjean, inflections\nof voice belonging to the time when she was a little girl. She caressed\nhim with her smile.\n\nA banquet had been spread in the dining-room.\n\nIllumination as brilliant as the daylight is the necessary seasoning of\na great joy. Mist and obscurity are not accepted by the happy. They do\nnot consent to be black. The night, yes; the shadows, no. If there is\nno sun, one must be made.\n\nThe dining-room was full of gay things. In the centre, above the white\nand glittering table, was a Venetian lustre with flat plates, with all\nsorts of colored birds, blue, violet, red, and green, perched amid the\ncandles; around the chandelier, girandoles, on the walls, sconces with\ntriple and quintuple branches; mirrors, silverware, glassware, plate,\nporcelain, fa ence, pottery, gold and silversmith s work, all was\nsparkling and gay. The empty spaces between the candelabra were filled\nin with bouquets, so that where there was not a light, there was a\nflower.\n\nIn the antechamber, three violins and a flute softly played quartettes\nby Haydn.\n\nJean Valjean had seated himself on a chair in the drawing-room, behind\nthe door, the leaf of which folded back upon him in such a manner as to\nnearly conceal him. A few moments before they sat down to table,\nCosette came, as though inspired by a sudden whim, and made him a deep\ncourtesy, spreading out her bridal toilet with both hands, and with a\ntenderly roguish glance, she asked him:\n\n Father, are you satisfied? \n\n\n Yes,  said Jean Valjean,  I am content! \n\n\n Well, then, laugh. \n\n\nJean Valjean began to laugh.\n\nA few moments later, Basque announced that dinner was served.\n\nThe guests, preceded by M. Gillenormand with Cosette on his arm,\nentered the dining-room, and arranged themselves in the proper order\naround the table.\n\nTwo large armchairs figured on the right and left of the bride, the\nfirst for M. Gillenormand, the other for Jean Valjean. M. Gillenormand\ntook his seat. The other armchair remained empty.\n\nThey looked about for M. Fauchelevent.\n\nHe was no longer there.\n\nM. Gillenormand questioned Basque.\n\n Do you know where M. Fauchelevent is? \n\n\n Sir,  replied Basque,  I do, precisely. M. Fauchelevent told me to say\nto you, sir, that he was suffering, his injured hand was paining him\nsomewhat, and that he could not dine with Monsieur le Baron and Madame\nla Baronne. That he begged to be excused, that he would come to-morrow.\nHe has just taken his departure. \n\n\nThat empty armchair chilled the effusion of the wedding feast for a\nmoment. But, if M. Fauchelevent was absent, M. Gillenormand was\npresent, and the grandfather beamed for two. He affirmed that M.\nFauchelevent had done well to retire early, if he were suffering, but\nthat it was only a slight ailment. This declaration sufficed. Moreover,\nwhat is an obscure corner in such a submersion of joy? Cosette and\nMarius were passing through one of those egotistical and blessed\nmoments when no other faculty is left to a person than that of\nreceiving happiness. And then, an idea occurred to M.\nGillenormand. Pardieu, this armchair is empty. Come hither, Marius.\nYour aunt will permit it, although she has a right to you. This\narmchair is for you. That is legal and delightful. Fortunatus beside\nFortunata. Applause from the whole table. Marius took Jean Valjean s\nplace beside Cosette, and things fell out so that Cosette, who had, at\nfirst, been saddened by Jean Valjean s absence, ended by being\nsatisfied with it. From the moment when Marius took his place, and was\nthe substitute, Cosette would not have regretted God himself. She set\nher sweet little foot, shod in white satin, on Marius  foot.\n\nThe armchair being occupied, M. Fauchelevent was obliterated; and\nnothing was lacking.\n\nAnd, five minutes afterward, the whole table from one end to the other,\nwas laughing with all the animation of forgetfulness.\n\nAt dessert, M. Gillenormand, rising to his feet, with a glass of\nchampagne in his hand only half full so that the palsy of his eighty\nyears might not cause an overflow, proposed the health of the married\npair.\n\n You shall not escape two sermons,  he exclaimed.  This morning you had\none from the cur , this evening you shall have one from your\ngrandfather. Listen to me; I will give you a bit of advice: Adore each\nother. I do not make a pack of gyrations, I go straight to the mark, be\nhappy. In all creation, only the turtledoves are wise. Philosophers\nsay:  Moderate your joys.  I say:  Give rein to your joys.  Be as much\nsmitten with each other as fiends. Be in a rage about it. The\nphilosophers talk stuff and nonsense. I should like to stuff their\nphilosophy down their gullets again. Can there be too many perfumes,\ntoo many open rose-buds, too many nightingales singing, too many green\nleaves, too much aurora in life? can people love each other too much?\ncan people please each other too much? Take care, Estelle, thou art too\npretty! Have a care, Nemorin, thou art too handsome! Fine stupidity, in\nsooth! Can people enchant each other too much, cajole each other too\nmuch, charm each other too much? Can one be too much alive, too happy?\nModerate your joys. Ah, indeed! Down with the philosophers! Wisdom\nconsists in jubilation. Make merry, let us make merry. Are we happy\nbecause we are good, or are we good because we are happy? Is the Sancy\ndiamond called the Sancy because it belonged to Harley de Sancy, or\nbecause it weighs six hundred carats? I know nothing about it, life is\nfull of such problems; the important point is to possess the Sancy and\nhappiness. Let us be happy without quibbling and quirking. Let us obey\nthe sun blindly. What is the sun? It is love. He who says love, says\nwoman. Ah! ah! behold omnipotence women. Ask that demagogue of a Marius\nif he is not the slave of that little tyrant of a Cosette. And of his\nown free will, too, the coward! Woman! There is no Robespierre who\nkeeps his place but woman reigns. I am no longer Royalist except\ntowards that royalty. What is Adam? The kingdom of Eve. No  89 for Eve.\nThere has been the royal sceptre surmounted by a fleur-de-lys, there\nhas been the imperial sceptre surmounted by a globe, there has been the\nsceptre of Charlemagne, which was of iron, there has been the sceptre\nof Louis the Great, which was of gold, the revolution twisted them\nbetween its thumb and forefinger, ha penny straws; it is done with, it\nis broken, it lies on the earth, there is no longer any sceptre, but\nmake me a revolution against that little embroidered handkerchief,\nwhich smells of patchouli! I should like to see you do it. Try. Why is\nit so solid? Because it is a gewgaw. Ah! you are the nineteenth\ncentury? Well, what then? And we have been as foolish as you. Do not\nimagine that you have effected much change in the universe, because\nyour trip-gallant is called the cholera-morbus, and because your\n_pourr e_ is called the cachuca. In fact, the women must always be\nloved. I defy you to escape from that. These friends are our angels.\nYes, love, woman, the kiss forms a circle from which I defy you to\nescape; and, for my own part, I should be only too happy to re-enter\nit. Which of you has seen the planet Venus, the coquette of the abyss,\nthe C lim ne of the ocean, rise in the infinite, calming all here\nbelow? The ocean is a rough Alcestis. Well, grumble as he will, when\nVenus appears he is forced to smile. That brute beast submits. We are\nall made so. Wrath, tempest, claps of thunder, foam to the very\nceiling. A woman enters on the scene, a planet rises; flat on your\nface! Marius was fighting six months ago; to-day he is married. That is\nwell. Yes, Marius, yes, Cosette, you are in the right. Exist boldly for\neach other, make us burst with rage that we cannot do the same,\nidealize each other, catch in your beaks all the tiny blades of\nfelicity that exist on earth, and arrange yourselves a nest for life.\nPardi, to love, to be loved, what a fine miracle when one is young!\nDon t imagine that you have invented that. I, too, have had my dream,\nI, too, have meditated, I, too, have sighed; I, too, have had a\nmoonlight soul. Love is a child six thousand years old. Love has the\nright to a long white beard. Methusalem is a street arab beside Cupid.\nFor sixty centuries men and women have got out of their scrape by\nloving. The devil, who is cunning, took to hating man; man, who is\nstill more cunning, took to loving woman. In this way he does more good\nthan the devil does him harm. This craft was discovered in the days of\nthe terrestrial paradise. The invention is old, my friends, but it is\nperfectly new. Profit by it. Be Daphnis and Chloe, while waiting to\nbecome Philemon and Baucis. Manage so that, when you are with each\nother, nothing shall be lacking to you, and that Cosette may be the sun\nfor Marius, and that Marius may be the universe to Cosette. Cosette,\nlet your fine weather be the smile of your husband; Marius, let your\nrain be your wife s tears. And let it never rain in your household. You\nhave filched the winning number in the lottery; you have gained the\ngreat prize, guard it well, keep it under lock and key, do not squander\nit, adore each other and snap your fingers at all the rest. Believe\nwhat I say to you. It is good sense. And good sense cannot lie. Be a\nreligion to each other. Each man has his own fashion of adoring God.\nSaperlotte! the best way to adore God is to love one s wife. _I love\nthee!_ that s my catechism. He who loves is orthodox. The oath of Henri\nIV. places sanctity somewhere between feasting and drunkenness.\nVentre-saint-gris! I don t belong to the religion of that oath. Woman\nis forgotten in it. This astonishes me on the part of Henri IV. My\nfriends, long live women! I am old, they say; it s astonishing how much\nI feel in the mood to be young. I should like to go and listen to the\nbagpipes in the woods. Children who contrive to be beautiful and\ncontented, that intoxicates me. I would like greatly to get married, if\nany one would have me. It is impossible to imagine that God could have\nmade us for anything but this: to idolize, to coo, to preen ourselves,\nto be dove-like, to be dainty, to bill and coo our loves from morn to\nnight, to gaze at one s image in one s little wife, to be proud, to be\ntriumphant, to plume oneself; that is the aim of life. There, let not\nthat displease you which we used to think in our day, when we were\nyoung folks. Ah! vertu-bamboche! what charming women there were in\nthose days, and what pretty little faces and what lovely lasses! I\ncommitted my ravages among them. Then love each other. If people did\nnot love each other, I really do not see what use there would be in\nhaving any springtime; and for my own part, I should pray the good God\nto shut up all the beautiful things that he shows us, and to take away\nfrom us and put back in his box, the flowers, the birds, and the pretty\nmaidens. My children, receive an old man s blessing. \n\n\nThe evening was gay, lively and agreeable. The grandfather s sovereign\ngood humor gave the key-note to the whole feast, and each person\nregulated his conduct on that almost centenarian cordiality. They\ndanced a little, they laughed a great deal; it was an amiable wedding.\nGoodman Days of Yore might have been invited to it. However, he was\npresent in the person of Father Gillenormand.\n\nThere was a tumult, then silence.\n\nThe married pair disappeared.\n\nA little after midnight, the Gillenormand house became a temple.\n\nHere we pause. On the threshold of wedding nights stands a smiling\nangel with his finger on his lips.\n\nThe soul enters into contemplation before that sanctuary where the\ncelebration of love takes place.\n\nThere should be flashes of light athwart such houses. The joy which\nthey contain ought to make its escape through the stones of the walls\nin brilliancy, and vaguely illuminate the gloom. It is impossible that\nthis sacred and fatal festival should not give off a celestial radiance\nto the infinite. Love is the sublime crucible wherein the fusion of the\nman and the woman takes place; the being one, the being triple, the\nbeing final, the human trinity proceeds from it. This birth of two\nsouls into one, ought to be an emotion for the gloom. The lover is the\npriest; the ravished virgin is terrified. Something of that joy ascends\nto God. Where true marriage is, that is to say, where there is love,\nthe ideal enters in. A nuptial bed makes a nook of dawn amid the\nshadows. If it were given to the eye of the flesh to scan the\nformidable and charming visions of the upper life, it is probable that\nwe should behold the forms of night, the winged unknowns, the blue\npassers of the invisible, bend down, a throng of sombre heads, around\nthe luminous house, satisfied, showering benedictions, pointing out to\neach other the virgin wife gently alarmed, sweetly terrified, and\nbearing the reflection of human bliss upon their divine countenances.\nIf at that supreme hour, the wedded pair, dazzled with voluptuousness\nand believing themselves alone, were to listen, they would hear in\ntheir chamber a confused rustling of wings. Perfect happiness implies a\nmutual understanding with the angels. That dark little chamber has all\nheaven for its ceiling. When two mouths, rendered sacred by love,\napproach to create, it is impossible that there should not be, above\nthat ineffable kiss, a quivering throughout the immense mystery of\nstars.\n\nThese felicities are the true ones. There is no joy outside of these\njoys. Love is the only ecstasy. All the rest weeps.\n\nTo love, or to have loved, this suffices. Demand nothing more. There is\nno other pearl to be found in the shadowy folds of life. To love is a\nfulfilment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE INSEPARABLE\n\n\nWhat had become of Jean Valjean?\n\nImmediately after having laughed, at Cosette s graceful command, when\nno one was paying any heed to him, Jean Valjean had risen and had\ngained the antechamber unperceived. This was the very room which, eight\nmonths before, he had entered black with mud, with blood and powder,\nbringing back the grandson to the grandfather. The old wainscoting was\ngarlanded with foliage and flowers; the musicians were seated on the\nsofa on which they had laid Marius down. Basque, in a black coat,\nknee-breeches, white stockings and white gloves, was arranging roses\nround all of the dishes that were to be served. Jean Valjean pointed to\nhis arm in its sling, charged Basque to explain his absence, and went\naway.\n\nThe long windows of the dining-room opened on the street. Jean Valjean\nstood for several minutes, erect and motionless in the darkness,\nbeneath those radiant windows. He listened. The confused sounds of the\nbanquet reached his ear. He heard the loud, commanding tones of the\ngrandfather, the violins, the clatter of the plates, the bursts of\nlaughter, and through all that merry uproar, he distinguished Cosette s\nsweet and joyous voice.\n\nHe quitted the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and returned to the Rue de\nl Homme Arm .\n\nIn order to return thither, he took the Rue Saint-Louis, the Rue\nCulture-Sainte-Catherine, and the Blancs-Manteaux; it was a little\nlonger, but it was the road through which, for the last three months,\nhe had become accustomed to pass every day on his way from the Rue de\nl Homme Arm  to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, in order to avoid the\nobstructions and the mud in the Rue Vieille-du-Temple.\n\nThis road, through which Cosette had passed, excluded for him all\npossibility of any other itinerary.\n\nJean Valjean entered his lodgings. He lighted his candle and mounted\nthe stairs. The apartment was empty. Even Toussaint was no longer\nthere. Jean Valjean s step made more noise than usual in the chambers.\nAll the cupboards stood open. He penetrated to Cosette s bedroom. There\nwere no sheets on the bed. The pillow, covered with ticking, and\nwithout a case or lace, was laid on the blankets folded up on the foot\nof the mattress, whose covering was visible, and on which no one was\never to sleep again. All the little feminine objects which Cosette was\nattached to had been carried away; nothing remained except the heavy\nfurniture and the four walls. Toussaint s bed was despoiled in like\nmanner. One bed only was made up, and seemed to be waiting some one,\nand this was Jean Valjean s bed.\n\nJean Valjean looked at the walls, closed some of the cupboard doors,\nand went and came from one room to another.\n\nThen he sought his own chamber once more, and set his candle on a\ntable.\n\nHe had disengaged his arm from the sling, and he used his right hand as\nthough it did not hurt him.\n\nHe approached his bed, and his eyes rested, was it by chance? was it\nintentionally? on the _inseparable_ of which Cosette had been jealous,\non the little portmanteau which never left him. On his arrival in the\nRue de l Homme Arm , on the 4th of June, he had deposited it on a round\ntable near the head of his bed. He went to this table with a sort of\nvivacity, took a key from his pocket, and opened the valise.\n\nFrom it he slowly drew forth the garments in which, ten years before,\nCosette had quitted Montfermeil; first the little gown, then the black\nfichu, then the stout, coarse child s shoes which Cosette might almost\nhave worn still, so tiny were her feet, then the fustian bodice, which\nwas very thick, then the knitted petticoat, next the apron with\npockets, then the woollen stockings. These stockings, which still\npreserved the graceful form of a tiny leg, were no longer than Jean\nValjean s hand. All this was black of hue. It was he who had brought\nthose garments to Montfermeil for her. As he removed them from the\nvalise, he laid them on the bed. He fell to thinking. He called up\nmemories. It was in winter, in a very cold month of December, she was\nshivering, half-naked, in rags, her poor little feet were all red in\ntheir wooden shoes. He, Jean Valjean, had made her abandon those rags\nto clothe herself in these mourning habiliments. The mother must have\nfelt pleased in her grave, to see her daughter wearing mourning for\nher, and, above all, to see that she was properly clothed, and that she\nwas warm. He thought of that forest of Montfermeil; they had traversed\nit together, Cosette and he; he thought of what the weather had been,\nof the leafless trees, of the wood destitute of birds, of the sunless\nsky; it mattered not, it was charming. He arranged the tiny garments on\nthe bed, the fichu next to the petticoat, the stockings beside the\nshoes, and he looked at them, one after the other. She was no taller\nthan that, she had her big doll in her arms, she had put her louis d or\nin the pocket of that apron, she had laughed, they walked hand in hand,\nshe had no one in the world but him.\n\nThen his venerable, white head fell forward on the bed, that stoical\nold heart broke, his face was engulfed, so to speak, in Cosette s\ngarments, and if any one had passed up the stairs at that moment, he\nwould have heard frightful sobs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE IMMORTAL LIVER 68\n\n\nThe old and formidable struggle, of which we have already witnessed so\nmany phases, began once more.\n\nJacob struggled with the angel but one night. Alas! how many times have\nwe beheld Jean Valjean seized bodily by his conscience, in the\ndarkness, and struggling desperately against it!\n\nUnheard-of conflict! At certain moments the foot slips; at other\nmoments the ground crumbles away underfoot. How many times had that\nconscience, mad for the good, clasped and overthrown him! How many\ntimes had the truth set her knee inexorably upon his breast! How many\ntimes, hurled to earth by the light, had he begged for mercy! How many\ntimes had that implacable spark, lighted within him, and upon him by\nthe Bishop, dazzled him by force when he had wished to be blind! How\nmany times had he risen to his feet in the combat, held fast to the\nrock, leaning against sophism, dragged in the dust, now getting the\nupper hand of his conscience, again overthrown by it! How many times,\nafter an equivoque, after the specious and treacherous reasoning of\negotism, had he heard his irritated conscience cry in his ear:  A trip!\nyou wretch!  How many times had his refractory thoughts rattled\nconvulsively in his throat, under the evidence of duty! Resistance to\nGod. Funereal sweats. What secret wounds which he alone felt bleed!\nWhat excoriations in his lamentable existence! How many times he had\nrisen bleeding, bruised, broken, enlightened, despair in his heart,\nserenity in his soul! and, vanquished, he had felt himself the\nconqueror. And, after having dislocated, broken, and rent his\nconscience with red-hot pincers, it had said to him, as it stood over\nhim, formidable, luminous, and tranquil:  Now, go in peace! \n\n\nBut on emerging from so melancholy a conflict, what a lugubrious peace,\nalas!\n\nNevertheless, that night Jean Valjean felt that he was passing through\nhis final combat.\n\nA heart-rending question presented itself.\n\nPredestinations are not all direct; they do not open out in a straight\navenue before the predestined man; they have blind courts, impassable\nalleys, obscure turns, disturbing crossroads offering the choice of\nmany ways. Jean Valjean had halted at that moment at the most perilous\nof these crossroads.\n\nHe had come to the supreme crossing of good and evil. He had that\ngloomy intersection beneath his eyes. On this occasion once more, as\nhad happened to him already in other sad vicissitudes, two roads opened\nout before him, the one tempting, the other alarming.\n\nWhich was he to take?\n\nHe was counselled to the one which alarmed him by that mysterious index\nfinger which we all perceive whenever we fix our eyes on the darkness.\n\nOnce more, Jean Valjean had the choice between the terrible port and\nthe smiling ambush.\n\nIs it then true? the soul may recover; but not fate. Frightful thing!\nan incurable destiny!\n\nThis is the problem which presented itself to him:\n\nIn what manner was Jean Valjean to behave in relation to the happiness\nof Cosette and Marius? It was he who had willed that happiness, it was\nhe who had brought it about; he had, himself, buried it in his\nentrails, and at that moment, when he reflected on it, he was able to\nenjoy the sort of satisfaction which an armorer would experience on\nrecognizing his factory mark on a knife, on withdrawing it, all\nsmoking, from his own breast.\n\nCosette had Marius, Marius possessed Cosette. They had everything, even\nriches. And this was his doing.\n\nBut what was he, Jean Valjean, to do with this happiness, now that it\nexisted, now that it was there? Should he force himself on this\nhappiness? Should he treat it as belonging to him? No doubt, Cosette\ndid belong to another; but should he, Jean Valjean, retain of Cosette\nall that he could retain? Should he remain the sort of father, half\nseen but respected, which he had hitherto been? Should he, without\nsaying a word, bring his past to that future? Should he present himself\nthere, as though he had a right, and should he seat himself, veiled, at\nthat luminous fireside? Should he take those innocent hands into his\ntragic hands, with a smile? Should he place upon the peaceful fender of\nthe Gillenormand drawing-room those feet of his, which dragged behind\nthem the disgraceful shadow of the law? Should he enter into\nparticipation in the fair fortunes of Cosette and Marius? Should he\nrender the obscurity on his brow and the cloud upon theirs still more\ndense? Should he place his catastrophe as a third associate in their\nfelicity? Should he continue to hold his peace? In a word, should he be\nthe sinister mute of destiny beside these two happy beings?\n\nWe must have become habituated to fatality and to encounters with it,\nin order to have the daring to raise our eyes when certain questions\nappear to us in all their horrible nakedness. Good or evil stands\nbehind this severe interrogation point. What are you going to do?\ndemands the sphinx.\n\nThis habit of trial Jean Valjean possessed. He gazed intently at the\nsphinx.\n\nHe examined the pitiless problem under all its aspects.\n\nCosette, that charming existence, was the raft of this shipwreck. What\nwas he to do? To cling fast to it, or to let go his hold?\n\nIf he clung to it, he should emerge from disaster, he should ascend\nagain into the sunlight, he should let the bitter water drip from his\ngarments and his hair, he was saved, he should live.\n\nAnd if he let go his hold?\n\nThen the abyss.\n\nThus he took sad council with his thoughts. Or, to speak more\ncorrectly, he fought; he kicked furiously internally, now against his\nwill, now against his conviction.\n\nHappily for Jean Valjean that he had been able to weep. That relieved\nhim, possibly. But the beginning was savage. A tempest, more furious\nthan the one which had formerly driven him to Arras, broke loose within\nhim. The past surged up before him facing the present; he compared them\nand sobbed. The silence of tears once opened, the despairing man\nwrithed.\n\nHe felt that he had been stopped short.\n\nAlas! in this fight to the death between our egotism and our duty, when\nwe thus retreat step by step before our immutable ideal, bewildered,\nfurious, exasperated at having to yield, disputing the ground, hoping\nfor a possible flight, seeking an escape, what an abrupt and sinister\nresistance does the foot of the wall offer in our rear!\n\nTo feel the sacred shadow which forms an obstacle!\n\nThe invisible inexorable, what an obsession!\n\nThen, one is never done with conscience. Make your choice, Brutus; make\nyour choice, Cato. It is fathomless, since it is God. One flings into\nthat well the labor of one s whole life, one flings in one s fortune,\none flings in one s riches, one flings in one s success, one flings in\none s liberty or fatherland, one flings in one s well-being, one flings\nin one s repose, one flings in one s joy! More! more! more! Empty the\nvase! tip the urn! One must finish by flinging in one s heart.\n\nSomewhere in the fog of the ancient hells, there is a tun like that.\n\nIs not one pardonable, if one at last refuses! Can the inexhaustible\nhave any right? Are not chains which are endless above human strength?\nWho would blame Sisyphus and Jean Valjean for saying:  It is enough! \n\n\nThe obedience of matter is limited by friction; is there no limit to\nthe obedience of the soul? If perpetual motion is impossible, can\nperpetual self-sacrifice be exacted?\n\nThe first step is nothing, it is the last which is difficult. What was\nthe Champmathieu affair in comparison with Cosette s marriage and of\nthat which it entailed? What is a re-entrance into the galleys,\ncompared to entrance into the void?\n\nOh, first step that must be descended, how sombre art thou! Oh, second\nstep, how black art thou!\n\nHow could he refrain from turning aside his head this time?\n\nMartyrdom is sublimation, corrosive sublimation. It is a torture which\nconsecrates. One can consent to it for the first hour; one seats\noneself on the throne of glowing iron, one places on one s head the\ncrown of hot iron, one accepts the globe of red hot iron, one takes the\nsceptre of red hot iron, but the mantle of flame still remains to be\ndonned, and comes there not a moment when the miserable flesh revolts\nand when one abdicates from suffering?\n\nAt length, Jean Valjean entered into the peace of exhaustion.\n\nHe weighed, he reflected, he considered the alternatives, the\nmysterious balance of light and darkness.\n\nShould he impose his galleys on those two dazzling children, or should\nhe consummate his irremediable engulfment by himself? On one side lay\nthe sacrifice of Cosette, on the other that of himself.\n\nAt what solution should he arrive? What decision did he come to?\n\nWhat resolution did he take? What was his own inward definitive\nresponse to the unbribable interrogatory of fatality? What door did he\ndecide to open? Which side of his life did he resolve upon closing and\ncondemning? Among all the unfathomable precipices which surrounded him,\nwhich was his choice? What extremity did he accept? To which of the\ngulfs did he nod his head?\n\nHis dizzy reverie lasted all night long.\n\nHe remained there until daylight, in the same attitude, bent double\nover that bed, prostrate beneath the enormity of fate, crushed,\nperchance, alas! with clenched fists, with arms outspread at right\nangles, like a man crucified who has been un-nailed, and flung face\ndown on the earth. There he remained for twelve hours, the twelve long\nhours of a long winter s night, ice-cold, without once raising his\nhead, and without uttering a word. He was as motionless as a corpse,\nwhile his thoughts wallowed on the earth and soared, now like the\nhydra, now like the eagle. Any one to behold him thus motionless would\nhave pronounced him dead; all at once he shuddered convulsively, and\nhis mouth, glued to Cosette s garments, kissed them; then it could be\nseen that he was alive.\n\nWho could see? Since Jean Valjean was alone, and there was no one\nthere.\n\nThe One who is in the shadows.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SEVENTH THE LAST DRAUGHT FROM THE CUP\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Last Drop from the Cup]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE SEVENTH CIRCLE AND THE EIGHTH HEAVEN\n\n\nThe days that follow weddings are solitary. People respect the\nmeditations of the happy pair. And also, their tardy slumbers, to some\ndegree. The tumult of visits and congratulations only begins later on.\nOn the morning of the 17th of February, it was a little past midday\nwhen Basque, with napkin and feather-duster under his arm, busy in\nsetting his antechamber to rights, heard a light tap at the door. There\nhad been no ring, which was discreet on such a day. Basque opened the\ndoor, and beheld M. Fauchelevent. He introduced him into the\ndrawing-room, still encumbered and topsy-turvy, and which bore the air\nof a field of battle after the joys of the preceding evening.\n\n _Dame_, sir,  remarked Basque,  we all woke up late. \n\n\n Is your master up?  asked Jean Valjean.\n\n How is Monsieur s arm?  replied Basque.\n\n Better. Is your master up? \n\n\n Which one? the old one or the new one? \n\n\n Monsieur Pontmercy. \n\n\n Monsieur le Baron,  said Basque, drawing himself up.\n\nA man is a Baron most of all to his servants. He counts for something\nwith them; they are what a philosopher would call, bespattered with the\ntitle, and that flatters them. Marius, be it said in passing, a\nmilitant republican as he had proved, was now a Baron in spite of\nhimself. A small revolution had taken place in the family in connection\nwith this title. It was now M. Gillenormand who clung to it, and Marius\nwho detached himself from it. But Colonel Pontmercy had written:  My\nson will bear my title.  Marius obeyed. And then, Cosette, in whom the\nwoman was beginning to dawn, was delighted to be a Baroness.\n\n Monsieur le Baron?  repeated Basque.  I will go and see. I will tell\nhim that M. Fauchelevent is here. \n\n\n No. Do not tell him that it is I. Tell him that some one wishes to\nspeak to him in private, and mention no name. \n\n\n Ah!  ejaculated Basque.\n\n I wish to surprise him. \n\n\n Ah!  ejaculated Basque once more, emitting his second  ah!  as an\nexplanation of the first.\n\nAnd he left the room.\n\nJean Valjean remained alone.\n\nThe drawing-room, as we have just said, was in great disorder. It\nseemed as though, by lending an ear, one might still hear the vague\nnoise of the wedding. On the polished floor lay all sorts of flowers\nwhich had fallen from garlands and head-dresses. The wax candles,\nburned to stumps, added stalactites of wax to the crystal drops of the\nchandeliers. Not a single piece of furniture was in its place. In the\ncorners, three or four armchairs, drawn close together in a circle, had\nthe appearance of continuing a conversation. The whole effect was\ncheerful. A certain grace still lingers round a dead feast. It has been\na happy thing. On the chairs in disarray, among those fading flowers,\nbeneath those extinct lights, people have thought of joy. The sun had\nsucceeded to the chandelier, and made its way gayly into the\ndrawing-room.\n\nSeveral minutes elapsed. Jean Valjean stood motionless on the spot\nwhere Basque had left him. He was very pale. His eyes were hollow, and\nso sunken in his head by sleeplessness that they nearly disappeared in\ntheir orbits. His black coat bore the weary folds of a garment that has\nbeen up all night. The elbows were whitened with the down which the\nfriction of cloth against linen leaves behind it.\n\nJean Valjean stared at the window outlined on the polished floor at his\nfeet by the sun.\n\nThere came a sound at the door, and he raised his eyes.\n\nMarius entered, his head well up, his mouth smiling, an indescribable\nlight on his countenance, his brow expanded, his eyes triumphant. He\nhad not slept either.\n\n It is you, father!  he exclaimed, on catching sight of Jean Valjean;\n that idiot of a Basque had such a mysterious air! But you have come\ntoo early. It is only half past twelve. Cosette is asleep. \n\n\nThat word:  Father,  said to M. Fauchelevent by Marius, signified:\nsupreme felicity. There had always existed, as the reader knows, a\nlofty wall, a coldness and a constraint between them; ice which must be\nbroken or melted. Marius had reached that point of intoxication when\nthe wall was lowered, when the ice dissolved, and when M. Fauchelevent\nwas to him, as to Cosette, a father.\n\nHe continued: his words poured forth, as is the peculiarity of divine\nparoxysms of joy.\n\n How glad I am to see you! If you only knew how we missed you\nyesterday! Good morning, father. How is your hand? Better, is it not? \n\n\nAnd, satisfied with the favorable reply which he had made to himself,\nhe pursued:\n\n We have both been talking about you. Cosette loves you so dearly! You\nmust not forget that you have a chamber here, We want nothing more to\ndo with the Rue de l Homme Arm . We will have no more of it at all. How\ncould you go to live in a street like that, which is sickly, which is\ndisagreeable, which is ugly, which has a barrier at one end, where one\nis cold, and into which one cannot enter? You are to come and install\nyourself here. And this very day. Or you will have to deal with\nCosette. She means to lead us all by the nose, I warn you. You have\nyour own chamber here, it is close to ours, it opens on the garden; the\ntrouble with the clock has been attended to, the bed is made, it is all\nready, you have only to take possession of it. Near your bed Cosette\nhas placed a huge, old, easy-chair covered with Utrecht velvet and she\nhas said to it:  Stretch out your arms to him.  A nightingale comes to\nthe clump of acacias opposite your windows, every spring. In two months\nmore you will have it. You will have its nest on your left and ours on\nyour right. By night it will sing, and by day Cosette will prattle.\nYour chamber faces due South. Cosette will arrange your books for you,\nyour Voyages of Captain Cook and the other, Vancouver s and all your\naffairs. I believe that there is a little valise to which you are\nattached, I have fixed upon a corner of honor for that. You have\nconquered my grandfather, you suit him. We will live together. Do you\nplay whist? you will overwhelm my grandfather with delight if you play\nwhist. It is you who shall take Cosette to walk on the days when I am\nat the courts, you shall give her your arm, you know, as you used to,\nin the Luxembourg. We are absolutely resolved to be happy. And you\nshall be included in it, in our happiness, do you hear, father? Come,\nwill you breakfast with us to-day? \n\n\n Sir,  said Jean Valjean,  I have something to say to you. I am an\nex-convict. \n\n\nThe limit of shrill sounds perceptible can be overleaped, as well in\nthe case of the mind as in that of the ear. These words:  I am an\nex-convict,  proceeding from the mouth of M. Fauchelevent and entering\nthe ear of Marius overshot the possible. It seemed to him that\nsomething had just been said to him; but he did not know what. He stood\nwith his mouth wide open.\n\nThen he perceived that the man who was addressing him was frightful.\nWholly absorbed in his own dazzled state, he had not, up to that\nmoment, observed the other man s terrible pallor.\n\nJean Valjean untied the black cravat which supported his right arm,\nunrolled the linen from around his hand, bared his thumb and showed it\nto Marius.\n\n There is nothing the matter with my hand,  said he.\n\nMarius looked at the thumb.\n\n There has not been anything the matter with it,  went on Jean Valjean.\n\nThere was, in fact, no trace of any injury.\n\nJean Valjean continued:\n\n It was fitting that I should be absent from your marriage. I absented\nmyself as much as was in my power. So I invented this injury in order\nthat I might not commit a forgery, that I might not introduce a flaw\ninto the marriage documents, in order that I might escape from\nsigning. \n\n\nMarius stammered.\n\n What is the meaning of this? \n\n\n The meaning of it is,  replied Jean Valjean,  that I have been in the\ngalleys. \n\n\n You are driving me mad!  exclaimed Marius in terror.\n\n Monsieur Pontmercy,  said Jean Valjean,  I was nineteen years in the\ngalleys. For theft. Then, I was condemned for life for theft, for a\nsecond offence. At the present moment, I have broken my ban. \n\n\nIn vain did Marius recoil before the reality, refuse the fact, resist\nthe evidence, he was forced to give way. He began to understand, and,\nas always happens in such cases, he understood too much. An inward\nshudder of hideous enlightenment flashed through him; an idea which\nmade him quiver traversed his mind. He caught a glimpse of a wretched\ndestiny for himself in the future.\n\n Say all, say all!  he cried.  You are Cosette s father! \n\n\nAnd he retreated a couple of paces with a movement of indescribable\nhorror.\n\nJean Valjean elevated his head with so much majesty of attitude that he\nseemed to grow even to the ceiling.\n\n It is necessary that you should believe me here, sir; although our\noath to others may not be received in law . . . \n\n\nHere he paused, then, with a sort of sovereign and sepulchral\nauthority, he added, articulating slowly, and emphasizing the\nsyllables:\n\n . . . You will believe me. I the father of Cosette! before God, no.\nMonsieur le Baron Pontmercy, I am a peasant of Faverolles. I earned my\nliving by pruning trees. My name is not Fauchelevent, but Jean Valjean.\nI am not related to Cosette. Reassure yourself. \n\n\nMarius stammered:\n\n Who will prove that to me? \n\n\n I. Since I tell you so. \n\n\nMarius looked at the man. He was melancholy yet tranquil. No lie could\nproceed from such a calm. That which is icy is sincere. The truth could\nbe felt in that chill of the tomb.\n\n I believe you,  said Marius.\n\nJean Valjean bent his head, as though taking note of this, and\ncontinued:\n\n What am I to Cosette? A passer-by. Ten years ago, I did not know that\nshe was in existence. I love her, it is true. One loves a child whom\none has seen when very young, being old oneself. When one is old, one\nfeels oneself a grandfather towards all little children. You may, it\nseems to me, suppose that I have something which resembles a heart. She\nwas an orphan. Without either father or mother. She needed me. That is\nwhy I began to love her. Children are so weak that the first comer,\neven a man like me, can become their protector. I have fulfilled this\nduty towards Cosette. I do not think that so slight a thing can be\ncalled a good action; but if it be a good action, well, say that I have\ndone it. Register this attenuating circumstance. To-day, Cosette passes\nout of my life; our two roads part. Henceforth, I can do nothing for\nher. She is Madame Pontmercy. Her providence has changed. And Cosette\ngains by the change. All is well. As for the six hundred thousand\nfrancs, you do not mention them to me, but I forestall your thought,\nthey are a deposit. How did that deposit come into my hands? What does\nthat matter? I restore the deposit. Nothing more can be demanded of me.\nI complete the restitution by announcing my true name. That concerns\nme. I have a reason for desiring that you should know who I am. \n\n\nAnd Jean Valjean looked Marius full in the face.\n\nAll that Marius experienced was tumultuous and incoherent. Certain\ngusts of destiny produce these billows in our souls.\n\nWe have all undergone moments of trouble in which everything within us\nis dispersed; we say the first things that occur to us, which are not\nalways precisely those which should be said. There are sudden\nrevelations which one cannot bear, and which intoxicate like baleful\nwine. Marius was stupefied by the novel situation which presented\nitself to him, to the point of addressing that man almost like a person\nwho was angry with him for this avowal.\n\n But why,  he exclaimed,  do you tell me all this? Who forces you to do\nso? You could have kept your secret to yourself. You are neither\ndenounced, nor tracked nor pursued. You have a reason for wantonly\nmaking such a revelation. Conclude. There is something more. In what\nconnection do you make this confession? What is your motive? \n\n\n My motive?  replied Jean Valjean in a voice so low and dull that one\nwould have said that he was talking to himself rather than to Marius.\n From what motive, in fact, has this convict just said  I am a\nconvict ? Well, yes! the motive is strange. It is out of honesty. Stay,\nthe unfortunate point is that I have a thread in my heart, which keeps\nme fast. It is when one is old that that sort of thread is particularly\nsolid. All life falls in ruin around one; one resists. Had I been able\nto tear out that thread, to break it, to undo the knot or to cut it, to\ngo far away, I should have been safe. I had only to go away; there are\ndiligences in the Rue Bouloy; you are happy; I am going. I have tried\nto break that thread, I have jerked at it, it would not break, I tore\nmy heart with it. Then I said:  I cannot live anywhere else than here. \nI must stay. Well, yes, you are right, I am a fool, why not simply\nremain here? You offer me a chamber in this house, Madame Pontmercy is\nsincerely attached to me, she said to the armchair:  Stretch out your\narms to him,  your grandfather demands nothing better than to have me,\nI suit him, we shall live together, and take our meals in common, I\nshall give Cosette my arm . . . Madame Pontmercy, excuse me, it is a\nhabit, we shall have but one roof, one table, one fire, the same\nchimney-corner in winter, the same promenade in summer, that is joy,\nthat is happiness, that is everything. We shall live as one family. One\nfamily! \n\n\nAt that word, Jean Valjean became wild. He folded his arms, glared at\nthe floor beneath his feet as though he would have excavated an abyss\ntherein, and his voice suddenly rose in thundering tones:\n\n As one family! No. I belong to no family. I do not belong to yours. I\ndo not belong to any family of men. In houses where people are among\nthemselves, I am superfluous. There are families, but there is nothing\nof the sort for me. I am an unlucky wretch; I am left outside. Did I\nhave a father and mother? I almost doubt it. On the day when I gave\nthat child in marriage, all came to an end. I have seen her happy, and\nthat she is with a man whom she loves, and that there exists here a\nkind old man, a household of two angels, and all joys in that house,\nand that it was well, I said to myself:  Enter thou not.  I could have\nlied, it is true, have deceived you all, and remained Monsieur\nFauchelevent. So long as it was for her, I could lie; but now it would\nbe for myself, and I must not. It was sufficient for me to hold my\npeace, it is true, and all would go on. You ask me what has forced me\nto speak? a very odd thing; my conscience. To hold my peace was very\neasy, however. I passed the night in trying to persuade myself to it;\nyou questioned me, and what I have just said to you is so extraordinary\nthat you have the right to do it; well, yes, I have passed the night in\nalleging reasons to myself, and I gave myself very good reasons, I have\ndone what I could. But there are two things in which I have not\nsucceeded; in breaking the thread that holds me fixed, riveted and\nsealed here by the heart, or in silencing some one who speaks softly to\nme when I am alone. That is why I have come hither to tell you\neverything this morning. Everything or nearly everything. It is useless\nto tell you that which concerns only myself; I keep that to myself. You\nknow the essential points. So I have taken my mystery and have brought\nit to you. And I have disembowelled my secret before your eyes. It was\nnot a resolution that was easy to take. I struggled all night long. Ah!\nyou think that I did not tell myself that this was no Champmathieu\naffair, that by concealing my name I was doing no one any injury, that\nthe name of Fauchelevent had been given to me by Fauchelevent himself,\nout of gratitude for a service rendered to him, and that I might\nassuredly keep it, and that I should be happy in that chamber which you\noffer me, that I should not be in any one s way, that I should be in my\nown little corner, and that, while you would have Cosette, I should\nhave the idea that I was in the same house with her. Each one of us\nwould have had his share of happiness. If I continued to be Monsieur\nFauchelevent, that would arrange everything. Yes, with the exception of\nmy soul. There was joy everywhere upon my surface, but the bottom of my\nsoul remained black. It is not enough to be happy, one must be content.\nThus I should have remained Monsieur Fauchelevent, thus I should have\nconcealed my true visage, thus, in the presence of your expansion, I\nshould have had an enigma, thus, in the midst of your full noonday, I\nshould have had shadows, thus, without crying  ware,  I should have\nsimply introduced the galleys to your fireside, I should have taken my\nseat at your table with the thought that if you knew who I was, you\nwould drive me from it, I should have allowed myself to be served by\ndomestics who, had they known, would have said:  How horrible!  I\nshould have touched you with my elbow, which you have a right to\ndislike, I should have filched your clasps of the hand! There would\nhave existed in your house a division of respect between venerable\nwhite locks and tainted white locks; at your most intimate hours, when\nall hearts thought themselves open to the very bottom to all the rest,\nwhen we four were together, your grandfather, you two and myself, a\nstranger would have been present! I should have been side by side with\nyou in your existence, having for my only care not to disarrange the\ncover of my dreadful pit. Thus, I, a dead man, should have thrust\nmyself upon you who are living beings. I should have condemned her to\nmyself forever. You and Cosette and I would have had all three of our\nheads in the green cap! Does it not make you shudder? I am only the\nmost crushed of men; I should have been the most monstrous of men. And\nI should have committed that crime every day! And I should have had\nthat face of night upon my visage every day! every day! And I should\nhave communicated to you a share in my taint every day! every day! to\nyou, my dearly beloved, my children, to you, my innocent creatures! Is\nit nothing to hold one s peace? is it a simple matter to keep silence?\nNo, it is not simple. There is a silence which lies. And my lie, and my\nfraud and my indignity, and my cowardice and my treason and my crime, I\nshould have drained drop by drop, I should have spit it out, then\nswallowed it again, I should have finished at midnight and have begun\nagain at midday, and my  good morning  would have lied, and my  good\nnight  would have lied, and I should have slept on it, I should have\neaten it, with my bread, and I should have looked Cosette in the face,\nand I should have responded to the smile of the angel by the smile of\nthe damned soul, and I should have been an abominable villain! Why\nshould I do it? in order to be happy. In order to be happy. Have I the\nright to be happy? I stand outside of life, sir. \n\n\nJean Valjean paused. Marius listened. Such chains of ideas and of\nanguishes cannot be interrupted. Jean Valjean lowered his voice once\nmore, but it was no longer a dull voice it was a sinister voice.\n\n You ask why I speak? I am neither denounced, nor pursued, nor tracked,\nyou say. Yes! I am denounced! yes! I am tracked! By whom? By myself. It\nis I who bar the passage to myself, and I drag myself, and I push\nmyself, and I arrest myself, and I execute myself, and when one holds\noneself, one is firmly held. \n\n\nAnd, seizing a handful of his own coat by the nape of the neck and\nextending it towards Marius:\n\n Do you see that fist?  he continued.  Don t you think that it holds\nthat collar in such a wise as not to release it? Well! conscience is\nanother grasp! If one desires to be happy, sir, one must never\nunderstand duty; for, as soon as one has comprehended it, it is\nimplacable. One would say that it punished you for comprehending it;\nbut no, it rewards you; for it places you in a hell, where you feel God\nbeside you. One has no sooner lacerated his own entrails than he is at\npeace with himself. \n\n\nAnd, with a poignant accent, he added:\n\n Monsieur Pontmercy, this is not common sense, I am an honest man. It\nis by degrading myself in your eyes that I elevate myself in my own.\nThis has happened to me once before, but it was less painful then; it\nwas a mere nothing. Yes, an honest man. I should not be so if, through\nmy fault, you had continued to esteem me; now that you despise me, I am\nso. I have that fatality hanging over me that, not being able to ever\nhave anything but stolen consideration, that consideration humiliates\nme, and crushes me inwardly, and, in order that I may respect myself,\nit is necessary that I should be despised. Then I straighten up again.\nI am a galley-slave who obeys his conscience. I know well that that is\nmost improbable. But what would you have me do about it? it is the\nfact. I have entered into engagements with myself; I keep them. There\nare encounters which bind us, there are chances which involve us in\nduties. You see, Monsieur Pontmercy, various things have happened to me\nin the course of my life. \n\n\nAgain Jean Valjean paused, swallowing his saliva with an effort, as\nthough his words had a bitter after-taste, and then he went on:\n\n When one has such a horror hanging over one, one has not the right to\nmake others share it without their knowledge, one has not the right to\nmake them slip over one s own precipice without their perceiving it,\none has not the right to let one s red blouse drag upon them, one has\nno right to slyly encumber with one s misery the happiness of others.\nIt is hideous to approach those who are healthy, and to touch them in\nthe dark with one s ulcer. In spite of the fact that Fauchelevent lent\nme his name, I have no right to use it; he could give it to me, but I\ncould not take it. A name is an _I_. You see, sir, that I have thought\nsomewhat, I have read a little, although I am a peasant; and you see\nthat I express myself properly. I understand things. I have procured\nmyself an education. Well, yes, to abstract a name and to place oneself\nunder it is dishonest. Letters of the alphabet can be filched, like a\npurse or a watch. To be a false signature in flesh and blood, to be a\nliving false key, to enter the house of honest people by picking their\nlock, never more to look straightforward, to forever eye askance, to be\ninfamous within the _I_, no! no! no! no! no! It is better to suffer, to\nbleed, to weep, to tear one s skin from the flesh with one s nails, to\npass nights writhing in anguish, to devour oneself body and soul. That\nis why I have just told you all this. Wantonly, as you say. \n\n\nHe drew a painful breath, and hurled this final word:\n\n In days gone by, I stole a loaf of bread in order to live; to-day, in\norder to live, I will not steal a name. \n\n\n To live!  interrupted Marius.  You do not need that name in order to\nlive? \n\n\n Ah! I understand the matter,  said Jean Valjean, raising and lowering\nhis head several times in succession.\n\nA silence ensued. Both held their peace, each plunged in a gulf of\nthoughts. Marius was sitting near a table and resting the corner of his\nmouth on one of his fingers, which was folded back. Jean Valjean was\npacing to and fro. He paused before a mirror, and remained motionless.\nThen, as though replying to some inward course of reasoning, he said,\nas he gazed at the mirror, which he did not see:\n\n While, at present, I am relieved. \n\n\nHe took up his march again, and walked to the other end of the\ndrawing-room. At the moment when he turned round, he perceived that\nMarius was watching his walk. Then he said, with an inexpressible\nintonation:\n\n I drag my leg a little. Now you understand why! \n\n\nThen he turned fully round towards Marius:\n\n And now, sir, imagine this: I have said nothing, I have remained\nMonsieur Fauchelevent, I have taken my place in your house, I am one of\nyou, I am in my chamber, I come to breakfast in the morning in\nslippers, in the evening all three of us go to the play, I accompany\nMadame Pontmercy to the Tuileries, and to the Place Royale, we are\ntogether, you think me your equal; one fine day you are there, and I am\nthere, we are conversing, we are laughing; all at once, you hear a\nvoice shouting this name:  Jean Valjean!  and behold, that terrible\nhand, the police, darts from the darkness, and abruptly tears off my\nmask! \n\n\nAgain he paused; Marius had sprung to his feet with a shudder. Jean\nValjean resumed:\n\n What do you say to that? \n\n\nMarius  silence answered for him.\n\nJean Valjean continued:\n\n You see that I am right in not holding my peace. Be happy, be in\nheaven, be the angel of an angel, exist in the sun, be content\ntherewith, and do not trouble yourself about the means which a poor\ndamned wretch takes to open his breast and force his duty to come\nforth; you have before you, sir, a wretched man. \n\n\nMarius slowly crossed the room, and, when he was quite close to Jean\nValjean, he offered the latter his hand.\n\nBut Marius was obliged to step up and take that hand which was not\noffered, Jean Valjean let him have his own way, and it seemed to Marius\nthat he pressed a hand of marble.\n\n My grandfather has friends,  said Marius;  I will procure your\npardon. \n\n\n It is useless,  replied Jean Valjean.  I am believed to be dead, and\nthat suffices. The dead are not subjected to surveillance. They are\nsupposed to rot in peace. Death is the same thing as pardon. \n\n\nAnd, disengaging the hand which Marius held, he added, with a sort of\ninexorable dignity:\n\n Moreover, the friend to whom I have recourse is the doing of my duty;\nand I need but one pardon, that of my conscience. \n\n\nAt that moment, a door at the other end of the drawing-room opened\ngently half way, and in the opening Cosette s head appeared. They saw\nonly her sweet face, her hair was in charming disorder, her eyelids\nwere still swollen with sleep. She made the movement of a bird, which\nthrusts its head out of its nest, glanced first at her husband, then at\nJean Valjean, and cried to them with a smile, so that they seemed to\nbehold a smile at the heart of a rose:\n\n I will wager that you are talking politics. How stupid that is,\ninstead of being with me! \n\n\nJean Valjean shuddered.\n\n Cosette! . . .  stammered Marius.\n\nAnd he paused. One would have said that they were two criminals.\n\nCosette, who was radiant, continued to gaze at both of them. There was\nsomething in her eyes like gleams of paradise.\n\n I have caught you in the very act,  said Cosette.  Just now, I heard\nmy father Fauchelevent through the door saying:  Conscience . . . doing\nmy duty . . .  That is politics, indeed it is. I will not have it.\nPeople should not talk politics the very next day. It is not right. \n\n\n You are mistaken. Cosette,  said Marius,  we are talking business. We\nare discussing the best investment of your six hundred thousand francs\n. . . \n\n\n That is not it at all,  interrupted Cosette.  I am coming. Does\nanybody want me here? \n\n\nAnd, passing resolutely through the door, she entered the drawing-room.\nShe was dressed in a voluminous white dressing-gown, with a thousand\nfolds and large sleeves which, starting from the neck, fell to her\nfeet. In the golden heavens of some ancient gothic pictures, there are\nthese charming sacks fit to clothe the angels.\n\nShe contemplated herself from head to foot in a long mirror, then\nexclaimed, in an outburst of ineffable ecstasy:\n\n There was once a King and a Queen. Oh! how happy I am! \n\n\nThat said, she made a curtsey to Marius and to Jean Valjean.\n\n There,  said she,  I am going to install myself near you in an\neasy-chair, we breakfast in half an hour, you shall say anything you\nlike, I know well that men must talk, and I will be very good. \n\n\nMarius took her by the arm and said lovingly to her:\n\n We are talking business. \n\n\n By the way,  said Cosette,  I have opened my window, a flock of\npierrots has arrived in the garden, Birds, not maskers. To-day is\nAsh-Wednesday; but not for the birds. \n\n\n I tell you that we are talking business, go, my little Cosette, leave\nus alone for a moment. We are talking figures. That will bore you. \n\n\n You have a charming cravat on this morning, Marius. You are very\ndandified, monseigneur. No, it will not bore me. \n\n\n I assure you that it will bore you. \n\n\n No. Since it is you. I shall not understand you, but I shall listen to\nyou. When one hears the voices of those whom one loves, one does not\nneed to understand the words that they utter. That we should be here\ntogether that is all that I desire. I shall remain with you, bah! \n\n\n You are my beloved Cosette! Impossible. \n\n\n Impossible! \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n Very good,  said Cosette.  I was going to tell you some news. I could\nhave told you that your grandfather is still asleep, that your aunt is\nat mass, that the chimney in my father Fauchelevent s room smokes, that\nNicolette has sent for the chimney-sweep, that Toussaint and Nicolette\nhave already quarrelled, that Nicolette makes sport of Toussaint s\nstammer. Well, you shall know nothing. Ah! it is impossible? you shall\nsee, gentlemen, that I, in my turn, can say: It is impossible. Then who\nwill be caught? I beseech you, my little Marius, let me stay here with\nyou two. \n\n\n I swear to you, that it is indispensable that we should be alone. \n\n\n Well, am I anybody? \n\n\nJean Valjean had not uttered a single word. Cosette turned to him:\n\n In the first place, father, I want you to come and embrace me. What do\nyou mean by not saying anything instead of taking my part? who gave me\nsuch a father as that? You must perceive that my family life is very\nunhappy. My husband beats me. Come, embrace me instantly. \n\n\nJean Valjean approached.\n\nCosette turned toward Marius.\n\n As for you, I shall make a face at you. \n\n\nThen she presented her brow to Jean Valjean.\n\nJean Valjean advanced a step toward her.\n\nCosette recoiled.\n\n Father, you are pale. Does your arm hurt you? \n\n\n It is well,  said Jean Valjean.\n\n Did you sleep badly? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Are you sad? \n\n\n No. \n\n\n Embrace me if you are well, if you sleep well, if you are content, I\nwill not scold you. \n\n\nAnd again she offered him her brow.\n\nJean Valjean dropped a kiss upon that brow whereon rested a celestial\ngleam.\n\n Smile. \n\n\nJean Valjean obeyed. It was the smile of a spectre.\n\n Now, defend me against my husband. \n\n\n Cosette! . . .  ejaculated Marius.\n\n Get angry, father. Say that I must stay. You can certainly talk before\nme. So you think me very silly. What you say is astonishing! business,\nplacing money in a bank a great matter truly. Men make mysteries out of\nnothing. I am very pretty this morning. Look at me, Marius. \n\n\nAnd with an adorable shrug of the shoulders, and an indescribably\nexquisite pout, she glanced at Marius.\n\n I love you!  said Marius.\n\n I adore you!  said Cosette.\n\nAnd they fell irresistibly into each other s arms.\n\n Now,  said Cosette, adjusting a fold of her dressing-gown, with a\ntriumphant little grimace,  I shall stay. \n\n\n No, not that,  said Marius, in a supplicating tone.  We have to finish\nsomething. \n\n\n Still no? \n\n\nMarius assumed a grave tone:\n\n I assure you, Cosette, that it is impossible. \n\n\n Ah! you put on your man s voice, sir. That is well, I go. You, father,\nhave not upheld me. Monsieur my father, monsieur my husband, you are\ntyrants. I shall go and tell grandpapa. If you think that I am going to\nreturn and talk platitudes to you, you are mistaken. I am proud. I\nshall wait for you now. You shall see, that it is you who are going to\nbe bored without me. I am going, it is well. \n\n\nAnd she left the room.\n\nTwo seconds later, the door opened once more, her fresh and rosy head\nwas again thrust between the two leaves, and she cried to them:\n\n I am very angry indeed. \n\n\nThe door closed again, and the shadows descended once more.\n\nIt was as though a ray of sunlight should have suddenly traversed the\nnight, without itself being conscious of it.\n\nMarius made sure that the door was securely closed.\n\n Poor Cosette!  he murmured,  when she finds out . . . \n\n\nAt that word Jean Valjean trembled in every limb. He fixed on Marius a\nbewildered eye.\n\n Cosette! oh yes, it is true, you are going to tell Cosette about this.\nThat is right. Stay, I had not thought of that. One has the strength\nfor one thing, but not for another. Sir, I conjure you, I entreat now,\nsir, give me your most sacred word of honor, that you will not tell\nher. Is it not enough that you should know it? I have been able to say\nit myself without being forced to it, I could have told it to the\nuniverse, to the whole world, it was all one to me. But she, she does\nnot know what it is, it would terrify her. What, a convict! we should\nbe obliged to explain matters to her, to say to her:  He is a man who\nhas been in the galleys.  She saw the chain-gang pass by one day. Oh!\nMy God!  . . . He dropped into an armchair and hid his face in his\nhands.\n\nHis grief was not audible, but from the quivering of his shoulders it\nwas evident that he was weeping. Silent tears, terrible tears.\n\nThere is something of suffocation in the sob. He was seized with a sort\nof convulsion, he threw himself against the back of the chair as though\nto gain breath, letting his arms fall, and allowing Marius to see his\nface inundated with tears, and Marius heard him murmur, so low that his\nvoice seemed to issue from fathomless depths:\n\n Oh! would that I could die! \n\n\n Be at your ease,  said Marius,  I will keep your secret for myself\nalone. \n\n\nAnd, less touched, perhaps, than he ought to have been, but forced, for\nthe last hour, to familiarize himself with something as unexpected as\nit was dreadful, gradually beholding the convict superposed before his\nvery eyes, upon M. Fauchelevent, overcome, little by little, by that\nlugubrious reality, and led, by the natural inclination of the\nsituation, to recognize the space which had just been placed between\nthat man and himself, Marius added:\n\n It is impossible that I should not speak a word to you with regard to\nthe deposit which you have so faithfully and honestly remitted. That is\nan act of probity. It is just that some recompense should be bestowed\non you. Fix the sum yourself, it shall be counted out to you. Do not\nfear to set it very high. \n\n\n I thank you, sir,  replied Jean Valjean, gently.\n\nHe remained in thought for a moment, mechanically passing the tip of\nhis fore-finger across his thumb-nail, then he lifted up his voice:\n\n All is nearly over. But one last thing remains for me . . . \n\n\n What is it? \n\n\nJean Valjean struggled with what seemed a last hesitation, and, without\nvoice, without breath, he stammered rather than said:\n\n Now that you know, do you think, sir, you, who are the master, that I\nought not to see Cosette any more? \n\n\n I think that would be better,  replied Marius coldly.\n\n I shall never see her more,  murmured Jean Valjean. And he directed\nhis steps towards the door.\n\nHe laid his hand on the knob, the latch yielded, the door opened. Jean\nValjean pushed it open far enough to pass through, stood motionless for\na second, then closed the door again and turned to Marius.\n\nHe was no longer pale, he was livid. There were no longer any tears in\nhis eyes, but only a sort of tragic flame. His voice had regained a\nstrange composure.\n\n Stay, sir,  he said.  If you will allow it, I will come to see her. I\nassure you that I desire it greatly. If I had not cared to see Cosette,\nI should not have made to you the confession that I have made, I should\nhave gone away; but, as I desired to remain in the place where Cosette\nis, and to continue to see her, I had to tell you about it honestly.\nYou follow my reasoning, do you not? it is a matter easily understood.\nYou see, I have had her with me for more than nine years. We lived\nfirst in that hut on the boulevard, then in the convent, then near the\nLuxembourg. That was where you saw her for the first time. You remember\nher blue plush hat. Then we went to the Quartier des Invalides, where\nthere was a railing on a garden, the Rue Plumet. I lived in a little\nback court-yard, whence I could hear her piano. That was my life. We\nnever left each other. That lasted for nine years and some months. I\nwas like her own father, and she was my child. I do not know whether\nyou understand, Monsieur Pontmercy, but to go away now, never to see\nher again, never to speak to her again, to no longer have anything,\nwould be hard. If you do not disapprove of it, I will come to see\nCosette from time to time. I will not come often. I will not remain\nlong. You shall give orders that I am to be received in the little\nwaiting-room. On the ground floor. I could enter perfectly well by the\nback door, but that might create surprise perhaps, and it would be\nbetter, I think, for me to enter by the usual door. Truly, sir, I\nshould like to see a little more of Cosette. As rarely as you please.\nPut yourself in my place, I have nothing left but that. And then, we\nmust be cautious. If I no longer come at all, it would produce a bad\neffect, it would be considered singular. What I can do, by the way, is\nto come in the afternoon, when night is beginning to fall. \n\n\n You shall come every evening,  said Marius,  and Cosette will be\nwaiting for you. \n\n\n You are kind, sir,  said Jean Valjean.\n\nMarius saluted Jean Valjean, happiness escorted despair to the door,\nand these two men parted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II THE OBSCURITIES WHICH A REVELATION CAN CONTAIN\n\n\nMarius was quite upset.\n\nThe sort of estrangement which he had always felt towards the man\nbeside whom he had seen Cosette, was now explained to him. There was\nsomething enigmatic about that person, of which his instinct had warned\nhim.\n\nThis enigma was the most hideous of disgraces, the galleys. This M.\nFauchelevent was the convict Jean Valjean.\n\nTo abruptly find such a secret in the midst of one s happiness\nresembles the discovery of a scorpion in a nest of turtledoves.\n\nWas the happiness of Marius and Cosette thenceforth condemned to such a\nneighborhood? Was this an accomplished fact? Did the acceptance of that\nman form a part of the marriage now consummated? Was there nothing to\nbe done?\n\nHad Marius wedded the convict as well?\n\nIn vain may one be crowned with light and joy, in vain may one taste\nthe grand purple hour of life, happy love, such shocks would force even\nthe archangel in his ecstasy, even the demigod in his glory, to\nshudder.\n\nAs is always the case in changes of view of this nature, Marius asked\nhimself whether he had nothing with which to reproach himself. Had he\nbeen wanting in divination? Had he been wanting in prudence? Had he\ninvoluntarily dulled his wits? A little, perhaps. Had he entered upon\nthis love affair, which had ended in his marriage to Cosette, without\ntaking sufficient precautions to throw light upon the surroundings? He\nadmitted, it is thus, by a series of successive admissions of ourselves\nin regard to ourselves, that life amends us, little by little, he\nadmitted the chimerical and visionary side of his nature, a sort of\ninternal cloud peculiar to many organizations, and which, in paroxysms\nof passion and sorrow, dilates as the temperature of the soul changes,\nand invades the entire man, to such a degree as to render him nothing\nmore than a conscience bathed in a mist. We have more than once\nindicated this characteristic element of Marius  individuality.\n\nHe recalled that, in the intoxication of his love, in the Rue Plumet,\nduring those six or seven ecstatic weeks, he had not even spoken to\nCosette of that drama in the Gorbeau hovel, where the victim had taken\nup such a singular line of silence during the struggle and the ensuing\nflight. How had it happened that he had not mentioned this to Cosette?\nYet it was so near and so terrible! How had it come to pass that he had\nnot even named the Th nardiers, and, particularly, on the day when he\nhad encountered  ponine? He now found it almost difficult to explain\nhis silence of that time. Nevertheless, he could account for it. He\nrecalled his benumbed state, his intoxication with Cosette, love\nabsorbing everything, that catching away of each other into the ideal,\nand perhaps also, like the imperceptible quantity of reason mingled\nwith this violent and charming state of the soul, a vague, dull\ninstinct impelling him to conceal and abolish in his memory that\nredoubtable adventure, contact with which he dreaded, in which he did\nnot wish to play any part, his agency in which he had kept secret, and\nin which he could be neither narrator nor witness without being an\naccuser.\n\nMoreover, these few weeks had been a flash of lightning; there had been\nno time for anything except love.\n\nIn short, having weighed everything, turned everything over in his\nmind, examined everything, whatever might have been the consequences if\nhe had told Cosette about the Gorbeau ambush, even if he had discovered\nthat Jean Valjean was a convict, would that have changed him, Marius?\nWould that have changed her, Cosette? Would he have drawn back? Would\nhe have adored her any the less? Would he have refrained from marrying\nher? No. Then there was nothing to regret, nothing with which he need\nreproach himself. All was well. There is a deity for those drunken men\nwho are called lovers. Marius blind, had followed the path which he\nwould have chosen had he been in full possession of his sight. Love had\nbandaged his eyes, in order to lead him whither? To paradise.\n\nBut this paradise was henceforth complicated with an infernal\naccompaniment.\n\nMarius  ancient estrangement towards this man, towards this\nFauchelevent who had turned into Jean Valjean, was at present mingled\nwith horror.\n\nIn this horror, let us state, there was some pity, and even a certain\nsurprise.\n\nThis thief, this thief guilty of a second offence, had restored that\ndeposit. And what a deposit! Six hundred thousand francs.\n\nHe alone was in the secret of that deposit. He might have kept it all,\nhe had restored it all.\n\nMoreover, he had himself revealed his situation. Nothing forced him to\nthis. If any one learned who he was, it was through himself. In this\navowal there was something more than acceptance of humiliation, there\nwas acceptance of peril. For a condemned man, a mask is not a mask, it\nis a shelter. A false name is security, and he had rejected that false\nname. He, the galley-slave, might have hidden himself forever in an\nhonest family; he had withstood this temptation. And with what motive?\nThrough a conscientious scruple. He himself explained this with the\nirresistible accents of truth. In short, whatever this Jean Valjean\nmight be, he was, undoubtedly, a conscience which was awakening. There\nexisted some mysterious re-habilitation which had begun; and, to all\nappearances, scruples had for a long time already controlled this man.\nSuch fits of justice and goodness are not characteristic of vulgar\nnatures. An awakening of conscience is grandeur of soul.\n\nJean Valjean was sincere. This sincerity, visible, palpable,\nirrefragable, evident from the very grief that it caused him, rendered\ninquiries useless, and conferred authority on all that that man had\nsaid.\n\nHere, for Marius, there was a strange reversal of situations. What\nbreathed from M. Fauchelevent? distrust. What did Jean Valjean inspire?\nconfidence.\n\nIn the mysterious balance of this Jean Valjean which the pensive Marius\nstruck, he admitted the active principle, he admitted the passive\nprinciple, and he tried to reach a balance.\n\nBut all this went on as in a storm. Marius, while endeavoring to form a\nclear idea of this man, and while pursuing Jean Valjean, so to speak,\nin the depths of his thought, lost him and found him again in a fatal\nmist.\n\nThe deposit honestly restored, the probity of the confession these were\ngood. This produced a lightening of the cloud, then the cloud became\nblack once more.\n\nTroubled as were Marius  memories, a shadow of them returned to him.\n\nAfter all, what was that adventure in the Jondrette attic? Why had that\nman taken to flight on the arrival of the police, instead of entering a\ncomplaint?\n\nHere Marius found the answer. Because that man was a fugitive from\njustice, who had broken his ban.\n\nAnother question: Why had that man come to the barricade?\n\nFor Marius now once more distinctly beheld that recollection which had\nreappeared in his emotions like sympathetic ink at the application of\nheat. This man had been in the barricade. He had not fought there. What\nhad he come there for? In the presence of this question a spectre\nsprang up and replied:  Javert. \n\n\nMarius recalled perfectly now that funereal sight of Jean Valjean\ndragging the pinioned Javert out of the barricade, and he still heard\nbehind the corner of the little Rue Mond tour that frightful pistol\nshot. Obviously, there was hatred between that police spy and the\ngalley-slave. The one was in the other s way. Jean Valjean had gone to\nthe barricade for the purpose of revenging himself. He had arrived\nlate. He probably knew that Javert was a prisoner there. The Corsican\nvendetta has penetrated to certain lower strata and has become the law\nthere; it is so simple that it does not astonish souls which are but\nhalf turned towards good; and those hearts are so constituted that a\ncriminal, who is in the path of repentance, may be scrupulous in the\nmatter of theft and unscrupulous in the matter of vengeance. Jean\nValjean had killed Javert. At least, that seemed to be evident.\n\nThis was the final question, to be sure; but to this there was no\nreply. This question Marius felt like pincers. How had it come to pass\nthat Jean Valjean s existence had elbowed that of Cosette for so long a\nperiod?\n\nWhat melancholy sport of Providence was that which had placed that\nchild in contact with that man? Are there then chains for two which are\nforged on high? and does God take pleasure in coupling the angel with\nthe demon? So a crime and an innocence can be room-mates in the\nmysterious galleys of wretchedness? In that defiling of condemned\npersons which is called human destiny, can two brows pass side by side,\nthe one ingenuous, the other formidable, the one all bathed in the\ndivine whiteness of dawn, the other forever blemished by the flash of\nan eternal lightning? Who could have arranged that inexplicable pairing\noff? In what manner, in consequence of what prodigy, had any community\nof life been established between this celestial little creature and\nthat old criminal?\n\nWho could have bound the lamb to the wolf, and, what was still more\nincomprehensible, have attached the wolf to the lamb? For the wolf\nloved the lamb, for the fierce creature adored the feeble one, for,\nduring the space of nine years, the angel had had the monster as her\npoint of support. Cosette s childhood and girlhood, her advent in the\ndaylight, her virginal growth towards life and light, had been\nsheltered by that hideous devotion. Here questions exfoliated, so to\nspeak, into innumerable enigmas, abysses yawned at the bottoms of\nabysses, and Marius could no longer bend over Jean Valjean without\nbecoming dizzy. What was this man-precipice?\n\nThe old symbols of Genesis are eternal; in human society, such as it\nnow exists, and until a broader day shall effect a change in it, there\nwill always be two men, the one superior, the other subterranean; the\none which is according to good is Abel; the other which is according to\nevil is Cain. What was this tender Cain? What was this ruffian\nreligiously absorbed in the adoration of a virgin, watching over her,\nrearing her, guarding her, dignifying her, and enveloping her, impure\nas he was himself, with purity?\n\nWhat was that cesspool which had venerated that innocence to such a\npoint as not to leave upon it a single spot? What was this Jean Valjean\neducating Cosette? What was this figure of the shadows which had for\nits only object the preservation of the rising of a star from every\nshadow and from every cloud?\n\nThat was Jean Valjean s secret; that was also God s secret.\n\nIn the presence of this double secret, Marius recoiled. The one, in\nsome sort, reassured him as to the other. God was as visible in this\naffair as was Jean Valjean. God has his instruments. He makes use of\nthe tool which he wills. He is not responsible to men. Do we know how\nGod sets about the work? Jean Valjean had labored over Cosette. He had,\nto some extent, made that soul. That was incontestable. Well, what\nthen? The workman was horrible; but the work was admirable. God\nproduces his miracles as seems good to him. He had constructed that\ncharming Cosette, and he had employed Jean Valjean. It had pleased him\nto choose this strange collaborator for himself. What account have we\nto demand of him? Is this the first time that the dung-heap has aided\nthe spring to create the rose?\n\nMarius made himself these replies, and declared to himself that they\nwere good. He had not dared to press Jean Valjean on all the points\nwhich we have just indicated, but he did not confess to himself that he\ndid not dare to do it. He adored Cosette, he possessed Cosette, Cosette\nwas splendidly pure. That was sufficient for him. What enlightenment\ndid he need? Cosette was a light. Does light require enlightenment? He\nhad everything; what more could he desire? All, is not that enough?\nJean Valjean s personal affairs did not concern him.\n\nAnd bending over the fatal shadow of that man, he clung fast,\nconvulsively, to the solemn declaration of that unhappy wretch:  I am\nnothing to Cosette. Ten years ago I did not know that she was in\nexistence. \n\n\nJean Valjean was a passer-by. He had said so himself. Well, he had\npassed. Whatever he was, his part was finished.\n\nHenceforth, there remained Marius to fulfil the part of Providence to\nCosette. Cosette had sought the azure in a person like herself, in her\nlover, her husband, her celestial male. Cosette, as she took her\nflight, winged and transfigured, left behind her on the earth her\nhideous and empty chrysalis, Jean Valjean.\n\nIn whatever circle of ideas Marius revolved, he always returned to a\ncertain horror for Jean Valjean. A sacred horror, perhaps, for, as we\nhave just pointed out, he felt a _quid divinum_ in that man. But do\nwhat he would, and seek what extenuation he would, he was certainly\nforced to fall back upon this: the man was a convict; that is to say, a\nbeing who has not even a place in the social ladder, since he is lower\nthan the very lowest rung. After the very last of men comes the\nconvict. The convict is no longer, so to speak, in the semblance of the\nliving. The law has deprived him of the entire quantity of humanity of\nwhich it can deprive a man.\n\nMarius, on penal questions, still held to the inexorable system, though\nhe was a democrat and he entertained all the ideas of the law on the\nsubject of those whom the law strikes. He had not yet accomplished all\nprogress, we admit. He had not yet come to distinguish between that\nwhich is written by man and that which is written by God, between law\nand right. He had not examined and weighed the right which man takes to\ndispose of the irrevocable and the irreparable. He was not shocked by\nthe word _vindicte_. He found it quite simple that certain breaches of\nthe written law should be followed by eternal suffering, and he\naccepted, as the process of civilization, social damnation. He still\nstood at this point, though safe to advance infallibly later on, since\nhis nature was good, and, at bottom, wholly formed of latent progress.\n\nIn this stage of his ideas, Jean Valjean appeared to him hideous and\nrepulsive. He was a man reproved, he was the convict. That word was for\nhim like the sound of the trump on the Day of Judgment; and, after\nhaving reflected upon Jean Valjean for a long time, his final gesture\nhad been to turn away his head. _Vade retro_.\n\nMarius, if we must recognize and even insist upon the fact, while\ninterrogating Jean Valjean to such a point that Jean Valjean had said:\n You are confessing me,  had not, nevertheless, put to him two or three\ndecisive questions.\n\nIt was not that they had not presented themselves to his mind, but that\nhe had been afraid of them. The Jondrette attic? The barricade? Javert?\nWho knows where these revelations would have stopped? Jean Valjean did\nnot seem like a man who would draw back, and who knows whether Marius,\nafter having urged him on, would not have himself desired to hold him\nback?\n\nHas it not happened to all of us, in certain supreme conjunctures, to\nstop our ears in order that we may not hear the reply, after we have\nasked a question? It is especially when one loves that one gives way to\nthese exhibitions of cowardice. It is not wise to question sinister\nsituations to the last point, particularly when the indissoluble side\nof our life is fatally intermingled with them. What a terrible light\nmight have proceeded from the despairing explanations of Jean Valjean,\nand who knows whether that hideous glare would not have darted forth as\nfar as Cosette? Who knows whether a sort of infernal glow would not\nhave lingered behind it on the brow of that angel? The spattering of a\nlightning-flash is of the thunder also. Fatality has points of juncture\nwhere innocence itself is stamped with crime by the gloomy law of the\nreflections which give color. The purest figures may forever preserve\nthe reflection of a horrible association. Rightly or wrongly, Marius\nhad been afraid. He already knew too much. He sought to dull his senses\nrather than to gain further light.\n\nIn dismay he bore off Cosette in his arms and shut his eyes to Jean\nValjean.\n\nThat man was the night, the living and horrible night. How should he\ndare to seek the bottom of it? It is a terrible thing to interrogate\nthe shadow. Who knows what its reply will be? The dawn may be blackened\nforever by it.\n\nIn this state of mind the thought that that man would, henceforth, come\ninto any contact whatever with Cosette was a heartrending perplexity to\nMarius.\n\nHe now almost reproached himself for not having put those formidable\nquestions, before which he had recoiled, and from which an implacable\nand definitive decision might have sprung. He felt that he was too\ngood, too gentle, too weak, if we must say the word. This weakness had\nled him to an imprudent concession. He had allowed himself to be\ntouched. He had been in the wrong. He ought to have simply and purely\nrejected Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean played the part of fire, and that\nis what he should have done, and have freed his house from that man.\n\nHe was vexed with himself, he was angry with that whirlwind of emotions\nwhich had deafened, blinded, and carried him away. He was displeased\nwith himself.\n\nWhat was he to do now? Jean Valjean s visits were profoundly repugnant\nto him. What was the use in having that man in his house? What did the\nman want? Here, he became dismayed, he did not wish to dig down, he did\nnot wish to penetrate deeply; he did not wish to sound himself. He had\npromised, he had allowed himself to be drawn into a promise; Jean\nValjean held his promise; one must keep one s word even to a convict,\nabove all to a convict. Still, his first duty was to Cosette. In short,\nhe was carried away by the repugnance which dominated him.\n\nMarius turned over all this confusion of ideas in his mind, passing\nfrom one to the other, and moved by all of them. Hence arose a profound\ntrouble.\n\nIt was not easy for him to hide this trouble from Cosette, but love is\na talent, and Marius succeeded in doing it.\n\nHowever, without any apparent object, he questioned Cosette, who was as\ncandid as a dove is white and who suspected nothing; he talked of her\nchildhood and her youth, and he became more and more convinced that\nthat convict had been everything good, paternal and respectable that a\nman can be towards Cosette. All that Marius had caught a glimpse of and\nhad surmised was real. That sinister nettle had loved and protected\nthat lily.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK EIGHTH FADING AWAY OF THE TWILIGHT\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: The Twilight Decline]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I THE LOWER CHAMBER\n\n\nOn the following day, at nightfall, Jean Valjean knocked at the\ncarriage gate of the Gillenormand house. It was Basque who received\nhim. Basque was in the courtyard at the appointed hour, as though he\nhad received his orders. It sometimes happens that one says to a\nservant:  You will watch for Mr. So and So, when he arrives. \n\n\nBasque addressed Jean Valjean without waiting for the latter to\napproach him:\n\n Monsieur le Baron has charged me to inquire whether monsieur desires\nto go upstairs or to remain below? \n\n\n I will remain below,  replied Jean Valjean.\n\nBasque, who was perfectly respectful, opened the door of the\nwaiting-room and said:\n\n I will go and inform Madame. \n\n\nThe room which Jean Valjean entered was a damp, vaulted room on the\nground floor, which served as a cellar on occasion, which opened on the\nstreet, was paved with red squares and was badly lighted by a grated\nwindow.\n\nThis chamber was not one of those which are harassed by the\nfeather-duster, the pope s head brush, and the broom. The dust rested\ntranquilly there. Persecution of the spiders was not organized there. A\nfine web, which spread far and wide, and was very black and ornamented\nwith dead flies, formed a wheel on one of the window-panes. The room,\nwhich was small and low-ceiled, was furnished with a heap of empty\nbottles piled up in one corner.\n\nThe wall, which was daubed with an ochre yellow wash, was scaling off\nin large flakes. At one end there was a chimney-piece painted in black\nwith a narrow shelf. A fire was burning there; which indicated that\nJean Valjean s reply:  I will remain below,  had been foreseen.\n\nTwo armchairs were placed at the two corners of the fireplace. Between\nthe chairs an old bedside rug, which displayed more foundation thread\nthan wool, had been spread by way of a carpet.\n\nThe chamber was lighted by the fire on the hearth and the twilight\nfalling through the window.\n\nJean Valjean was fatigued. For days he had neither eaten nor slept. He\nthrew himself into one of the armchairs.\n\nBasque returned, set a lighted candle on the chimney-piece and retired.\nJean Valjean, his head drooping and his chin resting on his breast,\nperceived neither Basque nor the candle.\n\nAll at once, he drew himself up with a start. Cosette was standing\nbeside him.\n\nHe had not seen her enter, but he had felt that she was there.\n\nHe turned round. He gazed at her. She was adorably lovely. But what he\nwas contemplating with that profound gaze was not her beauty but her\nsoul.\n\n Well,  exclaimed Cosette,  father, I knew that you were peculiar, but\nI never should have expected this. What an idea! Marius told me that\nyou wish me to receive you here. \n\n\n Yes, it is my wish. \n\n\n I expected that reply. Good. I warn you that I am going to make a\nscene for you. Let us begin at the beginning. Embrace me, father. \n\n\nAnd she offered him her cheek.\n\nJean Valjean remained motionless.\n\n You do not stir. I take note of it. Attitude of guilt. But never mind,\nI pardon you. Jesus Christ said: Offer the other cheek. Here it is. \n\n\nAnd she presented her other cheek.\n\nJean Valjean did not move. It seemed as though his feet were nailed to\nthe pavement.\n\n This is becoming serious,  said Cosette.  What have I done to you? I\ndeclare that I am perplexed. You owe me reparation. You will dine with\nus. \n\n\n I have dined. \n\n\n That is not true. I will get M. Gillenormand to scold you.\nGrandfathers are made to reprimand fathers. Come. Go upstairs with me\nto the drawing-room. Immediately. \n\n\n Impossible. \n\n\nHere Cosette lost ground a little. She ceased to command and passed to\nquestioning.\n\n But why? and you choose the ugliest chamber in the house in which to\nsee me. It s horrible here. \n\n\n Thou knowest . . . \n\n\nJean Valjean caught himself up.\n\n You know, madame, that I am peculiar, I have my freaks. \n\n\nCosette struck her tiny hands together.\n\n Madame! . . . You know! . . . more novelties! What is the meaning of\nthis? \n\n\nJean Valjean directed upon her that heartrending smile to which he\noccasionally had recourse:\n\n You wished to be Madame. You are so. \n\n\n Not for you, father. \n\n\n Do not call me father. \n\n\n What? \n\n\n Call me  Monsieur Jean.   Jean,  if you like. \n\n\n You are no longer my father? I am no longer Cosette?  Monsieur Jean ?\nWhat does this mean? why, these are revolutions, aren t they? what has\ntaken place? come, look me in the face. And you won t live with us! And\nyou won t have my chamber! What have I done to you? Has anything\nhappened? \n\n\n Nothing. \n\n\n Well then? \n\n\n Everything is as usual. \n\n\n Why do you change your name? \n\n\n You have changed yours, surely. \n\n\nHe smiled again with the same smile as before and added:\n\n Since you are Madame Pontmercy, I certainly can be Monsieur Jean. \n\n\n I don t understand anything about it. All this is idiotic. I shall ask\npermission of my husband for you to be  Monsieur Jean.  I hope that he\nwill not consent to it. You cause me a great deal of pain. One does\nhave freaks, but one does not cause one s little Cosette grief. That is\nwrong. You have no right to be wicked, you who are so good. \n\n\nHe made no reply.\n\nShe seized his hands with vivacity, and raising them to her face with\nan irresistible movement, she pressed them against her neck beneath her\nchin, which is a gesture of profound tenderness.\n\n Oh!  she said to him,  be good! \n\n\nAnd she went on:\n\n This is what I call being good: being nice and coming and living\nhere, there are birds here as there are in the Rue Plumet, living with\nus, quitting that hole of a Rue de l Homme Arm , not giving us riddles\nto guess, being like all the rest of the world, dining with us,\nbreakfasting with us, being my father. \n\n\nHe loosed her hands.\n\n You no longer need a father, you have a husband. \n\n\nCosette became angry.\n\n I no longer need a father! One really does not know what to say to\nthings like that, which are not common sense! \n\n\n If Toussaint were here,  resumed Jean Valjean, like a person who is\ndriven to seek authorities, and who clutches at every branch,  she\nwould be the first to agree that it is true that I have always had ways\nof my own. There is nothing new in this. I always have loved my black\ncorner. \n\n\n But it is cold here. One cannot see distinctly. It is abominable, that\nit is, to wish to be Monsieur Jean! I will not have you say  you  to\nme.\n\n Just now, as I was coming hither,  replied Jean Valjean,  I saw a\npiece of furniture in the Rue Saint Louis. It was at a cabinet-maker s.\nIf I were a pretty woman, I would treat myself to that bit of\nfurniture. A very neat toilet table in the reigning style. What you\ncall rosewood, I think. It is inlaid. The mirror is quite large. There\nare drawers. It is pretty. \n\n\n Hou! the villainous bear!  replied Cosette.\n\nAnd with supreme grace, setting her teeth and drawing back her lips,\nshe blew at Jean Valjean. She was a Grace copying a cat.\n\n I am furious,  she resumed.  Ever since yesterday, you have made me\nrage, all of you. I am greatly vexed. I don t understand. You do not\ndefend me against Marius. Marius will not uphold me against you. I am\nall alone. I arrange a chamber prettily. If I could have put the good\nGod there I would have done it. My chamber is left on my hands. My\nlodger sends me into bankruptcy. I order a nice little dinner of\nNicolette. We will have nothing to do with your dinner, Madame. And my\nfather Fauchelevent wants me to call him  Monsieur Jean,  and to\nreceive him in a frightful, old, ugly cellar, where the walls have\nbeards, and where the crystal consists of empty bottles, and the\ncurtains are of spiders  webs! You are singular, I admit, that is your\nstyle, but people who get married are granted a truce. You ought not to\nhave begun being singular again instantly. So you are going to be\nperfectly contented in your abominable Rue de l Homme Arm . I was very\ndesperate indeed there, that I was. What have you against me? You cause\nme a great deal of grief. Fi! \n\n\nAnd, becoming suddenly serious, she gazed intently at Jean Valjean and\nadded:\n\n Are you angry with me because I am happy? \n\n\nIngenuousness sometimes unconsciously penetrates deep. This question,\nwhich was simple for Cosette, was profound for Jean Valjean. Cosette\nhad meant to scratch, and she lacerated.\n\nJean Valjean turned pale.\n\nHe remained for a moment without replying, then, with an inexpressible\nintonation, and speaking to himself, he murmured:\n\n Her happiness was the object of my life. Now God may sign my\ndismissal. Cosette, thou art happy; my day is over. \n\n\n Ah, you have said _thou_ to me!  exclaimed Cosette.\n\nAnd she sprang to his neck.\n\nJean Valjean, in bewilderment, strained her wildly to his breast. It\nalmost seemed to him as though he were taking her back.\n\n Thanks, father!  said Cosette.\n\nThis enthusiastic impulse was on the point of becoming poignant for\nJean Valjean. He gently removed Cosette s arms, and took his hat.\n\n Well?  said Cosette.\n\n I leave you, Madame, they are waiting for you. \n\n\nAnd, from the threshold, he added:\n\n I have said _thou_ to you. Tell your husband that this shall not\nhappen again. Pardon me. \n\n\nJean Valjean quitted the room, leaving Cosette stupefied at this\nenigmatical farewell.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II ANOTHER STEP BACKWARDS\n\n\nOn the following day, at the same hour, Jean Valjean came.\n\nCosette asked him no questions, was no longer astonished, no longer\nexclaimed that she was cold, no longer spoke of the drawing-room, she\navoided saying either  father  or  Monsieur Jean.  She allowed herself\nto be addressed as _you_. She allowed herself to be called Madame.\nOnly, her joy had undergone a certain diminution. She would have been\nsad, if sadness had been possible to her.\n\nIt is probable that she had had with Marius one of those conversations\nin which the beloved man says what he pleases, explains nothing, and\nsatisfies the beloved woman. The curiosity of lovers does not extend\nvery far beyond their own love.\n\nThe lower room had made a little toilet. Basque had suppressed the\nbottles, and Nicolette the spiders.\n\nAll the days which followed brought Jean Valjean at the same hour. He\ncame every day, because he had not the strength to take Marius  words\notherwise than literally. Marius arranged matters so as to be absent at\nthe hours when Jean Valjean came. The house grew accustomed to the\nnovel ways of M. Fauchelevent. Toussaint helped in this direction:\n Monsieur has always been like that,  she repeated. The grandfather\nissued this decree: He s an original.  And all was said. Moreover, at\nthe age of ninety-six, no bond is any longer possible, all is merely\njuxtaposition; a newcomer is in the way. There is no longer any room;\nall habits are acquired. M. Fauchelevent, M. Tranchelevent, Father\nGillenormand asked nothing better than to be relieved from  that\ngentleman.  He added: Nothing is more common than those originals.\nThey do all sorts of queer things. They have no reason. The Marquis de\nCanaples was still worse. He bought a palace that he might lodge in the\ngarret. These are fantastic appearances that people affect. \n\n\nNo one caught a glimpse of the sinister foundation. And moreover, who\ncould have guessed such a thing? There are marshes of this description\nin India. The water seems extraordinary, inexplicable, rippling though\nthere is no wind, and agitated where it should be calm. One gazes at\nthe surface of these causeless ebullitions; one does not perceive the\nhydra which crawls on the bottom.\n\nMany men have a secret monster in this same manner, a dragon which\ngnaws them, a despair which inhabits their night. Such a man resembles\nother men, he goes and comes. No one knows that he bears within him a\nfrightful parasitic pain with a thousand teeth, which lives within the\nunhappy man, and of which he is dying. No one knows that this man is a\ngulf. He is stagnant but deep. From time to time, a trouble of which\nthe onlooker understands nothing appears on his surface. A mysterious\nwrinkle is formed, then vanishes, then reappears; an air-bubble rises\nand bursts. It is the breathing of the unknown beast.\n\nCertain strange habits: arriving at the hour when other people are\ntaking their leave, keeping in the background when other people are\ndisplaying themselves, preserving on all occasions what may be\ndesignated as the wall-colored mantle, seeking the solitary walk,\npreferring the deserted street, avoiding any share in conversation,\navoiding crowds and festivals, seeming at one s ease and living poorly,\nhaving one s key in one s pocket, and one s candle at the porter s\nlodge, however rich one may be, entering by the side door, ascending\nthe private staircase, all these insignificant singularities, fugitive\nfolds on the surface, often proceed from a formidable foundation.\n\nMany weeks passed in this manner. A new life gradually took possession\nof Cosette: the relations which marriage creates, visits, the care of\nthe house, pleasures, great matters. Cosette s pleasures were not\ncostly, they consisted in one thing: being with Marius. The great\noccupation of her life was to go out with him, to remain with him. It\nwas for them a joy that was always fresh, to go out arm in arm, in the\nface of the sun, in the open street, without hiding themselves, before\nthe whole world, both of them completely alone.\n\nCosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not get on with Nicolette,\nthe soldering of two elderly maids being impossible, and she went away.\nThe grandfather was well; Marius argued a case here and there; Aunt\nGillenormand peacefully led that life aside which sufficed for her,\nbeside the new household. Jean Valjean came every day.\n\nThe address as _thou_ disappeared, the _you_, the  Madame,  the\n Monsieur Jean,  rendered him another person to Cosette. The care which\nhe had himself taken to detach her from him was succeeding. She became\nmore and more gay and less and less tender. Yet she still loved him\nsincerely, and he felt it.\n\nOne day she said to him suddenly:  You used to be my father, you are no\nlonger my father, you were my uncle, you are no longer my uncle, you\nwere Monsieur Fauchelevent, you are Jean. Who are you then? I don t\nlike all this. If I did not know how good you are, I should be afraid\nof you. \n\n\nHe still lived in the Rue de l Homme Arm , because he could not make up\nhis mind to remove to a distance from the quarter where Cosette dwelt.\n\nAt first, he only remained a few minutes with Cosette, and then went\naway.\n\nLittle by little he acquired the habit of making his visits less brief.\nOne would have said that he was taking advantage of the authorization\nof the days which were lengthening, he arrived earlier and departed\nlater.\n\nOne day Cosette chanced to say  father  to him. A flash of joy\nilluminated Jean Valjean s melancholy old countenance. He caught her\nup:  Say Jean. Ah! truly,  she replied with a burst of laughter,\n Monsieur Jean. That is right,  said he. And he turned aside so that\nshe might not see him wipe his eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THEY RECALL THE GARDEN OF THE RUE PLUMET\n\n\nThis was the last time. After that last flash of light, complete\nextinction ensued. No more familiarity, no more good-morning with a\nkiss, never more that word so profoundly sweet:  My father!  He was at\nhis own request and through his own complicity driven out of all his\nhappinesses one after the other; and he had this sorrow, that after\nhaving lost Cosette wholly in one day, he was afterwards obliged to\nlose her again in detail.\n\nThe eye eventually becomes accustomed to the light of a cellar. In\nshort, it sufficed for him to have an apparition of Cosette every day.\nHis whole life was concentrated in that one hour.\n\nHe seated himself close to her, he gazed at her in silence, or he\ntalked to her of years gone by, of her childhood, of the convent, of\nher little friends of those bygone days.\n\nOne afternoon, it was on one of those early days in April, already warm\nand fresh, the moment of the sun s great gayety, the gardens which\nsurrounded the windows of Marius and Cosette felt the emotion of\nwaking, the hawthorn was on the point of budding, a jewelled garniture\nof gillyflowers spread over the ancient walls, snapdragons yawned\nthrough the crevices of the stones, amid the grass there was a charming\nbeginning of daisies, and buttercups, the white butterflies of the year\nwere making their first appearance, the wind, that minstrel of the\neternal wedding, was trying in the trees the first notes of that grand,\nauroral symphony which the old poets called the springtide, Marius said\nto Cosette: We said that we would go back to take a look at our garden\nin the Rue Plumet. Let us go thither. We must not be ungrateful. And\naway they flitted, like two swallows towards the spring. This garden of\nthe Rue Plumet produced on them the effect of the dawn. They already\nhad behind them in life something which was like the springtime of\ntheir love. The house in the Rue Plumet being held on a lease, still\nbelonged to Cosette. They went to that garden and that house. There\nthey found themselves again, there they forgot themselves. That\nevening, at the usual hour, Jean Valjean came to the Rue des\nFilles-du-Calvaire. Madame went out with Monsieur and has not yet\nreturned,  Basque said to him. He seated himself in silence, and waited\nan hour. Cosette did not return. He departed with drooping head.\n\nCosette was so intoxicated with her walk to  their garden,  and so\njoyous at having  lived a whole day in her past,  that she talked of\nnothing else on the morrow. She did not notice that she had not seen\nJean Valjean.\n\n In what way did you go thither?  Jean Valjean asked her. \n\n\n On foot. \n\n\n And how did you return? \n\n\n In a hackney carriage. \n\n\nFor some time, Jean Valjean had noticed the economical life led by the\nyoung people. He was troubled by it. Marius  economy was severe, and\nthat word had its absolute meaning for Jean Valjean. He hazarded a\nquery:\n\n Why do you not have a carriage of your own? A pretty coup  would only\ncost you five hundred francs a month. You are rich. \n\n\n I don t know,  replied Cosette.\n\n It is like Toussaint,  resumed Jean Valjean.  She is gone. You have\nnot replaced her. Why? \n\n\n Nicolette suffices. \n\n\n But you ought to have a maid. \n\n\n Have I not Marius? \n\n\n You ought to have a house of your own, your own servants, a carriage,\na box at the theatre. There is nothing too fine for you. Why not profit\nby your riches? Wealth adds to happiness. \n\n\nCosette made no reply.\n\nJean Valjean s visits were not abridged. Far from it. When it is the\nheart which is slipping, one does not halt on the downward slope.\n\nWhen Jean Valjean wished to prolong his visit and to induce\nforgetfulness of the hour, he sang the praises of Marius; he pronounced\nhim handsome, noble, courageous, witty, eloquent, good. Cosette outdid\nhim. Jean Valjean began again. They were never weary. Marius that word\nwas inexhaustible; those six letters contained volumes. In this manner,\nJean Valjean contrived to remain a long time.\n\nIt was so sweet to see Cosette, to forget by her side! It alleviated\nhis wounds. It frequently happened that Basque came twice to announce:\n M. Gillenormand sends me to remind Madame la Baronne that dinner is\nserved. \n\n\nOn those days, Jean Valjean was very thoughtful on his return home.\n\nWas there, then, any truth in that comparison of the chrysalis which\nhad presented itself to the mind of Marius? Was Jean Valjean really a\nchrysalis who would persist, and who would come to visit his butterfly?\n\nOne day he remained still longer than usual. On the following day he\nobserved that there was no fire on the hearth. Hello!  he thought.  No\nfire. And he furnished the explanation for himself. It is perfectly\nsimple. It is April. The cold weather has ceased. \n\n\n Heavens! how cold it is here!  exclaimed Cosette when she entered.\n\n Why, no,  said Jean Valjean.\n\n Was it you who told Basque not to make a fire then? \n\n\n Yes, since we are now in the month of May. \n\n\n But we have a fire until June. One is needed all the year in this\ncellar. \n\n\n I thought that a fire was unnecessary. \n\n\n That is exactly like one of your ideas!  retorted Cosette.\n\nOn the following day there was a fire. But the two armchairs were\narranged at the other end of the room near the door.  What is the\nmeaning of this?  thought Jean Valjean.\n\nHe went for the armchairs and restored them to their ordinary place\nnear the hearth.\n\nThis fire lighted once more encouraged him, however. He prolonged the\nconversation even beyond its customary limits. As he rose to take his\nleave, Cosette said to him:\n\n My husband said a queer thing to me yesterday. \n\n\n What was it? \n\n\n He said to me:  Cosette, we have an income of thirty thousand livres.\nTwenty-seven that you own, and three that my grandfather gives me.  I\nreplied:  That makes thirty.  He went on:  Would you have the courage\nto live on the three thousand?  I answered:  Yes, on nothing. Provided\nthat it was with you.  And then I asked:  Why do you say that to me? \nHe replied:  I wanted to know. \n\n\nJean Valjean found not a word to answer. Cosette probably expected some\nexplanation from him; he listened in gloomy silence. He went back to\nthe Rue de l Homme Arm ; he was so deeply absorbed that he mistook the\ndoor and instead of entering his own house, he entered the adjoining\ndwelling. It was only after having ascended nearly two stories that he\nperceived his error and went down again.\n\nHis mind was swarming with conjectures. It was evident that Marius had\nhis doubts as to the origin of the six hundred thousand francs, that he\nfeared some source that was not pure, who knows? that he had even,\nperhaps, discovered that the money came from him, Jean Valjean, that he\nhesitated before this suspicious fortune, and was disinclined to take\nit as his own, preferring that both he and Cosette should remain poor,\nrather than that they should be rich with wealth that was not clean.\n\nMoreover, Jean Valjean began vaguely to surmise that he was being shown\nthe door.\n\nOn the following day, he underwent something like a shock on entering\nthe ground-floor room. The armchairs had disappeared. There was not a\nsingle chair of any sort.\n\n Ah, what s this!  exclaimed Cosette as she entered,  no chairs! Where\nare the armchairs? \n\n\n They are no longer here,  replied Jean Valjean.\n\n This is too much! \n\n\nJean Valjean stammered:\n\n It was I who told Basque to remove them. \n\n\n And your reason? \n\n\n I have only a few minutes to stay to-day. \n\n\n A brief stay is no reason for remaining standing. \n\n\n I think that Basque needed the chairs for the drawing-room. \n\n\n Why? \n\n\n You have company this evening, no doubt. \n\n\n We expect no one. \n\n\nJean Valjean had not another word to say.\n\nCosette shrugged her shoulders.\n\n To have the chairs carried off! The other day you had the fire put\nout. How odd you are! \n\n\n Adieu!  murmured Jean Valjean.\n\nHe did not say:  Adieu, Cosette.  But he had not the strength to say:\n Adieu, Madame. \n\n\nHe went away utterly overwhelmed.\n\nThis time he had understood.\n\nOn the following day he did not come. Cosette only observed the fact in\nthe evening.\n\n Why,  said she,  Monsieur Jean has not been here today. \n\n\nAnd she felt a slight twinge at her heart, but she hardly perceived it,\nbeing immediately diverted by a kiss from Marius.\n\nOn the following day he did not come.\n\nCosette paid no heed to this, passed her evening and slept well that\nnight, as usual, and thought of it only when she woke. She was so\nhappy! She speedily despatched Nicolette to M. Jean s house to inquire\nwhether he were ill, and why he had not come on the previous evening.\nNicolette brought back the reply of M. Jean that he was not ill. He was\nbusy. He would come soon. As soon as he was able. Moreover, he was on\nthe point of taking a little journey. Madame must remember that it was\nhis custom to take trips from time to time. They were not to worry\nabout him. They were not to think of him.\n\nNicolette on entering M. Jean s had repeated to him her mistress  very\nwords. That Madame had sent her to inquire why M. Jean had not come on\nthe preceding evening.  It is two days since I have been there,  said\nJean Valjean gently.\n\nBut the remark passed unnoticed by Nicolette, who did not report it to\nCosette.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV ATTRACTION AND EXTINCTION\n\n\nDuring the last months of spring and the first months of summer in\n1833, the rare passers-by in the Marais, the petty shopkeepers, the\nloungers on thresholds, noticed an old man neatly clad in black, who\nemerged every day at the same hour, towards nightfall, from the Rue de\nl Homme Arm , on the side of the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie,\npassed in front of the Blancs Manteaux, gained the Rue\nCulture-Sainte-Catherine, and, on arriving at the Rue de l charpe,\nturned to the left, and entered the Rue Saint-Louis.\n\nThere he walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward, seeing\nnothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point which\nseemed to be a star to him, which never varied, and which was no other\nthan the corner of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. The nearer he\napproached the corner of the street the more his eye lighted up; a sort\nof joy illuminated his pupils like an inward aurora, he had a\nfascinated and much affected air, his lips indulged in obscure\nmovements, as though he were talking to some one whom he did not see,\nhe smiled vaguely and advanced as slowly as possible. One would have\nsaid that, while desirous of reaching his destination, he feared the\nmoment when he should be close at hand. When only a few houses remained\nbetween him and that street which appeared to attract him his pace\nslackened, to such a degree that, at times, one might have thought that\nhe was no longer advancing at all. The vacillation of his head and the\nfixity of his eyeballs suggested the thought of the magnetic needle\nseeking the pole. Whatever time he spent on arriving, he was obliged to\narrive at last; he reached the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; then he\nhalted, he trembled, he thrust his head with a sort of melancholy\ntimidity round the corner of the last house, and gazed into that\nstreet, and there was in that tragic look something which resembled the\ndazzling light of the impossible, and the reflection from a paradise\nthat was closed to him. Then a tear, which had slowly gathered in the\ncorner of his lids, and had become large enough to fall, trickled down\nhis cheek, and sometimes stopped at his mouth. The old man tasted its\nbitter flavor. Thus he remained for several minutes as though made of\nstone, then he returned by the same road and with the same step, and,\nin proportion as he retreated, his glance died out.\n\nLittle by little, this old man ceased to go as far as the corner of the\nRue des Filles-du-Calvaire; he halted half way in the Rue Saint-Louis;\nsometimes a little further off, sometimes a little nearer.\n\nOne day he stopped at the corner of the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine\nand looked at the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire from a distance. Then he\nshook his head slowly from right to left, as though refusing himself\nsomething, and retraced his steps.\n\nSoon he no longer came as far as the Rue Saint-Louis. He got as far as\nthe Rue Pav e, shook his head and turned back; then he went no further\nthan the Rue des Trois-Pavillons; then he did not overstep the\nBlancs-Manteaux. One would have said that he was a pendulum which was\nno longer wound up, and whose oscillations were growing shorter before\nceasing altogether.\n\nEvery day he emerged from his house at the same hour, he undertook the\nsame trip, but he no longer completed it, and, perhaps without himself\nbeing aware of the fact, he constantly shortened it. His whole\ncountenance expressed this single idea: What is the use? His eye was\ndim; no more radiance. His tears were also exhausted; they no longer\ncollected in the corner of his eye-lid; that thoughtful eye was dry.\nThe old man s head was still craned forward; his chin moved at times;\nthe folds in his gaunt neck were painful to behold. Sometimes, when the\nweather was bad, he had an umbrella under his arm, but he never opened\nit.\n\nThe good women of the quarter said:  He is an innocent.  The children\nfollowed him and laughed.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK NINTH SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DAWN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I PITY FOR THE UNHAPPY, BUT INDULGENCE FOR THE HAPPY\n\n\nIt is a terrible thing to be happy! How content one is! How\nall-sufficient one finds it! How, being in possession of the false\nobject of life, happiness, one forgets the true object, duty!\n\nLet us say, however, that the reader would do wrong were he to blame\nMarius.\n\nMarius, as we have explained, before his marriage, had put no questions\nto M. Fauchelevent, and, since that time, he had feared to put any to\nJean Valjean. He had regretted the promise into which he had allowed\nhimself to be drawn. He had often said to himself that he had done\nwrong in making that concession to despair. He had confined himself to\ngradually estranging Jean Valjean from his house and to effacing him,\nas much as possible, from Cosette s mind. He had, in a manner, always\nplaced himself between Cosette and Jean Valjean, sure that, in this\nway, she would not perceive nor think of the latter. It was more than\neffacement, it was an eclipse.\n\nMarius did what he considered necessary and just. He thought that he\nhad serious reasons which the reader has already seen, and others which\nwill be seen later on, for getting rid of Jean Valjean without\nharshness, but without weakness.\n\nChance having ordained that he should encounter, in a case which he had\nargued, a former employee of the Laffitte establishment, he had\nacquired mysterious information, without seeking it, which he had not\nbeen able, it is true, to probe, out of respect for the secret which he\nhad promised to guard, and out of consideration for Jean Valjean s\nperilous position. He believed at that moment that he had a grave duty\nto perform: the restitution of the six hundred thousand francs to some\none whom he sought with all possible discretion. In the meanwhile, he\nabstained from touching that money.\n\nAs for Cosette, she had not been initiated into any of these secrets;\nbut it would be harsh to condemn her also.\n\nThere existed between Marius and her an all-powerful magnetism, which\ncaused her to do, instinctively and almost mechanically, what Marius\nwished. She was conscious of Marius  will in the direction of  Monsieur\nJean,  she conformed to it. Her husband had not been obliged to say\nanything to her; she yielded to the vague but clear pressure of his\ntacit intentions, and obeyed blindly. Her obedience in this instance\nconsisted in not remembering what Marius forgot. She was not obliged to\nmake any effort to accomplish this. Without her knowing why herself,\nand without his having any cause to accuse her of it, her soul had\nbecome so wholly her husband s that that which was shrouded in gloom in\nMarius  mind became overcast in hers.\n\nLet us not go too far, however; in what concerns Jean Valjean, this\nforgetfulness and obliteration were merely superficial. She was rather\nheedless than forgetful. At bottom, she was sincerely attached to the\nman whom she had so long called her father; but she loved her husband\nstill more dearly. This was what had somewhat disturbed the balance of\nher heart, which leaned to one side only.\n\nIt sometimes happened that Cosette spoke of Jean Valjean and expressed\nher surprise. Then Marius calmed her:  He is absent, I think. Did not\nhe say that he was setting out on a journey? That is true,  thought\nCosette.  He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion. But not for\nso long.  Two or three times she despatched Nicolette to inquire in the\nRue de l Homme Arm  whether M. Jean had returned from his journey. Jean\nValjean caused the answer  no  to be given.\n\nCosette asked nothing more, since she had but one need on earth,\nMarius.\n\nLet us also say that, on their side, Cosette and Marius had also been\nabsent. They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette to his\nfather s grave.\n\nMarius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean. Cosette allowed\nit.\n\nMoreover that which is called, far too harshly in certain cases, the\ningratitude of children, is not always a thing so deserving of reproach\nas it is supposed. It is the ingratitude of nature. Nature, as we have\nelsewhere said,  looks before her.  Nature divides living beings into\nthose who are arriving and those who are departing. Those who are\ndeparting are turned towards the shadows, those who are arriving\ntowards the light. Hence a gulf which is fatal on the part of the old,\nand involuntary on the part of the young. This breach, at first\ninsensible, increases slowly, like all separations of branches. The\nboughs, without becoming detached from the trunk, grow away from it. It\nis no fault of theirs. Youth goes where there is joy, festivals, vivid\nlights, love. Old age goes towards the end. They do not lose sight of\neach other, but there is no longer a close connection. Young people\nfeel the cooling off of life; old people, that of the tomb. Let us not\nblame these poor children.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II LAST FLICKERINGS OF A LAMP WITHOUT OIL\n\n\nOne day, Jean Valjean descended his staircase, took three steps in the\nstreet, seated himself on a post, on that same stone post where\nGavroche had found him meditating on the night between the 5th and the\n6th of June; he remained there a few moments, then went upstairs again.\nThis was the last oscillation of the pendulum. On the following day he\ndid not leave his apartment. On the day after that, he did not leave\nhis bed.\n\nHis portress, who prepared his scanty repasts, a few cabbages or\npotatoes with bacon, glanced at the brown earthenware plate and\nexclaimed:\n\n But you ate nothing yesterday, poor, dear man! \n\n\n Certainly I did,  replied Jean Valjean.\n\n The plate is quite full. \n\n\n Look at the water jug. It is empty. \n\n\n That proves that you have drunk; it does not prove that you have\neaten. \n\n\n Well,  said Jean Valjean,  what if I felt hungry only for water? \n\n\n That is called thirst, and, when one does not eat at the same time, it\nis called fever. \n\n\n I will eat to-morrow. \n\n\n Or at Trinity day. Why not to-day? Is it the thing to say:  I will eat\nto-morrow ? The idea of leaving my platter without even touching it! My\nlady-finger potatoes were so good! \n\n\nJean Valjean took the old woman s hand:\n\n I promise you that I will eat them,  he said, in his benevolent voice.\n\n I am not pleased with you,  replied the portress.\n\nJean Valjean saw no other human creature than this good woman. There\nare streets in Paris through which no one ever passes, and houses to\nwhich no one ever comes. He was in one of those streets and one of\nthose houses.\n\nWhile he still went out, he had purchased of a coppersmith, for a few\nsous, a little copper crucifix which he had hung up on a nail opposite\nhis bed. That gibbet is always good to look at.\n\nA week passed, and Jean Valjean had not taken a step in his room. He\nstill remained in bed. The portress said to her husband: The good man\nupstairs yonder does not get up, he no longer eats, he will not last\nlong. That man has his sorrows, that he has. You won t get it out of my\nhead that his daughter has made a bad marriage. \n\n\nThe porter replied, with the tone of marital sovereignty:\n\n If he s rich, let him have a doctor. If he is not rich, let him go\nwithout. If he has no doctor he will die. \n\n\n And if he has one? \n\n\n He will die,  said the porter.\n\nThe portress set to scraping away the grass from what she called her\npavement, with an old knife, and, as she tore out the blades, she\ngrumbled:\n\n It s a shame. Such a neat old man! He s as white as a chicken. \n\n\nShe caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed the end of\nthe street; she took it upon herself to request him to come upstairs.\n\n It s on the second floor,  said she.  You have only to enter. As the\ngood man no longer stirs from his bed, the door is always unlocked. \n\n\nThe doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him.\n\nWhen he came down again the portress interrogated him:\n\n Well, doctor? \n\n\n Your sick man is very ill indeed. \n\n\n What is the matter with him? \n\n\n Everything and nothing. He is a man who, to all appearances, has lost\nsome person who is dear to him. People die of that. \n\n\n What did he say to you? \n\n\n He told me that he was in good health. \n\n\n Shall you come again, doctor? \n\n\n Yes,  replied the doctor.  But some one else besides must come. \n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III A PEN IS HEAVY TO THE MAN WHO LIFTED THE FAUCHELEVENT S\nCART\n\n\nOne evening Jean Valjean found difficulty in raising himself on his\nelbow; he felt of his wrist and could not find his pulse; his breath\nwas short and halted at times; he recognized the fact that he was\nweaker than he had ever been before. Then, no doubt under the pressure\nof some supreme preoccupation, he made an effort, drew himself up into\na sitting posture and dressed himself. He put on his old workingman s\nclothes. As he no longer went out, he had returned to them and\npreferred them. He was obliged to pause many times while dressing\nhimself; merely putting his arms through his waistcoat made the\nperspiration trickle from his forehead.\n\nSince he had been alone, he had placed his bed in the antechamber, in\norder to inhabit that deserted apartment as little as possible.\n\nHe opened the valise and drew from it Cosette s outfit.\n\nHe spread it out on his bed.\n\nThe Bishop s candlesticks were in their place on the chimney-piece. He\ntook from a drawer two wax candles and put them in the candlesticks.\nThen, although it was still broad daylight, it was summer, he lighted\nthem. In the same way candles are to be seen lighted in broad daylight\nin chambers where there is a corpse.\n\nEvery step that he took in going from one piece of furniture to another\nexhausted him, and he was obliged to sit down. It was not ordinary\nfatigue which expends the strength only to renew it; it was the remnant\nof all movement possible to him, it was life drained which flows away\ndrop by drop in overwhelming efforts and which will never be renewed.\n\nThe chair into which he allowed himself to fall was placed in front of\nthat mirror, so fatal for him, so providential for Marius, in which he\nhad read Cosette s reversed writing on the blotting book. He caught\nsight of himself in this mirror, and did not recognize himself. He was\neighty years old; before Marius  marriage, he would have hardly been\ntaken for fifty; that year had counted for thirty. What he bore on his\nbrow was no longer the wrinkles of age, it was the mysterious mark of\ndeath. The hollowing of that pitiless nail could be felt there. His\ncheeks were pendulous; the skin of his face had the color which would\nlead one to think that it already had earth upon it; the corners of his\nmouth drooped as in the mask which the ancients sculptured on tombs. He\ngazed into space with an air of reproach; one would have said that he\nwas one of those grand tragic beings who have cause to complain of some\none.\n\nHe was in that condition, the last phase of dejection, in which sorrow\nno longer flows; it is coagulated, so to speak; there is something on\nthe soul like a clot of despair.\n\nNight had come. He laboriously dragged a table and the old armchair to\nthe fireside, and placed upon the table a pen, some ink and some paper.\n\nThat done, he had a fainting fit. When he recovered consciousness, he\nwas thirsty. As he could not lift the jug, he tipped it over painfully\ntowards his mouth, and swallowed a draught.\n\nAs neither the pen nor the ink had been used for a long time, the point\nof the pen had curled up, the ink had dried away, he was forced to rise\nand put a few drops of water in the ink, which he did not accomplish\nwithout pausing and sitting down two or three times, and he was\ncompelled to write with the back of the pen. He wiped his brow from\ntime to time.\n\nThen he turned towards the bed, and, still seated, for he could not\nstand, he gazed at the little black gown and all those beloved objects.\n\nThese contemplations lasted for hours which seemed minutes.\n\nAll at once he shivered, he felt that a child was taking possession of\nhim; he rested his elbows on the table, which was illuminated by the\nBishop s candles and took up the pen. His hand trembled. He wrote\nslowly the few following lines:\n\n Cosette, I bless thee. I am going to explain to thee. Thy husband was\nright in giving me to understand that I ought to go away; but there is\na little error in what he believed, though he was in the right. He is\nexcellent. Love him well even after I am dead. Monsieur Pontmercy, love\nmy darling child well. Cosette, this paper will be found; this is what\nI wish to say to thee, thou wilt see the figures, if I have the\nstrength to recall them, listen well, this money is really thine. Here\nis the whole matter: White jet comes from Norway, black jet comes from\nEngland, black glass jewellery comes from Germany. Jet is the lightest,\nthe most precious, the most costly. Imitations can be made in France as\nwell as in Germany. What is needed is a little anvil two inches square,\nand a lamp burning spirits of wine to soften the wax. The wax was\nformerly made with resin and lampblack, and cost four livres the pound.\nI invented a way of making it with gum shellac and turpentine. It does\nnot cost more than thirty sous, and is much better. Buckles are made\nwith a violet glass which is stuck fast, by means of this wax, to a\nlittle framework of black iron. The glass must be violet for iron\njewellery, and black for gold jewellery. Spain buys a great deal of it.\nIt is the country of jet . . . \n\n\nHere he paused, the pen fell from his fingers, he was seized by one of\nthose sobs which at times welled up from the very depths of his being;\nthe poor man clasped his head in both hands, and meditated.\n\n Oh!  he exclaimed within himself [lamentable cries, heard by God\nalone],  all is over. I shall never see her more. She is a smile which\npassed over me. I am about to plunge into the night without even seeing\nher again. Oh! one minute, one instant, to hear her voice, to touch her\ndress, to gaze upon her, upon her, the angel! and then to die! It is\nnothing to die, what is frightful is to die without seeing her. She\nwould smile on me, she would say a word to me, would that do any harm\nto any one? No, all is over, and forever. Here I am all alone. My God!\nMy God! I shall never see her again!  At that moment there came a knock\nat the door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV A BOTTLE OF INK WHICH ONLY SUCCEEDED IN WHITENING\n\n\nThat same day, or to speak more accurately, that same evening, as\nMarius left the table, and was on the point of withdrawing to his\nstudy, having a case to look over, Basque handed him a letter saying:\n The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber. \n\n\nCosette had taken the grandfather s arm and was strolling in the\ngarden.\n\nA letter, like a man, may have an unprepossessing exterior. Coarse\npaper, coarsely folded the very sight of certain missives is\ndispleasing.\n\nThe letter which Basque had brought was of this sort.\n\nMarius took it. It smelled of tobacco. Nothing evokes a memory like an\nodor. Marius recognized that tobacco. He looked at the superscription:\n To Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron Pommerci. At his hotel.  The\nrecognition of the tobacco caused him to recognize the writing as well.\nIt may be said that amazement has its lightning flashes.\n\nMarius was, as it were, illuminated by one of these flashes.\n\nThe sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just revived a\nwhole world within him. This was certainly the paper, the fashion of\nfolding, the dull tint of ink; it was certainly the well-known\nhandwriting, especially was it the same tobacco.\n\nThe Jondrette garret rose before his mind.\n\nThus, strange freak of chance! one of the two scents which he had so\ndiligently sought, the one in connection with which he had lately again\nexerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost, had\ncome and presented itself to him of its own accord.\n\nHe eagerly broke the seal, and read:\n\n Monsieur le Baron: If the Supreme Being had given me the talents, I\nmight have been baron Th nard, member of the Institute [acadenmy of\nciences], but I am not.  I only bear the same as him, happy if this\nmemory recommends me to the eccellence of your kindnesses. The benefit\nwith which you will honor me will be reciprocle. I am in possession of\na secret concerning an individual. This individual concerns you.  I\nhold the secret at your disposal desiring to have the honor to be\nhuseful to you.  I will furnish you with the simple means of driving\nfrom your honorabel family that individual who has no right there,\nmadame la baronne being of lofty birth.  The sanctuary of virtue cannot\ncohabit longer with crime without abdicating.\n\n I awate in the entichamber the orders of monsieur le baron.\n\n With respect. \n\n\nThe letter was signed  Th nard. \n\n\nThis signature was not false. It was merely a trifle abridged.\n\nMoreover, the rigmarole and the orthography completed the revelation.\nThe certificate of origin was complete.\n\nMarius  emotion was profound. After a start of surprise, he underwent a\nfeeling of happiness. If he could now but find that other man of whom\nhe was in search, the man who had saved him, Marius, there would be\nnothing left for him to desire.\n\nHe opened the drawer of his secretary, took out several bank-notes, put\nthem in his pocket, closed the secretary again, and rang the bell.\nBasque half opened the door.\n\n Show the man in,  said Marius.\n\nBasque announced:\n\n Monsieur Th nard. \n\n\nA man entered.\n\nA fresh surprise for Marius. The man who entered was an utter stranger\nto him.\n\nThis man, who was old, moreover, had a thick nose, his chin swathed in\na cravat, green spectacles with a double screen of green taffeta over\nhis eyes, and his hair was plastered and flattened down on his brow on\na level with his eyebrows like the wigs of English coachmen in  high\nlife.  His hair was gray. He was dressed in black from head to foot, in\ngarments that were very threadbare but clean; a bunch of seals\ndepending from his fob suggested the idea of a watch. He held in his\nhand an old hat! He walked in a bent attitude, and the curve in his\nspine augmented the profundity of his bow.\n\nThe first thing that struck the observer was, that this personage s\ncoat, which was too ample although carefully buttoned, had not been\nmade for him.\n\nHere a short digression becomes necessary.\n\nThere was in Paris at that epoch, in a low-lived old lodging in the Rue\nBeautreillis, near the Arsenal, an ingenious Jew whose profession was\nto change villains into honest men. Not for too long, which might have\nproved embarrassing for the villain. The change was on sight, for a day\nor two, at the rate of thirty sous a day, by means of a costume which\nresembled the honesty of the world in general as nearly as possible.\nThis costumer was called  the Changer ; the pickpockets of Paris had\ngiven him this name and knew him by no other. He had a tolerably\ncomplete wardrobe. The rags with which he tricked out people were\nalmost probable. He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his\nshop hung a social status, threadbare and worn; here the suit of a\nmagistrate, there the outfit of a Cur , beyond the outfit of a banker,\nin one corner the costume of a retired military man, elsewhere the\nhabiliments of a man of letters, and further on the dress of a\nstatesman.\n\nThis creature was the costumer of the immense drama which knavery plays\nin Paris. His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged, and into\nwhich roguery retreated. A tattered knave arrived at this\ndressing-room, deposited his thirty sous and selected, according to the\npart which he wished to play, the costume which suited him, and on\ndescending the stairs once more, the knave was a somebody. On the\nfollowing day, the clothes were faithfully returned, and the Changer,\nwho trusted the thieves with everything, was never robbed. There was\none inconvenience about these clothes, they  did not fit ; not having\nbeen made for those who wore them, they were too tight for one, too\nloose for another and did not adjust themselves to any one. Every\npickpocket who exceeded or fell short of the human average was ill at\nhis ease in the Changer s costumes. It was necessary that one should\nnot be either too fat or too lean. The Changer had foreseen only\nordinary men. He had taken the measure of the species from the first\nrascal who came to hand, who is neither stout nor thin, neither tall\nnor short. Hence adaptations which were sometimes difficult and from\nwhich the Changer s clients extricated themselves as best they might.\nSo much the worse for the exceptions! The suit of the statesman, for\ninstance, black from head to foot, and consequently proper, would have\nbeen too large for Pitt and too small for Castelcicala. The costume of\na statesman was designated as follows in the Changer s catalogue; we\ncopy:\n\n A coat of black cloth, trowsers of black wool, a silk waistcoat, boots\nand linen.  On the margin there stood: _ex-ambassador_, and a note\nwhich we also copy:  In a separate box, a neatly frizzed peruke, green\nglasses, seals, and two small quills an inch long, wrapped in cotton. \nAll this belonged to the statesman, the ex-ambassador. This whole\ncostume was, if we may so express ourselves, debilitated; the seams\nwere white, a vague button-hole yawned at one of the elbows; moreover,\none of the coat buttons was missing on the breast; but this was only\ndetail; as the hand of the statesman should always be thrust into his\ncoat and laid upon his heart, its function was to conceal the absent\nbutton.\n\nIf Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of Paris, he\nwould instantly have recognized upon the back of the visitor whom\nBasque had just shown in, the statesman s suit borrowed from the\npick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.\n\nMarius  disappointment on beholding another man than the one whom he\nexpected to see turned to the newcomer s disadvantage.\n\nHe surveyed him from head to foot, while that personage made\nexaggerated bows, and demanded in a curt tone:\n\n What do you want? \n\n\nThe man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing smile of a\ncrocodile will furnish some idea:\n\n It seems to me impossible that I should not have already had the honor\nof seeing Monsieur le Baron in society. I think I actually did meet\nmonsieur personally, several years ago, at the house of Madame la\nPrincesse Bagration and in the drawing-rooms of his Lordship the\nVicomte Dambray, peer of France. \n\n\nIt is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to recognize\nsome one whom one does not know.\n\nMarius paid attention to the manner of this man s speech. He spied on\nhis accent and gesture, but his disappointment increased; the\npronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the dry, shrill tone\nwhich he had expected.\n\nHe was utterly routed.\n\n I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray,  said he.  I have\nnever set foot in the house of either of them in my life. \n\n\nThe reply was ungracious. The personage, determined to be gracious at\nany cost, insisted.\n\n Then it must have been at Chateaubriand s that I have seen Monsieur! I\nknow Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes says to\nme:  Th nard, my friend . . . won t you drink a glass of wine with\nme? \n\n\nMarius  brow grew more and more severe:\n\n I have never had the honor of being received by M. de Chateaubriand.\nLet us cut it short. What do you want? \n\n\nThe man bowed lower at that harsh voice.\n\n Monsieur le Baron, deign to listen to me. There is in America, in a\ndistrict near Panama, a village called la Joya. That village is\ncomposed of a single house, a large, square house of three stories,\nbuilt of bricks dried in the sun, each side of the square five hundred\nfeet in length, each story retreating twelve feet back of the story\nbelow, in such a manner as to leave in front a terrace which makes the\ncircuit of the edifice, in the centre an inner court where the\nprovisions and munitions are kept; no windows, loopholes, no doors,\nladders, ladders to mount from the ground to the first terrace, and\nfrom the first to the second, and from the second to the third, ladders\nto descend into the inner court, no doors to the chambers, trap-doors,\nno staircases to the chambers, ladders; in the evening the traps are\nclosed, the ladders are withdrawn, carbines and blunderbusses trained\nfrom the loopholes; no means of entering, a house by day, a citadel by\nnight, eight hundred inhabitants, that is the village. Why so many\nprecautions? because the country is dangerous; it is full of cannibals.\nThen why do people go there? because the country is marvellous; gold is\nfound there. \n\n\n What are you driving at?  interrupted Marius, who had passed from\ndisappointment to impatience.\n\n At this, Monsieur le Baron. I am an old and weary diplomat. Ancient\ncivilization has thrown me on my own devices. I want to try savages. \n\n\n Well? \n\n\n Monsieur le Baron, egotism is the law of the world. The proletarian\npeasant woman, who toils by the day, turns round when the diligence\npasses by, the peasant proprietress, who toils in her field, does not\nturn round. The dog of the poor man barks at the rich man, the dog of\nthe rich man barks at the poor man. Each one for himself.\nSelf-interest that s the object of men. Gold, that s the loadstone. \n\n\n What then? Finish. \n\n\n I should like to go and establish myself at la Joya. There are three\nof us. I have my spouse and my young lady; a very beautiful girl. The\njourney is long and costly. I need a little money. \n\n\n What concern is that of mine?  demanded Marius.\n\nThe stranger stretched his neck out of his cravat, a gesture\ncharacteristic of the vulture, and replied with an augmented smile.\n\n Has not Monsieur le Baron perused my letter? \n\n\nThere was some truth in this. The fact is, that the contents of the\nepistle had slipped Marius  mind. He had seen the writing rather than\nread the letter. He could hardly recall it. But a moment ago a fresh\nstart had been given him. He had noted that detail:  my spouse and my\nyoung lady. \n\n\nHe fixed a penetrating glance on the stranger. An examining judge could\nnot have done the look better. He almost lay in wait for him.\n\nHe confined himself to replying:\n\n State the case precisely. \n\n\nThe stranger inserted his two hands in both his fobs, drew himself up\nwithout straightening his dorsal column, but scrutinizing Marius in his\nturn, with the green gaze of his spectacles.\n\n So be it, Monsieur le Baron. I will be precise. I have a secret to\nsell to you. \n\n\n A secret? \n\n\n A secret. \n\n\n Which concerns me? \n\n\n Somewhat. \n\n\n What is the secret? \n\n\nMarius scrutinized the man more and more as he listened to him.\n\n I commence gratis,  said the stranger.  You will see that I am\ninteresting. \n\n\n Speak. \n\n\n Monsieur le Baron, you have in your house a thief and an assassin. \n\n\nMarius shuddered.\n\n In my house? no,  said he.\n\nThe imperturbable stranger brushed his hat with his elbow and went on:\n\n An assassin and a thief. Remark, Monsieur le Baron, that I do not here\nspeak of ancient deeds, deeds of the past which have lapsed, which can\nbe effaced by limitation before the law and by repentance before God. I\nspeak of recent deeds, of actual facts as still unknown to justice at\nthis hour. I continue. This man has insinuated himself into your\nconfidence, and almost into your family under a false name. I am about\nto tell you his real name. And to tell it to you for nothing. \n\n\n I am listening. \n\n\n His name is Jean Valjean. \n\n\n I know it. \n\n\n I am going to tell you, equally for nothing, who he is. \n\n\n Say on. \n\n\n He is an ex-convict. \n\n\n I know it. \n\n\n You know it since I have had the honor of telling you. \n\n\n No. I knew it before. \n\n\nMarius  cold tone, that double reply of  I know it,  his laconicism,\nwhich was not favorable to dialogue, stirred up some smouldering wrath\nin the stranger. He launched a furious glance on the sly at Marius,\nwhich was instantly extinguished. Rapid as it was, this glance was of\nthe kind which a man recognizes when he has once beheld it; it did not\nescape Marius. Certain flashes can only proceed from certain souls; the\neye, that vent-hole of the thought, glows with it; spectacles hide\nnothing; try putting a pane of glass over hell!\n\nThe stranger resumed with a smile:\n\n I will not permit myself to contradict Monsieur le Baron. In any case,\nyou ought to perceive that I am well informed. Now what I have to tell\nyou is known to myself alone. This concerns the fortune of Madame la\nBaronne. It is an extraordinary secret. It is for sale I make you the\nfirst offer of it. Cheap. Twenty thousand francs. \n\n\n I know that secret as well as the others,  said Marius.\n\nThe personage felt the necessity of lowering his price a trifle.\n\n Monsieur le Baron, say ten thousand francs and I will speak. \n\n\n I repeat to you that there is nothing which you can tell me. I know\nwhat you wish to say to me. \n\n\nA fresh flash gleamed in the man s eye. He exclaimed:\n\n But I must dine to-day, nevertheless. It is an extraordinary secret, I\ntell you. Monsieur le Baron, I will speak. I speak. Give me twenty\nfrancs. \n\n\nMarius gazed intently at him:\n\n I know your extraordinary secret, just as I knew Jean Valjean s name,\njust as I know your name. \n\n\n My name? \n\n\n Yes. \n\n\n That is not difficult, Monsieur le Baron. I had the honor to write to\nyou and to tell it to you. Th nard. \n\n\n Dier. \n\n\n Hey? \n\n\n Th nardier. \n\n\n Who s that? \n\n\nIn danger the porcupine bristles up, the beetle feigns death, the old\nguard forms in a square; this man burst into laughter.\n\nThen he flicked a grain of dust from the sleeve of his coat with a\nfillip.\n\nMarius continued:\n\n You are also Jondrette the workman, Fabantou the comedian, Genflot the\npoet, Don Alvar s the Spaniard, and Mistress Balizard. \n\n\n Mistress what? \n\n\n And you kept a pot-house at Montfermeil. \n\n\n A pot-house! Never. \n\n\n And I tell you that your name is Th nardier. \n\n\n I deny it. \n\n\n And that you are a rascal. Here. \n\n\nAnd Marius drew a bank-note from his pocket and flung it in his face.\n\n Thanks! Pardon me! five hundred francs! Monsieur le Baron! \n\n\nAnd the man, overcome, bowed, seized the note and examined it.\n\n Five hundred francs!  he began again, taken aback. And he stammered in\na low voice:  An honest rustler. 69\n\nThen brusquely:\n\n Well, so be it!  he exclaimed.  Let us put ourselves at our ease. \n\n\nAnd with the agility of a monkey, flinging back his hair, tearing off\nhis spectacles, and withdrawing from his nose by sleight of hand the\ntwo quills of which mention was recently made, and which the reader has\nalso met with on another page of this book, he took off his face as the\nman takes off his hat.\n\nHis eye lighted up; his uneven brow, with hollows in some places and\nbumps in others, hideously wrinkled at the top, was laid bare, his nose\nhad become as sharp as a beak; the fierce and sagacious profile of the\nman of prey reappeared.\n\n Monsieur le Baron is infallible,  he said in a clear voice whence all\nnasal twang had disappeared,  I am Th nardier. \n\n\nAnd he straightened up his crooked back.\n\nTh nardier, for it was really he, was strangely surprised; he would\nhave been troubled, had he been capable of such a thing. He had come to\nbring astonishment, and it was he who had received it. This humiliation\nhad been worth five hundred francs to him, and, taking it all in all,\nhe accepted it; but he was nonetheless bewildered.\n\nHe beheld this Baron Pontmercy for the first time, and, in spite of his\ndisguise, this Baron Pontmercy recognized him, and recognized him\nthoroughly. And not only was this Baron perfectly informed as to\nTh nardier, but he seemed well posted as to Jean Valjean. Who was this\nalmost beardless young man, who was so glacial and so generous, who\nknew people s names, who knew all their names, and who opened his purse\nto them, who bullied rascals like a judge, and who paid them like a\ndupe?\n\nTh nardier, the reader will remember, although he had been Marius \nneighbor, had never seen him, which is not unusual in Paris; he had\nformerly, in a vague way, heard his daughters talk of a very poor young\nman named Marius who lived in the house. He had written to him, without\nknowing him, the letter with which the reader is acquainted.\n\nNo connection between that Marius and M. le Baron Pontmercy was\npossible in his mind.\n\nAs for the name Pontmercy, it will be recalled that, on the battlefield\nof Waterloo, he had only heard the last two syllables, for which he\nalways entertained the legitimate scorn which one owes to what is\nmerely an expression of thanks.\n\nHowever, through his daughter Azelma, who had started on the scent of\nthe married pair on the 16th of February, and through his own personal\nresearches, he had succeeded in learning many things, and, from the\ndepths of his own gloom, he had contrived to grasp more than one\nmysterious clew. He had discovered, by dint of industry, or, at least,\nby dint of induction, he had guessed who the man was whom he had\nencountered on a certain day in the Grand Sewer. From the man he had\neasily reached the name. He knew that Madame la Baronne Pontmercy was\nCosette. But he meant to be discreet in that quarter.\n\nWho was Cosette? He did not know exactly himself. He did, indeed, catch\nan inkling of illegitimacy, the history of Fantine had always seemed to\nhim equivocal; but what was the use of talking about that? in order to\ncause himself to be paid for his silence? He had, or thought he had,\nbetter wares than that for sale. And, according to all appearances, if\nhe were to come and make to the Baron Pontmercy this revelation and\nwithout proof:  Your wife is a bastard,  the only result would be to\nattract the boot of the husband towards the loins of the revealer.\n\nFrom Th nardier s point of view, the conversation with Marius had not\nyet begun. He ought to have drawn back, to have modified his strategy,\nto have abandoned his position, to have changed his front; but nothing\nessential had been compromised as yet, and he had five hundred francs\nin his pocket. Moreover, he had something decisive to say, and, even\nagainst this very well-informed and well-armed Baron Pontmercy, he felt\nhimself strong. For men of Th nardier s nature, every dialogue is a\ncombat. In the one in which he was about to engage, what was his\nsituation? He did not know to whom he was speaking, but he did know of\nwhat he was speaking, he made this rapid review of his inner forces,\nand after having said:  I am Th nardier,  he waited.\n\nMarius had become thoughtful. So he had hold of Th nardier at last.\nThat man whom he had so greatly desired to find was before him. He\ncould honor Colonel Pontmercy s recommendation.\n\nHe felt humiliated that that hero should have owned anything to this\nvillain, and that the letter of change drawn from the depths of the\ntomb by his father upon him, Marius, had been protested up to that day.\nIt also seemed to him, in the complex state of his mind towards\nTh nardier, that there was occasion to avenge the Colonel for the\nmisfortune of having been saved by such a rascal. In any case, he was\ncontent. He was about to deliver the Colonel s shade from this unworthy\ncreditor at last, and it seemed to him that he was on the point of\nrescuing his father s memory from the debtors  prison. By the side of\nthis duty there was another to elucidate, if possible, the source of\nCosette s fortune. The opportunity appeared to present itself. Perhaps\nTh nardier knew something. It might prove useful to see the bottom of\nthis man.\n\nHe commenced with this.\n\nTh nardier had caused the  honest rustler  to disappear in his fob, and\nwas gazing at Marius with a gentleness that was almost tender.\n\nMarius broke the silence.\n\n Th nardier, I have told you your name. Now, would you like to have me\ntell you your secret the one that you came here to reveal to me? I have\ninformation of my own, also. You shall see that I know more about it\nthan you do. Jean Valjean, as you have said, is an assassin and a\nthief. A thief, because he robbed a wealthy manufacturer, whose ruin he\nbrought about. An assassin, because he assassinated police-agent\nJavert. \n\n\n I don t understand, sir,  ejaculated Th nardier.\n\n I will make myself intelligible. In a certain arrondissement of the\nPas de Calais, there was, in 1822, a man who had fallen out with\njustice, and who, under the name of M. Madeleine, had regained his\nstatus and rehabilitated himself. This man had become a just man in the\nfull force of the term. In a trade, the manufacture of black glass\ngoods, he made the fortune of an entire city. As far as his personal\nfortune was concerned he made that also, but as a secondary matter, and\nin some sort, by accident. He was the foster-father of the poor. He\nfounded hospitals, opened schools, visited the sick, dowered young\ngirls, supported widows, and adopted orphans; he was like the guardian\nangel of the country. He refused the cross, he was appointed Mayor. A\nliberated convict knew the secret of a penalty incurred by this man in\nformer days; he denounced him, and had him arrested, and profited by\nthe arrest to come to Paris and cause the banker Laffitte, I have the\nfact from the cashier himself, by means of a false signature, to hand\nover to him the sum of over half a million which belonged to M.\nMadeleine. This convict who robbed M. Madeleine was Jean Valjean. As\nfor the other fact, you have nothing to tell me about it either. Jean\nValjean killed the agent Javert; he shot him with a pistol. I, the\nperson who is speaking to you, was present. \n\n\nTh nardier cast upon Marius the sovereign glance of a conquered man who\nlays his hand once more upon the victory, and who has just regained, in\none instant, all the ground which he has lost. But the smile returned\ninstantly. The inferior s triumph in the presence of his superior must\nbe wheedling.\n\nTh nardier contented himself with saying to Marius:\n\n Monsieur le Baron, we are on the wrong track. \n\n\nAnd he emphasized this phrase by making his bunch of seals execute an\nexpressive whirl.\n\n What!  broke forth Marius,  do you dispute that? These are facts. \n\n\n They are chim ras. The confidence with which Monsieur le Baron honors\nme renders it my duty to tell him so. Truth and justice before all\nthings. I do not like to see folks accused unjustly. Monsieur le Baron,\nJean Valjean did not rob M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean did not kill\nJavert. \n\n\n This is too much! How is this? \n\n\n For two reasons. \n\n\n What are they? Speak. \n\n\n This is the first: he did not rob M. Madeleine, because it is Jean\nValjean himself who was M. Madeleine. \n\n\n What tale are you telling me? \n\n\n And this is the second: he did not assassinate Javert, because the\nperson who killed Javert was Javert. \n\n\n What do you mean to say? \n\n\n That Javert committed suicide. \n\n\n Prove it! prove it!  cried Marius beside himself.\n\nTh nardier resumed, scanning his phrase after the manner of the ancient\nAlexandrine measure:\n\n Police-agent-Ja-vert-was-found-drowned-un-der-a-boat-of-the-Pont-au-\nChange. \n\n\n But prove it! \n\n\nTh nardier drew from his pocket a large envelope of gray paper, which\nseemed to contain sheets folded in different sizes.\n\n I have my papers,  he said calmly.\n\nAnd he added:\n\n Monsieur le Baron, in your interests I desired to know Jean Valjean\nthoroughly. I say that Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine are one and the\nsame man, and I say that Javert had no other assassin than Javert. If I\nspeak, it is because I have proofs. Not manuscript proofs writing is\nsuspicious, handwriting is complaisant, but printed proofs. \n\n\nAs he spoke, Th nardier extracted from the envelope two copies of\nnewspapers, yellow, faded, and strongly saturated with tobacco. One of\nthese two newspapers, broken at every fold and falling into rags,\nseemed much older than the other.\n\n Two facts, two proofs,  remarked Th nardier. And he offered the two\nnewspapers, unfolded, to Marius.\n\nThe reader is acquainted with these two papers. One, the most ancient,\na number of the _Drapeau Blanc_ of the 25th of July, 1823, the text of\nwhich can be seen in the first volume, established the identity of M.\nMadeleine and Jean Valjean.\n\nThe other, a _Moniteur_ of the 15th of June, 1832, announced the\nsuicide of Javert, adding that it appeared from a verbal report of\nJavert to the prefect that, having been taken prisoner in the barricade\nof the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he had owed his life to the magnanimity of\nan insurgent who, holding him under his pistol, had fired into the air,\ninstead of blowing out his brains.\n\nMarius read. He had evidence, a certain date, irrefragable proof, these\ntwo newspapers had not been printed expressly for the purpose of\nbacking up Th nardier s statements; the note printed in the _Moniteur_\nhad been an administrative communication from the Prefecture of Police.\nMarius could not doubt.\n\nThe information of the cashier-clerk had been false, and he himself had\nbeen deceived.\n\nJean Valjean, who had suddenly grown grand, emerged from his cloud.\nMarius could not repress a cry of joy.\n\n Well, then this unhappy wretch is an admirable man! the whole of that\nfortune really belonged to him! he is Madeleine, the providence of a\nwhole countryside! he is Jean Valjean, Javert s savior! he is a hero!\nhe is a saint! \n\n\n He s not a saint, and he s not a hero!  said Th nardier.  He s an\nassassin and a robber. \n\n\nAnd he added, in the tone of a man who begins to feel that he possesses\nsome authority:\n\n Let us be calm. \n\n\nRobber, assassin those words which Marius thought had disappeared and\nwhich returned, fell upon him like an ice-cold shower-bath.\n\n Again!  said he.\n\n Always,  ejaculated Th nardier.  Jean Valjean did not rob Madeleine,\nbut he is a thief. He did not kill Javert, but he is a murderer. \n\n\n Will you speak,  retorted Marius,  of that miserable theft, committed\nforty years ago, and expiated, as your own newspapers prove, by a whole\nlife of repentance, of self-abnegation and of virtue? \n\n\n I say assassination and theft, Monsieur le Baron, and I repeat that I\nam speaking of actual facts. What I have to reveal to you is absolutely\nunknown. It belongs to unpublished matter. And perhaps you will find in\nit the source of the fortune so skilfully presented to Madame la\nBaronne by Jean Valjean. I say skilfully, because, by a gift of that\nnature it would not be so very unskilful to slip into an honorable\nhouse whose comforts one would then share, and, at the same stroke, to\nconceal one s crime, and to enjoy one s theft, to bury one s name and\nto create for oneself a family. \n\n\n I might interrupt you at this point,  said Marius,  but go on. \n\n\n Monsieur le Baron, I will tell you all, leaving the recompense to your\ngenerosity. This secret is worth massive gold. You will say to me:  Why\ndo not you apply to Jean Valjean?  For a very simple reason; I know\nthat he has stripped himself, and stripped himself in your favor, and I\nconsider the combination ingenious; but he has no longer a son, he\nwould show me his empty hands, and, since I am in need of some money\nfor my trip to la Joya, I prefer you, you who have it all, to him who\nhas nothing. I am a little fatigued, permit me to take a chair. \n\n\nMarius seated himself and motioned to him to do the same.\n\nTh nardier installed himself on a tufted chair, picked up his two\nnewspapers, thrust them back into their envelope, and murmured as he\npecked at the _Drapeau Blanc_ with his nail:  It cost me a good deal of\ntrouble to get this one. \n\n\nThat done he crossed his legs and stretched himself out on the back of\nthe chair, an attitude characteristic of people who are sure of what\nthey are saying, then he entered upon his subject gravely, emphasizing\nhis words:\n\n Monsieur le Baron, on the 6th of June, 1832, about a year ago, on the\nday of the insurrection, a man was in the Grand Sewer of Paris, at the\npoint where the sewer enters the Seine, between the Pont des Invalides\nand the Pont de J na. \n\n\nMarius abruptly drew his chair closer to that of Th nardier. Th nardier\nnoticed this movement and continued with the deliberation of an orator\nwho holds his interlocutor and who feels his adversary palpitating\nunder his words:\n\n This man, forced to conceal himself, and for reasons, moreover, which\nare foreign to politics, had adopted the sewer as his domicile and had\na key to it. It was, I repeat, on the 6th of June; it might have been\neight o clock in the evening. The man hears a noise in the sewer.\nGreatly surprised, he hides himself and lies in wait. It was the sound\nof footsteps, some one was walking in the dark, and coming in his\ndirection. Strange to say, there was another man in the sewer besides\nhimself. The grating of the outlet from the sewer was not far off. A\nlittle light which fell through it permitted him to recognize the\nnewcomer, and to see that the man was carrying something on his back.\nHe was walking in a bent attitude. The man who was walking in a bent\nattitude was an ex-convict, and what he was dragging on his shoulders\nwas a corpse. Assassination caught in the very act, if ever there was\nsuch a thing. As for the theft, that is understood; one does not kill a\nman gratis. This convict was on his way to fling the body into the\nriver. One fact is to be noticed, that before reaching the exit\ngrating, this convict, who had come a long distance in the sewer, must,\nnecessarily, have encountered a frightful quagmire where it seems as\nthough he might have left the body, but the sewermen would have found\nthe assassinated man the very next day, while at work on the quagmire,\nand that did not suit the assassin s plans. He had preferred to\ntraverse that quagmire with his burden, and his exertions must have\nbeen terrible, for it is impossible to risk one s life more completely;\nI don t understand how he could have come out of that alive. \n\n\nMarius  chair approached still nearer. Th nardier took advantage of\nthis to draw a long breath. He went on:\n\n Monsieur le Baron, a sewer is not the Champ de Mars. One lacks\neverything there, even room. When two men are there, they must meet.\nThat is what happened. The man domiciled there and the passer-by were\nforced to bid each other good-day, greatly to the regret of both. The\npasser-by said to the inhabitant: You see what I have on my back, I\nmust get out, you have the key, give it to me.  That convict was a man\nof terrible strength. There was no way of refusing. Nevertheless, the\nman who had the key parleyed, simply to gain time. He examined the dead\nman, but he could see nothing, except that the latter was young, well\ndressed, with the air of being rich, and all disfigured with blood.\nWhile talking, the man contrived to tear and pull off behind, without\nthe assassin perceiving it, a bit of the assassinated man s coat. A\ndocument for conviction, you understand; a means of recovering the\ntrace of things and of bringing home the crime to the criminal. He put\nthis document for conviction in his pocket. After which he opened the\ngrating, made the man go out with his embarrassment on his back, closed\nthe grating again, and ran off, not caring to be mixed up with the\nremainder of the adventure and above all, not wishing to be present\nwhen the assassin threw the assassinated man into the river. Now you\ncomprehend. The man who was carrying the corpse was Jean Valjean; the\none who had the key is speaking to you at this moment; and the piece of\nthe coat . . . \n\n\nTh nardier completed his phrase by drawing from his pocket, and\nholding, on a level with his eyes, nipped between his two thumbs and\nhis two forefingers, a strip of torn black cloth, all covered with dark\nspots.\n\nMarius had sprung to his feet, pale, hardly able to draw his breath,\nwith his eyes riveted on the fragment of black cloth, and, without\nuttering a word, without taking his eyes from that fragment, he\nretreated to the wall and fumbled with his right hand along the wall\nfor a key which was in the lock of a cupboard near the chimney.\n\nHe found the key, opened the cupboard, plunged his arm into it without\nlooking, and without his frightened gaze quitting the rag which\nTh nardier still held outspread.\n\nBut Th nardier continued:\n\n Monsieur le Baron, I have the strongest of reasons for believing that\nthe assassinated young man was an opulent stranger lured into a trap by\nJean Valjean, and the bearer of an enormous sum of money. \n\n\n The young man was myself, and here is the coat!  cried Marius, and he\nflung upon the floor an old black coat all covered with blood.\n\nThen, snatching the fragment from the hands of Th nardier, he crouched\ndown over the coat, and laid the torn morsel against the tattered\nskirt. The rent fitted exactly, and the strip completed the coat.\n\nTh nardier was petrified.\n\nThis is what he thought:  I m struck all of a heap. \n\n\nMarius rose to his feet trembling, despairing, radiant.\n\nHe fumbled in his pocket and stalked furiously to Th nardier,\npresenting to him and almost thrusting in his face his fist filled with\nbank-notes for five hundred and a thousand francs.\n\n You are an infamous wretch! you are a liar, a calumniator, a villain.\nYou came to accuse that man, you have only justified him; you wanted to\nruin him, you have only succeeded in glorifying him. And it is you who\nare the thief! And it is you who are the assassin! I saw you,\nTh nardier Jondrette, in that lair on the Rue de l H pital. I know\nenough about you to send you to the galleys and even further if I\nchoose. Here are a thousand francs, bully that you are! \n\n\nAnd he flung a thousand franc note at Th nardier.\n\n Ah! Jondrette Th nardier, vile rascal! Let this serve you as a lesson,\nyou dealer in second-hand secrets, merchant of mysteries, rummager of\nthe shadows, wretch! Take these five hundred francs and get out of\nhere! Waterloo protects you. \n\n\n Waterloo!  growled Th nardier, pocketing the five hundred francs along\nwith the thousand.\n\n Yes, assassin! You there saved the life of a Colonel. . . \n\n\n Of a General,  said Th nardier, elevating his head.\n\n Of a Colonel!  repeated Marius in a rage.  I wouldn t give a ha penny\nfor a general. And you come here to commit infamies! I tell you that\nyou have committed all crimes. Go! disappear! Only be happy, that is\nall that I desire. Ah! monster! here are three thousand francs more.\nTake them. You will depart to-morrow, for America, with your daughter;\nfor your wife is dead, you abominable liar. I shall watch over your\ndeparture, you ruffian, and at that moment I will count out to you\ntwenty thousand francs. Go get yourself hung elsewhere! \n\n\n Monsieur le Baron!  replied Th nardier, bowing to the very earth,\n eternal gratitude.  And Th nardier left the room, understanding\nnothing, stupefied and delighted with this sweet crushing beneath sacks\nof gold, and with that thunder which had burst forth over his head in\nbank-bills.\n\nStruck by lightning he was, but he was also content; and he would have\nbeen greatly angered had he had a lightning rod to ward off such\nlightning as that.\n\nLet us finish with this man at once.\n\nTwo days after the events which we are at this moment narrating, he set\nout, thanks to Marius  care, for America under a false name, with his\ndaughter Azelma, furnished with a draft on New York for twenty thousand\nfrancs.\n\nThe moral wretchedness of Th nardier, the bourgeois who had missed his\nvocation, was irremediable. He was in America what he had been in\nEurope. Contact with an evil man sometimes suffices to corrupt a good\naction and to cause evil things to spring from it. With Marius  money,\nTh nardier set up as a slave-dealer.\n\nAs soon as Th nardier had left the house, Marius rushed to the garden,\nwhere Cosette was still walking.\n\n Cosette! Cosette!  he cried.  Come! come quick! Let us go. Basque, a\ncarriage! Cosette, come. Ah! My God! It was he who saved my life! Let\nus not lose a minute! Put on your shawl. \n\n\nCosette thought him mad and obeyed.\n\nHe could not breathe, he laid his hand on his heart to restrain its\nthrobbing. He paced back and forth with huge strides, he embraced\nCosette:\n\n Ah! Cosette! I am an unhappy wretch!  said he.\n\nMarius was bewildered. He began to catch a glimpse in Jean Valjean of\nsome indescribably lofty and melancholy figure. An unheard-of virtue,\nsupreme and sweet, humble in its immensity, appeared to him. The\nconvict was transfigured into Christ.\n\nMarius was dazzled by this prodigy. He did not know precisely what he\nbeheld, but it was grand.\n\nIn an instant, a hackney-carriage stood in front of the door.\n\nMarius helped Cosette in and darted in himself.\n\n Driver,  said he,  Rue de l Homme Arm , Number 7. \n\n\nThe carriage drove off.\n\n Ah! what happiness!  ejaculated Cosette.  Rue de l Homme Arm , I did\nnot dare to speak to you of that. We are going to see M. Jean. \n\n\n Thy father! Cosette, thy father more than ever. Cosette, I guess it.\nYou told me that you had never received the letter that I sent you by\nGavroche. It must have fallen into his hands. Cosette, he went to the\nbarricade to save me. As it is a necessity with him to be an angel, he\nsaved others also; he saved Javert. He rescued me from that gulf to\ngive me to you. He carried me on his back through that frightful sewer.\nAh! I am a monster of ingratitude. Cosette, after having been your\nprovidence, he became mine. Just imagine, there was a terrible quagmire\nenough to drown one a hundred times over, to drown one in mire.\nCosette! he made me traverse it. I was unconscious; I saw nothing, I\nheard nothing, I could know nothing of my own adventure. We are going\nto bring him back, to take him with us, whether he is willing or not,\nhe shall never leave us again. If only he is at home! Provided only\nthat we can find him, I will pass the rest of my life in venerating\nhim. Yes, that is how it should be, do you see, Cosette? Gavroche must\nhave delivered my letter to him. All is explained. You understand. \n\n\nCosette did not understand a word.\n\n You are right,  she said to him.\n\nMeanwhile the carriage rolled on.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V A NIGHT BEHIND WHICH THERE IS DAY\n\n\nJean Valjean turned round at the knock which he heard on his door.\n\n Come in,  he said feebly.\n\nThe door opened.\n\nCosette and Marius made their appearance.\n\nCosette rushed into the room.\n\nMarius remained on the threshold, leaning against the jamb of the door.\n\n Cosette!  said Jean Valjean.\n\nAnd he sat erect in his chair, his arms outstretched and trembling,\nhaggard, livid, gloomy, an immense joy in his eyes.\n\nCosette, stifling with emotion, fell upon Jean Valjean s breast.\n\n Father!  said she.\n\nJean Valjean, overcome, stammered:\n\n Cosette! she! you! Madame! it is thou! Ah! my God! \n\n\nAnd, pressed close in Cosette s arms, he exclaimed:\n\n It is thou! thou art here! Thou dost pardon me then! \n\n\nMarius, lowering his eyelids, in order to keep his tears from flowing,\ntook a step forward and murmured between lips convulsively contracted\nto repress his sobs:\n\n My father! \n\n\n And you also, you pardon me!  Jean Valjean said to him.\n\nMarius could find no words, and Jean Valjean added:\n\n Thanks. \n\n\nCosette tore off her shawl and tossed her hat on the bed.\n\n It embarrasses me,  said she.\n\nAnd, seating herself on the old man s knees, she put aside his white\nlocks with an adorable movement, and kissed his brow.\n\nJean Valjean, bewildered, let her have her own way.\n\nCosette, who only understood in a very confused manner, redoubled her\ncaresses, as though she desired to pay Marius  debt.\n\nJean Valjean stammered:\n\n How stupid people are! I thought that I should never see her again.\nImagine, Monsieur Pontmercy, at the very moment when you entered, I was\nsaying to myself:  All is over. Here is her little gown, I am a\nmiserable man, I shall never see Cosette again,  and I was saying that\nat the very moment when you were mounting the stairs. Was not I an\nidiot? Just see how idiotic one can be! One reckons without the good\nGod. The good God says:\n\n You fancy that you are about to be abandoned, stupid! No. No, things\nwill not go so. Come, there is a good man yonder who is in need of an\nangel.  And the angel comes, and one sees one s Cosette again! and one\nsees one s little Cosette once more! Ah! I was very unhappy. \n\n\nFor a moment he could not speak, then he went on:\n\n I really needed to see Cosette a little bit now and then. A heart\nneeds a bone to gnaw. But I was perfectly conscious that I was in the\nway. I gave myself reasons:  They do not want you, keep in your own\ncourse, one has not the right to cling eternally.  Ah! God be praised,\nI see her once more! Dost thou know, Cosette, thy husband is very\nhandsome? Ah! what a pretty embroidered collar thou hast on, luckily. I\nam fond of that pattern. It was thy husband who chose it, was it not?\nAnd then, thou shouldst have some cashmere shawls. Let me call her\nthou, Monsieur Pontmercy. It will not be for long. \n\n\nAnd Cosette began again:\n\n How wicked of you to have left us like that! Where did you go? Why\nhave you stayed away so long? Formerly your journeys only lasted three\nor four days. I sent Nicolette, the answer always was:  He is absent. \nHow long have you been back? Why did you not let us know? Do you know\nthat you are very much changed? Ah! what a naughty father! he has been\nill, and we have not known it! Stay, Marius, feel how cold his hand\nis! \n\n\n So you are here! Monsieur Pontmercy, you pardon me!  repeated Jean\nValjean.\n\nAt that word which Jean Valjean had just uttered once more, all that\nwas swelling Marius  heart found vent.\n\nHe burst forth:\n\n Cosette, do you hear? he has come to that! he asks my forgiveness! And\ndo you know what he has done for me, Cosette? He has saved my life. He\nhas done more he has given you to me. And after having saved me, and\nafter having given you to me, Cosette, what has he done with himself?\nHe has sacrificed himself. Behold the man. And he says to me the\ningrate, to me the forgetful, to me the pitiless, to me the guilty one:\nThanks! Cosette, my whole life passed at the feet of this man would be\ntoo little. That barricade, that sewer, that furnace, that\ncesspool, all that he traversed for me, for thee, Cosette! He carried\nme away through all the deaths which he put aside before me, and\naccepted for himself. Every courage, every virtue, every heroism, every\nsanctity he possesses! Cosette, that man is an angel! \n\n\n Hush! hush!  said Jean Valjean in a low voice.  Why tell all that? \n\n\n But you!  cried Marius with a wrath in which there was veneration,\n why did you not tell it to me? It is your own fault, too. You save\npeople s lives, and you conceal it from them! You do more, under the\npretext of unmasking yourself, you calumniate yourself. It is\nfrightful. \n\n\n I told the truth,  replied Jean Valjean.\n\n No,  retorted Marius,  the truth is the whole truth; and that you did\nnot tell. You were Monsieur Madeleine, why not have said so? You saved\nJavert, why not have said so? I owed my life to you, why not have said\nso? \n\n\n Because I thought as you do. I thought that you were in the right. It\nwas necessary that I should go away. If you had known about that\naffair, of the sewer, you would have made me remain near you. I was\ntherefore forced to hold my peace. If I had spoken, it would have\ncaused embarrassment in every way. \n\n\n It would have embarrassed what? embarrassed whom?  retorted Marius.\n Do you think that you are going to stay here? We shall carry you off.\nAh! good heavens! when I reflect that it was by an accident that I have\nlearned all this. You form a part of ourselves. You are her father, and\nmine. You shall not pass another day in this dreadful house. Do not\nimagine that you will be here to-morrow. \n\n\n To-morrow,  said Jean Valjean,  I shall not be here, but I shall not\nbe with you. \n\n\n What do you mean?  replied Marius.  Ah! come now, we are not going to\npermit any more journeys. You shall never leave us again. You belong to\nus. We shall not loose our hold of you. \n\n\n This time it is for good,  added Cosette.  We have a carriage at the\ndoor. I shall run away with you. If necessary, I shall employ force. \n\n\nAnd she laughingly made a movement to lift the old man in her arms.\n\n Your chamber still stands ready in our house,  she went on.  If you\nonly knew how pretty the garden is now! The azaleas are doing very well\nthere. The walks are sanded with river sand; there are tiny violet\nshells. You shall eat my strawberries. I water them myself. And no more\n madame,  no more  Monsieur Jean,  we are living under a Republic,\neverybody says _thou_, don t they, Marius? The programme is changed. If\nyou only knew, father, I have had a sorrow, there was a robin redbreast\nwhich had made her nest in a hole in the wall, and a horrible cat ate\nher. My poor, pretty, little robin red-breast which used to put her\nhead out of her window and look at me! I cried over it. I should have\nliked to kill the cat. But now nobody cries any more. Everybody laughs,\neverybody is happy. You are going to come with us. How delighted\ngrandfather will be! You shall have your plot in the garden, you shall\ncultivate it, and we shall see whether your strawberries are as fine as\nmine. And, then, I shall do everything that you wish, and then, you\nwill obey me prettily. \n\n\nJean Valjean listened to her without hearing her. He heard the music of\nher voice rather than the sense of her words; one of those large tears\nwhich are the sombre pearls of the soul welled up slowly in his eyes.\n\nHe murmured:\n\n The proof that God is good is that she is here. \n\n\n Father!  said Cosette.\n\nJean Valjean continued:\n\n It is quite true that it would be charming for us to live together.\nTheir trees are full of birds. I would walk with Cosette. It is sweet\nto be among living people who bid each other  good-day,  who call to\neach other in the garden. People see each other from early morning. We\nshould each cultivate our own little corner. She would make me eat her\nstrawberries. I would make her gather my roses. That would be charming.\nOnly . . . \n\n\nHe paused and said gently:\n\n It is a pity. \n\n\nThe tear did not fall, it retreated, and Jean Valjean replaced it with\na smile.\n\nCosette took both the old man s hands in hers.\n\n My God!  said she,  your hands are still colder than before. Are you\nill? Do you suffer? \n\n\n I? No,  replied Jean Valjean.  I am very well. Only . . . \n\n\nHe paused.\n\n Only what? \n\n\n I am going to die presently. \n\n\nCosette and Marius shuddered.\n\n To die!  exclaimed Marius.\n\n Yes, but that is nothing,  said Jean Valjean.\n\nHe took breath, smiled and resumed:\n\n Cosette, thou wert talking to me, go on, so thy little robin\nred-breast is dead? Speak, so that I may hear thy voice. \n\n\nMarius gazed at the old man in amazement.\n\nCosette uttered a heartrending cry.\n\n Father! my father! you will live. You are going to live. I insist upon\nyour living, do you hear? \n\n\nJean Valjean raised his head towards her with adoration.\n\n Oh! yes, forbid me to die. Who knows? Perhaps I shall obey. I was on\nthe verge of dying when you came. That stopped me, it seemed to me that\nI was born again. \n\n\n You are full of strength and life,  cried Marius.  Do you imagine that\na person can die like this? You have had sorrow, you shall have no\nmore. It is I who ask your forgiveness, and on my knees! You are going\nto live, and to live with us, and to live a long time. We take\npossession of you once more. There are two of us here who will\nhenceforth have no other thought than your happiness. \n\n\n You see,  resumed Cosette, all bathed in tears,  that Marius says that\nyou shall not die. \n\n\nJean Valjean continued to smile.\n\n Even if you were to take possession of me, Monsieur Pontmercy, would\nthat make me other than I am? No, God has thought like you and myself,\nand he does not change his mind; it is useful for me to go. Death is a\ngood arrangement. God knows better than we what we need. May you be\nhappy, may Monsieur Pontmercy have Cosette, may youth wed the morning,\nmay there be around you, my children, lilacs and nightingales; may your\nlife be a beautiful, sunny lawn, may all the enchantments of heaven\nfill your souls, and now let me, who am good for nothing, die; it is\ncertain that all this is right. Come, be reasonable, nothing is\npossible now, I am fully conscious that all is over. And then, last\nnight, I drank that whole jug of water. How good thy husband is,\nCosette! Thou art much better off with him than with me. \n\n\nA noise became audible at the door.\n\nIt was the doctor entering.\n\n Good-day, and farewell, doctor,  said Jean Valjean.  Here are my poor\nchildren. \n\n\nMarius stepped up to the doctor. He addressed to him only this single\nword:  Monsieur? . . .  But his manner of pronouncing it contained a\ncomplete question.\n\nThe doctor replied to the question by an expressive glance.\n\n Because things are not agreeable,  said Jean Valjean,  that is no\nreason for being unjust towards God. \n\n\nA silence ensued.\n\nAll breasts were oppressed.\n\nJean Valjean turned to Cosette. He began to gaze at her as though he\nwished to retain her features for eternity.\n\nIn the depths of the shadow into which he had already descended,\necstasy was still possible to him when gazing at Cosette. The\nreflection of that sweet face lighted up his pale visage.\n\nThe doctor felt of his pulse.\n\n Ah! it was you that he wanted!  he murmured, looking at Cosette and\nMarius.\n\nAnd bending down to Marius  ear, he added in a very low voice:\n\n Too late. \n\n\nJean Valjean surveyed the doctor and Marius serenely, almost without\nceasing to gaze at Cosette.\n\nThese barely articulate words were heard to issue from his mouth:\n\n It is nothing to die; it is dreadful not to live. \n\n\nAll at once he rose to his feet. These accesses of strength are\nsometimes the sign of the death agony. He walked with a firm step to\nthe wall, thrusting aside Marius and the doctor who tried to help him,\ndetached from the wall a little copper crucifix which was suspended\nthere, and returned to his seat with all the freedom of movement of\nperfect health, and said in a loud voice, as he laid the crucifix on\nthe table:\n\n Behold the great martyr. \n\n\nThen his chest sank in, his head wavered, as though the intoxication of\nthe tomb were seizing hold upon him.\n\nHis hands, which rested on his knees, began to press their nails into\nthe stuff of his trousers.\n\nCosette supported his shoulders, and sobbed, and tried to speak to him,\nbut could not.\n\nAmong the words mingled with that mournful saliva which accompanies\ntears, they distinguished words like the following:\n\n Father, do not leave us. Is it possible that we have found you only to\nlose you again? \n\n\nIt might be said that agony writhes. It goes, comes, advances towards\nthe sepulchre, and returns towards life. There is groping in the action\nof dying.\n\nJean Valjean rallied after this semi-swoon, shook his brow as though to\nmake the shadows fall away from it and became almost perfectly lucid\nonce more.\n\nHe took a fold of Cosette s sleeve and kissed it.\n\n He is coming back! doctor, he is coming back,  cried Marius.\n\n You are good, both of you,  said Jean Valjean.  I am going to tell you\nwhat has caused me pain. What has pained me, Monsieur Pontmercy, is\nthat you have not been willing to touch that money. That money really\nbelongs to your wife. I will explain to you, my children, and for that\nreason, also, I am glad to see you. Black jet comes from England, white\njet comes from Norway. All this is in this paper, which you will read.\nFor bracelets, I invented a way of substituting for slides of soldered\nsheet iron, slides of iron laid together. It is prettier, better and\nless costly. You will understand how much money can be made in that\nway. So Cosette s fortune is really hers. I give you these details, in\norder that your mind may be set at rest. \n\n\nThe portress had come upstairs and was gazing in at the half-open door.\nThe doctor dismissed her.\n\nBut he could not prevent this zealous woman from exclaiming to the\ndying man before she disappeared:  Would you like a priest? \n\n\n I have had one,  replied Jean Valjean.\n\nAnd with his finger he seemed to indicate a point above his head where\none would have said that he saw some one.\n\nIt is probable, in fact, that the Bishop was present at this death\nagony.\n\nCosette gently slipped a pillow under his loins.\n\nJean Valjean resumed:\n\n Have no fear, Monsieur Pontmercy, I adjure you. The six hundred\nthousand francs really belong to Cosette. My life will have been wasted\nif you do not enjoy them! We managed to do very well with those glass\ngoods. We rivalled what is called Berlin jewellery. However, we could\nnot equal the black glass of England. A gross, which contains twelve\nhundred very well cut grains, only costs three francs. \n\n\nWhen a being who is dear to us is on the point of death, we gaze upon\nhim with a look which clings convulsively to him and which would fain\nhold him back.\n\nCosette gave her hand to Marius, and both, mute with anguish, not\nknowing what to say to the dying man, stood trembling and despairing\nbefore him.\n\nJean Valjean sank moment by moment. He was failing; he was drawing near\nto the gloomy horizon.\n\nHis breath had become intermittent; a little rattling interrupted it.\nHe found some difficulty in moving his forearm, his feet had lost all\nmovement, and in proportion as the wretchedness of limb and feebleness\nof body increased, all the majesty of his soul was displayed and spread\nover his brow. The light of the unknown world was already visible in\nhis eyes.\n\nHis face paled and smiled. Life was no longer there, it was something\nelse.\n\nHis breath sank, his glance grew grander. He was a corpse on which the\nwings could be felt.\n\nHe made a sign to Cosette to draw near, then to Marius; the last minute\nof the last hour had, evidently, arrived.\n\nHe began to speak to them in a voice so feeble that it seemed to come\nfrom a distance, and one would have said that a wall now rose between\nthem and him.\n\n Draw near, draw near, both of you. I love you dearly. Oh! how good it\nis to die like this! And thou lovest me also, my Cosette. I knew well\nthat thou still felt friendly towards thy poor old man. How kind it was\nof thee to place that pillow under my loins! Thou wilt weep for me a\nlittle, wilt thou not? Not too much. I do not wish thee to have any\nreal griefs. You must enjoy yourselves a great deal, my children. I\nforgot to tell you that the profit was greater still on the buckles\nwithout tongues than on all the rest. A gross of a dozen dozens cost\nten francs and sold for sixty. It really was a good business. So there\nis no occasion for surprise at the six hundred thousand francs,\nMonsieur Pontmercy. It is honest money. You may be rich with a tranquil\nmind. Thou must have a carriage, a box at the theatres now and then,\nand handsome ball dresses, my Cosette, and then, thou must give good\ndinners to thy friends, and be very happy. I was writing to Cosette a\nwhile ago. She will find my letter. I bequeath to her the two\ncandlesticks which stand on the chimney-piece. They are of silver, but\nto me they are gold, they are diamonds; they change candles which are\nplaced in them into wax-tapers. I do not know whether the person who\ngave them to me is pleased with me yonder on high. I have done what I\ncould. My children, you will not forget that I am a poor man, you will\nhave me buried in the first plot of earth that you find, under a stone\nto mark the spot. This is my wish. No name on the stone. If Cosette\ncares to come for a little while now and then, it will give me\npleasure. And you too, Monsieur Pontmercy. I must admit that I have not\nalways loved you. I ask your pardon for that. Now she and you form but\none for me. I feel very grateful to you. I am sure that you make\nCosette happy. If you only knew, Monsieur Pontmercy, her pretty rosy\ncheeks were my delight; when I saw her in the least pale, I was sad. In\nthe chest of drawers, there is a bank-bill for five hundred francs. I\nhave not touched it. It is for the poor. Cosette, dost thou see thy\nlittle gown yonder on the bed? dost thou recognize it? That was ten\nyears ago, however. How time flies! We have been very happy. All is\nover. Do not weep, my children, I am not going very far, I shall see\nyou from there, you will only have to look at night, and you will see\nme smile. Cosette, dost thou remember Montfermeil? Thou wert in the\nforest, thou wert greatly terrified; dost thou remember how I took hold\nof the handle of the water-bucket? That was the first time that I\ntouched thy poor, little hand. It was so cold! Ah! your hands were red\nthen, mademoiselle, they are very white now. And the big doll! dost\nthou remember? Thou didst call her Catherine. Thou regrettedest not\nhaving taken her to the convent! How thou didst make me laugh\nsometimes, my sweet angel! When it had been raining, thou didst float\nbits of straw on the gutters, and watch them pass away. One day I gave\nthee a willow battledore and a shuttlecock with yellow, blue and green\nfeathers. Thou hast forgotten it. Thou wert roguish so young! Thou\ndidst play. Thou didst put cherries in thy ears. Those are things of\nthe past. The forests through which one has passed with one s child,\nthe trees under which one has strolled, the convents where one has\nconcealed oneself, the games, the hearty laughs of childhood, are\nshadows. I imagined that all that belonged to me. In that lay my\nstupidity. Those Th nardiers were wicked. Thou must forgive them.\nCosette, the moment has come to tell thee the name of thy mother. She\nwas called Fantine. Remember that name Fantine. Kneel whenever thou\nutterest it. She suffered much. She loved thee dearly. She had as much\nunhappiness as thou hast had happiness. That is the way God apportions\nthings. He is there on high, he sees us all, and he knows what he does\nin the midst of his great stars. I am on the verge of departure, my\nchildren. Love each other well and always. There is nothing else but\nthat in the world: love for each other. You will think sometimes of the\npoor old man who died here. Oh my Cosette, it is not my fault, indeed,\nthat I have not seen thee all this time, it cut me to the heart; I went\nas far as the corner of the street, I must have produced a queer effect\non the people who saw me pass, I was like a madman, I once went out\nwithout my hat. I no longer see clearly, my children, I had still other\nthings to say, but never mind. Think a little of me. Come still nearer.\nI die happy. Give me your dear and well-beloved heads, so that I may\nlay my hands upon them. \n\n\nCosette and Marius fell on their knees, in despair, suffocating with\ntears, each beneath one of Jean Valjean s hands. Those august hands no\nlonger moved.\n\nHe had fallen backwards, the light of the candles illuminated him.\n\nHis white face looked up to heaven, he allowed Cosette and Marius to\ncover his hands with kisses.\n\nHe was dead.\n\nThe night was starless and extremely dark. No doubt, in the gloom, some\nimmense angel stood erect with wings outspread, awaiting that soul.\n\n[Illustration: Darkness]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI THE GRASS COVERS AND THE RAIN EFFACES\n\n\nIn the cemetery of P re-Lachaise, in the vicinity of the common grave,\nfar from the elegant quarter of that city of sepulchres, far from all\nthe tombs of fancy which display in the presence of eternity all the\nhideous fashions of death, in a deserted corner, beside an old wall,\nbeneath a great yew tree over which climbs the wild convolvulus, amid\ndandelions and mosses, there lies a stone. That stone is no more exempt\nthan others from the leprosy of time, of dampness, of the lichens and\nfrom the defilement of the birds. The water turns it green, the air\nblackens it. It is not near any path, and people are not fond of\nwalking in that direction, because the grass is high and their feet are\nimmediately wet. When there is a little sunshine, the lizards come\nthither. All around there is a quivering of weeds. In the spring,\nlinnets warble in the trees.\n\nThis stone is perfectly plain. In cutting it the only thought was the\nrequirements of the tomb, and no other care was taken than to make the\nstone long enough and narrow enough to cover a man.\n\nNo name is to be read there.\n\nOnly, many years ago, a hand wrote upon it in pencil these four lines,\nwhich have become gradually illegible beneath the rain and the dust,\nand which are, to-day, probably effaced:\n\nIl dort. Quoique le sort f t pour lui bien  trange,\nIl vivait. Il mourut quand il n eut plus son ange.\nLa chose simplement d elle-m me arriva,\nComme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s en va.70\n\n\n\nLETTER TO M. DAELLI\n\n\nPublisher of the Italian translation of _Les Mis rables_ in Milan.\n\nHAUTEVILLE-HOUSE, October 18, 1862.\n\nYou are right, sir, when you tell me that _Les Mis rables_ is written\nfor all nations. I do not know whether it will be read by all, but I\nwrote it for all. It is addressed to England as well as to Spain, to\nItaly as well as to France, to Germany as well as to Ireland, to\nRepublics which have slaves as well as to Empires which have serfs.\nSocial problems overstep frontiers. The sores of the human race, those\ngreat sores which cover the globe, do not halt at the red or blue lines\ntraced upon the map. In every place where man is ignorant and\ndespairing, in every place where woman is sold for bread, wherever the\nchild suffers for lack of the book which should instruct him and of the\nhearth which should warm him, the book of _Les Mis rables_ knocks at\nthe door and says:  Open to me, I come for you. \n\n\nAt the hour of civilization through which we are now passing, and which\nis still so sombre, the _miserable s_ name is Man; he is agonizing in\nall climes, and he is groaning in all languages.\n\nYour Italy is no more exempt from the evil than is our France. Your\nadmirable Italy has all miseries on the face of it. Does not banditism,\nthat raging form of pauperism, inhabit your mountains? Few nations are\nmore deeply eaten by that ulcer of convents which I have endeavored to\nfathom. In spite of your possessing Rome, Milan, Naples, Palermo,\nTurin, Florence, Sienna, Pisa, Mantua, Bologna, Ferrara, Genoa, Venice,\na heroic history, sublime ruins, magnificent ruins, and superb cities,\nyou are, like ourselves, poor. You are covered with marvels and vermin.\nAssuredly, the sun of Italy is splendid, but, alas, azure in the sky\ndoes not prevent rags on man.\n\nLike us, you have prejudices, superstitions, tyrannies, fanaticisms,\nblind laws lending assistance to ignorant customs. You taste nothing of\nthe present nor of the future without a flavor of the past being\nmingled with it. You have a barbarian, the monk, and a savage, the\nlazzarone. The social question is the same for you as for us. There are\na few less deaths from hunger with you, and a few more from fever; your\nsocial hygiene is not much better than ours; shadows, which are\nProtestant in England, are Catholic in Italy; but, under different\nnames, the _vescovo_ is identical with the _bishop_, and it always\nmeans night, and of pretty nearly the same quality. To explain the\nBible badly amounts to the same thing as to understand the Gospel\nbadly.\n\nIs it necessary to emphasize this? Must this melancholy parallelism be\nyet more completely verified? Have you not indigent persons? Glance\nbelow. Have you not parasites? Glance up. Does not that hideous\nbalance, whose two scales, pauperism and parasitism, so mournfully\npreserve their mutual equilibrium, oscillate before you as it does\nbefore us? Where is your army of schoolmasters, the only army which\ncivilization acknowledges?\n\nWhere are your free and compulsory schools? Does every one know how to\nread in the land of Dante and of Michael Angelo? Have you made public\nschools of your barracks? Have you not, like ourselves, an opulent\nwar-budget and a paltry budget of education? Have not you also that\npassive obedience which is so easily converted into soldierly\nobedience? military establishment which pushes the regulations to the\nextreme of firing upon Garibaldi; that is to say, upon the living honor\nof Italy? Let us subject your social order to examination, let us take\nit where it stands and as it stands, let us view its flagrant offences,\nshow me the woman and the child. It is by the amount of protection with\nwhich these two feeble creatures are surrounded that the degree of\ncivilization is to be measured. Is prostitution less heartrending in\nNaples than in Paris? What is the amount of truth that springs from\nyour laws, and what amount of justice springs from your tribunals? Do\nyou chance to be so fortunate as to be ignorant of the meaning of those\ngloomy words: public prosecution, legal infamy, prison, the scaffold,\nthe executioner, the death penalty? Italians, with you as with us,\nBeccaria is dead and Farinace is alive. And then, let us scrutinize\nyour state reasons. Have you a government which comprehends the\nidentity of morality and politics? You have reached the point where you\ngrant amnesty to heroes! Something very similar has been done in\nFrance. Stay, let us pass miseries in review, let each one contribute\nhis pile, you are as rich as we. Have you not, like ourselves, two\ncondemnations, religious condemnation pronounced by the priest, and\nsocial condemnation decreed by the judge? Oh, great nation of Italy,\nthou resemblest the great nation of France! Alas! our brothers, you\nare, like ourselves, _Miserables_.\n\nFrom the depths of the gloom wherein you dwell, you do not see much\nmore distinctly than we the radiant and distant portals of Eden. Only,\nthe priests are mistaken. These holy portals are before and not behind\nus.\n\nI resume. This book, _Les Mis rables_, is no less your mirror than\nours. Certain men, certain castes, rise in revolt against this book, I\nunderstand that. Mirrors, those revealers of the truth, are hated; that\ndoes not prevent them from being of use.\n\nAs for myself, I have written for all, with a profound love for my own\ncountry, but without being engrossed by France more than by any other\nnation. In proportion as I advance in life, I grow more simple, and I\nbecome more and more patriotic for humanity.\n\nThis is, moreover, the tendency of our age, and the law of radiance of\nthe French Revolution; books must cease to be exclusively French,\nItalian, German, Spanish, or English, and become European, I say more,\nhuman, if they are to correspond to the enlargement of civilization.\n\nHence a new logic of art, and of certain requirements of composition\nwhich modify everything, even the conditions, formerly narrow, of taste\nand language, which must grow broader like all the rest.\n\nIn France, certain critics have reproached me, to my great delight,\nwith having transgressed the bounds of what they call  French taste ; I\nshould be glad if this eulogium were merited.\n\nIn short, I am doing what I can, I suffer with the same universal\nsuffering, and I try to assuage it, I possess only the puny forces of a\nman, and I cry to all:  Help me! \n\n\nThis, sir, is what your letter prompts me to say; I say it for you and\nfor your country. If I have insisted so strongly, it is because of one\nphrase in your letter. You write: \n\n There are Italians, and they are numerous, who say:  This book, _Les\nMis rables_, is a French book. It does not concern us. Let the French\nread it as a history, we read it as a romance. Alas! I repeat,\nwhether we be Italians or Frenchmen, misery concerns us all. Ever since\nhistory has been written, ever since philosophy has meditated, misery\nhas been the garment of the human race; the moment has at length\narrived for tearing off that rag, and for replacing, upon the naked\nlimbs of the Man-People, the sinister fragment of the past with the\ngrand purple robe of the dawn.\n\nIf this letter seems to you of service in enlightening some minds and\nin dissipating some prejudices, you are at liberty to publish it, sir.\nAccept, I pray you, a renewed assurance of my very distinguished\nsentiments.\n\nVICTOR HUGO.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n1 (return) [ Patois of the French Alps: _chat de maraude_, rascally\nmarauder.]\n\n2 (return) [ Li ge: a cork-tree. Pau: a jest on _peau_, skin.]\n\n3 (return) [ She belonged to that circle where cuckoos and carriages\nshare the same fate; and a jade herself, she lived, as jades live, for\nthe space of a morning (or jade).]\n\n4 (return) [ An ex-convict.]\n\n5 (return) [ This parenthesis is due to Jean Valjean.]\n\n6 (return) [ A bullet as large as an egg.]\n\n7 (return) [ Walter Scott, Lamartine, Vaulabelle, Charras, Quinet,\nThiers.]\n\n8 (return) [ This is the inscription: D. O. M. CY A ETE  CRAS  PAR\nMALHEUR SOUS UN CHARIOT, MONSIEUR BERNARD DE BRYE MARCHAND A BRUXELLE\nLE [illegible] FEVRIER 1637.]\n\n9 (return) [ A heavy rifled gun.]\n\n10 (return) [  A battle terminated, a day finished, false measures\nrepaired, greater successes assured for the morrow, all was lost by a\nmoment of panic, terror. Napoleon, Dict es de Sainte H l ne.]\n\n11 (return) [ Five winning numbers in a lottery]\n\n12 (return) [ Literally  made cuirs ; _i. e._, pronounced a _t_ or an\n_s_ at the end of words where the opposite letter should occur, or used\neither one of them where neither exists.]\n\n13 (return) [ Lawyer Corbeau, perched on a docket, held in his beak a\nwrit of execution; Lawyer Renard, attracted by the smell, addressed him\nnearly as follows, etc.]\n\n14 (return) [ This is the factory of Goblet Junior: Come choose your\njugs and crocks, Flower-pots, pipes, bricks. The Heart sells Diamonds\nto every comer.]\n\n15 (return) [ On the boughs hang three bodies of unequal merits: Dismas\nand Gesmas, between is the divine power. Dismas seeks the heights,\nGesmas, unhappy man, the lowest regions; the highest power will\npreserve us and our effects. If you repeat this verse, you will not\nlose your things by theft.]\n\n16 (return) [ Instead of _porte coch re_ and _porte b tarde_.]\n\n17 (return) [ Jesus-my-God-bandy-leg down with the moon!]\n\n18 (return) [ _Chicken: _ slang allusion to the noise made in calling\npoultry.]\n\n19 (return) [ Louis XVIII. is represented in comic pictures of that day\nas having a pear-shaped head.]\n\n20 (return) [ Tuck into your trousers the shirt-tail that is hanging\nout. Let it not be said that patriots have hoisted the white flag.]\n\n21 (return) [ In order to re-establish the shaken throne firmly on its\nbase, soil (Des solles), greenhouse and house (Decazes) must be\nchanged.]\n\n22 (return) [ _Suspendu_, suspended; _pendu_, hung.]\n\n23 (return) [ _L Aile_, wing.]\n\n24 (return) [ The slang term for a painter s assistant.]\n\n25 (return) [ If C sar had given me glory and war, and I were obliged\nto quit my mother s love, I would say to great C sar,  Take back thy\nsceptre and thy chariot; I prefer the love of my mother. ]\n\n26 (return) [ Whether the sun shines brightly or dim, the bear returns\nto his cave.]\n\n27 (return) [ The peep-hole is a _Judas_ in French. Hence the\nhalf-punning allusion.]\n\n28 (return) [ Our love has lasted a whole week, but how short are the\ninstants of happiness! To adore each other for eight days was hardly\nworth the while! The time of love should last forever.]\n\n29 (return) [ You leave me to go to glory; my sad heart will follow you\neverywhere.]\n\n30 (return) [ A democrat.]\n\n31 (return) [ King Bootkick went a-hunting after crows, mounted on two\nstilts. When one passed beneath them, one paid him two sous.]\n\n32 (return) [ In olden times, fouriers were the officials who preceded\nthe Court and allotted the lodgings.]\n\n33 (return) [ A game of ninepins, in which one side of the ball is\nsmaller than the other, so that it does not roll straight, but\ndescribes a curve on the ground.]\n\n34 (return) [ From April 19 to May 20.]\n\n35 (return) [ _Merlan:_ a sobriquet given to hairdressers because they\nare white with powder.]\n\n36 (return) [ The scaffold.]\n\n37 (return) [ Argot of the Temple.]\n\n38 (return) [ Argot of the barriers.]\n\n39 (return) [ The Last Day of a Condemned Man.]\n\n40 (return) [  Vous trouverez dans ces potains-l , une foultitude de\nraisons pour que je me libertise. ]\n\n41 (return) [ It must be observed, however, that _mac_ in Celtic means\n_son_.]\n\n42 (return) [ Smoke puffed in the face of a person asleep.]\n\n43 (return) [ Je n entrave que le dail comment meck, le daron des\norgues, peut atiger ses m mes et ses momignards et les locher criblant\nsans  tre agit  lui-meme.]\n\n44 (return) [ At night one sees nothing, by day one sees very well; the\nbourgeois gets flurried over an apocryphal scrawl, practice virtue,\ntutu, pointed hat!]\n\n45 (return) [ _Chien_, dog, trigger.]\n\n46 (return) [ Here is the morn appearing. When shall we go to the\nforest, Charlot asked Charlotte. Tou, tou, tou, for Chatou, I have but\none God, one King, one half-farthing, and one boot. And these two poor\nlittle wolves were as tipsy as sparrows from having drunk dew and thyme\nvery early in the morning. And these two poor little things were as\ndrunk as thrushes in a vineyard; a tiger laughed at them in his cave.\nThe one cursed, the other swore. When shall we go to the forest?\nCharlot asked Charlotte.]\n\n47 (return) [ There swings the horrible skeleton of a poor lover who\nhung himself.]\n\n48 (return) [ She astounds at ten paces, she frightens at two, a wart\ninhabits her hazardous nose; you tremble every instant lest she should\nblow it at you, and lest, some fine day, her nose should tumble into\nher mouth.]\n\n49 (return) [ _Matelote:_ a culinary preparation of various fishes.\n_Gibelotte:_ stewed rabbits.]\n\n50 (return) [ Treat if you can, and eat if you dare.]\n\n51 (return) [ _Bip de sans plume:_ biped without feathers pen.]\n\n52 (return) [ Municipal officer of Toulouse.]\n\n53 (return) [ Do you remember our sweet life, when we were both so\nyoung, and when we had no other desire in our hearts than to be well\ndressed and in love? When, by adding your age to my age, we could not\ncount forty years between us, and when, in our humble and tiny\nhousehold, everything was spring to us even in winter. Fair days!\nManuel was proud and wise, Paris sat at sacred banquets, Foy launched\nthunderbolts, and your corsage had a pin on which I pricked myself.\nEverything gazed upon you. A briefless lawyer, when I took you to the\nPrado to dine, you were so beautiful that the roses seemed to me to\nturn round, and I heard them say: Is she not beautiful! How good she\nsmells! What billowing hair! Beneath her mantle she hides a wing. Her\ncharming bonnet is hardly unfolded. I wandered with thee, pressing thy\nsupple arm. The passers-by thought that love bewitched had wedded, in\nour happy couple, the gentle month of April to the fair month of May.\nWe lived concealed, content, with closed doors, devouring love, that\nsweet forbidden fruit. My mouth had not uttered a thing when thy heart\nhad already responded. The Sorbonne was the bucolic spot where I adored\nthee from eve till morn.  Tis thus that an amorous soul applies the\nchart of the Tender to the Latin country. O Place Maubert! O Place\nDauphine! When in the fresh spring-like hut thou didst draw thy\nstocking on thy delicate leg, I saw a star in the depths of the garret.\nI have read a great deal of Plato, but nothing of it remains by me;\nbetter than Malebranche and then Lamennais thou didst demonstrate to me\ncelestial goodness with a flower which thou gavest to me, I obeyed\nthee, thou didst submit to me; oh gilded garret! to lace thee! to\nbehold thee going and coming from dawn in thy chemise, gazing at thy\nyoung brow in thine ancient mirror! And who, then, would forego the\nmemory of those days of aurora and the firmament, of flowers, of gauze\nand of moire, when love stammers a charming slang? Our gardens\nconsisted of a pot of tulips; thou didst mask the window with thy\npetticoat; I took the earthenware bowl and I gave thee the Japanese\ncup. And those great misfortunes which made us laugh! Thy cuff\nscorched, thy boa lost! And that dear portrait of the divine\nShakespeare which we sold one evening that we might sup! I was a beggar\nand thou wert charitable. I kissed thy fresh round arms in haste. A\nfolio Dante served us as a table on which to eat merrily a centime s\nworth of chestnuts. The first time that, in my joyous den, I snatched a\nkiss from thy fiery lip, when thou wentest forth, dishevelled and\nblushing, I turned deathly pale and I believed in God. Dost thou recall\nour innumerable joys, and all those fichus changed to rags? Oh! what\nsighs from our hearts full of gloom fluttered forth to the heavenly\ndepths!]\n\n54 (return) [ My nose is in tears, my friend Bugeaud, lend me thy\ngendarmes that I may say a word to them. With a blue capote and a\nchicken in his shako, here s the banlieue, co-cocorico.]\n\n55 (return) [ Love letters.]\n\n56 (return) [\n\n The bird slanders in the elms,\nAnd pretends that yesterday, Atala\nWent off with a Russian,\nWhere fair maids go.\nLon la.\n\n\nMy friend Pierrot, thou pratest, because Mila knocked at her pane the\nother day and called me. The jades are very charming, their poison\nwhich bewitched me would intoxicate Monsieur Orfila. I m fond of love\nand its bickerings, I love Agnes, I love Pamela, Lise burned herself in\nsetting me aflame. In former days when I saw the mantillas of Suzette\nand of Z ila, my soul mingled with their folds. Love, when thou\ngleamest in the dark thou crownest Lola with roses, I would lose my\nsoul for that. Jeanne, at thy mirror thou deckest thyself! One fine\nday, my heart flew forth. I think that it is Jeanne who has it. At\nnight, when I come from the quadrilles, I show Stella to the stars, and\nI say to them:  Behold her.  Where fair maids go, lon la.]\n\n57 (return) [ But some prisons still remain, and I am going to put a\nstop to this sort of public order. Does any one wish to play at\nskittles? The whole ancient world fell in ruin, when the big ball\nrolled. Good old folks, let us smash with our crutches that Louvre\nwhere the monarchy displayed itself in furbelows. We have forced its\ngates. On that day, King Charles X. did not stick well and came\nunglued.]\n\n58 (return) [ Steps on the Aventine Hill, leading to the Tiber, to\nwhich the bodies of executed criminals were dragged by hooks to be\nthrown into the Tiber.]\n\n59 (return) [ Mustards.]\n\n60 (return) [ From _casser_, to break: break-necks.]\n\n61 (return) [  Jeanne was born at Foug re, a true shepherd s nest; I\nadore her petticoat, the rogue.   Love, thou dwellest in her; For  tis\nin her eyes that thou placest thy quiver, sly scamp!   As for me, I\nsing her, and I love, more than Diana herself, Jeanne and her firm\nBreton breasts. ]\n\n62 (return) [ In allusion to the expression, _coiffer\nSainte-Catherine_,  to remain unmarried. ]\n\n63 (return) [  Thus, hemming in the course of thy musings, Alcippus, it\nis true that thou wilt wed ere long. ]\n\n64 (return) [ _Tirer le diable par la queue_,  to live from hand to\nmouth. ]\n\n65 (return) [  Triton trotted on before, and drew from his conch-shell\nsounds so ravishing that he delighted everyone! ]\n\n66 (return) [  A Shrove-Tuesday marriage will have no ungrateful\nchildren. ]\n\n67 (return) [ A short mask.]\n\n68 (return) [ In allusion to the story of Prometheus.]\n\n69 (return) [ _Un fafiot s rieux. Fafiot_ is the slang term for a\nbank-bill, derived from its rustling noise.]\n\n70 (return) [ He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, he lived.\nHe died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply,\nof itself, as the night comes when day is gone.]"
    },
    {
        "title": "Pride and Prejudice",
        "author": "Jane Austen",
        "category": "Historical Fiction",
        "EN": "PREFACE.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n_Walt Whitman has somewhere a fine and just distinction between  loving\nby allowance  and  loving with personal love.  This distinction applies\nto books as well as to men and women; and in the case of the not very\nnumerous authors who are the objects of the personal affection, it\nbrings a curious consequence with it. There is much more difference as\nto their best work than in the case of those others who are loved  by\nallowance  by convention, and because it is felt to be the right and\nproper thing to love them. And in the sect--fairly large and yet\nunusually choice--of Austenians or Janites, there would probably be\nfound partisans of the claim to primacy of almost every one of the\nnovels. To some the delightful freshness and humour of_ Northanger\nAbbey, _its completeness, finish, and_ entrain, _obscure the undoubted\ncritical facts that its scale is small, and its scheme, after all, that\nof burlesque or parody, a kind in which the first rank is reached with\ndifficulty._ Persuasion, _relatively faint in tone, and not enthralling\nin interest, has devotees who exalt above all the others its exquisite\ndelicacy and keeping. The catastrophe of_ Mansfield Park _is admittedly\ntheatrical, the hero and heroine are insipid, and the author has almost\nwickedly destroyed all romantic interest by expressly admitting that\nEdmund only took Fanny because Mary shocked him, and that Fanny might\nvery likely have taken Crawford if he had been a little more assiduous;\nyet the matchless rehearsal-scenes and the characters of Mrs. Norris and\nothers have secured, I believe, a considerable party for it._ Sense and\nSensibility _has perhaps the fewest out-and-out admirers; but it does\nnot want them._\n\n_I suppose, however, that the majority of at least competent votes\nwould, all things considered, be divided between_ Emma _and the present\nbook; and perhaps the vulgar verdict (if indeed a fondness for Miss\nAusten be not of itself a patent of exemption from any possible charge\nof vulgarity) would go for_ Emma. _It is the larger, the more varied, the\nmore popular; the author had by the time of its composition seen rather\nmore of the world, and had improved her general, though not her most\npeculiar and characteristic dialogue; such figures as Miss Bates, as the\nEltons, cannot but unite the suffrages of everybody. On the other hand,\nI, for my part, declare for_ Pride and Prejudice _unhesitatingly. It\nseems to me the most perfect, the most characteristic, the most\neminently quintessential of its author s works; and for this contention\nin such narrow space as is permitted to me, I propose here to show\ncause._\n\n_In the first place, the book (it may be barely necessary to remind the\nreader) was in its first shape written very early, somewhere about 1796,\nwhen Miss Austen was barely twenty-one; though it was revised and\nfinished at Chawton some fifteen years later, and was not published till\n1813, only four years before her death. I do not know whether, in this\ncombination of the fresh and vigorous projection of youth, and the\ncritical revision of middle life, there may be traced the distinct\nsuperiority in point of construction, which, as it seems to me, it\npossesses over all the others. The plot, though not elaborate, is almost\nregular enough for Fielding; hardly a character, hardly an incident\ncould be retrenched without loss to the story. The elopement of Lydia\nand Wickham is not, like that of Crawford and Mrs. Rushworth, a_ coup de\nth tre; _it connects itself in the strictest way with the course of the\nstory earlier, and brings about the denouement with complete propriety.\nAll the minor passages--the loves of Jane and Bingley, the advent of Mr.\nCollins, the visit to Hunsford, the Derbyshire tour--fit in after the\nsame unostentatious, but masterly fashion. There is no attempt at the\nhide-and-seek, in-and-out business, which in the transactions between\nFrank Churchill and Jane Fairfax contributes no doubt a good deal to the\nintrigue of_ Emma, _but contributes it in a fashion which I do not think\nthe best feature of that otherwise admirable book. Although Miss Austen\nalways liked something of the misunderstanding kind, which afforded her\nopportunities for the display of the peculiar and incomparable talent to\nbe noticed presently, she has been satisfied here with the perfectly\nnatural occasions provided by the false account of Darcy s conduct given\nby Wickham, and by the awkwardness (arising with equal naturalness) from\nthe gradual transformation of Elizabeth s own feelings from positive\naversion to actual love. I do not know whether the all-grasping hand of\nthe playwright has ever been laid upon_ Pride and Prejudice; _and I dare\nsay that, if it were, the situations would prove not startling or\ngarish enough for the footlights, the character-scheme too subtle and\ndelicate for pit and gallery. But if the attempt were made, it would\ncertainly not be hampered by any of those loosenesses of construction,\nwhich, sometimes disguised by the conveniences of which the novelist can\navail himself, appear at once on the stage._\n\n_I think, however, though the thought will doubtless seem heretical to\nmore than one school of critics, that construction is not the highest\nmerit, the choicest gift, of the novelist. It sets off his other gifts\nand graces most advantageously to the critical eye; and the want of it\nwill sometimes mar those graces--appreciably, though not quite\nconsciously--to eyes by no means ultra-critical. But a very badly-built\nnovel which excelled in pathetic or humorous character, or which\ndisplayed consummate command of dialogue--perhaps the rarest of all\nfaculties--would be an infinitely better thing than a faultless plot\nacted and told by puppets with pebbles in their mouths. And despite the\nability which Miss Austen has shown in working out the story, I for one\nshould put_ Pride and Prejudice _far lower if it did not contain what\nseem to me the very masterpieces of Miss Austen s humour and of her\nfaculty of character-creation--masterpieces who may indeed admit John\nThorpe, the Eltons, Mrs. Norris, and one or two others to their company,\nbut who, in one instance certainly, and perhaps in others, are still\nsuperior to them._\n\n_The characteristics of Miss Austen s humour are so subtle and delicate\nthat they are, perhaps, at all times easier to apprehend than to\nexpress, and at any particular time likely to be differently\napprehended by different persons. To me this humour seems to possess a\ngreater affinity, on the whole, to that of Addison than to any other of\nthe numerous species of this great British genus. The differences of\nscheme, of time, of subject, of literary convention, are, of course,\nobvious enough; the difference of sex does not, perhaps, count for much,\nfor there was a distinctly feminine element in  Mr. Spectator,  and in\nJane Austen s genius there was, though nothing mannish, much that was\nmasculine. But the likeness of quality consists in a great number of\ncommon subdivisions of quality--demureness, extreme minuteness of touch,\navoidance of loud tones and glaring effects. Also there is in both a\ncertain not inhuman or unamiable cruelty. It is the custom with those\nwho judge grossly to contrast the good nature of Addison with the\nsavagery of Swift, the mildness of Miss Austen with the boisterousness\nof Fielding and Smollett, even with the ferocious practical jokes that\nher immediate predecessor, Miss Burney, allowed without very much\nprotest. Yet, both in Mr. Addison and in Miss Austen there is, though a\nrestrained and well-mannered, an insatiable and ruthless delight in\nroasting and cutting up a fool. A man in the early eighteenth century,\nof course, could push this taste further than a lady in the early\nnineteenth; and no doubt Miss Austen s principles, as well as her heart,\nwould have shrunk from such things as the letter from the unfortunate\nhusband in the_ Spectator, _who describes, with all the gusto and all the\ninnocence in the world, how his wife and his friend induce him to play\nat blind-man s-buff. But another_ Spectator _letter--that of the damsel\nof fourteen who wishes to marry Mr. Shapely, and assures her selected\nMentor that  he admires your_ Spectators _mightily --might have been\nwritten by a rather more ladylike and intelligent Lydia Bennet in the\ndays of Lydia s great-grandmother; while, on the other hand, some (I\nthink unreasonably) have found  cynicism  in touches of Miss Austen s\nown, such as her satire of Mrs. Musgrove s self-deceiving regrets over\nher son. But this word  cynical  is one of the most misused in the\nEnglish language, especially when, by a glaring and gratuitous\nfalsification of its original sense, it is applied, not to rough and\nsnarling invective, but to gentle and oblique satire. If cynicism means\nthe perception of  the other side,  the sense of  the accepted hells\nbeneath,  the consciousness that motives are nearly always mixed, and\nthat to seem is not identical with to be--if this be cynicism, then\nevery man and woman who is not a fool, who does not care to live in a\nfool s paradise, who has knowledge of nature and the world and life, is\na cynic. And in that sense Miss Austen certainly was one. She may even\nhave been one in the further sense that, like her own Mr. Bennet, she\ntook an epicurean delight in dissecting, in displaying, in setting at\nwork her fools and her mean persons. I think she did take this delight,\nand I do not think at all the worse of her for it as a woman, while she\nwas immensely the better for it as an artist._\n\n_In respect of her art generally, Mr. Goldwin Smith has truly observed\nthat  metaphor has been exhausted in depicting the perfection of it,\ncombined with the narrowness of her field;  and he has justly added that\nwe need not go beyond her own comparison to the art of a miniature\npainter. To make this latter observation quite exact we must not use the\nterm miniature in its restricted sense, and must think rather of Memling\nat one end of the history of painting and Meissonier at the other, than\nof Cosway or any of his kind. And I am not so certain that I should\nmyself use the word  narrow  in connection with her. If her world is a\nmicrocosm, the cosmic quality of it is at least as eminent as the\nlittleness. She does not touch what she did not feel herself called to\npaint; I am not so sure that she could not have painted what she did not\nfeel herself called to touch. It is at least remarkable that in two very\nshort periods of writing--one of about three years, and another of not\nmuch more than five--she executed six capital works, and has not left a\nsingle failure. It is possible that the romantic paste in her\ncomposition was defective: we must always remember that hardly\nanybody born in her decade--that of the eighteenth-century\nseventies--independently exhibited the full romantic quality. Even Scott\nrequired hill and mountain and ballad, even Coleridge metaphysics and\nGerman to enable them to chip the classical shell. Miss Austen was an\nEnglish girl, brought up in a country retirement, at the time when\nladies went back into the house if there was a white frost which might\npierce their kid shoes, when a sudden cold was the subject of the\ngravest fears, when their studies, their ways, their conduct were\nsubject to all those fantastic limits and restrictions against which\nMary Wollstonecraft protested with better general sense than particular\ntaste or judgment. Miss Austen, too, drew back when the white frost\ntouched her shoes; but I think she would have made a pretty good journey\neven in a black one._\n\n_For if her knowledge was not very extended, she knew two things which\nonly genius knows. The one was humanity, and the other was art. On the\nfirst head she could not make a mistake; her men, though limited, are\ntrue, and her women are, in the old sense,  absolute.  As to art, if she\nhas never tried idealism, her realism is real to a degree which makes\nthe false realism of our own day look merely dead-alive. Take almost any\nFrenchman, except the late M. de Maupassant, and watch him laboriously\npiling up strokes in the hope of giving a complete impression. You get\nnone; you are lucky if, discarding two-thirds of what he gives, you can\nshape a real impression out of the rest. But with Miss Austen the\nmyriad, trivial, unforced strokes build up the picture like magic.\nNothing is false; nothing is superfluous. When (to take the present book\nonly) Mr. Collins changed his mind from Jane to Elizabeth  while Mrs.\nBennet was stirring the fire  (and we know_ how _Mrs. Bennet would have\nstirred the fire), when Mr. Darcy  brought his coffee-cup back_\nhimself,  _the touch in each case is like that of Swift-- taller by the\nbreadth of my nail --which impressed the half-reluctant Thackeray with\njust and outspoken admiration. Indeed, fantastic as it may seem, I\nshould put Miss Austen as near to Swift in some ways, as I have put her\nto Addison in others._\n\n_This Swiftian quality appears in the present novel as it appears\nnowhere else in the character of the immortal, the ineffable Mr.\nCollins. Mr. Collins is really_ great; _far greater than anything Addison\never did, almost great enough for Fielding or for Swift himself. It has\nbeen said that no one ever was like him. But in the first place,_ he\n_was like him; he is there--alive, imperishable, more real than hundreds\nof prime ministers and archbishops, of  metals, semi-metals, and\ndistinguished philosophers.  In the second place, it is rash, I think,\nto conclude that an actual Mr. Collins was impossible or non-existent at\nthe end of the eighteenth century. It is very interesting that we\npossess, in this same gallery, what may be called a spoiled first\ndraught, or an unsuccessful study of him, in John Dashwood. The\nformality, the under-breeding, the meanness, are there; but the portrait\nis only half alive, and is felt to be even a little unnatural. Mr.\nCollins is perfectly natural, and perfectly alive. In fact, for all the\n miniature,  there is something gigantic in the way in which a certain\nside, and more than one, of humanity, and especially eighteenth-century\nhumanity, its Philistinism, its well-meaning but hide-bound morality,\nits formal pettiness, its grovelling respect for rank, its materialism,\nits selfishness, receives exhibition. I will not admit that one speech\nor one action of this inestimable man is incapable of being reconciled\nwith reality, and I should not wonder if many of these words and actions\nare historically true._\n\n_But the greatness of Mr. Collins could not have been so satisfactorily\nexhibited if his creatress had not adjusted so artfully to him the\nfigures of Mr. Bennet and of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. The latter, like\nMr. Collins himself, has been charged with exaggeration. There is,\nperhaps, a very faint shade of colour for the charge; but it seems to me\nvery faint indeed. Even now I do not think that it would be impossible\nto find persons, especially female persons, not necessarily of noble\nbirth, as overbearing, as self-centred, as neglectful of good manners,\nas Lady Catherine. A hundred years ago, an earl s daughter, the Lady\nPowerful (if not exactly Bountiful) of an out-of-the-way country parish,\nrich, long out of marital authority, and so forth, had opportunities of\ndeveloping these agreeable characteristics which seldom present\nthemselves now. As for Mr. Bennet, Miss Austen, and Mr. Darcy, and even\nMiss Elizabeth herself, were, I am inclined to think, rather hard on him\nfor the  impropriety  of his conduct. His wife was evidently, and must\nalways have been, a quite irreclaimable fool; and unless he had shot her\nor himself there was no way out of it for a man of sense and spirit but\nthe ironic. From no other point of view is he open to any reproach,\nexcept for an excusable and not unnatural helplessness at the crisis of\nthe elopement, and his utterances are the most acutely delightful in the\nconsciously humorous kind--in the kind that we laugh with, not at--that\neven Miss Austen has put into the mouth of any of her characters. It is\ndifficult to know whether he is most agreeable when talking to his wife,\nor when putting Mr. Collins through his paces; but the general sense of\nthe world has probably been right in preferring to the first rank his\nconsolation to the former when she maunders over the entail,  My dear,\ndo not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things.\nLet us flatter ourselves that_ I _may be the survivor;  and his inquiry\nto his colossal cousin as to the compliments which Mr. Collins has just\nrelated as made by himself to Lady Catherine,  May I ask whether these\npleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the\nresult of previous study?  These are the things which give Miss Austen s\nreaders the pleasant shocks, the delightful thrills, which are felt by\nthe readers of Swift, of Fielding, and we may here add, of Thackeray, as\nthey are felt by the readers of no other English author of fiction\noutside of these four._\n\n_The goodness of the minor characters in_ Pride and Prejudice _has been\nalready alluded to, and it makes a detailed dwelling on their beauties\ndifficult in any space, and impossible in this. Mrs. Bennet we have\nglanced at, and it is not easy to say whether she is more exquisitely\namusing or more horribly true. Much the same may be said of Kitty and\nLydia; but it is not every author, even of genius, who would have\ndifferentiated with such unerring skill the effects of folly and\nvulgarity of intellect and disposition working upon the common\nweaknesses of woman at such different ages. With Mary, Miss Austen has\ntaken rather less pains, though she has been even more unkind to her;\nnot merely in the text, but, as we learn from those interesting\ntraditional appendices which Mr. Austen Leigh has given us, in dooming\nher privately to marry  one of Mr. Philips s clerks.  The habits of\nfirst copying and then retailing moral sentiments, of playing and\nsinging too long in public, are, no doubt, grievous and criminal; but\nperhaps poor Mary was rather the scapegoat of the sins of blue stockings\nin that Fordyce-belectured generation. It is at any rate difficult not\nto extend to her a share of the respect and affection (affection and\nrespect of a peculiar kind; doubtless), with which one regards Mr.\nCollins, when she draws the moral of Lydia s fall. I sometimes wish\nthat the exigencies of the story had permitted Miss Austen to unite\nthese personages, and thus at once achieve a notable mating and soothe\npoor Mrs. Bennet s anguish over the entail._\n\n_The Bingleys and the Gardiners and the Lucases, Miss Darcy and Miss de\nBourgh, Jane, Wickham, and the rest, must pass without special comment,\nfurther than the remark that Charlotte Lucas (her egregious papa, though\ndelightful, is just a little on the thither side of the line between\ncomedy and farce) is a wonderfully clever study in drab of one kind, and\nthat Wickham (though something of Miss Austen s hesitation of touch in\ndealing with young men appears) is a not much less notable sketch in\ndrab of another. Only genius could have made Charlotte what she is, yet\nnot disagreeable; Wickham what he is, without investing him either with\na cheap Don Juanish attractiveness or a disgusting rascality. But the\nhero and the heroine are not tints to be dismissed._\n\n_Darcy has always seemed to me by far the best and most interesting of\nMiss Austen s heroes; the only possible competitor being Henry Tilney,\nwhose part is so slight and simple that it hardly enters into\ncomparison. It has sometimes, I believe, been urged that his pride is\nunnatural at first in its expression and later in its yielding, while\nhis falling in love at all is not extremely probable. Here again I\ncannot go with the objectors. Darcy s own account of the way in which\nhis pride had been pampered, is perfectly rational and sufficient; and\nnothing could be, psychologically speaking, a_ causa verior _for its\nsudden restoration to healthy conditions than the shock of Elizabeth s\nscornful refusal acting on a nature_ ex hypothesi _generous. Nothing in\neven our author is finer and more delicately touched than the change of\nhis demeanour at the sudden meeting in the grounds of Pemberley. Had he\nbeen a bad prig or a bad coxcomb, he might have been still smarting\nunder his rejection, or suspicious that the girl had come\nhusband-hunting. His being neither is exactly consistent with the\nprobable feelings of a man spoilt in the common sense, but not really\ninjured in disposition, and thoroughly in love. As for his being in\nlove, Elizabeth has given as just an exposition of the causes of that\nphenomenon as Darcy has of the conditions of his unregenerate state,\nonly she has of course not counted in what was due to her own personal\ncharm._\n\n_The secret of that charm many men and not a few women, from Miss Austen\nherself downwards, have felt, and like most charms it is a thing rather\nto be felt than to be explained. Elizabeth of course belongs to the_\nallegro _or_ allegra _division of the army of Venus. Miss Austen was\nalways provokingly chary of description in regard to her beauties; and\nexcept the fine eyes, and a hint or two that she had at any rate\nsometimes a bright complexion, and was not very tall, we hear nothing\nabout her looks. But her chief difference from other heroines of the\nlively type seems to lie first in her being distinctly clever--almost\nstrong-minded, in the better sense of that objectionable word--and\nsecondly in her being entirely destitute of ill-nature for all her\npropensity to tease and the sharpness of her tongue. Elizabeth can give\nat least as good as she gets when she is attacked; but she never\n scratches,  and she never attacks first. Some of the merest\nobsoletenesses of phrase and manner give one or two of her early\nspeeches a slight pertness, but that is nothing, and when she comes to\nserious business, as in the great proposal scene with Darcy (which is,\nas it should be, the climax of the interest of the book), and in the\nfinal ladies  battle with Lady Catherine, she is unexceptionable. Then\ntoo she is a perfectly natural girl. She does not disguise from herself\nor anybody that she resents Darcy s first ill-mannered personality with\nas personal a feeling. (By the way, the reproach that the ill-manners of\nthis speech are overdone is certainly unjust; for things of the same\nkind, expressed no doubt less stiltedly but more coarsely, might have\nbeen heard in more than one ball-room during this very year from persons\nwho ought to have been no worse bred than Darcy.) And she lets the\ninjury done to Jane and the contempt shown to the rest of her family\naggravate this resentment in the healthiest way in the world._\n\n_Still, all this does not explain her charm, which, taking beauty as a\ncommon form of all heroines, may perhaps consist in the addition to her\nplayfulness, her wit, her affectionate and natural disposition, of a\ncertain fearlessness very uncommon in heroines of her type and age.\nNearly all of them would have been in speechless awe of the magnificent\nDarcy; nearly all of them would have palpitated and fluttered at the\nidea of proposals, even naughty ones, from the fascinating Wickham.\nElizabeth, with nothing offensive, nothing_ viraginous, _nothing of the\n New Woman  about her, has by nature what the best modern (not  new )\nwomen have by education and experience, a perfect freedom from the idea\nthat all men may bully her if they choose, and that most will away with\nher if they can. Though not in the least  impudent and mannish grown, \nshe has no mere sensibility, no nasty niceness about her. The form of\npassion common and likely to seem natural in Miss Austen s day was so\ninvariably connected with the display of one or the other, or both of\nthese qualities, that she has not made Elizabeth outwardly passionate.\nBut I, at least, have not the slightest doubt that she would have\nmarried Darcy just as willingly without Pemberley as with it, and\nanybody who can read between lines will not find the lovers \nconversations in the final chapters so frigid as they might have looked\nto the Della Cruscans of their own day, and perhaps do look to the Della\nCruscans of this._\n\n_And, after all, what is the good of seeking for the reason of\ncharm?--it is there. There were better sense in the sad mechanic\nexercise of determining the reason of its absence where it is not. In\nthe novels of the last hundred years there are vast numbers of young\nladies with whom it might be a pleasure to fall in love; there are at\nleast five with whom, as it seems to me, no man of taste and spirit can\nhelp doing so. Their names are, in chronological order, Elizabeth\nBennet, Diana Vernon, Argemone Lavington, Beatrix Esmond, and Barbara\nGrant. I should have been most in love with Beatrix and Argemone; I\nshould, I think, for mere occasional companionship, have preferred Diana\nand Barbara. But to live with and to marry, I do not know that any one\nof the four can come into competition with Elizabeth._\n\n_GEORGE SAINTSBURY._\n\n\n[Illustration:  PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ]\n\n\n\n\nChapter I.\n\n\nIt is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession\nof a good fortune must be in want of a wife.\n\nHowever little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his\nfirst entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds\nof the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful\nproperty of some one or other of their daughters.\n\n My dear Mr. Bennet,  said his lady to him one day,  have you heard that\nNetherfield Park is let at last? \n\nMr. Bennet replied that he had not.\n\n But it is,  returned she;  for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she\ntold me all about it. \n\nMr. Bennet made no answer.\n\n Do not you want to know who has taken it?  cried his wife, impatiently.\n\n _You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n He came down to see the place \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nThis was invitation enough.\n\n Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken\nby a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came\ndown on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much\ndelighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is\nto take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be\nin the house by the end of next week. \n\n What is his name? \n\n Bingley. \n\n Is he married or single? \n\n Oh, single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or\nfive thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls! \n\n How so? how can it affect them? \n\n My dear Mr. Bennet,  replied his wife,  how can you be so tiresome? You\nmust know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them. \n\n Is that his design in settling here? \n\n Design? Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he\n_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as\nsoon as he comes. \n\n I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go--or you may send\nthem by themselves, which perhaps will be still better; for as you are\nas handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the\nparty. \n\n My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but\nI do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five\ngrown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty. \n\n In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of. \n\n But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into\nthe neighbourhood. \n\n It is more than I engage for, I assure you. \n\n But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would\nbe for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go,\nmerely on that account; for in general, you know, they visit no new\ncomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit\nhim, if you do not. \n\n You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very\nglad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my\nhearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls--though\nI must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy. \n\n I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the\nothers: and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so\ngood-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference. \n\n They have none of them much to recommend them,  replied he:  they are\nall silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of\nquickness than her sisters. \n\n Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take\ndelight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves. \n\n You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They\nare my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration\nthese twenty years at least. \n\n Ah, you do not know what I suffer. \n\n But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four\nthousand a year come into the neighbourhood. \n\n It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not\nvisit them. \n\n Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them\nall. \n\nMr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,\nreserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had\nbeen insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind\nwas less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding,\nlittle information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she\nfancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her\ndaughters married: its solace was visiting and news.\n\n[Illustration: M^{r.} & M^{rs.} Bennet\n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n I hope Mr. Bingley will like it \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He\nhad always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his\nwife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was\npaid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following\nmanner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he\nsuddenly addressed her with,--\n\n I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy. \n\n We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,  said her mother,\nresentfully,  since we are not to visit. \n\n But you forget, mamma,  said Elizabeth,  that we shall meet him at the\nassemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him. \n\n I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces\nof her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion\nof her. \n\n No more have I,  said Mr. Bennet;  and I am glad to find that you do\nnot depend on her serving you. \n\nMrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain\nherself, began scolding one of her daughters.\n\n Don t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven s sake! Have a little\ncompassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces. \n\n Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,  said her father;  she times\nthem ill. \n\n I do not cough for my own amusement,  replied Kitty, fretfully.  When\nis your next ball to be, Lizzy? \n\n To-morrow fortnight. \n\n Ay, so it is,  cried her mother,  and Mrs. Long does not come back till\nthe day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for\nshe will not know him herself. \n\n Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce\nMr. Bingley to _her_. \n\n Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him\nmyself; how can you be so teasing? \n\n I honour your circumspection. A fortnight s acquaintance is certainly\nvery little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a\nfortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after\nall, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and, therefore,\nas she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I\nwill take it on myself. \n\nThe girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,  Nonsense,\nnonsense! \n\n What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?  cried he.  Do\nyou consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on\nthem, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,\nMary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read\ngreat books, and make extracts. \n\nMary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.\n\n While Mary is adjusting her ideas,  he continued,  let us return to Mr.\nBingley. \n\n I am sick of Mr. Bingley,  cried his wife.\n\n I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did you not tell me so before? If I\nhad known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on\nhim. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we\ncannot escape the acquaintance now. \n\nThe astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished--that of Mrs.\nBennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy\nwas over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the\nwhile.\n\n How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should\npersuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to\nneglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! And it is such a\ngood joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said a\nword about it till now. \n\n Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,  said Mr. Bennet; and,\nas he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.\n\n What an excellent father you have, girls,  said she, when the door was\nshut.  I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;\nor me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so\npleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but\nfor your sakes we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_\nthe youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next\nball. \n\n Oh,  said Lydia, stoutly,  I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the\nyoungest, I m the tallest. \n\nThe rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would\nreturn Mr. Bennet s visit, and determining when they should ask him to\ndinner.\n\n[Illustration:  I m the tallest ]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      He rode a black horse \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nNot all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five\ndaughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her\nhusband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him\nin various ways, with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and\ndistant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at\nlast obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,\nLady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been\ndelighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely\nagreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly\nwith a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of\ndancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively\nhopes of Mr. Bingley s heart were entertained.\n\n If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield, \nsaid Mrs. Bennet to her husband,  and all the others equally well\nmarried, I shall have nothing to wish for. \n\nIn a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet s visit, and sat about ten\nminutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being\nadmitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard\nmuch; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more\nfortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper\nwindow, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.\n\nAn invitation to dinner was soon afterwards despatched; and already had\nMrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her\nhousekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley\nwas obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to\naccept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite\ndisconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town\nso soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that\nhe might always be flying about from one place to another, and never\nsettled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a\nlittle by starting the idea of his\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      When the Party entered \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nbeing gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a\nreport soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and\nseven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a\nnumber of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing\nthat, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London,\nhis five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the\nassembly-room, it consisted of only five altogether: Mr. Bingley, his\ntwo sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man.\n\nMr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike: he had a pleasant\ncountenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,\nwith an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely\nlooked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention\nof the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and\nthe report, which was in general circulation within five minutes after\nhis entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen\npronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was\nmuch handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great\nadmiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust\nwhich turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be\nproud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his\nlarge estate in Derbyshire could save him from having a most forbidding,\ndisagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his\nfriend.\n\nMr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal\npeople in the room: he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,\nwas angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one\nhimself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for\nthemselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced\nonly once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being\nintroduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in\nwalking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.\nHis character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in\nthe world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.\nAmongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of\nhis general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his\nhaving slighted one of her daughters.\n\nElizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit\ndown for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been\nstanding near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and\nMr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes to press his\nfriend to join it.\n\n Come, Darcy,  said he,  I must have you dance. I hate to see you\nstanding about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better\ndance. \n\n I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am\nparticularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it\nwould be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not\nanother woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to\nstand up with. \n\n I would not be so fastidious as you are,  cried Bingley,  for a\nkingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my\nlife as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see,\nuncommonly pretty. \n\n _You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,  said Mr.\nDarcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.\n\n Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one\nof her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I\ndare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n She is tolerable \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n Which do you mean?  and turning round, he looked for a moment at\nElizabeth, till, catching her eye, he withdrew his own, and coldly said,\n She is tolerable: but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no\nhumour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted\nby other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her\nsmiles, for you are wasting your time with me. \n\nMr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth\nremained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story,\nhowever, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,\nplayful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.\n\nThe evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.\nBennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield\nparty. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been\ndistinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her\nmother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane s\npleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most\naccomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been\nfortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they\nhad yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good\nspirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they\nwere the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a\nbook, he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a\ngood deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised\nsuch splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife s\nviews on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he\nhad a very different story to hear.\n\n Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,  as she entered the room,  we have had a most\ndelightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.\nJane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well\nshe looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with\nher twice. Only think of _that_, my dear: he actually danced with her\ntwice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second\ntime. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand\nup with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody\ncan, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going\ndown the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and\nasked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss\nKing, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane\nagain, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_---- \n\n If he had had any compassion for _me_,  cried her husband impatiently,\n he would not have danced half so much! For God s sake, say no more of\nhis partners. O that he had sprained his ancle in the first dance! \n\n Oh, my dear,  continued Mrs. Bennet,  I am quite delighted with him. He\nis so excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never\nin my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the\nlace upon Mrs. Hurst s gown---- \n\nHere she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any\ndescription of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch\nof the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit, and some\nexaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.\n\n But I can assure you,  she added,  that Lizzy does not lose much by not\nsuiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at\nall worth pleasing. So high and so conceited, that there was no enduring\nhim! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very\ngreat! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my\ndear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhen Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in\nher praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much\nshe admired him.\n\n He is just what a young-man ought to be,  said she,  sensible,\ngood-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! so much ease,\nwith such perfect good breeding! \n\n He is also handsome,  replied Elizabeth,  which a young man ought\nlikewise to be if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete. \n\n I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I\ndid not expect such a compliment. \n\n Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference between\nus. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What\ncould be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help\nseeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in\nthe room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is\nvery agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a\nstupider person. \n\n Dear Lizzy! \n\n Oh, you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.\nYou never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable\nin your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life. \n\n I would wish not to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak\nwhat I think. \n\n I know you do: and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_\ngood sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of\nothers! Affectation of candour is common enough; one meets with it\neverywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design,--to take the\ngood of everybody s character and make it still better, and say nothing\nof the bad,--belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man s sisters,\ntoo, do you? Their manners are not equal to his. \n\n Certainly not, at first; but they are very pleasing women when you\nconverse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep\nhis house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming\nneighbour in her. \n\nElizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced: their behaviour at\nthe assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more\nquickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and\nwith a judgment, too, unassailed by any attention to herself, she was\nvery little disposed to approve them. They were, in fact, very fine\nladies; not deficient in good-humour when they were pleased, nor in the\npower of being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited.\nThey were rather handsome; had been educated in one of the first private\nseminaries in town; had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds; were in the\nhabit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people\nof rank; and were, therefore, in every respect entitled to think well of\nthemselves and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in\nthe north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their\nmemories than that their brother s fortune and their own had been\nacquired by trade.\n\nMr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred\nthousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate,\nbut did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and\nsometimes made choice of his county; but, as he was now provided with a\ngood house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those\nwho best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the\nremainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to\npurchase.\n\nHis sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but\nthough he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no\nmeans unwilling to preside at his table; nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had\nmarried a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider\nhis house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of\nage two years when he was tempted, by an accidental recommendation, to\nlook at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it, for half an\nhour; was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied\nwith what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.\n\nBetween him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a\ngreat opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the\neasiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition\ncould offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he\nnever appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy s regard, Bingley\nhad the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In\nunderstanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means\ndeficient; but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty,\nreserved, and fastidious; and his manners, though well bred, were not\ninviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley\nwas sure of being liked wherever he appeared; Darcy was continually\ngiving offence.\n\nThe manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently\ncharacteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier\ngirls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him;\nthere had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted\nwith all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel\nmore beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people\nin whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had\nfelt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or\npleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty; but she smiled too\nmuch.\n\nMrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so; but still they admired\nher and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom\nthey should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore\nestablished as a sweet girl; and their brother felt authorized by such\ncommendation to think of her as he chose.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWithin a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets\nwere particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade\nin Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the\nhonour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The\ndistinction had, perhaps, been felt too strongly. It had given him a\ndisgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town;\nand, quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about\na mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge; where he\ncould think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by\nbusiness, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For,\nthough elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the\ncontrary, he was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive,\nfriendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James s had made him\ncourteous.\n\nLady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a\nvaluable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest\nof them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was\nElizabeth s intimate friend.\n\nThat the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a\nball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly\nbrought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.\n\n _You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,  said Mrs. Bennet, with civil\nself-command, to Miss Lucas.  _You_ were Mr. Bingley s first choice. \n\n Yes; but he seemed to like his second better. \n\n Oh, you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be\nsure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed, I rather believe he\n_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something\nabout Mr. Robinson. \n\n Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson: did not\nI mention it to you? Mr. Robinson s asking him how he liked our Meryton\nassemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty\nwomen in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his\nanswering immediately to the last question,  Oh, the eldest Miss Bennet,\nbeyond a doubt: there cannot be two opinions on that point. \n\n Upon my word! Well, that was very decided, indeed--that does seem as\nif--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know. \n\n _My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,  said\nCharlotte.  Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,\nis he? Poor Eliza! to be only just _tolerable_. \n\n I beg you will not put it into Lizzy s head to be vexed by his\nill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite\na misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he\nsat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips. \n\n[Illustration:  Without once opening his lips \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n Are you quite sure, ma am? Is not there a little mistake?  said Jane.\n I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her. \n\n Ay, because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he\ncould not help answering her; but she said he seemed very angry at being\nspoke to. \n\n Miss Bingley told me,  said Jane,  that he never speaks much unless\namong his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is remarkably\nagreeable. \n\n I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very\nagreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it\nwas; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had\nheard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had to come\nto the ball in a hack chaise. \n\n I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,  said Miss Lucas,  but I\nwish he had danced with Eliza. \n\n Another time, Lizzy,  said her mother,  I would not dance with _him_,\nif I were you. \n\n I believe, ma am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him. \n\n His pride,  said Miss Lucas,  does not offend _me_ so much as pride\noften does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so\nvery fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour,\nshould think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_\nto be proud. \n\n That is very true,  replied Elizabeth,  and I could easily forgive\n_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_. \n\n Pride,  observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her\nreflections,  is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have\never read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human\nnature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us\nwho do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some\nquality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different\nthings, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be\nproud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of\nourselves; vanity to what we would have others think of us. \n\n If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,  cried a young Lucas, who came with his\nsisters,  I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of\nfoxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day. \n\n Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,  said Mrs.\nBennet;  and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle\ndirectly. \n\nThe boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she\nwould; and the argument ended only with the visit.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit\nwas returned in due form. Miss Bennet s pleasing manners grew on the\ngood-will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was\nfound to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to,\na wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards the\ntwo eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest\npleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of\neverybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;\nthough their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value, as arising,\nin all probability, from the influence of their brother s admiration. It\nwas generally evident, whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and\nto _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference\nwhich she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a\nway to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it\nwas not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane\nunited with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and an\nuniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the\nsuspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend, Miss\nLucas.\n\n It may, perhaps, be pleasant,  replied Charlotte,  to be able to impose\non the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be\nso very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill\nfrom the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and\nit will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the\ndark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every\nattachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all\n_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are\nvery few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without\nencouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_\naffection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he\nmay never do more than like her, if she does not help him on. \n\n But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can\nperceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to\ndiscover it too. \n\n Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane s disposition as you do. \n\n But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavor to conceal\nit, he must find it out. \n\n Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane\nmeet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they\nalways see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that\nevery moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should\ntherefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his\nattention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling\nin love as much as she chooses. \n\n Your plan is a good one,  replied Elizabeth,  where nothing is in\nquestion but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined\nto get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But\nthese are not Jane s feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet she\ncannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its\nreasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four\ndances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,\nand has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite\nenough to make her understand his character. \n\n Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might\nonly have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must\nremember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four\nevenings may do a great deal. \n\n Yes: these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both\nlike Vingt-un better than Commerce, but with respect to any other\nleading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded. \n\n Well,  said Charlotte,  I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if\nshe were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a\nchance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a\ntwelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If\nthe dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or\never so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the\nleast. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to\nhave their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as\npossible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your\nlife. \n\n You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not\nsound, and that you would never act in this way yourself. \n\nOccupied in observing Mr. Bingley s attention to her sister, Elizabeth\nwas far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some\ninterest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely\nallowed her to be pretty: he had looked at her without admiration at the\nball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no\nsooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had\nhardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered\nuncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To\nthis discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had\ndetected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry\nin her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and\npleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those\nof the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of\nthis she was perfectly unaware: to her he was only the man who made\nhimself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough\nto dance with.\n\nHe began to wish to know more of her; and, as a step towards conversing\nwith her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so\ndrew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas s, where a large party were\nassembled.\n\n What does Mr. Darcy mean,  said she to Charlotte,  by listening to my\nconversation with Colonel Forster? \n\n That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer. \n\n But if he does it any more, I shall certainly let him know that I see\nwhat he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by\nbeing impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him. \n\n[Illustration:  The entreaties of several  [_Copyright 1894 by George\nAllen._]]\n\nOn his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have\nany intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such\na subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she\nturned to him and said,--\n\n Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well\njust now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at\nMeryton? \n\n With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady\nenergetic. \n\n You are severe on us. \n\n It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,  said Miss Lucas.  I am going\nto open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows. \n\n You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me\nto play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a\nmusical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would\nreally rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of\nhearing the very best performers.  On Miss Lucas s persevering, however,\nshe added,  Very well; if it must be so, it must.  And gravely glancing\nat Mr. Darcy,  There is a very fine old saying, which everybody here is\nof course familiar with-- Keep your breath to cool your porridge, --and\nI shall keep mine to swell my song. \n\nHer performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song\nor two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she\nwould sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her\nsister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in\nthe family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always\nimpatient for display.\n\nMary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her\napplication, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited\nmanner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she\nhad reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with\nmuch more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the\nend of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by\nScotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with\nsome of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in\ndancing at one end of the room.\n\nMr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of\npassing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too\nmuch engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas\nwas his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:--\n\n What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is\nnothing like dancing, after all. I consider it as one of the first\nrefinements of polished societies. \n\n Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst\nthe less polished societies of the world: every savage can dance. \n\nSir William only smiled.  Your friend performs delightfully,  he\ncontinued, after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;  and I doubt\nnot that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy. \n\n You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir. \n\n Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do\nyou often dance at St. James s? \n\n Never, sir. \n\n Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place? \n\n It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it. \n\n You have a house in town, I conclude? \n\nMr. Darcy bowed.\n\n I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself, for I am fond of\nsuperior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of\nLondon would agree with Lady Lucas. \n\nHe paused in hopes of an answer: but his companion was not disposed to\nmake any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was\nstruck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to\nher,--\n\n My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow\nme to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You\ncannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you. \nAnd, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though\nextremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly\ndrew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,--\n\n Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you\nnot to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner. \n\nMr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of\nher hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at\nall shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.\n\n You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me\nthe happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the\namusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us\nfor one half hour. \n\n Mr. Darcy is all politeness,  said Elizabeth, smiling.\n\n He is, indeed: but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we\ncannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a\npartner? \n\nElizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured\nher with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some\ncomplacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,--\n\n I can guess the subject of your reverie. \n\n I should imagine not. \n\n You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many\nevenings in this manner,--in such society; and, indeed, I am quite of\nyour opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the\nnoise--the nothingness, and yet the self-importance, of all these\npeople! What would I give to hear your strictures on them! \n\n Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more\nagreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure\nwhich a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow. \n\nMiss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he\nwould tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.\nMr. Darcy replied, with great intrepidity,--\n\n Miss Elizabeth Bennet. \n\n Miss Elizabeth Bennet!  repeated Miss Bingley.  I am all astonishment.\nHow long has she been such a favourite? and pray when am I to wish you\njoy? \n\n That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady s\nimagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love\nto matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy. \n\n Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as\nabsolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and\nof course she will be always at Pemberley with you. \n\nHe listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to\nentertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her\nthat all was safe, her wit flowed along.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      A note for Miss Bennet \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMr. Bennet s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two\nthousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed,\nin default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother s\nfortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply\nthe deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and\nhad left her four thousand pounds.\n\nShe had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their\nfather and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in\nLondon in a respectable line of trade.\n\nThe village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most\nconvenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted\nthither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and\nto a milliner s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,\nCatherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions:\ntheir minds were more vacant than their sisters , and when nothing\nbetter offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning\nhours and furnish conversation for the evening; and, however bare of\nnews the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn\nsome from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both\nwith news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in\nthe neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was\nthe head-quarters.\n\nTheir visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting\nintelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the\nofficers  names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret,\nand at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips\nvisited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity\nunknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr.\nBingley s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their\nmother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of\nan ensign.\n\nAfter listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.\nBennet coolly observed,--\n\n From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two\nof the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but\nI am now convinced. \n\nCatherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect\nindifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and\nher hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the\nnext morning to London.\n\n I am astonished, my dear,  said Mrs. Bennet,  that you should be so\nready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly\nof anybody s children, it should not be of my own, however. \n\n If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it. \n\n Yes; but as it happens, they are all of them very clever. \n\n This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I\nhad hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must\nso far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly\nfoolish. \n\n My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of\ntheir father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will\nnot think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I\nliked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my\nheart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,\nshould want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought\nColonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William s in\nhis regimentals. \n\n Mamma,  cried Lydia,  my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain\nCarter do not go so often to Miss Watson s as they did when they first\ncame; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke s library. \n\nMrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a\nnote for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited\nfor an answer. Mrs. Bennet s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was\neagerly calling out, while her daughter read,--\n\n Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well,\nJane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love. \n\n It is from Miss Bingley,  said Jane, and then read it aloud.\n\n     /* NIND  My dear friend, */\n\n      If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and\n     me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our\n     lives; for a whole day s _t te- -t te_ between two women can never\n     end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of\n     this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.\n     Yours ever,\n\n CAROLINE BINGLEY. \n\n With the officers!  cried Lydia:  I wonder my aunt did not tell us of\n_that_. \n\n Dining out,  said Mrs. Bennet;  that is very unlucky. \n\n Can I have the carriage?  said Jane.\n\n No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to\nrain; and then you must stay all night. \n\n That would be a good scheme,  said Elizabeth,  if you were sure that\nthey would not offer to send her home. \n\n Oh, but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley s chaise to go to Meryton;\nand the Hursts have no horses to theirs. \n\n I had much rather go in the coach. \n\n But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are\nwanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they? \n\n[Illustration: Cheerful prognostics]\n\n They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them. \n\n But if you have got them to-day,  said Elizabeth,  my mother s purpose\nwill be answered. \n\nShe did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses\nwere engaged; Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her\nmother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad\nday. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it\nrained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was\ndelighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;\nJane certainly could not come back.\n\n This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!  said Mrs. Bennet, more than\nonce, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next\nmorning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her\ncontrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield\nbrought the following note for Elizabeth:--\n\n     /* NIND  My dearest Lizzie, */\n\n      I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be\n     imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will\n     not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on\n     my seeing Mr. Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear\n     of his having been to me--and, excepting a sore throat and a\n     headache, there is not much the matter with me.\n\n Yours, etc. \n\n Well, my dear,  said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note\naloud,  if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she\nshould die--it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of\nMr. Bingley, and under your orders. \n\n Oh, I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little\ntrifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays\nthere, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the\ncarriage. \n\nElizabeth, feeling really anxious, determined to go to her, though the\ncarriage was not to be had: and as she was no horsewoman, walking was\nher only alternative. She declared her resolution.\n\n How can you be so silly,  cried her mother,  as to think of such a\nthing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get\nthere. \n\n I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want. \n\n Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,  said her father,  to send for the\nhorses? \n\n No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing,\nwhen one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner. \n\n I admire the activity of your benevolence,  observed Mary,  but every\nimpulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,\nexertion should always be in proportion to what is required. \n\n We will go as far as Meryton with you,  said Catherine and Lydia.\nElizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off\ntogether.\n\n If we make haste,  said Lydia, as they walked along,  perhaps we may\nsee something of Captain Carter, before he goes. \n\nIn Meryton they parted: the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one\nof the officers  wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing\nfield after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing\nover puddles, with impatient activity, and finding herself at last\nwithin view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face\nglowing with the warmth of exercise.\n\nShe was shown into the breakfast parlour, where all but Jane were\nassembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.\nThat she should have walked three miles so early in the day in such\ndirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and\nMiss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt\nfor it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their\nbrother s manners there was something better than politeness--there was\ngood-humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst\nnothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the\nbrilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion and doubt as to\nthe occasion s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was\nthinking only of his breakfast.\n\nHer inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss\nBennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well\nenough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her\nimmediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving\nalarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed\nfor such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,\nhowever, to much conversation; and when Miss Bingley left them together,\ncould attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the\nextraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended\nher.\n\nWhen breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth\nbegan to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and\nsolicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came; and having\nexamined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a\nviolent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;\nadvised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice\nwas followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head\nached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were\nthe other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact\nnothing to do elsewhere.\n\nWhen the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very\nunwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only\nwanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern\nat parting with her that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer\nof the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the\npresent. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was\ndespatched to Longbourn, to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring\nback a supply of clothes.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n The Apothecary came \n]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n covering a screen \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAt five o clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six\nElizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then\npoured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the\nmuch superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley, she could not make a very\nfavourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing\nthis, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how\nshocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked\nbeing ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their\nindifference towards Jane, when not immediately before them, restored\nElizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.\n\nTheir brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could\nregard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his\nattentions to herself most pleasing; and they prevented her feeling\nherself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the\nothers. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was\nengrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.\nHurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to\neat, drink, and play at cards, who, when he found her prefer a plain\ndish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.\n\nWhen dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley\nbegan abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were\npronounced to be very bad indeed,--a mixture of pride and impertinence:\nshe had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst\nthought the same, and added,--\n\n She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent\nwalker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really\nlooked almost wild. \n\n She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very\nnonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the\ncountry, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowzy! \n\n Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep\nin mud, I am absolutely certain, and the gown which had been let down to\nhide it not doing its office. \n\n Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,  said Bingley;  but this was\nall lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well\nwhen she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite\nescaped my notice. \n\n _You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,  said Miss Bingley;  and I am\ninclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such\nan exhibition. \n\n Certainly not. \n\n To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,\nabove her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by\nit? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence,\na most country-town indifference to decorum. \n\n It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,  said\nBingley.\n\n I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,  observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper,\n that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine\neyes. \n\n Not at all,  he replied:  they were brightened by the exercise.  A\nshort pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again,--\n\n I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet,--she is really a very sweet\ngirl,--and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such\na father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no\nchance of it. \n\n I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in\nMeryton? \n\n Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside. \n\n That is capital,  added her sister; and they both laughed heartily.\n\n If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,  cried Bingley,  it\nwould not make them one jot less agreeable. \n\n But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any\nconsideration in the world,  replied Darcy.\n\nTo this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their\nhearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of\ntheir dear friend s vulgar relations.\n\nWith a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on\nleaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.\nShe was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till\nlate in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and\nwhen it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go\ndown stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room, she found the whole\nparty at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting\nthem to be playing high, she declined it, and making her sister the\nexcuse, said she would amuse herself, for the short time she could stay\nbelow, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.\n\n Do you prefer reading to cards?  said he;  that is rather singular. \n\n Miss Eliza Bennet,  said Miss Bingley,  despises cards. She is a great\nreader, and has no pleasure in anything else. \n\n I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,  cried Elizabeth;  I\nam _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things. \n\n In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,  said Bingley;  and\nI hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well. \n\nElizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table\nwhere a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her\nothers; all that his library afforded.\n\n And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own\ncredit; but I am an idle fellow; and though I have not many, I have more\nthan I ever looked into. \n\nElizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those\nin the room.\n\n I am astonished,  said Miss Bingley,  that my father should have left\nso small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at\nPemberley, Mr. Darcy! \n\n It ought to be good,  he replied:  it has been the work of many\ngenerations. \n\n And then you have added so much to it yourself--you are always buying\nbooks. \n\n I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as\nthese. \n\n Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of\nthat noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be\nhalf as delightful as Pemberley. \n\n I wish it may. \n\n But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that\nneighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a\nfiner county in England than Derbyshire. \n\n With all my heart: I will buy Pemberley itself, if Darcy will sell it. \n\n I am talking of possibilities, Charles. \n\n Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get\nPemberley by purchase than by imitation. \n\nElizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little\nattention for her book; and, soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near\nthe card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest\nsister, to observe the game.\n\n Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?  said Miss Bingley:  will\nshe be as tall as I am? \n\n I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet s height, or\nrather taller. \n\n How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me\nso much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished\nfor her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite. \n\n It is amazing to me,  said Bingley,  how young ladies can have patience\nto be so very accomplished as they all are. \n\n All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean? \n\n Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and\nnet purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this; and I am\nsure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without\nbeing informed that she was very accomplished. \n\n Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,  said Darcy,  has\ntoo much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no\notherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen; but I am very\nfar from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I\ncannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen in the whole range of my\nacquaintance that are really accomplished. \n\n Nor I, I am sure,  said Miss Bingley.\n\n Then,  observed Elizabeth,  you must comprehend a great deal in your\nidea of an accomplished woman. \n\n Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it. \n\n Oh, certainly,  cried his faithful assistant,  no one can be really\nesteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met\nwith. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,\ndancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and, besides all\nthis, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of\nwalking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word\nwill be but half deserved. \n\n All this she must possess,  added Darcy;  and to all she must yet add\nsomething more substantial in the improvement of her mind by extensive\nreading. \n\n I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.\nI rather wonder now at your knowing _any_. \n\n Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all\nthis? \n\n _I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and\napplication, and elegance, as you describe, united. \n\nMrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her\nimplied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who\nanswered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with\nbitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all\nconversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the\nroom.\n\n Eliza Bennet,  said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her,  is\none of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other\nsex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I daresay, it\nsucceeds; but, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art. \n\n Undoubtedly,  replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,\n there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend\nto employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is\ndespicable. \n\nMiss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to\ncontinue the subject.\n\nElizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and\nthat she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones s being sent for\nimmediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could\nbe of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most\neminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so\nunwilling to comply with their brother s proposal; and it was settled\nthat Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet\nwere not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters\ndeclared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,\nhowever, by duets after supper; while he could find no better relief to\nhis feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every\npossible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\nM^{rs} Bennet and her two youngest girls\n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister s room, and in the\nmorning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the\ninquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,\nand some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his\nsisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a\nnote sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her\nown judgment of her situation. The note was immediately despatched, and\nits contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her\ntwo youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.\n\nHad she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been\nvery miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was\nnot alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her\nrestoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She\nwould not listen, therefore, to her daughter s proposal of being carried\nhome; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think\nit at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss\nBingley s appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all\nattended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes\nthat Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.\n\n Indeed I have, sir,  was her answer.  She is a great deal too ill to be\nmoved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass\na little longer on your kindness. \n\n Removed!  cried Bingley.  It must not be thought of. My sister, I am\nsure, will not hear of her removal. \n\n You may depend upon it, madam,  said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,\n that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she\nremains with us. \n\nMrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.\n\n I am sure,  she added,  if it was not for such good friends, I do not\nknow what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a\nvast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is\nalways the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest\ntemper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to\n_her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect\nover that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is\nequal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I\nhope, though you have but a short lease. \n\n Whatever I do is done in a hurry,  replied he;  and therefore if I\nshould resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five\nminutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here. \n\n That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,  said Elizabeth.\n\n You begin to comprehend me, do you?  cried he, turning towards her.\n\n Oh yes--I understand you perfectly. \n\n I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen\nthrough, I am afraid, is pitiful. \n\n That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep,\nintricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours. \n\n Lizzy,  cried her mother,  remember where you are, and do not run on in\nthe wild manner that you are suffered to do at home. \n\n I did not know before,  continued Bingley, immediately,  that you were\na studier of character. It must be an amusing study. \n\n Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at\nleast that advantage. \n\n The country,  said Darcy,  can in general supply but few subjects for\nsuch a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and\nunvarying society. \n\n But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be\nobserved in them for ever. \n\n Yes, indeed,  cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a\ncountry neighbourhood.  I assure you there is quite as much of _that_\ngoing on in the country as in town. \n\nEverybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,\nturned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete\nvictory over him, continued her triumph,--\n\n I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for\nmy part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal\npleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley? \n\n When I am in the country,  he replied,  I never wish to leave it; and\nwhen I am in town, it is pretty much the same. They have each their\nadvantages, and I can be equally happy in either. \n\n Ay, that is because you have the right disposition. But that\ngentleman,  looking at Darcy,  seemed to think the country was nothing\nat all. \n\n Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken,  said Elizabeth, blushing for her\nmother.  You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not\nsuch a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which\nyou must acknowledge to be true. \n\n Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with\nmany people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few\nneighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families. \n\nNothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his\ncountenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards\nMr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of\nsaying something that might turn her mother s thoughts, now asked her if\nCharlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.\n\n Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir\nWilliam is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so\ngenteel and so easy! He has always something to say to everybody. _That_\nis my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very\nimportant and never open their mouths quite mistake the matter. \n\n Did Charlotte dine with you? \n\n No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For\nmy part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own\nwork; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But everybody is to\njudge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I\nassure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think\nCharlotte so _very_ plain; but then she is our particular friend. \n\n She seems a very pleasant young woman,  said Bingley.\n\n Oh dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself\nhas often said so, and envied me Jane s beauty. I do not like to boast\nof my own child; but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody\nbetter looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own\npartiality. When she was only fifteen there was a gentleman at my\nbrother Gardiner s in town so much in love with her, that my\nsister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away.\nBut, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he\nwrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were. \n\n And so ended his affection,  said Elizabeth, impatiently.  There has\nbeen many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first\ndiscovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love! \n\n I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,  said Darcy.\n\n Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is\nstrong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I\nam convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away. \n\nDarcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth\ntremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to\nspeak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.\nBennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to\nJane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was\nunaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be\ncivil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part,\nindeed, without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and\nsoon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of\nher daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to\neach other during the whole visit; and the result of it was, that the\nyoungest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming\ninto the country to give a ball at Netherfield.\n\nLydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion\nand good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose\naffection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high\nanimal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the\nattentions of the officers, to whom her uncle s good dinners and her\nown easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was\nvery equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the\nball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be\nthe most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer\nto this sudden attack was delightful to her mother s ear.\n\n I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and, when\nyour sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of\nthe ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill? \n\nLydia declared herself satisfied.  Oh yes--it would be much better to\nwait till Jane was well; and by that time, most likely, Captain Carter\nwould be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,  she\nadded,  I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel\nForster it will be quite a shame if he does not. \n\nMrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned\ninstantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations  behaviour to the\nremarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,\ncould not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of\nall Miss Bingley s witticisms on _fine eyes_.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss\nBingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who\ncontinued, though slowly, to mend; and, in the evening, Elizabeth joined\ntheir party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear.\nMr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching\nthe progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by\nmessages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and\nMrs. Hurst was observing their game.\n\nElizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in\nattending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual\ncommendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness\nof his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern\nwith which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was\nexactly in unison with her opinion of each.\n\n How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter! \n\nHe made no answer.\n\n You write uncommonly fast. \n\n You are mistaken. I write rather slowly. \n\n How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a\nyear! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them! \n\n It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours. \n\n Pray tell your sister that I long to see her. \n\n I have already told her so once, by your desire. \n\n I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend\npens remarkably well. \n\n Thank you--but I always mend my own. \n\n How can you contrive to write so even? \n\nHe was silent.\n\n Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp,\nand pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful\nlittle design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss\nGrantley s. \n\n Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At\npresent I have not room to do them justice. \n\n Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you\nalways write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy? \n\n They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me\nto determine. \n\n It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with\nease cannot write ill. \n\n That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,  cried her\nbrother,  because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much\nfor words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy? \n\n My style of writing is very different from yours. \n\n Oh,  cried Miss Bingley,  Charles writes in the most careless way\nimaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest. \n\n My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them; by which\nmeans my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents. \n\n Your humility, Mr. Bingley,  said Elizabeth,  must disarm reproof. \n\n Nothing is more deceitful,  said Darcy,  than the appearance of\nhumility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an\nindirect boast. \n\n And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty? \n\n The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in\nwriting, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of\nthought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you\nthink at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with\nquickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any\nattention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.\nBennet this morning, that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield\nyou should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of\npanegyric, of compliment to yourself; and yet what is there so very\nlaudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business\nundone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else? \n\n Nay,  cried Bingley,  this is too much, to remember at night all the\nfoolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I\nbelieved what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this\nmoment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless\nprecipitance merely to show off before the ladies. \n\n I daresay you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you\nwould be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as\ndependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were\nmounting your horse, a friend were to say,  Bingley, you had better stay\ntill next week,  you would probably do it--you would probably not\ngo--and, at another word, might stay a month. \n\n You have only proved by this,  cried Elizabeth,  that Mr. Bingley did\nnot do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much\nmore than he did himself. \n\n I am exceedingly gratified,  said Bingley,  by your converting what my\nfriend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am\nafraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means\nintend; for he would certainly think the better of me if, under such a\ncircumstance, I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I\ncould. \n\n Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention\nas atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it? \n\n Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter--Darcy must speak for\nhimself. \n\n You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine,\nbut which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to\nstand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet,\nthat the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and\nthe delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering\none argument in favour of its propriety. \n\n To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit\nwith you. \n\n To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of\neither. \n\n You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of\nfriendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make\none readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason\none into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have\nsupposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the\ncircumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour\nthereupon. But in general and ordinary cases, between friend and friend,\nwhere one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no\nvery great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying\nwith the desire, without waiting to be argued into it? \n\n Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange\nwith rather more precision the degree of importance which is to\nappertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting\nbetween the parties? \n\n By all means,  cried Bingley;  let us hear all the particulars, not\nforgetting their comparative height and size, for that will have more\nweight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure\nyou that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with\nmyself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not\nknow a more awful object than Darcy on particular occasions, and in\nparticular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening,\nwhen he has nothing to do. \n\nMr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was\nrather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly\nresented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her\nbrother for talking such nonsense.\n\n I see your design, Bingley,  said his friend.  You dislike an argument,\nand want to silence this. \n\n Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss\nBennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very\nthankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me. \n\n What you ask,  said Elizabeth,  is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.\nDarcy had much better finish his letter. \n\nMr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.\n\nWhen that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth\nfor the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to\nthe pianoforte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the\nway, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she\nseated herself.\n\nMrs. Hurst sang with her sister; and while they were thus employed,\nElizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books\nthat lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy s eyes were fixed\non her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of\nadmiration to so great a man, and yet that he should look at her because\nhe disliked her was still more strange. She could only imagine, however,\nat last, that she drew his notice because there was something about her\nmore wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in\nany other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked\nhim too little to care for his approbation.\n\nAfter playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a\nlively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near\nElizabeth, said to her,--\n\n Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an\nopportunity of dancing a reel? \n\nShe smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some\nsurprise at her silence.\n\n Oh,  said she,  I heard you before; but I could not immediately\ndetermine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say  Yes, \nthat you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always\ndelight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of\ntheir premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell\nyou that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now despise me if you\ndare. \n\n Indeed I do not dare. \n\nElizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his\ngallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her\nmanner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody, and Darcy had\nnever been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really\nbelieved that, were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he\nshould be in some danger.\n\nMiss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous; and her great\nanxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some\nassistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.\n\nShe often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of\ntheir supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.\n\n I hope,  said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the\nnext day,  you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this\ndesirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;\nand if you can compass it, to cure the younger girls of running after\nthe officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to\ncheck that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,\nwhich your lady possesses. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n      No, no; stay where you are \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity? \n\n Oh yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed\nin the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the\njudge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different\nlines. As for your Elizabeth s picture, you must not attempt to have it\ntaken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes? \n\n It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression; but their\ncolour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be\ncopied. \n\nAt that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and\nElizabeth herself.\n\n I did not know that you intended to walk,  said Miss Bingley, in some\nconfusion, lest they had been overheard.\n\n You used us abominably ill,  answered Mrs. Hurst,  running away without\ntelling us that you were coming out. \n\nThen taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk\nby herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness,\nand immediately said,--\n\n This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the\navenue. \n\nBut Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,\nlaughingly answered,--\n\n No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to\nuncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a\nfourth. Good-bye. \n\nShe then ran gaily off, rejoicing, as she rambled about, in the hope of\nbeing at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered\nas to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Piling up the fire \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhen the ladies removed after dinner Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and\nseeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room,\nwhere she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of\npleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were\nduring the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers\nof conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment\nwith accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their\nacquaintance with spirit.\n\nBut when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object;\nMiss Bingley s eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had\nsomething to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed\nhimself directly to Miss Bennet with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst\nalso made her a slight bow, and said he was  very glad;  but diffuseness\nand warmth remained for Bingley s salutation. He was full of joy and\nattention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she\nshould suffer from the change of room; and she removed, at his desire,\nto the other side of the fireplace, that she might be farther from the\ndoor. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else.\nElizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great\ndelight.\n\nWhen tea was over Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the\ncard-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.\nDarcy did not wish for cards, and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open\npetition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the\nsilence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.\nHurst had, therefore, nothing to do but to stretch himself on one of the\nsofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book. Miss Bingley did the same;\nand Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and\nrings, joined now and then in her brother s conversation with Miss\nBennet.\n\nMiss Bingley s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.\nDarcy s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was\nperpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She\ncould not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her\nquestion and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be\namused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the\nsecond volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said,  How pleasant it\nis to spend an evening in this way! I declare, after all, there is no\nenjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a\nbook! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not\nan excellent library. \n\nNo one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and\ncast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when, hearing\nher brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly\ntowards him and said,--\n\n By the bye Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at\nNetherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult\nthe wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not\nsome among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a\npleasure. \n\n If you mean Darcy,  cried her brother,  he may go to bed, if he\nchooses, before it begins; but as for the ball, it is quite a settled\nthing, and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send\nround my cards. \n\n I should like balls infinitely better,  she replied,  if they were\ncarried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably\ntedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much\nmore rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the\nday. \n\n Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say; but it would not be\nnear so much like a ball. \n\nMiss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards got up and walked about\nthe room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at\nwhom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the\ndesperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more; and,\nturning to Elizabeth, said,--\n\n Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a\nturn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so\nlong in one attitude. \n\nElizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley\nsucceeded no less in the real object of her civility: Mr. Darcy looked\nup. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as\nElizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was\ndirectly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that\nhe could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down\nthe room together, with either of which motives his joining them would\ninterfere. What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his\nmeaning--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him.\n\n Not at all,  was her answer;  but, depend upon it, he means to be\nsevere on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask\nnothing about it. \n\nMiss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in\nanything, and persevered, therefore, in requiring an explanation of his\ntwo motives.\n\n I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,  said he, as soon\nas she allowed him to speak.  You either choose this method of passing\nthe evening because you are in each other s confidence, and have secret\naffairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures\nappear to the greatest advantage in walking: if the first, I should be\ncompletely in your way; and if the second, I can admire you much better\nas I sit by the fire. \n\n Oh, shocking!  cried Miss Bingley.  I never heard anything so\nabominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech? \n\n Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,  said Elizabeth.  We\ncan all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate\nas you are, you must know how it is to be done. \n\n But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not\nyet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind! No,\nno; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose\nourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr.\nDarcy may hug himself. \n\n Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!  cried Elizabeth.  That is an\nuncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would\nbe a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a\nlaugh. \n\n Miss Bingley,  said he,  has given me credit for more than can be. The\nwisest and best of men,--nay, the wisest and best of their actions,--may\nbe rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a\njoke. \n\n Certainly,  replied Elizabeth,  there are such people, but I hope I am\nnot one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies\nand nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own, and I\nlaugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what\nyou are without. \n\n Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of\nmy life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong\nunderstanding to ridicule. \n\n Such as vanity and pride. \n\n Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real\nsuperiority of mind--pride will be always under good regulation. \n\nElizabeth turned away to hide a smile.\n\n Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,  said Miss Bingley;\n and pray what is the result? \n\n I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it\nhimself without disguise. \n\n No,  said Darcy,  I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,\nbut they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch\nfor. It is, I believe, too little yielding; certainly too little for the\nconvenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of\nothers so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My\nfeelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper\nwould perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost for\never. \n\n _That_ is a failing, indeed!  cried Elizabeth.  Implacable resentment\n_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I\nreally cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me. \n\n There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular\nevil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome. \n\n And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate everybody. \n\n And yours,  he replied, with a smile,  is wilfully to misunderstand\nthem. \n\n Do let us have a little music,  cried Miss Bingley, tired of a\nconversation in which she had no share.  Louisa, you will not mind my\nwaking Mr. Hurst. \n\nHer sister made not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was\nopened; and Darcy, after a few moments  recollection, was not sorry for\nit. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIn consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the\nnext morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for\nthem in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on\nher daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which\nwould exactly finish Jane s week, could not bring herself to receive\nthem with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at\nleast not to Elizabeth s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.\nBennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage\nbefore Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley\nand his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very\nwell. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively\nresolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the\ncontrary, of being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,\nshe urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley s carriage immediately, and at\nlength it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield\nthat morning should be mentioned, and the request made.\n\nThe communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was\nsaid of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on\nJane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was\nthen sorry that she had proposed the delay; for her jealousy and dislike\nof one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.\n\nThe master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so\nsoon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be\nsafe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where\nshe felt herself to be right.\n\nTo Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence: Elizabeth had been at\nNetherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked; and Miss\nBingley was uncivil to _her_ and more teasing than usual to himself. He\nwisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration\nshould _now_ escape him--nothing that could elevate her with the hope of\ninfluencing his felicity; sensible that, if such an idea had been\nsuggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight\nin confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke\nten words to her through the whole of Saturday: and though they were at\none time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most\nconscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.\n\nOn Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost\nall, took place. Miss Bingley s civility to Elizabeth increased at last\nvery rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,\nafter assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to\nsee her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most\ntenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of\nthe whole party in the liveliest spirits.\n\nThey were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet\nwondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much\ntrouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their\nfather, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really\nglad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The\nevening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its\nanimation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and\nElizabeth.\n\nThey found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human\nnature; and had some new extracts to admire and some new observations of\nthreadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information\nfor them of a different sort. Much had been done, and much had been said\nin the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers\nhad dined lately with their uncle; a private had been flogged; and it\nhad actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n I hope, my dear,  said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at\nbreakfast the next morning,  that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,\nbecause I have reason to expect an addition to our family party. \n\n Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,\nunless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in; and I hope _my_ dinners\nare good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home. \n\n The person of whom I speak is a gentleman and a stranger. \n\nMrs. Bennet s eyes sparkled.  A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.\nBingley, I am sure. Why, Jane--you never dropped a word of this--you sly\nthing! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley.\nBut--good Lord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got\nto-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill this\nmoment. \n\n It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,  said her husband;  it is a person whom I\nnever saw in the whole course of my life. \n\nThis roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being\neagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once.\n\nAfter amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus\nexplained:-- About a month ago I received this letter, and about a\nfortnight ago I answered it; for I thought it a case of some delicacy,\nand requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who,\nwhen I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he\npleases. \n\n Oh, my dear,  cried his wife,  I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.\nPray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing\nin the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own\nchildren; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago\nto do something or other about it. \n\nJane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail.\nThey had often attempted it before: but it was a subject on which Mrs.\nBennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail\nbitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of\nfive daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.\n\n It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,  said Mr. Bennet;  and\nnothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.\nBut if you will listen to his letter, you may, perhaps, be a little\nsoftened by his manner of expressing himself. \n\n No, that I am sure I shall not: and I think it was very impertinent of\nhim to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false\nfriends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father\ndid before him? \n\n Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that\nhead, as you will hear. \n\n     /* RIGHT  Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, _15th October_. */\n\n Dear Sir,\n\n      The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured\n     father always gave me much uneasiness; and, since I have had the\n     misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the\n     breach: but, for some time, I was kept back by my own doubts,\n     fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be\n     on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be\n     at variance. -- There, Mrs. Bennet. -- My mind, however, is now\n     made up on the subject; for, having received ordination at Easter,\n     I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of\n     the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis\n     de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the\n     valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest\n     endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her\n     Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies\n     which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman,\n     moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing\n     of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on\n     these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of\n     good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my\n     being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly\n     overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered\n     olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the\n     means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to\n     apologize for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make\n     them every possible amends; but of this hereafter. If you should\n     have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself\n     the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday,\n     November 18th, by four o clock, and shall probably trespass on your\n     hospitality till the Saturday se nnight following, which I can do\n     without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting\n     to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other\n     clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir,\n     with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your\n     well-wisher and friend,\n\n WILLIAM COLLINS. \n\n At four o clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman, \nsaid Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter.  He seems to be a most\nconscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and, I doubt not, will\nprove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so\nindulgent as to let him come to us again. \n\n There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however; and, if\nhe is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to\ndiscourage him. \n\n Though it is difficult,  said Jane,  to guess in what way he can mean\nto make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his\ncredit. \n\nElizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady\nCatherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying\nhis parishioners whenever it were required.\n\n He must be an oddity, I think,  said she.  I cannot make him out. There\nis something very pompous in his style. And what can he mean by\napologizing for being next in the entail? We cannot suppose he would\nhelp it, if he could. Can he be a sensible man, sir? \n\n No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the\nreverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his\nletter which promises well. I am impatient to see him. \n\n In point of composition,  said Mary,  his letter does not seem\ndefective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I\nthink it is well expressed. \n\nTo Catherine and Lydia neither the letter nor its writer were in any\ndegree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should\ncome in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had\nreceived pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for\ntheir mother, Mr. Collins s letter had done away much of her ill-will,\nand she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which\nastonished her husband and daughters.\n\nMr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great\npoliteness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the\nladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need\nof encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall,\nheavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and\nstately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated\nbefore he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of\ndaughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this\ninstance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not\ndoubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage. This\ngallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.\nBennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,--\n\n You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may\nprove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so\noddly. \n\n You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate. \n\n Ah, sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you\nmust confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things,\nI know, are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates\nwill go when once they come to be entailed. \n\n I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and\ncould say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing\nforward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come\nprepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but, perhaps,\nwhen we are better acquainted---- \n\nHe was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each\nother. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins s admiration. The\nhall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised;\nand his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet s\nheart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his\nown future property. The dinner, too, in its turn, was highly admired;\nand he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellence of its\ncookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured\nhim, with some asperity, that they were very well able to keep a good\ncook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged\npardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared\nherself not at all offended; but he continued to apologize for about a\nquarter of an hour.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nDuring dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants\nwere withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his\nguest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to\nshine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh s attention to his wishes, and consideration for his\ncomfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen\nbetter. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him\nto more than usual solemnity of manner; and with a most important aspect\nhe protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a\nperson of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself\nexperienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to\napprove of both the discourses which he had already had the honour of\npreaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,\nand had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of\nquadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many\npeople, he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her.\nShe had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she\nmade not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the\nneighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or\ntwo to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to\nmarry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had\nonce paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly\napproved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed\nto suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets upstairs.\n\n That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,  said Mrs. Bennet,  and I\ndare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies\nin general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir? \n\n The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane\nfrom Rosings Park, her Ladyship s residence. \n\n I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family? \n\n She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very\nextensive property. \n\n Ah,  cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head,  then she is better off than\nmany girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome? \n\n She is a most charming young lady, indeed. Lady Catherine herself says\nthat, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the\nhandsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks\nthe young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly\nconstitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many\naccomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed of, as I am\ninformed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still\nresides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends\nto drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies. \n\n Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at\ncourt. \n\n Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;\nand by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived\nthe British Court of its brightest ornament. Her Ladyship seemed pleased\nwith the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to\noffer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to\nladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her\ncharming daughter seemed born to be a duchess; and that the most\nelevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by\nher. These are the kind of little things which please her Ladyship, and\nit is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to\npay. \n\n You judge very properly,  said Mr. Bennet;  and it is happy for you\nthat you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask\nwhether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the\nmoment, or are the result of previous study? \n\n They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time; and though I\nsometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant\ncompliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to\ngive them as unstudied an air as possible. \n\nMr. Bennet s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd\nas he had hoped; and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,\nmaintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,\nand, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner\nin his pleasure.\n\nBy tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad\nto take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over,\nglad to invite him\n\n[Illustration:\n\n Protested\nthat he never read novels       H.T Feb 94\n]\n\nto read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book\nwas produced; but on beholding it (for everything announced it to be\nfrom a circulating library) he started back, and, begging pardon,\nprotested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia\nexclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he\nchose  Fordyce s Sermons.  Lydia gaped as he opened the volume; and\nbefore he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she\ninterrupted him with,--\n\n Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away\nRichard? and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me\nso herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more\nabout it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town. \n\nLydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.\nCollins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,--\n\n I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books\nof a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes\nme, I confess; for certainly there can be nothing so advantageous to\nthem as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin. \n\nThen, turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at\nbackgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted\nvery wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs.\nBennet and her daughters apologized most civilly for Lydia s\ninterruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would\nresume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his\nyoung cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any\naffront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared\nfor backgammon.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had\nbeen but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of\nhis life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and\nmiserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he\nhad merely kept the necessary terms without forming at it any useful\nacquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had\ngiven him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a good\ndeal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in\nretirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected\nprosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de\nBourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he\nfelt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,\nmingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a\nclergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of\npride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.\n\nHaving now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to\nmarry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had\na wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found\nthem as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.\nThis was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father s\nestate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and\nsuitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own\npart.\n\nHis plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet s lovely face\nconfirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what\nwas due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled\nchoice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter\nof an hour s _t te- -t te_ with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a\nconversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally\nto the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at\nLongbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general\nencouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.  As to\nher _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could\nnot positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her\n_eldest_ daughter she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her to\nhint, was likely to be very soon engaged. \n\nMr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon\ndone--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally\nnext to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.\n\nMrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have\ntwo daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of\nthe day before, was now high in her good graces.\n\nLydia s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten: every sister\nexcept Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,\nat the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,\nand have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed\nhim after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with\none of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.\nBennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such\ndoings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been\nalways sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told\nElizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the\nhouse, he was used to be free from them there: his civility, therefore,\nwas most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their\nwalk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker\nthan a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and\ngo.\n\nIn pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his\ncousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of\nthe younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes\nwere immediately wandering up the street in quest of the officers, and\nnothing less than a very smart bonnet, indeed, or a really new muslin in\na shop window, could recall them.\n\nBut the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom\nthey had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking\nwith an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very\nMr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire, and\nhe bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger s air, all\nwondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible\nto find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of wanting\nsomething in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the\npavement, when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same\nspot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to\nintroduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day\nbefore from town, and, he was happy to say, had accepted a commission in\ntheir corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted\nonly regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was\ngreatly in his favour: he had all the best parts of beauty, a fine\ncountenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction\nwas followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a\nreadiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the\nwhole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,\nwhen the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were\nseen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group\nthe two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual\ncivilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the\nprincipal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on\npurpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and\nwas beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they\nwere suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger; and Elizabeth\nhappening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other,\nwas all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,\none looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments,\ntouched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return.\nWhat could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was\nimpossible not to long to know.\n\nIn another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what\npassed, took leave and rode on with his friend.\n\nMr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of\nMr. Philips s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia s\npressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs.\nPhilips s throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the\ninvitation.\n\nMrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from\ntheir recent absence, were particularly welcome; and she was eagerly\nexpressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own\ncarriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if\nshe had not happened to see Mr. Jones s shopboy in the street, who had\ntold her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield,\nbecause the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed\ntowards Mr. Collins by Jane s introduction of him. She received him with\nher very best politeness, which he returned with as much more,\napologizing for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with\nher, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be\njustified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to\nher notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good\nbreeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to\nby exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she\ncould only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had\nbrought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant s\ncommission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour,\nshe said, as he walked up and down the street,--and had Mr. Wickham\nappeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation;\nbut unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the\nofficers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become  stupid,\ndisagreeable fellows.  Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the\nnext day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.\nWickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn\nwould come in the evening. This was agreed to; and Mrs. Philips\nprotested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery\ntickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such\ndelights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.\nCollins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured,\nwith unwearying civility, that they were perfectly needless.\n\nAs they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass\nbetween the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or\nboth, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such\nbehaviour than her sister.\n\nMr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs.\nPhilips s manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady\nCatherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for\nshe had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even\npointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although\nutterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be\nattributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so\nmuch attention in the whole course of his life.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAs no objection was made to the young people s engagement with their\naunt, and all Mr. Collins s scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for\na single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach\nconveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the\ngirls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,\nthat Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle s invitation, and was then in\nthe house.\n\nWhen this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.\nCollins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much\nstruck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he\nmight almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour\nat Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much\ngratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings\nwas, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the\ndescription of only one of Lady Catherine s drawing-rooms, and found\nthat the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all\nthe force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison\nwith the housekeeper s room.\n\nIn describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,\nwith occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the\nimprovements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the\ngentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive\nlistener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she\nheard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as\nsoon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,\nand who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine\ntheir own indifferent imitations of china on the mantel-piece, the\ninterval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.\nThe gentlemen did approach: and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,\nElizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking\nof him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The\nofficers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,\ngentlemanlike set and the best of them were of the present party; but\nMr, Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and\nwalk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips,\nbreathing port wine, who followed them into the room.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n The officers of the ----shire \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nMr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was\nturned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated\nhimself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into\nconversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the\nprobability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest,\ndullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the\nskill of the speaker.\n\nWith such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the\nofficers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young\nladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind\nlistener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly\nsupplied with coffee and muffin.\n\nWhen the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her,\nin return, by sitting down to whist.\n\n I know little of the game at present,  said he,  but I shall be glad to\nimprove myself; for in my situation of life----  Mrs. Philips was very\nthankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.\n\nMr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he\nreceived at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there\nseemed danger of Lydia s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most\ndetermined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,\nshe soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets\nand exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for anyone in particular.\nAllowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore\nat leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him,\nthough what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told,\nthe history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even\nmention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly\nrelieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far\nNetherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in\na hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.\n\n About a month,  said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject\ndrop, added,  he is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I\nunderstand. \n\n Yes,  replied Wickham;  his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten\nthousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of\ngiving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been\nconnected with his family, in a particular manner, from my infancy. \n\nElizabeth could not but look surprised.\n\n You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after\nseeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting\nyesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy? \n\n As much as I ever wish to be,  cried Elizabeth, warmly.  I have spent\nfour days in the same house with him, and I think him very\ndisagreeable. \n\n I have no right to give _my_ opinion,  said Wickham,  as to his being\nagreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him\ntoo long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to\nbe impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general\nastonish--and, perhaps, you would not express it quite so strongly\nanywhere else. Here you are in your own family. \n\n Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the\nneighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in\nHertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find\nhim more favourably spoken of by anyone. \n\n I cannot pretend to be sorry,  said Wickham, after a short\ninterruption,  that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond\ntheir deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The\nworld is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his\nhigh and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen. \n\n I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an\nill-tempered man. \n\nWickham only shook his head.\n\n I wonder,  said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,  whether he is\nlikely to be in this country much longer. \n\n I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I\nwas at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will\nnot be affected by his being in the neighbourhood. \n\n Oh no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_\nwishes to avoid seeing _me_ he must go. We are not on friendly terms,\nand it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for\navoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world--a sense of\nvery great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is.\nHis father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men\nthat ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be\nin company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a\nthousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been\nscandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and\neverything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the\nmemory of his father. \n\nElizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with\nall her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.\n\nMr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the\nneighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he\nhad yet seen, and speaking of the latter, especially, with gentle but\nvery intelligible gallantry.\n\n It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,  he added,\n which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I know it to be a\nmost respectable, agreeable corps; and my friend Denny tempted me\nfurther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great\nattentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them.\nSociety, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and\nmy spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.\nA military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have\nnow made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I\nwas brought up for the church; and I should at this time have been in\npossession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we\nwere speaking of just now. \n\n Indeed! \n\n Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best\nliving in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.\nI cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,\nand thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given\nelsewhere. \n\n Good heavens!  cried Elizabeth;  but how could _that_ be? How could his\nwill be disregarded? Why did not you seek legal redress? \n\n There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to\ngive me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the\nintention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely\nconditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim\nto it by extravagance, imprudence, in short, anything or nothing.\nCertain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I\nwas of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no\nless certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done\nanything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm unguarded temper, and I\nmay perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too\nfreely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very\ndifferent sort of men, and that he hates me. \n\n This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced. \n\n Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I\ncan forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_. \n\nElizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than\never as he expressed them.\n\n But what,  said she, after a pause,  can have been his motive? what can\nhave induced him to behave so cruelly? \n\n A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but\nattribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me\nless, his son might have borne with me better; but his father s uncommon\nattachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had\nnot a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort\nof preference which was often given me. \n\n I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked\nhim, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be\ndespising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of\ndescending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as\nthis! \n\nAfter a few minutes  reflection, however, she continued,  I _do_\nremember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of\nhis resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition\nmust be dreadful. \n\n I will not trust myself on the subject,  replied Wickham;  _I_ can\nhardly be just to him. \n\nElizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed,  To\ntreat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his\nfather!  She could have added,  A young man, too, like _you_, whose very\ncountenance may vouch for your being amiable.  But she contented herself\nwith-- And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from\nchildhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest\nmanner. \n\n We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest\npart of our youth was passed together: inmates of the same house,\nsharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_\nfather began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips,\nappears to do so much credit to; but he gave up everything to be of use\nto the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the\nPemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most\nintimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to\nbe under the greatest obligations to my father s active superintendence;\nand when, immediately before my father s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a\nvoluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it\nto be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_ as of affection to myself. \n\n How strange!  cried Elizabeth.  How abominable! I wonder that the very\npride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you. If from no better\nmotive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for\ndishonesty I must call it. \n\n It _is_ wonderful,  replied Wickham;  for almost all his actions may be\ntraced to pride; and pride has often been his best friend. It has\nconnected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none\nof us consistent; and in his behaviour to me there were stronger\nimpulses even than pride. \n\n Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good? \n\n Yes; it has often led him to be liberal and generous; to give his money\nfreely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the\npoor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his\nfather was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to\ndegenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the\nPemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,\nwhich, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and\ncareful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up\nas the most attentive and best of brothers. \n\n What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy? \n\nHe shook his head.  I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to\nspeak ill of a Darcy; but she is too much like her brother,--very, very\nproud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond\nof me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is\nnothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,\nand, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father s death her\nhome has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her\neducation. \n\nAfter many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not\nhelp reverting once more to the first, and saying,--\n\n I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley. How can Mr. Bingley,\nwho seems good-humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,\nbe in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you\nknow Mr. Bingley? \n\n Not at all. \n\n He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.\nDarcy is. \n\n Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not\nwant abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth\nhis while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a\nvery different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride\nnever deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,\nsincere, rational, honourable, and, perhaps, agreeable,--allowing\nsomething for fortune and figure. \n\nThe whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round\nthe other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin\nElizabeth and Mrs. Philips. The usual inquiries as to his success were\nmade by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point;\nbut when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured\nher, with much earnest gravity, that it was not of the least importance;\nthat he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not\nmake herself uneasy.\n\n I know very well, madam,  said he,  that when persons sit down to a\ncard table they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I\nam not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There\nare, undoubtedly, many who could not say the same; but, thanks to Lady\nCatherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding\nlittle matters. \n\nMr. Wickham s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for\na few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relations\nwere very intimately acquainted with the family of De Bourgh.\n\n Lady Catherine de Bourgh,  she replied,  has very lately given him a\nliving. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her\nnotice, but he certainly has not known her long. \n\n You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy\nwere sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy. \n\n No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine s\nconnections. I never heard of her existence till the day before\nyesterday. \n\n Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is\nbelieved that she and her cousin will unite the two estates. \n\nThis information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss\nBingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her\naffection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already\nself-destined to another.\n\n Mr. Collins,  said she,  speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her\ndaughter; but, from some particulars that he has related of her\nLadyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him; and that, in spite of\nher being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman. \n\n I believe her to be both in a great degree,  replied Wickham;  I have\nnot seen her for many years; but I very well remember that I never liked\nher, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the\nreputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe\nshe derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from\nher authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who\nchooses that everyone connected with him should have an understanding of\nthe first class. \n\nElizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and\nthey continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put\nan end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.\nWickham s attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of\nMrs. Philips s supper party, but his manners recommended him to\neverybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done\ngracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could\nthink of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all\nthe way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as\nthey went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia\ntalked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the\nfish she had won; and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and\nMrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses\nat whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing\nthat he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage\nbefore the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      delighted to see their dear friend again \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth related to Jane, the next day, what had passed between Mr.\nWickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern: she\nknew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.\nBingley s regard; and yet it was not in her nature to question the\nveracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The\npossibility of his having really endured such unkindness was enough to\ninterest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be\ndone but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and\nthrow into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be\notherwise explained.\n\n They have both,  said she,  been deceived, I dare say, in some way or\nother, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps\nmisrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to\nconjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,\nwithout actual blame on either side. \n\n Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in\nbehalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the\nbusiness? Do clear _them_, too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of\nsomebody. \n\n Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my\nopinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light\nit places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father s favourite in such a\nmanner,--one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is\nimpossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his\ncharacter, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so\nexcessively deceived in him? Oh no. \n\n I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley s being imposed on than that\nMr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last\nnight; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not\nso, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks. \n\n It is difficult, indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to\nthink. \n\n I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think. \n\nBut Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr.\nBingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when\nthe affair became public.\n\nThe two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this\nconversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom\nthey had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their\npersonal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was\nfixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see\ntheir dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and\nrepeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their\nseparation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention;\navoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth,\nand nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from\ntheir seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and\nhurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet s civilities.\n\nThe prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every\nfemale of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in\ncompliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by\nreceiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a\nceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the\nsociety of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and\nElizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.\nWickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy s look\nand behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended\nless on any single event, or any particular person; for though they\neach, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham,\nhe was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball\nwas, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she\nhad no disinclination for it.\n\n While I can have my mornings to myself,  said she,  it is enough. I\nthink it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.\nSociety has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who\nconsider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for\neverybody. \n\nElizabeth s spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did\nnot often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking\nhim whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley s invitation, and if he\ndid, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening s\namusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no\nscruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke,\neither from the Archbishop or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to\ndance.\n\n I am by no means of opinion, I assure you,  said he,  that a ball of\nthis kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can\nhave any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing\nmyself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair\ncousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of\nsoliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially; a\npreference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right\ncause, and not to any disrespect for her. \n\nElizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being\nengaged by Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins\ninstead!--her liveliness had been never worse timed. There was no help\nfor it, however. Mr. Wickham s happiness and her own was perforce\ndelayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins s proposal accepted with as\ngood a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his\ngallantry, from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first\nstruck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of\nbeing the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a\nquadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.\nThe idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing\ncivilities towards herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a\ncompliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than\ngratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before\nher mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage\nwas exceedingly agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose\nto take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the\nconsequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and,\ntill he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.\n\nIf there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the\nyounger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time;\nfor, from the day of the invitation to the day of the ball, there was\nsuch a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No\naunt, no officers, no news could be sought after; the very shoe-roses\nfor Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some\ntrial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement\nof her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on\nTuesday could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday\nendurable to Kitty and Lydia.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTill Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in\nvain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a\ndoubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of\nmeeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that\nmight not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than\nusual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all\nthat remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than\nmight be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the\ndreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted, for Mr. Darcy s\npleasure, in the Bingleys  invitation to the officers; and though this\nwas not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was\npronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and\nwho told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business\nthe day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant\nsmile,--\n\n I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if\nhe had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here. \n\nThis part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by\nElizabeth; and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for\nWickham s absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling\nof displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate\ndisappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to\nthe polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.\nAttention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She\nwas resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away\nwith a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in\nspeaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.\n\nBut Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect\nof her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her\nspirits; and, having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she\nhad not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary\ntransition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her\nparticular notice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of\ndistress: they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and\nsolemn, apologizing instead of attending, and often moving wrong\nwithout being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a\ndisagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her\nrelease from him was ecstasy.\n\nShe danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of\nWickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances\nwere over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with\nher, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took\nher so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without\nknowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again\nimmediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of\nmind: Charlotte tried to console her.\n\n I dare say you will find him very agreeable. \n\n Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find\na man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an\nevil. \n\nWhen the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her\nhand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a\nsimpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant\nin the eyes of a man often times his consequence. Elizabeth made no\nanswer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which\nshe was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and\nreading in her neighbours  looks their equal amazement in beholding it.\nThey stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to\nimagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and, at\nfirst, was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it\nwould be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk,\nshe made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again\nsilent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time,\nwith--\n\n It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the\ndance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the\nroom, or the number of couples. \n\nHe smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be\nsaid.\n\n Very well; that reply will do for the present. Perhaps, by-and-by, I\nmay observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones; but\n_now_ we may be silent. \n\n Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing? \n\n Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be\nentirely silent for half an hour together; and yet, for the advantage of\n_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the\ntrouble of saying as little as possible. \n\n Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you\nimagine that you are gratifying mine? \n\n Both,  replied Elizabeth archly;  for I have always seen a great\nsimilarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,\ntaciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say\nsomething that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to\nposterity with all the _ clat_ of a proverb. \n\n This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure, \nsaid he.  How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_\nthink it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly. \n\n I must not decide on my own performance. \n\nHe made no answer; and they were again silent till they had gone down\nthe dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often\nwalk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative; and, unable to resist\nthe temptation, added,  When you met us there the other day, we had just\nbeen forming a new acquaintance. \n\nThe effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his\nfeatures, but he said not a word; and Elizabeth, though blaming herself\nfor her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a\nconstrained manner said,--\n\n Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may insure his\n_making_ friends; whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them,\nis less certain. \n\n He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,  replied Elizabeth,\nwith emphasis,  and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all\nhis life. \n\nDarcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At\nthat moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass\nthrough the set to the other side of the room; but, on perceiving Mr.\nDarcy, he stopped, with a bow of superior courtesy, to compliment him on\nhis dancing and his partner.\n\n I have been most highly gratified, indeed, my dear sir; such very\nsuperior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the\nfirst circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not\ndisgrace you: and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,\nespecially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza (glancing\nat her sister and Bingley), shall take place. What congratulations will\nthen flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy;--but let me not interrupt you, sir.\nYou will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of\nthat young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n Such very superior dancing is not\noften seen. \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nThe latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir\nWilliam s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his\neyes were directed, with a very serious expression, towards Bingley and\nJane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,\nhe turned to his partner, and said,--\n\n Sir William s interruption has made me forget what we were talking\nof. \n\n I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have\ninterrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for\nthemselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success,\nand what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine. \n\n What think you of books?  said he, smiling.\n\n Books--oh no!--I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same\nfeelings. \n\n I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be\nno want of subject. We may compare our different opinions. \n\n No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of\nsomething else. \n\n The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?  said he,\nwith a look of doubt.\n\n Yes, always,  she replied, without knowing what she said; for her\nthoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared\nby her suddenly exclaiming,  I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,\nthat you hardly ever forgave;--that your resentment, once created, was\nunappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being\ncreated_? \n\n I am,  said he, with a firm voice.\n\n And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice? \n\n I hope not. \n\n It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,\nto be secure of judging properly at first. \n\n May I ask to what these questions tend? \n\n Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,  said she, endeavouring\nto shake off her gravity.  I am trying to make it out. \n\n And what is your success? \n\nShe shook her head.  I do not get on at all. I hear such different\naccounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly. \n\n I can readily believe,  answered he, gravely,  that reports may vary\ngreatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were\nnot to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to\nfear that the performance would reflect no credit on either. \n\n But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another\nopportunity. \n\n I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,  he coldly replied.\nShe said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in\nsilence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree; for\nin Darcy s breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards her,\nwhich soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against\nanother.\n\nThey had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and,\nwith an expression of civil disdain, thus accosted her,--\n\n So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham?\nYour sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand\nquestions; and I find that the young man forgot to tell you, among his\nother communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr.\nDarcy s steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give\nimplicit confidence to all his assertions; for, as to Mr. Darcy s using\nhim ill, it is perfectly false: for, on the contrary, he has been always\nremarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a\nmost infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very\nwell that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame; that he cannot bear\nto hear George Wickham mentioned; and that though my brother thought he\ncould not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he\nwas excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way.\nHis coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and\nI wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this\ndiscovery of your favourite s guilt; but really, considering his\ndescent, one could not expect much better. \n\n His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be the same, \nsaid Elizabeth, angrily;  for I have heard you accuse him of nothing\nworse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy s steward, and of _that_, I can\nassure you, he informed me himself. \n\n I beg your pardon,  replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.\n Excuse my interference; it was kindly meant. \n\n Insolent girl!  said Elizabeth to herself.  You are much mistaken if\nyou expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see\nnothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.\nDarcy.  She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make\ninquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of\nsuch sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently\nmarked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening.\nElizabeth instantly read her feelings; and, at that moment, solicitude\nfor Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave\nway before the hope of Jane s being in the fairest way for happiness.\n\n I want to know,  said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her\nsister s,  what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have\nbeen too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person, in which case\nyou may be sure of my pardon. \n\n No,  replied Jane,  I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing\nsatisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his\nhistory, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have\nprincipally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,\nthe probity and honour, of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that\nMr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has\nreceived; and I am sorry to say that by his account, as well as his\nsister s, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am\nafraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy s\nregard. \n\n Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself. \n\n No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton. \n\n This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am\nperfectly satisfied. But what does he say of the living? \n\n He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard\nthem from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to\nhim _conditionally_ only. \n\n I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley s sincerity,  said Elizabeth warmly,\n but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.\nBingley s defence of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but\nsince he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt\nthe rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of\nboth gentlemen as I did before. \n\nShe then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on\nwhich there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with\ndelight to the happy though modest hopes which Jane entertained of\nBingley s regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence\nin it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew\nto Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last\npartner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them,\nand told her with great exultation, that he had just been so fortunate\nas to make a most important discovery.\n\n I have found out,  said he,  by a singular accident, that there is now\nin the room a near relation to my patroness. I happened to overhear the\ngentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of\nthis house the names of his cousin Miss De Bourgh, and of her mother,\nLady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would\nhave thought of my meeting with--perhaps--a nephew of Lady Catherine de\nBourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made\nin time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do,\nand trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total\nignorance of the connection must plead my apology. \n\n You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy? \n\n Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.\nI believe him to be Lady Catherine s _nephew_. It will be in my power to\nassure him that her Ladyship was quite well yesterday se nnight. \n\nElizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him\nthat Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as\nan impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it\nwas not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either\nside, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in\nconsequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with\nthe determined air of following his own inclination, and when she ceased\nspeaking, replied thus,--\n\n My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your\nexcellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your\nunderstanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference\nbetween the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity and those\nwhich regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider\nthe clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank\nin the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the\nsame time maintained. You must, therefore, allow me to follow the\ndictates of my conscience on this occasion, which lead me to perform\nwhat I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by\nyour advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide,\nthough in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education\nand habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like\nyourself;  and with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose\nreception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at\nbeing so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with\na solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if\nhearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words  apology, \n Hunsford,  and  Lady Catherine de Bourgh.  It vexed her to see him\nexpose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with\nunrestrained wonder; and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him to speak,\nreplied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not\ndiscouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy s contempt seemed\nabundantly increasing with the length of his second speech; and at the\nend of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way: Mr.\nCollins then returned to Elizabeth.\n\n I have no reason, I assure you,  said he,  to be dissatisfied with my\nreception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered\nme with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying,\nthat he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine s discernment as to be\ncertain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very\nhandsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him. \n\nAs Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned\nher attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the\ntrain of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to made\nher perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that\nvery house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could\nbestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring\neven to like Bingley s two sisters. Her mother s thoughts she plainly\nsaw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her,\nlest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore,\nshe considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within\none of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was\ntalking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing\nelse but of her expectation that Jane would be soon married to Mr.\nBingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable\nof fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such\na charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them,\nwere the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a\ncomfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be\ncertain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It\nwas, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as\nJane s marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men;\nand, lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to\nconsign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that she might\nnot be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was necessary\nto make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such\noccasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.\nBennet to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life. She\nconcluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally\nfortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no\nchance of it.\n\nIn vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother s\nwords, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible\nwhisper; for to her inexpressible vexation she could perceive that the\nchief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her\nmother only scolded her for being nonsensical.\n\n What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am\nsure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say\nnothing _he_ may not like to hear. \n\n For heaven s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be to you\nto offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by\nso doing. \n\nNothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would\ntalk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and\nblushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently\nglancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what\nshe dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was\nconvinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression\nof his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and\nsteady gravity.\n\nAt length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who\nhad been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no\nlikelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken.\nElizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of\ntranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she\nhad the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,\npreparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent\nentreaties did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of\ncomplaisance,--but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an\nopportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song.\nElizabeth s eyes were fixed on her, with most painful sensations; and\nshe watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience\nwhich was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving\namongst the thanks of the table the hint of a hope that she might be\nprevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute\nbegan another. Mary s powers were by no means fitted for such a display;\nher voice was weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies.\nShe looked at Jane to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly\ntalking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making\nsigns of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,\nimpenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his\ninterference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,\nand, when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,--\n\n That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough.\nLet the other young ladies have time to exhibit. \n\nMary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and\nElizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father s speech, was afraid\nher anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.\n\n If I,  said Mr. Collins,  were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I\nshould have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an\nair; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly\ncompatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however,\nto assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to\nmusic, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The\nrector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such\nan agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not\noffensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time\nthat remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care\nand improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making\nas comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance\nthat he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards\neverybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I\ncannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who\nshould omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody\nconnected with the family.  And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded\nhis speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the\nroom. Many stared--many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr.\nBennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for\nhaving spoken so sensibly, and observed, in a half-whisper to Lady\nLucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.\n\nTo Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to\nexpose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would\nhave been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit, or\nfiner success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister\nthat some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his\nfeelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he\nmust have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should\nhave such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough; and\nshe could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or\nthe insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.\n\nThe rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by\nMr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side; and though he\ncould not prevail with her to dance with him again, put it out of her\npower to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with\nsomebody else, and offered to introduce him to any young lady in the\nroom. He assured her that, as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent\nto it; that his chief object was, by delicate attentions, to recommend\nhimself to her; and that he should therefore make a point of remaining\nclose to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a\nproject. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who\noften joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins s conversation\nto herself.\n\nShe was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy s further notice:\nthough often standing within a very short distance of her, quite\ndisengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the\nprobable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in\nit.\n\nThe Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a\nman uvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an\nhour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how\nheartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her\nsister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and\nwere evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed\nevery attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and, by so doing, threw a\nlanguor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long\nspeeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his\nsisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and\npoliteness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said\nnothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.\nMr. Bingley and Jane were standing together a little detached from the\nrest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a\nsilence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too\nmuch fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of  Lord,\nhow tired I am!  accompanied by a violent yawn.\n\nWhen at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly\ncivil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and\naddressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy\nhe would make them, by eating a family dinner with them at any time,\nwithout the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful\npleasure; and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of\nwaiting on her after his return from London, whither he was obliged to\ngo the next day for a short time.\n\nMrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the\ndelightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of\nsettlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly\nsee her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four\nmonths. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins she thought\nwith equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.\nElizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the\nman and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each\nwas eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      to assure you in the most animated language \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his\ndeclaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as\nhis leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having\nno feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the\nmoment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the\nobservances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding\nMrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon\nafter breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,--\n\n May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,\nwhen I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the\ncourse of this morning? \n\nBefore Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.\nBennet instantly answered,--\n\n Oh dear! Yes, certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy--I am sure\nshe can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.  And\ngathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth\ncalled out,--\n\n Dear ma am, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse\nme. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am\ngoing away myself. \n\n No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you will stay where you are.  And\nupon Elizabeth s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about\nto escape, she added,  Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing\nMr. Collins. \n\nElizabeth would not oppose such an injunction; and a moment s\nconsideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it\nover as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried\nto conceal, by incessant employment, the feelings which were divided\nbetween distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as\nsoon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began,--\n\n Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from\ndoing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You\nwould have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little\nunwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected\nmother s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport\nof my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to\ndissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as\nsoon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my\nfuture life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this\nsubject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for\nmarrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design\nof selecting a wife, as I certainly did. \n\nThe idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away\nwith by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not\nuse the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and\nhe continued,--\n\n My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for\nevery clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example\nof matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced it will add\nvery greatly to my happiness; and, thirdly, which perhaps I ought to\nhave mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and\nrecommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling\npatroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked\ntoo!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I\nleft Hunsford,--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was\narranging Miss De Bourgh s footstool,--that she said,  Mr. Collins, you\nmust marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a\ngentlewoman for _my_ sake, and for your _own_; let her be an active,\nuseful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small\nincome go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as\nyou can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.  Allow me, by the\nway, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and\nkindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the\nadvantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond\nanything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be\nacceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect\nwhich her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general\nintention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views\nwere directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I\nassure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that\nbeing, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured\nfather (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy\nmyself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that\nthe loss to them might be as little as possible when the melancholy\nevent takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not be\nfor several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I\nflatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing\nremains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the\nviolence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and\nshall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well\naware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds\nin the 4 per cents., which will not be yours till after your mother s\ndecease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,\ntherefore, I shall be uniformly silent: and you may assure yourself that\nno ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married. \n\nIt was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.\n\n You are too hasty, sir,  she cried.  You forget that I have made no\nanswer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for\nthe compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of\nyour proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline\nthem. \n\n I am not now to learn,  replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the\nhand,  that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the\nman whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their\nfavour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a\nthird time. I am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have\njust said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long. \n\n Upon my word, sir,  cried Elizabeth,  your hope is rather an\nextraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not\none of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so\ndaring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second\ntime. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_\nhappy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who\nwould make _you_ so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I\nam persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the\nsituation. \n\n Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,  said Mr. Collins,\nvery gravely-- but I cannot imagine that her Ladyship would at all\ndisapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of\nseeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty,\neconomy, and other amiable qualifications. \n\n Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must\ngive me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of\nbelieving what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by\nrefusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.\nIn making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your\nfeelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn\nestate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be\nconsidered, therefore, as finally settled.  And rising as she thus\nspoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus\naddressed her,--\n\n When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I\nshall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given\nme; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I\nknow it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the\nfirst application, and, perhaps, you have even now said as much to\nencourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the\nfemale character. \n\n Really, Mr. Collins,  cried Elizabeth, with some warmth,  you puzzle me\nexceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form\nof encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as\nmay convince you of its being one. \n\n You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your\nrefusal of my addresses are merely words of course. My reasons for\nbelieving it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my hand\nis unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer\nwould be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my\nconnections with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your\nown, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into\nfurther consideration that, in spite of your manifold attractions, it is\nby no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you.\nYour portion is unhappily so small, that it will in all likelihood undo\nthe effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must,\ntherefore, conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I\nshall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by\nsuspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females. \n\n I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind\nof elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would\nrather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you\nagain and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but\nto accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect\nforbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant\nfemale intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the\ntruth from her heart. \n\n You are uniformly charming!  cried he, with an air of awkward\ngallantry;  and I am persuaded that, when sanctioned by the express\nauthority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of\nbeing acceptable. \n\nTo such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no\nreply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, that if he\npersisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering\nencouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered\nin such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could\nnot be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his\nsuccessful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule\nto watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the\ndoor and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she\nentered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in\nwarm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins\nreceived and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then\nproceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result\nof which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the\nrefusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow\nfrom her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.\n\nThis information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet: she would have been\nglad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage\nhim by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it,\nand could not help saying so.\n\n But depend upon it, Mr. Collins,  she added,  that Lizzy shall be\nbrought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is\na very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but\nI will _make_ her know it. \n\n Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,  cried Mr. Collins;  but if she\nis really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would\naltogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who\nnaturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If, therefore, she\nactually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to\nforce her into accepting me, because, if liable to such defects of\ntemper, she could not contribute much to my felicity. \n\n Sir, you quite misunderstand me,  said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed.  Lizzy is\nonly headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as\ngood-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and\nwe shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure. \n\nShe would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her\nhusband, called out, as she entered the library,--\n\n Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar.\nYou must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will\nnot have him; and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and\nnot have _her_. \n\nMr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them\non her face with a calm unconcern, which was not in the least altered by\nher communication.\n\n I have not the pleasure of understanding you,  said he, when she had\nfinished her speech.  Of what are you talking? \n\n Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,\nand Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy. \n\n And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business. \n\n Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her\nmarrying him. \n\n Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion. \n\nMrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the\nlibrary.\n\n Come here, child,  cried her father as she appeared.  I have sent for\nyou on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made\nyou an offer of marriage. Is it true? \n\nElizabeth replied that it was.\n\n Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused? \n\n I have, sir. \n\n Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your\naccepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet? \n\n Yes, or I will never see her again. \n\n An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must\nbe a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you\nagain if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again\nif you _do_. \n\nElizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning;\nbut Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the\naffair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.\n\n What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me\nto _insist_ upon her marrying him. \n\n My dear,  replied her husband,  I have two small favours to request.\nFirst, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the\npresent occasion; and, secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the\nlibrary to myself as soon as may be. \n\nNot yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did\nMrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;\ncoaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in\nher interest, but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined\ninterfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and\nsometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner\nvaried, however, her determination never did.\n\nMr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.\nHe thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin\ncould refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other\nway. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her\ndeserving her mother s reproach prevented his feeling any regret.\n\nWhile the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend\nthe day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to\nher, cried in a half whisper,  I am glad you are come, for there is such\nfun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has\nmade an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n      they entered the breakfast room \n]\n\nCharlotte had hardly time to answer before they were joined by Kitty,\nwho came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the\nbreakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on\nthe subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating\nher to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of her\nfamily.  Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,  she added, in a melancholy tone;\n for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me; I am cruelly used,\nnobody feels for my poor nerves. \n\nCharlotte s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.\n\n Ay, there she comes,  continued Mrs. Bennet,  looking as unconcerned as\nmay be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she\ncan have her own way. But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it\ninto your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,\nyou will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is\nto maintain you when your father is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep\nyou--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told\nyou in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,\nand you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking\nto undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking\nto anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have\nno great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it\nis always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied. \n\nHer daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any\nattempt to reason with or soothe her would only increase the irritation.\nShe talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till\nthey were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately\nthan usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,--\n\n Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and\nlet Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together. \n\nElizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but\nLydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,\ndetained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after\nherself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little\ncuriosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending\nnot to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected\nconversation:--\n\n Oh, Mr. Collins! \n\n My dear madam,  replied he,  let us be for ever silent on this point.\nFar be it from me,  he presently continued, in a voice that marked his\ndispleasure,  to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to\ninevitable evils is the duty of us all: the peculiar duty of a young man\nwho has been so fortunate as I have been, in early preferment; and, I\ntrust, I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my\npositive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I\nhave often observed, that resignation is never so perfect as when the\nblessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation.\nYou will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your\nfamily, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your\ndaughter s favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the\ncompliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf.\nMy conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my\ndismission from your daughter s lips instead of your own; but we are all\nliable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.\nMy object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due\nconsideration for the advantage of all your family; and if my _manner_\nhas been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologize. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe discussion of Mr. Collins s offer was now nearly at an end, and\nElizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily\nattending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother.\nAs for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not\nby embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by\nstiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to\nher; and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of\nhimself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose\ncivility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and\nespecially to her friend.\n\nThe morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet s ill humour or ill\nhealth. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth\nhad hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did\nnot appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on\nSaturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay.\n\nAfter breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton, to inquire if Mr. Wickham\nwere returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.\nHe joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their\naunt s, where his regret and vexation and the concern of everybody were\nwell talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged\nthat the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed.\n\n I found,  said he,  as the time drew near, that I had better not meet\nMr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so\nmany hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes\nmight arise unpleasant to more than myself. \n\nShe highly approved his forbearance; and they had leisure for a full\ndiscussion of it, and for all the commendations which they civilly\nbestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with\nthem to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her.\nHis accompanying them was a double advantage: she felt all the\ncompliment it offered to herself; and it was most acceptable as an\noccasion of introducing him to her father and mother.\n\n[Illustration:  Walked back with them \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nSoon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came\nfrom Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a\nsheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady s\nfair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister s countenance change as\nshe read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages.\nJane recollected herself soon; and putting the letter away, tried to\njoin, with her usual cheerfulness, in the general conversation: but\nElizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention\neven from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave,\nthan a glance from Jane invited her to follow her upstairs. When they\nhad gained their own room, Jane, taking out her letter, said,  This is\nfrom Caroline Bingley: what it contains has surprised me a good deal.\nThe whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way\nto town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear\nwhat she says. \n\nShe then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information\nof their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,\nand of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor Street, where Mr.\nHurst had a house. The next was in these words:-- I do not pretend to\nregret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire except your society, my\ndearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many\nreturns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the\nmeanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most\nunreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.  To these\nhigh-flown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of\ndistrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she\nsaw nothing in it really to lament: it was not to be supposed that their\nabsence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley s being there; and as\nto the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon\ncease to regard it in the enjoyment of his.\n\n It is unlucky,  said she, after a short pause,  that you should not be\nable to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not\nhope that the period of future happiness, to which Miss Bingley looks\nforward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful\nintercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater\nsatisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by\nthem. \n\n Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into\nHertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you.\n\n When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which\ntook him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we\nare certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when\nCharles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have\ndetermined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend\nhis vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are\nalready there for the winter: I wish I could hear that you, my dearest\nfriend, had any intention of making one in the crowd, but of that I\ndespair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in\nthe gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux\nwill be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of\nwhom we shall deprive you. \n\n It is evident by this,  added Jane,  that he comes back no more this\nwinter. \n\n It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_. \n\n Why will you think so? It must be his own doing; he is his own master.\nBut you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which\nparticularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.  Mr. Darcy is\nimpatient to see his sister; and to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely\nless eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has\nher equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection\nshe inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still\nmore interesting from the hope we dare to entertain of her being\nhereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to\nyou my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country\nwithout confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them\nunreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have\nfrequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her\nrelations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister s\npartiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most\ncapable of engaging any woman s heart. With all these circumstances to\nfavour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest\nJane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness\nof so many?  What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?  said\nJane, as she finished it.  Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly\ndeclare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister;\nthat she is perfectly convinced of her brother s indifference; and that\nif she suspects the nature of my feelings for him she means (most\nkindly!) to put me on my guard. Can there be any other opinion on the\nsubject? \n\n Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it? \n\n Most willingly. \n\n You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is\nin love with you and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to\ntown in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he\ndoes not care about you. \n\nJane shook her head.\n\n Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you\ntogether can doubt his affection; Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot: she\nis not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.\nDarcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the\ncase is this:--we are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she\nis the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion\nthat when there has been _one_ inter-marriage, she may have less trouble\nin achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I\ndare say it would succeed if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my\ndearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that, because Miss Bingley\ntells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest\ndegree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on\nTuesday; or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead\nof being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend. \n\n If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,  replied Jane,  your\nrepresentation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the\nfoundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving\nanyone; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived\nherself. \n\n That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you\nwill not take comfort in mine: believe her to be deceived, by all means.\nYou have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer. \n\n But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in\naccepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry\nelsewhere? \n\n You must decide for yourself,  said Elizabeth;  and if, upon mature\ndeliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is\nmore than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you,\nby all means, to refuse him. \n\n How can you talk so?  said Jane, faintly smiling;  you must know, that,\nthough I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could\nnot hesitate. \n\n I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider\nyour situation with much compassion. \n\n But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be\nrequired. A thousand things may arise in six months. \n\nThe idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost\ncontempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline s\ninterested wishes; and she could not for a moment suppose that those\nwishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man\nso totally independent of everyone.\n\nShe represented to her sister, as forcibly as possible, what she felt on\nthe subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.\nJane s temper was not desponding; and she was gradually led to hope,\nthough the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that\nBingley would return to Netherfield, and answer every wish of her heart.\n\nThey agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the\nfamily, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman s conduct;\nbut even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,\nand she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen\nto go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After\nlamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation of\nthinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again, and soon dining at\nLongbourn; and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration,\nthat, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take\ncare to have two full courses.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases; and again, during the\nchief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.\nElizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her.  It keeps him in good\nhumour,  said she,  and I am more obliged to you than I can express. \n\nCharlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and\nthat it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was\nvery amiable; but Charlotte s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth\nhad any conception of:--its object was nothing less than to secure her\nfrom any return of Mr. Collins s addresses, by engaging them towards\nherself. Such was Miss Lucas s scheme; and appearances were so\nfavourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost\nsure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.\nBut here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his\ncharacter; for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next\nmorning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw\nhimself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,\nfrom a conviction that, if they saw him depart, they could not fail to\nconjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known\ntill its success could be known likewise; for, though feeling almost\nsecure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,\nhe was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His\nreception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas\nperceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and\ninstantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had\nshe dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.\n\nIn as short a time as Mr. Collins s long speeches would allow,\neverything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as\nthey entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that\nwas to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must\nbe waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with\nhis happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must\nguard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its\ncontinuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and\ndisinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that\nestablishment were gained.\n\nSir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;\nand it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins s present\ncircumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom\nthey could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were\nexceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more\ninterest than the matter had ever\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      So much love and eloquence \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nexcited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and\nSir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins\nshould be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly\nexpedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St.\nJames s. The whole family in short were properly overjoyed on the\noccasion. The younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two\nsooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved\nfrom their apprehension of Charlotte s dying an old maid. Charlotte\nherself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time\nto consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr.\nCollins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable: his society was\nirksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would\nbe her husband. Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony,\nmarriage had always been her object: it was the only honourable\nprovision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and, however\nuncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative\nfrom want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of\ntwenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good\nluck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the\nsurprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she\nvalued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and\nprobably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be\nshaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved\nto give her the information herself; and therefore charged Mr. Collins,\nwhen he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had\npassed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very\ndutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the\ncuriosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct\nquestions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was\nat the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to\npublish his prosperous love.\n\nAs he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of\nthe family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies\nmoved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and\ncordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again,\nwhenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them.\n\n My dear madam,  he replied,  this invitation is particularly\ngratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you\nmay be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as\npossible. \n\nThey were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for\nso speedy a return, immediately said,--\n\n But is there not danger of Lady Catherine s disapprobation here, my\ngood sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of\noffending your patroness. \n\n My dear sir,  replied Mr. Collins,  I am particularly obliged to you\nfor this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so\nmaterial a step without her Ladyship s concurrence. \n\n You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk anything rather than her\ndispleasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us\nagain, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,\nand be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence. \n\n Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such\naffectionate attention; and, depend upon it, you will speedily receive\nfrom me a letter of thanks for this as well as for every other mark of\nyour regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins,\nthough my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall\nnow take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting\nmy cousin Elizabeth. \n\nWith proper civilities, the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally\nsurprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished\nto understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of\nher younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.\nShe rated his abilities much higher than any of the others: there was a\nsolidity in his reflections which often struck her; and though by no\nmeans so clever as herself, she thought that, if encouraged to read and\nimprove himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very\nagreeable companion. But on the following morning every hope of this\nkind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a\nprivate conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.\n\nThe possibility of Mr. Collins s fancying himself in love with her\nfriend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two: but\nthat Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility\nas that she could encourage him herself; and her astonishment was\nconsequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and\nshe could not help crying out,--\n\n Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte, impossible! \n\nThe steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her\nstory gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a\nreproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained\nher composure, and calmly replied,--\n\n Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible\nthat Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman s good opinion,\nbecause he was not so happy as to succeed with you? \n\nBut Elizabeth had now recollected herself; and, making a strong effort\nfor it, was able to assure her, with tolerable firmness, that the\nprospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she\nwished her all imaginable happiness.\n\n I see what you are feeling,  replied Charlotte;  you must be surprised,\nvery much surprised, so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you.\nBut when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you will be\nsatisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know. I never\nwas. I ask only a comfortable home; and, considering Mr. Collins s\ncharacter, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my\nchance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on\nentering the marriage state. \n\nElizabeth quietly answered  undoubtedly;  and, after an awkward pause,\nthey returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much\nlonger; and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It\nwas a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so\nunsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins s making two offers\nof marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now\naccepted. She had always felt that Charlotte s opinion of matrimony was\nnot exactly like her own; but she could not have supposed it possible\nthat, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better\nfeeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte, the wife of Mr. Collins, was a\nmost humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing\nherself, and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction\nthat it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot\nshe had chosen.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Protested he must be entirely mistaken. \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what\nshe had heard, and doubting whether she was authorized to mention it,\nwhen Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to\nannounce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,\nand much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the\nhouses, he unfolded the matter,--to an audience not merely wondering,\nbut incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than\npoliteness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always\nunguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,--\n\n Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know\nthat Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy? \n\nNothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne\nwithout anger such treatment: but Sir William s good-breeding carried\nhim through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the\ntruth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the\nmost forbearing courtesy.\n\nElizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant\na situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by\nmentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and\nendeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters,\nby the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she\nwas readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the\nhappiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character\nof Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.\n\nMrs. Bennet was, in fact, too much overpowered to say a great deal while\nSir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings\nfound a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving\nthe whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins\nhad been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy\ntogether; and, fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two\ninferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that\nElizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that\nshe herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two\npoints she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could\nconsole and nothing appease her. Nor did that day wear out her\nresentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without\nscolding her: a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William\nor Lady Lucas without being rude; and many months were gone before she\ncould at all forgive their daughter.\n\nMr. Bennet s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such\nas he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for\nit gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had\nbeen used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and\nmore foolish than his daughter!\n\nJane confessed herself a little surprised at the match: but she said\nless of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;\nnor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and\nLydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a\nclergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news\nto spread at Meryton.\n\nLady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on\nMrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she\ncalled at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,\nthough Mrs. Bennet s sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been\nenough to drive happiness away.\n\nBetween Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them\nmutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no\nreal confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her\ndisappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her\nsister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could\nnever be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as\nBingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return.\n\nJane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting\nthe days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised\nletter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their\nfather, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a\ntwelve-month s abode in the family might have prompted. After\ndischarging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them,\nwith many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the\naffection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained\nthat it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had\nbeen so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at\nLongbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight;\nfor Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that\nshe wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would\nbe an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early\nday for making him the happiest of men.\n\nMr. Collins s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of\npleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to\ncomplain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come\nto Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient\nand exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house\nwhile her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the\nmost disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they\ngave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley s continued\nabsence.\n\nNeither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after\nday passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the\nreport which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to\nNetherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.\nBennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous\nfalsehood.\n\nEven Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that\nhis sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she\nwas to admit an idea so destructive to Jane s happiness, and so\ndishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its\nfrequently recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters,\nand of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss\nDarcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for\nthe strength of his attachment.\n\nAs for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more\npainful than Elizabeth s: but whatever she felt she was desirous of\nconcealing; and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject\nwas never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an\nhour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her\nimpatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he\ndid not come back she should think herself very ill-used. It needed all\nJane s steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable\ntranquillity.\n\nMr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his\nreception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his\nfirst introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;\nand, luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them\nfrom a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by\nhim at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time\nto make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      _Whenever she spoke in a low voice_ \n]\n\nMrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of\nanything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and\nwherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of\nMiss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she\nregarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see\nthem, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and\nwhenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that\nthey were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself\nand her daughters out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet was dead. She\ncomplained bitterly of all this to her husband.\n\n Indeed, Mr. Bennet,  said she,  it is very hard to think that Charlotte\nLucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_ should be forced\nto make way for _her_, and live to see her take my place in it! \n\n My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for\nbetter things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor. \n\nThis was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet; and, therefore, instead of\nmaking any answer, she went on as before.\n\n I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was\nnot for the entail, I should not mind it. \n\n What should not you mind? \n\n I should not mind anything at all. \n\n Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such\ninsensibility. \n\n I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How\nanyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one s own\ndaughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins, too!\nWhy should _he_ have it more than anybody else? \n\n I leave it to yourself to determine,  said Mr. Bennet.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMiss Bingley s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first\nsentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for\nthe winter, and concluded with her brother s regret at not having had\ntime to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left\nthe country.\n\nHope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of\nthe letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the\nwriter, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy s praise occupied\nthe chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on; and Caroline\nboasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict\nthe accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former\nletter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother s being an\ninmate of Mr. Darcy s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of\nthe latter with regard to new furniture.\n\nElizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,\nheard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern\nfor her sister and resentment against all others. To Caroline s\nassertion of her brother s being partial to Miss Darcy, she paid no\ncredit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she\nhad ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she\ncould not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness\nof temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave\nof his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to\nthe caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been\nthe only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in\nwhatever manner he thought best; but her sister s was involved in it, as\nshe thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on\nwhich reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She\ncould think of nothing else; and yet, whether Bingley s regard had\nreally died away, or were suppressed by his friends  interference;\nwhether he had been aware of Jane s attachment, or whether it had\nescaped his observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of\nhim must be materially affected by the difference, her sister s\nsituation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.\n\nA day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to\nElizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet s leaving them together, after a\nlonger irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could\nnot help saying,--\n\n O that my dear mother had more command over herself! she can have no\nidea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I\nwill not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall\nall be as we were before. \n\nElizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said\nnothing.\n\n You doubt me,  cried Jane, slightly colouring;  indeed, you have no\nreason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my\nacquaintance but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and\nnothing to reproach him with. Thank God I have not _that_ pain. A little\ntime, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better---- \n\nWith a stronger voice she soon added,  I have this comfort immediately,\nthat it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it\nhas done no harm to anyone but myself. \n\n My dear Jane,  exclaimed Elizabeth,  you are too good. Your sweetness\nand disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to\nyou. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you\ndeserve. \n\nMiss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back\nthe praise on her sister s warm affection.\n\n Nay,  said Elizabeth,  this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the\nworld respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. _I_ only want\nto think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be\nafraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your\nprivilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people\nwhom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see\nof the world the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms\nmy belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the\nlittle dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit\nor sense. I have met with two instances lately: one I will not mention,\nthe other is Charlotte s marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it\nis unaccountable! \n\n My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will\nruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of\nsituation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins s respectability, and\nCharlotte s prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a\nlarge family; that as to fortune it is a most eligible match; and be\nready to believe, for everybody s sake, that she may feel something like\nregard and esteem for our cousin. \n\n To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else\ncould be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that\nCharlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her\nunderstanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a\nconceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man: you know he is, as well as\nI do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries him\ncannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though\nit is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual,\nchange the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade\nyourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of\ndanger security for happiness. \n\n I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,  replied\nJane;  and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy\ntogether. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You\nmentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat\nyou, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and\nsaying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy\nourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man\nto be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but\nour own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than\nit does. \n\n And men take care that they should. \n\n If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea\nof there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine. \n\n I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley s conduct to design, \nsaid Elizabeth;  but, without scheming to do wrong, or to make others\nunhappy, there may be error and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,\nwant of attention to other people s feelings, and want of resolution,\nwill do the business. \n\n And do you impute it to either of those? \n\n Yes; to the last. But if I go on I shall displease you by saying what I\nthink of persons you esteem. Stop me, whilst you can. \n\n You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him? \n\n Yes, in conjunction with his friend. \n\n I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can\nonly wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me no other woman can\nsecure it. \n\n Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his\nhappiness: they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they\nmay wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great\nconnections, and pride. \n\n Beyond a doubt they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,  replied Jane;\n but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have\nknown her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love\nher better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely\nthey should have opposed their brother s. What sister would think\nherself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very\nobjectionable? If they believed him attached to me they would not try to\npart us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an\naffection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most\nunhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been\nmistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of\nwhat I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it\nin the best light, in the light in which it may be understood. \n\nElizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley s\nname was scarcely ever mentioned between them.\n\nMrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no\nmore; and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account\nfor it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it\nwith less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what\nshe did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely\nthe effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw\nher no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at\nthe time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet s best\ncomfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.\n\nMr. Bennet treated the matter differently.  So, Lizzy,  said he, one\nday,  your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next\nto being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and\nthen. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction\namong her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to\nbe long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at\nMeryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham\nbe your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably. \n\n Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not\nall expect Jane s good fortune. \n\n True,  said Mr. Bennet;  but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of\nthat kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will\nalways make the most of it. \n\nMr. Wickham s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom\nwhich the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn\nfamily. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now\nadded that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already\nheard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,\nwas now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was\npleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they\nhad known anything of the matter.\n\nMiss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any\nextenuating circumstances in the case unknown to the society of\nHertfordshire: her mild and steady candour always pleaded for\nallowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes; but by everybody else\nMr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAfter a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr.\nCollins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of\nSaturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his\nside by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason to\nhope, that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day\nwould be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave\nof his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished\nhis fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father\nanother letter of thanks.\n\nOn the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her\nbrother and his wife, who came, as usual, to spend the Christmas at\nLongbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly\nsuperior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield\nladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by\ntrade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so\nwell-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger\nthan Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant\nwoman, and a great favourite with her Longbourn nieces. Between the two\neldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular regard.\nThey had frequently been staying with her in town.\n\nThe first part of Mrs. Gardiner s business, on her arrival, was to\ndistribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was\ndone, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.\nMrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They\nhad all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her\ngirls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing\nin it.\n\n I do not blame Jane,  she continued,  for Jane would have got Mr.\nBingley if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think\nthat she might have been Mr. Collins s wife by this time, had not it\nbeen for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,\nand she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have\na daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as\nmuch entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people, indeed,\nsister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of\nthem, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted\nso in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves\nbefore anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the\ngreatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us of\nlong sleeves. \n\nMrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in\nthe course of Jane and Elizabeth s correspondence with her, made her\nsister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the\nconversation.\n\nWhen alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject.\n It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,  said she.  I\nam sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man,\nsuch as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty\ngirl for a few weeks, and, when accident separates them, so easily\nforgets her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Offended two or three young ladies \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n An excellent consolation in its way,  said Elizabeth;  but it will not\ndo for _us_. We do not suffer by accident. It does not often happen\nthat the interference of friends will persuade a young man of\nindependent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in\nlove with only a few days before. \n\n But that expression of  violently in love  is so hackneyed, so\ndoubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as\noften applied to feelings which arise only from a half hour s\nacquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_\nMr. Bingley s love? \n\n I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite\ninattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time\nthey met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he\noffended two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance; and I\nspoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer. Could there be\nfiner symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love? \n\n Oh, yes! of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor\nJane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get\nover it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you\nwould have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would\nbe prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene might be of\nservice--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as\nanything. \n\nElizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded\nof her sister s ready acquiescence.\n\n I hope,  added Mrs. Gardiner,  that no consideration with regard to\nthis young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of\ntown, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go\nout so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all,\nunless he really comes to see her. \n\n And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his\nfriend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a\npart of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may,\nperhaps, have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he\nwould hardly think a month s ablution enough to cleanse him from its\nimpurities, were he once to enter it; and, depend upon it, Mr. Bingley\nnever stirs without him. \n\n So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane\ncorrespond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling. \n\n She will drop the acquaintance entirely. \n\nBut, in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this\npoint, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley s being\nwithheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which\nconvinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely\nhopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that\nhis affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends\nsuccessfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane s\nattractions.\n\nMiss Bennet accepted her aunt s invitation with pleasure; and the\nBingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time than as she\nhoped, by Caroline s not living in the same house with her brother, she\nmight occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of\nseeing him.\n\nThe Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses,\nthe Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its\nengagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment\nof her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family\ndinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always\nmade part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and\non these occasions Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth s\nwarm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing\nthem, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference\nof each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she\nresolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left\nHertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such\nan attachment.\n\nTo Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,\nunconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,\nbefore her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part\nof Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many\nacquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since\nthe death of Darcy s father, five years before, it was yet in his power\nto give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been\nin the way of procuring.\n\nMrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by\ncharacter perfectly well. Here, consequently, was an inexhaustible\nsubject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with\nthe minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her\ntribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was\ndelighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the\npresent Mr. Darcy s treatment of him, she tried to remember something of\nthat gentleman s reputed disposition, when quite a lad, which might\nagree with it; and was confident, at last, that she recollected having\nheard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud,\nill-natured boy.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Will you come and see me? \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMrs. Gardiner s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on\nthe first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone: after\nhonestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:--\n\n You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you\nare warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking\nopenly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve\nyourself, or endeavour to involve him, in an affection which the want of\nfortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against\n_him_: he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he\nought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is--you\nmust not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all\nexpect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and\ngood conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father. \n\n My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed. \n\n Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise. \n\n Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of\nmyself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I\ncan prevent it. \n\n Elizabeth, you are not serious now. \n\n I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with\nMr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,\nthe most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to\nme--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence\nof it. Oh, _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father s opinion of me does\nme the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My\nfather, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I\nshould be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but\nsince we see, every day, that where there is affection young people are\nseldom withheld, by immediate want of fortune, from entering into\nengagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many\nof my fellow-creatures, if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that\nit would be wiser to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is\nnot to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his\nfirst object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In\nshort, I will do my best. \n\n Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very\noften. At least you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him. \n\n As I did the other day,  said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile;  very\ntrue, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine\nthat he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been\nso frequently invited this week. You know my mother s ideas as to the\nnecessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my\nhonour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now I hope you\nare satisfied. \n\nHer aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth, having thanked her for\nthe kindness of her hints, they parted,--a wonderful instance of advice\nbeing given on such a point without being resented.\n\nMr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted\nby the Gardiners and Jane; but, as he took up his abode with the\nLucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His\nmarriage was now fast approaching; and she was at length so far resigned\nas to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured\ntone, that she  _wished_ they might be happy.  Thursday was to be the\nwedding-day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and\nwhen she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother s\nungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself,\naccompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together,\nCharlotte said,--\n\n I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza. \n\n _That_ you certainly shall. \n\n And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me? \n\n We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire. \n\n I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to\ncome to Hunsford. \n\nElizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the\nvisit.\n\n My father and Maria are to come to me in March,  added Charlotte,  and\nI hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be\nas welcome to me as either of them. \n\nThe wedding took place: the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from\nthe church door, and everybody had as much to say or to hear on the\nsubject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend, and their\ncorrespondence was as regular and frequent as it ever had been: that it\nshould be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never\naddress her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over;\nand, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the\nsake of what had been rather than what was. Charlotte s first letters\nwere received with a good deal of eagerness: there could not but be\ncuriosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would\nlike Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to\nbe; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte\nexpressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She\nwrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing\nwhich she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and\nroads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine s behaviour was most\nfriendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins s picture of Hunsford and\nRosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait\nfor her own visit there, to know the rest.\n\nJane had already written a few lines to her sister, to announce their\nsafe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it\nwould be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.\n\nHer impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience\ngenerally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or\nhearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that\nher last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been\nlost.\n\n My aunt,  she continued,  is going to-morrow into that part of the\ntown, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street. \n\nShe wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.\n I did not think Caroline in spirits,  were her words,  but she was very\nglad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming\nto London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her.\nI inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much\nengaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that\nMiss Darcy was expected to dinner: I wish I could see her. My visit was\nnot long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall\nsoon see them here. \n\nElizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that\naccident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister s being in town.\n\nFour weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to\npersuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be\nblind to Miss Bingley s inattention. After waiting at home every morning\nfor a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the\nvisitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and, yet\nmore, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself\nno longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister\nwill prove what she felt:--\n\n      My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in\n     her better judgment, at my expense, when I confess myself to have\n     been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley s regard for me. But, my\n     dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me\n     obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour\n     was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at\n     all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but,\n     if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should\n     be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday;\n     and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she\n     did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she\n     made a slight, formal apology for not calling before, said not a\n     word of wishing to see me again, and was, in every respect, so\n     altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly\n     resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I\n     cannot help blaming, her. She was very wrong in singling me out as\n     she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on\n     her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been\n     acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her\n     brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and\n     though _we_ know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she\n     feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so\n     deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may\n     feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder,\n     however, at her having any such fears now, because if he had at all\n     cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my\n     being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and\n     yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to\n     persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot\n     understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be\n     almost tempted to say, that there is a strong appearance of\n     duplicity in all this. I will endeavour to banish every painful\n     thought, and think only of what will make me happy, your affection,\n     and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear\n     from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never\n     returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not\n     with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely\n     glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at\n     Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am\n     sure you will be very comfortable there.\n\n Yours, etc. \n\nThis letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned, as she\nconsidered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.\nAll expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not\neven wish for any renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every\nreview of it; and, as a punishment for him, as well as a possible\nadvantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.\nDarcy s sister, as, by Wickham s account, she would make him abundantly\nregret what he had thrown away.\n\nMrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise\nconcerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had\nsuch to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to\nherself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,\nhe was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to\nsee it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.\nHer heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied\nwith believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune\npermitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most\nremarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself\nagreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than\nin Charlotte s, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.\nNothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and, while able to\nsuppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was\nready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very\nsincerely wish him happy.\n\nAll this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and, after relating the\ncircumstances, she thus went on:-- I am now convinced, my dear aunt,\nthat I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that\npure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name,\nand wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial\ntowards _him_, they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find\nout that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think\nher a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My\nwatchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more\ninteresting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love\nwith him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.\nImportance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take\nhis defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways\nof the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that\nhandsome young men must have something to live on as well as the\nplain. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      On the Stairs \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWith no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise\ndiversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and\nsometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take\nElizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of\ngoing thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the\nplan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater\npleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire\nof seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins.\nThere was novelty in the scheme; and as, with such a mother and such\nuncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change\nwas not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would, moreover, give\nher a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have\nbeen very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly,\nand was finally settled according to Charlotte s first sketch. She was\nto accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of\nspending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became as\nperfect as plan could be.\n\nThe only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,\nand who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he\ntold her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.\n\nThe farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on\nhis side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that\nElizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the\nfirst to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner\nof bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what\nshe was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their\nopinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there\nwas a solicitude, an interest, which she felt must ever attach her to\nhim with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced, that,\nwhether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable\nand pleasing.\n\nHer fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think\nhim less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a\ngood-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say\nthat could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much\ndelight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but\nshe had known Sir William s too long. He could tell her nothing new of\nthe wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were\nworn out, like his information.\n\nIt was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early\nas to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner s\ndoor, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival: when\nthey entered the passage, she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,\nlooking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and\nlovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,\nwhose eagerness for their cousin s appearance would not allow them to\nwait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her\nfor a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and\nkindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and\nshopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.\n\nElizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her\nsister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to\nher minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her\nspirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to\nhope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the\nparticulars also of Miss Bingley s visit in Gracechurch Street, and\nrepeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and\nherself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the\nacquaintance.\n\nMrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham s desertion, and\ncomplimented her on bearing it so well.\n\n But, my dear Elizabeth,  she added,  what sort of girl is Miss King? I\nshould be sorry to think our friend mercenary. \n\n Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,\nbetween the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,\nand avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,\nbecause it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a\ngirl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is\nmercenary. \n\n If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know\nwhat to think. \n\n She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her. \n\n But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather s death\nmade her mistress of this fortune? \n\n No--why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_\naffections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for\nmaking love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally\npoor? \n\n But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so\nsoon after this event. \n\n A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant\ndecorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,\nwhy should _we_? \n\n _Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being\ndeficient in something herself--sense or feeling. \n\n Well,  cried Elizabeth,  have it as you choose. _He_ shall be\nmercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish. \n\n No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,\nto think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire. \n\n Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in\nDerbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not\nmuch better. I am sick of them all. Thank heaven! I am going to-morrow\nwhere I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has\nneither manners nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones\nworth knowing, after all. \n\n Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment. \n\nBefore they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the\nunexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in\na tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.\n\n We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,  said Mrs.\nGardiner;  but perhaps, to the Lakes. \n\nNo scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her\nacceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful.  My dear, dear\naunt,  she rapturously cried,  what delight! what felicity! You give me\nfresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men\nto rocks and mountains? Oh, what hours of transport we shall spend! And\nwhen we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without\nbeing able to give one accurate idea of anything. We _will_ know where\nwe have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains,\nand rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when\nwe attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling\nabout its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less\ninsupportable than those of the generality of travellers. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      At the door \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nEvery object in the next day s journey was new and interesting to\nElizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had\nseen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,\nand the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.\n\nWhen they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in\nsearch of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.\nThe paling of Rosings park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth\nsmiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.\n\nAt length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the\nroad, the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge,\neverything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte\nappeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which\nled by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of\nthe whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing\nat the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the\nliveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with\ncoming, when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw\ninstantly that her cousin s manners were not altered by his marriage:\nhis formal civility was just what it had been; and he detained her some\nminutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her\nfamily. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the\nneatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were\nin the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious\nformality, to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife s\noffers of refreshment.\n\nElizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help\nfancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect,\nand its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if\nwishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though\neverything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him\nby any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend,\nthat she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr.\nCollins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed,\nwhich certainly was not seldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on\nCharlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general\nCharlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire\nevery article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the\nfender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had\nhappened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the\ngarden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of\nwhich he attended himself. To work in his garden was one of his most\nrespectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance\nwith which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and\nowned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way\nthrough every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an\ninterval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out\nwith a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the\nfields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in\nthe most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which\nthe country or the kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with\nthe prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that\nbordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a\nhandsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.\n\nFrom his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;\nbut the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white\nfrost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte\ntook her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,\nprobably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband s\nhelp. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything\nwas fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency, of which\nElizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be\nforgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout, and by\nCharlotte s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often\nforgotten.\n\nShe had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It\nwas spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining\nin, observed,--\n\n Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine\nde Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will\nbe delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I\ndoubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when\nservice is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will\ninclude you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she\nhonours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is\ncharming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to\nwalk home. Her Ladyship s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I\n_should_ say, one of her Ladyship s carriages, for she has several. \n\n Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman, indeed,  added\nCharlotte,  and a most attentive neighbour. \n\n Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of\nwoman whom one cannot regard with too much deference. \n\nThe evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and\ntelling again what had been already written; and when it closed,\nElizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon\nCharlotte s degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,\nand composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it\nwas all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would\npass, the quiet tenour of their usual employments, the vexatious\ninterruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse\nwith Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.\n\nAbout the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready\nfor a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in\nconfusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running\nupstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened\nthe door, and met Maria in the landing-place, who, breathless with\nagitation, cried out,--\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      In Conversation with the ladies \n\n[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]]\n\n Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for\nthere is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make\nhaste, and come down this moment. \n\nElizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more;\nand down they ran into the dining-room which fronted the lane, in quest\nof this wonder; it was two ladies, stopping in a low phaeton at the\ngarden gate.\n\n And is this all?  cried Elizabeth.  I expected at least that the pigs\nwere got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her\ndaughter! \n\n La! my dear,  said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake,  it is not Lady\nCatherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The\nother is Miss De Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little\ncreature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small! \n\n She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.\nWhy does she not come in? \n\n Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours\nwhen Miss De Bourgh comes in. \n\n I like her appearance,  said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas.  She\nlooks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will\nmake him a very proper wife. \n\nMr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation\nwith the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth s high diversion, was\nstationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness\nbefore him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss De Bourgh looked that\nway.\n\nAt length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and\nthe others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two\ngirls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which\nCharlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked\nto dine at Rosings the next day.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Lady Catherine, said she, you have given me a treasure. \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMr. Collins s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.\nThe power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering\nvisitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his\nwife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of\ndoing it should be given so soon was such an instance of Lady\nCatherine s condescension as he knew not how to admire enough.\n\n I confess,  said he,  that I should not have been at all surprised by\nher Ladyship s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening\nat Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that\nit would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this?\nWho could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine\nthere (an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so\nimmediately after your arrival? \n\n I am the less surprised at what has happened,  replied Sir William,\n from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which\nmy situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such\ninstances of elegant breeding are not uncommon. \n\nScarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their\nvisit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what\nthey were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and\nso splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.\n\nWhen the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to\nElizabeth,--\n\n Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady\nCatherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which\nbecomes herself and daughter. I would advise you merely to put on\nwhatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion\nfor anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for\nbeing simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank\npreserved. \n\nWhile they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different\ndoors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much\nobjected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of\nher Ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas,\nwho had been little used to company; and she looked forward to her\nintroduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done\nto his presentation at St. James s.\n\nAs the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile\nacross the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and\nElizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such\nraptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but\nslightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the\nhouse, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally\ncost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.\n\nWhen they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria s alarm was every moment\nincreasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm.\nElizabeth s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady\nCatherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or\nmiraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank she\nthought she could witness without trepidation.\n\nFrom the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a\nrapturous air, the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed\nthe servants through an antechamber to the room where Lady Catherine,\nher daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her Ladyship, with great\ncondescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it\nwith her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was\nperformed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks\nwhich he would have thought necessary.\n\nIn spite of having been at St. James s, Sir William was so completely\nawed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage\nenough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;\nand his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge\nof her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself\nquite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her\ncomposedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked\nfeatures, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not\nconciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her\nvisitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by\nsilence: but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone as\nmarked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to\nElizabeth s mind; and, from the observation of the day altogether, she\nbelieved Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had represented.\n\nWhen, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment\nshe soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the\ndaughter, she could almost have joined in Maria s astonishment at her\nbeing so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any\nlikeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly: her\nfeatures, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very\nlittle, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance\nthere was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening\nto what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before\nher eyes.\n\nAfter sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to\nadmire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties,\nand Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth\nlooking at in the summer.\n\nThe dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants,\nand all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he\nhad likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by\nher Ladyship s desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish\nnothing greater. He carved and ate and praised with delighted alacrity;\nand every dish was commended first by him, and then by Sir William, who\nwas now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a\nmanner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady\nCatherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most\ngracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty\nto them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready\nto speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between\nCharlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in\nlistening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all\nthe dinnertime. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how\nlittle Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish and\nfearing she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question,\nand the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.\n\nWhen the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be\ndone but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any\nintermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every\nsubject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have\nher judgment controverted. She inquired into Charlotte s domestic\nconcerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice as\nto the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be\nregulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the\ncare of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was\nbeneath this great lady s attention which could furnish her with an\noccasion for dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with\nMrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and\nElizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew\nthe least, and who, she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel,\npretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times how many sisters\nshe had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of\nthem were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they\nhad been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her\nmother s maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her\nquestions, but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then\nobserved,--\n\n Your father s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think? For your\nsake,  turning to Charlotte,  I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no\noccasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought\nnecessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh s family. Do you play and sing, Miss\nBennet? \n\n A little. \n\n Oh then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our\ninstrument is a capital one, probably superior to ---- you shall try it\nsome day. Do your sisters play and sing? \n\n One of them does. \n\n Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss\nWebbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do\nyou draw? \n\n No, not at all. \n\n What, none of you? \n\n Not one. \n\n That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother\nshould have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters. \n\n My mother would have no objection, but my father hates London. \n\n Has your governess left you? \n\n We never had any governess. \n\n No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home\nwithout a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must\nhave been quite a slave to your education. \n\nElizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not\nbeen the case.\n\n Then who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you must\nhave been neglected. \n\n Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as\nwished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to\nread, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be\nidle certainly might. \n\n Ay, no doubt: but that is what a governess will prevent; and if I had\nknown your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage\none. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady\nand regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is\nwonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that\nway. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces\nof Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and\nit was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who\nwas merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite\ndelighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe s\ncalling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure.  Lady\nCatherine,  said she,  you have given me a treasure.  Are any of your\nyounger sisters out, Miss Bennet? \n\n Yes, ma am, all. \n\n All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The\nyounger ones out before the elder are married! Your younger sisters must\nbe very young? \n\n Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much\nin company. But really, ma am, I think it would be very hard upon\nyounger sisters that they should not have their share of society and\namusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to\nmarry early. The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth\nas the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would\nnot be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind. \n\n Upon my word,  said her Ladyship,  you give your opinion very decidedly\nfor so young a person. Pray, what is your age? \n\n With three younger sisters grown up,  replied Elizabeth, smiling,  your\nLadyship can hardly expect me to own it. \n\nLady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;\nand Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever\ndared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.\n\n You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure,--therefore you need not\nconceal your age. \n\n I am not one-and-twenty. \n\nWhen the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables\nwere placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat\ndown to quadrille; and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the\ntwo girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her\nparty. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was\nuttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson\nexpressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh s being too hot or too cold, or\nhaving too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the\nother table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes\nof the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins\nwas employed in agreeing to everything her Ladyship said, thanking her\nfor every fish he won, and apologizing if he thought he won too many.\nSir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes\nand noble names.\n\nWhen Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,\nthe tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,\ngratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered\nround the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were\nto have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the\narrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.\nCollins s side, and as many bows on Sir William s, they departed. As\nsoon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her\ncousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which,\nfor Charlotte s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But\nher commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means\nsatisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship s\npraise into his own hands.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nSir William stayed only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long\nenough to convince him of his daughter s being most comfortably settled,\nand of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not\noften met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his\nmornings to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country: but\nwhen he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments,\nand Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her\ncousin by the alteration; for the chief of the time between breakfast\nand dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in\nreading and writing, and looking out of window in his own book room,\nwhich fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.\nElizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer\nthe dining parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a\npleasanter aspect: but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent\nreason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been\nmuch less in his own apartment had they sat in one equally lively; and\nshe gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.\n\nFrom the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and\nwere indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went\nalong, and how often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,\nwhich he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened\nalmost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had\na few minutes  conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever\nprevailed on to get out.\n\nVery few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and\nnot many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;\nand till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings\nto be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many\nhours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her Ladyship,\nand nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during\nthese visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,\nand advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement\nof the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she\naccepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding\nout that Mrs. Collins s joints of meat were too large for her family.\n\nElizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in the\ncommission of the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate\nin her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by\nMr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be\nquarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the\nvillage to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold\nthem into harmony and plenty.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      he never failed to inform them \n]\n\nThe entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;\nand, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one\ncard-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart\nof the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living\nof the neighbourhood in general was beyond the Collinses  reach. This,\nhowever, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time\ncomfortably enough: there were half hours of pleasant conversation with\nCharlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she\nhad often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where\nshe frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was\nalong the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was\na nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and\nwhere she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine s curiosity.\n\nIn this quiet way the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.\nEaster was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an\naddition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be\nimportant. Elizabeth had heard, soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy\nwas expected there in the course of a few weeks; and though there were\nnot many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would\nfurnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and\nshe might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley s designs on him\nwere, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined\nby Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest\nsatisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and\nseemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by\nMiss Lucas and herself.\n\nHis arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking\nthe whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,\nin order to have\n\n[Illustration:\n\n The gentlemen accompanied him. \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nthe earliest assurance of it; and, after making his bow as the carriage\nturned into the park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the\nfollowing morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were\ntwo nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought\nwith him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, Lord ----;\nand, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned,\nthe gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her\nhusband s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the\nother, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding,--\n\n I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would\nnever have come so soon to wait upon me. \n\nElizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment\nbefore their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly\nafterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,\nwho led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and\naddress most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been\nused to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual\nreserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her\nfriend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely\ncourtesied to him, without saying a word.\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly, with the\nreadiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but\nhis cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and\ngarden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody.\nAt length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of\nElizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual\nway; and, after a moment s pause, added,--\n\n My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never\nhappened to see her there? \n\nShe was perfectly sensible that he never had: but she wished to see\nwhether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the\nBingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little confused as he\nanswered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The\nsubject was pursued no further, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went\naway.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n At Church \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam s manners were very much admired at the Parsonage,\nand the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure of\ntheir engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they\nreceived any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in the\nhouse they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,\nalmost a week after the gentlemen s arrival, that they were honoured by\nsuch an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to\ncome there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little\nof either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called\nat the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had\nonly seen at church.\n\nThe invitation was accepted, of course, and at a proper hour they joined\nthe party in Lady Catherine s drawing-room. Her Ladyship received them\ncivilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so\nacceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,\nalmost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,\nmuch more than to any other person in the room.\n\nColonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them: anything was a\nwelcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins s pretty friend had,\nmoreover, caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and\ntalked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying\nat home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so\nwell entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much\nspirit and flow as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as\nwell as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned\ntowards them with a look of curiosity; and that her Ladyship, after a\nwhile, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not\nscruple to call out,--\n\n What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking\nof? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is. \n\n We were talking of music, madam,  said he, when no longer able to avoid\na reply.\n\n Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I\nmust have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music.\nThere are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true\nenjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever\nlearnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her\nhealth had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have\nperformed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy? \n\nMr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister s proficiency.\n\n I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,  said Lady\nCatherine;  and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel,\nif she does not practise a great deal. \n\n I assure you, madam,  he replied,  that she does not need such advice.\nShe practises very constantly. \n\n So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write\nto her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often\ntell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired without\nconstant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will\nnever play really well, unless she practises more; and though Mrs.\nCollins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told\nher, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.\nJenkinson s room. She would be in nobody s way, you know, in that part\nof the house. \n\nMr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt s ill-breeding, and made\nno answer.\n\nWhen coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having\npromised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He\ndrew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then\ntalked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from\nher, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte,\nstationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer s\ncountenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first\nconvenient pause turned to him with an arch smile, and said,--\n\n You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear\nme. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister _does_ play so well.\nThere is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at\nthe will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to\nintimidate me. \n\n I shall not say that you are mistaken,  he replied,  because you could\nnot really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I\nhave had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you\nfind great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which, in fact,\nare not your own. \n\nElizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to\nColonel Fitzwilliam,  Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of\nme, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky\nin meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a\npart of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree\nof credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention\nall that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me\nleave to say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate,\nand such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear. \n\n I am not afraid of you,  said he, smilingly.\n\n Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,  cried Colonel\nFitzwilliam.  I should like to know how he behaves among strangers. \n\n You shall hear, then--but prepare for something very dreadful. The\nfirst time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at\na ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four\ndances! I am sorry to pain you, but so it was. He danced only four\ndances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more\nthan one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy,\nyou cannot deny the fact. \n\n I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly\nbeyond my own party. \n\n True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel\nFitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders. \n\n Perhaps,  said Darcy,  I should have judged better had I sought an\nintroduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers. \n\n Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?  said Elizabeth, still\naddressing Colonel Fitzwilliam.  Shall we ask him why a man of sense and\neducation, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend\nhimself to strangers? \n\n I can answer your question,  said Fitzwilliam,  without applying to\nhim. It is because he will not give himself the trouble. \n\n I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,  said Darcy,\n of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot\ncatch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their\nconcerns, as I often see done. \n\n My fingers,  said Elizabeth,  do not move over this instrument in the\nmasterly manner which I see so many women s do. They have not the same\nforce or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I\nhave always supposed it to be my own fault--because I would not take\nthe trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers\nas capable as any other woman s of superior execution. \n\nDarcy smiled and said,  You are perfectly right. You have employed your\ntime much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can\nthink anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers. \n\nHere they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know\nwhat they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.\nLady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said\nto Darcy,--\n\n Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and\ncould have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion\nof fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne s. Anne would have\nbeen a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn. \n\nElizabeth looked at Darcy, to see how cordially he assented to his\ncousin s praise: but neither at that moment nor at any other could she\ndiscern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss\nDe Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have\nbeen just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.\n\nLady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth s performance, mixing\nwith them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received\nthem with all the forbearance of civility; and at the request of the\ngentlemen remained at the instrument till her Ladyship s carriage was\nready to take them all home.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane,\nwhile Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,\nwhen she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a\nvisitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be\nLady Catherine; and under that apprehension was putting away her\nhalf-finished letter, that she might escape all impertinent questions,\nwhen the door opened, and to her very great surprise Mr. Darcy, and Mr.\nDarcy only, entered the room.\n\nHe seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologized for his\nintrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to\nbe within.\n\nThey then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made,\nseemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely\nnecessary, therefore, to think of something; and in this emergency\nrecollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling\ncurious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty\ndeparture, she observed,--\n\n How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!\nIt must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you\nall after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day\nbefore. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London? \n\n Perfectly so, I thank you. \n\nShe found that she was to receive no other answer; and, after a short\npause, added,--\n\n I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever\nreturning to Netherfield again? \n\n I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend\nvery little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is\nat a time of life when friends and engagements are continually\nincreasing. \n\n If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the\nneighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we\nmight possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did\nnot take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as\nfor his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same\nprinciple. \n\n I should not be surprised,  said Darcy,  if he were to give it up as\nsoon as any eligible purchase offers. \n\nElizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his\nfriend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the\ntrouble of finding a subject to him.\n\nHe took the hint and soon began with,  This seems a very comfortable\nhouse. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.\nCollins first came to Hunsford. \n\n I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her\nkindness on a more grateful object. \n\n Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife. \n\n Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of\nthe very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made\nhim happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though\nI am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest\nthing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however; and, in a\nprudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her. \n\n It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a\ndistance of her own family and friends. \n\n An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles. \n\n And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day s\njourney. Yes, I call it a very easy distance. \n\n I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_\nof the match,  cried Elizabeth.  I should never have said Mrs. Collins\nwas settled _near_ her family. \n\n It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond\nthe very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far. \n\nAs he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she\nunderstood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and\nNetherfield, and she blushed as she answered,--\n\n I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her\nfamily. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many\nvarying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expense of\ntravelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the\ncase _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not\nsuch a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my\nfriend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_\nthe present distance. \n\nMr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said,  _You_ cannot\nhave a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have\nbeen always at Longbourn. \n\nElizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of\nfeeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and,\nglancing over it, said, in a colder voice,--\n\n Are you pleased with Kent? \n\nA short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side\ncalm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte\nand her sister, just returned from their walk. The _t te- -t te_\nsurprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his\nintruding on Miss Bennet, and, after sitting a few minutes longer,\nwithout saying much to anybody, went away.\n\n[Illustration:  Accompanied by their aunt \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n What can be the meaning of this?  said Charlotte, as soon as he was\ngone.  My dear Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never\nhave called on us in this familiar way. \n\nBut when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,\neven to Charlotte s wishes, to be the case; and, after various\nconjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from\nthe difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable\nfrom the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there\nwas Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be\nalways within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the\npleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the\ntwo cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither\nalmost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes\nseparately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their\naunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he\nhad pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended\nhim still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in\nbeing with him, as well as by his evident admiration, of her former\nfavourite, George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there\nwas less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam s manners, she\nbelieved he might have the best informed mind.\n\nBut why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage it was more difficult\nto understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there\nten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it\nseemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to\npropriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really\nanimated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel\nFitzwilliam s occasionally laughing at his stupidity proved that he was\ngenerally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told\nher; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of\nlove, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself\nseriously to work to find it out: she watched him whenever they were at\nRosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He\ncertainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that\nlook was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often\ndoubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it\nseemed nothing but absence of mind.\n\nShe had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his\nbeing partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.\nCollins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of\nraising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her\nopinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend s dislike would\nvanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.\n\nIn her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying\nColonel Fitzwilliam. He was, beyond comparison, the pleasantest man: he\ncertainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,\nto counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage\nin the church, and his cousin could have none at all.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:  On looking up ]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMore than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,\nunexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the\nmischance that should bring him where no one else was brought; and, to\nprevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him, at first,\nthat it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time,\ntherefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even the third. It seemed like\nwilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance; for on these occasions it was\nnot merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away,\nbut he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He\nnever said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking\nor of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third\nencounter that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her\npleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her\nopinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins s happiness; and that in speaking of\nRosings, and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to\nexpect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying\n_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel\nFitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must\nmean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her\na little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the\npales opposite the Parsonage.\n\nShe was engaged one day, as she walked, in re-perusing Jane s last\nletter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not\nwritten in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy,\nshe saw, on looking up, that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her.\nPutting away the letter immediately, and forcing a smile, she said,--\n\n I did not know before that you ever walked this way. \n\n I have been making the tour of the park,  he replied,  as I generally\ndo every year, and intended to close it with a call at the Parsonage.\nAre you going much farther? \n\n No, I should have turned in a moment. \n\nAnd accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage\ntogether.\n\n Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?  said she.\n\n Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He\narranges the business just as he pleases. \n\n And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least\ngreat pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems\nmore to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy. \n\n He likes to have his own way very well,  replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.\n But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than\nmany others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak\nfeelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and\ndependence. \n\n In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of\neither. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and\ndependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going\nwherever you chose or procuring anything you had a fancy for? \n\n These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have\nexperienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater\nweight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry\nwhere they like. \n\n Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often\ndo. \n\n Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in\nmy rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to\nmoney. \n\n Is this,  thought Elizabeth,  meant for me?  and she coloured at the\nidea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone,  And pray, what is\nthe usual price of an earl s younger son? Unless the elder brother is\nvery sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds. \n\nHe answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt\na silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,\nshe soon afterwards said,--\n\n I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of\nhaving somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a\nlasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well\nfor the present; and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he\nlikes with her. \n\n No,  said Colonel Fitzwilliam,  that is an advantage which he must\ndivide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy. \n\n Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of a guardian do you make? Does\nyour charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes\na little difficult to manage; and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she\nmay like to have her own way. \n\nAs she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner\nin which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to\ngive them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other\ngot pretty near the truth. She directly replied,--\n\n You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare\nsay she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a\nvery great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and\nMiss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them. \n\n I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentlemanlike\nman--he is a great friend of Darcy s. \n\n Oh yes,  said Elizabeth drily-- Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.\nBingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him. \n\n Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in\nthose points where he most wants care. From something that he told me\nin our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted\nto him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose\nthat Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture. \n\n What is it you mean? \n\n It is a circumstance which Darcy of course could not wish to be\ngenerally known, because if it were to get round to the lady s family it\nwould be an unpleasant thing. \n\n You may depend upon my not mentioning it. \n\n And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be\nBingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself\non having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most\nimprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other\nparticulars; and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him\nthe kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from\nknowing them to have been together the whole of last summer. \n\n Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference? \n\n I understood that there were some very strong objections against the\nlady. \n\n And what arts did he use to separate them? \n\n He did not talk to me of his own arts,  said Fitzwilliam, smiling.  He\nonly told me what I have now told you. \n\nElizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with\nindignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she\nwas so thoughtful.\n\n I am thinking of what you have been telling me,  said she.  Your\ncousin s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the\njudge? \n\n You are rather disposed to call his interference officious? \n\n I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his\nfriend s inclination; or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to\ndetermine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy. But, \nshe continued, recollecting herself,  as we know none of the\nparticulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed\nthat there was much affection in the case. \n\n That is not an unnatural surmise,  said Fitzwilliam;  but it is\nlessening the honour of my cousin s triumph very sadly. \n\nThis was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of\nMr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and,\ntherefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent\nmatters till they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room,\nas soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption\nof all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other\npeople could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There\ncould not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have\nsuch boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures\ntaken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she\nhad always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and\narrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him,\n_he_ was the cause--his pride and caprice were the cause--of all that\nJane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a\nwhile every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart\nin the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have\ninflicted.\n\n There were some very strong objections against the lady,  were Colonel\nFitzwilliam s words; and these strong objections probably were, her\nhaving one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in\nbusiness in London.\n\n To Jane herself,  she exclaimed,  there could be no possibility of\nobjection,--all loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding\nexcellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could\nanything be urged against my father, who, though with some\npeculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain,\nand respectability which he will probably never reach.  When she thought\nof her mother, indeed, her confidence gave way a little; but she would\nnot allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr.\nDarcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from\nthe want of importance in his friend s connections than from their want\nof sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly\ngoverned by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of\nretaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.\n\nThe agitation and tears which the subject occasioned brought on a\nheadache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to\nher unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her\ncousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,\nseeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much\nas possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins\ncould not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine s being rather\ndispleased by her staying at home.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhen they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as\nmuch as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the\nexamination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her\nbeing in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any\nrevival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.\nBut in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that\ncheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which,\nproceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly\ndisposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth\nnoticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an\nattention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy s\nshameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a\nkeener sense of her sister s sufferings. It was some consolation to\nthink that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next,\nand a still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself be\nwith Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her\nspirits, by all that affection could do.\n\nShe could not think of Darcy s leaving Kent without remembering that his\ncousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear\nthat he had no intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not\nmean to be unhappy about him.\n\nWhile settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the\ndoor-bell; and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its\nbeing Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in\nthe evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But\nthis idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently\naffected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the\nroom. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her\nhealth, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.\nShe answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and\nthen getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but\nsaid not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her\nin an agitated manner, and thus began:--\n\n In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be\nrepressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love\nyou. \n\nElizabeth s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,\ndoubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,\nand the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately\nfollowed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the\nheart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of\ntenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a\ndegradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed\nto inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the\nconsequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his\nsuit.\n\nIn spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to\nthe compliment of such a man s affection, and though her intentions did\nnot vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to\nreceive; till roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost\nall compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to\nanswer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with\nrepresenting to her the strength of that attachment which in spite of\nall his endeavours he had found impossible to conquer; and with\nexpressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of\nhis hand. As he said this she could easily see that he had no doubt of a\nfavourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his\ncountenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only\nexasperate farther; and when he ceased the colour rose into her cheeks\nand she said,--\n\n In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to\nexpress a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however\nunequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be\nfelt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I\ncannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly\nbestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to\nanyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be\nof short duration. The feelings which you tell me have long prevented\nthe acknowledgment of your regard can have little difficulty in\novercoming it after this explanation. \n\nMr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his eyes fixed\non her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than\nsurprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of\nhis mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the\nappearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed\nhimself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth s feelings\ndreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,--\n\n And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I\nmight, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at\ncivility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance. \n\n I might as well inquire,  replied she,  why, with so evident a design\nof offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me\nagainst your will, against your reason, and even against your character?\nWas not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have\nother provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided\nagainst you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been\nfavourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept\nthe man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the\nhappiness of a most beloved sister? \n\nAs she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion\nwas short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she\ncontinued,--\n\n I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can\nexcuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,\nyou cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means\nof dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the\nworld for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for\ndisappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest\nkind. \n\nShe paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening\nwith an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.\nHe even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.\n\n Can you deny that you have done it?  she repeated.\n\nWith assumed tranquillity he then replied,  I have no wish of denying\nthat I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your\nsister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been\nkinder than towards myself. \n\nElizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,\nbut its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.\n\n But it is not merely this affair,  she continued,  on which my dislike\nis founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was\ndecided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received\nmany months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to\nsay? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?\nor under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others? \n\n You take an eager interest in that gentleman s concerns,  said Darcy,\nin a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.\n\n Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an\ninterest in him? \n\n His misfortunes!  repeated Darcy, contemptuously,-- yes, his\nmisfortunes have been great indeed. \n\n And of your infliction,  cried Elizabeth, with energy;  You have\nreduced him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You\nhave withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed\nfor him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that\nindependence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done\nall this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with\ncontempt and ridicule. \n\n And this,  cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,\n is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I\nthank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this\ncalculation, are heavy indeed! But, perhaps,  added he, stopping in his\nwalk, and turning towards her,  these offences might have been\noverlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the\nscruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These\nbitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater\npolicy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my\nbeing impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by\nreflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.\nNor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.\nCould you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your\nconnections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose\ncondition in life is so decidedly beneath my own? \n\nElizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to\nthe utmost to speak with composure when she said,--\n\n You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your\ndeclaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the\nconcern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a\nmore gentlemanlike manner. \n\nShe saw him start at this; but he said nothing, and she continued,--\n\n You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way\nthat would have tempted me to accept it. \n\nAgain his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an\nexpression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on,--\n\n From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my\nacquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest\nbelief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the\nfeelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of\ndisapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a\ndislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the\nlast man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry. \n\n You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your\nfeelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.\nForgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best\nwishes for your health and happiness. \n\nAnd with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him\nthe next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of\nher mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself,\nand, from actual weakness, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her\nastonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by\nevery review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from\nMr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for so many months!\nso much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections\nwhich had made him prevent his friend s marrying her sister, and which\nmust appear at least with equal force in his own case, was almost\nincredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong\nan affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his shameless avowal\nof what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in\nacknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner\nwhich he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not\nattempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his\nattachment had for a moment excited.\n\nShe continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady\nCatherine s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter\nCharlotte s observation, and hurried her away to her room.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n Hearing herself called \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations\nwhich had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the\nsurprise of what had happened: it was impossible to think of anything\nelse; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after\nbreakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding\ndirectly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy s\nsometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,\nshe turned up the lane which led her farther from the turnpike road. The\npark paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one\nof the gates into the ground.\n\nAfter walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was\ntempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and\nlook into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had\nmade a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the\nverdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her\nwalk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove\nwhich edged the park: he was moving that way; and fearful of its being\nMr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was\nnow near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness,\npronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called,\nthough in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again\ntowards the gate. He had by that time reached it also; and, holding out\na letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty\ncomposure,  I have been walking in the grove some time, in the hope of\nmeeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?  and\nthen, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon\nout of sight.\n\nWith no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,\nElizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder,\nperceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written\nquite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise\nfull. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated\nfrom Rosings, at eight o clock in the morning, and was as follows:--\n\n Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of\nits containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those\noffers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any\nintention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes,\nwhich, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the\neffort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion,\nshould have been spared, had not my character required it to be written\nand read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand\nyour attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I\ndemand it of your justice.\n\n Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal\nmagnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,\nthat, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley\nfrom your sister,--and the other, that I had, in defiance of various\nclaims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate\nprosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and\nwantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged\nfavourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other\ndependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect\nits exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young\npersons whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could\nbear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last\nnight so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope\nto be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and\ntheir motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them which is due\nto myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be\noffensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must\nbe obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not been long in\nHertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley\npreferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But\nit was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any\napprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him\nin love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with\nyou, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas s accidental\ninformation, that Bingley s attentions to your sister had given rise to\na general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain\nevent, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I\nobserved my friend s behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive\nthat his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed\nin him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open,\ncheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar\nregard; and I remained convinced, from the evening s scrutiny, that\nthough she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite\nthem by any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken\nhere, _I_ must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your\nsister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled\nby such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been\nunreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of\nyour sister s countenance and air was such as might have given the most\nacute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart\nwas not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing\nher indifferent is certain; but I will venture to say that my\ninvestigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or\nfears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I\nbelieved it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.\nMy objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night\nacknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside\nin my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to\nmy friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; causes\nwhich, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both\ninstances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not\nimmediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The\nsituation of your mother s family, though objectionable, was nothing in\ncomparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost\nuniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and\noccasionally even by your father:--pardon me,--it pains me to offend\nyou. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations,\nand your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you\nconsolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid\nany share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on\nyou and your eldest sister than it is honourable to the sense and\ndisposition of both. I will only say, farther, that from what passed\nthat evening my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every\ninducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my\nfriend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left\nNetherfield for London on the day following, as you, I am certain,\nremember, with the design of soon returning. The part which I acted is\nnow to be explained. His sisters  uneasiness had been equally excited\nwith my own: our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike\nsensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we\nshortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly\nwent--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my\nfriend the certain evils of such a choice. I described and enforced them\nearnestly. But however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed\nhis determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have\nprevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which\nI hesitated not in giving, of your sister s indifference. He had before\nbelieved her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal,\nregard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger\ndependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore,\nthat he had deceived himself was no very difficult point. To persuade\nhim against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been\ngiven, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for\nhaving done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct, in the whole\naffair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I\ncondescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him\nyour sister s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss\nBingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might\nhave met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable; but his regard\ndid not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some\ndanger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. It is\ndone, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have\nnothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your\nsister s feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which\ngoverned me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not\nyet learnt to condemn them.--With respect to that other, more weighty\naccusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by\nlaying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he\nhas _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I\nshall relate I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.\nMr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years\nthe management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in\nthe discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service\nto him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was\ntherefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and\nafterwards at Cambridge; most important assistance, as his own father,\nalways poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to\ngive him a gentleman s education. My father was not only fond of this\nyoung man s society, whose manners were always engaging, he had also the\nhighest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession,\nintended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years\nsince I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The\nvicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to\nguard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the\nobservation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who\nhad opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy\ncould not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree you\nonly can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has\ncreated, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding\nhis real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father\ndied about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the\nlast so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to\npromote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might\nallow, and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living\nmight be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of\none thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine; and\nwithin half a year from these events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me\nthat, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should\nnot think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate\npecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be\nbenefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I\nmust be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very\ninsufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be\nsincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his\nproposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The\nbusiness was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance\nin the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to\nreceive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection\nbetween us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him\nto Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I believe, he\nchiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence; and being\nnow free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and\ndissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the\ndecease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him,\nhe applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His\ncircumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it,\nwere exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,\nand was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present\nhim to the living in question--of which he trusted there could be little\ndoubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for,\nand I could not have forgotten my revered father s intentions. You will\nhardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for\nresisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to\nthe distress of his circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in\nhis abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this\nperiod, every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived, I\nknow not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my\nnotice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget\nmyself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me\nto unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of\nyour secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left\nto the guardianship of my mother s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and\nmyself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an\nestablishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with\nthe lady who presided over it to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr.\nWickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior\nacquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were\nmost unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so far\nrecommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a\nstrong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was\npersuaded to believe herself in love and to consent to an elopement. She\nwas then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her\nimprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to\nherself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended\nelopement; and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving\nand offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father,\nacknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I\nacted. Regard for my sister s credit and feelings prevented any public\nexposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately,\nand Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham s\nchief object was unquestionably my sister s fortune, which is thirty\nthousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging\nhimself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been\ncomplete indeed. This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in\nwhich we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely\nreject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty\ntowards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of\nfalsehood, he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be\nwondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning\neither. Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly\nnot in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not\ntold you last night. But I was not then master enough of myself to know\nwhat could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here\nrelated, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel\nFitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and\nstill more as one of the executors of my father s will, has been\nunavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If\nyour abhorrence of _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you\ncannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and\nthat there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour\nto find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the\ncourse of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.\n\n FITZWILLIAM DARCY. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to\ncontain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of\nits contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly\nshe went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.\nHer feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did\nshe first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;\nand steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to\ngive, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong\nprejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of\nwhat had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which\nhardly left her power of comprehension; and from impatience of knowing\nwhat the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the\nsense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister s\ninsensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the\nreal, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any\nwish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done\nwhich satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all\npride and insolence.\n\nBut when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when\nshe read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events which,\nif true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which\nbore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her feelings\nwere yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.\nAstonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished\nto discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming,  This must be false!\nThis cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood! --and when she had\ngone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the\nlast page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not\nregard it, that she would never look in it again.\n\nIn this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on\nnothing, she walked on; but it would not do: in half a minute the letter\nwas unfolded again; and collecting herself as well as she could, she\nagain began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and\ncommanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.\nThe account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly\nwhat he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy,\nthough she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his\nown words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to\nthe will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living\nwas fresh in her memory; and as she recalled his very words, it was\nimpossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the\nother, and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did\nnot err. But when she read and re-read, with the closest attention, the\nparticulars immediately following of Wickham s resigning all pretensions\nto the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three\nthousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the\nletter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be\nimpartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with\nlittle success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on.\nBut every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had\nbelieved it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to\nrender Mr. Darcy s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a\nturn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.\n\nThe extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to\nMr. Wickham s charge exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could\nbring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his\nentrance into the ----shire militia, in which he had engaged at the\npersuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town,\nhad there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life,\nnothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Meeting accidentally in Town \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nhimself. As to his real character, had information been in her power,\nshe had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and\nmanner, had established him at once in the possession of every virtue.\nShe tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished\ntrait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the\nattacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone\nfor those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class what\nMr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years \ncontinuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him\ninstantly before her, in every charm of air and address, but she could\nremember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the\nneighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in\nthe mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once\nmore continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his\ndesigns on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed\nbetween Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at\nlast she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel\nFitzwilliam himself--from whom she had previously received the\ninformation of his near concern in all his cousin s affairs and whose\ncharacter she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost\nresolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness\nof the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that\nMr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been\nwell assured of his cousin s corroboration.\n\nShe perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation\nbetween Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips s.\nMany of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_\nstruck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and\nwondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting\nhimself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions\nwith his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear\nof seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that\n_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball\nthe very next week. She remembered, also, that till the Netherfield\nfamily had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but\nherself; but that after their removal, it had been everywhere discussed;\nthat he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy s\ncharacter, though he had assured her that respect for the father would\nalways prevent his exposing the son.\n\nHow differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His\nattentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and\nhatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer\nthe moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.\nHis behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive: he had\neither been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying\nhis vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most\nincautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter\nand fainter; and in further justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not\nbut allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago\nasserted his blamelessness in the affair;--that, proud and repulsive as\nwere his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their\nacquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much\ntogether, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything\nthat betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him\nof irreligious or immoral habits;--that among his own connections he was\nesteemed and valued;--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a\nbrother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his\nsister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling;--that had his\nactions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of\neverything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and\nthat friendship between a person capable of it and such an amiable man\nas Mr. Bingley was incomprehensible.\n\nShe grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham\ncould she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial,\nprejudiced, absurd.\n\n How despicably have I acted!  she cried.  I, who have prided myself on\nmy discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have\noften disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my\nvanity in useless or blameless distrust. How humiliating is this\ndiscovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not\nhave been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my\nfolly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect\nof the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted\nprepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away where either were\nconcerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself. \n\nFrom herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line\nwhich soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy s explanation\n_there_ had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely\ndifferent was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that\ncredit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to\ngive in the other? He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious\nof her sister s attachment; and she could not help remembering what\nCharlotte s opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice\nof his description of Jane. She felt that Jane s feelings, though\nfervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant\ncomplacency in her air and manner, not often united with great\nsensibility.\n\nWhen she came to that part of the letter in which her family were\nmentioned, in tones of such mortifying, yet merited, reproach, her sense\nof shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly\nfor denial; and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as\nhaving passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first\ndisapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind\nthan on hers.\n\nThe compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but\nit could not console her for the contempt which had been thus\nself-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that\nJane s disappointment had, in fact, been the work of her nearest\nrelations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt\nby such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she\nhad ever known before.\n\nAfter wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every\nvariety of thought, reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and\nreconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so\nimportant, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at\nlength return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing\ncheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as\nmust make her unfit for conversation.\n\nShe was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each\ncalled during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take\nleave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least\nan hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her\ntill she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in\nmissing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no\nlonger an object. She could think only of her letter.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n His parting obeisance \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having\nbeen in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was\nable to bring home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very\ngood health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the\nmelancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then\nhastened to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return\nbrought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her Ladyship,\nimporting that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of\nhaving them all to dine with her.\n\nElizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had\nshe chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her\nfuture niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her\nLadyship s indignation would have been.  What would she have said? how\nwould she have behaved?  were the questions with which she amused\nherself.\n\nTheir first subject was the diminution of the Rosings  party.  I assure\nyou, I feel it exceedingly,  said Lady Catherine;  I believe nobody\nfeels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly\nattached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to me!\nThey were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear\nColonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy\nseemed to feel it most acutely--more, I think, than last year. His\nattachment to Rosings certainly increases. \n\nMr. Collins had a compliment and an allusion to throw in here, which\nwere kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.\n\nLady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of\nspirits; and immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that\nshe did not like to go home again so soon, she added,--\n\n But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you\nmay stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your\ncompany, I am sure. \n\n I am much obliged to your Ladyship for your kind invitation,  replied\nElizabeth;  but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town\nnext Saturday. \n\n Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected\nyou to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There\ncan be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly\nspare you for another fortnight. \n\n But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n Dawson \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n Oh, your father, of course, may spare you, if your mother can.\nDaughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will\nstay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you\nas far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and\nas Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good\nroom for one of you--and, indeed, if the weather should happen to be\ncool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you\nlarge. \n\n You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our\noriginal plan. \n\nLady Catherine seemed resigned.  Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant\nwith them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea\nof two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.\nYou must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the\nworld to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly\nguarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my\nniece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her\nhaving two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr.\nDarcy of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with\npropriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those\nthings. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am\nglad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be\ndiscreditable to _you_ to let them go alone. \n\n My uncle is to send a servant for us. \n\n Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you\nhave somebody who thinks of those things. Where shall you change horses?\nOh, Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be\nattended to. \n\nLady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey;\nand as she did not answer them all herself attention was\nnecessary--which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a\nmind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection\nmust be reserved for solitary hours: whenever she was alone, she gave\nway to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a\nsolitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of\nunpleasant recollections.\n\nMr. Darcy s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She\nstudied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at\ntimes widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,\nshe was still full of indignation: but when she considered how unjustly\nshe had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against\nherself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.\nHis attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect: but she\ncould not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or\nfeel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past\nbehaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret: and in\nthe unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin.\nThey were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at\nthem, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his\nyoungest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right\nherself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently\nunited with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine\nand Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother s indulgence,\nwhat chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,\nirritable, and completely under Lydia s guidance, had been always\naffronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would\nscarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While\nthere was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while\nMeryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there for\never.\n\nAnxiety on Jane s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy s\nexplanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,\nheightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to\nhave been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any\ncould attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How\ngrievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every\nrespect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had\nbeen deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!\n\nWhen to these recollections was added the development of Wickham s\ncharacter, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had\nseldom been depressed before were now so much affected as to make it\nalmost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.\n\nTheir engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of\nher stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent\nthere; and her Ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of\ntheir journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,\nand was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right\nway, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the\nwork of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.\n\nWhen they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them\na good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;\nand Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to courtesy and hold out\nher hand to both.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n The elevation of his feelings. \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOn Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few\nminutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of\npaying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.\n\n I know not, Miss Elizabeth,  said he,  whether Mrs. Collins has yet\nexpressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very\ncertain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for\nit. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know\nhow little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain\nmanner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we\nsee of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like\nyourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,\nand that we have done everything in our power to prevent you spending\nyour time unpleasantly. \n\nElizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had\nspent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with\nCharlotte, and the kind attention she had received, must make _her_ feel\nthe obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling\nsolemnity replied,--\n\n It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your\ntime not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most\nfortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior\nsociety, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of\nvarying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that\nyour Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation\nwith regard to Lady Catherine s family is, indeed, the sort of\nextraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on\nwhat a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In\ntruth, I must acknowledge, that, with all the disadvantages of this\nhumble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of\ncompassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings. \n\nWords were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was\nobliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility\nand truth in a few short sentences.\n\n You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into\nHertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself, at least, that you will\nbe able to do so. Lady Catherine s great attentions to Mrs. Collins you\nhave been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear\nthat your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be\nas well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,\nthat I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in\nmarriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of\nthinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of\ncharacter and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each\nother. \n\nElizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was\nthe case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed\nand rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to\nhave the recital of them interrupted by the entrance of the lady from\nwhom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such\nsociety! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently\nregretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for\ncompassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry,\nand all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.\n\nAt length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels\nplaced within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate\nparting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by\nMr. Collins; and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning\nher with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks\nfor the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his\ncompliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed\nher in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed,\nwhen he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had\nhitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of Rosings.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n They had forgotten to leave any message \n]\n\n But,  he added,  you will of course wish to have your humble respects\ndelivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you\nwhile you have been here. \n\nElizabeth made no objection: the door was then allowed to be shut, and\nthe carriage drove off.\n\n Good gracious!  cried Maria, after a few minutes  silence,  it seems\nbut a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have\nhappened! \n\n A great many indeed,  said her companion, with a sigh.\n\n We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!\nHow much I shall have to tell! \n\nElizabeth privately added,  And how much I shall have to conceal! \n\nTheir journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and\nwithin four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner s\nhouse, where they were to remain a few days.\n\nJane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her\nspirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt\nhad reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at\nLongbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.\n\nIt was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for\nLongbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy s proposals. To know\nthat she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish\nJane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own\nvanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation\nto openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision\nin which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate,\nand her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into\nrepeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister\nfurther.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      How nicely we are crammed in \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIt was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out\ntogether from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire;\nand, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet s carriage was\nto meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman s\npunctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs.\nThese two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed\nin visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and\ndressing a salad and cucumber.\n\nAfter welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set\nout with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,\n Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise? \n\n And we mean to treat you all,  added Lydia;  but you must lend us the\nmoney, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.  Then showing\nher purchases,-- Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it\nis very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall\npull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any\nbetter. \n\nAnd when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect\nunconcern,  Oh, but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and\nwhen I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I\nthink it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what\none wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they\nare going in a fortnight. \n\n Are they, indeed?  cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.\n\n They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to\ntake us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme,\nand I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to\ngo, too, of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall\nhave! \n\n Yes,  thought Elizabeth;  _that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed,\nand completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton and a whole\ncampful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor\nregiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton! \n\n Now I have got some news for you,  said Lydia, as they sat down to\ntable.  What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about\na certain person that we all like. \n\nJane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he\nneed not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,--\n\n Ay, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the\nwaiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse\nthings said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad\nhe is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for\nmy news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it?\nThere is no danger of Wickham s marrying Mary King--there s for you! She\nis gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe. \n\n And Mary King is safe!  added Elizabeth;  safe from a connection\nimprudent as to fortune. \n\n She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him. \n\n But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,  said Jane.\n\n I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared\nthree straws about her. Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled\nthing? \n\nElizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such\ncoarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_\nwas little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied\nliberal!\n\nAs soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was\nordered; and, after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their\nboxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty s and\nLydia s purchases, were seated in it.\n\n How nicely we are crammed in!  cried Lydia.  I am glad I brought my\nbonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another band-box! Well, now\nlet us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way\nhome. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all\nsince you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any\nflirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband\nbefore you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.\nShe is almost three-and-twenty! Lord! how ashamed I should be of not\nbeing married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to\nget husbands you can t think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.\nCollins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!\nhow I should like to be married before any of you! and then I would\n_chaperon_ you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece\nof fun the other day at Colonel Forster s! Kitty and me were to spend\nthe day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the\nevening; (by-the-bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so\nshe asked the two Harringtons to come: but Harriet was ill, and so Pen\nwas forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We\ndressed up Chamberlayne in woman s clothes, on purpose to pass for a\nlady,--only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.\nForster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow\none of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,\nand Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they\ndid not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.\nForster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect\nsomething, and then they soon found out what was the matter. \n\nWith such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes did Lydia,\nassisted by Kitty s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her\ncompanions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she\ncould, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham s name.\n\nTheir reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane\nin undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet\nsay voluntarily to Elizabeth,----\n\n I am glad you are come back, Lizzy. \n\nTheir party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases\ncame to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects\nwhich occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, across the\ntable, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet\nwas doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present\nfashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other,\nretailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice\nrather louder than any other person s, was enumerating the various\npleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her.\n\n Oh, Mary,  said she,  I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!\nas we went along Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended\nthere was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if\nKitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we\nbehaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest\ncold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have\ntreated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought\nwe never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter.\nAnd then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so\nloud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off! \n\nTo this, Mary very gravely replied,  Far be it from me, my dear sister,\nto depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the\ngenerality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for\n_me_. I should infinitely prefer a book. \n\nBut of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to\nanybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.\n\nIn the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to\nMeryton, and see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed\nthe scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at\nhome half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was\nanother reason, too, for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham\nagain, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to\n_her_, of the regiment s approaching removal, was indeed beyond\nexpression. In a fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped\nthere could be nothing more to plague her on his account.\n\nShe had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton\nscheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under\nfrequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her\nfather had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were\nat the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often\ndisheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no\nlonger be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular\nin which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised,\nshe related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr.\nDarcy and herself.\n\nMiss Bennet s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly\npartiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly\nnatural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was\nsorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so\nlittle suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the\nunhappiness which her sister s refusal must have given him.\n\n His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,  said she,  and certainly\nought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his\ndisappointment. \n\n Indeed,  replied Elizabeth,  I am heartily sorry for him; but he has\nother feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.\nYou do not blame me, however, for refusing him? \n\n Blame you! Oh, no. \n\n But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham? \n\n No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did. \n\n But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very\nnext day. \n\nShe then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far\nas they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane,\nwho would willingly have gone through the world without believing that\nso much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind as was here\ncollected in one individual! Nor was Darcy s vindication, though\ngrateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.\nMost earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and\nseek to clear one, without involving the other.\n\n This will not do,  said Elizabeth;  you never will be able to make both\nof them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied\nwith only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just\nenough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting\nabout pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr.\nDarcy s, but you shall do as you choose. \n\nIt was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.\n\n I do not know when I have been more shocked,  said she.  Wickham so\nvery bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy,\nonly consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and\nwith the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a\nthing of his sister! It is really too distressing, I am sure you must\nfeel it so. \n\n Oh no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full\nof both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing\nevery moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me\nsaving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as\nlight as a feather. \n\n Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his\ncountenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner. \n\n There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those\ntwo young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the\nappearance of it. \n\n I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you\nused to do. \n\n And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike\nto him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one s genius, such an\nopening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually\nabusive without saying anything just; but one cannot be always laughing\nat a man without now and then stumbling on something witty. \n\n Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat\nthe matter as you do now. \n\n Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I was very\nuncomfortable--I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I\nfelt, no Jane to comfort me, and say that I had not been so very weak,\nand vain, and nonsensical, as I knew I had! Oh, how I wanted you! \n\n How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions\nin speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly\nundeserved. \n\n Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most\nnatural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is\none point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I\nought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand\nWickham s character. \n\nMiss Bennet paused a little, and then replied,  Surely there can be no\noccasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion? \n\n That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to\nmake his communication public. On the contrary, every particular\nrelative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to\nmyself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his\nconduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is\nso violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in\nMeryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to\nit. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore, it will not signify to\nanybody here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found\nout, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before.\nAt present I will say nothing about it. \n\n You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for\never. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to\nre-establish a character. We must not make him desperate. \n\nThe tumult of Elizabeth s mind was allayed by this conversation. She\nhad got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a\nfortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she\nmight wish to talk again of either. But there was still something\nlurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not\nrelate the other half of Mr. Darcy s letter, nor explain to her sister\nhow sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in\nwhich no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than\na perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in\nthrowing off this last encumbrance of mystery.  And then,  said she,  if\nthat very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be\nable to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner\nhimself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost\nall its value! \n\nShe was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real\nstate of her sister s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a\nvery tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in\nlove before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from\nher age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often\nboast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to\nevery other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the\nfeelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those\nregrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their\ntranquillity.\n\n Well, Lizzy,  said Mrs. Bennet, one day,  what is your opinion _now_ of\nthis sad business of Jane s? For my part, I am determined never to speak\nof it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I\ncannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a\nvery undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least\nchance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his\ncoming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of\neverybody, too, who is likely to know. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n      I am determined never to speak of it again \n]\n\n I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more. \n\n Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come; though I\nshall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and, if I was\nher, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure\nJane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he\nhas done. \n\nBut as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation she\nmade no answer.\n\n Well, Lizzy,  continued her mother, soon afterwards,  and so the\nCollinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it\nwill last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an\nexcellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother,\nshe is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_\nhousekeeping, I dare say. \n\n No, nothing at all. \n\n A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will\ntake care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed\nfor money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often\ntalk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it\nquite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens. \n\n It was a subject which they could not mention before me. \n\n No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt they\noften talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an\nestate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be\nashamed of having one that was only entailed on me. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n When Colonel Miller s regiment went away \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was\nthe last of the regiment s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in\nthe neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost\nuniversal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,\nand sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very\nfrequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and\nLydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such\nhard-heartedness in any of the family.\n\n Good Heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do?  would they\noften exclaim in the bitterness of woe.  How can you be smiling so,\nLizzy? \n\nTheir affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what\nshe had herself endured on a similar occasion five-and-twenty years ago.\n\n I am sure,  said she,  I cried for two days together when Colonel\nMiller s regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart. \n\n I am sure I shall break _mine_,  said Lydia.\n\n If one could but go to Brighton!  observed Mrs. Bennet.\n\n Oh yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable. \n\n A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever. \n\n And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good, \nadded Kitty.\n\nSuch were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through\nLongbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense\nof pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy s\nobjections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his\ninterference in the views of his friend.\n\nBut the gloom of Lydia s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she\nreceived an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the\nregiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a\nvery young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good-humour\nand good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of\ntheir _three_ months  acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.\n\nThe rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,\nthe delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely\nto be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister s feelings, Lydia flew\nabout the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone s\ncongratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;\nwhilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate\nin terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.\n\n I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia, \nsaid she,  though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much\nright to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older. \n\nIn vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make\nher resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from\nexciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she\nconsidered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense\nfor the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her, were it\nknown, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her\ngo. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia s general\nbehaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of\nsuch a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more\nimprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must\nbe greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,--\n\n Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public\nplace or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little\nexpense or inconvenience to her family as under the present\ncircumstances. \n\n If you were aware,  said Elizabeth,  of the very great disadvantage to\nus all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia s unguarded and\nimprudent manner, nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you\nwould judge differently in the affair. \n\n Already arisen!  repeated Mr. Bennet.  What! has she frightened away\nsome of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such\nsqueamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity\nare not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows\nwho have been kept aloof by Lydia s folly. \n\n Indeed, you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not\nof peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our\nimportance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the\nwild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark\nLydia s character. Excuse me,--for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear\nfather, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and\nof teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of\nher life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character\nwill be fixed; and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt\nthat ever made herself and her family ridiculous;--a flirt, too, in the\nworst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond\nyouth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of\nher mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal\ncontempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty\nis also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,\nignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh, my dear father, can you\nsuppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever\nthey are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the\ndisgrace? \n\nMr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and,\naffectionately taking her hand, said, in reply,--\n\n Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known,\nyou must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less\nadvantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly\nsisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to\nBrighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will\nkeep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an\nobject of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance\neven as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find\nwomen better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being\nthere may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow\nmany degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest\nof her life. \n\nWith this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion\ncontinued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not\nin her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them.\nShe was confident of having performed her duty; and to fret over\nunavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her\ndisposition.\n\nHad Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her\nfather, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their\nunited volubility. In Lydia s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised\nevery possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye\nof fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.\nShe saw herself the object of attention to tens and to scores of them at\npresent unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp: its tents\nstretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young\nand the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she\nsaw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six\nofficers at once.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n Tenderly flirting \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nHad she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and\nsuch realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could\nhave been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the\nsame. Lydia s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the\nmelancholy conviction of her husband s never intending to go there\nhimself.\n\nBut they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures\ncontinued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia s leaving\nhome.\n\nElizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been\nfrequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty\nwell over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even\nlearnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her,\nan affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present\nbehaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure;\nfor the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which\nhad marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after\nwhat had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in\nfinding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous\ngallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the\nreproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever\ncause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified,\nand her preference secured, at any time, by their renewal.\n\nOn the very last day of the regiment s remaining in Meryton, he dined,\nwith others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth\ndisposed to part from him in good-humour, that, on his making some\ninquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she\nmentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam s and Mr. Darcy s having both spent three\nweeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former.\n\nHe looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but, with a moment s\nrecollection, and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen\nhim often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man,\nasked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.\nWith an air of indifference, he soon afterwards added,  How long did you\nsay that he was at Rosings? \n\n Nearly three weeks. \n\n And you saw him frequently? \n\n Yes, almost every day. \n\n His manners are very different from his cousin s. \n\n Yes, very different; but I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance. \n\n Indeed!  cried Wickham, with a look which did not escape her.  And pray\nmay I ask--  but checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone,  Is it in\naddress that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his\nordinary style? for I dare not hope,  he continued, in a lower and more\nserious tone,  that he is improved in essentials. \n\n Oh, no!  said Elizabeth.  In essentials, I believe, he is very much\nwhat he ever was. \n\nWhile she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to\nrejoice over her words or to distrust their meaning. There was a\nsomething in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive\nand anxious attention, while she added,--\n\n When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that\neither his mind or manners were in a state of improvement; but that,\nfrom knowing him better, his disposition was better understood. \n\nWickham s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated\nlook; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his\nembarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of\naccents,--\n\n You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily\ncomprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume\neven the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,\nmay be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter\nhim from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that\nthe sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is\nmerely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and\njudgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I\nknow, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his\nwish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he\nhas very much at heart. \n\nElizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a\nslight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on\nthe old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge\nhim. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side,\nof usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish\nElizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a\nmutual desire of never meeting again.\n\nWhen the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,\nfrom whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation\nbetween her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the\nonly one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.\nBennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,\nand impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the\nopportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible,--advice which there\nwas every reason to believe would be attended to; and, in the clamorous\nhappiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus\nof her sisters were uttered without being heard.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\nThe arrival of the\nGardiners\n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nHad Elizabeth s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could\nnot have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic\ncomfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance\nof good-humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a\nwoman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in\ntheir marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,\nesteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of\ndomestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a\ndisposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own\nimprudence had brought on in any of those pleasures which too often\nconsole the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of\nthe country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal\nenjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted than as\nher ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not\nthe sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his\nwife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true\nphilosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.\n\nElizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her\nfather s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but\nrespecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of\nherself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to\nbanish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation\nand decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own\nchildren, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so\nstrongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so\nunsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising\nfrom so ill-judged a direction of talents--talents which, rightly used,\nmight at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even\nif incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.\n\nWhen Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham s departure, she found little\nother cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties\nabroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and\nsister, whose constant repinings at the dulness of everything around\nthem threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty\nmight in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers\nof her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition\ngreater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her\nfolly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a\nwatering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what\nhas been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked\nforward with impatient desire, did not, in taking place, bring all the\nsatisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to\nname some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have\nsome other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by\nagain enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the\npresent, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes\nwas now the object of her happiest thoughts: it was her best consolation\nfor all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother\nand Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the\nscheme, every part of it would have been perfect.\n\n But it is fortunate,  thought she,  that I have something to wish for.\nWere the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.\nBut here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my\nsister s absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of\npleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight can\nnever be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by\nthe defence of some little peculiar vexation. \n\nWhen Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely\nto her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and\nalways very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that\nthey were just returned from the library, where such and such officers\nhad attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as\nmade her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which\nshe would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a\nviolent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the\ncamp; and from her correspondence with her sister there was still less\nto be learnt, for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much\ntoo full of lines under the words to be made public.\n\nAfter the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health,\ngood-humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything\nwore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter\ncame back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs.\nBennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and by the middle\nof June Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton\nwithout tears,--an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth\nhope, that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably\nreasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by\nsome cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment\nshould be quartered in Meryton.\n\nThe time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast\napproaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter\narrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and\ncurtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from\nsetting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again\nwithin a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so\nfar, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with\nthe leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up\nthe Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the\npresent plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that\ncounty there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three\nweeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The\ntown where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where\nthey were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of\nher curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,\nDovedale, or the Peak.\n\nElizabeth was excessively disappointed: she had set her heart on seeing\nthe Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it\nwas her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;\nand all was soon right again.\n\nWith the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was\nimpossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its\nowner.  But surely,  said she,  I may enter his county with impunity,\nand rob it of a few petrified spars, without his perceiving me. \n\nThe period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away\nbefore her uncle and aunt s arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and\nMrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at\nLongbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two\nyounger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin\nJane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and\nsweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every\nway--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.\n\nThe Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next\nmorning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One\nenjoyment was certain--that of suitableness as companions; a\nsuitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear\ninconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection\nand intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were\ndisappointments abroad.\n\nIt is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,\nnor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither\nlay--Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc., are\nsufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present\nconcern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner s\nformer residence, and where she had lately learned that some\nacquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen\nall the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of\nLambton, Elizabeth found, from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It\nwas not in their direct road; nor more than a mile or two out of it. In\ntalking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an\ninclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his\nwillingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.\n\n My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so\nmuch?  said her aunt.  A place, too, with which so many of your\nacquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you\nknow. \n\nElizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at\nPemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She\nmust own that she was tired of great houses: after going over so many,\nshe really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.\n\nMrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity.  If it were merely a fine house\nrichly furnished,  said she,  I should not care about it myself; but the\ngrounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the\ncountry. \n\nElizabeth said no more; but her mind could not acquiesce. The\npossibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly\noccurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and\nthought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run such\na risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved\nthat it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries as to the\nabsence of the family were unfavourably answered.\n\nAccordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid\nwhether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its\nproprietor, and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for\nthe summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question; and her\nalarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of\ncuriosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the\nnext morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and\nwith a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike\nto the scheme.\n\nTo Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Conjecturing as to the date \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of\nPemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned\nin at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.\n\nThe park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They\nentered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through\na beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.\n\nElizabeth s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired\nevery remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for\nhalf a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable\neminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by\nPemberley House, situated on the opposite side of the valley, into which\nthe road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone\nbuilding, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high\nwoody hills; and in front a stream of some natural importance was\nswelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks\nwere neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She\nhad never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural\nbeauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were\nall of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that\nto be mistress of Pemberley might be something!\n\nThey descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,\nwhile examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of\nmeeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been\nmistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the\nhall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to\nwonder at her being where she was.\n\nThe housekeeper came; a respectable looking elderly woman, much less\nfine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They\nfollowed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned\nroom, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went\nto a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from\nwhich they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the\ndistance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was\ngood; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered\non its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace\nit, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were\ntaking different positions; but from every window there were beauties\nto be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture\nsuitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with\nadmiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly\nfine,--with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the\nfurniture of Rosings.\n\n And of this place,  thought she,  I might have been mistress! With\nthese rooms I might have now been familiarly acquainted! Instead of\nviewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and\nwelcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But, no,  recollecting\nherself,  that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to\nme; I should not have been allowed to invite them. \n\nThis was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret.\n\nShe longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master were really\nabsent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was\nasked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds\nreplied, that he was; adding,  But we expect him to-morrow, with a large\nparty of friends.  How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had\nnot by any circumstance been delayed a day!\n\nHer aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw\nthe likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other\nminiatures, over the mantel-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how\nshe liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the\npicture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master s steward, who\nhad been brought up by him at his own expense.  He is now gone into the\narmy,  she added;  but I am afraid he has turned out very wild. \n\nMrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not\nreturn it.\n\n And that,  said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,\n is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the\nother--about eight years ago. \n\n I have heard much of your master s fine person,  said Mrs. Gardiner,\nlooking at the picture;  it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell\nus whether it is like or not. \n\nMrs. Reynolds  respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this\nintimation of her knowing her master.\n\n Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy? \n\nElizabeth coloured, and said,  A little. \n\n And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma am? \n\n Yes, very handsome. \n\n I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you\nwill see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late\nmaster s favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to\nbe then. He was very fond of them. \n\nThis accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham s being among them.\n\nMrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn\nwhen she was only eight years old.\n\n And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?  said Mr. Gardiner.\n\n Oh, yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so\naccomplished! She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a\nnew instrument just come down for her--a present from my master: she\ncomes here to-morrow with him. \n\nMr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her\ncommunicativeness by his questions and remarks: Mrs. Reynolds, either\nfrom pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her\nmaster and his sister.\n\n Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year? \n\n Not so much as I could wish, sir: but I dare say he may spend half his\ntime here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months. \n\n Except,  thought Elizabeth,  when she goes to Ramsgate. \n\n If your master would marry, you might see more of him. \n\n Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is\ngood enough for him. \n\nMr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying,  It is\nvery much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so. \n\n I say no more than the truth, and what everybody will say that knows\nhim,  replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far;\nand she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added,\n I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him\never since he was four years old. \n\nThis was praise of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her\nideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.\nHer keenest attention was awakened: she longed to hear more; and was\ngrateful to her uncle for saying,--\n\n There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in\nhaving such a master. \n\n Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not\nmeet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are\ngood-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he\nwas always the sweetest tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the\nworld. \n\nElizabeth almost stared at her.  Can this be Mr. Darcy?  thought she.\n\n His father was an excellent man,  said Mrs. Gardiner.\n\n Yes, ma am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just\nas affable to the poor. \n\nElizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.\nReynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects\nof the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the\nfurniture in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family\nprejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her\nmaster, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his\nmany merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase.\n\n He is the best landlord, and the best master,  said she,  that ever\nlived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but\nthemselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will\ngive him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never\nsaw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle\naway like other young men. \n\n In what an amiable light does this place him!  thought Elizabeth.\n\n This fine account of him,  whispered her aunt as they walked,  is not\nquite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend. \n\n Perhaps we might be deceived. \n\n That is not very likely; our authority was too good. \n\nOn reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shown into a very pretty\nsitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than\nthe apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to\ngive pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room, when\nlast at Pemberley.\n\n He is certainly a good brother,  said Elizabeth, as she walked towards\none of the windows.\n\nMrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy s delight, when she should enter\nthe room.  And this is always the way with him,  she added.  Whatever\ncan give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There\nis nothing he would not do for her. \n\nThe picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were\nall that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings:\nbut Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already\nvisible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss\nDarcy s, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and\nalso more intelligible.\n\nIn the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have\nlittle to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest\nof the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it\narrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with\nsuch a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen,\nwhen he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in\nearnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the\ngallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them, that it had been taken in his\nfather s lifetime.\n\nThere was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth s mind, a more gentle\nsensation towards the original than she had ever felt in the height of\ntheir acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds\nwas of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise\nof an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she\nconsidered how many people s happiness were in his guardianship! How\nmuch of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow! How much of good\nor evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by\nthe housekeeper was favourable to his character; and as she stood before\nthe canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon\nherself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude\nthan it had ever raised before: she remembered its warmth, and softened\nits impropriety of expression.\n\nWhen all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,\nthey returned down stairs; and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were\nconsigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.\n\nAs they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back\nto look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also; and while the former was\nconjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself\nsuddenly came forward from the road which led behind it to the stables.\n\nThey were within twenty yards of each other; and so abrupt was his\nappearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes\ninstantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest\nblush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from\nsurprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,\nand spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least\nof perfect civility.\n\nShe had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,\nreceived his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be\novercome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture\nthey had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two\nthat they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener s expression of surprise, on\nbeholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little\naloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,\nscarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she\nreturned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the\nalteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he\nuttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the\nimpropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few\nminutes in which they continued together were some of the most\nuncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he\nspoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his\ninquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay\nin Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the\ndistraction of his thoughts.\n\nAt length, every idea seemed to fail him; and after standing a few\nmoments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took\nleave.\n\nThe others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his\nfigure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own\nfeelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and\nvexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged\nthing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a\ndisgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if\nshe had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come?\nor, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been\nonly ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his\ndiscrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that\nmoment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and\nagain over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so\nstrikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to\nher was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her\nfamily! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified,\nnever had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting.\nWhat a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when\nhe put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to\naccount for it.\n\nThey had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and\nevery step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer\nreach of the woods to which they were approaching: but it was some time\nbefore Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered\nmechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed\nto direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she\ndistinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that\none spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then\nwas. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in\nwhat manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything,\nshe was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he\nfelt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was\nnot like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing\nher, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with\ncomposure.\n\nAt length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind\nroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.\n\nThey entered the woods, and, bidding adieu to the river for a while,\nascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening\nof the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of\nthe valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods\noverspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner\nexpressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be\nbeyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten\nmiles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed\ncircuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among\nhanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts.\nThey crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of\nthe scene: it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and\nthe valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the\nstream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered\nit. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed\nthe bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,\nwho was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of\nreturning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,\ntherefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house\non the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their\nprogress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the\ntaste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the\noccasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man\nabout them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this\nslow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth s astonishment was\nquite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy\napproaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less\nsheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they\nmet. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an\ninterview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with\ncalmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,\nshe felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea\nlasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the\nturning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw that\nhe had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness,\nshe began as they met to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not\ngot beyond the words  delightful,  and  charming,  when some unlucky\nrecollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from\nher might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said\nno more.\n\nMrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked\nher if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.\nThis was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and\nshe could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the\nacquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had\nrevolted, in his offer to herself.  What will be his surprise,  thought\nshe,  when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of\nfashion. \n\nThe introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their\nrelationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore\nit; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he\ncould from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the\nconnection was evident: he sustained it, however, with fortitude: and,\nso far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into\nconversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,\ncould not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some\nrelations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most\nattentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every\nexpression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,\nhis taste, or his good manners.\n\nThe conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy\ninvite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he\nchose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same\ntime to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of\nthe stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was\nwalking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her\nwonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the\ncompliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was\nextreme; and continually was she repeating,  Why is he so altered? From\nwhat can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake\nthat his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not\nwork such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love\nme. \n\nAfter walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two\ngentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the\nbrink of the river for the better inspection of some curious\nwater-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in\nMrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found\nElizabeth s arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred\nher husband s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on\ntogether. After a short silence the lady first spoke. She wished him to\nknow that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the\nplace, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been\nvery unexpected-- for your housekeeper,  she added,  informed us that\nyou would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and, indeed, before we\nleft Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in\nthe country.  He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that\nbusiness with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours\nbefore the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.  They\nwill join me early to-morrow,  he continued,  and among them are some\nwho will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters. \n\nElizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly\ndriven back to the time when Mr. Bingley s name had been last mentioned\nbetween them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was\nnot very differently engaged.\n\n There is also one other person in the party,  he continued after a\npause,  who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow\nme, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance\nduring your stay at Lambton? \n\nThe surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great\nfor her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt\nthat whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her,\nmust be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was\nsatisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made\nhim think really ill of her.\n\nThey now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth\nwas not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and\npleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of\nthe highest kind. They soon outstripped the others; and when they had\nreached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a\nmile behind.\n\nHe then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not\ntired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might\nhave been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but\nthere seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that\nshe had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovedale with\ngreat perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience\nand her ideas were nearly worn out before the _t te- -t te_ was over.\n\nOn Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner s coming up they were all pressed to go into\nthe house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they\nparted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the\nladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him\nwalking slowly towards the house.\n\nThe observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them\npronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.\n\n He is perfectly well-behaved, polite, and unassuming,  said her uncle.\n\n There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,  replied her\naunt;  but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now\nsay with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud,\n_I_ have seen nothing of it. \n\n I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more\nthan civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such\nattention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling. \n\n To be sure, Lizzy,  said her aunt,  he is not so handsome as Wickham;\nor rather he has not Wickham s countenance, for his features are\nperfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so\ndisagreeable? \n\nElizabeth excused herself as well as she could: said that she had liked\nhim better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never\nseen him so pleasant as this morning.\n\n But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,  replied\nher uncle.  Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him\nat his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and\nwarn me off his grounds. \n\nElizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said\nnothing.\n\n From what we have seen of him,  continued Mrs. Gardiner,  I really\nshould not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by\nanybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.\nOn the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he\nspeaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that would\nnot give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the\ngood lady who showed us the house did give him a most flaming character!\nI could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal\nmaster, I suppose, and _that_, in the eye of a servant, comprehends\nevery virtue. \n\nElizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of\nhis behaviour to Wickham; and, therefore, gave them to understand, in as\nguarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his\nrelations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different\nconstruction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor\nWickham s so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In\nconfirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary\ntransactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming\nher authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.\n\nMrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned: but as they were now\napproaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to\nthe charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out\nto her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of\nanything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning s walk, they had\nno sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former\nacquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an\nintercourse renewed after many years  discontinuance.\n\nThe occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth\nmuch attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing\nbut think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy s civility, and, above\nall, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit\nher the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was, consequently,\nresolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.\nBut her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own\narrival at Lambton these visitors came. They had been walking about the\nplace with some of their new friends, and were just returned to the inn\nto dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a\ncarriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a\ncurricle driving up the street. Elizabeth, immediately recognizing the\nlivery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise\nto her relations, by acquainting them with the honour which she\nexpected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment\nof her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many\nof the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on\nthe business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt\nthat there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such\na quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these\nnewly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of\nElizabeth s feelings was every moment increasing. She was quite amazed\nat her own discomposure; but, amongst other causes of disquiet, she\ndreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in\nher favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally\nsuspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.\n\nShe retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked\nup and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of\ninquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.\n\nMiss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction\ntook place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new\nacquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her\nbeing at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;\nbut the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was\nonly exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from\nher beyond a monosyllable.\n\nMiss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though\nlittle more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance\nwomanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there\nwas sense and good-humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly\nunassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as\nacute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much\nrelieved by discerning such different feelings.\n\nThey had not been long together before Darcy told her that Bingley was\nalso coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her\nsatisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley s quick step\nwas heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All\nElizabeth s anger against him had been long done away; but had she still\nfelt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected\ncordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He\ninquired in a friendly, though general, way, after her family, and\nlooked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.\n\nTo Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage\nthan to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before\nthem, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just\narisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their observation towards\neach with an earnest, though guarded, inquiry; and they soon drew from\nthose inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what\nit was to love. Of the lady s sensations they remained a little in\ndoubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was\nevident enough.\n\nElizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the\nfeelings of each of her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and to\nmake herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she\nfeared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom\nshe endeavoured to give pleasure were pre-possessed in her favour.\nBingley was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be\npleased.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      To make herself agreeable to all \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\nIn seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and oh!\nhow ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a\nlike manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on\nformer occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion\nthat, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But,\nthough this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his\nbehaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No\nlook appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing\noccurred between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On\nthis point she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances\noccurred ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted\na recollection of Jane, not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of\nsaying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He\nobserved to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and\nin a tone which had something of real regret, that it  was a very long\ntime since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;  and, before she could\nreply, he added,  It is above eight months. We have not met since the\n26th of November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield. \n\nElizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards\ntook occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether\n_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,\nnor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which\ngave them meaning.\n\nIt was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but\nwhenever she did catch a glimpse she saw an expression of general\ncomplaisance, and in all that he said, she heard an accent so far\nremoved from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her\nthat the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed,\nhowever temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one\nday. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the\ngood opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would\nhave been a disgrace; when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself,\nbut to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected\ntheir last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the\nchange was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could\nhardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the\ncompany of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations\nat Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from\nself-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could\nresult from the success of his endeavours, and when even the\nacquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw\ndown the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and\nRosings.\n\nTheir visitors stayed with them above half an hour; and when they arose\nto depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing\ntheir wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner\nat Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a\ndiffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,\nreadily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing\nhow _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its\nacceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however,\nthat this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than\nany dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of\nsociety, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for\nher attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.\n\nBingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth\nagain, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to\nmake after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all\nthis into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased; and\non this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their\nvisitors left them, capable of considering the last half hour with some\nsatisfaction, though while it was passing the enjoyment of it had been\nlittle. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her\nuncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their\nfavourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.\n\nBut she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner s curiosity; it was\nnot their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was\nmuch better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;\nit was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to\ninterest, but nothing to justify inquiry.\n\nOf Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far\nas their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could\nnot be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character\nfrom their own feelings and his servant s report, without any reference\nto any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known\nwould not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,\nhowever, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible\nthat the authority of a servant, who had known him since he was four\nyears old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be\nhastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of\ntheir Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had\nnothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,\nit would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market town\nwhere the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he\nwas a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.\n\nWith respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held\nthere in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the\nson of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known\nfact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind\nhim, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.\n\nAs for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than\nthe last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not\nlong enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and\nshe lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring to make them out. She\ncertainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she\nhad almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,\nthat could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his\nvaluable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some\ntime ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened\ninto somewhat of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his\nfavour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,\nwhich yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,\nthere was a motive within her of good-will which could not be\noverlooked. It was gratitude;--gratitude, not merely for having once\nloved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the\npetulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the\nunjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been\npersuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this\naccidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance; and\nwithout any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner,\nwhere their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good\nopinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such\na change in a man of so much pride excited not only astonishment but\ngratitude--for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and, as\nsuch, its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no\nmeans unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected,\nshe esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his\nwelfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to\ndepend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both\nthat she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still\npossessed, of bringing on the renewal of his addresses.\n\nIt had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece, that\nsuch a striking civility as Miss Darcy s, in coming to them on the very\nday of her arrival at Pemberley--for she had reached it only to a late\nbreakfast--ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by\nsome exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it\nwould be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following\nmorning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when\nshe asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.\n\nMr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been\nrenewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting\nsome of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Engaged by the river \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nConvinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley s dislike of her had\noriginated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome\nher appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know\nwith how much civility on that lady s side the acquaintance would now\nbe renewed.\n\nOn reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,\nwhose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows,\nopening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody\nhills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts\nwhich were scattered over the intermediate lawn.\n\nIn this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there\nwith Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in\nLondon. Georgiana s reception of them was very civil, but attended with\nall that embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the\nfear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves\ninferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and\nher niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.\n\nBy Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a courtesy; and\non their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,\nsucceeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a\ngenteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind\nof discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the\nothers; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from\nElizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she\nwished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a\nshort sentence, when there was least danger of its being heard.\n\nElizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,\nand that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without\ncalling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her\nfrom trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an\ninconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity\nof saying much: her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every\nmoment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room: she wished, she\nfeared, that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether\nshe wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After\nsitting in this manner a quarter of an hour, without hearing Miss\nBingley s voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold\ninquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal\nindifference and brevity, and the other said no more.\n\nThe next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the\nentrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the\nfinest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a\nsignificant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been\ngiven, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole\nparty; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the\nbeautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected\nthem round the table.\n\nWhile thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether\nshe most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the\nfeelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but\na moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to\nregret that he came.\n\nHe had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other\ngentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river; and had left him\nonly on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to\nGeorgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely\nresolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;--a resolution the more\nnecessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she\nsaw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,\nand that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour\nwhen he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive\ncuriosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley s, in spite of the\nsmiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its\nobjects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions\nto Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother s\nentrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he\nwas anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded,\nas much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss\nBingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the\nfirst opportunity of saying, with sneering civility,--\n\n Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton?\nThey must be a great loss to _your_ family. \n\nIn Darcy s presence she dared not mention Wickham s name: but Elizabeth\ninstantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the\nvarious recollections connected with him gave her a moment s distress;\nbut, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she\npresently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While\nshe spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy with a heightened\ncomplexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with\nconfusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what\npain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have\nrefrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose\nElizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed\nher partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in\nDarcy s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies\nand absurdities by which some part of her family were connected with\nthat corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy s\nmeditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy\nwas possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley s connections\nher brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish\nwhich Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming\nhereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan; and without\nmeaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss\nBennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern\nfor the welfare of his friend.\n\nElizabeth s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and\nas Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to\nWickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able\nto speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely\nrecollected her interest in the affair; and the very circumstance which\nhad been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have\nfixed them on her more and more cheerfully.\n\nTheir visit did not continue long after the question and answer above\nmentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage,\nMiss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth s\nperson, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her\nbrother s recommendation was enough to insure her favour: his judgment\ncould not err; and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as to leave\nGeorgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and\namiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help\nrepeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.\n\n How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,  she cried:  I\nnever in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter.\nShe is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we\nshould not have known her again. \n\nHowever little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented\nhimself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than\nher being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the\nsummer.\n\n For my own part,  she rejoined,  I must confess that I never could see\nany beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no\nbrilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants\ncharacter; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are\ntolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which\nhave sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive anything\nextraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not\nlike at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency\nwithout fashion, which is intolerable. \n\nPersuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not\nthe best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always\nwise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the\nsuccess she expected. He was resolutely silent, however; and, from a\ndetermination of making him speak, she continued,--\n\n I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all\nwere to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect\nyour saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield,  _She_\na beauty! I should as soon call her mother a wit.  But afterwards she\nseemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at\none time. \n\n Yes,  replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer,  but _that_\nwas only when I first knew her; for it is many months since I have\nconsidered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance. \n\nHe then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of\nhaving forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.\n\nMrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their\nvisit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them\nboth. The looks and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,\nexcept of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked\nof his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of everything but\nhimself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of\nhim, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece s\nbeginning the subject.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from\nJane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been\nrenewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on\nthe third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the\nreceipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that\nit had been mis-sent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as\nJane had written the direction remarkably ill.\n\nThey had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her\nuncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by\nthemselves. The one mis-sent must be first attended to; it had been\nwritten five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their\nlittle parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;\nbut the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident\nagitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:--\n\n Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a\nmost unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be\nassured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.\nAn express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,\nfrom Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland\nwith one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our\nsurprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am\nvery, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing\nto hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.\nThoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and\nlet us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is\ndisinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.\nOur poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How\nthankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said against\nhim; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about\ntwelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at\neight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have\npassed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect\nhim here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of\ntheir intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor\nmother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly\nknow what I have written. \n\nWithout allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing\nwhat she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the\nother, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it\nhad been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.\n\n By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I\nwish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my\nhead is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest\nLizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you,\nand it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham\nand our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has\ntaken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone\nto Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the\nday before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia s short\nletter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna\nGreen, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.\nnever intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated\nto Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B.,\nintending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but\nno farther; for on entering that place, they removed into a\nhackney-coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom.\nAll that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the\nLondon road. I know not what to think. After making every possible\ninquiry on that side of London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire,\nanxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet\nand Hatfield, but without any success,--no such people had been seen to\npass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and\nbroke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart.\nI am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F.; but no one can throw any\nblame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and\nmother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many\ncircumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married\nprivately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if _he_\ncould form such a design against a young woman of Lydia s connections,\nwhich is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything?\nImpossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed\nto depend upon their marriage: he shook his head when I expressed my\nhopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother\nis really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be\nbetter, but this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in\nmy life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed\ntheir attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot\nwonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared\nsomething of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is\nover, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish,\nhowever, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen\nagain to do, what I have just told you I would not; but circumstances\nare such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as\nsoon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not\nafraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of\nthe former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly,\nto try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but\nhis excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the\nbest and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton\nagain to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle s advice and\nassistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately\ncomprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness. \n\n Oh! where, where is my uncle?  cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat\nas she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a\nmoment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was\nopened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and\nimpetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself\nenough to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia s\nsituation, hastily exclaimed,  I beg your pardon, but I must leave you.\nI must find Mr. Gardiner this moment on business that cannot be delayed;\nI have not an instant to lose. \n\n Good God! what is the matter?  cried he, with more feeling than\npoliteness; then recollecting himself,  I will not detain you a minute;\nbut let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are\nnot well enough; you cannot go yourself. \n\nElizabeth hesitated; but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how\nlittle would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back\nthe servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an\naccent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and\nmistress home instantly.\n\nOn his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and\nlooking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,\nor to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,\n Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you\npresent relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill. \n\n No, I thank you,  she replied, endeavouring to recover herself.  There\nis nothing the matter with me. I am quite well, I am only distressed by\nsome dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn. \n\nShe burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could\nnot speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say\nsomething indistinctly of his\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      I have not an instant to lose \n]\n\nconcern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke\nagain.  I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It\ncannot be concealed from anyone. My youngest sister has left all her\nfriends--has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of--of Mr.\nWickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him too\nwell to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that\ncan tempt him to--she is lost for ever. \n\nDarcy was fixed in astonishment.\n\n When I consider,  she added, in a yet more agitated voice,  that _I_\nmight have prevented it! _I_ who knew what he was. Had I but explained\nsome part of it only--some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had\nhis character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all,\nall too late now. \n\n I am grieved, indeed,  cried Darcy:  grieved--shocked. But is it\ncertain, absolutely certain? \n\n Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced\nalmost to London, but not beyond: they are certainly not gone to\nScotland. \n\n And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her? \n\n My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle s\nimmediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But\nnothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is\nsuch a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have\nnot the smallest hope. It is every way horrible! \n\nDarcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.\n\n When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character, oh! had I known what\nI ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too\nmuch. Wretched, wretched mistake! \n\nDarcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up\nand down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air\ngloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power\nwas sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family\nweakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither\nwonder nor condemn; but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing\nconsolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It\nwas, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own\nwishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved\nhim, as now, when all love must be vain.\n\nBut self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the\nhumiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all--soon swallowed up\nevery private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,\nElizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of\nseveral minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the\nvoice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke\ncompassion, spoke likewise restraint, said,--\n\n I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything\nto plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern.\nWould to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part,\nthat might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment\nyou with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks.\nThis unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister s having the\npleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day. \n\n Oh, yes! Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that\nurgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as\nlong as it is possible. I know it cannot be long. \n\nHe readily assured her of his secrecy, again expressed his sorrow for\nher distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present\nreason to hope, and, leaving his compliments for her relations, with\nonly one serious parting look, went away.\n\nAs he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they\nshould ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had\nmarked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a\nretrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of\ncontradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those\nfeelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would\nformerly have rejoiced in its termination.\n\nIf gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth s\nchange of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if\notherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or\nunnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a\nfirst interview with its object, and even before two words have been\nexchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given\nsomewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham,\nand that its ill success might, perhaps, authorize her to seek the other\nless interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go\nwith regret; and in this early example of what Lydia s infamy must\nproduce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched\nbusiness. Never since reading Jane s second letter had she entertained a\nhope of Wickham s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,\ncould flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least\nof all her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first\nletter remained on her mind, she was all surprise, all astonishment,\nthat Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry\nfor money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared\nincomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment\nas this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not\nsuppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the\nintention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither\nher virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy\nprey.\n\nShe had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that\nLydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia had\nwanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one\nofficer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions\nraised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually\nfluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and\nmistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now\nfeel it!\n\nShe was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to\nshare with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a\nfamily so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and\nrequiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing\ncould be done for Lydia, her uncle s interference seemed of the utmost\nimportance, and till he entered the room the misery of her impatience\nwas severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing,\nby the servant s account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but\nsatisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the\ncause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on\nthe postscript of the last with trembling energy. Though Lydia had never\nbeen a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be\ndeeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after\nthe first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily\npromised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no\nless, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated\nby one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily\nsettled. They were to be off as soon as possible.  But what is to be\ndone about Pemberley?  cried Mrs. Gardiner.  John told us Mr. Darcy was\nhere when you sent for us;--was it so? \n\n Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.\n_That_ is all settled. \n\n What is all settled?  repeated the other, as she ran into her room to\nprepare.  And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real\ntruth? Oh, that I knew how it was! \n\nBut wishes were vain; or, at best, could serve only to amuse her in the\nhurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure\nto be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was\nimpossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of\nbusiness as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to\nbe written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their\nsudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.\nGardiner, meanwhile, having settled his account at the inn, nothing\nremained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of\nthe morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could\nhave supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      The first pleasing earnest of their welcome \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,  said her uncle, as they\ndrove from the town;  and really, upon serious consideration, I am much\nmore inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the\nmatter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form\nsuch a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or\nfriendless, and who was actually staying in his Colonel s family, that I\nam strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends\nwould not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the\nregiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is\nnot adequate to the risk. \n\n Do you really think so?  cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.\n\n Upon my word,  said Mrs. Gardiner,  I begin to be of your uncle s\nopinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and\ninterest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of\nWickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzie, so wholly give him up, as to believe\nhim capable of it? \n\n Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect\nI can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not\nhope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the\ncase? \n\n In the first place,  replied Mr. Gardiner,  there is no absolute proof\nthat they are not gone to Scotland. \n\n Oh, but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such a\npresumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the\nBarnet road. \n\n Well, then,--supposing them to be in London--they may be there, though\nfor the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is\nnot likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it\nmight strike them that they could be more economically, though less\nexpeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland. \n\n But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their\nmarriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular\nfriend, you see by Jane s account, was persuaded of his never intending\nto marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He\ncannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she\nbeyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake\nforego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what\nrestraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a\ndishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know\nnothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your\nother objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no\nbrothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father s\nbehaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever\nseemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would\ndo as little and think as little about it, as any father could do, in\nsuch a matter. \n\n But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him,\nas to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage? \n\n It does seem, and it is most shocking, indeed,  replied Elizabeth, with\ntears in her eyes,  that a sister s sense of decency and virtue in such\na point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.\nPerhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young: she has never\nbeen taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year,\nnay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement\nand vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle\nand frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.\nSince the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,\nflirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been doing\neverything in her power, by thinking and talking on the subject, to give\ngreater--what shall I call it?--susceptibility to her feelings; which\nare naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every\ncharm of person and address that can captivate a woman. \n\n But you see that Jane,  said her aunt,  does not think so ill of\nWickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt. \n\n Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be\ntheir former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt,\ntill it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what\nWickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every\nsense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is\nas false and deceitful as he is insinuating. \n\n And do you really know all this?  cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity\nas to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.\n\n I do, indeed,  replied Elizabeth, colouring.  I told you the other day\nof his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at\nLongbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with\nsuch forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other\ncircumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to\nrelate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From\nwhat he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,\nreserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He\nmust know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found\nher. \n\n But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you\nand Jane seem so well to understand? \n\n Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw\nso much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was\nignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home the ----shire\nwas to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight s time. As that was the\ncase, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it\nnecessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it\napparently be to anyone, that the good opinion, which all the\nneighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it\nwas settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of\nopening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could\nbe in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a\nconsequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far\nenough from my thoughts. \n\n When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I\nsuppose, to believe them fond of each other? \n\n Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either\nside; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware\nthat ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first\nhe entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all\nwere. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for\nthe first two months: but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular\nattention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and\nwild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment,\nwho treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites. \n\nIt may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added\nto their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject by\nits repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during\nthe whole of the journey. From Elizabeth s thoughts it was never absent.\nFixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could\nfind no interval of ease or forgetfulness.\n\nThey travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on\nthe road, reached Longbourn by dinnertime the next day. It was a comfort\nto Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long\nexpectations.\n\nThe little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing\non the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the\ncarriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their\nfaces and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of\ncapers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.\n\nElizabeth jumped out; and after giving each of them a hasty kiss,\nhurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running downstairs from\nher mother s apartment, immediately met her.\n\nElizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the\neyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been\nheard of the fugitives.\n\n Not yet,  replied Jane.  But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope\neverything will be well. \n\n Is my father in town? \n\n Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word. \n\n And have you heard from him often? \n\n We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say\nthat he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I\nparticularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write\nagain, till he had something of importance to mention. \n\n And my mother--how is she? How are you all? \n\n My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly\nshaken. She is upstairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you\nall. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank\nHeaven! are quite well. \n\n But you--how are you?  cried Elizabeth.  You look pale. How much you\nmust have gone through! \n\nHer sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their\nconversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were\nengaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of\nthe whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and\nthanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.\n\nWhen they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth\nhad already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon\nfound that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good,\nhowever, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet\ndeserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that\nevery morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,\nto explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce the marriage.\n\nMrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes \nconversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with\ntears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous\nconduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;\nblaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the\nerrors of her daughter must be principally owing.\n\n If I had been able,  said she,  to carry my point in going to Brighton\nwith all my family, _this_ would not have happened: but poor dear Lydia\nhad nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out\nof their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their\nside, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had\nbeen well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have\nthe charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor, dear\nchild! And now here s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight\nWickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is\nto become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold\nin his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what\nwe shall do. \n\nThey all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after\ngeneral assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her\nthat he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.\nBennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.\n\n Do not give way to useless alarm,  added he:  though it is right to be\nprepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.\nIt is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we\nmay gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,\nand have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as\nlost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him\ncome home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult\ntogether as to what is to be done. \n\n Oh, my dear brother,  replied Mrs. Bennet,  that is exactly what I\ncould most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,\nwherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them\nmarry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but\ntell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,\nafter they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from\nfighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in--that I am frightened\nout of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me,\nsuch spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at my\nheart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear\nLydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me,\nfor she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how\nkind you are! I know you will contrive it all. \n\nBut Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours\nin the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in\nher hopes as her fears; and after talking with her in this manner till\ndinner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the\nhousekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.\n\nThough her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real\noccasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to\noppose it; for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her\ntongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it\nbetter that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could\nmost trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the\nsubject.\n\nIn the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been\ntoo busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance\nbefore. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The\nfaces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible\nin either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger\nwhich she had herself incurred in the business, had given something more\nof fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was\nmistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance\nof grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table,--\n\n This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.\nBut we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of\neach other the balm of sisterly consolation. \n\nThen perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,\n Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful\nlesson:--that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable, that one\nfalse step involves her in endless ruin, that her reputation is no less\nbrittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in\nher behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex. \n\nElizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to\nmake any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such\nkind of moral extractions from the evil before them.\n\nIn the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an\nhour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the\nopportunity of making any inquiries which Jane was equally eager to\nsatisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel\nof this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss\nBennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued\nthe subject by saying,  But tell me all and everything about it which I\nhave not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel\nForster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement\ntook place? They must have seen them together for ever. \n\n Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,\nespecially on Lydia s side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so\ngrieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He\n_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had\nany idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension\nfirst got abroad, it hastened his journey. \n\n And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of\ntheir intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself? \n\n Yes; but when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of\ntheir plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not\nrepeat his persuasion of their not marrying, and from _that_ I am\ninclined to hope he might have been misunderstood before. \n\n And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a\ndoubt, I suppose, of their being really married? \n\n How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a\nlittle uneasy--a little fearful of my sister s happiness with him in\nmarriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite\nright. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how\nimprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural\ntriumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia s last letter\nshe had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their\nbeing in love with each other many weeks. \n\n But not before they went to Brighton? \n\n No, I believe not. \n\n And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he\nknow his real character? \n\n I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly\ndid. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant; and since this sad\naffair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt:\nbut I hope this may be false. \n\n Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,\nthis could not have happened! \n\n Perhaps it would have been better,  replied her sister.\n\n But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what\ntheir present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. \n\n We acted with the best intentions. \n\n Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia s note to his\nwife? \n\n He brought it with him for us to see. \n\nJane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These\nwere the contents:--\n\n     /* NIND  My dear Harriet, */\n\n      You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help\n     laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am\n     missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with\n     who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the\n     world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without\n     him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at\n     Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the\n     surprise the greater when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia\n     Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for\n     laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my\n     engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will\n     excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at\n     the next ball we meet with great pleasure. I shall send for my\n     clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to\n     mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed\n     up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will\n     drink to our good journey.\n\n Your affectionate friend,\n\n LYDIA BENNET. \n\n\n Oh, thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!  cried Elizabeth when she had\nfinished it.  What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But\nat least it shows that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey.\nWhatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a\n_scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it! \n\n I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten\nminutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in\nsuch confusion! \n\n Oh, Jane,  cried Elizabeth,  was there a servant belonging to it who\ndid not know the whole story before the end of the day? \n\n I do not know: I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is\nvery difficult. My mother was in hysterics; and though I endeavoured to\ngive her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much\nas I might have done. But the horror of what might possibly happen\nalmost took from me my faculties. \n\n Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look\nwell. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety\nupon yourself alone. \n\n Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every\nfatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them.\nKitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much that her hours of\nrepose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn on\nTuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till\nThursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and Lady\nLucas has been very kind: she walked here on Wednesday morning to\ncondole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if\nthey could be of use to us. \n\n She had better have stayed at home,  cried Elizabeth:  perhaps she\n_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too\nlittle of one s neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence,\ninsufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied. \n\nShe then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had\nintended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.\n\n He meant, I believe,  replied Jane,  to go to Epsom, the place where\nthey last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if anything could\nbe made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the\nnumber of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come\nwith a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a\ngentleman and lady s removing from one carriage into another might be\nremarked, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow\ndiscover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he\ndetermined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible\nto find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any\nother designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone,\nand his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding\nout even so much as this. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n     The Post\n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next\nmorning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.\nHis family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and\ndilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.\nThey were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing intelligence to\nsend; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.\nGardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.\n\nWhen he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant\ninformation of what was going on; and their uncle promised, at parting,\nto prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn as soon as he could, to\nthe great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only\nsecurity for her husband s not being killed in a duel.\n\nMrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few\ndays longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to\nher nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a\ngreat comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also\nvisited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of\ncheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without\nreporting some fresh instance of Wickham s extravagance or irregularity,\nshe seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found\nthem.\n\nAll Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months\nbefore, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt\nto every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with\nthe title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman s family.\nEverybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and\neverybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the\nappearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above\nhalf of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of\nher sister s ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still\nless of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now\ncome, when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before\nentirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some\nnews of them.\n\nMr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a\nletter from him: it told them, that on his arrival he had immediately\nfound out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street.\nThat Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but\nwithout gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now\ndetermined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet\nthought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first\ncoming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself\ndid not expect any success from this measure; but as his brother was\neager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr.\nBennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London, and\npromised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this\neffect:--\n\n I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if\npossible, from some of the young man s intimates in the regiment,\nwhether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to\nknow in what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there\nwere anyone that one could apply to, with a probability of gaining such\na clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have\nnothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in\nhis power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps\nLizzy could tell us what relations he has now living better than any\nother person. \n\nElizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for\nher authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any\ninformation of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved.\n\nShe had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father\nand mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible,\nhowever, that some of his companions in the ----shire might be able to\ngive more information; and though she was not very sanguine in expecting\nit, the application was a something to look forward to.\n\nEvery day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious\npart of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was\nthe first grand object of every morning s impatience. Through letters,\nwhatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated; and every\nsucceeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.\n\nBut before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for\ntheir father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane\nhad received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,\nshe accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his\nletters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as\nfollows:--\n\n     /*  My dear Sir, */\n\n      I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation\n     in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now\n     suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter\n     from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and\n     myself sincerely sympathize with you, and all your respectable\n     family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest\n     kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No\n     arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe\n     a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that\n     must be, of all others, most afflicting to a parent s mind. The\n     death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of\n     this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to\n     suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness\n     of behaviour in your\n\n     [Illustration:\n\n To whom I have related the affair \n\n     [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n     daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though,\n     at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet,\n     I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally\n     bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an\n     age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in\n     which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by\n     Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair.\n     They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one\n     daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others: for\n     who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect\n     themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads me,\n     moreover, to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain\n     event of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been\n     involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you, then,\n     my dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off\n     your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to\n     reap the fruits of her own heinous offence.\n\n I am, dear sir,  etc., etc.\n\nMr. Gardiner did not write again, till he had received an answer from\nColonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.\nIt was not known that Wickham had a single relation with whom he kept up\nany connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His\nformer acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the\nmilitia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship\nwith any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out\nas likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own\nfinances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to\nhis fear of discovery by Lydia s relations; for it had just transpired\nthat he had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount.\nColonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be\nnecessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in the\ntown, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner\ndid not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family;\nJane heard them with horror.  A gamester!  she cried.  This is wholly\nunexpected; I had not an idea of it. \n\nMr. Gardiner added, in his letter, that they might expect to see their\nfather at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered\nspiritless by the ill success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to\nhis brother-in-law s entreaty that he would return to his family and\nleave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable\nfor continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did\nnot express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering\nwhat her anxiety for his life had been before.\n\n What! is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?  she cried.  Sure he\nwill not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,\nand make him marry her, if he comes away? \n\nAs Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she\nand her children should go to London at the same time that Mr. Bennet\ncame from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their\njourney, and brought its master back to Longbourn.\n\nMrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her\nDerbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of the world.\nHis name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece;\nand the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of\ntheir being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing.\nElizabeth had received none since her return, that could come from\nPemberley.\n\nThe present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for\nthe lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be\nfairly conjectured from _that_,--though Elizabeth, who was by this time\ntolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware\nthat, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of\nLydia s infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,\none sleepless night out of two.\n\nWhen Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual\nphilosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the\nhabit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him\naway; and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of\nit.\n\nIt was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that\nElizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly\nexpressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied,  Say\nnothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,\nand I ought to feel it. \n\n You must not be too severe upon yourself,  replied Elizabeth.\n\n You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to\nfall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have\nbeen to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.\nIt will pass away soon enough. \n\n Do you suppose them to be in London? \n\n Yes; where else can they be so well concealed? \n\n And Lydia used to want to go to London,  added Kitty.\n\n She is happy, then,  said her father, drily;  and her residence there\nwill probably be of some duration. \n\nThen, after a short silence, he continued,  Lizzy, I bear you no\nill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which,\nconsidering the event, shows some greatness of mind. \n\nThey were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother s\ntea.\n\n This is a parade,  cried he,  which does one good; it gives such an\nelegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my\nlibrary, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as\nI can,--or perhaps I may defer it till Kitty runs away. \n\n I am not going to run away, papa,  said Kitty, fretfully.  If _I_\nshould ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia. \n\n _You_ go to Brighton! I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne,\nfor fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at least learnt to be cautious, and\nyou will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house\nagain, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely\nprohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are\nnever to stir out of doors, till you can prove that you have spent ten\nminutes of every day in a rational manner. \n\nKitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.\n\n Well, well,  said he,  do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good\ngirl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of\nthem. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTwo days after Mr. Bennet s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking\ntogether in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper\ncoming towards them, and concluding that she came to call them to their\nmother, went forward to meet her; but instead of the expected summons,\nwhen they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet,  I beg your pardon,\nmadam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some\ngood news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask. \n\n What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town. \n\n Dear madam,  cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment,  don t you know\nthere is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here\nthis half hour, and master has had a letter. \n\nAway ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They\nran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the\nlibrary;--their father was in neither; and they were on the point of\nseeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the\nbutler, who said,--\n\n If you are looking for my master, ma am, he is walking towards the\nlittle copse. \n\nUpon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more,\nand ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately\npursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.\n\nJane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of running as\nElizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,\ncame up with him, and eagerly cried out,--\n\n Oh, papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle? \n\n Yes, I have had a letter from him by express. \n\n Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad? \n\n What is there of good to be expected?  said he, taking the letter from\nhis pocket;  but perhaps you would like to read it. \n\nElizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.\n\n Read it aloud,  said their father,  for I hardly know myself what it is\nabout. \n\n     /* RIGHT  Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August 2_. */\n\n My dear Brother,\n\n      At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such\n     as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after\n     you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what\n     part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet.\n     It is enough to know they are discovered: I have seen them\n     both---- \n\n     [Illustration:\n\n But perhaps you would like to read it \n\n     [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n      Then it is as I always hoped,  cried Jane:  they are married! \n\n     Elizabeth read on:  I have seen them both. They are not married,\n     nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are\n     willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on\n     your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is\n     required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her\n     equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your\n     children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,\n     moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your\n     life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which,\n     considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as\n     far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by\n     express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You\n     will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham s\n     circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to\n     be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to\n     say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are\n     discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune.\n     If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act\n     in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will\n     immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper\n     settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming\n     to town again; therefore stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on\n     my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can,\n     and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my\n     niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will\n     approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as\n     anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.\n\n EDW. GARDINER. \n\n Is it possible?  cried Elizabeth, when she had finished.  Can it be\npossible that he will marry her? \n\n Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him,  said her\nsister.  My dear father, I congratulate you. \n\n And have you answered the letter?  said Elizabeth.\n\n No; but it must be done soon. \n\nMost earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he\nwrote.\n\n Oh! my dear father,  she cried,  come back and write immediately.\nConsider how important every moment is in such a case. \n\n Let me write for you,  said Jane,  if you dislike the trouble\nyourself. \n\n I dislike it very much,  he replied;  but it must be done. \n\nAnd so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.\n\n And--may I ask?  said Elizabeth;  but the terms, I suppose, must be\ncomplied with. \n\n Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little. \n\n And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man. \n\n Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there\nare two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money\nyour uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever\nto pay him. \n\n Money! my uncle!  cried Jane,  what do you mean, sir? \n\n I mean that no man in his proper senses would marry Lydia on so slight\na temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am\ngone. \n\n That is very true,  said Elizabeth;  though it had not occurred to me\nbefore. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh,\nit must be my uncle s doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has\ndistressed himself. A small sum could not do all this. \n\n No,  said her father.  Wickham s a fool if he takes her with a farthing\nless than ten thousand pounds: I should be sorry to think so ill of him,\nin the very beginning of our relationship. \n\n Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be\nrepaid? \n\nMr. Bennet made no answer; and each of them, deep in thought, continued\nsilent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the\nlibrary to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.\n\n And they are really to be married!  cried Elizabeth, as soon as they\nwere by themselves.  How strange this is! and for _this_ we are to be\nthankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,\nand wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia! \n\n I comfort myself with thinking,  replied Jane,  that he certainly would\nnot marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind\nuncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten\nthousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children\nof his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand\npounds? \n\n If we are ever able to learn what Wickham s debts have been,  said\nElizabeth,  and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall\nexactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has\nnot sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be\nrequited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal\nprotection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as\nyears of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is\nactually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,\nshe will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she\nfirst sees my aunt! \n\n We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,  said\nJane:  I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry\nher is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of\nthinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself\nthey will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in\ntime make their past imprudence forgotten. \n\n Their conduct has been such,  replied Elizabeth,  as neither you, nor\nI, nor anybody, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it. \n\nIt now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood\nperfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,\ntherefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make\nit known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly\nreplied,--\n\n Just as you please. \n\n May we take my uncle s letter to read to her? \n\n Take whatever you like, and get away. \n\nElizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went upstairs\ntogether. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication\nwould, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,\nthe letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As\nsoon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner s hope of Lydia s being soon married,\nher joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its\nexuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight as she\nhad ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter\nwould be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her\nfelicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.\n\n My dear, dear Lydia!  she cried:  this is delightful indeed! She will\nbe married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My\ngood, kind brother! I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage\neverything. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the\nclothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about\nthem directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how\nmuch he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,\nKitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear\nLydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet! \n\nHer eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of\nthese transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.\nGardiner s behaviour laid them all under.\n\n For we must attribute this happy conclusion,  she added,  in a great\nmeasure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to\nassist Mr. Wickham with money. \n\n Well,  cried her mother,  it is all very right; who should do it but\nher own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children\nmust have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have\never had anything from him except a few presents. Well! I am so happy.\nIn a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well\nit sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in\nsuch a flutter, that I am sure I can t write; so I will dictate, and you\nwrite for me. We will settle with your father about the money\nafterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately. \n\nShe was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and\ncambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had\nnot Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her\nfather was at leisure to be consulted. One day s delay, she observed,\nwould be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite\nso obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.\n\n I will go to Meryton,  said she,  as soon as I am dressed, and tell the\ngood, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on\nLady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An\nairing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do\nanything for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you\nheard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall\nall have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding. \n\nMrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her\ncongratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took\nrefuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom. Poor Lydia s\nsituation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse, she\nhad need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in looking forward,\nneither rational happiness, nor worldly prosperity could be justly\nexpected for her sister, in looking back to what they had feared, only\ntwo hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n The spiteful old ladies \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMr. Bennet had very often wished, before this period of his life, that,\ninstead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for\nthe better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived\nhim. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that\nrespect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of\nhonour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of\nprevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to\nbe her husband might then have rested in its proper place.\n\nHe was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone\nshould be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law; and he\nwas determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance,\nand to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.\n\nWhen first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly\nuseless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join\nin cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow\nand younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters\nsuccessively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.\nBennet, for many years after Lydia s birth, had been certain that he\nwould. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too\nlate to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy; and her\nhusband s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their\nincome.\n\nFive thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and\nthe children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the\nlatter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with\nregard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet\ncould have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In\nterms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though\nexpressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect\napprobation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the\nengagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed\nthat, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be\ndone with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present\narrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser, by the\nhundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket\nallowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her\nthrough her mother s hands, Lydia s expenses had been very little within\nthat sum.\n\nThat it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was\nanother very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present was to have\nas little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports\nof rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he\nnaturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon\ndespatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in\nits execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was\nindebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia to send any\nmessage to her.\n\nThe good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate\nspeed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent\nphilosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of\nconversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the\nhappiest alternative, been secluded from the world in some distant\nfarm-house. But there was much to be talked of, in marrying her; and the\ngood-natured wishes for her well-doing, which had proceeded before from\nall the spiteful old ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit\nin this change of circumstances, because with such a husband her misery\nwas considered certain.\n\nIt was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but on this\nhappy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in\nspirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her\ntriumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of\nher wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of\naccomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those\nattendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and\nservants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a\nproper situation for her daughter; and, without knowing or considering\nwhat their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and\nimportance.\n\n Haye Park might do,  said she,  if the Gouldings would quit it, or the\ngreat house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is\ntoo far off. I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for\nPurvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful. \n\nHer husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the\nservants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her,  Mrs.\nBennet, before you take any, or all of these houses, for your son and\ndaughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this\nneighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the\nimprudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn. \n\nA long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm: it\nsoon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,\nthat her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his\ndaughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of\naffection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend\nit. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable\nresentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege, without which her\nmarriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all that she could believe\npossible. She was more alive to the disgrace, which her want of new\nclothes must reflect on her daughter s nuptials, than to any sense of\nshame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they\ntook place.\n\nElizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of\nthe moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for\nher sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper\ntermination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its\nunfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the\nspot.\n\nShe had no fear of its spreading farther, through his means. There were\nfew people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;\nbut at the same time there was no one whose knowledge of a sister s\nfrailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of\ndisadvantage from it individually to herself; for at any rate there\nseemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia s marriage been\nconcluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that\nMr. Darcy would connect himself with a family, where to every other\nobjection would now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest\nkind with the man whom he so justly scorned.\n\nFrom such a connection she could not wonder that he should shrink. The\nwish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his\nfeeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a\nblow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she\nhardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no\nlonger hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there\nseemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that\nshe could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they\nshould meet.\n\nWhat a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the\nproposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago would now\nhave been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she\ndoubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal,\nthere must be a triumph.\n\nShe began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in\ndisposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and\ntemper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It\nwas an union that must have been to the advantage of both: by her ease\nand liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved;\nand from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must\nhave received benefit of greater importance.\n\nBut no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what\nconnubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and\nprecluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their\nfamily.\n\nHow Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence she\ncould not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to\na couple who were only brought together because their passions were\nstronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.\n\nMr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet s\nacknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to\npromote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties\nthat the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal\npurport of his letter was to inform them, that Mr. Wickham had resolved\non quitting the militia.\n\n It was greatly my wish that he should do so,  he added,  as soon as his\nmarriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in\nconsidering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his\naccount and my niece s. It is Mr. Wickham s intention to go into the\nRegulars; and, among his former friends, there are still some who are\nable and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an\nensigncy in General---- s regiment, now quartered in the north. It is\nan advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He\npromises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each\nhave a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have\nwritten to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements,\nand to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham\nin and near Brighton with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have\npledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying\nsimilar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin\na list, according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I\nhope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and\nall will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,\nunless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.\nGardiner that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she\nleaves the south. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to\nyou and her mother.--Yours, etc.\n\n E. GARDINER. \n\nMr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham s\nremoval from the ----shire, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But\nMrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia s being settled in\nthe north, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her\ncompany, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in\nHertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a\npity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted\nwith everybody, and had so many favourites.\n\n She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,  said she,  it will be quite shocking\nto send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she\nlikes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General---- s\nregiment. \n\nHis daughter s request, for such it might be considered, of being\nadmitted into her family again, before she set off for the north,\nreceived at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who\nagreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister s feelings and\nconsequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,\nurged him so earnestly, yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her\nand her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was\nprevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their\nmother had the satisfaction of knowing, that she should be able to show\nher married daughter in the neighbourhood, before she was banished to\nthe north. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he\nsent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that, as soon\nas the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth\nwas surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme;\nand, had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him\nwould have been the last object of her wishes.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n With an affectionate smile \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTheir sister s wedding-day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her\nprobably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet\nthem at----, and they were to return in it by dinnertime. Their arrival\nwas dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets--and Jane more especially, who\ngave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_\nbeen the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister\nmust endure.\n\nThey came. The family were assembled in the breakfast-room to receive\nthem. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to\nthe door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,\nanxious, uneasy.\n\nLydia s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and\nshe ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and\nwelcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to\nWickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy, with an\nalacrity which showed no doubt of their happiness.\n\nTheir reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite\nso cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely\nopened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was\nenough to provoke him.\n\nElizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was\nLydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned\nfrom sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at\nlength they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of\nsome little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a\ngreat while since she had been there.\n\nWickham was not at all more distressed than herself; but his manners\nwere always so pleasing, that, had his character and his marriage been\nexactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he\nclaimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth\nhad not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat\ndown, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the\nimpudence of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the\ncheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of\ncolour.\n\nThere was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither\nof them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near\nElizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,\nwith a good-humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her\nreplies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the\nworld. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led\nvoluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for\nthe world.\n\n Only think of its being three months,  she cried,  since I went away:\nit seems but a fortnight, I declare; and yet there have been things\nenough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure\nI had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I\nthought it would be very good fun if I was. \n\nHer father lifted up his eyes, Jane was distressed, Elizabeth looked\nexpressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of\nwhich she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,--\n\n Oh, mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was\nafraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle,\nso I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass\nnext to him, and took off my glove and let my hand just rest upon the\nwindow frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and\nsmiled like anything. \n\nElizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up and ran out of the room;\nand returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to\nthe dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with\nanxious parade, walk up to her mother s right hand, and hear her say to\nher eldest sister,--\n\n Ah, Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a\nmarried woman. \n\nIt was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment\nfrom which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good\nspirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all\ntheir other neighbours, and to hear herself called  Mrs. Wickham  by\neach of them; and in the meantime she went after dinner to show her ring\nand boast of being married to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.\n\n Well, mamma,  said she, when they were all returned to the\nbreakfast-room,  and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a\ncharming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they\nmay have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the\nplace to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go! \n\n Very true; and if I had my will we should. But, my dear Lydia, I don t\nat all like your going such a way off. Must it be so? \n\n Oh, Lord! yes; there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things.\nYou and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at\nNewcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I\nwill take care to get good partners for them all. \n\n I should like it beyond anything!  said her mother.\n\n And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters\nbehind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the\nwinter is over. \n\n I thank you for my share of the favour,  said Elizabeth;  but I do not\nparticularly like your way of getting husbands. \n\nTheir visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham\nhad received his commission before he left London, and he was to join\nhis regiment at the end of a fortnight.\n\nNo one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and\nshe made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and\nhaving very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to\nall; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did\nthink than such as did not.\n\nWickham s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected to\nfind it; not equal to Lydia s for him. She had scarcely needed her\npresent observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that\ntheir elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love rather\nthan by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring\nfor her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain\nthat his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and\nif that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity\nof having a companion.\n\nLydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every\noccasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did\neverything best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds\non the first of September than anybody else in the country.\n\nOne morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two\nelder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,--\n\n Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were\nnot by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you\ncurious to hear how it was managed? \n\n No, really,  replied Elizabeth;  I think there cannot be too little\nsaid on the subject. \n\n La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were\nmarried, you know, at St. Clement s, because Wickham s lodgings were in\nthat parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven\no clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others\nwere to meet us at the church.\n\n Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid,\nyou know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should\nhave gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was\ndressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a\nsermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was\nthinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether\nhe would be married in his blue coat.\n\n Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual: I thought it would never\nbe over; for, by the bye, you are to understand that my uncle and aunt\nwere horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you ll believe\nme, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a\nfortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything! To be sure, London was\nrather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open.\n\n Well, and so, just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was\ncalled away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you\nknow, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so\nfrightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away;\nand if we were beyond the hour we could not be married all day. But,\nluckily, he came back again in ten minutes  time, and then we all set\nout. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented\ngoing, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as\nwell. \n\n Mr. Darcy!  repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.\n\n Oh, yes! he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But, gracious me!\nI quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised\nthem so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret! \n\n If it was to be a secret,  said Jane,  say not another word on the\nsubject. You may depend upon my seeking no further. \n\n Oh, certainly,  said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity;  we will\nask you no questions. \n\n Thank you,  said Lydia;  for if you did, I should certainly tell you\nall, and then Wickham would be so angry. \n\nOn such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her\npower, by running away.\n\nBut to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it\nwas impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her\nsister s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,\nwhere he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.\nConjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her\nbrain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as\nplacing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She\ncould not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,\nwrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what\nLydia had dropped, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been\nintended.\n\n You may readily comprehend,  she added,  what my curiosity must be to\nknow how a person unconnected with any of us, and, comparatively\nspeaking, a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such\na time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,\nfor very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to\nthink necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with\nignorance. \n\n Not that I _shall_, though,  she added to herself, and she finished the\nletter;  and, my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable\nmanner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it\nout. \n\nJane s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to\nElizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of\nit:--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any\nsatisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n I am sure she did not listen. \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as\nsoon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than\nhurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be\ninterrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be\nhappy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not\ncontain a denial.\n\n     /* RIGHT  Gracechurch Street, _Sept. 6_. */\n\n My dear Niece,\n\n      I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole\n     morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will\n     not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself\n     surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.\n     Don t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know,\n     that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on _your_\n     side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my\n     impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am; and nothing\n     but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed\n     him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and\n     ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming\n     home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr.\n     Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all\n     over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked\n     as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he\n     had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he\n     had seen and talked with them both--Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once.\n     From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after\n     ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for\n     them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to\n     himself that Wickham s worthlessness had not been so well known as\n     to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or\n     confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken\n     pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to\n     lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to\n     speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step\n     forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on\n     by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never\n     disgrace him. He had been some days in town before he was able to\n     discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was\n     more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another\n     reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a\n     Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was\n     dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though\n     he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street,\n     and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs.\n     Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he\n     went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But\n     it was two or three days before he could get from her what he\n     wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery\n     and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be\n     found. Wickham, indeed, had gone to her on their first arrival in\n     London; and had she been able to receive them into her house, they\n     would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our\n     kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ----\n     Street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia.\n     His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade\n     her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her\n     friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,\n     offering his assistance as far as it would go. But he found Lydia\n     absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none\n     of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of\n     leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or\n     other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her\n     feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a\n     marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he\n     easily learnt had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself\n     obliged to leave the regiment on account of some debts of honour\n     which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill\n     consequences of Lydia s flight on her own folly alone. He meant to\n     resign his commission immediately; and as to his future situation,\n     he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but\n     he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live\n     on. Mr. Darcy asked why he did not marry your sister at once.\n     Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have\n     been able to do something for him, and his situation must have been\n     benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question,\n     that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making\n     his fortune by marriage, in some other country. Under such\n     circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof against the\n     temptation of immediate relief. They met several times, for there\n     was much to be discussed. Wickham, of course, wanted more than he\n     could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable. Everything\n     being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy s next step was to make\n     your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch\n     Street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not\n     be seen; and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father\n     was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did\n     not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly\n     consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him\n     till after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name,\n     and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman had called\n     on business. On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your\n     uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk\n     together. They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It\n     was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express\n     was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I\n     fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character,\n     after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times;\n     but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did not\n     do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked,\n     therefore say nothing about it) your uncle would most readily have\n     settled the whole. They battled it together for a long time, which\n     was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it\n     deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead\n     of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up\n     with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely\n     against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning\n     gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that\n     would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where\n     it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no further than yourself, or\n     Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done\n     for the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I\n     believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another\n     thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his\n     commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him\n     alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his\n     reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham s character\n     had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been\n     received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in\n     _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody s_\n     reserve can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this\n     fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that\n     your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit\n     for _another interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved\n     on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at\n     Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more\n     when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to\n     receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you everything.\n     It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I\n     hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to\n     us, and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was\n     exactly what he had been when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I\n     would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour\n     while she stayed with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane s letter\n     last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a\n     piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no\n     fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner,\n     representing to her the wickedness of what she had done, and all\n     the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it\n     was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes\n     quite provoked; but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and Jane,\n     and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was punctual\n     in his return, and, as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He\n     dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on\n     Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear\n     Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold\n     enough to say before) how much I like him? His behaviour to us has,\n     in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire.\n     His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but\n     a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his\n     wife may teach him. I thought him very sly; he hardly ever\n     mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive\n     me, if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so\n     far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I\n     have been all round the park. A low phaeton with a nice little pair\n     of ponies would be the very thing. But I must write no more. The\n     children have been wanting me this half hour.\n\n Yours, very sincerely,\n\n M. GARDINER. \n\n\nThe contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,\nin which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the\ngreatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had\nproduced, of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her\nsister s match--which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of\ngoodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be\njust, from the pain of obligation--were proved beyond their greatest\nextent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken\non himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a\nresearch; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he\nmust abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently\nmeet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe the man whom he always\nmost wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to\npronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard\nnor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it\nwas a hope shortly checked by other considerations; and she soon felt\nthat even her vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his\naffection for her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to\novercome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with\nWickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from\nthe connection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think\nhow much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no\nextraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel\nhe had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising\nit; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement,\nshe could perhaps believe, that remaining partiality for her might\nassist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be\nmaterially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that\nthey were under obligations to a person who could never receive a\nreturn. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, everything to\nhim. Oh, how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she\nhad ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards\nhim! For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him,--proud that\nin a cause of compassion and honour he had been able to get the better\nof himself. She read over her aunt s commendation of him again and\nagain. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible\nof some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly\nboth she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence\nsubsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.\n\nShe was roused from her seat and her reflections, by someone s approach;\nand, before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken by\nWickham.\n\n I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?  said he,\nas he joined her.\n\n You certainly do,  she replied with a smile;  but it does not follow\nthat the interruption must be unwelcome. \n\n I should be sorry, indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends,\nand now we are better. \n\n True. Are the others coming out? \n\n I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to\nMeryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that\nyou have actually seen Pemberley. \n\nShe replied in the affirmative.\n\n I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much\nfor me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the\nold housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of\nme. But of course she did not mention my name to you. \n\n Yes, she did. \n\n And what did she say? \n\n That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned\nout well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely\nmisrepresented. \n\n Certainly,  he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had\nsilenced him; but he soon afterwards said,--\n\n I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other\nseveral times. I wonder what he can be doing there. \n\n Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,  said\nElizabeth.  It must be something particular to take him there at this\ntime of year. \n\n Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I\nunderstood from the Gardiners that you had. \n\n Yes; he introduced us to his sister. \n\n And do you like her? \n\n Very much. \n\n I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year\nor two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad\nyou liked her. I hope she will turn out well. \n\n I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age. \n\n Did you go by the village of Kympton? \n\n I do not recollect that we did. \n\n I mention it because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most\ndelightful place! Excellent parsonage-house! It would have suited me in\nevery respect. \n\n How should you have liked making sermons? \n\n Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and\nthe exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine; but,\nto be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the\nretirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas of\nhappiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the\ncircumstance when you were in Kent? \n\n I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was\nleft you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron. \n\n You have! Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the\nfirst, you may remember. \n\n I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time when sermon-making was not so\npalatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually\ndeclared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business\nhad been compromised accordingly. \n\n You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember\nwhat I told you on that point, when first we talked of it. \n\nThey were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast\nto get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister s sake, to provoke him,\nshe only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,--\n\n Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us\nquarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one\nmind. \n\nShe held out her hand: he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though\nhe hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n Mr. Darcy with him. \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nMr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he\nnever again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,\nby introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she\nhad said enough to keep him quiet.\n\nThe day of his and Lydia s departure soon came; and Mrs. Bennet was\nforced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means\nentered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to\ncontinue at least a twelvemonth.\n\n Oh, my dear Lydia,  she cried,  when shall we meet again? \n\n Oh, Lord! I don t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps. \n\n Write to me very often, my dear. \n\n As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for\nwriting. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to\ndo. \n\nMr. Wickham s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife s. He\nsmiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.\n\n He is as fine a fellow,  said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of\nthe house,  as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us\nall. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas\nhimself to produce a more valuable son-in-law. \n\nThe loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.\n\n I often think,  said she,  that there is nothing so bad as parting with\none s friends. One seems so forlorn without them. \n\n This is the consequence, you see, madam, of marrying a daughter,  said\nElizabeth.  It must make you better satisfied that your other four are\nsingle. \n\n It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married;\nbut only because her husband s regiment happens to be so far off. If\nthat had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon. \n\nBut the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly\nrelieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an\narticle of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper\nat Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her\nmaster, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several\nweeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and\nsmiled, and shook her head, by turns.\n\n Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,  (for Mrs.\nPhilips first brought her the news).  Well, so much the better. Not that\nI care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I\nnever want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to\nNetherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen? But that\nis nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention\na word about it. And so, it is quite certain he is coming? \n\n You may depend on it,  replied the other,  for Mrs. Nichols was in\nMeryton last night: I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose\nto know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certainly true. He\ncomes down on Thursday, at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was\ngoing to the butcher s, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on\nWednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed. \n\nMiss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing\ncolour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to\nElizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,--\n\n I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present\nreport; and I know I appeared distressed; but don t imagine it was from\nany silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that\nI _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect\nme either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes\nalone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of\n_myself_, but I dread other people s remarks. \n\nElizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in\nDerbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no\nother view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial\nto Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming\nthere _with_ his friend s permission, or being bold enough to come\nwithout it.\n\n Yet it is hard,  she sometimes thought,  that this poor man cannot come\nto a house, which he has legally hired, without raising all this\nspeculation! I _will_ leave him to himself. \n\nIn spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her\nfeelings, in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily\nperceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,\nmore unequal, than she had often seen them.\n\nThe subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,\nabout a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.\n\n As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,  said Mrs. Bennet,  you\nwill wait on him, of course. \n\n No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I\nwent to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in\nnothing, and I will not be sent on a fool s errand again. \n\nHis wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention\nwould be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to\nNetherfield.\n\n Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,  said he.  If he wants our society, let\nhim seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend _my_ hours in\nrunning after my neighbours every time they go away and come back\nagain. \n\n Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait\non him. But, however, that shan t prevent my asking him to dine here, I\nam determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will\nmake thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for\nhim. \n\nConsoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her\nhusband s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her\nneighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before\n_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,--\n\n I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,  said Jane to her sister.  It\nwould be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference; but I can\nhardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;\nbut she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she\nsays. Happy shall I be when his stay at Netherfield is over! \n\n I wish I could say anything to comfort you,  replied Elizabeth;  but it\nis wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction\nof preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have\nalways so much. \n\nMr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,\ncontrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety\nand fretfulness on her side be as long as it could. She counted the days\nthat must intervene before their invitation could be sent--hopeless of\nseeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in\nHertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window enter the\npaddock, and ride towards the house.\n\nHer daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely\nkept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went\nto the window--she looked--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down\nagain by her sister.\n\n There is a gentleman with him, mamma,  said Kitty;  who can it be? \n\n Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not\nknow. \n\n La!  replied Kitty,  it looks just like that man that used to be with\nhim before. Mr. what s his name--that tall, proud man. \n\n Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of\nMr. Bingley s will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must\nsay that I hate the very sight of him. \n\nJane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little\nof their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness\nwhich must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time\nafter receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable\nenough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their\nmother talked on of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be\ncivil to him only as Mr. Bingley s friend, without being heard by either\nof them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not yet be\nsuspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to show Mrs.\nGardiner s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards\nhim. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused,\nand whose merits she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive\ninformation, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted\nfor the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an\ninterest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just, as\nwhat Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his\ncoming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,\nwas almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered\nbehaviour in Derbyshire.\n\nThe colour which had been driven from her face returned for half a\nminute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to\nher eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and\nwishes must still be unshaken; but she would not be secure.\n\n Let me first see how he behaves,  said she;  it will then be early\nenough for expectation. \n\nShe sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to\nlift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her\nsister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little\npaler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the\ngentlemen s appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with\ntolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any\nsymptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance.\n\nElizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down\nagain to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She\nhad ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and,\nshe thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as\nshe had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps, he could not in her\nmother s presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a\npainful, but not an improbable, conjecture.\n\nBingley she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period\nsaw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.\nBennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,\nespecially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of\nher courtesy and address of his friend.\n\nElizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the\npreservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was\nhurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill\napplied.\n\nDarcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did--a question\nwhich she could not answer without confusion--said scarcely anything. He\nwas not seated by her: perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but\nit had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends\nwhen he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed, without\nbringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist\nthe impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often\nfound him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but\nthe ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when\nthey last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry\nwith herself for being so.\n\n Could I expect it to be otherwise?  said she.  Yet why did he come? \n\nShe was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to\nhim she had hardly courage to speak.\n\nShe inquired after his sister, but could do no more.\n\n It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,  said Mrs. Bennet.\n\nHe readily agreed to it.\n\n I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say,\nyou meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope\nit is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood\nsince you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled: and one of my\nown daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have\nseen it in the papers. It was in the  Times  and the  Courier,  I know;\nthough it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said,  Lately,\nGeorge Wickham, Esq., to Miss Lydia Bennet,  without there being a\nsyllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.\nIt was my brother Gardiner s drawing up, too, and I wonder how he came\nto make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it? \n\nBingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth\ndared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could\nnot tell.\n\n It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married, \ncontinued her mother;  but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very\nhard to have her taken away from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a\nplace quite northward it seems, and there they are to stay, I do not\nknow how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of\nhis leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the Regulars.\nThank heaven! he has _some_ friends, though, perhaps, not so many as he\ndeserves. \n\nElizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery\nof shame that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however,\nthe exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done\nbefore; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the\ncountry at present. A few weeks, he believed.\n\n When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,  said her mother,\n I beg you will come here and shoot as many as you please on Mr.\nBennet s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and\nwill save all the best of the coveys for you. \n\nElizabeth s misery increased at such unnecessary, such officious\nattention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had\nflattered them a year ago, everything, she was persuaded, would be\nhastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt,\nthat years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for\nmoments of such painful confusion.\n\n The first wish of my heart,  said she to herself,  is never more to be\nin company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure\nthat will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either\none or the other again! \n\nYet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no\ncompensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing\nhow much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former\nlover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little, but every\nfive minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her\nas handsome as she had been last year; as good-natured, and as\nunaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no\ndifference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded\nthat she talked as much as ever; but her mind was so busily engaged,\nthat she did not always know when she was silent.\n\nWhen the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her\nintended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at\nLongbourn in a few days  time.\n\n You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,  she added;  for when\nyou went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with\nus as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you\nI was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your\nengagement. \n\nBingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of\nhis concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.\n\nMrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine\nthere that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did\nnot think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man\non whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride\nof one who had ten thousand a year.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Jane happened to look round \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAs soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;\nor, in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects\nwhich must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy s behaviour astonished and vexed\nher.\n\n Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,  said she,\n did he come at all? \n\nShe could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.\n\n He could be still amiable, still pleasing to my uncle and aunt, when he\nwas in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he\nno longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing man! I will think\nno more about him. \n\nHer resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach\nof her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look which showed her\nbetter satisfied with their visitors than Elizabeth.\n\n Now,  said she,  that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly\neasy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by\nhis coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly\nseen, that on both sides we meet only as common and indifferent\nacquaintance. \n\n Yes, very indifferent, indeed,  said Elizabeth, laughingly.  Oh, Jane!\ntake care. \n\n My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak as to be in danger now. \n\n I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with\nyou as ever. \n\nThey did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in\nthe meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes which the\ngood-humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour s visit,\nhad revived.\n\nOn Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two\nwho were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as\nsportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the\ndining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take\nthe place which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by\nher sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to\ninvite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to\nhesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was\ndecided. He placed himself by her.\n\nElizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He\nbore it with noble indifference; and she would have imagined that\nBingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes\nlikewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing\nalarm.\n\nHis behaviour to her sister was such during dinnertime as showed an\nadmiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded\nElizabeth, that, if left wholly to himself, Jane s happiness, and his\nown, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the\nconsequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It\ngave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in\nno cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table\ncould divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little\nsuch a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to\nadvantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse; but\nshe could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and\ncold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother s ungraciousness\nmade the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth s mind;\nand she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell\nhim, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of\nthe family.\n\nShe was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of\nbringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away\nwithout enabling them to enter into something more of conversation,\nthan the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and\nuneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room before the gentlemen\ncame, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil.\nShe looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her\nchance of pleasure for the evening must depend.\n\n If he does not come to me, _then_,  said she,  I shall give him up for\never. \n\nThe gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have\nanswered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,\nwhere Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,\nin so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her\nwhich would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen s approaching, one of\nthe girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,--\n\n The men shan t come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;\ndo we? \n\nDarcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with\nher eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough\nto help anybody to coffee, and then was enraged against herself for\nbeing so silly!\n\n A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to\nexpect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex who would not\nprotest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?\nThere is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings. \n\nShe was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee-cup\nhimself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,--\n\n Is your sister at Pemberley still? \n\n Yes; she will remain there till Christmas. \n\n And quite alone? Have all her friends left her? \n\n Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough\nthese three weeks. \n\nShe could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse\nwith her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for\nsome minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady s whispering\nto Elizabeth again, he walked away.\n\nWhen the tea things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies\nall rose; and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when\nall her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her\nmother s rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated\nwith the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.\nThey were confined for the evening at different tables; and she had\nnothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side\nof the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.\n\nMrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to\nsupper; but their carriage was, unluckily, ordered before any of the\nothers, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.\n\n Well, girls,  said she, as soon as they were left to themselves,  what\nsay you to the day? I think everything has passed off uncommonly well, I\nassure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The\nvenison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat\na haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the\nLucases  last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged that the partridges\nwere remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French\ncooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater\nbeauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And\nwhat do you think she said besides?  Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her\nat Netherfield at last!  She did, indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as\ngood a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved\ngirls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously. \n\n[Illustration:\n\n      M^{rs}. Long and her nieces. \n]\n\nMrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits: she had seen enough of\nBingley s behaviour to Jane to be convinced that she would get him at\nlast; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy\nhumour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at\nnot seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.\n\n It has been a very agreeable day,  said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth.  The\nparty seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we\nmay often meet again. \n\nElizabeth smiled.\n\n Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I\nassure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an\nagreeable and sensible young man without having a wish beyond it. I am\nperfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had\nany design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with\ngreater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally\npleasing, than any other man. \n\n You are very cruel,  said her sister,  you will not let me smile, and\nare provoking me to it every moment. \n\n How hard it is in some cases to be believed! And how impossible in\nothers! But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I\nacknowledge? \n\n That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to\ninstruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive\nme; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your\nconfidante. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak to you. \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nA few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His\nfriend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in\nten days  time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably\ngood spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many\nexpressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.\n\n Next time you call,  said she,  I hope we shall be more lucky. \n\nHe should be particularly happy at any time, etc., etc.; and if she\nwould give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on\nthem.\n\n Can you come to-morrow? \n\nYes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was\naccepted with alacrity.\n\nHe came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them\ndressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughters  room, in her\ndressing-gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out,--\n\n My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is\ncome. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss\nBennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss\nLizzy s hair. \n\n We will be down as soon as we can,  said Jane;  but I dare say Kitty is\nforwarder than either of us, for she went upstairs half an hour ago. \n\n Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come, be quick, be quick!\nwhere is your sash, my dear? \n\nBut when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down\nwithout one of her sisters.\n\nThe same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the\nevening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his\ncustom, and Mary went upstairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the\nfive being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at\nElizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any\nimpression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last\nKitty did, she very innocently said,  What is the matter, mamma? What do\nyou keep winking at me for? What am I to do? \n\n Nothing, child, nothing. I did not wink at you.  She then sat still\nfive minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she\nsuddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,--\n\n Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,  took her out of the room.\nJane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such\npremeditation, and her entreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a\nfew minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out,--\n\n Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you. \n\nElizabeth was forced to go.\n\n We may as well leave them by themselves, you know,  said her mother as\nsoon as she was in the hall.  Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in\nmy dressing-room. \n\nElizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained\nquietly in the hall till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned\ninto the drawing-room.\n\nMrs. Bennet s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was\neverything that was charming, except the professed lover of her\ndaughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable\naddition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged\nofficiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a\nforbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to the\ndaughter.\n\nHe scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away\nan engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet s\nmeans, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.\n\nAfter this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed\nbetween the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the\nhappy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy\nreturned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably\npersuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman s\nconcurrence.\n\nBingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the\nmorning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more\nagreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption\nor folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into\nsilence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the\nother had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;\nand in the evening Mrs. Bennet s invention was again at work to get\neverybody away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to\nwrite, went into the breakfast-room for that purpose soon after tea; for\nas the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be\nwanted to counteract her mother s schemes.\n\nBut on her returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished,\nshe saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her\nmother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she\nperceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as\nif engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion,\nthe faces of both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each\nother, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but\n_hers_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by\neither; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when\nBingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and,\nwhispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room.\n\nJane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give\npleasure; and, instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest\nemotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.\n\n Tis too much!  she added,  by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh,\nwhy is not everybody as happy? \n\nElizabeth s congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a\ndelight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of\nkindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not\nallow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be\nsaid, for the present.\n\n I must go instantly to my mother,  she cried.  I would not on any\naccount trifle with her affectionate solicitude, or allow her to hear it\nfrom anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh, Lizzy, to\nknow that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear\nfamily! how shall I bear so much happiness? \n\nShe then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the\ncard-party, and was sitting upstairs with Kitty.\n\nElizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease\nwith which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many\nprevious months of suspense and vexation.\n\n And this,  said she,  is the end of all his friend s anxious\ncircumspection! of all his sister s falsehood and contrivance! the\nhappiest, wisest, and most reasonable end! \n\nIn a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her\nfather had been short and to the purpose.\n\n Where is your sister?  said he hastily, as he opened the door.\n\n With my mother upstairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say. \n\nHe then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes\nand affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her\ndelight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with\ngreat cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen\nto all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane s perfections;\nand in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his\nexpectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for\nbasis the excellent understanding and super-excellent disposition of\nJane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and\nhimself.\n\nIt was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of\nMiss Bennet s mind gave such a glow of sweet animation to her face, as\nmade her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped\nher turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or\nspeak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,\nthough she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when\nMr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed\nhow really happy he was.\n\nNot a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their\nvisitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he\nturned to his daughter and said,--\n\n Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman. \n\nJane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his\ngoodness.\n\n You are a good girl,  he replied,  and I have great pleasure in\nthinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your\ndoing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are\neach of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so\neasy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will\nalways exceed your income. \n\n I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be\nunpardonable in _me_. \n\n Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,  cried his wife,  what are you\ntalking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely\nmore.  Then addressing her daughter,  Oh, my dear, dear Jane, I am so\nhappy! I am sure I shan t get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it\nwould be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not\nbe so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when\nhe first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was\nthat you should come together. Oh, he is the handsomest young man that\never was seen! \n\nWickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her\nfavourite child. At that moment she cared for no other. Her younger\nsisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness\nwhich she might in future be able to dispense.\n\nMary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty\nbegged very hard for a few balls there every winter.\n\nBingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;\ncoming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after\nsupper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough\ndetested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought\nhimself obliged to accept.\n\nElizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for\nwhile he was present Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else: but\nshe found herself considerably useful to both of them, in those hours of\nseparation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always\nattached himself to Elizabeth for the pleasure of talking of her; and\nwhen Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.\n\n He has made me so happy,  said she, one evening,  by telling me that he\nwas totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed\nit possible. \n\n I suspected as much,  replied Elizabeth.  But how did he account for\nit? \n\n It must have been his sisters  doing. They were certainly no friends to\nhis acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have\nchosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,\nas I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will\nlearn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again: though we\ncan never be what we once were to each other. \n\n That is the most unforgiving speech,  said Elizabeth,  that I ever\nheard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again\nthe dupe of Miss Bingley s pretended regard. \n\n Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November he\nreally loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being indifferent\nwould have prevented his coming down again? \n\n He made a little mistake, to be sure; but it is to the credit of his\nmodesty. \n\nThis naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and\nthe little value he put on his own good qualities.\n\nElizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference\nof his friend; for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving\nheart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice\nher against him.\n\n I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!  cried\nJane.  Oh, Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed\nabove them all? If I could but see you as happy! If there were but such\nanother man for you! \n\n If you were to give me forty such men I never could be so happy as you.\nTill I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your\nhappiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very\ngood luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time. \n\nThe situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a\nsecret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and\nshe ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her\nneighbours in Meryton.\n\nThe Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the\nworld; though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,\nthey had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOne morning, about a week after Bingley s engagement with Jane had been\nformed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the\ndining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window by the\nsound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the\nlawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors; and besides, the\nequipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses\nwere post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who\npreceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that\nsomebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid\nthe confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the\nshrubbery. They both set off; and the conjectures of the remaining three\ncontinued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown\nopen, and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.\n\nThey were of course all intending to be surprised: but their\nastonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.\nBennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even\ninferior to what Elizabeth felt.\n\nShe entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no\nother reply to Elizabeth s salutation than a slight inclination of the\nhead, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her\nname to her mother on her Ladyship s entrance, though no request of\nintroduction had been made.\n\nMrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such\nhigh importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting\nfor a moment in silence, she said, very stiffly, to Elizabeth,--\n\n I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your\nmother? \n\nElizabeth replied very concisely that she was.\n\n And _that_, I suppose, is one of your sisters? \n\n Yes, madam,  said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a Lady Catherine.\n She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married,\nand my eldest is somewhere about the ground, walking with a young man,\nwho, I believe, will soon become a part of the family. \n\n You have a very small park here,  returned Lady Catherine, after a\nshort silence.\n\n It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my Lady, I dare say; but, I\nassure you, it is much larger than Sir William Lucas s. \n\n This must be a most inconvenient sitting-room for the evening in\nsummer: the windows are full west. \n\nMrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner; and then\nadded,--\n\n May I take the liberty of asking your Ladyship whether you left Mr. and\nMrs. Collins well? \n\n Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last. \n\nElizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from\nCharlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no\nletter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.\n\nMrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her Ladyship to take some\nrefreshment: but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,\ndeclined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,--\n\n Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness\non one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you\nwill favour me with your company. \n\n Go, my dear,  cried her mother,  and show her Ladyship about the\ndifferent walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage. \n\nElizabeth obeyed; and, running into her own room for her parasol,\nattended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall,\nLady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and\ndrawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be\ndecent-looking rooms, walked on.\n\nHer carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her\nwaiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk\nthat led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for\nconversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and\ndisagreeable.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n After a short survey \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n How could I ever think her like her nephew?  said she, as she looked in\nher face.\n\nAs soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following\nmanner:--\n\n You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my\njourney hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I\ncome. \n\nElizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.\n\n Indeed, you are mistaken, madam; I have not been at all able to account\nfor the honour of seeing you here. \n\n Miss Bennet,  replied her Ladyship, in an angry tone,  you ought to\nknow that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may\nchoose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been\ncelebrated for its sincerity and frankness; and in a cause of such\nmoment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most\nalarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your\nsister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that\n_you_--that Miss Elizabeth Bennet would, in all likelihood, be soon\nafterwards united to my nephew--my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I\n_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him\nso much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on\nsetting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to\nyou. \n\n If you believed it impossible to be true,  said Elizabeth, colouring\nwith astonishment and disdain,  I wonder you took the trouble of coming\nso far. What could your Ladyship propose by it? \n\n At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted. \n\n Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,  said Elizabeth\ncoolly,  will be rather a confirmation of it--if, indeed, such a report\nis in existence. \n\n If! do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been\nindustriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a\nreport is spread abroad? \n\n I never heard that it was. \n\n And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for it? \n\n I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your Ladyship. _You_\nmay ask questions which _I_ shall not choose to answer. \n\n This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has\nhe, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage? \n\n Your Ladyship has declared it to be impossible. \n\n It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his\nreason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,\nhave made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You\nmay have drawn him in. \n\n If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it. \n\n Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such\nlanguage as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,\nand am entitled to know all his dearest concerns. \n\n But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such behaviour as\nthis ever induce me to be explicit. \n\n Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the\npresumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is\nengaged to _my daughter_. Now, what have you to say? \n\n Only this,--that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will\nmake an offer to me. \n\nLady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,--\n\n The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,\nthey have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of\n_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles we planned the\nunion; and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be\naccomplished, is their marriage to be prevented by a young woman of\ninferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to\nthe family? Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends--to his\ntacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of\npropriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his\nearliest hours he was destined for his cousin? \n\n Yes; and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no\nother objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be\nkept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry\nMiss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the\nmarriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by\nhonour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make\nanother choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him? \n\n Because honour, decorum, prudence--nay, interest--forbid it. Yes, Miss\nBennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or\nfriends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will\nbe censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him.\nYour alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned\nby any of us. \n\n These are heavy misfortunes,  replied Elizabeth.  But the wife of Mr.\nDarcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily\nattached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause\nto repine. \n\n Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude\nfor my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that\nscore? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came\nhere with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I\nbe dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person s\nwhims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment. \n\n _That_ will make your Ladyship s situation at present more pitiable;\nbut it will have no effect on _me_. \n\n I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence. My daughter and my\nnephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal\nside, from the same noble line; and, on the father s, from respectable,\nhonourable, and ancient, though untitled, families. Their fortune on\nboth sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of\nevery member of their respective houses; and what is to divide\nthem?--the upstart pretensions of a young woman without family,\nconnections, or fortune! Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall\nnot be! If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to\nquit the sphere in which you have been brought up. \n\n In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that\nsphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman s daughter; so far we are\nequal. \n\n True. You _are_ a gentleman s daughter. But what was your mother? Who\nare your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their\ncondition. \n\n Whatever my connections may be,  said Elizabeth,  if your nephew does\nnot object to them, they can be nothing to _you_. \n\n Tell me, once for all, are you engaged to him? \n\nThough Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady\nCatherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a\nmoment s deliberation,--\n\n I am not. \n\nLady Catherine seemed pleased.\n\n And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement? \n\n I will make no promise of the kind. \n\n Miss Bennet, I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more\nreasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I\nwill ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the\nassurance I require. \n\n And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into\nanything so wholly unreasonable. Your Ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry\nyour daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make\n_their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to\nme, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on\nhis cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with\nwhich you have supported this extraordinary application have been as\nfrivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my\ncharacter, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these.\nHow far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs,\nI cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in\nmine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no further on the\nsubject. \n\n Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the\nobjections I have already urged I have still another to add. I am no\nstranger to the particulars of your youngest sister s infamous\nelopement. I know it all; that the young man s marrying her was a\npatched-up business, at the expense of your father and uncle. And is\n_such_ a girl to be my nephew s sister? Is _her_ husband, who is the son\nof his late father s steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of\nwhat are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted? \n\n You can _now_ have nothing further to say,  she resentfully answered.\n You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to\nthe house. \n\nAnd she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned\nback. Her Ladyship was highly incensed.\n\n You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!\nUnfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you\nmust disgrace him in the eyes of everybody? \n\n Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments. \n\n You are then resolved to have him? \n\n I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,\nwhich will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without\nreference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me. \n\n It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the\nclaims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in\nthe opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world. \n\n Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,  replied Elizabeth,  has any\npossible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either\nwould be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the\nresentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former\n_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment s\nconcern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in\nthe scorn. \n\n And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I\nshall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your\nambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you\nreasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point. \n\nIn this manner Lady Catherine talked on till they were at the door of\nthe carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added,--\n\n I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your\nmother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased. \n\nElizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her\nLadyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She\nheard the carriage drive away as she proceeded upstairs. Her mother\nimpatiently met her at the door of her dressing-room, to ask why Lady\nCatherine would not come in again and rest herself.\n\n She did not choose it,  said her daughter;  she would go. \n\n She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously\ncivil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well.\nShe is on her road somewhere, I dare say; and so, passing through\nMeryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had\nnothing particular to say to you, Lizzy? \n\nElizabeth was forced to give in to a little falsehood here; for to\nacknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      But now it comes out \n]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw\nElizabeth into could not be easily overcome; nor could she for many\nhours learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it\nappeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings\nfor the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.\nDarcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report of\ntheir engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;\ntill she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,\nand _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the\nexpectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply\nthe idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her\nsister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at\nLucas Lodge, therefore, (for through their communication with the\nCollinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine,) had\nonly set _that_ down as almost certain and immediate which _she_ had\nlooked forward to as possible at some future time.\n\nIn revolving Lady Catherine s expressions, however, she could not help\nfeeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting\nin this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to\nprevent the marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an\napplication to her nephew; and how he might take a similar\nrepresentation of the evils attached to a connection with her she dared\nnot pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his\naunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose\nthat he thought much higher of her Ladyship than _she_ could do; and it\nwas certain, that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_\nwhose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would\naddress him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would\nprobably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak\nand ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.\n\nIf he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often\nseemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might\nsettle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity\nunblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady\nCatherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to\nBingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.\n\n If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his\nfriend within a few days,  she added,  I shall know how to understand\nit. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his\nconstancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might\nhave obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him\nat all. \n\nThe surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had\nbeen, was very great: but they obligingly satisfied it with the same\nkind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet s curiosity; and\nElizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.\n\nThe next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her\nfather, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.\n\n Lizzy,  said he,  I was going to look for you: come into my room. \n\nShe followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell\nher was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner\nconnected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might\nbe from Lady Catherine, and she anticipated with dismay all the\nconsequent explanations.\n\nShe followed her father to the fireplace, and they both sat down. He\nthen said,--\n\n I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me\nexceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its\ncontents. I did not know before that I had _two_ daughters on the brink\nof matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest. \n\nThe colour now rushed into Elizabeth s cheeks in the instantaneous\nconviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;\nand she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained\nhimself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to\nherself, when her father continued,--\n\n You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters\nas these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity to discover the\nname of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins. \n\n From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say? \n\n Something very much to the purpose, of course. He begins with\ncongratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of\nwhich, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping\nLucases. I shall not sport with your impatience by reading what he says\non that point. What relates to yourself is as follows:-- Having thus\noffered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on\nthis happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another,\nof which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter\nElizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after\nher eldest sister has resigned it; and the chosen partner of her fate\nmay be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages\nin this land.  Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?\n This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with everything the\nheart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and\nextensive patronage. Yet, in spite of all these temptations, let me warn\nmy cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a\nprecipitate closure with this gentleman s proposals, which, of course,\nyou will be inclined to take immediate advantage of.  Have you any idea,\nLizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out.  My motive for\ncautioning you is as follows:--We have reason to imagine that his aunt,\nLady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly\neye.  _Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_\nsurprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within\nthe circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more\neffectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any\nwoman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in\nhis life! It is admirable! \n\nElizabeth tried to join in her father s pleasantry, but could only force\none most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so\nlittle agreeable to her.\n\n Are you not diverted? \n\n Oh, yes. Pray read on. \n\n After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her Ladyship last\nnight, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she\nfelt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that, on the score of\nsome family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give\nher consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my\nduty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she\nand her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run\nhastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.  Mr.\nCollins, moreover, adds,  I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia s sad\nbusiness has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their\nliving together before the marriage took place should be so generally\nknown. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain\nfrom declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young\ncouple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an\nencouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should\nvery strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as\na Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their\nnames to be mentioned in your hearing.  _That_ is his notion of\nChristian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear\nCharlotte s situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But,\nLizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be\n_missish_, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For\nwhat do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them\nin our turn? \n\n Oh,  cried Elizabeth,  I am exceedingly diverted. But it is so\nstrange! \n\n Yes, _that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man\nit would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference and _your_\npointed dislike make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate\nwriting, I would not give up Mr. Collins s correspondence for any\nconsideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving\nhim the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and\nhypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine\nabout this report? Did she call to refuse her consent? \n\nTo this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had\nbeen asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his\nrepeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her\nfeelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh when she\nwould rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by\nwhat he said of Mr. Darcy s indifference; and she could do nothing but\nwonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that, perhaps, instead of\nhis seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n The efforts of his aunt \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nInstead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as\nElizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy\nwith him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine s\nvisit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to\ntell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in\nmomentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed\ntheir all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the\nhabit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five\nset off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to\noutstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy\nwere to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was\ntoo much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a\ndesperate resolution; and, perhaps, he might be doing the same.\n\nThey walked towards the Lucases , because Kitty wished to call upon\nMaria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,\nwhen Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the\nmoment for her resolution to be executed; and while her courage was\nhigh, she immediately said,--\n\n Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving\nrelief to my own feelings care not how much I may be wounding yours. I\ncan no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor\nsister. Ever since I have known it I have been most anxious to\nacknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest\nof my family I should not have merely my own gratitude to express. \n\n I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,  replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise\nand emotion,  that you have ever been informed of what may, in a\nmistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner\nwas so little to be trusted. \n\n You must not blame my aunt. Lydia s thoughtlessness first betrayed to\nme that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could\nnot rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,\nin the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced\nyou to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the\nsake of discovering them. \n\n If you _will_ thank me,  he replied,  let it be for yourself alone.\nThat the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other\ninducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your\n_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought\nonly of _you_. \n\nElizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,\nher companion added,  You are too generous to trifle with me. If your\nfeelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_\naffections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence\nme on this subject for ever. \n\nElizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of\nhis situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not\nvery fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone\nso material a change since the period to which he alluded, as to make\nher receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The\nhappiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never\nfelt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as\nwarmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth\nbeen able to encounter his eyes, she might have seen how well the\nexpression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face became him: but\nthough she could not look she could listen; and he told her of feelings\nwhich, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection\nevery moment more valuable.\n\nThey walked on without knowing in what direction. There was too much to\nbe thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She\nsoon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding\nto the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through\nLondon, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the\nsubstance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on\nevery expression of the latter, which, in her Ladyship s apprehension,\npeculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that\nsuch a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from\nher nephew which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her\nLadyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.\n\n It taught me to hope,  said he,  as I had scarcely ever allowed myself\nto hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that\nhad you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have\nacknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly. \n\nElizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied,  Yes, you know enough of\nmy _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so\nabominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all\nyour relations. \n\n What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your\naccusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour\nto you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was\nunpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence. \n\n We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that\nevening,  said Elizabeth.  The conduct of neither, if strictly\nexamined, will be irreproachable; but since then we have both, I hope,\nimproved in civility. \n\n I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I\nthen said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of\nit, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your\nreproof, so well applied, I shall never forget:  Had you behaved in a\nmore gentlemanlike manner.  Those were your words. You know not, you can\nscarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; though it was some time, I\nconfess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice. \n\n I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an\nimpression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such\na way. \n\n I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper\nfeeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never\nforget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible\nway that would induce you to accept me. \n\n Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at\nall. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it. \n\nDarcy mentioned his letter.  Did it,  said he,-- did it _soon_ make you\nthink better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its\ncontents? \n\nShe explained what its effects on her had been, and how gradually all\nher former prejudices had been removed.\n\n I knew,  said he,  that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was\nnecessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part,\nespecially the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power\nof reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly\nmake you hate me. \n\n The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the\npreservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my\nopinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily\nchanged as that implies. \n\n When I wrote that letter,  replied Darcy,  I believed myself perfectly\ncalm and cool; but I am since convinced that it was written in a\ndreadful bitterness of spirit. \n\n The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The\nadieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings\nof the person who wrote and the person who received it are now so widely\ndifferent from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance\nattending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my\nphilosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you\npleasure. \n\n I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_\nretrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment\narising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of\nignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will\nintrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a\nselfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a\nchild I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my\ntemper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride\nand conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only _child_),\nI was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, (my father\nparticularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,\nalmost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond\nmy own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to\n_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with\nmy own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might\nstill have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not\nowe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most\nadvantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a\ndoubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my\npretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased. \n\n Had you then persuaded yourself that I should? \n\n Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be\nwishing, expecting my addresses. \n\n My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure\nyou. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me\nwrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening! \n\n Hate you! I was angry, perhaps, at first, but my anger soon began to\ntake a proper direction. \n\n I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at\nPemberley. You blamed me for coming? \n\n No, indeed, I felt nothing but surprise. \n\n Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.\nMy conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I\nconfess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due. \n\n My object _then_,  replied Darcy,  was to show you, by every civility\nin my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped\nto obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you\nsee that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes\nintroduced themselves, I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half\nan hour after I had seen you. \n\nHe then told her of Georgiana s delight in her acquaintance, and of her\ndisappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to\nthe cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of\nfollowing her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed\nbefore he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there\nhad arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must\ncomprehend.\n\nShe expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to\neach to be dwelt on farther.\n\nAfter walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know\nanything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that\nit was time to be at home.\n\n What could have become of Mr. Bingley and Jane?  was a wonder which\nintroduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with\ntheir engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of\nit.\n\n I must ask whether you were surprised?  said Elizabeth.\n\n Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen. \n\n That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.  And\nthough he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much\nthe case.\n\n On the evening before my going to London,  said he,  I made a\nconfession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told\nhim of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his\naffairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had\nthe slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself\nmistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent\nto him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was\nunabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together. \n\nElizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his\nfriend.\n\n Did you speak from your own observation,  said she,  when you told him\nthat my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring? \n\n From the former. I had narrowly observed her, during the two visits\nwhich I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection. \n\n And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to\nhim. \n\n It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had\nprevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but\nhis reliance on mine made everything easy. I was obliged to confess one\nthing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not\nallow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months\nlast winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was\nangry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained\nin any doubt of your sister s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me\nnow. \n\nElizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful\nfriend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked\nherself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and\nit was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of\nBingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he\ncontinued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they\nparted.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n      Unable to utter a syllable \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?  was a question\nwhich Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and\nfrom all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in\nreply, that they had wandered about till she was beyond her own\nknowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything\nelse, awakened a suspicion of the truth.\n\nThe evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The\nacknowledged lovers talked and laughed; the unacknowledged were silent.\nDarcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;\nand Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy\nthan _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,\nthere were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in\nthe family when her situation became known: she was aware that no one\nliked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a\n_dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.\n\nAt night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far\nfrom Miss Bennet s general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.\n\n You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be! Engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,\nyou shall not deceive me: I know it to be impossible. \n\n This is a wretched beginning, indeed! My sole dependence was on you;\nand I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I\nam in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we\nare engaged. \n\nJane looked at her doubtingly.  Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much\nyou dislike him. \n\n You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I\ndid not always love him so well as I do now; but in such cases as these\na good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever\nremember it myself. \n\nMiss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more\nseriously, assured her of its truth.\n\n Good heaven! can it be really so? Yet now I must believe you,  cried\nJane.  My dear, dear Lizzy, I would, I do congratulate you; but are you\ncertain--forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be\nhappy with him? \n\n There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already that we\nare to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane?\nShall you like to have such a brother? \n\n Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more\ndelight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you\nreally love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than\nmarry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought\nto do? \n\n Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do when I\ntell you all. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am\nafraid you will be angry. \n\n My dearest sister, now be, _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously.\nLet me know everything that I am to know without delay. Will you tell me\nhow long you have loved him? \n\n It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began;\nbut I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds\nat Pemberley. \n\nAnother entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the\ndesired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of\nattachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing\nfurther to wish.\n\n Now I am quite happy,  said she,  for you will be as happy as myself. I\nalways had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I\nmust always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley s friend and your\nhusband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But,\nLizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you\ntell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know\nof it to another, not to you. \n\nElizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to\nmention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made\nher equally avoid the name of his friend: but now she would no longer\nconceal from her his share in Lydia s marriage. All was acknowledged,\nand half the night spent in conversation.\n\n Good gracious!  cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next\nmorning,  if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with\nour dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always\ncoming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or\nother, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?\nLizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley s\nway. \n\nElizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet\nwas really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an\nepithet.\n\nAs soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and\nshook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;\nand he soon afterwards said aloud,  Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes\nhereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day? \n\n I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,  said Mrs. Bennet,  to walk\nto Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has\nnever seen the view. \n\n It may do very well for the others,  replied Mr. Bingley;  but I am\nsure it will be too much for Kitty. Won t it, Kitty? \n\nKitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great\ncuriosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently\nconsented. As she went upstairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her,\nsaying,--\n\n I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that\ndisagreeable man all to yourself; but I hope you will not mind it. It is\nall for Jane s sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to\nhim except just now and then; so do not put yourself to inconvenience. \n\nDuring their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet s consent should be\nasked in the course of the evening: Elizabeth reserved to herself the\napplication for her mother s. She could not determine how her mother\nwould take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur\nwould be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man; but whether she\nwere violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it\nwas certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to\nher sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the\nfirst raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her\ndisapprobation.\n\nIn the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw\nMr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was\nextreme. She did not fear her father s opposition, but he was going to\nbe made unhappy, and that it should be through her means; that _she_,\nhis favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be\nfilling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched\nreflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,\nlooking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes\nhe approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while\npretending to admire her work, said in a whisper,  Go to your father; he\nwants you in the library.  She was gone directly.\n\nHer father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.\n Lizzy,  said he,  what are you doing? Are you out of your senses to be\naccepting this man? Have not you always hated him? \n\nHow earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more\nreasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from\nexplanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;\nbut they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,\nof her attachment to Mr. Darcy.\n\n Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be\nsure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.\nBut will they make you happy? \n\n Have you any other objection,  said Elizabeth,  than your belief of my\nindifference? \n\n None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but\nthis would be nothing if you really liked him. \n\n I do, I do like him,  she replied, with tears in her eyes;  I love him.\nIndeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not\nknow what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in\nsuch terms. \n\n Lizzy,  said her father,  I have given him my consent. He is the kind\nof man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he\ncondescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on\nhaving him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your\ndisposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor\nrespectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband, unless you looked\nup to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the\ngreatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape\ndiscredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing\n_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are\nabout. \n\nElizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply;\nand, at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the\nobject of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her\nestimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that\nhis affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many\nmonths  suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities,\nshe did conquer her father s incredulity, and reconcile him to the\nmatch.\n\n Well, my dear,  said he, when she ceased speaking,  I have no more to\nsay. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with\nyou, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy. \n\nTo complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy\nhad voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.\n\n This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did everything;\nmade up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow s debts, and got him\nhis commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble\nand economy. Had it been your uncle s doing, I must and _would_ have\npaid him; but these violent young lovers carry everything their own\nway. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow, he will rant and storm about\nhis love for you, and there will be an end of the matter. \n\nHe then recollected her embarrassment a few days before on his reading\nMr. Collins s letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her\nat last to go, saying, as she quitted the room,  If any young men come\nfor Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure. \n\nElizabeth s mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after\nhalf an hour s quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join\nthe others with tolerable composure. Everything was too recent for\ngaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer\nanything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity\nwould come in time.\n\nWhen her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,\nand made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;\nfor, on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to\nutter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that she could\ncomprehend what she heard, though not in general backward to credit what\nwas for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a\nlover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in\nher chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.\n\n Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would\nhave thought it? And is it really true? Oh, my sweetest Lizzy! how rich\nand how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages\nyou will have! Jane s is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so\npleased--so happy. Such a charming man! so handsome! so tall! Oh, my\ndear Lizzy! pray apologize for my having disliked him so much before. I\nhope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Everything\nthat is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,\nLord! what will become of me? I shall go distracted. \n\nThis was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted; and\nElizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,\nsoon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,\nher mother followed her.\n\n My dearest child,  she cried,  I can think of nothing else. Ten\nthousand a year, and very likely more!  Tis as good as a lord! And a\nspecial licence--you must and shall be married by a special licence.\nBut, my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond\nof, that I may have it to-morrow. \n\nThis was a sad omen of what her mother s behaviour to the gentleman\nhimself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain\npossession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations \nconsent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow\npassed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood\nin such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak\nto him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark\nher deference for his opinion.\n\nElizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get\nacquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising\nevery hour in his esteem.\n\n I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,  said he.  Wickham, perhaps,\nis my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well\nas Jane s. \n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n\n The obsequious civility. \n\n[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nElizabeth s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.\nDarcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her.  How could\nyou begin?  said she.  I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when\nyou had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first\nplace? \n\n I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which\nlaid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I\nknew that I _had_ begun. \n\n My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour\nto _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke\nto you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now, be\nsincere; did you admire me for my impertinence? \n\n For the liveliness of your mind I did. \n\n You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.\nThe fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious\nattention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,\nand looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused and\ninterested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really\namiable you would have hated me for it: but in spite of the pains you\ntook to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and\nin your heart you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously\ncourted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it;\nand really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly\nreasonable. To be sure you know no actual good of me--but nobody thinks\nof _that_ when they fall in love. \n\n Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was\nill at Netherfield? \n\n Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it\nby all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are\nto exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me\nto find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may\nbe; and I shall begin directly, by asking you what made you so unwilling\nto come to the point at last? What made you so shy of me, when you\nfirst called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you\ncalled, did you look as if you did not care about me? \n\n Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement. \n\n But I was embarrassed. \n\n And so was I. \n\n You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner. \n\n A man who had felt less might. \n\n How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that\nI should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you\n_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when\nyou _would_ have spoken if I had not asked you! My resolution of\nthanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too\nmuch_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort\nsprings from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the\nsubject? This will never do. \n\n You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady\nCatherine s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of\nremoving all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to\nyour eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to\nwait for an opening of yours. My aunt s intelligence had given me hope,\nand I was determined at once to know everything. \n\n Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,\nfor she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to\nNetherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?\nor had you intended any more serious consequences? \n\n My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I\nmight ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to\nmyself, was to see whether your sister was still partial to Bingley, and\nif she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made. \n\n Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to\nbefall her? \n\n I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to\nbe done; and if you will give me a sheet of paper it shall be done\ndirectly. \n\n And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you, and\nadmire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But\nI have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected. \n\nFrom an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy\nhad been overrated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner s\nlong letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would\nbe most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt\nhad already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as\nfollows:--\n\n I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,\nfor your long, kind, satisfactory detail of particulars; but, to say the\ntruth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.\nBut _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose to your fancy,\nindulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will\nafford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly\nerr. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more\nthan you did in your last. I thank you again and again, for not going to\nthe Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the\nponies is delightful. We will go round the park every day. I am the\nhappiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so\nbefore, but no one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she\nonly smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that\ncan be spared from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.\nYours,  etc.\n\nMr. Darcy s letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style, and still\ndifferent from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in return\nfor his last.\n\n     /*  Dear Sir, */\n\n      I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will\n     soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as\n     you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has\n     more to give.\n\n Yours sincerely,  etc.\n\nMiss Bingley s congratulations to her brother on his approaching\nmarriage were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even to\nJane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her former\nprofessions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was affected; and\nthough feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a much\nkinder answer than she knew was deserved.\n\nThe joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information was\nas sincere as her brother s in sending it. Four sides of paper were\ninsufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of\nbeing loved by her sister.\n\nBefore any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations\nto Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the\nCollinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this\nsudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so\nexceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew s letter, that\nCharlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till\nthe storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend\nwas a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their\nmeetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she\nsaw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her\nhusband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even\nlisten to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away\nthe brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all\nmeeting frequently at St. James s, with very decent composure. If he did\nshrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.\n\nMrs. Philips s vulgarity was another, and, perhaps, a greater tax on his\nforbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood in\ntoo much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley s\ngood-humour encouraged; yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be\nvulgar. Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at\nall likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to\nshield him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to\nkeep him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might\nconverse without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings\narising from all this took from the season of courtship much of its\npleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward\nwith delight to the time when they should be removed from society so\nlittle pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their\nfamily party at Pemberley.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXI.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nHappy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got\nrid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she\nafterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be\nguessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the\naccomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of\nher children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,\namiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though, perhaps,\nit was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic\nfelicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous\nand invariably silly.\n\nMr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her\ndrew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in\ngoing to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.\n\nMr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near\na vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to\n_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his\nsisters was then gratified: he bought an estate in a neighbouring county\nto Derbyshire; and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source\nof happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.\n\nKitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with\nher two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally\nknown, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a\ntemper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia s example, she\nbecame, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less\nignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia s\nsociety she was of course carefully kept; and though Mrs. Wickham\nfrequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of\nballs and young men, her father would never consent to her going.\n\nMary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily\ndrawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet s being quite\nunable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but\nshe could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no\nlonger mortified by comparisons between her sisters  beauty and her own,\nit was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without\nmuch reluctance.\n\nAs for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from\nthe marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that\nElizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude\nand falsehood had before been unknown to her; and, in spite of\neverything, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be\nprevailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which\nElizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage explained to her that, by\nhis wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The\nletter was to this effect:--\n\n     /*  My dear Lizzy, */\n\n      I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half so well as I do my dear\n     Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you\n     so rich; and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will\n     think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very\n     much; and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live\n     upon without some help. Any place would do of about three or four\n     hundred a year; but, however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it,\n     if you had rather not.\n\n Yours,  etc.\n\nAs it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she endeavoured in\nher answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.\nSuch relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice\nof what might be called economy in her own private expenses, she\nfrequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an\nincome as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in\ntheir wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to\ntheir support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or\nherself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards\ndischarging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the\nrestoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the\nextreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a\ncheap situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection\nfor her soon sunk into indifference: hers lasted a little longer; and,\nin spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to\nreputation which her marriage had given her. Though Darcy could never\nreceive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for Elizabeth s sake, he assisted him\nfurther in his profession. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when\nher husband was gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the\nBingleys they both of them frequently stayed so long, that even\nBingley s good-humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_\nof giving them a hint to be gone.\n\nMiss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy s marriage; but as she\nthought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she\ndropped all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as\nattentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility\nto Elizabeth.\n\nPemberley was now Georgiana s home; and the attachment of the sisters\nwas exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each\nother, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion\nin the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an\nastonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive manner of\ntalking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect\nwhich almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open\npleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in\nher way. By Elizabeth s instructions she began to comprehend that a\nwoman may take liberties with her husband, which a brother will not\nalways allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.\n\nLady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;\nand as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in\nher reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him\nlanguage so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time\nall intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth s persuasion,\nhe was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;\nand, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her\nresentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity\nto see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on\nthem at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had\nreceived, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the\nvisits of her uncle and aunt from the city.\n\nWith the Gardiners they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy,\nas well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever\nsensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing\nher into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Count of Monte Cristo",
        "author": "Alexandre Dumas",
        "category": "Historical Fiction",
        "EN": "VOLUME ONE\n\nChapter 1. Marseilles The Arrival\n\nOn the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde\nsignalled the three-master, the _Pharaon_ from Smyrna, Trieste, and\nNaples.\n\nAs usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the Ch teau d If,\ngot on board the vessel between Cape Morgiou and Rion island.\n\nImmediately, and according to custom, the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean\nwere covered with spectators; it is always an event at Marseilles for a\nship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the _Pharaon_,\nhas been built, rigged, and laden at the old Phocee docks, and belongs\nto an owner of the city.\n\nThe ship drew on and had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic\nshock has made between the Calasareigne and Jaros islands; had doubled\nPom gue, and approached the harbor under topsails, jib, and spanker,\nbut so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which is\nthe forerunner of evil, asked one another what misfortune could have\nhappened on board. However, those experienced in navigation saw plainly\nthat if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself,\nfor she bore down with all the evidence of being skilfully handled, the\nanchor a-cockbill, the jib-boom guys already eased off, and standing by\nthe side of the pilot, who was steering the _Pharaon_ towards the\nnarrow entrance of the inner port, was a young man, who, with activity\nand vigilant eye, watched every motion of the ship, and repeated each\ndirection of the pilot.\n\nThe vague disquietude which prevailed among the spectators had so much\naffected one of the crowd that he did not await the arrival of the\nvessel in harbor, but jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled\nalongside the _Pharaon_, which he reached as she rounded into La\nR serve basin.\n\nWhen the young man on board saw this person approach, he left his\nstation by the pilot, and, hat in hand, leaned over the ship s\nbulwarks.\n\nHe was a fine, tall, slim young fellow of eighteen or twenty, with\nblack eyes, and hair as dark as a raven s wing; and his whole\nappearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men\naccustomed from their cradle to contend with danger.\n\n Ah, is it you, Dant s?  cried the man in the skiff.  What s the\nmatter? and why have you such an air of sadness aboard? \n\n A great misfortune, M. Morrel,  replied the young man,  a great\nmisfortune, for me especially! Off Civita Vecchia we lost our brave\nCaptain Leclere. \n\n And the cargo?  inquired the owner, eagerly.\n\n Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied on that\nhead. But poor Captain Leclere \n\n What happened to him?  asked the owner, with an air of considerable\nresignation.  What happened to the worthy captain? \n\n He died. \n\n Fell into the sea? \n\n No, sir, he died of brain-fever in dreadful agony.  Then turning to\nthe crew, he said,  Bear a hand there, to take in sail! \n\nAll hands obeyed, and at once the eight or ten seamen who composed the\ncrew, sprang to their respective stations at the spanker brails and\nouthaul, topsail sheets and halyards, the jib downhaul, and the topsail\nclewlines and buntlines. The young sailor gave a look to see that his\norders were promptly and accurately obeyed, and then turned again to\nthe owner.\n\n And how did this misfortune occur?  inquired the latter, resuming the\ninterrupted conversation.\n\n0023m\n\n\n\n Alas, sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long talk with the\nharbor-master, Captain Leclere left Naples greatly disturbed in mind.\nIn twenty-four hours he was attacked by a fever, and died three days\nafterwards. We performed the usual burial service, and he is at his\nrest, sewn up in his hammock with a thirty-six-pound shot at his head\nand his heels, off El Giglio island. We bring to his widow his sword\nand cross of honor. It was worth while, truly,  added the young man\nwith a melancholy smile,  to make war against the English for ten\nyears, and to die in his bed at last, like everybody else. \n\n Why, you see, Edmond,  replied the owner, who appeared more comforted\nat every moment,  we are all mortal, and the old must make way for the\nyoung. If not, why, there would be no promotion; and since you assure\nme that the cargo \n\n Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and I advise\nyou not to take 25,000 francs for the profits of the voyage. \n\nThen, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young man shouted:\n Stand by there to lower the topsails and jib; brail up the spanker! \n\nThe order was executed as promptly as it would have been on board a\nman-of-war.\n\n Let go and clue up!  At this last command all the sails were lowered,\nand the vessel moved almost imperceptibly onwards.\n\n Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel,  said Dant s, observing the\nowner s impatience,  here is your supercargo, M. Danglars, coming out\nof his cabin, who will furnish you with every particular. As for me, I\nmust look after the anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning. \n\nThe owner did not wait for a second invitation. He seized a rope which\nDant s flung to him, and with an activity that would have done credit\nto a sailor, climbed up the side of the ship, while the young man,\ngoing to his task, left the conversation to Danglars, who now came\ntowards the owner. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of\nage, of unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors,\ninsolent to his subordinates; and this, in addition to his position as\nresponsible agent on board, which is always obnoxious to the sailors,\nmade him as much disliked by the crew as Edmond Dant s was beloved by\nthem.\n\n Well, M. Morrel,  said Danglars,  you have heard of the misfortune\nthat has befallen us? \n\n Yes yes: poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an honest man. \n\n And a first-rate seaman, one who had seen long and honorable service,\nas became a man charged with the interests of a house so important as\nthat of Morrel & Son,  replied Danglars.\n\n But,  replied the owner, glancing after Dant s, who was watching the\nanchoring of his vessel,  it seems to me that a sailor needs not be so\nold as you say, Danglars, to understand his business, for our friend\nEdmond seems to understand it thoroughly, and not to require\ninstruction from anyone. \n\n Yes,  said Danglars, darting at Edmond a look gleaming with hate.\n Yes, he is young, and youth is invariably self-confident. Scarcely was\nthe captain s breath out of his body when he assumed the command\nwithout consulting anyone, and he caused us to lose a day and a half at\nthe Island of Elba, instead of making for Marseilles direct. \n\n0025m\n\n\n\n As to taking command of the vessel,  replied Morrel,  that was his\nduty as captain s mate; as to losing a day and a half off the Island of\nElba, he was wrong, unless the vessel needed repairs. \n\n The vessel was in as good condition as I am, and as, I hope you are,\nM. Morrel, and this day and a half was lost from pure whim, for the\npleasure of going ashore, and nothing else. \n\n Dant s,  said the shipowner, turning towards the young man,  come this\nway! \n\n In a moment, sir,  answered Dant s,  and I m with you.  Then calling\nto the crew, he said,  Let go! \n\nThe anchor was instantly dropped, and the chain ran rattling through\nthe port-hole. Dant s continued at his post in spite of the presence of\nthe pilot, until this man uvre was completed, and then he added,\n Half-mast the colors, and square the yards! \n\n You see,  said Danglars,  he fancies himself captain already, upon my\nword. \n\n And so, in fact, he is,  said the owner.\n\n Except your signature and your partner s, M. Morrel. \n\n And why should he not have this?  asked the owner;  he is young, it is\ntrue, but he seems to me a thorough seaman, and of full experience. \n\nA cloud passed over Danglars  brow.\n\n Your pardon, M. Morrel,  said Dant s, approaching,  the vessel now\nrides at anchor, and I am at your service. You hailed me, I think? \n\nDanglars retreated a step or two.  I wished to inquire why you stopped\nat the Island of Elba? \n\n I do not know, sir; it was to fulfil the last instructions of Captain\nLeclere, who, when dying, gave me a packet for Marshal Bertrand. \n\n Then did you see him, Edmond? \n\n Who? \n\n The marshal. \n\n Yes. \n\nMorrel looked around him, and then, drawing Dant s on one side, he said\nsuddenly \n\n And how is the emperor? \n\n Very well, as far as I could judge from the sight of him. \n\n You saw the emperor, then? \n\n He entered the marshal s apartment while I was there. \n\n And you spoke to him? \n\n Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir,  said Dant s, with a smile.\n\n And what did he say to you? \n\n Asked me questions about the vessel, the time she left Marseilles, the\ncourse she had taken, and what was her cargo. I believe, if she had not\nbeen laden, and I had been her master, he would have bought her. But I\ntold him I was only mate, and that she belonged to the firm of Morrel &\nSon.  Ah, yes,  he said,  I know them. The Morrels have been shipowners\nfrom father to son; and there was a Morrel who served in the same\nregiment with me when I was in garrison at Valence. \n\n _Pardieu!_ and that is true!  cried the owner, greatly delighted.  And\nthat was Policar Morrel, my uncle, who was afterwards a captain.\nDant s, you must tell my uncle that the emperor remembered him, and you\nwill see it will bring tears into the old soldier s eyes. Come, come, \ncontinued he, patting Edmond s shoulder kindly,  you did very right,\nDant s, to follow Captain Leclere s instructions, and touch at Elba,\nalthough if it were known that you had conveyed a packet to the\nmarshal, and had conversed with the emperor, it might bring you into\ntrouble. \n\n0027m\n\n\n\n How could that bring me into trouble, sir?  asked Dant s;  for I did\nnot even know of what I was the bearer; and the emperor merely made\nsuch inquiries as he would of the first comer. But, pardon me, here are\nthe health officers and the customs inspectors coming alongside.  And\nthe young man went to the gangway. As he departed, Danglars approached,\nand said, \n\n Well, it appears that he has given you satisfactory reasons for his\nlanding at Porto-Ferrajo? \n\n Yes, most satisfactory, my dear Danglars. \n\n Well, so much the better,  said the supercargo;  for it is not\npleasant to think that a comrade has not done his duty. \n\n Dant s has done his,  replied the owner,  and that is not saying much.\nIt was Captain Leclere who gave orders for this delay. \n\n Talking of Captain Leclere, has not Dant s given you a letter from\nhim? \n\n To me? no was there one? \n\n I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere confided a letter\nto his care. \n\n Of what packet are you speaking, Danglars? \n\n Why, that which Dant s left at Porto-Ferrajo. \n\n How do you know he had a packet to leave at Porto-Ferrajo? \n\nDanglars turned very red.\n\n I was passing close to the door of the captain s cabin, which was half\nopen, and I saw him give the packet and letter to Dant s. \n\n He did not speak to me of it,  replied the shipowner;  but if there be\nany letter he will give it to me. \n\nDanglars reflected for a moment.  Then, M. Morrel, I beg of you,  said\nhe,  not to say a word to Dant s on the subject. I may have been\nmistaken. \n\nAt this moment the young man returned; Danglars withdrew.\n\n Well, my dear Dant s, are you now free?  inquired the owner.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n You have not been long detained. \n\n No. I gave the custom-house officers a copy of our bill of lading; and\nas to the other papers, they sent a man off with the pilot, to whom I\ngave them. \n\n Then you have nothing more to do here? \n\n No everything is all right now. \n\n Then you can come and dine with me? \n\n I really must ask you to excuse me, M. Morrel. My first visit is due\nto my father, though I am not the less grateful for the honor you have\ndone me. \n\n0029m\n\n\n\n Right, Dant s, quite right. I always knew you were a good son. \n\n And,  inquired Dant s, with some hesitation,  do you know how my\nfather is? \n\n Well, I believe, my dear Edmond, though I have not seen him lately. \n\n Yes, he likes to keep himself shut up in his little room. \n\n That proves, at least, that he has wanted for nothing during your\nabsence. \n\nDant s smiled.  My father is proud, sir, and if he had not a meal left,\nI doubt if he would have asked anything from anyone, except from\nHeaven. \n\n Well, then, after this first visit has been made we shall count on\nyou. \n\n I must again excuse myself, M. Morrel, for after this first visit has\nbeen paid I have another which I am most anxious to pay. \n\n True, Dant s, I forgot that there was at the Catalans someone who\nexpects you no less impatiently than your father the lovely Merc d s. \n\nDant s blushed.\n\n Ah, ha,  said the shipowner,  I am not in the least surprised, for she\nhas been to me three times, inquiring if there were any news of the\n_Pharaon_. _Peste!_ Edmond, you have a very handsome mistress! \n\n She is not my mistress,  replied the young sailor, gravely;  she is my\nbetrothed. \n\n Sometimes one and the same thing,  said Morrel, with a smile.\n\n Not with us, sir,  replied Dant s.\n\n Well, well, my dear Edmond,  continued the owner,  don t let me detain\nyou. You have managed my affairs so well that I ought to allow you all\nthe time you require for your own. Do you want any money? \n\n No, sir; I have all my pay to take nearly three months  wages. \n\n You are a careful fellow, Edmond. \n\n Say I have a poor father, sir. \n\n Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now hasten away to see\nyour father. I have a son too, and I should be very wroth with those\nwho detained him from me after a three months  voyage. \n\n Then I have your leave, sir? \n\n Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me. \n\n Nothing. \n\n Captain Leclere did not, before he died, give you a letter for me? \n\n He was unable to write, sir. But that reminds me that I must ask your\nleave of absence for some days. \n\n To get married? \n\n Yes, first, and then to go to Paris. \n\n Very good; have what time you require, Dant s. It will take quite six\nweeks to unload the cargo, and we cannot get you ready for sea until\nthree months after that; only be back again in three months, for the\n_Pharaon_,  added the owner, patting the young sailor on the back,\n cannot sail without her captain. \n\n Without her captain!  cried Dant s, his eyes sparkling with animation;\n pray mind what you say, for you are touching on the most secret wishes\nof my heart. Is it really your intention to make me captain of the\n_Pharaon_? \n\n If I were sole owner we d shake hands on it now, my dear Dant s, and\ncall it settled; but I have a partner, and you know the Italian\nproverb _Chi ha compagno ha padrone_ He who has a partner has a\nmaster.  But the thing is at least half done, as you have one out of\ntwo votes. Rely on me to procure you the other; I will do my best. \n\n Ah, M. Morrel,  exclaimed the young seaman, with tears in his eyes,\nand grasping the owner s hand,  M. Morrel, I thank you in the name of\nmy father and of Merc d s. \n\n That s all right, Edmond. There s a providence that watches over the\ndeserving. Go to your father; go and see Merc d s, and afterwards come\nto me. \n\n Shall I row you ashore? \n\n No, thank you; I shall remain and look over the accounts with\nDanglars. Have you been satisfied with him this voyage? \n\n That is according to the sense you attach to the question, sir. Do you\nmean is he a good comrade? No, for I think he never liked me since the\nday when I was silly enough, after a little quarrel we had, to propose\nto him to stop for ten minutes at the island of Monte Cristo to settle\nthe dispute a proposition which I was wrong to suggest, and he quite\nright to refuse. If you mean as responsible agent when you ask me the\nquestion, I believe there is nothing to say against him, and that you\nwill be content with the way in which he has performed his duty. \n\n But tell me, Dant s, if you had command of the _Pharaon_ should you be\nglad to see Danglars remain? \n\n Captain or mate, M. Morrel, I shall always have the greatest respect\nfor those who possess the owners  confidence. \n\n That s right, that s right, Dant s! I see you are a thoroughly good\nfellow, and will detain you no longer. Go, for I see how impatient you\nare. \n\n Then I have leave? \n\n Go, I tell you. \n\n May I have the use of your skiff? \n\n Certainly. \n\n Then, for the present, M. Morrel, farewell, and a thousand thanks! \n\n I hope soon to see you again, my dear Edmond. Good luck to you. \n\nThe young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern\nsheets, with the order that he be put ashore at La Canebi re. The two\noarsmen bent to their work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly\nas possible in the midst of the thousand vessels which choke up the\nnarrow way which leads between the two rows of ships from the mouth of\nthe harbor to the Quai d Orl ans.\n\nThe shipowner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he saw him\nspring out on the quay and disappear in the midst of the throng, which\nfrom five o clock in the morning until nine o clock at night, swarms in\nthe famous street of La Canebi re, a street of which the modern\nPhoc ens are so proud that they say with all the gravity in the world,\nand with that accent which gives so much character to what is said,  If\nParis had La Canebi re, Paris would be a second Marseilles.  On turning\nround the owner saw Danglars behind him, apparently awaiting orders,\nbut in reality also watching the young sailor, but there was a great\ndifference in the expression of the two men who thus followed the\nmovements of Edmond Dant s.\n\n\n\n Chapter 2. Father and Son\n\nWe will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred, and\nendeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner some evil\nsuspicions against his comrade, and follow Dant s, who, after having\ntraversed La Canebi re, took the Rue de Noailles, and entering a small\nhouse, on the left of the All es de Meilhan, rapidly ascended four\nflights of a dark staircase, holding the baluster with one hand, while\nwith the other he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused\nbefore a half-open door, from which he could see the whole of a small\nroom.\n\nThis room was occupied by Dant s  father. The news of the arrival of\nthe _Pharaon_ had not yet reached the old man, who, mounted on a chair,\nwas amusing himself by training with trembling hand the nasturtiums and\nsprays of clematis that clambered over the trellis at his window.\nSuddenly, he felt an arm thrown around his body, and a well-known voice\nbehind him exclaimed,  Father dear father! \n\nThe old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he\nfell into his arms, pale and trembling.\n\n What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?  inquired the young\nman, much alarmed.\n\n No, no, my dear Edmond my boy my son! no; but I did not expect you;\nand joy, the surprise of seeing you so suddenly Ah, I feel as if I were\ngoing to die. \n\n Come, come, cheer up, my dear father!  Tis I really I! They say joy\nnever hurts, and so I came to you without any warning. Come now, do\nsmile, instead of looking at me so solemnly. Here I am back again, and\nwe are going to be happy. \n\n Yes, yes, my boy, so we will so we will,  replied the old man;  but\nhow shall we be happy? Shall you never leave me again? Come, tell me\nall the good fortune that has befallen you. \n\n God forgive me,  said the young man,  for rejoicing at happiness\nderived from the misery of others, but, Heaven knows, I did not seek\nthis good fortune; it has happened, and I really cannot pretend to\nlament it. The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable\nthat, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you\nunderstand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred\nlouis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor\nsailor like me could have hoped for? \n\n Yes, my dear boy,  replied the old man,  it is very fortunate. \n\n Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small\nhouse, with a garden in which to plant clematis, nasturtiums, and\nhoneysuckle. But what ails you, father? Are you not well? \n\n Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away and as he said so the\nold man s strength failed him, and he fell backwards.\n\n Come, come,  said the young man,  a glass of wine, father, will revive\nyou. Where do you keep your wine? \n\n No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it,  said the\nold man.\n\n Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is,  and he opened two or three\ncupboards.\n\n It is no use,  said the old man,  there is no wine. \n\n What, no wine?  said Dant s, turning pale, and looking alternately at\nthe hollow cheeks of the old man and the empty cupboards.  What, no\nwine? Have you wanted money, father? \n\n I want nothing now that I have you,  said the old man.\n\n Yet,  stammered Dant s, wiping the perspiration from his brow, yet I\ngave you two hundred francs when I left, three months ago. \n\n Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little\ndebt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He reminded me of it, telling me if I\ndid not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see,\nlest he might do you an injury \n\n Well? \n\n Why, I paid him. \n\n But,  cried Dant s,  it was a hundred and forty francs I owed\nCaderousse. \n\n Yes,  stammered the old man.\n\n And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you? \n\nThe old man nodded.\n\n So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs,  muttered\nEdmond.\n\n You know how little I require,  said the old man.\n\n Heaven pardon me,  cried Edmond, falling on his knees before his\nfather.\n\n What are you doing? \n\n You have wounded me to the heart. \n\n Never mind it, for I see you once more,  said the old man;  and now\nit s all over everything is all right again. \n\n0035m\n\n\n\n Yes, here I am,  said the young man,  with a promising future and a\nlittle money. Here, father, here!  he said,  take this take it, and\nsend for something immediately.  And he emptied his pockets on the\ntable, the contents consisting of a dozen gold pieces, five or six\nfive-franc pieces, and some smaller coin. The countenance of old Dant s\nbrightened.\n\n Whom does this belong to?  he inquired.\n\n To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be happy, and\ntomorrow we shall have more. \n\n Gently, gently,  said the old man, with a smile;  and by your leave I\nwill use your purse moderately, for they would say, if they saw me buy\ntoo many things at a time, that I had been obliged to await your\nreturn, in order to be able to purchase them. \n\n Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant, father. I\nwill not have you left alone so long. I have some smuggled coffee and\nmost capital tobacco, in a small chest in the hold, which you shall\nhave tomorrow. But, hush, here comes somebody. \n\n Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and no doubt comes to\ncongratulate you on your fortunate return. \n\n Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another,  murmured\nEdmond.  But, never mind, he is a neighbor who has done us a service on\na time, so he s welcome. \n\nAs Edmond paused, the black and bearded head of Caderousse appeared at\nthe door. He was a man of twenty-five or six, and held a piece of\ncloth, which, being a tailor, he was about to make into a coat-lining.\n\n What, is it you, Edmond, back again?  said he, with a broad\nMarseillaise accent, and a grin that displayed his ivory-white teeth.\n\n Yes, as you see, neighbor Caderousse; and ready to be agreeable to you\nin any and every way,  replied Dant s, but ill-concealing his coldness\nunder this cloak of civility.\n\n Thanks thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for anything; and it\nchances that at times there are others who have need of me.  Dant s\nmade a gesture.  I do not allude to you, my boy. No! no! I lent you\nmoney, and you returned it; that s like good neighbors, and we are\nquits. \n\n We are never quits with those who oblige us,  was Dant s  reply;  for\nwhen we do not owe them money, we owe them gratitude. \n\n What s the use of mentioning that? What is done is done. Let us talk\nof your happy return, my boy. I had gone on the quay to match a piece\nof mulberry cloth, when I met friend Danglars.  You at\nMarseilles? Yes,  says he.\n\n I thought you were at Smyrna. I was; but am now back again. \n\n And where is the dear boy, our little Edmond? \n\n Why, with his father, no doubt,  replied Danglars. And so I came, \nadded Caderousse,  as fast as I could to have the pleasure of shaking\nhands with a friend. \n\n0037m\n\n\n\n Worthy Caderousse!  said the old man,  he is so much attached to us. \n\n Yes, to be sure I am. I love and esteem you, because honest folks are\nso rare. But it seems you have come back rich, my boy,  continued the\ntailor, looking askance at the handful of gold and silver which Dant s\nhad thrown on the table.\n\nThe young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the dark eyes\nof his neighbor.  Eh,  he said, negligently,  this money is not mine. I\nwas expressing to my father my fears that he had wanted many things in\nmy absence, and to convince me he emptied his purse on the table. Come,\nfather  added Dant s,  put this money back in your box unless neighbor\nCaderousse wants anything, and in that case it is at his service. \n\n No, my boy, no,  said Caderousse.  I am not in any want, thank God, my\nliving is suited to my means. Keep your money keep it, I say; one never\nhas too much; but, at the same time, my boy, I am as much obliged by\nyour offer as if I took advantage of it. \n\n It was offered with good will,  said Dant s.\n\n No doubt, my boy; no doubt. Well, you stand well with M. Morrel I\nhear, you insinuating dog, you! \n\n M. Morrel has always been exceedingly kind to me,  replied Dant s.\n\n Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him. \n\n What, did you refuse to dine with him?  said old Dant s;  and did he\ninvite you to dine? \n\n Yes, my dear father,  replied Edmond, smiling at his father s\nastonishment at the excessive honor paid to his son.\n\n And why did you refuse, my son?  inquired the old man.\n\n That I might the sooner see you again, my dear father,  replied the\nyoung man.  I was most anxious to see you. \n\n But it must have vexed M. Morrel, good, worthy man,  said Caderousse.\n And when you are looking forward to be captain, it was wrong to annoy\nthe owner. \n\n But I explained to him the cause of my refusal,  replied Dant s,  and\nI hope he fully understood it. \n\n Yes, but to be captain one must do a little flattery to one s\npatrons. \n\n I hope to be captain without that,  said Dant s.\n\n So much the better so much the better! Nothing will give greater\npleasure to all your old friends; and I know one down there behind the\nSaint Nicolas citadel who will not be sorry to hear it. \n\n Merc d s?  said the old man.\n\n Yes, my dear father, and with your permission, now I have seen you,\nand know you are well and have all you require, I will ask your consent\nto go and pay a visit to the Catalans. \n\n Go, my dear boy,  said old Dant s;  and Heaven bless you in your wife,\nas it has blessed me in my son! \n\n His wife!  said Caderousse;  why, how fast you go on, father Dant s;\nshe is not his wife yet, as it seems to me. \n\n No, but according to all probability she soon will be,  replied\nEdmond.\n\n Yes yes,  said Caderousse;  but you were right to return as soon as\npossible, my boy. \n\n And why? \n\n Because Merc d s is a very fine girl, and fine girls never lack\nfollowers; she particularly has them by dozens. \n\n Really?  answered Edmond, with a smile which had in it traces of\nslight uneasiness.\n\n0039m\n\n\n\n Ah, yes,  continued Caderousse,  and capital offers, too; but you\nknow, you will be captain, and who could refuse you then? \n\n Meaning to say,  replied Dant s, with a smile which but ill-concealed\nhis trouble,  that if I were not a captain \n\n Eh eh!  said Caderousse, shaking his head.\n\n Come, come,  said the sailor,  I have a better opinion than you of\nwomen in general, and of Merc d s in particular; and I am certain that,\ncaptain or not, she will remain ever faithful to me. \n\n So much the better so much the better,  said Caderousse.  When one is\ngoing to be married, there is nothing like implicit confidence; but\nnever mind that, my boy, go and announce your arrival, and let her know\nall your hopes and prospects. \n\n I will go directly,  was Edmond s reply; and, embracing his father,\nand nodding to Caderousse, he left the apartment.\n\nCaderousse lingered for a moment, then taking leave of old Dant s, he\nwent downstairs to rejoin Danglars, who awaited him at the corner of\nthe Rue Senac.\n\n Well,  said Danglars,  did you see him? \n\n I have just left him,  answered Caderousse.\n\n Did he allude to his hope of being captain? \n\n He spoke of it as a thing already decided. \n\n Indeed!  said Danglars,  he is in too much hurry, it appears to me. \n\n Why, it seems M. Morrel has promised him the thing. \n\n So that he is quite elated about it? \n\n Why, yes, he is actually insolent over the matter has already offered\nme his patronage, as if he were a grand personage, and proffered me a\nloan of money, as though he were a banker. \n\n Which you refused? \n\n Most assuredly; although I might easily have accepted it, for it was I\nwho put into his hands the first silver he ever earned; but now M.\nDant s has no longer any occasion for assistance he is about to become\na captain. \n\n Pooh!  said Danglars,  he is not one yet. \n\n _Ma foi!_ it will be as well if he is not,  answered Caderousse;  for\nif he should be, there will be really no speaking to him. \n\n If we choose,  replied Danglars,  he will remain what he is; and\nperhaps become even less than he is. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n Nothing I was speaking to myself. And is he still in love with the\nCatalane? \n\n Over head and ears; but, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a\nstorm in that quarter. \n\n0041m\n\n\n\n Explain yourself. \n\n Why should I? \n\n It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not like Dant s? \n\n I never like upstarts. \n\n Then tell me all you know about the Catalane. \n\n I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which induce me to\nbelieve, as I told you, that the future captain will find some\nannoyance in the vicinity of the Vieilles Infirmeries. \n\n What have you seen? come, tell me! \n\n Well, every time I have seen Merc d s come into the city she has been\naccompanied by a tall, strapping, black-eyed Catalan, with a red\ncomplexion, brown skin, and fierce air, whom she calls cousin. \n\n Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions? \n\n I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of twenty-one mean\nwith a fine wench of seventeen? \n\n And you say that Dant s has gone to the Catalans? \n\n He went before I came down. \n\n Let us go the same way; we will stop at La R serve, and we can drink a\nglass of La Malgue, whilst we wait for news. \n\n Come along,  said Caderousse;  but you pay the score. \n\n Of course,  replied Danglars; and going quickly to the designated\nplace, they called for a bottle of wine, and two glasses.\n\nP re Pamphile had seen Dant s pass not ten minutes before; and assured\nthat he was at the Catalans, they sat down under the budding foliage of\nthe planes and sycamores, in the branches of which the birds were\nsinging their welcome to one of the first days of spring.\n\n\n\n Chapter 3. The Catalans\n\nBeyond a bare, weather-worn wall, about a hundred paces from the spot\nwhere the two friends sat looking and listening as they drank their\nwine, was the village of the Catalans. Long ago this mysterious colony\nquitted Spain, and settled on the tongue of land on which it is to this\nday. Whence it came no one knew, and it spoke an unknown tongue. One of\nits chiefs, who understood Proven al, begged the commune of Marseilles\nto give them this bare and barren promontory, where, like the sailors\nof old, they had run their boats ashore. The request was granted; and\nthree months afterwards, around the twelve or fifteen small vessels\nwhich had brought these gypsies of the sea, a small village sprang up.\nThis village, constructed in a singular and picturesque manner, half\nMoorish, half Spanish, still remains, and is inhabited by descendants\nof the first comers, who speak the language of their fathers. For three\nor four centuries they have remained upon this small promontory, on\nwhich they had settled like a flight of seabirds, without mixing with\nthe Marseillaise population, intermarrying, and preserving their\noriginal customs and the costume of their mother-country as they have\npreserved its language.\n\nOur readers will follow us along the only street of this little\nvillage, and enter with us one of the houses, which is sunburned to the\nbeautiful dead-leaf color peculiar to the buildings of the country, and\nwithin coated with whitewash, like a Spanish posada. A young and\nbeautiful girl, with hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the\ngazelle s, was leaning with her back against the wainscot, rubbing in\nher slender delicately moulded fingers a bunch of heath blossoms, the\nflowers of which she was picking off and strewing on the floor; her\narms, bare to the elbow, brown, and modelled after those of the\nArlesian Venus, moved with a kind of restless impatience, and she\ntapped the earth with her arched and supple foot, so as to display the\npure and full shape of her well-turned leg, in its red cotton, gray and\nblue clocked, stocking. At three paces from her, seated in a chair\nwhich he balanced on two legs, leaning his elbow on an old worm-eaten\ntable, was a tall young man of twenty, or two-and-twenty, who was\nlooking at her with an air in which vexation and uneasiness were\nmingled. He questioned her with his eyes, but the firm and steady gaze\nof the young girl controlled his look.\n\n You see, Merc d s,  said the young man,  here is Easter come round\nagain; tell me, is this the moment for a wedding? \n\n I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really you must be\nvery stupid to ask me again. \n\n Well, repeat it, repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at last believe\nit! Tell me for the hundredth time that you refuse my love, which had\nyour mother s sanction. Make me understand once for all that you are\ntrifling with my happiness, that my life or death are nothing to you.\nAh, to have dreamed for ten years of being your husband, Merc d s, and\nto lose that hope, which was the only stay of my existence! \n\n At least it was not I who ever encouraged you in that hope, Fernand, \nreplied Merc d s;  you cannot reproach me with the slightest coquetry.\nI have always said to you,  I love you as a brother; but do not ask\nfrom me more than sisterly affection, for my heart is another s.  Is\nnot this true, Fernand? \n\n Yes, that is very true, Merc d s,  replied the young man,  Yes, you\nhave been cruelly frank with me; but do you forget that it is among the\nCatalans a sacred law to intermarry? \n\n0045m\n\n\n\n You mistake, Fernand; it is not a law, but merely a custom, and, I\npray of you, do not cite this custom in your favor. You are included in\nthe conscription, Fernand, and are only at liberty on sufferance,\nliable at any moment to be called upon to take up arms. Once a soldier,\nwhat would you do with me, a poor orphan, forlorn, without fortune,\nwith nothing but a half-ruined hut and a few ragged nets, the miserable\ninheritance left by my father to my mother, and by my mother to me? She\nhas been dead a year, and you know, Fernand, I have subsisted almost\nentirely on public charity. Sometimes you pretend I am useful to you,\nand that is an excuse to share with me the produce of your fishing, and\nI accept it, Fernand, because you are the son of my father s brother,\nbecause we were brought up together, and still more because it would\ngive you so much pain if I refuse. But I feel very deeply that this\nfish which I go and sell, and with the produce of which I buy the flax\nI spin, I feel very keenly, Fernand, that this is charity. \n\n And if it were, Merc d s, poor and lone as you are, you suit me as\nwell as the daughter of the first shipowner or the richest banker of\nMarseilles! What do such as we desire but a good wife and careful\nhousekeeper, and where can I look for these better than in you? \n\n Fernand,  answered Merc d s, shaking her head,  a woman becomes a bad\nmanager, and who shall say she will remain an honest woman, when she\nloves another man better than her husband? Rest content with my\nfriendship, for I say once more that is all I can promise, and I will\npromise no more than I can bestow. \n\n I understand,  replied Fernand,  you can endure your own wretchedness\npatiently, but you are afraid to share mine. Well, Merc d s, beloved by\nyou, I would tempt fortune; you would bring me good luck, and I should\nbecome rich. I could extend my occupation as a fisherman, might get a\nplace as clerk in a warehouse, and become in time a dealer myself. \n\n You could do no such thing, Fernand; you are a soldier, and if you\nremain at the Catalans it is because there is no war; so remain a\nfisherman, and contented with my friendship, as I cannot give you\nmore. \n\n Well, I will do better, Merc d s. I will be a sailor; instead of the\ncostume of our fathers, which you despise, I will wear a varnished hat,\na striped shirt, and a blue jacket, with an anchor on the buttons.\nWould not that dress please you? \n\n What do you mean?  asked Merc d s, with an angry glance, what do you\nmean? I do not understand you? \n\n I mean, Merc d s, that you are thus harsh and cruel with me, because\nyou are expecting someone who is thus attired; but perhaps he whom you\nawait is inconstant, or if he is not, the sea is so to him. \n\n Fernand,  cried Merc d s,  I believed you were good-hearted, and I was\nmistaken! Fernand, you are wicked to call to your aid jealousy and the\nanger of God! Yes, I will not deny it, I do await, and I do love him of\nwhom you speak; and, if he does not return, instead of accusing him of\nthe inconstancy which you insinuate, I will tell you that he died\nloving me and me only.  The young girl made a gesture of rage.  I\nunderstand you, Fernand; you would be revenged on him because I do not\nlove you; you would cross your Catalan knife with his dirk. What end\nwould that answer? To lose you my friendship if he were conquered, and\nsee that friendship changed into hate if you were victor. Believe me,\nto seek a quarrel with a man is a bad method of pleasing the woman who\nloves that man. No, Fernand, you will not thus give way to evil\nthoughts. Unable to have me for your wife, you will content yourself\nwith having me for your friend and sister; and besides,  she added, her\neyes troubled and moistened with tears,  wait, wait, Fernand; you said\njust now that the sea was treacherous, and he has been gone four\nmonths, and during these four months there have been some terrible\nstorms. \n\nFernand made no reply, nor did he attempt to check the tears which\nflowed down the cheeks of Merc d s, although for each of these tears he\nwould have shed his heart s blood; but these tears flowed for another.\nHe arose, paced a while up and down the hut, and then, suddenly\nstopping before Merc d s, with his eyes glowing and his hands\nclenched, Say, Merc d s,  he said,  once for all, is this your final\ndetermination? \n\n I love Edmond Dant s,  the young girl calmly replied,  and none but\nEdmond shall ever be my husband. \n\n And you will always love him? \n\n As long as I live. \n\nFernand let fall his head like a defeated man, heaved a sigh that was\nlike a groan, and then suddenly looking her full in the face, with\nclenched teeth and expanded nostrils, said, But if he is dead \n\n If he is dead, I shall die too. \n\n If he has forgotten you \n\n Merc d s!  called a joyous voice from without, Merc d s! \n\n Ah,  exclaimed the young girl, blushing with delight, and fairly\nleaping in excess of love,  you see he has not forgotten me, for here\nhe is!  And rushing towards the door, she opened it, saying,  Here,\nEdmond, here I am! \n\nFernand, pale and trembling, drew back, like a traveller at the sight\nof a serpent, and fell into a chair beside him. Edmond and Merc d s\nwere clasped in each other s arms. The burning Marseilles sun, which\nshot into the room through the open door, covered them with a flood of\nlight. At first they saw nothing around them. Their intense happiness\nisolated them from all the rest of the world, and they only spoke in\nbroken words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that they seem\nrather the expression of sorrow. Suddenly Edmond saw the gloomy, pale,\nand threatening countenance of Fernand, as it was defined in the\nshadow. By a movement for which he could scarcely account to himself,\nthe young Catalan placed his hand on the knife at his belt.\n\n Ah, your pardon,  said Dant s, frowning in his turn;  I did not\nperceive that there were three of us.  Then, turning to Merc d s, he\ninquired,  Who is this gentleman? \n\n One who will be your best friend, Dant s, for he is my friend, my\ncousin, my brother; it is Fernand the man whom, after you, Edmond, I\nlove the best in the world. Do you not remember him? \n\n Yes!  said Dant s, and without relinquishing Merc d s  hand clasped in\none of his own, he extended the other to the Catalan with a cordial\nair. But Fernand, instead of responding to this amiable gesture,\nremained mute and trembling. Edmond then cast his eyes scrutinizingly\nat the agitated and embarrassed Merc d s, and then again on the gloomy\nand menacing Fernand. This look told him all, and his anger waxed hot.\n\n I did not know, when I came with such haste to you, that I was to meet\nan enemy here. \n\n An enemy!  cried Merc d s, with an angry look at her cousin.  An enemy\nin my house, do you say, Edmond! If I believed that, I would place my\narm under yours and go with you to Marseilles, leaving the house to\nreturn to it no more. \n\nFernand s eye darted lightning.  And should any misfortune occur to\nyou, dear Edmond,  she continued with the same calmness which proved to\nFernand that the young girl had read the very innermost depths of his\nsinister thought,  if misfortune should occur to you, I would ascend\nthe highest point of the Cape de Morgiou and cast myself headlong from\nit. \n\nFernand became deadly pale.  But you are deceived, Edmond,  she\ncontinued.  You have no enemy here there is no one but Fernand, my\nbrother, who will grasp your hand as a devoted friend. \n\nAnd at these words the young girl fixed her imperious look on the\nCatalan, who, as if fascinated by it, came slowly towards Edmond, and\noffered him his hand. His hatred, like a powerless though furious wave,\nwas broken against the strong ascendancy which Merc d s exercised over\nhim. Scarcely, however, had he touched Edmond s hand when he felt he\nhad done all he could do, and rushed hastily out of the house.\n\n Oh,  he exclaimed, running furiously and tearing his hair Oh, who\nwill deliver me from this man? Wretched wretched that I am! \n\n Hallo, Catalan! Hallo, Fernand! where are you running to?  exclaimed a\nvoice.\n\nThe young man stopped suddenly, looked around him, and perceived\nCaderousse sitting at table with Danglars, under an arbor.\n\n Well , said Caderousse,  why don t you come? Are you really in such a\nhurry that you have no time to pass the time of day with your friends? \n\n Particularly when they have still a full bottle before them,  added\nDanglars. Fernand looked at them both with a stupefied air, but did not\nsay a word.\n\n He seems besotted,  said Danglars, pushing Caderousse with his knee.\n Are we mistaken, and is Dant s triumphant in spite of all we have\nbelieved? \n\n Why, we must inquire into that,  was Caderousse s reply; and turning\ntowards the young man, said,  Well, Catalan, can t you make up your\nmind? \n\nFernand wiped away the perspiration steaming from his brow, and slowly\nentered the arbor, whose shade seemed to restore somewhat of calmness\nto his senses, and whose coolness somewhat of refreshment to his\nexhausted body.\n\n Good-day,  said he.  You called me, didn t you?  And he fell, rather\nthan sat down, on one of the seats which surrounded the table.\n\n I called you because you were running like a madman, and I was afraid\nyou would throw yourself into the sea,  said Caderousse, laughing.\n Why, when a man has friends, they are not only to offer him a glass of\nwine, but, moreover, to prevent his swallowing three or four pints of\nwater unnecessarily! \n\nFernand gave a groan, which resembled a sob, and dropped his head into\nhis hands, his elbows leaning on the table.\n\n Well, Fernand, I must say,  said Caderousse, beginning the\nconversation, with that brutality of the common people in which\ncuriosity destroys all diplomacy,  you look uncommonly like a rejected\nlover;  and he burst into a hoarse laugh.\n\n Bah!  said Danglars,  a lad of his make was not born to be unhappy in\nlove. You are laughing at him, Caderousse. \n\n No,  he replied,  only hark how he sighs! Come, come, Fernand,  said\nCaderousse,  hold up your head, and answer us. It s not polite not to\nreply to friends who ask news of your health. \n\n My health is well enough,  said Fernand, clenching his hands without\nraising his head.\n\n Ah, you see, Danglars,  said Caderousse, winking at his friend,  this\nis how it is; Fernand, whom you see here, is a good and brave Catalan,\none of the best fishermen in Marseilles, and he is in love with a very\nfine girl, named Merc d s; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine\ngirl is in love with the mate of the _Pharaon_; and as the _Pharaon_\narrived today why, you understand! \n\n No; I do not understand,  said Danglars.\n\n Poor Fernand has been dismissed,  continued Caderousse.\n\n Well, and what then?  said Fernand, lifting up his head, and looking\nat Caderousse like a man who looks for someone on whom to vent his\nanger;  Merc d s is not accountable to any person, is she? Is she not\nfree to love whomsoever she will? \n\n Oh, if you take it in that sense,  said Caderousse,  it is another\nthing. But I thought you were a Catalan, and they told me the Catalans\nwere not men to allow themselves to be supplanted by a rival. It was\neven told me that Fernand, especially, was terrible in his vengeance. \n\nFernand smiled piteously.  A lover is never terrible,  he said.\n\n Poor fellow!  remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the young man from\nthe bottom of his heart.  Why, you see, he did not expect to see Dant s\nreturn so suddenly he thought he was dead, perhaps; or perchance\nfaithless! These things always come on us more severely when they come\nsuddenly. \n\n Ah, _ma foi_, under any circumstances!  said Caderousse, who drank as\nhe spoke, and on whom the fumes of the wine began to take\neffect, under any circumstances Fernand is not the only person put out\nby the fortunate arrival of Dant s; is he, Danglars? \n\n No, you are right and I should say that would bring him ill-luck. \n\n Well, never mind,  answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass of wine\nfor Fernand, and filling his own for the eighth or ninth time, while\nDanglars had merely sipped his.  Never mind in the meantime he marries\nMerc d s the lovely Merc d s at least he returns to do that. \n\nDuring this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man,\non whose heart Caderousse s words fell like molten lead.\n\n And when is the wedding to be?  he asked.\n\n Oh, it is not yet fixed!  murmured Fernand.\n\n No, but it will be,  said Caderousse,  as surely as Dant s will be\ncaptain of the _Pharaon_ eh, Danglars? \n\nDanglars shuddered at this unexpected attack, and turned to Caderousse,\nwhose countenance he scrutinized, to try and detect whether the blow\nwas premeditated; but he read nothing but envy in a countenance already\nrendered brutal and stupid by drunkenness.\n\n Well,  said he, filling the glasses,  let us drink to Captain Edmond\nDant s, husband of the beautiful Catalane! \n\nCaderousse raised his glass to his mouth with unsteady hand, and\nswallowed the contents at a gulp. Fernand dashed his on the ground.\n\n Eh, eh, eh!  stammered Caderousse.  What do I see down there by the\nwall, in the direction of the Catalans? Look, Fernand, your eyes are\nbetter than mine. I believe I see double. You know wine is a deceiver;\nbut I should say it was two lovers walking side by side, and hand in\nhand. Heaven forgive me, they do not know that we can see them, and\nthey are actually embracing! \n\nDanglars did not lose one pang that Fernand endured.\n\n Do you know them, Fernand?  he said.\n\n Yes,  was the reply, in a low voice.  It is Edmond and Merc d s! \n\n Ah, see there, now!  said Caderousse;  and I did not recognize them!\nHallo, Dant s! hello, lovely damsel! Come this way, and let us know\nwhen the wedding is to be, for Fernand here is so obstinate he will not\ntell us. \n\n Hold your tongue, will you?  said Danglars, pretending to restrain\nCaderousse, who, with the tenacity of drunkards, leaned out of the\narbor.  Try to stand upright, and let the lovers make love without\ninterruption. See, look at Fernand, and follow his example; he is\nwell-behaved! \n\n0051m\n\n\n\nFernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by Danglars, as the\nbull is by the bandilleros, was about to rush out; for he had risen\nfrom his seat, and seemed to be collecting himself to dash headlong\nupon his rival, when Merc d s, smiling and graceful, lifted up her\nlovely head, and looked at them with her clear and bright eyes. At this\nFernand recollected her threat of dying if Edmond died, and dropped\nagain heavily on his seat. Danglars looked at the two men, one after\nthe other, the one brutalized by liquor, the other overwhelmed with\nlove.\n\n I shall get nothing from these fools,  he muttered;  and I am very\nmuch afraid of being here between a drunkard and a coward. Here s an\nenvious fellow making himself boozy on wine when he ought to be nursing\nhis wrath, and here is a fool who sees the woman he loves stolen from\nunder his nose and takes on like a big baby. Yet this Catalan has eyes\nthat glisten like those of the vengeful Spaniards, Sicilians, and\nCalabrians, and the other has fists big enough to crush an ox at one\nblow. Unquestionably, Edmond s star is in the ascendant, and he will\nmarry the splendid girl he will be captain, too, and laugh at us all,\nunless a sinister smile passed over Danglars  lips unless I take a\nhand in the affair,  he added.\n\n Hallo!  continued Caderousse, half-rising, and with his fist on the\ntable,  hallo, Edmond! do you not see your friends, or are you too\nproud to speak to them? \n\n No, my dear fellow!  replied Dant s,  I am not proud, but I am happy,\nand happiness blinds, I think, more than pride. \n\n Ah, very well, that s an explanation!  said Caderousse.  How do you\ndo, Madame Dant s? \n\nMerc d s courtesied gravely, and said That is not my name, and in my\ncountry it bodes ill fortune, they say, to call a young girl by the\nname of her betrothed before he becomes her husband. So call me\nMerc d s, if you please. \n\n We must excuse our worthy neighbor, Caderousse,  said Dant s,  he is\nso easily mistaken. \n\n So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M. Dant s,  said\nDanglars, bowing to the young couple.\n\n As soon as possible, M. Danglars; today all preliminaries will be\narranged at my father s, and tomorrow, or next day at latest, the\nwedding festival here at La R serve. My friends will be there, I hope;\nthat is to say, you are invited, M. Danglars, and you, Caderousse. \n\n And Fernand,  said Caderousse with a chuckle;  Fernand, too, is\ninvited! \n\n My wife s brother is my brother,  said Edmond;  and we, Merc d s and\nI, should be very sorry if he were absent at such a time. \n\nFernand opened his mouth to reply, but his voice died on his lips, and\nhe could not utter a word.\n\n Today the preliminaries, tomorrow or next day the ceremony! You are in\na hurry, captain! \n\n Danglars,  said Edmond, smiling,  I will say to you as Merc d s said\njust now to Caderousse,  Do not give me a title which does not belong\nto me ; that may bring me bad luck. \n\n Your pardon,  replied Danglars,  I merely said you seemed in a hurry,\nand we have lots of time; the _Pharaon_ cannot be under weigh again in\nless than three months. \n\n We are always in a hurry to be happy, M. Danglars; for when we have\nsuffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good\nfortune. But it is not selfishness alone that makes me thus in haste; I\nmust go to Paris. \n\n Ah, really? to Paris! and will it be the first time you have ever been\nthere, Dant s? \n\n Yes. \n\n Have you business there? \n\n Not of my own; the last commission of poor Captain Leclere; you know\nto what I allude, Danglars it is sacred. Besides, I shall only take the\ntime to go and return. \n\n Yes, yes, I understand,  said Danglars, and then in a low tone, he\nadded,  To Paris, no doubt to deliver the letter which the grand\nmarshal gave him. Ah, this letter gives me an idea a capital idea! Ah;\nDant s, my friend, you are not yet registered number one on board the\ngood ship _Pharaon_;  then turning towards Edmond, who was walking\naway,  A pleasant journey,  he cried.\n\n Thank you,  said Edmond with a friendly nod, and the two lovers\ncontinued on their way, as calm and joyous as if they were the very\nelect of heaven.\n\n\n\n Chapter 4. Conspiracy\n\nDanglars followed Edmond and Merc d s with his eyes until the two\nlovers disappeared behind one of the angles of Fort Saint Nicolas;\nthen, turning round, he perceived Fernand, who had fallen, pale and\ntrembling, into his chair, while Caderousse stammered out the words of\na drinking-song.\n\n Well, my dear sir,  said Danglars to Fernand,  here is a marriage\nwhich does not appear to make everybody happy. \n\n It drives me to despair,  said Fernand.\n\n Do you, then, love Merc d s? \n\n I adore her! \n\n For long? \n\n As long as I have known her always. \n\n And you sit there, tearing your hair, instead of seeking to remedy\nyour condition; I did not think that was the way of your people. \n\n What would you have me do?  said Fernand.\n\n How do I know? Is it my affair? I am not in love with Mademoiselle\nMerc d s; but for you in the words of the gospel, seek, and you shall\nfind. \n\n I have found already. \n\n What? \n\n I would stab the man, but the woman told me that if any misfortune\nhappened to her betrothed, she would kill herself. \n\n Pooh! Women say those things, but never do them. \n\n You do not know Merc d s; what she threatens she will do. \n\n Idiot!  muttered Danglars;  whether she kill herself or not, what\nmatter, provided Dant s is not captain? \n\n Before Merc d s should die,  replied Fernand, with the accents of\nunshaken resolution,  I would die myself! \n\n That s what I call love!  said Caderousse with a voice more tipsy than\never.  That s love, or I don t know what love is. \n\n Come,  said Danglars,  you appear to me a good sort of fellow, and\nhang me, I should like to help you, but \n\n Yes,  said Caderousse,  but how? \n\n My dear fellow,  replied Danglars,  you are three parts drunk; finish\nthe bottle, and you will be completely so. Drink then, and do not\nmeddle with what we are discussing, for that requires all one s wit and\ncool judgment. \n\n I drunk!  said Caderousse;  well that s a good one! I could drink four\nmore such bottles; they are no bigger than cologne flasks. P re\nPamphile, more wine! \n\nAnd Caderousse rattled his glass upon the table.\n\n You were saying, sir  said Fernand, awaiting with great anxiety the\nend of this interrupted remark.\n\n What was I saying? I forget. This drunken Caderousse has made me lose\nthe thread of my sentence. \n\n Drunk, if you like; so much the worse for those who fear wine, for it\nis because they have bad thoughts which they are afraid the liquor will\nextract from their hearts;  and Caderousse began to sing the two last\nlines of a song very popular at the time:\n\n Tous les m chants sont buveurs d eau;\n\nC est bien prouv  par le d luge. 1\n\n\n You said, sir, you would like to help me, but \n\n Yes; but I added, to help you it would be sufficient that Dant s did\nnot marry her you love; and the marriage may easily be thwarted,\nmethinks, and yet Dant s need not die. \n\n Death alone can separate them,  remarked Fernand.\n\n You talk like a noodle, my friend,  said Caderousse;  and here is\nDanglars, who is a wide-awake, clever, deep fellow, who will prove to\nyou that you are wrong. Prove it, Danglars. I have answered for you.\nSay there is no need why Dant s should die; it would, indeed, be a pity\nhe should. Dant s is a good fellow; I like Dant s. Dant s, your\nhealth. \n\nFernand rose impatiently.  Let him run on,  said Danglars, restraining\nthe young man;  drunk as he is, he is not much out in what he says.\nAbsence severs as well as death, and if the walls of a prison were\nbetween Edmond and Merc d s they would be as effectually separated as\nif he lay under a tombstone. \n\n0056m\n\n\n\n Yes; but one gets out of prison,  said Caderousse, who, with what\nsense was left him, listened eagerly to the conversation,  and when one\ngets out and one s name is Edmond Dant s, one seeks revenge \n\n What matters that?  muttered Fernand.\n\n And why, I should like to know,  persisted Caderousse,  should they\nput Dant s in prison? he has neither robbed, nor killed, nor murdered. \n\n Hold your tongue!  said Danglars.\n\n I won t hold my tongue!  replied Caderousse;  I say I want to know why\nthey should put Dant s in prison; I like Dant s; Dant s, your health! \nand he swallowed another glass of wine.\n\n0057m\n\n\n\nDanglars saw in the muddled look of the tailor the progress of his\nintoxication, and turning towards Fernand, said,  Well, you understand\nthere is no need to kill him. \n\n Certainly not, if, as you said just now, you have the means of having\nDant s arrested. Have you that means? \n\n It is to be found for the searching. But why should I meddle in the\nmatter? it is no affair of mine. \n\n I know not why you meddle,  said Fernand, seizing his arm;  but this I\nknow, you have some motive of personal hatred against Dant s, for he\nwho himself hates is never mistaken in the sentiments of others. \n\n I! motives of hatred against Dant s? None, on my word! I saw you were\nunhappy, and your unhappiness interested me; that s all; but since you\nbelieve I act for my own account, adieu, my dear friend, get out of the\naffair as best you may;  and Danglars rose as if he meant to depart.\n\n No, no,  said Fernand, restraining him,  stay! It is of very little\nconsequence to me at the end of the matter whether you have any angry\nfeeling or not against Dant s. I hate him! I confess it openly. Do you\nfind the means, I will execute it, provided it is not to kill the man,\nfor Merc d s has declared she will kill herself if Dant s is killed. \n\nCaderousse, who had let his head drop on the table, now raised it, and\nlooking at Fernand with his dull and fishy eyes, he said,  Kill Dant s!\nwho talks of killing Dant s? I won t have him killed I won t! He s my\nfriend, and this morning offered to share his money with me, as I\nshared mine with him. I won t have Dant s killed I won t! \n\n And who has said a word about killing him, muddlehead?  replied\nDanglars.  We were merely joking; drink to his health,  he added,\nfilling Caderousse s glass,  and do not interfere with us. \n\n Yes, yes, Dant s  good health!  said Caderousse, emptying his glass,\n here s to his health! his health hurrah! \n\n But the means the means?  said Fernand.\n\n Have you not hit upon any?  asked Danglars.\n\n No! you undertook to do so. \n\n True,  replied Danglars;  the French have the superiority over the\nSpaniards, that the Spaniards ruminate, while the French invent. \n\n Do you invent, then,  said Fernand impatiently.\n\n Waiter,  said Danglars,  pen, ink, and paper. \n\n Pen, ink, and paper,  muttered Fernand.\n\n Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools, and without\nmy tools I am fit for nothing. \n\n Pen, ink, and paper, then,  called Fernand loudly.\n\n There s what you want on that table,  said the waiter.\n\n Bring them here.  The waiter did as he was desired.\n\n0059m\n\n\n\n When one thinks,  said Caderousse, letting his hand drop on the paper,\n there is here wherewithal to kill a man more sure than if we waited at\nthe corner of a wood to assassinate him! I have always had more dread\nof a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or\npistol. \n\n The fellow is not so drunk as he appears to be,  said Danglars.  Give\nhim some more wine, Fernand.  Fernand filled Caderousse s glass, who,\nlike the confirmed toper he was, lifted his hand from the paper and\nseized the glass.\n\nThe Catalan watched him until Caderousse, almost overcome by this fresh\nassault on his senses, rested, or rather dropped, his glass upon the\ntable.\n\n Well!  resumed the Catalan, as he saw the final glimmer of\nCaderousse s reason vanishing before the last glass of wine.\n\n Well, then, I should say, for instance,  resumed Danglars,  that if\nafter a voyage such as Dant s has just made, in which he touched at the\nIsland of Elba, someone were to denounce him to the king s procureur as\na Bonapartist agent \n\n I will denounce him!  exclaimed the young man hastily.\n\n Yes, but they will make you then sign your declaration, and confront\nyou with him you have denounced; I will supply you with the means of\nsupporting your accusation, for I know the fact well. But Dant s cannot\nremain forever in prison, and one day or other he will leave it, and\nthe day when he comes out, woe betide him who was the cause of his\nincarceration! \n\n Oh, I should wish nothing better than that he would come and seek a\nquarrel with me. \n\n Yes, and Merc d s! Merc d s, who will detest you if you have only the\nmisfortune to scratch the skin of her dearly beloved Edmond! \n\n True!  said Fernand.\n\n No, no,  continued Danglars;  if we resolve on such a step, it would\nbe much better to take, as I now do, this pen, dip it into this ink,\nand write with the left hand (that the writing may not be recognized)\nthe denunciation we propose.  And Danglars, uniting practice with\ntheory, wrote with his left hand, and in a writing reversed from his\nusual style, and totally unlike it, the following lines, which he\nhanded to Fernand, and which Fernand read in an undertone:\n\n The honorable, the king s attorney, is informed by a friend of the\nthrone and religion, that one Edmond Dant s, mate of the ship\n_Pharaon_, arrived this morning from Smyrna, after having touched at\nNaples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been intrusted by Murat with a letter for\nthe usurper, and by the usurper with a letter for the Bonapartist\ncommittee in Paris. Proof of this crime will be found on arresting him,\nfor the letter will be found upon him, or at his father s, or in his\ncabin on board the _Pharaon_. \n\n Very good,  resumed Danglars;  now your revenge looks like common\nsense, for in no way can it revert to yourself, and the matter will\nthus work its own way; there is nothing to do now but fold the letter\nas I am doing, and write upon it,  To the king s attorney,  and that s\nall settled.  And Danglars wrote the address as he spoke.\n\n Yes, and that s all settled!  exclaimed Caderousse, who, by a last\neffort of intellect, had followed the reading of the letter, and\ninstinctively comprehended all the misery which such a denunciation\nmust entail.  Yes, and that s all settled; only it will be an infamous\nshame;  and he stretched out his hand to reach the letter.\n\n Yes,  said Danglars, taking it from beyond his reach;  and as what I\nsay and do is merely in jest, and I, amongst the first and foremost,\nshould be sorry if anything happened to Dant s the worthy Dant s look\nhere!  And taking the letter, he squeezed it up in his hands and threw\nit into a corner of the arbor.\n\n All right!  said Caderousse.  Dant s is my friend, and I won t have\nhim ill-used. \n\n And who thinks of using him ill? Certainly neither I nor Fernand, \nsaid Danglars, rising and looking at the young man, who still remained\nseated, but whose eye was fixed on the denunciatory sheet of paper\nflung into the corner.\n\n In this case,  replied Caderousse,  let s have some more wine. I wish\nto drink to the health of Edmond and the lovely Merc d s. \n\n You have had too much already, drunkard,  said Danglars;  and if you\ncontinue, you will be compelled to sleep here, because unable to stand\non your legs. \n\n I?  said Caderousse, rising with all the offended dignity of a drunken\nman,  I can t keep on my legs? Why, I ll wager I can go up into the\nbelfry of the Accoules, and without staggering, too! \n\n Done!  said Danglars,  I ll take your bet; but tomorrow today it is\ntime to return. Give me your arm, and let us go. \n\n Very well, let us go,  said Caderousse;  but I don t want your arm at\nall. Come, Fernand, won t you return to Marseilles with us? \n\n No,  said Fernand;  I shall return to the Catalans. \n\n You re wrong. Come with us to Marseilles come along. \n\n I will not. \n\n What do you mean? you will not? Well, just as you like, my prince;\nthere s liberty for all the world. Come along, Danglars, and let the\nyoung gentleman return to the Catalans if he chooses. \n\nDanglars took advantage of Caderousse s temper at the moment, to take\nhim off towards Marseilles by the Porte Saint-Victor, staggering as he\nwent.\n\nWhen they had advanced about twenty yards, Danglars looked back and saw\nFernand stoop, pick up the crumpled paper, and putting it into his\npocket then rush out of the arbor towards Pillon.\n\n Well,  said Caderousse,  why, what a lie he told! He said he was going\nto the Catalans, and he is going to the city. Hallo, Fernand! You are\ncoming, my boy! \n\n Oh, you don t see straight,  said Danglars;  he s gone right by the\nroad to the Vieilles Infirmeries. \n\n Well,  said Caderousse,  I should have sworn that he turned to the\nright how treacherous wine is! \n\n Come, come,  said Danglars to himself,  now the thing is at work and\nit will effect its purpose unassisted. \n\n\n\n Chapter 5. The Marriage Feast\n\nThe morning s sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves\ninto a network of ruby-tinted light.\n\nThe feast had been made ready on the second floor at La R serve, with\nwhose arbor the reader is already familiar. The apartment destined for\nthe purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of windows, over each\nof which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the\nname of one of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a\nwooden balcony extended the entire length of the house. And although\nthe entertainment was fixed for twelve o clock, an hour previous to\nthat time the balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests,\nconsisting of the favored part of the crew of the _Pharaon_, and other\npersonal friends of the bridegroom, the whole of whom had arrayed\nthemselves in their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to\nthe occasion.\n\nVarious rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the\n_Pharaon_ had promised to attend the nuptial feast; but all seemed\nunanimous in doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding\ncondescension could possibly be intended.\n\nDanglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by\nCaderousse, effectually confirmed the report, stating that he had\nrecently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his\nintention to dine at La R serve.\n\nIn fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an\nenthusiastic burst of applause from the crew of the _Pharaon_, who\nhailed the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man\nwhose wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first\nin command of the ship; and as Dant s was universally beloved on board\nhis vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at\nfinding that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly\ncoincided with their own.\n\nWith the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched\nin search of the bridegroom to convey to him the intelligence of the\narrival of the important personage whose coming had created such a\nlively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste.\n\nDanglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but\nere they had gone many steps they perceived a group advancing towards\nthem, composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in\nattendance on the bride, by whose side walked Dant s  father; the whole\nbrought up by Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile.\n\nNeither Merc d s nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his\ncountenance; they were so happy that they were conscious only of the\nsunshine and the presence of each other.\n\nHaving acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty\nshake of the hand with Edmond, Danglars and Caderousse took their\nplaces beside Fernand and old Dant s, the latter of whom attracted\nuniversal notice.\n\nThe old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk, trimmed\nwith steel buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin but wiry\nlegs were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered clocked stockings,\nevidently of English manufacture, while from his three-cornered hat\ndepended a long streaming knot of white and blue ribbons. Thus he came\nalong, supporting himself on a curiously carved stick, his aged\ncountenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the world like one\nof the aged dandies of 1796, parading the newly opened gardens of the\nLuxembourg and Tuileries.\n\nBeside him glided Caderousse, whose desire to partake of the good\nthings provided for the wedding party had induced him to become\nreconciled to the Dant s, father and son, although there still lingered\nin his mind a faint and unperfect recollection of the events of the\npreceding night; just as the brain retains on waking in the morning the\ndim and misty outline of a dream.\n\n0065m\n\n\n\nAs Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of\ndeep meaning, while Fernand, as he slowly paced behind the happy pair,\nwho seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely forgotten\nthat such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted;\noccasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his countenance,\nand a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an agitated\nand restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like\none who either anticipated or foresaw some great and important event.\n\nDant s himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar\nto the merchant service a costume somewhat between a military and a\ncivil garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy and\nhappiness, a more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be\nimagined.\n\nLovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Merc d s boasted the same\nbright flashing eyes of jet, and ripe, round, coral lips. She moved\nwith the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more\npracticed in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes\nbeneath a veil, or, at least, have cast down her thickly fringed\nlashes, so as to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes;\nbut, on the contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile\nthat seemed to say:  If you are my friends, rejoice with me, for I am\nvery happy. \n\nAs soon as the bridal party came in sight of La R serve, M. Morrel\ndescended and came forth to meet it, followed by the soldiers and\nsailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already\ngiven, that Dant s should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere.\nEdmond, at the approach of his patron, respectfully placed the arm of\nhis affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith conducting\nher up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the\nfeast was prepared, was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose\nheavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned for the space of\nseveral minutes.\n\n Father,  said Merc d s, stopping when she had reached the centre of\nthe table,  sit, I pray you, on my right hand; on my left I will place\nhim who has ever been as a brother to me,  pointing with a soft and\ngentle smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the\ndirest torture on him, for his lips became ghastly pale, and even\nbeneath the dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen\nretreating as though some sudden pang drove it back to the heart.\n\nDuring this time, Dant s, at the opposite side of the table, had been\noccupied in similarly placing his most honored guests. M. Morrel was\nseated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from\nEdmond, the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most\nagreeable.\n\nThen they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages,\nand lobsters in their dazzling red cuirasses, prawns of large size and\nbrilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel\nwithin, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than\nrivalling the exquisite flavor of the oyster, North. All the\ndelicacies, in fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the\nsandy beach, and styled by the grateful fishermen  fruits of the sea. \n\n A pretty silence truly!  said the old father of the bridegroom, as he\ncarried to his lips a glass of wine of the hue and brightness of the\ntopaz, and which had just been placed before Merc d s herself.  Now,\nwould anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who\ndesire nothing better than to laugh and dance the hours away? \n\n Ah,  sighed Caderousse,  a man cannot always feel happy because he is\nabout to be married. \n\n The truth is,  replied Dant s,  that I am too happy for noisy mirth;\nif that is what you meant by your observation, my worthy friend, you\nare right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us\nalmost the same as sorrow. \n\nDanglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and\nbetrayed each fresh impression.\n\n Why, what ails you?  asked he of Edmond.  Do you fear any approaching\nevil? I should say that you were the happiest man alive at this\ninstant. \n\n And that is the very thing that alarms me,  returned Dant s.  Man does\nnot appear to me to be intended to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness\nis like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where\nfierce, fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of\nall shapes and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours. I\nown that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of\nwhich I feel myself unworthy that of being the husband of Merc d s. \n\n Nay, nay!  cried Caderousse, smiling,  you have not attained that\nhonor yet. Merc d s is not yet your wife. Just assume the tone and\nmanner of a husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is\nnot yet come! \n\nThe bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start\nat every fresh sound, and from time to time wiped away the large drops\nof perspiration that gathered on his brow.\n\n Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worthwhile to\ncontradict me for such a trifle as that.  Tis true that Merc d s is not\nactually my wife; but,  added he, drawing out his watch,  in an hour\nand a half she will be. \n\nA general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the\nexception of the elder Dant s, whose laugh displayed the still perfect\nbeauty of his large white teeth. Merc d s looked pleased and gratified,\nwhile Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.\n\n In an hour?  inquired Danglars, turning pale.  How is that, my\nfriend? \n\n Why, thus it is,  replied Dant s.  Thanks to the influence of M.\nMorrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every blessing I enjoy, every\ndifficulty has been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the\nusual delay; and at half-past two o clock the Mayor of Marseilles will\nbe waiting for us at the city hall. Now, as a quarter-past one has\nalready struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying,\nthat, in another hour and thirty minutes Merc d s will have become\nMadame Dant s. \n\n0069m\n\n\n\nFernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow,\nand he was compelled to support himself by the table to prevent his\nfalling from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not\nrefrain from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the\nnoisy felicitations of the company.\n\n Upon my word,  cried the old man,  you make short work of this kind of\naffair. Arrived here only yesterday morning, and married today at three\no clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way to work! \n\n But,  asked Danglars, in a timid tone,  how did you manage about the\nother formalities the contract the settlement? \n\n The contract,  answered Dant s, laughingly,  it didn t take long to\nfix that. Merc d s has no fortune; I have none to settle on her. So,\nyou see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come\nvery expensive.  This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause.\n\n So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to\nbe the actual wedding dinner!  said Danglars.\n\n No, no,  answered Dant s;  don t imagine I am going to put you off in\nthat shabby manner. Tomorrow morning I start for Paris; four days to\ngo, and the same to return, with one day to discharge the commission\nentrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back\nhere by the first of March, and on the second I give my real marriage\nfeast. \n\nThis prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests\nto such a degree, that the elder Dant s, who, at the commencement of\nthe repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found it\ndifficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment s\ntranquillity in which to drink to the health and prosperity of the\nbride and bridegroom.\n\nDant s, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded\nby a look of grateful pleasure; while Merc d s glanced at the clock and\nmade an expressive gesture to Edmond.\n\nAround the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at\nsuch a time among people sufficiently free from the demands of social\nposition not to feel the trammels of etiquette. Such as at the\ncommencement of the repast had not been able to seat themselves\naccording to their inclination rose unceremoniously, and sought out\nmore agreeable companions. Everybody talked at once, without waiting\nfor a reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing his or\nher own thoughts.\n\nFernand s paleness appeared to have communicated itself to Danglars. As\nfor Fernand himself, he seemed to be enduring the tortures of the\ndamned; unable to rest, he was among the first to quit the table, and,\nas though seeking to avoid the hilarious mirth that rose in such\ndeafening sounds, he continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther\nend of the salon.\n\nCaderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand seemed most\nanxious to avoid, had joined him in a corner of the room.\n\n Upon my word,  said Caderousse, from whose mind the friendly treatment\nof Dant s, united with the effect of the excellent wine he had partaken\nof, had effaced every feeling of envy or jealousy at Dant s  good\nfortune, upon my word, Dant s is a downright good fellow, and when I\nsee him sitting there beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be. I\ncannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to have served him\nthat trick you were planning yesterday. \n\n Oh, there was no harm meant,  answered Danglars;  at first I certainly\ndid feel somewhat uneasy as to what Fernand might be tempted to do; but\nwhen I saw how completely he had mastered his feelings, even so far as\nto become one of his rival s attendants, I knew there was no further\ncause for apprehension.  Caderousse looked full at Fernand he was\nghastly pale.\n\n Certainly,  continued Danglars,  the sacrifice was no trifling one,\nwhen the beauty of the bride is concerned. Upon my soul, that future\ncaptain of mine is a lucky dog! Gad! I only wish he would let me take\nhis place. \n\n Shall we not set forth?  asked the sweet, silvery voice of Merc d s;\n two o clock has just struck, and you know we are expected in a quarter\nof an hour. \n\n0071m\n\n\n\n To be sure! to be sure!  cried Dant s, eagerly quitting the table;\n let us go directly! \n\nHis words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous cheers.\n\nAt this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing every\nchange in Fernand s look and manner, saw him stagger and fall back,\nwith an almost convulsive spasm, against a seat placed near one of the\nopen windows. At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct\nsound on the stairs, followed by the measured tread of soldiery, with\nthe clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a hum and\nbuzz as of many voices, so as to deaden even the noisy mirth of the\nbridal party, among whom a vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension\nquelled every disposition to talk, and almost instantaneously the most\ndeathlike stillness prevailed.\n\nThe sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the panel of the\ndoor. The company looked at each other in consternation.\n\n I demand admittance,  said a loud voice outside the room,  in the name\nof the law!  As no attempt was made to prevent it, the door was opened,\nand a magistrate, wearing his official scarf, presented himself,\nfollowed by four soldiers and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the\nmost extreme dread on the part of those present.\n\n May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected visit?  said M.\nMorrel, addressing the magistrate, whom he evidently knew;  there is\ndoubtless some mistake easily explained. \n\n If it be so,  replied the magistrate,  rely upon every reparation\nbeing made; meanwhile, I am the bearer of an order of arrest, and\nalthough I most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must,\nnevertheless, be fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled\nanswers to the name of Edmond Dant s? \n\nEvery eye was turned towards the young man who, spite of the agitation\nhe could not but feel, advanced with dignity, and said, in a firm\nvoice:\n\n I am he; what is your pleasure with me? \n\n Edmond Dant s,  replied the magistrate,  I arrest you in the name of\nthe law! \n\n Me!  repeated Edmond, slightly changing color,  and wherefore, I\npray? \n\n I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with the reasons\nthat have rendered such a step necessary at the preliminary\nexamination. \n\nM. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was useless. He\nsaw before him an officer delegated to enforce the law, and perfectly\nwell knew that it would be as unavailing to seek pity from a magistrate\ndecked with his official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold\nmarble effigy. Old Dant s, however, sprang forward. There are\nsituations which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be made to\nunderstand. He prayed and supplicated in terms so moving, that even the\nofficer was touched, and, although firm in his duty, he kindly said,\n My worthy friend, let me beg of you to calm your apprehensions. Your\nson has probably neglected some prescribed form or attention in\nregistering his cargo, and it is more than probable he will be set at\nliberty directly he has given the information required, whether\ntouching the health of his crew, or the value of his freight. \n\n What is the meaning of all this?  inquired Caderousse, frowningly, of\nDanglars, who had assumed an air of utter surprise.\n\n0073m\n\n\n\n How can I tell you?  replied he;  I am, like yourself, utterly\nbewildered at all that is going on, and cannot in the least make out\nwhat it is about.  Caderousse then looked around for Fernand, but he\nhad disappeared.\n\nThe scene of the previous night now came back to his mind with\nstartling clearness. The painful catastrophe he had just witnessed\nappeared effectually to have rent away the veil which the intoxication\nof the evening before had raised between himself and his memory.\n\n So, so,  said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to Danglars,  this,\nthen, I suppose, is a part of the trick you were concerting yesterday?\nAll I can say is, that if it be so,  tis an ill turn, and well deserves\nto bring double evil on those who have projected it. \n\n Nonsense,  returned Danglars,  I tell you again I have nothing\nwhatever to do with it; besides, you know very well that I tore the\npaper to pieces. \n\n No, you did not!  answered Caderousse,  you merely threw it by I saw\nit lying in a corner. \n\n Hold your tongue, you fool! what should you know about it? why, you\nwere drunk! \n\n Where is Fernand?  inquired Caderousse.\n\n How do I know?  replied Danglars;  gone, as every prudent man ought to\nbe, to look after his own affairs, most likely. Never mind where he is,\nlet you and I go and see what is to be done for our poor friends. \n\nDuring this conversation, Dant s, after having exchanged a cheerful\nshake of the hand with all his sympathizing friends, had surrendered\nhimself to the officer sent to arrest him, merely saying,  Make\nyourselves quite easy, my good fellows, there is some little mistake to\nclear up, that s all, depend upon it; and very likely I may not have to\ngo so far as the prison to effect that. \n\n0075m\n\n\n\n Oh, to be sure!  responded Danglars, who had now approached the group,\n nothing more than a mistake, I feel quite certain. \n\nDant s descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate, and\nfollowed by the soldiers. A carriage awaited him at the door; he got\nin, followed by two soldiers and the magistrate, and the vehicle drove\noff towards Marseilles.\n\n Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!  cried Merc d s, stretching out her arms\nto him from the balcony.\n\nThe prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken\nheart, and leaning from the coach he called out,  Good-bye, Merc d s we\nshall soon meet again!  Then the vehicle disappeared round one of the\nturnings of Fort Saint Nicholas.\n\n Wait for me here, all of you!  cried M. Morrel;  I will take the first\nconveyance I find, and hurry to Marseilles, whence I will bring you\nword how all is going on. \n\n That s right!  exclaimed a multitude of voices,  go, and return as\nquickly as you can! \n\nThis second departure was followed by a long and fearful state of\nterrified silence on the part of those who were left behind. The old\nfather and Merc d s remained for some time apart, each absorbed in\ngrief; but at length the two poor victims of the same blow raised their\neyes, and with a simultaneous burst of feeling rushed into each other s\narms.\n\nMeanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for himself a glass\nof water with a trembling hand; then hastily swallowing it, went to sit\ndown at the first vacant place, and this was, by mere chance, placed\nnext to the seat on which poor Merc d s had fallen half fainting, when\nreleased from the warm and affectionate embrace of old Dant s.\nInstinctively Fernand drew back his chair.\n\n He is the cause of all this misery I am quite sure of it,  whispered\nCaderousse, who had never taken his eyes off Fernand, to Danglars.\n\n I don t think so,  answered the other;  he s too stupid to imagine\nsuch a scheme. I only hope the mischief will fall upon the head of\nwhoever wrought it. \n\n You don t mention those who aided and abetted the deed,  said\nCaderousse.\n\n Surely,  answered Danglars,  one cannot be held responsible for every\nchance arrow shot into the air. \n\n You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on somebody s\nhead. \n\nMeantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in every\ndifferent form.\n\n What think you, Danglars,  said one of the party, turning towards him,\n of this event? \n\n Why,  replied he,  I think it just possible Dant s may have been\ndetected with some trifling article on board ship considered here as\ncontraband. \n\n But how could he have done so without your knowledge, Danglars, since\nyou are the ship s supercargo? \n\n Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told respecting the\nmerchandise with which the vessel was laden. I know she was loaded with\ncotton, and that she took in her freight at Alexandria from Pastret s\nwarehouse, and at Smyrna from Pascal s; that is all I was obliged to\nknow, and I beg I may not be asked for any further particulars. \n\n Now I recollect,  said the afflicted old father;  my poor boy told me\nyesterday he had got a small case of coffee, and another of tobacco for\nme! \n\n There, you see,  exclaimed Danglars.  Now the mischief is out; depend\nupon it the custom-house people went rummaging about the ship in our\nabsence, and discovered poor Dant s  hidden treasures. \n\nMerc d s, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover s\narrest. Her grief, which she had hitherto tried to restrain, now burst\nout in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.\n\n Come, come,  said the old man,  be comforted, my poor child; there is\nstill hope! \n\n Hope!  repeated Danglars.\n\n Hope!  faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on\nhis pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his\ncountenance.\n\n Good news! good news!  shouted forth one of the party stationed in the\nbalcony on the lookout.  Here comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we\nshall hear that our friend is released! \n\nMerc d s and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him\nat the door. He was very pale.\n\n What news?  exclaimed a general burst of voices.\n\n Alas, my friends,  replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his\nhead,  the thing has assumed a more serious aspect than I expected. \n\n Oh, indeed indeed, sir, he is innocent!  sobbed forth Merc d s.\n\n That I believe!  answered M. Morrel;  but still he is charged \n\n With what?  inquired the elder Dant s.\n\n With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!  Many of our readers\nmay be able to recollect how formidable such an accusation became in\nthe period at which our story is dated.\n\nA despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Merc d s; the old man sank\ninto a chair.\n\n Ah, Danglars!  whispered Caderousse,  you have deceived me the trick\nyou spoke of last night has been played; but I cannot suffer a poor old\nman or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am\ndetermined to tell them all about it. \n\n Be silent, you simpleton!  cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm,\n or I will not answer even for your own safety. Who can tell whether\nDant s be innocent or guilty? The vessel did touch at Elba, where he\nquitted it, and passed a whole day in the island. Now, should any\nletters or other documents of a compromising character be found upon\nhim, will it not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are his\naccomplices? \n\nWith the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily perceived\nthe solidity of this mode of reasoning; he gazed, doubtfully,\nwistfully, on Danglars, and then caution supplanted generosity.\n\n Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it,  said he, casting a\nbewildered look on his companion.\n\n To be sure!  answered Danglars.  Let us wait, by all means. If he be\ninnocent, of course he will be set at liberty; if guilty, why, it is no\nuse involving ourselves in a conspiracy. \n\n Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer. \n\n With all my heart!  replied Danglars, pleased to find the other so\ntractable.  Let us take ourselves out of the way, and leave things for\nthe present to take their course. \n\nAfter their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the friend and\nprotector of Merc d s, led the girl to her home, while some friends of\nDant s conducted his father, nearly lifeless, to the All es de Meilhan.\n\nThe rumor of Edmond s arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not slow in\ncirculating throughout the city.\n\n Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear Danglars?  asked M.\nMorrel, as, on his return to the port for the purpose of gleaning fresh\ntidings of Dant s, from M. de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he\novertook his supercargo and Caderousse.  Could you have believed such a\nthing possible? \n\n Why, you know I told you,  replied Danglars,  that I considered the\ncircumstance of his having anchored at the Island of Elba as a very\nsuspicious circumstance. \n\n And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside myself? \n\n0079m\n\n\n\n Certainly not!  returned Danglars. Then added in a low whisper,  You\nunderstand that, on account of your uncle, M. Policar Morrel, who\nserved under the _other_ government, and who does not altogether\nconceal what he thinks on the subject, you are strongly suspected of\nregretting the abdication of Napoleon. I should have feared to injure\nboth Edmond and yourself, had I divulged my own apprehensions to a\nsoul. I am too well aware that though a subordinate, like myself, is\nbound to acquaint the shipowner with everything that occurs, there are\nmany things he ought most carefully to conceal from all else. \n\n Tis well, Danglars tis well!  replied M. Morrel.  You are a worthy\nfellow; and I had already thought of your interests in the event of\npoor Edmond having become captain of the _Pharaon_. \n\n Is it possible you were so kind? \n\n Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dant s what was his opinion\nof you, and if he should have any reluctance to continue you in your\npost, for somehow I have perceived a sort of coolness between you. \n\n And what was his reply? \n\n That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an affair\nwhich he merely referred to without entering into particulars, but that\nwhoever possessed the good opinion and confidence of the ship s owners\nwould have his preference also. \n\n The hypocrite!  murmured Danglars.\n\n Poor Dant s!  said Caderousse.  No one can deny his being a\nnoble-hearted young fellow. \n\n But meanwhile,  continued M. Morrel,  here is the _Pharaon_ without a\ncaptain. \n\n Oh,  replied Danglars,  since we cannot leave this port for the next\nthree months, let us hope that ere the expiration of that period Dant s\nwill be set at liberty. \n\n No doubt; but in the meantime? \n\n I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel,  answered Danglars.  You\nknow that I am as capable of managing a ship as the most experienced\ncaptain in the service; and it will be so far advantageous to you to\naccept my services, that upon Edmond s release from prison no further\nchange will be requisite on board the _Pharaon_ than for Dant s and\nmyself each to resume our respective posts. \n\n Thanks, Danglars that will smooth over all difficulties. I fully\nauthorize you at once to assume the command of the _Pharaon_, and look\ncarefully to the unloading of her freight. Private misfortunes must\nnever be allowed to interfere with business. \n\n Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall be\npermitted to see our poor Edmond? \n\n I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de Villefort, whom I\nshall endeavor to interest in Edmond s favor. I am aware he is a\nfurious royalist; but, in spite of that, and of his being king s\nattorney, he is a man like ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of\none. \n\n Perhaps not,  replied Danglars;  but I hear that he is ambitious, and\nthat s rather against him. \n\n Well, well,  returned M. Morrel,  we shall see. But now hasten on\nboard, I will join you there ere long. \n\nSo saying, the worthy shipowner quitted the two allies, and proceeded\nin the direction of the Palais de Justice.\n\n0081m\n\n\n\n You see,  said Danglars, addressing Caderousse,  the turn things have\ntaken. Do you still feel any desire to stand up in his defence? \n\n Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing that a mere\njoke should lead to such consequences. \n\n But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor myself, but\nFernand; you knew very well that I threw the paper into a corner of the\nroom indeed, I fancied I had destroyed it. \n\n Oh, no,  replied Caderousse,  that I can answer for, you did not. I\nonly wish I could see it now as plainly as I saw it lying all crushed\nand crumpled in a corner of the arbor. \n\n Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it up, and\neither copied it or caused it to be copied; perhaps, even, he did not\ntake the trouble of recopying it. And now I think of it, by Heavens, he\nmay have sent the letter itself! Fortunately, for me, the handwriting\nwas disguised. \n\n Then you were aware of Dant s being engaged in a conspiracy? \n\n Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a joke, nothing\nmore. It seems, however, that I have unconsciously stumbled upon the\ntruth. \n\n Still,  argued Caderousse,  I would give a great deal if nothing of\nthe kind had happened; or, at least, that I had had no hand in it. You\nwill see, Danglars, that it will turn out an unlucky job for both of\nus. \n\n Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the guilty person;\nand that, you know, is Fernand. How can we be implicated in any way?\nAll we have got to do is, to keep our own counsel, and remain perfectly\nquiet, not breathing a word to any living soul; and you will see that\nthe storm will pass away without in the least affecting us. \n\n Amen!  responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of adieu to\nDanglars, and bending his steps towards the All es de Meilhan, moving\nhis head to and fro, and muttering as he went, after the manner of one\nwhose mind was overcharged with one absorbing idea.\n\n So far, then,  said Danglars, mentally,  all has gone as I would have\nit. I am, temporarily, commander of the _Pharaon_, with the certainty\nof being permanently so, if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded\nto hold his tongue. My only fear is the chance of Dant s being\nreleased. But, there, he is in the hands of Justice; and,  added he\nwith a smile,  she will take her own.  So saying, he leaped into a\nboat, desiring to be rowed on board the _Pharaon_, where M. Morrel had\nagreed to meet him.\n\n\n\n Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi\n\nIn one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the Rue du Grand\nCours opposite the Medusa fountain, a second marriage feast was being\ncelebrated, almost at the same hour with the nuptial repast given by\nDant s. In this case, however, although the occasion of the\nentertainment was similar, the company was strikingly dissimilar.\nInstead of a rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging to\nthe humblest grade of life, the present assembly was composed of the\nvery flower of Marseilles society, magistrates who had resigned their\noffice during the usurper s reign; officers who had deserted from the\nimperial army and joined forces with Cond ; and younger members of\nfamilies, brought up to hate and execrate the man whom five years of\nexile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevate\nto the rank of a god.\n\nThe guests were still at table, and the heated and energetic\nconversation that prevailed betrayed the violent and vindictive\npassions that then agitated each dweller of the South, where unhappily,\nfor five centuries religious strife had long given increased bitterness\nto the violence of party feeling.\n\nThe emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after having held\nsovereign sway over one-half of the world, counting as his subjects a\nsmall population of five or six thousand souls, after having been\naccustomed to hear the  _Vive Napol ons_  of a hundred and twenty\nmillions of human beings, uttered in ten different languages, was\nlooked upon here as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh\nconnection with France or claim to her throne.\n\nThe magistrates freely discussed their political views; the military\npart of the company talked unreservedly of Moscow and Leipsic, while\nthe women commented on the divorce of Josephine. It was not over the\ndownfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that\nthey rejoiced, and in this they foresaw for themselves the bright and\ncheering prospect of a revivified political existence.\n\nAn old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose and\nproposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the Marquis de\nSaint-M ran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of\nHartwell and the peace-loving King of France, excited universal\nenthusiasm; glasses were elevated in the air _  l Anglaise_, and the\nladies, snatching their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the\ntable with their floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor\nprevailed.\n\n Ah,  said the Marquise de Saint-M ran, a woman with a stern,\nforbidding eye, though still noble and distinguished in appearance,\ndespite her fifty years ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us\nfrom those very possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle\nduring the Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here,\nthat all true devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow\nthe fortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made\ntheir fortune by worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not\nhelp admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, and\nstation was truly our  Louis the well-beloved,  while their wretched\nusurper has been, and ever will be, to them their evil genius, their\n Napoleon the accursed.  Am I not right, Villefort? \n\n I beg your pardon, madame. I really must pray you to excuse me, but in\ntruth I was not attending to the conversation. \n\n Marquise, marquise!  interposed the old nobleman who had proposed the\ntoast,  let the young people alone; let me tell you, on one s wedding\nday there are more agreeable subjects of conversation than dry\npolitics. \n\n Never mind, dearest mother,  said a young and lovely girl, with a\nprofusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed to float in liquid\ncrystal,  tis all my fault for seizing upon M. de Villefort, so as to\nprevent his listening to what you said. But there now take him he is\nyour own for as long as you like. M. Villefort, I beg to remind you my\nmother speaks to you. \n\n If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectly\ncaught, I shall be delighted to answer,  said M. de Villefort.\n\n Never mind, Ren e,  replied the marquise, with a look of tenderness\nthat seemed out of keeping with her harsh dry features; but, however\nall other feelings may be withered in a woman s nature, there is always\none bright smiling spot in the desert of her heart, and that is the\nshrine of maternal love.  I forgive you. What I was saying, Villefort,\nwas, that the Bonapartists had not our sincerity, enthusiasm, or\ndevotion. \n\n They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine qualities, \nreplied the young man,  and that was fanaticism. Napoleon is the\nMahomet of the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but ambitious\nfollowers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as the\npersonification of equality. \n\n He!  cried the marquise:  Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy s\nsake, then, what would you call Robespierre? Come, come, do not strip\nthe latter of his just rights to bestow them on the Corsican, who, to\nmy mind, has usurped quite enough. \n\n0085m\n\n\n\n Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his right\npedestal that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the Place Louis Quinze;\nthat of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vend me. The only\ndifference consists in the opposite character of the equality advocated\nby these two men; one is the equality that elevates, the other is the\nequality that degrades; one brings a king within reach of the\nguillotine, the other elevates the people to a level with the throne.\nObserve,  said Villefort, smiling,  I do not mean to deny that both\nthese men were revolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and\nthe 4th of April, in the year 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy\nof being gratefully remembered by every friend to monarchy and civil\norder; and that explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust\nhe is forever, Napoleon has still retained a train of parasitical\nsatellites. Still, marquise, it has been so with other\nusurpers Cromwell, for instance, who was not half so bad as Napoleon,\nhad his partisans and advocates. \n\n Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most dreadfully\nrevolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is impossible to expect the\nson of a Girondin to be free from a small spice of the old leaven.  A\ndeep crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort.\n\n Tis true, madame,  answered he,  that my father was a Girondin, but\nhe was not among the number of those who voted for the king s death; he\nwas an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and had\nwell-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold on which your father\nperished. \n\n True,  replied the marquise, without wincing in the slightest degree\nat the tragic remembrance thus called up;  but bear in mind, if you\nplease, that our respective parents underwent persecution and\nproscription from diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which\nI may remark, that while my family remained among the staunchest\nadherents of the exiled princes, your father lost no time in joining\nthe new government; and that while the Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin,\nthe Count Noirtier became a senator. \n\n Dear mother,  interposed Ren e,  you know very well it was agreed that\nall these disagreeable reminiscences should forever be laid aside. \n\n Suffer me, also, madame,  replied Villefort,  to add my earnest\nrequest to Mademoiselle de Saint-M ran s, that you will kindly allow\nthe veil of oblivion to cover and conceal the past. What avails\nrecrimination over matters wholly past recall? For my own part, I have\nlaid aside even the name of my father, and altogether disown his\npolitical principles. He was nay, probably may still be a Bonapartist,\nand is called Noirtier; I, on the contrary, am a staunch royalist, and\nstyle myself de Villefort. Let what may remain of revolutionary sap\nexhaust itself and die away with the old trunk, and condescend only to\nregard the young shoot which has started up at a distance from the\nparent tree, without having the power, any more than the wish, to\nseparate entirely from the stock from which it sprung. \n\n Bravo, Villefort!  cried the marquis;  excellently well said! Come,\nnow, I have hopes of obtaining what I have been for years endeavoring\nto persuade the marquise to promise; namely, a perfect amnesty and\nforgetfulness of the past. \n\n With all my heart,  replied the marquise;  let the past be forever\nforgotten. I promise you it affords _me_ as little pleasure to revive\nit as it does you. All I ask is, that Villefort will be firm and\ninflexible for the future in his political principles. Remember, also,\nVillefort, that we have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your\nfealty and strict loyalty, and that at our recommendation the king\nconsented to forget the past, as I do  (and here she extended to him\nher hand) as I now do at your entreaty. But bear in mind, that should\nthere fall in your way anyone guilty of conspiring against the\ngovernment, you will be so much the more bound to visit the offence\nwith rigorous punishment, as it is known you belong to a suspected\nfamily. \n\n Alas, madame,  returned Villefort,  my profession, as well as the\ntimes in which we live, compels me to be severe. I have already\nsuccessfully conducted several public prosecutions, and brought the\noffenders to merited punishment. But we have not done with the thing\nyet. \n\n0087m\n\n\n\n Do you, indeed, think so?  inquired the marquise.\n\n I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of Elba, is too\nnear France, and his proximity keeps up the hopes of his partisans.\nMarseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one\nfrivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists;\nfrom hence arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes of\npersons, and assassinations in the lower. \n\n You have heard, perhaps,  said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. de\nSaint-M ran s oldest friends, and chamberlain to the Comte d Artois,\n that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence? \n\n Yes; they were talking about it when we left Paris,  said M. de\nSaint-M ran;  and where is it decided to transfer him? \n\n To Saint Helena. \n\n For heaven s sake, where is that?  asked the marquise.\n\n An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two\nthousand leagues from here,  replied the count.\n\n So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly\nto have left such a man between Corsica, where he was born, and Naples,\nof which his brother-in-law is king, and face to face with Italy, the\nsovereignty of which he coveted for his son. \n\n Unfortunately,  said Villefort,  there are the treaties of 1814, and\nwe cannot molest Napoleon without breaking those compacts. \n\n Oh, well, we shall find some way out of it,  responded M. de Salvieux.\n There wasn t any trouble over treaties when it was a question of\nshooting the poor Duc d Enghien. \n\n Well,  said the marquise,  it seems probable that, by the aid of the\nHoly Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and we must trust to the\nvigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. The\nking is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of\nFrance, he should be upheld in peace and tranquillity; and this can\nbest be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down\nevery attempt at conspiracy tis the best and surest means of\npreventing mischief. \n\n Unfortunately, madame,  answered Villefort,  the strong arm of the law\nis not called upon to interfere until the evil has taken place. \n\n Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it. \n\n Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect this; all it\ncan do is to avenge the wrong done. \n\n Oh, M. de Villefort,  cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to\nthe Comte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de\nSaint-M ran,  do try and get up some famous trial while we are at\nMarseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very\namusing! \n\n Amusing, certainly,  replied the young man,  inasmuch as, instead of\nshedding tears as at the fictitious tale of woe produced at a theatre,\nyou behold in a law-court a case of real and genuine distress a drama\nof life. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed,\ninstead of as is the case when a curtain falls on a tragedy going home\nto sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest, that he\nmay recommence his mimic woes on the morrow, is removed from your sight\nmerely to be reconducted to his prison and delivered up to the\nexecutioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated to\nbear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that\nshould any favorable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to\noffer you the choice of being present. \n\n For shame, M. de Villefort!  said Ren e, becoming quite pale;  don t\nyou see how you are frightening us? and yet you laugh. \n\n What would you have?  Tis like a duel. I have already recorded\nsentence of death, five or six times, against the movers of political\nconspiracies, and who can say how many daggers may be ready sharpened,\nand only waiting a favorable opportunity to be buried in my heart? \n\n Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort,  said Ren e, becoming more and more\nterrified;  you surely are not in earnest. \n\n Indeed I am,  replied the young magistrate with a smile;  and in the\ninteresting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case would\nonly be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner, as\nis more than probable, to have served under Napoleon well, can you\nexpect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of his\ncommander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will\nscruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to be\nhis personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely\nbecause bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one\nrequires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in\norder to lash one s self into a state of sufficient vehemence and\npower. I would not choose to see the man against whom I pleaded smile,\nas though in mockery of my words. No; my pride is to see the accused\npale, agitated, and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire\nof my eloquence.  Ren e uttered a smothered exclamation.\n\n Bravo!  cried one of the guests;  that is what I call talking to some\npurpose. \n\n Just the person we require at a time like the present,  said a second.\n\n What a splendid business that last case of yours was, my dear\nVillefort!  remarked a third;  I mean the trial of the man for\nmurdering his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner\nhad laid his hand upon him. \n\n Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that,  interposed\nRen e,  it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards\npoor unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed\nthemselves up in political intrigues \n\n Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for,\ndon t you see, Ren e, the king is the father of his people, and he who\nshall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent\nof thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great\nscale? \n\n I don t know anything about that,  replied Ren e;  but, M. de\nVillefort, you have promised me have you not? always to show mercy to\nthose I plead for. \n\n Make yourself quite easy on that point,  answered Villefort, with one\nof his sweetest smiles;  you and I will always consult upon our\nverdicts. \n\n My love,  said the marquise,  attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, and\nembroidery, but do not meddle with what you do not understand. Nowadays\nthe military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial robe is the\nbadge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in\npoint. \n\n _Cedant arma tog _,  said Villefort with a bow.\n\n I cannot speak Latin,  responded the marquise.\n\n Well,  said Ren e,  I cannot help regretting you had not chosen some\nother profession than your own a physician, for instance. Do you know I\nalways felt a shudder at the idea of even a _destroying_ angel? \n\n Dear, good Ren e,  whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable\ntenderness on the lovely speaker.\n\n Let us hope, my child,  cried the marquis,  that M. de Villefort may\nprove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he\nwill have achieved a noble work. \n\n And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father s\nconduct,  added the incorrigible marquise.\n\n Madame,  replied Villefort, with a mournful smile,  I have already had\nthe honor to observe that my father has at least, I hope so abjured his\npast errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and zealous\nfriend to religion and order a better royalist, possibly, than his son;\nfor he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other impulse\nthan warm, decided preference and conviction.  Having made this\nwell-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the\neffect of his oratory, much as he would have done had he been\naddressing the bench in open court.\n\n Do you know, my dear Villefort,  cried the Comte de Salvieux,  that is\nexactly what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, when\nquestioned by his majesty s principal chamberlain touching the\nsingularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the\ndaughter of an officer of the Duc de Cond ; and I assure you he seemed\nfully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political differences\nwas based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who,\nwithout our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interrupted\nus by saying,  Villefort observe that the king did not pronounce the\nword Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on\nthat of Villefort Villefort,  said his majesty,  is a young man of\ngreat judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a figure in his\nprofession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that\nhe was about to become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de\nSaint-M ran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not the\nnoble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it. \n\n Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to express\nhimself so favorably of me?  asked the enraptured Villefort.\n\n I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid, he\nwill confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said to\nhim, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of\nyour espousing his daughter. \n\n0091m\n\n\n\n That is true,  answered the marquis.\n\n How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do\nto evince my earnest gratitude! \n\n That is right,  cried the marquise.  I love to see you thus. Now,\nthen, were a conspirator to fall into your hands, he would be most\nwelcome. \n\n For my part, dear mother,  interposed Ren e,  I trust your wishes will\nnot prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders, poor\ndebtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort s\nhands, then I shall be contented. \n\n Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be\ncalled upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of\nwasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to\nsee me the king s attorney, you must desire for me some of those\nviolent and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor\nredounds to the physician. \n\nAt this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort s wish had\nsufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, and\nwhispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table\nand quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon,\nhowever, returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Ren e regarded\nhim with fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as\nthey then were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed\nto excite the innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful\nand intelligent lover.\n\n You were wishing just now,  said Villefort, addressing her,  that I\nwere a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the\ndisciples of Esculapius in one thing [people spoke in this style in\n1815], that of not being able to call a day my own, not even that of my\nbetrothal. \n\n And wherefore were you called away just now?  asked Mademoiselle de\nSaint-M ran, with an air of deep interest.\n\n For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the\nexecutioner. \n\n How dreadful!  exclaimed Ren e, turning pale.\n\n Is it possible?  burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to\nthe magistrate to hear his words.\n\n Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonapartist conspiracy\nhas just been discovered. \n\n Can I believe my ears?  cried the marquise.\n\n I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least,  said\nVillefort:\n\n The king s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the\nreligious institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dant s,\nmate of the ship _Pharaon_, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having\ntouched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter\nfrom Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter\nfrom the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration\nof this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned\nEdmond Dant s, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him,\nor has it at his father s abode. Should it not be found in the\npossession of father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in\nthe cabin belonging to the said Dant s on board the _Pharaon_. \n\n But,  said Ren e,  this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous\nscrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king s attorney. \n\n0093m\n\n\n\n True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders,\nopened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me,\nbut not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for\narresting the accused party. \n\n Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?  said the marquise.\n\n Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we cannot yet\npronounce him guilty. \n\n He is in safe custody,  answered Villefort;  and rely upon it, if the\nletter is found, he will not be likely to be trusted abroad again,\nunless he goes forth under the especial protection of the headsman. \n\n And where is the unfortunate being?  asked Ren e.\n\n He is at my house. \n\n Come, come, my friend,  interrupted the marquise,  do not neglect your\nduty to linger with us. You are the king s servant, and must go\nwherever that service calls you. \n\n Oh, Villefort!  cried Ren e, clasping her hands, and looking towards\nher lover with piteous earnestness,  be merciful on this the day of our\nbetrothal. \n\nThe young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair\npleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly:\n\n To give you pleasure, my sweet Ren e, I promise to show all the lenity\nin my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero\nprove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his\nhead to be cut off. \n\nRen e shuddered at the word _cut_, for the growth in question had a\nhead.\n\n Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort,  said the marquise.  She will\nsoon get over these things.  So saying, Madame de Saint-M ran extended\nher dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law s\nrespectful salute on it, looked at Ren e, as much as to say,  I must\ntry and fancy  tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been. \n\n These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal,  sighed poor\nRen e.\n\n Upon my word, child!  exclaimed the angry marquise,  your folly\nexceeds all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can\npossibly be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the\nstate! \n\n Oh, mother!  murmured Ren e.\n\n Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you that\nto make up for her want of loyalty, I will be most inflexibly severe; \nthen casting an expressive glance at his betrothed, which seemed to\nsay,  Fear not, for your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with\nmercy,  and receiving a sweet and approving smile in return, Villefort\ndeparted with paradise in his heart.\n\n\n\n Chapter 7. The Examination\n\nNo sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air\nof a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in\nspite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a\nfinished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by no\nmeans easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the\nrecollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which\nmight interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his\nown career, G rard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already\nrich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven. He\nwas about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not\npassionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the king;\nand besides her personal attractions, which were very great,\nMademoiselle de Saint-M ran s family possessed considerable political\ninfluence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry\nof his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides, the\nprospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her\nfather s death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling\nof such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its\ncontemplation.\n\nAt the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him.\nThe sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to\nearth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said,  I\nhave read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting this\nman; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the\nconspiracy. \n\n We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers\nfound have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself\nis named Edmond Dant s, mate on board the three-master the _Pharaon_,\ntrading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel &\nSon, of Marseilles. \n\n Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the\nmarines? \n\n Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young. \n\n How old? \n\n Nineteen or twenty at the most. \n\nAt this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the Rue\ndes Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been waiting for him,\napproached; it was M. Morrel.\n\n Ah, M. de Villefort,  cried he,  I am delighted to see you. Some of\nyour people have committed the strangest mistake they have just\narrested Edmond Dant s, mate of my vessel. \n\n I know it, monsieur,  replied Villefort,  and I am now going to\nexamine him. \n\n Oh,  said Morrel, carried away by his friendship,  you do not know\nhim, and I do. He is the most estimable, the most trustworthy creature\nin the world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better seaman\nin all the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your\nindulgence for him. \n\nVillefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at\nMarseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a royalist, the other\nsuspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and\nreplied coldly:\n\n You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy\nin private life, and the best seaman in the merchant service, and yet\nbe, politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true? \n\nThe magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply\nthem to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to plunge into the\nheart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of\nindulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear\non politics; besides, what Dant s had told him of his interview with\nthe grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed\nhim. He replied, however, in a tone of deep interest:\n\n I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and\nequitable, and give him back to us soon.  This _give us_ sounded\nrevolutionary in the deputy s ears.\n\n Ah, ah,  murmured he,  is Dant s then a member of some Carbonari\nsociety, that his protector thus employs the collective form? He was,\nif I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many\nothers.  Then he added,  Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform\nmy duty impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have\nappealed to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present\nepoch, impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my\nduty. \n\n0097m\n\n\n\nAs he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined the\nPalais de Justice, he entered, after having, coldly saluted the\nshipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had\nleft him. The antechamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in\nthe midst of whom, carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the\nprisoner. Villefort traversed the antechamber, cast a side glance at\nDant s, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared,\nsaying,  Bring in the prisoner. \n\nRapid as had been Villefort s glance, it had served to give him an idea\nof the man he was about to interrogate. He had recognized intelligence\nin the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow, and\nfrankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth.\nVillefort s first impression was favorable; but he had been so often\nwarned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the\nimpression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He\nstifled, therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising,\ncomposed his features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An\ninstant after Dant s entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and\nsaluting his judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if\nhe had been in M. Morrel s salon. It was then that he encountered for\nthe first time Villefort s look, that look peculiar to the magistrate,\nwho, while seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays nothing of\nhis own.\n\n Who and what are you?  demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of\npapers, containing information relative to the prisoner, that a police\nagent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour s\ntime, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt\nespionage of which  the accused  is always made the victim.\n\n My name is Edmond Dant s,  replied the young man calmly;  I am mate of\nthe _Pharaon_, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son. \n\n Your age?  continued Villefort.\n\n Nineteen,  returned Dant s.\n\n What were you doing at the moment you were arrested? \n\n I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur,  said the young man,\nhis voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that\nhappy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great\nwas the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the\nradiant face of Merc d s.\n\n You were at the festival of your marriage?  said the deputy,\nshuddering in spite of himself.\n\n Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been\nattached to for three years.  Villefort, impassive as he was, was\nstruck with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dant s,\nsurprised in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in\nhis own bosom he also was on the point of being married, and he was\nsummoned from his own happiness to destroy that of another.  This\nphilosophic reflection,  thought he,  will make a great sensation at M.\nde Saint-M ran s;  and he arranged mentally, while Dant s awaited\nfurther questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a\nreputation for eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort\nturned to Dant s.\n\n0099m\n\n\n\n Go on, sir,  said he.\n\n What would you have me say? \n\n Give all the information in your power. \n\n Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I\nknow; only,  added he, with a smile,  I warn you I know very little. \n\n Have you served under the usurper? \n\n I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell. \n\n It is reported your political opinions are extreme,  said Villefort,\nwho had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make\nthis inquiry, as if it were an accusation.\n\n My political opinions!  replied Dant s.  Alas, sir, I never had any\nopinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play.\nIf I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus\nall my opinions I will not say public, but private are confined to\nthese three sentiments, I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and I\nadore Merc d s. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how\nuninteresting it is.  As Dant s spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous\nand open countenance, and recollected the words of Ren e, who, without\nknowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With\nthe deputy s knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man\nuttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This lad, for he\nwas scarcely a man, simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of\nthe heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody,\nbecause he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked\ngood extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort s\nsevere look and stern accent. Dant s seemed full of kindness.\n\n_ Pardieu! _ said Villefort,  he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain\nRen e s favor easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on\nme. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet\nkiss in private.  Full of this idea, Villefort s face became so joyous,\nthat when he turned to Dant s, the latter, who had watched the change\non his physiognomy, was smiling also.\n\n Sir,  said Villefort,  have you any enemies, at least, that you know. \n\n I have enemies?  replied Dant s;  my position is not sufficiently\nelevated for that. As for my disposition, that is, perhaps, somewhat\ntoo hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve\nsailors under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that\nthey love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as\nan elder brother. \n\n But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at\nnineteen an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who\nloves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the\nenvy of someone. \n\n You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may\npossibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons are among my\nacquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced\nto hate them. \n\n You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You\nseem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty\nto aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the\npaper; do you know the writing?  As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter\nfrom his pocket, and presented it to Dant s. Dant s read it. A cloud\npassed over his brow as he said:\n\n No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably\nplain. Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate,  added he,\nlooking gratefully at Villefort,  to be examined by such a man as you;\nfor this envious person is a real enemy.  And by the rapid glance that\nthe young man s eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid\nbeneath this mildness.\n\n Now,  said the deputy,  answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a\njudge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what\ntruth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter? \nAnd Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dant s had just\ngiven back to him.\n\n None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a\nsailor, by my love for Merc d s, by the life of my father \n\n Speak, monsieur,  said Villefort. Then, internally,  If Ren e could\nsee me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a\ndecapitator. \n\n Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a\nbrain fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to\narrive at Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder\nrose to such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was\ndying, he called me to him.  My dear Dant s,  said he,  swear to\nperform what I am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest\nimportance. \n\n I swear, captain,  replied I.\n\n Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate, assume\nthe command, and bear up for the Island of Elba, disembark at\nPorto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter perhaps\nthey will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission.\nYou will accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor\nand profit from it. \n\n I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the\ngrand-marshal s presence as easily as you expect? \n\n Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every\ndifficulty,  said the captain. At these words he gave me a ring. It was\ntime two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died. \n\n And what did you do then? \n\n What I ought to have done, and what everyone would have done in my\nplace. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but with\na sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for\nthe Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody\nto remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found\nsome difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent\nthe ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly\nadmitted. He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere s death; and, as\nthe latter had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in\nParis. I undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I\nlanded here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit\nmy affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M.\nMorrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you, at\nmy marriage feast; and I should have been married in an hour, and\ntomorrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested on this\ncharge which you as well as I now see to be unjust. \n\n Ah,  said Villefort,  this seems to me the truth. If you have been\nculpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was in obedience to\nthe orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from\nElba, and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go\nand rejoin your friends.\n\n I am free, then, sir?  cried Dant s joyfully.\n\n Yes; but first give me this letter. \n\n You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I\nsee in that packet. \n\n Stop a moment,  said the deputy, as Dant s took his hat and gloves.\n To whom is it addressed? \n\n_ To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-H ron, Paris. _ Had a thunderbolt\nfallen into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He\nsank into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the\nfatal letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.\n\n M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-H ron, No. 13,  murmured he, growing still paler.\n\n Yes,  said Dant s;  do you know him? \n\n No,  replied Villefort;  a faithful servant of the king does not know\nconspirators. \n\n0103m\n\n\n\n It is a conspiracy, then?  asked Dant s, who after believing himself\nfree, now began to feel a tenfold alarm.  I have, however, already told\nyou, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter. \n\n Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed, \nsaid Villefort.\n\n I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it. \n\n Have you shown this letter to anyone?  asked Villefort, becoming still\nmore pale.\n\n To no one, on my honor. \n\n Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the\nIsland of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier? \n\n Everybody, except the person who gave it to me. \n\n And that was too much, far too much,  murmured Villefort. Villefort s\nbrow darkened more and more, his white lips and clenched teeth filled\nDant s with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered\nhis face with his hands.\n\n Oh,  said Dant s timidly,  what is the matter?  Villefort made no\nanswer, but raised his head at the expiration of a few seconds, and\nagain perused the letter.\n\n And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter? \n\n I give you my word of honor, sir,  said Dant s;  but what is the\nmatter? You are ill shall I ring for assistance? shall I call? \n\n No,  said Villefort, rising hastily;  stay where you are. It is for me\nto give orders here, and not you. \n\n Monsieur,  replied Dant s proudly,  it was only to summon assistance\nfor you. \n\n I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself;\nanswer me.  Dant s waited, expecting a question, but in vain. Villefort\nfell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with\nperspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter.\n\n Oh, if he knows the contents of this!  murmured he,  and that Noirtier\nis the father of Villefort, I am lost!  And he fixed his eyes upon\nEdmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts.\n\n Oh, it is impossible to doubt it,  cried he, suddenly.\n\n In heaven s name!  cried the unhappy young man,  if you doubt me,\nquestion me; I will answer you.  Villefort made a violent effort, and\nin a tone he strove to render firm:\n\n Sir,  said he,  I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you\nimmediately to liberty; before doing so, I must consult the trial\njustice; what my own feeling is you already know. \n\n Oh, monsieur,  cried Dant s,  you have been rather a friend than a\njudge. \n\n0105m\n\n\n\n Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it\nas short as possible. The principal charge against you is this letter,\nand you see  Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited\nuntil it was entirely consumed.\n\n You see, I destroy it? \n\n Oh,  exclaimed Dant s,  you are goodness itself. \n\n Listen,  continued Villefort;  you can now have confidence in me after\nwhat I have done. \n\n Oh, command, and I will obey. \n\n Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you. \n\n Speak, and I will follow your advice. \n\n I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should\nanyone else interrogate you, say to him what you have said to me, but\ndo not breathe a word of this letter. \n\n I promise.  It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner\nwho reassured him.\n\n You see,  continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of\nburnt paper fluttered in the flames,  the letter is destroyed; you and\nI alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be questioned,\ndeny all knowledge of it deny it boldly, and you are saved. \n\n Be satisfied; I will deny it. \n\n It was the only letter you had? \n\n It was. \n\n Swear it. \n\n I swear it. \n\nVillefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words\nin his ear, to which the officer replied by a motion of his head.\n\n Follow him,  said Villefort to Dant s. Dant s saluted Villefort and\nretired. Hardly had the door closed when Villefort threw himself\nhalf-fainting into a chair.\n\n Alas, alas,  murmured he,  if the procureur himself had been at\nMarseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed letter would have\ndestroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always\ninterfere with my successes?  Suddenly a light passed over his face, a\nsmile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in\nthought.\n\n This will do,  said he,  and from this letter, which might have ruined\nme, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I have in hand.  And after\nhaving assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur\nhastened to the house of his betrothed.\n\n0107m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 8. The Ch teau d If\n\nThe commissary of police, as he traversed the antechamber, made a sign\nto two gendarmes, who placed themselves one on Dant s  right and the\nother on his left. A door that communicated with the Palais de Justice\nwas opened, and they went through a long range of gloomy corridors,\nwhose appearance might have made even the boldest shudder. The Palais\nde Justice communicated with the prison, a sombre edifice, that from\nits grated windows looks on the clock-tower of the Accoules. After\nnumberless windings, Dant s saw a door with an iron wicket. The\ncommissary took up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow\nseeming to Dant s as if struck on his heart. The door opened, the two\ngendarmes gently pushed him forward, and the door closed with a loud\nsound behind him. The air he inhaled was no longer pure, but thick and\nmephitic, he was in prison.\n\nHe was conducted to a tolerably neat chamber, but grated and barred,\nand its appearance, therefore, did not greatly alarm him; besides, the\nwords of Villefort, who seemed to interest himself so much, resounded\nstill in his ears like a promise of freedom. It was four o clock when\nDant s was placed in this chamber. It was, as we have said, the 1st of\nMarch, and the prisoner was soon buried in darkness. The obscurity\naugmented the acuteness of his hearing; at the slightest sound he rose\nand hastened to the door, convinced they were about to liberate him,\nbut the sound died away, and Dant s sank again into his seat. At last,\nabout ten o clock, and just as Dant s began to despair, steps were\nheard in the corridor, a key turned in the lock, the bolts creaked, the\nmassy oaken door flew open, and a flood of light from two torches\npervaded the apartment.\n\nBy the torchlight Dant s saw the glittering sabres and carbines of four\ngendarmes. He had advanced at first, but stopped at the sight of this\ndisplay of force.\n\n Are you come to fetch me?  asked he.\n\n Yes,  replied a gendarme.\n\n By the orders of the deputy procureur? \n\n I believe so.  The conviction that they came from M. de Villefort\nrelieved all Dant s  apprehensions; he advanced calmly, and placed\nhimself in the centre of the escort. A carriage waited at the door, the\ncoachman was on the box, and a police officer sat beside him.\n\n Is this carriage for me?  said Dant s.\n\n It is for you,  replied a gendarme.\n\nDant s was about to speak; but feeling himself urged forward, and\nhaving neither the power nor the intention to resist, he mounted the\nsteps, and was in an instant seated inside between two gendarmes; the\ntwo others took their places opposite, and the carriage rolled heavily\nover the stones.\n\nThe prisoner glanced at the windows they were grated; he had changed\nhis prison for another that was conveying him he knew not whither.\nThrough the grating, however, Dant s saw they were passing through the\nRue Caisserie, and by the Rue Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the\nquay. Soon he saw the lights of La Consigne.\n\nThe carriage stopped, the officer descended, approached the guardhouse,\na dozen soldiers came out and formed themselves in order; Dant s saw\nthe reflection of their muskets by the light of the lamps on the quay.\n\n Can all this force be summoned on my account?  thought he.\n\nThe officer opened the door, which was locked, and, without speaking a\nword, answered Dant s  question; for he saw between the ranks of the\nsoldiers a passage formed from the carriage to the port. The two\ngendarmes who were opposite to him descended first, then he was ordered\nto alight and the gendarmes on each side of him followed his example.\nThey advanced towards a boat, which a custom-house officer held by a\nchain, near the quay.\n\nThe soldiers looked at Dant s with an air of stupid curiosity. In an\ninstant he was placed in the stern-sheets of the boat, between the\ngendarmes, while the officer stationed himself at the bow; a shove sent\nthe boat adrift, and four sturdy oarsmen impelled it rapidly towards\nthe Pilon. At a shout from the boat, the chain that closes the mouth of\nthe port was lowered and in a second they were, as Dant s knew, in the\nFrioul and outside the inner harbor.\n\nThe prisoner s first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure\nair for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for he passed before La\nR serve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through the\nopen windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball. Dant s folded his\nhands, raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently.\n\n0111m\n\n\n\nThe boat continued her voyage. They had passed the T te de Mort, were\nnow off the Anse du Pharo, and about to double the battery. This\nman uvre was incomprehensible to Dant s.\n\n Whither are you taking me?  asked he.\n\n You will soon know. \n\n But still \n\n We are forbidden to give you any explanation.  Dant s, trained in\ndiscipline, knew that nothing would be more absurd than to question\nsubordinates, who were forbidden to reply; and so he remained silent.\n\nThe most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind. The boat they\nwere in could not make a long voyage; there was no vessel at anchor\noutside the harbor; he thought, perhaps, they were going to leave him\non some distant point. He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt\nto handcuff him; this seemed a good augury. Besides, had not the\ndeputy, who had been so kind to him, told him that provided he did not\npronounce the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing to apprehend?\nHad not Villefort in his presence destroyed the fatal letter, the only\nproof against him?\n\nHe waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness.\n\nThey had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the\nright, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans. It seemed to the\nprisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for it\nwas there Merc d s dwelt. How was it that a presentiment did not warn\nMerc d s that her lover was within three hundred yards of her?\n\nOne light alone was visible; and Dant s saw that it came from Merc d s \nchamber. Merc d s was the only one awake in the whole settlement. A\nloud cry could be heard by her. But pride restrained him and he did not\nutter it. What would his guards think if they heard him shout like a\nmadman?\n\nHe remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the light; the boat went on,\nbut the prisoner thought only of Merc d s. An intervening elevation of\nland hid the light. Dant s turned and perceived that they had got out\nto sea. While he had been absorbed in thought, they had shipped their\noars and hoisted sail; the boat was now moving with the wind.\n\nIn spite of his repugnance to address the guards, Dant s turned to the\nnearest gendarme, and taking his hand,\n\n Comrade,  said he,  I adjure you, as a Christian and a soldier, to\ntell me where we are going. I am Captain Dant s, a loyal Frenchman,\nthought accused of treason; tell me where you are conducting me, and I\npromise you on my honor I will submit to my fate. \n\nThe gendarme looked irresolutely at his companion, who returned for\nanswer a sign that said,  I see no great harm in telling him now,  and\nthe gendarme replied:\n\n You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know\nwhere you are going? \n\n On my honor, I have no idea. \n\n Have you no idea whatever? \n\n None at all. \n\n That is impossible. \n\n I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat. \n\n But my orders. \n\n Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know in ten\nminutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You see I cannot escape, even if\nI intended. \n\n Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbor, you must\nknow. \n\n I do not. \n\n Look round you then.  Dant s rose and looked forward, when he saw rise\nwithin a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which\nstands the Ch teau d If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than\nthree hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to\nDant s like a scaffold to a malefactor.\n\n The Ch teau d If?  cried he,  what are we going there for? \n\nThe gendarme smiled.\n\n I am not going there to be imprisoned,  said Dant s;  it is only used\nfor political prisoners. I have committed no crime. Are there any\nmagistrates or judges at the Ch teau d If? \n\n There are only,  said the gendarme,  a governor, a garrison, turnkeys,\nand good thick walls. Come, come, do not look so astonished, or you\nwill make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good\nnature. \n\nDant s pressed the gendarme s hand as though he would crush it.\n\n You think, then,  said he,  that I am taken to the Ch teau d If to be\nimprisoned there? \n\n It is probable; but there is no occasion to squeeze so hard. \n\n Without any inquiry, without any formality? \n\n All the formalities have been gone through; the inquiry is already\nmade. \n\n And so, in spite of M. de Villefort s promises? \n\n I do not know what M. de Villefort promised you,  said the gendarme,\n but I know we are taking you to the Ch teau d If. But what are you\ndoing? Help, comrades, help! \n\nBy a rapid movement, which the gendarme s practiced eye had perceived,\nDant s sprang forward to precipitate himself into the sea; but four\nvigorous arms seized him as his feet quitted the bottom of the boat. He\nfell back cursing with rage.\n\n Good!  said the gendarme, placing his knee on his chest;  this is the\nway you keep your word as a sailor! Believe soft-spoken gentlemen\nagain! Hark ye, my friend, I have disobeyed my first order, but I will\nnot disobey the second; and if you move, I will blow your brains out. \nAnd he levelled his carbine at Dant s, who felt the muzzle against his\ntemple.\n\nFor a moment the idea of struggling crossed his mind, and of so ending\nthe unexpected evil that had overtaken him. But he bethought him of M.\nde Villefort s promise; and, besides, death in a boat from the hand of\na gendarme seemed too terrible. He remained motionless, but gnashing\nhis teeth and wringing his hands with fury.\n\nAt this moment the boat came to a landing with a violent shock. One of\nthe sailors leaped on shore, a cord creaked as it ran through a pulley,\nand Dant s guessed they were at the end of the voyage, and that they\nwere mooring the boat.\n\nHis guards, taking him by the arms and coat-collar, forced him to rise,\nand dragged him towards the steps that lead to the gate of the\nfortress, while the police officer carrying a musket with fixed bayonet\nfollowed behind.\n\nDant s made no resistance; he was like a man in a dream; he saw\nsoldiers drawn up on the embankment; he knew vaguely that he was\nascending a flight of steps; he was conscious that he passed through a\ndoor, and that the door closed behind him; but all this indistinctly as\nthrough a mist. He did not even see the ocean, that terrible barrier\nagainst freedom, which the prisoners look upon with utter despair.\n\nThey halted for a minute, during which he strove to collect his\nthoughts. He looked around; he was in a court surrounded by high walls;\nhe heard the measured tread of sentinels, and as they passed before the\nlight he saw the barrels of their muskets shine.\n\nThey waited upwards of ten minutes. Certain Dant s could not escape,\nthe gendarmes released him. They seemed awaiting orders. The orders\ncame.\n\n Where is the prisoner?  said a voice.\n\n Here,  replied the gendarmes.\n\n Let him follow me; I will take him to his cell. \n\n Go!  said the gendarmes, thrusting Dant s forward.\n\nThe prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room almost under\nground, whose bare and reeking walls seemed as though impregnated with\ntears; a lamp placed on a stool illumined the apartment faintly, and\nshowed Dant s the features of his conductor, an under-jailer,\nill-clothed, and of sullen appearance.\n\n0113m\n\n\n\n Here is your chamber for tonight,  said he.  It is late, and the\ngovernor is asleep. Tomorrow, perhaps, he may change you. In the\nmeantime there is bread, water, and fresh straw; and that is all a\nprisoner can wish for. Goodnight.  And before Dant s could open his\nmouth before he had noticed where the jailer placed his bread or the\nwater before he had glanced towards the corner where the straw was, the\njailer disappeared, taking with him the lamp and closing the door,\nleaving stamped upon the prisoner s mind the dim reflection of the\ndripping walls of his dungeon.\n\nDant s was alone in darkness and in silence cold as the shadows that he\nfelt breathe on his burning forehead. With the first dawn of day the\njailer returned, with orders to leave Dant s where he was. He found the\nprisoner in the same position, as if fixed there, his eyes swollen with\nweeping. He had passed the night standing, and without sleep. The\njailer advanced; Dant s appeared not to perceive him. He touched him on\nthe shoulder. Edmond started.\n\n Have you not slept?  said the jailer.\n\n I do not know,  replied Dant s. The jailer stared.\n\n Are you hungry?  continued he.\n\n I do not know. \n\n Do you wish for anything? \n\n I wish to see the governor. \n\nThe jailer shrugged his shoulders and left the chamber.\n\nDant s followed him with his eyes, and stretched forth his hands\ntowards the open door; but the door closed. All his emotion then burst\nforth; he cast himself on the ground, weeping bitterly, and asking\nhimself what crime he had committed that he was thus punished.\n\nThe day passed thus; he scarcely tasted food, but walked round and\nround the cell like a wild beast in its cage. One thought in particular\ntormented him: namely, that during his journey hither he had sat so\nstill, whereas he might, a dozen times, have plunged into the sea, and,\nthanks to his powers of swimming, for which he was famous, have gained\nthe shore, concealed himself until the arrival of a Genoese or Spanish\nvessel, escaped to Spain or Italy, where Merc d s and his father could\nhave joined him. He had no fears as to how he should live good seamen\nare welcome everywhere. He spoke Italian like a Tuscan, and Spanish\nlike a Castilian; he would have been free, and happy with Merc d s and\nhis father, whereas he was now confined in the Ch teau d If, that\nimpregnable fortress, ignorant of the future destiny of his father and\nMerc d s; and all this because he had trusted to Villefort s promise.\nThe thought was maddening, and Dant s threw himself furiously down on\nhis straw. The next morning at the same hour, the jailer came again.\n\n Well,  said the jailer,  are you more reasonable today?  Dant s made\nno reply.\n\n Come, cheer up; is there anything that I can do for you? \n\n I wish to see the governor. \n\n I have already told you it was impossible. \n\n Why so? \n\n Because it is against prison rules, and prisoners must not even ask\nfor it. \n\n What is allowed, then? \n\n Better fare, if you pay for it, books, and leave to walk about. \n\n I do not want books, I am satisfied with my food, and do not care to\nwalk about; but I wish to see the governor. \n\n If you worry me by repeating the same thing, I will not bring you any\nmore to eat. \n\n Well, then,  said Edmond,  if you do not, I shall die of hunger that\nis all. \n\nThe jailer saw by his tone he would be happy to die; and as every\nprisoner is worth ten sous a day to his jailer, he replied in a more\nsubdued tone.\n\n What you ask is impossible; but if you are very well behaved you will\nbe allowed to walk about, and some day you will meet the governor, and\nif he chooses to reply, that is his affair. \n\n But,  asked Dant s,  how long shall I have to wait? \n\n Ah, a month six months a year. \n\n It is too long a time. I wish to see him at once. \n\n Ah,  said the jailer,  do not always brood over what is impossible, or\nyou will be mad in a fortnight. \n\n You think so? \n\n Yes; we have an instance here; it was by always offering a million of\nfrancs to the governor for his liberty that an abb  became mad, who was\nin this chamber before you. \n\n0119m\n\n\n\n How long has he left it? \n\n Two years. \n\n Was he liberated, then? \n\n No; he was put in a dungeon. \n\n Listen!  said Dant s.  I am not an abb , I am not mad; perhaps I shall\nbe, but at present, unfortunately, I am not. I will make you another\noffer. \n\n What is that? \n\n I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I will give\nyou a hundred crowns if, the first time you go to Marseilles, you will\nseek out a young girl named Merc d s, at the Catalans, and give her two\nlines from me. \n\n0120m\n\n\n\n If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place, which is\nworth two thousand francs a year; so that I should be a great fool to\nrun such a risk for three hundred. \n\n Well,  said Dant s,  mark this; if you refuse at least to tell\nMerc d s I am here, I will some day hide myself behind the door, and\nwhen you enter I will dash out your brains with this stool. \n\n Threats!  cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself on the\ndefensive;  you are certainly going mad. The abb  began like you, and\nin three days you will be like him, mad enough to tie up; but,\nfortunately, there are dungeons here. \n\nDant s whirled the stool round his head.\n\n All right, all right,  said the jailer;  all right, since you will\nhave it so. I will send word to the governor. \n\n Very well,  returned Dant s, dropping the stool and sitting on it as\nif he were in reality mad. The jailer went out, and returned in an\ninstant with a corporal and four soldiers.\n\n By the governor s orders,  said he,  conduct the prisoner to the tier\nbeneath. \n\n To the dungeon, then,  said the corporal.\n\n Yes; we must put the madman with the madmen.  The soldiers seized\nDant s, who followed passively.\n\nHe descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was opened, and\nhe was thrust in. The door closed, and Dant s advanced with\noutstretched hands until he touched the wall; he then sat down in the\ncorner until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The jailer was\nright; Dant s wanted but little of being utterly mad.\n\n\n\n Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal\n\nVillefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de\nSaint-M ran s in the Place du Grand Cours, and on entering the house\nfound that the guests whom he had left at table were taking coffee in\nthe salon. Ren e was, with all the rest of the company, anxiously\nawaiting him, and his entrance was followed by a general exclamation.\n\n Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus, what is\nthe matter?  said one.  Speak out. \n\n Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?  asked another.\n\n Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?  cried a third.\n\n Marquise,  said Villefort, approaching his future mother-in-law,  I\nrequest your pardon for thus leaving you. Will the marquis honor me by\na few moments  private conversation? \n\n Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?  asked the marquis, remarking\nthe cloud on Villefort s brow.\n\n So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days; so,  added\nhe, turning to Ren e,  judge for yourself if it be not important. \n\n You are going to leave us?  cried Ren e, unable to hide her emotion at\nthis unexpected announcement.\n\n Alas,  returned Villefort,  I must! \n\n Where, then, are you going?  asked the marquise.\n\n That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any commissions\nfor Paris, a friend of mine is going there tonight, and will with\npleasure undertake them.  The guests looked at each other.\n\n You wish to speak to me alone?  said the marquis.\n\n Yes, let us go to the library, please.  The marquis took his arm, and\nthey left the salon.\n\n Well,  asked he, as soon as they were by themselves,  tell me what it\nis? \n\n An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my immediate\npresence in Paris. Now, excuse the indiscretion, marquis, but have you\nany landed property? \n\n All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred thousand\nfrancs. \n\n Then sell out sell out, marquis, or you will lose it all. \n\n0123m\n\n\n\n But how can I sell out here? \n\n You have a broker, have you not? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out without an\ninstant s delay, perhaps even now I shall arrive too late. \n\n The deuce you say!  replied the marquis,  let us lose no time, then! \n\nAnd, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to\nsell out at the market price.\n\n Now, then,  said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocketbook,  I\nmust have another! \n\n To whom? \n\n To the king. \n\n To the king? \n\n Yes. \n\n I dare not write to his majesty. \n\n I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to do\nso. I want a letter that will enable me to reach the king s presence\nwithout all the formalities of demanding an audience; that would\noccasion a loss of precious time. \n\n But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the right of\nentry at the Tuileries, and can procure you audience at any hour of the\nday or night. \n\n Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of my\ndiscovery with him. The keeper would leave me in the background, and\ntake all the glory to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made\nif I only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget\nthe service I do him. \n\n In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and make him write\nthe letter. \n\n Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter of an\nhour. \n\n Tell your coachman to stop at the door. \n\n You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Ren e,\nwhom I leave on such a day with great regret. \n\n You will find them both here, and can make your farewells in person. \n\n A thousand thanks and now for the letter. \n\nThe marquis rang, a servant entered.\n\n Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him. \n\n Now, then, go,  said the marquis.\n\n I shall be gone only a few moments. \n\nVillefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight\nof the deputy procureur running through the streets would be enough to\nthrow the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At\nhis door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for\nhim. It was Merc d s, who, hearing no news of her lover, had come\nunobserved to inquire after him.\n\nAs Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dant s had\nspoken of Merc d s, and Villefort instantly recognized her. Her beauty\nand high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what had become\nof her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the\naccused.\n\n The young man you speak of,  said Villefort abruptly,  is a great\ncriminal, and I can do nothing for him, mademoiselle.  Merc d s burst\ninto tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him.\n\n But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether he is\nalive or dead,  said she.\n\n0125m\n\n\n\n I do not know; he is no longer in my hands,  replied Villefort.\n\nAnd desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and\nclosed the door, as if to exclude the pain he felt. But remorse is not\nthus banished; like Virgil s wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his\nwound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was\nalmost a sob, and sank into a chair.\n\nThen the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his heart. The\nman he sacrificed to his ambition, that innocent victim immolated on\nthe altar of his father s faults, appeared to him pale and threatening,\nleading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse,\nnot such as the ancients figured, furious and terrible, but that slow\nand consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to hour up to\nthe very moment of death. Then he had a moment s hesitation. He had\nfrequently called for capital punishment on criminals, and owing to his\nirresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the slightest\nshadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort s brow, because they were\nguilty; at least, he believed so; but here was an innocent man whose\nhappiness he had destroyed. In this case he was not the judge, but the\nexecutioner.\n\nAs he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and\nwhich had hitherto been unknown to him, arise in his bosom, and fill\nhim with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles\ninstinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be\nhealed, but Villefort s was one of those that never close, or if they\ndo, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at this moment\nthe sweet voice of Ren e had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or\nthe fair Merc d s had entered and said,  In the name of God, I conjure\nyou to restore me my affianced husband,  his cold and trembling hands\nwould have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the\nchamber, and the door was opened only by Villefort s valet, who came to\ntell him that the travelling carriage was in readiness.\n\nVillefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one of\nthe drawers of his desk, emptied all the gold it contained into his\npocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head,\nmuttered a few inarticulate sounds, and then, perceiving that his\nservant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he sprang into the\ncarriage, ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-M ran s. The\nhapless Dant s was doomed.\n\nAs the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise and Ren e in\nwaiting. He started when he saw Ren e, for he fancied she was again\nabout to plead for Dant s. Alas, her emotions were wholly personal: she\nwas thinking only of Villefort s departure.\n\nShe loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to\nbecome her husband. Villefort knew not when he should return, and\nRen e, far from pleading for Dant s, hated the man whose crime\nseparated her from her lover.\n\n0127m\n\n\n\nMeanwhile what of Merc d s? She had met Fernand at the corner of the\nRue de la Loge; she had returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly\ncast herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her\nhand, and covered it with kisses that Merc d s did not even feel. She\npassed the night thus. The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid\nno heed to the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew not that it was\nday. Grief had made her blind to all but one object that was Edmond.\n\n Ah, you are there,  said she, at length, turning towards Fernand.\n\n I have not quitted you since yesterday,  returned Fernand sorrowfully.\n\nM. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned that\nDant s had been taken to prison, and he had gone to all his friends,\nand the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in\ncirculation that Dant s was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the\nmost sanguine looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne\nas impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home\nin despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more\ncould be done.\n\nCaderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking,\nlike M. Morrel, to aid Dant s, he had shut himself up with two bottles\nof black currant brandy, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did\nnot succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and\nyet not so intoxicated as to forget what had happened. With his elbows\non the table he sat between the two empty bottles, while spectres\ndanced in the light of the unsnuffed candle spectres such as Hoffmann\nstrews over his punch-drenched pages, like black, fantastic dust.\n\nDanglars alone was content and joyous he had got rid of an enemy and\nmade his own situation on the _Pharaon_ secure. Danglars was one of\nthose men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a\nheart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life\nof a man was to him of far less value than a numeral, especially when,\nby taking it away, he could increase the sum total of his own desires.\nHe went to bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace.\n\nVillefort, after having received M. de Salvieux s letter, embraced\nRen e, kissed the marquise s hand, and shaken that of the marquis,\nstarted for Paris along the Aix road.\n\nOld Dant s was dying with anxiety to know what had become of Edmond.\nBut we know very well what had become of Edmond.\n\n\n\n Chapter 10. The King s Closet at the Tuileries\n\nWe will leave Villefort on the road to Paris, travelling thanks to\ntrebled fees with all speed, and passing through two or three\napartments, enter at the Tuileries the little room with the arched\nwindow, so well known as having been the favorite closet of Napoleon\nand Louis XVIII., and now of Louis Philippe.\n\nThere, seated before a walnut table he had brought with him from\nHartwell, and to which, from one of those fancies not uncommon to great\npeople, he was particularly attached, the king, Louis XVIII., was\ncarelessly listening to a man of fifty or fifty-two years of age, with\ngray hair, aristocratic bearing, and exceedingly gentlemanly attire,\nand meanwhile making a marginal note in a volume of Gryphius s rather\ninaccurate, but much sought-after, edition of Horace a work which was\nmuch indebted to the sagacious observations of the philosophical\nmonarch.\n\n You say, sir  said the king.\n\n That I am exceedingly disquieted, sire. \n\n Really, have you had a vision of the seven fat kine and the seven lean\nkine? \n\n No, sire, for that would only betoken for us seven years of plenty and\nseven years of scarcity; and with a king as full of foresight as your\nmajesty, scarcity is not a thing to be feared. \n\n Then of what other scourge are you afraid, my dear Blacas? \n\n Sire, I have every reason to believe that a storm is brewing in the\nsouth. \n\n Well, my dear duke,  replied Louis XVIII.,  I think you are wrongly\ninformed, and know positively that, on the contrary, it is very fine\nweather in that direction.  Man of ability as he was, Louis XVIII.\nliked a pleasant jest.\n\n Sire,  continued M. de Blacas,  if it only be to reassure a faithful\nservant, will your majesty send into Languedoc, Provence, and Dauphin ,\ntrusty men, who will bring you back a faithful report as to the feeling\nin these three provinces? \n\n _Canimus surdis_,  replied the king, continuing the annotations in his\nHorace.\n\n Sire,  replied the courtier, laughing, in order that he might seem to\ncomprehend the quotation,  your majesty may be perfectly right in\nrelying on the good feeling of France, but I fear I am not altogether\nwrong in dreading some desperate attempt. \n\n By whom? \n\n By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his adherents. \n\n My dear Blacas,  said the king,  you with your alarms prevent me from\nworking. \n\n And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your security. \n\n Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a delightful note on\nthe _Pastor quum traheret_ wait, and I will listen to you afterwards. \n\nThere was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in a hand as\nsmall as possible, another note on the margin of his Horace, and then\nlooking at the duke with the air of a man who thinks he has an idea of\nhis own, while he is only commenting upon the idea of another, said:\n\n Go on, my dear duke, go on I listen. \n\n Sire,  said Blacas, who had for a moment the hope of sacrificing\nVillefort to his own profit,  I am compelled to tell you that these are\nnot mere rumors destitute of foundation which thus disquiet me; but a\nserious-minded man, deserving all my confidence, and charged by me to\nwatch over the south  (the duke hesitated as he pronounced these\nwords),  has arrived by post to tell me that a great peril threatens\nthe king, and so I hastened to you, sire. \n\n _Mala ducis avi domum_,  continued Louis XVIII., still annotating.\n\n Does your majesty wish me to drop the subject? \n\n By no means, my dear duke; but just stretch out your hand. \n\n Which? \n\n Whichever you please there to the left. \n\n Here, sire? \n\n I tell you to the left, and you are looking to the right; I mean on my\nleft yes, there. You will find yesterday s report of the minister of\npolice. But here is M. Dandr  himself;  and M. Dandr , announced by the\nchamberlain-in-waiting, entered.\n\n Come in,  said Louis XVIII., with repressed smile,  come in, Baron,\nand tell the duke all you know the latest news of M. de Bonaparte; do\nnot conceal anything, however serious, let us see, the Island of Elba\nis a volcano, and we may expect to have issuing thence flaming and\nbristling war _bella, horrida bella_. \n\nM. Dandr  leaned very respectfully on the back of a chair with his two\nhands, and said:\n\n Has your majesty perused yesterday s report? \n\n Yes, yes; but tell the duke himself, who cannot find anything, what\nthe report contains give him the particulars of what the usurper is\ndoing in his islet. \n\n Monsieur,  said the baron to the duke,  all the servants of his\nmajesty must approve of the latest intelligence which we have from the\nIsland of Elba. Bonaparte \n\nM. Dandr  looked at Louis XVIII., who, employed in writing a note, did\nnot even raise his head.  Bonaparte,  continued the baron,  is mortally\nwearied, and passes whole days in watching his miners at work at\nPorto-Longone. \n\n And scratches himself for amusement,  added the king.\n\n Scratches himself?  inquired the duke,  what does your majesty mean? \n\n Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great man, this\nhero, this demigod, is attacked with a malady of the skin which worries\nhim to death, _prurigo_? \n\n And, moreover, my dear duke,  continued the minister of police,  we\nare almost assured that, in a very short time, the usurper will be\ninsane. \n\n Insane? \n\n Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. Sometimes he weeps bitterly,\nsometimes laughs boisterously, at other time he passes hours on the\nseashore, flinging stones in the water and when the flint makes\n duck-and-drake  five or six times, he appears as delighted as if he\nhad gained another Marengo or Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that\nthese are indubitable symptoms of insanity. \n\n Or of wisdom, my dear baron or of wisdom,  said Louis XVIII.,\nlaughing;  the greatest captains of antiquity amused themselves by\ncasting pebbles into the ocean see Plutarch s life of Scipio\nAfricanus. \n\nM. de Blacas pondered deeply between the confident monarch and the\ntruthful minister. Villefort, who did not choose to reveal the whole\nsecret, lest another should reap all the benefit of the disclosure, had\nyet communicated enough to cause him the greatest uneasiness.\n\n Well, well, Dandr ,  said Louis XVIII.,  Blacas is not yet convinced;\nlet us proceed, therefore, to the usurper s conversion.  The minister\nof police bowed.\n\n The usurper s conversion!  murmured the duke, looking at the king and\nDandr , who spoke alternately, like Virgil s shepherds.  The usurper\nconverted! \n\n Decidedly, my dear duke. \n\n In what way converted? \n\n To good principles. Tell him all about it, baron. \n\n Why, this is the way of it,  said the minister, with the gravest air\nin the world:  Napoleon lately had a review, and as two or three of his\nold veterans expressed a desire to return to France, he gave them their\ndismissal, and exhorted them to  serve the good king.  These were his\nown words, of that I am certain. \n\n Well, Blacas, what think you of this?  inquired the king triumphantly,\nand pausing for a moment from the voluminous scholiast before him.\n\n I say, sire, that the minister of police is greatly deceived or I am;\nand as it is impossible it can be the minister of police as he has the\nguardianship of the safety and honor of your majesty, it is probable\nthat I am in error. However, sire, if I might advise, your majesty will\ninterrogate the person of whom I spoke to you, and I will urge your\nmajesty to do him this honor. \n\n Most willingly, duke; under your auspices I will receive any person\nyou please, but you must not expect me to be too confiding. Baron, have\nyou any report more recent than this, dated the 20th February, and this\nis the 3rd of March? \n\n No, sire, but I am hourly expecting one; it may have arrived since I\nleft my office. \n\n Go thither, and if there be none well, well,  continued Louis XVIII.,\n make one; that is the usual way, is it not?  and the king laughed\nfacetiously.\n\n Oh, sire,  replied the minister,  we have no occasion to invent any;\nevery day our desks are loaded with most circumstantial denunciations,\ncoming from hosts of people who hope for some return for services which\nthey seek to render, but cannot; they trust to fortune, and rely upon\nsome unexpected event in some way to justify their predictions. \n\n Well, sir, go,  said Louis XVIII.,  and remember that I am waiting for\nyou. \n\n I will but go and return, sire; I shall be back in ten minutes. \n\n And I, sire,  said M. de Blacas,  will go and find my messenger. \n\n Wait, sir, wait,  said Louis XVIII.  Really, M. de Blacas, I must\nchange your armorial bearings; I will give you an eagle with\noutstretched wings, holding in its claws a prey which tries in vain to\nescape, and bearing this device _Tenax_. \n\n0133m\n\n\n\n Sire, I listen,  said De Blacas, biting his nails with impatience.\n\n I wish to consult you on this passage,  _Molli fugiens anhelitu_,  you\nknow it refers to a stag flying from a wolf. Are you not a sportsman\nand a great wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you think of the _molli\nanhelitu_? \n\n Admirable, sire; but my messenger is like the stag you refer to, for\nhe has posted two hundred and twenty leagues in scarcely three days. \n\n Which is undergoing great fatigue and anxiety, my dear duke, when we\nhave a telegraph which transmits messages in three or four hours, and\nthat without getting in the least out of breath. \n\n Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this poor young man, who has come\nso far, and with so much ardor, to give your majesty useful\ninformation. If only for the sake of M. de Salvieux, who recommends him\nto me, I entreat your majesty to receive him graciously. \n\n M. de Salvieux, my brother s chamberlain? \n\n Yes, sire. \n\n He is at Marseilles. \n\n And writes me thence. \n\n Does he speak to you of this conspiracy? \n\n No; but strongly recommends M. de Villefort, and begs me to present\nhim to your majesty. \n\n M. de Villefort!  cried the king,  is the messenger s name M. de\nVillefort? \n\n Yes, sire. \n\n And he comes from Marseilles? \n\n In person. \n\n Why did you not mention his name at once?  replied the king, betraying\nsome uneasiness.\n\n Sire, I thought his name was unknown to your majesty. \n\n No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong and elevated understanding,\nambitious, too, and, _pardieu!_ you know his father s name! \n\n His father? \n\n Yes, Noirtier. \n\n Noirtier the Girondin? Noirtier the senator? \n\n He himself. \n\n And your majesty has employed the son of such a man? \n\n Blacas, my friend, you have but limited comprehension. I told you\nVillefort was ambitious, and to attain this ambition Villefort would\nsacrifice everything, even his father. \n\n Then, sire, may I present him? \n\n This instant, duke! Where is he? \n\n Waiting below, in my carriage. \n\n Seek him at once. \n\n I hasten to do so. \n\nThe duke left the royal presence with the speed of a young man; his\nreally sincere royalism made him youthful again. Louis XVIII. remained\nalone, and turning his eyes on his half-opened Horace, muttered:\n\n _Justum et tenacem propositi virum_. \n\nM. de Blacas returned as speedily as he had departed, but in the\nantechamber he was forced to appeal to the king s authority.\nVillefort s dusty garb, his costume, which was not of courtly cut,\nexcited the susceptibility of M. de Brez , who was all astonishment at\nfinding that this young man had the audacity to enter before the king\nin such attire. The duke, however, overcame all difficulties with a\nword his majesty s order; and, in spite of the protestations which the\nmaster of ceremonies made for the honor of his office and principles,\nVillefort was introduced.\n\nThe king was seated in the same place where the duke had left him. On\nopening the door, Villefort found himself facing him, and the young\nmagistrate s first impulse was to pause.\n\n Come in, M. de Villefort,  said the king,  come in. \n\nVillefort bowed, and advancing a few steps, waited until the king\nshould interrogate him.\n\n M. de Villefort,  said Louis XVIII.,  the Duc de Blacas assures me you\nhave some interesting information to communicate. \n\n Sire, the duke is right, and I believe your majesty will think it\nequally important. \n\n0137m\n\n\n\n In the first place, and before everything else, sir, is the news as\nbad in your opinion as I am asked to believe? \n\n Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, but I hope, by the speed I have\nused, that it is not irreparable. \n\n Speak as fully as you please, sir,  said the king, who began to give\nway to the emotion which had showed itself in Blacas s face and\naffected Villefort s voice.  Speak, sir, and pray begin at the\nbeginning; I like order in everything. \n\n Sire,  said Villefort,  I will render a faithful report to your\nmajesty, but I must entreat your forgiveness if my anxiety leads to\nsome obscurity in my language.  A glance at the king after this\ndiscreet and subtle exordium, assured Villefort of the benignity of his\naugust auditor, and he went on:\n\n Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris as possible, to inform your\nmajesty that I have discovered, in the exercise of my duties, not a\ncommonplace and insignificant plot, such as is every day got up in the\nlower ranks of the people and in the army, but an actual conspiracy a\nstorm which menaces no less than your majesty s throne. Sire, the\nusurper is arming three ships, he meditates some project, which,\nhowever mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this moment he will have\nleft Elba, to go whither I know not, but assuredly to attempt a landing\neither at Naples, or on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on the shores\nof France. Your majesty is well aware that the sovereign of the Island\nof Elba has maintained his relations with Italy and France? \n\n I am, sir,  said the king, much agitated;  and recently we have had\ninformation that the Bonapartist clubs have had meetings in the Rue\nSaint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of you. How did you obtain these\ndetails? \n\n Sire, they are the results of an examination which I have made of a\nman of Marseilles, whom I have watched for some time, and arrested on\nthe day of my departure. This person, a sailor, of turbulent character,\nand whom I suspected of Bonapartism, has been secretly to the Island of\nElba. There he saw the grand-marshal, who charged him with an oral\nmessage to a Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I could not extract from\nhim; but this mission was to prepare men s minds for a return (it is\nthe man who says this, sire) a return which will soon occur. \n\n And where is this man? \n\n In prison, sire. \n\n And the matter seems serious to you? \n\n So serious, sire, that when the circumstance surprised me in the midst\nof a family festival, on the very day of my betrothal, I left my bride\nand friends, postponing everything, that I might hasten to lay at your\nmajesty s feet the fears which impressed me, and the assurance of my\ndevotion. \n\n True,  said Louis XVIII.,  was there not a marriage engagement between\nyou and Mademoiselle de Saint-M ran? \n\n Daughter of one of your majesty s most faithful servants. \n\n Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot, M. de Villefort. \n\n Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I fear it is a conspiracy. \n\n A conspiracy in these times,  said Louis XVIII., smiling,  is a thing\nvery easy to meditate, but more difficult to conduct to an end,\ninasmuch as, re-established so recently on the throne of our ancestors,\nwe have our eyes open at once upon the past, the present, and the\nfuture. For the last ten months my ministers have redoubled their\nvigilance, in order to watch the shore of the Mediterranean. If\nBonaparte landed at Naples, the whole coalition would be on foot before\nhe could even reach Piombino; if he land in Tuscany, he will be in an\nunfriendly territory; if he land in France, it must be with a handful\nof men, and the result of that is easily foretold, execrated as he is\nby the population. Take courage, sir; but at the same time rely on our\nroyal gratitude. \n\n Ah, here is M. Dandr !  cried de Blacas. At this instant the minister\nof police appeared at the door, pale, trembling, and as if ready to\nfaint. Villefort was about to retire, but M. de Blacas, taking his\nhand, restrained him.\n\n\n\n Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre\n\nAt the sight of this agitation Louis XVIII. pushed from him violently\nthe table at which he was sitting.\n\n What ails you, baron?  he exclaimed.  You appear quite aghast. Has\nyour uneasiness anything to do with what M. de Blacas has told me, and\nM. de Villefort has just confirmed?  M. de Blacas moved suddenly\ntowards the baron, but the fright of the courtier pleaded for the\nforbearance of the statesman; and besides, as matters were, it was much\nmore to his advantage that the prefect of police should triumph over\nhim than that he should humiliate the prefect.\n\n Sire,  stammered the baron.\n\n Well, what is it?  asked Louis XVIII. The minister of police, giving\nway to an impulse of despair, was about to throw himself at the feet of\nLouis XVIII., who retreated a step and frowned.\n\n Will you speak?  he said.\n\n Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! I am, indeed, to be pitied. I\ncan never forgive myself! \n\n Monsieur,  said Louis XVIII.,  I command you to speak. \n\n Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on the 26th February, and landed on\nthe 1st of March. \n\n And where? In Italy?  asked the king eagerly.\n\n In France, sire, at a small port, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan. \n\n The usurper landed in France, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan, two\nhundred and fifty leagues from Paris, on the 1st of March, and you only\nacquired this information today, the 3rd of March! Well, sir, what you\ntell me is impossible. You must have received a false report, or you\nhave gone mad. \n\n Alas, sire, it is but too true!  Louis made a gesture of indescribable\nanger and alarm, and then drew himself up as if this sudden blow had\nstruck him at the same moment in heart and countenance.\n\n In France!  he cried,  the usurper in France! Then they did not watch\nover this man. Who knows? they were, perhaps, in league with him. \n\n Oh, sire,  exclaimed the Duc de Blacas,  M. Dandr  is not a man to be\naccused of treason! Sire, we have all been blind, and the minister of\npolice has shared the general blindness, that is all. \n\n But  said Villefort, and then suddenly checking himself, he was\nsilent; then he continued,  Your pardon, sire,  he said, bowing,  my\nzeal carried me away. Will your majesty deign to excuse me? \n\n Speak, sir, speak boldly,  replied Louis.  You alone forewarned us of\nthe evil; now try and aid us with the remedy. \n\n Sire,  said Villefort,  the usurper is detested in the south; and it\nseems to me that if he ventured into the south, it would be easy to\nraise Languedoc and Provence against him. \n\n Yes, assuredly,  replied the minister;  but he is advancing by Gap and\nSisteron. \n\n Advancing he is advancing!  said Louis XVIII.  Is he then advancing on\nParis?  The minister of police maintained a silence which was\nequivalent to a complete avowal.\n\n And Dauphin , sir?  inquired the king, of Villefort.  Do you think it\npossible to rouse that as well as Provence? \n\n Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty a cruel fact; but the feeling in\nDauphin  is quite the reverse of that in Provence or Languedoc. The\nmountaineers are Bonapartists, sire. \n\n Then,  murmured Louis,  he was well informed. And how many men had he\nwith him? \n\n I do not know, sire,  answered the minister of police.\n\n What, you do not know! Have you neglected to obtain information on\nthat point? Of course it is of no consequence,  he added, with a\nwithering smile.\n\n Sire, it was impossible to learn; the despatch simply stated the fact\nof the landing and the route taken by the usurper. \n\n And how did this despatch reach you?  inquired the king. The minister\nbowed his head, and while a deep color overspread his cheeks, he\nstammered out:\n\n By the telegraph, sire.  Louis XVIII. advanced a step, and folded his\narms over his chest as Napoleon would have done.\n\n0141m\n\n\n\n So then,  he exclaimed, turning pale with anger,  seven conjoined and\nallied armies overthrew that man. A miracle of heaven replaced me on\nthe throne of my fathers after five-and-twenty years of exile. I have,\nduring those five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the\npeople of France and the interests which were confided to me; and now,\nwhen I see the fruition of my wishes almost within reach, the power I\nhold in my hands bursts and shatters me to atoms! \n\n Sire, it is fatality!  murmured the minister, feeling that the\npressure of circumstances, however light a thing to destiny, was too\nmuch for any human strength to endure.\n\n What our enemies say of us is then true. We have learnt nothing,\nforgotten nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, I would console\nmyself; but to be in the midst of persons elevated by myself to places\nof honor, who ought to watch over me more carefully than over\nthemselves, for my fortune is theirs before me they were nothing after\nme they will be nothing, and perish miserably from\nincapacity ineptitude! Oh, yes, sir, you are right it is fatality! \n\nThe minister quailed before this outburst of sarcasm. M. de Blacas\nwiped the moisture from his brow. Villefort smiled within himself, for\nhe felt his increased importance.\n\n To fall,  continued King Louis, who at the first glance had sounded\nthe abyss on which the monarchy hung suspended, to fall, and learn of\nthat fall by telegraph! Oh, I would rather mount the scaffold of my\nbrother, Louis XVI., than thus descend the staircase at the Tuileries\ndriven away by ridicule. Ridicule, sir why, you know not its power in\nFrance, and yet you ought to know it! \n\n Sire, sire,  murmured the minister,  for pity s \n\n Approach, M. de Villefort,  resumed the king, addressing the young\nman, who, motionless and breathless, was listening to a conversation on\nwhich depended the destiny of a kingdom.  Approach, and tell monsieur\nthat it is possible to know beforehand all that he has not known. \n\n Sire, it was really impossible to learn secrets which that man\nconcealed from all the world. \n\n Really impossible! Yes that is a great word, sir. Unfortunately, there\nare great words, as there are great men; I have measured them. Really\nimpossible for a minister who has an office, agents, spies, and fifteen\nhundred thousand francs for secret service money, to know what is going\non at sixty leagues from the coast of France! Well, then, see, here is\na gentleman who had none of these resources at his disposal a\ngentleman, only a simple magistrate, who learned more than you with all\nyour police, and who would have saved my crown, if, like you, he had\nthe power of directing a telegraph.  The look of the minister of police\nwas turned with concentrated spite on Villefort, who bent his head in\nmodest triumph.\n\n I do not mean that for you, Blacas,  continued Louis XVIII.;  for if\nyou have discovered nothing, at least you have had the good sense to\npersevere in your suspicions. Any other than yourself would have\nconsidered the disclosure of M. de Villefort insignificant, or else\ndictated by venal ambition.  These words were an allusion to the\nsentiments which the minister of police had uttered with so much\nconfidence an hour before.\n\nVillefort understood the king s intent. Any other person would,\nperhaps, have been overcome by such an intoxicating draught of praise;\nbut he feared to make for himself a mortal enemy of the police\nminister, although he saw that Dandr  was irrevocably lost. In fact,\nthe minister, who, in the plenitude of his power, had been unable to\nunearth Napoleon s secret, might in despair at his own downfall\ninterrogate Dant s and so lay bare the motives of Villefort s plot.\nRealizing this, Villefort came to the rescue of the crest-fallen\nminister, instead of aiding to crush him.\n\n Sire,  said Villefort,  the suddenness of this event must prove to\nyour majesty that the issue is in the hands of Providence; what your\nmajesty is pleased to attribute to me as profound perspicacity is\nsimply owing to chance, and I have profited by that chance, like a good\nand devoted servant that s all. Do not attribute to me more than I\ndeserve, sire, that your majesty may never have occasion to recall the\nfirst opinion you have been pleased to form of me.  The minister of\npolice thanked the young man by an eloquent look, and Villefort\nunderstood that he had succeeded in his design; that is to say, that\nwithout forfeiting the gratitude of the king, he had made a friend of\none on whom, in case of necessity, he might rely.\n\n Tis well,  resumed the king.  And now, gentlemen,  he continued,\nturning towards M. de Blacas and the minister of police,  I have no\nfurther occasion for you, and you may retire; what now remains to do is\nin the department of the minister of war. \n\n Fortunately, sire,  said M. de Blacas,  we can rely on the army; your\nmajesty knows how every report confirms their loyalty and attachment. \n\n Do not mention reports, duke, to me, for I know now what confidence to\nplace in them. Yet, speaking of reports, baron, what have you learned\nwith regard to the affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques? \n\n The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!  exclaimed Villefort, unable to\nrepress an exclamation. Then, suddenly pausing, he added,  Your pardon,\nsire, but my devotion to your majesty has made me forget, not the\nrespect I have, for that is too deeply engraved in my heart, but the\nrules of etiquette. \n\n Go on, go on, sir,  replied the king;  you have today earned the right\nto make inquiries here. \n\n Sire,  interposed the minister of police,  I came a moment ago to give\nyour majesty fresh information which I had obtained on this head, when\nyour majesty s attention was attracted by the terrible event that has\noccurred in the gulf, and now these facts will cease to interest your\nmajesty. \n\n On the contrary, sir, on the contrary,  said Louis XVIII.,  this\naffair seems to me to have a decided connection with that which\noccupies our attention, and the death of General Quesnel will, perhaps,\nput us on the direct track of a great internal conspiracy.  At the name\nof General Quesnel, Villefort trembled.\n\n Everything points to the conclusion, sire,  said the minister of\npolice,  that death was not the result of suicide, as we first\nbelieved, but of assassination. General Quesnel, it appears, had just\nleft a Bonapartist club when he disappeared. An unknown person had been\nwith him that morning, and made an appointment with him in the Rue\nSaint-Jacques; unfortunately, the general s valet, who was dressing his\nhair at the moment when the stranger entered, heard the street\nmentioned, but did not catch the number.  As the police minister\nrelated this to the king, Villefort, who looked as if his very life\nhung on the speaker s lips, turned alternately red and pale. The king\nlooked towards him.\n\n Do you not think with me, M. de Villefort, that General Quesnel, whom\nthey believed attached to the usurper, but who was really entirely\ndevoted to me, has perished the victim of a Bonapartist ambush? \n\n It is probable, sire,  replied Villefort.  But is this all that is\nknown? \n\n They are on the track of the man who appointed the meeting with him. \n\n On his track?  said Villefort.\n\n Yes, the servant has given his description. He is a man of from fifty\nto fifty-two years of age, dark, with black eyes covered with shaggy\neyebrows, and a thick moustache. He was dressed in a blue frock-coat,\nbuttoned up to the chin, and wore at his button-hole the rosette of an\nofficer of the Legion of Honor. Yesterday a person exactly\ncorresponding with this description was followed, but he was lost sight\nof at the corner of the Rue de la Jussienne and the Rue Coq-H ron. \nVillefort leaned on the back of an armchair, for as the minister of\npolice went on speaking he felt his legs bend under him; but when he\nlearned that the unknown had escaped the vigilance of the agent who\nfollowed him, he breathed again.\n\n Continue to seek for this man, sir,  said the king to the minister of\npolice;  for if, as I am all but convinced, General Quesnel, who would\nhave been so useful to us at this moment, has been murdered, his\nassassins, Bonapartists or not, shall be cruelly punished.  It required\nall Villefort s coolness not to betray the terror with which this\ndeclaration of the king inspired him.\n\n How strange,  continued the king, with some asperity;  the police\nthink that they have disposed of the whole matter when they say,  A\nmurder has been committed,  and especially so when they can add,  And\nwe are on the track of the guilty persons. \n\n Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be amply satisfied on this point at\nleast. \n\n We shall see. I will no longer detain you, M. de Villefort, for you\nmust be fatigued after so long a journey; go and rest. Of course you\nstopped at your father s?  A feeling of faintness came over Villefort.\n\n0145m\n\n\n\n No, sire,  he replied,  I alighted at the Hotel de Madrid, in the Rue\nde Tournon. \n\n But you have seen him? \n\n Sire, I went straight to the Duc de Blacas. \n\n But you will see him, then? \n\n I think not, sire. \n\n Ah, I forgot,  said Louis, smiling in a manner which proved that all\nthese questions were not made without a motive;  I forgot you and M.\nNoirtier are not on the best terms possible, and that is another\nsacrifice made to the royal cause, and for which you should be\nrecompensed. \n\n Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns to evince towards me is a\nrecompense which so far surpasses my utmost ambition that I have\nnothing more to ask for. \n\n Never mind, sir, we will not forget you; make your mind easy. In the\nmeanwhile  (the king here detached the cross of the Legion of Honor\nwhich he usually wore over his blue coat, near the cross of St. Louis,\nabove the order of Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St. Lazare, and gave\nit to Villefort) in the meanwhile take this cross. \n\n Sire,  said Villefort,  your majesty mistakes; this is an officer s\ncross. \n\n _Ma foi!_  said Louis XVIII.,  take it, such as it is, for I have not\nthe time to procure you another. Blacas, let it be your care to see\nthat the brevet is made out and sent to M. de Villefort.  Villefort s\neyes were filled with tears of joy and pride; he took the cross and\nkissed it.\n\n And now,  he said,  may I inquire what are the orders with which your\nmajesty deigns to honor me? \n\n Take what rest you require, and remember that if you are not able to\nserve me here in Paris, you may be of the greatest service to me at\nMarseilles. \n\n Sire,  replied Villefort, bowing,  in an hour I shall have quitted\nParis. \n\n Go, sir,  said the king;  and should I forget you (kings  memories are\nshort), do not be afraid to bring yourself to my recollection. Baron,\nsend for the minister of war. Blacas, remain. \n\n Ah, sir,  said the minister of police to Villefort, as they left the\nTuileries,  you entered by luck s door your fortune is made. \n\n Will it be long first?  muttered Villefort, saluting the minister,\nwhose career was ended, and looking about him for a hackney-coach. One\npassed at the moment, which he hailed; he gave his address to the\ndriver, and springing in, threw himself on the seat, and gave loose to\ndreams of ambition.\n\nTen minutes afterwards Villefort reached his hotel, ordered horses to\nbe ready in two hours, and asked to have his breakfast brought to him.\nHe was about to begin his repast when the sound of the bell rang sharp\nand loud. The valet opened the door, and Villefort heard someone speak\nhis name.\n\n0147m\n\n\n\n Who could know that I was here already?  said the young man. The valet\nentered.\n\n Well,  said Villefort,  what is it? Who rang? Who asked for me? \n\n A stranger who will not send in his name. \n\n A stranger who will not send in his name! What can he want with me? \n\n He wishes to speak to you. \n\n To me? \n\n Yes. \n\n Did he mention my name? \n\n Yes. \n\n What sort of person is he? \n\n Why, sir, a man of about fifty. \n\n Short or tall? \n\n About your own height, sir. \n\n Dark or fair? \n\n Dark, very dark; with black eyes, black hair, black eyebrows. \n\n And how dressed?  asked Villefort quickly.\n\n In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up close, decorated with the Legion of\nHonor. \n\n It is he!  said Villefort, turning pale.\n\n0148m\n\n\n\n Eh, _pardieu!_  said the individual whose description we have twice\ngiven, entering the door,  what a great deal of ceremony! Is it the\ncustom in Marseilles for sons to keep their fathers waiting in their\nanterooms? \n\n Father!  cried Villefort,  then I was not deceived; I felt sure it\nmust be you. \n\n Well, then, if you felt so sure,  replied the new-comer, putting his\ncane in a corner and his hat on a chair,  allow me to say, my dear\nG rard, that it was not very filial of you to keep me waiting at the\ndoor. \n\n Leave us, Germain,  said Villefort. The servant quitted the apartment\nwith evident signs of astonishment.\n\n\n\n Chapter 12. Father and Son\n\nM. Noirtier for it was, indeed, he who entered looked after the servant\nuntil the door was closed, and then, fearing, no doubt, that he might\nbe overheard in the antechamber, he opened the door again, nor was the\nprecaution useless, as appeared from the rapid retreat of Germain, who\nproved that he was not exempt from the sin which ruined our first\nparents. M. Noirtier then took the trouble to close and bolt the\nantechamber door, then that of the bedchamber, and then extended his\nhand to Villefort, who had followed all his motions with surprise which\nhe could not conceal.\n\n Well, now, my dear G rard,  said he to the young man, with a very\nsignificant look,  do you know, you seem as if you were not very glad\nto see me? \n\n My dear father,  said Villefort,  I am, on the contrary, delighted;\nbut I so little expected your visit, that it has somewhat overcome me. \n\n But, my dear fellow,  replied M. Noirtier, seating himself,  I might\nsay the same thing to you, when you announce to me your wedding for the\n28th of February, and on the 3rd of March you turn up here in Paris. \n\n And if I have come, my dear father,  said G rard, drawing closer to M.\nNoirtier,  do not complain, for it is for you that I came, and my\njourney will be your salvation. \n\n Ah, indeed!  said M. Noirtier, stretching himself out at his ease in\nthe chair.  Really, pray tell me all about it, for it must be\ninteresting. \n\n Father, you have heard speak of a certain Bonapartist club in the Rue\nSaint-Jacques? \n\n No. 53; yes, I am vice-president. \n\n Father, your coolness makes me shudder. \n\n Why, my dear boy, when a man has been proscribed by the mountaineers,\nhas escaped from Paris in a hay-cart, been hunted over the plains of\nBordeaux by Robespierre s bloodhounds, he becomes accustomed to most\nthings. But go on, what about the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques? \n\n Why, they induced General Quesnel to go there, and General Quesnel,\nwho quitted his own house at nine o clock in the evening, was found the\nnext day in the Seine. \n\n0151m\n\n\n\n And who told you this fine story? \n\n The king himself. \n\n Well, then, in return for your story,  continued Noirtier,  I will\ntell you another. \n\n My dear father, I think I already know what you are about to tell me. \n\n Ah, you have heard of the landing of the emperor? \n\n Not so loud, father, I entreat of you for your own sake as well as\nmine. Yes, I heard this news, and knew it even before you could; for\nthree days ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris with all possible\nspeed, half-desperate at the enforced delay. \n\n Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, three days ago the emperor had not\nlanded. \n\n No matter, I was aware of his intention. \n\n How did you know about it? \n\n By a letter addressed to you from the Island of Elba. \n\n To me? \n\n To you; and which I discovered in the pocket-book of the messenger.\nHad that letter fallen into the hands of another, you, my dear father,\nwould probably ere this have been shot.  Villefort s father laughed.\n\n Come, come,  said he,  will the Restoration adopt imperial methods so\npromptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an idea! Where is the letter you\nspeak of? I know you too well to suppose you would allow such a thing\nto pass you. \n\n I burnt it, for fear that even a fragment should remain; for that\nletter must have led to your condemnation. \n\n And the destruction of your future prospects,  replied Noirtier;  yes,\nI can easily comprehend that. But I have nothing to fear while I have\nyou to protect me. \n\n I do better than that, sir I save you. \n\n You do? Why, really, the thing becomes more and more dramatic explain\nyourself. \n\n I must refer again to the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques. \n\n It appears that this club is rather a bore to the police. Why didn t\nthey search more vigilantly? they would have found \n\n They have not found; but they are on the track. \n\n Yes, that the usual phrase; I am quite familiar with it. When the\npolice is at fault, it declares that it is on the track; and the\ngovernment patiently awaits the day when it comes to say, with a\nsneaking air, that the track is lost. \n\n Yes, but they have found a corpse; the general has been killed, and in\nall countries they call that a murder. \n\n A murder do you call it? why, there is nothing to prove that the\ngeneral was murdered. People are found every day in the Seine, having\nthrown themselves in, or having been drowned from not knowing how to\nswim. \n\n Father, you know very well that the general was not a man to drown\nhimself in despair, and people do not bathe in the Seine in the month\nof January. No, no, do not be deceived; this was murder in every sense\nof the word. \n\n And who thus designated it? \n\n The king himself. \n\n The king! I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was\nno murder in politics. In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well\nas I do, there are no men, but ideas no feelings, but interests; in\npolitics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all.\nWould you like to know how matters have progressed? Well, I will tell\nyou. It was thought reliance might be placed in General Quesnel; he was\nrecommended to us from the Island of Elba; one of us went to him, and\ninvited him to the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he would find some friends.\nHe came there, and the plan was unfolded to him for leaving Elba, the\nprojected landing, etc. When he had heard and comprehended all to the\nfullest extent, he replied that he was a royalist. Then all looked at\neach other, he was made to take an oath, and did so, but with such an\nill grace that it was really tempting Providence to swear thus, and\nyet, in spite of that, the general was allowed to depart free perfectly\nfree. Yet he did not return home. What could that mean? why, my dear\nfellow, that on leaving us he lost his way, that s all. A murder?\nreally, Villefort, you surprise me. You, a deputy procureur, to found\nan accusation on such bad premises! Did I ever say to you, when you\nwere fulfilling your character as a royalist, and cut off the head of\none of my party,  My son, you have committed a murder?  No, I said,\n Very well, sir, you have gained the victory; tomorrow, perchance, it\nwill be our turn. \n\n But, father, take care; when our turn comes, our revenge will be\nsweeping. \n\n I do not understand you. \n\n You rely on the usurper s return? \n\n We do. \n\n You are mistaken; he will not advance two leagues into the interior of\nFrance without being followed, tracked, and caught like a wild beast. \n\n My dear fellow, the emperor is at this moment on the way to Grenoble;\non the 10th or 12th he will be at Lyons, and on the 20th or 25th at\nParis. \n\n The people will rise. \n\n Yes, to go and meet him. \n\n He has but a handful of men with him, and armies will be despatched\nagainst him. \n\n Yes, to escort him into the capital. Really, my dear G rard, you are\nbut a child; you think yourself well informed because the telegraph has\ntold you, three days after the landing,  The usurper has landed at\nCannes with several men. He is pursued.  But where is he? what is he\ndoing? You do not know at all, and in this way they will chase him to\nParis, without drawing a trigger. \n\n Grenoble and Lyons are faithful cities, and will oppose to him an\nimpassable barrier. \n\n Grenoble will open her gates to him with enthusiasm all Lyons will\nhasten to welcome him. Believe me, we are as well informed as you, and\nour police are as good as your own. Would you like a proof of it? well,\nyou wished to conceal your journey from me, and yet I knew of your\narrival half an hour after you had passed the barrier. You gave your\ndirection to no one but your postilion, yet I have your address, and in\nproof I am here the very instant you are going to sit at table. Ring,\nthen, if you please, for a second knife, fork, and plate, and we will\ndine together. \n\n Indeed!  replied Villefort, looking at his father with astonishment,\n you really do seem very well informed. \n\n Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the\nmeans that money produces we who are in expectation, have those which\ndevotion prompts. \n\n Devotion!  said Villefort, with a sneer.\n\n Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, the phrase for hopeful\nambition. \n\nAnd Villefort s father extended his hand to the bell-rope, to summon\nthe servant whom his son had not called. Villefort caught his arm.\n\n Wait, my dear father,  said the young man,  one word more. \n\n Say on. \n\n However stupid the royalist police may be, they do know one terrible\nthing. \n\n What is that? \n\n The description of the man who, on the morning of the day when General\nQuesnel disappeared, presented himself at his house. \n\n Oh, the admirable police have found that out, have they? And what may\nbe that description? \n\n Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and whiskers black; blue frock-coat,\nbuttoned up to the chin; rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor\nin his button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a cane. \n\n Ah, ha, that s it, is it?  said Noirtier;  and why, then, have they\nnot laid hands on him? \n\n Because yesterday, or the day before, they lost sight of him at the\ncorner of the Rue Coq-H ron. \n\n Didn t I say that your police were good for nothing? \n\n Yes; but they may catch him yet. \n\n True,  said Noirtier, looking carelessly around him,  true, if this\nperson were not on his guard, as he is;  and he added with a smile,  He\nwill consequently make a few changes in his personal appearance.  At\nthese words he rose, and put off his frock-coat and cravat, went\ntowards a table on which lay his son s toilet articles, lathered his\nface, took a razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising\nwhiskers. Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of admiration.\n\nHis whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave another turn to his hair; took,\ninstead of his black cravat, a colored neckerchief which lay at the top\nof an open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of his blue and high-buttoned\nfrock-coat, a coat of Villefort s of dark brown, and cut away in front;\ntried on before the glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his son s, which\nappeared to fit him perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the corner\nwhere he had deposited it, he took up a small bamboo switch, cut the\nair with it once or twice, and walked about with that easy swagger\nwhich was one of his principal characteristics.\n\n Well,  he said, turning towards his wondering son, when this disguise\nwas completed,  well, do you think your police will recognize me now. \n\n No, father,  stammered Villefort;  at least, I hope not. \n\n And now, my dear boy,  continued Noirtier,  I rely on your prudence to\nremove all the things which I leave in your care. \n\n Oh, rely on me,  said Villefort.\n\n Yes, yes; and now I believe you are right, and that you have really\nsaved my life; be assured I will return the favor hereafter. \n\nVillefort shook his head.\n\n You are not convinced yet? \n\n I hope at least, that you may be mistaken. \n\n Shall you see the king again? \n\n Perhaps. \n\n Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet? \n\n Prophets of evil are not in favor at the court, father. \n\n True, but some day they do them justice; and supposing a second\nrestoration, you would then pass for a great man. \n\n Well, what should I say to the king? \n\n Say this to him:  Sire, you are deceived as to the feeling in France,\nas to the opinions of the towns, and the prejudices of the army; he\nwhom in Paris you call the Corsican ogre, who at Nevers is styled the\nusurper, is already saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, and emperor at\nGrenoble. You think he is tracked, pursued, captured; he is advancing\nas rapidly as his own eagles. The soldiers you believe to be dying with\nhunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of\nsnow about the rolling ball as it hastens onward. Sire, go, leave\nFrance to its real master, to him who acquired it, not by purchase, but\nby right of conquest; go, sire, not that you incur any risk, for your\nadversary is powerful enough to show you mercy, but because it would be\nhumiliating for a grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life to the man of\nArcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.  Tell him this, G rard; or, rather, tell\nhim nothing. Keep your journey a secret; do not boast of what you have\ncome to Paris to do, or have done; return with all speed; enter\nMarseilles at night, and your house by the back-door, and there remain,\nquiet, submissive, secret, and, above all, inoffensive; for this time,\nI swear to you, we shall act like powerful men who know their enemies.\nGo, my son go, my dear G rard, and by your obedience to my paternal\norders, or, if you prefer it, friendly counsels, we will keep you in\nyour place. This will be,  added Noirtier, with a smile,  one means by\nwhich you may a second time save me, if the political balance should\nsome day take another turn, and cast you aloft while hurling me down.\nAdieu, my dear G rard, and at your next journey alight at my door. \n\nNoirtier left the room when he had finished, with the same calmness\nthat had characterized him during the whole of this remarkable and\ntrying conversation. Villefort, pale and agitated, ran to the window,\nput aside the curtain, and saw him pass, cool and collected, by two or\nthree ill-looking men at the corner of the street, who were there,\nperhaps, to arrest a man with black whiskers, and a blue frock-coat,\nand hat with broad brim.\n\nVillefort stood watching, breathless, until his father had disappeared\nat the Rue Bussy. Then he turned to the various articles he had left\nbehind him, put the black cravat and blue frock-coat at the bottom of\nthe portmanteau, threw the hat into a dark closet, broke the cane into\nsmall bits and flung it in the fire, put on his travelling-cap, and\ncalling his valet, checked with a look the thousand questions he was\nready to ask, paid his bill, sprang into his carriage, which was ready,\nlearned at Lyons that Bonaparte had entered Grenoble, and in the midst\nof the tumult which prevailed along the road, at length reached\nMarseilles, a prey to all the hopes and fears which enter into the\nheart of man with ambition and its first successes.\n\n\n\n Chapter 13. The Hundred Days\n\nM. Noirtier was a true prophet, and things progressed rapidly, as he\nhad predicted. Everyone knows the history of the famous return from\nElba, a return which was unprecedented in the past, and will probably\nremain without a counterpart in the future.\n\nLouis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to parry this unexpected blow;\nthe monarchy he had scarcely reconstructed tottered on its precarious\nfoundation, and at a sign from the emperor the incongruous structure of\nancient prejudices and new ideas fell to the ground. Villefort,\ntherefore, gained nothing save the king s gratitude (which was rather\nlikely to injure him at the present time) and the cross of the Legion\nof Honor, which he had the prudence not to wear, although M. de Blacas\nhad duly forwarded the brevet.\n\nNapoleon would, doubtless, have deprived Villefort of his office had it\nnot been for Noirtier, who was all powerful at court, and thus the\nGirondin of  93 and the Senator of 1806 protected him who so lately had\nbeen his protector. All Villefort s influence barely enabled him to\nstifle the secret Dant s had so nearly divulged. The king s procureur\nalone was deprived of his office, being suspected of royalism.\n\nHowever, scarcely was the imperial power established that is, scarcely\nhad the emperor re-entered the Tuileries and begun to issue orders from\nthe closet into which we have introduced our readers, he found on the\ntable there Louis XVIII. s half-filled snuff-box, scarcely had this\noccurred when Marseilles began, in spite of the authorities, to\nrekindle the flames of civil war, always smouldering in the south, and\nit required but little to excite the populace to acts of far greater\nviolence than the shouts and insults with which they assailed the\nroyalists whenever they ventured abroad.\n\n0159m\n\n\n\nOwing to this change, the worthy shipowner became at that moment we\nwill not say all powerful, because Morrel was a prudent and rather a\ntimid man, so much so, that many of the most zealous partisans of\nBonaparte accused him of  moderation but sufficiently influential to\nmake a demand in favor of Dant s.\n\nVillefort retained his place, but his marriage was put off until a more\nfavorable opportunity. If the emperor remained on the throne, G rard\nrequired a different alliance to aid his career; if Louis XVIII.\nreturned, the influence of M. de Saint-M ran, like his own, could be\nvastly increased, and the marriage be still more suitable. The deputy\nprocureur was, therefore, the first magistrate of Marseilles, when one\nmorning his door opened, and M. Morrel was announced.\n\nAnyone else would have hastened to receive him; but Villefort was a man\nof ability, and he knew this would be a sign of weakness. He made\nMorrel wait in the antechamber, although he had no one with him, for\nthe simple reason that the king s procureur always makes everyone wait,\nand after passing a quarter of an hour in reading the papers, he\nordered M. Morrel to be admitted.\n\nMorrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as he had\nfound him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of that glacial\npoliteness, that most insurmountable barrier which separates the\nwell-bred from the vulgar man.\n\nHe had entered Villefort s office expecting that the magistrate would\ntremble at the sight of him; on the contrary, he felt a cold shudder\nall over him when he saw Villefort sitting there with his elbow on his\ndesk, and his head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door;\nVillefort gazed at him as if he had some difficulty in recognizing him;\nthen, after a brief interval, during which the honest shipowner turned\nhis hat in his hands,\n\n M. Morrel, I believe?  said Villefort.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Come nearer,  said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the\nhand,  and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit. \n\n Do you not guess, monsieur?  asked Morrel.\n\n Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be\ndelighted. \n\n Everything depends on you. \n\n Explain yourself, pray. \n\n Monsieur,  said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded,  do\nyou recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the\nemperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship, who\nwas accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of\nElba? What was the other day a crime is today a title to favor. You\nthen served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor it was your\nduty; today you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him it is\nequally your duty; I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him? \n\n0161m\n\n\n\nVillefort by a strong effort sought to control himself.  What is his\nname?  said he.  Tell me his name. \n\n Edmond Dant s. \n\nVillefort would probably have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a\npistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard this name spoken; but\nhe did not blanch.\n\n Dant s,  repeated he,  Edmond Dant s. \n\n Yes, monsieur.  Villefort opened a large register, then went to a\ntable, from the table turned to his registers, and then, turning to\nMorrel,\n\n Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?  said he, in the\nmost natural tone in the world.\n\nHad Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed in these\nmatters, he would have been surprised at the king s procureur answering\nhim on such a subject, instead of referring him to the governors of the\nprison or the prefect of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in\nhis expectations of exciting fear, was conscious only of the other s\ncondescension. Villefort had calculated rightly.\n\n No,  said Morrel;  I am not mistaken. I have known him for ten years,\nthe last four of which he was in my service. Do not you recollect, I\ncame about six weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I come today to\nplead for justice. You received me very coldly. Oh, the royalists were\nvery severe with the Bonapartists in those days. \n\n Monsieur,  returned Villefort,  I was then a royalist, because I\nbelieved the Bourbons not only the heirs to the throne, but the chosen\nof the nation. The miraculous return of Napoleon has conquered me, the\nlegitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people. \n\n That s right!  cried Morrel.  I like to hear you speak thus, and I\naugur well for Edmond from it. \n\n Wait a moment,  said Villefort, turning over the leaves of a register;\n I have it a sailor, who was about to marry a young Catalan girl. I\nrecollect now; it was a very serious charge. \n\n How so? \n\n You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de\nJustice. \n\n Well? \n\n I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and a week after he was\ncarried off. \n\n Carried off!  said Morrel.  What can they have done with him? \n\n Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the\nSainte-Margu rite islands. Some fine morning he will return to take\ncommand of your vessel. \n\n Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not\nalready returned? It seems to me the first care of government should be\nto set at liberty those who have suffered for their adherence to it. \n\n Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel,  replied Villefort.  The order of\nimprisonment came from high authority, and the order for his liberation\nmust proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been\nreinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded. \n\n But,  said Morrel,  is there no way of expediting all these\nformalities of releasing him from arrest? \n\n There has been no arrest. \n\n How? \n\n It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man s disappearance\nwithout leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may\ndefeat their wishes. \n\n It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present \n\n It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV.\nThe emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis\nhimself, and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the\nregister is incalculable.  Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much\nkindness would have dispelled them.\n\n Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?  asked he.\n\n Petition the minister. \n\n Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions\nevery day, and does not read three. \n\n That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented\nby me. \n\n And will you undertake to deliver it? \n\n With the greatest pleasure. Dant s was then guilty, and now he is\ninnocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn\nhim.  Villefort thus forestalled any danger of an inquiry, which,\nhowever improbable it might be, if it did take place would leave him\ndefenceless.\n\n But how shall I address the minister? \n\n Sit down there,  said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel,  and\nwrite what I dictate. \n\n Will you be so good? \n\n Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already. \n\n That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now be\nsuffering. \n\nVillefort shuddered at the suggestion; but he had gone too far to draw\nback. Dant s must be crushed to gratify Villefort s ambition.\n\nVillefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent intention,\nno doubt, Dant s  patriotic services were exaggerated, and he was made\nout one of the most active agents of Napoleon s return. It was evident\nthat at the sight of this document the minister would instantly release\nhim. The petition finished, Villefort read it aloud.\n\n That will do,  said he;  leave the rest to me. \n\n Will the petition go soon? \n\n Today. \n\n Countersigned by you? \n\n The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents\nof your petition.  And, sitting down, Villefort wrote the certificate\nat the bottom.\n\n What more is to be done? \n\n I will do whatever is necessary.  This assurance delighted Morrel, who\ntook leave of Villefort, and hastened to announce to old Dant s that he\nwould soon see his son.\n\nAs for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved\nthe petition that so fearfully compromised Dant s, in the hopes of an\nevent that seemed not unlikely, that is, a second restoration. Dant s\nremained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis\nXVIII. s throne, or the still more tragic destruction of the empire.\n\nTwice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice\nhad Villefort soothed him with promises. At last there was Waterloo,\nand Morrel came no more; he had done all that was in his power, and any\nfresh attempt would only compromise himself uselessly.\n\nLouis XVIII. remounted the throne; Villefort, to whom Marseilles had\nbecome filled with remorseful memories, sought and obtained the\nsituation of king s procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards\nhe married Mademoiselle de Saint-M ran, whose father now stood higher\nat court than ever.\n\nAnd so Dant s, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained in\nhis dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven.\n\nDanglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate that\noverwhelmed Dant s; and, when Napoleon returned to France, he, after\nthe manner of mediocre minds, termed the coincidence, _a decree of\nProvidence_. But when Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars  heart\nfailed him, and he lived in constant fear of Dant s  return on a\nmission of vengeance. He therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to\nquit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a Spanish\nmerchant, into whose service he entered at the end of March, that is,\nten or twelve days after Napoleon s return. He then left for Madrid,\nand was no more heard of.\n\nFernand understood nothing except that Dant s was absent. What had\nbecome of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during the respite the\nabsence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of\ndeceiving Merc d s as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of\nemigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and\nmotionless on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence\nMarseilles and the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of\na young and handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of\nvengeance. Fernand s mind was made up; he would shoot Dant s, and then\nkill himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never\nkills himself, for he constantly hopes.\n\nDuring this time the empire made its last conscription, and every man\nin France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of the\nemperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible\nthought that while he was away, his rival would perhaps return and\nmarry Merc d s. Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have\ndone so when he parted from Merc d s. His devotion, and the compassion\nhe showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce\non noble minds Merc d s had always had a sincere regard for Fernand,\nand this was now strengthened by gratitude.\n\n My brother,  said she, as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders,\n be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I shall be alone in the\nworld.  These words carried a ray of hope into Fernand s heart. Should\nDant s not return, Merc d s might one day be his.\n\n0165m\n\n\n\nMerc d s was left alone face to face with the vast plain that had never\nseemed so barren, and the sea that had never seemed so vast. Bathed in\ntears she wandered about the Catalan village. Sometimes she stood mute\nand motionless as a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times\ngazing on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not better to\ncast herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her woes. It was\nnot want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into\nexecution; but her religious feelings came to her aid and saved her.\n\nCaderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army, but, being married\nand eight years older, he was merely sent to the frontier. Old Dant s,\nwho was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon s downfall.\nFive months after he had been separated from his son, and almost at the\nhour of his arrest, he breathed his last in Merc d s  arms. M. Morrel\npaid the expenses of his funeral, and a few small debts the poor old\nman had contracted.\n\nThere was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; the\nsouth was aflame, and to assist, even on his death-bed, the father of\nso dangerous a Bonapartist as Dant s, was stigmatized as a crime.\n\n\n\n Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners\n\nA year after Louis XVIII. s restoration, a visit was made by the\ninspector-general of prisons. Dant s in his cell heard the noise of\npreparation, sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been\ninaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash\nof the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon.\nHe guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had\nso long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked\nupon himself as dead.\n\nThe inspector visited, one after another, the cells and dungeons of\nseveral of the prisoners, whose good behavior or stupidity recommended\nthem to the clemency of the government. He inquired how they were fed,\nand if they had any request to make. The universal response was, that\nthe fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free.\n\nThe inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for. They shook\ntheir heads. What could they desire beyond their liberty? The inspector\nturned smilingly to the governor.\n\n I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless\nvisits; when you see one prisoner, you see all, always the same\nthing, ill fed and innocent. Are there any others? \n\n Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons. \n\n Let us visit them,  said the inspector with an air of fatigue.  We\nmust play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons. \n\n Let us first send for two soldiers,  said the governor.  The prisoners\nsometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be\nsentenced to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall\na victim. \n\n Take all needful precautions,  replied the inspector.\n\nTwo soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended a\nstairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be loathsome to sight,\nsmell, and respiration.\n\n Oh,  cried the inspector,  who can live here? \n\n A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most\nstrict watch over, as he is daring and resolute. \n\n He is alone? \n\n Certainly. \n\n How long has he been there? \n\n Nearly a year. \n\n Was he placed here when he first arrived? \n\n No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to\nhim. \n\n To kill the turnkey? \n\n Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?  asked\nthe governor.\n\n True enough; he wanted to kill me!  returned the turnkey.\n\n He must be mad,  said the inspector.\n\n He is worse than that, he is a devil!  returned the turnkey.\n\n Shall I complain of him?  demanded the inspector.\n\n Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another\nyear he will be quite so. \n\n So much the better for him, he will suffer less,  said the inspector.\nHe was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every\nway fit for his office.\n\n You are right, sir,  replied the governor;  and this remark proves\nthat you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon\nabout twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair,\nan old abb , formerly leader of a party in Italy, who has been here\nsince 1811, and in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He\nused to weep, he now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had\nbetter see him, for his madness is amusing. \n\n I will see them both,  returned the inspector;  I must conscientiously\nperform my duty. \n\nThis was the inspector s first visit; he wished to display his\nauthority.\n\n Let us visit this one first,  added he.\n\n By all means,  replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to\nopen the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the\ncreaking of the hinges, Dant s, who was crouched in a corner of the\ndungeon, whence he could see the ray of light that came through a\nnarrow iron grating above, raised his head. Seeing a stranger, escorted\nby two turnkeys holding torches and accompanied by two soldiers, and to\nwhom the governor spoke bareheaded, Dant s, who guessed the truth, and\nthat the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was\ncome, sprang forward with clasped hands.\n\nThe soldiers interposed their bayonets, for they thought that he was\nabout to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three\nsteps. Dant s saw that he was looked upon as dangerous. Then, infusing\nall the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the\ninspector, and sought to inspire him with pity.\n\nThe inspector listened attentively; then, turning to the governor,\nobserved,  He will become religious he is already more gentle; he is\nafraid, and retreated before the bayonets madmen are not afraid of\nanything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton.  Then,\nturning to the prisoner,  What is it you want?  said he.\n\n I want to know what crime I have committed to be tried; and if I am\nguilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be set at liberty. \n\n Are you well fed?  said the inspector.\n\n I believe so; I don t know; it s of no consequence. What matters\nreally, not only to me, but to officers of justice and the king, is\nthat an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an\ninfamous denunciation, to die here cursing his executioners. \n\n You are very humble today,  remarked the governor;  you are not so\nalways; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the\nturnkey. \n\n It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he has always been very\ngood to me, but I was mad. \n\n And you are not so any longer? \n\n No; captivity has subdued me I have been here so long. \n\n So long? when were you arrested, then?  asked the inspector.\n\n The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon. \n\n Today is the 30th of July, 1816, why, it is but seventeen months. \n\n Only seventeen months,  replied Dant s.  Oh, you do not know what is\nseventeen months in prison! seventeen ages rather, especially to a man\nwho, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition to a man, who,\nlike me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an\nhonorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant who\nsees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his\naffianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen\nmonths  captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a\nworse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then,\nand ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a\nverdict a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be\ndenied to one who is accused! \n\n We shall see,  said the inspector; then, turning to the governor,  On\nmy word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against\nhim. \n\n Certainly; but you will find terrible charges. \n\n Monsieur,  continued Dant s,  I know it is not in your power to\nrelease me; but you can plead for me you can have me tried and that is\nall I ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned.\nUncertainty is worse than all. \n\n Go on with the lights,  said the inspector.\n\n Monsieur,  cried Dant s,  I can tell by your voice you are touched\nwith pity; tell me at least to hope. \n\n I cannot tell you that,  replied the inspector;  I can only promise to\nexamine into your case. \n\n Oh, I am free then I am saved! \n\n Who arrested you? \n\n M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says. \n\n M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse. \n\n I am no longer surprised at my detention,  murmured Dant s,  since my\nonly protector is removed. \n\n Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you? \n\n None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me. \n\n I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you? \n\n Entirely. \n\n That is well; wait patiently, then. \n\nDant s fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but\nthis time a fresh inmate was left with Dant s Hope.\n\n0173m\n\n\n\n Will you see the register at once,  asked the governor,  or proceed to\nthe other cell? \n\n Let us visit them all,  said the inspector.  If I once went up those\nstairs. I should never have the courage to come down again. \n\n Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting\nthan this one s display of reason. \n\n What is his folly? \n\n He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered\ngovernment a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the\nthird, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of\ncaptivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five\nmillions. \n\n How curious! what is his name? \n\n The Abb  Faria. \n\n No. 27,  said the inspector.\n\n It is here; unlock the door, Antoine. \n\nThe turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber\nof the _mad abb _, as the prisoner was usually called.\n\nIn the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of\nplaster detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments\nscarcely covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines,\nand seemed as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes was when the\nsoldier of Marcellus slew him. He did not move at the sound of the\ndoor, and continued his calculations until the flash of the torches\nlighted up with an unwonted glare the sombre walls of his cell; then,\nraising his head, he perceived with astonishment the number of persons\npresent. He hastily seized the coverlet of his bed, and wrapped it\nround him.\n\n What is it you want?  said the inspector.\n\n I, monsieur,  replied the abb  with an air of surprise, I want\nnothing. \n\n You do not understand,  continued the inspector;  I am sent here by\ngovernment to visit the prison, and hear the requests of the\nprisoners. \n\n Oh, that is different,  cried the abb ;  and we shall understand each\nother, I hope. \n\n There, now,  whispered the governor,  it is just as I told you. \n\n Monsieur,  continued the prisoner,  I am the Abb  Faria, born at Rome.\nI was for twenty years Cardinal Spada s secretary; I was arrested, why,\nI know not, toward the beginning of the year 1811; since then I have\ndemanded my liberty from the Italian and French government. \n\n Why from the French government? \n\n Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and\nFlorence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department. \n\n Ah,  said the inspector,  you have not the latest news from Italy? \n\n My information dates from the day on which I was arrested,  returned\nthe Abb  Faria;  and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for\nhis infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavelli\nand C sar Borgia, which was to make Italy a united kingdom. \n\n Monsieur,  returned the inspector,  Providence has changed this\ngigantic plan you advocate so warmly. \n\n It is the only means of rendering Italy strong, happy, and\nindependent. \n\n Very possibly; only I am not come to discuss politics, but to inquire\nif you have anything to ask or to complain of. \n\n The food is the same as in other prisons, that is, very bad; the\nlodging is very unhealthful, but, on the whole, passable for a dungeon;\nbut it is not that which I wish to speak of, but a secret I have to\nreveal of the greatest importance. \n\n We are coming to the point,  whispered the governor.\n\n It is for that reason I am delighted to see you,  continued the abb ,\n although you have disturbed me in a most important calculation, which,\nif it succeeded, would possibly change Newton s system. Could you allow\nme a few words in private. \n\n What did I tell you?  said the governor.\n\n You knew him,  returned the inspector with a smile.\n\n What you ask is impossible, monsieur,  continued he, addressing Faria.\n\n0175m\n\n\n\n But,  said the abb ,  I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting\nto five millions. \n\n The very sum you named,  whispered the inspector in his turn.\n\n However,  continued Faria, seeing that the inspector was about to\ndepart,  it is not absolutely necessary for us to be alone; the\ngovernor can be present. \n\n Unfortunately,  said the governor,  I know beforehand what you are\nabout to say; it concerns your treasures, does it not?  Faria fixed his\neyes on him with an expression that would have convinced anyone else of\nhis sanity.\n\n Of course,  said he;  of what else should I speak? \n\n Mr. Inspector,  continued the governor,  I can tell you the story as\nwell as he, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five\nyears. \n\n That proves,  returned the abb ,  that you are like those of Holy\nWrit, who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not. \n\n My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures, \nreplied the inspector;  keep them until you are liberated.  The abb s\neyes glistened; he seized the inspector s hand.\n\n But what if I am not liberated,  cried he,  and am detained here until\nmy death? this treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit\nby it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the\nrest, if they will only give me my liberty. \n\n On my word,  said the inspector in a low tone,  had I not been told\nbeforehand that this man was mad, I should believe what he says. \n\n I am not mad,  replied Faria, with that acuteness of hearing peculiar\nto prisoners.  The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to\nsign an agreement with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot\nwhere you shall dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here again, I ask\nno more. \n\nThe governor laughed.  Is the spot far from here? \n\n A hundred leagues. \n\n It is not ill-planned,  said the governor.  If all the prisoners took\nit into their heads to travel a hundred leagues, and their guardians\nconsented to accompany them, they would have a capital chance of\nescaping. \n\n The scheme is well known,  said the inspector;  and the abb s plan\nhas not even the merit of originality. \n\nThen turning to Faria,  I inquired if you are well fed?  said he.\n\n Swear to me,  replied Faria,  to free me if what I tell you prove\ntrue, and I will stay here while you go to the spot. \n\n Are you well fed?  repeated the inspector.\n\n Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so\nthere is no chance of my escaping. \n\n You do not reply to my question,  replied the inspector impatiently.\n\n Nor you to mine,  cried the abb .  You will not accept my gold; I will\nkeep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me.  And\nthe abb , casting away his coverlet, resumed his place, and continued\nhis calculations.\n\n0177m\n\n\n\n What is he doing there?  said the inspector.\n\n Counting his treasures,  replied the governor.\n\nFaria replied to this sarcasm with a glance of profound contempt. They\nwent out. The turnkey closed the door behind them.\n\n He was wealthy once, perhaps?  said the inspector.\n\n Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad. \n\n After all,  said the inspector,  if he had been rich, he would not\nhave been here. \n\nSo the matter ended for the Abb  Faria. He remained in his cell, and\nthis visit only increased the belief in his insanity.\n\nCaligula or Nero, those treasure-seekers, those desirers of the\nimpossible, would have accorded to the poor wretch, in exchange for his\nwealth, the liberty he so earnestly prayed for. But the kings of modern\ntimes, restrained by the limits of mere probability, have neither\ncourage nor desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the\neye that scrutinizes their actions. Formerly they believed themselves\nsprung from Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; but nowadays they are\nnot inviolable.\n\nIt has always been against the policy of despotic governments to suffer\nthe victims of their persecutions to reappear. As the Inquisition\nrarely allowed its victims to be seen with their limbs distorted and\ntheir flesh lacerated by torture, so madness is always concealed in its\ncell, from whence, should it depart, it is conveyed to some gloomy\nhospital, where the doctor has no thought for man or mind in the\nmutilated being the jailer delivers to him. The very madness of the\nAbb  Faria, gone mad in prison, condemned him to perpetual captivity.\n\nThe inspector kept his word with Dant s; he examined the register, and\nfound the following note concerning him:\n\n_Edmond Dant s:_\n\nViolent Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from Elba.\n\nThe greatest watchfulness and care to be exercised.\n\nThis note was in a different hand from the rest, which showed that it\nhad been added since his confinement. The inspector could not contend\nagainst this accusation; he simply wrote, _Nothing to be done._\n\nThis visit had infused new vigor into Dant s; he had, till then,\nforgotten the date; but now, with a fragment of plaster, he wrote the\ndate, 30th July, 1816, and made a mark every day, in order not to lose\nhis reckoning again. Days and weeks passed away, then months Dant s\nstill waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This\nfortnight expired, he decided that the inspector would do nothing until\nhis return to Paris, and that he would not reach there until his\ncircuit was finished, he therefore fixed three months; three months\npassed away, then six more. Finally ten months and a half had gone by\nand no favorable change had taken place, and Dant s began to fancy the\ninspector s visit but a dream, an illusion of the brain.\n\nAt the expiration of a year the governor was transferred; he had\nobtained charge of the fortress at Ham. He took with him several of his\nsubordinates, and amongst them Dant s  jailer. A new governor arrived;\nit would have been too tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners;\nhe learned their numbers instead. This horrible place contained fifty\ncells; their inhabitants were designated by the numbers of their cell,\nand the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dant s he was now\nnumber 34.\n\n\n\n Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27\n\nDant s passed through all the stages of torture natural to prisoners in\nsuspense. He was sustained at first by that pride of conscious\ninnocence which is the sequence to hope; then he began to doubt his own\ninnocence, which justified in some measure the governor s belief in his\nmental alienation; and then, relaxing his sentiment of pride, he\naddressed his supplications, not to God, but to man. God is always the\nlast resource. Unfortunates, who ought to begin with God, do not have\nany hope in him till they have exhausted all other means of\ndeliverance.\n\nDant s asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another, even\nif it were darker and deeper, for a change, however disadvantageous,\nwas still a change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated\nto be allowed to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and writing\nmaterials. His requests were not granted, but he went on asking all the\nsame. He accustomed himself to speaking to the new jailer, although the\nlatter was, if possible, more taciturn than the old one; but still, to\nspeak to a man, even though mute, was something. Dant s spoke for the\nsake of hearing his own voice; he had tried to speak when alone, but\nthe sound of his voice terrified him.\n\nOften, before his captivity, Dant s  mind had revolted at the idea of\nassemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers.\nHe now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other face\nbesides that of his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, with the\ninfamous costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The\ngalley-slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other.\nThey were very happy.\n\nHe besought the jailer one day to let him have a companion, were it\neven the mad abb . The jailer, though rough and hardened by the\nconstant sight of so much suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of\nhis heart he had often had a feeling of pity for this unhappy young man\nwho suffered so; and he laid the request of number 34 before the\ngovernor; but the latter sapiently imagined that Dant s wished to\nconspire or attempt an escape, and refused his request. Dant s had\nexhausted all human resources, and he then turned to God.\n\nAll the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten, returned; he\nrecollected the prayers his mother had taught him, and discovered a new\nmeaning in every word; for in prosperity prayers seem but a mere medley\nof words, until misfortune comes and the unhappy sufferer first\nunderstands the meaning of the sublime language in which he invokes the\npity of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer terrified at the\nsound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He laid\nevery action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks to\naccomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreaty\noftener addressed to man than to God:  Forgive us our trespasses as we\nforgive them that trespass against us.  Yet in spite of his earnest\nprayers, Dant s remained a prisoner.\n\nThen gloom settled heavily upon him. Dant s was a man of great\nsimplicity of thought, and without education; he could not, therefore,\nin the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history\nof the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild\nthe ancient cities so vast and stupendous in the light of the\nimagination, and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors\nin Martin s Babylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past\nlife was so short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so\ndoubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness!\nNo distraction could come to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would\nhave exalted in thus revisiting the past, was imprisoned like an eagle\nin a cage. He clung to one idea that of his happiness, destroyed,\nwithout apparent cause, by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and\nreconsidered this idea, devoured it (so to speak), as the implacable\nUgolino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.\n\nRage supplanted religious fervor. Dant s uttered blasphemies that made\nhis jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against the\nwalls of his prison, wreaked his anger upon everything, and chiefly\nupon himself, so that the least thing, a grain of sand, a straw, or a\nbreath of air that annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the\nletter that Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every\nline gleamed forth in fiery letters on the wall like the _mene, mene,\ntekel upharsin_ of Belshazzar. He told himself that it was the enmity\nof man, and not the vengeance of Heaven, that had thus plunged him into\nthe deepest misery. He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most\nhorrible tortures he could imagine, and found them all insufficient,\nbecause after torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at\nleast the boon of unconsciousness.\n\nBy dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquillity was death,\nand if punishment were the end in view other tortures than death must\nbe invented, he began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the\nbrink of misfortune, broods over ideas like these!\n\nBefore him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before the eye;\nbut he who unwarily ventures within its embrace finds himself\nstruggling with a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once\nthus ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all\nis over, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This\nstate of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings\nthat precede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a\nsort of consolation at the contemplation of the yawning abyss, at the\nbottom of which lie darkness and obscurity.\n\nEdmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his\nsufferings, with their train of gloomy spectres, fled from his cell\nwhen the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dant s reviewed his past\nlife with composure, and, looking forward with terror to his future\nexistence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge.\n\n Sometimes,  said he,  in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded\nother men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the\nstorm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with\nits wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled\nand shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight\nof the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then\nterrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a\nsailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was\nhappy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed\nof rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a\ncreature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the\ngulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound\nme to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own\nmanner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I\nhave paced three thousand times round my cell, that is thirty thousand\nsteps, or about ten leagues. \n\nNo sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more\ncomposed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little and\nslept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt\nthat he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two\nmethods of self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself\nwith his handkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and die of\nstarvation. But the first was repugnant to him. Dant s had always\nentertained the greatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the\nyard-arm; he would not die by what seemed an infamous death. He\nresolved to adopt the second, and began that day to carry out his\nresolve.\n\n0185m\n\n\n\nNearly four years had passed away; at the end of the second he had\nceased to mark the lapse of time. Dant s said,  I wish to die,  and had\nchosen the manner of his death, and fearful of changing his mind, he\nhad taken an oath to die.  When my morning and evening meals are\nbrought,  thought he,  I will cast them out of the window, and they\nwill think that I have eaten them. \n\nHe kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture,\nthe provisions his jailer brought him at first gayly, then with\ndeliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection of\nhis oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once\nrepugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour at\na time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted\nfish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for life\ncontending with the resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed less\nsombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young he was only\nfour or five-and-twenty he had nearly fifty years to live. What\nunforseen events might not open his prison door, and restore him to\nliberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary\nTantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he would\nnot break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficient\nstrength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next\nmorning he could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously\nill. Edmond hoped he was dying.\n\nThus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor creeping over\nhim which brought with it a feeling almost of content; the gnawing pain\nat his stomach had ceased; his thirst had abated; when he closed his\neyes he saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the\nwill-o -the-wisps that play about the marshes. It was the twilight of\nthat mysterious country called Death!\n\nSuddenly, about nine o clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow\nsound in the wall against which he was lying.\n\nSo many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise did\nnot, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence had quickened his\nfaculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmond\nraised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made\nby a huge claw, a powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the\nstones.\n\nAlthough weakened, the young man s brain instantly responded to the\nidea that haunts all prisoners liberty! It seemed to him that heaven\nhad at length taken pity on him, and had sent this noise to warn him on\nthe very brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had\nso often thought of was thinking of him, and striving to diminish the\ndistance that separated them.\n\nNo, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those dreams\nthat forerun death!\n\nEdmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours; he then\nheard a noise of something falling, and all was silent.\n\nSome hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmond\nwas intensely interested. Suddenly the jailer entered.\n\nFor a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days that\nhe had been carrying out his purpose, Edmond had not spoken to the\nattendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was the matter\nwith him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiously\nat him; but now the jailer might hear the noise and put an end to it,\nand so destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his last\nmoments.\n\nThe jailer brought him his breakfast. Dant s raised himself up and\nbegan to talk about everything; about the bad quality of the food,\nabout the coldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining, in order\nto have an excuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his\njailer, who out of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread\nfor his prisoner.\n\nFortunately, he fancied that Dant s was delirious; and placing the food\non the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond listened, and the sound\nbecame more and more distinct.\n\n There can be no doubt about it,  thought he;  it is some prisoner who\nis striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to help\nhim! \n\nSuddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used to\nmisfortune, that it was scarcely capable of hope the idea that the\nnoise was made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the\nneighboring dungeon.\n\nIt was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the question? It\nwas easy to call his jailer s attention to the noise, and watch his\ncountenance as he listened; but might he not by this means destroy\nhopes far more important than the short-lived satisfaction of his own\ncuriosity? Unfortunately, Edmond s brain was still so feeble that he\ncould not bend his thoughts to anything in particular. He saw but one\nmeans of restoring lucidity and clearness to his judgment. He turned\nhis eyes towards the soup which the jailer had brought, rose, staggered\ntowards it, raised the vessel to his lips, and drank off the contents\nwith a feeling of indescribable pleasure.\n\nHe had the resolution to stop with this. He had often heard that\nshipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured too much\nfood. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was about to devour,\nand returned to his couch he did not wish to die. He soon felt that his\nideas became again collected he could think, and strengthen his\nthoughts by reasoning. Then he said to himself:\n\n I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it\nis a workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to\nwork, in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as\nhis occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it.\nIf, on the contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him,\nhe will cease, and not begin again until he thinks everyone is asleep. \n\nEdmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his\nsight was clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon, detached a stone,\nand with it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck\nthrice.\n\nAt the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.\n\nEdmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed, and no\nsound was heard from the wall all was silent there.\n\nFull of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water, and,\nthanks to the vigor of his constitution, found himself well-nigh\nrecovered.\n\nThe day passed away in utter silence night came without recurrence of\nthe noise.\n\n It is a prisoner,  said Edmond joyfully. His brain was on fire, and\nlife and energy returned.\n\nThe night passed in perfect silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.\n\nIn the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions he had already\ndevoured those of the previous day; he ate these listening anxiously\nfor the sound, walking round and round his cell, shaking the iron bars\nof the loophole, restoring vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise,\nand so preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he\nlistened to learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient\nat the prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been\ndisturbed by a captive as anxious for liberty as himself.\n\nThree days passed seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off\nby minutes!\n\nAt length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for the last time\nthat night, Dant s, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall,\nfancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. He\nmoved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and\nthen went back and listened.\n\nThe matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the other\nside of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the danger, and had\nsubstituted a lever for a chisel.\n\nEncouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist the\nindefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and looked around\nfor anything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moist\ncement, and displace a stone.\n\nHe saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the window grating\nwas of iron, but he had too often assured himself of its solidity. All\nhis furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug.\nThe bed had iron clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it\nwould have required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and\nchair had nothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but that had\nbeen removed.\n\n0189m\n\n\n\nDant s had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one\nof the sharp fragments attack the wall. He let the jug fall on the\nfloor, and it broke in pieces.\n\nDant s concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in his bed,\nleaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too natural\nan accident to excite suspicion. Edmond had all the night to work in,\nbut in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he was\nworking against something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited\nfor day.\n\nAll night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued to mine his\nway. Day came, the jailer entered. Dant s told him that the jug had\nfallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went\ngrumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to\nremove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedily, advised\nthe prisoner to be more careful, and departed.\n\nDant s heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until the\nsound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw by\nthe faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored\nuselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of\nremoving the plaster that surrounded it.\n\nThe damp had rendered it friable, and Dant s was able to break it\noff in small morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had\nscraped off a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in\ntwo years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage\ntwenty feet long and two feet broad, might be formed.\n\nThe prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours\nhe had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and despondency. During the six\nyears that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished?\n\nThis idea imparted new energy, and in three days he had succeeded, with\nthe utmost precaution, in removing the cement, and exposing the\nstone-work. The wall was built of rough stones, among which, to give\nstrength to the structure, blocks of hewn stone were at intervals\nimbedded. It was one of these he had uncovered, and which he must\nremove from its socket.\n\nDant s strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The\nfragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, Dant s\npaused with anguish on his brow.\n\nWas he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive\nuntil his fellow workman had completed his task? Suddenly an idea\noccurred to him he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.\n\nThe jailer always brought Dant s  soup in an iron saucepan; this\nsaucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dant s had noticed that\nit was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave\nit to him or to his companion first.\n\nThe handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dant s would have given ten\nyears of his life in exchange for it.\n\n0191m\n\n\n\nThe jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into\nDant s  plate, and Dant s, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon,\nwashed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening\ncame Dant s put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as\nhe entered, stepped on it and broke it.\n\nThis time he could not blame Dant s. He was wrong to leave it there,\nbut the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him. The jailer,\ntherefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour\nthe soup into; Dant s  entire dinner service consisted of one\nplate there was no alternative.\n\n Leave the saucepan,  said Dant s;  you can take it away when you bring\nme my breakfast. \n\nThis advice was to the jailer s taste, as it spared him the necessity\nof making another trip. He left the saucepan.\n\nDant s was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and\nafter waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind and\nreturn, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted\nthe point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and\nemployed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dant s that all\nwent well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the\nwall, leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.\n\nDant s carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of\nhis cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best use\nof his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work\nwithout ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his\nbed against the wall, and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a piece\nof bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.\n\n Well, don t you intend to bring me another plate?  said Dant s.\n\n No,  replied the turnkey;  you destroy everything. First you break\nyour jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners\nfollowed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave\nyou the saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I\nhope you will not be so destructive. \n\nDant s raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the\ncoverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of\niron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that\nthe prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was\na greater reason for proceeding if his neighbor would not come to him,\nhe would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by\nthe evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and\nfragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer s visit arrived,\nDant s straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and\nplaced it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of\nsoup into it, together with the fish for thrice a week the prisoners\nwere deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time,\nhad not Dant s long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the\nturnkey retired.\n\nDant s wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really ceased to\nwork. He listened all was silent, as it had been for the last three\ndays. Dant s sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted him.\nHowever, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but\nafter two or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no\nimpression, but met with a smooth surface; Dant s touched it, and found\nthat it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole\nDant s had made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it.\nThe unhappy young man had not thought of this.\n\n Oh, my God, my God!  murmured he,  I have so earnestly prayed to you,\nthat I hoped my prayers had been heard. After having deprived me of my\nliberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to\nexistence, my God, have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair! \n\n0193m\n\n\n\n Who talks of God and despair at the same time?  said a voice that\nseemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance,\nsounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man s ears. Edmond s hair\nstood on end, and he rose to his knees.\n\n Ah,  said he,  I hear a human voice.  Edmond had not heard anyone\nspeak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man to\na prisoner he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding\nstrength to restraints of oak and iron.\n\n In the name of Heaven,  cried Dant s,  speak again, though the sound\nof your voice terrifies me. Who are you? \n\n Who are you?  said the voice.\n\n An unhappy prisoner,  replied Dant s, who made no hesitation in\nanswering.\n\n Of what country? \n\n A Frenchman. \n\n Your name? \n\n Edmond Dant s. \n\n Your profession? \n\n A sailor. \n\n How long have you been here? \n\n Since the 28th of February, 1815. \n\n Your crime? \n\n I am innocent. \n\n But of what are you accused? \n\n Of having conspired to aid the emperor s return. \n\n What! For the emperor s return? the emperor is no longer on the\nthrone, then? \n\n He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island of\nElba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all\nthis? \n\n Since 1811. \n\nDant s shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in\nprison.\n\n Do not dig any more,  said the voice;  only tell me how high up is\nyour excavation? \n\n On a level with the floor. \n\n How is it concealed? \n\n Behind my bed. \n\n Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner? \n\n No. \n\n What does your chamber open on? \n\n A corridor. \n\n And the corridor? \n\n On a court. \n\n Alas!  murmured the voice.\n\n Oh, what is the matter?  cried Dant s.\n\n I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong\nangle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the\nwall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress. \n\n But then you would be close to the sea? \n\n That is what I hoped. \n\n And supposing you had succeeded? \n\n I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands\nnear here the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen and then I should\nhave been safe. \n\n Could you have swum so far? \n\n Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost. \n\n All? \n\n Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait\nuntil you hear from me. \n\n Tell me, at least, who you are? \n\n I am I am No. 27. \n\n You mistrust me, then,  said Dant s. Edmond fancied he heard a bitter\nlaugh resounding from the depths.\n\n Oh, I am a Christian,  cried Dant s, guessing instinctively that this\nman meant to abandon him.  I swear to you by him who died for us that\nnaught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I\nconjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have\ngot to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against\nthe wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with. \n\n How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man. \n\n I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been\nhere. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested,\nthe 28th of February, 1815. \n\n Not quite twenty-six!  murmured the voice;  at that age he cannot be a\ntraitor. \n\n Oh, no, no,  cried Dant s.  I swear to you again, rather than betray\nyou, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces! \n\n You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I\nwas about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures\nme. I will not forget you. Wait. \n\n How long? \n\n I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal. \n\n But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me\ncome to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you\nof those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love\nsomebody? \n\n No, I am alone in the world. \n\n Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if\nyou are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he\nyet lives; I only love him and a young girl called Merc d s. My father\nhas not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves\nme still; I shall love you as I loved my father. \n\n It is well,  returned the voice;  tomorrow. \n\nThese few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his\nsincerity; Dant s rose, dispersed the fragments with the same\nprecaution as before, and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then\ngave himself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was,\nperhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a\ncompanion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaints\nmade in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three are\ngathered together invoke the mercy of heaven.\n\nAll day Dant s walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally on\nhis bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise he\nbounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind\nthat he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already;\nand then his mind was made up when the jailer moved his bed and stooped\nto examine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug. He would\nbe condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when\nthis miraculous noise recalled him to life.\n\nThe jailer came in the evening. Dant s was on his bed. It seemed to him\nthat thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there was\na strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said,  Come, are you\ngoing mad again? \n\nDant s did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice would\nbetray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night came; Dant s\nhoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him, but\nhe was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed\nfrom the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.\n\n Is it you?  said he;  I am here. \n\n Is your jailer gone? \n\n Yes,  said Dant s;  he will not return until the evening; so that we\nhave twelve hours before us. \n\n I can work, then?  said the voice.\n\n Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you. \n\nIn a moment that part of the floor on which Dant s was resting his two\nhands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly gave way; he\ndrew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in a\nhole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from\nthe bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible to\nmeasure, he saw appear, first the head, then the shoulders, and lastly\nthe body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell.\n\n0197m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 16. A Learned Italian\n\nSeizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired, Dant s\nalmost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a better view\nof his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled\nthrough the grating.\n\nHe was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering\nand sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, penetrating eye, almost\nburied beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black)\nbeard reaching down to his breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed by\ncare, and the bold outline of his strongly marked features, betokened a\nman more accustomed to exercise his mental faculties than his physical\nstrength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow,\nwhile the garments that hung about him were so ragged that one could\nonly guess at the pattern upon which they had originally been\nfashioned.\n\nThe stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but a\ncertain briskness and appearance of vigor in his movements made it\nprobable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time.\nHe received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with\nevident pleasure, as though his chilled affections were rekindled and\ninvigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent. He thanked him\nwith grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must at\nthat moment have been suffering bitterly to find another dungeon where\nhe had fondly reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his liberty.\n\n Let us first see,  said he,  whether it is possible to remove the\ntraces of my entrance here our future tranquillity depends upon our\njailers being entirely ignorant of it. \n\nAdvancing to the opening, he stooped and raised the stone easily in\nspite of its weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said:\n\n You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no tools\nto aid you. \n\n Why,  exclaimed Dant s, with astonishment,  do you possess any? \n\n I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all that\nare necessary, a chisel, pincers, and lever. \n\n0201m\n\n\n\n Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry and\npatience. \n\n Well, in the first place, here is my chisel. \n\nSo saying, he displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle made of\nbeechwood.\n\n And with what did you contrive to make that?  inquired Dant s.\n\n With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficed\nme to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a distance of about\nfifty feet. \n\n Fifty feet!  responded Dant s, almost terrified.\n\n Do not speak so loud, young man don t speak so loud. It frequently\noccurs in a state prison like this, that persons are stationed outside\nthe doors of the cells purposely to overhear the conversation of the\nprisoners. \n\n But they believe I am shut up alone here. \n\n That makes no difference. \n\n And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to get\nhere? \n\n I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber from\nmine; only, unfortunately, I did not curve aright; for want of the\nnecessary geometrical instruments to calculate my scale of proportion,\ninstead of taking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty. I\nexpected, as I told you, to reach the outer wall, pierce through it,\nand throw myself into the sea; I have, however, kept along the corridor\non which your chamber opens, instead of going beneath it. My labor is\nall in vain, for I find that the corridor looks into a courtyard filled\nwith soldiers. \n\n That s true,  said Dant s;  but the corridor you speak of only bounds\n_one_ side of my cell; there are three others do you know anything of\ntheir situation? \n\n This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take ten\nexperienced miners, duly furnished with the requisite tools, as many\nyears to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the governor s\napartments, and were we to work our way through, we should only get\ninto some lock-up cellars, where we must necessarily be recaptured. The\nfourth and last side of your cell faces on faces on stop a minute, now\nwhere does it face? \n\nThe wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed the loophole\nby which light was admitted to the chamber. This loophole, which\ngradually diminished in size as it approached the outside, to an\nopening through which a child could not have passed, was, for better\nsecurity, furnished with three iron bars, so as to quiet all\napprehensions even in the mind of the most suspicious jailer as to the\npossibility of a prisoner s escape. As the stranger asked the question,\nhe dragged the table beneath the window.\n\n Climb up,  said he to Dant s.\n\nThe young man obeyed, mounted on the table, and, divining the wishes of\nhis companion, placed his back securely against the wall and held out\nboth hands. The stranger, whom as yet Dant s knew only by the number of\nhis cell, sprang up with an agility by no means to be expected in a\nperson of his years, and, light and steady on his feet as a cat or a\nlizard, climbed from the table to the outstretched hands of Dant s, and\nfrom them to his shoulders; then, bending double, for the ceiling of\nthe dungeon prevented him from holding himself erect, he managed to\nslip his head between the upper bars of the window, so as to be able to\ncommand a perfect view from top to bottom.\n\nAn instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying,  I thought\nso!  and sliding from the shoulders of Dant s as dextrously as he had\nascended, he nimbly leaped from the table to the ground.\n\n What was it that you thought?  asked the young man anxiously, in his\nturn descending from the table.\n\nThe elder prisoner pondered the matter.  Yes,  said he at length,  it\nis so. This side of your chamber looks out upon a kind of open gallery,\nwhere patrols are continually passing, and sentries keep watch day and\nnight. \n\n Are you quite sure of that? \n\n Certain. I saw the soldier s shape and the top of his musket; that\nmade me draw in my head so quickly, for I was fearful he might also see\nme. \n\n Well?  inquired Dant s.\n\n You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through your\ndungeon? \n\n Then  pursued the young man eagerly.\n\n Then,  answered the elder prisoner,  the will of God be done!  And as\nthe old man slowly pronounced those words, an air of profound\nresignation spread itself over his careworn countenance. Dant s gazed\non the man who could thus philosophically resign hopes so long and\nardently nourished with an astonishment mingled with admiration.\n\n Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?  said he at length.\n Never have I met with so remarkable a person as yourself. \n\n Willingly,  answered the stranger;  if, indeed, you feel any curiosity\nrespecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid you in any way. \n\n Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of your own\npowerful mind. Pray let me know who you really are? \n\nThe stranger smiled a melancholy smile.  Then listen,  said he.  I am\nthe Abb  Faria, and have been imprisoned as you know in this Ch teau\nd If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been confined for\nthree years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I was\ntransferred to Piedmont in France. It was at this period I learned that\nthe destiny which seemed subservient to every wish formed by Napoleon,\nhad bestowed on him a son, named king of Rome even in his cradle. I was\nvery far then from expecting the change you have just informed me of;\nnamely, that four years afterwards, this colossus of power would be\noverthrown. Then who reigns in France at this moment Napoleon II.? \n\n No, Louis XVIII. \n\n The brother of Louis XVI.! How inscrutable are the ways of\nProvidence for what great and mysterious purpose has it pleased Heaven\nto abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was so abased? \n\nDant s  whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus forget his\nown misfortunes while occupying himself with the destinies of others.\n\n Yes, yes,  continued he,  Twill be the same as it was in England.\nAfter Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles II., and then James\nII., and then some son-in-law or relation, some Prince of Orange, a\nstadtholder who becomes a king. Then new concessions to the people,\nthen a constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!  said the abb ,\nturning towards Dant s, and surveying him with the kindling gaze of a\nprophet,  you are young, you will see all this come to pass. \n\n Probably, if ever I get out of prison! \n\n True,  replied Faria,  we are prisoners; but I forget this sometimes,\nand there are even moments when my mental vision transports me beyond\nthese walls, and I fancy myself at liberty. \n\n But wherefore are you here? \n\n Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to realize\nin 1811; because, like Machiavelli, I desired to alter the political\nface of Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up into a\nquantity of petty principalities, each held by some weak or tyrannical\nruler, I sought to form one large, compact, and powerful empire; and,\nlastly, because I fancied I had found my C sar Borgia in a crowned\nsimpleton, who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was\nthe plan of Alexander VI. and Clement VII., but it will never succeed\nnow, for they attempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon was unable to\ncomplete his work. Italy seems fated to misfortune.  And the old man\nbowed his head.\n\nDant s could not understand a man risking his life for such matters.\nNapoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch as he had seen and\nspoken with him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander VI. he knew nothing.\n\n Are you not,  he asked,  the priest who here in the Ch teau d If is\ngenerally thought to be ill? \n\n Mad, you mean, don t you? \n\n I did not like to say so,  answered Dant s, smiling.\n\n Well, then,  resumed Faria with a bitter smile,  let me answer your\nquestion in full, by acknowledging that I am the poor mad prisoner of\nthe Ch teau d If, for many years permitted to amuse the different\nvisitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all probability,\nI should be promoted to the honor of making sport for the children, if\nsuch innocent beings could be found in an abode devoted like this to\nsuffering and despair. \n\nDant s remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length he\nsaid:\n\n Then you abandon all hope of escape? \n\n I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious to\nattempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve. \n\n Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope to\nsucceed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an opening in\nanother direction from that which has so unfortunately failed? \n\n Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has cost me to\neffect a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated, that you talk of beginning\nover again. In the first place, I was four years making the tools I\npossess, and have been two years scraping and digging out earth, hard\nas granite itself; then what toil and fatigue has it not been to remove\nhuge stones I should once have deemed impossible to loosen. Whole days\nhave I passed in these Titanic efforts, considering my labor well\nrepaid if, by night-time I had contrived to carry away a square inch of\nthis hard-bound cement, changed by ages into a substance unyielding as\nthe stones themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I\ndug up, I was compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the\nfruits of my labor into the hollow part of it; but the well is now so\ncompletely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to add\nanother handful of dust without leading to discovery. Consider also\nthat I fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim of my\nundertaking, for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to\nmake it just hold out to the termination of my enterprise; and now, at\nthe moment when I reckoned upon success, my hopes are forever dashed\nfrom me. No, I repeat again, that nothing shall induce me to renew\nattempts evidently at variance with the Almighty s pleasure. \n\nDant s held down his head, that the other might not see how joy at the\nthought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he felt for the\nfailure of the abb s plans.\n\nThe abb  sank upon Edmond s bed, while Edmond himself remained\nstanding. Escape had never once occurred to him. There are, indeed,\nsome things which appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell on\nthem for an instant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet to devote\nthree years to a labor which, if successful, would conduct you to a\nprecipice overhanging the sea to plunge into the waves from the height\nof fifty, sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the risk of being dashed to\npieces against the rocks, should you have been fortunate enough to have\nescaped the fire of the sentinels; and even, supposing all these perils\npast, then to have to swim for your life a distance of at least three\nmiles ere you could reach the shore were difficulties so startling and\nformidable that Dant s had never even dreamed of such a scheme,\nresigning himself rather to death.\n\nBut the sight of an old man clinging to life with so desperate a\ncourage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and inspired him with new\ncourage. Another, older and less strong than he, had attempted what he\nhad not had sufficient resolution to undertake, and had failed only\nbecause of an error in calculation. This same person, with almost\nincredible patience and perseverance, had contrived to provide himself\nwith tools requisite for so unparalleled an attempt. Another had done\nall this; why, then, was it impossible to Dant s? Faria had dug his way\nthrough fifty feet, Dant s would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of\nfifty, had devoted three years to the task; he, who was but half as\nold, would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and savant, had not shrunk\nfrom the idea of risking his life by trying to swim a distance of three\nmiles to one of the islands Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should a\nhardy sailor, an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a similar\ntask; should he, who had so often for mere amusement s sake plunged to\nthe bottom of the sea to fetch up the bright coral branch, hesitate to\nentertain the same project? He could do it in an hour, and how many\ntimes had he, for pure pastime, continued in the water for more than\ntwice as long! At once Dant s resolved to follow the brave example of\nhis energetic companion, and to remember that what has once been done\nmay be done again.\n\nAfter continuing some time in profound meditation, the young man\nsuddenly exclaimed,  I have found what you were in search of! \n\nFaria started:  Have you, indeed?  cried he, raising his head with\nquick anxiety;  pray, let me know what it is you have discovered? \n\n The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell you\noccupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer gallery, does\nit not? \n\n0207m\n\n\n\n It does. \n\n And is not above fifteen feet from it? \n\n About that. \n\n Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce through\nthe corridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as it were the\ntop part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more accurately;\nwe shall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel\nwho guards it, and make our escape. All we require to insure success is\ncourage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am not deficient\nin; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours you shall now see\nme prove mine. \n\n One instant, my dear friend,  replied the abb ;  it is clear you do\nnot understand the nature of the courage with which I am endowed, and\nwhat use I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I consider\nthat I have abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the\ntask of the night before, and every night renewing the task of the day.\nBut then, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full attention),\nthen I thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the\nAlmighty in trying to set an innocent being at liberty one who had\ncommitted no offence, and merited not condemnation. \n\n And have your notions changed?  asked Dant s with much surprise;  do\nyou think yourself more guilty in making the attempt since you have\nencountered me? \n\n No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myself\nmerely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have thought it no\nsin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot so\neasily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take away a life. \n\nA slight movement of surprise escaped Dant s.\n\n Is it possible,  said he,  that where your liberty is at stake you can\nallow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it? \n\n Tell me,  replied Faria,  what has hindered you from knocking down\nyour jailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead, dressing\nyourself in his clothes, and endeavoring to escape? \n\n Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me,  answered Dant s.\n\n Because,  said the old man,  the natural repugnance to the commission\nof such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and so it ever is\nbecause in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep us\nfrom deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose nature\nteaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smell\nto show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following this\ninstinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him to\nspring on his victim; but man, on the contrary, loathes the idea of\nblood it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with a\nshrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction and\nphysiological formation \n\nDant s was confused and silent at this explanation of the thoughts\nwhich had unconsciously been working in his mind, or rather soul; for\nthere are two distinct sorts of ideas, those that proceed from the head\nand those that emanate from the heart.\n\n0209m\n\n\n\n Since my imprisonment,  said Faria,  I have thought over all the most\ncelebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely been successful.\nThose that have been crowned with full success have been long meditated\nupon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the\nDuc de Beaufort from the Ch teau de Vincennes, that of the Abb \nDubuquoi from For l Ev que; of Latude from the Bastille. Then there are\nthose for which chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the\nbest of all. Let us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable\nmoment, and when it presents itself, profit by it. \n\n Ah,  said Dant s,  you might well endure the tedious delay; you were\nconstantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when weary with\ntoil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you. \n\n I assure you,  replied the old man,  I did not turn to that source for\nrecreation or support. \n\n What did you do then? \n\n I wrote or studied. \n\n Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper? \n\n Oh, no,  answered the abb ;  I had none but what I made for myself. \n\n You made paper, pens and ink? \n\n Yes. \n\nDant s gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in believing.\nFaria saw this.\n\n When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend,  said he,  I will\nshow you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and reflections of\nmy whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of the\nColosseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark s column at Venice, and on\nthe borders of the Arno at Florence, little imagining at the time that\nthey would be arranged in order within the walls of the Ch teau d If.\nThe work I speak of is called _A Treatise on the Possibility of a\nGeneral Monarchy in Italy_, and will make one large quarto volume. \n\n And on what have you written all this? \n\n On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen as\nsmooth and as easy to write on as parchment. \n\n You are, then, a chemist? \n\n Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of Cabanis. \n\n But for such a work you must have needed books had you any? \n\n I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but after\nreading them over many times, I found out that with one hundred and\nfifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete summary of\nall human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I\ndevoted three years of my life to reading and studying these one\nhundred and fifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that\nsince I have been in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled\nme to recall their contents as readily as though the pages were open\nbefore me. I could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon,\nPlutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne,\nShakespeare, Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most\nimportant. \n\n You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as to\nhave been able to read all these? \n\n Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues that is to say, German,\nFrench, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of ancient Greek I\nlearned modern Greek I don t speak it so well as I could wish, but I am\nstill trying to improve myself. \n\n Improve yourself!  repeated Dant s;  why, how can you manage to do\nso? \n\n Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, and\narranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through their\nmedium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is\nabsolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred\nthousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but I\ncertainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes;\nand that would be quite as much as I should ever require. \n\nStronger grew the wonder of Dant s, who almost fancied he had to do\nwith one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find some\nimperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings,\nhe added,  Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage\nto write the work you speak of? \n\n I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally\npreferred to all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings\nare served to us on _maigre_ days. Well, I selected the cartilages of\nthe heads of these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight\nwith which I welcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and\nSaturday, as affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for\nI will freely confess that my historical labors have been my greatest\nsolace and relief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and\ntraversing at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am\nmyself a prisoner. \n\n But the ink,  said Dant s;  of what did you make your ink? \n\n There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon,  replied Faria,  but it\nwas closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, it\nmust have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a\ncoating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine brought\nto me every Sunday, and I assure you a better ink cannot be desired.\nFor very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I\npricked one of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood. \n\n And when,  asked Dant s,  may I see all this? \n\n Whenever you please,  replied the abb .\n\n Oh, then let it be directly!  exclaimed the young man.\n\n Follow me, then,  said the abb , as he re-entered the subterranean\npassage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by Dant s.\n\n\n\n Chapter 17. The Abb s Chamber\n\nAfter having passed with tolerable ease through the subterranean\npassage, which, however, did not admit of their holding themselves\nerect, the two friends reached the further end of the corridor, into\nwhich the abb s cell opened; from that point the passage became much\nnarrower, and barely permitted one to creep through on hands and knees.\nThe floor of the abb s cell was paved, and it had been by raising one\nof the stones in the most obscure corner that Faria had been able to\ncommence the laborious task of which Dant s had witnessed the\ncompletion.\n\nAs he entered the chamber of his friend, Dant s cast around one eager\nand searching glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing more\nthan common met his view.\n\n It is well,  said the abb ;  we have some hours before us it is now\njust a quarter past twelve o clock.  Instinctively Dant s turned round\nto observe by what watch or clock the abb  had been able so accurately\nto specify the hour.\n\n Look at this ray of light which enters by my window,  said the abb ,\n and then observe the lines traced on the wall. Well, by means of these\nlines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth, and\nthe ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain the\nprecise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for that\nmight be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earth\nnever vary in their appointed paths. \n\nThis last explanation was wholly lost upon Dant s, who had always\nimagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in\nthe Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movement\nof the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appeared\nto him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion s\nlips seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging\nout as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda,\nwhich he could just recollect having visited during a voyage made in\nhis earliest youth.\n\n Come,  said he to the abb ,  I am anxious to see your treasures. \n\nThe abb  smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised, by\nthe help of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been the\nhearth, beneath which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a\nsafe depository of the articles mentioned to Dant s.\n\n0213m\n\n\n\n What do you wish to see first?  asked the abb .\n\n Oh, your great work on the monarchy of Italy! \n\nFaria then drew forth from his hiding-place three or four rolls of\nlinen, laid one over the other, like folds of papyrus. These rolls\nconsisted of slips of cloth about four inches wide and eighteen long;\nthey were all carefully numbered and closely covered with writing, so\nlegible that Dant s could easily read it, as well as make out the\nsense it being in Italian, a language he, as a Proven al, perfectly\nunderstood.\n\n There,  said he,  there is the work complete. I wrote the word _finis_\nat the end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up\ntwo of my shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to\ncomplete the precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find\nin all Italy a printer courageous enough to publish what I have\ncomposed, my literary reputation is forever secured. \n\n I see,  answered Dant s.  Now let me behold the curious pens with\nwhich you have written your work. \n\n Look!  said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about six\ninches long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a fine\npainting-brush, to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, one\nof those cartilages of which the abb  had before spoken to Dant s; it\nwas pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dant s\nexamined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see the\ninstrument with which it had been shaped so correctly into form.\n\n Ah, yes,  said Faria;  the penknife. That s my masterpiece. I made it,\nas well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick.  The\npenknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it\nwould serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.\n\nDant s examined the various articles shown to him with the same\nattention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange tools\nexhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the\nSouth Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading\nvessels.\n\n As for the ink,  said Faria,  I told you how I managed to obtain\nthat and I only just make it from time to time, as I require it. \n\n One thing still puzzles me,  observed Dant s,  and that is how you\nmanaged to do all this by daylight? \n\n I worked at night also,  replied Faria.\n\n Night! why, for Heaven s sake, are your eyes like cats , that you can\nsee to work in the dark? \n\n Indeed they are not; but God has supplied man with the intelligence\nthat enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. I\nfurnished myself with a light. \n\n You did? Pray tell me how. \n\n I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made\noil here is my lamp.  So saying, the abb  exhibited a sort of torch\nvery similar to those used in public illuminations.\n\n But how do you procure a light? \n\n Oh, here are two flints and a piece of burnt linen. \n\n And matches? \n\n I pretended that I had a disorder of the skin, and asked for a little\nsulphur, which was readily supplied. \n\nDant s laid the different things he had been looking at on the table,\nand stood with his head drooping on his breast, as though overwhelmed\nby the perseverance and strength of Faria s mind.\n\n0215m\n\n\n\n You have not seen all yet,  continued Faria,  for I did not think it\nwise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut\nthis one up.  They put the stone back in its place; the abb  sprinkled\na little dust over it to conceal the traces of its having been removed,\nrubbed his foot well on it to make it assume the same appearance as the\nother, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot it\nstood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting\nin so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this\nspace a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in length.\nDant s closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and\ncompact enough to bear any weight.\n\n Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work? \n\n I tore up several of my shirts, and ripped out the seams in the sheets\nof my bed, during my three years  imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when\nI was removed to the Ch teau d If, I managed to bring the ravellings\nwith me, so that I have been able to finish my work here. \n\n And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed? \n\n Oh, no, for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the\nedges over again. \n\n With what? \n\n With this needle,  said the abb , as, opening his ragged vestments, he\nshowed Dant s a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small perforated eye for\nthe thread, a small portion of which still remained in it.\n\n I once thought,  continued Faria,  of removing these iron bars, and\nletting myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhat\nwider than yours, although I should have enlarged it still more\npreparatory to my flight; however, I discovered that I should merely\nhave dropped into a sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced the\nproject altogether as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I\ncarefully preserved my ladder against one of those unforeseen\nopportunities of which I spoke just now, and which sudden chance\nfrequently brings about. \n\nWhile affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind\nof Dant s was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so\nintelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abb  might probably be\nable to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where he himself\ncould see nothing.\n\n What are you thinking of?  asked the abb  smilingly, imputing the deep\nabstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his awe\nand wonder.\n\n I was reflecting, in the first place,  replied Dant s,  upon the\nenormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed to\nreach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you\nnot have accomplished if you had been free? \n\n Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a\nstate of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune is\nneeded to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect.\nCompression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my\nmental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from the\ncollision of clouds electricity is produced from electricity,\nlightning, from lightning, illumination. \n\n No,  replied Dant s.  I know nothing. Some of your words are to me\nquite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess the\nknowledge you have. \n\nThe abb  smiled.  Well,  said he,  but you had another subject for your\nthoughts; did you not say so just now? \n\n I did! \n\n You have told me as yet but one of them let me hear the other. \n\n It was this, that while you had related to me all the particulars of\nyour past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine. \n\n Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit\nof your having passed through any very important events. \n\n It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved\nmisfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no\nlonger vent reproaches upon Heaven. \n\n Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged? \n\n I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon\nearth, my father and Merc d s. \n\n Come,  said the abb , closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed\nback to its original situation,  let me hear your story. \n\nDant s obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which\nconsisted only of the account of a voyage to India, and two or three\nvoyages to the Levant, until he arrived at the recital of his last\ncruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet\nto be delivered by himself to the grand marshal; his interview with\nthat personage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a\nletter addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier his arrival at Marseilles, and\ninterview with his father his affection for Merc d s, and their nuptual\nfeast his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention at\nthe Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Ch teau d If.\nFrom this point everything was a blank to Dant s he knew nothing more,\nnot even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital\nfinished, the abb  reflected long and earnestly.\n\n There is,  said he, at the end of his meditations,  a clever maxim,\nwhich bears upon what I was saying to you some little while ago, and\nthat is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved\nmind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime.\nStill, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices,\nand false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle\nwithin us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and\nwickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if you\nvisit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover\nthe person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any\nway advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case, to whom could your\ndisappearance have been serviceable? \n\n To no one, by Heaven! I was a very insignificant person. \n\n Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor\nphilosophy; everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king\nwho stands in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his\nrival out of a place. Now, in the event of the king s death, his\nsuccessor inherits a crown, when the employee dies, the supernumerary\nsteps into his shoes, and receives his salary of twelve thousand\nlivres. Well, these twelve thousand livres are his civil list, and are\nas essential to him as the twelve millions of a king. Everyone, from\nthe highest to the lowest degree, has his place on the social ladder,\nand is beset by stormy passions and conflicting interests, as in\nDescartes  theory of pressure and impulsion. But these forces increase\nas we go higher, so that we have a spiral which in defiance of reason\nrests upon the apex and not on the base. Now let us return to your\nparticular world. You say you were on the point of being made captain\nof the _Pharaon_? \n\n Yes. \n\n And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl? \n\n Yes. \n\n Now, could anyone have had any interest in preventing the\naccomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the\nquestion as to its being the interest of anyone to hinder you from\nbeing captain of the _Pharaon_. What say you? \n\n I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board,\nand had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain\nthemselves, I feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me.\nThere was only one person among the crew who had any feeling of\nill-will towards me. I had quarelled with him some time previously, and\nhad even challenged him to fight me; but he refused. \n\n Now we are getting on. And what was this man s name? \n\n Danglars. \n\n What rank did he hold on board? \n\n He was supercargo. \n\n And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his\nemployment? \n\n Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed\ninaccuracies in his accounts. \n\n Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last\nconversation with Captain Leclere? \n\n No; we were quite alone. \n\n Could your conversation have been overheard by anyone? \n\n It might, for the cabin door was open and stay; now I\nrecollect, Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was\ngiving me the packet for the grand marshal. \n\n That s better,  cried the abb ;  now we are on the right scent. Did\nyou take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba? \n\n Nobody. \n\n Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of\nit, I think? \n\n Yes; the grand marshal did. \n\n And what did you do with that letter? \n\n Put it into my portfolio. \n\n You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find\nroom in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an official\nletter? \n\n You are right; it was left on board. \n\n Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter\nin the portfolio? \n\n No. \n\n And what did you do with this same letter while returning from\nPorto-Ferrajo to the vessel? \n\n I carried it in my hand. \n\n So that when you went on board the _Pharaon_, everybody could see that\nyou held a letter in your hand? \n\n Yes. \n\n Danglars, as well as the rest? \n\n Danglars, as well as others. \n\n Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your\narrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you\nwas formulated? \n\n Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my\nmemory. \n\n Repeat it to me. \n\nDant s paused a moment, then said,  This is it, word for word:  The\nking s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion,\nthat one Edmond Dant s, mate on board the _Pharaon_, this day arrived\nfrom Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been\nintrusted by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the\nusurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of\nhis guilt may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will\nbe found either about his person, at his father s residence, or in his\ncabin on board the _Pharaon_. \n\nThe abb  shrugged his shoulders.  The thing is clear as day,  said he;\n and you must have had a very confiding nature, as well as a good\nheart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole affair. \n\n Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous. \n\n How did Danglars usually write? \n\n In a handsome, running hand. \n\n And how was the anonymous letter written? \n\n Backhanded. \n\nAgain the abb  smiled.  Disguised. \n\n It was very boldly written, if disguised. \n\n Stop a bit,  said the abb , taking up what he called his pen, and,\nafter dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a piece of prepared linen,\nwith his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation.\nDant s drew back, and gazed on the abb  with a sensation almost\namounting to terror.\n\n How very astonishing!  cried he at length.  Why your writing exactly\nresembles that of the accusation. \n\n Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand;\nand I have noticed that \n\n What? \n\n That while the writing of different persons done with the right hand\nvaries, that performed with the left hand is invariably uniform. \n\n You have evidently seen and observed everything. \n\n Let us proceed. \n\n Oh, yes, yes! \n\n Now as regards the second question. \n\n I am listening. \n\n Was there any person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage\nwith Merc d s? \n\n Yes; a young man who loved her. \n\n And his name was \n\n Fernand. \n\n That is a Spanish name, I think? \n\n He was a Catalan. \n\n You imagine him capable of writing the letter? \n\n Oh, no; he would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife\ninto me. \n\n That is in strict accordance with the Spanish character; an\nassassination they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice,\nnever. \n\n Besides,  said Dant s,  the various circumstances mentioned in the\nletter were wholly unknown to him. \n\n You had never spoken of them yourself to anyone? \n\n To no one. \n\n Not even to your mistress? \n\n No, not even to my betrothed. \n\n Then it is Danglars. \n\n I feel quite sure of it now. \n\n Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand? \n\n No yes, he was. Now I recollect \n\n What? \n\n To have seen them both sitting at table together under an arbor at\nP re Pamphile s the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They\nwere in earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way,\nbut Fernand looked pale and agitated. \n\n Were they alone? \n\n There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who\nhad, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named\nCaderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay! stay! How strange that it\nshould not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that\non the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper.\nOh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!  exclaimed Dant s, pressing\nhis hand to his throbbing brows.\n\n Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the\nvillany of your friends?  inquired the abb  with a laugh.\n\n Yes, yes,  replied Dant s eagerly;  I would beg of you, who see so\ncompletely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery\nseems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent\nno second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was\ncondemned without ever having had sentence passed on me? \n\n That is altogether a different and more serious matter,  responded the\nabb .  The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to be\neasily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been\nchild s play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of\nthe business, you must assist me by the most minute information on\nevery point. \n\n Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see\nmore clearly into my life than I do myself. \n\n In the first place, then, who examined you, the king s attorney, his\ndeputy, or a magistrate? \n\n The deputy. \n\n Was he young or old? \n\n About six or seven-and-twenty years of age, I should say. \n\n So,  answered the abb .  Old enough to be ambitious, but too young to\nbe corrupt. And how did he treat you? \n\n With more of mildness than severity. \n\n Did you tell him your whole story? \n\n I did. \n\n And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination? \n\n He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought\nme into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune. \n\n By your misfortune? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored? \n\n He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate. \n\n And that? \n\n He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me. \n\n What? the accusation? \n\n No; the letter. \n\n Are you sure? \n\n I saw it done. \n\n That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater\nscoundrel than you have thought possible. \n\n Upon my word,  said Dant s,  you make me shudder. Is the world filled\nwith tigers and crocodiles? \n\n Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more\ndangerous than the others. \n\n Never mind; let us go on. \n\n With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter? \n\n He did; saying at the same time,  You see I thus destroy the only\nproof existing against you. \n\n This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural. \n\n You think so? \n\n I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed? \n\n To M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-H ron, No. 13, Paris. \n\n Now can you conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could\npossibly have had in the destruction of that letter? \n\n Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me\npromise several times never to speak of that letter to anyone, assuring\nme he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he\ninsisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned\nin the address. \n\n Noirtier!  repeated the abb ;  Noirtier! I knew a person of that name\nat the court of the Queen of Etruria, a Noirtier, who had been a\nGirondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called? \n\n De Villefort!  The abb  burst into a fit of laughter, while Dant s\ngazed on him in utter astonishment.\n\n What ails you?  said he at length.\n\n Do you see that ray of sunlight? \n\n I do. \n\n Well, the whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you.\nPoor fellow! poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed\ngreat sympathy and commiseration for you? \n\n He did. \n\n And the worthy man destroyed your compromising letter? \n\n Yes. \n\n And then made you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier? \n\n Yes. \n\n Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this\nNoirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed? This\nNoirtier was his father! \n\nHad a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dant s, or hell opened its\nyawning gulf before him, he could not have been more completely\ntransfixed with horror than he was at the sound of these unexpected\nwords. Starting up, he clasped his hands around his head as though to\nprevent his very brain from bursting, and exclaimed,  His father! his\nfather! \n\n Yes, his father,  replied the abb ;  his right name was Noirtier de\nVillefort. \n\nAt this instant a bright light shot through the mind of Dant s, and\ncleared up all that had been dark and obscure before. The change that\nhad come over Villefort during the examination, the destruction of the\nletter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating tones of the\nmagistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to pronounce\npunishment, all returned with a stunning force to his memory. He cried\nout, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then he hurried\nto the opening that led from the abb s cell to his own, and said,  I\nmust be alone, to think over all this. \n\nWhen he regained his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the\nturnkey found him in the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and\ncontracted features, dumb and motionless as a statue. During these\nhours of profound meditation, which to him had seemed only minutes, he\nhad formed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by\na solemn oath.\n\nDant s was at length roused from his reverie by the voice of Faria,\nwho, having also been visited by his jailer, had come to invite his\nfellow-sufferer to share his supper. The reputation of being out of his\nmind, though harmlessly and even amusingly so, had procured for the\nabb  unusual privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiter\nquality than the usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with a\nsmall quantity of wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abb  had come to\nask his young companion to share the luxuries with him.\n\nDant s followed him; his features were no longer contracted, and now\nwore their usual expression, but there was that in his whole appearance\nthat bespoke one who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria\nbent on him his penetrating eye.\n\n I regret now,  said he,  having helped you in your late inquiries, or\nhaving given you the information I did. \n\n Why so?  inquired Dant s.\n\n Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart that of\nvengeance. \n\nDant s smiled.  Let us talk of something else,  said he.\n\nAgain the abb  looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in\naccordance with Dant s  request, he began to speak of other matters.\nThe elder prisoner was one of those persons whose conversation, like\nthat of all who have experienced many trials, contained many useful and\nimportant hints as well as sound information; but it was never\negotistical, for the unfortunate man never alluded to his own sorrows.\nDant s listened with admiring attention to all he said; some of his\nremarks corresponded with what he already knew, or applied to the sort\nof knowledge his nautical life had enabled him to acquire. A part of\nthe good abb s words, however, were wholly incomprehensible to him;\nbut, like the aurora which guides the navigator in northern latitudes,\nopened new vistas to the inquiring mind of the listener, and gave\nfantastic glimpses of new horizons, enabling him justly to estimate the\ndelight an intellectual mind would have in following one so richly\ngifted as Faria along the heights of truth, where he was so much at\nhome.\n\n You must teach me a small part of what you know,  said Dant s,  if\nonly to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe that so\nlearned a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to being\ntormented with the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as myself.\nIf you will only agree to my request, I promise you never to mention\nanother word about escaping. \n\nThe abb  smiled.\n\n Alas, my boy,  said he,  human knowledge is confined within very\nnarrow limits; and when I have taught you mathematics, physics,\nhistory, and the three or four modern languages with which I am\nacquainted, you will know as much as I do myself. Now, it will scarcely\nrequire two years for me to communicate to you the stock of learning I\npossess. \n\n Two years!  exclaimed Dant s;  do you really believe I can acquire all\nthese things in so short a time? \n\n Not their application, certainly, but their principles you may; to\nlearn is not to know; there are the learners and the learned. Memory\nmakes the one, philosophy the other. \n\n But cannot one learn philosophy? \n\n Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to\ntruth; it is like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up into\nheaven. \n\n Well, then,  said Dant s,  What shall you teach me first? I am in a\nhurry to begin. I want to learn. \n\n Everything,  said the abb . And that very evening the prisoners\nsketched a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day.\nDant s possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishing\nquickness and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his\nmind rendered him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturally\npoetical feelings threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality\nof arithmetical computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. He\nalready knew Italian, and had also picked up a little of the Romaic\ndialect during voyages to the East; and by the aid of these two\nlanguages he easily comprehended the construction of all the others, so\nthat at the end of six months he began to speak Spanish, English, and\nGerman.\n\nIn strict accordance with the promise made to the abb , Dant s spoke no\nmore of escape. Perhaps the delight his studies afforded him left no\nroom for such thoughts; perhaps the recollection that he had pledged\nhis word (on which his sense of honor was keen) kept him from referring\nin any way to the possibilities of flight. Days, even months, passed by\nunheeded in one rapid and instructive course. At the end of a year\nDant s was a new man. Dant s observed, however, that Faria, in spite of\nthe relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought seemed\nincessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would fall\ninto long reveries, sigh heavily and involuntarily, then suddenly rise,\nand, with folded arms, begin pacing the confined space of his dungeon.\nOne day he stopped all at once, and exclaimed:\n\n Ah, if there were no sentinel! \n\n There shall not be one a minute longer than you please,  said Dant s,\nwho had followed the working of his thoughts as accurately as though\nhis brain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutest\noperations.\n\n I have already told you,  answered the abb ,  that I loathe the idea\nof shedding blood. \n\n And yet the murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply a\nmeasure of self-preservation. \n\n No matter! I could never agree to it. \n\n Still, you have thought of it? \n\n Incessantly, alas!  cried the abb .\n\n And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you\nnot?  asked Dant s eagerly.\n\n I have; if it were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in\nthe gallery beyond us. \n\n He shall be both blind and deaf,  replied the young man, with an air\nof determination that made his companion shudder.\n\n No, no,  cried the abb ;  impossible! \n\nDant s endeavored to renew the subject; the abb  shook his head in\ntoken of disapproval, and refused to make any further response. Three\nmonths passed away.\n\n Are you strong?  the abb  asked one day of Dant s. The young man, in\nreply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of a horseshoe, and\nthen as readily straightened it.\n\n And will you engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last\nresort? \n\n I promise on my honor. \n\n Then,  said the abb ,  we may hope to put our design into execution. \n\n And how long shall we be in accomplishing the necessary work? \n\n At least a year. \n\n And shall we begin at once? \n\n At once. \n\n We have lost a year to no purpose!  cried Dant s.\n\n Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?  asked the\nabb .\n\n Forgive me!  cried Edmond, blushing deeply.\n\n Tut, tut!  answered the abb ,  man is but man after all, and you are\nabout the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me\nshow you my plan. \n\nThe abb  then showed Dant s the sketch he had made for their escape. It\nconsisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dant s, with the\npassage which united them. In this passage he proposed to drive a level\nas they do in mines; this level would bring the two prisoners\nimmediately beneath the gallery where the sentry kept watch; once\nthere, a large excavation would be made, and one of the flag-stones\nwith which the gallery was paved be so completely loosened that at the\ndesired moment it would give way beneath the feet of the soldier, who,\nstunned by his fall, would be immediately bound and gagged by Dant s\nbefore he had power to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then to\nmake their way through one of the gallery windows, and to let\nthemselves down from the outer walls by means of the abb s ladder of\ncords.\n\nDant s  eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight at\nthe idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to succeed.\nThat very day the miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrity\nproportionate to their long rest from fatigue and their hopes of\nultimate success. Nothing interrupted the progress of the work except\nthe necessity that each was under of returning to his cell in\nanticipation of the turnkey s visits. They had learned to distinguish\nthe almost imperceptible sound of his footsteps as he descended towards\ntheir dungeons, and happily, never failed of being prepared for his\ncoming. The fresh earth excavated during their present work, and which\nwould have entirely blocked up the old passage, was thrown, by degrees\nand with the utmost precaution, out of the window in either Faria s or\nDant s  cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that the\nnight wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace to\nremain.\n\nMore than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only tools\nfor which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still\ncontinuing to instruct Dant s by conversing with him, sometimes in one\nlanguage, sometimes in another; at others, relating to him the history\nof nations and great men who from time to time have risen to fame and\ntrodden the path of glory. The abb  was a man of the world, and had,\nmoreover, mixed in the first society of the day; he wore an air of\nmelancholy dignity which Dant s, thanks to the imitative powers\nbestowed on him by nature, easily acquired, as well as that outward\npolish and politeness he had before been wanting in, and which is\nseldom possessed except by those who have been placed in constant\nintercourse with persons of high birth and breeding.\n\nAt the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the excavation\ncompleted beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could distinctly\nhear the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and fro over\ntheir heads. Compelled, as they were, to await a night sufficiently\ndark to favor their flight, they were obliged to defer their final\nattempt till that auspicious moment should arrive; their greatest dread\nnow was lest the stone through which the sentry was doomed to fall\nshould give way before its right time, and this they had in some\nmeasure provided against by propping it up with a small beam which they\nhad discovered in the walls through which they had worked their way.\nDant s was occupied in arranging this piece of wood when he heard\nFaria, who had remained in Edmond s cell for the purpose of cutting a\npeg to secure their rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of\ngreat suffering. Dant s hastened to his dungeon, where he found him\nstanding in the middle of the room, pale as death, his forehead\nstreaming with perspiration, and his hands clenched tightly together.\n\n Gracious heavens!  exclaimed Dant s,  what is the matter? what has\nhappened? \n\n Quick! quick!  returned the abb ,  listen to what I have to say. \n\nDant s looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance of Faria,\nwhose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded by purple circles,\nwhile his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his very hair\nseemed to stand on end.\n\n Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?  cried Dant s, letting his\nchisel fall to the floor.\n\n Alas,  faltered out the abb ,  all is over with me. I am seized with a\nterrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is fast\napproaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to my\nimprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you\nwhat that is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of\nthe feet that support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out\nfor the purpose of containing a small phial you will see there\nhalf-filled with a red-looking fluid. Bring it to me or rather no,\nno! I may be found here, therefore help me back to my room while I have\nthe strength to drag myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how\nlong the attack may last? \n\nIn spite of the magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly\nfrustrated his hopes, Dant s did not lose his presence of mind, but\ndescended into the passage, dragging his unfortunate companion with\nhim; then, half-carrying, half-supporting him, he managed to reach the\nabb s chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.\n\n Thanks,  said the poor abb , shivering as though his veins were filled\nwith ice.  I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it\ncomes to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though\ndead, uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms\nmay be much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful\nconvulsions, foam at the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries\nare not heard, for if they are it is more than probable I should be\nremoved to another part of the prison, and we be separated forever.\nWhen I become quite motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and\nnot before, be careful about this, force open my teeth with the knife,\npour from eight to ten drops of the liquor contained in the phial down\nmy throat, and I may perhaps revive. \n\n Perhaps!  exclaimed Dant s in grief-stricken tones.\n\n Help! help!  cried the abb ,  I I die I \n\n0229m\n\n\n\nSo sudden and violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner was\nunable to complete the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his whole\nframe, his eyes started from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one\nside, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself\nabout, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dant s\nprevented from being heard by covering his head with the blanket. The\nfit lasted two hours; then, more helpless than an infant, and colder\nand paler than marble, more crushed and broken than a reed trampled\nunder foot, he fell back, doubled up in one last convulsion, and became\nas rigid as a corpse.\n\nEdmond waited till life seemed extinct in the body of his friend, then,\ntaking up the knife, he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed\njaws, carefully administered the appointed number of drops, and\nanxiously awaited the result. An hour passed away and the old man gave\nno sign of returning animation. Dant s began to fear he had delayed too\nlong ere he administered the remedy, and, thrusting his hands into his\nhair, continued gazing on the lifeless features of his friend. At\nlength a slight color tinged the livid cheeks, consciousness returned\nto the dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued from the lips, and the\nsufferer made a feeble effort to move.\n\n He is saved! he is saved!  cried Dant s in a paroxysm of delight.\n\nThe sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident\nanxiety towards the door. Dant s listened, and plainly distinguished\nthe approaching steps of the jailer. It was therefore near seven\no clock; but Edmond s anxiety had put all thoughts of time out of his\nhead.\n\nThe young man sprang to the entrance, darted through it, carefully\ndrawing the stone over the opening, and hurried to his cell. He had\nscarcely done so before the door opened, and the jailer saw the\nprisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed. Almost before the key\nhad turned in the lock, and before the departing steps of the jailer\nhad died away in the long corridor he had to traverse, Dant s, whose\nrestless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the\nfood brought him, hurried back to the abb s chamber, and raising the\nstone by pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man s\ncouch. Faria had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay\nhelpless and exhausted on his miserable bed.\n\n I did not expect to see you again,  said he feebly, to Dant s.\n\n And why not?  asked the young man.  Did you fancy yourself dying? \n\n No, I had no such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for flight, I\nthought you might have made your escape. \n\nThe deep glow of indignation suffused the cheeks of Dant s.\n\n Without you? Did you really think me capable of that? \n\n At least,  said the abb ,  I now see how wrong such an opinion would\nhave been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by this\nattack. \n\n Be of good cheer,  replied Dant s;  your strength will return.  And as\nhe spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his\nhands. The abb  shook his head.\n\n The last attack I had,  said he,  lasted but half an hour, and after\nit I was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my\nright arm nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that\nthere has been a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will\neither carry me off, or leave me paralyzed for life. \n\n No, no,  cried Dant s;  you are mistaken you will not die! And your\nthird attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find you at\nliberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only\nwith a better chance of success, because we shall be able to command\nevery requisite assistance. \n\n My good Edmond,  answered the abb ,  be not deceived. The attack which\nhas just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison.\nNone can fly from a dungeon who cannot walk. \n\n Well, we will wait, a week, a month, two months, if need be, and\nmeanwhile your strength will return. Everything is in readiness for our\nflight, and we can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel able\nto swim we will go. \n\n I shall never swim again,  replied Faria.  This arm is paralyzed; not\nfor a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken. \n\nThe young man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight,\nperfectly inanimate and helpless. A sigh escaped him.\n\n You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not?  asked the abb .  Depend\nupon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I experienced of\nthis malady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it,\nfor it is a family inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of\nit in a third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I\nhave twice successfully taken, was no other than the celebrated\nCabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me. \n\n0233m\n\n\n\n The physician may be mistaken!  exclaimed Dant s.  And as for your\npoor arm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my\nshoulders, and swim for both of us. \n\n My son,  said the abb ,  you, who are a sailor and a swimmer, must\nknow as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before he had done\nfifty strokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by vain\nhopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I\nshall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all\nhuman probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are\nyoung and active, delay not on my account, but fly go I give you back\nyour promise. \n\n It is well,  said Dant s.  Then I shall also remain.  Then, rising and\nextending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old man s head, he\nslowly added,  By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you while\nyou live. \n\nFaria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principled\nyoung friend, and read in his countenance ample confirmation of the\nsincerity of his devotion and the loyalty of his purpose.\n\n Thanks,  murmured the invalid, extending one hand.  I accept. You may\none of these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But\nas I cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to\nfill up the excavation beneath the soldier s gallery; he might, by\nchance, hear the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attention\nof his officer to the circumstance. That would bring about a discovery\nwhich would inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set\nabout this work, in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance;\nkeep at it all night, if necessary, and do not return here tomorrow\ntill after the jailer has visited me. I shall have something of the\ngreatest importance to communicate to you. \n\nDant s took the hand of the abb  in his, and affectionately pressed it.\nFaria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young man retired to his\ntask, in the spirit of obedience and respect which he had sworn to show\ntowards his aged friend.\n\n\n\n Chapter 18. The Treasure\n\nWhen Dant s returned next morning to the chamber of his companion in\ncaptivity, he found Faria seated and looking composed. In the ray of\nlight which entered by the narrow window of his cell, he held open in\nhis left hand, of which alone, it will be recollected, he retained the\nuse, a sheet of paper, which, from being constantly rolled into a small\ncompass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He\ndid not speak, but showed the paper to Dant s.\n\n What is that?  he inquired.\n\n Look at it,  said the abb  with a smile.\n\n I have looked at it with all possible attention,  said Dant s,  and I\nonly see a half-burnt paper, on which are traces of Gothic characters\ninscribed with a peculiar kind of ink. \n\n This paper, my friend,  said Faria,  I may now avow to you, since I\nhave the proof of your fidelity this paper is my treasure, of which,\nfrom this day forth, one-half belongs to you. \n\nThe sweat started forth on Dant s  brow. Until this day and for how\nlong a time! he had refrained from talking of the treasure, which had\nbrought upon the abb  the accusation of madness. With his instinctive\ndelicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on this painful chord,\nand Faria had been equally silent. He had taken the silence of the old\nman for a return to reason; and now these few words uttered by Faria,\nafter so painful a crisis, seemed to indicate a serious relapse into\nmental alienation.\n\n Your treasure?  stammered Dant s. Faria smiled.\n\n Yes,  said he.  You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I see by\nyour paleness and agitation what is passing in your heart at this\nmoment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists, Dant s, and\nif I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes you. No one\nwould listen or believe me, because everyone thought me mad; but you,\nwho must know that I am not, listen to me, and believe me so afterwards\nif you will. \n\n Alas,  murmured Edmond to himself,  this is a terrible relapse! There\nwas only this blow wanting.  Then he said aloud,  My dear friend, your\nattack has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not better repose awhile?\nTomorrow, if you will, I will hear your narrative; but today I wish to\nnurse you carefully. Besides,  he said,  a treasure is not a thing we\nneed hurry about. \n\n On the contrary, it is a matter of the utmost importance, Edmond! \nreplied the old man.  Who knows if tomorrow, or the next day after, the\nthird attack may not come on? and then must not all be over? Yes,\nindeed, I have often thought with a bitter joy that these riches, which\nwould make the wealth of a dozen families, will be forever lost to\nthose men who persecute me. This idea was one of vengeance to me, and I\ntasted it slowly in the night of my dungeon and the despair of my\ncaptivity. But now I have forgiven the world for the love of you; now\nthat I see you, young and with a promising future, now that I think of\nall that may result to you in the good fortune of such a disclosure, I\nshudder at any delay, and tremble lest I should not assure to one as\nworthy as yourself the possession of so vast an amount of hidden\nwealth. \n\nEdmond turned away his head with a sigh.\n\n You persist in your incredulity, Edmond,  continued Faria.  My words\nhave not convinced you. I see you require proofs. Well, then, read this\npaper, which I have never shown to anyone. \n\n Tomorrow, my dear friend,  said Edmond, desirous of not yielding to\nthe old man s madness.  I thought it was understood that we should not\ntalk of that until tomorrow. \n\n Then we will not talk of it until tomorrow; but read this paper\ntoday. \n\n I will not irritate him,  thought Edmond, and taking the paper, of\nwhich half was wanting, having been burnt, no doubt, by some\naccident, he read:\n\n this treasure, which may amount to two...\n\nof Roman crowns in the most distant a...\n\nof the second opening wh...\n\ndeclare to belong to him alo...\n\nheir.\n\n                     25th April, 149 \n\n\n Well!  said Faria, when the young man had finished reading it.\n\n Why,  replied Dant s,  I see nothing but broken lines and unconnected\nwords, which are rendered illegible by fire. \n\n Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time; but not for\nme, who have grown pale over them by many nights  study, and have\nreconstructed every phrase, completed every thought. \n\n And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning? \n\n I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but first listen\nto the history of this paper. \n\n Silence!  exclaimed Dant s.  Steps approach I go adieu! \n\nAnd Dant s, happy to escape the history and explanation which would be\nsure to confirm his belief in his friend s mental instability, glided\nlike a snake along the narrow passage; while Faria, restored by his\nalarm to a certain amount of activity, pushed the stone into place with\nhis foot, and covered it with a mat in order the more effectually to\navoid discovery.\n\nIt was the governor, who, hearing of Faria s illness from the jailer,\nhad come in person to see him.\n\nFaria sat up to receive him, avoiding all gestures in order that he\nmight conceal from the governor the paralysis that had already half\nstricken him with death. His fear was lest the governor, touched with\npity, might order him to be removed to better quarters, and thus\nseparate him from his young companion. But fortunately this was not the\ncase, and the governor left him, convinced that the poor madman, for\nwhom in his heart he felt a kind of affection, was only troubled with a\nslight indisposition.\n\nDuring this time, Edmond, seated on his bed with his head in his hands,\ntried to collect his scattered thoughts. Faria, since their first\nacquaintance, had been on all points so rational and logical, so\nwonderfully sagacious, in fact, that he could not understand how so\nmuch wisdom on all points could be allied with madness. Was Faria\ndeceived as to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as to Faria?\n\nDant s remained in his cell all day, not daring to return to his\nfriend, thinking thus to defer the moment when he should be convinced,\nonce for all, that the abb  was mad such a conviction would be so\nterrible!\n\nBut, towards the evening after the hour for the customary visit had\ngone by, Faria, not seeing the young man appear, tried to move and get\nover the distance which separated them. Edmond shuddered when he heard\nthe painful efforts which the old man made to drag himself along; his\nleg was inert, and he could no longer make use of one arm. Edmond was\nobliged to assist him, for otherwise he would not have been able to\nenter by the small aperture which led to Dant s  chamber.\n\n Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly,  he said with a benignant\nsmile.  You thought to escape my munificence, but it is in vain. Listen\nto me. \n\nEdmond saw there was no escape, and placing the old man on his bed, he\nseated himself on the stool beside him.\n\n You know,  said the abb ,  that I was the secretary and intimate\nfriend of Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes of that name. I owe\nto this worthy lord all the happiness I ever knew. He was not rich,\nalthough the wealth of his family had passed into a proverb, and I\nheard the phrase very often,  As rich as a Spada.  But he, like public\nrumor, lived on this reputation for wealth; his palace was my paradise.\nI was tutor to his nephews, who are dead; and when he was alone in the\nworld, I tried by absolute devotion to his will, to make up to him all\nhe had done for me during ten years of unremitting kindness. The\ncardinal s house had no secrets for me. I had often seen my noble\npatron annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly searching amongst dusty\nfamily manuscripts. One day when I was reproaching him for his\nunavailing searches, and deploring the prostration of mind that\nfollowed them, he looked at me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a volume\nrelating to the History of the City of Rome. There, in the twentieth\nchapter of the Life of Pope Alexander VI., were the following lines,\nwhich I can never forget: \n\n The great wars of Romagna had ended; C sar Borgia, who had completed\nhis conquest, had need of money to purchase all Italy. The pope had\nalso need of money to bring matters to an end with Louis XII. King of\nFrance, who was formidable still in spite of his recent reverses; and\nit was necessary, therefore, to have recourse to some profitable\nscheme, which was a matter of great difficulty in the impoverished\ncondition of exhausted Italy. His holiness had an idea. He determined\nto make two cardinals. \n\n By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome, especially rich\nmen _this_ was the return the Holy Father looked for. In the first\nplace, he could sell the great appointments and splendid offices which\nthe cardinals already held; and then he had the two hats to sell\nbesides. There was a third point in view, which will appear hereafter.\n\n The pope and C sar Borgia first found the two future cardinals; they\nwere Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held four of the highest dignities of\nthe Holy See, and C sar Spada, one of the noblest and richest of the\nRoman nobility; both felt the high honor of such a favor from the pope.\nThey were ambitious, and C sar Borgia soon found purchasers for their\nappointments. The result was, that Rospigliosi and Spada paid for being\ncardinals, and eight other persons paid for the offices the cardinals\nheld before their elevation, and thus eight hundred thousand crowns\nentered into the coffers of the speculators.\n\n0239m\n\n\n\n It is time now to proceed to the last part of the speculation. The\npope heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and Spada, conferred upon them\nthe insignia of the cardinalate, and induced them to arrange their\naffairs and take up their residence at Rome. Then the pope and C sar\nBorgia invited the two cardinals to dinner. This was a matter of\ndispute between the Holy Father and his son. C sar thought they could\nmake use of one of the means which he always had ready for his friends,\nthat is to say, in the first place, the famous key which was given to\ncertain persons with the request that they go and open a designated\ncupboard. This key was furnished with a small iron point, a negligence\non the part of the locksmith. When this was pressed to effect the\nopening of the cupboard, of which the lock was difficult, the person\nwas pricked by this small point, and died next day. Then there was the\nring with the lion s head, which C sar wore when he wanted to greet his\nfriends with a clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus favored,\nand at the end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal.\n\n C sar proposed to his father, that they should either ask the\ncardinals to open the cupboard, or shake hands with them; but Alexander\nVI. replied:  Now as to the worthy cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi,\nlet us ask both of them to dinner, something tells me that we shall get\nthat money back. Besides, you forget, C sar, an indigestion declares\nitself immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a day\nor two.  C sar gave way before such cogent reasoning, and the cardinals\nwere consequently invited to dinner.\n\n The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope, near San\nPierdarena, a charming retreat which the cardinals knew very well by\nreport. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new dignities, went with a\ngood appetite and his most ingratiating manner. Spada, a prudent man,\nand greatly attached to his only nephew, a young captain of the highest\npromise, took paper and pen, and made his will. He then sent word to\nhis nephew to wait for him near the vineyard; but it appeared the\nservant did not find him.\n\n Spada knew what these invitations meant; since Christianity, so\neminently civilizing, had made progress in Rome, it was no longer a\ncenturion who came from the tyrant with a message,  C sar wills that\nyou die.  but it was a legate _  latere_, who came with a smile on his\nlips to say from the pope,  His holiness requests you to dine with\nhim. \n\n Spada set out about two o clock to San Pierdarena. The pope awaited\nhim. The first sight that attracted the eyes of Spada was that of his\nnephew, in full costume, and C sar Borgia paying him most marked\nattentions. Spada turned pale, as C sar looked at him with an ironical\nair, which proved that he had anticipated all, and that the snare was\nwell spread.\n\n They began dinner and Spada was only able to inquire of his nephew if\nhe had received his message. The nephew replied no; perfectly\ncomprehending the meaning of the question. It was too late, for he had\nalready drunk a glass of excellent wine, placed for him expressly by\nthe pope s butler. Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach\nhim, which he was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a physician\ndeclared they were both poisoned through eating mushrooms. Spada died\non the threshold of the vineyard; the nephew expired at his own door,\nmaking signs which his wife could not comprehend.\n\n Then C sar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the heritage, under\npretense of seeking for the papers of the dead man. But the inheritance\nconsisted in this only, a scrap of paper on which Spada had written: I\nbequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers, my books, and, amongst\nothers, my breviary with the gold corners, which I beg he will preserve\nin remembrance of his affectionate uncle. \n\n The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid hands on the\nfurniture, and were greatly astonished that Spada, the rich man, was\nreally the most miserable of uncles no treasures unless they were those\nof science, contained in the library and laboratories. That was all.\nC sar and his father searched, examined, scrutinized, but found\nnothing, or at least very little; not exceeding a few thousand crowns\nin plate, and about the same in ready money; but the nephew had time to\nsay to his wife before he expired:  Look well among my uncle s papers;\nthere is a will. \n\n They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had done, but\nit was fruitless. There were two palaces and a vineyard behind the\nPalatine Hill; but in these days landed property had not much value,\nand the two palaces and the vineyard remained to the family since they\nwere beneath the rapacity of the pope and his son. Months and years\nrolled on. Alexander VI. died, poisoned, you know by what mistake.\nC sar, poisoned at the same time, escaped by shedding his skin like a\nsnake; but the new skin was spotted by the poison till it looked like a\ntiger s. Then, compelled to quit Rome, he went and got himself\nobscurely killed in a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history.\n\n After the pope s death and his son s exile, it was supposed that the\nSpada family would resume the splendid position they had held before\nthe cardinal s time; but this was not the case. The Spadas remained in\ndoubtful ease, a mystery hung over this dark affair, and the public\nrumor was, that C sar, a better politician than his father, had carried\noff from the pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say the two,\nbecause Cardinal Rospigliosi, who had not taken any precaution, was\ncompletely despoiled.\n\n Up to this point,  said Faria, interrupting the thread of his\nnarrative,  this seems to you very meaningless, no doubt, eh? \n\n Oh, my friend,  cried Dant s,  on the contrary, it seems as if I were\nreading a most interesting narrative; go on, I beg of you. \n\n I will. The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years\nrolled on, and amongst the descendants some were soldiers, others\ndiplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and some\nwere ruined. I come now to the last of the family, whose secretary I\nwas the Count of Spada. I had often heard him complain of the\ndisproportion of his rank with his fortune; and I advised him to invest\nall he had in an annuity. He did so, and thus doubled his income. The\ncelebrated breviary remained in the family, and was in the count s\npossession. It had been handed down from father to son; for the\nsingular clause of the only will that had been found, had caused it to\nbe regarded as a genuine relic, preserved in the family with\nsuperstitious veneration. It was an illuminated book, with beautiful\nGothic characters, and so weighty with gold, that a servant always\ncarried it before the cardinal on days of great solemnity.\n\n At the sight of papers of all sorts, titles, contracts, parchments,\nwhich were kept in the archives of the family, all descending from the\npoisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the immense bundles of\ndocuments, like twenty servitors, stewards, secretaries before me; but\nin spite of the most exhaustive researches, I found nothing. Yet I had\nread, I had even written a precise history of the Borgia family, for\nthe sole purpose of assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had\noccurred to them on the death of the Cardinal C sar Spada; but could\nonly trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi,\nhis companion in misfortune.\n\n I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither profited\nthe Borgias nor the family, but had remained unpossessed like the\ntreasures of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom of the earth\nunder the eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked, counted, calculated\na thousand and a thousand times the income and expenditure of the\nfamily for three hundred years. It was useless. I remained in my\nignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty.\n\n My patron died. He had reserved from his annuity his family papers,\nhis library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his famous\nbreviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman crowns,\nwhich he had in ready money, on condition that I would have anniversary\nmasses said for the repose of his soul, and that I would draw up a\ngenealogical tree and history of his house. All this I did\nscrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the conclusion.\n\n In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after the\ndeath of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of December (you will see\npresently how the date became fixed in my memory), I was reading, for\nthe thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for the palace was\nsold to a stranger, and I was going to leave Rome and settle at\nFlorence, intending to take with me twelve thousand francs I possessed,\nmy library, and the famous breviary, when, tired with my constant labor\nat the same thing, and overcome by a heavy dinner I had eaten, my head\ndropped on my hands, and I fell asleep about three o clock in the\nafternoon.\n\n0243m\n\n\n\n I awoke as the clock was striking six. I raised my head; I was in\nutter darkness. I rang for a light, but, as no one came, I determined\nto find one for myself. It was indeed but anticipating the simple\nmanners which I should soon be under the necessity of adopting. I took\na wax-candle in one hand, and with the other groped about for a piece\nof paper (my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to get a\nlight from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing,\nhowever, to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a\nmoment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary, which\nwas on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with age, and\nwhich had served as a marker for centuries, kept there by the request\nof the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up together, and\nputting it into the expiring flame, set light to it.\n\n But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the fire\nascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper. I grasped it\nin my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could, lighted my taper\nin the fire itself, and opened the crumpled paper with inexpressible\nemotion, recognizing, when I had done so, that these characters had\nbeen traced in mysterious and sympathetic ink, only appearing when\nexposed to the fire; nearly one-third of the paper had been consumed by\nthe flame. It was that paper you read this morning; read it again,\nDant s, and then I will complete for you the incomplete words and\nunconnected sense. \n\nFaria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dant s, who this\ntime read the following words, traced with an ink of a reddish color\nresembling rust:\n\n      This 25th day of April, 1498, be...\n\n     Alexander VI., and fearing that not...\n\n     he may desire to become my heir, and re...\n\n     and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...\n\n     my sole heir, that I have bu...\n\n     and has visited with me, that is, in...\n\n     Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss...\n\n     jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...\n\n     may amount to nearly two mil...\n\n     will find on raising the twentieth ro...\n\n     creek to the east in a right line. Two open...\n\n     in these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...\n\n     which treasure I bequeath and leave en...\n\n     as my sole heir.\n\n      25th April, 1498.\n\n      C s...\n\n\n And now,  said the abb ,  read this other paper;  and he presented to\nDant s a second leaf with fragments of lines written on it, which\nEdmond read as follows:\n\n            ...ing invited to dine by his Holiness\n\n        ...content with making me pay for my hat,\n\n   ...serves for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara\n\n           ...I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada\n\n                      ...ried in a place he knows\n\n                        ...the caves of the small\n\n                 ...essed of ingots, gold, money,\n\n ...know of the existence of this treasure, which\n\n           ...lions of Roman crowns, and which he\n\n                             ...ck from the small\n\n                           ...ings have been made\n\n                           ...ngle in the second;\n\n                                   ...tire to him\n\n                                    ...ar   Spada. \n\n\nFaria followed him with an excited look.\n\n And now,  he said, when he saw that Dant s had read the last line,\n put the two fragments together, and judge for yourself.  Dant s\nobeyed, and the conjointed pieces gave the following:\n\n0245m\n\n\n\n This 25th day of April, 1498, be...ing invited to dine by his Holiness\nAlexander VI., and fearing that not...content with making me pay for my\nhat, he may desire to become my heir, and re...serves for me the fate\nof Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...I declare to\nmy nephew, Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have bu...ried in a place\nhe knows and has visited with me, that is, in...the caves of the small\nIsland of Monte Cristo, all I poss...essed of ingots, gold, money,\njewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...know of the existence of this\ntreasure, which may amount to nearly two mil...lions of Roman crowns,\nand which he will find on raising the twentieth ro...ck from the small\ncreek to the east in a right line. Two open...ings have been made in\nthese caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...ngle in the second;\nwhich treasure I bequeath and leave en...tire to him as my sole heir.\n 25th April, 1498.  C s...ar   Spada. \n\n Well, do you comprehend now?  inquired Faria.\n\n It is the declaration of Cardinal Spada, and the will so long sought\nfor,  replied Edmond, still incredulous.\n\n Yes; a thousand times, yes! \n\n And who completed it as it now is? \n\n I did. Aided by the remaining fragment, I guessed the rest; measuring\nthe length of the lines by those of the paper, and divining the hidden\nmeaning by means of what was in part revealed, as we are guided in a\ncavern by the small ray of light above us. \n\n And what did you do when you arrived at this conclusion? \n\n I resolved to set out, and did set out at that very instant, carrying\nwith me the beginning of my great work, the unity of the Italian\nkingdom; but for some time the imperial police (who at this period,\nquite contrary to what Napoleon desired so soon as he had a son born to\nhim, wished for a partition of provinces) had their eyes on me; and my\nhasty departure, the cause of which they were unable to guess, having\naroused their suspicions, I was arrested at the very moment I was\nleaving Piombino.\n\n Now,  continued Faria, addressing Dant s with an almost paternal\nexpression,  now, my dear fellow, you know as much as I do myself. If\nwe ever escape together, half this treasure is yours; if I die here,\nand you escape alone, the whole belongs to you. \n\n But,  inquired Dant s hesitating,  has this treasure no more\nlegitimate possessor in the world than ourselves? \n\n No, no, be easy on that score; the family is extinct. The last Count\nof Spada, moreover, made me his heir, bequeathing to me this symbolic\nbreviary, he bequeathed to me all it contained; no, no, make your mind\nsatisfied on that point. If we lay hands on this fortune, we may enjoy\nit without remorse. \n\n And you say this treasure amounts to \n\n Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly thirteen millions of our money. 2\n\n Impossible!  said Dant s, staggered at the enormous amount.\n\n Impossible? and why?  asked the old man.  The Spada family was one of\nthe oldest and most powerful families of the fifteenth century; and in\nthose times, when other opportunities for investment were wanting, such\naccumulations of gold and jewels were by no means rare; there are at\nthis day Roman families perishing of hunger, though possessed of nearly\na million in diamonds and jewels, handed down by entail, and which they\ncannot touch. \n\nEdmond thought he was in a dream he wavered between incredulity and\njoy.\n\n I have only kept this secret so long from you,  continued Faria,  that\nI might test your character, and then surprise you. Had we escaped\nbefore my attack of catalepsy, I should have conducted you to Monte\nCristo; now,  he added, with a sigh,  it is you who will conduct me\nthither. Well, Dant s, you do not thank me? \n\n This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend,  replied Dant s,  and to\nyou only. I have no right to it. I am no relation of yours. \n\n You are my son, Dant s,  exclaimed the old man.  You are the child of\nmy captivity. My profession condemns me to celibacy. God has sent you\nto me to console, at one and the same time, the man who could not be a\nfather, and the prisoner who could not get free. \n\nAnd Faria extended the arm of which alone the use remained to him to\nthe young man, who threw himself upon his neck and wept.\n\n\n\n Chapter 19. The Third Attack\n\nNow that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abb s\nmeditations, could insure the future happiness of him whom Faria really\nloved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes, and every day he\nexpatiated on the amount, explaining to Dant s all the good which, with\nthirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days\nto his friends; and then Dant s  countenance became gloomy, for the\noath of vengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected\nhow much ill, in these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions\ncould do to his enemies.\n\nThe abb  did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dant s knew it,\nand had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa,\nbetween Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once touched there.\nThis island was, always had been, and still is, completely deserted. It\nis a rock of almost conical form, which looks as though it had been\nthrust up by volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean.\nDant s drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dant s\nadvice as to the means he should employ to recover the treasure. But\nDant s was far from being as enthusiastic and confident as the old man.\nIt was past a question now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in\nwhich he had achieved the discovery, which had given rise to the\nsuspicion of his madness, increased Edmond s admiration of him; but at\nthe same time Dant s could not believe that the deposit, supposing it\nhad ever existed, still existed; and though he considered the treasure\nas by no means chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer there.\n\nHowever, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their last\nchance, and making them understand that they were condemned to\nperpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery on\nthe sea side, which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They had\nrepaired it completely, and stopped up with vast masses of stone the\nhole Dant s had partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it\nwill be remembered, the abb  had made to Edmond, the misfortune would\nhave been still greater, for their attempt to escape would have been\ndetected, and they would undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a new, a\nstronger, and more inexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the\nrealization of their hopes.\n\n You see,  said the young man, with an air of sorrowful resignation, to\nFaria,  that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit for\nwhat you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever\nwith you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure\nwill be no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this\nprison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits\nme beneath the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our\nliving together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is\nthe rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages\nyou have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with\nall their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you\nhave made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of\nthem, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced\nthem this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have\nmade me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better\nfor me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as\nproblematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the\nsea, which we take for _terra firma_, and which evaporate and vanish as\nwe draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear\nyour eloquent speech, which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul,\nand makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I\nshould ever be free, so fills my whole existence, that the despair to\nwhich I was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no\nlonger any hold over me; and this this is my fortune not chimerical,\nbut actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the\nsovereigns of the earth, even C sar Borgia himself, could not deprive\nme of this. \n\nThus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates passed\ntogether went quickly. Faria, who for so long a time had kept silence\nas to the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesied\nwould be the case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the left\nleg, and had given up all hope of ever enjoying it himself. But he was\ncontinually thinking over some means of escape for his young companion,\nand anticipating the pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter might\nbe some day lost or stolen, he compelled Dant s to learn it by heart;\nand Dant s knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyed\nthe second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one would\nbe able to discover its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed\nwhile Faria was giving instructions to Dant s, instructions which were\nto serve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and\nhour and moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought,\nwhich was, to gain Monte Cristo by some means, and remain there alone\nunder some pretext which would arouse no suspicions; and once there, to\nendeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and search in the appointed\nspot, the appointed spot, be it remembered, being the farthest angle in\nthe second opening.\n\nIn the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably.\nFaria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand\nand foot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and had\ngradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught his\nyouthful companion the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner, who\nlearns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually\nemployed, Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dant s, for\nfear of recalling the almost extinct past which now only floated in his\nmemory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for\nthem as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose\nactivities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye of\nProvidence.\n\nBut beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the young\nman, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed desires, many\nstifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and when\nEdmond returned to his cell.\n\nOne night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard someone\ncalling him. He opened his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or\nrather a plaintive voice which essayed to pronounce his name, reached\nhim. He sat up in bed and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow.\nUndoubtedly the call came from Faria s dungeon.\n\n Alas,  murmured Edmond;  can it be? \n\nHe moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, and\nreached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open. By the\nlight of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken,\nDant s saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead.\nHis features were writhing with those horrible symptoms which he\nalready knew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them\nfor the first time.\n\n Alas, my dear friend,  said Faria in a resigned tone,  you understand,\ndo you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you? \n\nEdmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushed\ntowards the door, exclaiming,  Help, help! \n\nFaria had just sufficient strength to restrain him.\n\n Silence,  he said,  or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my\ndear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or your\nflight possible. It would require years to do again what I have done\nhere, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers knew\nwe had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dear\nEdmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain empty;\nsome other unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you\nwill appear like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he will be young,\nstrong, and enduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape,\nwhile I have been but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead\nbody tied to you as a drag to all your movements. At length Providence\nhas done something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away,\nand it was time I should die. \n\nEdmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim,  Oh, my friend, my\nfriend, speak not thus!  and then resuming all his presence of mind,\nwhich had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his strength,\nwhich had failed at the words of the old man, he said,  Oh, I have\nsaved you once, and I will save you a second time!  And raising the\nfoot of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third filled with the\nred liquor.\n\n See,  he exclaimed,  there remains still some of the magic draught.\nQuick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there any fresh\ninstructions? Speak, my friend; I listen. \n\n There is not a hope,  replied Faria, shaking his head,  but no matter;\nGod wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose heart he has so\nprofoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power to\npreserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet\nalways so dear. \n\n Oh, yes, yes!  exclaimed Dant s;  and I tell you that I will save you\nyet. \n\n Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowing\ntowards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my teeth chatter\nand seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in\nfive minutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an\nhour there will be nothing left of me but a corpse. \n\n Oh!  exclaimed Dant s, his heart wrung with anguish.\n\n Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of\nlife are now exhausted in me, and death,  he continued, looking at his\nparalyzed arm and leg,  has but half its work to do. If, after having\nmade me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do not\nrecover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for\nI can no longer support myself. \n\nEdmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the bed.\n\n And now, my dear friend,  said Faria,  sole consolation of my wretched\nexistence, you whom Heaven gave me somewhat late, but still gave me, a\npriceless gift, and for which I am most grateful, at the moment of\nseparating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the\nprosperity you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee! \n\nThe young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against the\nold man s bed.\n\n Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of\nthe Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision unrestricted by\ntime or space. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes\npierce the inmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight\nof so much riches. If you do escape, remember that the poor abb , whom\nall the world called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo avail\nyourself of the fortune for you have indeed suffered long enough. \n\nA violent convulsion attacked the old man. Dant s raised his head and\nsaw Faria s eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood\nhad ascended from the chest to the head.\n\n Adieu, adieu!  murmured the old man, clasping Edmond s hand\nconvulsively adieu! \n\n Oh, no, no, not yet,  he cried;  do not forsake me! Oh, succor him!\nHelp help help! \n\n Hush! hush!  murmured the dying man,  that they may not separate us if\nyou save me! \n\n You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides,\nalthough you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such agony as you\nwere before. \n\n Do not mistake! I suffer less because there is in me less strength to\nendure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the privilege of youth\nto believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh,  tis\nhere tis here tis over my sight is gone my senses fail! Your hand,\nDant s! Adieu! adieu! \n\nAnd raising himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all his\nfaculties, he said, Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!  And he\nfell back on the bed.\n\nThe crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with twisted limbs, swollen\neyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam, lay on the bed of torture,\nin place of the intellectual being who so lately rested there.\n\nDant s took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the bed,\nwhence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray on the\ndistorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With steady gaze\nhe awaited confidently the moment for administering the restorative.\n\nWhen he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the knife,\npried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than before,\ncounted one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the phial\ncontained, perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten minutes, a\nquarter of an hour, half an hour, no change took place. Trembling, his\nhair erect, his brow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds\nby the beating of his heart. Then he thought it was time to make the\nlast trial, and he put the phial to the purple lips of Faria, and\nwithout having occasion to force open his jaws, which had remained\nextended, he poured the whole of the liquid down his throat.\n\n0255m\n\n\n\nThe draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling pervaded\nthe old man s limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful to gaze upon\nthem, he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and then his convulsed\nbody returned gradually to its former immobility, the eyes remaining\nopen.\n\nHalf an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during this\nperiod of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand applied to\nhis heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and the heart s\npulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at length it\nstopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face became livid,\nthe eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed.\n\nIt was six o clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and its\nfeeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual light of\nthe lamp. Strange shadows passed over the countenance of the dead man,\nand at times gave it the appearance of life. While the struggle between\nday and night lasted, Dant s still doubted; but as soon as the daylight\ngained the pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone with a corpse. Then\nan invincible and extreme terror seized upon him, and he dared not\nagain press the hand that hung out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze\non those fixed and vacant eyes, which he tried many times to close, but\nin vain they opened again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp,\ncarefully concealed it, and then went away, closing as well as he could\nthe entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he descended.\n\nIt was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he began his\nrounds at Dant s  cell, and on leaving him he went on to Faria s\ndungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing betokened\nthat the man knew anything of what had occurred. He went on his way.\n\nDant s was then seized with an indescribable desire to know what was\ngoing on in the dungeon of his unfortunate friend. He therefore\nreturned by the subterraneous gallery, and arrived in time to hear the\nexclamations of the turnkey, who called out for help. Other turnkeys\ncame, and then was heard the regular tramp of soldiers. Last of all\ncame the governor.\n\nEdmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse, heard\nthe voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water on the dead\nman s face; and seeing that, in spite of this application, the prisoner\ndid not recover, they sent for the doctor. The governor then went out,\nand words of pity fell on Dant s  listening ears, mingled with brutal\nlaughter.\n\n Well, well,  said one,  the madman has gone to look after his\ntreasure. Good journey to him! \n\n With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his shroud! \nsaid another.\n\n Oh,  added a third voice,  the shrouds of the Ch teau d If are not\ndear! \n\n0257m\n\n\n\n Perhaps,  said one of the previous speakers,  as he was a churchman,\nthey may go to some expense in his behalf. \n\n They may give him the honors of the sack. \n\nEdmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of what was\nsaid. The voices soon ceased, and it seemed to him as if everyone had\nleft the cell. Still he dared not to enter, as they might have left\nsome turnkey to watch the dead. He remained, therefore, mute and\nmotionless, hardly venturing to breathe. At the end of an hour, he\nheard a faint noise, which increased. It was the governor who returned,\nfollowed by the doctor and other attendants. There was a moment s\nsilence, it was evident that the doctor was examining the dead body.\nThe inquiries soon commenced.\n\nThe doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the prisoner\nhad succumbed, and declared that he was dead. Questions and answers\nfollowed in a nonchalant manner that made Dant s indignant, for he felt\nthat all the world should have for the poor abb  a love and respect\nequal to his own.\n\n I am very sorry for what you tell me,  said the governor, replying to\nthe assurance of the doctor,  that the old man is really dead; for he\nwas a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his folly, and required no\nwatching. \n\n Ah,  added the turnkey,  there was no occasion for watching him; he\nwould have stayed here fifty years, I ll answer for it, without any\nattempt to escape. \n\n Still,  said the governor,  I believe it will be requisite,\nnotwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your science, but\nin discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly assured\nthat the prisoner is dead. \n\nThere was a moment of complete silence, during which Dant s, still\nlistening, knew that the doctor was examining the corpse a second time.\n\n You may make your mind easy,  said the doctor;  he is dead. I will\nanswer for that. \n\n You know, sir,  said the governor, persisting,  that we are not\ncontent in such cases as this with such a simple examination. In spite\nof all appearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your duty by\nfulfilling the formalities described by law. \n\n Let the irons be heated,  said the doctor;  but really it is a useless\nprecaution. \n\nThis order to heat the irons made Dant s shudder. He heard hasty steps,\nthe creaking of a door, people going and coming, and some minutes\nafterwards a turnkey entered, saying:\n\n Here is the brazier, lighted. \n\nThere was a moment s silence, and then was heard the crackling of\nburning flesh, of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even\nbehind the wall where Dant s was listening in horror. The perspiration\npoured forth upon the young man s brow, and he felt as if he should\nfaint.\n\n You see, sir, he is really dead,  said the doctor;  this burn in the\nheel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of his folly, and delivered\nfrom his captivity. \n\n Wasn t his name Faria?  inquired one of the officers who accompanied\nthe governor.\n\n0259m\n\n\n\n Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too, very\nlearned, and rational enough on all points which did not relate to his\ntreasure; but on that, indeed, he was intractable. \n\n It is the sort of malady which we call monomania,  said the doctor.\n\n You had never anything to complain of?  said the governor to the\njailer who had charge of the abb .\n\n Never, sir,  replied the jailer,  never; on the contrary, he sometimes\namused me very much by telling me stories. One day, too, when my wife\nwas ill, he gave me a prescription which cured her. \n\n Ah, ah!  said the doctor,  I did not know that I had a rival; but I\nhope, governor, that you will show him all proper respect in\nconsequence. \n\n Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in the\nnewest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you? \n\n Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?  inquired a\nturnkey.\n\n Certainly. But make haste I cannot stay here all day.  Other\nfootsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a moment afterwards\nthe noise of rustling canvas reached Dant s  ears, the bed creaked, and\nthe heavy footfall of a man who lifts a weight sounded on the floor;\nthen the bed again creaked under the weight deposited upon it.\n\n This evening,  said the governor.\n\n Will there be any mass?  asked one of the attendants.\n\n That is impossible,  replied the governor.  The chaplain of the\nch teau came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to\ntake a trip to Hy res for a week. I told him I would attend to the\nprisoners in his absence. If the poor abb  had not been in such a\nhurry, he might have had his requiem. \n\n Pooh, pooh;  said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons of his\nprofession;  he is a churchman. God will respect his profession, and\nnot give the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest.  A shout\nof laughter followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of\nputting the body in the sack was going on.\n\n This evening,  said the governor, when the task was ended.\n\n At what hour?  inquired a turnkey.\n\n Why, about ten or eleven o clock. \n\n Shall we watch by the corpse? \n\n Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive that is\nall. \n\nThen the steps retreated, and the voices died away in the distance; the\nnoise of the door, with its creaking hinges and bolts ceased, and a\nsilence more sombre than that of solitude ensued, the silence of death,\nwhich was all-pervasive, and struck its icy chill to the very soul of\nDant s.\n\nThen he raised the flag-stone cautiously with his head, and looked\ncarefully around the chamber. It was empty, and Dant s emerged from the\ntunnel.\n\n\n\n Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Ch teau d If\n\nOn the bed, at full length, and faintly illuminated by the pale light\nthat came from the window, lay a sack of canvas, and under its rude\nfolds was stretched a long and stiffened form; it was Faria s last\nwinding-sheet, a winding-sheet which, as the turnkey said, cost so\nlittle. Everything was in readiness. A barrier had been placed between\nDant s and his old friend. No longer could Edmond look into those\nwide-open eyes which had seemed to be penetrating the mysteries of\ndeath; no longer could he clasp the hand which had done so much to make\nhis existence blessed. Faria, the beneficent and cheerful companion,\nwith whom he was accustomed to live so intimately, no longer breathed.\nHe seated himself on the edge of that terrible bed, and fell into\nmelancholy and gloomy reverie.\n\nAlone! he was alone again! again condemned to silence again face to\nface with nothingness! Alone! never again to see the face, never again\nto hear the voice of the only human being who united him to earth! Was\nnot Faria s fate the better, after all to solve the problem of life at\nits source, even at the risk of horrible suffering?\n\nThe idea of suicide, which his friend had driven away and kept away by\nhis cheerful presence, now hovered like a phantom over the abb s dead\nbody.\n\n If I could die,  he said,  I should go where he goes, and should\nassuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very easy,  he went on\nwith a smile;  I will remain here, rush on the first person that opens\nthe door, strangle him, and then they will guillotine me. \n\nBut excessive grief is like a storm at sea, where the frail bark is\ntossed from the depths to the top of the wave. Dant s recoiled from the\nidea of so infamous a death, and passed suddenly from despair to an\nardent desire for life and liberty.\n\n Die? oh, no,  he exclaimed not die now, after having lived and\nsuffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died years ago; but now\nto die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of destiny. No, I\nwant to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I will yet win back\nthe happiness of which I have been deprived. Before I die I must not\nforget that I have my executioners to punish, and perhaps, too, who\nknows, some friends to reward. Yet they will forget me here, and I\nshall die in my dungeon like Faria. \n\nAs he said this, he became silent and gazed straight before him like\none overwhelmed with a strange and amazing thought. Suddenly he arose,\nlifted his hand to his brow as if his brain were giddy, paced twice or\nthrice round the dungeon, and then paused abruptly by the bed.\n\n Just God!  he muttered,  whence comes this thought? Is it from thee?\nSince none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me take the\nplace of the dead! \n\nWithout giving himself time to reconsider his decision, and, indeed,\nthat he might not allow his thoughts to be distracted from his\ndesperate resolution, he bent over the appalling shroud, opened it with\nthe knife which Faria had made, drew the corpse from the sack, and bore\nit along the tunnel to his own chamber, laid it on his couch, tied\naround its head the rag he wore at night around his own, covered it\nwith his counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold brow, and tried\nvainly to close the resisting eyes, which glared horribly, turned the\nhead towards the wall, so that the jailer might, when he brought the\nevening meal, believe that he was asleep, as was his frequent custom;\nentered the tunnel again, drew the bed against the wall, returned to\nthe other cell, took from the hiding-place the needle and thread, flung\noff his rags, that they might feel only naked flesh beneath the coarse\ncanvas, and getting inside the sack, placed himself in the posture in\nwhich the dead body had been laid, and sewed up the mouth of the sack\nfrom the inside.\n\nHe would have been discovered by the beating of his heart, if by any\nmischance the jailers had entered at that moment. Dant s might have\nwaited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraid that the\ngovernor would change his mind, and order the dead body to be removed\nearlier. In that case his last hope would have been destroyed.\n\nNow his plans were fully made, and this is what he intended to do. If\nwhile he was being carried out the grave-diggers should discover that\nthey were bearing a live instead of a dead body, Dant s did not intend\nto give them time to recognize him, but with a sudden cut of the knife,\nhe meant to open the sack from top to bottom, and, profiting by their\nalarm, escape; if they tried to catch him, he would use his knife to\nbetter purpose.\n\n0263m\n\n\n\nIf they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he would\nallow himself to be covered with earth, and then, as it was night, the\ngrave-diggers could scarcely have turned their backs before he would\nhave worked his way through the yielding soil and escaped. He hoped\nthat the weight of earth would not be so great that he could not\novercome it. If he was detected in this and the earth proved too heavy,\nhe would be stifled, and then so much the better, all would be over.\n\nDant s had not eaten since the preceding evening, but he had not\nthought of hunger, nor did he think of it now. His situation was too\nprecarious to allow him even time to reflect on any thought but one.\n\nThe first risk that Dant s ran was, that the jailer, when he brought\nhim his supper at seven o clock, might perceive the change that had\nbeen made; fortunately, twenty times at least, from misanthropy or\nfatigue, Dant s had received his jailer in bed, and then the man placed\nhis bread and soup on the table, and went away without saying a word.\nThis time the jailer might not be as silent as usual, but speak to\nDant s, and seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed, and thus\ndiscover all.\n\nWhen seven o clock came, Dant s  agony really began. His hand placed\nupon his heart was unable to redress its throbbings, while, with the\nother he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From time to time\nchills ran through his whole body, and clutched his heart in a grasp of\nice. Then he thought he was going to die. Yet the hours passed on\nwithout any unusual disturbance, and Dant s knew that he had escaped\nthe first peril. It was a good augury.\n\nAt length, about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were\nheard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had arrived, summoned\nup all his courage, held his breath, and would have been happy if at\nthe same time he could have repressed the throbbing of his veins. The\nfootsteps they were double paused at the door and Dant s guessed that\nthe two grave-diggers had come to seek him this idea was soon converted\ninto certainty, when he heard the noise they made in putting down the\nhand-bier.\n\nThe door opened, and a dim light reached Dant s  eyes through the\ncoarse sack that covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a\nthird remaining at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men,\napproaching the ends of the bed, took the sack by its extremities.\n\n He s heavy, though, for an old and thin man,  said one, as he raised\nthe head.\n\n They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones, \nsaid another, lifting the feet.\n\n Have you tied the knot?  inquired the first speaker.\n\n What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?  was the reply,\n I can do that when we get there. \n\n Yes, you re right,  replied the companion.\n\n What s the knot for?  thought Dant s.\n\nThey deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened\nhimself in order to play the part of a dead man, and then the party,\nlighted by the man with the torch, who went first, ascended the stairs.\nSuddenly he felt the fresh and sharp night air, and Dant s knew that\nthe mistral was blowing. It was a sensation in which pleasure and pain\nwere strangely mingled.\n\nThe bearers went on for twenty paces, then stopped, putting the bier\ndown on the ground. One of them went away, and Dant s heard his shoes\nstriking on the pavement.\n\n Where am I?  he asked himself.\n\n Really, he is by no means a light load!  said the other bearer,\nsitting on the edge of the hand-barrow.\n\nDant s  first impulse was to escape, but fortunately he did not attempt\nit.\n\n Give us a light,  said the other bearer,  or I shall never find what I\nam looking for. \n\nThe man with the torch complied, although not asked in the most polite\nterms.\n\n What can he be looking for?  thought Edmond.  The spade, perhaps. \n\nAn exclamation of satisfaction indicated that the grave-digger had\nfound the object of his search.  Here it is at last,  he said,  not\nwithout some trouble, though. \n\n Yes,  was the answer,  but it has lost nothing by waiting. \n\nAs he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a heavy\nmetallic substance laid down beside him, and at the same moment a cord\nwas fastened round his feet with sudden and painful violence.\n\n Well, have you tied the knot?  inquired the grave-digger, who was\nlooking on.\n\n Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell you,  was the answer.\n\n Move on, then.  And the bier was lifted once more, and they proceeded.\n\nThey advanced fifty paces farther, and then stopped to open a door,\nthen went forward again. The noise of the waves dashing against the\nrocks on which the ch teau is built, reached Dant s  ear distinctly as\nthey went forward.\n\n Bad weather!  observed one of the bearers;  not a pleasant night for a\ndip in the sea. \n\n Why, yes, the abb  runs a chance of being wet,  said the other; and\nthen there was a burst of brutal laughter.\n\nDant s did not comprehend the jest, but his hair stood erect on his\nhead.\n\n Well, here we are at last,  said one of them.\n\n A little farther a little farther,  said the other.  You know very\nwell that the last was stopped on his way, dashed on the rocks, and the\ngovernor told us next day that we were careless fellows. \n\nThey ascended five or six more steps, and then Dant s felt that they\ntook him, one by the head and the other by the heels, and swung him to\nand fro.\n\n One!  said the grave-diggers,  two! three! \n\nAnd at the same instant Dant s felt himself flung into the air like a\nwounded bird, falling, falling, with a rapidity that made his blood\ncurdle. Although drawn downwards by the heavy weight which hastened his\nrapid descent, it seemed to him as if the fall lasted for a century. At\nlast, with a horrible splash, he darted like an arrow into the ice-cold\nwater, and as he did so he uttered a shrill cry, stifled in a moment by\nhis immersion beneath the waves.\n\nDant s had been flung into the sea, and was dragged into its depths by\na thirty-six-pound shot tied to his feet.\n\nThe sea is the cemetery of the Ch teau d If.\n\n0267m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen\n\nDant s, although stunned and almost suffocated, had sufficient presence\nof mind to hold his breath, and as his right hand (prepared as he was\nfor every chance) held his knife open, he rapidly ripped up the sack,\nextricated his arm, and then his body; but in spite of all his efforts\nto free himself from the shot, he felt it dragging him down still\nlower. He then bent his body, and by a desperate effort severed the\ncord that bound his legs, at the moment when it seemed as if he were\nactually strangled. With a mighty leap he rose to the surface of the\nsea, while the shot dragged down to the depths the sack that had so\nnearly become his shroud.\n\nDant s waited only to get breath, and then dived, in order to avoid\nbeing seen. When he arose a second time, he was fifty paces from where\nhe had first sunk. He saw overhead a black and tempestuous sky, across\nwhich the wind was driving clouds that occasionally suffered a\ntwinkling star to appear; before him was the vast expanse of waters,\nsombre and terrible, whose waves foamed and roared as if before the\napproach of a storm. Behind him, blacker than the sea, blacker than the\nsky, rose phantom-like the vast stone structure, whose projecting crags\nseemed like arms extended to seize their prey, and on the highest rock\nwas a torch lighting two figures.\n\nHe fancied that these two forms were looking at the sea; doubtless\nthese strange grave-diggers had heard his cry. Dant s dived again, and\nremained a long time beneath the water. This was an easy feat to him,\nfor he usually attracted a crowd of spectators in the bay before the\nlighthouse at Marseilles when he swam there, and was unanimously\ndeclared to be the best swimmer in the port. When he came up again the\nlight had disappeared.\n\nHe must now get his bearings. Ratonneau and Pom gue are the nearest\nislands of all those that surround the Ch teau d If, but Ratonneau and\nPom gue are inhabited, as is also the islet of Daume. Tiboulen and\nLemaire were therefore the safest for Dant s  venture. The islands of\nTiboulen and Lemaire are a league from the Ch teau d If; Dant s,\nnevertheless, determined to make for them. But how could he find his\nway in the darkness of the night?\n\nAt this moment he saw the light of Planier, gleaming in front of him\nlike a star. By leaving this light on the right, he kept the Island of\nTiboulen a little on the left; by turning to the left, therefore, he\nwould find it. But, as we have said, it was at least a league from the\nCh teau d If to this island. Often in prison Faria had said to him,\nwhen he saw him idle and inactive:\n\n Dant s, you must not give way to this listlessness; you will be\ndrowned if you seek to escape, and your strength has not been properly\nexercised and prepared for exertion. \n\nThese words rang in Dant s  ears, even beneath the waves; he hastened\nto cleave his way through them to see if he had not lost his strength.\nHe found with pleasure that his captivity had taken away nothing of his\npower, and that he was still master of that element on whose bosom he\nhad so often sported as a boy.\n\nFear, that relentless pursuer, clogged Dant s  efforts. He listened for\nany sound that might be audible, and every time that he rose to the top\nof a wave he scanned the horizon, and strove to penetrate the darkness.\nHe fancied that every wave behind him was a pursuing boat, and he\nredoubled his exertions, increasing rapidly his distance from the\nch teau, but exhausting his strength. He swam on still, and already the\nterrible ch teau had disappeared in the darkness. He could not see it,\nbut he _felt_ its presence.\n\nAn hour passed, during which Dant s, excited by the feeling of freedom,\ncontinued to cleave the waves.\n\n Let us see,  said he,  I have swum above an hour, but as the wind is\nagainst me, that has retarded my speed; however, if I am not mistaken,\nI must be close to Tiboulen. But what if I were mistaken? \n\nA shudder passed over him. He sought to tread water, in order to rest\nhimself; but the sea was too violent, and he felt that he could not\nmake use of this means of recuperation.\n\n Well,  said he,  I will swim on until I am worn out, or the cramp\nseizes me, and then I shall sink;  and he struck out with the energy of\ndespair.\n\nSuddenly the sky seemed to him to become still darker and more dense,\nand heavy clouds seemed to sweep down towards him; at the same time he\nfelt a sharp pain in his knee. He fancied for a moment that he had been\nshot, and listened for the report; but he heard nothing. Then he put\nout his hand, and encountered an obstacle and with another stroke knew\nthat he had gained the shore.\n\nBefore him rose a grotesque mass of rocks, that resembled nothing so\nmuch as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent\ncombustion. It was the Island of Tiboulen. Dant s rose, advanced a few\nsteps, and, with a fervent prayer of gratitude, stretched himself on\nthe granite, which seemed to him softer than down. Then, in spite of\nthe wind and rain, he fell into the deep, sweet sleep of utter\nexhaustion. At the expiration of an hour Edmond was awakened by the\nroar of thunder. The tempest was let loose and beating the atmosphere\nwith its mighty wings; from time to time a flash of lightning stretched\nacross the heavens like a fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds that\nrolled on in vast chaotic waves.\n\nDant s had not been deceived he had reached the first of the two\nislands, which was, in fact, Tiboulen. He knew that it was barren and\nwithout shelter; but when the sea became more calm, he resolved to\nplunge into its waves again, and swim to Lemaire, equally arid, but\nlarger, and consequently better adapted for concealment.\n\nAn overhanging rock offered him a temporary shelter, and scarcely had\nhe availed himself of it when the tempest burst forth in all its fury.\nEdmond felt the trembling of the rock beneath which he lay; the waves,\ndashing themselves against it, wetted him with their spray. He was\nsafely sheltered, and yet he felt dizzy in the midst of the warring of\nthe elements and the dazzling brightness of the lightning. It seemed to\nhim that the island trembled to its base, and that it would, like a\nvessel at anchor, break moorings, and bear him off into the centre of\nthe storm.\n\nHe then recollected that he had not eaten or drunk for four-and-twenty\nhours. He extended his hands, and drank greedily of the rainwater that\nhad lodged in a hollow of the rock.\n\nAs he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed to rive the remotest\nheights of heaven, illumined the darkness. By its light, between the\nIsland of Lemaire and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a league distant,\nDant s saw a fishing-boat driven rapidly like a spectre before the\npower of winds and waves. A second after, he saw it again, approaching\nwith frightful rapidity. Dant s cried at the top of his voice to warn\nthem of their danger, but they saw it themselves. Another flash showed\nhim four men clinging to the shattered mast and the rigging, while a\nfifth clung to the broken rudder. The men he beheld saw him\nundoubtedly, for their cries were carried to his ears by the wind.\nAbove the splintered mast a sail rent to tatters was waving; suddenly\nthe ropes that still held it gave way, and it disappeared in the\ndarkness of the night like a vast sea-bird.\n\nAt the same moment a violent crash was heard, and cries of distress.\nDant s from his rocky perch saw the shattered vessel, and among the\nfragments the floating forms of the hapless sailors. Then all was dark\nagain.\n\nDant s ran down the rocks at the risk of being himself dashed to\npieces; he listened, he groped about, but he heard and saw nothing the\ncries had ceased, and the tempest continued to rage. By degrees the\nwind abated, vast gray clouds rolled towards the west, and the blue\nfirmament appeared studded with bright stars. Soon a red streak became\nvisible in the horizon, the waves whitened, a light played over them,\nand gilded their foaming crests with gold. It was day.\n\nDant s stood mute and motionless before this majestic spectacle, as if\nhe now beheld it for the first time; and indeed since his captivity in\nthe Ch teau d If he had forgotten that such scenes were ever to be\nwitnessed. He turned towards the fortress, and looked at both sea and\nland. The gloomy building rose from the bosom of the ocean with\nimposing majesty and seemed to dominate the scene. It was about five\no clock. The sea continued to get calmer.\n\n In two or three hours,  thought Dant s,  the turnkey will enter my\nchamber, find the body of my poor friend, recognize it, seek for me in\nvain, and give the alarm. Then the tunnel will be discovered; the men\nwho cast me into the sea and who must have heard the cry I uttered,\nwill be questioned. Then boats filled with armed soldiers will pursue\nthe wretched fugitive. The cannon will warn everyone to refuse shelter\nto a man wandering about naked and famished. The police of Marseilles\nwill be on the alert by land, whilst the governor pursues me by sea. I\nam cold, I am hungry. I have lost even the knife that saved me. Oh, my\nGod, I have suffered enough surely! Have pity on me, and do for me what\nI am unable to do for myself. \n\nAs Dant s (his eyes turned in the direction of the Ch teau d If)\nuttered this prayer, he saw off the farther point of the Island of\nPom gue a small vessel with lateen sail skimming the sea like a gull in\nsearch of prey; and with his sailor s eye he knew it to be a Genoese\ntartan. She was coming out of Marseilles harbor, and was standing out\nto sea rapidly, her sharp prow cleaving through the waves.\n\n Oh,  cried Edmond,  to think that in half an hour I could join her,\ndid I not fear being questioned, detected, and conveyed back to\nMarseilles! What can I do? What story can I invent? under pretext of\ntrading along the coast, these men, who are in reality smugglers, will\nprefer selling me to doing a good action. I must wait. But I cannot I\nam starving. In a few hours my strength will be utterly exhausted;\nbesides, perhaps I have not been missed at the fortress. I can pass as\none of the sailors wrecked last night. My story will be accepted, for\nthere is no one left to contradict me. \n\nAs he spoke, Dant s looked toward the spot where the fishing-vessel had\nbeen wrecked, and started. The red cap of one of the sailors hung to a\npoint of the rock and some timbers that had formed part of the vessel s\nkeel, floated at the foot of the crag. In an instant Dant s  plan was\nformed. He swam to the cap, placed it on his head, seized one of the\ntimbers, and struck out so as to cut across the course the vessel was\ntaking.\n\n I am saved!  murmured he. And this conviction restored his strength.\n\nHe soon saw that the vessel, with the wind dead ahead, was tacking\nbetween the Ch teau d If and the tower of Planier. For an instant he\nfeared lest, instead of keeping in shore, she should stand out to sea;\nbut he soon saw that she would pass, like most vessels bound for Italy,\nbetween the islands of Jaros and Calaseraigne.\n\nHowever, the vessel and the swimmer insensibly neared one another, and\nin one of its tacks the tartan bore down within a quarter of a mile of\nhim. He rose on the waves, making signs of distress; but no one on\nboard saw him, and the vessel stood on another tack. Dant s would have\nshouted, but he knew that the wind would drown his voice.\n\nIt was then he rejoiced at his precaution in taking the timber, for\nwithout it he would have been unable, perhaps, to reach the\nvessel certainly to return to shore, should he be unsuccessful in\nattracting attention.\n\nDant s, though almost sure as to what course the vessel would take, had\nyet watched it anxiously until it tacked and stood towards him. Then he\nadvanced; but before they could meet, the vessel again changed her\ncourse. By a violent effort he rose half out of the water, waving his\ncap, and uttering a loud shout peculiar to sailors. This time he was\nboth seen and heard, and the tartan instantly steered towards him. At\nthe same time, he saw they were about to lower the boat.\n\nAn instant after, the boat, rowed by two men, advanced rapidly towards\nhim. Dant s let go of the timber, which he now thought to be useless,\nand swam vigorously to meet them. But he had reckoned too much upon his\nstrength, and then he realized how serviceable the timber had been to\nhim. His arms became stiff, his legs lost their flexibility, and he was\nalmost breathless.\n\nHe shouted again. The two sailors redoubled their efforts, and one of\nthem cried in Italian,  Courage! \n\nThe word reached his ear as a wave which he no longer had the strength\nto surmount passed over his head. He rose again to the surface,\nstruggled with the last desperate effort of a drowning man, uttered a\nthird cry, and felt himself sinking, as if the fatal cannon shot were\nagain tied to his feet. The water passed over his head, and the sky\nturned gray. A convulsive movement again brought him to the surface. He\nfelt himself seized by the hair, then he saw and heard nothing. He had\nfainted.\n\nWhen he opened his eyes Dant s found himself on the deck of the tartan.\nHis first care was to see what course they were taking. They were\nrapidly leaving the Ch teau d If behind. Dant s was so exhausted that\nthe exclamation of joy he uttered was mistaken for a sigh.\n\nAs we have said, he was lying on the deck. A sailor was rubbing his\nlimbs with a woollen cloth; another, whom he recognized as the one who\nhad cried out  Courage!  held a gourd full of rum to his mouth; while\nthe third, an old sailor, at once the pilot and captain, looked on with\nthat egotistical pity men feel for a misfortune that they have escaped\nyesterday, and which may overtake them tomorrow.\n\nA few drops of the rum restored suspended animation, while the friction\nof his limbs restored their elasticity.\n\n Who are you?  said the pilot in bad French.\n\n I am,  replied Dant s, in bad Italian,  a Maltese sailor. We were\ncoming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of last night overtook\nus at Cape Morgiou, and we were wrecked on these rocks. \n\n Where do you come from? \n\n From these rocks that I had the good luck to cling to while our\ncaptain and the rest of the crew were all lost. I saw your vessel, and\nfearful of being left to perish on the desolate island, I swam off on a\npiece of wreckage to try and intercept your course. You have saved my\nlife, and I thank you,  continued Dant s.  I was lost when one of your\nsailors caught hold of my hair. \n\n It was I,  said a sailor of a frank and manly appearance;  and it was\ntime, for you were sinking. \n\n Yes,  returned Dant s, holding out his hand,  I thank you again. \n\n I almost hesitated, though,  replied the sailor;  you looked more like\na brigand than an honest man, with your beard six inches, and your hair\na foot long. \n\nDant s recollected that his hair and beard had not been cut all the\ntime he was at the Ch teau d If.\n\n Yes,  said he,  I made a vow, to our Lady of the Grotto not to cut my\nhair or beard for ten years if I were saved in a moment of danger; but\ntoday the vow expires. \n\n Now what are we to do with you?  said the captain.\n\n Alas, anything you please. My captain is dead; I have barely escaped;\nbut I am a good sailor. Leave me at the first port you make; I shall be\nsure to find employment. \n\n Do you know the Mediterranean? \n\n I have sailed over it since my childhood. \n\n You know the best harbors? \n\n There are few ports that I could not enter or leave with a bandage\nover my eyes. \n\n I say, captain,  said the sailor who had cried  Courage!  to Dant s,\n if what he says is true, what hinders his staying with us? \n\n If he says true,  said the captain doubtingly.  But in his present\ncondition he will promise anything, and take his chance of keeping it\nafterwards. \n\n I will do more than I promise,  said Dant s.\n\n We shall see,  returned the other, smiling.\n\n Where are you going?  asked Dant s.\n\n To Leghorn. \n\n Then why, instead of tacking so frequently, do you not sail nearer the\nwind? \n\n Because we should run straight on to the Island of Rion. \n\n You shall pass it by twenty fathoms. \n\n Take the helm, and let us see what you know. \n\nThe young man took the helm, felt to see if the vessel answered the\nrudder promptly and seeing that, without being a first-rate sailor, she\nyet was tolerably obedient.\n\n To the sheets,  said he. The four seamen, who composed the crew,\nobeyed, while the pilot looked on.  Haul taut. \n\nThey obeyed.\n\n Belay.  This order was also executed; and the vessel passed, as Dant s\nhad predicted, twenty fathoms to windward.\n\n Bravo!  said the captain.\n\n Bravo!  repeated the sailors. And they all looked with astonishment at\nthis man whose eye now disclosed an intelligence and his body a vigor\nthey had not thought him capable of showing.\n\n You see,  said Dant s, quitting the helm,  I shall be of some use to\nyou, at least during the voyage. If you do not want me at Leghorn, you\ncan leave me there, and I will pay you out of the first wages I get,\nfor my food and the clothes you lend me. \n\n Ah,  said the captain,  we can agree very well, if you are\nreasonable. \n\n Give me what you give the others, and it will be all right,  returned\nDant s.\n\n That s not fair,  said the seaman who had saved Dant s;  for you know\nmore than we do. \n\n What is that to you, Jacopo?  returned the Captain.  Everyone is free\nto ask what he pleases. \n\n That s true,  replied Jacopo;  I only make a remark. \n\n Well, you would do much better to find him a jacket and a pair of\ntrousers, if you have them. \n\n No,  said Jacopo;  but I have a shirt and a pair of trousers. \n\n That is all I want,  interrupted Dant s. Jacopo dived into the hold\nand soon returned with what Edmond wanted.\n\n Now, then, do you wish for anything else?  said the patron.\n\n A piece of bread and another glass of the capital rum I tasted, for I\nhave not eaten or drunk for a long time.  He had not tasted food for\nforty hours. A piece of bread was brought, and Jacopo offered him the\ngourd.\n\n Larboard your helm,  cried the captain to the steersman. Dant s\nglanced that way as he lifted the gourd to his mouth; then paused with\nhand in mid-air.\n\n Hollo! what s the matter at the Ch teau d If?  said the captain.\n\nA small white cloud, which had attracted Dant s  attention, crowned the\nsummit of the bastion of the Ch teau d If. At the same moment the faint\nreport of a gun was heard. The sailors looked at one another.\n\n What is this?  asked the captain.\n\n A prisoner has escaped from the Ch teau d If, and they are firing the\nalarm gun,  replied Dant s. The captain glanced at him, but he had\nlifted the rum to his lips and was drinking it with so much composure,\nthat suspicions, if the captain had any, died away.\n\n0277m\n\n\n\n Pretty strong rum!  said Dant s, wiping his brow with his sleeve.\n\n At any rate,  murmured he,  if it be, so much the better, for I have\nmade a rare acquisition. \n\n0279m\n\n\n\nUnder pretence of being fatigued, Dant s asked to take the helm; the\nsteersman, glad to be relieved, looked at the captain, and the latter\nby a sign indicated that he might abandon it to his new comrade. Dant s\ncould thus keep his eyes on Marseilles.\n\n What is the day of the month?  asked he of Jacopo, who sat down beside\nhim.\n\n The 28th of February. \n\n In what year? \n\n In what year you ask me in what year? \n\n Yes,  replied the young man,  I ask you in what year! \n\n You have forgotten then? \n\n I got such a fright last night,  replied Dant s, smiling,  that I have\nalmost lost my memory. I ask you what year is it? \n\n The year 1829,  returned Jacopo.\n\nIt was fourteen years, day for day, since Dant s  arrest. He was\nnineteen when he entered the Ch teau d If; he was thirty-three when he\nescaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his face; he asked himself what\nhad become of Merc d s, who must believe him dead. Then his eyes\nlighted up with hatred as he thought of the three men who had caused\nhim so long and wretched a captivity. He renewed against Danglars,\nFernand, and Villefort the oath of implacable vengeance he had made in\nhis dungeon.\n\nThis oath was no longer a vain menace; for the fastest sailor in the\nMediterranean would have been unable to overtake the little tartan,\nthat with every stitch of canvas set was flying before the wind to\nLeghorn.\n\n\n\n Chapter 22. The Smugglers\n\nDant s had not been a day on board before he had a very clear idea of\nthe men with whom his lot had been cast. Without having been in the\nschool of the Abb  Faria, the worthy master of _La Jeune Am lie_ (the\nname of the Genoese tartan) knew a smattering of all the tongues spoken\non the shores of that large lake called the Mediterranean, from the\nArabic to the Proven al, and this, while it spared him interpreters,\npersons always troublesome and frequently indiscreet, gave him great\nfacilities of communication, either with the vessels he met at sea,\nwith the small boats sailing along the coast, or with the people\nwithout name, country, or occupation, who are always seen on the quays\nof seaports, and who live by hidden and mysterious means which we must\nsuppose to be a direct gift of Providence, as they have no visible\nmeans of support. It is fair to assume that Dant s was on board a\nsmuggler.\n\nAt first the captain had received Dant s on board with a certain degree\nof distrust. He was very well known to the customs officers of the\ncoast; and as there was between these worthies and himself a perpetual\nbattle of wits, he had at first thought that Dant s might be an\nemissary of these industrious guardians of rights and duties, who\nperhaps employed this ingenious means of learning some of the secrets\nof his trade. But the skilful manner in which Dant s had handled the\nlugger had entirely reassured him; and then, when he saw the light\nplume of smoke floating above the bastion of the Ch teau d If, and\nheard the distant report, he was instantly struck with the idea that he\nhad on board his vessel one whose coming and going, like that of kings,\nwas accompanied with salutes of artillery. This made him less uneasy,\nit must be owned, than if the new-comer had proved to be a customs\nofficer; but this supposition also disappeared like the first, when he\nbeheld the perfect tranquillity of his recruit.\n\nEdmond thus had the advantage of knowing what the owner was, without\nthe owner knowing who he was; and however the old sailor and his crew\ntried to  pump  him, they extracted nothing more from him; he gave\naccurate descriptions of Naples and Malta, which he knew as well as\nMarseilles, and held stoutly to his first story. Thus the Genoese,\nsubtle as he was, was duped by Edmond, in whose favor his mild\ndemeanor, his nautical skill, and his admirable dissimulation, pleaded.\nMoreover, it is possible that the Genoese was one of those shrewd\npersons who know nothing but what they should know, and believe nothing\nbut what they should believe.\n\nIn this state of mutual understanding, they reached Leghorn. Here\nEdmond was to undergo another trial; he was to find out whether he\ncould recognize himself, as he had not seen his own face for fourteen\nyears. He had preserved a tolerably good remembrance of what the youth\nhad been, and was now to find out what the man had become. His comrades\nbelieved that his vow was fulfilled. As he had twenty times touched at\nLeghorn, he remembered a barber in St. Ferdinand Street; he went there\nto have his beard and hair cut. The barber gazed in amazement at this\nman with the long, thick and black hair and beard, which gave his head\nthe appearance of one of Titian s portraits. At this period it was not\nthe fashion to wear so large a beard and hair so long; now a barber\nwould only be surprised if a man gifted with such advantages should\nconsent voluntarily to deprive himself of them. The Leghorn barber said\nnothing and went to work.\n\nWhen the operation was concluded, and Edmond felt that his chin was\ncompletely smooth, and his hair reduced to its usual length, he asked\nfor a looking-glass. He was now, as we have said, three-and-thirty\nyears of age, and his fourteen years  imprisonment had produced a great\ntransformation in his appearance.\n\nDant s had entered the Ch teau d If with the round, open, smiling face\nof a young and happy man, with whom the early paths of life have been\nsmooth, and who anticipates a future corresponding with his past. This\nwas now all changed. The oval face was lengthened, his smiling mouth\nhad assumed the firm and marked lines which betoken resolution; his\neyebrows were arched beneath a brow furrowed with thought; his eyes\nwere full of melancholy, and from their depths occasionally sparkled\ngloomy fires of misanthropy and hatred; his complexion, so long kept\nfrom the sun, had now that pale color which produces, when the features\nare encircled with black hair, the aristocratic beauty of the man of\nthe north; the profound learning he had acquired had besides diffused\nover his features a refined intellectual expression; and he had also\nacquired, being naturally of a goodly stature, that vigor which a frame\npossesses which has so long concentrated all its force within itself.\n\n0283m\n\n\n\nTo the elegance of a nervous and slight form had succeeded the solidity\nof a rounded and muscular figure. As to his voice, prayers, sobs, and\nimprecations had changed it so that at times it was of a singularly\npenetrating sweetness, and at others rough and almost hoarse.\n\nMoreover, from being so long in twilight or darkness, his eyes had\nacquired the faculty of distinguishing objects in the night, common to\nthe hyena and the wolf. Edmond smiled when he beheld himself; it was\nimpossible that his best friend if, indeed, he had any friend\nleft could recognize him; he could not recognize himself.\n\nThe master of _La Jeune Am lie_, who was very desirous of retaining\namongst his crew a man of Edmond s value, had offered to advance him\nfunds out of his future profits, which Edmond had accepted. His next\ncare on leaving the barber s who had achieved his first metamorphosis\nwas to enter a shop and buy a complete sailor s suit a garb, as we all\nknow, very simple, and consisting of white trousers, a striped shirt,\nand a cap.\n\nIt was in this costume, and bringing back to Jacopo the shirt and\ntrousers he had lent him, that Edmond reappeared before the captain of\nthe lugger, who had made him tell his story over and over again before\nhe could believe him, or recognize in the neat and trim sailor the man\nwith thick and matted beard, hair tangled with seaweed, and body\nsoaking in seabrine, whom he had picked up naked and nearly drowned.\nAttracted by his prepossessing appearance, he renewed his offers of an\nengagement to Dant s; but Dant s, who had his own projects, would not\nagree for a longer time than three months.\n\n_La Jeune Am lie_ had a very active crew, very obedient to their\ncaptain, who lost as little time as possible. He had scarcely been a\nweek at Leghorn before the hold of his vessel was filled with printed\nmuslins, contraband cottons, English powder, and tobacco on which the\nexcise had forgotten to put its mark. The master was to get all this\nout of Leghorn free of duties, and land it on the shores of Corsica,\nwhere certain speculators undertook to forward the cargo to France.\n\nThey sailed; Edmond was again cleaving the azure sea which had been the\nfirst horizon of his youth, and which he had so often dreamed of in\nprison. He left Gorgone on his right and La Pianosa on his left, and\nwent towards the country of Paoli and Napoleon.\n\nThe next morning going on deck, as he always did at an early hour, the\npatron found Dant s leaning against the bulwarks gazing with intense\nearnestness at a pile of granite rocks, which the rising sun tinged\nwith rosy light. It was the Island of Monte Cristo.\n\n_La Jeune Am lie_ left it three-quarters of a league to the larboard\nand kept on for Corsica. Dant s thought, as they passed so closely to\nthe island whose name was so interesting to him, that he had only to\nleap into the sea and in half an hour be at the promised land. But then\nwhat could he do without instruments to discover his treasure, without\narms to defend himself? Besides, what would the sailors say? What would\nthe patron think? He must wait.\n\nFortunately, Dant s had learned how to wait; he had waited fourteen\nyears for his liberty, and now he was free he could wait at least six\nmonths or a year for wealth. Would he not have accepted liberty without\nriches if it had been offered to him? Besides, were not those riches\nchimerical? offspring of the brain of the poor Abb  Faria, had they not\ndied with him? It is true, the letter of the Cardinal Spada was\nsingularly circumstantial, and Dant s repeated it to himself, from one\nend to the other, for he had not forgotten a word.\n\n0285m\n\n\n\nEvening came, and Edmond saw the island tinged with the shades of\ntwilight, and then disappear in the darkness from all eyes but his own,\nfor he, with vision accustomed to the gloom of a prison, continued to\nbehold it last of all, for he remained alone upon deck. The next morn\nbroke off the coast of Aleria; all day they coasted, and in the evening\nsaw fires lighted on land; the position of these was no doubt a signal\nfor landing, for a ship s lantern was hung up at the mast-head instead\nof the streamer, and they came to within a gunshot of the shore. Dant s\nnoticed that the captain of _La Jeune Am lie_ had, as he neared the\nland, mounted two small culverins, which, without making much noise,\ncan throw a four ounce ball a thousand paces or so.\n\nBut on this occasion the precaution was superfluous, and everything\nproceeded with the utmost smoothness and politeness. Four shallops came\noff with very little noise alongside the lugger, which, no doubt, in\nacknowledgement of the compliment, lowered her own shallop into the\nsea, and the five boats worked so well that by two o clock in the\nmorning all the cargo was out of _La Jeune Am lie_ and on _terra\nfirma_. The same night, such a man of regularity was the patron of _La\nJeune Am lie_, the profits were divided, and each man had a hundred\nTuscan livres, or about eighty francs.\n\nBut the voyage was not ended. They turned the bowsprit towards\nSardinia, where they intended to take in a cargo, which was to replace\nwhat had been discharged. The second operation was as successful as the\nfirst, _La Jeune Am lie_ was in luck. This new cargo was destined for\nthe coast of the Duchy of Lucca, and consisted almost entirely of\nHavana cigars, sherry, and Malaga wines.\n\nThere they had a bit of a skirmish in getting rid of the duties; the\nexcise was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of the patron of _La Jeune\nAm lie_. A customs officer was laid low, and two sailors wounded;\nDant s was one of the latter, a ball having touched him in the left\nshoulder. Dant s was almost glad of this affray, and almost pleased at\nbeing wounded, for they were rude lessons which taught him with what\neye he could view danger, and with what endurance he could bear\nsuffering. He had contemplated danger with a smile, and when wounded\nhad exclaimed with the great philosopher,  Pain, thou art not an evil. \n\nHe had, moreover, looked upon the customs officer wounded to death,\nand, whether from heat of blood produced by the encounter, or the chill\nof human sentiment, this sight had made but slight impression upon him.\nDant s was on the way he desired to follow, and was moving towards the\nend he wished to achieve; his heart was in a fair way of petrifying in\nhis bosom. Jacopo, seeing him fall, had believed him killed, and\nrushing towards him raised him up, and then attended to him with all\nthe kindness of a devoted comrade.\n\nThis world was not then so good as Doctor Pangloss believed it, neither\nwas it so wicked as Dant s thought it, since this man, who had nothing\nto expect from his comrade but the inheritance of his share of the\nprize-money, manifested so much sorrow when he saw him fall.\nFortunately, as we have said, Edmond was only wounded, and with certain\nherbs gathered at certain seasons, and sold to the smugglers by the old\nSardinian women, the wound soon closed. Edmond then resolved to try\nJacopo, and offered him in return for his attention a share of his\nprize-money, but Jacopo refused it indignantly.\n\nAs a result of the sympathetic devotion which Jacopo had from the first\nbestowed on Edmond, the latter was moved to a certain degree of\naffection. But this sufficed for Jacopo, who instinctively felt that\nEdmond had a right to superiority of position a superiority which\nEdmond had concealed from all others. And from this time the kindness\nwhich Edmond showed him was enough for the brave seaman.\n\nThen in the long days on board ship, when the vessel, gliding on with\nsecurity over the azure sea, required no care but the hand of the\nhelmsman, thanks to the favorable winds that swelled her sails, Edmond,\nwith a chart in his hand, became the instructor of Jacopo, as the poor\nAbb  Faria had been his tutor. He pointed out to him the bearings of\nthe coast, explained to him the variations of the compass, and taught\nhim to read in that vast book opened over our heads which they call\nheaven, and where God writes in azure with letters of diamonds.\n\nAnd when Jacopo inquired of him,  What is the use of teaching all these\nthings to a poor sailor like me?  Edmond replied,  Who knows? You may\none day be the captain of a vessel. Your fellow-countryman, Bonaparte,\nbecame emperor.  We had forgotten to say that Jacopo was a Corsican.\n\nTwo months and a half elapsed in these trips, and Edmond had become as\nskilful a coaster as he had been a hardy seaman; he had formed an\nacquaintance with all the smugglers on the coast, and learned all the\nMasonic signs by which these half pirates recognize each other. He had\npassed and re-passed his Island of Monte Cristo twenty times, but not\nonce had he found an opportunity of landing there.\n\nHe then formed a resolution. As soon as his engagement with the patron\nof _La Jeune Am lie_ ended, he would hire a small vessel on his own\naccount for in his several voyages he had amassed a hundred\npiastres and under some pretext land at the Island of Monte Cristo.\nThen he would be free to make his researches, not perhaps entirely at\nliberty, for he would be doubtless watched by those who accompanied\nhim. But in this world we must risk something. Prison had made Edmond\nprudent, and he was desirous of running no risk whatever. But in vain\ndid he rack his imagination; fertile as it was, he could not devise any\nplan for reaching the island without companionship.\n\nDant s was tossed about on these doubts and wishes, when the patron,\nwho had great confidence in him, and was very desirous of retaining him\nin his service, took him by the arm one evening and led him to a tavern\non the Via del  Oglio, where the leading smugglers of Leghorn used to\ncongregate and discuss affairs connected with their trade. Already\nDant s had visited this maritime Bourse two or three times, and seeing\nall these hardy free-traders, who supplied the whole coast for nearly\ntwo hundred leagues in extent, he had asked himself what power might\nnot that man attain who should give the impulse of his will to all\nthese contrary and diverging minds. This time it was a great matter\nthat was under discussion, connected with a vessel laden with Turkey\ncarpets, stuffs of the Levant, and cashmeres. It was necessary to find\nsome neutral ground on which an exchange could be made, and then to try\nand land these goods on the coast of France. If the venture was\nsuccessful the profit would be enormous, there would be a gain of fifty\nor sixty piastres each for the crew.\n\nThe patron of _La Jeune Am lie_ proposed as a place of landing the\nIsland of Monte Cristo, which being completely deserted, and having\nneither soldiers nor revenue officers, seemed to have been placed in\nthe midst of the ocean since the time of the heathen Olympus by\nMercury, the god of merchants and robbers, classes of mankind which we\nin modern times have separated if not made distinct, but which\nantiquity appears to have included in the same category.\n\nAt the mention of Monte Cristo Dant s started with joy; he rose to\nconceal his emotion, and took a turn around the smoky tavern, where all\nthe languages of the known world were jumbled in a _lingua franca_.\n\nWhen he again joined the two persons who had been discussing the\nmatter, it had been decided that they should touch at Monte Cristo and\nset out on the following night. Edmond, being consulted, was of opinion\nthat the island afforded every possible security, and that great\nenterprises to be well done should be done quickly.\n\nNothing then was altered in the plan, and orders were given to get\nunder weigh next night, and, wind and weather permitting, to make the\nneutral island by the following day.\n\n0289m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 23. The Island of Monte Cristo\n\nThus, at length, by one of the unexpected strokes of fortune which\nsometimes befall those who have for a long time been the victims of an\nevil destiny, Dant s was about to secure the opportunity he wished for,\nby simple and natural means, and land on the island without incurring\nany suspicion. One night more and he would be on his way.\n\nThe night was one of feverish distraction, and in its progress visions,\ngood and evil, passed through Dant s  mind. If he closed his eyes, he\nsaw Cardinal Spada s letter written on the wall in characters of\nflame if he slept for a moment the wildest dreams haunted his brain. He\nascended into grottos paved with emeralds, with panels of rubies, and\nthe roof glowing with diamond stalactites. Pearls fell drop by drop, as\nsubterranean waters filter in their caves. Edmond, amazed,\nwonderstruck, filled his pockets with the radiant gems and then\nreturned to daylight, when he discovered that his prizes had all\nchanged into common pebbles. He then endeavored to re-enter the\nmarvellous grottos, but they had suddenly receded, and now the path\nbecame a labyrinth, and then the entrance vanished, and in vain did he\ntax his memory for the magic and mysterious word which opened the\nsplendid caverns of Ali Baba to the Arabian fisherman. All was useless,\nthe treasure disappeared, and had again reverted to the genii from whom\nfor a moment he had hoped to carry it off.\n\nThe day came at length, and was almost as feverish as the night had\nbeen, but it brought reason to the aid of imagination, and Dant s was\nthen enabled to arrange a plan which had hitherto been vague and\nunsettled in his brain. Night came, and with it the preparation for\ndeparture, and these preparations served to conceal Dant s  agitation.\nHe had by degrees assumed such authority over his companions that he\nwas almost like a commander on board; and as his orders were always\nclear, distinct, and easy of execution, his comrades obeyed him with\ncelerity and pleasure.\n\nThe old patron did not interfere, for he too had recognized the\nsuperiority of Dant s over the crew and himself. He saw in the young\nman his natural successor, and regretted that he had not a daughter,\nthat he might have bound Edmond to him by a more secure alliance. At\nseven o clock in the evening all was ready, and at ten minutes past\nseven they doubled the lighthouse just as the beacon was kindled. The\nsea was calm, and, with a fresh breeze from the south-east, they sailed\nbeneath a bright blue sky, in which God also lighted up in turn his\nbeacon lights, each of which is a world. Dant s told them that all\nhands might turn in, and he would take the helm. When the Maltese (for\nso they called Dant s) had said this, it was sufficient, and all went\nto their bunks contentedly.\n\nThis frequently happened. Dant s, cast from solitude into the world,\nfrequently experienced an imperious desire for solitude; and what\nsolitude is more complete, or more poetical, than that of a ship\nfloating in isolation on the sea during the obscurity of the night, in\nthe silence of immensity, and under the eye of Heaven?\n\nNow this solitude was peopled with his thoughts, the night lighted up\nby his illusions, and the silence animated by his anticipations. When\nthe patron awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with every sail set, and\nevery sail full with the breeze. They were making nearly ten knots an\nhour. The Island of Monte Cristo loomed large in the horizon. Edmond\nresigned the lugger to the master s care, and went and lay down in his\nhammock; but, in spite of a sleepless night, he could not close his\neyes for a moment.\n\nTwo hours afterwards he came on deck, as the boat was about to double\nthe Island of Elba. They were just abreast of Mareciana, and beyond the\nflat but verdant Island of La Pianosa. The peak of Monte Cristo\nreddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky. Dant s\nordered the helmsman to put down his helm, in order to leave La Pianosa\nto starboard, as he knew that he should shorten his course by two or\nthree knots. About five o clock in the evening the island was distinct,\nand everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that clearness\nof the atmosphere peculiar to the light which the rays of the sun cast\nat its setting.\n\nEdmond gazed very earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out all the\nvariety of twilight colors, from the brightest pink to the deepest\nblue; and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow darkened, and\na mist passed over his eyes. Never did a gamester, whose whole fortune\nis staked on one cast of the die, experience the anguish which Edmond\nfelt in his paroxysms of hope.\n\nNight came, and at ten o clock they anchored. _La Jeune Am lie_ was\nfirst at the rendezvous. In spite of his usual command over himself,\nDant s could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the first to jump on\nshore; and had he dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus, have  kissed his\nmother earth.  It was dark, but at eleven o clock the moon rose in the\nmidst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered, and then,  ascending\nhigh,  played in floods of pale light on the rocky hills of this second\nPelion.\n\nThe island was familiar to the crew of _La Jeune Am lie_, it was one of\nher regular haunts. As to Dant s, he had passed it on his voyage to and\nfrom the Levant, but never touched at it. He questioned Jacopo.\n\n Where shall we pass the night?  he inquired.\n\n Why, on board the tartan,  replied the sailor.\n\n Should we not do better in the grottos? \n\n What grottos? \n\n Why, the grottos caves of the island. \n\n I do not know of any grottos,  replied Jacopo.\n\nThe cold sweat sprang forth on Dant s  brow.\n\n What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?  he asked.\n\n None. \n\nFor a moment Dant s was speechless; then he remembered that these caves\nmight have been filled up by some accident, or even stopped up, for the\nsake of greater security, by Cardinal Spada. The point was, then, to\ndiscover the hidden entrance. It was useless to search at night, and\nDant s therefore delayed all investigation until the morning. Besides,\na signal made half a league out at sea, and to which _La Jeune Am lie_\nreplied by a similar signal, indicated that the moment for business had\ncome.\n\nThe boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that all was\nwell, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and cast\nanchor within a cable s length of shore.\n\nThen the landing began. Dant s reflected, as he worked, on the shout of\njoy which, with a single word, he could evoke from all these men, if he\ngave utterance to the one unchanging thought that pervaded his heart;\nbut, far from disclosing this precious secret, he almost feared that he\nhad already said too much, and by his restlessness and continual\nquestions, his minute observations and evident preoccupation, aroused\nsuspicions. Fortunately, as regarded this circumstance at least, his\npainful past gave to his countenance an indelible sadness, and the\nglimmerings of gayety seen beneath this cloud were indeed but\ntransitory.\n\nNo one had the slightest suspicion; and when next day, taking a\nfowling-piece, powder, and shot, Dant s declared his intention to go\nand kill some of the wild goats that were seen springing from rock to\nrock, his wish was construed into a love of sport, or a desire for\nsolitude. However, Jacopo insisted on following him, and Dant s did not\noppose this, fearing if he did so that he might incur distrust.\nScarcely, however, had they gone a quarter of a league when, having\nkilled a kid, he begged Jacopo to take it to his comrades, and request\nthem to cook it, and when ready to let him know by firing a gun. This\nand some dried fruits and a flask of Monte Pulciano, was the bill of\nfare.\n\nDant s went on, looking from time to time behind and around about him.\nHaving reached the summit of a rock, he saw, a thousand feet beneath\nhim, his companions, whom Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all busy\npreparing the repast which Edmond s skill as a marksman had augmented\nwith a capital dish.\n\nEdmond looked at them for a moment with the sad and gentle smile of a\nman superior to his fellows.\n\n In two hours  time,  said he,  these persons will depart richer by\nfifty piastres each, to go and risk their lives again by endeavoring to\ngain fifty more; then they will return with a fortune of six hundred\nfrancs, and waste this treasure in some city with the pride of sultans\nand the insolence of nabobs. At this moment hope makes me despise their\nriches, which seem to me contemptible. Yet perchance tomorrow deception\nwill so act on me, that I shall, on compulsion, consider such a\ncontemptible possession as the utmost happiness. Oh, no!  exclaimed\nEdmond,  that will not be. The wise, unerring Faria could not be\nmistaken in this one thing. Besides, it were better to die than to\ncontinue to lead this low and wretched life. \n\nThus Dant s, who but three months before had no desire but liberty had\nnow not liberty enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was not in\nDant s, but in Providence, who, while limiting the power of man, has\nfilled him with boundless desires.\n\nMeanwhile, by a cleft between two walls of rock, following a path worn\nby a torrent, and which, in all human probability, human foot had never\nbefore trod, Dant s approached the spot where he supposed the grottos\nmust have existed. Keeping along the shore, and examining the smallest\nobject with serious attention, he thought he could trace, on certain\nrocks, marks made by the hand of man.\n\nTime, which encrusts all physical substances with its mossy mantle, as\nit invests all things of the mind with forgetfulness, seemed to have\nrespected these signs, which apparently had been made with some degree\nof regularity, and probably with a definite purpose. Occasionally the\nmarks were hidden under tufts of myrtle, which spread into large bushes\nladen with blossoms, or beneath parasitical lichen. So Edmond had to\nseparate the branches or brush away the moss to know where the\nguide-marks were. The sight of marks renewed Edmond fondest hopes.\nMight it not have been the cardinal himself who had first traced them,\nin order that they might serve as a guide for his nephew in the event\nof a catastrophe, which he could not foresee would have been so\ncomplete. This solitary place was precisely suited to the requirements\nof a man desirous of burying treasure. Only, might not these betraying\nmarks have attracted other eyes than those for whom they were made? and\nhad the dark and wondrous island indeed faithfully guarded its precious\nsecret?\n\n0295m\n\n\n\nIt seemed, however, to Edmond, who was hidden from his comrades by the\ninequalities of the ground, that at sixty paces from the harbor the\nmarks ceased; nor did they terminate at any grotto. A large round rock,\nplaced solidly on its base, was the only spot to which they seemed to\nlead. Edmond concluded that perhaps instead of having reached the end\nof the route he had only explored its beginning, and he therefore\nturned round and retraced his steps.\n\nMeanwhile his comrades had prepared the repast, had got some water from\na spring, spread out the fruit and bread, and cooked the kid. Just at\nthe moment when they were taking the dainty animal from the spit, they\nsaw Edmond springing with the boldness of a chamois from rock to rock,\nand they fired the signal agreed upon. The sportsman instantly changed\nhis direction, and ran quickly towards them. But even while they\nwatched his daring progress, Edmond s foot slipped, and they saw him\nstagger on the edge of a rock and disappear. They all rushed towards\nhim, for all loved Edmond in spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo\nreached him first.\n\nHe found Edmond lying prone, bleeding, and almost senseless. He had\nrolled down a declivity of twelve or fifteen feet. They poured a little\nrum down his throat, and this remedy which had before been so\nbeneficial to him, produced the same effect as formerly. Edmond opened\nhis eyes, complained of great pain in his knee, a feeling of heaviness\nin his head, and severe pains in his loins. They wished to carry him to\nthe shore; but when they touched him, although under Jacopo s\ndirections, he declared, with heavy groans, that he could not bear to\nbe moved.\n\nIt may be supposed that Dant s did not now think of his dinner, but he\ninsisted that his comrades, who had not his reasons for fasting, should\nhave their meal. As for himself, he declared that he had only need of a\nlittle rest, and that when they returned he should be easier. The\nsailors did not require much urging. They were hungry, and the smell of\nthe roasted kid was very savory, and your tars are not very\nceremonious. An hour afterwards they returned. All that Edmond had been\nable to do was to drag himself about a dozen paces forward to lean\nagainst a moss-grown rock.\n\nBut, instead of growing easier, Dant s  pains appeared to increase in\nviolence. The old patron, who was obliged to sail in the morning in\norder to land his cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont and France,\nbetween Nice and Fr jus, urged Dant s to try and rise. Edmond made\ngreat exertions in order to comply; but at each effort he fell back,\nmoaning and turning pale.\n\n He has broken his ribs,  said the commander, in a low voice.  No\nmatter; he is an excellent fellow, and we must not leave him. We will\ntry and carry him on board the tartan. \n\nDant s declared, however, that he would rather die where he was than\nundergo the agony which the slightest movement cost him.\n\n Well,  said the patron,  let what may happen, it shall never be said\nthat we deserted a good comrade like you. We will not go till evening. \n\nThis very much astonished the sailors, although, not one opposed it.\nThe patron was so strict that this was the first time they had ever\nseen him give up an enterprise, or even delay in its execution. Dant s\nwould not allow that any such infraction of regular and proper rules\nshould be made in his favor.\n\n No, no,  he said to the patron,  I was awkward, and it is just that I\npay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave me a small supply of biscuit, a\ngun, powder, and balls, to kill the kids or defend myself at need, and\na pickaxe, that I may build a shelter if you delay in coming back for\nme. \n\n But you ll die of hunger,  said the patron.\n\n I would rather do so,  was Edmond s reply,  than suffer the\ninexpressible agonies which the slightest movement causes me. \n\nThe patron turned towards his vessel, which was rolling on the swell in\nthe little harbor, and, with sails partly set, would be ready for sea\nwhen her toilet should be completed.\n\n What are we to do, Maltese?  asked the captain.  We cannot leave you\nhere so, and yet we cannot stay. \n\n Go, go!  exclaimed Dant s.\n\n We shall be absent at least a week,  said the patron,  and then we\nmust run out of our course to come here and take you up again. \n\n Why,  said Dant s,  if in two or three days you hail any fishing-boat,\ndesire them to come here to me. I will pay twenty-five piastres for my\npassage back to Leghorn. If you do not come across one, return for me. \nThe patron shook his head.\n\n Listen, Captain Baldi; there s one way of settling this,  said Jacopo.\n Do you go, and I will stay and take care of the wounded man. \n\n And give up your share of the venture,  said Edmond,  to remain with\nme? \n\n Yes,  said Jacopo,  and without any hesitation. \n\n You are a good fellow and a kind-hearted messmate,  replied Edmond,\n and heaven will recompense you for your generous intentions; but I do\nnot wish anyone to stay with me. A day or two of rest will set me up,\nand I hope I shall find among the rocks certain herbs most excellent\nfor bruises. \n\nA peculiar smile passed over Dant s  lips; he squeezed Jacopo s hand\nwarmly, but nothing could shake his determination to remain and remain\nalone.\n\nThe smugglers left with Edmond what he had requested and set sail, but\nnot without turning about several times, and each time making signs of\na cordial farewell, to which Edmond replied with his hand only, as if\nhe could not move the rest of his body.\n\nThen, when they had disappeared, he said with a smile, Tis strange\nthat it should be among such men that we find proofs of friendship and\ndevotion.  Then he dragged himself cautiously to the top of a rock,\nfrom which he had a full view of the sea, and thence he saw the tartan\ncomplete her preparations for sailing, weigh anchor, and, balancing\nherself as gracefully as a water-fowl ere it takes to the wing, set\nsail.\n\nAt the end of an hour she was completely out of sight; at least, it was\nimpossible for the wounded man to see her any longer from the spot\nwhere he was. Then Dant s rose more agile and light than the kid among\nthe myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand,\nhis pickaxe in the other, and hastened towards the rock on which the\nmarks he had noted terminated.\n\n And now,  he exclaimed, remembering the tale of the Arabian fisherman,\nwhich Faria had related to him,  now, Open Sesame! \n\n\n\n Chapter 24. The Secret Cave\n\nThe sun had nearly reached the meridian, and his scorching rays fell\nfull on the rocks, which seemed themselves sensible of the heat.\nThousands of grasshoppers, hidden in the bushes, chirped with a\nmonotonous and dull note; the leaves of the myrtle and olive trees\nwaved and rustled in the wind. At every step that Edmond took he\ndisturbed the lizards glittering with the hues of the emerald; afar off\nhe saw the wild goats bounding from crag to crag. In a word, the island\nwas inhabited, yet Edmond felt himself alone, guided by the hand of\nGod.\n\nHe felt an indescribable sensation somewhat akin to dread that dread of\nthe daylight which even in the desert makes us fear we are watched and\nobserved. This feeling was so strong that at the moment when Edmond was\nabout to begin his labor, he stopped, laid down his pickaxe, seized his\ngun, mounted to the summit of the highest rock, and from thence gazed\nround in every direction.\n\nBut it was not upon Corsica, the very houses of which he could\ndistinguish; or on Sardinia; or on the Island of Elba, with its\nhistorical associations; or upon the almost imperceptible line that to\nthe experienced eye of a sailor alone revealed the coast of Genoa the\nproud, and Leghorn the commercial, that he gazed. It was at the\nbrigantine that had left in the morning, and the tartan that had just\nset sail, that Edmond fixed his eyes.\n\nThe first was just disappearing in the straits of Bonifacio; the other,\nfollowing an opposite direction, was about to round the Island of\nCorsica.\n\nThis sight reassured him. He then looked at the objects near him. He\nsaw that he was on the highest point of the island, a statue on this\nvast pedestal of granite, nothing human appearing in sight, while the\nblue ocean beat against the base of the island, and covered it with a\nfringe of foam. Then he descended with cautious and slow step, for he\ndreaded lest an accident similar to that he had so adroitly feigned\nshould happen in reality.\n\nDant s, as we have said, had traced the marks along the rocks, and he\nhad noticed that they led to a small creek, which was hidden like the\nbath of some ancient nymph. This creek was sufficiently wide at its\nmouth, and deep in the centre, to admit of the entrance of a small\nvessel of the lugger class, which would be perfectly concealed from\nobservation.\n\nThen following the clew that, in the hands of the Abb  Faria, had been\nso skilfully used to guide him through the D dalian labyrinth of\nprobabilities, he thought that the Cardinal Spada, anxious not to be\nwatched, had entered the creek, concealed his little barque, followed\nthe line marked by the notches in the rock, and at the end of it had\nburied his treasure. It was this idea that had brought Dant s back to\nthe circular rock. One thing only perplexed Edmond, and destroyed his\ntheory. How could this rock, which weighed several tons, have been\nlifted to this spot, without the aid of many men?\n\nSuddenly an idea flashed across his mind. Instead of raising it,\nthought he, they have lowered it. And he sprang from the rock in order\nto inspect the base on which it had formerly stood.\n\nHe soon perceived that a slope had been formed, and the rock had slid\nalong this until it stopped at the spot it now occupied. A large stone\nhad served as a wedge; flints and pebbles had been inserted around it,\nso as to conceal the orifice; this species of masonry had been covered\nwith earth, and grass and weeds had grown there, moss had clung to the\nstones, myrtle-bushes had taken root, and the old rock seemed fixed to\nthe earth.\n\n0301m\n\n\n\nDant s dug away the earth carefully, and detected, or fancied he\ndetected, the ingenious artifice. He attacked this wall, cemented by\nthe hand of time, with his pickaxe. After ten minutes  labor the wall\ngave way, and a hole large enough to insert the arm was opened.\n\nDant s went and cut the strongest olive-tree he could find, stripped\noff its branches, inserted it in the hole, and used it as a lever. But\nthe rock was too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to be moved by anyone\nman, were he Hercules himself. Dant s saw that he must attack the\nwedge. But how?\n\nHe cast his eyes around, and saw the horn full of powder which his\nfriend Jacopo had left him. He smiled; the infernal invention would\nserve him for this purpose.\n\nWith the aid of his pickaxe, Dant s, after the manner of a labor-saving\npioneer, dug a mine between the upper rock and the one that supported\nit, filled it with powder, then made a match by rolling his\nhandkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted it and retired.\n\nThe explosion soon followed; the upper rock was lifted from its base by\nthe terrific force of the powder; the lower one flew into pieces;\nthousands of insects escaped from the aperture Dant s had previously\nformed, and a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure,\nrolled himself along in darkening coils, and disappeared.\n\nDant s approached the upper rock, which now, without any support,\nleaned towards the sea. The intrepid treasure-seeker walked round it,\nand, selecting the spot from whence it appeared most susceptible to\nattack, placed his lever in one of the crevices, and strained every\nnerve to move the mass.\n\nThe rock, already shaken by the explosion, tottered on its base. Dant s\nredoubled his efforts; he seemed like one of the ancient Titans, who\nuprooted the mountains to hurl against the father of the gods. The rock\nyielded, rolled over, bounded from point to point, and finally\ndisappeared in the ocean.\n\nOn the spot it had occupied was a circular space, exposing an iron ring\nlet into a square flag-stone.\n\nDant s uttered a cry of joy and surprise; never had a first attempt\nbeen crowned with more perfect success. He would fain have continued,\nbut his knees trembled, and his heart beat so violently, and his sight\nbecame so dim, that he was forced to pause.\n\nThis feeling lasted but for a moment. Edmond inserted his lever in the\nring and exerted all his strength; the flag-stone yielded, and\ndisclosed steps that descended until they were lost in the obscurity of\na subterraneous grotto.\n\nAnyone else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dant s turned pale,\nhesitated, and reflected.\n\n Come,  said he to himself,  be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I\nmust not be cast down by the discovery that I have been deceived. What,\nthen, would be the use of all I have suffered? The heart breaks when,\nafter having been elated by flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions\ndestroyed. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no\ntreasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, C sar Borgia,\nthe intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable plunderer, has\nfollowed him, discovered his traces, pursued them as I have done,\nraised the stone, and descending before me, has left me nothing. \n\nHe remained motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on the gloomy\naperture that was open at his feet.\n\n Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain the\nslightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes simply a matter of\ncuriosity.  And he remained again motionless and thoughtful.\n\n Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied career of\nthat royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but a link in a long\nchain of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in one hand, a\nsword in the other, and within twenty paces, at the foot of this rock,\nperhaps two guards kept watch on land and sea, while their master\ndescended, as I am about to descend, dispelling the darkness before his\nawe-inspiring progress. \n\n0303m\n\n\n\n But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his secret? \nasked Dant s of himself.\n\n The fate,  replied he, smiling,  of those who buried Alaric, and were\ninterred with the corpse. \n\n Yet, had he come,  thought Dant s,  he would have found the treasure,\nand Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke, which he could\ndevour leaf by leaf, knew too well the value of time to waste it in\nreplacing this rock. I will go down. \n\nThen he descended, a smile on his lips, and murmuring that last word of\nhuman philosophy,  Perhaps! \n\nBut instead of the darkness, and the thick and mephitic atmosphere he\nhad expected to find, Dant s saw a dim and bluish light, which, as well\nas the air, entered, not merely by the aperture he had just formed, but\nby the interstices and crevices of the rock which were visible from\nwithout, and through which he could distinguish the blue sky and the\nwaving branches of the evergreen oaks, and the tendrils of the creepers\nthat grew from the rocks.\n\nAfter having stood a few minutes in the cavern, the atmosphere of which\nwas rather warm than damp, Dant s  eye, habituated as it was to\ndarkness, could pierce even to the remotest angles of the cavern, which\nwas of granite that sparkled like diamonds.\n\n Alas,  said Edmond, smiling,  these are the treasures the cardinal has\nleft; and the good abb , seeing in a dream these glittering walls, has\nindulged in fallacious hopes. \n\nBut he called to mind the words of the will, which he knew by heart.\n In the farthest angle of the second opening,  said the cardinal s\nwill. He had only found the first grotto; he had now to seek the\nsecond. Dant s continued his search. He reflected that this second\ngrotto must penetrate deeper into the island; he examined the stones,\nand sounded one part of the wall where he fancied the opening existed,\nmasked for precaution s sake.\n\nThe pickaxe struck for a moment with a dull sound that drew out of\nDant s  forehead large drops of perspiration. At last it seemed to him\nthat one part of the wall gave forth a more hollow and deeper echo; he\neagerly advanced, and with the quickness of perception that no one but\na prisoner possesses, saw that there, in all probability, the opening\nmust be.\n\nHowever, he, like C sar Borgia, knew the value of time; and, in order\nto avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the other walls with his\npickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and finding nothing\nthat appeared suspicious, returned to that part of the wall whence\nissued the consoling sound he had before heard.\n\nHe again struck it, and with greater force. Then a singular thing\noccurred. As he struck the wall, pieces of stucco similar to that used\nin the ground work of arabesques broke off, and fell to the ground in\nflakes, exposing a large white stone. The aperture of the rock had been\nclosed with stones, then this stucco had been applied, and painted to\nimitate granite. Dant s struck with the sharp end of his pickaxe, which\nentered someway between the interstices.\n\nIt was there he must dig.\n\nBut by some strange play of emotion, in proportion as the proofs that\nFaria, had not been deceived became stronger, so did his heart give\nway, and a feeling of discouragement stole over him. This last proof,\ninstead of giving him fresh strength, deprived him of it; the pickaxe\ndescended, or rather fell; he placed it on the ground, passed his hand\nover his brow, and remounted the stairs, alleging to himself, as an\nexcuse, a desire to be assured that no one was watching him, but in\nreality because he felt that he was about to faint.\n\nThe island was deserted, and the sun seemed to cover it with its fiery\nglance; afar off, a few small fishing boats studded the bosom of the\nblue ocean.\n\nDant s had tasted nothing, but he thought not of hunger at such a\nmoment; he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum, and again entered the\ncavern.\n\nThe pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was now like a feather in his\ngrasp; he seized it, and attacked the wall. After several blows he\nperceived that the stones were not cemented, but had been merely placed\none upon the other, and covered with stucco; he inserted the point of\nhis pickaxe, and using the handle as a lever, with joy soon saw the\nstone turn as if on hinges, and fall at his feet.\n\nHe had nothing more to do now, but with the iron tooth of the pickaxe\nto draw the stones towards him one by one. The aperture was already\nsufficiently large for him to enter, but by waiting, he could still\ncling to hope, and retard the certainty of deception. At last, after\nrenewed hesitation, Dant s entered the second grotto.\n\nThe second grotto was lower and more gloomy than the first; the air\nthat could only enter by the newly formed opening had the mephitic\nsmell Dant s was surprised not to find in the outer cavern. He waited\nin order to allow pure air to displace the foul atmosphere, and then\nwent on.\n\nAt the left of the opening was a dark and deep angle. But to Dant s \neye there was no darkness. He glanced around this second grotto; it\nwas, like the first, empty.\n\nThe treasure, if it existed, was buried in this corner. The time had at\nlength arrived; two feet of earth removed, and Dant s  fate would be\ndecided.\n\nHe advanced towards the angle, and summoning all his resolution,\nattacked the ground with the pickaxe. At the fifth or sixth blow the\npickaxe struck against an iron substance. Never did funeral knell,\nnever did alarm-bell, produce a greater effect on the hearer. Had\nDant s found nothing he could not have become more ghastly pale.\n\nHe again struck his pickaxe into the earth, and encountered the same\nresistance, but not the same sound.\n\n It is a casket of wood bound with iron,  thought he.\n\nAt this moment a shadow passed rapidly before the opening; Dant s\nseized his gun, sprang through the opening, and mounted the stair. A\nwild goat had passed before the mouth of the cave, and was feeding at a\nlittle distance. This would have been a favorable occasion to secure\nhis dinner; but Dant s feared lest the report of his gun should attract\nattention.\n\nHe thought a moment, cut a branch of a resinous tree, lighted it at the\nfire at which the smugglers had prepared their breakfast, and descended\nwith this torch.\n\nHe wished to see everything. He approached the hole he had dug, and\nnow, with the aid of the torch, saw that his pickaxe had in reality\nstruck against iron and wood. He planted his torch in the ground and\nresumed his labor.\n\nIn an instant a space three feet long by two feet broad was cleared,\nand Dant s could see an oaken coffer, bound with cut steel; in the\nmiddle of the lid he saw engraved on a silver plate, which was still\nuntarnished, the arms of the Spada family viz., a sword, _en pale_, on\nan oval shield, like all the Italian armorial bearings, and surmounted\nby a cardinal s hat.\n\nDant s easily recognized them, Faria had so often drawn them for him.\nThere was no longer any doubt: the treasure was there no one would have\nbeen at such pains to conceal an empty casket. In an instant he had\ncleared every obstacle away, and he saw successively the lock, placed\nbetween two padlocks, and the two handles at each end, all carved as\nthings were carved at that epoch, when art rendered the commonest\nmetals precious.\n\nDant s seized the handles, and strove to lift the coffer; it was\nimpossible. He sought to open it; lock and padlock were fastened; these\nfaithful guardians seemed unwilling to surrender their trust. Dant s\ninserted the sharp end of the pickaxe between the coffer and the lid,\nand pressing with all his force on the handle, burst open the\nfastenings. The hinges yielded in their turn and fell, still holding in\ntheir grasp fragments of the wood, and the chest was open.\n\n0307m\n\n\n\nEdmond was seized with vertigo; he cocked his gun and laid it beside\nhim. He then closed his eyes as children do in order that they may see\nin the resplendent night of their own imagination more stars than are\nvisible in the firmament; then he re-opened them, and stood motionless\nwith amazement.\n\nThree compartments divided the coffer. In the first, blazed piles of\ngolden coin; in the second, were ranged bars of unpolished gold, which\npossessed nothing attractive save their value; in the third, Edmond\ngrasped handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and rubies, which, as they fell\non one another, sounded like hail against glass.\n\nAfter having touched, felt, examined these treasures, Edmond rushed\nthrough the caverns like a man seized with frenzy; he leaped on a rock,\nfrom whence he could behold the sea. He was alone alone with these\ncountless, these unheard-of treasures! Was he awake, or was it but a\ndream? Was it a transient vision, or was he face to face with reality?\n\nHe would fain have gazed upon his gold, and yet he had not strength\nenough; for an instant he leaned his head in his hands as if to prevent\nhis senses from leaving him, and then rushed madly about the rocks of\nMonte Cristo, terrifying the wild goats and scaring the sea-fowls with\nhis wild cries and gestures; then he returned, and, still unable to\nbelieve the evidence of his senses, rushed into the grotto, and found\nhimself before this mine of gold and jewels.\n\nThis time he fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands convulsively,\nuttered a prayer intelligible to God alone. He soon became calmer and\nmore happy, for only now did he begin to realize his felicity.\n\nHe then set himself to work to count his fortune. There were a thousand\ningots of gold, each weighing from two to three pounds; then he piled\nup twenty-five thousand crowns, each worth about eighty francs of our\nmoney, and bearing the effigies of Alexander VI. and his predecessors;\nand he saw that the complement was not half empty. And he measured ten\ndouble handfuls of pearls, diamonds, and other gems, many of which,\nmounted by the most famous workmen, were valuable beyond their\nintrinsic worth.\n\nDant s saw the light gradually disappear, and fearing to be surprised\nin the cavern, left it, his gun in his hand. A piece of biscuit and a\nsmall quantity of rum formed his supper, and he snatched a few hours \nsleep, lying over the mouth of the cave.\n\nIt was a night of joy and terror, such as this man of stupendous\nemotions had already experienced twice or thrice in his lifetime.\n\n\n\n Chapter 25. The Unknown\n\nDay, for which Dant s had so eagerly and impatiently waited with open\neyes, again dawned. With the first light Dant s resumed his search.\nAgain he climbed the rocky height he had ascended the previous evening,\nand strained his view to catch every peculiarity of the landscape; but\nit wore the same wild, barren aspect when seen by the rays of the\nmorning sun which it had done when surveyed by the fading glimmer of\neve.\n\nDescending into the grotto, he lifted the stone, filled his pockets\nwith gems, put the box together as well and securely as he could,\nsprinkled fresh sand over the spot from which it had been taken, and\nthen carefully trod down the earth to give it everywhere a uniform\nappearance; then, quitting the grotto, he replaced the stone, heaping\non it broken masses of rocks and rough fragments of crumbling granite,\nfilling the interstices with earth, into which he deftly inserted\nrapidly growing plants, such as the wild myrtle and flowering thorn,\nthen carefully watering these new plantations, he scrupulously effaced\nevery trace of footsteps, leaving the approach to the cavern as\nsavage-looking and untrodden as he had found it. This done, he\nimpatiently awaited the return of his companions. To wait at Monte\nCristo for the purpose of watching like a dragon over the almost\nincalculable riches that had thus fallen into his possession satisfied\nnot the cravings of his heart, which yearned to return to dwell among\nmankind, and to assume the rank, power, and influence which are always\naccorded to wealth that first and greatest of all the forces within the\ngrasp of man.\n\nOn the sixth day, the smugglers returned. From a distance Dant s\nrecognized the rig and handling of _La Jeune Am lie_, and dragging\nhimself with affected difficulty towards the landing-place, he met his\ncompanions with an assurance that, although considerably better than\nwhen they quitted him, he still suffered acutely from his late\naccident. He then inquired how they had fared in their trip. To this\nquestion the smugglers replied that, although successful in landing\ntheir cargo in safety, they had scarcely done so when they received\nintelligence that a guard-ship had just quitted the port of Toulon and\nwas crowding all sail towards them. This obliged them to make all the\nspeed they could to evade the enemy, when they could but lament the\nabsence of Dant s, whose superior skill in the management of a vessel\nwould have availed them so materially. In fact, the pursuing vessel had\nalmost overtaken them when, fortunately, night came on, and enabled\nthem to double the Cape of Corsica, and so elude all further pursuit.\nUpon the whole, however, the trip had been sufficiently successful to\nsatisfy all concerned; while the crew, and particularly Jacopo,\nexpressed great regrets that Dant s had not been an equal sharer with\nthemselves in the profits, which amounted to no less a sum than fifty\npiastres each.\n\n0311m\n\n\n\nEdmond preserved the most admirable self-command, not suffering the\nfaintest indication of a smile to escape him at the enumeration of all\nthe benefits he would have reaped had he been able to quit the island;\nbut as _La Jeune Am lie_ had merely come to Monte Cristo to fetch him\naway, he embarked that same evening, and proceeded with the captain to\nLeghorn.\n\nArrived at Leghorn, he repaired to the house of a Jew, a dealer in\nprecious stones, to whom he disposed of four of his smallest diamonds\nfor five thousand francs each. Dant s half feared that such valuable\njewels in the hands of a poor sailor like himself might excite\nsuspicion; but the cunning purchaser asked no troublesome questions\nconcerning a bargain by which he gained a round profit of at least\neighty per cent.\n\nThe following day Dant s presented Jacopo with an entirely new vessel,\naccompanying the gift by a donation of one hundred piastres, that he\nmight provide himself with a suitable crew and other requisites for his\noutfit, upon condition that he would go at once to Marseilles for the\npurpose of inquiring after an old man named Louis Dant s, residing in\nthe All es de Meilhan, and also a young woman called Merc d s, an\ninhabitant of the Catalan village.\n\nJacopo could scarcely believe his senses at receiving this magnificent\npresent, which Dant s hastened to account for by saying that he had\nmerely been a sailor from whim and a desire to spite his family, who\ndid not allow him as much money as he liked to spend; but that on his\narrival at Leghorn he had come into possession of a large fortune, left\nhim by an uncle, whose sole heir he was. The superior education of\nDant s gave an air of such extreme probability to this statement that\nit never once occurred to Jacopo to doubt its accuracy.\n\nThe term for which Edmond had engaged to serve on board _La Jeune\nAm lie_ having expired, Dant s took leave of the captain, who at first\ntried all his powers of persuasion to induce him to remain as one of\nthe crew, but having been told the history of the legacy, he ceased to\nimportune him further.\n\nThe following morning Jacopo set sail for Marseilles, with directions\nfrom Dant s to join him at the Island of Monte Cristo.\n\nHaving seen Jacopo fairly out of the harbor, Dant s proceeded to make\nhis final adieus on board _La Jeune Am lie_, distributing so liberal a\ngratuity among her crew as to secure for him the good wishes of all,\nand expressions of cordial interest in all that concerned him. To the\ncaptain he promised to write when he had made up his mind as to his\nfuture plans. Then Dant s departed for Genoa.\n\nAt the moment of his arrival a small yacht was under trial in the bay;\nthis yacht had been built by order of an Englishman, who, having heard\nthat the Genoese excelled all other builders along the shores of the\nMediterranean in the construction of fast-sailing vessels, was desirous\nof possessing a specimen of their skill; the price agreed upon between\nthe Englishman and the Genoese builder was forty thousand francs.\nDant s, struck with the beauty and capability of the little vessel,\napplied to its owner to transfer it to him, offering sixty thousand\nfrancs, upon condition that he should be allowed to take immediate\npossession. The proposal was too advantageous to be refused, the more\nso as the person for whom the yacht was intended had gone upon a tour\nthrough Switzerland, and was not expected back in less than three weeks\nor a month, by which time the builder reckoned upon being able to\ncomplete another. A bargain was therefore struck. Dant s led the owner\nof the yacht to the dwelling of a Jew; retired with the latter for a\nfew minutes to a small back parlor, and upon their return the Jew\ncounted out to the shipbuilder the sum of sixty thousand francs in\nbright gold pieces.\n\nThe delighted builder then offered his services in providing a suitable\ncrew for the little vessel, but this Dant s declined with many thanks,\nsaying he was accustomed to cruise about quite alone, and his principal\npleasure consisted in managing his yacht himself; the only thing the\nbuilder could oblige him in would be to contrive a sort of secret\ncloset in the cabin at his bed s head, the closet to contain three\ndivisions, so constructed as to be concealed from all but himself. The\nbuilder cheerfully undertook the commission, and promised to have these\nsecret places completed by the next day, Dant s furnishing the\ndimensions and plan in accordance with which they were to be\nconstructed.\n\n0313m\n\n\n\nTwo hours afterward Dant s sailed from the port of Genoa, under the\ninspection of an immense crowd drawn together by curiosity to see the\nrich Spanish nobleman who preferred managing his own yacht. But their\nwonder was soon changed to admiration at seeing the perfect skill with\nwhich Dant s handled the helm. The boat, indeed, seemed to be animated\nwith almost human intelligence, so promptly did it obey the slightest\ntouch; and Dant s required but a short trial of his beautiful craft to\nacknowledge that the Genoese had not without reason attained their high\nreputation in the art of shipbuilding.\n\nThe spectators followed the little vessel with their eyes as long as it\nremained visible; they then turned their conjectures upon her probable\ndestination. Some insisted she was making for Corsica, others the\nIsland of Elba; bets were offered to any amount that she was bound for\nSpain; while Africa was positively reported by many persons as her\nintended course; but no one thought of Monte Cristo.\n\nYet thither it was that Dant s guided his vessel, and at Monte Cristo\nhe arrived at the close of the second day; his boat had proved herself\na first-class sailor, and had come the distance from Genoa in\nthirty-five hours. Dant s had carefully noted the general appearance of\nthe shore, and, instead of landing at the usual place, he dropped\nanchor in the little creek. The island was utterly deserted, and bore\nno evidence of having been visited since he went away; his treasure was\njust as he had left it.\n\nEarly on the following morning he commenced the removal of his riches,\nand ere nightfall the whole of his immense wealth was safely deposited\nin the compartments of the secret locker.\n\nA week passed by. Dant s employed it in man uvring his yacht round the\nisland, studying it as a skilful horseman would the animal he destined\nfor some important service, till at the end of that time he was\nperfectly conversant with its good and bad qualities. The former Dant s\nproposed to augment, the latter to remedy.\n\nUpon the eighth day he discerned a small vessel under full sail\napproaching Monte Cristo. As it drew near, he recognized it as the boat\nhe had given to Jacopo. He immediately signalled it. His signal was\nreturned, and in two hours afterwards the new-comer lay at anchor\nbeside the yacht.\n\nA mournful answer awaited each of Edmond s eager inquiries as to the\ninformation Jacopo had obtained. Old Dant s was dead, and Merc d s had\ndisappeared.\n\nDant s listened to these melancholy tidings with outward calmness; but,\nleaping lightly ashore, he signified his desire to be quite alone. In a\ncouple of hours he returned. Two of the men from Jacopo s boat came on\nboard the yacht to assist in navigating it, and he gave orders that she\nshould be steered direct to Marseilles. For his father s death he was\nin some manner prepared; but he knew not how to account for the\nmysterious disappearance of Merc d s.\n\nWithout divulging his secret, Dant s could not give sufficiently clear\ninstructions to an agent. There were, besides, other particulars he was\ndesirous of ascertaining, and those were of a nature he alone could\ninvestigate in a manner satisfactory to himself. His looking-glass had\nassured him, during his stay at Leghorn, that he ran no risk of\nrecognition; moreover, he had now the means of adopting any disguise he\nthought proper. One fine morning, then, his yacht, followed by the\nlittle fishing-boat, boldly entered the port of Marseilles, and\nanchored exactly opposite the spot from whence, on the\nnever-to-be-forgotten night of his departure for the Ch teau d If, he\nhad been put on board the boat destined to convey him thither.\n\n0315m\n\n\n\nStill Dant s could not view without a shudder the approach of a\ngendarme who accompanied the officers deputed to demand his bill of\nhealth ere the yacht was permitted to hold communication with the\nshore; but with that perfect self-possession he had acquired during his\nacquaintance with Faria, Dant s coolly presented an English passport he\nhad obtained from Leghorn, and as this gave him a standing which a\nFrench passport would not have afforded, he was informed that there\nexisted no obstacle to his immediate debarkation.\n\nThe first person to attract the attention of Dant s, as he landed on\nthe Canebi re, was one of the crew belonging to the _Pharaon_. Edmond\nwelcomed the meeting with this fellow who had been one of his own\nsailors as a sure means of testing the extent of the change which time\nhad worked in his own appearance. Going straight towards him, he\npropounded a variety of questions on different subjects, carefully\nwatching the man s countenance as he did so; but not a word or look\nimplied that he had the slightest idea of ever having seen before the\nperson with whom he was then conversing.\n\nGiving the sailor a piece of money in return for his civility, Dant s\nproceeded onwards; but ere he had gone many steps he heard the man\nloudly calling him to stop.\n\nDant s instantly turned to meet him.\n\n I beg your pardon, sir,  said the honest fellow, in almost breathless\nhaste,  but I believe you made a mistake; you intended to give me a\ntwo-franc piece, and see, you gave me a double Napoleon. \n\n Thank you, my good friend. I see that I have made a trifling mistake,\nas you say; but by way of rewarding your honesty I give you another\ndouble Napoleon, that you may drink to my health, and be able to ask\nyour messmates to join you. \n\nSo extreme was the surprise of the sailor, that he was unable even to\nthank Edmond, whose receding figure he continued to gaze after in\nspeechless astonishment.  Some nabob from India,  was his comment.\n\nDant s, meanwhile, went on his way. Each step he trod oppressed his\nheart with fresh emotion; his first and most indelible recollections\nwere there; not a tree, not a street, that he passed but seemed filled\nwith dear and cherished memories. And thus he proceeded onwards till he\narrived at the end of the Rue de Noailles, from whence a full view of\nthe All es de Meilhan was obtained. At this spot, so pregnant with fond\nand filial remembrances, his heart beat almost to bursting, his knees\ntottered under him, a mist floated over his sight, and had he not clung\nfor support to one of the trees, he would inevitably have fallen to the\nground and been crushed beneath the many vehicles continually passing\nthere. Recovering himself, however, he wiped the perspiration from his\nbrows, and stopped not again till he found himself at the door of the\nhouse in which his father had lived.\n\nThe nasturtiums and other plants, which his father had delighted to\ntrain before his window, had all disappeared from the upper part of the\nhouse.\n\nLeaning against the tree, he gazed thoughtfully for a time at the upper\nstories of the shabby little house. Then he advanced to the door, and\nasked whether there were any rooms to be let. Though answered in the\nnegative, he begged so earnestly to be permitted to visit those on the\nfifth floor, that, in despite of the oft-repeated assurance of the\n_concierge_ that they were occupied, Dant s succeeded in inducing the\nman to go up to the tenants, and ask permission for a gentleman to be\nallowed to look at them.\n\nThe tenants of the humble lodging were a young couple who had been\nscarcely married a week; and seeing them, Dant s sighed heavily.\nNothing in the two small chambers forming the apartments remained as it\nhad been in the time of the elder Dant s; the very paper was different,\nwhile the articles of antiquated furniture with which the rooms had\nbeen filled in Edmond s time had all disappeared; the four walls alone\nremained as he had left them.\n\nThe bed belonging to the present occupants was placed as the former\nowner of the chamber had been accustomed to have his; and, in spite of\nhis efforts to prevent it, the eyes of Edmond were suffused in tears as\nhe reflected that on that spot the old man had breathed his last,\nvainly calling for his son.\n\nThe young couple gazed with astonishment at the sight of their\nvisitor s emotion, and wondered to see the large tears silently chasing\neach other down his otherwise stern and immovable features; but they\nfelt the sacredness of his grief, and kindly refrained from questioning\nhim as to its cause, while, with instinctive delicacy, they left him to\nindulge his sorrow alone.\n\n0317m\n\n\n\nWhen he withdrew from the scene of his painful recollections, they both\naccompanied him downstairs, reiterating their hope that he would come\nagain whenever he pleased, and assuring him that their poor dwelling\nwould ever be open to him.\n\nAs Edmond passed the door on the fourth floor, he paused to inquire\nwhether Caderousse the tailor still dwelt there; but he received for\nreply, that the person in question had got into difficulties, and at\nthe present time kept a small inn on the route from Bellegarde to\nBeaucaire.\n\nHaving obtained the address of the person to whom the house in the\nAll es de Meilhan belonged, Dant s next proceeded thither, and, under\nthe name of Lord Wilmore (the name and title inscribed on his\npassport), purchased the small dwelling for the sum of twenty-five\nthousand francs, at least ten thousand more than it was worth; but had\nits owner asked half a million, it would unhesitatingly have been\ngiven.\n\nThe very same day the occupants of the apartments on the fifth floor of\nthe house, now become the property of Dant s, were duly informed by the\nnotary who had arranged the necessary transfer of deeds, etc., that the\nnew landlord gave them their choice of any of the rooms in the house,\nwithout the least augmentation of rent, upon condition of their giving\ninstant possession of the two small chambers they at present inhabited.\n\nThis strange event aroused great wonder and curiosity in the\nneighborhood of the All es de Meilhan, and a multitude of theories were\nafloat, none of which was anywhere near the truth. But what raised\npublic astonishment to a climax, and set all conjecture at defiance,\nwas the knowledge that the same stranger who had in the morning visited\nthe All es de Meilhan had been seen in the evening walking in the\nlittle village of the Catalans, and afterwards observed to enter a poor\nfisherman s hut, and to pass more than an hour in inquiring after\npersons who had either been dead or gone away for more than fifteen or\nsixteen years.\n\nBut on the following day the family from whom all these particulars had\nbeen asked received a handsome present, consisting of an entirely new\nfishing-boat, with two seines and a tender.\n\nThe delighted recipients of these munificent gifts would gladly have\npoured out their thanks to their generous benefactor, but they had seen\nhim, upon quitting the hut, merely give some orders to a sailor, and\nthen springing lightly on horseback, leave Marseilles by the Porte\nd Aix.\n\n\n\n Chapter 26. The Pont du Gard Inn\n\nSuch of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of\nFrance may perchance have noticed, about midway between the town of\nBeaucaire and the village of Bellegarde, a little nearer to the former\nthan to the latter, a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung,\ncreaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a\ngrotesque representation of the Pont du Gard. This modern place of\nentertainment stood on the left-hand side of the post road, and backed\nupon the Rh ne. It also boasted of what in Languedoc is styled a\ngarden, consisting of a small plot of ground, on the side opposite to\nthe main entrance reserved for the reception of guests. A few dingy\nolives and stunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but their\nwithered dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was the conflict.\nBetween these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes,\nand eschalots; while, lone and solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a\ntall pine raised its melancholy head in one of the corners of this\nunattractive spot, and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped\nsummit dried and cracked by the fierce heat of the sub-tropical sun.\n\nAll these trees, great or small, were turned in the direction to which\nthe Mistral blows, one of the three curses of Provence, the others\nbeing the Durance and the Parliament.\n\nIn the surrounding plain, which more resembled a dusty lake than solid\nground, were scattered a few miserable stalks of wheat, the effect, no\ndoubt, of a curious desire on the part of the agriculturists of the\ncountry to see whether such a thing as the raising of grain in those\nparched regions was practicable. Each stalk served as a perch for a\ngrasshopper, which regaled the passers-by through this Egyptian scene\nwith its strident, monotonous note.\n\nFor about seven or eight years the little tavern had been kept by a man\nand his wife, with two servants, a chambermaid named Trinette, and a\nhostler called Pecaud. This small staff was quite equal to all the\nrequirements, for a canal between Beaucaire and Aiguemortes had\nrevolutionized transportation by substituting boats for the cart and\nthe stagecoach. And, as though to add to the daily misery which this\nprosperous canal inflicted on the unfortunate innkeeper, whose utter\nruin it was fast accomplishing, it was situated between the Rh ne from\nwhich it had its source and the post-road it had depleted, not a\nhundred steps from the inn, of which we have given a brief but faithful\ndescription.\n\nThe innkeeper himself was a man of from forty to fifty-five years of\nage, tall, strong, and bony, a perfect specimen of the natives of those\nsouthern latitudes; he had dark, sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hooked\nnose, and teeth white as those of a carnivorous animal; his hair, like\nhis beard, which he wore under his chin, was thick and curly, and in\nspite of his age but slightly interspersed with a few silvery threads.\nHis naturally dark complexion had assumed a still further shade of\nbrown from the habit the unfortunate man had acquired of stationing\nhimself from morning till eve at the threshold of his door, on the\nlookout for guests who seldom came, yet there he stood, day after day,\nexposed to the meridional rays of a burning sun, with no other\nprotection for his head than a red handkerchief twisted around it,\nafter the manner of the Spanish muleteers. This man was our old\nacquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse.\n\nHis wife, on the contrary, whose maiden name had been Madeleine\nRadelle, was pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born in the neighborhood\nof Arles, she had shared in the beauty for which its women are\nproverbial; but that beauty had gradually withered beneath the\ndevastating influence of the slow fever so prevalent among dwellers by\nthe ponds of Aiguemortes and the marshes of Camargue. She remained\nnearly always in her second-floor chamber, shivering in her chair, or\nstretched languid and feeble on her bed, while her husband kept his\ndaily watch at the door a duty he performed with so much the greater\nwillingness, as it saved him the necessity of listening to the endless\nplaints and murmurs of his helpmate, who never saw him without breaking\nout into bitter invectives against fate; to all of which her husband\nwould calmly return an unvarying reply, in these philosophic words:\n\n Hush, La Carconte. It is God s pleasure that things should be so. \n\nThe sobriquet of La Carconte had been bestowed on Madeleine Radelle\nfrom the fact that she had been born in a village, so called, situated\nbetween Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom existed among the\ninhabitants of that part of France where Caderousse lived of styling\nevery person by some particular and distinctive appellation, her\nhusband had bestowed on her the name of La Carconte in place of her\nsweet and euphonious name of Madeleine, which, in all probability, his\nrude gutteral language would not have enabled him to pronounce.\n\nStill, let it not be supposed that amid this affected resignation to\nthe will of Providence, the unfortunate innkeeper did not writhe under\nthe double misery of seeing the hateful canal carry off his customers\nand his profits, and the daily infliction of his peevish partner s\nmurmurs and lamentations.\n\n0323m\n\n\n\nLike other dwellers in the south, he was a man of sober habits and\nmoderate desires, but fond of external show, vain, and addicted to\ndisplay. During the days of his prosperity, not a festivity took place\nwithout himself and wife being among the spectators. He dressed in the\npicturesque costume worn upon grand occasions by the inhabitants of the\nsouth of France, bearing equal resemblance to the style adopted both by\nthe Catalans and Andalusians; while La Carconte displayed the charming\nfashion prevalent among the women of Arles, a mode of attire borrowed\nequally from Greece and Arabia. But, by degrees, watch-chains,\nnecklaces, parti-colored scarves, embroidered bodices, velvet vests,\nelegantly worked stockings, striped gaiters, and silver buckles for the\nshoes, all disappeared; and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to appear abroad\nin his pristine splendor, had given up any further participation in the\npomps and vanities, both for himself and wife, although a bitter\nfeeling of envious discontent filled his mind as the sound of mirth and\nmerry music from the joyous revellers reached even the miserable\nhostelry to which he still clung, more for the shelter than the profit\nit afforded.\n\nCaderousse, then, was, as usual, at his place of observation before the\ndoor, his eyes glancing listlessly from a piece of closely shaven\ngrass on which some fowls were industriously, though fruitlessly,\nendeavoring to turn up some grain or insect suited to their palate to\nthe deserted road, which led away to the north and south, when he was\naroused by the shrill voice of his wife, and grumbling to himself as he\nwent, he mounted to her chamber, first taking care, however, to set the\nentrance door wide open, as an invitation to any chance traveller who\nmight be passing.\n\nAt the moment Caderousse quitted his sentry-like watch before the door,\nthe road on which he so eagerly strained his sight was void and lonely\nas a desert at midday. There it lay stretching out into one\ninterminable line of dust and sand, with its sides bordered by tall,\nmeagre trees, altogether presenting so uninviting an appearance, that\nno one in his senses could have imagined that any traveller, at liberty\nto regulate his hours for journeying, would choose to expose himself in\nsuch a formidable Sahara.\n\nNevertheless, had Caderousse but retained his post a few minutes\nlonger, he might have caught a dim outline of something approaching\nfrom the direction of Bellegarde; as the moving object drew nearer, he\nwould easily have perceived that it consisted of a man and horse,\nbetween whom the kindest and most amiable understanding appeared to\nexist. The horse was of Hungarian breed, and ambled along at an easy\npace. His rider was a priest, dressed in black, and wearing a\nthree-cornered hat; and, spite of the ardent rays of a noonday sun, the\npair came on with a fair degree of rapidity.\n\nHaving arrived before the Pont du Gard, the horse stopped, but whether\nfor his own pleasure or that of his rider would have been difficult to\nsay. However that might have been, the priest, dismounting, led his\nsteed by the bridle in search of some place to which he could secure\nhim. Availing himself of a handle that projected from a half-fallen\ndoor, he tied the animal safely and having drawn a red cotton\nhandkerchief, from his pocket, wiped away the perspiration that\nstreamed from his brow, then, advancing to the door, struck thrice with\nthe end of his iron-shod stick.\n\nAt this unusual sound, a huge black dog came rushing to meet the daring\nassailant of his ordinarily tranquil abode, snarling and displaying his\nsharp white teeth with a determined hostility that abundantly proved\nhow little he was accustomed to society. At that moment a heavy\nfootstep was heard descending the wooden staircase that led from the\nupper floor, and, with many bows and courteous smiles, the host of the\nPont du Gard besought his guest to enter.\n\n0319m\n\n\n\n You are welcome, sir, most welcome!  repeated the astonished\nCaderousse.  Now, then, Margotin,  cried he, speaking to the dog,  will\nyou be quiet? Pray don t heed him, sir! he only barks, he never bites.\nI make no doubt a glass of good wine would be acceptable this\ndreadfully hot day.  Then perceiving for the first time the garb of the\ntraveller he had to entertain, Caderousse hastily exclaimed:  A\nthousand pardons! I really did not observe whom I had the honor to\nreceive under my poor roof. What would the abb  please to have? What\nrefreshment can I offer? All I have is at his service. \n\nThe priest gazed on the person addressing him with a long and searching\ngaze there even seemed a disposition on his part to court a similar\nscrutiny on the part of the innkeeper; then, observing in the\ncountenance of the latter no other expression than extreme surprise at\nhis own want of attention to an inquiry so courteously worded, he\ndeemed it as well to terminate this dumb show, and therefore said,\nspeaking with a strong Italian accent,  You are, I presume, M.\nCaderousse? \n\n Yes, sir,  answered the host, even more surprised at the question than\nhe had been by the silence which had preceded it;  I am Gaspard\nCaderousse, at your service. \n\n Gaspard Caderousse,  rejoined the priest.  Yes, Christian and surname\nare the same. You formerly lived, I believe in the All es de Meilhan,\non the fourth floor? \n\n0325m\n\n\n\n I did. \n\n And you followed the business of a tailor? \n\n True, I was a tailor, till the trade fell off. It is so hot at\nMarseilles, that really I believe that the respectable inhabitants will\nin time go without any clothing whatever. But talking of heat, is there\nnothing I can offer you by way of refreshment? \n\n Yes; let me have a bottle of your best wine, and then, with your\npermission, we will resume our conversation from where we left off. \n\n As you please, sir,  said Caderousse, who, anxious not to lose the\npresent opportunity of finding a customer for one of the few bottles of\nCahors still remaining in his possession, hastily raised a trap-door in\nthe floor of the apartment they were in, which served both as parlor\nand kitchen.\n\nUpon issuing forth from his subterranean retreat at the expiration of\nfive minutes, he found the abb  seated upon a wooden stool, leaning his\nelbow on a table, while Margotin, whose animosity seemed appeased by\nthe unusual command of the traveller for refreshments, had crept up to\nhim, and had established himself very comfortably between his knees,\nhis long, skinny neck resting on his lap, while his dim eye was fixed\nearnestly on the traveller s face.\n\n Are you quite alone?  inquired the guest, as Caderousse placed before\nhim the bottle of wine and a glass.\n\n Quite, quite alone,  replied the man or, at least, practically so,\nfor my poor wife, who is the only person in the house besides myself,\nis laid up with illness, and unable to render me the least assistance,\npoor thing! \n\n You are married, then?  said the priest, with a show of interest,\nglancing round as he spoke at the scanty furnishings of the apartment.\n\n Ah, sir,  said Caderousse with a sigh,  it is easy to perceive I am\nnot a rich man; but in this world a man does not thrive the better for\nbeing honest.  The abb  fixed on him a searching, penetrating glance.\n\n Yes, honest I can certainly say that much for myself,  continued the\ninnkeeper, fairly sustaining the scrutiny of the abb s gaze;  I can\nboast with truth of being an honest man; and,  continued he\nsignificantly, with a hand on his breast and shaking his head,  that is\nmore than everyone can say nowadays. \n\n0327m\n\n\n\n So much the better for you, if what you assert be true,  said the\nabb ;  for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner or later, the good will\nbe rewarded, and the wicked punished. \n\n Such words as those belong to your profession,  answered Caderousse,\n and you do well to repeat them; but,  added he, with a bitter\nexpression of countenance,  one is free to believe them or not, as one\npleases. \n\n You are wrong to speak thus,  said the abb ;  and perhaps I may, in my\nown person, be able to prove to you how completely you are in error. \n\n What mean you?  inquired Caderousse with a look of surprise.\n\n In the first place, I must be satisfied that you are the person I am\nin search of. \n\n What proofs do you require? \n\n Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, know anything of a young sailor\nnamed Dant s? \n\n Dant s? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dant s and myself\nwere intimate friends!  exclaimed Caderousse, whose countenance flushed\ndarkly as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abb  fixed on him,\nwhile the clear, calm eye of the questioner seemed to dilate with\nfeverish scrutiny.\n\n You remind me,  said the priest,  that the young man concerning whom I\nasked you was said to bear the name of Edmond. \n\n Said to bear the name!  repeated Caderousse, becoming excited and\neager.  Why, he was so called as truly as I myself bore the appellation\nof Gaspard Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what has become of poor\nEdmond? Did you know him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he prosperous\nand happy? \n\n He died a more wretched, hopeless, heart-broken prisoner than the\nfelons who pay the penalty of their crimes at the galleys of Toulon. \n\nA deadly pallor followed the flush on the countenance of Caderousse,\nwho turned away, and the priest saw him wiping the tears from his eyes\nwith the corner of the red handkerchief twisted round his head.\n\n Poor fellow, poor fellow!  murmured Caderousse.  Well, there, sir, is\nanother proof that good people are never rewarded on this earth, and\nthat none but the wicked prosper. Ah,  continued Caderousse, speaking\nin the highly colored language of the South,  the world grows worse and\nworse. Why does not God, if he really hates the wicked, as he is said\nto do, send down brimstone and fire, and consume them altogether? \n\n You speak as though you had loved this young Dant s,  observed the\nabb , without taking any notice of his companion s vehemence.\n\n And so I did,  replied Caderousse;  though once, I confess, I envied\nhim his good fortune. But I swear to you, sir, I swear to you, by\neverything a man holds dear, I have, since then, deeply and sincerely\nlamented his unhappy fate. \n\nThere was a brief silence, during which the fixed, searching eye of the\nabb  was employed in scrutinizing the agitated features of the\ninnkeeper.\n\n You knew the poor lad, then?  continued Caderousse.\n\n I was called to see him on his dying bed, that I might administer to\nhim the consolations of religion. \n\n And of what did he die?  asked Caderousse in a choking voice.\n\n Of what, think you, do young and strong men die in prison, when they\nhave scarcely numbered their thirtieth year, unless it be of\nimprisonment?  Caderousse wiped away the large beads of perspiration\nthat gathered on his brow.\n\n0329m\n\n\n\n But the strangest part of the story is,  resumed the abb ,  that\nDant s, even in his dying moments, swore by his crucified Redeemer,\nthat he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his detention. \n\n And so he was,  murmured Caderousse.  How should he have been\notherwise? Ah, sir, the poor fellow told you the truth. \n\n And for that reason, he besought me to try and clear up a mystery he\nhad never been able to penetrate, and to clear his memory should any\nfoul spot or stain have fallen on it. \n\nAnd here the look of the abb , becoming more and more fixed, seemed to\nrest with ill-concealed satisfaction on the gloomy depression which was\nrapidly spreading over the countenance of Caderousse.\n\n A rich Englishman,  continued the abb ,  who had been his companion in\nmisfortune, but had been released from prison during the second\nrestoration, was possessed of a diamond of immense value; this jewel he\nbestowed on Dant s upon himself quitting the prison, as a mark of his\ngratitude for the kindness and brotherly care with which Dant s had\nnursed him in a severe illness he underwent during his confinement.\nInstead of employing this diamond in attempting to bribe his jailers,\nwho might only have taken it and then betrayed him to the governor,\nDant s carefully preserved it, that in the event of his getting out of\nprison he might have wherewithal to live, for the sale of such a\ndiamond would have quite sufficed to make his fortune. \n\n Then, I suppose,  asked Caderousse, with eager, glowing looks,  that\nit was a stone of immense value? \n\n Why, everything is relative,  answered the abb .  To one in Edmond s\nposition the diamond certainly was of great value. It was estimated at\nfifty thousand francs. \n\n Bless me!  exclaimed Caderousse,  fifty thousand francs! Surely the\ndiamond was as large as a nut to be worth all that. \n\n No,  replied the abb ,  it was not of such a size as that; but you\nshall judge for yourself. I have it with me. \n\nThe sharp gaze of Caderousse was instantly directed towards the\npriest s garments, as though hoping to discover the location of the\ntreasure. Calmly drawing forth from his pocket a small box covered with\nblack shagreen, the abb  opened it, and displayed to the dazzled eyes\nof Caderousse the sparkling jewel it contained, set in a ring of\nadmirable workmanship.\n\n And that diamond,  cried Caderousse, almost breathless with eager\nadmiration,  you say, is worth fifty thousand francs? \n\n It is, without the setting, which is also valuable,  replied the abb ,\nas he closed the box, and returned it to his pocket, while its\nbrilliant hues seemed still to dance before the eyes of the fascinated\ninnkeeper.\n\n But how comes the diamond in your possession, sir? Did Edmond make you\nhis heir? \n\n No, merely his testamentary executor.  I once possessed four dear and\nfaithful friends, besides the maiden to whom I was betrothed  he said;\n and I feel convinced they have all unfeignedly grieved over my loss.\nThe name of one of the four friends is Caderousse.  The innkeeper\nshivered.\n\n Another of the number,  continued the abb , without seeming to\nnotice the emotion of Caderousse,  is called Danglars; and the third,\nin spite of being my rival, entertained a very sincere affection for\nme. \n\nA fiendish smile played over the features of Caderousse, who was about\nto break in upon the abb s speech, when the latter, waving his hand,\nsaid,  Allow me to finish first, and then if you have any observations\nto make, you can do so afterwards.  The third of my friends, although\nmy rival, was much attached to me, his name was Fernand; that of my\nbetrothed was Stay, stay,  continued the abb ,  I have forgotten what\nhe called her. \n\n Merc d s,  said Caderousse eagerly.\n\n True,  said the abb , with a stifled sigh,  Merc d s it was. \n\n Go on,  urged Caderousse.\n\n Bring me a _carafe_ of water,  said the abb .\n\nCaderousse quickly performed the stranger s bidding; and after pouring\nsome into a glass, and slowly swallowing its contents, the abb ,\nresuming his usual placidity of manner, said, as he placed his empty\nglass on the table:\n\n Where did we leave off? \n\n The name of Edmond s betrothed was Merc d s. \n\n To be sure.  You will go to Marseilles,  said Dant s, for you\nunderstand, I repeat his words just as he uttered them. Do you\nunderstand? \n\n Perfectly. \n\n You will sell this diamond; you will divide the money into five equal\nparts, and give an equal portion to these good friends, the only\npersons who have loved me upon earth. \n\n But why into five parts?  asked Caderousse;  you only mentioned four\npersons. \n\n Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. The fifth sharer in Edmond s\nbequest, was his own father. \n\n Too true, too true!  ejaculated Caderousse, almost suffocated by the\ncontending passions which assailed him,  the poor old man did die. \n\n I learned so much at Marseilles,  replied the abb , making a strong\neffort to appear indifferent;  but from the length of time that has\nelapsed since the death of the elder Dant s, I was unable to obtain any\nparticulars of his end. Can you enlighten me on that point? \n\n I do not know who could if I could not,  said Caderousse.  Why, I\nlived almost on the same floor with the poor old man. Ah, yes, about a\nyear after the disappearance of his son the poor old man died. \n\n Of what did he die? \n\n Why, the doctors called his complaint gastro-enteritis, I believe; his\nacquaintances say he died of grief; but I, who saw him in his dying\nmoments, I say he died of \n\nCaderousse paused.\n\n Of what?  asked the priest, anxiously and eagerly.\n\n Why, of downright starvation. \n\n Starvation!  exclaimed the abb , springing from his seat.  Why, the\nvilest animals are not suffered to die by such a death as that. The\nvery dogs that wander houseless and homeless in the streets find some\npitying hand to cast them a mouthful of bread; and that a man, a\nChristian, should be allowed to perish of hunger in the midst of other\nmen who call themselves Christians, is too horrible for belief. Oh, it\nis impossible! utterly impossible! \n\n What I have said, I have said,  answered Caderousse.\n\n And you are a fool for having said anything about it,  said a voice\nfrom the top of the stairs.  Why should you meddle with what does not\nconcern you? \n\nThe two men turned quickly, and saw the sickly countenance of La\nCarconte peering between the baluster rails; attracted by the sound of\nvoices, she had feebly dragged herself down the stairs, and, seated on\nthe lower step, head on knees, she had listened to the foregoing\nconversation.\n\n Mind your own business, wife,  replied Caderousse sharply.  This\ngentleman asks me for information, which common politeness will not\npermit me to refuse. \n\n Politeness, you simpleton!  retorted La Carconte.  What have you to do\nwith politeness, I should like to know? Better study a little common\nprudence. How do you know the motives that person may have for trying\nto extract all he can from you? \n\n I pledge you my word, madam,  said the abb ,  that my intentions are\ngood; and that your husband can incur no risk, provided he answers me\ncandidly. \n\n Ah, that s all very fine,  retorted the woman.  Nothing is easier than\nto begin with fair promises and assurances of nothing to fear; but when\npoor, silly folks, like my husband there, have been persuaded to tell\nall they know, the promises and assurances of safety are quickly\nforgotten; and at some moment when nobody is expecting it, behold\ntrouble and misery, and all sorts of persecutions, are heaped on the\nunfortunate wretches, who cannot even see whence all their afflictions\ncome. \n\n Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself perfectly easy, I beg of you.\nWhatever evils may befall you, they will not be occasioned by my\ninstrumentality, that I solemnly promise you. \n\nLa Carconte muttered a few inarticulate words, then let her head again\ndrop upon her knees, and went into a fit of ague, leaving the two\nspeakers to resume the conversation, but remaining so as to be able to\nhear every word they uttered. Again the abb  had been obliged to\nswallow a draught of water to calm the emotions that threatened to\noverpower him.\n\nWhen he had sufficiently recovered himself, he said,  It appears, then,\nthat the miserable old man you were telling me of was forsaken by\neveryone. Surely, had not such been the case, he would not have\nperished by so dreadful a death. \n\n Why, he was not altogether forsaken,  continued Caderousse,  for\nMerc d s the Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very kind to him; but\nsomehow the poor old man had contracted a profound hatred for\nFernand the very person,  added Caderousse with a bitter smile,  that\nyou named just now as being one of Dant s  faithful and attached\nfriends. \n\n And was he not so?  asked the abb .\n\n Gaspard, Gaspard!  murmured the woman, from her seat on the stairs,\n mind what you are saying! \n\nCaderousse made no reply to these words, though evidently irritated and\nannoyed by the interruption, but, addressing the abb , said,  Can a man\nbe faithful to another whose wife he covets and desires for himself?\nBut Dant s was so honorable and true in his own nature, that he\nbelieved everybody s professions of friendship. Poor Edmond, he was\ncruelly deceived; but it was fortunate that he never knew, or he might\nhave found it more difficult, when on his deathbed, to pardon his\nenemies. And, whatever people may say,  continued Caderousse, in his\nnative language, which was not altogether devoid of rude poetry,  I\ncannot help being more frightened at the idea of the malediction of the\ndead than the hatred of the living. \n\n Imbecile!  exclaimed La Carconte.\n\n Do you, then, know in what manner Fernand injured Dant s?  inquired\nthe abb  of Caderousse.\n\n Do I? No one better. \n\n Speak out then, say what it was! \n\n Gaspard!  cried La Carconte,  do as you will; you are master but if\nyou take my advice you ll hold your tongue. \n\n Well, wife,  replied Caderousse,  I don t know but what you re right! \n\n So you will say nothing?  asked the abb .\n\n Why, what good would it do?  asked Caderousse.  If the poor lad were\nliving, and came to me and begged that I would candidly tell which were\nhis true and which his false friends, why, perhaps, I should not\nhesitate. But you tell me he is no more, and therefore can have nothing\nto do with hatred or revenge, so let all such feeling be buried with\nhim. \n\n You prefer, then,  said the abb ,  that I should bestow on men you say\nare false and treacherous, the reward intended for faithful\nfriendship? \n\n That is true enough,  returned Caderousse.  You say truly, the gift of\npoor Edmond was not meant for such traitors as Fernand and Danglars;\nbesides, what would it be to them? no more than a drop of water in the\nocean. \n\n Remember,  chimed in La Carconte,  those two could crush you at a\nsingle blow! \n\n How so?  inquired the abb .  Are these persons, then, so rich and\npowerful? \n\n Do you not know their history? \n\n I do not. Pray relate it to me! \n\nCaderousse seemed to reflect for a few moments, then said,  No, truly,\nit would take up too much time. \n\n Well, my good friend,  returned the abb , in a tone that indicated\nutter indifference on his part,  you are at liberty, either to speak or\nbe silent, just as you please; for my own part, I respect your scruples\nand admire your sentiments; so let the matter end. I shall do my duty\nas conscientiously as I can, and fulfil my promise to the dying man. My\nfirst business will be to dispose of this diamond. \n\nSo saying, the abb  again drew the small box from his pocket, opened\nit, and contrived to hold it in such a light, that a bright flash of\nbrilliant hues passed before the dazzled gaze of Caderousse.\n\n Wife, wife!  cried he in a hoarse voice,  come here! \n\n Diamond!  exclaimed La Carconte, rising and descending to the chamber\nwith a tolerably firm step;  what diamond are you talking about? \n\n Why, did you not hear all we said?  inquired Caderousse.  It is a\nbeautiful diamond left by poor Edmond Dant s, to be sold, and the money\ndivided between his father, Merc d s, his betrothed bride, Fernand,\nDanglars, and myself. The jewel is worth at least fifty thousand\nfrancs. \n\n Oh, what a magnificent jewel!  cried the astonished woman.\n\n The fifth part of the profits from this stone belongs to us then, does\nit not?  asked Caderousse.\n\n It does,  replied the abb ;  with the addition of an equal division of\nthat part intended for the elder Dant s, which I believe myself at\nliberty to divide equally with the four survivors. \n\n And why among us four?  inquired Caderousse.\n\n As being the friends Edmond esteemed most faithful and devoted to\nhim. \n\n I don t call those friends who betray and ruin you,  murmured the wife\nin her turn, in a low, muttering voice.\n\n Of course not!  rejoined Caderousse quickly;  no more do I, and that\nwas what I was observing to this gentleman just now. I said I looked\nupon it as a sacrilegious profanation to reward treachery, perhaps\ncrime. \n\n Remember,  answered the abb  calmly, as he replaced the jewel and its\ncase in the pocket of his cassock,  it is your fault, not mine, that I\ndo so. You will have the goodness to furnish me with the address of\nboth Fernand and Danglars, in order that I may execute Edmond s last\nwishes. \n\nThe agitation of Caderousse became extreme, and large drops of\nperspiration rolled from his heated brow. As he saw the abb  rise from\nhis seat and go towards the door, as though to ascertain if his horse\nwere sufficiently refreshed to continue his journey, Caderousse and his\nwife exchanged looks of deep meaning.\n\n0335m\n\n\n\n There, you see, wife,  said the former,  this splendid diamond might\nall be ours, if we chose! \n\n Do you believe it? \n\n Why, surely a man of his holy profession would not deceive us! \n\n Well,  replied La Carconte,  do as you like. For my part, I wash my\nhands of the affair. \n\nSo saying, she once more climbed the staircase leading to her chamber,\nher body convulsed with chills, and her teeth rattling in her head, in\nspite of the intense heat of the weather. Arrived at the top stair, she\nturned round, and called out, in a warning tone, to her husband,\n Gaspard, consider well what you are about to do! \n\n I have both reflected and decided,  answered he.\n\nLa Carconte then entered her chamber, the flooring of which creaked\nbeneath her heavy, uncertain tread, as she proceeded towards her\narmchair, into which she fell as though exhausted.\n\n Well,  asked the abb , as he returned to the apartment below,  what\nhave you made up your mind to do? \n\n To tell you all I know,  was the reply.\n\n I certainly think you act wisely in so doing,  said the priest.  Not\nbecause I have the least desire to learn anything you may please to\nconceal from me, but simply that if, through your assistance, I could\ndistribute the legacy according to the wishes of the testator, why, so\nmuch the better, that is all. \n\n I hope it may be so,  replied Caderousse, his face flushed with\ncupidity.\n\n I am all attention,  said the abb .\n\n Stop a minute,  answered Caderousse;  we might be interrupted in the\nmost interesting part of my story, which would be a pity; and it is as\nwell that your visit hither should be made known only to ourselves. \n\nWith these words he went stealthily to the door, which he closed, and,\nby way of still greater precaution, bolted and barred it, as he was\naccustomed to do at night.\n\nDuring this time the abb  had chosen his place for listening at his\nease. He removed his seat into a corner of the room, where he himself\nwould be in deep shadow, while the light would be fully thrown on the\nnarrator; then, with head bent down and hands clasped, or rather\nclenched together, he prepared to give his whole attention to\nCaderousse, who seated himself on the little stool, exactly opposite to\nhim.\n\n Remember, this is no affair of mine,  said the trembling voice of La\nCarconte, as though through the flooring of her chamber she viewed the\nscene that was enacting below.\n\n Enough, enough!  replied Caderousse;  say no more about it; I will\ntake all the consequences upon myself. \n\nAnd he began his story.\n\n\n\n Chapter 27. The Story\n\nFirst, sir,  said Caderousse,  you must make me a promise. \n\n What is that?  inquired the abb .\n\n Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give you, that\nyou will never let anyone know that it was I who supplied them; for the\npersons of whom I am about to talk are rich and powerful, and if they\nonly laid the tips of their fingers on me, I should break to pieces\nlike glass. \n\n Make yourself easy, my friend,  replied the abb .  I am a priest, and\nconfessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only desire is to carry\nout, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our friend. Speak, then,\nwithout reserve, as without hatred; tell the truth, the whole truth; I\ndo not know, never may know, the persons of whom you are about to\nspeak; besides, I am an Italian, and not a Frenchman, and belong to\nGod, and not to man, and I shall shortly retire to my convent, which I\nhave only quitted to fulfil the last wishes of a dying man. \n\nThis positive assurance seemed to give Caderousse a little courage.\n\n Well, then, under these circumstances,  said Caderousse,  I will, I\neven believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship which poor\nEdmond thought so sincere and unquestionable. \n\n Begin with his father, if you please.  said the abb ;  Edmond talked\nto me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the deepest love. \n\n The history is a sad one, sir,  said Caderousse, shaking his head;\n perhaps you know all the earlier part of it? \n\n Yes.  answered the abb ;  Edmond related to me everything until the\nmoment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to Marseilles. \n\n At La R serve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this moment. \n\n Was it not his betrothal feast? \n\n It was and the feast that began so gayly had a very sorrowful ending;\na police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered, and Dant s was\narrested. \n\n Yes, and up to this point I know all,  said the priest.  Dant s\nhimself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never\nbeheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention of\nanyone of them. \n\n Well, when Dant s was arrested, Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain the\nparticulars, and they were very sad. The old man returned alone to his\nhome, folded up his wedding suit with tears in his eyes, and paced up\nand down his chamber the whole day, and would not go to bed at all, for\nI was underneath him and heard him walking the whole night; and for\nmyself, I assure you I could not sleep either, for the grief of the\npoor father gave me great uneasiness, and every step he took went to my\nheart as really as if his foot had pressed against my breast.\n\n The next day Merc d s came to implore the protection of M. de\nVillefort; she did not obtain it, however, and went to visit the old\nman; when she saw him so miserable and heart-broken, having passed a\nsleepless night, and not touched food since the previous day, she\nwished him to go with her that she might take care of him; but the old\nman would not consent.  No,  was the old man s reply,  I will not leave\nthis house, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the\nworld; and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the first\nthing, and what would he think if I did not wait here for him?  I heard\nall this from the window, for I was anxious that Merc d s should\npersuade the old man to accompany her, for his footsteps over my head\nnight and day did not leave me a moment s repose. \n\n But did you not go upstairs and try to console the poor old man? \nasked the abb .\n\n Ah, sir,  replied Caderousse,  we cannot console those who will not be\nconsoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why, but he\nseemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his sobs, and\nI could not resist my desire to go up to him, but when I reached his\ndoor he was no longer weeping but praying. I cannot now repeat to you,\nsir, all the eloquent words and imploring language he made use of; it\nwas more than piety, it was more than grief, and I, who am no canter,\nand hate the Jesuits, said then to myself,  It is really well, and I am\nvery glad that I have not any children; for if I were a father and felt\nsuch excessive grief as the old man does, and did not find in my memory\nor heart all he is now saying, I should throw myself into the sea at\nonce, for I could not bear it. \n\n Poor father!  murmured the priest.\n\n From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary. M.\nMorrel and Merc d s came to see him, but his door was closed; and,\nalthough I was certain he was at home, he would not make any answer.\nOne day, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted Merc d s, and\nthe poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair, endeavored to\nconsole him, he said to her, Be assured, my dear daughter, he is dead;\nand instead of expecting him, it is he who is awaiting us; I am quite\nhappy, for I am the oldest, and of course shall see him first. \n\n However well disposed a person may be, why, you see we leave off after\na time seeing persons who are in sorrow, they make one melancholy; and\nso at last old Dant s was left all to himself, and I only saw from time\nto time strangers go up to him and come down again with some bundle\nthey tried to hide; but I guessed what these bundles were, and that he\nsold by degrees what he had to pay for his subsistence. At length the\npoor old fellow reached the end of all he had; he owed three quarters \nrent, and they threatened to turn him out; he begged for another week,\nwhich was granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into\nmy apartment when he left his.\n\n For the first three days I heard him walking about as usual, but, on\nthe fourth I heard nothing. I then resolved to go up to him at all\nrisks. The door was closed, but I looked through the keyhole, and saw\nhim so pale and haggard, that believing him very ill, I went and told\nM. Morrel and then ran on to Merc d s. They both came immediately, M.\nMorrel bringing a doctor, and the doctor said it was inflammation of\nthe bowels, and ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I\nnever shall forget the old man s smile at this prescription.\n\n From that time he received all who came; he had an excuse for not\neating any more; the doctor had put him on a diet. \n\nThe abb  uttered a kind of groan.\n\n The story interests you, does it not, sir?  inquired Caderousse.\n\n Yes,  replied the abb ,  it is very affecting. \n\n Merc d s came again, and she found him so altered that she was even\nmore anxious than before to have him taken to her own home. This was M.\nMorrel s wish also, who would fain have conveyed the old man against\nhis consent; but the old man resisted, and cried so that they were\nactually frightened. Merc d s remained, therefore, by his bedside, and\nM. Morrel went away, making a sign to the Catalan that he had left his\npurse on the chimney-piece; but, availing himself of the doctor s\norder, the old man would not take any sustenance; at length (after nine\ndays of despair and fasting), the old man died, cursing those who had\ncaused his misery, and saying to Merc d s,  If you ever see my Edmond\nagain, tell him I die blessing him. \n\nThe abb  rose from his chair, made two turns round the chamber, and\npressed his trembling hand against his parched throat.\n\n And you believe he died \n\n Of hunger, sir, of hunger,  said Caderousse.  I am as certain of it as\nthat we two are Christians. \n\nThe abb , with a shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was\nstanding by him half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then resumed\nhis seat, with red eyes and pale cheeks.\n\n This was, indeed, a horrid event,  said he in a hoarse voice.\n\n The more so, sir, as it was men s and not God s doing. \n\n Tell me of those men,  said the abb ,  and remember too,  he added in\nan almost menacing tone,  you have promised to tell me everything. Tell\nme, therefore, who are these men who killed the son with despair, and\nthe father with famine? \n\n Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other from\nambition, Fernand and Danglars. \n\n How was this jealousy manifested? Speak on. \n\n They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent. \n\n Which of the two denounced him? Which was the real delinquent? \n\n Both, sir; one with a letter, and the other put it in the post. \n\n And where was this letter written? \n\n At La R serve, the day before the betrothal feast. \n\n Twas so, then twas so, then,  murmured the abb .  Oh, Faria, Faria,\nhow well did you judge men and things! \n\n What did you please to say, sir?  asked Caderousse.\n\n Nothing, nothing,  replied the priest;  go on. \n\n It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand, that\nhis writing might not be recognized, and Fernand who put it in the\npost. \n\n But,  exclaimed the abb  suddenly,  you were there yourself. \n\n I!  said Caderousse, astonished;  who told you I was there? \n\nThe abb  saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly, No one;\nbut in order to have known everything so well, you must have been an\neye-witness. \n\n True, true!  said Caderousse in a choking voice,  I was there. \n\n And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?  asked the abb ;  if\nnot, you were an accomplice. \n\n Sir,  replied Caderousse,  they had made me drink to such an excess\nthat I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct\nunderstanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man in\nsuch a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a jest\nthey were carrying on, and perfectly harmless. \n\n Next day next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what they had\nbeen doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present when Dant s\nwas arrested. \n\n Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglars\nrestrained me.  If he should really be guilty,  said he,  and did\nreally put in to the Island of Elba; if he is really charged with a\nletter for the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find this\nletter upon him, those who have supported him will pass for his\naccomplices.  I confess I had my fears, in the state in which politics\nthen were, and I held my tongue. It was cowardly, I confess, but it was\nnot criminal. \n\n0341m\n\n\n\n I understand you allowed matters to take their course, that was all. \n\n Yes, sir,  answered Caderousse;  and remorse preys on me night and\nday. I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this action,\nthe only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself in all my\nlife, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am expiating a\nmoment of selfishness, and so I always say to La Carconte, when she\ncomplains,  Hold your tongue, woman; it is the will of God.  And\nCaderousse bowed his head with every sign of real repentance.\n\n Well, sir,  said the abb ,  you have spoken unreservedly; and thus to\naccuse yourself is to deserve pardon. \n\n Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me. \n\n He did not know,  said the abb .\n\n But he knows it all now,  interrupted Caderousse;  they say the dead\nknow everything. \n\nThere was a brief silence; the abb  rose and paced up and down\npensively, and then resumed his seat.\n\n You have two or three times mentioned a M. Morrel,  he said;  who was\nhe? \n\n The owner of the _Pharaon_ and patron of Dant s. \n\n And what part did he play in this sad drama?  inquired the abb .\n\n The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard. Twenty\ntimes he interceded for Edmond. When the emperor returned, he wrote,\nimplored, threatened, and so energetically, that on the second\nrestoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, as I told\nyou, he came to see Dant s  father, and offered to receive him in his\nown house; and the night or two before his death, as I have already\nsaid, he left his purse on the mantelpiece, with which they paid the\nold man s debts, and buried him decently; and so Edmond s father died,\nas he had lived, without doing harm to anyone. I have the purse still\nby me a large one, made of red silk. \n\n And,  asked the abb ,  is M. Morrel still alive? \n\n Yes,  replied Caderousse.\n\n In that case,  replied the abb ,  he should be a man blessed of God,\nrich, happy. \n\nCaderousse smiled bitterly.  Yes, happy as myself,  said he.\n\n What! M. Morrel unhappy?  exclaimed the abb .\n\n He is reduced almost to the last extremity nay, he is almost at the\npoint of dishonor. \n\n How? \n\n Yes,  continued Caderousse,  so it is; after five-and-twenty years of\nlabor, after having acquired a most honorable name in the trade of\nMarseilles, M. Morrel is utterly ruined; he has lost five ships in two\nyears, has suffered by the bankruptcy of three large houses, and his\nonly hope now is in that very _Pharaon_ which poor Dant s commanded,\nand which is expected from the Indies with a cargo of cochineal and\nindigo. If this ship founders, like the others, he is a ruined man. \n\n And has the unfortunate man wife or children?  inquired the abb .\n\n Yes, he has a wife, who through everything has behaved like an angel;\nhe has a daughter, who was about to marry the man she loved, but whose\nfamily now will not allow him to wed the daughter of a ruined man; he\nhas, besides, a son, a lieutenant in the army; and, as you may suppose,\nall this, instead of lessening, only augments his sorrows. If he were\nalone in the world he would blow out his brains, and there would be an\nend. \n\n Horrible!  ejaculated the priest.\n\n And it is thus heaven recompenses virtue, sir,  added Caderousse.  You\nsee, I, who never did a bad action but that I have told you of am in\ndestitution, with my poor wife dying of fever before my very eyes, and\nI unable to do anything in the world for her; I shall die of hunger, as\nold Dant s did, while Fernand and Danglars are rolling in wealth. \n\n How is that? \n\n Because their deeds have brought them good fortune, while honest men\nhave been reduced to misery. \n\n What has become of Danglars, the instigator, and therefore the most\nguilty? \n\n What has become of him? Why, he left Marseilles, and was taken, on the\nrecommendation of M. Morrel, who did not know his crime, as cashier\ninto a Spanish bank. During the war with Spain he was employed in the\ncommissariat of the French army, and made a fortune; then with that\nmoney he speculated in the funds, and trebled or quadrupled his\ncapital; and, having first married his banker s daughter, who left him\na widower, he has married a second time, a widow, a Madame de Nargonne,\ndaughter of M. de Servieux, the king s chamberlain, who is in high\nfavor at court. He is a millionaire, and they have made him a baron,\nand now he is the Baron Danglars, with a fine residence in the Rue du\nMont-Blanc, with ten horses in his stables, six footmen in his\nantechamber, and I know not how many millions in his strongbox. \n\n Ah!  said the abb , in a peculiar tone,  he is happy. \n\n Happy? Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is the secret\nknown but to one s self and the walls walls have ears but no tongue;\nbut if a large fortune produces happiness, Danglars is happy. \n\n And Fernand? \n\n Fernand? Why, much the same story. \n\n But how could a poor Catalan fisher-boy, without education or\nresources, make a fortune? I confess this staggers me. \n\n And it has staggered everybody. There must have been in his life some\nstrange secret that no one knows. \n\n But, then, by what visible steps has he attained this high fortune or\nhigh position? \n\n Both, sir he has both fortune and position both. \n\n This must be impossible! \n\n It would seem so; but listen, and you will understand. Some days\nbefore the return of the emperor, Fernand was drafted. The Bourbons\nleft him quietly enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon returned, a\nspecial levy was made, and Fernand was compelled to join. I went too;\nbut as I was older than Fernand, and had just married my poor wife, I\nwas only sent to the coast. Fernand was enrolled in the active army,\nwent to the frontier with his regiment, and was at the battle of Ligny.\nThe night after that battle he was sentry at the door of a general who\ncarried on a secret correspondence with the enemy. That same night the\ngeneral was to go over to the English. He proposed to Fernand to\naccompany him; Fernand agreed to do so, deserted his post, and followed\nthe general.\n\n Fernand would have been court-martialed if Napoleon had remained on\nthe throne, but his action was rewarded by the Bourbons. He returned to\nFrance with the epaulet of sub-lieutenant, and as the protection of the\ngeneral, who is in the highest favor, was accorded to him, he was a\ncaptain in 1823, during the Spanish war that is to say, at the time\nwhen Danglars made his early speculations. Fernand was a Spaniard, and\nbeing sent to Spain to ascertain the feeling of his fellow-countrymen,\nfound Danglars there, got on very intimate terms with him, won over the\nsupport of the royalists at the capital and in the provinces, received\npromises and made pledges on his own part, guided his regiment by paths\nknown to himself alone through the mountain gorges which were held by\nthe royalists, and, in fact, rendered such services in this brief\ncampaign that, after the taking of Trocadero, he was made colonel, and\nreceived the title of count and the cross of an officer of the Legion\nof Honor. \n\n Destiny! destiny!  murmured the abb .\n\n Yes, but listen: this was not all. The war with Spain being ended,\nFernand s career was checked by the long peace which seemed likely to\nendure throughout Europe. Greece only had risen against Turkey, and had\nbegun her war of independence; all eyes were turned towards Athens it\nwas the fashion to pity and support the Greeks. The French government,\nwithout protecting them openly, as you know, gave countenance to\nvolunteer assistance. Fernand sought and obtained leave to go and serve\nin Greece, still having his name kept on the army roll.\n\n0345m\n\n\n\nSome time after, it was stated that the Comte de Morcerf (this was the\nname he bore) had entered the service of Ali Pasha with the rank of\ninstructor-general. Ali Pasha was killed, as you know, but before he\ndied he recompensed the services of Fernand by leaving him a\nconsiderable sum, with which he returned to France, when he was\ngazetted lieutenant-general. \n\n So that now ?  inquired the abb .\n\n So that now,  continued Caderousse,  he owns a magnificent house No.\n27, Rue du Helder, Paris. \n\nThe abb  opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment, then, making an\neffort at self-control, he said,  And Merc d s they tell me that she\nhas disappeared? \n\n Disappeared,  said Caderousse,  yes, as the sun disappears, to rise\nthe next day with still more splendor. \n\n Has she made a fortune also?  inquired the abb , with an ironical\nsmile.\n\n Merc d s is at this moment one of the greatest ladies in Paris, \nreplied Caderousse.\n\n Go on,  said the abb ;  it seems as if I were listening to the story\nof a dream. But I have seen things so extraordinary, that what you tell\nme seems less astonishing than it otherwise might. \n\n Merc d s was at first in the deepest despair at the blow which\ndeprived her of Edmond. I have told you of her attempts to propitiate\nM. de Villefort, her devotion to the elder Dant s. In the midst of her\ndespair, a new affliction overtook her. This was the departure of\nFernand of Fernand, whose crime she did not know, and whom she regarded\nas her brother. Fernand went, and Merc d s remained alone.\n\n Three months passed and still she wept no news of Edmond, no news of\nFernand, no companionship save that of an old man who was dying with\ndespair. One evening, after a day of accustomed vigil at the angle of\ntwo roads leading to Marseilles from the Catalans, she returned to her\nhome more depressed than ever. Suddenly she heard a step she knew,\nturned anxiously around, the door opened, and Fernand, dressed in the\nuniform of a sub-lieutenant, stood before her.\n\n It was not the one she wished for most, but it seemed as if a part of\nher past life had returned to her.\n\n Merc d s seized Fernand s hands with a transport which he took for\nlove, but which was only joy at being no longer alone in the world, and\nseeing at last a friend, after long hours of solitary sorrow. And then,\nit must be confessed, Fernand had never been hated he was only not\nprecisely loved. Another possessed all Merc d s  heart; that other was\nabsent, had disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this last thought\nMerc d s burst into a flood of tears, and wrung her hands in agony; but\nthe thought, which she had always repelled before when it was suggested\nto her by another, came now in full force upon her mind; and then, too,\nold Dant s incessantly said to her,  Our Edmond is dead; if he were\nnot, he would return to us. \n\n The old man died, as I have told you; had he lived, Merc d s,\nperchance, had not become the wife of another, for he would have been\nthere to reproach her infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when he learned\nof the old man s death he returned. He was now a lieutenant. At his\nfirst coming he had not said a word of love to Merc d s; at the second\nhe reminded her that he loved her.\n\n Merc d s begged for six months more in which to await and mourn for\nEdmond. \n\n So that,  said the abb , with a bitter smile,  that makes eighteen\nmonths in all. What more could the most devoted lover desire?  Then he\nmurmured the words of the English poet,  Frailty, thy name is woman. \n\n Six months afterwards,  continued Caderousse,  the marriage took place\nin the church of Accoules. \n\n The very church in which she was to have married Edmond,  murmured the\npriest;  there was only a change of bridegrooms. \n\n Well, Merc d s was married,  proceeded Caderousse;  but although in\nthe eyes of the world she appeared calm, she nearly fainted as she\npassed La R serve, where, eighteen months before, the betrothal had\nbeen celebrated with him whom she might have known she still loved, had\nshe looked to the bottom of her heart. Fernand, more happy, but not\nmore at his ease for I saw at this time he was in constant dread of\nEdmond s return Fernand was very anxious to get his wife away, and to\ndepart himself. There were too many unpleasant possibilities associated\nwith the Catalans, and eight days after the wedding they left\nMarseilles. \n\n Did you ever see Merc d s again?  inquired the priest.\n\n Yes, during the Spanish war, at Perpignan, where Fernand had left her;\nshe was attending to the education of her son. \n\nThe abb  started.  Her son?  said he.\n\n Yes,  replied Caderousse,  little Albert. \n\n But, then, to be able to instruct her child,  continued the abb ,  she\nmust have received an education herself. I understood from Edmond that\nshe was the daughter of a simple fisherman, beautiful but uneducated. \n\n Oh,  replied Caderousse,  did he know so little of his lovely\nbetrothed? Merc d s might have been a queen, sir, if the crown were to\nbe placed on the heads of the loveliest and most intelligent. Fernand s\nfortune was already waxing great, and she developed with his growing\nfortune. She learned drawing, music everything. Besides, I believe,\nbetween ourselves, she did this in order to distract her mind, that she\nmight forget; and she only filled her head in order to alleviate the\nweight on her heart. But now her position in life is assured, \ncontinued Caderousse;  no doubt fortune and honors have comforted her;\nshe is rich, a countess, and yet \n\nCaderousse paused.\n\n And yet what?  asked the abb .\n\n Yet, I am sure, she is not happy,  said Caderousse.\n\n What makes you believe this? \n\n Why, when I found myself utterly destitute, I thought my old friends\nwould, perhaps, assist me. So I went to Danglars, who would not even\nreceive me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a hundred francs by his\nvalet-de-chambre. \n\n Then you did not see either of them? \n\n No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me. \n\n How was that? \n\n As I went away a purse fell at my feet it contained five-and-twenty\nlouis; I raised my head quickly, and saw Merc d s, who at once shut the\nblind. \n\n And M. de Villefort?  asked the abb .\n\n Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I did not know him, and I had\nnothing to ask of him. \n\n Do you not know what became of him, and the share he had in Edmond s\nmisfortunes? \n\n No; I only know that some time after Edmond s arrest, he married\nMademoiselle de Saint-M ran, and soon after left Marseilles; no doubt\nhe has been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he is as rich as Danglars,\nas high in station as Fernand. I only, as you see, have remained poor,\nwretched, and forgotten. \n\n You are mistaken, my friend,  replied the abb ;  God may seem\nsometimes to forget for a time, while his justice reposes, but there\nalways comes a moment when he remembers and behold a proof! \n\nAs he spoke, the abb  took the diamond from his pocket, and giving it\nto Caderousse, said,  Here, my friend, take this diamond, it is yours. \n\n What, for me only?  cried Caderousse,  ah, sir, do not jest with me! \n\n This diamond was to have been shared among his friends. Edmond had one\nfriend only, and thus it cannot be divided. Take the diamond, then, and\nsell it; it is worth fifty thousand francs, and I repeat my wish that\nthis sum may suffice to release you from your wretchedness. \n\n0351m\n\n\n\n Oh, sir,  said Caderousse, putting out one hand timidly, and with the\nother wiping away the perspiration which bedewed his brow, Oh, sir, do\nnot make a jest of the happiness or despair of a man. \n\n I know what happiness and what despair are, and I never make a jest of\nsuch feelings. Take it, then, but in exchange \n\nCaderousse, who touched the diamond, withdrew his hand.\n\nThe abb  smiled.\n\n In exchange,  he continued,  give me the red silk purse that M. Morrel\nleft on old Dant s  chimney-piece, and which you tell me is still in\nyour hands. \n\nCaderousse, more and more astonished, went toward a large oaken\ncupboard, opened it, and gave the abb  a long purse of faded red silk,\nround which were two copper runners that had once been gilt. The abb \ntook it, and in return gave Caderousse the diamond.\n\n Oh, you are a man of God, sir,  cried Caderousse;  for no one knew\nthat Edmond had given you this diamond, and you might have kept it. \n\n Which,  said the abb  to himself,  you would have done.  The abb \nrose, took his hat and gloves.  Well,  he said,  all you have told me\nis perfectly true, then, and I may believe it in every particular. \n\n See, sir,  replied Caderousse,  in this corner is a crucifix in holy\nwood here on this shelf is my wife s testament; open this book, and I\nwill swear upon it with my hand on the crucifix. I will swear to you by\nmy soul s salvation, my faith as a Christian, I have told everything to\nyou as it occurred, and as the recording angel will tell it to the ear\nof God at the day of the last judgment! \n\n Tis well,  said the abb , convinced by his manner and tone that\nCaderousse spoke the truth.  Tis well, and may this money profit you!\nAdieu; I go far from men who thus so bitterly injure each other. \n\nThe abb  with difficulty got away from the enthusiastic thanks of\nCaderousse, opened the door himself, got out and mounted his horse,\nonce more saluted the innkeeper, who kept uttering his loud farewells,\nand then returned by the road he had travelled in coming.\n\nWhen Caderousse turned around, he saw behind him La Carconte, paler and\ntrembling more than ever.\n\n Is, then, all that I have heard really true?  she inquired.\n\n What? That he has given the diamond to us only?  inquired Caderousse,\nhalf bewildered with joy;  yes, nothing more true! See, here it is. \n\nThe woman gazed at it a moment, and then said, in a gloomy voice,\n Suppose it s false? \n\nCaderousse started and turned pale.\n\n False!  he muttered.  False! Why should that man give me a false\ndiamond? \n\n0349m\n\n\n\n To get your secret without paying for it, you blockhead! \n\nCaderousse remained for a moment aghast under the weight of such an\nidea.\n\n Oh!  he said, taking up his hat, which he placed on the red\nhandkerchief tied round his head,  we will soon find out. \n\n In what way? \n\n Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, there are always jewellers from\nParis there, and I will show it to them. Look after the house, wife,\nand I shall be back in two hours,  and Caderousse left the house in\nhaste, and ran rapidly in the direction opposite to that which the\npriest had taken.\n\n Fifty thousand francs!  muttered La Carconte when left alone;  it is a\nlarge sum of money, but it is not a fortune. \n\n\nVOLUME TWO\n\n20009m\n\n\n\n20011m\n\n\n\n20019m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 28. The Prison Register\n\nThe day after that in which the scene we have just described had taken\nplace on the road between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, a man of about\nthirty or two-and-thirty, dressed in a bright blue frock coat, nankeen\ntrousers, and a white waistcoat, having the appearance and accent of an\nEnglishman, presented himself before the mayor of Marseilles.\n\n Sir,  said he,  I am chief clerk of the house of Thomson & French, of\nRome. We are, and have been these ten years, connected with the house\nof Morrel & Son, of Marseilles. We have a hundred thousand francs or\nthereabouts loaned on their securities, and we are a little uneasy at\nreports that have reached us that the firm is on the brink of ruin. I\nhave come, therefore, express from Rome, to ask you for information. \n\n Sir,  replied the mayor.  I know very well that during the last four\nor five years misfortune has seemed to pursue M. Morrel. He has lost\nfour or five vessels, and suffered by three or four bankruptcies; but\nit is not for me, although I am a creditor myself to the amount of ten\nthousand francs, to give any information as to the state of his\nfinances. Ask of me, as mayor, what is my opinion of M. Morrel, and I\nshall say that he is a man honorable to the last degree, and who has up\nto this time fulfilled every engagement with scrupulous punctuality.\nThis is all I can say, sir; if you wish to learn more, address yourself\nto M. de Boville, the inspector of prisons, No. 15, Rue de Nouailles;\nhe has, I believe, two hundred thousand francs in Morrel s hands, and\nif there be any grounds for apprehension, as this is a greater amount\nthan mine, you will most probably find him better informed than\nmyself. \n\nThe Englishman seemed to appreciate this extreme delicacy, made his bow\nand went away, proceeding with a characteristic British stride towards\nthe street mentioned.\n\nM. de Boville was in his private room, and the Englishman, on\nperceiving him, made a gesture of surprise, which seemed to indicate\nthat it was not the first time he had been in his presence. As to M. de\nBoville, he was in such a state of despair, that it was evident all the\nfaculties of his mind, absorbed in the thought which occupied him at\nthe moment, did not allow either his memory or his imagination to stray\nto the past.\n\nThe Englishman, with the coolness of his nation, addressed him in terms\nnearly similar to those with which he had accosted the mayor of\nMarseilles.\n\n Oh, sir,  exclaimed M. de Boville,  your fears are unfortunately but\ntoo well founded, and you see before you a man in despair. I had two\nhundred thousand francs placed in the hands of Morrel & Son; these two\nhundred thousand francs were the dowry of my daughter, who was to be\nmarried in a fortnight, and these two hundred thousand francs were\npayable, half on the 15th of this month, and the other half on the 15th\nof next month. I had informed M. Morrel of my desire to have these\npayments punctually, and he has been here within the last half-hour to\ntell me that if his ship, the _Pharaon_, did not come into port on the\n15th, he would be wholly unable to make this payment. \n\n But,  said the Englishman,  this looks very much like a suspension of\npayment. \n\n It looks more like bankruptcy!  exclaimed M. de Boville despairingly.\n\nThe Englishman appeared to reflect a moment, and then said,  From which\nit would appear, sir, that this credit inspires you with considerable\napprehension? \n\n To tell you the truth, I consider it lost. \n\n Well, then, I will buy it of you! \n\n You? \n\n Yes, I! \n\n But at a tremendous discount, of course? \n\n No, for two hundred thousand francs. Our house,  added the Englishman\nwith a laugh,  does not do things in that way. \n\n And you will pay \n\n Ready money. \n\n20023m\n\n\n\nAnd the Englishman drew from his pocket a bundle of bank-notes, which\nmight have been twice the sum M. de Boville feared to lose. A ray of\njoy passed across M. de Boville s countenance, yet he made an effort at\nself-control, and said:\n\n Sir, I ought to tell you that, in all probability, you will not\nrealize six per cent of this sum. \n\n That s no affair of mine,  replied the Englishman,  that is the affair\nof the house of Thomson & French, in whose name I act. They have,\nperhaps, some motive to serve in hastening the ruin of a rival firm.\nBut all I know, sir, is, that I am ready to hand you over this sum in\nexchange for your assignment of the debt. I only ask a brokerage. \n\n Of course, that is perfectly just,  cried M. de Boville.  The\ncommission is usually one and a half; will you have two three five per\ncent, or even more? Whatever you say. \n\n Sir,  replied the Englishman, laughing,  I am like my house, and do\nnot do such things no, the commission I ask is quite different. \n\n Name it, sir, I beg. \n\n You are the inspector of prisons? \n\n I have been so these fourteen years. \n\n You keep the registers of entries and departures? \n\n I do. \n\n To these registers there are added notes relative to the prisoners? \n\n There are special reports on every prisoner. \n\n Well, sir, I was educated at Rome by a poor devil of an abb , who\ndisappeared suddenly. I have since learned that he was confined in the\nCh teau d If, and I should like to learn some particulars of his\ndeath. \n\n What was his name? \n\n The Abb  Faria. \n\n Oh, I recollect him perfectly,  cried M. de Boville;  he was crazy. \n\n So they said. \n\n Oh, he was, decidedly. \n\n Very possibly; but what sort of madness was it? \n\n He pretended to know of an immense treasure, and offered vast sums to\nthe government if they would liberate him. \n\n Poor devil! and he is dead? \n\n Yes, sir, five or six months ago, last February. \n\n You have a good memory, sir, to recollect dates so well. \n\n I recollect this, because the poor devil s death was accompanied by a\nsingular incident. \n\n May I ask what that was?  said the Englishman with an expression of\ncuriosity, which a close observer would have been astonished at\ndiscovering in his phlegmatic countenance.\n\n Oh dear, yes, sir; the abb s dungeon was forty or fifty feet distant\nfrom that of one of Bonaparte s emissaries, one of those who had\ncontributed the most to the return of the usurper in 1815, a very\nresolute and very dangerous man. \n\n Indeed!  said the Englishman.\n\n Yes,  replied M. de Boville;  I myself had occasion to see this man in\n1816 or 1817, and we could only go into his dungeon with a file of\nsoldiers. That man made a deep impression on me; I shall never forget\nhis countenance! \n\n20025m\n\n\n\nThe Englishman smiled imperceptibly.\n\n And you say, sir,  he interposed,  that the two dungeons \n\n Were separated by a distance of fifty feet; but it appears that this\nEdmond Dant s \n\n This dangerous man s name was \n\n Edmond Dant s. It appears, sir, that this Edmond Dant s had procured\ntools, or made them, for they found a tunnel through which the\nprisoners held communication with one another. \n\n This tunnel was dug, no doubt, with an intention of escape? \n\n No doubt; but unfortunately for the prisoners, the Abb  Faria had an\nattack of catalepsy, and died. \n\n That must have cut short the projects of escape. \n\n For the dead man, yes,  replied M. de Boville,  but not for the\nsurvivor; on the contrary, this Dant s saw a means of accelerating his\nescape. He, no doubt, thought that prisoners who died in the Ch teau\nd If were interred in an ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed the\ndead man into his own cell, took his place in the sack in which they\nhad sewed up the corpse, and awaited the moment of interment. \n\n It was a bold step, and one that showed some courage,  remarked the\nEnglishman.\n\n As I have already told you, sir, he was a very dangerous man; and,\nfortunately, by his own act disembarrassed the government of the fears\nit had on his account. \n\n How was that? \n\n How? Do you not comprehend? \n\n No. \n\n The Ch teau d If has no cemetery, and they simply throw the dead into\nthe sea, after fastening a thirty-six-pound cannon-ball to their feet. \n\n Well?  observed the Englishman as if he were slow of comprehension.\n\n Well, they fastened a thirty-six-pound ball to his feet, and threw him\ninto the sea. \n\n Really!  exclaimed the Englishman.\n\n Yes, sir,  continued the inspector of prisons.  You may imagine the\namazement of the fugitive when he found himself flung headlong over the\nrocks! I should like to have seen his face at that moment. \n\n That would have been difficult. \n\n No matter,  replied De Boville, in supreme good-humor at the certainty\nof recovering his two hundred thousand francs, no matter, I can fancy\nit.  And he shouted with laughter.\n\n So can I,  said the Englishman, and he laughed too; but he laughed as\nthe English do,  at the end of his teeth. \n\n And so,  continued the Englishman who first gained his composure,  he\nwas drowned? \n\n Unquestionably. \n\n So that the governor got rid of the dangerous and the crazy prisoner\nat the same time? \n\n Precisely. \n\n20027m\n\n\n\n But some official document was drawn up as to this affair, I suppose? \ninquired the Englishman.\n\n Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You understand, Dant s  relations,\nif he had any, might have some interest in knowing if he were dead or\nalive. \n\n So that now, if there were anything to inherit from him, they may do\nso with easy conscience. He is dead, and no mistake about it. \n\n Oh, yes; and they may have the fact attested whenever they please. \n\n So be it,  said the Englishman.  But to return to these registers. \n\n True, this story has diverted our attention from them. Excuse me. \n\n Excuse you for what? For the story? By no means; it really seems to me\nvery curious. \n\n Yes, indeed. So, sir, you wish to see all relating to the poor abb ,\nwho really was gentleness itself. \n\n Yes, you will much oblige me. \n\n Go into my study here, and I will show it to you. \n\nAnd they both entered M. de Boville s study. Everything was here\narranged in perfect order; each register had its number, each file of\npapers its place. The inspector begged the Englishman to seat himself\nin an armchair, and placed before him the register and documents\nrelative to the Ch teau d If, giving him all the time he desired for\nthe examination, while De Boville seated himself in a corner, and began\nto read his newspaper. The Englishman easily found the entries relative\nto the Abb  Faria; but it seemed that the history which the inspector\nhad related interested him greatly, for after having perused the first\ndocuments he turned over the leaves until he reached the deposition\nrespecting Edmond Dant s. There he found everything arranged in due\norder, the accusation, examination, Morrel s petition, M. de\nVillefort s marginal notes. He folded up the accusation quietly, and\nput it as quietly in his pocket; read the examination, and saw that the\nname of Noirtier was not mentioned in it; perused, too, the application\ndated 10th April, 1815, in which Morrel, by the deputy procureur s\nadvice, exaggerated with the best intentions (for Napoleon was then on\nthe throne) the services Dant s had rendered to the imperial\ncause services which Villefort s certificates rendered indisputable.\nThen he saw through the whole thing. This petition to Napoleon, kept\nback by Villefort, had become, under the second restoration, a terrible\nweapon against him in the hands of the king s attorney. He was no\nlonger astonished when he searched on to find in the register this\nnote, placed in a bracket against his name:\n\nEdmond Dant s.\n\nAn inveterate Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from the\nIsland of Elba.\n\nTo be kept in strict solitary confinement, and to be closely watched\nand guarded.\n\nBeneath these lines was written in another hand:  See note\nabove nothing can be done. \n\nHe compared the writing in the bracket with the writing of the\ncertificate placed beneath Morrel s petition, and discovered that the\nnote in the bracket was the same writing as the certificate that is to\nsay, was in Villefort s handwriting.\n\n20029m\n\n\n\nAs to the note which accompanied this, the Englishman understood that\nit might have been added by some inspector who had taken a momentary\ninterest in Dant s  situation, but who had, from the remarks we have\nquoted, found it impossible to give any effect to the interest he had\nfelt.\n\nAs we have said, the inspector, from discretion, and that he might not\ndisturb the Abb  Faria s pupil in his researches, had seated himself in\na corner, and was reading _Le Drapeau Blanc_. He did not see the\nEnglishman fold up and place in his pocket the accusation written by\nDanglars under the arbor of La R serve, and which had the postmark,\n Marseilles, 27th February, delivery 6 o clock, P.M. \n\nBut it must be said that if he had seen it, he attached so little\nimportance to this scrap of paper, and so much importance to his two\nhundred thousand francs, that he would not have opposed whatever the\nEnglishman might do, however irregular it might be.\n\n Thanks,  said the latter, closing the register with a slam,  I have\nall I want; now it is for me to perform my promise. Give me a simple\nassignment of your debt; acknowledge therein the receipt of the cash,\nand I will hand you over the money. \n\nHe rose, gave his seat to M. de Boville, who took it without ceremony,\nand quickly drew up the required assignment, while the Englishman\ncounted out the bank-notes on the other side of the desk.\n\n\n\n Chapter 29. The House of Morrel & Son\n\nAnyone who had quitted Marseilles a few years previously, well\nacquainted with the interior of Morrel s warehouse, and had returned at\nthis date, would have found a great change. Instead of that air of\nlife, of comfort, and of happiness that permeates a flourishing and\nprosperous business establishment instead of merry faces at the\nwindows, busy clerks hurrying to and fro in the long corridors instead\nof the court filled with bales of goods, re-echoing with the cries and\nthe jokes of porters, one would have immediately perceived all aspect\nof sadness and gloom. Out of all the numerous clerks that used to fill\nthe deserted corridor and the empty office, but two remained. One was a\nyoung man of three or four-and-twenty, who was in love with M. Morrel s\ndaughter, and had remained with him in spite of the efforts of his\nfriends to induce him to withdraw; the other was an old one-eyed\ncashier, called  Cocles,  or  Cock-eye,  a nickname given him by the\nyoung men who used to throng this vast now almost deserted bee-hive,\nand which had so completely replaced his real name that he would not,\nin all probability, have replied to anyone who addressed him by it.\n\nCocles remained in M. Morrel s service, and a most singular change had\ntaken place in his position; he had at the same time risen to the rank\nof cashier, and sunk to the rank of a servant. He was, however, the\nsame Cocles, good, patient, devoted, but inflexible on the subject of\narithmetic, the only point on which he would have stood firm against\nthe world, even against M. Morrel; and strong in the\nmultiplication-table, which he had at his fingers  ends, no matter what\nscheme or what trap was laid to catch him.\n\nIn the midst of the disasters that befell the house, Cocles was the\nonly one unmoved. But this did not arise from a want of affection; on\nthe contrary, from a firm conviction. Like the rats that one by one\nforsake the doomed ship even before the vessel weighs anchor, so all\nthe numerous clerks had by degrees deserted the office and the\nwarehouse. Cocles had seen them go without thinking of inquiring the\ncause of their departure. Everything was as we have said, a question of\narithmetic to Cocles, and during twenty years he had always seen all\npayments made with such exactitude, that it seemed as impossible to him\nthat the house should stop payment, as it would to a miller that the\nriver that had so long turned his mill should cease to flow.\n\nNothing had as yet occurred to shake Cocles  belief; the last month s\npayment had been made with the most scrupulous exactitude; Cocles had\ndetected an overbalance of fourteen sous in his cash, and the same\nevening he had brought them to M. Morrel, who, with a melancholy smile,\nthrew them into an almost empty drawer, saying:\n\n Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of cashiers. \n\nCocles went away perfectly happy, for this eulogium of M. Morrel,\nhimself the pearl of the honest men of Marseilles, flattered him more\nthan a present of fifty crowns. But since the end of the month M.\nMorrel had passed many an anxious hour.\n\nIn order to meet the payments then due; he had collected all his\nresources, and, fearing lest the report of his distress should get\nbruited abroad at Marseilles when he was known to be reduced to such an\nextremity, he went to the Beaucaire fair to sell his wife s and\ndaughter s jewels and a portion of his plate. By this means the end of\nthe month was passed, but his resources were now exhausted. Credit,\nowing to the reports afloat, was no longer to be had; and to meet the\none hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the present month, and\nthe one hundred thousand francs due on the 15th of the next month to M.\nde Boville, M. Morrel had, in reality, no hope but the return of the\n_Pharaon_, of whose departure he had learnt from a vessel which had\nweighed anchor at the same time, and which had already arrived in\nharbor.\n\nBut this vessel which, like the _Pharaon_, came from Calcutta, had been\nin for a fortnight, while no intelligence had been received of the\n_Pharaon_.\n\n20033m\n\n\n\nSuch was the state of affairs when, the day after his interview with M.\nde Boville, the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French of\nRome, presented himself at M. Morrel s.\n\nEmmanuel received him; this young man was alarmed by the appearance of\nevery new face, for every new face might be that of a new creditor,\ncome in anxiety to question the head of the house. The young man,\nwishing to spare his employer the pain of this interview, questioned\nthe new-comer; but the stranger declared that he had nothing to say to\nM. Emmanuel, and that his business was with M. Morrel in person.\n\nEmmanuel sighed, and summoned Cocles. Cocles appeared, and the young\nman bade him conduct the stranger to M. Morrel s apartment. Cocles went\nfirst, and the stranger followed him. On the staircase they met a\nbeautiful girl of sixteen or seventeen, who looked with anxiety at the\nstranger.\n\n M. Morrel is in his room, is he not, Mademoiselle Julie?  said the\ncashier.\n\n Yes; I think so, at least,  said the young girl hesitatingly.  Go and\nsee, Cocles, and if my father is there, announce this gentleman. \n\n It will be useless to announce me, mademoiselle,  returned the\nEnglishman.  M. Morrel does not know my name; this worthy gentleman has\nonly to announce the confidential clerk of the house of Thomson &\nFrench of Rome, with whom your father does business. \n\nThe young girl turned pale and continued to descend, while the stranger\nand Cocles continued to mount the staircase. She entered the office\nwhere Emmanuel was, while Cocles, by the aid of a key he possessed,\nopened a door in the corner of a landing-place on the second staircase,\nconducted the stranger into an antechamber, opened a second door, which\nhe closed behind him, and after having left the clerk of the house of\nThomson & French alone, returned and signed to him that he could enter.\n\nThe Englishman entered, and found Morrel seated at a table, turning\nover the formidable columns of his ledger, which contained the list of\nhis liabilities. At the sight of the stranger, M. Morrel closed the\nledger, arose, and offered a seat to the stranger; and when he had seen\nhim seated, resumed his own chair. Fourteen years had changed the\nworthy merchant, who, in his thirty-sixth year at the opening of this\nhistory, was now in his fiftieth; his hair had turned white, time and\nsorrow had ploughed deep furrows on his brow, and his look, once so\nfirm and penetrating, was now irresolute and wandering, as if he feared\nbeing forced to fix his attention on some particular thought or person.\n\nThe Englishman looked at him with an air of curiosity, evidently\nmingled with interest.  Monsieur,  said Morrel, whose uneasiness was\nincreased by this examination,  you wish to speak to me? \n\n Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom I come? \n\n The house of Thomson & French; at least, so my cashier tells me. \n\n He has told you rightly. The house of Thomson & French had 300,000 or\n400,000 francs to pay this month in France; and, knowing your strict\npunctuality, have collected all the bills bearing your signature, and\ncharged me as they became due to present them, and to employ the money\notherwise. \n\nMorrel sighed deeply, and passed his hand over his forehead, which was\ncovered with perspiration.\n\n So then, sir,  said Morrel,  you hold bills of mine? \n\n Yes, and for a considerable sum. \n\n What is the amount?  asked Morrel with a voice he strove to render\nfirm.\n\n20035m\n\n\n\n Here is,  said the Englishman, taking a quantity of papers from his\npocket,  an assignment of 200,000 francs to our house by M. de Boville,\nthe inspector of prisons, to whom they are due. You acknowledge, of\ncourse, that you owe this sum to him? \n\n Yes; he placed the money in my hands at four and a half per cent\nnearly five years ago. \n\n When are you to pay? \n\n Half the 15th of this month, half the 15th of next. \n\n Just so; and now here are 32,500 francs payable shortly; they are all\nsigned by you, and assigned to our house by the holders. \n\n I recognize them,  said Morrel, whose face was suffused, as he thought\nthat, for the first time in his life, he would be unable to honor his\nown signature.  Is this all? \n\n No, I have for the end of the month these bills which have been\nassigned to us by the house of Pascal, and the house of Wild & Turner\nof Marseilles, amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in all, 287,500\nfrancs. \n\nIt is impossible to describe what Morrel suffered during this\nenumeration.  Two hundred and eighty-seven thousand five hundred\nfrancs,  repeated he.\n\n Yes, sir,  replied the Englishman.  I will not,  continued he, after a\nmoment s silence,  conceal from you, that while your probity and\nexactitude up to this moment are universally acknowledged, yet the\nreport is current in Marseilles that you are not able to meet your\nliabilities. \n\nAt this almost brutal speech Morrel turned deathly pale.\n\n Sir,  said he,  up to this time and it is now more than\nfour-and-twenty years since I received the direction of this house from\nmy father, who had himself conducted it for five-and-thirty years never\nhas anything bearing the signature of Morrel & Son been dishonored. \n\n I know that,  replied the Englishman.  But as a man of honor should\nanswer another, tell me fairly, shall you pay these with the same\npunctuality? \n\nMorrel shuddered, and looked at the man, who spoke with more assurance\nthan he had hitherto shown.\n\n To questions frankly put,  said he,  a straightforward answer should\nbe given. Yes, I shall pay, if, as I hope, my vessel arrives safely;\nfor its arrival will again procure me the credit which the numerous\naccidents, of which I have been the victim, have deprived me; but if\nthe _Pharaon_ should be lost, and this last resource be gone \n\nThe poor man s eyes filled with tears.\n\n Well,  said the other,  if this last resource fail you? \n\n Well,  returned Morrel,  it is a cruel thing to be forced to say, but,\nalready used to misfortune, I must habituate myself to shame. I fear I\nshall be forced to suspend payment. \n\n Have you no friends who could assist you? \n\nMorrel smiled mournfully.\n\n In business, sir,  said he,  one has no friends, only correspondents. \n\n It is true,  murmured the Englishman;  then you have but one hope. \n\n But one. \n\n The last? \n\n The last. \n\n So that if this fail \n\n I am ruined, completely ruined! \n\n As I was on my way here, a vessel was coming into port. \n\n I know it, sir; a young man, who still adheres to my fallen fortunes,\npasses a part of his time in a belvedere at the top of the house, in\nhopes of being the first to announce good news to me; he has informed\nme of the arrival of this ship. \n\n And it is not yours? \n\n No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, _La Gironde_; she comes from India also;\nbut she is not mine. \n\n Perhaps she has spoken to the _Pharaon_, and brings you some tidings\nof her? \n\n Shall I tell you plainly one thing, sir? I dread almost as much to\nreceive any tidings of my vessel as to remain in doubt. Uncertainty is\nstill hope.  Then in a low voice Morrel added, This delay is not\nnatural. The _Pharaon_ left Calcutta the 5th of February; she ought to\nhave been here a month ago. \n\n What is that?  said the Englishman.  What is the meaning of that\nnoise? \n\n Oh, my God!  cried Morrel, turning pale,  what is it? \n\nA loud noise was heard on the stairs of people moving hastily, and\nhalf-stifled sobs. Morrel rose and advanced to the door; but his\nstrength failed him and he sank into a chair. The two men remained\nopposite one another, Morrel trembling in every limb, the stranger\ngazing at him with an air of profound pity. The noise had ceased; but\nit seemed that Morrel expected something something had occasioned the\nnoise, and something must follow. The stranger fancied he heard\nfootsteps on the stairs; and that the footsteps, which were those of\nseveral persons, stopped at the door. A key was inserted in the lock of\nthe first door, and the creaking of hinges was audible.\n\n There are only two persons who have the key to that door,  murmured\nMorrel,  Cocles and Julie. \n\nAt this instant the second door opened, and the young girl, her eyes\nbathed with tears, appeared. Morrel rose tremblingly, supporting\nhimself by the arm of the chair. He would have spoken, but his voice\nfailed him.\n\n Oh, father!  said she, clasping her hands,  forgive your child for\nbeing the bearer of evil tidings. \n\nMorrel again changed color. Julie threw herself into his arms.\n\n Oh, father, father!  murmured she,  courage! \n\n The _Pharaon_ has gone down, then?  said Morrel in a hoarse voice. The\nyoung girl did not speak; but she made an affirmative sign with her\nhead as she lay on her father s breast.\n\n And the crew?  asked Morrel.\n\n Saved,  said the girl;  saved by the crew of the vessel that has just\nentered the harbor. \n\nMorrel raised his two hands to heaven with an expression of resignation\nand sublime gratitude.\n\n Thanks, my God,  said he,  at least thou strikest but me alone. \n\nA tear moistened the eye of the phlegmatic Englishman.\n\n Come in, come in,  said Morrel,  for I presume you are all at the\ndoor. \n\nScarcely had he uttered those words when Madame Morrel entered weeping\nbitterly. Emmanuel followed her, and in the antechamber were visible\nthe rough faces of seven or eight half-naked sailors. At the sight of\nthese men the Englishman started and advanced a step; then restrained\nhimself, and retired into the farthest and most obscure corner of the\napartment. Madame Morrel sat down by her husband and took one of his\nhands in hers, Julie still lay with her head on his shoulder, Emmanuel\nstood in the centre of the chamber and seemed to form the link between\nMorrel s family and the sailors at the door.\n\n How did this happen?  said Morrel.\n\n Draw nearer, Penelon,  said the young man,  and tell us all about it. \n\nAn old seaman, bronzed by the tropical sun, advanced, twirling the\nremains of a hat between his hands.\n\n Good-day, M. Morrel,  said he, as if he had just quitted Marseilles\nthe previous evening, and had just returned from Aix or Toulon.\n\n Good-day, Penelon,  returned Morrel, who could not refrain from\nsmiling through his tears,  where is the captain? \n\n The captain, M. Morrel, he has stayed behind sick at Palma; but please\nGod, it won t be much, and you will see him in a few days all alive and\nhearty. \n\n Well, now tell your story, Penelon. \n\n20039m\n\n\n\nPenelon rolled his quid in his cheek, placed his hand before his mouth,\nturned his head, and sent a long jet of tobacco-juice into the\nantechamber, advanced his foot, balanced himself, and began.\n\n You see, M. Morrel,  said he,  we were somewhere between Cape Blanc\nand Cape Boyador, sailing with a fair breeze, south-south-west after a\nweek s calm, when Captain Gaumard comes up to me I was at the helm I\nshould tell you and says,  Penelon, what do you think of those clouds\ncoming up over there?  I was just then looking at them myself.  What do\nI think, captain? Why I think that they are rising faster than they\nhave any business to do, and that they would not be so black if they\ndidn t mean mischief. That s my opinion too,  said the captain,  and\nI ll take precautions accordingly. We are carrying too much canvas.\nAvast, there, all hands! Take in the studding-sails and stow the flying\njib.  It was time; the squall was on us, and the vessel began to heel.\n Ah,  said the captain,  we have still too much canvas set; all hands\nlower the mainsail!  Five minutes after, it was down; and we sailed\nunder mizzen-topsails and top-gallant sails.  Well, Penelon,  said the\ncaptain,  what makes you shake your head?   Why,  I says,  I still\nthink you ve got too much on.   I think you re right,  answered he,  we\nshall have a gale.   A gale? More than that, we shall have a tempest,\nor I don t know what s what.  You could see the wind coming like the\ndust at Montredon; luckily the captain understood his business.  Take\nin two reefs in the top-sails,  cried the captain;  let go the\nbowlin s, haul the brace, lower the top-gallant sails, haul out the\nreef-tackles on the yards. \n\n20041m\n\n\n\n That was not enough for those latitudes,  said the Englishman;  I\nshould have taken four reefs in the topsails and furled the spanker. \n\nHis firm, sonorous, and unexpected voice made everyone start. Penelon\nput his hand over his eyes, and then stared at the man who thus\ncriticized the man uvres of his captain.\n\n We did better than that, sir,  said the old sailor respectfully;  we\nput the helm up to run before the tempest; ten minutes after we struck\nour top-sails and scudded under bare poles. \n\n The vessel was very old to risk that,  said the Englishman.\n\n Eh, it was that that did the business; after pitching heavily for\ntwelve hours we sprung a leak.  Penelon,  said the captain,  I think we\nare sinking, give me the helm, and go down into the hold.  I gave him\nthe helm, and descended; there was already three feet of water.  All\nhands to the pumps!  I shouted; but it was too late, and it seemed the\nmore we pumped the more came in.  Ah,  said I, after four hours  work,\n since we are sinking, let us sink; we can die but once.   Is that the\nexample you set, Penelon?  cries the captain;  very well, wait a\nminute.  He went into his cabin and came back with a brace of pistols.\n I will blow the brains out of the first man who leaves the pump,  said\nhe. \n\n Well done!  said the Englishman.\n\n20043m\n\n\n\n There s nothing gives you so much courage as good reasons,  continued\nthe sailor;  and during that time the wind had abated, and the sea gone\ndown, but the water kept rising; not much, only two inches an hour, but\nstill it rose. Two inches an hour does not seem much, but in twelve\nhours that makes two feet, and three we had before, that makes five.\n Come,  said the captain,  we have done all in our power, and M. Morrel\nwill have nothing to reproach us with, we have tried to save the ship,\nlet us now save ourselves. To the boats, my lads, as quick as you can. \nNow,  continued Penelon,  you see, M. Morrel, a sailor is attached to\nhis ship, but still more to his life, so we did not wait to be told\ntwice; the more so, that the ship was sinking under us, and seemed to\nsay,  Get along save yourselves.  We soon launched the boat, and all\neight of us got into it. The captain descended last, or rather, he did\nnot descend, he would not quit the vessel; so I took him round the\nwaist, and threw him into the boat, and then I jumped after him. It was\ntime, for just as I jumped the deck burst with a noise like the\nbroadside of a man-of-war. Ten minutes after she pitched forward, then\nthe other way, spun round and round, and then good-bye to the\n_Pharaon_. As for us, we were three days without anything to eat or\ndrink, so that we began to think of drawing lots who should feed the\nrest, when we saw _La Gironde_; we made signals of distress, she\nperceived us, made for us, and took us all on board. There now, M.\nMorrel, that s the whole truth, on the honor of a sailor; is not it\ntrue, you fellows there?  A general murmur of approbation showed that\nthe narrator had faithfully detailed their misfortunes and sufferings.\n\n Well, well,  said M. Morrel,  I know there was no one in fault but\ndestiny. It was the will of God that this should happen, blessed be his\nname. What wages are due to you? \n\n Oh, don t let us talk of that, M. Morrel. \n\n Yes, but we will talk of it. \n\n Well, then, three months,  said Penelon.\n\n Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows,  said\nMorrel.  At another time,  added he,  I should have said, Give them,\nbesides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are changed,\nand the little money that remains to me is not my own, so do not think\nme mean on this account. \n\nPenelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with them.\n\n As for that, M. Morrel,  said he, again turning his quid,  as for\nthat \n\n As for what? \n\n The money. \n\n Well \n\n Well, we all say that fifty francs will be enough for us at present,\nand that we will wait for the rest. \n\n Thanks, my friends, thanks!  cried Morrel gratefully;  take it take\nit; and if you can find another employer, enter his service; you are\nfree to do so. \n\nThese last words produced a prodigious effect on the seaman. Penelon\nnearly swallowed his quid; fortunately he recovered.\n\n What, M. Morrel!  said he in a low voice,  you send us away; you are\nthen angry with us! \n\n No, no,  said M. Morrel,  I am not angry, quite the contrary, and I do\nnot send you away; but I have no more ships, and therefore I do not\nwant any sailors. \n\n No more ships!  returned Penelon;  well, then, you ll build some;\nwe ll wait for you. \n\n I have no money to build ships with, Penelon,  said the poor owner\nmournfully,  so I cannot accept your kind offer. \n\n No more money? Then you must not pay us; we can scud, like the\n_Pharaon_, under bare poles. \n\n Enough, enough!  cried Morrel, almost overpowered;  leave me, I pray\nyou; we shall meet again in a happier time. Emmanuel, go with them, and\nsee that my orders are executed. \n\n At least, we shall see each other again, M. Morrel?  asked Penelon.\n\n Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go.  He made a sign to Cocles, who went\nfirst; the seamen followed him and Emmanuel brought up the rear.  Now, \nsaid the owner to his wife and daughter,  leave me; I wish to speak\nwith this gentleman. \n\n20045m\n\n\n\nAnd he glanced towards the clerk of Thomson & French, who had remained\nmotionless in the corner during this scene, in which he had taken no\npart, except the few words we have mentioned. The two women looked at\nthis person whose presence they had entirely forgotten, and retired;\nbut, as she left the apartment, Julie gave the stranger a supplicating\nglance, to which he replied by a smile that an indifferent spectator\nwould have been surprised to see on his stern features. The two men\nwere left alone.  Well, sir,  said Morrel, sinking into a chair,  you\nhave heard all, and I have nothing further to tell you. \n\n I see,  returned the Englishman,  that a fresh and unmerited\nmisfortune has overwhelmed you, and this only increases my desire to\nserve you. \n\n Oh, sir!  cried Morrel.\n\n Let me see,  continued the stranger,  I am one of your largest\ncreditors. \n\n Your bills, at least, are the first that will fall due. \n\n Do you wish for time to pay? \n\n A delay would save my honor, and consequently my life. \n\n How long a delay do you wish for? \n\nMorrel reflected.  Two months,  said he.\n\n I will give you three,  replied the stranger.\n\n But,  asked Morrel,  will the house of Thomson & French consent? \n\n Oh, I take everything on myself. Today is the 5th of June. \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, renew these bills up to the 5th of September; and on the 5th of\nSeptember at eleven o clock (the hand of the clock pointed to eleven),\nI shall come to receive the money. \n\n I shall expect you,  returned Morrel;  and I will pay you or I shall\nbe dead.  These last words were uttered in so low a tone that the\nstranger could not hear them. The bills were renewed, the old ones\ndestroyed, and the poor ship-owner found himself with three months\nbefore him to collect his resources. The Englishman received his thanks\nwith the phlegm peculiar to his nation; and Morrel, overwhelming him\nwith grateful blessings, conducted him to the staircase. The stranger\nmet Julie on the stairs; she pretended to be descending, but in reality\nshe was waiting for him.  Oh, sir said she, clasping her hands.\n\n Mademoiselle,  said the stranger,  one day you will receive a letter\nsigned  Sinbad the Sailor.  Do exactly what the letter bids you,\nhowever strange it may appear. \n\n Yes, sir,  returned Julie.\n\n Do you promise? \n\n I swear to you I will. \n\n It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. Continue to be the good, sweet girl\nyou are at present, and I have great hopes that Heaven will reward you\nby giving you Emmanuel for a husband. \n\nJulie uttered a faint cry, blushed like a rose, and leaned against the\nbaluster. The stranger waved his hand, and continued to descend. In the\ncourt he found Penelon, who, with a rouleau of a hundred francs in\neither hand, seemed unable to make up his mind to retain them.  Come\nwith me, my friend,  said the Englishman;  I wish to speak to you. \n\n\n\n Chapter 30. The Fifth of September\n\nThe extension provided for by the agent of Thomson & French, at the\nmoment when Morrel expected it least, was to the poor shipowner so\ndecided a stroke of good fortune that he almost dared to believe that\nfate was at length grown weary of wasting her spite upon him. The same\nday he told his wife, Emmanuel, and his daughter all that had occurred;\nand a ray of hope, if not of tranquillity, returned to the family.\nUnfortunately, however, Morrel had not only engagements with the house\nof Thomson & French, who had shown themselves so considerate towards\nhim; and, as he had said, in business he had correspondents, and not\nfriends. When he thought the matter over, he could by no means account\nfor this generous conduct on the part of Thomson & French towards him;\nand could only attribute it to some such selfish argument as this:  We\nhad better help a man who owes us nearly 300,000 francs, and have those\n300,000 francs at the end of three months than hasten his ruin, and get\nonly six or eight per cent of our money back again. \n\nUnfortunately, whether through envy or stupidity, all Morrel s\ncorrespondents did not take this view; and some even came to a contrary\ndecision. The bills signed by Morrel were presented at his office with\nscrupulous exactitude, and, thanks to the delay granted by the\nEnglishman, were paid by Cocles with equal punctuality. Cocles thus\nremained in his accustomed tranquillity. It was Morrel alone who\nremembered with alarm, that if he had to repay on the 15th the 50,000\nfrancs of M. de Boville, and on the 30th the 32,500 francs of bills,\nfor which, as well as the debt due to the inspector of prisons, he had\ntime granted, he must be a ruined man.\n\nThe opinion of all the commercial men was that, under the reverses\nwhich had successively weighed down Morrel, it was impossible for him\nto remain solvent. Great, therefore, was the astonishment when at the\nend of the month, he cancelled all his obligations with his usual\npunctuality. Still confidence was not restored to all minds, and the\ngeneral opinion was that the complete ruin of the unfortunate shipowner\nhad been postponed only until the end of the month.\n\nThe month passed, and Morrel made extraordinary efforts to get in all\nhis resources. Formerly his paper, at any date, was taken with\nconfidence, and was even in request. Morrel now tried to negotiate\nbills at ninety days only, and none of the banks would give him credit.\nFortunately, Morrel had some funds coming in on which he could rely;\nand, as they reached him, he found himself in a condition to meet his\nengagements when the end of July came.\n\nThe agent of Thomson & French had not been again seen at Marseilles;\nthe day after, or two days after his visit to Morrel, he had\ndisappeared; and as in that city he had had no intercourse but with the\nmayor, the inspector of prisons, and M. Morrel, his departure left no\ntrace except in the memories of these three persons. As to the sailors\nof the _Pharaon_, they must have found snug berths elsewhere, for they\nalso had disappeared.\n\nCaptain Gaumard, recovered from his illness, had returned from Palma.\nHe delayed presenting himself at Morrel s, but the owner, hearing of\nhis arrival, went to see him. The worthy shipowner knew, from Penelon s\nrecital, of the captain s brave conduct during the storm, and tried to\nconsole him. He brought him also the amount of his wages, which Captain\nGaumard had not dared to apply for.\n\nAs he descended the staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was going up.\nPenelon had, it would seem, made good use of his money, for he was\nnewly clad. When he saw his employer, the worthy tar seemed much\nembarrassed, drew on one side into the corner of the landing-place,\npassed his quid from one cheek to the other, stared stupidly with his\ngreat eyes, and only acknowledged the squeeze of the hand which Morrel\nas usual gave him by a slight pressure in return. Morrel attributed\nPenelon s embarrassment to the elegance of his attire; it was evident\nthe good fellow had not gone to such an expense on his own account; he\nwas, no doubt, engaged on board some other vessel, and thus his\nbashfulness arose from the fact of his not having, if we may so express\nourselves, worn mourning for the _Pharaon_ longer. Perhaps he had come\nto tell Captain Gaumard of his good luck, and to offer him employment\nfrom his new master.\n\n Worthy fellows!  said Morrel,  as he went away,  may your new master\nlove you as I loved you, and be more fortunate than I have been! \n\n20049m\n\n\n\nAugust rolled by in unceasing efforts on the part of Morrel to renew\nhis credit or revive the old. On the 20th of August it was known at\nMarseilles that he had left town in the mailcoach, and then it was said\nthat the bills would go to protest at the end of the month, and that\nMorrel had gone away and left his chief clerk Emmanuel, and his cashier\nCocles, to meet the creditors. But, contrary to all expectation, when\nthe 31st of August came, the house opened as usual, and Cocles appeared\nbehind the grating of the counter, examined all bills presented with\nthe usual scrutiny, and, from first to last, paid all with the usual\nprecision. There came in, moreover, two drafts which M. Morrel had\nfully anticipated, and which Cocles paid as punctually as the bills\nwhich the shipowner had accepted. All this was incomprehensible, and\nthen, with the tenacity peculiar to prophets of bad news, the failure\nwas put off until the end of September.\n\nOn the 1st, Morrel returned; he was awaited by his family with extreme\nanxiety, for from this journey to Paris they hoped great things. Morrel\nhad thought of Danglars, who was now immensely rich, and had lain under\ngreat obligations to Morrel in former days, since to him it was owing\nthat Danglars entered the service of the Spanish banker, with whom he\nhad laid the foundations of his vast wealth. It was said at this moment\nthat Danglars was worth from six to eight millions of francs, and had\nunlimited credit. Danglars, then, without taking a crown from his\npocket, could save Morrel; he had but to pass his word for a loan, and\nMorrel was saved. Morrel had long thought of Danglars, but had kept\naway from some instinctive motive, and had delayed as long as possible\navailing himself of this last resource. And Morrel was right, for he\nreturned home crushed by the humiliation of a refusal.\n\nYet, on his arrival, Morrel did not utter a complaint, or say one harsh\nword. He embraced his weeping wife and daughter, pressed Emmanuel s\nhand with friendly warmth, and then going to his private room on the\nsecond floor had sent for Cocles.\n\n Then,  said the two women to Emmanuel,  we are indeed ruined. \n\nIt was agreed in a brief council held among them, that Julie should\nwrite to her brother, who was in garrison at N mes, to come to them as\nspeedily as possible. The poor women felt instinctively that they\nrequired all their strength to support the blow that impended. Besides,\nMaximilian Morrel, though hardly two-and-twenty, had great influence\nover his father.\n\nHe was a strong-minded, upright young man. At the time when he decided\non his profession his father had no desire to choose for him, but had\nconsulted young Maximilian s taste. He had at once declared for a\nmilitary life, and had in consequence studied hard, passed brilliantly\nthrough the Polytechnic School, and left it as sub-lieutenant of the\n53rd of the line. For a year he had held this rank, and expected\npromotion on the first vacancy. In his regiment Maximilian Morrel was\nnoted for his rigid observance, not only of the obligations imposed on\na soldier, but also of the duties of a man; and he thus gained the name\nof  the stoic.  We need hardly say that many of those who gave him this\nepithet repeated it because they had heard it, and did not even know\nwhat it meant.\n\nThis was the young man whom his mother and sister called to their aid\nto sustain them under the serious trial which they felt they would soon\nhave to endure. They had not mistaken the gravity of this event, for\nthe moment after Morrel had entered his private office with Cocles,\nJulie saw the latter leave it pale, trembling, and his features\nbetraying the utmost consternation. She would have questioned him as he\npassed by her, but the worthy creature hastened down the staircase with\nunusual precipitation, and only raised his hands to heaven and\nexclaimed:\n\n Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a dreadful misfortune! Who could\never have believed it! \n\nA moment afterwards Julie saw him go upstairs carrying two or three\nheavy ledgers, a portfolio, and a bag of money.\n\nMorrel examined the ledgers, opened the portfolio, and counted the\nmoney. All his funds amounted to 6,000 or 8,000 francs, his bills\nreceivable up to the 5th to 4,000 or 5,000, which, making the best of\neverything, gave him 14,000 francs to meet debts amounting to 287,500\nfrancs. He had not even the means for making a possible settlement on\naccount.\n\nHowever, when Morrel went down to his dinner, he appeared very calm.\nThis calmness was more alarming to the two women than the deepest\ndejection would have been. After dinner Morrel usually went out and\nused to take his coffee at the club of the Phoc ens, and read the\n_Semaphore_; this day he did not leave the house, but returned to his\noffice.\n\nAs to Cocles, he seemed completely bewildered. For part of the day he\nwent into the courtyard, seated himself on a stone with his head bare\nand exposed to the blazing sun. Emmanuel tried to comfort the women,\nbut his eloquence faltered. The young man was too well acquainted with\nthe business of the house, not to feel that a great catastrophe hung\nover the Morrel family. Night came, the two women had watched, hoping\nthat when he left his room Morrel would come to them, but they heard\nhim pass before their door, and trying to conceal the noise of his\nfootsteps. They listened; he went into his sleeping-room, and fastened\nthe door inside. Madame Morrel sent her daughter to bed, and half an\nhour after Julie had retired, she rose, took off her shoes, and went\nstealthily along the passage, to see through the keyhole what her\nhusband was doing.\n\nIn the passage she saw a retreating shadow; it was Julie, who, uneasy\nherself, had anticipated her mother. The young lady went towards Madame\nMorrel.\n\n He is writing,  she said.\n\nThey had understood each other without speaking. Madame Morrel looked\nagain through the keyhole, Morrel was writing; but Madame Morrel\nremarked, what her daughter had not observed, that her husband was\nwriting on stamped paper. The terrible idea that he was writing his\nwill flashed across her; she shuddered, and yet had not strength to\nutter a word.\n\nNext day M. Morrel seemed as calm as ever, went into his office as\nusual, came to his breakfast punctually, and then, after dinner, he\nplaced his daughter beside him, took her head in his arms, and held her\nfor a long time against his bosom. In the evening, Julie told her\nmother, that although he was apparently so calm, she had noticed that\nher father s heart beat violently.\n\nThe next two days passed in much the same way. On the evening of the\n4th of September, M. Morrel asked his daughter for the key of his\nstudy. Julie trembled at this request, which seemed to her of bad omen.\nWhy did her father ask for this key which she always kept, and which\nwas only taken from her in childhood as a punishment? The young girl\nlooked at Morrel.\n\n What have I done wrong, father,  she said,  that you should take this\nkey from me? \n\n Nothing, my dear,  replied the unhappy man, the tears starting to his\neyes at this simple question, nothing, only I want it. \n\nJulie made a pretence to feel for the key.  I must have left it in my\nroom,  she said.\n\nAnd she went out, but instead of going to her apartment she hastened to\nconsult Emmanuel.\n\n Do not give this key to your father,  said he,  and tomorrow morning,\nif possible, do not quit him for a moment. \n\nShe questioned Emmanuel, but he knew nothing, or would not say what he\nknew.\n\nDuring the night, between the 4th and 5th of September, Madame Morrel\nremained listening for every sound, and, until three o clock in the\nmorning, she heard her husband pacing the room in great agitation. It\nwas three o clock when he threw himself on the bed. The mother and\ndaughter passed the night together. They had expected Maximilian since\nthe previous evening. At eight o clock in the morning Morrel entered\ntheir chamber. He was calm; but the agitation of the night was legible\nin his pale and careworn visage. They did not dare to ask him how he\nhad slept. Morrel was kinder to his wife, more affectionate to his\ndaughter, than he had ever been. He could not cease gazing at and\nkissing the sweet girl. Julie, mindful of Emmanuel s request, was\nfollowing her father when he quitted the room, but he said to her\nquickly:\n\n Remain with your mother, dearest.  Julie wished to accompany him.  I\nwish you to do so,  said he.\n\nThis was the first time Morrel had ever so spoken, but he said it in a\ntone of paternal kindness, and Julie did not dare to disobey. She\nremained at the same spot standing mute and motionless. An instant\nafterwards the door opened, she felt two arms encircle her, and a mouth\npressed her forehead. She looked up and uttered an exclamation of joy.\n\n20053m\n\n\n\n Maximilian, my dearest brother!  she cried.\n\nAt these words Madame Morrel rose, and threw herself into her son s\narms.\n\n Mother,  said the young man, looking alternately at Madame Morrel and\nher daughter,  what has occurred what has happened? Your letter has\nfrightened me, and I have come hither with all speed. \n\n Julie,  said Madame Morrel, making a sign to the young man,  go and\ntell your father that Maximilian has just arrived. \n\nThe young lady rushed out of the apartment, but on the first step of\nthe staircase she found a man holding a letter in his hand.\n\n Are you not Mademoiselle Julie Morrel?  inquired the man, with a\nstrong Italian accent.\n\n Yes, sir,  replied Julie with hesitation;  what is your pleasure? I do\nnot know you. \n\n Read this letter,  he said, handing it to her. Julie hesitated.  It\nconcerns the best interests of your father,  said the messenger.\n\nThe young girl hastily took the letter from him. She opened it quickly\nand read:\n\n Go this moment to the All es de Meilhan, enter the house No. 15, ask\nthe porter for the key of the room on the fifth floor, enter the\napartment, take from the corner of the mantelpiece a purse netted in\nred silk, and give it to your father. It is important that he should\nreceive it before eleven o clock. You promised to obey me implicitly.\nRemember your oath.\n\n Sinbad the Sailor. \n\nThe young girl uttered a joyful cry, raised her eyes, looked round to\nquestion the messenger, but he had disappeared. She cast her eyes again\nover the note to peruse it a second time, and saw there was a\npostscript. She read:\n\n It is important that you should fulfil this mission in person and\nalone. If you go accompanied by any other person, or should anyone else\ngo in your place, the porter will reply that he does not know anything\nabout it. \n\nThis postscript decreased greatly the young girl s happiness. Was there\nnothing to fear? was there not some snare laid for her? Her innocence\nhad kept her in ignorance of the dangers that might assail a young girl\nof her age. But there is no need to know danger in order to fear it;\nindeed, it may be observed, that it is usually unknown perils that\ninspire the greatest terror.\n\nJulie hesitated, and resolved to take counsel. Yet, through a singular\nimpulse, it was neither to her mother nor her brother that she applied,\nbut to Emmanuel. She hastened down and told him what had occurred on\nthe day when the agent of Thomson & French had come to her father s,\nrelated the scene on the staircase, repeated the promise she had made,\nand showed him the letter.\n\n You must go, then, mademoiselle,  said Emmanuel.\n\n Go there?  murmured Julie.\n\n Yes; I will accompany you. \n\n But did you not read that I must be alone?  said Julie.\n\n And you shall be alone,  replied the young man.  I will await you at\nthe corner of the Rue du Mus e, and if you are so long absent as to\nmake me uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, and woe to him of whom you\nshall have cause to complain to me! \n\n Then, Emmanuel?  said the young girl with hesitation,  it is your\nopinion that I should obey this invitation? \n\n Yes. Did not the messenger say your father s safety depended upon it? \n\n But what danger threatens him, then, Emmanuel?  she asked.\n\nEmmanuel hesitated a moment, but his desire to make Julie decide\nimmediately made him reply.\n\n Listen,  he said;  today is the 5th of September, is it not? \n\n Yes. \n\n Today, then, at eleven o clock, your father has nearly three hundred\nthousand francs to pay? \n\n Yes, we know that. \n\n Well, then,  continued Emmanuel,  we have not fifteen thousand francs\nin the house. \n\n What will happen then? \n\n Why, if today before eleven o clock your father has not found someone\nwho will come to his aid, he will be compelled at twelve o clock to\ndeclare himself a bankrupt. \n\n Oh, come, then, come!  cried she, hastening away with the young man.\n\nDuring this time, Madame Morrel had told her son everything. The young\nman knew quite well that, after the succession of misfortunes which had\nbefallen his father, great changes had taken place in the style of\nliving and housekeeping; but he did not know that matters had reached\nsuch a point. He was thunderstruck. Then, rushing hastily out of the\napartment, he ran upstairs, expecting to find his father in his study,\nbut he rapped there in vain.\n\nWhile he was yet at the door of the study he heard the bedroom door\nopen, turned, and saw his father. Instead of going direct to his study,\nM. Morrel had returned to his bedchamber, which he was only this moment\nquitting. Morrel uttered a cry of surprise at the sight of his son, of\nwhose arrival he was ignorant. He remained motionless on the spot,\npressing with his left hand something he had concealed under his coat.\nMaximilian sprang down the staircase, and threw his arms round his\nfather s neck; but suddenly he recoiled, and placed his right hand on\nMorrel s breast.\n\n Father,  he exclaimed, turning pale as death,  what are you going to\ndo with that brace of pistols under your coat? \n\n Oh, this is what I feared!  said Morrel.\n\n Father, father, in Heaven s name,  exclaimed the young man,  what are\nthese weapons for? \n\n Maximilian,  replied Morrel, looking fixedly at his son,  you are a\nman, and a man of honor. Come, and I will explain to you. \n\nAnd with a firm step Morrel went up to his study, while Maximilian\nfollowed him, trembling as he went. Morrel opened the door, and closed\nit behind his son; then, crossing the anteroom, went to his desk on\nwhich he placed the pistols, and pointed with his finger to an open\nledger. In this ledger was made out an exact balance-sheet of his\naffairs. Morrel had to pay, within half an hour, 287,500 francs. All he\npossessed was 15,257 francs.\n\n Read!  said Morrel.\n\nThe young man was overwhelmed as he read. Morrel said not a word. What\ncould he say? What need he add to such a desperate proof in figures?\n\n And have you done all that is possible, father, to meet this\ndisastrous result?  asked the young man, after a moment s pause.\n\n I have,  replied Morrel.\n\n You have no money coming in on which you can rely? \n\n None. \n\n You have exhausted every resource? \n\n All. \n\n And in half an hour,  said Maximilian in a gloomy voice,  our name is\ndishonored! \n\n Blood washes out dishonor,  said Morrel.\n\n You are right, father; I understand you.  Then extending his hand\ntowards one of the pistols, he said,  There is one for you and one for\nme thanks! \n\nMorrel caught his hand.  Your mother your sister! Who will support\nthem? \n\nA shudder ran through the young man s frame.  Father,  he said,  do you\nreflect that you are bidding me to live? \n\n Yes, I do so bid you,  answered Morrel,  it is your duty. You have a\ncalm, strong mind, Maximilian. Maximilian, you are no ordinary man. I\nmake no requests or commands; I only ask you to examine my position as\nif it were your own, and then judge for yourself. \n\nThe young man reflected for a moment, then an expression of sublime\nresignation appeared in his eyes, and with a slow and sad gesture he\ntook off his two epaulets, the insignia of his rank.\n\n Be it so, then, my father,  he said, extending his hand to Morrel,\n die in peace, my father; I will live. \n\nMorrel was about to cast himself on his knees before his son, but\nMaximilian caught him in his arms, and those two noble hearts were\npressed against each other for a moment.\n\n You know it is not my fault,  said Morrel.\n\n20057m\n\n\n\nMaximilian smiled.  I know, father, you are the most honorable man I\nhave ever known. \n\n Good, my son. And now there is no more to be said; go and rejoin your\nmother and sister. \n\n My father,  said the young man, bending his knee,  bless me!  Morrel\ntook the head of his son between his two hands, drew him forward, and\nkissing his forehead several times said:\n\n Oh, yes, yes, I bless you in my own name, and in the name of three\ngenerations of irreproachable men, who say through me,  The edifice\nwhich misfortune has destroyed, Providence may build up again.  On\nseeing me die such a death, the most inexorable will have pity on you.\nTo you, perhaps, they will accord the time they have refused to me.\nThen do your best to keep our name free from dishonor. Go to work,\nlabor, young man, struggle ardently and courageously; live, yourself,\nyour mother and sister, with the most rigid economy, so that from day\nto day the property of those whom I leave in your hands may augment and\nfructify. Reflect how glorious a day it will be, how grand, how solemn,\nthat day of complete restoration, on which you will say in this very\noffice,  My father died because he could not do what I have this day\ndone; but he died calmly and peaceably, because in dying he knew what I\nshould do. \n\n My father, my father!  cried the young man,  why should you not live? \n\n If I live, all would be changed; if I live, interest would be\nconverted into doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I am only a man\nwho has broken his word, failed in his engagements in fact, only a\nbankrupt. If, on the contrary, I die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse\nis that of an honest but unfortunate man. Living, my best friends would\navoid my house; dead, all Marseilles will follow me in tears to my last\nhome. Living, you would feel shame at my name; dead, you may raise your\nhead and say,  I am the son of him you killed, because, for the first\ntime, he has been compelled to break his word. \n\nThe young man uttered a groan, but appeared resigned.\n\n And now,  said Morrel,  leave me alone, and endeavor to keep your\nmother and sister away. \n\n Will you not see my sister once more?  asked Maximilian. A last but\nfinal hope was concealed by the young man in the effect of this\ninterview, and therefore he had suggested it. Morrel shook his head.  I\nsaw her this morning, and bade her adieu. \n\n Have you no particular commands to leave with me, my father?  inquired\nMaximilian in a faltering voice.\n\n Yes; my son, and a sacred command. \n\n Say it, my father. \n\n The house of Thomson & French is the only one who, from humanity, or,\nit may be, selfishness it is not for me to read men s hearts has had\nany pity for me. Its agent, who will in ten minutes present himself to\nreceive the amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I will not say granted,\nbut offered me three months. Let this house be the first repaid, my\nson, and respect this man. \n\n Father, I will,  said Maximilian.\n\n And now, once more, adieu,  said Morrel.  Go, leave me; I would be\nalone. You will find my will in the secretaire in my bedroom. \n\nThe young man remained standing and motionless, having but the force of\nwill and not the power of execution.\n\n Hear me, Maximilian,  said his father.  Suppose I were a soldier like\nyou, and ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and you knew I must be\nkilled in the assault, would you not say to me, as you said just now,\n Go, father; for you are dishonored by delay, and death is preferable\nto shame! \n\n Yes, yes,  said the young man,  yes;  and once again embracing his\nfather with convulsive pressure, he said,  Be it so, my father. \n\nAnd he rushed out of the study. When his son had left him, Morrel\nremained an instant standing with his eyes fixed on the door; then\nputting forth his arm, he pulled the bell. After a moment s interval,\nCocles appeared.\n\nIt was no longer the same man the fearful revelations of the three last\ndays had crushed him. This thought the house of Morrel is about to stop\npayment bent him to the earth more than twenty years would otherwise\nhave done.\n\n My worthy Cocles,  said Morrel in a tone impossible to describe,  do\nyou remain in the antechamber. When the gentleman who came three months\nago the agent of Thomson & French arrives, announce his arrival to me. \n\nCocles made no reply; he made a sign with his head, went into the\nanteroom, and seated himself. Morrel fell back in his chair, his eyes\nfixed on the clock; there were seven minutes left, that was all. The\nhand moved on with incredible rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.\n\nWhat passed in the mind of this man at the supreme moment of his agony\ncannot be told in words. He was still comparatively young, he was\nsurrounded by the loving care of a devoted family, but he had convinced\nhimself by a course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, yet certainly\nplausible, that he must separate himself from all he held dear in the\nworld, even life itself. To form the slightest idea of his feelings,\none must have seen his face with its expression of enforced resignation\nand its tear-moistened eyes raised to heaven. The minute hand moved on.\nThe pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and\nmurmured his daughter s name. Then he laid it down, seized his pen, and\nwrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient\nfarewell of his beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock,\ncounting time now not by minutes, but by seconds.\n\nHe took up the deadly weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed\non the clock, and then shuddered at the click of the trigger as he\ncocked the pistol. At this moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came\nforth upon his brow, a pang stronger than death clutched at his\nheart-strings. He heard the door of the staircase creak on its\nhinges the clock gave its warning to strike eleven the door of his\nstudy opened. Morrel did not turn round he expected these words of\nCocles,  The agent of Thomson & French. \n\nHe placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard\na cry it was his daughter s voice. He turned and saw Julie. The pistol\nfell from his hands.\n\n My father!  cried the young girl, out of breath, and half dead with\njoy saved, you are saved!  And she threw herself into his arms,\nholding in her extended hand a red, netted silk purse.\n\n20061m\n\n\n\n Saved, my child!  said Morrel;  what do you mean? \n\n Yes, saved saved! See, see!  said the young girl.\n\nMorrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague\nremembrance reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one end\nwas the receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other was a\ndiamond as large as a hazel-nut, with these words on a small slip of\nparchment: _Julie s Dowry_.\n\nMorrel passed his hand over his brow; it seemed to him a dream. At this\nmoment the clock struck eleven. He felt as if each stroke of the hammer\nfell upon his heart.\n\n Explain, my child,  he said,  Explain, my child,  he said,\n explain where did you find this purse? \n\n In a house in the All es de Meilhan, No. 15, on the corner of a\nmantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor. \n\n But,  cried Morrel,  this purse is not yours!  Julie handed to her\nfather the letter she had received in the morning.\n\n And did you go alone?  asked Morrel, after he had read it.\n\n Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me at the\ncorner of the Rue du Mus e, but, strange to say, he was not there when\nI returned. \n\n Monsieur Morrel!  exclaimed a voice on the stairs;  Monsieur Morrel! \n\n It is his voice!  said Julie. At this moment Emmanuel entered, his\ncountenance full of animation and joy.\n\n The _Pharaon_!  he cried;  the _Pharaon_! \n\n What! what! the _Pharaon_! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel\nis lost. \n\n The _Pharaon_, sir they signal the _Pharaon_! The _Pharaon_ is\nentering the harbor! \n\nMorrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him; his\nunderstanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such\nincredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son came in.\n\n Father,  cried Maximilian,  how could you say the _Pharaon_ was lost?\nThe lookout has signalled her, and they say she is now coming into\nport. \n\n20063m\n\n\n\n My dear friends,  said Morrel,  if this be so, it must be a miracle of\nheaven! Impossible, impossible! \n\nBut what was real and not less incredible was the purse he held in his\nhand, the acceptance receipted the splendid diamond.\n\n Ah, sir,  exclaimed Cocles,  what can it mean? the _Pharaon_? \n\n Come, dear ones,  said Morrel, rising from his seat,  let us go and\nsee, and Heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence! \n\nThey all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been\nafraid to go up into the study. In a moment they were at the Canebi re.\nThere was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way before Morrel.\n The _Pharaon_! the _Pharaon_!  said every voice.\n\nAnd, wonderful to see, in front of the tower of Saint-Jean, was a ship\nbearing on her stern these words, printed in white letters,  The\n_Pharaon_, Morrel & Son, of Marseilles.  She was the exact duplicate of\nthe other _Pharaon_, and loaded, as that had been, with cochineal and\nindigo. She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the deck was Captain\nGaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making signals to M.\nMorrel. To doubt any longer was impossible; there was the evidence of\nthe senses, and ten thousand persons who came to corroborate the\ntestimony.\n\nAs Morrel and his son embraced on the pier-head, in the presence and\namid the applause of the whole city witnessing this event, a man, with\nhis face half-covered by a black beard, and who, concealed behind the\nsentry-box, watched the scene with delight, uttered these words in a\nlow tone:\n\n Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and\nwilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your\ngood deeds. \n\n20064m\n\n\n\nAnd with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his\nhiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the flights\nof steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times, shouted\n Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo! \n\nThen a launch came to shore, took him on board, and conveyed him to a\nyacht splendidly fitted up, on whose deck he sprung with the activity\nof a sailor; thence he once again looked towards Morrel, who, weeping\nwith joy, was shaking hands most cordially with all the crowd around\nhim, and thanking with a look the unknown benefactor whom he seemed to\nbe seeking in the skies.\n\n And now,  said the unknown,  farewell kindness, humanity, and\ngratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have\nbeen Heaven s substitute to recompense the good now the god of\nvengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked! \n\nAt these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaiting this signal,\nthe yacht instantly put out to sea.\n\n\n\n Chapter 31. Italy: Sinbad the Sailor\n\nTowards the beginning of the year 1838, two young men belonging to the\nfirst society of Paris, the Viscount Albert de Morcerf and the Baron\nFranz d pinay, were at Florence. They had agreed to see the Carnival\nat Rome that year, and that Franz, who for the last three or four years\nhad inhabited Italy, should act as _cicerone_ to Albert.\n\nAs it is no inconsiderable affair to spend the Carnival at Rome,\nespecially when you have no great desire to sleep on the Piazza del\nPopolo, or the Campo Vaccino, they wrote to Signor Pastrini, the\nproprietor of the H tel de Londres, Piazza di Spagna, to reserve\ncomfortable apartments for them. Signor Pastrini replied that he had\nonly two rooms and a parlor on the third floor, which he offered at the\nlow charge of a louis per diem. They accepted his offer; but wishing to\nmake the best use of the time that was left, Albert started for Naples.\nAs for Franz, he remained at Florence, and after having passed a few\ndays in exploring the paradise of the Cascine, and spending two or\nthree evenings at the houses of the Florentine nobility, he took a\nfancy into his head (having already visited Corsica, the cradle of\nBonaparte) to visit Elba, the waiting-place of Napoleon.\n\nOne evening he cast off the painter of a sailboat from the iron ring\nthat secured it to the dock at Leghorn, wrapped himself in his coat and\nlay down, and said to the crew, To the Island of Elba! \n\nThe boat shot out of the harbor like a bird and the next morning Franz\ndisembarked at Porto-Ferrajo. He traversed the island, after having\nfollowed the traces which the footsteps of the giant have left, and\nre-embarked for Marciana.\n\nTwo hours after he again landed at Pianosa, where he was assured that\nred partridges abounded. The sport was bad; Franz only succeeded in\nkilling a few partridges, and, like every unsuccessful sportsman, he\nreturned to the boat very much out of temper.\n\n Ah, if your excellency chose,  said the captain,  you might have\ncapital sport. \n\n Where? \n\n Do you see that island?  continued the captain, pointing to a conical\npile rising from the indigo sea.\n\n Well, what is this island? \n\n The Island of Monte Cristo. \n\n But I have no permission to shoot over this island. \n\n Your excellency does not require a permit, for the island is\nuninhabited. \n\n Ah, indeed!  said the young man.  A desert island in the midst of the\nMediterranean must be a curiosity. \n\n It is very natural; this island is a mass of rocks, and does not\ncontain an acre of land capable of cultivation. \n\n To whom does this island belong? \n\n To Tuscany. \n\n What game shall I find there! \n\n Thousands of wild goats. \n\n Who live upon the stones, I suppose,  said Franz with an incredulous\nsmile.\n\n No, but by browsing the shrubs and trees that grow out of the crevices\nof the rocks. \n\n Where can I sleep? \n\n On shore in the grottos, or on board in your cloak; besides, if your\nexcellency pleases, we can leave as soon as you like we can sail as\nwell by night as by day, and if the wind drops we can use our oars. \n\nAs Franz had sufficient time, and his apartments at Rome were not yet\navailable, he accepted the proposition. Upon his answer in the\naffirmative, the sailors exchanged a few words together in a low tone.\n Well,  asked he,  what now? Is there any difficulty in the way? \n\n No.  replied the captain,  but we must warn your excellency that the\nisland is an infected port. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n Monte Cristo although uninhabited, yet serves occasionally as a refuge\nfor the smugglers and pirates who come from Corsica, Sardinia, and\nAfrica, and if it becomes known that we have been there, we shall have\nto perform quarantine for six days on our return to Leghorn. \n\n The deuce! That puts a different face on the matter. Six days! Why,\nthat s as long as the Almighty took to make the world! Too long a\nwait too long. \n\n But who will say your excellency has been to Monte Cristo? \n\n Oh, I shall not,  cried Franz.\n\n Nor I, nor I,  chorused the sailors.\n\n Then steer for Monte Cristo. \n\nThe captain gave his orders, the helm was put up, and the boat was soon\nsailing in the direction of the island. Franz waited until all was in\norder, and when the sail was filled, and the four sailors had taken\ntheir places three forward, and one at the helm he resumed the\nconversation.  Gaetano,  said he to the captain,  you tell me Monte\nCristo serves as a refuge for pirates, who are, it seems to me, a very\ndifferent kind of game from the goats. \n\n Yes, your excellency, and it is true. \n\n I knew there were smugglers, but I thought that since the capture of\nAlgiers, and the destruction of the regency, pirates existed only in\nthe romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat. \n\n Your excellency is mistaken; there are pirates, like the bandits who\nwere believed to have been exterminated by Pope Leo XII., and who yet,\nevery day, rob travellers at the gates of Rome. Has not your excellency\nheard that the French _charg  d affaires_ was robbed six months ago\nwithin five hundred paces of Velletri? \n\n Oh, yes, I heard that. \n\n Well, then, if, like us, your excellency lived at Leghorn, you would\nhear, from time to time, that a little merchant vessel, or an English\nyacht that was expected at Bastia, at Porto-Ferrajo, or at Civita\nVecchia, has not arrived; no one knows what has become of it, but,\ndoubtless, it has struck on a rock and foundered. Now this rock it has\nmet has been a long and narrow boat, manned by six or eight men, who\nhave surprised and plundered it, some dark and stormy night, near some\ndesert and gloomy island, as bandits plunder a carriage in the recesses\nof a forest. \n\n But,  asked Franz, who lay wrapped in his cloak at the bottom of the\nboat,  why do not those who have been plundered complain to the French,\nSardinian, or Tuscan governments? \n\n Why?  said Gaetano with a smile.\n\n Yes, why? \n\n Because, in the first place, they transfer from the vessel to their\nown boat whatever they think worth taking, then they bind the crew hand\nand foot, they attach to everyone s neck a four-and-twenty-pound ball,\na large hole is chopped in the vessel s bottom, and then they leave\nher. At the end of ten minutes the vessel begins to roll heavily and\nsettle down. First one gun l goes under, then the other. Then they lift\nand sink again, and both go under at once. All at once there s a noise\nlike a cannon that s the air blowing up the deck. Soon the water rushes\nout of the scupper-holes like a whale spouting, the vessel gives a last\ngroan, spins round and round, and disappears, forming a vast whirlpool\nin the ocean, and then all is over, so that in five minutes nothing but\nthe eye of God can see the vessel where she lies at the bottom of the\nsea. Do you understand now,  said the captain,  why no complaints are\nmade to the government, and why the vessel never reaches port? \n\nIt is probable that if Gaetano had related this previous to proposing\nthe expedition, Franz would have hesitated, but now that they had\nstarted, he thought it would be cowardly to draw back. He was one of\nthose men who do not rashly court danger, but if danger presents\nitself, combat it with the most unalterable coolness. Calm and\nresolute, he treated any peril as he would an adversary in a\nduel, calculated its probable method of approach; retreated, if at all,\nas a point of strategy and not from cowardice; was quick to see an\nopening for attack, and won victory at a single thrust.\n\n Bah!  said he,  I have travelled through Sicily and Calabria I have\nsailed two months in the Archipelago, and yet I never saw even the\nshadow of a bandit or a pirate. \n\n I did not tell your excellency this to deter you from your project, \nreplied Gaetano,  but you questioned me, and I have answered; that s\nall. \n\n Yes, and your conversation is most interesting; and as I wish to enjoy\nit as long as possible, steer for Monte Cristo. \n\nThe wind blew strongly, the boat made six or seven knots an hour, and\nthey were rapidly reaching the end of their voyage. As they drew near\nthe island seemed to lift from the sea, and the air was so clear that\nthey could already distinguish the rocks heaped on one another, like\ncannon balls in an arsenal, with green bushes and trees growing in the\ncrevices. As for the sailors, although they appeared perfectly tranquil\nyet it was evident that they were on the alert, and that they carefully\nwatched the glassy surface over which they were sailing, and on which a\nfew fishing-boats, with their white sails, were alone visible.\n\nThey were within fifteen miles of Monte Cristo when the sun began to\nset behind Corsica, whose mountains appeared against the sky, showing\ntheir rugged peaks in bold relief; this mass of rock, like the giant\nAdamastor, rose dead ahead, a formidable barrier, and intercepting the\nlight that gilded its massive peaks so that the voyagers were in\nshadow. Little by little the shadow rose higher and seemed to drive\nbefore it the last rays of the expiring day; at last the reflection\nrested on the summit of the mountain, where it paused an instant, like\nthe fiery crest of a volcano, then gloom gradually covered the summit\nas it had covered the base, and the island now only appeared to be a\ngray mountain that grew continually darker; half an hour after, the\nnight was quite dark.\n\nFortunately, the mariners were used to these latitudes, and knew every\nrock in the Tuscan Archipelago; for in the midst of this obscurity\nFranz was not without uneasiness Corsica had long since disappeared,\nand Monte Cristo itself was invisible; but the sailors seemed, like the\nlynx, to see in the dark, and the pilot who steered did not evince the\nslightest hesitation.\n\nAn hour had passed since the sun had set, when Franz fancied he saw, at\na quarter of a mile to the left, a dark mass, but he could not\nprecisely make out what it was, and fearing to excite the mirth of the\nsailors by mistaking a floating cloud for land, he remained silent;\nsuddenly a great light appeared on the strand; land might resemble a\ncloud, but the fire was not a meteor.\n\n What is this light?  asked he.\n\n Hush!  said the captain;  it is a fire. \n\n But you told me the island was uninhabited? \n\n I said there were no fixed habitations on it, but I said also that it\nserved sometimes as a harbor for smugglers. \n\n And for pirates? \n\n And for pirates,  returned Gaetano, repeating Franz s words.  It is\nfor that reason I have given orders to pass the island, for, as you\nsee, the fire is behind us. \n\n But this fire?  continued Franz.  It seems to me rather reassuring\nthan otherwise; men who did not wish to be seen would not light a\nfire. \n\n Oh, that goes for nothing,  said Gaetano.  If you can guess the\nposition of the island in the darkness, you will see that the fire\ncannot be seen from the side or from Pianosa, but only from the sea. \n\n You think, then, this fire indicates the presence of unpleasant\nneighbors? \n\n That is what we must find out,  returned Gaetano, fixing his eyes on\nthis terrestrial star.\n\n How can you find out? \n\n You shall see. \n\nGaetano consulted with his companions, and after five minutes \ndiscussion a man uvre was executed which caused the vessel to tack\nabout, they returned the way they had come, and in a few minutes the\nfire disappeared, hidden by an elevation of the land. The pilot again\nchanged the course of the boat, which rapidly approached the island,\nand was soon within fifty paces of it. Gaetano lowered the sail, and\nthe boat came to rest. All this was done in silence, and from the\nmoment that their course was changed not a word was spoken.\n\nGaetano, who had proposed the expedition, had taken all the\nresponsibility on himself; the four sailors fixed their eyes on him,\nwhile they got out their oars and held themselves in readiness to row\naway, which, thanks to the darkness, would not be difficult. As for\nFranz, he examined his arms with the utmost coolness; he had two\ndouble-barrelled guns and a rifle; he loaded them, looked at the\npriming, and waited quietly.\n\nDuring this time the captain had thrown off his vest and shirt, and\nsecured his trousers round his waist; his feet were naked, so he had no\nshoes and stockings to take off; after these preparations he placed his\nfinger on his lips, and lowering himself noiselessly into the sea, swam\ntowards the shore with such precaution that it was impossible to hear\nthe slightest sound; he could only be traced by the phosphorescent line\nin his wake. This track soon disappeared; it was evident that he had\ntouched the shore.\n\nEveryone on board remained motionless for half an hour, when the same\nluminous track was again observed, and the swimmer was soon on board.\n\n Well?  exclaimed Franz and the sailors in unison.\n\n They are Spanish smugglers,  said he;  they have with them two\nCorsican bandits. \n\n And what are these Corsican bandits doing here with Spanish\nsmugglers? \n\n Alas,  returned the captain with an accent of the most profound pity,\n we ought always to help one another. Very often the bandits are hard\npressed by gendarmes or carbineers; well, they see a vessel, and good\nfellows like us on board, they come and demand hospitality of us; you\ncan t refuse help to a poor hunted devil; we receive them, and for\ngreater security we stand out to sea. This costs us nothing, and saves\nthe life, or at least the liberty, of a fellow-creature, who on the\nfirst occasion returns the service by pointing out some safe spot where\nwe can land our goods without interruption. \n\n Ah!  said Franz,  then you are a smuggler occasionally, Gaetano? \n\n Your excellency, we must live somehow,  returned the other, smiling\nimpenetrably.\n\n Then you know the men who are now on Monte Cristo? \n\n Oh, yes, we sailors are like freemasons, and recognize each other by\nsigns. \n\n And do you think we have nothing to fear if we land? \n\n Nothing at all; smugglers are not thieves. \n\n But these two Corsican bandits?  said Franz, calculating the chances\nof peril.\n\n It is not their fault that they are bandits, but that of the\nauthorities. \n\n How so? \n\n Because they are pursued for having made a stiff, as if it was not in\na Corsican s nature to revenge himself. \n\n What do you mean by having made a stiff? having assassinated a man? \nsaid Franz, continuing his investigation.\n\n I mean that they have killed an enemy, which is a very different\nthing,  returned the captain.\n\n Well,  said the young man,  let us demand hospitality of these\nsmugglers and bandits. Do you think they will grant it? \n\n Without doubt. \n\n How many are they? \n\n Four, and the two bandits make six. \n\n Just our number, so that if they prove troublesome, we shall be able\nto hold them in check; so, for the last time, steer to Monte Cristo. \n\n Yes, but your excellency will permit us to take all due precautions. \n\n By all means, be as wise as Nestor and as prudent as Ulysses; I do\nmore than permit, I exhort you. \n\n Silence, then!  said Gaetano.\n\nEveryone obeyed. For a man who, like Franz, viewed his position in its\ntrue light, it was a grave one. He was alone in the darkness with\nsailors whom he did not know, and who had no reason to be devoted to\nhim; who knew that he had several thousand francs in his belt, and who\nhad often examined his weapons, which were very beautiful, if not with\nenvy, at least with curiosity. On the other hand, he was about to land,\nwithout any other escort than these men, on an island which had,\nindeed, a very religious name, but which did not seem to Franz likely\nto afford him much hospitality, thanks to the smugglers and bandits.\nThe history of the scuttled vessels, which had appeared improbable\nduring the day, seemed very probable at night; placed as he was between\ntwo possible sources of danger, he kept his eye on the crew, and his\ngun in his hand.\n\nThe sailors had again hoisted sail, and the vessel was once more\ncleaving the waves. Through the darkness Franz, whose eyes were now\nmore accustomed to it, could see the looming shore along which the boat\nwas sailing, and then, as they rounded a rocky point, he saw the fire\nmore brilliant than ever, and about it five or six persons seated. The\nblaze illumined the sea for a hundred paces around. Gaetano skirted the\nlight, carefully keeping the boat in the shadow; then, when they were\nopposite the fire, he steered to the centre of the circle, singing a\nfishing song, of which his companions sung the chorus.\n\nAt the first words of the song the men seated round the fire arose and\napproached the landing-place, their eyes fixed on the boat, evidently\nseeking to know who the new-comers were and what were their intentions.\nThey soon appeared satisfied and returned (with the exception of one,\nwho remained at the shore) to their fire, at which the carcass of a\ngoat was roasting. When the boat was within twenty paces of the shore,\nthe man on the beach, who carried a carbine, presented arms after the\nmanner of a sentinel, and cried,  Who comes there?  in Sardinian.\n\nFranz coolly cocked both barrels. Gaetano then exchanged a few words\nwith this man which the traveller did not understand, but which\nevidently concerned him.\n\n Will your excellency give your name, or remain _incognito_?  asked the\ncaptain.\n\n My name must rest unknown,  replied Franz;  merely say I am a\nFrenchman travelling for pleasure. \n\nAs soon as Gaetano had transmitted this answer, the sentinel gave an\norder to one of the men seated round the fire, who rose and disappeared\namong the rocks. Not a word was spoken, everyone seemed occupied, Franz\nwith his disembarkment, the sailors with their sails, the smugglers\nwith their goat; but in the midst of all this carelessness it was\nevident that they mutually observed each other.\n\nThe man who had disappeared returned suddenly on the opposite side to\nthat by which he had left; he made a sign with his head to the\nsentinel, who, turning to the boat, said,  _S accommodi_.  The Italian\n_s accommodi_ is untranslatable; it means at once,  Come, enter, you\nare welcome; make yourself at home; you are the master.  It is like\nthat Turkish phrase of Moli re s that so astonished the bourgeois\ngentleman by the number of things implied in its utterance.\n\nThe sailors did not wait for a second invitation; four strokes of the\noar brought them to land; Gaetano sprang to shore, exchanged a few\nwords with the sentinel, then his comrades disembarked, and lastly came\nFranz. One of his guns was swung over his shoulder, Gaetano had the\nother, and a sailor held his rifle; his dress, half artist, half dandy,\ndid not excite any suspicion, and, consequently, no disquietude. The\nboat was moored to the shore, and they advanced a few paces to find a\ncomfortable bivouac; but, doubtless, the spot they chose did not suit\nthe smuggler who filled the post of sentinel, for he cried out:\n\n Not that way, if you please. \n\nGaetano faltered an excuse, and advanced to the opposite side, while\ntwo sailors kindled torches at the fire to light them on their way.\n\nThey advanced about thirty paces, and then stopped at a small esplanade\nsurrounded with rocks, in which seats had been cut, not unlike\nsentry-boxes. Around in the crevices of the rocks grew a few dwarf oaks\nand thick bushes of myrtles. Franz lowered a torch, and saw by the mass\nof cinders that had accumulated that he was not the first to discover\nthis retreat, which was, doubtless, one of the halting-places of the\nwandering visitors of Monte Cristo.\n\nAs for his suspicions, once on _terra firma_, once that he had seen the\nindifferent, if not friendly, appearance of his hosts, his anxiety had\nquite disappeared, or rather, at sight of the goat, had turned to\nappetite. He mentioned this to Gaetano, who replied that nothing could\nbe more easy than to prepare a supper when they had in their boat,\nbread, wine, half a dozen partridges, and a good fire to roast them by.\n\n Besides,  added he,  if the smell of their roast meat tempts you, I\nwill go and offer them two of our birds for a slice. \n\n You are a born diplomat,  returned Franz;  go and try. \n\nMeanwhile the sailors had collected dried sticks and branches with\nwhich they made a fire. Franz waited impatiently, inhaling the aroma of\nthe roasted meat, when the captain returned with a mysterious air.\n\n Well,  said Franz,  anything new? do they refuse? \n\n On the contrary,  returned Gaetano,  the chief, who was told you were\na young Frenchman, invites you to sup with him. \n\n Well,  observed Franz,  this chief is very polite, and I see no\nobjection the more so as I bring my share of the supper. \n\n Oh, it is not that; he has plenty, and to spare, for supper; but he\nmakes one condition, and rather a peculiar one, before he will receive\nyou at his house. \n\n His house? Has he built one here, then? \n\n No, but he has a very comfortable one all the same, so they say. \n\n You know this chief, then? \n\n I have heard talk of him. \n\n Favorably or otherwise? \n\n Both. \n\n The deuce! and what is this condition? \n\n That you are blindfolded, and do not take off the bandage until he\nhimself bids you. \n\nFranz looked at Gaetano, to see, if possible, what he thought of this\nproposal.  Ah,  replied he, guessing Franz s thought,  I know this is a\nserious matter. \n\n What should you do in my place? \n\n I, who have nothing to lose, I should go. \n\n20075m\n\n\n\n You would accept? \n\n Yes, were it only out of curiosity. \n\n There is something very peculiar about this chief, then? \n\n Listen,  said Gaetano, lowering his voice,  I do not know if what they\nsay is true he stopped to see if anyone was near.\n\n What do they say? \n\n That this chief inhabits a cavern to which the Pitti Palace is\nnothing. \n\n What nonsense!  said Franz, reseating himself.\n\n It is no nonsense; it is quite true. Cama, the pilot of the _Saint\nFerdinand_, went in once, and he came back amazed, vowing that such\ntreasures were only to be heard of in fairy tales. \n\n Do you know,  observed Franz,  that with such stories you make me\nthink of Ali Baba s enchanted cavern? \n\n I tell you what I have been told. \n\n Then you advise me to accept? \n\n Oh, I don t say that; your excellency will do as you please; I should\nbe sorry to advise you in the matter. \n\nFranz pondered the matter for a few moments, concluded that a man so\nrich could not have any intention of plundering him of what little he\nhad, and seeing only the prospect of a good supper, accepted. Gaetano\ndeparted with the reply. Franz was prudent, and wished to learn all he\npossibly could concerning his host. He turned towards the sailor, who,\nduring this dialogue, had sat gravely plucking the partridges with the\nair of a man proud of his office, and asked him how these men had\nlanded, as no vessel of any kind was visible.\n\n Never mind that,  returned the sailor,  I know their vessel. \n\n Is it a very beautiful vessel? \n\n I would not wish for a better to sail round the world. \n\n Of what burden is she? \n\n About a hundred tons; but she is built to stand any weather. She is\nwhat the English call a yacht. \n\n Where was she built? \n\n I know not; but my own opinion is she is a Genoese. \n\n And how did a leader of smugglers,  continued Franz,  venture to build\na vessel designed for such a purpose at Genoa? \n\n I did not say that the owner was a smuggler,  replied the sailor.\n\n No; but Gaetano did, I thought. \n\n Gaetano had only seen the vessel from a distance, he had not then\nspoken to anyone. \n\n And if this person be not a smuggler, who is he? \n\n A wealthy signor, who travels for his pleasure. \n\n Come,  thought Franz,  he is still more mysterious, since the two\naccounts do not agree. \n\n What is his name? \n\n If you ask him, he says Sinbad the Sailor; but I doubt if it be his\nreal name. \n\n Sinbad the Sailor? \n\n Yes. \n\n And where does he reside? \n\n On the sea. \n\n What country does he come from? \n\n I do not know. \n\n Have you ever seen him? \n\n Sometimes. \n\n What sort of a man is he? \n\n Your excellency will judge for yourself. \n\n Where will he receive me? \n\n No doubt in the subterranean palace Gaetano told you of. \n\n Have you never had the curiosity, when you have landed and found this\nisland deserted, to seek for this enchanted palace? \n\n Oh, yes, more than once, but always in vain; we examined the grotto\nall over, but we never could find the slightest trace of any opening;\nthey say that the door is not opened by a key, but a magic word. \n\n Decidedly,  muttered Franz,  this is an Arabian Nights  adventure. \n\n His excellency waits for you,  said a voice, which he recognized as\nthat of the sentinel. He was accompanied by two of the yacht s crew.\n\nFranz drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and presented it to the\nman who had spoken to him. Without uttering a word, they bandaged his\neyes with a care that showed their apprehensions of his committing some\nindiscretion. Afterwards he was made to promise that he would not make\nthe least attempt to raise the bandage. He promised.\n\nThen his two guides took his arms, and he went on, guided by them, and\npreceded by the sentinel. After going about thirty paces, he smelt the\nappetizing odor of the kid that was roasting, and knew thus that he was\npassing the bivouac; they then led him on about fifty paces farther,\nevidently advancing towards that part of the shore where they would not\nallow Gaetano to go a refusal he could now comprehend.\n\nPresently, by a change in the atmosphere, he knew that they were\nentering a cave; after going on for a few seconds more he heard a\ncrackling, and it seemed to him as though the atmosphere again changed,\nand became balmy and perfumed. At length his feet touched on a thick\nand soft carpet, and his guides let go their hold of him. There was a\nmoment s silence, and then a voice, in excellent French, although, with\na foreign accent, said:\n\n Welcome, sir. I beg you will remove your bandage. \n\nIt may be supposed, then, Franz did not wait for a repetition of this\npermission, but took off the handkerchief, and found himself in the\npresence of a man from thirty-eight to forty years of age, dressed in a\nTunisian costume, that is to say, a red cap with a long blue silk\ntassel, a vest of black cloth embroidered with gold, pantaloons of deep\nred, large and full gaiters of the same color, embroidered with gold\nlike the vest, and yellow slippers; he had a splendid cashmere round\nhis waist, and a small sharp and crooked cangiar was passed through his\ngirdle.\n\nAlthough of a paleness that was almost livid, this man had a remarkably\nhandsome face; his eyes were penetrating and sparkling; his nose, quite\nstraight, and projecting direct from the brow, was of the pure Greek\ntype, while his teeth, as white as pearls, were set off to admiration\nby the black moustache that encircled them.\n\nHis pallor was so peculiar, that it seemed to pertain to one who had\nbeen long entombed, and who was incapable of resuming the healthy glow\nand hue of life. He was not particularly tall, but extremely well made,\nand, like the men of the South, had small hands and feet. But what\nastonished Franz, who had treated Gaetano s description as a fable, was\nthe splendor of the apartment in which he found himself.\n\nThe entire chamber was lined with crimson brocade, worked with flowers\nof gold. In a recess was a kind of divan, surmounted with a stand of\nArabian swords in silver scabbards, and the handles resplendent with\ngems; from the ceiling hung a lamp of Venetian glass, of beautiful\nshape and color, while the feet rested on a Turkey carpet, in which\nthey sunk to the instep; tapestry hung before the door by which Franz\nhad entered, and also in front of another door, leading into a second\napartment which seemed to be brilliantly illuminated.\n\nThe host gave Franz time to recover from his surprise, and, moreover,\nreturned look for look, not even taking his eyes off him.\n\n Sir,  he said, after a pause,  a thousand excuses for the precaution\ntaken in your introduction hither; but as, during the greater portion\nof the year, this island is deserted, if the secret of this abode were\ndiscovered, I should doubtless, find on my return my temporary\nretirement in a state of great disorder, which would be exceedingly\nannoying, not for the loss it occasioned me, but because I should not\nhave the certainty I now possess of separating myself from all the rest\nof mankind at pleasure. Let me now endeavor to make you forget this\ntemporary unpleasantness, and offer you what no doubt you did not\nexpect to find here that is to say, a tolerable supper and pretty\ncomfortable beds. \n\n _Ma foi_, my dear sir,  replied Franz,  make no apologies. I have\nalways observed that they bandage people s eyes who penetrate enchanted\npalaces, for instance, those of Raoul in the _Huguenots_, and really I\nhave nothing to complain of, for what I see makes me think of the\nwonders of the _Arabian Nights_. \n\n20079m\n\n\n\n Alas! I may say with Lucullus, if I could have anticipated the honor\nof your visit, I would have prepared for it. But such as is my\nhermitage, it is at your disposal; such as is my supper, it is yours to\nshare, if you will. Ali, is the supper ready? \n\nAt this moment the tapestry moved aside, and a Nubian, black as ebony,\nand dressed in a plain white tunic, made a sign to his master that all\nwas prepared in the dining-room.\n\n Now,  said the unknown to Franz,  I do not know if you are of my\nopinion, but I think nothing is more annoying than to remain two or\nthree hours together without knowing by name or appellation how to\naddress one another. Pray observe, that I too much respect the laws of\nhospitality to ask your name or title. I only request you to give me\none by which I may have the pleasure of addressing you. As for myself,\nthat I may put you at your ease, I tell you that I am generally called\n Sinbad the Sailor. \n\n And I,  replied Franz,  will tell you, as I only require his wonderful\nlamp to make me precisely like Aladdin, that I see no reason why at\nthis moment I should not be called Aladdin. That will keep us from\ngoing away from the East whither I am tempted to think I have been\nconveyed by some good genius. \n\n Well, then, Signor Aladdin,  replied the singular Amphitryon,  you\nheard our repast announced, will you now take the trouble to enter the\ndining-room, your humble servant going first to show the way? \n\nAt these words, moving aside the tapestry, Sinbad preceded his guest.\nFranz now looked upon another scene of enchantment; the table was\nsplendidly covered, and once convinced of this important point he cast\nhis eyes around him. The dining-room was scarcely less striking than\nthe room he had just left; it was entirely of marble, with antique\nbas-reliefs of priceless value; and at the four corners of this\napartment, which was oblong, were four magnificent statues, having\nbaskets in their hands. These baskets contained four pyramids of most\nsplendid fruit; there were Sicily pine-apples, pomegranates from\nMalaga, oranges from the Balearic Isles, peaches from France, and dates\nfrom Tunis.\n\nThe supper consisted of a roast pheasant garnished with Corsican\nblackbirds; a boar s ham with jelly, a quarter of a kid with tartar\nsauce, a glorious turbot, and a gigantic lobster. Between these large\ndishes were smaller ones containing various dainties. The dishes were\nof silver, and the plates of Japanese china.\n\nFranz rubbed his eyes in order to assure himself that this was not a\ndream. Ali alone was present to wait at table, and acquitted himself so\nadmirably, that the guest complimented his host thereupon.\n\n Yes,  replied he, while he did the honors of the supper with much ease\nand grace yes, he is a poor devil who is much devoted to me, and does\nall he can to prove it. He remembers that I saved his life, and as he\nhas a regard for his head, he feels some gratitude towards me for\nhaving kept it on his shoulders. \n\nAli approached his master, took his hand, and kissed it.\n\n Would it be impertinent, Signor Sinbad,  said Franz,  to ask you the\nparticulars of this kindness? \n\n20081m\n\n\n\n Oh, they are simple enough,  replied the host.  It seems the fellow\nhad been caught wandering nearer to the harem of the Bey of Tunis than\netiquette permits to one of his color, and he was condemned by the Bey\nto have his tongue cut out, and his hand and head cut off; the tongue\nthe first day, the hand the second, and the head the third. I always\nhad a desire to have a mute in my service, so learning the day his\ntongue was cut out, I went to the Bey, and proposed to give him for Ali\na splendid double-barreled gun, which I knew he was very desirous of\nhaving. He hesitated a moment, he was so very desirous to complete the\npoor devil s punishment. But when I added to the gun an English cutlass\nwith which I had shivered his highness s yataghan to pieces, the Bey\nyielded, and agreed to forgive the hand and head, but on condition that\nthe poor fellow never again set foot in Tunis. This was a useless\nclause in the bargain, for whenever the coward sees the first glimpse\nof the shores of Africa, he runs down below, and can only be induced to\nappear again when we are out of sight of that quarter of the globe. \n\nFranz remained a moment silent and pensive, hardly knowing what to\nthink of the half-kindness, half-cruelty, with which his host related\nthe brief narrative.\n\n And like the celebrated sailor whose name you have assumed,  he said,\nby way of changing the conversation,  you pass your life in\ntravelling? \n\n Yes. I made a vow at a time when I little thought I should ever be\nable to accomplish it,  said the unknown with a singular smile;  and I\nmade some others also which I hope I may fulfil in due season. \n\nAlthough Sinbad pronounced these words with much calmness, his eyes\ngave forth gleams of extraordinary ferocity.\n\n You have suffered a great deal, sir?  said Franz inquiringly.\n\nSinbad started and looked fixedly at him, as he replied,  What makes\nyou suppose so? \n\n Everything,  answered Franz, your voice, your look, your pallid\ncomplexion, and even the life you lead. \n\n I? I live the happiest life possible, the real life of a pasha. I am\nking of all creation. I am pleased with one place, and stay there; I\nget tired of it, and leave it; I am free as a bird and have wings like\none; my attendants obey my slightest wish. Sometimes I amuse myself by\ndelivering some bandit or criminal from the bonds of the law. Then I\nhave my mode of dispensing justice, silent and sure, without respite or\nappeal, which condemns or pardons, and which no one sees. Ah, if you\nhad tasted my life, you would not desire any other, and would never\nreturn to the world unless you had some great project to accomplish\nthere. \n\n Revenge, for instance!  observed Franz.\n\nThe unknown fixed on the young man one of those looks which penetrate\ninto the depth of the heart and thoughts.  And why revenge?  he asked.\n\n Because,  replied Franz,  you seem to me like a man who, persecuted by\nsociety, has a fearful account to settle with it. \n\n Ah!  responded Sinbad, laughing with his singular laugh, which\ndisplayed his white and sharp teeth.  You have not guessed rightly.\nSuch as you see me I am, a sort of philosopher, and one day perhaps I\nshall go to Paris to rival Monsieur Appert, and the man in the little\nblue cloak. \n\n And will that be the first time you ever took that journey? \n\n Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no means curious, but I assure you\nthat it is not my fault I have delayed it so long it will happen one\nday or the other. \n\n20083m\n\n\n\n And do you propose to make this journey very shortly? \n\n I do not know; it depends on circumstances which depend on certain\narrangements. \n\n I should like to be there at the time you come, and I will endeavor to\nrepay you, as far as lies in my power, for your liberal hospitality\ndisplayed to me at Monte Cristo. \n\n I should avail myself of your offer with pleasure,  replied the host,\n but, unfortunately, if I go there, it will be, in all probability,\n_incognito_. \n\nThe supper appeared to have been supplied solely for Franz, for the\nunknown scarcely touched one or two dishes of the splendid banquet to\nwhich his guest did ample justice. Then Ali brought on the dessert, or\nrather took the baskets from the hands of the statues and placed them\non the table. Between the two baskets he placed a small silver cup with\na silver cover. The care with which Ali placed this cup on the table\nroused Franz s curiosity. He raised the cover and saw a kind of\ngreenish paste, something like preserved angelica, but which was\nperfectly unknown to him. He replaced the lid, as ignorant of what the\ncup contained as he was before he had looked at it, and then casting\nhis eyes towards his host he saw him smile at his disappointment.\n\n You cannot guess,  said he,  what there is in that small vase, can\nyou? \n\n No, I really cannot. \n\n Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia\nwhich Hebe served at the table of Jupiter. \n\n But,  replied Franz,  this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through\nmortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human\nname; in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which,\nto tell the truth, I do not feel any particular desire? \n\n Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed,  cried Sinbad;\n we frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without\nregarding it, or if we do see and regard it, yet without recognizing\nit. Are you a man for the substantials, and is gold your god? taste\nthis, and the mines of Peru, Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you.\nAre you a man of imagination a poet? taste this, and the boundaries of\npossibility disappear; the fields of infinite space open to you, you\nadvance free in heart, free in mind, into the boundless realms of\nunfettered reverie. Are you ambitious, and do you seek after the\ngreatnesses of the earth? taste this, and in an hour you will be a\nking, not a king of a petty kingdom hidden in some corner of Europe\nlike France, Spain, or England, but king of the world, king of the\nuniverse, king of creation; without bowing at the feet of Satan, you\nwill be king and master of all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it not\ntempting what I offer you, and is it not an easy thing, since it is\nonly to do thus? look! \n\nAt these words he uncovered the small cup which contained the substance\nso lauded, took a teaspoonful of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his\nlips, and swallowed it slowly with his eyes half shut and his head bent\nbackwards. Franz did not disturb him whilst he absorbed his favorite\nsweetmeat, but when he had finished, he inquired:\n\n What, then, is this precious stuff? \n\n Did you ever hear,  he replied,  of the Old Man of the Mountain, who\nattempted to assassinate Philippe Auguste? \n\n Of course I have. \n\n Well, you know he reigned over a rich valley which was overhung by the\nmountain whence he derived his picturesque name. In this valley were\nmagnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens\nisolated pavilions. Into these pavilions he admitted the elect, and\nthere, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain herb, which\ntransported them to Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming shrubs,\never-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins. What these happy persons took\nfor reality was but a dream; but it was a dream so soft, so voluptuous,\nso enthralling, that they sold themselves body and soul to him who gave\nit to them, and obedient to his orders as to those of a deity, struck\ndown the designated victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing\nthat the death they underwent was but a quick transition to that life\nof delights of which the holy herb, now before you, had given them a\nslight foretaste. \n\n Then,  cried Franz,  it is hashish! I know that by name at least. \n\n That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin; it is hashish the purest and\nmost unadulterated hashish of Alexandria, the hashish of Abou-Gor, the\ncelebrated maker, the only man, the man to whom there should be built a\npalace, inscribed with these words, _A grateful world to the dealer in\nhappiness_. \n\n Do you know,  said Franz,  I have a very great inclination to judge\nfor myself of the truth or exaggeration of your eulogies. \n\n Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin judge, but do not confine yourself\nto one trial. Like everything else, we must habituate the senses to a\nfresh impression, gentle or violent, sad or joyous. There is a struggle\nin nature against this divine substance, in nature which is not made\nfor joy and clings to pain. Nature subdued must yield in the combat,\nthe dream must succeed to reality, and then the dream reigns supreme,\nthen the dream becomes life, and life becomes the dream. But what\nchanges occur! It is only by comparing the pains of actual being with\nthe joys of the assumed existence, that you would desire to live no\nlonger, but to dream thus forever. When you return to this mundane\nsphere from your visionary world, you would seem to leave a Neapolitan\nspring for a Lapland winter to quit paradise for earth heaven for hell!\nTaste the hashish, guest of mine taste the hashish. \n\nFranz s only reply was to take a teaspoonful of the marvellous\npreparation, about as much in quantity as his host had eaten, and lift\nit to his mouth.\n\n _Diable!_  he said, after having swallowed the divine preserve.  I do\nnot know if the result will be as agreeable as you describe, but the\nthing does not appear to me as palatable as you say. \n\n Because your palate his not yet been attuned to the sublimity of the\nsubstances it flavors. Tell me, the first time you tasted oysters, tea,\nporter, truffles, and sundry other dainties which you now adore, did\nyou like them? Could you comprehend how the Romans stuffed their\npheasants with assaf tida, and the Chinese eat swallows  nests? Eh? no!\nWell, it is the same with hashish; only eat for a week, and nothing in\nthe world will seem to you to equal the delicacy of its flavor, which\nnow appears to you flat and distasteful. Let us now go into the\nadjoining chamber, which is your apartment, and Ali will bring us\ncoffee and pipes. \n\nThey both arose, and while he who called himself Sinbad and whom we\nhave occasionally named so, that we might, like his guest, have some\ntitle by which to distinguish him gave some orders to the servant,\nFranz entered still another apartment.\n\nIt was simply yet richly furnished. It was round, and a large divan\ncompletely encircled it. Divan, walls, ceiling, floor, were all covered\nwith magnificent skins as soft and downy as the richest carpets; there\nwere heavy-maned lion-skins from Atlas, striped tiger-skins from\nBengal; panther-skins from the Cape, spotted beautifully, like those\nthat appeared to Dante; bear-skins from Siberia, fox-skins from Norway,\nand so on; and all these skins were strewn in profusion one on the\nother, so that it seemed like walking over the most mossy turf, or\nreclining on the most luxurious bed.\n\nBoth laid themselves down on the divan; chibouques with jasmine tubes\nand amber mouthpieces were within reach, and all prepared so that there\nwas no need to smoke the same pipe twice. Each of them took one, which\nAli lighted and then retired to prepare the coffee.\n\nThere was a moment s silence, during which Sinbad gave himself up to\nthoughts that seemed to occupy him incessantly, even in the midst of\nhis conversation; and Franz abandoned himself to that mute reverie,\ninto which we always sink when smoking excellent tobacco, which seems\nto remove with its fume all the troubles of the mind, and to give the\nsmoker in exchange all the visions of the soul. Ali brought in the\ncoffee.\n\n How do you take it?  inquired the unknown;  in the French or Turkish\nstyle, strong or weak, sugar or none, cool or boiling? As you please;\nit is ready in all ways. \n\n I will take it in the Turkish style,  replied Franz.\n\n And you are right,  said his host;  it shows you have a tendency for\nan Oriental life. Ah, those Orientals; they are the only men who know\nhow to live. As for me,  he added, with one of those singular smiles\nwhich did not escape the young man,  when I have completed my affairs\nin Paris, I shall go and die in the East; and should you wish to see me\nagain, you must seek me at Cairo, Bagdad, or Ispahan. \n\n20087m\n\n\n\n _Ma foi_,  said Franz,  it would be the easiest thing in the world;\nfor I feel eagle s wings springing out at my shoulders, and with those\nwings I could make a tour of the world in four-and-twenty hours. \n\n Ah, yes, the hashish is beginning its work. Well, unfurl your wings,\nand fly into superhuman regions; fear nothing, there is a watch over\nyou; and if your wings, like those of Icarus, melt before the sun, we\nare here to ease your fall. \n\nHe then said something in Arabic to Ali, who made a sign of obedience\nand withdrew, but not to any distance.\n\nAs to Franz a strange transformation had taken place in him. All the\nbodily fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the\nevents of the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the\nfirst approach of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be\naware of the coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy\nlightness, his perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses\nseemed to redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand; but it\nwas not the gloomy horizon of vague alarms, and which he had seen\nbefore he slept, but a blue, transparent, unbounded horizon, with all\nthe blue of the ocean, all the spangles of the sun, all the perfumes of\nthe summer breeze; then, in the midst of the songs of his\nsailors, songs so clear and sonorous, that they would have made a\ndivine harmony had their notes been taken down, he saw the Island of\nMonte Cristo, no longer as a threatening rock in the midst of the\nwaves, but as an oasis in the desert; then, as his boat drew nearer,\nthe songs became louder, for an enchanting and mysterious harmony rose\nto heaven, as if some Loreley had decreed to attract a soul thither, or\nAmphion, the enchanter, intended there to build a city.\n\nAt length the boat touched the shore, but without effort, without\nshock, as lips touch lips; and he entered the grotto amidst continued\nstrains of most delicious melody. He descended, or rather seemed to\ndescend, several steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy air, like that\nwhich may be supposed to reign around the grotto of Circe, formed from\nsuch perfumes as set the mind a-dreaming, and such fires as burn the\nvery senses; and he saw again all he had seen before his sleep, from\nSinbad, his singular host, to Ali, the mute attendant; then all seemed\nto fade away and become confused before his eyes, like the last shadows\nof the magic lantern before it is extinguished, and he was again in the\nchamber of statues, lighted only by one of those pale and antique lamps\nwhich watch in the dead of the night over the sleep of pleasure.\n\nThey were the same statues, rich in form, in attraction, and poesy,\nwith eyes of fascination, smiles of love, and bright and flowing hair.\nThey were Phryne, Cleopatra, Messalina, those three celebrated\ncourtesans. Then among them glided like a pure ray, like a Christian\nangel in the midst of Olympus, one of those chaste figures, those calm\nshadows, those soft visions, which seemed to veil its virgin brow\nbefore these marble wantons.\n\nThen the three statues advanced towards him with looks of love, and\napproached the couch on which he was reposing, their feet hidden in\ntheir long white tunics, their throats bare, hair flowing like waves,\nand assuming attitudes which the gods could not resist, but which\nsaints withstood, and looks inflexible and ardent like those with which\nthe serpent charms the bird; and then he gave way before looks that\nheld him in a torturing grasp and delighted his senses as with a\nvoluptuous kiss.\n\nIt seemed to Franz that he closed his eyes, and in a last look about\nhim saw the vision of modesty completely veiled; and then followed a\ndream of passion like that promised by the Prophet to the elect. Lips\nof stone turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so\nthat to Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug,\nlove was a sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as burning mouths were\npressed to his thirsty lips, and he was held in cool serpent-like\nembraces. The more he strove against this unhallowed passion the more\nhis senses yielded to its thrall, and at length, weary of a struggle\nthat taxed his very soul, he gave way and sank back breathless and\nexhausted beneath the kisses of these marble goddesses, and the\nenchantment of his marvellous dream.\n\n\n\n Chapter 32. The Waking\n\nWhen Franz returned to himself, he seemed still to be in a dream. He\nthought himself in a sepulchre, into which a ray of sunlight in pity\nscarcely penetrated. He stretched forth his hand, and touched stone; he\nrose to his seat, and found himself lying on his bournous in a bed of\ndry heather, very soft and odoriferous. The vision had fled; and as if\nthe statues had been but shadows from the tomb, they had vanished at\nhis waking.\n\nHe advanced several paces towards the point whence the light came, and\nto all the excitement of his dream succeeded the calmness of reality.\nHe found that he was in a grotto, went towards the opening, and through\na kind of fanlight saw a blue sea and an azure sky. The air and water\nwere shining in the beams of the morning sun; on the shore the sailors\nwere sitting, chatting and laughing; and at ten yards from them the\nboat was at anchor, undulating gracefully on the water.\n\nThere for some time he enjoyed the fresh breeze which played on his\nbrow, and listened to the dash of the waves on the beach, that left\nagainst the rocks a lace of foam as white as silver. He was for some\ntime without reflection or thought for the divine charm which is in the\nthings of nature, specially after a fantastic dream; then gradually\nthis view of the outer world, so calm, so pure, so grand, reminded him\nof the illusiveness of his vision, and once more awakened memory. He\nrecalled his arrival on the island, his presentation to a smuggler\nchief, a subterranean palace full of splendor, an excellent supper, and\na spoonful of hashish.\n\nIt seemed, however, even in the very face of open day, that at least a\nyear had elapsed since all these things had passed, so deep was the\nimpression made in his mind by the dream, and so strong a hold had it\ntaken of his imagination. Thus every now and then he saw in fancy amid\nthe sailors, seated on a rock, or undulating in the vessel, one of the\nshadows which had shared his dream with looks and kisses. Otherwise,\nhis head was perfectly clear, and his body refreshed; he was free from\nthe slightest headache; on the contrary, he felt a certain degree of\nlightness, a faculty for absorbing the pure air, and enjoying the\nbright sunshine more vividly than ever.\n\nHe went gayly up to the sailors, who rose as soon as they perceived\nhim; and the patron, accosting him, said:\n\n The Signor Sinbad has left his compliments for your excellency, and\ndesires us to express the regret he feels at not being able to take his\nleave in person; but he trusts you will excuse him, as very important\nbusiness calls him to Malaga. \n\n So, then, Gaetano,  said Franz,  this is, then, all reality; there\nexists a man who has received me in this island, entertained me right\nroyally, and has departed while I was asleep? \n\n He exists as certainly as that you may see his small yacht with all\nher sails spread; and if you will use your glass, you will, in all\nprobability, recognize your host in the midst of his crew. \n\nSo saying, Gaetano pointed in a direction in which a small vessel was\nmaking sail towards the southern point of Corsica. Franz adjusted his\ntelescope, and directed it towards the yacht. Gaetano was not mistaken.\nAt the stern the mysterious stranger was standing up looking towards\nthe shore, and holding a spy-glass in his hand. He was attired as he\nhad been on the previous evening, and waved his pocket-handkerchief to\nhis guest in token of adieu. Franz returned the salute by shaking his\nhandkerchief as an exchange of signals. After a second, a slight cloud\nof smoke was seen at the stern of the vessel, which rose gracefully as\nit expanded in the air, and then Franz heard a slight report.\n\n There, do you hear?  observed Gaetano;  he is bidding you adieu. \n\nThe young man took his carbine and fired it in the air, but without any\nidea that the noise could be heard at the distance which separated the\nyacht from the shore.\n\n What are your excellency s orders?  inquired Gaetano.\n\n In the first place, light me a torch. \n\n Ah, yes, I understand,  replied the patron,  to find the entrance to\nthe enchanted apartment. With much pleasure, your excellency, if it\nwould amuse you; and I will get you the torch you ask for. But I too\nhave had the idea you have, and two or three times the same fancy has\ncome over me; but I have always given it up. Giovanni, light a torch, \nhe added,  and give it to his excellency. \n\nGiovanni obeyed. Franz took the lamp, and entered the subterranean\ngrotto, followed by Gaetano. He recognized the place where he had\nawaked by the bed of heather that was there; but it was in vain that he\ncarried his torch all round the exterior surface of the grotto. He saw\nnothing, unless that, by traces of smoke, others had before him\nattempted the same thing, and, like him, in vain. Yet he did not leave\na foot of this granite wall, as impenetrable as futurity, without\nstrict scrutiny; he did not see a fissure without introducing the blade\nof his hunting sword into it, or a projecting point on which he did not\nlean and press in the hopes it would give way. All was vain; and he\nlost two hours in his attempts, which were at last utterly useless. At\nthe end of this time he gave up his search, and Gaetano smiled.\n\nWhen Franz appeared again on the shore, the yacht only seemed like a\nsmall white speck on the horizon. He looked again through his glass,\nbut even then he could not distinguish anything.\n\nGaetano reminded him that he had come for the purpose of shooting\ngoats, which he had utterly forgotten. He took his fowling-piece, and\nbegan to hunt over the island with the air of a man who is fulfilling a\nduty, rather than enjoying a pleasure; and at the end of a quarter of\nan hour he had killed a goat and two kids. These animals, though wild\nand agile as chamois, were too much like domestic goats, and Franz\ncould not consider them as game. Moreover, other ideas, much more\nenthralling, occupied his mind. Since, the evening before, he had\nreally been the hero of one of the tales of the _Thousand and One\nNights_, and he was irresistibly attracted towards the grotto.\n\nThen, in spite of the failure of his first search, he began a second,\nafter having told Gaetano to roast one of the two kids. The second\nvisit was a long one, and when he returned the kid was roasted and the\nrepast ready. Franz was sitting on the spot where he was on the\nprevious evening when his mysterious host had invited him to supper;\nand he saw the little yacht, now like a sea-gull on the wave,\ncontinuing her flight towards Corsica.\n\n Why,  he remarked to Gaetano,  you told me that Signor Sinbad was\ngoing to Malaga, while it seems he is in the direction of\nPorto-Vecchio. \n\n Don t you remember,  said the patron,  I told you that among the crew\nthere were two Corsican brigands? \n\n True; and he is going to land them,  added Franz.\n\n Precisely so,  replied Gaetano.  Ah, he is one who fears neither God\nnor Satan, they say, and would at any time run fifty leagues out of his\ncourse to do a poor devil a service. \n\n20093m\n\n\n\n But such services as these might involve him with the authorities of\nthe country in which he practices this kind of philanthropy,  said\nFranz.\n\n And what cares he for that,  replied Gaetano with a laugh,  or any\nauthorities? He smiles at them. Let them try to pursue him! Why, in the\nfirst place, his yacht is not a ship, but a bird, and he would beat any\nfrigate three knots in every nine; and if he were to throw himself on\nthe coast, why, is he not certain of finding friends everywhere? \n\nIt was perfectly clear that the Signor Sinbad, Franz s host, had the\nhonor of being on excellent terms with the smugglers and bandits along\nthe whole coast of the Mediterranean, and so enjoyed exceptional\nprivileges. As to Franz, he had no longer any inducement to remain at\nMonte Cristo. He had lost all hope of detecting the secret of the\ngrotto; he consequently despatched his breakfast, and, his boat being\nready, he hastened on board, and they were soon under way. At the\nmoment the boat began her course they lost sight of the yacht, as it\ndisappeared in the gulf of Porto-Vecchio. With it was effaced the last\ntrace of the preceding night; and then supper, Sinbad, hashish,\nstatues, all became a dream for Franz.\n\nThe boat sailed on all day and all night, and next morning, when the\nsun rose, they had lost sight of Monte Cristo.\n\nWhen Franz had once again set foot on shore, he forgot, for the moment\nat least, the events which had just passed, while he finished his\naffairs of pleasure at Florence, and then thought of nothing but how he\nshould rejoin his companion, who was awaiting him at Rome.\n\nHe set out, and on the Saturday evening reached the Place de la Douane\nby the mail-coach. An apartment, as we have said, had been retained\nbeforehand, and thus he had but to go to Signor Pastrini s hotel. But\nthis was not so easy a matter, for the streets were thronged with\npeople, and Rome was already a prey to that low and feverish murmur\nwhich precedes all great events; and at Rome there are four great\nevents in every year, the Carnival, Holy Week, Corpus Christi, and the\nFeast of St. Peter.\n\nAll the rest of the year the city is in that state of dull apathy,\nbetween life and death, which renders it similar to a kind of station\nbetween this world and the next a sublime spot, a resting-place full of\npoetry and character, and at which Franz had already halted five or six\ntimes, and at each time found it more marvellous and striking.\n\nAt last he made his way through the mob, which was continually\nincreasing and getting more and more turbulent, and reached the hotel.\nOn his first inquiry he was told, with the impertinence peculiar to\nhired hackney-coachmen and innkeepers with their houses full, that\nthere was no room for him at the H tel de Londres. Then he sent his\ncard to Signor Pastrini, and asked for Albert de Morcerf. This plan\nsucceeded; and Signor Pastrini himself ran to him, excusing himself for\nhaving made his excellency wait, scolding the waiters, taking the\ncandlestick from the porter, who was ready to pounce on the traveller\nand was about to lead him to Albert, when Morcerf himself appeared.\n\nThe apartment consisted of two small rooms and a parlor. The two rooms\nlooked on to the street a fact which Signor Pastrini commented upon as\nan inappreciable advantage. The rest of the floor was hired by a very\nrich gentleman who was supposed to be a Sicilian or Maltese; but the\nhost was unable to decide to which of the two nations the traveller\nbelonged.\n\n Very good, signor Pastrini,  said Franz;  but we must have some supper\ninstantly, and a carriage for tomorrow and the following days. \n\n As to supper,  replied the landlord,  you shall be served immediately;\nbut as for the carriage \n\n What as to the carriage?  exclaimed Albert.  Come, come, Signor\nPastrini, no joking; we must have a carriage. \n\n Sir,  replied the host,  we will do all in our power to procure you\none this is all I can say. \n\n And when shall we know?  inquired Franz.\n\n Tomorrow morning,  answered the innkeeper.\n\n Oh, the deuce! then we shall pay the more, that s all, I see plainly\nenough. At Drake s or Aaron s one pays twenty-five lire for common\ndays, and thirty or thirty-five lire a day more for Sundays and feast\ndays; add five lire a day more for extras, that will make forty, and\nthere s an end of it. \n\n I am afraid if we offer them double that we shall not procure a\ncarriage. \n\n Then they must put horses to mine. It is a little worse for the\njourney, but that s no matter. \n\n There are no horses. \n\nAlbert looked at Franz like a man who hears a reply he does not\nunderstand.\n\n Do you understand that, my dear Franz no horses?  he said,  but can t\nwe have post-horses? \n\n They have been all hired this fortnight, and there are none left but\nthose absolutely requisite for posting. \n\n What are we to say to this?  asked Franz.\n\n I say, that when a thing completely surpasses my comprehension, I am\naccustomed not to dwell on that thing, but to pass to another. Is\nsupper ready, Signor Pastrini? \n\n Yes, your excellency. \n\n Well, then, let us sup. \n\n But the carriage and horses?  said Franz.\n\n Be easy, my dear boy; they will come in due season; it is only a\nquestion of how much shall be charged for them.  Morcerf then, with\nthat delighted philosophy which believes that nothing is impossible to\na full purse or well-lined pocketbook, supped, went to bed, slept\nsoundly, and dreamed he was racing all over Rome at Carnival time in a\ncoach with six horses.\n\n\n\n Chapter 33. Roman Bandits\n\nThe next morning Franz woke first, and instantly rang the bell. The\nsound had not yet died away when Signor Pastrini himself entered.\n\n Well, excellency,  said the landlord triumphantly, and without waiting\nfor Franz to question him,  I feared yesterday, when I would not\npromise you anything, that you were too late there is not a single\ncarriage to be had that is, for the three last days \n\n Yes,  returned Franz,  for the very three days it is most needed. \n\n What is the matter?  said Albert, entering;  no carriage to be had? \n\n Just so,  returned Franz,  you have guessed it. \n\n Well, your Eternal City is a nice sort of place. \n\n That is to say, excellency,  replied Pastrini, who was desirous of\nkeeping up the dignity of the capital of the Christian world in the\neyes of his guest,  that there are no carriages to be had from Sunday\nto Tuesday evening, but from now till Sunday you can have fifty if you\nplease. \n\n Ah, that is something,  said Albert;  today is Thursday, and who knows\nwhat may arrive between this and Sunday? \n\n Ten or twelve thousand travellers will arrive,  replied Franz,  which\nwill make it still more difficult. \n\n My friend,  said Morcerf,  let us enjoy the present without gloomy\nforebodings for the future. \n\n At least we can have a window? \n\n Where? \n\n In the Corso. \n\n Ah, a window!  exclaimed Signor Pastrini, utterly impossible; there\nwas only one left on the fifth floor of the Doria Palace, and that has\nbeen let to a Russian prince for twenty sequins a day. \n\nThe two young men looked at each other with an air of stupefaction.\n\n Well,  said Franz to Albert,  do you know what is the best thing we\ncan do? It is to pass the Carnival at Venice; there we are sure of\nobtaining gondolas if we cannot have carriages. \n\n Ah, the devil, no,  cried Albert;  I came to Rome to see the Carnival,\nand I will, though I see it on stilts. \n\n Bravo! an excellent idea. We will disguise ourselves as monster\npulchinellos or shepherds of the Landes, and we shall have complete\nsuccess. \n\n Do your excellencies still wish for a carriage from now to Sunday\nmorning? \n\n _Parbleu!_  said Albert,  do you think we are going to run about on\nfoot in the streets of Rome, like lawyers  clerks? \n\n I hasten to comply with your excellencies  wishes; only, I tell you\nbeforehand, the carriage will cost you six piastres a day. \n\n And, as I am not a millionaire, like the gentleman in the next\napartments,  said Franz,  I warn you, that as I have been four times\nbefore at Rome, I know the prices of all the carriages; we will give\nyou twelve piastres for today, tomorrow, and the day after, and then\nyou will make a good profit. \n\n But, excellency said Pastrini, still striving to gain his point.\n\n Now go,  returned Franz,  or I shall go myself and bargain with your\n_affettatore_, who is mine also; he is an old friend of mine, who has\nplundered me pretty well already, and, in the hope of making more out\nof me, he will take a less price than the one I offer you; you will\nlose the preference, and that will be your fault. \n\n Do not give yourselves the trouble, excellency,  returned Signor\nPastrini, with the smile peculiar to the Italian speculator when he\nconfesses defeat;  I will do all I can, and I hope you will be\nsatisfied. \n\n And now we understand each other. \n\n When do you wish the carriage to be here? \n\n In an hour. \n\n In an hour it will be at the door. \n\nAn hour after the vehicle was at the door; it was a hack conveyance\nwhich was elevated to the rank of a private carriage in honor of the\noccasion, but, in spite of its humble exterior, the young men would\nhave thought themselves happy to have secured it for the last three\ndays of the Carnival.\n\n Excellency,  cried the _cicerone_, seeing Franz approach the window,\n shall I bring the carriage nearer to the palace? \n\nAccustomed as Franz was to the Italian phraseology, his first impulse\nwas to look round him, but these words were addressed to him. Franz was\nthe  excellency,  the vehicle was the  carriage,  and the H tel de\nLondres was the  palace.  The genius for laudation characteristic of\nthe race was in that phrase.\n\nFranz and Albert descended, the carriage approached the palace; their\nexcellencies stretched their legs along the seats; the _cicerone_\nsprang into the seat behind.\n\n Where do your excellencies wish to go?  asked he.\n\n To Saint Peter s first, and then to the Colosseum,  returned Albert.\nBut Albert did not know that it takes a day to see Saint Peter s, and a\nmonth to study it. The day was passed at Saint Peter s alone.\n\nSuddenly the daylight began to fade away; Franz took out his watch it\nwas half-past four. They returned to the hotel; at the door Franz\nordered the coachman to be ready at eight. He wished to show Albert the\nColosseum by moonlight, as he had shown him Saint Peter s by daylight.\nWhen we show a friend a city one has already visited, we feel the same\npride as when we point out a woman whose lover we have been.\n\nHe was to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, skirt the outer wall,\nand re-enter by the Porta San Giovanni; thus they would behold the\nColosseum without finding their impressions dulled by first looking on\nthe Capitol, the Forum, the Arch of Septimus Severus, the Temple of\nAntoninus and Faustina, and the Via Sacra.\n\nThey sat down to dinner. Signor Pastrini had promised them a banquet;\nhe gave them a tolerable repast. At the end of the dinner he entered in\nperson. Franz thought that he came to hear his dinner praised, and\nbegan accordingly, but at the first words he was interrupted.\n\n Excellency,  said Pastrini,  I am delighted to have your approbation,\nbut it was not for that I came. \n\n Did you come to tell us you have procured a carriage?  asked Albert,\nlighting his cigar.\n\n No; and your excellencies will do well not to think of that any\nlonger; at Rome things can or cannot be done; when you are told\nanything cannot be done, there is an end of it. \n\n It is much more convenient at Paris, when anything cannot be done, you\npay double, and it is done directly. \n\n That is what all the French say,  returned Signor Pastrini, somewhat\npiqued;  for that reason, I do not understand why they travel. \n\n But,  said Albert, emitting a volume of smoke and balancing his chair\non its hind legs,  only madmen, or blockheads like us, ever do travel.\nMen in their senses do not quit their hotel in the Rue du Helder, their\nwalk on the Boulevard de Gand, and the Caf  de Paris. \n\nIt is of course understood that Albert resided in the aforesaid street,\nappeared every day on the fashionable walk, and dined frequently at the\nonly restaurant where you can really dine, that is, if you are on good\nterms with its waiters.\n\nSignor Pastrini remained silent a short time; it was evident that he\nwas musing over this answer, which did not seem very clear.\n\n But,  said Franz, in his turn interrupting his host s meditations,\n you had some motive for coming here, may I beg to know what it was? \n\n20099m\n\n\n\n Ah, yes; you have ordered your carriage at eight o clock precisely? \n\n I have. \n\n You intend visiting _Il Colosseo_. \n\n You mean the Colosseum? \n\n It is the same thing. You have told your coachman to leave the city by\nthe Porta del Popolo, to drive round the walls, and re-enter by the\nPorta San Giovanni? \n\n These are my words exactly. \n\n Well, this route is impossible. \n\n Impossible! \n\n Very dangerous, to say the least. \n\n Dangerous! and why? \n\n On account of the famous Luigi Vampa. \n\n Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa be?  inquired Albert;  he may be\nvery famous at Rome, but I can assure you he is quite unknown at\nParis. \n\n What! do you not know him? \n\n I have not that honor. \n\n You have never heard his name? \n\n Never. \n\n Well, then, he is a bandit, compared to whom the Decesaris and the\nGasparones were mere children. \n\n Now then, Albert,  cried Franz,  here is a bandit for you at last. \n\n I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that I shall not believe one word of\nwhat you are going to tell us; having told you this, begin.  Once upon\na time  Well, go on. \n\nSignor Pastrini turned toward Franz, who seemed to him the more\nreasonable of the two; we must do him justice, he had had a great many\nFrenchmen in his house, but had never been able to comprehend them.\n\n Excellency,  said he gravely, addressing Franz,  if you look upon me\nas a liar, it is useless for me to say anything; it was for your\ninterest I \n\n Albert does not say you are a liar, Signor Pastrini,  said Franz,  but\nthat he will not believe what you are going to tell us, but I will\nbelieve all you say; so proceed. \n\n But if your excellency doubt my veracity \n\n Signor Pastrini,  returned Franz,  you are more susceptible than\nCassandra, who was a prophetess, and yet no one believed her; while\nyou, at least, are sure of the credence of half your audience. Come,\nsit down, and tell us all about this Signor Vampa. \n\n I had told your excellency he is the most famous bandit we have had\nsince the days of Mastrilla. \n\n Well, what has this bandit to do with the order I have given the\ncoachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, and to re-enter by\nthe Porta San Giovanni? \n\n20101m\n\n\n\n This,  replied Signor Pastrini,  that you will go out by one, but I\nvery much doubt your returning by the other. \n\n Why?  asked Franz.\n\n Because, after nightfall, you are not safe fifty yards from the\ngates. \n\n On your honor, is that true?  cried Albert.\n\n Count,  returned Signor Pastrini, hurt at Albert s repeated doubts of\nthe truth of his assertions,  I do not say this to you, but to your\ncompanion, who knows Rome, and knows, too, that these things are not to\nbe laughed at. \n\n My dear fellow,  said Albert, turning to Franz,  here is an admirable\nadventure; we will fill our carriage with pistols, blunderbusses, and\ndouble-barrelled guns. Luigi Vampa comes to take us, and we take him we\nbring him back to Rome, and present him to his holiness the Pope, who\nasks how he can repay so great a service; then we merely ask for a\ncarriage and a pair of horses, and we see the Carnival in the carriage,\nand doubtless the Roman people will crown us at the Capitol, and\nproclaim us, like Curtius and Horatius Cocles, the preservers of their\ncountry. \n\nWhilst Albert proposed this scheme, Signor Pastrini s face assumed an\nexpression impossible to describe.\n\n And pray,  asked Franz,  where are these pistols, blunderbusses, and\nother deadly weapons with which you intend filling the carriage? \n\n Not out of my armory, for at Terracina I was plundered even of my\nhunting-knife. And you? \n\n I shared the same fate at Aquapendente. \n\n Do you know, Signor Pastrini,  said Albert, lighting a second cigar at\nthe first,  that this practice is very convenient for bandits, and that\nit seems to be due to an arrangement of their own. \n\nDoubtless Signor Pastrini found this pleasantry compromising, for he\nonly answered half the question, and then he spoke to Franz, as the\nonly one likely to listen with attention.  Your excellency knows that\nit is not customary to defend yourself when attacked by bandits. \n\n What!  cried Albert, whose courage revolted at the idea of being\nplundered tamely,  not make any resistance! \n\n No, for it would be useless. What could you do against a dozen bandits\nwho spring out of some pit, ruin, or aqueduct, and level their pieces\nat you? \n\n Eh, _parbleu!_ they should kill me. \n\nThe innkeeper turned to Franz with an air that seemed to say,  Your\nfriend is decidedly mad. \n\n My dear Albert,  returned Franz,  your answer is sublime, and worthy\nthe  _Let him die_,  of Corneille, only, when Horace made that answer,\nthe safety of Rome was concerned; but, as for us, it is only to gratify\na whim, and it would be ridiculous to risk our lives for so foolish a\nmotive. \n\nAlbert poured himself out a glass of _lacryma Christi_, which he sipped\nat intervals, muttering some unintelligible words.\n\n Well, Signor Pastrini,  said Franz,  now that my companion is quieted,\nand you have seen how peaceful my intentions are, tell me who is this\nLuigi Vampa. Is he a shepherd or a nobleman? young or old? tall or\nshort? Describe him, in order that, if we meet him by chance, like Jean\nSbogar or Lara, we may recognize him. \n\n You could not apply to anyone better able to inform you on all these\npoints, for I knew him when he was a child, and one day that I fell\ninto his hands, going from Ferentino to Alatri, he, fortunately for me,\nrecollected me, and set me free, not only without ransom, but made me a\npresent of a very splendid watch, and related his history to me. \n\n Let us see the watch,  said Albert.\n\nSignor Pastrini drew from his fob a magnificent Br guet, bearing the\nname of its maker, of Parisian manufacture, and a count s coronet.\n\n Here it is,  said he.\n\n _Peste!_  returned Albert,  I compliment you on it; I have its\nfellow he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and it cost me\n3,000 francs. \n\n Let us hear the history,  said Franz, motioning Signor Pastrini to\nseat himself.\n\n Your excellencies permit it?  asked the host.\n\n _Pardieu!_  cried Albert,  you are not a preacher, to remain\nstanding! \n\nThe host sat down, after having made each of them a respectful bow,\nwhich meant that he was ready to tell them all they wished to know\nconcerning Luigi Vampa.\n\n You tell me,  said Franz, at the moment Signor Pastrini was about to\nopen his mouth,  that you knew Luigi Vampa when he was a child he is\nstill a young man, then? \n\n A young man? he is only two-and-twenty; he will gain himself a\nreputation. \n\n What do you think of that, Albert? at two-and-twenty to be thus\nfamous? \n\n Yes, and at his age, Alexander, C sar, and Napoleon, who have all made\nsome noise in the world, were quite behind him. \n\n So,  continued Franz,  the hero of this history is only\ntwo-and-twenty? \n\n Scarcely so much. \n\n Is he tall or short? \n\n Of the middle height about the same stature as his excellency, \nreturned the host, pointing to Albert.\n\n Thanks for the comparison,  said Albert, with a bow.\n\n Go on, Signor Pastrini,  continued Franz, smiling at his friend s\nsusceptibility.  To what class of society does he belong? \n\n He was a shepherd-boy attached to the farm of the Count of San-Felice,\nsituated between Palestrina and the Lake of Gabri; he was born at\nPampinara, and entered the count s service when he was five years old;\nhis father was also a shepherd, who owned a small flock, and lived by\nthe wool and the milk, which he sold at Rome. When quite a child, the\nlittle Vampa displayed a most extraordinary precocity. One day, when he\nwas seven years old, he came to the curate of Palestrina, and asked to\nbe taught to read; it was somewhat difficult, for he could not quit his\nflock; but the good curate went every day to say mass at a little\nhamlet too poor to pay a priest and which, having no other name, was\ncalled Borgo; he told Luigi that he might meet him on his return, and\nthat then he would give him a lesson, warning him that it would be\nshort, and that he must profit as much as possible by it. The child\naccepted joyfully. Every day Luigi led his flock to graze on the road\nthat leads from Palestrina to Borgo; every day, at nine o clock in the\nmorning, the priest and the boy sat down on a bank by the wayside, and\nthe little shepherd took his lesson out of the priest s breviary. At\nthe end of three months he had learned to read. This was not enough he\nmust now learn to write. The priest had a writing teacher at Rome make\nthree alphabets one large, one middling, and one small; and pointed out\nto him that by the help of a sharp instrument he could trace the\nletters on a slate, and thus learn to write. The same evening, when the\nflock was safe at the farm, the little Luigi hastened to the smith at\nPalestrina, took a large nail, heated and sharpened it, and formed a\nsort of stylus. The next morning he gathered an armful of pieces of\nslate and began. At the end of three months he had learned to write.\nThe curate, astonished at his quickness and intelligence, made him a\npresent of pens, paper, and a penknife. This demanded new effort, but\nnothing compared to the first; at the end of a week he wrote as well\nwith this pen as with the stylus. The curate related the incident to\nthe Count of San-Felice, who sent for the little shepherd, made him\nread and write before him, ordered his attendant to let him eat with\nthe domestics, and to give him two piastres a month. With this, Luigi\npurchased books and pencils. He applied his imitative powers to\neverything, and, like Giotto, when young, he drew on his slate sheep,\nhouses, and trees. Then, with his knife, he began to carve all sorts of\nobjects in wood; it was thus that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had\ncommenced.\n\n20105m\n\n\n\n A girl of six or seven that is, a little younger than Vampa tended\nsheep on a farm near Palestrina; she was an orphan, born at Valmontone\nand was named Teresa. The two children met, sat down near each other,\nlet their flocks mingle together, played, laughed, and conversed\ntogether; in the evening they separated the Count of San-Felice s flock\nfrom those of Baron Cervetri, and the children returned to their\nrespective farms, promising to meet the next morning. The next day they\nkept their word, and thus they grew up together. Vampa was twelve, and\nTeresa eleven. And yet their natural disposition revealed itself.\nBeside his taste for the fine arts, which Luigi had carried as far as\nhe could in his solitude, he was given to alternating fits of sadness\nand enthusiasm, was often angry and capricious, and always sarcastic.\nNone of the lads of Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone had been able\nto gain any influence over him or even to become his companion. His\ndisposition (always inclined to exact concessions rather than to make\nthem) kept him aloof from all friendships. Teresa alone ruled by a\nlook, a word, a gesture, this impetuous character, which yielded\nbeneath the hand of a woman, and which beneath the hand of a man might\nhave broken, but could never have been bended. Teresa was lively and\ngay, but coquettish to excess. The two piastres that Luigi received\nevery month from the Count of San-Felice s steward, and the price of\nall the little carvings in wood he sold at Rome, were expended in\near-rings, necklaces, and gold hairpins. So that, thanks to her\nfriend s generosity, Teresa was the most beautiful and the best-attired\npeasant near Rome.\n\n The two children grew up together, passing all their time with each\nother, and giving themselves up to the wild ideas of their different\ncharacters. Thus, in all their dreams, their wishes, and their\nconversations, Vampa saw himself the captain of a vessel, general of an\narmy, or governor of a province. Teresa saw herself rich, superbly\nattired, and attended by a train of liveried domestics. Then, when they\nhad thus passed the day in building castles in the air, they separated\ntheir flocks, and descended from the elevation of their dreams to the\nreality of their humble position.\n\n One day the young shepherd told the count s steward that he had seen a\nwolf come out of the Sabine mountains, and prowl around his flock. The\nsteward gave him a gun; this was what Vampa longed for. This gun had an\nexcellent barrel, made at Brescia, and carrying a ball with the\nprecision of an English rifle; but one day the count broke the stock,\nand had then cast the gun aside. This, however, was nothing to a\nsculptor like Vampa; he examined the broken stock, calculated what\nchange it would require to adapt the gun to his shoulder, and made a\nfresh stock, so beautifully carved that it would have fetched fifteen\nor twenty piastres, had he chosen to sell it. But nothing could be\nfarther from his thoughts.\n\n For a long time a gun had been the young man s greatest ambition. In\nevery country where independence has taken the place of liberty, the\nfirst desire of a manly heart is to possess a weapon, which at once\nrenders him capable of defence or attack, and, by rendering its owner\nterrible, often makes him feared. From this moment Vampa devoted all\nhis leisure time to perfecting himself in the use of his precious\nweapon; he purchased powder and ball, and everything served him for a\nmark the trunk of some old and moss-grown olive-tree, that grew on the\nSabine mountains; the fox, as he quitted his earth on some marauding\nexcursion; the eagle that soared above their heads: and thus he soon\nbecame so expert, that Teresa overcame the terror she at first felt at\nthe report, and amused herself by watching him direct the ball wherever\nhe pleased, with as much accuracy as if he placed it by hand.\n\n20107m\n\n\n\n One evening a wolf emerged from a pine-wood near which they were\nusually stationed, but the wolf had scarcely advanced ten yards ere he\nwas dead. Proud of this exploit, Vampa took the dead animal on his\nshoulders, and carried him to the farm. These exploits had gained Luigi\nconsiderable reputation. The man of superior abilities always finds\nadmirers, go where he will. He was spoken of as the most adroit, the\nstrongest, and the most courageous _contadino_ for ten leagues around;\nand although Teresa was universally allowed to be the most beautiful\ngirl of the Sabines, no one had ever spoken to her of love, because it\nwas known that she was beloved by Vampa. And yet the two young people\nhad never declared their affection; they had grown together like two\ntrees whose roots are mingled, whose branches intertwined, and whose\nintermingled perfume rises to the heavens. Only their wish to see each\nother had become a necessity, and they would have preferred death to a\nday s separation.\n\n Teresa was sixteen, and Vampa seventeen. About this time, a band of\nbrigands that had established itself in the Lepini mountains began to\nbe much spoken of. The brigands have never been really extirpated from\nthe neighborhood of Rome. Sometimes a chief is wanted, but when a chief\npresents himself he rarely has to wait long for a band of followers.\n\n The celebrated Cucumetto, pursued in the Abruzzo, driven out of the\nkingdom of Naples, where he had carried on a regular war, had crossed\nthe Garigliano, like Manfred, and had taken refuge on the banks of the\nAmasine between Sonnino and Juperno. He strove to collect a band of\nfollowers, and followed the footsteps of Decesaris and Gasparone, whom\nhe hoped to surpass. Many young men of Palestrina, Frascati, and\nPampinara had disappeared. Their disappearance at first caused much\ndisquietude; but it was soon known that they had joined Cucumetto.\nAfter some time Cucumetto became the object of universal attention; the\nmost extraordinary traits of ferocious daring and brutality were\nrelated of him.\n\n One day he carried off a young girl, the daughter of a surveyor of\nFrosinone. The bandit s laws are positive; a young girl belongs first\nto him who carries her off, then the rest draw lots for her, and she is\nabandoned to their brutality until death relieves her sufferings. When\ntheir parents are sufficiently rich to pay a ransom, a messenger is\nsent to negotiate; the prisoner is hostage for the security of the\nmessenger; should the ransom be refused, the prisoner is irrevocably\nlost. The young girl s lover was in Cucumetto s troop; his name was\nCarlini. When she recognized her lover, the poor girl extended her arms\nto him, and believed herself safe; but Carlini felt his heart sink, for\nhe but too well knew the fate that awaited her. However, as he was a\nfavorite with Cucumetto, as he had for three years faithfully served\nhim, and as he had saved his life by shooting a dragoon who was about\nto cut him down, he hoped the chief would have pity on him. He took\nCucumetto one side, while the young girl, seated at the foot of a huge\npine that stood in the centre of the forest, made a veil of her\npicturesque head-dress to hide her face from the lascivious gaze of the\nbandits. There he told the chief all his affection for the prisoner,\ntheir promises of mutual fidelity, and how every night, since he had\nbeen near, they had met in some neighboring ruins.\n\n20109m\n\n\n\n It so happened that night that Cucumetto had sent Carlini to a\nvillage, so that he had been unable to go to the place of meeting.\nCucumetto had been there, however, by accident, as he said, and had\ncarried the maiden off. Carlini besought his chief to make an exception\nin Rita s favor, as her father was rich, and could pay a large ransom.\nCucumetto seemed to yield to his friend s entreaties, and bade him find\na shepherd to send to Rita s father at Frosinone.\n\n Carlini flew joyfully to Rita, telling her she was saved, and bidding\nher write to her father, to inform him what had occurred, and that her\nransom was fixed at three hundred piastres. Twelve hours  delay was all\nthat was granted that is, until nine the next morning. The instant the\nletter was written, Carlini seized it, and hastened to the plain to\nfind a messenger. He found a young shepherd watching his flock. The\nnatural messengers of the bandits are the shepherds who live between\nthe city and the mountains, between civilized and savage life. The boy\nundertook the commission, promising to be in Frosinone in less than an\nhour. Carlini returned, anxious to see his mistress, and announce the\njoyful intelligence. He found the troop in the glade, supping off the\nprovisions exacted as contributions from the peasants; but his eye\nvainly sought Rita and Cucumetto among them.\n\n He inquired where they were, and was answered by a burst of laughter.\nA cold perspiration burst from every pore, and his hair stood on end.\nHe repeated his question. One of the bandits rose, and offered him a\nglass filled with Orvietto, saying,  To the health of the brave\nCucumetto and the fair Rita.  At this moment Carlini heard a woman s\ncry; he divined the truth, seized the glass, broke it across the face\nof him who presented it, and rushed towards the spot whence the cry\ncame. After a hundred yards he turned the corner of the thicket; he\nfound Rita senseless in the arms of Cucumetto. At the sight of Carlini,\nCucumetto rose, a pistol in each hand. The two brigands looked at each\nother for a moment the one with a smile of lasciviousness on his lips,\nthe other with the pallor of death on his brow. A terrible battle\nbetween the two men seemed imminent; but by degrees Carlini s features\nrelaxed, his hand, which had grasped one of the pistols in his belt,\nfell to his side. Rita lay between them. The moon lighted the group.\n\n Well,  said Cucumetto,  have you executed your commission? \n\n Yes, captain,  returned Carlini.  At nine o clock tomorrow Rita s\nfather will be here with the money. \n\n It is well; in the meantime, we will have a merry night; this young\ngirl is charming, and does credit to your taste. Now, as I am not\negotistical, we will return to our comrades and draw lots for her. \n\n You have determined, then, to abandon her to the common law?  said\nCarlini.\n\n Why should an exception be made in her favor? \n\n I thought that my entreaties \n\n What right have you, any more than the rest, to ask for an\nexception? \n\n It is true. \n\n But never mind,  continued Cucumetto, laughing,  sooner or later your\nturn will come.  Carlini s teeth clenched convulsively.\n\n Now, then,  said Cucumetto, advancing towards the other bandits,  are\nyou coming? \n\n I follow you. \n\n20111m\n\n\n\n Cucumetto departed, without losing sight of Carlini, for, doubtless,\nhe feared lest he should strike him unawares; but nothing betrayed a\nhostile design on Carlini s part. He was standing, his arms folded,\nnear Rita, who was still insensible. Cucumetto fancied for a moment the\nyoung man was about to take her in his arms and fly; but this mattered\nlittle to him now Rita had been his; and as for the money, three\nhundred piastres distributed among the band was so small a sum that he\ncared little about it. He continued to follow the path to the glade;\nbut, to his great surprise, Carlini arrived almost as soon as himself.\n\n Let us draw lots! let us draw lots!  cried all the brigands, when\nthey saw the chief.\n\n Their demand was fair, and the chief inclined his head in sign of\nacquiescence. The eyes of all shone fiercely as they made their demand,\nand the red light of the fire made them look like demons. The names of\nall, including Carlini, were placed in a hat, and the youngest of the\nband drew forth a ticket; the ticket bore the name of Diavolaccio. He\nwas the man who had proposed to Carlini the health of their chief, and\nto whom Carlini replied by breaking the glass across his face. A large\nwound, extending from the temple to the mouth, was bleeding profusely.\nDiavolaccio, seeing himself thus favored by fortune, burst into a loud\nlaugh.\n\n Captain,  said he,  just now Carlini would not drink your health when\nI proposed it to him; propose mine to him, and let us see if he will be\nmore condescending to you than to me. \n\n Everyone expected an explosion on Carlini s part; but to their great\nsurprise, he took a glass in one hand and a flask in the other, and\nfilling it, \n\n Your health, Diavolaccio,  said he calmly, and he drank it off,\nwithout his hand trembling in the least. Then sitting down by the fire,\n My supper,  said he;  my expedition has given me an appetite. \n\n Well done, Carlini!  cried the brigands;  that is acting like a good\nfellow;  and they all formed a circle round the fire, while Diavolaccio\ndisappeared.\n\n Carlini ate and drank as if nothing had happened. The bandits looked\non with astonishment at this singular conduct until they heard\nfootsteps. They turned round, and saw Diavolaccio bearing the young\ngirl in his arms. Her head hung back, and her long hair swept the\nground. As they entered the circle, the bandits could perceive, by the\nfirelight, the unearthly pallor of the young girl and of Diavolaccio.\nThis apparition was so strange and so solemn, that everyone rose, with\nthe exception of Carlini, who remained seated, and ate and drank\ncalmly. Diavolaccio advanced amidst the most profound silence, and laid\nRita at the captain s feet. Then everyone could understand the cause of\nthe unearthly pallor in the young girl and the bandit. A knife was\nplunged up to the hilt in Rita s left breast. Everyone looked at\nCarlini; the sheath at his belt was empty.\n\n Ah, ah,  said the chief,  I now understand why Carlini stayed\nbehind. \n\n All savage natures appreciate a desperate deed. No other of the\nbandits would, perhaps, have done the same; but they all understood\nwhat Carlini had done.\n\n Now, then,  cried Carlini, rising in his turn, and approaching the\ncorpse, his hand on the butt of one of his pistols,  does anyone\ndispute the possession of this woman with me? \n\n No,  returned the chief,  she is thine. \n\n Carlini raised her in his arms, and carried her out of the circle of\nfirelight. Cucumetto placed his sentinels for the night, and the\nbandits wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and lay down before the\nfire. At midnight the sentinel gave the alarm, and in an instant all\nwere on the alert. It was Rita s father, who brought his daughter s\nransom in person.\n\n Here,  said he, to Cucumetto,  here are three hundred piastres; give\nme back my child.\n\n But the chief, without taking the money, made a sign to him to follow.\nThe old man obeyed. They both advanced beneath the trees, through whose\nbranches streamed the moonlight. Cucumetto stopped at last, and pointed\nto two persons grouped at the foot of a tree.\n\n There,  said he,  demand thy child of Carlini; he will tell thee what\nhas become of her;  and he returned to his companions.\n\n The old man remained motionless; he felt that some great and\nunforeseen misfortune hung over his head. At length he advanced toward\nthe group, the meaning of which he could not comprehend. As he\napproached, Carlini raised his head, and the forms of two persons\nbecame visible to the old man s eyes. A woman lay on the ground, her\nhead resting on the knees of a man, who was seated by her; as he raised\nhis head, the woman s face became visible. The old man recognized his\nchild, and Carlini recognized the old man.\n\n I expected thee,  said the bandit to Rita s father.\n\n Wretch!  returned the old man,  what hast thou done?  and he gazed\nwith terror on Rita, pale and bloody, a knife buried in her bosom. A\nray of moonlight poured through the trees, and lighted up the face of\nthe dead.\n\n Cucumetto had violated thy daughter,  said the bandit;  I loved her,\ntherefore I slew her; for she would have served as the sport of the\nwhole band.  The old man spoke not, and grew pale as death.  Now, \ncontinued Carlini,  if I have done wrongly, avenge her;  and\nwithdrawing the knife from the wound in Rita s bosom, he held it out to\nthe old man with one hand, while with the other he tore open his vest.\n\n Thou hast done well!  returned the old man in a hoarse voice;\n embrace me, my son. \n\n20115m\n\n\n\nCarlini threw himself, sobbing like a child, into the arms of his\nmistress s father. These were the first tears the man of blood had ever\nwept.\n\n Now,  said the old man,  aid me to bury my child.  Carlini fetched\ntwo pickaxes; and the father and the lover began to dig at the foot of\na huge oak, beneath which the young girl was to repose. When the grave\nwas formed, the father embraced her first, and then the lover;\nafterwards, one taking the head, the other the feet, they placed her in\nthe grave. Then they knelt on each side of the grave, and said the\nprayers of the dead. Then, when they had finished, they cast the earth\nover the corpse, until the grave was filled. Then, extending his hand,\nthe old man said;  I thank you, my son; and now leave me alone. \n\n Yet  replied Carlini.\n\n Leave me, I command you. \n\n Carlini obeyed, rejoined his comrades, folded himself in his cloak,\nand soon appeared to sleep as soundly as the rest. It had been resolved\nthe night before to change their encampment. An hour before daybreak,\nCucumetto aroused his men, and gave the word to march. But Carlini\nwould not quit the forest, without knowing what had become of Rita s\nfather. He went toward the place where he had left him. He found the\nold man suspended from one of the branches of the oak which shaded his\ndaughter s grave. He then took an oath of bitter vengeance over the\ndead body of the one and the tomb of the other. But he was unable to\ncomplete this oath, for two days afterwards, in an encounter with the\nRoman carbineers, Carlini was killed. There was some surprise, however,\nthat, as he was with his face to the enemy, he should have received a\nball between his shoulders. That astonishment ceased when one of the\nbrigands remarked to his comrades that Cucumetto was stationed ten\npaces in Carlini s rear when he fell. On the morning of the departure\nfrom the forest of Frosinone he had followed Carlini in the darkness,\nand heard this oath of vengeance, and, like a wise man, anticipated it.\n\n They told ten other stories of this bandit chief, each more singular\nthan the other. Thus, from Fondi to Perusia, everyone trembles at the\nname of Cucumetto.\n\n These narratives were frequently the theme of conversation between\nLuigi and Teresa. The young girl trembled very much at hearing the\nstories; but Vampa reassured her with a smile, tapping the butt of his\ngood fowling-piece, which threw its ball so well; and if that did not\nrestore her courage, he pointed to a crow, perched on some dead branch,\ntook aim, touched the trigger, and the bird fell dead at the foot of\nthe tree. Time passed on, and the two young people had agreed to be\nmarried when Vampa should be twenty and Teresa nineteen years of age.\nThey were both orphans, and had only their employers  leave to ask,\nwhich had been already sought and obtained. One day when they were\ntalking over their plans for the future, they heard two or three\nreports of firearms, and then suddenly a man came out of the wood, near\nwhich the two young persons used to graze their flocks, and hurried\ntowards them. When he came within hearing, he exclaimed:\n\n I am pursued; can you conceal me? \n\n They knew full well that this fugitive must be a bandit; but there is\nan innate sympathy between the Roman brigand and the Roman peasant and\nthe latter is always ready to aid the former. Vampa, without saying a\nword, hastened to the stone that closed up the entrance to their\ngrotto, drew it away, made a sign to the fugitive to take refuge there,\nin a retreat unknown to everyone, closed the stone upon him, and then\nwent and resumed his seat by Teresa. Instantly afterwards four\ncarbineers, on horseback, appeared on the edge of the wood; three of\nthem appeared to be looking for the fugitive, while the fourth dragged\na brigand prisoner by the neck. The three carbineers looked about\ncarefully on every side, saw the young peasants, and galloping up,\nbegan to question them. They had seen no one.\n\n That is very annoying,  said the brigadier; for the man we are\nlooking for is the chief. \n\n Cucumetto?  cried Luigi and Teresa at the same moment.\n\n Yes,  replied the brigadier;  and as his head is valued at a thousand\nRoman crowns, there would have been five hundred for you, if you had\nhelped us to catch him.  The two young persons exchanged looks. The\nbrigadier had a moment s hope. Five hundred Roman crowns are three\nthousand lire, and three thousand lire are a fortune for two poor\norphans who are going to be married.\n\n Yes, it is very annoying,  said Vampa;  but we have not seen him. \n\n Then the carbineers scoured the country in different directions, but\nin vain; then, after a time, they disappeared. Vampa then removed the\nstone, and Cucumetto came out. Through the crevices in the granite he\nhad seen the two young peasants talking with the carbineers, and\nguessed the subject of their parley. He had read in the countenances of\nLuigi and Teresa their steadfast resolution not to surrender him, and\nhe drew from his pocket a purse full of gold, which he offered to them.\nBut Vampa raised his head proudly; as to Teresa, her eyes sparkled when\nshe thought of all the fine gowns and gay jewellery she could buy with\nthis purse of gold.\n\n Cucumetto was a cunning fiend, and had assumed the form of a brigand\ninstead of a serpent, and this look from Teresa showed to him that she\nwas a worthy daughter of Eve, and he returned to the forest, pausing\nseveral times on his way, under the pretext of saluting his protectors.\n\n Several days elapsed, and they neither saw nor heard of Cucumetto. The\ntime of the Carnival was at hand. The Count of San-Felice announced a\ngrand masked ball, to which all that were distinguished in Rome were\ninvited. Teresa had a great desire to see this ball. Luigi asked\npermission of his protector, the steward, that she and he might be\npresent amongst the servants of the house. This was granted. The ball\nwas given by the Count for the particular pleasure of his daughter\nCarmela, whom he adored. Carmela was precisely the age and figure of\nTeresa, and Teresa was as handsome as Carmela. On the evening of the\nball Teresa was attired in her best, her most brilliant ornaments in\nher hair, and gayest glass beads, she was in the costume of the women\nof Frascati. Luigi wore the very picturesque garb of the Roman peasant\nat holiday time. They both mingled, as they had leave to do, with the\nservants and peasants.\n\n The _festa_ was magnificent; not only was the villa brilliantly\nilluminated, but thousands of colored lanterns were suspended from the\ntrees in the garden; and very soon the palace overflowed to the\nterraces, and the terraces to the garden-walks. At each cross-path was\nan orchestra, and tables spread with refreshments; the guests stopped,\nformed quadrilles, and danced in any part of the grounds they pleased.\nCarmela was attired like a woman of Sonnino. Her cap was embroidered\nwith pearls, the pins in her hair were of gold and diamonds, her girdle\nwas of Turkey silk, with large embroidered flowers, her bodice and\nskirt were of cashmere, her apron of Indian muslin, and the buttons of\nher corset were of jewels. Two of her companions were dressed, the one\nas a woman of Nettuno, and the other as a woman of La Riccia. Four\nyoung men of the richest and noblest families of Rome accompanied them\nwith that Italian freedom which has not its parallel in any other\ncountry in the world. They were attired as peasants of Albano,\nVelletri, Civita-Castellana, and Sora. We need hardly add that these\npeasant costumes, like those of the young women, were brilliant with\ngold and jewels.\n\n Carmela wished to form a quadrille, but there was one lady wanting.\nCarmela looked all around her, but not one of the guests had a costume\nsimilar to her own, or those of her companions. The Count of San-Felice\npointed out Teresa, who was hanging on Luigi s arm in a group of\npeasants.\n\n Will you allow me, father?  said Carmela.\n\n Certainly,  replied the count,  are we not in Carnival time? \n\n Carmela turned towards the young man who was talking with her, and\nsaying a few words to him, pointed with her finger to Teresa. The young\nman looked, bowed in obedience, and then went to Teresa, and invited\nher to dance in a quadrille directed by the count s daughter. Teresa\nfelt a flush pass over her face; she looked at Luigi, who could not\nrefuse his assent. Luigi slowly relinquished Teresa s arm, which he had\nheld beneath his own, and Teresa, accompanied by her elegant cavalier,\ntook her appointed place with much agitation in the aristocratic\nquadrille. Certainly, in the eyes of an artist, the exact and strict\ncostume of Teresa had a very different character from that of Carmela\nand her companions; and Teresa was frivolous and coquettish, and thus\nthe embroidery and muslins, the cashmere waist-girdles, all dazzled\nher, and the reflection of sapphires and diamonds almost turned her\ngiddy brain.\n\n Luigi felt a sensation hitherto unknown arising in his mind. It was\nlike an acute pain which gnawed at his heart, and then thrilled through\nhis whole body. He followed with his eye each movement of Teresa and\nher cavalier; when their hands touched, he felt as though he should\nswoon; every pulse beat with violence, and it seemed as though a bell\nwere ringing in his ears. When they spoke, although Teresa listened\ntimidly and with downcast eyes to the conversation of her cavalier, as\nLuigi could read in the ardent looks of the good-looking young man that\nhis language was that of praise, it seemed as if the whole world was\nturning round with him, and all the voices of hell were whispering in\nhis ears ideas of murder and assassination. Then fearing that his\nparoxysm might get the better of him, he clutched with one hand the\nbranch of a tree against which he was leaning, and with the other\nconvulsively grasped the dagger with a carved handle which was in his\nbelt, and which, unwittingly, he drew from the scabbard from time to\ntime.\n\n Luigi was jealous!\n\n He felt that, influenced by her ambitions and coquettish disposition,\nTeresa might escape him.\n\n The young peasant girl, at first timid and scared, soon recovered\nherself. We have said that Teresa was handsome, but this is not all;\nTeresa was endowed with all those wild graces which are so much more\npotent than our affected and studied elegancies. She had almost all the\nhonors of the quadrille, and if she were envious of the Count of\nSan-Felice s daughter, we will not undertake to say that Carmela was\nnot jealous of her. And with overpowering compliments her handsome\ncavalier led her back to the place whence he had taken her, and where\nLuigi awaited her. Twice or thrice during the dance the young girl had\nglanced at Luigi, and each time she saw that he was pale and that his\nfeatures were agitated, once even the blade of his knife, half drawn\nfrom its sheath, had dazzled her eyes with its sinister glare. Thus, it\nwas almost tremblingly that she resumed her lover s arm. The quadrille\nhad been most perfect, and it was evident there was a great demand for\na repetition, Carmela alone objecting to it, but the Count of\nSan-Felice besought his daughter so earnestly, that she acceded.\n\n One of the cavaliers then hastened to invite Teresa, without whom it\nwas impossible for the quadrille to be formed, but the young girl had\ndisappeared.\n\n The truth was, that Luigi had not felt the strength to support another\nsuch trial, and, half by persuasion and half by force, he had removed\nTeresa toward another part of the garden. Teresa had yielded in spite\nof herself, but when she looked at the agitated countenance of the\nyoung man, she understood by his silence and trembling voice that\nsomething strange was passing within him. She herself was not exempt\nfrom internal emotion, and without having done anything wrong, yet\nfully comprehended that Luigi was right in reproaching her. Why, she\ndid not know, but yet she did not the less feel that these reproaches\nwere merited.\n\n However, to Teresa s great astonishment, Luigi remained mute, and not\na word escaped his lips the rest of the evening. When the chill of the\nnight had driven away the guests from the gardens, and the gates of the\nvilla were closed on them for the _festa_ in-doors, he took Teresa\nquite away, and as he left her at her home, he said:\n\n Teresa, what were you thinking of as you danced opposite the young\nCountess of San-Felice? \n\n I thought,  replied the young girl, with all the frankness of her\nnature,  that I would give half my life for a costume such as she\nwore. \n\n And what said your cavalier to you? \n\n He said it only depended on myself to have it, and I had only one\nword to say. \n\n He was right,  said Luigi.  Do you desire it as ardently as you say? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, then, you shall have it! \n\n The young girl, much astonished, raised her head to look at him, but\nhis face was so gloomy and terrible that her words froze to her lips.\nAs Luigi spoke thus, he left her. Teresa followed him with her eyes\ninto the darkness as long as she could, and when he had quite\ndisappeared, she went into the house with a sigh.\n\n20121m\n\n\n\n That night a memorable event occurred, due, no doubt, to the\nimprudence of some servant who had neglected to extinguish the lights.\nThe Villa of San-Felice took fire in the rooms adjoining the very\napartment of the lovely Carmela. Awakened in the night by the light of\nthe flames, she sprang out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown,\nand attempted to escape by the door, but the corridor by which she\nhoped to fly was already a prey to the flames. She then returned to her\nroom, calling for help as loudly as she could, when suddenly her\nwindow, which was twenty feet from the ground, was opened, a young\npeasant jumped into the chamber, seized her in his arms, and with\nsuperhuman skill and strength conveyed her to the turf of the\ngrass-plot, where she fainted. When she recovered, her father was by\nher side. All the servants surrounded her, offering her assistance. An\nentire wing of the villa was burnt down; but what of that, as long as\nCarmela was safe and uninjured?\n\n Her preserver was everywhere sought for, but he did not appear; he was\ninquired after, but no one had seen him. Carmela was greatly troubled\nthat she had not recognized him.\n\n As the count was immensely rich, excepting the danger Carmela had\nrun, and the marvellous manner in which she had escaped, made that\nappear to him rather a favor of Providence than a real misfortune, the\nloss occasioned by the conflagration was to him but a trifle.\n\n The next day, at the usual hour, the two young peasants were on the\nborders of the forest. Luigi arrived first. He came toward Teresa in\nhigh spirits, and seemed to have completely forgotten the events of the\nprevious evening. The young girl was very pensive, but seeing Luigi so\ncheerful, she on her part assumed a smiling air, which was natural to\nher when she was not excited or in a passion.\n\n Luigi took her arm beneath his own, and led her to the door of the\ngrotto. Then he paused. The young girl, perceiving that there was\nsomething extraordinary, looked at him steadfastly.\n\n Teresa,  said Luigi,  yesterday evening you told me you would give\nall the world to have a costume similar to that of the count s\ndaughter. \n\n Yes,  replied Teresa with astonishment;  but I was mad to utter such\na wish. \n\n And I replied,  Very well, you shall have it. \n\n Yes,  replied the young girl, whose astonishment increased at every\nword uttered by Luigi,  but of course your reply was only to please\nme. \n\n I have promised no more than I have given you, Teresa,  said Luigi\nproudly.  Go into the grotto and dress yourself. \n\n At these words he drew away the stone, and showed Teresa the grotto,\nlighted up by two wax lights, which burnt on each side of a splendid\nmirror; on a rustic table, made by Luigi, were spread out the pearl\nnecklace and the diamond pins, and on a chair at the side was laid the\nrest of the costume.\n\n Teresa uttered a cry of joy, and, without inquiring whence this attire\ncame, or even thanking Luigi, darted into the grotto, transformed into\na dressing-room.\n\n Luigi pushed the stone behind her, for on the crest of a small\nadjacent hill which cut off the view toward Palestrina, he saw a\ntraveller on horseback, stopping a moment, as if uncertain of his road,\nand thus presenting against the blue sky that perfect outline which is\npeculiar to distant objects in southern climes. When he saw Luigi, he\nput his horse into a gallop and advanced toward him.\n\n Luigi was not mistaken. The traveller, who was going from Palestrina\nto Tivoli, had mistaken his way; the young man directed him; but as at\na distance of a quarter of a mile the road again divided into three\nways, and on reaching these the traveller might again stray from his\nroute, he begged Luigi to be his guide.\n\n Luigi threw his cloak on the ground, placed his carbine on his\nshoulder, and freed from his heavy covering, preceded the traveller\nwith the rapid step of a mountaineer, which a horse can scarcely keep\nup with. In ten minutes Luigi and the traveller reached the\ncross-roads. On arriving there, with an air as majestic as that of an\nemperor, he stretched his hand towards that one of the roads which the\ntraveller was to follow.\n\n That is your road, excellency, and now you cannot again mistake. \n\n And here is your recompense,  said the traveller, offering the young\nherdsman some small pieces of money.\n\n Thank you,  said Luigi, drawing back his hand;  I render a service, I\ndo not sell it. \n\n Well,  replied the traveller, who seemed used to this difference\nbetween the servility of a man of the cities and the pride of the\nmountaineer,  if you refuse wages, you will, perhaps, accept a gift. \n\n Ah, yes, that is another thing. \n\n Then,  said the traveller,  take these two Venetian sequins and give\nthem to your bride, to make herself a pair of earrings. \n\n And then do you take this poniard,  said the young herdsman;  you\nwill not find one better carved between Albano and Civita-Castellana. \n\n I accept it,  answered the traveller,  but then the obligation will\nbe on my side, for this poniard is worth more than two sequins. \n\n For a dealer perhaps; but for me, who engraved it myself, it is\nhardly worth a piastre. \n\n What is your name?  inquired the traveller.\n\n Luigi Vampa,  replied the shepherd, with the same air as he would\nhave replied, Alexander, King of Macedon.  And yours? \n\n I,  said the traveller,  am called Sinbad the Sailor. \n\nFranz d pinay started with surprise.\n\n Sinbad the Sailor?  he said.\n\n Yes,  replied the narrator;  that was the name which the traveller\ngave to Vampa as his own. \n\n Well, and what may you have to say against this name?  inquired\nAlbert;  it is a very pretty name, and the adventures of the gentleman\nof that name amused me very much in my youth, I must confess. \n\nFranz said no more. The name of Sinbad the Sailor, as may well be\nsupposed, awakened in him a world of recollections, as had the name of\nthe Count of Monte Cristo on the previous evening.\n\n Proceed!  said he to the host.\n\n Vampa put the two sequins haughtily into his pocket, and slowly\nreturned by the way he had gone. As he came within two or three hundred\npaces of the grotto, he thought he heard a cry. He listened to know\nwhence this sound could proceed. A moment afterwards he thought he\nheard his own name pronounced distinctly.\n\n The cry proceeded from the grotto. He bounded like a chamois, cocking\nhis carbine as he went, and in a moment reached the summit of a hill\nopposite to that on which he had perceived the traveller. Three cries\nfor help came more distinctly to his ear. He cast his eyes around him\nand saw a man carrying off Teresa, as Nessus, the centaur, carried\nDeianira.\n\n This man, who was hastening towards the wood, was already\nthree-quarters of the way on the road from the grotto to the forest.\nVampa measured the distance; the man was at least two hundred paces in\nadvance of him, and there was not a chance of overtaking him. The young\nshepherd stopped, as if his feet had been rooted to the ground; then he\nput the butt of his carbine to his shoulder, took aim at the ravisher,\nfollowed him for a second in his track, and then fired.\n\n The ravisher stopped suddenly, his knees bent under him, and he fell\nwith Teresa in his arms. The young girl rose instantly, but the man lay\non the earth struggling in the agonies of death. Vampa then rushed\ntowards Teresa; for at ten paces from the dying man her legs had failed\nher, and she had dropped on her knees, so that the young man feared\nthat the ball that had brought down his enemy, had also wounded his\nbetrothed.\n\n Fortunately, she was unscathed, and it was fright alone that had\novercome Teresa. When Luigi had assured himself that she was safe and\nunharmed, he turned towards the wounded man. He had just expired, with\nclenched hands, his mouth in a spasm of agony, and his hair on end in\nthe sweat of death. His eyes remained open and menacing. Vampa\napproached the corpse, and recognized Cucumetto.\n\n From the day on which the bandit had been saved by the two young\npeasants, he had been enamoured of Teresa, and had sworn she should be\nhis. From that time he had watched them, and profiting by the moment\nwhen her lover had left her alone, had carried her off, and believed he\nat length had her in his power, when the ball, directed by the unerring\nskill of the young herdsman, had pierced his heart. Vampa gazed on him\nfor a moment without betraying the slightest emotion; while, on the\ncontrary, Teresa, shuddering in every limb, dared not approach the\nslain ruffian but by degrees, and threw a hesitating glance at the dead\nbody over the shoulder of her lover. Suddenly Vampa turned toward his\nmistress:\n\n Ah,  said he good, good! You are dressed; it is now my turn to dress\nmyself. \n\n20125m\n\n\n\n Teresa was clothed from head to foot in the garb of the Count of\nSan-Felice s daughter. Vampa took Cucumetto s body in his arms and\nconveyed it to the grotto, while in her turn Teresa remained outside.\nIf a second traveller had passed, he would have seen a strange thing, a\nshepherdess watching her flock, clad in a cashmere grown, with\near-rings and necklace of pearls, diamond pins, and buttons of\nsapphires, emeralds, and rubies. He would, no doubt, have believed that\nhe had returned to the times of Florian, and would have declared, on\nreaching Paris, that he had met an Alpine shepherdess seated at the\nfoot of the Sabine Hill.\n\n At the end of a quarter of an hour Vampa quitted the grotto; his\ncostume was no less elegant than that of Teresa. He wore a vest of\ngarnet-colored velvet, with buttons of cut gold; a silk waistcoat\ncovered with embroidery; a Roman scarf tied round his neck; a\ncartridge-box worked with gold, and red and green silk; sky-blue velvet\nbreeches, fastened above the knee with diamond buckles; garters of\ndeerskin, worked with a thousand arabesques, and a hat whereon hung\nribbons of all colors; two watches hung from his girdle, and a splendid\nponiard was in his belt.\n\n Teresa uttered a cry of admiration. Vampa in this attire resembled a\npainting by L opold Robert or Schnetz. He had assumed the entire\ncostume of Cucumetto. The young man saw the effect produced on his\nbetrothed, and a smile of pride passed over his lips.\n\n Now,  he said to Teresa,  are you ready to share my fortune, whatever\nit may be? \n\n Oh, yes!  exclaimed the young girl enthusiastically.\n\n And follow me wherever I go? \n\n To the world s end. \n\n Then take my arm, and let us on; we have no time to lose. \n\n The young girl did so without questioning her lover as to where he was\nconducting her, for he appeared to her at this moment as handsome,\nproud, and powerful as a god. They went towards the forest, and soon\nentered it.\n\n We need scarcely say that all the paths of the mountain were known to\nVampa; he therefore went forward without a moment s hesitation,\nalthough there was no beaten track, but he knew his path by looking at\nthe trees and bushes, and thus they kept on advancing for nearly an\nhour and a half. At the end of this time they had reached the thickest\npart of the forest. A torrent, whose bed was dry, led into a deep\ngorge. Vampa took this wild road, which, enclosed between two ridges,\nand shadowed by the tufted umbrage of the pines, seemed, but for the\ndifficulties of its descent, that path to Avernus of which Virgil\nspeaks. Teresa had become alarmed at the wild and deserted look of the\nplain around her, and pressed closely against her guide, not uttering a\nsyllable; but as she saw him advance with even step and composed\ncountenance, she endeavored to repress her emotion.\n\n Suddenly, about ten paces from them, a man advanced from behind a tree\nand aimed at Vampa.\n\n Not another step,  he said,  or you are a dead man. \n\n What, then,  said Vampa, raising his hand with a gesture of disdain,\nwhile Teresa, no longer able to restrain her alarm, clung closely to\nhim,  do wolves rend each other? \n\n Who are you?  inquired the sentinel.\n\n I am Luigi Vampa, shepherd of the San-Felice farm. \n\n What do you want? \n\n I would speak with your companions who are in the glade at Rocca\nBianca. \n\n Follow me, then,  said the sentinel;  or, as you know your way, go\nfirst. \n\n Vampa smiled disdainfully at this precaution on the part of the\nbandit, went before Teresa, and continued to advance with the same firm\nand easy step as before. At the end of ten minutes the bandit made them\na sign to stop. The two young persons obeyed. Then the bandit thrice\nimitated the cry of a crow; a croak answered this signal.\n\n Good!  said the sentry,  you may now go on. \n\n Luigi and Teresa again set forward; as they went on Teresa clung\ntremblingly to her lover at the sight of weapons and the glistening of\ncarbines through the trees. The retreat of Rocca Bianca was at the top\nof a small mountain, which no doubt in former days had been a\nvolcano an extinct volcano before the days when Remus and Romulus had\ndeserted Alba to come and found the city of Rome.\n\n Teresa and Luigi reached the summit, and all at once found themselves\nin the presence of twenty bandits.\n\n Here is a young man who seeks and wishes to speak to you,  said the\nsentinel.\n\n What has he to say?  inquired the young man who was in command in the\nchief s absence.\n\n I wish to say that I am tired of a shepherd s life,  was Vampa s\nreply.\n\n Ah, I understand,  said the lieutenant;  and you seek admittance into\nour ranks? \n\n Welcome!  cried several bandits from Ferrusino, Pampinara, and\nAnagni, who had recognized Luigi Vampa.\n\n Yes, but I came to ask something more than to be your companion. \n\n And what may that be?  inquired the bandits with astonishment.\n\n I come to ask to be your captain,  said the young man.\n\n The bandits shouted with laughter.\n\n And what have you done to aspire to this honor?  demanded the\nlieutenant.\n\n I have killed your chief, Cucumetto, whose dress I now wear; and I\nset fire to the villa San-Felice to procure a wedding-dress for my\nbetrothed. \n\n An hour afterwards Luigi Vampa was chosen captain, vice Cucumetto,\ndeceased. \n\n20129m\n\n\n\n Well, my dear Albert,  said Franz, turning towards his friend;  what\nthink you of citizen Luigi Vampa? \n\n I say he is a myth,  replied Albert,  and never had an existence. \n\n And what may a myth be?  inquired Pastrini.\n\n The explanation would be too long, my dear landlord,  replied Franz.\n\n And you say that Signor Vampa exercises his profession at this moment\nin the environs of Rome? \n\n And with a boldness of which no bandit before him ever gave an\nexample. \n\n Then the police have vainly tried to lay hands on him? \n\n Why, you see, he has a good understanding with the shepherds in the\nplains, the fishermen of the Tiber, and the smugglers of the coast.\nThey seek for him in the mountains, and he is on the waters; they\nfollow him on the waters, and he is on the open sea; then they pursue\nhim, and he has suddenly taken refuge in the islands, at Giglio,\nGiannutri, or Monte Cristo; and when they hunt for him there, he\nreappears suddenly at Albano, Tivoli, or La Riccia. \n\n And how does he behave towards travellers? \n\n Alas! his plan is very simple. It depends on the distance he may be\nfrom the city, whether he gives eight hours, twelve hours, or a day\nwherein to pay their ransom; and when that time has elapsed he allows\nanother hour s grace. At the sixtieth minute of this hour, if the money\nis not forthcoming, he blows out the prisoner s brains with a\npistol-shot, or plants his dagger in his heart, and that settles the\naccount. \n\n Well, Albert,  inquired Franz of his companion,  are you still\ndisposed to go to the Colosseum by the outer wall? \n\n Quite so,  said Albert,  if the way be picturesque. \n\nThe clock struck nine as the door opened, and a coachman appeared.\n\n Excellencies,  said he,  the coach is ready. \n\n Well, then,  said Franz,  let us to the Colosseum. \n\n By the Porta del Popolo or by the streets, your excellencies? \n\n By the streets, _morbleu!_ by the streets!  cried Franz.\n\n Ah, my dear fellow,  said Albert, rising, and lighting his third\ncigar,  really, I thought you had more courage. \n\nSo saying, the two young men went down the staircase, and got into the\ncarriage.\n\n20131m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 34. The Colosseum\n\nFranz had so managed his route, that during the ride to the Colosseum\nthey passed not a single ancient ruin, so that no preliminary\nimpression interfered to mitigate the colossal proportions of the\ngigantic building they came to admire. The road selected was a\ncontinuation of the Via Sistina; then by cutting off the right angle of\nthe street in which stands Santa Maria Maggiore and proceeding by the\nVia Urbana and San Pietro in Vincoli, the travellers would find\nthemselves directly opposite the Colosseum.\n\nThis itinerary possessed another great advantage, that of leaving Franz\nat full liberty to indulge his deep reverie upon the subject of Signor\nPastrini s story, in which his mysterious host of Monte Cristo was so\nstrangely mixed up. Seated with folded arms in a corner of the\ncarriage, he continued to ponder over the singular history he had so\nlately listened to, and to ask himself an interminable number of\nquestions touching its various circumstances without, however, arriving\nat a satisfactory reply to any of them.\n\nOne fact more than the rest brought his friend  Sinbad the Sailor  back\nto his recollection, and that was the mysterious sort of intimacy that\nseemed to exist between the brigands and the sailors; and Pastrini s\naccount of Vampa s having found refuge on board the vessels of\nsmugglers and fishermen, reminded Franz of the two Corsican bandits he\nhad found supping so amicably with the crew of the little yacht, which\nhad even deviated from its course and touched at Porto-Vecchio for the\nsole purpose of landing them. The very name assumed by his host of\nMonte Cristo and again repeated by the landlord of the H tel de\nLondres, abundantly proved to him that his island friend was playing\nhis philanthropic part on the shores of Piombino, Civita Vecchia,\nOstia, and Ga ta, as on those of Corsica, Tuscany, and Spain; and\nfurther, Franz bethought him of having heard his singular entertainer\nspeak both of Tunis and Palermo, proving thereby how largely his circle\nof acquaintances extended.\n\nBut however the mind of the young man might be absorbed in these\nreflections, they were at once dispersed at the sight of the dark\nfrowning ruins of the stupendous Colosseum, through the various\nopenings of which the pale moonlight played and flickered like the\nunearthly gleam from the eyes of the wandering dead. The carriage\nstopped near the Meta Sudans; the door was opened, and the young men,\neagerly alighting, found themselves opposite a _cicerone_, who appeared\nto have sprung up from the ground, so unexpected was his appearance.\n\nThe usual guide from the hotel having followed them, they had paid two\nconductors, nor is it possible, at Rome, to avoid this abundant supply\nof guides; besides the ordinary _cicerone_, who seizes upon you\ndirectly you set foot in your hotel, and never quits you while you\nremain in the city, there is also a special _cicerone_ belonging to\neach monument nay, almost to each part of a monument. It may,\ntherefore, be easily imagined there is no scarcity of guides at the\nColosseum, that wonder of all ages, which Martial thus eulogizes:\n\n Let Memphis cease to boast the barbarous miracles of her pyramids, and\nthe wonders of Babylon be talked of no more among us; all must bow to\nthe superiority of the gigantic labor of the C sars, and the many\nvoices of Fame spread far and wide the surpassing merits of this\nincomparable monument. \n\nAs for Albert and Franz, they essayed not to escape from their\n_ciceronian_ tyrants; and, indeed, it would have been so much the more\ndifficult to break their bondage, as the guides alone are permitted to\nvisit these monuments with torches in their hands. Thus, then, the\nyoung men made no attempt at resistance, but blindly and confidingly\nsurrendered themselves into the care and custody of their conductors.\n\nFranz had already made seven or eight similar excursions to the\nColosseum, while his less favored companion trod for the first time in\nhis life the classic ground forming the monument of Flavius Vespasian;\nand, to his credit be it spoken, his mind, even amid the glib loquacity\nof the guides, was duly and deeply touched with awe and enthusiastic\nadmiration of all he saw; and certainly no adequate notion of these\nstupendous ruins can be formed save by such as have visited them, and\nmore especially by moonlight, at which time the vast proportions of the\nbuilding appear twice as large when viewed by the mysterious beams of a\nsouthern moonlit sky, whose rays are sufficiently clear and vivid to\nlight the horizon with a glow equal to the soft twilight of a western\nclime.\n\nScarcely, therefore, had the reflective Franz walked a hundred steps\nbeneath the interior porticoes of the ruin, when, abandoning Albert to\nthe guides (who would by no means yield their prescriptive right of\ncarrying their victims through the routine regularly laid down, and as\nregularly followed by them, but dragged the unconscious visitor to the\nvarious objects with a pertinacity that admitted of no appeal,\nbeginning, as a matter of course, with the  Lions  Den , the  Hall of\nthe Gladiators  and finishing with  C sar s Podium ), to escape a\njargon and mechanical survey of the wonders by which he was surrounded,\nFranz ascended a half-dilapidated staircase, and, leaving them to\nfollow their monotonous round, seated himself at the foot of a column,\nand immediately opposite a large aperture, which permitted him to enjoy\na full and undisturbed view of the gigantic dimensions of the majestic\nruin.\n\nFranz had remained for nearly a quarter of an hour perfectly hidden by\nthe shadow of the vast column at whose base he had found a\nresting-place, and from whence his eyes followed the motions of Albert\nand his guides, who, holding torches in their hands, had emerged from a\nvomitorium at the opposite extremity of the Colosseum, and then again\ndisappeared down the steps conducting to the seats reserved for the\nVestal virgins, resembling, as they glided along, some restless shades\nfollowing the flickering glare of so many _ignes fatui_. All at once\nhis ear caught a sound resembling that of a stone rolling down the\nstaircase opposite the one by which he had himself ascended. There was\nnothing remarkable in the circumstance of a fragment of granite giving\nway and falling heavily below; but it seemed to him that the substance\nthat fell gave way beneath the pressure of a foot, and also that\nsomeone, who endeavored as much as possible to prevent his footsteps\nfrom being heard, was approaching the spot where he sat.\n\nConjecture soon became certainty, for the figure of a man was\ndistinctly visible to Franz, gradually emerging from the staircase\nopposite, upon which the moon was at that moment pouring a full tide of\nsilvery brightness.\n\nThe stranger thus presenting himself was probably a person who, like\nFranz, preferred the enjoyment of solitude and his own thoughts to the\nfrivolous gabble of the guides. And his appearance had nothing\nextraordinary in it; but the hesitation with which he proceeded,\nstopping and listening with anxious attention at every step he took,\nconvinced Franz that he expected the arrival of some person.\n\nBy a sort of instinctive impulse, Franz withdrew as much as possible\nbehind his pillar.\n\nAbout ten feet from the spot where he and the stranger were, the roof\nhad given way, leaving a large round opening, through which might be\nseen the blue vault of heaven, thickly studded with stars.\n\nAround this opening, which had, possibly, for ages permitted a free\nentrance to the brilliant moonbeams that now illumined the vast pile,\ngrew a quantity of creeping plants, whose delicate green branches stood\nout in bold relief against the clear azure of the firmament, while\nlarge masses of thick, strong fibrous shoots forced their way through\nthe chasm, and hung floating to and fro, like so many waving strings.\n\nThe person whose mysterious arrival had attracted the attention of\nFranz stood in a kind of half-light, that rendered it impossible to\ndistinguish his features, although his dress was easily made out. He\nwore a large brown mantle, one fold of which, thrown over his left\nshoulder, served likewise to mask the lower part of his countenance,\nwhile the upper part was completely hidden by his broad-brimmed hat.\nThe lower part of his dress was more distinctly visible by the bright\nrays of the moon, which, entering through the broken ceiling, shed\ntheir refulgent beams on feet cased in elegantly made boots of polished\nleather, over which descended fashionably cut trousers of black cloth.\n\n20135m\n\n\n\nFrom the imperfect means Franz had of judging, he could only come to\none conclusion, that the person whom he was thus watching certainly\nbelonged to no inferior station of life.\n\nSome few minutes had elapsed, and the stranger began to show manifest\nsigns of impatience, when a slight noise was heard outside the aperture\nin the roof, and almost immediately a dark shadow seemed to obstruct\nthe flood of light that had entered it, and the figure of a man was\nclearly seen gazing with eager scrutiny on the immense space beneath\nhim; then, as his eye caught sight of him in the mantle, he grasped a\nfloating mass of thickly matted boughs, and glided down by their help\nto within three or four feet of the ground, and then leaped lightly on\nhis feet. The man who had performed this daring act with so much\nindifference wore the Transtevere costume.\n\n I beg your excellency s pardon for keeping you waiting,  said the man,\nin the Roman dialect,  but I don t think I m many minutes after my\ntime, ten o clock has just struck by the clock of Saint John Lateran. \n\n Say not a word about being late,  replied the stranger in purest\nTuscan;  tis I who am too soon. But even if you had caused me to wait\na little while, I should have felt quite sure that the delay was not\noccasioned by any fault of yours. \n\n Your excellency is perfectly right in so thinking,  said the man;  I\ncame here direct from the Castle of St. Angelo, and I had an immense\ndeal of trouble before I could get a chance to speak to Beppo. \n\n And who is Beppo? \n\n Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison, and I give him so much a year to\nlet me know what is going on within his holiness s castle. \n\n Indeed! You are a provident person, I see. \n\n Why, you see, no one knows what may happen. Perhaps some of these days\nI may be entrapped, like poor Peppino and may be very glad to have some\nlittle nibbling mouse to gnaw the meshes of my net, and so help me out\nof prison. \n\n Briefly, what did you learn? \n\n That two executions of considerable interest will take place the day\nafter tomorrow at two o clock, as is customary at Rome at the\ncommencement of all great festivals. One of the culprits will be\n_mazzolato_;3 he is an atrocious villain, who murdered the priest who\nbrought him up, and deserves not the smallest pity. The other sufferer\nis sentenced to be _decapitato_;4 and he, your excellency, is poor\nPeppino. \n\n The fact is, that you have inspired not only the pontifical\ngovernment, but also the neighboring states, with such extreme fear,\nthat they are glad of all opportunity of making an example. \n\n But Peppino did not even belong to my band; he was merely a poor\nshepherd, whose only crime consisted in furnishing us with provisions. \n\n Which makes him your accomplice to all intents and purposes. But mark\nthe distinction with which he is treated; instead of being knocked on\nthe head as you would be if once they caught hold of you, he is simply\nsentenced to be guillotined, by which means, too, the amusements of the\nday are diversified, and there is a spectacle to please every\nspectator. \n\n Without reckoning the wholly unexpected one I am preparing to surprise\nthem with. \n\n My good friend,  said the man in the cloak,  excuse me for saying that\nyou seem to me precisely in the mood to commit some wild or extravagant\nact. \n\n Perhaps I am; but one thing I have resolved on, and that is, to stop\nat nothing to restore a poor devil to liberty, who has got into this\nscrape solely from having served me. I should hate and despise myself\nas a coward did I desert the brave fellow in his present extremity. \n\n And what do you mean to do? \n\n To surround the scaffold with twenty of my best men, who, at a signal\nfrom me, will rush forward directly Peppino is brought for execution,\nand, by the assistance of their stilettos, drive back the guard, and\ncarry off the prisoner. \n\n That seems to me as hazardous as uncertain, and convinces me that my\nscheme is far better than yours. \n\n And what is your excellency s project? \n\n Just this. I will so advantageously bestow 2,000 piastres, that the\nperson receiving them shall obtain a respite till next year for\nPeppino; and during that year, another skilfully placed 1,000 piastres\nwill afford him the means of escaping from his prison. \n\n And do you feel sure of succeeding? \n\n _Pardieu!_  exclaimed the man in the cloak, suddenly expressing\nhimself in French.\n\n What did your excellency say?  inquired the other.\n\n I said, my good fellow, that I would do more single-handed by the\nmeans of gold than you and all your troop could effect with stilettos,\npistols, carbines, and blunderbusses included. Leave me, then, to act,\nand have no fears for the result. \n\n At least, there can be no harm in myself and party being in readiness,\nin case your excellency should fail. \n\n None whatever. Take what precautions you please, if it is any\nsatisfaction to you to do so; but rely upon my obtaining the reprieve I\nseek. \n\n Remember, the execution is fixed for the day after tomorrow, and that\nyou have but one day to work in. \n\n And what of that? Is not a day divided into twenty-four hours, each\nhour into sixty minutes, and every minute sub-divided into sixty\nseconds? Now in 86,400 seconds very many things can be done. \n\n And how shall I know whether your excellency has succeeded or not. \n\n Oh, that is very easily arranged. I have engaged the three lower\nwindows at the Caf  Rospoli; should I have obtained the requisite\npardon for Peppino, the two outside windows will be hung with yellow\ndamasks, and the centre with white, having a large cross in red marked\non it. \n\n And whom will you employ to carry the reprieve to the officer\ndirecting the execution? \n\n Send one of your men, disguised as a penitent friar, and I will give\nit to him. His dress will procure him the means of approaching the\nscaffold itself, and he will deliver the official order to the officer,\nwho, in his turn, will hand it to the executioner; in the meantime, it\nwill be as well to acquaint Peppino with what we have determined on, if\nit be only to prevent his dying of fear or losing his senses, because\nin either case a very useless expense will have been incurred. \n\n Your excellency,  said the man,  you are fully persuaded of my entire\ndevotion to you, are you not? \n\n Nay, I flatter myself that there can be no doubt of it,  replied the\ncavalier in the cloak.\n\n Well, then, only fulfil your promise of rescuing Peppino, and\nhenceforward you shall receive not only devotion, but the most absolute\nobedience from myself and those under me that one human being can\nrender to another. \n\n Have a care how far you pledge yourself, my good friend, for I may\nremind you of your promise at some, perhaps, not very distant period,\nwhen I, in my turn, may require your aid and influence. \n\n Let that day come sooner or later, your excellency will find me what I\nhave found you in this my heavy trouble; and if from the other end of\nthe world you but write me word to do such or such a thing, you may\nregard it as done, for done it shall be, on the word and faith of \n\n Hush!  interrupted the stranger;  I hear a noise. \n\n Tis some travellers, who are visiting the Colosseum by torchlight. \n\n Twere better we should not be seen together; those guides are nothing\nbut spies, and might possibly recognize you; and, however I may be\nhonored by your friendship, my worthy friend, if once the extent of our\nintimacy were known, I am sadly afraid both my reputation and credit\nwould suffer thereby. \n\n Well, then, if you obtain the reprieve? \n\n The middle window at the Caf  Rospoli will be hung with white damask,\nbearing a red cross. \n\n And if you fail? \n\n Then all three windows will have yellow draperies. \n\n And then? \n\n And then, my good fellow, use your daggers in any way you please, and\nI further promise you to be there as a spectator of your prowess. \n\n We understand each other perfectly, then. Adieu, your excellency;\ndepend upon me as firmly as I do upon you. \n\nSaying these words, the Transteverin disappeared down the staircase,\nwhile his companion, muffling his features more closely than before in\nthe folds of his mantle, passed almost close to Franz, and descended to\nthe arena by an outward flight of steps. The next minute Franz heard\nhimself called by Albert, who made the lofty building re-echo with the\nsound of his friend s name. Franz, however, did not obey the summons\ntill he had satisfied himself that the two men whose conversation he\nhad overheard were at a sufficient distance to prevent his encountering\nthem in his descent. In ten minutes after the strangers had departed,\nFranz was on the road to the Piazza di Spagna, listening with studied\nindifference to the learned dissertation delivered by Albert, after the\nmanner of Pliny and Calpurnius, touching the iron-pointed nets used to\nprevent the ferocious beasts from springing on the spectators.\n\nFranz let him proceed without interruption, and, in fact, did not hear\nwhat was said; he longed to be alone, and free to ponder over all that\nhad occurred. One of the two men, whose mysterious meeting in the\nColosseum he had so unintentionally witnessed, was an entire stranger\nto him, but not so the other; and though Franz had been unable to\ndistinguish his features, from his being either wrapped in his mantle\nor obscured by the shadow, the tones of his voice had made too powerful\nan impression on him the first time he had heard them for him ever\nagain to forget them, hear them when or where he might. It was more\nespecially when this man was speaking in a manner half jesting, half\nbitter, that Franz s ear recalled most vividly the deep sonorous, yet\nwell-pitched voice that had addressed him in the grotto of Monte\nCristo, and which he heard for the second time amid the darkness and\nruined grandeur of the Colosseum. And the more he thought, the more\nentire was his conviction, that the person who wore the mantle was no\nother than his former host and entertainer,  Sinbad the Sailor. \n\n20139m\n\n\n\nUnder any other circumstances, Franz would have found it impossible to\nresist his extreme curiosity to know more of so singular a personage,\nand with that intent have sought to renew their short acquaintance; but\nin the present instance, the confidential nature of the conversation he\nhad overheard made him, with propriety, judge that his appearance at\nsuch a time would be anything but agreeable. As we have seen,\ntherefore, he permitted his former host to retire without attempting a\nrecognition, but fully promising himself a rich indemnity for his\npresent forbearance should chance afford him another opportunity.\n\nIn vain did Franz endeavor to forget the many perplexing thoughts which\nassailed him; in vain did he court the refreshment of sleep. Slumber\nrefused to visit his eyelids and the night was passed in feverish\ncontemplation of the chain of circumstances tending to prove the\nidentity of the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum with the\ninhabitant of the grotto of Monte Cristo; and the more he thought, the\nfirmer grew his opinion on the subject.\n\nWorn out at length, he fell asleep at daybreak, and did not awake till\nlate. Like a genuine Frenchman, Albert had employed his time in\narranging for the evening s diversion; he had sent to engage a box at\nthe Teatro Argentina; and Franz, having a number of letters to write,\nrelinquished the carriage to Albert for the whole of the day.\n\nAt five o clock Albert returned, delighted with his day s work; he had\nbeen occupied in leaving his letters of introduction, and had received\nin return more invitations to balls and routs than it would be possible\nfor him to accept; besides this, he had seen (as he called it) all the\nremarkable sights at Rome. Yes, in a single day he had accomplished\nwhat his more serious-minded companion would have taken weeks to\neffect. Neither had he neglected to ascertain the name of the piece to\nbe played that night at the Teatro Argentina, and also what performers\nappeared in it. The opera of _Parisina_ was announced for\nrepresentation, and the principal actors were Coselli, Moriani, and La\nSpecchia.\n\nThe young men, therefore, had reason to consider themselves fortunate\nin having the opportunity of hearing one of the best works by the\ncomposer of _Lucia di Lammermoor_, supported by three of the most\nrenowned vocalists of Italy.\n\nAlbert had never been able to endure the Italian theatres, with their\norchestras from which it is impossible to see, and the absence of\nbalconies, or open boxes; all these defects pressed hard on a man who\nhad had his stall at the Bouffes, and had shared a lower box at the\nOpera. Still, in spite of this, Albert displayed his most dazzling and\neffective costumes each time he visited the theatres; but, alas, his\nelegant toilet was wholly thrown away, and one of the most worthy\nrepresentatives of Parisian fashion had to carry with him the\nmortifying reflection that he had nearly overrun Italy without meeting\nwith a single adventure.\n\nSometimes Albert would affect to make a joke of his want of success;\nbut internally he was deeply wounded, and his self-love immensely\npiqued, to think that Albert de Morcerf, the most admired and most\nsought after of any young person of his day, should thus be passed\nover, and merely have his labor for his pains. And the thing was so\nmuch the more annoying, as, according to the characteristic modesty of\na Frenchman, Albert had quitted Paris with the full conviction that he\nhad only to show himself in Italy to carry all before him, and that\nupon his return he should astonish the Parisian world with the recital\nof his numerous love-affairs.\n\nAlas, poor Albert! None of those interesting adventures fell in his\nway; the lovely Genoese, Florentines, and Neapolitans were all\nfaithful, if not to their husbands, at least to their lovers, and\nthought not of changing even for the splendid appearance of Albert de\nMorcerf; and all he gained was the painful conviction that the ladies\nof Italy have this advantage over those of France, that they are\nfaithful even in their infidelity.\n\nYet he could not restrain a hope that in Italy, as elsewhere, there\nmight be an exception to the general rule.\n\nAlbert, besides being an elegant, well-looking young man, was also\npossessed of considerable talent and ability; moreover, he was a\nviscount a recently created one, certainly, but in the present day it\nis not necessary to go as far back as Noah in tracing a descent, and a\ngenealogical tree is equally estimated, whether dated from 1399 or\nmerely 1815; but to crown all these advantages, Albert de Morcerf\ncommanded an income of 50,000 livres, a more than sufficient sum to\nrender him a personage of considerable importance in Paris. It was\ntherefore no small mortification to him to have visited most of the\nprincipal cities in Italy without having excited the most trifling\nobservation.\n\nAlbert, however, hoped to indemnify himself for all these slights and\nindifferences during the Carnival, knowing full well that among the\ndifferent states and kingdoms in which this festivity is celebrated,\nRome is the spot where even the wisest and gravest throw off the usual\nrigidity of their lives, and deign to mingle in the follies of this\ntime of liberty and relaxation. The Carnival was to commence on the\nmorrow; therefore Albert had not an instant to lose in setting forth\nthe programme of his hopes, expectations, and claims to notice.\n\nWith this design he had engaged a box in the most conspicuous part of\nthe theatre, and exerted himself to set off his personal attractions by\nthe aid of the most rich and elaborate toilet. The box taken by Albert\nwas in the first circle; although each of the three tiers of boxes is\ndeemed equally aristocratic, and is, for this reason, generally styled\nthe  nobility s boxes,  and although the box engaged for the two\nfriends was sufficiently capacious to contain at least a dozen persons,\nit had cost less than would be paid at some of the French theatres for\none admitting merely four occupants.\n\nAnother motive had influenced Albert s selection of his seat, who knew\nbut that, thus advantageously placed, he might not in truth attract the\nnotice of some fair Roman, and an introduction might ensue that would\nprocure him the offer of a seat in a carriage, or a place in a princely\nbalcony, from which he might behold the gayeties of the Carnival?\n\nThese united considerations made Albert more lively and anxious to\nplease than he had hitherto been. Totally disregarding the business of\nthe stage, he leaned from his box and began attentively scrutinizing\nthe beauty of each pretty woman, aided by a powerful opera-glass; but,\nalas, this attempt to attract notice wholly failed; not even curiosity\nhad been excited, and it was but too apparent that the lovely\ncreatures, into whose good graces he was desirous of stealing, were all\nso much engrossed with themselves, their lovers, or their own thoughts,\nthat they had not so much as noticed him or the manipulation of his\nglass.\n\nThe truth was, that the anticipated pleasures of the Carnival, with the\n Holy Week  that was to succeed it, so filled every fair breast, as to\nprevent the least attention being bestowed even on the business of the\nstage. The actors made their entries and exits unobserved or unthought\nof; at certain conventional moments, the spectators would suddenly\ncease their conversation, or rouse themselves from their musings, to\nlisten to some brilliant effort of Moriani s, a well-executed\nrecitative by Coselli, or to join in loud applause at the wonderful\npowers of La Specchia; but that momentary excitement over, they quickly\nrelapsed into their former state of preoccupation or interesting\nconversation.\n\nTowards the close of the first act, the door of a box which had been\nhitherto vacant was opened; a lady entered to whom Franz had been\nintroduced in Paris, where indeed, he had imagined she still was. The\nquick eye of Albert caught the involuntary start with which his friend\nbeheld the new arrival, and, turning to him, he said hastily:\n\n Do you know the woman who has just entered that box? \n\n Yes; what do you think of her? \n\n Oh, she is perfectly lovely what a complexion! And such magnificent\nhair! Is she French? \n\n No; a Venetian. \n\n And her name is \n\n Countess G . \n\n Ah, I know her by name!  exclaimed Albert;  she is said to possess as\nmuch wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to have been presented to her\nwhen I met her at Madame Villefort s ball. \n\n Shall I assist you in repairing your negligence?  asked Franz.\n\n My dear fellow, are you really on such good terms with her as to\nventure to take me to her box? \n\n Why, I have only had the honor of being in her society and conversing\nwith her three or four times in my life; but you know that even such an\nacquaintance as that might warrant my doing what you ask. \n\nAt that instant, the countess perceived Franz, and graciously waved her\nhand to him, to which he replied by a respectful inclination of the\nhead.  Upon my word,  said Albert,  you seem to be on excellent terms\nwith the beautiful countess. \n\n You are mistaken in thinking so,  returned Franz calmly;  but you\nmerely fall into the same error which leads so many of our countrymen\nto commit the most egregious blunders, I mean that of judging the\nhabits and customs of Italy and Spain by our Parisian notions; believe\nme, nothing is more fallacious than to form any estimate of the degree\nof intimacy you may suppose existing among persons by the familiar\nterms they seem upon; there is a similarity of feeling at this instant\nbetween ourselves and the countess nothing more. \n\n Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray tell me, is it sympathy of\nheart? \n\n No; of taste,  continued Franz gravely.\n\n And in what manner has this congeniality of mind been evinced? \n\n By the countess s visiting the Colosseum, as we did last night, by\nmoonlight, and nearly alone. \n\n You were with her, then? \n\n I was. \n\n And what did you say to her? \n\n Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead of whom that magnificent ruin is\na glorious monument! \n\n Upon my word,  cried Albert,  you must have been a very entertaining\ncompanion alone, or all but alone, with a beautiful woman in such a\nplace of sentiment as the Colosseum, and yet to find nothing better to\ntalk about than the dead! All I can say is, if ever I should get such a\nchance, the living should be my theme. \n\n20143m\n\n\n\n And you will probably find your theme ill-chosen. \n\n But,  said Albert, breaking in upon his discourse,  never mind the\npast; let us only remember the present. Are you not going to keep your\npromise of introducing me to the fair subject of our remarks? \n\n Certainly, directly the curtain falls on the stage. \n\n What a confounded long time this first act lasts. I believe, on my\nsoul, that they never mean to finish it. \n\n Oh, yes, they will; only listen to that charming finale. How\nexquisitely Coselli sings his part. \n\n But what an awkward, inelegant fellow he is. \n\n Well, then, what do you say to La Specchia? Did you ever see anything\nmore perfect than her acting? \n\n Why, you know, my dear fellow, when one has been accustomed to\nMalibran and Sontag, such singers as these don t make the same\nimpression on you they perhaps do on others. \n\n At least, you must admire Moriani s style and execution. \n\n I never fancied men of his dark, ponderous appearance singing with a\nvoice like a woman s. \n\n My good friend,  said Franz, turning to him, while Albert continued to\npoint his glass at every box in the theatre,  you seem determined not\nto approve; you are really too difficult to please. \n\nThe curtain at length fell on the performances, to the infinite\nsatisfaction of the Viscount of Morcerf, who seized his hat, rapidly\npassed his fingers through his hair, arranged his cravat and\nwristbands, and signified to Franz that he was waiting for him to lead\nthe way.\n\nFranz, who had mutely interrogated the countess, and received from her\na gracious smile in token that he would be welcome, sought not to\nretard the gratification of Albert s eager impatience, but began at\nonce the tour of the house, closely followed by Albert, who availed\nhimself of the few minutes required to reach the opposite side of the\ntheatre to settle the height and smoothness of his collar, and to\narrange the lappets of his coat. This important task was just completed\nas they arrived at the countess s box.\n\nAt the knock, the door was immediately opened, and the young man who\nwas seated beside the countess, in obedience to the Italian custom,\ninstantly rose and surrendered his place to the strangers, who, in\nturn, would be expected to retire upon the arrival of other visitors.\n\nFranz presented Albert as one of the most distinguished young men of\nthe day, both as regarded his position in society and extraordinary\ntalents; nor did he say more than the truth, for in Paris and the\ncircle in which the viscount moved, he was looked upon and cited as a\nmodel of perfection. Franz added that his companion, deeply grieved at\nhaving been prevented the honor of being presented to the countess\nduring her sojourn in Paris, was most anxious to make up for it, and\nhad requested him (Franz) to remedy the past misfortune by conducting\nhim to her box, and concluded by asking pardon for his presumption in\nhaving taken it upon himself to do so.\n\nThe countess, in reply, bowed gracefully to Albert, and extended her\nhand with cordial kindness to Franz; then, inviting Albert to take the\nvacant seat beside her, she recommended Franz to take the next best, if\nhe wished to view the ballet, and pointed to the one behind her own\nchair.\n\nAlbert was soon deeply engrossed in discoursing upon Paris and Parisian\nmatters, speaking to the countess of the various persons they both knew\nthere. Franz perceived how completely he was in his element; and,\nunwilling to interfere with the pleasure he so evidently felt, took up\nAlbert s glass, and began in his turn to survey the audience.\n\nSitting alone, in the front of a box immediately opposite, but situated\non the third row, was a woman of exquisite beauty, dressed in a Greek\ncostume, which evidently, from the ease and grace with which she wore\nit, was her national attire. Behind her, but in deep shadow, was the\noutline of a masculine figure; but the features of this latter\npersonage it was not possible to distinguish. Franz could not forbear\nbreaking in upon the apparently interesting conversation passing\nbetween the countess and Albert, to inquire of the former if she knew\nwho was the fair Albanian opposite, since beauty such as hers was well\nworthy of being observed by either sex.\n\n All I can tell about her,  replied the countess,  is, that she has\nbeen at Rome since the beginning of the season; for I saw her where she\nnow sits the very first night of the season, and since then she has\nnever missed a performance. Sometimes she is accompanied by the person\nwho is now with her, and at others she is merely attended by a black\nservant. \n\n And what do you think of her personal appearance? \n\n Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely she is just my idea of what Medora\nmust have been. \n\nFranz and the countess exchanged a smile, and then the latter resumed\nher conversation with Albert, while Franz returned to his previous\nsurvey of the house and company. The curtain rose on the ballet, which\nwas one of those excellent specimens of the Italian school, admirably\narranged and put on the stage by Henri, who has established for himself\na great reputation throughout Italy for his taste and skill in the\nchoreographic art one of those masterly productions of grace, method,\nand elegance in which the whole _corps de ballet_, from the principal\ndancers to the humblest supernumerary, are all engaged on the stage at\nthe same time; and a hundred and fifty persons may be seen exhibiting\nthe same attitude, or elevating the same arm or leg with a simultaneous\nmovement, that would lead you to suppose that but one mind, one act of\nvolition, influenced the moving mass.\n\nThe ballet was called _Poliska_.\n\nHowever much the ballet might have claimed his attention, Franz was too\ndeeply occupied with the beautiful Greek to take any note of it; while\nshe seemed to experience an almost childlike delight in watching it,\nher eager, animated looks contrasting strongly with the utter\nindifference of her companion, who, during the whole time the piece\nlasted, never even moved, not even when the furious, crashing din\nproduced by the trumpets, cymbals, and Chinese bells sounded their\nloudest from the orchestra. Of this he took no heed, but was, as far as\nappearances might be trusted, enjoying soft repose and bright celestial\ndreams.\n\nThe ballet at length came to a close, and the curtain fell amid the\nloud, unanimous plaudits of an enthusiastic and delighted audience.\n\nOwing to the very judicious plan of dividing the two acts of the opera\nwith a ballet, the pauses between the performances are very short, the\nsingers in the opera having time to repose themselves and change their\ncostume, when necessary, while the dancers are executing their\npirouettes and exhibiting their graceful steps.\n\nThe overture to the second act began; and, at the first sound of the\nleader s bow across his violin, Franz observed the sleeper slowly arise\nand approach the Greek girl, who turned around to say a few words to\nhim, and then, leaning forward again on the railing of her box, she\nbecame as absorbed as before in what was going on.\n\nThe countenance of the person who had addressed her remained so\ncompletely in the shade, that, though Franz tried his utmost, he could\nnot distinguish a single feature. The curtain rose, and the attention\nof Franz was attracted by the actors; and his eyes turned from the box\ncontaining the Greek girl and her strange companion to watch the\nbusiness of the stage.\n\nMost of my readers are aware that the second act of _Parisina_ opens\nwith the celebrated and effective duet in which Parisina, while\nsleeping, betrays to Azzo the secret of her love for Ugo. The injured\nhusband goes through all the emotions of jealousy, until conviction\nseizes on his mind, and then, in a frenzy of rage and indignation, he\nawakens his guilty wife to tell her that he knows her guilt and to\nthreaten her with his vengeance.\n\nThis duet is one of the most beautiful, expressive and terrible\nconceptions that has ever emanated from the fruitful pen of Donizetti.\nFranz now listened to it for the third time; yet its notes, so tenderly\nexpressive and fearfully grand as the wretched husband and wife give\nvent to their different griefs and passions, thrilled through the soul\nof Franz with an effect equal to his first emotions upon hearing it.\nExcited beyond his usual calm demeanor, Franz rose with the audience,\nand was about to join the loud, enthusiastic applause that followed;\nbut suddenly his purpose was arrested, his hands fell by his sides, and\nthe half-uttered  bravos  expired on his lips.\n\nThe occupant of the box in which the Greek girl sat appeared to share\nthe universal admiration that prevailed; for he left his seat to stand\nup in front, so that, his countenance being fully revealed, Franz had\nno difficulty in recognizing him as the mysterious inhabitant of Monte\nCristo, and the very same person he had encountered the preceding\nevening in the ruins of the Colosseum, and whose voice and figure had\nseemed so familiar to him.\n\nAll doubt of his identity was now at an end; his singular host\nevidently resided at Rome. The surprise and agitation occasioned by\nthis full confirmation of Franz s former suspicion had no doubt\nimparted a corresponding expression to his features; for the countess,\nafter gazing with a puzzled look at his face, burst into a fit of\nlaughter, and begged to know what had happened.\n\n Countess,  returned Franz, totally unheeding her raillery,  I asked\nyou a short time since if you knew any particulars respecting the\nAlbanian lady opposite; I must now beseech you to inform me who and\nwhat is her husband? \n\n Nay,  answered the countess,  I know no more of him than yourself. \n\n Perhaps you never before noticed him? \n\n What a question so truly French! Do you not know that we Italians have\neyes only for the man we love? \n\n True,  replied Franz.\n\n All I can say is,  continued the countess, taking up the _lorgnette_,\nand directing it toward the box in question,  that the gentleman, whose\nhistory I am unable to furnish, seems to me as though he had just been\ndug up; he looks more like a corpse permitted by some friendly\ngrave-digger to quit his tomb for a while, and revisit this earth of\nours, than anything human. How ghastly pale he is! \n\n Oh, he is always as colorless as you now see him,  said Franz.\n\n Then you know him?  almost screamed the countess.  Oh, pray do, for\nheaven s sake, tell us all about is he a vampire, or a resuscitated\ncorpse, or what? \n\n I fancy I have seen him before; and I even think he recognizes me. \n\n And I can well understand,  said the countess, shrugging up her\nbeautiful shoulders, as though an involuntary shudder passed through\nher veins,  that those who have once seen that man will never be likely\nto forget him. \n\nThe sensation experienced by Franz was evidently not peculiar to\nhimself; another, and wholly uninterested person, felt the same\nunaccountable awe and misgiving.\n\n Well.  inquired Franz, after the countess had a second time directed\nher _lorgnette_ at the box,  what do you think of our opposite\nneighbor? \n\n20147m\n\n\n\n Why, that he is no other than Lord Ruthven himself in a living form. \n\nThis fresh allusion to Byron5 drew a smile to Franz s countenance;\nalthough he could but allow that if anything was likely to induce\nbelief in the existence of vampires, it would be the presence of such a\nman as the mysterious personage before him.\n\n I must positively find out who and what he is,  said Franz, rising\nfrom his seat.\n\n No, no,  cried the countess;  you must not leave me. I depend upon you\nto escort me home. Oh, indeed, I cannot permit you to go. \n\n Is it possible,  whispered Franz,  that you entertain any fear? \n\n I ll tell you,  answered the countess.  Byron had the most perfect\nbelief in the existence of vampires, and even assured me that he had\nseen them. The description he gave me perfectly corresponds with the\nfeatures and character of the man before us. Oh, he is the exact\npersonification of what I have been led to expect! The coal-black hair,\nlarge bright, glittering eyes, in which a wild, unearthly fire seems\nburning, the same ghastly paleness. Then observe, too, that the woman\nwith him is altogether unlike all others of her sex. She is a\nforeigner a stranger. Nobody knows who she is, or where she comes from.\nNo doubt she belongs to the same horrible race he does, and is, like\nhimself, a dealer in magical arts. I entreat of you not to go near\nhim at least tonight; and if tomorrow your curiosity still continues as\ngreat, pursue your researches if you will; but tonight you neither can\nnor shall. For that purpose I mean to keep you all to myself. \n\nFranz protested he could not defer his pursuit till the following day,\nfor many reasons.\n\n Listen to me,  said the countess,  and do not be so very headstrong. I\nam going home. I have a party at my house tonight, and therefore cannot\npossibly remain till the end of the opera. Now, I cannot for one\ninstant believe you so devoid of gallantry as to refuse a lady your\nescort when she even condescends to ask you for it. \n\nThere was nothing else left for Franz to do but to take up his hat,\nopen the door of the box, and offer the countess his arm. It was quite\nevident, by her manner, that her uneasiness was not feigned; and Franz\nhimself could not resist a feeling of superstitious dread so much the\nstronger in him, as it arose from a variety of corroborative\nrecollections, while the terror of the countess sprang from an\ninstinctive belief, originally created in her mind by the wild tales\nshe had listened to till she believed them truths. Franz could even\nfeel her arm tremble as he assisted her into the carriage. Upon\narriving at her hotel, Franz perceived that she had deceived him when\nshe spoke of expecting company; on the contrary, her own return before\nthe appointed hour seemed greatly to astonish the servants.\n\n Excuse my little subterfuge,  said the countess, in reply to her\ncompanion s half-reproachful observation on the subject;  but that\nhorrid man had made me feel quite uncomfortable, and I longed to be\nalone, that I might compose my startled mind. \n\nFranz essayed to smile.\n\n Nay,  said she,  do not smile; it ill accords with the expression of\nyour countenance, and I am sure it does not spring from your heart.\nHowever, promise me one thing. \n\n What is it? \n\n Promise me, I say. \n\n I will do anything you desire, except relinquish my determination of\nfinding out who this man is. I have more reasons than you can imagine\nfor desiring to know who he is, from whence he came, and whither he is\ngoing. \n\n Where he comes from I am ignorant; but I can readily tell you where he\nis going to, and that is down below, without the least doubt. \n\n Let us only speak of the promise you wished me to make,  said Franz.\n\n Well, then, you must give me your word to return immediately to your\nhotel, and make no attempt to follow this man tonight. There are\ncertain affinities between the persons we quit and those we meet\nafterwards. For heaven s sake, do not serve as a conductor between that\nman and me. Pursue your chase after him tomorrow as eagerly as you\nplease; but never bring him near me, if you would not see me die of\nterror. And now, good-night; go to your rooms, and try to sleep away\nall recollections of this evening. For my own part, I am quite sure I\nshall not be able to close my eyes. \n\nSo saying, the countess quitted Franz, leaving him unable to decide\nwhether she were merely amusing herself at his expense, or whether her\nfears and agitations were genuine.\n\nUpon his return to the hotel, Franz found Albert in his dressing-gown\nand slippers, listlessly extended on a sofa, smoking a cigar.\n\n My dear fellow!  cried he, springing up,  is it really you? Why, I did\nnot expect to see you before tomorrow. \n\n My dear Albert,  replied Franz,  I am glad of this opportunity to tell\nyou, once and forever, that you entertain a most erroneous notion\nconcerning Italian women. I should have thought the continual failures\nyou have met with in all your own love affairs might have taught you\nbetter by this time. \n\n Upon my soul, these women would puzzle the very Devil to read them\naright. Why, here they give you their hand they press yours in\nreturn they keep up a whispering conversation permit you to accompany\nthem home. Why, if a Parisian were to indulge in a quarter of these\nmarks of flattering attention, her reputation would be gone forever. \n\n And the very reason why the women of this fine country,  where sounds\nthe _si_,  as Dante writes, put so little restraint on their words and\nactions, is because they live so much in public, and have really\nnothing to conceal. Besides, you must have perceived that the countess\nwas really alarmed. \n\n At what? At the sight of that respectable gentleman sitting opposite\nto us in the same box with the lovely Greek girl? Now, for my part, I\nmet them in the lobby after the conclusion of the piece; and hang me,\nif I can guess where you took your notions of the other world from. I\ncan assure you that this hobgoblin of yours is a deuced fine-looking\nfellow admirably dressed. Indeed, I feel quite sure, from the cut of\nhis clothes, they are made by a first-rate Paris tailor probably Blin\nor Humann. He was rather too pale, certainly; but then, you know,\npaleness is always looked upon as a strong proof of aristocratic\ndescent and distinguished breeding. \n\nFranz smiled; for he well remembered that Albert particularly prided\nhimself on the entire absence of color in his own complexion.\n\n Well, that tends to confirm my own ideas,  said Franz,  that the\ncountess s suspicions were destitute alike of sense and reason. Did he\nspeak in your hearing? and did you catch any of his words? \n\n I did; but they were uttered in the Romaic dialect. I knew that from\nthe mixture of Greek words. I don t know whether I ever told you that\nwhen I was at college I was rather rather strong in Greek. \n\n He spoke the Romaic language, did he? \n\n I think so. \n\n That settles it,  murmured Franz.  Tis he, past all doubt. \n\n What do you say? \n\n Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what were you thinking about when I\ncame in? \n\n Oh, I was arranging a little surprise for you. \n\n Indeed. Of what nature? \n\n Why, you know it is quite impossible to procure a carriage. \n\n Certainly; and I also know that we have done all that human means\nafforded to endeavor to get one. \n\n Now, then, in this difficulty a bright idea has flashed across my\nbrain. \n\nFranz looked at Albert as though he had not much confidence in the\nsuggestions of his imagination.\n\n I tell you what, M. Franz,  cried Albert,  you deserve to be called\nout for such a misgiving and incredulous glance as that you were\npleased to bestow on me just now. \n\n And I promise to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman if your\nscheme turns out as ingenious as you assert. \n\n Well, then, hearken to me. \n\n I listen. \n\n You agree, do you not, that obtaining a carriage is out of the\nquestion? \n\n I do. \n\n Neither can we procure horses? \n\n True; we have offered any sum, but have failed. \n\n Well, now, what do you say to a cart? I dare say such a thing might be\nhad. \n\n Very possibly. \n\n And a pair of oxen? \n\n As easily found as the cart. \n\n Then you see, my good fellow, with a cart and a couple of oxen our\nbusiness can be managed. The cart must be tastefully ornamented; and if\nyou and I dress ourselves as Neapolitan reapers, we may get up a\nstriking tableau, after the manner of that splendid picture by L opold\nRobert. It would add greatly to the effect if the countess would join\nus in the costume of a peasant from Puzzoli or Sorrento. Our group\nwould then be quite complete, more especially as the countess is quite\nbeautiful enough to represent a Madonna. \n\n Well,  said Franz,  this time, M. Albert, I am bound to give you\ncredit for having hit upon a most capital idea. \n\n And quite a national one, too,  replied Albert with gratified pride.\n A mere masque borrowed from our own festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans!\nyou thought to make us, unhappy strangers, trot at the heels of your\nprocessions, like so many lazzaroni, because no carriages or horses are\nto be had in your beggarly city. But you don t know us; when we can t\nhave one thing we invent another. \n\n And have you communicated your triumphant idea to anybody? \n\n Only to our host. Upon my return home I sent for him, and I then\nexplained to him what I wished to procure. He assured me that nothing\nwould be easier than to furnish all I desired. One thing I was sorry\nfor; when I bade him have the horns of the oxen gilded, he told me\nthere would not be time, as it would require three days to do that; so\nyou see we must do without this little superfluity. \n\n And where is he now? \n\n Who? \n\n Our host. \n\n Gone out in search of our equipage, by tomorrow it might be too late. \n\n Then he will be able to give us an answer tonight. \n\n Oh, I expect him every minute. \n\nAt this instant the door opened, and the head of Signor Pastrini\nappeared.  _Permesso_?  inquired he.\n\n Certainly certainly,  cried Franz.  Come in, my host. \n\n Now, then,  asked Albert eagerly,  have you found the desired cart and\noxen? \n\n Better than that!  replied Signor Pastrini, with the air of a man\nperfectly well satisfied with himself.\n\n Take care, my worthy host,  said Albert,  _better_ is a sure enemy to\n_well_. \n\n Let your excellencies only leave the matter to me,  returned Signor\nPastrini in a tone indicative of unbounded self-confidence.\n\n But what _have_ you done?  asked Franz.  Speak out, there s a worthy\nfellow. \n\n Your excellencies are aware,  responded the landlord, swelling with\nimportance,  that the Count of Monte Cristo is living on the same floor\nwith yourselves! \n\n I should think we did know it,  exclaimed Albert,  since it is owing\nto that circumstance that we are packed into these small rooms, like\ntwo poor students in the back streets of Paris. \n\n When, then, the Count of Monte Cristo, hearing of the dilemma in which\nyou are placed, has sent to offer you seats in his carriage and two\nplaces at his windows in the Palazzo Rospoli.  The friends looked at\neach other with unutterable surprise.\n\n But do you think,  asked Albert,  that we ought to accept such offers\nfrom a perfect stranger? \n\n What sort of person is this Count of Monte Cristo?  asked Franz of his\nhost.\n\n A very great nobleman, but whether Maltese or Sicilian I cannot\nexactly say; but this I know, that he is noble as a Borghese and rich\nas a gold mine. \n\n It seems to me,  said Franz, speaking in an undertone to Albert,  that\nif this person merited the high panegyrics of our landlord, he would\nhave conveyed his invitation through another channel, and not permitted\nit to be brought to us in this unceremonious way. He would have\nwritten or \n\nAt this instant someone knocked at the door.\n\n Come in,  said Franz.\n\nA servant, wearing a livery of considerable style and richness,\nappeared at the threshold, and, placing two cards in the landlord s\nhands, who forthwith presented them to the two young men, he said:\n\n Please to deliver these, from the Count of Monte Cristo to Vicomte\nAlbert de Morcerf and M. Franz d pinay. The Count of Monte Cristo, \ncontinued the servant,  begs these gentlemen s permission to wait upon\nthem as their neighbor, and he will be honored by an intimation of what\ntime they will please to receive him. \n\n Faith, Franz,  whispered Albert,  there is not much to find fault with\nhere. \n\n Tell the count,  replied Franz,  that we will do ourselves the\npleasure of calling on him. \n\nThe servant bowed and retired.\n\n That is what I call an elegant mode of attack,  said Albert,  You were\nquite correct in what you said, Signor Pastrini. The Count of Monte\nCristo is unquestionably a man of first-rate breeding and knowledge of\nthe world. \n\n Then you accept his offer?  said the host.\n\n Of course we do,  replied Albert.  Still, I must own I am sorry to be\nobliged to give up the cart and the group of reapers it would have\nproduced such an effect! And were it not for the windows at the Palazzo\nRospoli, by way of recompense for the loss of our beautiful scheme, I\ndon t know but what I should have held on by my original plan. What say\nyou, Franz? \n\n Oh, I agree with you; the windows in the Palazzo Rospoli alone decided\nme. \n\nThe truth was, that the mention of two places in the Palazzo Rospoli\nhad recalled to Franz the conversation he had overheard the preceding\nevening in the ruins of the Colosseum between the mysterious unknown\nand the Transteverin, in which the stranger in the cloak had undertaken\nto obtain the freedom of a condemned criminal; and if this muffled-up\nindividual proved (as Franz felt sure he would) the same as the person\nhe had just seen in the Teatro Argentina, then he should be able to\nestablish his identity, and also to prosecute his researches respecting\nhim with perfect facility and freedom.\n\nFranz passed the night in confused dreams respecting the two meetings\nhe had already had with his mysterious tormentor, and in waking\nspeculations as to what the morrow would produce. The next day must\nclear up every doubt; and unless his near neighbor and would-be friend,\nthe Count of Monte Cristo, possessed the ring of Gyges, and by its\npower was able to render himself invisible, it was very certain he\ncould not escape this time.\n\nEight o clock found Franz up and dressed, while Albert, who had not the\nsame motives for early rising, was still soundly asleep. The first act\nof Franz was to summon his landlord, who presented himself with his\naccustomed obsequiousness.\n\n Pray, Signor Pastrini,  asked Franz,  is not some execution appointed\nto take place today? \n\n Yes, your excellency; but if your reason for inquiry is that you may\nprocure a window to view it from, you are much too late. \n\n Oh, no,  answered Franz,  I had no such intention; and even if I had\nfelt a wish to witness the spectacle, I might have done so from Monte\nPincio; could I not? \n\n Ah!  exclaimed mine host,  I did not think it likely your excellency\nwould have chosen to mingle with such a rabble as are always collected\non that hill, which, indeed, they consider as exclusively belonging to\nthemselves. \n\n Very possibly I may not go,  answered Franz;  but in case I feel\ndisposed, give me some particulars of today s executions. \n\n What particulars would your excellency like to hear? \n\n Why, the number of persons condemned to suffer, their names, and\ndescription of the death they are to die. \n\n That happens just lucky, your excellency! Only a few minutes ago they\nbrought me the _tavolettas_. \n\n What are they? \n\n Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the corners of streets the evening\nbefore an execution, on which is pasted up a paper containing the names\nof the condemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment. The\nreason for so publicly announcing all this is, that all good and\nfaithful Catholics may offer up their prayers for the unfortunate\nculprits, and, above all, beseech of Heaven to grant them a sincere\nrepentance. \n\n And these tablets are brought to you that you may add your prayers to\nthose of the faithful, are they?  asked Franz somewhat incredulously.\n\n Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have not time for anybody s affairs\nbut my own and those of my honorable guests; but I make an agreement\nwith the man who pastes up the papers, and he brings them to me as he\nwould the playbills, that in case any person staying at my hotel should\nlike to witness an execution, he may obtain every requisite information\nconcerning the time and place etc. \n\n Upon my word, that is a most delicate attention on your part, Signor\nPastrini,  cried Franz.\n\n Why, your excellency,  returned the landlord, chuckling and rubbing\nhis hands with infinite complacency,  I think I may take upon myself to\nsay I neglect nothing to deserve the support and patronage of the noble\nvisitors to this poor hotel. \n\n I see that plainly enough, my most excellent host, and you may rely\nupon me to proclaim so striking a proof of your attention to your\nguests wherever I go. Meanwhile, oblige me by a sight of one of these\n_tavolettas_. \n\n Nothing can be easier than to comply with your excellency s wish, \nsaid the landlord, opening the door of the chamber;  I have caused one\nto be placed on the landing, close by your apartment. \n\nThen, taking the tablet from the wall, he handed it to Franz, who read\nas follows:\n\n The public is informed that on Wednesday, February 23rd, being the\nfirst day of the Carnival, executions will take place in the Piazza del\nPopolo, by order of the Tribunal of the Rota, of two persons, named\nAndrea Rondolo, and Peppino, otherwise called Rocca Priori; the former\nfound guilty of the murder of a venerable and exemplary priest, named\nDon C sar Torlini, canon of the church of St. John Lateran; and the\nlatter convicted of being an accomplice of the atrocious and sanguinary\nbandit, Luigi Vampa, and his band. The first-named malefactor will be\n_mazzolato_, the second culprit _decapitato_.\n\n The prayers of all good Christians are entreated for these\nunfortunate men, that it may please God to awaken them to a sense of\ntheir guilt, and to grant them a hearty and sincere repentance for\ntheir crimes. \n\nThis was precisely what Franz had heard the evening before in the ruins\nof the Colosseum. No part of the programme differed, the names of the\ncondemned persons, their crimes, and mode of punishment, all agreed\nwith his previous information. In all probability, therefore, the\nTransteverin was no other than the bandit Luigi Vampa himself, and the\nman shrouded in the mantle the same he had known as  Sinbad the\nSailor,  but who, no doubt, was still pursuing his philanthropic\nexpedition in Rome, as he had already done at Porto-Vecchio and Tunis.\n\nTime was getting on, however, and Franz deemed it advisable to awaken\nAlbert; but at the moment he prepared to proceed to his chamber, his\nfriend entered the room in perfect costume for the day. The anticipated\ndelights of the Carnival had so run in his head as to make him leave\nhis pillow long before his usual hour.\n\n Now, my excellent Signor Pastrini,  said Franz, addressing his\nlandlord,  since we are both ready, do you think we may proceed at once\nto visit the Count of Monte Cristo? \n\n Most assuredly,  replied he.  The Count of Monte Cristo is always an\nearly riser; and I can answer for his having been up these two hours. \n\n Then you really consider we shall not be intruding if we pay our\nrespects to him directly? \n\n20155m\n\n\n\n Oh, I am quite sure. I will take all the blame on myself if you find I\nhave led you into an error. \n\n Well, then, if it be so, are you ready, Albert? \n\n Perfectly. \n\n Let us go and return our best thanks for his courtesy. \n\n Yes, let us do so. \n\nThe landlord preceded the friends across the landing, which was all\nthat separated them from the apartments of the count, rang at the bell,\nand, upon the door being opened by a servant, said:\n\n _I signori Francesi_. \n\nThe domestic bowed respectfully, and invited them to enter. They passed\nthrough two rooms, furnished in a luxurious manner they had not\nexpected to see under the roof of Signor Pastrini, and were shown into\nan elegantly fitted-up drawing-room. The richest Turkey carpets covered\nthe floor, and the softest and most inviting couches, easy-chairs, and\nsofas, offered their high-piled and yielding cushions to such as\ndesired repose or refreshment. Splendid paintings by the first masters\nwere ranged against the walls, intermingled with magnificent trophies\nof war, while heavy curtains of costly tapestry were suspended before\nthe different doors of the room.\n\n If your excellencies will please to be seated,  said the man,  I will\nlet the count know that you are here. \n\nAnd with these words he disappeared behind one of the tapestried\n_porti res_. As the door opened, the sound of a _guzla_ reached the\nears of the young men, but was almost immediately lost, for the rapid\nclosing of the door merely allowed one rich swell of harmony to enter.\nFranz and Albert looked inquiringly at each other, then at the gorgeous\nfurnishings of the apartment. Everything seemed more magnificent at a\nsecond view than it had done at their first rapid survey.\n\n Well,  said Franz to his friend,  what think you of all this? \n\n Why, upon my soul, my dear fellow, it strikes me that our elegant and\nattentive neighbor must either be some successful stock-jobber who has\nspeculated in the fall of the Spanish funds, or some prince travelling\n_incog_. \n\n Hush, hush!  replied Franz;  we shall ascertain who and what he is he\ncomes! \n\nAs Franz spoke, he heard the sound of a door turning on its hinges, and\nalmost immediately afterwards the tapestry was drawn aside, and the\nowner of all these riches stood before the two young men. Albert\ninstantly rose to meet him, but Franz remained, in a manner, spellbound\non his chair; for in the person of him who had just entered he\nrecognized not only the mysterious visitant to the Colosseum, and the\noccupant of the box at the Teatro Argentina, but also his extraordinary\nhost of Monte Cristo.\n\n20157m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 35. La Mazzolata\n\nGentlemen,  said the Count of Monte Cristo as he entered,  I pray you\nexcuse me for suffering my visit to be anticipated; but I feared to\ndisturb you by presenting myself earlier at your apartments; besides,\nyou sent me word that you would come to me, and I have held myself at\nyour disposal. \n\n Franz and I have to thank you a thousand times, count,  returned\nAlbert;  you extricated us from a great dilemma, and we were on the\npoint of inventing a very fantastic vehicle when your friendly\ninvitation reached us. \n\n Indeed,  returned the count, motioning the two young men to sit down.\n It was the fault of that blockhead Pastrini, that I did not sooner\nassist you in your distress. He did not mention a syllable of your\nembarrassment to me, when he knows that, alone and isolated as I am, I\nseek every opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. As\nsoon as I learned I could in any way assist you, I most eagerly seized\nthe opportunity of offering my services. \n\nThe two young men bowed. Franz had, as yet, found nothing to say; he\nhad come to no determination, and as nothing in the count s manner\nmanifested the wish that he should recognize him, he did not know\nwhether to make any allusion to the past, or wait until he had more\nproof; besides, although sure it was he who had been in the box the\nprevious evening, he could not be equally positive that this was the\nman he had seen at the Colosseum. He resolved, therefore, to let things\ntake their course without making any direct overture to the count.\nMoreover, he had this advantage, he was master of the count s secret,\nwhile the count had no hold on Franz, who had nothing to conceal.\nHowever, he resolved to lead the conversation to a subject which might\npossibly clear up his doubts.\n\n Count,  said he,  you have offered us places in your carriage, and at\nyour windows in the Rospoli Palace. Can you tell us where we can obtain\na sight of the Piazza del Popolo? \n\n Ah,  said the count negligently, looking attentively at Morcerf,  is\nthere not something like an execution upon the Piazza del Popolo? \n\n Yes,  returned Franz, finding that the count was coming to the point\nhe wished.\n\n Stay, I think I told my steward yesterday to attend to this; perhaps I\ncan render you this slight service also. \n\nHe extended his hand, and rang the bell thrice.\n\n Did you ever occupy yourself,  said he to Franz,  with the employment\nof time and the means of simplifying the summoning your servants? I\nhave. When I ring once, it is for my valet; twice, for my majordomo;\nthrice, for my steward, thus I do not waste a minute or a word. Here he\nis. \n\nA man of about forty-five or fifty entered, exactly resembling the\nsmuggler who had introduced Franz into the cavern; but he did not\nappear to recognize him. It was evident he had his orders.\n\n Monsieur Bertuccio,  said the count,  you have procured me windows\nlooking on the Piazza del Popolo, as I ordered you yesterday. \n\n Yes, excellency,  returned the steward;  but it was very late. \n\n Did I not tell you I wished for one?  replied the count, frowning.\n\n And your excellency has one, which was let to Prince Lobanieff; but I\nwas obliged to pay a hundred \n\n That will do that will do, Monsieur Bertuccio; spare these gentlemen\nall such domestic arrangements. You have the window, that is\nsufficient. Give orders to the coachman; and be in readiness on the\nstairs to conduct us to it. \n\nThe steward bowed, and was about to quit the room.\n\n Ah!  continued the count,  be good enough to ask Pastrini if he has\nreceived the _tavoletta_, and if he can send us an account of the\nexecution. \n\n There is no need to do that,  said Franz, taking out his tablets;  for\nI saw the account, and copied it down. \n\n Very well, you can retire, M. Bertuccio; I need you no longer. Let us\nknow when breakfast is ready. These gentlemen,  added he, turning to\nthe two friends,  will, I trust, do me the honor to breakfast with me? \n\n But, my dear count,  said Albert,  we shall abuse your kindness. \n\n Not at all; on the contrary, you will give me great pleasure. You\nwill, one or other of you, perhaps both, return it to me at Paris. M.\nBertuccio, lay covers for three. \n\nHe then took Franz s tablets out of his hand.  We announce,  he read,\nin the same tone with which he would have read a newspaper,  that\ntoday, the 23rd of February, will be executed Andrea Rondolo, guilty of\nmurder on the person of the respected and venerated Don C sar Torlini,\ncanon of the church of St. John Lateran, and Peppino, called Rocca\nPriori, convicted of complicity with the detestable bandit Luigi Vampa,\nand the men of his band. \n\n Hum!  The first will be _mazzolato_, the second _decapitato_.  Yes, \ncontinued the count,  it was at first arranged in this way; but I think\nsince yesterday some change has taken place in the order of the\nceremony. \n\n Really?  said Franz.\n\n Yes, I passed the evening at the Cardinal Rospigliosi s, and there\nmention was made of something like a pardon for one of the two men. \n\n For Andrea Rondolo?  asked Franz.\n\n No,  replied the count, carelessly;  for the other (he glanced at the\ntablets as if to recall the name), for Peppino, called Rocca Priori.\nYou are thus deprived of seeing a man guillotined; but the _mazzolata_\nstill remains, which is a very curious punishment when seen for the\nfirst time, and even the second, while the other, as you must know, is\nvery simple. The _manda a_6 never fails, never trembles, never strikes\nthirty times ineffectually, like the soldier who beheaded the Count of\nChalais, and to whose tender mercy Richelieu had doubtless recommended\nthe sufferer. Ah,  added the count, in a contemptuous tone,  do not\ntell me of European punishments, they are in the infancy, or rather the\nold age, of cruelty. \n\n Really, count,  replied Franz,  one would think that you had studied\nthe different tortures of all the nations of the world. \n\n There are, at least, few that I have not seen,  said the count coldly.\n\n And you took pleasure in beholding these dreadful spectacles? \n\n My first sentiment was horror, the second indifference, the third\ncuriosity. \n\n Curiosity that is a terrible word. \n\n Why so? In life, our greatest preoccupation is death; is it not then,\ncurious to study the different ways by which the soul and body can\npart; and how, according to their different characters, temperaments,\nand even the different customs of their countries, different persons\nbear the transition from life to death, from existence to annihilation?\nAs for myself, I can assure you of one thing, the more men you see die,\nthe easier it becomes to die yourself; and in my opinion, death may be\na torture, but it is not an expiation. \n\n I do not quite understand you,  replied Franz;  pray explain your\nmeaning, for you excite my curiosity to the highest pitch. \n\n Listen,  said the count, and deep hatred mounted to his face, as the\nblood would to the face of any other.  If a man had by unheard-of and\nexcruciating tortures destroyed your father, your mother, your\nbetrothed, a being who, when torn from you, left a desolation, a wound\nthat never closes, in your breast, do you think the reparation that\nsociety gives you is sufficient when it interposes the knife of the\nguillotine between the base of the occiput and the trapezal muscles of\nthe murderer, and allows him who has caused us years of moral\nsufferings to escape with a few moments of physical pain? \n\n Yes, I know,  said Franz,  that human justice is insufficient to\nconsole us; she can give blood in return for blood, that is all; but\nyou must demand from her only what it is in her power to grant. \n\n I will put another case to you,  continued the count;  that where\nsociety, attacked by the death of a person, avenges death by death. But\nare there not a thousand tortures by which a man may be made to suffer\nwithout society taking the least cognizance of them, or offering him\neven the insufficient means of vengeance, of which we have just spoken?\nAre there not crimes for which the impalement of the Turks, the augers\nof the Persians, the stake and the brand of the Iroquois Indians, are\ninadequate tortures, and which are unpunished by society? Answer me, do\nnot these crimes exist? \n\n Yes,  answered Franz;  and it is to punish them that duelling is\ntolerated. \n\n Ah, duelling,  cried the count;  a pleasant manner, upon my soul, of\narriving at your end when that end is vengeance! A man has carried off\nyour mistress, a man has seduced your wife, a man has dishonored your\ndaughter; he has rendered the whole life of one who had the right to\nexpect from Heaven that portion of happiness God has promised to\neveryone of his creatures, an existence of misery and infamy; and you\nthink you are avenged because you send a ball through the head, or pass\na sword through the breast, of that man who has planted madness in your\nbrain, and despair in your heart. And remember, moreover, that it is\noften he who comes off victorious from the strife, absolved of all\ncrime in the eyes of the world. No, no,  continued the count,  had I to\navenge myself, it is not thus I would take revenge. \n\n Then you disapprove of duelling? You would not fight a duel?  asked\nAlbert in his turn, astonished at this strange theory.\n\n Oh, yes,  replied the count;  understand me, I would fight a duel for\na trifle, for an insult, for a blow; and the more so that, thanks to my\nskill in all bodily exercises, and the indifference to danger I have\ngradually acquired, I should be almost certain to kill my man. Oh, I\nwould fight for such a cause; but in return for a slow, profound,\neternal torture, I would give back the same, were it possible; an eye\nfor an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as the Orientalists say, our masters\nin everything, those favored creatures who have formed for themselves a\nlife of dreams and a paradise of realities. \n\n But,  said Franz to the count,  with this theory, which renders you at\nonce judge and executioner of your own cause, it would be difficult to\nadopt a course that would forever prevent your falling under the power\nof the law. Hatred is blind, rage carries you away; and he who pours\nout vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught. \n\n Yes, if he be poor and inexperienced, not if he be rich and skilful;\nbesides, the worst that could happen to him would be the punishment of\nwhich we have already spoken, and which the philanthropic French\nRevolution has substituted for being torn to pieces by horses or broken\non the wheel. What matters this punishment, as long as he is avenged?\nOn my word, I almost regret that in all probability this miserable\nPeppino will not be beheaded, as you might have had an opportunity then\nof seeing how short a time the punishment lasts, and whether it is\nworth even mentioning; but, really this is a most singular conversation\nfor the Carnival, gentlemen; how did it arise? Ah, I recollect, you\nasked for a place at my window; you shall have it; but let us first sit\ndown to table, for here comes the servant to inform us that breakfast\nis ready. \n\nAs he spoke, a servant opened one of the four doors of the apartment,\nsaying:\n\n _Al suo commodo!_ \n\nThe two young men arose and entered the breakfast-room.\n\nDuring the meal, which was excellent, and admirably served, Franz\nlooked repeatedly at Albert, in order to observe the impressions which\nhe doubted not had been made on him by the words of their entertainer;\nbut whether with his usual carelessness he had paid but little\nattention to him, whether the explanation of the Count of Monte Cristo\nwith regard to duelling had satisfied him, or whether the events which\nFranz knew of had had their effect on him alone, he remarked that his\ncompanion did not pay the least regard to them, but on the contrary ate\nlike a man who for the last four or five months had been condemned to\npartake of Italian cookery that is, the worst in the world.\n\nAs for the count, he just touched the dishes; he seemed to fulfil the\nduties of a host by sitting down with his guests, and awaited their\ndeparture to be served with some strange or more delicate food. This\nbrought back to Franz, in spite of himself, the recollection of the\nterror with which the count had inspired the Countess G , and her firm\nconviction that the man in the opposite box was a vampire.\n\nAt the end of the breakfast Franz took out his watch.\n\n Well,  said the count,  what are you doing? \n\n You must excuse us, count,  returned Franz,  but we have still much to\ndo. \n\n What may that be? \n\n We have no masks, and it is absolutely necessary to procure them. \n\n Do not concern yourself about that; we have, I think, a private room\nin the Piazza del Popolo; I will have whatever costumes you choose\nbrought to us, and you can dress there. \n\n After the execution?  cried Franz.\n\n Before or after, whichever you please. \n\n Opposite the scaffold? \n\n The scaffold forms part of the _f te_. \n\n Count, I have reflected on the matter,  said Franz,  I thank you for\nyour courtesy, but I shall content myself with accepting a place in\nyour carriage and at your window at the Rospoli Palace, and I leave you\nat liberty to dispose of my place at the Piazza del Popolo. \n\n But I warn you, you will lose a very curious sight,  returned the\ncount.\n\n You will describe it to me,  replied Franz,  and the recital from your\nlips will make as great an impression on me as if I had witnessed it. I\nhave more than once intended witnessing an execution, but I have never\nbeen able to make up my mind; and you, Albert? \n\n I,  replied the viscount, I saw Castaing executed, but I think I was\nrather intoxicated that day, for I had quitted college the same\nmorning, and we had passed the previous night at a tavern. \n\n Besides, it is no reason because you have not seen an execution at\nParis, that you should not see one anywhere else; when you travel, it\nis to see everything. Think what a figure you will make when you are\nasked,  How do they execute at Rome?  and you reply,  I do not know! \nAnd, besides, they say that the culprit is an infamous scoundrel, who\nkilled with a log of wood a worthy canon who had brought him up like\nhis own son. _Diable!_ when a churchman is killed, it should be with a\ndifferent weapon than a log, especially when he has behaved like a\nfather. If you went to Spain, would you not see the bull-fights? Well,\nsuppose it is a bull-fight you are going to see? Recollect the ancient\nRomans of the Circus, and the sports where they killed three hundred\nlions and a hundred men. Think of the eighty thousand applauding\nspectators, the sage matrons who took their daughters, and the charming\nVestals who made with the thumb of their white hands the fatal sign\nthat said,  Come, despatch the dying. \n\n Shall you go, then, Albert?  asked Franz.\n\n _Ma foi_, yes; like you, I hesitated, but the count s eloquence\ndecides me. \n\n Let us go, then,  said Franz,  since you wish it; but on our way to\nthe Piazza del Popolo, I wish to pass through the Corso. Is this\npossible, count? \n\n On foot, yes, in a carriage, no. \n\n I will go on foot, then. \n\n Is it important that you should go that way? \n\n Yes, there is something I wish to see. \n\n Well, we will go by the Corso. We will send the carriage to wait for\nus on the Piazza del Popolo, by the Via del Babuino, for I shall be\nglad to pass, myself, through the Corso, to see if some orders I have\ngiven have been executed. \n\n Excellency,  said a servant, opening the door,  a man in the dress of\na penitent wishes to speak to you. \n\n Ah! yes,  returned the count,  I know who he is, gentlemen; will you\nreturn to the salon? you will find good cigars on the centre table. I\nwill be with you directly. \n\nThe young men rose and returned into the salon, while the count, again\napologizing, left by another door. Albert, who was a great smoker, and\nwho had considered it no small sacrifice to be deprived of the cigars\nof the Caf  de Paris, approached the table, and uttered a cry of joy at\nperceiving some veritable _puros_.\n\n Well,  asked Franz,  what think you of the Count of Monte Cristo? \n\n What do I think?  said Albert, evidently surprised at such a question\nfrom his companion;  I think he is a delightful fellow, who does the\nhonors of his table admirably; who has travelled much, read much, is,\nlike Brutus, of the Stoic school, and moreover,  added he, sending a\nvolume of smoke up towards the ceiling,  that he has excellent cigars. \n\nSuch was Albert s opinion of the count, and as Franz well knew that\nAlbert professed never to form an opinion except upon long reflection,\nhe made no attempt to change it.\n\n But,  said he,  did you observe one very singular thing? \n\n What? \n\n How attentively he looked at you. \n\n At me? \n\n Yes. \n\nAlbert reflected.  Ah,  replied he, sighing,  that is not very\nsurprising; I have been more than a year absent from Paris, and my\nclothes are of a most antiquated cut; the count takes me for a\nprovincial. The first opportunity you have, undeceive him, I beg, and\ntell him I am nothing of the kind. \n\nFranz smiled; an instant after the count entered.\n\n I am now quite at your service, gentlemen,  said he.  The carriage is\ngoing one way to the Piazza del Popolo, and we will go another; and, if\nyou please, by the Corso. Take some more of these cigars, M. de\nMorcerf. \n\n With all my heart,  returned Albert;  Italian cigars are horrible.\nWhen you come to Paris, I will return all this. \n\n I will not refuse; I intend going there soon, and since you allow me,\nI will pay you a visit. Come, we have not any time to lose, it is\nhalf-past twelve let us set off. \n\nAll three descended; the coachman received his master s orders, and\ndrove down the Via del Babuino. While the three gentlemen walked along\nthe Piazza di Spagna and the Via Frattina, which led directly between\nthe Fiano and Rospoli palaces, Franz s attention was directed towards\nthe windows of that last palace, for he had not forgotten the signal\nagreed upon between the man in the mantle and the Transtevere peasant.\n\n Which are your windows?  asked he of the count, with as much\nindifference as he could assume.\n\n The three last,  returned he, with a negligence evidently unaffected,\nfor he could not imagine with what intention the question was put.\n\nFranz glanced rapidly towards the three windows. The side windows were\nhung with yellow damask, and the centre one with white damask and a red\ncross. The man in the mantle had kept his promise to the Transteverin,\nand there could now be no doubt that he was the count.\n\nThe three windows were still untenanted. Preparations were making on\nevery side; chairs were placed, scaffolds were raised, and windows were\nhung with flags. The masks could not appear; the carriages could not\nmove about; but the masks were visible behind the windows, the\ncarriages, and the doors.\n\nFranz, Albert, and the count continued to descend the Corso. As they\napproached the Piazza del Popolo, the crowd became more dense, and\nabove the heads of the multitude two objects were visible: the obelisk,\nsurmounted by a cross, which marks the centre of the square, and in\nfront of the obelisk, at the point where the three streets, del\nBabuino, del Corso, and di Ripetta, meet, the two uprights of the\nscaffold, between which glittered the curved knife of the _manda a_.\n\nAt the corner of the street they met the count s steward, who was\nawaiting his master. The window, let at an exorbitant price, which the\ncount had doubtless wished to conceal from his guests, was on the\nsecond floor of the great palace, situated between the Via del Babuino\nand the Monte Pincio. It consisted, as we have said, of a small\ndressing-room, opening into a bedroom, and, when the door of\ncommunication was shut, the inmates were quite alone. On chairs were\nlaid elegant masquerade costumes of blue and white satin.\n\n20167m\n\n\n\n As you left the choice of your costumes to me,  said the count to the\ntwo friends,  I have had these brought, as they will be the most worn\nthis year; and they are most suitable, on account of the _confetti_\n(sweetmeats), as they do not show the flour. \n\nFranz heard the words of the count but imperfectly, and he perhaps did\nnot fully appreciate this new attention to their wishes; for he was\nwholly absorbed by the spectacle that the Piazza del Popolo presented,\nand by the terrible instrument that was in the centre.\n\nIt was the first time Franz had ever seen a guillotine, we say\nguillotine, because the Roman _manda a_ is formed on almost the same\nmodel as the French instrument.7 The knife, which is shaped like a\ncrescent, that cuts with the convex side, falls from a less height, and\nthat is all the difference.\n\nTwo men, seated on the movable plank on which the victim is laid, were\neating their breakfasts, while waiting for the criminal. Their repast\nconsisted apparently of bread and sausages. One of them lifted the\nplank, took out a flask of wine, drank some, and then passed it to his\ncompanion. These two men were the executioner s assistants.\n\nAt this sight Franz felt the perspiration start forth upon his brow.\n\nThe prisoners, transported the previous evening from the Carceri Nuove\nto the little church of Santa Maria del Popolo, had passed the night,\neach accompanied by two priests, in a chapel closed by a grating,\nbefore which were two sentinels, who were relieved at intervals. A\ndouble line of carbineers, placed on each side of the door of the\nchurch, reached to the scaffold, and formed a circle around it, leaving\na path about ten feet wide, and around the guillotine a space of nearly\na hundred feet.\n\nAll the rest of the square was paved with heads. Many women held their\ninfants on their shoulders, and thus the children had the best view.\nThe Monte Pincio seemed a vast amphitheatre filled with spectators; the\nbalconies of the two churches at the corner of the Via del Babuino and\nthe Via di Ripetta were crammed; the steps even seemed a parti-colored\nsea, that was impelled towards the portico; every niche in the wall\nheld its living statue. What the count said was true the most curious\nspectacle in life is that of death.\n\nAnd yet, instead of the silence and the solemnity demanded by the\noccasion, laughter and jests arose from the crowd. It was evident that\nthe execution was, in the eyes of the people, only the commencement of\nthe Carnival.\n\nSuddenly the tumult ceased, as if by magic, and the doors of the church\nopened. A brotherhood of penitents, clothed from head to foot in robes\nof gray sackcloth, with holes for the eyes, and holding in their hands\nlighted tapers, appeared first; the chief marched at the head.\n\n20169m\n\n\n\nBehind the penitents came a man of vast stature and proportions. He was\nnaked, with the exception of cloth drawers at the left side of which\nhung a large knife in a sheath, and he bore on his right shoulder a\nheavy iron sledge-hammer.\n\nThis man was the executioner.\n\nHe had, moreover, sandals bound on his feet by cords.\n\nBehind the executioner came, in the order in which they were to die,\nfirst Peppino and then Andrea. Each was accompanied by two priests.\nNeither had his eyes bandaged.\n\nPeppino walked with a firm step, doubtless aware of what awaited him.\nAndrea was supported by two priests. Each of them, from time to time,\nkissed the crucifix a confessor held out to them.\n\nAt this sight alone Franz felt his legs tremble under him. He looked at\nAlbert he was as white as his shirt, and mechanically cast away his\ncigar, although he had not half smoked it. The count alone seemed\nunmoved nay, more, a slight color seemed striving to rise in his pale\ncheeks. His nostrils dilated like those of a wild beast that scents its\nprey, and his lips, half opened, disclosed his white teeth, small and\nsharp like those of a jackal. And yet his features wore an expression\nof smiling tenderness, such as Franz had never before witnessed in\nthem; his black eyes especially were full of kindness and pity.\n\nHowever, the two culprits advanced, and as they approached their faces\nbecame visible. Peppino was a handsome young man of four or\nfive-and-twenty, bronzed by the sun; he carried his head erect, and\nseemed on the watch to see on which side his liberator would appear.\nAndrea was short and fat; his visage, marked with brutal cruelty, did\nnot indicate age; he might be thirty. In prison he had suffered his\nbeard to grow; his head fell on his shoulder, his legs bent beneath\nhim, and his movements were apparently automatic and unconscious.\n\n I thought,  said Franz to the count,  that you told me there would be\nbut one execution. \n\n I told you true,  replied he coldly.\n\n And yet here are two culprits. \n\n Yes; but only one of these two is about to die; the other has many\nyears to live. \n\n If the pardon is to come, there is no time to lose. \n\n And see, here it is,  said the count. At the moment when Peppino\nreached the foot of the _manda a_, a priest arrived in some haste,\nforced his way through the soldiers, and, advancing to the chief of the\nbrotherhood, gave him a folded paper. The piercing eye of Peppino had\nnoticed all. The chief took the paper, unfolded it, and, raising his\nhand,  Heaven be praised, and his Holiness also,  said he in a loud\nvoice;  here is a pardon for one of the prisoners! \n\n A pardon!  cried the people with one voice;  a pardon! \n\nAt this cry Andrea raised his head.\n\n Pardon for whom?  cried he.\n\nPeppino remained breathless.\n\n A pardon for Peppino, called Rocca Priori,  said the principal friar.\nAnd he passed the paper to the officer commanding the carbineers, who\nread and returned it to him.\n\n For Peppino!  cried Andrea, who seemed roused from the torpor in which\nhe had been plunged.  Why for him and not for me? We ought to die\ntogether. I was promised he should die with me. You have no right to\nput me to death alone. I will not die alone I will not! \n\nAnd he broke from the priests struggling and raving like a wild beast,\nand striving desperately to break the cords that bound his hands. The\nexecutioner made a sign, and his two assistants leaped from the\nscaffold and seized him.\n\n What is going on?  asked Franz of the count; for, as all the talk was\nin the Roman dialect, he had not perfectly understood it.\n\n Do you not see?  returned the count,  that this human creature who is\nabout to die is furious that his fellow-sufferer does not perish with\nhim? and, were he able, he would rather tear him to pieces with his\nteeth and nails than let him enjoy the life he himself is about to be\ndeprived of. Oh, man, man race of crocodiles,  cried the count,\nextending his clenched hands towards the crowd,  how well do I\nrecognize you there, and that at all times you are worthy of\nyourselves! \n\nMeanwhile Andrea and the two executioners were struggling on the\nground, and he kept exclaiming,  He ought to die! he shall die! I will\nnot die alone! \n\n Look, look,  cried the count, seizing the young men s hands;  look,\nfor on my soul it is curious. Here is a man who had resigned himself to\nhis fate, who was going to the scaffold to die like a coward, it is\ntrue, but he was about to die without resistance. Do you know what gave\nhim strength? do you know what consoled him? It was, that another\npartook of his punishment that another partook of his anguish that\nanother was to die before him! Lead two sheep to the butcher s, two\noxen to the slaughterhouse, and make one of them understand that his\ncompanion will not die; the sheep will bleat for pleasure, the ox will\nbellow with joy. But man man, whom God created in his own image man,\nupon whom God has laid his first, his sole commandment, to love his\nneighbor man, to whom God has given a voice to express his\nthoughts what is his first cry when he hears his fellow-man is saved? A\nblasphemy. Honor to man, this masterpiece of nature, this king of the\ncreation! \n\nAnd the count burst into a laugh; a terrible laugh, that showed he must\nhave suffered horribly to be able thus to laugh.\n\nHowever, the struggle still continued, and it was dreadful to witness.\nThe two assistants carried Andrea up to the scaffold; the people all\ntook part against Andrea, and twenty thousand voices cried,  Put him to\ndeath! put him to death! \n\nFranz sprang back, but the count seized his arm, and held him before\nthe window.\n\n What are you doing?  said he.  Do you pity him? If you heard the cry\nof  Mad dog!  you would take your gun you would unhesitatingly shoot\nthe poor beast, who, after all, was only guilty of having been bitten\nby another dog. And yet you pity a man who, without being bitten by one\nof his race, has yet murdered his benefactor; and who, now unable to\nkill anyone, because his hands are bound, wishes to see his companion\nin captivity perish. No, no look, look! \n\n20172m\n\n\n\nThe recommendation was needless. Franz was fascinated by the horrible\nspectacle.\n\nThe two assistants had borne Andrea to the scaffold, and there, in\nspite of his struggles, his bites, and his cries, had forced him to his\nknees. During this time the executioner had raised his mace, and signed\nto them to get out of the way; the criminal strove to rise, but, ere he\nhad time, the mace fell on his left temple. A dull and heavy sound was\nheard, and the man dropped like an ox on his face, and then turned over\non his back.\n\nThe executioner let fall his mace, drew his knife, and with one stroke\nopened his throat, and mounting on his stomach, stamped violently on it\nwith his feet. At every stroke a jet of blood sprang from the wound.\n\nThis time Franz could contain himself no longer, but sank, half\nfainting, into a seat.\n\nAlbert, with his eyes closed, was standing grasping the\nwindow-curtains.\n\nThe count was erect and triumphant, like the Avenging Angel!\n\n\n\n Chapter 36. The Carnival at Rome\n\nWhen Franz recovered his senses, he saw Albert drinking a glass of\nwater, of which, to judge from his pallor, he stood in great need; and\nthe count, who was assuming his masquerade costume. He glanced\nmechanically towards the piazza the scene was wholly changed; scaffold,\nexecutioners, victims, all had disappeared; only the people remained,\nfull of noise and excitement. The bell of Monte Citorio, which only\nsounds on the pope s decease and the opening of the Carnival, was\nringing a joyous peal.\n\n Well,  asked he of the count,  what has, then, happened? \n\n Nothing,  replied the count;  only, as you see, the Carnival has\ncommenced. Make haste and dress yourself. \n\n In fact,  said Franz,  this horrible scene has passed away like a\ndream. \n\n It is but a dream, a nightmare, that has disturbed you. \n\n Yes, that I have suffered; but the culprit? \n\n That is a dream also; only he has remained asleep, while you have\nawakened; and who knows which of you is the most fortunate? \n\n But Peppino what has become of him? \n\n Peppino is a lad of sense, who, unlike most men, who are happy in\nproportion as they are noticed, was delighted to see that the general\nattention was directed towards his companion. He profited by this\ndistraction to slip away among the crowd, without even thanking the\nworthy priests who accompanied him. Decidedly man is an ungrateful and\negotistical animal. But dress yourself; see, M. de Morcerf sets you the\nexample. \n\nAlbert was drawing on the satin pantaloon over his black trousers and\nvarnished boots.\n\n Well, Albert,  said Franz,  do you feel much inclined to join the\nrevels? Come, answer frankly. \n\n _Ma foi_, no,  returned Albert.  But I am really glad to have seen\nsuch a sight; and I understand what the count said that when you have\nonce habituated yourself to a similar spectacle, it is the only one\nthat causes you any emotion. \n\n20175m\n\n\n\n Without reflecting that this is the only moment in which you can study\ncharacter,  said the count;  on the steps of the scaffold death tears\noff the mask that has been worn through life, and the real visage is\ndisclosed. It must be allowed that Andrea was not very handsome, the\nhideous scoundrel! Come, dress yourselves, gentlemen, dress\nyourselves. \n\nFranz felt it would be ridiculous not to follow his two companions \nexample. He assumed his costume, and fastened on the mask that scarcely\nequalled the pallor of his own face. Their toilet finished, they\ndescended; the carriage awaited them at the door, filled with\nsweetmeats and bouquets. They fell into the line of carriages.\n\nIt is difficult to form an idea of the perfect change that had taken\nplace. Instead of the spectacle of gloomy and silent death, the Piazza\ndel Popolo presented a spectacle of gay and noisy mirth and revelry. A\ncrowd of masks flowed in from all sides, emerging from the doors,\ndescending from the windows. From every street and every corner drove\ncarriages filled with clowns, harlequins, dominoes, mummers,\npantomimists, Transteverins, knights, and peasants, screaming,\nfighting, gesticulating, throwing eggs filled with flour, confetti,\nnosegays, attacking, with their sarcasms and their missiles, friends\nand foes, companions and strangers, indiscriminately, and no one took\noffence, or did anything but laugh.\n\nFranz and Albert were like men who, to drive away a violent sorrow,\nhave recourse to wine, and who, as they drink and become intoxicated,\nfeel a thick veil drawn between the past and the present. They saw, or\nrather continued to see, the image of what they had witnessed; but\nlittle by little the general vertigo seized them, and they felt\nthemselves obliged to take part in the noise and confusion.\n\nA handful of confetti that came from a neighboring carriage, and which,\nwhile it covered Morcerf and his two companions with dust, pricked his\nneck and that portion of his face uncovered by his mask like a hundred\npins, incited him to join in the general combat, in which all the masks\naround him were engaged. He rose in his turn, and seizing handfuls of\nconfetti and sweetmeats, with which the carriage was filled, cast them\nwith all the force and skill he was master of.\n\n20177m\n\n\n\nThe strife had fairly begun, and the recollection of what they had seen\nhalf an hour before was gradually effaced from the young men s minds,\nso much were they occupied by the gay and glittering procession they\nnow beheld.\n\nAs for the Count of Monte Cristo, he had never for an instant shown any\nappearance of having been moved. Imagine the large and splendid Corso,\nbordered from one end to the other with lofty palaces, with their\nbalconies hung with carpets, and their windows with flags. At these\nbalconies are three hundred thousand spectators Romans, Italians,\nstrangers from all parts of the world, the united aristocracy of birth,\nwealth, and genius. Lovely women, yielding to the influence of the\nscene, bend over their balconies, or lean from their windows, and\nshower down confetti, which are returned by bouquets; the air seems\ndarkened with the falling confetti and flying flowers. In the streets\nthe lively crowd is dressed in the most fantastic costumes gigantic\ncabbages walk gravely about, buffaloes  heads bellow from men s\nshoulders, dogs walk on their hind legs; in the midst of all this a\nmask is lifted, and, as in Callot s Temptation of St. Anthony, a lovely\nface is exhibited, which we would fain follow, but from which we are\nseparated by troops of fiends. This will give a faint idea of the\nCarnival at Rome.\n\nAt the second turn, the count stopped the carriage, and requested\npermission to withdraw, leaving the vehicle at their disposal. Franz\nlooked up they were opposite the Rospoli Palace. At the centre window,\nthe one hung with white damask with a red cross, was a blue domino,\nbeneath which Franz s imagination easily pictured the beautiful Greek\nof the Argentina.\n\n Gentlemen,  said the count, springing out,  when you are tired of\nbeing actors, and wish to become spectators of this scene, you know you\nhave places at my windows. In the meantime, dispose of my coachman, my\ncarriage, and my servants. \n\nWe have forgotten to mention, that the count s coachman was attired in\na bear-skin, exactly resembling Odry s in _The Bear and the Pasha_; and\nthe two footmen behind were dressed up as green monkeys, with spring\nmasks, with which they made grimaces at everyone who passed.\n\nFranz thanked the count for his attention. As for Albert, he was busily\noccupied throwing bouquets at a carriage full of Roman peasants that\nwas passing near him. Unfortunately for him, the line of carriages\nmoved on again, and while he descended the Piazza del Popolo, the other\nascended towards the Palazzo di Venezia.\n\n Ah, my dear fellow,  said he to Franz;  you did not see? \n\n What? \n\n There, that calash filled with Roman peasants. \n\n No. \n\n Well, I am convinced they are all charming women. \n\n How unfortunate that you were masked, Albert,  said Franz;  here was\nan opportunity of making up for past disappointments. \n\n Oh,  replied he, half laughing, half serious;  I hope the Carnival\nwill not pass without some amends in one shape or the other. \n\nBut, in spite of Albert s hope, the day passed unmarked by any\nincident, excepting two or three encounters with the carriage full of\nRoman peasants. At one of these encounters, accidentally or purposely,\nAlbert s mask fell off. He instantly rose and cast the remainder of the\nbouquets into the carriage. Doubtless one of the charming females\nAlbert had detected beneath their coquettish disguise was touched by\nhis gallantry; for, as the carriage of the two friends passed her, she\nthrew a bunch of violets. Albert seized it, and as Franz had no reason\nto suppose it was meant for him, he suffered Albert to retain it.\nAlbert placed it in his button-hole, and the carriage went triumphantly\non.\n\n Well,  said Franz to him;  there is the beginning of an adventure. \n\n Laugh if you please I really think so. So I will not abandon this\nbouquet. \n\n _Pardieu_,  returned Franz, laughing,  in token of your ingratitude. \n\nThe jest, however, soon appeared to become earnest; for when Albert and\nFranz again encountered the carriage with the _contadini_, the one who\nhad thrown the violets to Albert, clapped her hands when she beheld\nthem in his button-hole.\n\n Bravo, bravo,  said Franz;  things go wonderfully. Shall I leave you?\nPerhaps you would prefer being alone? \n\n No,  replied he;  I will not be caught like a fool at a first\ndisclosure by a rendezvous under the clock, as they say at the\nopera-balls. If the fair peasant wishes to carry matters any further,\nwe shall find her, or rather, she will find us tomorrow; then she will\ngive me some sign or other, and I shall know what I have to do. \n\n On my word,  said Franz,  you are as wise as Nestor and prudent as\nUlysses, and your fair Circe must be very skilful or very powerful if\nshe succeed in changing you into a beast of any kind. \n\nAlbert was right; the fair unknown had resolved, doubtless, to carry\nthe intrigue no farther; for although the young men made several more\nturns, they did not again see the calash, which had turned up one of\nthe neighboring streets. Then they returned to the Rospoli Palace; but\nthe count and the blue domino had also disappeared; the two windows,\nhung with yellow damask, were still occupied by the persons whom the\ncount had invited.\n\nAt this moment the same bell that had proclaimed the beginning of the\nmascherata sounded the retreat. The file on the Corso broke the line,\nand in a second all the carriages had disappeared. Franz and Albert\nwere opposite the Via delle Muratte; the coachman, without saying a\nword, drove up it, passed along the Piazza di Spagna and the Rospoli\nPalace and stopped at the door of the hotel. Signor Pastrini came to\nthe door to receive his guests.\n\nFranz hastened to inquire after the count, and to express regret that\nhe had not returned in sufficient time; but Pastrini reassured him by\nsaying that the Count of Monte Cristo had ordered a second carriage for\nhimself, and that it had gone at four o clock to fetch him from the\nRospoli Palace.\n\nThe count had, moreover, charged him to offer the two friends the key\nof his box at the Argentina. Franz questioned Albert as to his\nintentions; but Albert had great projects to put into execution before\ngoing to the theatre; and instead of making any answer, he inquired if\nSignor Pastrini could procure him a tailor.\n\n A tailor,  said the host;  and for what? \n\n To make us between now and tomorrow two Roman peasant costumes, \nreturned Albert.\n\nThe host shook his head.\n\n To make you two costumes between now and tomorrow? I ask your\nexcellencies  pardon, but this is quite a French demand; for the next\nweek you will not find a single tailor who would consent to sew six\nbuttons on a waistcoat if you paid him a crown a piece for each\nbutton. \n\n Then I must give up the idea? \n\n No; we have them ready-made. Leave all to me; and tomorrow, when you\nawake, you shall find a collection of costumes with which you will be\nsatisfied. \n\n My dear Albert,  said Franz,  leave all to our host; he has already\nproved himself full of resources; let us dine quietly, and afterwards\ngo and see _l Italienne   Alger!_\n\n Agreed,  returned Albert;  but remember, Signor Pastrini, that both my\nfriend and myself attach the greatest importance to having tomorrow the\ncostumes we have asked for. \n\nThe host again assured them they might rely on him, and that their\nwishes should be attended to; upon which Franz and Albert mounted to\ntheir apartments, and proceeded to disencumber themselves of their\ncostumes. Albert, as he took off his dress, carefully preserved the\nbunch of violets; it was his token reserved for the morrow.\n\nThe two friends sat down to table; but they could not refrain from\nremarking the difference between the Count of Monte Cristo s table and\nthat of Signor Pastrini. Truth compelled Franz, in spite of the dislike\nhe seemed to have taken to the count, to confess that the advantage was\nnot on Pastrini s side. During dessert, the servant inquired at what\ntime they wished for the carriage. Albert and Franz looked at each\nother, fearing really to abuse the count s kindness. The servant\nunderstood them.\n\n His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo had,  he said,  given\npositive orders that the carriage was to remain at their lordships \norders all day, and they could therefore dispose of it without fear of\nindiscretion. \n\nThey resolved to profit by the count s courtesy, and ordered the horses\nto be harnessed, while they substituted evening dress for that which\nthey had on, and which was somewhat the worse for the numerous combats\nthey had sustained.\n\n20181m\n\n\n\nThis precaution taken, they went to the theatre, and installed\nthemselves in the count s box. During the first act, the Countess G \nentered. Her first look was at the box where she had seen the count the\nprevious evening, so that she perceived Franz and Albert in the place\nof the very person concerning whom she had expressed so strange an\nopinion to Franz. Her opera-glass was so fixedly directed towards them,\nthat Franz saw it would be cruel not to satisfy her curiosity; and,\navailing himself of one of the privileges of the spectators of the\nItalian theatres, who use their boxes to hold receptions, the two\nfriends went to pay their respects to the countess. Scarcely had they\nentered, when she motioned to Franz to assume the seat of honor.\nAlbert, in his turn, sat behind.\n\n Well,  said she, hardly giving Franz time to sit down,  it seems you\nhave nothing better to do than to make the acquaintance of this new\nLord Ruthven, and you are already the best friends in the world. \n\n Without being so far advanced as that, my dear countess,  returned\nFranz,  I cannot deny that we have abused his good nature all day. \n\n All day? \n\n Yes; this morning we breakfasted with him; we rode in his carriage all\nday, and now we have taken possession of his box. \n\n You know him, then? \n\n Yes, and no. \n\n How so? \n\n It is a long story. \n\n Tell it to me. \n\n It would frighten you too much. \n\n So much the more reason. \n\n At least wait until the story has a conclusion. \n\n Very well; I prefer complete histories; but tell me how you made his\nacquaintance? Did anyone introduce you to him? \n\n No; it was he who introduced himself to us. \n\n When? \n\n Last night, after we left you. \n\n Through what medium? \n\n The very prosaic one of our landlord. \n\n He is staying, then, at the H tel de Londres with you? \n\n Not only in the same hotel, but on the same floor. \n\n What is his name; for, of course, you know? \n\n The Count of Monte Cristo. \n\n That is not a family name? \n\n No, it is the name of the island he has purchased. \n\n And he is a count? \n\n A Tuscan count. \n\n Well, we must put up with that,  said the countess, who was herself\nfrom one of the oldest Venetian families.  What sort of a man is he? \n\n Ask the Vicomte de Morcerf. \n\n You hear, M. de Morcerf, I am referred to you,  said the countess.\n\n We should be very hard to please, madam,  returned Albert,  did we not\nthink him delightful. A friend of ten years  standing could not have\ndone more for us, or with a more perfect courtesy. \n\n Come,  observed the countess, smiling,  I see my vampire is only some\nmillionaire, who has taken the appearance of Lara in order to avoid\nbeing confounded with M. de Rothschild; and you have seen her? \n\n Her? \n\n20183m\n\n\n\n The beautiful Greek of yesterday. \n\n No; we heard, I think, the sound of her _guzla_, but she remained\nperfectly invisible. \n\n When you say invisible,  interrupted Albert,  it is only to keep up\nthe mystery; for whom do you take the blue domino at the window with\nthe white curtains? \n\n Where was this window with white hangings?  asked the countess.\n\n At the Rospoli Palace. \n\n The count had three windows at the Rospoli Palace? \n\n Yes. Did you pass through the Corso? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, did you notice two windows hung with yellow damask, and one with\nwhite damask with a red cross? Those were the count s windows. \n\n Why, he must be a nabob. Do you know what those three windows were\nworth? \n\n Two or three hundred Roman crowns? \n\n Two or three thousand. \n\n The deuce! \n\n Does his island produce him such a revenue? \n\n It does not bring him a bajocco. \n\n Then why did he purchase it? \n\n For a whim. \n\n He is an original, then? \n\n In reality,  observed Albert,  he seemed to me somewhat eccentric;\nwere he at Paris, and a frequenter of the theatres, I should say he was\na poor devil literally mad. This morning he made two or three exits\nworthy of Didier or Anthony. \n\nAt this moment a fresh visitor entered, and, according to custom, Franz\ngave up his seat to him. This circumstance had, moreover, the effect of\nchanging the conversation; an hour afterwards the two friends returned\nto their hotel.\n\nSignor Pastrini had already set about procuring their disguises for the\nmorrow; and he assured them that they would be perfectly satisfied. The\nnext morning, at nine o clock, he entered Franz s room, followed by a\ntailor, who had eight or ten Roman peasant costumes on his arm; they\nselected two exactly alike, and charged the tailor to sew on each of\ntheir hats about twenty yards of ribbon, and to procure them two of the\nlong silk sashes of different colors with which the lower orders\ndecorate themselves on f te days.\n\nAlbert was impatient to see how he looked in his new dress a jacket and\nbreeches of blue velvet, silk stockings with clocks, shoes with\nbuckles, and a silk waistcoat. This picturesque attire set him off to\ngreat advantage; and when he had bound the scarf around his waist, and\nwhen his hat, placed coquettishly on one side, let fall on his shoulder\na stream of ribbons, Franz was forced to confess that costume has much\nto do with the physical superiority we accord to certain nations. The\nTurks used to be so picturesque with their long and flowing robes, but\nare they not now hideous with their blue frocks buttoned up to the\nchin, and their red caps, which make them look like a bottle of wine\nwith a red seal? Franz complimented Albert, who looked at himself in\nthe glass with an unequivocal smile of satisfaction. They were thus\nengaged when the Count of Monte Cristo entered.\n\n20185m\n\n\n\n Gentlemen,  said he,  although a companion is agreeable, perfect\nfreedom is sometimes still more agreeable. I come to say that today,\nand for the remainder of the Carnival, I leave the carriage entirely at\nyour disposal. The host will tell you I have three or four more, so\nthat you will not inconvenience me in any way. Make use of it, I pray\nyou, for your pleasure or your business. \n\nThe young men wished to decline, but they could find no good reason for\nrefusing an offer which was so agreeable to them. The Count of Monte\nCristo remained a quarter of an hour with them, conversing on all\nsubjects with the greatest ease. He was, as we have already said,\nperfectly well acquainted with the literature of all countries. A\nglance at the walls of his salon proved to Franz and Albert that he was\na connoisseur of pictures. A few words he let fall showed them that he\nwas no stranger to the sciences, and he seemed much occupied with\nchemistry. The two friends did not venture to return the count the\nbreakfast he had given them; it would have been too absurd to offer him\nin exchange for his excellent table the very inferior one of Signor\nPastrini. They told him so frankly, and he received their excuses with\nthe air of a man who appreciated their delicacy. Albert was charmed\nwith the count s manners, and he was only prevented from recognizing\nhim for a perfect gentleman by reason of his varied knowledge.\n\nThe permission to do what he liked with the carriage pleased him above\nall, for the fair peasants had appeared in a most elegant carriage the\npreceding evening, and Albert was not sorry to be upon an equal footing\nwith them. At half-past one they descended, the coachman and footman\nhad put on their livery over their disguises, which gave them a more\nridiculous appearance than ever, and which gained them the applause of\nFranz and Albert. Albert had fastened the faded bunch of violets to his\nbutton-hole. At the first sound of the bell they hastened into the\nCorso by the Via Vittoria.\n\nAt the second turn, a bunch of fresh violets, thrown from a carriage\nfilled with harlequins, indicated to Albert that, like himself and his\nfriend, the peasants had changed their costume also; and whether it was\nthe result of chance, or whether a similar feeling had possessed them\nboth, while he had donned their costume, they had assumed his.\n\nAlbert placed the fresh bouquet in his button-hole, but he kept the\nfaded one in his hand; and when he again met the calash, he raised it\nto his lips, an action which seemed greatly to amuse not only the fair\nlady who had thrown it, but her joyous companions also. The day was as\ngay as the preceding one, perhaps even more animated and noisy; the\ncount appeared for an instant at his window, but when they again passed\nhe had disappeared. It is almost needless to say that the flirtation\nbetween Albert and the fair peasant continued all day.\n\nIn the evening, on his return, Franz found a letter from the embassy,\ninforming him that he would have the honor of being received by his\nholiness the next day. At each previous visit he had made to Rome, he\nhad solicited and obtained the same favor; and incited as much by a\nreligious feeling as by gratitude, he was unwilling to quit the capital\nof the Christian world without laying his respectful homage at the feet\nof one of St. Peter s successors who has set the rare example of all\nthe virtues. He did not then think of the Carnival, for in spite of his\ncondescension and touching kindness, one cannot incline one s self\nwithout awe before the venerable and noble old man called Gregory XVI.\n\nOn his return from the Vatican, Franz carefully avoided the Corso; he\nbrought away with him a treasure of pious thoughts, to which the mad\ngayety of the maskers would have been profanation.\n\nAt ten minutes past five Albert entered overjoyed. The harlequin had\nreassumed her peasant s costume, and as she passed she raised her mask.\nShe was charming. Franz congratulated Albert, who received his\ncongratulations with the air of a man conscious that they are merited.\nHe had recognized by certain unmistakable signs, that his fair\n_incognita_ belonged to the aristocracy. He had made up his mind to\nwrite to her the next day.\n\nFranz remarked, while he gave these details, that Albert seemed to have\nsomething to ask of him, but that he was unwilling to ask it. He\ninsisted upon it, declaring beforehand that he was willing to make any\nsacrifice the other wished.\n\nAlbert let himself be pressed just as long as friendship required, and\nthen avowed to Franz that he would do him a great favor by allowing him\nto occupy the carriage alone the next day. Albert attributed to Franz s\nabsence the extreme kindness of the fair peasant in raising her mask.\nFranz was not sufficiently egotistical to stop Albert in the middle of\nan adventure that promised to prove so agreeable to his curiosity and\nso flattering to his vanity. He felt assured that the perfect\nindiscretion of his friend would duly inform him of all that happened;\nand as, during three years that he had travelled all over Italy, a\nsimilar piece of good fortune had never fallen to his share, Franz was\nby no means sorry to learn how to act on such an occasion. He therefore\npromised Albert that he would content himself the morrow with\nwitnessing the Carnival from the windows of the Rospoli Palace.\n\nThe next morning he saw Albert pass and repass, holding an enormous\nbouquet, which he doubtless meant to make the bearer of his amorous\nepistle. This belief was changed into certainty when Franz saw the\nbouquet (conspicuous by a circle of white camellias) in the hand of a\ncharming harlequin dressed in rose-colored satin.\n\nThe evening was no longer joy, but delirium. Albert nothing doubted but\nthat the fair unknown would reply in the same manner. Franz anticipated\nhis wishes by saying that the noise fatigued him, and that he should\npass the next day in writing and looking over his journal. Albert was\nnot deceived, for the next evening Franz saw him enter triumphantly\nshaking a folded paper which he held by one corner.\n\n Well,  said he,  was I mistaken? \n\n She has answered you!  cried Franz.\n\n Read. \n\nThis word was pronounced in a manner impossible to describe. Franz took\nthe letter, and read:\n\n Tuesday evening, at seven o clock, descend from your carriage opposite\nthe Via dei Pontefici, and follow the Roman peasant who snatches your\ntorch from you. When you arrive at the first step of the church of San\nGiacomo, be sure to fasten a knot of rose-colored ribbons to the\nshoulder of your harlequin costume, in order that you may be\nrecognized. Until then you will not see me.  Constancy and Discretion. \n\n Well,  asked he, when Franz had finished,  what do you think of that? \n\n I think that the adventure is assuming a very agreeable appearance. \n\n I think so, also,  replied Albert;  and I very much fear you will go\nalone to the Duke of Bracciano s ball. \n\nFranz and Albert had received that morning an invitation from the\ncelebrated Roman banker.\n\n Take care, Albert,  said Franz.  All the nobility of Rome will be\npresent, and if your fair _incognita_ belong to the higher class of\nsociety, she must go there. \n\n Whether she goes there or not, my opinion is still the same,  returned\nAlbert.  You have read the letter? \n\n Yes. \n\n You know how imperfectly the women of the _mezzo cito_ are educated in\nItaly?  (This is the name of the lower class.)\n\n Yes. \n\n Well, read the letter again. Look at the writing, and find if you can,\nany blemish in the language or orthography.  The writing was, in\nreality, charming, and the orthography irreproachable.\n\n You are born to good fortune,  said Franz, as he returned the letter.\n\n Laugh as much as you will,  replied Albert,  I am in love. \n\n You alarm me,  cried Franz.  I see that I shall not only go alone to\nthe Duke of Bracciano s, but also return to Florence alone. \n\n If my unknown be as amiable as she is beautiful,  said Albert,  I\nshall fix myself at Rome for six weeks, at least. I adore Rome, and I\nhave always had a great taste for arch ology. \n\n20189m\n\n\n\n Come, two or three more such adventures, and I do not despair of\nseeing you a member of the Academy. \n\nDoubtless Albert was about to discuss seriously his right to the\nacademic chair when they were informed that dinner was ready. Albert s\nlove had not taken away his appetite. He hastened with Franz to seat\nhimself, free to recommence the discussion after dinner. After dinner,\nthe Count of Monte Cristo was announced. They had not seen him for two\ndays. Signor Pastrini informed them that business had called him to\nCivita Vecchia. He had started the previous evening, and had only\nreturned an hour since. He was charming. Whether he kept a watch over\nhimself, or whether by accident he did not sound the acrimonious chords\nthat in other circumstances had been touched, he was tonight like\neverybody else.\n\nThe man was an enigma to Franz. The count must feel sure that Franz\nrecognized him; and yet he had not let fall a single word indicating\nany previous acquaintance between them. On his side, however great\nFranz s desire was to allude to their former interview, the fear of\nbeing disagreeable to the man who had loaded him and his friend with\nkindness prevented him from mentioning it.\n\nThe count had learned that the two friends had sent to secure a box at\nthe Argentina Theatre, and were told they were all let. In consequence,\nhe brought them the key of his own at least such was the apparent\nmotive of his visit. Franz and Albert made some difficulty, alleging\ntheir fear of depriving him of it; but the count replied that, as he\nwas going to the Palli Theatre, the box at the Argentina Theatre would\nbe lost if they did not profit by it. This assurance determined the two\nfriends to accept it.\n\nFranz had by degrees become accustomed to the count s pallor, which had\nso forcibly struck him at their first meeting. He could not refrain\nfrom admiring the severe beauty of his features, the only defect, or\nrather the principal quality of which was the pallor. Truly, a Byronic\nhero! Franz could not, we will not say see him, but even think of him\nwithout imagining his stern head upon Manfred s shoulders, or beneath\nLara s helmet. His forehead was marked with the line that indicates the\nconstant presence of bitter thoughts; he had the fiery eyes that seem\nto penetrate to the very soul, and the haughty and disdainful upper lip\nthat gives to the words it utters a peculiar character that impresses\nthem on the minds of those to whom they are addressed.\n\nThe count was no longer young. He was at least forty; and yet it was\neasy to understand that he was formed to rule the young men with whom\nhe associated at present. And, to complete his resemblance with the\nfantastic heroes of the English poet, the count seemed to have the\npower of fascination. Albert was constantly expatiating on their good\nfortune in meeting such a man. Franz was less enthusiastic; but the\ncount exercised over him also the ascendency a strong mind always\nacquires over a mind less domineering. He thought several times of the\nproject the count had of visiting Paris; and he had no doubt but that,\nwith his eccentric character, his characteristic face, and his colossal\nfortune, he would produce a great effect there. And yet he did not wish\nto be at Paris when the count was there.\n\nThe evening passed as evenings mostly pass at Italian theatres; that\nis, not in listening to the music, but in paying visits and conversing.\nThe Countess G  wished to revive the subject of the count, but Franz\nannounced he had something far newer to tell her, and, in spite of\nAlbert s demonstrations of false modesty, he informed the countess of\nthe great event which had preoccupied them for the last three days. As\nsimilar intrigues are not uncommon in Italy, if we may credit\ntravellers, the comtess did not manifest the least incredulity, but\ncongratulated Albert on his success. They promised, upon separating, to\nmeet at the Duke of Bracciano s ball, to which all Rome was invited.\n\nThe heroine of the bouquet kept her word; she gave Albert no sign of\nher existence the morrow or the day after.\n\nAt length Tuesday came, the last and most tumultuous day of the\nCarnival. On Tuesday, the theatres open at ten o clock in the morning,\nas Lent begins after eight at night. On Tuesday, all those who through\nwant of money, time, or enthusiasm, have not been to see the Carnival\nbefore, mingle in the gayety, and contribute to the noise and\nexcitement. From two o clock till five Franz and Albert followed in the\n_f te_, exchanging handfuls of _confetti_ with the other carriages and\nthe pedestrians, who crowded amongst the horses  feet and the carriage\nwheels without a single accident, a single dispute, or a single fight.\n\nThe _f tes_ are veritable pleasure days to the Italians. The author of\nthis history, who has resided five or six years in Italy, does not\nrecollect to have ever seen a ceremony interrupted by one of those\nevents so common in other countries. Albert was triumphant in his\nharlequin costume. A knot of rose-colored ribbons fell from his\nshoulder almost to the ground. In order that there might be no\nconfusion, Franz wore his peasant s costume.\n\nAs the day advanced, the tumult became greater. There was not on the\npavement, in the carriages, at the windows, a single tongue that was\nsilent, a single arm that did not move. It was a human storm, made up\nof a thunder of cries, and a hail of sweetmeats, flowers, eggs,\noranges, and nosegays.\n\nAt three o clock the sound of fireworks, let off on the Piazza del\nPopolo and the Piazza di Venezia (heard with difficulty amid the din\nand confusion) announced that the races were about to begin.\n\nThe races, like the _moccoli_, are one of the episodes peculiar to the\nlast days of the Carnival. At the sound of the fireworks the carriages\ninstantly broke ranks, and retired by the adjacent streets. All these\nevolutions are executed with an inconceivable address and marvellous\nrapidity, without the police interfering in the matter. The pedestrians\nranged themselves against the walls; then the trampling of horses and\nthe clashing of steel were heard. A detachment of carbineers, fifteen\nabreast, galloped up the Corso in order to clear it for the _barberi_.\nWhen the detachment arrived at the Piazza di Venezia, a second volley\nof fireworks was discharged, to announce that the street was clear.\n\nAlmost instantly, in the midst of a tremendous and general outcry,\nseven or eight horses, excited by the shouts of three hundred thousand\nspectators, passed by like lightning. Then the Castle of Saint Angelo\nfired three cannon to indicate that number three had won.\n\nImmediately, without any other signal, the carriages moved on, flowing\non towards the Corso, down all the streets, like torrents pent up for a\nwhile, which again flow into the parent river; and the immense stream\nagain continued its course between its two granite banks.\n\nA new source of noise and movement was added to the crowd. The sellers\nof _moccoletti_ entered on the scene. The _moccoli_, or _moccoletti_,\nare candles which vary in size from the pascal taper to the rushlight,\nand which give to each actor in the great final scene of the Carnival\ntwo very serious problems to grapple with, first, how to keep his own\n_moccoletto_ alight; and secondly, how to extinguish the _moccoletti_\nof others. The _moccoletto_ is like life: man has found but one means\nof transmitting it, and that one comes from God. But he has discovered\na thousand means of taking it away, and the devil has somewhat aided\nhim. The _moccoletto_ is kindled by approaching it to a light. But who\ncan describe the thousand means of extinguishing the _moccoletto_? the\ngigantic bellows, the monstrous extinguishers, the superhuman fans.\nEveryone hastened to purchase _moccoletti_ Franz and Albert among the\nrest.\n\nThe night was rapidly approaching; and already, at the cry of\n _Moccoletti_!  repeated by the shrill voices of a thousand vendors,\ntwo or three stars began to burn among the crowd. It was a signal. At\nthe end of ten minutes fifty thousand lights glittered, descending from\nthe Palazzo di Venezia to the Piazza del Popolo, and mounting from the\nPiazza del Popolo to the Palazzo di Venezia. It seemed like the _f te_\nof Jack-o -lanterns.\n\nIt is impossible to form any idea of it without having seen it. Suppose\nthat all the stars had descended from the sky and mingled in a wild\ndance on the face of the earth; the whole accompanied by cries that\nwere never heard in any other part of the world. The _facchino_ follows\nthe prince, the Transteverin the citizen, everyone blowing,\nextinguishing, relighting. Had old  olus appeared at this moment, he\nwould have been proclaimed king of the _moccoli_, and Aquilo the\nheir-presumptive to the throne.\n\nThis battle of folly and flame continued for two hours; the Corso was\nlight as day; the features of the spectators on the third and fourth\nstories were visible.\n\nEvery five minutes Albert took out his watch; at length it pointed to\nseven. The two friends were in the Via dei Pontefici. Albert sprang\nout, bearing his _moccoletto_ in his hand. Two or three masks strove to\nknock his _moccoletto_ out of his hand; but Albert, a first-rate\npugilist, sent them rolling in the street, one after the other, and\ncontinued his course towards the church of San Giacomo.\n\nThe steps were crowded with masks, who strove to snatch each other s\ntorches. Franz followed Albert with his eyes, and saw him mount the\nfirst step.\n\nInstantly a mask, wearing the well-known costume of a peasant woman,\nsnatched his _moccoletto_ from him without his offering any resistance.\nFranz was too far off to hear what they said; but, without doubt,\nnothing hostile passed, for he saw Albert disappear arm-in-arm with the\npeasant girl. He watched them pass through the crowd for some time, but\nat length he lost sight of them in the Via Macello.\n\nSuddenly the bell that gives the signal for the end of the Carnival\nsounded, and at the same instant all the _moccoletti_ were extinguished\nas if by enchantment. It seemed as though one immense blast of the wind\nhad extinguished everyone.\n\nFranz found himself in utter darkness. No sound was audible save that\nof the carriages that were carrying the maskers home; nothing was\nvisible save a few lights that burnt behind the windows.\n\nThe Carnival was over.\n\n20193m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 37. The Catacombs of Saint Sebastian\n\nIn his whole life, perhaps, Franz had never before experienced so\nsudden an impression, so rapid a transition from gayety to sadness, as\nin this moment. It seemed as though Rome, under the magic breath of\nsome demon of the night, had suddenly changed into a vast tomb. By a\nchance, which added yet more to the intensity of the darkness, the\nmoon, which was on the wane, did not rise until eleven o clock, and the\nstreets which the young man traversed were plunged in the deepest\nobscurity.\n\nThe distance was short, and at the end of ten minutes his carriage, or\nrather the count s, stopped before the H tel de Londres.\n\nDinner was waiting, but as Albert had told him that he should not\nreturn so soon, Franz sat down without him. Signor Pastrini, who had\nbeen accustomed to see them dine together, inquired into the cause of\nhis absence, but Franz merely replied that Albert had received on the\nprevious evening an invitation which he had accepted.\n\nThe sudden extinction of the _moccoletti_, the darkness which had\nreplaced the light, and the silence which had succeeded the turmoil,\nhad left in Franz s mind a certain depression which was not free from\nuneasiness. He therefore dined very silently, in spite of the officious\nattention of his host, who presented himself two or three times to\ninquire if he wanted anything.\n\nFranz resolved to wait for Albert as late as possible. He ordered the\ncarriage, therefore, for eleven o clock, desiring Signor Pastrini to\ninform him the moment that Albert returned to the hotel.\n\nAt eleven o clock Albert had not come back. Franz dressed himself, and\nwent out, telling his host that he was going to pass the night at the\nDuke of Bracciano s. The house of the Duke of Bracciano is one of the\nmost delightful in Rome, the duchess, one of the last heiresses of the\nColonnas, does its honors with the most consummate grace, and thus\ntheir _f tes_ have a European celebrity.\n\nFranz and Albert had brought to Rome letters of introduction to them,\nand their first question on his arrival was to inquire the whereabouts\nof his travelling companion. Franz replied that he had left him at the\nmoment they were about to extinguish the _moccoli_, and that he had\nlost sight of him in the Via Macello.\n\n Then he has not returned?  said the duke.\n\n I waited for him until this hour,  replied Franz.\n\n And do you know whither he went? \n\n No, not precisely; however, I think it was something very like a\nrendezvous. \n\n _Diavolo!_  said the duke,  this is a bad day, or rather a bad night,\nto be out late; is it not, countess? \n\nThese words were addressed to the Countess G , who had just arrived,\nand was leaning on the arm of Signor Torlonia, the duke s brother.\n\n I think, on the contrary, that it is a charming night,  replied the\ncountess,  and those who are here will complain of but one thing, that\nof its too rapid flight. \n\n I am not speaking,  said the duke with a smile,  of the persons who\nare here; the men run no other danger than that of falling in love with\nyou, and the women of falling ill of jealousy at seeing you so lovely;\nI meant persons who were out in the streets of Rome. \n\n Ah,  asked the countess,  who is out in the streets of Rome at this\nhour, unless it be to go to a ball? \n\n Our friend, Albert de Morcerf, countess, whom I left in pursuit of his\nunknown about seven o clock this evening,  said Franz,  and whom I have\nnot seen since. \n\n And don t you know where he is? \n\n Not at all. \n\n Is he armed? \n\n He is in masquerade. \n\n You should not have allowed him to go,  said the duke to Franz;  you,\nwho know Rome better than he does. \n\n You might as well have tried to stop number three of the _barberi_,\nwho gained the prize in the race today,  replied Franz;  and then\nmoreover, what could happen to him? \n\n Who can tell? The night is gloomy, and the Tiber is very near the Via\nMacello.  Franz felt a shudder run through his veins at observing that\nthe feeling of the duke and the countess was so much in unison with his\nown personal disquietude.\n\n I informed them at the hotel that I had the honor of passing the night\nhere, duke,  said Franz,  and desired them to come and inform me of his\nreturn. \n\n Ah,  replied the duke,  here I think, is one of my servants who is\nseeking you. \n\nThe duke was not mistaken; when he saw Franz, the servant came up to\nhim.\n\n Your excellency,  he said,  the master of the H tel de Londres has\nsent to let you know that a man is waiting for you with a letter from\nthe Viscount of Morcerf. \n\n A letter from the viscount!  exclaimed Franz.\n\n Yes. \n\n And who is the man? \n\n I do not know. \n\n Why did he not bring it to me here? \n\n The messenger did not say. \n\n And where is the messenger? \n\n He went away directly he saw me enter the ball-room to find you. \n\n Oh,  said the countess to Franz,  go with all speed poor young man!\nPerhaps some accident has happened to him. \n\n I will hasten,  replied Franz.\n\n Shall we see you again to give us any information?  inquired the\ncountess.\n\n Yes, if it is not any serious affair, otherwise I cannot answer as to\nwhat I may do myself. \n\n Be prudent, in any event,  said the countess.\n\n Oh! pray be assured of that. \n\nFranz took his hat and went away in haste. He had sent away his\ncarriage with orders for it to fetch him at two o clock; fortunately\nthe Palazzo Bracciano, which is on one side in the Corso, and on the\nother in the Square of the Holy Apostles, is hardly ten minutes  walk\nfrom the H tel de Londres.\n\nAs he came near the hotel, Franz saw a man in the middle of the street.\nHe had no doubt that it was the messenger from Albert. The man was\nwrapped up in a large cloak. He went up to him, but, to his extreme\nastonishment, the stranger first addressed him.\n\n What wants your excellency of me?  inquired the man, retreating a step\nor two, as if to keep on his guard.\n\n Are not you the person who brought me a letter,  inquired Franz,  from\nthe Viscount of Morcerf? \n\n Your excellency lodges at Pastrini s hotel? \n\n I do. \n\n Your excellency is the travelling companion of the viscount? \n\n I am. \n\n Your excellency s name \n\n Is the Baron Franz d pinay. \n\n20199m\n\n\n\n Then it is to your excellency that this letter is addressed. \n\n Is there any answer?  inquired Franz, taking the letter from him.\n\n Yes your friend at least hopes so. \n\n Come upstairs with me, and I will give it to you. \n\n I prefer waiting here,  said the messenger, with a smile.\n\n And why? \n\n Your excellency will know when you have read the letter. \n\n Shall I find you here, then? \n\n Certainly. \n\nFranz entered the hotel. On the staircase he met Signor Pastrini.\n Well?  said the landlord.\n\n Well what?  responded Franz.\n\n You have seen the man who desired to speak with you from your friend? \nhe asked of Franz.\n\n Yes, I have seen him,  he replied,  and he has handed this letter to\nme. Light the candles in my apartment, if you please. \n\nThe innkeeper gave orders to a servant to go before Franz with a light.\nThe young man had found Signor Pastrini looking very much alarmed, and\nthis had only made him the more anxious to read Albert s letter; and so\nhe went instantly towards the waxlight, and unfolded it. It was written\nand signed by Albert. Franz read it twice before he could comprehend\nwhat it contained. It was thus worded:\n\n My dear Fellow,\n\n The moment you have received this, have the kindness to take the\nletter of credit from my pocket-book, which you will find in the square\ndrawer of the _secr taire_; add your own to it, if it be not\nsufficient. Run to Torlonia, draw from him instantly four thousand\npiastres, and give them to the bearer. It is urgent that I should have\nthis money without delay. I do not say more, relying on you as you may\nrely on me.\n\n Your friend,\n\n Albert de Morcerf.\n\n P.S. I now believe in Italian _banditti_. \n\nBelow these lines were written, in a strange hand, the following in\nItalian:\n\n _Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle mie\nmani, alla sette il Conte Alberto avr  cessato di vivere_.\n\n Luigi Vampa. \n\n _If by six in the morning the four thousand piastres are not in my\nhands, by seven o clock the Count Albert will have ceased to live_. \n\nThis second signature explained everything to Franz, who now understood\nthe objection of the messenger to coming up into the apartment; the\nstreet was safer for him. Albert, then, had fallen into the hands of\nthe famous bandit chief, in whose existence he had for so long a time\nrefused to believe.\n\nThere was no time to lose. He hastened to open the _secr taire_, and\nfound the pocket-book in the drawer, and in it the letter of credit.\nThere were in all six thousand piastres, but of these six thousand\nAlbert had already expended three thousand.\n\nAs to Franz, he had no letter of credit, as he lived at Florence, and\nhad only come to Rome to pass seven or eight days; he had brought but a\nhundred louis, and of these he had not more than fifty left. Thus seven\nor eight hundred piastres were wanting to them both to make up the sum\nthat Albert required. True, he might in such a case rely on the\nkindness of Signor Torlonia. He was, therefore, about to return to the\nPalazzo Bracciano without loss of time, when suddenly a luminous idea\ncrossed his mind.\n\nHe remembered the Count of Monte Cristo. Franz was about to ring for\nSignor Pastrini, when that worthy presented himself.\n\n My dear sir,  he said, hastily,  do you know if the count is within? \n\n Yes, your excellency; he has this moment returned. \n\n Is he in bed? \n\n I should say no. \n\n Then ring at his door, if you please, and request him to be so kind as\nto give me an audience. \n\nSignor Pastrini did as he was desired, and returning five minutes\nafter, he said:\n\n The count awaits your excellency. \n\nFranz went along the corridor, and a servant introduced him to the\ncount. He was in a small room which Franz had not yet seen, and which\nwas surrounded with divans. The count came towards him.\n\n Well, what good wind blows you hither at this hour?  said he;  have\nyou come to sup with me? It would be very kind of you. \n\n No; I have come to speak to you of a very serious matter. \n\n A serious matter,  said the count, looking at Franz with the\nearnestness usual to him;  and what may it be? \n\n Are we alone? \n\n Yes,  replied the count, going to the door, and returning. Franz gave\nhim Albert s letter.\n\n Read that,  he said.\n\nThe count read it.\n\n Well, well!  said he.\n\n Did you see the postscript? \n\n I did, indeed.\n\n _ Se alle sei della mattina le quattro mille piastre non sono nelle\nmie mani, alla sette il conte Alberto avr  cessato di vivere. _\n\n Luigi Vampa. \n\n What think you of that?  inquired Franz.\n\n Have you the money he demands? \n\n Yes, all but eight hundred piastres. \n\nThe count went to his _secr taire_, opened it, and pulling out a drawer\nfilled with gold, said to Franz,  I hope you will not offend me by\napplying to anyone but myself. \n\n You see, on the contrary, I come to you first and instantly,  replied\nFranz.\n\n And I thank you; have what you will;  and he made a sign to Franz to\ntake what he pleased.\n\n Is it absolutely necessary, then, to send the money to Luigi Vampa? \nasked the young man, looking fixedly in his turn at the count.\n\n Judge for yourself,  replied he.  The postscript is explicit. \n\n I think that if you would take the trouble of reflecting, you could\nfind a way of simplifying the negotiation,  said Franz.\n\n How so?  returned the count, with surprise.\n\n If we were to go together to Luigi Vampa, I am sure he would not\nrefuse you Albert s freedom. \n\n What influence can I possibly have over a bandit? \n\n Have you not just rendered him a service that can never be forgotten? \n\n What is that? \n\n Have you not saved Peppino s life? \n\n Well, well,  said the count,  who told you that? \n\n No matter; I know it.  The count knit his brows, and remained silent\nan instant.\n\n And if I went to seek Vampa, would you accompany me? \n\n If my society would not be disagreeable. \n\n Be it so. It is a lovely night, and a walk without Rome will do us\nboth good. \n\n Shall I take any arms? \n\n For what purpose? \n\n Any money? \n\n It is useless. Where is the man who brought the letter? \n\n In the street. \n\n He awaits the answer? \n\n Yes. \n\n I must learn where we are going. I will summon him hither. \n\n It is useless; he would not come up. \n\n To your apartments, perhaps; but he will not make any difficulty at\nentering mine. \n\nThe count went to the window of the apartment that looked on to the\nstreet, and whistled in a peculiar manner. The man in the mantle\nquitted the wall, and advanced into the middle of the street.\n _Salite!_  said the count, in the same tone in which he would have\ngiven an order to his servant. The messenger obeyed without the least\nhesitation, but rather with alacrity, and, mounting the steps at a\nbound, entered the hotel; five seconds afterwards he was at the door of\nthe room.\n\n Ah, it is you, Peppino,  said the count. But Peppino, instead of\nanswering, threw himself on his knees, seized the count s hand, and\ncovered it with kisses.  Ah,  said the count,  you have, then, not\nforgotten that I saved your life; that is strange, for it is a week\nago. \n\n20203m\n\n\n\n No, excellency; and never shall I forget it,  returned Peppino, with\nan accent of profound gratitude.\n\n Never? That is a long time; but it is something that you believe so.\nRise and answer. \n\nPeppino glanced anxiously at Franz.\n\n Oh, you may speak before his excellency,  said he;  he is one of my\nfriends. You allow me to give you this title?  continued the count in\nFrench,  it is necessary to excite this man s confidence. \n\n You can speak before me,  said Franz;  I am a friend of the count s. \n\n Good!  returned Peppino.  I am ready to answer any questions your\nexcellency may address to me. \n\n How did the Viscount Albert fall into Luigi s hands? \n\n Excellency, the Frenchman s carriage passed several times the one in\nwhich was Teresa. \n\n The chief s mistress? \n\n Yes. The Frenchman threw her a bouquet; Teresa returned it all this\nwith the consent of the chief, who was in the carriage. \n\n What?  cried Franz,  was Luigi Vampa in the carriage with the Roman\npeasants? \n\n It was he who drove, disguised as the coachman,  replied Peppino.\n\n Well?  said the count.\n\n Well, then, the Frenchman took off his mask; Teresa, with the chief s\nconsent, did the same. The Frenchman asked for a rendezvous; Teresa\ngave him one only, instead of Teresa, it was Beppo who was on the steps\nof the church of San Giacomo. \n\n What!  exclaimed Franz,  the peasant girl who snatched his _mocoletto_\nfrom him \n\n Was a lad of fifteen,  replied Peppino.  But it was no disgrace to\nyour friend to have been deceived; Beppo has taken in plenty of\nothers. \n\n And Beppo led him outside the walls?  said the count.\n\n Exactly so; a carriage was waiting at the end of the Via Macello.\nBeppo got in, inviting the Frenchman to follow him, and he did not wait\nto be asked twice. He gallantly offered the right-hand seat to Beppo,\nand sat by him. Beppo told him he was going to take him to a villa a\nleague from Rome; the Frenchman assured him he would follow him to the\nend of the world. The coachman went up the Via di Ripetta and the Porta\nSan Paolo; and when they were two hundred yards outside, as the\nFrenchman became somewhat too forward, Beppo put a brace of pistols to\nhis head, the coachman pulled up and did the same. At the same time,\nfour of the band, who were concealed on the banks of the Almo,\nsurrounded the carriage. The Frenchman made some resistance, and nearly\nstrangled Beppo; but he could not resist five armed men, and was forced\nto yield. They made him get out, walk along the banks of the river, and\nthen brought him to Teresa and Luigi, who were waiting for him in the\ncatacombs of St. Sebastian. \n\n Well,  said the count, turning towards Franz,  it seems to me that\nthis is a very likely story. What do you say to it? \n\n Why, that I should think it very amusing,  replied Franz,  if it had\nhappened to anyone but poor Albert. \n\n And, in truth, if you had not found me here,  said the count,  it\nmight have proved a gallant adventure which would have cost your friend\ndear; but now, be assured, his alarm will be the only serious\nconsequence. \n\n And shall we go and find him?  inquired Franz.\n\n Oh, decidedly, sir. He is in a very picturesque place do you know the\ncatacombs of St. Sebastian? \n\n I was never in them; but I have often resolved to visit them. \n\n Well, here is an opportunity made to your hand, and it would be\ndifficult to contrive a better. Have you a carriage? \n\n No. \n\n That is of no consequence; I always have one ready, day and night. \n\n Always ready? \n\n Yes. I am a very capricious being, and I should tell you that\nsometimes when I rise, or after my dinner, or in the middle of the\nnight, I resolve on starting for some particular point, and away I go. \n\nThe count rang, and a footman appeared.\n\n Order out the carriage,  he said,  and remove the pistols which are in\nthe holsters. You need not awaken the coachman; Ali will drive. \n\nIn a very short time the noise of wheels was heard, and the carriage\nstopped at the door. The count took out his watch.\n\n Half-past twelve,  he said.  We might start at five o clock and be in\ntime, but the delay may cause your friend to pass an uneasy night, and\ntherefore we had better go with all speed to extricate him from the\nhands of the infidels. Are you still resolved to accompany me? \n\n More determined than ever. \n\n Well, then, come along. \n\nFranz and the count went downstairs, accompanied by Peppino. At the\ndoor they found the carriage. Ali was on the box, in whom Franz\nrecognized the dumb slave of the grotto of Monte Cristo. Franz and the\ncount got into the carriage. Peppino placed himself beside Ali, and\nthey set off at a rapid pace. Ali had received his instructions, and\nwent down the Corso, crossed the Campo Vaccino, went up the Strada San\nGregorio, and reached the gates of St. Sebastian. Then the porter\nraised some difficulties, but the Count of Monte Cristo produced a\npermit from the governor of Rome, allowing him to leave or enter the\ncity at any hour of the day or night; the portcullis was therefore\nraised, the porter had a louis for his trouble, and they went on their\nway.\n\nThe road which the carriage now traversed was the ancient Appian Way,\nand bordered with tombs. From time to time, by the light of the moon,\nwhich began to rise, Franz imagined that he saw something like a\nsentinel appear at various points among the ruins, and suddenly retreat\ninto the darkness on a signal from Peppino.\n\nA short time before they reached the Baths of Caracalla the carriage\nstopped, Peppino opened the door, and the count and Franz alighted.\n\n In ten minutes,  said the count to his companion,  we shall be there. \n\nHe then took Peppino aside, gave him an order in a low voice, and\nPeppino went away, taking with him a torch, brought with them in the\ncarriage. Five minutes elapsed, during which Franz saw the shepherd\ngoing along a narrow path that led over the irregular and broken\nsurface of the Campagna; and finally he disappeared in the midst of the\ntall red herbage, which seemed like the bristling mane of an enormous\nlion.\n\n Now,  said the count,  let us follow him. \n\nFranz and the count in their turn then advanced along the same path,\nwhich, at the distance of a hundred paces, led them over a declivity to\nthe bottom of a small valley. They then perceived two men conversing in\nthe obscurity.\n\n Ought we to go on?  asked Franz of the count;  or should we pause? \n\n Let us go on; Peppino will have warned the sentry of our coming. \n\nOne of the two men was Peppino, and the other a bandit on the lookout.\nFranz and the count advanced, and the bandit saluted them.\n\n Your excellency,  said Peppino, addressing the count,  if you will\nfollow me, the opening of the catacombs is close at hand. \n\n Go on, then,  replied the count. They came to an opening behind a\nclump of bushes and in the midst of a pile of rocks, by which a man\ncould scarcely pass. Peppino glided first into this crevice; after they\ngot along a few paces the passage widened. Peppino passed, lighted his\ntorch, and turned to see if they came after him. The count first\nreached an open space and Franz followed him closely. The passageway\nsloped in a gentle descent, enlarging as they proceeded; still Franz\nand the count were compelled to advance in a stooping posture, and were\nscarcely able to proceed abreast of one another. They went on a hundred\nand fifty paces in this way, and then were stopped by,  Who comes\nthere?  At the same time they saw the reflection of a torch on a\ncarbine barrel.\n\n A friend!  responded Peppino; and, advancing alone towards the sentry,\nhe said a few words to him in a low tone; and then he, like the first,\nsaluted the nocturnal visitors, making a sign that they might proceed.\n\nBehind the sentinel was a staircase with twenty steps. Franz and the\ncount descended these, and found themselves in a mortuary chamber. Five\ncorridors diverged like the rays of a star, and the walls, dug into\nniches, which were arranged one above the other in the shape of\ncoffins, showed that they were at last in the catacombs. Down one of\nthe corridors, whose extent it was impossible to determine, rays of\nlight were visible. The count laid his hand on Franz s shoulder.\n\n Would you like to see a camp of bandits in repose?  he inquired.\n\n Exceedingly,  replied Franz.\n\n Come with me, then. Peppino, put out the torch.  Peppino obeyed, and\nFranz and the count were in utter darkness, except that fifty paces in\nadvance of them a reddish glare, more evident since Peppino had put out\nhis torch, was visible along the wall.\n\nThey advanced silently, the count guiding Franz as if he had the\nsingular faculty of seeing in the dark. Franz himself, however, saw his\nway more plainly in proportion as he went on towards the light, which\nserved in some manner as a guide. Three arcades were before them, and\nthe middle one was used as a door. These arcades opened on one side\ninto the corridor where the count and Franz were, and on the other into\na large square chamber, entirely surrounded by niches similar to those\nof which we have spoken.\n\nIn the midst of this chamber were four stones, which had formerly\nserved as an altar, as was evident from the cross which still\nsurmounted them. A lamp, placed at the base of a pillar, lighted up\nwith its pale and flickering flame the singular scene which presented\nitself to the eyes of the two visitors concealed in the shadow.\n\nA man was seated with his elbow leaning on the column, and was reading\nwith his back turned to the arcades, through the openings of which the\nnew-comers contemplated him. This was the chief of the band, Luigi\nVampa. Around him, and in groups, according to their fancy, lying in\ntheir mantles, or with their backs against a sort of stone bench, which\nwent all round the columbarium, were to be seen twenty brigands or\nmore, each having his carbine within reach. At the other end, silent,\nscarcely visible, and like a shadow, was a sentinel, who was walking up\nand down before a grotto, which was only distinguishable because in\nthat spot the darkness seemed more dense than elsewhere.\n\nWhen the count thought Franz had gazed sufficiently on this picturesque\ntableau, he raised his finger to his lips, to warn him to be silent,\nand, ascending the three steps which led to the corridor of the\ncolumbarium, entered the chamber by the middle arcade, and advanced\ntowards Vampa, who was so intent on the book before him that he did not\nhear the noise of his footsteps.\n\n Who comes there?  cried the sentinel, who was less abstracted, and who\nsaw by the lamp-light a shadow approaching his chief. At this\nchallenge, Vampa rose quickly, drawing at the same moment a pistol from\nhis girdle. In a moment all the bandits were on their feet, and twenty\ncarbines were levelled at the count.\n\n Well,  said he in a voice perfectly calm, and no muscle of his\ncountenance disturbed,  well, my dear Vampa, it appears to me that you\nreceive a friend with a great deal of ceremony. \n\n20207m\n\n\n\n Ground arms,  exclaimed the chief, with an imperative sign of the\nhand, while with the other he took off his hat respectfully; then,\nturning to the singular personage who had caused this scene, he said,\n Your pardon, your excellency, but I was so far from expecting the\nhonor of a visit, that I did not really recognize you. \n\n It seems that your memory is equally short in everything, Vampa,  said\nthe count,  and that not only do you forget people s faces, but also\nthe conditions you make with them. \n\n What conditions have I forgotten, your excellency?  inquired the\nbandit, with the air of a man who, having committed an error, is\nanxious to repair it.\n\n Was it not agreed,  asked the count,  that not only my person, but\nalso that of my friends, should be respected by you? \n\n And how have I broken that treaty, your excellency? \n\n You have this evening carried off and conveyed hither the Viscount\nAlbert de Morcerf. Well,  continued the count, in a tone that made\nFranz shudder,  this young gentleman is one of _my friends_ this young\ngentleman lodges in the same hotel as myself this young gentleman has\nbeen up and down the Corso for eight hours in my private carriage, and\nyet, I repeat to you, you have carried him off, and conveyed him\nhither, and,  added the count, taking the letter from his pocket,  you\nhave set a ransom on him, as if he were an utter stranger. \n\n Why did you not tell me all this you?  inquired the brigand chief,\nturning towards his men, who all retreated before his look.  Why have\nyou caused me thus to fail in my word towards a gentleman like the\ncount, who has all our lives in his hands? By heavens! if I thought one\nof you knew that the young gentleman was the friend of his excellency,\nI would blow his brains out with my own hand! \n\n20211m\n\n\n\n Well,  said the count, turning towards Franz,  I told you there was\nsome mistake in this. \n\n Are you not alone?  asked Vampa with uneasiness.\n\n I am with the person to whom this letter was addressed, and to whom I\ndesired to prove that Luigi Vampa was a man of his word. Come, your\nexcellency,  the count added, turning to Franz,  here is Luigi Vampa,\nwho will himself express to you his deep regret at the mistake he has\ncommitted. \n\nFranz approached, the chief advancing several steps to meet him.\n\n Welcome among us, your excellency,  he said to him;  you heard what\nthe count just said, and also my reply; let me add that I would not for\nthe four thousand piastres at which I had fixed your friend s ransom,\nthat this had happened. \n\n But,  said Franz, looking round him uneasily,  where is the\nviscount? I do not see him. \n\n Nothing has happened to him, I hope,  said the count frowningly.\n\n The prisoner is there,  replied Vampa, pointing to the hollow space in\nfront of which the bandit was on guard,  and I will go myself and tell\nhim he is free. \n\nThe chief went towards the place he had pointed out as Albert s prison,\nand Franz and the count followed him.\n\n What is the prisoner doing?  inquired Vampa of the sentinel.\n\n _Ma foi_, captain,  replied the sentry,  I do not know; for the last\nhour I have not heard him stir. \n\n Come in, your excellency,  said Vampa. The count and Franz ascended\nseven or eight steps after the chief, who drew back a bolt and opened a\ndoor. Then, by the gleam of a lamp, similar to that which lighted the\ncolumbarium, Albert was to be seen wrapped up in a cloak which one of\nthe bandits had lent him, lying in a corner in profound slumber.\n\n Come,  said the count, smiling with his own peculiar smile,  not so\nbad for a man who is to be shot at seven o clock tomorrow morning. \n\nVampa looked at Albert with a kind of admiration; he was not insensible\nto such a proof of courage.\n\n You are right, your excellency,  he said;  this must be one of your\nfriends. \n\nThen going to Albert, he touched him on the shoulder, saying,  Will\nyour excellency please to awaken? \n\nAlbert stretched out his arms, rubbed his eyelids, and opened his eyes.\n\n Oh,  said he,  is it you, captain? You should have allowed me to\nsleep. I had such a delightful dream. I was dancing the galop at\nTorlonia s with the Countess G .  Then he drew his watch from his\npocket, that he might see how time sped.\n\n Half-past one only?  said he.  Why the devil do you rouse me at this\nhour? \n\n To tell you that you are free, your excellency. \n\n My dear fellow,  replied Albert, with perfect ease of mind,  remember,\nfor the future, Napoleon s maxim,  Never awaken me but for bad news; \nif you had let me sleep on, I should have finished my galop, and have\nbeen grateful to you all my life. So, then, they have paid my ransom? \n\n No, your excellency. \n\n Well, then, how am I free? \n\n A person to whom I can refuse nothing has come to demand you. \n\n Come hither? \n\n Yes, hither. \n\n Really? Then that person is a most amiable person. \n\nAlbert looked around and perceived Franz.  What,  said he,  is it you,\nmy dear Franz, whose devotion and friendship are thus displayed? \n\n No, not I,  replied Franz,  but our neighbor, the Count of Monte\nCristo. \n\n Oh, my dear count,  said Albert gayly, arranging his cravat and\nwristbands,  you are really most kind, and I hope you will consider me\nas under eternal obligations to you, in the first place for the\ncarriage, and in the next for this visit,  and he put out his hand to\nthe count, who shuddered as he gave his own, but who nevertheless did\ngive it.\n\nThe bandit gazed on this scene with amazement; he was evidently\naccustomed to see his prisoners tremble before him, and yet here was\none whose gay temperament was not for a moment altered; as for Franz,\nhe was enchanted at the way in which Albert had sustained the national\nhonor in the presence of the bandit.\n\n My dear Albert,  he said,  if you will make haste, we shall yet have\ntime to finish the night at Torlonia s. You may conclude your\ninterrupted galop, so that you will owe no ill-will to Signor Luigi,\nwho has, indeed, throughout this whole affair acted like a gentleman. \n\n You are decidedly right, and we may reach the Palazzo by two o clock.\nSignor Luigi,  continued Albert,  is there any formality to fulfil\nbefore I take leave of your excellency? \n\n None, sir,  replied the bandit,  you are as free as air. \n\n Well, then, a happy and merry life to you. Come, gentlemen, come. \n\nAnd Albert, followed by Franz and the count, descended the staircase,\ncrossed the square chamber, where stood all the bandits, hat in hand.\n\n Peppino,  said the brigand chief,  give me the torch. \n\n What are you going to do?  inquired the count.\n\n I will show you the way back myself,  said the captain;  that is the\nleast honor that I can render to your excellency. \n\nAnd taking the lighted torch from the hands of the herdsman, he\npreceded his guests, not as a servant who performs an act of civility,\nbut like a king who precedes ambassadors. On reaching the door, he\nbowed.\n\n And now, your excellency,  added he,  allow me to repeat my apologies,\nand I hope you will not entertain any resentment at what has occurred. \n\n No, my dear Vampa,  replied the count;  besides, you compensate for\nyour mistakes in so gentlemanly a way, that one almost feels obliged to\nyou for having committed them. \n\n20214m\n\n\n\n Gentlemen,  added the chief, turning towards the young men,  perhaps\nthe offer may not appear very tempting to you; but if you should ever\nfeel inclined to pay me a second visit, wherever I may be, you shall be\nwelcome. \n\nFranz and Albert bowed. The count went out first, then Albert. Franz\npaused for a moment.\n\n Has your excellency anything to ask me?  said Vampa with a smile.\n\n Yes, I have,  replied Franz;  I am curious to know what work you were\nperusing with so much attention as we entered. \n\n C sar s _Commentaries_,  said the bandit,  it is my favorite work. \n\n Well, are you coming?  asked Albert.\n\n Yes,  replied Franz,  here I am,  and he, in his turn, left the caves.\nThey advanced to the plain.\n\n Ah, your pardon,  said Albert, turning round;  will you allow me,\ncaptain? \n\nAnd he lighted his cigar at Vampa s torch.\n\n Now, my dear count,  he said,  let us on with all the speed we may. I\nam enormously anxious to finish my night at the Duke of Bracciano s. \n\nThey found the carriage where they had left it. The count said a word\nin Arabic to Ali, and the horses went on at great speed.\n\nIt was just two o clock by Albert s watch when the two friends entered\ninto the dancing-room. Their return was quite an event, but as they\nentered together, all uneasiness on Albert s account ceased instantly.\n\n Madame,  said the Viscount of Morcerf, advancing towards the countess,\n yesterday you were so condescending as to promise me a galop; I am\nrather late in claiming this gracious promise, but here is my friend,\nwhose character for veracity you well know, and he will assure you the\ndelay arose from no fault of mine. \n\nAnd as at this moment the orchestra gave the signal for the waltz,\nAlbert put his arm round the waist of the countess, and disappeared\nwith her in the whirl of dancers.\n\nIn the meanwhile Franz was considering the singular shudder that had\npassed over the Count of Monte Cristo at the moment when he had been,\nin some sort, forced to give his hand to Albert.\n\n\n\n Chapter 38. The Rendezvous\n\nThe first words that Albert uttered to his friend, on the following\nmorning, contained a request that Franz would accompany him on a visit\nto the count; true, the young man had warmly and energetically thanked\nthe count on the previous evening; but services such as he had rendered\ncould never be too often acknowledged. Franz, who seemed attracted by\nsome invisible influence towards the count, in which terror was\nstrangely mingled, felt an extreme reluctance to permit his friend to\nbe exposed alone to the singular fascination that this mysterious\npersonage seemed to exercise over him, and therefore made no objection\nto Albert s request, but at once accompanied him to the desired spot,\nand, after a short delay, the count joined them in the salon.\n\n My dear count,  said Albert, advancing to meet him,  permit me to\nrepeat the poor thanks I offered last night, and to assure you that the\nremembrance of all I owe to you will never be effaced from my memory;\nbelieve me, as long as I live, I shall never cease to dwell with\ngrateful recollection on the prompt and important service you rendered\nme; and also to remember that to you I am indebted even for my life. \n\n My very good friend and excellent neighbor,  replied the count, with a\nsmile,  you really exaggerate my trifling exertions. You owe me nothing\nbut some trifle of 20,000 francs, which you have been saved out of your\ntravelling expenses, so that there is not much of a score between\nus; but you must really permit me to congratulate you on the ease and\nunconcern with which you resigned yourself to your fate, and the\nperfect indifference you manifested as to the turn events might take. \n\n Upon my word,  said Albert,  I deserve no credit for what I could not\nhelp, namely, a determination to take everything as I found it, and to\nlet those bandits see, that although men get into troublesome scrapes\nall over the world, there is no nation but the French that can smile\neven in the face of grim Death himself. All that, however, has nothing\nto do with my obligations to you, and I now come to ask you whether, in\nmy own person, my family, or connections, I can in any way serve you?\nMy father, the Comte de Morcerf, although of Spanish origin, possesses\nconsiderable influence, both at the court of France and Madrid, and I\nunhesitatingly place the best services of myself, and all to whom my\nlife is dear, at your disposal. \n\n Monsieur de Morcerf,  replied the count,  your offer, far from\nsurprising me, is precisely what I expected from you, and I accept it\nin the same spirit of hearty sincerity with which it is made; nay, I\nwill go still further, and say that I had previously made up my mind to\nask a great favor at your hands. \n\n Oh, pray name it. \n\n I am wholly a stranger to Paris it is a city I have never yet seen. \n\n Is it possible,  exclaimed Albert,  that you have reached your present\nage without visiting the finest capital in the world? I can scarcely\ncredit it. \n\n Nevertheless, it is quite true; still, I agree with you in thinking\nthat my present ignorance of the first city in Europe is a reproach to\nme in every way, and calls for immediate correction; but, in all\nprobability, I should have performed so important, so necessary a duty,\nas that of making myself acquainted with the wonders and beauties of\nyour justly celebrated capital, had I known any person who would have\nintroduced me into the fashionable world, but unfortunately I possessed\nno acquaintance there, and, of necessity, was compelled to abandon the\nidea. \n\n So distinguished an individual as yourself,  cried Albert,  could\nscarcely have required an introduction. \n\n You are most kind; but as regards myself, I can find no merit I\npossess, save that, as a millionaire, I might have become a partner in\nthe speculations of M. Aguado and M. Rothschild; but as my motive in\ntravelling to your capital would not have been for the pleasure of\ndabbling in stocks, I stayed away till some favorable chance should\npresent itself of carrying my wish into execution. Your offer, however,\nsmooths all difficulties, and I have only to ask you, my dear M. de\nMorcerf  (these words were accompanied by a most peculiar smile),\n whether you undertake, upon my arrival in France, to open to me the\ndoors of that fashionable world of which I know no more than a Huron or\na native of Cochin-China? \n\n Oh, that I do, and with infinite pleasure,  answered Albert;  and so\nmuch the more readily as a letter received this morning from my father\nsummons me to Paris, in consequence of a treaty of marriage (my dear\nFranz, do not smile, I beg of you) with a family of high standing, and\nconnected with the very cream of Parisian society. \n\n Connected by marriage, you mean,  said Franz, laughingly.\n\n Well, never mind how it is,  answered Albert,  it comes to the same\nthing in the end. Perhaps by the time you return to Paris, I shall be\nquite a sober, staid father of a family! A most edifying representative\nI shall make of all the domestic virtues don t you think so? But as\nregards your wish to visit our fine city, my dear count, I can only say\nthat you may command me and mine to any extent you please. \n\n Then it is settled,  said the count,  and I give you my solemn\nassurance that I only waited an opportunity like the present to realize\nplans that I have long meditated. \n\nFranz did not doubt that these plans were the same concerning which the\ncount had dropped a few words in the grotto of Monte Cristo, and while\nthe count was speaking the young man watched him closely, hoping to\nread something of his purpose in his face, but his countenance was\ninscrutable especially when, as in the present case, it was veiled in a\nsphinx-like smile.\n\n But tell me now, count,  exclaimed Albert, delighted at the idea of\nhaving to chaperon so distinguished a person as Monte Cristo;  tell me\ntruly whether you are in earnest, or if this project of visiting Paris\nis merely one of the chimerical and uncertain air castles of which we\nmake so many in the course of our lives, but which, like a house built\non the sand, is liable to be blown over by the first puff of wind? \n\n I pledge you my honor,  returned the count,  that I mean to do as I\nhave said; both inclination and positive necessity compel me to visit\nParis. \n\n When do you propose going thither? \n\n Have you made up your mind when you shall be there yourself? \n\n Certainly I have; in a fortnight or three weeks  time, that is to say,\nas fast as I can get there! \n\n Nay,  said the Count;  I will give you three months ere I join you;\nyou see I make an ample allowance for all delays and difficulties.\n\n And in three months  time,  said Albert,  you will be at my house? \n\n Shall we make a positive appointment for a particular day and hour? \ninquired the count;  only let me warn you that I am proverbial for my\npunctilious exactitude in keeping my engagements. \n\n Day for day, hour for hour,  said Albert;  that will suit me to a\ndot. \n\n So be it, then,  replied the count, and extending his hand towards a\ncalendar, suspended near the chimney-piece, he said,  today is the 21st\nof February;  and drawing out his watch, added,  it is exactly\nhalf-past ten o clock. Now promise me to remember this, and expect me\nthe 21st of May at the same hour in the forenoon. \n\n Capital!  exclaimed Albert;  your breakfast shall be waiting. \n\n Where do you live? \n\n No. 27, Rue du Helder. \n\n Have you bachelor s apartments there? I hope my coming will not put\nyou to any inconvenience. \n\n I reside in my father s house, but occupy a pavilion at the farther\nside of the courtyard, entirely separated from the main building. \n\n Quite sufficient,  replied the count, as, taking out his tablets, he\nwrote down  No. 27, Rue du Helder, 21st May, half-past ten in the\nmorning. \n\n Now then,  said the count, returning his tablets to his pocket,  make\nyourself perfectly easy; the hand of your time-piece will not be more\naccurate in marking the time than myself. \n\n Shall I see you again ere my departure?  asked Albert.\n\n That depends; when do you leave? \n\n Tomorrow evening, at five o clock. \n\n In that case I must say adieu to you, as I am compelled to go to\nNaples, and shall not return hither before Saturday evening or Sunday\nmorning. And you, baron,  pursued the count, addressing Franz,  do you\nalso depart tomorrow? \n\n Yes. \n\n For France? \n\n No, for Venice; I shall remain in Italy for another year or two. \n\n Then we shall not meet in Paris? \n\n I fear I shall not have that honor. \n\n Well, since we must part,  said the count, holding out a hand to each\nof the young men,  allow me to wish you both a safe and pleasant\njourney. \n\nIt was the first time the hand of Franz had come in contact with that\nof the mysterious individual before him, and unconsciously he shuddered\nat its touch, for it felt cold and icy as that of a corpse.\n\n20219m\n\n\n\n Let us understand each other,  said Albert;  it is agreed is it\nnot? that you are to be at No. 27, in the Rue du Helder, on the 21st of\nMay, at half-past ten in the morning, and your word of honor passed for\nyour punctuality? \n\n The 21st of May, at half-past ten in the morning, Rue du Helder, No.\n27,  replied the count.\n\nThe young men then rose, and bowing to the count, quitted the room.\n\n What is the matter?  asked Albert of Franz, when they had returned to\ntheir own apartments;  you seem more than commonly thoughtful. \n\n I will confess to you, Albert,  replied Franz,  the count is a very\nsingular person, and the appointment you have made to meet him in Paris\nfills me with a thousand apprehensions. \n\n My dear fellow,  exclaimed Albert,  what can there possibly be in that\nto excite uneasiness? Why, you must have lost your senses. \n\n Whether I am in my senses or not,  answered Franz,  that is the way I\nfeel. \n\n Listen to me, Franz,  said Albert;  I am glad that the occasion has\npresented itself for saying this to you, for I have noticed how cold\nyou are in your bearing towards the count, while he, on the other hand,\nhas always been courtesy itself to us. Have you anything particular\nagainst him? \n\n Possibly. \n\n Did you ever meet him previously to coming hither? \n\n I have. \n\n And where? \n\n Will you promise me not to repeat a single word of what I am about to\ntell you? \n\n I promise. \n\n Upon your honor? \n\n Upon my honor. \n\n Then listen to me. \n\nFranz then related to his friend the history of his excursion to the\nIsland of Monte Cristo and of his finding a party of smugglers there,\nand the two Corsican bandits with them. He dwelt with considerable\nforce and energy on the almost magical hospitality he had received from\nthe count, and the magnificence of his entertainment in the grotto of\nthe _Thousand and One Nights_.\n\nHe recounted, with circumstantial exactitude, all the particulars of\nthe supper, the hashish, the statues, the dream, and how, at his\nawakening, there remained no proof or trace of all these events, save\nthe small yacht, seen in the distant horizon driving under full sail\ntoward Porto-Vecchio.\n\nThen he detailed the conversation overheard by him at the Colosseum,\nbetween the count and Vampa, in which the count had promised to obtain\nthe release of the bandit Peppino, an engagement which, as our readers\nare aware, he most faithfully fulfilled.\n\nAt last he arrived at the adventure of the preceding night, and the\nembarrassment in which he found himself placed by not having sufficient\ncash by six or seven hundred piastres to make up the sum required, and\nfinally of his application to the count and the picturesque and\nsatisfactory result that followed. Albert listened with the most\nprofound attention.\n\n Well,  said he, when Franz had concluded,  what do you find to object\nto in all you have related? The count is fond of travelling, and, being\nrich, possesses a vessel of his own. Go but to Portsmouth or\nSouthampton, and you will find the harbors crowded with the yachts\nbelonging to such of the English as can afford the expense, and have\nthe same liking for this amusement. Now, by way of having a\nresting-place during his excursions, avoiding the wretched\ncookery which has been trying its best to poison me during the last\nfour months, while you have manfully resisted its effects for as many\nyears, and obtaining a bed on which it is possible to slumber, Monte\nCristo has furnished for himself a temporary abode where you first\nfound him; but, to prevent the possibility of the Tuscan government\ntaking a fancy to his enchanted palace, and thereby depriving him of\nthe advantages naturally expected from so large an outlay of capital,\nhe has wisely enough purchased the island, and taken its name. Just ask\nyourself, my good fellow, whether there are not many persons of our\nacquaintance who assume the names of lands and properties they never in\ntheir lives were masters of? \n\n But,  said Franz,  the Corsican bandits that were among the crew of\nhis vessel? \n\n Why, really the thing seems to me simple enough. Nobody knows better\nthan yourself that the bandits of Corsica are not rogues or thieves,\nbut purely and simply fugitives, driven by some sinister motive from\ntheir native town or village, and that their fellowship involves no\ndisgrace or stigma; for my own part, I protest that, should I ever go\nto Corsica, my first visit, ere even I presented myself to the mayor or\nprefect, should be to the bandits of Colomba, if I could only manage to\nfind them; for, on my conscience, they are a race of men I admire\ngreatly. \n\n Still,  persisted Franz,  I suppose you will allow that such men as\nVampa and his band are regular villains, who have no other motive than\nplunder when they seize your person. How do you explain the influence\nthe count evidently possessed over those ruffians? \n\n My good friend, as in all probability I own my present safety to that\ninfluence, it would ill become me to search too closely into its\nsource; therefore, instead of condemning him for his intimacy with\noutlaws, you must give me leave to excuse any little irregularity there\nmay be in such a connection; not altogether for preserving my life, for\nmy own idea was that it never was in much danger, but certainly for\nsaving me 4,000 piastres, which, being translated, means neither more\nnor less than 24,000 livres of our money a sum at which, most\nassuredly, I should never have been estimated in France, proving most\nindisputably,  added Albert with a laugh,  that no prophet is honored\nin his own country. \n\n Talking of countries,  replied Franz,  of what country is the count,\nwhat is his native tongue, whence does he derive his immense fortune,\nand what were those events of his early life a life as marvellous as\nunknown that have tinctured his succeeding years with so dark and\ngloomy a misanthropy? Certainly these are questions that, in your\nplace, I should like to have answered. \n\n My dear Franz,  replied Albert,  when, upon receipt of my letter, you\nfound the necessity of asking the count s assistance, you promptly went\nto him, saying,  My friend Albert de Morcerf is in danger; help me to\ndeliver him.  Was not that nearly what you said? \n\n20222m\n\n\n\n It was. \n\n Well, then, did he ask you,  Who is M. Albert de Morcerf? how does he\ncome by his name his fortune? what are his means of existence? what is\nhis birthplace? of what country is he a native?  Tell me, did he put\nall these questions to you? \n\n I confess he asked me none. \n\n No; he merely came and freed me from the hands of Signor Vampa, where,\nI can assure you, in spite of all my outward appearance of ease and\nunconcern, I did not very particularly care to remain. Now, then,\nFranz, when, for services so promptly and unhesitatingly rendered, he\nbut asks me in return to do for him what is done daily for any Russian\nprince or Italian nobleman who may pass through Paris merely to\nintroduce him into society would you have me refuse? My good fellow,\nyou must have lost your senses to think it possible I could act with\nsuch cold-blooded policy. \n\nAnd this time it must be confessed that, contrary to the usual state of\naffairs in discussions between the young men, the effective arguments\nwere all on Albert s side.\n\n Well,  said Franz with a sigh,  do as you please my dear viscount, for\nyour arguments are beyond my powers of refutation. Still, in spite of\nall, you must admit that this Count of Monte Cristo is a most singular\npersonage. \n\n He is a philanthropist,  answered the other;  and no doubt his motive\nin visiting Paris is to compete for the Monthyon prize, given, as you\nare aware, to whoever shall be proved to have most materially advanced\nthe interests of virtue and humanity. If my vote and interest can\nobtain it for him, I will readily give him the one and promise the\nother. And now, my dear Franz, let us talk of something else. Come,\nshall we take our luncheon, and then pay a last visit to St. Peter s? \n\nFranz silently assented; and the following afternoon, at half-past five\no clock, the young men parted. Albert de Morcerf to return to Paris,\nand Franz d pinay to pass a fortnight at Venice.\n\nBut, ere he entered his travelling carriage, Albert, fearing that his\nexpected guest might forget the engagement he had entered into, placed\nin the care of a waiter at the hotel a card to be delivered to the\nCount of Monte Cristo, on which, beneath the name of Viscount Albert de\nMorcerf, he had written in pencil:\n\n 27, _Rue du Helder, on the_ 21_st May, half-past ten_ A.M. \n\n\n\n Chapter 39. The Guests\n\nIn the house in the Rue du Helder, where Albert had invited the Count\nof Monte Cristo, everything was being prepared on the morning of the\n21st of May to do honor to the occasion. Albert de Morcerf inhabited a\npavilion situated at the corner of a large court, and directly opposite\nanother building, in which were the servants  apartments. Two windows\nonly of the pavilion faced the street; three other windows looked into\nthe court, and two at the back into the garden.\n\nBetween the court and the garden, built in the heavy style of the\nimperial architecture, was the large and fashionable dwelling of the\nCount and Countess of Morcerf.\n\nA high wall surrounded the whole of the property, surmounted at\nintervals by vases filled with flowers, and broken in the centre by a\nlarge gate of gilded iron, which served as the carriage entrance. A\nsmall door, close to the lodge of the _concierge_, gave ingress and\negress to the servants and masters when they were on foot.\n\nIt was easy to discover that the delicate care of a mother, unwilling\nto part from her son, and yet aware that a young man of the viscount s\nage required the full exercise of his liberty, had chosen this\nhabitation for Albert. There were not lacking, however, evidences of\nwhat we may call the intelligent egoism of a youth who is charmed with\nthe indolent, careless life of an only son, and who lives as it were in\na gilded cage. By means of the two windows looking into the street,\nAlbert could see all that passed; the sight of what is going on is\nnecessary to young men, who always want to see the world traverse their\nhorizon, even if that horizon is only a public thoroughfare. Then,\nshould anything appear to merit a more minute examination, Albert de\nMorcerf could follow up his researches by means of a small gate,\nsimilar to that close to the _concierge s_ door, and which merits a\nparticular description.\n\nIt was a little entrance that seemed never to have been opened since\nthe house was built, so entirely was it covered with dust and dirt; but\nthe well-oiled hinges and locks told quite another story. This door was\na mockery to the _concierge_, from whose vigilance and jurisdiction it\nwas free, and, like that famous portal in the _Arabian Nights_, opening\nat the  _Sesame_  of Ali Baba, it was wont to swing backward at a\ncabalistic word or a concerted tap from without from the sweetest\nvoices or whitest fingers in the world.\n\nAt the end of a long corridor, with which the door communicated, and\nwhich formed the antechamber, was, on the right, Albert s\nbreakfast-room, looking into the court, and on the left the salon,\nlooking into the garden. Shrubs and creeping plants covered the\nwindows, and hid from the garden and court these two apartments, the\nonly rooms into which, as they were on the ground floor, the prying\neyes of the curious could penetrate.\n\nOn the floor above were similar rooms, with the addition of a third,\nformed out of the antechamber; these three rooms were a salon, a\nboudoir, and a bedroom. The salon downstairs was only an Algerian\ndivan, for the use of smokers. The boudoir upstairs communicated with\nthe bedchamber by an invisible door on the staircase; it was evident\nthat every precaution had been taken. Above this floor was a large\n_atelier_, which had been increased in size by pulling down the\npartitions a pandemonium, in which the artist and the dandy strove for\npre-eminence.\n\nThere were collected and piled up all Albert s successive caprices,\nhunting-horns, bass-viols, flutes a whole orchestra, for Albert had had\nnot a taste but a fancy for music; easels, palettes, brushes,\npencils for music had been succeeded by painting; foils, boxing-gloves,\nbroadswords, and single-sticks for, following the example of the\nfashionable young men of the time, Albert de Morcerf cultivated, with\nfar more perseverance than music and drawing, the three arts that\ncomplete a dandy s education, i.e., fencing, boxing, and single-stick;\nand it was here that he received Grisier, Cooks, and Charles Leboucher.\n\nThe rest of the furniture of this privileged apartment consisted of old\ncabinets, filled with Chinese porcelain and Japanese vases, Lucca della\nRobbia _fa ences_, and Palissy platters; of old armchairs, in which\nperhaps had sat Henry IV. or Sully, Louis XIII. or Richelieu for two of\nthese armchairs, adorned with a carved shield, on which were engraved\nthe fleur-de-lis of France on an azure field, evidently came from the\nLouvre, or, at least, some royal residence.\n\nOver these dark and sombre chairs were thrown splendid stuffs, dyed\nbeneath Persia s sun, or woven by the fingers of the women of Calcutta\nor of Chandernagor. What these stuffs did there, it was impossible to\nsay; they awaited, while gratifying the eyes, a destination unknown to\ntheir owner himself; in the meantime they filled the place with their\ngolden and silky reflections.\n\nIn the centre of the room was a Roller and Blanchet  baby grand  piano\nin rosewood, but holding the potentialities of an orchestra in its\nnarrow and sonorous cavity, and groaning beneath the weight of the\n_chefs-d uvre_ of Beethoven, Weber, Mozart, Haydn, Gr try, and\nPorpora.\n\nOn the walls, over the doors, on the ceiling, were swords, daggers,\nMalay creeses, maces, battle-axes; gilded, damasked, and inlaid suits\nof armor; dried plants, minerals, and stuffed birds, their\nflame-colored wings outspread in motionless flight, and their beaks\nforever open. This was Albert s favorite lounging place.\n\nHowever, the morning of the appointment, the young man had established\nhimself in the small salon downstairs. There, on a table, surrounded at\nsome distance by a large and luxurious divan, every species of tobacco\nknown, from the yellow tobacco of Petersburg to the black of Sinai, and\nso on along the scale from Maryland and Porto Rico, to Latakia, was\nexposed in pots of crackled earthenware of which the Dutch are so fond;\nbeside them, in boxes of fragrant wood, were ranged, according to their\nsize and quality, puros, regalias, havanas, and manillas; and, in an\nopen cabinet, a collection of German pipes, of chibouques, with their\namber mouth-pieces ornamented with coral, and of narghiles, with their\nlong tubes of morocco, awaiting the caprice or the sympathy of the\nsmokers.\n\nAlbert had himself presided at the arrangement, or, rather, the\nsymmetrical derangement, which, after coffee, the guests at a breakfast\nof modern days love to contemplate through the vapor that escapes from\ntheir mouths, and ascends in long and fanciful wreaths to the ceiling.\n\nAt a quarter to ten, a valet entered; he composed, with a little groom\nnamed John, and who only spoke English, all Albert s establishment,\nalthough the cook of the hotel was always at his service, and on great\noccasions the count s _chasseur_ also. This valet, whose name was\nGermain, and who enjoyed the entire confidence of his young master,\nheld in one hand a number of papers, and in the other a packet of\nletters, which he gave to Albert. Albert glanced carelessly at the\ndifferent missives, selected two written in a small and delicate hand,\nand enclosed in scented envelopes, opened them and perused their\ncontents with some attention.\n\n How did these letters come?  said he.\n\n One by the post, Madame Danglars  footman left the other. \n\n Let Madame Danglars know that I accept the place she offers me in her\nbox. Wait; then, during the day, tell Rosa that when I leave the Opera\nI will sup with her as she wishes. Take her six bottles of different\nwine Cyprus, sherry, and Malaga, and a barrel of Ostend oysters; get\nthem at Borel s, and be sure you say they are for me. \n\n At what o clock, sir, do you breakfast? \n\n20227m\n\n\n\n What time is it now? \n\n A quarter to ten. \n\n Very well, at half past ten. Debray will, perhaps, be obliged to go to\nthe minister and besides  (Albert looked at his tablets),  it is the\nhour I told the count, 21st May, at half past ten; and though I do not\nmuch rely upon his promise, I wish to be punctual. Is the countess up\nyet? \n\n If you wish, I will inquire. \n\n Yes, ask her for one of her _liqueur_ cellarets, mine is incomplete;\nand tell her I shall have the honor of seeing her about three o clock,\nand that I request permission to introduce someone to her. \n\nThe valet left the room. Albert threw himself on the divan, tore off\nthe cover of two or three of the papers, looked at the theatre\nannouncements, made a face seeing they gave an opera, and not a ballet;\nhunted vainly amongst the advertisements for a new tooth-powder of\nwhich he had heard, and threw down, one after the other, the three\nleading papers of Paris, muttering,\n\n These papers become more and more stupid every day. \n\nA moment after, a carriage stopped before the door, and the servant\nannounced M. Lucien Debray. A tall young man, with light hair, clear\ngray eyes, and thin and compressed lips, dressed in a blue coat with\nbeautifully carved gold buttons, a white neckcloth, and a tortoiseshell\neye-glass suspended by a silken thread, and which, by an effort of the\nsuperciliary and zygomatic muscles, he fixed in his eye, entered, with\na half-official air, without smiling or speaking.\n\n Good-morning, Lucien, good-morning,  said Albert;  your punctuality\nreally alarms me. What do I say? punctuality! You, whom I expected\nlast, you arrive at five minutes to ten, when the time fixed was\nhalf-past! Has the ministry resigned? \n\n No, my dear fellow,  returned the young man, seating himself on the\ndivan;  reassure yourself; we are tottering always, but we never fall,\nand I begin to believe that we shall pass into a state of immobility,\nand then the affairs of the Peninsula will completely consolidate us. \n\n Ah, true; you drive Don Carlos out of Spain. \n\n No, no, my dear fellow, do not confound our plans. We take him to the\nother side of the French frontier, and offer him hospitality at\nBourges. \n\n At Bourges? \n\n Yes, he has not much to complain of; Bourges is the capital of Charles\nVII. Do you not know that all Paris knew it yesterday, and the day\nbefore it had already transpired on the Bourse, and M. Danglars (I do\nnot know by what means that man contrives to obtain intelligence as\nsoon as we do) made a million! \n\n And you another order, for I see you have a blue ribbon at your\nbutton-hole. \n\n Yes; they sent me the order of Charles III.,  returned Debray\ncarelessly.\n\n Come, do not affect indifference, but confess you were pleased to have\nit. \n\n Oh, it is very well as a finish to the toilet. It looks very neat on a\nblack coat buttoned up. \n\n And makes you resemble the Prince of Wales or the Duke of Reichstadt. \n\n It is for that reason you see me so early. \n\n Because you have the order of Charles III., and you wish to announce\nthe good news to me? \n\n No, because I passed the night writing letters, five-and-twenty\ndespatches. I returned home at daybreak, and strove to sleep; but my\nhead ached and I got up to have a ride for an hour. At the Bois de\nBoulogne, _ennui_ and hunger attacked me at once, two enemies who\nrarely accompany each other, and who are yet leagued against me, a sort\nof Carlo-republican alliance. I then recollected you gave a breakfast\nthis morning, and here I am. I am hungry, feed me; I am bored, amuse\nme. \n\n It is my duty as your host,  returned Albert, ringing the bell, while\nLucien turned over, with his gold-mounted cane, the papers that lay on\nthe table.  Germain, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. In the meantime,\nmy dear Lucien, here are cigars contraband, of course try them, and\npersuade the minister to sell us such instead of poisoning us with\ncabbage leaves. \n\n _Peste!_ I will do nothing of the kind; the moment they come from\ngovernment you would find them execrable. Besides, that does not\nconcern the home but the financial department. Address yourself to M.\nHumann, section of the indirect contributions, corridor A., No. 26. \n\n On my word,  said Albert,  you astonish me by the extent of your\nknowledge. Take a cigar. \n\n Really, my dear Albert,  replied Lucien, lighting a manilla at a\nrose-colored taper that burnt in a beautifully enamelled stand how\nhappy you are to have nothing to do. You do not know your own good\nfortune! \n\n And what would you do, my dear diplomatist,  replied Morcerf, with a\nslight degree of irony in his voice,  if you did nothing? What? private\nsecretary to a minister, plunged at once into European cabals and\nParisian intrigues; having kings, and, better still, queens, to\nprotect, parties to unite, elections to direct; making more use of your\ncabinet with your pen and your telegraph than Napoleon did of his\nbattle-fields with his sword and his victories; possessing\nfive-and-twenty thousand francs a year, besides your place; a horse,\nfor which Ch teau-Renaud offered you four hundred louis, and which you\nwould not part with; a tailor who never disappoints you; with the\nopera, the jockey-club, and other diversions, can you not amuse\nyourself? Well, I will amuse you. \n\n How? \n\n By introducing to you a new acquaintance. \n\n A man or a woman? \n\n A man. \n\n I know so many men already. \n\n But you do not know this man. \n\n Where does he come from the end of the world? \n\n Farther still, perhaps. \n\n The deuce! I hope he does not bring our breakfast with him. \n\n Oh, no; our breakfast comes from my father s kitchen. Are you hungry? \n\n Humiliating as such a confession is, I am. But I dined at M. de\nVillefort s, and lawyers always give you very bad dinners. You would\nthink they felt some remorse; did you ever remark that? \n\n Ah, depreciate other persons  dinners; you ministers give such\nsplendid ones. \n\n Yes; but we do not invite people of fashion. If we were not forced to\nentertain a parcel of country boobies because they think and vote with\nus, we should never dream of dining at home, I assure you. \n\n Well, take another glass of sherry and another biscuit. \n\n Willingly. Your Spanish wine is excellent. You see we were quite right\nto pacify that country. \n\n Yes; but Don Carlos? \n\n Well, Don Carlos will drink Bordeaux, and in ten years we will marry\nhis son to the little queen. \n\n You will then obtain the Golden Fleece, if you are still in the\nministry. \n\n I think, Albert, you have adopted the system of feeding me on smoke\nthis morning. \n\n Well, you must allow it is the best thing for the stomach; but I hear\nBeauchamp in the next room; you can dispute together, and that will\npass away the time. \n\n About what? \n\n About the papers. \n\n My dear friend,  said Lucien with an air of sovereign contempt,  do I\never read the papers? \n\n Then you will dispute the more. \n\n M. Beauchamp,  announced the servant.  Come in, come in,  said Albert,\nrising and advancing to meet the young man.  Here is Debray, who\ndetests you without reading you, so he says. \n\n He is quite right,  returned Beauchamp;  for I criticise him without\nknowing what he does. Good-day, commander! \n\n Ah, you know that already,  said the private secretary, smiling and\nshaking hands with him.\n\n _Pardieu!_ \n\n And what do they say of it in the world? \n\n In which world? we have so many worlds in the year of grace 1838. \n\n In the entire political world, of which you are one of the leaders. \n\n They say that it is quite fair, and that sowing so much red, you ought\nto reap a little blue. \n\n Come, come, that is not bad!  said Lucien.  Why do you not join our\nparty, my dear Beauchamp? With your talents you would make your fortune\nin three or four years. \n\n I only await one thing before following your advice; that is, a\nminister who will hold office for six months. My dear Albert, one word,\nfor I must give poor Lucien a respite. Do we breakfast or dine? I must\ngo to the Chamber, for our life is not an idle one. \n\n You only breakfast; I await two persons, and the instant they arrive\nwe shall sit down to table. \n\n\n\n Chapter 40. The Breakfast\n\nAnd what sort of persons do you expect to breakfast?  said Beauchamp.\n\n A gentleman, and a diplomatist. \n\n Then we shall have to wait two hours for the gentleman, and three for\nthe diplomatist. I shall come back to dessert; keep me some\nstrawberries, coffee, and cigars. I shall take a cutlet on my way to\nthe Chamber. \n\n Do not do anything of the sort; for were the gentleman a Montmorency,\nand the diplomatist a Metternich, we will breakfast at eleven; in the\nmeantime, follow Debray s example, and take a glass of sherry and a\nbiscuit. \n\n Be it so; I will stay; I must do something to distract my thoughts. \n\n You are like Debray, and yet it seems to me that when the minister is\nout of spirits, the opposition ought to be joyous. \n\n Ah, you do not know with what I am threatened. I shall hear this\nmorning that M. Danglars make a speech at the Chamber of Deputies, and\nat his wife s this evening I shall hear the tragedy of a peer of\nFrance. The devil take the constitutional government, and since we had\nour choice, as they say, at least, how could we choose that? \n\n I understand; you must lay in a stock of hilarity. \n\n Do not run down M. Danglars  speeches,  said Debray;  he votes for\nyou, for he belongs to the opposition. \n\n _Pardieu_, that is exactly the worst of all. I am waiting until you\nsend him to speak at the Luxembourg, to laugh at my ease. \n\n My dear friend,  said Albert to Beauchamp,  it is plain that the\naffairs of Spain are settled, for you are most desperately out of humor\nthis morning. Recollect that Parisian gossip has spoken of a marriage\nbetween myself and Mlle. Eug nie Danglars; I cannot in conscience,\ntherefore, let you run down the speeches of a man who will one day say\nto me,  Vicomte, you know I give my daughter two millions. \n\n Ah, this marriage will never take place,  said Beauchamp.  The king\nhas made him a baron, and can make him a peer, but he cannot make him a\ngentleman, and the Count of Morcerf is too aristocratic to consent, for\nthe paltry sum of two million francs, to a _m salliance_. The Viscount\nof Morcerf can only wed a marchioness. \n\n But two million francs make a nice little sum,  replied Morcerf.\n\n It is the social capital of a theatre on the boulevard, or a railroad\nfrom the Jardin des Plantes to La R p e. \n\n Never mind what he says, Morcerf,  said Debray,  do you marry her. You\nmarry a money-bag label, it is true; well, but what does that matter?\nIt is better to have a blazon less and a figure more on it. You have\nseven martlets on your arms; give three to your wife, and you will\nstill have four; that is one more than M. de Guise had, who so nearly\nbecame King of France, and whose cousin was Emperor of Germany. \n\n On my word, I think you are right, Lucien,  said Albert absently.\n\n To be sure; besides, every millionaire is as noble as a bastard that\nis, he can be. \n\n Do not say that, Debray,  returned Beauchamp, laughing,  for here is\nCh teau-Renaud, who, to cure you of your mania for paradoxes, will pass\nthe sword of Renaud de Montauban, his ancestor, through your body. \n\n He will sully it then,  returned Lucien;  for I am low very low. \n\n Oh, heavens,  cried Beauchamp,  the minister quotes B ranger, what\nshall we come to next? \n\n M. de Ch teau-Renaud M. Maximilian Morrel,  said the servant,\nannouncing two fresh guests.\n\n Now, then, to breakfast,  said Beauchamp;  for, if I remember, you\ntold me you only expected two persons, Albert. \n\n Morrel,  muttered Albert Morrel who is he? \n\nBut before he had finished, M. de Ch teau-Renaud, a handsome young man\nof thirty, gentleman all over, that is, with the figure of a Guiche and\nthe wit of a Mortemart, took Albert s hand.\n\n My dear Albert,  said he,  let me introduce to you M. Maximilian\nMorrel, captain of Spahis, my friend; and what is more however the man\nspeaks for himself my preserver. Salute my hero, viscount. \n\nAnd he stepped on one side to give place to a young man of refined and\ndignified bearing, with large and open brow, piercing eyes, and black\nmoustache, whom our readers have already seen at Marseilles, under\ncircumstances sufficiently dramatic not to be forgotten. A rich\nuniform, half French, half Oriental, set off his graceful and stalwart\nfigure, and his broad chest was decorated with the order of the Legion\nof Honor. The young officer bowed with easy and elegant politeness.\n\n Monsieur,  said Albert with affectionate courtesy,  the count of\nCh teau-Renaud knew how much pleasure this introduction would give me;\nyou are his friend, be ours also. \n\n Well said,  interrupted Ch teau-Renaud;  and pray that, if you should\never be in a similar predicament, he may do as much for you as he did\nfor me. \n\n What has he done?  asked Albert.\n\n Oh, nothing worth speaking of,  said Morrel;  M. de Ch teau-Renaud\nexaggerates. \n\n Not worth speaking of?  cried Ch teau-Renaud;  life is not worth\nspeaking of! that is rather too philosophical, on my word, Morrel. It\nis very well for you, who risk your life every day, but for me, who\nonly did so once \n\n We gather from all this, baron, that Captain Morrel saved your life. \n\n Exactly so. \n\n On what occasion?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n Beauchamp, my good fellow, you know I am starving,  said Debray:  do\nnot set him off on some long story. \n\n Well, I do not prevent your sitting down to table,  replied Beauchamp,\n Ch teau-Renaud can tell us while we eat our breakfast. \n\n Gentlemen,  said Morcerf,  it is only a quarter past ten, and I expect\nsomeone else. \n\n Ah, true, a diplomatist!  observed Debray.\n\n Diplomat or not, I don t know; I only know that he charged himself on\nmy account with a mission, which he terminated so entirely to my\nsatisfaction, that had I been king, I should have instantly created him\nknight of all my orders, even had I been able to offer him the Golden\nFleece and the Garter. \n\n Well, since we are not to sit down to table,  said Debray,  take a\nglass of sherry, and tell us all about it. \n\n You all know that I had the fancy of going to Africa. \n\n It is a road your ancestors have traced for you,  said Albert\ngallantly.\n\n Yes? but I doubt that your object was like theirs to rescue the Holy\nSepulchre. \n\n You are quite right, Beauchamp,  observed the young aristocrat.  It\nwas only to fight as an amateur. I cannot bear duelling ever since two\nseconds, whom I had chosen to arrange an affair, forced me to break the\narm of one of my best friends, one whom you all know poor Franz\nd pinay. \n\n Ah, true,  said Debray,  you did fight some time ago; about what? \n\n20235m\n\n\n\n The devil take me, if I remember,  returned Ch teau-Renaud.  But I\nrecollect perfectly one thing, that, being unwilling to let such\ntalents as mine sleep, I wished to try upon the Arabs the new pistols\nthat had been given to me. In consequence I embarked for Oran, and went\nfrom thence to Constantine, where I arrived just in time to witness the\nraising of the siege. I retreated with the rest, for eight-and-forty\nhours. I endured the rain during the day, and the cold during the night\ntolerably well, but the third morning my horse died of cold. Poor\nbrute accustomed to be covered up and to have a stove in the stable,\nthe Arabian finds himself unable to bear ten degrees of cold in\nArabia. \n\n That s why you want to purchase my English horse,  said Debray,  you\nthink he will bear the cold better. \n\n You are mistaken, for I have made a vow never to return to Africa. \n\n You were very much frightened, then?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n Well, yes, and I had good reason to be so,  replied Ch teau-Renaud.  I\nwas retreating on foot, for my horse was dead. Six Arabs came up, full\ngallop, to cut off my head. I shot two with my double-barrelled gun,\nand two more with my pistols, but I was then disarmed, and two were\nstill left; one seized me by the hair (that is why I now wear it so\nshort, for no one knows what may happen), the other swung a yataghan,\nand I already felt the cold steel on my neck, when this gentleman whom\nyou see here charged them, shot the one who held me by the hair, and\ncleft the skull of the other with his sabre. He had assigned himself\nthe task of saving a man s life that day; chance caused that man to be\nmyself. When I am rich I will order a statue of Chance from Klagmann or\nMarochetti. \n\n Yes,  said Morrel, smiling,  it was the 5th of September, the\nanniversary of the day on which my father was miraculously preserved;\ntherefore, as far as it lies in my power, I endeavor to celebrate it by\nsome \n\n20237m\n\n\n\n Heroic action,  interrupted Ch teau-Renaud.  I was chosen. But that is\nnot all after rescuing me from the sword, he rescued me from the cold,\nnot by sharing his cloak with me, like St. Martin, but by giving me the\nwhole; then from hunger by sharing with me guess what? \n\n A Strasbourg pie?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n No, his horse; of which we each of us ate a slice with a hearty\nappetite. It was very hard. \n\n The horse?  said Morcerf, laughing.\n\n No, the sacrifice,  returned Ch teau-Renaud;  ask Debray if he would\nsacrifice his English steed for a stranger? \n\n Not for a stranger,  said Debray,  but for a friend I might, perhaps. \n\n I divined that you would become mine, count,  replied Morrel;\n besides, as I had the honor to tell you, heroism or not, sacrifice or\nnot, that day I owed an offering to bad fortune in recompense for the\nfavors good fortune had on other days granted to us. \n\n The history to which M. Morrel alludes,  continued Ch teau-Renaud,  is\nan admirable one, which he will tell you some day when you are better\nacquainted with him; today let us fill our stomachs, and not our\nmemories. What time do you breakfast, Albert? \n\n At half-past ten. \n\n Precisely?  asked Debray, taking out his watch.\n\n Oh, you will give me five minutes  grace,  replied Morcerf,  for I\nalso expect a preserver. \n\n Of whom? \n\n Of myself,  cried Morcerf;  _parbleu!_ do you think I cannot be saved\nas well as anyone else, and that there are only Arabs who cut off\nheads? Our breakfast is a philanthropic one, and we shall have at\ntable at least, I hope so two benefactors of humanity. \n\n What shall we do?  said Debray;  we have only one Monthyon prize. \n\n Well, it will be given to someone who has done nothing to deserve it, \nsaid Beauchamp;  that is the way the Academy mostly escapes from the\ndilemma. \n\n And where does he come from?  asked Debray.  You have already answered\nthe question once, but so vaguely that I venture to put it a second\ntime. \n\n Really,  said Albert,  I do not know; when I invited him three months\nago, he was then at Rome, but since that time who knows where he may\nhave gone? \n\n And you think him capable of being exact?  demanded Debray.\n\n I think him capable of everything. \n\n Well, with the five minutes  grace, we have only ten left. \n\n I will profit by them to tell you something about my guest. \n\n I beg pardon,  interrupted Beauchamp;  are there any materials for an\narticle in what you are going to tell us? \n\n Yes, and for a most curious one. \n\n Go on, then, for I see I shall not get to the Chamber this morning,\nand I must make up for it. \n\n I was at Rome during the last Carnival. \n\n We know that,  said Beauchamp.\n\n Yes, but what you do not know is that I was carried off by bandits. \n\n There are no bandits,  cried Debray.\n\n Yes there are, and most hideous, or rather most admirable ones, for I\nfound them ugly enough to frighten me. \n\n Come, my dear Albert,  said Debray,  confess that your cook is\nbehindhand, that the oysters have not arrived from Ostend or Marennes,\nand that, like Madame de Maintenon, you are going to replace the dish\nby a story. Say so at once; we are sufficiently well-bred to excuse\nyou, and to listen to your history, fabulous as it promises to be. \n\n And I say to you, fabulous as it may seem, I tell it as a true one\nfrom beginning to end. The brigands had carried me off, and conducted\nme to a gloomy spot, called the Catacombs of Saint Sebastian. \n\n I know it,  said Ch teau-Renaud;  I narrowly escaped catching a fever\nthere. \n\n And I did more than that,  replied Morcerf,  for I caught one. I was\ninformed that I was prisoner until I paid the sum of 4,000 Roman\ncrowns about 24,000 francs. Unfortunately, I had not above 1,500. I was\nat the end of my journey and of my credit. I wrote to Franz and were he\nhere he would confirm every word I wrote then to Franz that if he did\nnot come with the four thousand crowns before six, at ten minutes past\nI should have gone to join the blessed saints and glorious martyrs in\nwhose company I had the honor of being; and Signor Luigi Vampa, such\nwas the name of the chief of these bandits, would have scrupulously\nkept his word. \n\n But Franz did come with the four thousand crowns,  said\nCh teau-Renaud.  A man whose name is Franz d pinay or Albert de\nMorcerf has not much difficulty in procuring them. \n\n No, he arrived accompanied simply by the guest I am going to present\nto you. \n\n Ah, this gentleman is a Hercules killing Cacus, a Perseus freeing\nAndromeda. \n\n No, he is a man about my own size. \n\n Armed to the teeth? \n\n He had not even a knitting-needle. \n\n But he paid your ransom? \n\n He said two words to the chief and I was free. \n\n And they apologized to him for having carried you off?  said\nBeauchamp.\n\n Just so. \n\n Why, he is a second Ariosto. \n\n No, his name is the Count of Monte Cristo. \n\n There is no Count of Monte Cristo  said Debray.\n\n I do not think so,  added Ch teau-Renaud, with the air of a man who\nknows the whole of the European nobility perfectly.\n\n Does anyone know anything of a Count of Monte Cristo? \n\n He comes possibly from the Holy Land, and one of his ancestors\npossessed Calvary, as the Mortemarts did the Dead Sea. \n\n I think I can assist your researches,  said Maximilian.  Monte Cristo\nis a little island I have often heard spoken of by the old sailors my\nfather employed a grain of sand in the centre of the Mediterranean, an\natom in the infinite. \n\n Precisely!  cried Albert.  Well, he of whom I speak is the lord and\nmaster of this grain of sand, of this atom; he has purchased the title\nof count somewhere in Tuscany. \n\n He is rich, then? \n\n I believe so. \n\n But that ought to be visible. \n\n That is what deceives you, Debray. \n\n I do not understand you. \n\n Have you read the _Arabian Nights_? \n\n What a question! \n\n Well, do you know if the persons you see there are rich or poor, if\ntheir sacks of wheat are not rubies or diamonds? They seem like poor\nfishermen, and suddenly they open some mysterious cavern filled with\nthe wealth of the Indies. \n\n Which means? \n\n Which means that my Count of Monte Cristo is one of those fishermen.\nHe has even a name taken from the book, since he calls himself Sinbad\nthe Sailor, and has a cave filled with gold. \n\n And you have seen this cavern, Morcerf?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n No, but Franz has; for heaven s sake, not a word of this before him.\nFranz went in with his eyes blindfolded, and was waited on by mutes and\nby women to whom Cleopatra was a painted strumpet. Only he is not quite\nsure about the women, for they did not come in until after he had taken\nhashish, so that what he took for women might have been simply a row of\nstatues. \n\nThe two young men looked at Morcerf as if to say, Are you mad, or are\nyou laughing at us? \n\n And I also,  said Morrel thoughtfully,  have heard something like this\nfrom an old sailor named Penelon. \n\n Ah,  cried Albert,  it is very lucky that M. Morrel comes to aid me;\nyou are vexed, are you not, that he thus gives a clew to the\nlabyrinth? \n\n My dear Albert,  said Debray,  what you tell us is so extraordinary. \n\n Ah, because your ambassadors and your consuls do not tell you of\nthem they have no time. They are too much taken up with interfering in\nthe affairs of their countrymen who travel. \n\n Now you get angry, and attack our poor agents. How will you have them\nprotect you? The Chamber cuts down their salaries every day, so that\nnow they have scarcely any. Will you be ambassador, Albert? I will send\nyou to Constantinople. \n\n No, lest on the first demonstration I make in favor of Mehemet Ali,\nthe Sultan send me the bowstring, and make my secretaries strangle me. \n\n You say very true,  responded Debray.\n\n Yes,  said Albert,  but this has nothing to do with the existence of\nthe Count of Monte Cristo. \n\n _Pardieu!_ everyone exists. \n\n Doubtless, but not in the same way; everyone has not black slaves, a\nprincely retinue, an arsenal of weapons that would do credit to an\nArabian fortress, horses that cost six thousand francs apiece, and\nGreek mistresses. \n\n Have you seen the Greek mistress? \n\n I have both seen and heard her. I saw her at the theatre, and heard\nher one morning when I breakfasted with the count. \n\n He eats, then? \n\n Yes; but so little, it can hardly be called eating. \n\n He must be a vampire. \n\n Laugh, if you will; the Countess G , who knew Lord Ruthven, declared\nthat the count was a vampire. \n\n Ah, capital,  said Beauchamp.  For a man not connected with\nnewspapers, here is the pendant to the famous sea-serpent of the\n_Constitutionnel_. \n\n Wild eyes, the iris of which contracts or dilates at pleasure,  said\nDebray;  facial angle strongly developed, magnificent forehead, livid\ncomplexion, black beard, sharp and white teeth, politeness\nunexceptionable. \n\n Just so, Lucien,  returned Morcerf;  you have described him feature\nfor feature. Yes, keen and cutting politeness. This man has often made\nme shudder; and one day when we were viewing an execution, I thought I\nshould faint, more from hearing the cold and calm manner in which he\nspoke of every description of torture, than from the sight of the\nexecutioner and the culprit. \n\n Did he not conduct you to the ruins of the Colosseum and suck your\nblood?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n Or, having delivered you, make you sign a flaming parchment,\nsurrendering your soul to him as Esau did his birth-right? \n\n Rail on, rail on at your ease, gentlemen,  said Morcerf, somewhat\npiqued.  When I look at you Parisians, idlers on the Boulevard de Gand\nor the Bois de Boulogne, and think of this man, it seems to me we are\nnot of the same race. \n\n I am highly flattered,  returned Beauchamp.\n\n At the same time,  added Ch teau-Renaud,  your Count of Monte Cristo\nis a very fine fellow, always excepting his little arrangements with\nthe Italian banditti. \n\n There are no Italian banditti,  said Debray.\n\n No vampire,  cried Beauchamp.\n\n No Count of Monte Cristo  added Debray.  There is half-past ten\nstriking, Albert. \n\n20243m\n\n\n\n Confess you have dreamed this, and let us sit down to breakfast, \ncontinued Beauchamp.\n\nBut the sound of the clock had not died away when Germain announced,\n His excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.  The involuntary start\neveryone gave proved how much Morcerf s narrative had impressed them,\nand Albert himself could not wholly refrain from manifesting sudden\nemotion. He had not heard a carriage stop in the street, or steps in\nthe antechamber; the door had itself opened noiselessly. The count\nappeared, dressed with the greatest simplicity, but the most fastidious\ndandy could have found nothing to cavil at in his toilet. Every article\nof dress hat, coat, gloves, and boots was from the first makers. He\nseemed scarcely five-and-thirty. But what struck everybody was his\nextreme resemblance to the portrait Debray had drawn. The count\nadvanced, smiling, into the centre of the room, and approached Albert,\nwho hastened towards him holding out his hand in a ceremonial manner.\n\n Punctuality,  said Monte Cristo,  is the politeness of kings,\naccording to one of your sovereigns, I think; but it is not the same\nwith travellers. However, I hope you will excuse the two or three\nseconds I am behindhand; five hundred leagues are not to be\naccomplished without some trouble, and especially in France, where, it\nseems, it is forbidden to beat the postilions. \n\n My dear count,  replied Albert,  I was announcing your visit to some\nof my friends, whom I had invited in consequence of the promise you did\nme the honor to make, and whom I now present to you. They are the Count\nof Ch teau-Renaud, whose nobility goes back to the twelve peers, and\nwhose ancestors had a place at the Round Table; M. Lucien Debray,\nprivate secretary to the minister of the interior; M. Beauchamp, an\neditor of a paper, and the terror of the French government, but of\nwhom, in spite of his national celebrity, you perhaps have not heard in\nItaly, since his paper is prohibited there; and M. Maximilian Morrel,\ncaptain of Spahis. \n\nAt this name the count, who had hitherto saluted everyone with\ncourtesy, but at the same time with coldness and formality, stepped a\npace forward, and a slight tinge of red colored his pale cheeks.\n\n You wear the uniform of the new French conquerors, monsieur,  said he;\n it is a handsome uniform. \n\nNo one could have said what caused the count s voice to vibrate so\ndeeply, and what made his eye flash, which was in general so clear,\nlustrous, and limpid when he pleased.\n\n You have never seen our Africans, count?  said Albert.\n\n Never,  replied the count, who was by this time perfectly master of\nhimself again.\n\n Well, beneath this uniform beats one of the bravest and noblest hearts\nin the whole army. \n\n Oh, M. de Morcerf,  interrupted Morrel.\n\n Let me go on, captain. And we have just heard,  continued Albert,  of\na new deed of his, and so heroic a one, that, although I have seen him\ntoday for the first time, I request you to allow me to introduce him as\nmy friend. \n\nAt these words it was still possible to observe in Monte Cristo the\nconcentrated look, changing color, and slight trembling of the eyelid\nthat show emotion.\n\n Ah, you have a noble heart,  said the count;  so much the better. \n\nThis exclamation, which corresponded to the count s own thought rather\nthan to what Albert was saying, surprised everybody, and especially\nMorrel, who looked at Monte Cristo with wonder. But, at the same time,\nthe intonation was so soft that, however strange the speech might seem,\nit was impossible to be offended at it.\n\n20245m\n\n\n\n Why should he doubt it?  said Beauchamp to Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n In reality,  replied the latter, who, with his aristocratic glance and\nhis knowledge of the world, had penetrated at once all that was\npenetrable in Monte Cristo,  Albert has not deceived us, for the count\nis a most singular being. What say you, Morrel! \n\n _Ma foi_, he has an open look about him that pleases me, in spite of\nthe singular remark he has made about me. \n\n Gentlemen,  said Albert,  Germain informs me that breakfast is ready.\nMy dear count, allow me to show you the way.  They passed silently into\nthe breakfast-room, and everyone took his place.\n\n Gentlemen,  said the count, seating himself,  permit me to make a\nconfession which must form my excuse for any improprieties I may\ncommit. I am a stranger, and a stranger to such a degree, that this is\nthe first time I have ever been at Paris. The French way of living is\nutterly unknown to me, and up to the present time I have followed the\nEastern customs, which are entirely in contrast to the Parisian. I beg\nyou, therefore, to excuse if you find anything in me too Turkish, too\nItalian, or too Arabian. Now, then, let us breakfast. \n\n With what an air he says all this,  muttered Beauchamp;  decidedly he\nis a great man. \n\n A great man in his own country,  added Debray.\n\n A great man in every country, M. Debray,  said Ch teau-Renaud.\n\nThe count was, it may be remembered, a most temperate guest. Albert\nremarked this, expressing his fears lest, at the outset, the Parisian\nmode of life should displease the traveller in the most essential\npoint.\n\n My dear count,  said he,  I fear one thing, and that is, that the fare\nof the Rue du Helder is not so much to your taste as that of the Piazza\ndi Spagna. I ought to have consulted you on the point, and have had\nsome dishes prepared expressly. \n\n Did you know me better,  returned the count, smiling,  you would not\ngive one thought of such a thing for a traveller like myself, who has\nsuccessively lived on macaroni at Naples, polenta at Milan, olla\npodrida at Valencia, pilau at Constantinople, curry in India, and\nswallows  nests in China. I eat everywhere, and of everything, only I\neat but little; and today, that you reproach me with my want of\nappetite, is my day of appetite, for I have not eaten since yesterday\nmorning. \n\n What,  cried all the guests,  you have not eaten for four-and-twenty\nhours? \n\n No,  replied the count;  I was forced to go out of my road to obtain\nsome information near N mes, so that I was somewhat late, and therefore\nI did not choose to stop. \n\n And you ate in your carriage?  asked Morcerf.\n\n No, I slept, as I generally do when I am weary without having the\ncourage to amuse myself, or when I am hungry without feeling inclined\nto eat. \n\n But you can sleep when you please, monsieur?  said Morrel.\n\n Yes. \n\n You have a recipe for it? \n\n An infallible one. \n\n That would be invaluable to us in Africa, who have not always any food\nto eat, and rarely anything to drink. \n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo;  but, unfortunately, a recipe excellent for a\nman like myself would be very dangerous applied to an army, which might\nnot awake when it was needed. \n\n May we inquire what is this recipe?  asked Debray.\n\n Oh, yes,  returned Monte Cristo;  I make no secret of it. It is a\nmixture of excellent opium, which I fetched myself from Canton in order\nto have it pure, and the best hashish which grows in the East that is,\nbetween the Tigris and the Euphrates. These two ingredients are mixed\nin equal proportions, and formed into pills. Ten minutes after one is\ntaken, the effect is produced. Ask Baron Franz d pinay; I think he\ntasted them one day. \n\n Yes,  replied Morcerf,  he said something about it to me. \n\n But,  said Beauchamp, who, as became a journalist, was very\nincredulous,  you always carry this drug about you? \n\n Always. \n\n Would it be an indiscretion to ask to see those precious pills? \ncontinued Beauchamp, hoping to take him at a disadvantage.\n\n No, monsieur,  returned the count; and he drew from his pocket a\nmarvellous casket, formed out of a single emerald and closed by a\ngolden lid which unscrewed and gave passage to a small greenish colored\npellet about the size of a pea. This ball had an acrid and penetrating\nodor. There were four or five more in the emerald, which would contain\nabout a dozen. The casket passed around the table, but it was more to\nexamine the admirable emerald than to see the pills that it passed from\nhand to hand.\n\n And is it your cook who prepares these pills?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n Oh, no, monsieur,  replied Monte Cristo;  I do not thus betray my\nenjoyments to the vulgar. I am a tolerable chemist, and prepare my\npills myself. \n\n This is a magnificent emerald, and the largest I have ever seen,  said\nCh teau-Renaud,  although my mother has some remarkable family jewels. \n\n I had three similar ones,  returned Monte Cristo.  I gave one to the\nSultan, who mounted it in his sabre; another to our holy father the\nPope, who had it set in his tiara, opposite to one nearly as large,\nthough not so fine, given by the Emperor Napoleon to his predecessor,\nPius VII. I kept the third for myself, and I had it hollowed out, which\nreduced its value, but rendered it more commodious for the purpose I\nintended. \n\nEveryone looked at Monte Cristo with astonishment; he spoke with so\nmuch simplicity that it was evident he spoke the truth, or that he was\nmad. However, the sight of the emerald made them naturally incline to\nthe former belief.\n\n And what did these two sovereigns give you in exchange for these\nmagnificent presents?  asked Debray.\n\n The Sultan, the liberty of a woman,  replied the Count;  the Pope, the\nlife of a man; so that once in my life I have been as powerful as if\nheaven had brought me into the world on the steps of a throne. \n\n And it was Peppino you saved, was it not?  cried Morcerf;  it was for\nhim that you obtained pardon? \n\n Perhaps,  returned the count, smiling.\n\n My dear count, you have no idea what pleasure it gives me to hear you\nspeak thus,  said Morcerf.  I had announced you beforehand to my\nfriends as an enchanter of the _Arabian Nights_, a wizard of the Middle\nAges; but the Parisians are so subtle in paradoxes that they mistake\nfor caprices of the imagination the most incontestable truths, when\nthese truths do not form a part of their daily existence. For example,\nhere is Debray who reads, and Beauchamp who prints, every day,  A\nmember of the Jockey Club has been stopped and robbed on the\nBoulevard;   four persons have been assassinated in the Rue St. Denis \nor  the Faubourg St. Germain;   ten, fifteen, or twenty thieves, have\nbeen arrested in a _caf _ on the Boulevard du Temple, or in the Thermes\nde Julien, and yet these same men deny the existence of the bandits in\nthe Maremma, the Campagna di Romana, or the Pontine Marshes. Tell them\nyourself that I was taken by bandits, and that without your generous\nintercession I should now have been sleeping in the Catacombs of St.\nSebastian, instead of receiving them in my humble abode in the Rue du\nHelder. \n\n Ah,  said Monte Cristo  you promised me never to mention that\ncircumstance. \n\n It was not I who made that promise,  cried Morcerf;  it must have been\nsomeone else whom you have rescued in the same manner, and whom you\nhave forgotten. Pray speak of it, for I shall not only, I trust, relate\nthe little I do know, but also a great deal I do not know. \n\n It seems to me,  returned the count, smiling,  that you played a\nsufficiently important part to know as well as myself what happened. \n\n20249m\n\n\n\n Well, you promise me, if I tell all I know, to relate, in your turn,\nall that I do not know? \n\n That is but fair,  replied Monte Cristo.\n\n Well,  said Morcerf,  for three days I believed myself the object of\nthe attentions of a masque, whom I took for a descendant of Tullia or\nPopp a, while I was simply the object of the attentions of a\n_contadina_, and I say _contadina_ to avoid saying peasant girl. What I\nknow is, that, like a fool, a greater fool than he of whom I spoke just\nnow, I mistook for this peasant girl a young bandit of fifteen or\nsixteen, with a beardless chin and slim waist, and who, just as I was\nabout to imprint a chaste salute on his lips, placed a pistol to my\nhead, and, aided by seven or eight others, led, or rather dragged me,\nto the Catacombs of St. Sebastian, where I found a highly educated\nbrigand chief perusing C sar s _Commentaries_, and who deigned to leave\noff reading to inform me, that unless the next morning, before six\no clock, four thousand piastres were paid into his account at his\nbanker s, at a quarter past six I should have ceased to exist. The\nletter is still to be seen, for it is in Franz d pinay s possession,\nsigned by me, and with a postscript of M. Luigi Vampa. This is all I\nknow, but I know not, count, how you contrived to inspire so much\nrespect in the bandits of Rome who ordinarily have so little respect\nfor anything. I assure you, Franz and I were lost in admiration. \n\n Nothing more simple,  returned the count.  I had known the famous\nVampa for more than ten years. When he was quite a child, and only a\nshepherd, I gave him a few gold pieces for showing me my way, and he,\nin order to repay me, gave me a poniard, the hilt of which he had\ncarved with his own hand, and which you may have seen in my collection\nof arms. In after years, whether he had forgotten this interchange of\npresents, which ought to have cemented our friendship, or whether he\ndid not recollect me, he sought to take me, but, on the contrary, it\nwas I who captured him and a dozen of his band. I might have handed him\nover to Roman justice, which is somewhat expeditious, and which would\nhave been particularly so with him; but I did nothing of the sort I\nsuffered him and his band to depart. \n\n With the condition that they should sin no more,  said Beauchamp,\nlaughing.  I see they kept their promise. \n\n No, monsieur,  returned Monte Cristo  upon the simple condition that\nthey should respect myself and my friends. Perhaps what I am about to\nsay may seem strange to you, who are socialists, and vaunt humanity and\nyour duty to your neighbor, but I never seek to protect a society which\ndoes not protect me, and which I will even say, generally occupies\nitself about me only to injure me; and thus by giving them a low place\nin my esteem, and preserving a neutrality towards them, it is society\nand my neighbor who are indebted to me. \n\n Bravo,  cried Ch teau-Renaud;  you are the first man I ever met\nsufficiently courageous to preach egotism. Bravo, count, bravo! \n\n It is frank, at least,  said Morrel.  But I am sure that the count\ndoes not regret having once deviated from the principles he has so\nboldly avowed. \n\n How have I deviated from those principles, monsieur?  asked Monte\nCristo, who could not help looking at Morrel with so much intensity,\nthat two or three times the young man had been unable to sustain that\nclear and piercing glance.\n\n Why, it seems to me,  replied Morrel,  that in delivering M. de\nMorcerf, whom you did not know, you did good to your neighbor and to\nsociety. \n\n Of which he is the brightest ornament,  said Beauchamp, drinking off a\nglass of champagne.\n\n My dear count,  cried Morcerf,  you are at fault you, one of the most\nformidable logicians I know and you must see it clearly proved that\ninstead of being an egotist, you are a philanthropist. Ah, you call\nyourself Oriental, a Levantine, Maltese, Indian, Chinese; your family\nname is Monte Cristo; Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal appellation,\nand yet the first day you set foot in Paris you instinctively display\nthe greatest virtue, or rather the chief defect, of us eccentric\nParisians, that is, you assume the vices you have not, and conceal the\nvirtues you possess. \n\n My dear vicomte,  returned Monte Cristo,  I do not see, in all I have\ndone, anything that merits, either from you or these gentlemen, the\npretended eulogies I have received. You were no stranger to me, for I\nknew you from the time I gave up two rooms to you, invited you to\nbreakfast with me, lent you one of my carriages, witnessed the Carnival\nin your company, and saw with you from a window in the Piazza del\nPopolo the execution that affected you so much that you nearly fainted.\nI will appeal to any of these gentlemen, could I leave my guest in the\nhands of a hideous bandit, as you term him? Besides, you know, I had\nthe idea that you could introduce me into some of the Paris salons when\nI came to France. You might some time ago have looked upon this\nresolution as a vague project, but today you see it was a reality, and\nyou must submit to it under penalty of breaking your word. \n\n I will keep it,  returned Morcerf;  but I fear that you will be much\ndisappointed, accustomed as you are to picturesque events and fantastic\nhorizons. Amongst us you will not meet with any of those episodes with\nwhich your adventurous existence has so familiarized you; our\nChimborazo is Mortmartre, our Himalaya is Mount Val rien, our Great\nDesert is the plain of Grenelle, where they are now boring an artesian\nwell to water the caravans. We have plenty of thieves, though not so\nmany as is said; but these thieves stand in far more dread of a\npoliceman than a lord. France is so prosaic, and Paris so civilized a\ncity, that you will not find in its eighty-five departments I say\neighty-five, because I do not include Corsica you will not find, then,\nin these eighty-five departments a single hill on which there is not a\ntelegraph, or a grotto in which the commissary of police has not put up\na gaslamp. There is but one service I can render you, and for that I\nplace myself entirely at your orders, that is, to present, or make my\nfriends present, you everywhere; besides, you have no need of anyone to\nintroduce you with your name, and your fortune, and your talent  (Monte\nCristo bowed with a somewhat ironical smile)  you can present yourself\neverywhere, and be well received. I can be useful in one way only if\nknowledge of Parisian habits, of the means of rendering yourself\ncomfortable, or of the bazaars, can assist, you may depend upon me to\nfind you a fitting dwelling here. I do not dare offer to share my\napartments with you, as I shared yours at Rome I, who do not profess\negotism, but am yet egotist _par excellence_; for, except myself, these\nrooms would not hold a shadow more, unless that shadow were feminine. \n\n Ah,  said the count,  that is a most conjugal reservation; I recollect\nthat at Rome you said something of a projected marriage. May I\ncongratulate you? \n\n The affair is still in projection. \n\n And he who says in  projection,  means already decided,  said Debray.\n\n No,  replied Morcerf,  my father is most anxious about it; and I hope,\nere long, to introduce you, if not to my wife, at least to my\nbetrothed Mademoiselle Eug nie Danglars. \n\n Eug nie Danglars,  said Monte Cristo;  tell me, is not her father\nBaron Danglars? \n\n Yes,  returned Morcerf,  a baron of a new creation. \n\n What matter,  said Monte Cristo  if he has rendered the State services\nwhich merit this distinction? \n\n Enormous ones,  answered Beauchamp.  Although in reality a Liberal, he\nnegotiated a loan of six millions for Charles X., in 1829, who made him\na baron and chevalier of the Legion of Honor; so that he wears the\nribbon, not, as you would think, in his waistcoat-pocket, but at his\nbutton-hole. \n\n Ah,  interrupted Morcerf, laughing,  Beauchamp, Beauchamp, keep that\nfor the _Corsaire_ or the _Charivari_, but spare my future\nfather-in-law before me.  Then, turning to Monte Cristo,  You just now\nspoke his name as if you knew the baron? \n\n I do not know him,  returned Monte Cristo;  but I shall probably soon\nmake his acquaintance, for I have a credit opened with him by the house\nof Richard & Blount, of London, Arstein & Eskeles of Vienna, and\nThomson & French at Rome.  As he pronounced the two last names, the\ncount glanced at Maximilian Morrel. If the stranger expected to produce\nan effect on Morrel, he was not mistaken Maximilian started as if he\nhad been electrified.\n\n Thomson & French,  said he;  do you know this house, monsieur? \n\n20253m\n\n\n\n They are my bankers in the capital of the Christian world,  returned\nthe count quietly.  Can my influence with them be of any service to\nyou? \n\n Oh, count, you could assist me perhaps in researches which have been,\nup to the present, fruitless. This house, in past years, did ours a\ngreat service, and has, I know not for what reason, always denied\nhaving rendered us this service. \n\n I shall be at your orders,  said Monte Cristo bowing.\n\n But,  continued Morcerf,  _  propos_ of Danglars, we have strangely\nwandered from the subject. We were speaking of a suitable habitation\nfor the Count of Monte Cristo. Come, gentlemen, let us all propose some\nplace. Where shall we lodge this new guest in our great capital? \n\n Faubourg Saint-Germain,  said Ch teau-Renaud.  The count will find\nthere a charming hotel, with a court and garden. \n\n Bah! Ch teau-Renaud,  returned Debray,  you only know your dull and\ngloomy Faubourg Saint-Germain; do not pay any attention to him,\ncount live in the Chauss e d Antin, that s the real centre of Paris. \n\n Boulevard de l Op ra,  said Beauchamp;  the second floor a house with\na balcony. The count will have his cushions of silver cloth brought\nthere, and as he smokes his chibouque, see all Paris pass before him. \n\n You have no idea, then, Morrel?  asked Ch teau-Renaud;  you do not\npropose anything. \n\n Oh, yes,  returned the young man, smiling;  on the contrary, I have\none, but I expected the count would be tempted by one of the brilliant\nproposals made him, yet as he has not replied to any of them, I will\nventure to offer him a suite of apartments in a charming hotel, in the\nPompadour style, that my sister has inhabited for a year, in the Rue\nMeslay. \n\n You have a sister?  asked the count.\n\n Yes, monsieur, a most excellent sister. \n\n Married? \n\n Nearly nine years. \n\n Happy?  asked the count again.\n\n As happy as it is permitted to a human creature to be,  replied\nMaximilian.  She married the man she loved, who remained faithful to us\nin our fallen fortunes Emmanuel Herbaut. \n\nMonte Cristo smiled imperceptibly.\n\n I live there during my leave of absence,  continued Maximilian;  and I\nshall be, together with my brother-in-law Emmanuel, at the disposition\nof the Count, whenever he thinks fit to honor us. \n\n One minute,  cried Albert, without giving Monte Cristo the time to\nreply.  Take care, you are going to immure a traveller, Sinbad the\nSailor, a man who comes to see Paris; you are going to make a patriarch\nof him. \n\n20255m\n\n\n\n Oh, no,  said Morrel;  my sister is five-and-twenty, my brother-in-law\nis thirty, they are gay, young, and happy. Besides, the count will be\nin his own house, and only see them when he thinks fit to do so. \n\n Thanks, monsieur,  said Monte Cristo;  I shall content myself with\nbeing presented to your sister and her husband, if you will do me the\nhonor to introduce me; but I cannot accept the offer of anyone of these\ngentlemen, since my habitation is already prepared. \n\n What,  cried Morcerf;  you are, then, going to a hotel that will be\nvery dull for you. \n\n Was I so badly lodged at Rome?  said Monte Cristo smiling.\n\n _Parbleu!_ at Rome you spent fifty thousand piastres in furnishing\nyour apartments, but I presume that you are not disposed to spend a\nsimilar sum every day. \n\n It is not that which deterred me,  replied Monte Cristo;  but as I\ndetermined to have a house to myself, I sent on my valet de chambre,\nand he ought by this time to have bought the house and furnished it. \n\n But you have, then, a valet de chambre who knows Paris?  said\nBeauchamp.\n\n It is the first time he has ever been in Paris. He is black, and\ncannot speak,  returned Monte Cristo.\n\n It is Ali!  cried Albert, in the midst of the general surprise.\n\n Yes, Ali himself, my Nubian mute, whom you saw, I think, at Rome. \n\n Certainly,  said Morcerf;  I recollect him perfectly. But how could\nyou charge a Nubian to purchase a house, and a mute to furnish it? he\nwill do everything wrong. \n\n Undeceive yourself, monsieur,  replied Monte Cristo;  I am quite sure,\nthat, on the contrary, he will choose everything as I wish. He knows my\ntastes, my caprices, my wants. He has been here a week, with the\ninstinct of a hound, hunting by himself. He will arrange everything for\nme. He knew, that I should arrive today at ten o clock; he was waiting\nfor me at nine at the Barri re de Fontainebleau. He gave me this paper;\nit contains the number of my new abode; read it yourself,  and Monte\nCristo passed a paper to Albert.\n\n Ah, that is really original,  said Beauchamp.\n\n And very princely,  added Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n What, do you not know your house?  asked Debray.\n\n No,  said Monte Cristo;  I told you I did not wish to be behind my\ntime; I dressed myself in the carriage, and descended at the viscount s\ndoor.  The young men looked at each other; they did not know if it was\na comedy Monte Cristo was playing, but every word he uttered had such\nan air of simplicity, that it was impossible to suppose what he said\nwas false besides, why should he tell a falsehood?\n\n We must content ourselves, then,  said Beauchamp,  with rendering the\ncount all the little services in our power. I, in my quality of\njournalist, open all the theatres to him. \n\n Thanks, monsieur,  returned Monte Cristo,  my steward has orders to\ntake a box at each theatre. \n\n Is your steward also a Nubian?  asked Debray.\n\n No, he is a countryman of yours, if a Corsican is a countryman of\nanyone s. But you know him, M. de Morcerf. \n\n Is it that excellent M. Bertuccio, who understands hiring windows so\nwell? \n\n Yes, you saw him the day I had the honor of receiving you; he has been\na soldier, a smuggler in fact, everything. I would not be quite sure\nthat he has not been mixed up with the police for some trifle a stab\nwith a knife, for instance. \n\n And you have chosen this honest citizen for your steward,  said\nDebray.  Of how much does he rob you every year? \n\n On my word,  replied the count,  not more than another. I am sure he\nanswers my purpose, knows no impossibility, and so I keep him. \n\n Then,  continued Ch teau-Renaud,  since you have an establishment, a\nsteward, and a hotel in the Champs- lys es, you only want a mistress. \nAlbert smiled. He thought of the fair Greek he had seen in the count s\nbox at the Argentina and Valle theatres.\n\n I have something better than that,  said Monte Cristo;  I have a\nslave. You procure your mistresses from the opera, the Vaudeville, or\nthe Vari t s; I purchased mine at Constantinople; it cost me more, but\nI have nothing to fear. \n\n But you forget,  replied Debray, laughing,  that we are Franks by name\nand franks by nature, as King Charles said, and that the moment she\nputs her foot in France your slave becomes free. \n\n Who will tell her? \n\n The first person who sees her. \n\n She only speaks Romaic. \n\n That is different. \n\n But at least we shall see her,  said Beauchamp,  or do you keep\neunuchs as well as mutes? \n\n Oh, no,  replied Monte Cristo;  I do not carry brutalism so far.\nEveryone who surrounds me is free to quit me, and when they leave me\nwill no longer have any need of me or anyone else; it is for that\nreason, perhaps, that they do not quit me. \n\nThey had long since passed to dessert and cigars.\n\n My dear Albert,  said Debray, rising,  it is half-past two. Your guest\nis charming, but you leave the best company to go into the worst\nsometimes. I must return to the minister s. I will tell him of the\ncount, and we shall soon know who he is. \n\n Take care,  returned Albert;  no one has been able to accomplish\nthat. \n\n Oh, we have three millions for our police; it is true they are almost\nalways spent beforehand, but, no matter, we shall still have fifty\nthousand francs to spend for this purpose. \n\n And when you know, will you tell me? \n\n I promise you. _Au revoir_, Albert. Gentlemen, good morning. \n\nAs he left the room, Debray called out loudly,  My carriage. \n\n Bravo,  said Beauchamp to Albert;  I shall not go to the Chamber, but\nI have something better to offer my readers than a speech of M.\nDanglars. \n\n For heaven s sake, Beauchamp,  returned Morcerf,  do not deprive me of\nthe merit of introducing him everywhere. Is he not peculiar? \n\n He is more than that,  replied Ch teau-Renaud;  he is one of the most\nextraordinary men I ever saw in my life. Are you coming, Morrel? \n\n Directly I have given my card to the count, who has promised to pay us\na visit at Rue Meslay, No. 14. \n\n Be sure I shall not fail to do so,  returned the count, bowing.\n\nAnd Maximilian Morrel left the room with the Baron de Ch teau-Renaud,\nleaving Monte Cristo alone with Morcerf.\n\n\n\n Chapter 41. The Presentation\n\nWhen Albert found himself alone with Monte Cristo,  My dear count, \nsaid he,  allow me to commence my services as _cicerone_ by showing you\na specimen of a bachelor s apartment. You, who are accustomed to the\npalaces of Italy, can amuse yourself by calculating in how many square\nfeet a young man who is not the worst lodged in Paris can live. As we\npass from one room to another, I will open the windows to let you\nbreathe. \n\nMonte Cristo had already seen the breakfast-room and the salon on the\nground floor. Albert led him first to his _atelier_, which was, as we\nhave said, his favorite apartment. Monte Cristo quickly appreciated all\nthat Albert had collected here old cabinets, Japanese porcelain,\nOriental stuffs, Venetian glass, arms from all parts of the\nworld everything was familiar to him; and at the first glance he\nrecognized their date, their country, and their origin.\n\nMorcerf had expected he should be the guide; on the contrary, it was he\nwho, under the count s guidance, followed a course of arch ology,\nmineralogy, and natural history.\n\nThey descended to the first floor; Albert led his guest into the salon.\nThe salon was filled with the works of modern artists; there were\nlandscapes by Dupr , with their long reeds and tall trees, their lowing\noxen and marvellous skies; Delacroix s Arabian cavaliers, with their\nlong white burnouses, their shining belts, their damasked arms, their\nhorses, who tore each other with their teeth while their riders\ncontended fiercely with their maces; _aquarelles_ of Boulanger,\nrepresenting Notre Dame de Paris with that vigor that makes the artist\nthe rival of the poet; there were paintings by Diaz, who makes his\nflowers more beautiful than flowers, his suns more brilliant than the\nsun; designs by Decamp, as vividly colored as those of Salvator Rosa,\nbut more poetic; _pastels_ by Giraud and M ller, representing children\nlike angels and women with the features of a virgin; sketches torn from\nthe album of Dauzats   Travels in the East,  that had been made in a\nfew seconds on the saddle of a camel, or beneath the dome of a\nmosque in a word, all that modern art can give in exchange and as\nrecompense for the art lost and gone with ages long since past.\n\nAlbert expected to have something new this time to show to the\ntraveller, but, to his great surprise, the latter, without seeking for\nthe signatures, many of which, indeed, were only initials, named\ninstantly the author of every picture in such a manner that it was easy\nto see that each name was not only known to him, but that each style\nassociated with it had been appreciated and studied by him. From the\nsalon they passed into the bedchamber; it was a model of taste and\nsimple elegance. A single portrait, signed by L opold Robert, shone in\nits carved and gilded frame. This portrait attracted the Count of Monte\nCristo s attention, for he made three rapid steps in the chamber, and\nstopped suddenly before it.\n\nIt was the portrait of a young woman of five or six-and-twenty, with a\ndark complexion, and light and lustrous eyes, veiled beneath long\nlashes. She wore the picturesque costume of the Catalan fisherwomen, a\nred and black bodice, and golden pins in her hair. She was looking at\nthe sea, and her form was outlined on the blue ocean and sky. The light\nwas so faint in the room that Albert did not perceive the pallor that\nspread itself over the count s visage, or the nervous heaving of his\nchest and shoulders. Silence prevailed for an instant, during which\nMonte Cristo gazed intently on the picture.\n\n You have there a most charming mistress, viscount,  said the count in\na perfectly calm tone;  and this costume a ball costume,\ndoubtless becomes her admirably. \n\n Ah, monsieur,  returned Albert,  I would never forgive you this\nmistake if you had seen another picture beside this. You do not know my\nmother; she it is whom you see here. She had her portrait painted thus\nsix or eight years ago. This costume is a fancy one, it appears, and\nthe resemblance is so great that I think I still see my mother the same\nas she was in 1830. The countess had this portrait painted during the\ncount s absence. She doubtless intended giving him an agreeable\nsurprise; but, strange to say, this portrait seemed to displease my\nfather, and the value of the picture, which is, as you see, one of the\nbest works of L opold Robert, could not overcome his dislike to it. It\nis true, between ourselves, that M. de Morcerf is one of the most\nassiduous peers at the Luxembourg, a general renowned for theory, but a\nmost mediocre amateur of art. It is different with my mother, who\npaints exceedingly well, and who, unwilling to part with so valuable a\npicture, gave it to me to put here, where it would be less likely to\ndisplease M. de Morcerf, whose portrait, by Gros, I will also show you.\nExcuse my talking of family matters, but as I shall have the honor of\nintroducing you to the count, I tell you this to prevent you making any\nallusions to this picture. The picture seems to have a malign\ninfluence, for my mother rarely comes here without looking at it, and\nstill more rarely does she look at it without weeping. This\ndisagreement is the only one that has ever taken place between the\ncount and countess, who are still as much united, although married more\nthan twenty years, as on the first day of their wedding. \n\n20261m\n\n\n\nMonte Cristo glanced rapidly at Albert, as if to seek a hidden meaning\nin his words, but it was evident the young man uttered them in the\nsimplicity of his heart.\n\n Now,  said Albert,  that you have seen all my treasures, allow me to\noffer them to you, unworthy as they are. Consider yourself as in your\nown house, and to put yourself still more at your ease, pray accompany\nme to the apartments of M. de Morcerf, he whom I wrote from Rome an\naccount of the services you rendered me, and to whom I announced your\npromised visit, and I may say that both the count and countess\nanxiously desire to thank you in person. You are somewhat _blas _ I\nknow, and family scenes have not much effect on Sinbad the Sailor, who\nhas seen so many others. However, accept what I propose to you as an\ninitiation into Parisian life a life of politeness, visiting, and\nintroductions. \n\nMonte Cristo bowed without making any answer; he accepted the offer\nwithout enthusiasm and without regret, as one of those conventions of\nsociety which every gentleman looks upon as a duty. Albert summoned his\nservant, and ordered him to acquaint M. and Madame de Morcerf of the\narrival of the Count of Monte Cristo. Albert followed him with the\ncount. When they arrived at the antechamber, above the door was visible\na shield, which, by its rich ornaments and its harmony with the rest of\nthe furniture, indicated the importance the owner attached to this\nblazon. Monte Cristo stopped and examined it attentively.\n\n Azure seven merlets, or, placed bender,  said he.  These are,\ndoubtless, your family arms? Except the knowledge of blazons, that\nenables me to decipher them, I am very ignorant of heraldry I, a count\nof a fresh creation, fabricated in Tuscany by the aid of a commandery\nof St. Stephen, and who would not have taken the trouble had I not been\ntold that when you travel much it is necessary. Besides, you must have\nsomething on the panels of your carriage, to escape being searched by\nthe custom-house officers. Excuse my putting such a question to you. \n\n It is not indiscreet,  returned Morcerf, with the simplicity of\nconviction.  You have guessed rightly. These are our arms, that is,\nthose of my father, but they are, as you see, joined to another shield,\nwhich has gules, a silver tower, which are my mother s. By her side I\nam Spanish, but the family of Morcerf is French, and, I have heard, one\nof the oldest of the south of France. \n\n Yes,  replied Monte Cristo  these blazons prove that. Almost all the\narmed pilgrims that went to the Holy Land took for their arms either a\ncross, in honor of their mission, or birds of passage, in sign of the\nlong voyage they were about to undertake, and which they hoped to\naccomplish on the wings of faith. One of your ancestors had joined the\nCrusades, and supposing it to be only that of St. Louis, that makes you\nmount to the thirteenth century, which is tolerably ancient. \n\n It is possible,  said Morcerf;  my father has in his study a\ngenealogical tree which will tell you all that, and on which I made\ncommentaries that would have greatly edified d Hozier and Jaucourt. At\npresent I no longer think of it, and yet I must tell you that we are\nbeginning to occupy ourselves greatly with these things under our\npopular government. \n\n Well, then, your government would do well to choose from the past\nsomething better than the things that I have noticed on your monuments,\nand which have no heraldic meaning whatever. As for you, viscount, \ncontinued Monte Cristo to Morcerf,  you are more fortunate than the\ngovernment, for your arms are really beautiful, and speak to the\nimagination. Yes, you are at once from Provence and Spain; that\nexplains, if the portrait you showed me be like, the dark hue I so much\nadmired on the visage of the noble Catalan. \n\nIt would have required the penetration of  dipus or the Sphinx to have\ndivined the irony the count concealed beneath these words, apparently\nuttered with the greatest politeness. Morcerf thanked him with a smile,\nand pushed open the door above which were his arms, and which, as we\nhave said, opened into the salon. In the most conspicuous part of the\nsalon was another portrait. It was that of a man, from five to\neight-and-thirty, in the uniform of a general officer, wearing the\ndouble epaulet of heavy bullion, that indicates superior rank, the\nribbon of the Legion of Honor around his neck, which showed he was a\ncommander, and on the right breast, the star of a grand officer of the\norder of the Saviour, and on the left that of the grand cross of\nCharles III., which proved that the person represented by the picture\nhad served in the wars of Greece and Spain, or, what was just the same\nthing as regarded decorations, had fulfilled some diplomatic mission in\nthe two countries.\n\nMonte Cristo was engaged in examining this portrait with no less care\nthan he had bestowed upon the other, when another door opened, and he\nfound himself opposite to the Count of Morcerf in person.\n\nHe was a man of forty to forty-five years, but he seemed at least\nfifty, and his black moustache and eyebrows contrasted strangely with\nhis almost white hair, which was cut short, in the military fashion. He\nwas dressed in plain clothes, and wore at his button-hole the ribbons\nof the different orders to which he belonged.\n\nHe entered with a tolerably dignified step, and some little haste.\nMonte Cristo saw him advance towards him without making a single step.\nIt seemed as if his feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes on the\nCount of Morcerf.\n\n Father,  said the young man,  I have the honor of presenting to you\nthe Count of Monte Cristo, the generous friend whom I had the good\nfortune to meet in the critical situation of which I have told you. \n\n You are most welcome, monsieur,  said the Count of Morcerf, saluting\nMonte Cristo with a smile,  and monsieur has rendered our house, in\npreserving its only heir, a service which insures him our eternal\ngratitude. \n\nAs he said these words, the count of Morcerf pointed to a chair, while\nhe seated himself in another opposite the window.\n\nMonte Cristo, in taking the seat Morcerf offered him, placed himself in\nsuch a manner as to remain concealed in the shadow of the large velvet\ncurtains, and read on the careworn and livid features of the count a\nwhole history of secret griefs written in each wrinkle time had planted\nthere.\n\n The countess,  said Morcerf,  was at her toilet when she was informed\nof the visit she was about to receive. She will, however, be in the\nsalon in ten minutes. \n\n It is a great honor to me,  returned Monte Cristo,  to be thus, on the\nfirst day of my arrival in Paris, brought in contact with a man whose\nmerit equals his reputation, and to whom fortune has for once been\nequitable, but has she not still on the plains of Mitidja, or in the\nmountains of Atlas, a marshal s staff to offer you? \n\n Oh,  replied Morcerf, reddening slightly,  I have left the service,\nmonsieur. Made a peer at the Restoration, I served through the first\ncampaign under the orders of Marshal Bourmont. I could, therefore,\nexpect a higher rank, and who knows what might have happened had the\nelder branch remained on the throne? But the Revolution of July was, it\nseems, sufficiently glorious to allow itself to be ungrateful, and it\nwas so for all services that did not date from the imperial period. I\ntendered my resignation, for when you have gained your epaulets on the\nbattle-field, you do not know how to man uvre on the slippery grounds\nof the salons. I have hung up my sword, and cast myself into politics.\nI have devoted myself to industry; I study the useful arts. During the\ntwenty years I served, I often wished to do so, but I had not the\ntime. \n\n These are the ideas that render your nation superior to any other, \nreturned Monte Cristo.  A gentleman of high birth, possessor of an\nample fortune, you have consented to gain your promotion as an obscure\nsoldier, step by step this is uncommon; then become general, peer of\nFrance, commander of the Legion of Honor, you consent to again commence\na second apprenticeship, without any other hope or any other desire\nthan that of one day becoming useful to your fellow-creatures; this,\nindeed, is praiseworthy, nay, more, it is sublime. \n\n20265m\n\n\n\nAlbert looked on and listened with astonishment; he was not used to see\nMonte Cristo give vent to such bursts of enthusiasm.\n\n Alas,  continued the stranger, doubtless to dispel the slight cloud\nthat covered Morcerf s brow,  we do not act thus in Italy; we grow\naccording to our race and our species, and we pursue the same lines,\nand often the same uselessness, all our lives. \n\n But, monsieur,  said the Count of Morcerf,  for a man of your merit,\nItaly is not a country, and France opens her arms to receive you;\nrespond to her call. France will not, perhaps, be always ungrateful.\nShe treats her children ill, but she always welcomes strangers. \n\n Ah, father,  said Albert with a smile,  it is evident you do not know\nthe Count of Monte Cristo; he despises all honors, and contents himself\nwith those written on his passport. \n\n That is the most just remark,  replied the stranger,  I ever heard\nmade concerning myself. \n\n You have been free to choose your career,  observed the Count of\nMorcerf, with a sigh;  and you have chosen the path strewed with\nflowers. \n\n Precisely, monsieur,  replied Monte Cristo with one of those smiles\nthat a painter could never represent or a physiologist analyze.\n\n If I did not fear to fatigue you,  said the general, evidently charmed\nwith the count s manners,  I would have taken you to the Chamber; there\nis a debate very curious to those who are strangers to our modern\nsenators. \n\n I shall be most grateful, monsieur, if you will, at some future time,\nrenew your offer, but I have been flattered with the hope of being\nintroduced to the countess, and I will therefore wait. \n\n Ah, here is my mother,  cried the viscount.\n\nMonte Cristo, turned round hastily, and saw Madame de Morcerf at the\nentrance of the salon, at the door opposite to that by which her\nhusband had entered, pale and motionless; when Monte Cristo turned\nround, she let fall her arm, which for some unknown reason had been\nresting on the gilded door-post. She had been there some moments, and\nhad heard the last words of the visitor. The latter rose and bowed to\nthe countess, who inclined herself without speaking.\n\n Ah! good heavens, madame,  said the count,  are you ill, or is it the\nheat of the room that affects you? \n\n Are you ill, mother?  cried the viscount, springing towards her.\n\nShe thanked them both with a smile.\n\n No,  returned she,  but I feel some emotion on seeing, for the first\ntime, the man without whose intervention we should have been in tears\nand desolation. Monsieur,  continued the countess, advancing with the\nmajesty of a queen,  I owe to you the life of my son, and for this I\nbless you. Now, I thank you for the pleasure you give me in thus\naffording me the opportunity of thanking you as I have blessed you,\nfrom the bottom of my heart. \n\nThe count bowed again, but lower than before; he was even paler than\nMerc d s.\n\n Madame,  said he,  the count and yourself recompense too generously a\nsimple action. To save a man, to spare a father s feelings, or a\nmother s sensibility, is not to do a good action, but a simple deed of\nhumanity. \n\nAt these words, uttered with the most exquisite sweetness and\npoliteness, Madame de Morcerf replied:\n\n It is very fortunate for my son, monsieur, that he found such a\nfriend, and I thank God that things are thus. \n\nAnd Merc d s raised her fine eyes to heaven with so fervent an\nexpression of gratitude, that the count fancied he saw tears in them.\nM. de Morcerf approached her.\n\n Madame,  said he.  I have already made my excuses to the count for\nquitting him, and I pray you to do so also. The sitting commences at\ntwo; it is now three, and I am to speak. \n\n Go, then, and monsieur and I will strive our best to forget your\nabsence,  replied the countess, with the same tone of deep feeling.\n Monsieur,  continued she, turning to Monte Cristo,  will you do us the\nhonor of passing the rest of the day with us? \n\n Believe me, madame, I feel most grateful for your kindness, but I got\nout of my travelling carriage at your door this morning, and I am\nignorant how I am installed in Paris, which I scarcely know; this is\nbut a trifling inquietude, I know, but one that may be appreciated. \n\n We shall have the pleasure another time,  said the countess;  you\npromise that? \n\nMonte Cristo inclined himself without answering, but the gesture might\npass for assent.\n\n I will not detain you, monsieur,  continued the countess;  I would not\nhave our gratitude become indiscreet or importunate. \n\n My dear Count,  said Albert,  I will endeavor to return your\npoliteness at Rome, and place my coup  at your disposal until your own\nbe ready. \n\n A thousand thanks for your kindness, viscount,  returned the Count of\nMonte Cristo  but I suppose that M. Bertuccio has suitably employed the\nfour hours and a half I have given him, and that I shall find a\ncarriage of some sort ready at the door. \n\nAlbert was used to the count s manner of proceeding; he knew that, like\nNero, he was in search of the impossible, and nothing astonished him,\nbut wishing to judge with his own eyes how far the count s orders had\nbeen executed, he accompanied him to the door of the house. Monte\nCristo was not deceived. As soon as he appeared in the Count of\nMorcerf s antechamber, a footman, the same who at Rome had brought the\ncount s card to the two young men, and announced his visit, sprang into\nthe vestibule, and when he arrived at the door the illustrious\ntraveller found his carriage awaiting him. It was a _coup _ of Koller s\nbuilding, and with horses and harness for which Drake had, to the\nknowledge of all the lions of Paris, refused on the previous day seven\nhundred guineas.\n\n Monsieur,  said the count to Albert,  I do not ask you to accompany me\nto my house, as I can only show you a habitation fitted up in a hurry,\nand I have, as you know, a reputation to keep up as regards not being\ntaken by surprise. Give me, therefore, one more day before I invite\nyou; I shall then be certain not to fail in my hospitality. \n\n If you ask me for a day, count, I know what to anticipate; it will not\nbe a house I shall see, but a palace. You have decidedly some genius at\nyour control. \n\n _Ma foi_, spread that idea,  replied the Count of Monte Cristo,\nputting his foot on the velvet-lined steps of his splendid carriage,\n and that will be worth something to me among the ladies. \n\nAs he spoke, he sprang into the vehicle, the door was closed, but not\nso rapidly that Monte Cristo failed to perceive the almost\nimperceptible movement which stirred the curtains of the apartment in\nwhich he had left Madame de Morcerf.\n\nWhen Albert returned to his mother, he found her in the boudoir\nreclining in a large velvet armchair, the whole room so obscure that\nonly the shining spangle, fastened here and there to the drapery, and\nthe angles of the gilded frames of the pictures, showed with some\ndegree of brightness in the gloom. Albert could not see the face of the\ncountess, as it was covered with a thin veil she had put on her head,\nand which fell over her features in misty folds, but it seemed to him\nas though her voice had altered. He could distinguish amid the perfumes\nof the roses and heliotropes in the flower-stands, the sharp and\nfragrant odor of volatile salts, and he noticed in one of the chased\ncups on the mantle-piece the countess s smelling-bottle, taken from its\nshagreen case, and exclaimed in a tone of uneasiness, as he entered:\n\n My dear mother, have you been ill during my absence? \n\n No, no, Albert, but you know these roses, tuberoses, and\norange-flowers throw out at first, before one is used to them, such\nviolent perfumes. \n\n Then, my dear mother,  said Albert, putting his hand to the bell,\n they must be taken into the antechamber. You are really ill, and just\nnow were so pale as you came into the room \n\n Was I pale, Albert? \n\n Yes; a pallor that suits you admirably, mother, but which did not the\nless alarm my father and myself. \n\n Did your father speak of it?  inquired Merc d s eagerly.\n\n No, madame; but do you not remember that he spoke of the fact to you? \n\n20269m\n\n\n\n Yes, I do remember,  replied the countess.\n\nA servant entered, summoned by Albert s ring of the bell.\n\n Take these flowers into the anteroom or dressing-room,  said the\nviscount;  they make the countess ill. \n\nThe footman obeyed his orders. A long pause ensued, which lasted until\nall the flowers were removed.\n\n What is this name of Monte Cristo?  inquired the countess, when the\nservant had taken away the last vase of flowers,  is it a family name,\nor the name of the estate, or a simple title? \n\n I believe, mother, it is merely a title. The count purchased an island\nin the Tuscan archipelago, and, as he told you today, has founded a\ncommandery. You know the same thing was done for Saint Stephen of\nFlorence, Saint George Constantinian of Parma, and even for the Order\nof Malta. Except this, he has no pretension to nobility, and calls\nhimself a chance count, although the general opinion at Rome is that\nthe count is a man of very high distinction. \n\n His manners are admirable,  said the countess,  at least, as far as I\ncould judge in the few minutes he remained here. \n\n They are perfect mother, so perfect, that they surpass by far all I\nhave known in the leading aristocracy of the three proudest nobilities\nof Europe the English, the Spanish, and the German. \n\nThe countess paused a moment; then, after a slight hesitation, she\nresumed.\n\n You have seen, my dear Albert I ask the question as a mother you have\nseen M. de Monte Cristo in his house, you are quicksighted, have much\nknowledge of the world, more tact than is usual at your age, do you\nthink the count is really what he appears to be? \n\n What does he appear to be? \n\n Why, you have just said, a man of high distinction. \n\n I told you, my dear mother, he was esteemed such. \n\n But what is your own opinion, Albert? \n\n I must tell you that I have not come to any decided opinion respecting\nhim, but I think him a Maltese. \n\n I do not ask you of his origin but what he is. \n\n Ah! what he is; that is quite another thing. I have seen so many\nremarkable things in him, that if you would have me really say what I\nthink, I shall reply that I really do look upon him as one of Byron s\nheroes, whom misery has marked with a fatal brand; some Manfred, some\nLara, some Werner, one of those wrecks, as it were, of some ancient\nfamily, who, disinherited of their patrimony, have achieved one by the\nforce of their adventurous genius, which has placed them above the laws\nof society. \n\n You say \n\n I say that Monte Cristo is an island in the midst of the\nMediterranean, without inhabitants or garrison, the resort of smugglers\nof all nations, and pirates of every flag. Who knows whether or not\nthese industrious worthies do not pay to their feudal lord some dues\nfor his protection? \n\n That is possible,  said the countess, reflecting.\n\n Never mind,  continued the young man,  smuggler or not, you must\nagree, mother dear, as you have seen him, that the Count of Monte\nCristo is a remarkable man, who will have the greatest success in the\nsalons of Paris. Why, this very morning, in my rooms, he made his\n_entr e_ amongst us by striking every man of us with amazement, not\neven excepting Ch teau-Renaud. \n\n And what do you suppose is the count s age?  inquired Merc d s,\nevidently attaching great importance to this question.\n\n Thirty-five or thirty-six, mother. \n\n So young, it is impossible,  said Merc d s, replying at the same time\nto what Albert said as well as to her own private reflection.\n\n It is the truth, however. Three or four times he has said to me, and\ncertainly without the slightest premeditation,  at such a period I was\nfive years old, at another ten years old, at another twelve,  and I,\ninduced by curiosity, which kept me alive to these details, have\ncompared the dates, and never found him inaccurate. The age of this\nsingular man, who is of no age, is then, I am certain, thirty-five.\nBesides, mother, remark how vivid his eye, how raven-black his hair,\nand his brow, though so pale, is free from wrinkles, he is not only\nvigorous, but also young. \n\nThe countess bent her head, as if beneath a heavy wave of bitter\nthoughts.\n\n And has this man displayed a friendship for you, Albert?  she asked\nwith a nervous shudder.\n\n I am inclined to think so. \n\n And do you like him? \n\n Why, he pleases me in spite of Franz d pinay, who tries to convince\nme that he is a being returned from the other world. \n\nThe countess shuddered.\n\n Albert,  she said, in a voice which was altered by emotion,  I have\nalways put you on your guard against new acquaintances. Now you are a\nman, and are able to give me advice; yet I repeat to you, Albert, be\nprudent. \n\n Why, my dear mother, it is necessary, in order to make your advice\nturn to account, that I should know beforehand what I have to distrust.\nThe count never plays, he only drinks pure water tinged with a little\nsherry, and is so rich that he cannot, without intending to laugh at\nme, try to borrow money. What, then, have I to fear from him? \n\n You are right,  said the countess,  and my fears are weakness,\nespecially when directed against a man who has saved your life. How did\nyour father receive him, Albert? It is necessary that we should be more\nthan complaisant to the count. M. de Morcerf is sometimes occupied, his\nbusiness makes him reflective, and he might, without intending it \n\n Nothing could be in better taste than my father s demeanor, madame, \nsaid Albert;  nay, more, he seemed greatly flattered at two or three\ncompliments which the count very skilfully and agreeably paid him with\nas much ease as if he had known him these thirty years. Each of these\nlittle tickling arrows must have pleased my father,  added Albert with\na laugh.  And thus they parted the best possible friends, and M. de\nMorcerf even wished to take him to the Chamber to hear the speakers. \n\nThe countess made no reply. She fell into so deep a reverie that her\neyes gradually closed. The young man, standing up before her, gazed\nupon her with that filial affection which is so tender and endearing\nwith children whose mothers are still young and handsome. Then, after\nseeing her eyes closed, and hearing her breathe gently, he believed she\nhad dropped asleep, and left the apartment on tiptoe, closing the door\nafter him with the utmost precaution.\n\n This devil of a fellow,  he muttered, shaking his head;  I said at the\ntime he would create a sensation here, and I measure his effect by an\ninfallible thermometer. My mother has noticed him, and he must\ntherefore, perforce, be remarkable. \n\nHe went down to the stables, not without some slight annoyance, when he\nremembered that the Count of Monte Cristo had laid his hands on a\n turnout  which sent his bays down to second place in the opinion of\nconnoisseurs.\n\n Most decidedly,  said he,  men are not equal, and I must beg my father\nto develop this theorem in the Chamber of Peers. \n\n\n\n Chapter 42. Monsieur Bertuccio\n\nMeanwhile the count had arrived at his house; it had taken him six\nminutes to perform the distance, but these six minutes were sufficient\nto induce twenty young men who knew the price of the equipage they had\nbeen unable to purchase themselves, to put their horses in a gallop in\norder to see the rich foreigner who could afford to give 20,000 francs\napiece for his horses.\n\nThe house Ali had chosen, and which was to serve as a town residence to\nMonte Cristo, was situated on the right hand as you ascend the\nChamps- lys es. A thick clump of trees and shrubs rose in the centre,\nand masked a portion of the front; around this shrubbery two alleys,\nlike two arms, extended right and left, and formed a carriage-drive\nfrom the iron gates to a double portico, on every step of which stood a\nporcelain vase, filled with flowers. This house, isolated from the\nrest, had, besides the main entrance, another in the Rue de Ponthieu.\nEven before the coachman had hailed the _concierge_, the massy gates\nrolled on their hinges they had seen the Count coming, and at Paris, as\neverywhere else, he was served with the rapidity of lightning. The\ncoachman entered and traversed the half-circle without slackening his\nspeed, and the gates were closed ere the wheels had ceased to sound on\nthe gravel. The carriage stopped at the left side of the portico, two\nmen presented themselves at the carriage-window; the one was Ali, who,\nsmiling with an expression of the most sincere joy, seemed amply repaid\nby a mere look from Monte Cristo. The other bowed respectfully, and\noffered his arm to assist the count in descending.\n\n Thanks, M. Bertuccio,  said the count, springing lightly up the three\nsteps of the portico;  and the notary? \n\n He is in the small salon, excellency,  returned Bertuccio.\n\n And the cards I ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number\nof the house? \n\n Your excellency, it is done already. I have been myself to the best\nengraver of the Palais Royal, who did the plate in my presence. The\nfirst card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to the Baron\nDanglars, Rue de la Chauss e d Antin, No. 7; the others are on the\nmantle-piece of your excellency s bedroom. \n\n Good; what o clock is it? \n\n Four o clock. \n\nMonte Cristo gave his hat, cane, and gloves to the same French footman\nwho had called his carriage at the Count of Morcerf s, and then he\npassed into the small salon, preceded by Bertuccio, who showed him the\nway.\n\n These are but indifferent marbles in this antechamber,  said Monte\nCristo.  I trust all this will soon be taken away. \n\nBertuccio bowed. As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the\nsmall salon. He was a simple-looking lawyer s clerk, elevated to the\nextraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.\n\n You are the notary empowered to sell the country house that I wish to\npurchase, monsieur?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n Yes, count,  returned the notary.\n\n Is the deed of sale ready? \n\n Yes, count. \n\n Have you brought it? \n\n Here it is. \n\n Very well; and where is this house that I purchase?  asked the count\ncarelessly, addressing himself half to Bertuccio, half to the notary.\nThe steward made a gesture that signified,  I do not know.  The notary\nlooked at the count with astonishment.\n\n What!  said he,  does not the count know where the house he purchases\nis situated? \n\n No,  returned the count.\n\n The count does not know? \n\n How should I know? I have arrived from Cadiz this morning. I have\nnever before been at Paris, and it is the first time I have ever even\nset my foot in France. \n\n Ah, that is different; the house you purchase is at Auteuil. \n\nAt these words Bertuccio turned pale.\n\n And where is Auteuil?  asked the count.\n\n Close by here, monsieur,  replied the notary a little beyond Passy; a\ncharming situation, in the heart of the Bois de Boulogne. \n\n So near as that?  said the Count;  but that is not in the country.\nWhat made you choose a house at the gates of Paris, M. Bertuccio? \n\n I,  cried the steward with a strange expression.  His excellency did\nnot charge me to purchase this house. If his excellency will\nrecollect if he will think \n\n Ah, true,  observed Monte Cristo;  I recollect now. I read the\nadvertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title,\n a country house. \n\n It is not yet too late,  cried Bertuccio, eagerly;  and if your\nexcellency will intrust me with the commission, I will find you a\nbetter at Enghien, at Fontenay-aux-Roses, or at Bellevue. \n\n Oh, no,  returned Monte Cristo negligently;  since I have this, I will\nkeep it. \n\n And you are quite right,  said the notary, who feared to lose his fee.\n It is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine\ntrees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time,\nwithout reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable,\nnow that old things are so much sought after. I suppose the count has\nthe tastes of the day? \n\n To be sure,  returned Monte Cristo;  it is very convenient, then? \n\n It is more it is magnificent. \n\n _Peste!_ let us not lose such an opportunity,  returned Monte Cristo.\n The deed, if you please, Mr. Notary. \n\nAnd he signed it rapidly, after having first run his eye over that part\nof the deed in which were specified the situation of the house and the\nnames of the proprietors.\n\n Bertuccio,  said he,  give fifty-five thousand francs to monsieur. \n\nThe steward left the room with a faltering step, and returned with a\nbundle of bank-notes, which the notary counted like a man who never\ngives a receipt for money until after he is sure it is all there.\n\n And now,  demanded the count,  are all the forms complied with? \n\n All, sir. \n\n Have you the keys? \n\n They are in the hands of the concierge, who takes care of the house,\nbut here is the order I have given him to install the count in his new\npossessions. \n\n Very well;  and Monte Cristo made a sign with his hand to the notary,\nwhich said,  I have no further need of you; you may go. \n\n But,  observed the honest notary,  the count is, I think, mistaken; it\nis only fifty thousand francs, everything included. \n\n And your fee? \n\n Is included in this sum. \n\n But have you not come from Auteuil here? \n\n Yes, certainly. \n\n Well, then, it is but fair that you should be paid for your loss of\ntime and trouble,  said the count; and he made a gesture of polite\ndismissal.\n\nThe notary left the room backwards, and bowing down to the ground; it\nwas the first time he had ever met a similar client.\n\n See this gentleman out,  said the count to Bertuccio. And the steward\nfollowed the notary out of the room.\n\nScarcely was the count alone, when he drew from his pocket a book\nclosed with a lock, and opened it with a key which he wore round his\nneck, and which never left him. After having sought for a few minutes,\nhe stopped at a leaf which had several notes, and compared them with\nthe deed of sale, which lay on the table, and recalling his\n_souvenirs_ \n\n Auteuil, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28;  it is indeed the same,  said\nhe;  and now, am I to rely upon an avowal extorted by religious or\nphysical terror? However, in an hour I shall know all. Bertuccio! \ncried he, striking a light hammer with a pliant handle on a small gong.\n Bertuccio! \n\nThe steward appeared at the door.\n\n Monsieur Bertuccio,  said the count,  did you never tell me that you\nhad travelled in France? \n\n In some parts of France yes, excellency. \n\n You know the environs of Paris, then? \n\n No, excellency, no,  returned the steward, with a sort of nervous\ntrembling, which Monte Cristo, a connoisseur in all emotions, rightly\nattributed to great disquietude.\n\n It is unfortunate,  returned he,  that you have never visited the\nenvirons, for I wish to see my new property this evening, and had you\ngone with me, you could have given me some useful information. \n\n To Auteuil!  cried Bertuccio, whose copper complexion became livid I\ngo to Auteuil? \n\n Well, what is there surprising in that? When I live at Auteuil, you\nmust come there, as you belong to my service. \n\nBertuccio hung down his head before the imperious look of his master,\nand remained motionless, without making any answer.\n\n Why, what has happened to you? are you going to make me ring a second\ntime for the carriage?  asked Monte Cristo, in the same tone that Louis\nXIV. pronounced the famous,  I have been almost obliged to wait. \nBertuccio made but one bound to the antechamber, and cried in a hoarse\nvoice:\n\n His excellency s horses! \n\nMonte Cristo wrote two or three notes, and, as he sealed the last, the\nsteward appeared.\n\n Your excellency s carriage is at the door,  said he.\n\n Well, take your hat and gloves,  returned Monte Cristo.\n\n Am I to accompany you, your excellency?  cried Bertuccio.\n\n Certainly, you must give the orders, for I intend residing at the\nhouse. \n\n20277m\n\n\n\nIt was unexampled for a servant of the count s to dare to dispute an\norder of his, so the steward, without saying a word, followed his\nmaster, who got into the carriage, and signed to him to follow, which\nhe did, taking his place respectfully on the front seat.\n\n\n\n Chapter 43. The House at Auteuil\n\nMonte Cristo noticed, as they descended the staircase, that Bertuccio\nsigned himself in the Corsican manner; that is, had formed the sign of\nthe cross in the air with his thumb, and as he seated himself in the\ncarriage, muttered a short prayer. Anyone but a man of exhaustless\nthirst for knowledge would have had pity on seeing the steward s\nextraordinary repugnance for the count s projected drive without the\nwalls; but the count was too curious to let Bertuccio off from this\nlittle journey. In twenty minutes they were at Auteuil; the steward s\nemotion had continued to augment as they entered the village.\nBertuccio, crouched in the corner of the carriage, began to examine\nwith a feverish anxiety every house they passed.\n\n Tell them to stop at Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28,  said the count,\nfixing his eyes on the steward, to whom he gave this order.\n\nBertuccio s forehead was covered with perspiration; however, he obeyed,\nand, leaning out of the window, he cried to the coachman, Rue de la\nFontaine, No. 28.  No. 28 was situated at the extremity of the village;\nduring the drive night had set in, and darkness gave the surroundings\nthe artificial appearance of a scene on the stage. The carriage\nstopped, the footman sprang off the box and opened the door.\n\n Well,  said the count,  you do not get out, M. Bertuccio you are going\nto stay in the carriage, then? What are you thinking of this evening? \n\nBertuccio sprang out, and offered his shoulder to the count, who, this\ntime, leaned upon it as he descended the three steps of the carriage.\n\n Knock,  said the count,  and announce me. \n\nBertuccio knocked, the door opened, and the concierge appeared.\n\n What is it?  asked he.\n\n It is your new master, my good fellow,  said the footman. And he held\nout to the concierge the notary s order.\n\n The house is sold, then?  demanded the concierge;  and this gentleman\nis coming to live here? \n\n Yes, my friend,  returned the count;  and I will endeavor to give you\nno cause to regret your old master. \n\n Oh, monsieur,  said the concierge,  I shall not have much cause to\nregret him, for he came here but seldom; it is five years since he was\nhere last, and he did well to sell the house, for it did not bring him\nin anything at all. \n\n What was the name of your old master?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n The Marquis of Saint-M ran. Ah, I am sure he has not sold the house\nfor what he gave for it. \n\n The Marquis of Saint-M ran!  returned the count.  The name is not\nunknown to me; the Marquis of Saint-M ran!  and he appeared to\nmeditate.\n\n An old gentleman,  continued the concierge,  a staunch follower of the\nBourbons; he had an only daughter, who married M. de Villefort, who had\nbeen the king s attorney at N mes, and afterwards at Versailles. \n\nMonte Cristo glanced at Bertuccio, who became whiter than the wall\nagainst which he leaned to prevent himself from falling.\n\n And is not this daughter dead?  demanded Monte Cristo;  I fancy I have\nheard so. \n\n Yes, monsieur, one-and-twenty years ago; and since then we have not\nseen the poor marquis three times. \n\n Thanks, thanks,  said Monte Cristo, judging from the steward s utter\nprostration that he could not stretch the cord further without danger\nof breaking it.  Give me a light. \n\n Shall I accompany you, monsieur? \n\n No, it is unnecessary; Bertuccio will show me a light. \n\nAnd Monte Cristo accompanied these words by the gift of two gold\npieces, which produced a torrent of thanks and blessings from the\nconcierge.\n\n Ah, monsieur,  said he, after having vainly searched on the\nmantle-piece and the shelves,  I have not got any candles. \n\n Take one of the carriage-lamps, Bertuccio,  said the count,  and show\nme the apartments. \n\nThe steward obeyed in silence, but it was easy to see, from the manner\nin which the hand that held the light trembled, how much it cost him to\nobey. They went over a tolerably large ground floor; a first floor\nconsisted of a salon, a bathroom, and two bedrooms; near one of the\nbedrooms they came to a winding staircase that led down to the garden.\n\n Ah, here is a private staircase,  said the count;  that is convenient.\nLight me, M. Bertuccio, and go first; we will see where it leads to. \n\n Monsieur,  replied Bertuccio,  it leads to the garden. \n\n And, pray, how do you know that? \n\n It ought to do so, at least. \n\n Well, let us be sure of that. \n\nBertuccio sighed, and went on first; the stairs did, indeed, lead to\nthe garden. At the outer door the steward paused.\n\n Go on, Monsieur Bertuccio,  said the count.\n\nBut he who was addressed stood there, stupefied, bewildered, stunned;\nhis haggard eyes glanced around, as if in search of the traces of some\nterrible event, and with his clenched hands he seemed striving to shut\nout horrible recollections.\n\n Well!  insisted the Count.\n\n No, no,  cried Bertuccio, setting down the lantern at the angle of the\ninterior wall.  No, monsieur, it is impossible; I can go no farther. \n\n What does this mean?  demanded the irresistible voice of Monte Cristo.\n\n Why, you must see, your excellency,  cried the steward,  that this is\nnot natural; that, having a house to purchase, you purchase it exactly\nat Auteuil, and that, purchasing it at Auteuil, this house should be\nNo. 28, Rue de la Fontaine. Oh, why did I not tell you all? I am sure\nyou would not have forced me to come. I hoped your house would have\nbeen some other one than this; as if there was not another house at\nAuteuil than that of the assassination! \n\n What, what!  cried Monte Cristo, stopping suddenly,  what words do you\nutter? Devil of a man, Corsican that you are always mysteries or\nsuperstitions. Come, take the lantern, and let us visit the garden; you\nare not afraid of ghosts with me, I hope? \n\nBertuccio raised the lantern, and obeyed. The door, as it opened,\ndisclosed a gloomy sky, in which the moon strove vainly to struggle\nthrough a sea of clouds that covered her with billows of vapor which\nshe illumined for an instant, only to sink into obscurity. The steward\nwished to turn to the left.\n\n No, no, monsieur,  said Monte Cristo.  What is the use of following\nthe alleys? Here is a beautiful lawn; let us go on straight forwards. \n\nBertuccio wiped the perspiration from his brow, but obeyed; however, he\ncontinued to take the left hand. Monte Cristo, on the contrary, took\nthe right hand; arrived near a clump of trees, he stopped. The steward\ncould not restrain himself.\n\n Move, monsieur move away, I entreat you; you are exactly in the spot! \n\n What spot? \n\n Where he fell. \n\n20281m\n\n\n\n My dear Monsieur Bertuccio,  said Monte Cristo, laughing,  control\nyourself; we are not at Sart ne or at Corte. This is not a Corsican\n_maquis_ but an English garden; badly kept, I own, but still you must\nnot calumniate it for that. \n\n Monsieur, I implore you do not stay there! \n\n I think you are going mad, Bertuccio,  said the count coldly.  If that\nis the case, I warn you, I shall have you put in a lunatic asylum. \n\n Alas! excellency,  returned Bertuccio, joining his hands, and shaking\nhis head in a manner that would have excited the count s laughter, had\nnot thoughts of a superior interest occupied him, and rendered him\nattentive to the least revelation of this timorous conscience.  Alas!\nexcellency, the evil has arrived! \n\n M. Bertuccio,  said the count,  I am very glad to tell you, that while\nyou gesticulate, you wring your hands and roll your eyes like a man\npossessed by a devil who will not leave him; and I have always\nobserved, that the devil most obstinate to be expelled is a secret. I\nknew you were a Corsican. I knew you were gloomy, and always brooding\nover some old history of the vendetta; and I overlooked that in Italy,\nbecause in Italy those things are thought nothing of. But in France\nthey are considered in very bad taste; there are gendarmes who occupy\nthemselves with such affairs, judges who condemn, and scaffolds which\navenge. \n\nBertuccio clasped his hands, and as, in all these evolutions, he did\nnot let fall the lantern, the light showed his pale and altered\ncountenance. Monte Cristo examined him with the same look that, at\nRome, he had bent upon the execution of Andrea, and then, in a tone\nthat made a shudder pass through the veins of the poor steward \n\n The Abb  Busoni, then told me an untruth,  said he,  when, after his\njourney in France, in 1829, he sent you to me, with a letter of\nrecommendation, in which he enumerated all your valuable qualities.\nWell, I shall write to the abb ; I shall hold him responsible for his\n_prot g s_ misconduct, and I shall soon know all about this\nassassination. Only I warn you, that when I reside in a country, I\nconform to all its code, and I have no wish to put myself within the\ncompass of the French laws for your sake. \n\n Oh, do not do that, excellency; I have always served you faithfully, \ncried Bertuccio, in despair.  I have always been an honest man, and, as\nfar as lay in my power, I have done good. \n\n I do not deny it,  returned the count;  but why are you thus agitated.\nIt is a bad sign; a quiet conscience does not occasion such paleness in\nthe cheeks, and such fever in the hands of a man. \n\n But, your excellency,  replied Bertuccio hesitatingly,  did not the\nAbb  Busoni, who heard my confession in the prison at N mes, tell you\nthat I had a heavy burden upon my conscience? \n\n Yes; but as he said you would make an excellent steward, I concluded\nyou had stolen that was all. \n\n Oh, your excellency!  returned Bertuccio in deep contempt.\n\n Or, as you are a Corsican, that you had been unable to resist the\ndesire of making a  stiff,  as you call it. \n\n Yes, my good master,  cried Bertuccio, casting himself at the count s\nfeet,  it was simply vengeance nothing else. \n\n I understand that, but I do not understand what it is that galvanizes\nyou in this manner. \n\n But, monsieur, it is very natural,  returned Bertuccio,  since it was\nin this house that my vengeance was accomplished. \n\n What! my house? \n\n Oh, your excellency, it was not yours, then. \n\n Whose, then? The Marquis de Saint-M ran, I think, the concierge said.\nWhat had you to revenge on the Marquis de Saint-M ran? \n\n Oh, it was not on him, monsieur; it was on another. \n\n This is strange,  returned Monte Cristo, seeming to yield to his\nreflections,  that you should find yourself without any preparation in\na house where the event happened that causes you so much remorse. \n\n Monsieur,  said the steward,  it is fatality, I am sure. First, you\npurchase a house at Auteuil this house is the one where I have\ncommitted an assassination; you descend to the garden by the same\nstaircase by which he descended; you stop at the spot where he received\nthe blow; and two paces farther is the grave in which he had just\nburied his child. This is not chance, for chance, in this case, is too\nmuch like Providence. \n\n Well, amiable Corsican, let us suppose it is Providence. I always\nsuppose anything people please, and, besides, you must concede\nsomething to diseased minds. Come, collect yourself, and tell me all. \n\n I have related it but once, and that was to the Abb  Busoni. Such\nthings,  continued Bertuccio, shaking his head,  are only related under\nthe seal of confession. \n\n Then,  said the count,  I refer you to your confessor. Turn Chartreux\nor Trappist, and relate your secrets, but, as for me, I do not like\nanyone who is alarmed by such phantasms, and I do not choose that my\nservants should be afraid to walk in the garden of an evening. I\nconfess I am not very desirous of a visit from the commissary of\npolice, for, in Italy, justice is only paid when silent in France she\nis paid only when she speaks. _Peste!_ I thought you somewhat Corsican,\na great deal smuggler, and an excellent steward; but I see you have\nother strings to your bow. You are no longer in my service, Monsieur\nBertuccio. \n\n Oh, your excellency, your excellency!  cried the steward, struck with\nterror at this threat,  if that is the only reason I cannot remain in\nyour service, I will tell all, for if I quit you, it will only be to go\nto the scaffold. \n\n That is different,  replied Monte Cristo;  but if you intend to tell\nan untruth, reflect it were better not to speak at all. \n\n No, monsieur, I swear to you, by my hopes of salvation, I will tell\nyou all, for the Abb  Busoni himself only knew a part of my secret;\nbut, I pray you, go away from that plane-tree. The moon is just\nbursting through the clouds, and there, standing where you do, and\nwrapped in that cloak that conceals your figure, you remind me of M. de\nVillefort. \n\n What!  cried Monte Cristo,  it was M. de Villefort? \n\n Your excellency knows him? \n\n The former royal attorney at N mes? \n\n Yes. \n\n Who married the Marquis of Saint-M ran s daughter? \n\n Yes. \n\n Who enjoyed the reputation of being the most severe, the most upright,\nthe most rigid magistrate on the bench? \n\n Well, monsieur,  said Bertuccio,  this man with this spotless\nreputation \n\n Well? \n\n Was a villain. \n\n Bah,  replied Monte Cristo,  impossible! \n\n It is as I tell you. \n\n Ah, really,  said Monte Cristo.  Have you proof of this? \n\n I had it. \n\n And you have lost it; how stupid! \n\n Yes; but by careful search it might be recovered. \n\n Really,  returned the count,  relate it to me, for it begins to\ninterest me. \n\nAnd the count, humming an air from _Lucia_, went to sit down on a\nbench, while Bertuccio followed him, collecting his thoughts. Bertuccio\nremained standing before him.\n\n20285m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 44. The Vendetta\n\nAt what point shall I begin my story, your excellency?  asked\nBertuccio.\n\n Where you please,  returned Monte Cristo,  since I know nothing at all\nof it. \n\n I thought the Abb  Busoni had told your excellency. \n\n Some particulars, doubtless, but that is seven or eight years ago, and\nI have forgotten them. \n\n Then I can speak without fear of tiring your excellency. \n\n Go on, M. Bertuccio; you will supply the want of the evening papers. \n\n The story begins in 1815. \n\n Ah,  said Monte Cristo,  1815 is not yesterday. \n\n No, monsieur, and yet I recollect all things as clearly as if they had\nhappened but then. I had a brother, an elder brother, who was in the\nservice of the emperor; he had become lieutenant in a regiment composed\nentirely of Corsicans. This brother was my only friend; we became\norphans I at five, he at eighteen. He brought me up as if I had been\nhis son, and in 1814 he married. When the emperor returned from the\nIsland of Elba, my brother instantly joined the army, was slightly\nwounded at Waterloo, and retired with the army beyond the Loire. \n\n But that is the history of the Hundred Days, M. Bertuccio,  said the\ncount;  unless I am mistaken, it has been already written. \n\n Excuse me, excellency, but these details are necessary, and you\npromised to be patient. \n\n Go on; I will keep my word. \n\n One day we received a letter. I should tell you that we lived in the\nlittle village of Rogliano, at the extremity of Cap Corse. This letter\nwas from my brother. He told us that the army was disbanded, and that\nhe should return by Ch teauroux, Clermont-Ferrand, Le Puy, and N mes;\nand, if I had any money, he prayed me to leave it for him at N mes,\nwith an innkeeper with whom I had dealings. \n\n In the smuggling line?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Eh, your excellency? Everyone must live. \n\n Certainly; go on. \n\n I loved my brother tenderly, as I told your excellency, and I resolved\nnot to send the money, but to take it to him myself. I possessed a\nthousand francs. I left five hundred with Assunta, my sister-in-law,\nand with the other five hundred I set off for N mes. It was easy to do\nso, and as I had my boat and a lading to take in at sea, everything\nfavored my project. But, after we had taken in our cargo, the wind\nbecame contrary, so that we were four or five days without being able\nto enter the Rh ne. At last, however, we succeeded, and worked up to\nArles. I left the boat between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, and took the\nroad to N mes. \n\n We are getting to the story now? \n\n Yes, your excellency; excuse me, but, as you will see, I only tell you\nwhat is absolutely necessary. Just at this time the famous massacres\ntook place in the south of France. Three brigands, called Trestaillon,\nTruphemy, and Graffan, publicly assassinated everybody whom they\nsuspected of Bonapartism. You have doubtless heard of these massacres,\nyour excellency? \n\n Vaguely; I was far from France at that period. Go on. \n\n As I entered N mes, I literally waded in blood; at every step you\nencountered dead bodies and bands of murderers, who killed, plundered,\nand burned. At the sight of this slaughter and devastation I became\nterrified, not for myself for I, a simple Corsican fisherman, had\nnothing to fear; on the contrary, that time was most favorable for us\nsmugglers but for my brother, a soldier of the empire, returning from\nthe army of the Loire, with his uniform and his epaulets, there was\neverything to apprehend. I hastened to the innkeeper. My misgivings had\nbeen but too true. My brother had arrived the previous evening at\nN mes, and, at the very door of the house where he was about to demand\nhospitality, he had been assassinated. I did all in my power to\ndiscover the murderers, but no one durst tell me their names, so much\nwere they dreaded. I then thought of that French justice of which I had\nheard so much, and which feared nothing, and I went to the king s\nattorney. \n\n And this king s attorney was named Villefort?  asked Monte Cristo\ncarelessly.\n\n Yes, your excellency; he came from Marseilles, where he had been\ndeputy procureur. His zeal had procured him advancement, and he was\nsaid to be one of the first who had informed the government of the\ndeparture from the Island of Elba. \n\n Then,  said Monte Cristo  you went to him? \n\n Monsieur,  I said,  my brother was assassinated yesterday in the\nstreets of N mes, I know not by whom, but it is your duty to find out.\nYou are the representative of justice here, and it is for justice to\navenge those she has been unable to protect. \n\n Who was your brother?  asked he.\n\n A lieutenant in the Corsican battalion. \n\n A soldier of the usurper, then? \n\n A soldier of the French army. \n\n Well,  replied he,  he has smitten with the sword, and he has\nperished by the sword. \n\n You are mistaken, monsieur,  I replied;  he has perished by the\nponiard. \n\n What do you want me to do?  asked the magistrate.\n\n I have already told you avenge him. \n\n On whom? \n\n On his murderers. \n\n How should I know who they are? \n\n Order them to be sought for. \n\n Why, your brother has been involved in a quarrel, and killed in a\nduel. All these old soldiers commit excesses which were tolerated in\nthe time of the emperor, but which are not suffered now, for the people\nhere do not like soldiers of such disorderly conduct. \n\n Monsieur,  I replied,  it is not for myself that I entreat your\ninterference I should grieve for him or avenge him, but my poor brother\nhad a wife, and were anything to happen to me, the poor creature would\nperish from want, for my brother s pay alone kept her. Pray, try and\nobtain a small government pension for her. \n\n Every revolution has its catastrophes,  returned M. de Villefort;\n your brother has been the victim of this. It is a misfortune, and\ngovernment owes nothing to his family. If we are to judge by all the\nvengeance that the followers of the usurper exercised on the partisans\nof the king, when, in their turn, they were in power, your brother\nwould be today, in all probability, condemned to death. What has\nhappened is quite natural, and in conformity with the law of\nreprisals. \n\n What,  cried I,  do you, a magistrate, speak thus to me? \n\n All these Corsicans are mad, on my honor,  replied M. de Villefort;\n they fancy that their countryman is still emperor. You have mistaken\nthe time, you should have told me this two months ago, it is too late\nnow. Go now, at once, or I shall have you put out. \n\n I looked at him an instant to see if there was anything to hope from\nfurther entreaty. But he was a man of stone. I approached him, and said\nin a low voice,  Well, since you know the Corsicans so well, you know\nthat they always keep their word. You think that it was a good deed to\nkill my brother, who was a Bonapartist, because you are a royalist.\nWell, I, who am a Bonapartist also, declare one thing to you, which is,\nthat I will kill you. From this moment I declare the vendetta against\nyou, so protect yourself as well as you can, for the next time we meet\nyour last hour has come.  And before he had recovered from his\nsurprise, I opened the door and left the room. \n\n Well, well,  said Monte Cristo,  such an innocent looking person as\nyou are to do those things, M. Bertuccio, and to a king s attorney at\nthat! But did he know what was meant by the terrible word  vendetta ? \n\n He knew so well, that from that moment he shut himself in his house,\nand never went out unattended, seeking me high and low. Fortunately, I\nwas so well concealed that he could not find me. Then he became\nalarmed, and dared not stay any longer at N mes, so he solicited a\nchange of residence, and, as he was in reality very influential, he was\nnominated to Versailles. But, as you know, a Corsican who has sworn to\navenge himself cares not for distance, so his carriage, fast as it\nwent, was never above half a day s journey before me, who followed him\non foot. The most important thing was, not to kill him only for I had\nan opportunity of doing so a hundred times but to kill him without\nbeing discovered at least, without being arrested. I no longer belonged\nto myself, for I had my sister-in-law to protect and provide for.\n\n For three months I watched M. de Villefort, for three months he took\nnot a step out-of-doors without my following him. At length I\ndiscovered that he went mysteriously to Auteuil. I followed him\nthither, and I saw him enter the house where we now are, only, instead\nof entering by the great door that looks into the street, he came on\nhorseback, or in his carriage, left the one or the other at the little\ninn, and entered by the gate you see there. \n\nMonte Cristo made a sign with his head to show that he could discern in\nthe darkness the door to which Bertuccio alluded.\n\n As I had nothing more to do at Versailles, I went to Auteuil, and\ngained all the information I could. If I wished to surprise him, it was\nevident this was the spot to lie in wait for him. The house belonged,\nas the concierge informed your excellency, to M. de Saint-M ran,\nVillefort s father-in-law. M. de Saint-M ran lived at Marseilles, so\nthat this country house was useless to him, and it was reported to be\nlet to a young widow, known only by the name of  the Baroness. \n\n One evening, as I was looking over the wall, I saw a young and\nhandsome woman who was walking alone in that garden, which was not\noverlooked by any windows, and I guessed that she was awaiting M. de\nVillefort. When she was sufficiently near for me to distinguish her\nfeatures, I saw she was from eighteen to nineteen, tall and very fair.\nAs she had a loose muslin dress on and as nothing concealed her figure,\nI saw she would ere long become a mother. A few moments after, the\nlittle door was opened and a man entered. The young woman hastened to\nmeet him. They threw themselves into each other s arms, embraced\ntenderly, and returned together to the house. The man was M. de\nVillefort; I fully believed that when he went out in the night he would\nbe forced to traverse the whole of the garden alone. \n\n20291m\n\n\n\n And,  asked the count,  did you ever know the name of this woman? \n\n No, excellency,  returned Bertuccio;  you will see that I had no time\nto learn it. \n\n Go on. \n\n That evening,  continued Bertuccio,  I could have killed the\nprocureur, but as I was not sufficiently acquainted with the\nneighborhood, I was fearful of not killing him on the spot, and that if\nhis cries were overheard I might be taken; so I put it off until the\nnext occasion, and in order that nothing should escape me, I took a\nchamber looking into the street bordered by the wall of the garden.\nThree days after, about seven o clock in the evening, I saw a servant\non horseback leave the house at full gallop, and take the road to\nS vres. I concluded that he was going to Versailles, and I was not\ndeceived. Three hours later, the man returned covered with dust, his\nerrand was performed, and two minutes after, another man on foot,\nmuffled in a mantle, opened the little door of the garden, which he\nclosed after him. I descended rapidly; although I had not seen\nVillefort s face, I recognized him by the beating of my heart. I\ncrossed the street, and stopped at a post placed at the angle of the\nwall, and by means of which I had once before looked into the garden.\n\n This time I did not content myself with looking, but I took my knife\nout of my pocket, felt that the point was sharp, and sprang over the\nwall. My first care was to run to the door; he had left the key in it,\ntaking the simple precaution of turning it twice in the lock. Nothing,\nthen, preventing my escape by this means, I examined the grounds. The\ngarden was long and narrow; a stretch of smooth turf extended down the\nmiddle, and at the corners were clumps of trees with thick and massy\nfoliage, that made a background for the shrubs and flowers. In order to\ngo from the door to the house, or from the house to the door, M. de\nVillefort would be obliged to pass by one of these clumps of trees.\n\n20293m\n\n\n\n It was the end of September; the wind blew violently. The faint\nglimpses of the pale moon, hidden momentarily by masses of dark clouds\nthat were sweeping across the sky, whitened the gravel walks that led\nto the house, but were unable to pierce the obscurity of the thick\nshrubberies, in which a man could conceal himself without any fear of\ndiscovery. I hid myself in the one nearest to the path Villefort must\ntake, and scarcely was I there when, amidst the gusts of wind, I\nfancied I heard groans; but you know, or rather you do not know, your\nexcellency, that he who is about to commit an assassination fancies\nthat he hears low cries perpetually ringing in his ears. Two hours\npassed thus, during which I imagined I heard moans repeatedly. Midnight\nstruck. As the last stroke died away, I saw a faint light shine through\nthe windows of the private staircase by which we have just descended.\nThe door opened, and the man in the mantle reappeared.\n\n The terrible moment had come, but I had so long been prepared for it\nthat my heart did not fail in the least. I drew my knife from my pocket\nagain, opened it, and made ready to strike. The man in the mantle\nadvanced towards me, but as he drew near I saw that he had a weapon in\nhis hand. I was afraid, not of a struggle, but of a failure. When he\nwas only a few paces from me, I saw that what I had taken for a weapon\nwas only a spade. I was still unable to divine for what reason M. de\nVillefort had this spade in his hands, when he stopped close to the\nthicket where I was, glanced round, and began to dig a hole in the\nearth. I then perceived that he was hiding something under his mantle,\nwhich he laid on the grass in order to dig more freely. Then, I\nconfess, curiosity mingled with hatred; I wished to see what Villefort\nwas going to do there, and I remained motionless, holding my breath.\nThen an idea crossed my mind, which was confirmed when I saw the\nprocureur lift from under his mantle a box, two feet long, and six or\neight inches deep. I let him place the box in the hole he had made,\nthen, while he stamped with his feet to remove all traces of his\noccupation, I rushed on him and plunged my knife into his breast,\nexclaiming:\n\n I am Giovanni Bertuccio; thy death for my brother s; thy treasure for\nhis widow; thou seest that my vengeance is more complete than I had\nhoped. \n\n I know not if he heard these words; I think he did not, for he fell\nwithout a cry. I felt his blood gush over my face, but I was\nintoxicated, I was delirious, and the blood refreshed, instead of\nburning me. In a second I had disinterred the box; then, that it might\nnot be known I had done so, I filled up the hole, threw the spade over\nthe wall, and rushed through the door, which I double-locked, carrying\noff the key. \n\n Ah,  said Monte Cristo  it seems to me this was nothing but murder and\nrobbery. \n\n No, your excellency,  returned Bertuccio;  it was a vendetta followed\nby restitution. \n\n And was the sum a large one? \n\n It was not money. \n\n Ah, I recollect,  replied the count;  did you not say something of an\ninfant? \n\n Yes, excellency; I hastened to the river, sat down on the bank, and\nwith my knife forced open the lock of the box. In a fine linen cloth\nwas wrapped a new-born child. Its purple visage, and its violet-colored\nhands showed that it had perished from suffocation, but as it was not\nyet cold, I hesitated to throw it into the water that ran at my feet.\nAfter a moment I fancied that I felt a slight pulsation of the heart,\nand as I had been assistant at the hospital at Bastia, I did what a\ndoctor would have done I inflated the lungs by blowing air into them,\nand at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it began to breathe, and\ncried feebly. In my turn I uttered a cry, but a cry of joy.\n\n God has not cursed me then,  I cried,  since he permits me to save\nthe life of a human creature, in exchange for the life I have taken\naway. \n\n20295m\n\n\n\n And what did you do with the child?  asked Monte Cristo.  It was an\nembarrassing load for a man seeking to escape. \n\n I had not for a moment the idea of keeping it, but I knew that at\nParis there was an asylum where they receive such creatures. As I\npassed the city gates I declared that I had found the child on the\nroad, and I inquired where the asylum was; the box confirmed my\nstatement, the linen proved that the infant belonged to wealthy\nparents, the blood with which I was covered might have proceeded from\nthe child as well as from anyone else. No objection was raised, but\nthey pointed out the asylum, which was situated at the upper end of the\nRue d Enfer, and after having taken the precaution of cutting the linen\nin two pieces, so that one of the two letters which marked it was on\nthe piece wrapped around the child, while the other remained in my\npossession, I rang the bell, and fled with all speed. A fortnight after\nI was at Rogliano, and I said to Assunta:\n\n Console thyself, sister; Israel is dead, but he is avenged. \n\n She demanded what I meant, and when I had told her all, Giovanni, \nsaid she,  you should have brought this child with you; we would have\nreplaced the parents it has lost, have called it Benedetto, and then,\nin consequence of this good action, God would have blessed us.  In\nreply I gave her the half of the linen I had kept in order to reclaim\nhim if we became rich. \n\n What letters were marked on the linen?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n An H and an N, surmounted by a baron s coronet. \n\n By heaven, M. Bertuccio, you make use of heraldic terms; where did you\nstudy heraldry? \n\n In your service, excellency, where everything is learned. \n\n Go on, I am curious to know two things. \n\n What are they, your excellency? \n\n What became of this little boy? for I think you told me it was a boy,\nM. Bertuccio. \n\n No excellency, I do not recollect telling you that. \n\n I thought you did; I must have been mistaken. \n\n No, you were not, for it was in reality a little boy. But your\nexcellency wished to know two things; what was the second? \n\n The second was the crime of which you were accused when you asked for\na confessor, and the Abb  Busoni came to visit you at your request in\nthe prison at N mes. \n\n The story will be very long, excellency. \n\n What matter? you know I take but little sleep, and I do not suppose\nyou are very much inclined for it either.  Bertuccio bowed, and resumed\nhis story.\n\n Partly to drown the recollections of the past that haunted me, partly\nto supply the wants of the poor widow, I eagerly returned to my trade\nof smuggler, which had become more easy since that relaxation of the\nlaws which always follows a revolution. The southern districts were\nill-watched in particular, in consequence of the disturbances that were\nperpetually breaking out in Avignon, N mes, or Uz s. We profited by\nthis respite on the part of the government to make friends everywhere.\nSince my brother s assassination in the streets of N mes, I had never\nentered the town; the result was that the innkeeper with whom we were\nconnected, seeing that we would no longer come to him, was forced to\ncome to us, and had established a branch to his inn, on the road from\nBellegarde to Beaucaire, at the sign of the Pont du Gard. We had thus,\nat Aigues-Mortes, Martigues, or Bouc, a dozen places where we left our\ngoods, and where, in case of necessity, we concealed ourselves from the\ngendarmes and custom-house officers. Smuggling is a profitable trade,\nwhen a certain degree of vigor and intelligence is employed; as for\nmyself, brought up in the mountains, I had a double motive for fearing\nthe gendarmes and custom-house officers, as my appearance before the\njudges would cause an inquiry, and an inquiry always looks back into\nthe past. And in my past life they might find something far more grave\nthan the selling of smuggled cigars, or barrels of brandy without a\npermit. So, preferring death to capture, I accomplished the most\nastonishing deeds, and which, more than once, showed me that the too\ngreat care we take of our bodies is the only obstacle to the success of\nthose projects which require rapid decision, and vigorous and\ndetermined execution. In reality, when you have once devoted your life\nto your enterprises, you are no longer the equal of other men, or,\nrather, other men are no longer your equals, and whosoever has taken\nthis resolution, feels his strength and resources doubled. \n\n Philosophy, M. Bertuccio,  interrupted the count;  you have done a\nlittle of everything in your life. \n\n Oh, excellency! \n\n No, no; but philosophy at half-past ten at night is somewhat late; yet\nI have no other observation to make, for what you say is correct, which\nis more than can be said for all philosophy. \n\n My journeys became more and more extensive and more productive.\nAssunta took care of all, and our little fortune increased. One day as\nI was setting off on an expedition,  Go,  said she;  at your return I\nwill give you a surprise.  I questioned her, but in vain; she would\ntell me nothing, and I departed. Our expedition lasted nearly six\nweeks; we had been to Lucca to take in oil, to Leghorn for English\ncottons, and we ran our cargo without opposition, and returned home\nfull of joy. When I entered the house, the first thing I beheld in the\nmiddle of Assunta s chamber was a cradle that might be called sumptuous\ncompared with the rest of the furniture, and in it a baby seven or\neight months old. I uttered a cry of joy; the only moments of sadness I\nhad known since the assassination of the procureur were caused by the\nrecollection that I had abandoned this child. For the assassination\nitself I had never felt any remorse. Poor Assunta had guessed all. She\nhad profited by my absence, and furnished with the half of the linen,\nand having written down the day and hour at which I had deposited the\nchild at the asylum, had set off for Paris, and had reclaimed it. No\nobjection was raised, and the infant was given up to her. Ah, I\nconfess, your excellency, when I saw this poor creature sleeping\npeacefully in its cradle, I felt my eyes filled with tears.  Ah,\nAssunta,  cried I,  you are an excellent woman, and Heaven will bless\nyou. \n\n This,  said Monte Cristo,  is less correct than your philosophy, it is\nonly faith. \n\n Alas, your excellency is right,  replied Bertuccio,  and God made this\ninfant the instrument of our punishment. Never did a perverse nature\ndeclare itself more prematurely, and yet it was not owing to any fault\nin his bringing up. He was a most lovely child, with large blue eyes,\nof that deep color that harmonizes so well with the blond complexion;\nonly his hair, which was too light, gave his face a most singular\nexpression, and added to the vivacity of his look, and the malice of\nhis smile.\n\n Unfortunately, there is a proverb which says that  red is either\naltogether good or altogether bad.  The proverb was but too correct as\nregarded Benedetto, and even in his infancy he manifested the worst\ndisposition. It is true that the indulgence of his foster-mother\nencouraged him. This child, for whom my poor sister would go to the\ntown, five or six leagues off, to purchase the earliest fruits and the\nmost tempting sweetmeats, preferred to Palma grapes or Genoese\npreserves, the chestnuts stolen from a neighbor s orchard, or the dried\napples in his loft, when he could eat as well of the nuts and apples\nthat grew in my garden.\n\n One day, when Benedetto was about five or six, our neighbor Wasilio,\nwho, according to the custom of the country, never locked up his purse\nor his valuables for, as your excellency knows, there are no thieves in\nCorsica complained that he had lost a louis out of his purse; we\nthought he must have made a mistake in counting his money, but he\npersisted in the accuracy of his statement. One day, Benedetto, who had\nbeen gone from the house since morning, to our great anxiety, did not\nreturn until late in the evening, dragging a monkey after him, which he\nsaid he had found chained to the foot of a tree. For more than a month\npast, the mischievous child, who knew not what to wish for, had taken\nit into his head to have a monkey. A boatman, who had passed by\nRogliano, and who had several of these animals, whose tricks had\ngreatly diverted him, had, doubtless, suggested this idea to him.\n Monkeys are not found in our woods chained to trees,  said I;  confess\nhow you obtained this animal.  Benedetto maintained the truth of what\nhe had said, and accompanied it with details that did more honor to his\nimagination than to his veracity. I became angry; he began to laugh, I\nthreatened to strike him, and he made two steps backwards.  You cannot\nbeat me,  said he;  you have no right, for you are not my father. \n\n20299m\n\n\n\n We never knew who had revealed this fatal secret, which we had so\ncarefully concealed from him; however, it was this answer, in which the\nchild s whole character revealed itself, that almost terrified me, and\nmy arm fell without touching him.\n\n The boy triumphed, and this victory rendered him so audacious, that\nall the money of Assunta, whose affection for him seemed to increase as\nhe became more unworthy of it, was spent in caprices she knew not how\nto contend against, and follies she had not the courage to prevent.\nWhen I was at Rogliano everything went on properly, but no sooner was\nmy back turned than Benedetto became master, and everything went ill.\nWhen he was only eleven, he chose his companions from among the young\nmen of eighteen or twenty, the worst characters in Bastia, or, indeed,\nin Corsica, and they had already, for some mischievous pranks, been\nseveral times threatened with a prosecution. I became alarmed, as any\nprosecution might be attended with serious consequences. I was\ncompelled, at this period, to leave Corsica on an important expedition;\nI reflected for a long time, and with the hope of averting some\nimpending misfortune, I resolved that Benedetto should accompany me.\n\n I hoped that the active and laborious life of a smuggler, with the\nsevere discipline on board, would have a salutary effect on his\ncharacter, which was now well-nigh, if not quite, corrupt. I spoke to\nBenedetto alone, and proposed to him to accompany me, endeavoring to\ntempt him by all the promises most likely to dazzle the imagination of\na child of twelve. He heard me patiently, and when I had finished,\nburst out laughing.\n\n Are you mad, uncle?  (he called me by this name when he was in good\nhumor);  do you think I am going to change the life I lead for your\nmode of existence my agreeable indolence for the hard and precarious\ntoil you impose on yourself, exposed to the bitter frost at night, and\nthe scorching heat by day, compelled to conceal yourself, and when you\nare perceived, receive a volley of bullets, all to earn a paltry sum?\nWhy, I have as much money as I want; mother Assunta always furnishes me\nwhen I ask for it! You see that I should be a fool to accept your\noffer. \n\n The arguments, and his audacity, perfectly stupefied me. Benedetto\nrejoined his associates, and I saw him from a distance point me out to\nthem as a fool. \n\n Sweet child,  murmured Monte Cristo.\n\n Oh, had he been my own son,  replied Bertuccio,  or even my nephew, I\nwould have brought him back to the right road, for the knowledge that\nyou are doing your duty gives you strength, but the idea that I was\nstriking a child whose father I had killed, made it impossible for me\nto punish him. I gave my sister, who constantly defended the\nunfortunate boy, good advice, and as she confessed that she had several\ntimes missed money to a considerable amount, I showed her a safe place\nin which to conceal our little treasure for the future. My mind was\nalready made up. Benedetto could read, write, and cipher perfectly, for\nwhen the fit seized him, he learned more in a day than others in a\nweek. My intention was to enter him as a clerk in some ship, and\nwithout letting him know anything of my plan, to convey him some\nmorning on board; by this means his future treatment would depend upon\nhis own conduct. I set off for France, after having fixed upon the\nplan. Our cargo was to be landed in the Gulf of Lyons, and this was a\ndifficult thing to do because it was then the year 1829. The most\nperfect tranquillity was restored, and the vigilance of the\ncustom-house officers was redoubled, and their strictness was increased\nat this time, in consequence of the fair at Beaucaire.\n\n20301m\n\n\n\n Our expedition made a favorable beginning. We anchored our\nvessel which had a double hold, where our goods were concealed amidst a\nnumber of other vessels that bordered the banks of the Rh ne from\nBeaucaire to Arles. On our arrival we began to discharge our cargo in\nthe night, and to convey it into the town, by the help of the innkeeper\nwith whom we were connected.\n\n Whether success rendered us imprudent, or whether we were betrayed, I\nknow not; but one evening, about five o clock, our little cabin-boy\ncame breathlessly, to inform us that he had seen a detachment of\ncustom-house officers advancing in our direction. It was not their\nproximity that alarmed us, for detachments were constantly patrolling\nalong the banks of the Rh ne, but the care, according to the boy s\naccount, that they took to avoid being seen. In an instant we were on\nthe alert, but it was too late; our vessel was surrounded, and amongst\nthe custom-house officers I observed several gendarmes, and, as\nterrified at the sight of their uniforms as I was brave at the sight of\nany other, I sprang into the hold, opened a port, and dropped into the\nriver, dived, and only rose at intervals to breathe, until I reached a\nditch that had recently been made from the Rh ne to the canal that runs\nfrom Beaucaire to Aigues-Mortes. I was now safe, for I could swim along\nthe ditch without being seen, and I reached the canal in safety. I had\ndesignedly taken this direction. I have already told your excellency of\nan innkeeper from N mes who had set up a little tavern on the road from\nBellegarde to Beaucaire. \n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo  I perfectly recollect him; I think he was\nyour colleague. \n\n Precisely,  answered Bertuccio;  but he had, seven or eight years\nbefore this period, sold his establishment to a tailor at Marseilles,\nwho, having almost ruined himself in his old trade, wished to make his\nfortune in another. Of course, we made the same arrangements with the\nnew landlord that we had with the old; and it was of this man that I\nintended to ask shelter. \n\n What was his name?  inquired the count, who seemed to become somewhat\ninterested in Bertuccio s story.\n\n Gaspard Caderousse; he had married a woman from the village of\nCarconte, and whom we did not know by any other name than that of her\nvillage. She was suffering from malarial fever, and seemed dying by\ninches. As for her husband, he was a strapping fellow of forty, or\nfive-and-forty, who had more than once, in time of danger, given ample\nproof of his presence of mind and courage. \n\n And you say,  interrupted Monte Cristo  that this took place towards\nthe year \n\n 1829, your excellency. \n\n In what month? \n\n June. \n\n The beginning or the end? \n\n The evening of the 3rd. \n\n20303m\n\n\n\n Ah,  said Monte Cristo  the evening of the 3rd of June, 1829. Go on. \n\n It was from Caderousse that I intended demanding shelter, and, as we\nnever entered by the door that opened onto the road, I resolved not to\nbreak through the rule, so climbing over the garden-hedge, I crept\namongst the olive and wild fig trees, and fearing that Caderousse might\nhave some guest, I entered a kind of shed in which I had often passed\nthe night, and which was only separated from the inn by a partition, in\nwhich holes had been made in order to enable us to watch an opportunity\nof announcing our presence.\n\n My intention was, if Caderousse was alone, to acquaint him with my\npresence, finish the meal the custom-house officers had interrupted,\nand profit by the threatened storm to return to the Rh ne, and\nascertain the state of our vessel and its crew. I stepped into the\nshed, and it was fortunate I did so, for at that moment Caderousse\nentered with a stranger.\n\n I waited patiently, not to overhear what they said, but because I\ncould do nothing else; besides, the same thing had occurred often\nbefore. The man who was with Caderousse was evidently a stranger to the\nSouth of France; he was one of those merchants who come to sell\njewellery at the Beaucaire fair, and who during the month the fair\nlasts, and during which there is so great an influx of merchants and\ncustomers from all parts of Europe, often have dealings to the amount\nof 100,000 to 150,000 francs. Caderousse entered hastily. Then, seeing\nthat the room was, as usual, empty, and only guarded by the dog, he\ncalled to his wife,  Hello, Carconte,  said he,  the worthy priest has\nnot deceived us; the diamond is real. \n\n An exclamation of joy was heard, and the staircase creaked beneath a\nfeeble step.  What do you say?  asked his wife, pale as death.\n\n I say that the diamond is real, and that this gentleman, one of the\nfirst jewellers of Paris, will give us 50,000 francs for it. Only, in\norder to satisfy himself that it really belongs to us, he wishes you to\nrelate to him, as I have done already, the miraculous manner in which\nthe diamond came into our possession. In the meantime please to sit\ndown, monsieur, and I will fetch you some refreshment. \n\n The jeweller examined attentively the interior of the inn and the\napparent poverty of the persons who were about to sell him a diamond\nthat seemed to have come from the casket of a prince.\n\n Relate your story, madame,  said he, wishing, no doubt, to profit by\nthe absence of the husband, so that the latter could not influence the\nwife s story, to see if the two recitals tallied.\n\n Oh,  returned she,  it was a gift of heaven. My husband was a great\nfriend, in 1814 or 1815, of a sailor named Edmond Dant s. This poor\nfellow, whom Caderousse had forgotten, had not forgotten him, and at\nhis death he bequeathed this diamond to him. \n\n But how did he obtain it?  asked the jeweller;  had he it before he\nwas imprisoned? \n\n No, monsieur; but it appears that in prison he made the acquaintance\nof a rich Englishman, and as in prison he fell sick, and Dant s took\nthe same care of him as if he had been his brother, the Englishman,\nwhen he was set free, gave this stone to Dant s, who, less fortunate,\ndied, and, in his turn, left it to us, and charged the excellent abb ,\nwho was here this morning, to deliver it. \n\n The same story,  muttered the jeweller;  and improbable as it seemed\nat first, it may be true. There s only the price we are not agreed\nabout. \n\n How not agreed about?  said Caderousse.  I thought we agreed for the\nprice I asked. \n\n That is,  replied the jeweller,  I offered 40,000 francs. \n\n Forty thousand,  cried La Carconte;  we will not part with it for that\nsum. The abb  told us it was worth 50,000 without the setting. \n\n What was the abb s name?  asked the indefatigable questioner.\n\n The Abb  Busoni,  said La Carconte.\n\n He was a foreigner? \n\n An Italian from the neighborhood of Mantua, I believe. \n\n Let me see this diamond again,  replied the jeweller;  the first time\nyou are often mistaken as to the value of a stone. \n\n Caderousse took from his pocket a small case of black shagreen,\nopened, and gave it to the jeweller. At the sight of the diamond, which\nwas as large as a hazel-nut, La Carconte s eyes sparkled with\ncupidity. \n\n And what did you think of this fine story, eavesdropper?  said Monte\nCristo;  did you credit it? \n\n Yes, your excellency. I did not look on Caderousse as a bad man, and I\nthought him incapable of committing a crime, or even a theft. \n\n That did more honor to your heart than to your experience, M.\nBertuccio. Had you known this Edmond Dant s, of whom they spoke? \n\n No, your excellency, I had never heard of him before, and never but\nonce afterwards, and that was from the Abb  Busoni himself, when I saw\nhim in the prison at N mes. \n\n Go on. \n\n The jeweller took the ring, and drawing from his pocket a pair of\nsteel pliers and a small set of copper scales, he took the stone out of\nits setting, and weighed it carefully.\n\n I will give you 45,000,  said he,  but not a sou more; besides, as\nthat is the exact value of the stone, I brought just that sum with me. \n\n Oh, that s no matter,  replied Caderousse,  I will go back with you\nto fetch the other 5,000 francs. \n\n No,  returned the jeweller, giving back the diamond and the ring to\nCaderousse,  no, it is worth no more, and I am sorry I offered so much,\nfor the stone has a flaw in it, which I had not seen. However, I will\nnot go back on my word, and I will give 45,000. \n\n At least, replace the diamond in the ring,  said La Carconte sharply.\n\n Ah, true,  replied the jeweller, and he reset the stone.\n\n No matter,  observed Caderousse, replacing the box in his pocket,\n someone else will purchase it. \n\n Yes,  continued the jeweller;  but someone else will not be so easy\nas I am, or content himself with the same story. It is not natural that\na man like you should possess such a diamond. He will inform against\nyou. You will have to find the Abb  Busoni; and abb s who give diamonds\nworth two thousand louis are rare. The law would seize it, and put you\nin prison; if at the end of three or four months you are set at\nliberty, the ring will be lost, or a false stone, worth three francs,\nwill be given you, instead of a diamond worth 50,000 or perhaps 55,000\nfrancs; from which you must allow that one runs considerable risk in\npurchasing. \n\n Caderousse and his wife looked eagerly at each other.\n\n No,  said Caderousse,  we are not rich enough to lose 5,000 francs. \n\n As you please, my dear sir,  said the jeweller;  I had, however, as\nyou see, brought you the money in bright coin.  And he drew from his\npocket a handful of gold, and held it sparkling before the dazzled eyes\nof the innkeeper, and in the other hand he held a packet of bank-notes.\n\n There was evidently a severe struggle in the mind of Caderousse; it\nwas plain that the small shagreen case, which he turned over and over\nin his hand, did not seem to him commensurate in value to the enormous\nsum which fascinated his gaze. He turned towards his wife.\n\n What do you think of this?  he asked in a low voice.\n\n Let him have it let him have it,  she said.  If he returns to\nBeaucaire without the diamond, he will inform against us, and, as he\nsays, who knows if we shall ever again see the Abb  Busoni? in all\nprobability we shall never see him. \n\n Well, then, so I will!  said Caderousse;  so you may have the diamond\nfor 45,000 francs. But my wife wants a gold chain, and I want a pair of\nsilver buckles. \n\n The jeweller drew from his pocket a long flat box, which contained\nseveral samples of the articles demanded.  Here,  he said,  I am very\nstraightforward in my dealings take your choice. \n\n The woman selected a gold chain worth about five louis, and the\nhusband a pair of buckles, worth perhaps fifteen francs.\n\n I hope you will not complain now?  said the jeweller.\n\n The abb  told me it was worth 50,000 francs,  muttered Caderousse.\n\n Come, come give it to me! What a strange fellow you are,  said the\njeweller, taking the diamond from his hand.  I give you 45,000\nfrancs that is, 2,500 livres of income, a fortune such as I wish I had\nmyself, and you are not satisfied! \n\n And the five-and-forty thousand francs,  inquired Caderousse in a\nhoarse voice,  where are they? Come let us see them. \n\n Here they are,  replied the jeweller, and he counted out upon the\ntable 15,000 francs in gold, and 30,000 francs in bank-notes.\n\n Wait whilst I light the lamp,  said La Carconte;  it is growing dark,\nand there may be some mistake.  In fact, night had come on during this\nconversation, and with night the storm which had been threatening for\nthe last half-hour. The thunder growled in the distance; but it was\napparently not heard by the jeweller, Caderousse, or La Carconte,\nabsorbed as they were all three with the demon of gain. I myself felt\na strange kind of fascination at the sight of all this gold and all\nthese bank-notes; it seemed to me that I was in a dream, and, as it\nalways happens in a dream, I felt myself riveted to the spot.\nCaderousse counted and again counted the gold and the notes, then\nhanded them to his wife, who counted and counted them again in her\nturn. During this time, the jeweller made the diamond play and sparkle\nin the lamplight, and the gem threw out jets of light which made him\nunmindful of those which precursors of the storm began to play in at\nthe windows.\n\n Well,  inquired the jeweller,  is the cash all right? \n\n Yes,  said Caderousse.  Give me the pocket-book, La Carconte, and\nfind a bag somewhere. \n\n La Carconte went to a cupboard, and returned with an old leathern\npocket-book and a bag. From the former she took some greasy letters,\nand put in their place the bank-notes, and from the bag took two or\nthree crowns of six livres each, which, in all probability, formed the\nentire fortune of the miserable couple.\n\n There,  said Caderousse;  and now, although you have wronged us of\nperhaps 10,000 francs, will you have your supper with us? I invite you\nwith good-will. \n\n Thank you,  replied the jeweller,  it must be getting late, and I\nmust return to Beaucaire my wife will be getting uneasy.  He drew out\nhis watch, and exclaimed,  _Morbleu!_ nearly nine o clock why, I shall\nnot get back to Beaucaire before midnight! Good-night, my friends. If\nthe Abb  Busoni should by any accident return, think of me. \n\n In another week you will have left Beaucaire,  remarked Caderousse,\n for the fair ends in a few days. \n\n True, but that makes no difference. Write to me at Paris, to M.\nJoannes, in the Palais Royal, arcade Pierre, No. 45. I will make the\njourney on purpose to see him, if it is worth while. \n\n At this moment there was a tremendous clap of thunder, accompanied by\na flash of lightning so vivid, that it quite eclipsed the light of the\nlamp.\n\n20307m\n\n\n\n See here,  exclaimed Caderousse.  You cannot think of going out in\nsuch weather as this. \n\n Oh, I am not afraid of thunder,  said the jeweller.\n\n And then there are robbers,  said La Carconte.  The road is never\nvery safe during fair time. \n\n Oh, as to the robbers,  said Joannes,  here is something for them, \nand he drew from his pocket a pair of small pistols, loaded to the\nmuzzle.  Here,  said he,  are dogs who bark and bite at the same time,\nthey are for the two first who shall have a longing for your diamond,\nFriend Caderousse. \n\n Caderousse and his wife again interchanged a meaning look. It seemed\nas though they were both inspired at the same time with some horrible\nthought.  Well, then, a good journey to you,  said Caderousse.\n\n Thanks,  replied the jeweller. He then took his cane, which he had\nplaced against an old cupboard, and went out. At the moment when he\nopened the door, such a gust of wind came in that the lamp was nearly\nextinguished.  Oh,  said he,  this is very nice weather, and two\nleagues to go in such a storm. \n\n Remain,  said Caderousse.  You can sleep here. \n\n Yes; do stay,  added La Carconte in a tremulous voice;  we will take\nevery care of you. \n\n No; I must sleep at Beaucaire. So, once more, good-night.  Caderousse\nfollowed him slowly to the threshold.  I can see neither heaven nor\nearth,  said the jeweller, who was outside the door.  Do I turn to the\nright, or to the left hand? \n\n To the right,  said Caderousse.  You cannot go wrong the road is\nbordered by trees on both sides. \n\n Good all right,  said a voice almost lost in the distance.\n\n Close the door,  said La Carconte;  I do not like open doors when it\nthunders. \n\n Particularly when there is money in the house, eh?  answered\nCaderousse, double-locking the door.\n\n20311m\n\n\n\n He came into the room, went to the cupboard, took out the bag and\npocket-book, and both began, for the third time, to count their gold\nand bank-notes. I never saw such an expression of cupidity as the\nflickering lamp revealed in those two countenances. The woman,\nespecially, was hideous; her usual feverish tremulousness was\nintensified, her countenance had become livid, and her eyes resembled\nburning coals.\n\n Why,  she inquired in a hoarse voice,  did you invite him to sleep\nhere tonight? \n\n Why?  said Caderousse with a shudder;  why, that he might not have\nthe trouble of returning to Beaucaire. \n\n Ah,  responded the woman, with an expression impossible to describe;\n I thought it was for something else. \n\n Woman, woman why do you have such ideas?  cried Caderousse;  or, if\nyou have them, why don t you keep them to yourself? \n\n Well,  said La Carconte, after a moment s pause,  you are not a man. \n\n What do you mean?  added Caderousse.\n\n If you had been a man, you would not have let him go from here. \n\n Woman! \n\n Or else he should not have reached Beaucaire. \n\n Woman! \n\n The road takes a turn he is obliged to follow it while alongside of\nthe canal there is a shorter road. \n\n Woman! you offend the good God. There listen! \n\nAnd at this moment there was a tremendous peal of thunder, while the\nlivid lightning illumined the room, and the thunder, rolling away in\nthe distance, seemed to withdraw unwillingly from the cursed abode.\n Mercy!  said Caderousse, crossing himself.\n\n20312m\n\n\n\n At the same moment, and in the midst of the terrifying silence which\nusually follows a clap of thunder, they heard a knocking at the door.\nCaderousse and his wife started and looked aghast at each other.\n\n Who s there?  cried Caderousse, rising, and drawing up in a heap the\ngold and notes scattered over the table, and which he covered with his\ntwo hands.\n\n It is I,  shouted a voice.\n\n And who are you? \n\n Eh, _pardieu!_ Joannes, the jeweller. \n\n Well, and you said I offended the good God,  said La Carconte with a\nhorrid smile.  Why, the good God sends him back again.  Caderousse sank\npale and breathless into his chair.\n\n La Carconte, on the contrary, rose, and going with a firm step towards\nthe door, opened it, saying, as she did so:\n\n Come in, dear M. Joannes. \n\n _Ma foi_,  said the jeweller, drenched with rain,  I am not destined\nto return to Beaucaire tonight. The shortest follies are best, my dear\nCaderousse. You offered me hospitality, and I accept it, and have\nreturned to sleep beneath your friendly roof. \n\n Caderousse stammered out something, while he wiped away the sweat that\nstarted to his brow. La Carconte double-locked the door behind the\njeweller. \n\n\n\n Chapter 45. The Rain of Blood\n\nAs the jeweller returned to the apartment, he cast around him a\nscrutinizing glance but there was nothing to excite suspicion, if it\ndid not exist, or to confirm it, if it were already awakened.\nCaderousse s hands still grasped the gold and bank-notes, and La\nCarconte called up her sweetest smiles while welcoming the reappearance\nof their guest.\n\n Well, well,  said the jeweller,  you seem, my good friends, to have\nhad some fears respecting the accuracy of your money, by counting it\nover so carefully directly I was gone. \n\n Oh, no,  answered Caderousse,  that was not my reason, I can assure\nyou; but the circumstances by which we have become possessed of this\nwealth are so unexpected, as to make us scarcely credit our good\nfortune, and it is only by placing the actual proof of our riches\nbefore our eyes that we can persuade ourselves that the whole affair is\nnot a dream. \n\n The jeweller smiled.  Have you any other guests in your house? \ninquired he.\n\n Nobody but ourselves,  replied Caderousse;  the fact is, we do not\nlodge travellers indeed, our tavern is so near the town, that nobody\nwould think of stopping here. \n\n Then I am afraid I shall very much inconvenience you. \n\n Inconvenience us? Not at all, my dear sir,  said La Carconte in her\nmost gracious manner.  Not at all, I assure you. \n\n But where will you manage to stow me? \n\n In the chamber overhead. \n\n Surely that is where you yourselves sleep? \n\n Never mind that; we have a second bed in the adjoining room. \n\n Caderousse stared at his wife with much astonishment.\n\n The jeweller, meanwhile, was humming a song as he stood warming his\nback at the fire La Carconte had kindled to dry the wet garments of her\nguest; and this done, she next occupied herself in arranging his\nsupper, by spreading a napkin at the end of the table, and placing on\nit the slender remains of their dinner, to which she added three or\nfour fresh-laid eggs. Caderousse had once more parted with his\ntreasure the banknotes were replaced in the pocket-book, the gold put\nback into the bag, and the whole carefully locked in the cupboard. He\nthen began pacing the room with a pensive and gloomy air, glancing from\ntime to time at the jeweller, who stood reeking with the steam from his\nwet clothes, and merely changing his place on the warm hearth, to\nenable the whole of his garments to be dried.\n\n There,  said La Carconte, as she placed a bottle of wine on the\ntable,  supper is ready whenever you are. \n\n And you?  asked Joannes.\n\n I don t want any supper,  said Caderousse.\n\n We dined so very late,  hastily interposed La Carconte.\n\n Then it seems I am to eat alone,  remarked the jeweller.\n\n Oh, we shall have the pleasure of waiting upon you,  answered La\nCarconte, with an eager attention she was not accustomed to manifest\neven to guests who paid for what they took.\n\n From time to time Caderousse darted on his wife keen, searching\nglances, but rapid as the lightning flash. The storm still continued.\n\n There, there,  said La Carconte;  do you hear that? upon my word, you\ndid well to come back. \n\n Nevertheless,  replied the jeweller,  if by the time I have finished\nmy supper the tempest has at all abated, I shall make another start. \n\n It s the mistral,  said Caderousse,  and it will be sure to last till\ntomorrow morning.  He sighed heavily.\n\n Well,  said the jeweller, as he placed himself at table,  all I can\nsay is, so much the worse for those who are abroad. \n\n Yes,  chimed in La Carconte,  they will have a wretched night of it. \n\n The jeweller began eating his supper, and the woman, who was\nordinarily so querulous and indifferent to all who approached her, was\nsuddenly transformed into the most smiling and attentive hostess. Had\nthe unhappy man on whom she lavished her assiduities been previously\nacquainted with her, so sudden an alteration might well have excited\nsuspicion in his mind, or at least have greatly astonished him.\nCaderousse, meanwhile, continued to pace the room in gloomy silence,\nsedulously avoiding the sight of his guest; but as soon as the stranger\nhad completed his repast, the agitated innkeeper went eagerly to the\ndoor and opened it.\n\n I believe the storm is over,  said he.\n\n But as if to contradict his statement, at that instant a violent clap\nof thunder seemed to shake the house to its very foundation, while a\nsudden gust of wind, mingled with rain, extinguished the lamp he held\nin his hand.\n\n Trembling and awe-struck, Caderousse hastily shut the door and\nreturned to his guest, while La Carconte lighted a candle by the\nsmouldering ashes that glimmered on the hearth.\n\n You must be tired,  said she to the jeweller;  I have spread a pair\nof white sheets on your bed; go up when you are ready, and sleep well. \n\n Joannes stayed for a while to see whether the storm seemed to abate in\nits fury, but a brief space of time sufficed to assure him that,\ninstead of diminishing, the violence of the rain and thunder\nmomentarily increased; resigning himself, therefore, to what seemed\ninevitable, he bade his host good-night, and mounted the stairs. He\npassed over my head and I heard the flooring creak beneath his\nfootsteps. The quick, eager glance of La Carconte followed him as he\nascended, while Caderousse, on the contrary, turned his back, and\nseemed most anxiously to avoid even glancing at him.\n\n All these circumstances did not strike me as painfully at the time as\nthey have since done; in fact, all that had happened (with the\nexception of the story of the diamond, which certainly did wear an air\nof improbability), appeared natural enough, and called for neither\napprehension nor mistrust; but, worn out as I was with fatigue, and\nfully purposing to proceed onwards directly the tempest abated, I\ndetermined to obtain a few hours  sleep. Overhead I could accurately\ndistinguish every movement of the jeweller, who, after making the best\narrangements in his power for passing a comfortable night, threw\nhimself on his bed, and I could hear it creak and groan beneath his\nweight.\n\n Insensibly my eyelids grew heavy, deep sleep stole over me, and having\nno suspicion of anything wrong, I sought not to shake it off. I looked\ninto the kitchen once more and saw Caderousse sitting by the side of a\nlong table upon one of the low wooden stools which in country places\nare frequently used instead of chairs; his back was turned towards me,\nso that I could not see the expression of his countenance neither\nshould I have been able to do so had he been placed differently, as his\nhead was buried between his two hands. La Carconte continued to gaze on\nhim for some time, then shrugging her shoulders, she took her seat\nimmediately opposite to him.\n\n At this moment the expiring embers threw up a fresh flame from the\nkindling of a piece of wood that lay near, and a bright light flashed\nover the room. La Carconte still kept her eyes fixed on her husband,\nbut as he made no sign of changing his position, she extended her hard,\nbony hand, and touched him on the forehead.\n\n20317m\n\n\n\n Caderousse shuddered. The woman s lips seemed to move, as though she\nwere talking; but because she merely spoke in an undertone, or my\nsenses were dulled by sleep, I did not catch a word she uttered.\nConfused sights and sounds seemed to float before me, and gradually I\nfell into a deep, heavy slumber. How long I had been in this\nunconscious state I know not, when I was suddenly aroused by the report\nof a pistol, followed by a fearful cry. Weak and tottering footsteps\nresounded across the chamber above me, and the next instant a dull,\nheavy weight seemed to fall powerless on the staircase. I had not yet\nfully recovered consciousness, when again I heard groans, mingled with\nhalf-stifled cries, as if from persons engaged in a deadly struggle. A\ncry more prolonged than the others and ending in a series of groans\neffectually roused me from my drowsy lethargy. Hastily raising myself\non one arm, I looked around, but all was dark; and it seemed to me as\nif the rain must have penetrated through the flooring of the room\nabove, for some kind of moisture appeared to fall, drop by drop, upon\nmy forehead, and when I passed my hand across my brow, I felt that it\nwas wet and clammy.\n\n To the fearful noises that had awakened me had succeeded the most\nperfect silence unbroken, save by the footsteps of a man walking about\nin the chamber above. The staircase creaked, he descended into the room\nbelow, approached the fire and lit a candle.\n\n The man was Caderousse he was pale and his shirt was all bloody.\nHaving obtained the light, he hurried upstairs again, and once more I\nheard his rapid and uneasy footsteps.\n\n A moment later he came down again, holding in his hand the small\nshagreen case, which he opened, to assure himself it contained the\ndiamond, seemed to hesitate as to which pocket he should put it in,\nthen, as if dissatisfied with the security of either pocket, he\ndeposited it in his red handkerchief, which he carefully rolled round\nhis head.\n\n After this he took from his cupboard the bank-notes and gold he had\nput there, thrust the one into the pocket of his trousers, and the\nother into that of his waistcoat, hastily tied up a small bundle of\nlinen, and rushing towards the door, disappeared in the darkness of the\nnight.\n\n Then all became clear and manifest to me, and I reproached myself with\nwhat had happened, as though I myself had done the guilty deed. I\nfancied that I still heard faint moans, and imagining that the\nunfortunate jeweller might not be quite dead, I determined to go to his\nrelief, by way of atoning in some slight degree, not for the crime I\nhad committed, but for that which I had not endeavored to prevent. For\nthis purpose I applied all the strength I possessed to force an\nentrance from the cramped spot in which I lay to the adjoining room.\nThe poorly fastened boards which alone divided me from it yielded to my\nefforts, and I found myself in the house. Hastily snatching up the\nlighted candle, I hurried to the staircase; about midway a body was\nlying quite across the stairs. It was that of La Carconte. The pistol I\nhad heard had doubtless been fired at her. The shot had frightfully\nlacerated her throat, leaving two gaping wounds from which, as well as\nthe mouth, the blood was pouring in floods. She was stone dead. I\nstrode past her, and ascended to the sleeping chamber, which presented\nan appearance of the wildest disorder. The furniture had been knocked\nover in the deadly struggle that had taken place there, and the sheets,\nto which the unfortunate jeweller had doubtless clung, were dragged\nacross the room. The murdered man lay on the floor, his head leaning\nagainst the wall, and about him was a pool of blood which poured forth\nfrom three large wounds in his breast; there was a fourth gash, in\nwhich a long table knife was plunged up to the handle.\n\n I stumbled over some object; I stooped to examine it was the second\npistol, which had not gone off, probably from the powder being wet. I\napproached the jeweller, who was not quite dead, and at the sound of my\nfootsteps and the creaking of the floor, he opened his eyes, fixed them\non me with an anxious and inquiring gaze, moved his lips as though\ntrying to speak, then, overcome by the effort, fell back and expired.\n\n This appalling sight almost bereft me of my senses, and finding that I\ncould no longer be of service to anyone in the house, my only desire\nwas to fly. I rushed towards the staircase, clutching my hair, and\nuttering a groan of horror.\n\n Upon reaching the room below, I found five or six custom-house\nofficers, and two or three gendarmes all heavily armed. They threw\nthemselves upon me. I made no resistance; I was no longer master of my\nsenses. When I strove to speak, a few inarticulate sounds alone escaped\nmy lips.\n\n As I noticed the significant manner in which the whole party pointed\nto my blood-stained garments, I involuntarily surveyed myself, and then\nI discovered that the thick warm drops that had so bedewed me as I lay\nbeneath the staircase must have been the blood of La Carconte. I\npointed to the spot where I had concealed myself.\n\n What does he mean?  asked a gendarme.\n\n One of the officers went to the place I directed.\n\n He means,  replied the man upon his return,  that he got in that\nway;  and he showed the hole I had made when I broke through.\n\n Then I saw that they took me for the assassin. I recovered force and\nenergy enough to free myself from the hands of those who held me, while\nI managed to stammer forth:\n\n I did not do it! Indeed, indeed I did not! \n\n A couple of gendarmes held the muzzles of their carbines against my\nbreast.\n\n Stir but a step,  said they,  and you are a dead man. \n\n Why should you threaten me with death,  cried I,  when I have already\ndeclared my innocence? \n\n Tush, tush,  cried the men;  keep your innocent stories to tell to\nthe judge at N mes. Meanwhile, come along with us; and the best advice\nwe can give you is to do so unresistingly. \n\n Alas, resistance was far from my thoughts. I was utterly overpowered\nby surprise and terror; and without a word I suffered myself to be\nhandcuffed and tied to a horse s tail, and thus they took me to N mes.\n\n I had been tracked by a customs-officer, who had lost sight of me near\nthe tavern; feeling certain that I intended to pass the night there, he\nhad returned to summon his comrades, who just arrived in time to hear\nthe report of the pistol, and to take me in the midst of such\ncircumstantial proofs of my guilt as rendered all hopes of proving my\ninnocence utterly futile. One only chance was left me, that of\nbeseeching the magistrate before whom I was taken to cause every\ninquiry to be made for the Abb  Busoni, who had stopped at the inn of\nthe Pont du Gard on that morning.\n\n If Caderousse had invented the story relative to the diamond, and\nthere existed no such person as the Abb  Busoni, then, indeed, I was\nlost past redemption, or, at least, my life hung upon the feeble chance\nof Caderousse himself being apprehended and confessing the whole truth.\n\n Two months passed away in hopeless expectation on my part, while I\nmust do the magistrate the justice to say that he used every means to\nobtain information of the person I declared could exculpate me if he\nwould. Caderousse still evaded all pursuit, and I had resigned myself\nto what seemed my inevitable fate. My trial was to come on at the\napproaching assizes; when, on the 8th of September that is to say,\nprecisely three months and five days after the events which had\nperilled my life the Abb  Busoni, whom I never ventured to believe I\nshould see, presented himself at the prison doors, saying he understood\none of the prisoners wished to speak to him; he added, that having\nlearned at Marseilles the particulars of my imprisonment, he hastened\nto comply with my desire.\n\n You may easily imagine with what eagerness I welcomed him, and how\nminutely I related the whole of what I had seen and heard. I felt some\ndegree of nervousness as I entered upon the history of the diamond,\nbut, to my inexpressible astonishment, he confirmed it in every\nparticular, and to my equal surprise, he seemed to place entire belief\nin all I said.\n\n And then it was that, won by his mild charity, seeing that he was\nacquainted with all the habits and customs of my own country, and\nconsidering also that pardon for the only crime of which I was really\nguilty might come with a double power from lips so benevolent and kind,\nI besought him to receive my confession, under the seal of which I\nrecounted the Auteuil affair in all its details, as well as every other\ntransaction of my life. That which I had done by the impulse of my best\nfeelings produced the same effect as though it had been the result of\ncalculation. My voluntary confession of the assassination at Auteuil\nproved to him that I had not committed that of which I stood accused.\nWhen he quitted me, he bade me be of good courage, and to rely upon his\ndoing all in his power to convince my judges of my innocence.\n\n I had speedy proofs that the excellent abb  was engaged in my behalf,\nfor the rigors of my imprisonment were alleviated by many trifling\nthough acceptable indulgences, and I was told that my trial was to be\npostponed to the assizes following those now being held.\n\n In the interim it pleased Providence to cause the apprehension of\nCaderousse, who was discovered in some distant country, and brought\nback to France, where he made a full confession, refusing to make the\nfact of his wife s having suggested and arranged the murder any excuse\nfor his own guilt. The wretched man was sentenced to the galleys for\nlife, and I was immediately set at liberty. \n\n And then it was, I presume,  said Monte Cristo  that you came to me as\nthe bearer of a letter from the Abb  Busoni? \n\n It was, your excellency; the benevolent abb  took an evident interest\nin all that concerned me.\n\n Your mode of life as a smuggler,  said he to me one day,  will be the\nruin of you; if you get out, don t take it up again. \n\n But how,  inquired I,  am I to maintain myself and my poor sister? \n\n A person, whose confessor I am,  replied he,  and who entertains a\nhigh regard for me, applied to me a short time since to procure him a\nconfidential servant. Would you like such a post? If so, I will give\nyou a letter of introduction to him. \n\n Oh, father,  I exclaimed,  you are very good. \n\n But you must swear solemnly that I shall never have reason to repent\nmy recommendation. \n\n I extended my hand, and was about to pledge myself by any promise he\nwould dictate, but he stopped me.\n\n It is unnecessary for you to bind yourself by any vow,  said he;  I\nknow and admire the Corsican nature too well to fear you. Here, take\nthis,  continued he, after rapidly writing the few lines I brought to\nyour excellency, and upon receipt of which you deigned to receive me\ninto your service, and proudly I ask whether your excellency has ever\nhad cause to repent having done so? \n\n No,  replied the count;  I take pleasure in saying that you have\nserved me faithfully, Bertuccio; but you might have shown more\nconfidence in me. \n\n I, your excellency? \n\n Yes; you. How comes it, that having both a sister and an adopted son,\nyou have never spoken to me of either? \n\n20323m\n\n\n\n Alas, I have still to recount the most distressing period of my life.\nAnxious as you may suppose I was to behold and comfort my dear sister,\nI lost no time in hastening to Corsica, but when I arrived at Rogliano\nI found a house of mourning, the consequences of a scene so horrible\nthat the neighbors remember and speak of it to this day. Acting by my\nadvice, my poor sister had refused to comply with the unreasonable\ndemands of Benedetto, who was continually tormenting her for money, as\nlong as he believed there was a sou left in her possession. One morning\nhe threatened her with the severest consequences if she did not supply\nhim with what he desired, and disappeared and remained away all day,\nleaving the kind-hearted Assunta, who loved him as if he were her own\nchild, to weep over his conduct and bewail his absence. Evening came,\nand still, with all the patient solicitude of a mother, she watched for\nhis return.\n\n As the eleventh hour struck, he entered with a swaggering air,\nattended by two of the most dissolute and reckless of his boon\ncompanions. She stretched out her arms to him, but they seized hold of\nher, and one of the three none other than the accursed Benedetto\nexclaimed:\n\n Put her to torture and she ll soon tell us where her money is. \n\n It unfortunately happened that our neighbor, Wasilio, was at Bastia,\nleaving no person in his house but his wife; no human creature beside\ncould hear or see anything that took place within our dwelling. Two\nheld poor Assunta, who, unable to conceive that any harm was intended\nto her, smiled in the face of those who were soon to become her\nexecutioners. The third proceeded to barricade the doors and windows,\nthen returned, and the three united in stifling the cries of terror\nincited by the sight of these preparations, and then dragged Assunta\nfeet foremost towards the brazier, expecting to wring from her an\navowal of where her supposed treasure was secreted. In the struggle her\nclothes caught fire, and they were obliged to let go their hold in\norder to preserve themselves from sharing the same fate. Covered with\nflames, Assunta rushed wildly to the door, but it was fastened; she\nflew to the windows, but they were also secured; then the neighbors\nheard frightful shrieks; it was Assunta calling for help. The cries\ndied away in groans, and next morning, as soon as Wasilio s wife could\nmuster up courage to venture abroad, she caused the door of our\ndwelling to be opened by the public authorities, when Assunta, although\ndreadfully burnt, was found still breathing; every drawer and closet in\nthe house had been forced open, and the money stolen. Benedetto never\nagain appeared at Rogliano, neither have I since that day either seen\nor heard anything concerning him.\n\n It was subsequently to these dreadful events that I waited on your\nexcellency, to whom it would have been folly to have mentioned\nBenedetto, since all trace of him seemed entirely lost; or of my\nsister, since she was dead. \n\n And in what light did you view the occurrence?  inquired Monte Cristo.\n\n As a punishment for the crime I had committed,  answered Bertuccio.\n Oh, those Villeforts are an accursed race! \n\n Truly they are,  murmured the count in a lugubrious tone.\n\n And now,  resumed Bertuccio,  your excellency may, perhaps, be able to\ncomprehend that this place, which I revisit for the first time this\ngarden, the actual scene of my crime must have given rise to\nreflections of no very agreeable nature, and produced that gloom and\ndepression of spirits which excited the notice of your excellency, who\nwas pleased to express a desire to know the cause. At this instant a\nshudder passes over me as I reflect that possibly I am now standing on\nthe very grave in which lies M. de Villefort, by whose hand the ground\nwas dug to receive the corpse of his child. \n\n Everything is possible,  said Monte Cristo, rising from the bench on\nwhich he had been sitting;  even,  he added in an inaudible voice,\n even that the procureur be not dead. The Abb  Busoni did right to send\nyou to me,  he went on in his ordinary tone,  and you have done well in\nrelating to me the whole of your history, as it will prevent my forming\nany erroneous opinions concerning you in future. As for that Benedetto,\nwho so grossly belied his name, have you never made any effort to trace\nout whither he has gone, or what has become of him? \n\n No; far from wishing to learn whither he has betaken himself, I should\nshun the possibility of meeting him as I would a wild beast. Thank God,\nI have never heard his name mentioned by any person, and I hope and\nbelieve he is dead. \n\n Do not think so, Bertuccio,  replied the count;  for the wicked are\nnot so easily disposed of, for God seems to have them under his special\nwatch-care to make of them instruments of his vengeance. \n\n So be it,  responded Bertuccio,  all I ask of heaven is that I may\nnever see him again. And now, your excellency,  he added, bowing his\nhead,  you know everything you are my judge on earth, as the Almighty\nis in heaven; have you for me no words of consolation? \n\n My good friend, I can only repeat the words addressed to you by the\nAbb  Busoni. Villefort merited punishment for what he had done to you,\nand, perhaps, to others. Benedetto, if still living, will become the\ninstrument of divine retribution in some way or other, and then be duly\npunished in his turn. As far as you yourself are concerned, I see but\none point in which you are really guilty. Ask yourself, wherefore,\nafter rescuing the infant from its living grave, you did not restore it\nto its mother? There was the crime, Bertuccio that was where you became\nreally culpable. \n\n True, excellency, that was the crime, the real crime, for in that I\nacted like a coward. My first duty, directly I had succeeded in\nrecalling the babe to life, was to restore it to its mother; but, in\norder to do so, I must have made close and careful inquiry, which\nwould, in all probability, have led to my own apprehension; and I clung\nto life, partly on my sister s account, and partly from that feeling of\npride inborn in our hearts of desiring to come off untouched and\nvictorious in the execution of our vengeance. Perhaps, too, the natural\nand instinctive love of life made me wish to avoid endangering my own.\nAnd then, again, I am not as brave and courageous as was my poor\nbrother. \n\nBertuccio hid his face in his hands as he uttered these words, while\nMonte Cristo fixed on him a look of inscrutable meaning. After a brief\nsilence, rendered still more solemn by the time and place, the count\nsaid, in a tone of melancholy wholly unlike his usual manner:\n\n In order to bring this conversation to a fitting termination (the last\nwe shall ever hold upon this subject), I will repeat to you some words\nI have heard from the lips of the Abb  Busoni. For all evils there are\ntwo remedies time and silence. And now leave me, Monsieur Bertuccio, to\nwalk alone here in the garden. The very circumstances which inflict on\nyou, as a principal in the tragic scene enacted here, such painful\nemotions, are to me, on the contrary, a source of something like\ncontentment, and serve but to enhance the value of this dwelling in my\nestimation. The chief beauty of trees consists in the deep shadow of\ntheir umbrageous boughs, while fancy pictures a moving multitude of\nshapes and forms flitting and passing beneath that shade. Here I have a\ngarden laid out in such a way as to afford the fullest scope for the\nimagination, and furnished with thickly grown trees, beneath whose\nleafy screen a visionary like myself may conjure up phantoms at will.\nThis to me, who expected but to find a blank enclosure surrounded by a\nstraight wall, is, I assure you, a most agreeable surprise. I have no\nfear of ghosts, and I have never heard it said that so much harm had\nbeen done by the dead during six thousand years as is wrought by the\nliving in a single day. Retire within, Bertuccio, and tranquillize your\nmind. Should your confessor be less indulgent to you in your dying\nmoments than you found the Abb  Busoni, send for me, if I am still on\nearth, and I will soothe your ears with words that shall effectually\ncalm and soothe your parting soul ere it goes forth to traverse the\nocean called eternity. \n\nBertuccio bowed respectfully, and turned away, sighing heavily. Monte\nCristo, left alone, took three or four steps onwards, and murmured:\n\n Here, beneath this plane-tree, must have been where the infant s grave\nwas dug. There is the little door opening into the garden. At this\ncorner is the private staircase communicating with the sleeping\napartment. There will be no necessity for me to make a note of these\nparticulars, for there, before my eyes, beneath my feet, all around me,\nI have the plan sketched with all the living reality of truth. \n\nAfter making the tour of the garden a second time, the count re-entered\nhis carriage, while Bertuccio, who perceived the thoughtful expression\nof his master s features, took his seat beside the driver without\nuttering a word. The carriage proceeded rapidly towards Paris.\n\nThat same evening, upon reaching his abode in the Champs- lys es, the\nCount of Monte Cristo went over the whole building with the air of one\nlong acquainted with each nook or corner. Nor, although preceding the\nparty, did he once mistake one door for another, or commit the smallest\nerror when choosing any particular corridor or staircase to conduct him\nto a place or suite of rooms he desired to visit. Ali was his principal\nattendant during this nocturnal survey. Having given various orders to\nBertuccio relative to the improvements and alterations he desired to\nmake in the house, the Count, drawing out his watch, said to the\nattentive Nubian:\n\n It is half-past eleven o clock; Hayd e will soon be here. Have the\nFrench attendants been summoned to await her coming? \n\nAli extended his hands towards the apartments destined for the fair\nGreek, which were so effectually concealed by means of a tapestried\nentrance, that it would have puzzled the most curious to have divined\ntheir existence. Ali, having pointed to the apartments, held up three\nfingers of his right hand, and then, placing it beneath his head, shut\nhis eyes, and feigned to sleep.\n\n I understand,  said Monte Cristo, well acquainted with Ali s\npantomime;  you mean to tell me that three female attendants await\ntheir new mistress in her sleeping-chamber. \n\nAli, with considerable animation, made a sign in the affirmative.\n\n Madame will be tired tonight,  continued Monte Cristo,  and will, no\ndoubt, wish to rest. Desire the French attendants not to weary her with\nquestions, but merely to pay their respectful duty and retire. You will\nalso see that the Greek servants hold no communication with those of\nthis country. \n\nHe bowed. Just at that moment voices were heard hailing the concierge.\nThe gate opened, a carriage rolled down the avenue, and stopped at the\nsteps. The count hastily descended, presented himself at the already\nopened carriage door, and held out his hand to a young woman,\ncompletely enveloped in a green silk mantle heavily embroidered with\ngold. She raised the hand extended towards her to her lips, and kissed\nit with a mixture of love and respect. Some few words passed between\nthem in that sonorous language in which Homer makes his gods converse.\nThe young woman spoke with an expression of deep tenderness, while the\ncount replied with an air of gentle gravity.\n\nPreceded by Ali, who carried a rose-colored flambeau in his hand, the\nyoung lady, who was no other than the lovely Greek who had been Monte\nCristo s companion in Italy, was conducted to her apartments, while the\ncount retired to the pavilion reserved for himself. In another hour\nevery light in the house was extinguished, and it might have been\nthought that all its inmates slept.\n\n\n\n Chapter 46. Unlimited Credit\n\nAbout two o clock the following day a calash, drawn by a pair of\nmagnificent English horses, stopped at the door of Monte Cristo and a\nperson, dressed in a blue coat, with buttons of a similar color, a\nwhite waistcoat, over which was displayed a massive gold chain, brown\ntrousers, and a quantity of black hair descending so low over his\neyebrows as to leave it doubtful whether it were not artificial so\nlittle did its jetty glossiness assimilate with the deep wrinkles\nstamped on his features a person, in a word, who, although evidently\npast fifty, desired to be taken for not more than forty, bent forwards\nfrom the carriage door, on the panels of which were emblazoned the\narmorial bearings of a baron, and directed his groom to inquire at the\nporter s lodge whether the Count of Monte Cristo resided there, and if\nhe were within.\n\nWhile waiting, the occupant of the carriage surveyed the house, the\ngarden as far as he could distinguish it, and the livery of servants\nwho passed to and fro, with an attention so close as to be somewhat\nimpertinent. His glance was keen but showed cunning rather than\nintelligence; his lips were straight, and so thin that, as they closed,\nthey were drawn in over the teeth; his cheek-bones were broad and\nprojecting, a never-failing proof of audacity and craftiness; while the\nflatness of his forehead, and the enlargement of the back of his skull,\nwhich rose much higher than his large and coarsely shaped ears,\ncombined to form a physiognomy anything but prepossessing, save in the\neyes of such as considered that the owner of so splendid an equipage\nmust needs be all that was admirable and enviable, more especially when\nthey gazed on the enormous diamond that glittered in his shirt, and the\nred ribbon that depended from his button-hole.\n\nThe groom, in obedience to his orders, tapped at the window of the\nporter s lodge, saying:\n\n Pray, does not the Count of Monte Cristo live here? \n\n His excellency does reside here,  replied the concierge;  but  added\nhe, glancing an inquiring look at Ali. Ali returned a sign in the\nnegative.\n\n But what?  asked the groom.\n\n His excellency does not receive visitors today. \n\n Then here is my master s card, the Baron Danglars. You will take it to\nthe count, and say that, although in haste to attend the Chamber, my\nmaster came out of his way to have the honor of calling upon him. \n\n I never speak to his excellency,  replied the concierge;  the valet de\nchambre will carry your message. \n\nThe groom returned to the carriage.\n\n Well?  asked Danglars.\n\nThe man, somewhat crest-fallen by the rebuke he had received, repeated\nwhat the concierge had said.\n\n Bless me,  murmured Baron Danglars,  this must surely be a prince\ninstead of a count by their styling him  excellency,  and only\nventuring to address him by the medium of his valet de chambre.\nHowever, it does not signify; he has a letter of credit on me, so I\nmust see him when he requires his money. \n\nThen, throwing himself back in his carriage, Danglars called out to his\ncoachman, in a voice that might be heard across the road,  To the\nChamber of Deputies. \n\nApprised in time of the visit paid him, Monte Cristo had, from behind\nthe blinds of his pavilion, as minutely observed the baron, by means of\nan excellent lorgnette, as Danglars himself had scrutinized the house,\ngarden, and servants.\n\n That fellow has a decidedly bad countenance,  said the count in a tone\nof disgust, as he shut up his glass into its ivory case.  How comes it\nthat all do not retreat in aversion at sight of that flat, receding,\nserpent-like forehead, round, vulture-shaped head, and sharp-hooked\nnose, like the beak of a buzzard? Ali,  cried he, striking at the same\ntime on the brazen gong. Ali appeared.  Summon Bertuccio,  said the\ncount. Almost immediately Bertuccio entered the apartment.\n\n Did your excellency desire to see me?  inquired he.\n\n I did,  replied the count.  You no doubt observed the horses standing\na few minutes since at the door? \n\n Certainly, your excellency. I noticed them for their remarkable\nbeauty. \n\n Then how comes it,  said Monte Cristo with a frown,  that, when I\ndesired you to purchase for me the finest pair of horses to be found in\nParis, there is another pair, fully as fine as mine, not in my\nstables? \n\nAt the look of displeasure, added to the angry tone in which the count\nspoke, Ali turned pale and held down his head.\n\n It is not your fault, my good Ali,  said the count in the Arabic\nlanguage, and with a gentleness none would have thought him capable of\nshowing, either in voice or face it is not your fault. You do not\nunderstand the points of English horses. \n\nThe countenance of poor Ali recovered its serenity.\n\n Permit me to assure your excellency,  said Bertuccio,  that the horses\nyou speak of were not to be sold when I purchased yours. \n\nMonte Cristo shrugged his shoulders.  It seems, sir steward,  said he,\n that you have yet to learn that all things are to be sold to such as\ncare to pay the price. \n\n His excellency is not, perhaps, aware that M. Danglars gave 16,000\nfrancs for his horses? \n\n Very well. Then offer him double that sum; a banker never loses an\nopportunity of doubling his capital. \n\n Is your excellency really in earnest?  inquired the steward.\n\nMonte Cristo regarded the person who durst presume to doubt his words\nwith the look of one equally surprised and displeased.\n\n I have to pay a visit this evening,  replied he.  I desire that these\nhorses, with completely new harness, may be at the door with my\ncarriage. \n\nBertuccio bowed, and was about to retire; but when he reached the door,\nhe paused, and then said,  At what o clock does your excellency wish\nthe carriage and horses to be ready? \n\n At five o clock,  replied the count.\n\n I beg your excellency s pardon,  interposed the steward in a\ndeprecating manner,  for venturing to observe that it is already two\no clock. \n\n I am perfectly aware of that fact,  answered Monte Cristo calmly.\nThen, turning towards Ali, he said,  Let all the horses in my stables\nbe led before the windows of your young lady, that she may select those\nshe prefers for her carriage. Request her also to oblige me by saying\nwhether it is her pleasure to dine with me; if so, let dinner be served\nin her apartments. Now, leave me, and desire my valet de chambre to\ncome hither. \n\nScarcely had Ali disappeared when the valet entered the chamber.\n\n Monsieur Baptistin,  said the count,  you have been in my service one\nyear, the time I generally give myself to judge of the merits or\ndemerits of those about me. You suit me very well. \n\nBaptistin bowed low.\n\n It only remains for me to know whether I also suit you? \n\n Oh, your excellency!  exclaimed Baptistin eagerly.\n\n Listen, if you please, till I have finished speaking,  replied Monte\nCristo.  You receive 1,500 francs per annum for your services here more\nthan many a brave subaltern, who continually risks his life for his\ncountry, obtains. You live in a manner far superior to many clerks who\nwork ten times harder than you do for their money. Then, though\nyourself a servant, you have other servants to wait upon you, take care\nof your clothes, and see that your linen is duly prepared for you.\nAgain, you make a profit upon each article you purchase for my toilet,\namounting in the course of a year to a sum equalling your wages. \n\n Nay, indeed, your excellency. \n\n I am not condemning you for this, Monsieur Baptistin; but let your\nprofits end here. It would be long indeed ere you would find so\nlucrative a post as that you have now the good fortune to fill. I\nneither ill-use nor ill-treat my servants by word or action. An error I\nreadily forgive, but wilful negligence or forgetfulness, never. My\ncommands are ordinarily short, clear, and precise; and I would rather\nbe obliged to repeat my words twice, or even three times, than they\nshould be misunderstood. I am rich enough to know whatever I desire to\nknow, and I can promise you I am not wanting in curiosity. If, then, I\nshould learn that you had taken upon yourself to speak of me to anyone\nfavorably or unfavorably, to comment on my actions, or watch my\nconduct, that very instant you would quit my service. You may now\nretire. I never caution my servants a second time remember that. \n\nBaptistin bowed, and was proceeding towards the door.\n\n I forgot to mention to you,  said the count,  that I lay yearly aside\na certain sum for each servant in my establishment; those whom I am\ncompelled to dismiss lose (as a matter of course) all participation in\nthis money, while their portion goes to the fund accumulating for those\ndomestics who remain with me, and among whom it will be divided at my\ndeath. You have been in my service a year, your fund has already begun\nto accumulate let it continue to do so. \n\nThis address, delivered in the presence of Ali, who, not understanding\none word of the language in which it was spoken, stood wholly unmoved,\nproduced an effect on M. Baptistin only to be conceived by such as have\noccasion to study the character and disposition of French domestics.\n\n I assure your excellency,  said he,  that at least it shall be my\nstudy to merit your approbation in all things, and I will take M. Ali\nas my model. \n\n By no means,  replied the count in the most frigid tones;  Ali has\nmany faults mixed with most excellent qualities. He cannot possibly\nserve you as a pattern for your conduct, not being, as you are, a paid\nservant, but a mere slave a dog, who, should he fail in his duty\ntowards me, I should not discharge from my service, but kill. \n\nBaptistin opened his eyes with astonishment.\n\n You seem incredulous,  said Monte Cristo, who repeated to Ali in the\nArabic language what he had just been saying to Baptistin in French.\n\nThe Nubian smiled assentingly to his master s words, then, kneeling on\none knee, respectfully kissed the hand of the count. This corroboration\nof the lesson he had just received put the finishing stroke to the\nwonder and stupefaction of M. Baptistin. The count then motioned the\nvalet de chambre to retire, and to Ali to follow to his study, where\nthey conversed long and earnestly together. As the hand of the clock\npointed to five the count struck thrice upon his gong. When Ali was\nwanted one stroke was given, two summoned Baptistin, and three\nBertuccio. The steward entered.\n\n My horses,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n They are at the door harnessed to the carriage as your excellency\ndesired. Does your excellency wish me to accompany him? \n\n No, the coachman, Ali, and Baptistin will go. \n\nThe count descended to the door of his mansion, and beheld his carriage\ndrawn by the very pair of horses he had so much admired in the morning\nas the property of Danglars. As he passed them he said:\n\n They are extremely handsome certainly, and you have done well to\npurchase them, although you were somewhat remiss not to have procured\nthem sooner. \n\n Indeed, your excellency, I had very considerable difficulty in\nobtaining them, and, as it is, they have cost an enormous price. \n\n Does the sum you gave for them make the animals less beautiful, \ninquired the count, shrugging his shoulders.\n\n Nay, if your excellency is satisfied, it is all that I could wish.\nWhither does your excellency desire to be driven? \n\n To the residence of Baron Danglars, Rue de la Chauss e d Antin. \n\nThis conversation had passed as they stood upon the terrace, from which\na flight of stone steps led to the carriage-drive. As Bertuccio, with a\nrespectful bow, was moving away, the count called him back.\n\n I have another commission for you, M. Bertuccio,  said he;  I am\ndesirous of having an estate by the seaside in Normandy for instance,\nbetween Le Havre and Boulogne. You see I give you a wide range. It will\nbe absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small\nharbor, creek, or bay, into which my corvette can enter and remain at\nanchor. She draws only fifteen feet. She must be kept in constant\nreadiness to sail immediately I think proper to give the signal. Make\nthe requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you\nhave met with an eligible spot, visit it, and if it possess the\nadvantages desired, purchase it at once in your own name. The corvette\nmust now, I think, be on her way to F camp, must she not? \n\n20333m\n\n\n\n Certainly, your excellency; I saw her put to sea the same evening we\nquitted Marseilles. \n\n And the yacht. \n\n Was ordered to remain at Martigues. \n\n Tis well. I wish you to write from time to time to the captains in\ncharge of the two vessels so as to keep them on the alert. \n\n And the steamboat? \n\n She is at Ch lons? \n\n Yes. \n\n The same orders for her as for the two sailing vessels. \n\n Very good. \n\n When you have purchased the estate I desire, I want constant relays of\nhorses at ten leagues apart along the northern and southern road. \n\n Your excellency may depend upon me. \n\nThe Count made a gesture of satisfaction, descended the terrace steps,\nand sprang into his carriage, which was whirled along swiftly to the\nbanker s house.\n\nDanglars was engaged at that moment, presiding over a railroad\ncommittee. But the meeting was nearly concluded when the name of his\nvisitor was announced. As the count s title sounded on his ear he rose,\nand addressing his colleagues, who were members of one or the other\nChamber, he said:\n\n Gentlemen, pardon me for leaving you so abruptly; but a most\nridiculous circumstance has occurred, which is this, Thomson & French,\nthe Roman bankers, have sent to me a certain person calling himself the\nCount of Monte Cristo, and have given him an unlimited credit with me.\nI confess this is the drollest thing I have ever met with in the course\nof my extensive foreign transactions, and you may readily suppose it\nhas greatly roused my curiosity. I took the trouble this morning to\ncall on the pretended count if he were a real count he wouldn t be so\nrich. But, would you believe it,  He was not receiving.  So the master\nof Monte Cristo gives himself airs befitting a great millionaire or a\ncapricious beauty. I made inquiries, and found that the house in the\nChamps- lys es is his own property, and certainly it was very decently\nkept up. But,  pursued Danglars with one of his sinister smiles,  an\norder for unlimited credit calls for something like caution on the part\nof the banker to whom that order is given. I am very anxious to see\nthis man. I suspect a hoax is intended, but the instigators of it\nlittle knew whom they had to deal with.  They laugh best who laugh\nlast! \n\nHaving delivered himself of this pompous address, uttered with a degree\nof energy that left the baron almost out of breath, he bowed to the\nassembled party and withdrew to his drawing-room, whose sumptuous\nfurnishings of white and gold had caused a great sensation in the\nChauss e d Antin. It was to this apartment he had desired his guest to\nbe shown, with the purpose of overwhelming him at the sight of so much\nluxury. He found the count standing before some copies of Albano and\nFattore that had been passed off to the banker as originals; but which,\nmere copies as they were, seemed to feel their degradation in being\nbrought into juxtaposition with the gaudy colors that covered the\nceiling.\n\nThe count turned round as he heard the entrance of Danglars into the\nroom. With a slight inclination of the head, Danglars signed to the\ncount to be seated, pointing significantly to a gilded armchair,\ncovered with white satin embroidered with gold. The count sat down.\n\n20335m\n\n\n\n I have the honor, I presume, of addressing M. de Monte Cristo. \n\nThe count bowed.\n\n And I of speaking to Baron Danglars, chevalier of the Legion of Honor,\nand member of the Chamber of Deputies? \n\nMonte Cristo repeated all the titles he had read on the baron s card.\n\nDanglars felt the irony and compressed his lips.\n\n You will, I trust, excuse me, monsieur, for not calling you by your\ntitle when I first addressed you,  he said,  but you are aware that we\nare living under a popular form of government, and that I am myself a\nrepresentative of the liberties of the people. \n\n So much so,  replied Monte Cristo,  that while you call yourself baron\nyou are not willing to call anybody else count. \n\n Upon my word, monsieur,  said Danglars with affected carelessness,  I\nattach no sort of value to such empty distinctions; but the fact is, I\nwas made baron, and also chevalier of the Legion of Honor, in return\nfor services rendered, but \n\n But you have discarded your titles after the example set you by\nMessrs. de Montmorency and Lafayette? That was a noble example to\nfollow, monsieur. \n\n Why,  replied Danglars,  not entirely so; with the servants, you\nunderstand. \n\n I see; to your domestics you are  my lord,  the journalists style you\n monsieur,  while your constituents call you  citizen.  These are\ndistinctions very suitable under a constitutional government. I\nunderstand perfectly. \n\nAgain Danglars bit his lips; he saw that he was no match for Monte\nCristo in an argument of this sort, and he therefore hastened to turn\nto subjects more congenial.\n\n Permit me to inform you, Count,  said he, bowing,  that I have\nreceived a letter of advice from Thomson & French, of Rome. \n\n I am glad to hear it, baron, for I must claim the privilege of\naddressing you after the manner of your servants. I have acquired the\nbad habit of calling persons by their titles from living in a country\nwhere barons are still barons by right of birth. But as regards the\nletter of advice, I am charmed to find that it has reached you; that\nwill spare me the troublesome and disagreeable task of coming to you\nfor money myself. You have received a regular letter of advice? \n\n Yes,  said Danglars,  but I confess I didn t quite comprehend its\nmeaning. \n\n Indeed? \n\n And for that reason I did myself the honor of calling upon you, in\norder to beg for an explanation. \n\n Go on, monsieur. Here I am, ready to give you any explanation you\ndesire. \n\n Why,  said Danglars,  in the letter I believe I have it about me here\nhe felt in his breast-pocket yes, here it is. Well, this letter gives\nthe Count of Monte Cristo unlimited credit on our house. \n\n Well, baron, what is there difficult to understand about that? \n\n Merely the term _unlimited_ nothing else, certainly. \n\n Is not that word known in France? The people who wrote are\nAnglo-Germans, you know. \n\n Oh, as for the composition of the letter, there is nothing to be said;\nbut as regards the competency of the document, I certainly have\ndoubts. \n\n Is it possible?  asked the count, assuming all air and tone of the\nutmost simplicity and candor.  Is it possible that Thomson & French are\nnot looked upon as safe and solvent bankers? Pray tell me what you\nthink, baron, for I feel uneasy, I can assure you, having some\nconsiderable property in their hands. \n\n Thomson & French are perfectly solvent,  replied Danglars, with an\nalmost mocking smile;  but the word _unlimited_, in financial affairs,\nis so extremely vague. \n\n Is, in fact, unlimited,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Precisely what I was about to say,  cried Danglars.  Now what is vague\nis doubtful; and it was a wise man who said,  when in doubt, keep\nout. \n\n Meaning to say,  rejoined Monte Cristo,  that however Thomson & French\nmay be inclined to commit acts of imprudence and folly, the Baron\nDanglars is not disposed to follow their example. \n\n Not at all. \n\n Plainly enough; Messrs. Thomson & French set no bounds to their\nengagements while those of M. Danglars have their limits; he is a wise\nman, according to his own showing. \n\n Monsieur,  replied the banker, drawing himself up with a haughty air,\n the extent of my resources has never yet been questioned. \n\n It seems, then, reserved for me,  said Monte Cristo coldly,  to be the\nfirst to do so. \n\n By what right, sir? \n\n By right of the objections you have raised, and the explanations you\nhave demanded, which certainly must have some motive. \n\nOnce more Danglars bit his lips. It was the second time he had been\nworsted, and this time on his own ground. His forced politeness sat\nawkwardly upon him, and approached almost to impertinence. Monte Cristo\non the contrary, preserved a graceful suavity of demeanor, aided by a\ncertain degree of simplicity he could assume at pleasure, and thus\npossessed the advantage.\n\n Well, sir,  resumed Danglars, after a brief silence,  I will endeavor\nto make myself understood, by requesting you to inform me for what sum\nyou propose to draw upon me? \n\n Why, truly,  replied Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of\nthe ground he had gained,  my reason for desiring an  unlimited  credit\nwas precisely because I did not know how much money I might need. \n\nThe banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand. So\nthrowing himself back in his armchair, he said, with an arrogant and\npurse-proud air:\n\n Let me beg of you not to hesitate in naming your wishes; you will then\nbe convinced that the resources of the house of Danglars, however\nlimited, are still equal to meeting the largest demands; and were you\neven to require a million \n\n I beg your pardon,  interposed Monte Cristo.\n\n I said a million,  replied Danglars, with the confidence of ignorance.\n\n But could I do with a million?  retorted the count.  My dear sir, if a\ntrifle like that could suffice me, I should never have given myself the\ntrouble of opening an account. A million? Excuse my smiling when you\nspeak of a sum I am in the habit of carrying in my pocket-book or\ndressing-case. \n\nAnd with these words Monte Cristo took from his pocket a small case\ncontaining his visiting-cards, and drew forth two orders on the\ntreasury for 500,000 francs each, payable at sight to the bearer. A man\nlike Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any gentler method of\ncorrection. The effect of the present revelation was stunning; he\ntrembled and was on the verge of apoplexy. The pupils of his eyes, as\nhe gazed at Monte Cristo dilated horribly.\n\n Come, come,  said Monte Cristo,  confess honestly that you have not\nperfect confidence in Thomson & French. I understand, and foreseeing\nthat such might be the case, I took, in spite of my ignorance of\naffairs, certain precautions. See, here are two similar letters to that\nyou have yourself received; one from the house of Arstein & Eskeles of\nVienna, to Baron Rothschild, the other drawn by Baring of London, upon\nM. Lafitte. Now, sir, you have but to say the word, and I will spare\nyou all uneasiness by presenting my letter of credit to one or other of\nthese two firms. \n\nThe blow had struck home, and Danglars was entirely vanquished; with a\ntrembling hand he took the two letters from the count, who held them\ncarelessly between finger and thumb, and proceeded to scrutinize the\nsignatures, with a minuteness that the count might have regarded as\ninsulting, had it not suited his present purpose to mislead the banker.\n\n Oh, sir,  said Danglars, after he had convinced himself of the\nauthenticity of the documents he held, and rising as if to salute the\npower of gold personified in the man before him, three letters of\nunlimited credit! I can be no longer mistrustful, but you must pardon\nme, my dear count, for confessing to some degree of astonishment. \n\n Nay,  answered Monte Cristo, with the most gentlemanly air,  tis not\nfor such trifling sums as these that your banking house is to be\nincommoded. Then, you can let me have some money, can you not? \n\n Whatever you say, my dear count; I am at your orders. \n\n Why,  replied Monte Cristo,  since we mutually understand each\nother for such I presume is the case?  Danglars bowed assentingly.  You\nare quite sure that not a lurking doubt or suspicion lingers in your\nmind? \n\n Oh, my dear count,  exclaimed Danglars,  I never for an instant\nentertained such a feeling towards you. \n\n No, you merely wished to be convinced, nothing more; but now that we\nhave come to so clear an understanding, and that all distrust and\nsuspicion are laid at rest, we may as well fix a sum as the probable\nexpenditure of the first year, suppose we say six millions to \n\n Six millions!  gasped Danglars so be it. \n\n Then, if I should require more,  continued Monte Cristo in a careless\nmanner,  why, of course, I should draw upon you; but my present\nintention is not to remain in France more than a year, and during that\nperiod I scarcely think I shall exceed the sum I mentioned. However, we\nshall see. Be kind enough, then, to send me 500,000 francs tomorrow. I\nshall be at home till midday, or if not, I will leave a receipt with my\nsteward. \n\n The money you desire shall be at your house by ten o clock tomorrow\nmorning, my dear count,  replied Danglars.  How would you like to have\nit? in gold, silver, or notes? \n\n Half in gold, and the other half in bank-notes, if you please,  said\nthe count, rising from his seat.\n\n I must confess to you, count,  said Danglars,  that I have hitherto\nimagined myself acquainted with the degree of all the great fortunes of\nEurope, and still wealth such as yours has been wholly unknown to me.\nMay I presume to ask whether you have long possessed it? \n\n It has been in the family a very long while,  returned Monte Cristo,\n a sort of treasure expressly forbidden to be touched for a certain\nperiod of years, during which the accumulated interest has doubled the\ncapital. The period appointed by the testator for the disposal of these\nriches occurred only a short time ago, and they have only been employed\nby me within the last few years. Your ignorance on the subject,\ntherefore, is easily accounted for. However, you will be better\ninformed as to me and my possessions ere long. \n\nAnd the count, while pronouncing these latter words, accompanied them\nwith one of those ghastly smiles that used to strike terror into poor\nFranz d pinay.\n\n With your tastes, and means of gratifying them,  continued Danglars,\n you will exhibit a splendor that must effectually put us poor\nmiserable millionaires quite in the shade. If I mistake not you are an\nadmirer of paintings, at least I judged so from the attention you\nappeared to be bestowing on mine when I entered the room. If you will\npermit me, I shall be happy to show you my picture gallery, composed\nentirely of works by the ancient masters warranted as such. Not a\nmodern picture among them. I cannot endure the modern school of\npainting. \n\n You are perfectly right in objecting to them, for this one great\nfault that they have not yet had time to become old. \n\n Or will you allow me to show you several fine statues by Thorwaldsen,\nBartoloni, and Canova? all foreign artists, for, as you may perceive, I\nthink but very indifferently of our French sculptors. \n\n You have a right to be unjust to them, monsieur; they are your\ncompatriots. \n\n But all this may come later, when we shall be better known to each\nother. For the present, I will confine myself (if perfectly agreeable\nto you) to introducing you to the Baroness Danglars excuse my\nimpatience, my dear count, but a client like you is almost like a\nmember of the family. \n\nMonte Cristo bowed, in sign that he accepted the proffered honor;\nDanglars rang and was answered by a servant in a showy livery.\n\n Is the baroness at home?  inquired Danglars.\n\n Yes, my lord,  answered the man.\n\n And alone? \n\n No, my lord, madame has visitors. \n\n Have you any objection to meet any persons who may be with madame, or\ndo you desire to preserve a strict _incognito_? \n\n No, indeed,  replied Monte Cristo with a smile,  I do not arrogate to\nmyself the right of so doing. \n\n And who is with madame? M. Debray?  inquired Danglars, with an air of\nindulgence and good-nature that made Monte Cristo smile, acquainted as\nhe was with the secrets of the banker s domestic life.\n\n Yes, my lord,  replied the servant,  M. Debray is with madame. \n\nDanglars nodded his head; then, turning to Monte Cristo, said,  M.\nLucien Debray is an old friend of ours, and private secretary to the\nMinister of the Interior. As for my wife, I must tell you, she lowered\nherself by marrying me, for she belongs to one of the most ancient\nfamilies in France. Her maiden name was De Servi res, and her first\nhusband was Colonel the Marquis of Nargonne. \n\n I have not the honor of knowing Madame Danglars; but I have already\nmet M. Lucien Debray. \n\n Ah, indeed?  said Danglars;  and where was that? \n\n At the house of M. de Morcerf. \n\n Ah! you are acquainted with the young viscount, are you? \n\n We were together a good deal during the Carnival at Rome. \n\n True, true,  cried Danglars.  Let me see; have I not heard talk of\nsome strange adventure with bandits or thieves hid in ruins, and of his\nhaving had a miraculous escape? I forget how, but I know he used to\namuse my wife and daughter by telling them about it after his return\nfrom Italy. \n\n Her ladyship is waiting to receive you, gentlemen,  said the servant,\nwho had gone to inquire the pleasure of his mistress.\n\n With your permission,  said Danglars, bowing,  I will precede you, to\nshow you the way. \n\n By all means,  replied Monte Cristo;  I follow you. \n\n\n\n Chapter 47. The Dappled Grays\n\nThe baron, followed by the count, traversed a long series of\napartments, in which the prevailing characteristics were heavy\nmagnificence and the gaudiness of ostentatious wealth, until he reached\nthe boudoir of Madame Danglars a small octagonal-shaped room, hung with\npink satin, covered with white Indian muslin. The chairs were of\nancient workmanship and materials; over the doors were painted sketches\nof shepherds and shepherdesses, after the style and manner of Boucher;\nand at each side pretty medallions in crayons, harmonizing well with\nthe furnishings of this charming apartment, the only one throughout the\ngreat mansion in which any distinctive taste prevailed. The truth was,\nit had been entirely overlooked in the plan arranged and followed out\nby M. Danglars and his architect, who had been selected to aid the\nbaron in the great work of improvement solely because he was the most\nfashionable and celebrated decorator of the day. The decorations of the\nboudoir had then been left entirely to Madame Danglars and Lucien\nDebray. M. Danglars, however, while possessing a great admiration for\nthe antique, as it was understood during the time of the Directory,\nentertained the most sovereign contempt for the simple elegance of his\nwife s favorite sitting-room, where, by the way, he was never permitted\nto intrude, unless, indeed, he excused his own appearance by ushering\nin some more agreeable visitor than himself; and even then he had\nrather the air and manner of a person who was himself introduced, than\nthat of being the presenter of another, his reception being cordial or\nfrigid, in proportion as the person who accompanied him chanced to\nplease or displease the baroness.\n\nMadame Danglars (who, although past the first bloom of youth, was still\nstrikingly handsome) was now seated at the piano, a most elaborate\npiece of cabinet and inlaid work, while Lucien Debray, standing before\na small work-table, was turning over the pages of an album.\n\nLucien had found time, preparatory to the count s arrival, to relate\nmany particulars respecting him to Madame Danglars. It will be\nremembered that Monte Cristo had made a lively impression on the minds\nof all the party assembled at the breakfast given by Albert de Morcerf;\nand although Debray was not in the habit of yielding to such feelings,\nhe had never been able to shake off the powerful influence excited in\nhis mind by the impressive look and manner of the count, consequently\nthe description given by Lucien to the baroness bore the highly-colored\ntinge of his own heated imagination. Already excited by the wonderful\nstories related of the count by de Morcerf, it is no wonder that Madame\nDanglars eagerly listened to, and fully credited, all the additional\ncircumstances detailed by Debray. This posing at the piano and over the\nalbum was only a little ruse adopted by way of precaution. A most\ngracious welcome and unusual smile were bestowed on M. Danglars; the\ncount, in return for his gentlemanly bow, received a formal though\ngraceful courtesy, while Lucien exchanged with the count a sort of\ndistant recognition, and with Danglars a free and easy nod.\n\n Baroness,  said Danglars,  give me leave to present to you the Count\nof Monte Cristo, who has been most warmly recommended to me by my\ncorrespondents at Rome. I need but mention one fact to make all the\nladies in Paris court his notice, and that is, that he has come to take\nup his abode in Paris for a year, during which brief period he proposes\nto spend six millions of money. That means balls, dinners, and lawn\nparties without end, in all of which I trust the count will remember\nus, as he may depend upon it we shall him, in our own humble\nentertainments. \n\nIn spite of the gross flattery and coarseness of this address, Madame\nDanglars could not forbear gazing with considerable interest on a man\ncapable of expending six millions in twelve months, and who had\nselected Paris for the scene of his princely extravagance.\n\n And when did you arrive here?  inquired she.\n\n Yesterday morning, madame. \n\n Coming, as usual, I presume, from the extreme end of the globe? Pardon\nme at least, such I have heard is your custom. \n\n Nay, madame. This time I have merely come from Cadiz. \n\n You have selected a most unfavorable moment for your first visit.\nParis is a horrible place in summer. Balls, parties, and _f tes_ are\nover; the Italian opera is in London; the French opera everywhere\nexcept in Paris. As for the Th atre Fran ais, you know, of course, that\nit is nowhere. The only amusements left us are the indifferent races at\nthe Champ-de-Mars and Satory. Do you propose entering any horses at\neither of these races, count? \n\n I shall do whatever they do at Paris, madame, if I have the good\nfortune to find someone who will initiate me into the prevalent ideas\nof amusement. \n\n Are you fond of horses, count? \n\n I have passed a considerable part of my life in the East, madame, and\nyou are doubtless aware that the Orientals value only two things the\nfine breeding of their horses and the beauty of their women. \n\n Nay, count,  said the baroness,  it would have been somewhat more\ngallant to have placed the ladies first. \n\n You see, madame, how rightly I spoke when I said I required a\npreceptor to guide me in all my sayings and doings here. \n\nAt this instant the favorite attendant of Madame Danglars entered the\nboudoir; approaching her mistress, she spoke some words in an\nundertone. Madame Danglars turned very pale, then exclaimed:\n\n I cannot believe it; the thing is impossible. \n\n I assure you, madame,  replied the woman,  it is as I have said. \n\nTurning impatiently towards her husband, Madame Danglars demanded,  Is\nthis true? \n\n Is what true, madame?  inquired Danglars, visibly agitated.\n\n What my maid tells me. \n\n But what does she tell you? \n\n That when my coachman was about to harness the horses to my carriage,\nhe discovered that they had been removed from the stables without his\nknowledge. I desire to know what is the meaning of this? \n\n Be kind enough, madame, to listen to me,  said Danglars.\n\n Oh, yes; I will listen, monsieur, for I am most curious to hear what\nexplanation you will give. These two gentlemen shall decide between us;\nbut, first, I will state the case to them. Gentlemen,  continued the\nbaroness,  among the ten horses in the stables of Baron Danglars, are\ntwo that belong exclusively to me a pair of the handsomest and most\nspirited creatures to be found in Paris. But to you, at least, M.\nDebray, I need not give a further description, because to you my\nbeautiful pair of dappled grays were well known. Well, I had promised\nMadame de Villefort the loan of my carriage to drive tomorrow to the\nBois; but when my coachman goes to fetch the grays from the stables\nthey are gone positively gone. No doubt M. Danglars has sacrificed them\nto the selfish consideration of gaining some thousands of paltry\nfrancs. Oh, what a detestable crew they are, these mercenary\nspeculators! \n\n Madame,  replied Danglars,  the horses were not sufficiently quiet for\nyou; they were scarcely four years old, and they made me extremely\nuneasy on your account. \n\n Nonsense,  retorted the baroness;  you could not have entertained any\nalarm on the subject, because you are perfectly well aware that I have\nhad for a month in my service the very best coachman in Paris. But,\nperhaps, you have disposed of the coachman as well as the horses? \n\n My dear love, pray do not say any more about them, and I promise you\nanother pair exactly like them in appearance, only more quiet and\nsteady. \n\nThe baroness shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable contempt,\nwhile her husband, affecting not to observe this unconjugal gesture,\nturned towards Monte Cristo and said, Upon my word, count, I am quite\nsorry not to have met you sooner. You are setting up an establishment,\nof course? \n\n Why, yes,  replied the count.\n\n I should have liked to have made you the offer of these horses. I have\nalmost given them away, as it is; but, as I before said, I was anxious\nto get rid of them upon any terms. They were only fit for a young man. \n\n I am much obliged by your kind intentions towards me,  said Monte\nCristo;  but this morning I purchased a very excellent pair of\ncarriage-horses, and I do not think they were dear. There they are.\nCome, M. Debray, you are a connoisseur, I believe, let me have your\nopinion upon them. \n\nAs Debray walked towards the window, Danglars approached his wife.\n\n I could not tell you before others,  said he in a low tone,  the\nreason of my parting with the horses; but a most enormous price was\noffered me this morning for them. Some madman or fool, bent upon\nruining himself as fast as he can, actually sent his steward to me to\npurchase them at any cost; and the fact is, I have gained 16,000 francs\nby the sale of them. Come, don t look so angry, and you shall have\n4,000 francs of the money to do what you like with, and Eug nie shall\nhave 2,000. There, what do you think now of the affair? Wasn t I right\nto part with the horses? \n\nMadame Danglars surveyed her husband with a look of withering contempt.\n\n Great heavens?  suddenly exclaimed Debray.\n\n What is it?  asked the baroness.\n\n I cannot be mistaken; there are your horses! The very animals we were\nspeaking of, harnessed to the count s carriage! \n\n My dappled grays?  demanded the baroness, springing to the window.\n Tis indeed they!  said she.\n\nDanglars looked absolutely stupefied.\n\n How very singular,  cried Monte Cristo with well-feigned astonishment.\n\n I cannot believe it,  murmured the banker. Madame Danglars whispered a\nfew words in the ear of Debray, who approached Monte Cristo, saying,\n The baroness wishes to know what you paid her husband for the horses. \n\n I scarcely know,  replied the count;  it was a little surprise\nprepared for me by my steward, and cost me well, somewhere about 30,000\nfrancs. \n\nDebray conveyed the count s reply to the baroness. Poor Danglars looked\nso crest-fallen and discomfited that Monte Cristo assumed a pitying air\ntowards him.\n\n See,  said the count,  how very ungrateful women are. Your kind\nattention, in providing for the safety of the baroness by disposing of\nthe horses, does not seem to have made the least impression on her. But\nso it is; a woman will often, from mere wilfulness, prefer that which\nis dangerous to that which is safe. Therefore, in my opinion, my dear\nbaron, the best and easiest way is to leave them to their fancies, and\nallow them to act as they please, and then, if any mischief follows,\nwhy, at least, they have no one to blame but themselves. \n\nDanglars made no reply; he was occupied in anticipations of the coming\nscene between himself and the baroness, whose frowning brow, like that\nof Olympic Jove, predicted a storm. Debray, who perceived the gathering\nclouds, and felt no desire to witness the explosion of Madame Danglars \nrage, suddenly recollected an appointment, which compelled him to take\nhis leave; while Monte Cristo, unwilling by prolonging his stay to\ndestroy the advantages he hoped to obtain, made a farewell bow and\ndeparted, leaving Danglars to endure the angry reproaches of his wife.\n\n20347m\n\n\n\n Excellent,  murmured Monte Cristo to himself, as he came away.  All\nhas gone according to my wishes. The domestic peace of this family is\nhenceforth in my hands. Now, then, to play another master-stroke, by\nwhich I shall gain the heart of both husband and wife delightful!\nStill,  added he,  amid all this, I have not yet been presented to\nMademoiselle Eug nie Danglars, whose acquaintance I should have been\nglad to make. But,  he went on with his peculiar smile,  I am here in\nParis, and have plenty of time before me by and by will do for that. \n\nWith these reflections he entered his carriage and returned home. Two\nhours afterwards, Madame Danglars received a most flattering epistle\nfrom the count, in which he entreated her to receive back her favorite\n dappled grays,  protesting that he could not endure the idea of making\nhis entry into the Parisian world of fashion with the knowledge that\nhis splendid equipage had been obtained at the price of a lovely\nwoman s regrets. The horses were sent back wearing the same harness she\nhad seen on them in the morning; only, by the count s orders, in the\ncentre of each rosette that adorned either side of their heads, had\nbeen fastened a large diamond.\n\nTo Danglars Monte Cristo also wrote, requesting him to excuse the\nwhimsical gift of a capricious millionaire, and to beg the baroness to\npardon the Eastern fashion adopted in the return of the horses.\n\nDuring the evening, Monte Cristo quitted Paris for Auteuil, accompanied\nby Ali. The following day, about three o clock, a single blow struck on\nthe gong summoned Ali to the presence of the count.\n\n Ali,  observed his master, as the Nubian entered the chamber,  you\nhave frequently explained to me how more than commonly skilful you are\nin throwing the lasso, have you not? \n\nAli drew himself up proudly, and then returned a sign in the\naffirmative.\n\n I thought I did not mistake. With your lasso you could stop an ox? \n\nAgain Ali repeated his affirmative gesture.\n\n Or a tiger? \n\nAli bowed his head in token of assent.\n\n A lion even? \n\nAli sprung forwards, imitating the action of one throwing the lasso,\nthen of a strangled lion.\n\n I understand,  said Monte Cristo;  you wish to tell me you have hunted\nthe lion? \n\nAli smiled with triumphant pride as he signified that he had indeed\nboth chased and captured many lions.\n\n But do you believe you could arrest the progress of two horses rushing\nforwards with ungovernable fury? \n\nThe Nubian smiled.\n\n It is well,  said Monte Cristo.  Then listen to me. Ere long a\ncarriage will dash past here, drawn by the pair of dappled gray horses\nyou saw me with yesterday; now, at the risk of your own life, you must\nmanage to stop those horses before my door. \n\nAli descended to the street, and marked a straight line on the pavement\nimmediately at the entrance of the house, and then pointed out the line\nhe had traced to the count, who was watching him. The count patted him\ngently on the shoulder, his usual mode of praising Ali, who, pleased\nand gratified with the commission assigned him, walked calmly towards a\nprojecting stone forming the angle of the street and house, and,\nseating himself thereon, began to smoke his chibouque, while Monte\nCristo re-entered his dwelling, perfectly assured of the success of his\nplan.\n\nStill, as five o clock approached, and the carriage was momentarily\nexpected by the count, the indication of more than common impatience\nand uneasiness might be observed in his manner. He stationed himself in\na room commanding a view of the street, pacing the chamber with\nrestless steps, stopping merely to listen from time to time for the\nsound of approaching wheels, then to cast an anxious glance on Ali; but\nthe regularity with which the Nubian puffed forth the smoke of his\nchibouque proved that he at least was wholly absorbed in the enjoyment\nof his favorite occupation.\n\nSuddenly a distant sound of rapidly advancing wheels was heard, and\nalmost immediately a carriage appeared, drawn by a pair of wild,\nungovernable horses, while the terrified coachman strove in vain to\nrestrain their furious speed.\n\nIn the vehicle was a young woman and a child of about seven or eight\nclasped in each other s arms. Terror seemed to have deprived them even\nof the power of uttering a cry. The carriage creaked and rattled as it\nflew over the rough stones, and the slightest obstacle under the wheels\nwould have caused disaster; but it kept on in the middle of the road,\nand those who saw it pass uttered cries of terror.\n\nAli suddenly cast aside his chibouque, drew the lasso from his pocket,\nthrew it so skilfully as to catch the forelegs of the near horse in its\ntriple fold, and suffered himself to be dragged on for a few steps by\nthe violence of the shock, then the animal fell over on the pole, which\nsnapped, and therefore prevented the other horse from pursuing its way.\nGladly availing himself of this opportunity, the coachman leaped from\nhis box; but Ali had promptly seized the nostrils of the second horse,\nand held them in his iron grasp, till the beast, snorting with pain,\nsunk beside his companion.\n\nAll this was achieved in much less time than is occupied in the\nrecital. The brief space had, however, been sufficient for a man,\nfollowed by a number of servants, to rush from the house before which\nthe accident had occurred, and, as the coachman opened the door of the\ncarriage, to take from it a lady who was convulsively grasping the\ncushions with one hand, while with the other she pressed to her bosom\nthe young boy, who had lost consciousness. Monte Cristo carried them\nboth to the salon, and deposited them on a sofa.\n\n Compose yourself, madame,  said he;  all danger is over.  The woman\nlooked up at these words, and, with a glance far more expressive than\nany entreaties could have been, pointed to her child, who still\ncontinued insensible.  I understand the nature of your alarms, madame, \nsaid the count, carefully examining the child,  but I assure you there\nis not the slightest occasion for uneasiness; your little charge has\nnot received the least injury; his insensibility is merely the effects\nof terror, and will soon pass. \n\n Are you quite sure you do not say so to tranquillize my fears? See how\ndeadly pale he is! My child, my darling Edward; speak to your\nmother open your dear eyes and look on me once again! Oh, sir, in pity\nsend for a physician; my whole fortune shall not be thought too much\nfor the recovery of my boy. \n\nWith a calm smile and a gentle wave of the hand, Monte Cristo signed to\nthe distracted mother to lay aside her apprehensions; then, opening a\ncasket that stood near, he drew forth a phial of Bohemian glass\nincrusted with gold, containing a liquid of the color of blood, of\nwhich he let fall a single drop on the child s lips. Scarcely had it\nreached them, ere the boy, though still pale as marble, opened his\neyes, and eagerly gazed around him. At this, the delight of the mother\nwas almost frantic.\n\n Where am I?  exclaimed she;  and to whom am I indebted for so happy a\ntermination to my late dreadful alarm? \n\n Madame,  answered the count,  you are under the roof of one who\nesteems himself most fortunate in having been able to save you from a\nfurther continuance of your sufferings. \n\n My wretched curiosity has brought all this about,  pursued the lady.\n All Paris rung with the praises of Madame Danglars  beautiful horses,\nand I had the folly to desire to know whether they really merited the\nhigh praise given to them. \n\n Is it possible,  exclaimed the count with well-feigned astonishment,\n that these horses belong to the baroness? \n\n They do, indeed. May I inquire if you are acquainted with Madame\nDanglars? \n\n20351m\n\n\n\n I have that honor; and my happiness at your escape from the danger\nthat threatened you is redoubled by the consciousness that I have been\nthe unwilling and the unintentional cause of all the peril you have\nincurred. I yesterday purchased these horses of the baron; but as the\nbaroness evidently regretted parting with them, I ventured to send them\nback to her, with a request that she would gratify me by accepting them\nfrom my hands. \n\n You are, then, doubtless, the Count of Monte Cristo, of whom Hermine\nhas talked to me so much? \n\n You have rightly guessed, madame,  replied the count.\n\n And I am Madame H lo se de Villefort. \n\nThe count bowed with the air of a person who hears a name for the first\ntime.\n\n How grateful will M. de Villefort be for all your goodness; how\nthankfully will he acknowledge that to you alone he owes the existence\nof his wife and child! Most certainly, but for the prompt assistance of\nyour intrepid servant, this dear child and myself must both have\nperished. \n\n Indeed, I still shudder at the fearful danger you were placed in. \n\n I trust you will allow me to recompense worthily the devotion of your\nman. \n\n I beseech you, madame,  replied Monte Cristo  not to spoil Ali, either\nby too great praise or rewards. I cannot allow him to acquire the habit\nof expecting to be recompensed for every trifling service he may\nrender. Ali is my slave, and in saving your life he was but discharging\nhis duty to me. \n\n Nay,  interposed Madame de Villefort, on whom the authoritative style\nadopted by the count made a deep impression,  nay, but consider that to\npreserve my life he has risked his own. \n\n His life, madame, belongs not to him; it is mine, in return for my\nhaving myself saved him from death. \n\nMadame de Villefort made no further reply; her mind was utterly\nabsorbed in the contemplation of the person who, from the first instant\nshe saw him, had made so powerful an impression on her.\n\nDuring the evident preoccupation of Madame de Villefort, Monte Cristo\nscrutinized the features and appearance of the boy she kept folded in\nher arms, lavishing on him the most tender endearments. The child was\nsmall for his age, and unnaturally pale. A mass of straight black hair,\ndefying all attempts to train or curl it, fell over his projecting\nforehead, and hung down to his shoulders, giving increased vivacity to\neyes already sparkling with a youthful love of mischief and fondness\nfor every forbidden enjoyment. His mouth was large, and the lips, which\nhad not yet regained their color, were particularly thin; in fact, the\ndeep and crafty look, giving a predominant expression to the child s\nface, belonged rather to a boy of twelve or fourteen than to one so\nyoung. His first movement was to free himself by a violent push from\nthe encircling arms of his mother, and to rush forward to the casket\nfrom whence the count had taken the phial of elixir; then, without\nasking permission of anyone, he proceeded, in all the wilfulness of a\nspoiled child unaccustomed to restrain either whims or caprices, to\npull the corks out of all the bottles.\n\n Touch nothing, my little friend,  cried the count eagerly;  some of\nthose liquids are not only dangerous to taste, but even to inhale. \n\nMadame de Villefort became very pale, and, seizing her son s arm, drew\nhim anxiously toward her; but, once satisfied of his safety, she also\ncast a brief but expressive glance on the casket, which was not lost\nupon the count. At this moment Ali entered. At sight of him Madame de\nVillefort uttered an expression of pleasure, and, holding the child\nstill closer towards her, she said:\n\n Edward, dearest, do you see that good man? He has shown very great\ncourage and resolution, for he exposed his own life to stop the horses\nthat were running away with us, and would certainly have dashed the\ncarriage to pieces. Thank him, then, my child, in your very best\nmanner; for, had he not come to our aid, neither you nor I would have\nbeen alive to speak our thanks. \n\nThe child stuck out his lips and turned away his head in a disdainful\nmanner, saying,  He s too ugly. \n\n20353m\n\n\n\nThe count smiled as if the child bade fair to realize his hopes, while\nMadame de Villefort reprimanded her son with a gentleness and\nmoderation very far from conveying the least idea of a fault having\nbeen committed.\n\n This lady,  said the Count, speaking to Ali in the Arabic language,\n is desirous that her son should thank you for saving both their lives;\nbut the boy refuses, saying you are too ugly. \n\nAli turned his intelligent countenance towards the boy, on whom he\ngazed without any apparent emotion; but the spasmodic working of the\nnostrils showed to the practiced eye of Monte Cristo that the Arab had\nbeen wounded to the heart.\n\n Will you permit me to inquire,  said Madame de Villefort, as she arose\nto take her leave,  whether you usually reside here? \n\n No, I do not,  replied Monte Cristo;  it is a small place I have\npurchased quite lately. My place of abode is No. 30, Avenue des\nChamps- lys es; but I see you have quite recovered from your fright,\nand are, no doubt, desirous of returning home. Anticipating your\nwishes, I have desired the same horses you came with to be put to one\nof my carriages, and Ali, he whom you think so very ugly,  continued\nhe, addressing the boy with a smiling air,  will have the honor of\ndriving you home, while your coachman remains here to attend to the\nnecessary repairs of your calash. As soon as that important business is\nconcluded, I will have a pair of my own horses harnessed to convey it\ndirect to Madame Danglars. \n\n I dare not return with those dreadful horses,  said Madame de\nVillefort.\n\n You will see,  replied Monte Cristo,  that they will be as different\nas possible in the hands of Ali. With him they will be gentle and\ndocile as lambs. \n\nAli had, indeed, given proof of this; for, approaching the animals, who\nhad been got upon their legs with considerable difficulty, he rubbed\ntheir foreheads and nostrils with a sponge soaked in aromatic vinegar,\nand wiped off the sweat and foam that covered their mouths. Then,\ncommencing a loud whistling noise, he rubbed them well all over their\nbodies for several minutes; then, undisturbed by the noisy crowd\ncollected round the broken carriage, Ali quietly harnessed the pacified\nanimals to the count s chariot, took the reins in his hands, and\nmounted the box, when to the utter astonishment of those who had\nwitnessed the ungovernable spirit and maddened speed of the same\nhorses, he was actually compelled to apply his whip in no very gentle\nmanner before he could induce them to start; and even then all that\ncould be obtained from the celebrated  dappled grays,  now changed into\na couple of dull, sluggish, stupid brutes, was a slow, pottering pace,\nkept up with so much difficulty that Madame de Villefort was more than\ntwo hours returning to her residence in the Faubourg Saint-Honor .\n\n20355m\n\n\n\nScarcely had the first congratulations upon her marvellous escape been\ngone through when she wrote the following letter to Madame Danglars: \n\n Dear Hermine, I have just had a wonderful escape from the most\nimminent danger, and I owe my safety to the very Count of Monte Cristo\nwe were talking about yesterday, but whom I little expected to see\ntoday. I remember how unmercifully I laughed at what I considered your\neulogistic and exaggerated praises of him; but I have now ample cause\nto admit that your enthusiastic description of this wonderful man fell\nfar short of his merits. Your horses got as far as Ranelagh, when they\ndarted forward like mad things, and galloped away at so fearful a rate,\nthat there seemed no other prospect for myself and my poor Edward but\nthat of being dashed to pieces against the first object that impeded\ntheir progress, when a strange-looking man, an Arab, a negro, or a\nNubian, at least a black of some nation or other at a signal from the\ncount, whose domestic he is, suddenly seized and stopped the infuriated\nanimals, even at the risk of being trampled to death himself; and\ncertainly he must have had a most wonderful escape. The count then\nhastened to us, and took us into his house, where he speedily recalled\nmy poor Edward to life. He sent us home in his own carriage. Yours will\nbe returned to you tomorrow. You will find your horses in bad\ncondition, from the results of this accident; they seem thoroughly\nstupefied, as if sulky and vexed at having been conquered by man. The\ncount, however, has commissioned me to assure you that two or three\ndays  rest, with plenty of barley for their sole food during that time,\nwill bring them back to as fine, that is as terrifying, a condition as\nthey were in yesterday.\n\n20356m\n\n\n\nAdieu! I cannot return you many thanks for the drive of yesterday; but,\nafter all, I ought not to blame you for the misconduct of your horses,\nmore especially as it procured me the pleasure of an introduction to\nthe Count of Monte Cristo, and certainly that illustrious personage,\napart from the millions he is said to be so very anxious to dispose of,\nseemed to me one of those curiously interesting problems I, for one,\ndelight in solving at any risk, even if it were to necessitate another\ndrive to the Bois behind your horses.\n\nEdward endured the accident with miraculous courage he did not utter a\nsingle cry, but fell lifeless into my arms; nor did a tear fall from\nhis eyes after it was over. I doubt not you will consider these praises\nthe result of blind maternal affection, but there is a soul of iron in\nthat delicate, fragile body. Valentine sends many affectionate\nremembrances to your dear Eug nie. I embrace you with all my heart.\n\nH lo se de Villefort.\n\nP.S. Do pray contrive some means for me to meet the Count of Monte\nCristo at your house. I must and will see him again. I have just made\nM. de Villefort promise to call on him, and I hope the visit will be\nreturned.\n\nThat night the adventure at Auteuil was talked of everywhere. Albert\nrelated it to his mother; Ch teau-Renaud recounted it at the Jockey\nClub, and Debray detailed it at length in the salons of the minister;\neven Beauchamp accorded twenty lines in his journal to the relation of\nthe count s courage and gallantry, thereby celebrating him as the\ngreatest hero of the day in the eyes of all the feminine members of the\naristocracy.\n\nVast was the crowd of visitors and inquiring friends who left their\nnames at the residence of Madame de Villefort, with the design of\nrenewing their visit at the right moment, of hearing from her lips all\nthe interesting circumstances of this most romantic adventure.\n\nAs for M. de Villefort, he fulfilled the predictions of H lo se to the\nletter, donned his dress suit, drew on a pair of white gloves, ordered\nthe servants to attend the carriage dressed in their full livery, and\ndrove that same night to No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs- lys es.\n\n\n\nVOLUME THREE\n\n30009m\n\n\n\n30011m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 48. Ideology\n\nIf the Count of Monte Cristo had been for a long time familiar with the\nways of Parisian society, he would have appreciated better the\nsignificance of the step which M. de Villefort had taken. Standing well\nat court, whether the king regnant was of the older or younger branch,\nwhether the government was doctrinaire liberal, or conservative; looked\nupon by all as a man of talent, since those who have never experienced\na political check are generally so regarded; hated by many, but warmly\nsupported by others, without being really liked by anybody, M. de\nVillefort held a high position in the magistracy, and maintained his\neminence like a Harlay or a Mol . His drawing-room, under the\nregenerating influence of a young wife and a daughter by his first\nmarriage, scarcely eighteen, was still one of the well-regulated Paris\nsalons where the worship of traditional customs and the observance of\nrigid etiquette were carefully maintained. A freezing politeness, a\nstrict fidelity to government principles, a profound contempt for\ntheories and theorists, a deep-seated hatred of ideality, these were\nthe elements of private and public life displayed by M. de Villefort.\n\n30023m\n\n\n\nM. de Villefort was not only a magistrate, he was almost a diplomatist.\nHis relations with the former court, of which he always spoke with\ndignity and respect, made him respected by the new one, and he knew so\nmany things, that not only was he always carefully considered, but\nsometimes consulted. Perhaps this would not have been so had it been\npossible to get rid of M. de Villefort; but, like the feudal barons who\nrebelled against their sovereign, he dwelt in an impregnable fortress.\nThis fortress was his post as king s attorney, all the advantages of\nwhich he exploited with marvellous skill, and which he would not have\nresigned but to be made deputy, and thus to replace neutrality by\nopposition.\n\nOrdinarily M. de Villefort made and returned very few visits. His wife\nvisited for him, and this was the received thing in the world, where\nthe weighty and multifarious occupations of the magistrate were\naccepted as an excuse for what was really only calculated pride, a\nmanifestation of professed superiority in fact, the application of the\naxiom, _Pretend to think well of yourself, and the world will think\nwell of you_, an axiom a hundred times more useful in society nowadays\nthan that of the Greeks,  Know thyself,  a knowledge for which, in our\ndays, we have substituted the less difficult and more advantageous\nscience of _knowing others_.\n\nTo his friends M. de Villefort was a powerful protector; to his\nenemies, he was a silent, but bitter opponent; for those who were\nneither the one nor the other, he was a statue of the law-made man. He\nhad a haughty bearing, a look either steady and impenetrable or\ninsolently piercing and inquisitorial. Four successive revolutions had\nbuilt and cemented the pedestal upon which his fortune was based.\n\nM. de Villefort had the reputation of being the least curious and the\nleast wearisome man in France. He gave a ball every year, at which he\nappeared for a quarter of an hour only, that is to say, five-and-forty\nminutes less than the king is visible at his balls. He was never seen\nat the theatres, at concerts, or in any place of public resort.\nOccasionally, but seldom, he played at whist, and then care was taken\nto select partners worthy of him sometimes they were ambassadors,\nsometimes archbishops, or sometimes a prince, or a president, or some\ndowager duchess.\n\nSuch was the man whose carriage had just now stopped before the Count\nof Monte Cristo s door. The valet de chambre announced M. de Villefort\nat the moment when the count, leaning over a large table, was tracing\non a map the route from St. Petersburg to China.\n\nThe procureur entered with the same grave and measured step he would\nhave employed in entering a court of justice. He was the same man, or\nrather the development of the same man, whom we have heretofore seen as\nassistant attorney at Marseilles. Nature, according to her way, had\nmade no deviation in the path he had marked out for himself. From being\nslender he had now become meagre; once pale, he was now yellow; his\ndeep-set eyes were hollow, and the gold spectacles shielding his eyes\nseemed to be an integral portion of his face. He dressed entirely in\nblack, with the exception of his white tie, and his funeral appearance\nwas only mitigated by the slight line of red ribbon which passed almost\nimperceptibly through his button-hole, and appeared like a streak of\nblood traced with a delicate brush.\n\nAlthough master of himself, Monte Cristo, scrutinized with\nirrepressible curiosity the magistrate whose salute he returned, and\nwho, distrustful by habit, and especially incredulous as to social\nprodigies, was much more despised to look upon  the noble stranger,  as\nMonte Cristo was already called, as an adventurer in search of new\nfields, or an escaped criminal, rather than as a prince of the Holy\nSee, or a sultan of the _Thousand and One Nights_.\n\n Sir,  said Villefort, in the squeaky tone assumed by magistrates in\ntheir oratorical periods, and of which they cannot, or will not, divest\nthemselves in society,  sir, the signal service which you yesterday\nrendered to my wife and son has made it a duty for me to offer you my\nthanks. I have come, therefore, to discharge this duty, and to express\nto you my overwhelming gratitude. \n\nAnd as he said this, the  eye severe  of the magistrate had lost\nnothing of its habitual arrogance. He spoke in a voice of the\nprocureur-general, with the rigid inflexibility of neck and shoulders\nwhich caused his flatterers to say (as we have before observed) that he\nwas the living statue of the law.\n\n Monsieur,  replied the count, with a chilling air,  I am very happy to\nhave been the means of preserving a son to his mother, for they say\nthat the sentiment of maternity is the most holy of all; and the good\nfortune which occurred to me, monsieur, might have enabled you to\ndispense with a duty which, in its discharge, confers an undoubtedly\ngreat honor; for I am aware that M. de Villefort is not usually lavish\nof the favor which he now bestows on me, a favor which, however\nestimable, is unequal to the satisfaction which I have in my own\nconsciousness. \n\nVillefort, astonished at this reply, which he by no means expected,\nstarted like a soldier who feels the blow levelled at him over the\narmor he wears, and a curl of his disdainful lip indicated that from\nthat moment he noted in the tablets of his brain that the Count of\nMonte Cristo was by no means a highly bred gentleman.\n\nHe glanced around, in order to seize on something on which the\nconversation might turn, and seemed to fall easily on a topic. He saw\nthe map which Monte Cristo had been examining when he entered, and\nsaid:\n\n You seem geographically engaged, sir? It is a rich study for you, who,\nas I learn, have seen as many lands as are delineated on this map. \n\n Yes, sir,  replied the count;  I have sought to make of the human\nrace, taken in the mass, what you practice every day on individuals a\nphysiological study. I have believed it was much easier to descend from\nthe whole to a part than to ascend from a part to the whole. It is an\nalgebraic axiom, which makes us proceed from a known to an unknown\nquantity, and not from an unknown to a known; but sit down, sir, I beg\nof you. \n\nMonte Cristo pointed to a chair, which the procureur was obliged to\ntake the trouble to move forwards himself, while the count merely fell\nback into his own, on which he had been kneeling when M. Villefort\nentered. Thus the count was halfway turned towards his visitor, having\nhis back towards the window, his elbow resting on the geographical\nchart which furnished the theme of conversation for the moment, a\nconversation which assumed, as in the case of the interviews with\nDanglars and Morcerf, a turn analogous to the persons, if not to the\nsituation.\n\n Ah, you philosophize,  replied Villefort, after a moment s silence,\nduring which, like a wrestler who encounters a powerful opponent, he\ntook breath;  well, sir, really, if, like you, I had nothing else to\ndo, I should seek a more amusing occupation. \n\n Why, in truth, sir,  was Monte Cristo s reply,  man is but an ugly\ncaterpillar for him who studies him through a solar microscope; but you\nsaid, I think, that I had nothing else to do. Now, really, let me ask,\nsir, have you? do you believe you have anything to do? or to speak in\nplain terms, do you really think that what you do deserves being called\nanything? \n\nVillefort s astonishment redoubled at this second thrust so forcibly\nmade by his strange adversary. It was a long time since the magistrate\nhad heard a paradox so strong, or rather, to say the truth more\nexactly, it was the first time he had ever heard of it. The procureur\nexerted himself to reply.\n\n Sir,  he responded,  you are a stranger, and I believe you say\nyourself that a portion of your life has been spent in Oriental\ncountries, so you are not aware how human justice, so expeditious in\nbarbarous countries, takes with us a prudent and well-studied course. \n\n Oh, yes yes, I do, sir; it is the _pede claudo_ of the ancients. I\nknow all that, for it is with the justice of all countries especially\nthat I have occupied myself it is with the criminal procedure of all\nnations that I have compared natural justice, and I must say, sir, that\nit is the law of primitive nations, that is, the law of retaliation,\nthat I have most frequently found to be according to the law of God. \n\n If this law were adopted, sir,  said the procureur,  it would greatly\nsimplify our legal codes, and in that case the magistrates would not\n(as you just observed) have much to do. \n\n It may, perhaps, come to this in time,  observed Monte Cristo;  you\nknow that human inventions march from the complex to the simple, and\nsimplicity is always perfection. \n\n In the meanwhile,  continued the magistrate,  our codes are in full\nforce, with all their contradictory enactments derived from Gallic\ncustoms, Roman laws, and Frank usages; the knowledge of all which, you\nwill agree, is not to be acquired without extended labor; it needs\ntedious study to acquire this knowledge, and, when acquired, a strong\npower of brain to retain it. \n\n I agree with you entirely, sir; but all that even you know with\nrespect to the French code, I know, not only in reference to that code,\nbut as regards the codes of all nations. The English, Turkish,\nJapanese, Hindu laws, are as familiar to me as the French laws, and\nthus I was right, when I said to you, that relatively (you know that\neverything is relative, sir) that relatively to what I have done, you\nhave very little to do; but that relatively to all I have learned, you\nhave yet a great deal to learn. \n\n But with what motive have you learned all this?  inquired Villefort,\nin astonishment.\n\nMonte Cristo smiled.\n\n Really, sir,  he observed,  I see that in spite of the reputation\nwhich you have acquired as a superior man, you look at everything from\nthe material and vulgar view of society, beginning with man, and ending\nwith man that is to say, in the most restricted, most narrow view which\nit is possible for human understanding to embrace. \n\n Pray, sir, explain yourself,  said Villefort, more and more\nastonished,  I really do not understand you perfectly. \n\n I say, sir, that with the eyes fixed on the social organization of\nnations, you see only the springs of the machine, and lose sight of the\nsublime workman who makes them act; I say that you do not recognize\nbefore you and around you any but those office-holders whose\ncommissions have been signed by a minister or king; and that the men\nwhom God has put above those office-holders, ministers, and kings, by\ngiving them a mission to follow out, instead of a post to fill I say\nthat they escape your narrow, limited field of observation. It is thus\nthat human weakness fails, from its debilitated and imperfect organs.\nTobias took the angel who restored him to light for an ordinary young\nman. The nations took Attila, who was doomed to destroy them, for a\nconqueror similar to other conquerors, and it was necessary for both to\nreveal their missions, that they might be known and acknowledged; one\nwas compelled to say,  I am the angel of the Lord ; and the other,  I\nam the hammer of God,  in order that the divine essence in both might\nbe revealed. \n\n Then,  said Villefort, more and more amazed, and really supposing he\nwas speaking to a mystic or a madman,  you consider yourself as one of\nthose extraordinary beings whom you have mentioned? \n\n And why not?  said Monte Cristo coldly.\n\n Your pardon, sir,  replied Villefort, quite astounded,  but you will\nexcuse me if, when I presented myself to you, I was unaware that I\nshould meet with a person whose knowledge and understanding so far\nsurpass the usual knowledge and understanding of men. It is not usual\nwith us corrupted wretches of civilization to find gentlemen like\nyourself, possessors, as you are, of immense fortune at least, so it is\nsaid and I beg you to observe that I do not inquire, I merely\nrepeat; it is not usual, I say, for such privileged and wealthy beings\nto waste their time in speculations on the state of society, in\nphilosophical reveries, intended at best to console those whom fate has\ndisinherited from the goods of this world. \n\n Really, sir,  retorted the count,  have you attained the eminent\nsituation in which you are, without having admitted, or even without\nhaving met with exceptions? and do you never use your eyes, which must\nhave acquired so much _finesse_ and certainty, to divine, at a glance,\nthe kind of man by whom you are confronted? Should not a magistrate be\nnot merely the best administrator of the law, but the most crafty\nexpounder of the chicanery of his profession, a steel probe to search\nhearts, a touchstone to try the gold which in each soul is mingled with\nmore or less of alloy? \n\n Sir,  said Villefort,  upon my word, you overcome me. I really never\nheard a person speak as you do. \n\n Because you remain eternally encircled in a round of general\nconditions, and have never dared to raise your wings into those upper\nspheres which God has peopled with invisible or exceptional beings. \n\n And you allow then, sir, that spheres exist, and that these marked and\ninvisible beings mingle amongst us? \n\n Why should they not? Can you see the air you breathe, and yet without\nwhich you could not for a moment exist? \n\n Then we do not see those beings to whom you allude? \n\n Yes, we do; you see them whenever God pleases to allow them to assume\na material form. You touch them, come in contact with them, speak to\nthem, and they reply to you. \n\n Ah,  said Villefort, smiling,  I confess I should like to be warned\nwhen one of these beings is in contact with me. \n\n You have been served as you desire, monsieur, for you were warned just\nnow, and I now again warn you. \n\n Then you yourself are one of these marked beings? \n\n Yes, monsieur, I believe so; for until now, no man has found himself\nin a position similar to mine. The dominions of kings are limited\neither by mountains or rivers, or a change of manners, or an alteration\nof language. My kingdom is bounded only by the world, for I am not an\nItalian, or a Frenchman, or a Hindu, or an American, or a Spaniard I am\na cosmopolite. No country can say it saw my birth. God alone knows what\ncountry will see me die. I adopt all customs, speak all languages. You\nbelieve me to be a Frenchman, for I speak French with the same facility\nand purity as yourself. Well, Ali, my Nubian, believes me to be an\nArab; Bertuccio, my steward, takes me for a Roman; Hayd e, my slave,\nthinks me a Greek. You may, therefore, comprehend, that being of no\ncountry, asking no protection from any government, acknowledging no man\nas my brother, not one of the scruples that arrest the powerful, or the\nobstacles which paralyze the weak, paralyzes or arrests me. I have only\ntwo adversaries I will not say two conquerors, for with perseverance I\nsubdue even them, they are time and distance. There is a third, and the\nmost terrible that is my condition as a mortal being. This alone can\nstop me in my onward career, before I have attained the goal at which I\naim, for all the rest I have reduced to mathematical terms. What men\ncall the chances of fate namely, ruin, change, circumstances I have\nfully anticipated, and if any of these should overtake me, yet it will\nnot overwhelm me. Unless I die, I shall always be what I am, and\ntherefore it is that I utter the things you have never heard, even from\nthe mouths of kings for kings have need, and other persons have fear of\nyou. For who is there who does not say to himself, in a society as\nincongruously organized as ours,  Perhaps some day I shall have to do\nwith the king s attorney ? \n\n But can you not say that, sir? The moment you become an inhabitant of\nFrance, you are naturally subjected to the French law. \n\n I know it sir,  replied Monte Cristo;  but when I visit a country I\nbegin to study, by all the means which are available, the men from whom\nI may have anything to hope or to fear, till I know them as well as,\nperhaps better than, they know themselves. It follows from this, that\nthe king s attorney, be he who he may, with whom I should have to deal,\nwould assuredly be more embarrassed than I should. \n\n That is to say,  replied Villefort with hesitation,  that human nature\nbeing weak, every man, according to your creed, has committed faults. \n\n Faults or crimes,  responded Monte Cristo with a negligent air.\n\n And that you alone, amongst the men whom you do not recognize as your\nbrothers for you have said so,  observed Villefort in a tone that\nfaltered somewhat you alone are perfect. \n\n No, not perfect,  was the count s reply;  only impenetrable, that s\nall. But let us leave off this strain, sir, if the tone of it is\ndispleasing to you; I am no more disturbed by your justice than are you\nby my second-sight. \n\n No, no, by no means,  said Villefort, who was afraid of seeming to\nabandon his ground.  No; by your brilliant and almost sublime\nconversation you have elevated me above the ordinary level; we no\nlonger talk, we rise to dissertation. But you know how the theologians\nin their collegiate chairs, and philosophers in their controversies,\noccasionally say cruel truths; let us suppose for the moment that we\nare theologizing in a social way, or even philosophically, and I will\nsay to you, rude as it may seem,  My brother, you sacrifice greatly to\npride; you may be above others, but above you there is God. \n\n30029m\n\n\n\n Above us all, sir,  was Monte Cristo s response, in a tone and with an\nemphasis so deep that Villefort involuntarily shuddered.  I have my\npride for men serpents always ready to threaten everyone who would pass\nwithout crushing them under foot. But I lay aside that pride before\nGod, who has taken me from nothing to make me what I am. \n\n Then, count, I admire you,  said Villefort, who, for the first time in\nthis strange conversation, used the aristocratic form to the unknown\npersonage, whom, until now, he had only called monsieur.  Yes, and I\nsay to you, if you are really strong, really superior, really pious, or\nimpenetrable, which you were right in saying amounts to the same\nthing then be proud, sir, for that is the characteristic of\npredominance. Yet you have unquestionably some ambition. \n\n I have, sir. \n\n And what may it be? \n\n I too, as happens to every man once in his life, have been taken by\nSatan into the highest mountain in the earth, and when there he showed\nme all the kingdoms of the world, and as he said before, so said he to\nme,  Child of earth, what wouldst thou have to make thee adore me?  I\nreflected long, for a gnawing ambition had long preyed upon me, and\nthen I replied,  Listen, I have always heard of Providence, and yet I\nhave never seen him, or anything that resembles him, or which can make\nme believe that he exists. I wish to be Providence myself, for I feel\nthat the most beautiful, noblest, most sublime thing in the world, is\nto recompense and punish.  Satan bowed his head, and groaned.  You\nmistake,  he said,  Providence does exist, only you have never seen\nhim, because the child of God is as invisible as the parent. You have\nseen nothing that resembles him, because he works by secret springs,\nand moves by hidden ways. All I can do for you is to make you one of\nthe agents of that Providence.  The bargain was concluded. I may\nsacrifice my soul, but what matters it?  added Monte Cristo.  If the\nthing were to do again, I would again do it. \n\nVillefort looked at Monte Cristo with extreme amazement.\n\n Count,  he inquired,  have you any relations? \n\n No, sir, I am alone in the world. \n\n So much the worse. \n\n Why?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n Because then you might witness a spectacle calculated to break down\nyour pride. You say you fear nothing but death? \n\n I did not say that I feared it; I only said that death alone could\ncheck the execution of my plans. \n\n And old age? \n\n My end will be achieved before I grow old. \n\n And madness? \n\n I have been nearly mad; and you know the axiom, _non bis in idem_. It\nis an axiom of criminal law, and, consequently, you understand its full\napplication. \n\n30031m\n\n\n\n Sir,  continued Villefort,  there is something to fear besides death,\nold age, and madness. For instance, there is apoplexy that\nlightning-stroke which strikes but does not destroy you, and yet which\nbrings everything to an end. You are still yourself as now, and yet you\nare yourself no longer; you who, like Ariel, verge on the angelic, are\nbut an inert mass, which, like Caliban, verges on the brutal; and this\nis called in human tongues, as I tell you, neither more nor less than\napoplexy. Come, if so you will, count, and continue this conversation\nat my house, any day you may be willing to see an adversary capable of\nunderstanding and anxious to refute you, and I will show you my father,\nM. Noirtier de Villefort, one of the most fiery Jacobins of the French\nRevolution; that is to say, he had the most remarkable audacity,\nseconded by a most powerful organization a man who has not, perhaps,\nlike yourself seen all the kingdoms of the earth, but who has helped to\noverturn one of the greatest; in fact, a man who believed himself, like\nyou, one of the envoys, not of God, but of a supreme being; not of\nProvidence, but of fate. Well, sir, the rupture of a blood-vessel on\nthe lobe of the brain has destroyed all this, not in a day, not in an\nhour, but in a second. M. Noirtier, who, on the previous night, was the\nold Jacobin, the old senator, the old Carbonaro, laughing at the\nguillotine, the cannon, and the dagger M. Noirtier, playing with\nrevolutions M. Noirtier, for whom France was a vast chess-board, from\nwhich pawns, rooks, knights, and queens were to disappear, so that the\nking was checkmated M. Noirtier, the redoubtable, was the next morning\n_poor M. Noirtier_, the helpless old man, at the tender mercies of the\nweakest creature in the household, that is, his grandchild, Valentine;\na dumb and frozen carcass, in fact, living painlessly on, that time may\nbe given for his frame to decompose without his consciousness of its\ndecay. \n\n Alas, sir,  said Monte Cristo  this spectacle is neither strange to my\neye nor my thought. I am something of a physician, and have, like my\nfellows, sought more than once for the soul in living and in dead\nmatter; yet, like Providence, it has remained invisible to my eyes,\nalthough present to my heart. A hundred writers since Socrates, Seneca,\nSt. Augustine, and Gall, have made, in verse and prose, the comparison\nyou have made, and yet I can well understand that a father s sufferings\nmay effect great changes in the mind of a son. I will call on you, sir,\nsince you bid me contemplate, for the advantage of my pride, this\nterrible spectacle, which must have been so great a source of sorrow to\nyour family. \n\n It would have been so unquestionably, had not God given me so large a\ncompensation. In contrast with the old man, who is dragging his way to\nthe tomb, are two children just entering into life Valentine, the\ndaughter by my first wife Mademoiselle Ren e de Saint-M ran and Edward,\nthe boy whose life you have this day saved. \n\n And what is your deduction from this compensation, sir?  inquired\nMonte Cristo.\n\n My deduction is,  replied Villefort,  that my father, led away by his\npassions, has committed some fault unknown to human justice, but marked\nby the justice of God. That God, desirous in his mercy to punish but\none person, has visited this justice on him alone. \n\nMonte Cristo with a smile on his lips, uttered in the depths of his\nsoul a groan which would have made Villefort fly had he but heard it.\n\n Adieu, sir,  said the magistrate, who had risen from his seat;  I\nleave you, bearing a remembrance of you a remembrance of esteem, which\nI hope will not be disagreeable to you when you know me better; for I\nam not a man to bore my friends, as you will learn. Besides, you have\nmade an eternal friend of Madame de Villefort. \n\nThe count bowed, and contented himself with seeing Villefort to the\ndoor of his cabinet, the procureur being escorted to his carriage by\ntwo footmen, who, on a signal from their master, followed him with\nevery mark of attention. When he had gone, Monte Cristo breathed a\nprofound sigh, and said:\n\n Enough of this poison, let me now seek the antidote. \n\nThen sounding his bell, he said to Ali, who entered:\n\n I am going to madame s chamber have the carriage ready at one\no clock. \n\n\n\n Chapter 49. Hayd e\n\nIt will be recollected that the new, or rather old, acquaintances of\nthe Count of Monte Cristo, residing in the Rue Meslay, were no other\nthan Maximilian, Julie, and Emmanuel.\n\nThe very anticipations of delight to be enjoyed in his forthcoming\nvisits the bright, pure gleam of heavenly happiness it diffused over\nthe almost deadly warfare in which he had voluntarily engaged,\nillumined his whole countenance with a look of ineffable joy and\ncalmness, as, immediately after Villefort s departure, his thoughts\nflew back to the cheering prospect before him, of tasting, at least, a\nbrief respite from the fierce and stormy passions of his mind. Even\nAli, who had hastened to obey the Count s summons, went forth from his\nmaster s presence in charmed amazement at the unusual animation and\npleasure depicted on features ordinarily so stern and cold; while, as\nthough dreading to put to flight the agreeable ideas hovering over his\npatron s meditations, whatever they were, the faithful Nubian walked on\ntiptoe towards the door, holding his breath, lest its faintest sound\nshould dissipate his master s happy reverie.\n\nIt was noon, and Monte Cristo had set apart one hour to be passed in\nthe apartments of Hayd e, as though his oppressed spirit could not all\nat once admit the feeling of pure and unmixed joy, but required a\ngradual succession of calm and gentle emotions to prepare his mind to\nreceive full and perfect happiness, in the same manner as ordinary\nnatures demand to be inured by degrees to the reception of strong or\nviolent sensations.\n\nThe young Greek, as we have already said, occupied apartments wholly\nunconnected with those of the count. The rooms had been fitted up in\nstrict accordance with Oriental ideas; the floors were covered with the\nrichest carpets Turkey could produce; the walls hung with brocaded silk\nof the most magnificent designs and texture; while around each chamber\nluxurious divans were placed, with piles of soft and yielding cushions,\nthat needed only to be arranged at the pleasure or convenience of such\nas sought repose.\n\nHayd e had three French maids, and one who was a Greek. The first three\nremained constantly in a small waiting-room, ready to obey the summons\nof a small golden bell, or to receive the orders of the Romaic slave,\nwho knew just enough French to be able to transmit her mistress s\nwishes to the three other waiting-women; the latter had received most\nperemptory instructions from Monte Cristo to treat Hayd e with all the\ndeference they would observe to a queen.\n\nThe young girl herself generally passed her time in the chamber at the\nfarther end of her apartments. This was a sort of boudoir, circular,\nand lighted only from the roof, which consisted of rose-colored glass.\nHayd e was reclining upon soft downy cushions, covered with blue satin\nspotted with silver; her head, supported by one of her exquisitely\nmoulded arms, rested on the divan immediately behind her, while the\nother was employed in adjusting to her lips the coral tube of a rich\nnarghile, through whose flexible pipe she drew the smoke fragrant by\nits passage through perfumed water. Her attitude, though perfectly\nnatural for an Eastern woman would, in a European, have been deemed too\nfull of coquettish straining after effect.\n\nHer dress, which was that of the women of Epirus, consisted of a pair\nof white satin trousers, embroidered with pink roses, displaying feet\nso exquisitely formed and so delicately fair, that they might well have\nbeen taken for Parian marble, had not the eye been undeceived by their\nmovements as they constantly shifted in and out of a pair of little\nslippers with upturned toes, beautifully ornamented with gold and\npearls. She wore a blue and white-striped vest, with long open sleeves,\ntrimmed with silver loops and buttons of pearls, and a sort of bodice,\nwhich, closing only from the centre to the waist, exhibited the whole\nof the ivory throat and upper part of the bosom; it was fastened with\nthree magnificent diamond clasps. The junction of the bodice and\ndrawers was entirely concealed by one of the many-colored scarves,\nwhose brilliant hues and rich silken fringe have rendered them so\nprecious in the eyes of Parisian belles.\n\nTilted on one side of her head she had a small cap of gold-colored\nsilk, embroidered with pearls; while on the other a purple rose mingled\nits glowing colors with the luxuriant masses of her hair, of which the\nblackness was so intense that it was tinged with blue.\n\nThe extreme beauty of the countenance, that shone forth in loveliness\nthat mocked the vain attempts of dress to augment it, was peculiarly\nand purely Grecian; there were the large, dark, melting eyes, the\nfinely formed nose, the coral lips, and pearly teeth, that belonged to\nher race and country.\n\nAnd, to complete the whole, Hayd e was in the very springtide and\nfulness of youthful charms she had not yet numbered more than nineteen\nor twenty summers.\n\nMonte Cristo summoned the Greek attendant, and bade her inquire whether\nit would be agreeable to her mistress to receive his visit. Hayd e s\nonly reply was to direct her servant by a sign to withdraw the\ntapestried curtain that hung before the door of her boudoir, the\nframework of the opening thus made serving as a sort of border to the\ngraceful tableau presented by the young girl s picturesque attitude and\nappearance.\n\nAs Monte Cristo approached, she leaned upon the elbow of the arm that\nheld the narghile, and extending to him her other hand, said, with a\nsmile of captivating sweetness, in the sonorous language spoken by the\nwomen of Athens and Sparta:\n\n Why demand permission ere you enter? Are you no longer my master, or\nhave I ceased to be your slave? \n\nMonte Cristo returned her smile.\n\n Hayd e,  said he,  you well know. \n\n Why do you address me so coldly so distantly?  asked the young Greek.\n Have I by any means displeased you? Oh, if so, punish me as you will;\nbut do not do not speak to me in tones and manner so formal and\nconstrained. \n\n Hayd e,  replied the count,  you know that you are now in France, and\nare free. \n\n Free to do what?  asked the young girl.\n\n Free to leave me. \n\n Leave you? Why should I leave you? \n\n That is not for me to say; but we are now about to mix in society to\nvisit and be visited. \n\n I don t wish to see anybody but you. \n\n And should you see one whom you could prefer, I would not be so\nunjust \n\n I have never seen anyone I preferred to you, and I have never loved\nanyone but you and my father. \n\n My poor child,  replied Monte Cristo,  that is merely because your\nfather and myself are the only men who have ever talked to you. \n\n I don t want anybody else to talk to me. My father said I was his\n joy you style me your  love, and both of you have called me  my\nchild. \n\n Do you remember your father, Hayd e? \n\nThe young Greek smiled.\n\n He is here, and here,  said she, touching her eyes and her heart.\n\n And where am I?  inquired Monte Cristo laughingly.\n\n You?  cried she, with tones of thrilling tenderness,  you are\neverywhere!  Monte Cristo took the delicate hand of the young girl in\nhis, and was about to raise it to his lips, when the simple child of\nnature hastily withdrew it, and presented her cheek.\n\n You now understand, Hayd e,  said the count,  that from this moment\nyou are absolutely free; that here you exercise unlimited sway, and are\nat liberty to lay aside or continue the costume of your country, as it\nmay suit your inclination. Within this mansion you are absolute\nmistress of your actions, and may go abroad or remain in your\napartments as may seem most agreeable to you. A carriage waits your\norders, and Ali and Myrtho will accompany you whithersoever you desire\nto go. There is but one favor I would entreat of you. \n\n Speak. \n\n Guard carefully the secret of your birth. Make no allusion to the\npast; nor upon any occasion be induced to pronounce the names of your\nillustrious father or ill-fated mother. \n\n I have already told you, my lord, that I shall see no one. \n\n It is possible, Hayd e, that so perfect a seclusion, though\nconformable with the habits and customs of the East, may not be\npracticable in Paris. Endeavor, then, to accustom yourself to our\nmanner of living in these northern climes as you did to those of Rome,\nFlorence, Milan, and Madrid; it may be useful to you one of these days,\nwhether you remain here or return to the East. \n\nThe young girl raised her tearful eyes towards Monte Cristo as she said\nwith touching earnestness,  Whether _we_ return to the East, you mean\nto say, my lord, do you not? \n\n My child,  returned Monte Cristo  you know full well that whenever we\npart, it will be no fault or wish of mine; the tree forsakes not the\nflower the flower falls from the tree. \n\n My lord,  replied Hayd e,  I never will leave you, for I am sure I\ncould not exist without you. \n\n My poor girl, in ten years I shall be old, and you will be still\nyoung. \n\n My father had a long white beard, but I loved him; he was sixty years\nold, but to me he was handsomer than all the fine youths I saw. \n\n Then tell me, Hayd e, do you believe you shall be able to accustom\nyourself to our present mode of life? \n\n Shall I see you? \n\n Every day. \n\n Then what do you fear, my lord? \n\n You might find it dull. \n\n No, my lord. In the morning, I shall rejoice in the prospect of your\ncoming, and in the evening dwell with delight on the happiness I have\nenjoyed in your presence; then too, when alone, I can call forth mighty\npictures of the past, see vast horizons bounded only by the towering\nmountains of Pindus and Olympus. Oh, believe me, that when three great\npassions, such as sorrow, love, and gratitude fill the heart, _ennui_\ncan find no place. \n\n You are a worthy daughter of Epirus, Hayd e, and your charming and\npoetical ideas prove well your descent from that race of goddesses who\nclaim your country as their birthplace. Depend on my care to see that\nyour youth is not blighted, or suffered to pass away in ungenial\nsolitude; and of this be well assured, that if you love me as a father,\nI love you as a child. \n\n You are wrong, my lord. The love I have for you is very different from\nthe love I had for my father. My father died, but I did not die. If you\nwere to die, I should die too. \n\nThe count, with a smile of profound tenderness, extended his hand, and\nshe carried it to her lips.\n\nMonte Cristo, thus attuned to the interview he proposed to hold with\nMorrel and his family, departed, murmuring as he went these lines of\nPindar,  Youth is a flower of which love is the fruit; happy is he who,\nafter having watched its silent growth, is permitted to gather and call\nit his own.  The carriage was prepared according to orders, and\nstepping lightly into it, the count drove off at his usual rapid pace.\n\n\n\n Chapter 50. The Morrel Family\n\nIn a very few minutes the count reached No. 7 in the Rue Meslay. The\nhouse was of white stone, and in a small court before it were two small\nbeds full of beautiful flowers. In the concierge that opened the gate\nthe count recognized Cocles; but as he had but one eye, and that eye\nhad become somewhat dim in the course of nine years, Cocles did not\nrecognize the count.\n\nThe carriages that drove up to the door were compelled to turn, to\navoid a fountain that played in a basin of rockwork, an ornament that\nhad excited the jealousy of the whole quarter, and had gained for the\nplace the appellation of _The Little Versailles_. It is needless to add\nthat there were gold and silver fish in the basin. The house, with\nkitchens and cellars below, had above the ground floor, two stories and\nattics. The whole of the property, consisting of an immense workshop,\ntwo pavilions at the bottom of the garden, and the garden itself, had\nbeen purchased by Emmanuel, who had seen at a glance that he could make\nof it a profitable speculation. He had reserved the house and half the\ngarden, and building a wall between the garden and the workshops, had\nlet them upon lease with the pavilions at the bottom of the garden. So\nthat for a trifling sum he was as well lodged, and as perfectly shut\nout from observation, as the inhabitants of the finest mansion in the\nFaubourg St. Germain.\n\nThe breakfast-room was finished in oak; the salon in mahogany, and the\nfurnishings were of blue velvet; the bedroom was in citronwood and\ngreen damask. There was a study for Emmanuel, who never studied, and a\nmusic-room for Julie, who never played. The whole of the second story\nwas set apart for Maximilian; it was precisely similar to his sister s\napartments, except that for the breakfast-parlor he had a\nbilliard-room, where he received his friends. He was superintending the\ngrooming of his horse, and smoking his cigar at the entrance of the\ngarden, when the count s carriage stopped at the gate.\n\nCocles opened the gate, and Baptistin, springing from the box, inquired\nwhether Monsieur and Madame Herbault and Monsieur Maximilian Morrel\nwould see his excellency the Count of Monte Cristo.\n\n The Count of Monte Cristo?  cried Morrel, throwing away his cigar and\nhastening to the carriage;  I should think we would see him. Ah, a\nthousand thanks, count, for not having forgotten your promise. \n\nAnd the young officer shook the count s hand so warmly, that Monte\nCristo could not be mistaken as to the sincerity of his joy, and he saw\nthat he had been expected with impatience, and was received with\npleasure.\n\n Come, come,  said Maximilian,  I will serve as your guide; such a man\nas you are ought not to be introduced by a servant. My sister is in the\ngarden plucking the dead roses; my brother is reading his two papers,\n_la Presse_ and _les D bats_, within six steps of her; for wherever you\nsee Madame Herbault, you have only to look within a circle of four\nyards and you will find M. Emmanuel, and  reciprocally,  as they say at\nthe Polytechnic School. \n\nAt the sound of their steps a young woman of twenty to five-and-twenty,\ndressed in a silk morning gown, and busily engaged in plucking the dead\nleaves off a noisette rose-tree, raised her head. This was Julie, who\nhad become, as the clerk of the house of Thomson & French had\npredicted, Madame Emmanuel Herbault. She uttered a cry of surprise at\nthe sight of a stranger, and Maximilian began to laugh.\n\n Don t disturb yourself, Julie,  said he.  The count has only been two\nor three days in Paris, but he already knows what a fashionable woman\nof the Marais is, and if he does not, you will show him. \n\n Ah, monsieur,  returned Julie,  it is treason in my brother to bring\nyou thus, but he never has any regard for his poor sister. Penelon,\nPenelon! \n\nAn old man, who was digging busily at one of the beds, stuck his spade\nin the earth, and approached, cap in hand, striving to conceal a quid\nof tobacco he had just thrust into his cheek. A few locks of gray\nmingled with his hair, which was still thick and matted, while his\nbronzed features and determined glance well suited an old sailor who\nhad braved the heat of the equator and the storms of the tropics.\n\n I think you hailed me, Mademoiselle Julie?  said he.\n\nPenelon had still preserved the habit of calling his master s daughter\n Mademoiselle Julie,  and had never been able to change the name to\nMadame Herbault.\n\n Penelon,  replied Julie,  go and inform M. Emmanuel of this\ngentleman s visit, and Maximilian will conduct him to the salon. \n\nThen, turning to Monte Cristo, I hope you will permit me to leave you\nfor a few minutes,  continued she; and without awaiting any reply,\ndisappeared behind a clump of trees, and escaped to the house by a\nlateral alley.\n\n30041m\n\n\n\n I am sorry to see,  observed Monte Cristo to Morrel,  that I cause no\nsmall disturbance in your house. \n\n Look there,  said Maximilian, laughing;  there is her husband changing\nhis jacket for a coat. I assure you, you are well known in the Rue\nMeslay. \n\n Your family appears to be a very happy one,  said the count, as if\nspeaking to himself.\n\n Oh, yes, I assure you, count, they want nothing that can render them\nhappy; they are young and cheerful, they are tenderly attached to each\nother, and with twenty-five thousand francs a year they fancy\nthemselves as rich as Rothschild. \n\n Five-and-twenty thousand francs is not a large sum, however,  replied\nMonte Cristo, with a tone so sweet and gentle, that it went to\nMaximilian s heart like the voice of a father;  but they will not be\ncontent with that. Your brother-in-law is a barrister? a doctor? \n\n He was a merchant, monsieur, and had succeeded to the business of my\npoor father. M. Morrel, at his death, left 500,000 francs, which were\ndivided between my sister and myself, for we were his only children.\nHer husband, who, when he married her, had no other patrimony than his\nnoble probity, his first-rate ability, and his spotless reputation,\nwished to possess as much as his wife. He labored and toiled until he\nhad amassed 250,000 francs; six years sufficed to achieve this object.\nOh, I assure you, sir, it was a touching spectacle to see these young\ncreatures, destined by their talents for higher stations, toiling\ntogether, and through their unwillingness to change any of the customs\nof their paternal house, taking six years to accomplish what less\nscrupulous people would have effected in two or three. Marseilles\nresounded with their well-earned praises. At last, one day, Emmanuel\ncame to his wife, who had just finished making up the accounts.\n\n Julie,  said he to her,  Cocles has just given me the last rouleau of\na hundred francs; that completes the 250,000 francs we had fixed as the\nlimits of our gains. Can you content yourself with the small fortune\nwhich we shall possess for the future? Listen to me. Our house\ntransacts business to the amount of a million a year, from which we\nderive an income of 40,000 francs. We can dispose of the business, if\nwe please, in an hour, for I have received a letter from M. Delaunay,\nin which he offers to purchase the good-will of the house, to unite\nwith his own, for 300,000 francs. Advise me what I had better do. \n\n Emmanuel,  returned my sister,  the house of Morrel can only be\ncarried on by a Morrel. Is it not worth 300,000 francs to save our\nfather s name from the chances of evil fortune and failure? \n\n I thought so,  replied Emmanuel;  but I wished to have your advice. \n\n This is my counsel: Our accounts are made up and our bills paid; all\nwe have to do is to stop the issue of any more, and close our office. \n\n This was done instantly. It was three o clock; at a quarter past, a\nmerchant presented himself to insure two ships; it was a clear profit\nof 15,000 francs.\n\n Monsieur,  said Emmanuel,  have the goodness to address yourself to\nM. Delaunay. We have quitted business. \n\n How long?  inquired the astonished merchant.\n\n30043m\n\n\n\n A quarter of an hour,  was the reply.\n\n And this is the reason, monsieur,  continued Maximilian,  of my sister\nand brother-in-law having only 25,000 francs a year. \n\nMaximilian had scarcely finished his story, during which the count s\nheart had swelled within him, when Emmanuel entered wearing a hat and\ncoat. He saluted the count with the air of a man who is aware of the\nrank of his guest; then, after having led Monte Cristo around the\nlittle garden, he returned to the house.\n\nA large vase of Japan porcelain, filled with flowers that loaded the\nair with their perfume, stood in the salon. Julie, suitably dressed,\nand her hair arranged (she had accomplished this feat in less than ten\nminutes), received the count on his entrance. The songs of the birds\nwere heard in an aviary hard by, and the branches of laburnums and rose\nacacias formed an exquisite framework to the blue velvet curtains.\nEverything in this charming retreat, from the warble of the birds to\nthe smile of the mistress, breathed tranquillity and repose.\n\nThe count had felt the influence of this happiness from the moment he\nentered the house, and he remained silent and pensive, forgetting that\nhe was expected to renew the conversation, which had ceased after the\nfirst salutations had been exchanged. The silence became almost painful\nwhen, by a violent effort, tearing himself from his pleasing reverie:\n\n Madame,  said he at length,  I pray you to excuse my emotion, which\nmust astonish you who are only accustomed to the happiness I meet here;\nbut contentment is so new a sight to me, that I could never be weary of\nlooking at yourself and your husband. \n\n We are very happy, monsieur,  replied Julie;  but we have also known\nunhappiness, and few have ever undergone more bitter sufferings than\nourselves. \n\nThe count s features displayed an expression of the most intense\ncuriosity.\n\n Oh, all this is a family history, as Ch teau-Renaud told you the other\nday,  observed Maximilian.  This humble picture would have but little\ninterest for you, accustomed as you are to behold the pleasures and the\nmisfortunes of the wealthy and industrious; but such as we are, we have\nexperienced bitter sorrows. \n\n And God has poured balm into your wounds, as he does into those of all\nwho are in affliction?  said Monte Cristo inquiringly.\n\n Yes, count,  returned Julie,  we may indeed say he has, for he has\ndone for us what he grants only to his chosen; he sent us one of his\nangels. \n\nThe count s cheeks became scarlet, and he coughed, in order to have an\nexcuse for putting his handkerchief to his mouth.\n\n Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying every\nwish,  said Emmanuel,  know not what is the real happiness of life,\njust as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on\na few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather. \n\nMonte Cristo rose, and without making any answer (for the tremulousness\nof his voice would have betrayed his emotion) walked up and down the\napartment with a slow step.\n\n Our magnificence makes you smile, count,  said Maximilian, who had\nfollowed him with his eyes.\n\n No, no,  returned Monte Cristo, pale as death, pressing one hand on\nhis heart to still its throbbings, while with the other he pointed to a\ncrystal cover, beneath which a silken purse lay on a black velvet\ncushion.  I was wondering what could be the significance of this purse,\nwith the paper at one end and the large diamond at the other. \n\n Count,  replied Maximilian, with an air of gravity,  those are our\nmost precious family treasures. \n\n The stone seems very brilliant,  answered the count.\n\n Oh, my brother does not allude to its value, although it has been\nestimated at 100,000 francs; he means, that the articles contained in\nthis purse are the relics of the angel I spoke of just now. \n\n This I do not comprehend; and yet I may not ask for an explanation,\nmadame,  replied Monte Cristo bowing.  Pardon me, I had no intention of\ncommitting an indiscretion. \n\n Indiscretion, oh, you make us happy by giving us an excuse for\nexpatiating on this subject. If we wanted to conceal the noble action\nthis purse commemorates, we should not expose it thus to view. Oh,\nwould we could relate it everywhere, and to everyone, so that the\nemotion of our unknown benefactor might reveal his presence. \n\n Ah, really,  said Monte Cristo in a half-stifled voice.\n\n Monsieur,  returned Maximilian, raising the glass cover, and\nrespectfully kissing the silken purse,  this has touched the hand of a\nman who saved my father from suicide, us from ruin, and our name from\nshame and disgrace, a man by whose matchless benevolence we poor\nchildren, doomed to want and wretchedness, can at present hear everyone\nenvying our happy lot. This letter  (as he spoke, Maximilian drew a\nletter from the purse and gave it to the count) this letter was\nwritten by him the day that my father had taken a desperate resolution,\nand this diamond was given by the generous unknown to my sister as her\ndowry. \n\nMonte Cristo opened the letter, and read it with an indescribable\nfeeling of delight. It was the letter written (as our readers know) to\nJulie, and signed  Sinbad the Sailor. \n\n Unknown you say, is the man who rendered you this service unknown to\nyou? \n\n Yes; we have never had the happiness of pressing his hand,  continued\nMaximilian.  We have supplicated Heaven in vain to grant us this favor,\nbut the whole affair has had a mysterious meaning that we cannot\ncomprehend we have been guided by an invisible hand, a hand as powerful\nas that of an enchanter. \n\n Oh,  cried Julie,  I have not lost all hope of some day kissing that\nhand, as I now kiss the purse which he has touched. Four years ago,\nPenelon was at Trieste Penelon, count, is the old sailor you saw in the\ngarden, and who, from quartermaster, has become gardener Penelon, when\nhe was at Trieste, saw on the quay an Englishman, who was on the point\nof embarking on board a yacht, and he recognized him as the person who\ncalled on my father the fifth of June, 1829, and who wrote me this\nletter on the fifth of September. He felt convinced of his identity,\nbut he did not venture to address him. \n\n An Englishman,  said Monte Cristo, who grew uneasy at the attention\nwith which Julie looked at him.  An Englishman you say? \n\n Yes,  replied Maximilian,  an Englishman, who represented himself as\nthe confidential clerk of the house of Thomson & French, at Rome. It\nwas this that made me start when you said the other day, at M. de\nMorcerf s, that Messrs. Thomson & French were your bankers. That\nhappened, as I told you, in 1829. For God s sake, tell me, did you know\nthis Englishman? \n\n But you tell me, also, that the house of Thomson & French have\nconstantly denied having rendered you this service? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then is it not probable that this Englishman may be someone who,\ngrateful for a kindness your father had shown him, and which he himself\nhad forgotten, has taken this method of requiting the obligation? \n\n Everything is possible in this affair, even a miracle. \n\n What was his name?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n He gave no other name,  answered Julie, looking earnestly at the\ncount,  than that at the end of his letter Sinbad the Sailor. \n\n Which is evidently not his real name, but a fictitious one. \n\nThen, noticing that Julie was struck with the sound of his voice:\n\n Tell me,  continued he,  was he not about my height, perhaps a little\ntaller, with his chin imprisoned, as it were, in a high cravat; his\ncoat closely buttoned up, and constantly taking out his pencil? \n\n Oh, do you then know him?  cried Julie, whose eyes sparkled with joy.\n\n No,  returned Monte Cristo  I only guessed. I knew a Lord Wilmore, who\nwas constantly doing actions of this kind. \n\n Without revealing himself? \n\n He was an eccentric being, and did not believe in the existence of\ngratitude. \n\n Oh, Heaven,  exclaimed Julie, clasping her hands,  in what did he\nbelieve, then? \n\n30047m\n\n\n\n He did not credit it at the period which I knew him,  said Monte\nCristo, touched to the heart by the accents of Julie s voice;  but,\nperhaps, since then he has had proofs that gratitude does exist. \n\n And do you know this gentleman, monsieur?  inquired Emmanuel.\n\n Oh, if you do know him,  cried Julie,  can you tell us where he\nis where we can find him? Maximilian Emmanuel if we do but discover\nhim, he must believe in the gratitude of the heart! \n\nMonte Cristo felt tears start into his eyes, and he again walked\nhastily up and down the room.\n\n In the name of Heaven,  said Maximilian,  if you know anything of him,\ntell us what it is. \n\n Alas,  cried Monte Cristo, striving to repress his emotion,  if Lord\nWilmore was your unknown benefactor, I fear you will never see him\nagain. I parted from him two years ago at Palermo, and he was then on\nthe point of setting out for the most remote regions; so that I fear he\nwill never return. \n\n Oh, monsieur, this is cruel of you,  said Julie, much affected; and\nthe young lady s eyes swam with tears.\n\n Madame,  replied Monte Cristo gravely, and gazing earnestly on the two\nliquid pearls that trickled down Julie s cheeks,  had Lord Wilmore seen\nwhat I now see, he would become attached to life, for the tears you\nshed would reconcile him to mankind;  and he held out his hand to\nJulie, who gave him hers, carried away by the look and accent of the\ncount.\n\n But,  continued she,  Lord Wilmore had a family or friends, he must\nhave known someone, can we not \n\n Oh, it is useless to inquire,  returned the count;  perhaps, after\nall, he was not the man you seek for. He was my friend: he had no\nsecrets from me, and if this had been so he would have confided in me. \n\n And he told you nothing? \n\n Not a word. \n\n Nothing that would lead you to suppose? \n\n Nothing. \n\n And yet you spoke of him at once. \n\n Ah, in such a case one supposes \n\n Sister, sister,  said Maximilian, coming to the count s aid,  monsieur\nis quite right. Recollect what our excellent father so often told us,\n It was no Englishman that thus saved us. \n\nMonte Cristo started.  What did your father tell you, M. Morrel?  said\nhe eagerly.\n\n My father thought that this action had been miraculously performed he\nbelieved that a benefactor had arisen from the grave to save us. Oh, it\nwas a touching superstition, monsieur, and although I did not myself\nbelieve it, I would not for the world have destroyed my father s faith.\nHow often did he muse over it and pronounce the name of a dear friend a\nfriend lost to him forever; and on his death-bed, when the near\napproach of eternity seemed to have illumined his mind with\nsupernatural light, this thought, which had until then been but a\ndoubt, became a conviction, and his last words were,  Maximilian, it\nwas Edmond Dant s! \n\nAt these words the count s paleness, which had for some time been\nincreasing, became alarming; he could not speak; he looked at his watch\nlike a man who has forgotten the hour, said a few hurried words to\nMadame Herbault, and pressing the hands of Emmanuel and\nMaximilian, Madame,  said he,  I trust you will allow me to visit you\noccasionally; I value your friendship, and feel grateful to you for\nyour welcome, for this is the first time for many years that I have\nthus yielded to my feelings;  and he hastily quitted the apartment.\n\n This Count of Monte Cristo is a strange man,  said Emmanuel.\n\n Yes,  answered Maximilian,  but I feel sure he has an excellent heart,\nand that he likes us. \n\n His voice went to my heart,  observed Julie;  and two or three times I\nfancied that I had heard it before. \n\n\n\n Chapter 51. Pyramus and Thisbe\n\nAbout two-thirds of the way along the Faubourg Saint-Honor , and in the\nrear of one of the most imposing mansions in this rich neighborhood,\nwhere the various houses vie with each other for elegance of design and\nmagnificence of construction, extended a large garden, where the\nwide-spreading chestnut-trees raised their heads high above the walls\nin a solid rampart, and with the coming of every spring scattered a\nshower of delicate pink and white blossoms into the large stone vases\nthat stood upon the two square pilasters of a curiously wrought iron\ngate, that dated from the time of Louis XIII.\n\nThis noble entrance, however, in spite of its striking appearance and\nthe graceful effect of the geraniums planted in the two vases, as they\nwaved their variegated leaves in the wind and charmed the eye with\ntheir scarlet bloom, had fallen into utter disuse. The proprietors of\nthe mansion had many years before thought it best to confine themselves\nto the possession of the house itself, with its thickly planted\ncourtyard, opening into the Faubourg Saint-Honor , and to the garden\nshut in by this gate, which formerly communicated with a fine\nkitchen-garden of about an acre. For the demon of speculation drew a\nline, or in other words projected a street, at the farther side of the\nkitchen-garden. The street was laid out, a name was chosen and posted\nup on an iron plate, but before construction was begun, it occurred to\nthe possessor of the property that a handsome sum might be obtained for\nthe ground then devoted to fruits and vegetables, by building along the\nline of the proposed street, and so making it a branch of communication\nwith the Faubourg Saint-Honor  itself, one of the most important\nthoroughfares in the city of Paris.\n\nIn matters of speculation, however, though  man proposes,  yet  money\ndisposes.  From some such difficulty the newly named street died almost\nin birth, and the purchaser of the kitchen-garden, having paid a high\nprice for it, and being quite unable to find anyone willing to take his\nbargain off his hands without a considerable loss, yet still clinging\nto the belief that at some future day he should obtain a sum for it\nthat would repay him, not only for his past outlay, but also the\ninterest upon the capital locked up in his new acquisition, contented\nhimself with letting the ground temporarily to some market-gardeners,\nat a yearly rental of 500 francs.\n\nAnd so, as we have said, the iron gate leading into the kitchen-garden\nhad been closed up and left to the rust, which bade fair before long to\neat off its hinges, while to prevent the ignoble glances of the diggers\nand delvers of the ground from presuming to sully the aristocratic\nenclosure belonging to the mansion, the gate had been boarded up to a\nheight of six feet. True, the planks were not so closely adjusted but\nthat a hasty peep might be obtained through their interstices; but the\nstrict decorum and rigid propriety of the inhabitants of the house left\nno grounds for apprehending that advantage would be taken of that\ncircumstance.\n\nHorticulture seemed, however, to have been abandoned in the deserted\nkitchen-garden; and where cabbages, carrots, radishes, peas, and melons\nhad once flourished, a scanty crop of lucern alone bore evidence of its\nbeing deemed worthy of cultivation. A small, low door gave egress from\nthe walled space we have been describing into the projected street, the\nground having been abandoned as unproductive by its various renters,\nand had now fallen so completely in general estimation as to return not\neven the one-half per cent it had originally paid. Towards the house\nthe chestnut-trees we have before mentioned rose high above the wall,\nwithout in any way affecting the growth of other luxuriant shrubs and\nflowers that eagerly dressed forward to fill up the vacant spaces, as\nthough asserting their right to enjoy the boon of light and air. At one\ncorner, where the foliage became so thick as almost to shut out day, a\nlarge stone bench and sundry rustic seats indicated that this sheltered\nspot was either in general favor or particular use by some inhabitant\nof the house, which was faintly discernible through the dense mass of\nverdure that partially concealed it, though situated but a hundred\npaces off.\n\nWhoever had selected this retired portion of the grounds as the\nboundary of a walk, or as a place for meditation, was abundantly\njustified in the choice by the absence of all glare, the cool,\nrefreshing shade, the screen it afforded from the scorching rays of the\nsun, that found no entrance there even during the burning days of\nhottest summer, the incessant and melodious warbling of birds, and the\nentire removal from either the noise of the street or the bustle of the\nmansion. On the evening of one of the warmest days spring had yet\nbestowed on the inhabitants of Paris, might be seen negligently thrown\nupon the stone bench, a book, a parasol, and a work-basket, from which\nhung a partly embroidered cambric handkerchief, while at a little\ndistance from these articles was a young woman, standing close to the\niron gate, endeavoring to discern something on the other side by means\nof the openings in the planks, the earnestness of her attitude and the\nfixed gaze with which she seemed to seek the object of her wishes,\nproving how much her feelings were interested in the matter.\n\nAt that instant the little side-gate leading from the waste ground to\nthe street was noiselessly opened, and a tall, powerful young man\nappeared. He was dressed in a common gray blouse and velvet cap, but\nhis carefully arranged hair, beard and moustache, all of the richest\nand glossiest black, ill accorded with his plebeian attire. After\ncasting a rapid glance around him, in order to assure himself that he\nwas unobserved, he entered by the small gate, and, carefully closing\nand securing it after him, proceeded with a hurried step towards the\nbarrier.\n\nAt the sight of him she expected, though probably not in such a\ncostume, the young woman started in terror, and was about to make a\nhasty retreat. But the eye of love had already seen, even through the\nnarrow chinks of the wooden palisades, the movement of the white robe,\nand observed the fluttering of the blue sash. Pressing his lips close\nto the planks, he exclaimed:\n\n Don t be alarmed, Valentine it is I! \n\nAgain the timid girl found courage to return to the gate, saying, as\nshe did so:\n\n And why do you come so late today? It is almost dinner-time, and I had\nto use no little diplomacy to get rid of my watchful stepmother, my\ntoo-devoted maid, and my troublesome brother, who is always teasing me\nabout coming to work at my embroidery, which I am in a fair way never\nto get done. So pray excuse yourself as well as you can for having made\nme wait, and, after that, tell me why I see you in a dress so singular\nthat at first I did not recognize you. \n\n Dearest Valentine,  said the young man,  the difference between our\nrespective stations makes me fear to offend you by speaking of my love,\nbut yet I cannot find myself in your presence without longing to pour\nforth my soul, and tell you how fondly I adore you. If it be but to\ncarry away with me the recollection of such sweet moments, I could even\nthank you for chiding me, for it leaves me a gleam of hope, that if you\ndid not expect me (and that indeed would be worse than vanity to\nsuppose), at least I was in your thoughts. You asked me the cause of my\nbeing late, and why I come disguised. I will candidly explain the\nreason of both, and I trust to your goodness to pardon me. I have\nchosen a trade. \n\n A trade? Oh, Maximilian, how can you jest at a time when we have such\ndeep cause for uneasiness? \n\n Heaven keep me from jesting with that which is far dearer to me than\nlife itself! But listen to me, Valentine, and I will tell you all about\nit. I became weary of ranging fields and scaling walls, and seriously\nalarmed at the idea suggested by you, that if caught hovering about\nhere your father would very likely have me sent to prison as a thief.\nThat would compromise the honor of the French army, to say nothing of\nthe fact that the continual presence of a captain of Spahis in a place\nwhere no warlike projects could be supposed to account for it might\nwell create surprise; so I have become a gardener, and, consequently,\nadopted the costume of my calling. \n\n What excessive nonsense you talk, Maximilian! \n\n Nonsense? Pray do not call what I consider the wisest action of my\nlife by such a name. Consider, by becoming a gardener I effectually\nscreen our meetings from all suspicion or danger. \n\n30053m\n\n\n\n I beseech of you, Maximilian, to cease trifling, and tell me what you\nreally mean. \n\n Simply, that having ascertained that the piece of ground on which I\nstand was to let, I made application for it, was readily accepted by\nthe proprietor, and am now master of this fine crop of lucern. Think of\nthat, Valentine! There is nothing now to prevent my building myself a\nlittle hut on my plantation, and residing not twenty yards from you.\nOnly imagine what happiness that would afford me. I can scarcely\ncontain myself at the bare idea. Such felicity seems above all price as\na thing impossible and unattainable. But would you believe that I\npurchase all this delight, joy, and happiness, for which I would\ncheerfully have surrendered ten years of my life, at the small cost of\n500 francs per annum, paid quarterly? Henceforth we have nothing to\nfear. I am on my own ground, and have an undoubted right to place a\nladder against the wall, and to look over when I please, without having\nany apprehensions of being taken off by the police as a suspicious\ncharacter. I may also enjoy the precious privilege of assuring you of\nmy fond, faithful, and unalterable affection, whenever you visit your\nfavorite bower, unless, indeed, it offends your pride to listen to\nprofessions of love from the lips of a poor workingman, clad in a\nblouse and cap. \n\nA faint cry of mingled pleasure and surprise escaped from the lips of\nValentine, who almost instantly said, in a saddened tone, as though\nsome envious cloud darkened the joy which illumined her heart:\n\n Alas, no, Maximilian, this must not be, for many reasons. We should\npresume too much on our own strength, and, like others, perhaps, be led\nastray by our blind confidence in each other s prudence. \n\n How can you for an instant entertain so unworthy a thought, dear\nValentine? Have I not, from the first blessed hour of our acquaintance,\nschooled all my words and actions to your sentiments and ideas? And you\nhave, I am sure, the fullest confidence in my honor. When you spoke to\nme of experiencing a vague and indefinite sense of coming danger, I\nplaced myself blindly and devotedly at your service, asking no other\nreward than the pleasure of being useful to you; and have I ever since,\nby word or look, given you cause of regret for having selected me from\nthe numbers that would willingly have sacrificed their lives for you?\nYou told me, my dear Valentine, that you were engaged to M. d pinay,\nand that your father was resolved upon completing the match, and that\nfrom his will there was no appeal, as M. de Villefort was never known\nto change a determination once formed. I kept in the background, as you\nwished, and waited, not for the decision of your heart or my own, but\nhoping that Providence would graciously interpose in our behalf, and\norder events in our favor. But what cared I for delays or difficulties,\nValentine, as long as you confessed that you loved me, and took pity on\nme? If you will only repeat that avowal now and then, I can endure\nanything. \n\n Ah, Maximilian, that is the very thing that makes you so bold, and\nwhich renders me at once so happy and unhappy, that I frequently ask\nmyself whether it is better for me to endure the harshness of my\nstepmother, and her blind preference for her own child, or to be, as I\nnow am, insensible to any pleasure save such as I find in these\nmeetings, so fraught with danger to both. \n\n I will not admit that word,  returned the young man;  it is at once\ncruel and unjust. Is it possible to find a more submissive slave than\nmyself? You have permitted me to converse with you from time to time,\nValentine, but forbidden my ever following you in your walks or\nelsewhere have I not obeyed? And since I found means to enter this\nenclosure to exchange a few words with you through this gate to be\nclose to you without really seeing you have I ever asked so much as to\ntouch the hem of your gown or tried to pass this barrier which is but a\ntrifle to one of my youth and strength? Never has a complaint or a\nmurmur escaped me. I have been bound by my promises as rigidly as any\nknight of olden times. Come, come, dearest Valentine, confess that what\nI say is true, lest I be tempted to call you unjust. \n\n30055m\n\n\n\n It is true,  said Valentine, as she passed the end of her slender\nfingers through a small opening in the planks, and permitted Maximilian\nto press his lips to them,  and you are a true and faithful friend; but\nstill you acted from motives of self-interest, my dear Maximilian, for\nyou well knew that from the moment in which you had manifested an\nopposite spirit all would have been ended between us. You promised to\nbestow on me the friendly affection of a brother. For I have no friend\nbut yourself upon earth, who am neglected and forgotten by my father,\nharassed and persecuted by my stepmother, and left to the sole\ncompanionship of a paralyzed and speechless old man, whose withered\nhand can no longer press mine, and who can speak to me with the eye\nalone, although there still lingers in his heart the warmest tenderness\nfor his poor grandchild. Oh, how bitter a fate is mine, to serve either\nas a victim or an enemy to all who are stronger than myself, while my\nonly friend and supporter is a living corpse! Indeed, indeed,\nMaximilian, I am very miserable, and if you love me it must be out of\npity. \n\n Valentine,  replied the young man, deeply affected,  I will not say\nyou are all I love in the world, for I dearly prize my sister and\nbrother-in-law; but my affection for them is calm and tranquil, in no\nmanner resembling what I feel for you. When I think of you my heart\nbeats fast, the blood burns in my veins, and I can hardly breathe; but\nI solemnly promise you to restrain all this ardor, this fervor and\nintensity of feeling, until you yourself shall require me to render\nthem available in serving or assisting you. M. Franz is not expected to\nreturn home for a year to come, I am told; in that time many favorable\nand unforeseen chances may befriend us. Let us, then, hope for the\nbest; hope is so sweet a comforter. Meanwhile, Valentine, while\nreproaching me with selfishness, think a little what you have been to\nme the beautiful but cold resemblance of a marble Venus. What promise\nof future reward have you made me for all the submission and obedience\nI have evinced? none whatever. What granted me? scarcely more. You tell\nme of M. Franz d pinay, your betrothed lover, and you shrink from the\nidea of being his wife; but tell me, Valentine, is there no other\nsorrow in your heart? You see me devoted to you, body and soul, my life\nand each warm drop that circles round my heart are consecrated to your\nservice; you know full well that my existence is bound up in yours that\nwere I to lose you I would not outlive the hour of such crushing\nmisery; yet you speak with calmness of the prospect of your being the\nwife of another! Oh, Valentine, were I in your place, and did I feel\nconscious, as you do, of being worshipped, adored, with such a love as\nmine, a hundred times at least should I have passed my hand between\nthese iron bars, and said,  Take this hand, dearest Maximilian, and\nbelieve that, living or dead, I am yours yours only, and forever! \n\nThe poor girl made no reply, but her lover could plainly hear her sobs\nand tears. A rapid change took place in the young man s feelings.\n\n Dearest, dearest Valentine,  exclaimed he,  forgive me if I have\noffended you, and forget the words I spoke if they have unwittingly\ncaused you pain. \n\n No, Maximilian, I am not offended,  answered she,  but do you not see\nwhat a poor, helpless being I am, almost a stranger and an outcast in\nmy father s house, where even he is seldom seen; whose will has been\nthwarted, and spirits broken, from the age of ten years, beneath the\niron rod so sternly held over me; oppressed, mortified, and persecuted,\nday by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, no person has cared for,\neven observed my sufferings, nor have I ever breathed one word on the\nsubject save to yourself. Outwardly and in the eyes of the world, I am\nsurrounded by kindness and affection; but the reverse is the case. The\ngeneral remark is,  Oh, it cannot be expected that one of so stern a\ncharacter as M. Villefort could lavish the tenderness some fathers do\non their daughters. What though she has lost her own mother at a tender\nage, she has had the happiness to find a second mother in Madame de\nVillefort.  The world, however, is mistaken; my father abandons me from\nutter indifference, while my stepmother detests me with a hatred so\nmuch the more terrible because it is veiled beneath a continual smile. \n\n Hate you, sweet Valentine,  exclaimed the young man;  how is it\npossible for anyone to do that? \n\n Alas,  replied the weeping girl,  I am obliged to own that my\nstepmother s aversion to me arises from a very natural source her\noverweening love for her own child, my brother Edward. \n\n But why should it? \n\n I do not know; but, though unwilling to introduce money matters into\nour present conversation, I will just say this much that her extreme\ndislike to me has its origin there; and I much fear she envies me the\nfortune I enjoy in right of my mother, and which will be more than\ndoubled at the death of M. and Mme. de Saint-M ran, whose sole heiress\nI am. Madame de Villefort has nothing of her own, and hates me for\nbeing so richly endowed. Alas, how gladly would I exchange the half of\nthis wealth for the happiness of at least sharing my father s love. God\nknows, I would prefer sacrificing the whole, so that it would obtain me\na happy and affectionate home. \n\n Poor Valentine! \n\n I seem to myself as though living a life of bondage, yet at the same\ntime am so conscious of my own weakness that I fear to break the\nrestraint in which I am held, lest I fall utterly helpless. Then, too,\nmy father is not a person whose orders may be infringed with impunity;\nprotected as he is by his high position and firmly established\nreputation for talent and unswerving integrity, no one could oppose\nhim; he is all-powerful even with the king; he would crush you at a\nword. Dear Maximilian, believe me when I assure you that if I do not\nattempt to resist my father s commands it is more on your account than\nmy own. \n\n But why, Valentine, do you persist in anticipating the worst, why\npicture so gloomy a future? \n\n Because I judge it from the past. \n\n Still, consider that although I may not be, strictly speaking, what is\ntermed an illustrious match for you, I am, for many reasons, not\naltogether so much beneath your alliance. The days when such\ndistinctions were so nicely weighed and considered no longer exist in\nFrance, and the first families of the monarchy have intermarried with\nthose of the empire. The aristocracy of the lance has allied itself\nwith the nobility of the cannon. Now I belong to this last-named class;\nand certainly my prospects of military preferment are most encouraging\nas well as certain. My fortune, though small, is free and unfettered,\nand the memory of my late father is respected in our country,\nValentine, as that of the most upright and honorable merchant of the\ncity; I say our country, because you were born not far from\nMarseilles. \n\n Don t speak of Marseilles, I beg of you, Maximilian; that one word\nbrings back my mother to my recollection my angel mother, who died too\nsoon for myself and all who knew her; but who, after watching over her\nchild during the brief period allotted to her in this world, now, I\nfondly hope, watches from her home in heaven. Oh, if my mother were\nstill living, there would be nothing to fear, Maximilian, for I would\ntell her that I loved you, and she would protect us. \n\n I fear, Valentine,  replied the lover,  that were she living I should\nnever have had the happiness of knowing you; you would then have been\ntoo happy to have stooped from your grandeur to bestow a thought on\nme. \n\n Now it is you who are unjust, Maximilian,  cried Valentine;  but there\nis one thing I wish to know. \n\n And what is that?  inquired the young man, perceiving that Valentine\nhesitated.\n\n Tell me truly, Maximilian, whether in former days, when our fathers\ndwelt at Marseilles, there was ever any misunderstanding between them? \n\n Not that I am aware of,  replied the young man,  unless, indeed, any\nill-feeling might have arisen from their being of opposite parties your\nfather was, as you know, a zealous partisan of the Bourbons, while mine\nwas wholly devoted to the emperor; there could not possibly be any\nother difference between them. But why do you ask? \n\n I will tell you,  replied the young girl,  for it is but right you\nshould know. Well, on the day when your appointment as an officer of\nthe Legion of Honor was announced in the papers, we were all sitting\nwith my grandfather, M. Noirtier; M. Danglars was there also you\nrecollect M. Danglars, do you not, Maximilian, the banker, whose horses\nran away with my stepmother and little brother, and very nearly killed\nthem? While the rest of the company were discussing the approaching\nmarriage of Mademoiselle Danglars, I was reading the paper to my\ngrandfather; but when I came to the paragraph about you, although I had\ndone nothing else but read it over to myself all the morning (you know\nyou had told me all about it the previous evening), I felt so happy,\nand yet so nervous, at the idea of speaking your name aloud, and before\nso many people, that I really think I should have passed it over, but\nfor the fear that my doing so might create suspicions as to the cause\nof my silence; so I summoned up all my courage, and read it as firmly\nand as steadily as I could. \n\n30059m\n\n\n\n Dear Valentine! \n\n Well, would you believe it? directly my father caught the sound of\nyour name he turned round quite hastily, and, like a poor silly thing,\nI was so persuaded that everyone must be as much affected as myself by\nthe utterance of your name, that I was not surprised to see my father\nstart, and almost tremble; but I even thought (though that surely must\nhave been a mistake) that M. Danglars trembled too. \n\n Morrel, Morrel,  cried my father,  stop a bit;  then knitting his\nbrows into a deep frown, he added,  surely this cannot be one of the\nMorrel family who lived at Marseilles, and gave us so much trouble from\ntheir violent Bonapartism I mean about the year 1815. \n\n Yes,  replied M. Danglars,  I believe he is the son of the old\nshipowner. \n\n Indeed,  answered Maximilian;  and what did your father say then,\nValentine? \n\n Oh, such a dreadful thing, that I don t dare to tell you. \n\n Always tell me everything,  said Maximilian with a smile.\n\n Ah,  continued my father, still frowning,  their idolized emperor\ntreated these madmen as they deserved; he called them  food for\ncannon,  which was precisely all they were good for; and I am delighted\nto see that the present government have adopted this salutary principle\nwith all its pristine vigor; if Algiers were good for nothing but to\nfurnish the means of carrying so admirable an idea into practice, it\nwould be an acquisition well worthy of struggling to obtain. Though it\ncertainly does cost France somewhat dear to assert her rights in that\nuncivilized country. \n\n Brutal politics, I must confess.  said Maximilian;  but don t attach\nany serious importance, dear, to what your father said. My father was\nnot a bit behind yours in that sort of talk.  Why,  said he,  does not\nthe emperor, who has devised so many clever and efficient modes of\nimproving the art of war, organize a regiment of lawyers, judges and\nlegal practitioners, sending them in the hottest fire the enemy could\nmaintain, and using them to save better men?  You see, my dear, that\nfor picturesque expression and generosity of spirit there is not much\nto choose between the language of either party. But what did M.\nDanglars say to this outburst on the part of the procureur? \n\n Oh, he laughed, and in that singular manner so peculiar to\nhimself half-malicious, half-ferocious; he almost immediately got up\nand took his leave; then, for the first time, I observed the agitation\nof my grandfather, and I must tell you, Maximilian, that I am the only\nperson capable of discerning emotion in his paralyzed frame. And I\nsuspected that the conversation that had been carried on in his\npresence (for they always say and do what they like before the dear old\nman, without the smallest regard for his feelings) had made a strong\nimpression on his mind; for, naturally enough, it must have pained him\nto hear the emperor he so devotedly loved and served spoken of in that\ndepreciating manner. \n\n The name of M. Noirtier,  interposed Maximilian,  is celebrated\nthroughout Europe; he was a statesman of high standing, and you may or\nmay not know, Valentine, that he took a leading part in every\nBonapartist conspiracy set on foot during the restoration of the\nBourbons. \n\n Oh, I have often heard whispers of things that seem to me most\nstrange the father a Bonapartist, the son a Royalist; what can have\nbeen the reason of so singular a difference in parties and politics?\nBut to resume my story; I turned towards my grandfather, as though to\nquestion him as to the cause of his emotion; he looked expressively at\nthe newspaper I had been reading.  What is the matter, dear\ngrandfather?  said I,  are you pleased?  He gave me a sign in the\naffirmative.  With what my father said just now?  He returned a sign in\nthe negative.  Perhaps you liked what M. Danglars said?  Another sign\nin the negative.  Oh, then, you were glad to hear that M. Morrel (I\ndidn t dare to say Maximilian) had been made an officer of the Legion\nof Honor?  He signified assent; only think of the poor old man s being\nso pleased to think that you, who were a perfect stranger to him, had\nbeen made an officer of the Legion of Honor! Perhaps it was a mere whim\non his part, for he is falling, they say, into second childhood, but I\nlove him for showing so much interest in you. \n\n How singular,  murmured Maximilian;  your father hates me, while your\ngrandfather, on the contrary What strange feelings are aroused by\npolitics. \n\n Hush,  cried Valentine, suddenly;  someone is coming!  Maximilian\nleaped at one bound into his crop of lucern, which he began to pull up\nin the most ruthless way, under the pretext of being occupied in\nweeding it.\n\n Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!  exclaimed a voice from behind the trees.\n Madame is searching for you everywhere; there is a visitor in the\ndrawing-room. \n\n A visitor?  inquired Valentine, much agitated;  who is it? \n\n Some grand personage a prince I believe they said the Count of Monte\nCristo. \n\n I will come directly,  cried Valentine aloud.\n\nThe name of Monte Cristo sent an electric shock through the young man\non the other side of the iron gate, to whom Valentine s _ I am coming _\nwas the customary signal of farewell.\n\n Now, then,  said Maximilian, leaning on the handle of his spade,  I\nwould give a good deal to know how it comes about that the Count of\nMonte Cristo is acquainted with M. de Villefort. \n\n\n\n Chapter 52. Toxicology\n\nIt was really the Count of Monte Cristo who had just arrived at Madame\nde Villefort s for the purpose of returning the procureur s visit, and\nat his name, as may be easily imagined, the whole house was in\nconfusion.\n\nMadame de Villefort, who was alone in her drawing-room when the count\nwas announced, desired that her son might be brought thither instantly\nto renew his thanks to the count; and Edward, who heard this great\npersonage talked of for two whole days, made all possible haste to come\nto him, not from obedience to his mother, or out of any feeling of\ngratitude to the count, but from sheer curiosity, and that some chance\nremark might give him the opportunity for making one of the impertinent\nspeeches which made his mother say:\n\n Oh, that naughty child! But I can t be severe with him, he is really\n_so_ bright. \n\nAfter the usual civilities, the count inquired after M. de Villefort.\n\n My husband dines with the chancellor,  replied the young lady;  he has\njust gone, and I am sure he ll be exceedingly sorry not to have had the\npleasure of seeing you before he went. \n\nTwo visitors who were there when the count arrived, having gazed at him\nwith all their eyes, retired after that reasonable delay which\npoliteness admits and curiosity requires.\n\n What is your sister Valentine doing?  inquired Madame de Villefort of\nEdward;  tell someone to bid her come here, that I may have the honor\nof introducing her to the count. \n\n You have a daughter, then, madame?  inquired the count;  very young, I\npresume? \n\n The daughter of M. de Villefort by his first marriage,  replied the\nyoung wife,  a fine well-grown girl. \n\n But melancholy,  interrupted Master Edward, snatching the feathers out\nof the tail of a splendid paroquet that was screaming on its gilded\nperch, in order to make a plume for his hat.\n\nMadame de Villefort merely cried,  Be still, Edward!  She then added,\n This young madcap is, however, very nearly right, and merely re-echoes\nwhat he has heard me say with pain a hundred times; for Mademoiselle de\nVillefort is, in spite of all we can do to rouse her, of a melancholy\ndisposition and taciturn habit, which frequently injure the effect of\nher beauty. But what detains her? Go, Edward, and see. \n\n Because they are looking for her where she is not to be found. \n\n And where are they looking for her? \n\n With grandpapa Noirtier. \n\n And do you think she is not there? \n\n No, no, no, no, no, she is not there,  replied Edward, singing his\nwords.\n\n And where is she, then? If you know, why don t you tell? \n\n She is under the big chestnut-tree,  replied the spoiled brat, as he\ngave, in spite of his mother s commands, live flies to the parrot,\nwhich seemed keenly to relish such fare.\n\nMadame de Villefort stretched out her hand to ring, intending to direct\nher waiting-maid to the spot where she would find Valentine, when the\nyoung lady herself entered the apartment. She appeared much dejected;\nand any person who considered her attentively might have observed the\ntraces of recent tears in her eyes.\n\nValentine, whom we have in the rapid march of our narrative presented\nto our readers without formally introducing her, was a tall and\ngraceful girl of nineteen, with bright chestnut hair, deep blue eyes,\nand that reposeful air of quiet distinction which characterized her\nmother. Her white and slender fingers, her pearly neck, her cheeks\ntinted with varying hues reminded one of the lovely Englishwomen who\nhave been so poetically compared in their manner to the gracefulness of\na swan.\n\nShe entered the apartment, and seeing near her stepmother the stranger\nof whom she had already heard so much, saluted him without any girlish\nawkwardness, or even lowering her eyes, and with an elegance that\nredoubled the count s attention.\n\nHe rose to return the salutation.\n\n Mademoiselle de Villefort, my step-daughter,  said Madame de Villefort\nto Monte Cristo, leaning back on her sofa and motioning towards\nValentine with her hand.\n\n And M. de Monte Cristo, King of China, Emperor of Cochin-China,  said\nthe young imp, looking slyly towards his sister.\n\nMadame de Villefort at this really did turn pale, and was very nearly\nangry with this household plague, who answered to the name of Edward;\nbut the count, on the contrary, smiled, and appeared to look at the boy\ncomplacently, which caused the maternal heart to bound again with joy\nand enthusiasm.\n\n But, madame,  replied the count, continuing the conversation, and\nlooking by turns at Madame de Villefort and Valentine,  have I not\nalready had the honor of meeting yourself and mademoiselle before? I\ncould not help thinking so just now; the idea came over my mind, and as\nmademoiselle entered the sight of her was an additional ray of light\nthrown on a confused remembrance; excuse the remark. \n\n I do not think it likely, sir; Mademoiselle de Villefort is not very\nfond of society, and we very seldom go out,  said the young lady.\n\n Then it was not in society that I met with mademoiselle or yourself,\nmadame, or this charming little merry boy. Besides, the Parisian world\nis entirely unknown to me, for, as I believe I told you, I have been in\nParis but very few days. No, but, perhaps, you will permit me to call\nto mind stay! \n\nThe Count placed his hand on his brow as if to collect his thoughts.\n\n No it was somewhere away from here it was I do not know but it appears\nthat this recollection is connected with a lovely sky and some\nreligious _f te_; mademoiselle was holding flowers in her hand, the\ninteresting boy was chasing a beautiful peacock in a garden, and you,\nmadame, were under the trellis of some arbor. Pray come to my aid,\nmadame; do not these circumstances appeal to your memory? \n\n No, indeed,  replied Madame de Villefort;  and yet it appears to me,\nsir, that if I had met you anywhere, the recollection of you must have\nbeen imprinted on my memory. \n\n Perhaps the count saw us in Italy,  said Valentine timidly.\n\n Yes, in Italy; it was in Italy most probably,  replied Monte Cristo;\n you have travelled then in Italy, mademoiselle? \n\n Yes; madame and I were there two years ago. The doctors, anxious for\nmy lungs, had prescribed the air of Naples. We went by Bologna,\nPerugia, and Rome. \n\n Ah, yes true, mademoiselle,  exclaimed Monte Cristo as if this simple\nexplanation was sufficient to revive the recollection he sought.  It\nwas at Perugia on Corpus Christi Day, in the garden of the H tel des\nPostes, when chance brought us together; you, Madame de Villefort, and\nher son; I now remember having had the honor of meeting you. \n\n I perfectly well remember Perugia, sir, and the H tel des Postes, and\nthe festival of which you speak,  said Madame de Villefort,  but in\nvain do I tax my memory, of whose treachery I am ashamed, for I really\ndo not recall to mind that I ever had the pleasure of seeing you\nbefore. \n\n It is strange, but neither do I recollect meeting with you,  observed\nValentine, raising her beautiful eyes to the count.\n\n30065m\n\n\n\n But I remember it perfectly,  interposed the darling Edward.\n\n I will assist your memory, madame,  continued the count;  the day had\nbeen burning hot; you were waiting for horses, which were delayed in\nconsequence of the festival. Mademoiselle was walking in the shade of\nthe garden, and your son disappeared in pursuit of the peacock. \n\n And I caught it, mamma, don t you remember?  interposed Edward,  and I\npulled three such beautiful feathers out of his tail. \n\n You, madame, remained under the arbor; do you not remember, that while\nyou were seated on a stone bench, and while, as I told you,\nMademoiselle de Villefort and your young son were absent, you conversed\nfor a considerable time with somebody? \n\n Yes, in truth, yes,  answered the young lady, turning very red,  I do\nremember conversing with a person wrapped in a long woollen mantle; he\nwas a medical man, I think. \n\n Precisely so, madame; this man was myself; for a fortnight I had been\nat that hotel, during which period I had cured my valet de chambre of a\nfever, and my landlord of the jaundice, so that I really acquired a\nreputation as a skilful physician. We discoursed a long time, madame,\non different subjects; of Perugino, of Raphael, of manners, customs, of\nthe famous _aqua Tofana_, of which they had told you, I think you said,\nthat certain individuals in Perugia had preserved the secret. \n\n Yes, true,  replied Madame de Villefort, somewhat uneasily,  I\nremember now. \n\n I do not recollect now all the various subjects of which we\ndiscoursed, madame,  continued the count with perfect calmness;  but I\nperfectly remember that, falling into the error which others had\nentertained respecting me, you consulted me as to the health of\nMademoiselle de Villefort. \n\n Yes, really, sir, you were in fact a medical man,  said Madame de\nVillefort,  since you had cured the sick. \n\n Moli re or Beaumarchais would reply to you, madame, that it was\nprecisely because I was not, that I had cured my patients; for myself,\nI am content to say to you that I have studied chemistry and the\nnatural sciences somewhat deeply, but still only as an amateur, you\nunderstand. \n\nAt this moment the clock struck six.\n\n It is six o clock,  said Madame de Villefort, evidently agitated.\n Valentine, will you not go and see if your grandpapa will have his\ndinner? \n\nValentine rose, and saluting the count, left the apartment without\nspeaking.\n\n Oh, madame,  said the count, when Valentine had left the room,  was it\non my account that you sent Mademoiselle de Villefort away? \n\n By no means,  replied the young lady quickly;  but this is the hour\nwhen we usually give M. Noirtier the unwelcome meal that sustains his\npitiful existence. You are aware, sir, of the deplorable condition of\nmy husband s father? \n\n Yes, madame, M. de Villefort spoke of it to me a paralysis, I think. \n\n Alas, yes; the poor old gentleman is entirely helpless; the mind alone\nis still active in this human machine, and that is faint and\nflickering, like the light of a lamp about to expire. But excuse me,\nsir, for talking of our domestic misfortunes; I interrupted you at the\nmoment when you were telling me that you were a skilful chemist. \n\n No, madame, I did not say as much as that,  replied the count with a\nsmile;  quite the contrary. I have studied chemistry because, having\ndetermined to live in eastern climates I have been desirous of\nfollowing the example of King Mithridates. \n\n _Mithridates, rex Ponticus_,  said the young scamp, as he tore some\nbeautiful portraits out of a splendid album,  the individual who took\ncream in his cup of poison every morning at breakfast. \n\n Edward, you naughty boy,  exclaimed Madame de Villefort, snatching the\nmutilated book from the urchin s grasp,  you are positively past\nbearing; you really disturb the conversation; go, leave us, and join\nyour sister Valentine in dear grandpapa Noirtier s room. \n\n The album,  said Edward sulkily.\n\n What do you mean? the album! \n\n I want the album. \n\n How dare you tear out the drawings? \n\n Oh, it amuses me. \n\n Go go at once. \n\n I won t go unless you give me the album,  said the boy, seating\nhimself doggedly in an armchair, according to his habit of never giving\nway.\n\n Take it, then, and pray disturb us no longer,  said Madame de\nVillefort, giving the album to Edward, who then went towards the door,\nled by his mother. The count followed her with his eyes.\n\n Let us see if she shuts the door after him,  he muttered.\n\nMadame de Villefort closed the door carefully after the child, the\ncount appearing not to notice her; then casting a scrutinizing glance\naround the chamber, the young wife returned to her chair, in which she\nseated herself.\n\n Allow me to observe, madame,  said the count, with that kind tone he\ncould assume so well,  you are really very severe with that dear clever\nchild. \n\n Oh, sometimes severity is quite necessary,  replied Madame de\nVillefort, with all a mother s real firmness.\n\n It was his Cornelius Nepos that Master Edward was repeating when he\nreferred to King Mithridates,  continued the count,  and you\ninterrupted him in a quotation which proves that his tutor has by no\nmeans neglected him, for your son is really advanced for his years. \n\n The fact is, count,  answered the mother, agreeably flattered,  he has\ngreat aptitude, and learns all that is set before him. He has but one\nfault, he is somewhat wilful; but really, on referring for the moment\nto what he said, do you truly believe that Mithridates used these\nprecautions, and that these precautions were efficacious? \n\n I think so, madame, because I myself have made use of them, that I\nmight not be poisoned at Naples, at Palermo, and at Smyrna that is to\nsay, on three several occasions when, but for these precautions, I must\nhave lost my life. \n\n And your precautions were successful? \n\n Completely so. \n\n Yes, I remember now your mentioning to me at Perugia something of this\nsort. \n\n Indeed?  said the count with an air of surprise, remarkably well\ncounterfeited;  I really did not remember. \n\n I inquired of you if poisons acted equally, and with the same effect,\non men of the North as on men of the South; and you answered me that\nthe cold and sluggish habits of the North did not present the same\naptitude as the rich and energetic temperaments of the natives of the\nSouth. \n\n And that is the case,  observed Monte Cristo.  I have seen Russians\ndevour, without being visibly inconvenienced, vegetable substances\nwhich would infallibly have killed a Neapolitan or an Arab. \n\n And you really believe the result would be still more sure with us\nthan in the East, and in the midst of our fogs and rains a man would\nhabituate himself more easily than in a warm latitude to this\nprogressive absorption of poison? \n\n Certainly; it being at the same time perfectly understood that he\nshould have been duly fortified against the poison to which he had not\nbeen accustomed. \n\n Yes, I understand that; and how would you habituate yourself, for\ninstance, or rather, how did you habituate yourself to it? \n\n Oh, very easily. Suppose you knew beforehand the poison that would be\nmade use of against you; suppose the poison was, for instance,\nbrucine \n\n Brucine is extracted from the false angostura8 is it not?  inquired\nMadame de Villefort.\n\n Precisely, madame,  replied Monte Cristo;  but I perceive I have not\nmuch to teach you. Allow me to compliment you on your knowledge; such\nlearning is very rare among ladies. \n\n Oh, I am aware of that,  said Madame de Villefort;  but I have a\npassion for the occult sciences, which speak to the imagination like\npoetry, and are reducible to figures, like an algebraic equation; but\ngo on, I beg of you; what you say interests me to the greatest degree. \n\n30069m\n\n\n\n Well,  replied Monte Cristo  suppose, then, that this poison was\nbrucine, and you were to take a milligramme the first day, two\nmilligrammes the second day, and so on. Well, at the end of ten days\nyou would have taken a centigramme, at the end of twenty days,\nincreasing another milligramme, you would have taken three hundred\ncentigrammes; that is to say, a dose which you would support without\ninconvenience, and which would be very dangerous for any other person\nwho had not taken the same precautions as yourself. Well, then, at the\nend of a month, when drinking water from the same carafe, you would\nkill the person who drank with you, without your perceiving, otherwise\nthan from slight inconvenience, that there was any poisonous substance\nmingled with this water. \n\n Do you know any other counter-poisons? \n\n I do not. \n\n I have often read, and read again, the history of Mithridates,  said\nMadame de Villefort in a tone of reflection,  and had always considered\nit a fable. \n\n No, madame, contrary to most history, it is true; but what you tell\nme, madame, what you inquire of me, is not the result of a chance\nquery, for two years ago you asked me the same questions, and said\nthen, that for a very long time this history of Mithridates had\noccupied your mind. \n\n True, sir. The two favorite studies of my youth were botany and\nmineralogy, and subsequently, when I learned that the use of simples\nfrequently explained the whole history of a people, and the entire life\nof individuals in the East, as flowers betoken and symbolize a love\naffair, I have regretted that I was not a man, that I might have been a\nFlamel, a Fontana, or a Cabanis. \n\n And the more, madame,  said Monte Cristo,  as the Orientals do not\nconfine themselves, as did Mithridates, to make a cuirass of his\npoisons, but they also made them a dagger. Science becomes, in their\nhands, not only a defensive weapon, but still more frequently an\noffensive one; the one serves against all their physical sufferings,\nthe other against all their enemies. With opium, belladonna, brucea,\nsnake-wood, and the cherry-laurel, they put to sleep all who stand in\ntheir way. There is not one of those women, Egyptian, Turkish, or\nGreek, whom here you call  good women,  who do not know how, by means\nof chemistry, to stupefy a doctor, and in psychology to amaze a\nconfessor. \n\n Really,  said Madame de Villefort, whose eyes sparkled with strange\nfire at this conversation.\n\n Oh, yes, indeed, madame,  continued Monte Cristo,  the secret dramas\nof the East begin with a love philtre and end with a death potion begin\nwith paradise and end with hell. There are as many elixirs of every\nkind as there are caprices and peculiarities in the physical and moral\nnature of humanity; and I will say further the art of these chemists is\ncapable with the utmost precision to accommodate and proportion the\nremedy and the bane to yearnings for love or desires for vengeance. \n\n But, sir,  remarked the young woman,  these Eastern societies, in the\nmidst of which you have passed a portion of your existence, are as\nfantastic as the tales that come from their strange land. A man can\neasily be put out of the way there, then; it is, indeed, the Bagdad and\nBassora of the _Thousand and One Nights_. The sultans and viziers who\nrule over society there, and who constitute what in France we call the\ngovernment, are really Haroun-al-Raschids and Giaffars, who not only\npardon a poisoner, but even make him a prime minister, if his crime has\nbeen an ingenious one, and who, under such circumstances, have the\nwhole story written in letters of gold, to divert their hours of\nidleness and _ennui_. \n\n By no means, madame; the fanciful exists no longer in the East. There,\ndisguised under other names, and concealed under other costumes, are\npolice agents, magistrates, attorneys-general, and bailiffs. They hang,\nbehead, and impale their criminals in the most agreeable possible\nmanner; but some of these, like clever rogues, have contrived to escape\nhuman justice, and succeed in their fraudulent enterprises by cunning\nstratagems. Amongst us a simpleton, possessed by the demon of hate or\ncupidity, who has an enemy to destroy, or some near relation to dispose\nof, goes straight to the grocer s or druggist s, gives a false name,\nwhich leads more easily to his detection than his real one, and under\nthe pretext that the rats prevent him from sleeping, purchases five or\nsix grammes of arsenic if he is really a cunning fellow, he goes to\nfive or six different druggists or grocers, and thereby becomes only\nfive or six times more easily traced; then, when he has acquired his\nspecific, he administers duly to his enemy, or near kinsman, a dose of\narsenic which would make a mammoth or mastodon burst, and which,\nwithout rhyme or reason, makes his victim utter groans which alarm the\nentire neighborhood. Then arrive a crowd of policemen and constables.\nThey fetch a doctor, who opens the dead body, and collects from the\nentrails and stomach a quantity of arsenic in a spoon. Next day a\nhundred newspapers relate the fact, with the names of the victim and\nthe murderer. The same evening the grocer or grocers, druggist or\ndruggists, come and say,  It was I who sold the arsenic to the\ngentleman;  and rather than not recognize the guilty purchaser, they\nwill recognize twenty. Then the foolish criminal is taken, imprisoned,\ninterrogated, confronted, confounded, condemned, and cut off by hemp or\nsteel; or if she be a woman of any consideration, they lock her up for\nlife. This is the way in which you Northerns understand chemistry,\nmadame. Desrues was, however, I must confess, more skilful. \n\n What would you have, sir?  said the lady, laughing;  we do what we\ncan. All the world has not the secret of the Medicis or the Borgias. \n\n Now,  replied the count, shrugging his shoulders,  shall I tell you\nthe cause of all these stupidities? It is because, at your theatres, by\nwhat at least I could judge by reading the pieces they play, they see\npersons swallow the contents of a phial, or suck the button of a ring,\nand fall dead instantly. Five minutes afterwards the curtain falls, and\nthe spectators depart. They are ignorant of the consequences of the\nmurder; they see neither the police commissary with his badge of\noffice, nor the corporal with his four men; and so the poor fools\nbelieve that the whole thing is as easy as lying. But go a little way\nfrom France go either to Aleppo or Cairo, or only to Naples or Rome,\nand you will see people passing by you in the streets people erect,\nsmiling, and fresh-colored, of whom Asmodeus, if you were holding on by\nthe skirt of his mantle, would say,  That man was poisoned three weeks\nago; he will be a dead man in a month. \n\n Then,  remarked Madame de Villefort,  they have again discovered the\nsecret of the famous _aqua Tofana_ that they said was lost at Perugia. \n\n Ah, but madame, does mankind ever lose anything? The arts change about\nand make a tour of the world; things take a different name, and the\nvulgar do not follow them that is all; but there is always the same\nresult. Poisons act particularly on some organ or another one on the\nstomach, another on the brain, another on the intestines. Well, the\npoison brings on a cough, the cough an inflammation of the lungs, or\nsome other complaint catalogued in the book of science, which, however,\nby no means precludes it from being decidedly mortal; and if it were\nnot, would be sure to become so, thanks to the remedies applied by\nfoolish doctors, who are generally bad chemists, and which will act in\nfavor of or against the malady, as you please; and then there is a\nhuman being killed according to all the rules of art and skill, and of\nwhom justice learns nothing, as was said by a terrible chemist of my\nacquaintance, the worthy Abb  Adelmonte of Taormina, in Sicily, who has\nstudied these national phenomena very profoundly. \n\n It is quite frightful, but deeply interesting,  said the young lady,\nmotionless with attention.  I thought, I must confess, that these\ntales, were inventions of the Middle Ages. \n\n Yes, no doubt, but improved upon by ours. What is the use of time,\nrewards of merit, medals, crosses, Monthyon prizes, if they do not lead\nsociety towards more complete perfection? Yet man will never be perfect\nuntil he learns to create and destroy; he does know how to destroy, and\nthat is half the battle. \n\n So,  added Madame de Villefort, constantly returning to her object,\n the poisons of the Borgias, the Medicis, the Ren es, the Ruggieris,\nand later, probably, that of Baron de Trenck, whose story has been so\nmisused by modern drama and romance \n\n Were objects of art, madame, and nothing more,  replied the count.  Do\nyou suppose that the real _savant_ addresses himself stupidly to the\nmere individual? By no means. Science loves eccentricities, leaps and\nbounds, trials of strength, fancies, if I may be allowed so to term\nthem. Thus, for instance, the excellent Abb  Adelmonte, of whom I spoke\njust now, made in this way some marvellous experiments. \n\n Really? \n\n Yes; I will mention one to you. He had a remarkably fine garden, full\nof vegetables, flowers, and fruit. From amongst these vegetables he\nselected the most simple a cabbage, for instance. For three days he\nwatered this cabbage with a distillation of arsenic; on the third, the\ncabbage began to droop and turn yellow. At that moment he cut it. In\nthe eyes of everybody it seemed fit for table, and preserved its\nwholesome appearance. It was only poisoned to the Abb  Adelmonte. He\nthen took the cabbage to the room where he had rabbits for the Abb \nAdelmonte had a collection of rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs, fully as\nfine as his collection of vegetables, flowers, and fruit. Well, the\nAbb  Adelmonte took a rabbit, and made it eat a leaf of the cabbage.\nThe rabbit died. What magistrate would find, or even venture to\ninsinuate, anything against this? What procureur has ever ventured to\ndraw up an accusation against M. Magendie or M. Flourens, in\nconsequence of the rabbits, cats, and guinea-pigs they have killed? not\none. So, then, the rabbit dies, and justice takes no notice. This\nrabbit dead, the Abb  Adelmonte has its entrails taken out by his cook\nand thrown on the dunghill; on this dunghill is a hen, who, pecking\nthese intestines, is in her turn taken ill, and dies next day. At the\nmoment when she is struggling in the convulsions of death, a vulture is\nflying by (there are a good many vultures in Adelmonte s country); this\nbird darts on the dead fowl, and carries it away to a rock, where it\ndines off its prey. Three days afterwards, this poor vulture, which has\nbeen very much indisposed since that dinner, suddenly feels very giddy\nwhile flying aloft in the clouds, and falls heavily into a fish-pond.\nThe pike, eels, and carp eat greedily always, as everybody knows well,\nthey feast on the vulture. Now suppose that next day, one of these\neels, or pike, or carp, poisoned at the fourth remove, is served up at\nyour table. Well, then, your guest will be poisoned at the fifth\nremove, and die, at the end of eight or ten days, of pains in the\nintestines, sickness, or abscess of the pylorus. The doctors open the\nbody and say with an air of profound learning,  The subject has died of\na tumor on the liver, or of typhoid fever! \n\n But,  remarked Madame de Villefort,  all these circumstances which you\nlink thus to one another may be broken by the least accident; the\nvulture may not see the fowl, or may fall a hundred yards from the\nfish-pond. \n\n Ah, that is where the art comes in. To be a great chemist in the East,\none must direct chance; and this is to be achieved. \n\nMadame de Villefort was in deep thought, yet listened attentively.\n\n But,  she exclaimed, suddenly,  arsenic is indelible, indestructible;\nin whatsoever way it is absorbed, it will be found again in the body of\nthe victim from the moment when it has been taken in sufficient\nquantity to cause death. \n\n Precisely so,  cried Monte Cristo precisely so; and this is what I\nsaid to my worthy Adelmonte. He reflected, smiled, and replied to me by\na Sicilian proverb, which I believe is also a French proverb,  My son,\nthe world was not made in a day but in seven. Return on Sunday.  On the\nSunday following I did return to him. Instead of having watered his\ncabbage with arsenic, he had watered it this time with a solution of\nsalts, having their basis in strychnine, _strychnos colubrina_, as the\nlearned term it. Now, the cabbage had not the slightest appearance of\ndisease in the world, and the rabbit had not the smallest distrust;\nyet, five minutes afterwards, the rabbit was dead. The fowl pecked at\nthe rabbit, and the next day was a dead hen. This time we were the\nvultures; so we opened the bird, and this time all special symptoms had\ndisappeared, there were only general symptoms. There was no peculiar\nindication in any organ an excitement of the nervous system that was\nit; a case of cerebral congestion nothing more. The fowl had not been\npoisoned she had died of apoplexy. Apoplexy is a rare disease among\nfowls, I believe, but very common among men. \n\nMadame de Villefort appeared more and more thoughtful.\n\n It is very fortunate,  she observed,  that such substances could only\nbe prepared by chemists; otherwise, all the world would be poisoning\neach other. \n\n By chemists and persons who have a taste for chemistry,  said Monte\nCristo carelessly.\n\n And then,  said Madame de Villefort, endeavoring by a struggle, and\nwith effort, to get away from her thoughts,  however skilfully it is\nprepared, crime is always crime, and if it avoid human scrutiny, it\ndoes not escape the eye of God. The Orientals are stronger than we are\nin cases of conscience, and, very prudently, have no hell that is the\npoint. \n\n30075m\n\n\n\n Really, madame, this is a scruple which naturally must occur to a pure\nmind like yours, but which would easily yield before sound reasoning.\nThe bad side of human thought will always be defined by the paradox of\nJean Jacques Rousseau, you remember, the mandarin who is killed five\nhundred leagues off by raising the tip of the finger. Man s whole life\npasses in doing these things, and his intellect is exhausted by\nreflecting on them. You will find very few persons who will go and\nbrutally thrust a knife in the heart of a fellow-creature, or will\nadminister to him, in order to remove him from the surface of the globe\non which we move with life and animation, that quantity of arsenic of\nwhich we just now talked. Such a thing is really out of rule eccentric\nor stupid. To attain such a point, the blood must be heated to\nthirty-six degrees, the pulse be, at least, at ninety, and the feelings\nexcited beyond the ordinary limit. But suppose one pass, as is\npermissible in philology, from the word itself to its softened synonym,\nthen, instead of committing an ignoble assassination you make an\n elimination;  you merely and simply remove from your path the\nindividual who is in your way, and that without shock or violence,\nwithout the display of the sufferings which, in the case of becoming a\npunishment, make a martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in every sense\nof the word, of him who inflicts them. Then there will be no blood, no\ngroans, no convulsions, and above all, no consciousness of that horrid\nand compromising moment of accomplishing the act, then one escapes the\nclutch of the human law, which says,  Do not disturb society!  This is\nthe mode in which they manage these things, and succeed in Eastern\nclimes, where there are grave and phlegmatic persons who care very\nlittle for the questions of time in conjunctures of importance. \n\n Yet conscience remains,  remarked Madame de Villefort in an agitated\nvoice, and with a stifled sigh.\n\n Yes,  answered Monte Cristo  happily, yes, conscience does remain; and\nif it did not, how wretched we should be! After every action requiring\nexertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a\nthousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges; and these reasons,\nhowsoever excellent in producing sleep, would avail us but very little\nbefore a tribunal, when we were tried for our lives. Thus Richard III.,\nfor instance, was marvellously served by his conscience after the\nputting away of the two children of Edward IV.; in fact, he could say,\n These two children of a cruel and persecuting king, who have inherited\nthe vices of their father, which I alone could perceive in their\njuvenile propensities these two children are impediments in my way of\npromoting the happiness of the English people, whose unhappiness they\n(the children) would infallibly have caused.  Thus was Lady Macbeth\nserved by her conscience, when she sought to give her son, and not her\nhusband (whatever Shakespeare may say), a throne. Ah, maternal love is\na great virtue, a powerful motive so powerful that it excuses a\nmultitude of things, even if, after Duncan s death, Lady Macbeth had\nbeen at all pricked by her conscience. \n\nMadame de Villefort listened with avidity to these appalling maxims and\nhorrible paradoxes, delivered by the count with that ironical\nsimplicity which was peculiar to him.\n\nAfter a moment s silence, the lady inquired:\n\n Do you know, my dear count,  she said,  that you are a very terrible\nreasoner, and that you look at the world through a somewhat distempered\nmedium? Have you really measured the world by scrutinies, or through\nalembics and crucibles? For you must indeed be a great chemist, and the\nelixir you administered to my son, which recalled him to life almost\ninstantaneously \n\n30077m\n\n\n\n Oh, do not place any reliance on that, madame; _one_ drop of that\nelixir sufficed to recall life to a dying child, but three drops would\nhave impelled the blood into his lungs in such a way as to have\nproduced most violent palpitations; six would have suspended his\nrespiration, and caused syncope more serious than that in which he was;\nten would have destroyed him. You know, madame, how suddenly I snatched\nhim from those phials which he so imprudently touched? \n\n Is it then so terrible a poison? \n\n Oh, no! In the first place, let us agree that the word poison does not\nexist, because in medicine use is made of the most violent poisons,\nwhich become, according as they are employed, most salutary remedies. \n\n What, then, is it? \n\n A skilful preparation of my friend s the worthy Abb  Adelmonte, who\ntaught me the use of it. \n\n Oh,  observed Madame de Villefort,  it must be an admirable\nanti-spasmodic. \n\n Perfect, madame, as you have seen,  replied the count;  and I\nfrequently make use of it with all possible prudence though, be it\nobserved,  he added with a smile of intelligence.\n\n Most assuredly,  responded Madame de Villefort in the same tone.  As\nfor me, so nervous, and so subject to fainting fits, I should require a\nDoctor Adelmonte to invent for me some means of breathing freely and\ntranquillizing my mind, in the fear I have of dying some fine day of\nsuffocation. In the meanwhile, as the thing is difficult to find in\nFrance, and your abb  is not probably disposed to make a journey to\nParis on my account, I must continue to use Monsieur Planche s\nanti-spasmodics; and mint and Hoffman s drops are among my favorite\nremedies. Here are some lozenges which I have made up on purpose; they\nare compounded doubly strong. \n\nMonte Cristo opened the tortoise-shell box, which the lady presented to\nhim, and inhaled the odor of the lozenges with the air of an amateur\nwho thoroughly appreciated their composition.\n\n They are indeed exquisite,  he said;  but as they are necessarily\nsubmitted to the process of deglutition a function which it is\nfrequently impossible for a fainting person to accomplish I prefer my\nown specific. \n\n Undoubtedly, and so should I prefer it, after the effects I have seen\nproduced; but of course it is a secret, and I am not so indiscreet as\nto ask it of you. \n\n But I,  said Monte Cristo, rising as he spoke I am gallant enough to\noffer it you. \n\n30079m\n\n\n\n How kind you are. \n\n Only remember one thing a small dose is a remedy, a large one is\npoison. One drop will restore life, as you have seen; five or six will\ninevitably kill, and in a way the more terrible inasmuch as, poured\ninto a glass of wine, it would not in the slightest degree affect its\nflavor. But I say no more, madame; it is really as if I were\nprescribing for you. \n\nThe clock struck half-past six, and a lady was announced, a friend of\nMadame de Villefort, who came to dine with her.\n\n If I had had the honor of seeing you for the third or fourth time,\ncount, instead of only for the second,  said Madame de Villefort;  if I\nhad had the honor of being your friend, instead of only having the\nhappiness of being under an obligation to you, I should insist on\ndetaining you to dinner, and not allow myself to be daunted by a first\nrefusal. \n\n A thousand thanks, madame,  replied Monte Cristo  but I have an\nengagement which I cannot break. I have promised to escort to the\nAcad mie a Greek princess of my acquaintance who has never seen your\ngrand opera, and who relies on me to conduct her thither. \n\n Adieu, then, sir, and do not forget the prescription. \n\n Ah, in truth, madame, to do that I must forget the hour s conversation\nI have had with you, which is indeed impossible. \n\nMonte Cristo bowed, and left the house. Madame de Villefort remained\nimmersed in thought.\n\n He is a very strange man,  she said,  and in my opinion is himself the\nAdelmonte he talks about. \n\nAs to Monte Cristo the result had surpassed his utmost expectations.\n\n Good,  said he, as he went away;  this is a fruitful soil, and I feel\ncertain that the seed sown will not be cast on barren ground. \n\nNext morning, faithful to his promise, he sent the prescription\nrequested.\n\n\n\n Chapter 53. Robert le Diable\n\nThe pretext of an opera engagement was so much the more feasible, as\nthere chanced to be on that very night a more than ordinary attraction\nat the Acad mie Royale. Levasseur, who had been suffering under severe\nillness, made his reappearance in the character of _Bertram_, and, as\nusual, the announcement of the most admired production of the favorite\ncomposer of the day had attracted a brilliant and fashionable audience.\nMorcerf, like most other young men of rank and fortune, had his\norchestra stall, with the certainty of always finding a seat in at\nleast a dozen of the principal boxes occupied by persons of his\nacquaintance; he had, moreover, his right of entry into the omnibus\nbox. Ch teau-Renaud rented a stall beside his own, while Beauchamp, as\na journalist, had unlimited range all over the theatre. It happened\nthat on this particular night the minister s box was placed at the\ndisposal of Lucien Debray, who offered it to the Comte de Morcerf, who\nagain, upon his rejection of it by Merc d s, sent it to Danglars, with\nan intimation that he should probably do himself the honor of joining\nthe baroness and her daughter during the evening, in the event of their\naccepting the box in question. The ladies received the offer with too\nmuch pleasure to dream of a refusal. To no class of persons is the\npresentation of a gratuitous opera-box more acceptable than to the\nwealthy millionaire, who still hugs economy while boasting of carrying\na king s ransom in his waistcoat pocket.\n\nDanglars had, however, protested against showing himself in a\nministerial box, declaring that his political principles, and his\nparliamentary position as member of the opposition party would not\npermit him so to commit himself; the baroness had, therefore,\ndespatched a note to Lucien Debray, bidding him call for them, it being\nwholly impossible for her to go alone with Eug nie to the opera.\n\nThere is no gainsaying the fact that a very unfavorable construction\nwould have been put upon the circumstance if the two women had gone\nwithout escort, while the addition of a third, in the person of her\nmother s admitted lover, enabled Mademoiselle Danglars to defy malice\nand ill-nature. One must take the world as one finds it.\n\n30083m\n\n\n\nThe curtain rose, as usual, to an almost empty house, it being one of\nthe absurdities of Parisian fashion never to appear at the opera until\nafter the beginning of the performance, so that the first act is\ngenerally played without the slightest attention being paid to it, that\npart of the audience already assembled being too much occupied in\nobserving the fresh arrivals, while nothing is heard but the noise of\nopening and shutting doors, and the buzz of conversation.\n\n Surely,  said Albert, as the door of a box on the first circle opened,\n that must be the Countess G . \n\n And who is the Countess G ?  inquired Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n What a question! Now, do you know, baron, I have a great mind to pick\na quarrel with you for asking it; as if all the world did not know who\nthe Countess G  was. \n\n Ah, to be sure,  replied Ch teau-Renaud;  the lovely Venetian, is it\nnot? \n\n Herself.  At this moment the countess perceived Albert, and returned\nhis salutation with a smile.\n\n You know her, it seems?  said Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n Franz introduced me to her at Rome,  replied Albert.\n\n Well, then, will you do as much for me in Paris as Franz did for you\nin Rome? \n\n With pleasure. \n\nThere was a cry of  Shut up!  from the audience. This manifestation on\nthe part of the spectators of their wish to be allowed to hear the\nmusic, produced not the slightest effect on the two young men, who\ncontinued their conversation.\n\n The countess was present at the races in the Champ-de-Mars,  said\nCh teau-Renaud.\n\n Today? \n\n Yes. \n\n Bless me, I quite forgot the races. Did you bet? \n\n Oh, merely a paltry fifty louis. \n\n And who was the winner? \n\n Nautilus. I staked on him. \n\n But there were three races, were there not? \n\n Yes; there was the prize given by the Jockey Club a gold cup, you\nknow and a very singular circumstance occurred about that race. \n\n What was it? \n\n Oh, shut up!  again interposed some of the audience.\n\n Why, it was won by a horse and rider utterly unknown on the course. \n\n Is that possible? \n\n True as day. The fact was, nobody had observed a horse entered by the\nname of Vampa, or that of a jockey styled Job, when, at the last\nmoment, a splendid roan, mounted by a jockey about as big as your fist,\npresented themselves at the starting-post. They were obliged to stuff\nat least twenty pounds weight of shot in the small rider s pockets, to\nmake him weight; but with all that he outstripped Ariel and Barbare,\nagainst whom he ran, by at least three whole lengths. \n\n And was it not found out at last to whom the horse and jockey\nbelonged? \n\n No. \n\n You say that the horse was entered under the name of Vampa? \n\n Exactly; that was the title. \n\n Then,  answered Albert,  I am better informed than you are, and know\nwho the owner of that horse was. \n\n Shut up, there!  cried the pit in chorus. And this time the tone and\nmanner in which the command was given, betokened such growing hostility\nthat the two young men perceived, for the first time, that the mandate\nwas addressed to them. Leisurely turning round, they calmly scrutinized\nthe various countenances around them, as though demanding some one\nperson who would take upon himself the responsibility of what they\ndeemed excessive impertinence; but as no one responded to the\nchallenge, the friends turned again to the front of the theatre, and\naffected to busy themselves with the stage. At this moment the door of\nthe minister s box opened, and Madame Danglars, accompanied by her\ndaughter, entered, escorted by Lucien Debray, who assiduously conducted\nthem to their seats.\n\n Ha, ha,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  here come some friends of yours,\nviscount! What are you looking at there? don t you see they are trying\nto catch your eye? \n\nAlbert turned round, just in time to receive a gracious wave of the fan\nfrom the baroness; as for Mademoiselle Eug nie, she scarcely vouchsafed\nto waste the glances of her large black eyes even upon the business of\nthe stage.\n\n I tell you what, my dear fellow,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  I cannot\nimagine what objection you can possibly have to Mademoiselle\nDanglars that is, setting aside her want of ancestry and somewhat\ninferior rank, which by the way I don t think you care very much about.\nNow, barring all that, I mean to say she is a deuced fine girl! \n\n Handsome, certainly,  replied Albert,  but not to my taste, which I\nconfess, inclines to something softer, gentler, and more feminine. \n\n Ah, well,  exclaimed Ch teau-Renaud, who because he had seen his\nthirtieth summer fancied himself duly warranted in assuming a sort of\npaternal air with his more youthful friend,  you young people are never\nsatisfied; why, what would you have more? your parents have chosen you\na bride built on the model of Diana, the huntress, and yet you are not\ncontent. \n\n No, for that very resemblance affrights me; I should have liked\nsomething more in the manner of the Venus of Milo or Capua; but this\nchase-loving Diana, continually surrounded by her nymphs, gives me a\nsort of alarm lest she should some day bring on me the fate of Act on. \n\nAnd, indeed, it required but one glance at Mademoiselle Danglars to\ncomprehend the justness of Morcerf s remark. She was beautiful, but her\nbeauty was of too marked and decided a character to please a fastidious\ntaste; her hair was raven black, but its natural waves seemed somewhat\nrebellious; her eyes, of the same color as her hair, were surmounted by\nwell-arched brows, whose great defect, however, consisted in an almost\nhabitual frown, while her whole physiognomy wore that expression of\nfirmness and decision so little in accordance with the gentler\nattributes of her sex her nose was precisely what a sculptor would have\nchosen for a chiselled Juno. Her mouth, which might have been found\nfault with as too large, displayed teeth of pearly whiteness, rendered\nstill more conspicuous by the brilliant carmine of her lips,\ncontrasting vividly with her naturally pale complexion. But that which\ncompleted the almost masculine look Morcerf found so little to his\ntaste, was a dark mole, of much larger dimensions than these freaks of\nnature generally are, placed just at the corner of her mouth; and the\neffect tended to increase the expression of self-dependence that\ncharacterized her countenance.\n\nThe rest of Mademoiselle Eug nie s person was in perfect keeping with\nthe head just described; she, indeed, reminded one of Diana, as\nCh teau-Renaud observed, but her bearing was more haughty and resolute.\n\nAs regarded her attainments, the only fault to be found with them was\nthe same that a fastidious connoisseur might have found with her\nbeauty, that they were somewhat too erudite and masculine for so young\na person. She was a perfect linguist, a first-rate artist, wrote\npoetry, and composed music; to the study of the latter she professed to\nbe entirely devoted, following it with an indefatigable perseverance,\nassisted by a schoolfellow, a young woman without fortune whose talent\npromised to develop into remarkable powers as a singer. It was rumored\nthat she was an object of almost paternal interest to one of the\nprincipal composers of the day, who excited her to spare no pains in\nthe cultivation of her voice, which might hereafter prove a source of\nwealth and independence. But this counsel effectually decided\nMademoiselle Danglars never to commit herself by being seen in public\nwith one destined for a theatrical life; and acting upon this\nprinciple, the banker s daughter, though perfectly willing to allow\nMademoiselle Louise d Armilly (that was the name of the young virtuosa)\nto practice with her through the day, took especial care not to be seen\nin her company. Still, though not actually received at the H tel\nDanglars in the light of an acknowledged friend, Louise was treated\nwith far more kindness and consideration than is usually bestowed on a\ngoverness.\n\nThe curtain fell almost immediately after the entrance of Madame\nDanglars into her box, the band quitted the orchestra for the\naccustomed half-hour s interval allowed between the acts, and the\naudience were left at liberty to promenade the salon or lobbies, or to\npay and receive visits in their respective boxes.\n\nMorcerf and Ch teau-Renaud were amongst the first to avail themselves\nof this permission. For an instant the idea struck Madame Danglars that\nthis eagerness on the part of the young viscount arose from his\nimpatience to join her party, and she whispered her expectations to her\ndaughter, that Albert was hurrying to pay his respects to them.\nMademoiselle Eug nie, however, merely returned a dissenting movement of\nthe head, while, with a cold smile, she directed the attention of her\nmother to an opposite box on the first circle, in which sat the\nCountess G , and where Morcerf had just made his appearance.\n\n30087m\n\n\n\n So we meet again, my travelling friend, do we?  cried the countess,\nextending her hand to him with all the warmth and cordiality of an old\nacquaintance;  it was really very good of you to recognize me so\nquickly, and still more so to bestow your first visit on me. \n\n Be assured,  replied Albert,  that if I had been aware of your arrival\nin Paris, and had known your address, I should have paid my respects to\nyou before this. Allow me to introduce my friend, Baron de\nCh teau-Renaud, one of the few true gentlemen now to be found in\nFrance, and from whom I have just learned that you were a spectator of\nthe races in the Champ-de-Mars, yesterday. \n\nCh teau-Renaud bowed to the countess.\n\n So you were at the races, baron?  inquired the countess eagerly.\n\n Yes, madame. \n\n Well, then,  pursued Madame G  with considerable animation,  you can\nprobably tell me who won the Jockey Club stakes? \n\n I am sorry to say I cannot,  replied the baron;  and I was just asking\nthe same question of Albert. \n\n Are you very anxious to know, countess?  asked Albert.\n\n To know what? \n\n The name of the owner of the winning horse? \n\n Excessively; only imagine but do tell me, viscount, whether you really\nare acquainted with it or no? \n\n I beg your pardon, madame, but you were about to relate some story,\nwere you not? You said,  only imagine, and then paused. Pray\ncontinue. \n\n Well, then, listen. You must know I felt so interested in the splendid\nroan horse, with his elegant little rider, so tastefully dressed in a\npink satin jacket and cap, that I could not help praying for their\nsuccess with as much earnestness as though the half of my fortune were\nat stake; and when I saw them outstrip all the others, and come to the\nwinning-post in such gallant style, I actually clapped my hands with\njoy. Imagine my surprise, when, upon returning home, the first object I\nmet on the staircase was the identical jockey in the pink jacket! I\nconcluded that, by some singular chance, the owner of the winning horse\nmust live in the same hotel as myself; but, as I entered my apartments,\nI beheld the very gold cup awarded as a prize to the unknown horse and\nrider. Inside the cup was a small piece of paper, on which were written\nthese words From Lord Ruthven to Countess G . \n\n Precisely; I was sure of it,  said Morcerf.\n\n Sure of what? \n\n That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself. \n\n What Lord Ruthven do you mean? \n\n Why, our Lord Ruthven the Vampire of the Salle Argentina! \n\n Is it possible?  exclaimed the countess;  is he here in Paris? \n\n To be sure, why not? \n\n And you visit him? meet him at your own house and elsewhere? \n\n I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Ch teau-Renaud\nhas also the honor of his acquaintance. \n\n But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club\nprize? \n\n Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa? \n\n What of that? \n\n Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I\nwas made prisoner? \n\n Oh, yes. \n\n And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a\nmanner? \n\n To be sure, I remember it all now. \n\n He called himself Vampa. You see, it s evident where the count got the\nname. \n\n But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me? \n\n In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you\nmay believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a\ncountrywoman take so lively an interest in his success. \n\n I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish\nremarks we used to make about him? \n\n I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his\npresenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven \n\n Oh, but that is dreadful! Why, the man must owe me a fearful grudge. \n\n Does his action appear like that of an enemy? \n\n No; certainly not. \n\n Well, then \n\n And so he is in Paris? \n\n Yes. \n\n And what effect does he produce? \n\n Why,  said Albert,  he was talked about for a week; then the\ncoronation of the queen of England took place, followed by the theft of\nMademoiselle Mars s diamonds; and so people talked of something else. \n\n My good fellow,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  the count is your friend and\nyou treat him accordingly. Do not believe what Albert is telling you,\ncountess; so far from the sensation excited in the Parisian circles by\nthe appearance of the Count of Monte Cristo having abated, I take upon\nmyself to declare that it is as strong as ever. His first astounding\nact upon coming amongst us was to present a pair of horses, worth\n32,000 francs, to Madame Danglars; his second, the almost miraculous\npreservation of Madame de Villefort s life; now it seems that he has\ncarried off the prize awarded by the Jockey Club. I therefore maintain,\nin spite of Morcerf, that not only is the count the object of interest\nat this present moment, but also that he will continue to be so for a\nmonth longer if he pleases to exhibit an eccentricity of conduct which,\nafter all, may be his ordinary mode of existence. \n\n Perhaps you are right,  said Morcerf;  meanwhile, who is in the\nRussian ambassador s box? \n\n Which box do you mean?  asked the countess.\n\n The one between the pillars on the first tier it seems to have been\nfitted up entirely afresh. \n\n Did you observe anyone during the first act?  asked Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n Where? \n\n In that box. \n\n No,  replied the countess,  it was certainly empty during the first\nact;  then, resuming the subject of their previous conversation, she\nsaid,  And so you really believe it was your mysterious Count of Monte\nCristo that gained the prize? \n\n I am sure of it. \n\n And who afterwards sent the cup to me? \n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n But I don t know him,  said the countess;  I have a great mind to\nreturn it. \n\n Do no such thing, I beg of you; he would only send you another, formed\nof a magnificent sapphire, or hollowed out of a gigantic ruby. It is\nhis way, and you must take him as you find him. \n\nAt this moment the bell rang to announce the drawing up of the curtain\nfor the second act. Albert rose to return to his place.\n\n Shall I see you again?  asked the countess.\n\n At the end of the next act, with your permission, I will come and\ninquire whether there is anything I can do for you in Paris? \n\n Pray take notice,  said the countess,  that my present residence is 22\nRue de Rivoli, and that I am at home to my friends every Saturday\nevening. So now, you are both forewarned. \n\nThe young men bowed, and quitted the box. Upon reaching their stalls,\nthey found the whole of the audience in the parterre standing up and\ndirecting their gaze towards the box formerly possessed by the Russian\nambassador. A man of from thirty-five to forty years of age, dressed in\ndeep black, had just entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed\nafter the Eastern style. The lady was surpassingly beautiful, while the\nrich magnificence of her attire drew all eyes upon her.\n\n Hullo,  said Albert;  it is Monte Cristo and his Greek! \n\nThe strangers were, indeed, no other than the count and Hayd e. In a\nfew moments the young girl had attracted the attention of the whole\nhouse, and even the occupants of the boxes leaned forward to scrutinize\nher magnificent diamonds.\n\nThe second act passed away during one continued buzz of voices one deep\nwhisper intimating that some great and universally interesting event\nhad occurred; all eyes, all thoughts, were occupied with the young and\nbeautiful woman, whose gorgeous apparel and splendid jewels made a most\nextraordinary spectacle.\n\nUpon this occasion an unmistakable sign from Madame Danglars intimated\nher desire to see Albert in her box directly the curtain fell on the\nsecond act, and neither the politeness nor good taste of Morcerf would\npermit his neglecting an invitation so unequivocally given. At the\nclose of the act he therefore went to the baroness.\n\nHaving bowed to the two ladies, he extended his hand to Debray. By the\nbaroness he was most graciously welcomed, while Eug nie received him\nwith her accustomed coldness.\n\n My dear fellow,  said Debray,  you have come in the nick of time.\nThere is madame overwhelming me with questions respecting the count;\nshe insists upon it that I can tell her his birth, education, and\nparentage, where he came from, and whither he is going. Being no\ndisciple of Cagliostro, I was wholly unable to do this; so, by way of\ngetting out of the scrape, I said,  Ask Morcerf; he has got the whole\nhistory of his beloved Monte Cristo at his fingers  ends;  whereupon\nthe baroness signified her desire to see you. \n\n Is it not almost incredible,  said Madame Danglars,  that a person\nhaving at least half a million of secret-service money at his command,\nshould possess so little information? \n\n Let me assure you, madame,  said Lucien,  that had I really the sum\nyou mention at my disposal, I would employ it more profitably than in\ntroubling myself to obtain particulars respecting the Count of Monte\nCristo, whose only merit in my eyes consists in his being twice as rich\nas a nabob. However, I have turned the business over to Morcerf, so\npray settle it with him as may be most agreeable to you; for my own\npart, I care nothing about the count or his mysterious doings. \n\n30093m\n\n\n\n I am very sure no nabob would have sent me a pair of horses worth\n32,000 francs, wearing on their heads four diamonds valued at 5,000\nfrancs each. \n\n He seems to have a mania for diamonds,  said Morcerf, smiling,  and I\nverily believe that, like Potemkin, he keeps his pockets filled, for\nthe sake of strewing them along the road, as Tom Thumb did his flint\nstones. \n\n Perhaps he has discovered some mine,  said Madame Danglars.  I suppose\nyou know he has an order for unlimited credit on the baron s banking\nestablishment? \n\n I was not aware of it,  replied Albert,  but I can readily believe\nit. \n\n And, further, that he stated to M. Danglars his intention of only\nstaying a year in Paris, during which time he proposed to spend six\nmillions.\n\n He must be the Shah of Persia, travelling _incog_. \n\n Have you noticed the remarkable beauty of the young woman, M. Lucien? \ninquired Eug nie.\n\n I really never met with one woman so ready to do justice to the charms\nof another as yourself,  responded Lucien, raising his lorgnette to his\neye.  A most lovely creature, upon my soul!  was his verdict.\n\n Who is this young person, M. de Morcerf?  inquired Eug nie;  does\nanybody know? \n\n Mademoiselle,  said Albert, replying to this direct appeal,  I can\ngive you very exact information on that subject, as well as on most\npoints relative to the mysterious person of whom we are now\nconversing the young woman is a Greek. \n\n So I should suppose by her dress; if you know no more than that,\neveryone here is as well-informed as yourself. \n\n I am extremely sorry you find me so ignorant a _cicerone_,  replied\nMorcerf,  but I am reluctantly obliged to confess, I have nothing\nfurther to communicate yes, stay, I do know one thing more, namely,\nthat she is a musician, for one day when I chanced to be breakfasting\nwith the count, I heard the sound of a guzla it is impossible that it\ncould have been touched by any other finger than her own. \n\n Then your count entertains visitors, does he?  asked Madame Danglars.\n\n Indeed he does, and in a most lavish manner, I can assure you. \n\n I must try and persuade M. Danglars to invite him to a ball or dinner,\nor something of the sort, that he may be compelled to ask us in\nreturn. \n\n What,  said Debray, laughing;  do you really mean you would go to his\nhouse? \n\n Why not? my husband could accompany me. \n\n But do you know this mysterious count is a bachelor? \n\n You have ample proof to the contrary, if you look opposite,  said the\nbaroness, as she laughingly pointed to the beautiful Greek.\n\n No, no!  exclaimed Debray;  that girl is not his wife: he told us\nhimself she was his slave. Do you not recollect, Morcerf, his telling\nus so at your breakfast? \n\n Well, then,  said the baroness,  if slave she be, she has all the air\nand manner of a princess. \n\n Of the  Arabian Nights . \n\n If you like; but tell me, my dear Lucien, what it is that constitutes\na princess. Why, diamonds and she is covered with them. \n\n To me she seems overloaded,  observed Eug nie;  she would look far\nbetter if she wore fewer, and we should then be able to see her finely\nformed throat and wrists. \n\n See how the artist peeps out!  exclaimed Madame Danglars.  My poor\nEug nie, you must conceal your passion for the fine arts. \n\n I admire all that is beautiful,  returned the young lady.\n\n What do you think of the count?  inquired Debray;  he is not much\namiss, according to my ideas of good looks. \n\n The count,  repeated Eug nie, as though it had not occurred to her to\nobserve him sooner;  the count? oh, he is so dreadfully pale. \n\n I quite agree with you,  said Morcerf;  and the secret of that very\npallor is what we want to find out. The Countess G  insists upon it\nthat he is a vampire. \n\n Then the Countess G  has returned to Paris, has she?  inquired the\nbaroness.\n\n Is that she, mamma?  asked Eug nie;  almost opposite to us, with that\nprofusion of beautiful light hair? \n\n Yes,  said Madame Danglars,  that is she. Shall I tell you what you\nought to do, Morcerf? \n\n Command me, madame. \n\n Well, then, you should go and bring your Count of Monte Cristo to us. \n\n What for?  asked Eug nie.\n\n What for? Why, to converse with him, of course. Have you really no\ndesire to meet him? \n\n None whatever,  replied Eug nie.\n\n Strange child,  murmured the baroness.\n\n He will very probably come of his own accord,  said Morcerf.  There;\ndo you see, madame, he recognizes you, and bows. \n\nThe baroness returned the salute in the most smiling and graceful\nmanner.\n\n Well,  said Morcerf,  I may as well be magnanimous, and tear myself\naway to forward your wishes. Adieu; I will go and try if there are any\nmeans of speaking to him. \n\n Go straight to his box; that will be the simplest plan. \n\n But I have never been presented. \n\n Presented to whom? \n\n To the beautiful Greek. \n\n You say she is only a slave? \n\n While you assert that she is a queen, or at least a princess. No; I\nhope that when he sees me leave you, he will come out. \n\n That is possible go. \n\n I am going,  said Albert, as he made his parting bow.\n\nJust as he was passing the count s box, the door opened, and Monte\nCristo came forth. After giving some directions to Ali, who stood in\nthe lobby, the count took Albert s arm. Carefully closing the box door,\nAli placed himself before it, while a crowd of spectators assembled\nround the Nubian.\n\n Upon my word,  said Monte Cristo,  Paris is a strange city, and the\nParisians a very singular people. See that cluster of persons collected\naround poor Ali, who is as much astonished as themselves; really one\nmight suppose he was the only Nubian they had ever beheld. Now I can\npromise you, that a Frenchman might show himself in public, either in\nTunis, Constantinople, Bagdad, or Cairo, without being treated in that\nway. \n\n That shows that the Eastern nations have too much good sense to waste\ntheir time and attention on objects undeserving of either. However, as\nfar as Ali is concerned, I can assure you, the interest he excites is\nmerely from the circumstance of his being your attendant you, who are\nat this moment the most celebrated and fashionable person in Paris. \n\n Really? and what has procured me so flattering a distinction? \n\n What? why, yourself, to be sure! You give away horses worth a thousand\nlouis; you save the lives of ladies of high rank and beauty; under the\nname of Major Black you run thoroughbreds ridden by tiny urchins not\nlarger than marmots; then, when you have carried off the golden trophy\nof victory, instead of setting any value on it, you give it to the\nfirst handsome woman you think of! \n\n And who has filled your head with all this nonsense? \n\n Why, in the first place, I heard it from Madame Danglars, who, by the\nby, is dying to see you in her box, or to have you seen there by\nothers; secondly, I learned it from Beauchamp s journal; and thirdly,\nfrom my own imagination. Why, if you sought concealment, did you call\nyour horse Vampa? \n\n That was an oversight, certainly,  replied the count;  but tell me,\ndoes the Count of Morcerf never visit the Opera? I have been looking\nfor him, but without success. \n\n He will be here tonight. \n\n In what part of the house? \n\n In the baroness s box, I believe. \n\n That charming young woman with her is her daughter? \n\n Yes. \n\n I congratulate you. \n\nMorcerf smiled.\n\n We will discuss that subject at length some future time,  said he.\n But what do you think of the music? \n\n What music? \n\n Why, the music you have been listening to. \n\n Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by\nfeatherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes. \n\n From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure\nenjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of\nparadise? \n\n30097m\n\n\n\n You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more\nexquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I\ngo to sleep. \n\n Then sleep here, my dear count. The conditions are favorable; what\nelse was opera invented for? \n\n No, thank you. Your orchestra is too noisy. To sleep after the manner\nI speak of, absolute calm and silence are necessary, and then a certain\npreparation \n\n I know the famous hashish! \n\n Precisely. So, my dear viscount, whenever you wish to be regaled with\nmusic come and sup with me. \n\n I have already enjoyed that treat when breakfasting with you,  said\nMorcerf.\n\n Do you mean at Rome? \n\n I do. \n\n Ah, then, I suppose you heard Hayd e s guzla; the poor exile\nfrequently beguiles a weary hour in playing over to me the airs of her\nnative land. \n\nMorcerf did not pursue the subject, and Monte Cristo himself fell into\na silent reverie.\n\nThe bell rang at this moment for the rising of the curtain.\n\n You will excuse my leaving you,  said the count, turning in the\ndirection of his box.\n\n What? Are you going? \n\n Pray, say everything that is kind to Countess G  on the part of her\nfriend the vampire. \n\n And what message shall I convey to the baroness! \n\n That, with her permission, I shall do myself the honor of paying my\nrespects in the course of the evening. \n\nThe third act had begun; and during its progress the Count of Morcerf,\naccording to his promise, made his appearance in the box of Madame\nDanglars. The Count of Morcerf was not a person to excite either\ninterest or curiosity in a place of public amusement; his presence,\ntherefore, was wholly unnoticed, save by the occupants of the box in\nwhich he had just seated himself.\n\nThe quick eye of Monte Cristo however, marked his coming; and a slight\nthough meaning smile passed over his lips. Hayd e, whose soul seemed\ncentred in the business of the stage, like all unsophisticated natures,\ndelighted in whatever addressed itself to the eye or ear.\n\n30099m\n\n\n\nThe third act passed off as usual. Mesdemoiselles Noblet, Julia, and\nLeroux executed the customary pirouettes; Robert duly challenged the\nPrince of Granada; and the royal father of the princess Isabella,\ntaking his daughter by the hand, swept round the stage with majestic\nstrides, the better to display the rich folds of his velvet robe and\nmantle. After which the curtain again fell, and the spectators poured\nforth from the theatre into the lobbies and salon.\n\nThe count left his box, and a moment later was saluting the Baronne\nDanglars, who could not restrain a cry of mingled pleasure and\nsurprise.\n\n You are welcome, count!  she exclaimed, as he entered.  I have been\nmost anxious to see you, that I might repeat orally the thanks writing\ncan so ill express. \n\n Surely so trifling a circumstance cannot deserve a place in your\nremembrance. Believe me, madame, I had entirely forgotten it. \n\n But it is not so easy to forget, monsieur, that the very next day\nafter your princely gift you saved the life of my dear friend, Madame\nde Villefort, which was endangered by the very animals your generosity\nrestored to me. \n\n30101m\n\n\n\n This time, at least, I do not deserve your thanks. It was Ali, my\nNubian slave, who rendered this service to Madame de Villefort. \n\n Was it Ali,  asked the Count of Morcerf,  who rescued my son from the\nhands of bandits? \n\n No, count,  replied Monte Cristo taking the hand held out to him by\nthe general;  in this instance I may fairly and freely accept your\nthanks; but you have already tendered them, and fully discharged your\ndebt if indeed there existed one and I feel almost mortified to find\nyou still reverting to the subject. May I beg of you, baroness, to\nhonor me with an introduction to your daughter? \n\n Oh, you are no stranger at least not by name,  replied Madame\nDanglars,  and the last two or three days we have really talked of\nnothing but you. Eug nie,  continued the baroness, turning towards her\ndaughter,  this is the Count of Monte Cristo. \n\nThe count bowed, while Mademoiselle Danglars bent her head slightly.\n\n You have a charming young person with you tonight, count,  said\nEug nie.  Is she your daughter? \n\n No, mademoiselle,  said Monte Cristo, astonished at the coolness and\nfreedom of the question.  She is a poor unfortunate Greek left under my\ncare. \n\n And what is her name? \n\n Hayd e,  replied Monte Cristo.\n\n A Greek?  murmured the Count of Morcerf.\n\n Yes, indeed, count,  said Madame Danglars;  and tell me, did you ever\nsee at the court of Ali Tepelini, whom you so gloriously and valiantly\nserved, a more exquisite beauty or richer costume? \n\n Did I hear rightly, monsieur,  said Monte Cristo  that you served at\nYanina? \n\n I was inspector-general of the pasha s troops,  replied Morcerf;  and\nit is no secret that I owe my fortune, such as it is, to the liberality\nof the illustrious Albanese chief. \n\n But look!  exclaimed Madame Danglars.\n\n Where?  stammered Morcerf.\n\n There,  said Monte Cristo placing his arms around the count, and\nleaning with him over the front of the box, just as Hayd e, whose eyes\nwere occupied in examining the theatre in search of her guardian,\nperceived his pale features close to Morcerf s face. It was as if the\nyoung girl beheld the head of Medusa. She bent forwards as though to\nassure herself of the reality of what she saw, then, uttering a faint\ncry, threw herself back in her seat. The sound was heard by the people\nabout Ali, who instantly opened the box-door.\n\n Why, count,  exclaimed Eug nie,  what has happened to your ward? she\nseems to have been taken suddenly ill.\n\n Very probably,  answered the count.  But do not be alarmed on her\naccount. Hayd e s nervous system is delicately organized, and she is\npeculiarly susceptible to the odors even of flowers nay, there are some\nwhich cause her to faint if brought into her presence. However, \ncontinued Monte Cristo, drawing a small phial from his pocket,  I have\nan infallible remedy. \n\nSo saying, he bowed to the baroness and her daughter, exchanged a\nparting shake of the hand with Debray and the count, and left Madame\nDanglars  box. Upon his return to Hayd e he found her still very pale.\nAs soon as she saw him she seized his hand; her own hands were moist\nand icy cold.\n\n Who was it you were talking with over there?  she asked.\n\n With the Count of Morcerf,  answered Monte Cristo.  He tells me he\nserved your illustrious father, and that he owes his fortune to him. \n\n Wretch!  exclaimed Hayd e, her eyes flashing with rage;  he sold my\nfather to the Turks, and the fortune he boasts of was the price of his\ntreachery! Did not you know that, my dear lord? \n\n Something of this I heard in Epirus,  said Monte Cristo;  but the\nparticulars are still unknown to me. You shall relate them to me, my\nchild. They are, no doubt, both curious and interesting. \n\n Yes, yes; but let us go. I feel as though it would kill me to remain\nlong near that dreadful man. \n\nSo saying, Hayd e arose, and wrapping herself in her burnouse of white\ncashmere embroidered with pearls and coral, she hastily quitted the box\nat the moment when the curtain was rising upon the fourth act.\n\n Do you observe,  said the Countess G  to Albert, who had returned to\nher side,  that man does nothing like other people; he listens most\ndevoutly to the third act of _Robert le Diable_, and when the fourth\nbegins, takes his departure. \n\n\n\n Chapter 54. A Flurry in Stocks\n\nSome days after this meeting, Albert de Morcerf visited the Count of\nMonte Cristo at his house in the Champs- lys es, which had already\nassumed that palace-like appearance which the count s princely fortune\nenabled him to give even to his most temporary residences. He came to\nrenew the thanks of Madame Danglars which had been already conveyed to\nthe count through the medium of a letter, signed  Baronne Danglars,\n_n e_ Hermine de Servieux. \n\nAlbert was accompanied by Lucien Debray, who, joining in his friend s\nconversation, added some passing compliments, the source of which the\ncount s talent for finesse easily enabled him to guess. He was\nconvinced that Lucien s visit was due to a double feeling of curiosity,\nthe larger half of which sentiment emanated from the Rue de la Chauss e\nd Antin. In short, Madame Danglars, not being able personally to\nexamine in detail the domestic economy and household arrangements of a\nman who gave away horses worth 30,000 francs and who went to the opera\nwith a Greek slave wearing diamonds to the amount of a million of\nmoney, had deputed those eyes, by which she was accustomed to see, to\ngive her a faithful account of the mode of life of this\nincomprehensible person. But the count did not appear to suspect that\nthere could be the slightest connection between Lucien s visit and the\ncuriosity of the baroness.\n\n You are in constant communication with the Baron Danglars?  the count\ninquired of Albert de Morcerf.\n\n Yes, count, you know what I told you? \n\n All remains the same, then, in that quarter? \n\n It is more than ever a settled thing,  said Lucien, and, considering\nthat this remark was all that he was at that time called upon to make,\nhe adjusted the glass to his eye, and biting the top of his gold headed\ncane, began to make the tour of the apartment, examining the arms and\nthe pictures.\n\n Ah,  said Monte Cristo  I did not expect that the affair would be so\npromptly concluded. \n\n Oh, things take their course without our assistance. While we are\nforgetting them, they are falling into their appointed order; and when,\nagain, our attention is directed to them, we are surprised at the\nprogress they have made towards the proposed end. My father and M.\nDanglars served together in Spain, my father in the army and M.\nDanglars in the commissariat department. It was there that my father,\nruined by the revolution, and M. Danglars, who never had possessed any\npatrimony, both laid the foundations of their different fortunes. \n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo  I think M. Danglars mentioned that in a visit\nwhich I paid him; and,  continued he, casting a side-glance at Lucien,\nwho was turning over the leaves of an album,  Mademoiselle Eug nie is\npretty I think I remember that to be her name. \n\n Very pretty, or rather, very beautiful,  replied Albert,  but of that\nstyle of beauty which I do not appreciate; I am an ungrateful fellow. \n\n You speak as if you were already her husband. \n\n Ah,  returned Albert, in his turn looking around to see what Lucien\nwas doing.\n\n Really,  said Monte Cristo, lowering his voice,  you do not appear to\nme to be very enthusiastic on the subject of this marriage. \n\n Mademoiselle Danglars is too rich for me,  replied Morcerf,  and that\nfrightens me. \n\n Bah,  exclaimed Monte Cristo,  that s a fine reason to give. Are you\nnot rich yourself? \n\n My father s income is about 50,000 francs per annum; and he will give\nme, perhaps, ten or twelve thousand when I marry. \n\n That, perhaps, might not be considered a large sum, in Paris\nespecially,  said the count;  but everything does not depend on wealth,\nand it is a fine thing to have a good name, and to occupy a high\nstation in society. Your name is celebrated, your position magnificent;\nand then the Comte de Morcerf is a soldier, and it is pleasing to see\nthe integrity of a Bayard united to the poverty of a Duguesclin;\ndisinterestedness is the brightest ray in which a noble sword can\nshine. As for me, I consider the union with Mademoiselle Danglars a\nmost suitable one; she will enrich you, and you will ennoble her. \n\nAlbert shook his head, and looked thoughtful.\n\n There is still something else,  said he.\n\n I confess,  observed Monte Cristo,  that I have some difficulty in\ncomprehending your objection to a young lady who is both rich and\nbeautiful. \n\n Oh,  said Morcerf,  this repugnance, if repugnance it may be called,\nis not all on my side. \n\n Whence can it arise, then? for you told me your father desired the\nmarriage. \n\n It is my mother who dissents; she has a clear and penetrating\njudgment, and does not smile on the proposed union. I cannot account\nfor it, but she seems to entertain some prejudice against the\nDanglars. \n\n30107m\n\n\n\n Ah,  said the count, in a somewhat forced tone,  that may be easily\nexplained; the Comtesse de Morcerf, who is aristocracy and refinement\nitself, does not relish the idea of being allied by your marriage with\none of ignoble birth; that is natural enough. \n\n I do not know if that is her reason,  said Albert,  but one thing I do\nknow, that if this marriage be consummated, it will render her quite\nmiserable. There was to have been a meeting six weeks ago in order to\ntalk over and settle the affair; but I had such a sudden attack of\nindisposition \n\n Real?  interrupted the count, smiling.\n\n Oh, real enough, from anxiety doubtless, at any rate they postponed\nthe matter for two months. There is no hurry, you know. I am not yet\ntwenty-one, and Eug nie is only seventeen; but the two months expire\nnext week. It must be done. My dear count, you cannot imagine how my\nmind is harassed. How happy you are in being exempt from all this! \n\n Well, and why should not you be free, too? What prevents you from\nbeing so? \n\n Oh, it will be too great a disappointment to my father if I do not\nmarry Mademoiselle Danglars. \n\n Marry her then,  said the count, with a significant shrug of the\nshoulders.\n\n Yes,  replied Morcerf,  but that will plunge my mother into positive\ngrief. \n\n Then do not marry her,  said the count.\n\n Well, I shall see. I will try and think over what is the best thing to\nbe done; you will give me your advice, will you not, and if possible\nextricate me from my unpleasant position? I think, rather than give\npain to my dear mother, I would run the risk of offending the count. \n\nMonte Cristo turned away; he seemed moved by this last remark.\n\n Ah,  said he to Debray, who had thrown himself into an easy-chair at\nthe farthest extremity of the salon, and who held a pencil in his right\nhand and an account book in his left,  what are you doing there? Are\nyou making a sketch after Poussin? \n\n Oh, no,  was the tranquil response;  I am too fond of art to attempt\nanything of that sort. I am doing a little sum in arithmetic. \n\n In arithmetic? \n\n Yes; I am calculating by the way, Morcerf, that indirectly concerns\nyou I am calculating what the house of Danglars must have gained by the\nlast rise in Haiti bonds; from 206 they have risen to 409 in three\ndays, and the prudent banker had purchased at 206; therefore he must\nhave made 300,000 livres. \n\n That is not his biggest scoop,  said Morcerf;  did he not make a\nmillion in Spaniards this last year? \n\n My dear fellow,  said Lucien,  here is the Count of Monte Cristo, who\nwill say to you, as the Italians do, \n\n       Denaro e santit ,\n\n      Met  della met . 9\n\n\n When they tell me such things, I only shrug my shoulders and say\nnothing. \n\n But you were speaking of Haitians?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Ah, Haitians, that is quite another thing! Haitians are the _ cart _\nof French stock-jobbing. We may like bouillotte, delight in whist, be\nenraptured with boston, and yet grow tired of them all; but we always\ncome back to _ cart _ it is not only a game, it is a _hors-d uvre_! M.\nDanglars sold yesterday at 405, and pockets 300,000 francs. Had he but\nwaited till today, the price would have fallen to 205, and instead of\ngaining 300,000 francs, he would have lost 20 or 25,000. \n\n And what has caused the sudden fall from 409 to 206?  asked Monte\nCristo.  I am profoundly ignorant of all these stock-jobbing\nintrigues. \n\n Because,  said Albert, laughing,  one piece of news follows another,\nand there is often great dissimilarity between them. \n\n Ah,  said the count,  I see that M. Danglars is accustomed to play at\ngaining or losing 300,000 francs in a day; he must be enormously rich. \n\n It is not he who plays!  exclaimed Lucien;  it is Madame Danglars; she\nis indeed daring. \n\n But you who are a reasonable being, Lucien, and who knows how little\ndependence is to be placed on the news, since you are at the\nfountain-head, surely you ought to prevent it,  said Morcerf, with a\nsmile.\n\n How can I, if her husband fails in controlling her?  asked Lucien;\n you know the character of the baroness no one has any influence with\nher, and she does precisely what she pleases. \n\n Ah, if I were in your place  said Albert.\n\n Well? \n\n I would reform her; it would be rendering a service to her future\nson-in-law. \n\n How would you set about it? \n\n Ah, that would be easy enough I would give her a lesson. \n\n A lesson? \n\n Yes. Your position as secretary to the minister renders your authority\ngreat on the subject of political news; you never open your mouth but\nthe stockbrokers immediately stenograph your words. Cause her to lose a\nhundred thousand francs, and that would teach her prudence. \n\n I do not understand,  stammered Lucien.\n\n It is very clear, notwithstanding,  replied the young man, with an\nartlessness wholly free from affectation;  tell her some fine morning\nan unheard-of piece of intelligence some telegraphic despatch, of which\nyou alone are in possession; for instance, that Henri IV. was seen\nyesterday at Gabrielle s. That would boom the market; she will buy\nheavily, and she will certainly lose when Beauchamp announces the\nfollowing day, in his gazette,  The report circulated by some usually\nwell-informed persons that the king was seen yesterday at Gabrielle s\nhouse, is totally without foundation. We can positively assert that his\nmajesty did not quit the Pont-Neuf. \n\nLucien half smiled. Monte Cristo, although apparently indifferent, had\nnot lost one word of this conversation, and his penetrating eye had\neven read a hidden secret in the embarrassed manner of the secretary.\nThis embarrassment had completely escaped Albert, but it caused Lucien\nto shorten his visit; he was evidently ill at ease. The count, in\ntaking leave of him, said something in a low voice, to which he\nanswered,  Willingly, count; I accept.  The count returned to young\nMorcerf.\n\n Do you not think, on reflection,  said he to him,  that you have done\nwrong in thus speaking of your mother-in-law in the presence of M.\nDebray? \n\n My dear count,  said Morcerf,  I beg of you not to apply that title so\nprematurely. \n\n Now, speaking without any exaggeration, is your mother really so very\nmuch averse to this marriage? \n\n So much so that the baroness very rarely comes to the house, and my\nmother, has not, I think, visited Madame Danglars twice in her whole\nlife. \n\n Then,  said the count,  I am emboldened to speak openly to you. M.\nDanglars is my banker; M. de Villefort has overwhelmed me with\npoliteness in return for a service which a casual piece of good fortune\nenabled me to render him. I predict from all this an avalanche of\ndinners and routs. Now, in order not to presume on this, and also to be\nbeforehand with them, I have, if agreeable to you, thought of inviting\nM. and Madame Danglars, and M. and Madame de Villefort, to my\ncountry-house at Auteuil. If I were to invite you and the Count and\nCountess of Morcerf to this dinner, I should give it the appearance of\nbeing a matrimonial meeting, or at least Madame de Morcerf would look\nupon the affair in that light, especially if Baron Danglars did me the\nhonor to bring his daughter. In that case your mother would hold me in\naversion, and I do not at all wish that; on the contrary, I desire to\nstand high in her esteem. \n\n Indeed, count,  said Morcerf,  I thank you sincerely for having used\nso much candor towards me, and I gratefully accept the exclusion which\nyou propose. You say you desire my mother s good opinion; I assure you\nit is already yours to a very unusual extent. \n\n30111m\n\n\n\n Do you think so?  said Monte Cristo, with interest.\n\n Oh, I am sure of it; we talked of you an hour after you left us the\nother day. But to return to what we were saying. If my mother could\nknow of this attention on your part and I will venture to tell her I am\nsure that she will be most grateful to you; it is true that my father\nwill be equally angry.  The count laughed.\n\n Well,  said he to Morcerf,  but I think your father will not be the\nonly angry one; M. and Madame Danglars will think me a very\nill-mannered person. They know that I am intimate with you that you\nare, in fact; one of the oldest of my Parisian acquaintances and they\nwill not find you at my house; they will certainly ask me why I did not\ninvite you. Be sure to provide yourself with some previous engagement\nwhich shall have a semblance of probability, and communicate the fact\nto me by a line in writing. You know that with bankers nothing but a\nwritten document will be valid. \n\n I will do better than that,  said Albert;  my mother is wishing to go\nto the sea-side what day is fixed for your dinner? \n\n Saturday. \n\n This is Tuesday well, tomorrow evening we leave, and the day after we\nshall be at Tr port. Really, count, you have a delightful way of\nsetting people at their ease. \n\n Indeed, you give me more credit than I deserve; I only wish to do what\nwill be agreeable to you, that is all. \n\n When shall you send your invitations? \n\n This very day. \n\n Well, I will immediately call on M. Danglars, and tell him that my\nmother and myself must leave Paris tomorrow. I have not seen you,\nconsequently I know nothing of your dinner. \n\n How foolish you are! Have you forgotten that M. Debray has just seen\nyou at my house? \n\n Ah, true. \n\n Fix it this way. I have seen you, and invited you without any\nceremony, when you instantly answered that it would be impossible for\nyou to accept, as you were going to Tr port. \n\n Well, then, that is settled; but you will come and call on my mother\nbefore tomorrow? \n\n Before tomorrow? that will be a difficult matter to arrange, besides,\nI shall just be in the way of all the preparations for departure. \n\n Well, you can do better. You were only a charming man before, but, if\nyou accede to my proposal, you will be adorable. \n\n What must I do to attain such sublimity? \n\n You are today free as air come and dine with me; we shall be a small\nparty only yourself, my mother, and I. You have scarcely seen my\nmother; you shall have an opportunity of observing her more closely.\nShe is a remarkable woman, and I only regret that there does not exist\nanother like her, about twenty years younger; in that case, I assure\nyou, there would very soon be a Countess and Viscountess of Morcerf. As\nto my father, you will not see him; he is officially engaged, and dines\nwith the chief referendary. We will talk over our travels; and you, who\nhave seen the whole world, will relate your adventures you shall tell\nus the history of the beautiful Greek who was with you the other night\nat the Opera, and whom you call your slave, and yet treat like a\nprincess. We will talk Italian and Spanish. Come, accept my invitation,\nand my mother will thank you. \n\n A thousand thanks,  said the count,  your invitation is most gracious,\nand I regret exceedingly that it is not in my power to accept it. I am\nnot so much at liberty as you suppose; on the contrary, I have a most\nimportant engagement. \n\n Ah, take care, you were teaching me just now how, in case of an\ninvitation to dinner, one might creditably make an excuse. I require\nthe proof of a pre-engagement. I am not a banker, like M. Danglars, but\nI am quite as incredulous as he is. \n\n I am going to give you a proof,  replied the count, and he rang the\nbell.\n\n Humph,  said Morcerf,  this is the second time you have refused to\ndine with my mother; it is evident that you wish to avoid her. \n\nMonte Cristo started.  Oh, you do not mean that,  said he;  besides,\nhere comes the confirmation of my assertion. \n\nBaptistin entered, and remained standing at the door.\n\n I had no previous knowledge of your visit, had I? \n\n Indeed, you are such an extraordinary person, that I would not answer\nfor it. \n\n At all events, I could not guess that you would invite me to dinner. \n\n Probably not. \n\n Well, listen, Baptistin, what did I tell you this morning when I\ncalled you into my laboratory? \n\n To close the door against visitors as soon as the clock struck five, \nreplied the valet.\n\n What then? \n\n Ah, my dear count,  said Albert.\n\n No, no, I wish to do away with that mysterious reputation that you\nhave given me, my dear viscount; it is tiresome to be always acting\nManfred. I wish my life to be free and open. Go on, Baptistin. \n\n Then to admit no one except Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and his son. \n\n You hear Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti a man who ranks amongst the most\nancient nobility of Italy, whose name Dante has celebrated in the tenth\ncanto of _The Inferno_, you remember it, do you not? Then there is his\nson, Andrea, a charming young man, about your own age, viscount,\nbearing the same title as yourself, and who is making his entry into\nthe Parisian world, aided by his father s millions. The major will\nbring his son with him this evening, the _contino_, as we say in Italy;\nhe confides him to my care. If he proves himself worthy of it, I will\ndo what I can to advance his interests. You will assist me in the work,\nwill you not? \n\n Most undoubtedly. This Major Cavalcanti is an old friend of yours,\nthen? \n\n By no means. He is a perfect nobleman, very polite, modest, and\nagreeable, such as may be found constantly in Italy, descendants of\nvery ancient families. I have met him several times at Florence,\nBologna and Lucca, and he has now communicated to me the fact of his\narrival in Paris. The acquaintances one makes in travelling have a sort\nof claim on one; they everywhere expect to receive the same attention\nwhich you once paid them by chance, as though the civilities of a\npassing hour were likely to awaken any lasting interest in favor of the\nman in whose society you may happen to be thrown in the course of your\njourney. This good Major Cavalcanti is come to take a second view of\nParis, which he only saw in passing through in the time of the Empire,\nwhen he was on his way to Moscow. I shall give him a good dinner, he\nwill confide his son to my care, I will promise to watch over him, I\nshall let him follow in whatever path his folly may lead him, and then\nI shall have done my part. \n\n Certainly; I see you are a model Mentor,  said Albert  Good-bye, we\nshall return on Sunday. By the way, I have received news of Franz. \n\n Have you? Is he still amusing himself in Italy? \n\n I believe so; however, he regrets your absence extremely. He says you\nwere the sun of Rome, and that without you all appears dark and cloudy;\nI do not know if he does not even go so far as to say that it rains. \n\n His opinion of me is altered for the better, then? \n\n No, he still persists in looking upon you as the most incomprehensible\nand mysterious of beings. \n\n He is a charming young man,  said Monte Cristo  and I felt a lively\ninterest in him the very first evening of my introduction, when I met\nhim in search of a supper, and prevailed upon him to accept a portion\nof mine. He is, I think, the son of General d pinay? \n\n He is. \n\n The same who was so shamefully assassinated in 1815? \n\n By the Bonapartists. \n\n Yes. Really I like him extremely; is there not also a matrimonial\nengagement contemplated for him? \n\n Yes, he is to marry Mademoiselle de Villefort. \n\n Indeed? \n\n30115m\n\n\n\n And you know I am to marry Mademoiselle Danglars,  said Albert,\nlaughing.\n\n You smile. \n\n Yes. \n\n Why do you do so? \n\n I smile because there appears to me to be about as much inclination\nfor the consummation of the engagement in question as there is for my\nown. But really, my dear count, we are talking as much of women as they\ndo of us; it is unpardonable. \n\nAlbert rose.\n\n Are you going? \n\n Really, that is a good idea! two hours have I been boring you to death\nwith my company, and then you, with the greatest politeness, ask me if\nI am going. Indeed, count, you are the most polished man in the world.\nAnd your servants, too, how very well behaved they are; there is quite\na style about them. Monsieur Baptistin especially; I could never get\nsuch a man as that. My servants seem to imitate those you sometimes see\nin a play, who, because they have only a word or two to say, aquit\nthemselves in the most awkward manner possible. Therefore, if you part\nwith M. Baptistin, give me the refusal of him. \n\n By all means. \n\n That is not all; give my compliments to your illustrious Luccanese,\nCavalcante of the Cavalcanti; and if by any chance he should be wishing\nto establish his son, find him a wife very rich, very noble on her\nmother s side at least, and a baroness in right of her father, I will\nhelp you in the search. \n\n Ah, ha; you will do as much as that, will you? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, really, nothing is certain in this world. \n\n Oh, count, what a service you might render me! I should like you a\nhundred times better if, by your intervention, I could manage to remain\na bachelor, even were it only for ten years. \n\n Nothing is impossible,  gravely replied Monte Cristo; and taking leave\nof Albert, he returned into the house, and struck the gong three times.\nBertuccio appeared.\n\n Monsieur Bertuccio, you understand that I intend entertaining company\non Saturday at Auteuil.  Bertuccio slightly started.  I shall require\nyour services to see that all be properly arranged. It is a beautiful\nhouse, or at all events may be made so. \n\n There must be a good deal done before it can deserve that title, your\nexcellency, for the tapestried hangings are very old. \n\n Let them all be taken away and changed, then, with the exception of\nthe sleeping-chamber which is hung with red damask; you will leave that\nexactly as it is.  Bertuccio bowed.  You will not touch the garden\neither; as to the yard, you may do what you please with it; I should\nprefer that being altered beyond all recognition. \n\n I will do everything in my power to carry out your wishes, your\nexcellency. I should be glad, however, to receive your excellency s\ncommands concerning the dinner. \n\n Really, my dear M. Bertuccio,  said the count,  since you have been in\nParis, you have become quite nervous, and apparently out of your\nelement; you no longer seem to understand me. \n\n But surely your excellency will be so good as to inform me whom you\nare expecting to receive? \n\n I do not yet know myself, neither is it necessary that you should do\nso.  Lucullus dines with Lucullus,  that is quite sufficient. \n\nBertuccio bowed, and left the room.\n\n\n\n Chapter 55. Major Cavalcanti\n\nBoth the count and Baptistin had told the truth when they announced to\nMorcerf the proposed visit of the major, which had served Monte Cristo\nas a pretext for declining Albert s invitation. Seven o clock had just\nstruck, and M. Bertuccio, according to the command which had been given\nhim, had two hours before left for Auteuil, when a cab stopped at the\ndoor, and after depositing its occupant at the gate, immediately\nhurried away, as if ashamed of its employment. The visitor was about\nfifty-two years of age, dressed in one of the green surtouts,\nornamented with black frogs, which have so long maintained their\npopularity all over Europe. He wore trousers of blue cloth, boots\ntolerably clean, but not of the brightest polish, and a little too\nthick in the soles, buckskin gloves, a hat somewhat resembling in shape\nthose usually worn by the gendarmes, and a black cravat striped with\nwhite, which, if the proprietor had not worn it of his own free will,\nmight have passed for a halter, so much did it resemble one. Such was\nthe picturesque costume of the person who rang at the gate, and\ndemanded if it was not at No. 30 in the Avenue des Champs- lys es that\nthe Count of Monte Cristo lived, and who, being answered by the porter\nin the affirmative, entered, closed the gate after him, and began to\nascend the steps.\n\nThe small and angular head of this man, his white hair and thick gray\nmoustaches, caused him to be easily recognized by Baptistin, who had\nreceived an exact description of the expected visitor, and who was\nawaiting him in the hall. Therefore, scarcely had the stranger time to\npronounce his name before the count was apprised of his arrival. He was\nushered into a simple and elegant drawing-room, and the count rose to\nmeet him with a smiling air.\n\n Ah, my dear sir, you are most welcome; I was expecting you. \n\n Indeed,  said the Italian,  was your excellency then aware of my\nvisit? \n\n Yes; I had been told that I should see you today at seven o clock. \n\n Then you have received full information concerning my arrival? \n\n Of course. \n\n Ah, so much the better, I feared this little precaution might have\nbeen forgotten. \n\n30119m\n\n\n\n What precaution? \n\n That of informing you beforehand of my coming. \n\n Oh, no, it has not. \n\n But you are sure you are not mistaken. \n\n Very sure. \n\n It really was I whom your excellency expected at seven o clock this\nevening? \n\n I will prove it to you beyond a doubt. \n\n Oh, no, never mind that,  said the Italian;  it is not worth the\ntrouble. \n\n Yes, yes,  said Monte Cristo. His visitor appeared slightly uneasy.\n Let me see,  said the count;  are you not the Marquis Bartolomeo\nCavalcanti? \n\n Bartolomeo Cavalcanti,  joyfully replied the Italian;  yes, I am\nreally he. \n\n Ex-major in the Austrian service? \n\n Was I a major?  timidly asked the old soldier.\n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo  you were a major; that is the title the\nFrench give to the post which you filled in Italy. \n\n Very good,  said the major,  I do not demand more, you understand \n\n Your visit here today is not of your own suggestion, is it?  said\nMonte Cristo.\n\n No, certainly not. \n\n You were sent by some other person? \n\n Yes. \n\n By the excellent Abb  Busoni? \n\n Exactly so,  said the delighted major.\n\n And you have a letter? \n\n Yes, there it is. \n\n Give it to me, then.  And Monte Cristo took the letter, which he\nopened and read. The major looked at the count with his large staring\neyes, and then took a survey of the apartment, but his gaze almost\nimmediately reverted to the proprietor of the room.\n\n Yes, yes, I see.  Major Cavalcanti, a worthy patrician of Lucca, a\ndescendant of the Cavalcanti of Florence,  continued Monte Cristo,\nreading aloud,  possessing an income of half a million. \n\nMonte Cristo raised his eyes from the paper, and bowed.\n\n Half a million,  said he,  magnificent! \n\n Half a million, is it?  said the major.\n\n Yes, in so many words; and it must be so, for the abb  knows correctly\nthe amount of all the largest fortunes in Europe. \n\n Be it half a million, then; but on my word of honor, I had no idea\nthat it was so much. \n\n Because you are robbed by your steward. You must make some reformation\nin that quarter. \n\n You have opened my eyes,  said the Italian gravely;  I will show the\ngentlemen the door. \n\nMonte Cristo resumed the perusal of the letter:\n\n And who only needs one thing more to make him happy. \n\n Yes, indeed but one!  said the major with a sigh.\n\n Which is to recover a lost and adored son. \n\n A lost and adored son! \n\n Stolen away in his infancy, either by an enemy of his noble family or\nby the gypsies. \n\n At the age of five years!  said the major with a deep sigh, and\nraising his eye to heaven.\n\n Unhappy father,  said Monte Cristo. The count continued:\n\n I have given him renewed life and hope, in the assurance that you\nhave the power of restoring the son whom he has vainly sought for\nfifteen years. \n\nThe major looked at the count with an indescribable expression of\nanxiety.\n\n I have the power of so doing,  said Monte Cristo. The major recovered\nhis self-possession.\n\n So, then,  said he,  the letter was true to the end? \n\n Did you doubt it, my dear Monsieur Bartolomeo? \n\n No, indeed; certainly not; a good man, a man holding religious office,\nas does the Abb  Busoni, could not condescend to deceive or play off a\njoke; but your excellency has not read all. \n\n Ah, true,  said Monte Cristo  there is a postscript. \n\n Yes, yes,  repeated the major,  yes there is a postscript. \n\n In order to save Major Cavalcanti the trouble of drawing on his\nbanker, I send him a draft for 2,000 francs to defray his travelling\nexpenses, and credit on you for the further sum of 48,000 francs, which\nyou still owe me. \n\nThe major awaited the conclusion of the postscript, apparently with\ngreat anxiety.\n\n Very good,  said the count.\n\n He said  very good,  muttered the major,  then sir  replied he.\n\n Then what?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n Then the postscript \n\n Well; what of the postscript? \n\n Then the postscript is as favorably received by you as the rest of the\nletter? \n\n Certainly; the Abb  Busoni and myself have a small account open\nbetween us. I do not remember if it is exactly 48,000 francs, which I\nam still owing him, but I dare say we shall not dispute the difference.\nYou attached great importance, then, to this postscript, my dear\nMonsieur Cavalcanti? \n\n I must explain to you,  said the major,  that, fully confiding in the\nsignature of the Abb  Busoni, I had not provided myself with any other\nfunds; so that if this resource had failed me, I should have found\nmyself very unpleasantly situated in Paris. \n\n Is it possible that a man of your standing should be embarrassed\nanywhere?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Why, really I know no one,  said the major.\n\n But then you yourself are known to others? \n\n Yes, I am known, so that \n\n Proceed, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti. \n\n So that you will remit to me these 48,000 francs? \n\n Certainly, at your first request.  The major s eyes dilated with\npleasing astonishment.  But sit down,  said Monte Cristo;  really I do\nnot know what I have been thinking of I have positively kept you\nstanding for the last quarter of an hour. \n\n Don t mention it.  The major drew an armchair towards him, and\nproceeded to seat himself.\n\n Now,  said the count,  what will you take a glass of sherry, port, or\nAlicante? \n\n Alicante, if you please; it is my favorite wine. \n\n I have some that is very good. You will take a biscuit with it, will\nyou not? \n\n Yes, I will take a biscuit, as you are so obliging. \n\nMonte Cristo rang; Baptistin appeared. The count advanced to meet him.\n\n Well?  said he in a low voice.\n\n The young man is here,  said the valet de chambre in the same tone.\n\n Into what room did you take him? \n\n Into the blue drawing-room, according to your excellency s orders. \n\n That s right; now bring the Alicante and some biscuits. \n\nBaptistin left the room.\n\n Really,  said the major,  I am quite ashamed of the trouble I am\ngiving you. \n\n Pray don t mention such a thing,  said the count. Baptistin re-entered\nwith glasses, wine, and biscuits. The count filled one glass, but in\nthe other he only poured a few drops of the ruby-colored liquid. The\nbottle was covered with spiders  webs, and all the other signs which\nindicate the age of wine more truly than do wrinkles on a man s face.\nThe major made a wise choice; he took the full glass and a biscuit. The\ncount told Baptistin to leave the plate within reach of his guest, who\nbegan by sipping the Alicante with an expression of great satisfaction,\nand then delicately steeped his biscuit in the wine.\n\n30123m\n\n\n\n So, sir, you lived at Lucca, did you? You were rich, noble, held in\ngreat esteem had all that could render a man happy? \n\n All,  said the major, hastily swallowing his biscuit,  positively\nall. \n\n And yet there was one thing wanting in order to complete your\nhappiness? \n\n Only one thing,  said the Italian.\n\n And that one thing, your lost child. \n\n Ah,  said the major, taking a second biscuit,  that consummation of my\nhappiness was indeed wanting.  The worthy major raised his eyes to\nheaven and sighed.\n\n Let me hear, then,  said the count,  who this deeply regretted son\nwas; for I always understood you were a bachelor. \n\n That was the general opinion, sir,  said the major,  and I \n\n Yes,  replied the count,  and you confirmed the report. A youthful\nindiscretion, I suppose, which you were anxious to conceal from the\nworld at large? \n\nThe major recovered himself, and resumed his usual calm manner, at the\nsame time casting his eyes down, either to give himself time to compose\nhis countenance, or to assist his imagination, all the while giving an\nunder-look at the count, the protracted smile on whose lips still\nannounced the same polite curiosity.\n\n Yes,  said the major,  I did wish this fault to be hidden from every\neye. \n\n Not on your own account, surely,  replied Monte Cristo;  for a man is\nabove that sort of thing? \n\n Oh, no, certainly not on my own account,  said the major with a smile\nand a shake of the head.\n\n But for the sake of the mother?  said the count.\n\n Yes, for the mother s sake his poor mother!  cried the major, taking a\nthird biscuit.\n\n Take some more wine, my dear Cavalcanti,  said the count, pouring out\nfor him a second glass of Alicante;  your emotion has quite overcome\nyou. \n\n His poor mother,  murmured the major, trying to get the lachrymal\ngland in operation, so as to moisten the corner of his eye with a false\ntear.\n\n She belonged to one of the first families in Italy, I think, did she\nnot? \n\n She was of a noble family of Fiesole, count. \n\n And her name was \n\n Do you desire to know her name ? \n\n Oh,  said Monte Cristo  it would be quite superfluous for you to tell\nme, for I already know it. \n\n The count knows everything,  said the Italian, bowing.\n\n Oliva Corsinari, was it not? \n\n Oliva Corsinari! \n\n A marchioness? \n\n A marchioness! \n\n And you married her at last, notwithstanding the opposition of her\nfamily? \n\n Yes, that was the way it ended. \n\n And you have doubtless brought all your papers with you?  said Monte\nCristo.\n\n What papers? \n\n The certificate of your marriage with Oliva Corsinari, and the\nregister of your child s birth. \n\n The register of my child s birth? \n\n The register of the birth of Andrea Cavalcanti of your son; is not his\nname Andrea? \n\n I believe so,  said the major.\n\n What? You believe so? \n\n I dare not positively assert it, as he has been lost for so long a\ntime. \n\n Well, then,  said Monte Cristo  you have all the documents with you? \n\n Your excellency, I regret to say that, not knowing it was necessary to\ncome provided with these papers, I neglected to bring them. \n\n That is unfortunate,  returned Monte Cristo.\n\n Were they, then, so necessary? \n\n They were indispensable. \n\nThe major passed his hand across his brow.  Ah, _perbacco_,\nindispensable, were they? \n\n Certainly they were; supposing there were to be doubts raised as to\nthe validity of your marriage or the legitimacy of your child? \n\n True,  said the major,  there might be doubts raised. \n\n In that case your son would be very unpleasantly situated. \n\n It would be fatal to his interests. \n\n It might cause him to fail in some desirable matrimonial alliance. \n\n _O peccato!_ \n\n You must know that in France they are very particular on these points;\nit is not sufficient, as in Italy, to go to the priest and say,  We\nlove each other, and want you to marry us.  Marriage is a civil affair\nin France, and in order to marry in an orthodox manner you must have\npapers which undeniably establish your identity. \n\n That is the misfortune! You see I have not these necessary papers. \n\n Fortunately, I have them, though,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n You? \n\n Yes. \n\n You have them? \n\n I have them. \n\n Ah, indeed?  said the major, who, seeing the object of his journey\nfrustrated by the absence of the papers, feared also that his\nforgetfulness might give rise to some difficulty concerning the 48,000\nfrancs ah, indeed, that is a fortunate circumstance; yes, that really\nis lucky, for it never occurred to me to bring them. \n\n I do not at all wonder at it one cannot think of everything; but,\nhappily, the Abb  Busoni thought for you. \n\n He is an excellent person. \n\n He is extremely prudent and thoughtful. \n\n He is an admirable man,  said the major;  and he sent them to you? \n\n Here they are. \n\nThe major clasped his hands in token of admiration.\n\n You married Oliva Corsinari in the church of San Paolo del\nMonte-Cattini; here is the priest s certificate. \n\n Yes indeed, there it is truly,  said the Italian, looking on with\nastonishment.\n\n And here is Andrea Cavalcanti s baptismal register, given by the cur \nof Saravezza. \n\n All quite correct. \n\n Take these documents, then; they do not concern me. You will give them\nto your son, who will, of course, take great care of them. \n\n I should think so, indeed! If he were to lose them \n\n Well, and if he were to lose them?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n In that case,  replied the major,  it would be necessary to write to\nthe cur  for duplicates, and it would be some time before they could be\nobtained. \n\n It would be a difficult matter to arrange,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Almost an impossibility,  replied the major.\n\n I am very glad to see that you understand the value of these papers. \n\n I regard them as invaluable. \n\n Now,  said Monte Cristo  as to the mother of the young man \n\n As to the mother of the young man  repeated the Italian, with\nanxiety.\n\n As regards the Marchesa Corsinari \n\n Really,  said the major,  difficulties seem to thicken upon us; will\nshe be wanted in any way? \n\n No, sir,  replied Monte Cristo;  besides, has she not \n\n Yes, sir,  said the major,  she has \n\n30127m\n\n\n\n Paid the last debt of nature? \n\n Alas, yes,  returned the Italian.\n\n I knew that,  said Monte Cristo;  she has been dead these ten years. \n\n And I am still mourning her loss,  exclaimed the major, drawing from\nhis pocket a checked handkerchief, and alternately wiping first the\nleft and then the right eye.\n\n What would you have?  said Monte Cristo;  we are all mortal. Now, you\nunderstand, my dear Monsieur Cavalcanti, that it is useless for you to\ntell people in France that you have been separated from your son for\nfifteen years. Stories of gypsies, who steal children, are not at all\nin vogue in this part of the world, and would not be believed. You sent\nhim for his education to a college in one of the provinces, and now you\nwish him to complete his education in the Parisian world. That is the\nreason which has induced you to leave Via Reggio, where you have lived\nsince the death of your wife. That will be sufficient. \n\n You think so? \n\n Certainly. \n\n Very well, then. \n\n If they should hear of the separation \n\n Ah, yes; what could I say? \n\n That an unfaithful tutor, bought over by the enemies of your family \n\n By the Corsinari? \n\n Precisely. Had stolen away this child, in order that your name might\nbecome extinct. \n\n That is reasonable, since he is an only son. \n\n Well, now that all is arranged, do not let these newly awakened\nremembrances be forgotten. You have, doubtless, already guessed that I\nwas preparing a surprise for you? \n\n An agreeable one?  asked the Italian.\n\n Ah, I see the eye of a father is no more to be deceived than his\nheart. \n\n Hum!  said the major.\n\n Someone has told you the secret; or, perhaps, you guessed that he was\nhere. \n\n That who was here? \n\n Your child your son your Andrea! \n\n I did guess it,  replied the major with the greatest possible\ncoolness.  Then he is here? \n\n He is,  said Monte Cristo;  when the valet de chambre came in just\nnow, he told me of his arrival. \n\n Ah, very well, very well,  said the major, clutching the buttons of\nhis coat at each exclamation.\n\n My dear sir,  said Monte Cristo,  I understand your emotion; you must\nhave time to recover yourself. I will, in the meantime, go and prepare\nthe young man for this much-desired interview, for I presume that he is\nnot less impatient for it than yourself. \n\n I should quite imagine that to be the case,  said Cavalcanti.\n\n Well, in a quarter of an hour he shall be with you. \n\n You will bring him, then? You carry your goodness so far as even to\npresent him to me yourself? \n\n No; I do not wish to come between a father and son. Your interview\nwill be private. But do not be uneasy; even if the powerful voice of\nnature should be silent, you cannot well mistake him; he will enter by\nthis door. He is a fine young man, of fair complexion a little too\nfair, perhaps pleasing in manners; but you will see and judge for\nyourself. \n\n By the way,  said the major,  you know I have only the 2,000 francs\nwhich the Abb  Busoni sent me; this sum I have expended upon travelling\nexpenses, and \n\n And you want money; that is a matter of course, my dear M. Cavalcanti.\nWell, here are 8,000 francs on account. \n\nThe major s eyes sparkled brilliantly.\n\n It is 40,000 francs which I now owe you,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Does your excellency wish for a receipt?  said the major, at the same\ntime slipping the money into the inner pocket of his coat.\n\n For what?  said the count.\n\n I thought you might want it to show the Abb  Busoni. \n\n Well, when you receive the remaining 40,000, you shall give me a\nreceipt in full. Between honest men such excessive precaution is, I\nthink, quite unnecessary. \n\n Yes, so it is, between perfectly upright people. \n\n One word more,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Say on. \n\n You will permit me to make one remark? \n\n Certainly; pray do so. \n\n Then I should advise you to leave off wearing that style of dress. \n\n Indeed,  said the major, regarding himself with an air of complete\nsatisfaction.\n\n Yes. It may be worn at Via Reggio; but that costume, however elegant\nin itself, has long been out of fashion in Paris. \n\n That s unfortunate. \n\n Oh, if you really are attached to your old mode of dress; you can\neasily resume it when you leave Paris. \n\n But what shall I wear? \n\n What you find in your trunks. \n\n In my trunks? I have but one portmanteau. \n\n I dare say you have nothing else with you. What is the use of boring\none s self with so many things? Besides an old soldier always likes to\nmarch with as little baggage as possible. \n\n That is just the case precisely so. \n\n But you are a man of foresight and prudence, therefore you sent your\nluggage on before you. It has arrived at the H tel des Princes, Rue de\nRichelieu. It is there you are to take up your quarters. \n\n Then, in these trunks \n\n I presume you have given orders to your valet de chambre to put in all\nyou are likely to need, your plain clothes and your uniform. On grand\noccasions you must wear your uniform; that will look very well. Do not\nforget your crosses. They still laugh at them in France, and yet always\nwear them, for all that. \n\n Very well, very well,  said the major, who was in ecstasy at the\nattention paid him by the count.\n\n Now,  said Monte Cristo,  that you have fortified yourself against all\npainful excitement, prepare yourself, my dear M. Cavalcanti, to meet\nyour lost Andrea. \n\nSaying which Monte Cristo bowed, and disappeared behind the tapestry,\nleaving the major fascinated beyond expression with the delightful\nreception which he had received at the hands of the count.\n\n\n\n Chapter 56. Andrea Cavalcanti\n\nThe Count of Monte Cristo entered the adjoining room, which Baptistin\nhad designated as the drawing-room, and found there a young man, of\ngraceful demeanor and elegant appearance, who had arrived in a cab\nabout half an hour previously. Baptistin had not found any difficulty\nin recognizing the person who presented himself at the door for\nadmittance. He was certainly the tall young man with light hair, red\nbeard, black eyes, and brilliant complexion, whom his master had so\nparticularly described to him. When the count entered the room the\nyoung man was carelessly stretched on a sofa, tapping his boot with the\ngold-headed cane which he held in his hand. On perceiving the count he\nrose quickly.\n\n The Count of Monte Cristo, I believe?  said he.\n\n Yes, sir, and I think I have the honor of addressing Count Andrea\nCavalcanti? \n\n Count Andrea Cavalcanti,  repeated the young man, accompanying his\nwords with a bow.\n\n You are charged with a letter of introduction addressed to me, are you\nnot?  said the count.\n\n I did not mention that, because the signature seemed to me so\nstrange. \n\n The letter signed  Sinbad the Sailor,  is it not? \n\n Exactly so. Now, as I have never known any Sinbad, with the exception\nof the one celebrated in the _Thousand and One Nights_ \n\n Well, it is one of his descendants, and a great friend of mine; he is\na very rich Englishman, eccentric almost to insanity, and his real name\nis Lord Wilmore. \n\n Ah, indeed? Then that explains everything that is extraordinary,  said\nAndrea.  He is, then, the same Englishman whom I met at ah yes, indeed.\nWell, monsieur, I am at your service. \n\n If what you say be true,  replied the count, smiling,  perhaps you\nwill be kind enough to give me some account of yourself and your\nfamily? \n\n Certainly, I will do so,  said the young man, with a quickness which\ngave proof of his ready invention.  I am (as you have said) the Count\nAndrea Cavalcanti, son of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, a descendant of\nthe Cavalcanti whose names are inscribed in the golden book at\nFlorence. Our family, although still rich (for my father s income\namounts to half a million), has experienced many misfortunes, and I\nmyself was, at the age of five years, taken away by the treachery of my\ntutor, so that for fifteen years I have not seen the author of my\nexistence. Since I have arrived at years of discretion and become my\nown master, I have been constantly seeking him, but all in vain. At\nlength I received this letter from your friend, which states that my\nfather is in Paris, and authorizes me to address myself to you for\ninformation respecting him. \n\n Really, all you have related to me is exceedingly interesting,  said\nMonte Cristo, observing the young man with a gloomy satisfaction;  and\nyou have done well to conform in everything to the wishes of my friend\nSinbad; for your father is indeed here, and is seeking you. \n\nThe count from the moment of first entering the drawing-room, had not\nonce lost sight of the expression of the young man s countenance; he\nhad admired the assurance of his look and the firmness of his voice;\nbut at these words, so natural in themselves,  Your father is indeed\nhere, and is seeking you,  young Andrea started, and exclaimed,  My\nfather? Is my father here? \n\n Most undoubtedly,  replied Monte Cristo;  your father, Major\nBartolomeo Cavalcanti.  The expression of terror which, for the moment,\nhad overspread the features of the young man, had now disappeared.\n\n Ah, yes, that is the name, certainly. Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti. And\nyou really mean to say; monsieur, that my dear father is here? \n\n Yes, sir; and I can even add that I have only just left his company.\nThe history which he related to me of his lost son touched me to the\nquick; indeed, his griefs, hopes, and fears on that subject might\nfurnish material for a most touching and pathetic poem. At length, he\none day received a letter, stating that the abductors of his son now\noffered to restore him, or at least to give notice where he might be\nfound, on condition of receiving a large sum of money, by way of\nransom. Your father did not hesitate an instant, and the sum was sent\nto the frontier of Piedmont, with a passport signed for Italy. You were\nin the south of France, I think? \n\n Yes,  replied Andrea, with an embarrassed air,  I was in the south of\nFrance. \n\n A carriage was to await you at Nice? \n\n Precisely so; and it conveyed me from Nice to Genoa, from Genoa to\nTurin, from Turin to Chamb ry, from Chamb ry to Pont-de-Beauvoisin, and\nfrom Pont-de-Beauvoisin to Paris. \n\n30133m\n\n\n\n Indeed? Then your father ought to have met with you on the road, for\nit is exactly the same route which he himself took, and that is how we\nhave been able to trace your journey to this place. \n\n But,  said Andrea,  if my father had met me, I doubt if he would have\nrecognized me; I must be somewhat altered since he last saw me. \n\n Oh, the voice of nature,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n True,  interrupted the young man,  I had not looked upon it in that\nlight. \n\n Now,  replied Monte Cristo  there is only one source of uneasiness\nleft in your father s mind, which is this he is anxious to know how you\nhave been employed during your long absence from him, how you have been\ntreated by your persecutors, and if they have conducted themselves\ntowards you with all the deference due to your rank. Finally, he is\nanxious to see if you have been fortunate enough to escape the bad\nmoral influence to which you have been exposed, and which is infinitely\nmore to be dreaded than any physical suffering; he wishes to discover\nif the fine abilities with which nature had endowed you have been\nweakened by want of culture; and, in short, whether you consider\nyourself capable of resuming and retaining in the world the high\nposition to which your rank entitles you. \n\n Sir!  exclaimed the young man, quite astounded,  I hope no false\nreport \n\n As for myself, I first heard you spoken of by my friend Wilmore, the\nphilanthropist. I believe he found you in some unpleasant position, but\ndo not know of what nature, for I did not ask, not being inquisitive.\nYour misfortunes engaged his sympathies, so you see you must have been\ninteresting. He told me that he was anxious to restore you to the\nposition which you had lost, and that he would seek your father until\nhe found him. He did seek, and has found him, apparently, since he is\nhere now; and, finally, my friend apprised me of your coming, and gave\nme a few other instructions relative to your future fortune. I am quite\naware that my friend Wilmore is peculiar, but he is sincere, and as\nrich as a gold mine, consequently, he may indulge his eccentricities\nwithout any fear of their ruining him, and I have promised to adhere to\nhis instructions. Now, sir, pray do not be offended at the question I\nam about to put to you, as it comes in the way of my duty as your\npatron. I would wish to know if the misfortunes which have happened to\nyou misfortunes entirely beyond your control, and which in no degree\ndiminish my regard for you I would wish to know if they have not, in\nsome measure, contributed to render you a stranger to the world in\nwhich your fortune and your name entitle you to make a conspicuous\nfigure? \n\n Sir,  returned the young man, with a reassurance of manner,  make your\nmind easy on this score. Those who took me from my father, and who\nalways intended, sooner or later, to sell me again to my original\nproprietor, as they have now done, calculated that, in order to make\nthe most of their bargain, it would be politic to leave me in\npossession of all my personal and hereditary worth, and even to\nincrease the value, if possible. I have, therefore, received a very\ngood education, and have been treated by these kidnappers very much as\nthe slaves were treated in Asia Minor, whose masters made them\ngrammarians, doctors, and philosophers, in order that they might fetch\na higher price in the Roman market. \n\nMonte Cristo smiled with satisfaction; it appeared as if he had not\nexpected so much from M. Andrea Cavalcanti.\n\n Besides,  continued the young man,  if there did appear some defect in\neducation, or offence against the established forms of etiquette, I\nsuppose it would be excused, in consideration of the misfortunes which\naccompanied my birth, and followed me through my youth. \n\n Well,  said Monte Cristo in an indifferent tone,  you will do as you\nplease, count, for you are the master of your own actions, and are the\nperson most concerned in the matter, but if I were you, I would not\ndivulge a word of these adventures. Your history is quite a romance,\nand the world, which delights in romances in yellow covers, strangely\nmistrusts those which are bound in living parchment, even though they\nbe gilded like yourself. This is the kind of difficulty which I wished\nto represent to you, my dear count. You would hardly have recited your\ntouching history before it would go forth to the world, and be deemed\nunlikely and unnatural. You would be no longer a lost child found, but\nyou would be looked upon as an upstart, who had sprung up like a\nmushroom in the night. You might excite a little curiosity, but it is\nnot everyone who likes to be made the centre of observation and the\nsubject of unpleasant remark. \n\n I agree with you, monsieur,  said the young man, turning pale, and, in\nspite of himself, trembling beneath the scrutinizing look of his\ncompanion,  such consequences would be extremely unpleasant. \n\n Nevertheless, you must not exaggerate the evil,  said Monte Cristo,\n for by endeavoring to avoid one fault you will fall into another. You\nmust resolve upon one simple and single line of conduct, and for a man\nof your intelligence, this plan is as easy as it is necessary; you must\nform honorable friendships, and by that means counteract the prejudice\nwhich may attach to the obscurity of your former life. \n\nAndrea visibly changed countenance.\n\n I would offer myself as your surety and friendly adviser,  said Monte\nCristo,  did I not possess a moral distrust of my best friends, and a\nsort of inclination to lead others to doubt them too; therefore, in\ndeparting from this rule, I should (as the actors say) be playing a\npart quite out of my line, and should, therefore, run the risk of being\nhissed, which would be an act of folly. \n\n However, your excellency,  said Andrea,  in consideration of Lord\nWilmore, by whom I was recommended to you \n\n Yes, certainly,  interrupted Monte Cristo;  but Lord Wilmore did not\nomit to inform me, my dear M. Andrea, that the season of your youth was\nrather a stormy one. Ah,  said the count, watching Andrea s\ncountenance,  I do not demand any confession from you; it is precisely\nto avoid that necessity that your father was sent for from Lucca. You\nshall soon see him. He is a little stiff and pompous in his manner, and\nhe is disfigured by his uniform; but when it becomes known that he has\nbeen for eighteen years in the Austrian service, all that will be\npardoned. We are not generally very severe with the Austrians. In\nshort, you will find your father a very presentable person, I assure\nyou. \n\n Ah, sir, you have given me confidence; it is so long since we were\nseparated, that I have not the least remembrance of him, and, besides,\nyou know that in the eyes of the world a large fortune covers all\ndefects. \n\n He is a millionaire his income is 500,000 francs. \n\n Then,  said the young man, with anxiety,  I shall be sure to be placed\nin an agreeable position. \n\n One of the most agreeable possible, my dear sir; he will allow you an\nincome of 50,000 livres per annum during the whole time of your stay in\nParis. \n\n Then in that case I shall always choose to remain there. \n\n You cannot control circumstances, my dear sir;  man proposes, and God\ndisposes.  Andrea sighed.\n\n But,  said he,  so long as I do remain in Paris, and nothing forces me\nto quit it, do you mean to tell me that I may rely on receiving the sum\nyou just now mentioned to me? \n\n You may. \n\n Shall I receive it from my father?  asked Andrea, with some\nuneasiness.\n\n Yes, you will receive it from your father personally, but Lord Wilmore\nwill be the security for the money. He has, at the request of your\nfather, opened an account of 5,000 francs a month at M. Danglars ,\nwhich is one of the safest banks in Paris. \n\n And does my father mean to remain long in Paris?  asked Andrea.\n\n Only a few days,  replied Monte Cristo.  His service does not allow\nhim to absent himself more than two or three weeks together. \n\n Ah, my dear father!  exclaimed Andrea, evidently charmed with the idea\nof his speedy departure.\n\n Therefore,  said Monte Cristo feigning to mistake his\nmeaning therefore I will not, for another instant, retard the pleasure\nof your meeting. Are you prepared to embrace your worthy father? \n\n I hope you do not doubt it. \n\n30137m\n\n\n\n Go, then, into the drawing-room, my young friend, where you will find\nyour father awaiting you. \n\nAndrea made a low bow to the count, and entered the adjoining room.\nMonte Cristo watched him till he disappeared, and then touched a spring\nin a panel made to look like a picture, which, in sliding partly from\nthe frame, discovered to view a small opening, so cleverly contrived\nthat it revealed all that was passing in the drawing-room now occupied\nby Cavalcanti and Andrea. The young man closed the door behind him, and\nadvanced towards the major, who had risen when he heard steps\napproaching him.\n\n Ah, my dear father!  said Andrea in a loud voice, in order that the\ncount might hear him in the next room,  is it really you? \n\n How do you do, my dear son?  said the major gravely.\n\n After so many years of painful separation,  said Andrea, in the same\ntone of voice, and glancing towards the door,  what a happiness it is\nto meet again! \n\n Indeed it is, after so long a separation. \n\n Will you not embrace me, sir?  said Andrea.\n\n30139m\n\n\n\n If you wish it, my son,  said the major; and the two men embraced each\nother after the fashion of actors on the stage; that is to say, each\nrested his head on the other s shoulder.\n\n Then we are once more reunited?  said Andrea.\n\n Once more,  replied the major.\n\n Never more to be separated? \n\n Why, as to that I think, my dear son, you must be by this time so\naccustomed to France as to look upon it almost as a second country. \n\n The fact is,  said the young man,  that I should be exceedingly\ngrieved to leave it. \n\n As for me, you must know I cannot possibly live out of Lucca;\ntherefore I shall return to Italy as soon as I can. \n\n But before you leave France, my dear father, I hope you will put me in\npossession of the documents which will be necessary to prove my\ndescent. \n\n Certainly; I am come expressly on that account; it has cost me much\ntrouble to find you, but I had resolved on giving them into your hands,\nand if I had to recommence my search, it would occupy all the few\nremaining years of my life. \n\n Where are these papers, then? \n\n Here they are. \n\nAndrea seized the certificate of his father s marriage and his own\nbaptismal register, and after having opened them with all the eagerness\nwhich might be expected under the circumstances, he read them with a\nfacility which proved that he was accustomed to similar documents, and\nwith an expression which plainly denoted an unusual interest in the\ncontents. When he had perused the documents, an indefinable expression\nof pleasure lighted up his countenance, and looking at the major with a\nmost peculiar smile, he said, in very excellent Tuscan:\n\n Then there is no longer any such thing, in Italy as being condemned to\nthe galleys? \n\nThe major drew himself up to his full height.\n\n Why? what do you mean by that question? \n\n I mean that if there were, it would be impossible to draw up with\nimpunity two such deeds as these. In France, my dear sir, half such a\npiece of effrontery as that would cause you to be quickly despatched to\nToulon for five years, for change of air. \n\n Will you be good enough to explain your meaning?  said the major,\nendeavoring as much as possible to assume an air of the greatest\nmajesty.\n\n My dear M. Cavalcanti,  said Andrea, taking the major by the arm in a\nconfidential manner,  how much are you paid for being my father? \n\nThe major was about to speak, when Andrea continued, in a low voice:\n\n Nonsense, I am going to set you an example of confidence, they give me\n50,000 francs a year to be your son; consequently, you can understand\nthat it is not at all likely I shall ever deny my parent. \n\nThe major looked anxiously around him.\n\n Make yourself easy, we are quite alone,  said Andrea;  besides, we are\nconversing in Italian. \n\n Well, then,  replied the major,  they paid me 50,000 francs down. \n\n Monsieur Cavalcanti,  said Andrea,  do you believe in fairy tales? \n\n I used not to do so, but I really feel now almost obliged to have\nfaith in them. \n\n You have, then, been induced to alter your opinion; you have had some\nproofs of their truth?  The major drew from his pocket a handful of\ngold.\n\n Most palpable proofs,  said he,  as you may perceive. \n\n You think, then, that I may rely on the count s promises? \n\n Certainly I do. \n\n You are sure he will keep his word with me? \n\n To the letter, but at the same time, remember, we must continue to\nplay our respective parts. I, as a tender father \n\n And I as a dutiful son, as they choose that I shall be descended from\nyou. \n\n Whom do you mean by they? \n\n _Ma foi_, I can hardly tell, but I was alluding to those who wrote the\nletter; you received one, did you not? \n\n Yes. \n\n From whom? \n\n From a certain Abb  Busoni. \n\n Have you any knowledge of him? \n\n No, I have never seen him. \n\n What did he say in the letter? \n\n You will promise not to betray me? \n\n Rest assured of that; you well know that our interests are the same. \n\n Then read for yourself;  and the major gave a letter into the young\nman s hand. Andrea read in a low voice:\n\n You are poor; a miserable old age awaits you. Would you like to\nbecome rich, or at least independent? Set out immediately for Paris,\nand demand of the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des Champs- lys es, No.\n30, the son whom you had by the Marchesa Corsinari, and who was taken\nfrom you at five years of age. This son is named Andrea Cavalcanti. In\norder that you may not doubt the kind intention of the writer of this\nletter, you will find enclosed an order for 2,400 francs, payable in\nFlorence, at Signor Gozzi s; also a letter of introduction to the Count\nof Monte Cristo, on whom I give you a draft of 48,000 francs. Remember\nto go to the count on the 26th May at seven o clock in the evening.\n\n\n (Signed)  Abb  Busoni. \n\n\n It is the same. \n\n What do you mean?  said the major.\n\n I was going to say that I received a letter almost to the same\neffect. \n\n You? \n\n Yes. \n\n From the Abb  Busoni? \n\n No. \n\n From whom, then? \n\n From an Englishman, called Lord Wilmore, who takes the name of Sinbad\nthe Sailor. \n\n And of whom you have no more knowledge than I of the Abb  Busoni? \n\n You are mistaken; there I am ahead of you. \n\n You have seen him, then? \n\n Yes, once. \n\n Where? \n\n Ah, that is just what I cannot tell you; if I did, I should make you\nas wise as myself, which it is not my intention to do. \n\n And what did the letter contain? \n\n Read it. \n\n You are poor, and your future prospects are dark and gloomy. Do you\nwish for a name? should you like to be rich, and your own master? \n\n\n _Parbleu!_  said the young man;  was it possible there could be two\nanswers to such a question? \n\n Take the post-chaise which you will find waiting at the Porte de\nG nes, as you enter Nice; pass through Turin, Chamb ry, and\nPont-de-Beauvoisin. Go to the Count of Monte Cristo, Avenue des\nChamps- lys es, on the 26th of May, at seven o clock in the evening,\nand demand of him your father. You are the son of the Marchese\nCavalcanti and the Marchesa Oliva Corsinari. The marquis will give you\nsome papers which will certify this fact, and authorize you to appear\nunder that name in the Parisian world. As to your rank, an annual\nincome of 50,000 livres will enable you to support it admirably. I\nenclose a draft for 5,000 livres, payable on M. Ferrea, banker at Nice,\nand also a letter of introduction to the Count of Monte Cristo, whom I\nhave directed to supply all your wants.\n\n\n Sinbad the Sailor. \n\n\n Humph,  said the major;  very good. You have seen the count, you say? \n\n I have only just left him. \n\n And has he conformed to all that the letter specified? \n\n He has. \n\n Do you understand it? \n\n Not in the least. \n\n There is a dupe somewhere. \n\n At all events, it is neither you nor I. \n\n Certainly not. \n\n Well, then \n\n Why, it does not much concern us, do you think it does? \n\n No; I agree with you there. We must play the game to the end, and\nconsent to be blindfolded. \n\n Ah, you shall see; I promise you I will sustain my part to\nadmiration. \n\n I never once doubted your doing so.  Monte Cristo chose this moment\nfor re-entering the drawing-room. On hearing the sound of his\nfootsteps, the two men threw themselves in each other s arms, and while\nthey were in the midst of this embrace, the count entered.\n\n Well, marquis,  said Monte Cristo,  you appear to be in no way\ndisappointed in the son whom your good fortune has restored to you. \n\n Ah, your excellency, I am overwhelmed with delight. \n\n And what are your feelings?  said Monte Cristo, turning to the young\nman.\n\n As for me, my heart is overflowing with happiness. \n\n Happy father, happy son!  said the count.\n\n There is only one thing which grieves me,  observed the major,  and\nthat is the necessity for my leaving Paris so soon. \n\n Ah, my dear M. Cavalcanti, I trust you will not leave before I have\nhad the honor of presenting you to some of my friends. \n\n I am at your service, sir,  replied the major.\n\n Now, sir,  said Monte Cristo, addressing Andrea,  make your\nconfession. \n\n To whom? \n\n Tell M. Cavalcanti something of the state of your finances. \n\n _Ma foi!_ monsieur, you have touched upon a tender chord. \n\n Do you hear what he says, major? \n\n Certainly I do. \n\n But do you understand? \n\n I do. \n\n Your son says he requires money. \n\n Well, what would you have me do?  said the major.\n\n You should furnish him with some of course,  replied Monte Cristo.\n\n I? \n\n Yes, you,  said the count, at the same time advancing towards Andrea,\nand slipping a packet of bank-notes into the young man s hand.\n\n What is this? \n\n It is from your father. \n\n From my father? \n\n Yes; did you not tell him just now that you wanted money? Well, then,\nhe deputes me to give you this. \n\n Am I to consider this as part of my income on account? \n\n No, it is for the first expenses of your settling in Paris. \n\n Ah, how good my dear father is! \n\n Silence,  said Monte Cristo;  he does not wish you to know that it\ncomes from him. \n\n I fully appreciate his delicacy,  said Andrea, cramming the notes\nhastily into his pocket.\n\n And now, gentlemen, I wish you good-morning,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n And when shall we have the honor of seeing you again, your\nexcellency?  asked Cavalcanti.\n\n Ah,  said Andrea,  when may we hope for that pleasure? \n\n On Saturday, if you will Yes. Let me see Saturday I am to dine at my\ncountry house, at Auteuil, on that day, Rue de la Fontaine, No. 28.\nSeveral persons are invited, and among others, M. Danglars, your\nbanker. I will introduce you to him, for it will be necessary he should\nknow you, as he is to pay your money. \n\n Full dress?  said the major, half aloud.\n\n Oh, yes, certainly,  said the count;  uniform, cross, knee-breeches. \n\n And how shall I be dressed?  demanded Andrea.\n\n30145m\n\n\n\n Oh, very simply; black trousers, patent leather boots, white\nwaistcoat, either a black or blue coat, and a long cravat. Go to Blin\nor V ronique for your clothes. Baptistin will tell you where, if you do\nnot know their address. The less pretension there is in your attire,\nthe better will be the effect, as you are a rich man. If you mean to\nbuy any horses, get them of Devedeux, and if you purchase a phaeton, go\nto Baptiste for it. \n\n At what hour shall we come?  asked the young man.\n\n About half-past six. \n\n We will be with you at that time,  said the major. The two Cavalcanti\nbowed to the count, and left the house. Monte Cristo went to the\nwindow, and saw them crossing the street, arm in arm.\n\n There go two miscreants;  said he,  it is a pity they are not really\nrelated!  Then, after an instant of gloomy reflection,  Come, I will go\nto see the Morrels,  said he;  I think that disgust is even more\nsickening than hatred. \n\n30147m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 57. In the Lucern Patch\n\nOur readers must now allow us to transport them again to the enclosure\nsurrounding M. de Villefort s house, and, behind the gate, half\nscreened from view by the large chestnut-trees, which on all sides\nspread their luxuriant branches, we shall find some people of our\nacquaintance. This time Maximilian was the first to arrive. He was\nintently watching for a shadow to appear among the trees, and awaiting\nwith anxiety the sound of a light step on the gravel walk.\n\nAt length, the long-desired sound was heard, and instead of one figure,\nas he had expected, he perceived that two were approaching him. The\ndelay had been occasioned by a visit from Madame Danglars and Eug nie,\nwhich had been prolonged beyond the time at which Valentine was\nexpected. That she might not appear to fail in her promise to\nMaximilian, she proposed to Mademoiselle Danglars that they should take\na walk in the garden, being anxious to show that the delay, which was\ndoubtless a cause of vexation to him, was not occasioned by any neglect\non her part. The young man, with the intuitive perception of a lover,\nquickly understood the circumstances in which she was involuntarily\nplaced, and he was comforted. Besides, although she avoided coming\nwithin speaking distance, Valentine arranged so that Maximilian could\nsee her pass and repass, and each time she went by, she managed,\nunperceived by her companion, to cast an expressive look at the young\nman, which seemed to say,  Have patience! You see it is not my fault. \n\nAnd Maximilian was patient, and employed himself in mentally\ncontrasting the two girls, one fair, with soft languishing eyes, a\nfigure gracefully bending like a weeping willow; the other a brunette,\nwith a fierce and haughty expression, and as straight as a poplar. It\nis unnecessary to state that, in the eyes of the young man, Valentine\ndid not suffer by the contrast. In about half an hour the girls went\naway, and Maximilian understood that Mademoiselle Danglars  visit had\nat last come to an end. In a few minutes Valentine re-entered the\ngarden alone. For fear that anyone should be observing her return, she\nwalked slowly; and instead of immediately directing her steps towards\nthe gate, she seated herself on a bench, and, carefully casting her\neyes around, to convince herself that she was not watched, she\npresently arose, and proceeded quickly to join Maximilian.\n\n Good-evening, Valentine,  said a well-known voice.\n\n Good-evening, Maximilian; I know I have kept you waiting, but you saw\nthe cause of my delay. \n\n Yes, I recognized Mademoiselle Danglars. I was not aware that you were\nso intimate with her. \n\n Who told you we were intimate, Maximilian? \n\n No one, but you appeared to be so. From the manner in which you walked\nand talked together, one would have thought you were two school-girls\ntelling your secrets to each other. \n\n We were having a confidential conversation,  returned Valentine;  she\nwas owning to me her repugnance to the marriage with M. de Morcerf; and\nI, on the other hand, was confessing to her how wretched it made me to\nthink of marrying M. d pinay. \n\n Dear Valentine! \n\n That will account to you for the unreserved manner which you observed\nbetween me and Eug nie, as in speaking of the man whom I could not\nlove, my thoughts involuntarily reverted to him on whom my affections\nwere fixed. \n\n Ah, how good you are to say so, Valentine! You possess a quality which\ncan never belong to Mademoiselle Danglars. It is that indefinable charm\nwhich is to a woman what perfume is to the flower and flavor to the\nfruit, for the beauty of either is not the only quality we seek. \n\n It is your love which makes you look upon everything in that light. \n\n No, Valentine, I assure you such is not the case. I was observing you\nboth when you were walking in the garden, and, on my honor, without at\nall wishing to depreciate the beauty of Mademoiselle Danglars, I cannot\nunderstand how any man can really love her. \n\n The fact is, Maximilian, that I was there, and my presence had the\neffect of rendering you unjust in your comparison. \n\n No; but tell me it is a question of simple curiosity, and which was\nsuggested by certain ideas passing in my mind relative to Mademoiselle\nDanglars \n\n I dare say it is something disparaging which you are going to say. It\nonly proves how little indulgence we may expect from your sex, \ninterrupted Valentine.\n\n You cannot, at least, deny that you are very harsh judges of each\nother. \n\n If we are so, it is because we generally judge under the influence of\nexcitement. But return to your question. \n\n30151m\n\n\n\n Does Mademoiselle Danglars object to this marriage with M. de Morcerf\non account of loving another? \n\n I told you I was not on terms of strict intimacy with Eug nie. \n\n Yes, but girls tell each other secrets without being particularly\nintimate; own, now, that you did question her on the subject. Ah, I see\nyou are smiling. \n\n If you are already aware of the conversation that passed, the wooden\npartition which interposed between us and you has proved but a slight\nsecurity. \n\n Come, what did she say? \n\n She told me that she loved no one,  said Valentine;  that she disliked\nthe idea of being married; that she would infinitely prefer leading an\nindependent and unfettered life; and that she almost wished her father\nmight lose his fortune, that she might become an artist, like her\nfriend, Mademoiselle Louise d Armilly. \n\n Ah, you see \n\n Well, what does that prove?  asked Valentine.\n\n Nothing,  replied Maximilian.\n\n Then why did you smile? \n\n Why, you know very well that you are reflecting on yourself,\nValentine. \n\n Do you want me to go away? \n\n Ah, no, no. But do not let us lose time; you are the subject on which\nI wish to speak. \n\n True, we must be quick, for we have scarcely ten minutes more to pass\ntogether. \n\n _Ma foi!_  said Maximilian, in consternation.\n\n Yes, you are right; I am but a poor friend to you. What a life I cause\nyou to lead, poor Maximilian, you who are formed for happiness! I\nbitterly reproach myself, I assure you. \n\n Well, what does it signify, Valentine, so long as I am satisfied, and\nfeel that even this long and painful suspense is amply repaid by five\nminutes of your society, or two words from your lips? And I have also a\ndeep conviction that heaven would not have created two hearts,\nharmonizing as ours do, and almost miraculously brought us together, to\nseparate us at last. \n\n Those are kind and cheering words. You must hope for us both,\nMaximilian; that will make me at least partly happy. \n\n But why must you leave me so soon? \n\n I do not know particulars. I can only tell you that Madame de\nVillefort sent to request my presence, as she had a communication to\nmake on which a part of my fortune depended. Let them take my fortune,\nI am already too rich; and, perhaps, when they have taken it, they will\nleave me in peace and quietness. You would love me as much if I were\npoor, would you not, Maximilian? \n\n Oh, I shall always love you. What should I care for either riches or\npoverty, if my Valentine was near me, and I felt certain that no one\ncould deprive me of her? But do you not fear that this communication\nmay relate to your marriage? \n\n I do not think that is the case. \n\n However it may be, Valentine, you must not be alarmed. I assure you\nthat, as long as I live, I shall never love anyone else! \n\n Do you think to reassure me when you say that, Maximilian? \n\n Pardon me, you are right. I am a brute. But I was going to tell you\nthat I met M. de Morcerf the other day. \n\n Well? \n\n Monsieur Franz is his friend, you know. \n\n What then? \n\n Monsieur de Morcerf has received a letter from Franz, announcing his\nimmediate return.  Valentine turned pale, and leaned her hand against\nthe gate.\n\n Ah heavens, if it were that! But no, the communication would not come\nthrough Madame de Villefort. \n\n Why not? \n\n Because I scarcely know why but it has appeared as if Madame de\nVillefort secretly objected to the marriage, although she did not\nchoose openly to oppose it. \n\n Is it so? Then I feel as if I could adore Madame de Villefort. \n\n Do not be in such a hurry to do that,  said Valentine, with a sad\nsmile.\n\n If she objects to your marrying M. d pinay, she would be all the more\nlikely to listen to any other proposition. \n\n No, Maximilian, it is not suitors to which Madame de Villefort\nobjects, it is marriage itself. \n\n Marriage? If she dislikes that so much, why did she ever marry\nherself? \n\n You do not understand me, Maximilian. About a year ago, I talked of\nretiring to a convent. Madame de Villefort, in spite of all the remarks\nwhich she considered it her duty to make, secretly approved of the\nproposition, my father consented to it at her instigation, and it was\nonly on account of my poor grandfather that I finally abandoned the\nproject. You can form no idea of the expression of that old man s eye\nwhen he looks at me, the only person in the world whom he loves, and, I\nhad almost said, by whom he is beloved in return. When he learned my\nresolution, I shall never forget the reproachful look which he cast on\nme, and the tears of utter despair which chased each other down his\nlifeless cheeks. Ah, Maximilian, I experienced, at that moment, such\nremorse for my intention, that, throwing myself at his feet, I\nexclaimed, Forgive me, pray forgive me, my dear grandfather; they may\ndo what they will with me, I will never leave you.  When I had ceased\nspeaking, he thankfully raised his eyes to heaven, but without uttering\na word. Ah, Maximilian, I may have much to suffer, but I feel as if my\ngrandfather s look at that moment would more than compensate for all. \n\n Dear Valentine, you are a perfect angel, and I am sure I do not know\nwhat I sabring right and left among the Bedouins can have done to merit\nyour being revealed to me, unless, indeed, Heaven took into\nconsideration the fact that the victims of my sword were infidels. But\ntell me what interest Madame de Villefort can have in your remaining\nunmarried? \n\n Did I not tell you just now that I was rich, Maximilian too rich? I\npossess nearly 50,000 livres in right of my mother; my grandfather and\nmy grandmother, the Marquis and Marquise de Saint-M ran, will leave me\nas much, and M. Noirtier evidently intends making me his heir. My\nbrother Edward, who inherits nothing from his mother, will, therefore,\nbe poor in comparison with me. Now, if I had taken the veil, all this\nfortune would have descended to my father, and, in reversion, to his\nson. \n\n Ah, how strange it seems that such a young and beautiful woman should\nbe so avaricious. \n\n It is not for herself that she is so, but for her son, and what you\nregard as a vice becomes almost a virtue when looked at in the light of\nmaternal love. \n\n But could you not compromise matters, and give up a portion of your\nfortune to her son? \n\n How could I make such a proposition, especially to a woman who always\nprofesses to be so entirely disinterested? \n\n Valentine, I have always regarded our love in the light of something\nsacred; consequently, I have covered it with the veil of respect, and\nhid it in the innermost recesses of my soul. No human being, not even\nmy sister, is aware of its existence. Valentine, will you permit me to\nmake a confidant of a friend and reveal to him the love I bear you? \n\nValentine started.  A friend, Maximilian; and who is this friend? I\ntremble to give my permission. \n\n Listen, Valentine. Have you never experienced for anyone that sudden\nand irresistible sympathy which made you feel as if the object of it\nhad been your old and familiar friend, though, in reality, it was the\nfirst time you had ever met? Nay, further, have you never endeavored to\nrecall the time, place, and circumstances of your former intercourse,\nand failing in this attempt, have almost believed that your spirits\nmust have held converse with each other in some state of being anterior\nto the present, and that you are only now occupied in a reminiscence of\nthe past? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, that is precisely the feeling which I experienced when I first\nsaw that extraordinary man. \n\n Extraordinary, did you say? \n\n Yes. \n\n You have known him for some time, then? \n\n Scarcely longer than eight or ten days. \n\n And do you call a man your friend whom you have only known for eight\nor ten days? Ah, Maximilian, I had hoped you set a higher value on the\ntitle of friend. \n\n Your logic is most powerful, Valentine, but say what you will, I can\nnever renounce the sentiment which has instinctively taken possession\nof my mind. I feel as if it were ordained that this man should be\nassociated with all the good which the future may have in store for me,\nand sometimes it really seems as if his eye was able to see what was to\ncome, and his hand endowed with the power of directing events according\nto his own will. \n\n He must be a prophet, then,  said Valentine, smiling.\n\n Indeed,  said Maximilian,  I have often been almost tempted to\nattribute to him the gift of prophecy; at all events, he has a\nwonderful power of foretelling any future good. \n\n Ah,  said Valentine in a mournful tone,  do let me see this man,\nMaximilian; he may tell me whether I shall ever be loved sufficiently\nto make amends for all I have suffered. \n\n My poor girl, you know him already. \n\n I know him? \n\n Yes; it was he who saved the life of your step-mother and her son. \n\n The Count of Monte Cristo? \n\n The same. \n\n Ah,  cried Valentine,  he is too much the friend of Madame de\nVillefort ever to be mine. \n\n The friend of Madame de Villefort! It cannot be; surely, Valentine,\nyou are mistaken? \n\n No, indeed, I am not; for I assure you, his power over our household\nis almost unlimited. Courted by my step-mother, who regards him as the\nepitome of human wisdom; admired by my father, who says he has never\nbefore heard such sublime ideas so eloquently expressed; idolized by\nEdward, who, notwithstanding his fear of the count s large black eyes,\nruns to meet him the moment he arrives, and opens his hand, in which he\nis sure to find some delightful present, M. de Monte Cristo appears to\nexert a mysterious and almost uncontrollable influence over all the\nmembers of our family. \n\n If such be the case, my dear Valentine, you must yourself have felt,\nor at all events will soon feel, the effects of his presence. He meets\nAlbert de Morcerf in Italy it is to rescue him from the hands of the\nbanditti; he introduces himself to Madame Danglars it is that he may\ngive her a royal present; your step-mother and her son pass before his\ndoor it is that his Nubian may save them from destruction. This man\nevidently possesses the power of influencing events, both as regards\nmen and things. I never saw more simple tastes united to greater\nmagnificence. His smile is so sweet when he addresses me, that I forget\nit ever can be bitter to others. Ah, Valentine, tell me, if he ever\nlooked on you with one of those sweet smiles? if so, depend on it, you\nwill be happy. \n\n Me?  said the young girl,  he never even glances at me; on the\ncontrary, if I accidentally cross his path, he appears rather to avoid\nme. Ah, he is not generous, neither does he possess that supernatural\npenetration which you attribute to him, for if he did, he would have\nperceived that I was unhappy; and if he had been generous, seeing me\nsad and solitary, he would have used his influence to my advantage, and\nsince, as you say, he resembles the sun, he would have warmed my heart\nwith one of his life-giving rays. You say he loves you, Maximilian; how\ndo you know that he does? All would pay deference to an officer like\nyou, with a fierce moustache and a long sabre, but they think they may\ncrush a poor weeping girl with impunity. \n\n Ah, Valentine, I assure you you are mistaken. \n\n If it were otherwise if he treated me diplomatically that is to say,\nlike a man who wishes, by some means or other, to obtain a footing in\nthe house, so that he may ultimately gain the power of dictating to its\noccupants he would, if it had been but once, have honored me with the\nsmile which you extol so loudly; but no, he saw that I was unhappy, he\nunderstood that I could be of no use to him, and therefore paid no\nattention to me whatever. Who knows but that, in order to please Madame\nde Villefort and my father, he may not persecute me by every means in\nhis power? It is not just that he should despise me so, without any\nreason. Ah, forgive me,  said Valentine, perceiving the effect which\nher words were producing on Maximilian:  I have done wrong, for I have\ngiven utterance to thoughts concerning that man which I did not even\nknow existed in my heart. I do not deny the influence of which you\nspeak, or that I have not myself experienced it, but with me it has\nbeen productive of evil rather than good. \n\n Well, Valentine,  said Morrel with a sigh,  we will not discuss the\nmatter further. I will not make a confidant of him. \n\n Alas!  said Valentine,  I see that I have given you pain. I can only\nsay how sincerely I ask pardon for having grieved you. But, indeed, I\nam not prejudiced beyond the power of conviction. Tell me what this\nCount of Monte Cristo has done for you. \n\n30157m\n\n\n\n I own that your question embarrasses me, Valentine, for I cannot say\nthat the count has rendered me any ostensible service. Still, as I have\nalready told you, I have an instinctive affection for him, the source\nof which I cannot explain to you. Has the sun done anything for me? No;\nhe warms me with his rays, and it is by his light that I see\nyou nothing more. Has such and such a perfume done anything for me? No;\nits odor charms one of my senses that is all I can say when I am asked\nwhy I praise it. My friendship for him is as strange and unaccountable\nas his for me. A secret voice seems to whisper to me that there must be\nsomething more than chance in this unexpected reciprocity of\nfriendship. In his most simple actions, as well as in his most secret\nthoughts, I find a relation to my own. You will perhaps smile at me\nwhen I tell you that, ever since I have known this man, I have\ninvoluntarily entertained the idea that all the good fortune which has\nbefallen me originated from him. However, I have managed to live thirty\nyears without this protection, you will say; but I will endeavor a\nlittle to illustrate my meaning. He invited me to dine with him on\nSaturday, which was a very natural thing for him to do. Well, what have\nI learned since? That your mother and M. de Villefort are both coming\nto this dinner. I shall meet them there, and who knows what future\nadvantages may result from the interview? This may appear to you to be\nno unusual combination of circumstances; nevertheless, I perceive some\nhidden plot in the arrangement something, in fact, more than is\napparent on a casual view of the subject. I believe that this singular\nman, who appears to fathom the motives of everyone, has purposely\narranged for me to meet M. and Madame de Villefort, and sometimes, I\nconfess, I have gone so far as to try to read in his eyes whether he\nwas in possession of the secret of our love. \n\n My good friend,  said Valentine,  I should take you for a visionary,\nand should tremble for your reason, if I were always to hear you talk\nin a strain similar to this. Is it possible that you can see anything\nmore than the merest chance in this meeting? Pray reflect a little. My\nfather, who never goes out, has several times been on the point of\nrefusing this invitation; Madame de Villefort, on the contrary, is\nburning with the desire of seeing this extraordinary nabob in his own\nhouse, therefore, she has with great difficulty prevailed on my father\nto accompany her. No, no; it is as I have said, Maximilian, there is no\none in the world of whom I can ask help but yourself and my\ngrandfather, who is little better than a corpse no support to cling to\nbut my mother in heaven! \n\n I see that you are right, logically speaking,  said Maximilian;  but\nthe gentle voice which usually has such power over me fails to convince\nme today. \n\n I feel the same as regards yourself.  said Valentine;  and I own that,\nif you have no stronger proof to give me \n\n I have another,  replied Maximilian;  but I fear you will deem it even\nmore absurd than the first. \n\n So much the worse,  said Valentine, smiling.\n\n It is, nevertheless, conclusive to my mind. My ten years of service\nhave also confirmed my ideas on the subject of sudden inspirations, for\nI have several times owed my life to a mysterious impulse which\ndirected me to move at once either to the right or to the left, in\norder to escape the ball which killed the comrade fighting by my side,\nwhile it left me unharmed. \n\n Dear Maximilian, why not attribute your escape to my constant prayers\nfor your safety? When you are away, I no longer pray for myself, but\nfor you. \n\n30159m\n\n\n\n Yes, since you have known me,  said Morrel, smiling;  but that cannot\napply to the time previous to our acquaintance, Valentine. \n\n You are very provoking, and will not give me credit for anything; but\nlet me hear this second proof, which you yourself own to be absurd. \n\n Well, look through this opening, and you will see the beautiful new\nhorse which I rode here. \n\n Ah! what a beautiful creature!  cried Valentine;  why did you not\nbring him close to the gate, so that I could talk to him and pat him? \n\n He is, as you see, a very valuable animal,  said Maximilian.  You know\nthat my means are limited, and that I am what would be designated a man\nof moderate pretensions. Well, I went to a horse dealer s, where I saw\nthis magnificent horse, which I have named M d ah. I asked the price;\nthey told me it was 4,500 francs. I was, therefore, obliged to give it\nup, as you may imagine, but I own I went away with rather a heavy\nheart, for the horse had looked at me affectionately, had rubbed his\nhead against me and, when I mounted him, had pranced in the most\ndelightful way imaginable, so that I was altogether fascinated with\nhim. The same evening some friends of mine visited me, M. de\nCh teau-Renaud, M. Debray, and five or six other choice spirits, whom\nyou do not know, even by name. They proposed a game of _bouillotte_. I\nnever play, for I am not rich enough to afford to lose, or sufficiently\npoor to desire to gain. But I was at my own house, you understand, so\nthere was nothing to be done but to send for the cards, which I did.\n\n Just as they were sitting down to table, M. de Monte Cristo arrived.\nHe took his seat amongst them; they played, and I won. I am almost\nashamed to say that my gains amounted to 5,000 francs. We separated at\nmidnight. I could not defer my pleasure, so I took a cabriolet and\ndrove to the horse dealer s. Feverish and excited, I rang at the door.\nThe person who opened it must have taken me for a madman, for I rushed\nat once to the stable. M d ah was standing at the rack, eating his hay.\nI immediately put on the saddle and bridle, to which operation he lent\nhimself with the best grace possible; then, putting the 4,500 francs\ninto the hands of the astonished dealer, I proceeded to fulfil my\nintention of passing the night in riding in the Champs- lys es. As I\nrode by the count s house I perceived a light in one of the windows,\nand fancied I saw the shadow of his figure moving behind the curtain.\nNow, Valentine, I firmly believe that he knew of my wish to possess\nthis horse, and that he lost expressly to give me the means of\nprocuring him. \n\n My dear Maximilian, you are really too fanciful; you will not love\neven me long. A man who accustoms himself to live in such a world of\npoetry and imagination must find far too little excitement in a common,\nevery-day sort of attachment such as ours. But they are calling me. Do\nyou hear? \n\n Ah, Valentine,  said Maximilian,  give me but one finger through this\nopening in the grating, one finger, the littlest finger of all, that I\nmay have the happiness of kissing it. \n\n Maximilian, we said we would be to each other as two voices, two\nshadows. \n\n As you will, Valentine. \n\n Shall you be happy if I do what you wish? \n\n Oh, yes! \n\nValentine mounted on a bench, and passed not only her finger but her\nwhole hand through the opening. Maximilian uttered a cry of delight,\nand, springing forwards, seized the hand extended towards him, and\nimprinted on it a fervent and impassioned kiss. The little hand was\nthen immediately withdrawn, and the young man saw Valentine hurrying\ntowards the house, as though she were almost terrified at her own\nsensations.\n\n\n\n Chapter 58. M. Noirtier de Villefort\n\nWe will now relate what was passing in the house of the king s attorney\nafter the departure of Madame Danglars and her daughter, and during the\ntime of the conversation between Maximilian and Valentine, which we\nhave just detailed.\n\nM. de Villefort entered his father s room, followed by Madame de\nVillefort. Both of the visitors, after saluting the old man and\nspeaking to Barrois, a faithful servant, who had been twenty-five years\nin his service, took their places on either side of the paralytic.\n\nM. Noirtier was sitting in an armchair, which moved upon casters, in\nwhich he was wheeled into the room in the morning, and in the same way\ndrawn out again at night. He was placed before a large glass, which\nreflected the whole apartment, and so, without any attempt to move,\nwhich would have been impossible, he could see all who entered the room\nand everything which was going on around him. M. Noirtier, although\nalmost as immovable as a corpse, looked at the new-comers with a quick\nand intelligent expression, perceiving at once, by their ceremonious\ncourtesy, that they were come on business of an unexpected and official\ncharacter.\n\nSight and hearing were the only senses remaining, and they, like two\nsolitary sparks, remained to animate the miserable body which seemed\nfit for nothing but the grave; it was only, however, by means of one of\nthese senses that he could reveal the thoughts and feelings that still\noccupied his mind, and the look by which he gave expression to his\ninner life was like the distant gleam of a candle which a traveller\nsees by night across some desert place, and knows that a living being\ndwells beyond the silence and obscurity.\n\nNoirtier s hair was long and white, and flowed over his shoulders;\nwhile in his eyes, shaded by thick black lashes, was concentrated, as\nit often happens with an organ which is used to the exclusion of the\nothers, all the activity, address, force, and intelligence which were\nformerly diffused over his whole body; and so although the movement of\nthe arm, the sound of the voice, and the agility of the body, were\nwanting, the speaking eye sufficed for all. He commanded with it; it\nwas the medium through which his thanks were conveyed. In short, his\nwhole appearance produced on the mind the impression of a corpse with\nliving eyes, and nothing could be more startling than to observe the\nexpression of anger or joy suddenly lighting up these organs, while the\nrest of the rigid and marble-like features were utterly deprived of the\npower of participation. Three persons only could understand this\nlanguage of the poor paralytic; these were Villefort, Valentine, and\nthe old servant of whom we have already spoken. But as Villefort saw\nhis father but seldom, and then only when absolutely obliged, and as he\nnever took any pains to please or gratify him when he was there, all\nthe old man s happiness was centred in his granddaughter. Valentine, by\nmeans of her love, her patience, and her devotion, had learned to read\nin Noirtier s look all the varied feelings which were passing in his\nmind. To this dumb language, which was so unintelligible to others, she\nanswered by throwing her whole soul into the expression of her\ncountenance, and in this manner were the conversations sustained\nbetween the blooming girl and the helpless invalid, whose body could\nscarcely be called a living one, but who, nevertheless, possessed a\nfund of knowledge and penetration, united with a will as powerful as\never although clogged by a body rendered utterly incapable of obeying\nits impulses.\n\nValentine had solved the problem, and was able easily to understand his\nthoughts, and to convey her own in return, and, through her untiring\nand devoted assiduity, it was seldom that, in the ordinary transactions\nof every-day life, she failed to anticipate the wishes of the living,\nthinking mind, or the wants of the almost inanimate body.\n\nAs to the servant, he had, as we have said, been with his master for\nfive-and-twenty years, therefore he knew all his habits, and it was\nseldom that Noirtier found it necessary to ask for anything, so prompt\nwas he in administering to all the necessities of the invalid.\n\nVillefort did not need the help of either Valentine or the domestic in\norder to carry on with his father the strange conversation which he was\nabout to begin. As we have said, he perfectly understood the old man s\nvocabulary, and if he did not use it more often, it was only\nindifference and _ennui_ which prevented him from so doing. He\ntherefore allowed Valentine to go into the garden, sent away Barrois,\nand after having seated himself at his father s right hand, while\nMadame de Villefort placed herself on the left, he addressed him thus:\n\n I trust you will not be displeased, sir, that Valentine has not come\nwith us, or that I dismissed Barrois, for our conference will be one\nwhich could not with propriety be carried on in the presence of either.\nMadame de Villefort and I have a communication to make to you. \n\nNoirtier s face remained perfectly passive during this long preamble,\nwhile, on the contrary, Villefort s eye was endeavoring to penetrate\ninto the inmost recesses of the old man s heart.\n\n This communication,  continued the procureur, in that cold and\ndecisive tone which seemed at once to preclude all discussion,  will,\nwe are sure, meet with your approbation. \n\nThe eye of the invalid still retained that vacancy of expression which\nprevented his son from obtaining any knowledge of the feelings which\nwere passing in his mind; he listened, nothing more.\n\n Sir,  resumed Villefort,  we are thinking of marrying Valentine.  Had\nthe old man s face been moulded in wax it could not have shown less\nemotion at this news than was now to be traced there.  The marriage\nwill take place in less than three months,  said Villefort.\n\nNoirtier s eye still retained its inanimate expression.\n\nMadame de Villefort now took her part in the conversation and added:\n\n We thought this news would possess an interest for you, sir, who have\nalways entertained a great affection for Valentine; it therefore only\nnow remains for us to tell you the name of the young man for whom she\nis destined. It is one of the most desirable connections which could\npossibly be formed; he possesses fortune, a high rank in society, and\nevery personal qualification likely to render Valentine supremely\nhappy, his name, moreover, cannot be wholly unknown to you. It is M.\nFranz de Quesnel, Baron d pinay. \n\nWhile his wife was speaking, Villefort had narrowly watched the old\nman s countenance. When Madame de Villefort pronounced the name of\nFranz, the pupil of M. Noirtier s eye began to dilate, and his eyelids\ntrembled with the same movement that may be perceived on the lips of an\nindividual about to speak, and he darted a lightning glance at Madame\nde Villefort and his son. The procureur, who knew the political hatred\nwhich had formerly existed between M. Noirtier and the elder d pinay,\nwell understood the agitation and anger which the announcement had\nproduced; but, feigning not to perceive either, he immediately resumed\nthe narrative begun by his wife.\n\n Sir,  said he,  you are aware that Valentine is about to enter her\nnineteenth year, which renders it important that she should lose no\ntime in forming a suitable alliance. Nevertheless, you have not been\nforgotten in our plans, and we have fully ascertained beforehand that\nValentine s future husband will consent, not to live in this house, for\nthat might not be pleasant for the young people, but that you should\nlive with them; so that you and Valentine, who are so attached to each\nother, would not be separated, and you would be able to pursue exactly\nthe same course of life which you have hitherto done, and thus, instead\nof losing, you will be a gainer by the change, as it will secure to you\ntwo children instead of one, to watch over and comfort you. \n\n30165m\n\n\n\nNoirtier s look was furious; it was very evident that something\ndesperate was passing in the old man s mind, for a cry of anger and\ngrief rose in his throat, and not being able to find vent in utterance,\nappeared almost to choke him, for his face and lips turned quite purple\nwith the struggle. Villefort quietly opened a window, saying,  It is\nvery warm, and the heat affects M. Noirtier.  He then returned to his\nplace, but did not sit down.\n\n This marriage,  added Madame de Villefort,  is quite agreeable to the\nwishes of M. d pinay and his family; besides, he had no relations\nnearer than an uncle and aunt, his mother having died at his birth, and\nhis father having been assassinated in 1815, that is to say, when he\nwas but two years old; it naturally followed that the child was\npermitted to choose his own pursuits, and he has, therefore, seldom\nacknowledged any other authority but that of his own will. \n\n That assassination was a mysterious affair,  said Villefort,  and the\nperpetrators have hitherto escaped detection, although suspicion has\nfallen on the head of more than one person. \n\nNoirtier made such an effort that his lips expanded into a smile.\n\n Now,  continued Villefort,  those to whom the guilt really belongs, by\nwhom the crime was committed, on whose heads the justice of man may\nprobably descend here, and the certain judgment of God hereafter, would\nrejoice in the opportunity thus afforded of bestowing such a\npeace-offering as Valentine on the son of him whose life they so\nruthlessly destroyed.  Noirtier had succeeded in mastering his emotion\nmore than could have been deemed possible with such an enfeebled and\nshattered frame.\n\n Yes, I understand,  was the reply contained in his look; and this look\nexpressed a feeling of strong indignation, mixed with profound\ncontempt. Villefort fully understood his father s meaning, and answered\nby a slight shrug of his shoulders. He then motioned to his wife to\ntake leave.\n\n Now sir,  said Madame de Villefort,  I must bid you farewell. Would\nyou like me to send Edward to you for a short time? \n\nIt had been agreed that the old man should express his approbation by\nclosing his eyes, his refusal by winking them several times, and if he\nhad some desire or feeling to express, he raised them to heaven. If he\nwanted Valentine, he closed his right eye only, and if Barrois, the\nleft. At Madame de Villefort s proposition he instantly winked his\neyes.\n\nProvoked by a complete refusal, she bit her lip and said,  Then shall I\nsend Valentine to you?  The old man closed his eyes eagerly, thereby\nintimating that such was his wish.\n\nM. and Madame de Villefort bowed and left the room, giving orders that\nValentine should be summoned to her grandfather s presence, and feeling\nsure that she would have much to do to restore calmness to the\nperturbed spirit of the invalid. Valentine, with a color still\nheightened by emotion, entered the room just after her parents had\nquitted it. One look was sufficient to tell her that her grandfather\nwas suffering, and that there was much on his mind which he was wishing\nto communicate to her.\n\n Dear grandpapa,  cried she,  what has happened? They have vexed you,\nand you are angry? \n\nThe paralytic closed his eyes in token of assent.\n\n Who has displeased you? Is it my father? \n\n No. \n\n Madame de Villefort? \n\n No. \n\n Me?  The former sign was repeated.\n\n Are you displeased with me?  cried Valentine in astonishment. M.\nNoirtier again closed his eyes.\n\n And what have I done, dear grandpapa, that you should be angry with\nme?  cried Valentine.\n\nThere was no answer, and she continued:\n\n I have not seen you all day. Has anyone been speaking to you against\nme? \n\n Yes,  said the old man s look, with eagerness.\n\n Let me think a moment. I do assure you, grandpapa Ah M. and Madame de\nVillefort have just left this room, have they not? \n\n Yes. \n\n And it was they who told you something which made you angry? What was\nit then? May I go and ask them, that I may have the opportunity of\nmaking my peace with you? \n\n No, no,  said Noirtier s look.\n\n Ah, you frighten me. What can they have said?  and she again tried to\nthink what it could be.\n\n Ah, I know,  said she, lowering her voice and going close to the old\nman.  They have been speaking of my marriage, have they not? \n\n Yes,  replied the angry look.\n\n I understand; you are displeased at the silence I have preserved on\nthe subject. The reason of it was, that they had insisted on my keeping\nthe matter a secret, and begged me not to tell you anything of it. They\ndid not even acquaint me with their intentions, and I only discovered\nthem by chance, that is why I have been so reserved with you, dear\ngrandpapa. Pray forgive me. \n\nBut there was no look calculated to reassure her; all it seemed to say\nwas,  It is not only your reserve which afflicts me. \n\n What is it, then?  asked the young girl.  Perhaps you think I shall\nabandon you, dear grandpapa, and that I shall forget you when I am\nmarried? \n\n No. \n\n They told you, then, that M. d pinay consented to our all living\ntogether? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then why are you still vexed and grieved?  The old man s eyes beamed\nwith an expression of gentle affection.\n\n Yes, I understand,  said Valentine;  it is because you love me.  The\nold man assented.\n\n And you are afraid I shall be unhappy? \n\n Yes. \n\n You do not like M. Franz?  The eyes repeated several times,  No, no,\nno. \n\n Then you are vexed with the engagement? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, listen,  said Valentine, throwing herself on her knees, and\nputting her arm round her grandfather s neck,  I am vexed, too, for I\ndo not love M. Franz d pinay. \n\nAn expression of intense joy illumined the old man s eyes.\n\n When I wished to retire into a convent, you remember how angry you\nwere with me?  A tear trembled in the eye of the invalid.  Well, \ncontinued Valentine,  the reason of my proposing it was that I might\nescape this hateful marriage, which drives me to despair.  Noirtier s\nbreathing came thick and short.\n\n Then the idea of this marriage really grieves you too? Ah, if you\ncould but help me if we could both together defeat their plan! But you\nare unable to oppose them, you, whose mind is so quick, and whose will\nis so firm are nevertheless, as weak and unequal to the contest as I am\nmyself. Alas, you, who would have been such a powerful protector to me\nin the days of your health and strength, can now only sympathize in my\njoys and sorrows, without being able to take any active part in them.\nHowever, this is much, and calls for gratitude and Heaven has not taken\naway all my blessings when it leaves me your sympathy and kindness. \n\nAt these words there appeared in Noirtier s eye an expression of such\ndeep meaning that the young girl thought she could read these words\nthere:  You are mistaken; I can still do much for you. \n\n Do you think you can help me, dear grandpapa?  said Valentine.\n\n Yes.  Noirtier raised his eyes, it was the sign agreed on between him\nand Valentine when he wanted anything.\n\n What is it you want, dear grandpapa?  said Valentine, and she\nendeavored to recall to mind all the things which he would be likely to\nneed; and as the ideas presented themselves to her mind, she repeated\nthem aloud, then, finding that all her efforts elicited nothing but a\nconstant _ No, _ she said,  Come, since this plan does not answer, I\nwill have recourse to another. \n\nShe then recited all the letters of the alphabet from A down to N. When\nshe arrived at that letter the paralytic made her understand that she\nhad spoken the initial letter of the thing he wanted.\n\n Ah,  said Valentine,  the thing you desire begins with the letter N;\nit is with N that we have to do, then. Well, let me see, what can you\nwant that begins with N? Na Ne Ni No \n\n Yes, yes, yes,  said the old man s eye.\n\n Ah, it is No, then? \n\n Yes. \n\nValentine fetched a dictionary, which she placed on a desk before\nNoirtier; she opened it, and, seeing that the old man s eye was\nthoroughly fixed on its pages, she ran her finger quickly up and down\nthe columns. During the six years which had passed since Noirtier first\nfell into this sad state, Valentine s powers of invention had been too\noften put to the test not to render her expert in devising expedients\nfor gaining a knowledge of his wishes, and the constant practice had so\nperfected her in the art that she guessed the old man s meaning as\nquickly as if he himself had been able to seek for what he wanted. At\nthe word _Notary_, Noirtier made a sign to her to stop.\n\n30169m\n\n\n\n Notary,  said she,  do you want a notary, dear grandpapa?  The old man\nagain signified that it was a notary he desired.\n\n You would wish a notary to be sent for then?  said Valentine.\n\n Yes. \n\n Shall my father be informed of your wish? \n\n Yes. \n\n Do you wish the notary to be sent for immediately? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then they shall go for him directly, dear grandpapa. Is that all you\nwant? \n\n Yes.  Valentine rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell\nMonsieur or Madame de Villefort that they were requested to come to M.\nNoirtier s room.\n\n Are you satisfied now?  inquired Valentine.\n\n Yes. \n\n I am sure you are; it is not very difficult to discover that.  And the\nyoung girl smiled on her grandfather, as if he had been a child. M. de\nVillefort entered, followed by Barrois.\n\n What do you want me for, sir?  demanded he of the paralytic.\n\n Sir,  said Valentine,  my grandfather wishes for a notary.  At this\nstrange and unexpected demand M. de Villefort and his father exchanged\nlooks.\n\n Yes,  motioned the latter, with a firmness which seemed to declare\nthat with the help of Valentine and his old servant, who both knew what\nhis wishes were, he was quite prepared to maintain the contest.\n\n Do you wish for a notary?  asked Villefort.\n\n Yes. \n\n What to do? \n\nNoirtier made no answer.\n\n What do you want with a notary?  again repeated Villefort. The\ninvalid s eye remained fixed, by which expression he intended to\nintimate that his resolution was unalterable.\n\n Is it to do us some ill turn? Do you think it is worth while?  said\nVillefort.\n\n Still,  said Barrois, with the freedom and fidelity of an old servant,\n if M. Noirtier asks for a notary, I suppose he really wishes for a\nnotary; therefore I shall go at once and fetch one.  Barrois\nacknowledged no master but Noirtier, and never allowed his desires in\nany way to be contradicted.\n\n30171m\n\n\n\n Yes, I do want a notary,  motioned the old man, shutting his eyes with\na look of defiance, which seemed to say,  and I should like to see the\nperson who dares to refuse my request. \n\n You shall have a notary, as you absolutely wish for one, sir,  said\nVillefort;  but I shall explain to him your state of health, and make\nexcuses for you, for the scene cannot fail of being a most ridiculous\none. \n\n Never mind that,  said Barrois;  I shall go and fetch a notary,\nnevertheless.  And the old servant departed triumphantly on his\nmission.\n\n\n\n Chapter 59. The Will\n\nAs soon as Barrois had left the room, Noirtier looked at Valentine with\na malicious expression that said many things. The young girl perfectly\nunderstood the look, and so did Villefort, for his countenance became\nclouded, and he knitted his eyebrows angrily. He took a seat, and\nquietly awaited the arrival of the notary. Noirtier saw him seat\nhimself with an appearance of perfect indifference, at the same time\ngiving a side look at Valentine, which made her understand that she\nalso was to remain in the room. Three-quarters of an hour after,\nBarrois returned, bringing the notary with him.\n\n Sir,  said Villefort, after the first salutations were over,  you were\nsent for by M. Noirtier, whom you see here. All his limbs have become\ncompletely paralysed, he has lost his voice also, and we ourselves find\nmuch trouble in endeavoring to catch some fragments of his meaning. \n\nNoirtier cast an appealing look on Valentine, which look was at once so\nearnest and imperative, that she answered immediately.\n\n Sir,  said she,  I perfectly understand my grandfather s meaning at\nall times. \n\n That is quite true,  said Barrois;  and that is what I told the\ngentleman as we walked along. \n\n Permit me,  said the notary, turning first to Villefort and then to\nValentine permit me to state that the case in question is just one of\nthose in which a public officer like myself cannot proceed to act\nwithout thereby incurring a dangerous responsibility. The first thing\nnecessary to render an act valid is, that the notary should be\nthoroughly convinced that he has faithfully interpreted the will and\nwishes of the person dictating the act. Now I cannot be sure of the\napprobation or disapprobation of a client who cannot speak, and as the\nobject of his desire or his repugnance cannot be clearly proved to me,\non account of his want of speech, my services here would be quite\nuseless, and cannot be legally exercised. \n\nThe notary then prepared to retire. An imperceptible smile of triumph\nwas expressed on the lips of the procureur. Noirtier looked at\nValentine with an expression so full of grief, that she arrested the\ndeparture of the notary.\n\n Sir,  said she,  the language which I speak with my grandfather may be\neasily learnt, and I can teach you in a few minutes, to understand it\nalmost as well as I can myself. Will you tell me what you require, in\norder to set your conscience quite at ease on the subject? \n\n In order to render an act valid, I must be certain of the approbation\nor disapprobation of my client. Illness of body would not affect the\nvalidity of the deed, but sanity of mind is absolutely requisite. \n\n Well, sir, by the help of two signs, with which I will acquaint you\npresently, you may ascertain with perfect certainty that my grandfather\nis still in the full possession of all his mental faculties. M.\nNoirtier, being deprived of voice and motion, is accustomed to convey\nhis meaning by closing his eyes when he wishes to signify  yes,  and to\nwink when he means  no.  You now know quite enough to enable you to\nconverse with M. Noirtier; try. \n\nNoirtier gave Valentine such a look of tenderness and gratitude that it\nwas comprehended even by the notary himself.\n\n You have heard and understood what your granddaughter has been saying,\nsir, have you?  asked the notary. Noirtier closed his eyes.\n\n And you approve of what she said that is to say, you declare that the\nsigns which she mentioned are really those by means of which you are\naccustomed to convey your thoughts? \n\n Yes. \n\n It was you who sent for me? \n\n Yes. \n\n To make your will? \n\n Yes. \n\n And you do not wish me to go away without fulfilling your original\nintentions?  The old man winked violently.\n\n Well, sir,  said the young girl,  do you understand now, and is your\nconscience perfectly at rest on the subject? \n\nBut before the notary could answer, Villefort had drawn him aside.\n\n Sir,  said he,  do you suppose for a moment that a man can sustain a\nphysical shock, such as M. Noirtier has received, without any detriment\nto his mental faculties? \n\n It is not exactly that, sir,  said the notary,  which makes me uneasy,\nbut the difficulty will be in wording his thoughts and intentions, so\nas to be able to get his answers. \n\n You must see that to be an utter impossibility,  said Villefort.\nValentine and the old man heard this conversation, and Noirtier fixed\nhis eye so earnestly on Valentine that she felt bound to answer to the\nlook.\n\n Sir,  said she,  that need not make you uneasy, however difficult it\nmay at first sight appear to be. I can discover and explain to you my\ngrandfather s thoughts, so as to put an end to all your doubts and\nfears on the subject. I have now been six years with M. Noirtier, and\nlet him tell you if ever once, during that time, he has entertained a\nthought which he was unable to make me understand. \n\n No,  signed the old man.\n\n Let us try what we can do, then,  said the notary.  You accept this\nyoung lady as your interpreter, M. Noirtier? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, sir, what do you require of me, and what document is it that you\nwish to be drawn up? \n\nValentine named all the letters of the alphabet until she came to W. At\nthis letter the eloquent eye of Noirtier gave her notice that she was\nto stop.\n\n It is very evident that it is the letter W which M. Noirtier wants, \nsaid the notary.\n\n Wait,  said Valentine; and, turning to her grandfather, she repeated,\n Wa We Wi  The old man stopped her at the last syllable. Valentine\nthen took the dictionary, and the notary watched her while she turned\nover the pages.\n\nShe passed her finger slowly down the columns, and when she came to the\nword  Will,  M. Noirtier s eye bade her stop.\n\n Will,  said the notary;  it is very evident that M. Noirtier is\ndesirous of making his will. \n\n Yes, yes, yes,  motioned the invalid.\n\n Really, sir, you must allow that this is most extraordinary,  said the\nastonished notary, turning to M. de Villefort.\n\n Yes,  said the procureur,  and I think the will promises to be yet\nmore extraordinary, for I cannot see how it is to be drawn up without\nthe intervention of Valentine, and she may, perhaps, be considered as\ntoo much interested in its contents to allow of her being a suitable\ninterpreter of the obscure and ill-defined wishes of her grandfather. \n\n No, no, no,  replied the eye of the paralytic.\n\n What?  said Villefort,  do you mean to say that Valentine is not\ninterested in your will? \n\n No. \n\n Sir,  said the notary, whose interest had been greatly excited, and\nwho had resolved on publishing far and wide the account of this\nextraordinary and picturesque scene,  what appeared so impossible to me\nan hour ago, has now become quite easy and practicable, and this may be\na perfectly valid will, provided it be read in the presence of seven\nwitnesses, approved by the testator, and sealed by the notary in the\npresence of the witnesses. As to the time, it will not require very\nmuch more than the generality of wills. There are certain forms\nnecessary to be gone through, and which are always the same. As to the\ndetails, the greater part will be furnished afterwards by the state in\nwhich we find the affairs of the testator, and by yourself, who, having\nhad the management of them, can doubtless give full information on the\nsubject. But besides all this, in order that the instrument may not be\ncontested, I am anxious to give it the greatest possible authenticity,\ntherefore, one of my colleagues will help me, and, contrary to custom,\nwill assist in the dictation of the testament. Are you satisfied, sir? \ncontinued the notary, addressing the old man.\n\n30175m\n\n\n\n Yes,  looked the invalid, his eye beaming with delight at the ready\ninterpretation of his meaning.\n\n What is he going to do?  thought Villefort, whose position demanded\nmuch reserve, but who was longing to know what his father s intentions\nwere. He left the room to give orders for another notary to be sent,\nbut Barrois, who had heard all that passed, had guessed his master s\nwishes, and had already gone to fetch one. The procureur then told his\nwife to come up. In the course of a quarter of an hour everyone had\nassembled in the chamber of the paralytic; the second notary had also\narrived.\n\nA few words sufficed for a mutual understanding between the two\nofficers of the law. They read to Noirtier the formal copy of a will,\nin order to give him an idea of the terms in which such documents are\ngenerally couched; then, in order to test the capacity of the testator,\nthe first notary said, turning towards him:\n\n When an individual makes his will, it is generally in favor or in\nprejudice of some person. \n\n Yes. \n\n Have you an exact idea of the amount of your fortune? \n\n Yes. \n\n I will name to you several sums which will increase by gradation; you\nwill stop me when I reach the one representing the amount of your own\npossessions? \n\n Yes. \n\nThere was a kind of solemnity in this interrogation. Never had the\nstruggle between mind and matter been more apparent than now, and if it\nwas not a sublime, it was, at least, a curious spectacle. They had\nformed a circle round the invalid; the second notary was sitting at a\ntable, prepared for writing, and his colleague was standing before the\ntestator in the act of interrogating him on the subject to which we\nhave alluded.\n\n Your fortune exceeds 300,000 francs, does it not?  asked he. Noirtier\nmade a sign that it did.\n\n Do you possess 400,000 francs?  inquired the notary. Noirtier s eye\nremained immovable.\n\n 500,000?  The same expression continued.\n\n 600,000 700,000 800,000 900,000? \n\nNoirtier stopped him at the last-named sum.\n\n You are then in possession of 900,000 francs?  asked the notary.\n\n Yes. \n\n In landed property? \n\n No. \n\n In stock? \n\n Yes. \n\n The stock is in your own hands? \n\nThe look which M. Noirtier cast on Barrois showed that there was\nsomething wanting which he knew where to find. The old servant left the\nroom, and presently returned, bringing with him a small casket.\n\n Do you permit us to open this casket?  asked the notary. Noirtier gave\nhis assent.\n\nThey opened it, and found 900,000 francs in bank scrip. The first\nnotary handed over each note, as he examined it, to his colleague.\n\nThe total amount was found to be as M. Noirtier had stated.\n\n It is all as he has said; it is very evident that the mind still\nretains its full force and vigor.  Then, turning towards the paralytic,\nhe said,  You possess, then, 900,000 francs of capital, which,\naccording to the manner in which you have invested it, ought to bring\nin an income of about 40,000 livres? \n\n Yes. \n\n To whom do you desire to leave this fortune? \n\n Oh!  said Madame de Villefort,  there is not much doubt on that\nsubject. M. Noirtier tenderly loves his granddaughter, Mademoiselle de\nVillefort; it is she who has nursed and tended him for six years, and\nhas, by her devoted attention, fully secured the affection, I had\nalmost said the gratitude, of her grandfather, and it is but just that\nshe should reap the fruit of her devotion. \n\nThe eye of Noirtier clearly showed by its expression that he was not\ndeceived by the false assent given by Madame de Villefort s words and\nmanner to the motives which she supposed him to entertain.\n\n Is it, then, to Mademoiselle Valentine de Villefort that you leave\nthese 900,000 francs?  demanded the notary, thinking he had only to\ninsert this clause, but waiting first for the assent of Noirtier, which\nit was necessary should be given before all the witnesses of this\nsingular scene.\n\nValentine, when her name was made the subject of discussion, had\nstepped back, to escape unpleasant observation; her eyes were cast\ndown, and she was crying. The old man looked at her for an instant with\nan expression of the deepest tenderness, then, turning towards the\nnotary, he significantly winked his eye in token of dissent.\n\n What,  said the notary,  do you not intend making Mademoiselle\nValentine de Villefort your residuary legatee? \n\n No. \n\n You are not making any mistake, are you?  said the notary;  you really\nmean to declare that such is not your intention? \n\n No,  repeated Noirtier;  No. \n\nValentine raised her head, struck dumb with astonishment. It was not so\nmuch the conviction that she was disinherited that caused her grief,\nbut her total inability to account for the feelings which had provoked\nher grandfather to such an act. But Noirtier looked at her with so much\naffectionate tenderness that she exclaimed:\n\n Oh, grandpapa, I see now that it is only your fortune of which you\ndeprive me; you still leave me the love which I have always enjoyed. \n\n Ah, yes, most assuredly,  said the eyes of the paralytic, for he\nclosed them with an expression which Valentine could not mistake.\n\n Thank you, thank you,  murmured she. The old man s declaration that\nValentine was not the destined inheritor of his fortune had excited the\nhopes of Madame de Villefort; she gradually approached the invalid, and\nsaid:\n\n Then, doubtless, dear M. Noirtier, you intend leaving your fortune to\nyour grandson, Edward de Villefort? \n\nThe winking of the eyes which answered this speech was most decided and\nterrible, and expressed a feeling almost amounting to hatred.\n\n No?  said the notary;  then, perhaps, it is to your son, M. de\nVillefort? \n\n No.  The two notaries looked at each other in mute astonishment and\ninquiry as to what were the real intentions of the testator. Villefort\nand his wife both grew red, one from shame, the other from anger.\n\n What have we all done, then, dear grandpapa?  said Valentine;  you no\nlonger seem to love any of us? \n\nThe old man s eyes passed rapidly from Villefort and his wife, and\nrested on Valentine with a look of unutterable fondness.\n\n Well,  said she;  if you love me, grandpapa, try and bring that love\nto bear upon your actions at this present moment. You know me well\nenough to be quite sure that I have never thought of your fortune;\nbesides, they say I am already rich in right of my mother too rich,\neven. Explain yourself, then. \n\nNoirtier fixed his intelligent eyes on Valentine s hand.\n\n My hand?  said she.\n\n Yes. \n\n Her hand!  exclaimed everyone.\n\n Oh, gentlemen, you see it is all useless, and that my father s mind is\nreally impaired,  said Villefort.\n\n Ah,  cried Valentine suddenly,  I understand. It is my marriage you\nmean, is it not, dear grandpapa? \n\n Yes, yes, yes,  signed the paralytic, casting on Valentine a look of\njoyful gratitude for having guessed his meaning.\n\n30179m\n\n\n\n You are angry with us all on account of this marriage, are you not? \n\n Yes? \n\n Really, this is too absurd,  said Villefort.\n\n Excuse me, sir,  replied the notary;  on the contrary, the meaning of\nM. Noirtier is quite evident to me, and I can quite easily connect the\ntrain of ideas passing in his mind. \n\n You do not wish me to marry M. Franz d pinay?  observed Valentine.\n\n I do not wish it,  said the eye of her grandfather.\n\n And you disinherit your granddaughter,  continued the notary,  because\nshe has contracted an engagement contrary to your wishes? \n\n Yes. \n\n So that, but for this marriage, she would have been your heir? \n\n Yes. \n\nThere was a profound silence. The two notaries were holding a\nconsultation as to the best means of proceeding with the affair.\nValentine was looking at her grandfather with a smile of intense\ngratitude, and Villefort was biting his lips with vexation, while\nMadame de Villefort could not succeed in repressing an inward feeling\nof joy, which, in spite of herself, appeared in her whole countenance.\n\n But,  said Villefort, who was the first to break the silence,  I\nconsider that I am the best judge of the propriety of the marriage in\nquestion. I am the only person possessing the right to dispose of my\ndaughter s hand. It is my wish that she should marry M. Franz\nd pinay and she shall marry him. \n\nValentine sank weeping into a chair.\n\n Sir,  said the notary,  how do you intend disposing of your fortune in\ncase Mademoiselle de Villefort still determines on marrying M. Franz? \nThe old man gave no answer.\n\n You will, of course, dispose of it in some way or other? \n\n Yes. \n\n In favor of some member of your family? \n\n No. \n\n Do you intend devoting it to charitable purposes, then?  pursued the\nnotary.\n\n Yes. \n\n But,  said the notary,  you are aware that the law does not allow a\nson to be entirely deprived of his patrimony? \n\n Yes. \n\n You only intend, then, to dispose of that part of your fortune which\nthe law allows you to subtract from the inheritance of your son? \nNoirtier made no answer.\n\n Do you still wish to dispose of all? \n\n Yes. \n\n But they will contest the will after your death? \n\n No. \n\n My father knows me,  replied Villefort;  he is quite sure that his\nwishes will be held sacred by me; besides, he understands that in my\nposition I cannot plead against the poor.  The eye of Noirtier beamed\nwith triumph.\n\n What do you decide on, sir?  asked the notary of Villefort.\n\n Nothing, sir; it is a resolution which my father has taken and I know\nhe never alters his mind. I am quite resigned. These 900,000 francs\nwill go out of the family in order to enrich some hospital; but it is\nridiculous thus to yield to the caprices of an old man, and I shall,\ntherefore, act according to my conscience. \n\nHaving said this, Villefort quitted the room with his wife, leaving his\nfather at liberty to do as he pleased. The same day the will was made,\nthe witnesses were brought, it was approved by the old man, sealed in\nthe presence of all and given in charge to M. Deschamps, the family\nnotary.\n\n\n\n Chapter 60. The Telegraph\n\nM. and Madame de Villefort found on their return that the Count of\nMonte Cristo, who had come to visit them in their absence, had been\nushered into the drawing-room, and was still awaiting them there.\nMadame de Villefort, who had not yet sufficiently recovered from her\nlate emotion to allow of her entertaining visitors so immediately,\nretired to her bedroom, while the procureur, who could better depend\nupon himself, proceeded at once to the salon.\n\nAlthough M. de Villefort flattered himself that, to all outward view,\nhe had completely masked the feelings which were passing in his mind,\nhe did not know that the cloud was still lowering on his brow, so much\nso that the count, whose smile was radiant, immediately noticed his\nsombre and thoughtful air.\n\n _Ma foi!_  said Monte Cristo, after the first compliments were over,\n what is the matter with you, M. de Villefort? Have I arrived at the\nmoment when you were drawing up an indictment for a capital crime? \n\nVillefort tried to smile.\n\n No, count,  he replied,  I am the only victim in this case. It is I\nwho lose my cause, and it is ill-luck, obstinacy, and folly which have\ncaused it to be decided against me. \n\n To what do you refer?  said Monte Cristo with well-feigned interest.\n Have you really met with some great misfortune? \n\n Oh, no, monsieur,  said Villefort with a bitter smile;  it is only a\nloss of money which I have sustained nothing worth mentioning, I assure\nyou. \n\n True,  said Monte Cristo,  the loss of a sum of money becomes almost\nimmaterial with a fortune such as you possess, and to one of your\nphilosophic spirit. \n\n It is not so much the loss of the money that vexes me,  said\nVillefort,  though, after all, 900,000 francs are worth regretting; but\nI am the more annoyed with this fate, chance, or whatever you please to\ncall the power which has destroyed my hopes and my fortune, and may\nblast the prospects of my child also, as it is all occasioned by an old\nman relapsed into second childhood. \n\n30183m\n\n\n\n What do you say?  said the count;  900,000 francs? It is indeed a sum\nwhich might be regretted even by a philosopher. And who is the cause of\nall this annoyance? \n\n My father, as I told you. \n\n M. Noirtier? But I thought you told me he had become entirely\nparalyzed, and that all his faculties were completely destroyed? \n\n Yes, his bodily faculties, for he can neither move nor speak,\nnevertheless he thinks, acts, and wills in the manner I have described.\nI left him about five minutes ago, and he is now occupied in dictating\nhis will to two notaries. \n\n But to do this he must have spoken? \n\n He has done better than that he has made himself understood. \n\n How was such a thing possible? \n\n By the help of his eyes, which are still full of life, and, as you\nperceive, possess the power of inflicting mortal injury. \n\n My dear,  said Madame de Villefort, who had just entered the room,\n perhaps you exaggerate the evil. \n\n Good-morning, madame,  said the count, bowing.\n\n\n\nMadame de Villefort acknowledged the salutation with one of her most\ngracious smiles.\n\n What is this that M. de Villefort has been telling me?  demanded Monte\nCristo  and what incomprehensible misfortune \n\n Incomprehensible is the word!  interrupted the procureur, shrugging\nhis shoulders.  It is an old man s caprice! \n\n And is there no means of making him revoke his decision? \n\n Yes,  said Madame de Villefort;  and it is still entirely in the power\nof my husband to cause the will, which is now in prejudice of\nValentine, to be altered in her favor. \n\nThe count, who perceived that M. and Madame de Villefort were beginning\nto speak in parables, appeared to pay no attention to the conversation,\nand feigned to be busily engaged in watching Edward, who was\nmischievously pouring some ink into the bird s water-glass.\n\n My dear,  said Villefort, in answer to his wife,  you know I have\nnever been accustomed to play the patriarch in my family, nor have I\never considered that the fate of a universe was to be decided by my\nnod. Nevertheless, it is necessary that my will should be respected in\nmy family, and that the folly of an old man and the caprice of a child\nshould not be allowed to overturn a project which I have entertained\nfor so many years. The Baron d pinay was my friend, as you know, and\nan alliance with his son is the most suitable thing that could possibly\nbe arranged. \n\n Do you think,  said Madame de Villefort,  that Valentine is in league\nwith him? She has always been opposed to this marriage, and I should\nnot be at all surprised if what we have just seen and heard is nothing\nbut the execution of a plan concerted between them. \n\n Madame,  said Villefort,  believe me, a fortune of 900,000 francs is\nnot so easily renounced. \n\n She could, nevertheless, make up her mind to renounce the world, sir,\nsince it is only about a year ago that she herself proposed entering a\nconvent. \n\n Never mind,  replied Villefort;  I say that this marriage _shall_ be\nconsummated. \n\n Notwithstanding your father s wishes to the contrary?  said Madame de\nVillefort, selecting a new point of attack.  That is a serious thing. \n\nMonte Cristo, who pretended not to be listening, heard however, every\nword that was said.\n\n30185m\n\n\n\n Madame,  replied Villefort  I can truly say that I have always\nentertained a high respect for my father, because, to the natural\nfeeling of relationship was added the consciousness of his moral\nsuperiority. The name of father is sacred in two senses; he should be\nreverenced as the author of our being and as a master whom we ought to\nobey. But, under the present circumstances, I am justified in doubting\nthe wisdom of an old man who, because he hated the father, vents his\nanger on the son. It would be ridiculous in me to regulate my conduct\nby such caprices. I shall still continue to preserve the same respect\ntoward M. Noirtier; I will suffer, without complaint, the pecuniary\ndeprivation to which he has subjected me; but I shall remain firm in my\ndetermination, and the world shall see which party has reason on his\nside. Consequently I shall marry my daughter to the Baron Franz\nd pinay, because I consider it would be a proper and eligible match\nfor her to make, and, in short, because I choose to bestow my\ndaughter s hand on whomever I please. \n\n What?  said the count, the approbation of whose eye Villefort had\nfrequently solicited during this speech.  What? Do you say that M.\nNoirtier disinherits Mademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to\nmarry M. le Baron Franz d pinay? \n\n Yes, sir, that is the reason,  said Villefort, shrugging his\nshoulders.\n\n The apparent reason, at least,  said Madame de Villefort.\n\n The _real_ reason, madame, I can assure you; I know my father. \n\n But I want to know in what way M. d pinay can have displeased your\nfather more than any other person? \n\n I believe I know M. Franz d pinay,  said the count;  is he not the\nson of General de Quesnel, who was created Baron d pinay by Charles\nX.? \n\n The same,  said Villefort.\n\n Well, but he is a charming young man, according to my ideas. \n\n He is, which makes me believe that it is only an excuse of M. Noirtier\nto prevent his granddaughter marrying; old men are always so selfish in\ntheir affection,  said Madame de Villefort.\n\n But,  said Monte Cristo  do you not know any cause for this hatred? \n\n Ah, _ma foi!_ who is to know? \n\n Perhaps it is some political difference? \n\n My father and the Baron d pinay lived in the stormy times of which I\nonly saw the ending,  said Villefort.\n\n Was not your father a Bonapartist?  asked Monte Cristo;  I think I\nremember that you told me something of that kind. \n\n My father has been a Jacobin more than anything else,  said Villefort,\ncarried by his emotion beyond the bounds of prudence;  and the\nsenator s robe, which Napoleon cast on his shoulders, only served to\ndisguise the old man without in any degree changing him. When my father\nconspired, it was not for the emperor, it was against the Bourbons; for\nM. Noirtier possessed this peculiarity, he never projected any Utopian\nschemes which could never be realized, but strove for possibilities,\nand he applied to the realization of these possibilities the terrible\ntheories of The Mountain, theories that never shrank from any means\nthat were deemed necessary to bring about the desired result. \n\n Well,  said Monte Cristo,  it is just as I thought; it was politics\nwhich brought Noirtier and M. d pinay into personal contact. Although\nGeneral d pinay served under Napoleon, did he not still retain\nroyalist sentiments? And was he not the person who was assassinated one\nevening on leaving a Bonapartist meeting to which he had been invited\non the supposition that he favored the cause of the emperor? \n\nVillefort looked at the count almost with terror.\n\n Am I mistaken, then?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n No, sir, the facts were precisely what you have stated,  said Madame\nde Villefort;  and it was to prevent the renewal of old feuds that M.\nde Villefort formed the idea of uniting in the bonds of affection the\ntwo children of these inveterate enemies. \n\n It was a sublime and charitable thought,  said Monte Cristo,  and the\nwhole world should applaud it. It would be noble to see Mademoiselle\nNoirtier de Villefort assuming the title of Madame Franz d pinay. \n\nVillefort shuddered and looked at Monte Cristo as if he wished to read\nin his countenance the real feelings which had dictated the words he\nhad just uttered. But the count completely baffled the procureur, and\nprevented him from discovering anything beneath the never-varying smile\nhe was so constantly in the habit of assuming.\n\n Although,  said Villefort,  it will be a serious thing for Valentine\nto lose her grandfather s fortune, I do not think that M. d pinay will\nbe frightened at this pecuniary loss. He will, perhaps, hold me in\ngreater esteem than the money itself, seeing that I sacrifice\neverything in order to keep my word with him. Besides, he knows that\nValentine is rich in right of her mother, and that she will, in all\nprobability, inherit the fortune of M. and Madame de Saint-M ran, her\nmother s parents, who both love her tenderly. \n\n And who are fully as well worth loving and tending as M. Noirtier, \nsaid Madame de Villefort;  besides, they are to come to Paris in about\na month, and Valentine, after the affront she has received, need not\nconsider it necessary to continue to bury herself alive by being shut\nup with M. Noirtier. \n\nThe count listened with satisfaction to this tale of wounded self-love\nand defeated ambition.\n\n But it seems to me,  said Monte Cristo,  and I must begin by asking\nyour pardon for what I am about to say, that if M. Noirtier disinherits\nMademoiselle de Villefort because she is going to marry a man whose\nfather he detested, he cannot have the same cause of complaint against\nthis dear Edward. \n\n True,  said Madame de Villefort, with an intonation of voice which it\nis impossible to describe;  is it not unjust shamefully unjust? Poor\nEdward is as much M. Noirtier s grandchild as Valentine, and yet, if\nshe had not been going to marry M. Franz, M. Noirtier would have left\nher all his money; and supposing Valentine to be disinherited by her\ngrandfather, she will still be three times richer than he. \n\nThe count listened and said no more.\n\n Count,  said Villefort,  we will not entertain you any longer with our\nfamily misfortunes. It is true that my patrimony will go to endow\ncharitable institutions, and my father will have deprived me of my\nlawful inheritance without any reason for doing so, but I shall have\nthe satisfaction of knowing that I have acted like a man of sense and\nfeeling. M. d pinay, to whom I had promised the interest of this sum,\nshall receive it, even if I endure the most cruel privations. \n\n However,  said Madame de Villefort, returning to the one idea which\nincessantly occupied her mind,  perhaps it would be better to explain\nthis unlucky affair to M. d pinay, in order to give him the\nopportunity of himself renouncing his claim to the hand of Mademoiselle\nde Villefort. \n\n Ah, that would be a great pity,  said Villefort.\n\n A great pity,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Undoubtedly,  said Villefort, moderating the tones of his voice,  a\nmarriage once concerted and then broken off, throws a sort of discredit\non a young lady; then again, the old reports, which I was so anxious to\nput an end to, will instantly gain ground. No, it will all go well; M.\nd pinay, if he is an honorable man, will consider himself more than\never pledged to Mademoiselle de Villefort, unless he were actuated by a\ndecided feeling of avarice, but that is impossible. \n\n I agree with M. de Villefort,  said Monte Cristo, fixing his eyes on\nMadame de Villefort;  and if I were sufficiently intimate with him to\nallow of giving my advice, I would persuade him, since I have been told\nM. d pinay is coming back, to settle this affair at once beyond all\npossibility of revocation. I will answer for the success of a project\nwhich will reflect so much honor on M. de Villefort. \n\nThe procureur arose, delighted with the proposition, but his wife\nslightly changed color.\n\n Well, that is all that I wanted, and I will be guided by a counsellor\nsuch as you are,  said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo.\n Therefore let everyone here look upon what has passed today as if it\nhad not happened, and as though we had never thought of such a thing as\na change in our original plans. \n\n Sir,  said the count,  the world, unjust as it is, will be pleased\nwith your resolution; your friends will be proud of you, and M.\nd pinay, even if he took Mademoiselle de Villefort without any dowry,\nwhich he will not do, would be delighted with the idea of entering a\nfamily which could make such sacrifices in order to keep a promise and\nfulfil a duty. \n\nAt the conclusion of these words, the count rose to depart.\n\n Are you going to leave us, count?  said Madame de Villefort.\n\n I am sorry to say I must do so, madame, I only came to remind you of\nyour promise for Saturday. \n\n Did you fear that we should forget it? \n\n You are very good, madame, but M. de Villefort has so many important\nand urgent occupations. \n\n My husband has given me his word, sir,  said Madame de Villefort;  you\nhave just seen him resolve to keep it when he has everything to lose,\nand surely there is more reason for his doing so where he has\neverything to gain. \n\n And,  said Villefort,  is it at your house in the Champs- lys es that\nyou receive your visitors? \n\n No,  said Monte Cristo,  which is precisely the reason which renders\nyour kindness more meritorious, it is in the country. \n\n In the country? \n\n Yes. \n\n Where is it, then? Near Paris, is it not? \n\n Very near, only half a league from the Barriers, it is at Auteuil. \n\n At Auteuil?  said Villefort;  true, Madame de Villefort told me you\nlived at Auteuil, since it was to your house that she was taken. And in\nwhat part of Auteuil do you reside? \n\n Rue de la Fontaine. \n\n Rue de la Fontaine!  exclaimed Villefort in an agitated tone;  at what\nnumber? \n\n No. 28. \n\n Then,  cried Villefort,  was it you who bought M. de Saint-M ran s\nhouse! \n\n Did it belong to M. de Saint-M ran?  demanded Monte Cristo.\n\n Yes,  replied Madame de Villefort;  and, would you believe it,\ncount \n\n Believe what? \n\n You think this house pretty, do you not? \n\n I think it charming. \n\n Well, my husband would never live in it. \n\n Indeed?  returned Monte Cristo,  that is a prejudice on your part, M.\nde Villefort, for which I am quite at a loss to account. \n\n I do not like Auteuil, sir,  said the procureur, making an evident\neffort to appear calm.\n\n But I hope you will not carry your antipathy so far as to deprive me\nof the pleasure of your company, sir,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n No, count, I hope I assure you I shall do my best,  stammered\nVillefort.\n\n Oh,  said Monte Cristo,  I allow of no excuse. On Saturday, at six\no clock. I shall be expecting you, and if you fail to come, I shall\nthink for how do I know to the contrary? that this house, which has\nremained uninhabited for twenty years, must have some gloomy tradition\nor dreadful legend connected with it. \n\n I will come, count, I will be sure to come,  said Villefort eagerly.\n\n Thank you,  said Monte Cristo;  now you must permit me to take my\nleave of you. \n\n You said before that you were obliged to leave us, monsieur,  said\nMadame de Villefort,  and you were about to tell us why when your\nattention was called to some other subject. \n\n Indeed madame,  said Monte Cristo:  I scarcely know if I dare tell you\nwhere I am going. \n\n Nonsense; say on. \n\n Well, then, it is to see a thing on which I have sometimes mused for\nhours together. \n\n What is it? \n\n A telegraph. So now I have told my secret. \n\n A telegraph?  repeated Madame de Villefort.\n\n Yes, a telegraph. I had often seen one placed at the end of a road on\na hillock, and in the light of the sun its black arms, bending in every\ndirection, always reminded me of the claws of an immense beetle, and I\nassure you it was never without emotion that I gazed on it, for I could\nnot help thinking how wonderful it was that these various signs should\nbe made to cleave the air with such precision as to convey to the\ndistance of three hundred leagues the ideas and wishes of a man sitting\nat a table at one end of the line to another man similarly placed at\nthe opposite extremity, and all this effected by a simple act of\nvolition on the part of the sender of the message. I began to think of\ngenii, sylphs, gnomes, in short, of all the ministers of the occult\nsciences, until I laughed aloud at the freaks of my own imagination.\nNow, it never occurred to me to wish for a nearer inspection of these\nlarge insects, with their long black claws, for I always feared to find\nunder their stone wings some little human genius fagged to death with\ncabals, factions, and government intrigues. But one fine day I learned\nthat the mover of this telegraph was only a poor wretch, hired for\ntwelve hundred francs a year, and employed all day, not in studying the\nheavens like an astronomer, or in gazing on the water like an angler,\nor even in enjoying the privilege of observing the country around him,\nbut all his monotonous life was passed in watching his white-bellied,\nblack-clawed fellow insect, four or five leagues distant from him. At\nlength I felt a desire to study this living chrysalis more closely, and\nto endeavor to understand the secret part played by these insect-actors\nwhen they occupy themselves simply with pulling different pieces of\nstring. \n\n30191m\n\n\n\n And are you going there? \n\n I am. \n\n What telegraph do you intend visiting? that of the home department, or\nof the observatory? \n\n Oh, no; I should find there people who would force me to understand\nthings of which I would prefer to remain ignorant, and who would try to\nexplain to me, in spite of myself, a mystery which even they do not\nunderstand. _Ma foi!_ I should wish to keep my illusions concerning\ninsects unimpaired; it is quite enough to have those dissipated which I\nhad formed of my fellow-creatures. I shall, therefore, not visit either\nof these telegraphs, but one in the open country where I shall find a\ngood-natured simpleton, who knows no more than the machine he is\nemployed to work. \n\n You are a singular man,  said Villefort.\n\n What line would you advise me to study? \n\n The one that is most in use just at this time. \n\n The Spanish one, you mean, I suppose? \n\n Yes; should you like a letter to the minister that they might explain\nto you \n\n No,  said Monte Cristo;  since, as I told you before, I do not wish to\ncomprehend it. The moment I understand it there will no longer exist a\ntelegraph for me; it will be nothing more than a sign from M. Duch tel,\nor from M. Montalivet, transmitted to the prefect of Bayonne, mystified\nby two Greek words, _t le_, _graphein_. It is the insect with black\nclaws, and the awful word which I wish to retain in my imagination in\nall its purity and all its importance. \n\n Go then; for in the course of two hours it will be dark, and you will\nnot be able to see anything. \n\n _Ma foi!_ you frighten me. Which is the nearest way? Bayonne? \n\n Yes; the road to Bayonne. \n\n And afterwards the road to Ch tillon? \n\n Yes. \n\n By the tower of Montlh ry, you mean? \n\n Yes. \n\n Thank you. Good-bye. On Saturday I will tell you my impressions\nconcerning the telegraph. \n\nAt the door the count was met by the two notaries, who had just\ncompleted the act which was to disinherit Valentine, and who were\nleaving under the conviction of having done a thing which could not\nfail of redounding considerably to their credit.\n\n\n\n Chapter 61. How a Gardener May Get Rid of the Dormice that Eat His\n Peaches\n\nNot on the same night as he had stated, but the next morning, the Count\nof Monte Cristo went out by the Barri re d Enfer, taking the road to\nOrl ans. Leaving the village of Linas, without stopping at the\ntelegraph, which flourished its great bony arms as he passed, the count\nreached the tower of Montlh ry, situated, as everyone knows, upon the\nhighest point of the plain of that name. At the foot of the hill the\ncount dismounted and began to ascend by a little winding path, about\neighteen inches wide; when he reached the summit he found himself\nstopped by a hedge, upon which green fruit had succeeded to red and\nwhite flowers.\n\nMonte Cristo looked for the entrance to the enclosure, and was not long\nin finding a little wooden gate, working on willow hinges, and fastened\nwith a nail and string. The count soon mastered the mechanism, the gate\nopened, and he then found himself in a little garden, about twenty feet\nlong by twelve wide, bounded on one side by part of the hedge, which\ncontained the ingenious contrivance we have called a gate, and on the\nother by the old tower, covered with ivy and studded with wall-flowers.\n\nNo one would have thought in looking at this old, weather-beaten,\nfloral-decked tower (which might be likened to an elderly dame dressed\nup to receive her grandchildren at a birthday feast) that it would have\nbeen capable of telling strange things, if, in addition to the menacing\nears which the proverb says all walls are provided with, it had also a\nvoice.\n\nThe garden was crossed by a path of red gravel, edged by a border of\nthick box, of many years  growth, and of a tone and color that would\nhave delighted the heart of Delacroix, our modern Rubens. This path was\nformed in the shape of the figure of 8, thus, in its windings, making a\nwalk of sixty feet in a garden of only twenty.\n\nNever had Flora, the fresh and smiling goddess of gardeners, been\nhonored with a purer or more scrupulous worship than that which was\npaid to her in this little enclosure. In fact, of the twenty rose-trees\nwhich formed the _parterre_, not one bore the mark of the slug, nor\nwere there evidences anywhere of the clustering aphis which is so\ndestructive to plants growing in a damp soil. And yet it was not\nbecause the damp had been excluded from the garden; the earth, black as\nsoot, the thick foliage of the trees betrayed its presence; besides,\nhad natural humidity been wanting, it could have been immediately\nsupplied by artificial means, thanks to a tank of water, sunk in one of\nthe corners of the garden, and upon which were stationed a frog and a\ntoad, who, from antipathy, no doubt, always remained on the two\nopposite sides of the basin. There was not a blade of grass to be seen\nin the paths, or a weed in the flower-beds; no fine lady ever trained\nand watered her geraniums, her cacti, and her rhododendrons, in her\nporcelain _jardini re_ with more pains than this hitherto unseen\ngardener bestowed upon his little enclosure.\n\nMonte Cristo stopped after having closed the gate and fastened the\nstring to the nail, and cast a look around.\n\n The man at the telegraph,  said he,  must either engage a gardener or\ndevote himself passionately to agriculture. \n\nSuddenly he struck against something crouching behind a wheelbarrow\nfilled with leaves; the something rose, uttering an exclamation of\nastonishment, and Monte Cristo found himself facing a man about fifty\nyears old, who was plucking strawberries, which he was placing upon\ngrape leaves. He had twelve leaves and about as many strawberries,\nwhich, on rising suddenly, he let fall from his hand.\n\n You are gathering your crop, sir?  said Monte Cristo, smiling.\n\n30193m\n\n\n\n Excuse me, sir,  replied the man, raising his hand to his cap;  I am\nnot up there, I know, but I have only just come down. \n\n Do not let me interfere with you in anything, my friend,  said the\ncount;  gather your strawberries, if, indeed, there are any left. \n\n I have ten left,  said the man,  for here are eleven, and I had\ntwenty-one, five more than last year. But I am not surprised; the\nspring has been warm this year, and strawberries require heat, sir.\nThis is the reason that, instead of the sixteen I had last year, I have\nthis year, you see, eleven, already plucked twelve, thirteen, fourteen,\nfifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Ah, I miss three, they were here\nlast night, sir I am sure they were here I counted them. It must be the\nson of M re Simon who has stolen them; I saw him strolling about here\nthis morning. Ah, the young rascal stealing in a garden he does not\nknow where that may lead him to. \n\n Certainly, it is wrong,  said Monte Cristo,  but you should take into\nconsideration the youth and greediness of the delinquent. \n\n Of course,  said the gardener,  but that does not make it the less\nunpleasant. But, sir, once more I beg pardon; perhaps you are an\nofficer that I am detaining here.  And he glanced timidly at the\ncount s blue coat.\n\n30197m\n\n\n\n Calm yourself, my friend,  said the count, with the smile which he\nmade at will either terrible or benevolent, and which now expressed\nonly the kindliest feeling;  I am not an inspector, but a traveller,\nbrought here by a curiosity he half repents of, since he causes you to\nlose your time. \n\n Ah, my time is not valuable,  replied the man with a melancholy smile.\n Still it belongs to government, and I ought not to waste it; but,\nhaving received the signal that I might rest for an hour  (here he\nglanced at the sun-dial, for there was everything in the enclosure of\nMontlh ry, even a sun-dial),  and having ten minutes before me, and my\nstrawberries being ripe, when a day longer by-the-by, sir, do you think\ndormice eat them? \n\n Indeed, I should think not,  replied Monte Cristo;  dormice are bad\nneighbors for us who do not eat them preserved, as the Romans did. \n\n What? Did the Romans eat them?  said the gardener ate dormice? \n\n I have read so in Petronius,  said the count.\n\n Really? They can t be nice, though they do say  as fat as a dormouse. \nIt is not a wonder they are fat, sleeping all day, and only waking to\neat all night. Listen. Last year I had four apricots they stole one, I\nhad one nectarine, only one well, sir, they ate half of it on the wall;\na splendid nectarine I never ate a better. \n\n You ate it? \n\n That is to say, the half that was left you understand; it was\nexquisite, sir. Ah, those gentlemen never choose the worst morsels;\nlike M re Simon s son, who has not chosen the worst strawberries. But\nthis year,  continued the horticulturist,  I ll take care it shall not\nhappen, even if I should be forced to sit by the whole night to watch\nwhen the strawberries are ripe. \n\nMonte Cristo had seen enough. Every man has a devouring passion in his\nheart, as every fruit has its worm; that of the telegraph man was\nhorticulture. He began gathering the grape-leaves which screened the\nsun from the grapes, and won the heart of the gardener.\n\n Did you come here, sir, to see the telegraph?  he said.\n\n Yes, if it isn t contrary to the rules. \n\n Oh, no,  said the gardener;  not in the least, since there is no\ndanger that anyone can possibly understand what we are saying. \n\n I have been told,  said the count,  that you do not always yourselves\nunderstand the signals you repeat. \n\n That is true, sir, and that is what I like best,  said the man,\nsmiling.\n\n Why do you like that best? \n\n Because then I have no responsibility. I am a machine then, and\nnothing else, and so long as I work, nothing more is required of me. \n\n Is it possible,  said Monte Cristo to himself,  that I can have met\nwith a man that has no ambition? That would spoil my plans. \n\n Sir,  said the gardener, glancing at the sun-dial,  the ten minutes\nare almost up; I must return to my post. Will you go up with me? \n\n I follow you. \n\nMonte Cristo entered the tower, which was divided into three stories.\nThe tower contained implements, such as spades, rakes, watering-pots,\nhung against the wall; this was all the furniture. The second was the\nman s conventional abode, or rather sleeping-place; it contained a few\npoor articles of household furniture a bed, a table, two chairs, a\nstone pitcher and some dry herbs, hung up to the ceiling, which the\ncount recognized as sweet peas, and of which the good man was\npreserving the seeds; he had labelled them with as much care as if he\nhad been master botanist in the Jardin des Plantes.\n\n Does it require much study to learn the art of telegraphing?  asked\nMonte Cristo.\n\n The study does not take long; it was acting as a supernumerary that\nwas so tedious. \n\n And what is the pay? \n\n A thousand francs, sir. \n\n It is nothing. \n\n No; but then we are lodged, as you perceive. \n\nMonte Cristo looked at the room. They passed to the third story; it was\nthe telegraph room. Monte Cristo looked in turn at the two iron handles\nby which the machine was worked.  It is very interesting,  he said,\n but it must be very tedious for a lifetime. \n\n Yes. At first my neck was cramped with looking at it, but at the end\nof a year I became used to it; and then we have our hours of\nrecreation, and our holidays. \n\n Holidays? \n\n Yes. \n\n When? \n\n When we have a fog. \n\n Ah, to be sure. \n\n Those are indeed holidays to me; I go into the garden, I plant, I\nprune, I trim, I kill the insects all day long. \n\n How long have you been here? \n\n Ten years, and five as a supernumerary make fifteen. \n\n You are \n\n Fifty-five years old. \n\n How long must you have served to claim the pension? \n\n Oh, sir, twenty-five years. \n\n And how much is the pension? \n\n A hundred crowns. \n\n Poor humanity!  murmured Monte Cristo.\n\n What did you say, sir?  asked the man.\n\n I was saying it was very interesting. \n\n What was? \n\n All you were showing me. And you really understand none of these\nsignals? \n\n None at all. \n\n And have you never tried to understand them? \n\n Never. Why should I? \n\n But still there are some signals only addressed to you. \n\n Certainly. \n\n And do you understand them? \n\n They are always the same. \n\n And they mean \n\n _Nothing new; You have an hour;_  or  _Tomorrow_. \n\n This is simple enough,  said the count;  but look, is not your\ncorrespondent putting itself in motion? \n\n Ah, yes; thank you, sir. \n\n And what is it saying anything you understand? \n\n Yes; it asks if I am ready. \n\n And you reply? \n\n By the same sign, which, at the same time, tells my right-hand\ncorrespondent that I am ready, while it gives notice to my left-hand\ncorrespondent to prepare in his turn. \n\n It is very ingenious,  said the count.\n\n You will see,  said the man proudly;  in five minutes he will speak. \n\n I have, then, five minutes,  said Monte Cristo to himself;  it is more\ntime than I require. My dear sir, will you allow me to ask you a\nquestion? \n\n What is it, sir? \n\n You are fond of gardening? \n\n Passionately. \n\n And you would be pleased to have, instead of this terrace of twenty\nfeet, an enclosure of two acres? \n\n Sir, I should make a terrestrial paradise of it. \n\n You live badly on your thousand francs? \n\n Badly enough; but yet I do live. \n\n Yes; but you have a wretchedly small garden. \n\n True, the garden is not large. \n\n And, then, such as it is, it is filled with dormice, who eat\neverything. \n\n Ah, they are my scourges. \n\n Tell me, should you have the misfortune to turn your head while your\nright-hand correspondent was telegraphing \n\n I should not see him. \n\n Then what would happen? \n\n I could not repeat the signals. \n\n And then? \n\n Not having repeated them, through negligence, I should be fined. \n\n How much? \n\n A hundred francs. \n\n The tenth of your income that would be fine work. \n\n Ah!  said the man.\n\n Has it ever happened to you?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Once, sir, when I was grafting a rose-tree. \n\n Well, suppose you were to alter a signal, and substitute another? \n\n Ah, that is another case; I should be turned off, and lose my\npension. \n\n Three hundred francs? \n\n A hundred crowns, yes, sir; so you see that I am not likely to do any\nof these things. \n\n Not even for fifteen years  wages? Come, it is worth thinking about? \n\n For fifteen thousand francs? \n\n Yes. \n\n Sir, you alarm me. \n\n Nonsense. \n\n Sir, you are tempting me? \n\n Just so; fifteen thousand francs, do you understand? \n\n Sir, let me see my right-hand correspondent. \n\n On the contrary, do not look at him, but at this. \n\n What is it? \n\n What? Do you not know these bits of paper? \n\n Bank-notes! \n\n Exactly; there are fifteen of them. \n\n And whose are they? \n\n Yours, if you like. \n\n Mine?  exclaimed the man, half-suffocated.\n\n Yes; yours your own property. \n\n Sir, my right-hand correspondent is signalling. \n\n Let him signal. \n\n Sir, you have distracted me; I shall be fined. \n\n That will cost you a hundred francs; you see it is your interest to\ntake my bank-notes. \n\n Sir, my right-hand correspondent redoubles his signals; he is\nimpatient. \n\n Never mind take these;  and the count placed the packet in the man s\nhands.  Now this is not all,  he said;  you cannot live upon your\nfifteen thousand francs. \n\n I shall still have my place. \n\n No, you will lose it, for you are going to alter your correspondent s\nmessage. \n\n Oh, sir, what are you proposing? \n\n A jest. \n\n Sir, unless you force me \n\n I think I can effectually force you;  and Monte Cristo drew another\npacket from his pocket.  Here are ten thousand more francs,  he said,\n with the fifteen thousand already in your pocket, they will make\ntwenty-five thousand. With five thousand you can buy a pretty little\nhouse with two acres of land; the remaining twenty thousand will bring\nyou in a thousand francs a year. \n\n A garden with two acres of land! \n\n And a thousand francs a year. \n\n Oh, heavens! \n\n Come, take them,  and Monte Cristo forced the bank-notes into his\nhand.\n\n What am I to do? \n\n Nothing very difficult. \n\n But what is it? \n\n To repeat these signs.  Monte Cristo took a paper from his pocket,\nupon which were drawn three signs, with numbers to indicate the order\nin which they were to be worked.\n\n There, you see it will not take long. \n\n Yes; but \n\n Do this, and you will have nectarines and all the rest. \n\nThe shot told; red with fever, while the large drops fell from his\nbrow, the man executed, one after the other, the three signs given by\nthe count, in spite of the frightful contortions of the right-hand\ncorrespondent, who, not understanding the change, began to think the\ngardener had gone mad. As to the left-hand one, he conscientiously\nrepeated the same signals, which were finally transmitted to the\nMinister of the Interior.\n\n Now you are rich,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Yes,  replied the man,  but at what a price! \n\n Listen, friend,  said Monte Cristo.  I do not wish to cause you any\nremorse; believe me, then, when I swear to you that you have wronged no\nman, but on the contrary have benefited mankind. \n\nThe man looked at the bank-notes, felt them, counted them, turned pale,\nthen red, then rushed into his room to drink a glass of water, but he\nhad no time to reach the water-jug, and fainted in the midst of his\ndried herbs. Five minutes after the new telegram reached the minister,\nDebray had the horses put to his carriage, and drove to Danglars \nhouse.\n\n Has your husband any Spanish bonds?  he asked of the baroness.\n\n I think so, indeed! He has six millions  worth. \n\n He must sell them at whatever price. \n\n Why? \n\n Because Don Carlos has fled from Bourges, and has returned to Spain. \n\n30203m\n\n\n\n How do you know?  Debray shrugged his shoulders.\n\n The idea of asking how I hear the news,  he said.\n\nThe baroness did not wait for a repetition; she ran to her husband, who\nimmediately hastened to his agent, and ordered him to sell at any\nprice. When it was seen that Danglars sold, the Spanish funds fell\ndirectly. Danglars lost five hundred thousand francs; but he rid\nhimself of all his Spanish shares. The same evening the following was\nread in _Le Messager_:\n\n [By telegraph.] The king, Don Carlos, has escaped the vigilance of his\nguardians at Bourges, and has returned to Spain by the Catalonian\nfrontier. Barcelona has risen in his favor. \n\nAll that evening nothing was spoken of but the foresight of Danglars,\nwho had sold his shares, and of the luck of the stock-jobber, who only\nlost five hundred thousand francs by such a blow. Those who had kept\ntheir shares, or bought those of Danglars, looked upon themselves as\nruined, and passed a very bad night. Next morning _Le Moniteur_\ncontained the following:\n\n It was without any foundation that _Le Messager_ yesterday announced\nthe flight of Don Carlos and the revolt of Barcelona. The king (Don\nCarlos) has not left Bourges, and the peninsula is in the enjoyment of\nprofound peace. A telegraphic signal, improperly interpreted, owing to\nthe fog, was the cause of this error. \n\nThe funds rose one per cent higher than before they had fallen. This,\nreckoning his loss, and what he had missed gaining, made the difference\nof a million to Danglars.\n\n Good,  said Monte Cristo to Morrel, who was at his house when the news\narrived of the strange reverse of fortune of which Danglars had been\nthe victim,  I have just made a discovery for twenty-five thousand\nfrancs, for which I would have paid a hundred thousand. \n\n What have you discovered?  asked Morrel.\n\n I have just discovered how a gardener may get rid of the dormice that\neat his peaches. \n\n\n\n Chapter 62. Ghosts\n\nAt first sight, the exterior of the house at Auteuil gave no\nindications of splendor, nothing one would expect from the destined\nresidence of the magnificent Count of Monte Cristo; but this simplicity\nwas according to the will of its master, who positively ordered nothing\nto be altered outside. The splendor was within. Indeed, almost before\nthe door opened, the scene changed.\n\nM. Bertuccio had outdone himself in the taste displayed in furnishing,\nand in the rapidity with which it was executed. It is told that the Duc\nd Antin removed in a single night a whole avenue of trees that annoyed\nLouis XIV.; in three days M. Bertuccio planted an entirely bare court\nwith poplars, large spreading sycamores to shade the different parts of\nthe house, and in the foreground, instead of the usual paving-stones,\nhalf hidden by the grass, there extended a lawn but that morning laid\ndown, and upon which the water was yet glistening. For the rest, the\norders had been issued by the count; he himself had given a plan to\nBertuccio, marking the spot where each tree was to be planted, and the\nshape and extent of the lawn which was to take the place of the\npaving-stones.\n\nThus the house had become unrecognizable, and Bertuccio himself\ndeclared that he scarcely knew it, encircled as it was by a framework\nof trees. The overseer would not have objected, while he was about it,\nto have made some improvements in the garden, but the count had\npositively forbidden it to be touched. Bertuccio made amends, however,\nby loading the antechambers, staircases, and mantle-pieces with\nflowers.\n\nWhat, above all, manifested the shrewdness of the steward, and the\nprofound science of the master, the one in carrying out the ideas of\nthe other, was that this house which appeared only the night before so\nsad and gloomy, impregnated with that sickly smell one can almost fancy\nto be the smell of time, had in a single day acquired the aspect of\nlife, was scented with its master s favorite perfumes, and had the very\nlight regulated according to his wish. When the count arrived, he had\nunder his touch his books and arms, his eyes rested upon his favorite\npictures; his dogs, whose caresses he loved, welcomed him in the\nantechamber; the birds, whose songs delighted him, cheered him with\ntheir music; and the house, awakened from its long sleep, like the\nsleeping beauty in the wood, lived, sang, and bloomed like the houses\nwe have long cherished, and in which, when we are forced to leave them,\nwe leave a part of our souls.\n\nThe servants passed gayly along the fine courtyard; some, belonging to\nthe kitchens, gliding down the stairs, restored but the previous day,\nas if they had always inhabited the house; others filling the\ncoach-houses, where the equipages, encased and numbered, appeared to\nhave been installed for the last fifty years; and in the stables the\nhorses replied with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to them with much\nmore respect than many servants pay their masters.\n\nThe library was divided into two parts on either side of the wall, and\ncontained upwards of two thousand volumes; one division was entirely\ndevoted to novels, and even the volume which had been published but the\nday before was to be seen in its place in all the dignity of its red\nand gold binding.\n\nOn the other side of the house, to match with the library, was the\nconservatory, ornamented with rare flowers, that bloomed in china jars;\nand in the midst of the greenhouse, marvellous alike to sight and\nsmell, was a billiard-table which looked as if it had been abandoned\nduring the past hour by players who had left the balls on the cloth.\n\nOne chamber alone had been respected by the magnificent Bertuccio.\nBefore this room, to which you could ascend by the grand, and go out by\nthe back staircase, the servants passed with curiosity, and Bertuccio\nwith terror.\n\nAt five o clock precisely, the count arrived before the house at\nAuteuil, followed by Ali. Bertuccio was awaiting this arrival with\nimpatience, mingled with uneasiness; he hoped for some compliments,\nwhile, at the same time, he feared to have frowns. Monte Cristo\ndescended into the courtyard, walked all over the house, without giving\nany sign of approbation or pleasure, until he entered his bedroom,\nsituated on the opposite side to the closed room; then he approached a\nlittle piece of furniture, made of rosewood, which he had noticed at a\nprevious visit.\n\n That can only be to hold gloves,  he said.\n\n Will your excellency deign to open it?  said the delighted Bertuccio,\n and you will find gloves in it. \n\nElsewhere the count found everything he required smelling-bottles,\ncigars, knick-knacks.\n\n30207m\n\n\n\n Good,  he said; and M. Bertuccio left enraptured, so great, so\npowerful, and real was the influence exercised by this man over all who\nsurrounded him.\n\nAt precisely six o clock the clatter of horses  hoofs was heard at the\nentrance door; it was our captain of Spahis, who had arrived on M d ah.\n I am sure I am the first,  cried Morrel;  I did it on purpose to have\nyou a minute to myself, before everyone came. Julie and Emmanuel have a\nthousand things to tell you. Ah, really this is magnificent! But tell\nme, count, will your people take care of my horse? \n\n Do not alarm yourself, my dear Maximilian they understand. \n\n I mean, because he wants petting. If you had seen at what a pace he\ncame like the wind! \n\n I should think so, a horse that cost 5,000 francs!  said Monte Cristo,\nin the tone which a father would use towards a son.\n\n Do you regret them?  asked Morrel, with his open laugh.\n\n I? Certainly not,  replied the count.  No; I should only regret if the\nhorse had not proved good. \n\n It is so good, that I have distanced M. de Ch teau-Renaud, one of the\nbest riders in France, and M. Debray, who both mount the minister s\nArabians; and close on their heels are the horses of Madame Danglars,\nwho always go at six leagues an hour. \n\n Then they follow you?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n See, they are here.  And at the same minute a carriage with smoking\nhorses, accompanied by two mounted gentlemen, arrived at the gate,\nwhich opened before them. The carriage drove round, and stopped at the\nsteps, followed by the horsemen.\n\nThe instant Debray had touched the ground, he was at the carriage-door.\nHe offered his hand to the baroness, who, descending, took it with a\npeculiarity of manner imperceptible to everyone but Monte Cristo. But\nnothing escaped the count s notice, and he observed a little note,\npassed with the facility that indicates frequent practice, from the\nhand of Madame Danglars to that of the minister s secretary.\n\nAfter his wife the banker descended, as pale as though he had issued\nfrom his tomb instead of his carriage.\n\nMadame Danglars threw a rapid and inquiring glance which could only be\ninterpreted by Monte Cristo, around the courtyard, over the peristyle,\nand across the front of the house, then, repressing a slight emotion,\nwhich must have been seen on her countenance if she had not kept her\ncolor, she ascended the steps, saying to Morrel:\n\n Sir, if you were a friend of mine, I should ask you if you would sell\nyour horse. \n\nMorrel smiled with an expression very like a grimace, and then turned\nround to Monte Cristo, as if to ask him to extricate him from his\nembarrassment. The count understood him.\n\n Ah, madame,  he said,  why did you not make that request of me? \n\n With you, sir,  replied the baroness,  one can wish for nothing, one\nis so sure to obtain it. If it were so with M. Morrel \n\n Unfortunately,  replied the count,  I am witness that M. Morrel cannot\ngive up his horse, his honor being engaged in keeping it. \n\n How so? \n\n He laid a wager he would tame M d ah in the space of six months. You\nunderstand now that if he were to get rid of the animal before the time\nnamed, he would not only lose his bet, but people would say he was\nafraid; and a brave captain of Spahis cannot risk this, even to gratify\na pretty woman, which is, in my opinion, one of the most sacred\nobligations in the world. \n\n You see my position, madame,  said Morrel, bestowing a grateful smile\non Monte Cristo.\n\n It seems to me,  said Danglars, in his coarse tone, ill-concealed by a\nforced smile,  that you have already got horses enough. \n\nMadame Danglars seldom allowed remarks of this kind to pass unnoticed,\nbut, to the surprise of the young people, she pretended not to hear it,\nand said nothing. Monte Cristo smiled at her unusual humility, and\nshowed her two immense porcelain jars, over which wound marine plants,\nof a size and delicacy that nature alone could produce. The baroness\nwas astonished.\n\n Why,  said she,  you could plant one of the chestnut-trees in the\nTuileries inside! How can such enormous jars have been manufactured? \n\n Ah! madame,  replied Monte Cristo,  you must not ask of us, the\nmanufacturers of fine porcelain, such a question. It is the work of\nanother age, constructed by the genii of earth and water. \n\n How so? at what period can that have been? \n\n I do not know; I have only heard that an emperor of China had an oven\nbuilt expressly, and that in this oven twelve jars like this were\nsuccessively baked. Two broke, from the heat of the fire; the other ten\nwere sunk three hundred fathoms deep into the sea. The sea, knowing\nwhat was required of her, threw over them her weeds, encircled them\nwith coral, and encrusted them with shells; the whole was cemented by\ntwo hundred years beneath these almost impervious depths, for a\nrevolution carried away the emperor who wished to make the trial, and\nonly left the documents proving the manufacture of the jars and their\ndescent into the sea. At the end of two hundred years the documents\nwere found, and they thought of bringing up the jars. Divers descended\nin machines, made expressly on the discovery, into the bay where they\nwere thrown; but of ten three only remained, the rest having been\nbroken by the waves. I am fond of these jars, upon which, perhaps,\nmisshapen, frightful monsters have fixed their cold, dull eyes, and in\nwhich myriads of small fish have slept, seeking a refuge from the\npursuit of their enemies. \n\nMeanwhile, Danglars, who had cared little for curiosities, was\nmechanically tearing off the blossoms of a splendid orange-tree, one\nafter another. When he had finished with the orange-tree, he began at\nthe cactus; but this, not being so easily plucked as the orange-tree,\npricked him dreadfully. He shuddered, and rubbed his eyes as though\nawaking from a dream.\n\n Sir,  said Monte Cristo to him,  I do not recommend my pictures to\nyou, who possess such splendid paintings; but, nevertheless, here are\ntwo by Hobbema, a Paul Potter, a Mieris, two by Gerard Douw, a Raphael,\na Van Dyck, a Zurbaran, and two or three by Murillo, worth looking at. \n\n Stay,  said Debray;  I recognize this Hobbema. \n\n Ah, indeed! \n\n Yes; it was proposed for the Museum. \n\n Which, I believe, does not contain one?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n No; and yet they refused to buy it. \n\n Why?  said Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n You pretend not to know, because government was not rich enough. \n\n Ah, pardon me,  said Ch teau-Renaud;  I have heard of these things\nevery day during the last eight years, and I cannot understand them\nyet. \n\n You will, by and by,  said Debray.\n\n I think not,  replied Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti and Count Andrea Cavalcanti,  announced\nBaptistin.\n\nA black satin stock, fresh from the maker s hands, gray moustaches, a\nbold eye, a major s uniform, ornamented with three medals and five\ncrosses in fact, the thorough bearing of an old soldier such was the\nappearance of Major Bartolomeo Cavalcanti, that tender father with whom\nwe are already acquainted. Close to him, dressed in entirely new\nclothes, advanced smilingly Count Andrea Cavalcanti, the dutiful son,\nwhom we also know. The three young people were talking together. On the\nentrance of the new-comers, their eyes glanced from father to son, and\nthen, naturally enough, rested on the latter, whom they began\ncriticising.\n\n Cavalcanti!  said Debray.\n\n A fine name,  said Morrel.\n\n Yes,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  these Italians are well named and badly\ndressed. \n\n You are fastidious, Ch teau-Renaud,  replied Debray;  those clothes\nare well cut and quite new. \n\n That is just what I find fault with. That gentleman appears to be well\ndressed for the first time in his life. \n\n Who are those gentlemen?  asked Danglars of Monte Cristo.\n\n You heard Cavalcanti. \n\n That tells me their name, and nothing else. \n\n Ah! true. You do not know the Italian nobility; the Cavalcanti are all\ndescended from princes. \n\n Have they any fortune? \n\n An enormous one. \n\n What do they do? \n\n Try to spend it all. They have some business with you, I think, from\nwhat they told me the day before yesterday. I, indeed, invited them\nhere today on your account. I will introduce you to them. \n\n But they appear to speak French with a very pure accent,  said\nDanglars.\n\n The son has been educated in a college in the south; I believe near\nMarseilles. You will find him quite enthusiastic. \n\n Upon what subject?  asked Madame Danglars.\n\n The French ladies, madame. He has made up his mind to take a wife from\nParis. \n\n A fine idea that of his,  said Danglars, shrugging his shoulders.\nMadame Danglars looked at her husband with an expression which, at any\nother time, would have indicated a storm, but for the second time she\ncontrolled herself.\n\n The baron appears thoughtful today,  said Monte Cristo to her;  are\nthey going to put him in the ministry? \n\n Not yet, I think. More likely he has been speculating on the Bourse,\nand has lost money. \n\n M. and Madame de Villefort,  cried Baptistin.\n\nThey entered. M. de Villefort, notwithstanding his self-control, was\nvisibly affected, and when Monte Cristo touched his hand, he felt it\ntremble.\n\n Certainly, women alone know how to dissimulate,  said Monte Cristo to\nhimself, glancing at Madame Danglars, who was smiling on the procureur,\nand embracing his wife.\n\nAfter a short time, the count saw Bertuccio, who, until then, had been\noccupied on the other side of the house, glide into an adjoining room.\nHe went to him.\n\n What do you want, M. Bertuccio?  said he.\n\n Your excellency has not stated the number of guests. \n\n Ah, true. \n\n How many covers? \n\n Count for yourself. \n\n Is everyone here, your excellency? \n\n Yes. \n\nBertuccio glanced through the door, which was ajar. The count watched\nhim.  Good heavens!  he exclaimed.\n\n What is the matter?  said the count.\n\n That woman that woman! \n\n Which? \n\n The one with a white dress and so many diamonds the fair one. \n\n Madame Danglars? \n\n I do not know her name; but it is she, sir, it is she! \n\n Whom do you mean? \n\n The woman of the garden! she that was _enceinte_ she who was walking\nwhile she waited for \n\nBertuccio stood at the open door, with his eyes starting and his hair\non end.\n\n Waiting for whom?  Bertuccio, without answering, pointed to Villefort\nwith something of the gesture Macbeth uses to point out Banquo.\n\n Oh, oh!  he at length muttered,  do you see? \n\n What? Who? \n\n Him! \n\n Him! M. de Villefort, the king s attorney? Certainly I see him. \n\n Then I did not kill him? \n\n Really, I think you are going mad, good Bertuccio,  said the count.\n\n Then he is not dead? \n\n30213m\n\n\n\n No; you see plainly he is not dead. Instead of striking between the\nsixth and seventh left ribs, as your countrymen do, you must have\nstruck higher or lower, and life is very tenacious in these lawyers, or\nrather there is no truth in anything you have told me it was a fright\nof the imagination, a dream of your fancy. You went to sleep full of\nthoughts of vengeance; they weighed heavily upon your stomach; you had\nthe nightmare that s all. Come, calm yourself, and reckon them up M.\nand Madame de Villefort, two; M. and Madame Danglars, four; M. de\nCh teau-Renaud, M. Debray, M. Morrel, seven; Major Bartolomeo\nCavalcanti, eight. \n\n Eight!  repeated Bertuccio.\n\n Stop! You are in a shocking hurry to be off you forget one of my\nguests. Lean a little to the left. Stay! look at M. Andrea Cavalcanti,\nthe young man in a black coat, looking at Murillo s  Madonna ; now he\nis turning. \n\nThis time Bertuccio would have uttered an exclamation, had not a look\nfrom Monte Cristo silenced him.\n\n Benedetto?  he muttered;  fatality! \n\n Half-past six o clock has just struck, M. Bertuccio,  said the count\nseverely;  I ordered dinner at that hour, and I do not like to wait; \nand he returned to his guests, while Bertuccio, leaning against the\nwall, succeeded in reaching the dining-room. Five minutes afterwards\nthe doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Bertuccio appearing\nsaid, with a violent effort,  The dinner waits. \n\nThe Count of Monte Cristo offered his arm to Madame de Villefort.  M.\nde Villefort,  he said,  will you conduct the Baroness Danglars? \n\nVillefort complied, and they passed on to the dining-room.\n\n\n\n Chapter 63. The Dinner\n\nIt was evident that one sentiment affected all the guests on entering\nthe dining-room. Each one asked what strange influence had brought them\nto this house, and yet astonished, even uneasy though they were, they\nstill felt that they would not like to be absent. The recent events,\nthe solitary and eccentric position of the count, his enormous, nay,\nalmost incredible fortune, should have made men cautious, and have\naltogether prevented ladies visiting a house where there was no one of\ntheir own sex to receive them; and yet curiosity had been enough to\nlead them to overleap the bounds of prudence and decorum.\n\nAnd all present, even including Cavalcanti and his son, notwithstanding\nthe stiffness of the one and the carelessness of the other, were\nthoughtful, on finding themselves assembled at the house of this\nincomprehensible man. Madame Danglars had started when Villefort, on\nthe count s invitation, offered his arm; and Villefort felt that his\nglance was uneasy beneath his gold spectacles, when he felt the arm of\nthe baroness press upon his own. None of this had escaped the count,\nand even by this mere contact of individuals the scene had already\nacquired considerable interest for an observer.\n\nM. de Villefort had on the right hand Madame Danglars, on his left\nMorrel. The count was seated between Madame de Villefort and Danglars;\nthe other seats were filled by Debray, who was placed between the two\nCavalcanti, and by Ch teau-Renaud, seated between Madame de Villefort\nand Morrel.\n\nThe repast was magnificent; Monte Cristo had endeavored completely to\noverturn the Parisian ideas, and to feed the curiosity as much as the\nappetite of his guests. It was an Oriental feast that he offered to\nthem, but of such a kind as the Arabian fairies might be supposed to\nprepare. Every delicious fruit that the four quarters of the globe\ncould provide was heaped in vases from China and jars from Japan. Rare\nbirds, retaining their most brilliant plumage, enormous fish, spread\nupon massive silver dishes, together with every wine produced in the\nArchipelago, Asia Minor, or the Cape, sparkling in bottles, whose\ngrotesque shape seemed to give an additional flavor to the draught, all\nthese, like one of the displays with which Apicius of old gratified his\nguests, passed in review before the eyes of the astonished Parisians,\nwho understood that it was possible to expend a thousand louis upon a\ndinner for ten persons, but only on the condition of eating pearls,\nlike Cleopatra, or drinking refined gold, like Lorenzo de  Medici.\n\nMonte Cristo noticed the general astonishment, and began laughing and\njoking about it.\n\n Gentlemen,  he said,  you will admit that, when arrived at a certain\ndegree of fortune, the superfluities of life are all that can be\ndesired; and the ladies will allow that, after having risen to a\ncertain eminence of position, the ideal alone can be more exalted. Now,\nto follow out this reasoning, what is the marvellous? that which we do\nnot understand. What is it that we really desire? that which we cannot\nobtain. Now, to see things which I cannot understand, to procure\nimpossibilities, these are the study of my life. I gratify my wishes by\ntwo means my will and my money. I take as much interest in the pursuit\nof some whim as you do, M. Danglars, in promoting a new railway line;\nyou, M. de Villefort, in condemning a culprit to death; you, M. Debray,\nin pacifying a kingdom; you, M. de Ch teau-Renaud, in pleasing a woman;\nand you, Morrel, in breaking a horse that no one can ride. For example,\nyou see these two fish; one brought from fifty leagues beyond St.\nPetersburg, the other five leagues from Naples. Is it not amusing to\nsee them both on the same table? \n\n What are the two fish?  asked Danglars.\n\n M. Ch teau-Renaud, who has lived in Russia, will tell you the name of\none, and Major Cavalcanti, who is an Italian, will tell you the name of\nthe other. \n\n This one is, I think, a sterlet,  said Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n And that one, if I mistake not, a lamprey. \n\n Just so. Now, M. Danglars, ask these gentlemen where they are caught. \n\n Sterlets,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  are only found in the Volga. \n\n And,  said Cavalcanti,  I know that Lake Fusaro alone supplies\nlampreys of that size. \n\n Exactly; one comes from the Volga, and the other from Lake Fusaro. \n\n Impossible!  cried all the guests simultaneously.\n\n Well, this is just what amuses me,  said Monte Cristo.  I am like\nNero _cupitor impossibilium_; and that is what is amusing you at this\nmoment. This fish, which seems so exquisite to you, is very likely no\nbetter than perch or salmon; but it seemed impossible to procure it,\nand here it is. \n\n But how could you have these fish brought to France? \n\n Oh, nothing more easy. Each fish was brought over in a cask one filled\nwith river herbs and weeds, the other with rushes and lake plants; they\nwere placed in a wagon built on purpose, and thus the sterlet lived\ntwelve days, the lamprey eight, and both were alive when my cook seized\nthem, killing one with milk and the other with wine. You do not believe\nme, M. Danglars! \n\n I cannot help doubting,  answered Danglars with his stupid smile.\n\n Baptistin,  said the count,  have the other fish brought in the\nsterlet and the lamprey which came in the other casks, and which are\nyet alive. \n\nDanglars opened his bewildered eyes; the company clapped their hands.\nFour servants carried in two casks covered with aquatic plants, and in\neach of which was breathing a fish similar to those on the table.\n\n But why have two of each sort?  asked Danglars.\n\n Merely because one might have died,  carelessly answered Monte Cristo.\n\n You are certainly an extraordinary man,  said Danglars;  and\nphilosophers may well say it is a fine thing to be rich. \n\n And to have ideas,  added Madame Danglars.\n\n Oh, do not give me credit for this, madame; it was done by the Romans,\nwho much esteemed them, and Pliny relates that they sent slaves from\nOstia to Rome, who carried on their heads fish which he calls the\n_mulus_, and which, from the description, must probably be the\ngoldfish. It was also considered a luxury to have them alive, it being\nan amusing sight to see them die, for, when dying, they change color\nthree or four times, and like the rainbow when it disappears, pass\nthrough all the prismatic shades, after which they were sent to the\nkitchen. Their agony formed part of their merit if they were not seen\nalive, they were despised when dead. \n\n Yes,  said Debray,  but then Ostia is only a few leagues from Rome. \n\n True,  said Monte Cristo;  but what would be the use of living\neighteen hundred years after Lucullus, if we can do no better than he\ncould? \n\nThe two Cavalcanti opened their enormous eyes, but had the good sense\nnot to say anything.\n\n All this is very extraordinary,  said Ch teau-Renaud;  still, what I\nadmire the most, I confess, is the marvellous promptitude with which\nyour orders are executed. Is it not true that you only bought this\nhouse five or six days ago? \n\n Certainly not longer. \n\n Well, I am sure it is quite transformed since last week. If I remember\nrightly, it had another entrance, and the courtyard was paved and\nempty; while today we have a splendid lawn, bordered by trees which\nappear to be a hundred years old. \n\n Why not? I am fond of grass and shade,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Yes,  said Madame de Villefort,  the door was towards the road before,\nand on the day of my miraculous escape you brought me into the house\nfrom the road, I remember. \n\n Yes, madame,  said Monte Cristo;  but I preferred having an entrance\nwhich would allow me to see the Bois de Boulogne over my gate. \n\n In four days,  said Morrel;  it is extraordinary! \n\n Indeed,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  it seems quite miraculous to make a new\nhouse out of an old one; for it was very old, and dull too. I recollect\ncoming for my mother to look at it when M. de Saint-M ran advertised it\nfor sale two or three years ago. \n\n M. de Saint-M ran?  said Madame de Villefort;  then this house\nbelonged to M. de Saint-M ran before you bought it? \n\n It appears so,  replied Monte Cristo.\n\n Is it possible that you do not know of whom you purchased it? \n\n Quite so; my steward transacts all this business for me. \n\n It is certainly ten years since the house had been occupied,  said\nCh teau-Renaud,  and it was quite melancholy to look at it, with the\nblinds closed, the doors locked, and the weeds in the court. Really, if\nthe house had not belonged to the father-in-law of the procureur, one\nmight have thought it some accursed place where a horrible crime had\nbeen committed. \n\nVillefort, who had hitherto not tasted the three or four glasses of\nrare wine which were placed before him, here took one, and drank it\noff. Monte Cristo allowed a short time to elapse, and then said:\n\n It is singular, baron, but the same idea came across me the first time\nI came here; it looked so gloomy I should never have bought it if my\nsteward had not taken the matter into his own hands. Perhaps the fellow\nhad been bribed by the notary. \n\n It is probable,  stammered out Villefort, trying to smile;  but I can\nassure you that I had nothing to do with any such proceeding. This\nhouse is part of Valentine s marriage-portion, and M. de Saint-M ran\nwished to sell it; for if it had remained another year or two\nuninhabited it would have fallen to ruin. \n\nIt was Morrel s turn to become pale.\n\n There was, above all, one room,  continued Monte Cristo,  very plain\nin appearance, hung with red damask, which, I know not why, appeared to\nme quite dramatic. \n\n Why so?  said Danglars;  why dramatic? \n\n Can we account for instinct?  said Monte Cristo.  Are there not some\nplaces where we seem to breathe sadness? why, we cannot tell. It is a\nchain of recollections an idea which carries you back to other times,\nto other places which, very likely, have no connection with the present\ntime and place. And there is something in this room which reminds me\nforcibly of the chamber of the Marquise de Ganges10 or Desdemona. Stay,\nsince we have finished dinner, I will show it to you, and then we will\ntake coffee in the garden. After dinner, the play. \n\nMonte Cristo looked inquiringly at his guests. Madame de Villefort\nrose, Monte Cristo did the same, and the rest followed their example.\nVillefort and Madame Danglars remained for a moment, as if rooted to\ntheir seats; they questioned each other with vague and stupid glances.\n\n Did you hear?  said Madame Danglars.\n\n We must go,  replied Villefort, offering his arm.\n\nThe others, attracted by curiosity, were already scattered in different\nparts of the house; for they thought the visit would not be limited to\nthe one room, and that, at the same time, they would obtain a view of\nthe rest of the building, of which Monte Cristo had created a palace.\nEach one went out by the open doors. Monte Cristo waited for the two\nwho remained; then, when they had passed, he brought up the rear, and\non his face was a smile, which, if they could have understood it, would\nhave alarmed them much more than a visit to the room they were about to\nenter. They began by walking through the apartments, many of which were\nfitted up in the Eastern style, with cushions and divans instead of\nbeds, and pipes instead of furniture. The drawing-rooms were decorated\nwith the rarest pictures by the old masters, the boudoirs hung with\ndraperies from China, of fanciful colors, fantastic design, and\nwonderful texture. At length they arrived at the famous room. There was\nnothing particular about it, excepting that, although daylight had\ndisappeared, it was not lighted, and everything in it was\nold-fashioned, while the rest of the rooms had been redecorated. These\ntwo causes were enough to give it a gloomy aspect.\n\n Oh.  cried Madame de Villefort,  it is really frightful. \n\nMadame Danglars tried to utter a few words, but was not heard. Many\nobservations were made, the import of which was a unanimous opinion\nthat there was something sinister about the room.\n\n30221m\n\n\n\n Is it not so?  asked Monte Cristo.  Look at that large clumsy bed,\nhung with such gloomy, blood-colored drapery! And those two crayon\nportraits, that have faded from the dampness; do they not seem to say,\nwith their pale lips and staring eyes,  We have seen ? \n\nVillefort became livid; Madame Danglars fell into a long seat placed\nnear the chimney.\n\n Oh,  said Madame de Villefort, smiling,  are you courageous enough to\nsit down upon the very seat perhaps upon which the crime was\ncommitted? \n\nMadame Danglars rose suddenly.\n\n And then,  said Monte Cristo,  this is not all. \n\n What is there more?  said Debray, who had not failed to notice the\nagitation of Madame Danglars.\n\n Ah, what else is there?  said Danglars;  for, at present, I cannot say\nthat I have seen anything extraordinary. What do you say, M.\nCavalcanti? \n\n Ah,  said he,  we have at Pisa, Ugolino s tower; at Ferrara, Tasso s\nprison; at Rimini, the room of Francesca and Paolo. \n\n Yes, but you have not this little staircase,  said Monte Cristo,\nopening a door concealed by the drapery.  Look at it, and tell me what\nyou think of it. \n\n What a wicked-looking, crooked staircase,  said Ch teau-Renaud with a\nsmile.\n\n I do not know whether the wine of Chios produces melancholy, but\ncertainly everything appears to me black in this house,  said Debray.\n\nEver since Valentine s dowry had been mentioned, Morrel had been silent\nand sad.\n\n Can you imagine,  said Monte Cristo,  some Othello or Abb  de Ganges,\none stormy, dark night, descending these stairs step by step, carrying\na load, which he wishes to hide from the sight of man, if not from\nGod? \n\nMadame Danglars half fainted on the arm of Villefort, who was obliged\nto support himself against the wall.\n\n Ah, madame,  cried Debray,  what is the matter with you? how pale you\nlook! \n\n It is very evident what is the matter with her,  said Madame de\nVillefort;  M. de Monte Cristo is relating horrible stories to us,\ndoubtless intending to frighten us to death. \n\n Yes,  said Villefort,  really, count, you frighten the ladies. \n\n What is the matter?  asked Debray, in a whisper, of Madame Danglars.\n\n Nothing,  she replied with a violent effort.  I want air, that is\nall. \n\n Will you come into the garden?  said Debray, advancing towards the\nback staircase.\n\n No, no,  she answered,  I would rather remain here. \n\n Are you really frightened, madame?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Oh, no, sir,  said Madame Danglars;  but you suppose scenes in a\nmanner which gives them the appearance of reality. \n\n30223m\n\n\n\n Ah, yes,  said Monte Cristo smiling;  it is all a matter of\nimagination. Why should we not imagine this the apartment of an honest\nmother? And this bed with red hangings, a bed visited by the goddess\nLucina? And that mysterious staircase, the passage through which, not\nto disturb their sleep, the doctor and nurse pass, or even the father\ncarrying the sleeping child? \n\nHere Madame Danglars, instead of being calmed by the soft picture,\nuttered a groan and fainted.\n\n Madame Danglars is ill,  said Villefort;  it would be better to take\nher to her carriage. \n\n Oh, _mon Dieu!_  said Monte Cristo,  and I have forgotten my\nsmelling-bottle! \n\n I have mine,  said Madame de Villefort; and she passed over to Monte\nCristo a bottle full of the same kind of red liquid whose good\nproperties the count had tested on Edward.\n\n Ah,  said Monte Cristo, taking it from her hand.\n\n Yes,  she said,  at your advice I have made the trial. \n\n And have you succeeded? \n\n I think so. \n\nMadame Danglars was carried into the adjoining room; Monte Cristo\ndropped a very small portion of the red liquid upon her lips; she\nreturned to consciousness.\n\n Ah,  she cried,  what a frightful dream! \n\nVillefort pressed her hand to let her know it was not a dream. They\nlooked for M. Danglars, but, as he was not especially interested in\npoetical ideas, he had gone into the garden, and was talking with Major\nCavalcanti on the projected railway from Leghorn to Florence. Monte\nCristo seemed in despair. He took the arm of Madame Danglars, and\nconducted her into the garden, where they found Danglars taking coffee\nbetween the Cavalcanti.\n\n Really, madame,  he said,  did I alarm you much? \n\n Oh, no, sir,  she answered;  but you know, things impress us\ndifferently, according to the mood of our minds.  Villefort forced a\nlaugh.\n\n And then, you know,  he said,  an idea, a supposition, is sufficient. \n\n Well,  said Monte Cristo,  you may believe me if you like, but it is\nmy opinion that a crime has been committed in this house. \n\n Take care,  said Madame de Villefort,  the king s attorney is here. \n\n Ah,  replied Monte Cristo,  since that is the case, I will take\nadvantage of his presence to make my declaration. \n\n Your declaration?  said Villefort.\n\n Yes, before witnesses. \n\n Oh, this is very interesting,  said Debray;  if there really has been\na crime, we will investigate it. \n\n There has been a crime,  said Monte Cristo.  Come this way, gentlemen;\ncome, M. Villefort, for a declaration to be available, should be made\nbefore the competent authorities. \n\nHe then took Villefort s arm, and, at the same time, holding that of\nMadame Danglars under his own, he dragged the procureur to the\nplantain-tree, where the shade was thickest. All the other guests\nfollowed.\n\n Stay,  said Monte Cristo,  here, in this very spot  (and he stamped\nupon the ground),  I had the earth dug up and fresh mould put in, to\nrefresh these old trees; well, my man, digging, found a box, or rather,\nthe iron-work of a box, in the midst of which was the skeleton of a\nnewly born infant. \n\n30225m\n\n\n\nMonte Cristo felt the arm of Madame Danglars stiffen, while that of\nVillefort trembled.\n\n A newly born infant,  repeated Debray;  this affair becomes serious! \n\n Well,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  I was not wrong just now then, when I\nsaid that houses had souls and faces like men, and that their exteriors\ncarried the impress of their characters. This house was gloomy because\nit was remorseful: it was remorseful because it concealed a crime. \n\n Who said it was a crime?  asked Villefort, with a last effort.\n\n How? is it not a crime to bury a living child in a garden?  cried\nMonte Cristo.  And pray what do you call such an action? \n\n But who said it was buried alive? \n\n Why bury it there if it were dead? This garden has never been a\ncemetery. \n\n What is done to infanticides in this country?  asked Major Cavalcanti\ninnocently.\n\n Oh, their heads are soon cut off,  said Danglars.\n\n Ah, indeed?  said Cavalcanti.\n\n I think so; am I not right, M. de Villefort?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n Yes, count,  replied Villefort, in a voice now scarcely human.\n\nMonte Cristo, seeing that the two persons for whom he had prepared this\nscene could scarcely endure it, and not wishing to carry it too far,\nsaid:\n\n Come, gentlemen, some coffee, we seem to have forgotten it,  and he\nconducted the guests back to the table on the lawn.\n\n Indeed, count,  said Madame Danglars,  I am ashamed to own it, but all\nyour frightful stories have so upset me, that I must beg you to let me\nsit down;  and she fell into a chair.\n\nMonte Cristo bowed, and went to Madame de Villefort.\n\n I think Madame Danglars again requires your bottle,  he said. But\nbefore Madame de Villefort could reach her friend, the procureur had\nfound time to whisper to Madame Danglars,  I must speak to you. \n\n When? \n\n Tomorrow. \n\n Where? \n\n In my office, or in the court, if you like, that is the surest place. \n\n I will be there. \n\nAt this moment Madame de Villefort approached.\n\n Thanks, my dear friend,  said Madame Danglars, trying to smile;  it is\nover now, and I am much better. \n\n\n\n Chapter 64. The Beggar\n\nThe evening passed on; Madame de Villefort expressed a desire to return\nto Paris, which Madame Danglars had not dared to do, notwithstanding\nthe uneasiness she experienced. On his wife s request, M. de Villefort\nwas the first to give the signal of departure. He offered a seat in his\nlandau to Madame Danglars, that she might be under the care of his\nwife. As for M. Danglars, absorbed in an interesting conversation with\nM. Cavalcanti, he paid no attention to anything that was passing. While\nMonte Cristo had begged the smelling-bottle of Madame de Villefort, he\nhad noticed the approach of Villefort to Madame Danglars, and he soon\nguessed all that had passed between them, though the words had been\nuttered in so low a voice as hardly to be heard by Madame Danglars.\nWithout opposing their arrangements, he allowed Morrel, Ch teau-Renaud,\nand Debray to leave on horseback, and the ladies in M. de Villefort s\ncarriage. Danglars, more and more delighted with Major Cavalcanti, had\noffered him a seat in his carriage. Andrea Cavalcanti found his tilbury\nwaiting at the door; the groom, in every respect a caricature of the\nEnglish fashion, was standing on tiptoe to hold a large iron-gray\nhorse.\n\nAndrea had spoken very little during dinner; he was an intelligent lad,\nand he feared to utter some absurdity before so many grand people,\namongst whom, with dilating eyes, he saw the king s attorney. Then he\nhad been seized upon by Danglars, who, with a rapid glance at the\nstiff-necked old major and his modest son, and taking into\nconsideration the hospitality of the count, made up his mind that he\nwas in the society of some nabob come to Paris to finish the worldly\neducation of his heir. He contemplated with unspeakable delight the\nlarge diamond which shone on the major s little finger; for the major,\nlike a prudent man, in case of any accident happening to his\nbank-notes, had immediately converted them into an available asset.\nThen, after dinner, on the pretext of business, he questioned the\nfather and son upon their mode of living; and the father and son,\npreviously informed that it was through Danglars the one was to receive\nhis 48,000 francs and the other 50,000 livres annually, were so full of\naffability that they would have shaken hands even with the banker s\nservants, so much did their gratitude need an object to expend itself\nupon.\n\nOne thing above all the rest heightened the respect, nay almost the\nveneration, of Danglars for Cavalcanti. The latter, faithful to the\nprinciple of Horace, _nil admirari_, had contented himself with showing\nhis knowledge by declaring in what lake the best lampreys were caught.\nThen he had eaten some without saying a word more; Danglars, therefore,\nconcluded that such luxuries were common at the table of the\nillustrious descendant of the Cavalcanti, who most likely in Lucca fed\nupon trout brought from Switzerland, and lobsters sent from England, by\nthe same means used by the count to bring the lampreys from Lake\nFusaro, and the sterlet from the Volga. Thus it was with much\npoliteness of manner that he heard Cavalcanti pronounce these words:\n\n Tomorrow, sir, I shall have the honor of waiting upon you on\nbusiness. \n\n And I, sir,  said Danglars,  shall be most happy to receive you. \n\nUpon which he offered to take Cavalcanti in his carriage to the H tel\ndes Princes, if it would not be depriving him of the company of his\nson. To this Cavalcanti replied by saying that for some time past his\nson had lived independently of him, that he had his own horses and\ncarriages, and that not having come together, it would not be difficult\nfor them to leave separately. The major seated himself, therefore, by\nthe side of Danglars, who was more and more charmed with the ideas of\norder and economy which ruled this man, and yet who, being able to\nallow his son 60,000 francs a year, might be supposed to possess a\nfortune of 500,000 or 600,000 livres.\n\nAs for Andrea, he began, by way of showing off, to scold his groom,\nwho, instead of bringing the tilbury to the steps of the house, had\ntaken it to the outer door, thus giving him the trouble of walking\nthirty steps to reach it. The groom heard him with humility, took the\nbit of the impatient animal with his left hand, and with the right held\nout the reins to Andrea, who, taking them from him, rested his polished\nboot lightly on the step.\n\nAt that moment a hand touched his shoulder. The young man turned round,\nthinking that Danglars or Monte Cristo had forgotten something they\nwished to tell him, and had returned just as they were starting. But\ninstead of either of these, he saw nothing but a strange face,\nsunburnt, and encircled by a beard, with eyes brilliant as carbuncles,\nand a smile upon the mouth which displayed a perfect set of white\nteeth, pointed and sharp as the wolf s or jackal s. A red handkerchief\nencircled his gray head; torn and filthy garments covered his large\nbony limbs, which seemed as though, like those of a skeleton, they\nwould rattle as he walked; and the hand with which he leaned upon the\nyoung man s shoulder, and which was the first thing Andrea saw, seemed\nof gigantic size.\n\n30229m\n\n\n\nDid the young man recognize that face by the light of the lantern in\nhis tilbury, or was he merely struck with the horrible appearance of\nhis interrogator? We cannot say; but only relate the fact that he\nshuddered and stepped back suddenly.\n\n What do you want of me?  he asked.\n\n Pardon me, my friend, if I disturb you,  said the man with the red\nhandkerchief,  but I want to speak to you. \n\n You have no right to beg at night,  said the groom, endeavoring to rid\nhis master of the troublesome intruder.\n\n I am not begging, my fine fellow,  said the unknown to the servant,\nwith so ironical an expression of the eye, and so frightful a smile,\nthat he withdrew;  I only wish to say two or three words to your\nmaster, who gave me a commission to execute about a fortnight ago. \n\n Come,  said Andrea, with sufficient nerve for his servant not to\nperceive his agitation,  what do you want? Speak quickly, friend. \n\nThe man said, in a low voice:  I wish I wish you to spare me the walk\nback to Paris. I am very tired, and as I have not eaten so good a\ndinner as you, I can scarcely stand. \n\nThe young man shuddered at this strange familiarity.\n\n Tell me,  he said tell me what you want? \n\n Well, then, I want you to take me up in your fine carriage, and carry\nme back.  Andrea turned pale, but said nothing.\n\n Yes,  said the man, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking\nimpudently at the youth;  I have taken the whim into my head; do you\nunderstand, Master Benedetto? \n\nAt this name, no doubt, the young man reflected a little, for he went\ntowards his groom, saying:\n\n This man is right; I did indeed charge him with a commission, the\nresult of which he must tell me; walk to the barrier, there take a cab,\nthat you may not be too late. \n\nThe surprised groom retired.\n\n Let me at least reach a shady spot,  said Andrea.\n\n Oh, as for that, I ll take you to a splendid place,  said the man with\nthe handkerchief; and taking the horse s bit he led the tilbury where\nit was certainly impossible for anyone to witness the honor that Andrea\nconferred upon him.\n\n Don t think I want the glory of riding in your fine carriage,  said\nhe;  oh, no, it s only because I am tired, and also because I have a\nlittle business to talk over with you. \n\n Come, step in,  said the young man. It was a pity this scene had not\noccurred in daylight, for it was curious to see this rascal throwing\nhimself heavily down on the cushion beside the young and elegant driver\nof the tilbury. Andrea drove past the last house in the village without\nsaying a word to his companion, who smiled complacently, as though\nwell-pleased to find himself travelling in so comfortable a vehicle.\nOnce out of Auteuil, Andrea looked around, in order to assure himself\nthat he could neither be seen nor heard, and then, stopping the horse\nand crossing his arms before the man, he asked:\n\n Now, tell me why you come to disturb my tranquillity? \n\n Let me ask you why you deceived me? \n\n How have I deceived you? \n\n How,  do you ask? When we parted at the Pont du Var, you told me you\nwere going to travel through Piedmont and Tuscany; but instead of that,\nyou come to Paris. \n\n How does that annoy you? \n\n It does not; on the contrary, I think it will answer my purpose. \n\n So,  said Andrea,  you are speculating upon me? \n\n What fine words he uses! \n\n I warn you, Master Caderousse, that you are mistaken. \n\n Well, well, don t be angry, my boy; you know well enough what it is to\nbe unfortunate; and misfortunes make us jealous. I thought you were\nearning a living in Tuscany or Piedmont by acting as _facchino_ or\n_cicerone_, and I pitied you sincerely, as I would a child of my own.\nYou know I always did call you my child. \n\n Come, come, what then? \n\n Patience patience! \n\n I am patient, but go on. \n\n All at once I see you pass through the barrier with a groom, a\ntilbury, and fine new clothes. You must have discovered a mine, or else\nbecome a stockbroker. \n\n So that, as you confess, you are jealous? \n\n No, I am pleased so pleased that I wished to congratulate you; but as\nI am not quite properly dressed, I chose my opportunity, that I might\nnot compromise you. \n\n Yes, and a fine opportunity you have chosen!  exclaimed Andrea;  you\nspeak to me before my servant. \n\n How can I help that, my boy? I speak to you when I can catch you. You\nhave a quick horse, a light tilbury, you are naturally as slippery as\nan eel; if I had missed you tonight, I might not have had another\nchance. \n\n You see, I do not conceal myself. \n\n You are lucky; I wish I could say as much, for I do conceal myself;\nand then I was afraid you would not recognize me, but you did,  added\nCaderousse with his unpleasant smile.  It was very polite of you. \n\n Come,  said Andrea,  what do you want? \n\n You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that\nis not right take care, or I may become troublesome. \n\nThis menace smothered the young man s passion. He urged the horse again\ninto a trot.\n\n You should not speak so to an old friend like me, Caderousse, as you\nsaid just now; you are a native of Marseilles, I am \n\n Do you know then now what you are? \n\n No, but I was brought up in Corsica; you are old and obstinate, I am\nyoung and wilful. Between people like us threats are out of place,\neverything should be amicably arranged. Is it my fault if fortune,\nwhich has frowned on you, has been kind to me? \n\n Fortune has been kind to you, then? Your tilbury, your groom, your\nclothes, are not then hired? Good, so much the better,  said\nCaderousse, his eyes sparkling with avarice.\n\n Oh, you knew that well enough before speaking to me,  said Andrea,\nbecoming more and more excited.  If I had been wearing a handkerchief\nlike yours on my head, rags on my back, and worn-out shoes on my feet,\nyou would not have known me. \n\n You wrong me, my boy; now I have found you, nothing prevents my being\nas well-dressed as anyone, knowing, as I do, the goodness of your\nheart. If you have two coats you will give me one of them. I used to\ndivide my soup and beans with you when you were hungry. \n\n True,  said Andrea.\n\n What an appetite you used to have! Is it as good now? \n\n Oh, yes,  replied Andrea, laughing.\n\n How did you come to be dining with that prince whose house you have\njust left? \n\n He is not a prince; simply a count. \n\n A count, and a rich one too, eh? \n\n Yes; but you had better not have anything to say to him, for he is not\na very good-tempered gentleman. \n\n Oh, be easy! I have no design upon your count, and you shall have him\nall to yourself. But,  said Caderousse, again smiling with the\ndisagreeable expression he had before assumed,  you must pay for it you\nunderstand? \n\n Well, what do you want? \n\n I think that with a hundred francs a month \n\n Well? \n\n I could live \n\n Upon a hundred francs! \n\n Come you understand me; but that with \n\n With? \n\n With a hundred and fifty francs I should be quite happy. \n\n Here are two hundred,  said Andrea; and he placed ten gold louis in\nthe hand of Caderousse.\n\n30233m\n\n\n\n Good!  said Caderousse.\n\n Apply to the steward on the first day of every month, and you will\nreceive the same sum. \n\n There now, again you degrade me. \n\n How so? \n\n By making me apply to the servants, when I want to transact business\nwith you alone. \n\n Well, be it so, then. Take it from me then, and so long at least as I\nreceive my income, you shall be paid yours. \n\n Come, come; I always said you were a fine fellow, and it is a blessing\nwhen good fortune happens to such as you. But tell me all about it? \n\n Why do you wish to know?  asked Cavalcanti.\n\n What? do you again defy me? \n\n No; the fact is, I have found my father. \n\n What? a real father? \n\n Yes, so long as he pays me \n\n You ll honor and believe him that s right. What is his name? \n\n Major Cavalcanti. \n\n Is he pleased with you? \n\n So far I have appeared to answer his purpose. \n\n And who found this father for you? \n\n The Count of Monte Cristo. \n\n The man whose house you have just left? \n\n Yes. \n\n I wish you would try and find me a situation with him as grandfather,\nsince he holds the money-chest! \n\n Well, I will mention you to him. Meanwhile, what are you going to do? \n\n I? \n\n Yes, you. \n\n It is very kind of you to trouble yourself about me. \n\n Since you interest yourself in my affairs, I think it is now my turn\nto ask you some questions. \n\n Ah, true. Well; I shall rent a room in some respectable house, wear a\ndecent coat, shave every day, and go and read the papers in a caf .\nThen, in the evening, I shall go to the theatre; I shall look like some\nretired baker. That is what I want. \n\n Come, if you will only put this scheme into execution, and be steady,\nnothing could be better. \n\n Do you think so, M. Bossuet? And you what will you become? A peer of\nFrance? \n\n Ah,  said Andrea,  who knows? \n\n Major Cavalcanti is already one, perhaps; but then, hereditary rank is\nabolished. \n\n No politics, Caderousse. And now that you have all you want, and that\nwe understand each other, jump down from the tilbury and disappear. \n\n Not at all, my good friend. \n\n How? Not at all? \n\n Why, just think for a moment; with this red handkerchief on my head,\nwith scarcely any shoes, no papers, and ten gold napoleons in my\npocket, without reckoning what was there before making in all about two\nhundred francs, why, I should certainly be arrested at the barriers.\nThen, to justify myself, I should say that you gave me the money; this\nwould cause inquiries, it would be found that I left Toulon without\ngiving due notice, and I should then be escorted back to the shores of\nthe Mediterranean. Then I should become simply No. 106, and good-bye to\nmy dream of resembling the retired baker! No, no, my boy; I prefer\nremaining honorably in the capital. \n\nAndrea scowled. Certainly, as he had himself owned, the reputed son of\nMajor Cavalcanti was a wilful fellow. He drew up for a minute, threw a\nrapid glance around him, and then his hand fell instantly into his\npocket, where it began playing with a pistol. But, meanwhile,\nCaderousse, who had never taken his eyes off his companion, passed his\nhand behind his back, and opened a long Spanish knife, which he always\ncarried with him, to be ready in case of need. The two friends, as we\nsee, were worthy of and understood one another. Andrea s hand left his\npocket inoffensively, and was carried up to the red moustache, which it\nplayed with for some time.\n\n Good Caderousse,  he said,  how happy you will be. \n\n I will do my best,  said the innkeeper of the Pont du Gard, shutting\nup his knife.\n\n Well, then, we will go into Paris. But how will you pass through the\nbarrier without exciting suspicion? It seems to me that you are in more\ndanger riding than on foot. \n\n Wait,  said Caderousse,  we shall see.  He then took the greatcoat\nwith the large collar, which the groom had left behind in the tilbury,\nand put it on his back; then he took off Cavalcanti s hat, which he\nplaced upon his own head, and finally he assumed the careless attitude\nof a servant whose master drives himself.\n\n But, tell me,  said Andrea,  am I to remain bareheaded? \n\n Pooh,  said Caderousse;  it is so windy that your hat can easily\nappear to have blown off. \n\n Come, come; enough of this,  said Cavalcanti.\n\n What are you waiting for?  said Caderousse.  I hope I am not the\ncause. \n\n Hush,  said Andrea. They passed the barrier without accident. At the\nfirst cross street Andrea stopped his horse, and Caderousse leaped out.\n\n Well!  said Andrea, my servant s coat and my hat? \n\n Ah,  said Caderousse,  you would not like me to risk taking cold? \n\n But what am I to do? \n\n You? Oh, you are young while I am beginning to get old. _Au revoir_,\nBenedetto;  and running into a court, he disappeared.\n\n Alas,  said Andrea, sighing,  one cannot be completely happy in this\nworld! \n\n\n\n Chapter 65. A Conjugal Scene\n\nAt the Place Louis XV. the three young people separated that is to say,\nMorrel went to the Boulevards, Ch teau-Renaud to the Pont de la\nR volution, and Debray to the Quai. Most probably Morrel and\nCh teau-Renaud returned to their  domestic hearths,  as they say in the\ngallery of the Chamber in well-turned speeches, and in the theatre of\nthe Rue Richelieu in well-written pieces; but it was not the case with\nDebray. When he reached the wicket of the Louvre, he turned to the\nleft, galloped across the Carrousel, passed through the Rue Saint-Roch,\nand, issuing from the Rue de la Michodi re, he arrived at M. Danglars \ndoor just at the same time that Villefort s landau, after having\ndeposited him and his wife at the Faubourg Saint-Honor , stopped to\nleave the baroness at her own house.\n\nDebray, with the air of a man familiar with the house, entered first\ninto the court, threw his bridle into the hands of a footman, and\nreturned to the door to receive Madame Danglars, to whom he offered his\narm, to conduct her to her apartments. The gate once closed, and Debray\nand the baroness alone in the court, he asked:\n\n What was the matter with you, Hermine? and why were you so affected at\nthat story, or rather fable, which the count related? \n\n Because I have been in such shocking spirits all the evening, my\nfriend,  said the baroness.\n\n No, Hermine,  replied Debray;  you cannot make me believe that; on the\ncontrary, you were in excellent spirits when you arrived at the\ncount s. M. Danglars was disagreeable, certainly, but I know how much\nyou care for his ill-humor. Someone has vexed you; I will allow no one\nto annoy you. \n\n You are deceived, Lucien, I assure you,  replied Madame Danglars;  and\nwhat I have told you is really the case, added to the ill-humor you\nremarked, but which I did not think it worth while to allude to. \n\nIt was evident that Madame Danglars was suffering from that nervous\nirritability which women frequently cannot account for even to\nthemselves; or that, as Debray had guessed, she had experienced some\nsecret agitation that she would not acknowledge to anyone. Being a man\nwho knew that the former of these symptoms was one of the inherent\npenalties of womanhood, he did not then press his inquiries, but waited\nfor a more appropriate opportunity when he should again interrogate\nher, or receive an avowal _proprio motu_.\n\nAt the door of her apartment the baroness met Mademoiselle Corn lie,\nher confidential maid.\n\n What is my daughter doing?  asked Madame Danglars.\n\n She practiced all the evening, and then went to bed,  replied\nMademoiselle Corn lie.\n\n Yet I think I hear her piano. \n\n It is Mademoiselle Louise d Armilly, who is playing while Mademoiselle\nDanglars is in bed. \n\n Well,  said Madame Danglars,  come and undress me. \n\nThey entered the bedroom. Debray stretched himself upon a large couch,\nand Madame Danglars passed into her dressing-room with Mademoiselle\nCorn lie.\n\n My dear M. Lucien,  said Madame Danglars through the door,  you are\nalways complaining that Eug nie will not address a word to you. \n\n Madame,  said Lucien, playing with a little dog, who, recognizing him\nas a friend of the house, expected to be caressed,  I am not the only\none who makes similar complaints, I think I heard Morcerf say that he\ncould not extract a word from his betrothed. \n\n True,  said Madame Danglars;  yet I think this will all pass off, and\nthat you will one day see her enter your study. \n\n My study? \n\n At least that of the minister. \n\n Why so! \n\n To ask for an engagement at the Opera. Really, I never saw such an\ninfatuation for music; it is quite ridiculous for a young lady of\nfashion. \n\nDebray smiled.  Well,  said he,  let her come, with your consent and\nthat of the baron, and we will try and give her an engagement, though\nwe are very poor to pay such talent as hers. \n\n Go, Corn lie,  said Madame Danglars,  I do not require you any\nlonger. \n\nCorn lie obeyed, and the next minute Madame Danglars left her room in a\ncharming loose dress, and came and sat down close to Debray. Then she\nbegan thoughtfully to caress the little spaniel. Lucien looked at her\nfor a moment in silence.\n\n Come, Hermine,  he said, after a short time,  answer\ncandidly, something vexes you is it not so? \n\n30239m\n\n\n\n Nothing,  answered the baroness.\n\nAnd yet, as she could scarcely breathe, she rose and went towards a\nlooking-glass.  I am frightful tonight,  she said. Debray rose,\nsmiling, and was about to contradict the baroness upon this latter\npoint, when the door opened suddenly. M. Danglars appeared; Debray\nreseated himself. At the noise of the door Madame Danglars turned\nround, and looked upon her husband with an astonishment she took no\ntrouble to conceal.\n\n Good-evening, madame,  said the banker;  good-evening, M. Debray. \n\nProbably the baroness thought this unexpected visit signified a desire\nto make up for the sharp words he had uttered during the day. Assuming\na dignified air, she turned round to Debray, without answering her\nhusband.\n\n Read me something, M. Debray,  she said. Debray, who was slightly\ndisturbed at this visit, recovered himself when he saw the calmness of\nthe baroness, and took up a book marked by a mother-of-pearl knife\ninlaid with gold.\n\n Excuse me,  said the banker,  but you will tire yourself, baroness, by\nsuch late hours, and M. Debray lives some distance from here. \n\nDebray was petrified, not only to hear Danglars speak so calmly and\npolitely, but because it was apparent that beneath outward politeness\nthere really lurked a determined spirit of opposition to anything his\nwife might wish to do. The baroness was also surprised, and showed her\nastonishment by a look which would doubtless have had some effect upon\nher husband if he had not been intently occupied with the paper, where\nhe was looking to see the closing stock quotations. The result was,\nthat the proud look entirely failed of its purpose.\n\n M. Lucien,  said the baroness,  I assure you I have no desire to\nsleep, and that I have a thousand things to tell you this evening,\nwhich you must listen to, even though you slept while hearing me. \n\n I am at your service, madame,  replied Lucien coldly.\n\n My dear M. Debray,  said the banker,  do not kill yourself tonight\nlistening to the follies of Madame Danglars, for you can hear them as\nwell tomorrow; but I claim tonight and will devote it, if you will\nallow me, to talk over some serious matters with my wife. \n\nThis time the blow was so well aimed, and hit so directly, that Lucien\nand the baroness were staggered, and they interrogated each other with\ntheir eyes, as if to seek help against this aggression, but the\nirresistible will of the master of the house prevailed, and the husband\nwas victorious.\n\n Do not think I wish to turn you out, my dear Debray,  continued\nDanglars;  oh, no, not at all. An unexpected occurrence forces me to\nask my wife to have a little conversation with me; it is so rarely I\nmake such a request, I am sure you cannot grudge it to me. \n\nDebray muttered something, bowed and went out, knocking himself against\nthe edge of the door, like Nathan in _Athalie_.\n\n It is extraordinary,  he said, when the door was closed behind him,\n how easily these husbands, whom we ridicule, gain an advantage over\nus. \n\n30241m\n\n\n\nLucien having left, Danglars took his place on the sofa, closed the\nopen book, and placing himself in a dreadfully dictatorial attitude, he\nbegan playing with the dog; but the animal, not liking him as well as\nDebray, and attempting to bite him, Danglars seized him by the skin of\nhis neck and threw him upon a couch on the other side of the room. The\nanimal uttered a cry during the transit, but, arrived at its\ndestination, it crouched behind the cushions, and stupefied at such\nunusual treatment remained silent and motionless.\n\n Do you know, sir,  asked the baroness,  that you are improving?\nGenerally you are only rude, but tonight you are brutal. \n\n It is because I am in a worse humor than usual,  replied Danglars.\nHermine looked at the banker with supreme disdain. These glances\nfrequently exasperated the pride of Danglars, but this evening he took\nno notice of them.\n\n And what have I to do with your ill-humor?  said the baroness,\nirritated at the impassibility of her husband;  do these things concern\nme? Keep your ill-humor at home in your money boxes, or, since you have\nclerks whom you pay, vent it upon them. \n\n Not so,  replied Danglars;  your advice is wrong, so I shall not\nfollow it. My money boxes are my Pactolus, as, I think, M. Demoustier\nsays, and I will not retard its course, or disturb its calm. My clerks\nare honest men, who earn my fortune, whom I pay much below their\ndeserts, if I may value them according to what they bring in; therefore\nI shall not get into a passion with them; those with whom I will be in\na passion are those who eat my dinners, mount my horses, and exhaust my\nfortune. \n\n And pray who are the persons who exhaust your fortune? Explain\nyourself more clearly, I beg, sir. \n\n Oh, make yourself easy! I am not speaking riddles, and you will soon\nknow what I mean. The people who exhaust my fortune are those who draw\nout 700,000 francs in the course of an hour. \n\n I do not understand you, sir,  said the baroness, trying to disguise\nthe agitation of her voice and the flush of her face.\n\n You understand me perfectly, on the contrary,  said Danglars:  but, if\nyou will persist, I will tell you that I have just lost 700,000 francs\nupon the Spanish loan. \n\n And pray,  asked the baroness,  am I responsible for this loss? \n\n Why not? \n\n Is it my fault you have lost 700,000 francs? \n\n Certainly it is not mine. \n\n Once for all, sir,  replied the baroness sharply,  I tell you I will\nnot hear cash named; it is a style of language I never heard in the\nhouse of my parents or in that of my first husband. \n\n Oh, I can well believe that, for neither of them was worth a penny. \n\n The better reason for my not being conversant with the slang of the\nbank, which is here dinning in my ears from morning to night; that\nnoise of jingling crowns, which are constantly being counted and\nre-counted, is odious to me. I only know one thing I dislike more,\nwhich is the sound of your voice. \n\n Really?  said Danglars.  Well, this surprises me, for I thought you\ntook the liveliest interest in all my affairs! \n\n30243m\n\n\n\n I? What could put such an idea into your head? \n\n Yourself. \n\n Ah? what next? \n\n Most assuredly. \n\n I should like to know upon what occasion? \n\n Oh, _mon Dieu!_ that is very easily done. Last February you were the\nfirst who told me of the Haitian funds. You had dreamed that a ship had\nentered the harbor at Le Havre, that this ship brought news that a\npayment we had looked upon as lost was going to be made. I know how\nclear-sighted your dreams are; I therefore purchased immediately as\nmany shares as I could of the Haitian debt, and I gained 400,000 francs\nby it, of which 100,000 have been honestly paid to you. You spent it as\nyou pleased; that was your business. In March there was a question\nabout a grant to a railway. Three companies presented themselves, each\noffering equal securities. You told me that your instinct, and although\nyou pretend to know nothing about speculations, I think on the\ncontrary, that your comprehension is very clear upon certain\naffairs, well, you told me that your instinct led you to believe the\ngrant would be given to the company called the Southern. I bought two\nthirds of the shares of that company; as you had foreseen, the shares\ntrebled in value, and I picked up a million, from which 250,000 francs\nwere paid to you for pin-money. How have you spent this 250,000\nfrancs? it is no business of mine. \n\n When are you coming to the point?  cried the baroness, shivering with\nanger and impatience.\n\n Patience, madame, I am coming to it. \n\n That s fortunate. \n\n In April you went to dine at the minister s. You heard a private\nconversation respecting Spanish affairs on the expulsion of Don Carlos.\nI bought some Spanish shares. The expulsion took place and I pocketed\n600,000 francs the day Charles V. repassed the Bidassoa. Of these\n600,000 francs you took 50,000 crowns. They were yours, you disposed of\nthem according to your fancy, and I asked no questions; but it is not\nthe less true that you have this year received 500,000 livres. \n\n Well, sir, and what then? \n\n Ah, yes, it was just after this that you spoiled everything. \n\n Really, your manner of speaking \n\n It expresses my meaning, and that is all I want. Well, three days\nafter that you talked politics with M. Debray, and you fancied from his\nwords that Don Carlos had returned to Spain. Well, I sold my shares,\nthe news got out, and I no longer sold I gave them away, next day I\nfind the news was false, and by this false report I have lost 700,000\nfrancs. \n\n Well? \n\n Well, since I gave you a fourth of my gains, I think you owe me a\nfourth of my losses; the fourth of 700,000 francs is 175,000 francs. \n\n What you say is absurd, and I cannot see why M. Debray s name is mixed\nup in this affair. \n\n Because if you do not possess the 175,000 francs I reclaim, you must\nhave lent them to your friends, and M. Debray is one of your friends. \n\n30245m\n\n\n\n For shame!  exclaimed the baroness.\n\n Oh, let us have no gestures, no screams, no modern drama, or you will\noblige me to tell you that I see Debray leave here, pocketing the whole\nof the 500,000 livres you have handed over to him this year, while he\nsmiles to himself, saying that he has found what the most skilful\nplayers have never discovered that is, a roulette where he wins without\nplaying, and is no loser when he loses. \n\nThe baroness became enraged.\n\n Wretch!  she cried,  will you dare to tell me you did not know what\nyou now reproach me with? \n\n I do not say that I did know it, and I do not say that I did not know\nit. I merely tell you to look into my conduct during the last four\nyears that we have ceased to be husband and wife, and see whether it\nhas not always been consistent. Some time after our rupture, you wished\nto study music, under the celebrated baritone who made such a\nsuccessful appearance at the Th tre Italien; at the same time I felt\ninclined to learn dancing of the _danseuse_ who acquired such a\nreputation in London. This cost me, on your account and mine, 100,000\nfrancs. I said nothing, for we must have peace in the house; and\n100,000 francs for a lady and gentleman to be properly instructed in\nmusic and dancing are not too much. Well, you soon become tired of\nsinging, and you take a fancy to study diplomacy with the minister s\nsecretary. You understand, it signifies nothing to me so long as you\npay for your lessons out of your own cash box. But today I find you are\ndrawing on mine, and that your apprenticeship may cost me 700,000\nfrancs per month. Stop there, madame, for this cannot last. Either the\ndiplomatist must give his lessons gratis, and I will tolerate him, or\nhe must never set his foot again in my house; do you understand,\nmadame? \n\n Oh, this is too much,  cried Hermine, choking,  you are worse than\ndespicable. \n\n But,  continued Danglars,  I find you did not even pause there \n\n Insults! \n\n You are right; let us leave these facts alone, and reason coolly. I\nhave never interfered in your affairs excepting for your good; treat me\nin the same way. You say you have nothing to do with my cash box. Be it\nso. Do as you like with your own, but do not fill or empty mine.\nBesides, how do I know that this was not a political trick, that the\nminister enraged at seeing me in the opposition, and jealous of the\npopular sympathy I excite, has not concerted with M. Debray to ruin\nme? \n\n A probable thing! \n\n Why not? Who ever heard of such an occurrence as this? a false\ntelegraphic despatch it is almost impossible for wrong signals to be\nmade as they were in the last two telegrams. It was done on purpose for\nme I am sure of it. \n\n Sir,  said the baroness humbly,  are you not aware that the man\nemployed there was dismissed, that they talked of going to law with\nhim, that orders were issued to arrest him and that this order would\nhave been put into execution if he had not escaped by flight, which\nproves that he was either mad or guilty? It was a mistake. \n\n Yes, which made fools laugh, which caused the minister to have a\nsleepless night, which has caused the minister s secretaries to blacken\nseveral sheets of paper, but which has cost me 700,000 francs. \n\n But, sir,  said Hermine suddenly,  if all this is, as you say, caused\nby M. Debray, why, instead of going direct to him, do you come and tell\nme of it? Why, to accuse the man, do you address the woman? \n\n Do I know M. Debray? do I wish to know him? do I wish to know that he\ngives advice? do I wish to follow it? do I speculate? No; you do all\nthis, not I. \n\n Still it seems to me, that as you profit by it \n\nDanglars shrugged his shoulders.  Foolish creature,  he exclaimed.\n Women fancy they have talent because they have managed two or three\nintrigues without being the talk of Paris! But know that if you had\neven hidden your irregularities from your husband, who has but the\ncommencement of the art for generally husbands _will_ not see you would\nthen have been but a faint imitation of most of your friends among the\nwomen of the world. But it has not been so with me, I see, and always\nhave seen, during the last sixteen years. You may, perhaps, have hidden\na thought; but not a step, not an action, not a fault, has escaped me,\nwhile you flattered yourself upon your address, and firmly believed you\nhad deceived me. What has been the result? that, thanks to my pretended\nignorance, there is none of your friends, from M. de Villefort to M.\nDebray, who has not trembled before me. There is not one who has not\ntreated me as the master of the house, the only title I desire with\nrespect to you; there is not one, in fact, who would have dared to\nspeak of me as I have spoken of them this day. I will allow you to make\nme hateful, but I will prevent your rendering me ridiculous, and, above\nall, I forbid you to ruin me. \n\nThe baroness had been tolerably composed until the name of Villefort\nhad been pronounced; but then she became pale, and, rising, as if\ntouched by a spring, she stretched out her hands as though conjuring an\napparition; she then took two or three steps towards her husband, as\nthough to tear the secret from him, of which he was ignorant, or which\nhe withheld from some odious calculation, odious, as all his\ncalculations were.\n\n M. de Villefort! What do you mean? \n\n I mean that M. de Nargonne, your first husband, being neither a\nphilosopher nor a banker, or perhaps being both, and seeing there was\nnothing to be got out of a king s attorney, died of grief or anger at\nfinding, after an absence of nine months, that you had been _enceinte_\nsix. I am brutal, I not only allow it, but boast of it; it is one of\nthe reasons of my success in commercial business. Why did he kill\nhimself instead of you? Because he had no cash to save. My life belongs\nto my cash. M. Debray has made me lose 700,000 francs; let him bear his\nshare of the loss, and we will go on as before; if not, let him become\nbankrupt for the 250,000 livres, and do as all bankrupts do disappear.\nHe is a charming fellow, I allow, when his news is correct; but when it\nis not, there are fifty others in the world who would do better than\nhe. \n\nMadame Danglars was rooted to the spot; she made a violent effort to\nreply to this last attack, but she fell upon a chair thinking of\nVillefort, of the dinner scene, of the strange series of misfortunes\nwhich had taken place in her house during the last few days, and\nchanged the usual calm of her establishment to a scene of scandalous\ndebate.\n\nDanglars did not even look at her, though she did her best to faint. He\nshut the bedroom door after him, without adding another word, and\nreturned to his apartments; and when Madame Danglars recovered from her\nhalf-fainting condition, she could almost believe that she had had a\ndisagreeable dream.\n\n\n\n Chapter 66. Matrimonial Projects\n\nThe day following this scene, at the hour Debray usually chose to pay a\nvisit to Madame Danglars on his way to his office, his _coup _ did not\nappear. At this time, that is, about half-past twelve, Madame Danglars\nordered her carriage, and went out. Danglars, hidden behind a curtain,\nwatched the departure he had been waiting for. He gave orders that he\nshould be informed as soon as Madame Danglars appeared; but at two\no clock she had not returned. He then called for his horses, drove to\nthe Chamber, and inscribed his name to speak against the budget. From\ntwelve to two o clock Danglars had remained in his study, unsealing his\ndispatches, and becoming more and more sad every minute, heaping figure\nupon figure, and receiving, among other visits, one from Major\nCavalcanti, who, as stiff and exact as ever, presented himself\nprecisely at the hour named the night before, to terminate his business\nwith the banker.\n\nOn leaving the Chamber, Danglars, who had shown violent marks of\nagitation during the sitting, and been more bitter than ever against\nthe ministry, re-entered his carriage, and told the coachman to drive\nto the Avenue des Champs- lys es, No. 30.\n\nMonte Cristo was at home; only he was engaged with someone and begged\nDanglars to wait for a moment in the drawing-room. While the banker was\nwaiting in the anteroom, the door opened, and a man dressed as an abb \nand doubtless more familiar with the house than he was, came in and\ninstead of waiting, merely bowed, passed on to the farther apartments,\nand disappeared.\n\nA minute after the door by which the priest had entered reopened, and\nMonte Cristo appeared.\n\n Pardon me,  said he,  my dear baron, but one of my friends, the Abb \nBusoni, whom you perhaps saw pass by, has just arrived in Paris; not\nhaving seen him for a long time, I could not make up my mind to leave\nhim sooner, so I hope this will be sufficient reason for my having made\nyou wait. \n\n Nay,  said Danglars,  it is my fault; I have chosen my visit at a\nwrong time, and will retire. \n\n Not at all; on the contrary, be seated; but what is the matter with\nyou? You look careworn; really, you alarm me. Melancholy in a\ncapitalist, like the appearance of a comet, presages some misfortune to\nthe world. \n\n I have been in ill-luck for several days,  said Danglars,  and I have\nheard nothing but bad news. \n\n Ah, indeed?  said Monte Cristo.  Have you had another fall at the\nBourse? \n\n No; I am safe for a few days at least. I am only annoyed about a\nbankrupt of Trieste. \n\n Really? Does it happen to be Jacopo Manfredi? \n\n Exactly so. Imagine a man who has transacted business with me for I\ndon t know how long, to the amount of 800,000 or 900,000 francs during\nthe year. Never a mistake or delay a fellow who paid like a prince.\nWell, I was a million in advance with him, and now my fine Jacopo\nManfredi suspends payment! \n\n Really? \n\n It is an unheard-of fatality. I draw upon him for 600,000 francs, my\nbills are returned unpaid, and, more than that, I hold bills of\nexchange signed by him to the value of 400,000 francs, payable at his\ncorrespondent s in Paris at the end of this month. Today is the 30th. I\npresent them; but my correspondent has disappeared. This, with my\nSpanish affairs, made a pretty end to the month. \n\n Then you really lost by that affair in Spain? \n\n Yes; only 700,000 francs out of my cash box nothing more! \n\n Why, how could you make such a mistake such an old stager? \n\n Oh, it is all my wife s fault. She dreamed Don Carlos had returned to\nSpain; she believes in dreams. It is magnetism, she says, and when she\ndreams a thing it is sure to happen, she assures me. On this conviction\nI allow her to speculate, she having her bank and her stockbroker; she\nspeculated and lost. It is true she speculates with her own money, not\nmine; nevertheless, you can understand that when 700,000 francs leave\nthe wife s pocket, the husband always finds it out. But do you mean to\nsay you have not heard of this? Why, the thing has made a tremendous\nnoise. \n\n Yes, I heard it spoken of, but I did not know the details, and then no\none can be more ignorant than I am of the affairs in the Bourse. \n\n30251m\n\n\n\n Then you do not speculate? \n\n I? How could I speculate when I already have so much trouble in\nregulating my income? I should be obliged, besides my steward, to keep\na clerk and a boy. But touching these Spanish affairs, I think that the\nbaroness did not dream the whole of the Don Carlos matter. The papers\nsaid something about it, did they not? \n\n Then you believe the papers? \n\n I? not the least in the world; only I fancied that the honest\n_Messager_ was an exception to the rule, and that it only announced\ntelegraphic despatches. \n\n Well, that s what puzzles me,  replied Danglars;  the news of the\nreturn of Don Carlos was brought by telegraph. \n\n So that,  said Monte Cristo,  you have lost nearly 1,700,000 francs\nthis month. \n\n Not nearly, indeed; that is exactly my loss. \n\n _Diable!_  said Monte Cristo compassionately,  it is a hard blow for a\nthird-rate fortune. \n\n Third-rate,  said Danglars, rather humble,  what do you mean by that? \n\n Certainly,  continued Monte Cristo,  I make three assortments in\nfortune first-rate, second-rate, and third-rate fortunes. I call those\nfirst-rate which are composed of treasures one possesses under one s\nhand, such as mines, lands, and funded property, in such states as\nFrance, Austria, and England, provided these treasures and property\nform a total of about a hundred millions; I call those second-rate\nfortunes, that are gained by manufacturing enterprises, joint-stock\ncompanies, viceroyalties, and principalities, not drawing more than\n1,500,000 francs, the whole forming a capital of about fifty millions;\nfinally, I call those third-rate fortunes, which are composed of a\nfluctuating capital, dependent upon the will of others, or upon chances\nwhich a bankruptcy involves or a false telegram shakes, such as banks,\nspeculations of the day in fact, all operations under the influence of\ngreater or less mischances, the whole bringing in a real or fictitious\ncapital of about fifteen millions. I think this is about your position,\nis it not? \n\n Confound it, yes!  replied Danglars.\n\n The result, then, of six more such months as this would be to reduce\nthe third-rate house to despair. \n\n Oh,  said Danglars, becoming very pale, how you are running on! \n\n Let us imagine seven such months,  continued Monte Cristo, in the same\ntone.  Tell me, have you ever thought that seven times 1,700,000 francs\nmake nearly twelve millions? No, you have not; well, you are right, for\nif you indulged in such reflections, you would never risk your\nprincipal, which is to the speculator what the skin is to civilized\nman. We have our clothes, some more splendid than others, this is our\ncredit; but when a man dies he has only his skin; in the same way, on\nretiring from business, you have nothing but your real principal of\nabout five or six millions, at the most; for third-rate fortunes are\nnever more than a fourth of what they appear to be, like the locomotive\non a railway, the size of which is magnified by the smoke and steam\nsurrounding it. Well, out of the five or six millions which form your\nreal capital, you have just lost nearly two millions, which must, of\ncourse, in the same degree diminish your credit and fictitious fortune;\nto follow out my simile, your skin has been opened by bleeding, and\nthis if repeated three or four times will cause death so pay attention\nto it, my dear Monsieur Danglars. Do you want money? Do you wish me to\nlend you some? \n\n30253m\n\n\n\n What a bad calculator you are!  exclaimed Danglars, calling to his\nassistance all his philosophy and dissimulation.  I have made money at\nthe same time by speculations which have succeeded. I have made up the\nloss of blood by nutrition. I lost a battle in Spain, I have been\ndefeated in Trieste, but my naval army in India will have taken some\ngalleons, and my Mexican pioneers will have discovered some mine. \n\n Very good, very good! But the wound remains and will reopen at the\nfirst loss. \n\n No, for I am only embarked in certainties,  replied Danglars, with the\nair of a mountebank sounding his own praises;  to involve me, three\ngovernments must crumble to dust. \n\n Well, such things have been. \n\n That there should be a famine! \n\n Recollect the seven fat and the seven lean kine. \n\n Or, that the sea should become dry, as in the days of Pharaoh, and\neven then my vessels would become caravans. \n\n So much the better. I congratulate you, my dear M. Danglars,  said\nMonte Cristo;  I see I was deceived, and that you belong to the class\nof second-rate fortunes. \n\n I think I may aspire to that honor,  said Danglars with a smile, which\nreminded Monte Cristo of the sickly moons which bad artists are so fond\nof daubing into their pictures of ruins.  But, while we are speaking of\nbusiness,  Danglars added, pleased to find an opportunity of changing\nthe subject,  tell me what I am to do for M. Cavalcanti. \n\n Give him money, if he is recommended to you, and the recommendation\nseems good. \n\n Excellent; he presented himself this morning with a bond of 40,000\nfrancs, payable at sight, on you, signed by Busoni, and returned by you\nto me, with your endorsement of course, I immediately counted him over\nthe forty bank-notes. \n\nMonte Cristo nodded his head in token of assent.\n\n But that is not all,  continued Danglars;  he has opened an account\nwith my house for his son. \n\n May I ask how much he allows the young man? \n\n Five thousand francs per month. \n\n Sixty thousand francs per year. I thought I was right in believing\nthat Cavalcanti to be a stingy fellow. How can a young man live upon\n5,000 francs a month? \n\n But you understand that if the young man should want a few thousands\nmore \n\n Do not advance it; the father will never repay it. You do not know\nthese ultramontane millionaires; they are regular misers. And by whom\nwere they recommended to you? \n\n Oh, by the house of Fenzi, one of the best in Florence. \n\n I do not mean to say you will lose, but, nevertheless, mind you hold\nto the terms of the agreement. \n\n Would you not trust the Cavalcanti? \n\n I? oh, I would advance ten millions on his signature. I was only\nspeaking in reference to the second-rate fortunes we were mentioning\njust now. \n\n And with all this, how unassuming he is! I should never have taken him\nfor anything more than a mere major. \n\n And you would have flattered him, for certainly, as you say, he has no\nmanner. The first time I saw him he appeared to me like an old\nlieutenant who had grown mouldy under his epaulets. But all the\nItalians are the same; they are like old Jews when they are not\nglittering in Oriental splendor. \n\n The young man is better,  said Danglars.\n\n Yes; a little nervous, perhaps, but, upon the whole, he appeared\ntolerable. I was uneasy about him. \n\n Why? \n\n Because you met him at my house, just after his introduction into the\nworld, as they told me. He has been travelling with a very severe\ntutor, and had never been to Paris before. \n\n Ah, I believe noblemen marry amongst themselves, do they not?  asked\nDanglars carelessly;  they like to unite their fortunes. \n\n It is usual, certainly; but Cavalcanti is an original who does nothing\nlike other people. I cannot help thinking that he has brought his son\nto France to choose a wife. \n\n Do you think so? \n\n I am sure of it. \n\n And you have heard his fortune mentioned? \n\n Nothing else was talked of; only some said he was worth millions, and\nothers that he did not possess a farthing. \n\n And what is your opinion? \n\n I ought not to influence you, because it is only my own personal\nimpression. \n\n Well, and it is that \n\n My opinion is, that all these old _podest s_, these ancient\n_condottieri_, for the Cavalcanti have commanded armies and governed\nprovinces, my opinion, I say, is, that they have buried their millions\nin corners, the secret of which they have transmitted only to their\neldest sons, who have done the same from generation to generation; and\nthe proof of this is seen in their yellow and dry appearance, like the\nflorins of the republic, which, from being constantly gazed upon, have\nbecome reflected in them. \n\n Certainly,  said Danglars,  and this is further supported by the fact\nof their not possessing an inch of land. \n\n Very little, at least; I know of none which Cavalcanti possesses,\nexcepting his palace in Lucca. \n\n Ah, he has a palace?  said Danglars, laughing;  come, that is\nsomething. \n\n Yes; and more than that, he lets it to the Minister of Finance while\nhe lives in a simple house. Oh, as I told you before, I think the old\nfellow is very close. \n\n Come, you do not flatter him. \n\n I scarcely know him; I think I have seen him three times in my life;\nall I know relating to him is through Busoni and himself. He was\ntelling me this morning that, tired of letting his property lie dormant\nin Italy, which is a dead nation, he wished to find a method, either in\nFrance or England, of multiplying his millions, but remember, that\nthough I place great confidence in Busoni, I am not responsible for\nthis. \n\n Never mind; accept my thanks for the client you have sent me. It is a\nfine name to inscribe on my ledgers, and my cashier was quite proud of\nit when I explained to him who the Cavalcanti were. By the way, this is\nmerely a simple question, when this sort of people marry their sons, do\nthey give them any fortune? \n\n Oh, that depends upon circumstances. I know an Italian prince, rich as\na gold mine, one of the noblest families in Tuscany, who, when his sons\nmarried according to his wish, gave them millions; and when they\nmarried against his consent, merely allowed them thirty crowns a month.\nShould Andrea marry according to his father s views, he will, perhaps,\ngive him one, two, or three millions. For example, supposing it were\nthe daughter of a banker, he might take an interest in the house of the\nfather-in-law of his son; then again, if he disliked his choice, the\nmajor takes the key, double-locks his coffer, and Master Andrea would\nbe obliged to live like the sons of a Parisian family, by shuffling\ncards or rattling the dice. \n\n Ah, that boy will find out some Bavarian or Peruvian princess; he will\nwant a crown, an El Dorado, and Potos . \n\n No; these grand lords on the other side of the Alps frequently marry\ninto plain families; like Jupiter, they like to cross the race. But do\nyou wish to marry Andrea, my dear M. Danglars, that you are asking so\nmany questions? \n\n _Ma foi_,  said Danglars,  it would not be a bad speculation, I fancy,\nand you know I am a speculator. \n\n You are not thinking of Mademoiselle Danglars, I hope; you would not\nlike poor Andrea to have his throat cut by Albert? \n\n Albert,  repeated Danglars, shrugging his shoulders;  ah, well; he\nwould care very little about it, I think. \n\n But he is betrothed to your daughter, I believe? \n\n Well, M. de Morcerf and I have talked about this marriage, but Madame\nde Morcerf and Albert \n\n You do not mean to say that it would not be a good match? \n\n Indeed, I imagine that Mademoiselle Danglars is as good as M. de\nMorcerf. \n\n Mademoiselle Danglars  fortune will be great, no doubt, especially if\nthe telegraph should not make any more mistakes. \n\n Oh, I do not mean her fortune only; but tell me \n\n What? \n\n Why did you not invite M. and Madame de Morcerf to your dinner? \n\n I did so, but he excused himself on account of Madame de Morcerf being\nobliged to go to Dieppe for the benefit of sea air. \n\n Yes, yes,  said Danglars, laughing,  it would do her a great deal of\ngood. \n\n Why so? \n\n Because it is the air she always breathed in her youth. \n\nMonte Cristo took no notice of this ill-natured remark.\n\n But still, if Albert be not so rich as Mademoiselle Danglars,  said\nthe count,  you must allow that he has a fine name? \n\n So he has; but I like mine as well. \n\n Certainly; your name is popular, and does honor to the title they have\nadorned it with; but you are too intelligent not to know that according\nto a prejudice, too firmly rooted to be exterminated, a nobility which\ndates back five centuries is worth more than one that can only reckon\ntwenty years. \n\n And for this very reason,  said Danglars with a smile, which he tried\nto make sardonic,  I prefer M. Andrea Cavalcanti to M. Albert de\nMorcerf. \n\n Still, I should not think the Morcerfs would yield to the Cavalcanti? \n\n The Morcerfs! Stay, my dear count,  said Danglars;  you are a man of\nthe world, are you not? \n\n I think so. \n\n And you understand heraldry? \n\n A little. \n\n Well, look at my coat-of-arms, it is worth more than Morcerf s. \n\n Why so? \n\n Because, though I am not a baron by birth, my real name is, at least,\nDanglars. \n\n Well, what then? \n\n While his name is not Morcerf. \n\n How? not Morcerf? \n\n Not the least in the world. \n\n Go on. \n\n I have been made a baron, so that I actually am one; he made himself a\ncount, so that he is not one at all. \n\n Impossible! \n\n Listen my dear count; M. de Morcerf has been my friend, or rather my\nacquaintance, during the last thirty years. You know I have made the\nmost of my arms, though I never forgot my origin. \n\n A proof of great humility or great pride,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Well, when I was a clerk, Morcerf was a mere fisherman. \n\n And then he was called \n\n Fernand. \n\n Only Fernand? \n\n Fernand Mondego. \n\n You are sure? \n\n _Pardieu!_ I have bought enough fish of him to know his name. \n\n Then, why did you think of giving your daughter to him? \n\n Because Fernand and Danglars, being both parvenus, both having become\nnoble, both rich, are about equal in worth, excepting that there have\nbeen certain things mentioned of him that were never said of me. \n\n What? \n\n Oh, nothing! \n\n Ah, yes; what you tell me recalls to mind something about the name of\nFernand Mondego. I have heard that name in Greece. \n\n In conjunction with the affairs of Ali Pasha? \n\n Exactly so. \n\n This is the mystery,  said Danglars.  I acknowledge I would have given\nanything to find it out. \n\n It would be very easy if you much wished it? \n\n How so? \n\n Probably you have some correspondent in Greece? \n\n I should think so. \n\n At Yanina? \n\n Everywhere. \n\n Well, write to your correspondent in Yanina, and ask him what part was\nplayed by a Frenchman named Fernand Mondego in the catastrophe of Ali\nTepelini. \n\n You are right,  exclaimed Danglars, rising quickly,  I will write\ntoday. \n\n Do so. \n\n I will. \n\n30259m\n\n\n\n And if you should hear of anything very scandalous \n\n I will communicate it to you. \n\n You will oblige me. \n\nDanglars rushed out of the room, and made but one leap into his\n_coup _.\n\n\n\n Chapter 67. The Office of the King s Attorney\n\nLet us leave the banker driving his horses at their fullest speed, and\nfollow Madame Danglars in her morning excursion. We have said that at\nhalf-past twelve o clock Madame Danglars had ordered her horses, and\nhad left home in the carriage. She directed her course towards the\nFaubourg Saint Germain, went down the Rue Mazarine, and stopped at the\nPassage du Pont-Neuf. She descended, and went through the passage. She\nwas very plainly dressed, as would be the case with a woman of taste\nwalking in the morning. At the Rue Gu n gaud she called a cab, and\ndirected the driver to go to the Rue de Harlay. As soon as she was\nseated in the vehicle, she drew from her pocket a very thick black\nveil, which she tied on to her straw bonnet. She then replaced the\nbonnet, and saw with pleasure, in a little pocket-mirror, that her\nwhite complexion and brilliant eyes were alone visible. The cab crossed\nthe Pont-Neuf and entered the Rue de Harlay by the Place Dauphine; the\ndriver was paid as the door opened, and stepping lightly up the stairs\nMadame Danglars soon reached the Salle des Pas-Perdus.\n\nThere was a great deal going on that morning, and many business-like\npersons at the Palais; business-like persons pay very little attention\nto women, and Madame Danglars crossed the hall without exciting any\nmore attention than any other woman calling upon her lawyer.\n\nThere was a great press of people in M. de Villefort s antechamber, but\nMadame Danglars had no occasion even to pronounce her name. The instant\nshe appeared the door-keeper rose, came to her, and asked her whether\nshe was not the person with whom the procureur had made an appointment;\nand on her affirmative answer being given, he conducted her by a\nprivate passage to M. de Villefort s office.\n\nThe magistrate was seated in an armchair, writing, with his back\ntowards the door; he did not move as he heard it open, and the\ndoor-keeper pronounce the words,  Walk in, madame,  and then reclose\nit; but no sooner had the man s footsteps ceased, than he started up,\ndrew the bolts, closed the curtains, and examined every corner of the\nroom. Then, when he had assured himself that he could neither be seen\nnor heard, and was consequently relieved of doubts, he said:\n\n Thanks, madame, thanks for your punctuality;  and he offered a chair\nto Madame Danglars, which she accepted, for her heart beat so violently\nthat she felt nearly suffocated.\n\n30261m\n\n\n\n It is a long time, madame,  said the procureur, describing a\nhalf-circle with his chair, so as to place himself exactly opposite to\nMadame Danglars, it is a long time since I had the pleasure of\nspeaking alone with you, and I regret that we have only now met to\nenter upon a painful conversation. \n\n Nevertheless, sir, you see I have answered your first appeal, although\ncertainly the conversation must be much more painful for me than for\nyou.  Villefort smiled bitterly.\n\n It is true, then,  he said, rather uttering his thoughts aloud than\naddressing his companion, it is true, then, that all our actions leave\ntheir traces some sad, others bright on our paths; it is true that\nevery step in our lives is like the course of an insect on the\nsands; it leaves its track! Alas, to many the path is traced by tears. \n\n Sir,  said Madame Danglars,  you can feel for my emotion, can you not?\nSpare me, then, I beseech you. When I look at this room, whence so many\nguilty creatures have departed, trembling and ashamed, when I look at\nthat chair before which I now sit trembling and ashamed, oh, it\nrequires all my reason to convince me that I am not a very guilty woman\nand you a menacing judge. \n\nVillefort dropped his head and sighed.\n\n And I,  he said,  I feel that my place is not in the judge s seat, but\non the prisoner s bench. \n\n30263m\n\n\n\n You?  said Madame Danglars.\n\n Yes, I. \n\n I think, sir, you exaggerate your situation,  said Madame Danglars,\nwhose beautiful eyes sparkled for a moment.  The paths of which you\nwere just speaking have been traced by all young men of ardent\nimaginations. Besides the pleasure, there is always remorse from the\nindulgence of our passions, and, after all, what have you men to fear\nfrom all this? the world excuses, and notoriety ennobles you. \n\n Madame,  replied Villefort,  you know that I am no hypocrite, or, at\nleast, that I never deceive without a reason. If my brow be severe, it\nis because many misfortunes have clouded it; if my heart be petrified,\nit is that it might sustain the blows it has received. I was not so in\nmy youth, I was not so on the night of the betrothal, when we were all\nseated around a table in the Rue du Cours at Marseilles. But since then\neverything has changed in and about me; I am accustomed to brave\ndifficulties, and, in the conflict to crush those who, by their own\nfree will, or by chance, voluntarily or involuntarily, interfere with\nme in my career. It is generally the case that what we most ardently\ndesire is as ardently withheld from us by those who wish to obtain it,\nor from whom we attempt to snatch it. Thus, the greater number of a\nman s errors come before him disguised under the specious form of\nnecessity; then, after error has been committed in a moment of\nexcitement, of delirium, or of fear, we see that we might have avoided\nand escaped it. The means we might have used, which we in our blindness\ncould not see, then seem simple and easy, and we say,  Why did I not do\nthis, instead of that?  Women, on the contrary, are rarely tormented\nwith remorse; for the decision does not come from you, your misfortunes\nare generally imposed upon you, and your faults the results of others \ncrimes. \n\n In any case, sir, you will allow,  replied Madame Danglars,  that,\neven if the fault were alone mine, I last night received a severe\npunishment for it. \n\n Poor thing,  said Villefort, pressing her hand,  it was too severe for\nyour strength, for you were twice overwhelmed, and yet \n\n Well? \n\n Well, I must tell you. Collect all your courage, for you have not yet\nheard all. \n\n Ah,  exclaimed Madame Danglars, alarmed,  what is there more to hear? \n\n You only look back to the past, and it is, indeed, bad enough. Well,\npicture to yourself a future more gloomy still certainly frightful,\nperhaps sanguinary! \n\nThe baroness knew how calm Villefort naturally was, and his present\nexcitement frightened her so much that she opened her mouth to scream,\nbut the sound died in her throat.\n\n How has this terrible past been recalled?  cried Villefort;  how is it\nthat it has escaped from the depths of the tomb and the recesses of our\nhearts, where it was buried, to visit us now, like a phantom, whitening\nour cheeks and flushing our brows with shame? \n\n Alas,  said Hermine,  doubtless it is chance. \n\n Chance?  replied Villefort;  No, no, madame, there is no such thing as\nchance. \n\n Oh, yes; has not a fatal chance revealed all this? Was it not by\nchance the Count of Monte Cristo bought that house? Was it not by\nchance he caused the earth to be dug up? Is it not by chance that the\nunfortunate child was disinterred under the trees? that poor innocent\noffspring of mine, which I never even kissed, but for whom I wept many,\nmany tears. Ah, my heart clung to the count when he mentioned the dear\nspoil found beneath the flowers. \n\n Well, no, madame, this is the terrible news I have to tell you,  said\nVillefort in a hollow voice no, nothing was found beneath the flowers;\nthere was no child disinterred no. You must not weep, no, you must not\ngroan, you must tremble! \n\n What can you mean?  asked Madame Danglars, shuddering.\n\n I mean that M. de Monte Cristo, digging underneath these trees, found\nneither skeleton nor chest, because neither of them was there! \n\n Neither of them there?  repeated Madame Danglars, her staring,\nwide-open eyes expressing her alarm.  Neither of them there!  she again\nsaid, as though striving to impress herself with the meaning of the\nwords which escaped her.\n\n No,  said Villefort, burying his face in his hands,  no, a hundred\ntimes no! \n\n Then you did not bury the poor child there, sir? Why did you deceive\nme? Where did you place it? tell me where? \n\n There! But listen to me listen and you will pity me who has for twenty\nyears alone borne the heavy burden of grief I am about to reveal,\nwithout casting the least portion upon you. \n\n Oh, you frighten me! But speak; I will listen. \n\n You recollect that sad night, when you were half-expiring on that bed\nin the red damask room, while I, scarcely less agitated than you,\nawaited your delivery. The child was born, was given to me motionless,\nbreathless, voiceless; we thought it dead. \n\nMadame Danglars moved rapidly, as though she would spring from her\nchair, but Villefort stopped, and clasped his hands as if to implore\nher attention.\n\n We thought it dead,  he repeated;  I placed it in the chest, which was\nto take the place of a coffin; I descended to the garden, I dug a hole,\nand then flung it down in haste. Scarcely had I covered it with earth,\nwhen the arm of the Corsican was stretched towards me; I saw a shadow\nrise, and, at the same time, a flash of light. I felt pain; I wished to\ncry out, but an icy shiver ran through my veins and stifled my voice; I\nfell lifeless, and fancied myself killed. Never shall I forget your\nsublime courage, when, having returned to consciousness, I dragged\nmyself to the foot of the stairs, and you, almost dying yourself, came\nto meet me. We were obliged to keep silent upon the dreadful\ncatastrophe. You had the fortitude to regain the house, assisted by\nyour nurse. A duel was the pretext for my wound. Though we scarcely\nexpected it, our secret remained in our own keeping alone. I was taken\nto Versailles; for three months I struggled with death; at last, as I\nseemed to cling to life, I was ordered to the South. Four men carried\nme from Paris to Ch lons, walking six leagues a day; Madame de\nVillefort followed the litter in her carriage. At Ch lons I was put\nupon the Sa ne, thence I passed on to the Rh ne, whence I descended,\nmerely with the current, to Arles; at Arles I was again placed on my\nlitter, and continued my journey to Marseilles. My recovery lasted six\nmonths. I never heard you mentioned, and I did not dare inquire for\nyou. When I returned to Paris, I learned that you, the widow of M. de\nNargonne, had married M. Danglars.\n\n What was the subject of my thoughts from the time consciousness\nreturned to me? Always the same always the child s corpse, coming every\nnight in my dreams, rising from the earth, and hovering over the grave\nwith menacing look and gesture. I inquired immediately on my return to\nParis; the house had not been inhabited since we left it, but it had\njust been let for nine years. I found the tenant. I pretended that I\ndisliked the idea that a house belonging to my wife s father and mother\nshould pass into the hands of strangers. I offered to pay them for\ncancelling the lease; they demanded 6,000 francs. I would have given\n10,000 I would have given 20,000. I had the money with me; I made the\ntenant sign the deed of resilition, and when I had obtained what I so\nmuch wanted, I galloped to Auteuil. No one had entered the house since\nI had left it.\n\n It was five o clock in the afternoon; I ascended into the red room,\nand waited for night. There all the thoughts which had disturbed me\nduring my year of constant agony came back with double force. The\nCorsican, who had declared the vendetta against me, who had followed me\nfrom N mes to Paris, who had hid himself in the garden, who had struck\nme, had seen me dig the grave, had seen me inter the child, he might\nbecome acquainted with your person, nay, he might even then have known\nit. Would he not one day make you pay for keeping this terrible secret?\nWould it not be a sweet revenge for him when he found that I had not\ndied from the blow of his dagger? It was therefore necessary, before\neverything else, and at all risks, that I should cause all traces of\nthe past to disappear that I should destroy every material vestige; too\nmuch reality would always remain in my recollection. It was for this I\nhad annulled the lease it was for this I had come it was for this I was\nwaiting.\n\n Night arrived; I allowed it to become quite dark. I was without a\nlight in that room; when the wind shook all the doors, behind which I\ncontinually expected to see some spy concealed, I trembled. I seemed\neverywhere to hear your moans behind me in the bed, and I dared not\nturn around. My heart beat so violently that I feared my wound would\nopen. At length, one by one, all the noises in the neighborhood ceased.\nI understood that I had nothing to fear, that I should neither be seen\nnor heard, so I decided upon descending to the garden.\n\n Listen, Hermine; I consider myself as brave as most men, but when I\ndrew from my breast the little key of the staircase, which I had found\nin my coat that little key we both used to cherish so much, which you\nwished to have fastened to a golden ring when I opened the door, and\nsaw the pale moon shedding a long stream of white light on the spiral\nstaircase like a spectre, I leaned against the wall, and nearly\nshrieked. I seemed to be going mad. At last I mastered my agitation. I\ndescended the staircase step by step; the only thing I could not\nconquer was a strange trembling in my knees. I grasped the railings; if\nI had relaxed my hold for a moment, I should have fallen. I reached the\nlower door. Outside this door a spade was placed against the wall; I\ntook it, and advanced towards the thicket. I had provided myself with a\ndark lantern. In the middle of the lawn I stopped to light it, then I\ncontinued my path.\n\n It was the end of November, all the verdure of the garden had\ndisappeared, the trees were nothing more than skeletons with their long\nbony arms, and the dead leaves sounded on the gravel under my feet. My\nterror overcame me to such a degree as I approached the thicket, that I\ntook a pistol from my pocket and armed myself. I fancied continually\nthat I saw the figure of the Corsican between the branches. I examined\nthe thicket with my dark lantern; it was empty. I looked carefully\naround; I was indeed alone, no noise disturbed the silence but the owl,\nwhose piercing cry seemed to be calling up the phantoms of the night. I\ntied my lantern to a forked branch I had noticed a year before at the\nprecise spot where I stopped to dig the hole.\n\n The grass had grown very thickly there during the summer, and when\nautumn arrived no one had been there to mow it. Still one place where\nthe grass was thin attracted my attention; it evidently was there I had\nturned up the ground. I went to work. The hour, then, for which I had\nbeen waiting during the last year had at length arrived. How I worked,\nhow I hoped, how I struck every piece of turf, thinking to find some\nresistance to my spade! But no, I found nothing, though I had made a\nhole twice as large as the first. I thought I had been deceived had\nmistaken the spot. I turned around, I looked at the trees, I tried to\nrecall the details which had struck me at the time. A cold, sharp wind\nwhistled through the leafless branches, and yet the drops fell from my\nforehead. I recollected that I was stabbed just as I was trampling the\nground to fill up the hole; while doing so I had leaned against a\nlaburnum; behind me was an artificial rockery, intended to serve as a\nresting-place for persons walking in the garden; in falling, my hand,\nrelaxing its hold of the laburnum, felt the coldness of the stone. On\nmy right I saw the tree, behind me the rock. I stood in the same\nattitude, and threw myself down. I rose, and again began digging and\nenlarging the hole; still I found nothing, nothing the chest was no\nlonger there! \n\n30269m\n\n\n\n The chest no longer there?  murmured Madame Danglars, choking with\nfear.\n\n Think not I contented myself with this one effort,  continued\nVillefort.  No; I searched the whole thicket. I thought the assassin,\nhaving discovered the chest, and supposing it to be a treasure, had\nintended carrying it off, but, perceiving his error, had dug another\nhole, and deposited it there; but I could find nothing. Then the idea\nstruck me that he had not taken these precautions, and had simply\nthrown it in a corner. In the last case I must wait for daylight to\nrenew my search. I remained in the room and waited. \n\n Oh, Heaven! \n\n30271m\n\n\n\nWhen daylight dawned I went down again. My first visit was to the\nthicket. I hoped to find some traces which had escaped me in the\ndarkness. I had turned up the earth over a surface of more than twenty\nfeet square, and a depth of two feet. A laborer would not have done in\na day what occupied me an hour. But I could find nothing absolutely\nnothing. Then I renewed the search. Supposing it had been thrown aside,\nit would probably be on the path which led to the little gate; but this\nexamination was as useless as the first, and with a bursting heart I\nreturned to the thicket, which now contained no hope for me. \n\n Oh,  cried Madame Danglars,  it was enough to drive you mad! \n\n I hoped for a moment that it might,  said Villefort;  but that\nhappiness was denied me. However, recovering my strength and my ideas,\n Why,  said I,  should that man have carried away the corpse? \n\n But you said,  replied Madame Danglars,  he would require it as a\nproof. \n\n Ah, no, madame, that could not be. Dead bodies are not kept a year;\nthey are shown to a magistrate, and the evidence is taken. Now, nothing\nof the kind has happened. \n\n What then?  asked Hermine, trembling violently.\n\n Something more terrible, more fatal, more alarming for us the child\nwas, perhaps, alive, and the assassin may have saved it! \n\nMadame Danglars uttered a piercing cry, and, seizing Villefort s hands,\nexclaimed,  My child was alive?  said she;  you buried my child alive?\nYou were not certain my child was dead, and you buried it? Ah \n\nMadame Danglars had risen, and stood before the procureur, whose hands\nshe wrung in her feeble grasp.\n\n I know not; I merely suppose so, as I might suppose anything else, \nreplied Villefort with a look so fixed, it indicated that his powerful\nmind was on the verge of despair and madness.\n\n Ah, my child, my poor child!  cried the baroness, falling on her\nchair, and stifling her sobs in her handkerchief. Villefort, becoming\nsomewhat reassured, perceived that to avert the maternal storm\ngathering over his head, he must inspire Madame Danglars with the\nterror he felt.\n\n You understand, then, that if it were so,  said he, rising in his\nturn, and approaching the baroness, to speak to her in a lower tone,\n we are lost. This child lives, and someone knows it lives someone is\nin possession of our secret; and since Monte Cristo speaks before us of\na child disinterred, when that child could not be found, it is he who\nis in possession of our secret. \n\n Just God, avenging God!  murmured Madame Danglars.\n\nVillefort s only answer was a stifled groan.\n\n But the child the child, sir?  repeated the agitated mother.\n\n How I have searched for him,  replied Villefort, wringing his hands;\n how I have called him in my long sleepless nights; how I have longed\nfor royal wealth to purchase a million of secrets from a million of\nmen, and to find mine among them! At last, one day, when for the\nhundredth time I took up my spade, I asked myself again and again what\nthe Corsican could have done with the child. A child encumbers a\nfugitive; perhaps, on perceiving it was still alive, he had thrown it\ninto the river. \n\n Impossible!  cried Madame Danglars:  a man may murder another out of\nrevenge, but he would not deliberately drown a child. \n\n Perhaps,  continued Villefort,  he had put it in the foundling\nhospital. \n\n Oh, yes, yes,  cried the baroness;  my child is there! \n\n I ran to the hospital, and learned that the same night the night of\nthe 20th of September a child had been brought there, wrapped in part\nof a fine linen napkin, purposely torn in half. This portion of the\nnapkin was marked with half a baron s crown, and the letter H. \n\n Truly, truly,  said Madame Danglars,  all my linen is marked thus;\nMonsieur de Nargonne was a baron, and my name is Hermine. Thank God, my\nchild was not then dead! \n\n No, it was not dead. \n\n And you can tell me so without fearing to make me die of joy? Where is\nthe child? \n\nVillefort shrugged his shoulders.\n\n Do I know?  said he;  and do you believe that if I knew I would relate\nto you all its trials and all its adventures as would a dramatist or a\nnovel writer? Alas, no, I know not. A woman, about six months after,\ncame to claim it with the other half of the napkin. This woman gave all\nthe requisite particulars, and it was intrusted to her. \n\n But you should have inquired for the woman; you should have traced\nher. \n\n And what do you think I did? I feigned a criminal process, and\nemployed all the most acute bloodhounds and skilful agents in search of\nher. They traced her to Ch lons, and there they lost her. \n\n They lost her? \n\n Yes, forever. \n\nMadame Danglars had listened to this recital with a sigh, a tear, or a\nshriek for every detail.  And this is all?  said she;  and you stopped\nthere? \n\n Oh, no,  said Villefort;  I never ceased to search and to inquire.\nHowever, the last two or three years I had allowed myself some respite.\nBut now I will begin with more perseverance and fury than ever, since\nfear urges me, not my conscience. \n\n But,  replied Madame Danglars,  the Count of Monte Cristo can know\nnothing, or he would not seek our society as he does. \n\n Oh, the wickedness of man is very great,  said Villefort,  since it\nsurpasses the goodness of God. Did you observe that man s eyes while he\nwas speaking to us? \n\n No. \n\n But have you ever watched him carefully? \n\n Doubtless he is capricious, but that is all; one thing alone struck\nme, of all the exquisite things he placed before us, he touched\nnothing. I might have suspected he was poisoning us. \n\n And you see you would have been deceived. \n\n Yes, doubtless. \n\n But believe me, that man has other projects. For that reason I wished\nto see you, to speak to you, to warn you against everyone, but\nespecially against him. Tell me,  cried Villefort, fixing his eyes more\nsteadfastly on her than he had ever done before,  did you ever reveal\nto anyone our connection? \n\n Never, to anyone. \n\n You understand me,  replied Villefort, affectionately;  when I say\nanyone, pardon my urgency, to anyone living I mean? \n\n Yes, yes, I understand very well,  ejaculated the baroness;  never, I\nswear to you. \n\n Were you ever in the habit of writing in the evening what had\ntranspired in the morning? Do you keep a journal? \n\n No, my life has been passed in frivolity; I wish to forget it myself. \n\n Do you talk in your sleep? \n\n30275m\n\n\n\n I sleep soundly, like a child; do you not remember? \n\nThe color mounted to the baroness s face, and Villefort turned awfully\npale.\n\n It is true,  said he, in so low a tone that he could hardly be heard.\n\n Well?  said the baroness.\n\n Well, I understand what I now have to do,  replied Villefort.  In less\nthan one week from this time I will ascertain who this M. de Monte\nCristo is, whence he comes, where he goes, and why he speaks in our\npresence of children that have been disinterred in a garden. \n\nVillefort pronounced these words with an accent which would have made\nthe count shudder had he heard him. Then he pressed the hand the\nbaroness reluctantly gave him, and led her respectfully back to the\ndoor. Madame Danglars returned in another cab to the passage, on the\nother side of which she found her carriage, and her coachman sleeping\npeacefully on his box while waiting for her.\n\n\n\n Chapter 68. A Summer Ball\n\nThe same day during the interview between Madame Danglars and the\nprocureur, a travelling-carriage entered the Rue du Helder, passed\nthrough the gateway of No. 27, and stopped in the yard. In a moment the\ndoor was opened, and Madame de Morcerf alighted, leaning on her son s\narm. Albert soon left her, ordered his horses, and having arranged his\ntoilet, drove to the Champs- lys es, to the house of Monte Cristo.\n\nThe count received him with his habitual smile. It was a strange thing\nthat no one ever appeared to advance a step in that man s favor. Those\nwho would, as it were, force a passage to his heart, found an\nimpassable barrier. Morcerf, who ran towards him with open arms, was\nchilled as he drew near, in spite of the friendly smile, and simply\nheld out his hand. Monte Cristo shook it coldly, according to his\ninvariable practice.\n\n Here I am, dear count. \n\n Welcome home again. \n\n I arrived an hour since. \n\n From Dieppe? \n\n No, from Tr port. \n\n Indeed? \n\n And I have come at once to see you. \n\n That is extremely kind of you,  said Monte Cristo with a tone of\nperfect indifference.\n\n And what is the news? \n\n You should not ask a stranger, a foreigner, for news. \n\n I know it, but in asking for news, I mean, have you done anything for\nme? \n\n Had you commissioned me?  said Monte Cristo, feigning uneasiness.\n\n Come, come,  said Albert,  do not assume so much indifference. It is\nsaid, sympathy travels rapidly, and when at Tr port, I felt the\nelectric shock; you have either been working for me or thinking of me. \n\n Possibly,  said Monte Cristo,  I have indeed thought of you, but the\nmagnetic wire I was guiding acted, indeed, without my knowledge. \n\n30277m\n\n\n\n Indeed! Pray tell me how it happened. \n\n Willingly. M. Danglars dined with me. \n\n I know it; to avoid meeting him, my mother and I left town. \n\n But he met here M. Andrea Cavalcanti. \n\n Your Italian prince? \n\n Not so fast; M. Andrea only calls himself count. \n\n Calls himself, do you say? \n\n Yes, calls himself. \n\n Is he not a count? \n\n What can I know of him? He calls himself so. I, of course, give him\nthe same title, and everyone else does likewise. \n\n What a strange man you are! What next? You say M. Danglars dined\nhere? \n\n Yes, with Count Cavalcanti, the marquis his father, Madame Danglars,\nM. and Madame de Villefort, charming people, M. Debray, Maximilian\nMorrel, and M. de Ch teau-Renaud. \n\n Did they speak of me? \n\n Not a word. \n\n So much the worse. \n\n Why so? I thought you wished them to forget you? \n\n If they did not speak of me, I am sure they thought about me, and I am\nin despair. \n\n How will that affect you, since Mademoiselle Danglars was not among\nthe number here who thought of you? Truly, she might have thought of\nyou at home. \n\n I have no fear of that; or, if she did, it was only in the same way in\nwhich I think of her. \n\n Touching sympathy! So you hate each other?  said the count.\n\n Listen,  said Morcerf if Mademoiselle Danglars were disposed to take\npity on my supposed martyrdom on her account, and would dispense with\nall matrimonial formalities between our two families, I am ready to\nagree to the arrangement. In a word, Mademoiselle Danglars would make a\ncharming mistress but a wife _diable!_ \n\n And this,  said Monte Cristo,  is your opinion of your intended\nspouse? \n\n Yes; it is rather unkind, I acknowledge, but it is true. But as this\ndream cannot be realized, since Mademoiselle Danglars must become my\nlawful wife, live perpetually with me, sing to me, compose verses and\nmusic within ten paces of me, and that for my whole life, it frightens\nme. One may forsake a mistress, but a wife, good heavens! There she\nmust always be; and to marry Mademoiselle Danglars would be awful. \n\n You are difficult to please, viscount. \n\n Yes, for I often wish for what is impossible. \n\n What is that? \n\n To find such a wife as my father found. \n\nMonte Cristo turned pale, and looked at Albert, while playing with some\nmagnificent pistols.\n\n Your father was fortunate, then?  said he.\n\n You know my opinion of my mother, count; look at her, still beautiful,\nwitty, more charming than ever. For any other son to have stayed with\nhis mother for four days at Tr port, it would have been a condescension\nor a martyrdom, while I return, more contented, more peaceful shall I\nsay more poetic! than if I had taken Queen Mab or Titania as my\ncompanion. \n\n30279m\n\n\n\n That is an overwhelming demonstration, and you would make everyone vow\nto live a single life. \n\n Such are my reasons for not liking to marry Mademoiselle Danglars.\nHave you ever noticed how much a thing is heightened in value when we\nobtain possession of it? The diamond which glittered in the window at\nMarl s or Fossin s shines with more splendor when it is our own; but\nif we are compelled to acknowledge the superiority of another, and\nstill must retain the one that is inferior, do you not know what we\nhave to endure? \n\n Worldling,  murmured the count.\n\n Thus I shall rejoice when Mademoiselle Eug nie perceives I am but a\npitiful atom, with scarcely as many hundred thousand francs as she has\nmillions.  Monte Cristo smiled.  One plan occurred to me,  continued\nAlbert;  Franz likes all that is eccentric; I tried to make him fall in\nlove with Mademoiselle Danglars; but in spite of four letters, written\nin the most alluring style, he invariably answered:  My eccentricity\nmay be great, but it will not make me break my promise. \n\n That is what I call devoted friendship, to recommend to another one\nwhom you would not marry yourself.  Albert smiled.\n\n Apropos,  continued he,  Franz is coming soon, but it will not\ninterest you; you dislike him, I think? \n\n I?  said Monte Cristo;  my dear viscount, how have you discovered that\nI did not like M. Franz! I like everyone. \n\n And you include me in the expression everyone many thanks! \n\n Let us not mistake,  said Monte Cristo;  I love everyone as God\ncommands us to love our neighbor, as Christians; but I thoroughly hate\nbut a few. Let us return to M. Franz d pinay. Did you say he was\ncoming? \n\n Yes; summoned by M. de Villefort, who is apparently as anxious to get\nMademoiselle Valentine married as M. Danglars is to see Mademoiselle\nEug nie settled. It must be a very irksome office to be the father of a\ngrown-up daughter; it seems to make one feverish, and to raise one s\npulse to ninety beats a minute until the deed is done. \n\n But M. d pinay, unlike you, bears his misfortune patiently. \n\n Still more, he talks seriously about the matter, puts on a white tie,\nand speaks of his family. He entertains a very high opinion of M. and\nMadame de Villefort. \n\n Which they deserve, do they not? \n\n I believe they do. M. de Villefort has always passed for a severe but\na just man. \n\n There is, then, one,  said Monte Cristo,  whom you do not condemn like\npoor Danglars? \n\n Because I am not compelled to marry his daughter perhaps,  replied\nAlbert, laughing.\n\n Indeed, my dear sir,  said Monte Cristo,  you are revoltingly\nfoppish. \n\n I foppish? how do you mean? \n\n Yes; pray take a cigar, and cease to defend yourself, and to struggle\nto escape marrying Mademoiselle Danglars. Let things take their course;\nperhaps you may not have to retract. \n\n Bah!  said Albert, staring.\n\n Doubtless, my dear viscount, you will not be taken by force; and\nseriously, do you wish to break off your engagement? \n\n I would give a hundred thousand francs to be able to do so. \n\n Then make yourself quite easy. M. Danglars would give double that sum\nto attain the same end. \n\n Am I, indeed, so happy?  said Albert, who still could not prevent an\nalmost imperceptible cloud passing across his brow.  But, my dear\ncount, has M. Danglars any reason? \n\n Ah! there is your proud and selfish nature. You would expose the\nself-love of another with a hatchet, but you shrink if your own is\nattacked with a needle. \n\n But yet, M. Danglars appeared \n\n Delighted with you, was he not? Well, he is a man of bad taste, and is\nstill more enchanted with another. I know not whom; look and judge for\nyourself. \n\n Thank you, I understand. But my mother no, not my mother; I mistake my\nfather intends giving a ball. \n\n A ball at this season? \n\n Summer balls are fashionable. \n\n If they were not, the countess has only to wish it, and they would\nbecome so. \n\n You are right; You know they are select affairs; those who remain in\nParis in July must be true Parisians. Will you take charge of our\ninvitation to Messieurs Cavalcanti? \n\n When will it take place? \n\n On Saturday. \n\n M. Cavalcanti s father will be gone. \n\n But the son will be here; will you invite young M. Cavalcanti? \n\n I do not know him, viscount. \n\n You do not know him? \n\n No, I never saw him until a few days since, and am not responsible for\nhim. \n\n But you receive him at your house? \n\n That is another thing: he was recommended to me by a good abb , who\nmay be deceived. Give him a direct invitation, but do not ask me to\npresent him. If he were afterwards to marry Mademoiselle Danglars, you\nwould accuse me of intrigue, and would be challenging me, besides, I\nmay not be there myself. \n\n Where? \n\n At your ball. \n\n Why should you not be there? \n\n Because you have not yet invited me. \n\n But I come expressly for that purpose. \n\n You are very kind, but I may be prevented. \n\n If I tell you one thing, you will be so amiable as to set aside all\nimpediments. \n\n Tell me what it is. \n\n My mother begs you to come. \n\n The Comtesse de Morcerf?  said Monte Cristo, starting.\n\n Ah, count,  said Albert,  I assure you Madame de Morcerf speaks freely\nto me, and if you have not felt those sympathetic fibres of which I\nspoke just now thrill within you, you must be entirely devoid of them,\nfor during the last four days we have spoken of no one else. \n\n You have talked of me? \n\n Yes, that is the penalty of being a living puzzle! \n\n Then I am also a puzzle to your mother? I should have thought her too\nreasonable to be led by imagination. \n\n A problem, my dear count, for everyone for my mother as well as\nothers; much studied, but not solved, you still remain an enigma, do\nnot fear. My mother is only astonished that you remain so long\nunsolved. I believe, while the Countess G  takes you for Lord Ruthven,\nmy mother imagines you to be Cagliostro or the Count Saint-Germain. The\nfirst opportunity you have, confirm her in her opinion; it will be easy\nfor you, as you have the philosophy of the one and the wit of the\nother. \n\n I thank you for the warning,  said the count;  I shall endeavor to be\nprepared for all suppositions. \n\n You will, then, come on Saturday? \n\n Yes, since Madame de Morcerf invites me. \n\n You are very kind. \n\n Will M. Danglars be there? \n\n He has already been invited by my father. We shall try to persuade the\ngreat d Aguesseau,11 M. de Villefort, to come, but have not much hope\nof seeing him. \n\n Never despair of anything,  says the proverb. \n\n Do you dance, count? \n\n I dance? \n\n Yes, you; it would not be astonishing. \n\n That is very well before one is over forty. No, I do not dance, but I\nlike to see others do so. Does Madame de Morcerf dance? \n\n Never; you can talk to her, she so delights in your conversation. \n\n Indeed? \n\n30283m\n\n\n\n Yes, truly; and I assure you. You are the only man of whom I have\nheard her speak with interest.  Albert rose and took his hat; the count\nconducted him to the door.\n\n I have one thing to reproach myself with,  said he, stopping Albert on\nthe steps.  What is it? \n\n I have spoken to you indiscreetly about Danglars. \n\n On the contrary, speak to me always in the same strain about him. \n\n I am glad to be reassured on that point. Apropos, when do you aspect\nM. d pinay? \n\n Five or six days hence at the latest. \n\n And when is he to be married? \n\n Immediately on the arrival of M. and Madame de Saint-M ran. \n\n Bring him to see me. Although you say I do not like him, I assure you\nI shall be happy to see him. \n\n I will obey your orders, my lord. \n\n Good-bye. \n\n Until Saturday, when I may expect you, may I not? \n\n Yes, I promised you.  The Count watched Albert, waving his hand to\nhim. When he had mounted his phaeton, Monte Cristo turned, and seeing\nBertuccio,  What news?  said he.\n\n She went to the Palais,  replied the steward.\n\n Did she stay long there? \n\n An hour and a half. \n\n Did she return home? \n\n Directly. \n\n Well, my dear Bertuccio,  said the count,  I now advise you to go in\nquest of the little estate I spoke to you of in Normandy. \n\nBertuccio bowed, and as his wishes were in perfect harmony with the\norder he had received, he started the same evening.\n\n\n\n Chapter 69. The Inquiry\n\nM. de Villefort kept the promise he had made to Madame Danglars, to\nendeavor to find out how the Count of Monte Cristo had discovered the\nhistory of the house at Auteuil. He wrote the same day for the required\ninformation to M. de Boville, who, from having been an inspector of\nprisons, was promoted to a high office in the police; and the latter\nbegged for two days time to ascertain exactly who would be most likely\nto give him full particulars. At the end of the second day M. de\nVillefort received the following note:\n\n The person called the Count of Monte Cristo is an intimate\nacquaintance of Lord Wilmore, a rich foreigner, who is sometimes seen\nin Paris and who is there at this moment; he is also known to the Abb \nBusoni, a Sicilian priest, of high repute in the East, where he has\ndone much good. \n\nM. de Villefort replied by ordering the strictest inquiries to be made\nrespecting these two persons; his orders were executed, and the\nfollowing evening he received these details:\n\n The abb , who was in Paris only for a month, inhabited a small\ntwo-storied house behind Saint-Sulpice; there were two rooms on each\nfloor and he was the only tenant. The two lower rooms consisted of a\ndining-room, with a table, chairs, and side-board of walnut, and a\nwainscoted parlor, without ornaments, carpet, or timepiece. It was\nevident that the abb  limited himself to objects of strict necessity.\nHe preferred to use the sitting-room upstairs, which was more library\nthan parlor, and was furnished with theological books and parchments,\nin which he delighted to bury himself for months at a time, according\nto his valet de chambre. His valet looked at the visitors through a\nsort of wicket; and if their faces were unknown to him or displeased\nhim, he replied that the abb  was not in Paris, an answer which\nsatisfied most persons, because the abb  was known to be a great\ntraveller. Besides, whether at home or not, whether in Paris or Cairo,\nthe abb  always left something to give away, which the valet\ndistributed through this wicket in his master s name. The other room\nnear the library was a bedroom. A bed without curtains, four armchairs,\nand a couch, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, composed, with a\n_prie-Dieu_, all its furniture.\n\n Lord Wilmore resided in Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges. He was one of\nthose English tourists who consume a large fortune in travelling. He\nhired the apartment in which he lived furnished, passed only a few\nhours in the day there, and rarely slept there. One of his\npeculiarities was never to speak a word of French, which he however\nwrote with great facility. \n\nThe day after this important information had been given to the king s\nattorney, a man alighted from a carriage at the corner of the Rue\nF rou, and rapping at an olive-green door, asked if the Abb  Busoni\nwere within.\n\n No, he went out early this morning,  replied the valet.\n\n I might not always be content with that answer,  replied the visitor,\n for I come from one to whom everyone must be at home. But have the\nkindness to give the Abb  Busoni \n\n I told you he was not at home,  repeated the valet.\n\n Then on his return give him that card and this sealed paper. Will he\nbe at home at eight o clock this evening? \n\n Doubtless, unless he is at work, which is the same as if he were out. \n\n I will come again at that time,  replied the visitor, who then\nretired.\n\nAt the appointed hour the same man returned in the same carriage,\nwhich, instead of stopping this time at the end of the Rue F rou, drove\nup to the green door. He knocked, and it opened immediately to admit\nhim. From the signs of respect the valet paid him, he saw that his note\nhad produced a good effect.\n\n Is the abb  at home?  asked he.\n\n Yes; he is at work in his library, but he expects you, sir,  replied\nthe valet. The stranger ascended a rough staircase, and before a table,\nillumined by a lamp whose light was concentrated by a large shade while\nthe rest of the apartment was in partial darkness, he perceived the\nabb  in a monk s dress, with a cowl on his head such as was used by\nlearned men of the Middle Ages.\n\n Have I the honor of addressing the Abb  Busoni?  asked the visitor.\n\n Yes, sir,  replied the abb ;  and you are the person whom M. de\nBoville, formerly an inspector of prisons, sends to me from the prefect\nof police? \n\n Exactly, sir. \n\n One of the agents appointed to secure the safety of Paris? \n\n Yes, sir  replied the stranger with a slight hesitation, and blushing.\n\nThe abb  replaced the large spectacles, which covered not only his eyes\nbut his temples, and sitting down motioned to his visitor to do the\nsame.  I am at your service, sir,  said the abb , with a marked Italian\naccent.\n\n The mission with which I am charged, sir,  replied the visitor,\nspeaking with hesitation,  is a confidential one on the part of him who\nfulfils it, and him by whom he is employed.  The abb  bowed.  Your\nprobity,  replied the stranger,  is so well known to the prefect that\nhe wishes as a magistrate to ascertain from you some particulars\nconnected with the public safety, to ascertain which I am deputed to\nsee you. It is hoped that no ties of friendship or humane consideration\nwill induce you to conceal the truth. \n\n Provided, sir, the particulars you wish for do not interfere with my\nscruples or my conscience. I am a priest, sir, and the secrets of\nconfession, for instance, must remain between me and God, and not\nbetween me and human justice. \n\n Do not alarm yourself, monsieur, we will duly respect your\nconscience. \n\nAt this moment the abb  pressed down his side of the shade and so\nraised it on the other, throwing a bright light on the stranger s face,\nwhile his own remained obscured.\n\n Excuse me, abb ,  said the envoy of the prefect of the police,  but\nthe light tries my eyes very much.  The abb  lowered the shade.\n\n Now, sir, I am listening go on. \n\n I will come at once to the point. Do you know the Count of Monte\nCristo? \n\n You mean Monsieur Zaccone, I presume? \n\n Zaccone? is not his name Monte Cristo? \n\n Monte Cristo is the name of an estate, or, rather, of a rock, and not\na family name. \n\n Well, be it so let us not dispute about words; and since M. de Monte\nCristo and M. Zaccone are the same \n\n Absolutely the same. \n\n Let us speak of M. Zaccone. \n\n Agreed. \n\n I asked you if you knew him? \n\n Extremely well. \n\n Who is he? \n\n The son of a rich shipbuilder in Malta. \n\n I know that is the report; but, as you are aware, the police does not\ncontent itself with vague reports. \n\n However,  replied the abb , with an affable smile,  when that report\nis in accordance with the truth, everybody must believe it, the police\nas well as all the rest. \n\n Are you sure of what you assert? \n\n What do you mean by that question? \n\n Understand, sir, I do not in the least suspect your veracity; I ask if\nyou are certain of it? \n\n I knew his father, M. Zaccone. \n\n Ah, indeed? \n\n And when a child I often played with the son in the timber-yards. \n\n But whence does he derive the title of count? \n\n You are aware that may be bought. \n\n In Italy? \n\n Everywhere. \n\n And his immense riches, whence does he procure them? \n\n They may not be so very great. \n\n How much do you suppose he possesses? \n\n From one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand livres per annum. \n\n That is reasonable,  said the visitor;  I have heard he had three or\nfour millions. \n\n Two hundred thousand per annum would make four millions of capital. \n\n But I was told he had four millions per annum. \n\n That is not probable. \n\n Do you know this Island of Monte Cristo? \n\n Certainly, everyone who has come from Palermo, Naples, or Rome to\nFrance by sea must know it, since he has passed close to it and must\nhave seen it. \n\n I am told it is a delightful place? \n\n It is a rock. \n\n And why has the count bought a rock? \n\n For the sake of being a count. In Italy one must have territorial\npossessions to be a count. \n\n You have, doubtless, heard the adventures of M. Zaccone s youth? \n\n The father s? \n\n No, the son s. \n\n I know nothing certain; at that period of his life, I lost sight of my\nyoung comrade. \n\n Was he in the wars? \n\n I think he entered the service. \n\n In what branch? \n\n In the navy. \n\n Are you not his confessor? \n\n No, sir; I believe he is a Lutheran. \n\n A Lutheran? \n\n I say, I believe such is the case, I do not affirm it; besides,\nliberty of conscience is established in France. \n\n Doubtless, and we are not now inquiring into his creed, but his\nactions; in the name of the prefect of police, I ask you what you know\nof him.\n\n He passes for a very charitable man. Our holy father, the pope, has\nmade him a knight of Jesus Christ for the services he rendered to the\nChristians in the East; he has five or six rings as testimonials from\nEastern monarchs of his services. \n\n Does he wear them? \n\n No, but he is proud of them; he is better pleased with rewards given\nto the benefactors of man than to his destroyers. \n\n He is a Quaker then? \n\n Exactly, he is a Quaker, with the exception of the peculiar dress. \n\n Has he any friends? \n\n Yes, everyone who knows him is his friend. \n\n But has he any enemies? \n\n One only. \n\n What is his name? \n\n Lord Wilmore. \n\n Where is he? \n\n He is in Paris just now. \n\n Can he give me any particulars? \n\n Important ones; he was in India with Zaccone. \n\n Do you know his abode? \n\n It s somewhere in the Chauss e d Antin; but I know neither the street\nnor the number. \n\n30289m\n\n\n\n Are you at variance with the Englishman? \n\n I love Zaccone, and he hates him; we are consequently not friends. \n\n Do you think the Count of Monte Cristo had ever been in France before\nhe made this visit to Paris? \n\n To that question I can answer positively; no, sir, he had not, because\nhe applied to me six months ago for the particulars he required, and as\nI did not know when I might again come to Paris, I recommended M.\nCavalcanti to him. \n\n Andrea? \n\n No, Bartolomeo, his father. \n\n Now, sir, I have but one question more to ask, and I charge you, in\nthe name of honor, of humanity, and of religion, to answer me\ncandidly. \n\n What is it, sir? \n\n Do you know with what design M. de Monte Cristo purchased a house at\nAuteuil? \n\n Certainly, for he told me. \n\n What is it, sir? \n\n To make a lunatic asylum of it, similar to that founded by the Count\nof Pisani at Palermo. Do you know about that institution? \n\n I have heard of it. \n\n It is a magnificent charity.  Having said this, the abb  bowed to\nimply he wished to pursue his studies.\n\nThe visitor either understood the abb s meaning, or had no more\nquestions to ask; he arose, and the abb  accompanied him to the door.\n\n You are a great almsgiver,  said the visitor,  and although you are\nsaid to be rich, I will venture to offer you something for your poor\npeople; will you accept my offering? \n\n I thank you, sir; I am only jealous in one thing, and that is that the\nrelief I give should be entirely from my own resources. \n\n However \n\n My resolution, sir, is unchangeable, but you have only to search for\nyourself and you will find, alas, but too many objects upon whom to\nexercise your benevolence. \n\nThe abb  once more bowed as he opened the door, the stranger bowed and\ntook his leave, and the carriage conveyed him straight to the house of\nM. de Villefort. An hour afterwards the carriage was again ordered, and\nthis time it went to the Rue Fontaine-Saint-Georges, and stopped at No.\n5, where Lord Wilmore lived. The stranger had written to Lord Wilmore,\nrequesting an interview, which the latter had fixed for ten o clock. As\nthe envoy of the prefect of police arrived ten minutes before ten, he\nwas told that Lord Wilmore, who was precision and punctuality\npersonified, was not yet come in, but that he would be sure to return\nas the clock struck.\n\nThe visitor was introduced into the drawing-room, which was like all\nother furnished drawing-rooms. A mantle-piece, with two modern S vres\nvases, a timepiece representing Cupid with his bent bow, a mirror with\nan engraving on each side one representing Homer carrying his guide,\nthe other, Belisarius begging a grayish paper; red and black\ntapestry such was the appearance of Lord Wilmore s drawing-room.\n\nIt was illuminated by lamps with ground-glass shades which gave only a\nfeeble light, as if out of consideration for the envoy s weak sight.\nAfter ten minutes  expectation the clock struck ten; at the fifth\nstroke the door opened and Lord Wilmore appeared. He was rather above\nthe middle height, with thin reddish whiskers, light complexion and\nlight hair, turning rather gray. He was dressed with all the English\npeculiarity, namely, in a blue coat, with gilt buttons and high collar,\nin the fashion of 1811, a white kerseymere waistcoat, and nankeen\npantaloons, three inches too short, but which were prevented by straps\nfrom slipping up to the knee. His first remark on entering was:\n\n You know, sir, I do not speak French? \n\n I know you do not like to converse in our language,  replied the\nenvoy.\n\n But you may use it,  replied Lord Wilmore;  I understand it. \n\n And I,  replied the visitor, changing his idiom,  know enough of\nEnglish to keep up the conversation. Do not put yourself to the\nslightest inconvenience. \n\n Aw?  said Lord Wilmore, with that tone which is only known to natives\nof Great Britain.\n\nThe envoy presented his letter of introduction, which the latter read\nwith English coolness, and having finished:\n\n I understand,  said he,  perfectly. \n\n30293m\n\n\n\nThen began the questions, which were similar to those which had been\naddressed to the Abb  Busoni. But as Lord Wilmore, in the character of\nthe count s enemy, was less restrained in his answers, they were more\nnumerous; he described the youth of Monte Cristo, who he said, at ten\nyears of age, entered the service of one of the petty sovereigns of\nIndia who make war on the English. It was there Wilmore had first met\nhim and fought against him; and in that war Zaccone had been taken\nprisoner, sent to England, and consigned to the hulks, whence he had\nescaped by swimming. Then began his travels, his duels, his caprices;\nthen the insurrection in Greece broke out, and he had served in the\nGrecian ranks. While in that service he had discovered a silver mine in\nthe mountains of Thessaly, but he had been careful to conceal it from\neveryone. After the battle of Navarino, when the Greek government was\nconsolidated, he asked of King Otho a mining grant for that district,\nwhich was given him. Hence that immense fortune, which, in Lord\nWilmore s opinion, possibly amounted to one or two millions per\nannum, a precarious fortune, which might be momentarily lost by the\nfailure of the mine.\n\n But,  asked the visitor,  do you know why he came to France? \n\n He is speculating in railways,  said Lord Wilmore,  and as he is an\nexpert chemist and physicist, he has invented a new system of\ntelegraphy, which he is seeking to bring to perfection. \n\n How much does he spend yearly?  asked the prefect.\n\n Not more than five or six hundred thousand francs,  said Lord Wilmore;\n he is a miser.  Hatred evidently inspired the Englishman, who, knowing\nno other reproach to bring on the count, accused him of avarice.\n\n Do you know his house at Auteuil? \n\n Certainly. \n\n What do you know respecting it? \n\n Do you wish to know why he bought it? \n\n Yes. \n\n The count is a speculator, who will certainly ruin himself in\nexperiments. He supposes there is in the neighborhood of the house he\nhas bought a mineral spring equal to those at Bagn res, Luchon, and\nCauterets. He is going to turn his house into a _Badhaus_, as the\nGermans term it. He has already dug up all the garden two or three\ntimes to find the famous spring, and, being unsuccessful, he will soon\npurchase all the contiguous houses. Now, as I dislike him, and hope his\nrailway, his electric telegraph, or his search for baths, will ruin\nhim, I am watching for his discomfiture, which must soon take place. \n\n What was the cause of your quarrel? \n\n When he was in England he seduced the wife of one of my friends. \n\n Why do you not seek revenge? \n\n I have already fought three duels with him,  said the Englishman,  the\nfirst with the pistol, the second with the sword, and the third with\nthe sabre. \n\n And what was the result of those duels? \n\n The first time, he broke my arm; the second, he wounded me in the\nbreast; and the third time, made this large wound.  The Englishman\nturned down his shirt-collar, and showed a scar, whose redness proved\nit to be a recent one.  So that, you see, there is a deadly feud\nbetween us. \n\n But,  said the envoy,  you do not go about it in the right way to kill\nhim, if I understand you correctly. \n\n Aw?  said the Englishman,  I practice shooting every day, and every\nother day Grisier comes to my house. \n\nThis was all the visitor wished to ascertain, or, rather, all the\nEnglishman appeared to know. The agent arose, and having bowed to Lord\nWilmore, who returned his salutation with the stiff politeness of the\nEnglish, he retired. Lord Wilmore, having heard the door close after\nhim, returned to his bedroom, where with one hand he pulled off his\nlight hair, his red whiskers, his false jaw, and his wound, to resume\nthe black hair, dark complexion, and pearly teeth of the Count of Monte\nCristo.\n\nIt was M. de Villefort, and not the prefect, who returned to the house\nof M. de Villefort. The procureur felt more at ease, although he had\nlearned nothing really satisfactory, and, for the first time since the\ndinner-party at Auteuil, he slept soundly.\n\n\n\n Chapter 70. The Ball\n\nIt was in the warmest days of July, when in due course of time the\nSaturday arrived upon which the ball was to take place at M. de\nMorcerf s. It was ten o clock at night; the branches of the great trees\nin the garden of the count s house stood out boldly against the azure\ncanopy of heaven, which was studded with golden stars, but where the\nlast fleeting clouds of a vanishing storm yet lingered.\n\nFrom the apartments on the ground floor might be heard the sound of\nmusic, with the whirl of the waltz and galop, while brilliant streams\nof light shone through the openings of the Venetian blinds. At this\nmoment the garden was only occupied by about ten servants, who had just\nreceived orders from their mistress to prepare the supper, the serenity\nof the weather continuing to increase. Until now, it had been undecided\nwhether the supper should take place in the dining-room, or under a\nlong tent erected on the lawn, but the beautiful blue sky, studded with\nstars, had settled the question in favor of the lawn.\n\nThe gardens were illuminated with colored lanterns, according to the\nItalian custom, and, as is usual in countries where the luxuries of the\ntable the rarest of all luxuries in their complete form are well\nunderstood, the supper-table was loaded with wax-lights and flowers.\n\n30297m\n\n\n\nAt the time the Countess of Morcerf returned to the rooms, after giving\nher orders, many guests were arriving, more attracted by the charming\nhospitality of the countess than by the distinguished position of the\ncount; for, owing to the good taste of Merc d s, one was sure of\nfinding some devices at her entertainment worthy of describing, or even\ncopying in case of need.\n\nMadame Danglars, in whom the events we have related had caused deep\nanxiety, had hesitated about going to Madame de Morcerf s, when during\nthe morning her carriage happened to meet that of Villefort. The latter\nmade a sign, and when the carriages had drawn close together, said:\n\n You are going to Madame de Morcerf s, are you not? \n\n No,  replied Madame Danglars,  I am too ill. \n\n You are wrong,  replied Villefort, significantly;  it is important\nthat you should be seen there. \n\n Do you think so?  asked the baroness.\n\n I do. \n\n In that case I will go. \n\nAnd the two carriages passed on towards their different destinations.\nMadame Danglars therefore came, not only beautiful in person, but\nradiant with splendor; she entered by one door at the time when\nMerc d s appeared at the door. The countess took Albert to meet Madame\nDanglars. He approached, paid her some well merited compliments on her\ntoilet, and offered his arm to conduct her to a seat. Albert looked\naround him.\n\n You are looking for my daughter?  said the baroness, smiling.\n\n I confess it,  replied Albert.  Could you have been so cruel as not to\nbring her? \n\n Calm yourself. She has met Mademoiselle de Villefort, and has taken\nher arm; see, they are following us, both in white dresses, one with a\nbouquet of camellias, the other with one of myosotis. But tell me \n\n Well, what do you wish to know? \n\n Will not the Count of Monte Cristo be here tonight? \n\n Seventeen!  replied Albert.\n\n What do you mean? \n\n I only mean that the count seems the rage,  replied the viscount,\nsmiling,  and that you are the seventeenth person that has asked me the\nsame question. The count is in fashion; I congratulate him upon it. \n\n And have you replied to everyone as you have to me? \n\n Ah, to be sure, I have not answered you; be satisfied, we shall have\nthis  lion ; we are among the privileged ones. \n\n Were you at the Opera yesterday? \n\n No. \n\n He was there. \n\n Ah, indeed? And did the eccentric person commit any new originality? \n\n Can he be seen without doing so? Elssler was dancing in _Le Diable\nboiteux_; the Greek princess was in ecstasies. After the cachucha he\nplaced a magnificent ring on the stem of a bouquet, and threw it to the\ncharming danseuse, who, in the third act, to do honor to the gift,\nreappeared with it on her finger. And the Greek princess, will she be\nhere? \n\n No, you will be deprived of that pleasure; her position in the count s\nestablishment is not sufficiently understood. \n\n Wait; leave me here, and go and speak to Madame de Villefort, who is\ntrying to attract your attention. \n\nAlbert bowed to Madame Danglars, and advanced towards Madame de\nVillefort, whose lips opened as he approached.\n\n I wager anything,  said Albert, interrupting her,  that I know what\nyou were about to say. \n\n Well, what is it? \n\n If I guess rightly, will you confess it? \n\n Yes. \n\n On your honor? \n\n On my honor. \n\n You were going to ask me if the Count of Monte Cristo had arrived, or\nwas expected. \n\n Not at all. It is not of him that I am now thinking. I was going to\nask you if you had received any news of Monsieur Franz. \n\n Yes, yesterday. \n\n What did he tell you? \n\n That he was leaving at the same time as his letter. \n\n Well, now then, the count? \n\n The count will come, of that you may be satisfied. \n\n You know that he has another name besides Monte Cristo? \n\n No, I did not know it. \n\n Monte Cristo is the name of an island, and he has a family name. \n\n I never heard it. \n\n Well, then, I am better informed than you; his name is Zaccone. \n\n It is possible. \n\n He is a Maltese. \n\n That is also possible.\n\n The son of a shipowner. \n\n Really, you should relate all this aloud, you would have the greatest\nsuccess. \n\n He served in India, discovered a mine in Thessaly, and comes to Paris\nto establish a mineral water-cure at Auteuil. \n\n Well, I m sure,  said Morcerf,  this is indeed news! Am I allowed to\nrepeat it? \n\n Yes, but cautiously, tell one thing at a time, and do not say I told\nyou. \n\n Why so? \n\n Because it is a secret just discovered. \n\n By whom? \n\n The police. \n\n Then the news originated \n\n At the prefect s last night. Paris, you can understand, is astonished\nat the sight of such unusual splendor, and the police have made\ninquiries. \n\n Well, well! Nothing more is wanting than to arrest the count as a\nvagabond, on the pretext of his being too rich. \n\n Indeed, that doubtless would have happened if his credentials had not\nbeen so favorable. \n\n Poor count! And is he aware of the danger he has been in? \n\n I think not. \n\n Then it will be but charitable to inform him. When he arrives, I will\nnot fail to do so. \n\nJust then, a handsome young man, with bright eyes, black hair, and\nglossy moustache, respectfully bowed to Madame de Villefort. Albert\nextended his hand.\n\n Madame,  said Albert,  allow me to present to you M. Maximilian\nMorrel, captain of Spahis, one of our best, and, above all, of our\nbravest officers. \n\n I have already had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman at Auteuil,\nat the house of the Count of Monte Cristo,  replied Madame de\nVillefort, turning away with marked coldness of manner.\n\nThis answer, and especially the tone in which it was uttered, chilled\nthe heart of poor Morrel. But a recompense was in store for him;\nturning around, he saw near the door a beautiful fair face, whose large\nblue eyes were, without any marked expression, fixed upon him, while\nthe bouquet of myosotis was gently raised to her lips.\n\nThe salutation was so well understood that Morrel, with the same\nexpression in his eyes, placed his handkerchief to his mouth; and these\ntwo living statues, whose hearts beat so violently under their marble\naspect, separated from each other by the whole length of the room,\nforgot themselves for a moment, or rather forgot the world in their\nmutual contemplation. They might have remained much longer lost in one\nanother, without anyone noticing their abstraction. The Count of Monte\nCristo had just entered.\n\nWe have already said that there was something in the count which\nattracted universal attention wherever he appeared. It was not the\ncoat, unexceptional in its cut, though simple and unornamented; it was\nnot the plain white waistcoat; it was not the trousers, that displayed\nthe foot so perfectly formed it was none of these things that attracted\nthe attention, it was his pale complexion, his waving black hair, his\ncalm and serene expression, his dark and melancholy eye, his mouth,\nchiselled with such marvellous delicacy, which so easily expressed such\nhigh disdain, these were what fixed the attention of all upon him.\n\nMany men might have been handsomer, but certainly there could be none\nwhose appearance was more _significant_, if the expression may be used.\nEverything about the count seemed to have its meaning, for the constant\nhabit of thought which he had acquired had given an ease and vigor to\nthe expression of his face, and even to the most trifling gesture,\nscarcely to be understood. Yet the Parisian world is so strange, that\neven all this might not have won attention had there not been connected\nwith it a mysterious story gilded by an immense fortune.\n\n30301m\n\n\n\nMeanwhile he advanced through the assemblage of guests under a battery\nof curious glances towards Madame de Morcerf, who, standing before a\nmantle-piece ornamented with flowers, had seen his entrance in a\nlooking-glass placed opposite the door, and was prepared to receive\nhim. She turned towards him with a serene smile just at the moment he\nwas bowing to her. No doubt she fancied the count would speak to her,\nwhile on his side the count thought she was about to address him; but\nboth remained silent, and after a mere bow, Monte Cristo directed his\nsteps to Albert, who received him cordially.\n\n Have you seen my mother?  asked Albert.\n\n I have just had the pleasure,  replied the count;  but I have not seen\nyour father. \n\n See, he is down there, talking politics with that little group of\ngreat geniuses. \n\n Indeed?  said Monte Cristo;  and so those gentlemen down there are men\nof great talent. I should not have guessed it. And for what kind of\ntalent are they celebrated? You know there are different sorts. \n\n That tall, harsh-looking man is very learned, he discovered, in the\nneighborhood of Rome, a kind of lizard with a vertebra more than\nlizards usually have, and he immediately laid his discovery before the\nInstitute. The thing was discussed for a long time, but finally decided\nin his favor. I can assure you the vertebra made a great noise in the\nlearned world, and the gentleman, who was only a knight of the Legion\nof Honor, was made an officer. \n\n Come,  said Monte Cristo,  this cross seems to me to be wisely\nawarded. I suppose, had he found another additional vertebra, they\nwould have made him a commander. \n\n Very likely,  said Albert.\n\n And who can that person be who has taken it into his head to wrap\nhimself up in a blue coat embroidered with green? \n\n Oh, that coat is not his own idea; it is the Republic s, which deputed\nDavid12 to devise a uniform for the Academicians. \n\n Indeed?  said Monte Cristo;  so this gentleman is an Academician? \n\n Within the last week he has been made one of the learned assembly. \n\n And what is his especial talent? \n\n His talent? I believe he thrusts pins through the heads of rabbits, he\nmakes fowls eat madder, and punches the spinal marrow out of dogs with\nwhalebone. \n\n And he is made a member of the Academy of Sciences for this? \n\n No; of the French Academy. \n\n But what has the French Academy to do with all this? \n\n I was going to tell you. It seems \n\n That his experiments have very considerably advanced the cause of\nscience, doubtless? \n\n No; that his style of writing is very good. \n\n This must be very flattering to the feelings of the rabbits into whose\nheads he has thrust pins, to the fowls whose bones he has dyed red, and\nto the dogs whose spinal marrow he has punched out? \n\nAlbert laughed.\n\n And the other one?  demanded the count.\n\n That one? \n\n Yes, the third. \n\n The one in the dark blue coat? \n\n Yes. \n\n He is a colleague of the count, and one of the most active opponents\nto the idea of providing the Chamber of Peers with a uniform. He was\nvery successful upon that question. He stood badly with the Liberal\npapers, but his noble opposition to the wishes of the court is now\ngetting him into favor with the journalists. They talk of making him an\nambassador. \n\n30303m\n\n\n\n And what are his claims to the peerage? \n\n He has composed two or three comic operas, written four or five\narticles in the _Si cle_, and voted five or six years on the\nministerial side. \n\n Bravo, viscount,  said Monte Cristo, smiling;  you are a delightful\n_cicerone_. And now you will do me a favor, will you not? \n\n What is it? \n\n Do not introduce me to any of these gentlemen; and should they wish\nit, you will warn me.  Just then the count felt his arm pressed. He\nturned round; it was Danglars.\n\n Ah! is it you, baron?  said he.\n\n Why do you call me baron?  said Danglars;  you know that I care\nnothing for my title. I am not like you, viscount; you like your title,\ndo you not? \n\n Certainly,  replied Albert,  seeing that without my title I should be\nnothing; while you, sacrificing the baron, would still remain the\nmillionaire. \n\n Which seems to me the finest title under the royalty of July,  replied\nDanglars.\n\n Unfortunately,  said Monte Cristo,  one s title to a millionaire does\nnot last for life, like that of baron, peer of France, or academician;\nfor example, the millionaires Franck & Poulmann, of Frankfurt, who have\njust become bankrupts. \n\n Indeed?  said Danglars, becoming pale.\n\n Yes; I received the news this evening by a courier. I had about a\nmillion in their hands, but, warned in time, I withdrew it a month\nago. \n\n Ah, _mon Dieu!_  exclaimed Danglars,  they have drawn on me for\n200,000 francs! \n\n Well, you can throw out the draft; their signature is worth five per\ncent. \n\n Yes, but it is too late,  said Danglars,  I have honored their bills. \n\n Then,  said Monte Cristo,  here are 200,000 francs gone after \n\n Hush, do not mention these things,  said Danglars; then, approaching\nMonte Cristo, he added,  especially before young M. Cavalcanti;  after\nwhich he smiled, and turned towards the young man in question.\n\nAlbert had left the count to speak to his mother, Danglars to converse\nwith young Cavalcanti; Monte Cristo was for an instant alone. Meanwhile\nthe heat became excessive. The footmen were hastening through the rooms\nwith waiters loaded with ices. Monte Cristo wiped the perspiration from\nhis forehead, but drew back when the waiter was presented to him; he\ntook no refreshment. Madame de Morcerf did not lose sight of Monte\nCristo; she saw that he took nothing, and even noticed his gesture of\nrefusal.\n\n Albert,  she asked,  did you notice that? \n\n What, mother? \n\n That the count has never been willing to partake of food under the\nroof of M. de Morcerf. \n\n Yes; but then he breakfasted with me indeed, he made his first\nappearance in the world on that occasion. \n\n But your house is not M. de Morcerf s,  murmured Merc d s;  and since\nhe has been here I have watched him. \n\n Well? \n\n Well, he has taken nothing yet. \n\n The count is very temperate. \n\nMerc d s smiled sadly.\n\n Approach him,  said she,  and when the next waiter passes, insist upon\nhis taking something. \n\n But why, mother? \n\n Just to please me, Albert,  said Merc d s. Albert kissed his mother s\nhand, and drew near the count. Another salver passed, loaded like the\npreceding ones; she saw Albert attempt to persuade the count, but he\nobstinately refused. Albert rejoined his mother; she was very pale.\n\n Well,  said she,  you see he refuses? \n\n Yes; but why need this annoy you? \n\n You know, Albert, women are singular creatures. I should like to have\nseen the count take something in my house, if only an ice. Perhaps he\ncannot reconcile himself to the French style of living, and might\nprefer something else. \n\n Oh, no; I have seen him eat of everything in Italy; no doubt he does\nnot feel inclined this evening. \n\n And besides,  said the countess,  accustomed as he is to burning\nclimates, possibly he does not feel the heat as we do. \n\n I do not think that, for he has complained of feeling almost\nsuffocated, and asked why the Venetian blinds were not opened as well\nas the windows. \n\n In a word,  said Merc d s,  it was a way of assuring me that his\nabstinence was intended. \n\nAnd she left the room.\n\nA minute afterwards the blinds were thrown open, and through the\njessamine and clematis that overhung the window one could see the\ngarden ornamented with lanterns, and the supper laid under the tent.\nDancers, players, talkers, all uttered an exclamation of joy everyone\ninhaled with delight the breeze that floated in. At the same time\nMerc d s reappeared, paler than before, but with that imperturbable\nexpression of countenance which she sometimes wore. She went straight\nto the group of which her husband formed the centre.\n\n Do not detain those gentlemen here, count,  she said;  they would\nprefer, I should think, to breathe in the garden rather than suffocate\nhere, since they are not playing. \n\n Ah,  said a gallant old general, who, in 1809, had sung _Partant pour\nla Syrie_, we will not go alone to the garden. \n\n Then,  said Merc d s,  I will lead the way. \n\nTurning towards Monte Cristo, she added,  count, will you oblige me\nwith your arm? \n\nThe count almost staggered at these simple words; then he fixed his\neyes on Merc d s. It was only a momentary glance, but it seemed to the\ncountess to have lasted for a century, so much was expressed in that\none look. He offered his arm to the countess; she took it, or rather\njust touched it with her little hand, and they together descended the\nsteps, lined with rhododendrons and camellias. Behind them, by another\noutlet, a group of about twenty persons rushed into the garden with\nloud exclamations of delight.\n\n\n\n Chapter 71. Bread and Salt\n\nMadame de Morcerf entered an archway of trees with her companion. It\nled through a grove of lindens to a conservatory.\n\n It was too warm in the room, was it not, count?  she asked.\n\n Yes, madame; and it was an excellent idea of yours to open the doors\nand the blinds.  As he ceased speaking, the count felt the hand of\nMerc d s tremble.  But you,  he said,  with that light dress, and\nwithout anything to cover you but that gauze scarf, perhaps you feel\ncold? \n\n Do you know where I am leading you?  said the countess, without\nreplying to the question.\n\n No, madame,  replied Monte Cristo;  but you see I make no resistance. \n\n We are going to the greenhouse that you see at the other end of the\ngrove. \n\nThe count looked at Merc d s as if to interrogate her, but she\ncontinued to walk on in silence, and he refrained from speaking. They\nreached the building, ornamented with magnificent fruits, which ripen\nat the beginning of July in the artificial temperature which takes the\nplace of the sun, so frequently absent in our climate. The countess\nleft the arm of Monte Cristo, and gathered a bunch of Muscatel grapes.\n\n See, count,  she said, with a smile so sad in its expression that one\ncould almost detect the tears on her eyelids see, our French grapes\nare not to be compared, I know, with yours of Sicily and Cyprus, but\nyou will make allowance for our northern sun.  The count bowed, but\nstepped back.\n\n Do you refuse?  said Merc d s, in a tremulous voice.\n\n Pray excuse me, madame,  replied Monte Cristo,  but I never eat\nMuscatel grapes. \n\nMerc d s let them fall, and sighed. A magnificent peach was hanging\nagainst an adjoining wall, ripened by the same artificial heat.\nMerc d s drew near, and plucked the fruit.\n\n Take this peach, then,  she said. The count again refused.  What,\nagain?  she exclaimed, in so plaintive an accent that it seemed to\nstifle a sob;  really, you pain me. \n\nA long silence followed; the peach, like the grapes, fell to the\nground.\n\n Count,  added Merc d s with a supplicating glance,  there is a\nbeautiful Arabian custom, which makes eternal friends of those who have\ntogether eaten bread and salt under the same roof. \n\n I know it, madame,  replied the count;  but we are in France, and not\nin Arabia, and in France eternal friendships are as rare as the custom\nof dividing bread and salt with one another. \n\n But,  said the countess, breathlessly, with her eyes fixed on Monte\nCristo, whose arm she convulsively pressed with both hands,  we are\nfriends, are we not? \n\nThe count became pale as death, the blood rushed to his heart, and then\nagain rising, dyed his cheeks with crimson; his eyes swam like those of\na man suddenly dazzled.\n\n Certainly, we are friends,  he replied;  why should we not be? \n\nThe answer was so little like the one Merc d s desired, that she turned\naway to give vent to a sigh, which sounded more like a groan.  Thank\nyou,  she said. And they walked on again. They went the whole length of\nthe garden without uttering a word.\n\n Sir,  suddenly exclaimed the countess, after their walk had continued\nten minutes in silence,  is it true that you have seen so much,\ntravelled so far, and suffered so deeply? \n\n I have suffered deeply, madame,  answered Monte Cristo.\n\n But now you are happy? \n\n Doubtless,  replied the count,  since no one hears me complain. \n\n And your present happiness, has it softened your heart? \n\n My present happiness equals my past misery,  said the count.\n\n Are you not married?  asked the countess.\n\n I, married?  exclaimed Monte Cristo, shuddering;  who could have told\nyou so? \n\n No one told me you were, but you have frequently been seen at the\nOpera with a young and lovely woman. \n\n She is a slave whom I bought at Constantinople, madame, the daughter\nof a prince. I have adopted her as my daughter, having no one else to\nlove in the world. \n\n You live alone, then? \n\n I do. \n\n You have no sister no son no father? \n\n I have no one. \n\n How can you exist thus without anyone to attach you to life? \n\n It is not my fault, madame. At Malta, I loved a young girl, was on the\npoint of marrying her, when war came and carried me away. I thought she\nloved me well enough to wait for me, and even to remain faithful to my\nmemory. When I returned she was married. This is the history of most\nmen who have passed twenty years of age. Perhaps my heart was weaker\nthan the hearts of most men, and I suffered more than they would have\ndone in my place; that is all. \n\nThe countess stopped for a moment, as if gasping for breath.  Yes,  she\nsaid,  and you have still preserved this love in your heart one can\nonly love once and did you ever see her again? \n\n30309m\n\n\n\n Never. \n\n Never? \n\n I never returned to the country where she lived. \n\n To Malta? \n\n Yes; Malta. \n\n She is, then, now at Malta? \n\n I think so. \n\n And have you forgiven her for all she has made you suffer? \n\n Her, yes. \n\n But only her; do you then still hate those who separated you? \n\n I hate them? Not at all; why should I?  The countess placed herself\nbefore Monte Cristo, still holding in her hand a portion of the\nperfumed grapes.\n\n Take some,  she said.\n\n Madame, I never eat Muscatel grapes,  replied Monte Cristo, as if the\nsubject had not been mentioned before. The countess dashed the grapes\ninto the nearest thicket, with a gesture of despair.\n\n Inflexible man!  she murmured. Monte Cristo remained as unmoved as if\nthe reproach had not been addressed to him.\n\nAlbert at this moment ran in.  Oh, mother,  he exclaimed,  such a\nmisfortune has happened! \n\n What? What has happened?  asked the countess, as though awakening from\na sleep to the realities of life;  did you say a misfortune? Indeed, I\nshould expect misfortunes. \n\n M. de Villefort is here. \n\n Well? \n\n He comes to fetch his wife and daughter. \n\n Why so? \n\n Because Madame de Saint-M ran is just arrived in Paris, bringing the\nnews of M. de Saint-M ran s death, which took place on the first stage\nafter he left Marseilles. Madame de Villefort, who was in very good\nspirits, would neither believe nor think of the misfortune, but\nMademoiselle Valentine, at the first words, guessed the whole truth,\nnotwithstanding all the precautions of her father; the blow struck her\nlike a thunderbolt, and she fell senseless. \n\n And how was M. de Saint-M ran related to Mademoiselle de Villefort? \nsaid the count.\n\n He was her grandfather on the mother s side. He was coming here to\nhasten her marriage with Franz. \n\n Ah, indeed! \n\n So Franz must wait. Why was not M. de Saint-M ran also grandfather to\nMademoiselle Danglars? \n\n Albert, Albert,  said Madame de Morcerf, in a tone of mild reproof,\n what are you saying? Ah, count, he esteems you so highly, tell him\nthat he has spoken amiss. \n\nAnd she took two or three steps forward. Monte Cristo watched her with\nan air so thoughtful, and so full of affectionate admiration, that she\nturned back and grasped his hand; at the same time she seized that of\nher son, and joined them together.\n\n We are friends; are we not?  she asked.\n\n Oh, madame, I do not presume to call myself your friend, but at all\ntimes I am your most respectful servant.  The countess left with an\nindescribable pang in her heart, and before she had taken ten steps the\ncount saw her raise her handkerchief to her eyes.\n\n Do not my mother and you agree?  asked Albert, astonished.\n\n On the contrary,  replied the count,  did you not hear her declare\nthat we were friends? \n\nThey re-entered the drawing-room, which Valentine and Madame de\nVillefort had just quitted. It is perhaps needless to add that Morrel\ndeparted almost at the same time.\n\n\n\n Chapter 72. Madame de Saint-M ran\n\nA gloomy scene had indeed just passed at the house of M. de Villefort.\nAfter the ladies had departed for the ball, whither all the entreaties\nof Madame de Villefort had failed in persuading him to accompany them,\nthe procureur had shut himself up in his study, according to his\ncustom, with a heap of papers calculated to alarm anyone else, but\nwhich generally scarcely satisfied his inordinate desires.\n\nBut this time the papers were a mere matter of form. Villefort had\nsecluded himself, not to study, but to reflect; and with the door\nlocked and orders given that he should not be disturbed excepting for\nimportant business, he sat down in his armchair and began to ponder\nover the events, the remembrance of which had during the last eight\ndays filled his mind with so many gloomy thoughts and bitter\nrecollections.\n\nThen, instead of plunging into the mass of documents piled before him,\nhe opened the drawer of his desk, touched a spring, and drew out a\nparcel of cherished memoranda, amongst which he had carefully arranged,\nin characters only known to himself, the names of all those who, either\nin his political career, in money matters, at the bar, or in his\nmysterious love affairs, had become his enemies.\n\nTheir number was formidable, now that he had begun to fear, and yet\nthese names, powerful though they were, had often caused him to smile\nwith the same kind of satisfaction experienced by a traveller who from\nthe summit of a mountain beholds at his feet the craggy eminences, the\nalmost impassable paths, and the fearful chasms, through which he has\nso perilously climbed. When he had run over all these names in his\nmemory, again read and studied them, commenting meanwhile upon his\nlists, he shook his head.\n\n No,  he murmured,  none of my enemies would have waited so patiently\nand laboriously for so long a space of time, that they might now come\nand crush me with this secret. Sometimes, as Hamlet says:\n\n Foul deeds will rise,\n\nThough all the earth o erwhelm them, to men s eyes; \n\n\nbut, like a phosphoric light, they rise but to mislead. The story has\nbeen told by the Corsican to some priest, who in his turn has repeated\nit. M. de Monte Cristo may have heard it, and to enlighten himself \n\n But why should he wish to enlighten himself upon the subject?  asked\nVillefort, after a moment s reflection,  what interest can this M. de\nMonte Cristo or M. Zaccone, son of a shipowner of Malta, discoverer of\na mine in Thessaly, now visiting Paris for the first time, what\ninterest, I say, can he take in discovering a gloomy, mysterious, and\nuseless fact like this? However, among all the incoherent details given\nto me by the Abb  Busoni and by Lord Wilmore, by that friend and that\nenemy, one thing appears certain and clear in my opinion that in no\nperiod, in no case, in no circumstance, could there have been any\ncontact between him and me. \n\nBut Villefort uttered words which even he himself did not believe. He\ndreaded not so much the revelation, for he could reply to or deny its\ntruth; he cared little for that _mene, mene, tekel upharsin_, which\nappeared suddenly in letters of blood upon the wall; but what he was\nreally anxious for was to discover whose hand had traced them. While he\nwas endeavoring to calm his fears, and instead of dwelling upon the\npolitical future that had so often been the subject of his ambitious\ndreams, was imagining a future limited to the enjoyments of home, in\nfear of awakening the enemy that had so long slept, the noise of a\ncarriage sounded in the yard, then he heard the steps of an aged person\nascending the stairs, followed by tears and lamentations, such as\nservants always give vent to when they wish to appear interested in\ntheir master s grief.\n\nHe drew back the bolt of his door, and almost directly an old lady\nentered, unannounced, carrying her shawl on her arm, and her bonnet in\nher hand. The white hair was thrown back from her yellow forehead, and\nher eyes, already sunken by the furrows of age, now almost disappeared\nbeneath the eyelids swollen with grief.\n\n Oh, sir,  she said;  oh, sir, what a misfortune! I shall die of it;\noh, yes, I shall certainly die of it! \n\nAnd then, falling upon the chair nearest the door, she burst into a\nparoxysm of sobs. The servants, standing in the doorway, not daring to\napproach nearer, were looking at Noirtier s old servant, who had heard\nthe noise from his master s room, and run there also, remaining behind\nthe others. Villefort rose, and ran towards his mother-in-law, for it\nwas she.\n\n Why, what can have happened?  he exclaimed,  what has thus disturbed\nyou? Is M. de Saint-M ran with you? \n\n M. de Saint-M ran is dead,  answered the old marchioness, without\npreface and without expression; she appeared to be stupefied. Villefort\ndrew back, and clasping his hands together, exclaimed:\n\n Dead! so suddenly? \n\n A week ago,  continued Madame de Saint-M ran,  we went out together in\nthe carriage after dinner. M. de Saint-M ran had been unwell for some\ndays; still, the idea of seeing our dear Valentine again inspired him\nwith courage, and notwithstanding his illness he would leave. At six\nleagues from Marseilles, after having eaten some of the lozenges he is\naccustomed to take, he fell into such a deep sleep, that it appeared to\nme unnatural; still I hesitated to wake him, although I fancied that\nhis face was flushed, and that the veins of his temples throbbed more\nviolently than usual. However, as it became dark, and I could no longer\nsee, I fell asleep; I was soon aroused by a piercing shriek, as from a\nperson suffering in his dreams, and he suddenly threw his head back\nviolently. I called the valet, I stopped the postilion, I spoke to M.\nde Saint-M ran, I applied my smelling-salts; but all was over, and I\narrived at Aix by the side of a corpse. \n\nVillefort stood with his mouth half open, quite stupefied.\n\n Of course you sent for a doctor? \n\n Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late. \n\n Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis had\ndied. \n\n Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplectic\nstroke. \n\n And what did you do then? \n\n M. de Saint-M ran had always expressed a desire, in case his death\nhappened during his absence from Paris, that his body might be brought\nto the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin, and I am\npreceding him by a few days. \n\n Oh! my poor mother!  said Villefort,  to have such duties to perform\nat your age after such a blow! \n\n God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he would\ncertainly have done everything for me that I performed for him. It is\ntrue that since I left him, I seem to have lost my senses. I cannot\ncry; at my age they say that we have no more tears, still I think that\nwhen one is in trouble one should have the power of weeping. Where is\nValentine, sir? It is on her account I am here; I wish to see\nValentine. \n\n30315m\n\n\n\nVillefort thought it would be terrible to reply that Valentine was at a\nball; so he only said that she had gone out with her step-mother, and\nthat she should be fetched.  This instant, sir this instant, I beseech\nyou!  said the old lady. Villefort placed the arm of Madame de\nSaint-M ran within his own, and conducted her to his apartment.\n\n Rest yourself, mother,  he said.\n\nThe marchioness raised her head at this word, and beholding the man who\nso forcibly reminded her of her deeply-regretted child, who still lived\nfor her in Valentine, she felt touched at the name of mother, and\nbursting into tears, she fell on her knees before an armchair, where\nshe buried her venerable head. Villefort left her to the care of the\nwomen, while old Barrois ran, half-scared, to his master; for nothing\nfrightens old people so much as when death relaxes its vigilance over\nthem for a moment in order to strike some other old person. Then, while\nMadame de Saint-M ran remained on her knees, praying fervently,\nVillefort sent for a cab, and went himself to fetch his wife and\ndaughter from Madame de Morcerf s. He was so pale when he appeared at\nthe door of the ball-room, that Valentine ran to him, saying:\n\n Oh, father, some misfortune has happened! \n\n Your grandmamma has just arrived, Valentine,  said M. de Villefort.\n\n And grandpapa?  inquired the young girl, trembling with apprehension.\nM. de Villefort only replied by offering his arm to his daughter. It\nwas just in time, for Valentine s head swam, and she staggered; Madame\nde Villefort instantly hastened to her assistance, and aided her\nhusband in dragging her to the carriage, saying:\n\n What a singular event! Who could have thought it? Ah, yes, it is\nindeed strange! \n\nAnd the wretched family departed, leaving a cloud of sadness hanging\nover the rest of the evening. At the foot of the stairs, Valentine\nfound Barrois awaiting her.\n\n M. Noirtier wishes to see you tonight, he said, in an undertone.\n\n Tell him I will come when I leave my dear grandmamma,  she replied,\nfeeling, with true delicacy, that the person to whom she could be of\nthe most service just then was Madame de Saint-M ran.\n\nValentine found her grandmother in bed; silent caresses, heartwrung\nsobs, broken sighs, burning tears, were all that passed in this sad\ninterview, while Madame de Villefort, leaning on her husband s arm,\nmaintained all outward forms of respect, at least towards the poor\nwidow. She soon whispered to her husband:\n\n I think it would be better for me to retire, with your permission, for\nthe sight of me appears still to afflict your mother-in-law.  Madame de\nSaint-M ran heard her.\n\n Yes, yes,  she said softly to Valentine,  let her leave; but do you\nstay. \n\nMadame de Villefort left, and Valentine remained alone beside the bed,\nfor the procureur, overcome with astonishment at the unexpected death,\nhad followed his wife. Meanwhile, Barrois had returned for the first\ntime to old Noirtier, who having heard the noise in the house, had, as\nwe have said, sent his old servant to inquire the cause; on his return,\nhis quick intelligent eye interrogated the messenger.\n\n Alas, sir,  exclaimed Barrois,  a great misfortune has happened.\nMadame de Saint-M ran has arrived, and her husband is dead! \n\nM. de Saint-M ran and Noirtier had never been on strict terms of\nfriendship; still, the death of one old man always considerably affects\nanother. Noirtier let his head fall upon his chest, apparently\noverwhelmed and thoughtful; then he closed one eye, in token of\ninquiry.\n\nBarrois asked,  Mademoiselle Valentine? \n\nNoirtier nodded his head.\n\n She is at the ball, as you know, since she came to say good-bye to you\nin full dress.  Noirtier again closed his left eye.\n\n Do you wish to see her?  Noirtier again made an affirmative sign.\n\n Well, they have gone to fetch her, no doubt, from Madame de Morcerf s;\nI will await her return, and beg her to come up here. Is that what you\nwish for? \n\n Yes,  replied the invalid.\n\nBarrois, therefore, as we have seen, watched for Valentine, and\ninformed her of her grandfather s wish. Consequently, Valentine came up\nto Noirtier, on leaving Madame de Saint-M ran, who in the midst of her\ngrief had at last yielded to fatigue and fallen into a feverish sleep.\nWithin reach of her hand they placed a small table upon which stood a\nbottle of orangeade, her usual beverage, and a glass. Then, as we have\nsaid, the young girl left the bedside to see M. Noirtier.\n\nValentine kissed the old man, who looked at her with such tenderness\nthat her eyes again filled with tears, whose sources he thought must be\nexhausted. The old gentleman continued to dwell upon her with the same\nexpression.\n\n Yes, yes,  said Valentine,  you mean that I have yet a kind\ngrandfather left, do you not.  The old man intimated that such was his\nmeaning.  Ah, yes, happily I have,  replied Valentine.  Without that,\nwhat would become of me? \n\nIt was one o clock in the morning. Barrois, who wished to go to bed\nhimself, observed that after such sad events everyone stood in need of\nrest. Noirtier would not say that the only rest he needed was to see\nhis child, but wished her good-night, for grief and fatigue had made\nher appear quite ill.\n\nThe next morning she found her grandmother in bed; the fever had not\nabated, on the contrary her eyes glistened and she appeared to be\nsuffering from violent nervous irritability.\n\n Oh, dear grandmamma, are you worse?  exclaimed Valentine, perceiving\nall these signs of agitation.\n\n No, my child, no,  said Madame de Saint-M ran;  but I was impatiently\nwaiting for your arrival, that I might send for your father. \n\n My father?  inquired Valentine, uneasily.\n\n Yes, I wish to speak to him. \n\nValentine durst not oppose her grandmother s wish, the cause of which\nshe did not know, and an instant afterwards Villefort entered.\n\n Sir,  said Madame de Saint-M ran, without using any circumlocution,\nand as if fearing she had no time to lose,  you wrote to me concerning\nthe marriage of this child? \n\n Yes, madame,  replied Villefort,  it is not only projected but\narranged. \n\n Your intended son-in-law is named M. Franz d pinay? \n\n Yes, madame. \n\n Is he not the son of General d pinay who was on our side, and who was\nassassinated some days before the usurper returned from the Island of\nElba? \n\n The same. \n\n Does he not dislike the idea of marrying the granddaughter of a\nJacobin? \n\n Our civil dissensions are now happily extinguished, mother,  said\nVillefort;  M. d pinay was quite a child when his father died, he\nknows very little of M. Noirtier, and will meet him, if not with\npleasure, at least with indifference. \n\n Is it a suitable match? \n\n In every respect. \n\n And the young man? \n\n Is regarded with universal esteem. \n\n You approve of him? \n\n He is one of the most well-bred young men I know. \n\nDuring the whole of this conversation Valentine had remained silent.\n\n Well, sir,  said Madame de Saint-M ran, after a few minutes \nreflection,  I must hasten the marriage, for I have but a short time to\nlive. \n\n You, madame?   You, dear mamma?  exclaimed M. de Villefort and\nValentine at the same time.\n\n I know what I am saying,  continued the marchioness;  I must hurry\nyou, so that, as she has no mother, she may at least have a grandmother\nto bless her marriage. I am all that is left to her belonging to my\npoor Ren e, whom you have so soon forgotten, sir. \n\n Ah, madame,  said Villefort,  you forget that I was obliged to give a\nmother to my child. \n\n A stepmother is never a mother, sir. But this is not to the\npurpose, our business concerns Valentine, let us leave the dead in\npeace. \n\nAll this was said with such exceeding rapidity, that there was\nsomething in the conversation that seemed like the beginning of\ndelirium.\n\n It shall be as you wish, madame,  said Villefort;  more especially\nsince your wishes coincide with mine, and as soon as M. d pinay\narrives in Paris \n\n30319m\n\n\n\n My dear grandmother,  interrupted Valentine,  consider decorum the\nrecent death. You would not have me marry under such sad auspices? \n\n My child,  exclaimed the old lady sharply,  let us hear none of the\nconventional objections that deter weak minds from preparing for the\nfuture. I also was married at the death-bed of my mother, and certainly\nI have not been less happy on that account. \n\n Still that idea of death, madame,  said Villefort.\n\n Still? Always! I tell you I am going to die do you understand? Well,\nbefore dying, I wish to see my son-in-law. I wish to tell him to make\nmy child happy; I wish to read in his eyes whether he intends to obey\nme; in fact, I will know him I will!  continued the old lady, with a\nfearful expression,  that I may rise from the depths of my grave to\nfind him, if he should not fulfil his duty! \n\n Madame,  said Villefort,  you must lay aside these exalted ideas,\nwhich almost assume the appearance of madness. The dead, once buried in\ntheir graves, rise no more. \n\n And I tell you, sir, that you are mistaken. This night I have had a\nfearful sleep. It seemed as though my soul were already hovering over\nmy body, my eyes, which I tried to open, closed against my will, and\nwhat will appear impossible above all to you, sir, I saw, with my eyes\nshut, in the spot where you are now standing, issuing from that corner\nwhere there is a door leading into Madame Villefort s dressing-room I\nsaw, I tell you, silently enter, a white figure. \n\nValentine screamed.\n\n It was the fever that disturbed you, madame,  said Villefort.\n\n30321m\n\n\n\n Doubt, if you please, but I am sure of what I say. I saw a white\nfigure, and as if to prevent my discrediting the testimony of only one\nof my senses, I heard my glass removed the same which is there now on\nthe table. \n\n Oh, dear mother, it was a dream. \n\n So little was it a dream, that I stretched my hand towards the bell;\nbut when I did so, the shade disappeared; my maid then entered with a\nlight. \n\n But she saw no one? \n\n Phantoms are visible to those only who ought to see them. It was the\nsoul of my husband! Well, if my husband s soul can come to me, why\nshould not my soul reappear to guard my granddaughter? the tie is even\nmore direct, it seems to me. \n\n Oh, madame,  said Villefort, deeply affected, in spite of himself,  do\nnot yield to those gloomy thoughts; you will long live with us, happy,\nloved, and honored, and we will make you forget \n\n Never, never, never,  said the marchioness.  When does M. d pinay\nreturn? \n\n We expect him every moment. \n\n It is well. As soon as he arrives inform me. We must be expeditious.\nAnd then I also wish to see a notary, that I may be assured that all\nour property returns to Valentine. \n\n Ah, grandmamma,  murmured Valentine, pressing her lips on the burning\nbrow,  do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are; we must not\nsend for a notary, but for a doctor! \n\n A doctor?  said she, shrugging her shoulders,  I am not ill; I am\nthirsty that is all. \n\n30323m\n\n\n\n What are you drinking, dear grandmamma? \n\n The same as usual, my dear, my glass is there on the table give it to\nme, Valentine.  Valentine poured the orangeade into a glass and gave it\nto her grandmother with a certain degree of dread, for it was the same\nglass she fancied that had been touched by the spectre.\n\nThe marchioness drained the glass at a single draught, and then turned\non her pillow, repeating,\n\n The notary, the notary! \n\nM. de Villefort left the room, and Valentine seated herself at the\nbedside of her grandmother. The poor child appeared herself to require\nthe doctor she had recommended to her aged relative. A bright spot\nburned in either cheek, her respiration was short and difficult, and\nher pulse beat with feverish excitement. She was thinking of the\ndespair of Maximilian, when he should be informed that Madame de\nSaint-M ran, instead of being an ally, was unconsciously acting as his\nenemy.\n\nMore than once she thought of revealing all to her grandmother, and she\nwould not have hesitated a moment, if Maximilian Morrel had been named\nAlbert de Morcerf or Raoul de Ch teau-Renaud; but Morrel was of\nplebeian extraction, and Valentine knew how the haughty Marquise de\nSaint-M ran despised all who were not noble. Her secret had each time\nbeen repressed when she was about to reveal it, by the sad conviction\nthat it would be useless to do so; for, were it once discovered by her\nfather and mother, all would be lost.\n\nTwo hours passed thus; Madame de Saint-M ran was in a feverish sleep,\nand the notary had arrived. Though his coming was announced in a very\nlow tone, Madame de Saint-M ran arose from her pillow.\n\n The notary!  she exclaimed,  let him come in. \n\nThe notary, who was at the door, immediately entered.  Go, Valentine, \nsaid Madame de Saint-M ran,  and leave me with this gentleman. \n\n But, grandmamma \n\n Leave me go! \n\nThe young girl kissed her grandmother, and left with her handkerchief\nto her eyes; at the door she found the valet de chambre, who told her\nthat the doctor was waiting in the dining-room. Valentine instantly ran\ndown. The doctor was a friend of the family, and at the same time one\nof the cleverest men of the day, and very fond of Valentine, whose\nbirth he had witnessed. He had himself a daughter about her age, but\nwhose life was one continued source of anxiety and fear to him from her\nmother having been consumptive.\n\n Oh,  said Valentine,  we have been waiting for you with such\nimpatience, dear M. d Avrigny. But, first of all, how are Madeleine and\nAntoinette? \n\nMadeleine was the daughter of M. d Avrigny, and Antoinette his niece.\nM. d Avrigny smiled sadly.\n\n Antoinette is very well,  he said,  and Madeleine tolerably so. But\nyou sent for me, my dear child. It is not your father or Madame de\nVillefort who is ill. As for you, although we doctors cannot divest our\npatients of nerves, I fancy you have no further need of me than to\nrecommend you not to allow your imagination to take too wide a field. \n\nValentine colored. M. d Avrigny carried the science of divination\nalmost to a miraculous extent, for he was one of the physicians who\nalways work upon the body through the mind.\n\n30325m\n\n\n\n No,  she replied,  it is for my poor grandmother. You know the\ncalamity that has happened to us, do you not? \n\n I know nothing.  said M. d Avrigny.\n\n Alas,  said Valentine, restraining her tears,  my grandfather is\ndead. \n\n M. de Saint-M ran? \n\n Yes. \n\n Suddenly? \n\n From an apoplectic stroke. \n\n An apoplectic stroke?  repeated the doctor.\n\n Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she never\nleft, has called her, and that she must go and join him. Oh, M.\nd Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her! \n\n Where is she? \n\n In her room with the notary. \n\n And M. Noirtier? \n\n Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same incapability of\nmoving or speaking. \n\n And the same love for you eh, my dear child? \n\n Yes,  said Valentine,  he was very fond of me. \n\n Who does not love you?  Valentine smiled sadly.  What are your\ngrandmother s symptoms? \n\n An extreme nervous excitement and a strangely agitated sleep; she\nfancied this morning in her sleep that her soul was hovering above her\nbody, which she at the same time watched. It must have been delirium;\nshe fancies, too, that she saw a phantom enter her chamber and even\nheard the noise it made on touching her glass. \n\n It is singular,  said the doctor;  I was not aware that Madame de\nSaint-M ran was subject to such hallucinations. \n\n It is the first time I ever saw her in this condition,  said\nValentine;  and this morning she frightened me so that I thought her\nmad; and my father, who you know is a strong-minded man, himself\nappeared deeply impressed. \n\n We will go and see,  said the doctor;  what you tell me seems very\nstrange.  The notary here descended, and Valentine was informed that\nher grandmother was alone.\n\n Go upstairs,  she said to the doctor.\n\n And you? \n\n Oh, I dare not she forbade my sending for you; and, as you say, I am\nmyself agitated, feverish and out of sorts. I will go and take a turn\nin the garden to recover myself. \n\nThe doctor pressed Valentine s hand, and while he visited her\ngrandmother, she descended the steps. We need not say which portion of\nthe garden was her favorite walk. After remaining for a short time in\nthe parterre surrounding the house, and gathering a rose to place in\nher waist or hair, she turned into the dark avenue which led to the\nbench; then from the bench she went to the gate. As usual, Valentine\nstrolled for a short time among her flowers, but without gathering\nthem. The mourning in her heart forbade her assuming this simple\nornament, though she had not yet had time to put on the outward\nsemblance of woe.\n\n30327m\n\n\n\nShe then turned towards the avenue. As she advanced she fancied she\nheard a voice speaking her name. She stopped astonished, then the voice\nreached her ear more distinctly, and she recognized it to be that of\nMaximilian.\n\n\n\n Chapter 73. The Promise\n\nIt was indeed Maximilian Morrel, who had passed a wretched existence\nsince the previous day. With the instinct peculiar to lovers he had\nanticipated after the return of Madame de Saint-M ran and the death of\nthe marquis, that something would occur at M. de Villefort s in\nconnection with his attachment for Valentine. His presentiments were\nrealized, as we shall see, and his uneasy forebodings had goaded him\npale and trembling to the gate under the chestnut-trees.\n\nValentine was ignorant of the cause of this sorrow and anxiety, and as\nit was not his accustomed hour for visiting her, she had gone to the\nspot simply by accident or perhaps through sympathy. Morrel called her,\nand she ran to the gate.\n\n You here at this hour?  said she.\n\n Yes, my poor girl,  replied Morrel;  I come to bring and to hear bad\ntidings. \n\n This is, indeed, a house of mourning,  said Valentine;  speak,\nMaximilian, although the cup of sorrow seems already full. \n\n Dear Valentine,  said Morrel, endeavoring to conceal his own emotion,\n listen, I entreat you; what I am about to say is very serious. When\nare you to be married? \n\n I will tell you all,  said Valentine;  from you I have nothing to\nconceal. This morning the subject was introduced, and my dear\ngrandmother, on whom I depended as my only support, not only declared\nherself favorable to it, but is so anxious for it, that they only await\nthe arrival of M. d pinay, and the following day the contract will be\nsigned. \n\nA deep sigh escaped the young man, who gazed long and mournfully at her\nhe loved.\n\n Alas,  replied he,  it is dreadful thus to hear my condemnation from\nyour own lips. The sentence is passed, and, in a few hours, will be\nexecuted; it must be so, and I will not endeavor to prevent it. But,\nsince you say nothing remains but for M. d pinay to arrive that the\ncontract may be signed, and the following day you will be his, tomorrow\nyou will be engaged to M. d pinay, for he came this morning to Paris. \nValentine uttered a cry.\n\n I was at the house of Monte Cristo an hour since,  said Morrel;  we\nwere speaking, he of the sorrow your family had experienced, and I of\nyour grief, when a carriage rolled into the courtyard. Never, till\nthen, had I placed any confidence in presentiments, but now I cannot\nhelp believing them, Valentine. At the sound of that carriage I\nshuddered; soon I heard steps on the staircase, which terrified me as\nmuch as the footsteps of the commander did Don Juan. The door at last\nopened; Albert de Morcerf entered first, and I began to hope my fears\nwere vain, when, after him, another young man advanced, and the count\nexclaimed:  Ah, here is the Baron Franz d pinay!  I summoned all my\nstrength and courage to my support. Perhaps I turned pale and trembled,\nbut certainly I smiled; and five minutes after I left, without having\nheard one word that had passed. \n\n Poor Maximilian!  murmured Valentine.\n\n Valentine, the time has arrived when you must answer me. And remember\nmy life depends on your answer. What do you intend doing?  Valentine\nheld down her head; she was overwhelmed.\n\n Listen,  said Morrel;  it is not the first time you have contemplated\nour present position, which is a serious and urgent one; I do not think\nit is a moment to give way to useless sorrow; leave that for those who\nlike to suffer at their leisure and indulge their grief in secret.\nThere are such in the world, and God will doubtless reward them in\nheaven for their resignation on earth, but those who mean to contend\nmust not lose one precious moment, but must return immediately the blow\nwhich fortune strikes. Do you intend to struggle against our\nill-fortune? Tell me, Valentine for it is that I came to know. \n\nValentine trembled, and looked at him with amazement. The idea of\nresisting her father, her grandmother, and all the family, had never\noccurred to her.\n\n What do you say, Maximilian?  asked Valentine.  What do you mean by a\nstruggle? Oh, it would be a sacrilege. What? I resist my father s\norder, and my dying grandmother s wish? Impossible! \n\nMorrel started.\n\n You are too noble not to understand me, and you understand me so well\nthat you already yield, dear Maximilian. No, no; I shall need all my\nstrength to struggle with myself and support my grief in secret, as you\nsay. But to grieve my father to disturb my grandmother s last\nmoments never! \n\n You are right,  said Morrel, calmly.\n\n In what a tone you speak!  cried Valentine.\n\n I speak as one who admires you, mademoiselle. \n\n Mademoiselle,  cried Valentine;  mademoiselle! Oh, selfish man! he\nsees me in despair, and pretends he cannot understand me! \n\n You mistake I understand you perfectly. You will not oppose M.\nVillefort, you will not displease the marchioness, and tomorrow you\nwill sign the contract which will bind you to your husband. \n\n But, _mon Dieu!_ tell me, how can I do otherwise? \n\n Do not appeal to me, mademoiselle; I shall be a bad judge in such a\ncase; my selfishness will blind me,  replied Morrel, whose low voice\nand clenched hands announced his growing desperation.\n\n What would you have proposed, Maximilian, had you found me willing to\naccede? \n\n It is not for me to say. \n\n You are wrong; you must advise me what to do. \n\n Do you seriously ask my advice, Valentine? \n\n Certainly, dear Maximilian, for if it is good, I will follow it; you\nknow my devotion to you. \n\n Valentine,  said Morrel pushing aside a loose plank,  give me your\nhand in token of forgiveness of my anger; my senses are confused, and\nduring the last hour the most extravagant thoughts have passed through\nmy brain. Oh, if you refuse my advice \n\n What do you advise?  said Valentine, raising her eyes to heaven and\nsighing.\n\n I am free,  replied Maximilian,  and rich enough to support you. I\nswear to make you my lawful wife before my lips even shall have\napproached your forehead. \n\n You make me tremble!  said the young girl.\n\n Follow me,  said Morrel;  I will take you to my sister, who is worthy\nalso to be yours. We will embark for Algiers, for England, for America,\nor, if you prefer it, retire to the country and only return to Paris\nwhen our friends have reconciled your family. \n\nValentine shook her head.\n\n I feared it, Maximilian,  said she;  it is the counsel of a madman,\nand I should be more mad than you, did I not stop you at once with the\nword  Impossible, Morrel, impossible! \n\n You will then submit to what fate decrees for you without even\nattempting to contend with it?  said Morrel sorrowfully.\n\n Yes, if I die! \n\n Well, Valentine,  resumed Maximilian,  I can only say again that you\nare right. Truly, it is I who am mad, and you prove to me that passion\nblinds the most well-meaning. I appreciate your calm reasoning. It is\nthen understood that tomorrow you will be irrevocably promised to M.\nFranz d pinay, not only by that theatrical formality invented to\nheighten the effect of a comedy called the signature of the contract,\nbut your own will? \n\n Again you drive me to despair, Maximilian,  said Valentine,  again you\nplunge the dagger into the wound! What would you do, tell me, if your\nsister listened to such a proposition? \n\n Mademoiselle,  replied Morrel with a bitter smile,  I am selfish you\nhave already said so and as a selfish man I think not of what others\nwould do in my situation, but of what I intend doing myself. I think\nonly that I have known you not a whole year. From the day I first saw\nyou, all my hopes of happiness have been in securing your affection.\nOne day you acknowledged that you loved me, and since that day my hope\nof future happiness has rested on obtaining you, for to gain you would\nbe life to me. Now, I think no more; I say only that fortune has turned\nagainst me I had thought to gain heaven, and now I have lost it. It is\nan every-day occurrence for a gambler to lose not only what he\npossesses but also what he has not. \n\nMorrel pronounced these words with perfect calmness; Valentine looked\nat him a moment with her large, scrutinizing eyes, endeavoring not to\nlet Morrel discover the grief which struggled in her heart.\n\n But, in a word, what are you going to do?  asked she.\n\n I am going to have the honor of taking my leave of you, mademoiselle,\nsolemnly assuring you that I wish your life may be so calm, so happy,\nand so fully occupied, that there may be no place for me even in your\nmemory. \n\n Oh!  murmured Valentine.\n\n Adieu, Valentine, adieu!  said Morrel, bowing.\n\n Where are you going?  cried the young girl, extending her hand through\nthe opening, and seizing Maximilian by his coat, for she understood\nfrom her own agitated feelings that her lover s calmness could not be\nreal;  where are you going? \n\n I am going, that I may not bring fresh trouble into your family: and\nto set an example which every honest and devoted man, situated as I am,\nmay follow. \n\n Before you leave me, tell me what you are going to do, Maximilian. \nThe young man smiled sorrowfully.\n\n Speak, speak!  said Valentine;  I entreat you. \n\n Has your resolution changed, Valentine? \n\n It cannot change, unhappy man; you know it must not!  cried the young\ngirl.\n\n Then adieu, Valentine! \n\nValentine shook the gate with a strength of which she could not have\nbeen supposed to be possessed, as Morrel was going away, and passing\nboth her hands through the opening, she clasped and wrung them.  I must\nknow what you mean to do!  said she.  Where are you going? \n\n Oh, fear not,  said Maximilian, stopping at a short distance,  I do\nnot intend to render another man responsible for the rigorous fate\nreserved for me. Another might threaten to seek M. Franz, to provoke\nhim, and to fight with him; all that would be folly. What has M. Franz\nto do with it? He saw me this morning for the first time, and has\nalready forgotten he has seen me. He did not even know I existed when\nit was arranged by your two families that you should be united. I have\nno enmity against M. Franz, and promise you the punishment shall not\nfall on him. \n\n On whom, then! on me? \n\n On you? Valentine! Oh, Heaven forbid! Woman is sacred; the woman one\nloves is holy. \n\n On yourself, then, unhappy man; on yourself? \n\n I am the only guilty person, am I not?  said Maximilian.\n\n Maximilian!  said Valentine,  Maximilian, come back, I entreat you! \n\nHe drew near with his sweet smile, and but for his paleness one might\nhave thought him in his usual happy mood.\n\n Listen, my dear, my adored Valentine,  said he in his melodious and\ngrave tone;  those who, like us, have never had a thought for which we\nneed blush before the world, such may read each other s hearts. I never\nwas romantic, and am no melancholy hero. I imitate neither Manfred nor\nAnthony; but without words, protestations, or vows, my life has\nentwined itself with yours; you leave me, and you are right in doing\nso, I repeat it, you are right; but in losing you, I lose my life. The\nmoment you leave me, Valentine, I am alone in the world. My sister is\nhappily married; her husband is only my brother-in-law, that is, a man\nwhom the ties of social life alone attach to me; no one then longer\nneeds my useless life. This is what I shall do; I will wait until the\nvery moment you are married, for I will not lose the shadow of one of\nthose unexpected chances which are sometimes reserved for us, since M.\nFranz may, after all, die before that time, a thunderbolt may fall even\non the altar as you approach it, nothing appears impossible to one\ncondemned to die, and miracles appear quite reasonable when his escape\nfrom death is concerned. I will, then, wait until the last moment, and\nwhen my misery is certain, irremediable, hopeless, I will write a\nconfidential letter to my brother-in-law, another to the prefect of\npolice, to acquaint them with my intention, and at the corner of some\nwood, on the brink of some abyss, on the bank of some river, I will put\nan end to my existence, as certainly as I am the son of the most honest\nman who ever lived in France. \n\n30333m\n\n\n\nValentine trembled convulsively; she loosened her hold of the gate, her\narms fell by her side, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. The\nyoung man stood before her, sorrowful and resolute.\n\n Oh, for pity s sake,  said she,  you will live, will you not? \n\n No, on my honor,  said Maximilian;  but that will not affect you. You\nhave done your duty, and your conscience will be at rest. \n\nValentine fell on her knees, and pressed her almost bursting heart.\n Maximilian,  said she,  Maximilian, my friend, my brother on earth, my\ntrue husband in heaven, I entreat you, do as I do, live in suffering;\nperhaps we may one day be united. \n\n Adieu, Valentine,  repeated Morrel.\n\n My God,  said Valentine, raising both her hands to heaven with a\nsublime expression,  I have done my utmost to remain a submissive\ndaughter; I have begged, entreated, implored; he has regarded neither\nmy prayers, my entreaties, nor my tears. It is done,  cried she, wiping\naway her tears, and resuming her firmness,  I am resolved not to die of\nremorse, but rather of shame. Live, Maximilian, and I will be yours.\nSay when shall it be? Speak, command, I will obey. \n\nMorrel, who had already gone some few steps away, again returned, and\npale with joy extended both hands towards Valentine through the\nopening.\n\n Valentine,  said he,  dear Valentine, you must not speak thus rather\nlet me die. Why should I obtain you by violence, if our love is mutual?\nIs it from mere humanity you bid me live? I would then rather die. \n\n Truly,  murmured Valentine,  who on this earth cares for me, if he\ndoes not? Who has consoled me in my sorrow but he? On whom do my hopes\nrest? On whom does my bleeding heart repose? On him, on him, always on\nhim! Yes, you are right, Maximilian, I will follow you. I will leave\nthe paternal home, I will give up all. Oh, ungrateful girl that I am, \ncried Valentine, sobbing,  I will give up all, even my dear old\ngrandfather, whom I had nearly forgotten. \n\n No,  said Maximilian,  you shall not leave him. M. Noirtier has\nevinced, you say, a kind feeling towards me. Well, before you leave,\ntell him all; his consent would be your justification in God s sight.\nAs soon as we are married, he shall come and live with us, instead of\none child, he shall have two. You have told me how you talk to him and\nhow he answers you; I shall very soon learn that language by signs,\nValentine, and I promise you solemnly, that instead of despair, it is\nhappiness that awaits us. \n\n Oh, see, Maximilian, see the power you have over me, you almost make\nme believe you; and yet, what you tell me is madness, for my father\nwill curse me he is inflexible he will never pardon me. Now listen to\nme, Maximilian; if by artifice, by entreaty, by accident in short, if\nby any means I can delay this marriage, will you wait? \n\n Yes, I promise you, as faithfully as you have promised me that this\nhorrible marriage shall not take place, and that if you are dragged\nbefore a magistrate or a priest, you will refuse. \n\n I promise you by all that is most sacred to me in the world, namely,\nby my mother. \n\n We will wait, then,  said Morrel.\n\n Yes, we will wait,  replied Valentine, who revived at these words;\n there are so many things which may save unhappy beings such as we\nare. \n\n I rely on you, Valentine,  said Morrel;  all you do will be well done;\nonly if they disregard your prayers, if your father and Madame de\nSaint-M ran insist that M. d pinay should be called tomorrow to sign\nthe contract \n\n Then you have my promise, Maximilian. \n\n Instead of signing \n\n I will go to you, and we will fly; but from this moment until then,\nlet us not tempt Providence, let us not see each other. It is a\nmiracle, it is a providence that we have not been discovered. If we\nwere surprised, if it were known that we met thus, we should have no\nfurther resource. \n\n You are right, Valentine; but how shall I ascertain? \n\n From the notary, M. Deschamps. \n\n I know him. \n\n And for myself I will write to you, depend on me. I dread this\nmarriage, Maximilian, as much as you. \n\n Thank you, my adored Valentine, thank you; that is enough. When once I\nknow the hour, I will hasten to this spot, you can easily get over this\nfence with my assistance, a carriage will await us at the gate, in\nwhich you will accompany me to my sister s; there living, retired or\nmingling in society, as you wish, we shall be enabled to use our power\nto resist oppression, and not suffer ourselves to be put to death like\nsheep, which only defend themselves by sighs. \n\n Yes,  said Valentine,  I will now acknowledge you are right,\nMaximilian; and now are you satisfied with your betrothal?  said the\nyoung girl sorrowfully.\n\n My adored Valentine, words cannot express one half of my\nsatisfaction. \n\nValentine had approached, or rather, had placed her lips so near the\nfence, that they nearly touched those of Morrel, which were pressed\nagainst the other side of the cold and inexorable barrier.\n\n Adieu, then, till we meet again,  said Valentine, tearing herself\naway.  I shall hear from you? \n\n Yes. \n\n Thanks, thanks, dear love, adieu! \n\nThe sound of a kiss was heard, and Valentine fled through the avenue.\nMorrel listened to catch the last sound of her dress brushing the\nbranches, and of her footstep on the gravel, then raised his eyes with\nan ineffable smile of thankfulness to heaven for being permitted to be\nthus loved, and then also disappeared.\n\nThe young man returned home and waited all the evening and all the next\nday without getting any message. It was only on the following day, at\nabout ten o clock in the morning, as he was starting to call on M.\nDeschamps, the notary, that he received from the postman a small\nbillet, which he knew to be from Valentine, although he had not before\nseen her writing. It was to this effect:\n\n Tears, entreaties, prayers, have availed me nothing. Yesterday, for\ntwo hours, I was at the church of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule, and for two\nhours I prayed most fervently. Heaven is as inflexible as man, and the\nsignature of the contract is fixed for this evening at nine o clock. I\nhave but one promise and but one heart to give; that promise is pledged\nto you, that heart is also yours. This evening, then, at a quarter to\nnine at the gate.\n\n Your betrothed,\n\n Valentine de Villefort. \n\n P.S. My poor grandmother gets worse and worse; yesterday her fever\namounted to delirium; today her delirium is almost madness. You will be\nvery kind to me, will you not, Morrel, to make me forget my sorrow in\nleaving her thus? I think it is kept a secret from grandpapa Noirtier,\nthat the contract is to be signed this evening. \n\nMorrel went also to the notary, who confirmed the news that the\ncontract was to be signed that evening. Then he went to call on Monte\nCristo and heard still more. Franz had been to announce the ceremony,\nand Madame de Villefort had also written to beg the count to excuse her\nnot inviting him; the death of M. de Saint-M ran and the dangerous\nillness of his widow would cast a gloom over the meeting which she\nwould regret should be shared by the count whom she wished every\nhappiness.\n\nThe day before Franz had been presented to Madame de Saint-M ran, who\nhad left her bed to receive him, but had been obliged to return to it\nimmediately after.\n\nIt is easy to suppose that Morrel s agitation would not escape the\ncount s penetrating eye. Monte Cristo was more affectionate than\never, indeed, his manner was so kind that several times Morrel was on\nthe point of telling him all. But he recalled the promise he had made\nto Valentine, and kept his secret.\n\nThe young man read Valentine s letter twenty times in the course of the\nday. It was her first, and on what an occasion! Each time he read it he\nrenewed his vow to make her happy. How great is the power of a woman\nwho has made so courageous a resolution! What devotion does she deserve\nfrom him for whom she has sacrificed everything! How ought she really\nto be supremely loved! She becomes at once a queen and a wife, and it\nis impossible to thank and love her sufficiently.\n\nMorrel longed intensely for the moment when he should hear Valentine\nsay,  Here I am, Maximilian; come and help me.  He had arranged\neverything for her escape; two ladders were hidden in the clover-field;\na cabriolet was ordered for Maximilian alone, without a servant,\nwithout lights; at the turning of the first street they would light the\nlamps, as it would be foolish to attract the notice of the police by\ntoo many precautions. Occasionally he shuddered; he thought of the\nmoment when, from the top of that wall, he should protect the descent\nof his dear Valentine, pressing in his arms for the first time her of\nwhom he had yet only kissed the delicate hand.\n\nWhen the afternoon arrived and he felt that the hour was drawing near,\nhe wished for solitude, his agitation was extreme; a simple question\nfrom a friend would have irritated him. He shut himself in his room,\nand tried to read, but his eye glanced over the page without\nunderstanding a word, and he threw away the book, and for the second\ntime sat down to sketch his plan, the ladders and the fence.\n\nAt length the hour drew near. Never did a man deeply in love allow the\nclocks to go on peacefully. Morrel tormented his so effectually that\nthey struck eight at half-past six. He then said,  It is time to start;\nthe signature was indeed fixed to take place at nine o clock, but\nperhaps Valentine will not wait for that.  Consequently, Morrel, having\nleft the Rue Meslay at half-past eight by his timepiece, entered the\nclover-field while the clock of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule was striking\neight. The horse and cabriolet were concealed behind a small ruin,\nwhere Morrel had often waited.\n\nThe night gradually drew on, and the foliage in the garden assumed a\ndeeper hue. Then Morrel came out from his hiding-place with a beating\nheart, and looked through the small opening in the gate; there was yet\nno one to be seen.\n\nThe clock struck half-past eight, and still another half-hour was\npassed in waiting, while Morrel walked to and fro, and gazed more and\nmore frequently through the opening. The garden became darker still,\nbut in the darkness he looked in vain for the white dress, and in the\nsilence he vainly listened for the sound of footsteps. The house, which\nwas discernible through the trees, remained in darkness, and gave no\nindication that so important an event as the signature of a\nmarriage-contract was going on. Morrel looked at his watch, which\nwanted a quarter to ten; but soon the same clock he had already heard\nstrike two or three times rectified the error by striking half-past\nnine.\n\nThis was already half an hour past the time Valentine had fixed. It was\na terrible moment for the young man. The slightest rustling of the\nfoliage, the least whistling of the wind, attracted his attention, and\ndrew the perspiration to his brow; then he tremblingly fixed his\nladder, and, not to lose a moment, placed his foot on the first step.\nAmidst all these alternations of hope and fear, the clock struck ten.\n It is impossible,  said Maximilian,  that the signing of a contract\nshould occupy so long a time without unexpected interruptions. I have\nweighed all the chances, calculated the time required for all the\nforms; something must have happened. \n\nAnd then he walked rapidly to and fro, and pressed his burning forehead\nagainst the fence. Had Valentine fainted? or had she been discovered\nand stopped in her flight? These were the only obstacles which appeared\npossible to the young man.\n\nThe idea that her strength had failed her in attempting to escape, and\nthat she had fainted in one of the paths, was the one that most\nimpressed itself upon his mind.  In that case,  said he,  I should lose\nher, and by my own fault.  He dwelt on this idea for a moment, then it\nappeared reality. He even thought he could perceive something on the\nground at a distance; he ventured to call, and it seemed to him that\nthe wind wafted back an almost inarticulate sigh.\n\nAt last the half-hour struck. It was impossible to wait longer, his\ntemples throbbed violently, his eyes were growing dim; he passed one\nleg over the wall, and in a moment leaped down on the other side. He\nwas on Villefort s premises had arrived there by scaling the wall. What\nmight be the consequences? However, he had not ventured thus far to\ndraw back. He followed a short distance close under the wall, then\ncrossed a path, hid entered a clump of trees. In a moment he had passed\nthrough them, and could see the house distinctly.\n\n30341m\n\n\n\nThen Morrel saw that he had been right in believing that the house was\nnot illuminated. Instead of lights at every window, as is customary on\ndays of ceremony, he saw only a gray mass, which was veiled also by a\ncloud, which at that moment obscured the moon s feeble light. A light\nmoved rapidly from time to time past three windows of the second floor.\nThese three windows were in Madame de Saint-M ran s room. Another\nremained motionless behind some red curtains which were in Madame de\nVillefort s bedroom. Morrel guessed all this. So many times, in order\nto follow Valentine in thought at every hour in the day, had he made\nher describe the whole house, that without having seen it he knew it\nall.\n\nThis darkness and silence alarmed Morrel still more than Valentine s\nabsence had done. Almost mad with grief, and determined to venture\neverything in order to see Valentine once more, and be certain of the\nmisfortune he feared, Morrel gained the edge of the clump of trees, and\nwas going to pass as quickly as possible through the flower-garden,\nwhen the sound of a voice, still at some distance, but which was borne\nupon the wind, reached him. At this sound, as he was already partially\nexposed to view, he stepped back and concealed himself completely,\nremaining perfectly motionless.\n\nHe had formed his resolution. If it was Valentine alone, he would speak\nas she passed; if she was accompanied, and he could not speak, still he\nshould see her, and know that she was safe; if they were strangers, he\nwould listen to their conversation, and might understand something of\nthis hitherto incomprehensible mystery.\n\nThe moon had just then escaped from behind the cloud which had\nconcealed it, and Morrel saw Villefort come out upon the steps,\nfollowed by a gentleman in black. They descended, and advanced towards\nthe clump of trees, and Morrel soon recognized the other gentleman as\nDoctor d Avrigny.\n\n30339m\n\n\n\nThe young man, seeing them approach, drew back mechanically, until he\nfound himself stopped by a sycamore-tree in the centre of the clump;\nthere he was compelled to remain. Soon the two gentlemen stopped also.\n\n Ah, my dear doctor,  said the procureur,  Heaven declares itself\nagainst my house! What a dreadful death what a blow! Seek not to\nconsole me; alas, nothing can alleviate so great a sorrow the wound is\ntoo deep and too fresh! Dead, dead! \n\nThe cold sweat sprang to the young man s brow, and his teeth chattered.\nWho could be dead in that house, which Villefort himself had called\naccursed?\n\n My dear M. de Villefort,  replied the doctor, with a tone which\nredoubled the terror of the young man,  I have not led you here to\nconsole you; on the contrary \n\n What can you mean?  asked the procureur, alarmed.\n\n I mean that behind the misfortune which has just happened to you,\nthere is another, perhaps, still greater. \n\n Can it be possible?  murmured Villefort, clasping his hands.  What are\nyou going to tell me? \n\n Are we quite alone, my friend? \n\n Yes, quite; but why all these precautions? \n\n Because I have a terrible secret to communicate to you,  said the\ndoctor.  Let us sit down. \n\nVillefort fell, rather than seated himself. The doctor stood before\nhim, with one hand placed on his shoulder. Morrel, horrified, supported\nhis head with one hand, and with the other pressed his heart, lest its\nbeatings should be heard.  Dead, dead!  repeated he within himself; and\nhe felt as if he were also dying.\n\n Speak, doctor I am listening,  said Villefort;  strike I am prepared\nfor everything! \n\n Madame de Saint-M ran was, doubtless, advancing in years, but she\nenjoyed excellent health.  Morrel began again to breathe freely, which\nhe had not done during the last ten minutes.\n\n Grief has consumed her,  said Villefort yes, grief, doctor! After\nliving forty years with the marquis \n\n It is not grief, my dear Villefort,  said the doctor;  grief may kill,\nalthough it rarely does, and never in a day, never in an hour, never in\nten minutes.  Villefort answered nothing, he simply raised his head,\nwhich had been cast down before, and looked at the doctor with\namazement.\n\n Were you present during the last struggle?  asked M. d Avrigny.\n\n I was,  replied the procureur;  you begged me not to leave. \n\n Did you notice the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de\nSaint-M ran has fallen a victim? \n\n I did. Madame de Saint-M ran had three successive attacks, at\nintervals of some minutes, each one more serious than the former. When\nyou arrived, Madame de Saint-M ran had already been panting for breath\nsome minutes; she then had a fit, which I took to be simply a nervous\nattack, and it was only when I saw her raise herself in the bed, and\nher limbs and neck appear stiffened, that I became really alarmed. Then\nI understood from your countenance there was more to fear than I had\nthought. This crisis past, I endeavored to catch your eye, but could\nnot. You held her hand you were feeling her pulse and the second fit\ncame on before you had turned towards me. This was more terrible than\nthe first; the same nervous movements were repeated, and the mouth\ncontracted and turned purple. \n\n And at the third she expired. \n\n At the end of the first attack I discovered symptoms of tetanus; you\nconfirmed my opinion. \n\n Yes, before others,  replied the doctor;  but now we are alone \n\n What are you going to say? Oh, spare me! \n\n That the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances are\nthe same. \n\nM. de Villefort started from his seat, then in a moment fell down\nagain, silent and motionless. Morrel knew not if he were dreaming or\nawake.\n\n Listen,  said the doctor;  I know the full importance of the statement\nI have just made, and the disposition of the man to whom I have made\nit. \n\n Do you speak to me as a magistrate or as a friend?  asked Villefort.\n\n As a friend, and only as a friend, at this moment. The similarity in\nthe symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances is so\ngreat, that were I obliged to affirm by oath what I have now stated, I\nshould hesitate; I therefore repeat to you, I speak not to a\nmagistrate, but to a friend. And to that friend I say,  During the\nthree-quarters of an hour that the struggle continued, I watched the\nconvulsions and the death of Madame de Saint-M ran, and am thoroughly\nconvinced that not only did her death proceed from poison, but I could\nalso specify the poison. \n\n Can it be possible? \n\n The symptoms are marked, do you see? sleep broken by nervous spasms,\nexcitation of the brain, torpor of the nerve centres. Madame de\nSaint-M ran succumbed to a powerful dose of brucine or of strychnine,\nwhich by some mistake, perhaps, has been given to her. \n\nVillefort seized the doctor s hand.\n\n Oh, it is impossible,  said he,  I must be dreaming! It is frightful\nto hear such things from such a man as you! Tell me, I entreat you, my\ndear doctor, that you may be deceived. \n\n Doubtless I may, but \n\n But? \n\n30345m\n\n\n\n But I do not think so. \n\n Have pity on me doctor! So many dreadful things have happened to me\nlately that I am on the verge of madness. \n\n Has anyone besides me seen Madame de Saint-M ran? \n\n No. \n\n Has anything been sent for from a chemist s that I have not examined? \n\n Nothing. \n\n Had Madame de Saint-M ran any enemies? \n\n Not to my knowledge. \n\n Would her death affect anyone s interest? \n\n It could not indeed, my daughter is her only heiress Valentine alone.\nOh, if such a thought could present itself, I would stab myself to\npunish my heart for having for one instant harbored it. \n\n Indeed, my dear friend,  said M. d Avrigny,  I would not accuse\nanyone; I speak only of an accident, you understand, of a mistake, but\nwhether accident or mistake, the fact is there; it is on my conscience\nand compels me to speak aloud to you. Make inquiry. \n\n Of whom? how? of what? \n\n May not Barrois, the old servant, have made a mistake, and have given\nMadame de Saint-M ran a dose prepared for his master? \n\n For my father? \n\n Yes. \n\n But how could a dose prepared for M. Noirtier poison Madame de\nSaint-M ran? \n\n Nothing is more simple. You know poisons become remedies in certain\ndiseases, of which paralysis is one. For instance, having tried every\nother remedy to restore movement and speech to M. Noirtier, I resolved\nto try one last means, and for three months I have been giving him\nbrucine; so that in the last dose I ordered for him there were six\ngrains. This quantity, which is perfectly safe to administer to the\nparalyzed frame of M. Noirtier, which has become gradually accustomed\nto it, would be sufficient to kill another person. \n\n My dear doctor, there is no communication between M. Noirtier s\napartment and that of Madame de Saint-M ran, and Barrois never entered\nmy mother-in-law s room. In short, doctor although I know you to be the\nmost conscientious man in the world, and although I place the utmost\nreliance in you, I want, notwithstanding my conviction, to believe this\naxiom, _errare humanum est_. \n\n Is there one of my brethren in whom you have equal confidence with\nmyself? \n\n Why do you ask me that? what do you wish? \n\n Send for him; I will tell him what I have seen, and we will consult\ntogether, and examine the body. \n\n And you will find traces of poison? \n\n No, I did not say of poison, but we can prove what was the state of\nthe body; we shall discover the cause of her sudden death, and we shall\nsay,  Dear Villefort, if this thing has been caused by negligence,\nwatch over your servants; if from hatred, watch your enemies. \n\n What do you propose to me, d Avrigny?  said Villefort in despair;  so\nsoon as another is admitted into our secret, an inquest will become\nnecessary; and an inquest in my house impossible! Still,  continued the\nprocureur, looking at the doctor with uneasiness,  if you wish it if\nyou demand it, why then it shall be done. But, doctor, you see me\nalready so grieved how can I introduce into my house so much scandal,\nafter so much sorrow? My wife and my daughter would die of it! And I,\ndoctor you know a man does not arrive at the post I occupy one has not\nbeen king s attorney twenty-five years without having amassed a\ntolerable number of enemies; mine are numerous. Let this affair be\ntalked of, it will be a triumph for them, which will make them rejoice,\nand cover me with shame. Pardon me, doctor, these worldly ideas; were\nyou a priest I should not dare tell you that, but you are a man, and\nyou know mankind. Doctor, pray recall your words; you have said\nnothing, have you? \n\n My dear M. de Villefort,  replied the doctor,  my first duty is to\nhumanity. I would have saved Madame de Saint-M ran, if science could\nhave done it; but she is dead and my duty regards the living. Let us\nbury this terrible secret in the deepest recesses of our hearts; I am\nwilling, if anyone should suspect this, that my silence on the subject\nshould be imputed to my ignorance. Meanwhile, sir, watch always watch\ncarefully, for perhaps the evil may not stop here. And when you have\nfound the culprit, if you find him, I will say to you,  You are a\nmagistrate, do as you will! \n\n I thank you, doctor,  said Villefort with indescribable joy;  I never\nhad a better friend than you.  And, as if he feared Doctor d Avrigny\nwould recall his promise, he hurried him towards the house.\n\nWhen they were gone, Morrel ventured out from under the trees, and the\nmoon shone upon his face, which was so pale it might have been taken\nfor that of a ghost.\n\n I am manifestly protected in a most wonderful, but most terrible\nmanner,  said he;  but Valentine, poor girl, how will she bear so much\nsorrow? \n\nAs he thought thus, he looked alternately at the window with red\ncurtains and the three windows with white curtains. The light had\nalmost disappeared from the former; doubtless Madame de Villefort had\njust put out her lamp, and the nightlamp alone reflected its dull light\non the window. At the extremity of the building, on the contrary, he\nsaw one of the three windows open. A wax-light placed on the\nmantle-piece threw some of its pale rays without, and a shadow was seen\nfor one moment on the balcony. Morrel shuddered; he thought he heard a\nsob.\n\nIt cannot be wondered at that his mind, generally so courageous, but\nnow disturbed by the two strongest human passions, love and fear, was\nweakened even to the indulgence of superstitious thoughts. Although it\nwas impossible that Valentine should see him, hidden as he was, he\nthought he heard the shadow at the window call him; his disturbed mind\ntold him so. This double error became an irresistible reality, and by\none of the incomprehensible transports of youth, he bounded from his\nhiding-place, and with two strides, at the risk of being seen, at the\nrisk of alarming Valentine, at the risk of being discovered by some\nexclamation which might escape the young girl, he crossed the\nflower-garden, which by the light of the moon resembled a large white\nlake, and having passed the rows of orange-trees which extended in\nfront of the house, he reached the step, ran quickly up and pushed the\ndoor, which opened without offering any resistance.\n\nValentine had not seen him. Her eyes, raised towards heaven, were\nwatching a silvery cloud gliding over the azure, its form that of a\nshadow mounting towards heaven. Her poetic and excited mind pictured it\nas the soul of her grandmother.\n\nMeanwhile, Morrel had traversed the anteroom and found the staircase,\nwhich, being carpeted, prevented his approach being heard, and he had\nregained that degree of confidence that the presence of M. de Villefort\neven would not have alarmed him. He was quite prepared for any such\nencounter. He would at once approach Valentine s father and acknowledge\nall, begging Villefort to pardon and sanction the love which united two\nfond and loving hearts. Morrel was mad.\n\nHappily he did not meet anyone. Now, especially, did he find the\ndescription Valentine had given of the interior of the house useful to\nhim; he arrived safely at the top of the staircase, and while he was\nfeeling his way, a sob indicated the direction he was to take. He\nturned back, a door partly open enabled him to see his road, and to\nhear the voice of one in sorrow. He pushed the door open and entered.\nAt the other end of the room, under a white sheet which covered it, lay\nthe corpse, still more alarming to Morrel since the account he had so\nunexpectedly overheard. By its side, on her knees, and with her head\nburied in the cushion of an easy-chair, was Valentine, trembling and\nsobbing, her hands extended above her head, clasped and stiff. She had\nturned from the window, which remained open, and was praying in accents\nthat would have affected the most unfeeling; her words were rapid,\nincoherent, unintelligible, for the burning weight of grief almost\nstopped her utterance.\n\nThe moon shining through the open blinds made the lamp appear to burn\npaler, and cast a sepulchral hue over the whole scene. Morrel could not\nresist this; he was not exemplary for piety, he was not easily\nimpressed, but Valentine suffering, weeping, wringing her hands before\nhim, was more than he could bear in silence. He sighed, and whispered a\nname, and the head bathed in tears and pressed on the velvet cushion of\nthe chair a head like that of a Magdalen by Correggio was raised and\nturned towards him. Valentine perceived him without betraying the least\nsurprise. A heart overwhelmed with one great grief is insensible to\nminor emotions. Morrel held out his hand to her. Valentine, as her only\napology for not having met him, pointed to the corpse under the sheet,\nand began to sob again.\n\nNeither dared for some time to speak in that room. They hesitated to\nbreak the silence which death seemed to impose; at length Valentine\nventured.\n\n My friend,  said she,  how came you here? Alas, I would say you are\nwelcome, had not death opened the way for you into this house. \n\n Valentine,  said Morrel with a trembling voice,  I had waited since\nhalf-past eight, and did not see you come; I became uneasy, leaped the\nwall, found my way through the garden, when voices conversing about the\nfatal event \n\n What voices?  asked Valentine. Morrel shuddered as he thought of the\nconversation of the doctor and M. de Villefort, and he thought he could\nsee through the sheet the extended hands, the stiff neck, and the\npurple lips.\n\n Your servants,  said he,  who were repeating the whole of the\nsorrowful story; from them I learned it all. \n\n But it was risking the failure of our plan to come up here, love. \n\n Forgive me,  replied Morrel;  I will go away. \n\n No,  said Valentine,  you might meet someone; stay. \n\n But if anyone should come here \n\nThe young girl shook her head.  No one will come,  said she;  do not\nfear, there is our safeguard,  pointing to the bed.\n\n But what has become of M. d pinay?  replied Morrel.\n\n30349m\n\n\n\n M. Franz arrived to sign the contract just as my dear grandmother was\ndying. \n\n Alas,  said Morrel with a feeling of selfish joy; for he thought this\ndeath would cause the wedding to be postponed indefinitely.\n\n But what redoubles my sorrow,  continued the young girl, as if this\nfeeling was to receive its immediate punishment,  is that the poor old\nlady, on her death-bed, requested that the marriage might take place as\nsoon as possible; she also, thinking to protect me, was acting against\nme. \n\n Hark!  said Morrel. They both listened; steps were distinctly heard in\nthe corridor and on the stairs.\n\n It is my father, who has just left his study. \n\n To accompany the doctor to the door,  added Morrel.\n\n How do you know it is the doctor?  asked Valentine, astonished.\n\n I imagined it must be,  said Morrel.\n\nValentine looked at the young man; they heard the street door close,\nthen M. de Villefort locked the garden door, and returned upstairs. He\nstopped a moment in the anteroom, as if hesitating whether to turn to\nhis own apartment or into Madame de Saint-M ran s; Morrel concealed\nhimself behind a door; Valentine remained motionless, grief seeming to\ndeprive her of all fear. M. de Villefort passed on to his own room.\n\n Now,  said Valentine,  you can neither go out by the front door nor by\nthe garden. \n\nMorrel looked at her with astonishment.\n\n There is but one way left you that is safe,  said she;  it is through\nmy grandfather s room.  She rose.  Come,  she added.\n\n Where?  asked Maximilian.\n\n To my grandfather s room. \n\n I in M. Noirtier s apartment? \n\n Yes. \n\n Can you mean it, Valentine? \n\n I have long wished it; he is my only remaining friend and we both need\nhis help, come. \n\n Be careful, Valentine,  said Morrel, hesitating to comply with the\nyoung girl s wishes;  I now see my error I acted like a madman in\ncoming in here. Are you sure you are more reasonable? \n\n Yes,  said Valentine;  and I have but one scruple, that of leaving my\ndear grandmother s remains, which I had undertaken to watch. \n\n Valentine,  said Morrel,  death is in itself sacred. \n\n Yes,  said Valentine;  besides, it will not be for long. \n\nShe then crossed the corridor, and led the way down a narrow staircase\nto M. Noirtier s room; Morrel followed her on tiptoe; at the door they\nfound the old servant.\n\n Barrois,  said Valentine,  shut the door, and let no one come in. \n\nShe passed first.\n\nNoirtier, seated in his chair, and listening to every sound, was\nwatching the door; he saw Valentine, and his eye brightened. There was\nsomething grave and solemn in the approach of the young girl which\nstruck the old man, and immediately his bright eye began to\ninterrogate.\n\n Dear grandfather.  said she hurriedly,  you know poor grandmamma died\nan hour since, and now I have no friend in the world but you. \n\nHis expressive eyes evinced the greatest tenderness.\n\n To you alone, then, may I confide my sorrows and my hopes? \n\nThe paralytic motioned  Yes. \n\nValentine took Maximilian s hand.\n\n Look attentively, then, at this gentleman. \n\nThe old man fixed his scrutinizing gaze with slight astonishment on\nMorrel.\n\n It is M. Maximilian Morrel,  said she;  the son of that good merchant\nof Marseilles, whom you doubtless recollect. \n\n Yes,  said the old man.\n\n He brings an irreproachable name, which Maximilian is likely to render\nglorious, since at thirty years of age he is a captain, an officer of\nthe Legion of Honor. \n\nThe old man signified that he recollected him.\n\n Well, grandpapa,  said Valentine, kneeling before him, and pointing to\nMaximilian,  I love him, and will be only his; were I compelled to\nmarry another, I would destroy myself. \n\nThe eyes of the paralytic expressed a multitude of tumultuous thoughts.\n\n You like M. Maximilian Morrel, do you not, grandpapa?  asked\nValentine.\n\n Yes. \n\n And you will protect us, who are your children, against the will of my\nfather? \n\nNoirtier cast an intelligent glance at Morrel, as if to say,  perhaps I\nmay. \n\nMaximilian understood him.\n\n Mademoiselle,  said he,  you have a sacred duty to fulfil in your\ndeceased grandmother s room, will you allow me the honor of a few\nminutes  conversation with M. Noirtier? \n\n That is it,  said the old man s eye. Then he looked anxiously at\nValentine.\n\n Do you fear he will not understand? \n\n Yes. \n\n Oh, we have so often spoken of you, that he knows exactly how I talk\nto you.  Then turning to Maximilian, with an adorable smile; although\nshaded by sorrow, He knows everything I know,  said she.\n\nValentine arose, placed a chair for Morrel, requested Barrois not to\nadmit anyone, and having tenderly embraced her grandfather, and\nsorrowfully taken leave of Morrel, she went away. To prove to Noirtier\nthat he was in Valentine s confidence and knew all their secrets,\nMorrel took the dictionary, a pen, and some paper, and placed them all\non a table where there was a light.\n\n But first,  said Morrel,  allow me, sir, to tell you who I am, how\nmuch I love Mademoiselle Valentine, and what are my designs respecting\nher. \n\nNoirtier made a sign that he would listen.\n\nIt was an imposing sight to witness this old man, apparently a mere\nuseless burden, becoming the sole protector, support, and adviser of\nthe lovers who were both young, beautiful, and strong. His remarkably\nnoble and austere expression struck Morrel, who began his story with\ntrembling. He related the manner in which he had become acquainted with\nValentine, and how he had loved her, and that Valentine, in her\nsolitude and her misfortune, had accepted the offer of his devotion. He\ntold him his birth, his position, his fortune, and more than once, when\nhe consulted the look of the paralytic, that look answered,  That is\ngood, proceed. \n\n And now,  said Morrel, when he had finished the first part of his\nrecital,  now I have told you of my love and my hopes, may I inform you\nof my intentions? \n\n Yes,  signified the old man.\n\n This was our resolution; a cabriolet was in waiting at the gate, in\nwhich I intended to carry off Valentine to my sister s house, to marry\nher, and to wait respectfully M. de Villefort s pardon. \n\n No,  said Noirtier.\n\n We must not do so? \n\n No. \n\n You do not sanction our project? \n\n No. \n\n There is another way,  said Morrel. The old man s interrogative eye\nsaid,  Which? \n\n I will go,  continued Maximilian,  I will seek M. Franz d pinay I am\nhappy to be able to mention this in Mademoiselle de Villefort s\nabsence and will conduct myself toward him so as to compel him to\nchallenge me.  Noirtier s look continued to interrogate.\n\n You wish to know what I will do? \n\n Yes. \n\n I will find him, as I told you. I will tell him the ties which bind me\nto Mademoiselle Valentine; if he be a sensible man, he will prove it by\nrenouncing of his own accord the hand of his betrothed, and will secure\nmy friendship, and love until death; if he refuse, either through\ninterest or ridiculous pride, after I have proved to him that he would\nbe forcing my wife from me, that Valentine loves me, and will have no\nother, I will fight with him, give him every advantage, and I shall\nkill him, or he will kill me; if I am victorious, he will not marry\nValentine, and if I die, I am very sure Valentine will not marry him. \n\nNoirtier watched, with indescribable pleasure, this noble and sincere\ncountenance, on which every sentiment his tongue uttered was depicted,\nadding by the expression of his fine features all that coloring adds to\na sound and faithful drawing.\n\nStill, when Morrel had finished, he shut his eyes several times, which\nwas his manner of saying  No. \n\n No?  said Morrel;  you disapprove of this second project, as you did\nof the first? \n\n I do,  signified the old man.\n\n But what then must be done?  asked Morrel.  Madame de Saint-M ran s\nlast request was, that the marriage might not be delayed; must I let\nthings take their course?  Noirtier did not move.  I understand,  said\nMorrel;  I am to wait. \n\n Yes. \n\n But delay may ruin our plan, sir,  replied the young man.  Alone,\nValentine has no power; she will be compelled to submit. I am here\nalmost miraculously, and can scarcely hope for so good an opportunity\nto occur again. Believe me, there are only the two plans I have\nproposed to you; forgive my vanity, and tell me which you prefer. Do\nyou authorize Mademoiselle Valentine to intrust herself to my honor? \n\n No. \n\n Do you prefer I should seek M. d pinay? \n\n No. \n\n Whence then will come the help we need from chance?  resumed Morrel.\n\n No. \n\n From you? \n\n Yes. \n\n You thoroughly understand me, sir? Pardon my eagerness, for my life\ndepends on your answer. Will our help come from you? \n\n Yes. \n\n You are sure of it? \n\n Yes.  There was so much firmness in the look which gave this answer,\nno one could, at any rate, doubt his will, if they did his power.\n\n Oh, thank you a thousand times! But how, unless a miracle should\nrestore your speech, your gesture, your movement, how can you, chained\nto that armchair, dumb and motionless, oppose this marriage?  A smile\nlit up the old man s face, a strange smile of the eyes in a paralyzed\nface.\n\n Then I must wait?  asked the young man.\n\n Yes. \n\n But the contract?  The same smile returned.  Will you assure me it\nshall not be signed? \n\n Yes,  said Noirtier.\n\n The contract shall not be signed!  cried Morrel.  Oh, pardon me, sir;\nI can scarcely realize so great a happiness. Will they not sign it? \n\n No,  said the paralytic. Notwithstanding that assurance, Morrel still\nhesitated. This promise of an impotent old man was so strange that,\ninstead of being the result of the power of his will, it might emanate\nfrom enfeebled organs. Is it not natural that the madman, ignorant of\nhis folly, should attempt things beyond his power? The weak man talks\nof burdens he can raise, the timid of giants he can confront, the poor\nof treasures he spends, the most humble peasant, in the height of his\npride, calls himself Jupiter. Whether Noirtier understood the young\nman s indecision, or whether he had not full confidence in his\ndocility, he looked uneasily at him.\n\n What do you wish, sir?  asked Morrel;  that I should renew my promise\nof remaining tranquil?  Noirtier s eye remained fixed and firm, as if\nto imply that a promise did not suffice; then it passed from his face\nto his hands.\n\n Shall I swear to you, sir?  asked Maximilian.\n\n Yes,  said the paralytic with the same solemnity. Morrel understood\nthat the old man attached great importance to an oath. He extended his\nhand.\n\n I swear to you, on my honor,  said he,  to await your decision\nrespecting the course I am to pursue with M. d pinay. \n\n That is right,  said the old man.\n\n Now,  said Morrel,  do you wish me to retire? \n\n Yes. \n\n Without seeing Mademoiselle Valentine? \n\n Yes. \n\nMorrel made a sign that he was ready to obey.  But,  said he,  first\nallow me to embrace you as your daughter did just now.  Noirtier s\nexpression could not be understood. The young man pressed his lips on\nthe same spot, on the old man s forehead, where Valentine s had been.\nThen he bowed a second time and retired.\n\nHe found outside the door the old servant, to whom Valentine had given\ndirections. Morrel was conducted along a dark passage, which led to a\nlittle door opening on the garden, soon found the spot where he had\nentered, with the assistance of the shrubs gained the top of the wall,\nand by his ladder was in an instant in the clover-field where his\ncabriolet was still waiting for him. He got in it, and thoroughly\nwearied by so many emotions, arrived about midnight in the Rue Meslay,\nthrew himself on his bed and slept soundly.\n\n\n\nVOLUME FOUR\n\n40010m\n\n\n\n40012m\n\n\n\n40020m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 74. The Villefort Family Vault\n\nTwo days after, a considerable crowd was assembled, towards ten o clock\nin the morning, around the door of M. de Villefort s house, and a long\nfile of mourning-coaches and private carriages extended along the\nFaubourg Saint-Honor  and the Rue de la P pini re. Among them was one\nof a very singular form, which appeared to have come from a distance.\nIt was a kind of covered wagon, painted black, and was one of the first\nto arrive. Inquiry was made, and it was ascertained that, by a strange\ncoincidence, this carriage contained the corpse of the Marquis de\nSaint-M ran, and that those who had come thinking to attend one funeral\nwould follow two. Their number was great. The Marquis de Saint-M ran,\none of the most zealous and faithful dignitaries of Louis XVIII. and\nKing Charles X., had preserved a great number of friends, and these,\nadded to the personages whom the usages of society gave Villefort a\nclaim on, formed a considerable body.\n\nDue information was given to the authorities, and permission obtained\nthat the two funerals should take place at the same time. A second\nhearse, decked with the same funereal pomp, was brought to M. de\nVillefort s door, and the coffin removed into it from the post-wagon.\nThe two bodies were to be interred in the cemetery of P re-Lachaise,\nwhere M. de Villefort had long since had a tomb prepared for the\nreception of his family. The remains of poor Ren e were already\ndeposited there, and now, after ten years of separation, her father and\nmother were to be reunited with her.\n\nThe Parisians, always curious, always affected by funereal display,\nlooked on with religious silence while the splendid procession\naccompanied to their last abode two of the number of the old\naristocracy the greatest protectors of commerce and sincere devotees to\ntheir principles.\n\nIn one of the mourning-coaches Beauchamp, Debray, and Ch teau-Renaud\nwere talking of the very sudden death of the marchioness.\n\n I saw Madame de Saint-M ran only last year at Marseilles, when I was\ncoming back from Algiers,  said Ch teau-Renaud;  she looked like a\nwoman destined to live to be a hundred years old, from her apparent\nsound health and great activity of mind and body. How old was she? \n\n Franz assured me,  replied Albert,  that she was sixty-six years old.\nBut she has not died of old age, but of grief; it appears that since\nthe death of the marquis, which affected her very deeply, she has not\ncompletely recovered her reason. \n\n But of what disease, then, did she die?  asked Debray.\n\n It is said to have been a congestion of the brain, or apoplexy, which\nis the same thing, is it not? \n\n Nearly. \n\n It is difficult to believe that it was apoplexy,  said Beauchamp.\n Madame de Saint-M ran, whom I once saw, was short, of slender form,\nand of a much more nervous than sanguine temperament; grief could\nhardly produce apoplexy in such a constitution as that of Madame de\nSaint-M ran. \n\n At any rate,  said Albert,  whatever disease or doctor may have killed\nher, M. de Villefort, or rather, Mademoiselle Valentine, or, still\nrather, our friend Franz, inherits a magnificent fortune, amounting, I\nbelieve, to 80,000 livres per annum. \n\n And this fortune will be doubled at the death of the old Jacobin,\nNoirtier. \n\n That is a tenacious old grandfather,  said Beauchamp.  _Tenacem\npropositi virum_. I think he must have made an agreement with death to\noutlive all his heirs, and he appears likely to succeed. He resembles\nthe old Conventionalist of  93, who said to Napoleon, in 1814,  You\nbend because your empire is a young stem, weakened by rapid growth.\nTake the Republic for a tutor; let us return with renewed strength to\nthe battle-field, and I promise you 500,000 soldiers, another Marengo,\nand a second Austerlitz. Ideas do not become extinct, sire; they\nslumber sometimes, but only revive the stronger before they sleep\nentirely. \n\n Ideas and men appeared the same to him,  said Albert.  One thing only\npuzzles me, namely, how Franz d pinay will like a grandfather who\ncannot be separated from his wife. But where is Franz? \n\n In the first carriage, with M. de Villefort, who considers him already\nas one of the family. \n\n40024m\n\n\n\nSuch was the conversation in almost all the carriages; these two sudden\ndeaths, so quickly following each other, astonished everyone, but no\none suspected the terrible secret which M. d Avrigny had communicated,\nin his nocturnal walk to M. de Villefort. They arrived in about an hour\nat the cemetery; the weather was mild, but dull, and in harmony with\nthe funeral ceremony. Among the groups which flocked towards the family\nvault, Ch teau-Renaud recognized Morrel, who had come alone in a\ncabriolet, and walked silently along the path bordered with yew-trees.\n\n You here?  said Ch teau-Renaud, passing his arms through the young\ncaptain s;  are you a friend of Villefort s? How is it that I have\nnever met you at his house? \n\n I am no acquaintance of M. de Villefort s,  answered Morrel,  but I\nwas of Madame de Saint-M ran.  Albert came up to them at this moment\nwith Franz.\n\n The time and place are but ill-suited for an introduction.  said\nAlbert;  but we are not superstitious. M. Morrel, allow me to present\nto you M. Franz d pinay, a delightful travelling companion, with whom\nI made the tour of Italy. My dear Franz, M. Maximilian Morrel, an\nexcellent friend I have acquired in your absence, and whose name you\nwill hear me mention every time I make any allusion to affection, wit,\nor amiability. \n\nMorrel hesitated for a moment; he feared it would be hypocritical to\naccost in a friendly manner the man whom he was tacitly opposing, but\nhis oath and the gravity of the circumstances recurred to his memory;\nhe struggled to conceal his emotion and bowed to Franz.\n\n Mademoiselle de Villefort is in deep sorrow, is she not?  said Debray\nto Franz.\n\n Extremely,  replied he;  she looked so pale this morning, I scarcely\nknew her. \n\nThese apparently simple words pierced Morrel to the heart. This man had\nseen Valentine, and spoken to her! The young and high-spirited officer\nrequired all his strength of mind to resist breaking his oath. He took\nthe arm of Ch teau-Renaud, and turned towards the vault, where the\nattendants had already placed the two coffins.\n\n This is a magnificent habitation,  said Beauchamp, looking towards the\nmausoleum;  a summer and winter palace. You will, in turn, enter it, my\ndear d pinay, for you will soon be numbered as one of the family. I,\nas a philosopher, should like a little country-house, a cottage down\nthere under the trees, without so many free-stones over my poor body.\nIn dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to Piron:\n _Eo rus_, and all will be over.  But come, Franz, take courage, your\nwife is an heiress. \n\n Indeed, Beauchamp, you are unbearable. Politics has made you laugh at\neverything, and political men have made you disbelieve everything. But\nwhen you have the honor of associating with ordinary men, and the\npleasure of leaving politics for a moment, try to find your\naffectionate heart, which you leave with your stick when you go to the\nChamber. \n\n But tell me,  said Beauchamp,  what is life? Is it not a halt in\nDeath s anteroom? \n\n40026m\n\n\n\n I am prejudiced against Beauchamp,  said Albert, drawing Franz away,\nand leaving the former to finish his philosophical dissertation with\nDebray.\n\nThe Villefort vault formed a square of white stones, about twenty feet\nhigh; an interior partition separated the two families, and each\napartment had its entrance door. Here were not, as in other tombs,\nignoble drawers, one above another, where thrift bestows its dead and\nlabels them like specimens in a museum; all that was visible within the\nbronze gates was a gloomy-looking room, separated by a wall from the\nvault itself. The two doors before mentioned were in the middle of this\nwall, and enclosed the Villefort and Saint-M ran coffins. There grief\nmight freely expend itself without being disturbed by the trifling\nloungers who came from a picnic party to visit P re-Lachaise, or by\nlovers who make it their rendezvous.\n\nThe two coffins were placed on trestles previously prepared for their\nreception in the right-hand crypt belonging to the Saint-M ran family.\nVillefort, Franz, and a few near relatives alone entered the sanctuary.\n\nAs the religious ceremonies had all been performed at the door, and\nthere was no address given, the party all separated; Ch teau-Renaud,\nAlbert, and Morrel, went one way, and Debray and Beauchamp the other.\nFranz remained with M. de Villefort; at the gate of the cemetery Morrel\nmade an excuse to wait; he saw Franz and M. de Villefort get into the\nsame mourning-coach, and thought this meeting forboded evil. He then\nreturned to Paris, and although in the same carriage with\nCh teau-Renaud and Albert, he did not hear one word of their\nconversation.\n\nAs Franz was about to take leave of M. de Villefort,  When shall I see\nyou again?  said the latter.\n\n At what time you please, sir,  replied Franz.\n\n As soon as possible. \n\n I am at your command, sir; shall we return together? \n\n If not unpleasant to you. \n\n On the contrary, I shall feel much pleasure. \n\nThus, the future father and son-in-law stepped into the same carriage,\nand Morrel, seeing them pass, became uneasy. Villefort and Franz\nreturned to the Faubourg Saint-Honor . The procureur, without going to\nsee either his wife or his daughter, went at once to his study, and,\noffering the young man a chair:\n\n M. d pinay,  said he,  allow me to remind you at this moment, which\nis perhaps not so ill-chosen as at first sight may appear, for\nobedience to the wishes of the departed is the first offering which\nshould be made at their tomb, allow me then to remind you of the wish\nexpressed by Madame de Saint-M ran on her death-bed, that Valentine s\nwedding might not be deferred. You know the affairs of the deceased are\nin perfect order, and her will bequeaths to Valentine the entire\nproperty of the Saint-M ran family; the notary showed me the documents\nyesterday, which will enable us to draw up the contract immediately.\nYou may call on the notary, M. Deschamps, Place Beauveau, Faubourg\nSaint-Honor , and you have my authority to inspect those deeds. \n\n Sir,  replied M. d pinay,  it is not, perhaps, the moment for\nMademoiselle Valentine, who is in deep distress, to think of a husband;\nindeed, I fear \n\n40028m\n\n\n\n Valentine will have no greater pleasure than that of fulfilling her\ngrandmother s last injunctions; there will be no obstacle from that\nquarter, I assure you. \n\n In that case,  replied Franz,  as I shall raise none, you may make\narrangements when you please; I have pledged my word, and shall feel\npleasure and happiness in adhering to it. \n\n Then,  said Villefort,  nothing further is required. The contract was\nto have been signed three days since; we shall find it all ready, and\ncan sign it today. \n\n But the mourning?  said Franz, hesitating.\n\n Don t be uneasy on that score,  replied Villefort;  no ceremony will\nbe neglected in my house. Mademoiselle de Villefort may retire during\nthe prescribed three months to her estate of Saint-M ran; I say hers,\nfor she inherits it today. There, after a few days, if you like, the\ncivil marriage shall be celebrated without pomp or ceremony. Madame de\nSaint-M ran wished her daughter should be married there. When that is\nover, you, sir, can return to Paris, while your wife passes the time of\nher mourning with her mother-in-law. \n\n As you please, sir,  said Franz.\n\n Then,  replied M. de Villefort,  have the kindness to wait half an\nhour; Valentine shall come down into the drawing-room. I will send for\nM. Deschamps; we will read and sign the contract before we separate,\nand this evening Madame de Villefort shall accompany Valentine to her\nestate, where we will rejoin them in a week. \n\n Sir,  said Franz,  I have one request to make. \n\n What is it? \n\n I wish Albert de Morcerf and Raoul de Ch teau-Renaud to be present at\nthis signature; you know they are my witnesses. \n\n Half an hour will suffice to apprise them; will you go for them\nyourself, or shall you send? \n\n I prefer going, sir. \n\n I shall expect you, then, in half an hour, baron, and Valentine will\nbe ready. \n\nFranz bowed and left the room. Scarcely had the door closed, when M. de\nVillefort sent to tell Valentine to be ready in the drawing-room in\nhalf an hour, as he expected the notary and M. d pinay and his\nwitnesses. The news caused a great sensation throughout the house;\nMadame de Villefort would not believe it, and Valentine was\nthunderstruck. She looked around for help, and would have gone down to\nher grandfather s room, but on the stairs she met M. de Villefort, who\ntook her arm and led her into the drawing-room. In the anteroom,\nValentine met Barrois, and looked despairingly at the old servant. A\nmoment later, Madame de Villefort entered the drawing-room with her\nlittle Edward. It was evident that she had shared the grief of the\nfamily, for she was pale and looked fatigued. She sat down, took Edward\non her knees, and from time to time pressed this child, on whom her\naffections appeared centred, almost convulsively to her bosom.\n\nTwo carriages were soon heard to enter the courtyard. One was the\nnotary s; the other, that of Franz and his friends. In a moment the\nwhole party was assembled. Valentine was so pale one might trace the\nblue veins from her temples, round her eyes and down her cheeks. Franz\nwas deeply affected. Ch teau-Renaud and Albert looked at each other\nwith amazement; the ceremony which was just concluded had not appeared\nmore sorrowful than did that which was about to begin. Madame de\nVillefort had placed herself in the shadow behind a velvet curtain, and\nas she constantly bent over her child, it was difficult to read the\nexpression of her face. M. de Villefort was, as usual, unmoved.\n\nThe notary, after having, according to the customary method, arranged\nthe papers on the table, taken his place in an armchair, and raised his\nspectacles, turned towards Franz:\n\n Are you M. Franz de Quesnel, baron d pinay?  asked he, although he\nknew it perfectly.\n\n Yes, sir,  replied Franz. The notary bowed.\n\n I have, then, to inform you, sir, at the request of M. de Villefort,\nthat your projected marriage with Mademoiselle de Villefort has changed\nthe feeling of M. Noirtier towards his grandchild, and that he\ndisinherits her entirely of the fortune he would have left her. Let me\nhasten to add,  continued he,  that the testator, having only the right\nto alienate a part of his fortune, and having alienated it all, the\nwill will not bear scrutiny, and is declared null and void. \n\n Yes.  said Villefort;  but I warn M. d pinay, that during my\nlife-time my father s will shall never be questioned, my position\nforbidding any doubt to be entertained. \n\n40032m\n\n\n\n Sir,  said Franz,  I regret much that such a question has been raised\nin the presence of Mademoiselle Valentine; I have never inquired the\namount of her fortune, which, however limited it may be, exceeds mine.\nMy family has sought consideration in this alliance with M. de\nVillefort; all I seek is happiness. \n\nValentine imperceptibly thanked him, while two silent tears rolled down\nher cheeks.\n\n Besides, sir,  said Villefort, addressing himself to his future\nson-in-law,  excepting the loss of a portion of your hopes, this\nunexpected will need not personally wound you; M. Noirtier s weakness\nof mind sufficiently explains it. It is not because Mademoiselle\nValentine is going to marry you that he is angry, but because she will\nmarry, a union with any other would have caused him the same sorrow.\nOld age is selfish, sir, and Mademoiselle de Villefort has been a\nfaithful companion to M. Noirtier, which she cannot be when she becomes\nthe Baroness d pinay. My father s melancholy state prevents our\nspeaking to him on any subjects, which the weakness of his mind would\nincapacitate him from understanding, and I am perfectly convinced that\nat the present time, although, he knows that his granddaughter is going\nto be married, M. Noirtier has even forgotten the name of his intended\ngrandson.  M. de Villefort had scarcely said this, when the door\nopened, and Barrois appeared.\n\n Gentlemen,  said he, in a tone strangely firm for a servant speaking\nto his masters under such solemn circumstances, gentlemen, M. Noirtier\nde Villefort wishes to speak immediately to M. Franz de Quesnel, baron\nd pinay.  He, as well as the notary, that there might be no mistake in\nthe person, gave all his titles to the bridegroom elect.\n\nVillefort started, Madame de Villefort let her son slip from her knees,\nValentine rose, pale and dumb as a statue. Albert and Ch teau-Renaud\nexchanged a second look, more full of amazement than the first. The\nnotary looked at Villefort.\n\n It is impossible,  said the procureur.  M. d pinay cannot leave the\ndrawing-room at present. \n\n It is at this moment,  replied Barrois with the same firmness,  that\nM. Noirtier, my master, wishes to speak on important subjects to M.\nFranz d pinay. \n\n Grandpapa Noirtier can speak now, then,  said Edward, with his\nhabitual quickness. However, his remark did not make Madame de\nVillefort even smile, so much was every mind engaged, and so solemn was\nthe situation.\n\n Tell M. Nortier,  resumed Villefort,  that what he demands is\nimpossible. \n\n Then, M. Nortier gives notice to these gentlemen,  replied Barrois,\n that he will give orders to be carried to the drawing-room. \n\nAstonishment was at its height. Something like a smile was perceptible\non Madame de Villefort s countenance. Valentine instinctively raised\nher eyes, as if to thank heaven.\n\n Pray go, Valentine,  said; M. de Villefort,  and see what this new\nfancy of your grandfather s is.  Valentine rose quickly, and was\nhastening joyfully towards the door, when M. de Villefort altered his\nintention.\n\n Stop,  said he;  I will go with you. \n\n Excuse me, sir,  said Franz,  since M. Noirtier sent for me, I am\nready to attend to his wish; besides, I shall be happy to pay my\nrespects to him, not having yet had the honor of doing so. \n\n Pray, sir,  said Villefort with marked uneasiness,  do not disturb\nyourself. \n\n40032m\n\n\n\n Forgive me, sir,  said Franz in a resolute tone.  I would not lose\nthis opportunity of proving to M. Noirtier how wrong it would be of him\nto encourage feelings of dislike to me, which I am determined to\nconquer, whatever they may be, by my devotion. \n\nAnd without listening to Villefort he arose, and followed Valentine,\nwho was running downstairs with the joy of a shipwrecked mariner who\nfinds a rock to cling to. M. de Villefort followed them. Ch teau-Renaud\nand Morcerf exchanged a third look of still increasing wonder.\n\n\n\n Chapter 75. A Signed Statement\n\nNoirtier was prepared to receive them, dressed in black, and installed\nin his armchair. When the three persons he expected had entered, he\nlooked at the door, which his valet immediately closed.\n\n Listen,  whispered Villefort to Valentine, who could not conceal her\njoy;  if M. Noirtier wishes to communicate anything which would delay\nyour marriage, I forbid you to understand him. \n\nValentine blushed, but did not answer. Villefort, approached Noirtier.\n\n Here is M. Franz d pinay,  said he;  you requested to see him. We\nhave all wished for this interview, and I trust it will convince you\nhow ill-formed are your objections to Valentine s marriage. \n\nNoirtier answered only by a look which made Villefort s blood run cold.\nHe motioned to Valentine to approach. In a moment, thanks to her habit\nof conversing with her grandfather, she understood that he asked for a\nkey. Then his eye was fixed on the drawer of a small chest between the\nwindows. She opened the drawer, and found a key; and, understanding\nthat was what he wanted, again watched his eyes, which turned toward an\nold secretaire which had been neglected for many years and was supposed\nto contain nothing but useless documents.\n\n Shall I open the secretaire?  asked Valentine.\n\n Yes,  said the old man.\n\n And the drawers? \n\n Yes. \n\n Those at the side? \n\n No. \n\n The middle one? \n\n Yes. \n\nValentine opened it and drew out a bundle of papers.  Is that what you\nwish for?  asked she.\n\n No. \n\nShe took successively all the other papers out till the drawer was\nempty.  But there are no more,  said she. Noirtier s eye was fixed on\nthe dictionary.\n\n Yes, I understand, grandfather,  said the young girl.\n\n40036m\n\n\n\nShe pointed to each letter of the alphabet. At the letter S the old man\nstopped her. She opened, and found the word  secret. \n\n Ah! is there a secret spring?  said Valentine.\n\n Yes,  said Noirtier.\n\n And who knows it?  Noirtier looked at the door where the servant had\ngone out.\n\n Barrois?  said she.\n\n Yes. \n\n Shall I call him? \n\n Yes. \n\nValentine went to the door, and called Barrois. Villefort s impatience\nduring this scene made the perspiration roll from his forehead, and\nFranz was stupefied. The old servant came.\n\n Barrois,  said Valentine,  my grandfather has told me to open that\ndrawer in the secretaire, but there is a secret spring in it, which you\nknow will you open it? \n\nBarrois looked at the old man.  Obey,  said Noirtier s intelligent eye.\nBarrois touched a spring, the false bottom came out, and they saw a\nbundle of papers tied with a black string.\n\n Is that what you wish for?  said Barrois.\n\n Yes. \n\n Shall I give these papers to M. de Villefort? \n\n No. \n\n To Mademoiselle Valentine? \n\n No. \n\n To M. Franz d pinay? \n\n Yes. \n\nFranz, astonished, advanced a step.  To me, sir?  said he.\n\n Yes. \n\nFranz took them from Barrois and casting a glance at the cover, read:\n\n To be given, after my death, to General Durand, who shall bequeath\nthe packet to his son, with an injunction to preserve it as containing\nan important document. \n\n Well, sir,  asked Franz,  what do you wish me to do with this paper? \n\n To preserve it, sealed up as it is, doubtless,  said the procureur.\n\n No,  replied Noirtier eagerly.\n\n Do you wish him to read it?  said Valentine.\n\n Yes,  replied the old man.\n\n You understand, baron, my grandfather wishes you to read this paper, \nsaid Valentine.\n\n Then let us sit down,  said Villefort impatiently,  for it will take\nsome time. \n\n Sit down,  said the old man. Villefort took a chair, but Valentine\nremained standing by her father s side, and Franz before him, holding\nthe mysterious paper in his hand.  Read,  said the old man. Franz\nuntied it, and in the midst of the most profound silence read:\n\n40038m\n\n\n\n _Extract of the report of a meeting of the Bonapartist Club in the\nRue Saint-Jacques, held February 5th, 1815_. \n\nFranz stopped.  February 5th, 1815!  said he;  it is the day my father\nwas murdered.  Valentine and Villefort were dumb; the eye of the old\nman alone seemed to say clearly,  Go on. \n\n But it was on leaving this club,  said he,  my father disappeared. \n\nNoirtier s eye continued to say,  Read.  He resumed: \n\n The undersigned Louis-Jacques Beaurepaire, lieutenant-colonel of\nartillery,  tienne Duchampy, general of brigade, and Claude Lecharpal,\nkeeper of woods and forests, declare, that on the 4th of February, a\nletter arrived from the Island of Elba, recommending to the kindness\nand the confidence of the Bonapartist Club, General Flavien de Quesnel,\nwho having served the emperor from 1804 to 1814 was supposed to be\ndevoted to the interests of the Napoleon dynasty, notwithstanding the\ntitle of baron which Louis XVIII. had just granted to him with his\nestate of  pinay.\n\n400340m\n\n\n\n A note was in consequence addressed to General de Quesnel, begging\nhim to be present at the meeting next day, the 5th. The note indicated\nneither the street nor the number of the house where the meeting was to\nbe held; it bore no signature, but it announced to the general that\nsomeone would call for him if he would be ready at nine o clock. The\nmeetings were always held from that time till midnight. At nine o clock\nthe president of the club presented himself; the general was ready, the\npresident informed him that one of the conditions of his introduction\nwas that he should be eternally ignorant of the place of meeting, and\nthat he would allow his eyes to be bandaged, swearing that he would not\nendeavor to take off the bandage. General de Quesnel accepted the\ncondition, and promised on his honor not to seek to discover the road\nthey took. The general s carriage was ready, but the president told him\nit was impossible for him to use it, since it was useless to blindfold\nthe master if the coachman knew through what streets he went.  What\nmust be done then?  asked the general. I have my carriage here,  said\nthe president.\n\n Have you, then, so much confidence in your servant that you can\nintrust him with a secret you will not allow me to know? \n\n Our coachman is a member of the club,  said the president;  we shall\nbe driven by a State-Councillor. \n\n Then we run another risk,  said the general, laughing,  that of\nbeing upset.  We insert this joke to prove that the general was not in\nthe least compelled to attend the meeting, but that he came willingly.\nWhen they were seated in the carriage the president reminded the\ngeneral of his promise to allow his eyes to be bandaged, to which he\nmade no opposition. On the road the president thought he saw the\ngeneral make an attempt to remove the handkerchief, and reminded him of\nhis oath.  Sure enough,  said the general. The carriage stopped at an\nalley leading out of the Rue Saint-Jacques. The general alighted,\nleaning on the arm of the president, of whose dignity he was not aware,\nconsidering him simply as a member of the club; they went through the\nalley, mounted a flight of stairs, and entered the assembly-room.\n\n The deliberations had already begun. The members, apprised of the\nsort of presentation which was to be made that evening, were all in\nattendance. When in the middle of the room the general was invited to\nremove his bandage, he did so immediately, and was surprised to see so\nmany well-known faces in a society of whose existence he had till then\nbeen ignorant. They questioned him as to his sentiments, but he\ncontented himself with answering, that the letters from the Island of\nElba ought to have informed them \n\nFranz interrupted himself by saying,  My father was a royalist; they\nneed not have asked his sentiments, which were well known. \n\n And hence,  said Villefort,  arose my affection for your father, my\ndear M. Franz. Opinions held in common are a ready bond of union. \n\n Read again,  said the old man.\n\nFranz continued:\n\n The president then sought to make him speak more explicitly, but M.\nde Quesnel replied that he wished first to know what they wanted with\nhim. He was then informed of the contents of the letter from the Island\nof Elba, in which he was recommended to the club as a man who would be\nlikely to advance the interests of their party. One paragraph spoke of\nthe return of Bonaparte and promised another letter and further\ndetails, on the arrival of the _Pharaon_ belonging to the shipbuilder\nMorrel, of Marseilles, whose captain was entirely devoted to the\nemperor. During all this time, the general, on whom they thought to\nhave relied as on a brother, manifested evidently signs of discontent\nand repugnance. When the reading was finished, he remained silent, with\nknitted brows.\n\n Well,  asked the president,  what do you say to this letter,\ngeneral? \n\n I say that it is too soon after declaring myself for Louis XVIII. to\nbreak my vow in behalf of the ex-emperor.  This answer was too clear to\npermit of any mistake as to his sentiments.  General,  said the\npresident,  we acknowledge no King Louis XVIII., or an ex-emperor, but\nhis majesty the emperor and king, driven from France, which is his\nkingdom, by violence and treason. \n\n Excuse me, gentlemen,  said the general;  you may not acknowledge\nLouis XVIII., but I do, as he has made me a baron and a field-marshal,\nand I shall never forget that for these two titles I am indebted to his\nhappy return to France. \n\n Sir,  said the president, rising with gravity,  be careful what you\nsay; your words clearly show us that they are deceived concerning you\nin the Island of Elba, and have deceived us! The communication has been\nmade to you in consequence of the confidence placed in you, and which\ndoes you honor. Now we discover our error; a title and promotion attach\nyou to the government we wish to overturn. We will not constrain you to\nhelp us; we enroll no one against his conscience, but we will compel\nyou to act generously, even if you are not disposed to do so. \n\n You would call acting generously, knowing your conspiracy and not\ninforming against you, that is what I should call becoming your\naccomplice. You see I am more candid than you. \n\n Ah, my father!  said Franz, interrupting himself.  I understand now\nwhy they murdered him.  Valentine could not help casting one glance\ntowards the young man, whose filial enthusiasm it was delightful to\nbehold. Villefort walked to and fro behind them. Noirtier watched the\nexpression of each one, and preserved his dignified and commanding\nattitude. Franz returned to the manuscript, and continued:\n\n Sir,  said the president,  you have been invited to join this\nassembly you were not forced here; it was proposed to you to come\nblindfolded you accepted. When you complied with this twofold request\nyou well knew we did not wish to secure the throne of Louis XVIII., or\nwe should not take so much care to avoid the vigilance of the police.\nIt would be conceding too much to allow you to put on a mask to aid you\nin the discovery of our secret, and then to remove it that you may ruin\nthose who have confided in you. No, no, you must first say if you\ndeclare yourself for the king of a day who now reigns, or for his\nmajesty the emperor. \n\n I am a royalist,  replied the general;  I have taken the oath of\nallegiance to Louis XVIII., and I will adhere to it.  These words were\nfollowed by a general murmur, and it was evident that several of the\nmembers were discussing the propriety of making the general repent of\nhis rashness.\n\n The president again arose, and having imposed silence, said, Sir,\nyou are too serious and too sensible a man not to understand the\nconsequences of our present situation, and your candor has already\ndictated to us the conditions which remain for us to offer you.  The\ngeneral, putting his hand on his sword, exclaimed, If you talk of\nhonor, do not begin by disavowing its laws, and impose nothing by\nviolence. \n\n And you, sir,  continued the president, with a calmness still more\nterrible than the general s anger,  I advise you not to touch your\nsword.  The general looked around him with slight uneasiness; however\nhe did not yield, but calling up all his fortitude, said, I will not\nswear. \n\n Then you must die,  replied the president calmly. M. d pinay became\nvery pale; he looked round him a second time, several members of the\nclub were whispering, and getting their arms from under their cloaks.\n General,  said the president,  do not alarm yourself; you are among\nmen of honor who will use every means to convince you before resorting\nto the last extremity, but as you have said, you are among\nconspirators, you are in possession of our secret, and you must restore\nit to us.  A significant silence followed these words, and as the\ngeneral did not reply, Close the doors,  said the president to the\ndoor-keeper.\n\n40042m\n\n\n\n The same deadly silence succeeded these words. Then the general\nadvanced, and making a violent effort to control his feelings, I have\na son,  said he,  and I ought to think of him, finding myself among\nassassins. \n\n General,  said the chief of the assembly,  one man may insult\nfifty it is the privilege of weakness. But he does wrong to use his\nprivilege. Follow my advice, swear, and do not insult.  The general,\nagain daunted by the superiority of the chief, hesitated a moment; then\nadvancing to the president s desk, What is the form, said he.\n\n It is this: I swear by my honor not to reveal to anyone what I have\nseen and heard on the 5th of February, 1815, between nine and ten\no clock in the evening; and I plead guilty of death should I ever\nviolate this oath.  The general appeared to be affected by a nervous\ntremor, which prevented his answering for some moments; then,\novercoming his manifest repugnance, he pronounced the required oath,\nbut in so low a tone as to be scarcely audible to the majority of the\nmembers, who insisted on his repeating it clearly and distinctly, which\nhe did.\n\n Now am I at liberty to retire?  said the general. The president\nrose, appointed three members to accompany him, and got into the\ncarriage with the general after bandaging his eyes. One of those three\nmembers was the coachman who had driven them there. The other members\nsilently dispersed.  Where do you wish to be taken?  asked the\npresident. Anywhere out of your presence,  replied M. d pinay.\n Beware, sir,  replied the president,  you are no longer in the\nassembly, and have only to do with individuals; do not insult them\nunless you wish to be held responsible.  But instead of listening, M.\nd pinay went on, You are still as brave in your carriage as in your\nassembly because you are still four against one.  The president stopped\nthe coach. They were at that part of the Quai des Ormes where the steps\nlead down to the river.  Why do you stop here?  asked d pinay.\n\n Because, sir,  said the president,  you have insulted a man, and\nthat man will not go one step farther without demanding honorable\nreparation. \n\n Another method of assassination?  said the general, shrugging his\nshoulders.\n\n Make no noise, sir, unless you wish me to consider you as one of the\nmen of whom you spoke just now as cowards, who take their weakness for\na shield. You are alone, one alone shall answer you; you have a sword\nby your side, I have one in my cane; you have no witness, one of these\ngentlemen will serve you. Now, if you please, remove your bandage.  The\ngeneral tore the handkerchief from his eyes.  At last,  said he,  I\nshall know with whom I have to do.  They opened the door and the four\nmen alighted. \n\nFranz again interrupted himself, and wiped the cold drops from his\nbrow; there was something awful in hearing the son read aloud in\ntrembling pallor these details of his father s death, which had\nhitherto been a mystery. Valentine clasped her hands as if in prayer.\nNoirtier looked at Villefort with an almost sublime expression of\ncontempt and pride.\n\nFranz continued:\n\n It was, as we said, the fifth of February. For three days the mercury\nhad been five or six degrees below freezing and the steps were covered\nwith ice. The general was stout and tall, the president offered him the\nside of the railing to assist him in getting down. The two witnesses\nfollowed. It was a dark night. The ground from the steps to the river\nwas covered with snow and hoarfrost, the water of the river looked\nblack and deep. One of the seconds went for a lantern in a coal-barge\nnear, and by its light they examined the weapons. The president s\nsword, which was simply, as he had said, one he carried in his cane,\nwas five inches shorter than the general s, and had no guard. The\ngeneral proposed to cast lots for the swords, but the president said it\nwas he who had given the provocation, and when he had given it he had\nsupposed each would use his own arms. The witnesses endeavored to\ninsist, but the president bade them be silent. The lantern was placed\non the ground, the two adversaries took their stations, and the duel\nbegan. The light made the two swords appear like flashes of lightning;\nas for the men, they were scarcely perceptible, the darkness was so\ngreat.\n\n40044m\n\n\n\n General d pinay passed for one of the best swordsmen in the army,\nbut he was pressed so closely in the onset that he missed his aim and\nfell. The witnesses thought he was dead, but his adversary, who knew he\nhad not struck him, offered him the assistance of his hand to rise. The\ncircumstance irritated instead of calming the general, and he rushed on\nhis adversary. But his opponent did not allow his guard to be broken.\nHe received him on his sword and three times the general drew back on\nfinding himself too closely engaged, and then returned to the charge.\nAt the third he fell again. They thought he slipped, as at first, and\nthe witnesses, seeing he did not move, approached and endeavored to\nraise him, but the one who passed his arm around the body found it was\nmoistened with blood. The general, who had almost fainted, revived.\n Ah,  said he,  they have sent some fencing-master to fight with me. \nThe president, without answering, approached the witness who held the\nlantern, and raising his sleeve, showed him two wounds he had received\nin his arm; then opening his coat, and unbuttoning his waistcoat,\ndisplayed his side, pierced with a third wound. Still he had not even\nuttered a sigh. General d pinay died five minutes after. \n\nFranz read these last words in a voice so choked that they were hardly\naudible, and then stopped, passing his hand over his eyes as if to\ndispel a cloud; but after a moment s silence, he continued:\n\n The president went up the steps, after pushing his sword into his\ncane; a track of blood on the snow marked his course. He had scarcely\narrived at the top when he heard a heavy splash in the water it was the\ngeneral s body, which the witnesses had just thrown into the river\nafter ascertaining that he was dead. The general fell, then, in a loyal\nduel, and not in ambush as it might have been reported. In proof of\nthis we have signed this paper to establish the truth of the facts,\nlest the moment should arrive when either of the actors in this\nterrible scene should be accused of premeditated murder or of\ninfringement of the laws of honor.\n\n Signed, Beaurepaire, Duchampy, and Lecharpal. \n\nWhen Franz had finished reading this account, so dreadful for a son;\nwhen Valentine, pale with emotion, had wiped away a tear; when\nVillefort, trembling, and crouched in a corner, had endeavored to\nlessen the storm by supplicating glances at the implacable old man, \n\n Sir,  said d pinay to Noirtier,  since you are well acquainted with\nall these details, which are attested by honorable signatures, since\nyou appear to take some interest in me, although you have only\nmanifested it hitherto by causing me sorrow, refuse me not one final\nsatisfaction tell me the name of the president of the club, that I may\nat least know who killed my father. \n\nVillefort mechanically felt for the handle of the door; Valentine, who\nunderstood sooner than anyone her grandfather s answer, and who had\noften seen two scars upon his right arm, drew back a few steps.\n\n Mademoiselle,  said Franz, turning towards Valentine,  unite your\nefforts with mine to find out the name of the man who made me an orphan\nat two years of age.  Valentine remained dumb and motionless.\n\n Hold, sir,  said Villefort,  do not prolong this dreadful scene. The\nnames have been purposely concealed; my father himself does not know\nwho this president was, and if he knows, he cannot tell you; proper\nnames are not in the dictionary. \n\n Oh, misery,  cried Franz:  the only hope which sustained me and\nenabled me to read to the end was that of knowing, at least, the name\nof him who killed my father! Sir, sir,  cried he, turning to Noirtier,\n do what you can make me understand in some way! \n\n Yes,  replied Noirtier.\n\n Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!  cried Franz,  your grandfather says\nhe can indicate the person. Help me, lend me your assistance! \n\nNoirtier looked at the dictionary. Franz took it with a nervous\ntrembling, and repeated the letters of the alphabet successively, until\nhe came to M. At that letter the old man signified  Yes. \n\n M,  repeated Franz. The young man s finger, glided over the words, but\nat each one Noirtier answered by a negative sign. Valentine hid her\nhead between her hands. At length, Franz arrived at the word MYSELF.\n\n40046m\n\n\n\n Yes! \n\n You!  cried Franz, whose hair stood on end;  you, M. Noirtier you\nkilled my father? \n\n Yes!  replied Noirtier, fixing a majestic look on the young man. Franz\nfell powerless on a chair; Villefort opened the door and escaped, for\nthe idea had entered his mind to stifle the little remaining life in\nthe heart of this terrible old man.\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 76. Progress of Cavalcanti the Younger\n\nMeanwhile M. Cavalcanti the elder had returned to his service, not in\nthe army of his majesty the Emperor of Austria, but at the gaming-table\nof the baths of Lucca, of which he was one of the most assiduous\ncourtiers. He had spent every farthing that had been allowed for his\njourney as a reward for the majestic and solemn manner in which he had\nmaintained his assumed character of father.\n\nM. Andrea at his departure inherited all the papers which proved that\nhe had indeed the honor of being the son of the Marquis Bartolomeo and\nthe Marchioness Oliva Corsinari. He was now fairly launched in that\nParisian society which gives such ready access to foreigners, and\ntreats them, not as they really are, but as they wish to be considered.\nBesides, what is required of a young man in Paris? To speak its\nlanguage tolerably, to make a good appearance, to be a good gamester,\nand to pay in cash. They are certainly less particular with a foreigner\nthan with a Frenchman. Andrea had, then, in a fortnight, attained a\nvery fair position. He was called count, he was said to possess 50,000\nlivres per annum; and his father s immense riches, buried in the\nquarries of Saravezza, were a constant theme. A learned man, before\nwhom the last circumstance was mentioned as a fact, declared he had\nseen the quarries in question, which gave great weight to assertions\nhitherto somewhat doubtful, but which now assumed the garb of reality.\n\nSuch was the state of society in Paris at the period we bring before\nour readers, when Monte Cristo went one evening to pay M. Danglars a\nvisit. M. Danglars was out, but the count was asked to go and see the\nbaroness, and he accepted the invitation. It was never without a\nnervous shudder, since the dinner at Auteuil, and the events which\nfollowed it, that Madame Danglars heard Monte Cristo s name announced.\nIf he did not come, the painful sensation became most intense; if, on\nthe contrary, he appeared, his noble countenance, his brilliant eyes,\nhis amiability, his polite attention even towards Madame Danglars, soon\ndispelled every impression of fear. It appeared impossible to the\nbaroness that a man of such delightfully pleasing manners should\nentertain evil designs against her; besides, the most corrupt minds\nonly suspect evil when it would answer some interested end useless\ninjury is repugnant to every mind.\n\n40048m\n\n\n\nWhen Monte Cristo entered the boudoir, to which we have already once\nintroduced our readers, and where the baroness was examining some\ndrawings, which her daughter passed to her after having looked at them\nwith M. Cavalcanti, his presence soon produced its usual effect, and it\nwas with smiles that the baroness received the count, although she had\nbeen a little disconcerted at the announcement of his name. The latter\ntook in the whole scene at a glance.\n\nThe baroness was partially reclining on a sofa, Eug nie sat near her,\nand Cavalcanti was standing. Cavalcanti, dressed in black, like one of\nGoethe s heroes, with varnished shoes and white silk open-worked\nstockings, passed a white and tolerably nice-looking hand through his\nlight hair, and so displayed a sparkling diamond, that in spite of\nMonte Cristo s advice the vain young man had been unable to resist\nputting on his little finger. This movement was accompanied by killing\nglances at Mademoiselle Danglars, and by sighs launched in the same\ndirection.\n\nMademoiselle Danglars was still the same cold, beautiful, and\nsatirical. Not one of these glances, nor one sigh, was lost on her;\nthey might have been said to fall on the shield of Minerva, which some\nphilosophers assert protected sometimes the breast of Sappho. Eug nie\nbowed coldly to the count, and availed herself of the first moment when\nthe conversation became earnest to escape to her study, whence very\nsoon two cheerful and noisy voices being heard in connection with\noccasional notes of the piano assured Monte Cristo that Mademoiselle\nDanglars preferred to his society and to that of M. Cavalcanti the\ncompany of Mademoiselle Louise d Armilly, her singing teacher.\n\nIt was then, especially while conversing with Madame Danglars, and\napparently absorbed by the charm of the conversation, that the count\nnoticed M. Andrea Cavalcanti s solicitude, his manner of listening to\nthe music at the door he dared not pass, and of manifesting his\nadmiration.\n\nThe banker soon returned. His first look was certainly directed towards\nMonte Cristo, but the second was for Andrea. As for his wife, he bowed\nto her, as some husbands do to their wives, but in a way that bachelors\nwill never comprehend, until a very extensive code is published on\nconjugal life.\n\n Have not the ladies invited you to join them at the piano?  said\nDanglars to Andrea.\n\n Alas, no, sir,  replied Andrea with a sigh, still more remarkable than\nthe former ones. Danglars immediately advanced towards the door and\nopened it.\n\n40050m\n\n\n\nThe two young ladies were seen seated on the same chair, at the piano,\naccompanying themselves, each with one hand, a fancy to which they had\naccustomed themselves, and performed admirably. Mademoiselle d Armilly,\nwhom they then perceived through the open doorway, formed with Eug nie\none of the _tableaux vivants_ of which the Germans are so fond. She was\nsomewhat beautiful, and exquisitely formed a little fairy-like figure,\nwith large curls falling on her neck, which was rather too long, as\nPerugino sometimes makes his Virgins, and her eyes dull from fatigue.\nShe was said to have a weak chest, and like Antonia in the _Cremona\nViolin_, she would die one day while singing.\n\nMonte Cristo cast one rapid and curious glance round this sanctum; it\nwas the first time he had ever seen Mademoiselle d Armilly, of whom he\nhad heard much.\n\n Well,  said the banker to his daughter,  are we then all to be\nexcluded? \n\nHe then led the young man into the study, and either by chance or\nman uvre the door was partially closed after Andrea, so that from the\nplace where they sat neither the Count nor the baroness could see\nanything; but as the banker had accompanied Andrea, Madame Danglars\nappeared to take no notice of it.\n\nThe count soon heard Andrea s voice, singing a Corsican song,\naccompanied by the piano. While the count smiled at hearing this song,\nwhich made him lose sight of Andrea in the recollection of Benedetto,\nMadame Danglars was boasting to Monte Cristo of her husband s strength\nof mind, who that very morning had lost three or four hundred thousand\nfrancs by a failure at Milan. The praise was well deserved, for had not\nthe count heard it from the baroness, or by one of those means by which\nhe knew everything, the baron s countenance would not have led him to\nsuspect it.\n\n Hem,  thought Monte Cristo,  he begins to conceal his losses; a month\nsince he boasted of them. \n\nThen aloud, Oh, madame, M. Danglars is so skilful, he will soon regain\nat the Bourse what he loses elsewhere. \n\n I see that you participate in a prevalent error,  said Madame\nDanglars.\n\n What is it?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n That M. Danglars speculates, whereas he never does. \n\n Truly, madame, I recollect M. Debray told me apropos, what has become\nof him? I have seen nothing of him the last three or four days. \n\n Nor I,  said Madame Danglars;  but you began a sentence, sir, and did\nnot finish. \n\n Which? \n\n M. Debray had told you \n\n Ah, yes; he told me it was you who sacrificed to the demon of\nspeculation. \n\n I was once very fond of it, but I do not indulge now. \n\n Then you are wrong, madame. Fortune is precarious; and if I were a\nwoman and fate had made me a banker s wife, whatever might be my\nconfidence in my husband s good fortune, still in speculation you know\nthere is great risk. Well, I would secure for myself a fortune\nindependent of him, even if I acquired it by placing my interests in\nhands unknown to him.  Madame Danglars blushed, in spite of all her\nefforts.\n\n Stay,  said Monte Cristo, as though he had not observed her confusion,\n I have heard of a lucky hit that was made yesterday on the Neapolitan\nbonds. \n\n I have none nor have I ever possessed any; but really we have talked\nlong enough of money, count, we are like two stockbrokers; have you\nheard how fate is persecuting the poor Villeforts? \n\n What has happened?  said the count, simulating total ignorance.\n\n You know the Marquis of Saint-M ran died a few days after he had set\nout on his journey to Paris, and the marchioness a few days after her\narrival? \n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo,  I have heard that; but, as Claudius said to\nHamlet,  it is a law of nature; their fathers died before them, and\nthey mourned their loss; they will die before their children, who will,\nin their turn, grieve for them. \n\n But that is not all. \n\n Not all! \n\n No; they were going to marry their daughter \n\n To M. Franz d pinay. Is it broken off? \n\n Yesterday morning, it appears, Franz declined the honor. \n\n Indeed? And is the reason known? \n\n No. \n\n How extraordinary! And how does M. de Villefort bear it? \n\n As usual. Like a philosopher. \n\nDanglars returned at this moment alone.\n\n Well,  said the baroness,  do you leave M. Cavalcanti with your\ndaughter? \n\n And Mademoiselle d Armilly,  said the banker;  do you consider her no\none?  Then, turning to Monte Cristo, he said,  Prince Cavalcanti is a\ncharming young man, is he not? But is he really a prince? \n\n I will not answer for it,  said Monte Cristo.  His father was\nintroduced to me as a marquis, so he ought to be a count; but I do not\nthink he has much claim to that title. \n\n Why?  said the banker.  If he is a prince, he is wrong not to maintain\nhis rank; I do not like anyone to deny his origin. \n\n Oh, you are a thorough democrat,  said Monte Cristo, smiling.\n\n But do you see to what you are exposing yourself?  said the baroness.\n If, perchance, M. de Morcerf came, he would find M. Cavalcanti in that\nroom, where he, the betrothed of Eug nie, has never been admitted. \n\n You may well say, perchance,  replied the banker;  for he comes so\nseldom, it would seem only chance that brings him. \n\n But should he come and find that young man with your daughter, he\nmight be displeased. \n\n He? You are mistaken. M. Albert would not do us the honor to be\njealous; he does not like Eug nie sufficiently. Besides, I care not for\nhis displeasure. \n\n Still, situated as we are \n\n Yes, do you know how we are situated? At his mother s ball he danced\nonce with Eug nie, and M. Cavalcanti three times, and he took no notice\nof it. \n\nThe valet announced the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf. The baroness rose\nhastily, and was going into the study, when Danglars stopped her.\n\n Let her alone,  said he.\n\nShe looked at him in amazement. Monte Cristo appeared to be unconscious\nof what passed. Albert entered, looking very handsome and in high\nspirits. He bowed politely to the baroness, familiarly to Danglars, and\naffectionately to Monte Cristo. Then turning to the baroness:  May I\nask how Mademoiselle Danglars is?  said he.\n\n She is quite well,  replied Danglars quickly;  she is at the piano\nwith M. Cavalcanti. \n\nAlbert retained his calm and indifferent manner; he might feel perhaps\nannoyed, but he knew Monte Cristo s eye was on him.  M. Cavalcanti has\na fine tenor voice,  said he,  and Mademoiselle Eug nie a splendid\nsoprano, and then she plays the piano like Thalberg. The concert must\nbe a delightful one. \n\n They suit each other remarkably well,  said Danglars. Albert appeared\nnot to notice this remark, which was, however, so rude that Madame\nDanglars blushed.\n\n I, too,  said the young man,  am a musician at least, my masters used\nto tell me so; but it is strange that my voice never would suit any\nother, and a soprano less than any. \n\nDanglars smiled, and seemed to say,  It is of no consequence.  Then,\nhoping doubtless to effect his purpose, he said, The prince and my\ndaughter were universally admired yesterday. You were not of the party,\nM. de Morcerf? \n\n What prince?  asked Albert.\n\n Prince Cavalcanti,  said Danglars, who persisted in giving the young\nman that title.\n\n Pardon me,  said Albert,  I was not aware that he was a prince. And\nPrince Cavalcanti sang with Mademoiselle Eug nie yesterday? It must\nhave been charming, indeed. I regret not having heard them. But I was\nunable to accept your invitation, having promised to accompany my\nmother to a German concert given by the Baroness of Ch teau-Renaud. \n\nThis was followed by rather an awkward silence.\n\n May I also be allowed,  said Morcerf,  to pay my respects to\nMademoiselle Danglars? \n\n Wait a moment,  said the banker, stopping the young man;  do you hear\nthat delightful cavatina? Ta, ta, ta, ti, ta, ti, ta, ta; it is\ncharming, let them finish one moment. Bravo, bravi, brava!  The banker\nwas enthusiastic in his applause.\n\n40054m\n\n\n\n Indeed,  said Albert,  it is exquisite; it is impossible to understand\nthe music of his country better than Prince Cavalcanti does. You said\nprince, did you not? But he can easily become one, if he is not\nalready; it is no uncommon thing in Italy. But to return to the\ncharming musicians you should give us a treat, Danglars, without\ntelling them there is a stranger. Ask them to sing one more song; it is\nso delightful to hear music in the distance, when the musicians are\nunrestrained by observation. \n\nDanglars was quite annoyed by the young man s indifference. He took\nMonte Cristo aside.\n\n What do you think of our lover?  said he.\n\n He appears cool. But, then your word is given. \n\n Yes, doubtless I have promised to give my daughter to a man who loves\nher, but not to one who does not. See him there, cold as marble and\nproud like his father. If he were rich, if he had Cavalcanti s fortune,\nthat might be pardoned. _Ma foi_, I haven t consulted my daughter; but\nif she has good taste \n\n Oh,  said Monte Cristo,  my fondness may blind me, but I assure you I\nconsider Morcerf a charming young man who will render your daughter\nhappy and will sooner or later attain a certain amount of distinction,\nand his father s position is good. \n\n Hem,  said Danglars.\n\n Why do you doubt? \n\n The past that obscurity on the past. \n\n But that does not affect the son. \n\n Very true. \n\n Now, I beg of you, don t go off your head. It s a month now that you\nhave been thinking of this marriage, and you must see that it throws\nsome responsibility on me, for it was at my house you met this young\nCavalcanti, whom I do not really know at all. \n\n But I do. \n\n Have you made inquiry? \n\n Is there any need of that! Does not his appearance speak for him? And\nhe is very rich. \n\n I am not so sure of that. \n\n And yet you said he had money. \n\n Fifty thousand livres a mere trifle. \n\n He is well educated. \n\n Hem,  said Monte Cristo in his turn.\n\n He is a musician. \n\n So are all Italians. \n\n Come, count, you do not do that young man justice. \n\n Well, I acknowledge it annoys me, knowing your connection with the\nMorcerf family, to see him throw himself in the way.  Danglars burst\nout laughing.\n\n What a Puritan you are!  said he;  that happens every day. \n\n But you cannot break it off in this way; the Morcerfs are depending on\nthis union. \n\n Indeed. \n\n Positively. \n\n Then let them explain themselves; you should give the father a hint,\nyou are so intimate with the family. \n\n I? where the devil did you find out that? \n\n At their ball; it was apparent enough. Why, did not the countess, the\nproud Merc d s, the disdainful Catalane, who will scarcely open her\nlips to her oldest acquaintances, take your arm, lead you into the\ngarden, into the private walks, and remain there for half an hour? \n\n Ah, baron, baron,  said Albert,  you are not listening what barbarism\nin a megalomaniac like you! \n\n Oh, don t worry about me, Sir Mocker,  said Danglars; then turning to\nMonte Cristo he said:\n\n But will you undertake to speak to the father? \n\n Willingly, if you wish it. \n\n But let it be done explicitly and positively. If he demands my\ndaughter let him fix the day declare his conditions; in short, let us\neither understand each other, or quarrel. You understand no more\ndelay. \n\n Yes, sir, I will give my attention to the subject. \n\n I do not say that I await with pleasure his decision, but I do await\nit. A banker must, you know, be a slave to his promise.  And Danglars\nsighed as M. Cavalcanti had done half an hour before.\n\n Bravi! bravo! brava!  cried Morcerf, parodying the banker, as the\nselection came to an end. Danglars began to look suspiciously at\nMorcerf, when someone came and whispered a few words to him.\n\n I shall soon return,  said the banker to Monte Cristo;  wait for me. I\nshall, perhaps, have something to say to you.  And he went out.\n\nThe baroness took advantage of her husband s absence to push open the\ndoor of her daughter s study, and M. Andrea, who was sitting before the\npiano with Mademoiselle Eug nie, started up like a jack-in-the-box.\nAlbert bowed with a smile to Mademoiselle Danglars, who did not appear\nin the least disturbed, and returned his bow with her usual coolness.\nCavalcanti was evidently embarrassed; he bowed to Morcerf, who replied\nwith the most impertinent look possible. Then Albert launched out in\npraise of Mademoiselle Danglars  voice, and on his regret, after what\nhe had just heard, that he had been unable to be present the previous\nevening.\n\nCavalcanti, being left alone, turned to Monte Cristo.\n\n Come,  said Madame Danglars,  leave music and compliments, and let us\ngo and take tea. \n\n Come, Louise,  said Mademoiselle Danglars to her friend.\n\nThey passed into the next drawing-room, where tea was prepared. Just as\nthey were beginning, in the English fashion, to leave the spoons in\ntheir cups, the door again opened and Danglars entered, visibly\nagitated. Monte Cristo observed it particularly, and by a look asked\nthe banker for an explanation.\n\n I have just received my courier from Greece,  said Danglars.\n\n Ah, yes,  said the count;  that was the reason of your running away\nfrom us. \n\n Yes. \n\n How is King Otho getting on?  asked Albert in the most sprightly tone.\n\nDanglars cast another suspicious look towards him without answering,\nand Monte Cristo turned away to conceal the expression of pity which\npassed over his features, but which was gone in a moment.\n\n We shall go together, shall we not?  said Albert to the count.\n\n If you like,  replied the latter.\n\nAlbert could not understand the banker s look, and turning to Monte\nCristo, who understood it perfectly, Did you see,  said he,  how he\nlooked at me? \n\n Yes,  said the count;  but did you think there was anything particular\nin his look? \n\n Indeed, I did; and what does he mean by his news from Greece? \n\n How can I tell you? \n\n Because I imagine you have correspondents in that country. \n\nMonte Cristo smiled significantly.\n\n Stop,  said Albert,  here he comes. I shall compliment Mademoiselle\nDanglars on her cameo, while the father talks to you. \n\n If you compliment her at all, let it be on her voice, at least,  said\nMonte Cristo.\n\n No, everyone would do that. \n\n My dear viscount, you are dreadfully impertinent. \n\nAlbert advanced towards Eug nie, smiling.\n\nMeanwhile, Danglars, stooping to Monte Cristo s ear,  Your advice was\nexcellent,  said he;  there is a whole history connected with the names\nFernand and Yanina. \n\n Indeed?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Yes, I will tell you all; but take away the young man; I cannot endure\nhis presence. \n\n He is going with me. Shall I send the father to you? \n\n Immediately. \n\n Very well.  The count made a sign to Albert and they bowed to the\nladies, and took their leave, Albert perfectly indifferent to\nMademoiselle Danglars  contempt, Monte Cristo reiterating his advice to\nMadame Danglars on the prudence a banker s wife should exercise in\nproviding for the future.\n\nM. Cavalcanti remained master of the field.\n\n\n\n Chapter 77. Hayd e\n\nScarcely had the count s horses cleared the angle of the boulevard,\nwhen Albert, turning towards the count, burst into a loud fit of\nlaughter much too loud in fact not to give the idea of its being rather\nforced and unnatural.\n\n Well,  said he,  I will ask you the same question which Charles IX.\nput to Catherine de  Medici, after the massacre of Saint Bartholomew:\n How have I played my little part? \n\n To what do you allude?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n To the installation of my rival at M. Danglars . \n\n What rival? \n\n _Ma foi!_ what rival? Why, your prot g , M. Andrea Cavalcanti! \n\n Ah, no joking, viscount, if you please; I do not patronize M.\nAndrea at least, not as concerns M. Danglars. \n\n And you would be to blame for not assisting him, if the young man\nreally needed your help in that quarter, but, happily for me, he can\ndispense with it. \n\n What, do you think he is paying his addresses? \n\n I am certain of it; his languishing looks and modulated tones when\naddressing Mademoiselle Danglars fully proclaim his intentions. He\naspires to the hand of the proud Eug nie. \n\n What does that signify, so long as they favor your suit? \n\n But it is not the case, my dear count: on the contrary. I am repulsed\non all sides. \n\n What! \n\n It is so indeed; Mademoiselle Eug nie scarcely answers me, and\nMademoiselle d Armilly, her confidant, does not speak to me at all. \n\n But the father has the greatest regard possible for you,  said Monte\nCristo.\n\n He? Oh, no, he has plunged a thousand daggers into my heart,\ntragedy-weapons, I own, which instead of wounding sheathe their points\nin their own handles, but daggers which he nevertheless believed to be\nreal and deadly. \n\n Jealousy indicates affection. \n\n True; but I am not jealous. \n\n He is. \n\n Of whom? of Debray? \n\n No, of you. \n\n Of me? I will engage to say that before a week is past the door will\nbe closed against me. \n\n You are mistaken, my dear viscount. \n\n Prove it to me. \n\n Do you wish me to do so? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, I am charged with the commission of endeavoring to induce the\nComte de Morcerf to make some definite arrangement with the baron. \n\n By whom are you charged? \n\n By the baron himself. \n\n Oh,  said Albert with all the cajolery of which he was capable.  You\nsurely will not do that, my dear count? \n\n Certainly I shall, Albert, as I have promised to do it. \n\n Well,  said Albert, with a sigh,  it seems you are determined to marry\nme. \n\n I am determined to try and be on good terms with everybody, at all\nevents,  said Monte Cristo.  But apropos of Debray, how is it that I\nhave not seen him lately at the baron s house? \n\n There has been a misunderstanding. \n\n What, with the baroness? \n\n No, with the baron. \n\n Has he perceived anything? \n\n Ah, that is a good joke! \n\n Do you think he suspects?  said Monte Cristo with charming\nartlessness.\n\n Where have you come from, my dear count?  said Albert.\n\n From Congo, if you will. \n\n It must be farther off than even that. \n\n But what do I know of your Parisian husbands? \n\n Oh, my dear count, husbands are pretty much the same everywhere; an\nindividual husband of any country is a pretty fair specimen of the\nwhole race. \n\n But then, what can have led to the quarrel between Danglars and\nDebray? They seemed to understand each other so well,  said Monte\nCristo with renewed energy.\n\n Ah, now you are trying to penetrate into the mysteries of Isis, in\nwhich I am not initiated. When M. Andrea Cavalcanti has become one of\nthe family, you can ask him that question. \n\nThe carriage stopped.\n\n Here we are,  said Monte Cristo;  it is only half-past ten o clock,\ncome in. \n\n Certainly, I will. \n\n My carriage shall take you back. \n\n No, thank you; I gave orders for my _coup _ to follow me. \n\n There it is, then,  said Monte Cristo, as he stepped out of the\ncarriage. They both went into the house; the drawing-room was lighted\nup they went in there.  You will make tea for us, Baptistin,  said the\ncount. Baptistin left the room without waiting to answer, and in two\nseconds reappeared, bringing on a tray, all that his master had\nordered, ready prepared, and appearing to have sprung from the ground,\nlike the repasts which we read of in fairy tales.\n\n Really, my dear count,  said Morcerf,  what I admire in you is, not so\nmuch your riches, for perhaps there are people even wealthier than\nyourself, nor is it only your wit, for Beaumarchais might have\npossessed as much, but it is your manner of being served, without any\nquestions, in a moment, in a second; it is as if they guessed what you\nwanted by your manner of ringing, and made a point of keeping\neverything you can possibly desire in constant readiness. \n\n What you say is perhaps true; they know my habits. For instance, you\nshall see; how do you wish to occupy yourself during tea-time? \n\n _Ma foi_, I should like to smoke. \n\nMonte Cristo took the gong and struck it once. In about the space of a\nsecond a private door opened, and Ali appeared, bringing two chibouques\nfilled with excellent latakia.\n\n It is quite wonderful,  said Albert.\n\n Oh no, it is as simple as possible,  replied Monte Cristo.  Ali knows\nI generally smoke while I am taking my tea or coffee; he has heard that\nI ordered tea, and he also knows that I brought you home with me; when\nI summoned him he naturally guessed the reason of my doing so, and as\nhe comes from a country where hospitality is especially manifested\nthrough the medium of smoking, he naturally concludes that we shall\nsmoke in company, and therefore brings two chibouques instead of\none and now the mystery is solved. \n\n Certainly you give a most commonplace air to your explanation, but it\nis not the less true that you Ah, but what do I hear?  and Morcerf\ninclined his head towards the door, through which sounds seemed to\nissue resembling those of a guitar.\n\n _Ma foi_, my dear viscount, you are fated to hear music this evening;\nyou have only escaped from Mademoiselle Danglars  piano, to be attacked\nby Hayd e s guzla. \n\n Hayd e what an adorable name! Are there, then, really women who bear\nthe name of Hayd e anywhere but in Byron s poems? \n\n Certainly there are. Hayd e is a very uncommon name in France, but is\ncommon enough in Albania and Epirus; it is as if you said, for example,\nChastity, Modesty, Innocence, it is a kind of baptismal name, as you\nParisians call it. \n\n Oh, that is charming,  said Albert,  how I should like to hear my\ncountrywomen called Mademoiselle Goodness, Mademoiselle Silence,\nMademoiselle Christian Charity! Only think, then, if Mademoiselle\nDanglars, instead of being called Claire-Marie-Eug nie, had been named\nMademoiselle Chastity-Modesty-Innocence Danglars; what a fine effect\nthat would have produced on the announcement of her marriage! \n\n Hush,  said the count,  do not joke in so loud a tone; Hayd e may hear\nyou, perhaps. \n\n And you think she would be angry? \n\n No, certainly not,  said the count with a haughty expression.\n\n She is very amiable, then, is she not?  said Albert.\n\n It is not to be called amiability, it is her duty; a slave does not\ndictate to a master. \n\n Come; you are joking yourself now. Are there any more slaves to be had\nwho bear this beautiful name? \n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n Really, count, you do nothing, and have nothing like other people. The\nslave of the Count of Monte Cristo! Why, it is a rank of itself in\nFrance, and from the way in which you lavish money, it is a place that\nmust be worth a hundred thousand francs a year. \n\n A hundred thousand francs! The poor girl originally possessed much\nmore than that; she was born to treasures in comparison with which\nthose recorded in the _Thousand and One Nights_ would seem but\npoverty. \n\n She must be a princess then. \n\n You are right; and she is one of the greatest in her country too. \n\n I thought so. But how did it happen that such a great princess became\na slave? \n\n How was it that Dionysius the Tyrant became a schoolmaster? The\nfortune of war, my dear viscount, the caprice of fortune; that is the\nway in which these things are to be accounted for. \n\n And is her name a secret? \n\n As regards the generality of mankind it is; but not for you, my dear\nviscount, who are one of my most intimate friends, and on whose silence\nI feel I may rely, if I consider it necessary to enjoin it may I not do\nso? \n\n Certainly; on my word of honor. \n\n You know the history of the Pasha of Yanina, do you not? \n\n Of Ali Tepelini?13 Oh, yes; it was in his service that my father made\nhis fortune. \n\n True, I had forgotten that. \n\n40062m\n\n\n\n Well, what is Hayd e to Ali Tepelini? \n\n Merely his daughter. \n\n What? the daughter of Ali Pasha? \n\n Of Ali Pasha and the beautiful Vasiliki. \n\n And your slave? \n\n _Ma foi_, yes. \n\n But how did she become so? \n\n Why, simply from the circumstance of my having bought her one day, as\nI was passing through the market at Constantinople. \n\n Wonderful! Really, my dear count, you seem to throw a sort of magic\ninfluence over all in which you are concerned; when I listen to you,\nexistence no longer seems reality, but a waking dream. Now, I am\nperhaps going to make an imprudent and thoughtless request, but \n\n Say on. \n\n But, since you go out with Hayd e, and sometimes even take her to the\nOpera \n\n Well? \n\n I think I may venture to ask you this favor. \n\n You may venture to ask me anything. \n\n Well then, my dear count, present me to your princess. \n\n I will do so; but on two conditions. \n\n I accept them at once. \n\n The first is, that you will never tell anyone that I have granted the\ninterview. \n\n Very well,  said Albert, extending his hand;  I swear I will not. \n\n The second is, that you will not tell her that your father ever served\nhers. \n\n I give you my oath that I will not. \n\n Enough, viscount; you will remember those two vows, will you not? But\nI know you to be a man of honor. \n\nThe count again struck the gong. Ali reappeared.  Tell Hayd e,  said\nhe,  that I will take coffee with her, and give her to understand that\nI desire permission to present one of my friends to her. \n\nAli bowed and left the room.\n\n Now, understand me,  said the count,  no direct questions, my dear\nMorcerf; if you wish to know anything, tell me, and I will ask her. \n\n Agreed. \n\nAli reappeared for the third time, and drew back the tapestried hanging\nwhich concealed the door, to signify to his master and Albert that they\nwere at liberty to pass on.\n\n Let us go in,  said Monte Cristo.\n\nAlbert passed his hand through his hair, and curled his moustache,\nthen, having satisfied himself as to his personal appearance, followed\nthe count into the room, the latter having previously resumed his hat\nand gloves. Ali was stationed as a kind of advanced guard, and the door\nwas kept by the three French attendants, commanded by Myrtho.\n\nHayd e was awaiting her visitors in the first room of her apartments,\nwhich was the drawing-room. Her large eyes were dilated with surprise\nand expectation, for it was the first time that any man, except Monte\nCristo, had been accorded an entrance into her presence. She was\nsitting on a sofa placed in an angle of the room, with her legs crossed\nunder her in the Eastern fashion, and seemed to have made for herself,\nas it were, a kind of nest in the rich Indian silks which enveloped\nher. Near her was the instrument on which she had just been playing; it\nwas elegantly fashioned, and worthy of its mistress. On perceiving\nMonte Cristo, she arose and welcomed him with a smile peculiar to\nherself, expressive at once of the most implicit obedience and also of\nthe deepest love. Monte Cristo advanced towards her and extended his\nhand, which she as usual raised to her lips.\n\n40064m\n\n\n\nAlbert had proceeded no farther than the door, where he remained rooted\nto the spot, being completely fascinated by the sight of such\nsurpassing beauty, beheld as it was for the first time, and of which an\ninhabitant of more northern climes could form no adequate idea.\n\n Whom do you bring?  asked the young girl in Romaic, of Monte Cristo;\n is it a friend, a brother, a simple acquaintance, or an enemy. \n\n A friend,  said Monte Cristo in the same language.\n\n What is his name? \n\n Count Albert; it is the same man whom I rescued from the hands of the\nbanditti at Rome. \n\n In what language would you like me to converse with him? \n\nMonte Cristo turned to Albert.  Do you know modern Greek,  asked he.\n\n Alas! no,  said Albert;  nor even ancient Greek, my dear count; never\nhad Homer or Plato a more unworthy scholar than myself. \n\n Then,  said Hayd e, proving by her remark that she had quite\nunderstood Monte Cristo s question and Albert s answer,  then I will\nspeak either in French or Italian, if my lord so wills it. \n\nMonte Cristo reflected one instant.  You will speak in Italian,  said\nhe.\n\nThen, turning towards Albert, It is a pity you do not understand\neither ancient or modern Greek, both of which Hayd e speaks so\nfluently; the poor child will be obliged to talk to you in Italian,\nwhich will give you but a very false idea of her powers of\nconversation. \n\nThe count made a sign to Hayd e to address his visitor.  Sir,  she said\nto Morcerf,  you are most welcome as the friend of my lord and master. \nThis was said in excellent Tuscan, and with that soft Roman accent\nwhich makes the language of Dante as sonorous as that of Homer. Then,\nturning to Ali, she directed him to bring coffee and pipes, and when he\nhad left the room to execute the orders of his young mistress she\nbeckoned Albert to approach nearer to her. Monte Cristo and Morcerf\ndrew their seats towards a small table, on which were arranged music,\ndrawings, and vases of flowers. Ali then entered bringing coffee and\nchibouques; as to M. Baptistin, this portion of the building was\ninterdicted to him. Albert refused the pipe which the Nubian offered\nhim.\n\n Oh, take it take it,  said the count;  Hayd e is almost as civilized\nas a Parisian; the smell of a Havana is disagreeable to her, but the\ntobacco of the East is a most delicious perfume, you know. \n\nAli left the room. The cups of coffee were all prepared, with the\naddition of sugar, which had been brought for Albert. Monte Cristo and\nHayd e took the beverage in the original Arabian manner, that is to\nsay, without sugar. Hayd e took the porcelain cup in her little slender\nfingers and conveyed it to her mouth with all the innocent artlessness\nof a child when eating or drinking something which it likes. At this\nmoment two women entered, bringing salvers filled with ices and\nsherbet, which they placed on two small tables appropriated to that\npurpose.\n\n My dear host, and you, signora,  said Albert, in Italian,  excuse my\napparent stupidity. I am quite bewildered, and it is natural that it\nshould be so. Here I am in the heart of Paris; but a moment ago I heard\nthe rumbling of the omnibuses and the tinkling of the bells of the\nlemonade-sellers, and now I feel as if I were suddenly transported to\nthe East; not such as I have seen it, but such as my dreams have\npainted it. Oh, signora, if I could but speak Greek, your conversation,\nadded to the fairy-scene which surrounds me, would furnish an evening\nof such delight as it would be impossible for me ever to forget. \n\n I speak sufficient Italian to enable me to converse with you, sir, \nsaid Hayd e quietly;  and if you like what is Eastern, I will do my\nbest to secure the gratification of your tastes while you are here. \n\n On what subject shall I converse with her?  said Albert, in a low tone\nto Monte Cristo.\n\n Just what you please; you may speak of her country and of her youthful\nreminiscences, or if you like it better you can talk of Rome, Naples,\nor Florence. \n\n Oh,  said Albert,  it is of no use to be in the company of a Greek if\none converses just in the same style as with a Parisian; let me speak\nto her of the East. \n\n Do so then, for of all themes which you could choose that will be the\nmost agreeable to her taste. \n\nAlbert turned towards Hayd e.  At what age did you leave Greece,\nsignora?  asked he.\n\n I left it when I was but five years old,  replied Hayd e.\n\n And have you any recollection of your country? \n\n When I shut my eyes and think, I seem to see it all again. The mind\ncan see as well as the body. The body forgets sometimes; but the mind\nalways remembers. \n\n And how far back into the past do your recollections extend? \n\n I could scarcely walk when my mother, who was called Vasiliki, which\nmeans royal,  said the young girl, tossing her head proudly,  took me\nby the hand, and after putting in our purse all the money we possessed,\nwe went out, both covered with veils, to solicit alms for the\nprisoners, saying,  He who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord. \nThen when our purse was full we returned to the palace, and without\nsaying a word to my father, we sent it to the convent, where it was\ndivided amongst the prisoners. \n\n And how old were you at that time? \n\n I was three years old,  said Hayd e.\n\n Then you remember everything that went on about you from the time when\nyou were three years old?  said Albert.\n\n Everything. \n\n Count,  said Albert, in a low tone to Monte Cristo,  do allow the\nsignora to tell me something of her history. You prohibited my\nmentioning my father s name to her, but perhaps she will allude to him\nof her own accord in the course of the recital, and you have no idea\nhow delighted I should be to hear our name pronounced by such beautiful\nlips. \n\nMonte Cristo turned to Hayd e, and with an expression of countenance\nwhich commanded her to pay the most implicit attention to his words, he\nsaid in Greek,                  \n   , that is,  Tell us the fate of your father; but neither the\nname of the traitor nor the treason.  Hayd e sighed deeply, and a shade\nof sadness clouded her beautiful brow.\n\n What are you saying to her?  said Morcerf in an undertone.\n\n I again reminded her that you were a friend, and that she need not\nconceal anything from you. \n\n Then,  said Albert,  this pious pilgrimage in behalf of the prisoners\nwas your first remembrance; what is the next? \n\n Oh, then I remember as if it were but yesterday sitting under the\nshade of some sycamore-trees, on the borders of a lake, in the waters\nof which the trembling foliage was reflected as in a mirror. Under the\noldest and thickest of these trees, reclining on cushions, sat my\nfather; my mother was at his feet, and I, childlike, amused myself by\nplaying with his long white beard which descended to his girdle, or\nwith the diamond-hilt of the scimitar attached to his girdle. Then from\ntime to time there came to him an Albanian who said something to which\nI paid no attention, but which he always answered in the same tone of\nvoice, either  Kill,  or  Pardon. \n\n It is very strange,  said Albert,  to hear such words proceed from the\nmouth of anyone but an actress on the stage, and one needs constantly\nto be saying to one s self,  This is no fiction, it is all reality,  in\norder to believe it. And how does France appear in your eyes,\naccustomed as they have been to gaze on such enchanted scenes? \n\n I think it is a fine country,  said Hayd e,  but I see France as it\nreally is, because I look on it with the eyes of a woman; whereas my\nown country, which I can only judge of from the impression produced on\nmy childish mind, always seems enveloped in a vague atmosphere, which\nis luminous or otherwise, according as my remembrances of it are sad or\njoyous. \n\n So young,  said Albert, forgetting at the moment the Count s command\nthat he should ask no questions of the slave herself,  is it possible\nthat you can have known what suffering is except by name? \n\nHayd e turned her eyes towards Monte Cristo, who, making at the same\ntime some imperceptible sign, murmured:\n\n speak. \n\n Nothing is ever so firmly impressed on the mind as the memory of our\nearly childhood, and with the exception of the two scenes I have just\ndescribed to you, all my earliest reminiscences are fraught with\ndeepest sadness. \n\n40068m\n\n\n\n Speak, speak, signora,  said Albert,  I am listening with the most\nintense delight and interest to all you say. \n\nHayd e answered his remark with a melancholy smile.  You wish me, then,\nto relate the history of my past sorrows?  said she.\n\n I beg you to do so,  replied Albert.\n\n Well, I was but four years old when one night I was suddenly awakened\nby my mother. We were in the palace of Yanina; she snatched me from the\ncushions on which I was sleeping, and on opening my eyes I saw hers\nfilled with tears. She took me away without speaking. When I saw her\nweeping I began to cry too.  Hush, child!  said she. At other times in\nspite of maternal endearments or threats, I had with a child s caprice\nbeen accustomed to indulge my feelings of sorrow or anger by crying as\nmuch as I felt inclined; but on this occasion there was an intonation\nof such extreme terror in my mother s voice when she enjoined me to\nsilence, that I ceased crying as soon as her command was given. She\nbore me rapidly away.\n\n I saw then that we were descending a large staircase; around us were\nall my mother s servants carrying trunks, bags, ornaments, jewels,\npurses of gold, with which they were hurrying away in the greatest\ndistraction.\n\n Behind the women came a guard of twenty men armed with long guns and\npistols, and dressed in the costume which the Greeks have assumed since\nthey have again become a nation. You may imagine there was something\nstartling and ominous,  said Hayd e, shaking her head and turning pale\nat the mere remembrance of the scene,  in this long file of slaves and\nwomen only half-aroused from sleep, or at least so they appeared to me,\nwho was myself scarcely awake. Here and there on the walls of the\nstaircase, were reflected gigantic shadows, which trembled in the\nflickering light of the pine-torches till they seemed to reach to the\nvaulted roof above.\n\n Quick!  said a voice at the end of the gallery. This voice made\neveryone bow before it, resembling in its effect the wind passing over\na field of wheat, by its superior strength forcing every ear to yield\nobeisance. As for me, it made me tremble. This voice was that of my\nfather. He came last, clothed in his splendid robes and holding in his\nhand the carbine which your emperor presented him. He was leaning on\nthe shoulder of his favorite Selim, and he drove us all before him, as\na shepherd would his straggling flock. My father,  said Hayd e, raising\nher head,  was that illustrious man known in Europe under the name of\nAli Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and before whom Turkey trembled. \n\nAlbert, without knowing why, started on hearing these words pronounced\nwith such a haughty and dignified accent; it appeared to him as if\nthere was something supernaturally gloomy and terrible in the\nexpression which gleamed from the brilliant eyes of Hayd e at this\nmoment; she appeared like a Pythoness evoking a spectre, as she\nrecalled to his mind the remembrance of the fearful death of this man,\nto the news of which all Europe had listened with horror.\n\n Soon,  said Hayd e,  we halted on our march, and found ourselves on\nthe borders of a lake. My mother pressed me to her throbbing heart, and\nat the distance of a few paces I saw my father, who was glancing\nanxiously around. Four marble steps led down to the water s edge, and\nbelow them was a boat floating on the tide.\n\n40070m\n\n\n\n From where we stood I could see in the middle of the lake a large\nblank mass; it was the kiosk to which we were going. This kiosk\nappeared to me to be at a considerable distance, perhaps on account of\nthe darkness of the night, which prevented any object from being more\nthan partially discerned. We stepped into the boat. I remember well\nthat the oars made no noise whatever in striking the water, and when I\nleaned over to ascertain the cause I saw that they were muffled with\nthe sashes of our Palikares.14 Besides the rowers, the boat contained\nonly the women, my father, mother, Selim, and myself. The Palikares had\nremained on the shore of the lake, ready to cover our retreat; they\nwere kneeling on the lowest of the marble steps, and in that manner\nintended making a rampart of the three others, in case of pursuit. Our\nbark flew before the wind.  Why does the boat go so fast?  asked I of\nmy mother.\n\n Silence, child! Hush, we are flying!  I did not understand. Why\nshould my father fly? he, the all-powerful he, before whom others were\naccustomed to fly he, who had taken for his device,\n\n They hate me; then they fear me! \n\n\n It was, indeed, a flight which my father was trying to effect. I have\nbeen told since that the garrison of the castle of Yanina, fatigued\nwith long service \n\nHere Hayd e cast a significant glance at Monte Cristo, whose eyes had\nbeen riveted on her countenance during the whole course of her\nnarrative. The young girl then continued, speaking slowly, like a\nperson who is either inventing or suppressing some feature of the\nhistory which he is relating.\n\n You were saying, signora,  said Albert, who was paying the most\nimplicit attention to the recital,  that the garrison of Yanina,\nfatigued with long service \n\n Had treated with the Seraskier15 Kourchid, who had been sent by the\nsultan to gain possession of the person of my father; it was then that\nAli Tepelini after having sent to the sultan a French officer in whom\nhe reposed great confidence resolved to retire to the asylum which he\nhad long before prepared for himself, and which he called\n_kataphygion_, or the refuge. \n\n And this officer,  asked Albert,  do you remember his name, signora? \n\nMonte Cristo exchanged a rapid glance with the young girl, which was\nquite unperceived by Albert.\n\n No,  said she,  I do not remember it just at this moment; but if it\nshould occur to me presently, I will tell you. \n\nAlbert was on the point of pronouncing his father s name, when Monte\nCristo gently held up his finger in token of reproach; the young man\nrecollected his promise, and was silent.\n\n It was towards this kiosk that we were rowing. A ground floor,\nornamented with arabesques, bathing its terraces in the water, and\nanother floor, looking on the lake, was all which was visible to the\neye. But beneath the ground floor, stretching out into the island, was\na large subterranean cavern, to which my mother, myself, and the women\nwere conducted. In this place were together 60,000 pouches and 200\nbarrels; the pouches contained 25,000,000 of money in gold, and the\nbarrels were filled with 30,000 pounds of gunpowder.\n\n Near the barrels stood Selim, my father s favorite, whom I mentioned\nto you just now. He stood watch day and night with a lance provided\nwith a lighted slowmatch in his hand, and he had orders to blow up\neverything kiosk, guards, women, gold, and Ali Tepelini himself at the\nfirst signal given by my father. I remember well that the slaves,\nconvinced of the precarious tenure on which they held their lives,\npassed whole days and nights in praying, crying, and groaning. As for\nme, I can never forget the pale complexion and black eyes of the young\nsoldier, and whenever the angel of death summons me to another world, I\nam quite sure I shall recognize Selim. I cannot tell you how long we\nremained in this state; at that period I did not even know what time\nmeant. Sometimes, but very rarely, my father summoned me and my mother\nto the terrace of the palace; these were hours of recreation for me, as\nI never saw anything in the dismal cavern but the gloomy countenances\nof the slaves and Selim s fiery lance. My father was endeavoring to\npierce with his eager looks the remotest verge of the horizon,\nexamining attentively every black speck which appeared on the lake,\nwhile my mother, reclining by his side, rested her head on his\nshoulder, and I played at his feet, admiring everything I saw with that\nunsophisticated innocence of childhood which throws a charm round\nobjects insignificant in themselves, but which in its eyes are invested\nwith the greatest importance. The heights of Pindus towered above us;\nthe castle of Yanina rose white and angular from the blue waters of the\nlake, and the immense masses of black vegetation which, viewed in the\ndistance, gave the idea of lichens clinging to the rocks, were in\nreality gigantic fir-trees and myrtles.\n\n One morning my father sent for us; my mother had been crying all the\nnight, and was very wretched; we found the pasha calm, but paler than\nusual.  Take courage, Vasiliki,  said he;  today arrives the firman of\nthe master, and my fate will be decided. If my pardon be complete, we\nshall return triumphant to Yanina; if the news be inauspicious, we must\nfly this night. But supposing our enemy should not allow us to do\nso?  said my mother.  Oh, make yourself easy on that head,  said Ali,\nsmiling;  Selim and his flaming lance will settle that matter. They\nwould be glad to see me dead, but they would not like themselves to die\nwith me. \n\n My mother only answered by sighs to consolations which she knew did\nnot come from my father s heart. She prepared the iced water which he\nwas in the habit of constantly drinking, for since his sojourn at the\nkiosk he had been parched by the most violent fever, after which she\nanointed his white beard with perfumed oil, and lighted his chibouque,\nwhich he sometimes smoked for hours together, quietly watching the\nwreaths of vapor that ascended in spiral clouds and gradually melted\naway in the surrounding atmosphere. Presently he made such a sudden\nmovement that I was paralyzed with fear. Then, without taking his eyes\nfrom the object which had first attracted his attention, he asked for\nhis telescope. My mother gave it him, and as she did so, looked whiter\nthan the marble against which she leaned. I saw my father s hand\ntremble.  A boat! two! three!  murmured my, father; four!  He then\narose, seizing his arms and priming his pistols.  Vasiliki,  said he to\nmy mother, trembling perceptibly,  the instant approaches which will\ndecide everything. In the space of half an hour we shall know the\nemperor s answer. Go into the cavern with Hayd e. I will not quit\nyou,  said Vasiliki;  if you die, my lord, I will die with you. Go to\nSelim!  cried my father.  Adieu, my lord,  murmured my mother,\ndetermining quietly to await the approach of death.  Take away\nVasiliki!  said my father to his Palikares.\n\n As for me, I had been forgotten in the general confusion; I ran toward\nAli Tepelini; he saw me hold out my arms to him, and he stooped down\nand pressed my forehead with his lips. Oh, how distinctly I remember\nthat kiss! it was the last he ever gave me, and I feel as if it were\nstill warm on my forehead. On descending, we saw through the\nlattice-work several boats which were gradually becoming more distinct\nto our view. At first they appeared like black specks, and now they\nlooked like birds skimming the surface of the waves. During this time,\nin the kiosk at my father s feet, were seated twenty Palikares,\nconcealed from view by an angle of the wall and watching with eager\neyes the arrival of the boats. They were armed with their long guns\ninlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, and cartridges in great numbers\nwere lying scattered on the floor. My father looked at his watch, and\npaced up and down with a countenance expressive of the greatest\nanguish. This was the scene which presented itself to my view as I\nquitted my father after that last kiss.\n\n My mother and I traversed the gloomy passage leading to the cavern.\nSelim was still at his post, and smiled sadly on us as we entered. We\nfetched our cushions from the other end of the cavern, and sat down by\nSelim. In great dangers the devoted ones cling to each other; and,\nyoung as I was, I quite understood that some imminent danger was\nhanging over our heads. \n\nAlbert had often heard not from his father, for he never spoke on the\nsubject, but from strangers the description of the last moments of the\nvizier of Yanina; he had read different accounts of his death, but the\nstory seemed to acquire fresh meaning from the voice and expression of\nthe young girl, and her sympathetic accent and the melancholy\nexpression of her countenance at once charmed and horrified him.\n\nAs to Hayd e, these terrible reminiscences seemed to have overpowered\nher for a moment, for she ceased speaking, her head leaning on her hand\nlike a beautiful flower bowing beneath the violence of the storm; and\nher eyes gazing on vacancy indicated that she was mentally\ncontemplating the green summit of the Pindus and the blue waters of the\nlake of Yanina, which, like a magic mirror, seemed to reflect the\nsombre picture which she sketched. Monte Cristo looked at her with an\nindescribable expression of interest and pity.\n\n Go on, my child,  said the count in the Romaic language.\n\n40074m\n\n\n\nHayd e looked up abruptly, as if the sonorous tones of Monte Cristo s\nvoice had awakened her from a dream; and she resumed her narrative.\n\n It was about four o clock in the afternoon, and although the day was\nbrilliant out-of-doors, we were enveloped in the gloomy darkness of the\ncavern. One single, solitary light was burning there, and it appeared\nlike a star set in a heaven of blackness; it was Selim s flaming lance.\nMy mother was a Christian, and she prayed. Selim repeated from time to\ntime the sacred words:  God is great!  However, my mother had still\nsome hope. As she was coming down, she thought she recognized the\nFrench officer who had been sent to Constantinople, and in whom my\nfather placed so much confidence; for he knew that all the soldiers of\nthe French emperor were naturally noble and generous. She advanced some\nsteps towards the staircase, and listened.  They are approaching,  said\nshe;  perhaps they bring us peace and liberty! \n\n What do you fear, Vasiliki?  said Selim, in a voice at once so gentle\nand yet so proud.  If they do not bring us peace, we will give them\nwar; if they do not bring life, we will give them death.  And he\nrenewed the flame of his lance with a gesture which made one think of\nDionysus of old Crete.16 But I, being only a little child, was\nterrified by this undaunted courage, which appeared to me both\nferocious and senseless, and I recoiled with horror from the idea of\nthe frightful death amidst fire and flames which probably awaited us.\n\n My mother experienced the same sensations, for I felt her tremble.\n Mamma, mamma,  said I,  are we really to be killed?  And at the sound\nof my voice the slaves redoubled their cries and prayers and\nlamentations.  My child,  said Vasiliki,  may God preserve you from\never wishing for that death which today you so much dread!  Then,\nwhispering to Selim, she asked what were her master s orders.  If he\nsend me his poniard, it will signify that the emperor s intentions are\nnot favorable, and I am to set fire to the powder; if, on the contrary,\nhe send me his ring, it will be a sign that the emperor pardons him,\nand I am to extinguish the match and leave the magazine untouched. My\nfriend,  said my mother,  when your master s orders arrive, if it is\nthe poniard which he sends, instead of despatching us by that horrible\ndeath which we both so much dread, you will mercifully kill us with\nthis same poniard, will you not? Yes, Vasiliki,  replied Selim\ntranquilly.\n\n Suddenly we heard loud cries; and, listening, discerned that they were\ncries of joy. The name of the French officer who had been sent to\nConstantinople resounded on all sides amongst our Palikares; it was\nevident that he brought the answer of the emperor, and that it was\nfavorable. \n\n And do you not remember the Frenchman s name?  said Morcerf, quite\nready to aid the memory of the narrator. Monte Cristo made a sign to\nhim to be silent.\n\n I do not recollect it,  said Hayd e.\n\n The noise increased; steps were heard approaching nearer and nearer;\nthey were descending the steps leading to the cavern. Selim made ready\nhis lance. Soon a figure appeared in the gray twilight at the entrance\nof the cave, formed by the reflection of the few rays of daylight which\nhad found their way into this gloomy retreat.  Who are you?  cried\nSelim.  But whoever you may be, I charge you not to advance another\nstep. Long live the emperor!  said the figure.  He grants a full\npardon to the Vizier Ali, and not only gives him his life, but restores\nto him his fortune and his possessions.  My mother uttered a cry of\njoy, and clasped me to her bosom.  Stop,  said Selim, seeing that she\nwas about to go out;  you see I have not yet received the\nring, True,  said my mother. And she fell on her knees, at the same\ntime holding me up towards heaven, as if she desired, while praying to\nGod in my behalf, to raise me actually to his presence. \n\nAnd for the second time Hayd e stopped, overcome by such violent\nemotion that the perspiration stood upon her pale brow, and her stifled\nvoice seemed hardly able to find utterance, so parched and dry were her\nthroat and lips.\n\n40076m\n\n\n\nMonte Cristo poured a little iced water into a glass, and presented it\nto her, saying with a mildness in which was also a shade of\ncommand, Courage. \n\nHayd e dried her eyes, and continued:\n\n By this time our eyes, habituated to the darkness, had recognized the\nmessenger of the pasha, it was a friend. Selim had also recognized him,\nbut the brave young man only acknowledged one duty, which was to obey.\n In whose name do you come?  said he to him.  I come in the name of our\nmaster, Ali Tepelini. If you come from Ali himself,  said Selim,  you\nknow what you were charged to remit to me? Yes,  said the messenger,\n and I bring you his ring.  At these words he raised his hand above his\nhead, to show the token; but it was too far off, and there was not\nlight enough to enable Selim, where he was standing, to distinguish and\nrecognize the object presented to his view.  I do not see what you have\nin your hand,  said Selim.  Approach then,  said the messenger,  or I\nwill come nearer to you, if you prefer it. I will agree to neither\none nor the other,  replied the young soldier;  place the object which\nI desire to see in the ray of light which shines there, and retire\nwhile I examine it. Be it so,  said the envoy; and he retired, after\nhaving first deposited the token agreed on in the place pointed out to\nhim by Selim.\n\n Oh, how our hearts palpitated; for it did, indeed, seem to be a ring\nwhich was placed there. But was it my father s ring? that was the\nquestion. Selim, still holding in his hand the lighted match, walked\ntowards the opening in the cavern, and, aided by the faint light which\nstreamed in through the mouth of the cave, picked up the token.\n\n It is well,  said he, kissing it;  it is my master s ring!  And\nthrowing the match on the ground, he trampled on it and extinguished\nit. The messenger uttered a cry of joy and clapped his hands. At this\nsignal four soldiers of the Seraskier Kourchid suddenly appeared, and\nSelim fell, pierced by five blows. Each man had stabbed him separately,\nand, intoxicated by their crime, though still pale with fear, they\nsought all over the cavern to discover if there was any fear of fire,\nafter which they amused themselves by rolling on the bags of gold. At\nthis moment my mother seized me in her arms, and hurrying noiselessly\nalong numerous turnings and windings known only to ourselves, she\narrived at a private staircase of the kiosk, where was a scene of\nfrightful tumult and confusion. The lower rooms were entirely filled\nwith Kourchid s troops; that is to say, with our enemies. Just as my\nmother was on the point of pushing open a small door, we heard the\nvoice of the pasha sounding in a loud and threatening tone. My mother\napplied her eye to the crack between the boards; I luckily found a\nsmall opening which afforded me a view of the apartment and what was\npassing within.  What do you want?  said my father to some people who\nwere holding a paper inscribed with characters of gold.  What we want, \nreplied one,  is to communicate to you the will of his highness. Do you\nsee this firman? I do,  said my father.  Well, read it; he demands\nyour head. \n\n40078m\n\n\n\n My father answered with a loud laugh, which was more frightful than\neven threats would have been, and he had not ceased when two reports of\na pistol were heard; he had fired them himself, and had killed two men.\nThe Palikares, who were prostrated at my father s feet, now sprang up\nand fired, and the room was filled with fire and smoke. At the same\ninstant the firing began on the other side, and the balls penetrated\nthe boards all round us. Oh, how noble did the grand vizier my father\nlook at that moment, in the midst of the flying bullets, his scimitar\nin his hand, and his face blackened with the powder of his enemies! and\nhow he terrified them, even then, and made them fly before him!  Selim,\nSelim!  cried he,  guardian of the fire, do your duty! Selim is\ndead,  replied a voice which seemed to come from the depths of the\nearth,  and you are lost, Ali!  At the same moment an explosion was\nheard, and the flooring of the room in which my father was sitting was\nsuddenly torn up and shivered to atoms the troops were firing from\nunderneath. Three or four Palikares fell with their bodies literally\nploughed with wounds.\n\n My father howled aloud, plunged his fingers into the holes which the\nballs had made, and tore up one of the planks entire. But immediately\nthrough this opening twenty more shots were fired, and the flame,\nrushing up like fire from the crater of a volcano, soon reached the\ntapestry, which it quickly devoured. In the midst of all this frightful\ntumult and these terrific cries, two reports, fearfully distinct,\nfollowed by two shrieks more heartrending than all, froze me with\nterror. These two shots had mortally wounded my father, and it was he\nwho had given utterance to these frightful cries. However, he remained\nstanding, clinging to a window. My mother tried to force the door, that\nshe might go and die with him, but it was fastened on the inside. All\naround him were lying the Palikares, writhing in convulsive agonies,\nwhile two or three who were only slightly wounded were trying to escape\nby springing from the windows. At this crisis the whole flooring\nsuddenly gave way, my father fell on one knee, and at the same moment\ntwenty hands were thrust forth, armed with sabres, pistols, and\nponiards twenty blows were instantaneously directed against one man,\nand my father disappeared in a whirlwind of fire and smoke kindled by\nthese demons, and which seemed like hell itself opening beneath his\nfeet. I felt myself fall to the ground, my mother had fainted. \n\nHayd e s arms fell by her side, and she uttered a deep groan, at the\nsame time looking towards the count as if to ask if he were satisfied\nwith her obedience to his commands.\n\nMonte Cristo arose and approached her, took her hand, and said to her\nin Romaic:\n\n Calm yourself, my dear child, and take courage in remembering that\nthere is a God who will punish traitors. \n\n It is a frightful story, count,  said Albert, terrified at the\npaleness of Hayd e s countenance,  and I reproach myself now for having\nbeen so cruel and thoughtless in my request. \n\n Oh, it is nothing,  said Monte Cristo. Then, patting the young girl on\nthe head, he continued,  Hayd e is very courageous, and she sometimes\neven finds consolation in the recital of her misfortunes. \n\n Because, my lord,  said Hayd e eagerly,  my miseries recall to me the\nremembrance of your goodness. \n\nAlbert looked at her with curiosity, for she had not yet related what\nhe most desired to know, how she had become the slave of the count.\nHayd e saw at a glance the same expression pervading the countenances\nof her two auditors; she continued:\n\n When my mother recovered her senses we were before the seraskier.\n Kill,  said she,  but spare the honor of the widow of Ali. It is not\nto me to whom you must address yourself,  said Kourchid.\n\n To whom, then? To your new master. \n\n Who and where is he? He is here. \n\n And Kourchid pointed out one who had more than any contributed to the\ndeath of my father,  said Hayd e, in a tone of chastened anger.\n\n Then,  said Albert,  you became the property of this man? \n\n40080m\n\n\n\n No,  replied Hayd e,  he did not dare to keep us, so we were sold to\nsome slave-merchants who were going to Constantinople. We traversed\nGreece, and arrived half dead at the imperial gates. They were\nsurrounded by a crowd of people, who opened a way for us to pass, when\nsuddenly my mother, having looked closely at an object which was\nattracting their attention, uttered a piercing cry and fell to the\nground, pointing as she did so to a head which was placed over the\ngates, and beneath which were inscribed these words:\n\n _This is the head of Ali Tepelini, Pasha of Yanina._ \n\n I cried bitterly, and tried to raise my mother from the earth, but she\nwas dead! I was taken to the slave-market, and was purchased by a rich\nArmenian. He caused me to be instructed, gave me masters, and when I\nwas thirteen years of age he sold me to the Sultan Mahmoud. \n\n Of whom I bought her,  said Monte Cristo,  as I told you, Albert, with\nthe emerald which formed a match to the one I had made into a box for\nthe purpose of holding my hashish pills. \n\n Oh, you are good, you are great, my lord!  said Hayd e, kissing the\ncount s hand,  and I am very fortunate in belonging to such a master! \n\nAlbert remained quite bewildered with all that he had seen and heard.\n\n Come, finish your cup of coffee,  said Monte Cristo;  the history is\nended. \n\n\n\n Chapter 78. We hear From Yanina\n\nIf Valentine could have seen the trembling step and agitated\ncountenance of Franz when he quitted the chamber of M. Noirtier, even\nshe would have been constrained to pity him. Villefort had only just\ngiven utterance to a few incoherent sentences, and then retired to his\nstudy, where he received about two hours afterwards the following\nletter:\n\n After all the disclosures which were made this morning, M. Noirtier de\nVillefort must see the utter impossibility of any alliance being formed\nbetween his family and that of M. Franz d pinay. M. d pinay must say\nthat he is shocked and astonished that M. de Villefort, who appeared to\nbe aware of all the circumstances detailed this morning, should not\nhave anticipated him in this announcement. \n\n\nNo one who had seen the magistrate at this moment, so thoroughly\nunnerved by the recent inauspicious combination of circumstances, would\nhave supposed for an instant that he had anticipated the annoyance;\nalthough it certainly never had occurred to him that his father would\ncarry candor, or rather rudeness, so far as to relate such a history.\nAnd in justice to Villefort, it must be understood that M. Noirtier,\nwho never cared for the opinion of his son on any subject, had always\nomitted to explain the affair to Villefort, so that he had all his life\nentertained the belief that General de Quesnel, or the Baron d pinay,\nas he was alternately styled, according as the speaker wished to\nidentify him by his own family name, or by the title which had been\nconferred on him, fell the victim of assassination, and not that he was\nkilled fairly in a duel. This harsh letter, coming as it did from a man\ngenerally so polite and respectful, struck a mortal blow at the pride\nof Villefort.\n\nHardly had he read the letter, when his wife entered. The sudden\ndeparture of Franz, after being summoned by M. Noirtier, had so much\nastonished everyone, that the position of Madame de Villefort, left\nalone with the notary and the witnesses, became every moment more\nembarrassing. Determined to bear it no longer, she arose and left the\nroom; saying she would go and make some inquiries into the cause of his\nsudden disappearance.\n\nM. de Villefort s communications on the subject were very limited and\nconcise; he told her, in fact, that an explanation had taken place\nbetween M. Noirtier, M. d pinay, and himself, and that the marriage of\nValentine and Franz would consequently be broken off. This was an\nawkward and unpleasant thing to have to report to those who were\nwaiting. She therefore contented herself with saying that M. Noirtier\nhaving at the commencement of the discussion been attacked by a sort of\napoplectic fit, the affair would necessarily be deferred for some days\nlonger. This news, false as it was following so singularly in the train\nof the two similar misfortunes which had so recently occurred,\nevidently astonished the auditors, and they retired without a word.\n\nDuring this time Valentine, at once terrified and happy, after having\nembraced and thanked the feeble old man for thus breaking with a single\nblow the chain which she had been accustomed to consider as\nirrefragable, asked leave to retire to her own room, in order to\nrecover her composure. Noirtier looked the permission which she\nsolicited. But instead of going to her own room, Valentine, having once\ngained her liberty, entered the gallery, and, opening a small door at\nthe end of it, found herself at once in the garden.\n\nIn the midst of all the strange events which had crowded one on the\nother, an indefinable sentiment of dread had taken possession of\nValentine s mind. She expected every moment that she should see Morrel\nappear, pale and trembling, to forbid the signing of the contract, like\nthe Laird of Ravenswood in _The Bride of Lammermoor_.\n\nIt was high time for her to make her appearance at the gate, for\nMaximilian had long awaited her coming. He had half guessed what was\ngoing on when he saw Franz quit the cemetery with M. de Villefort. He\nfollowed M. d pinay, saw him enter, afterwards go out, and then\nre-enter with Albert and Ch teau-Renaud. He had no longer any doubts as\nto the nature of the conference; he therefore quickly went to the gate\nin the clover-patch, prepared to hear the result of the proceedings,\nand very certain that Valentine would hasten to him the first moment\nshe should be set at liberty. He was not mistaken; peering through the\ncrevices of the wooden partition, he soon discovered the young girl,\nwho cast aside all her usual precautions and walked at once to the\nbarrier. The first glance which Maximilian directed towards her\nentirely reassured him, and the first words she spoke made his heart\nbound with delight.\n\n We are saved!  said Valentine.\n\n Saved?  repeated Morrel, not being able to conceive such intense\nhappiness;  by whom? \n\n By my grandfather. Oh, Morrel, pray love him for all his goodness to\nus! \n\nMorrel swore to love him with all his soul; and at that moment he could\nsafely promise to do so, for he felt as though it were not enough to\nlove him merely as a friend or even as a father, he worshiped him as a\ngod.\n\n But tell me, Valentine, how has it all been effected? What strange\nmeans has he used to compass this blessed end? \n\nValentine was on the point of relating all that had passed, but she\nsuddenly remembered that in doing so she must reveal a terrible secret\nwhich concerned others as well as her grandfather, and she said:\n\n At some future time I will tell you all about it. \n\n But when will that be? \n\n When I am your wife. \n\nThe conversation had now turned upon a topic so pleasing to Morrel,\nthat he was ready to accede to anything that Valentine thought fit to\npropose, and he likewise felt that a piece of intelligence such as he\njust heard ought to be more than sufficient to content him for one day.\nHowever, he would not leave without the promise of seeing Valentine\nagain the next night. Valentine promised all that Morrel required of\nher, and certainly it was less difficult now for her to believe that\nshe should marry Maximilian than it was an hour ago to assure herself\nthat she should not marry Franz.\n\nDuring the time occupied by the interview we have just detailed, Madame\nde Villefort had gone to visit M. Noirtier. The old man looked at her\nwith that stern and forbidding expression with which he was accustomed\nto receive her.\n\n Sir,  said she,  it is superfluous for me to tell you that Valentine s\nmarriage is broken off, since it was here that the affair was\nconcluded. \n\nNoirtier s countenance remained immovable.\n\n But one thing I can tell you, of which I do not think you are aware;\nthat is, that I have always been opposed to this marriage, and that the\ncontract was entered into entirely without my consent or approbation. \n\nNoirtier regarded his daughter-in-law with the look of a man desiring\nan explanation.\n\n Now that this marriage, which I know you so much disliked, is done\naway with, I come to you on an errand which neither M. de Villefort nor\nValentine could consistently undertake. \n\nNoirtier s eyes demanded the nature of her mission.\n\n I come to entreat you, sir,  continued Madame de Villefort,  as the\nonly one who has the right of doing so, inasmuch as I am the only one\nwho will receive no personal benefit from the transaction, I come to\nentreat you to restore, not your love, for that she has always\npossessed, but to restore your fortune to your granddaughter. \n\nThere was a doubtful expression in Noirtier s eyes; he was evidently\ntrying to discover the motive of this proceeding, and he could not\nsucceed in doing so.\n\n May I hope, sir,  said Madame de Villefort,  that your intentions\naccord with my request? \n\nNoirtier made a sign that they did.\n\n In that case, sir,  rejoined Madame de Villefort,  I will leave you\noverwhelmed with gratitude and happiness at your prompt acquiescence to\nmy wishes.  She then bowed to M. Noirtier and retired.\n\nThe next day M. Noirtier sent for the notary; the first will was torn\nup and a second made, in which he left the whole of his fortune to\nValentine, on condition that she should never be separated from him. It\nwas then generally reported that Mademoiselle de Villefort, the heiress\nof the marquis and marchioness of Saint-M ran, had regained the good\ngraces of her grandfather, and that she would ultimately be in\npossession of an income of 300,000 livres.\n\nWhile all the proceedings relative to the dissolution of the\nmarriage-contract were being carried on at the house of M. de\nVillefort, Monte Cristo had paid his visit to the Count of Morcerf,\nwho, in order to lose no time in responding to M. Danglars  wishes, and\nat the same time to pay all due deference to his position in society,\ndonned his uniform of lieutenant-general, which he ornamented with all\nhis crosses, and thus attired, ordered his finest horses and drove to\nthe Rue de la Chauss e d Antin.\n\nDanglars was balancing his monthly accounts, and it was perhaps not the\nmost favorable moment for finding him in his best humor. At the first\nsight of his old friend, Danglars assumed his majestic air, and settled\nhimself in his easy-chair.\n\nMorcerf, usually so stiff and formal, accosted the banker in an affable\nand smiling manner, and, feeling sure that the overture he was about to\nmake would be well received, he did not consider it necessary to adopt\nany man uvres in order to gain his end, but went at once straight to\nthe point.\n\n40086m\n\n\n\n Well, baron,  said he,  here I am at last; some time has elapsed since\nour plans were formed, and they are not yet executed. \n\nMorcerf paused at these words, quietly waiting till the cloud should\nhave dispersed which had gathered on the brow of Danglars, and which he\nattributed to his silence; but, on the contrary, to his great surprise,\nit grew darker and darker.\n\n To what do you allude, monsieur?  said Danglars; as if he were trying\nin vain to guess at the possible meaning of the general s words.\n\n Ah,  said Morcerf,  I see you are a stickler for forms, my dear sir,\nand you would remind me that the ceremonial rites should not be\nomitted. _Ma foi_, I beg your pardon, but as I have but one son, and it\nis the first time I have ever thought of marrying him, I am still\nserving my apprenticeship, you know; come, I will reform. \n\nAnd Morcerf with a forced smile arose, and, making a low bow to M.\nDanglars, said:\n\n Baron, I have the honor of asking of you the hand of Mademoiselle\nEug nie Danglars for my son, the Vicomte Albert de Morcerf. \n\nBut Danglars, instead of receiving this address in the favorable manner\nwhich Morcerf had expected, knit his brow, and without inviting the\ncount, who was still standing, to take a seat, he said:\n\n Monsieur, it will be necessary to reflect before I give you an\nanswer. \n\n To reflect?  said Morcerf, more and more astonished;  have you not had\nenough time for reflection during the eight years which have elapsed\nsince this marriage was first discussed between us? \n\n Count,  said the banker,  things are constantly occurring in the world\nto induce us to lay aside our most established opinions, or at all\nevents to cause us to remodel them according to the change of\ncircumstances, which may have placed affairs in a totally different\nlight to that in which we at first viewed them. \n\n I do not understand you, baron,  said Morcerf.\n\n What I mean to say is this, sir, that during the last fortnight\nunforeseen circumstances have occurred \n\n Excuse me,  said Morcerf,  but is it a play we are acting? \n\n A play? \n\n Yes, for it is like one; pray let us come more to the point, and\nendeavor thoroughly to understand each other. \n\n That is quite my desire. \n\n You have seen M. de Monte Cristo have you not? \n\n I see him very often,  said Danglars, drawing himself up;  he is a\nparticular friend of mine. \n\n Well, in one of your late conversations with him, you said that I\nappeared to be forgetful and irresolute concerning this marriage, did\nyou not? \n\n I did say so. \n\n Well, here I am, proving at once that I am really neither the one nor\nthe other, by entreating you to keep your promise on that score. \n\nDanglars did not answer.\n\n Have you so soon changed your mind,  added Morcerf,  or have you only\nprovoked my request that you may have the pleasure of seeing me\nhumbled? \n\nDanglars, seeing that if he continued the conversation in the same tone\nin which he had begun it, the whole thing might turn out to his own\ndisadvantage, turned to Morcerf, and said:\n\n Count, you must doubtless be surprised at my reserve, and I assure you\nit costs me much to act in such a manner towards you; but, believe me\nwhen I say that imperative necessity has imposed the painful task upon\nme. \n\n These are all so many empty words, my dear sir,  said Morcerf:  they\nmight satisfy a new acquaintance, but the Comte de Morcerf does not\nrank in that list; and when a man like him comes to another, recalls to\nhim his plighted word, and this man fails to redeem the pledge, he has\nat least a right to exact from him a good reason for so doing. \n\nDanglars was a coward, but did not wish to appear so; he was piqued at\nthe tone which Morcerf had just assumed.\n\n I am not without a good reason for my conduct,  replied the banker.\n\n What do you mean to say? \n\n I mean to say that I have a good reason, but that it is difficult to\nexplain. \n\n You must be aware, at all events, that it is impossible for me to\nunderstand motives before they are explained to me; but one thing at\nleast is clear, which is, that you decline allying yourself with my\nfamily. \n\n No, sir,  said Danglars;  I merely suspend my decision, that is all. \n\n And do you really flatter yourself that I shall yield to all your\ncaprices, and quietly and humbly await the time of again being received\ninto your good graces? \n\n Then, count, if you will not wait, we must look upon these projects as\nif they had never been entertained. \n\nThe count bit his lips till the blood almost started, to prevent the\nebullition of anger which his proud and irritable temper scarcely\nallowed him to restrain; understanding, however, that in the present\nstate of things the laugh would decidedly be against him, he turned\nfrom the door, towards which he had been directing his steps, and again\nconfronted the banker. A cloud settled on his brow, evincing decided\nanxiety and uneasiness, instead of the expression of offended pride\nwhich had lately reigned there.\n\n My dear Danglars,  said Morcerf,  we have been acquainted for many\nyears, and consequently we ought to make some allowance for each\nother s failings. You owe me an explanation, and really it is but fair\nthat I should know what circumstance has occurred to deprive my son of\nyour favor. \n\n It is from no personal ill-feeling towards the viscount, that is all I\ncan say, sir,  replied Danglars, who resumed his insolent manner as\nsoon as he perceived that Morcerf was a little softened and calmed\ndown.\n\n And towards whom do you bear this personal ill-feeling, then?  said\nMorcerf, turning pale with anger. The expression of the count s face\nhad not remained unperceived by the banker; he fixed on him a look of\ngreater assurance than before, and said:\n\n You may, perhaps, be better satisfied that I should not go farther\ninto particulars. \n\nA tremor of suppressed rage shook the whole frame of the count, and\nmaking a violent effort over himself, he said:  I have a right to\ninsist on your giving me an explanation. Is it Madame de Morcerf who\nhas displeased you? Is it my fortune which you find insufficient? Is it\nbecause my opinions differ from yours? \n\n Nothing of the kind, sir,  replied Danglars:  if such had been the\ncase, I only should have been to blame, inasmuch as I was aware of all\nthese things when I made the engagement. No, do not seek any longer to\ndiscover the reason. I really am quite ashamed to have been the cause\nof your undergoing such severe self-examination; let us drop the\nsubject, and adopt the middle course of delay, which implies neither a\nrupture nor an engagement. _Ma foi_, there is no hurry. My daughter is\nonly seventeen years old, and your son twenty-one. While we wait, time\nwill be progressing, events will succeed each other; things which in\nthe evening look dark and obscure, appear but too clearly in the light\nof morning, and sometimes the utterance of one word, or the lapse of a\nsingle day, will reveal the most cruel calumnies. \n\n Calumnies, did you say, sir?  cried Morcerf, turning livid with rage.\n Does anyone dare to slander me? \n\n Monsieur, I told you that I considered it best to avoid all\nexplanation. \n\n Then, sir, I am patiently to submit to your refusal? \n\n Yes, sir, although I assure you the refusal is as painful for me to\ngive as it is for you to receive, for I had reckoned on the honor of\nyour alliance, and the breaking off of a marriage contract always\ninjures the lady more than the gentleman. \n\n Enough, sir,  said Morcerf,  we will speak no more on the subject. \n\nAnd clutching his gloves in anger, he left the apartment. Danglars\nobserved that during the whole conversation Morcerf had never once\ndared to ask if it was on his own account that Danglars recalled his\nword.\n\nThat evening he had a long conference with several friends; and M.\nCavalcanti, who had remained in the drawing-room with the ladies, was\nthe last to leave the banker s house.\n\nThe next morning, as soon as he awoke, Danglars asked for the\nnewspapers; they were brought to him; he laid aside three or four, and\nat last fixed on _l Impartial_, the paper of which Beauchamp was the\nchief editor. He hastily tore off the cover, opened the journal with\nnervous precipitation, passed contemptuously over the Paris jottings,\nand arriving at the miscellaneous intelligence, stopped with a\nmalicious smile, at a paragraph headed\n\n_We hear from Yanina._\n\n\n Very good,  observed Danglars, after having read the paragraph;  here\nis a little article on Colonel Fernand, which, if I am not mistaken,\nwould render the explanation which the Comte de Morcerf required of me\nperfectly unnecessary. \n\nAt the same moment, that is, at nine o clock in the morning, Albert de\nMorcerf, dressed in a black coat buttoned up to his chin, might have\nbeen seen walking with a quick and agitated step in the direction of\nMonte Cristo s house in the Champs- lys es. When he presented himself\nat the gate the porter informed him that the Count had gone out about\nhalf an hour previously.\n\n Did he take Baptistin with him? \n\n No, my lord. \n\n Call him, then; I wish to speak to him. \n\nThe concierge went to seek the valet de chambre, and returned with him\nin an instant.\n\n My good friend,  said Albert,  I beg pardon for my intrusion, but I\nwas anxious to know from your own mouth if your master was really out\nor not. \n\n He is really out, sir,  replied Baptistin.\n\n Out, even to me? \n\n I know how happy my master always is to receive the vicomte,  said\nBaptistin;  and I should therefore never think of including him in any\ngeneral order. \n\n You are right; and now I wish to see him on an affair of great\nimportance. Do you think it will be long before he comes in? \n\n No, I think not, for he ordered his breakfast at ten o clock. \n\n Well, I will go and take a turn in the Champs- lys es, and at ten\no clock I will return here; meanwhile, if the count should come in,\nwill you beg him not to go out again without seeing me? \n\n You may depend on my doing so, sir,  said Baptistin.\n\nAlbert left the cab in which he had come at the count s door, intending\nto take a turn on foot. As he was passing the All e des Veuves, he\nthought he saw the count s horses standing at Gosset s\nshooting-gallery; he approached, and soon recognized the coachman.\n\n Is the count shooting in the gallery?  said Morcerf.\n\n Yes, sir,  replied the coachman. While he was speaking, Albert had\nheard the report of two or three pistol-shots. He entered, and on his\nway met the waiter.\n\n Excuse me, my lord,  said the lad;  but will you have the kindness to\nwait a moment? \n\n What for, Philip?  asked Albert, who, being a constant visitor there,\ndid not understand this opposition to his entrance.\n\n Because the person who is now in the gallery prefers being alone, and\nnever practices in the presence of anyone. \n\n Not even before you, Philip? Then who loads his pistol? \n\n His servant. \n\n A Nubian? \n\n A negro. \n\n It is he, then. \n\n Do you know this gentleman? \n\n Yes, and I am come to look for him; he is a friend of mine. \n\n Oh, that is quite another thing, then. I will go immediately and\ninform him of your arrival. \n\nAnd Philip, urged by his own curiosity, entered the gallery; a second\nafterwards, Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold.\n\n I ask your pardon, my dear count,  said Albert,  for following you\nhere, and I must first tell you that it was not the fault of your\nservants that I did so; I alone am to blame for the indiscretion. I\nwent to your house, and they told me you were out, but that they\nexpected you home at ten o clock to breakfast. I was walking about in\norder to pass away the time till ten o clock, when I caught sight of\nyour carriage and horses. \n\n What you have just said induces me to hope that you intend\nbreakfasting with me. \n\n40092m\n\n\n\n No, thank you, I am thinking of other things besides breakfast just\nnow; perhaps we may take that meal at a later hour and in worse\ncompany. \n\n What on earth are you talking of? \n\n I am to fight today. \n\n For what? \n\n For the sake of fighting! \n\n Yes, I understand that, but what is the quarrel? People fight for all\nsorts of reasons, you know. \n\n I fight in the cause of honor. \n\n Ah, that is something serious. \n\n So serious, that I come to beg you to render me a service. \n\n What is it? \n\n To be my second. \n\n That is a serious matter, and we will not discuss it here; let us\nspeak of nothing till we get home. Ali, bring me some water. \n\nThe count turned up his sleeves, and passed into the little vestibule\nwhere the gentlemen were accustomed to wash their hands after shooting.\n\n Come in, my lord,  said Philip in a low tone,  and I will show you\nsomething droll.  Morcerf entered, and in place of the usual target, he\nsaw some playing-cards fixed against the wall. At a distance Albert\nthought it was a complete suit, for he counted from the ace to the ten.\n\n Ah, ha,  said Albert,  I see you were preparing for a game of cards. \n\n No,  said the count,  I was making a suit. \n\n How?  said Albert.\n\n Those are really aces and twos which you see, but my shots have turned\nthem into threes, fives, sevens, eights, nines, and tens. \n\nAlbert approached. In fact, the bullets had actually pierced the cards\nin the exact places which the painted signs would otherwise have\noccupied, the lines and distances being as regularly kept as if they\nhad been ruled with pencil. In going up to the target Morcerf picked up\ntwo or three swallows that had been rash enough to come within the\nrange of the count s pistol.\n\n _Diable!_  said Morcerf.\n\n What would you have, my dear viscount?  said Monte Cristo, wiping his\nhands on the towel which Ali had brought him;  I must occupy my leisure\nmoments in some way or other. But come, I am waiting for you. \n\nBoth men entered Monte Cristo s carriage, which in the course of a few\nminutes deposited them safely at No. 30. Monte Cristo took Albert into\nhis study, and pointing to a seat, placed another for himself.  Now let\nus talk the matter over quietly,  said the count.\n\n You see I am perfectly composed,  said Albert.\n\n With whom are you going to fight? \n\n With Beauchamp. \n\n One of your friends! \n\n Of course; it is always with friends that one fights. \n\n I suppose you have some cause of quarrel? \n\n I have. \n\n40094m\n\n\n\n What has he done to you? \n\n There appeared in his journal last night but wait, and read for\nyourself.  And Albert handed over the paper to the count, who read as\nfollows:\n\n A correspondent at Yanina informs us of a fact of which until now we\nhad remained in ignorance. The castle which formed the protection of\nthe town was given up to the Turks by a French officer named Fernand,\nin whom the grand vizier, Ali Tepelini, had reposed the greatest\nconfidence. \n\n\n Well,  said Monte Cristo,  what do you see in that to annoy you? \n\n What do I see in it? \n\n Yes; what does it signify to you if the castle of Yanina was given up\nby a French officer? \n\n It signifies to my father, the Count of Morcerf, whose Christian name\nis Fernand! \n\n Did your father serve under Ali Pasha? \n\n Yes; that is to say, he fought for the independence of the Greeks, and\nhence arises the calumny. \n\n Oh, my dear viscount, do talk reason! \n\n I do not desire to do otherwise. \n\n Now, just tell me who the devil should know in France that the officer\nFernand and the Count of Morcerf are one and the same person? and who\ncares now about Yanina, which was taken as long ago as the year 1822 or\n1823? \n\n That just shows the meanness of this slander. They have allowed all\nthis time to elapse, and then all of a sudden rake up events which have\nbeen forgotten to furnish materials for scandal, in order to tarnish\nthe lustre of our high position. I inherit my father s name, and I do\nnot choose that the shadow of disgrace should darken it. I am going to\nBeauchamp, in whose journal this paragraph appears, and I shall insist\non his retracting the assertion before two witnesses. \n\n Beauchamp will never retract. \n\n Then we must fight. \n\n No you will not, for he will tell you, what is very true, that perhaps\nthere were fifty officers in the Greek army bearing the same name. \n\n We will fight, nevertheless. I will efface that blot on my father s\ncharacter. My father, who was such a brave soldier, whose career was so\nbrilliant \n\n Oh, well, he will add,  We are warranted in believing that this\nFernand is not the illustrious Count of Morcerf, who also bears the\nsame Christian name. \n\n I am determined not to be content with anything short of an entire\nretractation. \n\n And you intend to make him do it in the presence of two witnesses, do\nyou? \n\n Yes. \n\n You do wrong. \n\n Which means, I suppose, that you refuse the service which I asked of\nyou? \n\n You know my theory regarding duels; I told you my opinion on that\nsubject, if you remember, when we were at Rome. \n\n Nevertheless, my dear count, I found you this morning engaged in an\noccupation but little consistent with the notions you profess to\nentertain. \n\n Because, my dear fellow, you understand one must never be eccentric.\nIf one s lot is cast among fools, it is necessary to study folly. I\nshall perhaps find myself one day called out by some harebrained scamp,\nwho has no more real cause of quarrel with me than you have with\nBeauchamp; he may take me to task for some foolish trifle or other, he\nwill bring his witnesses, or will insult me in some public place, and I\nam expected to kill him for all that. \n\n You admit that you would fight, then? Well, if so, why do you object\nto my doing so? \n\n I do not say that you ought not to fight, I only say that a duel is a\nserious thing, and ought not to be undertaken without due reflection. \n\n Did he reflect before he insulted my father? \n\n If he spoke hastily, and owns that he did so, you ought to be\nsatisfied. \n\n Ah, my dear count, you are far too indulgent. \n\n And you are far too exacting. Supposing, for instance, and do not be\nangry at what I am going to say \n\n Well. \n\n Supposing the assertion to be really true? \n\n A son ought not to submit to such a stain on his father s honor. \n\n _Ma foi!_ we live in times when there is much to which we must\nsubmit. \n\n That is precisely the fault of the age. \n\n And do you undertake to reform it? \n\n Yes, as far as I am personally concerned. \n\n Well, you are indeed exacting, my dear fellow! \n\n Yes, I own it. \n\n Are you quite impervious to good advice? \n\n Not when it comes from a friend. \n\n And do you account me that title? \n\n Certainly I do. \n\n Well, then, before going to Beauchamp with your witnesses, seek\nfurther information on the subject. \n\n From whom? \n\n From Hayd e. \n\n Why, what can be the use of mixing a woman up in the affair? what can\nshe do in it? \n\n She can declare to you, for example, that your father had no hand\nwhatever in the defeat and death of the vizier; or if by chance he had,\nindeed, the misfortune to \n\n I have told you, my dear count, that I would not for one moment admit\nof such a proposition. \n\n You reject this means of information, then? \n\n I do most decidedly. \n\n Then let me offer one more word of advice. \n\n Do so, then, but let it be the last. \n\n You do not wish to hear it, perhaps? \n\n On the contrary, I request it. \n\n Do not take any witnesses with you when you go to Beauchamp visit him\nalone. \n\n That would be contrary to all custom. \n\n Your case is not an ordinary one. \n\n And what is your reason for advising me to go alone? \n\n Because then the affair will rest between you and Beauchamp. \n\n Explain yourself. \n\n I will do so. If Beauchamp be disposed to retract, you ought at least\nto give him the opportunity of doing it of his own free will, the\nsatisfaction to you will be the same. If, on the contrary, he refuses\nto do so, it will then be quite time enough to admit two strangers into\nyour secret. \n\n They will not be strangers, they will be friends. \n\n Ah, but the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow; Beauchamp,\nfor instance. \n\n So you recommend \n\n I recommend you to be prudent. \n\n Then you advise me to go alone to Beauchamp? \n\n I do, and I will tell you why. When you wish to obtain some concession\nfrom a man s self-love, you must avoid even the appearance of wishing\nto wound it. \n\n I believe you are right. \n\n I am glad of it. \n\n Then I will go alone. \n\n Go; but you would do better still by not going at all. \n\n That is impossible. \n\n Do so, then; it will be a wiser plan than the first which you\nproposed. \n\n But if, in spite of all my precautions, I am at last obliged to fight,\nwill you not be my second? \n\n My dear viscount,  said Monte Cristo gravely,  you must have seen\nbefore today that at all times and in all places I have been at your\ndisposal, but the service which you have just demanded of me is one\nwhich it is out of my power to render you. \n\n Why? \n\n Perhaps you may know at some future period, and in the mean time I\nrequest you to excuse my declining to put you in possession of my\nreasons. \n\n Well, I will have Franz and Ch teau-Renaud; they will be the very men\nfor it. \n\n Do so, then. \n\n But if I do fight, you will surely not object to giving me a lesson or\ntwo in shooting and fencing? \n\n That, too, is impossible. \n\n What a singular being you are! you will not interfere in anything. \n\n You are right that is the principle on which I wish to act. \n\n We will say no more about it, then. Good-bye, count. \n\nMorcerf took his hat, and left the room. He found his carriage at the\ndoor, and doing his utmost to restrain his anger he went at once to\nfind Beauchamp, who was in his office. It was a gloomy, dusty-looking\napartment, such as journalists  offices have always been from time\nimmemorial. The servant announced M. Albert de Morcerf. Beauchamp\nrepeated the name to himself, as though he could scarcely believe that\nhe had heard aright, and then gave orders for him to be admitted.\nAlbert entered.\n\nBeauchamp uttered an exclamation of surprise on seeing his friend leap\nover and trample under foot all the newspapers which were strewed about\nthe room.\n\n This way, this way, my dear Albert!  said he, holding out his hand to\nthe young man.  Are you out of your senses, or do you come peaceably to\ntake breakfast with me? Try and find a seat there is one by that\ngeranium, which is the only thing in the room to remind me that there\nare other leaves in the world besides leaves of paper. \n\n Beauchamp,  said Albert,  it is of your journal that I come to speak. \n\n Indeed? What do you wish to say about it? \n\n I desire that a statement contained in it should be rectified. \n\n To what do you refer? But pray sit down. \n\n Thank you,  said Albert, with a cold and formal bow.\n\n Will you now have the kindness to explain the nature of the statement\nwhich has displeased you? \n\n An announcement has been made which implicates the honor of a member\nof my family. \n\n What is it?  said Beauchamp, much surprised;  surely you must be\nmistaken. \n\n The story sent you from Yanina. \n\n Yanina? \n\n Yes; really you appear to be totally ignorant of the cause which\nbrings me here. \n\n Such is really the case, I assure you, upon my honor! Baptiste, give\nme yesterday s paper,  cried Beauchamp.\n\n Here, I have brought mine with me,  replied Albert.\n\nBeauchamp took the paper, and read the article to which Albert pointed\nin an undertone.\n\n You see it is a serious annoyance,  said Morcerf, when Beauchamp had\nfinished the perusal of the paragraph.\n\n Is the officer referred to a relation of yours, then?  demanded the\njournalist.\n\n Yes,  said Albert, blushing.\n\n Well, what do you wish me to do for you?  said Beauchamp mildly.\n\n My dear Beauchamp, I wish you to contradict this statement.  Beauchamp\nlooked at Albert with a benevolent expression.\n\n Come,  said he,  this matter will want a good deal of talking over; a\nretractation is always a serious thing, you know. Sit down, and I will\nread it again. \n\nAlbert resumed his seat, and Beauchamp read, with more attention than\nat first, the lines denounced by his friend.\n\n Well,  said Albert in a determined tone,  you see that your paper has\ninsulted a member of my family, and I insist on a retractation being\nmade. \n\n You insist? \n\n Yes, I insist. \n\n Permit me to remind you that you are not in the Chamber, my dear\nviscount. \n\n Nor do I wish to be there,  replied the young man, rising.  I repeat\nthat I am determined to have the announcement of yesterday\ncontradicted. You have known me long enough,  continued Albert, biting\nhis lips convulsively, for he saw that Beauchamp s anger was beginning\nto rise, you have been my friend, and therefore sufficiently intimate\nwith me to be aware that I am likely to maintain my resolution on this\npoint. \n\n If I have been your friend, Morcerf, your present manner of speaking\nwould almost lead me to forget that I ever bore that title. But wait a\nmoment, do not let us get angry, or at least not yet. You are irritated\nand vexed tell me how this Fernand is related to you? \n\n He is merely my father,  said Albert M. Fernand Mondego, Count of\nMorcerf, an old soldier who has fought in twenty battles and whose\nhonorable scars they would denounce as badges of disgrace. \n\n Is it your father?  said Beauchamp;  that is quite another thing. Then\nI can well understand your indignation, my dear Albert. I will look at\nit again;  and he read the paragraph for the third time, laying a\nstress on each word as he proceeded.  But the paper nowhere identifies\nthis Fernand with your father. \n\n40100m\n\n\n\n No; but the connection will be seen by others, and therefore I will\nhave the article contradicted. \n\nAt the words _I will_, Beauchamp steadily raised his eyes to Albert s\ncountenance, and then as gradually lowering them, he remained\nthoughtful for a few moments.\n\n You will retract this assertion, will you not, Beauchamp?  said Albert\nwith increased though stifled anger.\n\n Yes,  replied Beauchamp.\n\n Immediately?  said Albert.\n\n When I am convinced that the statement is false. \n\n What? \n\n The thing is worth looking into, and I will take pains to investigate\nthe matter thoroughly. \n\n But what is there to investigate, sir?  said Albert, enraged beyond\nmeasure at Beauchamp s last remark.  If you do not believe that it is\nmy father, say so immediately; and if, on the contrary, you believe it\nto be him, state your reasons for doing so. \n\nBeauchamp looked at Albert with the smile which was so peculiar to him,\nand which in its numerous modifications served to express every varied\nemotion of his mind.\n\n Sir,  replied he,  if you came to me with the idea of demanding\nsatisfaction, you should have gone at once to the point, and not have\nentertained me with the idle conversation to which I have been\npatiently listening for the last half hour. Am I to put this\nconstruction on your visit? \n\n Yes, if you will not consent to retract that infamous calumny. \n\n Wait a moment no threats, if you please, M. Fernand Mondego, Vicomte\nde Morcerf; I never allow them from my enemies, and therefore shall not\nput up with them from my friends. You insist on my contradicting the\narticle relating to General Fernand, an article with which, I assure\nyou on my word of honor, I had nothing whatever to do? \n\n Yes, I insist on it,  said Albert, whose mind was beginning to get\nbewildered with the excitement of his feelings.\n\n And if I refuse to retract, you wish to fight, do you?  said Beauchamp\nin a calm tone.\n\n Yes,  replied Albert, raising his voice.\n\n Well,  said Beauchamp,  here is my answer, my dear sir. The article\nwas not inserted by me I was not even aware of it; but you have, by the\nstep you have taken, called my attention to the paragraph in question,\nand it will remain until it shall be either contradicted or confirmed\nby someone who has a right to do so. \n\n Sir,  said Albert, rising,  I will do myself the honor of sending my\nseconds to you, and you will be kind enough to arrange with them the\nplace of meeting and the weapons. \n\n Certainly, my dear sir. \n\n And this evening, if you please, or tomorrow at the latest, we will\nmeet. \n\n No, no, I will be on the ground at the proper time; but in my opinion\n(and I have a right to dictate the preliminaries, as it is I who have\nreceived the provocation) in my opinion the time ought not to be yet. I\nknow you to be well skilled in the management of the sword, while I am\nonly moderately so; I know, too, that you are a good marksman there we\nare about equal. I know that a duel between us two would be a serious\naffair, because you are brave, and I am brave also. I do not therefore\nwish either to kill you, or to be killed myself without a cause. Now, I\nam going to put a question to you, and one very much to the purpose\ntoo. Do you insist on this retractation so far as to kill me if I do\nnot make it, although I have repeated more than once, and affirmed on\nmy honor, that I was ignorant of the thing with which you charge me,\nand although I still declare that it is impossible for anyone but you\nto recognize the Count of Morcerf under the name of Fernand? \n\n I maintain my original resolution. \n\n Very well, my dear sir; then I consent to cut throats with you. But I\nrequire three weeks  preparation; at the end of that time I shall come\nand say to you,  The assertion is false, and I retract it,  or  The\nassertion is true,  when I shall immediately draw the sword from its\nsheath, or the pistols from the case, whichever you please. \n\n Three weeks!  cried Albert;  they will pass as slowly as three\ncenturies when I am all the time suffering dishonor. \n\n Had you continued to remain on amicable terms with me, I should have\nsaid,  Patience, my friend;  but you have constituted yourself my\nenemy, therefore I say,  What does that signify to me, sir? \n\n Well, let it be three weeks then,  said Morcerf;  but remember, at the\nexpiration of that time no delay or subterfuge will justify you in \n\n M. Albert de Morcerf,  said Beauchamp, rising in his turn,  I cannot\nthrow you out of window for three weeks that is to say, for twenty-four\ndays to come nor have you any right to split my skull open till that\ntime has elapsed. Today is the 29th of August; the 21st of September\nwill, therefore, be the conclusion of the term agreed on, and till that\ntime arrives and it is the advice of a gentleman which I am about to\ngive you till then we will refrain from growling and barking like two\ndogs chained within sight of each other. \n\nWhen he had concluded his speech, Beauchamp bowed coldly to Albert,\nturned his back upon him, and went to the press-room. Albert vented his\nanger on a pile of newspapers, which he sent flying all over the office\nby switching them violently with his stick; after which ebullition he\ndeparted not, however, without walking several times to the door of the\npress-room, as if he had half a mind to enter.\n\n40104m\n\n\n\nWhile Albert was lashing the front of his carriage in the same manner\nthat he had the newspapers which were the innocent agents of his\ndiscomfiture, as he was crossing the barrier he perceived Morrel, who\nwas walking with a quick step and a bright eye. He was passing the\nChinese Baths, and appeared to have come from the direction of the\nPorte Saint-Martin, and to be going towards the Madeleine.\n\n Ah,  said Morcerf,  there goes a happy man!  And it so happened Albert\nwas not mistaken in his opinion.\n\n\n\n Chapter 79. The Lemonade\n\nMorrel was, in fact, very happy. M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and\nhe was in such haste to know the reason of his doing so that he had not\nstopped to take a cab, placing infinitely more dependence on his own\ntwo legs than on the four legs of a cab-horse. He had therefore set off\nat a furious rate from the Rue Meslay, and was hastening with rapid\nstrides in the direction of the Faubourg Saint-Honor .\n\nMorrel advanced with a firm, manly tread, and poor Barrois followed him\nas he best might. Morrel was only thirty-one, Barrois was sixty years\nof age; Morrel was deeply in love, and Barrois was dying with heat and\nexertion. These two men, thus opposed in age and interests, resembled\ntwo parts of a triangle, presenting the extremes of separation, yet\nnevertheless possessing their point of union. This point of union was\nNoirtier, and it was he who had just sent for Morrel, with the request\nthat the latter would lose no time in coming to him a command which\nMorrel obeyed to the letter, to the great discomfiture of Barrois. On\narriving at the house, Morrel was not even out of breath, for love\nlends wings to our desires; but Barrois, who had long forgotten what it\nwas to love, was sorely fatigued by the expedition he had been\nconstrained to use.\n\nThe old servant introduced Morrel by a private entrance, closed the\ndoor of the study, and soon the rustling of a dress announced the\narrival of Valentine. She looked marvellously beautiful in her deep\nmourning dress, and Morrel experienced such intense delight in gazing\nupon her that he felt as if he could almost have dispensed with the\nconversation of her grandfather.\n\nBut the easy-chair of the old man was heard rolling along the floor,\nand he soon made his appearance in the room. Noirtier acknowledged by a\nlook of extreme kindness and benevolence the thanks which Morrel\nlavished on him for his timely intervention on behalf of Valentine and\nhimself an intervention which had saved them from despair. Morrel then\ncast on the invalid an interrogative look as to the new favor which he\ndesigned to bestow on him. Valentine was sitting at a little distance\nfrom them, timidly awaiting the moment when she should be obliged to\nspeak. Noirtier fixed his eyes on her.\n\n Am I to say what you told me?  asked Valentine. Noirtier made a sign\nthat she was to do so.\n\n Monsieur Morrel,  said Valentine to the young man, who was regarding\nher with the most intense interest,  my grandfather, M. Noirtier, had a\nthousand things to say, which he told me three days ago; and now, he\nhas sent for you, that I may repeat them to you. I will repeat them,\nthen; and since he has chosen me as his interpreter, I will be faithful\nto the trust, and will not alter a word of his intentions. \n\n Oh, I am listening with the greatest impatience,  replied the young\nman;  speak, I beg of you. \n\nValentine cast down her eyes; this was a good omen for Morrel, for he\nknew that nothing but happiness could have the power of thus overcoming\nValentine.\n\n My grandfather intends leaving this house,  said she,  and Barrois is\nlooking out for suitable apartments for him in another. \n\n But you, Mademoiselle de Villefort, you, who are necessary to M.\nNoirtier s happiness \n\n I?  interrupted Valentine;  I shall not leave my grandfather, that is\nan understood thing between us. My apartment will be close to his. Now,\nM. de Villefort must either give his consent to this plan or his\nrefusal; in the first case, I shall leave directly, and in the second,\nI shall wait till I am of age, which will be in about ten months. Then\nI shall be free, I shall have an independent fortune, and \n\n And what?  demanded Morrel.\n\n And with my grandfather s consent I shall fulfil the promise which I\nhave made you. \n\nValentine pronounced these last few words in such a low tone, that\nnothing but Morrel s intense interest in what she was saying could have\nenabled him to hear them.\n\n Have I not explained your wishes, grandpapa?  said Valentine,\naddressing Noirtier.\n\n Yes,  looked the old man.\n\n Once under my grandfather s roof, M. Morrel can visit me in the\npresence of my good and worthy protector, if we still feel that the\nunion we contemplated will be likely to insure our future comfort and\nhappiness; in that case I shall expect M. Morrel to come and claim me\nat my own hands. But, alas, I have heard it said that hearts inflamed\nby obstacles to their desire grew cold in time of security; I trust we\nshall never find it so in our experience! \n\n Oh,  cried Morrel, almost tempted to throw himself on his knees before\nNoirtier and Valentine, and to adore them as two superior beings,  what\nhave I ever done in my life to merit such unbounded happiness? \n\n Until that time,  continued the young girl in a calm and\nself-possessed tone of voice,  we will conform to circumstances, and be\nguided by the wishes of our friends, so long as those wishes do not\ntend finally to separate us; in a word, and I repeat it, because it\nexpresses all I wish to convey, we will wait. \n\n And I swear to make all the sacrifices which this word imposes, sir, \nsaid Morrel,  not only with resignation, but with cheerfulness. \n\n Therefore,  continued Valentine, looking playfully at Maximilian,  no\nmore inconsiderate actions no more rash projects; for you surely would\nnot wish to compromise one who from this day regards herself as\ndestined, honorably and happily, to bear your name? \n\nMorrel looked obedience to her commands. Noirtier regarded the lovers\nwith a look of ineffable tenderness, while Barrois, who had remained in\nthe room in the character of a man privileged to know everything that\npassed, smiled on the youthful couple as he wiped the perspiration from\nhis bald forehead.\n\n How hot you look, my good Barrois,  said Valentine.\n\n Ah, I have been running very fast, mademoiselle, but I must do M.\nMorrel the justice to say that he ran still faster. \n\nNoirtier directed their attention to a waiter, on which was placed a\ndecanter containing lemonade and a glass. The decanter was nearly full,\nwith the exception of a little, which had been already drunk by M.\nNoirtier.\n\n Come, Barrois,  said the young girl,  take some of this lemonade; I\nsee you are coveting a good draught of it. \n\n The fact is, mademoiselle,  said Barrois,  I am dying with thirst, and\nsince you are so kind as to offer it me, I cannot say I should at all\nobject to drinking your health in a glass of it. \n\n Take some, then, and come back immediately. \n\nBarrois took away the waiter, and hardly was he outside the door, which\nin his haste he forgot to shut, than they saw him throw back his head\nand empty to the very dregs the glass which Valentine had filled.\nValentine and Morrel were exchanging their adieux in the presence of\nNoirtier when a ring was heard at the door-bell. It was the signal of a\nvisit. Valentine looked at her watch.\n\n It is past noon,  said she,  and today is Saturday; I dare say it is\nthe doctor, grandpapa. \n\nNoirtier looked his conviction that she was right in her supposition.\n\n He will come in here, and M. Morrel had better go, do you not think\nso, grandpapa? \n\n Yes,  signed the old man.\n\n Barrois,  cried Valentine,  Barrois! \n\n I am coming, mademoiselle,  replied he.\n\n Barrois will open the door for you,  said Valentine, addressing\nMorrel.  And now remember one thing, Monsieur Officer, that my\ngrandfather commands you not to take any rash or ill-advised step which\nwould be likely to compromise our happiness. \n\n40108m\n\n\n\n I promised him to wait,  replied Morrel;  and I will wait. \n\nAt this moment Barrois entered.  Who rang?  asked Valentine.\n\n Doctor d Avrigny,  said Barrois, staggering as if he would fall.\n\n What is the matter, Barrois?  said Valentine. The old man did not\nanswer, but looked at his master with wild staring eyes, while with his\ncramped hand he grasped a piece of furniture to enable him to stand\nupright.\n\n He is going to fall!  cried Morrel.\n\nThe rigors which had attacked Barrois gradually increased, the features\nof the face became quite altered, and the convulsive movement of the\nmuscles appeared to indicate the approach of a most serious nervous\ndisorder. Noirtier, seeing Barrois in this pitiable condition, showed\nby his looks all the various emotions of sorrow and sympathy which can\nanimate the heart of man. Barrois made some steps towards his master.\n\n Ah, sir,  said he,  tell me what is the matter with me. I am\nsuffering I cannot see. A thousand fiery darts are piercing my brain.\nAh, don t touch me, pray don t. \n\nBy this time his haggard eyes had the appearance of being ready to\nstart from their sockets; his head fell back, and the lower extremities\nof the body began to stiffen. Valentine uttered a cry of horror; Morrel\ntook her in his arms, as if to defend her from some unknown danger.\n\n M. d Avrigny, M. d Avrigny,  cried she, in a stifled voice.  Help,\nhelp! \n\nBarrois turned round and with a great effort stumbled a few steps, then\nfell at the feet of Noirtier, and resting his hand on the knee of the\ninvalid, exclaimed:\n\n My master, my good master! \n\nAt this moment M. de Villefort, attracted by the noise, appeared on the\nthreshold. Morrel relaxed his hold of Valentine, and retreating to a\ndistant corner of the room remained half hidden behind a curtain. Pale\nas if he had been gazing on a serpent, he fixed his terrified eye on\nthe agonized sufferer.\n\nNoirtier, burning with impatience and terror, was in despair at his\nutter inability to help his old domestic, whom he regarded more in the\nlight of a friend than a servant. One might by the fearful swelling of\nthe veins of his forehead and the contraction of the muscles round the\neye, trace the terrible conflict which was going on between the living\nenergetic mind and the inanimate and helpless body.\n\nBarrois, his features convulsed, his eyes suffused with blood, and his\nhead thrown back, was lying at full length, beating the floor with his\nhands, while his legs had become so stiff, that they looked as if they\nwould break rather than bend. A slight appearance of foam was visible\naround the mouth, and he breathed painfully, and with extreme\ndifficulty.\n\nVillefort seemed stupefied with astonishment, and remained gazing\nintently on the scene before him without uttering a word. He had not\nseen Morrel. After a moment of dumb contemplation, during which his\nface became pale and his hair seemed to stand on end, he sprang towards\nthe door, crying out:\n\n Doctor, doctor! come instantly, pray come! \n\n Madame, madame!  cried Valentine, calling her step-mother, and running\nupstairs to meet her;  come quick, quick! and bring your bottle of\nsmelling-salts with you. \n\n What is the matter?  said Madame de Villefort in a harsh and\nconstrained tone.\n\n Oh! come! come! \n\n But where is the doctor?  exclaimed Villefort;  where is he? \n\nMadame de Villefort now deliberately descended the staircase. In one\nhand she held her handkerchief, with which she appeared to be wiping\nher face, and in the other a bottle of English smelling-salts. Her\nfirst look on entering the room was at Noirtier, whose face,\nindependent of the emotion which such a scene could not fail of\nproducing, proclaimed him to be in possession of his usual health; her\nsecond glance was at the dying man. She turned pale, and her eye passed\nquickly from the servant and rested on the master.\n\n In the name of heaven, madame,  said Villefort,  where is the doctor?\nHe was with you just now. You see this is a fit of apoplexy, and he\nmight be saved if he could but be bled! \n\n Has he eaten anything lately?  asked Madame de Villefort, eluding her\nhusband s question.\n\n Madame,  replied Valentine,  he has not even breakfasted. He has been\nrunning very fast on an errand with which my grandfather charged him,\nand when he returned, took nothing but a glass of lemonade. \n\n Ah,  said Madame de Villefort,  why did he not take wine? Lemonade was\na very bad thing for him. \n\n Grandpapa s bottle of lemonade was standing just by his side; poor\nBarrois was very thirsty, and was thankful to drink anything he could\nfind. \n\nMadame de Villefort started. Noirtier looked at her with a glance of\nthe most profound scrutiny.\n\n He has such a short neck,  said she.\n\n Madame,  said Villefort,  I ask where is M. d Avrigny? In God s name\nanswer me! \n\n He is with Edward, who is not quite well,  replied Madame de\nVillefort, no longer being able to avoid answering.\n\nVillefort rushed upstairs to fetch him.\n\n Take this,  said Madame de Villefort, giving her smelling-bottle to\nValentine.  They will, no doubt, bleed him; therefore I will retire,\nfor I cannot endure the sight of blood;  and she followed her husband\nupstairs. Morrel now emerged from his hiding-place, where he had\nremained quite unperceived, so great had been the general confusion.\n\n Go away as quick as you can, Maximilian,  said Valentine,  and stay\ntill I send for you. Go. \n\nMorrel looked towards Noirtier for permission to retire. The old man,\nwho had preserved all his usual coolness, made a sign to him to do so.\nThe young man pressed Valentine s hand to his lips, and then left the\nhouse by a back staircase.\n\nAt the same moment that he quitted the room, Villefort and the doctor\nentered by an opposite door. Barrois was now showing signs of returning\nconsciousness. The crisis seemed past, a low moaning was heard, and he\nraised himself on one knee. D Avrigny and Villefort laid him on a\ncouch.\n\n What do you prescribe, doctor?  demanded Villefort.\n\n Give me some water and ether. You have some in the house, have you\nnot? \n\n Yes. \n\n Send for some oil of turpentine and tartar emetic. \n\nVillefort immediately despatched a messenger.  And now let everyone\nretire. \n\n Must I go too?  asked Valentine timidly.\n\n Yes, mademoiselle, you especially,  replied the doctor abruptly.\n\nValentine looked at M. d Avrigny with astonishment, kissed her\ngrandfather on the forehead, and left the room. The doctor closed the\ndoor after her with a gloomy air.\n\n Look, look, doctor,  said Villefort,  he is quite coming round again;\nI really do not think, after all, it is anything of consequence. \n\nM. d Avrigny answered by a melancholy smile.\n\n How do you feel, Barrois?  asked he.\n\n A little better, sir. \n\n Will you drink some of this ether and water? \n\n I will try; but don t touch me. \n\n Why not? \n\n Because I feel that if you were only to touch me with the tip of your\nfinger the fit would return. \n\n Drink. \n\nBarrois took the glass, and, raising it to his purple lips, took about\nhalf of the liquid offered him.\n\n Where do you suffer?  asked the doctor.\n\n Everywhere. I feel cramps over my whole body. \n\n Do you find any dazzling sensation before the eyes? \n\n Yes. \n\n Any noise in the ears? \n\n Frightful. \n\n40112m\n\n\n\n When did you first feel that? \n\n Just now. \n\n Suddenly? \n\n Yes, like a clap of thunder. \n\n Did you feel nothing of it yesterday or the day before? \n\n Nothing. \n\n No drowsiness? \n\n None. \n\n What have you eaten today? \n\n I have eaten nothing; I only drank a glass of my master s\nlemonade that s all.  And Barrois turned towards Noirtier, who,\nimmovably fixed in his armchair, was contemplating this terrible scene\nwithout allowing a word or a movement to escape him.\n\n Where is this lemonade?  asked the doctor eagerly.\n\n Downstairs in the decanter. \n\n Whereabouts downstairs? \n\n In the kitchen. \n\n Shall I go and fetch it, doctor?  inquired Villefort.\n\n No, stay here and try to make Barrois drink the rest of this glass of\nether and water. I will go myself and fetch the lemonade. \n\nD Avrigny bounded towards the door, flew down the back staircase, and\nalmost knocked down Madame de Villefort, in his haste, who was herself\ngoing down to the kitchen. She cried out, but d Avrigny paid no\nattention to her; possessed with but one idea, he cleared the last four\nsteps with a bound, and rushed into the kitchen, where he saw the\ndecanter about three parts empty still standing on the waiter, where it\nhad been left. He darted upon it as an eagle would seize upon its prey.\nPanting with loss of breath, he returned to the room he had just left.\nMadame de Villefort was slowly ascending the steps which led to her\nroom.\n\n Is this the decanter you spoke of?  asked d Avrigny.\n\n Yes, doctor. \n\n Is this the same lemonade of which you partook? \n\n I believe so. \n\n What did it taste like? \n\n It had a bitter taste. \n\nThe doctor poured some drops of the lemonade into the palm of his hand,\nput his lips to it, and after having rinsed his mouth as a man does\nwhen he is tasting wine, he spat the liquor into the fireplace.\n\n It is no doubt the same,  said he.  Did you drink some too, M.\nNoirtier? \n\n Yes. \n\n And did you also discover a bitter taste? \n\n Yes. \n\n Oh, doctor,  cried Barrois,  the fit is coming on again. Oh, do\nsomething for me.  The doctor flew to his patient.\n\n That emetic, Villefort see if it is coming. \n\nVillefort sprang into the passage, exclaiming,  The emetic! the\nemetic! is it come yet?  No one answered. The most profound terror\nreigned throughout the house.\n\n If I had anything by means of which I could inflate the lungs,  said\nd Avrigny, looking around him,  perhaps I might prevent suffocation.\nBut there is nothing which would do! nothing! \n\n40114m\n\n\n\n Oh, sir,  cried Barrois,  are you going to let me die without help?\nOh, I am dying! Oh, save me! \n\n A pen, a pen!  said the doctor. There was one lying on the table; he\nendeavored to introduce it into the mouth of the patient, who, in the\nmidst of his convulsions, was making vain attempts to vomit; but the\njaws were so clenched that the pen could not pass them. This second\nattack was much more violent than the first, and he had slipped from\nthe couch to the ground, where he was writhing in agony. The doctor\nleft him in this paroxysm, knowing that he could do nothing to\nalleviate it, and, going up to Noirtier, said abruptly:\n\n How do you find yourself? well? \n\n Yes. \n\n Have you any weight on the chest; or does your stomach feel light and\ncomfortable eh? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then you feel pretty much as you generally do after you have had the\ndose which I am accustomed to give you every Sunday? \n\n Yes. \n\n Did Barrois make your lemonade? \n\n Yes. \n\n Was it you who asked him to drink some of it? \n\n No. \n\n Was it M. de Villefort? \n\n No. \n\n Madame? \n\n No. \n\n It was your granddaughter, then, was it not? \n\n Yes. \n\nA groan from Barrois, accompanied by a yawn which seemed to crack the\nvery jawbones, attracted the attention of M. d Avrigny; he left M.\nNoirtier, and returned to the sick man.\n\n Barrois,  said the doctor,  can you speak?  Barrois muttered a few\nunintelligible words.  Try and make an effort to do so, my good man. \nsaid d Avrigny. Barrois reopened his bloodshot eyes.\n\n Who made the lemonade? \n\n I did. \n\n Did you bring it to your master directly it was made? \n\n No. \n\n You left it somewhere, then, in the meantime? \n\n Yes; I left it in the pantry, because I was called away. \n\n Who brought it into this room, then? \n\n Mademoiselle Valentine.  D Avrigny struck his forehead with his hand.\n\n Gracious heaven,  exclaimed he.\n\n Doctor, doctor!  cried Barrois, who felt another fit coming.\n\n Will they never bring that emetic?  asked the doctor.\n\n Here is a glass with one already prepared,  said Villefort, entering\nthe room.\n\n Who prepared it? \n\n The chemist who came here with me. \n\n40116m\n\n\n\n Drink it,  said the doctor to Barrois.\n\n Impossible, doctor; it is too late; my throat is closing up. I am\nchoking! Oh, my heart! Ah, my head! Oh, what agony! Shall I suffer like\nthis long? \n\n No, no, friend,  replied the doctor,  you will soon cease to suffer. \n\n Ah, I understand you,  said the unhappy man.  My God, have mercy upon\nme!  and, uttering a fearful cry, Barrois fell back as if he had been\nstruck by lightning. D Avrigny put his hand to his heart, and placed a\nglass before his lips.\n\n Well?  said Villefort.\n\n Go to the kitchen and get me some syrup of violets. \n\nVillefort went immediately.\n\n Do not be alarmed, M. Noirtier,  said d Avrigny;  I am going to take\nmy patient into the next room to bleed him; this sort of attack is very\nfrightful to witness. \n\nAnd taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into an adjoining\nroom; but almost immediately he returned to fetch the lemonade.\nNoirtier closed his right eye.\n\n You want Valentine, do you not? I will tell them to send her to you. \n\nVillefort returned, and d Avrigny met him in the passage.\n\n Well, how is he now?  asked he.\n\n Come in here,  said d Avrigny, and he took him into the chamber where\nthe sick man lay.\n\n Is he still in a fit?  said the procureur.\n\n He is dead. \n\nVillefort drew back a few steps, and, clasping his hands, exclaimed,\nwith real amazement and sympathy,  Dead? and so soon too! \n\n Yes, it is very soon,  said the doctor, looking at the corpse before\nhim;  but that ought not to astonish you; Monsieur and Madame de\nSaint-M ran died as soon. People die very suddenly in your house, M. de\nVillefort. \n\n What?  cried the magistrate, with an accent of horror and\nconsternation,  are you still harping on that terrible idea? \n\n Still, sir; and I shall always do so,  replied d Avrigny,  for it has\nnever for one instant ceased to retain possession of my mind; and that\nyou may be quite sure I am not mistaken this time, listen well to what\nI am going to say, M. de Villefort. \n\nThe magistrate trembled convulsively.\n\n There is a poison which destroys life almost without leaving any\nperceptible traces. I know it well; I have studied it in all its forms\nand in the effects which it produces. I recognized the presence of this\npoison in the case of poor Barrois as well as in that of Madame de\nSaint-M ran. There is a way of detecting its presence. It restores the\nblue color of litmus-paper reddened by an acid, and it turns syrup of\nviolets green. We have no litmus-paper, but, see, here they come with\nthe syrup of violets. \n\nThe doctor was right; steps were heard in the passage. M. d Avrigny\nopened the door, and took from the hands of the chambermaid a cup which\ncontained two or three spoonfuls of the syrup, he then carefully closed\nthe door.\n\n Look,  said he to the procureur, whose heart beat so loudly that it\nmight almost be heard,  here is in this cup some syrup of violets, and\nthis decanter contains the remainder of the lemonade of which M.\nNoirtier and Barrois partook. If the lemonade be pure and inoffensive,\nthe syrup will retain its color; if, on the contrary, the lemonade be\ndrugged with poison, the syrup will become green. Look closely! \n\nThe doctor then slowly poured some drops of the lemonade from the\ndecanter into the cup, and in an instant a light cloudy sediment began\nto form at the bottom of the cup; this sediment first took a blue\nshade, then from the color of sapphire it passed to that of opal, and\nfrom opal to emerald. Arrived at this last hue, it changed no more. The\nresult of the experiment left no doubt whatever on the mind.\n\n The unfortunate Barrois has been poisoned,  said d Avrigny,  and I\nwill maintain this assertion before God and man. \n\nVillefort said nothing, but he clasped his hands, opened his haggard\neyes, and, overcome with his emotion, sank into a chair.\n\n\n\n Chapter 80. The Accusation\n\nM. d Avrigny soon restored the magistrate to consciousness, who had\nlooked like a second corpse in that chamber of death.\n\n Oh, death is in my house!  cried Villefort.\n\n Say, rather, crime!  replied the doctor.\n\n M. d Avrigny,  cried Villefort,  I cannot tell you all I feel at this\nmoment, terror, grief, madness. \n\n Yes,  said M. d Avrigny, with an imposing calmness,  but I think it is\nnow time to act. I think it is time to stop this torrent of mortality.\nI can no longer bear to be in possession of these secrets without the\nhope of seeing the victims and society generally revenged. \n\nVillefort cast a gloomy look around him.  In my house,  murmured he,\n in my house! \n\n Come, magistrate,  said M. d Avrigny,  show yourself a man; as an\ninterpreter of the law, do honor to your profession by sacrificing your\nselfish interests to it. \n\n You make me shudder, doctor. Do you talk of a sacrifice? \n\n I do. \n\n Do you then suspect anyone? \n\n I suspect no one; death raps at your door it enters it goes, not\nblindfolded, but circumspectly, from room to room. Well, I follow its\ncourse, I track its passage; I adopt the wisdom of the ancients, and\nfeel my way, for my friendship for your family and my respect for you\nare as a twofold bandage over my eyes; well \n\n Oh, speak, speak, doctor; I shall have courage. \n\n Well, sir, you have in your establishment, or in your family, perhaps,\none of the frightful monstrosities of which each century produces only\none. Locusta and Agrippina, living at the same time, were an exception,\nand proved the determination of Providence to effect the entire ruin of\nthe Roman empire, sullied by so many crimes. Brunhilda and Fredegund\nwere the results of the painful struggle of civilization in its\ninfancy, when man was learning to control mind, were it even by an\nemissary from the realms of darkness. All these women had been, or\nwere, beautiful. The same flower of innocence had flourished, or was\nstill flourishing, on their brow, that is seen on the brow of the\nculprit in your house. \n\n40120m\n\n\n\nVillefort shrieked, clasped his hands, and looked at the doctor with a\nsupplicating air. But the latter went on without pity:\n\n Seek whom the crime will profit,  says an axiom of jurisprudence. \n\n Doctor,  cried Villefort,  alas, doctor, how often has man s justice\nbeen deceived by those fatal words. I know not why, but I feel that\nthis crime \n\n You acknowledge, then, the existence of the crime? \n\n Yes, I see too plainly that it does exist. But it seems that it is\nintended to affect me personally. I fear an attack myself, after all\nthese disasters. \n\n Oh, man!  murmured d Avrigny,  the most selfish of all animals, the\nmost personal of all creatures, who believes the earth turns, the sun\nshines, and death strikes for him alone, an ant cursing God from the\ntop of a blade of grass! And have those who have lost their lives lost\nnothing? M. de Saint-M ran, Madame de Saint-M ran, M. Noirtier \n\n How? M. Noirtier? \n\n Yes; think you it was the poor servant s life was coveted? No, no;\nlike Shakespeare s Polonius, he died for another. It was Noirtier the\nlemonade was intended for it is Noirtier, logically speaking, who drank\nit. The other drank it only by accident, and, although Barrois is dead,\nit was Noirtier whose death was wished for. \n\n But why did it not kill my father? \n\n I told you one evening in the garden after Madame de Saint-M ran s\ndeath because his system is accustomed to that very poison, and the\ndose was trifling to him, which would be fatal to another; because no\none knows, not even the assassin, that, for the last twelve months, I\nhave given M. Noirtier brucine for his paralytic affection, while the\nassassin is not ignorant, for he has proved that brucine is a violent\npoison. \n\n Oh, have pity have pity!  murmured Villefort, wringing his hands.\n\n Follow the culprit s steps; he first kills M. de Saint-M ran \n\n Oh, doctor! \n\n I would swear to it; what I heard of his symptoms agrees too well with\nwhat I have seen in the other cases.  Villefort ceased to contend; he\nonly groaned.  He first kills M. de Saint-M ran,  repeated the doctor,\n then Madame de Saint-M ran, a double fortune to inherit.  Villefort\nwiped the perspiration from his forehead.  Listen attentively. \n\n Alas,  stammered Villefort,  I do not lose a single word. \n\n M. Noirtier,  resumed M. d Avrigny in the same pitiless tone, M.\nNoirtier had once made a will against you against your family in favor\nof the poor, in fact; M. Noirtier is spared, because nothing is\nexpected from him. But he has no sooner destroyed his first will and\nmade a second, than, for fear he should make a third, he is struck\ndown. The will was made the day before yesterday, I believe; you see\nthere has been no time lost. \n\n Oh, mercy, M. d Avrigny! \n\n No mercy, sir! The physician has a sacred mission on earth; and to\nfulfil it he begins at the source of life, and goes down to the\nmysterious darkness of the tomb. When crime has been committed, and\nGod, doubtless in anger, turns away his face, it is for the physician\nto bring the culprit to justice. \n\n40122m\n\n\n\n Have mercy on my child, sir,  murmured Villefort.\n\n You see it is yourself who have first named her you, her father. \n\n Have pity on Valentine! Listen, it is impossible. I would as willingly\naccuse myself! Valentine, whose heart is pure as a diamond or a lily! \n\n No pity, procureur; the crime is fragrant. Mademoiselle herself packed\nall the medicines which were sent to M. de Saint-M ran; and M. de\nSaint-M ran is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort prepared all the cooling\ndraughts which Madame de Saint-M ran took, and Madame de Saint-M ran is\ndead. Mademoiselle de Villefort took from the hands of Barrois, who was\nsent out, the lemonade which M. Noirtier had every morning, and he has\nescaped by a miracle. Mademoiselle de Villefort is the culprit she is\nthe poisoner! To you, as the king s attorney, I denounce Mademoiselle\nde Villefort, do your duty. \n\n Doctor, I resist no longer I can no longer defend myself I believe\nyou; but, for pity s sake, spare my life, my honor! \n\n M. de Villefort,  replied the doctor, with increased vehemence,  there\nare occasions when I dispense with all foolish human circumspection. If\nyour daughter had committed only one crime, and I saw her meditating\nanother, I would say  Warn her, punish her, let her pass the remainder\nof her life in a convent, weeping and praying.  If she had committed\ntwo crimes, I would say,  Here, M. de Villefort, is a poison that the\nprisoner is not acquainted with, one that has no known antidote, quick\nas thought, rapid as lightning, mortal as the thunderbolt; give her\nthat poison, recommending her soul to God, and save your honor and your\nlife, for it is yours she aims at; and I can picture her approaching\nyour pillow with her hypocritical smiles and her sweet exhortations.\nWoe to you, M. de Villefort, if you do not strike first!  This is what\nI would say had she only killed two persons but she has seen three\ndeaths, has contemplated three murdered persons, has knelt by three\ncorpses! To the scaffold with the poisoner to the scaffold! Do you talk\nof your honor? Do what I tell you, and immortality awaits you! \n\nVillefort fell on his knees.\n\n Listen,  said he;  I have not the strength of mind you have, or rather\nthat which you would not have, if instead of my daughter Valentine your\ndaughter Madeleine were concerned.  The doctor turned pale.  Doctor,\nevery son of woman is born to suffer and to die; I am content to suffer\nand to await death. \n\n Beware,  said M. d Avrigny,  it may come slowly; you will see it\napproach after having struck your father, your wife, perhaps your son. \n\nVillefort, suffocating, pressed the doctor s arm.\n\n40124m\n\n\n\n Listen,  cried he;  pity me help me! No, my daughter is not guilty. If\nyou drag us both before a tribunal I will still say,  No, my daughter\nis not guilty; there is no crime in my house. I will not acknowledge a\ncrime in my house; for when crime enters a dwelling, it is like\ndeath it does not come alone.  Listen. What does it signify to you if I\nam murdered? Are you my friend? Are you a man? Have you a heart? No,\nyou are a physician! Well, I tell you I will not drag my daughter\nbefore a tribunal, and give her up to the executioner! The bare idea\nwould kill me would drive me like a madman to dig my heart out with my\nfinger-nails! And if you were mistaken, doctor if it were not my\ndaughter if I should come one day, pale as a spectre, and say to you,\n Assassin, you have killed my child! hold if that should happen,\nalthough I am a Christian, M. d Avrigny, I should kill myself. \n\n Well,  said the doctor, after a moment s silence,  I will wait. \n\nVillefort looked at him as if he had doubted his words.\n\n Only,  continued M. d Avrigny, with a slow and solemn tone,  if anyone\nfalls ill in your house, if you feel yourself attacked, do not send for\nme, for I will come no more. I will consent to share this dreadful\nsecret with you, but I will not allow shame and remorse to grow and\nincrease in my conscience, as crime and misery will in your house. \n\n Then you abandon me, doctor? \n\n Yes, for I can follow you no farther, and I only stop at the foot of\nthe scaffold. Some further discovery will be made, which will bring\nthis dreadful tragedy to a close. Adieu. \n\n I entreat you, doctor! \n\n All the horrors that disturb my thoughts make your house odious and\nfatal. Adieu, sir. \n\n One word one single word more, doctor! You go, leaving me in all the\nhorror of my situation, after increasing it by what you have revealed\nto me. But what will be reported of the sudden death of the poor old\nservant? \n\n True,  said M. d Avrigny;  we will return. \n\nThe doctor went out first, followed by M. de Villefort. The terrified\nservants were on the stairs and in the passage where the doctor would\npass.\n\n Sir,  said d Avrigny to Villefort, so loud that all might hear,  poor\nBarrois has led too sedentary a life of late; accustomed formerly to\nride on horseback, or in the carriage, to the four corners of Europe,\nthe monotonous walk around that armchair has killed him his blood has\nthickened. He was stout, had a short, thick neck; he was attacked with\napoplexy, and I was called in too late. By the way,  added he in a low\ntone,  take care to throw away that cup of syrup of violets in the\nashes. \n\nThe doctor, without shaking hands with Villefort, without adding a word\nto what he had said, went out, amid the tears and lamentations of the\nwhole household. The same evening all Villefort s servants, who had\nassembled in the kitchen, and had a long consultation, came to tell\nMadame de Villefort that they wished to leave. No entreaty, no\nproposition of increased wages, could induce them to remain; to every\nargument they replied,  We must go, for death is in this house. \n\nThey all left, in spite of prayers and entreaties, testifying their\nregret at leaving so good a master and mistress, and especially\nMademoiselle Valentine, so good, so kind, and so gentle.\n\nVillefort looked at Valentine as they said this. She was in tears, and,\nstrange as it was, in spite of the emotions he felt at the sight of\nthese tears, he looked also at Madame de Villefort, and it appeared to\nhim as if a slight gloomy smile had passed over her thin lips, like a\nmeteor seen passing inauspiciously between two clouds in a stormy sky.\n\n\n\n Chapter 81. The Room of the Retired Baker\n\nThe evening of the day on which the Count of Morcerf had left Danglars \nhouse with feelings of shame and anger at the rejection of the\nprojected alliance, M. Andrea Cavalcanti, with curled hair, moustaches\nin perfect order, and white gloves which fitted admirably, had entered\nthe courtyard of the banker s house in Rue de la Chauss e d Antin. He\nhad not been more than ten minutes in the drawing-room before he drew\nDanglars aside into the recess of a bow-window, and, after an ingenious\npreamble, related to him all his anxieties and cares since his noble\nfather s departure. He acknowledged the extreme kindness which had been\nshown him by the banker s family, in which he had been received as a\nson, and where, besides, his warmest affections had found an object on\nwhich to centre in Mademoiselle Danglars.\n\nDanglars listened with the most profound attention; he had expected\nthis declaration for the last two or three days, and when at last it\ncame his eyes glistened as much as they had lowered on listening to\nMorcerf. He would not, however, yield immediately to the young man s\nrequest, but made a few conscientious objections.\n\n Are you not rather young, M. Andrea, to think of marrying? \n\n I think not, sir,  replied M. Cavalcanti;  in Italy the nobility\ngenerally marry young. Life is so uncertain, that we ought to secure\nhappiness while it is within our reach. \n\n Well, sir,  said Danglars,  in case your proposals, which do me honor,\nare accepted by my wife and daughter, by whom shall the preliminary\narrangements be settled? So important a negotiation should, I think, be\nconducted by the respective fathers of the young people. \n\n Sir, my father is a man of great foresight and prudence. Thinking that\nI might wish to settle in France, he left me at his departure, together\nwith the papers establishing my identity, a letter promising, if he\napproved of my choice, 150,000 livres per annum from the day I was\nmarried. So far as I can judge, I suppose this to be a quarter of my\nfather s revenue. \n\n I,  said Danglars,  have always intended giving my daughter 500,000\nfrancs as her dowry; she is, besides, my sole heiress. \n\n All would then be easily arranged if the baroness and her daughter are\nwilling. We should command an annuity of 175,000 livres. Supposing,\nalso, I should persuade the marquis to give me my capital, which is not\nlikely, but still is possible, we would place these two or three\nmillions in your hands, whose talent might make it realize ten per\ncent. \n\n I never give more than four per cent, and generally only three and a\nhalf; but to my son-in-law I would give five, and we would share the\nprofits. \n\n Very good, father-in-law,  said Cavalcanti, yielding to his low-born\nnature, which would escape sometimes through the aristocratic gloss\nwith which he sought to conceal it. Correcting himself immediately, he\nsaid,  Excuse me, sir; hope alone makes me almost mad, what will not\nreality do? \n\n But,  said Danglars, who, on his part, did not perceive how soon the\nconversation, which was at first disinterested, was turning to a\nbusiness transaction,  there is, doubtless, a part of your fortune your\nfather could not refuse you? \n\n Which?  asked the young man.\n\n That you inherit from your mother. \n\n Truly, from my mother, Leonora Corsinari. \n\n How much may it amount to? \n\n Indeed, sir,  said Andrea,  I assure you I have never given the\nsubject a thought, but I suppose it must have been at least two\nmillions. \n\nDanglars felt as much overcome with joy as the miser who finds a lost\ntreasure, or as the shipwrecked mariner who feels himself on solid\nground instead of in the abyss which he expected would swallow him up.\n\n Well, sir,  said Andrea, bowing to the banker respectfully,  may I\nhope? \n\n You may not only hope,  said Danglars,  but consider it a settled\nthing, if no obstacle arises on your part. \n\n I am, indeed, rejoiced,  said Andrea.\n\n But,  said Danglars thoughtfully,  how is it that your patron, M. de\nMonte Cristo, did not make his proposal for you? \n\nAndrea blushed imperceptibly.\n\n I have just left the count, sir,  said he;  he is, doubtless, a\ndelightful man but inconceivably peculiar in his ideas. He esteems me\nhighly. He even told me he had not the slightest doubt that my father\nwould give me the capital instead of the interest of my property. He\nhas promised to use his influence to obtain it for me; but he also\ndeclared that he never had taken on himself the responsibility of\nmaking proposals for another, and he never would. I must, however, do\nhim the justice to add that he assured me if ever he had regretted the\nrepugnance he felt to such a step it was on this occasion, because he\nthought the projected union would be a happy and suitable one. Besides,\nif he will do nothing officially, he will answer any questions you\npropose to him. And now,  continued he, with one of his most charming\nsmiles,  having finished talking to the father-in-law, I must address\nmyself to the banker. \n\n And what may you have to say to him?  said Danglars, laughing in his\nturn.\n\n That the day after tomorrow I shall have to draw upon you for about\nfour thousand francs; but the count, expecting my bachelor s revenue\ncould not suffice for the coming month s outlay, has offered me a draft\nfor twenty thousand francs. It bears his signature, as you see, which\nis all-sufficient. \n\n Bring me a million such as that,  said Danglars,  I shall be well\npleased,  putting the draft in his pocket.  Fix your own hour for\ntomorrow, and my cashier shall call on you with a check for eighty\nthousand francs. \n\n At ten o clock then, if you please; I should like it early, as I am\ngoing into the country tomorrow. \n\n Very well, at ten o clock; you are still at the H tel des Princes? \n\n Yes. \n\nThe following morning, with the banker s usual punctuality, the eighty\nthousand francs were placed in the young man s hands, as he was on the\npoint of starting, after having left two hundred francs for Caderousse.\nHe went out chiefly to avoid this dangerous enemy, and returned as late\nas possible in the evening.\n\nBut scarcely had he stepped out of his carriage when the porter met him\nwith a parcel in his hand.\n\n Sir,  said he,  that man has been here. \n\n What man?  said Andrea carelessly, apparently forgetting him whom he\nbut too well recollected.\n\n Him to whom your excellency pays that little annuity. \n\n Oh,  said Andrea,  my father s old servant. Well, you gave him the two\nhundred francs I had left for him? \n\n Yes, your excellency.  Andrea had expressed a wish to be thus\naddressed.  But,  continued the porter,  he would not take them. \n\nAndrea turned pale, but as it was dark his pallor was not perceptible.\n What? he would not take them?  said he with slight emotion.\n\n40130m\n\n\n\n No, he wished to speak to your excellency; I told him you were gone\nout, and after some dispute he believed me and gave me this letter,\nwhich he had brought with him already sealed. \n\n Give it me,  said Andrea, and he read by the light of his\ncarriage-lamp:\n\n You know where I live; I expect you tomorrow morning at nine\no clock. \n\nAndrea examined it carefully, to ascertain if the letter had been\nopened, or if any indiscreet eyes had seen its contents; but it was so\ncarefully folded, that no one could have read it, and the seal was\nperfect.\n\n Very well,  said he.  Poor man, he is a worthy creature.  He left the\nporter to ponder on these words, not knowing which most to admire, the\nmaster or the servant.\n\n Take out the horses quickly, and come up to me,  said Andrea to his\ngroom. In two seconds the young man had reached his room and burnt\nCaderousse s letter. The servant entered just as he had finished.\n\n You are about my height, Pierre,  said he.\n\n I have that honor, your excellency. \n\n You had a new livery yesterday? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n I have an engagement with a pretty little girl for this evening, and\ndo not wish to be known; lend me your livery till tomorrow. I may\nsleep, perhaps, at an inn. \n\nPierre obeyed. Five minutes after, Andrea left the hotel, completely\ndisguised, took a cabriolet, and ordered the driver to take him to the\nCheval Rouge, at Picpus. The next morning he left that inn as he had\nleft the H tel des Princes, without being noticed, walked down the\nFaubourg Saint-Antoine, along the boulevard to Rue M nilmontant, and\nstopping at the door of the third house on the left looked for someone\nof whom to make inquiry in the porter s absence.\n\n For whom are you looking, my fine fellow?  asked the fruiteress on the\nopposite side.\n\n Monsieur Pailletin, if you please, my good woman,  replied Andrea.\n\n A retired baker?  asked the fruiteress.\n\n Exactly. \n\n He lives at the end of the yard, on the left, on the third story. \n\n40132m\n\n\n\nAndrea went as she directed him, and on the third floor he found a\nhare s paw, which, by the hasty ringing of the bell, it was evident he\npulled with considerable ill-temper. A moment after Caderousse s face\nappeared at the grating in the door.\n\n Ah! you are punctual,  said he, as he drew back the door.\n\n Confound you and your punctuality!  said Andrea, throwing himself into\na chair in a manner which implied that he would rather have flung it at\nthe head of his host.\n\n Come, come, my little fellow, don t be angry. See, I have thought\nabout you look at the good breakfast we are going to have; nothing but\nwhat you are fond of. \n\nAndrea, indeed, inhaled the scent of something cooking which was not\nunwelcome to him, hungry as he was; it was that mixture of fat and\ngarlic peculiar to Proven al kitchens of an inferior order, added to\nthat of dried fish, and above all, the pungent smell of musk and\ncloves. These odors escaped from two deep dishes which were covered and\nplaced on a stove, and from a copper pan placed in an old iron pot. In\nan adjoining room Andrea saw also a tolerably clean table prepared for\ntwo, two bottles of wine sealed, the one with green, the other with\nyellow, a supply of brandy in a decanter, and a measure of fruit in a\ncabbage-leaf, cleverly arranged on an earthenware plate.\n\n What do you think of it, my little fellow?  said Caderousse.  Ay, that\nsmells good! You know I used to be a good cook; do you recollect how\nyou used to lick your fingers? You were among the first who tasted any\nof my dishes, and I think you relished them tolerably.  While speaking,\nCaderousse went on peeling a fresh supply of onions.\n\n But,  said Andrea, ill-temperedly,  by my faith, if it was only to\nbreakfast with you, that you disturbed me, I wish the devil had taken\nyou! \n\n My boy,  said Caderousse sententiously,  one can talk while eating.\nAnd then, you ungrateful being, you are not pleased to see an old\nfriend? I am weeping with joy. \n\nHe was truly crying, but it would have been difficult to say whether\njoy or the onions produced the greatest effect on the lachrymal glands\nof the old innkeeper of the Pont-du-Gard.\n\n Hold your tongue, hypocrite,  said Andrea;  you love me! \n\n Yes, I do, or may the devil take me. I know it is a weakness,  said\nCaderousse,  but it overpowers me. \n\n And yet it has not prevented your sending for me to play me some\ntrick. \n\n Come,  said Caderousse, wiping his large knife on his apron,  if I did\nnot like you, do you think I should endure the wretched life you lead\nme? Think for a moment. You have your servant s clothes on you\ntherefore keep a servant; I have none, and am obliged to prepare my own\nmeals. You abuse my cookery because you dine at the table d h te of the\nH tel des Princes, or the Caf  de Paris. Well, I too could keep a\nservant; I too could have a tilbury; I too could dine where I like; but\nwhy do I not? Because I would not annoy my little Benedetto. Come, just\nacknowledge that I could, eh? \n\nThis address was accompanied by a look which was by no means difficult\nto understand.\n\n Well,  said Andrea,  admitting your love, why do you want me to\nbreakfast with you? \n\n That I may have the pleasure of seeing you, my little fellow. \n\n What is the use of seeing me after we have made all our arrangements? \n\n Eh, dear friend,  said Caderousse,  are wills ever made without\ncodicils? But you first came to breakfast, did you not? Well, sit down,\nand let us begin with these pilchards, and this fresh butter; which I\nhave put on some vine-leaves to please you, wicked one. Ah, yes; you\nlook at my room, my four straw chairs, my images, three francs each.\nBut what do you expect? This is not the H tel des Princes. \n\n Come, you are growing discontented, you are no longer happy; you, who\nonly wish to live like a retired baker. \n\nCaderousse sighed.\n\n Well, what have you to say? you have seen your dream realized. \n\n I can still say it is a dream; a retired baker, my poor Benedetto, is\nrich he has an annuity. \n\n Well, you have an annuity. \n\n I have? \n\n40134m\n\n\n\n Yes, since I bring you your two hundred francs. \n\nCaderousse shrugged his shoulders.\n\n It is humiliating,  said he,  thus to receive money given\ngrudgingly, an uncertain supply which may soon fail. You see I am\nobliged to economize, in case your prosperity should cease. Well, my\nfriend, fortune is inconstant, as the chaplain of the regiment said. I\nknow your prosperity is great, you rascal; you are to marry the\ndaughter of Danglars. \n\n What? of Danglars? \n\n Yes, to be sure; must I say Baron Danglars? I might as well say Count\nBenedetto. He was an old friend of mine and if he had not so bad a\nmemory he ought to invite me to your wedding, seeing he came to mine.\nYes, yes, to mine; gad, he was not so proud then, he was an under-clerk\nto the good M. Morrel. I have dined many times with him and the Count\nof Morcerf, so you see I have some high connections and were I to\ncultivate them a little, we might meet in the same drawing-rooms. \n\n Come, your jealousy represents everything to you in the wrong light. \n\n That is all very fine, Benedetto mio, but I know what I am saying.\nPerhaps I may one day put on my best coat, and presenting myself at the\ngreat gate, introduce myself. Meanwhile let us sit down and eat. \n\nCaderousse set the example and attacked the breakfast with good\nappetite, praising each dish he set before his visitor. The latter\nseemed to have resigned himself; he drew the corks, and partook largely\nof the fish with the garlic and fat.\n\n Ah, mate,  said Caderousse,  you are getting on better terms with your\nold landlord! \n\n Faith, yes,  replied Andrea, whose hunger prevailed over every other\nfeeling.\n\n So you like it, you rogue? \n\n So much that I wonder how a man who can cook thus can complain of hard\nliving. \n\n Do you see,  said Caderousse,  all my happiness is marred by one\nthought? \n\n What is that? \n\n That I am dependent on another, I who have always gained my own\nlivelihood honestly. \n\n Do not let that disturb you, I have enough for two. \n\n No, truly; you may believe me if you will; at the end of every month I\nam tormented by remorse. \n\n Good Caderousse! \n\n So much so, that yesterday I would not take the two hundred francs. \n\n Yes, you wished to speak to me; but was it indeed remorse, tell me? \n\n True remorse; and, besides, an idea had struck me. \n\nAndrea shuddered; he always did so at Caderousse s ideas.\n\n It is miserable do you see? always to wait till the end of the month. \n\n Oh,  said Andrea philosophically, determined to watch his companion\nnarrowly,  does not life pass in waiting? Do I, for instance, fare\nbetter? Well, I wait patiently, do I not? \n\n Yes; because instead of expecting two hundred wretched francs, you\nexpect five or six thousand, perhaps ten, perhaps even twelve, for you\ntake care not to let anyone know the utmost. Down there, you always had\nlittle presents and Christmas-boxes, which you tried to hide from your\npoor friend Caderousse. Fortunately he is a cunning fellow, that friend\nCaderousse. \n\n There you are beginning again to ramble, to talk again and again of\nthe past! But what is the use of teasing me with going all over that\nagain? \n\n Ah, you are only one-and-twenty, and can forget the past; I am fifty,\nand am obliged to recollect it. But let us return to business. \n\n Yes. \n\n I was going to say, if I were in your place \n\n Well. \n\n I would realize \n\n How would you realize? \n\n I would ask for six months  in advance, under pretence of being able\nto purchase a farm, then with my six months I would decamp. \n\n Well, well,  said Andrea,  that isn t a bad idea. \n\n My dear friend,  said Caderousse,  eat of my bread, and take my\nadvice; you will be none the worse off, physically or morally. \n\n But,  said Andrea,  why do you not act on the advice you gave me? Why\ndo you not realize a six months , a year s advance even, and retire to\nBrussels? Instead of living the retired baker, you might live as a\nbankrupt, using his privileges; that would be very good. \n\n But how the devil would you have me retire on twelve hundred francs? \n\n Ah, Caderousse,  said Andrea,  how covetous you are! Two months ago\nyou were dying with hunger. \n\n The appetite grows by what it feeds on,  said Caderousse, grinning and\nshowing his teeth, like a monkey laughing or a tiger growling.  And, \nadded he, biting off with his large white teeth an enormous mouthful of\nbread,  I have formed a plan. \n\nCaderousse s plans alarmed Andrea still more than his ideas; ideas were\nbut the germ, the plan was reality.\n\n Let me see your plan; I dare say it is a pretty one. \n\n Why not? Who formed the plan by which we left the establishment of\nM ! eh? was it not I? and it was no bad one I believe, since here we\nare! \n\n I do not say,  replied Andrea,  that you never make a good one; but\nlet us see your plan. \n\n Well,  pursued Caderousse,  can you without expending one sou, put me\nin the way of getting fifteen thousand francs? No, fifteen thousand are\nnot enough, I cannot again become an honest man with less than thirty\nthousand francs. \n\n No,  replied Andrea, dryly,  no, I cannot. \n\n I do not think you understand me,  replied Caderousse, calmly;  I said\nwithout your laying out a sou. \n\n Do you want me to commit a robbery, to spoil all my good fortune and\nyours with mine and both of us to be dragged down there again? \n\n It would make very little difference to me,  said Caderousse,  if I\nwere retaken, I am a poor creature to live alone, and sometimes pine\nfor my old comrades; not like you, heartless creature, who would be\nglad never to see them again. \n\nAndrea did more than tremble this time, he turned pale.\n\n Come, Caderousse, no nonsense!  said he.\n\n Don t alarm yourself, my little Benedetto, but just point out to me\nsome means of gaining those thirty thousand francs without your\nassistance, and I will contrive it. \n\n Well, I ll see I ll try to contrive some way,  said Andrea.\n\n Meanwhile you will raise my monthly allowance to five hundred francs,\nmy little fellow? I have a fancy, and mean to get a housekeeper. \n\n Well, you shall have your five hundred francs,  said Andrea;  but it\nis very hard for me, my poor Caderousse you take advantage \n\n Bah,  said Caderousse,  when you have access to countless stores. \n\nOne would have said Andrea anticipated his companion s words, so did\nhis eye flash like lightning, but it was but for a moment.\n\n True,  he replied,  and my protector is very kind. \n\n That dear protector,  said Caderousse;  and how much does he give you\nmonthly? \n\n Five thousand francs. \n\n As many thousands as you give me hundreds! Truly, it is only bastards\nwho are thus fortunate. Five thousand francs per month! What the devil\ncan you do with all that? \n\n Oh, it is no trouble to spend that; and I am like you, I want\ncapital. \n\n Capital? yes I understand everyone would like capital. \n\n Well, and I shall get it. \n\n Who will give it to you your prince? \n\n Yes, my prince. But unfortunately I must wait. \n\n40138m\n\n\n\n You must wait for what?  asked Caderousse.\n\n For his death. \n\n The death of your prince? \n\n Yes. \n\n How so? \n\n Because he has made his will in my favor. \n\n Indeed? \n\n On my honor. \n\n For how much? \n\n For five hundred thousand. \n\n Only that? It s little enough. \n\n But so it is. \n\n No, it cannot be! \n\n Are you my friend, Caderousse? \n\n Yes, in life or death. \n\n Well, I will tell you a secret. \n\n What is it? \n\n But remember \n\n Ah! _pardieu!_ mute as a carp. \n\n Well, I think \n\nAndrea stopped and looked around.\n\n You think? Do not fear; _pardieu!_ we are alone. \n\n I think I have discovered my father. \n\n Your true father? \n\n Yes. \n\n Not old Cavalcanti? \n\n No, for he has gone again; the true one, as you say. \n\n And that father is \n\n Well, Caderousse, it is Monte Cristo. \n\n Bah! \n\n Yes, you understand, that explains all. He cannot acknowledge me\nopenly, it appears, but he does it through M. Cavalcanti, and gives him\nfifty thousand francs for it. \n\n Fifty thousand francs for being your father? I would have done it for\nhalf that, for twenty thousand, for fifteen thousand; why did you not\nthink of me, ungrateful man? \n\n Did I know anything about it, when it was all done when I was down\nthere? \n\n Ah, truly? And you say that by his will \n\n He leaves me five hundred thousand livres. \n\n Are you sure of it? \n\n He showed it me; but that is not all there is a codicil, as I said\njust now. \n\n Probably. \n\n And in that codicil he acknowledges me. \n\n Oh, the good father, the brave father, the very honest father!  said\nCaderousse, twirling a plate in the air between his two hands.\n\n Now, say if I conceal anything from you? \n\n No, and your confidence makes you honorable in my opinion; and your\nprincely father, is he rich, very rich? \n\n Yes, he is that; he does not himself know the amount of his fortune. \n\n Is it possible? \n\n It is evident enough to me, who am always at his house. The other day\na banker s clerk brought him fifty thousand francs in a portfolio about\nthe size of your plate; yesterday his banker brought him a hundred\nthousand francs in gold. \n\nCaderousse was filled with wonder; the young man s words sounded to him\nlike metal, and he thought he could hear the rushing of cascades of\nlouis.\n\n And you go into that house?  cried he briskly.\n\n When I like. \n\nCaderousse was thoughtful for a moment. It was easy to perceive he was\nrevolving some unfortunate idea in his mind. Then suddenly, \n\n How I should like to see all that,  cried he;  how beautiful it must\nbe! \n\n It is, in fact, magnificent,  said Andrea.\n\n And does he not live in the Champs- lys es? \n\n Yes, No. 30. \n\n Ah,  said Caderousse,  No. 30. \n\n Yes, a fine house standing alone, between a courtyard and a\ngarden, you must know it. \n\n Possibly; but it is not the exterior I care for, it is the interior.\nWhat beautiful furniture there must be in it! \n\n Have you ever seen the Tuileries? \n\n No. \n\n Well, it surpasses that. \n\n It must be worth one s while to stoop, Andrea, when that good M. Monte\nCristo lets fall his purse. \n\n It is not worthwhile to wait for that,  said Andrea;  money is as\nplentiful in that house as fruit in an orchard. \n\n But you should take me there one day with you. \n\n How can I? On what plea? \n\n You are right; but you have made my mouth water. I must absolutely see\nit; I shall find a way. \n\n No nonsense, Caderousse! \n\n I will offer myself as floor-polisher. \n\n The rooms are all carpeted. \n\n Well, then, I must be contented to imagine it. \n\n That is the best plan, believe me. \n\n Try, at least, to give me an idea of what it is. \n\n How can I? \n\n Nothing is easier. Is it large? \n\n Middling. \n\n How is it arranged? \n\n Faith, I should require pen, ink, and paper to make a plan. \n\n They are all here,  said Caderousse, briskly. He fetched from an old\nsecretaire a sheet of white paper and pen and ink.  Here,  said\nCaderousse,  draw me all that on the paper, my boy. \n\nAndrea took the pen with an imperceptible smile and began.\n\n The house, as I said, is between the court and the garden; in this\nway, do you see?  Andrea drew the garden, the court and the house.\n\n40142m\n\n\n\n High walls? \n\n Not more than eight or ten feet. \n\n That is not prudent,  said Caderousse.\n\n In the court are orange-trees in pots, turf, and clumps of flowers. \n\n And no steel-traps? \n\n No. \n\n The stables? \n\n Are on either side of the gate, which you see there.  And Andrea\ncontinued his plan.\n\n Let us see the ground floor,  said Caderousse.\n\n On the ground floor, dining-room, two drawing-rooms, billiard-room,\nstaircase in the hall, and a little back staircase. \n\n Windows? \n\n Magnificent windows, so beautiful, so large, that I believe a man of\nyour size should pass through each frame. \n\n Why the devil have they any stairs with such windows? \n\n Luxury has everything. \n\n But shutters? \n\n Yes, but they are never used. That Count of Monte Cristo is an\noriginal, who loves to look at the sky even at night. \n\n And where do the servants sleep? \n\n Oh, they have a house to themselves. Picture to yourself a pretty\ncoach-house at the right-hand side where the ladders are kept. Well,\nover that coach-house are the servants  rooms, with bells corresponding\nwith the different apartments. \n\n Ah, _diable!_ bells did you say? \n\n What do you mean? \n\n Oh, nothing! I only say they cost a load of money to hang, and what is\nthe use of them, I should like to know? \n\n There used to be a dog let loose in the yard at night, but it has been\ntaken to the house at Auteuil, to that you went to, you know. \n\n Yes. \n\n I was saying to him only yesterday,  You are imprudent, Monsieur\nCount; for when you go to Auteuil and take your servants the house is\nleft unprotected.   Well,  said he,  what next?   Well, next, some day\nyou will be robbed. \n\n What did he answer? \n\n He quietly said,  What do I care if I am? \n\n Andrea, he has some secretaire with a spring. \n\n How do you know? \n\n Yes, which catches the thief in a trap and plays a tune. I was told\nthere were such at the last exhibition. \n\n He has simply a mahogany secretaire, in which the key is always kept. \n\n And he is not robbed? \n\n No; his servants are all devoted to him. \n\n There ought to be some money in that secretaire? \n\n There may be. No one knows what there is. \n\n And where is it? \n\n On the first floor. \n\n Sketch me the plan of that floor, as you have done of the ground\nfloor, my boy. \n\n That is very simple.  Andrea took the pen.  On the first story, do you\nsee, there is the anteroom and the drawing-room; to the right of the\ndrawing-room, a library and a study; to the left, a bedroom and a\ndressing-room. The famous secretaire is in the dressing-room. \n\n Is there a window in the dressing-room? \n\n Two, one here and one there.  Andrea sketched two windows in the room,\nwhich formed an angle on the plan, and appeared as a small square added\nto the rectangle of the bedroom. Caderousse became thoughtful.\n\n Does he often go to Auteuil?  added he.\n\n Two or three times a week. Tomorrow, for instance, he is going to\nspend the day and night there. \n\n Are you sure of it? \n\n He has invited me to dine there. \n\n There s a life for you,  said Caderousse;  a town house and a country\nhouse. \n\n That is what it is to be rich. \n\n And shall you dine there? \n\n Probably. \n\n When you dine there, do you sleep there? \n\n If I like; I am at home there. \n\nCaderousse looked at the young man, as if to get at the truth from the\nbottom of his heart. But Andrea drew a cigar-case from his pocket, took\na Havana, quietly lit it, and began smoking.\n\n When do you want your twelve hundred francs?  said he to Caderousse.\n\n Now, if you have them.  Andrea took five-and-twenty louis from his\npocket.\n\n Yellow boys?  said Caderousse;  no, I thank you. \n\n Oh, you despise them. \n\n On the contrary, I esteem them, but will not have them. \n\n You can change them, idiot; gold is worth five sous. \n\n Exactly; and he who changes them will follow friend Caderousse, lay\nhands on him, and demand what farmers pay him their rent in gold. No\nnonsense, my good fellow; silver simply, round coins with the head of\nsome monarch or other on them. Anybody may possess a five-franc piece. \n\n But do you suppose I carry five hundred francs about with me? I should\nwant a porter. \n\n Well, leave them with your porter; he is to be trusted. I will call\nfor them. \n\n Today? \n\n No, tomorrow; I shall not have time today. \n\n Well, tomorrow I will leave them when I go to Auteuil. \n\n May I depend on it? \n\n Certainly. \n\n Because I shall secure my housekeeper on the strength of it. \n\n Now see here, will that be all? Eh? And will you not torment me any\nmore? \n\n Never. \n\nCaderousse had become so gloomy that Andrea feared he should be obliged\nto notice the change. He redoubled his gayety and carelessness.\n\n How sprightly you are,  said Caderousse;  One would say you were\nalready in possession of your property. \n\n No, unfortunately; but when I do obtain it \n\n Well? \n\n I shall remember old friends, I can tell you that. \n\n Yes, since you have such a good memory. \n\n What do you want? It looks as if you were trying to fleece me? \n\n I? What an idea! I, who am going to give you another piece of good\nadvice. \n\n What is it? \n\n To leave behind you the diamond you have on your finger. We shall both\nget into trouble. You will ruin both yourself and me by your folly. \n\n How so?  said Andrea.\n\n How? You put on a livery, you disguise yourself as a servant, and yet\nkeep a diamond on your finger worth four or five thousand francs. \n\n You guess well. \n\n I know something of diamonds; I have had some. \n\n You do well to boast of it,  said Andrea, who, without becoming angry,\nas Caderousse feared, at this new extortion, quietly resigned the ring.\nCaderousse looked so closely at it that Andrea well knew that he was\nexamining to see if all the edges were perfect.\n\n It is a false diamond,  said Caderousse.\n\n You are joking now,  replied Andrea.\n\n Do not be angry, we can try it.  Caderousse went to the window,\ntouched the glass with it, and found it would cut.\n\n _Confiteor!_  said Caderousse, putting the diamond on his little\nfinger;  I was mistaken; but those thieves of jewellers imitate so well\nthat it is no longer worthwhile to rob a jeweller s shop it is another\nbranch of industry paralyzed. \n\n Have you finished?  said Andrea, do you want anything more? will you\nhave my waistcoat or my hat? Make free, now you have begun. \n\n No; you are, after all, a good companion; I will not detain you, and\nwill try to cure myself of my ambition. \n\n But take care the same thing does not happen to you in selling the\ndiamond you feared with the gold. \n\n I shall not sell it do not fear. \n\n Not at least till the day after tomorrow,  thought the young man.\n\n Happy rogue,  said Caderousse;  you are going to find your servants,\nyour horses, your carriage, and your betrothed! \n\n Yes,  said Andrea.\n\n Well, I hope you will make a handsome wedding-present the day you\nmarry Mademoiselle Danglars. \n\n I have already told you it is a fancy you have taken in your head. \n\n What fortune has she? \n\n But I tell you \n\n A million? \n\nAndrea shrugged his shoulders.\n\n Let it be a million,  said Caderousse;  you can never have so much as\nI wish you. \n\n Thank you,  said the young man.\n\n Oh, I wish it you with all my heart!  added Caderousse with his hoarse\nlaugh.  Stop, let me show you the way. \n\n It is not worthwhile. \n\n Yes, it is. \n\n Why? \n\n Because there is a little secret, a precaution I thought it desirable\nto take, one of Huret & Fichet s locks, revised and improved by Gaspard\nCaderousse; I will manufacture you a similar one when you are a\ncapitalist. \n\n Thank you,  said Andrea;  I will let you know a week beforehand. \n\nThey parted. Caderousse remained on the landing until he had not only\nseen Andrea go down the three stories, but also cross the court. Then\nhe returned hastily, shut his door carefully, and began to study, like\na clever architect, the plan Andrea had left him.\n\n Dear Benedetto,  said he,  I think he will not be sorry to inherit his\nfortune, and he who hastens the day when he can touch his five hundred\nthousand will not be his worst friend. \n\n\n\n Chapter 82. The Burglary\n\nThe day following that on which the conversation we have related took\nplace, the Count of Monte Cristo set out for Auteuil, accompanied by\nAli and several attendants, and also taking with him some horses whose\nqualities he was desirous of ascertaining. He was induced to undertake\nthis journey, of which the day before he had not even thought and which\nhad not occurred to Andrea either, by the arrival of Bertuccio from\nNormandy with intelligence respecting the house and sloop. The house\nwas ready, and the sloop which had arrived a week before lay at anchor\nin a small creek with her crew of six men, who had observed all the\nrequisite formalities and were ready again to put to sea.\n\nThe count praised Bertuccio s zeal, and ordered him to prepare for a\nspeedy departure, as his stay in France would not be prolonged more\nthan a month.\n\n Now,  said he,  I may require to go in one night from Paris to\nTr port; let eight fresh horses be in readiness on the road, which will\nenable me to go fifty leagues in ten hours. \n\n Your highness had already expressed that wish,  said Bertuccio,  and\nthe horses are ready. I have bought them, and stationed them myself at\nthe most desirable posts, that is, in villages, where no one generally\nstops. \n\n That s well,  said Monte Cristo;  I remain here a day or two arrange\naccordingly. \n\nAs Bertuccio was leaving the room to give the requisite orders,\nBaptistin opened the door: he held a letter on a silver waiter.\n\n What are you doing here?  asked the count, seeing him covered with\ndust;  I did not send for you, I think? \n\nBaptistin, without answering, approached the count, and presented the\nletter.  Important and urgent,  said he.\n\nThe count opened the letter, and read:\n\n M. de Monte Cristo is apprised that this night a man will enter his\nhouse in the Champs- lys es with the intention of carrying off some\npapers supposed to be in the secretaire in the dressing-room. The\ncount s well-known courage will render unnecessary the aid of the\npolice, whose interference might seriously affect him who sends this\nadvice. The count, by any opening from the bedroom, or by concealing\nhimself in the dressing-room, would be able to defend his property\nhimself. Many attendants or apparent precautions would prevent the\nvillain from the attempt, and M. de Monte Cristo would lose the\nopportunity of discovering an enemy whom chance has revealed to him who\nnow sends this warning to the count, a warning he might not be able to\nsend another time, if this first attempt should fail and another be\nmade. \n\n\nThe count s first idea was that this was an artifice a gross deception,\nto draw his attention from a minor danger in order to expose him to a\ngreater. He was on the point of sending the letter to the commissary of\npolice, notwithstanding the advice of his anonymous friend, or perhaps\nbecause of that advice, when suddenly the idea occurred to him that it\nmight be some personal enemy, whom he alone should recognize and over\nwhom, if such were the case, he alone would gain any advantage, as\nFiesco17 had done over the Moor who would have killed him. We know the\ncount s vigorous and daring mind, denying anything to be impossible,\nwith that energy which marks the great man.\n\nFrom his past life, from his resolution to shrink from nothing, the\ncount had acquired an inconceivable relish for the contests in which he\nhad engaged, sometimes against nature, that is to say, against God, and\nsometimes against the world, that is, against the devil.\n\n They do not want my papers,  said Monte Cristo,  they want to kill me;\nthey are no robbers, but assassins. I will not allow the prefect of\npolice to interfere with my private affairs. I am rich enough,\nforsooth, to distribute his authority on this occasion. \n\nThe count recalled Baptistin, who had left the room after delivering\nthe letter.\n\n Return to Paris,  said he;  assemble the servants who remain there. I\nwant all my household at Auteuil. \n\n But will no one remain in the house, my lord?  asked Baptistin.\n\n Yes, the porter. \n\n My lord will remember that the lodge is at a distance from the house. \n\n Well? \n\n The house might be stripped without his hearing the least noise. \n\n By whom? \n\n By thieves. \n\n You are a fool, M. Baptistin. Thieves might strip the house it would\nannoy me less than to be disobeyed.  Baptistin bowed.\n\n40150m\n\n\n\n You understand me?  said the count.  Bring your comrades here, one and\nall; but let everything remain as usual, only close the shutters of the\nground floor. \n\n And those of the first floor? \n\n You know they are never closed. Go! \n\nThe count signified his intention of dining alone, and that no one but\nAli should attend him. Having dined with his usual tranquillity and\nmoderation, the count, making a signal to Ali to follow him, went out\nby the side-gate and on reaching the Bois de Boulogne turned,\napparently without design towards Paris and at twilight; found himself\nopposite his house in the Champs- lys es. All was dark; one solitary,\nfeeble light was burning in the porter s lodge, about forty paces\ndistant from the house, as Baptistin had said.\n\nMonte Cristo leaned against a tree, and with that scrutinizing glance\nwhich was so rarely deceived, looked up and down the avenue, examined\nthe passers-by, and carefully looked down the neighboring streets, to\nsee that no one was concealed. Ten minutes passed thus, and he was\nconvinced that no one was watching him. He hastened to the side-door\nwith Ali, entered hurriedly, and by the servants  staircase, of which\nhe had the key, gained his bedroom without opening or disarranging a\nsingle curtain, without even the porter having the slightest suspicion\nthat the house, which he supposed empty, contained its chief occupant.\n\nArrived in his bedroom, the count motioned to Ali to stop; then he\npassed into the dressing-room, which he examined. Everything appeared\nas usual the precious secretaire in its place, and the key in the\nsecretaire. He double locked it, took the key, returned to the bedroom\ndoor, removed the double staple of the bolt, and went in. Meanwhile Ali\nhad procured the arms the count required namely, a short carbine and a\npair of double-barrelled pistols, with which as sure an aim might be\ntaken as with a single-barrelled one. Thus armed, the count held the\nlives of five men in his hands. It was about half-past nine.\n\nThe count and Ali ate in haste a crust of bread and drank a glass of\nSpanish wine; then Monte Cristo slipped aside one of the movable\npanels, which enabled him to see into the adjoining room. He had within\nhis reach his pistols and carbine, and Ali, standing near him, held one\nof the small Arabian hatchets, whose form has not varied since the\nCrusades. Through one of the windows of the bedroom, on a line with\nthat in the dressing-room, the count could see into the street.\n\nTwo hours passed thus. It was intensely dark; still Ali, thanks to his\nwild nature, and the count, thanks doubtless to his long confinement,\ncould distinguish in the darkness the slightest movement of the trees.\nThe little light in the lodge had long been extinct. It might be\nexpected that the attack, if indeed an attack was projected, would be\nmade from the staircase of the ground floor, and not from a window; in\nMonte Cristo s opinion, the villains sought his life, not his money. It\nwould be his bedroom they would attack, and they must reach it by the\nback staircase, or by the window in the dressing-room.\n\nThe clock of the Invalides struck a quarter to twelve; the west wind\nbore on its moistened gusts the doleful vibration of the three strokes.\n\n40152m\n\n\n\nAs the last stroke died away, the count thought he heard a slight noise\nin the dressing-room; this first sound, or rather this first grinding,\nwas followed by a second, then a third; at the fourth, the count knew\nwhat to expect. A firm and well-practised hand was engaged in cutting\nthe four sides of a pane of glass with a diamond. The count felt his\nheart beat more rapidly.\n\nInured as men may be to danger, forewarned as they may be of peril,\nthey understand, by the fluttering of the heart and the shuddering of\nthe frame, the enormous difference between a dream and a reality,\nbetween the project and the execution. However, Monte Cristo only made\na sign to apprise Ali, who, understanding that danger was approaching\nfrom the other side, drew nearer to his master. Monte Cristo was eager\nto ascertain the strength and number of his enemies.\n\nThe window whence the noise proceeded was opposite the opening by which\nthe count could see into the dressing-room. He fixed his eyes on that\nwindow he distinguished a shadow in the darkness; then one of the panes\nbecame quite opaque, as if a sheet of paper were stuck on the outside,\nthen the square cracked without falling. Through the opening an arm was\npassed to find the fastening, then a second; the window turned on its\nhinges, and a man entered. He was alone.\n\n That s a daring rascal,  whispered the count.\n\nAt that moment Ali touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned; Ali\npointed to the window of the room in which they were, facing the\nstreet.\n\n I see!  said he,  there are two of them; one does the work while the\nother stands guard.  He made a sign to Ali not to lose sight of the man\nin the street, and turned to the one in the dressing-room.\n\nThe glass-cutter had entered, and was feeling his way, his arms\nstretched out before him. At last he appeared to have made himself\nfamiliar with his surroundings. There were two doors; he bolted them\nboth.\n\nWhen he drew near to the bedroom door, Monte Cristo expected that he\nwas coming in, and raised one of his pistols; but he simply heard the\nsound of the bolts sliding in their copper rings. It was only a\nprecaution. The nocturnal visitor, ignorant of the fact that the count\nhad removed the staples, might now think himself at home, and pursue\nhis purpose with full security. Alone and free to act as he wished, the\nman then drew from his pocket something which the count could not\ndiscern, placed it on a stand, then went straight to the secretaire,\nfelt the lock, and contrary to his expectation found that the key was\nmissing. But the glass-cutter was a prudent man who had provided for\nall emergencies. The count soon heard the rattling of a bunch of\nskeleton keys, such as the locksmith brings when called to force a\nlock, and which thieves call nightingales, doubtless from the music of\ntheir nightly song when they grind against the bolt.\n\n Ah, ha,  whispered Monte Cristo with a smile of disappointment,  he is\nonly a thief. \n\nBut the man in the dark could not find the right key. He reached the\ninstrument he had placed on the stand, touched a spring, and\nimmediately a pale light, just bright enough to render objects\ndistinct, was reflected on his hands and countenance.\n\n By heavens,  exclaimed Monte Cristo, starting back,  it is \n\nAli raised his hatchet.\n\n Don t stir,  whispered Monte Cristo,  and put down your hatchet; we\nshall require no arms. \n\n40154m\n\n\n\nThen he added some words in a low tone, for the exclamation which\nsurprise had drawn from the count, faint as it had been, had startled\nthe man who remained in the pose of the old knife-grinder.\n\nIt was an order the count had just given, for immediately Ali went\nnoiselessly, and returned, bearing a black dress and a three-cornered\nhat. Meanwhile Monte Cristo had rapidly taken off his greatcoat,\nwaistcoat, and shirt, and one might distinguish by the glimmering\nthrough the open panel that he wore a pliant tunic of steel mail, of\nwhich the last in France, where daggers are no longer dreaded, was worn\nby King Louis XVI., who feared the dagger at his breast, and whose head\nwas cleft with a hatchet. The tunic soon disappeared under a long\ncassock, as did his hair under a priest s wig; the three-cornered hat\nover this effectually transformed the count into an abb .\n\nThe man, hearing nothing more, stood erect, and while Monte Cristo was\ncompleting his disguise had advanced straight to the secretaire, whose\nlock was beginning to crack under his nightingale.\n\n Try again,  whispered the count, who depended on the secret spring,\nwhich was unknown to the picklock, clever as he might be try again,\nyou have a few minutes  work there. \n\nAnd he advanced to the window. The man whom he had seen seated on a\nfence had got down, and was still pacing the street; but, strange as it\nappeared, he cared not for those who might pass from the avenue of the\nChamps- lys es or by the Faubourg Saint-Honor ; his attention was\nengrossed with what was passing at the count s, and his only aim\nappeared to be to discern every movement in the dressing-room.\n\nMonte Cristo suddenly struck his finger on his forehead and a smile\npassed over his lips; then drawing near to Ali, he whispered:\n\n Remain here, concealed in the dark, and whatever noise you hear,\nwhatever passes, only come in or show yourself if I call you. \n\nAli bowed in token of strict obedience. Monte Cristo then drew a\nlighted taper from a closet, and when the thief was deeply engaged with\nhis lock, silently opened the door, taking care that the light should\nshine directly on his face. The door opened so quietly that the thief\nheard no sound; but, to his astonishment, the room was suddenly\nilluminated. He turned.\n\n Ah, good-evening, my dear M. Caderousse,  said Monte Cristo;  what are\nyou doing here, at such an hour? \n\n40156m\n\n\n\n The Abb  Busoni!  exclaimed Caderousse; and, not knowing how this\nstrange apparition could have entered when he had bolted the doors, he\nlet fall his bunch of keys, and remained motionless and stupefied. The\ncount placed himself between Caderousse and the window, thus cutting\noff from the thief his only chance of retreat.\n\n The Abb  Busoni!  repeated Caderousse, fixing his haggard gaze on the\ncount.\n\n Yes, undoubtedly, the Abb  Busoni himself,  replied Monte Cristo.  And\nI am very glad you recognize me, dear M. Caderousse; it proves you have\na good memory, for it must be about ten years since we last met. \n\nThis calmness of Busoni, combined with his irony and boldness,\nstaggered Caderousse.\n\n The abb , the abb !  murmured he, clenching his fists, and his teeth\nchattering.\n\n So you would rob the Count of Monte Cristo?  continued the false abb .\n\n Reverend sir,  murmured Caderousse, seeking to regain the window,\nwhich the count pitilessly blocked reverend sir, I don t know believe\nme I take my oath \n\n A pane of glass out,  continued the count,  a dark lantern, a bunch of\nfalse keys, a secretaire half forced it is tolerably evident \n\nCaderousse was choking; he looked around for some corner to hide in,\nsome way of escape.\n\n Come, come,  continued the count,  I see you are still the same, an\nassassin. \n\n Reverend sir, since you know everything, you know it was not I it was\nLa Carconte; that was proved at the trial, since I was only condemned\nto the galleys. \n\n Is your time, then, expired, since I find you in a fair way to return\nthere? \n\n No, reverend sir; I have been liberated by someone. \n\n That someone has done society a great kindness. \n\n Ah,  said Caderousse,  I had promised \n\n And you are breaking your promise!  interrupted Monte Cristo.\n\n Alas, yes!  said Caderousse very uneasily.\n\n A bad relapse, that will lead you, if I mistake not, to the Place de\nGr ve. So much the worse, so much the worse _diavolo!_ as they say in\nmy country. \n\n Reverend sir, I am impelled \n\n Every criminal says the same thing. \n\n Poverty \n\n Pshaw!  said Busoni disdainfully;  poverty may make a man beg, steal a\nloaf of bread at a baker s door, but not cause him to open a secretaire\nin a house supposed to be inhabited. And when the jeweller Johannes had\njust paid you 45,000 francs for the diamond I had given you, and you\nkilled him to get the diamond and the money both, was that also\npoverty? \n\n Pardon, reverend sir,  said Caderousse;  you have saved my life once,\nsave me again! \n\n That is but poor encouragement. \n\n Are you alone, reverend sir, or have you there soldiers ready to seize\nme? \n\n I am alone,  said the abb ,  and I will again have pity on you, and\nwill let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may\nlead to, if you tell me the truth. \n\n Ah, reverend sir,  cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing\nnearer to Monte Cristo,  I may indeed say you are my deliverer! \n\n You mean to say you have been freed from confinement? \n\n Yes, that is true, reverend sir. \n\n Who was your liberator? \n\n An Englishman. \n\n What was his name? \n\n Lord Wilmore. \n\n I know him; I shall know if you lie. \n\n Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth. \n\n Was this Englishman protecting you? \n\n No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion. \n\n What was this young Corsican s name? \n\n Benedetto. \n\n Is that his Christian name? \n\n He had no other; he was a foundling. \n\n Then this young man escaped with you? \n\n He did. \n\n In what way? \n\n We were working at Saint-Mandrier, near Toulon. Do you know\nSaint-Mandrier? \n\n I do. \n\n In the hour of rest, between noon and one o clock \n\n Galley-slaves having a nap after dinner! We may well pity the poor\nfellows!  said the abb .\n\n Nay,  said Caderousse,  one can t always work one is not a dog. \n\n So much the better for the dogs,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n While the rest slept, then, we went away a short distance; we severed\nour fetters with a file the Englishman had given us, and swam away. \n\n And what is become of this Benedetto? \n\n I don t know. \n\n You ought to know. \n\n No, in truth; we parted at Hy res.  And, to give more weight to his\nprotestation, Caderousse advanced another step towards the abb , who\nremained motionless in his place, as calm as ever, and pursuing his\ninterrogation.\n\n You lie,  said the Abb  Busoni, with a tone of irresistible authority.\n\n Reverend sir! \n\n You lie! This man is still your friend, and you, perhaps, make use of\nhim as your accomplice. \n\n40160m\n\n\n\n Oh, reverend sir! \n\n Since you left Toulon what have you lived on? Answer me! \n\n On what I could get. \n\n You lie,  repeated the abb  a third time, with a still more imperative\ntone. Caderousse, terrified, looked at the count.  You have lived on\nthe money he has given you. \n\n True,  said Caderousse;  Benedetto has become the son of a great\nlord. \n\n How can he be the son of a great lord? \n\n A natural son. \n\n And what is that great lord s name? \n\n The Count of Monte Cristo, the very same in whose house we are. \n\n Benedetto the count s son?  replied Monte Cristo, astonished in his\nturn.\n\n Well, I should think so, since the count has found him a false\nfather since the count gives him four thousand francs a month, and\nleaves him 500,000 francs in his will. \n\n Ah, yes,  said the factitious abb , who began to understand;  and what\nname does the young man bear meanwhile? \n\n Andrea Cavalcanti. \n\n Is it, then, that young man whom my friend the Count of Monte Cristo\nhas received into his house, and who is going to marry Mademoiselle\nDanglars? \n\n Exactly. \n\n And you suffer that, you wretch! you, who know his life and his\ncrime? \n\n Why should I stand in a comrade s way?  said Caderousse.\n\n You are right; it is not you who should apprise M. Danglars, it is I. \n\n Do not do so, reverend sir. \n\n Why not? \n\n Because you would bring us to ruin. \n\n And you think that to save such villains as you I will become an\nabettor of their plot, an accomplice in their crimes? \n\n Reverend sir,  said Caderousse, drawing still nearer.\n\n I will expose all. \n\n To whom? \n\n To M. Danglars. \n\n By Heaven!  cried Caderousse, drawing from his waistcoat an open\nknife, and striking the count in the breast,  you shall disclose\nnothing, reverend sir! \n\nTo Caderousse s great astonishment, the knife, instead of piercing the\ncount s breast, flew back blunted. At the same moment the count seized\nwith his left hand the assassin s wrist, and wrung it with such\nstrength that the knife fell from his stiffened fingers, and Caderousse\nuttered a cry of pain. But the count, disregarding his cry, continued\nto wring the bandit s wrist, until, his arm being dislocated, he fell\nfirst on his knees, then flat on the floor.\n\nThe count then placed his foot on his head, saying,  I know not what\nrestrains me from crushing thy skull, rascal. \n\n Ah, mercy mercy!  cried Caderousse.\n\nThe count withdrew his foot.\n\n40162m\n\n\n\n Rise!  said he. Caderousse rose.\n\n What a wrist you have, reverend sir!  said Caderousse, stroking his\narm, all bruised by the fleshy pincers which had held it;  what a\nwrist! \n\n Silence! God gives me strength to overcome a wild beast like you; in\nthe name of that God I act, remember that, wretch, and to spare thee at\nthis moment is still serving him. \n\n Oh!  said Caderousse, groaning with pain.\n\n Take this pen and paper, and write what I dictate. \n\n I don t know how to write, reverend sir. \n\n You lie! Take this pen, and write! \n\nCaderousse, awed by the superior power of the abb , sat down and wrote:\n\n Sir, The man whom you are receiving at your house, and to whom you\nintend to marry your daughter, is a felon who escaped with me from\nconfinement at Toulon. He was No. 59, and I No. 58. He was called\nBenedetto, but he is ignorant of his real name, having never known his\nparents. \n\n\n Sign it!  continued the count.\n\n But would you ruin me? \n\n If I sought your ruin, fool, I should drag you to the first\nguard-house; besides, when that note is delivered, in all probability\nyou will have no more to fear. Sign it, then! \n\nCaderousse signed it.\n\n The address,  To monsieur the Baron Danglars, banker, Rue de la\nChauss e d Antin. \n\nCaderousse wrote the address. The abb  took the note.\n\n Now,  said he,  that suffices begone! \n\n Which way? \n\n The way you came. \n\n You wish me to get out at that window? \n\n You got in very well. \n\n Oh, you have some design against me, reverend sir. \n\n Idiot! what design can I have? \n\n Why, then, not let me out by the door? \n\n What would be the advantage of waking the porter? \n\n Ah, reverend sir, tell me, do you wish me dead? \n\n I wish what God wills. \n\n But swear that you will not strike me as I go down. \n\n Cowardly fool! \n\n What do you intend doing with me? \n\n I ask you what can I do? I have tried to make you a happy man, and you\nhave turned out a murderer. \n\n Oh, monsieur,  said Caderousse,  make one more attempt try me once\nmore! \n\n I will,  said the count.  Listen you know if I may be relied on. \n\n Yes,  said Caderousse.\n\n If you arrive safely at home \n\n What have I to fear, except from you? \n\n If you reach your home safely, leave Paris, leave France, and wherever\nyou may be, so long as you conduct yourself well, I will send you a\nsmall annuity; for, if you return home safely, then \n\n Then?  asked Caderousse, shuddering.\n\n40164m\n\n\n\n Then I shall believe God has forgiven you, and I will forgive you\ntoo. \n\n As true as I am a Christian,  stammered Caderousse,  you will make me\ndie of fright! \n\n Now begone,  said the count, pointing to the window.\n\nCaderousse, scarcely yet relying on this promise, put his legs out of\nthe window and stood on the ladder.\n\n Now go down,  said the abb , folding his arms. Understanding he had\nnothing more to fear from him, Caderousse began to go down. Then the\ncount brought the taper to the window, that it might be seen in the\nChamps- lys es that a man was getting out of the window while another\nheld a light.\n\n What are you doing, reverend sir? Suppose a watchman should pass?  And\nhe blew out the light. He then descended, but it was only when he felt\nhis foot touch the ground that he was satisfied of his safety.\n\nMonte Cristo returned to his bedroom, and, glancing rapidly from the\ngarden to the street, he saw first Caderousse, who after walking to the\nend of the garden, fixed his ladder against the wall at a different\npart from where he came in. The count then looking over into the\nstreet, saw the man who appeared to be waiting run in the same\ndirection, and place himself against the angle of the wall where\nCaderousse would come over. Caderousse climbed the ladder slowly, and\nlooked over the coping to see if the street was quiet. No one could be\nseen or heard. The clock of the Invalides struck one. Then Caderousse\nsat astride the coping, and drawing up his ladder passed it over the\nwall; then he began to descend, or rather to slide down by the two\nstanchions, which he did with an ease which proved how accustomed he\nwas to the exercise. But, once started, he could not stop. In vain did\nhe see a man start from the shadow when he was halfway down in vain did\nhe see an arm raised as he touched the ground.\n\nBefore he could defend himself that arm struck him so violently in the\nback that he let go the ladder, crying,  Help!  A second blow struck\nhim almost immediately in the side, and he fell, calling,  Help,\nmurder!  Then, as he rolled on the ground, his adversary seized him by\nthe hair, and struck him a third blow in the chest.\n\nThis time Caderousse endeavored to call again, but he could only utter\na groan, and he shuddered as the blood flowed from his three wounds.\nThe assassin, finding that he no longer cried out, lifted his head up\nby the hair; his eyes were closed, and the mouth was distorted. The\nmurderer, supposing him dead, let fall his head and disappeared.\n\nThen Caderousse, feeling that he was leaving him, raised himself on his\nelbow, and with a dying voice cried with great effort:\n\n Murder! I am dying! Help, reverend sir, help! \n\nThis mournful appeal pierced the darkness. The door of the\nback-staircase opened, then the side-gate of the garden, and Ali and\nhis master were on the spot with lights.\n\n\n\n Chapter 83. The Hand of God\n\nCaderousse continued to call piteously,  Help, reverend sir, help! \n\n What is the matter?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n Help,  cried Caderousse;  I am murdered! \n\n We are here; take courage. \n\n Ah, it s all over! You are come too late you are come to see me die.\nWhat blows, what blood! \n\nHe fainted. Ali and his master conveyed the wounded man into a room.\nMonte Cristo motioned to Ali to undress him, and he then examined his\ndreadful wounds.\n\n My God!  he exclaimed,  thy vengeance is sometimes delayed, but only\nthat it may fall the more effectually.  Ali looked at his master for\nfurther instructions.  Bring here immediately the king s attorney, M.\nde Villefort, who lives in the Faubourg Saint-Honor . As you pass the\nlodge, wake the porter, and send him for a surgeon. \n\nAli obeyed, leaving the abb  alone with Caderousse, who had not yet\nrevived.\n\nWhen the wretched man again opened his eyes, the count looked at him\nwith a mournful expression of pity, and his lips moved as if in prayer.\n A surgeon, reverend sir a surgeon!  said Caderousse.\n\n I have sent for one,  replied the abb .\n\n I know he cannot save my life, but he may strengthen me to give my\nevidence. \n\n Against whom? \n\n Against my murderer. \n\n Did you recognize him? \n\n Yes; it was Benedetto. \n\n The young Corsican? \n\n Himself. \n\n Your comrade? \n\n Yes. After giving me the plan of this house, doubtless hoping I should\nkill the count and he thus become his heir, or that the count would\nkill me and I should be out of his way, he waylaid me, and has murdered\nme. \n\n I have also sent for the procureur. \n\n He will not come in time; I feel my life fast ebbing. \n\n Wait a moment,  said Monte Cristo. He left the room, and returned in\nfive minutes with a phial. The dying man s eyes were all the time\nriveted on the door, through which he hoped succor would arrive.\n\n Hasten, reverend sir, hasten! I shall faint again!  Monte Cristo\napproached, and dropped on his purple lips three or four drops of the\ncontents of the phial. Caderousse drew a deep breath.  Oh,  said he,\n that is life to me; more, more! \n\n Two drops more would kill you,  replied the abb .\n\n Oh, send for someone to whom I can denounce the wretch! \n\n Shall I write your deposition? You can sign it. \n\n Yes, yes,  said Caderousse; and his eyes glistened at the thought of\nthis posthumous revenge. Monte Cristo wrote:\n\n I die, murdered by the Corsican Benedetto, my comrade in the galleys\nat Toulon, No. 59. \n\n\n Quick, quick!  said Caderousse,  or I shall be unable to sign it. \n\nMonte Cristo gave the pen to Caderousse, who collected all his\nstrength, signed it, and fell back on his bed, saying:\n\n You will relate all the rest, reverend sir; you will say he calls\nhimself Andrea Cavalcanti. He lodges at the H tel des Princes. Oh, I am\ndying!  He again fainted. The abb  made him smell the contents of the\nphial, and he again opened his eyes. His desire for revenge had not\nforsaken him.\n\n Ah, you will tell all I have said, will you not, reverend sir? \n\n Yes, and much more. \n\n What more will you say? \n\n I will say he had doubtless given you the plan of this house, in the\nhope the count would kill you. I will say, likewise, he had apprised\nthe count, by a note, of your intention, and, the count being absent, I\nread the note and sat up to await you. \n\n And he will be guillotined, will he not?  said Caderousse.  Promise me\nthat, and I will die with that hope. \n\n I will say,  continued the count,  that he followed and watched you\nthe whole time, and when he saw you leave the house, ran to the angle\nof the wall to conceal himself. \n\n Did you see all that? \n\n Remember my words:  If you return home safely, I shall believe God has\nforgiven you, and I will forgive you also. \n\n And you did not warn me!  cried Caderousse, raising himself on his\nelbows.  You knew I should be killed on leaving this house, and did not\nwarn me! \n\n40168m\n\n\n\n No; for I saw God s justice placed in the hands of Benedetto, and\nshould have thought it sacrilege to oppose the designs of Providence. \n\n God s justice! Speak not of it, reverend sir. If God were just, you\nknow how many would be punished who now escape. \n\n Patience,  said the abb , in a tone which made the dying man shudder;\n have patience! \n\nCaderousse looked at him with amazement.\n\n Besides,  said the abb ,  God is merciful to all, as he has been to\nyou; he is first a father, then a judge. \n\n Do you then believe in God?  said Caderousse.\n\n Had I been so unhappy as not to believe in him until now,  said Monte\nCristo,  I must believe on seeing you. \n\nCaderousse raised his clenched hands towards heaven.\n\n Listen,  said the abb , extending his hand over the wounded man, as if\nto command him to believe;  this is what the God in whom, on your\ndeath-bed, you refuse to believe, has done for you he gave you health,\nstrength, regular employment, even friends a life, in fact, which a man\nmight enjoy with a calm conscience. Instead of improving these gifts,\nrarely granted so abundantly, this has been your course you have given\nyourself up to sloth and drunkenness, and in a fit of intoxication have\nruined your best friend. \n\n Help!  cried Caderousse;  I require a surgeon, not a priest; perhaps I\nam not mortally wounded I may not die; perhaps they can yet save my\nlife. \n\n Your wounds are so far mortal that, without the three drops I gave\nyou, you would now be dead. Listen, then. \n\n Ah,  murmured Caderousse,  what a strange priest you are; you drive\nthe dying to despair, instead of consoling them. \n\n Listen,  continued the abb .  When you had betrayed your friend, God\nbegan not to strike, but to warn you. Poverty overtook you. You had\nalready passed half your life in coveting that which you might have\nhonorably acquired; and already you contemplated crime under the excuse\nof want, when God worked a miracle in your behalf, sending you, by my\nhands, a fortune brilliant, indeed, for you, who had never possessed\nany. But this unexpected, unhoped-for, unheard-of fortune sufficed you\nno longer when you once possessed it; you wished to double it, and\nhow? by a murder! You succeeded, and then God snatched it from you, and\nbrought you to justice. \n\n It was not I who wished to kill the Jew,  said Caderousse;  it was La\nCarconte. \n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo,  and God, I cannot say in justice, for his\njustice would have slain you, but God, in his mercy, spared your life. \n\n _Pardieu!_ to transport me for life, how merciful! \n\n You thought it a mercy then, miserable wretch! The coward who feared\ndeath rejoiced at perpetual disgrace; for like all galley-slaves, you\nsaid,  I may escape from prison, I cannot from the grave.  And you said\ntruly; the way was opened for you unexpectedly. An Englishman visited\nToulon, who had vowed to rescue two men from infamy, and his choice\nfell on you and your companion. You received a second fortune, money\nand tranquillity were restored to you, and you, who had been condemned\nto a felon s life, might live as other men. Then, wretched creature,\nthen you tempted God a third time.  I have not enough,  you said, when\nyou had more than you before possessed, and you committed a third\ncrime, without reason, without excuse. God is wearied; he has punished\nyou. \n\nCaderousse was fast sinking.  Give me drink,  said he:  I thirst I\nburn!  Monte Cristo gave him a glass of water.  And yet that villain,\nBenedetto, will escape! \n\n No one, I tell you, will escape; Benedetto will be punished. \n\n Then, you, too, will be punished, for you did not do your duty as a\npriest you should have prevented Benedetto from killing me. \n\n I?  said the count, with a smile which petrified the dying man,  when\nyou had just broken your knife against the coat of mail which protected\nmy breast! Yet perhaps if I had found you humble and penitent, I might\nhave prevented Benedetto from killing you; but I found you proud and\nblood-thirsty, and I left you in the hands of God. \n\n I do not believe there is a God,  howled Caderousse;  you do not\nbelieve it; you lie you lie! \n\n Silence,  said the abb ;  you will force the last drop of blood from\nyour veins. What! you do not believe in God when he is striking you\ndead? you will not believe in him, who requires but a prayer, a word, a\ntear, and he will forgive? God, who might have directed the assassin s\ndagger so as to end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter\nof an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and repent. \n\n No,  said Caderousse,  no; I will not repent. There is no God; there\nis no Providence all comes by chance. \n\n There is a Providence; there is a God,  said Monte Cristo,  of whom\nyou are a striking proof, as you lie in utter despair, denying him,\nwhile I stand before you, rich, happy, safe and entreating that God in\nwhom you endeavor not to believe, while in your heart you still believe\nin him. \n\n But who are you, then?  asked Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on the\ncount.\n\n Look well at me!  said Monte Cristo, putting the light near his face.\n\n Well, the abb the Abb  Busoni.  Monte Cristo took off the wig which\ndisfigured him, and let fall his black hair, which added so much to the\nbeauty of his pallid features.\n\n Oh?  said Caderousse, thunderstruck,  but for that black hair, I\nshould say you were the Englishman, Lord Wilmore. \n\n I am neither the Abb  Busoni nor Lord Wilmore,  said Monte Cristo;\n think again, do you not recollect me? \n\nThere was a magic effect in the count s words, which once more revived\nthe exhausted powers of the miserable man.\n\n Yes, indeed,  said he;  I think I have seen you and known you\nformerly. \n\n Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once. \n\n Who, then, are you? and why, if you knew me, do you let me die? \n\n Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had it been\npossible to save you, I should have considered it another proof of\nGod s mercy, and I would again have endeavored to restore you, I swear\nby my father s tomb. \n\n By your father s tomb!  said Caderousse, supported by a supernatural\npower, and half-raising himself to see more distinctly the man who had\njust taken the oath which all men hold sacred;  who, then, are you? \n\nThe count had watched the approach of death. He knew this was the last\nstruggle. He approached the dying man, and, leaning over him with a\ncalm and melancholy look, he whispered,  I am I am \n\nAnd his almost closed lips uttered a name so low that the count himself\nappeared afraid to hear it. Caderousse, who had raised himself on his\nknees, and stretched out his arm, tried to draw back, then clasping his\nhands, and raising them with a desperate effort,  Oh, my God, my God! \nsaid he,  pardon me for having denied thee; thou dost exist, thou art\nindeed man s father in heaven, and his judge on earth. My God, my Lord,\nI have long despised thee! Pardon me, my God; receive me, Oh, my Lord! \n\nCaderousse sighed deeply, and fell back with a groan. The blood no\nlonger flowed from his wounds. He was dead.\n\n _One!_  said the count mysteriously, his eyes fixed on the corpse,\ndisfigured by so awful a death.\n\nTen minutes afterwards the surgeon and the procureur arrived, the one\naccompanied by the porter, the other by Ali, and were received by the\nAbb  Busoni, who was praying by the side of the corpse.\n\n\n\n Chapter 84. Beauchamp\n\nThe daring attempt to rob the count was the topic of conversation\nthroughout Paris for the next fortnight. The dying man had signed a\ndeposition declaring Benedetto to be the assassin. The police had\norders to make the strictest search for the murderer. Caderousse s\nknife, dark lantern, bunch of keys, and clothing, excepting the\nwaistcoat, which could not be found, were deposited at the registry;\nthe corpse was conveyed to the morgue. The count told everyone that\nthis adventure had happened during his absence at Auteuil, and that he\nonly knew what was related by the Abb  Busoni, who that evening, by\nmere chance, had requested to pass the night in his house, to examine\nsome valuable books in his library.\n\nBertuccio alone turned pale whenever Benedetto s name was mentioned in\nhis presence, but there was no reason why anyone should notice his\ndoing so.\n\nVillefort, being called on to prove the crime, was preparing his brief\nwith the same ardor that he was accustomed to exercise when required to\nspeak in criminal cases.\n\nBut three weeks had already passed, and the most diligent search had\nbeen unsuccessful; the attempted robbery and the murder of the robber\nby his comrade were almost forgotten in anticipation of the approaching\nmarriage of Mademoiselle Danglars to the Count Andrea Cavalcanti. It\nwas expected that this wedding would shortly take place, as the young\nman was received at the banker s as the betrothed.\n\nLetters had been despatched to M. Cavalcanti, as the count s father,\nwho highly approved of the union, regretted his inability to leave\nParma at that time, and promised a wedding gift of a hundred and fifty\nthousand livres. It was agreed that the three millions should be\nintrusted to Danglars to invest; some persons had warned the young man\nof the circumstances of his future father-in-law, who had of late\nsustained repeated losses; but with sublime disinterestedness and\nconfidence the young man refused to listen, or to express a single\ndoubt to the baron.\n\nThe baron adored Count Andrea Cavalcanti; not so Mademoiselle Eug nie\nDanglars. With an instinctive hatred of matrimony, she suffered\nAndrea s attentions in order to get rid of Morcerf; but when Andrea\nurged his suit, she betrayed an entire dislike to him. The baron might\npossibly have perceived it, but, attributing it to a caprice, feigned\nignorance.\n\nThe delay demanded by Beauchamp had nearly expired. Morcerf appreciated\nthe advice of Monte Cristo to let things die away of their own accord.\nNo one had taken up the remark about the general, and no one had\nrecognized in the officer who betrayed the castle of Yanina the noble\ncount in the House of Peers.\n\nAlbert, however, felt no less insulted; the few lines which had\nirritated him were certainly intended as an insult. Besides, the manner\nin which Beauchamp had closed the conference left a bitter recollection\nin his heart. He cherished the thought of the duel, hoping to conceal\nits true cause even from his seconds. Beauchamp had not been seen since\nthe day he visited Albert, and those of whom the latter inquired always\ntold him he was out on a journey which would detain him some days.\nWhere he was no one knew.\n\nOne morning Albert was awakened by his valet de chambre, who announced\nBeauchamp. Albert rubbed his eyes, ordered his servant to introduce him\ninto the small smoking-room on the ground floor, dressed himself\nquickly, and went down.\n\nHe found Beauchamp pacing the room; on perceiving him Beauchamp\nstopped.\n\n Your arrival here, without waiting my visit at your house today, looks\nwell, sir,  said Albert.  Tell me, may I shake hands with you, saying,\n Beauchamp, acknowledge you have injured me, and retain my friendship, \nor must I simply propose to you a choice of arms? \n\n Albert,  said Beauchamp, with a look of sorrow which stupefied the\nyoung man,  let us first sit down and talk. \n\n Rather, sir, before we sit down, I must demand your answer. \n\n Albert,  said the journalist,  these are questions which it is\ndifficult to answer. \n\n I will facilitate it by repeating the question,  Will you, or will you\nnot, retract? \n\n Morcerf, it is not enough to answer  yes  or  no  to questions which\nconcern the honor, the social interest, and the life of such a man as\nLieutenant-g n ral the Count of Morcerf, peer of France. \n\n What must then be done? \n\n40174m\n\n\n\n What I have done, Albert. I reasoned thus money, time, and fatigue are\nnothing compared with the reputation and interests of a whole family;\nprobabilities will not suffice, only facts will justify a deadly combat\nwith a friend. If I strike with the sword, or discharge the contents of\na pistol at man with whom, for three years, I have been on terms of\nintimacy, I must, at least, know why I do so; I must meet him with a\nheart at ease, and that quiet conscience which a man needs when his own\narm must save his life. \n\n Well,  said Morcerf, impatiently,  what does all this mean? \n\n It means that I have just returned from Yanina. \n\n From Yanina? \n\n Yes. \n\n Impossible! \n\n Here is my passport; examine the visa Geneva, Milan, Venice, Trieste,\nDelvino, Yanina. Will you believe the government of a republic, a\nkingdom, and an empire?  Albert cast his eyes on the passport, then\nraised them in astonishment to Beauchamp.\n\n You have been to Yanina?  said he.\n\n Albert, had you been a stranger, a foreigner, a simple lord, like that\nEnglishman who came to demand satisfaction three or four months since,\nand whom I killed to get rid of, I should not have taken this trouble;\nbut I thought this mark of consideration due to you. I took a week to\ngo, another to return, four days of quarantine, and forty-eight hours\nto stay there; that makes three weeks. I returned last night, and here\nI am. \n\n What circumlocution! How long you are before you tell me what I most\nwish to know? \n\n Because, in truth, Albert \n\n You hesitate? \n\n Yes, I fear. \n\n You fear to acknowledge that your correspondent has deceived you? Oh,\nno self-love, Beauchamp. Acknowledge it, Beauchamp; your courage cannot\nbe doubted. \n\n Not so,  murmured the journalist;  on the contrary \n\nAlbert turned frightfully pale; he endeavored to speak, but the words\ndied on his lips.\n\n My friend,  said Beauchamp, in the most affectionate tone,  I should\ngladly make an apology; but, alas! \n\n But what? \n\n The paragraph was correct, my friend. \n\n What? That French officer \n\n Yes. \n\n Fernand? \n\n Yes. \n\n The traitor who surrendered the castle of the man in whose service he\nwas \n\n Pardon me, my friend, that man was your father! \n\nAlbert advanced furiously towards Beauchamp, but the latter restrained\nhim more by a mild look than by his extended hand.\n\n My friend,  said he,  here is a proof of it. \n\n40176m\n\n\n\nAlbert opened the paper, it was an attestation of four notable\ninhabitants of Yanina, proving that Colonel Fernand Mondego, in the\nservice of Ali Tepelini, had surrendered the castle for two million\ncrowns. The signatures were perfectly legal. Albert tottered and fell\noverpowered in a chair. It could no longer be doubted; the family name\nwas fully given. After a moment s mournful silence, his heart\noverflowed, and he gave way to a flood of tears. Beauchamp, who had\nwatched with sincere pity the young man s paroxysm of grief, approached\nhim.\n\n Now, Albert,  said he,  you understand me do you not? I wished to see\nall, and to judge of everything for myself, hoping the explanation\nwould be in your father s favor, and that I might do him justice. But,\non the contrary, the particulars which are given prove that Fernand\nMondego, raised by Ali Pasha to the rank of governor-general, is no\nother than Count Fernand of Morcerf; then, recollecting the honor you\nhad done me, in admitting me to your friendship, I hastened to you. \n\nAlbert, still extended on the chair, covered his face with both hands,\nas if to prevent the light from reaching him.\n\n I hastened to you,  continued Beauchamp,  to tell you, Albert, that in\nthis changing age, the faults of a father cannot revert upon his\nchildren. Few have passed through this revolutionary period, in the\nmidst of which we were born, without some stain of infamy or blood to\nsoil the uniform of the soldier, or the gown of the magistrate. Now I\nhave these proofs, Albert, and I am in your confidence, no human power\ncan force me to a duel which your own conscience would reproach you\nwith as criminal, but I come to offer you what you can no longer demand\nof me. Do you wish these proofs, these attestations, which I alone\npossess, to be destroyed? Do you wish this frightful secret to remain\nwith us? Confided to me, it shall never escape my lips; say, Albert, my\nfriend, do you wish it? \n\nAlbert threw himself on Beauchamp s neck.\n\n Ah, noble fellow!  cried he.\n\n Take these,  said Beauchamp, presenting the papers to Albert.\n\nAlbert seized them with a convulsive hand, tore them in pieces, and\ntrembling lest the least vestige should escape and one day appear to\nconfront him, he approached the wax-light, always kept burning for\ncigars, and burned every fragment.\n\n Dear, excellent friend,  murmured Albert, still burning the papers.\n\n Let all be forgotten as a sorrowful dream,  said Beauchamp;  let it\nvanish as the last sparks from the blackened paper, and disappear as\nthe smoke from those silent ashes. \n\n Yes, yes,  said Albert,  and may there remain only the eternal\nfriendship which I promised to my deliverer, which shall be transmitted\nto our children s children, and shall always remind me that I owe my\nlife and the honor of my name to you, for had this been known, oh,\nBeauchamp, I should have destroyed myself; or, no, my poor mother! I\ncould not have killed her by the same blow, I should have fled from my\ncountry. \n\n Dear Albert,  said Beauchamp. But this sudden and factitious joy soon\nforsook the young man, and was succeeded by a still greater grief.\n\n Well,  said Beauchamp,  what still oppresses you, my friend? \n\n40178m\n\n\n\n I am broken-hearted,  said Albert.  Listen, Beauchamp! I cannot thus,\nin a moment relinquish the respect, the confidence, and pride with\nwhich a father s untarnished name inspires a son. Oh, Beauchamp,\nBeauchamp, how shall I now approach mine? Shall I draw back my forehead\nfrom his embrace, or withhold my hand from his? I am the most wretched\nof men. Ah, my mother, my poor mother!  said Albert, gazing through his\ntears at his mother s portrait;  if you know this, how much must you\nsuffer! \n\n Come,  said Beauchamp, taking both his hands,  take courage, my\nfriend. \n\n But how came that first note to be inserted in your journal? Some\nunknown enemy an invisible foe has done this. \n\n The more must you fortify yourself, Albert. Let no trace of emotion be\nvisible on your countenance, bear your grief as the cloud bears within\nit ruin and death a fatal secret, known only when the storm bursts. Go,\nmy friend, reserve your strength for the moment when the crash shall\ncome. \n\n40179m\n\n\n\n You think, then, all is not over yet?  said Albert, horror-stricken.\n\n I think nothing, my friend; but all things are possible. By the way \n\n What?  said Albert, seeing that Beauchamp hesitated.\n\n Are you going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars? \n\n Why do you ask me now? \n\n Because the rupture or fulfilment of this engagement is connected with\nthe person of whom we were speaking. \n\n How?  said Albert, whose brow reddened;  you think M. Danglars \n\n I ask you only how your engagement stands? Pray put no construction on\nmy words I do not mean they should convey, and give them no undue\nweight. \n\n No.  said Albert,  the engagement is broken off. \n\n Well,  said Beauchamp. Then, seeing the young man was about to relapse\ninto melancholy,  Let us go out, Albert,  said he;  a ride in the wood\nin the phaeton, or on horseback, will refresh you; we will then return\nto breakfast, and you shall attend to your affairs, and I to mine. \n\n Willingly,  said Albert;  but let us walk. I think a little exertion\nwould do me good. \n\nThe two friends walked out on the fortress. When they arrived at the\nMadeleine:\n\n Since we are out,  said Beauchamp,  let us call on M. de Monte Cristo;\nhe is admirably adapted to revive one s spirits, because he never\ninterrogates, and in my opinion those who ask no questions are the best\ncomforters. \n\n Gladly,  said Albert;  let us call I love him. \n\n\n\n Chapter 85. The Journey\n\nMonte Cristo uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing the young men\ntogether.  Ah, ha!  said he,  I hope all is over, explained and\nsettled. \n\n Yes,  said Beauchamp;  the absurd reports have died away, and should\nthey be renewed, I would be the first to oppose them; so let us speak\nno more of it. \n\n Albert will tell you,  replied the count  that I gave him the same\nadvice. Look,  added he.  I am finishing the most execrable morning s\nwork. \n\n What is it?  said Albert;  arranging your papers, apparently. \n\n My papers, thank God, no, my papers are all in capital order, because\nI have none; but M. Cavalcanti s. \n\n M. Cavalcanti s?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n Yes; do you not know that this is a young man whom the count is\nintroducing?  said Morcerf.\n\n Let us not misunderstand each other,  replied Monte Cristo;  I\nintroduce no one, and certainly not M. Cavalcanti. \n\n And who,  said Albert with a forced smile,  is to marry Mademoiselle\nDanglars instead of me, which grieves me cruelly. \n\n What? Cavalcanti is going to marry Mademoiselle Danglars?  asked\nBeauchamp.\n\n Certainly! do you come from the end of the world?  said Monte Cristo;\n you, a journalist, the husband of renown? It is the talk of all\nParis. \n\n And you, count, have made this match?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n I? Silence, purveyor of gossip, do not spread that report. I make a\nmatch? No, you do not know me; I have done all in my power to oppose\nit. \n\n Ah, I understand,  said Beauchamp,  on our friend Albert s account. \n\n On my account?  said the young man;  oh, no, indeed, the count will do\nme the justice to assert that I have, on the contrary, always entreated\nhim to break off my engagement, and happily it is ended. The count\npretends I have not him to thank; so be it I will erect an altar _Deo\nignoto_. \n\n Listen,  said Monte Cristo;  I have had little to do with it, for I am\nat variance both with the father-in-law and the young man; there is\nonly Mademoiselle Eug nie, who appears but little charmed with the\nthoughts of matrimony, and who, seeing how little I was disposed to\npersuade her to renounce her dear liberty, retains any affection for\nme. \n\n And do you say this wedding is at hand? \n\n Oh, yes, in spite of all I could say. I do not know the young man; he\nis said to be of good family and rich, but I never trust to vague\nassertions. I have warned M. Danglars of it till I am tired, but he is\nfascinated with his Luccanese. I have even informed him of a\ncircumstance I consider very serious; the young man was either charmed\nby his nurse, stolen by gypsies, or lost by his tutor, I scarcely know\nwhich. But I do know his father lost sight of him for more than ten\nyears; what he did during these ten years, God only knows. Well, all\nthat was useless. They have commissioned me to write to the major to\ndemand papers, and here they are. I send them, but like Pilate washing\nmy hands. \n\n And what does Mademoiselle d Armilly say to you for robbing her of her\npupil? \n\n Oh, well, I don t know; but I understand that she is going to Italy.\nMadame Danglars asked me for letters of recommendation for the\n_impresari_; I gave her a few lines for the director of the Valle\nTheatre, who is under some obligation to me. But what is the matter,\nAlbert? you look dull; are you, after all, unconsciously in love with\nMademoiselle Eug nie? \n\n I am not aware of it,  said Albert, smiling sorrowfully. Beauchamp\nturned to look at some paintings.\n\n But,  continued Monte Cristo,  you are not in your usual spirits? \n\n I have a dreadful headache,  said Albert.\n\n Well, my dear viscount,  said Monte Cristo,  I have an infallible\nremedy to propose to you. \n\n What is that?  asked the young man.\n\n A change. \n\n Indeed?  said Albert.\n\n Yes; and as I am just now excessively annoyed, I shall go from home.\nShall we go together? \n\n You annoyed, count?  said Beauchamp;  and by what? \n\n Ah, you think very lightly of it; I should like to see you with a\nbrief preparing in your house. \n\n What brief? \n\n The one M. de Villefort is preparing against my amiable assassin some\nbrigand escaped from the gallows apparently. \n\n True,  said Beauchamp;  I saw it in the paper. Who is this\nCaderousse? \n\n Some Proven al, it appears. M. de Villefort heard of him at\nMarseilles, and M. Danglars recollects having seen him. Consequently,\nthe procureur is very active in the affair, and the prefect of police\nvery much interested; and, thanks to that interest, for which I am very\ngrateful, they send me all the robbers of Paris and the neighborhood,\nunder pretence of their being Caderousse s murderers, so that in three\nmonths, if this continues, every robber and assassin in France will\nhave the plan of my house at his fingers  ends. I am resolved to desert\nthem and go to some remote corner of the earth, and shall be happy if\nyou will accompany me, viscount. \n\n Willingly. \n\n Then it is settled? \n\n Yes, but where? \n\n I have told you, where the air is pure, where every sound soothes,\nwhere one is sure to be humbled, however proud may be his nature. I\nlove that humiliation, I, who am master of the universe, as was\nAugustus. \n\n But where are you really going? \n\n To sea, viscount; you know I am a sailor. I was rocked when an infant\nin the arms of old Ocean, and on the bosom of the beautiful Amphitrite;\nI have sported with the green mantle of the one and the azure robe of\nthe other; I love the sea as a mistress, and pine if I do not often see\nher. \n\n Let us go, count. \n\n To sea? \n\n Yes. \n\n You accept my proposal? \n\n I do. \n\n Well, viscount, there will be in my courtyard this evening a good\ntravelling britzka, with four post-horses, in which one may rest as in\na bed. M. Beauchamp, it holds four very well, will you accompany us? \n\n Thank you, I have just returned from sea. \n\n What? you have been to sea? \n\n Yes; I have just made a little excursion to the Borromean Islands18. \n\n What of that? come with us,  said Albert.\n\n No, dear Morcerf; you know I only refuse when the thing is impossible.\nBesides, it is important,  added he in a low tone,  that I should\nremain in Paris just now to watch the paper. \n\n Ah, you are a good and an excellent friend,  said Albert;  yes, you\nare right; watch, watch, Beauchamp, and try to discover the enemy who\nmade this disclosure. \n\nAlbert and Beauchamp parted, the last pressure of their hands\nexpressing what their tongues could not before a stranger.\n\n Beauchamp is a worthy fellow,  said Monte Cristo, when the journalist\nwas gone;  is he not, Albert? \n\n Yes, and a sincere friend; I love him devotedly. But now we are\nalone, although it is immaterial to me, where are we going? \n\n Into Normandy, if you like. \n\n Delightful; shall we be quite retired? have no society, no neighbors? \n\n Our companions will be riding-horses, dogs to hunt with, and a\nfishing-boat. \n\n Exactly what I wish for; I will apprise my mother of my intention, and\nreturn to you. \n\n But shall you be allowed to go into Normandy? \n\n I may go where I please. \n\n Yes, I am aware you may go alone, since I once met you in Italy but to\naccompany the mysterious Monte Cristo? \n\n You forget, count, that I have often told you of the deep interest my\nmother takes in you. \n\n Woman is fickle.  said Francis I.;  woman is like a wave of the sea, \nsaid Shakespeare; both the great king and the great poet ought to have\nknown woman s nature well. \n\n Woman s, yes; my mother is not woman, but _a_ woman. \n\n As I am only a humble foreigner, you must pardon me if I do not\nunderstand all the subtle refinements of your language. \n\n What I mean to say is, that my mother is not quick to give her\nconfidence, but when she does she never changes. \n\n Ah, yes, indeed,  said Monte Cristo with a sigh;  and do you think she\nis in the least interested in me? \n\n I repeat it, you must really be a very strange and superior man, for\nmy mother is so absorbed by the interest you have excited, that when I\nam with her she speaks of no one else. \n\n And does she try to make you dislike me? \n\n On the contrary, she often says,  Morcerf, I believe the count has a\nnoble nature; try to gain his esteem. \n\n Indeed?  said Monte Cristo, sighing.\n\n You see, then,  said Albert,  that instead of opposing, she will\nencourage me. \n\n Adieu, then, until five o clock; be punctual, and we shall arrive at\ntwelve or one. \n\n At Tr port? \n\n Yes; or in the neighborhood. \n\n But can we travel forty-eight leagues in eight hours? \n\n Easily,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n You are certainly a prodigy; you will soon not only surpass the\nrailway, which would not be very difficult in France, but even the\ntelegraph. \n\n But, viscount, since we cannot perform the journey in less than seven\nor eight hours, do not keep me waiting. \n\n Do not fear, I have little to prepare. \n\nMonte Cristo smiled as he nodded to Albert, then remained a moment\nabsorbed in deep meditation. But passing his hand across his forehead\nas if to dispel his reverie, he rang the bell twice and Bertuccio\nentered.\n\n Bertuccio,  said he,  I intend going this evening to Normandy, instead\nof tomorrow or the next day. You will have sufficient time before five\no clock; despatch a messenger to apprise the grooms at the first\nstation. M. de Morcerf will accompany me. \n\nBertuccio obeyed and despatched a courier to Pontoise to say the\ntravelling-carriage would arrive at six o clock. From Pontoise another\nexpress was sent to the next stage, and in six hours all the horses\nstationed on the road were ready.\n\nBefore his departure, the count went to Hayd e s apartments, told her\nhis intention, and resigned everything to her care.\n\nAlbert was punctual. The journey soon became interesting from its\nrapidity, of which Morcerf had formed no previous idea.\n\n Truly,  said Monte Cristo,  with your post-horses going at the rate of\ntwo leagues an hour, and that absurd law that one traveller shall not\npass another without permission, so that an invalid or ill-tempered\ntraveller may detain those who are well and active, it is impossible to\nmove; I escape this annoyance by travelling with my own postilion and\nhorses; do I not, Ali? \n\nThe count put his head out of the window and whistled, and the horses\nappeared to fly. The carriage rolled with a thundering noise over the\npavement, and everyone turned to notice the dazzling meteor. Ali,\nsmiling, repeated the sound, grasped the reins with a firm hand, and\nspurred his horses, whose beautiful manes floated in the breeze. This\nchild of the desert was in his element, and with his black face and\nsparkling eyes appeared, in the cloud of dust he raised, like the\ngenius of the simoom and the god of the hurricane.\n\n I never knew till now the delight of speed,  said Morcerf, and the\nlast cloud disappeared from his brow;  but where the devil do you get\nsuch horses? Are they made to order? \n\n Precisely,  said the count;  six years since I bought a horse in\nHungary remarkable for its swiftness. The thirty-two that we shall use\ntonight are its progeny; they are all entirely black, with the\nexception of a star upon the forehead. \n\n That is perfectly admirable; but what do you do, count, with all these\nhorses? \n\n You see, I travel with them. \n\n But you are not always travelling. \n\n When I no longer require them, Bertuccio will sell them, and he\nexpects to realize thirty or forty thousand francs by the sale. \n\n But no monarch in Europe will be wealthy enough to purchase them. \n\n Then he will sell them to some Eastern vizier, who will empty his\ncoffers to purchase them, and refill them by applying the bastinado to\nhis subjects. \n\n Count, may I suggest one idea to you? \n\n Certainly. \n\n It is that, next to you, Bertuccio must be the richest gentleman in\nEurope. \n\n You are mistaken, viscount; I believe he has not a franc in his\npossession. \n\n Then he must be a wonder. My dear count, if you tell me many more\nmarvellous things, I warn you I shall not believe them. \n\n I countenance nothing that is marvellous, M. Albert. Tell me, why does\na steward rob his master? \n\n Because, I suppose, it is his nature to do so, for the love of\nrobbing. \n\n You are mistaken; it is because he has a wife and family, and\nambitious desires for himself and them. Also because he is not sure of\nalways retaining his situation, and wishes to provide for the future.\nNow, M. Bertuccio is alone in the world; he uses my property without\naccounting for the use he makes of it; he is sure never to leave my\nservice. \n\n Why? \n\n Because I should never get a better. \n\n Probabilities are deceptive. \n\n But I deal in certainties; he is the best servant over whom one has\nthe power of life and death. \n\n Do you possess that right over Bertuccio? \n\n Yes. \n\nThere are words which close a conversation with an iron door; such was\nthe count s  yes. \n\nThe whole journey was performed with equal rapidity; the thirty-two\nhorses, dispersed over seven stages, brought them to their destination\nin eight hours. At midnight they arrived at the gate of a beautiful\npark. The porter was in attendance; he had been apprised by the groom\nof the last stage of the count s approach. At half past two in the\nmorning Morcerf was conducted to his apartments, where a bath and\nsupper were prepared. The servant who had travelled at the back of the\ncarriage waited on him; Baptistin, who rode in front, attended the\ncount.\n\nAlbert bathed, took his supper, and went to bed. All night he was\nlulled by the melancholy noise of the surf. On rising, he went to his\nwindow, which opened on a terrace, having the sea in front, and at the\nback a pretty park bounded by a small forest.\n\nIn a creek lay a little sloop, with a narrow keel and high masts,\nbearing on its flag the Monte Cristo arms which were a mountain _or_,\non a sea _azure_, with a cross _gules_ in chief which might be an\nallusion to his name that recalled Calvary, the mount rendered by our\nLord s passion more precious than gold, and to the degrading cross\nwhich his blood had rendered holy; or it might be some personal\nremembrance of suffering and regeneration buried in the night of this\nmysterious personage s past life.\n\nAround the schooner lay a number of small fishing-boats belonging to\nthe fishermen of the neighboring village, like humble subjects awaiting\norders from their queen. There, as in every spot where Monte Cristo\nstopped, if but for two days, luxury abounded and life went on with the\nutmost ease.\n\nAlbert found in his anteroom two guns, with all the accoutrements for\nhunting; a lofty room on the ground floor containing all the ingenious\ninstruments the English eminent in piscatory pursuits, since they are\npatient and sluggish have invented for fishing. The day passed in\npursuing those exercises in which Monte Cristo excelled. They killed a\ndozen pheasants in the park, as many trout in the stream, dined in a\nsummer-house overlooking the ocean, and took tea in the library.\n\nTowards the evening of the third day. Albert, completely exhausted with\nthe exercise which invigorated Monte Cristo, was sleeping in an\narmchair near the window, while the count was designing with his\narchitect the plan of a conservatory in his house, when the sound of a\nhorse at full speed on the high road made Albert look up. He was\ndisagreeably surprised to see his own valet de chambre, whom he had not\nbrought, that he might not inconvenience Monte Cristo.\n\n40188m\n\n\n\n Florentin here!  cried he, starting up;  is my mother ill?  And he\nhastened to the door. Monte Cristo watched and saw him approach the\nvalet, who drew a small sealed parcel from his pocket, containing a\nnewspaper and a letter.\n\n From whom is this?  said he eagerly.\n\n From M. Beauchamp,  replied Florentin.\n\n Did he send you? \n\n Yes, sir; he sent for me to his house, gave me money for my journey,\nprocured a horse, and made me promise not to stop till I had reached\nyou, I have come in fifteen hours. \n\nAlbert opened the letter with fear, uttered a shriek on reading the\nfirst line, and seized the paper. His sight was dimmed, his legs sank\nunder him, and he would have fallen had not Florentin supported him.\n\n Poor young man,  said Monte Cristo in a low voice;  it is then true\nthat the sin of the father shall fall on the children to the third and\nfourth generation. \n\nMeanwhile Albert had revived, and, continuing to read, he threw back\nhis head, saying:\n\n Florentin, is your horse fit to return immediately? \n\n It is a poor, lame post-horse. \n\n In what state was the house when you left? \n\n All was quiet, but on returning from M. Beauchamp s, I found madame in\ntears; she had sent for me to know when you would return. I told her my\norders from M. Beauchamp; she first extended her arms to prevent me,\nbut after a moment s reflection,  Yes, go, Florentin,  said she,  and\nmay he come quickly. \n\n Yes, my mother,  said Albert,  I will return, and woe to the infamous\nwretch! But first of all I must get there. \n\nHe went back to the room where he had left Monte Cristo. Five minutes\nhad sufficed to make a complete transformation in his appearance. His\nvoice had become rough and hoarse; his face was furrowed with wrinkles;\nhis eyes burned under the blue-veined lids, and he tottered like a\ndrunken man.\n\n Count,  said he,  I thank you for your hospitality, which I would\ngladly have enjoyed longer; but I must return to Paris. \n\n What has happened? \n\n A great misfortune, more important to me than life. Don t question me,\nI beg of you, but lend me a horse. \n\n My stables are at your command, viscount; but you will kill yourself\nby riding on horseback. Take a post-chaise or a carriage. \n\n No, it would delay me, and I need the fatigue you warn me of; it will\ndo me good. \n\nAlbert reeled as if he had been shot, and fell on a chair near the\ndoor. Monte Cristo did not see this second manifestation of physical\nexhaustion; he was at the window, calling:\n\n Ali, a horse for M. de Morcerf quick! he is in a hurry! \n\n40190m\n\n\n\nThese words restored Albert; he darted from the room, followed by the\ncount.\n\n Thank you!  cried he, throwing himself on his horse.\n\n Return as soon as you can, Florentin. Must I use any password to\nprocure a horse? \n\n Only dismount; another will be immediately saddled. \n\nAlbert hesitated a moment.  You may think my departure strange and\nfoolish,  said the young man;  you do not know how a paragraph in a\nnewspaper may exasperate one. Read that,  said he,  when I am gone,\nthat you may not be witness of my anger. \n\nWhile the count picked up the paper he put spurs to his horse, which\nleaped in astonishment at such an unusual stimulus, and shot away with\nthe rapidity of an arrow. The count watched him with a feeling of\ncompassion, and when he had completely disappeared, read as follows:\n\n The French officer in the service of Ali Pasha of Yanina alluded to\nthree weeks since in _l Impartial_, who not only surrendered the castle\nof Yanina, but sold his benefactor to the Turks, styled himself truly\nat that time Fernand, as our esteemed contemporary states; but he has\nsince added to his Christian name a title of nobility and a family\nname. He now calls himself the Count of Morcerf, and ranks among the\npeers. \n\nThus the terrible secret, which Beauchamp had so generously destroyed,\nappeared again like an armed phantom; and another paper, deriving its\ninformation from some malicious source, had published two days after\nAlbert s departure for Normandy the few lines which had rendered the\nunfortunate young man almost crazy.\n\n\n\n Chapter 86. The Trial\n\nAt eight o clock in the morning Albert had arrived at Beauchamp s door.\nThe valet de chambre had received orders to usher him in at once.\nBeauchamp was in his bath.\n\n Here I am,  Albert said.\n\n Well, my poor friend,  replied Beauchamp,  I expected you. \n\n I need not say I think you are too faithful and too kind to have\nspoken of that painful circumstance. Your having sent for me is another\nproof of your affection. So, without losing time, tell me, have you the\nslightest idea whence this terrible blow proceeds? \n\n I think I have some clew. \n\n But first tell me all the particulars of this shameful plot. \n\nBeauchamp proceeded to relate to the young man, who was overwhelmed\nwith shame and grief, the following facts. Two days previously, the\narticle had appeared in another paper besides _ l Impartial_, and, what\nwas more serious, one that was well known as a government paper.\nBeauchamp was breakfasting when he read the paragraph. He sent\nimmediately for a cabriolet, and hastened to the publisher s office.\nAlthough professing diametrically opposite principles from those of the\neditor of the other paper, Beauchamp as it sometimes, we may say often,\nhappens was his intimate friend. The editor was reading, with apparent\ndelight, a leading article in the same paper on beet-sugar, probably a\ncomposition of his own.\n\n Ah, _pardieu!_  said Beauchamp,  with the paper in your hand, my\nfriend, I need not tell you the cause of my visit. \n\n Are you interested in the sugar question?  asked the editor of the\nministerial paper.\n\n No,  replied Beauchamp,  I have not considered the question; a totally\ndifferent subject interests me. \n\n What is it? \n\n The article relative to Morcerf. \n\n Indeed? Is it not a curious affair? \n\n So curious, that I think you are running a great risk of a prosecution\nfor defamation of character. \n\n Not at all; we have received with the information all the requisite\nproofs, and we are quite sure M. de Morcerf will not raise his voice\nagainst us; besides, it is rendering a service to one s country to\ndenounce these wretched criminals who are unworthy of the honor\nbestowed on them. \n\nBeauchamp was thunderstruck.\n\n Who, then, has so correctly informed you?  asked he;  for my paper,\nwhich gave the first information on the subject, has been obliged to\nstop for want of proof; and yet we are more interested than you in\nexposing M. de Morcerf, as he is a peer of France, and we are of the\nopposition. \n\n Oh, that is very simple; we have not sought to scandalize. This news\nwas brought to us. A man arrived yesterday from Yanina, bringing a\nformidable array of documents; and when we hesitated to publish the\naccusatory article, he told us it should be inserted in some other\npaper. \n\nBeauchamp understood that nothing remained but to submit, and left the\noffice to despatch a courier to Morcerf. But he had been unable to send\nto Albert the following particulars, as the events had transpired after\nthe messenger s departure; namely, that the same day a great agitation\nwas manifest in the House of Peers among the usually calm members of\nthat dignified assembly. Everyone had arrived almost before the usual\nhour, and was conversing on the melancholy event which was to attract\nthe attention of the public towards one of their most illustrious\ncolleagues. Some were perusing the article, others making comments and\nrecalling circumstances which substantiated the charges still more.\n\nThe Count of Morcerf was no favorite with his colleagues. Like all\nupstarts, he had had recourse to a great deal of haughtiness to\nmaintain his position. The true nobility laughed at him, the talented\nrepelled him, and the honorable instinctively despised him. He was, in\nfact, in the unhappy position of the victim marked for sacrifice; the\nfinger of God once pointed at him, everyone was prepared to raise the\nhue and cry.\n\nThe Count of Morcerf alone was ignorant of the news. He did not take in\nthe paper containing the defamatory article, and had passed the morning\nin writing letters and in trying a horse. He arrived at his usual hour,\nwith a proud look and insolent demeanor; he alighted, passed through\nthe corridors, and entered the house without observing the hesitation\nof the door-keepers or the coolness of his colleagues.\n\n40194m\n\n\n\nBusiness had already been going on for half an hour when he entered.\nEveryone held the accusing paper, but, as usual, no one liked to take\nupon himself the responsibility of the attack. At length an honorable\npeer, Morcerf s acknowledged enemy, ascended the tribune with that\nsolemnity which announced that the expected moment had arrived. There\nwas an impressive silence; Morcerf alone knew not why such profound\nattention was given to an orator who was not always listened to with so\nmuch complacency.\n\nThe count did not notice the introduction, in which the speaker\nannounced that his communication would be of that vital importance that\nit demanded the undivided attention of the House; but at the mention of\nYanina and Colonel Fernand, he turned so frightfully pale that every\nmember shuddered and fixed his eyes upon him. Moral wounds have this\npeculiarity, they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful,\nalways ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the\nheart.\n\nThe article having been read during the painful hush that followed, a\nuniversal shudder pervaded the assembly, and immediately the closest\nattention was given to the orator as he resumed his remarks. He stated\nhis scruples and the difficulties of the case; it was the honor of M.\nde Morcerf, and that of the whole House, he proposed to defend, by\nprovoking a debate on personal questions, which are always such painful\nthemes of discussion. He concluded by calling for an investigation,\nwhich might dispose of the calumnious report before it had time to\nspread, and restore M. de Morcerf to the position he had long held in\npublic opinion.\n\nMorcerf was so completely overwhelmed by this great and unexpected\ncalamity that he could scarcely stammer a few words as he looked around\non the assembly. This timidity, which might proceed from the\nastonishment of innocence as well as the shame of guilt, conciliated\nsome in his favor; for men who are truly generous are always ready to\ncompassionate when the misfortune of their enemy surpasses the limits\nof their hatred.\n\nThe president put it to the vote, and it was decided that the\ninvestigation should take place. The count was asked what time he\nrequired to prepare his defence. Morcerf s courage had revived when he\nfound himself alive after this horrible blow.\n\n My lords,  answered he,  it is not by time I could repel the attack\nmade on me by enemies unknown to me, and, doubtless, hidden in\nobscurity; it is immediately, and by a thunderbolt, that I must repel\nthe flash of lightning which, for a moment, startled me. Oh, that I\ncould, instead of taking up this defence, shed my last drop of blood to\nprove to my noble colleagues that I am their equal in worth. \n\nThese words made a favorable impression on behalf of the accused.\n\n I demand, then, that the examination shall take place as soon as\npossible, and I will furnish the house with all necessary information. \n\n What day do you fix?  asked the president.\n\n Today I am at your service,  replied the count.\n\nThe president rang the bell.  Does the House approve that the\nexamination should take place today? \n\n40196m\n\n\n\n Yes,  was the unanimous answer.\n\nA committee of twelve members was chosen to examine the proofs brought\nforward by Morcerf. The investigation would begin at eight o clock that\nevening in the committee-room, and if postponement were necessary, the\nproceedings would be resumed each evening at the same hour. Morcerf\nasked leave to retire; he had to collect the documents he had long been\npreparing against this storm, which his sagacity had foreseen.\n\nBeauchamp related to the young man all the facts we have just narrated;\nhis story, however, had over ours all the advantage of the animation of\nliving things over the coldness of dead things.\n\nAlbert listened, trembling now with hope, then with anger, and then\nagain with shame, for from Beauchamp s confidence he knew his father\nwas guilty, and he asked himself how, since he was guilty, he could\nprove his innocence. Beauchamp hesitated to continue his narrative.\n\n What next?  asked Albert.\n\n What next? My friend, you impose a painful task on me. Must you know\nall? \n\n Absolutely; and rather from your lips than another s. \n\n Muster up all your courage, then, for never have you required it\nmore. \n\nAlbert passed his hand over his forehead, as if to try his strength, as\na man who is preparing to defend his life proves his shield and bends\nhis sword. He thought himself strong enough, for he mistook fever for\nenergy.  Go on,  said he.\n\n The evening arrived; all Paris was in expectation. Many said your\nfather had only to show himself to crush the charge against him; many\nothers said he would not appear; while some asserted that they had seen\nhim start for Brussels; and others went to the police-office to inquire\nif he had taken out a passport. I used all my influence with one of the\ncommittee, a young peer of my acquaintance, to get admission to one of\nthe galleries. He called for me at seven o clock, and, before anyone\nhad arrived, asked one of the door-keepers to place me in a box. I was\nconcealed by a column, and might witness the whole of the terrible\nscene which was about to take place. At eight o clock all were in their\nplaces, and M. de Morcerf entered at the last stroke. He held some\npapers in his hand; his countenance was calm, and his step firm, and he\nwas dressed with great care in his military uniform, which was buttoned\ncompletely up to the chin. His presence produced a good effect. The\ncommittee was made up of Liberals, several of whom came forward to\nshake hands with him. \n\nAlbert felt his heart bursting at these particulars, but gratitude\nmingled with his sorrow: he would gladly have embraced those who had\ngiven his father this proof of esteem at a moment when his honor was so\npowerfully attacked.\n\n At this moment one of the door-keepers brought in a letter for the\npresident.  You are at liberty to speak, M. de Morcerf,  said the\npresident, as he unsealed the letter; and the count began his defence,\nI assure you, Albert, in a most eloquent and skilful manner. He\nproduced documents proving that the Vizier of Yanina had up to the last\nmoment honored him with his entire confidence, since he had interested\nhim with a negotiation of life and death with the emperor. He produced\nthe ring, his mark of authority, with which Ali Pasha generally sealed\nhis letters, and which the latter had given him, that he might, on his\nreturn at any hour of the day or night, gain access to the presence,\neven in the harem. Unfortunately, the negotiation failed, and when he\nreturned to defend his benefactor, he was dead.  But,  said the count,\n so great was Ali Pasha s confidence, that on his death-bed he resigned\nhis favorite mistress and her daughter to my care. \n\nAlbert started on hearing these words; the history of Hayd e recurred\nto him, and he remembered what she had said of that message and the\nring, and the manner in which she had been sold and made a slave.\n\n And what effect did this discourse produce?  anxiously inquired\nAlbert.\n\n I acknowledge it affected me, and, indeed, all the committee also, \nsaid Beauchamp.\n\n Meanwhile, the president carelessly opened the letter which had been\nbrought to him; but the first lines aroused his attention; he read them\nagain and again, and fixing his eyes on M. de Morcerf,  Count,  said\nhe,  you have said that the Vizier of Yanina confided his wife and\ndaughter to your care? Yes, sir,  replied Morcerf;  but in that, like\nall the rest, misfortune pursued me. On my return, Vasiliki and her\ndaughter Hayd e had disappeared. Did you know them? My intimacy\nwith the pasha and his unlimited confidence had gained me an\nintroduction to them, and I had seen them above twenty times. \n\n Have you any idea what became of them? Yes, sir; I heard they had\nfallen victims to their sorrow, and, perhaps, to their poverty. I was\nnot rich; my life was in constant danger; I could not seek them, to my\ngreat regret.  The president frowned imperceptibly.  Gentlemen,  said\nhe,  you have heard the Comte de Morcerf s defence. Can you, sir,\nproduce any witnesses to the truth of what you have asserted? Alas,\nno, monsieur,  replied the count;  all those who surrounded the vizier,\nor who knew me at his court, are either dead or gone away, I know not\nwhere. I believe that I alone, of all my countrymen, survived that\ndreadful war. I have only the letters of Ali Tepelini, which I have\nplaced before you; the ring, a token of his good-will, which is here;\nand, lastly, the most convincing proof I can offer, after an anonymous\nattack, and that is the absence of any witness against my veracity and\nthe purity of my military life. \n\n A murmur of approbation ran through the assembly; and at this moment,\nAlbert, had nothing more transpired, your father s cause had been\ngained. It only remained to put it to the vote, when the president\nresumed:  Gentlemen and you, monsieur, you will not be displeased, I\npresume, to listen to one who calls himself a very important witness,\nand who has just presented himself. He is, doubtless, come to prove the\nperfect innocence of our colleague. Here is a letter I have just\nreceived on the subject; shall it be read, or shall it be passed over?\nand shall we take no notice of this incident?  M. de Morcerf turned\npale, and clenched his hands on the papers he held. The committee\ndecided to hear the letter; the count was thoughtful and silent. The\npresident read:\n\n Mr. President, I can furnish the committee of inquiry into the\nconduct of the Lieutenant-General the Count of Morcerf in Epirus and in\nMacedonia with important particulars. \n\n The president paused, and the count turned pale. The president looked\nat his auditors.  Proceed,  was heard on all sides. The president\nresumed:\n\n I was on the spot at the death of Ali Pasha. I was present during his\nlast moments. I know what is become of Vasiliki and Hayd e. I am at the\ncommand of the committee, and even claim the honor of being heard. I\nshall be in the lobby when this note is delivered to you. \n\n And who is this witness, or rather this enemy?  asked the count, in a\ntone in which there was a visible alteration.  We shall know, sir, \nreplied the president.  Is the committee willing to hear this\nwitness? Yes, yes,  they all said at once. The door-keeper was\ncalled.  Is there anyone in the lobby?  said the president.\n\n Yes, sir. Who is it? A woman, accompanied by a servant.  Everyone\nlooked at his neighbor.  Bring her in,  said the president. Five\nminutes after the door-keeper again appeared; all eyes were fixed on\nthe door, and I,  said Beauchamp,  shared the general expectation and\nanxiety. Behind the door-keeper walked a woman enveloped in a large\nveil, which completely concealed her. It was evident, from her figure\nand the perfumes she had about her, that she was young and fastidious\nin her tastes, but that was all. The president requested her to throw\naside her veil, and it was then seen that she was dressed in the\nGrecian costume, and was remarkably beautiful. \n\n Ah,  said Albert,  it was she. \n\n Who? \n\n Hayd e. \n\n Who told you that? \n\n Alas, I guess it. But go on, Beauchamp. You see I am calm and strong.\nAnd yet we must be drawing near the disclosure. \n\n M. de Morcerf,  continued Beauchamp,  looked at this woman with\nsurprise and terror. Her lips were about to pass his sentence of life\nor death. To the committee the adventure was so extraordinary and\ncurious, that the interest they had felt for the count s safety became\nnow quite a secondary matter. The president himself advanced to place a\nseat for the young lady; but she declined availing herself of it. As\nfor the count, he had fallen on his chair; it was evident that his legs\nrefused to support him.\n\n Madame,  said the president,  you have engaged to furnish the\ncommittee with some important particulars respecting the affair at\nYanina, and you have stated that you were an eyewitness of the\nevent. I was, indeed,  said the stranger, with a tone of sweet\nmelancholy, and with the sonorous voice peculiar to the East.\n\n But allow me to say that you must have been very young then. I was\nfour years old; but as those events deeply concerned me, not a single\ndetail has escaped my memory. In what manner could these events\nconcern you? and who are you, that they should have made so deep an\nimpression on you? On them depended my father s life,  replied she.\n I am Hayd e, the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of\nVasiliki, his beloved wife. \n\n40202m\n\n\n\n The blush of mingled pride and modesty which suddenly suffused the\ncheeks of the young woman, the brilliancy of her eye, and her highly\nimportant communication, produced an indescribable effect on the\nassembly. As for the count, he could not have been more overwhelmed if\na thunderbolt had fallen at his feet and opened an immense gulf before\nhim.\n\n Madame,  replied the president, bowing with profound respect,  allow\nme to ask one question; it shall be the last: Can you prove the\nauthenticity of what you have now stated? \n\n I can, sir,  said Hayd e, drawing from under her veil a satin satchel\nhighly perfumed;  for here is the register of my birth, signed by my\nfather and his principal officers, and that of my baptism, my father\nhaving consented to my being brought up in my mother s faith, this\nlatter has been sealed by the grand primate of Macedonia and Epirus;\nand lastly (and perhaps the most important), the record of the sale of\nmy person and that of my mother to the Armenian merchant El-Kobbir, by\nthe French officer, who, in his infamous bargain with the Porte, had\nreserved as his part of the booty the wife and daughter of his\nbenefactor, whom he sold for the sum of four hundred thousand francs. \nA greenish pallor spread over the count s cheeks, and his eyes became\nbloodshot at these terrible imputations, which were listened to by the\nassembly with ominous silence.\n\n Hayd e, still calm, but with a calmness more dreadful than the anger\nof another would have been, handed to the president the record of her\nsale, written in Arabic. It had been supposed some of the papers might\nbe in the Arabian, Romaic, or Turkish language, and the interpreter of\nthe House was in attendance. One of the noble peers, who was familiar\nwith the Arabic language, having studied it during the famous Egyptian\ncampaign, followed with his eye as the translator read aloud:\n\n I, El-Kobbir, a slave-merchant, and purveyor of the harem of his\nhighness, acknowledge having received for transmission to the sublime\nemperor, from the French lord, the Count of Monte Cristo, an emerald\nvalued at eight hundred thousand francs; as the ransom of a young\nChristian slave of eleven years of age, named Hayd e, the acknowledged\ndaughter of the late lord Ali Tepelini, pasha of Yanina, and of\nVasiliki, his favorite; she having been sold to me seven years\npreviously, with her mother, who had died on arriving at\nConstantinople, by a French colonel in the service of the Vizier Ali\nTepelini, named Fernand Mondego. The above-mentioned purchase was made\non his highness s account, whose mandate I had, for the sum of four\nhundred thousand francs.\n\n Given at Constantinople, by authority of his highness, in the year\n1247 of the Hegira.\n\n Signed, El-Kobbir. \n\n That this record should have all due authority, it shall bear the\nimperial seal, which the vendor is bound to have affixed to it. \n\n Near the merchant s signature there was, indeed, the seal of the\nsublime emperor. A dreadful silence followed the reading of this\ndocument; the count could only stare, and his gaze, fixed as if\nunconsciously on Hayd e, seemed one of fire and blood.  Madame,  said\nthe president,  may reference be made to the Count of Monte Cristo, who\nis now, I believe, in Paris? \n\n Sir,  replied Hayd e,  the Count of Monte Cristo, my foster-father,\nhas been in Normandy the last three days. \n\n Who, then, has counselled you to take this step, one for which the\ncourt is deeply indebted to you, and which is perfectly natural,\nconsidering your birth and your misfortunes? Sir,  replied Hayd e,  I\nhave been led to take this step from a feeling of respect and grief.\nAlthough a Christian, may God forgive me, I have always sought to\nrevenge my illustrious father. Since I set my foot in France, and knew\nthe traitor lived in Paris, I have watched carefully. I live retired in\nthe house of my noble protector, but I do it from choice. I love\nretirement and silence, because I can live with my thoughts and\nrecollections of past days. But the Count of Monte Cristo surrounds me\nwith every paternal care, and I am ignorant of nothing which passes in\nthe world. I learn all in the silence of my apartments, for instance, I\nsee all the newspapers, every periodical, as well as every new piece of\nmusic; and by thus watching the course of the life of others, I learned\nwhat had transpired this morning in the House of Peers, and what was to\ntake place this evening; then I wrote. \n\n40204m\n\n\n\n Then,  remarked the president,  the Count of Monte Cristo knows\nnothing of your present proceedings? He is quite unaware of them, and\nI have but one fear, which is that he should disapprove of what I have\ndone. But it is a glorious day for me,  continued the young girl,\nraising her ardent gaze to heaven,  that on which I find at last an\nopportunity of avenging my father! \n\n The count had not uttered one word the whole of this time. His\ncolleagues looked at him, and doubtless pitied his prospects, blighted\nunder the perfumed breath of a woman. His misery was depicted in\nsinister lines on his countenance.  M. de Morcerf,  said the president,\n do you recognize this lady as the daughter of Ali Tepelini, pasha of\nYanina? No,  said Morcerf, attempting to rise,  it is a base plot,\ncontrived by my enemies.  Hayd e, whose eyes had been fixed on the\ndoor, as if expecting someone, turned hastily, and, seeing the count\nstanding, shrieked,  You do not know me?  said she.  Well, I\nfortunately recognize you! You are Fernand Mondego, the French officer\nwho led the troops of my noble father! It is you who surrendered the\ncastle of Yanina! It is you who, sent by him to Constantinople, to\ntreat with the emperor for the life or death of your benefactor,\nbrought back a false mandate granting full pardon! It is you who, with\nthat mandate, obtained the pasha s ring, which gave you authority over\nSelim, the fire-keeper! It is you who stabbed Selim. It is you who sold\nus, my mother and me, to the merchant, El-Kobbir! Assassin, assassin,\nassassin, you have still on your brow your master s blood! Look,\ngentlemen, all! \n\n These words had been pronounced with such enthusiasm and evident\ntruth, that every eye was fixed on the count s forehead, and he himself\npassed his hand across it, as if he felt Ali s blood still lingering\nthere.  You positively recognize M. de Morcerf as the officer, Fernand\nMondego? Indeed I do!  cried Hayd e.  Oh, my mother, it was you who\nsaid,  You were free, you had a beloved father, you were destined to be\nalmost a queen. Look well at that man; it is he who raised your\nfather s head on the point of a spear; it is he who sold us; it is he\nwho forsook us! Look well at his right hand, on which he has a large\nwound; if you forgot his features, you would know him by that hand,\ninto which fell, one by one, the gold pieces of the merchant\nEl-Kobbir!  I know him! Ah, let him say now if he does not recognize\nme!  Each word fell like a dagger on Morcerf, and deprived him of a\nportion of his energy; as she uttered the last, he hid his mutilated\nhand hastily in his bosom, and fell back on his seat, overwhelmed by\nwretchedness and despair. This scene completely changed the opinion of\nthe assembly respecting the accused count.\n\n Count of Morcerf,  said the president,  do not allow yourself to be\ncast down; answer. The justice of the court is supreme and impartial as\nthat of God; it will not suffer you to be trampled on by your enemies\nwithout giving you an opportunity of defending yourself. Shall further\ninquiries be made? Shall two members of the House be sent to Yanina?\nSpeak!  Morcerf did not reply. Then all the members looked at each\nother with terror. They knew the count s energetic and violent temper;\nit must be, indeed, a dreadful blow which would deprive him of courage\nto defend himself. They expected that his stupefied silence would be\nfollowed by a fiery outburst.  Well,  asked the president,  what is\nyour decision? \n\n40206m\n\n\n\n I have no reply to make,  said the count in a low tone.\n\n Has the daughter of Ali Tepelini spoken the truth?  said the\npresident.  Is she, then, the terrible witness to whose charge you dare\nnot plead  Not guilty ? Have you really committed the crimes of which\nyou are accused?  The count looked around him with an expression which\nmight have softened tigers, but which could not disarm his judges. Then\nhe raised his eyes towards the ceiling, but withdrew then, immediately,\nas if he feared the roof would open and reveal to his distressed view\nthat second tribunal called heaven, and that other judge named God.\nThen, with a hasty movement, he tore open his coat, which seemed to\nstifle him, and flew from the room like a madman; his footstep was\nheard one moment in the corridor, then the rattling of his\ncarriage-wheels as he was driven rapidly away.  Gentlemen,  said the\npresident, when silence was restored,  is the Count of Morcerf\nconvicted of felony, treason, and conduct unbecoming a member of this\nHouse? Yes,  replied all the members of the committee of inquiry with\na unanimous voice.\n\n Hayd e had remained until the close of the meeting. She heard the\ncount s sentence pronounced without betraying an expression of joy or\npity; then drawing her veil over her face she bowed majestically to the\ncouncillors, and left with that dignified step which Virgil attributes\nto his goddesses. \n\n\n\n Chapter 87. The Challenge\n\nThen,  continued Beauchamp,  I took advantage of the silence and the\ndarkness to leave the house without being seen. The usher who had\nintroduced me was waiting for me at the door, and he conducted me\nthrough the corridors to a private entrance opening into the Rue de\nVaugirard. I left with mingled feelings of sorrow and delight. Excuse\nme, Albert, sorrow on your account, and delight with that noble girl,\nthus pursuing paternal vengeance. Yes, Albert, from whatever source the\nblow may have proceeded it may be from an enemy, but that enemy is only\nthe agent of Providence. \n\nAlbert held his head between his hands; he raised his face, red with\nshame and bathed in tears, and seizing Beauchamp s arm:\n\n My friend,  said he,  my life is ended. I cannot calmly say with you,\n Providence has struck the blow;  but I must discover who pursues me\nwith this hatred, and when I have found him I shall kill him, or he\nwill kill me. I rely on your friendship to assist me, Beauchamp, if\ncontempt has not banished it from your heart. \n\n Contempt, my friend? How does this misfortune affect you? No, happily\nthat unjust prejudice is forgotten which made the son responsible for\nthe father s actions. Review your life, Albert; although it is only\njust beginning, did a lovely summer s day ever dawn with greater purity\nthan has marked the commencement of your career? No, Albert, take my\nadvice. You are young and rich leave Paris all is soon forgotten in\nthis great Babylon of excitement and changing tastes. You will return\nafter three or four years with a Russian princess for a bride, and no\none will think more of what occurred yesterday than if it had happened\nsixteen years ago. \n\n Thank you, my dear Beauchamp, thank you for the excellent feeling\nwhich prompts your advice; but it cannot be. I have told you my wish,\nor rather my determination. You understand that, interested as I am in\nthis affair, I cannot see it in the same light as you do. What appears\nto you to emanate from a celestial source, seems to me to proceed from\none far less pure. Providence appears to me to have no share in this\naffair; and happily so, for instead of the invisible, impalpable agent\nof celestial rewards and punishments, I shall find one both palpable\nand visible, on whom I shall revenge myself, I assure you, for all I\nhave suffered during the last month. Now, I repeat, Beauchamp, I wish\nto return to human and material existence, and if you are still the\nfriend you profess to be, help me to discover the hand that struck the\nblow. \n\n Be it so,  said Beauchamp;  if you must have me descend to earth, I\nsubmit; and if you will seek your enemy, I will assist you, and I will\nengage to find him, my honor being almost as deeply interested as\nyours. \n\n Well, then, you understand, Beauchamp, that we begin our search\nimmediately. Each moment s delay is an eternity for me. The calumniator\nis not yet punished, and he may hope that he will not be; but, on my\nhonor, if he thinks so, he deceives himself. \n\n Well, listen, Morcerf. \n\n Ah, Beauchamp, I see you know something already; you will restore me\nto life. \n\n I do not say there is any truth in what I am going to tell you, but it\nis, at least, a ray of light in a dark night; by following it we may,\nperhaps, discover something more certain. \n\n Tell me; satisfy my impatience. \n\n Well, I will tell you what I did not like to mention on my return from\nYanina. \n\n Say on. \n\n I went, of course, to the chief banker of the town to make inquiries.\nAt the first word, before I had even mentioned your father s name \n\n Ah,  said he.  I guess what brings you here. \n\n How, and why? \n\n Because a fortnight since I was questioned on the same subject. \n\n By whom? \n\n By a banker of Paris, my correspondent. \n\n Whose name is \n\n Danglars. \n\n He!  cried Albert;  yes, it is indeed he who has so long pursued my\nfather with jealous hatred. He, the man who would be popular, cannot\nforgive the Count of Morcerf for being created a peer; and this\nmarriage broken off without a reason being assigned yes, it is all from\nthe same cause. \n\n Make inquiries, Albert, but do not be angry without reason; make\ninquiries, and if it be true \n\n Oh, yes, if it be true,  cried the young man,  he shall pay me all I\nhave suffered. \n\n Beware, Morcerf, he is already an old man. \n\n I will respect his age as he has respected the honor of my family; if\nmy father had offended him, why did he not attack him personally? Oh,\nno, he was afraid to encounter him face to face. \n\n I do not condemn you, Albert; I only restrain you. Act prudently. \n\n Oh, do not fear; besides, you will accompany me. Beauchamp, solemn\ntransactions should be sanctioned by a witness. Before this day closes,\nif M. Danglars is guilty, he shall cease to live, or I shall die.\n_Pardieu_, Beauchamp, mine shall be a splendid funeral! \n\n When such resolutions are made, Albert, they should be promptly\nexecuted. Do you wish to go to M. Danglars? Let us go immediately. \n\nThey sent for a cabriolet. On entering the banker s mansion, they\nperceived the phaeton and servant of M. Andrea Cavalcanti.\n\n Ah! _parbleu!_ that s good,  said Albert, with a gloomy tone.  If M.\nDanglars will not fight with me, I will kill his son-in-law; Cavalcanti\nwill certainly fight. \n\nThe servant announced the young man; but the banker, recollecting what\nhad transpired the day before, did not wish him admitted. It was,\nhowever, too late; Albert had followed the footman, and, hearing the\norder given, forced the door open, and followed by Beauchamp found\nhimself in the banker s study.\n\n Sir,  cried the latter,  am I no longer at liberty to receive whom I\nchoose in my house? You appear to forget yourself sadly. \n\n No, sir,  said Albert, coldly;  there are circumstances in which one\ncannot, except through cowardice, I offer you that refuge, refuse to\nadmit certain persons at least. \n\n What is your errand, then, with me, sir? \n\n I mean,  said Albert, drawing near, and without apparently noticing\nCavalcanti, who stood with his back towards the fireplace I mean to\npropose a meeting in some retired corner where no one will interrupt us\nfor ten minutes; that will be sufficient where two men having met, one\nof them will remain on the ground. \n\nDanglars turned pale; Cavalcanti moved a step forward, and Albert\nturned towards him.\n\n And you, too,  said he,  come, if you like, monsieur; you have a\nclaim, being almost one of the family, and I will give as many\nrendezvous of that kind as I can find persons willing to accept them. \n\nCavalcanti looked at Danglars with a stupefied air, and the latter,\nmaking an effort, arose and stepped between the two young men. Albert s\nattack on Andrea had placed him on a different footing, and he hoped\nthis visit had another cause than that he had at first supposed.\n\n Indeed, sir,  said he to Albert,  if you are come to quarrel with this\ngentleman because I have preferred him to you, I shall resign the case\nto the king s attorney. \n\n You mistake, sir,  said Morcerf with a gloomy smile;  I am not\nreferring in the least to matrimony, and I only addressed myself to M.\nCavalcanti because he appeared disposed to interfere between us. In one\nrespect you are right, for I am ready to quarrel with everyone today;\nbut you have the first claim, M. Danglars. \n\n40212m\n\n\n\n Sir,  replied Danglars, pale with anger and fear,  I warn you, when I\nhave the misfortune to meet with a mad dog, I kill it; and far from\nthinking myself guilty of a crime, I believe I do society a kindness.\nNow, if you are mad and try to bite me, I will kill you without pity.\nIs it my fault that your father has dishonored himself? \n\n Yes, miserable wretch!  cried Morcerf,  it is your fault. \n\nDanglars retreated a few steps.  My fault?  said he;  you must be mad!\nWhat do I know of the Grecian affair? Have I travelled in that country?\nDid I advise your father to sell the castle of Yanina to betray \n\n Silence!  said Albert, with a thundering voice.  No; it is not you who\nhave directly made this exposure and brought this sorrow on us, but you\nhypocritically provoked it. \n\n I? \n\n Yes; you! How came it known? \n\n I suppose you read it in the paper in the account from Yanina? \n\n Who wrote to Yanina? \n\n To Yanina? \n\n Yes. Who wrote for particulars concerning my father? \n\n I imagine anyone may write to Yanina. \n\n But one person only wrote! \n\n One only? \n\n Yes; and that was you! \n\n I, doubtless, wrote. It appears to me that when about to marry your\ndaughter to a young man, it is right to make some inquiries respecting\nhis family; it is not only a right, but a duty. \n\n You wrote, sir, knowing what answer you would receive. \n\n I, indeed? I assure you,  cried Danglars, with a confidence and\nsecurity proceeding less from fear than from the interest he really\nfelt for the young man,  I solemnly declare to you, that I should never\nhave thought of writing to Yanina, did I know anything of Ali Pasha s\nmisfortunes. \n\n Who, then, urged you to write? Tell me. \n\n _Pardieu!_ it was the most simple thing in the world. I was speaking\nof your father s past history. I said the origin of his fortune\nremained obscure. The person to whom I addressed my scruples asked me\nwhere your father had acquired his property? I answered,  In\nGreece. Then,  said he,  write to Yanina. \n\n And who thus advised you? \n\n No other than your friend, Monte Cristo. \n\n The Count of Monte Cristo told you to write to Yanina? \n\n Yes; and I wrote, and will show you my correspondence, if you like. \n\nAlbert and Beauchamp looked at each other.\n\n Sir,  said Beauchamp, who had not yet spoken,  you appear to accuse\nthe count, who is absent from Paris at this moment, and cannot justify\nhimself. \n\n I accuse no one, sir,  said Danglars;  I relate, and I will repeat\nbefore the count what I have said to you. \n\n Does the count know what answer you received? \n\n Yes; I showed it to him. \n\n Did he know my father s Christian name was Fernand, and his family\nname Mondego? \n\n Yes, I had told him that long since, and I did only what any other\nwould have done in my circumstances, and perhaps less. When, the day\nafter the arrival of this answer, your father came by the advice of\nMonte Cristo to ask my daughter s hand for you, I decidedly refused\nhim, but without any explanation or exposure. In short, why should I\nhave any more to do with the affair? How did the honor or disgrace of\nM. de Morcerf affect me? It neither increased nor decreased my income. \n\nAlbert felt the blood mounting to his brow; there was no doubt upon the\nsubject. Danglars defended himself with the baseness, but at the same\ntime with the assurance, of a man who speaks the truth, at least in\npart, if not wholly not for conscience  sake, but through fear.\nBesides, what was Morcerf seeking? It was not whether Danglars or Monte\nCristo was more or less guilty; it was a man who would answer for the\noffence, whether trifling or serious; it was a man who would fight, and\nit was evident Danglars would not fight.\n\nIn addition to this, everything forgotten or unperceived before\npresented itself now to his recollection. Monte Cristo knew everything,\nas he had bought the daughter of Ali Pasha; and, knowing everything, he\nhad advised Danglars to write to Yanina. The answer known, he had\nyielded to Albert s wish to be introduced to Hayd e, and allowed the\nconversation to turn on the death of Ali, and had not opposed Hayd e s\nrecital (but having, doubtless, warned the young girl, in the few\nRomaic words he spoke to her, not to implicate Morcerf s father).\nBesides, had he not begged of Morcerf not to mention his father s name\nbefore Hayd e? Lastly, he had taken Albert to Normandy when he knew the\nfinal blow was near. There could be no doubt that all had been\ncalculated and previously arranged; Monte Cristo then was in league\nwith his father s enemies. Albert took Beauchamp aside, and\ncommunicated these ideas to him.\n\n You are right,  said the latter;  M. Danglars has only been a\nsecondary agent in this sad affair, and it is of M. de Monte Cristo\nthat you must demand an explanation. \n\nAlbert turned.\n\n Sir,  said he to Danglars,  understand that I do not take a final\nleave of you; I must ascertain if your insinuations are just, and am\ngoing now to inquire of the Count of Monte Cristo. \n\nHe bowed to the banker, and went out with Beauchamp, without appearing\nto notice Cavalcanti. Danglars accompanied him to the door, where he\nagain assured Albert that no motive of personal hatred had influenced\nhim against the Count of Morcerf.\n\n\n\n Chapter 88. The Insult\n\nAt the banker s door Beauchamp stopped Morcerf.\n\n Listen,  said he;  just now I told you it was of M. de Monte Cristo\nyou must demand an explanation. \n\n Yes; and we are going to his house. \n\n Reflect, Morcerf, one moment before you go. \n\n On what shall I reflect? \n\n On the importance of the step you are taking. \n\n Is it more serious than going to M. Danglars? \n\n Yes; M. Danglars is a money-lover, and those who love money, you know,\nthink too much of what they risk to be easily induced to fight a duel.\nThe other is, on the contrary, to all appearance a true nobleman; but\ndo you not fear to find him a bully? \n\n I only fear one thing; namely, to find a man who will not fight. \n\n Do not be alarmed,  said Beauchamp;  he will meet you. My only fear is\nthat he will be too strong for you. \n\n My friend,  said Morcerf, with a sweet smile,  that is what I wish.\nThe happiest thing that could occur to me, would be to die in my\nfather s stead; that would save us all. \n\n Your mother would die of grief. \n\n My poor mother!  said Albert, passing his hand across his eyes,  I\nknow she would; but better so than die of shame. \n\n Are you quite decided, Albert? \n\n Yes; let us go. \n\n But do you think we shall find the count at home? \n\n He intended returning some hours after me, and doubtless he is now at\nhome. \n\nThey ordered the driver to take them to No. 30 Champs- lys es.\nBeauchamp wished to go in alone, but Albert observed that as this was\nan unusual circumstance he might be allowed to deviate from the usual\netiquette of duels. The cause which the young man espoused was one so\nsacred that Beauchamp had only to comply with all his wishes; he\nyielded and contented himself with following Morcerf. Albert sprang\nfrom the porter s lodge to the steps. He was received by Baptistin. The\ncount had, indeed, just arrived, but he was in his bath, and had\nforbidden that anyone should be admitted.\n\n But after his bath?  asked Morcerf.\n\n My master will go to dinner. \n\n And after dinner? \n\n He will sleep an hour. \n\n Then? \n\n He is going to the Opera. \n\n Are you sure of it?  asked Albert.\n\n Quite, sir; my master has ordered his horses at eight o clock\nprecisely. \n\n Very good,  replied Albert;  that is all I wished to know. \n\nThen, turning towards Beauchamp,  If you have anything to attend to,\nBeauchamp, do it directly; if you have any appointment for this\nevening, defer it till tomorrow. I depend on you to accompany me to the\nOpera; and if you can, bring Ch teau-Renaud with you. \n\nBeauchamp availed himself of Albert s permission, and left him,\npromising to call for him at a quarter before eight. On his return\nhome, Albert expressed his wish to Franz Debray, and Morrel, to see\nthem at the Opera that evening. Then he went to see his mother, who\nsince the events of the day before had refused to see anyone, and had\nkept her room. He found her in bed, overwhelmed with grief at this\npublic humiliation.\n\nThe sight of Albert produced the effect which might naturally be\nexpected on Merc d s; she pressed her son s hand and sobbed aloud, but\nher tears relieved her. Albert stood one moment speechless by the side\nof his mother s bed. It was evident from his pale face and knit brows\nthat his resolution to revenge himself was growing weaker.\n\n My dear mother,  said he,  do you know if M. de Morcerf has any\nenemy? \n\nMerc d s started; she noticed that the young man did not say  my\nfather. \n\n My son,  she said,  persons in the count s situation have many secret\nenemies. Those who are known are not the most dangerous. \n\n I know it, and appeal to your penetration. You are of so superior a\nmind, nothing escapes you. \n\n Why do you say so? \n\n Because, for instance, you noticed on the evening of the ball we gave,\nthat M. de Monte Cristo would eat nothing in our house. \n\nMerc d s raised herself on her feverish arm.\n\n M. de Monte Cristo!  she exclaimed;  and how is he connected with the\nquestion you asked me? \n\n40219m\n\n\n\n You know, mother, M. de Monte Cristo is almost an Oriental, and it is\ncustomary with the Orientals to secure full liberty for revenge by not\neating or drinking in the houses of their enemies. \n\n Do you say M. de Monte Cristo is our enemy?  replied Merc d s,\nbecoming paler than the sheet which covered her.  Who told you so? Why,\nyou are mad, Albert! M. de Monte Cristo has only shown us kindness. M.\nde Monte Cristo saved your life; you yourself presented him to us. Oh,\nI entreat you, my son, if you had entertained such an idea, dispel it;\nand my counsel to you nay, my prayer is to retain his friendship. \n\n Mother,  replied the young man,  you have special reasons for telling\nme to conciliate that man. \n\n I?  said Merc d s, blushing as rapidly as she had turned pale, and\nagain becoming paler than ever.\n\n Yes, doubtless; and is it not that he may never do us any harm? \n\nMerc d s shuddered, and, fixing on her son a scrutinizing gaze,  You\nspeak strangely,  said she to Albert,  and you appear to have some\nsingular prejudices. What has the count done? Three days since you were\nwith him in Normandy; only three days since we looked on him as our\nbest friend. \n\nAn ironical smile passed over Albert s lips. Merc d s saw it and with\nthe double instinct of woman and mother guessed all; but as she was\nprudent and strong-minded she concealed both her sorrows and her fears.\nAlbert was silent; an instant after, the countess resumed:\n\n You came to inquire after my health; I will candidly acknowledge that\nI am not well. You should install yourself here, and cheer my solitude.\nI do not wish to be left alone. \n\n Mother,  said the young man,  you know how gladly I would obey your\nwish, but an urgent and important affair obliges me to leave you for\nthe whole evening. \n\n Well,  replied Merc d s, sighing,  go, Albert; I will not make you a\nslave to your filial piety. \n\nAlbert pretended he did not hear, bowed to his mother, and quitted her.\nScarcely had he shut her door, when Merc d s called a confidential\nservant, and ordered him to follow Albert wherever he should go that\nevening, and to come and tell her immediately what he observed. Then\nshe rang for her lady s maid, and, weak as she was, she dressed, in\norder to be ready for whatever might happen. The footman s mission was\nan easy one. Albert went to his room, and dressed with unusual care. At\nten minutes to eight Beauchamp arrived; he had seen Ch teau-Renaud, who\nhad promised to be in the orchestra before the curtain was raised. Both\ngot into Albert s _coup _; and, as the young man had no reason to\nconceal where he was going, he called aloud,  To the Opera.  In his\nimpatience he arrived before the beginning of the performance.\n\n40221m\n\n\n\nCh teau-Renaud was at his post; apprised by Beauchamp of the\ncircumstances, he required no explanation from Albert. The conduct of\nthe son in seeking to avenge his father was so natural that\nCh teau-Renaud did not seek to dissuade him, and was content with\nrenewing his assurances of devotion. Debray was not yet come, but\nAlbert knew that he seldom lost a scene at the Opera.\n\nAlbert wandered about the theatre until the curtain was drawn up. He\nhoped to meet with M. de Monte Cristo either in the lobby or on the\nstairs. The bell summoned him to his seat, and he entered the orchestra\nwith Ch teau-Renaud and Beauchamp. But his eyes scarcely quitted the\nbox between the columns, which remained obstinately closed during the\nwhole of the first act. At last, as Albert was looking at his watch for\nabout the hundredth time, at the beginning of the second act the door\nopened, and Monte Cristo entered, dressed in black, and, leaning over\nthe front of the box, looked around the pit. Morrel followed him, and\nlooked also for his sister and brother in-law; he soon discovered them\nin another box, and kissed his hand to them.\n\nThe count, in his survey of the pit, encountered a pale face and\nthreatening eyes, which evidently sought to gain his attention. He\nrecognized Albert, but thought it better not to notice him, as he\nlooked so angry and discomposed. Without communicating his thoughts to\nhis companion, he sat down, drew out his opera-glass, and looked\nanother way. Although apparently not noticing Albert, he did not,\nhowever, lose sight of him, and when the curtain fell at the end of the\nsecond act, he saw him leave the orchestra with his two friends. Then\nhis head was seen passing at the back of the boxes, and the count knew\nthat the approaching storm was intended to fall on him. He was at the\nmoment conversing cheerfully with Morrel, but he was well prepared for\nwhat might happen.\n\nThe door opened, and Monte Cristo, turning round, saw Albert, pale and\ntrembling, followed by Beauchamp and Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n Well,  cried he, with that benevolent politeness which distinguished\nhis salutation from the common civilities of the world,  my cavalier\nhas attained his object. Good-evening, M. de Morcerf. \n\nThe countenance of this man, who possessed such extraordinary control\nover his feelings, expressed the most perfect cordiality. Morrel only\nthen recollected the letter he had received from the viscount, in\nwhich, without assigning any reason, he begged him to go to the Opera,\nbut he understood that something terrible was brooding.\n\n We are not come here, sir, to exchange hypocritical expressions of\npoliteness, or false professions of friendship,  said Albert,  but to\ndemand an explanation. \n\nThe young man s trembling voice was scarcely audible.\n\n An explanation at the Opera?  said the count, with that calm tone and\npenetrating eye which characterize the man who knows his cause is good.\n Little acquainted as I am with the habits of Parisians, I should not\nhave thought this the place for such a demand. \n\n Still, if people will shut themselves up,  said Albert,  and cannot be\nseen because they are bathing, dining, or asleep, we must avail\nourselves of the opportunity whenever they are to be seen. \n\n I am not difficult of access, sir; for yesterday, if my memory does\nnot deceive me, you were at my house. \n\n Yesterday I was at your house, sir,  said the young man;  because then\nI knew not who you were. \n\nIn pronouncing these words Albert had raised his voice so as to be\nheard by those in the adjoining boxes and in the lobby. Thus the\nattention of many was attracted by this altercation.\n\n Where are you come from, sir?   said Monte Cristo  You do not appear\nto be in the possession of your senses. \n\n Provided I understand your perfidy, sir, and succeed in making you\nunderstand that I will be revenged, I shall be reasonable enough,  said\nAlbert furiously.\n\n I do not understand you, sir,  replied Monte Cristo;  and if I did,\nyour tone is too high. I am at home here, and I alone have a right to\nraise my voice above another s. Leave the box, sir! \n\nMonte Cristo pointed towards the door with the most commanding dignity.\n\n Ah, I shall know how to make you leave your home!  replied Albert,\nclasping in his convulsed grasp the glove, which Monte Cristo did not\nlose sight of.\n\n Well, well,  said Monte Cristo quietly,  I see you wish to quarrel\nwith me; but I would give you one piece of advice, which you will do\nwell to keep in mind. It is in poor taste to make a display of a\nchallenge. Display is not becoming to everyone, M. de Morcerf. \n\nAt this name a murmur of astonishment passed around the group of\nspectators of this scene. They had talked of no one but Morcerf the\nwhole day. Albert understood the allusion in a moment, and was about to\nthrow his glove at the count, when Morrel seized his hand, while\nBeauchamp and Ch teau-Renaud, fearing the scene would surpass the\nlimits of a challenge, held him back. But Monte Cristo, without rising,\nand leaning forward in his chair, merely stretched out his arm and,\ntaking the damp, crushed glove from the clenched hand of the young man:\n\n Sir,  said he in a solemn tone,  I consider your glove thrown, and\nwill return it to you wrapped around a bullet. Now leave me or I will\nsummon my servants to throw you out at the door. \n\nWild, almost unconscious, and with eyes inflamed, Albert stepped back,\nand Morrel closed the door. Monte Cristo took up his glass again as if\nnothing had happened; his face was like marble, and his heart was like\nbronze. Morrel whispered,  What have you done to him? \n\n I? Nothing at least personally,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n But there must be some cause for this strange scene. \n\n The Count of Morcerf s adventure exasperates the young man. \n\n Have you anything to do with it? \n\n It was through Hayd e that the Chamber was informed of his father s\ntreason. \n\n Indeed?  said Morrel.  I had been told, but would not credit it, that\nthe Grecian slave I have seen with you here in this very box was the\ndaughter of Ali Pasha. \n\n It is true, nevertheless. \n\n Then,  said Morrel,  I understand it all, and this scene was\npremeditated. \n\n How so? \n\n Yes. Albert wrote to request me to come to the Opera, doubtless that I\nmight be a witness to the insult he meant to offer you. \n\n Probably,  said Monte Cristo with his imperturbable tranquillity.\n\n But what shall you do with him? \n\n With whom? \n\n With Albert. \n\n What shall I do with Albert? As certainly, Maximilian, as I now press\nyour hand, I shall kill him before ten o clock tomorrow morning. \nMorrel, in his turn, took Monte Cristo s hand in both of his, and he\nshuddered to feel how cold and steady it was.\n\n Ah, count,  said he,  his father loves him so much! \n\n Do not speak to me of that,  said Monte Cristo, with the first\nmovement of anger he had betrayed;  I will make him suffer. \n\nMorrel, amazed, let fall Monte Cristo s hand.  Count, count!  said he.\n\n Dear Maximilian,  interrupted the count,  listen how adorably Duprez\nis singing that line, \n\n O Mathilde! idole de mon  me! \n\n\n I was the first to discover Duprez at Naples, and the first to applaud\nhim. Bravo, bravo! \n\nMorrel saw it was useless to say more, and refrained. The curtain,\nwhich had risen at the close of the scene with Albert, again fell, and\na rap was heard at the door.\n\n Come in,  said Monte Cristo with a voice that betrayed not the least\nemotion; and immediately Beauchamp appeared.  Good-evening, M.\nBeauchamp,  said Monte Cristo, as if this was the first time he had\nseen the journalist that evening;  be seated. \n\nBeauchamp bowed, and, sitting down,  Sir,  said he,  I just now\naccompanied M. de Morcerf, as you saw. \n\n And that means,  replied Monte Cristo, laughing,  that you had,\nprobably, just dined together. I am happy to see, M. Beauchamp, that\nyou are more sober than he was. \n\n Sir,  said M. Beauchamp,  Albert was wrong, I acknowledge, to betray\nso much anger, and I come, on my own account, to apologize for him. And\nhaving done so, entirely on my own account, be it understood, I would\nadd that I believe you too gentlemanly to refuse giving him some\nexplanation concerning your connection with Yanina. Then I will add two\nwords about the young Greek girl. \n\nMonte Cristo motioned him to be silent.  Come,  said he, laughing,\n there are all my hopes about to be destroyed. \n\n How so?  asked Beauchamp.\n\n Doubtless you wish to make me appear a very eccentric character. I am,\nin your opinion, a Lara, a Manfred, a Lord Ruthven; then, just as I am\narriving at the climax, you defeat your own end, and seek to make an\nordinary man of me. You bring me down to your own level, and demand\nexplanations! Indeed, M. Beauchamp, it is quite laughable. \n\n Yet,  replied Beauchamp haughtily,  there are occasions when probity\ncommands \n\n M. Beauchamp,  interposed this strange man,  the Count of Monte Cristo\nbows to none but the Count of Monte Cristo himself. Say no more, I\nentreat you. I do what I please, M. Beauchamp, and it is always well\ndone. \n\n Sir,  replied the young man,  honest men are not to be paid with such\ncoin. I require honorable guaranties. \n\n I am, sir, a living guaranty,  replied Monte Cristo, motionless, but\nwith a threatening look;  we have both blood in our veins which we wish\nto shed that is our mutual guaranty. Tell the viscount so, and that\ntomorrow, before ten o clock, I shall see what color his is. \n\n Then I have only to make arrangements for the duel,  said Beauchamp.\n\n It is quite immaterial to me,  said Monte Cristo,  and it was very\nunnecessary to disturb me at the Opera for such a trifle. In France\npeople fight with the sword or pistol, in the colonies with the\ncarbine, in Arabia with the dagger. Tell your client that, although I\nam the insulted party, in order to carry out my eccentricity, I leave\nhim the choice of arms, and will accept without discussion, without\ndispute, anything, even combat by drawing lots, which is always stupid,\nbut with me different from other people, as I am sure to gain. \n\n Sure to gain!  repeated Beauchamp, looking with amazement at the\ncount.\n\n Certainly,  said Monte Cristo, slightly shrugging his shoulders;\n otherwise I would not fight with M. de Morcerf. I shall kill him I\ncannot help it. Only by a single line this evening at my house let me\nknow the arms and the hour; I do not like to be kept waiting. \n\n Pistols, then, at eight o clock, in the Bois de Vincennes,  said\nBeauchamp, quite disconcerted, not knowing if he was dealing with an\narrogant braggadocio or a supernatural being.\n\n Very well, sir,  said Monte Cristo.  Now all that is settled, do let\nme see the performance, and tell your friend Albert not to come any\nmore this evening; he will hurt himself with all his ill-chosen\nbarbarisms: let him go home and go to sleep. \n\nBeauchamp left the box, perfectly amazed.\n\n Now,  said Monte Cristo, turning towards Morrel,  I may depend upon\nyou, may I not? \n\n Certainly,  said Morrel,  I am at your service, count; still \n\n What? \n\n It is desirable I should know the real cause. \n\n That is to say, you would rather not? \n\n No. \n\n The young man himself is acting blindfolded, and knows not the true\ncause, which is known only to God and to me; but I give you my word,\nMorrel, that God, who does know it, will be on our side. \n\n Enough,  said Morrel;  who is your second witness? \n\n I know no one in Paris, Morrel, on whom I could confer that honor\nbesides you and your brother Emmanuel. Do you think Emmanuel would\noblige me? \n\n I will answer for him, count. \n\n Well? that is all I require. Tomorrow morning, at seven o clock, you\nwill be with me, will you not? \n\n We will. \n\n Hush, the curtain is rising. Listen! I never lose a note of this opera\nif I can avoid it; the music of _William Tell_ is so sweet. \n\n\n\n Chapter 89. The Night\n\nMonte Cristo waited, according to his usual custom, until Duprez had\nsung his famous  _Suivez-moi!_  then he rose and went out. Morrel took\nleave of him at the door, renewing his promise to be with him the next\nmorning at seven o clock, and to bring Emmanuel. Then he stepped into\nhis _coup _, calm and smiling, and was at home in five minutes. No one\nwho knew the count could mistake his expression when, on entering, he\nsaid:\n\n Ali, bring me my pistols with the ivory cross. \n\nAli brought the box to his master, who examined the weapons with a\nsolicitude very natural to a man who is about to intrust his life to a\nlittle powder and shot. These were pistols of an especial pattern,\nwhich Monte Cristo had had made for target practice in his own room. A\ncap was sufficient to drive out the bullet, and from the adjoining room\nno one would have suspected that the count was, as sportsmen would say,\nkeeping his hand in.\n\nHe was just taking one up and looking for the point to aim at on a\nlittle iron plate which served him as a target, when his study door\nopened, and Baptistin entered. Before he had spoken a word, the count\nsaw in the next room a veiled woman, who had followed closely after\nBaptistin, and now, seeing the count with a pistol in his hand and\nswords on the table, rushed in. Baptistin looked at his master, who\nmade a sign to him, and he went out, closing the door after him.\n\n Who are you, madame?  said the count to the veiled woman.\n\n40227m\n\n\n\nThe stranger cast one look around her, to be certain that they were\nquite alone; then bending as if she would have knelt, and joining her\nhands, she said with an accent of despair:\n\n Edmond, you will not kill my son! \n\nThe count retreated a step, uttered a slight exclamation, and let fall\nthe pistol he held.\n\n What name did you pronounce then, Madame de Morcerf?  said he.\n\n Yours!  cried she, throwing back her veil, yours, which I alone,\nperhaps, have not forgotten. Edmond, it is not Madame de Morcerf who is\ncome to you, it is Merc d s. \n\n Merc d s is dead, madame,  said Monte Cristo;  I know no one now of\nthat name. \n\n Merc d s lives, sir, and she remembers, for she alone recognized you\nwhen she saw you, and even before she saw you, by your voice,\nEdmond, by the simple sound of your voice; and from that moment she has\nfollowed your steps, watched you, feared you, and she needs not to\ninquire what hand has dealt the blow which now strikes M. de Morcerf. \n\n Fernand, do you mean?  replied Monte Cristo, with bitter irony;  since\nwe are recalling names, let us remember them all.  Monte Cristo had\npronounced the name of Fernand with such an expression of hatred that\nMerc d s felt a thrill of horror run through every vein.\n\n You see, Edmond, I am not mistaken, and have cause to say,  Spare my\nson! \n\n And who told you, madame, that I have any hostile intentions against\nyour son? \n\n No one, in truth; but a mother has twofold sight. I guessed all; I\nfollowed him this evening to the Opera, and, concealed in a parquet\nbox, have seen all. \n\n If you have seen all, madame, you know that the son of Fernand has\npublicly insulted me,  said Monte Cristo with awful calmness.\n\n Oh, for pity s sake! \n\n You have seen that he would have thrown his glove in my face if\nMorrel, one of my friends, had not stopped him. \n\n Listen to me, my son has also guessed who you are, he attributes his\nfather s misfortunes to you. \n\n Madame, you are mistaken, they are not misfortunes, it is a\npunishment. It is not I who strike M. de Morcerf; it is Providence\nwhich punishes him. \n\n And why do you represent Providence?  cried Merc d s.  Why do you\nremember when it forgets? What are Yanina and its vizier to you,\nEdmond? What injury has Fernand Mondego done you in betraying Ali\nTepelini? \n\n Ah, madame,  replied Monte Cristo,  all this is an affair between the\nFrench captain and the daughter of Vasiliki. It does not concern me,\nyou are right; and if I have sworn to revenge myself, it is not on the\nFrench captain, or the Count of Morcerf, but on the fisherman Fernand,\nthe husband of Merc d s the Catalane. \n\n Ah, sir!  cried the countess,  how terrible a vengeance for a fault\nwhich fatality made me commit! for I am the only culprit, Edmond, and\nif you owe revenge to anyone, it is to me, who had not fortitude to\nbear your absence and my solitude. \n\n But,  exclaimed Monte Cristo,  why was I absent? And why were you\nalone? \n\n40231m\n\n\n\n Because you had been arrested, Edmond, and were a prisoner. \n\n And why was I arrested? Why was I a prisoner? \n\n I do not know,  said Merc d s.\n\n You do not, madame; at least, I hope not. But I will tell you. I was\narrested and became a prisoner because, under the arbor of La R serve,\nthe day before I was to marry you, a man named Danglars wrote this\nletter, which the fisherman Fernand himself posted. \n\nMonte Cristo went to a secretaire, opened a drawer by a spring, from\nwhich he took a paper which had lost its original color, and the ink of\nwhich had become of a rusty hue this he placed in the hands of\nMerc d s. It was Danglars  letter to the king s attorney, which the\nCount of Monte Cristo, disguised as a clerk from the house of Thomson &\nFrench, had taken from the file against Edmond Dant s, on the day he\nhad paid the two hundred thousand francs to M. de Boville. Merc d s\nread with terror the following lines:\n\n The king s attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion\nthat one Edmond Dant s, second in command on board the _Pharaon_, this\nday arrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and\nPorto-Ferrajo, is the bearer of a letter from Murat to the usurper, and\nof another letter from the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris.\nAmple corroboration of this statement may be obtained by arresting the\nabove-mentioned Edmond Dant s, who either carries the letter for Paris\nabout with him, or has it at his father s abode. Should it not be found\nin possession of either father or son, then it will assuredly be\ndiscovered in the cabin belonging to the said Dant s on board the\n_Pharaon_. \n\n\n How dreadful!  said Merc d s, passing her hand across her brow, moist\nwith perspiration;  and that letter \n\n I bought it for two hundred thousand francs, madame,  said Monte\nCristo;  but that is a trifle, since it enables me to justify myself to\nyou. \n\n And the result of that letter \n\n You well know, madame, was my arrest; but you do not know how long\nthat arrest lasted. You do not know that I remained for fourteen years\nwithin a quarter of a league of you, in a dungeon in the Ch teau d If.\nYou do not know that every day of those fourteen years I renewed the\nvow of vengeance which I had made the first day; and yet I was not\naware that you had married Fernand, my calumniator, and that my father\nhad died of hunger! \n\n Can it be?  cried Merc d s, shuddering.\n\n That is what I heard on leaving my prison fourteen years after I had\nentered it; and that is why, on account of the living Merc d s and my\ndeceased father, I have sworn to revenge myself on Fernand, and I have\nrevenged myself. \n\n And you are sure the unhappy Fernand did that? \n\n I am satisfied, madame, that he did what I have told you; besides,\nthat is not much more odious than that a Frenchman by adoption should\npass over to the English; that a Spaniard by birth should have fought\nagainst the Spaniards; that a stipendiary of Ali should have betrayed\nand murdered Ali. Compared with such things, what is the letter you\nhave just read? a lover s deception, which the woman who has married\nthat man ought certainly to forgive; but not so the lover who was to\nhave married her. Well, the French did not avenge themselves on the\ntraitor, the Spaniards did not shoot the traitor, Ali in his tomb left\nthe traitor unpunished; but I, betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen\nfrom my tomb, by the grace of God, to punish that man. He sends me for\nthat purpose, and here I am. \n\nThe poor woman s head and arms fell; her legs bent under her, and she\nfell on her knees.\n\n Forgive, Edmond, forgive for my sake, who love you still! \n\nThe dignity of the wife checked the fervor of the lover and the mother.\nHer forehead almost touched the carpet, when the count sprang forward\nand raised her. Then seated on a chair, she looked at the manly\ncountenance of Monte Cristo, on which grief and hatred still impressed\na threatening expression.\n\n Not crush that accursed race?  murmured he;  abandon my purpose at the\nmoment of its accomplishment? Impossible, madame, impossible! \n\n Edmond,  said the poor mother, who tried every means,  when I call you\nEdmond, why do you not call me Merc d s? \n\n Merc d s!  repeated Monte Cristo;  Merc d s! Well yes, you are right;\nthat name has still its charms, and this is the first time for a long\nperiod that I have pronounced it so distinctly. Oh, Merc d s, I have\nuttered your name with the sigh of melancholy, with the groan of\nsorrow, with the last effort of despair; I have uttered it when frozen\nwith cold, crouched on the straw in my dungeon; I have uttered it,\nconsumed with heat, rolling on the stone floor of my prison. Merc d s,\nI must revenge myself, for I suffered fourteen years, fourteen years I\nwept, I cursed; now I tell you, Merc d s, I must revenge myself. \n\nThe count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had so ardently\nloved, called his sufferings to the assistance of his hatred.\n\n Revenge yourself, then, Edmond,  cried the poor mother;  but let your\nvengeance fall on the culprits, on him, on me, but not on my son! \n\n It is written in the good book,  said Monte Cristo,  that the sins of\nthe fathers shall fall upon their children to the third and fourth\ngeneration. Since God himself dictated those words to his prophet, why\nshould I seek to make myself better than God? \n\n Edmond,  continued Merc d s, with her arms extended towards the count,\n since I first knew you, I have adored your name, have respected your\nmemory. Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to tarnish that noble and\npure image reflected incessantly on the mirror of my heart. Edmond, if\nyou knew all the prayers I have addressed to God for you while I\nthought you were living and since I have thought you must be dead! Yes,\ndead, alas! I imagined your dead body buried at the foot of some gloomy\ntower, or cast to the bottom of a pit by hateful jailers, and I wept!\nWhat could I do for you, Edmond, besides pray and weep? Listen; for ten\nyears I dreamed each night the same dream. I had been told that you had\nendeavored to escape; that you had taken the place of another prisoner;\nthat you had slipped into the winding sheet of a dead body; that you\nhad been thrown alive from the top of the Ch teau d If, and that the\ncry you uttered as you dashed upon the rocks first revealed to your\njailers that they were your murderers. Well, Edmond, I swear to you, by\nthe head of that son for whom I entreat your pity, Edmond, for ten\nyears I saw every night every detail of that frightful tragedy, and for\nten years I heard every night the cry which awoke me, shuddering and\ncold. And I, too, Edmond oh! believe me guilty as I was oh, yes, I,\ntoo, have suffered much! \n\n Have you known what it is to have your father starve to death in your\nabsence?  cried Monte Cristo, thrusting his hands into his hair;  have\nyou seen the woman you loved giving her hand to your rival, while you\nwere perishing at the bottom of a dungeon? \n\n No,  interrupted Merc d s,  but I have seen him whom I loved on the\npoint of murdering my son. \n\nMerc d s uttered these words with such deep anguish, with an accent of\nsuch intense despair, that Monte Cristo could not restrain a sob. The\nlion was daunted; the avenger was conquered.\n\n What do you ask of me?  said he, your son s life? Well, he shall\nlive! \n\nMerc d s uttered a cry which made the tears start from Monte Cristo s\neyes; but these tears disappeared almost instantaneously, for,\ndoubtless, God had sent some angel to collect them far more precious\nwere they in his eyes than the richest pearls of Guzerat and Ophir.\n\n Oh,  said she, seizing the count s hand and raising it to her lips;\n oh, thank you, thank you, Edmond! Now you are exactly what I dreamt\nyou were, the man I always loved. Oh, now I may say so! \n\n So much the better,  replied Monte Cristo;  as that poor Edmond will\nnot have long to be loved by you. Death is about to return to the tomb,\nthe phantom to retire in darkness. \n\n What do you say, Edmond? \n\n I say, since you command me, Merc d s, I must die. \n\n Die? and why so? Who talks of dying? Whence have you these ideas of\ndeath? \n\n You do not suppose that, publicly outraged in the face of a whole\ntheatre, in the presence of your friends and those of your\nson challenged by a boy who will glory in my forgiveness as if it were\na victory you do not suppose that I can for one moment wish to live.\nWhat I most loved after you, Merc d s, was myself, my dignity, and that\nstrength which rendered me superior to other men; that strength was my\nlife. With one word you have crushed it, and I die. \n\n But the duel will not take place, Edmond, since you forgive? \n\n It will take place,  said Monte Cristo, in a most solemn tone;  but\ninstead of your son s blood to stain the ground, mine will flow. \n\nMerc d s shrieked, and sprang towards Monte Cristo, but, suddenly\nstopping,  Edmond,  said she,  there is a God above us, since you live\nand since I have seen you again; I trust to him from my heart. While\nwaiting his assistance I trust to your word; you have said that my son\nshould live, have you not? \n\n Yes, madame, he shall live,  said Monte Cristo, surprised that without\nmore emotion Merc d s had accepted the heroic sacrifice he made for\nher. Merc d s extended her hand to the count.\n\n Edmond,  said she, and her eyes were wet with tears while looking at\nhim to whom she spoke,  how noble it is of you, how great the action\nyou have just performed, how sublime to have taken pity on a poor woman\nwho appealed to you with every chance against her, Alas, I am grown old\nwith grief more than with years, and cannot now remind my Edmond by a\nsmile, or by a look, of that Merc d s whom he once spent so many hours\nin contemplating. Ah, believe me, Edmond, as I told you, I too have\nsuffered much; I repeat, it is melancholy to pass one s life without\nhaving one joy to recall, without preserving a single hope; but that\nproves that all is not yet over. No, it is not finished; I feel it by\nwhat remains in my heart. Oh, I repeat it, Edmond; what you have just\ndone is beautiful it is grand; it is sublime. \n\n Do you say so now, Merc d s? then what would you say if you knew the\nextent of the sacrifice I make to you? Suppose that the Supreme Being,\nafter having created the world and fertilized chaos, had paused in the\nwork to spare an angel the tears that might one day flow for mortal\nsins from her immortal eyes; suppose that when everything was in\nreadiness and the moment had come for God to look upon his work and see\nthat it was good suppose he had snuffed out the sun and tossed the\nworld back into eternal night then even then, Merc d s, you could not\nimagine what I lose in sacrificing my life at this moment. \n\nMerc d s looked at the count in a way which expressed at the same time\nher astonishment, her admiration, and her gratitude. Monte Cristo\npressed his forehead on his burning hands, as if his brain could no\nlonger bear alone the weight of its thoughts.\n\n Edmond,  said Merc d s,  I have but one word more to say to you. \n\nThe count smiled bitterly.\n\n Edmond,  continued she,  you will see that if my face is pale, if my\neyes are dull, if my beauty is gone; if Merc d s, in short, no longer\nresembles her former self in her features, you will see that her heart\nis still the same. Adieu, then, Edmond; I have nothing more to ask of\nheaven I have seen you again, and have found you as noble and as great\nas formerly you were. Adieu, Edmond, adieu, and thank you. \n\nBut the count did not answer. Merc d s opened the door of the study and\nhad disappeared before he had recovered from the painful and profound\nreverie into which his thwarted vengeance had plunged him.\n\nThe clock of the Invalides struck one when the carriage which conveyed\nMadame de Morcerf rolled away on the pavement of the Champs- lys es,\nand made Monte Cristo raise his head.\n\n What a fool I was,  said he,  not to tear my heart out on the day when\nI resolved to avenge myself! \n\n\n\n Chapter 90. The Meeting\n\nAfter Merc d s had left Monte Cristo, he fell into profound gloom.\nAround him and within him the flight of thought seemed to have stopped;\nhis energetic mind slumbered, as the body does after extreme fatigue.\n\n What?  said he to himself, while the lamp and the wax lights were\nnearly burnt out, and the servants were waiting impatiently in the\nanteroom;  what? this edifice which I have been so long preparing,\nwhich I have reared with so much care and toil, is to be crushed by a\nsingle touch, a word, a breath! Yes, this self, of whom I thought so\nmuch, of whom I was so proud, who had appeared so worthless in the\ndungeons of the Ch teau d If, and whom I had succeeded in making so\ngreat, will be but a lump of clay tomorrow. Alas, it is not the death\nof the body I regret; for is not the destruction of the vital\nprinciple, the repose to which everything is tending, to which every\nunhappy being aspires, is not this the repose of matter after which I\nso long sighed, and which I was seeking to attain by the painful\nprocess of starvation when Faria appeared in my dungeon? What is death\nfor me? One step farther into rest, two, perhaps, into silence. No, it\nis not existence, then, that I regret, but the ruin of projects so\nslowly carried out, so laboriously framed. Providence is now opposed to\nthem, when I most thought it would be propitious. It is not God s will\nthat they should be accomplished. This burden, almost as heavy as a\nworld, which I had raised, and I had thought to bear to the end, was\ntoo great for my strength, and I was compelled to lay it down in the\nmiddle of my career. Oh, shall I then, again become a fatalist, whom\nfourteen years of despair and ten of hope had rendered a believer in\nProvidence?\n\n And all this all this, because my heart, which I thought dead, was\nonly sleeping; because it has awakened and has begun to beat again,\nbecause I have yielded to the pain of the emotion excited in my breast\nby a woman s voice.\n\n Yet,  continued the count, becoming each moment more absorbed in the\nanticipation of the dreadful sacrifice for the morrow, which Merc d s\nhad accepted,  yet, it is impossible that so noble-minded a woman\nshould thus through selfishness consent to my death when I am in the\nprime of life and strength; it is impossible that she can carry to such\na point maternal love, or rather delirium. There are virtues which\nbecome crimes by exaggeration. No, she must have conceived some\npathetic scene; she will come and throw herself between us; and what\nwould be sublime here will there appear ridiculous. \n\nThe blush of pride mounted to the count s forehead as this thought\npassed through his mind.\n\n Ridiculous?  repeated he;  and the ridicule will fall on me. I\nridiculous? No, I would rather die. \n\nBy thus exaggerating to his own mind the anticipated ill-fortune of the\nnext day, to which he had condemned himself by promising Merc d s to\nspare her son, the count at last exclaimed:\n\n Folly, folly, folly! to carry generosity so far as to put myself up as\na mark for that young man to aim at. He will never believe that my\ndeath was suicide; and yet it is important for the honor of my\nmemory, and this surely is not vanity, but a justifiable pride, it is\nimportant the world should know that I have consented, by my free will,\nto stop my arm, already raised to strike, and that with the arm which\nhas been so powerful against others I have struck myself. It must be;\nit shall be. \n\nSeizing a pen, he drew a paper from a secret drawer in his desk, and\nwrote at the bottom of the document (which was no other than his will,\nmade since his arrival in Paris) a sort of codicil, clearly explaining\nthe nature of his death.\n\n I do this, Oh, my God,  said he, with his eyes raised to heaven,  as\nmuch for thy honor as for mine. I have during ten years considered\nmyself the agent of thy vengeance, and other wretches, like Morcerf,\nDanglars, Villefort, even Morcerf himself, must not imagine that chance\nhas freed them from their enemy. Let them know, on the contrary, that\ntheir punishment, which had been decreed by Providence, is only delayed\nby my present determination, and although they escape it in this world,\nit awaits them in another, and that they are only exchanging time for\neternity. \n\nWhile he was thus agitated by gloomy uncertainties, wretched waking\ndreams of grief, the first rays of morning pierced his windows, and\nshone upon the pale blue paper on which he had just inscribed his\njustification of Providence.\n\nIt was just five o clock in the morning when a slight noise like a\nstifled sigh reached his ear. He turned his head, looked around him,\nand saw no one; but the sound was repeated distinctly enough to\nconvince him of its reality.\n\nHe arose, and quietly opening the door of the drawing-room, saw Hayd e,\nwho had fallen on a chair, with her arms hanging down and her beautiful\nhead thrown back. She had been standing at the door, to prevent his\ngoing out without seeing her, until sleep, which the young cannot\nresist, had overpowered her frame, wearied as she was with watching.\nThe noise of the door did not awaken her, and Monte Cristo gazed at her\nwith affectionate regret.\n\n She remembered that she had a son,  said he;  and I forgot I had a\ndaughter.  Then, shaking his head sorrowfully,  Poor Hayd e,  said he;\n she wished to see me, to speak to me; she has feared or guessed\nsomething. Oh, I cannot go without taking leave of her; I cannot die\nwithout confiding her to someone. \n\nHe quietly regained his seat, and wrote under the other lines:\n\n I bequeath to Maximilian Morrel, captain of Spahis, and son of my\nformer patron, Pierre Morrel, shipowner at Marseilles, the sum of\ntwenty millions, a part of which may be offered to his sister Julie and\nbrother-in-law Emmanuel, if he does not fear this increase of fortune\nmay mar their happiness. These twenty millions are concealed in my\ngrotto at Monte Cristo, of which Bertuccio knows the secret. If his\nheart is free, and he will marry Hayd e, the daughter of Ali Pasha of\nYanina, whom I have brought up with the love of a father, and who has\nshown the love and tenderness of a daughter for me, he will thus\naccomplish my last wish. This will has already constituted Hayd e\nheiress of the rest of my fortune, consisting of lands, funds in\nEngland, Austria, and Holland, furniture in my different palaces and\nhouses, and which without the twenty millions and the legacies to my\nservants, may still amount to sixty millions. \n\n\n40241m\n\n\n\nHe was finishing the last line when a cry behind him made him start,\nand the pen fell from his hand.\n\n Hayd e,  said he,  did you read it? \n\n Oh, my lord,  said she,  why are you writing thus at such an hour? Why\nare you bequeathing all your fortune to me? Are you going to leave me? \n\n I am going on a journey, dear child,  said Monte Cristo, with an\nexpression of infinite tenderness and melancholy;  and if any\nmisfortune should happen to me \n\nThe count stopped.\n\n Well?  asked the young girl, with an authoritative tone the count had\nnever observed before, and which startled him.\n\n Well, if any misfortune happen to me,  replied Monte Cristo,  I wish\nmy daughter to be happy.  Hayd e smiled sorrowfully, and shook her\nhead.\n\n Do you think of dying, my lord?  said she.\n\n The wise man, my child, has said,  It is good to think of death. \n\n Well, if you die,  said she,  bequeath your fortune to others, for if\nyou die I shall require nothing;  and, taking the paper, she tore it in\nfour pieces, and threw it into the middle of the room. Then, the effort\nhaving exhausted her strength, she fell, not asleep this time, but\nfainting on the floor.\n\nThe count leaned over her and raised her in his arms; and seeing that\nsweet pale face, those lovely eyes closed, that beautiful form\nmotionless and to all appearance lifeless, the idea occurred to him for\nthe first time, that perhaps she loved him otherwise than as a daughter\nloves a father.\n\n Alas,  murmured he, with intense suffering,  I might, then, have been\nhappy yet. \n\nThen he carried Hayd e to her room, resigned her to the care of her\nattendants, and returning to his study, which he shut quickly this\ntime, he again copied the destroyed will. As he was finishing, the\nsound of a cabriolet entering the yard was heard. Monte Cristo\napproached the window, and saw Maximilian and Emmanuel alight.  Good, \nsaid he;  it was time, and he sealed his will with three seals.\n\nA moment afterwards he heard a noise in the drawing-room, and went to\nopen the door himself. Morrel was there; he had come twenty minutes\nbefore the time appointed.\n\n I am perhaps come too soon, count,  said he,  but I frankly\nacknowledge that I have not closed my eyes all night, nor has anyone in\nmy house. I need to see you strong in your courageous assurance, to\nrecover myself. \n\nMonte Cristo could not resist this proof of affection; he not only\nextended his hand to the young man, but flew to him with open arms.\n\n Morrel,  said he,  it is a happy day for me, to feel that I am beloved\nby such a man as you. Good-morning, Emmanuel; you will come with me\nthen, Maximilian? \n\n Did you doubt it?  said the young captain.\n\n But if I were wrong \n\n I watched you during the whole scene of that challenge yesterday; I\nhave been thinking of your firmness all night, and I said to myself\nthat justice must be on your side, or man s countenance is no longer to\nbe relied on. \n\n But, Morrel, Albert is your friend? \n\n Simply an acquaintance, sir. \n\n You met on the same day you first saw me? \n\n Yes, that is true; but I should not have recollected it if you had not\nreminded me. \n\n Thank you, Morrel.  Then ringing the bell once,  Look.  said he to\nAli, who came immediately,  take that to my solicitor. It is my will,\nMorrel. When I am dead, you will go and examine it. \n\n What?  said Morrel,  you dead? \n\n Yes; must I not be prepared for everything, dear friend? But what did\nyou do yesterday after you left me? \n\n I went to Tortoni s, where, as I expected, I found Beauchamp and\nCh teau-Renaud. I own I was seeking them. \n\n Why, when all was arranged? \n\n Listen, count; the affair is serious and unavoidable. \n\n Did you doubt it! \n\n No; the offence was public, and everyone is already talking of it. \n\n Well? \n\n Well, I hoped to get an exchange of arms, to substitute the sword for\nthe pistol; the pistol is blind. \n\n Have you succeeded?  asked Monte Cristo quickly, with an imperceptible\ngleam of hope.\n\n No; for your skill with the sword is so well known. \n\n Ah? who has betrayed me? \n\n The skilful swordsman whom you have conquered. \n\n And you failed? \n\n They positively refused. \n\n Morrel,  said the count,  have you ever seen me fire a pistol? \n\n Never. \n\n Well, we have time; look.  Monte Cristo took the pistols he held in\nhis hand when Merc d s entered, and fixing an ace of clubs against the\niron plate, with four shots he successively shot off the four sides of\nthe club. At each shot Morrel turned pale. He examined the bullets with\nwhich Monte Cristo performed this dexterous feat, and saw that they\nwere no larger than buckshot.\n\n It is astonishing,  said he.  Look, Emmanuel.  Then turning towards\nMonte Cristo,  Count,  said he,  in the name of all that is dear to\nyou, I entreat you not to kill Albert! the unhappy youth has a mother. \n\n You are right,  said Monte Cristo;  and I have none.  These words were\nuttered in a tone which made Morrel shudder.\n\n You are the offended party, count. \n\n Doubtless; what does that imply? \n\n That you will fire first. \n\n I fire first? \n\n Oh, I obtained, or rather claimed that; we had conceded enough for\nthem to yield us that. \n\n And at what distance? \n\n Twenty paces.  A smile of terrible import passed over the count s\nlips.\n\n Morrel,  said he,  do not forget what you have just seen. \n\n The only chance for Albert s safety, then, will arise from your\nemotion. \n\n I suffer from emotion?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n Or from your generosity, my friend; to so good a marksman as you are,\nI may say what would appear absurd to another. \n\n What is that? \n\n Break his arm wound him but do not kill him. \n\n I will tell you, Morrel,  said the count,  that I do not need\nentreating to spare the life of M. de Morcerf; he shall be so well\nspared, that he will return quietly with his two friends, while I \n\n And you? \n\n That will be another thing; I shall be brought home. \n\n No, no,  cried Maximilian, quite unable to restrain his feelings.\n\n As I told you, my dear Morrel, M. de Morcerf will kill me. \n\nMorrel looked at him in utter amazement.  But what has happened, then,\nsince last evening, count? \n\n The same thing that happened to Brutus the night before the battle of\nPhilippi; I have seen a ghost. \n\n And that ghost \n\n Told me, Morrel, that I had lived long enough. \n\nMaximilian and Emmanuel looked at each other. Monte Cristo drew out his\nwatch.  Let us go,  said he;  it is five minutes past seven, and the\nappointment was for eight o clock. \n\nA carriage was in readiness at the door. Monte Cristo stepped into it\nwith his two friends. He had stopped a moment in the passage to listen\nat a door, and Maximilian and Emmanuel, who had considerately passed\nforward a few steps, thought they heard him answer by a sigh to a sob\nfrom within. As the clock struck eight they drove up to the place of\nmeeting.\n\n We are first,  said Morrel, looking out of the window.\n\n Excuse me, sir,  said Baptistin, who had followed his master with\nindescribable terror,  but I think I see a carriage down there under\nthe trees. \n\nMonte Cristo sprang lightly from the carriage, and offered his hand to\nassist Emmanuel and Maximilian. The latter retained the count s hand\nbetween his.\n\n I like,  said he,  to feel a hand like this, when its owner relies on\nthe goodness of his cause. \n\n It seems to me,  said Emmanuel,  that I see two young men down there,\nwho are evidently, waiting. \n\nMonte Cristo drew Morrel a step or two behind his brother-in-law.\n\n Maximilian,  said he,  are your affections disengaged?  Morrel looked\nat Monte Cristo with astonishment.  I do not seek your confidence, my\ndear friend. I only ask you a simple question; answer it; that is all I\nrequire. \n\n I love a young girl, count. \n\n Do you love her much? \n\n More than my life. \n\n Another hope defeated!  said the count. Then, with a sigh,  Poor\nHayd e!  murmured he.\n\n To tell the truth, count, if I knew less of you, I should think that\nyou were less brave than you are. \n\n Because I sigh when thinking of someone I am leaving? Come, Morrel, it\nis not like a soldier to be so bad a judge of courage. Do I regret\nlife? What is it to me, who have passed twenty years between life and\ndeath? Moreover, do not alarm yourself, Morrel; this weakness, if it is\nsuch, is betrayed to you alone. I know the world is a drawing-room,\nfrom which we must retire politely and honestly; that is, with a bow,\nand our debts of honor paid. \n\n That is to the purpose. Have you brought your arms? \n\n I? what for? I hope these gentlemen have theirs. \n\n I will inquire,  said Morrel.\n\n Do; but make no treaty you understand me? \n\n You need not fear.  Morrel advanced towards Beauchamp and\nCh teau-Renaud, who, seeing his intention, came to meet him. The three\nyoung men bowed to each other courteously, if not affably.\n\n Excuse me, gentlemen,  said Morrel,  but I do not see M. de Morcerf. \n\n He sent us word this morning,  replied Ch teau-Renaud,  that he would\nmeet us on the ground. \n\n Ah,  said Morrel. Beauchamp pulled out his watch.\n\n It is only five minutes past eight,  said he to Morrel;  there is not\nmuch time lost yet. \n\n Oh, I made no allusion of that kind,  replied Morrel.\n\n There is a carriage coming,  said Ch teau-Renaud. It advanced rapidly\nalong one of the avenues leading towards the open space where they were\nassembled.\n\n You are doubtless provided with pistols, gentlemen? M. de Monte Cristo\nyields his right of using his. \n\n We had anticipated this kindness on the part of the count,  said\nBeauchamp,  and I have brought some weapons which I bought eight or ten\ndays since, thinking to want them on a similar occasion. They are quite\nnew, and have not yet been used. Will you examine them. \n\n Oh, M. Beauchamp, if you assure me that M. de Morcerf does not know\nthese pistols, you may readily believe that your word will be quite\nsufficient. \n\n Gentlemen,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  it is not Morcerf coming in that\ncarriage; faith, it is Franz and Debray! \n\nThe two young men he announced were indeed approaching.  What chance\nbrings you here, gentlemen?  said Ch teau-Renaud, shaking hands with\neach of them.\n\n Because,  said Debray,  Albert sent this morning to request us to\ncome.  Beauchamp and Ch teau-Renaud exchanged looks of astonishment.  I\nthink I understand his reason,  said Morrel.\n\n What is it? \n\n Yesterday afternoon I received a letter from M. de Morcerf, begging me\nto attend the Opera. \n\n And I,  said Debray.\n\n And I also,  said Franz.\n\n And we, too,  added Beauchamp and Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n Having wished you all to witness the challenge, he now wishes you to\nbe present at the combat. \n\n Exactly so,  said the young men;  you have probably guessed right. \n\n But, after all these arrangements, he does not come himself,  said\nCh teau-Renaud.  Albert is ten minutes after time. \n\n There he comes,  said Beauchamp,  on horseback, at full gallop,\nfollowed by a servant. \n\n How imprudent,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  to come on horseback to fight a\nduel with pistols, after all the instructions I had given him. \n\n And besides,  said Beauchamp,  with a collar above his cravat, an open\ncoat and white waistcoat! Why has he not painted a spot upon his\nheart? it would have been more simple. \n\nMeanwhile Albert had arrived within ten paces of the group formed by\nthe five young men. He jumped from his horse, threw the bridle on his\nservant s arms, and joined them. He was pale, and his eyes were red and\nswollen; it was evident that he had not slept. A shade of melancholy\ngravity overspread his countenance, which was not natural to him.\n\n I thank you, gentlemen,  said he,  for having complied with my\nrequest; I feel extremely grateful for this mark of friendship.  Morrel\nhad stepped back as Morcerf approached, and remained at a short\ndistance.  And to you also, M. Morrel, my thanks are due. Come, there\ncannot be too many. \n\n40248m\n\n\n\n Sir,  said Maximilian,  you are not perhaps aware that I am M. de\nMonte Cristo s friend? \n\n I was not sure, but I thought it might be so. So much the better; the\nmore honorable men there are here the better I shall be satisfied. \n\n M. Morrel,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  will you apprise the Count of Monte\nCristo that M. de Morcerf is arrived, and we are at his disposal? \n\nMorrel was preparing to fulfil his commission. Beauchamp had meanwhile\ndrawn the box of pistols from the carriage.\n\n Stop, gentlemen,  said Albert;  I have two words to say to the Count\nof Monte Cristo. \n\n In private?  asked Morrel.\n\n No, sir; before all who are here. \n\nAlbert s witnesses looked at each other. Franz and Debray exchanged\nsome words in a whisper, and Morrel, rejoiced at this unexpected\nincident, went to fetch the count, who was walking in a retired path\nwith Emmanuel.\n\n What does he want with me?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n I do not know, but he wishes to speak to you. \n\n Ah?  said Monte Cristo,  I trust he is not going to tempt me by some\nfresh insult! \n\n I do not think that such is his intention,  said Morrel.\n\nThe count advanced, accompanied by Maximilian and Emmanuel. His calm\nand serene look formed a singular contrast to Albert s grief-stricken\nface, who approached also, followed by the other four young men.\n\nWhen at three paces distant from each other, Albert and the count\nstopped.\n\n Approach, gentlemen,  said Albert;  I wish you not to lose one word of\nwhat I am about to have the honor of saying to the Count of Monte\nCristo, for it must be repeated by you to all who will listen to it,\nstrange as it may appear to you. \n\n Proceed, sir,  said the count.\n\n Sir,  said Albert, at first with a tremulous voice, but which\ngradually became firmer,  I reproached you with exposing the conduct of\nM. de Morcerf in Epirus, for guilty as I knew he was, I thought you had\nno right to punish him; but I have since learned that you had that\nright. It is not Fernand Mondego s treachery towards Ali Pasha which\ninduces me so readily to excuse you, but the treachery of the fisherman\nFernand towards you, and the almost unheard-of miseries which were its\nconsequences; and I say, and proclaim it publicly, that you were\njustified in revenging yourself on my father, and I, his son, thank you\nfor not using greater severity. \n\nHad a thunderbolt fallen in the midst of the spectators of this\nunexpected scene, it would not have surprised them more than did\nAlbert s declaration. As for Monte Cristo, his eyes slowly rose towards\nheaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. He could not\nunderstand how Albert s fiery nature, of which he had seen so much\namong the Roman bandits, had suddenly stooped to this humiliation. He\nrecognized the influence of Merc d s, and saw why her noble heart had\nnot opposed the sacrifice she knew beforehand would be useless.\n\n Now, sir,  said Albert,  if you think my apology sufficient, pray give\nme your hand. Next to the merit of infallibility which you appear to\npossess, I rank that of candidly acknowledging a fault. But this\nconfession concerns me only. I acted well as a man, but you have acted\nbetter than man. An angel alone could have saved one of us from\ndeath that angel came from heaven, if not to make us friends (which,\nalas, fatality renders impossible), at least to make us esteem each\nother. \n\nMonte Cristo, with moistened eye, heaving breast, and lips half open,\nextended to Albert a hand which the latter pressed with a sentiment\nresembling respectful fear.\n\n Gentlemen,  said he,  M. de Monte Cristo receives my apology. I had\nacted hastily towards him. Hasty actions are generally bad ones. Now my\nfault is repaired. I hope the world will not call me cowardly for\nacting as my conscience dictated. But if anyone should entertain a\nfalse opinion of me,  added he, drawing himself up as if he would\nchallenge both friends and enemies,  I shall endeavor to correct his\nmistake. \n\n What happened during the night?  asked Beauchamp of Ch teau-Renaud;\n we appear to make a very sorry figure here. \n\n In truth, what Albert has just done is either very despicable or very\nnoble,  replied the baron.\n\n What can it mean?  said Debray to Franz.\n\n The Count of Monte Cristo acts dishonorably to M. de Morcerf, and is\njustified by his son! Had I ten Yaninas in my family, I should only\nconsider myself the more bound to fight ten times. \n\nAs for Monte Cristo, his head was bent down, his arms were powerless.\nBowing under the weight of twenty-four years  reminiscences, he thought\nnot of Albert, of Beauchamp, of Ch teau-Renaud, or of any of that\ngroup; but he thought of that courageous woman who had come to plead\nfor her son s life, to whom he had offered his, and who had now saved\nit by the revelation of a dreadful family secret, capable of destroying\nforever in that young man s heart every feeling of filial piety.\n\n Providence still,  murmured he;  now only am I fully convinced of\nbeing the emissary of God! \n\n\n\n Chapter 91. Mother and Son\n\nThe Count of Monte Cristo bowed to the five young men with a melancholy\nand dignified smile, and got into his carriage with Maximilian and\nEmmanuel. Albert, Beauchamp, and Ch teau-Renaud remained alone. Albert\nlooked at his two friends, not timidly, but in a way that appeared to\nask their opinion of what he had just done.\n\n Indeed, my dear friend,  said Beauchamp first, who had either the most\nfeeling or the least dissimulation,  allow me to congratulate you; this\nis a very unhoped-for conclusion of a very disagreeable affair. \n\nAlbert remained silent and wrapped in thought. Ch teau-Renaud contented\nhimself with tapping his boot with his flexible cane.\n\n Are we not going?  said he, after this embarrassing silence.\n\n When you please,  replied Beauchamp;  allow me only to compliment M.\nde Morcerf, who has given proof today of rare chivalric generosity. \n\n Oh, yes,  said Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n It is magnificent,  continued Beauchamp,  to be able to exercise so\nmuch self-control! \n\n Assuredly; as for me, I should have been incapable of it,  said\nCh teau-Renaud, with most significant coolness.\n\n Gentlemen,  interrupted Albert,  I think you did not understand that\nsomething very serious had passed between M. de Monte Cristo and\nmyself. \n\n Possibly, possibly,  said Beauchamp immediately;  but every simpleton\nwould not be able to understand your heroism, and sooner or later you\nwill find yourself compelled to explain it to them more energetically\nthan would be convenient to your bodily health and the duration of your\nlife. May I give you a friendly counsel? Set out for Naples, the Hague,\nor St. Petersburg calm countries, where the point of honor is better\nunderstood than among our hot-headed Parisians. Seek quietude and\noblivion, so that you may return peaceably to France after a few years.\nAm I not right, M. de Ch teau-Renaud? \n\n40252m\n\n\n\n That is quite my opinion,  said the gentleman;  nothing induces\nserious duels so much as a duel forsworn. \n\n Thank you, gentlemen,  replied Albert, with a smile of indifference;\n I shall follow your advice not because you give it, but because I had\nbefore intended to quit France. I thank you equally for the service you\nhave rendered me in being my seconds. It is deeply engraved on my\nheart, and, after what you have just said, I remember that only. \n\nCh teau-Renaud and Beauchamp looked at each other; the impression was\nthe same on both of them, and the tone in which Morcerf had just\nexpressed his thanks was so determined that the position would have\nbecome embarrassing for all if the conversation had continued.\n\n Good-bye, Albert,  said Beauchamp suddenly, carelessly extending his\nhand to the young man. The latter did not appear to arouse from his\nlethargy; in fact, he did not notice the offered hand.\n\n Good-bye,  said Ch teau-Renaud in his turn, keeping his little cane in\nhis left hand, and saluting with his right.\n\nAlbert s lips scarcely whispered  Good-bye,  but his look was more\nexplicit; it expressed a whole poem of restrained anger, proud disdain,\nand generous indignation. He preserved his melancholy and motionless\nposition for some time after his two friends had regained their\ncarriage; then suddenly unfastening his horse from the little tree to\nwhich his servant had tied it, he mounted and galloped off in the\ndirection of Paris.\n\nIn a quarter of an hour he was entering the house in the Rue du Helder.\nAs he alighted, he thought he saw his father s pale face behind the\ncurtain of the count s bedroom. Albert turned away his head with a\nsigh, and went to his own apartments. He cast one lingering look on all\nthe luxuries which had rendered life so easy and so happy since his\ninfancy; he looked at the pictures, whose faces seemed to smile, and\nthe landscapes, which appeared painted in brighter colors. Then he took\naway his mother s portrait, with its oaken frame, leaving the gilt\nframe from which he took it black and empty. Then he arranged all his\nbeautiful Turkish arms, his fine English guns, his Japanese china, his\ncups mounted in silver, his artistic bronzes by Feuch res or Barye;\nexamined the cupboards, and placed the key in each; threw into a drawer\nof his secretaire, which he left open, all the pocket-money he had\nabout him, and with it the thousand fancy jewels from his vases and his\njewel-boxes; then he made an exact inventory of everything, and placed\nit in the most conspicuous part of the table, after putting aside the\nbooks and papers which had collected there.\n\nAt the beginning of this work, his servant, notwithstanding orders to\nthe contrary, came to his room.\n\n What do you want?  asked he, with a more sorrowful than angry tone.\n\n Pardon me, sir,  replied the valet;  you had forbidden me to disturb\nyou, but the Count of Morcerf has called me. \n\n Well!  said Albert.\n\n I did not like to go to him without first seeing you. \n\n Why? \n\n Because the count is doubtless aware that I accompanied you to the\nmeeting this morning. \n\n40254m\n\n\n\n It is probable,  said Albert.\n\n And since he has sent for me, it is doubtless to question me on what\nhappened there. What must I answer? \n\n The truth. \n\n Then I shall say the duel did not take place? \n\n You will say I apologized to the Count of Monte Cristo. Go. \n\nThe valet bowed and retired, and Albert returned to his inventory. As\nhe was finishing this work, the sound of horses prancing in the yard,\nand the wheels of a carriage shaking his window, attracted his\nattention. He approached the window, and saw his father get into it,\nand drive away. The door was scarcely closed when Albert bent his steps\nto his mother s room; and, no one being there to announce him, he\nadvanced to her bedchamber, and distressed by what he saw and guessed,\nstopped for one moment at the door.\n\nAs if the same idea had animated these two beings, Merc d s was doing\nthe same in her apartments that he had just done in his. Everything was\nin order, laces, dresses, jewels, linen, money, all were arranged in\nthe drawers, and the countess was carefully collecting the keys. Albert\nsaw all these preparations and understood them, and exclaiming,  My\nmother!  he threw his arms around her neck.\n\nThe artist who could have depicted the expression of these two\ncountenances would certainly have made of them a beautiful picture. All\nthese proofs of an energetic resolution, which Albert did not fear on\nhis own account, alarmed him for his mother.  What are you doing? \nasked he.\n\n What were you doing?  replied she.\n\n Oh, my mother!  exclaimed Albert, so overcome he could scarcely speak;\n it is not the same with you and me you cannot have made the same\nresolution I have, for I have come to warn you that I bid adieu to your\nhouse, and and to you. \n\n I also,  replied Merc d s,  am going, and I acknowledge I had depended\non your accompanying me; have I deceived myself? \n\n Mother,  said Albert with firmness.  I cannot make you share the fate\nI have planned for myself. I must live henceforth without rank and\nfortune, and to begin this hard apprenticeship I must borrow from a\nfriend the loaf I shall eat until I have earned one. So, my dear\nmother, I am going at once to ask Franz to lend me the small sum I\nshall require to supply my present wants. \n\n You, my poor child, suffer poverty and hunger? Oh, do not say so; it\nwill break my resolutions. \n\n But not mine, mother,  replied Albert.  I am young and strong; I\nbelieve I am courageous, and since yesterday I have learned the power\nof will. Alas, my dear mother, some have suffered so much, and yet\nlive, and have raised a new fortune on the ruin of all the promises of\nhappiness which heaven had made them on the fragments of all the hope\nwhich God had given them! I have seen that, mother; I know that from\nthe gulf in which their enemies have plunged them they have risen with\nso much vigor and glory that in their turn they have ruled their former\nconquerors, and have punished them. No, mother; from this moment I have\ndone with the past, and accept nothing from it not even a name, because\nyou can understand that your son cannot bear the name of a man who\nought to blush for it before another. \n\n Albert, my child,  said Merc d s,  if I had a stronger heart, that is\nthe counsel I would have given you; your conscience has spoken when my\nvoice became too weak; listen to its dictates. You had friends, Albert;\nbreak off their acquaintance. But do not despair; you have life before\nyou, my dear Albert, for you are yet scarcely twenty-two years old; and\nas a pure heart like yours wants a spotless name, take my father s it\nwas Herrera. I am sure, my dear Albert, whatever may be your career,\nyou will soon render that name illustrious. Then, my son, return to the\nworld still more brilliant because of your former sorrows; and if I am\nwrong, still let me cherish these hopes, for I have no future to look\nforward to. For me the grave opens when I pass the threshold of this\nhouse. \n\n I will fulfil all your wishes, my dear mother,  said the young man.\n Yes, I share your hopes; the anger of Heaven will not pursue us, since\nyou are pure and I am innocent. But, since our resolution is formed,\nlet us act promptly. M. de Morcerf went out about half an hour ago; the\nopportunity is favorable to avoid an explanation. \n\n I am ready, my son,  said Merc d s.\n\nAlbert ran to fetch a carriage. He recollected that there was a small\nfurnished house to let in the Rue des Saints-P res, where his mother\nwould find a humble but decent lodging, and thither he intended\nconducting the countess. As the carriage stopped at the door, and\nAlbert was alighting, a man approached and gave him a letter.\n\nAlbert recognized the bearer.  From the count,  said Bertuccio. Albert\ntook the letter, opened, and read it, then looked round for Bertuccio,\nbut he was gone.\n\nHe returned to Merc d s with tears in his eyes and heaving breast, and\nwithout uttering a word he gave her the letter. Merc d s read:\n\n Albert, While showing you that I have discovered your plans, I hope\nalso to convince you of my delicacy. You are free, you leave the\ncount s house, and you take your mother to your home; but reflect,\nAlbert, you owe her more than your poor noble heart can pay her. Keep\nthe struggle for yourself, bear all the suffering, but spare her the\ntrial of poverty which must accompany your first efforts; for she\ndeserves not even the shadow of the misfortune which has this day\nfallen on her, and Providence is not willing that the innocent should\nsuffer for the guilty. I know you are going to leave the Rue du Helder\nwithout taking anything with you. Do not seek to know how I discovered\nit; I know it that is sufficient.\n\n Now, listen, Albert. Twenty-four years ago I returned, proud and\njoyful, to my country. I had a betrothed, Albert, a lovely girl whom I\nadored, and I was bringing to my betrothed a hundred and fifty louis,\npainfully amassed by ceaseless toil. This money was for her; I destined\nit for her, and, knowing the treachery of the sea I buried our treasure\nin the little garden of the house my father lived in at Marseilles, on\nthe All es de Meilhan. Your mother, Albert, knows that poor house well.\nA short time since I passed through Marseilles, and went to see the old\nplace, which revived so many painful recollections; and in the evening\nI took a spade and dug in the corner of the garden where I had\nconcealed my treasure. The iron box was there no one had touched\nit under a beautiful fig-tree my father had planted the day I was born,\nwhich overshadowed the spot. Well, Albert, this money, which was\nformerly designed to promote the comfort and tranquillity of the woman\nI adored, may now, through strange and painful circumstances, be\ndevoted to the same purpose.\n\n Oh, feel for me, who could offer millions to that poor woman, but who\nreturn her only the piece of black bread forgotten under my poor roof\nsince the day I was torn from her I loved. You are a generous man,\nAlbert, but perhaps you may be blinded by pride or resentment; if you\nrefuse me, if you ask another for what I have a right to offer you, I\nwill say it is ungenerous of you to refuse the life of your mother at\nthe hands of a man whose father was allowed by your father to die in\nall the horrors of poverty and despair. \n\nAlbert stood pale and motionless to hear what his mother would decide\nafter she had finished reading this letter. Merc d s turned her eyes\nwith an ineffable look towards heaven.\n\n I accept it,  said she;  he has a right to pay the dowry, which I\nshall take with me to some convent! \n\nPutting the letter in her bosom, she took her son s arm, and with a\nfirmer step than she even herself expected she went downstairs.\n\n\n\n Chapter 92. The Suicide\n\nMeanwhile Monte Cristo had also returned to town with Emmanuel and\nMaximilian. Their return was cheerful. Emmanuel did not conceal his joy\nat the peaceful termination of the affair, and was loud in his\nexpressions of delight. Morrel, in a corner of the carriage, allowed\nhis brother-in-law s gayety to expend itself in words, while he felt\nequal inward joy, which, however, betrayed itself only in his\ncountenance.\n\nAt the Barri re du Tr ne they met Bertuccio, who was waiting there,\nmotionless as a sentinel at his post. Monte Cristo put his head out of\nthe window, exchanged a few words with him in a low tone, and the\nsteward disappeared.\n\n Count,  said Emmanuel, when they were at the end of the Place Royale,\n put me down at my door, that my wife may not have a single moment of\nneedless anxiety on my account or yours. \n\n If it were not ridiculous to make a display of our triumph, said\nMorrel, I would invite the count to our house; besides that, he\ndoubtless has some trembling heart to comfort. So we will take leave of\nour friend, and let him hasten home. \n\n Stop a moment,  said Monte Cristo;  do not let me lose both my\ncompanions. Return, Emmanuel, to your charming wife, and present my\nbest compliments to her; and do you, Morrel, accompany me to the\nChamps- lys es. \n\n Willingly,  said Maximilian;  particularly as I have business in that\nquarter. \n\n Shall we wait breakfast for you?  asked Emmanuel.\n\n No,  replied the young man. The door was closed, and the carriage\nproceeded.  See what good fortune I brought you!  said Morrel, when he\nwas alone with the count.  Have you not thought so? \n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo;  for that reason I wished to keep you near\nme. \n\n It is miraculous!  continued Morrel, answering his own thoughts.\n\n What?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n What has just happened. \n\n Yes,  said the Count,  you are right it is miraculous. \n\n For Albert is brave,  resumed Morrel.\n\n Very brave,  said Monte Cristo;  I have seen him sleep with a sword\nsuspended over his head. \n\n And I know he has fought two duels,  said Morrel.  How can you\nreconcile that with his conduct this morning? \n\n All owing to your influence,  replied Monte Cristo, smiling.\n\n It is well for Albert he is not in the army,  said Morrel.\n\n Why? \n\n An apology on the ground!  said the young captain, shaking his head.\n\n Come,  said the count mildly,  do not entertain the prejudices of\nordinary men, Morrel! Acknowledge, that if Albert is brave, he cannot\nbe a coward; he must then have had some reason for acting as he did\nthis morning, and confess that his conduct is more heroic than\notherwise. \n\n Doubtless, doubtless,  said Morrel;  but I shall say, like the\nSpaniard,  He has not been so brave today as he was yesterday. \n\n You will breakfast with me, will you not, Morrel?  said the count, to\nturn the conversation.\n\n No; I must leave you at ten o clock. \n\n Your engagement was for breakfast, then?  said the count.\n\nMorrel smiled, and shook his head.\n\n Still you must breakfast somewhere. \n\n But if I am not hungry?  said the young man.\n\n Oh,  said the count,  I only know two things which destroy the\nappetite, grief and as I am happy to see you very cheerful, it is not\nthat and love. Now after what you told me this morning of your heart, I\nmay believe \n\n Well, count,  replied Morrel gayly,  I will not dispute it. \n\n But you will not make me your confidant, Maximilian?  said the count,\nin a tone which showed how gladly he would have been admitted to the\nsecret.\n\n I showed you this morning that I had a heart, did I not, count?  Monte\nCristo only answered by extending his hand to the young man.  Well, \ncontinued the latter,  since that heart is no longer with you in the\nBois de Vincennes, it is elsewhere, and I must go and find it. \n\n Go,  said the count deliberately;  go, dear friend, but promise me if\nyou meet with any obstacle to remember that I have some power in this\nworld, that I am happy to use that power in the behalf of those I love,\nand that I love you, Morrel. \n\n40260m\n\n\n\n I will remember it,  said the young man,  as selfish children\nrecollect their parents when they want their aid. When I need your\nassistance, and the moment arrives, I will come to you, count. \n\n Well, I rely upon your promise. Good-bye, then. \n\n Good-bye, till we meet again. \n\nThey had arrived in the Champs- lys es. Monte Cristo opened the\ncarriage-door, Morrel sprang out on the pavement, Bertuccio was waiting\non the steps. Morrel disappeared down the Avenue de Marigny, and Monte\nCristo hastened to join Bertuccio.\n\n Well?  asked he.\n\n She is going to leave her house,  said the steward.\n\n And her son? \n\n Florentin, his valet, thinks he is going to do the same. \n\n Come this way.  Monte Cristo took Bertuccio into his study, wrote the\nletter we have seen, and gave it to the steward.  Go,  said he quickly.\n But first, let Hayd e be informed that I have returned. \n\n Here I am,  said the young girl, who at the sound of the carriage had\nrun downstairs and whose face was radiant with joy at seeing the count\nreturn safely. Bertuccio left. Every transport of a daughter finding a\nfather, all the delight of a mistress seeing an adored lover, were felt\nby Hayd e during the first moments of this meeting, which she had so\neagerly expected. Doubtless, although less evident, Monte Cristo s joy\nwas not less intense. Joy to hearts which have suffered long is like\nthe dew on the ground after a long drought; both the heart and the\nground absorb that beneficent moisture falling on them, and nothing is\noutwardly apparent.\n\nMonte Cristo was beginning to think, what he had not for a long time\ndared to believe, that there were two Merc d s in the world, and he\nmight yet be happy. His eye, elate with happiness, was reading eagerly\nthe tearful gaze of Hayd e, when suddenly the door opened. The count\nknit his brow.\n\n M. de Morcerf!  said Baptistin, as if that name sufficed for his\nexcuse. In fact, the count s face brightened.\n\n Which,  asked he,  the viscount or the count? \n\n The count. \n\n Oh,  exclaimed Hayd e,  is it not yet over? \n\n I know not if it is finished, my beloved child,  said Monte Cristo,\ntaking the young girl s hands;  but I do know you have nothing more to\nfear. \n\n But it is the wretched \n\n That man cannot injure me, Hayd e,  said Monte Cristo;  it was his son\nalone that there was cause to fear. \n\n And what I have suffered,  said the young girl,  you shall never know,\nmy lord. \n\nMonte Cristo smiled.  By my father s tomb,  said he, extending his hand\nover the head of the young girl,  I swear to you, Hayd e, that if any\nmisfortune happens, it will not be to me. \n\n I believe you, my lord, as implicitly as if God had spoken to me, \nsaid the young girl, presenting her forehead to him. Monte Cristo\npressed on that pure beautiful forehead a kiss which made two hearts\nthrob at once, the one violently, the other secretly.\n\n Oh,  murmured the count,  shall I then be permitted to love again? Ask\nM. de Morcerf into the drawing-room,  said he to Baptistin, while he\nled the beautiful Greek girl to a private staircase.\n\nWe must explain this visit, which although expected by Monte Cristo, is\nunexpected to our readers. While Merc d s, as we have said, was making\na similar inventory of her property to Albert s, while she was\narranging her jewels, shutting her drawers, collecting her keys, to\nleave everything in perfect order, she did not perceive a pale and\nsinister face at a glass door which threw light into the passage, from\nwhich everything could be both seen and heard. He who was thus looking,\nwithout being heard or seen, probably heard and saw all that passed in\nMadame de Morcerf s apartments. From that glass door the pale-faced man\nwent to the count s bedroom and raised with a constricted hand the\ncurtain of a window overlooking the courtyard. He remained there ten\nminutes, motionless and dumb, listening to the beating of his own\nheart. For him those ten minutes were very long. It was then Albert,\nreturning from his meeting with the count, perceived his father\nwatching for his arrival behind a curtain, and turned aside. The\ncount s eye expanded; he knew Albert had insulted the count dreadfully,\nand that in every country in the world such an insult would lead to a\ndeadly duel. Albert returned safely then the count was revenged.\n\nAn indescribable ray of joy illumined that wretched countenance like\nthe last ray of the sun before it disappears behind the clouds which\nbear the aspect, not of a downy couch, but of a tomb. But as we have\nsaid, he waited in vain for his son to come to his apartment with the\naccount of his triumph. He easily understood why his son did not come\nto see him before he went to avenge his father s honor; but when that\nwas done, why did not his son come and throw himself into his arms?\n\nIt was then, when the count could not see Albert, that he sent for his\nservant, who he knew was authorized not to conceal anything from him.\nTen minutes afterwards, General Morcerf was seen on the steps in a\nblack coat with a military collar, black pantaloons, and black gloves.\nHe had apparently given previous orders, for as he reached the bottom\nstep his carriage came from the coach-house ready for him. The valet\nthrew into the carriage his military cloak, in which two swords were\nwrapped, and, shutting the door, he took his seat by the side of the\ncoachman. The coachman stooped down for his orders.\n\n To the Champs- lys es,  said the general;  the Count of Monte\nCristo s. Hurry! \n\nThe horses bounded beneath the whip; and in five minutes they stopped\nbefore the count s door. M. de Morcerf opened the door himself, and as\nthe carriage rolled away he passed up the walk, rang, and entered the\nopen door with his servant.\n\nA moment afterwards, Baptistin announced the Count of Morcerf to Monte\nCristo, and the latter, leading Hayd e aside, ordered that Morcerf be\nasked into the drawing-room. The general was pacing the room the third\ntime when, in turning, he perceived Monte Cristo at the door.\n\n Ah, it is M. de Morcerf,  said Monte Cristo quietly;  I thought I had\nnot heard aright. \n\n Yes, it is I,  said the count, whom a frightful contraction of the\nlips prevented from articulating freely.\n\n May I know the cause which procures me the pleasure of seeing M. de\nMorcerf so early? \n\n Had you not a meeting with my son this morning?  asked the general.\n\n I had,  replied the count.\n\n And I know my son had good reasons to wish to fight with you, and to\nendeavor to kill you. \n\n Yes, sir, he had very good ones; but you see that in spite of them he\nhas not killed me, and did not even fight. \n\n Yet he considered you the cause of his father s dishonor, the cause of\nthe fearful ruin which has fallen on my house. \n\n It is true, sir,  said Monte Cristo with his dreadful calmness;  a\nsecondary cause, but not the principal. \n\n Doubtless you made, then, some apology or explanation? \n\n I explained nothing, and it is he who apologized to me. \n\n But to what do you attribute this conduct? \n\n To the conviction, probably, that there was one more guilty than I. \n\n And who was that? \n\n His father. \n\n That may be,  said the count, turning pale;  but you know the guilty\ndo not like to find themselves convicted. \n\n I know it, and I expected this result. \n\n You expected my son would be a coward?  cried the count.\n\n M. Albert de Morcerf is no coward!  said Monte Cristo.\n\n A man who holds a sword in his hand, and sees a mortal enemy within\nreach of that sword, and does not fight, is a coward! Why is he not\nhere that I may tell him so? \n\n Sir,  replied Monte Cristo coldly,  I did not expect that you had come\nhere to relate to me your little family affairs. Go and tell M. Albert\nthat, and he may know what to answer you. \n\n Oh, no, no,  said the general, smiling faintly,  I did not come for\nthat purpose; you are right. I came to tell you that I also look upon\nyou as my enemy. I came to tell you that I hate you instinctively; that\nit seems as if I had always known you, and always hated you; and, in\nshort, since the young people of the present day will not fight, it\nremains for us to do so. Do you think so, sir? \n\n Certainly. And when I told you I had foreseen the result, it is the\nhonor of your visit I alluded to. \n\n So much the better. Are you prepared? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n You know that we shall fight till one of us is dead,  said the\ngeneral, whose teeth were clenched with rage.\n\n40262m\n\n\n\n Until one of us dies,  repeated Monte Cristo, moving his head slightly\nup and down.\n\n Let us start, then; we need no witnesses. \n\n Very true,  said Monte Cristo;  it is unnecessary, we know each other\nso well! \n\n On the contrary,  said the count,  we know so little of each other. \n\n Indeed?  said Monte Cristo, with the same indomitable coolness;  let\nus see. Are you not the soldier Fernand who deserted on the eve of the\nbattle of Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant Fernand who served as\nguide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you not the Captain\nFernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And have\nnot all these Fernands, united, made Lieutenant-General, the Count of\nMorcerf, peer of France? \n\n Oh,  cried the general, as if branded with a hot iron,  wretch, to\nreproach me with my shame when about, perhaps, to kill me! No, I did\nnot say I was a stranger to you. I know well, demon, that you have\npenetrated into the darkness of the past, and that you have read, by\nthe light of what torch I know not, every page of my life; but perhaps\nI may be more honorable in my shame than you under your pompous\ncoverings. No no, I am aware you know me; but I know you only as an\nadventurer sewn up in gold and jewellery. You call yourself, in Paris,\nthe Count of Monte Cristo; in Italy, Sinbad the Sailor; in Malta, I\nforget what. But it is your real name I want to know, in the midst of\nyour hundred names, that I may pronounce it when we meet to fight, at\nthe moment when I plunge my sword through your heart. \n\nThe Count of Monte Cristo turned dreadfully pale; his eye seemed to\nburn with a devouring fire. He leaped towards a dressing-room near his\nbedroom, and in less than a moment, tearing off his cravat, his coat\nand waistcoat, he put on a sailor s jacket and hat, from beneath which\nrolled his long black hair. He returned thus, formidable and\nimplacable, advancing with his arms crossed on his breast, towards the\ngeneral, who could not understand why he had disappeared, but who on\nseeing him again, and feeling his teeth chatter and his legs sink under\nhim, drew back, and only stopped when he found a table to support his\nclenched hand.\n\n Fernand,  cried he,  of my hundred names I need only tell you one, to\noverwhelm you! But you guess it now, do you not? or, rather, you\nremember it? For, notwithstanding all my sorrows and my tortures, I\nshow you today a face which the happiness of revenge makes young\nagain a face you must often have seen in your dreams since your\nmarriage with Merc d s, my betrothed! \n\n40268m\n\n\n\nThe general, with his head thrown back, hands extended, gaze fixed,\nlooked silently at this dreadful apparition; then seeking the wall to\nsupport him, he glided along close to it until he reached the door,\nthrough which he went out backwards, uttering this single mournful,\nlamentable, distressing cry:\n\n Edmond Dant s! \n\nThen, with sighs which were unlike any human sound, he dragged himself\nto the door, reeled across the courtyard, and falling into the arms of\nhis valet, he said in a voice scarcely intelligible, Home, home. \n\nThe fresh air and the shame he felt at having exposed himself before\nhis servants, partly recalled his senses, but the ride was short, and\nas he drew near his house all his wretchedness revived. He stopped at a\nshort distance from the house and alighted. The door was wide open, a\nhackney-coach was standing in the middle of the yard a strange sight\nbefore so noble a mansion; the count looked at it with terror, but\nwithout daring to inquire its meaning, he rushed towards his apartment.\n\nTwo persons were coming down the stairs; he had only time to creep into\nan alcove to avoid them. It was Merc d s leaning on her son s arm and\nleaving the house. They passed close by the unhappy being, who,\nconcealed behind the damask curtain, almost felt Merc d s dress brush\npast him, and his son s warm breath, pronouncing these words:\n\n Courage, mother! Come, this is no longer our home! \n\nThe words died away, the steps were lost in the distance. The general\ndrew himself up, clinging to the curtain; he uttered the most dreadful\nsob which ever escaped from the bosom of a father abandoned at the same\ntime by his wife and son. He soon heard the clatter of the iron step of\nthe hackney-coach, then the coachman s voice, and then the rolling of\nthe heavy vehicle shook the windows. He darted to his bedroom to see\nonce more all he had loved in the world; but the hackney-coach drove on\nand the head of neither Merc d s nor her son appeared at the window to\ntake a last look at the house or the deserted father and husband.\n\nAnd at the very moment when the wheels of that coach crossed the\ngateway a report was heard, and a thick smoke escaped through one of\nthe panes of the window, which was broken by the explosion.\n\n40270m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 93. Valentine\n\nWe may easily conceive where Morrel s appointment was. On leaving Monte\nCristo he walked slowly towards Villefort s; we say slowly, for Morrel\nhad more than half an hour to spare to go five hundred steps, but he\nhad hastened to take leave of Monte Cristo because he wished to be\nalone with his thoughts. He knew his time well the hour when Valentine\nwas giving Noirtier his breakfast, and was sure not to be disturbed in\nthe performance of this pious duty. Noirtier and Valentine had given\nhim leave to go twice a week, and he was now availing himself of that\npermission.\n\nHe arrived; Valentine was expecting him. Uneasy and almost crazed, she\nseized his hand and led him to her grandfather. This uneasiness,\namounting almost to frenzy, arose from the report Morcerf s adventure\nhad made in the world, for the affair at the Opera was generally known.\nNo one at Villefort s doubted that a duel would ensue from it.\nValentine, with her woman s instinct, guessed that Morrel would be\nMonte Cristo s second, and from the young man s well-known courage and\nhis great affection for the count, she feared that he would not content\nhimself with the passive part assigned to him. We may easily understand\nhow eagerly the particulars were asked for, given, and received; and\nMorrel could read an indescribable joy in the eyes of his beloved, when\nshe knew that the termination of this affair was as happy as it was\nunexpected.\n\n Now,  said Valentine, motioning to Morrel to sit down near her\ngrandfather, while she took her seat on his footstool, now let us talk\nabout our own affairs. You know, Maximilian, grandpapa once thought of\nleaving this house, and taking an apartment away from M. de\nVillefort s. \n\n Yes,  said Maximilian,  I recollect the project, of which I highly\napproved. \n\n Well,  said Valentine,  you may approve again, for grandpapa is again\nthinking of it. \n\n Bravo,  said Maximilian.\n\n40272m\n\n\n\n And do you know,  said Valentine,  what reason grandpapa gives for\nleaving this house.  Noirtier looked at Valentine to impose silence,\nbut she did not notice him; her looks, her eyes, her smile, were all\nfor Morrel.\n\n Oh, whatever may be M. Noirtier s reason,  answered Morrel,  I can\nreadily believe it to be a good one. \n\n An excellent one,  said Valentine.  He pretends the air of the\nFaubourg Saint-Honor  is not good for me. \n\n Indeed?  said Morrel;  in that M. Noirtier may be right; you have not\nseemed to be well for the last fortnight. \n\n Not very,  said Valentine.  And grandpapa has become my physician, and\nI have the greatest confidence in him, because he knows everything. \n\n Do you then really suffer?  asked Morrel quickly.\n\n Oh, it must not be called suffering; I feel a general uneasiness, that\nis all. I have lost my appetite, and my stomach feels as if it were\nstruggling to get accustomed to something.  Noirtier did not lose a\nword of what Valentine said.\n\n And what treatment do you adopt for this singular complaint? \n\n A very simple one,  said Valentine.  I swallow every morning a\nspoonful of the mixture prepared for my grandfather. When I say one\nspoonful, I began by one now I take four. Grandpapa says it is a\npanacea.  Valentine smiled, but it was evident that she suffered.\n\nMaximilian, in his devotedness, gazed silently at her. She was very\nbeautiful, but her usual pallor had increased; her eyes were more\nbrilliant than ever, and her hands, which were generally white like\nmother-of-pearl, now more resembled wax, to which time was adding a\nyellowish hue.\n\nFrom Valentine the young man looked towards Noirtier. The latter\nwatched with strange and deep interest the young girl, absorbed by her\naffection, and he also, like Morrel, followed those traces of inward\nsuffering which was so little perceptible to a common observer that\nthey escaped the notice of everyone but the grandfather and the lover.\n\n But,  said Morrel,  I thought this mixture, of which you now take four\nspoonfuls, was prepared for M. Noirtier? \n\n I know it is very bitter,  said Valentine;  so bitter, that all I\ndrink afterwards appears to have the same taste.  Noirtier looked\ninquiringly at his granddaughter.  Yes, grandpapa,  said Valentine;  it\nis so. Just now, before I came down to you, I drank a glass of sugared\nwater; I left half, because it seemed so bitter.  Noirtier turned pale,\nand made a sign that he wished to speak.\n\nValentine rose to fetch the dictionary. Noirtier watched her with\nevident anguish. In fact, the blood was rushing to the young girl s\nhead already, her cheeks were becoming red.\n\n Oh,  cried she, without losing any of her cheerfulness,  this is\nsingular! I can t see! Did the sun shine in my eyes?  And she leaned\nagainst the window.\n\n The sun is not shining,  said Morrel, more alarmed by Noirtier s\nexpression than by Valentine s indisposition. He ran towards her. The\nyoung girl smiled.\n\n Cheer up,  said she to Noirtier.  Do not be alarmed, Maximilian; it is\nnothing, and has already passed away. But listen! Do I not hear a\ncarriage in the courtyard?  She opened Noirtier s door, ran to a window\nin the passage, and returned hastily.  Yes,  said she,  it is Madame\nDanglars and her daughter, who have come to call on us. Good-bye; I\nmust run away, for they would send here for me, or, rather, farewell\ntill I see you again. Stay with grandpapa, Maximilian; I promise you\nnot to persuade them to stay. \n\n40274m\n\n\n\nMorrel watched her as she left the room; he heard her ascend the little\nstaircase which led both to Madame de Villefort s apartments and to\nhers. As soon as she was gone, Noirtier made a sign to Morrel to take\nthe dictionary. Morrel obeyed; guided by Valentine, he had learned how\nto understand the old man quickly. Accustomed, however, as he was to\nthe work, he had to repeat most of the letters of the alphabet and to\nfind every word in the dictionary, so that it was ten minutes before\nthe thought of the old man was translated by these words,\n\n Fetch the glass of water and the decanter from Valentine s room. \n\nMorrel rang immediately for the servant who had taken Barrois s\nsituation, and in Noirtier s name gave that order. The servant soon\nreturned. The decanter and the glass were completely empty. Noirtier\nmade a sign that he wished to speak.\n\n Why are the glass and decanter empty?  asked he;  Valentine said she\nonly drank half the glassful. \n\nThe translation of this new question occupied another five minutes.\n\n I do not know,  said the servant,  but the housemaid is in\nMademoiselle Valentine s room: perhaps she has emptied them. \n\n Ask her,  said Morrel, translating Noirtier s thought this time by his\nlook. The servant went out, but returned almost immediately.\n Mademoiselle Valentine passed through the room to go to Madame de\nVillefort s,  said he;  and in passing, as she was thirsty, she drank\nwhat remained in the glass; as for the decanter, Master Edward had\nemptied that to make a pond for his ducks. \n\nNoirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as a gambler does who stakes his\nall on one stroke. From that moment the old man s eyes were fixed on\nthe door, and did not quit it.\n\nIt was indeed Madame Danglars and her daughter whom Valentine had seen;\nthey had been ushered into Madame de Villefort s room, who had said she\nwould receive them there. That is why Valentine passed through her\nroom, which was on a level with Valentine s, and only separated from it\nby Edward s. The two ladies entered the drawing-room with that sort of\nofficial stiffness which preludes a formal communication. Among worldly\npeople manner is contagious. Madame de Villefort received them with\nequal solemnity. Valentine entered at this moment, and the formalities\nwere resumed.\n\n My dear friend,  said the baroness, while the two young people were\nshaking hands,  I and Eug nie are come to be the first to announce to\nyou the approaching marriage of my daughter with Prince Cavalcanti. \nDanglars kept up the title of prince. The popular banker found that it\nanswered better than count.\n\n Allow me to present you my sincere congratulations,  replied Madame de\nVillefort.  Prince Cavalcanti appears to be a young man of rare\nqualities. \n\n40276m\n\n\n\n Listen,  said the baroness, smiling;  speaking to you as a friend I\ncan say that the prince does not yet appear all he will be. He has\nabout him a little of that foreign manner by which French persons\nrecognize, at first sight, the Italian or German nobleman. Besides, he\ngives evidence of great kindness of disposition, much keenness of wit,\nand as to suitability, M. Danglars assures me that his fortune is\nmajestic that is his word. \n\n And then,  said Eug nie, while turning over the leaves of Madame de\nVillefort s album,  add that you have taken a great fancy to the young\nman. \n\n And,  said Madame de Villefort,  I need not ask you if you share that\nfancy. \n\n I?  replied Eug nie with her usual candor.  Oh, not the least in the\nworld, madame! My wish was not to confine myself to domestic cares, or\nthe caprices of any man, but to be an artist, and consequently free in\nheart, in person, and in thought. \n\nEug nie pronounced these words with so firm a tone that the color\nmounted to Valentine s cheeks. The timid girl could not understand that\nvigorous nature which appeared to have none of the timidities of woman.\n\n At any rate,  said she,  since I am to be married whether I will or\nnot, I ought to be thankful to Providence for having released me from\nmy engagement with M. Albert de Morcerf, or I should this day have been\nthe wife of a dishonored man. \n\n It is true,  said the baroness, with that strange simplicity sometimes\nmet with among fashionable ladies, and of which plebeian intercourse\ncan never entirely deprive them, it is very true that had not the\nMorcerfs hesitated, my daughter would have married Monsieur Albert. The\ngeneral depended much on it; he even came to force M. Danglars. We have\nhad a narrow escape. \n\n But,  said Valentine, timidly,  does all the father s shame revert\nupon the son? Monsieur Albert appears to me quite innocent of the\ntreason charged against the general. \n\n Excuse me,  said the implacable young girl,  Monsieur Albert claims\nand well deserves his share. It appears that after having challenged M.\nde Monte Cristo at the Opera yesterday, he apologized on the ground\ntoday. \n\n Impossible,  said Madame de Villefort.\n\n Ah, my dear friend,  said Madame Danglars, with the same simplicity we\nbefore noticed,  it is a fact. I heard it from M. Debray, who was\npresent at the explanation. \n\nValentine also knew the truth, but she did not answer. A single word\nhad reminded her that Morrel was expecting her in M. Noirtier s room.\nDeeply engaged with a sort of inward contemplation, Valentine had\nceased for a moment to join in the conversation. She would, indeed,\nhave found it impossible to repeat what had been said the last few\nminutes, when suddenly Madame Danglars  hand, pressed on her arm,\naroused her from her lethargy.\n\n What is it?  said she, starting at Madame Danglars  touch as she would\nhave done from an electric shock.\n\n It is, my dear Valentine,  said the baroness,  that you are,\ndoubtless, suffering. \n\n40280m\n\n\n\n I?  said the young girl, passing her hand across her burning forehead.\n\n Yes, look at yourself in that glass; you have turned pale and then red\nsuccessively, three or four times in one minute. \n\n Indeed,  cried Eug nie,  you are very pale! \n\n Oh, do not be alarmed; I have been so for many days.  Artless as she\nwas, the young girl knew that this was an opportunity to leave, and\nbesides, Madame de Villefort came to her assistance.\n\n Retire, Valentine,  said she;  you are really suffering, and these\nladies will excuse you; drink a glass of pure water, it will restore\nyou. \n\nValentine kissed Eug nie, bowed to Madame Danglars, who had already\nrisen to take her leave, and went out.\n\n That poor child,  said Madame de Villefort when Valentine was gone,\n she makes me very uneasy, and I should not be astonished if she had\nsome serious illness. \n\nMeanwhile, Valentine, in a sort of excitement which she could not quite\nunderstand, had crossed Edward s room without noticing some trick of\nthe child, and through her own had reached the little staircase.\n\nShe was within three steps of the bottom; she already heard Morrel s\nvoice, when suddenly a cloud passed over her eyes, her stiffened foot\nmissed the step, her hands had no power to hold the baluster, and\nfalling against the wall she lost her balance wholly and toppled to the\nfloor. Morrel bounded to the door, opened it, and found Valentine\nstretched out at the bottom of the stairs. Quick as a flash, he raised\nher in his arms and placed her in a chair. Valentine opened her eyes.\n\n Oh, what a clumsy thing I am,  said she with feverish volubility;  I\ndon t know my way. I forgot there were three more steps before the\nlanding. \n\n You have hurt yourself, perhaps,  said Morrel.  What can I do for you,\nValentine? \n\nValentine looked around her; she saw the deepest terror depicted in\nNoirtier s eyes.\n\n Don t worry, dear grandpapa,  said she, endeavoring to smile;  it is\nnothing it is nothing; I was giddy, that is all. \n\n Another attack of giddiness,  said Morrel, clasping his hands.  Oh,\nattend to it, Valentine, I entreat you. \n\n But no,  said Valentine, no, I tell you it is all past, and it was\nnothing. Now, let me tell you some news; Eug nie is to be married in a\nweek, and in three days there is to be a grand feast, a betrothal\nfestival. We are all invited, my father, Madame de Villefort, and I at\nleast, I understood it so. \n\n When will it be our turn to think of these things? Oh, Valentine, you\nwho have so much influence over your grandpapa, try to make him\nanswer Soon. \n\n And do you,  said Valentine,  depend on me to stimulate the tardiness\nand arouse the memory of grandpapa? \n\n Yes,  cried Morrel,  make haste. So long as you are not mine,\nValentine, I shall always think I may lose you. \n\n Oh,  replied Valentine with a convulsive movement,  oh, indeed,\nMaximilian, you are too timid for an officer, for a soldier who, they\nsay, never knows fear. Ha, ha, ha! \n\nShe burst into a forced and melancholy laugh, her arms stiffened and\ntwisted, her head fell back on her chair, and she remained motionless.\nThe cry of terror which was stopped on Noirtier s lips, seemed to start\nfrom his eyes. Morrel understood it; he knew he must call assistance.\nThe young man rang the bell violently; the housemaid who had been in\nMademoiselle Valentine s room, and the servant who had replaced\nBarrois, ran in at the same moment. Valentine was so pale, so cold, so\ninanimate that without listening to what was said to them they were\nseized with the fear which pervaded that house, and they flew into the\npassage crying for help. Madame Danglars and Eug nie were going out at\nthat moment; they heard the cause of the disturbance.\n\n I told you so!  exclaimed Madame de Villefort.  Poor child! \n\n40278m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 94. Maximilian s Avowal\n\nAt the same moment M. de Villefort s voice was heard calling from his\nstudy,  What is the matter? \n\nMorrel looked at Noirtier who had recovered his self-command, and with\na glance indicated the closet where once before under somewhat similar\ncircumstances, he had taken refuge. He had only time to get his hat and\nthrow himself breathless into the closet when the procureur s footstep\nwas heard in the passage.\n\nVillefort sprang into the room, ran to Valentine, and took her in his\narms.\n\n A physician, a physician, M. d Avrigny!  cried Villefort;  or rather I\nwill go for him myself. \n\nHe flew from the apartment, and Morrel at the same moment darted out at\nthe other door. He had been struck to the heart by a frightful\nrecollection the conversation he had heard between the doctor and\nVillefort the night of Madame de Saint-M ran s death, recurred to him;\nthese symptoms, to a less alarming extent, were the same which had\npreceded the death of Barrois. At the same time Monte Cristo s voice\nseemed to resound in his ear with the words he had heard only two hours\nbefore,  Whatever you want, Morrel, come to me; I have great power. \n\nMore rapidly than thought, he darted down the Rue Matignon, and thence\nto the Avenue des Champs- lys es.\n\nMeanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a hired cabriolet at M.\nd Avrigny s door. He rang so violently that the porter was alarmed.\nVillefort ran upstairs without saying a word. The porter knew him, and\nlet him pass, only calling to him:\n\n In his study, Monsieur Procureur in his study!  Villefort pushed, or\nrather forced, the door open.\n\n Ah,  said the doctor,  is it you? \n\n Yes,  said Villefort, closing the door after him,  it is I, who am\ncome in my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house is\naccursed! \n\n What?  said the latter with apparent coolness, but with deep emotion,\n have you another invalid? \n\n Yes, doctor,  cried Villefort, clutching his hair,  yes! \n\nD Avrigny s look implied,  I told you it would be so.  Then he slowly\nuttered these words,  Who is now dying in your house? What new victim\nis going to accuse you of weakness before God? \n\nA mournful sob burst from Villefort s heart; he approached the doctor,\nand seizing his arm, Valentine,  said he,  it is Valentine s turn! \n\n40284m\n\n\n\n Your daughter!  cried d Avrigny with grief and surprise.\n\n You see you were deceived,  murmured the magistrate;  come and see\nher, and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for having suspected\nher. \n\n Each time you have applied to me,  said the doctor,  it has been too\nlate; still I will go. But let us make haste, sir; with the enemies you\nhave to do with there is no time to be lost. \n\n Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not have to reproach me with\nweakness. This time I will know the assassin, and will pursue him. \n\n Let us try first to save the victim before we think of revenging her, \nsaid d Avrigny.  Come. \n\nThe same cabriolet which had brought Villefort took them back at full\nspeed, and at this moment Morrel rapped at Monte Cristo s door.\n\nThe count was in his study and was reading with an angry look something\nwhich Bertuccio had brought in haste. Hearing the name of Morrel, who\nhad left him only two hours before, the count raised his head, arose,\nand sprang to meet him.\n\n What is the matter, Maximilian?  asked he;  you are pale, and the\nperspiration rolls from your forehead.  Morrel fell into a chair.\n\n Yes,  said he,  I came quickly; I wanted to speak to you. \n\n Are all your family well?  asked the count, with an affectionate\nbenevolence, whose sincerity no one could for a moment doubt.\n\n Thank you, count thank you,  said the young man, evidently embarrassed\nhow to begin the conversation;  yes, everyone in my family is well. \n\n So much the better; yet you have something to tell me?  replied the\ncount with increased anxiety.\n\n Yes,  said Morrel,  it is true; I have but now left a house where\ndeath has just entered, to run to you. \n\n Are you then come from M. de Morcerf s?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n No,  said Morrel;  is someone dead in his house? \n\n The general has just blown his brains out,  replied Monte Cristo with\ngreat coolness.\n\n Oh, what a dreadful event!  cried Maximilian.\n\n Not for the countess, or for Albert,  said Monte Cristo;  a dead\nfather or husband is better than a dishonored one, blood washes out\nshame. \n\n Poor countess,  said Maximilian,  I pity her very much; she is so\nnoble a woman! \n\n Pity Albert also, Maximilian; for believe me he is the worthy son of\nthe countess. But let us return to yourself. You have hastened to\nme can I have the happiness of being useful to you? \n\n40286m\n\n\n\n Yes, I need your help: that is I thought like a madman that you could\nlend me your assistance in a case where God alone can succor me. \n\n Tell me what it is,  replied Monte Cristo.\n\n Oh,  said Morrel,  I know not, indeed, if I may reveal this secret to\nmortal ears, but fatality impels me, necessity constrains me, count \nMorrel hesitated.\n\n Do you think I love you?  said Monte Cristo, taking the young man s\nhand affectionately in his.\n\n Oh, you encourage me, and something tells me there,  placing his hand\non his heart,  that I ought to have no secret from you. \n\n You are right, Morrel; God is speaking to your heart, and your heart\nspeaks to you. Tell me what it says. \n\n Count, will you allow me to send Baptistin to inquire after someone\nyou know? \n\n I am at your service, and still more my servants. \n\n Oh, I cannot live if she is not better. \n\n Shall I ring for Baptistin? \n\n No, I will go and speak to him myself.  Morrel went out, called\nBaptistin, and whispered a few words to him. The valet ran directly.\n\n Well, have you sent?  asked Monte Cristo, seeing Morrel return.\n\n Yes, and now I shall be more calm. \n\n You know I am waiting,  said Monte Cristo, smiling.\n\n Yes, and I will tell you. One evening I was in a garden; a clump of\ntrees concealed me; no one suspected I was there. Two persons passed\nnear me allow me to conceal their names for the present; they were\nspeaking in an undertone, and yet I was so interested in what they said\nthat I did not lose a single word. \n\n This is a gloomy introduction, if I may judge from your pallor and\nshuddering, Morrel. \n\n Oh, yes, very gloomy, my friend. Someone had just died in the house to\nwhich that garden belonged. One of the persons whose conversation I\noverheard was the master of the house; the other, the physician. The\nformer was confiding to the latter his grief and fear, for it was the\nsecond time within a month that death had suddenly and unexpectedly\nentered that house which was apparently destined to destruction by some\nexterminating angel, as an object of God s anger. \n\n Ah, indeed?  said Monte Cristo, looking earnestly at the young man,\nand by an imperceptible movement turning his chair, so that he remained\nin the shade while the light fell full on Maximilian s face.\n\n Yes,  continued Morrel,  death had entered that house twice within one\nmonth. \n\n And what did the doctor answer?  asked Monte Cristo.\n\n He replied he replied, that the death was not a natural one, and must\nbe attributed \n\n To what? \n\n To poison. \n\n Indeed!  said Monte Cristo with a slight cough which in moments of\nextreme emotion helped him to disguise a blush, or his pallor, or the\nintense interest with which he listened;  indeed, Maximilian, did you\nhear that? \n\n Yes, my dear count, I heard it; and the doctor added that if another\ndeath occurred in a similar way he must appeal to justice. \n\nMonte Cristo listened, or appeared to do so, with the greatest\ncalmness.\n\n Well,  said Maximilian,  death came a third time, and neither the\nmaster of the house nor the doctor said a word. Death is now, perhaps,\nstriking a fourth blow. Count, what am I bound to do, being in\npossession of this secret? \n\n My dear friend,  said Monte Cristo,  you appear to be relating an\nadventure which we all know by heart. I know the house where you heard\nit, or one very similar to it; a house with a garden, a master, a\nphysician, and where there have been three unexpected and sudden\ndeaths. Well, I have not intercepted your confidence, and yet I know\nall that as well as you, and I have no conscientious scruples. No, it\ndoes not concern me. You say an exterminating angel appears to have\ndevoted that house to God s anger well, who says your supposition is\nnot reality? Do not notice things which those whose interest it is to\nsee them pass over. If it is God s justice, instead of his anger, which\nis walking through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let\nhis justice accomplish its purpose. \n\nMorrel shuddered. There was something mournful, solemn, and terrible in\nthe count s manner.\n\n Besides,  continued he, in so changed a tone that no one would have\nsupposed it was the same person speaking besides, who says that it\nwill begin again? \n\n It has returned, count,  exclaimed Morrel;  that is why I hastened to\nyou. \n\n Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for instance, to give\ninformation to the procureur?  Monte Cristo uttered the last words with\nso much meaning that Morrel, starting up, cried out:\n\n You know of whom I speak, count, do you not? \n\n Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you by putting\nthe dots to the _i_, or rather by naming the persons. You were walking\none evening in M. de Villefort s garden; from what you relate, I\nsuppose it to have been the evening of Madame de Saint-M ran s death.\nYou heard M. de Villefort talking to M. d Avrigny about the death of M.\nde Saint-M ran, and that no less surprising, of the countess. M.\nd Avrigny said he believed they both proceeded from poison; and you,\nhonest man, have ever since been asking your heart and sounding your\nconscience to know if you ought to expose or conceal this secret. We\nare no longer in the Middle Ages; there is no longer a Vehmgericht, or\nFree Tribunals; what do you want to ask these people?  Conscience, what\nhast thou to do with me?  as Sterne said. My dear fellow, let them\nsleep on, if they are asleep; let them grow pale in their drowsiness,\nif they are disposed to do so, and pray do you remain in peace, who\nhave no remorse to disturb you. \n\nDeep grief was depicted on Morrel s features; he seized Monte Cristo s\nhand.  But it is beginning again, I say! \n\n Well,  said the Count, astonished at his perseverance, which he could\nnot understand, and looking still more earnestly at Maximilian,  let it\nbegin again, it is like the house of the Atreidae;19 God has condemned\nthem, and they must submit to their punishment. They will all\ndisappear, like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall,\none by one, under the breath of their builder, even if there are two\nhundred of them. Three months since it was M. de Saint-M ran; Madame de\nSaint-M ran two months since; the other day it was Barrois; today, the\nold Noirtier, or young Valentine. \n\n You knew it?  cried Morrel, in such a paroxysm of terror that Monte\nCristo started, he whom the falling heavens would have found unmoved;\n you knew it, and said nothing? \n\n And what is it to me?  replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders;\n do I know those people? and must I lose the one to save the other?\nFaith, no, for between the culprit and the victim I have no choice. \n\n But I,  cried Morrel, groaning with sorrow,  I love her! \n\n You love? whom?  cried Monte Cristo, starting to his feet, and seizing\nthe two hands which Morrel was raising towards heaven.\n\n I love most fondly I love madly I love as a man who would give his\nlife-blood to spare her a tear I love Valentine de Villefort, who is\nbeing murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I\nask God and you how I can save her? \n\nMonte Cristo uttered a cry which those only can conceive who have heard\nthe roar of a wounded lion.  Unhappy man,  cried he, wringing his hands\nin his turn;  you love Valentine, that daughter of an accursed race! \n\nNever had Morrel witnessed such an expression never had so terrible an\neye flashed before his face never had the genius of terror he had so\noften seen, either on the battle-field or in the murderous nights of\nAlgeria, shaken around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified.\n\nAs for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as if\ndazzled by internal light. In a moment he restrained himself so\npowerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, as\nturbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun s genial influence when\nthe cloud has passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted\nabout twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face.\n\n See,  said he,  my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless\nand unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes\nto their view. I, who was looking on, an eager and curious\nspectator, I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy, I,\nwho like a wicked angel was laughing at the evil men committed\nprotected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and\npowerful), I am in my turn bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course\nI was watching, and bitten to the heart! \n\nMorrel groaned.\n\n Come, come,  continued the count,  complaints are unavailing, be a\nman, be strong, be full of hope, for I am here and will watch over\nyou. \n\nMorrel shook his head sorrowfully.\n\n I tell you to hope. Do you understand me?  cried Monte Cristo.\n Remember that I never uttered a falsehood and am never deceived. It is\ntwelve o clock, Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon rather\nthan in the evening, or tomorrow morning. Listen, Morrel it is noon; if\nValentine is not now dead, she will not die. \n\n How so?  cried Morrel,  when I left her dying? \n\nMonte Cristo pressed his hands to his forehead. What was passing in\nthat brain, so loaded with dreadful secrets? What does the angel of\nlight or the angel of darkness say to that mind, at once implacable and\ngenerous? God only knows.\n\nMonte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was calm as a\nchild awaking from its sleep.\n\n Maximilian,  said he,  return home. I command you not to stir attempt\nnothing, not to let your countenance betray a thought, and I will send\nyou tidings. Go. \n\n Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you, then, power\nagainst death? Are you superhuman? Are you an angel?  And the young\nman, who had never shrunk from danger, shrank before Monte Cristo with\nindescribable terror. But Monte Cristo looked at him with so melancholy\nand sweet a smile, that Maximilian felt the tears filling his eyes.\n\n I can do much for you, my friend,  replied the count.  Go; I must be\nalone. \n\nMorrel, subdued by the extraordinary ascendancy Monte Cristo exercised\nover everything around him, did not endeavor to resist it. He pressed\nthe count s hand and left. He stopped one moment at the door for\nBaptistin, whom he saw in the Rue Matignon, and who was running.\n\nMeanwhile, Villefort and d Avrigny had made all possible haste,\nValentine had not revived from her fainting fit on their arrival, and\nthe doctor examined the invalid with all the care the circumstances\ndemanded, and with an interest which the knowledge of the secret\nintensified twofold. Villefort, closely watching his countenance and\nhis lips, awaited the result of the examination. Noirtier, paler than\neven the young girl, more eager than Villefort for the decision, was\nwatching also intently and affectionately.\n\nAt last d Avrigny slowly uttered these words:  She is still alive! \n\n Still?  cried Villefort;  oh, doctor, what a dreadful word is that. \n\n Yes,  said the physician,  I repeat it; she is still alive, and I am\nastonished at it. \n\n But is she safe?  asked the father.\n\n Yes, since she lives. \n\nAt that moment d Avrigny s glance met Noirtier s eye. It glistened with\nsuch extraordinary joy, so rich and full of thought, that the physician\nwas struck. He placed the young girl again on the chair, her lips were\nscarcely discernible, they were so pale and white, as well as her whole\nface, and remained motionless, looking at Noirtier, who appeared to\nanticipate and commend all he did.\n\n Sir,  said d Avrigny to Villefort,  call Mademoiselle Valentine s\nmaid, if you please. \n\nVillefort went himself to find her; and d Avrigny approached Noirtier.\n\n Have you something to tell me?  asked he. The old man winked his eyes\nexpressively, which we may remember was his only way of expressing his\napproval.\n\n Privately? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, I will remain with you.  At this moment Villefort returned,\nfollowed by the lady s maid; and after her came Madame de Villefort.\n\n What is the matter, then, with this dear child? she has just left me,\nand she complained of being indisposed, but I did not think seriously\nof it. \n\nThe young woman with tears in her eyes and every mark of affection of a\ntrue mother, approached Valentine and took her hand. D Avrigny\ncontinued to look at Noirtier; he saw the eyes of the old man dilate\nand become round, his cheeks turn pale and tremble; the perspiration\nstood in drops upon his forehead.\n\n Ah,  said he, involuntarily following Noirtier s eyes, which were\nfixed on Madame de Villefort, who repeated:\n\n This poor child would be better in bed. Come, Fanny, we will put her\nto bed. \n\nM. d Avrigny, who saw that would be a means of his remaining alone with\nNoirtier, expressed his opinion that it was the best thing that could\nbe done; but he forbade that anything should be given to her except\nwhat he ordered.\n\nThey carried Valentine away; she had revived, but could scarcely move\nor speak, so shaken was her frame by the attack. She had, however, just\npower to give one parting look to her grandfather, who in losing her\nseemed to be resigning his very soul. D Avrigny followed the invalid,\nwrote a prescription, ordered Villefort to take a cabriolet, go in\nperson to a chemist s to get the prescribed medicine, bring it himself,\nand wait for him in his daughter s room. Then, having renewed his\ninjunction not to give Valentine anything, he went down again to\nNoirtier, shut the doors carefully, and after convincing himself that\nno one was listening:\n\n Do you,  said he,  know anything of this young lady s illness? \n\n Yes,  said the old man.\n\n We have no time to lose; I will question, and do you answer me. \nNoirtier made a sign that he was ready to answer.  Did you anticipate\nthe accident which has happened to your granddaughter? \n\n Yes.  D Avrigny reflected a moment; then approaching Noirtier:\n\n Pardon what I am going to say,  added he,  but no indication should be\nneglected in this terrible situation. Did you see poor Barrois die? \nNoirtier raised his eyes to heaven.\n\n Do you know of what he died!  asked d Avrigny, placing his hand on\nNoirtier s shoulder.\n\n Yes,  replied the old man.\n\n Do you think he died a natural death?  A sort of smile was discernible\non the motionless lips of Noirtier.\n\n Then you have thought that Barrois was poisoned? \n\n Yes. \n\n Do you think the poison he fell a victim to was intended for him? \n\n No. \n\n Do you think the same hand which unintentionally struck Barrois has\nnow attacked Valentine? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then will she die too?  asked d Avrigny, fixing his penetrating gaze\non Noirtier. He watched the effect of this question on the old man.\n\n No,  replied he with an air of triumph which would have puzzled the\nmost clever diviner.\n\n Then you hope?  said d Avrigny, with surprise.\n\n Yes. \n\n What do you hope?  The old man made him understand with his eyes that\nhe could not answer.\n\n Ah, yes, it is true,  murmured d Avrigny. Then, turning to\nNoirtier, Do you hope the assassin will be tried? \n\n No. \n\n Then you hope the poison will take no effect on Valentine? \n\n Yes. \n\n It is no news to you,  added d Avrigny,  to tell you that an attempt\nhas been made to poison her?  The old man made a sign that he\nentertained no doubt upon the subject.  Then how do you hope Valentine\nwill escape? \n\nNoirtier kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on the same spot. D Avrigny\nfollowed the direction and saw that they were fixed on a bottle\ncontaining the mixture which he took every morning.  Ah, indeed?  said\nd Avrigny, struck with a sudden thought,  has it occurred to\nyou Noirtier did not let him finish.\n\n Yes,  said he.\n\n To prepare her system to resist poison? \n\n Yes. \n\n By accustoming her by degrees \n\n Yes, yes, yes,  said Noirtier, delighted to be understood.\n\n Of course. I had told you that there was brucine in the mixture I give\nyou. \n\n Yes. \n\n And by accustoming her to that poison, you have endeavored to\nneutralize the effect of a similar poison?  Noirtier s joy continued.\n And you have succeeded,  exclaimed d Avrigny.  Without that precaution\nValentine would have died before assistance could have been procured.\nThe dose has been excessive, but she has only been shaken by it; and\nthis time, at any rate, Valentine will not die. \n\nA superhuman joy expanded the old man s eyes, which were raised towards\nheaven with an expression of infinite gratitude. At this moment\nVillefort returned.\n\n Here, doctor,  said he,  is what you sent me for. \n\n Was this prepared in your presence? \n\n Yes,  replied the procureur.\n\n Have you not let it go out of your hands? \n\n No. \n\nD Avrigny took the bottle, poured some drops of the mixture it\ncontained in the hollow of his hand, and swallowed them.\n\n Well,  said he,  let us go to Valentine; I will give instructions to\neveryone, and you, M. de Villefort, will yourself see that no one\ndeviates from them. \n\n40294m\n\n\n\nAt the moment when d Avrigny was returning to Valentine s room,\naccompanied by Villefort, an Italian priest, of serious demeanor and\ncalm and firm tone, hired for his use the house adjoining the hotel of\nM. de Villefort. No one knew how the three former tenants of that house\nleft it. About two hours afterwards its foundation was reported to be\nunsafe; but the report did not prevent the new occupant establishing\nhimself there with his modest furniture the same day at five o clock.\nThe lease was drawn up for three, six, or nine years by the new tenant,\nwho, according to the rule of the proprietor, paid six months in\nadvance.\n\nThis new tenant, who, as we have said, was an Italian, was called Il\nSignor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen were immediately called in, and that\nsame night the passengers at the end of the faubourg saw with surprise\nthat carpenters and masons were occupied in repairing the lower part of\nthe tottering house.\n\n\n\n Chapter 95. Father and Daughter\n\nWe saw in a preceding chapter how Madame Danglars went formally to\nannounce to Madame de Villefort the approaching marriage of Eug nie\nDanglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This formal announcement, which\nimplied or appeared to imply, the approval of all the persons concerned\nin this momentous affair, had been preceded by a scene to which our\nreaders must be admitted. We beg them to take one step backward, and to\ntransport themselves, the morning of that day of great catastrophes,\ninto the showy, gilded salon we have before shown them, and which was\nthe pride of its owner, Baron Danglars.\n\nIn this room, at about ten o clock in the morning, the banker himself\nhad been walking to and fro for some minutes thoughtfully and in\nevident uneasiness, watching both doors, and listening to every sound.\nWhen his patience was exhausted, he called his valet.\n\n tienne,  said he,  see why Mademoiselle Eug nie has asked me to meet\nher in the drawing-room, and why she makes me wait so long. \n\nHaving given this vent to his ill-humor, the baron became more calm;\nMademoiselle Danglars had that morning requested an interview with her\nfather, and had fixed on the gilded drawing-room as the spot. The\nsingularity of this step, and above all its formality, had not a little\nsurprised the banker, who had immediately obeyed his daughter by\nrepairing first to the drawing-room.  tienne soon returned from his\nerrand.\n\n Mademoiselle s lady s maid says, sir, that mademoiselle is finishing\nher toilette, and will be here shortly. \n\nDanglars nodded, to signify that he was satisfied. To the world and to\nhis servants Danglars assumed the character of the good-natured man and\nthe indulgent father. This was one of his parts in the popular comedy\nhe was performing, a make-up he had adopted and which suited him about\nas well as the masks worn on the classic stage by paternal actors, who\nseen from one side, were the image of geniality, and from the other\nshowed lips drawn down in chronic ill-temper. Let us hasten to say that\nin private the genial side descended to the level of the other, so that\ngenerally the indulgent man disappeared to give place to the brutal\nhusband and domineering father.\n\n Why the devil does that foolish girl, who pretends to wish to speak to\nme, not come into my study? and why on earth does she want to speak to\nme at all? \n\nHe was turning this thought over in his brain for the twentieth time,\nwhen the door opened and Eug nie appeared, attired in a figured black\nsatin dress, her hair dressed and gloves on, as if she were going to\nthe Italian Opera.\n\n Well, Eug nie, what is it you want with me? and why in this solemn\ndrawing-room when the study is so comfortable? \n\n I quite understand why you ask, sir,  said Eug nie, making a sign that\nher father might be seated,  and in fact your two questions suggest\nfully the theme of our conversation. I will answer them both, and\ncontrary to the usual method, the last first, because it is the least\ndifficult. I have chosen the drawing-room, sir, as our place of\nmeeting, in order to avoid the disagreeable impressions and influences\nof a banker s study. Those gilded cashbooks, drawers locked like gates\nof fortresses, heaps of bank-bills, come from I know not where, and the\nquantities of letters from England, Holland, Spain, India, China, and\nPeru, have generally a strange influence on a father s mind, and make\nhim forget that there is in the world an interest greater and more\nsacred than the good opinion of his correspondents. I have, therefore,\nchosen this drawing-room, where you see, smiling and happy in their\nmagnificent frames, your portrait, mine, my mother s, and all sorts of\nrural landscapes and touching pastorals. I rely much on external\nimpressions; perhaps, with regard to you, they are immaterial, but I\nshould be no artist if I had not some fancies. \n\n Very well,  replied M. Danglars, who had listened to all this preamble\nwith imperturbable coolness, but without understanding a word, since\nlike every man burdened with thoughts of the past, he was occupied with\nseeking the thread of his own ideas in those of the speaker.\n\n There is, then, the second point cleared up, or nearly so,  said\nEug nie, without the least confusion, and with that masculine\npointedness which distinguished her gesture and her language;  and you\nappear satisfied with the explanation. Now, let us return to the first.\nYou ask me why I have requested this interview; I will tell you in two\nwords, sir; I will not marry count Andrea Cavalcanti. \n\nDanglars leaped from his chair and raised his eyes and arms towards\nheaven.\n\n40298m\n\n\n\n Yes, indeed, sir,  continued Eug nie, still quite calm;  you are\nastonished, I see; for since this little affair began, I have not\nmanifested the slightest opposition, and yet I am always sure, when the\nopportunity arrives, to oppose a determined and absolute will to people\nwho have not consulted me, and things which displease me. However, this\ntime, my tranquillity, or passiveness as philosophers say, proceeded\nfrom another source; it proceeded from a wish, like a submissive and\ndevoted daughter  (a slight smile was observable on the purple lips of\nthe young girl),  to practice obedience. \n\n Well?  asked Danglars.\n\n Well, sir,  replied Eug nie,  I have tried to the very last and now\nthat the moment has come, I feel in spite of all my efforts that it is\nimpossible. \n\n But,  said Danglars, whose weak mind was at first quite overwhelmed\nwith the weight of this pitiless logic, marking evident premeditation\nand force of will,  what is your reason for this refusal, Eug nie? what\nreason do you assign? \n\n My reason?  replied the young girl.  Well, it is not that the man is\nmore ugly, more foolish, or more disagreeable than any other; no, M.\nAndrea Cavalcanti may appear to those who look at men s faces and\nfigures as a very good specimen of his kind. It is not, either, that my\nheart is less touched by him than any other; that would be a\nschoolgirl s reason, which I consider quite beneath me. I actually love\nno one, sir; you know it, do you not? I do not then see why, without\nreal necessity, I should encumber my life with a perpetual companion.\nHas not some sage said,  Nothing too much ? and another,  I carry all\nmy effects with me ? I have been taught these two aphorisms in Latin\nand in Greek; one is, I believe, from Ph drus, and the other from Bias.\nWell, my dear father, in the shipwreck of life for life is an eternal\nshipwreck of our hopes I cast into the sea my useless encumbrance, that\nis all, and I remain with my own will, disposed to live perfectly\nalone, and consequently perfectly free. \n\n Unhappy girl, unhappy girl!  murmured Danglars, turning pale, for he\nknew from long experience the solidity of the obstacle he had so\nsuddenly encountered.\n\n Unhappy girl,  replied Eug nie,  unhappy girl, do you say, sir? No,\nindeed; the exclamation appears quite theatrical and affected. Happy,\non the contrary, for what am I in want of? The world calls me\nbeautiful. It is something to be well received. I like a favorable\nreception; it expands the countenance, and those around me do not then\nappear so ugly. I possess a share of wit, and a certain relative\nsensibility, which enables me to draw from life in general, for the\nsupport of mine, all I meet with that is good, like the monkey who\ncracks the nut to get at its contents. I am rich, for you have one of\nthe first fortunes in France. I am your only daughter, and you are not\nso exacting as the fathers of the Porte Saint-Martin and Ga t , who\ndisinherit their daughters for not giving them grandchildren. Besides,\nthe provident law has deprived you of the power to disinherit me, at\nleast entirely, as it has also of the power to compel me to marry\nMonsieur This or Monsieur That. And so being, beautiful, witty,\nsomewhat talented, as the comic operas say, and rich and that is\nhappiness, sir why do you call me unhappy? \n\nDanglars, seeing his daughter smiling, and proud even to insolence,\ncould not entirely repress his brutal feelings, but they betrayed\nthemselves only by an exclamation. Under the fixed and inquiring gaze\nlevelled at him from under those beautiful black eyebrows, he prudently\nturned away, and calmed himself immediately, daunted by the power of a\nresolute mind.\n\n Truly, my daughter,  replied he with a smile,  you are all you boast\nof being, excepting one thing; I will not too hastily tell you which,\nbut would rather leave you to guess it. \n\nEug nie looked at Danglars, much surprised that one flower of her crown\nof pride, with which she had so superbly decked herself, should be\ndisputed.\n\n My daughter,  continued the banker,  you have perfectly explained to\nme the sentiments which influence a girl like you, who is determined\nshe will not marry; now it remains for me to tell you the motives of a\nfather like me, who has decided that his daughter shall marry. \n\nEug nie bowed, not as a submissive daughter, but as an adversary\nprepared for a discussion.\n\n My daughter,  continued Danglars,  when a father asks his daughter to\nchoose a husband, he has always some reason for wishing her to marry.\nSome are affected with the mania of which you spoke just now, that of\nliving again in their grandchildren. This is not my weakness, I tell\nyou at once; family joys have no charm for me. I may acknowledge this\nto a daughter whom I know to be philosophical enough to understand my\nindifference, and not to impute it to me as a crime. \n\n This is not to the purpose,  said Eug nie;  let us speak candidly,\nsir; I admire candor. \n\n Oh,  said Danglars,  I can, when circumstances render it desirable,\nadopt your system, although it may not be my general practice. I will\ntherefore proceed. I have proposed to you to marry, not for your sake,\nfor indeed I did not think of you in the least at the moment (you\nadmire candor, and will now be satisfied, I hope); but because it\nsuited me to marry you as soon as possible, on account of certain\ncommercial speculations I am desirous of entering into.  Eug nie became\nuneasy.\n\n40302m\n\n\n\n It is just as I tell you, I assure you, and you must not be angry with\nme, for you have sought this disclosure. I do not willingly enter into\narithmetical explanations with an artist like you, who fears to enter\nmy study lest she should imbibe disagreeable or anti-poetic impressions\nand sensations. But in that same banker s study, where you very\nwillingly presented yourself yesterday to ask for the thousand francs I\ngive you monthly for pocket-money, you must know, my dear young lady,\nthat many things may be learned, useful even to a girl who will not\nmarry. There one may learn, for instance, what, out of regard to your\nnervous susceptibility, I will inform you of in the drawing-room,\nnamely, that the credit of a banker is his physical and moral life;\nthat credit sustains him as breath animates the body; and M. de Monte\nCristo once gave me a lecture on that subject, which I have never\nforgotten. There we may learn that as credit sinks, the body becomes a\ncorpse, and this is what must happen very soon to the banker who is\nproud to own so good a logician as you for his daughter. \n\nBut Eug nie, instead of stooping, drew herself up under the blow.\n Ruined?  said she.\n\n Exactly, my daughter; that is precisely what I mean,  said Danglars,\nalmost digging his nails into his breast, while he preserved on his\nharsh features the smile of the heartless though clever man;\n ruined yes, that is it. \n\n Ah!  said Eug nie.\n\n Yes, ruined! Now it is revealed, this secret so full of horror, as the\ntragic poet says. Now, my daughter, learn from my lips how you may\nalleviate this misfortune, so far as it will affect you. \n\n Oh,  cried Eug nie,  you are a bad physiognomist, if you imagine I\ndeplore on my own account the catastrophe of which you warn me. I\nruined? and what will that signify to me? Have I not my talent left?\nCan I not, like Pasta, Malibran, Grisi, acquire for myself what you\nwould never have given me, whatever might have been your fortune, a\nhundred or a hundred and fifty thousand livres per annum, for which I\nshall be indebted to no one but myself; and which, instead of being\ngiven as you gave me those poor twelve thousand francs, with sour looks\nand reproaches for my prodigality, will be accompanied with\nacclamations, with bravos, and with flowers? And if I do not possess\nthat talent, which your smiles prove to me you doubt, should I not\nstill have that ardent love of independence, which will be a substitute\nfor wealth, and which in my mind supersedes even the instinct of\nself-preservation? No, I grieve not on my own account, I shall always\nfind a resource; my books, my pencils, my piano, all the things which\ncost but little, and which I shall be able to procure, will remain my\nown.\n\n Do you think that I sorrow for Madame Danglars? Undeceive yourself\nagain; either I am greatly mistaken, or she has provided against the\ncatastrophe which threatens you, and, which will pass over without\naffecting her. She has taken care for herself, at least I hope so, for\nher attention has not been diverted from her projects by watching over\nme. She has fostered my independence by professedly indulging my love\nfor liberty. Oh, no, sir; from my childhood I have seen too much, and\nunderstood too much, of what has passed around me, for misfortune to\nhave an undue power over me. From my earliest recollections, I have\nbeen beloved by no one so much the worse; that has naturally led me to\nlove no one so much the better now you have my profession of faith. \n\n Then,  said Danglars, pale with anger, which was not at all due to\noffended paternal love, then, mademoiselle, you persist in your\ndetermination to accelerate my ruin? \n\n Your ruin? I accelerate your ruin? What do you mean? I do not\nunderstand you. \n\n So much the better, I have a ray of hope left; listen. \n\n I am all attention,  said Eug nie, looking so earnestly at her father\nthat it was an effort for the latter to endure her unrelenting gaze.\n\n M. Cavalcanti,  continued Danglars,  is about to marry you, and will\nplace in my hands his fortune, amounting to three million livres. \n\n That is admirable!  said Eug nie with sovereign contempt, smoothing\nher gloves out one upon the other.\n\n You think I shall deprive you of those three millions,  said Danglars;\n but do not fear it. They are destined to produce at least ten. I and a\nbrother banker have obtained a grant of a railway, the only industrial\nenterprise which in these days promises to make good the fabulous\nprospects that Law once held out to the eternally deluded Parisians, in\nthe fantastic Mississippi scheme. As I look at it, a millionth part of\na railway is worth fully as much as an acre of waste land on the banks\nof the Ohio. We make in our case a deposit, on a mortgage, which is an\nadvance, as you see, since we gain at least ten, fifteen, twenty, or a\nhundred livres  worth of iron in exchange for our money. Well, within a\nweek I am to deposit four millions for my share; the four millions, I\npromise you, will produce ten or twelve. \n\n But during my visit to you the day before yesterday, sir, which you\nappear to recollect so well,  replied Eug nie,  I saw you arranging a\ndeposit is not that the term? of five millions and a half; you even\npointed it out to me in two drafts on the treasury, and you were\nastonished that so valuable a paper did not dazzle my eyes like\nlightning. \n\n Yes, but those five millions and a half are not mine, and are only a\nproof of the great confidence placed in me; my title of popular banker\nhas gained me the confidence of charitable institutions, and the five\nmillions and a half belong to them; at any other time I should not have\nhesitated to make use of them, but the great losses I have recently\nsustained are well known, and, as I told you, my credit is rather\nshaken. That deposit may be at any moment withdrawn, and if I had\nemployed it for another purpose, I should bring on me a disgraceful\nbankruptcy. I do not despise bankruptcies, believe me, but they must be\nthose which enrich, not those which ruin. Now, if you marry M.\nCavalcanti, and I get the three millions, or even if it is thought I am\ngoing to get them, my credit will be restored, and my fortune, which\nfor the last month or two has been swallowed up in gulfs which have\nbeen opened in my path by an inconceivable fatality, will revive. Do\nyou understand me? \n\n Perfectly; you pledge me for three millions, do you not? \n\n The greater the amount, the more flattering it is to you; it gives you\nan idea of your value. \n\n Thank you. One word more, sir; do you promise me to make what use you\ncan of the report of the fortune M. Cavalcanti will bring without\ntouching the money? This is no act of selfishness, but of delicacy. I\nam willing to help rebuild your fortune, but I will not be an\naccomplice in the ruin of others. \n\n But since I tell you,  cried Danglars,  that with these three\nmillion \n\n Do you expect to recover your position, sir, without touching those\nthree million? \n\n I hope so, if the marriage should take place and confirm my credit. \n\n Shall you be able to pay M. Cavalcanti the five hundred thousand\nfrancs you promise for my dowry? \n\n He shall receive them on returning from the mayor s20. \n\n Very well! \n\n What next? what more do you want? \n\n I wish to know if, in demanding my signature, you leave me entirely\nfree in my person? \n\n Absolutely. \n\n Then, as I said before, sir, very well; I am ready to marry M.\nCavalcanti. \n\n But what are you up to? \n\n Ah, that is my affair. What advantage should I have over you, if\nknowing your secret I were to tell you mine? \n\nDanglars bit his lips.  Then,  said he,  you are ready to pay the\nofficial visits, which are absolutely indispensable? \n\n Yes,  replied Eug nie.\n\n And to sign the contract in three days? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then, in my turn, I also say, very well! \n\nDanglars pressed his daughter s hand in his. But, extraordinary to\nrelate, the father did not say,  Thank you, my child,  nor did the\ndaughter smile at her father.\n\n Is the conference ended?  asked Eug nie, rising.\n\nDanglars motioned that he had nothing more to say. Five minutes\nafterwards the piano resounded to the touch of Mademoiselle d Armilly s\nfingers, and Mademoiselle Danglars was singing Brabantio s malediction\non Desdemona. At the end of the piece  tienne entered, and announced to\nEug nie that the horses were to the carriage, and that the baroness was\nwaiting for her to pay her visits. We have seen them at Villefort s;\nthey proceeded then on their course.\n\n40306m\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME FIVE\n\n50009m\n\n\n\n50011m\n\n\n\n50019m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 96. The Contract\n\nThree days after the scene we have just described, namely towards five\no clock in the afternoon of the day fixed for the signature of the\ncontract between Mademoiselle Eug nie Danglars and Andrea Cavalcanti,\nwhom the banker persisted in calling prince, a fresh breeze was\nstirring the leaves in the little garden in front of the Count of Monte\nCristo s house, and the count was preparing to go out. While his horses\nwere impatiently pawing the ground, held in by the coachman, who had\nbeen seated a quarter of an hour on his box, the elegant phaeton with\nwhich we are familiar rapidly turned the angle of the entrance-gate,\nand cast out on the doorsteps M. Andrea Cavalcanti, as decked up and\ngay as if he were going to marry a princess.\n\nHe inquired after the count with his usual familiarity, and ascending\nlightly to the first story met him at the top of the stairs.\n\nThe count stopped on seeing the young man. As for Andrea, he was\nlaunched, and when he was once launched nothing stopped him.\n\n Ah, good morning, my dear count,  said he.\n\n Ah, M. Andrea,  said the latter, with his half-jesting tone;  how do\nyou do? \n\n Charmingly, as you see. I am come to talk to you about a thousand\nthings; but, first tell me, were you going out or just returned? \n\n I was going out, sir. \n\n Then, in order not to hinder you, I will get up with you if you please\nin your carriage, and Tom shall follow with my phaeton in tow. \n\n No,  said the count, with an imperceptible smile of contempt, for he\nhad no wish to be seen in the young man s society, no; I prefer\nlistening to you here, my dear M. Andrea; we can chat better in-doors,\nand there is no coachman to overhear our conversation. \n\nThe count returned to a small drawing-room on the first floor, sat\ndown, and crossing his legs motioned to the young man to take a seat\nalso. Andrea assumed his gayest manner.\n\n You know, my dear count,  said he,  the ceremony is to take place this\nevening. At nine o clock the contract is to be signed at my\nfather-in-law s. \n\n Ah, indeed?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n What; is it news to you? Has not M. Danglars informed you of the\nceremony? \n\n Oh, yes,  said the count;  I received a letter from him yesterday, but\nI do not think the hour was mentioned. \n\n Possibly my father-in-law trusted to its general notoriety. \n\n Well,  said Monte Cristo,  you are fortunate, M. Cavalcanti; it is a\nmost suitable alliance you are contracting, and Mademoiselle Danglars\nis a handsome girl. \n\n Yes, indeed she is,  replied Cavalcanti, in a very modest tone.\n\n Above all, she is very rich, at least, I believe so,  said Monte\nCristo.\n\n Very rich, do you think?  replied the young man.\n\n Doubtless; it is said M. Danglars conceals at least half of his\nfortune. \n\n And he acknowledges fifteen or twenty millions,  said Andrea with a\nlook sparkling with joy.\n\n Without reckoning,  added Monte Cristo,  that he is on the eve of\nentering into a sort of speculation already in vogue in the United\nStates and in England, but quite novel in France. \n\n Yes, yes, I know what you mean, the railway, of which he has obtained\nthe grant, is it not? \n\n Precisely; it is generally believed he will gain ten millions by that\naffair. \n\n Ten millions! Do you think so? It is magnificent!  said Cavalcanti,\nwho was quite confounded at the metallic sound of these golden words.\n\n Without reckoning,  replied Monte Cristo,  that all his fortune will\ncome to you, and justly too, since Mademoiselle Danglars is an only\ndaughter. Besides, your own fortune, as your father assured me, is\nalmost equal to that of your betrothed. But enough of money matters. Do\nyou know, M. Andrea, I think you have managed this affair rather\nskilfully? \n\n Not badly, by any means,  said the young man;  I was born for a\ndiplomatist. \n\n Well, you must become a diplomatist; diplomacy, you know, is something\nthat is not to be acquired; it is instinctive. Have you lost your\nheart? \n\n Indeed, I fear it,  replied Andrea, in the tone in which he had heard\nDorante or Val re reply to Alceste21 at the Th tre Fran ais.\n\n Is your love returned? \n\n I suppose so,  said Andrea with a triumphant smile,  since I am\naccepted. But I must not forget one grand point. \n\n Which? \n\n That I have been singularly assisted. \n\n Nonsense. \n\n I have, indeed. \n\n By circumstances? \n\n No; by you. \n\n By me? Not at all, prince,  said Monte Cristo laying a marked stress\non the title,  what have I done for you? Are not your name, your social\nposition, and your merit sufficient? \n\n No,  said Andrea, no; it is useless for you to say so, count. I\nmaintain that the position of a man like you has done more than my\nname, my social position, and my merit. \n\n You are completely mistaken, sir,  said Monte Cristo coldly, who felt\nthe perfidious man uvre of the young man, and understood the bearing of\nhis words;  you only acquired my protection after the influence and\nfortune of your father had been ascertained; for, after all, who\nprocured for me, who had never seen either you or your illustrious\nfather, the pleasure of your acquaintance? two of my good friends, Lord\nWilmore and the Abb  Busoni. What encouraged me not to become your\nsurety, but to patronize you? your father s name, so well known in\nItaly and so highly honored. Personally, I do not know you. \n\nThis calm tone and perfect ease made Andrea feel that he was, for the\nmoment, restrained by a more muscular hand than his own, and that the\nrestraint could not be easily broken through.\n\n Oh, then my father has really a very large fortune, count? \n\n It appears so, sir,  replied Monte Cristo.\n\n Do you know if the marriage settlement he promised me has come? \n\n I have been advised of it. \n\n But the three millions? \n\n The three millions are probably on the road. \n\n Then I shall really have them? \n\n Oh, well,  said the count,  I do not think you have yet known the want\nof money. \n\nAndrea was so surprised that he pondered the matter for a moment. Then,\narousing from his reverie:\n\n Now, sir, I have one request to make to you, which you will\nunderstand, even if it should be disagreeable to you. \n\n Proceed,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n I have formed an acquaintance, thanks to my good fortune, with many\nnoted persons, and have, at least for the moment, a crowd of friends.\nBut marrying, as I am about to do, before all Paris, I ought to be\nsupported by an illustrious name, and in the absence of the paternal\nhand some powerful one ought to lead me to the altar; now, my father is\nnot coming to Paris, is he? \n\n He is old, covered with wounds, and suffers dreadfully, he says, in\ntravelling. \n\n I understand; well, I am come to ask a favor of you. \n\n Of me? \n\n Yes, of you. \n\n And pray what may it be? \n\n Well, to take his part. \n\n Ah, my dear sir! What? after the varied relations I have had the\nhappiness to sustain towards you, can it be that you know me so little\nas to ask such a thing? Ask me to lend you half a million and, although\nsuch a loan is somewhat rare, on my honor, you would annoy me less!\nKnow, then, what I thought I had already told you, that in\nparticipation in this world s affairs, more especially in their moral\naspects, the Count of Monte Cristo has never ceased to entertain the\nscruples and even the superstitions of the East. I, who have a seraglio\nat Cairo, one at Smyrna, and one at Constantinople, preside at a\nwedding? never! \n\n Then you refuse me? \n\n Decidedly; and were you my son or my brother I would refuse you in the\nsame way. \n\n But what must be done?  said Andrea, disappointed.\n\n You said just now that you had a hundred friends. \n\n Very true, but you introduced me at M. Danglars . \n\n Not at all! Let us recall the exact facts. You met him at a dinner\nparty at my house, and you introduced yourself at his house; that is a\ntotally different affair. \n\n Yes, but, by my marriage, you have forwarded that. \n\n I? not in the least, I beg you to believe. Recollect what I told you\nwhen you asked me to propose you.  Oh, I never make matches, my dear\nprince, it is my settled principle.  Andrea bit his lips.\n\n50025m\n\n\n\n But, at least, you will be there? \n\n Will all Paris be there? \n\n Oh, certainly. \n\n Well, like all Paris, I shall be there too,  said the count.\n\n And will you sign the contract? \n\n I see no objection to that; my scruples do not go thus far. \n\n Well, since you will grant me no more, I must be content with what you\ngive me. But one word more, count. \n\n What is it? \n\n Advice. \n\n Be careful; advice is worse than a service. \n\n Oh, you can give me this without compromising yourself. \n\n Tell me what it is. \n\n Is my wife s fortune five hundred thousand livres? \n\n That is the sum M. Danglars himself announced. \n\n Must I receive it, or leave it in the hands of the notary? \n\n This is the way such affairs are generally arranged when it is wished\nto do them stylishly: Your two solicitors appoint a meeting, when the\ncontract is signed, for the next or the following day; then they\nexchange the two portions, for which they each give a receipt; then,\nwhen the marriage is celebrated, they place the amount at your disposal\nas the chief member of the alliance. \n\n Because,  said Andrea, with a certain ill-concealed uneasiness,  I\nthought I heard my father-in-law say that he intended embarking our\nproperty in that famous railway affair of which you spoke just now. \n\n Well,  replied Monte Cristo,  it will be the way, everybody says, of\ntrebling your fortune in twelve months. Baron Danglars is a good\nfather, and knows how to calculate. \n\n In that case,  said Andrea,  everything is all right, excepting your\nrefusal, which quite grieves me. \n\n You must attribute it only to natural scruples under similar\ncircumstances. \n\n Well,  said Andrea,  let it be as you wish. This evening, then, at\nnine o clock. \n\n Adieu till then. \n\nNotwithstanding a slight resistance on the part of Monte Cristo, whose\nlips turned pale, but who preserved his ceremonious smile, Andrea\nseized the count s hand, pressed it, jumped into his phaeton, and\ndisappeared.\n\nThe four or five remaining hours before nine o clock arrived, Andrea\nemployed in riding, paying visits, designed to induce those of whom he\nhad spoken to appear at the banker s in their gayest\nequipages, dazzling them by promises of shares in schemes which have\nsince turned every brain, and in which Danglars was just taking the\ninitiative.\n\nIn fact, at half-past eight in the evening the grand salon, the gallery\nadjoining, and the three other drawing-rooms on the same floor, were\nfilled with a perfumed crowd, who sympathized but little in the event,\nbut who all participated in that love of being present wherever there\nis anything fresh to be seen. An Academician would say that the\nentertainments of the fashionable world are collections of flowers\nwhich attract inconstant butterflies, famished bees, and buzzing\ndrones.\n\n50025m\n\n\n\nNo one could deny that the rooms were splendidly illuminated; the light\nstreamed forth on the gilt mouldings and the silk hangings; and all the\nbad taste of decorations, which had only their richness to boast of,\nshone in its splendor. Mademoiselle Eug nie was dressed with elegant\nsimplicity in a figured white silk dress, and a white rose half\nconcealed in her jet black hair was her only ornament, unaccompanied by\na single jewel. Her eyes, however, betrayed that perfect confidence\nwhich contradicted the girlish simplicity of this modest attire.\n\nMadame Danglars was chatting at a short distance with Debray,\nBeauchamp, and Ch teau-Renaud. Debray was admitted to the house for\nthis grand ceremony, but on the same plane with everyone else, and\nwithout any particular privilege. M. Danglars, surrounded by deputies\nand men connected with the revenue, was explaining a new theory of\ntaxation which he intended to adopt when the course of events had\ncompelled the government to call him into the ministry. Andrea, on\nwhose arm hung one of the most consummate dandies of the Opera, was\nexplaining to him rather cleverly, since he was obliged to be bold to\nappear at ease, his future projects, and the new luxuries he meant to\nintroduce to Parisian fashions with his hundred and seventy-five\nthousand livres per annum.\n\nThe crowd moved to and fro in the rooms like an ebb and flow of\nturquoises, rubies, emeralds, opals, and diamonds. As usual, the oldest\nwomen were the most decorated, and the ugliest the most conspicuous. If\nthere was a beautiful lily, or a sweet rose, you had to search for it,\nconcealed in some corner behind a mother with a turban, or an aunt with\na bird-of-paradise.\n\nAt each moment, in the midst of the crowd, the buzzing, and the\nlaughter, the door-keeper s voice was heard announcing some name well\nknown in the financial department, respected in the army, or\nillustrious in the literary world, and which was acknowledged by a\nslight movement in the different groups. But for one whose privilege it\nwas to agitate that ocean of human waves, how many were received with a\nlook of indifference or a sneer of disdain!\n\nAt the moment when the hand of the massive time-piece, representing\nEndymion asleep, pointed to nine on its golden face, and the hammer,\nthe faithful type of mechanical thought, struck nine times, the name of\nthe Count of Monte Cristo resounded in its turn, and as if by an\nelectric shock all the assembly turned towards the door. The count was\ndressed in black and with his habitual simplicity; his white waistcoat\ndisplayed his expansive noble chest and his black stock was singularly\nnoticeable because of its contrast with the deadly paleness of his\nface. His only jewellery was a chain, so fine that the slender gold\nthread was scarcely perceptible on his white waistcoat.\n\nA circle was immediately formed around the door. The count perceived at\none glance Madame Danglars at one end of the drawing-room, M. Danglars\nat the other, and Eug nie in front of him. He first advanced towards\nthe baroness, who was chatting with Madame de Villefort, who had come\nalone, Valentine being still an invalid; and without turning aside, so\nclear was the road left for him, he passed from the baroness to\nEug nie, whom he complimented in such rapid and measured terms, that\nthe proud artist was quite struck. Near her was Mademoiselle Louise\nd Armilly, who thanked the count for the letters of introduction he had\nso kindly given her for Italy, which she intended immediately to make\nuse of. On leaving these ladies he found himself with Danglars, who had\nadvanced to meet him.\n\nHaving accomplished these three social duties, Monte Cristo stopped,\nlooking around him with that expression peculiar to a certain class,\nwhich seems to say,  I have done my duty, now let others do theirs. \n\nAndrea, who was in an adjoining room, had shared in the sensation\ncaused by the arrival of Monte Cristo, and now came forward to pay his\nrespects to the count. He found him completely surrounded; all were\neager to speak to him, as is always the case with those whose words are\nfew and weighty. The solicitors arrived at this moment and arranged\ntheir scrawled papers on the velvet cloth embroidered with gold which\ncovered the table prepared for the signature; it was a gilt table\nsupported on lions  claws. One of the notaries sat down, the other\nremained standing. They were about to proceed to the reading of the\ncontract, which half Paris assembled was to sign. All took their\nplaces, or rather the ladies formed a circle, while the gentlemen (more\nindifferent to the restraints of what Boileau calls the _style\n nergique_) commented on the feverish agitation of Andrea, on M.\nDanglars  riveted attention, Eug nie s composure, and the light and\nsprightly manner in which the baroness treated this important affair.\n\nThe contract was read during a profound silence. But as soon as it was\nfinished, the buzz was redoubled through all the drawing-rooms; the\nbrilliant sums, the rolling millions which were to be at the command of\nthe two young people, and which crowned the display of the wedding\npresents and the young lady s diamonds, which had been made in a room\nentirely appropriated for that purpose, had exercised to the full their\ndelusions over the envious assembly.\n\nMademoiselle Danglars  charms were heightened in the opinion of the\nyoung men, and for the moment seemed to outvie the sun in splendor. As\nfor the ladies, it is needless to say that while they coveted the\nmillions, they thought they did not need them for themselves, as they\nwere beautiful enough without them. Andrea, surrounded by his friends,\ncomplimented, flattered, beginning to believe in the reality of his\ndream, was almost bewildered. The notary solemnly took the pen,\nflourished it above his head, and said:\n\n Gentlemen, we are about to sign the contract. \n\nThe baron was to sign first, then the representative of M. Cavalcanti,\nsenior, then the baroness, afterwards the  future couple,  as they are\nstyled in the abominable phraseology of legal documents.\n\nThe baron took the pen and signed, then the representative. The\nbaroness approached, leaning on Madame de Villefort s arm.\n\n My dear,  said she, as she took the pen,  is it not vexatious? An\nunexpected incident, in the affair of murder and theft at the Count of\nMonte Cristo s, in which he nearly fell a victim, deprives us of the\npleasure of seeing M. de Villefort. \n\n Indeed?  said M. Danglars, in the same tone in which he would have\nsaid,  Oh, well, what do I care? \n\n As a matter of fact,  said Monte Cristo, approaching,  I am much\nafraid that I am the involuntary cause of his absence. \n\n What, you, count?  said Madame Danglars, signing;  if you are, take\ncare, for I shall never forgive you. \n\nAndrea pricked up his ears.\n\n But it is not my fault, as I shall endeavor to prove. \n\nEveryone listened eagerly; Monte Cristo who so rarely opened his lips,\nwas about to speak.\n\n You remember,  said the count, during the most profound silence,  that\nthe unhappy wretch who came to rob me died at my house; the supposition\nis that he was stabbed by his accomplice, on attempting to leave it. \n\n Yes,  said Danglars.\n\n In order that his wounds might be examined he was undressed, and his\nclothes were thrown into a corner, where the police picked them up,\nwith the exception of the waistcoat, which they overlooked. \n\nAndrea turned pale, and drew towards the door; he saw a cloud rising in\nthe horizon, which appeared to forebode a coming storm.\n\n Well, this waistcoat was discovered today, covered with blood, and\nwith a hole over the heart.  The ladies screamed, and two or three\nprepared to faint.  It was brought to me. No one could guess what the\ndirty rag could be; I alone suspected that it was the waistcoat of the\nmurdered man. My valet, in examining this mournful relic, felt a paper\nin the pocket and drew it out; it was a letter addressed to you,\nbaron. \n\n To me?  cried Danglars.\n\n Yes, indeed, to you; I succeeded in deciphering your name under the\nblood with which the letter was stained,  replied Monte Cristo, amid\nthe general outburst of amazement.\n\n But,  asked Madame Danglars, looking at her husband with uneasiness,\n how could that prevent M. de Villefort \n\n In this simple way, madame,  replied Monte Cristo;  the waistcoat and\nthe letter were both what is termed circumstantial evidence; I\ntherefore sent them to the king s attorney. You understand, my dear\nbaron, that legal methods are the safest in criminal cases; it was,\nperhaps, some plot against you.  Andrea looked steadily at Monte Cristo\nand disappeared in the second drawing-room.\n\n Possibly,  said Danglars;  was not this murdered man an old\ngalley-slave? \n\n50025m\n\n\n\n Yes,  replied the count;  a felon named Caderousse.  Danglars turned\nslightly pale; Andrea reached the anteroom beyond the little\ndrawing-room.\n\n But go on signing,  said Monte Cristo;  I perceive that my story has\ncaused a general emotion, and I beg to apologize to you, baroness, and\nto Mademoiselle Danglars. \n\nThe baroness, who had signed, returned the pen to the notary.\n\n Prince Cavalcanti,  said the latter;  Prince Cavalcanti, where are\nyou? \n\n Andrea, Andrea,  repeated several young people, who were already on\nsufficiently intimate terms with him to call him by his Christian name.\n\n Call the prince; inform him that it is his turn to sign,  cried\nDanglars to one of the floorkeepers.\n\nBut at the same instant the crowd of guests rushed in alarm into the\nprincipal salon as if some frightful monster had entered the\napartments, _qu rens quem devoret_. There was, indeed, reason to\nretreat, to be alarmed, and to scream. An officer was placing two\nsoldiers at the door of each drawing-room, and was advancing towards\nDanglars, preceded by a commissary of police, girded with his scarf.\nMadame Danglars uttered a scream and fainted. Danglars, who thought\nhimself threatened (certain consciences are never calm), Danglars even\nbefore his guests showed a countenance of abject terror.\n\n What is the matter, sir?  asked Monte Cristo, advancing to meet the\ncommissioner.\n\n Which of you gentlemen,  asked the magistrate, without replying to the\ncount,  answers to the name of Andrea Cavalcanti? \n\nA cry of astonishment was heard from all parts of the room. They\nsearched; they questioned.\n\n But who then is Andrea Cavalcanti?  asked Danglars in amazement.\n\n A galley-slave, escaped from confinement at Toulon. \n\n And what crime has he committed? \n\n He is accused,  said the commissary with his inflexible voice,  of\nhaving assassinated the man named Caderousse, his former companion in\nprison, at the moment he was making his escape from the house of the\nCount of Monte Cristo. \n\nMonte Cristo cast a rapid glance around him. Andrea was gone.\n\n\n\n Chapter 97. The Departure for Belgium\n\nA few minutes after the scene of confusion produced in the salons of M.\nDanglars by the unexpected appearance of the brigade of soldiers, and\nby the disclosure which had followed, the mansion was deserted with as\nmuch rapidity as if a case of plague or of cholera morbus had broken\nout among the guests.\n\nIn a few minutes, through all the doors, down all the staircases, by\nevery exit, everyone hastened to retire, or rather to fly; for it was a\nsituation where the ordinary condolences, which even the best friends\nare so eager to offer in great catastrophes, were seen to be utterly\nfutile. There remained in the banker s house only Danglars, closeted in\nhis study, and making his statement to the officer of gendarmes; Madame\nDanglars, terrified, in the boudoir with which we are acquainted; and\nEug nie, who with haughty air and disdainful lip had retired to her\nroom with her inseparable companion, Mademoiselle Louise d Armilly.\n\nAs for the numerous servants (more numerous that evening than usual,\nfor their number was augmented by cooks and butlers from the Caf  de\nParis), venting on their employers their anger at what they termed the\ninsult to which they had been subjected, they collected in groups in\nthe hall, in the kitchens, or in their rooms, thinking very little of\ntheir duty, which was thus naturally interrupted. Of all this\nhousehold, only two persons deserve our notice; these are Mademoiselle\nEug nie Danglars and Mademoiselle Louise d Armilly.\n\nThe betrothed had retired, as we said, with haughty air, disdainful\nlip, and the demeanor of an outraged queen, followed by her companion,\nwho was paler and more disturbed than herself. On reaching her room\nEug nie locked her door, while Louise fell on a chair.\n\n Ah, what a dreadful thing,  said the young musician;  who would have\nsuspected it? M. Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer a galley-slave escaped a\nconvict! \n\nAn ironical smile curled the lip of Eug nie.  In truth, I was fated, \nsaid she.  I escaped the Morcerf only to fall into the Cavalcanti. \n\n Oh, do not confound the two, Eug nie. \n\n Hold your tongue! The men are all infamous, and I am happy to be able\nnow to do more than detest them I despise them. \n\n What shall we do?  asked Louise.\n\n What shall we do? \n\n Yes. \n\n Why, the same we had intended doing three days since set off. \n\n What? although you are not now going to be married, you intend\nstill \n\n Listen, Louise. I hate this life of the fashionable world, always\nordered, measured, ruled, like our music-paper. What I have always\nwished for, desired, and coveted, is the life of an artist, free and\nindependent, relying only on my own resources, and accountable only to\nmyself. Remain here? What for? that they may try, a month hence, to\nmarry me again; and to whom? M. Debray, perhaps, as it was once\nproposed. No, Louise, no! This evening s adventure will serve for my\nexcuse. I did not seek one, I did not ask for one. God sends me this,\nand I hail it joyfully! \n\n How strong and courageous you are!  said the fair, frail girl to her\nbrunette companion.\n\n Did you not yet know me? Come, Louise, let us talk of our affairs. The\npost-chaise \n\n Was happily bought three days since. \n\n Have you had it sent where we are to go for it? \n\n Yes. \n\n Our passport? \n\n Here it is. \n\nAnd Eug nie, with her usual precision, opened a printed paper, and\nread:\n\n M. L on d Armilly, twenty years of age; profession, artist; hair\nblack, eyes black; travelling with his sister. \n\n Capital! How did you get this passport? \n\n When I went to ask M. de Monte Cristo for letters to the directors of\nthe theatres at Rome and Naples, I expressed my fears of travelling as\na woman; he perfectly understood them, and undertook to procure for me\na man s passport, and two days after I received this, to which I have\nadded with my own hand,  travelling with his sister. \n\n50035m\n\n\n\n Well,  said Eug nie cheerfully,  we have then only to pack up our\ntrunks; we shall start the evening of the signing of the contract,\ninstead of the evening of the wedding that is all. \n\n But consider the matter seriously, Eug nie! \n\n Oh, I am done with considering! I am tired of hearing only of market\nreports, of the end of the month, of the rise and fall of Spanish\nfunds, of Haitian bonds. Instead of that, Louise do you\nunderstand? air, liberty, melody of birds, plains of Lombardy, Venetian\ncanals, Roman palaces, the Bay of Naples. How much have we, Louise? \n\nThe young girl to whom this question was addressed drew from an inlaid\nsecretaire a small portfolio with a lock, in which she counted\ntwenty-three bank-notes.\n\n Twenty-three thousand francs,  said she.\n\n And as much, at least, in pearls, diamonds, and jewels,  said Eug nie.\n We are rich. With forty-five thousand francs we can live like\nprincesses for two years, and comfortably for four; but before six\nmonths you with your music, and I with my voice we shall double our\ncapital. Come, you shall take charge of the money, I of the jewel-box;\nso that if one of us had the misfortune to lose her treasure, the other\nwould still have hers left. Now, the portmanteau let us make haste the\nportmanteau! \n\n Stop!  said Louise, going to listen at Madame Danglars  door.\n\n What do you fear? \n\n That we may be discovered. \n\n The door is locked. \n\n They may tell us to open it. \n\n They may if they like, but we will not. \n\n You are a perfect Amazon, Eug nie!  And the two young girls began to\nheap into a trunk all the things they thought they should require.\n\n There now,  said Eug nie,  while I change my costume do you lock the\nportmanteau.  Louise pressed with all the strength of her little hands\non the top of the portmanteau.\n\n But I cannot,  said she;  I am not strong enough; do you shut it. \n\n Ah, you do well to ask,  said Eug nie, laughing;  I forgot that I was\nHercules, and you only the pale Omphale! \n\nAnd the young girl, kneeling on the top, pressed the two parts of the\nportmanteau together, and Mademoiselle d Armilly passed the bolt of the\npadlock through. When this was done, Eug nie opened a drawer, of which\nshe kept the key, and took from it a wadded violet silk travelling\ncloak.\n\n Here,  said she,  you see I have thought of everything; with this\ncloak you will not be cold. \n\n But you? \n\n Oh, I am never cold, you know! Besides, with these men s clothes \n\n Will you dress here? \n\n Certainly. \n\n Shall you have time? \n\n Do not be uneasy, you little coward! All our servants are busy,\ndiscussing the grand affair. Besides, what is there astonishing, when\nyou think of the grief I ought to be in, that I shut myself up? tell\nme! \n\n No, truly you comfort me. \n\n Come and help me. \n\nFrom the same drawer she took a man s complete costume, from the boots\nto the coat, and a provision of linen, where there was nothing\nsuperfluous, but every requisite. Then, with a promptitude which\nindicated that this was not the first time she had amused herself by\nadopting the garb of the opposite sex, Eug nie drew on the boots and\npantaloons, tied her cravat, buttoned her waistcoat up to the throat,\nand put on a coat which admirably fitted her beautiful figure.\n\n Oh, that is very good indeed, it is very good!  said Louise, looking\nat her with admiration;  but that beautiful black hair, those\nmagnificent braids, which made all the ladies sigh with envy, will they\ngo under a man s hat like the one I see down there? \n\n You shall see,  said Eug nie. And with her left hand seizing the thick\nmass, which her long fingers could scarcely grasp, she took in her\nright hand a pair of long scissors, and soon the steel met through the\nrich and splendid hair, which fell in a cluster at her feet as she\nleaned back to keep it from her coat. Then she grasped the front hair,\nwhich she also cut off, without expressing the least regret; on the\ncontrary, her eyes sparkled with greater pleasure than usual under her\nebony eyebrows.\n\n50039m\n\n\n\n Oh, the magnificent hair!  said Louise, with regret.\n\n And am I not a hundred times better thus?  cried Eug nie, smoothing\nthe scattered curls of her hair, which had now quite a masculine\nappearance;  and do you not think me handsomer so? \n\n Oh, you are beautiful always beautiful!  cried Louise.  Now, where are\nyou going? \n\n To Brussels, if you like; it is the nearest frontier. We can go to\nBrussels, Li ge, Aix-la-Chapelle; then up the Rhine to Strasbourg. We\nwill cross Switzerland, and go down into Italy by the Saint-Gothard.\nWill that do? \n\n Yes. \n\n What are you looking at? \n\n I am looking at you; indeed you are adorable like that! One would say\nyou were carrying me off. \n\n And they would be right, _pardieu!_ \n\n Oh, I think you swore, Eug nie. \n\nAnd the two young girls, whom everyone might have thought plunged in\ngrief, the one on her own account, the other from interest in her\nfriend, burst out laughing, as they cleared away every visible trace of\nthe disorder which had naturally accompanied the preparations for their\nescape. Then, having blown out the lights, the two fugitives, looking\nand listening eagerly, with outstretched necks, opened the door of a\ndressing-room which led by a side staircase down to the yard, Eug nie\ngoing first, and holding with one arm the portmanteau, which by the\nopposite handle Mademoiselle d Armilly scarcely raised with both hands.\nThe yard was empty; the clock was striking twelve. The porter was not\nyet gone to bed. Eug nie approached softly, and saw the old man\nsleeping soundly in an armchair in his lodge. She returned to Louise,\ntook up the portmanteau, which she had placed for a moment on the\nground, and they reached the archway under the shadow of the wall.\n\nEug nie concealed Louise in an angle of the gateway, so that if the\nporter chanced to awake he might see but one person. Then placing\nherself in the full light of the lamp which lit the yard:\n\n Gate!  cried she, with her finest contralto voice, and rapping at the\nwindow.\n\nThe porter got up as Eug nie expected, and even advanced some steps to\nrecognize the person who was going out, but seeing a young man striking\nhis boot impatiently with his riding-whip, he opened it immediately.\nLouise slid through the half-open gate like a snake, and bounded\nlightly forward. Eug nie, apparently calm, although in all probability\nher heart beat somewhat faster than usual, went out in her turn.\n\nA porter was passing and they gave him the portmanteau; then the two\nyoung girls, having told him to take it to No. 36, Rue de la Victoire,\nwalked behind this man, whose presence comforted Louise. As for\nEug nie, she was as strong as a Judith or a Delilah. They arrived at\nthe appointed spot. Eug nie ordered the porter to put down the\nportmanteau, gave him some pieces of money, and having rapped at the\nshutter sent him away. The shutter where Eug nie had rapped was that of\na little laundress, who had been previously warned, and was not yet\ngone to bed. She opened the door.\n\n Mademoiselle,  said Eug nie,  let the porter get the post-chaise from\nthe coach-house, and fetch some post-horses from the hotel. Here are\nfive francs for his trouble. \n\n Indeed,  said Louise,  I admire you, and I could almost say respect\nyou.  The laundress looked on in astonishment, but as she had been\npromised twenty louis, she made no remark.\n\nIn a quarter of an hour the porter returned with a post-boy and horses,\nwhich were harnessed, and put in the post-chaise in a minute, while the\nporter fastened the portmanteau on with the assistance of a cord and\nstrap.\n\n Here is the passport,  said the postilion,  which way are we going,\nyoung gentleman? \n\n To Fontainebleau,  replied Eug nie with an almost masculine voice.\n\n What do you say?  said Louise.\n\n I am giving them the slip,  said Eug nie;  this woman to whom we have\ngiven twenty louis may betray us for forty; we will soon alter our\ndirection. \n\nAnd the young girl jumped into the britzka, which was admirably\narranged for sleeping in, without scarcely touching the step.\n\n You are always right,  said the music teacher, seating herself by the\nside of her friend.\n\nA quarter of an hour afterwards the postilion, having been put in the\nright road, passed with a crack of his whip through the gateway of the\nBarri re Saint-Martin.\n\n Ah,  said Louise, breathing freely,  here we are out of Paris. \n\n Yes, my dear, the abduction is an accomplished fact,  replied Eug nie.\n\n Yes, and without violence,  said Louise.\n\n I shall bring that forward as an extenuating circumstance,  replied\nEug nie.\n\nThese words were lost in the noise which the carriage made in rolling\nover the pavement of La Villette. M. Danglars no longer had a daughter.\n\n\n\n Chapter 98. The Bell and Bottle Tavern\n\nAnd now let us leave Mademoiselle Danglars and her friend pursuing\ntheir way to Brussels, and return to poor Andrea Cavalcanti, so\ninopportunely interrupted in his rise to fortune. Notwithstanding his\nyouth, Master Andrea was a very skilful and intelligent boy. We have\nseen that on the first rumor which reached the salon he had gradually\napproached the door, and crossing two or three rooms at last\ndisappeared. But we have forgotten to mention one circumstance, which\nnevertheless ought not to be omitted; in one of the rooms he crossed,\nthe _trousseau_ of the bride-elect was on exhibition. There were\ncaskets of diamonds, cashmere shawls, Valenciennes lace, English veils,\nand in fact all the tempting things, the bare mention of which makes\nthe hearts of young girls bound with joy, and which is called the\n_corbeille_.22 Now, in passing through this room, Andrea proved himself\nnot only to be clever and intelligent, but also provident, for he\nhelped himself to the most valuable of the ornaments before him.\n\nFurnished with this plunder, Andrea leaped with a lighter heart from\nthe window, intending to slip through the hands of the gendarmes. Tall\nand well proportioned as an ancient gladiator, and muscular as a\nSpartan, he walked for a quarter of an hour without knowing where to\ndirect his steps, actuated by the sole idea of getting away from the\nspot where if he lingered he knew that he would surely be taken. Having\npassed through the Rue du Mont-Blanc, guided by the instinct which\nleads thieves always to take the safest path, he found himself at the\nend of the Rue La Fayette. There he stopped, breathless and panting. He\nwas quite alone; on one side was the vast wilderness of the\nSaint-Lazare, on the other, Paris enshrouded in darkness.\n\n Am I to be captured?  he cried;  no, not if I can use more activity\nthan my enemies. My safety is now a mere question of speed. \n\nAt this moment he saw a cab at the top of the Faubourg Poissonni re.\nThe dull driver, smoking his pipe, was plodding along toward the limits\nof the Faubourg Saint-Denis, where no doubt he ordinarily had his\nstation.\n\n Ho, friend!  said Benedetto.\n\n What do you want, sir?  asked the driver.\n\n Is your horse tired? \n\n Tired? oh, yes, tired enough he has done nothing the whole of this\nblessed day! Four wretched fares, and twenty sous over, making in all\nseven francs, are all that I have earned, and I ought to take ten to\nthe owner. \n\n Will you add these twenty francs to the seven you have? \n\n With pleasure, sir; twenty francs are not to be despised. Tell me what\nI am to do for this. \n\n A very easy thing, if your horse isn t tired. \n\n I tell you he ll go like the wind, only tell me which way to drive. \n\n Towards the Louvres. \n\n Ah, I know the way you get good sweetened rum over there. \n\n Exactly so; I merely wish to overtake one of my friends, with whom I\nam going to hunt tomorrow at Chapelle-en-Serval. He should have waited\nfor me here with a cabriolet till half-past eleven; it is twelve, and,\ntired of waiting, he must have gone on. \n\n It is likely. \n\n Well, will you try and overtake him? \n\n Nothing I should like better. \n\n If you do not overtake him before we reach Bourget you shall have\ntwenty francs; if not before Louvres, thirty. \n\n And if we do overtake him? \n\n Forty,  said Andrea, after a moment s hesitation, at the end of which\nhe remembered that he might safely promise.\n\n That s all right,  said the man;  hop in, and we re off! Who-o-o-pla! \n\nAndrea got into the cab, which passed rapidly through the Faubourg\nSaint-Denis, along the Faubourg Saint-Martin, crossed the barrier, and\nthreaded its way through the interminable Villette. They never overtook\nthe chimerical friend, yet Andrea frequently inquired of people on foot\nwhom he passed and at the inns which were not yet closed, for a green\ncabriolet and bay horse; and as there are a great many cabriolets to be\nseen on the road to the Low Countries, and as nine-tenths of them are\ngreen, the inquiries increased at every step. Everyone had just seen it\npass; it was only five hundred, two hundred, one hundred steps in\nadvance; at length they reached it, but it was not the friend. Once the\ncab was also passed by a calash rapidly whirled along by two\npost-horses.\n\n Ah,  said Cavalcanti to himself,  if I only had that britzka, those\ntwo good post-horses, and above all the passport that carries them on! \nAnd he sighed deeply.\n\nThe calash contained Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle d Armilly.\n\n Hurry, hurry!  said Andrea,  we must overtake him soon. \n\nAnd the poor horse resumed the desperate gallop it had kept up since\nleaving the barrier, and arrived steaming at Louvres.\n\n Certainly,  said Andrea,  I shall not overtake my friend, but I shall\nkill your horse, therefore I had better stop. Here are thirty francs; I\nwill sleep at the _Cheval Rouge_, and will secure a place in the first\ncoach. Good-night, friend. \n\nAnd Andrea, after placing six pieces of five francs each in the man s\nhand, leaped lightly on to the pathway. The cabman joyfully pocketed\nthe sum, and turned back on his road to Paris. Andrea pretended to go\ntowards the hotel of the _Cheval Rouge_, but after leaning an instant\nagainst the door, and hearing the last sound of the cab, which was\ndisappearing from view, he went on his road, and with a lusty stride\nsoon traversed the space of two leagues. Then he rested; he must be\nnear Chapelle-en-Serval, where he pretended to be going.\n\nIt was not fatigue that stayed Andrea here; it was that he might form\nsome resolution, adopt some plan. It would be impossible to make use of\na diligence, equally so to engage post-horses; to travel either way a\npassport was necessary. It was still more impossible to remain in the\ndepartment of the Oise, one of the most open and strictly guarded in\nFrance; this was quite out of the question, especially to a man like\nAndrea, perfectly conversant with criminal matters.\n\nHe sat down by the side of the moat, buried his face in his hands and\nreflected. Ten minutes after he raised his head; his resolution was\nmade. He threw some dust over the topcoat, which he had found time to\nunhook from the antechamber and button over his ball costume, and going\nto Chapelle-en-Serval he knocked loudly at the door of the only inn in\nthe place.\n\nThe host opened.\n\n My friend,  said Andrea,  I was coming from Mortefontaine to Senlis,\nwhen my horse, which is a troublesome creature, stumbled and threw me.\nI must reach Compi gne tonight, or I shall cause deep anxiety to my\nfamily. Could you let me hire a horse of you? \n\nAn innkeeper has always a horse to let, whether it be good or bad. The\nhost called the stable-boy, and ordered him to saddle _Le Blanc_ then\nhe awoke his son, a child of seven years, whom he ordered to ride\nbefore the gentleman and bring back the horse. Andrea gave the\ninnkeeper twenty francs, and in taking them from his pocket dropped a\nvisiting card. This belonged to one of his friends at the Caf  de\nParis, so that the innkeeper, picking it up after Andrea had left, was\nconvinced that he had let his horse to the Count of Maul on, 25 Rue\nSaint-Dominique, that being the name and address on the card.\n\n_Le Blanc_ was not a fast animal, but he kept up an easy, steady pace;\nin three hours and a half Andrea had traversed the nine leagues which\nseparated him from Compi gne, and four o clock struck as he reached the\nplace where the coaches stop. There is an excellent tavern at\nCompi gne, well remembered by those who have ever been there. Andrea,\nwho had often stayed there in his rides about Paris, recollected the\nBell and Bottle inn; he turned around, saw the sign by the light of a\nreflected lamp, and having dismissed the child, giving him all the\nsmall coin he had about him, he began knocking at the door, very\nreasonably concluding that having now three or four hours before him he\nhad best fortify himself against the fatigues of the morrow by a sound\nsleep and a good supper. A waiter opened the door.\n\n My friend,  said Andrea,  I have been dining at Saint-Jean-aux-Bois,\nand expected to catch the coach which passes by at midnight, but like a\nfool I have lost my way, and have been walking for the last four hours\nin the forest. Show me into one of those pretty little rooms which\noverlook the court, and bring me a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux. \n\nThe waiter had no suspicions; Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he\nhad a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in the pocket of his top coat;\nhis clothes were fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots\nirreproachable; he looked merely as if he had stayed out very late,\nthat was all. While the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess\narose; Andrea assumed his most charming smile, and asked if he could\nhave No. 3, which he had occupied on his last stay at Compi gne.\nUnfortunately, No. 3 was engaged by a young man who was travelling with\nhis sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but consoled himself when the\nhostess assured him that No. 7, prepared for him, was situated\nprecisely the same as No. 3, and while warming his feet and chatting\nabout the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they announced his\nroom to be ready.\n\nAndrea had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms looking out\nupon the court of the Bell Hotel, which with its triple galleries like\nthose of a theatre, with the jessamine and clematis twining round the\nlight columns, forms one of the prettiest entrances to an inn that you\ncan imagine. The fowl was tender, the wine old, the fire clear and\nsparkling, and Andrea was surprised to find himself eating with as good\nan appetite as though nothing had happened. Then he went to bed and\nalmost immediately fell into that deep sleep which is sure to visit men\nof twenty years of age, even when they are torn with remorse. Now, here\nwe are obliged to own that Andrea ought to have felt remorse, but that\nhe did not.\n\nThis was the plan which had appealed to him to afford the best chance\nof his security. Before daybreak he would awake, leave the inn after\nrigorously paying his bill, and reaching the forest, he would, under\npretence of making studies in painting, test the hospitality of some\npeasants, procure himself the dress of a woodcutter and a hatchet,\ncasting off the lion s skin to assume that of the woodman; then, with\nhis hands covered with dirt, his hair darkened by means of a leaden\ncomb, his complexion embrowned with a preparation for which one of his\nold comrades had given him the recipe, he intended, by following the\nwooded districts, to reach the nearest frontier, walking by night and\nsleeping in the day in the forests and quarries, and only entering\ninhabited regions to buy a loaf from time to time.\n\nOnce past the frontier, Andrea proposed making money of his diamonds;\nand by uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes he always carried about\nwith him in case of accident, he would then find himself possessor of\nabout 50,000 livres, which he philosophically considered as no very\ndeplorable condition after all. Moreover, he reckoned much on the\ninterest of the Danglars to hush up the rumor of their own\nmisadventures. These were the reasons which, added to the fatigue,\ncaused Andrea to sleep so soundly. In order that he might wake early he\ndid not close the shutters, but contented himself with bolting the door\nand placing on the table an unclasped and long-pointed knife, whose\ntemper he well knew, and which was never absent from him.\n\nAbout seven in the morning Andrea was awakened by a ray of sunlight,\nwhich played, warm and brilliant, upon his face. In all well-organized\nbrains, the predominating idea and there always is one is sure to be\nthe last thought before sleeping, and the first upon waking in the\nmorning. Andrea had scarcely opened his eyes when his predominating\nidea presented itself, and whispered in his ear that he had slept too\nlong. He jumped out of bed and ran to the window. A gendarme was\ncrossing the court. A gendarme is one of the most striking objects in\nthe world, even to a man void of uneasiness; but for one who has a\ntimid conscience, and with good cause too, the yellow, blue, and white\nuniform is really very alarming.\n\n Why is that gendarme there?  asked Andrea of himself.\n\nThen, all at once, he replied, with that logic which the reader has,\ndoubtless, remarked in him,  There is nothing astonishing in seeing a\ngendarme at an inn; instead of being astonished, let me dress myself. \nAnd the youth dressed himself with a facility his valet de chambre had\nfailed to rob him of during the two months of fashionable life he had\nled in Paris.\n\n Now then,  said Andrea, while dressing himself,  I ll wait till he\nleaves, and then I ll slip away. \n\n50047m\n\n\n\nAnd, saying this, Andrea, who had now put on his boots and cravat,\nstole gently to the window, and a second time lifted up the muslin\ncurtain. Not only was the first gendarme still there, but the young man\nnow perceived a second yellow, blue, and white uniform at the foot of\nthe staircase, the only one by which he could descend, while a third,\non horseback, holding a musket in his fist, was posted as a sentinel at\nthe great street-door which alone afforded the means of egress. The\nappearance of the third gendarme settled the matter, for a crowd of\ncurious loungers was extended before him, effectually blocking the\nentrance to the hotel.\n\n They re after me!  was Andrea s first thought.  _Diable!_ \n\nA pallor overspread the young man s forehead, and he looked around him\nwith anxiety. His room, like all those on the same floor, had but one\noutlet to the gallery in the sight of everybody.  I am lost!  was his\nsecond thought; and, indeed, for a man in Andrea s situation, an arrest\nmeant the assizes, trial, and death, death without mercy or delay.\n\nFor a moment he convulsively pressed his head within his hands, and\nduring that brief period he became nearly mad with terror; but soon a\nray of hope glimmered in the multitude of thoughts which bewildered his\nmind, and a faint smile played upon his white lips and pallid cheeks.\nHe looked around and saw the objects of his search upon the\nchimney-piece; they were a pen, ink, and paper. With forced composure\nhe dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote the following lines upon a\nsheet of paper:\n\n I have no money to pay my bill, but I am not a dishonest man; I leave\nbehind me as a pledge this pin, worth ten times the amount. I shall be\nexcused for leaving at daybreak, for I was ashamed. \n\nHe then drew the pin from his cravat and placed it on the paper. This\ndone, instead of leaving the door fastened, he drew back the bolts and\neven placed the door ajar, as though he had left the room, forgetting\nto close it, and slipping into the chimney like a man accustomed to\nthat kind of gymnastic exercise, after replacing the chimney-board,\nwhich represented Achilles with Deidamia, and effacing the very marks\nof his feet upon the ashes, he commenced climbing the hollow tunnel,\nwhich afforded him the only means of escape left.\n\nAt this precise time, the first gendarme Andrea had noticed walked\nupstairs, preceded by the commissary of police, and supported by the\nsecond gendarme who guarded the staircase and was himself reinforced by\nthe one stationed at the door.\n\nAndrea was indebted for this visit to the following circumstances. At\ndaybreak, the telegraphs were set at work in all directions, and almost\nimmediately the authorities in every district had exerted their utmost\nendeavors to arrest the murderer of Caderousse. Compi gne, that royal\nresidence and fortified town, is well furnished with authorities,\ngendarmes, and commissaries of police; they therefore began operations\nas soon as the telegraphic despatch arrived, and the Bell and Bottle\nbeing the best-known hotel in the town, they had naturally directed\ntheir first inquiries there.\n\nNow, besides the reports of the sentinels guarding the H tel de Ville,\nwhich is next door to the Bell and Bottle, it had been stated by others\nthat a number of travellers had arrived during the night. The sentinel\nwho was relieved at six o clock in the morning, remembered perfectly\nthat, just as he was taking his post a few minutes past four, a young\nman arrived on horseback, with a little boy before him. The young man,\nhaving dismissed the boy and horse, knocked at the door of the hotel,\nwhich was opened, and again closed after his entrance. This late\narrival had attracted much suspicion, and the young man being no other\nthan Andrea, the commissary and gendarme, who was a brigadier, directed\ntheir steps towards his room. They found the door ajar.\n\n Oh, oh,  said the brigadier, who thoroughly understood the trick;  a\nbad sign to find the door open! I would rather find it triply bolted. \n\nAnd, indeed, the little note and pin upon the table confirmed, or\nrather corroborated, the sad truth. Andrea had fled. We say\ncorroborated, because the brigadier was too experienced to be convinced\nby a single proof. He glanced around, looked in the bed, shook the\ncurtains, opened the closets, and finally stopped at the chimney.\nAndrea had taken the precaution to leave no traces of his feet in the\nashes, but still it was an outlet, and in this light was not to be\npassed over without serious investigation.\n\nThe brigadier sent for some sticks and straw, and having filled the\nchimney with them, set a light to it. The fire crackled, and the smoke\nascended like the dull vapor from a volcano; but still no prisoner fell\ndown, as they expected. The fact was, that Andrea, at war with society\never since his youth, was quite as deep as a gendarme, even though he\nwere advanced to the rank of brigadier, and quite prepared for the\nfire, he had climbed out on the roof and was crouching down against the\nchimney-pots.\n\n50049m\n\n\n\nAt one time he thought he was saved, for he heard the brigadier exclaim\nin a loud voice, to the two gendarmes,  He is not here!  But venturing\nto peep, he perceived that the latter, instead of retiring, as might\nhave been reasonably expected upon this announcement, were watching\nwith increased attention.\n\nIt was now his turn to look about him; the H tel de Ville, a massive\nsixteenth century building, was on his right; anyone could descend from\nthe openings in the tower, and examine every corner of the roof below,\nand Andrea expected momentarily to see the head of a gendarme appear at\none of these openings. If once discovered, he knew he would be lost,\nfor the roof afforded no chance of escape; he therefore resolved to\ndescend, not through the same chimney by which he had come up, but by a\nsimilar one conducting to another room.\n\nHe looked around for a chimney from which no smoke issued, and having\nreached it, he disappeared through the orifice without being seen by\nanyone. At the same minute, one of the little windows of the H tel de\nVille was thrown open, and the head of a gendarme appeared. For an\ninstant it remained motionless as one of the stone decorations of the\nbuilding, then after a long sigh of disappointment the head\ndisappeared. The brigadier, calm and dignified as the law he\nrepresented, passed through the crowd, without answering the thousand\nquestions addressed to him, and re-entered the hotel.\n\n Well?  asked the two gendarmes.\n\n Well, my boys,  said the brigadier,  the brigand must really have\nescaped early this morning; but we will send to the Villers-Coterets\nand Noyon roads, and search the forest, when we shall catch him, no\ndoubt. \n\nThe honorable functionary had scarcely expressed himself thus, in that\nintonation which is peculiar to brigadiers of the gendarmerie, when a\nloud scream, accompanied by the violent ringing of a bell, resounded\nthrough the court of the hotel.\n\n Ah, what is that?  cried the brigadier.\n\n Some traveller seems impatient,  said the host.  What number was it\nthat rang? \n\n Number 3. \n\n Run, waiter! \n\nAt this moment the screams and ringing were redoubled.\n\n Aha!  said the brigadier, stopping the servant,  the person who is\nringing appears to want something more than a waiter; we will attend\nupon him with a gendarme. Who occupies Number 3? \n\n The little fellow who arrived last night in a post-chaise with his\nsister, and who asked for an apartment with two beds. \n\nThe bell here rang for the third time, with another shriek of anguish.\n\n Follow me, Mr. Commissary!  said the brigadier;  tread in my steps. \n\n Wait an instant,  said the host;  Number 3 has two staircases, inside\nand outside. \n\n Good,  said the brigadier.  I will take charge of the inside one. Are\nthe carbines loaded? \n\n Yes, brigadier. \n\n Well, you guard the exterior, and if he attempts to fly, fire upon\nhim; he must be a great criminal, from what the telegraph says. \n\nThe brigadier, followed by the commissary, disappeared by the inside\nstaircase, accompanied by the noise which his assertions respecting\nAndrea had excited in the crowd.\n\nThis is what had happened: Andrea had very cleverly managed to descend\ntwo-thirds of the chimney, but then his foot slipped, and\nnotwithstanding his endeavors, he came into the room with more speed\nand noise than he intended. It would have signified little had the room\nbeen empty, but unfortunately it was occupied. Two ladies, sleeping in\none bed, were awakened by the noise, and fixing their eyes upon the\nspot whence the sound proceeded, they saw a man. One of these ladies,\nthe fair one, uttered those terrible shrieks which resounded through\nthe house, while the other, rushing to the bell-rope, rang with all her\nstrength. Andrea, as we can see, was surrounded by misfortune.\n\n For pity s sake,  he cried, pale and bewildered, without seeing whom\nhe was addressing, for pity s sake do not call assistance! Save me! I\nwill not harm you. \n\n Andrea, the murderer!  cried one of the ladies.\n\n Eug nie! Mademoiselle Danglars!  exclaimed Andrea, stupefied.\n\n Help, help!  cried Mademoiselle d Armilly, taking the bell from her\ncompanion s hand, and ringing it yet more violently.\n\n Save me, I am pursued!  said Andrea, clasping his hands.  For pity,\nfor mercy s sake do not deliver me up! \n\n It is too late, they are coming,  said Eug nie.\n\n Well, conceal me somewhere; you can say you were needlessly alarmed;\nyou can turn their suspicions and save my life! \n\n50053m\n\n\n\nThe two ladies, pressing closely to one another, and drawing the\nbedclothes tightly around them, remained silent to this supplicating\nvoice, repugnance and fear taking possession of their minds.\n\n Well, be it so,  at length said Eug nie;  return by the same road you\ncame, and we will say nothing about you, unhappy wretch. \n\n Here he is, here he is!  cried a voice from the landing;  here he is!\nI see him! \n\nThe brigadier had put his eye to the keyhole, and had discovered Andrea\nin a posture of entreaty. A violent blow from the butt end of the\nmusket burst open the lock, two more forced out the bolts, and the\nbroken door fell in. Andrea ran to the other door, leading to the\ngallery, ready to rush out; but he was stopped short, and he stood with\nhis body a little thrown back, pale, and with the useless knife in his\nclenched hand.\n\n Fly, then!  cried Mademoiselle d Armilly, whose pity returned as her\nfears diminished;  fly! \n\n Or kill yourself!  said Eug nie (in a tone which a Vestal in the\namphitheatre would have used, when urging the victorious gladiator to\nfinish his vanquished adversary). Andrea shuddered, and looked on the\nyoung girl with an expression which proved how little he understood\nsuch ferocious honor.\n\n Kill myself?  he cried, throwing down his knife;  why should I do so? \n\n Why, you said,  answered Mademoiselle Danglars,  that you would be\ncondemned to die like the worst criminals. \n\n50055m\n\n\n\n Bah,  said Cavalcanti, crossing his arms,  one has friends. \n\nThe brigadier advanced to him, sword in hand.\n\n Come, come,  said Andrea,  sheathe your sword, my fine fellow; there\nis no occasion to make such a fuss, since I give myself up;  and he\nheld out his hands to be manacled.\n\nThe two girls looked with horror upon this shameful metamorphosis, the\nman of the world shaking off his covering and appearing as a\ngalley-slave. Andrea turned towards them, and with an impertinent smile\nasked,  Have you any message for your father, Mademoiselle Danglars,\nfor in all probability I shall return to Paris? \n\nEug nie covered her face with her hands.\n\n Oh, oh!  said Andrea,  you need not be ashamed, even though you did\npost after me. Was I not nearly your husband? \n\n50056m\n\n\n\nAnd with this raillery Andrea went out, leaving the two girls a prey to\ntheir own feelings of shame, and to the comments of the crowd. An hour\nafter they stepped into their calash, both dressed in feminine attire.\nThe gate of the hotel had been closed to screen them from sight, but\nthey were forced, when the door was open, to pass through a throng of\ncurious glances and whispering voices.\n\nEug nie closed her eyes; but though she could not see, she could hear,\nand the sneers of the crowd reached her in the carriage.\n\n Oh, why is not the world a wilderness?  she exclaimed, throwing\nherself into the arms of Mademoiselle d Armilly, her eyes sparkling\nwith the same kind of rage which made Nero wish that the Roman world\nhad but one neck, that he might sever it at a single blow.\n\nThe next day they stopped at the H tel de Flandre, at Brussels. The\nsame evening Andrea was incarcerated in the Conciergerie.\n\n\n\n Chapter 99. The Law\n\nWe have seen how quietly Mademoiselle Danglars and Mademoiselle\nd Armilly accomplished their transformation and flight; the fact being\nthat everyone was too much occupied in his or her own affairs to think\nof theirs.\n\nWe will leave the banker contemplating the enormous magnitude of his\ndebt before the phantom of bankruptcy, and follow the baroness, who\nafter being momentarily crushed under the weight of the blow which had\nstruck her, had gone to seek her usual adviser, Lucien Debray. The\nbaroness had looked forward to this marriage as a means of ridding her\nof a guardianship which, over a girl of Eug nie s character, could not\nfail to be rather a troublesome undertaking; for in the tacit relations\nwhich maintain the bond of family union, the mother, to maintain her\nascendancy over her daughter, must never fail to be a model of wisdom\nand a type of perfection.\n\nNow, Madame Danglars feared Eug nie s sagacity and the influence of\nMademoiselle d Armilly; she had frequently observed the contemptuous\nexpression with which her daughter looked upon Debray, an expression\nwhich seemed to imply that she understood all her mother s amorous and\npecuniary relationships with the intimate secretary; moreover, she saw\nthat Eug nie detested Debray, not only because he was a source of\ndissension and scandal under the paternal roof, but because she had at\nonce classed him in that catalogue of bipeds whom Plato endeavors to\nwithdraw from the appellation of men, and whom Diogenes designated as\nanimals upon two legs without feathers.\n\nUnfortunately, in this world of ours, each person views things through\na certain medium, and so is prevented from seeing in the same light as\nothers, and Madame Danglars, therefore, very much regretted that the\nmarriage of Eug nie had not taken place, not only because the match was\ngood, and likely to insure the happiness of her child, but because it\nwould also set her at liberty. She ran therefore to Debray, who, after\nhaving, like the rest of Paris, witnessed the contract scene and the\nscandal attending it, had retired in haste to his club, where he was\nchatting with some friends upon the events which served as a subject of\nconversation for three-fourths of that city known as the capital of the\nworld.\n\nAt the precise time when Madame Danglars, dressed in black and\nconcealed in a long veil, was ascending the stairs leading to Debray s\napartments, notwithstanding the assurances of the concierge that the\nyoung man was not at home, Debray was occupied in repelling the\ninsinuations of a friend, who tried to persuade him that after the\nterrible scene which had just taken place he ought, as a friend of the\nfamily, to marry Mademoiselle Danglars and her two millions. Debray did\nnot defend himself very warmly, for the idea had sometimes crossed his\nmind; still, when he recollected the independent, proud spirit of\nEug nie, he positively rejected it as utterly impossible, though the\nsame thought again continually recurred and found a resting-place in\nhis heart. Tea, play, and the conversation, which had become\ninteresting during the discussion of such serious affairs, lasted till\none o clock in the morning.\n\nMeanwhile Madame Danglars, veiled and uneasy, awaited the return of\nDebray in the little green room, seated between two baskets of flowers,\nwhich she had that morning sent, and which, it must be confessed,\nDebray had himself arranged and watered with so much care that his\nabsence was half excused in the eyes of the poor woman.\n\nAt twenty minutes to twelve, Madame Danglars, tired of waiting,\nreturned home. Women of a certain grade are like prosperous grisettes\nin one respect, they seldom return home after twelve o clock. The\nbaroness returned to the hotel with as much caution as Eug nie used in\nleaving it; she ran lightly upstairs, and with an aching heart entered\nher apartment, contiguous, as we know, to that of Eug nie. She was\nfearful of exciting any remark, and believed firmly in her daughter s\ninnocence and fidelity to the paternal roof. She listened at Eug nie s\ndoor, and hearing no sound tried to enter, but the bolts were in place.\nMadame Danglars then concluded that the young girl had been overcome\nwith the terrible excitement of the evening, and had gone to bed and to\nsleep. She called the maid and questioned her.\n\n Mademoiselle Eug nie,  said the maid,  retired to her apartment with\nMademoiselle d Armilly; they then took tea together, after which they\ndesired me to leave, saying that they needed me no longer. \n\nSince then the maid had been below, and like everyone else she thought\nthe young ladies were in their own room; Madame Danglars, therefore,\nwent to bed without a shadow of suspicion, and began to muse over the\nrecent events. In proportion as her memory became clearer, the\noccurrences of the evening were revealed in their true light; what she\nhad taken for confusion was a tumult; what she had regarded as\nsomething distressing, was in reality a disgrace. And then the baroness\nremembered that she had felt no pity for poor Merc d s, who had been\nafflicted with as severe a blow through her husband and son.\n\n Eug nie,  she said to herself,  is lost, and so are we. The affair, as\nit will be reported, will cover us with shame; for in a society such as\nours satire inflicts a painful and incurable wound. How fortunate that\nEug nie is possessed of that strange character which has so often made\nme tremble! \n\nAnd her glance was turned towards heaven, where a mysterious Providence\ndisposes all things, and out of a fault, nay, even a vice, sometimes\nproduces a blessing. And then her thoughts, cleaving through space like\na bird in the air, rested on Cavalcanti. This Andrea was a wretch, a\nrobber, an assassin, and yet his manners showed the effects of a sort\nof education, if not a complete one; he had been presented to the world\nwith the appearance of an immense fortune, supported by an honorable\nname. How could she extricate herself from this labyrinth? To whom\nwould she apply to help her out of this painful situation? Debray, to\nwhom she had run, with the first instinct of a woman towards the man\nshe loves, and who yet betrays her, Debray could but give her advice,\nshe must apply to someone more powerful than he.\n\nThe baroness then thought of M. de Villefort. It was M. de Villefort\nwho had remorselessly brought misfortune into her family, as though\nthey had been strangers. But, no; on reflection, the procureur was not\na merciless man; and it was not the magistrate, slave to his duties,\nbut the friend, the loyal friend, who roughly but firmly cut into the\nvery core of the corruption; it was not the executioner, but the\nsurgeon, who wished to withdraw the honor of Danglars from ignominious\nassociation with the disgraced young man they had presented to the\nworld as their son-in-law. And since Villefort, the friend of Danglars,\nhad acted in this way, no one could suppose that he had been previously\nacquainted with, or had lent himself to, any of Andrea s intrigues.\nVillefort s conduct, therefore, upon reflection, appeared to the\nbaroness as if shaped for their mutual advantage. But the inflexibility\nof the procureur should stop there; she would see him the next day, and\nif she could not make him fail in his duties as a magistrate, she\nwould, at least, obtain all the indulgence he could allow. She would\ninvoke the past, recall old recollections; she would supplicate him by\nthe remembrance of guilty, yet happy days. M. de Villefort would stifle\nthe affair; he had only to turn his eyes on one side, and allow Andrea\nto fly, and follow up the crime under that shadow of guilt called\ncontempt of court. And after this reasoning she slept easily.\n\nAt nine o clock next morning she arose, and without ringing for her\nmaid or giving the least sign of her activity, she dressed herself in\nthe same simple style as on the previous night; then running\ndownstairs, she left the hotel, walked to the Rue de Provence, called a\ncab, and drove to M. de Villefort s house.\n\nFor the last month this wretched house had presented the gloomy\nappearance of a lazaretto infected with the plague. Some of the\napartments were closed within and without; the shutters were only\nopened to admit a minute s air, showing the scared face of a footman,\nand immediately afterwards the window would be closed, like a\ngravestone falling on a sepulchre, and the neighbors would say to each\nother in a low voice,  Will there be another funeral today at the\nprocureur s house? \n\nMadame Danglars involuntarily shuddered at the desolate aspect of the\nmansion; descending from the cab, she approached the door with\ntrembling knees, and rang the bell. Three times did the bell ring with\na dull, heavy sound, seeming to participate, in the general sadness,\nbefore the concierge appeared and peeped through the door, which he\nopened just wide enough to allow his words to be heard. He saw a lady,\na fashionable, elegantly dressed lady, and yet the door remained almost\nclosed.\n\n Do you intend opening the door?  said the baroness.\n\n First, madame, who are you? \n\n Who am I? You know me well enough. \n\n We no longer know anyone, madame. \n\n You must be mad, my friend,  said the baroness.\n\n Where do you come from? \n\n Oh, this is too much! \n\n Madame, these are my orders; excuse me. Your name? \n\n The baroness Danglars; you have seen me twenty times. \n\n Possibly, madame. And now, what do you want? \n\n Oh, how extraordinary! I shall complain to M. de Villefort of the\nimpertinence of his servants. \n\n Madame, this is precaution, not impertinence; no one enters here\nwithout an order from M. d Avrigny, or without speaking to the\nprocureur. \n\n Well, I have business with the procureur. \n\n Is it pressing business? \n\n You can imagine so, since I have not even brought my carriage out yet.\nBut enough of this here is my card, take it to your master. \n\n Madame will await my return? \n\n Yes; go. \n\nThe concierge closed the door, leaving Madame Danglars in the street.\nShe had not long to wait; directly afterwards the door was opened wide\nenough to admit her, and when she had passed through, it was again\nshut. Without losing sight of her for an instant, the concierge took a\nwhistle from his pocket as soon as they entered the court, and blew it.\nThe valet de chambre appeared on the door-steps.\n\n You will excuse this poor fellow, madame,  he said, as he preceded the\nbaroness,  but his orders are precise, and M. de Villefort begged me to\ntell you that he could not act otherwise. \n\nIn the court showing his merchandise, was a tradesman who had been\nadmitted with the same precautions. The baroness ascended the steps;\nshe felt herself strongly infected with the sadness which seemed to\nmagnify her own, and still guided by the valet de chambre, who never\nlost sight of her for an instant, she was introduced to the\nmagistrate s study.\n\nPreoccupied as Madame Danglars had been with the object of her visit,\nthe treatment she had received from these underlings appeared to her so\ninsulting, that she began by complaining of it. But Villefort, raising\nhis head, bowed down by grief, looked up at her with so sad a smile\nthat her complaints died upon her lips.\n\n Forgive my servants,  he said,  for a terror I cannot blame them for;\nfrom being suspected they have become suspicious. \n\nMadame Danglars had often heard of the terror to which the magistrate\nalluded, but without the evidence of her own eyesight she could never\nhave believed that the sentiment had been carried so far.\n\n You too, then, are unhappy?  she said.\n\n Yes, madame,  replied the magistrate.\n\n Then you pity me! \n\n Sincerely, madame. \n\n And you understand what brings me here? \n\n You wish to speak to me about the circumstance which has just\nhappened? \n\n Yes, sir, a fearful misfortune. \n\n You mean a mischance. \n\n A mischance?  repeated the baroness.\n\n Alas, madame,  said the procureur with his imperturbable calmness of\nmanner,  I consider those alone misfortunes which are irreparable. \n\n And do you suppose this will be forgotten? \n\n Everything will be forgotten, madame,  said Villefort.  Your daughter\nwill be married tomorrow, if not today in a week, if not tomorrow; and\nI do not think you can regret the intended husband of your daughter. \n\nMadame Danglars gazed on Villefort, stupefied to find him so almost\ninsultingly calm.  Am I come to a friend?  she asked in a tone full of\nmournful dignity.\n\n You know that you are, madame,  said Villefort, whose pale cheeks\nbecame slightly flushed as he gave her the assurance. And truly this\nassurance carried him back to different events from those now occupying\nthe baroness and him.\n\n Well, then, be more affectionate, my dear Villefort,  said the\nbaroness.  Speak to me not as a magistrate, but as a friend; and when I\nam in bitter anguish of spirit, do not tell me that I ought to be gay. \nVillefort bowed.\n\n When I hear misfortunes named, madame,  he said,  I have within the\nlast few months contracted the bad habit of thinking of my own, and\nthen I cannot help drawing up an egotistical parallel in my mind. That\nis the reason that by the side of my misfortunes yours appear to me\nmere mischances; that is why my dreadful position makes yours appear\nenviable. But this annoys you; let us change the subject. You were\nsaying, madame \n\n I came to ask you, my friend,  said the baroness,  what will be done\nwith this impostor? \n\n Impostor,  repeated Villefort;  certainly, madame, you appear to\nextenuate some cases, and exaggerate others. Impostor, indeed! M.\nAndrea Cavalcanti, or rather M. Benedetto, is nothing more nor less\nthan an assassin! \n\n Sir, I do not deny the justice of your correction, but the more\nseverely you arm yourself against that unfortunate man, the more deeply\nwill you strike our family. Come, forget him for a moment, and instead\nof pursuing him, let him go. \n\n You are too late, madame; the orders are issued. \n\n Well, should he be arrested do they think they will arrest him? \n\n I hope so. \n\n If they should arrest him (I know that sometimes prisons afford means\nof escape), will you leave him in prison? \n\nThe procureur shook his head.\n\n At least keep him there till my daughter be married. \n\n Impossible, madame; justice has its formalities. \n\n What, even for me?  said the baroness, half jesting, half in earnest.\n\n For all, even for myself among the rest,  replied Villefort.\n\n50063m\n\n\n\n Ah!  exclaimed the baroness, without expressing the ideas which the\nexclamation betrayed. Villefort looked at her with that piercing glance\nwhich reads the secrets of the heart.\n\n Yes, I know what you mean,  he said;  you refer to the terrible rumors\nspread abroad in the world, that the deaths which have kept me in\nmourning for the last three months, and from which Valentine has only\nescaped by a miracle, have not happened by natural means. \n\n I was not thinking of that,  replied Madame Danglars quickly.\n\n Yes, you were thinking of it, and with justice. You could not help\nthinking of it, and saying to yourself,  you, who pursue crime so\nvindictively, answer now, why are there unpunished crimes in your\ndwelling?  The baroness became pale.  You were saying this, were you\nnot? \n\n Well, I own it. \n\n I will answer you. \n\nVillefort drew his armchair nearer to Madame Danglars; then resting\nboth hands upon his desk he said in a voice more hollow than usual:\n\n There are crimes which remain unpunished because the criminals are\nunknown, and we might strike the innocent instead of the guilty; but\nwhen the culprits are discovered  (Villefort here extended his hand\ntoward a large crucifix placed opposite to his desk) when they are\ndiscovered, I swear to you, by all I hold most sacred, that whoever\nthey may be they shall die. Now, after the oath I have just taken, and\nwhich I will keep, madame, dare you ask for mercy for that wretch! \n\n But, sir, are you sure he is as guilty as they say? \n\n Listen; this is his description:  Benedetto, condemned, at the age of\nsixteen, for five years to the galleys for forgery.  He promised well,\nas you see first a runaway, then an assassin. \n\n And who is this wretch? \n\n Who can tell? a vagabond, a Corsican. \n\n Has no one owned him? \n\n No one; his parents are unknown. \n\n But who was the man who brought him from Lucca? \n\n Another rascal like himself, perhaps his accomplice.  The baroness\nclasped her hands.\n\n Villefort,  she exclaimed in her softest and most captivating manner.\n\n For Heaven s sake, madame,  said Villefort, with a firmness of\nexpression not altogether free from harshness for Heaven s sake, do\nnot ask pardon of me for a guilty wretch! What am I? the law. Has the\nlaw any eyes to witness your grief? Has the law ears to be melted by\nyour sweet voice? Has the law a memory for all those soft recollections\nyou endeavor to recall? No, madame; the law has commanded, and when it\ncommands it strikes. You will tell me that I am a living being, and not\na code a man, and not a volume. Look at me, madame look around me. Has\nmankind treated me as a brother? Have men loved me? Have they spared\nme? Has anyone shown the mercy towards me that you now ask at my hands?\nNo, madame, they struck me, always struck me!\n\n50065m\n\n\n\n Woman, siren that you are, do you persist in fixing on me that\nfascinating eye, which reminds me that I ought to blush? Well, be it\nso; let me blush for the faults you know, and perhaps perhaps for even\nmore than those! But having sinned myself, it may be more deeply than\nothers, I never rest till I have torn the disguises from my\nfellow-creatures, and found out their weaknesses. I have always found\nthem; and more, I repeat it with joy, with triumph, I have always found\nsome proof of human perversity or error. Every criminal I condemn seems\nto me living evidence that I am not a hideous exception to the rest.\nAlas, alas, alas; all the world is wicked; let us therefore strike at\nwickedness! \n\nVillefort pronounced these last words with a feverish rage, which gave\na ferocious eloquence to his words.\n\n But  said Madame Danglars, resolving to make a last effort,  this\nyoung man, though a murderer, is an orphan, abandoned by everybody. \n\n So much the worse, or rather, so much the better; it has been so\nordained that he may have none to weep his fate. \n\n But this is trampling on the weak, sir. \n\n The weakness of a murderer! \n\n His dishonor reflects upon us. \n\n Is not death in my house? \n\n Oh, sir,  exclaimed the baroness,  you are without pity for others,\nwell, then, I tell you they will have no mercy on you! \n\n Be it so!  said Villefort, raising his arms to heaven with a\nthreatening gesture.\n\n At least, delay the trial till the next assizes; we shall then have\nsix months before us. \n\n No, madame,  said Villefort;  instructions have been given. There are\nyet five days left; five days are more than I require. Do you not think\nthat I also long for forgetfulness? While working night and day, I\nsometimes lose all recollection of the past, and then I experience the\nsame sort of happiness I can imagine the dead feel; still, it is better\nthan suffering. \n\n But, sir, he has fled; let him escape inaction is a pardonable\noffence. \n\n I tell you it is too late; early this morning the telegraph was\nemployed, and at this very minute \n\n Sir,  said the valet de chambre, entering the room,  a dragoon has\nbrought this despatch from the Minister of the Interior. \n\nVillefort seized the letter, and hastily broke the seal. Madame\nDanglars trembled with fear; Villefort started with joy.\n\n Arrested!  he exclaimed;  he was taken at Compi gne, and all is over. \n\nMadame Danglars rose from her seat, pale and cold.\n\n Adieu, sir,  she said.\n\n Adieu, madame,  replied the king s attorney, as in an almost joyful\nmanner he conducted her to the door. Then, turning to his desk, he\nsaid, striking the letter with the back of his right hand:\n\n Come, I had a forgery, three robberies, and two cases of arson, I only\nwanted a murder, and here it is. It will be a splendid session! \n\n\n\n Chapter 100. The Apparition\n\nAs the procureur had told Madame Danglars, Valentine was not yet\nrecovered. Bowed down with fatigue, she was indeed confined to her bed;\nand it was in her own room, and from the lips of Madame de Villefort,\nthat she heard all the strange events we have related; we mean the\nflight of Eug nie and the arrest of Andrea Cavalcanti, or rather\nBenedetto, together with the accusation of murder pronounced against\nhim. But Valentine was so weak that this recital scarcely produced the\nsame effect it would have done had she been in her usual state of\nhealth. Indeed, her brain was only the seat of vague ideas, and\nconfused forms, mingled with strange fancies, alone presented\nthemselves before her eyes.\n\nDuring the daytime Valentine s perceptions remained tolerably clear,\nowing to the constant presence of M. Noirtier, who caused himself to be\ncarried to his granddaughter s room, and watched her with his paternal\ntenderness; Villefort also, on his return from the law courts,\nfrequently passed an hour or two with his father and child.\n\nAt six o clock Villefort retired to his study, at eight M. d Avrigny\nhimself arrived, bringing the night draught prepared for the young\ngirl, and then M. Noirtier was carried away. A nurse of the doctor s\nchoice succeeded them, and never left till about ten or eleven o clock,\nwhen Valentine was asleep. As she went downstairs she gave the keys of\nValentine s room to M. de Villefort, so that no one could reach the\nsick-room excepting through that of Madame de Villefort and little\nEdward.\n\nEvery morning Morrel called on Noirtier to receive news of Valentine,\nand, extraordinary as it seemed, each day found him less uneasy.\nCertainly, though Valentine still labored under dreadful nervous\nexcitement, she was better; and moreover, Monte Cristo had told him\nwhen, half distracted, he had rushed to the count s house, that if she\nwere not dead in two hours she would be saved. Now four days had\nelapsed, and Valentine still lived.\n\nThe nervous excitement of which we speak pursued Valentine even in her\nsleep, or rather in that state of somnolence which succeeded her waking\nhours; it was then, in the silence of night, in the dim light shed from\nthe alabaster lamp on the chimney-piece, that she saw the shadows pass\nand repass which hover over the bed of sickness, and fan the fever with\ntheir trembling wings. First she fancied she saw her stepmother\nthreatening her, then Morrel stretched his arms towards her; sometimes\nmere strangers, like the Count of Monte Cristo came to visit her; even\nthe very furniture, in these moments of delirium, seemed to move, and\nthis state lasted till about three o clock in the morning, when a deep,\nheavy slumber overcame the young girl, from which she did not awake\ntill daylight.\n\nOn the evening of the day on which Valentine had learned of the flight\nof Eug nie and the arrest of Benedetto, Villefort having retired as\nwell as Noirtier and d Avrigny, her thoughts wandered in a confused\nmaze, alternately reviewing her own situation and the events she had\njust heard.\n\nEleven o clock had struck. The nurse, having placed the beverage\nprepared by the doctor within reach of the patient, and locked the\ndoor, was listening with terror to the comments of the servants in the\nkitchen, and storing her memory with all the horrible stories which had\nfor some months past amused the occupants of the antechambers in the\nhouse of the king s attorney. Meanwhile an unexpected scene was passing\nin the room which had been so carefully locked.\n\nTen minutes had elapsed since the nurse had left; Valentine, who for\nthe last hour had been suffering from the fever which returned nightly,\nincapable of controlling her ideas, was forced to yield to the\nexcitement which exhausted itself in producing and reproducing a\nsuccession and recurrence of the same fancies and images. The\nnight-lamp threw out countless rays, each resolving itself into some\nstrange form to her disordered imagination, when suddenly by its\nflickering light Valentine thought she saw the door of her library,\nwhich was in the recess by the chimney-piece, open slowly, though she\nin vain listened for the sound of the hinges on which it turned.\n\nAt any other time Valentine would have seized the silken bell-pull and\nsummoned assistance, but nothing astonished her in her present\nsituation. Her reason told her that all the visions she beheld were but\nthe children of her imagination, and the conviction was strengthened by\nthe fact that in the morning no traces remained of the nocturnal\nphantoms, who disappeared with the coming of daylight.\n\nFrom behind the door a human figure appeared, but the girl was too\nfamiliar with such apparitions to be alarmed, and therefore only\nstared, hoping to recognize Morrel. The figure advanced towards the bed\nand appeared to listen with profound attention. At this moment a ray of\nlight glanced across the face of the midnight visitor.\n\n It is not he,  she murmured, and waited, in the assurance that this\nwas but a dream, for the man to disappear or assume some other form.\nStill, she felt her pulse, and finding it throb violently she\nremembered that the best method of dispelling such illusions was to\ndrink, for a draught of the beverage prepared by the doctor to allay\nher fever seemed to cause a reaction of the brain, and for a short time\nshe suffered less. Valentine therefore reached her hand towards the\nglass, but as soon as her trembling arm left the bed the apparition\nadvanced more quickly towards her, and approached the young girl so\nclosely that she fancied she heard his breath, and felt the pressure of\nhis hand.\n\nThis time the illusion, or rather the reality, surpassed anything\nValentine had before experienced; she began to believe herself really\nalive and awake, and the belief that her reason was this time not\ndeceived made her shudder. The pressure she felt was evidently intended\nto arrest her arm, and she slowly withdrew it. Then the figure, from\nwhom she could not detach her eyes, and who appeared more protecting\nthan menacing, took the glass, and walking towards the night-light held\nit up, as if to test its transparency. This did not seem sufficient;\nthe man, or rather the ghost for he trod so softly that no sound was\nheard then poured out about a spoonful into the glass, and drank it.\n\nValentine witnessed this scene with a sentiment of stupefaction. Every\nminute she had expected that it would vanish and give place to another\nvision; but the man, instead of dissolving like a shadow, again\napproached her, and said in an agitated voice,  Now you may drink. \n\nValentine shuddered. It was the first time one of these visions had\never addressed her in a living voice, and she was about to utter an\nexclamation. The man placed his finger on her lips.\n\n The Count of Monte Cristo!  she murmured.\n\nIt was easy to see that no doubt now remained in the young girl s mind\nas to the reality of the scene; her eyes started with terror, her hands\ntrembled, and she rapidly drew the bedclothes closer to her. Still, the\npresence of Monte Cristo at such an hour, his mysterious, fanciful, and\nextraordinary entrance into her room through the wall, might well seem\nimpossibilities to her shattered reason.\n\n Do not call anyone do not be alarmed,  said the count;  do not let a\nshade of suspicion or uneasiness remain in your breast; the man\nstanding before you, Valentine (for this time it is no ghost), is\nnothing more than the tenderest father and the most respectful friend\nyou could dream of. \n\nValentine could not reply; the voice which indicated the real presence\nof a being in the room, alarmed her so much that she feared to utter a\nsyllable; still the expression of her eyes seemed to inquire,  If your\nintentions are pure, why are you here?  The count s marvellous sagacity\nunderstood all that was passing in the young girl s mind.\n\n Listen to me,  he said,  or, rather, look upon me; look at my face,\npaler even than usual, and my eyes, red with weariness for four days I\nhave not closed them, for I have been constantly watching you, to\nprotect and preserve you for Maximilian. \n\nThe blood mounted rapidly to the cheeks of Valentine, for the name just\nannounced by the count dispelled all the fear with which his presence\nhad inspired her.\n\n Maximilian!  she exclaimed, and so sweet did the sound appear to her,\nthat she repeated it Maximilian! has he then owned all to you? \n\n Everything. He told me your life was his, and I have promised him that\nyou shall live. \n\n You have promised him that I shall live? \n\n Yes. \n\n But, sir, you spoke of vigilance and protection. Are you a doctor? \n\n Yes; the best you could have at the present time, believe me. \n\n But you say you have watched?  said Valentine uneasily;  where have\nyou been? I have not seen you. \n\nThe count extended his hand towards the library.\n\n I was hidden behind that door,  he said,  which leads into the next\nhouse, which I have rented. \n\nValentine turned her eyes away, and, with an indignant expression of\npride and modest fear, exclaimed:\n\n Sir, I think you have been guilty of an unparalleled intrusion, and\nthat what you call protection is more like an insult. \n\n Valentine,  he answered,  during my long watch over you, all I have\nobserved has been what people visited you, what nourishment was\nprepared, and what beverage was served; then, when the latter appeared\ndangerous to me, I entered, as I have now done, and substituted, in the\nplace of the poison, a healthful draught; which, instead of producing\nthe death intended, caused life to circulate in your veins. \n\n Poison death!  exclaimed Valentine, half believing herself under the\ninfluence of some feverish hallucination;  what are you saying, sir? \n\n50071m\n\n\n\n Hush, my child,  said Monte Cristo, again placing his finger upon her\nlips,  I did say poison and death. But drink some of this;  and the\ncount took a bottle from his pocket, containing a red liquid, of which\nhe poured a few drops into the glass.  Drink this, and then take\nnothing more tonight. \n\nValentine stretched out her hand, but scarcely had she touched the\nglass when she drew back in fear. Monte Cristo took the glass, drank\nhalf its contents, and then presented it to Valentine, who smiled and\nswallowed the rest.\n\n Oh, yes,  she exclaimed,  I recognize the flavor of my nocturnal\nbeverage which refreshed me so much, and seemed to ease my aching\nbrain. Thank you, sir, thank you! \n\n This is how you have lived during the last four nights, Valentine, \nsaid the count.  But, oh, how I passed that time! Oh, the wretched\nhours I have endured the torture to which I have submitted when I saw\nthe deadly poison poured into your glass, and how I trembled lest you\nshould drink it before I could find time to throw it away! \n\n Sir,  said Valentine, at the height of her terror,  you say you\nendured tortures when you saw the deadly poison poured into my glass;\nbut if you saw this, you must also have seen the person who poured it? \n\n Yes. \n\nValentine raised herself in bed, and drew over her chest, which\nappeared whiter than snow, the embroidered cambric, still moist with\nthe cold dews of delirium, to which were now added those of terror.\n You saw the person?  repeated the young girl.\n\n Yes,  repeated the count.\n\n What you tell me is horrible, sir. You wish to make me believe\nsomething too dreadful. What? attempt to murder me in my father s\nhouse, in my room, on my bed of sickness? Oh, leave me, sir; you are\ntempting me you make me doubt the goodness of Providence it is\nimpossible, it cannot be! \n\n Are you the first that this hand has stricken? Have you not seen M. de\nSaint-M ran, Madame de Saint-M ran, Barrois, all fall? Would not M.\nNoirtier also have fallen a victim, had not the treatment he has been\npursuing for the last three years neutralized the effects of the\npoison? \n\n Oh, Heaven,  said Valentine;  is this the reason why grandpapa has\nmade me share all his beverages during the last month? \n\n And have they all tasted of a slightly bitter flavor, like that of\ndried orange-peel? \n\n Oh, yes, yes! \n\n Then that explains all,  said Monte Cristo.  Your grandfather knows,\nthen, that a poisoner lives here; perhaps he even suspects the person.\nHe has been fortifying you, his beloved child, against the fatal\neffects of the poison, which has failed because your system was already\nimpregnated with it. But even this would have availed little against a\nmore deadly medium of death employed four days ago, which is generally\nbut too fatal. \n\n But who, then, is this assassin, this murderer? \n\n Let me also ask you a question. Have you never seen anyone enter your\nroom at night? \n\n Oh, yes; I have frequently seen shadows pass close to me, approach,\nand disappear; but I took them for visions raised by my feverish\nimagination, and indeed when you entered I thought I was under the\ninfluence of delirium. \n\n Then you do not know who it is that attempts your life? \n\n50073m\n\n\n\n No,  said Valentine;  who could desire my death? \n\n You shall know it now, then,  said Monte Cristo, listening.\n\n How do you mean?  said Valentine, looking anxiously around.\n\n Because you are not feverish or delirious tonight, but thoroughly\nawake; midnight is striking, which is the hour murderers choose. \n\n Oh, heavens,  exclaimed Valentine, wiping off the drops which ran down\nher forehead. Midnight struck slowly and sadly; every hour seemed to\nstrike with leaden weight upon the heart of the poor girl.\n\n Valentine,  said the count,  summon up all your courage; still the\nbeatings of your heart; do not let a sound escape you, and feign to be\nasleep; then you will see. \n\nValentine seized the count s hand.  I think I hear a noise,  she said;\n leave me. \n\n Good-bye, for the present,  replied the count, walking upon tiptoe\ntowards the library door, and smiling with an expression so sad and\npaternal that the young girl s heart was filled with gratitude.\n\nBefore closing the door he turned around once more, and said,  Not a\nmovement not a word; let them think you asleep, or perhaps you may be\nkilled before I have the power of helping you. \n\nAnd with this fearful injunction the count disappeared through the\ndoor, which noiselessly closed after him.\n\n\n\n Chapter 101. Locusta\n\nValentine was alone; two other clocks, slower than that of\nSaint-Philippe-du-Roule, struck the hour of midnight from different\ndirections, and excepting the rumbling of a few carriages all was\nsilent. Then Valentine s attention was engrossed by the clock in her\nroom, which marked the seconds. She began counting them, remarking that\nthey were much slower than the beatings of her heart; and still she\ndoubted, the inoffensive Valentine could not imagine that anyone should\ndesire her death. Why should they? To what end? What had she done to\nexcite the malice of an enemy?\n\nThere was no fear of her falling asleep. One terrible idea pressed upon\nher mind, that someone existed in the world who had attempted to\nassassinate her, and who was about to endeavor to do so again.\nSupposing this person, wearied at the inefficacy of the poison, should,\nas Monte Cristo intimated, have recourse to steel! What if the count\nshould have no time to run to her rescue! What if her last moments were\napproaching, and she should never again see Morrel!\n\nWhen this terrible chain of ideas presented itself, Valentine was\nnearly persuaded to ring the bell, and call for help. But through the\ndoor she fancied she saw the luminous eye of the count that eye which\nlived in her memory, and the recollection overwhelmed her with so much\nshame that she asked herself whether any amount of gratitude could ever\nrepay his adventurous and devoted friendship.\n\nTwenty minutes, twenty tedious minutes, passed thus, then ten more, and\nat last the clock struck the half-hour.\n\nJust then the sound of finger-nails slightly grating against the door\nof the library informed Valentine that the count was still watching,\nand recommended her to do the same; at the same time, on the opposite\nside, that is towards Edward s room, Valentine fancied that she heard\nthe creaking of the floor; she listened attentively, holding her breath\ntill she was nearly suffocated; the lock turned, and the door slowly\nopened. Valentine had raised herself upon her elbow, and had scarcely\ntime to throw herself down on the bed and shade her eyes with her arm;\nthen, trembling, agitated, and her heart beating with indescribable\nterror, she awaited the event.\n\nSomeone approached the bed and drew back the curtains. Valentine\nsummoned every effort, and breathed with that regular respiration which\nannounces tranquil sleep.\n\n Valentine!  said a low voice.\n\nThe girl shuddered to the heart but did not reply.\n\n Valentine,  repeated the same voice.\n\nStill silent: Valentine had promised not to wake. Then everything was\nstill, excepting that Valentine heard the almost noiseless sound of\nsome liquid being poured into the glass she had just emptied. Then she\nventured to open her eyelids, and glance over her extended arm. She saw\na woman in a white dressing-gown pouring a liquor from a phial into her\nglass. During this short time Valentine must have held her breath, or\nmoved in some slight degree, for the woman, disturbed, stopped and\nleaned over the bed, in order the better to ascertain whether Valentine\nslept: it was Madame de Villefort.\n\nOn recognizing her step-mother, Valentine could not repress a shudder,\nwhich caused a vibration in the bed. Madame de Villefort instantly\nstepped back close to the wall, and there, shaded by the bed-curtains,\nshe silently and attentively watched the slightest movement of\nValentine. The latter recollected the terrible caution of Monte Cristo;\nshe fancied that the hand not holding the phial clasped a long sharp\nknife. Then collecting all her remaining strength, she forced herself\nto close her eyes; but this simple operation upon the most delicate\norgans of our frame, generally so easy to accomplish, became almost\nimpossible at this moment, so much did curiosity struggle to retain the\neyelid open and learn the truth. Madame de Villefort, however,\nreassured by the silence, which was alone disturbed by the regular\nbreathing of Valentine, again extended her hand, and half hidden by the\ncurtains succeeded in emptying the contents of the phial into the\nglass. Then she retired so gently that Valentine did not know she had\nleft the room. She only witnessed the withdrawal of the arm the fair\nround arm of a woman but twenty-five years old, and who yet spread\ndeath around her.\n\n50077m\n\n\n\nIt is impossible to describe the sensations experienced by Valentine\nduring the minute and a half Madame de Villefort remained in the room.\n\nThe grating against the library-door aroused the young girl from the\nstupor in which she was plunged, and which almost amounted to\ninsensibility. She raised her head with an effort. The noiseless door\nagain turned on its hinges, and the Count of Monte Cristo reappeared.\n\n Well,  said he,  do you still doubt? \n\n Oh,  murmured the young girl.\n\n Have you seen? \n\n Alas! \n\n Did you recognize?  Valentine groaned.\n\n Oh, yes;  she said,  I saw, but I cannot believe! \n\n Would you rather die, then, and cause Maximilian s death? \n\n Oh,  repeated the young girl, almost bewildered,  can I not leave the\nhouse? can I not escape? \n\n Valentine, the hand which now threatens you will pursue you\neverywhere; your servants will be seduced with gold, and death will be\noffered to you disguised in every shape. You will find it in the water\nyou drink from the spring, in the fruit you pluck from the tree. \n\n But did you not say that my kind grandfather s precaution had\nneutralized the poison? \n\n Yes, but not against a strong dose; the poison will be changed, and\nthe quantity increased.  He took the glass and raised it to his lips.\n It is already done,  he said;  brucine is no longer employed, but a\nsimple narcotic! I can recognize the flavor of the alcohol in which it\nhas been dissolved. If you had taken what Madame de Villefort has\npoured into your glass, Valentine Valentine you would have been\ndoomed! \n\n But,  exclaimed the young girl,  why am I thus pursued? \n\n Why? are you so kind so good so unsuspicious of ill, that you cannot\nunderstand, Valentine? \n\n No, I have never injured her. \n\n But you are rich, Valentine; you have 200,000 livres a year, and you\nprevent her son from enjoying these 200,000 livres. \n\n How so? The fortune is not her gift, but is inherited from my\nrelations. \n\n Certainly; and that is why M. and Madame de Saint-M ran have died;\nthat is why M. Noirtier was sentenced the day he made you his heir;\nthat is why you, in your turn, are to die it is because your father\nwould inherit your property, and your brother, his only son, succeed to\nhis. \n\n Edward? Poor child! Are all these crimes committed on his account? \n\n Ah, then you at length understand? \n\n Heaven grant that this may not be visited upon him! \n\n Valentine, you are an angel! \n\n But why is my grandfather allowed to live? \n\n It was considered, that you dead, the fortune would naturally revert\nto your brother, unless he were disinherited; and besides, the crime\nappearing useless, it would be folly to commit it. \n\n And is it possible that this frightful combination of crimes has been\ninvented by a woman? \n\n Do you recollect in the arbor of the H tel des Postes, at Perugia,\nseeing a man in a brown cloak, whom your stepmother was questioning\nupon _aqua tofana_? Well, ever since then, the infernal project has\nbeen ripening in her brain. \n\n Ah, then, indeed, sir,  said the sweet girl, bathed in tears,  I see\nthat I am condemned to die! \n\n No, Valentine, for I have foreseen all their plots; no, your enemy is\nconquered since we know her, and you will live, Valentine live to be\nhappy yourself, and to confer happiness upon a noble heart; but to\ninsure this you must rely on me. \n\n Command me, sir what am I to do? \n\n You must blindly take what I give you. \n\n Alas, were it only for my own sake, I should prefer to die! \n\n You must not confide in anyone not even in your father. \n\n My father is not engaged in this fearful plot, is he, sir?  asked\nValentine, clasping her hands.\n\n No; and yet your father, a man accustomed to judicial accusations,\nought to have known that all these deaths have not happened naturally;\nit is he who should have watched over you he should have occupied my\nplace he should have emptied that glass he should have risen against\nthe assassin. Spectre against spectre!  he murmured in a low voice, as\nhe concluded his sentence.\n\n Sir,  said Valentine,  I will do all I can to live, for there are two\nbeings who love me and will die if I die my grandfather and\nMaximilian. \n\n I will watch over them as I have over you. \n\n Well, sir, do as you will with me;  and then she added, in a low\nvoice,  oh, heavens, what will befall me? \n\n Whatever may happen, Valentine, do not be alarmed; though you suffer;\nthough you lose sight, hearing, consciousness, fear nothing; though you\nshould awake and be ignorant where you are, still do not fear; even\nthough you should find yourself in a sepulchral vault or coffin.\nReassure yourself, then, and say to yourself:  At this moment, a\nfriend, a father, who lives for my happiness and that of Maximilian,\nwatches over me! \n\n Alas, alas, what a fearful extremity! \n\n Valentine, would you rather denounce your stepmother? \n\n I would rather die a hundred times oh, yes, die! \n\n No, you will not die; but will you promise me, whatever happens, that\nyou will not complain, but hope? \n\n I will think of Maximilian! \n\n You are my own darling child, Valentine! I alone can save you, and I\nwill. \n\nValentine in the extremity of her terror joined her hands, for she felt\nthat the moment had arrived to ask for courage, and began to pray, and\nwhile uttering little more than incoherent words, she forgot that her\nwhite shoulders had no other covering than her long hair, and that the\npulsations of her heart could be seen through the lace of her\nnightdress. Monte Cristo gently laid his hand on the young girl s arm,\ndrew the velvet coverlet close to her throat, and said with a paternal\nsmile:\n\n My child, believe in my devotion to you as you believe in the goodness\nof Providence and the love of Maximilian.  Valentine gave him a look\nfull of gratitude, and remained as docile as a child.\n\nThen he drew from his waistcoat-pocket the little emerald box, raised\nthe golden lid, and took from it a pastille about the size of a pea,\nwhich he placed in her hand. She took it, and looked attentively on the\ncount; there was an expression on the face of her intrepid protector\nwhich commanded her veneration. She evidently interrogated him by her\nlook.\n\n Yes,  said he.\n\nValentine carried the pastille to her mouth, and swallowed it.\n\n And now, my dear child, adieu for the present. I will try and gain a\nlittle sleep, for you are saved. \n\n Go,  said Valentine,  whatever happens, I promise you not to fear. \n\nMonte Cristo for some time kept his eyes fixed on the young girl, who\ngradually fell asleep, yielding to the effects of the narcotic the\ncount had given her. Then he took the glass, emptied three parts of the\ncontents in the fireplace, that it might be supposed Valentine had\ntaken it, and replaced it on the table; then he disappeared, after\nthrowing a farewell glance on Valentine, who slept with the confidence\nand innocence of an angel at the feet of the Lord.\n\n\n\n Chapter 102. Valentine\n\nThe night-light continued to burn on the chimney-piece, exhausting the\nlast drops of oil which floated on the surface of the water. The globe\nof the lamp appeared of a reddish hue, and the flame, brightening\nbefore it expired, threw out the last flickerings which in an inanimate\nobject have been so often compared with the convulsions of a human\ncreature in its final agonies. A dull and dismal light was shed over\nthe bedclothes and curtains surrounding the young girl. All noise in\nthe streets had ceased, and the silence was frightful.\n\nIt was then that the door of Edward s room opened, and a head we have\nbefore noticed appeared in the glass opposite; it was Madame de\nVillefort, who came to witness the effects of the drink she had\nprepared. She stopped in the doorway, listened for a moment to the\nflickering of the lamp, the only sound in that deserted room, and then\nadvanced to the table to see if Valentine s glass were empty. It was\nstill about a quarter full, as we before stated. Madame de Villefort\nemptied the contents into the ashes, which she disturbed that they\nmight the more readily absorb the liquid; then she carefully rinsed the\nglass, and wiping it with her handkerchief replaced it on the table.\n\nIf anyone could have looked into the room just then he would have\nnoticed the hesitation with which Madame de Villefort approached the\nbed and looked fixedly on Valentine. The dim light, the profound\nsilence, and the gloomy thoughts inspired by the hour, and still more\nby her own conscience, all combined to produce a sensation of fear; the\npoisoner was terrified at the contemplation of her own work.\n\nAt length she rallied, drew aside the curtain, and leaning over the\npillow gazed intently on Valentine. The young girl no longer breathed,\nno breath issued through the half-closed teeth; the white lips no\nlonger quivered the eyes were suffused with a bluish vapor, and the\nlong black lashes rested on a cheek white as wax. Madame de Villefort\ngazed upon the face so expressive even in its stillness; then she\nventured to raise the coverlet and press her hand upon the young girl s\nheart. It was cold and motionless. She only felt the pulsation in her\nown fingers, and withdrew her hand with a shudder. One arm was hanging\nout of the bed; from shoulder to elbow it was moulded after the arms of\nGermain Pillon s  Graces, 23 but the fore-arm seemed to be slightly\ndistorted by convulsion, and the hand, so delicately formed, was\nresting with stiff outstretched fingers on the framework of the bed.\nThe nails, too, were turning blue.\n\nMadame de Villefort had no longer any doubt; all was over she had\nconsummated the last terrible work she had to accomplish. There was no\nmore to do in the room, so the poisoner retired stealthily, as though\nfearing to hear the sound of her own footsteps; but as she withdrew she\nstill held aside the curtain, absorbed in the irresistible attraction\nalways exerted by the picture of death, so long as it is merely\nmysterious and does not excite disgust.\n\nThe minutes passed; Madame de Villefort could not drop the curtain\nwhich she held like a funeral pall over the head of Valentine. She was\nlost in reverie, and the reverie of crime is remorse.\n\nJust then the lamp again flickered; the noise startled Madame de\nVillefort, who shuddered and dropped the curtain. Immediately\nafterwards the light expired, and the room was plunged in frightful\nobscurity, while the clock at that minute struck half-past four.\n\nOverpowered with agitation, the poisoner succeeded in groping her way\nto the door, and reached her room in an agony of fear. The darkness\nlasted two hours longer; then by degrees a cold light crept through the\nVenetian blinds, until at length it revealed the objects in the room.\n\nAbout this time the nurse s cough was heard on the stairs and the woman\nentered the room with a cup in her hand. To the tender eye of a father\nor a lover, the first glance would have sufficed to reveal Valentine s\ncondition; but to this hireling, Valentine only appeared to sleep.\n\n Good,  she exclaimed, approaching the table,  she has taken part of\nher draught; the glass is three-quarters empty. \n\nThen she went to the fireplace and lit the fire, and although she had\njust left her bed, she could not resist the temptation offered by\nValentine s sleep, so she threw herself into an armchair to snatch a\nlittle more rest. The clock striking eight awoke her. Astonished at the\nprolonged slumber of the patient, and frightened to see that the arm\nwas still hanging out of the bed, she advanced towards Valentine, and\nfor the first time noticed the white lips. She tried to replace the\narm, but it moved with a frightful rigidity which could not deceive a\nsick-nurse. She screamed aloud; then running to the door exclaimed:\n\n Help, help! \n\n50083m\n\n\n\n What is the matter?  asked M. d Avrigny, at the foot of the stairs, it\nbeing the hour he usually visited her.\n\n What is it?  asked Villefort, rushing from his room.  Doctor, do you\nhear them call for help? \n\n Yes, yes; let us hasten up; it was in Valentine s room. \n\nBut before the doctor and the father could reach the room, the servants\nwho were on the same floor had entered, and seeing Valentine pale and\nmotionless on her bed, they lifted up their hands towards heaven and\nstood transfixed, as though struck by lightening.\n\n Call Madame de Villefort! Wake Madame de Villefort!  cried the\nprocureur from the door of his chamber, which apparently he scarcely\ndared to leave. But instead of obeying him, the servants stood watching\nM. d Avrigny, who ran to Valentine, and raised her in his arms.\n\n What? this one, too?  he exclaimed.  Oh, where will be the end? \n\nVillefort rushed into the room.\n\n What are you saying, doctor?  he exclaimed, raising his hands to\nheaven.\n\n I say that Valentine is dead!  replied d Avrigny, in a voice terrible\nin its solemn calmness.\n\n50085m\n\n\n\nM. de Villefort staggered and buried his head in the bed. On the\nexclamation of the doctor and the cry of the father, the servants all\nfled with muttered imprecations; they were heard running down the\nstairs and through the long passages, then there was a rush in the\ncourt, afterwards all was still; they had, one and all, deserted the\naccursed house.\n\nJust then, Madame de Villefort, in the act of slipping on her\ndressing-gown, threw aside the drapery and for a moment stood\nmotionless, as though interrogating the occupants of the room, while\nshe endeavored to call up some rebellious tears. On a sudden she\nstepped, or rather bounded, with outstretched arms, towards the table.\nShe saw d Avrigny curiously examining the glass, which she felt certain\nof having emptied during the night. It was now a third full, just as it\nwas when she threw the contents into the ashes. The spectre of\nValentine rising before the poisoner would have alarmed her less. It\nwas, indeed, the same color as the draught she had poured into the\nglass, and which Valentine had drunk; it was indeed the poison, which\ncould not deceive M. d Avrigny, which he now examined so closely; it\nwas doubtless a miracle from heaven, that, notwithstanding her\nprecautions, there should be some trace, some proof remaining to reveal\nthe crime.\n\nWhile Madame de Villefort remained rooted to the spot like a statue of\nterror, and Villefort, with his head hidden in the bedclothes, saw\nnothing around him, d Avrigny approached the window, that he might the\nbetter examine the contents of the glass, and dipping the tip of his\nfinger in, tasted it.\n\n Ah,  he exclaimed,  it is no longer brucine that is used; let me see\nwhat it is! \n\nThen he ran to one of the cupboards in Valentine s room, which had been\ntransformed into a medicine closet, and taking from its silver case a\nsmall bottle of nitric acid, dropped a little of it into the liquor,\nwhich immediately changed to a blood-red color.\n\n Ah,  exclaimed d Avrigny, in a voice in which the horror of a judge\nunveiling the truth was mingled with the delight of a student making a\ndiscovery.\n\nMadame de Villefort was overpowered; her eyes first flashed and then\nswam, she staggered towards the door and disappeared. Directly\nafterwards the distant sound of a heavy weight falling on the ground\nwas heard, but no one paid any attention to it; the nurse was engaged\nin watching the chemical analysis, and Villefort was still absorbed in\ngrief. M. d Avrigny alone had followed Madame de Villefort with his\neyes, and watched her hurried retreat. He lifted up the drapery over\nthe entrance to Edward s room, and his eye reaching as far as Madame de\nVillefort s apartment, he beheld her extended lifeless on the floor.\n\n Go to the assistance of Madame de Villefort,  he said to the nurse.\n Madame de Villefort is ill. \n\n50087m\n\n\n\n But Mademoiselle de Villefort  stammered the nurse.\n\n Mademoiselle de Villefort no longer requires help,  said d Avrigny,\n since she is dead. \n\n Dead, dead!  groaned forth Villefort, in a paroxysm of grief, which\nwas the more terrible from the novelty of the sensation in the iron\nheart of that man.\n\n Dead!  repeated a third voice.  Who said Valentine was dead? \n\nThe two men turned round, and saw Morrel standing at the door, pale and\nterror-stricken. This is what had happened. At the usual time, Morrel\nhad presented himself at the little door leading to Noirtier s room.\nContrary to custom, the door was open, and having no occasion to ring\nhe entered. He waited for a moment in the hall and called for a servant\nto conduct him to M. Noirtier; but no one answered, the servants\nhaving, as we know, deserted the house. Morrel had no particular reason\nfor uneasiness; Monte Cristo had promised him that Valentine should\nlive, and so far he had always fulfilled his word. Every night the\ncount had given him news, which was the next morning confirmed by\nNoirtier. Still this extraordinary silence appeared strange to him, and\nhe called a second and third time; still no answer. Then he determined\nto go up. Noirtier s room was opened, like all the rest. The first\nthing he saw was the old man sitting in his armchair in his usual\nplace, but his eyes expressed alarm, which was confirmed by the pallor\nwhich overspread his features.\n\n How are you, sir?  asked Morrel, with a sickness of heart.\n\n Well,  answered the old man, by closing his eyes; but his appearance\nmanifested increasing uneasiness.\n\n You are thoughtful, sir,  continued Morrel;  you want something; shall\nI call one of the servants? \n\n Yes,  replied Noirtier.\n\nMorrel pulled the bell, but though he nearly broke the cord no one\nanswered. He turned towards Noirtier; the pallor and anguish expressed\non his countenance momentarily increased.\n\n Oh,  exclaimed Morrel,  why do they not come? Is anyone ill in the\nhouse?  The eyes of Noirtier seemed as though they would start from\ntheir sockets.  What is the matter? You alarm me. Valentine?\nValentine? \n\n Yes, yes,  signed Noirtier.\n\nMaximilian tried to speak, but he could articulate nothing; he\nstaggered, and supported himself against the wainscot. Then he pointed\nto the door.\n\n Yes, yes, yes!  continued the old man.\n\n50089m\n\n\n\nMaximilian rushed up the little staircase, while Noirtier s eyes seemed\nto say, Quicker, quicker! \n\nIn a minute the young man darted through several rooms, till at length\nhe reached Valentine s.\n\nThere was no occasion to push the door, it was wide open. A sob was the\nonly sound he heard. He saw as though in a mist, a black figure\nkneeling and buried in a confused mass of white drapery. A terrible\nfear transfixed him. It was then he heard a voice exclaim  Valentine is\ndead!  and another voice which, like an echo repeated:\n\n Dead, dead! \n\n50090m\n\n\n\n\n Chapter 103. Maximilian\n\nVillefort rose, half-ashamed of being surprised in such a paroxysm of\ngrief. The terrible office he had held for twenty-five years had\nsucceeded in making him more or less than man. His glance, at first\nwandering, fixed itself upon Morrel.  Who are you, sir,  he asked,\n that forget that this is not the manner to enter a house stricken with\ndeath? Go, sir, go! \n\nBut Morrel remained motionless; he could not detach his eyes from that\ndisordered bed, and the pale corpse of the young girl who was lying on\nit.\n\n Go! do you hear?  said Villefort, while d Avrigny advanced to lead\nMorrel out. Maximilian stared for a moment at the corpse, gazed all\naround the room, then upon the two men; he opened his mouth to speak,\nbut finding it impossible to give utterance to the innumerable ideas\nthat occupied his brain, he went out, thrusting his hands through his\nhair in such a manner that Villefort and d Avrigny, for a moment\ndiverted from the engrossing topic, exchanged glances, which seemed to\nsay, He is mad! \n\nBut in less than five minutes the staircase groaned beneath an\nextraordinary weight. Morrel was seen carrying, with superhuman\nstrength, the armchair containing Noirtier upstairs. When he reached\nthe landing he placed the armchair on the floor and rapidly rolled it\ninto Valentine s room. This could only have been accomplished by means\nof unnatural strength supplied by powerful excitement. But the most\nfearful spectacle was Noirtier being pushed towards the bed, his face\nexpressing all his meaning, and his eyes supplying the want of every\nother faculty. That pale face and flaming glance appeared to Villefort\nlike a frightful apparition. Each time he had been brought into contact\nwith his father, something terrible had happened.\n\n See what they have done!  cried Morrel, with one hand leaning on the\nback of the chair, and the other extended towards Valentine.  See, my\nfather, see! \n\nVillefort drew back and looked with astonishment on the young man, who,\nalmost a stranger to him, called Noirtier his father. At this moment\nthe whole soul of the old man seemed centred in his eyes which became\nbloodshot; the veins of the throat swelled; his cheeks and temples\nbecame purple, as though he was struck with epilepsy; nothing was\nwanting to complete this but the utterance of a cry. And the cry issued\nfrom his pores, if we may thus speak a cry frightful in its silence.\nD Avrigny rushed towards the old man and made him inhale a powerful\nrestorative.\n\n Sir,  cried Morrel, seizing the moist hand of the paralytic,  they ask\nme who I am, and what right I have to be here. Oh, you know it, tell\nthem, tell them!  And the young man s voice was choked by sobs.\n\nAs for the old man, his chest heaved with his panting respiration. One\ncould have thought that he was undergoing the agonies preceding death.\nAt length, happier than the young man, who sobbed without weeping,\ntears glistened in the eyes of Noirtier.\n\n Tell them,  said Morrel in a hoarse voice,  tell them that I am her\nbetrothed. Tell them she was my beloved, my noble girl, my only\nblessing in the world. Tell them oh, tell them, that corpse belongs to\nme! \n\nThe young man overwhelmed by the weight of his anguish, fell heavily on\nhis knees before the bed, which his fingers grasped with convulsive\nenergy. D Avrigny, unable to bear the sight of this touching emotion,\nturned away; and Villefort, without seeking any further explanation,\nand attracted towards him by the irresistible magnetism which draws us\ntowards those who have loved the people for whom we mourn, extended his\nhand towards the young man.\n\nBut Morrel saw nothing; he had grasped the hand of Valentine, and\nunable to weep vented his agony in groans as he bit the sheets. For\nsome time nothing was heard in that chamber but sobs, exclamations, and\nprayers. At length Villefort, the most composed of all, spoke:\n\n Sir,  said he to Maximilian,  you say you loved Valentine, that you\nwere betrothed to her. I knew nothing of this engagement, of this love,\nyet I, her father, forgive you, for I see that your grief is real and\ndeep; and besides my own sorrow is too great for anger to find a place\nin my heart. But you see that the angel whom you hoped for has left\nthis earth she has nothing more to do with the adoration of men. Take a\nlast farewell, sir, of her sad remains; take the hand you expected to\npossess once more within your own, and then separate yourself from her\nforever. Valentine now requires only the ministrations of the priest. \n\n50093m\n\n\n\n You are mistaken, sir,  exclaimed Morrel, raising himself on one knee,\nhis heart pierced by a more acute pang than any he had yet felt you\nare mistaken; Valentine, dying as she has, not only requires a priest,\nbut an avenger. _You_, M. de Villefort, send for the priest; _I_ will\nbe the avenger. \n\n What do you mean, sir?  asked Villefort, trembling at the new idea\ninspired by the delirium of Morrel.\n\n I tell you, sir, that two persons exist in you; the father has mourned\nsufficiently, now let the procureur fulfil his office. \n\nThe eyes of Noirtier glistened, and d Avrigny approached.\n\n Gentlemen,  said Morrel, reading all that passed through the minds of\nthe witnesses to the scene,  I know what I am saying, and you know as\nwell as I do what I am about to say Valentine has been assassinated! \n\nVillefort hung his head, d Avrigny approached nearer, and Noirtier said\n Yes  with his eyes.\n\n Now, sir,  continued Morrel,  in these days no one can disappear by\nviolent means without some inquiries being made as to the cause of her\ndisappearance, even were she not a young, beautiful, and adorable\ncreature like Valentine. Now, M. le Procureur du Roi,  said Morrel with\nincreasing vehemence,  no mercy is allowed; I denounce the crime; it is\nyour place to seek the assassin. \n\nThe young man s implacable eyes interrogated Villefort, who, on his\nside, glanced from Noirtier to d Avrigny. But instead of finding\nsympathy in the eyes of the doctor and his father, he only saw an\nexpression as inflexible as that of Maximilian.\n\n Yes,  indicated the old man.\n\n Assuredly,  said d Avrigny.\n\n Sir,  said Villefort, striving to struggle against this triple force\nand his own emotion, sir, you are deceived; no one commits crimes\nhere. I am stricken by fate. It is horrible, indeed, but no one\nassassinates. \n\nThe eyes of Noirtier lighted up with rage, and d Avrigny prepared to\nspeak. Morrel, however, extended his arm, and commanded silence.\n\n And I say that murders _are_ committed here,  said Morrel, whose\nvoice, though lower in tone, lost none of its terrible distinctness:  I\ntell you that this is the fourth victim within the last four months. I\ntell you, Valentine s life was attempted by poison four days ago,\nthough she escaped, owing to the precautions of M. Noirtier. I tell you\nthat the dose has been double, the poison changed, and that this time\nit has succeeded. I tell you that you know these things as well as I\ndo, since this gentleman has forewarned you, both as a doctor and as a\nfriend. \n\n Oh, you rave, sir,  exclaimed Villefort, in vain endeavoring to escape\nthe net in which he was taken.\n\n50095m\n\n\n\n I rave?  said Morrel;  well, then, I appeal to M. d Avrigny himself.\nAsk him, sir, if he recollects the words he uttered in the garden of\nthis house on the night of Madame de Saint-M ran s death. You thought\nyourselves alone, and talked about that tragical death, and the\nfatality you mentioned then is the same which has caused the murder of\nValentine.  Villefort and d Avrigny exchanged looks.\n\n Yes, yes,  continued Morrel;  recall the scene, for the words you\nthought were only given to silence and solitude fell into my ears.\nCertainly, after witnessing the culpable indolence manifested by M. de\nVillefort towards his own relations, I ought to have denounced him to\nthe authorities; then I should not have been an accomplice to thy\ndeath, as I now am, sweet, beloved Valentine; but the accomplice shall\nbecome the avenger. This fourth murder is apparent to all, and if thy\nfather abandon thee, Valentine, it is I, and I swear it, that shall\npursue the assassin. \n\nAnd this time, as though nature had at least taken compassion on the\nvigorous frame, nearly bursting with its own strength, the words of\nMorrel were stifled in his throat; his breast heaved; the tears, so\nlong rebellious, gushed from his eyes; and he threw himself weeping on\nhis knees by the side of the bed.\n\nThen d Avrigny spoke.  And I, too,  he exclaimed in a low voice,  I\nunite with M. Morrel in demanding justice for crime; my blood boils at\nthe idea of having encouraged a murderer by my cowardly concession. \n\n Oh, merciful Heavens!  murmured Villefort. Morrel raised his head, and\nreading the eyes of the old man, which gleamed with unnatural lustre, \n\n Stay,  he said,  M. Noirtier wishes to speak. \n\n Yes,  indicated Noirtier, with an expression the more terrible, from\nall his faculties being centred in his glance.\n\n Do you know the assassin?  asked Morrel.\n\n Yes,  replied Noirtier.\n\n And will you direct us?  exclaimed the young man.  Listen, M.\nd Avrigny, listen! \n\nNoirtier looked upon Morrel with one of those melancholy smiles which\nhad so often made Valentine happy, and thus fixed his attention. Then,\nhaving riveted the eyes of his interlocutor on his own, he glanced\ntowards the door.\n\n Do you wish me to leave?  said Morrel, sadly.\n\n Yes,  replied Noirtier.\n\n Alas, alas, sir, have pity on me! \n\nThe old man s eyes remained fixed on the door.\n\n May I, at least, return?  asked Morrel.\n\n Yes. \n\n Must I leave alone? \n\n No. \n\n Whom am I to take with me? The procureur? \n\n No. \n\n The doctor? \n\n Yes. \n\n You wish to remain alone with M. de Villefort? \n\n Yes. \n\n But can he understand you? \n\n Yes. \n\n Oh,  said Villefort, inexpressibly delighted to think that the\ninquiries were to be made by him alone, oh, be satisfied, I can\nunderstand my father.  While uttering these words with this expression\nof joy, his teeth clashed together violently.\n\nD Avrigny took the young man s arm, and led him out of the room. A more\nthan deathlike silence then reigned in the house. At the end of a\nquarter of an hour a faltering footstep was heard, and Villefort\nappeared at the door of the apartment where d Avrigny and Morrel had\nbeen staying, one absorbed in meditation, the other in grief.\n\n You can come,  he said, and led them back to Noirtier.\n\nMorrel looked attentively on Villefort. His face was livid, large drops\nrolled down his face, and in his fingers he held the fragments of a\nquill pen which he had torn to atoms.\n\n Gentlemen,  he said in a hoarse voice,  give me your word of honor\nthat this horrible secret shall forever remain buried amongst\nourselves!  The two men drew back.\n\n I entreat you  continued Villefort.\n\n But,  said Morrel,  the culprit the murderer the assassin. \n\n Do not alarm yourself, sir; justice will be done,  said Villefort.  My\nfather has revealed the culprit s name; my father thirsts for revenge\nas much as you do, yet even he conjures you as I do to keep this\nsecret. Do you not, father? \n\n Yes,  resolutely replied Noirtier. Morrel suffered an exclamation of\nhorror and surprise to escape him.\n\n Oh, sir,  said Villefort, arresting Maximilian by the arm,  if my\nfather, the inflexible man, makes this request, it is because he knows,\nbe assured, that Valentine will be terribly revenged. Is it not so,\nfather? \n\nThe old man made a sign in the affirmative. Villefort continued:\n\n He knows me, and I have pledged my word to him. Rest assured,\ngentlemen, that within three days, in a less time than justice would\ndemand, the revenge I shall have taken for the murder of my child will\nbe such as to make the boldest heart tremble;  and as he spoke these\nwords he ground his teeth, and grasped the old man s senseless hand.\n\n Will this promise be fulfilled, M. Noirtier?  asked Morrel, while\nd Avrigny looked inquiringly.\n\n Yes,  replied Noirtier with an expression of sinister joy.\n\n Swear, then,  said Villefort, joining the hands of Morrel and\nd Avrigny,  swear that you will spare the honor of my house, and leave\nme to avenge my child. \n\nD Avrigny turned round and uttered a very feeble  Yes,  but Morrel,\ndisengaging his hand, rushed to the bed, and after having pressed the\ncold lips of Valentine with his own, hurriedly left, uttering a long,\ndeep groan of despair and anguish.\n\nWe have before stated that all the servants had fled. M. de Villefort\nwas therefore obliged to request M. d Avrigny to superintend all the\narrangements consequent upon a death in a large city, more especially a\ndeath under such suspicious circumstances.\n\nIt was something terrible to witness the silent agony, the mute despair\nof Noirtier, whose tears silently rolled down his cheeks. Villefort\nretired to his study, and d Avrigny left to summon the doctor of the\nmayoralty, whose office it is to examine bodies after decease, and who\nis expressly named  the doctor of the dead.  M. Noirtier could not be\npersuaded to quit his grandchild. At the end of a quarter of an hour M.\nd Avrigny returned with his associate; they found the outer gate\nclosed, and not a servant remaining in the house; Villefort himself was\nobliged to open to them. But he stopped on the landing; he had not the\ncourage to again visit the death chamber. The two doctors, therefore,\nentered the room alone. Noirtier was near the bed, pale, motionless,\nand silent as the corpse. The district doctor approached with the\nindifference of a man accustomed to spend half his time amongst the\ndead; he then lifted the sheet which was placed over the face, and just\nunclosed the lips.\n\n Alas,  said d Avrigny,  she is indeed dead, poor child! \n\n50099m\n\n\n\n Yes,  answered the doctor laconically, dropping the sheet he had\nraised. Noirtier uttered a kind of hoarse, rattling sound; the old\nman s eyes sparkled, and the good doctor understood that he wished to\nbehold his child. He therefore approached the bed, and while his\ncompanion was dipping the fingers with which he had touched the lips of\nthe corpse in chloride of lime, he uncovered the calm and pale face,\nwhich looked like that of a sleeping angel.\n\nA tear, which appeared in the old man s eye, expressed his thanks to\nthe doctor. The doctor of the dead then laid his permit on the corner\nof the table, and having fulfilled his duty, was conducted out by\nd Avrigny. Villefort met them at the door of his study; having in a few\nwords thanked the district doctor, he turned to d Avrigny, and said:\n\n And now the priest. \n\n Is there any particular priest you wish to pray with Valentine?  asked\nd Avrigny.\n\n No.  said Villefort;  fetch the nearest. \n\n The nearest,  said the district doctor,  is a good Italian abb , who\nlives next door to you. Shall I call on him as I pass? \n\n D Avrigny,  said Villefort,  be so kind, I beseech you, as to\naccompany this gentleman. Here is the key of the door, so that you can\ngo in and out as you please; you will bring the priest with you, and\nwill oblige me by introducing him into my child s room. \n\n50101m\n\n\n\n Do you wish to see him? \n\n I only wish to be alone. You will excuse me, will you not? A priest\ncan understand a father s grief. \n\nAnd M. de Villefort, giving the key to d Avrigny, again bade farewell\nto the strange doctor, and retired to his study, where he began to\nwork. For some temperaments work is a remedy for all afflictions.\n\nAs the doctors entered the street, they saw a man in a cassock standing\non the threshold of the next door.\n\n This is the abb  of whom I spoke,  said the doctor to d Avrigny.\nD Avrigny accosted the priest.\n\n Sir,  he said,  are you disposed to confer a great obligation on an\nunhappy father who has just lost his daughter? I mean M. de Villefort,\nthe king s attorney. \n\n Ah,  said the priest, in a marked Italian accent;  yes, I have heard\nthat death is in that house. \n\n Then I need not tell you what kind of service he requires of you. \n\n I was about to offer myself, sir,  said the priest;  it is our mission\nto forestall our duties. \n\n It is a young girl. \n\n I know it, sir; the servants who fled from the house informed me. I\nalso know that her name is Valentine, and I have already prayed for\nher. \n\n Thank you, sir,  said d Avrigny;  since you have commenced your sacred\noffice, deign to continue it. Come and watch by the dead, and all the\nwretched family will be grateful to you. \n\n I am going, sir; and I do not hesitate to say that no prayers will be\nmore fervent than mine. \n\nD Avrigny took the priest s hand, and without meeting Villefort, who\nwas engaged in his study, they reached Valentine s room, which on the\nfollowing night was to be occupied by the undertakers. On entering the\nroom, Noirtier s eyes met those of the abb , and no doubt he read some\nparticular expression in them, for he remained in the room. D Avrigny\nrecommended the attention of the priest to the living as well as to the\ndead, and the abb  promised to devote his prayers to Valentine and his\nattentions to Noirtier.\n\nIn order, doubtless, that he might not be disturbed while fulfilling\nhis sacred mission, the priest rose as soon as d Avrigny departed, and\nnot only bolted the door through which the doctor had just left, but\nalso that leading to Madame de Villefort s room.\n\n\n\n Chapter 104. Danglars  Signature\n\nThe next morning dawned dull and cloudy. During the night the\nundertakers had executed their melancholy office, and wrapped the\ncorpse in the winding-sheet, which, whatever may be said about the\nequality of death, is at least a last proof of the luxury so pleasing\nin life. This winding-sheet was nothing more than a beautiful piece of\ncambric, which the young girl had bought a fortnight before.\n\nDuring the evening two men, engaged for the purpose, had carried\nNoirtier from Valentine s room into his own, and contrary to all\nexpectation there was no difficulty in withdrawing him from his child.\nThe Abb  Busoni had watched till daylight, and then left without\ncalling anyone. D Avrigny returned about eight o clock in the morning;\nhe met Villefort on his way to Noirtier s room, and accompanied him to\nsee how the old man had slept. They found him in the large armchair,\nwhich served him for a bed, enjoying a calm, nay, almost a smiling\nsleep. They both stood in amazement at the door.\n\n See,  said d Avrigny to Villefort,  nature knows how to alleviate the\ndeepest sorrow. No one can say that M. Noirtier did not love his child,\nand yet he sleeps. \n\n Yes, you are right,  replied Villefort, surprised;  he sleeps, indeed!\nAnd this is the more strange, since the least contradiction keeps him\nawake all night. \n\n Grief has stunned him,  replied d Avrigny; and they both returned\nthoughtfully to the procureur s study.\n\n See, I have not slept,  said Villefort, showing his undisturbed bed;\n grief does not stun me. I have not been in bed for two nights; but\nthen look at my desk; see what I have written during these two days and\nnights. I have filled those papers, and have made out the accusation\nagainst the assassin Benedetto. Oh, work, work, my passion, my joy, my\ndelight, it is for thee to alleviate my sorrows!  and he convulsively\ngrasped the hand of d Avrigny.\n\n Do you require my services now?  asked d Avrigny.\n\n No,  said Villefort;  only return again at eleven o clock; at twelve\nthe the oh, Heavens, my poor, poor child!  and the procureur again\nbecoming a man, lifted up his eyes and groaned.\n\n Shall you be present in the reception-room? \n\n No; I have a cousin who has undertaken this sad office. I shall work,\ndoctor when I work I forget everything. \n\nAnd, indeed, no sooner had the doctor left the room, than he was again\nabsorbed in work. On the doorsteps d Avrigny met the cousin whom\nVillefort had mentioned, a personage as insignificant in our story as\nin the world he occupied one of those beings designed from their birth\nto make themselves useful to others. He was punctual, dressed in black,\nwith crape around his hat, and presented himself at his cousin s with a\nface made up for the occasion, and which he could alter as might be\nrequired.\n\nAt eleven o clock the mourning-coaches rolled into the paved court, and\nthe Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honor  was filled with a crowd of idlers,\nequally pleased to witness the festivities or the mourning of the rich,\nand who rush with the same avidity to a funeral procession as to the\nmarriage of a duchess.\n\nGradually the reception-room filled, and some of our old friends made\ntheir appearance we mean Debray, Ch teau-Renaud, and Beauchamp,\naccompanied by all the leading men of the day at the bar, in\nliterature, or the army, for M. de Villefort moved in the first\nParisian circles, less owing to his social position than to his\npersonal merit.\n\nThe cousin standing at the door ushered in the guests, and it was\nrather a relief to the indifferent to see a person as unmoved as\nthemselves, and who did not exact a mournful face or force tears, as\nwould have been the case with a father, a brother, or a lover. Those\nwho were acquainted soon formed into little groups. One of them was\nmade of Debray, Ch teau-Renaud, and Beauchamp.\n\n Poor girl,  said Debray, like the rest, paying an involuntary tribute\nto the sad event, poor girl, so young, so rich, so beautiful! Could\nyou have imagined this scene, Ch teau-Renaud, when we saw her, at the\nmost three weeks ago, about to sign that contract? \n\n Indeed, no,  said Ch teau-Renaud. \n\n Did you know her? \n\n I spoke to her once or twice at Madame de Morcerf s, among the rest;\nshe appeared to me charming, though rather melancholy. Where is her\nstepmother? Do you know? \n\n She is spending the day with the wife of the worthy gentleman who is\nreceiving us. \n\n50105m\n\n\n\n Who is he? \n\n Whom do you mean? \n\n The gentleman who receives us? Is he a deputy? \n\n Oh, no. I am condemned to witness those gentlemen every day,  said\nBeauchamp;  but he is perfectly unknown to me. \n\n Have you mentioned this death in your paper? \n\n It has been mentioned, but the article is not mine; indeed, I doubt if\nit will please M. Villefort, for it says that if four successive deaths\nhad happened anywhere else than in the house of the king s attorney, he\nwould have interested himself somewhat more about it. \n\n Still,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  Dr. d Avrigny, who attends my mother,\ndeclares he is in despair about it. But whom are you seeking, Debray? \n\n I am seeking the Count of Monte Cristo  said the young man.\n\n I met him on the boulevard, on my way here,  said Beauchamp.  I think\nhe is about to leave Paris; he was going to his banker. \n\n His banker? Danglars is his banker, is he not?  asked Ch teau-Renaud\nof Debray.\n\n I believe so,  replied the secretary with slight uneasiness.  But\nMonte Cristo is not the only one I miss here; I do not see Morrel. \n\n Morrel? Do they know him?  asked Ch teau-Renaud.  I think he has only\nbeen introduced to Madame de Villefort. \n\n Still, he ought to have been here,  said Debray;  I wonder what will\nbe talked about tonight; this funeral is the news of the day. But hush,\nhere comes our minister of justice; he will feel obliged to make some\nlittle speech to the cousin,  and the three young men drew near to\nlisten.\n\nBeauchamp told the truth when he said that on his way to the funeral he\nhad met Monte Cristo, who was directing his steps towards the Rue de la\nChauss e d Antin, to M. Danglars . The banker saw the carriage of the\ncount enter the courtyard, and advanced to meet him with a sad, though\naffable smile.\n\n Well,  said he, extending his hand to Monte Cristo,  I suppose you\nhave come to sympathize with me, for indeed misfortune has taken\npossession of my house. When I perceived you, I was just asking myself\nwhether I had not wished harm towards those poor Morcerfs, which would\nhave justified the proverb of  He who wishes misfortunes to happen to\nothers experiences them himself.  Well, on my word of honor, I\nanswered,  No!  I wished no ill to Morcerf; he was a little proud,\nperhaps, for a man who like myself has risen from nothing; but we all\nhave our faults. Do you know, count, that persons of our time of\nlife not that you belong to the class, you are still a young man, but\nas I was saying, persons of our time of life have been very unfortunate\nthis year. For example, look at the puritanical procureur, who has just\nlost his daughter, and in fact nearly all his family, in so singular a\nmanner; Morcerf dishonored and dead; and then myself covered with\nridicule through the villany of Benedetto; besides \n\n Besides what?  asked the Count.\n\n Alas, do you not know? \n\n What new calamity? \n\n My daughter \n\n Mademoiselle Danglars? \n\n Eug nie has left us! \n\n Good heavens, what are you telling me? \n\n The truth, my dear count. Oh, how happy you must be in not having\neither wife or children! \n\n Do you think so? \n\n Indeed I do. \n\n And so Mademoiselle Danglars \n\n She could not endure the insult offered to us by that wretch, so she\nasked permission to travel. \n\n And is she gone? \n\n The other night she left. \n\n With Madame Danglars? \n\n No, with a relation. But still, we have quite lost our dear Eug nie;\nfor I doubt whether her pride will ever allow her to return to France. \n\n Still, baron,  said Monte Cristo,  family griefs, or indeed any other\naffliction which would crush a man whose child was his only treasure,\nare endurable to a millionaire. Philosophers may well say, and\npractical men will always support the opinion, that money mitigates\nmany trials; and if you admit the efficacy of this sovereign balm, you\nought to be very easily consoled you, the king of finance, the focus of\nimmeasurable power. \n\nDanglars looked at him askance, as though to ascertain whether he spoke\nseriously.\n\n Yes,  he answered,  if a fortune brings consolation, I ought to be\nconsoled; I am rich. \n\n So rich, dear sir, that your fortune resembles the pyramids; if you\nwished to demolish them you could not, and if it were possible, you\nwould not dare! \n\nDanglars smiled at the good-natured pleasantry of the count.  That\nreminds me,  he said,  that when you entered I was on the point of\nsigning five little bonds; I have already signed two: will you allow me\nto do the same to the others? \n\n Pray do so. \n\nThere was a moment s silence, during which the noise of the banker s\npen was alone heard, while Monte Cristo examined the gilt mouldings on\nthe ceiling.\n\n Are they Spanish, Haitian, or Neapolitan bonds?  said Monte Cristo.\n\n No,  said Danglars, smiling,  they are bonds on the bank of France,\npayable to bearer. Stay, count,  he added,  you, who may be called the\nemperor, if I claim the title of king of finance, have you many pieces\nof paper of this size, each worth a million? \n\nThe count took into his hands the papers, which Danglars had so proudly\npresented to him, and read: \n\n To the Governor of the Bank. Please pay to my order, from the fund\ndeposited by me, the sum of a million, and charge the same to my\naccount.\n\n Baron Danglars. \n\n One, two, three, four, five,  said Monte Cristo;  five millions why\nwhat a Cr sus you are! \n\n This is how I transact business,  said Danglars.\n\n It is really wonderful,  said the count;  above all, if, as I suppose,\nit is payable at sight. \n\n It is, indeed,  said Danglars.\n\n It is a fine thing to have such credit; really, it is only in France\nthese things are done. Five millions on five little scraps of paper! it\nmust be seen to be believed. \n\n You do not doubt it? \n\n No! \n\n You say so with an accent stay, you shall be convinced; take my clerk\nto the bank, and you will see him leave it with an order on the\nTreasury for the same sum. \n\n No,  said Monte Cristo folding the five notes,  most decidedly not;\nthe thing is so curious, I will make the experiment myself. I am\ncredited on you for six millions. I have drawn nine hundred thousand\nfrancs, you therefore still owe me five millions and a hundred thousand\nfrancs. I will take the five scraps of paper that I now hold as bonds,\nwith your signature alone, and here is a receipt in full for the six\nmillions between us. I had prepared it beforehand, for I am much in\nwant of money today. \n\nAnd Monte Cristo placed the bonds in his pocket with one hand, while\nwith the other he held out the receipt to Danglars. If a thunderbolt\nhad fallen at the banker s feet, he could not have experienced greater\nterror.\n\n What,  he stammered,  do you mean to keep that money? Excuse me,\nexcuse me, but I owe this money to the charity fund, a deposit which I\npromised to pay this morning. \n\n Oh, well, then,  said Monte Cristo,  I am not particular about these\nfive notes, pay me in a different form; I wished, from curiosity, to\ntake these, that I might be able to say that without any advice or\npreparation the house of Danglars had paid me five millions without a\nminute s delay; it would have been remarkable. But here are your bonds;\npay me differently;  and he held the bonds towards Danglars, who seized\nthem like a vulture extending its claws to withhold the food that is\nbeing wrested from its grasp.\n\nSuddenly he rallied, made a violent effort to restrain himself, and\nthen a smile gradually widened the features of his disturbed\ncountenance.\n\n50109m\n\n\n\n Certainly,  he said,  your receipt is money. \n\n Oh dear, yes; and if you were at Rome, the house of Thomson & French\nwould make no more difficulty about paying the money on my receipt than\nyou have just done. \n\n Pardon me, count, pardon me. \n\n Then I may keep this money? \n\n Yes,  said Danglars, while the perspiration started from the roots of\nhis hair.  Yes, keep it keep it. \n\nMonte Cristo replaced the notes in his pocket with that indescribable\nexpression which seemed to say,  Come, reflect; if you repent there is\nstill time. \n\n No,  said Danglars,  no, decidedly no; keep my signatures. But you\nknow none are so formal as bankers in transacting business; I intended\nthis money for the charity fund, and I seemed to be robbing them if I\ndid not pay them with these precise bonds. How absurd as if one crown\nwere not as good as another. Excuse me;  and he began to laugh loudly,\nbut nervously.\n\n Certainly, I excuse you,  said Monte Cristo graciously,  and pocket\nthem.  And he placed the bonds in his pocket-book.\n\n But,  said Danglars,  there is still a sum of one hundred thousand\nfrancs? \n\n Oh, a mere nothing,  said Monte Cristo.  The balance would come to\nabout that sum; but keep it, and we shall be quits. \n\n Count,  said Danglars,  are you speaking seriously? \n\n I never joke with bankers,  said Monte Cristo in a freezing manner,\nwhich repelled impertinence; and he turned to the door, just as the\nvalet de chambre announced:\n\n M. de Boville, Receiver-General of the charities. \n\n _Ma foi_,  said Monte Cristo;  I think I arrived just in time to\nobtain your signatures, or they would have been disputed with me. \n\nDanglars again became pale, and hastened to conduct the count out.\nMonte Cristo exchanged a ceremonious bow with M. de Boville, who was\nstanding in the waiting-room, and who was introduced into Danglars \nroom as soon as the count had left.\n\nThe count s serious face was illumined by a faint smile, as he noticed\nthe portfolio which the receiver-general held in his hand. At the door\nhe found his carriage, and was immediately driven to the bank.\nMeanwhile Danglars, repressing all emotion, advanced to meet the\nreceiver-general. We need not say that a smile of condescension was\nstamped upon his lips.\n\n Good-morning, creditor,  said he;  for I wager anything it is the\ncreditor who visits me. \n\n You are right, baron,  answered M. de Boville;  the charities present\nthemselves to you through me; the widows and orphans depute me to\nreceive alms to the amount of five millions from you. \n\n And yet they say orphans are to be pitied,  said Danglars, wishing to\nprolong the jest.  Poor things! \n\n Here I am in their name,  said M. de Boville;  but did you receive my\nletter yesterday? \n\n Yes. \n\n I have brought my receipt. \n\n50111m\n\n\n\n My dear M. de Boville, your widows and orphans must oblige me by\nwaiting twenty-four hours, since M. de Monte Cristo whom you just saw\nleaving here you did see him, I think? \n\n Yes; well? \n\n Well, M. de Monte Cristo has just carried off their five millions. \n\n How so? \n\n The count has an unlimited credit upon me; a credit opened by Thomson\n& French, of Rome; he came to demand five millions at once, which I\npaid him with checks on the bank. My funds are deposited there, and you\ncan understand that if I draw out ten millions on the same day it will\nappear rather strange to the governor. Two days will be a different\nthing,  said Danglars, smiling.\n\n Come,  said Boville, with a tone of entire incredulity,  five millions\nto that gentleman who just left, and who bowed to me as though he knew\nme? \n\n Perhaps he knows you, though you do not know him; M. de Monte Cristo\nknows everybody. \n\n Five millions! \n\n Here is his receipt. Believe your own eyes.  M. de Boville took the\npaper Danglars presented him, and read:\n\n Received of Baron Danglars the sum of five million one hundred\nthousand francs, to be repaid on demand by the house of Thomson &\nFrench of Rome. \n\n It is really true,  said M. de Boville.\n\n Do you know the house of Thomson & French? \n\n Yes, I once had business to transact with it to the amount of 200,000\nfrancs; but since then I have not heard it mentioned. \n\n It is one of the best houses in Europe,  said Danglars, carelessly\nthrowing down the receipt on his desk.\n\n And he had five millions in your hands alone! Why, this Count of Monte\nCristo must be a nabob? \n\n Indeed I do not know what he is; he has three unlimited credits one on\nme, one on Rothschild, one on Lafitte; and, you see,  he added\ncarelessly,  he has given me the preference, by leaving a balance of\n100,000 francs. \n\nM. de Boville manifested signs of extraordinary admiration.\n\n I must visit him,  he said,  and obtain some pious grant from him. \n\n Oh, you may make sure of him; his charities alone amount to 20,000\nfrancs a month. \n\n It is magnificent! I will set before him the example of Madame de\nMorcerf and her son. \n\n What example? \n\n They gave all their fortune to the hospitals. \n\n What fortune? \n\n Their own M. de Morcerf s, who is deceased. \n\n For what reason? \n\n Because they would not spend money so guiltily acquired. \n\n And what are they to live upon? \n\n The mother retires into the country, and the son enters the army. \n\n50113m\n\n\n\n Well, I must confess, these are scruples. \n\n I registered their deed of gift yesterday. \n\n And how much did they possess? \n\n Oh, not much from twelve to thirteen hundred thousand francs. But to\nreturn to our millions. \n\n Certainly,  said Danglars, in the most natural tone in the world.  Are\nyou then pressed for this money? \n\n Yes; for the examination of our cash takes place tomorrow. \n\n Tomorrow? Why did you not tell me so before? Why, it is as good as a\ncentury! At what hour does the examination take place? \n\n At two o clock. \n\n Send at twelve,  said Danglars, smiling.\n\nM. de Boville said nothing, but nodded his head, and took up the\nportfolio.\n\n Now I think of it, you can do better,  said Danglars.\n\n How do you mean? \n\n The receipt of M. de Monte Cristo is as good as money; take it to\nRothschild s or Lafitte s, and they will take it off your hands at\nonce. \n\n What, though payable at Rome? \n\n Certainly; it will only cost you a discount of 5,000 or 6,000 francs. \n\nThe receiver started back.\n\n _Ma foi!_  he said,  I prefer waiting till tomorrow. What a\nproposition! \n\n I thought, perhaps,  said Danglars with supreme impertinence,  that\nyou had a deficiency to make up? \n\n Indeed,  said the receiver.\n\n And if that were the case it would be worth while to make some\nsacrifice. \n\n Thank you, no, sir. \n\n Then it will be tomorrow. \n\n Yes; but without fail. \n\n Ah, you are laughing at me; send tomorrow at twelve, and the bank\nshall be notified. \n\n I will come myself. \n\n Better still, since it will afford me the pleasure of seeing you. \nThey shook hands.\n\n By the way,  said M. de Boville,  are you not going to the funeral of\npoor Mademoiselle de Villefort, which I met on my road here? \n\n No,  said the banker;  I have appeared rather ridiculous since that\naffair of Benedetto, so I remain in the background. \n\n Bah, you are wrong. How were you to blame in that affair? \n\n Listen when one bears an irreproachable name, as I do, one is rather\nsensitive. \n\n Everybody pities you, sir; and, above all, Mademoiselle Danglars! \n\n Poor Eug nie!  said Danglars;  do you know she is going to embrace a\nreligious life? \n\n No. \n\n Alas, it is unhappily but too true. The day after the event, she\ndecided on leaving Paris with a nun of her acquaintance; they are gone\nto seek a very strict convent in Italy or Spain. \n\n Oh, it is terrible!  and M. de Boville retired with this exclamation,\nafter expressing acute sympathy with the father. But he had scarcely\nleft before Danglars, with an energy of action those can alone\nunderstand who have seen Robert Macaire represented by Fr d rick,24\nexclaimed:\n\n Fool! \n\nThen enclosing Monte Cristo s receipt in a little pocket-book, he\nadded: Yes, come at twelve o clock; I shall then be far away. \n\nThen he double-locked his door, emptied all his drawers, collected\nabout fifty thousand francs in bank-notes, burned several papers, left\nothers exposed to view, and then commenced writing a letter which he\naddressed:\n\n To Madame la Baronne Danglars. \n\n I will place it on her table myself tonight,  he murmured. Then taking\na passport from his drawer he said, Good, it is available for two\nmonths longer. \n\n\n\n Chapter 105. The Cemetery of P re-Lachaise\n\nM. de Boville had indeed met the funeral procession which was taking\nValentine to her last home on earth. The weather was dull and stormy, a\ncold wind shook the few remaining yellow leaves from the boughs of the\ntrees, and scattered them among the crowd which filled the boulevards.\nM. de Villefort, a true Parisian, considered the cemetery of\nP re-Lachaise alone worthy of receiving the mortal remains of a\nParisian family; there alone the corpses belonging to him would be\nsurrounded by worthy associates. He had therefore purchased a vault,\nwhich was quickly occupied by members of his family. On the front of\nthe monument was inscribed:  The families of Saint-M ran and\nVillefort,  for such had been the last wish expressed by poor Ren e,\nValentine s mother. The pompous procession therefore wended its way\ntowards P re-Lachaise from the Faubourg Saint-Honor . Having crossed\nParis, it passed through the Faubourg du Temple, then leaving the\nexterior boulevards, it reached the cemetery. More than fifty private\ncarriages followed the twenty mourning-coaches, and behind them more\nthan five hundred persons joined in the procession on foot.\n\n50117m\n\n\n\nThese last consisted of all the young people whom Valentine s death had\nstruck like a thunderbolt, and who, notwithstanding the raw chilliness\nof the season, could not refrain from paying a last tribute to the\nmemory of the beautiful, chaste, and adorable girl, thus cut off in the\nflower of her youth.\n\nAs they left Paris, an equipage with four horses, at full speed, was\nseen to draw up suddenly; it contained Monte Cristo. The count left the\ncarriage and mingled in the crowd who followed on foot. Ch teau-Renaud\nperceived him and immediately alighting from his _coup _, joined him;\nBeauchamp did the same.\n\nThe count looked attentively through every opening in the crowd; he was\nevidently watching for someone, but his search ended in disappointment.\n\n50119m\n\n\n\n Where is Morrel?  he asked;  do either of these gentlemen know where\nhe is? \n\n We have already asked that question,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  for none\nof us has seen him. \n\nThe count was silent, but continued to gaze around him. At length they\narrived at the cemetery. The piercing eye of Monte Cristo glanced\nthrough clusters of bushes and trees, and was soon relieved from all\nanxiety, for seeing a shadow glide between the yew-trees, Monte Cristo\nrecognized him whom he sought.\n\nOne funeral is generally very much like another in this magnificent\nmetropolis. Black figures are seen scattered over the long white\navenues; the silence of earth and heaven is alone broken by the noise\nmade by the crackling branches of hedges planted around the monuments;\nthen follows the melancholy chant of the priests, mingled now and then\nwith a sob of anguish, escaping from some woman concealed behind a mass\nof flowers.\n\nThe shadow Monte Cristo had noticed passed rapidly behind the tomb of\nAb lard and H lo se, placed itself close to the heads of the horses\nbelonging to the hearse, and following the undertaker s men, arrived\nwith them at the spot appointed for the burial. Each person s attention\nwas occupied. Monte Cristo saw nothing but the shadow, which no one\nelse observed. Twice the count left the ranks to see whether the object\nof his interest had any concealed weapon beneath his clothes. When the\nprocession stopped, this shadow was recognized as Morrel, who, with his\ncoat buttoned up to his throat, his face livid, and convulsively\ncrushing his hat between his fingers, leaned against a tree, situated\non an elevation commanding the mausoleum, so that none of the funeral\ndetails could escape his observation.\n\nEverything was conducted in the usual manner. A few men, the least\nimpressed of all by the scene, pronounced a discourse, some deploring\nthis premature death, others expatiating on the grief of the father,\nand one very ingenious person quoting the fact that Valentine had\nsolicited pardon of her father for criminals on whom the arm of justice\nwas ready to fall until at length they exhausted their stores of\nmetaphor and mournful speeches, elaborate variations on the stanzas of\nMalherbe to Du P rier.\n\nMonte Cristo heard and saw nothing, or rather he only saw Morrel, whose\ncalmness had a frightful effect on those who knew what was passing in\nhis heart.\n\n See,  said Beauchamp, pointing out Morrel to Debray.  What is he doing\nup there?  And they called Ch teau-Renaud s attention to him.\n\n How pale he is!  said Ch teau-Renaud, shuddering.\n\n He is cold,  said Debray.\n\n Not at all,  said Ch teau-Renaud, slowly;  I think he is violently\nagitated. He is very susceptible. \n\n Bah,  said Debray;  he scarcely knew Mademoiselle de Villefort; you\nsaid so yourself. \n\n True. Still I remember he danced three times with her at Madame de\nMorcerf s. Do you recollect that ball, count, where you produced such\nan effect? \n\n50121m\n\n\n\n No, I do not,  replied Monte Cristo, without even knowing of what or\nto whom he was speaking, so much was he occupied in watching Morrel,\nwho was holding his breath with emotion.\n\n The discourse is over; farewell, gentlemen,  said the count,\nunceremoniously.\n\nAnd he disappeared without anyone seeing whither he went.\n\nThe funeral being over, the guests returned to Paris. Ch teau-Renaud\nlooked for a moment for Morrel; but while they were watching the\ndeparture of the count, Morrel had quitted his post, and\nCh teau-Renaud, failing in his search, joined Debray and Beauchamp.\n\nMonte Cristo concealed himself behind a large tomb and awaited the\narrival of Morrel, who by degrees approached the tomb now abandoned by\nspectators and workmen. Morrel threw a glance around, but before it\nreached the spot occupied by Monte Cristo the latter had advanced yet\nnearer, still unperceived. The young man knelt down. The count, with\noutstretched neck and glaring eyes, stood in an attitude ready to\npounce upon Morrel upon the first occasion. Morrel bent his head till\nit touched the stone, then clutching the grating with both hands, he\nmurmured:\n\n Oh, Valentine! \n\nThe count s heart was pierced by the utterance of these two words; he\nstepped forward, and touching the young man s shoulder, said:\n\n I was looking for you, my friend.  Monte Cristo expected a burst of\npassion, but he was deceived, for Morrel turning round, said calmly, \n\n You see I was praying.  The scrutinizing glance of the count searched\nthe young man from head to foot. He then seemed more easy.\n\n Shall I drive you back to Paris?  he asked.\n\n No, thank you. \n\n Do you wish anything? \n\n Leave me to pray. \n\nThe count withdrew without opposition, but it was only to place himself\nin a situation where he could watch every movement of Morrel, who at\nlength arose, brushed the dust from his knees, and turned towards\nParis, without once looking back. He walked slowly down the Rue de la\nRoquette. The count, dismissing his carriage, followed him about a\nhundred paces behind. Maximilian crossed the canal and entered the Rue\nMeslay by the boulevards.\n\nFive minutes after the door had been closed on Morrel s entrance, it\nwas again opened for the count. Julie was at the entrance of the\ngarden, where she was attentively watching Penelon, who, entering with\nzeal into his profession of gardener, was very busy grafting some\nBengal roses.  Ah, count,  she exclaimed, with the delight manifested\nby every member of the family whenever he visited the Rue Meslay.\n\n Maximilian has just returned, has he not, madame?  asked the count.\n\n50123m\n\n\n\n Yes, I think I saw him pass; but pray, call Emmanuel. \n\n Excuse me, madame, but I must go up to Maximilian s room this\ninstant,  replied Monte Cristo,  I have something of the greatest\nimportance to tell him. \n\n Go, then,  she said with a charming smile, which accompanied him until\nhe had disappeared.\n\nMonte Cristo soon ran up the staircase conducting from the ground floor\nto Maximilian s room; when he reached the landing he listened\nattentively, but all was still. Like many old houses occupied by a\nsingle family, the room door was panelled with glass; but it was\nlocked, Maximilian was shut in, and it was impossible to see what was\npassing in the room, because a red curtain was drawn before the glass.\nThe count s anxiety was manifested by a bright color which seldom\nappeared on the face of that imperturbable man.\n\n What shall I do!  he uttered, and reflected for a moment;  shall I\nring? No, the sound of a bell, announcing a visitor, will but\naccelerate the resolution of one in Maximilian s situation, and then\nthe bell would be followed by a louder noise. \n\nMonte Cristo trembled from head to foot and as if his determination had\nbeen taken with the rapidity of lightning, he struck one of the panes\nof glass with his elbow; the glass was shivered to atoms, then\nwithdrawing the curtain he saw Morrel, who had been writing at his\ndesk, bound from his seat at the noise of the broken window.\n\n I beg a thousand pardons,  said the count,  there is nothing the\nmatter, but I slipped down and broke one of your panes of glass with my\nelbow. Since it is opened, I will take advantage of it to enter your\nroom; do not disturb yourself do not disturb yourself! \n\nAnd passing his hand through the broken glass, the count opened the\ndoor. Morrel, evidently discomposed, came to meet Monte Cristo less\nwith the intention of receiving him than to exclude his entry.\n\n _Ma foi_,  said Monte Cristo, rubbing his elbow,  it s all your\nservant s fault; your stairs are so polished, it is like walking on\nglass. \n\n Are you hurt, sir?  coldly asked Morrel.\n\n I believe not. But what are you about there? You were writing. \n\n I? \n\n Your fingers are stained with ink. \n\n Ah, true, I was writing. I do sometimes, soldier though I am. \n\nMonte Cristo advanced into the room; Maximilian was obliged to let him\npass, but he followed him.\n\n You were writing?  said Monte Cristo with a searching look.\n\n I have already had the honor of telling you I was,  said Morrel.\n\nThe count looked around him.\n\n Your pistols are beside your desk,  said Monte Cristo, pointing with\nhis finger to the pistols on the table.\n\n I am on the point of starting on a journey,  replied Morrel\ndisdainfully.\n\n My friend,  exclaimed Monte Cristo in a tone of exquisite sweetness.\n\n Sir? \n\n My friend, my dear Maximilian, do not make a hasty resolution, I\nentreat you. \n\n I make a hasty resolution?  said Morrel, shrugging his shoulders;  is\nthere anything extraordinary in a journey? \n\n50125m\n\n\n\n Maximilian,  said the count,  let us both lay aside the mask we have\nassumed. You no more deceive me with that false calmness than I impose\nupon you with my frivolous solicitude. You can understand, can you not,\nthat to have acted as I have done, to have broken that glass, to have\nintruded on the solitude of a friend you can understand that, to have\ndone all this, I must have been actuated by real uneasiness, or rather\nby a terrible conviction. Morrel, you are going to destroy yourself! \n\n Indeed, count,  said Morrel, shuddering;  what has put this into your\nhead? \n\n I tell you that you are about to destroy yourself,  continued the\ncount,  and here is proof of what I say;  and, approaching the desk, he\nremoved the sheet of paper which Morrel had placed over the letter he\nhad begun, and took the latter in his hands.\n\nMorrel rushed forward to tear it from him, but Monte Cristo perceiving\nhis intention, seized his wrist with his iron grasp.\n\n You wish to destroy yourself,  said the count;  you have written it. \n\n Well,  said Morrel, changing his expression of calmness for one of\nviolence well, and if I do intend to turn this pistol against myself,\nwho shall prevent me who will dare prevent me? All my hopes are\nblighted, my heart is broken, my life a burden, everything around me is\nsad and mournful; earth has become distasteful to me, and human voices\ndistract me. It is a mercy to let me die, for if I live I shall lose my\nreason and become mad. When, sir, I tell you all this with tears of\nheartfelt anguish, can you reply that I am wrong, can you prevent my\nputting an end to my miserable existence? Tell me, sir, could you have\nthe courage to do so? \n\n Yes, Morrel,  said Monte Cristo, with a calmness which contrasted\nstrangely with the young man s excitement;  yes, I would do so. \n\n You?  exclaimed Morrel, with increasing anger and reproach you, who\nhave deceived me with false hopes, who have cheered and soothed me with\nvain promises, when I might, if not have saved her, at least have seen\nher die in my arms! You, who pretend to understand everything, even the\nhidden sources of knowledge, and who enact the part of a guardian angel\nupon earth, and could not even find an antidote to a poison\nadministered to a young girl! Ah, sir, indeed you would inspire me with\npity, were you not hateful in my eyes. \n\n Morrel \n\n Yes; you tell me to lay aside the mask, and I will do so, be\nsatisfied! When you spoke to me at the cemetery, I answered you my\nheart was softened; when you arrived here, I allowed you to enter. But\nsince you abuse my confidence, since you have devised a new torture\nafter I thought I had exhausted them all, then, Count of Monte Cristo\nmy pretended benefactor then, Count of Monte Cristo, the universal\nguardian, be satisfied, you shall witness the death of your friend; \nand Morrel, with a maniacal laugh, again rushed towards the pistols.\n\n And I again repeat, you shall not commit suicide. \n\n Prevent me, then!  replied Morrel, with another struggle, which, like\nthe first, failed in releasing him from the count s iron grasp.\n\n I will prevent you. \n\n50127m\n\n\n\n And who are you, then, that arrogate to yourself this tyrannical right\nover free and rational beings? \n\n Who am I?  repeated Monte Cristo.  Listen; I am the only man in the\nworld having the right to say to you,  Morrel, your father s son shall\nnot die today;  and Monte Cristo, with an expression of majesty and\nsublimity, advanced with arms folded toward the young man, who,\ninvoluntarily overcome by the commanding manner of this man, recoiled a\nstep.\n\n Why do you mention my father?  stammered he;  why do you mingle a\nrecollection of him with the affairs of today? \n\n Because I am he who saved your father s life when he wished to destroy\nhimself, as you do today because I am the man who sent the purse to\nyour young sister, and the _Pharaon_ to old Morrel because I am the\nEdmond Dant s who nursed you, a child, on my knees. \n\nMorrel made another step back, staggering, breathless, crushed; then\nall his strength give way, and he fell prostrate at the feet of Monte\nCristo. Then his admirable nature underwent a complete and sudden\nrevulsion; he arose, rushed out of the room and to the stairs,\nexclaiming energetically,  Julie, Julie Emmanuel, Emmanuel! \n\nMonte Cristo endeavored also to leave, but Maximilian would have died\nrather than relax his hold of the handle of the door, which he closed\nupon the count. Julie, Emmanuel, and some of the servants, ran up in\nalarm on hearing the cries of Maximilian. Morrel seized their hands,\nand opening the door exclaimed in a voice choked with sobs:\n\n On your knees on your knees he is our benefactor the saviour of our\nfather! He is \n\nHe would have added  Edmond Dant s,  but the count seized his arm and\nprevented him.\n\nJulie threw herself into the arms of the count; Emmanuel embraced him\nas a guardian angel; Morrel again fell on his knees, and struck the\nground with his forehead. Then the iron-hearted man felt his heart\nswell in his breast; a flame seemed to rush from his throat to his\neyes, he bent his head and wept. For a while nothing was heard in the\nroom but a succession of sobs, while the incense from their grateful\nhearts mounted to heaven. Julie had scarcely recovered from her deep\nemotion when she rushed out of the room, descended to the next floor,\nran into the drawing-room with childlike joy and raised the crystal\nglobe which covered the purse given by the unknown of the All es de\nMeilhan. Meanwhile, Emmanuel in a broken voice said to the count:\n\n Oh, count, how could you, hearing us so often speak of our unknown\nbenefactor, seeing us pay such homage of gratitude and adoration to his\nmemory, how could you continue so long without discovering yourself to\nus? Oh, it was cruel to us, and dare I say it? to you also. \n\n Listen, my friends,  said the count I may call you so since we have\nreally been friends for the last eleven years the discovery of this\nsecret has been occasioned by a great event which you must never know.\nI wished to bury it during my whole life in my own bosom, but your\nbrother Maximilian wrested it from me by a violence he repents of now,\nI am sure. \n\nThen turning around, and seeing that Morrel, still on his knees, had\nthrown himself into an armchair, he added in a low voice, pressing\nEmmanuel s hand significantly,  Watch over him. \n\n Why so?  asked the young man, surprised.\n\n I cannot explain myself; but watch over him.  Emmanuel looked around\nthe room and caught sight of the pistols; his eyes rested on the\nweapons, and he pointed to them. Monte Cristo bent his head. Emmanuel\nwent towards the pistols.\n\n Leave them,  said Monte Cristo. Then walking towards Morrel, he took\nhis hand; the tumultuous agitation of the young man was succeeded by a\nprofound stupor. Julie returned, holding the silken purse in her hands,\nwhile tears of joy rolled down her cheeks, like dewdrops on the rose.\n\n Here is the relic,  she said;  do not think it will be less dear to us\nnow we are acquainted with our benefactor! \n\n My child,  said Monte Cristo, coloring,  allow me to take back that\npurse? Since you now know my face, I wish to be remembered alone\nthrough the affection I hope you will grant me.\n\n Oh,  said Julie, pressing the purse to her heart,  no, no, I beseech\nyou do not take it, for some unhappy day you will leave us, will you\nnot? \n\n You have guessed rightly, madame,  replied Monte Cristo, smiling;  in\na week I shall have left this country, where so many persons who merit\nthe vengeance of Heaven lived happily, while my father perished of\nhunger and grief. \n\nWhile announcing his departure, the count fixed his eyes on Morrel, and\nremarked that the words,  I shall have left this country,  had failed\nto rouse him from his lethargy. He then saw that he must make another\nstruggle against the grief of his friend, and taking the hands of\nEmmanuel and Julie, which he pressed within his own, he said with the\nmild authority of a father:\n\n My kind friends, leave me alone with Maximilian. \n\nJulie saw the means offered of carrying off her precious relic, which\nMonte Cristo had forgotten. She drew her husband to the door.  Let us\nleave them,  she said.\n\nThe count was alone with Morrel, who remained motionless as a statue.\n\n Come,  said Monte-Cristo, touching his shoulder with his finger,  are\nyou a man again, Maximilian? \n\n Yes; for I begin to suffer again. \n\nThe count frowned, apparently in gloomy hesitation.\n\n Maximilian, Maximilian,  he said,  the ideas you yield to are unworthy\nof a Christian. \n\n Oh, do not fear, my friend,  said Morrel, raising his head, and\nsmiling with a sweet expression on the count;  I shall no longer\nattempt my life. \n\n Then we are to have no more pistols no more despair? \n\n No; I have found a better remedy for my grief than either a bullet or\na knife. \n\n Poor fellow, what is it? \n\n My grief will kill me of itself. \n\n My friend,  said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal\nto his own,  listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours,\nsince it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one\nday your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If\nanyone had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to\nhis head if anyone had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the\nfood I had not tasted for three days if anyone had said to either of us\nthen,  Live the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless\nlife! no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with\nthe smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity, and yet how many\ntimes has your father blessed life while embracing you how often have I\nmyself \n\n Ah,  exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count,  you had only lost your\nliberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost\nValentine. \n\n Look at me,  said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes\nmade him so eloquent and persuasive look at me. There are no tears in\nmy eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer you,\nMaximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you\nthat in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to\nbeyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the\nconviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your\nlife. \n\n Oh, heavens,  said the young man,  oh, heavens what are you saying,\ncount? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved! \n\n Child!  replied the count.\n\n I mean, as I love. You see, I have been a soldier ever since I\nattained manhood. I reached the age of twenty-nine without loving, for\nnone of the feelings I before then experienced merit the appellation of\nlove. Well, at twenty-nine I saw Valentine; for two years I have loved\nher, for two years I have seen written in her heart, as in a book, all\nthe virtues of a daughter and wife. Count, to possess Valentine would\nhave been a happiness too infinite, too ecstatic, too complete, too\ndivine for this world, since it has been denied me; but without\nValentine the earth is desolate. \n\n I have told you to hope,  said the count.\n\n Then have a care, I repeat, for you seek to persuade me, and if you\nsucceed I should lose my reason, for I should hope that I could again\nbehold Valentine. \n\nThe count smiled.\n\n My friend, my father,  said Morrel with excitement,  have a care, I\nagain repeat, for the power you wield over me alarms me. Weigh your\nwords before you speak, for my eyes have already become brighter, and\nmy heart beats strongly; be cautious, or you will make me believe in\nsupernatural agencies. I must obey you, though you bade me call forth\nthe dead or walk upon the water. \n\n Hope, my friend,  repeated the count.\n\n Ah,  said Morrel, falling from the height of excitement to the abyss\nof despair ah, you are playing with me, like those good, or rather\nselfish mothers who soothe their children with honeyed words, because\ntheir screams annoy them. No, my friend, I was wrong to caution you; do\nnot fear, I will bury my grief so deep in my heart, I will disguise it\nso, that you shall not even care to sympathize with me. Adieu, my\nfriend, adieu! \n\n On the contrary,  said the count,  after this time you must live with\nme you must not leave me, and in a week we shall have left France\nbehind us. \n\n And you still bid me hope? \n\n I tell you to hope, because I have a method of curing you. \n\n Count, you render me sadder than before, if it be possible. You think\nthe result of this blow has been to produce an ordinary grief, and you\nwould cure it by an ordinary remedy change of scene.  And Morrel\ndropped his head with disdainful incredulity.\n\n What can I say more?  asked Monte Cristo.  I have confidence in the\nremedy I propose, and only ask you to permit me to assure you of its\nefficacy. \n\n Count, you prolong my agony. \n\n Then,  said the count,  your feeble spirit will not even grant me the\ntrial I request? Come do you know of what the Count of Monte Cristo is\ncapable? do you know that he holds terrestrial beings under his\ncontrol? nay, that he can almost work a miracle? Well, wait for the\nmiracle I hope to accomplish, or \n\n Or?  repeated Morrel.\n\n Or, take care, Morrel, lest I call you ungrateful. \n\n Have pity on me, count! \n\n I feel so much pity towards you, Maximilian, that listen to me\nattentively if I do not cure you in a month, to the day, to the very\nhour, mark my words, Morrel, I will place loaded pistols before you,\nand a cup of the deadliest Italian poison a poison more sure and prompt\nthan that which has killed Valentine. \n\n Will you promise me? \n\n Yes; for I am a man, and have suffered like yourself, and also\ncontemplated suicide; indeed, often since misfortune has left me I have\nlonged for the delights of an eternal sleep. \n\n But you are sure you will promise me this?  said Morrel, intoxicated.\n\n I not only promise, but swear it!  said Monte Cristo extending his\nhand.\n\n In a month, then, on your honor, if I am not consoled, you will let me\ntake my life into my own hands, and whatever may happen you will not\ncall me ungrateful? \n\n In a month, to the day, the very hour and the date is a sacred one,\nMaximilian. I do not know whether you remember that this is the 5th of\nSeptember; it is ten years today since I saved your father s life, who\nwished to die. \n\nMorrel seized the count s hand and kissed it; the count allowed him to\npay the homage he felt due to him.\n\n In a month you will find on the table, at which we shall be then\nsitting, good pistols and a delicious draught; but, on the other hand,\nyou must promise me not to attempt your life before that time. \n\n Oh, I also swear it! \n\nMonte Cristo drew the young man towards him, and pressed him for some\ntime to his heart.  And now,  he said,  after today, you will come and\nlive with me; you can occupy Hayd e s apartment, and my daughter will\nat least be replaced by my son. \n\n Hayd e?  said Morrel,  what has become of her? \n\n She departed last night. \n\n To leave you? \n\n To wait for me. Hold yourself ready then to join me at the\nChamps- lys es, and lead me out of this house without anyone seeing my\ndeparture. \n\nMaximilian hung his head, and obeyed with childlike reverence.\n\n\n\n Chapter 106. Dividing the Proceeds\n\nThe apartment on the first floor of the house in the Rue\nSaint-Germain-des-Pr s, where Albert de Morcerf had selected a home for\nhis mother, was let to a very mysterious person. This was a man whose\nface the concierge himself had never seen, for in the winter his chin\nwas buried in one of the large red handkerchiefs worn by gentlemen s\ncoachmen on a cold night, and in the summer he made a point of always\nblowing his nose just as he approached the door. Contrary to custom,\nthis gentleman had not been watched, for as the report ran that he was\na person of high rank, and one who would allow no impertinent\ninterference, his _incognito_ was strictly respected.\n\nHis visits were tolerably regular, though occasionally he appeared a\nlittle before or after his time, but generally, both in summer and\nwinter, he took possession of his apartment about four o clock, though\nhe never spent the night there. At half-past three in the winter the\nfire was lighted by the discreet servant, who had the superintendence\nof the little apartment, and in the summer ices were placed on the\ntable at the same hour. At four o clock, as we have already stated, the\nmysterious personage arrived.\n\nTwenty minutes afterwards a carriage stopped at the house, a lady\nalighted in a black or dark blue dress, and always thickly veiled; she\npassed like a shadow through the lodge, and ran upstairs without a\nsound escaping under the touch of her light foot. No one ever asked her\nwhere she was going. Her face, therefore, like that of the gentleman,\nwas perfectly unknown to the two concierges, who were perhaps\nunequalled throughout the capital for discretion. We need not say she\nstopped at the first floor. Then she tapped in a peculiar manner at a\ndoor, which after being opened to admit her was again fastened, and\ncuriosity penetrated no farther. They used the same precautions in\nleaving as in entering the house. The lady always left first, and as\nsoon as she had stepped into her carriage, it drove away, sometimes\ntowards the right hand, sometimes to the left; then about twenty\nminutes afterwards the gentleman would also leave, buried in his cravat\nor concealed by his handkerchief.\n\nThe day after Monte Cristo had called upon Danglars, the mysterious\nlodger entered at ten o clock in the morning instead of four in the\nafternoon. Almost directly afterwards, without the usual interval of\ntime, a cab arrived, and the veiled lady ran hastily upstairs. The door\nopened, but before it could be closed, the lady exclaimed:\n\n Oh, Lucien oh, my friend! \n\nThe concierge therefore heard for the first time that the lodger s name\nwas Lucien; still, as he was the very perfection of a door-keeper, he\nmade up his mind not to tell his wife.\n\n Well, what is the matter, my dear?  asked the gentleman whose name the\nlady s agitation revealed;  tell me what is the matter. \n\n Oh, Lucien, can I confide in you? \n\n Of course, you know you can do so. But what can be the matter? Your\nnote of this morning has completely bewildered me. This\nprecipitation this unusual appointment. Come, ease me of my anxiety, or\nelse frighten me at once. \n\n Lucien, a great event has happened!  said the lady, glancing\ninquiringly at Lucien, M. Danglars left last night! \n\n Left? M. Danglars left? Where has he gone? \n\n I do not know. \n\n What do you mean? Has he gone intending not to return? \n\n Undoubtedly; at ten o clock at night his horses took him to the\nbarrier of Charenton; there a post-chaise was waiting for him he\nentered it with his valet de chambre, saying that he was going to\nFontainebleau. \n\n Then what did you mean \n\n Stay he left a letter for me. \n\n A letter? \n\n Yes; read it. \n\nAnd the baroness took from her pocket a letter which she gave to\nDebray. Debray paused a moment before reading, as if trying to guess\nits contents, or perhaps while making up his mind how to act, whatever\nit might contain. No doubt his ideas were arranged in a few minutes,\nfor he began reading the letter which caused so much uneasiness in the\nheart of the baroness, and which ran as follows:\n\n Madame and most faithful wife. \n\nDebray mechanically stopped and looked at the baroness, whose face\nbecame covered with blushes.\n\n Read,  she said.\n\nDebray continued:\n\n When you receive this, you will no longer have a husband. Oh, you\nneed not be alarmed, you will only have lost him as you have lost your\ndaughter; I mean that I shall be travelling on one of the thirty or\nforty roads leading out of France. I owe you some explanations for my\nconduct, and as you are a woman that can perfectly understand me, I\nwill give them. Listen, then. I received this morning five millions\nwhich I paid away; almost directly afterwards another demand for the\nsame sum was presented to me; I put this creditor off till tomorrow and\nI intend leaving today, to escape that tomorrow, which would be rather\ntoo unpleasant for me to endure. You understand this, do you not, my\nmost precious wife? I say you understand this, because you are as\nconversant with my affairs as I am; indeed, I think you understand them\nbetter, since I am ignorant of what has become of a considerable\nportion of my fortune, once very tolerable, while I am sure, madame,\nthat you know perfectly well. For women have infallible instincts; they\ncan even explain the marvellous by an algebraic calculation they have\ninvented; but I, who only understand my own figures, know nothing more\nthan that one day these figures deceived me. Have you admired the\nrapidity of my fall? Have you been slightly dazzled at the sudden\nfusion of my ingots? I confess I have seen nothing but the fire; let us\nhope you have found some gold among the ashes. With this consoling\nidea, I leave you, madame, and most prudent wife, without any\nconscientious reproach for abandoning you; you have friends left, and\nthe ashes I have already mentioned, and above all the liberty I hasten\nto restore to you. And here, madame, I must add another word of\nexplanation. So long as I hoped you were working for the good of our\nhouse and for the fortune of our daughter, I philosophically closed my\neyes; but as you have transformed that house into a vast ruin I will\nnot be the foundation of another man s fortune. You were rich when I\nmarried you, but little respected. Excuse me for speaking so very\ncandidly, but as this is intended only for ourselves, I do not see why\nI should weigh my words. I have augmented our fortune, and it has\ncontinued to increase during the last fifteen years, till extraordinary\nand unexpected catastrophes have suddenly overturned it, without any\nfault of mine, I can honestly declare. You, madame, have only sought to\nincrease your own, and I am convinced that you have succeeded. I leave\nyou, therefore, as I took you, rich, but little respected. Adieu! I\nalso intend from this time to work on my own account. Accept my\nacknowledgments for the example you have set me, and which I intend\nfollowing.\n\n Your very devoted husband,\n\n Baron Danglars. \n\nThe baroness had watched Debray while he read this long and painful\nletter, and saw him, notwithstanding his self-control, change color\nonce or twice. When he had ended the perusal, he folded the letter and\nresumed his pensive attitude.\n\n Well?  asked Madame Danglars, with an anxiety easy to be understood.\n\n Well, madame?  unhesitatingly repeated Debray.\n\n With what ideas does that letter inspire you? \n\n Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it inspires me with the idea that M.\nDanglars has left suspiciously. \n\n Certainly; but is this all you have to say to me? \n\n I do not understand you,  said Debray with freezing coldness.\n\n He is gone! Gone, never to return! \n\n Oh, madame, do not think that! \n\n I tell you he will never return. I know his character; he is\ninflexible in any resolutions formed for his own interests. If he could\nhave made any use of me, he would have taken me with him; he leaves me\nin Paris, as our separation will conduce to his benefit; therefore he\nhas gone, and I am free forever,  added Madame Danglars, in the same\nsupplicating tone.\n\nDebray, instead of answering, allowed her to remain in an attitude of\nnervous inquiry.\n\n Well?  she said at length,  do you not answer me? \n\n I have but one question to ask you, what do you intend to do? \n\n I was going to ask you,  replied the baroness with a beating heart.\n\n Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of me? \n\n Yes; I do wish to ask your advice,  said Madame Danglars with anxious\nexpectation.\n\n Then if you wish to take my advice,  said the young man coldly,  I\nwould recommend you to travel. \n\n To travel!  she murmured.\n\n Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly free. In\nmy opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely necessary after the\ndouble catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars  broken contract and M.\nDanglars  disappearance. The world will think you abandoned and poor,\nfor the wife of a bankrupt would never be forgiven, were she to keep up\nan appearance of opulence. You have only to remain in Paris for about a\nfortnight, telling the world you are abandoned, and relating the\ndetails of this desertion to your best friends, who will soon spread\nthe report. Then you can quit your house, leaving your jewels and\ngiving up your jointure, and everyone s mouth will be filled with\npraises of your disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and\nthink you also poor, for I alone know your real financial position, and\nam quite ready to give up my accounts as an honest partner. \n\nThe dread with which the pale and motionless baroness listened to this,\nwas equalled by the calm indifference with which Debray had spoken.\n\n Deserted?  she repeated;  ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are\nright, sir, and no one can doubt my position. \n\nThese were the only words that this proud and violently enamoured woman\ncould utter in response to Debray.\n\n50137m\n\n\n\n But then you are rich, very rich, indeed,  continued Debray, taking\nout some papers from his pocket-book, which he spread upon the table.\nMadame Danglars did not see them; she was engaged in stilling the\nbeatings of her heart, and restraining the tears which were ready to\ngush forth. At length a sense of dignity prevailed, and if she did not\nentirely master her agitation, she at least succeeded in preventing the\nfall of a single tear.\n\n Madame,  said Debray,  it is nearly six months since we have been\nassociated. You furnished a principal of 100,000 francs. Our\npartnership began in the month of April. In May we commenced\noperations, and in the course of the month gained 450,000 francs. In\nJune the profit amounted to 900,000. In July we added 1,700,000\nfrancs, it was, you know, the month of the Spanish bonds. In August we\nlost 300,000 francs at the beginning of the month, but on the 13th we\nmade up for it, and we now find that our accounts, reckoning from the\nfirst day of partnership up to yesterday, when I closed them, showed a\ncapital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for each of us. Now,\nmadame,  said Debray, delivering up his accounts in the methodical\nmanner of a stockbroker,  there are still 80,000 francs, the interest\nof this money, in my hands. \n\n But,  said the baroness,  I thought you never put the money out to\ninterest. \n\n Excuse me, madame,  said Debray coldly,  I had your permission to do\nso, and I have made use of it. There are, then, 40,000 francs for your\nshare, besides the 100,000 you furnished me to begin with, making in\nall 1,340,000 francs for your portion. Now, madame, I took the\nprecaution of drawing out your money the day before yesterday; it is\nnot long ago, you see, and I was in continual expectation of being\ncalled on to deliver up my accounts. There is your money, half in\nbank-notes, the other half in checks payable to bearer. I say _there_,\nfor as I did not consider my house safe enough, or lawyers sufficiently\ndiscreet, and as landed property carries evidence with it, and moreover\nsince you have no right to possess anything independent of your\nhusband, I have kept this sum, now your whole fortune, in a chest\nconcealed under that closet, and for greater security I myself\nconcealed it there.\n\n Now, madame,  continued Debray, first opening the closet, then the\nchest; now, madame, here are 800 notes of 1,000 francs each,\nresembling, as you see, a large book bound in iron; to this I add a\ncertificate in the funds of 25,000 francs; then, for the odd cash,\nmaking I think about 110,000 francs, here is a check upon my banker,\nwho, not being M. Danglars, will pay you the amount, you may rest\nassured. \n\nMadame Danglars mechanically took the check, the bond, and the heap of\nbank-notes. This enormous fortune made no great appearance on the\ntable. Madame Danglars, with tearless eyes, but with her breast heaving\nwith concealed emotion, placed the bank-notes in her bag, put the\ncertificate and check into her pocket-book, and then, standing pale and\nmute, awaited one kind word of consolation.\n\nBut she waited in vain.\n\n Now, madame,  said Debray,  you have a splendid fortune, an income of\nabout 60,000 livres a year, which is enormous for a woman who cannot\nkeep an establishment here for a year, at least. You will be able to\nindulge all your fancies; besides, should you find your income\ninsufficient, you can, for the sake of the past, madame, make use of\nmine; and I am ready to offer you all I possess, on loan. \n\n Thank you, sir thank you,  replied the baroness;  you forget that what\nyou have just paid me is much more than a poor woman requires, who\nintends for some time, at least, to retire from the world. \n\nDebray was, for a moment, surprised, but immediately recovering\nhimself, he bowed with an air which seemed to say,  As you please,\nmadame. \n\nMadame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for something; but when\nshe saw the careless bow of Debray, and the glance by which it was\naccompanied, together with his significant silence, she raised her\nhead, and without passion or violence or even hesitation, ran\ndownstairs, disdaining to address a last farewell to one who could thus\npart from her.\n\n Bah,  said Debray, when she had left,  these are fine projects! She\nwill remain at home, read novels, and speculate at cards, since she can\nno longer do so on the Bourse. \n\nThen taking up his account book, he cancelled with the greatest care\nall the entries of the amounts he had just paid away.\n\n I have 1,060,000 francs remaining,  he said.  What a pity Mademoiselle\nde Villefort is dead! She suited me in every respect, and I would have\nmarried her. \n\nAnd he calmly waited until the twenty minutes had elapsed after Madame\nDanglars  departure before he left the house. During this time he\noccupied himself in making figures, with his watch by his side.\n\nAsmodeus that diabolical personage, who would have been created by\nevery fertile imagination if Le Sage had not acquired the priority in\nhis great masterpiece would have enjoyed a singular spectacle, if he\nhad lifted up the roof of the little house in the Rue\nSaint-Germain-des-Pr s, while Debray was casting up his figures.\n\nAbove the room in which Debray had been dividing two millions and a\nhalf with Madame Danglars was another, inhabited by persons who have\nplayed too prominent a part in the incidents we have related for their\nappearance not to create some interest.\n\nMerc d s and Albert were in that room.\n\nMerc d s was much changed within the last few days; not that even in\nher days of fortune she had ever dressed with the magnificent display\nwhich makes us no longer able to recognize a woman when she appears in\na plain and simple attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into that state\nof depression where it is impossible to conceal the garb of misery; no,\nthe change in Merc d s was that her eye no longer sparkled, her lips no\nlonger smiled, and there was now a hesitation in uttering the words\nwhich formerly sprang so fluently from her ready wit.\n\nIt was not poverty which had broken her spirit; it was not a want of\ncourage which rendered her poverty burdensome. Merc d s, although\ndeposed from the exalted position she had occupied, lost in the sphere\nshe had now chosen, like a person passing from a room splendidly\nlighted into utter darkness, appeared like a queen, fallen from her\npalace to a hovel, and who, reduced to strict necessity, could neither\nbecome reconciled to the earthen vessels she was herself forced to\nplace upon the table, nor to the humble pallet which had become her\nbed.\n\nThe beautiful Catalane and noble countess had lost both her proud\nglance and charming smile, because she saw nothing but misery around\nher; the walls were hung with one of the gray papers which economical\nlandlords choose as not likely to show the dirt; the floor was\nuncarpeted; the furniture attracted the attention to the poor attempt\nat luxury; indeed, everything offended eyes accustomed to refinement\nand elegance.\n\nMadame de Morcerf had lived there since leaving her house; the\ncontinual silence of the spot oppressed her; still, seeing that Albert\ncontinually watched her countenance to judge the state of her feelings,\nshe constrained herself to assume a monotonous smile of the lips alone,\nwhich, contrasted with the sweet and beaming expression that usually\nshone from her eyes, seemed like  moonlight on a statue, yielding\nlight without warmth.\n\nAlbert, too, was ill at ease; the remains of luxury prevented him from\nsinking into his actual position. If he wished to go out without\ngloves, his hands appeared too white; if he wished to walk through the\ntown, his boots seemed too highly polished. Yet these two noble and\nintelligent creatures, united by the indissoluble ties of maternal and\nfilial love, had succeeded in tacitly understanding one another, and\neconomizing their stores, and Albert had been able to tell his mother\nwithout extorting a change of countenance:\n\n Mother, we have no more money. \n\n50141m\n\n\n\nMerc d s had never known misery; she had often, in her youth, spoken of\npoverty, but between want and necessity, those synonymous words, there\nis a wide difference.\n\nAmongst the Catalans, Merc d s wished for a thousand things, but still\nshe never really wanted any. So long as the nets were good, they caught\nfish; and so long as they sold their fish, they were able to buy twine\nfor new nets. And then, shut out from friendship, having but one\naffection, which could not be mixed up with her ordinary pursuits, she\nthought of herself of no one but herself. Upon the little she earned\nshe lived as well as she could; now there were two to be supported, and\nnothing to live upon.\n\nWinter approached. Merc d s had no fire in that cold and naked\nroom she, who was accustomed to stoves which heated the house from the\nhall to the boudoir; she had not even one little flower she whose\napartment had been a conservatory of costly exotics. But she had her\nson. Hitherto the excitement of fulfilling a duty had sustained them.\nExcitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes renders us unconscious to the\nthings of earth. But the excitement had calmed down, and they felt\nthemselves obliged to descend from dreams to reality; after having\nexhausted the ideal, they found they must talk of the actual.\n\n Mother,  exclaimed Albert, just as Madame Danglars was descending the\nstairs,  let us reckon our riches, if you please; I want capital to\nbuild my plans upon. \n\n Capital nothing!  replied Merc d s with a mournful smile.\n\n No, mother, capital 3,000 francs. And I have an idea of our leading a\ndelightful life upon this 3,000 francs. \n\n Child!  sighed Merc d s.\n\n Alas, dear mother,  said the young man,  I have unhappily spent too\nmuch of your money not to know the value of it. These 3,000 francs are\nenormous, and I intend building upon this foundation a miraculous\ncertainty for the future. \n\n You say this, my dear boy; but do you think we ought to accept these\n3,000 francs?  said Merc d s, coloring.\n\n I think so,  answered Albert in a firm tone.  We will accept them the\nmore readily, since we have them not here; you know they are buried in\nthe garden of the little house in the All es de Meilhan, at Marseilles.\nWith 200 francs we can reach Marseilles. \n\n With 200 francs? are you sure, Albert? \n\n Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries respecting the diligences and\nsteamboats, and my calculations are made. You will take your place in\nthe _coup _ to Ch lons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for\nthirty-five francs. \n\nAlbert then took a pen, and wrote:\n\n\n                                                         Frs. _Coup _,\n                                                         thirty-five\n                                                         francs........\n                                                         ..............\n                                                         ........ 35.\n                                                         From Ch lons\n                                                         to Lyons you\n                                                         will go on by\n                                                         the\n                                                         steamboat.. \n                                                         6. From Lyons\n                                                         to Avignon\n                                                         (still by\n                                                         steamboat)....\n                                                         ......... 16.\n                                                         From Avignon\n                                                         to Marseilles,\n                                                         seven\n                                                         francs........\n                                                         .......  7.\n                                                         Expenses on\n                                                         the road,\n                                                         about fifty\n                                                         francs........\n                                                         ....... 50.\n                                                         Total.........\n                                                         ..............\n                                                         ..............\n                                                         ............\n                                                         114 frs.\n\n Let us put down 120,  added Albert, smiling.  You see I am generous,\nam I not, mother? \n\n But you, my poor child? \n\n I? do you not see that I reserve eighty francs for myself? A young man\ndoes not require luxuries; besides, I know what travelling is. \n\n With a post-chaise and valet de chambre? \n\n Any way, mother. \n\n Well, be it so. But these 200 francs? \n\n Here they are, and 200 more besides. See, I have sold my watch for 100\nfrancs, and the guard and seals for 300. How fortunate that the\nornaments were worth more than the watch. Still the same story of\nsuperfluities! Now I think we are rich, since instead of the 114 francs\nwe require for the journey we find ourselves in possession of 250. \n\n But we owe something in this house? \n\n Thirty francs; but I pay that out of my 150 francs, that is\nunderstood, and as I require only eighty francs for my journey, you see\nI am overwhelmed with luxury. But that is not all. What do you say to\nthis, mother? \n\nAnd Albert took out of a little pocket-book with golden clasps, a\nremnant of his old fancies, or perhaps a tender souvenir from one of\nthe mysterious and veiled ladies who used to knock at his little\ndoor, Albert took out of this pocket-book a note of 1,000 francs.\n\n What is this?  asked Merc d s.\n\n A thousand francs. \n\n But whence have you obtained them? \n\n Listen to me, mother, and do not yield too much to agitation.  And\nAlbert, rising, kissed his mother on both cheeks, then stood looking at\nher.  You cannot imagine, mother, how beautiful I think you!  said the\nyoung man, impressed with a profound feeling of filial love.  You are,\nindeed, the most beautiful and most noble woman I ever saw! \n\n Dear child!  said Merc d s, endeavoring in vain to restrain a tear\nwhich glistened in the corner of her eye.  Indeed, you only wanted\nmisfortune to change my love for you to admiration. I am not unhappy\nwhile I possess my son! \n\n Ah, just so,  said Albert;  here begins the trial. Do you know the\ndecision we have come to, mother? \n\n Have we come to any? \n\n Yes; it is decided that you are to live at Marseilles, and that I am\nto leave for Africa, where I will earn for myself the right to use the\nname I now bear, instead of the one I have thrown aside.  Merc d s\nsighed.  Well, mother, I yesterday engaged myself as substitute in the\nSpahis, 25 added the young man, lowering his eyes with a certain\nfeeling of shame, for even he was unconscious of the sublimity of his\nself-abasement.  I thought my body was my own, and that I might sell\nit. I yesterday took the place of another. I sold myself for more than\nI thought I was worth,  he added, attempting to smile;  I fetched 2,000\nfrancs. \n\n Then these 1,000 francs  said Merc d s, shuddering.\n\n Are the half of the sum, mother; the other will be paid in a year. \n\nMerc d s raised her eyes to heaven with an expression it would be\nimpossible to describe, and tears, which had hitherto been restrained,\nnow yielded to her emotion, and ran down her cheeks.\n\n The price of his blood!  she murmured.\n\n Yes, if I am killed,  said Albert, laughing.  But I assure you,\nmother, I have a strong intention of defending my person, and I never\nfelt half so strong an inclination to live as I do now. \n\n Merciful Heavens! \n\n Besides, mother, why should you make up your mind that I am to be\nkilled? Has Lamorici re, that Ney of the South, been killed? Has\nChangarnier been killed? Has Bedeau been killed? Has Morrel, whom we\nknow, been killed? Think of your joy, mother, when you see me return\nwith an embroidered uniform! I declare, I expect to look magnificent in\nit, and chose that regiment only from vanity. \n\nMerc d s sighed while endeavoring to smile; the devoted mother felt\nthat she ought not to allow the whole weight of the sacrifice to fall\nupon her son.\n\n Well, now you understand, mother!  continued Albert;  here are more\nthan 4,000 francs settled on you; upon these you can live at least two\nyears. \n\n Do you think so?  said Merc d s.\n\nThese words were uttered in so mournful a tone that their real meaning\ndid not escape Albert; he felt his heart beat, and taking his mother s\nhand within his own he said, tenderly:\n\n Yes, you will live! \n\n I shall live! then you will not leave me, Albert? \n\n Mother, I must go,  said Albert in a firm, calm voice;  you love me\ntoo well to wish me to remain useless and idle with you; besides, I\nhave signed. \n\n50145m\n\n\n\n You will obey your own wish and the will of Heaven! \n\n Not my own wish, mother, but reason necessity. Are we not two\ndespairing creatures? What is life to you? Nothing. What is life to\nme? Very little without you, mother; for believe me, but for you I\nshould have ceased to live on the day I doubted my father and renounced\nhis name. Well, I will live, if you promise me still to hope; and if\nyou grant me the care of your future prospects, you will redouble my\nstrength. Then I will go to the governor of Algeria; he has a royal\nheart, and is essentially a soldier; I will tell him my gloomy story. I\nwill beg him to turn his eyes now and then towards me, and if he keep\nhis word and interest himself for me, in six months I shall be an\nofficer, or dead. If I am an officer, your fortune is certain, for I\nshall have money enough for both, and, moreover, a name we shall both\nbe proud of, since it will be our own. If I am killed well then mother,\nyou can also die, and there will be an end of our misfortunes. \n\n It is well,  replied Merc d s, with her eloquent glance;  you are\nright, my love; let us prove to those who are watching our actions that\nwe are worthy of compassion. \n\n But let us not yield to gloomy apprehensions,  said the young man;  I\nassure you we are, or rather we shall be, very happy. You are a woman\nat once full of spirit and resignation; I have become simple in my\ntastes, and am without passion, I hope. Once in service, I shall be\nrich once in M. Dant s  house, you will be at rest. Let us strive, I\nbeseech you, let us strive to be cheerful. \n\n Yes, let us strive, for you ought to live, and to be happy, Albert. \n\n And so our division is made, mother,  said the young man, affecting\nease of mind.  We can now part; come, I shall engage your passage. \n\n And you, my dear boy? \n\n I shall stay here for a few days longer; we must accustom ourselves to\nparting. I want recommendations and some information relative to\nAfrica. I will join you again at Marseilles. \n\n Well, be it so let us part,  said Merc d s, folding around her\nshoulders the only shawl she had taken away, and which accidentally\nhappened to be a valuable black cashmere. Albert gathered up his papers\nhastily, rang the bell to pay the thirty francs he owed to the\nlandlord, and offering his arm to his mother, they descended the\nstairs.\n\nSomeone was walking down before them, and this person, hearing the\nrustling of a silk dress, turned around.  Debray!  muttered Albert.\n\n You, Morcerf?  replied the secretary, resting on the stairs. Curiosity\nhad vanquished the desire of preserving his _incognito_, and he was\nrecognized. It was, indeed, strange in this unknown spot to find the\nyoung man whose misfortunes had made so much noise in Paris.\n\n Morcerf!  repeated Debray. Then noticing in the dim light the still\nyouthful and veiled figure of Madame de Morcerf:\n\n Pardon me,  he added with a smile,  I leave you, Albert.  Albert\nunderstood his thoughts.\n\n Mother,  he said, turning towards Merc d s,  this is M. Debray,\nsecretary of the Minister for the Interior, once a friend of mine. \n\n How once?  stammered Debray;  what do you mean? \n\n I say so, M. Debray, because I have no friends now, and I ought not to\nhave any. I thank you for having recognized me, sir.  Debray stepped\nforward, and cordially pressed the hand of his interlocutor.\n\n Believe me, dear Albert,  he said, with all the emotion he was capable\nof feeling, believe me, I feel deeply for your misfortunes, and if in\nany way I can serve you, I am yours. \n\n Thank you, sir,  said Albert, smiling.  In the midst of our\nmisfortunes, we are still rich enough not to require assistance from\nanyone. We are leaving Paris, and when our journey is paid, we shall\nhave 5,000 francs left. \n\nThe blood mounted to the temples of Debray, who held a million in his\npocket-book, and unimaginative as he was he could not help reflecting\nthat the same house had contained two women, one of whom, justly\ndishonored, had left it poor with 1,500,000 francs under her cloak,\nwhile the other, unjustly stricken, but sublime in her misfortune, was\nyet rich with a few deniers. This parallel disturbed his usual\npoliteness, the philosophy he witnessed appalled him, he muttered a few\nwords of general civility and ran downstairs.\n\nThat day the minister s clerks and the subordinates had a great deal to\nput up with from his ill-humor. But that same night, he found himself\nthe possessor of a fine house, situated on the Boulevard de la\nMadeleine, and an income of 50,000 livres.\n\nThe next day, just as Debray was signing the deed, that is about five\no clock in the afternoon, Madame de Morcerf, after having\naffectionately embraced her son, entered the _coup _ of the diligence,\nwhich closed upon her.\n\nA man was hidden in Lafitte s banking-house, behind one of the little\narched windows which are placed above each desk; he saw Merc d s enter\nthe diligence, and he also saw Albert withdraw. Then he passed his hand\nacross his forehead, which was clouded with doubt.\n\n Alas,  he exclaimed,  how can I restore the happiness I have taken\naway from these poor innocent creatures? God help me! \n\n\n\n Chapter 107. The Lions  Den\n\nOne division of La Force, in which the most dangerous and desperate\nprisoners are confined, is called the court of Saint-Bernard. The\nprisoners, in their expressive language, have named it the  Lions \nDen,  probably because the captives possess teeth which frequently gnaw\nthe bars, and sometimes the keepers also. It is a prison within a\nprison; the walls are double the thickness of the rest. The gratings\nare every day carefully examined by jailers, whose herculean\nproportions and cold pitiless expression prove them to have been chosen\nto reign over their subjects for their superior activity and\nintelligence.\n\nThe courtyard of this quarter is enclosed by enormous walls, over which\nthe sun glances obliquely, when it deigns to penetrate into this gulf\nof moral and physical deformity. On this paved yard are to be\nseen, pacing to and fro from morning till night, pale, careworn, and\nhaggard, like so many shadows, the men whom justice holds beneath the\nsteel she is sharpening. There, crouched against the side of the wall\nwhich attracts and retains the most heat, they may be seen sometimes\ntalking to one another, but more frequently alone, watching the door,\nwhich sometimes opens to call forth one from the gloomy assemblage, or\nto throw in another outcast from society.\n\nThe court of Saint-Bernard has its own particular apartment for the\nreception of guests; it is a long rectangle, divided by two upright\ngratings placed at a distance of three feet from one another to prevent\na visitor from shaking hands with or passing anything to the prisoners.\nIt is a wretched, damp, nay, even horrible spot, more especially when\nwe consider the agonizing conferences which have taken place between\nthose iron bars. And yet, frightful though this spot may be, it is\nlooked upon as a kind of paradise by the men whose days are numbered;\nit is so rare for them to leave the Lions  Den for any other place than\nthe barrier Saint-Jacques, the galleys! or solitary confinement.\n\nIn the court which we have attempted to describe, and from which a damp\nvapor was rising, a young man with his hands in his pockets, who had\nexcited much curiosity among the inhabitants of the  Den,  might be\nseen walking. The cut of his clothes would have made him pass for an\nelegant man, if those clothes had not been torn to shreds; still they\ndid not show signs of wear, and the fine cloth, beneath the careful\nhands of the prisoner, soon recovered its gloss in the parts which were\nstill perfect, for the wearer tried his best to make it assume the\nappearance of a new coat. He bestowed the same attention upon the\ncambric front of a shirt, which had considerably changed in color since\nhis entrance into the prison, and he polished his varnished boots with\nthe corner of a handkerchief embroidered with initials surmounted by a\ncoronet.\n\nSome of the inmates of the  Lions  Den  were watching the operations of\nthe prisoner s toilet with considerable interest.\n\n See, the prince is pluming himself,  said one of the thieves.\n\n He s a fine looking fellow,  said another;  if he had only a comb and\nhair-grease, he d take the shine off the gentlemen in white kids. \n\n His coat looks nearly new, and his boots are brilliant. It is pleasant\nto have such well-dressed brethren; and those gendarmes behaved\nshamefully. What jealousy; to tear such clothes! \n\n He looks like a big-bug,  said another;  dresses in fine style. And,\nthen, to be here so young! Oh, what larks! \n\nMeanwhile the object of this hideous admiration approached the wicket,\nagainst which one of the keepers was leaning.\n\n Come, sir,  he said,  lend me twenty francs; you will soon be paid;\nyou run no risks with me. Remember, I have relations who possess more\nmillions than you have deniers. Come, I beseech you, lend me twenty\nfrancs, so that I may buy a dressing-gown; it is intolerable always to\nbe in a coat and boots! And what a coat, sir, for a prince of the\nCavalcanti! \n\nThe keeper turned his back, and shrugged his shoulders; he did not even\nlaugh at what would have caused anyone else to do so; he had heard so\nmany utter the same things, indeed, he heard nothing else.\n\n Come,  said Andrea,  you are a man void of compassion; I ll have you\nturned out. \n\nThis made the keeper turn around, and he burst into a loud laugh. The\nprisoners then approached and formed a circle.\n\n I tell you that with that wretched sum,  continued Andrea,  I could\nobtain a coat, and a room in which to receive the illustrious visitor I\nam daily expecting. \n\n Of course of course,  said the prisoners; anyone can see he s a\ngentleman! \n\n Well, then, lend him the twenty francs,  said the keeper, leaning on\nthe other shoulder;  surely you will not refuse a comrade! \n\n50151m\n\n\n\n I am no comrade of these people,  said the young man, proudly,  you\nhave no right to insult me thus. \n\nThe thieves looked at one another with low murmurs, and a storm\ngathered over the head of the aristocratic prisoner, raised less by his\nown words than by the manner of the keeper. The latter, sure of\nquelling the tempest when the waves became too violent, allowed them to\nrise to a certain pitch that he might be revenged on the importunate\nAndrea, and besides it would afford him some recreation during the long\nday.\n\nThe thieves had already approached Andrea, some screaming, _ La\nsavate La savate! _26 a cruel operation, which consists in cuffing a\ncomrade who may have fallen into disgrace, not with an old shoe, but\nwith an iron-heeled one. Others proposed the _anguille_, another kind\nof recreation, in which a handkerchief is filled with sand, pebbles,\nand two-sous pieces, when they have them, which the wretches beat like\na flail over the head and shoulders of the unhappy sufferer.\n\n Let us horsewhip the fine gentleman!  said others.\n\nBut Andrea, turning towards them, winked his eyes, rolled his tongue\naround his cheeks, and smacked his lips in a manner equivalent to a\nhundred words among the bandits when forced to be silent. It was a\nMasonic sign Caderousse had taught him. He was immediately recognized\nas one of them; the handkerchief was thrown down, and the iron-heeled\nshoe replaced on the foot of the wretch to whom it belonged.\n\nSome voices were heard to say that the gentleman was right; that he\nintended to be civil, in his way, and that they would set the example\nof liberty of conscience, and the mob retired. The keeper was so\nstupefied at this scene that he took Andrea by the hands and began\nexamining his person, attributing the sudden submission of the inmates\nof the Lions  Den to something more substantial than mere fascination.\n\nAndrea made no resistance, although he protested against it. Suddenly a\nvoice was heard at the wicket.\n\n Benedetto!  exclaimed an inspector. The keeper relaxed his hold.\n\n I am called,  said Andrea.\n\n To the visitors  room!  said the same voice.\n\n You see someone pays me a visit. Ah, my dear sir, you will see whether\na Cavalcanti is to be treated like a common person! \n\nAnd Andrea, gliding through the court like a black shadow, rushed out\nthrough the wicket, leaving his comrades, and even the keeper, lost in\nwonder. Certainly a call to the visitors  room had scarcely astonished\nAndrea less than themselves, for the wily youth, instead of making use\nof his privilege of waiting to be claimed on his entry into La Force,\nhad maintained a rigid silence.\n\n50153m\n\n\n\n Everything,  he said,  proves me to be under the protection of some\npowerful person, this sudden fortune, the facility with which I have\novercome all obstacles, an unexpected family and an illustrious name\nawarded to me, gold showered down upon me, and the most splendid\nalliances about to be entered into. An unhappy lapse of fortune and the\nabsence of my protector have cast me down, certainly, but not forever.\nThe hand which has retreated for a while will be again stretched forth\nto save me at the very moment when I shall think myself sinking into\nthe abyss. Why should I risk an imprudent step? It might alienate my\nprotector. He has two means of extricating me from this dilemma, the\none by a mysterious escape, managed through bribery; the other by\nbuying off my judges with gold. I will say and do nothing until I am\nconvinced that he has quite abandoned me, and then \n\nAndrea had formed a plan which was tolerably clever. The unfortunate\nyouth was intrepid in the attack, and rude in the defence. He had borne\nwith the public prison, and with privations of all sorts; still, by\ndegrees nature, or rather custom, had prevailed, and he suffered from\nbeing naked, dirty, and hungry. It was at this moment of discomfort\nthat the inspector s voice called him to the visiting-room. Andrea felt\nhis heart leap with joy. It was too soon for a visit from the examining\nmagistrate, and too late for one from the director of the prison, or\nthe doctor; it must, then, be the visitor he hoped for. Behind the\ngrating of the room into which Andrea had been led, he saw, while his\neyes dilated with surprise, the dark and intelligent face of M.\nBertuccio, who was also gazing with sad astonishment upon the iron\nbars, the bolted doors, and the shadow which moved behind the other\ngrating.\n\n Ah,  said Andrea, deeply affected.\n\n Good morning, Benedetto,  said Bertuccio, with his deep, hollow voice.\n\n You you?  said the young man, looking fearfully around him.\n\n Do you not recognize me, unhappy child? \n\n Silence, be silent!  said Andrea, who knew the delicate sense of\nhearing possessed by the walls;  for Heaven s sake, do not speak so\nloud! \n\n You wish to speak with me alone, do you not?  said Bertuccio.\n\n Oh, yes. \n\n That is well. \n\nAnd Bertuccio, feeling in his pocket, signed to a keeper whom he saw\nthrough the window of the wicket.\n\n Read?  he said.\n\n What is that?  asked Andrea.\n\n An order to conduct you to a room, and to leave you there to talk to\nme. \n\n Oh,  cried Andrea, leaping with joy. Then he mentally added, Still my\nunknown protector! I am not forgotten. They wish for secrecy, since we\nare to converse in a private room. I understand, Bertuccio has been\nsent by my protector. \n\nThe keeper spoke for a moment with an official, then opened the iron\ngates and conducted Andrea to a room on the first floor. The room was\nwhitewashed, as is the custom in prisons, but it looked quite brilliant\nto a prisoner, though a stove, a bed, a chair, and a table formed the\nwhole of its sumptuous furniture. Bertuccio sat down upon the chair,\nAndrea threw himself upon the bed; the keeper retired.\n\n Now,  said the steward,  what have you to tell me? \n\n And you?  said Andrea.\n\n You speak first. \n\n Oh, no. You must have much to tell me, since you have come to seek\nme. \n\n50155m\n\n\n\n Well, be it so. You have continued your course of villany; you have\nrobbed you have assassinated. \n\n Well, I should say! If you had me taken to a private room only to tell\nme this, you might have saved yourself the trouble. I know all these\nthings. But there are some with which, on the contrary, I am not\nacquainted. Let us talk of those, if you please. Who sent you? \n\n Come, come, you are going on quickly, M. Benedetto! \n\n Yes, and to the point. Let us dispense with useless words. Who sends\nyou? \n\n No one. \n\n How did you know I was in prison? \n\n I recognized you, some time since, as the insolent dandy who so\ngracefully mounted his horse in the Champs- lys es. \n\n Oh, the Champs- lys es? Ah, yes; we burn, as they say at the game of\npincette. The Champs- lys es? Come, let us talk a little about my\nfather. \n\n Who, then, am I? \n\n You, sir? you are my adopted father. But it was not you, I presume,\nwho placed at my disposal 100,000 francs, which I spent in four or five\nmonths; it was not you who manufactured an Italian gentleman for my\nfather; it was not you who introduced me into the world, and had me\ninvited to a certain dinner at Auteuil, which I fancy I am eating at\nthis moment, in company with the most distinguished people in\nParis amongst the rest with a certain procureur, whose acquaintance I\ndid very wrong not to cultivate, for he would have been very useful to\nme just now; it was not you, in fact, who bailed me for one or two\nmillions, when the fatal discovery of my little secret took place.\nCome, speak, my worthy Corsican, speak! \n\n What do you wish me to say? \n\n I will help you. You were speaking of the Champs- lys es just now,\nworthy foster-father. \n\n Well? \n\n Well, in the Champs- lys es there resides a very rich gentleman. \n\n At whose house you robbed and murdered, did you not? \n\n I believe I did. \n\n The Count of Monte Cristo? \n\n Tis you who have named him, as M. Racine says. Well, am I to rush\ninto his arms, and strain him to my heart, crying,  My father, my\nfather!  like Monsieur Pix r court. 27\n\n Do not let us jest,  gravely replied Bertuccio,  and dare not to utter\nthat name again as you have pronounced it. \n\n Bah,  said Andrea, a little overcome, by the solemnity of Bertuccio s\nmanner,  why not? \n\n Because the person who bears it is too highly favored by Heaven to be\nthe father of such a wretch as you. \n\n Oh, these are fine words. \n\n And there will be fine doings, if you do not take care. \n\n Menaces I do not fear them. I will say \n\n Do you think you are engaged with a pygmy like yourself?  said\nBertuccio, in so calm a tone, and with so steadfast a look, that Andrea\nwas moved to the very soul.  Do you think you have to do with\ngalley-slaves, or novices in the world? Benedetto, you are fallen into\nterrible hands; they are ready to open for you make use of them. Do not\nplay with the thunderbolt they have laid aside for a moment, but which\nthey can take up again instantly, if you attempt to intercept their\nmovements. \n\n50157m\n\n\n\n My father I will know who my father is,  said the obstinate youth;  I\nwill perish if I must, but I _will_ know it. What does scandal signify\nto me? What possessions, what reputation, what  pull,  as Beauchamp\nsays, have I? You great people always lose something by scandal,\nnotwithstanding your millions. Come, who is my father? \n\n I came to tell you. \n\n Ah,  cried Benedetto, his eyes sparkling with joy. Just then the door\nopened, and the jailer, addressing himself to Bertuccio, said:\n\n Excuse me, sir, but the examining magistrate is waiting for the\nprisoner. \n\n And so closes our interview,  said Andrea to the worthy steward;  I\nwish the troublesome fellow were at the devil! \n\n I will return tomorrow,  said Bertuccio.\n\n Good! Gendarmes, I am at your service. Ah, sir, do leave a few crowns\nfor me at the gate that I may have some things I am in need of! \n\n It shall be done,  replied Bertuccio.\n\nAndrea extended his hand; Bertuccio kept his own in his pocket, and\nmerely jingled a few pieces of money.\n\n That s what I mean,  said Andrea, endeavoring to smile, quite overcome\nby the strange tranquillity of Bertuccio.\n\n Can I be deceived?  he murmured, as he stepped into the oblong and\ngrated vehicle which they call  the salad basket. \n\n Never mind, we shall see! Tomorrow, then!  he added, turning towards\nBertuccio.\n\n Tomorrow!  replied the steward.\n\n\n\n Chapter 108. The Judge\n\nWe remember that the Abb  Busoni remained alone with Noirtier in the\nchamber of death, and that the old man and the priest were the sole\nguardians of the young girl s body. Perhaps it was the Christian\nexhortations of the abb , perhaps his kind charity, perhaps his\npersuasive words, which had restored the courage of Noirtier, for ever\nsince he had conversed with the priest his violent despair had yielded\nto a calm resignation which surprised all who knew his excessive\naffection for Valentine.\n\nM. de Villefort had not seen his father since the morning of the death.\nThe whole establishment had been changed; another valet was engaged for\nhimself, a new servant for Noirtier, two women had entered Madame de\nVillefort s service, in fact, everywhere, to the concierge and\ncoachmen, new faces were presented to the different masters of the\nhouse, thus widening the division which had always existed between the\nmembers of the same family. The assizes, also, were about to begin, and\nVillefort, shut up in his room, exerted himself with feverish anxiety\nin drawing up the case against the murderer of Caderousse. This affair,\nlike all those in which the Count of Monte Cristo had interfered,\ncaused a great sensation in Paris. The proofs were certainly not\nconvincing, since they rested upon a few words written by an escaped\ngalley-slave on his death-bed, and who might have been actuated by\nhatred or revenge in accusing his companion. But the mind of the\nprocureur was made up; he felt assured that Benedetto was guilty, and\nhe hoped by his skill in conducting this aggravated case to flatter his\nself-love, which was about the only vulnerable point left in his frozen\nheart.\n\nThe case was therefore prepared owing to the incessant labor of\nVillefort, who wished it to be the first on the list in the coming\nassizes. He had been obliged to seclude himself more than ever, to\nevade the enormous number of applications presented to him for the\npurpose of obtaining tickets of admission to the court on the day of\ntrial. And then so short a time had elapsed since the death of poor\nValentine, and the gloom which overshadowed the house was so recent,\nthat no one wondered to see the father so absorbed in his professional\nduties, which were the only means he had of dissipating his grief.\n\nOnce only had Villefort seen his father; it was the day after that upon\nwhich Bertuccio had paid his second visit to Benedetto, when the latter\nwas to learn his father s name. The magistrate, harassed and fatigued,\nhad descended to the garden of his house, and in a gloomy mood, similar\nto that in which Tarquin lopped off the tallest poppies, he began\nknocking off with his cane the long and dying branches of the\nrose-trees, which, placed along the avenue, seemed like the spectres of\nthe brilliant flowers which had bloomed in the past season.\n\nMore than once he had reached that part of the garden where the famous\nboarded gate stood overlooking the deserted enclosure, always returning\nby the same path, to begin his walk again, at the same pace and with\nthe same gesture, when he accidentally turned his eyes towards the\nhouse, whence he heard the noisy play of his son, who had returned from\nschool to spend the Sunday and Monday with his mother.\n\nWhile doing so, he observed M. Noirtier at one of the open windows,\nwhere the old man had been placed that he might enjoy the last rays of\nthe sun which yet yielded some heat, and was now shining upon the dying\nflowers and red leaves of the creeper which twined around the balcony.\n\nThe eye of the old man was riveted upon a spot which Villefort could\nscarcely distinguish. His glance was so full of hate, of ferocity, and\nsavage impatience, that Villefort turned out of the path he had been\npursuing, to see upon what person this dark look was directed.\n\nThen he saw beneath a thick clump of linden-trees, which were nearly\ndivested of foliage, Madame de Villefort sitting with a book in her\nhand, the perusal of which she frequently interrupted to smile upon her\nson, or to throw back his elastic ball, which he obstinately threw from\nthe drawing-room into the garden.\n\nVillefort became pale; he understood the old man s meaning.\n\nNoirtier continued to look at the same object, but suddenly his glance\nwas transferred from the wife to the husband, and Villefort himself had\nto submit to the searching investigation of eyes, which, while changing\ntheir direction and even their language, had lost none of their\nmenacing expression. Madame de Villefort, unconscious of the passions\nthat exhausted their fire over her head, at that moment held her son s\nball, and was making signs to him to reclaim it with a kiss. Edward\nbegged for a long while, the maternal kiss probably not offering\nsufficient recompense for the trouble he must take to obtain it;\nhowever at length he decided, leaped out of the window into a cluster\nof heliotropes and daisies, and ran to his mother, his forehead\nstreaming with perspiration. Madame de Villefort wiped his forehead,\npressed her lips upon it, and sent him back with the ball in one hand\nand some bonbons in the other.\n\nVillefort, drawn by an irresistible attraction, like that of the bird\nto the serpent, walked towards the house. As he approached it,\nNoirtier s gaze followed him, and his eyes appeared of such a fiery\nbrightness that Villefort felt them pierce to the depths of his heart.\nIn that earnest look might be read a deep reproach, as well as a\nterrible menace. Then Noirtier raised his eyes to heaven, as though to\nremind his son of a forgotten oath.\n\n It is well, sir,  replied Villefort from below, it is well; have\npatience but one day longer; what I have said I will do. \n\nNoirtier seemed to be calmed by these words, and turned his eyes with\nindifference to the other side. Villefort violently unbuttoned his\ngreatcoat, which seemed to strangle him, and passing his livid hand\nacross his forehead, entered his study.\n\nThe night was cold and still; the family had all retired to rest but\nVillefort, who alone remained up, and worked till five o clock in the\nmorning, reviewing the last interrogatories made the night before by\nthe examining magistrates, compiling the depositions of the witnesses,\nand putting the finishing stroke to the deed of accusation, which was\none of the most energetic and best conceived of any he had yet\ndelivered.\n\nThe next day, Monday, was the first sitting of the assizes. The morning\ndawned dull and gloomy, and Villefort saw the dim gray light shine upon\nthe lines he had traced in red ink. The magistrate had slept for a\nshort time while the lamp sent forth its final struggles; its\nflickerings awoke him, and he found his fingers as damp and purple as\nthough they had been dipped in blood.\n\nHe opened the window; a bright yellow streak crossed the sky, and\nseemed to divide in half the poplars, which stood out in black relief\non the horizon. In the clover-fields beyond the chestnut-trees, a lark\nwas mounting up to heaven, while pouring out her clear morning song.\nThe damps of the dew bathed the head of Villefort, and refreshed his\nmemory.\n\n Today,  he said with an effort, today the man who holds the blade of\njustice must strike wherever there is guilt. \n\nInvoluntarily his eyes wandered towards the window of Noirtier s room,\nwhere he had seen him the preceding night. The curtain was drawn, and\nyet the image of his father was so vivid to his mind that he addressed\nthe closed window as though it had been open, and as if through the\nopening he had beheld the menacing old man.\n\n Yes,  he murmured, yes, be satisfied. \n\nHis head dropped upon his chest, and in this position he paced his\nstudy; then he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon a sofa, less to\nsleep than to rest his limbs, cramped with cold and study. By degrees\neveryone awoke. Villefort, from his study, heard the successive noises\nwhich accompany the life of a house, the opening and shutting of doors,\nthe ringing of Madame de Villefort s bell, to summon the waiting-maid,\nmingled with the first shouts of the child, who rose full of the\nenjoyment of his age. Villefort also rang; his new valet brought him\nthe papers, and with them a cup of chocolate.\n\n What are you bringing me?  said he.\n\n A cup of chocolate. \n\n I did not ask for it. Who has paid me this attention? \n\n My mistress, sir. She said you would have to speak a great deal in the\nmurder case, and that you should take something to keep up your\nstrength;  and the valet placed the cup on the table nearest to the\nsofa, which was, like all the rest, covered with papers.\n\nThe valet then left the room. Villefort looked for an instant with a\ngloomy expression, then, suddenly, taking it up with a nervous motion,\nhe swallowed its contents at one draught. It might have been thought\nthat he hoped the beverage would be mortal, and that he sought for\ndeath to deliver him from a duty which he would rather die than fulfil.\nHe then rose, and paced his room with a smile it would have been\nterrible to witness. The chocolate was inoffensive, for M. de Villefort\nfelt no effects.\n\nThe breakfast-hour arrived, but M. de Villefort was not at table. The\nvalet re-entered.\n\n Madame de Villefort wishes to remind you, sir,  he said,  that eleven\no clock has just struck, and that the trial commences at twelve. \n\n Well,  said Villefort,  what then? \n\n Madame de Villefort is dressed; she is quite ready, and wishes to know\nif she is to accompany you, sir? \n\n Where to? \n\n To the Palais. \n\n What to do? \n\n My mistress wishes much to be present at the trial. \n\n Ah,  said Villefort, with a startling accent;  does she wish that? \n\nThe servant drew back and said,  If you wish to go alone, sir, I will\ngo and tell my mistress. \n\nVillefort remained silent for a moment, and dented his pale cheeks with\nhis nails.\n\n Tell your mistress,  he at length answered,  that I wish to speak to\nher, and I beg she will wait for me in her own room. \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Then come to dress and shave me. \n\n Directly, sir. \n\nThe valet re-appeared almost instantly, and, having shaved his master,\nassisted him to dress entirely in black. When he had finished, he said:\n\n My mistress said she should expect you, sir, as soon as you had\nfinished dressing. \n\n I am going to her. \n\nAnd Villefort, with his papers under his arm and hat in hand, directed\nhis steps toward the apartment of his wife.\n\nAt the door he paused for a moment to wipe his damp, pale brow. He then\nentered the room. Madame de Villefort was sitting on an ottoman and\nimpatiently turning over the leaves of some newspapers and pamphlets\nwhich young Edward, by way of amusing himself, was tearing to pieces\nbefore his mother could finish reading them. She was dressed to go out,\nher bonnet was placed beside her on a chair, and her gloves were on her\nhands.\n\n Ah, here you are, monsieur,  she said in her naturally calm voice;\n but how pale you are! Have you been working all night? Why did you not\ncome down to breakfast? Well, will you take me, or shall I take\nEdward? \n\nMadame de Villefort had multiplied her questions in order to gain one\nanswer, but to all her inquiries M. de Villefort remained mute and cold\nas a statue.\n\n Edward,  said Villefort, fixing an imperious glance on the child,  go\nand play in the drawing-room, my dear; I wish to speak to your mamma. \n\nMadame de Villefort shuddered at the sight of that cold countenance,\nthat resolute tone, and the awfully strange preliminaries. Edward\nraised his head, looked at his mother, and then, finding that she did\nnot confirm the order, began cutting off the heads of his leaden\nsoldiers.\n\n Edward,  cried M. de Villefort, so harshly that the child started up\nfrom the floor,  do you hear me? Go! \n\nThe child, unaccustomed to such treatment, arose, pale and trembling;\nit would be difficult to say whether his emotion were caused by fear or\npassion. His father went up to him, took him in his arms, and kissed\nhis forehead.\n\n Go,  he said:  go, my child.  Edward ran out.\n\nM. de Villefort went to the door, which he closed behind the child, and\nbolted.\n\n Dear me!  said the young woman, endeavoring to read her husband s\ninmost thoughts, while a smile passed over her countenance which froze\nthe impassibility of Villefort;  what is the matter? \n\n Madame, where do you keep the poison you generally use?  said the\nmagistrate, without any introduction, placing himself between his wife\nand the door.\n\nMadame de Villefort must have experienced something of the sensation of\na bird which, looking up, sees the murderous trap closing over its\nhead.\n\nA hoarse, broken tone, which was neither a cry nor a sigh, escaped from\nher, while she became deadly pale.\n\n Monsieur,  she said,  I I do not understand you. \n\nAnd, in her first paroxysm of terror, she had raised herself from the\nsofa, in the next, stronger very likely than the other, she fell down\nagain on the cushions.\n\n I asked you,  continued Villefort, in a perfectly calm tone,  where\nyou conceal the poison by the aid of which you have killed my\nfather-in-law, M. de Saint-M ran, my mother-in-law, Madame de\nSaint-M ran, Barrois, and my daughter Valentine. \n\n Ah, sir,  exclaimed Madame de Villefort, clasping her hands,  what do\nyou say? \n\n It is not for you to interrogate, but to answer. \n\n Is it to the judge or to the husband?  stammered Madame de Villefort.\n\n To the judge to the judge, madame!  It was terrible to behold the\nfrightful pallor of that woman, the anguish of her look, the trembling\nof her whole frame.\n\n Ah, sir,  she muttered,  ah, sir,  and this was all.\n\n You do not answer, madame!  exclaimed the terrible interrogator. Then\nhe added, with a smile yet more terrible than his anger,  It is true,\nthen; you do not deny it!  She moved forward.  And you cannot deny it! \nadded Villefort, extending his hand toward her, as though to seize her\nin the name of justice.  You have accomplished these different crimes\nwith impudent address, but which could only deceive those whose\naffections for you blinded them. Since the death of Madame de\nSaint-M ran, I have known that a poisoner lived in my house. M.\nd Avrigny warned me of it. After the death of Barrois my suspicions\nwere directed towards an angel, those suspicions which, even when there\nis no crime, are always alive in my heart; but after the death of\nValentine, there has been no doubt in my mind, madame, and not only in\nmine, but in those of others; thus your crime, known by two persons,\nsuspected by many, will soon become public, and, as I told you just\nnow, you no longer speak to the husband, but to the judge. \n\n50165m\n\n\n\nThe young woman hid her face in her hands.\n\n Oh, sir,  she stammered,  I beseech you, do not believe appearances. \n\n Are you, then, a coward?  cried Villefort, in a contemptuous voice.\n But I have always observed that poisoners were cowards. Can you be a\ncoward, you, who have had the courage to witness the death of two old\nmen and a young girl murdered by you? \n\n Sir! sir! \n\n Can you be a coward?  continued Villefort, with increasing excitement,\n you, who could count, one by one, the minutes of four death agonies?\n_You_, who have arranged your infernal plans, and removed the beverages\nwith a talent and precision almost miraculous? Have you, then, who have\ncalculated everything with such nicety, have you forgotten to calculate\none thing I mean where the revelation of your crimes will lead you to?\nOh, it is impossible you must have saved some surer, more subtle and\ndeadly poison than any other, that you might escape the punishment that\nyou deserve. You have done this I hope so, at least. \n\nMadame de Villefort stretched out her hands, and fell on her knees.\n\n I understand,  he said,  you confess; but a confession made to the\njudges, a confession made at the last moment, extorted when the crime\ncannot be denied, diminishes not the punishment inflicted on the\nguilty! \n\n The punishment?  exclaimed Madame de Villefort,  the punishment,\nmonsieur? Twice you have pronounced that word! \n\n Certainly. Did you hope to escape it because you were four times\nguilty? Did you think the punishment would be withheld because you are\nthe wife of him who pronounces it? No, madame, no; the scaffold awaits\nthe poisoner, whoever she may be, unless, as I just said, the poisoner\nhas taken the precaution of keeping for herself a few drops of her\ndeadliest poison. \n\nMadame de Villefort uttered a wild cry, and a hideous and\nuncontrollable terror spread over her distorted features.\n\n Oh, do not fear the scaffold, madame,  said the magistrate;  I will\nnot dishonor you, since that would be dishonor to myself; no, if you\nhave heard me distinctly, you will understand that you are not to die\non the scaffold. \n\n No, I do not understand; what do you mean?  stammered the unhappy\nwoman, completely overwhelmed.\n\n I mean that the wife of the first magistrate in the capital shall not,\nby her infamy, soil an unblemished name; that she shall not, with one\nblow, dishonor her husband and her child. \n\n No, no oh, no! \n\n Well, madame, it will be a laudable action on your part, and I will\nthank you for it! \n\n You will thank me for what? \n\n For what you have just said. \n\n What did I say? Oh, my brain whirls; I no longer understand anything.\nOh, my God, my God! \n\nAnd she rose, with her hair dishevelled, and her lips foaming.\n\n Have you answered the question I put to you on entering the\nroom? where do you keep the poison you generally use, madame? \n\nMadame de Villefort raised her arms to heaven, and convulsively struck\none hand against the other.\n\n No, no,  she vociferated,  no, you cannot wish that! \n\n50169m\n\n\n\n What I do not wish, madame, is that you should perish on the scaffold.\nDo you understand?  asked Villefort.\n\n Oh, mercy, mercy, monsieur! \n\n What I require is, that justice be done. I am on the earth to punish,\nmadame,  he added, with a flaming glance;  any other woman, were it the\nqueen herself, I would send to the executioner; but to you I shall be\nmerciful. To you I will say,  Have you not, madame, put aside some of\nthe surest, deadliest, most speedy poison? \n\n50170m\n\n\n\n Oh, pardon me, sir; let me live! \n\n She is cowardly,  said Villefort.\n\n Reflect that I am your wife! \n\n You are a poisoner. \n\n In the name of Heaven! \n\n No! \n\n In the name of the love you once bore me! \n\n No, no! \n\n In the name of our child! Ah, for the sake of our child, let me live! \n\n50167m\n\n\n\n No, no, no, I tell you; one day, if I allow you to live, you will\nperhaps kill him, as you have the others! \n\n I? I kill my boy?  cried the distracted mother, rushing toward\nVillefort;  I kill my son? Ha, ha, ha!  and a frightful, demoniac laugh\nfinished the sentence, which was lost in a hoarse rattle.\n\nMadame de Villefort fell at her husband s feet. He approached her.\n\n Think of it, madame,  he said;  if, on my return, justice has not been\nsatisfied, I will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with\nmy own hands! \n\nShe listened, panting, overwhelmed, crushed; her eye alone lived, and\nglared horribly.\n\n Do you understand me?  he said.  I am going down there to pronounce\nthe sentence of death against a murderer. If I find you alive on my\nreturn, you shall sleep tonight in the conciergerie. \n\nMadame de Villefort sighed; her nerves gave way, and she sunk on the\ncarpet. The king s attorney seemed to experience a sensation of pity;\nhe looked upon her less severely, and, bowing to her, said slowly:\n\n Farewell, madame, farewell! \n\nThat farewell struck Madame de Villefort like the executioner s knife.\nShe fainted. The procureur went out, after having double-locked the\ndoor.\n\n\n\n Chapter 109. The Assizes\n\nThe Benedetto affair, as it was called at the Palais, and by people in\ngeneral, had produced a tremendous sensation. Frequenting the Caf  de\nParis, the Boulevard de Gand, and the Bois de Boulogne, during his\nbrief career of splendor, the false Cavalcanti had formed a host of\nacquaintances. The papers had related his various adventures, both as\nthe man of fashion and the galley-slave; and as everyone who had been\npersonally acquainted with Prince Andrea Cavalcanti experienced a\nlively curiosity in his fate, they all determined to spare no trouble\nin endeavoring to witness the trial of M. Benedetto for the murder of\nhis comrade in chains.\n\nIn the eyes of many, Benedetto appeared, if not a victim to, at least\nan instance of, the fallibility of the law. M. Cavalcanti, his father,\nhad been seen in Paris, and it was expected that he would re-appear to\nclaim the illustrious outcast. Many, also, who were not aware of the\ncircumstances attending his withdrawal from Paris, were struck with the\nworthy appearance, the gentlemanly bearing, and the knowledge of the\nworld displayed by the old patrician, who certainly played the nobleman\nvery well, so long as he said nothing, and made no arithmetical\ncalculations.\n\nAs for the accused himself, many remembered him as being so amiable, so\nhandsome, and so liberal, that they chose to think him the victim of\nsome conspiracy, since in this world large fortunes frequently excite\nthe malevolence and jealousy of some unknown enemy.\n\nEveryone, therefore, ran to the court; some to witness the sight,\nothers to comment upon it. From seven o clock in the morning a crowd\nwas stationed at the iron gates, and an hour before the trial commenced\nthe hall was full of the privileged. Before the entrance of the\nmagistrates, and indeed frequently afterwards, a court of justice, on\ndays when some especial trial is to take place, resembles a\ndrawing-room where many persons recognize each other and converse if\nthey can do so without losing their seats; or, if they are separated by\ntoo great a number of lawyers, communicate by signs.\n\nIt was one of the magnificent autumn days which make amends for a short\nsummer; the clouds which M. de Villefort had perceived at sunrise had\nall disappeared as if by magic, and one of the softest and most\nbrilliant days of September shone forth in all its splendor.\n\nBeauchamp, one of the kings of the press, and therefore claiming the\nright of a throne everywhere, was eying everybody through his monocle.\nHe perceived Ch teau-Renaud and Debray, who had just gained the good\ngraces of a sergeant-at-arms, and who had persuaded the latter to let\nthem stand before, instead of behind him, as they ought to have done.\nThe worthy sergeant had recognized the minister s secretary and the\nmillionnaire, and, by way of paying extra attention to his noble\nneighbors, promised to keep their places while they paid a visit to\nBeauchamp.\n\n Well,  said Beauchamp,  we shall see our friend! \n\n Yes, indeed!  replied Debray.  That worthy prince. Deuce take those\nItalian princes! \n\n A man, too, who could boast of Dante for a genealogist, and could\nreckon back to the _Divina Comedia_. \n\n A nobility of the rope!  said Ch teau-Renaud phlegmatically.\n\n He will be condemned, will he not?  asked Debray of Beauchamp.\n\n My dear fellow, I think we should ask you that question; you know such\nnews much better than we do. Did you see the president at the\nminister s last night? \n\n Yes. \n\n What did he say? \n\n Something which will surprise you. \n\n Oh, make haste and tell me, then; it is a long time since that has\nhappened. \n\n Well, he told me that Benedetto, who is considered a serpent of\nsubtlety and a giant of cunning, is really but a very commonplace,\nsilly rascal, and altogether unworthy of the experiments that will be\nmade on his phrenological organs after his death. \n\n Bah,  said Beauchamp,  he played the prince very well. \n\n Yes, for you who detest those unhappy princes, Beauchamp, and are\nalways delighted to find fault with them; but not for me, who discover\na gentleman by instinct, and who scent out an aristocratic family like\na very bloodhound of heraldry. \n\n Then you never believed in the principality? \n\n Yes. in the principality, but not in the prince. \n\n Not so bad,  said Beauchamp;  still, I assure you, he passed very well\nwith many people; I saw him at the ministers  houses. \n\n Ah, yes,  said Ch teau-Renaud.  The idea of thinking ministers\nunderstand anything about princes! \n\n There is something in what you have just said,  said Beauchamp,\nlaughing.\n\n But,  said Debray to Beauchamp,  if I spoke to the president, _you_\nmust have been with the procureur. \n\n It was an impossibility; for the last week M. de Villefort has\nsecluded himself. It is natural enough; this strange chain of domestic\nafflictions, followed by the no less strange death of his daughter \n\n Strange? What do you mean, Beauchamp? \n\n Oh, yes; do you pretend that all this has been unobserved at the\nminister s?  said Beauchamp, placing his eye-glass in his eye, where he\ntried to make it remain.\n\n My dear sir,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  allow me to tell you that you do\nnot understand that man uvre with the eye-glass half so well as Debray.\nGive him a lesson, Debray. \n\n Stay,  said Beauchamp,  surely I am not deceived. \n\n What is it? \n\n It is she! \n\n Whom do you mean? \n\n They said she had left. \n\n Mademoiselle Eug nie?  said Ch teau-Renaud;  has she returned? \n\n No, but her mother. \n\n Madame Danglars? Nonsense! Impossible!  said Ch teau-Renaud;  only ten\ndays after the flight of her daughter, and three days from the\nbankruptcy of her husband? \n\nDebray colored slightly, and followed with his eyes the direction of\nBeauchamp s glance.\n\n Come,  he said,  it is only a veiled lady, some foreign princess,\nperhaps the mother of Cavalcanti. But you were just speaking on a very\ninteresting topic, Beauchamp. \n\n I? \n\n Yes; you were telling us about the extraordinary death of Valentine. \n\n Ah, yes, so I was. But how is it that Madame de Villefort is not\nhere? \n\n Poor, dear woman,  said Debray,  she is no doubt occupied in\ndistilling balm for the hospitals, or in making cosmetics for herself\nor friends. Do you know she spends two or three thousand crowns a year\nin this amusement? But I wonder she is not here. I should have been\npleased to see her, for I like her very much. \n\n And I hate her,  said Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n Why? \n\n I do not know. Why do we love? Why do we hate? I detest her, from\nantipathy. \n\n Or, rather, by instinct. \n\n Perhaps so. But to return to what you were saying, Beauchamp. \n\n Well, do you know why they die so multitudinously at M. de\nVillefort s? \n\n Multitudinously  is good,  said Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n My good fellow, you ll find the word in Saint-Simon. \n\n But the thing itself is at M. de Villefort s; but let s get back to\nthe subject. \n\n Talking of that,  said Debray,  Madame was making inquiries about that\nhouse, which for the last three months has been hung with black. \n\n Who is Madame?  asked Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n The minister s wife, _pardieu!_ \n\n Oh, your pardon! I never visit ministers; I leave that to the\nprinces. \n\n Really, you were only before sparkling, but now you are brilliant;\ntake compassion on us, or, like Jupiter, you will wither us up. \n\n I will not speak again,  said Ch teau-Renaud;  pray have compassion\nupon me, and do not take up every word I say. \n\n Come, let us endeavor to get to the end of our story, Beauchamp; I\ntold you that yesterday Madame made inquiries of me upon the subject;\nenlighten me, and I will then communicate my information to her. \n\n Well, gentlemen, the reason people die so multitudinously (I like the\nword) at M. de Villefort s is that there is an assassin in the house! \n\nThe two young men shuddered, for the same idea had more than once\noccurred to them.\n\n And who is the assassin;  they asked together.\n\n Young Edward!  A burst of laughter from the auditors did not in the\nleast disconcert the speaker, who continued, Yes, gentlemen; Edward,\nthe infant phenomenon, who is quite an adept in the art of killing. \n\n You are jesting. \n\n Not at all. I yesterday engaged a servant, who had just left M. de\nVillefort I intend sending him away tomorrow, for he eats so\nenormously, to make up for the fast imposed upon him by his terror in\nthat house. Well, now listen. \n\n We are listening. \n\n It appears the dear child has obtained possession of a bottle\ncontaining some drug, which he every now and then uses against those\nwho have displeased him. First, M. and Madame de Saint-M ran incurred\nhis displeasure, so he poured out three drops of his elixir three drops\nwere sufficient; then followed Barrois, the old servant of M. Noirtier,\nwho sometimes rebuffed this little wretch he therefore received the\nsame quantity of the elixir; the same happened to Valentine, of whom he\nwas jealous; he gave her the same dose as the others, and all was over\nfor her as well as the rest. \n\n Why, what nonsense are you telling us?  said Ch teau-Renaud.\n\n Yes, it is an extraordinary story,  said Beauchamp;  is it not? \n\n It is absurd,  said Debray.\n\n Ah,  said Beauchamp,  you doubt me? Well, you can ask my servant, or\nrather him who will no longer be my servant tomorrow, it was the talk\nof the house. \n\n And this elixir, where is it? what is it? \n\n The child conceals it. \n\n But where did he find it? \n\n In his mother s laboratory. \n\n Does his mother then, keep poisons in her laboratory? \n\n How can I tell? You are questioning me like a king s attorney. I only\nrepeat what I have been told, and like my informant I can do no more.\nThe poor devil would eat nothing, from fear. \n\n It is incredible! \n\n No, my dear fellow, it is not at all incredible. You saw the child\npass through the Rue Richelieu last year, who amused himself with\nkilling his brothers and sisters by sticking pins in their ears while\nthey slept. The generation who follow us are very precocious. \n\n Come, Beauchamp,  said Ch teau-Renaud,  I will bet anything you do not\nbelieve a word of all you have been telling us. But I do not see the\nCount of Monte Cristo here. \n\n He is worn out,  said Debray;  besides, he could not well appear in\npublic, since he has been the dupe of the Cavalcanti, who, it appears,\npresented themselves to him with false letters of credit, and cheated\nhim out of 100,000 francs upon the hypothesis of this principality. \n\n By the way, M. de Ch teau-Renaud,  asked Beauchamp,  how is Morrel? \n\n _Ma foi_, I have called three times without once seeing him. Still,\nhis sister did not seem uneasy, and told me that though she had not\nseen him for two or three days, she was sure he was well. \n\n Ah, now I think of it, the Count of Monte Cristo cannot appear in the\nhall,  said Beauchamp.\n\n Why not? \n\n Because he is an actor in the drama. \n\n Has he assassinated anyone, then? \n\n No, on the contrary, they wished to assassinate him. You know that it\nwas in leaving his house that M. de Caderousse was murdered by his\nfriend Benedetto. You know that the famous waistcoat was found in his\nhouse, containing the letter which stopped the signature of the\nmarriage-contract. Do you see the waistcoat? There it is, all\nblood-stained, on the desk, as a testimony of the crime. \n\n Ah, very good. \n\n Hush, gentlemen, here is the court; let us go back to our places. \n\nA noise was heard in the hall; the sergeant called his two patrons with\nan energetic  hem!  and the door-keeper appearing, called out with that\nshrill voice peculiar to his order, ever since the days of\nBeaumarchais:\n\n The court, gentlemen! \n\n\n\n Chapter 110. The Indictment\n\nThe judges took their places in the midst of the most profound silence;\nthe jury took their seats; M. de Villefort, the object of unusual\nattention, and we had almost said of general admiration, sat in the\narmchair and cast a tranquil glance around him. Everyone looked with\nastonishment on that grave and severe face, whose calm expression\npersonal griefs had been unable to disturb, and the aspect of a man who\nwas a stranger to all human emotions excited something very like\nterror.\n\n Gendarmes,  said the president,  lead in the accused. \n\nAt these words the public attention became more intense, and all eyes\nwere turned towards the door through which Benedetto was to enter. The\ndoor soon opened and the accused appeared.\n\nThe same impression was experienced by all present, and no one was\ndeceived by the expression of his countenance. His features bore no\nsign of that deep emotion which stops the beating of the heart and\nblanches the cheek. His hands, gracefully placed, one upon his hat, the\nother in the opening of his white waistcoat, were not at all tremulous;\nhis eye was calm and even brilliant. Scarcely had he entered the hall\nwhen he glanced at the whole body of magistrates and assistants; his\neye rested longer on the president, and still more so on the king s\nattorney.\n\nBy the side of Andrea was stationed the lawyer who was to conduct his\ndefence, and who had been appointed by the court, for Andrea disdained\nto pay any attention to those details, to which he appeared to attach\nno importance. The lawyer was a young man with light hair whose face\nexpressed a hundred times more emotion than that which characterized\nthe prisoner.\n\n50181m\n\n\n\nThe president called for the indictment, revised as we know, by the\nclever and implacable pen of Villefort. During the reading of this,\nwhich was long, the public attention was continually drawn towards\nAndrea, who bore the inspection with Spartan unconcern. Villefort had\nnever been so concise and eloquent. The crime was depicted in the most\nvivid colors; the former life of the prisoner, his transformation, a\nreview of his life from the earliest period, were set forth with all\nthe talent that a knowledge of human life could furnish to a mind like\nthat of the procureur. Benedetto was thus forever condemned in public\nopinion before the sentence of the law could be pronounced.\n\nAndrea paid no attention to the successive charges which were brought\nagainst him. M. de Villefort, who examined him attentively, and who no\ndoubt practiced upon him all the psychological studies he was\naccustomed to use, in vain endeavored to make him lower his eyes,\nnotwithstanding the depth and profundity of his gaze. At length the\nreading of the indictment was ended.\n\n Accused,  said the president,  your name and surname? \n\nAndrea arose.\n\n Excuse me, Mr. President,  he said, in a clear voice,  but I see you\nare going to adopt a course of questions through which I cannot follow\nyou. I have an idea, which I will explain by and by, of making an\nexception to the usual form of accusation. Allow me, then, if you\nplease, to answer in different order, or I will not do so at all. \n\nThe astonished president looked at the jury, who in turn looked at\nVillefort. The whole assembly manifested great surprise, but Andrea\nappeared quite unmoved.\n\n Your age?  said the president;  will you answer that question? \n\n I will answer that question, as well as the rest, Mr. President, but\nin its turn. \n\n Your age?  repeated the president.\n\n I am twenty-one years old, or rather I shall be in a few days, as I\nwas born the night of the 27th of September, 1817. \n\nM. de Villefort, who was busy taking down some notes, raised his head\nat the mention of this date.\n\n Where were you born?  continued the president.\n\n At Auteuil, near Paris. \n\nM. de Villefort a second time raised his head, looked at Benedetto as\nif he had been gazing at the head of Medusa, and became livid. As for\nBenedetto, he gracefully wiped his lips with a fine cambric\npocket-handkerchief.\n\n Your profession? \n\n First I was a forger,  answered Andrea, as calmly as possible;  then I\nbecame a thief, and lately have become an assassin. \n\nA murmur, or rather storm, of indignation burst from all parts of the\nassembly. The judges themselves appeared to be stupefied, and the jury\nmanifested tokens of disgust for a cynicism so unexpected in a man of\nfashion. M. de Villefort pressed his hand upon his brow, which, at\nfirst pale, had become red and burning; then he suddenly arose and\nlooked around as though he had lost his senses he wanted air.\n\n50183m\n\n\n\n Are you looking for anything, Mr. Procureur?  asked Benedetto, with\nhis most ingratiating smile.\n\nM. de Villefort answered nothing, but sat, or rather threw himself down\nagain upon his chair.\n\n And now, prisoner, will you consent to tell your name?  said the\npresident.  The brutal affectation with which you have enumerated and\nclassified your crimes calls for a severe reprimand on the part of the\ncourt, both in the name of morality, and for the respect due to\nhumanity. You appear to consider this a point of honor, and it may be\nfor this reason, that you have delayed acknowledging your name. You\nwished it to be preceded by all these titles. \n\n It is quite wonderful, Mr. President, how entirely you have read my\nthoughts,  said Benedetto, in his softest voice and most polite manner.\n This is, indeed, the reason why I begged you to alter the order of the\nquestions. \n\nThe public astonishment had reached its height. There was no longer any\ndeceit or bravado in the manner of the accused. The audience felt that\na startling revelation was to follow this ominous prelude.\n\n Well,  said the president;  your name? \n\n I cannot tell you my name, since I do not know it; but I know my\nfather s, and can tell it to you. \n\nA painful giddiness overwhelmed Villefort; great drops of acrid sweat\nfell from his face upon the papers which he held in his convulsed hand.\n\n Repeat your father s name,  said the president.\n\nNot a whisper, not a breath, was heard in that vast assembly; everyone\nwaited anxiously.\n\n My father is king s attorney,  replied Andrea calmly.\n\n50179m\n\n\n\n King s attorney?  said the president, stupefied, and without noticing\nthe agitation which spread over the face of M. de Villefort;  king s\nattorney? \n\n Yes; and if you wish to know his name, I will tell it, he is named\nVillefort. \n\nThe explosion, which had been so long restrained from a feeling of\nrespect to the court of justice, now burst forth like thunder from the\nbreasts of all present; the court itself did not seek to restrain the\nfeelings of the audience. The exclamations, the insults addressed to\nBenedetto, who remained perfectly unconcerned, the energetic gestures,\nthe movement of the gendarmes, the sneers of the scum of the crowd\nalways sure to rise to the surface in case of any disturbance all this\nlasted five minutes, before the door-keepers and magistrates were able\nto restore silence. In the midst of this tumult the voice of\nthe president was heard to exclaim:\n\n Are you playing with justice, accused, and do you dare set your\nfellow-citizens an example of disorder which even in these times has\nnever been equalled? \n\nSeveral persons hurried up to M. de Villefort, who sat half bowed over\nin his chair, offering him consolation, encouragement, and\nprotestations of zeal and sympathy. Order was re-established in the\nhall, except that a few people still moved about and whispered to one\nanother. A lady, it was said, had just fainted; they had supplied her\nwith a smelling-bottle, and she had recovered. During the scene of\ntumult, Andrea had turned his smiling face towards the assembly; then,\nleaning with one hand on the oaken rail of the dock, in the most\ngraceful attitude possible, he said:\n\n Gentlemen, I assure you I had no idea of insulting the court, or of\nmaking a useless disturbance in the presence of this honorable\nassembly. They ask my age; I tell it. They ask where I was born; I\nanswer. They ask my name, I cannot give it, since my parents abandoned\nme. But though I cannot give my own name, not possessing one, I can\ntell them my father s. Now I repeat, my father is named M. de\nVillefort, and I am ready to prove it. \n\nThere was an energy, a conviction, and a sincerity in the manner of the\nyoung man, which silenced the tumult. All eyes were turned for a moment\ntowards the procureur, who sat as motionless as though a thunderbolt\nhad changed him into a corpse.\n\n Gentlemen,  said Andrea, commanding silence by his voice and manner;\n I owe you the proofs and explanations of what I have said. \n\n But,  said the irritated president,  you called yourself Benedetto,\ndeclared yourself an orphan, and claimed Corsica as your country. \n\n I said anything I pleased, in order that the solemn declaration I have\njust made should not be withheld, which otherwise would certainly have\nbeen the case. I now repeat that I was born at Auteuil on the night of\nthe 27th of September, 1817, and that I am the son of the procureur, M.\nde Villefort. Do you wish for any further details? I will give them. I\nwas born in No. 28, Rue de la Fontaine, in a room hung with red damask;\nmy father took me in his arms, telling my mother I was dead, wrapped me\nin a napkin marked with an H and an N, and carried me into a garden,\nwhere he buried me alive. \n\nA shudder ran through the assembly when they saw that the confidence of\nthe prisoner increased in proportion to the terror of M. de Villefort.\n\n But how have you become acquainted with all these details?  asked the\npresident.\n\n I will tell you, Mr. President. A man who had sworn vengeance against\nmy father, and had long watched his opportunity to kill him, had\nintroduced himself that night into the garden in which my father buried\nme. He was concealed in a thicket; he saw my father bury something in\nthe ground, and stabbed him; then thinking the deposit might contain\nsome treasure he turned up the ground, and found me still living. The\nman carried me to the foundling asylum, where I was registered under\nthe number 37. Three months afterwards, a woman travelled from Rogliano\nto Paris to fetch me, and having claimed me as her son, carried me\naway. Thus, you see, though born in Paris, I was brought up in\nCorsica. \n\nThere was a moment s silence, during which one could have fancied the\nhall empty, so profound was the stillness.\n\n Proceed,  said the president.\n\n Certainly, I might have lived happily amongst those good people, who\nadored me, but my perverse disposition prevailed over the virtues which\nmy adopted mother endeavored to instil into my heart. I increased in\nwickedness till I committed crime. One day when I cursed Providence for\nmaking me so wicked, and ordaining me to such a fate, my adopted father\nsaid to me,  Do not blaspheme, unhappy child, the crime is that of your\nfather, not yours, of your father, who consigned you to hell if you\ndied, and to misery if a miracle preserved you alive.  After that I\nceased to blaspheme, but I cursed my father. That is why I have uttered\nthe words for which you blame me; that is why I have filled this whole\nassembly with horror. If I have committed an additional crime, punish\nme, but if you will allow that ever since the day of my birth my fate\nhas been sad, bitter, and lamentable, then pity me. \n\n But your mother?  asked the president.\n\n My mother thought me dead; she is not guilty. I did not even wish to\nknow her name, nor do I know it. \n\nJust then a piercing cry, ending in a sob, burst from the centre of the\ncrowd, who encircled the lady who had before fainted, and who now fell\ninto a violent fit of hysterics. She was carried out of the hall, the\nthick veil which concealed her face dropped off, and Madame Danglars\nwas recognized. Notwithstanding his shattered nerves, the ringing\nsensation in his ears, and the madness which turned his brain,\nVillefort rose as he perceived her.\n\n The proofs, the proofs!  said the president;  remember this tissue of\nhorrors must be supported by the clearest proofs. \n\n The proofs?  said Benedetto, laughing;  do you want proofs? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, then, look at M. de Villefort, and then ask me for proofs. \n\nEveryone turned towards the procureur, who, unable to bear the\nuniversal gaze now riveted on him alone, advanced staggering into the\nmidst of the tribunal, with his hair dishevelled and his face indented\nwith the mark of his nails. The whole assembly uttered a long murmur of\nastonishment.\n\n Father,  said Benedetto,  I am asked for proofs, do you wish me to\ngive them? \n\n No, no, it is useless,  stammered M. de Villefort in a hoarse voice;\n no, it is useless! \n\n How useless?  cried the president,  what do you mean? \n\n I mean that I feel it impossible to struggle against this deadly\nweight which crushes me. Gentlemen, I know I am in the hands of an\navenging God! We need no proofs; everything relating to this young man\nis true. \n\nA dull, gloomy silence, like that which precedes some awful phenomenon\nof nature, pervaded the assembly, who shuddered in dismay.\n\n What, M. de Villefort,  cried the president,  do you yield to an\nhallucination? What, are you no longer in possession of your senses?\nThis strange, unexpected, terrible accusation has disordered your\nreason. Come, recover. \n\nThe procureur dropped his head; his teeth chattered like those of a man\nunder a violent attack of fever, and yet he was deadly pale.\n\n I am in possession of all my senses, sir,  he said;  my body alone\nsuffers, as you may suppose. I acknowledge myself guilty of all the\nyoung man has brought against me, and from this hour hold myself under\nthe authority of the procureur who will succeed me. \n\nAnd as he spoke these words with a hoarse, choking voice, he staggered\ntowards the door, which was mechanically opened by a door-keeper. The\nwhole assembly were dumb with astonishment at the revelation and\nconfession which had produced a catastrophe so different from that\nwhich had been expected during the last fortnight by the Parisian\nworld.\n\n Well,  said Beauchamp,  let them now say that drama is unnatural! \n\n _Ma foi!_  said Ch teau-Renaud,  I would rather end my career like M.\nde Morcerf; a pistol-shot seems quite delightful compared with this\ncatastrophe. \n\n And moreover, it kills,  said Beauchamp.\n\n And to think that I had an idea of marrying his daughter,  said\nDebray.  She did well to die, poor girl! \n\n The sitting is adjourned, gentlemen,  said the president;  fresh\ninquiries will be made, and the case will be tried next session by\nanother magistrate. \n\nAs for Andrea, who was calm and more interesting than ever, he left the\nhall, escorted by gendarmes, who involuntarily paid him some attention.\n\n Well, what do you think of this, my fine fellow?  asked Debray of the\nsergeant-at-arms, slipping a louis into his hand.\n\n There will be extenuating circumstances,  he replied.\n\n\n\n Chapter 111. Expiation\n\nNotwithstanding the density of the crowd, M. de Villefort saw it open\nbefore him. There is something so awe-inspiring in great afflictions\nthat even in the worst times the first emotion of a crowd has generally\nbeen to sympathize with the sufferer in a great catastrophe. Many\npeople have been assassinated in a tumult, but even criminals have\nrarely been insulted during trial. Thus Villefort passed through the\nmass of spectators and officers of the Palais, and withdrew. Though he\nhad acknowledged his guilt, he was protected by his grief. There are\nsome situations which men understand by instinct, but which reason is\npowerless to explain; in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives\nutterance to the most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. Those\nwho hear the bitter cry are as much impressed as if they listened to an\nentire poem, and when the sufferer is sincere they are right in\nregarding his outburst as sublime.\n\nIt would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which\nVillefort left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement,\nevery nerve was strained, every vein swollen, and every part of his\nbody seemed to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus multiplying his\nagony a thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through\nforce of habit; he threw aside his magisterial robe, not out of\ndeference to etiquette, but because it was an unbearable burden, a\nveritable garb of Nessus, insatiate in torture. Having staggered as far\nas the Rue Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, awoke his sleeping\ncoachman by opening the door himself, threw himself on the cushions,\nand pointed towards the Faubourg Saint-Honor ; the carriage drove on.\n\nAll the weight of his fallen fortune seemed suddenly to crush him; he\ncould not foresee the consequences; he could not contemplate the future\nwith the indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a\ncontingency already familiar.\n\n\n\nGod was still in his heart.  God,  he murmured, not knowing what he\nsaid, God God!  Behind the event that had overwhelmed him he saw the\nhand of God. The carriage rolled rapidly onward. Villefort, while\nturning restlessly on the cushions, felt something press against him.\nHe put out his hand to remove the object; it was a fan which Madame de\nVillefort had left in the carriage; this fan awakened a recollection\nwhich darted through his mind like lightning. He thought of his wife.\n\n50189m\n\n\n\n Oh!  he exclaimed, as though a red-hot iron were piercing his heart.\n\nDuring the last hour his own crime had alone been presented to his\nmind; now another object, not less terrible, suddenly presented itself.\nHis wife! He had just acted the inexorable judge with her, he had\ncondemned her to death, and she, crushed by remorse, struck with\nterror, covered with the shame inspired by the eloquence of _his_\nirreproachable virtue, she, a poor, weak woman, without help or the\npower of defending herself against his absolute and supreme will, she\nmight at that very moment, perhaps, be preparing to die!\n\nAn hour had elapsed since her condemnation; at that moment, doubtless,\nshe was recalling all her crimes to her memory; she was asking pardon\nfor her sins; perhaps she was even writing a letter imploring\nforgiveness from her virtuous husband a forgiveness she was purchasing\nwith her death! Villefort again groaned with anguish and despair.\n\n Ah,  he exclaimed,  that woman became criminal only from associating\nwith me! I carried the infection of crime with me, and she has caught\nit as she would the typhus fever, the cholera, the plague! And yet I\nhave punished her I have dared to tell her _I_ have Repent and die! \nBut no, she must not die; she shall live, and with me. We will flee\nfrom Paris and go as far as the earth reaches. I told her of the\nscaffold; oh, Heavens, I forgot that it awaits me also! How could I\npronounce that word? Yes, we will fly; I will confess all to her, I\nwill tell her daily that I also have committed a crime! Oh, what an\nalliance the tiger and the serpent; worthy wife of such as I am! She\n_must_ live that my infamy may diminish hers. \n\nAnd Villefort dashed open the window in front of the carriage.\n\n Faster, faster!  he cried, in a tone which electrified the coachman.\nThe horses, impelled by fear, flew towards the house.\n\n Yes, yes,  repeated Villefort, as he approached his home yes, that\nwoman must live; she must repent, and educate my son, the sole\nsurvivor, with the exception of the indestructible old man, of the\nwreck of my house. She loves him; it was for his sake she has committed\nthese crimes. We ought never to despair of softening the heart of a\nmother who loves her child. She will repent, and no one will know that\nshe has been guilty. The events which have taken place in my house,\nthough they now occupy the public mind, will be forgotten in time, or\nif, indeed, a few enemies should persist in remembering them, why then\nI will add them to my list of crimes. What will it signify if one, two,\nor three more are added? My wife and child shall escape from this gulf,\ncarrying treasures with them; she will live and may yet be happy, since\nher child, in whom all her love is centred, will be with her. I shall\nhave performed a good action, and my heart will be lighter. \n\nAnd the procureur breathed more freely than he had done for some time.\n\n50191m\n\n\n\nThe carriage stopped at the door of the house. Villefort leaped out of\nthe carriage, and saw that his servants were surprised at his early\nreturn; he could read no other expression on their features. Neither of\nthem spoke to him; they merely stood aside to let him pass by, as\nusual, nothing more. As he passed by M. Noirtier s room, he perceived\ntwo figures through the half-open door; but he experienced no curiosity\nto know who was visiting his father; anxiety carried him on further.\n\n Come,  he said, as he ascended the stairs leading to his wife s room,\n nothing is changed here. \n\nHe then closed the door of the landing.\n\n No one must disturb us,  he said;  I must speak freely to her, accuse\nmyself, and say he approached the door, touched the crystal handle,\nwhich yielded to his hand.  Not locked,  he cried;  that is well. \n\nAnd he entered the little room in which Edward slept; for though the\nchild went to school during the day, his mother could not allow him to\nbe separated from her at night. With a single glance Villefort s eye\nran through the room.\n\n Not here,  he said;  doubtless she is in her bedroom.  He rushed\ntowards the door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering.\n\n H lo se!  he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of\nfurniture being removed.\n\n H lo se!  he repeated.\n\n Who is there?  answered the voice of her he sought. He thought that\nvoice more feeble than usual.\n\n Open the door!  cried Villefort.  Open; it is I. \n\nBut notwithstanding this request, notwithstanding the tone of anguish\nin which it was uttered, the door remained closed. Villefort burst it\nopen with a violent blow. At the entrance of the room which led to her\nboudoir, Madame de Villefort was standing erect, pale, her features\ncontracted, and her eyes glaring horribly.\n\n H lo se, H lo se!  he said,  what is the matter? Speak!  The young\nwoman extended her stiff white hands towards him.\n\n It is done, monsieur,  she said with a rattling noise which seemed to\ntear her throat.  What more do you want?  and she fell full length on\nthe floor.\n\nVillefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively clasped a\ncrystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de Villefort was dead.\nVillefort, maddened with horror, stepped back to the threshhold of the\ndoor, fixing his eyes on the corpse.\n\n My son!  he exclaimed suddenly,  where is my son? Edward, Edward!  and\nhe rushed out of the room, still crying,  Edward, Edward!  The name was\npronounced in such a tone of anguish that the servants ran up.\n\n Where is my son?  asked Villefort;  let him be removed from the house,\nthat he may not see \n\n Master Edward is not downstairs, sir,  replied the valet.\n\n Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see. \n\n50193m\n\n\n\n No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went\ninto her room, and has not been downstairs since. \n\nA cold perspiration burst out on Villefort s brow; his legs trembled,\nand his thoughts flew about madly in his brain like the wheels of a\ndisordered watch.\n\n In Madame de Villefort s room?  he murmured and slowly returned, with\none hand wiping his forehead, and with the other supporting himself\nagainst the wall. To enter the room he must again see the body of his\nunfortunate wife. To call Edward he must reawaken the echo of that room\nwhich now appeared like a sepulchre; to speak seemed like violating the\nsilence of the tomb. His tongue was paralyzed in his mouth.\n\n Edward!  he stammered Edward! \n\nThe child did not answer. Where, then, could he be, if he had entered\nhis mother s room and not since returned? He stepped forward. The\ncorpse of Madame de Villefort was stretched across the doorway leading\nto the room in which Edward must be; those glaring eyes seemed to watch\nover the threshold, and the lips bore the stamp of a terrible and\nmysterious irony. Through the open door was visible a portion of the\nboudoir, containing an upright piano and a blue satin couch. Villefort\nstepped forward two or three paces, and beheld his child lying no doubt\nasleep on the sofa. The unhappy man uttered an exclamation of joy; a\nray of light seemed to penetrate the abyss of despair and darkness. He\nhad only to step over the corpse, enter the boudoir, take the child in\nhis arms, and flee far, far away.\n\nVillefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger hurt unto\ndeath, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no longer feared realities,\nbut phantoms. He leaped over the corpse as if it had been a burning\nbrazier. He took the child in his arms, embraced him, shook him, called\nhim, but the child made no response. He pressed his burning lips to the\ncheeks, but they were icy cold and pale; he felt the stiffened limbs;\nhe pressed his hand upon the heart, but it no longer beat, the child\nwas dead.\n\nA folded paper fell from Edward s breast. Villefort, thunderstruck,\nfell upon his knees; the child dropped from his arms, and rolled on the\nfloor by the side of its mother. He picked up the paper, and,\nrecognizing his wife s writing, ran his eyes rapidly over its contents;\nit ran as follows:\n\n You know that I was a good mother, since it was for my son s sake I\nbecame criminal. A good mother cannot depart without her son. \n\nVillefort could not believe his eyes, he could not believe his reason;\nhe dragged himself towards the child s body, and examined it as a\nlioness contemplates its dead cub. Then a piercing cry escaped from his\nbreast, and he cried,\n\n Still the hand of God. \n\nThe presence of the two victims alarmed him; he could not bear solitude\nshared only by two corpses. Until then he had been sustained by rage,\nby his strength of mind, by despair, by the supreme agony which led the\nTitans to scale the heavens, and Ajax to defy the gods. He now arose,\nhis head bowed beneath the weight of grief, and, shaking his damp,\ndishevelled hair, he who had never felt compassion for anyone\ndetermined to seek his father, that he might have someone to whom he\ncould relate his misfortunes, someone by whose side he might weep.\n\n50195m\n\n\n\nHe descended the little staircase with which we are acquainted, and\nentered Noirtier s room. The old man appeared to be listening\nattentively and as affectionately as his infirmities would allow to the\nAbb  Busoni, who looked cold and calm, as usual. Villefort, perceiving\nthe abb , passed his hand across his brow. The past came to him like\none of those waves whose wrath foams fiercer than the others.\n\nHe recollected the call he had made upon him after the dinner at\nAuteuil, and then the visit the abb  had himself paid to his house on\nthe day of Valentine s death.\n\n You here, sir!  he exclaimed;  do you, then, never appear but to act\nas an escort to death? \n\nBusoni turned around, and, perceiving the excitement depicted on the\nmagistrate s face, the savage lustre of his eyes, he understood that\nthe revelation had been made at the assizes; but beyond this he was\nignorant.\n\n I came to pray over the body of your daughter. \n\n And now why are you here? \n\n I come to tell you that you have sufficiently repaid your debt, and\nthat from this moment I will pray to God to forgive you, as I do. \n\n Good heavens!  exclaimed Villefort, stepping back fearfully,  surely\nthat is not the voice of the Abb  Busoni! \n\n No!  The abb  threw off his wig, shook his head, and his hair, no\nlonger confined, fell in black masses around his manly face.\n\n It is the face of the Count of Monte Cristo!  exclaimed the procureur,\nwith a haggard expression.\n\n You are not exactly right, M. Procureur; you must go farther back. \n\n That voice, that voice! where did I first hear it? \n\n You heard it for the first time at Marseilles, twenty-three years ago,\nthe day of your marriage with Mademoiselle de Saint-M ran. Refer to\nyour papers. \n\n You are not Busoni? you are not Monte Cristo? Oh, heavens! you are,\nthen, some secret, implacable, and mortal enemy! I must have wronged\nyou in some way at Marseilles. Oh, woe to me! \n\n Yes; you are now on the right path,  said the count, crossing his arms\nover his broad chest;  search search! \n\n But what have I done to you?  exclaimed Villefort, whose mind was\nbalancing between reason and insanity, in that cloud which is neither a\ndream nor reality;  what have I done to you? Tell me, then! Speak! \n\n You condemned me to a horrible, tedious death; you killed my father;\nyou deprived me of liberty, of love, and happiness. \n\n Who are you, then? Who are you? \n\n I am the spectre of a wretch you buried in the dungeons of the Ch teau\nd If. God gave that spectre the form of the Count of Monte Cristo when\nhe at length issued from his tomb, enriched him with gold and diamonds,\nand led him to you! \n\n Ah, I recognize you I recognize you!  exclaimed the king s attorney;\n you are \n\n I am Edmond Dant s! \n\n You are Edmond Dant s,  cried Villefort, seizing the count by the\nwrist;  then come here! \n\nAnd up the stairs he dragged Monte Cristo; who, ignorant of what had\nhappened, followed him in astonishment, foreseeing some new\ncatastrophe.\n\n There, Edmond Dant s!  he said, pointing to the bodies of his wife and\nchild,  see, are you well avenged? \n\nMonte Cristo became pale at this horrible sight; he felt that he had\npassed beyond the bounds of vengeance, and that he could no longer say,\n God is for and with me.  With an expression of indescribable anguish\nhe threw himself upon the body of the child, reopened its eyes, felt\nits pulse, and then rushed with him into Valentine s room, of which he\ndouble-locked the door.\n\n My child,  cried Villefort,  he carries away the body of my child! Oh,\ncurses, woe, death to you! \n\nHe tried to follow Monte Cristo; but as though in a dream he was\ntransfixed to the spot, his eyes glared as though they were starting\nthrough the sockets; he griped the flesh on his chest until his nails\nwere stained with blood; the veins of his temples swelled and boiled as\nthough they would burst their narrow boundary, and deluge his brain\nwith living fire. This lasted several minutes, until the frightful\noverturn of reason was accomplished; then uttering a loud cry followed\nby a burst of laughter, he rushed down the stairs.\n\nA quarter of an hour afterwards the door of Valentine s room opened,\nand Monte Cristo reappeared. Pale, with a dull eye and heavy heart, all\nthe noble features of that face, usually so calm and serene, were\novercast by grief. In his arms he held the child, whom no skill had\nbeen able to recall to life. Bending on one knee, he placed it\nreverently by the side of its mother, with its head upon her breast.\nThen, rising, he went out, and meeting a servant on the stairs, he\nasked:\n\n Where is M. de Villefort? \n\nThe servant, instead of answering, pointed to the garden. Monte Cristo\nran down the steps, and advancing towards the spot designated beheld\nVillefort, encircled by his servants, with a spade in his hand, and\ndigging the earth with fury.\n\n It is not here!  he cried.  It is not here! \n\n50197m\n\n\n\nAnd then he moved farther on, and began again to dig.\n\nMonte Cristo approached him, and said in a low voice, with an\nexpression almost humble:\n\n Sir, you have indeed lost a son; but \n\nVillefort interrupted him; he had neither listened nor heard.\n\n Oh, I _will_ find it,  he cried;  you may pretend he is not here, but\nI _will_ find him, though I dig forever! \n\nMonte Cristo drew back in horror.\n\n Oh,  he said,  he is mad!  And as though he feared that the walls of\nthe accursed house would crumble around him, he rushed into the street,\nfor the first time doubting whether he had the right to do as he had\ndone.  Oh, enough of this, enough of this,  he cried;  let me save the\nlast.  On entering his house, he met Morrel, who wandered about like a\nghost awaiting the heavenly mandate for return to the tomb.\n\n Prepare yourself, Maximilian,  he said with a smile;  we leave Paris\ntomorrow. \n\n Have you nothing more to do there?  asked Morrel.\n\n No,  replied Monte Cristo;  God grant I may not have done too much\nalready. \n\nThe next day they indeed left, accompanied only by Baptistin. Hayd e\nhad taken away Ali, and Bertuccio remained with Noirtier.\n\n\n\n Chapter 112. The Departure\n\nThe recent events formed the theme of conversation throughout all\nParis. Emmanuel and his wife conversed with natural astonishment in\ntheir little apartment in the Rue Meslay upon the three successive,\nsudden, and most unexpected catastrophes of Morcerf, Danglars, and\nVillefort. Maximilian, who was paying them a visit, listened to their\nconversation, or rather was present at it, plunged in his accustomed\nstate of apathy.\n\n Indeed,  said Julie,  might we not almost fancy, Emmanuel, that those\npeople, so rich, so happy but yesterday, had forgotten in their\nprosperity that an evil genius like the wicked fairies in Perrault s\nstories who present themselves unbidden at a wedding or baptism hovered\nover them, and appeared all at once to revenge himself for their fatal\nneglect? \n\n What a dire misfortune!  said Emmanuel, thinking of Morcerf and\nDanglars.\n\n What dreadful sufferings!  said Julie, remembering Valentine, but\nwhom, with a delicacy natural to women, she did not name before her\nbrother.\n\n If the Supreme Being has directed the fatal blow,  said Emmanuel,  it\nmust be that he in his great goodness has perceived nothing in the past\nlives of these people to merit mitigation of their awful punishment. \n\n Do you not form a very rash judgment, Emmanuel?  said Julie.  When my\nfather, with a pistol in his hand, was once on the point of committing\nsuicide, had anyone then said,  This man deserves his misery,  would\nnot that person have been deceived? \n\n Yes; but your father was not allowed to fall. A being was commissioned\nto arrest the fatal hand of death about to descend on him. \n\nEmmanuel had scarcely uttered these words when the sound of the bell\nwas heard, the well-known signal given by the porter that a visitor had\narrived. Nearly at the same instant the door was opened and the Count\nof Monte Cristo appeared on the threshold. The young people uttered a\ncry of joy, while Maximilian raised his head, but let it fall again\nimmediately.\n\n50201m\n\n\n\n Maximilian,  said the count, without appearing to notice the different\nimpressions which his presence produced on the little circle,  I come\nto seek you. \n\n To seek me?  repeated Morrel, as if awakening from a dream.\n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo;  has it not been agreed that I should take\nyou with me, and did I not tell you yesterday to prepare for\ndeparture? \n\n I am ready,  said Maximilian;  I came expressly to wish them\nfarewell. \n\n Whither are you going, count?  asked Julie.\n\n In the first instance to Marseilles, madame. \n\n To Marseilles!  exclaimed the young couple.\n\n Yes, and I take your brother with me. \n\n Oh, count.  said Julie,  will you restore him to us cured of his\nmelancholy?  Morrel turned away to conceal the confusion of his\ncountenance.\n\n You perceive, then, that he is not happy?  said the count.\n\n Yes,  replied the young woman;  and fear much that he finds our home\nbut a dull one. \n\n I will undertake to divert him,  replied the count.\n\n I am ready to accompany you, sir,  said Maximilian.  Adieu, my kind\nfriends! Emmanuel Julie farewell! \n\n How farewell?  exclaimed Julie;  do you leave us thus, so suddenly,\nwithout any preparations for your journey, without even a passport? \n\n Needless delays but increase the grief of parting,  said Monte Cristo,\n and Maximilian has doubtless provided himself with everything\nrequisite; at least, I advised him to do so. \n\n I have a passport, and my clothes are ready packed,  said Morrel in\nhis tranquil but mournful manner.\n\n Good,  said Monte Cristo, smiling;  in these prompt arrangements we\nrecognize the order of a well-disciplined soldier. \n\n And you leave us,  said Julie,  at a moment s warning? you do not give\nus a day no, not even an hour before your departure? \n\n My carriage is at the door, madame, and I must be in Rome in five\ndays. \n\n But does Maximilian go to Rome?  exclaimed Emmanuel.\n\n I am going wherever it may please the count to take me,  said Morrel,\nwith a smile full of grief;  I am under his orders for the next month. \n\n Oh, heavens, how strangely he expresses himself, count!  said Julie.\n\n Maximilian goes with _me_,  said the count, in his kindest and most\npersuasive manner;  therefore do not make yourself uneasy on your\nbrother s account. \n\n Once more farewell, my dear sister; Emmanuel, adieu!  Morrel repeated.\n\n His carelessness and indifference touch me to the heart,  said Julie.\n Oh, Maximilian, Maximilian, you are certainly concealing something\nfrom us. \n\n Pshaw!  said Monte Cristo,  you will see him return to you gay,\nsmiling, and joyful. \n\nMaximilian cast a look of disdain, almost of anger, on the count.\n\n We must leave you,  said Monte Cristo.\n\n50203m\n\n\n\n Before you quit us, count,  said Julie,  will you permit us to express\nto you all that the other day \n\n Madame,  interrupted the count, taking her two hands in his,  all that\nyou could say in words would never express what I read in your eyes;\nthe thoughts of your heart are fully understood by mine. Like\nbenefactors in romances, I should have left you without seeing you\nagain, but that would have been a virtue beyond my strength, because I\nam a weak and vain man, fond of the tender, kind, and thankful glances\nof my fellow-creatures. On the eve of departure I carry my egotism so\nfar as to say,  Do not forget me, my kind friends, for probably you\nwill never see me again. \n\n Never see you again?  exclaimed Emmanuel, while two large tears rolled\ndown Julie s cheeks,  never behold you again? It is not a man, then,\nbut some angel that leaves us, and this angel is on the point of\nreturning to heaven after having appeared on earth to do good. \n\n Say not so,  quickly returned Monte Cristo say not so, my friends;\nangels never err, celestial beings remain where they wish to be. Fate\nis not more powerful than they; it is they who, on the contrary,\novercome fate. No, Emmanuel, I am but a man, and your admiration is as\nunmerited as your words are sacrilegious. \n\nAnd pressing his lips on the hand of Julie, who rushed into his arms,\nhe extended his other hand to Emmanuel; then tearing himself from this\nabode of peace and happiness, he made a sign to Maximilian, who\nfollowed him passively, with the indifference which had been\nperceptible in him ever since the death of Valentine had so stunned\nhim.\n\n Restore my brother to peace and happiness,  whispered Julie to Monte\nCristo. And the count pressed her hand in reply, as he had done eleven\nyears before on the staircase leading to Morrel s study.\n\n You still confide, then, in Sinbad the Sailor?  asked he, smiling.\n\n Oh, yes,  was the ready answer.\n\n Well, then, sleep in peace, and put your trust in the Lord. \n\nAs we have before said, the post-chaise was waiting; four powerful\nhorses were already pawing the ground with impatience, while Ali,\napparently just arrived from a long walk, was standing at the foot of\nthe steps, his face bathed in perspiration.\n\n Well,  asked the count in Arabic,  have you been to see the old man? \nAli made a sign in the affirmative.\n\n And have you placed the letter before him, as I ordered you to do? \n\nThe slave respectfully signalized that he had.\n\n And what did he say, or rather do?  Ali placed himself in the light,\nso that his master might see him distinctly, and then imitating in his\nintelligent manner the countenance of the old man, he closed his eyes,\nas Noirtier was in the custom of doing when saying  Yes. \n\n Good; he accepts,  said Monte Cristo.  Now let us go. \n\n50205m\n\n\n\nThese words had scarcely escaped him, when the carriage was on its way,\nand the feet of the horses struck a shower of sparks from the pavement.\nMaximilian settled himself in his corner without uttering a word. Half\nan hour had passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had\njust pulled the silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali s\nfinger. The Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door.\nIt was a lovely starlight night they had just reached the top of the\nhill Villejuif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its\nmillions of phosphoric waves into light waves indeed more noisy, more\npassionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those of\nthe tempestuous ocean, waves which never rest as those of the sea\nsometimes do, waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what\nfalls within their grasp.\n\nThe count stood alone, and at a sign from his hand, the carriage went\non for a short distance. With folded arms, he gazed for some time upon\nthe great city. When he had fixed his piercing look on this modern\nBabylon, which equally engages the contemplation of the religious\nenthusiast, the materialist, and the scoffer, \n\n Great city,  murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as\nif in prayer,  less than six months have elapsed since first I entered\nthy gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and\nthat he also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my\npresence within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has had\nthe power to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from thee\nwithout pride or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knows\nthat the power confided to me has never been made subservient to my\npersonal good or to any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thy\npalpitating bosom that I have found that which I sought; like a patient\nminer, I have dug deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence.\nNow my work is accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canst\nneither afford me pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu! \n\nHis look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the\nnight; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the\ndoor was closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the\nother side of the hill in a whirlwind of dust and noise.\n\nTen leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered. Morrel was\ndreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the dreamer.\n\n Morrel,  said the count to him at length,  do you repent having\nfollowed me? \n\n No, count; but to leave Paris \n\n If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would have\nleft you there. \n\n Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is\nlike losing her a second time. \n\n Maximilian,  said the count,  the friends that we have lost do not\nrepose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts,\nand it has been thus ordained that we may always be accompanied by\nthem. I have two friends, who in this way never depart from me; the one\nwho gave me being, and the other who conferred knowledge and\nintelligence on me. Their spirits live in me. I consult them when\ndoubtful, and if I ever do any good, it is due to their beneficent\ncounsels. Listen to the voice of your heart, Morrel, and ask it whether\nyou ought to preserve this melancholy exterior towards me. \n\n My friend,  said Maximilian,  the voice of my heart is very sorrowful,\nand promises me nothing but misfortune. \n\n It is the way of weakened minds to see everything through a black\ncloud. The soul forms its own horizons; your soul is darkened, and\nconsequently the sky of the future appears stormy and unpromising. \n\n That may possibly be true,  said Maximilian, and he again subsided\ninto his thoughtful mood.\n\nThe journey was performed with that marvellous rapidity which the\nunlimited power of the count ever commanded. Towns fled from them like\nshadows on their path, and trees shaken by the first winds of autumn\nseemed like giants madly rushing on to meet them, and retreating as\nrapidly when once reached. The following morning they arrived at\nCh lons, where the count s steamboat waited for them. Without the loss\nof an instant, the carriage was placed on board and the two travellers\nembarked without delay. The boat was built for speed; her two\npaddle-wheels were like two wings with which she skimmed the water like\na bird.\n\nMorrel was not insensible to that sensation of delight which is\ngenerally experienced in passing rapidly through the air, and the wind\nwhich occasionally raised the hair from his forehead seemed on the\npoint of dispelling momentarily the clouds collected there.\n\nAs the distance increased between the travellers and Paris, almost\nsuperhuman serenity appeared to surround the count; he might have been\ntaken for an exile about to revisit his native land.\n\nEre long Marseilles presented herself to view, Marseilles, white,\nfervid, full of life and energy, Marseilles, the younger sister of Tyre\nand Carthage, the successor to them in the empire of the\nMediterranean, Marseilles, old, yet always young. Powerful memories\nwere stirred within them by the sight of the round tower, Fort\nSaint-Nicolas, the City Hall designed by Puget,28 the port with its\nbrick quays, where they had both played in childhood, and it was with\none accord that they stopped on the Canebi re.\n\nA vessel was setting sail for Algiers, on board of which the bustle\nusually attending departure prevailed. The passengers and their\nrelations crowded on the deck, friends taking a tender but sorrowful\nleave of each other, some weeping, others noisy in their grief, the\nwhole forming a spectacle that might be exciting even to those who\nwitnessed similar sights daily, but which had no power to disturb the\ncurrent of thought that had taken possession of the mind of Maximilian\nfrom the moment he had set foot on the broad pavement of the quay.\n\n Here,  said he, leaning heavily on the arm of Monte Cristo, here is\nthe spot where my father stopped, when the _Pharaon_ entered the port;\nit was here that the good old man, whom you saved from death and\ndishonor, threw himself into my arms. I yet feel his warm tears on my\nface, and his were not the only tears shed, for many who witnessed our\nmeeting wept also. \n\nMonte Cristo gently smiled and said, I was there;  at the same time\npointing to the corner of a street. As he spoke, and in the very\ndirection he indicated, a groan, expressive of bitter grief, was heard,\nand a woman was seen waving her hand to a passenger on board the vessel\nabout to sail. Monte Cristo looked at her with an emotion that must\nhave been remarked by Morrel had not his eyes been fixed on the vessel.\n\n Oh, heavens!  exclaimed Morrel,  I do not deceive myself that young\nman who is waving his hat, that youth in the uniform of a lieutenant,\nis Albert de Morcerf! \n\n Yes,  said Monte Cristo,  I recognized him. \n\n How so? you were looking the other way. \n\n50209m\n\n\n\nThe count smiled, as he was in the habit of doing when he did not want\nto make any reply, and he again turned towards the veiled woman, who\nsoon disappeared at the corner of the street. Turning to his friend:\n\n Dear Maximilian,  said the count,  have you nothing to do in this\nland? \n\n I have to weep over the grave of my father,  replied Morrel in a\nbroken voice.\n\n Well, then, go, wait for me there, and I will soon join you. \n\n You leave me, then? \n\n Yes; I also have a pious visit to pay. \n\nMorrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to\nhim; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he\nquitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city. Monte\nCristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he\nthen walked slowly towards the All es de Meilhan to seek out a small\nhouse with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of\nthis story.\n\nIt yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees, which\nforms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles,\ncovered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened\nbranches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the\nsouth. Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to\nthe door, which was made of three planks; the door had never been\npainted or varnished, so great cracks yawned in it during the dry\nseason to close again when the rains came on. The house, with all its\ncrumbling antiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and\npicturesque, and was the same that old Dant s formerly inhabited the\nonly difference being that the old man occupied merely the garret,\nwhile the whole house was now placed at the command of Merc d s by the\ncount.\n\nThe woman whom the count had seen leave the ship with so much regret\nentered this house; she had scarcely closed the door after her when\nMonte Cristo appeared at the corner of a street, so that he found and\nlost her again almost at the same instant. The worn out steps were old\nacquaintances of his; he knew better than anyone else how to open that\nweather-beaten door with the large headed nail which served to raise\nthe latch within. He entered without knocking, or giving any other\nintimation of his presence, as if he had been a friend or the master of\nthe place. At the end of a passage paved with bricks, was a little\ngarden, bathed in sunshine, and rich in warmth and light. In this\ngarden Merc d s had found, at the place indicated by the count, the sum\nof money which he, through a sense of delicacy, had described as having\nbeen placed there twenty-four years previously. The trees of the garden\nwere easily seen from the steps of the street-door.\n\nMonte Cristo, on stepping into the house, heard a sigh that was almost\na deep sob; he looked in the direction whence it came, and there under\nan arbor of Virginia jessamine,29 with its thick foliage and beautiful\nlong purple flowers, he saw Merc d s seated, with her head bowed, and\nweeping bitterly. She had raised her veil, and with her face hidden by\nher hands was giving free scope to the sighs and tears which had been\nso long restrained by the presence of her son.\n\nMonte Cristo advanced a few steps, which were heard on the gravel.\nMerc d s raised her head, and uttered a cry of terror on beholding a\nman before her.\n\n50211m\n\n\n\n Madame,  said the count,  it is no longer in my power to restore you\nto happiness, but I offer you consolation; will you deign to accept it\nas coming from a friend? \n\n I am, indeed, most wretched,  replied Merc d s.  Alone in the world, I\nhad but my son, and he has left me! \n\n He possesses a noble heart, madame,  replied the count,  and he has\nacted rightly. He feels that every man owes a tribute to his country;\nsome contribute their talents, others their industry; these devote\ntheir blood, those their nightly labors, to the same cause. Had he\nremained with you, his life must have become a hateful burden, nor\nwould he have participated in your griefs. He will increase in strength\nand honor by struggling with adversity, which he will convert into\nprosperity. Leave him to build up the future for you, and I venture to\nsay you will confide it to safe hands. \n\n Oh,  replied the wretched woman, mournfully shaking her head,  the\nprosperity of which you speak, and which, from the bottom of my heart,\nI pray God in his mercy to grant him, I can never enjoy. The bitter cup\nof adversity has been drained by me to the very dregs, and I feel that\nthe grave is not far distant. You have acted kindly, count, in bringing\nme back to the place where I have enjoyed so much bliss. I ought to\nmeet death on the same spot where happiness was once all my own. \n\n Alas,  said Monte Cristo,  your words sear and embitter my heart, the\nmore so as you have every reason to hate me. I have been the cause of\nall your misfortunes; but why do you pity, instead of blaming me? You\nrender me still more unhappy \n\n Hate you, blame you _you_, Edmond! Hate, reproach, the man that has\nspared my son s life! For was it not your fatal and sanguinary\nintention to destroy that son of whom M. de Morcerf was so proud? Oh,\nlook at me closely, and discover, if you can, even the semblance of a\nreproach in me. \n\nThe count looked up and fixed his eyes on Merc d s, who arose partly\nfrom her seat and extended both her hands towards him.\n\n Oh, look at me,  continued she, with a feeling of profound melancholy,\n my eyes no longer dazzle by their brilliancy, for the time has long\nfled since I used to smile on Edmond Dant s, who anxiously looked out\nfor me from the window of yonder garret, then inhabited by his old\nfather. Years of grief have created an abyss between those days and the\npresent. I neither reproach you nor hate you, my friend. Oh, no,\nEdmond, it is myself that I blame, myself that I hate! Oh, miserable\ncreature that I am!  cried she, clasping her hands, and raising her\neyes to heaven.  I once possessed piety, innocence, and love, the three\ningredients of the happiness of angels, and now what am I? \n\nMonte Cristo approached her, and silently took her hand.\n\n No,  said she, withdrawing it gently no, my friend, touch me not. You\nhave spared me, yet of all those who have fallen under your vengeance I\nwas the most guilty. They were influenced by hatred, by avarice, and by\nself-love; but I was base, and for want of courage acted against my\njudgment. Nay, do not press my hand, Edmond; you are thinking, I am\nsure, of some kind speech to console me, but do not utter it to me,\nreserve it for others more worthy of your kindness. See  (and she\nexposed her face completely to view) see, misfortune has silvered my\nhair, my eyes have shed so many tears that they are encircled by a rim\nof purple, and my brow is wrinkled. You, Edmond, on the contrary, you\nare still young, handsome, dignified; it is because you have had faith;\nbecause you have had strength, because you have had trust in God, and\nGod has sustained you. But as for me, I have been a coward; I have\ndenied God and he has abandoned me. \n\n50213m\n\n\n\nMerc d s burst into tears; her woman s heart was breaking under its\nload of memories. Monte Cristo took her hand and imprinted a kiss on\nit; but she herself felt that it was a kiss of no greater warmth than\nhe would have bestowed on the hand of some marble statue of a saint.\n\n It often happens,  continued she,  that a first fault destroys the\nprospects of a whole life. I believed you dead; why did I survive you?\nWhat good has it done me to mourn for you eternally in the secret\nrecesses of my heart? only to make a woman of thirty-nine look like a\nwoman of fifty. Why, having recognized you, and I the only one to do\nso why was I able to save my son alone? Ought I not also to have\nrescued the man that I had accepted for a husband, guilty though he\nwere? Yet I let him die! What do I say? Oh, merciful heavens, was I not\naccessory to his death by my supine insensibility, by my contempt for\nhim, not remembering, or not willing to remember, that it was for my\nsake he had become a traitor and a perjurer? In what am I benefited by\naccompanying my son so far, since I now abandon him, and allow him to\ndepart alone to the baneful climate of Africa? Oh, I have been base,\ncowardly, I tell you; I have abjured my affections, and like all\nrenegades I am of evil omen to those who surround me! \n\n No, Merc d s,  said Monte Cristo,  no; you judge yourself with too\nmuch severity. You are a noble-minded woman, and it was your grief that\ndisarmed me. Still I was but an agent, led on by an invisible and\noffended Deity, who chose not to withhold the fatal blow that I was\ndestined to hurl. I take that God to witness, at whose feet I have\nprostrated myself daily for the last ten years, that I would have\nsacrificed my life to you, and with my life the projects that were\nindissolubly linked with it. But and I say it with some pride,\nMerc d s God needed me, and I lived. Examine the past and the present,\nand endeavor to dive into futurity, and then say whether I am not a\ndivine instrument. The most dreadful misfortunes, the most frightful\nsufferings, the abandonment of all those who loved me, the persecution\nof those who did not know me, formed the trials of my youth; when\nsuddenly, from captivity, solitude, misery, I was restored to light and\nliberty, and became the possessor of a fortune so brilliant, so\nunbounded, so unheard-of, that I must have been blind not to be\nconscious that God had endowed me with it to work out his own great\ndesigns. From that time I looked upon this fortune as something\nconfided to me for a particular purpose. Not a thought was given to a\nlife which you once, Merc d s, had the power to render blissful; not\none hour of peaceful calm was mine; but I felt myself driven on like an\nexterminating angel. Like adventurous captains about to embark on some\nenterprise full of danger, I laid in my provisions, I loaded my\nweapons, I collected every means of attack and defence; I inured my\nbody to the most violent exercises, my soul to the bitterest trials; I\ntaught my arm to slay, my eyes to behold excruciating sufferings, and\nmy mouth to smile at the most horrid spectacles. Good-natured,\nconfiding, and forgiving as I had been, I became revengeful, cunning,\nand wicked, or rather, immovable as fate. Then I launched out into the\npath that was opened to me. I overcame every obstacle, and reached the\ngoal; but woe to those who stood in my pathway! \n\n50215m\n\n\n\n Enough,  said Merc d s;  enough, Edmond! Believe me, that she who\nalone recognized you has been the only one to comprehend you; and had\nshe crossed your path, and you had crushed her like glass, still,\nEdmond, still she must have admired you! Like the gulf between me and\nthe past, there is an abyss between you, Edmond, and the rest of\nmankind; and I tell you freely that the comparison I draw between you\nand other men will ever be one of my greatest tortures. No, there is\nnothing in the world to resemble you in worth and goodness! But we must\nsay farewell, Edmond, and let us part. \n\n Before I leave you, Merc d s, have you no request to make?  said the\ncount.\n\n I desire but one thing in this world, Edmond, the happiness of my\nson. \n\n Pray to the Almighty to spare his life, and I will take upon myself to\npromote his happiness. \n\n Thank you, Edmond. \n\n But have you no request to make for yourself, Merc d s? \n\n For myself I want nothing. I live, as it were, between two graves. One\nis that of Edmond Dant s, lost to me long, long since. He had my love!\nThat word ill becomes my faded lip now, but it is a memory dear to my\nheart, and one that I would not lose for all that the world contains.\nThe other grave is that of the man who met his death from the hand of\nEdmond Dant s. I approve of the deed, but I must pray for the dead. \n\n Your son shall be happy, Merc d s,  repeated the count.\n\n Then I shall enjoy as much happiness as this world can possibly\nconfer. \n\n But what are your intentions? \n\nMerc d s smiled sadly.\n\n To say that I shall live here, like the Merc d s of other times,\ngaining my bread by labor, would not be true, nor would you believe me.\nI have no longer the strength to do anything but to spend my days in\nprayer. However, I shall have no occasion to work, for the little sum\nof money buried by you, and which I found in the place you mentioned,\nwill be sufficient to maintain me. Rumor will probably be busy\nrespecting me, my occupations, my manner of living that will signify\nbut little, that concerns God, you, and myself. \n\n Merc d s,  said the count,  I do not say it to blame you, but you made\nan unnecessary sacrifice in relinquishing the whole of the fortune\namassed by M. de Morcerf; half of it at least by right belonged to you,\nin virtue of your vigilance and economy. \n\n I perceive what you are intending to propose to me; but I cannot\naccept it, Edmond my son would not permit it. \n\n Nothing shall be done without the full approbation of Albert de\nMorcerf. I will make myself acquainted with his intentions and will\nsubmit to them. But if he be willing to accept my offers, will you\noppose them? \n\n You well know, Edmond, that I am no longer a reasoning creature; I\nhave no will, unless it be the will never to decide. I have been so\noverwhelmed by the many storms that have broken over my head, that I am\nbecome passive in the hands of the Almighty, like a sparrow in the\ntalons of an eagle. I live, because it is not ordained for me to die.\nIf succor be sent to me, I will accept it. \n\n Ah, madame,  said Monte Cristo,  you should not talk thus! It is not\nso we should evince our resignation to the will of heaven; on the\ncontrary, we are all free agents. \n\n Alas!  exclaimed Merc d s,  if it were so, if I possessed free-will,\nbut without the power to render that will efficacious, it would drive\nme to despair. \n\nMonte Cristo dropped his head and shrank from the vehemence of her\ngrief.\n\n Will you not even say you will see me again?  he asked.\n\n On the contrary, we shall meet again,  said Merc d s, pointing to\nheaven with solemnity.  I tell you so to prove to you that I still\nhope. \n\nAnd after pressing her own trembling hand upon that of the count,\nMerc d s rushed up the stairs and disappeared. Monte Cristo slowly left\nthe house and turned towards the quay. But Merc d s did not witness his\ndeparture, although she was seated at the little window of the room\nwhich had been occupied by old Dant s. Her eyes were straining to see\nthe ship which was carrying her son over the vast sea; but still her\nvoice involuntarily murmured softly:\n\n Edmond, Edmond, Edmond! \n\n\n\n Chapter 113. The Past\n\nThe count departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left\nMerc d s, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little\nEdward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reached\nthe summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an\nabyss of doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation\nwhich had just taken place between Merc d s and himself had awakened so\nmany recollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat\nwith them. A man of the count s temperament could not long indulge in\nthat melancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys\nsuperior ones. He thought he must have made an error in his\ncalculations if he now found cause to blame himself.\n\n I cannot have deceived myself,  he said;  I must look upon the past in\na false light. What!  he continued,  can I have been following a false\npath? can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end? can one hour have\nsufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he founded\nall his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? I\ncannot reconcile myself to this idea it would madden me. The reason why\nI am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of the\npast. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes\nindistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person wounded\nin a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he\nreceived it.\n\n Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant prodigal, thou\nawakened sleeper, thou all-powerful visionary, thou invincible\nmillionaire, once again review thy past life of starvation and\nwretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate and misfortune conducted,\nand where despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold and\nsplendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte Cristo seeks\nto behold Dant s. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud thy\nsplendor, exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a prison, a living\nbody for a corpse! \n\nAs he thus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de la Caisserie.\nIt was the same through which, twenty-four years ago, he had been\nconducted by a silent and nocturnal guard; the houses, today so smiling\nand animated, were on that night dark, mute, and closed.\n\n And yet they were the same,  murmured Monte Cristo,  only now it is\nbroad daylight instead of night; it is the sun which brightens the\nplace, and makes it appear so cheerful. \n\nHe proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced to\nthe Consigne; it was the point where he had embarked. A pleasure-boat\nwith striped awning was going by. Monte Cristo called the owner, who\nimmediately rowed up to him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for\na good fare.\n\nThe weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat. The sun, red\nand flaming, was sinking into the embrace of the welcoming ocean. The\nsea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the leaping of\nfish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for safety in\nanother element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be\nseen the fishermen s boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, or the\nmerchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.\n\nBut notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and\nthe golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of\nMonte Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible\nvoyage, the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory.\nThe solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the\nCh teau d If, which told him whither they were leading him; the\nstruggle with the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard;\nhis despair when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when\nthe muzzle of the carbine touched his forehead all these were brought\nbefore him in vivid and frightful reality.\n\nLike the streams which the heat of the summer has dried up, and which\nafter the autumnal storms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so did\nthe count feel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness which\nformerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dant s. Clear sky, swift-flitting\nboats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung with\nblack, and the gigantic structure of the Ch teau d If seemed like the\nphantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the shore, the count\ninstinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner was\nobliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice:\n\n Sir, we are at the landing. \n\nMonte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he\nhad been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the\nslope at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long\nto Dant s, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the\noar seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the\nflying spray of the sea.\n\n50219m\n\n\n\nThere had been no prisoners confined in the Ch teau d If since the\nrevolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for\nthe prevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit\nto visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror.\n\nThe count inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there;\nbut they had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other\nemployment. The concierge who attended him had only been there since\n1830. He visited his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly\nendeavoring to penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the\nspot where had stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed\nthe new stones indicated where the breach made by the Abb  Faria had\nbeen. Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log\nof wood.\n\n Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one\nrelating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?  asked the count;  are there any\ntraditions respecting these dismal abodes, in which it is difficult to\nbelieve men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures? \n\n Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this\nvery dungeon. \n\nMonte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almost\nforgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalled\nhis person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearing\nthe brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still\nseemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the\ncorridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the concierge.\n\n Would you like to hear the story, sir? \n\n Yes; relate it,  said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to his heart to\nstill its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history.\n\n This dungeon,  said the concierge,  was, it appears, some time ago\noccupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of\nindustry. Another person was confined in the Ch teau at the same time,\nbut he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest. \n\n Ah, indeed? mad!  repeated Monte Cristo;  and what was his mania? \n\n He offered millions to anyone who would set him at liberty. \n\nMonte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the heavens; there\nwas a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that there\nhad been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria\noffered the treasures.\n\n Could the prisoners see each other?  he asked.\n\n Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance\nof the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other. \n\n And which of them made this passage? \n\n Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and\nindustrious, while the abb  was aged and weak; besides, his mind was\ntoo vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea. \n\n Blind fools!  murmured the count.\n\n However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by\nwhat means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet\nremaining of his work. Do you see it?  and the man held the torch to\nthe wall.\n\n50223m\n\n\n\n Ah, yes; I see,  said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion.\n\n The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how\nlong they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died.\nNow guess what the young one did? \n\n Tell me. \n\n He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its\nface to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the\nentrance, and slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body.\nDid you ever hear of such an idea? \n\nMonte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to experience all the\nsensations he had felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist with the cold\ndews of death, had touched his face.\n\nThe jailer continued:\n\n Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the dead at the\nCh teau d If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on the\ngrave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his\nshoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Ch teau\nfrustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely\nattached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the\nsea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of\nthe rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth\nwas guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what\nthey had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse\nwas thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost\nimmediately stifled by the water in which it disappeared. \n\nThe count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down his\nforehead, and his heart was full of anguish.\n\n No,  he muttered,  the doubt I felt was but the commencement of\nforgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts\nfor vengeance. And the prisoner,  he continued aloud,  was he ever\nheard of afterwards? \n\n Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must\nhave happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow,\nfrom a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he\nmust have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to\nthe bottom, where he remained poor fellow! \n\n Then you pity him?  said the count.\n\n _Ma foi_, yes; though he was in his own element. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined\nfor plotting with the Bonapartists. \n\n Great is truth,  muttered the count,  fire cannot burn, nor water\ndrown it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who\nnarrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the\nchimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit\nthrough the air to be swallowed by the deep.  Then, the count added\naloud,  Was his name ever known? \n\n Oh, yes; but only as No. 34. \n\n Oh, Villefort, Villefort,  murmured the count,  this scene must often\nhave haunted thy sleepless hours! \n\n Do you wish to see anything more, sir?  said the concierge.\n\n Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abb s room. \n\n Ah! No. 27. \n\n Yes; No. 27.  repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the\nabb  answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his\nname.\n\n Come, sir. \n\n Wait,  said Monte Cristo,  I wish to take one final glance around this\nroom. \n\n This is fortunate,  said the guide;  I have forgotten the other key. \n\n Go and fetch it. \n\n I will leave you the torch, sir. \n\n No, take it away; I can see in the dark. \n\n Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness\nthat he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon. \n\n He spent fourteen years to arrive at that,  muttered the count.\n\nThe guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly.\nScarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly\nas by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his\ndungeon.\n\n Yes,  he said,  there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is\nthe impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of\nmy blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those\nfigures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate the\nage of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still\nliving, and that of Merc d s, to know if I should find her still free.\nAfter finishing that calculation, I had a minute s hope. I did not\nreckon upon hunger and infidelity!  and a bitter laugh escaped the\ncount.\n\nHe saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of Merc d s.\nOn the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white\nletters of which were still visible on the green wall:\n\n _Oh, God!_  he read,  _preserve my memory!_ \n\n Oh, yes,  he cried,  that was my only prayer at last; I no longer\nbegged for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and forgetful.\nOh, God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thank thee, I thank thee! \n\nAt this moment the light of the torch was reflected on the wall; the\nguide was coming; Monte Cristo went to meet him.\n\n Follow me, sir;  and without ascending the stairs the guide conducted\nhim by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte\nCristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that\nmet his eye was the meridian, drawn by the abb  on the wall, by which\nhe calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which the\npoor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the\nanguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with\na soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.\n\n This is where the mad abb  was kept, sir, and that is where the young\nman entered;  and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained\nunclosed.  From the appearance of the stone,  he continued,  a learned\ngentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated\ntogether for ten years. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary\nyears. \n\nDant s took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who\nhad twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them\nmerely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch\nrevealed their true worth.\n\n Sir,  he said,  you have made a mistake; you have given me gold. \n\n I know it. \n\nThe concierge looked upon the count with surprise.\n\n Sir,  he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune sir, I\ncannot understand your generosity! \n\n Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your\nstory touched me more than it would others. \n\n Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something. \n\n50227m\n\n\n\n What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank\nyou! \n\n No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story. \n\n Really? What is it? \n\n Listen,  said the guide;  I said to myself,  Something is always left\nin a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,  so I began to\nsound the wall. \n\n Ah,  cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abb s two hiding-places.\n\n After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the\nhead of the bed, and at the hearth. \n\n Yes,  said the count,  yes. \n\n I raised the stones, and found \n\n A rope-ladder and some tools? \n\n How do you know that?  asked the guide in astonishment.\n\n I do not know I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally\nfound in prisoners  cells. \n\n Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools. \n\n And have you them yet? \n\n No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great\ncuriosities; but I have still something left. \n\n What is it?  asked the count, impatiently.\n\n A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth. \n\n Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do\nwell. \n\n I will run for it, sir;  and the guide went out.\n\nThen the count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death had\nconverted into an altar.\n\n Oh, second father,  he exclaimed,  thou who hast given me liberty,\nknowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to\nourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the\ndepths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can\nrespond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the\nsoul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered, then,\nnoble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love\nthou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me\nsome sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which,\nif it change not to conviction, must become remorse!  The count bowed\nhis head, and clasped his hands together.\n\n Here, sir,  said a voice behind him.\n\nMonte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of\ncloth upon which the Abb  Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The\nmanuscript was the great work by the Abb  Faria upon the kingdoms of\nItaly. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the\nepigraph, and he read:\n\n Thou shalt tear out the dragons  teeth, and shall trample the lions\nunder foot, saith the Lord. \n\n Ah,  he exclaimed,  here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks.  And\nfeeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which\ncontained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs.\n\n Here,  he said,  take this pocket-book. \n\n Do you give it to me? \n\n Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone; \nand placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was\nmore valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the\ncorridor, and reaching his boat, cried,  To Marseilles! \n\nThen, as he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison.\n\n Woe,  he cried,  to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and\nwoe to those who forgot that I was there! \n\n50229m\n\n\n\nAs he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying his\nhead in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory was\ncomplete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in\na voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Hayd e.\n\nOn landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure\nof finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a\ntomb, and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions,\nhad been unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from\nhunger. Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had\nfallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old\nwood in the churchyard.\n\nThe worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his\nchildren, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had\npreceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, on\nwhich were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a\nlittle enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel\nwas leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on the\ngraves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.\n\n50231m\n\n\n\n Maximilian,  said the count,  you should not look on the graves, but\nthere;  and he pointed upwards.\n\n The dead are everywhere,  said Morrel;  did you not yourself tell me\nso as we left Paris? \n\n Maximilian,  said the count,  you asked me during the journey to allow\nyou to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so? \n\n I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less\npainfully here than anywhere else. \n\n So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with\nme, do I not? \n\n Ah, count, I shall forget it. \n\n No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel,\nbecause you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again. \n\n Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy. \n\n I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel. \n\n Impossible! \n\n Alas,  said Monte Cristo,  it is the infirmity of our nature always to\nbelieve ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides! \n\n What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and\ndesired in the world? \n\n Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I\nknew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a\nwoman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed\nbride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the\ncaprices of fate, which would almost make us doubt the goodness of\nProvidence, if that Providence did not afterwards reveal itself by\nproving that all is but a means of conducting to an end, one of those\ncaprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had\ndreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the\npresent), and cast him into a dungeon. \n\n Ah,  said Morrel,  one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year. \n\n He remained there fourteen years, Morrel,  said the count, placing his\nhand on the young man s shoulder. Maximilian shuddered.\n\n Fourteen years!  he muttered.\n\n Fourteen years!  repeated the count.  During that time he had many\nmoments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the\nunhappiest of men. \n\n Well?  asked Morrel.\n\n Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human\nmeans. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of\nthe Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he\nmiraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first\ncry was for his father; but that father was dead. \n\n My father, too, is dead,  said Morrel.\n\n Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and\nfull of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of\nProvidence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his\ntomb had disappeared, and no one could say,  There sleeps the father\nyou so well loved. \n\n Oh!  exclaimed Morrel.\n\n He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not\neven find his father s grave. \n\n But then he had the woman he loved still remaining? \n\n You are deceived, Morrel, that woman \n\n She was dead? \n\n Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the\npersecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more\nunhappy lover than you. \n\n And has he found consolation? \n\n He has at least found peace. \n\n And does he ever expect to be happy? \n\n He hopes so, Maximilian. \n\nThe young man s head fell on his breast.\n\n You have my promise,  he said, after a minute s pause, extending his\nhand to Monte Cristo.  Only remember \n\n On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of\nMonte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of\nBastia, it will be called the _Eurus_. You will give your name to the\ncaptain, who will bring you to me. It is understood is it not? \n\n But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October \n\n Child,  replied the count,  not to know the value of a man s word! I\nhave told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will\nassist you. Morrel, farewell! \n\n Do you leave me? \n\n Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone in your struggle with\nmisfortune alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bear\naloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not\na fable, but an allegory. \n\n When do you leave? \n\n Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from\nyou. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian? \n\n50233m\n\n\n\n I am entirely yours, count. \n\nMorrel accompanied the count to the harbor. The white steam was\nascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamer\nsoon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, was\nscarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night.\n\n\n\n Chapter 114. Peppino\n\nAt the same time that the steamer disappeared behind Cape Morgiou, a\nman travelling post on the road from Florence to Rome had just passed\nthe little town of Aquapendente. He was travelling fast enough to cover\na great deal of ground without exciting suspicion. This man was dressed\nin a greatcoat, or rather a surtout, a little worse for the journey,\nbut which exhibited the ribbon of the Legion of Honor still fresh and\nbrilliant, a decoration which also ornamented the under coat. He might\nbe recognized, not only by these signs, but also from the accent with\nwhich he spoke to the postilion, as a Frenchman.\n\nAnother proof that he was a native of the universal country was\napparent in the fact of his knowing no other Italian words than the\nterms used in music, and which like the  goddam  of Figaro, served all\npossible linguistic requirements.  _Allegro!_  he called out to the\npostilions at every ascent.  _Moderato!_  he cried as they descended.\nAnd heaven knows there are hills enough between Rome and Florence by\nthe way of Aquapendente! These two words greatly amused the men to whom\nthey were addressed. On reaching La Storta, the point from whence Rome\nis first visible, the traveller evinced none of the enthusiastic\ncuriosity which usually leads strangers to stand up and endeavor to\ncatch sight of the dome of Saint Peter s, which may be seen long before\nany other object is distinguishable. No, he merely drew a pocketbook\nfrom his pocket, and took from it a paper folded in four, and after\nhaving examined it in a manner almost reverential, he said:\n\n Good! I have it still! \n\n50235m\n\n\n\nThe carriage entered by the Porta del Popolo, turned to the left, and\nstopped at the H tel d Espagne. Old Pastrini, our former acquaintance,\nreceived the traveller at the door, hat in hand. The traveller\nalighted, ordered a good dinner, and inquired the address of the house\nof Thomson & French, which was immediately given to him, as it was one\nof the most celebrated in Rome. It was situated in the Via dei Banchi,\nnear St. Peter s.\n\nIn Rome, as everywhere else, the arrival of a post-chaise is an event.\nTen young descendants of Marius and the Gracchi, barefooted and out at\nelbows, with one hand resting on the hip and the other gracefully\ncurved above the head, stared at the traveller, the post-chaise, and\nthe horses; to these were added about fifty little vagabonds from the\nPapal States, who earned a pittance by diving into the Tiber at high\nwater from the bridge of St. Angelo. Now, as these street Arabs of\nRome, more fortunate than those of Paris, understand every language,\nmore especially the French, they heard the traveller order an\napartment, a dinner, and finally inquire the way to the house of\nThomson & French.\n\nThe result was that when the new-comer left the hotel with the\n_cicerone_, a man detached himself from the rest of the idlers, and\nwithout having been seen by the traveller, and appearing to excite no\nattention from the guide, followed the stranger with as much skill as a\nParisian police agent would have used.\n\nThe Frenchman had been so impatient to reach the house of Thomson &\nFrench that he would not wait for the horses to be harnessed, but left\nword for the carriage to overtake him on the road, or to wait for him\nat the bankers  door. He reached it before the carriage arrived. The\nFrenchman entered, leaving in the anteroom his guide, who immediately\nentered into conversation with two or three of the industrious idlers\nwho are always to be found in Rome at the doors of banking-houses,\nchurches, museums, or theatres. With the Frenchman, the man who had\nfollowed him entered too; the Frenchman knocked at the inner door, and\nentered the first room; his shadow did the same.\n\n Messrs. Thomson & French?  inquired the stranger.\n\nAn attendant arose at a sign from a confidential clerk at the first\ndesk.\n\n Whom shall I announce?  said the attendant.\n\n Baron Danglars. \n\n Follow me,  said the man.\n\nA door opened, through which the attendant and the baron disappeared.\nThe man who had followed Danglars sat down on a bench. The clerk\ncontinued to write for the next five minutes; the man preserved\nprofound silence, and remained perfectly motionless. Then the pen of\nthe clerk ceased to move over the paper; he raised his head, and\nappearing to be perfectly sure of privacy:\n\n Ah, ha,  he said,  here you are, Peppino! \n\n Yes,  was the laconic reply.  You have found out that there is\nsomething worth having about this large gentleman? \n\n There is no great merit due to me, for we were informed of it. \n\n You know his business here, then. \n\n _Pardieu_, he has come to draw, but I don t know how much! \n\n You will know presently, my friend. \n\n Very well, only do not give me false information as you did the other\nday. \n\n What do you mean? of whom do you speak? Was it the Englishman who\ncarried off 3,000 crowns from here the other day? \n\n50237m\n\n\n\n No; he really had 3,000 crowns, and we found them. I mean the Russian\nprince, who you said had 30,000 livres, and we only found 22,000. \n\n You must have searched badly. \n\n Luigi Vampa himself searched. \n\n In that case he must either have paid his debts \n\n A Russian do that? \n\n Or spent the money? \n\n Possibly, after all. \n\n Certainly. But you must let me make my observations, or the Frenchman\nwill transact his business without my knowing the sum. \n\nPeppino nodded, and taking a rosary from his pocket began to mutter a\nfew prayers while the clerk disappeared through the same door by which\nDanglars and the attendant had gone out. At the expiration of ten\nminutes the clerk returned with a beaming countenance.\n\n Well?  asked Peppino of his friend.\n\n Joy, joy the sum is large! \n\n Five or six millions, is it not? \n\n Yes, you know the amount. \n\n On the receipt of the Count of Monte Cristo? \n\n Why, how came you to be so well acquainted with all this? \n\n I told you we were informed beforehand. \n\n Then why do you apply to me? \n\n That I may be sure I have the right man. \n\n Yes, it is indeed he. Five millions a pretty sum, eh, Peppino? \n\n Hush here is our man!  The clerk seized his pen, and Peppino his\nbeads; one was writing and the other praying when the door opened.\nDanglars looked radiant with joy; the banker accompanied him to the\ndoor. Peppino followed Danglars.\n\nAccording to the arrangements, the carriage was waiting at the door.\nThe guide held the door open. Guides are useful people, who will turn\ntheir hands to anything. Danglars leaped into the carriage like a young\nman of twenty. The _cicerone_ reclosed the door, and sprang up by the\nside of the coachman. Peppino mounted the seat behind.\n\n Will your excellency visit Saint Peter s?  asked the _cicerone_.\n\n I did not come to Rome to see,  said Danglars aloud; then he added\nsoftly, with an avaricious smile,  I came to touch!  and he rapped his\npocket-book, in which he had just placed a letter.\n\n Then your excellency is going \n\n To the hotel. \n\n Casa Pastrini!  said the _cicerone_ to the coachman, and the carriage\ndrove rapidly on.\n\n50239m\n\n\n\nTen minutes afterwards the baron entered his apartment, and Peppino\nstationed himself on the bench outside the door of the hotel, after\nhaving whispered something in the ear of one of the descendants of\nMarius and the Gracchi whom we noticed at the beginning of the chapter,\nwho immediately ran down the road leading to the Capitol at his fullest\nspeed. Danglars was tired and sleepy; he therefore went to bed, placing\nhis pocketbook under his pillow. Peppino had a little spare time, so he\nhad a game of _morra_ with the facchini, lost three crowns, and then to\nconsole himself drank a bottle of Orvieto.\n\nThe next morning Danglars awoke late, though he went to bed so early;\nhe had not slept well for five or six nights, even if he had slept at\nall. He breakfasted heartily, and caring little, as he said, for the\nbeauties of the Eternal City, ordered post-horses at noon. But Danglars\nhad not reckoned upon the formalities of the police and the idleness of\nthe posting-master. The horses only arrived at two o clock, and the\n_cicerone_ did not bring the passport till three.\n\nAll these preparations had collected a number of idlers round the door\nof Signor Pastrini s; the descendants of Marius and the Gracchi were\nalso not wanting. The baron walked triumphantly through the crowd, who\nfor the sake of gain styled him  your excellency.  As Danglars had\nhitherto contented himself with being called a baron, he felt rather\nflattered at the title of excellency, and distributed a dozen silver\ncoins among the beggars, who were ready, for twelve more, to call him\n your highness. \n\n Which road?  asked the postilion in Italian.\n\n The Ancona road,  replied the baron. Signor Pastrini interpreted the\nquestion and answer, and the horses galloped off.\n\nDanglars intended travelling to Venice, where he would receive one part\nof his fortune, and then proceeding to Vienna, where he would find the\nrest, he meant to take up his residence in the latter town, which he\nhad been told was a city of pleasure.\n\nHe had scarcely advanced three leagues out of Rome when daylight began\nto disappear. Danglars had not intended starting so late, or he would\nhave remained; he put his head out and asked the postilion how long it\nwould be before they reached the next town.  _Non capisco_  (do not\nunderstand), was the reply. Danglars bent his head, which he meant to\nimply,  Very well.  The carriage again moved on.\n\n I will stop at the first posting-house,  said Danglars to himself.\n\nHe still felt the same self-satisfaction which he had experienced the\nprevious evening, and which had procured him so good a night s rest. He\nwas luxuriously stretched in a good English calash, with double\nsprings; he was drawn by four good horses, at full gallop; he knew the\nrelay to be at a distance of seven leagues. What subject of meditation\ncould present itself to the banker, so fortunately become bankrupt?\n\nDanglars thought for ten minutes about his wife in Paris; another ten\nminutes about his daughter travelling with Mademoiselle d Armilly; the\nsame period was given to his creditors, and the manner in which he\nintended spending their money; and then, having no subject left for\ncontemplation, he shut his eyes, and fell asleep. Now and then a jolt\nmore violent than the rest caused him to open his eyes; then he felt\nthat he was still being carried with great rapidity over the same\ncountry, thickly strewn with broken aqueducts, which looked like\ngranite giants petrified while running a race. But the night was cold,\ndull, and rainy, and it was much more pleasant for a traveller to\nremain in the warm carriage than to put his head out of the window to\nmake inquiries of a postilion whose only answer was  _Non capisco_. \n\n50241m\n\n\n\nDanglars therefore continued to sleep, saying to himself that he would\nbe sure to awake at the posting-house. The carriage stopped. Danglars\nfancied that they had reached the long-desired point; he opened his\neyes and looked through the window, expecting to find himself in the\nmidst of some town, or at least village; but he saw nothing except what\nseemed like a ruin, where three or four men went and came like shadows.\n\nDanglars waited a moment, expecting the postilion to come and demand\npayment with the termination of his stage. He intended taking advantage\nof the opportunity to make fresh inquiries of the new conductor; but\nthe horses were unharnessed, and others put in their places, without\nanyone claiming money from the traveller. Danglars, astonished, opened\nthe door; but a strong hand pushed him back, and the carriage rolled\non. The baron was completely roused.\n\n Eh?  he said to the postilion,  eh, _mio caro?_ \n\nThis was another little piece of Italian the baron had learned from\nhearing his daughter sing Italian duets with Cavalcanti. But _mio caro_\ndid not reply. Danglars then opened the window.\n\n Come, my friend,  he said, thrusting his hand through the opening,\n where are we going? \n\n _Dentro la testa!_  answered a solemn and imperious voice, accompanied\nby a menacing gesture.\n\nDanglars thought _dentro la testa_ meant,  Put in your head!  He was\nmaking rapid progress in Italian. He obeyed, not without some\nuneasiness, which, momentarily increasing, caused his mind, instead of\nbeing as unoccupied as it was when he began his journey, to fill with\nideas which were very likely to keep a traveller awake, more especially\none in such a situation as Danglars. His eyes acquired that quality\nwhich in the first moment of strong emotion enables them to see\ndistinctly, and which afterwards fails from being too much taxed.\nBefore we are alarmed, we see correctly; when we are alarmed, we see\ndouble; and when we have been alarmed, we see nothing but trouble.\nDanglars observed a man in a cloak galloping at the right hand of the\ncarriage.\n\n Some gendarme!  he exclaimed.  Can I have been intercepted by French\ntelegrams to the pontifical authorities? \n\nHe resolved to end his anxiety.  Where are you taking me?  he asked.\n\n _Dentro la testa_,  replied the same voice, with the same menacing\naccent.\n\nDanglars turned to the left; another man on horseback was galloping on\nthat side.\n\n Decidedly,  said Danglars, with the perspiration on his forehead,  I\nmust be under arrest.  And he threw himself back in the calash, not\nthis time to sleep, but to think.\n\nDirectly afterwards the moon rose. He then saw the great aqueducts,\nthose stone phantoms which he had before remarked, only then they were\non the right hand, now they were on the left. He understood that they\nhad described a circle, and were bringing him back to Rome.\n\n Oh, unfortunate!  he cried,  they must have obtained my arrest. \n\nThe carriage continued to roll on with frightful speed. An hour of\nterror elapsed, for every spot they passed showed that they were on the\nroad back. At length he saw a dark mass, against which it seemed as if\nthe carriage was about to dash; but the vehicle turned to one side,\nleaving the barrier behind and Danglars saw that it was one of the\nramparts encircling Rome.\n\n50243m\n\n\n\n _Mon dieu!_  cried Danglars,  we are not returning to Rome; then it is\nnot justice which is pursuing me! Gracious heavens; another idea\npresents itself what if they should be \n\nHis hair stood on end. He remembered those interesting stories, so\nlittle believed in Paris, respecting Roman bandits; he remembered the\nadventures that Albert de Morcerf had related when it was intended that\nhe should marry Mademoiselle Eug nie.  They are robbers, perhaps,  he\nmuttered.\n\nJust then the carriage rolled on something harder than gravel road.\nDanglars hazarded a look on both sides of the road, and perceived\nmonuments of a singular form, and his mind now recalled all the details\nMorcerf had related, and comparing them with his own situation, he felt\nsure that he must be on the Appian Way. On the left, in a sort of\nvalley, he perceived a circular excavation. It was Caracalla s circus.\nOn a word from the man who rode at the side of the carriage, it\nstopped. At the same time the door was opened.  _Scendi!_  exclaimed a\ncommanding voice.\n\nDanglars instantly descended; although he did not yet speak Italian, he\nunderstood it very well. More dead than alive, he looked around him.\nFour men surrounded him, besides the postilion.\n\n _Di qu _,  said one of the men, descending a little path leading out\nof the Appian Way. Danglars followed his guide without opposition, and\nhad no occasion to turn around to see whether the three others were\nfollowing him. Still it appeared as though they were stationed at equal\ndistances from one another, like sentinels. After walking for about ten\nminutes, during which Danglars did not exchange a single word with his\nguide, he found himself between a hillock and a clump of high weeds;\nthree men, standing silent, formed a triangle, of which he was the\ncentre. He wished to speak, but his tongue refused to move.\n\n _Avanti!_  said the same sharp and imperative voice.\n\nThis time Danglars had double reason to understand, for if the word and\ngesture had not explained the speaker s meaning, it was clearly\nexpressed by the man walking behind him, who pushed him so rudely that\nhe struck against the guide. This guide was our friend Peppino, who\ndashed into the thicket of high weeds, through a path which none but\nlizards or polecats could have imagined to be an open road.\n\nPeppino stopped before a rock overhung by thick hedges; the rock, half\nopen, afforded a passage to the young man, who disappeared like the\nevil spirits in the fairy tales. The voice and gesture of the man who\nfollowed Danglars ordered him to do the same. There was no longer any\ndoubt, the bankrupt was in the hands of Roman banditti. Danglars\nacquitted himself like a man placed between two dangerous positions,\nand who is rendered brave by fear. Notwithstanding his large stomach,\ncertainly not intended to penetrate the fissures of the Campagna, he\nslid down like Peppino, and closing his eyes fell upon his feet. As he\ntouched the ground, he opened his eyes.\n\n50245m\n\n\n\nThe path was wide, but dark. Peppino, who cared little for being\nrecognized now that he was in his own territories, struck a light and\nlit a torch. Two other men descended after Danglars forming the\nrearguard, and pushing Danglars whenever he happened to stop, they came\nby a gentle declivity to the intersection of two corridors. The walls\nwere hollowed out in sepulchres, one above the other, and which seemed\nin contrast with the white stones to open their large dark eyes, like\nthose which we see on the faces of the dead. A sentinel struck the\nrings of his carbine against his left hand.\n\n Who comes there?  he cried.\n\n A friend, a friend!  said Peppino;  but where is the captain? \n\n There,  said the sentinel, pointing over his shoulder to a spacious\ncrypt, hollowed out of the rock, the lights from which shone into the\npassage through the large arched openings.\n\n Fine spoil, captain, fine spoil!  said Peppino in Italian, and taking\nDanglars by the collar of his coat he dragged him to an opening\nresembling a door, through which they entered the apartment which the\ncaptain appeared to have made his dwelling-place.\n\n Is this the man?  asked the captain, who was attentively reading\nPlutarch s _Life of Alexander_.\n\n Himself, captain himself. \n\n Very well, show him to me. \n\nAt this rather impertinent order, Peppino raised his torch to the face\nof Danglars, who hastily withdrew that he might not have his eyelashes\nburnt. His agitated features presented the appearance of pale and\nhideous terror.\n\n The man is tired,  said the captain,  conduct him to his bed. \n\n Oh,  murmured Danglars,  that bed is probably one of the coffins\nhollowed in the wall, and the sleep I shall enjoy will be death from\none of the poniards I see glistening in the darkness. \n\nFrom their beds of dried leaves or wolf-skins at the back of the\nchamber now arose the companions of the man who had been found by\nAlbert de Morcerf reading _C sar s Commentaries_, and by Danglars\nstudying the _Life of Alexander_. The banker uttered a groan and\nfollowed his guide; he neither supplicated nor exclaimed. He no longer\npossessed strength, will, power, or feeling; he followed where they led\nhim. At length he found himself at the foot of a staircase, and he\nmechanically lifted his foot five or six times. Then a low door was\nopened before him, and bending his head to avoid striking his forehead\nhe entered a small room cut out of the rock. The cell was clean, though\nempty, and dry, though situated at an immeasurable distance under the\nearth. A bed of dried grass covered with goat-skins was placed in one\ncorner. Danglars brightened up on beholding it, fancying that it gave\nsome promise of safety.\n\n Oh, God be praised,  he said;  it is a real bed! \n\nThis was the second time within the hour that he had invoked the name\nof God. He had not done so for ten years before.\n\n _Ecco!_  said the guide, and pushing Danglars into the cell, he closed\nthe door upon him.\n\nA bolt grated and Danglars was a prisoner. If there had been no bolt,\nit would have been impossible for him to pass through the midst of the\ngarrison who held the catacombs of St. Sebastian, encamped round a\nmaster whom our readers must have recognized as the famous Luigi Vampa.\n\nDanglars, too, had recognized the bandit, whose existence he would not\nbelieve when Albert de Morcerf mentioned him in Paris; and not only did\nhe recognize him, but the cell in which Albert had been confined, and\nwhich was probably kept for the accommodation of strangers. These\nrecollections were dwelt upon with some pleasure by Danglars, and\nrestored him to some degree of tranquillity. Since the bandits had not\ndespatched him at once, he felt that they would not kill him at all.\nThey had arrested him for the purpose of robbery, and as he had only a\nfew louis about him, he doubted not he would be ransomed.\n\nHe remembered that Morcerf had been taxed at 4,000 crowns, and as he\nconsidered himself of much greater importance than Morcerf he fixed his\nown price at 8,000 crowns. Eight thousand crowns amounted to 48,000\nlivres; he would then have about 5,050,000 francs left. With this sum\nhe could manage to keep out of difficulties. Therefore, tolerably\nsecure in being able to extricate himself from his position, provided\nhe were not rated at the unreasonable sum of 5,050,000 francs, he\nstretched himself on his bed, and after turning over two or three\ntimes, fell asleep with the tranquillity of the hero whose life Luigi\nVampa was studying.\n\n\n\n Chapter 115. Luigi Vampa s Bill of Fare\n\nWe awake from every sleep except the one dreaded by Danglars. He awoke.\nTo a Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, walls hung with velvet\ndrapery, and the soft perfume of burning wood, the white smoke of which\ndiffuses itself in graceful curves around the room, the appearance of\nthe whitewashed cell which greeted his eyes on awakening seemed like\nthe continuation of some disagreeable dream. But in such a situation a\nsingle moment suffices to change the strongest doubt into certainty.\n\n Yes, yes,  he murmured,  I am in the hands of the brigands of whom\nAlbert de Morcerf spoke.  His first idea was to breathe, that he might\nknow whether he was wounded. He borrowed this from _Don Quixote_, the\nonly book he had ever read, but which he still slightly remembered.\n\n No,  he cried,  they have not wounded, but perhaps they have robbed\nme!  and he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were untouched; the\nhundred louis he had reserved for his journey from Rome to Venice were\nin his trousers pocket, and in that of his greatcoat he found the\nlittle note-case containing his letter of credit for 5,050,000 francs.\n\n Singular bandits!  he exclaimed;  they have left me my purse and\npocket-book. As I was saying last night, they intend me to be ransomed.\nHello, here is my watch! Let me see what time it is. \n\nDanglars  watch, one of Breguet s repeaters, which he had carefully\nwound up on the previous night, struck half past five. Without this,\nDanglars would have been quite ignorant of the time, for daylight did\nnot reach his cell. Should he demand an explanation from the bandits,\nor should he wait patiently for them to propose it? The last\nalternative seemed the most prudent, so he waited until twelve o clock.\nDuring all this time a sentinel, who had been relieved at eight\no clock, had been watching his door.\n\n50249m\n\n\n\nDanglars suddenly felt a strong inclination to see the person who kept\nwatch over him. He had noticed that a few rays, not of daylight, but\nfrom a lamp, penetrated through the ill-joined planks of the door; he\napproached just as the brigand was refreshing himself with a mouthful\nof brandy, which, owing to the leathern bottle containing it, sent\nforth an odor which was extremely unpleasant to Danglars.  Faugh!  he\nexclaimed, retreating to the farther corner of his cell.\n\nAt twelve this man was replaced by another functionary, and Danglars,\nwishing to catch sight of his new guardian, approached the door again.\n\nHe was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with large eyes, thick lips, and a\nflat nose; his red hair fell in dishevelled masses like snakes around\nhis shoulders.\n\n Ah, ha,  cried Danglars,  this fellow is more like an ogre than\nanything else; however, I am rather too old and tough to be very good\neating! \n\nWe see that Danglars was collected enough to jest; at the same time, as\nthough to disprove the ogreish propensities, the man took some black\nbread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he began devouring\nvoraciously.\n\n May I be hanged,  said Danglars, glancing at the bandit s dinner\nthrough the crevices of the door, may I be hanged if I can understand\nhow people can eat such filth!  and he withdrew to seat himself upon\nhis goat-skin, which reminded him of the smell of the brandy.\n\nBut the mysteries of nature are incomprehensible, and there are certain\ninvitations contained in even the coarsest food which appeal very\nirresistibly to a fasting stomach. Danglars felt his own not to be very\nwell supplied just then, and gradually the man appeared less ugly, the\nbread less black, and the cheese more fresh, while those dreadful\nvulgar onions recalled to his mind certain sauces and side-dishes,\nwhich his cook prepared in a very superior manner whenever he said,\n Monsieur Deniseau, let me have a nice little fricassee today.  He got\nup and knocked on the door; the bandit raised his head. Danglars knew\nthat he was heard, so he redoubled his blows.\n\n _Che cosa?_  asked the bandit.\n\n Come, come,  said Danglars, tapping his fingers against the door,  I\nthink it is quite time to think of giving me something to eat! \n\nBut whether he did not understand him, or whether he had received no\norders respecting the nourishment of Danglars, the giant, without\nanswering, went on with his dinner. Danglars  feelings were hurt, and\nnot wishing to put himself under obligations to the brute, the banker\nthrew himself down again on his goat-skin and did not breathe another\nword.\n\nFour hours passed by and the giant was replaced by another bandit.\nDanglars, who really began to experience sundry gnawings at the\nstomach, arose softly, again applied his eye to the crack of the door,\nand recognized the intelligent countenance of his guide. It was,\nindeed, Peppino who was preparing to mount guard as comfortably as\npossible by seating himself opposite to the door, and placing between\nhis legs an earthen pan, containing chick-peas stewed with bacon. Near\nthe pan he also placed a pretty little basket of Villetri grapes and a\nflask of Orvieto. Peppino was decidedly an epicure. Danglars watched\nthese preparations and his mouth watered.\n\n Come,  he said to himself,  let me try if he will be more tractable\nthan the other;  and he tapped gently at the door.\n\n _On y va_,  (coming) exclaimed Peppino, who from frequenting the house\nof Signor Pastrini understood French perfectly in all its idioms.\n\nDanglars immediately recognized him as the man who had called out in\nsuch a furious manner,  Put in your head!  But this was not the time\nfor recrimination, so he assumed his most agreeable manner and said\nwith a gracious smile:\n\n Excuse me, sir, but are they not going to give me any dinner? \n\n Does your excellency happen to be hungry? \n\n Happen to be hungry, that s pretty good, when I haven t eaten for\ntwenty-four hours!  muttered Danglars. Then he added aloud,  Yes, sir,\nI am hungry very hungry. \n\n And your excellency wants something to eat? \n\n At once, if possible \n\n Nothing easier,  said Peppino.  Here you can get anything you want; by\npaying for it, of course, as among honest folk. \n\n Of course!  cried Danglars.  Although, in justice, the people who\narrest and imprison you, ought, at least, to feed you. \n\n That is not the custom, excellency,  said Peppino.\n\n A bad reason,  replied Danglars, who reckoned on conciliating his\nkeeper;  but I am content. Let me have some dinner! \n\n At once! What would your excellency like? \n\nAnd Peppino placed his pan on the ground, so that the steam rose\ndirectly under the nostrils of Danglars.  Give your orders. \n\n Have you kitchens here? \n\n Kitchens? of course complete ones. \n\n And cooks? \n\n Excellent! \n\n Well, a fowl, fish, game, it signifies little, so that I eat. \n\n As your excellency pleases. You mentioned a fowl, I think? \n\n Yes, a fowl. \n\nPeppino, turning around, shouted,  A fowl for his excellency!  His\nvoice yet echoed in the archway when a handsome, graceful, and\nhalf-naked young man appeared, bearing a fowl in a silver dish on his\nhead, without the assistance of his hands.\n\n I could almost believe myself at the Caf  de Paris,  murmured\nDanglars.\n\n Here, your excellency,  said Peppino, taking the fowl from the young\nbandit and placing it on the worm-eaten table, which with the stool and\nthe goat-skin bed formed the entire furniture of the cell. Danglars\nasked for a knife and fork.\n\n Here, excellency,  said Peppino, offering him a little blunt knife and\na boxwood fork. Danglars took the knife in one hand and the fork in the\nother, and was about to cut up the fowl.\n\n Pardon me, excellency,  said Peppino, placing his hand on the banker s\nshoulder;  people pay here before they eat. They might not be\nsatisfied, and \n\n Ah, ha,  thought Danglars,  this is not so much like Paris, except\nthat I shall probably be skinned! Never mind, I ll fix that all right.\nI have always heard how cheap poultry is in Italy; I should think a\nfowl is worth about twelve sous at Rome. There,  he said, throwing a\nlouis down.\n\nPeppino picked up the louis, and Danglars again prepared to carve the\nfowl.\n\n Stay a moment, your excellency,  said Peppino, rising;  you still owe\nme something. \n\n I said they would skin me,  thought Danglars; but resolving to resist\nthe extortion, he said,  Come, how much do I owe you for this fowl? \n\n Your excellency has given me a louis on account. \n\n A louis on account for a fowl? \n\n Certainly; and your excellency now owes me 4,999 louis. \n\nDanglars opened his enormous eyes on hearing this gigantic joke.\n\n Very droll,  he muttered,  very droll indeed,  and he again began to\ncarve the fowl, when Peppino stopped the baron s right hand with his\nleft, and held out his other hand.\n\n Come, now,  he said.\n\n Is it not a joke?  said Danglars.\n\n We never joke,  replied Peppino, solemn as a Quaker.\n\n What! A hundred thousand francs for a fowl! \n\n Ah, excellency, you cannot imagine how hard it is to rear fowls in\nthese horrible caves! \n\n Come, come, this is very droll very amusing I allow; but, as I am very\nhungry, pray allow me to eat. Stay, here is another louis for you. \n\n Then that will make only 4,998 louis more,  said Peppino with the same\nindifference.  I shall get them all in time. \n\n Oh, as for that,  said Danglars, angry at this prolongation of the\njest, as for that you won t get them at all. Go to the devil! You do\nnot know with whom you have to deal! \n\n50253m\n\n\n\nPeppino made a sign, and the youth hastily removed the fowl. Danglars\nthrew himself upon his goat-skin, and Peppino, reclosing the door,\nagain began eating his peas and bacon. Though Danglars could not see\nPeppino, the noise of his teeth allowed no doubt as to his occupation.\nHe was certainly eating, and noisily too, like an ill-bred man.\n Brute!  said Danglars. Peppino pretended not to hear him, and without\neven turning his head continued to eat slowly. Danglars  stomach felt\nso empty, that it seemed as if it would be impossible ever to fill it\nagain; still he had patience for another half-hour, which appeared to\nhim like a century. He again arose and went to the door.\n\n Come, sir, do not keep me starving here any longer, but tell me what\nthey want. \n\n Nay, your excellency, it is you who should tell us what you want. Give\nyour orders, and we will execute them. \n\n Then open the door directly.  Peppino obeyed.  Now look here, I want\nsomething to eat! To eat do you hear? \n\n Are you hungry? \n\n Come, you understand me. \n\n What would your excellency like to eat? \n\n A piece of dry bread, since the fowls are beyond all price in this\naccursed place. \n\n Bread? Very well. Holloa, there, some bread!  he called. The youth\nbrought a small loaf.  How much?  asked Danglars.\n\n Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight louis,  said Peppino;  You\nhave paid two louis in advance. \n\n50255m\n\n\n\n What? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf? \n\n One hundred thousand francs,  repeated Peppino.\n\n But you only asked 100,000 francs for a fowl! \n\n We have a fixed price for all our provisions. It signifies nothing\nwhether you eat much or little whether you have ten dishes or one it is\nalways the same price. \n\n What, still keeping up this silly jest? My dear fellow, it is\nperfectly ridiculous stupid! You had better tell me at once that you\nintend starving me to death. \n\n Oh, dear, no, your excellency, unless you intend to commit suicide.\nPay and eat. \n\n And what am I to pay with, brute?  said Danglars, enraged.  Do you\nsuppose I carry 100,000 francs in my pocket? \n\n Your excellency has 5,050,000 francs in your pocket; that will be\nfifty fowls at 100,000 francs apiece, and half a fowl for the 50,000. \n\nDanglars shuddered. The bandage fell from his eyes, and he understood\nthe joke, which he did not think quite so stupid as he had done just\nbefore.\n\n Come,  he said,  if I pay you the 100,000 francs, will you be\nsatisfied, and allow me to eat at my ease? \n\n Certainly,  said Peppino.\n\n But how can I pay them? \n\n Oh, nothing easier; you have an account open with Messrs. Thomson &\nFrench, Via dei Banchi, Rome; give me a draft for 4,998 louis on these\ngentlemen, and our banker shall take it. \n\nDanglars thought it as well to comply with a good grace, so he took the\npen, ink, and paper Peppino offered him, wrote the draft, and signed\nit.\n\n Here,  he said,  here is a draft at sight. \n\n And here is your fowl. \n\nDanglars sighed while he carved the fowl; it appeared very thin for the\nprice it had cost. As for Peppino, he examined the paper attentively,\nput it into his pocket, and continued eating his peas.\n\n\n\n Chapter 116. The Pardon\n\nThe next day Danglars was again hungry; certainly the air of that\ndungeon was very provocative of appetite. The prisoner expected that he\nwould be at no expense that day, for like an economical man he had\nconcealed half of his fowl and a piece of the bread in the corner of\nhis cell. But he had no sooner eaten than he felt thirsty; he had\nforgotten that. He struggled against his thirst till his tongue clave\nto the roof of his mouth; then, no longer able to resist, he called\nout. The sentinel opened the door; it was a new face. He thought it\nwould be better to transact business with his old acquaintance, so he\nsent for Peppino.\n\n Here I am, your excellency,  said Peppino, with an eagerness which\nDanglars thought favorable to him.  What do you want? \n\n Something to drink. \n\n Your excellency knows that wine is beyond all price near Rome. \n\n Then give me water,  cried Danglars, endeavoring to parry the blow.\n\n Oh, water is even more scarce than wine, your excellency, there has\nbeen such a drought. \n\n Come,  thought Danglars,  it is the same old story.  And while he\nsmiled as he attempted to regard the affair as a joke, he felt his\ntemples get moist with perspiration.\n\n Come, my friend,  said Danglars, seeing that he made no impression on\nPeppino,  you will not refuse me a glass of wine? \n\n I have already told you that we do not sell at retail. \n\n Well, then, let me have a bottle of the least expensive. \n\n They are all the same price. \n\n And what is that? \n\n Twenty-five thousand francs a bottle. \n\n Tell me,  cried Danglars, in a tone whose bitterness Harpagon30 alone\nhas been capable of revealing tell me that you wish to despoil me of\nall; it will be sooner over than devouring me piecemeal. \n\n It is possible such may be the master s intention. \n\n The master? who is he? \n\n The person to whom you were conducted yesterday. \n\n Where is he? \n\n Here. \n\n Let me see him. \n\n Certainly. \n\nAnd the next moment Luigi Vampa appeared before Danglars.\n\n You sent for me?  he said to the prisoner.\n\n Are you, sir, the chief of the people who brought me here? \n\n Yes, your excellency. What then? \n\n How much do you require for my ransom? \n\n Merely the 5,000,000 you have about you.  Danglars felt a dreadful\nspasm dart through his heart.\n\n But this is all I have left in the world,  he said,  out of an immense\nfortune. If you deprive me of that, take away my life also. \n\n We are forbidden to shed your blood. \n\n And by whom are you forbidden? \n\n By him we obey. \n\n You do, then, obey someone? \n\n Yes, a chief. \n\n I thought you said you were the chief? \n\n So I am of these men; but there is another over me. \n\n And did your superior order you to treat me in this way? \n\n Yes. \n\n But my purse will be exhausted. \n\n Probably. \n\n Come,  said Danglars,  will you take a million? \n\n No. \n\n Two millions? three? four? Come, four? I will give them to you on\ncondition that you let me go. \n\n Why do you offer me 4,000,000 for what is worth 5,000,000? This is a\nkind of usury, banker, that I do not understand. \n\n Take all, then take all, I tell you, and kill me! \n\n Come, come, calm yourself. You will excite your blood, and that would\nproduce an appetite it would require a million a day to satisfy. Be\nmore economical. \n\n But when I have no more money left to pay you?  asked the infuriated\nDanglars.\n\n Then you must suffer hunger. \n\n Suffer hunger?  said Danglars, becoming pale.\n\n Most likely,  replied Vampa coolly.\n\n But you say you do not wish to kill me? \n\n No. \n\n And yet you will let me perish with hunger? \n\n Ah, that is a different thing. \n\n Well, then, wretches,  cried Danglars,  I will defy your infamous\ncalculations I would rather die at once! You may torture, torment, kill\nme, but you shall not have my signature again! \n\n As your excellency pleases,  said Vampa, as he left the cell.\n\nDanglars, raving, threw himself on the goat-skin. Who could these men\nbe? Who was the invisible chief? What could be his intentions towards\nhim? And why, when everyone else was allowed to be ransomed, might he\nnot also be? Oh, yes; certainly a speedy, violent death would be a fine\nmeans of deceiving these remorseless enemies, who appeared to pursue\nhim with such incomprehensible vengeance. But to die? For the first\ntime in his life, Danglars contemplated death with a mixture of dread\nand desire; the time had come when the implacable spectre, which exists\nin the mind of every human creature, arrested his attention and called\nout with every pulsation of his heart,  Thou shalt die! \n\nDanglars resembled a timid animal excited in the chase; first it flies,\nthen despairs, and at last, by the very force of desperation, sometimes\nsucceeds in eluding its pursuers. Danglars meditated an escape; but the\nwalls were solid rock, a man was sitting reading at the only outlet to\nthe cell, and behind that man shapes armed with guns continually\npassed. His resolution not to sign lasted two days, after which he\noffered a million for some food. They sent him a magnificent supper,\nand took his million.\n\nFrom this time the prisoner resolved to suffer no longer, but to have\neverything he wanted. At the end of twelve days, after having made a\nsplendid dinner, he reckoned his accounts, and found that he had only\n50,000 francs left. Then a strange reaction took place; he who had just\nabandoned 5,000,000 endeavored to save the 50,000 francs he had left,\nand sooner than give them up he resolved to enter again upon a life of\nprivation he was deluded by the hopefulness that is a premonition of\nmadness.\n\nHe, who for so long a time had forgotten God, began to think that\nmiracles were possible that the accursed cavern might be discovered by\nthe officers of the Papal States, who would release him; that then he\nwould have 50,000 remaining, which would be sufficient to save him from\nstarvation; and finally he prayed that this sum might be preserved to\nhim, and as he prayed he wept. Three days passed thus, during which his\nprayers were frequent, if not heartfelt. Sometimes he was delirious,\nand fancied he saw an old man stretched on a pallet; he, also, was\ndying of hunger.\n\nOn the fourth, he was no longer a man, but a living corpse. He had\npicked up every crumb that had been left from his former meals, and was\nbeginning to eat the matting which covered the floor of his cell. Then\nhe entreated Peppino, as he would a guardian angel, to give him food;\nhe offered him 1,000 francs for a mouthful of bread. But Peppino did\nnot answer. On the fifth day he dragged himself to the door of the\ncell.\n\n Are you not a Christian?  he said, falling on his knees.  Do you wish\nto assassinate a man who, in the eyes of Heaven, is a brother? Oh, my\nformer friends, my former friends!  he murmured, and fell with his face\nto the ground. Then rising in despair, he exclaimed,  The chief, the\nchief! \n\n Here I am,  said Vampa, instantly appearing;  what do you want? \n\n Take my last gold,  muttered Danglars, holding out his pocket-book,\n and let me live here; I ask no more for liberty I only ask to live! \n\n Then you suffer a great deal? \n\n Oh, yes, yes, cruelly! \n\n Still, there have been men who suffered more than you. \n\n I do not think so. \n\n Yes; those who have died of hunger. \n\nDanglars thought of the old man whom, in his hours of delirium, he had\nseen groaning on his bed. He struck his forehead on the ground and\ngroaned.  Yes,  he said,  there have been some who have suffered more\nthan I have, but then they must have been martyrs at least. \n\n Do you repent?  asked a deep, solemn voice, which caused Danglars \nhair to stand on end. His feeble eyes endeavored to distinguish\nobjects, and behind the bandit he saw a man enveloped in a cloak, half\nlost in the shadow of a stone column.\n\n Of what must I repent?  stammered Danglars.\n\n Of the evil you have done,  said the voice.\n\n Oh, yes; oh, yes, I do indeed repent.  And he struck his breast with\nhis emaciated fist.\n\n Then I forgive you,  said the man, dropping his cloak, and advancing\nto the light.\n\n The Count of Monte Cristo!  said Danglars, more pale from terror than\nhe had been just before from hunger and misery.\n\n You are mistaken I am not the Count of Monte Cristo. \n\n Then who are you? \n\n50261m\n\n\n\n I am he whom you sold and dishonored I am he whose betrothed you\nprostituted I am he upon whom you trampled that you might raise\nyourself to fortune I am he whose father you condemned to die of\nhunger I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet\nforgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven I am Edmond Dant s! \n\nDanglars uttered a cry, and fell prostrate.\n\n Rise,  said the count,  your life is safe; the same good fortune has\nnot happened to your accomplices one is mad, the other dead. Keep the\n50,000 francs you have left I give them to you. The 5,000,000 you stole\nfrom the hospitals has been restored to them by an unknown hand. And\nnow eat and drink; I will entertain you tonight. Vampa, when this man\nis satisfied, let him be free. \n\nDanglars remained prostrate while the count withdrew; when he raised\nhis head he saw disappearing down the passage nothing but a shadow,\nbefore which the bandits bowed.\n\nAccording to the count s directions, Danglars was waited on by Vampa,\nwho brought him the best wine and fruits of Italy; then, having\nconducted him to the road, and pointed to the post-chaise, left him\nleaning against a tree. He remained there all night, not knowing where\nhe was. When daylight dawned he saw that he was near a stream; he was\nthirsty, and dragged himself towards it. As he stooped down to drink,\nhe saw that his hair had become entirely white.\n\n\n\n Chapter 117. The Fifth of October\n\nIt was about six o clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, through\nwhich an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue\nocean. The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze\narose, seeming like the respiration of nature on awakening from the\nburning siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the coasts\nof the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume\nof plants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.\n\nA light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the\nfirst dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to\nthe Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The vessel resembled a swan\nwith its wings opened towards the wind, gliding on the water. It\nadvanced swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch\nof foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; but\nas though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen\nmythology, its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of every wave,\nas if the god of fire had just sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who\nin vain endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle.\n\nThe yacht moved rapidly on, though there did not appear to be\nsufficient wind to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl.\nStanding on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with\ndilating eyes that they were approaching a dark mass of land in the\nshape of a cone, which rose from the midst of the waves like the hat of\na Catalan.\n\n Is that Monte Cristo?  asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht\nwas for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.\n\n Yes, your excellency,  said the captain,  we have reached it. \n\n We have reached it!  repeated the traveller in an accent of\nindescribable sadness.\n\nThen he added, in a low tone,  Yes; that is the haven. \n\nAnd then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character of\nwhich was better revealed by a sad smile, than it would have been by\ntears. A few minutes afterwards a flash of light, which was\nextinguished instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms\nreached the yacht.\n\n Your excellency,  said the captain,  that was the land signal, will\nyou answer yourself? \n\n What signal? \n\nThe captain pointed towards the island, up the side of which ascended a\nvolume of smoke, increasing as it rose.\n\n Ah, yes,  he said, as if awaking from a dream.  Give it to me. \n\nThe captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveller slowly raised it,\nand fired in the air. Ten minutes afterwards, the sails were furled,\nand they cast anchor about a hundred fathoms from the little harbor.\nThe gig was already lowered, and in it were four oarsmen and a\ncoxswain. The traveller descended, and instead of sitting down at the\nstern of the boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his\naccommodation, stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers waited, their\noars half lifted out of the water, like birds drying their wings.\n\n50265m\n\n\n\n Give way,  said the traveller. The eight oars fell into the sea\nsimultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat,\nyielding to the impulsion, glided forward. In an instant they found\nthemselves in a little harbor, formed in a natural creek; the boat\ngrounded on the fine sand.\n\n Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of\nour men, they will carry you ashore?  The young man answered this\ninvitation with a gesture of indifference, and stepped out of the boat;\nthe sea immediately rose to his waist.\n\n Ah, your excellency,  murmured the pilot,  you should not have done\nso; our master will scold us for it. \n\nThe young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose a\nfirm footing. Thirty strides brought them to dry land; the young man\nstamped on the ground to shake off the wet, and looked around for\nsomeone to show him his road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned,\na hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice which made him shudder\nexclaimed:\n\n Good-evening, Maximilian; you are punctual, thank you! \n\n Ah, is it you, count?  said the young man, in an almost joyful accent,\npressing Monte Cristo s hand with both his own.\n\n Yes; you see I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear\nfellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telemachus.\nCome, I have a habitation prepared for you in which you will soon\nforget fatigue and cold. \n\nMonte Cristo perceived that the young man had turned around; indeed,\nMorrel saw with surprise that the men who had brought him had left\nwithout being paid, or uttering a word. Already the sound of their oars\nmight be heard as they returned to the yacht.\n\n Oh, yes,  said the count,  you are looking for the sailors. \n\n Yes, I paid them nothing, and yet they are gone. \n\n Never mind that, Maximilian,  said Monte Cristo, smiling.  I have made\nan agreement with the navy, that the access to my island shall be free\nof all charge. I have made a bargain. \n\nMorrel looked at the count with surprise.  Count,  he said,  you are\nnot the same here as in Paris. \n\n How so? \n\n Here you laugh.  The count s brow became clouded.\n\n You are right to recall me to myself, Maximilian,  he said;  I was\ndelighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all\nhappiness is fleeting. \n\n Oh, no, no, count,  cried Maximilian, seizing the count s hands,  pray\nlaugh; be happy, and prove to me, by your indifference, that life is\nendurable to sufferers. Oh, how charitable, kind, and good you are; you\naffect this gayety to inspire me with courage. \n\n You are wrong, Morrel; I was really happy. \n\n Then you forget me, so much the better. \n\n How so? \n\n Yes; for as the gladiator said to the emperor, when he entered the\narena,  He who is about to die salutes you. \n\n Then you are not consoled?  asked the count, surprised.\n\n Oh,  exclaimed Morrel, with a glance full of bitter reproach,  do you\nthink it possible that I could be? \n\n Listen,  said the count.  Do you understand the meaning of my words?\nYou cannot take me for a commonplace man, a mere rattle, emitting a\nvague and senseless noise. When I ask you if you are consoled, I speak\nto you as a man for whom the human heart has no secrets. Well, Morrel,\nlet us both examine the depths of your heart. Do you still feel the\nsame feverish impatience of grief which made you start like a wounded\nlion? Have you still that devouring thirst which can only be appeased\nin the grave? Are you still actuated by the regret which drags the\nliving to the pursuit of death; or are you only suffering from the\nprostration of fatigue and the weariness of hope deferred? Has the loss\nof memory rendered it impossible for you to weep? Oh, my dear friend,\nif this be the case, if you can no longer weep, if your frozen heart be\ndead, if you put all your trust in God, then, Maximilian, you are\nconsoled do not complain. \n\n Count,  said Morrel, in a firm and at the same time soft voice,\n listen to me, as to a man whose thoughts are raised to heaven, though\nhe remains on earth; I come to die in the arms of a friend. Certainly,\nthere are people whom I love. I love my sister Julie, I love her\nhusband Emmanuel; but I require a strong mind to smile on my last\nmoments. My sister would be bathed in tears and fainting; I could not\nbear to see her suffer. Emmanuel would tear the weapon from my hand,\nand alarm the house with his cries. You, count, who are more than\nmortal, will, I am sure, lead me to death by a pleasant path, will you\nnot? \n\n50267m\n\n\n\n My friend,  said the count,  I have still one doubt, are you weak\nenough to pride yourself upon your sufferings? \n\n No, indeed, I am calm,  said Morrel, giving his hand to the count;  my\npulse does not beat slower or faster than usual. No, I feel that I have\nreached the goal, and I will go no farther. You told me to wait and\nhope; do you know what you did, unfortunate adviser? I waited a month,\nor rather I suffered for a month! I did hope (man is a poor wretched\ncreature), I did hope. What I cannot tell, something wonderful, an\nabsurdity, a miracle, of what nature he alone can tell who has mingled\nwith our reason that folly we call hope. Yes, I did wait yes, I did\nhope, count, and during this quarter of an hour we have been talking\ntogether, you have unconsciously wounded, tortured my heart, for every\nword you have uttered proved that there was no hope for me. Oh, count,\nI shall sleep calmly, deliciously in the arms of death. \n\nMorrel uttered these words with an energy which made the count shudder.\n\n My friend,  continued Morrel,  you named the fifth of October as the\nend of the period of waiting, today is the fifth of October,  he took\nout his watch,  it is now nine o clock, I have yet three hours to\nlive. \n\n Be it so,  said the count,  come.  Morrel mechanically followed the\ncount, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt\na carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and a\nbrilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; he\ndreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo drew him\nin gently.\n\n Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to us of life,\nlike those ancient Romans, who when condemned by Nero, their emperor\nand heir, sat down at a table covered with flowers, and gently glided\ninto death, amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses? \n\nMorrel smiled.  As you please,  he said;  death is always death, that\nis forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from\ngrief. \n\nHe sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were\nin the marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues had\nbaskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel\nhad looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.\n\n Let us talk like men,  he said, looking at the count.\n\n Go on! \n\n Count,  said Morrel,  you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and\nyou seem like a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world\nthan ours. \n\n There is something true in what you say,  said the count, with that\nsmile which made him so handsome;  I have descended from a planet\ncalled grief. \n\n50269m\n\n\n\n I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; for\ninstance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope, and\nI almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you had\nexperienced death,  is it painful to die? \n\nMonte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness.  Yes, \nhe said,  yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break the\nouter covering which obstinately begs for life. If you plunge a dagger\ninto your flesh, if you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the\nleast shock disorders, then certainly, you will suffer pain, and you\nwill repent quitting a life for a repose you have bought at so dear a\nprice. \n\n Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as\nwell as in life; the only thing is to understand it. \n\n You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow\nupon it, death is either a friend who rocks us gently as a nurse, or an\nenemy who violently drags the soul from the body. Some day, when the\nworld is much older, and when mankind will be masters of all the\ndestructive powers in nature, to serve for the general good of\nhumanity; when mankind, as you were just saying, have discovered the\nsecrets of death, then that death will become as sweet and voluptuous\nas a slumber in the arms of your beloved. \n\n And if you wished to die, you would choose this death, count? \n\n Yes. \n\nMorrel extended his hand.  Now I understand,  he said,  why you had me\nbrought here to this desolate spot, in the midst of the ocean, to this\nsubterranean palace; it was because you loved me, was it not, count? It\nwas because you loved me well enough to give me one of those sweet\nmeans of death of which we were speaking; a death without agony, a\ndeath which allows me to fade away while pronouncing Valentine s name\nand pressing your hand. \n\n Yes, you have guessed rightly, Morrel,  said the count,  that is what\nI intended. \n\n Thanks; the idea that tomorrow I shall no longer suffer, is sweet to\nmy heart. \n\n Do you then regret nothing? \n\n No,  replied Morrel.\n\n Not even me?  asked the count with deep emotion. Morrel s clear eye\nwas for the moment clouded, then it shone with unusual lustre, and a\nlarge tear rolled down his cheek.\n\n What,  said the count,  do you still regret anything in the world, and\nyet die? \n\n Oh, I entreat you,  exclaimed Morrel in a low voice,  do not speak\nanother word, count; do not prolong my punishment. \n\nThe count fancied that he was yielding, and this belief revived the\nhorrible doubt that had overwhelmed him at the Ch teau d If.\n\n I am endeavoring,  he thought,  to make this man happy; I look upon\nthis restitution as a weight thrown into the scale to balance the evil\nI have wrought. Now, supposing I am deceived, supposing this man has\nnot been unhappy enough to merit happiness. Alas, what would become of\nme who can only atone for evil by doing good? \n\n50271m\n\n\n\nThen he said aloud:  Listen, Morrel, I see your grief is great, but\nstill you do not like to risk your soul.  Morrel smiled sadly.\n\n Count,  he said,  I swear to you my soul is no longer my own. \n\n Maximilian, you know I have no relation in the world. I have\naccustomed myself to regard you as my son: well, then, to save my son,\nI will sacrifice my life, nay, even my fortune. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n I mean, that you wish to quit life because you do not understand all\nthe enjoyments which are the fruits of a large fortune. Morrel, I\npossess nearly a hundred millions and I give them to you; with such a\nfortune you can attain every wish. Are you ambitious? Every career is\nopen to you. Overturn the world, change its character, yield to mad\nideas, be even criminal but live. \n\n Count, I have your word,  said Morrel coldly; then taking out his\nwatch, he added,  It is half-past eleven. \n\n Morrel, can you intend it in my house, under my very eyes? \n\n Then let me go,  said Maximilian,  or I shall think you did not love\nme for my own sake, but for yours;  and he arose.\n\n It is well,  said Monte Cristo whose countenance brightened at these\nwords;  you wish it you are inflexible. Yes, as you said, you are\nindeed wretched and a miracle alone can cure you. Sit down, Morrel, and\nwait. \n\nMorrel obeyed; the count arose, and unlocking a closet with a key\nsuspended from his gold chain, took from it a little silver casket,\nbeautifully carved and chased, the corners of which represented four\nbending figures, similar to the Caryatides, the forms of women, symbols\nof the angels aspiring to heaven.\n\nHe placed the casket on the table; then opening it took out a little\ngolden box, the top of which flew open when touched by a secret spring.\nThis box contained an unctuous substance partly solid, of which it was\nimpossible to discover the color, owing to the reflection of the\npolished gold, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, which ornamented the box.\nIt was a mixed mass of blue, red, and gold.\n\nThe count took out a small quantity of this with a gilt spoon, and\noffered it to Morrel, fixing a long steadfast glance upon him. It was\nthen observable that the substance was greenish.\n\n This is what you asked for,  he said,  and what I promised to give\nyou. \n\n I thank you from the depths of my heart,  said the young man, taking\nthe spoon from the hands of Monte Cristo. The count took another spoon,\nand again dipped it into the golden box.  What are you going to do, my\nfriend?  asked Morrel, arresting his hand.\n\n Well, the fact is, Morrel, I was thinking that I too am weary of life,\nand since an opportunity presents itself \n\n Stay!  said the young man.  You who love, and are beloved; you, who\nhave faith and hope, oh, do not follow my example. In your case it\nwould be a crime. Adieu, my noble and generous friend, adieu; I will go\nand tell Valentine what you have done for me. \n\nAnd slowly, though without any hesitation, only waiting to press the\ncount s hand fervently, he swallowed the mysterious substance offered\nby Monte Cristo. Then they were both silent. Ali, mute and attentive,\nbrought the pipes and coffee, and disappeared. By degrees, the light of\nthe lamps gradually faded in the hands of the marble statues which held\nthem, and the perfumes appeared less powerful to Morrel. Seated\nopposite to him, Monte Cristo watched him in the shadow, and Morrel saw\nnothing but the bright eyes of the count. An overpowering sadness took\npossession of the young man, his hands relaxed their hold, the objects\nin the room gradually lost their form and color, and his disturbed\nvision seemed to perceive doors and curtains open in the wall.\n\n50273m\n\n\n\n Friend,  he cried,  I feel that I am dying; thanks! \n\nHe made a last effort to extend his hand, but it fell powerless beside\nhim. Then it appeared to him that Monte Cristo smiled, not with the\nstrange and fearful expression which had sometimes revealed to him the\nsecrets of his heart, but with the benevolent kindness of a father for\na child. At the same time the count appeared to increase in stature,\nhis form, nearly double its usual height, stood out in relief against\nthe red tapestry, his black hair was thrown back, and he stood in the\nattitude of an avenging angel. Morrel, overpowered, turned around in\nthe armchair; a delicious torpor permeated every vein. A change of\nideas presented themselves to his brain, like a new design on the\nkaleidoscope. Enervated, prostrate, and breathless, he became\nunconscious of outward objects; he seemed to be entering that vague\ndelirium preceding death. He wished once again to press the count s\nhand, but his own was immovable. He wished to articulate a last\nfarewell, but his tongue lay motionless and heavy in his throat, like a\nstone at the mouth of a sepulchre. Involuntarily his languid eyes\nclosed, and still through his eyelashes a well-known form seemed to\nmove amid the obscurity with which he thought himself enveloped.\n\nThe count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light from\nthe next room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon the room\nin which he was gently gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman\nof marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the\ntwo rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy\nconjuring the angel of vengeance.\n\n Is it heaven that opens before me?  thought the dying man;  that angel\nresembles the one I have lost. \n\nMonte Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced\ntowards him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.\n\n Valentine, Valentine!  he mentally ejaculated; but his lips uttered no\nsound, and as though all his strength were centred in that internal\nemotion, he sighed and closed his eyes. Valentine rushed towards him;\nhis lips again moved.\n\n He is calling you,  said the count;  he to whom you have confided your\ndestiny he from whom death would have separated you, calls you to him.\nHappily, I vanquished death. Henceforth, Valentine, you will never\nagain be separated on earth, since he has rushed into death to find\nyou. Without me, you would both have died. May God accept my atonement\nin the preservation of these two existences! \n\nValentine seized the count s hand, and in her irresistible impulse of\njoy carried it to her lips.\n\n50275m\n\n\n\n Oh, thank me again!  said the count;  tell me till you are weary, that\nI have restored you to happiness; you do not know how much I require\nthis assurance. \n\n Oh, yes, yes, I thank you with all my heart,  said Valentine;  and if\nyou doubt the sincerity of my gratitude, oh, then, ask Hayd e! ask my\nbeloved sister Hayd e, who ever since our departure from France, has\ncaused me to wait patiently for this happy day, while talking to me of\nyou. \n\n You then love Hayd e?  asked Monte Cristo with an emotion he in vain\nendeavored to dissimulate.\n\n Oh, yes, with all my soul. \n\n Well, then, listen, Valentine,  said the count;  I have a favor to ask\nof you. \n\n Of me? Oh, am I happy enough for that? \n\n Yes; you have called Hayd e your sister, let her become so indeed,\nValentine; render her all the gratitude you fancy that you owe to me;\nprotect her, for  (the count s voice was thick with emotion)\n henceforth she will be alone in the world. \n\n Alone in the world!  repeated a voice behind the count,  and why? \n\nMonte Cristo turned around; Hayd e was standing pale, motionless,\nlooking at the count with an expression of fearful amazement.\n\n Because tomorrow, Hayd e, you will be free; you will then assume your\nproper position in society, for I will not allow my destiny to\novershadow yours. Daughter of a prince, I restore to you the riches and\nname of your father. \n\nHayd e became pale, and lifting her transparent hands to heaven,\nexclaimed in a voice stifled with tears,  Then you leave me, my lord? \n\n Hayd e, Hayd e, you are young and beautiful; forget even my name, and\nbe happy. \n\n It is well,  said Hayd e;  your order shall be executed, my lord; I\nwill forget even your name, and be happy.  And she stepped back to\nretire.\n\n Oh, heavens,  exclaimed Valentine, who was supporting the head of\nMorrel on her shoulder,  do you not see how pale she is? Do you not see\nhow she suffers? \n\nHayd e answered with a heartrending expression,\n\n Why should he understand this, my sister? He is my master, and I am\nhis slave; he has the right to notice nothing. \n\nThe count shuddered at the tones of a voice which penetrated the inmost\nrecesses of his heart; his eyes met those of the young girl and he\ncould not bear their brilliancy.\n\n Oh, heavens,  exclaimed Monte Cristo,  can my suspicions be correct?\nHayd e, would it please you not to leave me? \n\n I am young,  gently replied Hayd e;  I love the life you have made so\nsweet to me, and I should be sorry to die. \n\n You mean, then, that if I leave you, Hayd e \n\n I should die; yes, my lord. \n\n Do you then love me? \n\n Oh, Valentine, he asks if I love him. Valentine, tell him if you love\nMaximilian. \n\nThe count felt his heart dilate and throb; he opened his arms, and\nHayd e, uttering a cry, sprang into them.\n\n Oh, yes,  she cried,  I do love you! I love you as one loves a father,\nbrother, husband! I love you as my life, for you are the best, the\nnoblest of created beings! \n\n50277m\n\n\n\n Let it be, then, as you wish, sweet angel; God has sustained me in my\nstruggle with my enemies, and has given me this reward; he will not let\nme end my triumph in suffering; I wished to punish myself, but he has\npardoned me. Love me then, Hayd e! Who knows? perhaps your love will\nmake me forget all that I do not wish to remember. \n\n What do you mean, my lord? \n\n I mean that one word from you has enlightened me more than twenty\nyears of slow experience; I have but you in the world, Hayd e; through\nyou I again take hold on life, through you I shall suffer, through you\nrejoice. \n\n Do you hear him, Valentine?  exclaimed Hayd e;  he says that through\nme he will suffer through _me_, who would yield my life for his. \n\nThe count withdrew for a moment.  Have I discovered the truth?  he\nsaid;  but whether it be for recompense or punishment, I accept my\nfate. Come, Hayd e, come!  and throwing his arm around the young girl s\nwaist, he pressed the hand of Valentine, and disappeared.\n\n50279m\n\n\n\nAn hour had nearly passed, during which Valentine, breathless and\nmotionless, watched steadfastly over Morrel. At length she felt his\nheart beat, a faint breath played upon his lips, a slight shudder,\nannouncing the return of life, passed through the young man s frame. At\nlength his eyes opened, but they were at first fixed and\nexpressionless; then sight returned, and with it feeling and grief.\n\n Oh,  he cried, in an accent of despair,  the count has deceived me; I\nam yet living;  and extending his hand towards the table, he seized a\nknife.\n\n Dearest,  exclaimed Valentine, with her adorable smile,  awake, and\nlook at me!  Morrel uttered a loud exclamation, and frantic, doubtful,\ndazzled, as though by a celestial vision, he fell upon his knees.\n\nThe next morning at daybreak, Valentine and Morrel were walking\narm-in-arm on the seashore, Valentine relating how Monte Cristo had\nappeared in her room, explained everything, revealed the crime, and,\nfinally, how he had saved her life by enabling her to simulate death.\n\nThey had found the door of the grotto opened, and gone forth; on the\nazure dome of heaven still glittered a few remaining stars.\n\nMorrel soon perceived a man standing among the rocks, apparently\nawaiting a sign from them to advance, and pointed him out to Valentine.\n\n Ah, it is Jacopo,  she said,  the captain of the yacht;  and she\nbeckoned him towards them.\n\n Do you wish to speak to us?  asked Morrel.\n\n I have a letter to give you from the count. \n\n From the count!  murmured the two young people.\n\n Yes; read it. \n\n50281m\n\n\n\nMorrel opened the letter, and read:\n\n My Dear Maximilian,\n\n There is a felucca for you at anchor. Jacopo will carry you to\nLeghorn, where Monsieur Noirtier awaits his granddaughter, whom he\nwishes to bless before you lead her to the altar. All that is in this\ngrotto, my friend, my house in the Champs- lys es, and my ch teau at\nTr port, are the marriage gifts bestowed by Edmond Dant s upon the son\nof his old master, Morrel. Mademoiselle de Villefort will share them\nwith you; for I entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune\nreverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her brother who\ndied last September with his mother. Tell the angel who will watch over\nyour future destiny, Morrel, to pray sometimes for a man, who, like\nSatan, thought himself for an instant equal to God, but who now\nacknowledges with Christian humility that God alone possesses supreme\npower and infinite wisdom. Perhaps those prayers may soften the remorse\nhe feels in his heart. As for you, Morrel, this is the secret of my\nconduct towards you. There is neither happiness nor misery in the\nworld; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing\nmore. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience\nsupreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, Morrel, that we\nmay appreciate the enjoyments of living.\n\n Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never\nforget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to\nman, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, _Wait and\nhope_. Your friend,\n\n Edmond Dant s, _Count of Monte Cristo_. \n\n50282m\n\n\n\nDuring the perusal of this letter, which informed Valentine for the\nfirst time of the madness of her father and the death of her brother,\nshe became pale, a heavy sigh escaped from her bosom, and tears, not\nthe less painful because they were silent, ran down her cheeks; her\nhappiness cost her very dear.\n\nMorrel looked around uneasily.\n\n But,  he said,  the count s generosity is too overwhelming; Valentine\nwill be satisfied with my humble fortune. Where is the count, friend?\nLead me to him. \n\nJacopo pointed towards the horizon.\n\n What do you mean?  asked Valentine.  Where is the count? where is\nHayd e? \n\n Look!  said Jacopo.\n\nThe eyes of both were fixed upon the spot indicated by the sailor, and\non the blue line separating the sky from the Mediterranean Sea, they\nperceived a large white sail.\n\n Gone,  said Morrel;  gone! adieu, my friend adieu, my father! \n\n Gone,  murmured Valentine;  adieu, my sweet Hayd e adieu, my sister! \n\n Who can say whether we shall ever see them again?  said Morrel with\ntearful eyes.\n\n Darling,  replied Valentine,  has not the count just told us that all\nhuman wisdom is summed up in two words:\n\n _Wait and hope_ (Fac et spera)! \n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n\n[1]  The wicked are great drinkers of water; As the flood proved once\nfor all. \n\n[2] $2,600,000 in 1894.\n\n[3] Knocked on the head.\n\n[4] Beheaded.\n\n[5] Scott, of course:  The son of an ill-fated sire, and the father of\na yet more unfortunate family, bore in his looks that cast of\ninauspicious melancholy by which the physiognomists of that time\npretended to distinguish those who were predestined to a violent and\nunhappy death. The Abbot, ch. xxii.\n\n[6] Guillotine.\n\n[7] Dr. Guillotin got the idea of his famous machine from witnessing an\nexecution in Italy.\n\n[8] Brucea ferruginea.\n\n[9]  Money and sanctity, Each in a moiety. \n\n[10] Elisabeth de Rossan, Marquise de Ganges, was one of the famous\nwomen of the court of Louis XIV. where she was known as  La Belle\nProven ale.  She was the widow of the Marquis de Castellane when she\nmarried de Ganges, and having the misfortune to excite the enmity of\nher new brothers-in-law, was forced by them to take poison; and they\nfinished her off with pistol and dagger. Ed.\n\n[11] Magistrate and orator of great eloquence chancellor of France\nunder Louis XV.\n\n[12] Jacques-Louis David, a famous French painter (1748-1825).\n\n[13] Ali Pasha,  The Lion,  was born at Tepelini, an Albanian village\nat the foot of the Klissoura Mountains, in 1741. By diplomacy and\nsuccess in arms he became almost supreme ruler of Albania, Epirus, and\nadjacent territory. Having aroused the enmity of the Sultan, he was\nproscribed and put to death by treachery in 1822, at the age of\neighty. Ed.\n\n[14] Greek militiamen in the war for independence. Ed.\n\n[15] A Turkish pasha in command of the troops of a province. Ed.\n\n[16] The god of fruitfulness in Grecian mythology. In Crete he was\nsupposed to be slain in winter with the decay of vegetation and to\nrevive in the spring. Hayd e s learned reference is to the behavior of\nan actor in the Dionysian festivals. Ed.\n\n[17] The Genoese conspirator.\n\n[18] Lake Maggiore.\n\n[19] In the old Greek legend the Atreidae, or children of Atreus, were\ndoomed to punishment because of the abominable crime of their father.\nThe _Agamemnon_ of Aeschylus is based on this legend.\n\n[20] The performance of the civil marriage.\n\n[21] In Moli re s comedy, _Le Misanthrope_.\n\n[22] Literally,  the basket,  because wedding gifts were originally\nbrought in such a receptacle.\n\n[23] Germain Pillon was a famous French sculptor (1535-1598). His best\nknown work is  The Three Graces,  now in the Louvre.\n\n[24] Fr d rick Lema tre French actor (1800-1876). Robert Macaire is the\nhero of two favorite melodramas Chien de Montargis  and  Chien\nd Aubry and the name is applied to bold criminals as a term of\nderision.\n\n[25] The Spahis are French cavalry reserved for service in Africa.\n\n[26] _Savate_: an old shoe.\n\n[27] Guilbert de Pix r court, French dramatist (1773-1844).\n\n[28] Gaspard Puget, the sculptor-architect, was born at Marseilles in\n1615.\n\n[29] The Carolina not Virginia jessamine, _gelsemium sempervirens_\n(properly speaking not a jessamine at all) has yellow blossoms. The\nreference is no doubt to the _Wistaria frutescens_. Ed.\n\n[30] The miser in Moli re s comedy of _L Avare_. Ed."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Hunchback of Notre Dame",
        "author": "Victor Hugo",
        "category": "Historical Fiction",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I\n\nJONATHAN HARKER S JOURNAL\n\n(_Kept in shorthand._)\n\n\n_3 May. Bistritz._--Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at\nVienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an\nhour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I\ngot of it from the train and the little I could walk through the\nstreets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived\nlate and would start as near the correct time as possible. The\nimpression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the\nEast; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is\nhere of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish\nrule.\n\nWe left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh.\nHere I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or\nrather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was\nvery good but thirsty. (_Mem._, get recipe for Mina.) I asked the\nwaiter, and he said it was called  paprika hendl,  and that, as it was a\nnational dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the\nCarpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed, I\ndon t know how I should be able to get on without it.\n\nHaving had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the\nBritish Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library\nregarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the\ncountry could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a\nnobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the\nextreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states,\nTransylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian\nmountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was\nnot able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the\nCastle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare\nwith our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post\ntown named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter\nhere some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my\ntravels with Mina.\n\nIn the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities:\nSaxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the\ndescendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the\nEast and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended\nfrom Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered\nthe country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I\nread that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the\nhorseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of\nimaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (_Mem._, I\nmust ask the Count all about them.)\n\nI did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had\nall sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my\nwindow, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been\nthe paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was\nstill thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous\nknocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then.\nI had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour\nwhich they said was  mamaliga,  and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a\nvery excellent dish, which they call  impletata.  (_Mem._, get recipe\nfor this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little\nbefore eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to\nthe station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour\nbefore we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the\nmore unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?\n\nAll day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of\nbeauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the\ntop of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by\nrivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side\nof them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and\nrunning strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every\nstation there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts\nof attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I\nsaw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets and round hats\nand home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The women\nlooked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy\nabout the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other,\nand most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something\nfluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there\nwere petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the\nSlovaks, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy\nhats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous\nheavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass\nnails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and\nhad long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very\npicturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be\nset down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are,\nhowever, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural\nself-assertion.\n\nIt was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is a\nvery interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier--for the\nBorgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina--it has had a very stormy\nexistence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a series\nof great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five separate\noccasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century it underwent\na siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of war\nproper being assisted by famine and disease.\n\nCount Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I\nfound, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of\ncourse I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country. I was\nevidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a\ncheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress--white\nundergarment with long double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff\nfitting almost too tight for modesty. When I came close she bowed and\nsaid,  The Herr Englishman?   Yes,  I said,  Jonathan Harker.  She\nsmiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white shirt-sleeves,\nwho had followed her to the door. He went, but immediately returned with\na letter:--\n\n      My Friend.--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting\n     you. Sleep well to-night. At three to-morrow the diligence will\n     start for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo\n     Pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust\n     that your journey from London has been a happy one, and that you\n     will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land.\n\n Your friend,\n\n DRACULA. \n\n\n_4 May._--I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count,\ndirecting him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on\nmaking inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and\npretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be\ntrue, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he\nanswered my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old\nlady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort of\nway. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that\nwas all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could\ntell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves,\nand, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak\nfurther. It was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask\nany one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means\ncomforting.\n\nJust before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a\nvery hysterical way:\n\n Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?  She was in such an excited\nstate that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and\nmixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I\nwas just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I told her\nthat I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business,\nshe asked again:\n\n Do you know what day it is?  I answered that it was the fourth of May.\nShe shook her head as she said again:\n\n Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?  On\nmy saying that I did not understand, she went on:\n\n It is the eve of St. George s Day. Do you not know that to-night, when\nthe clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have\nfull sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to? \nShe was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but\nwithout effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not\nto go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very\nridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business\nto be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore\ntried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked\nher, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and\ndried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. I\ndid not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been\ntaught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it\nseemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a\nstate of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the\nrosary round my neck, and said,  For your mother s sake,  and went out\nof the room. I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting\nfor the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still\nround my neck. Whether it is the old lady s fear, or the many ghostly\ntraditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I\nam not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this book should\never reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here comes the\ncoach!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_5 May. The Castle._--The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is\nhigh over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or\nhills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are\nmixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake,\nnaturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things to put\ndown, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I\nleft Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what they\ncalled  robber steak --bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red\npepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple\nstyle of the London cat s meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which\nproduces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not\ndisagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.\n\nWhen I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him\ntalking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every\nnow and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting\non the bench outside the door--which they call by a name meaning\n word-bearer --came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them\npityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for\nthere were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot\ndictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not\ncheering to me, for amongst them were  Ordog --Satan,  pokol --hell,\n stregoica --witch,  vrolok  and  vlkoslak --both of which mean the same\nthing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is\neither were-wolf or vampire. (_Mem._, I must ask the Count about these\nsuperstitions)\n\nWhen we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time\nswelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and\npointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a\nfellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at\nfirst, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a\ncharm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me,\njust starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but every one\nseemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I\ncould not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse which I\nhad of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing\nthemselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of\nrich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the\ncentre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered\nthe whole front of the box-seat-- gotza  they call them--cracked his big\nwhip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on\nour journey.\n\nI soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the\nscene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather\nlanguages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have\nbeen able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping\nland full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned\nwith clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the\nroad. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom--apple,\nplum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under\nthe trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these\ngreen hills of what they call here the  Mittel Land  ran the road,\nlosing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the\nstraggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the\nhillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we\nseemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then\nwhat the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no\ntime in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime\nexcellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter\nsnows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in\nthe Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept\nin too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the\nTurk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops,\nand so hasten the war which was always really at loading point.\n\nBeyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes\nof forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right\nand left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon\nthem and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range,\ndeep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where\ngrass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and\npointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where\nthe snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the\nmountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again\nthe white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as\nwe swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered\npeak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to\nbe right before us:--\n\n Look! Isten szek! -- God s seat! --and he crossed himself reverently.\n\nAs we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind\nus, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was\nemphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the\nsunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here and there\nwe passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed\nthat goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many crosses,\nand as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here and there\nwas a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did not even\nturn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender of\ndevotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There were\nmany things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here\nand there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems\nshining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. Now and\nagain we passed a leiter-wagon--the ordinary peasant s cart--with its\nlong, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the\nroad. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming\npeasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their\ncoloured, sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long\nstaves, with axe at end. As the evening fell it began to get very cold,\nand the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the\ngloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which\nran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the\nPass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background of\nlate-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods\nthat seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of\ngreyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a\npeculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and\ngrim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset\nthrew into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the\nCarpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes the\nhills were so steep that, despite our driver s haste, the horses could\nonly go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home,\nbut the driver would not hear of it.  No, no,  he said;  you must not\nwalk here; the dogs are too fierce ; and then he added, with what he\nevidently meant for grim pleasantry--for he looked round to catch the\napproving smile of the rest-- and you may have enough of such matters\nbefore you go to sleep.  The only stop he would make was a moment s\npause to light his lamps.\n\nWhen it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the\npassengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as\nthough urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully\nwith his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on\nto further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of\npatch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the\nhills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach\nrocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a\nstormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared\nto fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each\nside and to frown down upon us; we were entering on the Borgo Pass. One\nby one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed\nupon me with an earnestness which would take no denial; these were\ncertainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good\nfaith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of\nfear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the hotel at\nBistritz--the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye.\nThen, as we flew along, the driver leaned forward, and on each side the\npassengers, craning over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the\ndarkness. It was evident that something very exciting was either\nhappening or expected, but though I asked each passenger, no one would\ngive me the slightest explanation. This state of excitement kept on for\nsome little time; and at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on\nthe eastern side. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the\nair the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the\nmountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got\ninto the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance\nwhich was to take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the\nglare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light\nwas the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our\nhard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy\nroad lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle.\nThe passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock\nmy own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when\nthe driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which I\ncould hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; I\nthought it was  An hour less than the time.  Then turning to me, he said\nin German worse than my own:--\n\n There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will\nnow come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better\nthe next day.  Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and\nsnort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then,\namongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing\nof themselves, a cal che, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook\nus, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our\nlamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and\nsplendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown\nbeard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I\ncould only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red\nin the lamplight, as he turned to us. He said to the driver:--\n\n You are early to-night, my friend.  The man stammered in reply:--\n\n The English Herr was in a hurry,  to which the stranger replied:--\n\n That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot\ndeceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift.  As he\nspoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with\nvery red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my\ncompanions whispered to another the line from Burger s  Lenore :--\n\n     Denn die Todten reiten schnell --\n    ( For the dead travel fast. )\n\nThe strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a\ngleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time\nputting out his two fingers and crossing himself.  Give me the Herr s\nluggage,  said the driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were\nhanded out and put in the cal che. Then I descended from the side of the\ncoach, as the cal che was close alongside, the driver helping me with a\nhand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been\nprodigious. Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we\nswept into the darkness of the Pass. As I looked back I saw the steam\nfrom the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected\nagainst it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves. Then\nthe driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept\non their way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a\nstrange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown\nover my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in\nexcellent German:--\n\n The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all\ncare of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the\ncountry) underneath the seat, if you should require it.  I did not take\nany, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. I felt a\nlittle strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been\nany alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that\nunknown night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along,\nthen we made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It\nseemed to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground\nagain; and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was\nso. I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but\nI really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any\nprotest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention to\ndelay. By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was\npassing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch; it was\nwithin a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I\nsuppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my\nrecent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.\n\nThen a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road--a\nlong, agonised wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by\nanother dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which\nnow sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed\nto come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp\nit through the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses began to\nstrain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they\nquieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from\nsudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each\nside of us began a louder and a sharper howling--that of wolves--which\naffected both the horses and myself in the same way--for I was minded to\njump from the cal che and run, whilst they reared again and plunged\nmadly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them\nfrom bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to\nthe sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able\nto descend and to stand before them. He petted and soothed them, and\nwhispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers\ndoing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became\nquite manageable again, though they still trembled. The driver again\ntook his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This\ntime, after going to the far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a\nnarrow roadway which ran sharply to the right.\n\nSoon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the\nroadway till we passed as through a tunnel; and again great frowning\nrocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in shelter, we\ncould hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the\nrocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept along.\nIt grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall,\nso that soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket. The\nkeen wind still carried the howling of the dogs, though this grew\nfainter as we went on our way. The baying of the wolves sounded nearer\nand nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every side. I\ngrew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear. The driver,\nhowever, was not in the least disturbed; he kept turning his head to\nleft and right, but I could not see anything through the darkness.\n\nSuddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The\ndriver saw it at the same moment; he at once checked the horses, and,\njumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know\nwhat to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but while\nI wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took\nhis seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep\nand kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated\nendlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare.\nOnce the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness\naround us I could watch the driver s motions. He went rapidly to where\nthe blue flame arose--it must have been very faint, for it did not seem\nto illumine the place around it at all--and gathering a few stones,\nformed them into some device. Once there appeared a strange optical\neffect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it,\nfor I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but\nas the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me\nstraining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue\nflames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the\nwolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle.\n\nAt last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he\nhad yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse\nthan ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause\nfor it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but just\nthen the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the\njagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw\naround us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues,\nwith long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more\nterrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled.\nFor myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man\nfeels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand\ntheir true import.\n\nAll at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had\nsome peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and\nlooked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see;\nbut the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side; and they\nhad perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for\nit seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the\nring and to aid his approach. I shouted and beat the side of the\ncal che, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as\nto give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know\nnot, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and\nlooking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his\nlong arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves\nfell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across\nthe face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.\n\nWhen I could see again the driver was climbing into the cal che, and the\nwolves had disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a\ndreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time\nseemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete\ndarkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on\nascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main\nalways ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the\ndriver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a\nvast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light,\nand whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit\nsky.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nJONATHAN HARKER S JOURNAL--_continued_\n\n\n_5 May._--I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully\nawake I must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In\nthe gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark\nways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than\nit really is. I have not yet been able to see it by daylight.\n\nWhen the cal che stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand\nto assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious\nstrength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have\ncrushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took out my traps, and placed\nthem on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and\nstudded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of\nmassive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone was\nmassively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and\nweather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook the\nreins; the horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared down one\nof the dark openings.\n\nI stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell\nor knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark\nwindow openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The\ntime I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon\nme. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people?\nWhat sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a\ncustomary incident in the life of a solicitor s clerk sent out to\nexplain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor s\nclerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor--for just before leaving\nLondon I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a\nfull-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if\nI were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I\nexpected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with\nthe dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt\nin the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the\npinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake\nand among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to\nwait the coming of the morning.\n\nJust as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching\nbehind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming\nlight. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of\nmassive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise\nof long disuse, and the great door swung back.\n\nWithin, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white\nmoustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck\nof colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver\nlamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of any kind,\nthrowing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the\nopen door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly\ngesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation:--\n\n Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!  He made no\nmotion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his\ngesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that\nI had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and\nholding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince,\nan effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as\nice--more like the hand of a dead than a living man. Again he said:--\n\n Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the\nhappiness you bring!  The strength of the handshake was so much akin to\nthat which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that\nfor a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was\nspeaking; so to make sure, I said interrogatively:--\n\n Count Dracula?  He bowed in a courtly way as he replied:--\n\n I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in;\nthe night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest.  As he was\nspeaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out,\ntook my luggage; he had carried it in before I could forestall him. I\nprotested but he insisted:--\n\n Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not\navailable. Let me see to your comfort myself.  He insisted on carrying\nmy traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and\nalong another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang\nheavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced\nto see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper,\nand on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished,\nflamed and flared.\n\nThe Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing\nthe room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit\nby a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing\nthrough this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a\nwelcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with\nanother log fire,--also added to but lately, for the top logs were\nfresh--which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself\nleft my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the\ndoor:--\n\n You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your\ntoilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come\ninto the other room, where you will find your supper prepared. \n\nThe light and warmth and the Count s courteous welcome seemed to have\ndissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal state,\nI discovered that I was half famished with hunger; so making a hasty\ntoilet, I went into the other room.\n\nI found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the\ngreat fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of\nhis hand to the table, and said:--\n\n I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse\nme that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup. \n\nI handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to me.\nHe opened it and read it gravely; then, with a charming smile, he handed\nit to me to read. One passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill of\npleasure.\n\n I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant\nsufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to\ncome; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in\nwhom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy\nand talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is\ndiscreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall\nbe ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take\nyour instructions in all matters. \n\nThe Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I\nfell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese\nand a salad and a bottle of old Tokay, of which I had two glasses, was\nmy supper. During the time I was eating it the Count asked me many\nquestions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had\nexperienced.\n\nBy this time I had finished my supper, and by my host s desire had drawn\nup a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he offered me,\nat the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke. I had now an\nopportunity of observing him, and found him of a very marked\nphysiognomy.\n\nHis face was a strong--a very strong--aquiline, with high bridge of the\nthin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and\nhair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His\neyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy\nhair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I\ncould see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather\ncruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over\nthe lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a\nman of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops\nextremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm\nthough thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.\n\nHitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees\nin the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing\nthem now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather\ncoarse--broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in\nthe centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp\npoint. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not\nrepress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a\nhorrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could\nnot conceal. The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back; and with a\ngrim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done his\nprotuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of the\nfireplace. We were both silent for a while; and as I looked towards the\nwindow I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a\nstrange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard as if from\ndown below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count s eyes\ngleamed, and he said:--\n\n Listen to them--the children of the night. What music they make! \nSeeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he\nadded:--\n\n Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the\nhunter.  Then he rose and said:--\n\n But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you\nshall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon;\nso sleep well and dream well!  With a courteous bow, he opened for me\nhimself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom....\n\nI am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things,\nwhich I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the\nsake of those dear to me!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_7 May._--It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the\nlast twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my\nown accord. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had\nsupped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the\npot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on which\nwas written:--\n\n I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.--D.  I set to and\nenjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I\nmight let the servants know I had finished; but I could not find one.\nThere are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the\nextraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table service\nis of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value.\nThe curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of\nmy bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have\nbeen of fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old,\nthough in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court,\nbut there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. But still in none of\nthe rooms is there a mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my\ntable, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I\ncould either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant\nanywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves.\nSome time after I had finished my meal--I do not know whether to call it\nbreakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six o clock when I had\nit--I looked about for something to read, for I did not like to go about\nthe castle until I had asked the Count s permission. There was\nabsolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing\nmaterials; so I opened another door in the room and found a sort of\nlibrary. The door opposite mine I tried, but found it locked.\n\nIn the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English\nbooks, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and\nnewspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines\nand newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books\nwere of the most varied kind--history, geography, politics, political\neconomy, botany, geology, law--all relating to England and English life\nand customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the\nLondon Directory, the  Red  and  Blue  books, Whitaker s Almanac, the\nArmy and Navy Lists, and--it somehow gladdened my heart to see it--the\nLaw List.\n\nWhilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count\nentered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good\nnight s rest. Then he went on:--\n\n I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that\nwill interest you. These companions --and he laid his hand on some of\nthe books-- have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever\nsince I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours\nof pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to\nknow her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of\nyour mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of\nhumanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes\nit what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books.\nTo you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak. \n\n But, Count,  I said,  you know and speak English thoroughly!  He bowed\ngravely.\n\n I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I\nfear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know\nthe grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them. \n\n Indeed,  I said,  you speak excellently. \n\n Not so,  he answered.  Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your\nLondon, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not\nenough for me. Here I am noble; I am _boyar_; the common people know me,\nand I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men\nknow him not--and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am\nlike the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his\nspeaking if he hear my words,  Ha, ha! a stranger!  I have been so long\nmaster that I would be master still--or at least that none other should\nbe master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter\nHawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You\nshall, I trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking I may\nlearn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make\nerror, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be\naway so long to-day; but you will, I know, forgive one who has so many\nimportant affairs in hand. \n\nOf course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might\ncome into that room when I chose. He answered:  Yes, certainly,  and\nadded:--\n\n You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are\nlocked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that\nall things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with\nmy knowledge, you would perhaps better understand.  I said I was sure of\nthis, and then he went on:--\n\n We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are\nnot your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from\nwhat you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of\nwhat strange things there may be. \n\nThis led to much conversation; and as it was evident that he wanted to\ntalk, if only for talking s sake, I asked him many questions regarding\nthings that had already happened to me or come within my notice.\nSometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by\npretending not to understand; but generally he answered all I asked most\nfrankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I asked\nhim of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as, for\ninstance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the blue\nflames. He then explained to me that it was commonly believed that on a\ncertain night of the year--last night, in fact, when all evil spirits\nare supposed to have unchecked sway--a blue flame is seen over any place\nwhere treasure has been concealed.  That treasure has been hidden,  he\nwent on,  in the region through which you came last night, there can be\nbut little doubt; for it was the ground fought over for centuries by the\nWallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil\nin all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men,\npatriots or invaders. In old days there were stirring times, when the\nAustrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out\nto meet them--men and women, the aged and the children too--and waited\ntheir coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep\ndestruction on them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader\nwas triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been\nsheltered in the friendly soil. \n\n But how,  said I,  can it have remained so long undiscovered, when\nthere is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look? \nThe Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long,\nsharp, canine teeth showed out strangely; he answered:--\n\n Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only\nappear on one night; and on that night no man of this land will, if he\ncan help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he\nwould not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who\nmarked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight\neven for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be able to\nfind these places again? \n\n There you are right,  I said.  I know no more than the dead where even\nto look for them.  Then we drifted into other matters.\n\n Come,  he said at last,  tell me of London and of the house which you\nhave procured for me.  With an apology for my remissness, I went into my\nown room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in\norder I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I\npassed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp\nlit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were also lit\nin the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the sofa,\nreading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw s Guide. When I\ncame in he cleared the books and papers from the table; and with him I\nwent into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in\neverything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its\nsurroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the\nsubject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much\nmore than I did. When I remarked this, he answered:--\n\n Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there\nI shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan--nay, pardon me, I\nfall into my country s habit of putting your patronymic first--my friend\nJonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be\nin Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law with my\nother friend, Peter Hawkins. So! \n\nWe went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at\nPurfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the\nnecessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to\nMr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a\nplace. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and which I\ninscribe here:--\n\n At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as seemed to\nbe required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place\nwas for sale. It is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure,\nbuilt of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of\nyears. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with\nrust.\n\n The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old _Quatre\nFace_, as the house is four-sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of\nthe compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by\nthe solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which\nmake it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or\nsmall lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and\nflows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all\nperiods back, I should say, to medi val times, for one part is of stone\nimmensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with\niron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or\nchurch. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading\nto it from the house, but I have taken with my kodak views of it from\nvarious points. The house has been added to, but in a very straggling\nway, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must\nbe very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very\nlarge house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic\nasylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds. \n\nWhen I had finished, he said:--\n\n I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to\nlive in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a\nday; and, after all, how few days go to make up a century. I rejoice\nalso that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love\nnot to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not\ngaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and\nsparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young;\nand my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not\nattuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the\nshadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken\nbattlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would\nbe alone with my thoughts when I may.  Somehow his words and his look\ndid not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his\nsmile look malignant and saturnine.\n\nPresently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers\ntogether. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of\nthe books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally at\nEngland, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in\ncertain places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed\nthat one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his new\nestate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the\nYorkshire coast.\n\nIt was the better part of an hour when the Count returned.  Aha!  he\nsaid;  still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come; I\nam informed that your supper is ready.  He took my arm, and we went into\nthe next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The\nCount again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being away from\nhome. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted whilst I ate.\nAfter supper I smoked, as on the last evening, and the Count stayed with\nme, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour\nafter hour. I felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not\nsay anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host s wishes in\nevery way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified\nme; but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at\nthe coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide.\nThey say that people who are near death die generally at the change to\nthe dawn or at the turn of the tide; any one who has when tired, and\ntied as it were to his post, experienced this change in the atmosphere\ncan well believe it. All at once we heard the crow of a cock coming up\nwith preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air; Count\nDracula, jumping to his feet, said:--\n\n Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so\nlong. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of\nEngland less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by\nus,  and, with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.\n\nI went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little to\nnotice; my window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the\nwarm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have\nwritten of this day.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_8 May._--I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too\ndiffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for\nthere is something so strange about this place and all in it that I\ncannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had\nnever come. It may be that this strange night-existence is telling on\nme; but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I\ncould bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with,\nand he!--I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place. Let\nme be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and\nimagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say\nat once how I stand--or seem to.\n\nI only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could\nnot sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window,\nand was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder,\nand heard the Count s voice saying to me,  Good-morning.  I started, for\nit amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass\ncovered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly,\nbut did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count s\nsalutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken.\nThis time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I\ncould see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in\nthe mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed; but there was no\nsign of a man in it, except myself. This was startling, and, coming on\nthe top of so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague\nfeeling of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is near; but at\nthe instant I saw that the cut had bled a little, and the blood was\ntrickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did so half\nround to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his\neyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at\nmy throat. I drew away, and his hand touched the string of beads which\nheld the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed\nso quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.\n\n Take care,  he said,  take care how you cut yourself. It is more\ndangerous than you think in this country.  Then seizing the shaving\nglass, he went on:  And this is the wretched thing that has done the\nmischief. It is a foul bauble of man s vanity. Away with it!  and\nopening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung\nout the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones\nof the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very\nannoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or\nthe bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.\n\nWhen I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could\nnot find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that\nas yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very\npeculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I\nwent out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South. The\nview was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity\nof seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice. A\nstone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without\ntouching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree\ntops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and\nthere are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through\nthe forests.\n\nBut I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I\nexplored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and\nbolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there\nan available exit.\n\nThe castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nJONATHAN HARKER S JOURNAL--_continued_\n\n\nWhen I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me.\nI rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of\nevery window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my\nhelplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a\nfew hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much\nas a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me\nthat I was helpless I sat down quietly--as quietly as I have ever done\nanything in my life--and began to think over what was best to be done. I\nam thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of\none thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to\nthe Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it\nhimself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive\nme if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only\nplan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes\nopen. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears,\nor else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and\nshall need, all my brains to get through.\n\nI had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below\nshut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into\nthe library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making\nthe bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along\nthought--that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him\nthrough the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the\ndining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these\nmenial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them.\nThis gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it\nmust have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that\nbrought me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it\nmean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his\nhand in silence. How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the\ncoach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the\ncrucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless\nthat good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a\ncomfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing\nwhich I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous\nshould in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there\nis something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium,\na tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some\ntime, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my\nmind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count\nDracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of\nhimself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful,\nhowever, not to awake his suspicion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Midnight._--I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few\nquestions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject\nwonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of\nbattles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he\nafterwards explained by saying that to a _boyar_ the pride of his house\nand name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their\nfate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said  we, \nand spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put\ndown all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most\nfascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He\ngrew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great\nwhite moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as\nthough he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I\nshall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the story of\nhis race:--\n\n We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood\nof many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here,\nin the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from\nIceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their\nBerserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay,\nand of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the\nwere-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found\nthe Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame,\ntill the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those\nold witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the\ndesert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as\nAttila, whose blood is in these veins?  He held up his arms.  Is it a\nwonder that we were a conquering race; that we were proud; that when the\nMagyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his\nthousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when\nArpad and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he found us\nhere when he reached the frontier; that the Honfoglalas was completed\nthere? And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were\nclaimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries\nwas trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkey-land; ay, and more\nthan that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the Turks say,\n water sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.  Who more gladly than we\nthroughout the Four Nations received the  bloody sword,  or at its\nwarlike call flocked quicker to the standard of the King? When was\nredeemed that great shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the\nflags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent? Who\nwas it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat\nthe Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that\nhis own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the\nTurk and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula,\nindeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and\nagain brought his forces over the great river into Turkey-land; who,\nwhen he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had\nto come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being\nslaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph! They\nsaid that he thought only of himself. Bah! what good are peasants\nwithout a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to\nconduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Moh cs, we threw off the\nHungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for\nour spirit would not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the\nSzekelys--and the Dracula as their heart s blood, their brains, and\ntheir swords--can boast a record that mushroom growths like the\nHapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The warlike days are over.\nBlood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable peace; and\nthe glories of the great races are as a tale that is told. \n\nIt was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (_Mem._, this\ndiary seems horribly like the beginning of the  Arabian Nights,  for\neverything has to break off at cockcrow--or like the ghost of Hamlet s\nfather.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_12 May._--Let me begin with facts--bare, meagre facts, verified by\nbooks and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not\nconfuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own\nobservation, or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came from\nhis room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the\ndoing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over\nbooks, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of the\nmatters I had been examining at Lincoln s Inn. There was a certain\nmethod in the Count s inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in\nsequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.\n\nFirst, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I\ntold him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be\nwise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only\none could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate\nagainst his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to\nask if there would be any practical difficulty in having one man to\nattend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, in case\nlocal help were needed in a place far from the home of the banking\nsolicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so that I might not by any\nchance mislead him, so he said:--\n\n I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under\nthe shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from\nLondon, buys for me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now\nhere let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have\nsought the services of one so far off from London instead of some one\nresident there, that my motive was that no local interest might be\nserved save my wish only; and as one of London residence might, perhaps,\nhave some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus afield to\nseek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose\nI, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or\nDurham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more\nease be done by consigning to one in these ports?  I answered that\ncertainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of\nagency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on\ninstruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing\nhimself in the hands of one man, could have his wishes carried out by\nhim without further trouble.\n\n But,  said he,  I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so? \n\n Of course,  I replied; and  such is often done by men of business, who\ndo not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person. \n\n Good!  he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making\nconsignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of\ndifficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded\nagainst. I explained all these things to him to the best of my ability,\nand he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made a\nwonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or\nforesee. For a man who was never in the country, and who did not\nevidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were\nwonderful. When he had satisfied himself on these points of which he had\nspoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books\navailable, he suddenly stood up and said:--\n\n Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter\nHawkins, or to any other?  It was with some bitterness in my heart that\nI answered that I had not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of\nsending letters to anybody.\n\n Then write now, my young friend,  he said, laying a heavy hand on my\nshoulder:  write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will\nplease you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now. \n\n Do you wish me to stay so long?  I asked, for my heart grew cold at the\nthought.\n\n I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master,\nemployer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf,\nit was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not\nstinted. Is it not so? \n\nWhat could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins s interest, not\nmine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count\nDracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing\nwhich made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I\ncould have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his\nmastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but\nin his own smooth, resistless way:--\n\n I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things\nother than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your\nfriends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting\nhome to them. Is it not so?  As he spoke he handed me three sheets of\nnote-paper and three envelopes. They were all of the thinnest foreign\npost, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile,\nwith the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, I understood\nas well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for\nhe would be able to read it. So I determined to write only formal notes\nnow, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for\nto her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he\ndid see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a\nbook whilst the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to\nsome books on his table. Then he took up my two and placed them with his\nown, and put by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door\nhad closed behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which\nwere face down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so, for\nunder the circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way\nI could.\n\nOne of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The\nCrescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to\nCoutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth,\nbankers, Buda-Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just\nabout to look at them when I saw the door-handle move. I sank back in my\nseat, having just had time to replace the letters as they had been and\nto resume my book before the Count, holding still another letter in his\nhand, entered the room. He took up the letters on the table and stamped\nthem carefully, and then turning to me, said:--\n\n I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this\nevening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish.  At the door he\nturned, and after a moment s pause said:--\n\n Let me advise you, my dear young friend--nay, let me warn you with all\nseriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any\nchance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has\nmany memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be\nwarned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then\nhaste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be\nsafe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then --He finished his\nspeech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were\nwashing them. I quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any\ndream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom\nand mystery which seemed closing around me.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no\ndoubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is\nnot. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed--I imagine that\nmy rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.\n\nWhen he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any\nsound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out\ntowards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse,\ninaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness\nof the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in\nprison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of\nthe night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me.\nIt is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all\nsorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is ground for my\nterrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful\nexpanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as\nday. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows\nin the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed\nto cheer me; there was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I\nleaned from the window my eye was caught by something moving a storey\nbelow me, and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from the order of\nthe rooms, that the windows of the Count s own room would look out. The\nwindow at which I stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though\nweatherworn, was still complete; but it was evidently many a day since\nthe case had been there. I drew back behind the stonework, and looked\ncarefully out.\n\nWhat I saw was the Count s head coming out from the window. I did not\nsee the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his\nback and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had\nso many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and\nsomewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest\nand amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to\nrepulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the\nwindow and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss,\n_face down_ with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At\nfirst I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the\nmoonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could\nbe no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the\nstones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus\nusing every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable\nspeed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.\n\nWhat manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the\nsemblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering\nme; I am in fear--in awful fear--and there is no escape for me; I am\nencompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_15 May._--Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion.\nHe moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good\ndeal to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When his head\nhad disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but without\navail--the distance was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. I\nknew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the opportunity to\nexplore more than I had dared to do as yet. I went back to the room, and\ntaking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were all locked, as I had\nexpected, and the locks were comparatively new; but I went down the\nstone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could\npull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains; but the\ndoor was locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count s\nroom; I must watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and\nescape. I went on to make a thorough examination of the various stairs\nand passages, and to try the doors that opened from them. One or two\nsmall rooms near the hall were open, but there was nothing to see in\nthem except old furniture, dusty with age and moth-eaten. At last,\nhowever, I found one door at the top of the stairway which, though it\nseemed to be locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder,\nand found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came\nfrom the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door\nrested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have\nagain, so I exerted myself, and with many efforts forced it back so that\nI could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle further to the right\nthan the rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the windows I could\nsee that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the\nwindows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter\nside, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle\nwas built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was\nquite impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or\nbow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort,\nimpossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To the\nwest was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged\nmountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with\nmountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and\ncrannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle\noccupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more air of\ncomfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless, and the\nyellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to\nsee even colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over\nall and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and the moth. My\nlamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was\nglad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place\nwhich chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better\nthan living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the\npresence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I\nfound a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak\ntable where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much\nthought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my\ndiary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is\nnineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my\nsenses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own\nwhich mere  modernity  cannot kill.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later: the Morning of 16 May._--God preserve my sanity, for to this I\nam reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past.\nWhilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not\ngo mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it\nis maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this\nhateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I\ncan look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his\npurpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way\nlies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain things which\nhave puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant\nwhen he made Hamlet say:--\n\n     My tablets! quick, my tablets!\n     Tis meet that I put it down,  etc.,\n\nfor now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock\nhad come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose.\nThe habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.\n\nThe Count s mysterious warning frightened me at the time; it frightens\nme more now when I think of it, for in future he has a fearful hold upon\nme. I shall fear to doubt what he may say!\n\nWhen I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and\npen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count s warning came into my mind,\nbut I took a pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me,\nand with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft\nmoonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of freedom\nwhich refreshed me. I determined not to return to-night to the\ngloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat\nand sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for\ntheir menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a great\ncouch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look\nat the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for\nthe dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen\nasleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was startlingly\nreal--so real that now sitting here in the broad, full sunlight of the\nmorning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all sleep.\n\nI was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I\ncame into it; I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight,\nmy own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of\ndust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by\ntheir dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming\nwhen I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw\nno shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some\ntime, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline\nnoses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes that seemed to be\nalmost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was\nfair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden hair and eyes\nlike pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it\nin connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the\nmoment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like\npearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something\nabout them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some\ndeadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would\nkiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some\nday it should meet Mina s eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth.\nThey whispered together, and then they all three laughed--such a\nsilvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have\ncome through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable,\ntingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand.\nThe fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her\non. One said:--\n\n Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to\nbegin.  The other added:--\n\n He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.  I lay quiet,\nlooking out under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation.\nThe fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement\nof her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent\nthe same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter\nunderlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.\n\nI was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under\nthe lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply\ngloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling\nand repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips\nlike an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining\non the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp\nteeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of\nmy mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she\npaused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked\nher teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the\nskin of my throat began to tingle as one s flesh does when the hand that\nis to tickle it approaches nearer--nearer. I could feel the soft,\nshivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat,\nand the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there.\nI closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited--waited with beating\nheart.\n\nBut at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as\nlightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his\nbeing as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I\nsaw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with\ngiant s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the\nwhite teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with\npassion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to\nthe demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light\nin them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them. His\nface was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires;\nthe thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar\nof white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman\nfrom him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating\nthem back; it was the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the\nwolves. In a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to\ncut through the air and then ring round the room he said:--\n\n How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when\nI had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware\nhow you meddle with him, or you ll have to deal with me.  The fair girl,\nwith a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:--\n\n You yourself never loved; you never love!  On this the other women\njoined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the\nroom that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure\nof fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively,\nand said in a soft whisper:--\n\n Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it\nnot so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall\nkiss him at your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work\nto be done. \n\n Are we to have nothing to-night?  said one of them, with a low laugh,\nas she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which\nmoved as though there were some living thing within it. For answer he\nnodded his head. One of the women jumped forward and opened it. If my\nears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a\nhalf-smothered child. The women closed round, whilst I was aghast with\nhorror; but as I looked they disappeared, and with them the dreadful\nbag. There was no door near them, and they could not have passed me\nwithout my noticing. They simply seemed to fade into the rays of the\nmoonlight and pass out through the window, for I could see outside the\ndim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely faded away.\n\nThen the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nJONATHAN HARKER S JOURNAL--_continued_\n\n\nI awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must\nhave carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but\ncould not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were\ncertain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by\nin a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound, and I am\nrigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to bed, and\nmany such details. But these things are no proof, for they may have been\nevidences that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause or\nanother, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one\nthing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and undressed\nme, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I\nam sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not\nhave brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this\nroom, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of\nsanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who\nwere--who _are_--waiting to suck my blood.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_18 May._--I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for\nI _must_ know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the\nstairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the\njamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt\nof the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside.\nI fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_19 May._--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me in\nthe suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here\nwas nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days,\nanother that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the\nletter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at\nBistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present state\nof things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count whilst I\nam so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite his\nsuspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know too much, and\nthat I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him; my only chance is to\nprolong my opportunities. Something may occur which will give me a\nchance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath\nwhich was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him. He explained\nto me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would\nensure ease of mind to my friends; and he assured me with so much\nimpressiveness that he would countermand the later letters, which would\nbe held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would admit of my\nprolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to create new\nsuspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked\nhim what dates I should put on the letters. He calculated a minute, and\nthen said:--\n\n The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June\n29. \n\nI know now the span of my life. God help me!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_28 May._--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to\nsend word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are\nencamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of\nthem in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though\nallied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands\nof them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law.\nThey attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or _boyar_, and\ncall themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion,\nsave superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany\ntongue.\n\nI shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them\nposted. I have already spoken them through my window to begin\nacquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many\nsigns, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could\ntheir spoken language....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI have written the letters. Mina s is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr.\nHawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation,\nbut without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and\nfrighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the\nletters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the\nextent of my knowledge....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window\nwith a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The\nman who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them\nin his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to\nread. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest\nvoice as he opened two letters:--\n\n The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they\ncome, I shall, of course, take care. See! --he must have looked at\nit-- one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other --here\nhe caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and\nthe dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly-- the\nother is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is\nnot signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us.  And he calmly held letter\nand envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. Then he\nwent on:--\n\n The letter to Hawkins--that I shall, of course, send on, since it is\nyours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that\nunknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?  He held\nout the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean\nenvelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When\nhe went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later\nI went over and tried it, and the door was locked.\n\nWhen, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his\ncoming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very\ncourteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been\nsleeping, he said:--\n\n So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I\nmay not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours\nto me; but you will sleep, I pray.  I passed to my room and went to bed,\nand, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_31 May._--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself\nwith some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so\nthat I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a\nsurprise, again a shock!\n\nEvery scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda,\nrelating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that\nmight be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered\nawhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my\nportmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.\n\nThe suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and\nrug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new\nscheme of villainy....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_17 June._--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed\ncudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding\nand scraping of horses  feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard.\nWith joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great\nleiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of\neach pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty\nsheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I\nran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the\nmain hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a\nshock: my door was fastened on the outside.\n\nThen I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me\nstupidly and pointed, but just then the  hetman  of the Szgany came out,\nand seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they\nlaughed. Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised\nentreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.\nThe leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick\nrope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks\nhandled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When\nthey were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the\nyard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on\nit for luck, lazily went each to his horse s head. Shortly afterwards, I\nheard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_24 June, before morning._--Last night the Count left me early, and\nlocked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the\nwinding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I\nthought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on.\nThe Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of\nsome kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away muffled sound\nas of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some\nruthless villainy.\n\nI had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw\nsomething coming out of the Count s window. I drew back and watched\ncarefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to\nfind that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst\ntravelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I\nhad seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest,\nand in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will\nallow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave\nevidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own\nletters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local\npeople be attributed to me.\n\nIt makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up\nhere, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which\nis even a criminal s right and consolation.\n\nI thought I would watch for the Count s return, and for a long time sat\ndoggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some\nquaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were\nlike the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in\nclusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of\nsoothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the\nembrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more\nfully the a rial gambolling.\n\nSomething made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far\nbelow in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to\nring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to\nthe sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to\nawake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling,\nand my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I\nwas becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the\nmoonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom\nbeyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom\nshapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my\nsenses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were\nbecoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the\nthree ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat\nsafer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp\nwas burning brightly.\n\nWhen a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the\nCount s room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then\nthere was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a\nbeating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and\ncould do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.\n\nAs I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without--the agonised cry of a\nwoman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between\nthe bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her\nhands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning\nagainst a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she\nthrew herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:--\n\n Monster, give me my child! \n\nShe threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same\nwords in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her\nbreast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant\nemotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I could not see\nher, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door.\n\nSomewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the\nCount calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be\nanswered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes\nhad passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated,\nthrough the wide entrance into the courtyard.\n\nThere was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but\nshort. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.\n\nI could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and\nshe was better dead.\n\nWhat shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful\nthing of night and gloom and fear?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_25 June, morning._--No man knows till he has suffered from the night\nhow sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the\nsun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great\ngateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me\nas if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as\nif it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I must\ntake action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last\nnight one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal\nseries which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the\nearth.\n\nLet me not think of it. Action!\n\nIt has always been at night-time that I have been molested or\nthreatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the\nCount in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that\nhe may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his room!\nBut there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.\n\nYes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone\nwhy may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his\nwindow. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The\nchances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk\nit. At the worst it can only be death; and a man s death is not a\ncalf s, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me\nin my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and\nsecond father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Same day, later._--I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have\ncome safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I\nwent whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south\nside, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs\naround the building on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut,\nand the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I\ntook off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down\nonce, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would\nnot overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I knew pretty\nwell the direction and distance of the Count s window, and made for it\nas well as I could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did\nnot feel dizzy--I suppose I was too excited--and the time seemed\nridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and\ntrying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when\nI bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked\naround for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery.\nThe room was empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which\nseemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same\nstyle as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked\nfor the key, but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it\nanywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one\ncorner--gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and\nHungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as\nthough it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was\nless than three hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments,\nsome jewelled, but all of them old and stained.\n\nAt one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I\ncould not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which\nwas the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or\nall my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone\npassage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended,\nminding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit\nby loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark,\ntunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the\nodour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell\ngrew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood\najar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently\nbeen used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two places were\nsteps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and\nthe earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been\nbrought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for\nany further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of\nthe ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the\nvaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to\nmy very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments\nof old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, I made a\ndiscovery.\n\nThere, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a\npile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I\ncould not say which--for the eyes were open and stony, but without the\nglassiness of death--and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all\ntheir pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of\nmovement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him,\nand tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain\nthere long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours.\nBy the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there.\nI thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw\nthe dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate,\nthough unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and\nleaving the Count s room by the window, crawled again up the castle\nwall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried\nto think....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_29 June._--To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has\ntaken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the\ncastle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall,\nlizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might\ndestroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man s hand would\nhave any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared\nto see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there\ntill I fell asleep.\n\nI was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can\nlook as he said:--\n\n To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful\nEngland, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never\nmeet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be\nhere, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the\nSzgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some\nSlovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall\nbear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to\nBistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle\nDracula.  I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.\nSincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in\nconnection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:--\n\n Why may I not go to-night? \n\n Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission. \n\n But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once.  He smiled,\nsuch a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick\nbehind his smoothness. He said:--\n\n And your baggage? \n\n I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time. \n\nThe Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my\neyes, it seemed so real:--\n\n You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is\nthat which rules our _boyars_:  Welcome the coming; speed the parting\nguest.  Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait\nin my house against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that\nyou so suddenly desire it. Come!  With a stately gravity, he, with the\nlamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he\nstopped.\n\n Hark! \n\nClose at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the\nsound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great\norchestra seems to leap under the b ton of the conductor. After a pause\nof a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back\nthe ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it\nopen.\n\nTo my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I\nlooked all round, but could see no key of any kind.\n\nAs the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder\nand angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed\nfeet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew then that\nto struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such\nallies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door\ncontinued slowly to open, and only the Count s body stood in the gap.\nSuddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my\ndoom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There\nwas a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and\nas a last chance I cried out:--\n\n Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!  and covered my face with my\nhands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his\npowerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged\nand echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.\n\nIn silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went\nto my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand\nto me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that\nJudas in hell might be proud of.\n\nWhen I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a\nwhispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears\ndeceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:--\n\n Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have\npatience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!  There was a low,\nsweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw\nwithout the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they\nall joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.\n\nI came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near\nthe end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am\ndear!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_30 June, morning._--These may be the last words I ever write in this\ndiary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself\non my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me\nready.\n\nAt last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning\nhad come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe.\nWith a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to the hall. I had seen\nthat the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands\nthat trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the\nmassive bolts.\n\nBut the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled, and pulled, at\nthe door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its\ncasement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left the\nCount.\n\nThen a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I\ndetermined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count s\nroom. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of\nevils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and scrambled\ndown the wall, as before, into the Count s room. It was empty, but that\nwas as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold\nremained. I went through the door in the corner and down the winding\nstair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well\nenough where to find the monster I sought.\n\nThe great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid\nwas laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their\nplaces to be hammered home. I knew I must reach the body for the key, so\nI raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall; and then I saw\nsomething which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count,\nbut looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair\nand moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller,\nand the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than\never, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the\ncorners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep,\nburning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches\nunderneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were\nsimply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his\nrepletion. I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in\nme revolted at the contact; but I had to search, or I was lost. The\ncoming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those\nhorrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the\nkey. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile\non the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I\nwas helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come\nhe might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and\ncreate a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the\nhelpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me\nto rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand,\nbut I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the\ncases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the\nhateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full\nupon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to\nparalyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face,\nmerely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my\nhand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade\ncaught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid\nthing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,\nblood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its\nown in the nethermost hell.\n\nI thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed\non fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I\nwaited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming\ncloser, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the\ncracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had\nspoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which\ncontained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count s\nroom, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened.\nWith strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the\nkey in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must\nhave been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of\nthe locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and\ndying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to\nrun down again towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance;\nbut at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the\ndoor to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from\nthe lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was\nhopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing\nround me more closely.\n\nAs I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet\nand the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes,\nwith their freight of earth. There is a sound of hammering; it is the\nbox being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again\nalong the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.\n\nThe door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key\nin the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: then another door opens and\nshuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.\n\nHark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels,\nthe crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the\ndistance.\n\nI am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman,\nand there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!\n\nI shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall\nfarther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with\nme, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.\n\nAnd then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away\nfrom this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his\nchildren still walk with earthly feet!\n\nAt least God s mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the\nprecipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep--as a man.\nGood-bye, all! Mina!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n_Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra._\n\n\n _9 May._\n\n My dearest Lucy,--\n\n Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed\nwith work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying.\nI am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together\nfreely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard\nlately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan s studies, and I have\nbeen practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall\nbe able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I\ncan take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for\nhim on the typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard. He\nand I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a\nstenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I\nshall keep a diary in the same way. I don t mean one of those\ntwo-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a\nsort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not\nsuppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not\nintended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it\nanything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try\nto do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing\ndescriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with\na little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears\nsaid during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little\nplans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan\nfrom Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I\nam longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange\ncountries. I wonder if we--I mean Jonathan and I--shall ever see them\ntogether. There is the ten o clock bell ringing. Good-bye.\n\n Your loving\n\n MINA.\n\n Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for\na long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome,\ncurly-haired man??? \n\n\n_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray_.\n\n _17, Chatham Street_,\n\n _Wednesday_.\n\n My dearest Mina,--\n\n I must say you tax me _very_ unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I\nwrote to you _twice_ since we parted, and your last letter was only your\n_second_. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really nothing\nto interest you. Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal\nto picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to the\ntall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at the\nlast Pop. Some one has evidently been telling tales. That was Mr.\nHolmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma get on very well\ntogether; they have so many things to talk about in common. We met some\ntime ago a man that would just _do for you_, if you were not already\nengaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent _parti_, being handsome, well\noff, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He\nis only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under\nhis own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to\nsee us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most resolute men\nI ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I\ncan fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has\na curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to\nread one s thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter\nmyself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do\nyou ever try to read your own face? _I do_, and I can tell you it is not\na bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you\nhave never tried it. He says that I afford him a curious psychological\nstudy, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient\ninterest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a\nbore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur says that every day.\nThere, it is all out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other\nsince we were _children_; we have slept together and eaten together, and\nlaughed and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like\nto speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn t you guess? I love him. I am blushing\nas I write, for although I _think_ he loves me, he has not told me so in\nwords. But oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There, that\ndoes me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire\nundressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel.\nI do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop,\nor I should tear up the letter, and I don t want to stop, for I _do_ so\nwant to tell you all. Let me hear from you _at once_, and tell me all\nthat you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your\nprayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.\n\n LUCY.\n\n P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.\n\n L. \n\n_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray_.\n\n _24 May_.\n\n My dearest Mina,--\n\n Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so\nnice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.\n\n My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are.\nHere am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a\nproposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three.\nJust fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn t it awful! I feel sorry,\nreally and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so\nhappy that I don t know what to do with myself. And three proposals!\nBut, for goodness  sake, don t tell any of the girls, or they would be\ngetting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured\nand slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at\nleast. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and\nare going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can\ndespise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep\nit a secret, dear, from _every one_, except, of course, Jonathan. You\nwill tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell\nArthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything--don t you think\nso, dear?--and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to\nbe quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always\nquite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just\nbefore lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum\nman, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool\noutwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling\nhimself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he\nalmost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don t generally do\nwhen they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept\nplaying with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to\nme, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him,\nthough he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to\nhelp and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I\ndid not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute\nand would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if\nI could love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands trembled,\nand then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one\nelse. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my\nconfidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman s heart was\nfree a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to\ntell him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he\nstood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my\nhands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever\nwanted a friend I must count him one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can t\nhelp crying: and you must excuse this letter being all blotted. Being\nproposed to is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn t at\nall a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know\nloves you honestly, going away and looking all broken-hearted, and to\nknow that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing\nquite out of his life. My dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so\nmiserable, though I am so happy.\n\n _Evening._\n\n Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left\noff, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two\ncame after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and\nhe looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he\nhas been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise\nwith poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her\near, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards that\nwe think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know now\nwhat I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I\ndon t, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never\ntold any, and yet---- My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincey P.\nMorris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl\nalone. No, he doesn t, for Arthur tried twice to _make_ a chance, and I\nhelping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you\nbeforehand that Mr. Morris doesn t always speak slang--that is to say,\nhe never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well\neducated and has exquisite manners--but he found out that it amused me\nto hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there\nwas no one to be shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my\ndear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he\nhas to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if I shall\never speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never\nheard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked\nas happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was\nvery nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:--\n\n Miss Lucy, I know I ain t good enough to regulate the fixin s of your\nlittle shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you\nwill go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won t\nyou just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road\ntogether, driving in double harness? \n\n Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn t seem\nhalf so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as\nlightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I\nwasn t broken to harness at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in\na light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so\non so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive him. He\nreally did look serious when he was saying it, and I couldn t help\nfeeling a bit serious too--I know, Mina, you will think me a horrid\nflirt--though I couldn t help feeling a sort of exultation that he was\nnumber two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word he\nbegan pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very\nheart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall\nnever again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest,\nbecause he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face\nwhich checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of\nmanly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:--\n\n Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here\nspeaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right\nthrough to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow\nto another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is\nI ll never trouble you a hair s breadth again, but will be, if you will\nlet me, a very faithful friend. \n\n My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy\nof them? Here was I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true\ngentleman. I burst into tears--I am afraid, my dear, you will think\nthis a very sloppy letter in more ways than one--and I really felt very\nbadly. Why can t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want\nher, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say\nit. I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to look into\nMr. Morris s brave eyes, and I told him out straight:--\n\n Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he\neven loves me.  I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a\nlight came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine--I\nthink I put them into his--and said in a hearty way:--\n\n That s my brave girl. It s better worth being late for a chance of\nwinning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don t\ncry, my dear. If it s for me, I m a hard nut to crack; and I take it\nstanding up. If that other fellow doesn t know his happiness, well, he d\nbetter look for it soon, or he ll have to deal with me. Little girl,\nyour honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that s rarer than a\nlover; it s more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I m going to have a pretty\nlonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won t you give me one kiss?\nIt ll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you\nknow, if you like, for that other good fellow--he must be a good fellow,\nmy dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him--hasn t spoken\nyet.  That quite won me, Mina, for it _was_ brave and sweet of him, and\nnoble, too, to a rival--wasn t it?--and he so sad; so I leant over and\nkissed him. He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down\ninto my face--I am afraid I was blushing very much--he said:--\n\n Little girl, I hold your hand, and you ve kissed me, and if these\nthings don t make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet\nhonesty to me, and good-bye.  He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat,\nwent straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a\nquiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like\nthat be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would\nworship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free--only\nI don t want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I\ncannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and I\ndon t wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy.\n\n Ever your loving\n\n LUCY.\n\n P.S.--Oh, about number Three--I needn t tell you of number Three, need\nI? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his\ncoming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was\nkissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don t know what I have done to\ndeserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not\nungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a\nlover, such a husband, and such a friend.\n\n Good-bye. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n(Kept in phonograph)\n\n_25 May._--Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so\ndiary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty\nfeeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth\nthe doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was\nwork, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has\nafforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am\ndetermined to understand him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get\nnearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.\n\nI questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making\nmyself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing\nit there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep\nhim to the point of his madness--a thing which I avoid with the patients\nas I would the mouth of hell.\n\n(_Mem._, under what circumstances would I _not_ avoid the pit of hell?)\n_Omnia Rom  venalia sunt._ Hell has its price! _verb. sap._ If there be\nanything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards\n_accurately_, so I had better commence to do so, therefore--\n\nR. M. Renfield,  tat 59.--Sanguine temperament; great physical strength;\nmorbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I\ncannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the\ndisturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly\ndangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution\nis as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of\non this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is\nbalanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed\npoint, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of\naccidents can balance it.\n\n\n_Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._\n\n _25 May._\n\n My dear Art,--\n\n We ve told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one\nanother s wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk\nhealths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and\nother wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won t you let\nthis be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking\nyou, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and\nthat you are free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the\nKorea, Jack Seward. He s coming, too, and we both want to mingle our\nweeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to\nthe happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart\nthat God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty\nwelcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right\nhand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to\na certain pair of eyes. Come!\n\n Yours, as ever and always,\n\n QUINCEY P. MORRIS. \n\n\n_Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris._\n\n _26 May._\n\n Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears\ntingle.\n\n ART. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nMINA MURRAY S JOURNAL\n\n\n_24 July. Whitby._--Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and\nlovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in\nwhich they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the\nEsk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the\nharbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the\nview seems somehow further away than it really is. The valley is\nbeautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on the high land\non either side you look right across it, unless you are near enough to\nsee down. The houses of the old town--the side away from us--are all\nred-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the\npictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby\nAbbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of\n Marmion,  where the girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble\nruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits; there is\na legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows. Between it and\nthe town there is another church, the parish one, round which is a big\ngraveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in\nWhitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the\nharbour and all up the bay to where the headland called Kettleness\nstretches out into the sea. It descends so steeply over the harbour that\npart of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been\ndestroyed. In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches\nout over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside\nthem, through the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long\nlooking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come and\nsit here very often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my\nbook on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are\nsitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit up here and\ntalk.\n\nThe harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall\nstretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in\nthe middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs along outside\nof it. On the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow crooked inversely,\nand its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two piers there is a\nnarrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens.\n\nIt is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to\nnothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between\nbanks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this\nside there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp edge of\nwhich runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of\nit is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a\nmournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is\nlost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this; he\nis coming this way....\n\nHe is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all\ngnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is\nnearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing\nfleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical\nperson, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady\nat the abbey he said very brusquely:--\n\n I wouldn t fash masel  about them, miss. Them things be all wore out.\nMind, I don t say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn t in\nmy time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an  the like,\nbut not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and\nLeeds that be always eatin  cured herrin s an  drinkin  tea an  lookin \nout to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel  who d be\nbothered tellin  lies to them--even the newspapers, which is full of\nfool-talk.  I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting\nthings from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about\nthe whale-fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin\nwhen the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said:--\n\n I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn t like\nto be kept waitin  when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to\ncrammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of  em; an , miss, I lack\nbelly-timber sairly by the clock. \n\nHe hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down\nthe steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from\nthe town up to the church, there are hundreds of them--I do not know how\nmany--and they wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that\na horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must originally\nhave had something to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went\nout visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did\nnot go. They will be home by this.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_1 August._--I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most\ninteresting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come\nand join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think\nmust have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not admit\nanything, and downfaces everybody. If he can t out-argue them he bullies\nthem, and then takes their silence for agreement with his views. Lucy\nwas looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a\nbeautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old men did\nnot lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down.\nShe is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love with her\non the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but\ngave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends,\nand he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it\nand put it down:--\n\n It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that s what it be, an \nnowt else. These bans an  wafts an  boh-ghosts an  barguests an  bogles\nan  all anent them is only fit to set bairns an  dizzy women\na-belderin . They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an  all grims an  signs\nan  warnin s, be all invented by parsons an  illsome beuk-bodies an \nrailway touters to skeer an  scunner hafflin s, an  to get folks to do\nsomethin  that they don t other incline to. It makes me ireful to think\no  them. Why, it s them that, not content with printin  lies on paper\nan  preachin  them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin  them on the\ntombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them\nsteans, holdin  up their heads as well as they can out of their pride,\nis acant--simply tumblin  down with the weight o  the lies wrote on\nthem,  Here lies the body  or  Sacred to the memory  wrote on all of\nthem, an  yet in nigh half of them there bean t no bodies at all; an \nthe memories of them bean t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less\nsacred. Lies all of them, nothin  but lies of one kind or another! My\ngog, but it ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they\ncome tumblin  up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an  tryin  to\ndrag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them\ntrimmlin  and ditherin , with their hands that dozzened an  slippy from\nlyin  in the sea that they can t even keep their grup o  them. \n\nI could see from the old fellow s self-satisfied air and the way in\nwhich he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was\n showing off,  so I put in a word to keep him going:--\n\n Oh, Mr. Swales, you can t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not\nall wrong? \n\n Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin  where they make\nout the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be\nlike the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now\nlook you here; you come here a stranger, an  you see this kirk-garth.  I\nnodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite\nunderstand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.\nHe went on:  And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be\nhapped here, snod an  snog?  I assented again.  Then that be just where\nthe lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as\nold Dun s  bacca-box on Friday night.  He nudged one of his companions,\nand they all laughed.  And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at\nthat one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!  I went over and\nread:--\n\n Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of\nAndres, April, 1854,  t. 30.  When I came back Mr. Swales went on:--\n\n Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast\nof Andres! an  you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a\ndozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above --he pointed\nnorthwards-- or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the\nsteans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of\nthe lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey--I knew his father, lost in\nthe _Lively_ off Greenland in  20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the\nsame seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year\nlater; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned\nin the Gulf of Finland in  50. Do ye think that all these men will have\nto make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums\naboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they d be jommlin  an \njostlin  one another that way that it  ud be like a fight up on the ice\nin the old days, when we d be at one another from daylight to dark, an \ntryin  to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.  This was\nevidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his\ncronies joined in with gusto.\n\n But,  I said,  surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the\nassumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to\ntake their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think\nthat will be really necessary? \n\n Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss! \n\n To please their relatives, I suppose. \n\n To please their relatives, you suppose!  This he said with intense\nscorn.  How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote\nover them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?  He\npointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on\nwhich the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff.  Read the\nlies on that thruff-stean,  he said. The letters were upside down to me\nfrom where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over\nand read:--\n\n Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a\nglorious resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at\nKettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly\nbeloved son.  He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. \nReally, Mr. Swales, I don t see anything very funny in that!  She spoke\nher comment very gravely and somewhat severely.\n\n Ye don t see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that s because ye don t gawm the\nsorrowin  mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was\nacrewk d--a regular lamiter he was--an  he hated her so that he\ncommitted suicide in order that she mightn t get an insurance she put on\nhis life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that\nthey had for scarin  the crows with.  Twarn t for crows then, for it\nbrought the clegs and the dowps to him. That s the way he fell off the\nrocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I ve often heard him\nsay masel  that he hoped he d go to hell, for his mother was so pious\nthat she d be sure to go to heaven, an  he didn t want to addle where\nshe was. Now isn t that stean at any rate --he hammered it with his\nstick as he spoke-- a pack of lies? and won t it make Gabriel keckle\nwhen Geordie comes pantin  up the grees with the tombstean balanced on\nhis hump, and asks it to be took as evidence! \n\nI did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she\nsaid, rising up:--\n\n Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot\nleave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a\nsuicide. \n\n That won t harm ye, my pretty; an  it may make poor Geordie gladsome to\nhave so trim a lass sittin  on his lap. That won t hurt ye. Why, I ve\nsat here off an  on for nigh twenty years past, an  it hasn t done me\nno harm. Don t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn  lie\nthere either! It ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the\ntombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field.\nThere s the clock, an  I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!  And off\nhe hobbled.\n\nLucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we\ntook hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and\ntheir coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I\nhaven t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_The same day._ I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no\nletter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan.\nThe clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the\ntown, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly;\nthey run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my\nleft the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next\nthe abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind\nme, and there is a clatter of a donkey s hoofs up the paved road below.\nThe band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further\nalong the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street.\nNeither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them\nboth. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he\nwere here.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_5 June._--The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to\nunderstand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed;\nselfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at what is the\nobject of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme of his own,\nbut what it is I do not yet know. His redeeming quality is a love of\nanimals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I\nsometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd\nsorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a\nquantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he\ndid not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in\nsimple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said:  May I have\nthree days? I shall clear them away.  Of course, I said that would do. I\nmust watch him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_18 June._--He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several\nvery big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and\nthe number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he\nhas used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his\nroom.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_1 July._--His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his\nflies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked\nvery sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at all\nevents. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same time\nas before for reduction. He disgusted me much while with him, for when a\nhorrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room,\nhe caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger\nand thumb, and, before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his\nmouth and ate it. I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it\nwas very good and very wholesome; that it was life, strong life, and\ngave life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must\nwatch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep problem\nin his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he is always\njotting down something. Whole pages of it are filled with masses of\nfigures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then the\ntotals added in batches again, as though he were  focussing  some\naccount, as the auditors put it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_8 July._--There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in\nmy mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh,\nunconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your\nconscious brother. I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I\nmight notice if there were any change. Things remain as they were except\nthat he has parted with some of his pets and got a new one. He has\nmanaged to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His means\nof taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminished. Those that\ndo remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by\ntempting them with his food.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_19 July._--We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of\nsparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I came\nin he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour--a very,\nvery great favour; and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. I asked\nhim what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and\nbearing:--\n\n A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play with,\nand teach, and feed--and feed--and feed!  I was not unprepared for this\nrequest, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and\nvivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows\nshould be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so\nI said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a\ncat than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:--\n\n Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should\nrefuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?  I shook\nmy head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible, but\nthat I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of\ndanger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant\nkilling. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him\nwith his present craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know\nmore.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_10 p. m._--I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner\nbrooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and\nimplored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it.\nI was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon\nhe went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner\nwhere I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_20 July._--Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant went his\nrounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his sugar,\nwhich he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his\nfly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. I\nlooked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they\nwere. He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away.\nThere were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of\nblood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if\nthere were anything odd about him during the day.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_11 a. m._--The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has\nbeen very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers.  My belief is,\ndoctor,  he said,  that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took\nand ate them raw! \n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_11 p. m._--I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make\neven him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The thought\nthat has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory\nproved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to\ninvent a new classification for him, and call him a zo phagous\n(life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he\ncan, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He\ngave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then\nwanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later\nsteps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It\nmight be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at\nvivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why not advance science\nin its most difficult and vital aspect--the knowledge of the brain? Had\nI even the secret of one such mind--did I hold the key to the fancy of\neven one lunatic--I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch\ncompared with which Burdon-Sanderson s physiology or Ferrier s\nbrain-knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient\ncause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good\ncause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an\nexceptional brain, congenitally?\n\nHow well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope. I\nwonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has\nclosed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How\nmany of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?\n\nTo me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope,\nand that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great\nRecorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to\nprofit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be\nangry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on\nhopeless and work. Work! work!\n\nIf I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there--a\ngood, unselfish cause to make me work--that would be indeed happiness.\n\n\n_Mina Murray s Journal._\n\n_26 July._--I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it\nis like whispering to one s self and listening at the same time. And\nthere is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it\ndifferent from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I\nhad not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but\nyesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from\nhim. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed\nhad just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula,\nand says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan;\nI do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy,\nalthough she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in\nher sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided\nthat I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has\ngot an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and\nalong the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over\nwith a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is\nnaturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy s\nfather, had the same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress\nhimself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the\nautumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is\nto be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan\nand I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to\nmake both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood--he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only\nson of Lord Godalming--is coming up here very shortly--as soon as he can\nleave town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is\ncounting the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat\non the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it\nis the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he\narrives.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_27 July._--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him,\nthough why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would write, if\nit were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I\nam awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so\nhot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually\nbeing wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and\nwakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been\nsuddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously\nill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch\nher looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely\nrose-pink. She has lost that an mic look which she had. I pray it will\nall last.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_3 August._--Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even to\nMr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He\nsurely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but\nsomehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is\nhis writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked much in\nher sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about her\nwhich I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching\nme. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room\nsearching for the key.\n\n_6 August._--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting\ndreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should\nfeel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last\nletter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable\nthan ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and\nthe fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and\nlearn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is\nhidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey--except\nthe green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock;\ngrey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the\ngrey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea\nis tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,\nmuffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey\nmist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and\nthere is a  brool  over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom.\nDark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in\nthe mist, and seem  men like trees walking.  The fishing-boats are\nracing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into\nthe harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is\nmaking straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that\nhe wants to talk....\n\nI have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat\ndown beside me, he said in a very gentle way:--\n\n I want to say something to you, miss.  I could see he was not at ease,\nso I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak\nfully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:--\n\n I m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked\nthings I ve been sayin  about the dead, and such like, for weeks past;\nbut I didn t mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I m gone. We\naud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don t\naltogether like to think of it, and we don t want to feel scart of it;\nan  that s why I ve took to makin  light of it, so that I d cheer up my\nown heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain t afraid of dyin , not a\nbit; only I don t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at\nhand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to\nexpect; and I m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin  his\nscythe. Ye see, I can t get out o  the habit of caffin  about it all at\nonce; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of\nDeath will sound his trumpet for me. But don t ye dooal an  greet, my\ndeary! --for he saw that I was crying-- if he should come this very\nnight I d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a\nwaitin  for somethin  else than what we re doin ; and death be all that\nwe can rightly depend on. But I m content, for it s comin  to me, my\ndeary, and comin  quick. It may be comin  while we be lookin  and\nwonderin . Maybe it s in that wind out over the sea that s bringin  with\nit loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!  he\ncried suddenly.  There s something in that wind and in the hoast beyont\nthat sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It s in the\nair; I feel it comin . Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call\ncomes!  He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth\nmoved as though he were praying. After a few minutes  silence, he got\nup, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled\noff. It all touched me, and upset me very much.\n\nI was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his\narm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time\nkept looking at a strange ship.\n\n I can t make her out,  he said;  she s a Russian, by the look of her;\nbut she s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn t know her mind\na bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can t decide whether to\nrun up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is\nsteered mighty strangely, for she doesn t mind the hand on the wheel;\nchanges about with every puff of wind. We ll hear more of her before\nthis time to-morrow. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nCUTTING FROM  THE DAILYGRAPH,  8 AUGUST\n\n\n(_Pasted in Mina Murray s Journal._)\n\nFrom a Correspondent.\n\n_Whitby_.\n\nOne of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been\nexperienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had\nbeen somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of\nAugust. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great\nbody of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods,\nRobin Hood s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in\nthe neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers _Emma_ and _Scarborough_ made\ntrips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount of\n tripping  both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the\nafternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff\nchurchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of\nsea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of\n mares -tails  high in the sky to the north-west. The wind was then\nblowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical\nlanguage is ranked  No. 2: light breeze.  The coastguard on duty at once\nmade report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century has\nkept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic\nmanner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very\nbeautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that\nthere was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old\nchurchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black\nmass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its\ndownward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour--flame,\npurple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and\nthere masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all\nsorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The\nexperience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the\nsketches of the  Prelude to the Great Storm  will grace the R. A. and R.\nI. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then and\nthere that his  cobble  or his  mule,  as they term the different\nclasses of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed.\nThe wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there\nwas a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on\nthe approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There\nwere but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers,\nwhich usually  hug  the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but\nfew fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign\nschooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The\nfoolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for\ncomment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal\nher to reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she\nwas seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating\nswell of the sea,\n\n     As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean. \n\nShortly before ten o clock the stillness of the air grew quite\noppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep\ninland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the\nband on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a discord in the\ngreat harmony of nature s silence. A little after midnight came a\nstrange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to\ncarry a strange, faint, hollow booming.\n\nThen without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the\ntime, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize,\nthe whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in\ngrowing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes\nthe lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster.\nWhite-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the\nshelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept\nthe lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier\nof Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such\nforce that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet,\nor clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary\nto clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers, or else the\nfatalities of the night would have been increased manifold. To add to\nthe difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came\ndrifting inland--white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion,\nso dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of\nimagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were\ntouching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many\na one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times the mist\ncleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the\nlightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals\nof thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock\nof the footsteps of the storm.\n\nSome of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of\nabsorbing interest--the sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with\neach wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to\nsnatch at and whirl away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with\na rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again\nthe white wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East\nCliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been\ntried. The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in\nthe pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea.\nOnce or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat,\nwith gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance\nof the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the\npiers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of\njoy from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed\nto cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.\n\nBefore long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner\nwith all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed\nearlier in the evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east,\nand there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they\nrealized the terrible danger in which she now was. Between her and the\nport lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships have from time\nto time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter,\nit would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the\nharbour. It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so\ngreat that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost\nvisible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such\nspeed that, in the words of one old salt,  she must fetch up somewhere,\nif it was only in hell.  Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than\nany hitherto--a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things\nlike a grey pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing,\nfor the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the\nbooming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder\nthan before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour\nmouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited\nbreathless. The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant\nof the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, _mirabile dictu_, between\nthe piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed,\nswept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and\ngained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a\nshudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a\ncorpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each\nmotion of the ship. No other form could be seen on deck at all. A great\nawe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had\nfound the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However,\nall took place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The\nschooner paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on\nthat accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many\nstorms into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East\nCliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.\n\nThere was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on\nthe sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the\n top-hammer  came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very instant\nthe shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as\nif shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow\non the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard\nhangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat\ntombstones-- thruff-steans  or  through-stones,  as they call them in\nthe Whitby vernacular--actually project over where the sustaining cliff\nhas fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed\nintensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.\n\nIt so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier, as\nall those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed or were\nout on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern\nside of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the\nfirst to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after scouring\nthe entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned the\nlight on the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran aft, and\nwhen he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at\nonce as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique general\ncuriosity, and quite a number of people began to run. It is a good way\nround from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your\ncorrespondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd.\nWhen I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd,\nwhom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on board. By the\ncourtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted\nto climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman\nwhilst actually lashed to the wheel.\n\nIt was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for\nnot often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened\nby his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between\nthe inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it\nwas fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by\nthe binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but\nthe flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of\nthe wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he\nwas tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was made of the\nstate of things, and a doctor--Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot\nPlace--who came immediately after me, declared, after making\nexamination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. In his\npocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of\npaper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The coastguard said\nthe man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his\nteeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some\ncomplications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for coastguards cannot\nclaim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a\nderelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young\nlaw student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already\ncompletely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the\nstatutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of\ndelegated possession, is held in a _dead hand_. It is needless to say\nthat the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where\nhe held his honourable watch and ward till death--a steadfastness as\nnoble as that of the young Casabianca--and placed in the mortuary to\nawait inquest.\n\nAlready the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating;\ncrowds are scattering homeward, and the sky is beginning to redden over\nthe Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further\ndetails of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into\nharbour in the storm.\n\n_Whitby_\n\n_9 August._--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the\nstorm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It\nturns out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called the\n_Demeter_. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a\nsmall amount of cargo--a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould.\nThis cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F. Billington, of\n7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and formally took\npossession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian consul, too,\nacting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and\npaid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here to-day except\nthe strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of Trade have been\nmost exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with\nexisting regulations. As the matter is to be a  nine days  wonder,  they\nare evidently determined that there shall be no cause of after\ncomplaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which\nlanded when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the\nS. P. C. A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the\nanimal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be found;\nit seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that it\nwas frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still\nhiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a\npossibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it\nis evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred\nmastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found\ndead in the roadway opposite to its master s yard. It had been fighting,\nand manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away,\nand its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been\npermitted to look over the log-book of the _Demeter_, which was in order\nup to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest\nexcept as to facts of missing men. The greatest interest, however, is\nwith regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced\nat the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them\nunfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive for\nconcealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a\nrescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and\nsupercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with\nsome kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that\nthis had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my\nstatement must be taken _cum grano_, since I am writing from the\ndictation of a clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for\nme, time being short.\n\n                         LOG OF THE  DEMETER. \n\n\n_Varna to Whitby._\n\n_Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep\naccurate note henceforth till we land._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth.\nAt noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands ... two mates,\ncook, and myself (captain).\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs\nofficers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of\nguarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but\nquick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something.\nSeemed scared, but would not speak out.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who\nsailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only\ntold him there was _something_, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper\nwith one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but\nall was quiet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky, was\nmissing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last\nnight; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more\ndowncast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but\nwould not say more than there was _something_ aboard. Mate getting very\nimpatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in\nan awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man\naboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering\nbehind the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall,\nthin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way,\nand go along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously,\nbut when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed.\nHe was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may\nspread. To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from\nstem to stern.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLater in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they\nevidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from\nstem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such\nfoolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep\nthem out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the\nrest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left\nno corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there\nwere no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when\nsearch over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but\nsaid nothing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_22 July_.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with\nsails--no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread.\nMate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad\nweather. Passed Gibralter and out through Straits. All well.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_24 July_.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short,\nand entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last\nnight another man lost--disappeared. Like the first, he came off his\nwatch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round\nrobin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate\nangry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do\nsome violence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_28 July_.--Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom,\nand the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly\nknow how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate\nvolunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours  sleep.\nWind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is\nsteadier.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_29 July_.--Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too\ntired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one\nexcept steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search,\nbut no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate\nand I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_30 July_.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine,\nall sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling\nme that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and\ntwo hands left to work ship.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_1 August_.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in\nthe English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere.\nNot having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower,\nas could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible\ndoom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature\nseems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear,\nworking stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are\nRussian, he Roumanian.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_2 August, midnight_.--Woke up from few minutes  sleep by hearing a cry,\nseemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and\nran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on\nwatch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits\nof Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as\nhe heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and\nonly God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God\nseems to have deserted us.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_3 August_.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, and\nwhen I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran\nbefore it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the\nmate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He\nlooked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given\nway. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my\near, as though fearing the very air might hear:  _It_ is here; I know\nit, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin,\nand ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind\nIt, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the\nair.  And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into\nspace. Then he went on:  But It is here, and I ll find It. It is in the\nhold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I ll unscrew them one by one and\nsee. You work the helm.  And, with a warning look and his finger on his\nlip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could\nnot leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest\nand a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark,\nraving mad, and it s no use my trying to stop him. He can t hurt those\nbig boxes: they are invoiced as  clay,  and to pull them about is as\nharmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and\nwrite these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears.\nThen, if I can t steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut\ndown sails and lie by, and signal for help....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate\nwould come out calmer--for I heard him knocking away at something in the\nhold, and work is good for him--there came up the hatchway a sudden,\nstartled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he\ncame as if shot from a gun--a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and\nhis face convulsed with fear.  Save me! save me!  he cried, and then\nlooked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in\na steady voice he said:  You had better come too, captain, before it is\ntoo late. _He_ is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me\nfrom Him, and it is all that is left!  Before I could say a word, or\nmove forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately\nthrew himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was\nthis madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has\nfollowed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these\nhorrors when I get to port? _When_ I get to port! Will that ever be?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_4 August._--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there is\nsunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go\nbelow, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in\nthe dimness of the night I saw It--Him! God forgive me, but the mate was\nright to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man; to die like a\nsailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not\nleave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie\nmy hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with\nthem I shall tie that which He--It!--dare not touch; and then, come good\nwind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I am\ngrowing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the\nface again, I may not have time to act.... If we are wrecked, mayhap\nthis bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not,\n... well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God\nand the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying\nto do his duty....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOf course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;\nand whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now\nnone to say. The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is\nsimply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is\narranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk\nfor a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the abbey\nsteps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners\nof more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as\nwishing to follow him to the grave.\n\nNo trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much\nmourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I\nbelieve, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so\nwill end this one more  mystery of the sea. \n\n\n_Mina Murray s Journal._\n\n_8 August._--Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not\nsleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the\nchimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be\nlike a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got up\ntwice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and\nmanaged to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It\nis a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is\nthwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,\ndisappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her\nlife.\n\nEarly in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see\nif anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about,\nand though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big,\ngrim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that\ntopped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth\nof the harbour--like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I\nfelt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But,\noh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully\nanxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_10 August._--The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most\ntouching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin\nwas carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the\nchurchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst\nthe cort ge of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down\nagain. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way.\nThe poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on\nit when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset.\nShe was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that\nher dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing:\nshe will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness; or if\nthere be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional\ncause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our\nseat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said,\nfallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of\nfear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor\ndear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes! Lucy is so\nsweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other\npeople do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did\nnot much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of the men\nwho came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog.\nThe dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw\nthe man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would\nnot come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few\nyards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then\nharshly, and then angrily; but it would neither come nor cease to make a\nnoise. It was in a sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs\nbristling out like a cat s tail when puss is on the war-path. Finally\nthe man, too, got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then\ntook it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on\nthe tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the\nstone the poor thing became quiet and fell all into a tremble. It did\nnot try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was\nin such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect,\nto comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to\ntouch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly\nfear that she is of too super-sensitive a nature to go through the world\nwithout trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure. The\nwhole agglomeration of things--the ship steered into port by a dead\nman; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads; the\ntouching funeral; the dog, now furious and now in terror--will all\nafford material for her dreams.\n\nI think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I\nshall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood s Bay and\nback. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nMINA MURRAY S JOURNAL\n\n\n_Same day, 11 o clock p. m._--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I\nhad made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a lovely\nwalk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some\ndear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse,\nand frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything\nexcept, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean\nand give us a fresh start. We had a capital  severe tea  at Robin Hood s\nBay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over\nthe seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have\nshocked the  New Woman  with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless\nthem! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest,\nand with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was\nreally tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could.\nThe young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay\nfor supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I\nknow it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that\nsome day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new\nclass of curates, who don t take supper, no matter how they may be\npressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and\nbreathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and\nlooks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her\nonly in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.\nSome of the  New Women  writers will some day start an idea that men and\nwomen should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or\naccepting. But I suppose the New Woman won t condescend in future to\naccept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make\nof it, too! There s some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,\nbecause dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the\ncorner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be\nquite happy if I only knew if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_11 August, 3 a. m._--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write.\nI am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an\nagonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary....\nSuddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear\nupon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark,\nso I could not see Lucy s bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed\nwas empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. The\ndoor was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her\nmother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some\nclothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it\nstruck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her\ndreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.\nDressing-gown and dress were both in their places.  Thank God,  I said\nto myself,  she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress.  I ran\ndownstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in\nall the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear\nchilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. It\nwas not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people\nof the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared that\nLucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what\nmight happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a\nbig, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the\nCrescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North\nTerrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At\nthe edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to\nthe East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don t know which--of seeing Lucy\nin our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black,\ndriving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of\nlight and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see\nnothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary s Church and all\naround it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey\ncoming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as\na sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became gradually\nvisible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for\nthere, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a\nhalf-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too\nquick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost\nimmediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind\nthe seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was,\nwhether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch another\nglance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the\nfish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East\nCliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced\nthat it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy s condition. The\ntime and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath\ncame laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have\ngone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with\nlead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost\nto the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was now\nclose enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There\nwas undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the\nhalf-reclining white figure. I called in fright,  Lucy! Lucy!  and\nsomething raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white face\nand red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the\nentrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and\nthe seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in\nview again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly\nthat I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back\nof the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living\nthing about.\n\nWhen I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips\nwere parted, and she was breathing--not softly as usual with her, but in\nlong, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every\nbreath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the\ncollar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so\nthere came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I\nflung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck,\nfor I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air,\nunclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to\nhave my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her\nthroat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety\nand pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing\nbecame quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I\nhad her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began\nvery gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she\nbecame more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing\noccasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other\nreasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly,\ntill finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised\nto see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was.\nLucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must\nhave been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking\nunclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She\ntrembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with\nme home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we\npassed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She\nstopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not.\nHowever, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there\nwas a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with\nmud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no\none, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.\n\nFortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw\na man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of\nus; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as\nthere are here, steep little closes, or  wynds,  as they call them in\nScotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I\nshould faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her\nhealth, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation\nin case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our\nfeet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into\nbed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a\nword to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I\nhesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her\nmother s health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her,\nand thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay,\ninfallibly would--in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do\nso. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to\nmy wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping\nsoundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Same day, noon._--All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed\nnot to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not\nseem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she\nlooks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to\nnotice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might\nhave been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have\npinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are\ntwo little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress\nwas a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she\nlaughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it\ncannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Same day, night._--We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the\nsun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave\nWoods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the\ncliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for\nI could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been had\nJonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the evening\nwe strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr\nand Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she\nhas been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door\nand secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any\ntrouble to-night.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_12 August._--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I\nwas wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to\nbe a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed\nunder a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds\nchirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see,\nwas even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of\nmanner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me\nand told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about\nJonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded\nsomewhat, for, though sympathy can t alter facts, it can help to make\nthem more bearable.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_13 August._--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as\nbefore. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,\nstill asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling\naside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft\neffect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great,\nsilent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight\nflitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or\ntwice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me,\nand flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back\nfrom the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully.\nShe did not stir again all night.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_14 August._--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems\nto have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to\nget her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or\ndinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for\ndinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and\nstopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low\ndown in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was\nthrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe\neverything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and\nsuddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--\n\n His red eyes again! They are just the same.  It was such an odd\nexpression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. I\nslewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare\nat her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on\nher face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but\nfollowed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat,\nwhereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself,\nfor it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like\nburning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red\nsunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary s Church behind our\nseat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the\nrefraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I\ncalled Lucy s attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself\nwith a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she\nwas thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I\nsaid nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went\nearly to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself;\nI walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet\nsadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home--it was then\nbright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the\nCrescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen--I threw a glance\nup at our window, and saw Lucy s head leaning out. I thought that\nperhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and\nwaved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then,\nthe moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell\non the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against\nthe side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and\nby her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a\ngood-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs,\nbut as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast\nasleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat,\nas though to protect it from cold.\n\nI did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the\ndoor is locked and the window securely fastened.\n\nShe looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and\nthere is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I\nfear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it\nis.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_15 August._--Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and\nslept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast.\nArthur s father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy\nis full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on\nin the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her\nvery own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to\nprotect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has got\nher death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy;\nher doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for\nher heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be\nalmost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of\nthe dreadful night of Lucy s sleep-walking.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_17 August._--No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to\nwrite. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.\nNo news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her\nmother s hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy s\nfading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys\nthe fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and\nshe gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping\nas if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at\nnight, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open\nwindow. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I\ntried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed to\nrestore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long,\npainful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the\nwindow she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may\nnot be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat\njust now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.\nThey are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the\nedges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with\nred centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the\ndoctor seeing about them.\n\n\n_Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.\nCarter, Paterson & Co., London._\n\n _17 August._\n\n Dear Sirs,--\n\n Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern\nRailway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately\non receipt at goods station King s Cross. The house is at present empty,\nbut enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.\n\n You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the\nconsignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house\nand marked  A  on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily\nrecognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The\ngoods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King s\nCross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery\nmade as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready\nat King s Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to\ndestination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine\nrequirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque\nherewith for ten pounds ( 10), receipt of which please acknowledge.\nShould the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if\ngreater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from\nyou. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the\nhouse, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by\nmeans of his duplicate key.\n\n Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in\npressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.\n\n_ We are, dear Sirs,\n\n Faithfully yours,\n\n SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON. _\n\n\n_Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs. Billington &\nSon, Whitby._\n\n _21 August._\n\n Dear Sirs,--\n\n We beg to acknowledge  10 received and to return cheque  1 17s. 9d,\namount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are\ndelivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel\nin main hall, as directed.\n\n We are, dear Sirs,\n\n Yours respectfully.\n\n _Pro_ CARTER, PATERSON & CO. \n\n\n_Mina Murray s Journal._\n\n_18 August._--I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the\nchurchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all\nnight, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already\nto her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she\nwere in any way an mic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in\ngay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence\nseems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I\nneeded any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this\nvery seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with\nthe heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--\n\n My poor little feet didn t make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.\nSwales would have told me that it was because I didn t want to wake up\nGeordie.  As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she\nhad dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered\nlook came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from her\nhabit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don t wonder that he does. Then she\nwent on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to\nherself:--\n\n I didn t quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be\nhere in this spot--I don t know why, for I was afraid of something--I\ndon t know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing\nthrough the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and\nI leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--the\nwhole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as\nI went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and\ndark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very\nsweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking\ninto deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have\nheard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away\nfrom me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air.\nI seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me,\nand then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an\nearthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do\nit before I felt you. \n\nThen she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I\nlistened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it\nbetter not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other\nsubjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the\nfresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more\nrosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very\nhappy evening together.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_19 August._--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of\nJonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I\nam not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent\nme on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the\nmorning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary,\nand to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if\nwe were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister s\nletter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of\nJonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart. My journey\nis all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of\ndress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for\nit, for it may be that ... I must write no more; I must keep it to say\nto Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must\ncomfort me till we meet.\n\n\n_Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary,\nBuda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray._\n\n _12 August._\n\n Dear Madam,--\n\n I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong\nenough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph\nand Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks,\nsuffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love,\nand to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins,\nExeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his\ndelay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few\nweeks  rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He\nwishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he\nwould like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall\nnot be wanting for help.\n\n Believe me,\n\n Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,\n\n SISTER AGATHA.\n\n P. S.--My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something\nmore. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his\nwife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock--so says\nour doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of\nwolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of\nwhat. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him\nof this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as\nhis do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we\nknew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one\ncould understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard\nwas told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station\nshouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that\nhe was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the\nway thither that the train reached.\n\n Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his\nsweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no\ndoubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for\nsafety s sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many,\nmany, happy years for you both. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_19 August._--Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About\neight o clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when\nsetting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest\nin him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the\nattendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was\nquite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he\nwould say was:--\n\n      I don t want to talk to you: you don t count now; the Master is at\n     hand. \n\nThe attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has\nseized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with\nhomicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The\ncombination is a dreadful one. At nine o clock I visited him myself. His\nattitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime\nself-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him\nas nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that\nhe himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man\nare too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves\naway! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created\nfrom human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh,\nif men only knew!\n\nFor half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and\ngreater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict\nobservation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his\neyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it\nthe shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to\nknow so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his\nbed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I\nwould find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to\nlead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite\nhis attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily:--\n\n Bother them all! I don t care a pin about them. \n\n What?  I said.  You don t mean to tell me you don t care about\nspiders?  (Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling\nup with columns of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:--\n\n The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride;\nbut when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes\nthat are filled. \n\nHe would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed\nall the time I remained with him.\n\nI am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and\nhow different things might have been. If I don t sleep at once, chloral,\nthe modern Morpheus--C_{2}HCl_{3}O. H_{2}O! I must be careful not to let\nit grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of\nLucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be,\nto-night shall be sleepless....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had\nlain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the\nnight-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield\nhad escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is\ntoo dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might\nwork out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me.\nHe said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his\nbed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His\nattention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He\nran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once\nsent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off.\nThe attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should\ngo than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out\nof the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn t get through\nthe window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost,\nand, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The\nattendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a\nstraight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt\nof trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our\ngrounds from those of the deserted house.\n\nI ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men\nimmediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend\nmight be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall,\ndropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield s figure just\ndisappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the\nfar side of the house I found him pressed close against the old\nironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some\none, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest\nI might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of\nbees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping\nis upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not\ntake note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to\nhim--the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him\nin. I heard him say:--\n\n I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will\nreward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar\noff. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass\nme by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things? \n\nHe _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes\neven when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a\nstartling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger.\nHe is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I\nnever saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I\nshall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and\nhis danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he\nmight have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any\nrate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn t get free from the strait-waistcoat\nthat keeps him restrained, and he s chained to the wall in the padded\nroom. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are\nmore deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.\n\nJust now he spoke coherent words for the first time:--\n\n I shall be patient, Master. It is coming--coming--coming! \n\nSo I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this\ndiary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\n_Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra._\n\n _Buda-Pesth, 24 August._\n\n My dearest Lucy,--\n\n I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we\nparted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull\nall right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I\nfeel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I\nknew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some\nnursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one,\noh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out\nof his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his\nface has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not\nremember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At\nleast, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some\nterrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try\nto recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse,\ntells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I\nwanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself,\nand say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the\nsecrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear\nthem, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the\nnext day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject again,\nand after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved\nabout, added:  I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about\nanything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be,\nhave no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes\nto you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can\ntreat of.  I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my\npoor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of\n_my_ being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I\nfelt a thrill of joy through me when I _knew_ that no other woman was a\ncause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his\nface while he sleeps. He is waking!...\n\n When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something\nfrom the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things.\nI saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to\nlet me look at it--for I knew then that I might find some clue to his\ntrouble--but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent\nme over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment.\nThen he called me back, and when I came he had his hand over the\nnote-book, and he said to me very solemnly:--\n\n Wilhelmina --I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has\nnever called me by that name since he asked me to marry him-- you know,\ndear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no\nsecret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to\nthink of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it\nwas all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain\nfever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to\nknow it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.  For, my\ndear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are\ncomplete.  Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is\nthe book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me\nknow; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to\nthe bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.  He fell\nback exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I\nhave asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this\nafternoon, and am waiting her reply....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English mission\nchurch has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon\nafter as Jonathan awakes....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very\nhappy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he\nsat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his  I will  firmly\nand strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even those\nwords seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I\nshall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities\nI have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the\nchaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband--oh, Lucy, it\nis the first time I have written the words  my husband --left me alone\nwith my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it\nup in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon\nwhich was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax,\nand for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it\nto my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would\nbe an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each\nother; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake\nor for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh,\nLucy, it was the first time he took _his wife s_ hand, and said that it\nwas the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go\nthrough all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to\nhave said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I\nshall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the\nyear.\n\n Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the\nhappiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him\nexcept myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love\nand duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me,\nand drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn\npledge between us....\n\n Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because\nit is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to\nme. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from\nthe schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now,\nand with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that\nin your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear,\nplease Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of\nsunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must\nnot wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope you will be\n_always_ as happy as I am _now_. Good-bye, my dear. I shall post this at\nonce, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan\nis waking--I must attend to my husband!\n\n Your ever-loving\n\n MINA HARKER. \n\n\n_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker._\n\n _Whitby, 30 August._\n\n My dearest Mina,--\n\n Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own\nhome with your husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough to\nstay with us here. The strong air would soon restore Jonathan; it has\nquite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of\nlife, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given\nup walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a\nweek, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting\nfat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such\nwalks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing\ntogether; and I love him more than ever. He _tells_ me that he loves me\nmore, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn t love me\nmore than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me.\nSo no more just at present from your loving\n\n LUCY.\n\n P. S.--Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.\n P. P. S.--We are to be married on 28 September. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_20 August._--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has\nnow so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion.\nFor the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one\nnight, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to\nhimself:  Now I can wait; now I can wait.  The attendant came to tell\nme, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the\nstrait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone\nfrom his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading--I might\nalmost say,  cringing --softness. I was satisfied with his present\ncondition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated,\nbut finally carried out my wishes without protest. It was a strange\nthing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for,\ncoming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking\nfurtively at them:--\n\n They think I could hurt you! Fancy _me_ hurting _you_! The fools! \n\nIt was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated\neven in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same I\ndo not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in\ncommon with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has\nhe to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful\nto him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the\noffer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will\nonly say:  I don t take any stock in cats. I have more to think of now,\nand I can wait; I can wait. \n\nAfter a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet\nuntil just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at\nlength violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted\nhim so that he swooned into a sort of coma.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n... Three nights has the same thing happened--violent all day then quiet\nfrom moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It\nwould almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went.\nHappy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He\nescaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We\nshall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they\nare required....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_23 August._-- The unexpected always happens.  How well Disraeli knew\nlife. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our\nsubtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one\nthing; that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in\nfuture be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have given\norders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room,\nwhen once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul s\nbody will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark!\nThe unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the\nattendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him\nand flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow.\nAgain he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him\nin the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me\nhe became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he\nwould have tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing\nhappened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew\ncalm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught\nthe patient s eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked\ninto the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and\nghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one\nseemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had\nsome intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and\npresently said:--\n\n You needn t tie me; I shall go quietly!  Without trouble we came back\nto the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall\nnot forget this night....\n\n\n_Lucy Westenra s Diary_\n\n_Hillingham, 24 August._--I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things\ndown. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will\nbe. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I\nseemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the\nchange of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me,\nfor I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel so\nweak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved\nwhen he saw me, and I hadn t the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder\nif I could sleep in mother s room to-night. I shall make an excuse and\ntry.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_25 August._--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my\nproposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to\nworry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while; but when the\nclock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling\nasleep. There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but I\ndid not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I must then have\nfallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This\nmorning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains\nme. It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don t seem ever to\nget air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I\nknow he will be miserable to see me so.\n\n\n_Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward._\n\n _Albemarle Hotel, 31 August._\n\n My dear Jack,--\n\n I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no special\ndisease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have\nasked her if there is any cause; I do not dare to ask her mother, for to\ndisturb the poor lady s mind about her daughter in her present state of\nhealth would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is\nspoken--disease of the heart--though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I\nam sure that there is something preying on my dear girl s mind. I am\nalmost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I\ntold her I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at\nfirst--I know why, old fellow--she finally consented. It will be a\npainful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for _her_ sake, and\nI must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at\nHillingham to-morrow, two o clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in\nMrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being\nalone with you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; I\nam filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as I\ncan after you have seen her. Do not fail!\n\n ARTHUR. \n\n\n_Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward._\n\n _1 September._\n\n Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write me fully\nby to-night s post to Ring. Wire me if necessary. \n\n\n_Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood._\n\n _2 September._\n\n My dear old fellow,--\n\n With regard to Miss Westenra s health I hasten to let you know at once\nthat in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady\nthat I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means satisfied with\nher appearance; she is woefully different from what she was when I saw\nher last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have full\nopportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very friendship\nmakes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can\nbridge over. I had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to\ndraw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have\ndone and propose doing.\n\n I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present,\nand in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew\nto mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no\ndoubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is.\nWe lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we\ngot, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness\namongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with\nme. We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained,\nfor the servants were coming and going. As soon as the door was closed,\nhowever, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair\nwith a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her\nhigh spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to\nmake a diagnosis. She said to me very sweetly:--\n\n I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.  I reminded her\nthat a doctor s confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously\nanxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that\nmatter in a word.  Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for\nmyself, but all for him!  So I am quite free.\n\n I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not see\nthe usual an mic signs, and by a chance I was actually able to test the\nquality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord\ngave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a\nslight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured\na few drops of the blood and have analysed them. The qualitative\nanalysis gives a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in\nitself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was quite\nsatisfied that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a\ncause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something\nmental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily at\ntimes, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but\nregarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she\nused to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back,\nand that once she walked out in the night and went to East Cliff, where\nMiss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late the habit has not\nreturned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of; I\nhave written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of\nAmsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in the\nworld. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that all things\nwere to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your\nrelations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience to\nyour wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for\nher. Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal\nreason, so, no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his\nwishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because he knows\nwhat he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher\nand a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day;\nand he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron\nnerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution,\nself-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the\nkindliest and truest heart that beats--these form his equipment for the\nnoble work that he is doing for mankind--work both in theory and\npractice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I\ntell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in\nhim. I have asked him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra\nto-morrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not\nalarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.\n\n Yours always,\n\n JOHN SEWARD. \n\n\n_Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr.\nSeward._\n\n _2 September._\n\n My good Friend,--\n\n When I have received your letter I am already coming to you. By good\nfortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have\ntrusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have\ntrusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds\ndear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so\nswiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other\nfriend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he wants my\naids and you call for them than all his great fortune could do. But it\nis pleasure added to do for him, your friend; it is to you that I come.\nHave then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be near\nto hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too\nlate on to-morrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that\nnight. But if need be I shall come again in three days, and stay longer\nif it must. Till then good-bye, my friend John.\n\n  VAN HELSING. \n\n\n_Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._\n\n _3 September._\n\n My dear Art,--\n\n Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and\nfound that, by Lucy s discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that\nwe were alone with her. Van Helsing made a very careful examination of\nthe patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of\ncourse I was not present all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned,\nbut says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and how you\ntrust to me in the matter, he said:  You must tell him all you think.\nTell him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not\njesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.  I asked\nwhat he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had\ncome back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his\nreturn to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not\nbe angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his\nbrains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the\ntime comes, be sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of\nour visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for\n_The Daily Telegraph_. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the\nsmuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a\nstudent here. I am to get his report to-morrow if he can possibly make\nit. In any case I am to have a letter.\n\n Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first\nsaw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the\nghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was\nvery sweet to the professor (as she always is), and tried to make him\nfeel at ease; though I could see that the poor girl was making a hard\nstruggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick\nlook under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of\nall things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite\ngeniality that I could see poor Lucy s pretense of animation merge into\nreality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation\ngently round to his visit, and suavely said:--\n\n My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so\nmuch beloved. That is much, my dear, ever were there that which I do not\nsee. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a\nghastly pale. To them I say:  Pouf!  And he snapped his fingers at me\nand went on:  But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can\nhe --and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with\nwhich once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a\nparticular occasion which he never fails to remind me of-- know anything\nof a young ladies? He has his madmans to play with, and to bring them\nback to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and,\noh, but there are rewards, in that we can bestow such happiness. But the\nyoung ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell\nthemselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many\nsorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to\nsmoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all\nto ourselves.  I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the\nprofessor came to the window and called me in. He looked grave, but\nsaid:  I have made careful examination, but there is no functional\ncause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost; it has\nbeen, but is not. But the conditions of her are in no way an mic. I have\nasked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question,\nthat so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say.\nAnd yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go\nback home and think. You must send to me the telegram every day; and if\nthere be cause I shall come again. The disease--for not to be all well\nis a disease--interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me\ntoo. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I come. \n\n As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone.\nAnd so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust\nyour poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my\ndear old fellow, to be placed in such a position between two people who\nare both so dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father, and\nyou are right to stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to\ncome at once to Lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from\nme. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_4 September._--Zo phagous patient still keeps up our interest in him.\nHe had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just\nbefore the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The attendant knew\nthe symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a\nrun, and were just in time, for at the stroke of noon he became so\nviolent that it took all their strength to hold him. In about five\nminutes, however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank\ninto a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The\nattendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm were really\nappalling; I found my hands full when I got in, attending to some of the\nother patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite\nunderstand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was\nsome distance away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and\nas yet my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen,\nwoe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to show\nsomething directly. I cannot quite understand it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Another change in my patient. At five o clock I looked in on\nhim, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He\nwas catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture\nby making nail-marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of\npadding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised for his bad\nconduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to\nhis own room and to have his note-book again. I thought it well to\nhumour him: so he is back in his room with the window open. He has the\nsugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and is reaping quite a\nharvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them into a\nbox, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find\na spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any\nclue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me; but he would not\nrise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of\nfar-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to me:--\n\n All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do\nit for myself!  Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said:\n Doctor, won t you be very good to me and let me have a little more\nsugar? I think it would be good for me. \n\n And the flies?  I said.\n\n Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like\nit.  And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do\nnot argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man\nas, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Midnight._--Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra,\nwhom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our\nown gate looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As\nhis room is on this side of the house, I could hear it better than in\nthe morning. It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky\nbeauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows\nand all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul\nwater, and to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone\nbuilding, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart\nto endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and from\nhis window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less\nfrenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an\ninert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual\nrecuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up\nquite calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the attendants not to\nhold him, for I was anxious to see what he would do. He went straight\nover to the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then he took his\nfly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box; then he shut\nthe window, and crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised\nme, so I asked him:  Are you not going to keep flies any more? \n\n No,  said he;  I am sick of all that rubbish!  He certainly is a\nwonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his\nmind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop; there may be a clue\nafter all, if we can find why to-day his paroxysms came on at high noon\nand at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at\nperiods which affects certain natures--as at times the moon does others?\nWe shall see.\n\n\n_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._\n\n _4 September._--Patient still better to-day. \n\n\n_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._\n\n _5 September._--Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps\nnaturally; good spirits; colour coming back. \n\n\n_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._\n\n _6 September._--Terrible change for the worse. Come at once; do not\nlose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen you. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\n_Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._\n\n _6 September._\n\n My dear Art,--\n\n My news to-day is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone back a bit.\nThere is, however, one good thing which has arisen from it; Mrs.\nWestenra was naturally anxious concerning Lucy, and has consulted me\nprofessionally about her. I took advantage of the opportunity, and told\nher that my old master, Van Helsing, the great specialist, was coming to\nstay with me, and that I would put her in his charge conjointly with\nmyself; so now we can come and go without alarming her unduly, for a\nshock to her would mean sudden death, and this, in Lucy s weak\ncondition, might be disastrous to her. We are hedged in with\ndifficulties, all of us, my poor old fellow; but, please God, we shall\ncome through them all right. If any need I shall write, so that, if you\ndo not hear from me, take it for granted that I am simply waiting for\nnews. In haste\n\n Yours ever,\n\n JOHN SEWARD. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_7 September._--The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at\nLiverpool Street was:--\n\n Have you said anything to our young friend the lover of her? \n\n No,  I said.  I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my telegram. I\nwrote him a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as Miss\nWestenra was not so well, and that I should let him know if need be. \n\n Right, my friend,  he said,  quite right! Better he not know as yet;\nperhaps he shall never know. I pray so; but if it be needed, then he\nshall know all. And, my good friend John, let me caution you. You deal\nwith the madmen. All men are mad in some way or the other; and inasmuch\nas you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with God s madmen,\ntoo--the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what you do nor why\nyou do it; you tell them not what you think. So you shall keep knowledge\nin its place, where it may rest--where it may gather its kind around it\nand breed. You and I shall keep as yet what we know here, and here.  He\ntouched me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched himself\nthe same way.  I have for myself thoughts at the present. Later I shall\nunfold to you. \n\n Why not now?  I asked.  It may do some good; we may arrive at some\ndecision.  He stopped and looked at me, and said:--\n\n My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has\nripened--while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine\nhas not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the\near and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff,\nand say to you:  Look! he s good corn; he will make good crop when the\ntime comes.  I did not see the application, and told him so. For reply\nhe reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as\nhe used long ago to do at lectures, and said:  The good husbandman tell\nyou so then because he knows, but not till then. But you do not find the\ngood husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that is for\nthe children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it as of\nthe work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown my corn,\nand Nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all,\nthere s some promise; and I wait till the ear begins to swell.  He broke\noff, for he evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on, and very\ngravely:--\n\n You were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more\nfull than the rest. You were only student then; now you are master, and\nI trust that good habit have not fail. Remember, my friend, that\nknowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.\nEven if you have not kept the good practise, let me tell you that this\ncase of our dear miss is one that may be--mind, I say _may be_--of such\ninterest to us and others that all the rest may not make him kick the\nbeam, as your peoples say. Take then good note of it. Nothing is too\nsmall. I counsel you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises.\nHereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess. We\nlearn from failure, not from success! \n\nWhen I described Lucy s symptoms--the same as before, but infinitely\nmore marked--he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a\nbag in which were many instruments and drugs,  the ghastly paraphernalia\nof our beneficial trade,  as he once called, in one of his lectures, the\nequipment of a professor of the healing craft. When we were shown in,\nMrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not nearly so much as I\nexpected to find her. Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained\nthat even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case\nwhere any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some\ncause or other, the things not personal--even the terrible change in her\ndaughter to whom she is so attached--do not seem to reach her. It is\nsomething like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an\nenvelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that\nwhich it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be an ordered\nselfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the vice\nof egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have\nknowledge of.\n\nI used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down\na rule that she should not be present with Lucy or think of her illness\nmore than was absolutely required. She assented readily, so readily that\nI saw again the hand of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were\nshown up to Lucy s room. If I was shocked when I saw her yesterday, I\nwas horrified when I saw her to-day. She was ghastly, chalkily pale; the\nred seemed to have gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of\nher face stood out prominently; her breathing was painful to see or\nhear. Van Helsing s face grew set as marble, and his eyebrows converged\ntill they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay motionless, and did not\nseem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all silent. Then\nVan Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. The\ninstant we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to\nthe next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and\nclosed the door.  My God!  he said;  this is dreadful. There is no time\nto be lost. She will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart s\naction as it should be. There must be transfusion of blood at once. Is\nit you or me? \n\n I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me. \n\n Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared. \n\nI went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at\nthe hall-door. When we reached the hall the maid had just opened the\ndoor, and Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in\nan eager whisper:--\n\n Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and\nhave been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for\nmyself. Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you,\nsir, for coming.  When first the Professor s eye had lit upon him he had\nbeen angry at his interruption at such a time; but now, as he took in\nhis stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young manhood which\nseemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to\nhim gravely as he held out his hand:--\n\n Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear miss. She is\nbad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go like that.  For he\nsuddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting.  You are to\nhelp her. You can do more than any that live, and your courage is your\nbest help. \n\n What can I do?  asked Arthur hoarsely.  Tell me, and I shall do it. My\nlife is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for\nher.  The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old\nknowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer:--\n\n My young sir, I do not ask so much as that--not the last! \n\n What shall I do?  There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostril\nquivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder.  Come! \nhe said.  You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are better than\nme, better than my friend John.  Arthur looked bewildered, and the\nProfessor went on by explaining in a kindly way:--\n\n Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have\nor die. My friend John and I have consulted; and we are about to perform\nwhat we call transfusion of blood--to transfer from full veins of one to\nthe empty veins which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is\nthe more young and strong than me --here Arthur took my hand and wrung\nit hard in silence-- but, now you are here, you are more good than us,\nold or young, who toil much in the world of thought. Our nerves are not\nso calm and our blood not so bright than yours!  Arthur turned to him\nand said:--\n\n If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would\nunderstand---- \n\nHe stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.\n\n Good boy!  said Van Helsing.  In the not-so-far-off you will be happy\nthat you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You\nshall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must go; and you\nmust leave at my sign. Say no word to Madame; you know how it is with\nher! There must be no shock; any knowledge of this would be one. Come! \n\nWe all went up to Lucy s room. Arthur by direction remained outside.\nLucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not\nasleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke\nto us; that was all. Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid\nthem on a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and\ncoming over to the bed, said cheerily:--\n\n Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good\nchild. See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes.  She had made\nthe effort with success.\n\nIt astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked\nthe extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to\nflicker in her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest\nits potency; and she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was\nsatisfied he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his\ncoat. Then he added:  You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring\nover the table. Friend John, help to me!  So neither of us looked whilst\nhe bent over her.\n\nVan Helsing turning to me, said:\n\n He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not\ndefibrinate it. \n\nThen with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the\noperation. As the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come\nback to poor Lucy s cheeks, and through Arthur s growing pallor the joy\nof his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow\nanxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he\nwas. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain Lucy s system must\nhave undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her.\nBut the Professor s face was set, and he stood watch in hand and with\nhis eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own\nheart beat. Presently he said in a soft voice:  Do not stir an instant.\nIt is enough. You attend him; I will look to her.  When all was over I\ncould see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his\narm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round--the\nman seems to have eyes in the back of his head:--\n\n The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have\npresently.  And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the\npillow to the patient s head. As he did so the narrow black velvet band\nwhich she seems always to wear round her throat, buckled with an old\ndiamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little up,\nand showed a red mark on her throat. Arthur did not notice it, but I\ncould hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing s\nways of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the moment, but turned to\nme, saying:  Now take down our brave young lover, give him of the port\nwine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home and rest, sleep\nmuch and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to\nhis love. He must not stay here. Hold! a moment. I may take it, sir,\nthat you are anxious of result. Then bring it with you that in all ways\nthe operation is successful. You have saved her life this time, and you\ncan go home and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell\nher all when she is well; she shall love you none the less for what you\nhave done. Good-bye. \n\nWhen Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently,\nbut her breathing was stronger; I could see the counterpane move as her\nbreast heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently.\nThe velvet band again covered the red mark. I asked the Professor in a\nwhisper:--\n\n What do you make of that mark on her throat? \n\n What do you make of it? \n\n I have not examined it yet,  I answered, and then and there proceeded\nto loose the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two\npunctures, not large, but not wholesome-looking. There was no sign of\ndisease, but the edges were white and worn-looking, as if by some\ntrituration. It at once occurred to me that this wound, or whatever it\nwas, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood; but I abandoned\nthe idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not be. The whole bed\nwould have been drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must\nhave lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion.\n\n Well?  said Van Helsing.\n\n Well,  said I,  I can make nothing of it.  The Professor stood up.  I\nmust go back to Amsterdam to-night,  he said.  There are books and\nthings there which I want. You must remain here all the night, and you\nmust not let your sight pass from her. \n\n Shall I have a nurse?  I asked.\n\n We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night; see that\nshe is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all\nthe night. Later on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as\npossible. And then we may begin. \n\n May begin?  I said.  What on earth do you mean? \n\n We shall see!  he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment\nlater and put his head inside the door and said with warning finger held\nup:--\n\n Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you\nshall not sleep easy hereafter! \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary--continued._\n\n_8 September._--I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself\noff towards dusk, and she waked naturally; she looked a different being\nfrom what she had been before the operation. Her spirits even were good,\nand she was full of a happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the\nabsolute prostration which she had undergone. When I told Mrs. Westenra\nthat Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit up with her she\nalmost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her daughter s renewed\nstrength and excellent spirits. I was firm, however, and made\npreparations for my long vigil. When her maid had prepared her for the\nnight I came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by\nthe bedside. She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me\ngratefully whenever I caught her eye. After a long spell she seemed\nsinking off to sleep, but with an effort seemed to pull herself together\nand shook it off. This was repeated several times, with greater effort\nand with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent that she\ndid not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once:--\n\n You do not want to go to sleep? \n\n No; I am afraid. \n\n Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for. \n\n Ah, not if you were like me--if sleep was to you a presage of horror! \n\n A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean? \n\n I don t know; oh, I don t know. And that is what is so terrible. All\nthis weakness comes to me in sleep; until I dread the very thought. \n\n But, my dear girl, you may sleep to-night. I am here watching you, and\nI can promise that nothing will happen. \n\n Ah, I can trust you!  I seized the opportunity, and said:  I promise\nyou that if I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once. \n\n You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will\nsleep!  And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank\nback, asleep.\n\nAll night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on\nin a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were\nslightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a\npendulum. There was a smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad\ndreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.\n\nIn the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took\nmyself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short\nwire to Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent result\nof the operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all\nday to clear off; it was dark when I was able to inquire about my\nzo phagous patient. The report was good; he had been quite quiet for the\npast day and night. A telegram came from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst\nI was at dinner, suggesting that I should be at Hillingham to-night, as\nit might be well to be at hand, and stating that he was leaving by the\nnight mail and would join me early in the morning.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_9 September_.--I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to\nHillingham. For two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my\nbrain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral\nexhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. When she shook hands\nwith me she looked sharply in my face and said:--\n\n No sitting up to-night for you. You are worn out. I am quite well\nagain; indeed, I am; and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who\nwill sit up with you.  I would not argue the point, but went and had my\nsupper. Lucy came with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I\nmade an excellent meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than\nexcellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next\nher own, where a cozy fire was burning.  Now,  she said,  you must stay\nhere. I shall leave this door open and my door too. You can lie on the\nsofa for I know that nothing would induce any of you doctors to go to\nbed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. If I want anything I\nshall call out, and you can come to me at once.  I could not but\nacquiesce, for I was  dog-tired,  and could not have sat up had I tried.\nSo, on her renewing her promise to call me if she should want anything,\nI lay on the sofa, and forgot all about everything.\n\n\n_Lucy Westenra s Diary._\n\n_9 September._--I feel so happy to-night. I have been so miserably weak,\nthat to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after\na long spell of east wind out of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very,\nvery close to me. I seem to feel his presence warm about me. I suppose\nit is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our inner\neyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength give Love\nrein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he wills. I know\nwhere my thoughts are. If Arthur only knew! My dear, my dear, your ears\nmust tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the blissful rest of\nlast night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward watching me.\nAnd to-night I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand and\nwithin call. Thank everybody for being so good to me! Thank God!\nGood-night, Arthur.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_10 September._--I was conscious of the Professor s hand on my head, and\nstarted awake all in a second. That is one of the things that we learn\nin an asylum, at any rate.\n\n And how is our patient? \n\n Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me,  I answered.\n\n Come, let us see,  he said. And together we went into the room.\n\nThe blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van\nHelsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.\n\nAs I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I\nheard the Professor s low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a\ndeadly fear shot through my heart. As I passed over he moved back, and\nhis exclamation of horror,  Gott in Himmel!  needed no enforcement from\nhis agonised face. He raised his hand and pointed to the bed, and his\niron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt my knees begin to tremble.\n\nThere on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly\nwhite and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums\nseemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a\ncorpse after a prolonged illness. Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp\nin anger, but the instinct of his life and all the long years of habit\nstood to him, and he put it down again softly.  Quick!  he said.  Bring\nthe brandy.  I flew to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter.\nHe wetted the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and\nwrist and heart. He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonising\nsuspense said:--\n\n It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is\nundone; we must begin again. There is no young Arthur here now; I have\nto call on you yourself this time, friend John.  As he spoke, he was\ndipping into his bag and producing the instruments for transfusion; I\nhad taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt-sleeve. There was no\npossibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one; and so,\nwithout a moment s delay, we began the operation. After a time--it did\nnot seem a short time either, for the draining away of one s blood, no\nmatter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling--Van Helsing\nheld up a warning finger.  Do not stir,  he said,  but I fear that with\ngrowing strength she may wake; and that would make danger, oh, so much\ndanger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection\nof morphia.  He proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his\nintent. The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge\nsubtly into the narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride\nthat I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid\ncheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to\nfeel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.\n\nThe Professor watched me critically.  That will do,  he said.  Already? \nI remonstrated.  You took a great deal more from Art.  To which he\nsmiled a sad sort of smile as he replied:--\n\n He is her lover, her _fianc _. You have work, much work, to do for her\nand for others; and the present will suffice. \n\nWhen we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied\ndigital pressure to my own incision. I laid down, whilst I waited his\nleisure to attend to me, for I felt faint and a little sick. By-and-by\nhe bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for\nmyself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half\nwhispered:--\n\n Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up\nunexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and\nenjealous him, too. There must be none. So! \n\nWhen I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said:--\n\n You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and\nrest awhile; then have much breakfast, and come here to me. \n\nI followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I\nhad done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I\nfelt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at\nwhat had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over\nand over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how\nshe could have been drained of so much blood with no sign anywhere to\nshow for it. I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for,\nsleeping and waking, my thoughts always came back to the little\npunctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their\nedges--tiny though they were.\n\nLucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and\nstrong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing\nhad seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict\ninjunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his\nvoice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.\n\nLucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything\nhad happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother\ncame up to see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but\nsaid to me gratefully:--\n\n We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really\nmust now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale\nyourself. You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit; that you\ndo!  As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only momentarily,\nfor her poor wasted veins could not stand for long such an unwonted\ndrain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned\nimploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my\nlips; with a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.\n\nVan Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me:\n Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I\nstay here to-night, and I shall sit up with little miss myself. You and\nI must watch the case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave\nreasons. No, do not ask them; think what you will. Do not fear to think\neven the most not-probable. Good-night. \n\nIn the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of\nthem might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them; and\nwhen I said it was Dr. Van Helsing s wish that either he or I should sit\nup, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with the  foreign\ngentleman.  I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps it is because\nI am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on Lucy s account, that\ntheir devotion was manifested; for over and over again have I seen\nsimilar instances of woman s kindness. I got back here in time for a\nlate dinner; went my rounds--all well; and set this down whilst waiting\nfor sleep. It is coming.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_11 September._--This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van\nHelsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I had\narrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He opened it\nwith much impressment--assumed, of course--and showed a great bundle of\nwhite flowers.\n\n These are for you, Miss Lucy,  he said.\n\n For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing! \n\n Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines.  Here\nLucy made a wry face.  Nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or\nin nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming nose, or I shall\npoint out to my friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing\nso much beauty that he so loves so much distort. Aha, my pretty miss,\nthat bring the so nice nose all straight again. This is medicinal, but\nyou do not know how. I put him in your window, I make pretty wreath, and\nhang him round your neck, so that you sleep well. Oh yes! they, like the\nlotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters\nof Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores sought\nfor in the Floridas, and find him all too late. \n\nWhilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and smelling\nthem. Now she threw them down, saying, with half-laughter, and\nhalf-disgust:--\n\n Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me. Why,\nthese flowers are only common garlic. \n\nTo my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his\niron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting:--\n\n No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in all I do;\nand I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of\nothers if not for your own.  Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might\nwell be, he went on more gently:  Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear\nme. I only do for your good; but there is much virtue to you in those so\ncommon flowers. See, I place them myself in your room. I make myself the\nwreath that you are to wear. But hush! no telling to others that make so\ninquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of obedience;\nand obedience is to bring you strong and well into loving arms that wait\nfor you. Now sit still awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall\nhelp me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the way from Haarlem,\nwhere my friend Vanderpool raise herb in his glass-houses all the year.\nI had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here. \n\nWe went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor s\nactions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopoeia\nthat I ever heard of. First he fastened up the windows and latched them\nsecurely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over\nthe sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get\nin would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp he rubbed\nall over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each side, and round\nthe fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to me, and\npresently I said:--\n\n Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but\nthis certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he\nwould say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit. \n\n Perhaps I am!  he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which\nLucy was to wear round her neck.\n\nWe then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she\nwas in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her\nneck. The last words he said to her were:--\n\n Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do\nnot to-night open the window or the door. \n\n I promise,  said Lucy,  and thank you both a thousand times for all\nyour kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such\nfriends? \n\nAs we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said:--\n\n To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want--two nights of travel,\nmuch reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow,\nand a night to sit up, without to wink. To-morrow in the morning early\nyou call for me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much\nmore strong for my  spell  which I have work. Ho! ho! \n\nHe seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights\nbefore and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must\nhave been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but\nI felt it all the more, like unshed tears.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n_Lucy Westenra s Diary._\n\n\n_12 September._--How good they all are to me. I quite love that dear Dr.\nVan Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers. He\npositively frightened me, he was so fierce. And yet he must have been\nright, for I feel comfort from them already. Somehow, I do not dread\nbeing alone to-night, and I can go to sleep without fear. I shall not\nmind any flapping outside the window. Oh, the terrible struggle that I\nhave had against sleep so often of late; the pain of the sleeplessness,\nor the pain of the fear of sleep, with such unknown horrors as it has\nfor me! How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no\ndreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings\nnothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am to-night, hoping for sleep,\nand lying like Ophelia in the play, with  virgin crants and maiden\nstrewments.  I never liked garlic before, but to-night it is delightful!\nThere is peace in its smell; I feel sleep coming already. Good-night,\neverybody.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_13 September._--Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as usual,\nup to time. The carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting. The\nProfessor took his bag, which he always brings with him now.\n\nLet all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham at\neight o clock. It was a lovely morning; the bright sunshine and all the\nfresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the completion of nature s\nannual work. The leaves were turning to all kinds of beautiful colours,\nbut had not yet begun to drop from the trees. When we entered we met\nMrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room. She is always an early\nriser. She greeted us warmly and said:--\n\n You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is still\nasleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest I\nshould disturb her.  The Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He\nrubbed his hands together, and said:--\n\n Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is working,  to\nwhich she answered:--\n\n You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy s state this\nmorning is due in part to me. \n\n How you do mean, ma am?  asked the Professor.\n\n Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into\nher room. She was sleeping soundly--so soundly that even my coming did\nnot wake her. But the room was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those\nhorrible, strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually\na bunch of them round her neck. I feared that the heavy odour would be\ntoo much for the dear child in her weak state, so I took them all away\nand opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh air. You will be\npleased with her, I am sure. \n\nShe moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. As\nshe had spoken, I watched the Professor s face, and saw it turn ashen\ngrey. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady\nwas present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be;\nhe actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass into\nher room. But the instant she had disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and\nforcibly, into the dining-room and closed the door.\n\nThen, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He\nraised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat\nhis palms together in a helpless way; finally he sat down on a chair,\nand putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs\nthat seemed to come from the very racking of his heart. Then he raised\nhis arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe.  God! God!\nGod!  he said.  What have we done, what has this poor thing done, that\nwe are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst us still, sent down from the\npagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such way? This poor\nmother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such\nthing as lose her daughter body and soul; and we must not tell her, we\nmust not even warn her, or she die, and then both die. Oh, how we are\nbeset! How are all the powers of the devils against us!  Suddenly he\njumped to his feet.  Come,  he said,  come, we must see and act. Devils\nor no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him\nall the same.  He went to the hall-door for his bag; and together we\nwent up to Lucy s room.\n\nOnce again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed.\nThis time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with the same\nawful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of stern sadness and\ninfinite pity.\n\n As I expected,  he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which\nmeant so much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then\nbegan to set out on the little table the instruments for yet another\noperation of transfusion of blood. I had long ago recognised the\nnecessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a\nwarning hand.  No!  he said.  To-day you must operate. I shall provide.\nYou are weakened already.  As he spoke he took off his coat and rolled\nup his shirt-sleeve.\n\nAgain the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour to\nthe ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I\nwatched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested.\n\nPresently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must\nnot remove anything from Lucy s room without consulting him; that the\nflowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing of their odour\nwas a part of the system of cure. Then he took over the care of the case\nhimself, saying that he would watch this night and the next and would\nsend me word when to come.\n\nAfter another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and\nseemingly not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.\n\nWhat does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of life\namongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.\n\n\n_Lucy Westenra s Diary._\n\n_17 September._--Four days and nights of peace. I am getting so strong\nagain that I hardly know myself. It is as if I had passed through some\nlong nightmare, and had just awakened to see the beautiful sunshine and\nfeel the fresh air of the morning around me. I have a dim\nhalf-remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing; darkness\nin which there was not even the pain of hope to make present distress\nmore poignant: and then long spells of oblivion, and the rising back to\nlife as a diver coming up through a great press of water. Since,\nhowever, Dr. Van Helsing has been with me, all this bad dreaming seems\nto have passed away; the noises that used to frighten me out of my\nwits--the flapping against the windows, the distant voices which seemed\nso close to me, the harsh sounds that came from I know not where and\ncommanded me to do I know not what--have all ceased. I go to bed now\nwithout any fear of sleep. I do not even try to keep awake. I have grown\nquite fond of the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me every day from\nHaarlem. To-night Dr. Van Helsing is going away, as he has to be for a\nday in Amsterdam. But I need not be watched; I am well enough to be left\nalone. Thank God for mother s sake, and dear Arthur s, and for all our\nfriends who have been so kind! I shall not even feel the change, for\nlast night Dr. Van Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. I found\nhim asleep twice when I awoke; but I did not fear to go to sleep again,\nalthough the boughs or bats or something napped almost angrily against\nthe window-panes.\n\n\n_ The Pall Mall Gazette,  18 September._\n\n                           THE ESCAPED WOLF.\n\n         PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER.\n\n         _Interview with the Keeper in the Zo logical Gardens._\n\nAfter many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using\nthe words  Pall Mall Gazette  as a sort of talisman, I managed to find\nthe keeper of the section of the Zo logical Gardens in which the wolf\ndepartment is included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in\nthe enclosure behind the elephant-house, and was just sitting down to\nhis tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are hospitable folk,\nelderly, and without children, and if the specimen I enjoyed of their\nhospitality be of the average kind, their lives must be pretty\ncomfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called  business \nuntil the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the\ntable was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said:--\n\n Now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You ll excoose me\nrefoosin  to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I gives the\nwolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore\nI begins to arsk them questions. \n\n How do you mean, ask them questions?  I queried, wishful to get him\ninto a talkative humour.\n\n Ittin  of them over the  ead with a pole is one way; scratchin  of\ntheir hears is another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf\nto their gals. I don t so much mind the fust--the  ittin  with a pole\nafore I chucks in their dinner; but I waits till they ve  ad their\nsherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the\near-scratchin . Mind you,  he added philosophically,  there s a deal of\nthe same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here s you a-comin  and\narskin  of me questions about my business, and I that grumpy-like that\nonly for your bloomin   arf-quid I d  a  seen you blowed fust  fore I d\nanswer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic-like if I d like you to\narsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without offence\ndid I tell yer to go to  ell? \n\n You did. \n\n An  when you said you d report me for usin  of obscene language that\nwas  ittin  me over the  ead; but the  arf-quid made that all right. I\nweren t a-goin  to fight, so I waited for the food, and did with my  owl\nas the wolves, and lions, and tigers does. But, Lor  love yer  art, now\nthat the old  ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an  rinsed\nme out with her bloomin  old teapot, and I ve lit hup, you may scratch\nmy ears for all you re worth, and won t git even a growl out of me.\nDrive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin  at, that  ere\nescaped wolf. \n\n Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it\nhappened; and when I know the facts I ll get you to say what you\nconsider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will\nend. \n\n All right, guv nor. This  ere is about the  ole story. That  ere wolf\nwhat we called Bersicker was one of three grey ones that came from\nNorway to Jamrach s, which we bought off him four years ago. He was a\nnice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I m more\nsurprised at  im for wantin  to get out nor any other animile in the\nplace. But, there, you can t trust wolves no more nor women. \n\n Don t you mind him, sir!  broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh.  E s\ngot mindin  the animiles so long that blest if he ain t like a old wolf\n isself! But there ain t no  arm in  im. \n\n Well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin  yesterday when I first\nhear my disturbance. I was makin  up a litter in the monkey-house for a\nyoung puma which is ill; but when I heard the yelpin  and  owlin  I kem\naway straight. There was Bersicker a-tearin  like a mad thing at the\nbars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn t much people about that\nday, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a  ook\nnose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin  through it. He\nhad a  ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him,\nfor it seemed as if it was  im as they was hirritated at. He  ad white\nkid gloves on  is  ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says:\n Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something. \n\n Maybe it s you,  says I, for I did not like the airs as he give\n isself. He didn t git angry, as I  oped he would, but he smiled a kind\nof insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth.  Oh no, they\nwouldn t like me,   e says.\n\n Ow yes, they would,  says I, a-imitatin  of him.  They always likes a\nbone or two to clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you  as a\nbagful. \n\n Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin  they\nlay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears\nsame as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn t put\nin his hand and stroke the old wolf s ears too!\n\n Tyke care,  says I.  Bersicker is quick. \n\n Never mind,  he says.  I m used to  em! \n\n Are you in the business yourself?  I says, tyking off my  at, for a\nman what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers.\n\n No,  says he,  not exactly in the business, but I  ave made pets of\nseveral.  And with that he lifts his  at as perlite as a lord, and walks\naway. Old Bersicker kep  a-lookin  arter  im till  e was out of sight,\nand then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn t come hout the  ole\nhevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves\nhere all began a- owling. There warn t nothing for them to  owl at.\nThere warn t no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin  a\ndog somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice\nI went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the  owling\nstopped. Just before twelve o clock I just took a look round afore\nturnin  in, an , bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker s\ncage I see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And\nthat s all I know for certing. \n\n Did any one else see anything? \n\n One of our gard ners was a-comin   ome about that time from a  armony,\nwhen he sees a big grey dog comin  out through the garding  edges. At\nleast, so he says, but I don t give much for it myself, for if he did  e\nnever said a word about it to his missis when  e got  ome, and it was\nonly after the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had been up all\nnight-a-huntin  of the Park for Bersicker, that he remembered seein \nanything. My own belief was that the  armony  ad got into his  ead. \n\n Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the\nwolf? \n\n Well, sir,  he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty,  I think I can;\nbut I don t know as  ow you d be satisfied with the theory. \n\n Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from\nexperience, can t hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try? \n\n Well then, sir, I accounts for it this way; it seems to me that  ere\nwolf escaped--simply because he wanted to get out. \n\nFrom the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the joke I\ncould see that it had done service before, and that the whole\nexplanation was simply an elaborate sell. I couldn t cope in badinage\nwith the worthy Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way to his heart,\nso I said:--\n\n Now, Mr. Bilder, we ll consider that first half-sovereign worked off,\nand this brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you ve told me\nwhat you think will happen. \n\n Right y are, sir,  he said briskly.  Ye ll excoose me, I know, for\na-chaffin  of ye, but the old woman here winked at me, which was as much\nas telling me to go on. \n\n Well, I never!  said the old lady.\n\n My opinion is this: that  ere wolf is a- idin  of, somewheres. The\ngard ner wot didn t remember said he was a-gallopin  northward faster\nthan a horse could go; but I don t believe him, for, yer see, sir,\nwolves don t gallop no more nor dogs does, they not bein  built that\nway. Wolves is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when they gets\nin packs and does be chivyin  somethin  that s more afeared than they is\nthey can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever it is. But,\nLor  bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half so\nclever or bold as a good dog; and not half a quarter so much fight in\n im. This one ain t been used to fightin  or even to providin  for\nhisself, and more like he s somewhere round the Park a- idin  an \na-shiverin  of, and, if he thinks at all, wonderin  where he is to get\nhis breakfast from; or maybe he s got down some area and is in a\ncoal-cellar. My eye, won t some cook get a rum start when she sees his\ngreen eyes a-shining at her out of the dark! If he can t get food he s\nbound to look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher s\nshop in time. If he doesn t, and some nursemaid goes a-walkin  orf with\na soldier, leavin  of the hinfant in the perambulator--well, then I\nshouldn t be surprised if the census is one babby the less. That s\nall. \n\nI was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up\nagainst the window, and Mr. Bilder s face doubled its natural length\nwith surprise.\n\n God bless me!  he said.  If there ain t old Bersicker come back by\n isself! \n\nHe went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary proceeding it\nseemed to me. I have always thought that a wild animal never looks so\nwell as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between us; a\npersonal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea.\n\nAfter all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder nor\nhis wife thought any more of the wolf than I should of a dog. The animal\nitself was as peaceful and well-behaved as that father of all\npicture-wolves--Red Riding Hood s quondam friend, whilst moving her\nconfidence in masquerade.\n\nThe whole scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The\nwicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed London and set all the\nchildren in the town shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of\npenitent mood, and was received and petted like a sort of vulpine\nprodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender\nsolicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said:--\n\n There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble;\ndidn t I say it all along? Here s his head all cut and full of broken\nglass.  E s been a-gettin  over some bloomin  wall or other. It s a\nshyme that people are allowed to top their walls with broken bottles.\nThis  ere s what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker. \n\nHe took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that\nsatisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the\nfatted calf, and went off to report.\n\nI came off, too, to report the only exclusive information that is given\nto-day regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_17 September._--I was engaged after dinner in my study posting up my\nbooks, which, through press of other work and the many visits to Lucy,\nhad fallen sadly into arrear. Suddenly the door was burst open, and in\nrushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion. I was\nthunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord\ninto the Superintendent s study is almost unknown. Without an instant s\npause he made straight at me. He had a dinner-knife in his hand, and,\nas I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the table between us. He was\ntoo quick and too strong for me, however; for before I could get my\nbalance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely.\nBefore he could strike again, however, I got in my right and he was\nsprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist bled freely, and quite a\nlittle pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw that my friend was not\nintent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up my wrist,\nkeeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. When the\nattendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his employment\npositively sickened me. He was lying on his belly on the floor licking\nup, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my wounded wrist. He was\neasily secured, and, to my surprise, went with the attendants quite\nplacidly, simply repeating over and over again:  The blood is the life!\nThe blood is the life! \n\nI cannot afford to lose blood just at present; I have lost too much of\nlate for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy s\nillness and its horrible phases is telling on me. I am over-excited and\nweary, and I need rest, rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned\nme, so I need not forego my sleep; to-night I could not well do without\nit.\n\n\n_Telegram, Van Helsing, Antwerp, to Seward, Carfax._\n\n(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given; delivered late by\ntwenty-two hours.)\n\n _17 September._--Do not fail to be at Hillingham to-night. If not\nwatching all the time frequently, visit and see that flowers are as\nplaced; very important; do not fail. Shall be with you as soon as\npossible after arrival. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_18 September._--Just off for train to London. The arrival of Van\nHelsing s telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night lost, and I know\nby bitter experience what may happen in a night. Of course it is\npossible that all may be well, but what _may_ have happened? Surely\nthere is some horrible doom hanging over us that every possible accident\nshould thwart us in all we try to do. I shall take this cylinder with\nme, and then I can complete my entry on Lucy s phonograph.\n\n\n_Memorandum left by Lucy Westenra._\n\n_17 September. Night._--I write this and leave it to be seen, so that no\none may by any chance get into trouble through me. This is an exact\nrecord of what took place to-night. I feel I am dying of weakness, and\nhave barely strength to write, but it must be done if I die in the\ndoing.\n\nI went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as Dr.\nVan Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.\n\nI was waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun after that\nsleep-walking on the cliff at Whitby when Mina saved me, and which now I\nknow so well. I was not afraid, but I did wish that Dr. Seward was in\nthe next room--as Dr. Van Helsing said he would be--so that I might have\ncalled him. I tried to go to sleep, but could not. Then there came to me\nthe old fear of sleep, and I determined to keep awake. Perversely sleep\nwould try to come then when I did not want it; so, as I feared to be\nalone, I opened my door and called out:  Is there anybody there?  There\nwas no answer. I was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door again.\nThen outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like a dog s, but\nmore fierce and deeper. I went to the window and looked out, but could\nsee nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its\nwings against the window. So I went back to bed again, but determined\nnot to go to sleep. Presently the door opened, and mother looked in;\nseeing by my moving that I was not asleep, came in, and sat by me. She\nsaid to me even more sweetly and softly than her wont:--\n\n I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you were all\nright. \n\nI feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to come in\nand sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down beside me; she did\nnot take off her dressing gown, for she said she would only stay a while\nand then go back to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in\nhers, the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She was\nstartled and a little frightened, and cried out:  What is that?  I tried\nto pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet; but I could\nhear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. After a while there was\nthe low howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a\ncrash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor.\nThe window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the\naperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey\nwolf. Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting\nposture, and clutched wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst\nother things, she clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing\ninsisted on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. For a\nsecond or two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange\nand horrible gurgling in her throat; then she fell over--as if struck\nwith lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me dizzy for a\nmoment or two. The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my\neyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole\nmyriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in through the broken\nwindow, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that\ntravellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to\nstir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear mother s poor body,\nwhich seemed to grow cold already--for her dear heart had ceased to\nbeat--weighed me down; and I remembered no more for a while.\n\nThe time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered\nconsciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the\ndogs all round the neighbourhood were howling; and in our shrubbery,\nseemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing. I was dazed and\nstupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the\nnightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort\nme. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I could hear\ntheir bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to them, and they\ncame in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay\nover me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the\nbroken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my\ndear mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I\nhad got up. They were all so frightened and nervous that I directed them\nto go to the dining-room and have each a glass of wine. The door flew\nopen for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked, and then went\nin a body to the dining-room; and I laid what flowers I had on my dear\nmother s breast. When they were there I remembered what Dr. Van Helsing\nhad told me, but I didn t like to remove them, and, besides, I would\nhave some of the servants to sit up with me now. I was surprised that\nthe maids did not come back. I called them, but got no answer, so I went\nto the dining-room to look for them.\n\nMy heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay helpless\non the floor, breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was on the table\nhalf full, but there was a queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious,\nand examined the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the\nsideboard, I found that the bottle which mother s doctor uses for\nher--oh! did use--was empty. What am I to do? what am I to do? I am back\nin the room with mother. I cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for\nthe sleeping servants, whom some one has drugged. Alone with the dead! I\ndare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf through the\nbroken window.\n\nThe air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from\nthe window, and the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God\nshield me from harm this night! I shall hide this paper in my breast,\nwhere they shall find it when they come to lay me out. My dear mother\ngone! It is time that I go too. Good-bye, dear Arthur, if I should not\nsurvive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY\n\n\n_18 September._--I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early.\nKeeping my cab at the gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently\nand rang as quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her\nmother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door. After a while,\nfinding no response, I knocked and rang again; still no answer. I cursed\nthe laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an\nhour--for it was now ten o clock--and so rang and knocked again, but\nmore impatiently, but still without response. Hitherto I had blamed only\nthe servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this\ndesolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing\ntight around us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too\nlate? I knew that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of\ndanger to Lucy, if she had had again one of those frightful relapses;\nand I went round the house to try if I could find by chance an entry\nanywhere.\n\nI could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened and\nlocked, and I returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard the\nrapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse s feet. They stopped at the\ngate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue.\nWhen he saw me, he gasped out:--\n\n Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you\nnot get my telegram? \n\nI answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his\ntelegram early in the morning, and had not lost a minute in coming here,\nand that I could not make any one in the house hear me. He paused and\nraised his hat as he said solemnly:--\n\n Then I fear we are too late. God s will be done!  With his usual\nrecuperative energy, he went on:  Come. If there be no way open to get\nin, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now. \n\nWe went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen\nwindow. The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and\nhanding it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window. I\nattacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them. Then\nwith a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and\nopened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him. There\nwas no one in the kitchen or in the servants  rooms, which were close at\nhand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining-room,\ndimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four\nservant-women lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead,\nfor their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the\nroom left no doubt as to their condition. Van Helsing and I looked at\neach other, and as we moved away he said:  We can attend to them later. \nThen we ascended to Lucy s room. For an instant or two we paused at the\ndoor to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. With white\nfaces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the\nroom.\n\nHow shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and her\nmother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white\nsheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the draught through the\nbroken window, showing the drawn, white face, with a look of terror\nfixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still more\ndrawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we found upon her\nmother s bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two little wounds\nwhich we had noticed before, but looking horribly white and mangled.\nWithout a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching\npoor Lucy s breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who\nlistens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me:--\n\n It is not yet too late! Quick! quick! Bring the brandy! \n\nI flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste\nit, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I found\non the table. The maids were still breathing, but more restlessly, and I\nfancied that the narcotic was wearing off. I did not stay to make sure,\nbut returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed the brandy, as on another\noccasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists and the palms of her\nhands. He said to me:--\n\n I can do this, all that can be at the present. You go wake those maids.\nFlick them in the face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them\nget heat and fire and a warm bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as\nthat beside her. She will need be heated before we can do anything\nmore. \n\nI went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the\nwomen. The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently\naffected her more strongly, so I lifted her on the sofa and let her\nsleep. The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to\nthem they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with\nthem, however, and would not let them talk. I told them that one life\nwas bad enough to lose, and that if they delayed they would sacrifice\nMiss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying, they went about their way, half clad\nas they were, and prepared fire and water. Fortunately, the kitchen and\nboiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water. We\ngot a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her in it. Whilst\nwe were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door. One\nof the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and opened it. Then\nshe returned and whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come\nwith a message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him that he\nmust wait, for we could see no one now. She went away with the message,\nand, engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all about him.\n\nI never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly\nearnest. I knew--as he knew--that it was a stand-up fight with death,\nand in a pause told him so. He answered me in a way that I did not\nunderstand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear:--\n\n If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her fade\naway into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon.  He went\non with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour.\n\nPresently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to\nbe of some effect. Lucy s heart beat a trifle more audibly to the\nstethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement. Van Helsing s\nface almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in\na hot sheet to dry her he said to me:--\n\n The first gain is ours! Check to the King! \n\nWe took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid\nher in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I noticed\nthat Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was\nstill unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we had\never seen her.\n\nVan Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her\nand not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me\nout of the room.\n\n We must consult as to what is to be done,  he said as we descended the\nstairs. In the hall he opened the dining-room door, and we passed in, he\nclosing the door carefully behind him. The shutters had been opened, but\nthe blinds were already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of\ndeath which the British woman of the lower classes always rigidly\nobserves. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was, however, light\nenough for our purposes. Van Helsing s sternness was somewhat relieved\nby a look of perplexity. He was evidently torturing his mind about\nsomething, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke:--\n\n What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have\nanother transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl s life\nwon t be worth an hour s purchase. You are exhausted already; I am\nexhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if they would have\ncourage to submit. What are we to do for some one who will open his\nveins for her? \n\n What s the matter with me, anyhow? \n\nThe voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought\nrelief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris. Van\nHelsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened and a\nglad look came into his eyes as I cried out:  Quincey Morris!  and\nrushed towards him with outstretched hands.\n\n What brought you here?  I cried as our hands met.\n\n I guess Art is the cause. \n\nHe handed me a telegram:--\n\n Have not heard from Seward for three days, and am terribly anxious.\nCannot leave. Father still in same condition. Send me word how Lucy is.\nDo not delay.--HOLMWOOD. \n\n I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to tell\nme what to do. \n\nVan Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in\nthe eyes as he said:--\n\n A brave man s blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in\ntrouble. You re a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work against\nus for all he s worth, but God sends us men when we want them. \n\nOnce again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the heart\nto go through with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock and it\ntold on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went into her\nveins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on the other\noccasions. Her struggle back into life was something frightful to see\nand hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs improved, and Van\nHelsing made a subcutaneous injection of morphia, as before, and with\ngood effect. Her faint became a profound slumber. The Professor watched\nwhilst I went downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one of the maids\nto pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. I left Quincey lying down\nafter having a glass of wine, and told the cook to get ready a good\nbreakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I went back to the room where\nLucy now was. When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet or\ntwo of note-paper in his hand. He had evidently read it, and was\nthinking it over as he sat with his hand to his brow. There was a look\nof grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved.\nHe handed me the paper saying only:  It dropped from Lucy s breast when\nwe carried her to the bath. \n\nWhen I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a pause\nasked him:  In God s name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she,\nmad; or what sort of horrible danger is it?  I was so bewildered that I\ndid not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the\npaper, saying:--\n\n Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You shall know\nand understand it all in good time; but it will be later. And now what\nis it that you came to me to say?  This brought me back to fact, and I\nwas all myself again.\n\n I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act\nproperly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have\nto be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we\nhad it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you\nknow, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra\nhad disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it. Let us\nfill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it myself to the\nregistrar and go on to the undertaker. \n\n Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she be\nsad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends that\nlove her. One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old\nman. Ah yes, I know, friend John; I am not blind! I love you all the\nmore for it! Now go. \n\nIn the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him\nthat Mrs. Westenra was dead; that Lucy also had been ill, but was now\ngoing on better; and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him\nwhere I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said:--\n\n When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to\nourselves?  I nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about\nthe registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come up in\nthe evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements.\n\nWhen I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him\nas soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still\nsleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her\nside. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he\nexpected her to wake before long and was afraid of forestalling nature.\nSo I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast-room, where\nthe blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little more cheerful, or\nrather less cheerless, than the other rooms. When we were alone, he said\nto me:--\n\n Jack Seward, I don t want to shove myself in anywhere where I ve no\nright to be; but this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl\nand wanted to marry her; but, although that s all past and gone, I can t\nhelp feeling anxious about her all the same. What is it that s wrong\nwith her? The Dutchman--and a fine old fellow he is; I can see\nthat--said, that time you two came into the room, that you must have\n_another_ transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted.\nNow I know well that you medical men speak _in camera_, and that a man\nmust not expect to know what they consult about in private. But this is\nno common matter, and, whatever it is, I have done my part. Is not that\nso? \n\n That s so,  I said, and he went on:--\n\n I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did\nto-day. Is not that so? \n\n That s so. \n\n And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his\nown place he looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down so quick\nsince I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass\nall in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at\nher in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there\nwasn t enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a\nbullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may tell me without\nbetraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not that so?  As he spoke\nthe poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a torture of suspense\nregarding the woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible\nmystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain. His very\nheart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of him--and there was a\nroyal lot of it, too--to keep him from breaking down. I paused before\nanswering, for I felt that I must not betray anything which the\nProfessor wished kept secret; but already he knew so much, and guessed\nso much, that there could be no reason for not answering, so I answered\nin the same phrase:  That s so. \n\n And how long has this been going on? \n\n About ten days. \n\n Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature\nthat we all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood\nof four strong men. Man alive, her whole body wouldn t hold it.  Then,\ncoming close to me, he spoke in a fierce half-whisper:  What took it\nout? \n\nI shook my head.  That,  I said,  is the crux. Van Helsing is simply\nfrantic about it, and I am at my wits  end. I can t even hazard a guess.\nThere has been a series of little circumstances which have thrown out\nall our calculations as to Lucy being properly watched. But these shall\nnot occur again. Here we stay until all be well--or ill.  Quincey held\nout his hand.  Count me in,  he said.  You and the Dutchman will tell me\nwhat to do, and I ll do it. \n\nWhen she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy s first movement was to feel\nin her breast, and, to my surprise, produced the paper which Van Helsing\nhad given me to read. The careful Professor had replaced it where it had\ncome from, lest on waking she should be alarmed. Her eye then lit on Van\nHelsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she looked around the room,\nand seeing where she was, shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put her\npoor thin hands before her pale face. We both understood what that\nmeant--that she had realised to the full her mother s death; so we tried\nwhat we could to comfort her. Doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but\nshe was very low in thought and spirit, and wept silently and weakly for\na long time. We told her that either or both of us would now remain with\nher all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk she fell\ninto a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she\ntook the paper from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped\nover and took the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on\nwith the action of tearing, as though the material were still in her\nhands; finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering\nthe fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as\nif in thought, but he said nothing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_19 September._--All last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid\nto sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. The Professor and\nI took it in turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment\nunattended. Quincey Morris said nothing about his intention, but I knew\nthat all night long he patrolled round and round the house.\n\nWhen the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor Lucy s\nstrength. She was hardly able to turn her head, and the little\nnourishment which she could take seemed to do her no good. At times she\nslept, and both Van Helsing and I noticed the difference in her, between\nsleeping and waking. Whilst asleep she looked stronger, although more\nhaggard, and her breathing was softer; her open mouth showed the pale\ngums drawn back from the teeth, which thus looked positively longer and\nsharper than usual; when she woke the softness of her eyes evidently\nchanged the expression, for she looked her own self, although a dying\none. In the afternoon she asked for Arthur, and we telegraphed for him.\nQuincey went off to meet him at the station.\n\nWhen he arrived it was nearly six o clock, and the sun was setting full\nand warm, and the red light streamed in through the window and gave more\ncolour to the pale cheeks. When he saw her, Arthur was simply choking\nwith emotion, and none of us could speak. In the hours that had passed,\nthe fits of sleep, or the comatose condition that passed for it, had\ngrown more frequent, so that the pauses when conversation was possible\nwere shortened. Arthur s presence, however, seemed to act as a\nstimulant; she rallied a little, and spoke to him more brightly than she\nhad done since we arrived. He too pulled himself together, and spoke as\ncheerily as he could, so that the best was made of everything.\n\nIt was now nearly one o clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with\nher. I am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering\nthis on Lucy s phonograph. Until six o clock they are to try to rest. I\nfear that to-morrow will end our watching, for the shock has been too\ngreat; the poor child cannot rally. God help us all.\n\n\n_Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra._\n\n(Unopened by her.)\n\n _17 September._\n\n My dearest Lucy,--\n\n It seems _an age_ since I heard from you, or indeed since I wrote. You\nwill pardon me, I know, for all my faults when you have read all my\nbudget of news. Well, I got my husband back all right; when we arrived\nat Exeter there was a carriage waiting for us, and in it, though he had\nan attack of gout, Mr. Hawkins. He took us to his house, where there\nwere rooms for us all nice and comfortable, and we dined together. After\ndinner Mr. Hawkins said:--\n\n My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity; and may every\nblessing attend you both. I know you both from children, and have, with\nlove and pride, seen you grow up. Now I want you to make your home here\nwith me. I have left to me neither chick nor child; all are gone, and in\nmy will I have left you everything.  I cried, Lucy dear, as Jonathan and\nthe old man clasped hands. Our evening was a very, very happy one.\n\n So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and from both my\nbedroom and the drawing-room I can see the great elms of the cathedral\nclose, with their great black stems standing out against the old yellow\nstone of the cathedral and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and\ncawing and chattering and gossiping all day, after the manner of\nrooks--and humans. I am busy, I need not tell you, arranging things and\nhousekeeping. Jonathan and Mr. Hawkins are busy all day; for, now that\nJonathan is a partner, Mr. Hawkins wants to tell him all about the\nclients.\n\n How is your dear mother getting on? I wish I could run up to town for a\nday or two to see you, dear, but I dare not go yet, with so much on my\nshoulders; and Jonathan wants looking after still. He is beginning to\nput some flesh on his bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the\nlong illness; even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in a sudden\nway and awakes all trembling until I can coax him back to his usual\nplacidity. However, thank God, these occasions grow less frequent as the\ndays go on, and they will in time pass away altogether, I trust. And now\nI have told you my news, let me ask yours. When are you to be married,\nand where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and what are you to wear,\nand is it to be a public or a private wedding? Tell me all about it,\ndear; tell me all about everything, for there is nothing which interests\nyou which will not be dear to me. Jonathan asks me to send his\n respectful duty,  but I do not think that is good enough from the\njunior partner of the important firm Hawkins & Harker; and so, as you\nlove me, and he loves me, and I love you with all the moods and tenses\nof the verb, I send you simply his  love  instead. Good-bye, my dearest\nLucy, and all blessings on you.\n\n Yours,\n\n MINA HARKER. \n\n\n_Report from Patrick Hennessey, M. D., M. R. C. S. L. K. Q. C. P. I.,\netc., etc., to John Seward, M. D._\n\n _20 September._\n\n My dear Sir,--\n\n In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the conditions of\neverything left in my charge.... With regard to patient, Renfield, there\nis more to say. He has had another outbreak, which might have had a\ndreadful ending, but which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended\nwith any unhappy results. This afternoon a carrier s cart with two men\nmade a call at the empty house whose grounds abut on ours--the house to\nwhich, you will remember, the patient twice ran away. The men stopped at\nour gate to ask the porter their way, as they were strangers. I was\nmyself looking out of the study window, having a smoke after dinner, and\nsaw one of them come up to the house. As he passed the window of\nRenfield s room, the patient began to rate him from within, and called\nhim all the foul names he could lay his tongue to. The man, who seemed a\ndecent fellow enough, contented himself by telling him to  shut up for a\nfoul-mouthed beggar,  whereon our man accused him of robbing him and\nwanting to murder him and said that he would hinder him if he were to\nswing for it. I opened the window and signed to the man not to notice,\nso he contented himself after looking the place over and making up his\nmind as to what kind of a place he had got to by saying:  Lor  bless\nyer, sir, I wouldn t mind what was said to me in a bloomin  madhouse. I\npity ye and the guv nor for havin  to live in the house with a wild\nbeast like that.  Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him\nwhere the gate of the empty house was; he went away, followed by threats\nand curses and revilings from our man. I went down to see if I could\nmake out any cause for his anger, since he is usually such a\nwell-behaved man, and except his violent fits nothing of the kind had\never occurred. I found him, to my astonishment, quite composed and most\ngenial in his manner. I tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he\nblandly asked me questions as to what I meant, and led me to believe\nthat he was completely oblivious of the affair. It was, I am sorry to\nsay, however, only another instance of his cunning, for within half an\nhour I heard of him again. This time he had broken out through the\nwindow of his room, and was running down the avenue. I called to the\nattendants to follow me, and ran after him, for I feared he was intent\non some mischief. My fear was justified when I saw the same cart which\nhad passed before coming down the road, having on it some great wooden\nboxes. The men were wiping their foreheads, and were flushed in the\nface, as if with violent exercise. Before I could get up to him the\npatient rushed at them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to\nknock his head against the ground. If I had not seized him just at the\nmoment I believe he would have killed the man there and then. The other\nfellow jumped down and struck him over the head with the butt-end of his\nheavy whip. It was a terrible blow; but he did not seem to mind it, but\nseized him also, and struggled with the three of us, pulling us to and\nfro as if we were kittens. You know I am no light weight, and the others\nwere both burly men. At first he was silent in his fighting; but as we\nbegan to master him, and the attendants were putting a strait-waistcoat\non him, he began to shout:  I ll frustrate them! They shan t rob me!\nthey shan t murder me by inches! I ll fight for my Lord and Master!  and\nall sorts of similar incoherent ravings. It was with very considerable\ndifficulty that they got him back to the house and put him in the padded\nroom. One of the attendants, Hardy, had a finger broken. However, I set\nit all right; and he is going on well.\n\n The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of actions for\ndamages, and promised to rain all the penalties of the law on us. Their\nthreats were, however, mingled with some sort of indirect apology for\nthe defeat of the two of them by a feeble madman. They said that if it\nhad not been for the way their strength had been spent in carrying and\nraising the heavy boxes to the cart they would have made short work of\nhim. They gave as another reason for their defeat the extraordinary\nstate of drouth to which they had been reduced by the dusty nature of\ntheir occupation and the reprehensible distance from the scene of their\nlabours of any place of public entertainment. I quite understood their\ndrift, and after a stiff glass of grog, or rather more of the same, and\nwith each a sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore\nthat they would encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of\nmeeting so  bloomin  good a bloke  as your correspondent. I took their\nnames and addresses, in case they might be needed. They are as\nfollows:--Jack Smollet, of Dudding s Rents, King George s Road, Great\nWalworth, and Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley s Row, Guide Court, Bethnal\nGreen. They are both in the employment of Harris & Sons, Moving and\nShipment Company, Orange Master s Yard, Soho.\n\n I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here, and shall\nwire you at once if there is anything of importance.\n\n Believe me, dear Sir,\n\n Yours faithfully,\n\n PATRICK HENNESSEY. \n\n\n_Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra_.\n\n(Unopened by her.)\n\n _18 September._\n\n My dearest Lucy,--\n\n Such a sad blow has befallen us. Mr. Hawkins has died very suddenly.\nSome may not think it so sad for us, but we had both come to so love him\nthat it really seems as though we had lost a father. I never knew either\nfather or mother, so that the dear old man s death is a real blow to me.\nJonathan is greatly distressed. It is not only that he feels sorrow,\ndeep sorrow, for the dear, good man who has befriended him all his life,\nand now at the end has treated him like his own son and left him a\nfortune which to people of our modest bringing up is wealth beyond the\ndream of avarice, but Jonathan feels it on another account. He says the\namount of responsibility which it puts upon him makes him nervous. He\nbegins to doubt himself. I try to cheer him up, and _my_ belief in _him_\nhelps him to have a belief in himself. But it is here that the grave\nshock that he experienced tells upon him the most. Oh, it is too hard\nthat a sweet, simple, noble, strong nature such as his--a nature which\nenabled him by our dear, good friend s aid to rise from clerk to master\nin a few years--should be so injured that the very essence of its\nstrength is gone. Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my troubles in\nthe midst of your own happiness; but, Lucy dear, I must tell some one,\nfor the strain of keeping up a brave and cheerful appearance to Jonathan\ntries me, and I have no one here that I can confide in. I dread coming\nup to London, as we must do the day after to-morrow; for poor Mr.\nHawkins left in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his\nfather. As there are no relations at all, Jonathan will have to be chief\nmourner. I shall try to run over to see you, dearest, if only for a few\nminutes. Forgive me for troubling you. With all blessings,\n\n Your loving\n\n MINA HARKER. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_20 September._--Only resolution and habit can let me make an entry\nto-night. I am too miserable, too low-spirited, too sick of the world\nand all in it, including life itself, that I would not care if I heard\nthis moment the flapping of the wings of the angel of death. And he has\nbeen flapping those grim wings to some purpose of late--Lucy s mother\nand Arthur s father, and now.... Let me get on with my work.\n\nI duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We wanted Arthur to\ngo to rest also, but he refused at first. It was only when I told him\nthat we should want him to help us during the day, and that we must not\nall break down for want of rest, lest Lucy should suffer, that he agreed\nto go. Van Helsing was very kind to him.  Come, my child,  he said;\n come with me. You are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much\nmental pain, as well as that tax on your strength that we know of. You\nmust not be alone; for to be alone is to be full of fears and alarms.\nCome to the drawing-room, where there is a big fire, and there are two\nsofas. You shall lie on one, and I on the other, and our sympathy will\nbe comfort to each other, even though we do not speak, and even if we\nsleep.  Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look on Lucy s\nface, which lay in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. She lay\nquite still, and I looked round the room to see that all was as it\nshould be. I could see that the Professor had carried out in this room,\nas in the other, his purpose of using the garlic; the whole of the\nwindow-sashes reeked with it, and round Lucy s neck, over the silk\nhandkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough chaplet of\nthe same odorous flowers. Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and\nher face was at its worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her\nteeth, in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than they\nhad been in the morning. In particular, by some trick of the light, the\ncanine teeth looked longer and sharper than the rest. I sat down by her,\nand presently she moved uneasily. At the same moment there came a sort\nof dull flapping or buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly,\nand peeped out by the corner of the blind. There was a full moonlight,\nand I could see that the noise was made by a great bat, which wheeled\nround--doubtless attracted by the light, although so dim--and every now\nand again struck the window with its wings. When I came back to my seat,\nI found that Lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic\nflowers from her throat. I replaced them as well as I could, and sat\nwatching her.\n\nPresently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had prescribed.\nShe took but a little, and that languidly. There did not seem to be with\nher now the unconscious struggle for life and strength that had hitherto\nso marked her illness. It struck me as curious that the moment she\nbecame conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close to her. It was\ncertainly odd that whenever she got into that lethargic state, with the\nstertorous breathing, she put the flowers from her; but that when she\nwaked she clutched them close. There was no possibility of making any\nmistake about this, for in the long hours that followed, she had many\nspells of sleeping and waking and repeated both actions many times.\n\nAt six o clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had then fallen\ninto a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on. When he saw Lucy s face\nI could hear the sissing indraw of his breath, and he said to me in a\nsharp whisper:  Draw up the blind; I want light!  Then he bent down,\nand, with his face almost touching Lucy s, examined her carefully. He\nremoved the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat. As\nhe did so he started back, and I could hear his ejaculation,  Mein\nGott!  as it was smothered in his throat. I bent over and looked, too,\nand as I noticed some queer chill came over me.\n\nThe wounds on the throat had absolutely disappeared.\n\nFor fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her, with his face\nat its sternest. Then he turned to me and said calmly:--\n\n She is dying. It will not be long now. It will be much difference, mark\nme, whether she dies conscious or in her sleep. Wake that poor boy, and\nlet him come and see the last; he trusts us, and we have promised him. \n\nI went to the dining-room and waked him. He was dazed for a moment, but\nwhen he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the shutters\nhe thought he was late, and expressed his fear. I assured him that Lucy\nwas still asleep, but told him as gently as I could that both Van\nHelsing and I feared that the end was near. He covered his face with his\nhands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he remained,\nperhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his shoulders\nshook with grief. I took him by the hand and raised him up.  Come,  I\nsaid,  my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude: it will be best\nand easiest for her. \n\nWhen we came into Lucy s room I could see that Van Helsing had, with\nhis usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making\neverything look as pleasing as possible. He had even brushed Lucy s\nhair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual sunny ripples. When we\ncame into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered\nsoftly:--\n\n Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!  He was stooping to\nkiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him back.  No,  he whispered,  not\nyet! Hold her hand; it will comfort her more. \n\nSo Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best,\nwith all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. Then\ngradually her eyes closed, and she sank to sleep. For a little bit her\nbreast heaved softly, and her breath came and went like a tired child s.\n\nAnd then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed in\nthe night. Her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and the pale\ngums, drawn back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than ever. In a\nsort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened her eyes, which\nwere now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft, voluptuous voice,\nsuch as I had never heard from her lips:--\n\n Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss me!  Arthur bent\neagerly over to kiss her; but at that instant Van Helsing, who, like me,\nhad been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and catching him by\nthe neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury of strength which\nI never thought he could have possessed, and actually hurled him almost\nacross the room.\n\n Not for your life!  he said;  not for your living soul and hers!  And\nhe stood between them like a lion at bay.\n\nArthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do\nor say; and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realised\nthe place and the occasion, and stood silent, waiting.\n\nI kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we saw a spasm as\nof rage flit like a shadow over her face; the sharp teeth champed\ntogether. Then her eyes closed, and she breathed heavily.\n\nVery shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and\nputting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing s great brown\none; drawing it to her, she kissed it.  My true friend,  she said, in a\nfaint voice, but with untellable pathos,  My true friend, and his! Oh,\nguard him, and give me peace! \n\n I swear it!  he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his\nhand, as one who registers an oath. Then he turned to Arthur, and said\nto him:  Come, my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on the\nforehead, and only once. \n\nTheir eyes met instead of their lips; and so they parted.\n\nLucy s eyes closed; and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took\nArthur s arm, and drew him away.\n\nAnd then Lucy s breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it\nceased.\n\n It is all over,  said Van Helsing.  She is dead! \n\nI took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing-room, where he\nsat down, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way that\nnearly broke me down to see.\n\nI went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy, and\nhis face was sterner than ever. Some change had come over her body.\nDeath had given back part of her beauty, for her brow and cheeks had\nrecovered some of their flowing lines; even the lips had lost their\ndeadly pallor. It was as if the blood, no longer needed for the working\nof the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death as little rude as\nmight be.\n\n     We thought her dying whilst she slept,\n        And sleeping when she died. \n\nI stood beside Van Helsing, and said:--\n\n Ah, well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end! \n\nHe turned to me, and said with grave solemnity:--\n\n Not so; alas! not so. It is only the beginning! \n\nWhen I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered:--\n\n We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY--_continued_.\n\n\nThe funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and\nher mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly\nformalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff were\nafflicted--or blessed--with something of his own obsequious suavity.\nEven the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to\nme, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out\nfrom the death-chamber:--\n\n She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It s quite a privilege to\nattend on her. It s not too much to say that she will do credit to our\nestablishment! \n\nI noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from\nthe disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives\nat hand; and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his\nfather s funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been\nbidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon\nourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy s\npapers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a\nforeigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and\nso might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me:--\n\n I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But\nthis is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the\ncoroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more--such\nas this. \n\nAs he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had been\nin Lucy s breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.\n\n When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs.\nWestenra, seal all her papers, and write him to-night. For me, I watch\nhere in the room and in Miss Lucy s old room all night, and I myself\nsearch for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into\nthe hands of strangers. \n\nI went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found\nthe name and address of Mrs. Westenra s solicitor and had written to\nhim. All the poor lady s papers were in order; explicit directions\nregarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the\nletter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room,\nsaying:--\n\n Can I help you, friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to\nyou. \n\n Have you got what you looked for?  I asked, to which he replied:--\n\n I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I\nhave, all that there was--only some letters and a few memoranda, and a\ndiary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say\nnothing of them. I shall see that poor lad to-morrow evening, and, with\nhis sanction, I shall use some. \n\nWhen we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:--\n\n And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you\nand I, and rest to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do, but\nfor the to-night there is no need of us. Alas! \n\nBefore turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had\ncertainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small\n_chapelle ardente_. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers,\nand death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the\nwinding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and\nturned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall\nwax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy s\nloveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed,\ninstead of leaving traces of  decay s effacing fingers,  had but\nrestored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes\nthat I was looking at a corpse.\n\nThe Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and\nthere was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me:  Remain till I\nreturn,  and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic\nfrom the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and\nplaced the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he\ntook from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and\nplaced it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we\ncame away.\n\nI was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the\ndoor, he entered, and at once began to speak:--\n\n To-morrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem\nknives. \n\n Must we make an autopsy?  I asked.\n\n Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell you\nnow, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out\nher heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with\nno tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make\nthe rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that\nyou loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shall\noperate, and you must only help. I would like to do it to-night, but for\nArthur I must not; he will be free after his father s funeral to-morrow,\nand he will want to see her--to see _it_. Then, when she is coffined\nready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall\nunscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our operation: and then replace\nall, so that none know, save we alone. \n\n But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body\nwithout need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing\nto gain by it--no good to her, to us, to science, to human\nknowledge--why do it? Without such it is monstrous. \n\nFor answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite\ntenderness:--\n\n Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the more\nbecause it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden\nthat you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you\nshall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant\nthings. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet\ndid you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err--I am but\nman; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you\nsend for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay\nhorrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love--though she was\ndying--and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw\nhow she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so\nweak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not\nhear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!\n\n Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many\nyears trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be things so\nstrange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend\nJohn. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think; and that is\nnot perhaps well. And if I work--as work I shall, no matter trust or no\ntrust--without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel,\noh! so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!  He paused a\nmoment and went on solemnly:  Friend John, there are strange and\nterrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to\na good end. Will you not have faith in me? \n\nI took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away,\nand watched him go into his room and close the door. As I stood without\nmoving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage--she had\nher back towards me, so did not see me--and go into the room where Lucy\nlay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful\nto those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girl\nputting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch\nalone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay\nmight not be lonely till laid to eternal rest....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van\nHelsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and\nsaid:--\n\n You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it. \n\n Why not?  I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatly\nimpressed me.\n\n Because,  he said sternly,  it is too late--or too early. See!  Here he\nheld up the little golden crucifix.  This was stolen in the night. \n\n How, stolen,  I asked in wonder,  since you have it now? \n\n Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the\nwoman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely\ncome, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did and thus\nunknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait. \n\nHe went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a\nnew puzzle to grapple with.\n\nThe forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: Mr.\nMarquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very genial\nand very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all\ncares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for\nsome time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairs\nin absolute order; he informed us that, with the exception of a certain\nentailed property of Lucy s father s which now, in default of direct\nissue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate,\nreal and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had\ntold us so much he went on:--\n\n Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and\npointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either\npenniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial\nalliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into\ncollision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out\nher wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. We were\nright in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should\nhave proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment.\nFrankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of\ndisposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her\nwishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come\ninto possession of the property, and, even had she only survived her\nmother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no\nwill--and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case--have been\ntreated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming,\nthough so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the\ninheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just\nrights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure\nyou, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced. \n\nHe was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part--in which\nhe was officially interested--of so great a tragedy, was an\nobject-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.\n\nHe did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and\nsee Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to\nus, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile\ncriticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o clock, so\na little before that time we visited the death-chamber. It was so in\nvery truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker,\ntrue to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and\nthere was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at\nonce. Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to,\nexplaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be\nless harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his _fianc e_\nquite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and\nexerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left them\nthe night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings\nas we could avoid were saved.\n\nPoor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart\nmanhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his\nmuch-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly\nattached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was a\nbitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he\nwas sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was some\nconstraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to\nbring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the room, as I\nfelt he would like to be quite alone with her, but he took my arm and\nled me in, saying huskily:--\n\n You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was\nno friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don t know how to\nthank you for all you have done for her. I can t think yet.... \n\nHere he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and\nlaid his head on my breast, crying:--\n\n Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do! The whole of life seems gone from me\nall at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for. \n\nI comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much\nexpression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the\nshoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man s\nheart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said\nsoftly to him:--\n\n Come and look at her. \n\nTogether we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face.\nGod! how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her\nloveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he\nfell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At\nlast, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:--\n\n Jack, is she really dead? \n\nI assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest--for I felt\nthat such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than\nI could help--that it often happened that after death faces became\nsoftened and even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was\nespecially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged\nsuffering. It seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after\nkneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and\nlong, he turned aside. I told him that that must be good-bye, as the\ncoffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in his\nand kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away,\nfondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.\n\nI left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said\ngood-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker s men\nto proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When he\ncame out of the room again I told him of Arthur s question, and he\nreplied:--\n\n I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself! \n\nWe all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make\nthe best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time; but\nwhen we had lit our cigars he said--\n\n Lord---- ; but Arthur interrupted him:--\n\n No, no, not that, for God s sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir:\nI did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so\nrecent. \n\nThe Professor answered very sweetly:--\n\n I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you\n Mr.,  and I have grown to love you--yes, my dear boy, to love you--as\nArthur. \n\nArthur held out his hand, and took the old man s warmly.\n\n Call me what you will,  he said.  I hope I may always have the title of\na friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for\nyour goodness to my poor dear.  He paused a moment, and went on:  I know\nthat she understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was\nrude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so--you remember --the\nProfessor nodded-- you must forgive me. \n\nHe answered with a grave kindness:--\n\n I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such\nviolence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not--that you\ncannot--trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be\nmore times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot--and may\nnot--and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust\nshall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as\nthough the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from\nfirst to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others and for her\ndear sake to whom I swore to protect. \n\n And, indeed, indeed, sir,  said Arthur warmly,  I shall in all ways\ntrust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are\nJack s friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like. \n\nThe Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to\nspeak, and finally said:--\n\n May I ask you something now? \n\n Certainly. \n\n You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property? \n\n No, poor dear; I never thought of it. \n\n And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I\nwant you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy s papers and\nletters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which,\nbe sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them\nbefore we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch\nthem--no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep\nthem, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them\nsafe. No word shall be lost; and in the good time I shall give them back\nto you. It s a hard thing I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for\nLucy s sake? \n\nArthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:--\n\n Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I\nam doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you\nwith questions till the time comes. \n\nThe old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:--\n\n And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be\nall pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too--you most of\nall, my dear boy--will have to pass through the bitter water before we\nreach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our\nduty, and all will be well! \n\nI slept on a sofa in Arthur s room that night. Van Helsing did not go to\nbed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was\nnever out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with\nthe wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose,\na heavy, overpowering smell into the night.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_22 September._--In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.\n\nIt seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much\nbetween then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and\nno news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a\npartner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and\nJonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me\nabout it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand--see what\nunexpected prosperity does for us--so it may be as well to freshen it up\nagain with an exercise anyhow....\n\nThe service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves\nand the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his\nLondon agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the\nPresident of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in\nhand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us....\n\nWe came back to town quietly, taking a  bus to Hyde Park Corner.\nJonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so\nwe sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was\nsad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think\nof the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly.\nJonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days\nbefore I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can t go on\nfor some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the\npedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and he\nwas my husband, and we didn t know anybody who saw us--and we didn t\ncare if they did--so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful\ngirl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano s,\nwhen I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said\nunder his breath:  My God!  I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I\nfear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I turned to him\nquickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.\n\nHe was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and\nhalf in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and\nblack moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty\ngirl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us,\nand so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it was\nhard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all\nthe whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal s.\nJonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I\nfeared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I asked\nJonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that\nI knew as much about it as he did:  Do you see who it is? \n\n No, dear,  I said;  I don t know him; who is it?  His answer seemed to\nshock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was\nto me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:--\n\n It is the man himself! \n\nThe poor dear was evidently terrified at something--very greatly\nterrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to\nsupport him he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out of\nthe shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove\noff. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage\nmoved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a\nhansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:--\n\n I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be\nso! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew!  He was\ndistressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the\nsubject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew him\naway quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little\nfurther, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was\na hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place.\nAfter a few minutes  staring at nothing, Jonathan s eyes closed, and he\nwent quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought it\nwas the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty\nminutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:--\n\n Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.\nCome, and we ll have a cup of tea somewhere.  He had evidently forgotten\nall about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that\nthis episode had reminded him of. I don t like this lapsing into\nforgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must\nnot ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow\nlearn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I\nmust open that parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will,\nI know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--A sad home-coming in every way--the house empty of the dear\nsoul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight\nrelapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he\nmay be:--\n\n You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and\nthat Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day. \n\nOh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor\nLucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have\nlost such sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our\ntroubles.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_22 September._--It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has\ntaken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe\nin my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy s death as any\nof us; but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking. If America\ncan go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world\nindeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his\njourney. He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns\nto-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which can\nonly be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can; he says\nhe has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old\nfellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his\niron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting\nsome terrible restraint on himself. When it was all over, we were\nstanding beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in\nthe operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy s veins; I\ncould see Van Helsing s face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was\nsaying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married\nand that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word of\nthe other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went\naway together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The\nmoment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of\nhysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted\nthat it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under very\nterrible conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down\nthe blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he cried,\ntill he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a woman\ndoes. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the\ncircumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in\nmanifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew\ngrave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time.\nHis reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and\nforceful and mysterious. He said:--\n\n Ah, you don t comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad,\nthough I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But\nno more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come\njust the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your\ndoor and say,  May I come in?  is not the true laughter. No! he is a\nking, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no\ntime of suitability. He say,  I am here.  Behold, in example I grieve my\nheart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though\nI am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other\nsufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very\ngrave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her\ncoffin and say  Thud! thud!  to my heart, till it send back the blood\nfrom my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of\nthe age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his\nhair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet\nwhen he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my\nfather-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend\nJohn, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet even\nat such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,\n Here I am! here I am!  till the blood come dance back and bring some of\nthe sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is\na strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and\ntroubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the\ntune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and\ntears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that he\nmake with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that\nhe is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn\ntight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and,\nlike the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain\nbecome too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the\nsunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with\nour labour, what it may be. \n\nI did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I\ndid not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he\nanswered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different\ntone:--\n\n Oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded with\nflowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she\nwere truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely\nchurchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother\nwho loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going  Toll!\ntoll! toll!  so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white\ngarments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time\ntheir eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. And all\nfor what? She is dead; so! Is it not? \n\n Well, for the life of me, Professor,  I said,  I can t see anything to\nlaugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle\nthan before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor\nArt and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking. \n\n Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had\nmade her truly his bride? \n\n Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him. \n\n Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then\nwhat about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist,\nand me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church s law, though\nno wits, all gone--even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife,\nam bigamist. \n\n I don t see where the joke comes in there either!  I said; and I did\nnot feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid\nhis hand on my arm, and said:--\n\n Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others\nwhen it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust.\nIf you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh;\nif you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so\nnow, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him--for\nhe go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time--maybe you would\nperhaps pity me the most of all. \n\nI was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.\n\n Because I know! \n\nAnd now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will\nsit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her\nkin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming\nLondon; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill,\nand where wild flowers grow of their own accord.\n\nSo I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin\nanother. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with\ndifferent people and different themes; for here at the end, where the\nromance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my\nlife-work, I say sadly and without hope,\n\n                         FINIS. \n\n\n_ The Westminster Gazette,  25 September._\n\n                          A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.\n\n\nThe neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a\nseries of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what\nwas known to the writers of headlines as  The Kensington Horror,  or\n The Stabbing Woman,  or  The Woman in Black.  During the past two or\nthree days several cases have occurred of young children straying from\nhome or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all\nthese cases the children were too young to give any properly\nintelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses\nis that they had been with a  bloofer lady.  It has always been late in\nthe evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the\nchildren have not been found until early in the following morning. It is\ngenerally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed\ngave as his reason for being away that a  bloofer lady  had asked him to\ncome for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as\noccasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the\nlittle ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A\ncorrespondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to\nbe the  bloofer lady  is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists\nmight, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the\nreality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general\nprinciples of human nature that the  bloofer lady  should be the popular\nr le at these _al fresco_ performances. Our correspondent na vely says\nthat even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of\nthese grubby-faced little children pretend--and even imagine\nthemselves--to be.\n\nThere is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of\nthe children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been\nslightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be\nmade by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance\nindividually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has\na system or method of its own. The police of the division have been\ninstructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially\nwhen very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog\nwhich may be about.\n\n\n               _ The Westminster Gazette,  25 September._\n\n                            _Extra Special._\n\n                         THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.\n\n                         ANOTHER CHILD INJURED.\n\n                         _The  Bloofer Lady. _\n\nWe have just received intelligence that another child, missed last\nnight, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the\nShooter s Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less\nfrequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the\nthroat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and\nlooked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common\nstory to tell of being lured away by the  bloofer lady. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nMINA HARKER S JOURNAL\n\n\n_23 September_.--Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that\nhe has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible\nthings; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the\nresponsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself,\nand now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his\nadvancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon\nhim. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch\nat home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal,\nand lock myself up in my room and read it....\n\n\n_24 September_.--I hadn t the heart to write last night; that terrible\nrecord of Jonathan s upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered,\nwhether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth\nin it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those\nterrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall\nnever know, for I dare not open the subject to him.... And yet that man\nwe saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him.... Poor fellow! I\nsuppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some\ntrain of thought.... He believes it all himself. I remember how on our\nwedding-day he said:  Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to\nthe bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane.  There seems to be\nthrough it all some thread of continuity.... That fearful Count was\ncoming to London.... If it should be, and he came to London, with his\nteeming millions.... There may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must\nnot shrink from it.... I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter\nthis very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other\neyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am ready,\npoor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let\nhim be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets\nover the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him\nquestions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.\n\n\n_Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker._\n\n _24 September._\n\n(_Confidence_)\n\n Dear Madam,--\n\n I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I\nsent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra s death. By the kindness of\nLord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am\ndeeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I find\nsome letters from you, which show how great friends you were and how you\nlove her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is\nfor others  good that I ask--to redress great wrong, and to lift much\nand terrible troubles--that may be more great than you can know. May it\nbe that I see you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and\nof Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it private\nfor the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you at once if\nyou tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your\npardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good\nyou are and how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if it may be,\nenlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive me.\n\n VAN HELSING. \n\n\n_Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing._\n\n _25 September._--Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch\nit. Can see you any time you call.\n\n WILHELMINA HARKER. \n\nMINA HARKER S JOURNAL.\n\n_25 September._--I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time\ndraws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that\nit will throw some light upon Jonathan s sad experience; and as he\nattended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about\nher. That is the reason of his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her\nsleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real\ntruth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my\nimagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of\ncourse it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that\nawful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten\nin my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him\nof her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about\nit; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may\nunderstand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs.\nWestenra; I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even\na negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van\nHelsing will not blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of\nlate that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.\n\nI suppose a cry does us all good at times--clears the air as other rain\ndoes. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and\nthen Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day\nand night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do\nhope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will\noccur to upset him. It is two o clock, and the doctor will be here soon\nnow. I shall say nothing of Jonathan s journal unless he asks me. I am\nso glad I have type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks\nabout Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it\nall makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all\npossible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan s journal\nfirst, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear\nJonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God, all this may\nnot upset him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it may be even\na consolation and a help to him--terrible though it be and awful in its\nconsequences--to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did\nnot deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt\nwhich haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter\nwhich--waking or dreaming--may prove the truth, he will be more\nsatisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a\ngood man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur s friend and Dr.\nSeward s, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after\nLucy. I feel from having seen him that he _is_ good and kind and of a\nnoble nature. When he comes to-morrow I shall ask him about Jonathan;\nand then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good\nend. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan s\nfriend on  The Exeter News  told him that memory was everything in such\nwork--that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word\nspoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare\ninterview; I shall try to record it _verbatim_.\n\nIt was half-past two o clock when the knock came. I took my courage _ \ndeux mains_ and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and\nannounced  Dr. Van Helsing. \n\nI rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight,\nstrongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and\na neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise\nof the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the\nhead is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face,\nclean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile\nmouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive\nnostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the\nmouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost\nstraight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart;\nsuch a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it,\nbut falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set\nwidely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man s moods. He\nsaid to me:--\n\n Mrs. Harker, is it not?  I bowed assent.\n\n That was Miss Mina Murray?  Again I assented.\n\n It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear\nchild Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come. \n\n Sir,  I said,  you could have no better claim on me than that you were\na friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.  And I held out my hand. He took\nit and said tenderly:--\n\n Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be\ngood, but I had yet to learn----  He finished his speech with a courtly\nbow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at\nonce began:--\n\n I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin\nto inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were\nwith her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary--you need not look\nsurprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you had left, and was in\nimitation of you--and in that diary she traces by inference certain\nthings to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In\ngreat perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much\nkindness to tell me all of it that you can remember. \n\n I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it. \n\n Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not always\nso with young ladies. \n\n No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you\nif you like. \n\n Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour.  I\ncould not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit--I suppose it is\nsome of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our\nmouths--so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful\nbow, and said:--\n\n May I read it? \n\n If you wish,  I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for\nan instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.\n\n Oh, you so clever woman!  he said.  I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a\nman of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things.\nAnd will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me?\nAlas! I know not the shorthand.  By this time my little joke was over,\nand I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my\nworkbasket and handed it to him.\n\n Forgive me,  I said:  I could not help it; but I had been thinking that\nit was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not\nhave time to wait--not on my account, but because I know your time must\nbe precious--I have written it out on the typewriter for you. \n\nHe took it and his eyes glistened.  You are so good,  he said.  And may\nI read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read. \n\n By all means,  I said,  read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you\ncan ask me questions whilst we eat.  He bowed and settled himself in a\nchair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers,\nwhilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be\ndisturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down\nthe room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and\ntook me by both hands.\n\n Oh, Madam Mina,  he said,  how can I say what I owe to you? This paper\nis as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so\nmuch light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that\nyou do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so\nclever woman. Madam --he said this very solemnly-- if ever Abraham Van\nHelsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know.\nIt will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a\nfriend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you\nand those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights;\nyou are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and\nyour husband will be blessed in you. \n\n But, doctor, you praise me too much, and--and you do not know me. \n\n Not know you--I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and\nwomen; I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to\nhim and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you\nhave so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every\nline. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your\nmarriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell\nall their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that\nangels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of\nangels  eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for\nyou trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your\nhusband--tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and\nis he strong and hearty?  I saw here an opening to ask him about\nJonathan, so I said:--\n\n He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins s\ndeath.  He interrupted:--\n\n Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters.  I went\non:--\n\n I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he\nhad a sort of shock. \n\n A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of\na shock was it? \n\n He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something\nwhich led to his brain fever.  And here the whole thing seemed to\noverwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he\nexperienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that\nhas been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I\nwas hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to\nhim, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands\nand raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my\nhand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--\n\n My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not\nhad much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by\nmy friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such\nnobility that I feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing\nyears--the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here\nfull of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what I\nam seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life\nhappy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for\nthe children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some\nuse to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my\nstudy and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do _all_ for him\nthat I can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy\none. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious.\nHusband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not\nwhere he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat\nand smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not\nspeak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I\nwant to think much over what you have told me, and when I have thought I\nwill ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of\nhusband Jonathan s trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat\nnow; afterwards you shall tell me all. \n\nAfter lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:--\n\n And now tell me all about him.  When it came to speaking to this great\nlearned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and\nJonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and I hesitated to go\non. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I\ntrusted him, so I said:--\n\n Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not\nlaugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of\nfever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I\nhave even half believed some very strange things.  He reassured me by\nhis manner as well as his words when he said:--\n\n Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which\nI am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little\nof any one s belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep\nan open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close\nit, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that\nmake one doubt if they be mad or sane. \n\n Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my\nmind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long,\nbut I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and\nJonathan s. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that\nhappened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and\njudge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell\nme what you think. \n\n I promise,  he said as I gave him the papers;  I shall in the morning,\nso soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may. \n\n Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch\nwith us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3:34 train, which\nwill leave you at Paddington before eight.  He was surprised at my\nknowledge of the trains off-hand, but he does not know that I have made\nup all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in\ncase he is in a hurry.\n\nSo he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here\nthinking--thinking I don t know what.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker._\n\n _25 September, 6 o clock._\n\n Dear Madam Mina,--\n\n I have read your husband s so wonderful diary. You may sleep without\ndoubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is _true_! I will pledge my\nlife on it. It may be worse for others; but for him and you there is no\ndread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of men,\nthat one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to that\nroom--ay, and going a second time--is not one to be injured in\npermanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I\nswear, before I have even seen him; so be at rest. I shall have much to\nask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for\nI have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzle--dazzle more\nthan ever, and I must think.\n\n Yours the most faithful,\n\n ABRAHAM VAN HELSING. \n\n\n_Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing._\n\n _25 September, 6:30 p. m._\n\n My dear Dr. Van Helsing,--\n\n A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight\noff my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are in\nthe world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be really\nin London! I fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing, had a\nwire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 to-night from\nLaunceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have no fear\nto-night. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come\nto breakfast at eight o clock, if this be not too early for you? You can\nget away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring\nyou to Paddington by 2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that,\nif I do not hear, you will come to breakfast.\n\n Believe me,\n\n Your faithful and grateful friend,\n\n MINA HARKER. \n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_26 September._--I thought never to write in this diary again, but the\ntime has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and\nwhen we had supped she told me of Van Helsing s visit, and of her having\ngiven him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been\nabout me. She showed me in the doctor s letter that all I wrote down was\ntrue. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the\nreality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in\nthe dark, and distrustful. But, now that I _know_, I am not afraid, even\nof the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting\nto London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing\nis the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what\nMina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I\nshall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over....\n\nHe was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where he\nwas, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my\nface round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:--\n\n But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock.  It was\nso funny to hear my wife called  Madam Mina  by this kindly,\nstrong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:--\n\n I _was_ ill, I _have_ had a shock; but you have cured me already. \n\n And how? \n\n By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything\ntook a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the\nevidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know\nwhat to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been\nthe groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted\nmyself. Doctor, you don t know what it is to doubt everything, even\nyourself. No, you don t; you couldn t with eyebrows like yours.  He\nseemed pleased, and laughed as he said:--\n\n So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with\nso much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will\npardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife.  I\nwould listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded\nand stood silent.\n\n She is one of God s women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men and\nother women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its\nlight can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an\negoist--and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and\nselfish. And you, sir--I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy,\nand some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from the\nknowing of others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You\nwill give me your hand, will you not? And let us be friends for all our\nlives. \n\nWe shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite\nchoky.\n\n And now,  he said,  may I ask you for some more help? I have a great\ntask to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here.\nCan you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I\nmay ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do. \n\n Look here, sir,  I said,  does what you have to do concern the Count? \n\n It does,  he said solemnly.\n\n Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30 train, you\nwill not have time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers.\nYou can take them with you and read them in the train. \n\nAfter breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he\nsaid:--\n\n Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take Madam Mina\ntoo. \n\n We shall both come when you will,  I said.\n\nI had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous\nnight, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the\ntrain to start, he was turning them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to\ncatch something in one of them,  The Westminster Gazette --I knew it by\nthe colour--and he grew quite white. He read something intently,\ngroaning to himself:  Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! so soon!  I do not\nthink he remembered me at the moment. Just then the whistle blew, and\nthe train moved off. This recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of\nthe window and waved his hand, calling out:  Love to Madam Mina; I shall\nwrite so soon as ever I can. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_26 September._--Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week\nsince I said  Finis,  and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather\ngoing on with the same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to\nthink of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as\nhe ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business; and he had\njust started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any trouble\nto me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from it I\ngather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with\nhim, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well of\ngood spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that\nArthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to\nthem all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my\nwork with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might\nfairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming\ncicatrised. Everything is, however, now reopened; and what is to be the\nend God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows,\ntoo, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He\nwent to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. To-day he came\nback, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o clock,\nand thrust last night s  Westminster Gazette  into my hand.\n\n What do you think of that?  he asked as he stood back and folded his\narms.\n\nI looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant; but he\ntook it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed\naway at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a\npassage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. An\nidea struck me, and I looked up.  Well?  he said.\n\n It is like poor Lucy s. \n\n And what do you make of it? \n\n Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured\nher has injured them.  I did not quite understand his answer:--\n\n That is true indirectly, but not directly. \n\n How do you mean, Professor?  I asked. I was a little inclined to take\nhis seriousness lightly--for, after all, four days of rest and freedom\nfrom burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one s spirits--but\nwhen I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our\ndespair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.\n\n Tell me!  I said.  I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to\nthink, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture. \n\n Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to\nwhat poor Lucy died of; not after all the hints given, not only by\nevents, but by me? \n\n Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood. \n\n And how the blood lost or waste?  I shook my head. He stepped over and\nsat down beside me, and went on:--\n\n You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold;\nbut you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears\nhear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to\nyou. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand,\nand yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? But\nthere are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men s\neyes, because they know--or think they know--some things which other men\nhave told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to\nexplain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to\nexplain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs,\nwhich think themselves new; and which are yet but the old, which pretend\nto be young--like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do not\nbelieve in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialisation. No? Nor\nin astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in\nhypnotism---- \n\n Yes,  I said.  Charcot has proved that pretty well.  He smiled as he\nwent on:  Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course then you\nunderstand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great\nCharcot--alas that he is no more!--into the very soul of the patient\nthat he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you\nsimply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion\nbe a blank? No? Then tell me--for I am student of the brain--how you\naccept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let me tell you, my\nfriend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which\nwould have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered\nelectricity--who would themselves not so long before have been burned\nas wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that\nMethuselah lived nine hundred years, and  Old Parr  one hundred and\nsixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men s blood in her poor\nveins, could not live even one day? For, had she live one more day, we\ncould have save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do\nyou know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore the\nqualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell me\nwhy, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived\nfor centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew,\ntill, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can\nyou tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that\ncome at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their\nveins; how in some islands of the Western seas there are bats which hang\non the trees all day, and those who have seen describe as like giant\nnuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that\nit is hot, flit down on them, and then--and then in the morning are\nfound dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was? \n\n Good God, Professor!  I said, starting up.  Do you mean to tell me that\nLucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a thing is here in London\nin the nineteenth century?  He waved his hand for silence, and went\non:--\n\n Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of\nmen; why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and\nwhy the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint?\nCan you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are\nsome few who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and\nwomen who cannot die? We all know--because science has vouched for the\nfact--that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of\nyears, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of\nthe world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die\nand have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the\ncorn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then men\ncome and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the Indian\nfakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before?  Here\nI interrupted him. I was getting bewildered; he so crowded on my mind\nhis list of nature s eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my\nimagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching me\nsome lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam; but\nhe used then to tell me the thing, so that I could have the object of\nthought in mind all the time. But now I was without this help, yet I\nwanted to follow him, so I said:--\n\n Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so\nthat I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in\nmy mind from point to point as a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an\nidea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a mist, jumping\nfrom one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without\nknowing where I am going. \n\n That is good image,  he said.  Well, I shall tell you. My thesis is\nthis: I want you to believe. \n\n To believe what? \n\n To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once\nof an American who so defined faith:  that faculty which enables us to\nbelieve things which we know to be untrue.  For one, I follow that man.\nHe meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of\ntruth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway\ntruck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we value\nhim; but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in\nthe universe. \n\n Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the\nreceptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read\nyour lesson aright? \n\n Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now\nthat you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to\nunderstand. You think then that those so small holes in the children s\nthroats were made by the same that made the hole in Miss Lucy? \n\n I suppose so.  He stood up and said solemnly:--\n\n Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It is worse,\nfar, far worse. \n\n In God s name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?  I cried.\n\nHe threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his\nelbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke:--\n\n They were made by Miss Lucy! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY--_continued_.\n\n\nFor a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had during her life\nstruck Lucy on the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I said to\nhim:--\n\n Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?  He raised his head and looked at me, and\nsomehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once.  Would I were!  he\nsaid.  Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my\nfriend, why, think you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell\nyou so simple a thing? Was it because I hate you and have hated you all\nmy life? Was it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted,\nnow so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a\nfearful death? Ah no! \n\n Forgive me,  said I. He went on:--\n\n My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the breaking to you,\nfor I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But even yet I do not\nexpect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at once any abstract\ntruth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always\nbelieved the  no  of it; it is more hard still to accept so sad a\nconcrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. To-night I go to prove\nit. Dare you come with me? \n\nThis staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth; Byron\nexcepted from the category, jealousy.\n\n     And prove the very truth he most abhorred. \n\nHe saw my hesitation, and spoke:--\n\n The logic is simple, no madman s logic this time, jumping from tussock\nto tussock in a misty bog. If it be not true, then proof will be relief;\nat worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the dread; yet\nvery dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief. Come,\nI tell you what I propose: first, that we go off now and see that child\nin the hospital. Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers\nsay the child is, is friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were\nin class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he\nwill not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we\nwish to learn. And then---- \n\n And then?  He took a key from his pocket and held it up.  And then we\nspend the night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is\nthe key that lock the tomb. I had it from the coffin-man to give to\nArthur.  My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful\nordeal before us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what\nheart I could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was\npassing....\n\nWe found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food, and\naltogether was going on well. Dr. Vincent took the bandage from its\nthroat, and showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the\nsimilarity to those which had been on Lucy s throat. They were smaller,\nand the edges looked fresher; that was all. We asked Vincent to what he\nattributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of some\nanimal, perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he was inclined to think\nthat it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the northern\nheights of London.  Out of so many harmless ones,  he said,  there may\nbe some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant species. Some\nsailor may have brought one home, and it managed to escape; or even from\nthe Zo logical Gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred\nthere from a vampire. These things do occur, you know. Only ten days ago\na wolf got out, and was, I believe, traced up in this direction. For a\nweek after, the children were playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the\nHeath and in every alley in the place until this  bloofer lady  scare\ncame along, since when it has been quite a gala-time with them. Even\nthis poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked the nurse if he\nmight go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted\nto play with the  bloofer lady. \n\n I hope,  said Van Helsing,  that when you are sending the child home\nyou will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies\nto stray are most dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another\nnight, it would probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will\nnot let it away for some days? \n\n Certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound is not\nhealed. \n\nOur visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and\nthe sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it\nwas, he said:--\n\n There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek\nsomewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way. \n\nWe dined at  Jack Straw s Castle  along with a little crowd of\nbicyclists and others who were genially noisy. About ten o clock we\nstarted from the inn. It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps\nmade the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual\nradius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he\nwent on unhesitatingly; but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as to\nlocality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at\nlast we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse\npolice going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the wall of\nthe churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little difficulty--for\nit was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us--we found\nthe Westenra tomb. The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door,\nand standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to\nprecede him. There was a delicious irony in the offer, in the\ncourtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. My\ncompanion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after\ncarefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring,\none. In the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. Then he\nfumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle,\nproceeded to make a light. The tomb in the day-time, and when wreathed\nwith fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now, some\ndays afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites\nturning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the\nbeetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured\nstone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished\nbrass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a\ncandle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been\nimagined. It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life--animal life--was\nnot the only thing which could pass away.\n\nVan Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so\nthat he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm\ndropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he\nmade assurance of Lucy s coffin. Another search in his bag, and he took\nout a turnscrew.\n\n What are you going to do?  I asked.\n\n To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced.  Straightway he began\ntaking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the\ncasing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too much for me. It seemed\nto be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have\nstripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; I actually took\nhold of his hand to stop him. He only said:  You shall see,  and again\nfumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fret-saw. Striking the turnscrew\nthrough the lead with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he\nmade a small hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point of\nthe saw. I had expected a rush of gas from the week-old corpse. We\ndoctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed to\nsuch things, and I drew back towards the door. But the Professor never\nstopped for a moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side of\nthe lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking the\nedge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the\ncoffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to\nlook.\n\nI drew near and looked. The coffin was empty.\n\nIt was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but\nVan Helsing was unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground,\nand so emboldened to proceed in his task.  Are you satisfied now, friend\nJohn?  he asked.\n\nI felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as\nI answered him:--\n\n I am satisfied that Lucy s body is not in that coffin; but that only\nproves one thing. \n\n And what is that, friend John? \n\n That it is not there. \n\n That is good logic,  he said,  so far as it goes. But how do you--how\ncan you--account for it not being there? \n\n Perhaps a body-snatcher,  I suggested.  Some of the undertaker s people\nmay have stolen it.  I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet it was\nthe only real cause which I could suggest. The Professor sighed.  Ah\nwell!  he said,  we must have more proof. Come with me. \n\nHe put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things and placed\nthem in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the\nbag. We opened the door, and went out. Behind us he closed the door and\nlocked it. He handed me the key, saying:  Will you keep it? You had\nbetter be assured.  I laughed--it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am\nbound to say--as I motioned him to keep it.  A key is nothing,  I said;\n there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock\nof that kind.  He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he\ntold me to watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at\nthe other. I took up my place behind a yew-tree, and I saw his dark\nfigure move until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my\nsight.\n\nIt was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a distant\nclock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. I was chilled and\nunnerved, and angry with the Professor for taking me on such an errand\nand with myself for coming. I was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly\nobservant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust so altogether I had\na dreary, miserable time.\n\nSuddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white\nstreak, moving between two dark yew-trees at the side of the churchyard\nfarthest from the tomb; at the same time a dark mass moved from the\nProfessor s side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I\ntoo moved; but I had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and I\nstumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and somewhere far off an\nearly cock crew. A little way off, beyond a line of scattered\njuniper-trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white, dim\nfigure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The tomb itself was hidden\nby trees, and I could not see where the figure disappeared. I heard the\nrustle of actual movement where I had first seen the white figure, and\ncoming over, found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny child. When\nhe saw me he held it out to me, and said:--\n\n Are you satisfied now? \n\n No,  I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.\n\n Do you not see the child? \n\n Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded?  I\nasked.\n\n We shall see,  said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our way\nout of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.\n\nWhen we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of\ntrees, and struck a match, and looked at the child s throat. It was\nwithout a scratch or scar of any kind.\n\n Was I right?  I asked triumphantly.\n\n We were just in time,  said the Professor thankfully.\n\nWe had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted\nabout it. If we were to take it to a police-station we should have to\ngive some account of our movements during the night; at least, we should\nhave had to make some statement as to how we had come to find the child.\nSo finally we decided that we would take it to the Heath, and when we\nheard a policeman coming, would leave it where he could not fail to find\nit; we would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. All fell out\nwell. At the edge of Hampstead Heath we heard a policeman s heavy\ntramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and watched until\nhe saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. We heard his exclamation\nof astonishment, and then we went away silently. By good chance we got a\ncab near the  Spaniards,  and drove to town.\n\nI cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few hours \nsleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists that I shall\ngo with him on another expedition.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_27 September._--It was two o clock before we found a suitable\nopportunity for our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all completed,\nand the last stragglers of the mourners had taken themselves lazily\naway, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of alder-trees, we saw\nthe sexton lock the gate after him. We knew then that we were safe till\nmorning did we desire it; but the Professor told me that we should not\nwant more than an hour at most. Again I felt that horrid sense of the\nreality of things, in which any effort of imagination seemed out of\nplace; and I realised distinctly the perils of the law which we were\nincurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was all so useless.\nOutrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead\nnearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to\nopen the tomb again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own\neyesight, that the coffin was empty. I shrugged my shoulders, however,\nand rested silent, for Van Helsing had a way of going on his own road,\nno matter who remonstrated. He took the key, opened the vault, and again\ncourteously motioned me to precede. The place was not so gruesome as\nlast night, but oh, how unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine\nstreamed in. Van Helsing walked over to Lucy s coffin, and I followed.\nHe bent over and again forced back the leaden flange; and then a shock\nof surprise and dismay shot through me.\n\nThere lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her\nfuneral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and I\ncould not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay redder than\nbefore; and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.\n\n Is this a juggle?  I said to him.\n\n Are you convinced now?  said the Professor in response, and as he spoke\nhe put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the\ndead lips and showed the white teeth.\n\n See,  he went on,  see, they are even sharper than before. With this\nand this --and he touched one of the canine teeth and that below\nit-- the little children can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend\nJohn?  Once more, argumentative hostility woke within me. I _could_ not\naccept such an overwhelming idea as he suggested; so, with an attempt to\nargue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said:--\n\n She may have been placed here since last night. \n\n Indeed? That is so, and by whom? \n\n I do not know. Some one has done it. \n\n And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would not\nlook so.  I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not\nseem to notice my silence; at any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor\ntriumph. He was looking intently at the face of the dead woman, raising\nthe eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and\nexamining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said:--\n\n Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded; here is\nsome dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the vampire\nwhen she was in a trance, sleep-walking--oh, you start; you do not know\nthat, friend John, but you shall know it all later--and in trance could\nhe best come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in trance she\nis Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all other. Usually when\nthe Un-Dead sleep at home --as he spoke he made a comprehensive sweep of\nhis arm to designate what to a vampire was  home -- their face show what\nthey are, but this so sweet that was when she not Un-Dead she go back to\nthe nothings of the common dead. There is no malign there, see, and so\nit make hard that I must kill her in her sleep.  This turned my blood\ncold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was accepting Van Helsing s\ntheories; but if she were really dead, what was there of terror in the\nidea of killing her? He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in\nmy face, for he said almost joyously:--\n\n Ah, you believe now? \n\nI answered:  Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to\naccept. How will you do this bloody work? \n\n I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall\ndrive a stake through her body.  It made me shudder to think of so\nmutilating the body of the woman whom I had loved. And yet the feeling\nwas not so strong as I had expected. I was, in fact, beginning to\nshudder at the presence of this being, this Un-Dead, as Van Helsing\ncalled it, and to loathe it. Is it possible that love is all subjective,\nor all objective?\n\nI waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as\nif wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with a\nsnap, and said:--\n\n I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. If I\ndid simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment, what is\nto be done; but there are other things to follow, and things that are\nthousand times more difficult in that them we do not know. This is\nsimple. She have yet no life taken, though that is of time; and to act\nnow would be to take danger from her for ever. But then we may have to\nwant Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If you, who saw the\nwounds on Lucy s throat, and saw the wounds so similar on the child s at\nthe hospital; if you, who saw the coffin empty last night and full\nto-day with a woman who have not change only to be more rose and more\nbeautiful in a whole week, after she die--if you know of this and know\nof the white figure last night that brought the child to the churchyard,\nand yet of your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can I expect\nArthur, who know none of those things, to believe? He doubted me when I\ntook him from her kiss when she was dying. I know he has forgiven me\nbecause in some mistaken idea I have done things that prevent him say\ngood-bye as he ought; and he may think that in some more mistaken idea\nthis woman was buried alive; and that in most mistake of all we have\nkilled her. He will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that\nhave killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy always. Yet\nhe never can be sure; and that is the worst of all. And he will\nsometimes think that she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint\nhis dreams with horrors of what she must have suffered; and again, he\nwill think that we may be right, and that his so beloved was, after all,\nan Un-Dead. No! I told him once, and since then I learn much. Now, since\nI know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do I know that he\nmust pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow,\nmust have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to\nhim; then we can act for good all round and send him peace. My mind is\nmade up. Let us go. You return home for to-night to your asylum, and see\nthat all be well. As for me, I shall spend the night here in this\nchurchyard in my own way. To-morrow night you will come to me to the\nBerkeley Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too,\nand also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we\nshall all have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and\nthere dine, for I must be back here before the sun set. \n\nSo we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the\nchurchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to Piccadilly.\n\n\n_Note left by Van Helsing in his portmanteau, Berkeley Hotel directed to\nJohn Seward, M. D._\n\n(Not delivered.)\n\n _27 September._\n\n Friend John,--\n\n I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to watch in\nthat churchyard. It pleases me that the Un-Dead, Miss Lucy, shall not\nleave to-night, that so on the morrow night she may be more eager.\nTherefore I shall fix some things she like not--garlic and a\ncrucifix--and so seal up the door of the tomb. She is young as Un-Dead,\nand will heed. Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out; they\nmay not prevail on her wanting to get in; for then the Un-Dead is\ndesperate, and must find the line of least resistance, whatsoever it may\nbe. I shall be at hand all the night from sunset till after the sunrise,\nand if there be aught that may be learned I shall learn it. For Miss\nLucy or from her, I have no fear; but that other to whom is there that\nshe is Un-Dead, he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter.\nHe is cunning, as I know from Mr. Jonathan and from the way that all\nalong he have fooled us when he played with us for Miss Lucy s life, and\nwe lost; and in many ways the Un-Dead are strong. He have always the\nstrength in his hand of twenty men; even we four who gave our strength\nto Miss Lucy it also is all to him. Besides, he can summon his wolf and\nI know not what. So if it be that he come thither on this night he shall\nfind me; but none other shall--until it be too late. But it may be that\nhe will not attempt the place. There is no reason why he should; his\nhunting ground is more full of game than the churchyard where the\nUn-Dead woman sleep, and the one old man watch.\n\n Therefore I write this in case.... Take the papers that are with this,\nthe diaries of Harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this\ngreat Un-Dead, and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake\nthrough it, so that the world may rest from him.\n\n If it be so, farewell.\n\n VAN HELSING. \n\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_28 September._--It is wonderful what a good night s sleep will do for\none. Yesterday I was almost willing to accept Van Helsing s monstrous\nideas; but now they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on\ncommon sense. I have no doubt that he believes it all. I wonder if his\nmind can have become in any way unhinged. Surely there must be _some_\nrational explanation of all these mysterious things. Is it possible that\nthe Professor can have done it himself? He is so abnormally clever that\nif he went off his head he would carry out his intent with regard to\nsome fixed idea in a wonderful way. I am loath to think it, and indeed\nit would be almost as great a marvel as the other to find that Van\nHelsing was mad; but anyhow I shall watch him carefully. I may get some\nlight on the mystery.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_29 September, morning._.... Last night, at a little before ten o clock,\nArthur and Quincey came into Van Helsing s room; he told us all that he\nwanted us to do, but especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all\nour wills were centred in his. He began by saying that he hoped we would\nall come with him too,  for,  he said,  there is a grave duty to be done\nthere. You were doubtless surprised at my letter?  This query was\ndirectly addressed to Lord Godalming.\n\n I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble\naround my house of late that I could do without any more. I have been\ncurious, too, as to what you mean. Quincey and I talked it over; but the\nmore we talked, the more puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself\nthat I m about up a tree as to any meaning about anything. \n\n Me too,  said Quincey Morris laconically.\n\n Oh,  said the Professor,  then you are nearer the beginning, both of\nyou, than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he can\neven get so far as to begin. \n\nIt was evident that he recognised my return to my old doubting frame of\nmind without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he said\nwith intense gravity:--\n\n I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I\nknow, much to ask; and when you know what it is I propose to do you will\nknow, and only then, how much. Therefore may I ask that you promise me\nin the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a\ntime--I must not disguise from myself the possibility that such may\nbe--you shall not blame yourselves for anything. \n\n That s frank anyhow,  broke in Quincey.  I ll answer for the Professor.\nI don t quite see his drift, but I swear he s honest; and that s good\nenough for me. \n\n I thank you, sir,  said Van Helsing proudly.  I have done myself the\nhonour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear\nto me.  He held out a hand, which Quincey took.\n\nThen Arthur spoke out:--\n\n Dr. Van Helsing, I don t quite like to  buy a pig in a poke,  as they\nsay in Scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a gentleman\nor my faith as a Christian is concerned, I cannot make such a promise.\nIf you can assure me that what you intend does not violate either of\nthese two, then I give my consent at once; though for the life of me, I\ncannot understand what you are driving at. \n\n I accept your limitation,  said Van Helsing,  and all I ask of you is\nthat if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first\nconsider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your\nreservations. \n\n Agreed!  said Arthur;  that is only fair. And now that the\n_pourparlers_ are over, may I ask what it is we are to do? \n\n I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard at\nKingstead. \n\nArthur s face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way:--\n\n Where poor Lucy is buried?  The Professor bowed. Arthur went on:  And\nwhen there? \n\n To enter the tomb!  Arthur stood up.\n\n Professor, are you in earnest; or it is some monstrous joke? Pardon me,\nI see that you are in earnest.  He sat down again, but I could see that\nhe sat firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. There was\nsilence until he asked again:--\n\n And when in the tomb? \n\n To open the coffin. \n\n This is too much!  he said, angrily rising again.  I am willing to be\npatient in all things that are reasonable; but in this--this desecration\nof the grave--of one who----  He fairly choked with indignation. The\nProfessor looked pityingly at him.\n\n If I could spare you one pang, my poor friend,  he said,  God knows I\nwould. But this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and\nfor ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame! \n\nArthur looked up with set white face and said:--\n\n Take care, sir, take care! \n\n Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?  said Van Helsing.\n And then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go\non? \n\n That s fair enough,  broke in Morris.\n\nAfter a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort:--\n\n Miss Lucy is dead; is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to\nher. But if she be not dead---- \n\nArthur jumped to his feet.\n\n Good God!  he cried.  What do you mean? Has there been any mistake; has\nshe been buried alive?  He groaned in anguish that not even hope could\nsoften.\n\n I did not say she was alive, my child; I did not think it. I go no\nfurther than to say that she might be Un-Dead. \n\n Un-Dead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or what\nis it? \n\n There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they\nmay solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of one. But\nI have not done. May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy? \n\n Heavens and earth, no!  cried Arthur in a storm of passion.  Not for\nthe wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr.\nVan Helsing, you try me too far. What have I done to you that you should\ntorture me so? What did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to\ncast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad to speak such things, or\nam I mad to listen to them? Don t dare to think more of such a\ndesecration; I shall not give my consent to anything you do. I have a\nduty to do in protecting her grave from outrage; and, by God, I shall do\nit! \n\nVan Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and\nsaid, gravely and sternly:--\n\n My Lord Godalming, I, too, have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty\nto you, a duty to the dead; and, by God, I shall do it! All I ask you\nnow is that you come with me, that you look and listen; and if when\nlater I make the same request you do not be more eager for its\nfulfilment even than I am, then--then I shall do my duty, whatever it\nmay seem to me. And then, to follow of your Lordship s wishes I shall\nhold myself at your disposal to render an account to you, when and where\nyou will.  His voice broke a little, and he went on with a voice full of\npity:--\n\n But, I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a long life of\nacts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did wring\nmy heart, I have never had so heavy a task as now. Believe me that if\nthe time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one look from\nyou will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what a man can\nto save you from sorrow. Just think. For why should I give myself so\nmuch of labour and so much of sorrow? I have come here from my own land\nto do what I can of good; at the first to please my friend John, and\nthen to help a sweet young lady, whom, too, I came to love. For her--I\nam ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness--I gave what you\ngave; the blood of my veins; I gave it, I, who was not, like you, her\nlover, but only her physician and her friend. I gave to her my nights\nand days--before death, after death; and if my death can do her good\neven now, when she is the dead Un-Dead, she shall have it freely.  He\nsaid this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much affected\nby it. He took the old man s hand and said in a broken voice:--\n\n Oh, it is hard to think of it, and I cannot understand; but at least I\nshall go with you and wait. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY--_continued_\n\n\nIt was just a quarter before twelve o clock when we got into the\nchurchyard over the low wall. The night was dark with occasional gleams\nof moonlight between the rents of the heavy clouds that scudded across\nthe sky. We all kept somehow close together, with Van Helsing slightly\nin front as he led the way. When we had come close to the tomb I looked\nwell at Arthur, for I feared that the proximity to a place laden with so\nsorrowful a memory would upset him; but he bore himself well. I took it\nthat the very mystery of the proceeding was in some way a counteractant\nto his grief. The Professor unlocked the door, and seeing a natural\nhesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the difficulty by\nentering first himself. The rest of us followed, and he closed the door.\nHe then lit a dark lantern and pointed to the coffin. Arthur stepped\nforward hesitatingly; Van Helsing said to me:--\n\n You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that\ncoffin? \n\n It was.  The Professor turned to the rest saying:--\n\n You hear; and yet there is no one who does not believe with me.  He\ntook his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin. Arthur\nlooked on, very pale but silent; when the lid was removed he stepped\nforward. He evidently did not know that there was a leaden coffin, or,\nat any rate, had not thought of it. When he saw the rent in the lead,\nthe blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away\nagain, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness; he was still silent.\nVan Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and we all looked in and\nrecoiled.\n\nThe coffin was empty!\n\nFor several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by\nQuincey Morris:--\n\n Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I want. I wouldn t ask\nsuch a thing ordinarily--I wouldn t so dishonour you as to imply a\ndoubt; but this is a mystery that goes beyond any honour or dishonour.\nIs this your doing? \n\n I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed nor\ntouched her. What happened was this: Two nights ago my friend Seward and\nI came here--with good purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin, which\nwas then sealed up, and we found it, as now, empty. We then waited, and\nsaw something white come through the trees. The next day we came here in\nday-time, and she lay there. Did she not, friend John? \n\n Yes. \n\n That night we were just in time. One more so small child was missing,\nand we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves. Yesterday I came\nhere before sundown, for at sundown the Un-Dead can move. I waited here\nall the night till the sun rose, but I saw nothing. It was most probable\nthat it was because I had laid over the clamps of those doors garlic,\nwhich the Un-Dead cannot bear, and other things which they shun. Last\nnight there was no exodus, so to-night before the sundown I took away my\ngarlic and other things. And so it is we find this coffin empty. But\nbear with me. So far there is much that is strange. Wait you with me\noutside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be.\nSo --here he shut the dark slide of his lantern-- now to the outside. \nHe opened the door, and we filed out, he coming last and locking the\ndoor behind him.\n\nOh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of\nthat vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing\ngleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and\npassing--like the gladness and sorrow of a man s life; how sweet it was\nto breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how\nhumanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to\nhear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city. Each\nin his own way was solemn and overcome. Arthur was silent, and was, I\ncould see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the\nmystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to\nthrow aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing s conclusions. Quincey\nMorris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who accepts all things, and\naccepts them in the spirit of cool bravery, with hazard of all he has to\nstake. Not being able to smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of\ntobacco and began to chew. As to Van Helsing, he was employed in a\ndefinite way. First he took from his bag a mass of what looked like\nthin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white\nnapkin; next he took out a double-handful of some whitish stuff, like\ndough or putty. He crumbled the wafer up fine and worked it into the\nmass between his hands. This he then took, and rolling it into thin\nstrips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its\nsetting in the tomb. I was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close,\nasked him what it was that he was doing. Arthur and Quincey drew near\nalso, as they too were curious. He answered:--\n\n I am closing the tomb, so that the Un-Dead may not enter. \n\n And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?  asked Quincey.\n Great Scott! Is this a game? \n\n It is. \n\n What is that which you are using?  This time the question was by\nArthur. Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered:--\n\n The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence.  It was an\nanswer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt individually\nthat in the presence of such earnest purpose as the Professor s, a\npurpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was\nimpossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took the places\nassigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any\none approaching. I pitied the others, especially Arthur. I had myself\nbeen apprenticed by my former visits to this watching horror; and yet I,\nwho had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink\nwithin me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white; never did cypress, or\nyew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funereal gloom; never did tree\nor grass wave or rustle so ominously; never did bough creak so\nmysteriously; and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a\nwoeful presage through the night.\n\nThere was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and then from the\nProfessor a keen  S-s-s-s!  He pointed; and far down the avenue of yews\nwe saw a white figure advance--a dim white figure, which held something\ndark at its breast. The figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of\nmoonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds and showed in startling\nprominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of the grave.\nWe could not see the face, for it was bent down over what we saw to be a\nfair-haired child. There was a pause and a sharp little cry, such as a\nchild gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before the fire and dreams. We\nwere starting forward, but the Professor s warning hand, seen by us as\nhe stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back; and then as we looked the\nwhite figure moved forwards again. It was now near enough for us to see\nclearly, and the moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice,\nand I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as we recognised the features of\nLucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet how changed. The sweetness was\nturned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous\nwantonness. Van Helsing stepped out, and, obedient to his gesture, we\nall advanced too; the four of us ranged in a line before the door of the\ntomb. Van Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide; by the\nconcentrated light that fell on Lucy s face we could see that the lips\nwere crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her\nchin and stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.\n\nWe shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that even\nVan Helsing s iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and if I had\nnot seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.\n\nWhen Lucy--I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her\nshape--saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives\nwhen taken unawares; then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy s eyes in form\nand colour; but Lucy s eyes unclean and full of hell-fire, instead of\nthe pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of my love\npassed into hate and loathing; had she then to be killed, I could have\ndone it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy\nlight, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. Oh, God,\nhow it made me shudder to see it! With a careless motion, she flung to\nthe ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had\nclutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls\nover a bone. The child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. There\nwas a cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from Arthur; when\nshe advanced to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell\nback and hid his face in his hands.\n\nShe still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace,\nsaid:--\n\n Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are\nhungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come! \n\nThere was something diabolically sweet in her tones--something of the\ntingling of glass when struck--which rang through the brains even of us\nwho heard the words addressed to another. As for Arthur, he seemed under\na spell; moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his arms. She\nwas leaping for them, when Van Helsing sprang forward and held between\nthem his little golden crucifix. She recoiled from it, and, with a\nsuddenly distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter\nthe tomb.\n\nWhen within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if\narrested by some irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face was\nshown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no\nquiver from Van Helsing s iron nerves. Never did I see such baffled\nmalice on a face; and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen again by\nmortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw\nout sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the folds of\nthe flesh were the coils of Medusa s snakes, and the lovely,\nblood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of\nthe Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death--if looks could\nkill--we saw it at that moment.\n\nAnd so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained\nbetween the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of\nentry. Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur:--\n\n Answer me, oh my friend! Am I to proceed in my work? \n\nArthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he\nanswered:--\n\n Do as you will, friend; do as you will. There can be no horror like\nthis ever any more;  and he groaned in spirit. Quincey and I\nsimultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. We could hear the\nclick of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it down; coming close\nto the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred\nemblem which he had placed there. We all looked on in horrified\namazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal\nbody as real at that moment as our own, pass in through the interstice\nwhere scarce a knife-blade could have gone. We all felt a glad sense of\nrelief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the strings of putty\nto the edges of the door.\n\nWhen this was done, he lifted the child and said:\n\n Come now, my friends; we can do no more till to-morrow. There is a\nfuneral at noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. The\nfriends of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton lock\nthe gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do; but not like this of\nto-night. As for this little one, he is not much harm, and by to-morrow\nnight he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police will find\nhim, as on the other night; and then to home.  Coming close to Arthur,\nhe said:--\n\n My friend Arthur, you have had a sore trial; but after, when you look\nback, you will see how it was necessary. You are now in the bitter\nwaters, my child. By this time to-morrow you will, please God, have\npassed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters; so do not mourn\novermuch. Till then I shall not ask you to forgive me. \n\nArthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other\non the way. We had left the child in safety, and were tired; so we all\nslept with more or less reality of sleep.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_29 September, night._--A little before twelve o clock we three--Arthur,\nQuincey Morris, and myself--called for the Professor. It was odd to\nnotice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of\ncourse, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of\nus wore it by instinct. We got to the churchyard by half-past one, and\nstrolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the\ngravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the belief\nthat every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to\nourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with him a\nlong leather one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of\nfair weight.\n\nWhen we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up\nthe road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the\nProfessor to the tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it\nbehind us. Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also\ntwo wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting their own\nends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient to work\nby. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy s coffin we all looked--Arthur\ntrembling like an aspen--and saw that the body lay there in all its\ndeath-beauty. But there was no love in my own heart, nothing but\nloathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy s shape without her\nsoul. I could see even Arthur s face grow hard as he looked. Presently\nhe said to Van Helsing:--\n\n Is this really Lucy s body, or only a demon in her shape? \n\n It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you all see her\nas she was, and is. \n\nShe seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth,\nthe bloodstained, voluptuous mouth--which it made one shudder to\nsee--the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a\ndevilish mockery of Lucy s sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual\nmethodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and\nplacing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and some\nplumbing solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in\na corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue\nflame; then his operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a\nround wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about\nthree feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and\nwas sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such\nas in households is used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. To\nme, a doctor s preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and\nbracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur and Quincey was\nto cause them a sort of consternation. They both, however, kept their\ncourage, and remained silent and quiet.\n\nWhen all was ready, Van Helsing said:--\n\n Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and\nexperience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers\nof the Un-Dead. When they become such, there comes with the change the\ncurse of immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age\nadding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that\ndie from the preying of the Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-Dead, and prey\non their kind. And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the\nripples from a stone thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met\nthat kiss which you know of before poor Lucy die; or again, last night\nwhen you open your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died,\nhave become _nosferatu_, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would\nall time make more of those Un-Deads that so have fill us with horror.\nThe career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those\nchildren whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if\nshe live on, Un-Dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her\npower over them they come to her; and so she draw their blood with that\nso wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all cease; the tiny\nwounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their plays\nunknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when\nthis now Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor\nlady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by\nnight and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by day, she\nshall take her place with the other Angels. So that, my friend, it will\nbe a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free.\nTo this I am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better\nright? Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the\nnight when sleep is not:  It was my hand that sent her to the stars; it\nwas the hand of him that loved her best; the hand that of all she would\nherself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?  Tell me if there be\nsuch a one amongst us? \n\nWe all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite\nkindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore\nLucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and\nsaid bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as\nsnow:--\n\n My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me\nwhat I am to do, and I shall not falter!  Van Helsing laid a hand on his\nshoulder, and said:--\n\n Brave lad! A moment s courage, and it is done. This stake must be\ndriven through her. It will be a fearful ordeal--be not deceived in\nthat--but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more\nthan your pain was great; from this grim tomb you will emerge as though\nyou tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only\nthink that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for\nyou all the time. \n\n Go on,  said Arthur hoarsely.  Tell me what I am to do. \n\n Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the\nheart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for\nthe dead--I shall read him, I have here the book, and the others shall\nfollow--strike in God s name, that so all may be well with the dead that\nwe love and that the Un-Dead pass away. \n\nArthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on\naction his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened\nhis missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as well as we\ncould. Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could\nsee its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.\n\nThe Thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, blood-curdling screech\ncame from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted\nin wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the\nlips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur\nnever faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his untrembling arm\nrose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake, whilst\nthe blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. His\nface was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it\ngave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little\nvault.\n\nAnd then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the\nteeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The\nterrible task was over.\n\nThe hammer fell from Arthur s hand. He reeled and would have fallen had\nwe not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead,\nand his breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain\non him; and had he not been forced to his task by more than human\nconsiderations he could never have gone through with it. For a few\nminutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the\ncoffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one\nto the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that Arthur rose, for he had\nbeen seated on the ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad,\nstrange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of\nhorror that lay upon it.\n\nThere, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so dreaded\nand grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a\nprivilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in\nher life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True that\nthere were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and\npain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth\nto what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like\nsunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and\nsymbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.\n\nVan Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur s shoulder, and said to\nhim:--\n\n And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven? \n\nThe reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man s hand\nin his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said:--\n\n Forgiven! God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again,\nand me peace.  He put his hands on the Professor s shoulder, and laying\nhis head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood\nunmoving. When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him:--\n\n And now, my child, you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as\nshe would have you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning\ndevil now--not any more a foul Thing for all eternity. No longer she is\nthe devil s Un-Dead. She is God s true dead, whose soul is with Him! \n\nArthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the\ntomb; the Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point\nof it in the body. Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with\ngarlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid,\nand gathering up our belongings, came away. When the Professor locked\nthe door he gave the key to Arthur.\n\nOutside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it\nseemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was\ngladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves\non one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.\n\nBefore we moved away Van Helsing said:--\n\n Now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing\nto ourselves. But there remains a greater task: to find out the author\nof all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. I have clues which we can\nfollow; but it is a long task, and a difficult, and there is danger in\nit, and pain. Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all\nof us--is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes! And do\nwe not promise to go on to the bitter end? \n\nEach in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said the\nProfessor as we moved off:--\n\n Two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine together at seven of\nthe clock with friend John. I shall entreat two others, two that you\nknow not as yet; and I shall be ready to all our work show and our plans\nunfold. Friend John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult\nabout, and you can help me. To-night I leave for Amsterdam, but shall\nreturn to-morrow night. And then begins our great quest. But first I\nshall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread.\nThen our promise shall be made to each other anew; for there is a\nterrible task before us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare we\nmust not draw back. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY--_continued_\n\n\nWhen we arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram\nwaiting for him:--\n\n      Am coming up by train. Jonathan at Whitby. Important news.--MINA\n     HARKER. \n\nThe Professor was delighted.  Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina,  he said,\n pearl among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go to your\nhouse, friend John. You must meet her at the station. Telegraph her _en\nroute_, so that she may be prepared. \n\nWhen the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea; over it he told me of\na diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten\ncopy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker s diary at Whitby.  Take these,  he\nsaid,  and study them well. When I have returned you will be master of\nall the facts, and we can then better enter on our inquisition. Keep\nthem safe, for there is in them much of treasure. You will need all your\nfaith, even you who have had such an experience as that of to-day. What\nis here told,  he laid his hand heavily and gravely on the packet of\npapers as he spoke,  may be the beginning of the end to you and me and\nmany another; or it may sound the knell of the Un-Dead who walk the\nearth. Read all, I pray you, with the open mind; and if you can add in\nany way to the story here told do so, for it is all-important. You have\nkept diary of all these so strange things; is it not so? Yes! Then we\nshall go through all these together when we meet.  He then made ready\nfor his departure, and shortly after drove off to Liverpool Street. I\ntook my way to Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes before\nthe train came in.\n\nThe crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival\nplatforms; and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my\nguest, when a sweet-faced, dainty-looking girl stepped up to me, and,\nafter a quick glance, said:  Dr. Seward, is it not? \n\n And you are Mrs. Harker!  I answered at once; whereupon she held out\nher hand.\n\n I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy; but----  She stopped\nsuddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.\n\nThe blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for it\nwas a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a\ntypewriter, and we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I had\nsent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting-room and bedroom\nprepared at once for Mrs. Harker.\n\nIn due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a\nlunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a shudder\nwhen we entered.\n\nShe told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as\nshe had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my phonograph\ndiary whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the chance of looking at\nthe papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they lie open before\nme. I must get her interested in something, so that I may have an\nopportunity of reading them. She does not know how precious time is, or\nwhat a task we have in hand. I must be careful not to frighten her. Here\nshe is!\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_29 September._--After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward s\nstudy. At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him talking\nwith some one. As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I knocked at\nthe door, and on his calling out,  Come in,  I entered.\n\nTo my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite alone,\nand on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the\ndescription to be a phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much\ninterested.\n\n I hope I did not keep you waiting,  I said;  but I stayed at the door\nas I heard you talking, and thought there was some one with you. \n\n Oh,  he replied with a smile,  I was only entering my diary. \n\n Your diary?  I asked him in surprise.\n\n Yes,  he answered.  I keep it in this.  As he spoke he laid his hand on\nthe phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted out:--\n\n Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say something? \n\n Certainly,  he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train\nfor speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face.\n\n The fact is,  he began awkwardly,  I only keep my diary in it; and as\nit is entirely--almost entirely--about my cases, it may be awkward--that\nis, I mean----  He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his\nembarrassment:--\n\n You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died;\nfor all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very, very\ndear to me. \n\nTo my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face:--\n\n Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world! \n\n Why not?  I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me.\nAgain he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an excuse.\nAt length he stammered out:--\n\n You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular part of the\ndiary.  Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said\nwith unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the na vet \nof a child:  That s quite true, upon my honour. Honest Indian!  I could\nnot but smile, at which he grimaced.  I gave myself away that time!  he\nsaid.  But do you know that, although I have kept the diary for months\npast, it never once struck me how I was going to find any particular\npart of it in case I wanted to look it up?  By this time my mind was\nmade up that the diary of a doctor who attended Lucy might have\nsomething to add to the sum of our knowledge of that terrible Being, and\nI said boldly:--\n\n Then, Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my\ntypewriter.  He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said:--\n\n No! no! no! For all the world, I wouldn t let you know that terrible\nstory! \n\nThen it was terrible; my intuition was right! For a moment I thought,\nand as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or\nsome opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of typewriting on\nthe table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and, without his thinking,\nfollowed their direction. As they saw the parcel he realised my meaning.\n\n You do not know me,  I said.  When you have read those papers--my own\ndiary and my husband s also, which I have typed--you will know me\nbetter. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in\nthis cause; but, of course, you do not know me--yet; and I must not\nexpect you to trust me so far. \n\nHe is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear Lucy was right about\nhim. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in\norder a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and\nsaid:--\n\n You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know you.\nBut I know you now; and let me say that I should have known you long\nago. I know that Lucy told you of me; she told me of you too. May I make\nthe only atonement in my power? Take the cylinders and hear them--the\nfirst half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they will not horrify\nyou; then you will know me better. Dinner will by then be ready. In the\nmeantime I shall read over some of these documents, and shall be better\nable to understand certain things.  He carried the phonograph himself up\nto my sitting-room and adjusted it for me. Now I shall learn something\npleasant, I am sure; for it will tell me the other side of a true love\nepisode of which I know one side already....\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_29 September._--I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan\nHarker and that other of his wife that I let the time run on without\nthinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to announce\ndinner, so I said:  She is possibly tired; let dinner wait an hour,  and\nI went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs. Harker s diary, when\nshe came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her eyes were\nflushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I have had\ncause for tears, God knows! but the relief of them was denied me; and\nnow the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened with recent tears, went\nstraight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could:--\n\n I greatly fear I have distressed you. \n\n Oh, no, not distressed me,  she replied,  but I have been more touched\nthan I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine, but it is\ncruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the anguish of your heart.\nIt was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No one must hear them\nspoken ever again! See, I have tried to be useful. I have copied out the\nwords on my typewriter, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as\nI did. \n\n No one need ever know, shall ever know,  I said in a low voice. She\nlaid her hand on mine and said very gravely:--\n\n Ah, but they must! \n\n Must! But why?  I asked.\n\n Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor dear Lucy s\ndeath and all that led to it; because in the struggle which we have\nbefore us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must have all\nthe knowledge and all the help which we can get. I think that the\ncylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to know;\nbut I can see that there are in your record many lights to this dark\nmystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up to a certain\npoint; and I see already, though your diary only took me to 7 September,\nhow poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was being wrought\nout. Jonathan and I have been working day and night since Professor Van\nHelsing saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more information, and he\nwill be here to-morrow to help us. We need have no secrets amongst us;\nworking together and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than\nif some of us were in the dark.  She looked at me so appealingly, and at\nthe same time manifested such courage and resolution in her bearing,\nthat I gave in at once to her wishes.  You shall,  I said,  do as you\nlike in the matter. God forgive me if I do wrong! There are terrible\nthings yet to learn of; but if you have so far travelled on the road to\npoor Lucy s death, you will not be content, I know, to remain in the\ndark. Nay, the end--the very end--may give you a gleam of peace. Come,\nthere is dinner. We must keep one another strong for what is before us;\nwe have a cruel and dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn\nthe rest, and I shall answer any questions you ask--if there be anything\nwhich you do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were\npresent. \n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_29 September._--After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He\nbrought back the phonograph from my room, and I took my typewriter. He\nplaced me in a comfortable chair, and arranged the phonograph so that I\ncould touch it without getting up, and showed me how to stop it in case\nI should want to pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a chair, with his\nback to me, so that I might be as free as possible, and began to read. I\nput the forked metal to my ears and listened.\n\nWhen the terrible story of Lucy s death, and--and all that followed, was\ndone, I lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a\nfainting disposition. When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a\nhorrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case-bottle from a\ncupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat restored\nme. My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came through all\nthe multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my dear, dear Lucy\nwas at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it without\nmaking a scene. It is all so wild, and mysterious, and strange that if I\nhad not known Jonathan s experience in Transylvania I could not have\nbelieved. As it was, I didn t know what to believe, and so got out of my\ndifficulty by attending to something else. I took the cover off my\ntypewriter, and said to Dr. Seward:--\n\n Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing\nwhen he comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here when\nhe arrives in London from Whitby. In this matter dates are everything,\nand I think that if we get all our material ready, and have every item\nput in chronological order, we shall have done much. You tell me that\nLord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let us be able to tell him\nwhen they come.  He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I\nbegan to typewrite from the beginning of the seventh cylinder. I used\nmanifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done with\nall the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went about\nhis work of going his round of the patients; when he had finished he\ncame back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not feel too lonely\nwhilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of\ngood men--even if there _are_ monsters in it. Before I left him I\nremembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the Professor s\nperturbation at reading something in an evening paper at the station at\nExeter; so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers, I borrowed the\nfiles of  The Westminster Gazette  and  The Pall Mall Gazette,  and took\nthem to my room. I remember how much  The Dailygraph  and  The Whitby\nGazette,  of which I had made cuttings, helped us to understand the\nterrible events at Whitby when Count Dracula landed, so I shall look\nthrough the evening papers since then, and perhaps I shall get some new\nlight. I am not sleepy, and the work will help to keep me quiet.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_30 September._--Mr. Harker arrived at nine o clock. He had got his\nwife s wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can\njudge from his face, and full of energy. If this journal be true--and\njudging by one s own wonderful experiences, it must be--he is also a man\nof great nerve. That going down to the vault a second time was a\nremarkable piece of daring. After reading his account of it I was\nprepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet,\nbusiness-like gentleman who came here to-day.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room,\nand as I passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter. They\nare hard at it. Mrs. Harker says that they are knitting together in\nchronological order every scrap of evidence they have. Harker has got\nthe letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the\ncarriers in London who took charge of them. He is now reading his wife s\ntypescript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it. Here it\nis....\n\n     Strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be\n     the Count s hiding-place! Goodness knows that we had enough clues\n     from the conduct of the patient Renfield! The bundle of letters\n     relating to the purchase of the house were with the typescript. Oh,\n     if we had only had them earlier we might have saved poor Lucy!\n     Stop; that way madness lies! Harker has gone back, and is again\n     collating his material. He says that by dinner-time they will be\n     able to show a whole connected narrative. He thinks that in the\n     meantime I should see Renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of\n     index to the coming and going of the Count. I hardly see this yet,\n     but when I get at the dates I suppose I shall. What a good thing\n     that Mrs. Harker put my cylinders into type! We never could have\n     found the dates otherwise....\n\n     I found Renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands\n     folded, smiling benignly. At the moment he seemed as sane as any\n     one I ever saw. I sat down and talked with him on a lot of\n     subjects, all of which he treated naturally. He then, of his own\n     accord, spoke of going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my\n     knowledge during his sojourn here. In fact, he spoke quite\n     confidently of getting his discharge at once. I believe that, had I\n     not had the chat with Harker and read the letters and the dates of\n     his outbursts, I should have been prepared to sign for him after a\n     brief time of observation. As it is, I am darkly suspicious. All\n     those outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity of the\n     Count. What then does this absolute content mean? Can it be that\n     his instinct is satisfied as to the vampire s ultimate triumph?\n     Stay; he is himself zo phagous, and in his wild ravings outside the\n     chapel door of the deserted house he always spoke of  master.  This\n     all seems confirmation of our idea. However, after a while I came\n     away; my friend is just a little too sane at present to make it\n     safe to probe him too deep with questions. He might begin to think,\n     and then--! So I came away. I mistrust these quiet moods of his; so\n     I have given the attendant a hint to look closely after him, and to\n     have a strait-waistcoat ready in case of need.\n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_29 September, in train to London._--When I received Mr. Billington s\ncourteous message that he would give me any information in his power I\nthought it best to go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such\ninquiries as I wanted. It was now my object to trace that horrid cargo\nof the Count s to its place in London. Later, we may be able to deal\nwith it. Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station, and\nbrought me to his father s house, where they had decided that I must\nstay the night. They are hospitable, with true Yorkshire hospitality:\ngive a guest everything, and leave him free to do as he likes. They all\nknew that I was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had\nready in his office all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes.\nIt gave me almost a turn to see again one of the letters which I had\nseen on the Count s table before I knew of his diabolical plans.\nEverything had been carefully thought out, and done systematically and\nwith precision. He seemed to have been prepared for every obstacle which\nmight be placed by accident in the way of his intentions being carried\nout. To use an Americanism, he had  taken no chances,  and the absolute\naccuracy with which his instructions were fulfilled, was simply the\nlogical result of his care. I saw the invoice, and took note of it:\n Fifty cases of common earth, to be used for experimental purposes. \nAlso the copy of letter to Carter Paterson, and their reply; of both of\nthese I got copies. This was all the information Mr. Billington could\ngive me, so I went down to the port and saw the coastguards, the Customs\nofficers and the harbour-master. They had all something to say of the\nstrange entry of the ship, which is already taking its place in local\ntradition; but no one could add to the simple description  Fifty cases\nof common earth.  I then saw the station-master, who kindly put me in\ncommunication with the men who had actually received the boxes. Their\ntally was exact with the list, and they had nothing to add except that\nthe boxes were  main and mortal heavy,  and that shifting them was dry\nwork. One of them added that it was hard lines that there wasn t any\ngentleman  such-like as yourself, squire,  to show some sort of\nappreciation of their efforts in a liquid form; another put in a rider\nthat the thirst then generated was such that even the time which had\nelapsed had not completely allayed it. Needless to add, I took care\nbefore leaving to lift, for ever and adequately, this source of\nreproach.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_30 September._--The station-master was good enough to give me a line to\nhis old companion the station-master at King s Cross, so that when I\narrived there in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival of\nthe boxes. He, too, put me at once in communication with the proper\nofficials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original\ninvoice. The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here\nlimited; a noble use of them had, however, been made, and again I was\ncompelled to deal with the result in an _ex post facto_ manner.\n\nFrom thence I went on to Carter Paterson s central office, where I met\nwith the utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their\nday-book and letter-book, and at once telephoned to their King s Cross\noffice for more details. By good fortune, the men who did the teaming\nwere waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over, sending\nalso by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected with the\ndelivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I found the tally agreeing\nexactly; the carriers  men were able to supplement the paucity of the\nwritten words with a few details. These were, I shortly found, connected\nalmost solely with the dusty nature of the job, and of the consequent\nthirst engendered in the operators. On my affording an opportunity,\nthrough the medium of the currency of the realm, of the allaying, at a\nlater period, this beneficial evil, one of the men remarked:--\n\n That  ere  ouse, guv nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme! but it\nain t been touched sence a hundred years. There was dust that thick in\nthe place that you might have slep  on it without  urtin  of yer bones;\nan  the place was that neglected that yer might  ave smelled ole\nJerusalem in it. But the ole chapel--that took the cike, that did! Me\nand my mate, we thort we wouldn t never git out quick enough. Lor , I\nwouldn t take less nor a quid a moment to stay there arter dark. \n\nHaving been in the house, I could well believe him; but if he knew what\nI know, he would, I think, have raised his terms.\n\nOf one thing I am now satisfied: that _all_ the boxes which arrived at\nWhitby from Varna in the _Demeter_ were safely deposited in the old\nchapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of them there, unless any have\nsince been removed--as from Dr. Seward s diary I fear.\n\nI shall try to see the carter who took away the boxes from Carfax when\nRenfield attacked them. By following up this clue we may learn a good\ndeal.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers\ninto order.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal_\n\n_30 September._--I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself.\nIt is, I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which I have had:\nthat this terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound might act\ndetrimentally on Jonathan. I saw him leave for Whitby with as brave a\nface as I could, but I was sick with apprehension. The effort has,\nhowever, done him good. He was never so resolute, never so strong, never\nso full of volcanic energy, as at present. It is just as that dear, good\nProfessor Van Helsing said: he is true grit, and he improves under\nstrain that would kill a weaker nature. He came back full of life and\nhope and determination; we have got everything in order for to-night. I\nfeel myself quite wild with excitement. I suppose one ought to pity any\nthing so hunted as is the Count. That is just it: this Thing is not\nhuman--not even beast. To read Dr. Seward s account of poor Lucy s\ndeath, and what followed, is enough to dry up the springs of pity in\none s heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we\nexpected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan with\nhim, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, for it\nbrought back all poor dear Lucy s hopes of only a few months ago. Of\ncourse they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van\nHelsing, too, has been quite  blowing my trumpet,  as Mr. Morris\nexpressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all\nabout the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what to\nsay or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge; so they\nhad to keep on neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter over, and\ncame to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would be to post\nthem in affairs right up to date. I knew from Dr. Seward s diary that\nthey had been at Lucy s death--her real death--and that I need not fear\nto betray any secret before the time. So I told them, as well as I\ncould, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and that my husband\nand I, having typewritten them, had just finished putting them in order.\nI gave them each a copy to read in the library. When Lord Godalming got\nhis and turned it over--it does make a pretty good pile--he said:--\n\n Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker? \n\nI nodded, and he went on:--\n\n I don t quite see the drift of it; but you people are all so good and\nkind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that all\nI can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. I have\nhad one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man humble\nto the last hour of his life. Besides, I know you loved my poor Lucy-- \nHere he turned away and covered his face with his hands. I could hear\nthe tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just laid\na hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the\nroom. I suppose there is something in woman s nature that makes a man\nfree to break down before her and express his feelings on the tender or\nemotional side without feeling it derogatory to his manhood; for when\nLord Godalming found himself alone with me he sat down on the sofa and\ngave way utterly and openly. I sat down beside him and took his hand. I\nhope he didn t think it forward of me, and that if he ever thinks of it\nafterwards he never will have such a thought. There I wrong him; I\n_know_ he never will--he is too true a gentleman. I said to him, for I\ncould see that his heart was breaking:--\n\n I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and what you were to\nher. She and I were like sisters; and now she is gone, will you not let\nme be like a sister to you in your trouble? I know what sorrows you have\nhad, though I cannot measure the depth of them. If sympathy and pity can\nhelp in your affliction, won t you let me be of some little service--for\nLucy s sake? \n\nIn an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It seemed\nto me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence found a\nvent at once. He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open hands, beat\nhis palms together in a perfect agony of grief. He stood up and then sat\ndown again, and the tears rained down his cheeks. I felt an infinite\npity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly. With a sob he laid his\nhead on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child, whilst he shook with\nemotion.\n\nWe women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above\nsmaller matters when the mother-spirit is invoked; I felt this big\nsorrowing man s head resting on me, as though it were that of the baby\nthat some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he\nwere my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all was.\n\nAfter a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an\napology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me that for\ndays and nights past--weary days and sleepless nights--he had been\nunable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his time of\nsorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or with\nwhom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow was\nsurrounded, he could speak freely.  I know now how I suffered,  he said,\nas he dried his eyes,  but I do not know even yet--and none other can\never know--how much your sweet sympathy has been to me to-day. I shall\nknow better in time; and believe me that, though I am not ungrateful\nnow, my gratitude will grow with my understanding. You will let me be\nlike a brother, will you not, for all our lives--for dear Lucy s sake? \n\n For dear Lucy s sake,  I said as we clasped hands.  Ay, and for your\nown sake,  he added,  for if a man s esteem and gratitude are ever worth\nthe winning, you have won mine to-day. If ever the future should bring\nto you a time when you need a man s help, believe me, you will not call\nin vain. God grant that no such time may ever come to you to break the\nsunshine of your life; but if it should ever come, promise me that you\nwill let me know.  He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that\nI felt it would comfort him, so I said:--\n\n I promise. \n\nAs I came along the corridor I saw Mr. Morris looking out of a window.\nHe turned as he heard my footsteps.  How is Art?  he said. Then noticing\nmy red eyes, he went on:  Ah, I see you have been comforting him. Poor\nold fellow! he needs it. No one but a woman can help a man when he is in\ntrouble of the heart; and he had no one to comfort him. \n\nHe bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I saw the\nmanuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would realise\nhow much I knew; so I said to him:--\n\n I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will you let me\nbe your friend, and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? You\nwill know, later on, why I speak.  He saw that I was in earnest, and\nstooping, took my hand, and raising it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed\nbut poor comfort to so brave and unselfish a soul, and impulsively I\nbent over and kissed him. The tears rose in his eyes, and there was a\nmomentary choking in his throat; he said quite calmly:--\n\n Little girl, you will never regret that true-hearted kindness, so long\nas ever you live!  Then he went into the study to his friend.\n\n Little girl! --the very words he had used to Lucy, and oh, but he\nproved himself a friend!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY\n\n\n_30 September._--I got home at five o clock, and found that Godalming\nand Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the transcript\nof the various diaries and letters which Harker and his wonderful wife\nhad made and arranged. Harker had not yet returned from his visit to the\ncarriers  men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave\nus a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that, for the first time since I\nhave lived in it, this old house seemed like _home_. When we had\nfinished, Mrs. Harker said:--\n\n Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr.\nRenfield. Do let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary\ninterests me so much!  She looked so appealing and so pretty that I\ncould not refuse her, and there was no possible reason why I should; so\nI took her with me. When I went into the room, I told the man that a\nlady would like to see him; to which he simply answered:  Why? \n\n She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it,  I\nanswered.  Oh, very well,  he said;  let her come in, by all means; but\njust wait a minute till I tidy up the place.  His method of tidying was\npeculiar: he simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes\nbefore I could stop him. It was quite evident that he feared, or was\njealous of, some interference. When he had got through his disgusting\ntask, he said cheerfully:  Let the lady come in,  and sat down on the\nedge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised so that\nhe could see her as she entered. For a moment I thought that he might\nhave some homicidal intent; I remembered how quiet he had been just\nbefore he attacked me in my own study, and I took care to stand where I\ncould seize him at once if he attempted to make a spring at her. She\ncame into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command\nthe respect of any lunatic--for easiness is one of the qualities mad\npeople most respect. She walked over to him, smiling pleasantly, and\nheld out her hand.\n\n Good-evening, Mr. Renfield,  said she.  You see, I know you, for Dr.\nSeward has told me of you.  He made no immediate reply, but eyed her all\nover intently with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to one\nof wonder, which merged in doubt; then, to my intense astonishment, he\nsaid:--\n\n You re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can t be,\nyou know, for she s dead.  Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied:--\n\n Oh no! I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever\nsaw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am Mrs. Harker. \n\n Then what are you doing here? \n\n My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward. \n\n Then don t stay. \n\n But why not?  I thought that this style of conversation might not be\npleasant to Mrs. Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in:--\n\n How did you know I wanted to marry any one?  His reply was simply\ncontemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs.\nHarker to me, instantly turning them back again:--\n\n What an asinine question! \n\n I don t see that at all, Mr. Renfield,  said Mrs. Harker, at once\nchampioning me. He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as\nhe had shown contempt to me:--\n\n You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so\nloved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him is of\ninterest in our little community. Dr. Seward is loved not only by his\nhousehold and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of\nthem hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and\neffects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, I\ncannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of some of its inmates\nlean towards the errors of _non causa_ and _ignoratio elenchi_.  I\npositively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own pet\nlunatic--the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met\nwith--talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished\ngentleman. I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker s presence which had touched\nsome chord in his memory. If this new phase was spontaneous, or in any\nway due to her unconscious influence, she must have some rare gift or\npower.\n\nWe continued to talk for some time; and, seeing that he was seemingly\nquite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she\nbegan, to lead him to his favourite topic. I was again astonished, for\nhe addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of the\ncompletest sanity; he even took himself as an example when he mentioned\ncertain things.\n\n Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed,\nit was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being\nput under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and\nperpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no\nmatter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong\nlife. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried to\ntake human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I\ntried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by\nthe assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his\nblood--relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase,  For the blood is\nthe life.  Though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum has\nvulgarised the truism to the very point of contempt. Isn t that true,\ndoctor?  I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to\neither think or say; it was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up\nhis spiders and flies not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I\nsaw that I should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs.\nHarker that it was time to leave. She came at once, after saying\npleasantly to Mr. Renfield:  Good-bye, and I hope I may see you often,\nunder auspices pleasanter to yourself,  to which, to my astonishment, he\nreplied:--\n\n Good-bye, my dear. I pray God I may never see your sweet face again.\nMay He bless and keep you! \n\nWhen I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind\nme. Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first took\nill, and Quincey is more like his own bright self than he has been for\nmany a long day.\n\nVan Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a\nboy. He saw me at once, and rushed up to me, saying:--\n\n Ah, friend John, how goes all? Well? So! I have been busy, for I come\nhere to stay if need be. All affairs are settled with me, and I have\nmuch to tell. Madam Mina is with you? Yes. And her so fine husband? And\nArthur and my friend Quincey, they are with you, too? Good! \n\nAs I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my own\ndiary had come to be of some use through Mrs. Harker s suggestion; at\nwhich the Professor interrupted me:--\n\n Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man s brain--a brain that a man\nshould have were he much gifted--and a woman s heart. The good God\nfashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good\ncombination. Friend John, up to now fortune has made that woman of help\nto us; after to-night she must not have to do with this so terrible\naffair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men are\ndetermined--nay, are we not pledged?--to destroy this monster; but it is\nno part for a woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her\nin so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer--both in\nwaking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. And, besides,\nshe is young woman and not so long married; there may be other things to\nthink of some time, if not now. You tell me she has wrote all, then she\nmust consult with us; but to-morrow she say good-bye to this work, and\nwe go alone.  I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we\nhad found in his absence: that the house which Dracula had bought was\nthe very next one to my own. He was amazed, and a great concern seemed\nto come on him.  Oh that we had known it before!  he said,  for then we\nmight have reached him in time to save poor Lucy. However,  the milk\nthat is spilt cries not out afterwards,  as you say. We shall not think\nof that, but go on our way to the end.  Then he fell into a silence that\nlasted till we entered my own gateway. Before we went to prepare for\ndinner he said to Mrs. Harker:--\n\n I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend John that you and your husband have\nput up in exact order all things that have been, up to this moment. \n\n Not up to this moment, Professor,  she said impulsively,  but up to\nthis morning. \n\n But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the\nlittle things have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who\nhas told is the worse for it. \n\nMrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she\nsaid:--\n\n Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. It\nis my record of to-day. I too have seen the need of putting down at\npresent everything, however trivial; but there is little in this except\nwhat is personal. Must it go in?  The Professor read it over gravely,\nand handed it back, saying:--\n\n It need not go in if you do not wish it; but I pray that it may. It can\nbut make your husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more\nhonour you--as well as more esteem and love.  She took it back with\nanother blush and a bright smile.\n\nAnd so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete\nand in order. The Professor took away one copy to study after dinner,\nand before our meeting, which is fixed for nine o clock. The rest of us\nhave already read everything; so when we meet in the study we shall all\nbe informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with this\nterrible and mysterious enemy.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_30 September._--When we met in Dr. Seward s study two hours after\ndinner, which had been at six o clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of\nboard or committee. Professor Van Helsing took the head of the table, to\nwhich Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room. He made me sit\nnext to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary; Jonathan sat\nnext to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr.\nMorris--Lord Godalming being next the Professor, and Dr. Seward in the\ncentre. The Professor said:--\n\n I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with the facts\nthat are in these papers.  We all expressed assent, and he went on:--\n\n Then it were, I think good that I tell you something of the kind of\nenemy with which we have to deal. I shall then make known to you\nsomething of the history of this man, which has been ascertained for me.\nSo we then can discuss how we shall act, and can take our measure\naccording.\n\n There are such beings as vampires; some of us have evidence that they\nexist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the\nteachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane\npeoples. I admit that at the first I was sceptic. Were it not that\nthrough long years I have train myself to keep an open mind, I could not\nhave believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear.  See! see!\nI prove; I prove.  Alas! Had I known at the first what now I know--nay,\nhad I even guess at him--one so precious life had been spared to many of\nus who did love her. But that is gone; and we must so work, that other\npoor souls perish not, whilst we can save. The _nosferatu_ do not die\nlike the bee when he sting once. He is only stronger; and being\nstronger, have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which is\namongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of\ncunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have\nstill the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the\ndivination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are\nfor him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in\ncallous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within limitations, appear\nat will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; he\ncan, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the\nthunder; he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and\nthe bat--the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become\nsmall; and he can at times vanish and come unknown. How then are we to\nbegin our strike to destroy him? How shall we find his where; and having\nfound it, how can we destroy? My friends, this is much; it is a terrible\ntask that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave\nshudder. For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win; and then\nwhere end we? Life is nothings; I heed him not. But to fail here, is not\nmere life or death. It is that we become as him; that we henceforward\nbecome foul things of the night like him--without heart or conscience,\npreying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. To us for\never are the gates of heaven shut; for who shall open them to us again?\nWe go on for all time abhorred by all; a blot on the face of God s\nsunshine; an arrow in the side of Him who died for man. But we are face\nto face with duty; and in such case must we shrink? For me, I say, no;\nbut then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his\nsong of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You others are\nyoung. Some have seen sorrow; but there are fair days yet in store. What\nsay you? \n\nWhilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so\nmuch, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when I\nsaw his hand stretch out; but it was life to me to feel its touch--so\nstrong, so self-reliant, so resolute. A brave man s hand can speak for\nitself; it does not even need a woman s love to hear its music.\n\nWhen the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and I\nin his; there was no need for speaking between us.\n\n I answer for Mina and myself,  he said.\n\n Count me in, Professor,  said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as usual.\n\n I am with you,  said Lord Godalming,  for Lucy s sake, if for no other\nreason. \n\nDr. Seward simply nodded. The Professor stood up and, after laying his\ngolden crucifix on the table, held out his hand on either side. I took\nhis right hand, and Lord Godalming his left; Jonathan held my right with\nhis left and stretched across to Mr. Morris. So as we all took hands our\nsolemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even\noccur to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing\nwent on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work\nhad begun. It was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way,\nas any other transaction of life:--\n\n Well, you know what we have to contend against; but we, too, are not\nwithout strength. We have on our side power of combination--a power\ndenied to the vampire kind; we have sources of science; we are free to\nact and think; and the hours of the day and the night are ours equally.\nIn fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we are\nfree to use them. We have self-devotion in a cause, and an end to\nachieve which is not a selfish one. These things are much.\n\n Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are\nrestrict, and how the individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the\nlimitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular.\n\n All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do not\nat the first appear much, when the matter is one of life and death--nay\nof more than either life or death. Yet must we be satisfied; in the\nfirst place because we have to be--no other means is at our control--and\nsecondly, because, after all, these things--tradition and\nsuperstition--are everything. Does not the belief in vampires rest for\nothers--though not, alas! for us--on them? A year ago which of us would\nhave received such a possibility, in the midst of our scientific,\nsceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We even scouted a belief\nthat we saw justified under our very eyes. Take it, then, that the\nvampire, and the belief in his limitations and his cure, rest for the\nmoment on the same base. For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere\nthat men have been. In old Greece, in old Rome; he flourish in Germany\nall over, in France, in India, even in the Chernosese; and in China, so\nfar from us in all ways, there even is he, and the peoples fear him at\nthis day. He have follow the wake of the berserker Icelander, the\ndevil-begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar. So far, then, we\nhave all we may act upon; and let me tell you that very much of the\nbeliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own so unhappy\nexperience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the\ntime; he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the\nliving. Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow\nyounger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though\nthey refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. But he\ncannot flourish without this diet; he eat not as others. Even friend\nJonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never!\nHe throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again\nJonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his hand--witness again\nJonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help him\nfrom the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather\nfrom the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as\nbat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John\nsaw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him at\nthe window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he create--that noble\nship s captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the distance\nhe can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. He\ncome on moonlight rays as elemental dust--as again Jonathan saw those\nsisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small--we ourselves saw\nMiss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the\ntomb door. He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or\ninto anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up with\nfire--solder you call it. He can see in the dark--no small power this,\nin a world which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me\nthrough. He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay; he is even\nmore prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell.\nHe cannot go where he lists; he who is not of nature has yet to obey\nsome of nature s laws--why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the\nfirst, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come;\nthough afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does\nthat of all evil things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times\ncan he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place whither he is\nbound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise or sunset.\nThese things are we told, and in this record of ours we have proof by\ninference. Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he\nhave his earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place\nunhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at\nWhitby; still at other time he can only change when the time come. It is\nsaid, too, that he can only pass running water at the slack or the flood\nof the tide. Then there are things which so afflict him that he has no\npower, as the garlic that we know of; and as for things sacred, as this\nsymbol, my crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to\nthem he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off and\nsilent with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of,\nlest in our seeking we may need them. The branch of wild rose on his\ncoffin keep him that he move not from it; a sacred bullet fired into the\ncoffin kill him so that he be true dead; and as for the stake through\nhim, we know already of its peace; or the cut-off head that giveth rest.\nWe have seen it with our eyes.\n\n Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine\nhim to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. But he is\nclever. I have asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to\nmake his record; and, from all the means that are, he tell me of what he\nhas been. He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won his\nname against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of\nTurkey-land. If it be so, then was he no common man; for in that time,\nand for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most\ncunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the  land beyond the\nforest.  That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his\ngrave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says\nArminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who\nwere held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They\nlearned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake\nHermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the\nrecords are such words as  stregoica --witch,  ordog,  and\n pokol --Satan and hell; and in one manuscript this very Dracula is\nspoken of as  wampyr,  which we all understand too well. There have been\nfrom the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their\ngraves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it\nis not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in\nall good; in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest. \n\nWhilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the window,\nand he now got up quietly, and went out of the room. There was a little\npause, and then the Professor went on:--\n\n And now we must settle what we do. We have here much data, and we must\nproceed to lay out our campaign. We know from the inquiry of Jonathan\nthat from the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which\nwere delivered at Carfax; we also know that at least some of these boxes\nhave been removed. It seems to me, that our first step should be to\nascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond that wall\nwhere we look to-day; or whether any more have been removed. If the\nlatter, we must trace---- \n\nHere we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house came\nthe sound of a pistol-shot; the glass of the window was shattered with a\nbullet, which, ricochetting from the top of the embrasure, struck the\nfar wall of the room. I am afraid I am at heart a coward, for I shrieked\nout. The men all jumped to their feet; Lord Godalming flew over to the\nwindow and threw up the sash. As he did so we heard Mr. Morris s voice\nwithout:--\n\n Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I shall come in and tell you about\nit.  A minute later he came in and said:--\n\n It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs.\nHarker, most sincerely; I fear I must have frightened you terribly. But\nthe fact is that whilst the Professor was talking there came a big bat\nand sat on the window-sill. I have got such a horror of the damned\nbrutes from recent events that I cannot stand them, and I went out to\nhave a shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever I have\nseen one. You used to laugh at me for it then, Art. \n\n Did you hit it?  asked Dr. Van Helsing.\n\n I don t know; I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood.  Without\nsaying any more he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume his\nstatement:--\n\n We must trace each of these boxes; and when we are ready, we must\neither capture or kill this monster in his lair; or we must, so to\nspeak, sterilise the earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it.\nThus in the end we may find him in his form of man between the hours of\nnoon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most weak.\n\n And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well.\nYou are too precious to us to have such risk. When we part to-night, you\nno more must question. We shall tell you all in good time. We are men\nand are able to bear; but you must be our star and our hope, and we\nshall act all the more free that you are not in the danger, such as we\nare. \n\nAll the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved; but it did not seem to me\ngood that they should brave danger and, perhaps, lessen their\nsafety--strength being the best safety--through care of me; but their\nminds were made up, and, though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow,\nI could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me.\n\nMr. Morris resumed the discussion:--\n\n As there is no time to lose, I vote we have a look at his house right\nnow. Time is everything with him; and swift action on our part may save\nanother victim. \n\nI own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so\nclose, but I did not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I\nappeared as a drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave\nme out of their counsels altogether. They have now gone off to Carfax,\nwith means to get into the house.\n\nManlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep; as if a woman can\nsleep when those she loves are in danger! I shall lie down and pretend\nto sleep, lest Jonathan have added anxiety about me when he returns.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_1 October, 4 a. m._--Just as we were about to leave the house, an\nurgent message was brought to me from Renfield to know if I would see\nhim at once, as he had something of the utmost importance to say to me.\nI told the messenger to say that I would attend to his wishes in the\nmorning; I was busy just at the moment. The attendant added:--\n\n He seems very importunate, sir. I have never seen him so eager. I don t\nknow but what, if you don t see him soon, he will have one of his\nviolent fits.  I knew the man would not have said this without some\ncause, so I said:  All right; I ll go now ; and I asked the others to\nwait a few minutes for me, as I had to go and see my  patient. \n\n Take me with you, friend John,  said the Professor.  His case in your\ndiary interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on _our_\ncase. I should much like to see him, and especial when his mind is\ndisturbed. \n\n May I come also?  asked Lord Godalming.\n\n Me too?  said Quincey Morris.  May I come?  said Harker. I nodded, and\nwe all went down the passage together.\n\nWe found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more\nrational in his speech and manner than I had ever seen him. There was an\nunusual understanding of himself, which was unlike anything I had ever\nmet with in a lunatic; and he took it for granted that his reasons would\nprevail with others entirely sane. We all four went into the room, but\nnone of the others at first said anything. His request was that I would\nat once release him from the asylum and send him home. This he backed up\nwith arguments regarding his complete recovery, and adduced his own\nexisting sanity.  I appeal to your friends,  he said,  they will,\nperhaps, not mind sitting in judgment on my case. By the way, you have\nnot introduced me.  I was so much astonished, that the oddness of\nintroducing a madman in an asylum did not strike me at the moment; and,\nbesides, there was a certain dignity in the man s manner, so much of\nthe habit of equality, that I at once made the introduction:  Lord\nGodalming; Professor Van Helsing; Mr. Quincey Morris, of Texas; Mr.\nRenfield.  He shook hands with each of them, saying in turn:--\n\n Lord Godalming, I had the honour of seconding your father at the\nWindham; I grieve to know, by your holding the title, that he is no\nmore. He was a man loved and honoured by all who knew him; and in his\nyouth was, I have heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much\npatronised on Derby night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great\nstate. Its reception into the Union was a precedent which may have\nfar-reaching effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold\nalliance to the Stars and Stripes. The power of Treaty may yet prove a\nvast engine of enlargement, when the Monroe doctrine takes its true\nplace as a political fable. What shall any man say of his pleasure at\nmeeting Van Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms of\nconventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionised therapeutics\nby his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain-matter,\nconventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to\none of a class. You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by heredity, or by\nthe possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective\nplaces in the moving world, I take to witness that I am as sane as at\nleast the majority of men who are in full possession of their liberties.\nAnd I am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian and medico-jurist as\nwell as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to deal with me as one to\nbe considered as under exceptional circumstances.  He made this last\nappeal with a courtly air of conviction which was not without its own\ncharm.\n\nI think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under the\nconviction, despite my knowledge of the man s character and history,\nthat his reason had been restored; and I felt under a strong impulse to\ntell him that I was satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about the\nnecessary formalities for his release in the morning. I thought it\nbetter to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of old\nI knew the sudden changes to which this particular patient was liable.\nSo I contented myself with making a general statement that he appeared\nto be improving very rapidly; that I would have a longer chat with him\nin the morning, and would then see what I could do in the direction of\nmeeting his wishes. This did not at all satisfy him, for he said\nquickly:--\n\n But I fear, Dr. Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to\ngo at once--here--now--this very hour--this very moment, if I may. Time\npresses, and in our implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of\nthe essence of the contract. I am sure it is only necessary to put\nbefore so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so simple, yet so\nmomentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment.  He looked at me keenly, and\nseeing the negative in my face, turned to the others, and scrutinised\nthem closely. Not meeting any sufficient response, he went on:--\n\n Is it possible that I have erred in my supposition? \n\n You have,  I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally.\nThere was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly:--\n\n Then I suppose I must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for\nthis concession--boon, privilege, what you will. I am content to implore\nin such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I\nam not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons; but you may, I\nassure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and\nunselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. Could you look,\nsir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the sentiments which\nanimate me. Nay, more, you would count me amongst the best and truest of\nyour friends.  Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing\nconviction that this sudden change of his entire intellectual method was\nbut yet another form or phase of his madness, and so determined to let\nhim go on a little longer, knowing from experience that he would, like\nall lunatics, give himself away in the end. Van Helsing was gazing at\nhim with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting\nwith the fixed concentration of his look. He said to Renfield in a tone\nwhich did not surprise me at the time, but only when I thought of it\nafterwards--for it was as of one addressing an equal:--\n\n Can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free\nto-night? I will undertake that if you will satisfy even me--a stranger,\nwithout prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind--Dr.\nSeward will give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the\nprivilege you seek.  He shook his head sadly, and with a look of\npoignant regret on his face. The Professor went on:--\n\n Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of reason in the\nhighest degree, since you seek to impress us with your complete\nreasonableness. You do this, whose sanity we have reason to doubt, since\nyou are not yet released from medical treatment for this very defect. If\nyou will not help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how can\nwe perform the duty which you yourself put upon us? Be wise, and help\nus; and if we can we shall aid you to achieve your wish.  He still shook\nhis head as he said:--\n\n Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to say. Your argument is complete, and\nif I were free to speak I should not hesitate a moment; but I am not my\nown master in the matter. I can only ask you to trust me. If I am\nrefused, the responsibility does not rest with me.  I thought it was now\ntime to end the scene, which was becoming too comically grave, so I went\ntowards the door, simply saying:--\n\n Come, my friends, we have work to do. Good-night. \n\nAs, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient. He\nmoved towards me so quickly that for the moment I feared that he was\nabout to make another homicidal attack. My fears, however, were\ngroundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly, and made his\npetition in a moving manner. As he saw that the very excess of his\nemotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old\nrelations, he became still more demonstrative. I glanced at Van Helsing,\nand saw my conviction reflected in his eyes; so I became a little more\nfixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him that his\nefforts were unavailing. I had previously seen something of the same\nconstantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some request of\nwhich at the time he had thought much, such, for instance, as when he\nwanted a cat; and I was prepared to see the collapse into the same\nsullen acquiescence on this occasion. My expectation was not realised,\nfor, when he found that his appeal would not be successful, he got into\nquite a frantic condition. He threw himself on his knees, and held up\nhis hands, wringing them in plaintive supplication, and poured forth a\ntorrent of entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his\nwhole face and form expressive of the deepest emotion:--\n\n Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out\nof this house at once. Send me away how you will and where you will;\nsend keepers with me with whips and chains; let them take me in a\nstrait-waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to a gaol; but let me go\nout of this. You don t know what you do by keeping me here. I am\nspeaking from the depths of my heart--of my very soul. You don t know\nwhom you wrong, or how; and I may not tell. Woe is me! I may not tell.\nBy all you hold sacred--by all you hold dear--by your love that is\nlost--by your hope that lives--for the sake of the Almighty, take me out\nof this and save my soul from guilt! Can t you hear me, man? Can t you\nunderstand? Will you never learn? Don t you know that I am sane and\nearnest now; that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting\nfor his soul? Oh, hear me! hear me! Let me go! let me go! let me go! \n\nI thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so\nwould bring on a fit; so I took him by the hand and raised him up.\n\n Come,  I said sternly,  no more of this; we have had quite enough\nalready. Get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly. \n\nHe suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments. Then,\nwithout a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of the\nbed. The collapse had come, as on former occasion, just as I had\nexpected.\n\nWhen I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a\nquiet, well-bred voice:--\n\n You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the justice to bear in mind, later\non, that I did what I could to convince you to-night. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nJONATHAN HARKER S JOURNAL\n\n\n_1 October, 5 a. m._--I went with the party to the search with an easy\nmind, for I think I never saw Mina so absolutely strong and well. I am\nso glad that she consented to hold back and let us men do the work.\nSomehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this fearful business at\nall; but now that her work is done, and that it is due to her energy and\nbrains and foresight that the whole story is put together in such a way\nthat every point tells, she may well feel that her part is finished, and\nthat she can henceforth leave the rest to us. We were, I think, all a\nlittle upset by the scene with Mr. Renfield. When we came away from his\nroom we were silent till we got back to the study. Then Mr. Morris said\nto Dr. Seward:--\n\n Say, Jack, if that man wasn t attempting a bluff, he is about the\nsanest lunatic I ever saw. I m not sure, but I believe that he had some\nserious purpose, and if he had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a\nchance.  Lord Godalming and I were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added:--\n\n Friend John, you know more of lunatics than I do, and I m glad of it,\nfor I fear that if it had been to me to decide I would before that last\nhysterical outburst have given him free. But we live and learn, and in\nour present task we must take no chance, as my friend Quincey would say.\nAll is best as they are.  Dr. Seward seemed to answer them both in a\ndreamy kind of way:--\n\n I don t know but that I agree with you. If that man had been an\nordinary lunatic I would have taken my chance of trusting him; but he\nseems so mixed up with the Count in an indexy kind of way that I am\nafraid of doing anything wrong by helping his fads. I can t forget how\nhe prayed with almost equal fervour for a cat, and then tried to tear my\nthroat out with his teeth. Besides, he called the Count  lord and\nmaster,  and he may want to get out to help him in some diabolical way.\nThat horrid thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind to help\nhim, so I suppose he isn t above trying to use a respectable lunatic. He\ncertainly did seem earnest, though. I only hope we have done what is\nbest. These things, in conjunction with the wild work we have in hand,\nhelp to unnerve a man.  The Professor stepped over, and laying his hand\non his shoulder, said in his grave, kindly way:--\n\n Friend John, have no fear. We are trying to do our duty in a very sad\nand terrible case; we can only do as we deem best. What else have we to\nhope for, except the pity of the good God?  Lord Godalming had slipped\naway for a few minutes, but now he returned. He held up a little silver\nwhistle, as he remarked:--\n\n That old place may be full of rats, and if so, I ve got an antidote on\ncall.  Having passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care\nto keep in the shadows of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone\nout. When we got to the porch the Professor opened his bag and took out\na lot of things, which he laid on the step, sorting them into four\nlittle groups, evidently one for each. Then he spoke:--\n\n My friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of\nmany kinds. Our enemy is not merely spiritual. Remember that he has the\nstrength of twenty men, and that, though our necks or our windpipes are\nof the common kind--and therefore breakable or crushable--his are not\namenable to mere strength. A stronger man, or a body of men more strong\nin all than him, can at certain times hold him; but they cannot hurt him\nas we can be hurt by him. We must, therefore, guard ourselves from his\ntouch. Keep this near your heart --as he spoke he lifted a little silver\ncrucifix and held it out to me, I being nearest to him-- put these\nflowers round your neck --here he handed to me a wreath of withered\ngarlic blossoms-- for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this\nknife; and for aid in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can\nfasten to your breast; and for all, and above all at the last, this,\nwhich we must not desecrate needless.  This was a portion of Sacred\nWafer, which he put in an envelope and handed to me. Each of the others\nwas similarly equipped.  Now,  he said,  friend John, where are the\nskeleton keys? If so that we can open the door, we need not break house\nby the window, as before at Miss Lucy s. \n\nDr. Seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as a\nsurgeon standing him in good stead. Presently he got one to suit; after\na little play back and forward the bolt yielded, and, with a rusty\nclang, shot back. We pressed on the door, the rusty hinges creaked, and\nit slowly opened. It was startlingly like the image conveyed to me in\nDr. Seward s diary of the opening of Miss Westenra s tomb; I fancy that\nthe same idea seemed to strike the others, for with one accord they\nshrank back. The Professor was the first to move forward, and stepped\ninto the open door.\n\n _In manus tuas, Domine!_  he said, crossing himself as he passed over\nthe threshold. We closed the door behind us, lest when we should have\nlit our lamps we should possibly attract attention from the road. The\nProfessor carefully tried the lock, lest we might not be able to open it\nfrom within should we be in a hurry making our exit. Then we all lit our\nlamps and proceeded on our search.\n\nThe light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the\nrays crossed each other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great\nshadows. I could not for my life get away from the feeling that there\nwas some one else amongst us. I suppose it was the recollection, so\npowerfully brought home to me by the grim surroundings, of that terrible\nexperience in Transylvania. I think the feeling was common to us all,\nfor I noticed that the others kept looking over their shoulders at every\nsound and every new shadow, just as I felt myself doing.\n\nThe whole place was thick with dust. The floor was seemingly inches\ndeep, except where there were recent footsteps, in which on holding down\nmy lamp I could see marks of hobnails where the dust was cracked. The\nwalls were fluffy and heavy with dust, and in the corners were masses of\nspider s webs, whereon the dust had gathered till they looked like old\ntattered rags as the weight had torn them partly down. On a table in the\nhall was a great bunch of keys, with a time-yellowed label on each. They\nhad been used several times, for on the table were several similar rents\nin the blanket of dust, similar to that exposed when the Professor\nlifted them. He turned to me and said:--\n\n You know this place, Jonathan. You have copied maps of it, and you know\nit at least more than we do. Which is the way to the chapel?  I had an\nidea of its direction, though on my former visit I had not been able to\nget admission to it; so I led the way, and after a few wrong turnings\nfound myself opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed with iron bands.\n This is the spot,  said the Professor as he turned his lamp on a small\nmap of the house, copied from the file of my original correspondence\nregarding the purchase. With a little trouble we found the key on the\nbunch and opened the door. We were prepared for some unpleasantness, for\nas we were opening the door a faint, malodorous air seemed to exhale\nthrough the gaps, but none of us ever expected such an odour as we\nencountered. None of the others had met the Count at all at close\nquarters, and when I had seen him he was either in the fasting stage of\nhis existence in his rooms or, when he was gloated with fresh blood, in\na ruined building open to the air; but here the place was small and\nclose, and the long disuse had made the air stagnant and foul. There was\nan earthy smell, as of some dry miasma, which came through the fouler\nair. But as to the odour itself, how shall I describe it? It was not\nalone that it was composed of all the ills of mortality and with the\npungent, acrid smell of blood, but it seemed as though corruption had\nbecome itself corrupt. Faugh! it sickens me to think of it. Every breath\nexhaled by that monster seemed to have clung to the place and\nintensified its loathsomeness.\n\nUnder ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our\nenterprise to an end; but this was no ordinary case, and the high and\nterrible purpose in which we were involved gave us a strength which rose\nabove merely physical considerations. After the involuntary shrinking\nconsequent on the first nauseous whiff, we one and all set about our\nwork as though that loathsome place were a garden of roses.\n\nWe made an accurate examination of the place, the Professor saying as we\nbegan:--\n\n The first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left; we must then\nexamine every hole and corner and cranny and see if we cannot get some\nclue as to what has become of the rest.  A glance was sufficient to show\nhow many remained, for the great earth chests were bulky, and there was\nno mistaking them.\n\nThere were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! Once I got a fright,\nfor, seeing Lord Godalming suddenly turn and look out of the vaulted\ndoor into the dark passage beyond, I looked too, and for an instant my\nheart stood still. Somewhere, looking out from the shadow, I seemed to\nsee the high lights of the Count s evil face, the ridge of the nose, the\nred eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor. It was only for a moment, for,\nas Lord Godalming said,  I thought I saw a face, but it was only the\nshadows,  and resumed his inquiry, I turned my lamp in the direction,\nand stepped into the passage. There was no sign of any one; and as there\nwere no corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind, but only the solid\nwalls of the passage, there could be no hiding-place even for _him_. I\ntook it that fear had helped imagination, and said nothing.\n\nA few minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a corner, which\nhe was examining. We all followed his movements with our eyes, for\nundoubtedly some nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass\nof phosphorescence, which twinkled like stars. We all instinctively drew\nback. The whole place was becoming alive with rats.\n\nFor a moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord Godalming, who was\nseemingly prepared for such an emergency. Rushing over to the great\niron-bound oaken door, which Dr. Seward had described from the outside,\nand which I had seen myself, he turned the key in the lock, drew the\nhuge bolts, and swung the door open. Then, taking his little silver\nwhistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call. It was answered\nfrom behind Dr. Seward s house by the yelping of dogs, and after about a\nminute three terriers came dashing round the corner of the house.\nUnconsciously we had all moved towards the door, and as we moved I\nnoticed that the dust had been much disturbed: the boxes which had been\ntaken out had been brought this way. But even in the minute that had\nelapsed the number of the rats had vastly increased. They seemed to\nswarm over the place all at once, till the lamplight, shining on their\nmoving dark bodies and glittering, baleful eyes, made the place look\nlike a bank of earth set with fireflies. The dogs dashed on, but at the\nthreshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and then, simultaneously lifting\ntheir noses, began to howl in most lugubrious fashion. The rats were\nmultiplying in thousands, and we moved out.\n\nLord Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him\non the floor. The instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to\nrecover his courage, and rushed at his natural enemies. They fled before\nhim so fast that before he had shaken the life out of a score, the other\ndogs, who had by now been lifted in the same manner, had but small prey\nere the whole mass had vanished.\n\nWith their going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for\nthe dogs frisked about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at\ntheir prostrate foes, and turned them over and over and tossed them in\nthe air with vicious shakes. We all seemed to find our spirits rise.\nWhether it was the purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening of\nthe chapel door, or the relief which we experienced by finding ourselves\nin the open I know not; but most certainly the shadow of dread seemed to\nslip from us like a robe, and the occasion of our coming lost something\nof its grim significance, though we did not slacken a whit in our\nresolution. We closed the outer door and barred and locked it, and\nbringing the dogs with us, began our search of the house. We found\nnothing throughout except dust in extraordinary proportions, and all\nuntouched save for my own footsteps when I had made my first visit.\nNever once did the dogs exhibit any symptom of uneasiness, and even when\nwe returned to the chapel they frisked about as though they had been\nrabbit-hunting in a summer wood.\n\nThe morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front.\nDr. Van Helsing had taken the key of the hall-door from the bunch, and\nlocked the door in orthodox fashion, putting the key into his pocket\nwhen he had done.\n\n So far,  he said,  our night has been eminently successful. No harm has\ncome to us such as I feared might be and yet we have ascertained how\nmany boxes are missing. More than all do I rejoice that this, our\nfirst--and perhaps our most difficult and dangerous--step has been\naccomplished without the bringing thereinto our most sweet Madam Mina or\ntroubling her waking or sleeping thoughts with sights and sounds and\nsmells of horror which she might never forget. One lesson, too, we have\nlearned, if it be allowable to argue _a particulari_: that the brute\nbeasts which are to the Count s command are yet themselves not amenable\nto his spiritual power; for look, these rats that would come to his\ncall, just as from his castle top he summon the wolves to your going and\nto that poor mother s cry, though they come to him, they run pell-mell\nfrom the so little dogs of my friend Arthur. We have other matters\nbefore us, other dangers, other fears; and that monster--he has not used\nhis power over the brute world for the only or the last time to-night.\nSo be it that he has gone elsewhere. Good! It has given us opportunity\nto cry  check  in some ways in this chess game, which we play for the\nstake of human souls. And now let us go home. The dawn is close at hand,\nand we have reason to be content with our first night s work. It may be\nordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if full of peril;\nbut we must go on, and from no danger shall we shrink. \n\nThe house was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who\nwas screaming away in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning sound\nfrom Renfield s room. The poor wretch was doubtless torturing himself,\nafter the manner of the insane, with needless thoughts of pain.\n\nI came tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep, breathing so\nsoftly that I had to put my ear down to hear it. She looks paler than\nusual. I hope the meeting to-night has not upset her. I am truly\nthankful that she is to be left out of our future work, and even of our\ndeliberations. It is too great a strain for a woman to bear. I did not\nthink so at first, but I know better now. Therefore I am glad that it is\nsettled. There may be things which would frighten her to hear; and yet\nto conceal them from her might be worse than to tell her if once she\nsuspected that there was any concealment. Henceforth our work is to be a\nsealed book to her, till at least such time as we can tell her that all\nis finished, and the earth free from a monster of the nether world. I\ndaresay it will be difficult to begin to keep silence after such\nconfidence as ours; but I must be resolute, and to-morrow I shall keep\ndark over to-night s doings, and shall refuse to speak of anything that\nhas happened. I rest on the sofa, so as not to disturb her.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_1 October, later._--I suppose it was natural that we should have all\noverslept ourselves, for the day was a busy one, and the night had no\nrest at all. Even Mina must have felt its exhaustion, for though I slept\ntill the sun was high, I was awake before her, and had to call two or\nthree times before she awoke. Indeed, she was so sound asleep that for a\nfew seconds she did not recognize me, but looked at me with a sort of\nblank terror, as one looks who has been waked out of a bad dream. She\ncomplained a little of being tired, and I let her rest till later in the\nday. We now know of twenty-one boxes having been removed, and if it be\nthat several were taken in any of these removals we may be able to trace\nthem all. Such will, of course, immensely simplify our labour, and the\nsooner the matter is attended to the better. I shall look up Thomas\nSnelling to-day.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_1 October._--It was towards noon when I was awakened by the Professor\nwalking into my room. He was more jolly and cheerful than usual, and it\nis quite evident that last night s work has helped to take some of the\nbrooding weight off his mind. After going over the adventure of the\nnight he suddenly said:--\n\n Your patient interests me much. May it be that with you I visit him\nthis morning? Or if that you are too occupy, I can go alone if it may\nbe. It is a new experience to me to find a lunatic who talk philosophy,\nand reason so sound.  I had some work to do which pressed, so I told him\nthat if he would go alone I would be glad, as then I should not have to\nkeep him waiting; so I called an attendant and gave him the necessary\ninstructions. Before the Professor left the room I cautioned him against\ngetting any false impression from my patient.  But,  he answered,  I\nwant him to talk of himself and of his delusion as to consuming live\nthings. He said to Madam Mina, as I see in your diary of yesterday, that\nhe had once had such a belief. Why do you smile, friend John? \n\n Excuse me,  I said,  but the answer is here.  I laid my hand on the\ntype-written matter.  When our sane and learned lunatic made that very\nstatement of how he _used_ to consume life, his mouth was actually\nnauseous with the flies and spiders which he had eaten just before Mrs.\nHarker entered the room.  Van Helsing smiled in turn.  Good!  he said.\n Your memory is true, friend John. I should have remembered. And yet it\nis this very obliquity of thought and memory which makes mental disease\nsuch a fascinating study. Perhaps I may gain more knowledge out of the\nfolly of this madman than I shall from the teaching of the most wise.\nWho knows?  I went on with my work, and before long was through that in\nhand. It seemed that the time had been very short indeed, but there was\nVan Helsing back in the study.  Do I interrupt?  he asked politely as he\nstood at the door.\n\n Not at all,  I answered.  Come in. My work is finished, and I am free.\nI can go with you now, if you like.\n\n It is needless; I have seen him! \n\n Well? \n\n I fear that he does not appraise me at much. Our interview was short.\nWhen I entered his room he was sitting on a stool in the centre, with\nhis elbows on his knees, and his face was the picture of sullen\ndiscontent. I spoke to him as cheerfully as I could, and with such a\nmeasure of respect as I could assume. He made no reply whatever.  Don t\nyou know me?  I asked. His answer was not reassuring:  I know you well\nenough; you are the old fool Van Helsing. I wish you would take yourself\nand your idiotic brain theories somewhere else. Damn all thick-headed\nDutchmen!  Not a word more would he say, but sat in his implacable\nsullenness as indifferent to me as though I had not been in the room at\nall. Thus departed for this time my chance of much learning from this so\nclever lunatic; so I shall go, if I may, and cheer myself with a few\nhappy words with that sweet soul Madam Mina. Friend John, it does\nrejoice me unspeakable that she is no more to be pained, no more to be\nworried with our terrible things. Though we shall much miss her help, it\nis better so. \n\n I agree with you with all my heart,  I answered earnestly, for I did\nnot want him to weaken in this matter.  Mrs. Harker is better out of it.\nThings are quite bad enough for us, all men of the world, and who have\nbeen in many tight places in our time; but it is no place for a woman,\nand if she had remained in touch with the affair, it would in time\ninfallibly have wrecked her. \n\nSo Van Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and Harker; Quincey\nand Art are all out following up the clues as to the earth-boxes. I\nshall finish my round of work and we shall meet to-night.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_1 October._--It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am to-day;\nafter Jonathan s full confidence for so many years, to see him\nmanifestly avoid certain matters, and those the most vital of all. This\nmorning I slept late after the fatigues of yesterday, and though\nJonathan was late too, he was the earlier. He spoke to me before he went\nout, never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of\nwhat had happened in the visit to the Count s house. And yet he must\nhave known how terribly anxious I was. Poor dear fellow! I suppose it\nmust have distressed him even more than it did me. They all agreed that\nit was best that I should not be drawn further into this awful work, and\nI acquiesced. But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am\ncrying like a silly fool, when I _know_ it comes from my husband s great\nlove and from the good, good wishes of those other strong men.\n\nThat has done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all; and\nlest it should ever be that he should think for a moment that I kept\nanything from him, I still keep my journal as usual. Then if he has\nfeared of my trust I shall show it to him, with every thought of my\nheart put down for his dear eyes to read. I feel strangely sad and\nlow-spirited to-day. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible\nexcitement.\n\nLast night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told\nme to. I didn t feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. I\nkept thinking over everything that has been ever since Jonathan came to\nsee me in London, and it all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate\npressing on relentlessly to some destined end. Everything that one does\nseems, no matter how right it may be, to bring on the very thing which\nis most to be deplored. If I hadn t gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear\nLucy would be with us now. She hadn t taken to visiting the churchyard\ntill I came, and if she hadn t come there in the day-time with me she\nwouldn t have walked there in her sleep; and if she hadn t gone there at\nnight and asleep, that monster couldn t have destroyed her as he did.\nOh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying again! I wonder what\nhas come over me to-day. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he knew\nthat I had been crying twice in one morning--I, who never cried on my\nown account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear--the dear\nfellow would fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on, and if I do\nfeel weepy, he shall never see it. I suppose it is one of the lessons\nthat we poor women have to learn....\n\nI can t quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember hearing\nthe sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying\non a very tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield s room, which is somewhere\nunder this. And then there was silence over everything, silence so\nprofound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out of the window.\nAll was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by the moonlight\nseeming full of a silent mystery of their own. Not a thing seemed to be\nstirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or fate; so that a thin\nstreak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible slowness\nacross the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience and a\nvitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts must\nhave done me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy\ncreeping over me. I lay a while, but could not quite sleep, so I got out\nand looked out of the window again. The mist was spreading, and was now\nclose up to the house, so that I could see it lying thick against the\nwall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. The poor man was\nmore loud than ever, and though I could not distinguish a word he said,\nI could in some way recognise in his tones some passionate entreaty on\nhis part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I knew that the\nattendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept into\nbed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears.\nI was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought; but I must have\nfallen asleep, for, except dreams, I do not remember anything until the\nmorning, when Jonathan woke me. I think that it took me an effort and a\nlittle time to realise where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was\nbending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of\nthe way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.\n\nI thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I\nwas very anxious about him, and I was powerless to act; my feet, and my\nhands, and my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the\nusual pace. And so I slept uneasily and thought. Then it began to dawn\nupon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold. I put back the\nclothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was dim\naround. The gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but turned down,\ncame only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had evidently\ngrown thicker and poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I\nhad shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out to\nmake certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my\nlimbs and even my will. I lay still and endured; that was all. I closed\nmy eyes, but could still see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what\ntricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.) The\nmist grew thicker and thicker and I could see now how it came in, for I\ncould see it like smoke--or with the white energy of boiling\nwater--pouring in, not through the window, but through the joinings of\nthe door. It got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became\nconcentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through the top\nof which I could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye. Things\nbegan to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now\nwhirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words  a\npillar of cloud by day and of fire by night.  Was it indeed some such\nspiritual guidance that was coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was\ncomposed of both the day and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the\nred eye, which at the thought got a new fascination for me; till, as I\nlooked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog like\ntwo red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering\nwhen, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary s\nChurch. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan\nhad seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist\nin the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all became\nblack darkness. The last conscious effort which imagination made was to\nshow me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist. I must be\ncareful of such dreams, for they would unseat one s reason if there were\ntoo much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe\nsomething for me which would make me sleep, only that I fear to alarm\nthem. Such a dream at the present time would become woven into their\nfears for me. To-night I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If I do\nnot, I shall to-morrow night get them to give me a dose of chloral; that\ncannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night s sleep. Last\nnight tired me more than if I had not slept at all.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_2 October 10 p. m._--Last night I slept, but did not dream. I must have\nslept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming to bed; but the\nsleep has not refreshed me, for to-day I feel terribly weak and\nspiritless. I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing.\nIn the afternoon Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was\nvery gentle, and when I came away he kissed my hand and bade God bless\nme. Some way it affected me much; I am crying when I think of him. This\nis a new weakness, of which I must be careful. Jonathan would be\nmiserable if he knew I had been crying. He and the others were out till\ndinner-time, and they all came in tired. I did what I could to brighten\nthem up, and I suppose that the effort did me good, for I forgot how\ntired I was. After dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to smoke\ntogether, as they said, but I knew that they wanted to tell each other\nof what had occurred to each during the day; I could see from Jonathan s\nmanner that he had something important to communicate. I was not so\nsleepy as I should have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to\ngive me a little opiate of some kind, as I had not slept well the night\nbefore. He very kindly made me up a sleeping draught, which he gave to\nme, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very mild.... I\nhave taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope\nI have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear\ncomes: that I may have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the\npower of waking. I might want it. Here comes sleep. Good-night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nJONATHAN HARKER S JOURNAL\n\n\n_1 October, evening._--I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal\nGreen, but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything. The\nvery prospect of beer which my expected coming had opened to him had\nproved too much, and he had begun too early on his expected debauch. I\nlearned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor soul, that he\nwas only the assistant to Smollet, who of the two mates was the\nresponsible person. So off I drove to Walworth, and found Mr. Joseph\nSmollet at home and in his shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out of a\nsaucer. He is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good, reliable\ntype of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He remembered all\nabout the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog s-eared\nnotebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle about the\nseat of his trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries in thick,\nhalf-obliterated pencil, he gave me the destinations of the boxes. There\nwere, he said, six in the cartload which he took from Carfax and left at\n197, Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and another six which he\ndeposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey. If then the Count meant to\nscatter these ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were\nchosen as the first of delivery, so that later he might distribute more\nfully. The systematic manner in which this was done made me think that\nhe could not mean to confine himself to two sides of London. He was now\nfixed on the far east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern\nshore, and on the south. The north and west were surely never meant to\nbe left out of his diabolical scheme--let alone the City itself and the\nvery heart of fashionable London in the south-west and west. I went back\nto Smollet, and asked him if he could tell us if any other boxes had\nbeen taken from Carfax.\n\nHe replied:--\n\n Well, guv nor, you ve treated me wery  an some --I had given him half a\nsovereign-- an  I ll tell yer all I know. I heard a man by the name of\nBloxam say four nights ago in the  Are an   Ounds, in Pincher s Alley,\nas  ow he an  his mate  ad  ad a rare dusty job in a old  ouse at\nPurfect. There ain t a-many such jobs as this  ere, an  I m thinkin \nthat maybe Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut.  I asked if he could tell me\nwhere to find him. I told him that if he could get me the address it\nwould be worth another half-sovereign to him. So he gulped down the rest\nof his tea and stood up, saying that he was going to begin the search\nthen and there. At the door he stopped, and said:--\n\n Look  ere, guv nor, there ain t no sense in me a-keepin  you  ere. I\nmay find Sam soon, or I mayn t; but anyhow he ain t like to be in a way\nto tell ye much to-night. Sam is a rare one when he starts on the booze.\nIf you can give me a envelope with a stamp on it, and put yer address on\nit, I ll find out where Sam is to be found and post it ye to-night. But\nye d better be up arter  im soon in the mornin , or maybe ye won t ketch\n im; for Sam gets off main early, never mind the booze the night afore. \n\nThis was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny to\nbuy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change. When she\ncame back, I addressed the envelope and stamped it, and when Smollet had\nagain faithfully promised to post the address when found, I took my way\nto home. We re on the track anyhow. I am tired to-night, and want sleep.\nMina is fast asleep, and looks a little too pale; her eyes look as\nthough she had been crying. Poor dear, I ve no doubt it frets her to be\nkept in the dark, and it may make her doubly anxious about me and the\nothers. But it is best as it is. It is better to be disappointed and\nworried in such a way now than to have her nerve broken. The doctors\nwere quite right to insist on her being kept out of this dreadful\nbusiness. I must be firm, for on me this particular burden of silence\nmust rest. I shall not ever enter on the subject with her under any\ncircumstances. Indeed, it may not be a hard task, after all, for she\nherself has become reticent on the subject, and has not spoken of the\nCount or his doings ever since we told her of our decision.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_2 October, evening._--A long and trying and exciting day. By the first\npost I got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on\nwhich was written with a carpenter s pencil in a sprawling hand:--\n\n Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4, Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth. Arsk for\nthe depite. \n\nI got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She looked heavy\nand sleepy and pale, and far from well. I determined not to wake her,\nbut that, when I should return from this new search, I would arrange for\nher going back to Exeter. I think she would be happier in our own home,\nwith her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here amongst us and\nin ignorance. I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment, and told him where I\nwas off to, promising to come back and tell the rest so soon as I should\nhave found out anything. I drove to Walworth and found, with some\ndifficulty, Potter s Court. Mr. Smollet s spelling misled me, as I asked\nfor Poter s Court instead of Potter s Court. However, when I had found\nthe court, I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran s lodging-house.\nWhen I asked the man who came to the door for the  depite,  he shook his\nhead, and said:  I dunno  im. There ain t no such a person  ere; I never\n eard of  im in all my bloomin  days. Don t believe there ain t nobody\nof that kind livin  ere or anywheres.  I took out Smollet s letter, and\nas I read it it seemed to me that the lesson of the spelling of the name\nof the court might guide me.  What are you?  I asked.\n\n I m the depity,  he answered. I saw at once that I was on the right\ntrack; phonetic spelling had again misled me. A half-crown tip put the\ndeputy s knowledge at my disposal, and I learned that Mr. Bloxam, who\nhad slept off the remains of his beer on the previous night at\nCorcoran s, had left for his work at Poplar at five o clock that\nmorning. He could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but\nhe had a vague idea that it was some kind of a  new-fangled ware us ;\nand with this slender clue I had to start for Poplar. It was twelve\no clock before I got any satisfactory hint of such a building, and this\nI got at a coffee-shop, where some workmen were having their dinner. One\nof these suggested that there was being erected at Cross Angel Street a\nnew  cold storage  building; and as this suited the condition of a\n new-fangled ware us,  I at once drove to it. An interview with a surly\ngatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with the\ncoin of the realm, put me on the track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my\nsuggesting that I was willing to pay his day s wages to his foreman for\nthe privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter. He was\na smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. When I had\npromised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me\nthat he had made two journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly,\nand had taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes-- main\nheavy ones --with a horse and cart hired by him for this purpose. I\nasked him if he could tell me the number of the house in Piccadilly, to\nwhich he replied:--\n\n Well, guv nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few doors from a\nbig white church or somethink of the kind, not long built. It was a\ndusty old  ouse, too, though nothin  to the dustiness of the  ouse we\ntooked the bloomin  boxes from. \n\n How did you get into the houses if they were both empty? \n\n There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin  in the  ouse at\nPurfleet. He  elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse\nme, but he was the strongest chap I ever struck, an  him a old feller,\nwith a white moustache, one that thin you would think he couldn t throw\na shadder. \n\nHow this phrase thrilled through me!\n\n Why,  e took up  is end o  the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and\nme a-puffin  an  a-blowin  afore I could up-end mine anyhow--an  I m no\nchicken, neither. \n\n How did you get into the house in Piccadilly?  I asked.\n\n He was there too. He must  a  started off and got there afore me, for\nwhen I rung of the bell he kem an  opened the door  isself an   elped me\nto carry the boxes into the  all. \n\n The whole nine?  I asked.\n\n Yus; there was five in the first load an  four in the second. It was\nmain dry work, an  I don t so well remember  ow I got  ome.  I\ninterrupted him:--\n\n Were the boxes left in the hall? \n\n Yus; it was a big  all, an  there was nothin  else in it.  I made one\nmore attempt to further matters:--\n\n You didn t have any key? \n\n Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened the door  isself\nan  shut it again when I druv off. I don t remember the last time--but\nthat was the beer. \n\n And you can t remember the number of the house? \n\n No, sir. But ye needn t have no difficulty about that. It s a  igh  un\nwith a stone front with a bow on it, an   igh steps up to the door. I\nknow them steps,  avin   ad to carry the boxes up with three loafers\nwhat come round to earn a copper. The old gent give them shillin s, an \nthey seein  they got so much, they wanted more; but  e took one of them\nby the shoulder and was like to throw  im down the steps, till the lot\nof them went away cussin .  I thought that with this description I could\nfind the house, so, having paid my friend for his information, I started\noff for Piccadilly. I had gained a new painful experience; the Count\ncould, it was evident, handle the earth-boxes himself. If so, time was\nprecious; for, now that he had achieved a certain amount of\ndistribution, he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task\nunobserved. At Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and walked\nwestward; beyond the Junior Constitutional I came across the house\ndescribed, and was satisfied that this was the next of the lairs\narranged by Dracula. The house looked as though it had been long\nuntenanted. The windows were encrusted with dust, and the shutters were\nup. All the framework was black with time, and from the iron the paint\nhad mostly scaled away. It was evident that up to lately there had been\na large notice-board in front of the balcony; it had, however, been\nroughly torn away, the uprights which had supported it still remaining.\nBehind the rails of the balcony I saw there were some loose boards,\nwhose raw edges looked white. I would have given a good deal to have\nbeen able to see the notice-board intact, as it would, perhaps, have\ngiven some clue to the ownership of the house. I remembered my\nexperience of the investigation and purchase of Carfax, and I could not\nbut feel that if I could find the former owner there might be some means\ndiscovered of gaining access to the house.\n\nThere was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side, and\nnothing could be done; so I went round to the back to see if anything\ncould be gathered from this quarter. The mews were active, the\nPiccadilly houses being mostly in occupation. I asked one or two of the\ngrooms and helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me anything\nabout the empty house. One of them said that he heard it had lately been\ntaken, but he couldn t say from whom. He told me, however, that up to\nvery lately there had been a notice-board of  For Sale  up, and that\nperhaps Mitchell, Sons, & Candy, the house agents, could tell me\nsomething, as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm on\nthe board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant know\nor guess too much, so, thanking him in the usual manner, I strolled\naway. It was now growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so I\ndid not lose any time. Having learned the address of Mitchell, Sons, &\nCandy from a directory at the Berkeley, I was soon at their office in\nSackville Street.\n\nThe gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but\nuncommunicative in equal proportion. Having once told me that the\nPiccadilly house--which throughout our interview he called a\n mansion --was sold, he considered my business as concluded. When I\nasked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and\npaused a few seconds before replying:--\n\n It is sold, sir. \n\n Pardon me,  I said, with equal politeness,  but I have a special reason\nfor wishing to know who purchased it. \n\nAgain he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more.  It is sold,\nsir,  was again his laconic reply.\n\n Surely,  I said,  you do not mind letting me know so much. \n\n But I do mind,  he answered.  The affairs of their clients are\nabsolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy.  This was\nmanifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing with\nhim. I thought I had best meet him on his own ground, so I said:--\n\n Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their\nconfidence. I am myself a professional man.  Here I handed him my card.\n In this instance I am not prompted by curiosity; I act on the part of\nLord Godalming, who wishes to know something of the property which was,\nhe understood, lately for sale.  These words put a different complexion\non affairs. He said:--\n\n I would like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially would\nI like to oblige his lordship. We once carried out a small matter of\nrenting some chambers for him when he was the Honourable Arthur\nHolmwood. If you will let me have his lordship s address I will consult\nthe House on the subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his\nlordship by to-night s post. It will be a pleasure if we can so far\ndeviate from our rules as to give the required information to his\nlordship. \n\nI wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked him,\ngave the address at Dr. Seward s and came away. It was now dark, and I\nwas tired and hungry. I got a cup of tea at the A rated Bread Company\nand came down to Purfleet by the next train.\n\nI found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and pale, but she\nmade a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful, it wrung my heart to\nthink that I had had to keep anything from her and so caused her\ninquietude. Thank God, this will be the last night of her looking on at\nour conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our\nconfidence. It took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of\nkeeping her out of our grim task. She seems somehow more reconciled; or\nelse the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for when\nany accidental allusion is made she actually shudders. I am glad we\nmade our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing\nknowledge would be torture to her.\n\nI could not tell the others of the day s discovery till we were alone;\nso after dinner--followed by a little music to save appearances even\namongst ourselves--I took Mina to her room and left her to go to bed.\nThe dear girl was more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me\nas though she would detain me; but there was much to be talked of and I\ncame away. Thank God, the ceasing of telling things has made no\ndifference between us.\n\nWhen I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire in\nthe study. In the train I had written my diary so far, and simply read\nit off to them as the best means of letting them get abreast of my own\ninformation; when I had finished Van Helsing said:--\n\n This has been a great day s work, friend Jonathan. Doubtless we are on\nthe track of the missing boxes. If we find them all in that house, then\nour work is near the end. But if there be some missing, we must search\nuntil we find them. Then shall we make our final _coup_, and hunt the\nwretch to his real death.  We all sat silent awhile and all at once Mr.\nMorris spoke:--\n\n Say! how are we going to get into that house? \n\n We got into the other,  answered Lord Godalming quickly.\n\n But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but we had night\nand a walled park to protect us. It will be a mighty different thing to\ncommit burglary in Piccadilly, either by day or night. I confess I don t\nsee how we are going to get in unless that agency duck can find us a key\nof some sort; perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in the\nmorning.  Lord Godalming s brows contracted, and he stood up and walked\nabout the room. By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one to\nanother of us:--\n\n Quincey s head is level. This burglary business is getting serious; we\ngot off once all right; but we have now a rare job on hand--unless we\ncan find the Count s key basket. \n\nAs nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at\nleast advisable to wait till Lord Godalming should hear from Mitchell s,\nwe decided not to take any active step before breakfast time. For a good\nwhile we sat and smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and\nbearings; I took the opportunity of bringing this diary right up to the\nmoment. I am very sleepy and shall go to bed....\n\nJust a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. Her\nforehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even\nin her sleep. She is still too pale, but does not look so haggard as she\ndid this morning. To-morrow will, I hope, mend all this; she will be\nherself at home in Exeter. Oh, but I am sleepy!\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_1 October._--I am puzzled afresh about Renfield. His moods change so\nrapidly that I find it difficult to keep touch of them, and as they\nalways mean something more than his own well-being, they form a more\nthan interesting study. This morning, when I went to see him after his\nrepulse of Van Helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding destiny.\nHe was, in fact, commanding destiny--subjectively. He did not really\ncare for any of the things of mere earth; he was in the clouds and\nlooked down on all the weaknesses and wants of us poor mortals. I\nthought I would improve the occasion and learn something, so I asked\nhim:--\n\n What about the flies these times?  He smiled on me in quite a superior\nsort of way--such a smile as would have become the face of Malvolio--as\nhe answered me:--\n\n The fly, my dear sir, has one striking feature; its wings are typical\nof the a rial powers of the psychic faculties. The ancients did well\nwhen they typified the soul as a butterfly! \n\nI thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so I said\nquickly:--\n\n Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it?  His madness foiled his\nreason, and a puzzled look spread over his face as, shaking his head\nwith a decision which I had but seldom seen in him, he said:--\n\n Oh, no, oh no! I want no souls. Life is all I want.  Here he brightened\nup;  I am pretty indifferent about it at present. Life is all right; I\nhave all I want. You must get a new patient, doctor, if you wish to\nstudy zo phagy! \n\nThis puzzled me a little, so I drew him on:--\n\n Then you command life; you are a god, I suppose?  He smiled with an\nineffably benign superiority.\n\n Oh no! Far be it from me to arrogate to myself the attributes of the\nDeity. I am not even concerned in His especially spiritual doings. If I\nmay state my intellectual position I am, so far as concerns things\npurely terrestrial, somewhat in the position which Enoch occupied\nspiritually!  This was a poser to me. I could not at the moment recall\nEnoch s appositeness; so I had to ask a simple question, though I felt\nthat by so doing I was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic:--\n\n And why with Enoch? \n\n Because he walked with God.  I could not see the analogy, but did not\nlike to admit it; so I harked back to what he had denied:--\n\n So you don t care about life and you don t want souls. Why not?  I put\nmy question quickly and somewhat sternly, on purpose to disconcert him.\nThe effort succeeded; for an instant he unconsciously relapsed into his\nold servile manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon me as\nhe replied:--\n\n I don t want any souls, indeed, indeed! I don t. I couldn t use them if\nI had them; they would be no manner of use to me. I couldn t eat them\nor----  He suddenly stopped and the old cunning look spread over his\nface, like a wind-sweep on the surface of the water.  And doctor, as to\nlife, what is it after all? When you ve got all you require, and you\nknow that you will never want, that is all. I have friends--good\nfriends--like you, Dr. Seward ; this was said with a leer of\ninexpressible cunning.  I know that I shall never lack the means of\nlife! \n\nI think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some\nantagonism in me, for he at once fell back on the last refuge of such as\nhe--a dogged silence. After a short time I saw that for the present it\nwas useless to speak to him. He was sulky, and so I came away.\n\nLater in the day he sent for me. Ordinarily I would not have come\nwithout special reason, but just at present I am so interested in him\nthat I would gladly make an effort. Besides, I am glad to have anything\nto help to pass the time. Harker is out, following up clues; and so are\nLord Godalming and Quincey. Van Helsing sits in my study poring over the\nrecord prepared by the Harkers; he seems to think that by accurate\nknowledge of all details he will light upon some clue. He does not wish\nto be disturbed in the work, without cause. I would have taken him with\nme to see the patient, only I thought that after his last repulse he\nmight not care to go again. There was also another reason: Renfield\nmight not speak so freely before a third person as when he and I were\nalone.\n\nI found him sitting out in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose\nwhich is generally indicative of some mental energy on his part. When I\ncame in, he said at once, as though the question had been waiting on his\nlips:--\n\n What about souls?  It was evident then that my surmise had been\ncorrect. Unconscious cerebration was doing its work, even with the\nlunatic. I determined to have the matter out.  What about them\nyourself?  I asked. He did not reply for a moment but looked all round\nhim, and up and down, as though he expected to find some inspiration for\nan answer.\n\n I don t want any souls!  he said in a feeble, apologetic way. The\nmatter seemed preying on his mind, and so I determined to use it--to  be\ncruel only to be kind.  So I said:--\n\n You like life, and you want life? \n\n Oh yes! but that is all right; you needn t worry about that! \n\n But,  I asked,  how are we to get the life without getting the soul\nalso?  This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it up:--\n\n A nice time you ll have some time when you re flying out there, with\nthe souls of thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing\nand twittering and miauing all round you. You ve got their lives, you\nknow, and you must put up with their souls!  Something seemed to affect\nhis imagination, for he put his fingers to his ears and shut his eyes,\nscrewing them up tightly just as a small boy does when his face is being\nsoaped. There was something pathetic in it that touched me; it also gave\nme a lesson, for it seemed that before me was a child--only a child,\nthough the features were worn, and the stubble on the jaws was white. It\nwas evident that he was undergoing some process of mental disturbance,\nand, knowing how his past moods had interpreted things seemingly foreign\nto himself, I thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could and\ngo with him. The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked him,\nspeaking pretty loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears:--\n\n Would you like some sugar to get your flies round again?  He seemed to\nwake up all at once, and shook his head. With a laugh he replied:--\n\n Not much! flies are poor things, after all!  After a pause he added,\n But I don t want their souls buzzing round me, all the same. \n\n Or spiders?  I went on.\n\n Blow spiders! What s the use of spiders? There isn t anything in them\nto eat or --he stopped suddenly, as though reminded of a forbidden\ntopic.\n\n So, so!  I thought to myself,  this is the second time he has suddenly\nstopped at the word  drink ; what does it mean?  Renfield seemed himself\naware of having made a lapse, for he hurried on, as though to distract\nmy attention from it:--\n\n I don t take any stock at all in such matters.  Rats and mice and such\nsmall deer,  as Shakespeare has it,  chicken-feed of the larder  they\nmight be called. I m past all that sort of nonsense. You might as well\nask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chop-sticks, as to try to\ninterest me about the lesser carnivora, when I know of what is before\nme. \n\n I see,  I said.  You want big things that you can make your teeth meet\nin? How would you like to breakfast on elephant? \n\n What ridiculous nonsense you are talking!  He was getting too wide\nawake, so I thought I would press him hard.  I wonder,  I said\nreflectively,  what an elephant s soul is like! \n\nThe effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his\nhigh-horse and became a child again.\n\n I don t want an elephant s soul, or any soul at all!  he said. For a\nfew moments he sat despondently. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with\nhis eyes blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement.  To\nhell with you and your souls!  he shouted.  Why do you plague me about\nsouls? Haven t I got enough to worry, and pain, and distract me already,\nwithout thinking of souls!  He looked so hostile that I thought he was\nin for another homicidal fit, so I blew my whistle. The instant,\nhowever, that I did so he became calm, and said apologetically:--\n\n Forgive me, Doctor; I forgot myself. You do not need any help. I am so\nworried in my mind that I am apt to be irritable. If you only knew the\nproblem I have to face, and that I am working out, you would pity, and\ntolerate, and pardon me. Pray do not put me in a strait-waistcoat. I\nwant to think and I cannot think freely when my body is confined. I am\nsure you will understand!  He had evidently self-control; so when the\nattendants came I told them not to mind, and they withdrew. Renfield\nwatched them go; when the door was closed he said, with considerable\ndignity and sweetness:--\n\n Dr. Seward, you have been very considerate towards me. Believe me that\nI am very, very grateful to you!  I thought it well to leave him in this\nmood, and so I came away. There is certainly something to ponder over in\nthis man s state. Several points seem to make what the American\ninterviewer calls  a story,  if one could only get them in proper order.\nHere they are:--\n\nWill not mention  drinking. \n\nFears the thought of being burdened with the  soul  of anything.\n\nHas no dread of wanting  life  in the future.\n\nDespises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads being\nhaunted by their souls.\n\nLogically all these things point one way! he has assurance of some kind\nthat he will acquire some higher life. He dreads the consequence--the\nburden of a soul. Then it is a human life he looks to!\n\nAnd the assurance--?\n\nMerciful God! the Count has been to him, and there is some new scheme of\nterror afoot!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--I went after my round to Van Helsing and told him my\nsuspicion. He grew very grave; and, after thinking the matter over for a\nwhile asked me to take him to Renfield. I did so. As we came to the door\nwe heard the lunatic within singing gaily, as he used to do in the time\nwhich now seems so long ago. When we entered we saw with amazement that\nhe had spread out his sugar as of old; the flies, lethargic with the\nautumn, were beginning to buzz into the room. We tried to make him talk\nof the subject of our previous conversation, but he would not attend. He\nwent on with his singing, just as though we had not been present. He had\ngot a scrap of paper and was folding it into a note-book. We had to come\naway as ignorant as we went in.\n\nHis is a curious case indeed; we must watch him to-night.\n\n\n_Letter, Mitchell, Sons and Candy to Lord Godalming._\n\n_ 1 October._\n\n My Lord,\n\n We are at all times only too happy to meet your wishes. We beg, with\nregard to the desire of your Lordship, expressed by Mr. Harker on your\nbehalf, to supply the following information concerning the sale and\npurchase of No. 347, Piccadilly. The original vendors are the executors\nof the late Mr. Archibald Winter-Suffield. The purchaser is a foreign\nnobleman, Count de Ville, who effected the purchase himself paying the\npurchase money in notes  over the counter,  if your Lordship will pardon\nus using so vulgar an expression. Beyond this we know nothing whatever\nof him.\n\n We are, my Lord,\n\n Your Lordship s humble servants,\n\n MITCHELL, SONS & CANDY. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_2 October._--I placed a man in the corridor last night, and told him to\nmake an accurate note of any sound he might hear from Renfield s room,\nand gave him instructions that if there should be anything strange he\nwas to call me. After dinner, when we had all gathered round the fire\nin the study--Mrs. Harker having gone to bed--we discussed the attempts\nand discoveries of the day. Harker was the only one who had any result,\nand we are in great hopes that his clue may be an important one.\n\nBefore going to bed I went round to the patient s room and looked in\nthrough the observation trap. He was sleeping soundly, and his heart\nrose and fell with regular respiration.\n\nThis morning the man on duty reported to me that a little after midnight\nhe was restless and kept saying his prayers somewhat loudly. I asked him\nif that was all; he replied that it was all he heard. There was\nsomething about his manner so suspicious that I asked him point blank if\nhe had been asleep. He denied sleep, but admitted to having  dozed  for\na while. It is too bad that men cannot be trusted unless they are\nwatched.\n\nTo-day Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and Quincey are\nlooking after horses. Godalming thinks that it will be well to have\nhorses always in readiness, for when we get the information which we\nseek there will be no time to lose. We must sterilise all the imported\nearth between sunrise and sunset; we shall thus catch the Count at his\nweakest, and without a refuge to fly to. Van Helsing is off to the\nBritish Museum looking up some authorities on ancient medicine. The old\nphysicians took account of things which their followers do not accept,\nand the Professor is searching for witch and demon cures which may be\nuseful to us later.\n\nI sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in\nstrait-waistcoats.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--We have met again. We seem at last to be on the track, and our\nwork of to-morrow may be the beginning of the end. I wonder if\nRenfield s quiet has anything to do with this. His moods have so\nfollowed the doings of the Count, that the coming destruction of the\nmonster may be carried to him in some subtle way. If we could only get\nsome hint as to what passed in his mind, between the time of my argument\nwith him to-day and his resumption of fly-catching, it might afford us a\nvaluable clue. He is now seemingly quiet for a spell.... Is he?---- That\nwild yell seemed to come from his room....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe attendant came bursting into my room and told me that Renfield had\nsomehow met with some accident. He had heard him yell; and when he went\nto him found him lying on his face on the floor, all covered with blood.\nI must go at once....\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY\n\n\n_3 October._--Let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well\nas I can remember it, since last I made an entry. Not a detail that I\ncan recall must be forgotten; in all calmness I must proceed.\n\nWhen I came to Renfield s room I found him lying on the floor on his\nleft side in a glittering pool of blood. When I went to move him, it\nbecame at once apparent that he had received some terrible injuries;\nthere seemed none of that unity of purpose between the parts of the body\nwhich marks even lethargic sanity. As the face was exposed I could see\nthat it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten against the\nfloor--indeed it was from the face wounds that the pool of blood\noriginated. The attendant who was kneeling beside the body said to me as\nwe turned him over:--\n\n I think, sir, his back is broken. See, both his right arm and leg and\nthe whole side of his face are paralysed.  How such a thing could have\nhappened puzzled the attendant beyond measure. He seemed quite\nbewildered, and his brows were gathered in as he said:--\n\n I can t understand the two things. He could mark his face like that by\nbeating his own head on the floor. I saw a young woman do it once at the\nEversfield Asylum before anyone could lay hands on her. And I suppose he\nmight have broke his neck by falling out of bed, if he got in an awkward\nkink. But for the life of me I can t imagine how the two things\noccurred. If his back was broke, he couldn t beat his head; and if his\nface was like that before the fall out of bed, there would be marks of\nit.  I said to him:--\n\n Go to Dr. Van Helsing, and ask him to kindly come here at once. I want\nhim without an instant s delay.  The man ran off, and within a few\nminutes the Professor, in his dressing gown and slippers, appeared. When\nhe saw Renfield on the ground, he looked keenly at him a moment, and\nthen turned to me. I think he recognised my thought in my eyes, for he\nsaid very quietly, manifestly for the ears of the attendant:--\n\n Ah, a sad accident! He will need very careful watching, and much\nattention. I shall stay with you myself; but I shall first dress myself.\nIf you will remain I shall in a few minutes join you. \n\nThe patient was now breathing stertorously and it was easy to see that\nhe had suffered some terrible injury. Van Helsing returned with\nextraordinary celerity, bearing with him a surgical case. He had\nevidently been thinking and had his mind made up; for, almost before he\nlooked at the patient, he whispered to me:--\n\n Send the attendant away. We must be alone with him when he becomes\nconscious, after the operation.  So I said:--\n\n I think that will do now, Simmons. We have done all that we can at\npresent. You had better go your round, and Dr. Van Helsing will operate.\nLet me know instantly if there be anything unusual anywhere. \n\nThe man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination of the patient.\nThe wounds of the face was superficial; the real injury was a depressed\nfracture of the skull, extending right up through the motor area. The\nProfessor thought a moment and said:--\n\n We must reduce the pressure and get back to normal conditions, as far\nas can be; the rapidity of the suffusion shows the terrible nature of\nhis injury. The whole motor area seems affected. The suffusion of the\nbrain will increase quickly, so we must trephine at once or it may be\ntoo late.  As he was speaking there was a soft tapping at the door. I\nwent over and opened it and found in the corridor without, Arthur and\nQuincey in pajamas and slippers: the former spoke:--\n\n I heard your man call up Dr. Van Helsing and tell him of an accident.\nSo I woke Quincey or rather called for him as he was not asleep. Things\nare moving too quickly and too strangely for sound sleep for any of us\nthese times. I ve been thinking that to-morrow night will not see things\nas they have been. We ll have to look back--and forward a little more\nthan we have done. May we come in?  I nodded, and held the door open\ntill they had entered; then I closed it again. When Quincey saw the\nattitude and state of the patient, and noted the horrible pool on the\nfloor, he said softly:--\n\n My God! what has happened to him? Poor, poor devil!  I told him\nbriefly, and added that we expected he would recover consciousness after\nthe operation--for a short time, at all events. He went at once and sat\ndown on the edge of the bed, with Godalming beside him; we all watched\nin patience.\n\n We shall wait,  said Van Helsing,  just long enough to fix the best\nspot for trephining, so that we may most quickly and perfectly remove\nthe blood clot; for it is evident that the h morrhage is increasing. \n\nThe minutes during which we waited passed with fearful slowness. I had a\nhorrible sinking in my heart, and from Van Helsing s face I gathered\nthat he felt some fear or apprehension as to what was to come. I dreaded\nthe words that Renfield might speak. I was positively afraid to think;\nbut the conviction of what was coming was on me, as I have read of men\nwho have heard the death-watch. The poor man s breathing came in\nuncertain gasps. Each instant he seemed as though he would open his eyes\nand speak; but then would follow a prolonged stertorous breath, and he\nwould relapse into a more fixed insensibility. Inured as I was to sick\nbeds and death, this suspense grew, and grew upon me. I could almost\nhear the beating of my own heart; and the blood surging through my\ntemples sounded like blows from a hammer. The silence finally became\nagonising. I looked at my companions, one after another, and saw from\ntheir flushed faces and damp brows that they were enduring equal\ntorture. There was a nervous suspense over us all, as though overhead\nsome dread bell would peal out powerfully when we should least expect\nit.\n\nAt last there came a time when it was evident that the patient was\nsinking fast; he might die at any moment. I looked up at the Professor\nand caught his eyes fixed on mine. His face was sternly set as he\nspoke:--\n\n There is no time to lose. His words may be worth many lives; I have\nbeen thinking so, as I stood here. It may be there is a soul at stake!\nWe shall operate just above the ear. \n\nWithout another word he made the operation. For a few moments the\nbreathing continued to be stertorous. Then there came a breath so\nprolonged that it seemed as though it would tear open his chest.\nSuddenly his eyes opened, and became fixed in a wild, helpless stare.\nThis was continued for a few moments; then it softened into a glad\nsurprise, and from the lips came a sigh of relief. He moved\nconvulsively, and as he did so, said:--\n\n I ll be quiet, Doctor. Tell them to take off the strait-waistcoat. I\nhave had a terrible dream, and it has left me so weak that I cannot\nmove. What s wrong with my face? it feels all swollen, and it smarts\ndreadfully.  He tried to turn his head; but even with the effort his\neyes seemed to grow glassy again so I gently put it back. Then Van\nHelsing said in a quiet grave tone:--\n\n Tell us your dream, Mr. Renfield.  As he heard the voice his face\nbrightened, through its mutilation, and he said:--\n\n That is Dr. Van Helsing. How good it is of you to be here. Give me some\nwater, my lips are dry; and I shall try to tell you. I dreamed --he\nstopped and seemed fainting, I called quietly to Quincey-- The\nbrandy--it is in my study--quick!  He flew and returned with a glass,\nthe decanter of brandy and a carafe of water. We moistened the parched\nlips, and the patient quickly revived. It seemed, however, that his poor\ninjured brain had been working in the interval, for, when he was quite\nconscious, he looked at me piercingly with an agonised confusion which I\nshall never forget, and said:--\n\n I must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim reality. \nThen his eyes roved round the room; as they caught sight of the two\nfigures sitting patiently on the edge of the bed he went on:--\n\n If I were not sure already, I would know from them.  For an instant his\neyes closed--not with pain or sleep but voluntarily, as though he were\nbringing all his faculties to bear; when he opened them he said,\nhurriedly, and with more energy than he had yet displayed:--\n\n Quick, Doctor, quick. I am dying! I feel that I have but a few minutes;\nand then I must go back to death--or worse! Wet my lips with brandy\nagain. I have something that I must say before I die; or before my poor\ncrushed brain dies anyhow. Thank you! It was that night after you left\nme, when I implored you to let me go away. I couldn t speak then, for I\nfelt my tongue was tied; but I was as sane then, except in that way, as\nI am now. I was in an agony of despair for a long time after you left\nme; it seemed hours. Then there came a sudden peace to me. My brain\nseemed to become cool again, and I realised where I was. I heard the\ndogs bark behind our house, but not where He was!  As he spoke, Van\nHelsing s eyes never blinked, but his hand came out and met mine and\ngripped it hard. He did not, however, betray himself; he nodded slightly\nand said:  Go on,  in a low voice. Renfield proceeded:--\n\n He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him often before;\nbut he was solid then--not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a\nman s when angry. He was laughing with his red mouth; the sharp white\nteeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt\nof trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn t ask him to come in\nat first, though I knew he wanted to--just as he had wanted all along.\nThen he began promising me things--not in words but by doing them.  He\nwas interrupted by a word from the Professor:--\n\n How? \n\n By making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the\nsun was shining. Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their\nwings; and big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their\nbacks.  Van Helsing nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously:--\n\n The _Acherontia Aitetropos of the Sphinges_--what you call the\n Death s-head Moth ?  The patient went on without stopping.\n\n Then he began to whisper:  Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds, thousands,\nmillions of them, and every one a life; and dogs to eat them, and cats\ntoo. All lives! all red blood, with years of life in it; and not merely\nbuzzing flies!  I laughed at him, for I wanted to see what he could do.\nThen the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in His house. He\nbeckoned me to the window. I got up and looked out, and He raised his\nhands, and seemed to call out without using any words. A dark mass\nspread over the grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and\nthen He moved the mist to the right and left, and I could see that there\nwere thousands of rats with their eyes blazing red--like His, only\nsmaller. He held up his hand, and they all stopped; and I thought he\nseemed to be saying:  All these lives will I give you, ay, and many more\nand greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship\nme!  And then a red cloud, like the colour of blood, seemed to close\nover my eyes; and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself opening\nthe sash and saying to Him:  Come in, Lord and Master!  The rats were\nall gone, but He slid into the room through the sash, though it was only\nopen an inch wide--just as the Moon herself has often come in through\nthe tiniest crack and has stood before me in all her size and\nsplendour. \n\nHis voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again, and\nhe continued; but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in\nthe interval for his story was further advanced. I was about to call him\nback to the point, but Van Helsing whispered to me:  Let him go on. Do\nnot interrupt him; he cannot go back, and maybe could not proceed at all\nif once he lost the thread of his thought.  He proceeded:--\n\n All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send me anything, not\neven a blow-fly, and when the moon got up I was pretty angry with him.\nWhen he slid in through the window, though it was shut, and did not even\nknock, I got mad with him. He sneered at me, and his white face looked\nout of the mist with his red eyes gleaming, and he went on as though he\nowned the whole place, and I was no one. He didn t even smell the same\nas he went by me. I couldn t hold him. I thought that, somehow, Mrs.\nHarker had come into the room. \n\nThe two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, standing behind\nhim so that he could not see them, but where they could hear better.\nThey were both silent, but the Professor started and quivered; his face,\nhowever, grew grimmer and sterner still. Renfield went on without\nnoticing:--\n\n When Mrs. Harker came in to see me this afternoon she wasn t the same;\nit was like tea after the teapot had been watered.  Here we all moved,\nbut no one said a word; he went on:--\n\n I didn t know that she was here till she spoke; and she didn t look the\nsame. I don t care for the pale people; I like them with lots of blood\nin them, and hers had all seemed to have run out. I didn t think of it\nat the time; but when she went away I began to think, and it made me mad\nto know that He had been taking the life out of her.  I could feel that\nthe rest quivered, as I did, but we remained otherwise still.  So when\nHe came to-night I was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and I\ngrabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and\nas I knew I was a madman--at times anyhow--I resolved to use my power.\nAy, and He felt it too, for He had to come out of the mist to struggle\nwith me. I held tight; and I thought I was going to win, for I didn t\nmean Him to take any more of her life, till I saw His eyes. They burned\ninto me, and my strength became like water. He slipped through it, and\nwhen I tried to cling to Him, He raised me up and flung me down. There\nwas a red cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed\nto steal away under the door.  His voice was becoming fainter and his\nbreath more stertorous. Van Helsing stood up instinctively.\n\n We know the worst now,  he said.  He is here, and we know his purpose.\nIt may not be too late. Let us be armed--the same as we were the other\nnight, but lose no time; there is not an instant to spare.  There was no\nneed to put our fear, nay our conviction, into words--we shared them in\ncommon. We all hurried and took from our rooms the same things that we\nhad when we entered the Count s house. The Professor had his ready, and\nas we met in the corridor he pointed to them significantly as he said:--\n\n They never leave me; and they shall not till this unhappy business is\nover. Be wise also, my friends. It is no common enemy that we deal with.\nAlas! alas! that that dear Madam Mina should suffer!  He stopped; his\nvoice was breaking, and I do not know if rage or terror predominated in\nmy own heart.\n\nOutside the Harkers  door we paused. Art and Quincey held back, and the\nlatter said:--\n\n Should we disturb her? \n\n We must,  said Van Helsing grimly.  If the door be locked, I shall\nbreak it in. \n\n May it not frighten her terribly? It is unusual to break into a lady s\nroom! \n\nVan Helsing said solemnly,  You are always right; but this is life and\ndeath. All chambers are alike to the doctor; and even were they not they\nare all as one to me to-night. Friend John, when I turn the handle, if\nthe door does not open, do you put your shoulder down and shove; and you\ntoo, my friends. Now! \n\nHe turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not yield. We threw\nourselves against it; with a crash it burst open, and we almost fell\nheadlong into the room. The Professor did actually fall, and I saw\nacross him as he gathered himself up from hands and knees. What I saw\nappalled me. I felt my hair rise like bristles on the back of my neck,\nand my heart seemed to stand still.\n\nThe moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the room\nwas light enough to see. On the bed beside the window lay Jonathan\nHarker, his face flushed and breathing heavily as though in a stupor.\nKneeling on the near edge of the bed facing outwards was the white-clad\nfigure of his wife. By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black.\nHis face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognised\nthe Count--in every way, even to the scar on his forehead. With his left\nhand he held both Mrs. Harker s hands, keeping them away with her arms\nat full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck,\nforcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared\nwith blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man s bare breast which\nwas shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible\nresemblance to a child forcing a kitten s nose into a saucer of milk to\ncompel it to drink. As we burst into the room, the Count turned his\nface, and the hellish look that I had heard described seemed to leap\ninto it. His eyes flamed red with devilish passion; the great nostrils\nof the white aquiline nose opened wide and quivered at the edge; and the\nwhite sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood-dripping mouth,\nchamped together like those of a wild beast. With a wrench, which threw\nhis victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he turned\nand sprang at us. But by this time the Professor had gained his feet,\nand was holding towards him the envelope which contained the Sacred\nWafer. The Count suddenly stopped, just as poor Lucy had done outside\nthe tomb, and cowered back. Further and further back he cowered, as we,\nlifting our crucifixes, advanced. The moonlight suddenly failed, as a\ngreat black cloud sailed across the sky; and when the gaslight sprang up\nunder Quincey s match, we saw nothing but a faint vapour. This, as we\nlooked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from its bursting\nopen, had swung back to its old position. Van Helsing, Art, and I moved\nforward to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with\nit had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it\nseems to me now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. For a\nfew seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and disarray. Her face was\nghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by the blood which smeared\nher lips and cheeks and chin; from her throat trickled a thin stream of\nblood; her eyes were mad with terror. Then she put before her face her\npoor crushed hands, which bore on their whiteness the red mark of the\nCount s terrible grip, and from behind them came a low desolate wail\nwhich made the terrible scream seem only the quick expression of an\nendless grief. Van Helsing stepped forward and drew the coverlet gently\nover her body, whilst Art, after looking at her face for an instant\ndespairingly, ran out of the room. Van Helsing whispered to me:--\n\n Jonathan is in a stupor such as we know the Vampire can produce. We can\ndo nothing with poor Madam Mina for a few moments till she recovers\nherself; I must wake him!  He dipped the end of a towel in cold water\nand with it began to flick him on the face, his wife all the while\nholding her face between her hands and sobbing in a way that was\nheart-breaking to hear. I raised the blind, and looked out of the\nwindow. There was much moonshine; and as I looked I could see Quincey\nMorris run across the lawn and hide himself in the shadow of a great\nyew-tree. It puzzled me to think why he was doing this; but at the\ninstant I heard Harker s quick exclamation as he woke to partial\nconsciousness, and turned to the bed. On his face, as there might well\nbe, was a look of wild amazement. He seemed dazed for a few seconds, and\nthen full consciousness seemed to burst upon him all at once, and he\nstarted up. His wife was aroused by the quick movement, and turned to\nhim with her arms stretched out, as though to embrace him; instantly,\nhowever, she drew them in again, and putting her elbows together, held\nher hands before her face, and shuddered till the bed beneath her shook.\n\n In God s name what does this mean?  Harker cried out.  Dr. Seward, Dr.\nVan Helsing, what is it? What has happened? What is wrong? Mina, dear,\nwhat is it? What does that blood mean? My God, my God! has it come to\nthis!  and, raising himself to his knees, he beat his hands wildly\ntogether.  Good God help us! help her! oh, help her!  With a quick\nmovement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on his clothes,--all the\nman in him awake at the need for instant exertion.  What has happened?\nTell me all about it!  he cried without pausing.  Dr. Van Helsing, you\nlove Mina, I know. Oh, do something to save her. It cannot have gone too\nfar yet. Guard her while I look for _him_!  His wife, through her terror\nand horror and distress, saw some sure danger to him: instantly\nforgetting her own grief, she seized hold of him and cried out:--\n\n No! no! Jonathan, you must not leave me. I have suffered enough\nto-night, God knows, without the dread of his harming you. You must stay\nwith me. Stay with these friends who will watch over you!  Her\nexpression became frantic as she spoke; and, he yielding to her, she\npulled him down sitting on the bed side, and clung to him fiercely.\n\nVan Helsing and I tried to calm them both. The Professor held up his\nlittle golden crucifix, and said with wonderful calmness:--\n\n Do not fear, my dear. We are here; and whilst this is close to you no\nfoul thing can approach. You are safe for to-night; and we must be calm\nand take counsel together.  She shuddered and was silent, holding down\nher head on her husband s breast. When she raised it, his white\nnight-robe was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and where\nthe thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops. The instant she\nsaw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking\nsobs:--\n\n Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it\nshould be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have\nmost cause to fear.  To this he spoke out resolutely:--\n\n Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear such a word. I would not\nhear it of you; and I shall not hear it from you. May God judge me by my\ndeserts, and punish me with more bitter suffering than even this hour,\nif by any act or will of mine anything ever come between us!  He put out\nhis arms and folded her to his breast; and for a while she lay there\nsobbing. He looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes that blinked\ndamply above his quivering nostrils; his mouth was set as steel. After a\nwhile her sobs became less frequent and more faint, and then he said to\nme, speaking with a studied calmness which I felt tried his nervous\npower to the utmost:--\n\n And now, Dr. Seward, tell me all about it. Too well I know the broad\nfact; tell me all that has been.  I told him exactly what had happened,\nand he listened with seeming impassiveness; but his nostrils twitched\nand his eyes blazed as I told how the ruthless hands of the Count had\nheld his wife in that terrible and horrid position, with her mouth to\nthe open wound in his breast. It interested me, even at that moment, to\nsee, that, whilst the face of white set passion worked convulsively over\nthe bowed head, the hands tenderly and lovingly stroked the ruffled\nhair. Just as I had finished, Quincey and Godalming knocked at the door.\nThey entered in obedience to our summons. Van Helsing looked at me\nquestioningly. I understood him to mean if we were to take advantage of\ntheir coming to divert if possible the thoughts of the unhappy husband\nand wife from each other and from themselves; so on nodding acquiescence\nto him he asked them what they had seen or done. To which Lord Godalming\nanswered:--\n\n I could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of our rooms. I\nlooked in the study but, though he had been there, he had gone. He had,\nhowever----  He stopped suddenly, looking at the poor drooping figure on\nthe bed. Van Helsing said gravely:--\n\n Go on, friend Arthur. We want here no more concealments. Our hope now\nis in knowing all. Tell freely!  So Art went on:--\n\n He had been there, and though it could only have been for a few\nseconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the manuscript had been\nburned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes; the\ncylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax\nhad helped the flames.  Here I interrupted.  Thank God there is the\nother copy in the safe!  His face lit for a moment, but fell again as he\nwent on:  I ran downstairs then, but could see no sign of him. I looked\ninto Renfield s room; but there was no trace there except----!  Again he\npaused.  Go on,  said Harker hoarsely; so he bowed his head and\nmoistening his lips with his tongue, added:  except that the poor fellow\nis dead.  Mrs. Harker raised her head, looking from one to the other of\nus she said solemnly:--\n\n God s will be done!  I could not but feel that Art was keeping back\nsomething; but, as I took it that it was with a purpose, I said nothing.\nVan Helsing turned to Morris and asked:--\n\n And you, friend Quincey, have you any to tell? \n\n A little,  he answered.  It may be much eventually, but at present I\ncan t say. I thought it well to know if possible where the Count would\ngo when he left the house. I did not see him; but I saw a bat rise from\nRenfield s window, and flap westward. I expected to see him in some\nshape go back to Carfax; but he evidently sought some other lair. He\nwill not be back to-night; for the sky is reddening in the east, and the\ndawn is close. We must work to-morrow! \n\nHe said the latter words through his shut teeth. For a space of perhaps\na couple of minutes there was silence, and I could fancy that I could\nhear the sound of our hearts beating; then Van Helsing said, placing his\nhand very tenderly on Mrs. Harker s head:--\n\n And now, Madam Mina--poor, dear, dear Madam Mina--tell us exactly what\nhappened. God knows that I do not want that you be pained; but it is\nneed that we know all. For now more than ever has all work to be done\nquick and sharp, and in deadly earnest. The day is close to us that must\nend all, if it may be so; and now is the chance that we may live and\nlearn. \n\nThe poor, dear lady shivered, and I could see the tension of her nerves\nas she clasped her husband closer to her and bent her head lower and\nlower still on his breast. Then she raised her head proudly, and held\nout one hand to Van Helsing who took it in his, and, after stooping and\nkissing it reverently, held it fast. The other hand was locked in that\nof her husband, who held his other arm thrown round her protectingly.\nAfter a pause in which she was evidently ordering her thoughts, she\nbegan:--\n\n I took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly given me, but for a\nlong time it did not act. I seemed to become more wakeful, and myriads\nof horrible fancies began to crowd in upon my mind--all of them\nconnected with death, and vampires; with blood, and pain, and trouble. \nHer husband involuntarily groaned as she turned to him and said\nlovingly:  Do not fret, dear. You must be brave and strong, and help me\nthrough the horrible task. If you only knew what an effort it is to me\nto tell of this fearful thing at all, you would understand how much I\nneed your help. Well, I saw I must try to help the medicine to its work\nwith my will, if it was to do me any good, so I resolutely set myself to\nsleep. Sure enough sleep must soon have come to me, for I remember no\nmore. Jonathan coming in had not waked me, for he lay by my side when\nnext I remember. There was in the room the same thin white mist that I\nhad before noticed. But I forget now if you know of this; you will find\nit in my diary which I shall show you later. I felt the same vague\nterror which had come to me before and the same sense of some presence.\nI turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he slept so soundly that it\nseemed as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and not I. I\ntried, but I could not wake him. This caused me a great fear, and I\nlooked around terrified. Then indeed, my heart sank within me: beside\nthe bed, as if he had stepped out of the mist--or rather as if the mist\nhad turned into his figure, for it had entirely disappeared--stood a\ntall, thin man, all in black. I knew him at once from the description of\nthe others. The waxen face; the high aquiline nose, on which the light\nfell in a thin white line; the parted red lips, with the sharp white\nteeth showing between; and the red eyes that I had seemed to see in the\nsunset on the windows of St. Mary s Church at Whitby. I knew, too, the\nred scar on his forehead where Jonathan had struck him. For an instant\nmy heart stood still, and I would have screamed out, only that I was\nparalysed. In the pause he spoke in a sort of keen, cutting whisper,\npointing as he spoke to Jonathan:--\n\n Silence! If you make a sound I shall take him and dash his brains out\nbefore your very eyes.  I was appalled and was too bewildered to do or\nsay anything. With a mocking smile, he placed one hand upon my shoulder\nand, holding me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did\nso,  First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well\nbe quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have\nappeased my thirst!  I was bewildered, and, strangely enough, I did not\nwant to hinder him. I suppose it is a part of the horrible curse that\nsuch is, when his touch is on his victim. And oh, my God, my God, pity\nme! He placed his reeking lips upon my throat!  Her husband groaned\nagain. She clasped his hand harder, and looked at him pityingly, as if\nhe were the injured one, and went on:--\n\n I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon. How long\nthis horrible thing lasted I know not; but it seemed that a long time\nmust have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I\nsaw it drip with the fresh blood!  The remembrance seemed for a while to\noverpower her, and she drooped and would have sunk down but for her\nhusband s sustaining arm. With a great effort she recovered herself and\nwent on:--\n\n Then he spoke to me mockingly,  And so you, like the others, would play\nyour brains against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and\nfrustrate me in my designs! You know now, and they know in part already,\nand will know in full before long, what it is to cross my path. They\nshould have kept their energies for use closer to home. Whilst they\nplayed wits against me--against me who commanded nations, and intrigued\nfor them, and fought for them, hundreds of years before they were\nborn--I was countermining them. And you, their best beloved one, are now\nto me, flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful\nwine-press for a while; and shall be later on my companion and my\nhelper. You shall be avenged in turn; for not one of them but shall\nminister to your needs. But as yet you are to be punished for what you\nhave done. You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my\ncall. When my brain says  Come!  to you, you shall cross land or sea to\ndo my bidding; and to that end this!  With that he pulled open his\nshirt, and with his long sharp nails opened a vein in his breast. When\nthe blood began to spurt out, he took my hands in one of his, holding\nthem tight, and with the other seized my neck and pressed my mouth to\nthe wound, so that I must either suffocate or swallow some of the---- Oh\nmy God! my God! what have I done? What have I done to deserve such a\nfate, I who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my\ndays. God pity me! Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril;\nand in mercy pity those to whom she is dear!  Then she began to rub her\nlips as though to cleanse them from pollution.\n\nAs she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to quicken,\nand everything became more and more clear. Harker was still and quiet;\nbut over his face, as the awful narrative went on, came a grey look\nwhich deepened and deepened in the morning light, till when the first\nred streak of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood darkly out\nagainst the whitening hair.\n\nWe have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of the unhappy\npair till we can meet together and arrange about taking action.\n\nOf this I am sure: the sun rises to-day on no more miserable house in\nall the great round of its daily course.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nJONATHAN HARKER S JOURNAL\n\n\n_3 October._--As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary. It\nis now six o clock, and we are to meet in the study in half an hour and\ntake something to eat; for Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward are agreed\nthat if we do not eat we cannot work our best. Our best will be, God\nknows, required to-day. I must keep writing at every chance, for I dare\nnot stop to think. All, big and little, must go down; perhaps at the end\nthe little things may teach us most. The teaching, big or little, could\nnot have landed Mina or me anywhere worse than we are to-day. However,\nwe must trust and hope. Poor Mina told me just now, with the tears\nrunning down her dear cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial that our\nfaith is tested--that we must keep on trusting; and that God will aid us\nup to the end. The end! oh my God! what end?... To work! To work!\n\nWhen Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from seeing poor\nRenfield, we went gravely into what was to be done. First, Dr. Seward\ntold us that when he and Dr. Van Helsing had gone down to the room below\nthey had found Renfield lying on the floor, all in a heap. His face was\nall bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were broken.\n\nDr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had\nheard anything. He said that he had been sitting down--he confessed to\nhalf dozing--when he heard loud voices in the room, and then Renfield\nhad called out loudly several times,  God! God! God!  after that there\nwas a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he found him lying\non the floor, face down, just as the doctors had seen him. Van Helsing\nasked if he had heard  voices  or  a voice,  and he said he could not\nsay; that at first it had seemed to him as if there were two, but as\nthere was no one in the room it could have been only one. He could swear\nto it, if required, that the word  God  was spoken by the patient. Dr.\nSeward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go into\nthe matter; the question of an inquest had to be considered, and it\nwould never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe it. As\nit was, he thought that on the attendant s evidence he could give a\ncertificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the\ncoroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily\nto the same result.\n\nWhen the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next\nstep, the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full\nconfidence; that nothing of any sort--no matter how painful--should be\nkept from her. She herself agreed as to its wisdom, and it was pitiful\nto see her so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth of\ndespair.  There must be no concealment,  she said,  Alas! we have had\ntoo much already. And besides there is nothing in all the world that can\ngive me more pain than I have already endured--than I suffer now!\nWhatever may happen, it must be of new hope or of new courage to me! \nVan Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said, suddenly\nbut quietly:--\n\n But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid; not for yourself, but for\nothers from yourself, after what has happened?  Her face grew set in its\nlines, but her eyes shone with the devotion of a martyr as she\nanswered:--\n\n Ah no! for my mind is made up! \n\n To what?  he asked gently, whilst we were all very still; for each in\nour own way we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant. Her answer\ncame with direct simplicity, as though she were simply stating a fact:--\n\n Because if I find in myself--and I shall watch keenly for it--a sign of\nharm to any that I love, I shall die! \n\n You would not kill yourself?  he asked, hoarsely.\n\n I would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a\npain, and so desperate an effort!  She looked at him meaningly as she\nspoke. He was sitting down; but now he rose and came close to her and\nput his hand on her head as he said solemnly:\n\n My child, there is such an one if it were for your good. For myself I\ncould hold it in my account with God to find such an euthanasia for you,\neven at this moment if it were best. Nay, were it safe! But my\nchild----  For a moment he seemed choked, and a great sob rose in his\nthroat; he gulped it down and went on:--\n\n There are here some who would stand between you and death. You must not\ndie. You must not die by any hand; but least of all by your own. Until\nthe other, who has fouled your sweet life, is true dead you must not\ndie; for if he is still with the quick Un-Dead, your death would make\nyou even as he is. No, you must live! You must struggle and strive to\nlive, though death would seem a boon unspeakable. You must fight Death\nhimself, though he come to you in pain or in joy; by the day, or the\nnight; in safety or in peril! On your living soul I charge you that you\ndo not die--nay, nor think of death--till this great evil be past.  The\npoor dear grew white as death, and shock and shivered, as I have seen a\nquicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide. We were all\nsilent; we could do nothing. At length she grew more calm and turning to\nhim said, sweetly, but oh! so sorrowfully, as she held out her hand:--\n\n I promise you, my dear friend, that if God will let me live, I shall\nstrive to do so; till, if it may be in His good time, this horror may\nhave passed away from me.  She was so good and brave that we all felt\nthat our hearts were strengthened to work and endure for her, and we\nbegan to discuss what we were to do. I told her that she was to have all\nthe papers in the safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs we\nmight hereafter use; and was to keep the record as she had done before.\nShe was pleased with the prospect of anything to do--if  pleased  could\nbe used in connection with so grim an interest.\n\nAs usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was\nprepared with an exact ordering of our work.\n\n It is perhaps well,  he said,  that at our meeting after our visit to\nCarfax we decided not to do anything with the earth-boxes that lay\nthere. Had we done so, the Count must have guessed our purpose, and\nwould doubtless have taken measures in advance to frustrate such an\neffort with regard to the others; but now he does not know our\nintentions. Nay, more, in all probability, he does not know that such a\npower exists to us as can sterilise his lairs, so that he cannot use\nthem as of old. We are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as\nto their disposition that, when we have examined the house in\nPiccadilly, we may track the very last of them. To-day, then, is ours;\nand in it rests our hope. The sun that rose on our sorrow this morning\nguards us in its course. Until it sets to-night, that monster must\nretain whatever form he now has. He is confined within the limitations\nof his earthly envelope. He cannot melt into thin air nor disappear\nthrough cracks or chinks or crannies. If he go through a doorway, he\nmust open the door like a mortal. And so we have this day to hunt out\nall his lairs and sterilise them. So we shall, if we have not yet catch\nhim and destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching\nand the destroying shall be, in time, sure.  Here I started up for I\ncould not contain myself at the thought that the minutes and seconds so\npreciously laden with Mina s life and happiness were flying from us,\nsince whilst we talked action was impossible. But Van Helsing held up\nhis hand warningly.  Nay, friend Jonathan,  he said,  in this, the\nquickest way home is the longest way, so your proverb say. We shall all\nact and act with desperate quick, when the time has come. But think, in\nall probable the key of the situation is in that house in Piccadilly.\nThe Count may have many houses which he has bought. Of them he will have\ndeeds of purchase, keys and other things. He will have paper that he\nwrite on; he will have his book of cheques. There are many belongings\nthat he must have somewhere; why not in this place so central, so quiet,\nwhere he come and go by the front or the back at all hour, when in the\nvery vast of the traffic there is none to notice. We shall go there and\nsearch that house; and when we learn what it holds, then we do what our\nfriend Arthur call, in his phrases of hunt  stop the earths  and so we\nrun down our old fox--so? is it not? \n\n Then let us come at once,  I cried,  we are wasting the precious,\nprecious time!  The Professor did not move, but simply said:--\n\n And how are we to get into that house in Piccadilly? \n\n Any way!  I cried.  We shall break in if need be. \n\n And your police; where will they be, and what will they say? \n\nI was staggered; but I knew that if he wished to delay he had a good\nreason for it. So I said, as quietly as I could:--\n\n Don t wait more than need be; you know, I am sure, what torture I am\nin. \n\n Ah, my child, that I do; and indeed there is no wish of me to add to\nyour anguish. But just think, what can we do, until all the world be at\nmovement. Then will come our time. I have thought and thought, and it\nseems to me that the simplest way is the best of all. Now we wish to get\ninto the house, but we have no key; is it not so?  I nodded.\n\n Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could\nnot still get in; and think there was to you no conscience of the\nhousebreaker, what would you do? \n\n I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the\nlock for me. \n\n And your police, they would interfere, would they not? \n\n Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed. \n\n Then,  he looked at me as keenly as he spoke,  all that is in doubt is\nthe conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to\nwhether or no that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your\npolice must indeed be zealous men and clever--oh, so clever!--in reading\nthe heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter. No, no, my\nfriend Jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred empty house in this\nyour London, or of any city in the world; and if you do it as such\nthings are rightly done, and at the time such things are rightly done,\nno one will interfere. I have read of a gentleman who owned a so fine\nhouse in London, and when he went for months of summer to Switzerland\nand lock up his house, some burglar came and broke window at back and\ngot in. Then he went and made open the shutters in front and walk out\nand in through the door, before the very eyes of the police. Then he\nhave an auction in that house, and advertise it, and put up big notice;\nand when the day come he sell off by a great auctioneer all the goods of\nthat other man who own them. Then he go to a builder, and he sell him\nthat house, making an agreement that he pull it down and take all away\nwithin a certain time. And your police and other authority help him all\nthey can. And when that owner come back from his holiday in Switzerland\nhe find only an empty hole where his house had been. This was all done\n_en r gle_; and in our work we shall be _en r gle_ too. We shall not go\nso early that the policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem\nit strange; but we shall go after ten o clock, when there are many\nabout, and such things would be done were we indeed owners of the\nhouse. \n\nI could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of Mina s\nface became relaxed a thought; there was hope in such good counsel. Van\nHelsing went on:--\n\n When once within that house we may find more clues; at any rate some of\nus can remain there whilst the rest find the other places where there be\nmore earth-boxes--at Bermondsey and Mile End. \n\nLord Godalming stood up.  I can be of some use here,  he said.  I shall\nwire to my people to have horses and carriages where they will be most\nconvenient. \n\n Look here, old fellow,  said Morris,  it is a capital idea to have all\nready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don t you think that one\nof your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of\nWalworth or Mile End would attract too much attention for our purposes?\nIt seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and\neven leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are going to. \n\n Friend Quincey is right!  said the Professor.  His head is what you\ncall in plane with the horizon. It is a difficult thing that we go to\ndo, and we do not want no peoples to watch us if so it may. \n\nMina took a growing interest in everything and I was rejoiced to see\nthat the exigency of affairs was helping her to forget for a time the\nterrible experience of the night. She was very, very pale--almost\nghastly, and so thin that her lips were drawn away, showing her teeth in\nsomewhat of prominence. I did not mention this last, lest it should give\nher needless pain; but it made my blood run cold in my veins to think of\nwhat had occurred with poor Lucy when the Count had sucked her blood. As\nyet there was no sign of the teeth growing sharper; but the time as yet\nwas short, and there was time for fear.\n\nWhen we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of the\ndisposition of our forces, there were new sources of doubt. It was\nfinally agreed that before starting for Piccadilly we should destroy the\nCount s lair close at hand. In case he should find it out too soon, we\nshould thus be still ahead of him in our work of destruction; and his\npresence in his purely material shape, and at his weakest, might give us\nsome new clue.\n\nAs to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the Professor that,\nafter our visit to Carfax, we should all enter the house in Piccadilly;\nthat the two doctors and I should remain there, whilst Lord Godalming\nand Quincey found the lairs at Walworth and Mile End and destroyed them.\nIt was possible, if not likely, the Professor urged, that the Count\nmight appear in Piccadilly during the day, and that if so we might be\nable to cope with him then and there. At any rate, we might be able to\nfollow him in force. To this plan I strenuously objected, and so far as\nmy going was concerned, for I said that I intended to stay and protect\nMina, I thought that my mind was made up on the subject; but Mina would\nnot listen to my objection. She said that there might be some law matter\nin which I could be useful; that amongst the Count s papers might be\nsome clue which I could understand out of my experience in Transylvania;\nand that, as it was, all the strength we could muster was required to\ncope with the Count s extraordinary power. I had to give in, for Mina s\nresolution was fixed; she said that it was the last hope for _her_ that\nwe should all work together.  As for me,  she said,  I have no fear.\nThings have been as bad as they can be; and whatever may happen must\nhave in it some element of hope or comfort. Go, my husband! God can, if\nHe wishes it, guard me as well alone as with any one present.  So I\nstarted up crying out:  Then in God s name let us come at once, for we\nare losing time. The Count may come to Piccadilly earlier than we\nthink. \n\n Not so!  said Van Helsing, holding up his hand.\n\n But why?  I asked.\n\n Do you forget,  he said, with actually a smile,  that last night he\nbanqueted heavily, and will sleep late? \n\nDid I forget! shall I ever--can I ever! Can any of us ever forget that\nterrible scene! Mina struggled hard to keep her brave countenance; but\nthe pain overmastered her and she put her hands before her face, and\nshuddered whilst she moaned. Van Helsing had not intended to recall her\nfrightful experience. He had simply lost sight of her and her part in\nthe affair in his intellectual effort. When it struck him what he said,\nhe was horrified at his thoughtlessness and tried to comfort her.  Oh,\nMadam Mina,  he said,  dear, dear Madam Mina, alas! that I of all who so\nreverence you should have said anything so forgetful. These stupid old\nlips of mine and this stupid old head do not deserve so; but you will\nforget it, will you not?  He bent low beside her as he spoke; she took\nhis hand, and looking at him through her tears, said hoarsely:--\n\n No, I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember; and with it I\nhave so much in memory of you that is sweet, that I take it all\ntogether. Now, you must all be going soon. Breakfast is ready, and we\nmust all eat that we may be strong. \n\nBreakfast was a strange meal to us all. We tried to be cheerful and\nencourage each other, and Mina was the brightest and most cheerful of\nus. When it was over, Van Helsing stood up and said:--\n\n Now, my dear friends, we go forth to our terrible enterprise. Are we\nall armed, as we were on that night when first we visited our enemy s\nlair; armed against ghostly as well as carnal attack?  We all assured\nhim.  Then it is well. Now, Madam Mina, you are in any case _quite_ safe\nhere until the sunset; and before then we shall return--if---- We shall\nreturn! But before we go let me see you armed against personal attack. I\nhave myself, since you came down, prepared your chamber by the placing\nof things of which we know, so that He may not enter. Now let me guard\nyourself. On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the\nname of the Father, the Son, and---- \n\nThere was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he\nhad placed the Wafer on Mina s forehead, it had seared it--had burned\ninto the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor\ndarling s brain had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as\nher nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that\nher overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. But the\nwords to her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased\nto ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her\nknees on the floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair\nover her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out:--\n\n Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must\nbear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgment Day.  They\nall paused. I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless\ngrief, and putting my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our\nsorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away\ntheir eyes that ran tears silently. Then Van Helsing turned and said\ngravely; so gravely that I could not help feeling that he was in some\nway inspired, and was stating things outside himself:--\n\n It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God himself see fit,\nas He most surely shall, on the Judgment Day, to redress all wrongs of\nthe earth and of His children that He has placed thereon. And oh, Madam\nMina, my dear, my dear, may we who love you be there to see, when that\nred scar, the sign of God s knowledge of what has been, shall pass away,\nand leave your forehead as pure as the heart we know. For so surely as\nwe live, that scar shall pass away when God sees right to lift the\nburden that is hard upon us. Till then we bear our Cross, as His Son did\nin obedience to His Will. It may be that we are chosen instruments of\nHis good pleasure, and that we ascend to His bidding as that other\nthrough stripes and shame; through tears and blood; through doubts and\nfears, and all that makes the difference between God and man. \n\nThere was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation.\nMina and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old\nman s hands and bent over and kissed it. Then without a word we all\nknelt down together, and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each\nother. We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the\nhead of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help\nand guidance in the terrible task which lay before us.\n\nIt was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a parting which\nneither of us shall forget to our dying day; and we set out.\n\nTo one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a\nvampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible\nland alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant\nmany; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so\nthe holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.\n\nWe entered Carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on\nthe first occasion. It was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic\nsurroundings of neglect and dust and decay there was any ground for such\nfear as already we knew. Had not our minds been made up, and had there\nnot been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have proceeded\nwith our task. We found no papers, or any sign of use in the house; and\nin the old chapel the great boxes looked just as we had seen them last.\nDr. Van Helsing said to us solemnly as we stood before them:--\n\n And now, my friends, we have a duty here to do. We must sterilise this\nearth, so sacred of holy memories, that he has brought from a far\ndistant land for such fell use. He has chosen this earth because it has\nbeen holy. Thus we defeat him with his own weapon, for we make it more\nholy still. It was sanctified to such use of man, now we sanctify it to\nGod.  As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a wrench, and\nvery soon the top of one of the cases was thrown open. The earth smelled\nmusty and close; but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our attention\nwas concentrated on the Professor. Taking from his box a piece of the\nSacred Wafer he laid it reverently on the earth, and then shutting down\nthe lid began to screw it home, we aiding him as he worked.\n\nOne by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and left\nthem as we had found them to all appearance; but in each was a portion\nof the Host.\n\nWhen we closed the door behind us, the Professor said solemnly:--\n\n So much is already done. If it may be that with all the others we can\nbe so successful, then the sunset of this evening may shine on Madam\nMina s forehead all white as ivory and with no stain! \n\nAs we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our\ntrain we could see the front of the asylum. I looked eagerly, and in the\nwindow of my own room saw Mina. I waved my hand to her, and nodded to\ntell that our work there was successfully accomplished. She nodded in\nreply to show that she understood. The last I saw, she was waving her\nhand in farewell. It was with a heavy heart that we sought the station\nand just caught the train, which was steaming in as we reached the\nplatform.\n\nI have written this in the train.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Piccadilly, 12:30 o clock._--Just before we reached Fenchurch Street\nLord Godalming said to me:--\n\n Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not come with us in\ncase there should be any difficulty; for under the circumstances it\nwouldn t seem so bad for us to break into an empty house. But you are a\nsolicitor and the Incorporated Law Society might tell you that you\nshould have known better.  I demurred as to my not sharing any danger\neven of odium, but he went on:  Besides, it will attract less attention\nif there are not too many of us. My title will make it all right with\nthe locksmith, and with any policeman that may come along. You had\nbetter go with Jack and the Professor and stay in the Green Park,\nsomewhere in sight of the house; and when you see the door opened and\nthe smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall be on the\nlookout for you, and shall let you in. \n\n The advice is good!  said Van Helsing, so we said no more. Godalming\nand Morris hurried off in a cab, we following in another. At the corner\nof Arlington Street our contingent got out and strolled into the Green\nPark. My heart beat as I saw the house on which so much of our hope was\ncentred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted condition amongst\nits more lively and spruce-looking neighbours. We sat down on a bench\nwithin good view, and began to smoke cigars so as to attract as little\nattention as possible. The minutes seemed to pass with leaden feet as we\nwaited for the coming of the others.\n\nAt length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. Out of it, in leisurely\nfashion, got Lord Godalming and Morris; and down from the box descended\na thick-set working man with his rush-woven basket of tools. Morris paid\nthe cabman, who touched his hat and drove away. Together the two\nascended the steps, and Lord Godalming pointed out what he wanted done.\nThe workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on one of the spikes\nof the rail, saying something to a policeman who just then sauntered\nalong. The policeman nodded acquiescence, and the man kneeling down\nplaced his bag beside him. After searching through it, he took out a\nselection of tools which he produced to lay beside him in orderly\nfashion. Then he stood up, looked into the keyhole, blew into it, and\nturning to his employers, made some remark. Lord Godalming smiled, and\nthe man lifted a good-sized bunch of keys; selecting one of them, he\nbegan to probe the lock, as if feeling his way with it. After fumbling\nabout for a bit he tried a second, and then a third. All at once the\ndoor opened under a slight push from him, and he and the two others\nentered the hall. We sat still; my own cigar burnt furiously, but Van\nHelsing s went cold altogether. We waited patiently as we saw the\nworkman come out and bring in his bag. Then he held the door partly\nopen, steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock.\nThis he finally handed to Lord Godalming, who took out his purse and\ngave him something. The man touched his hat, took his bag, put on his\ncoat and departed; not a soul took the slightest notice of the whole\ntransaction.\n\nWhen the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked at\nthe door. It was immediately opened by Quincey Morris, beside whom stood\nLord Godalming lighting a cigar.\n\n The place smells so vilely,  said the latter as we came in. It did\nindeed smell vilely--like the old chapel at Carfax--and with our\nprevious experience it was plain to us that the Count had been using the\nplace pretty freely. We moved to explore the house, all keeping together\nin case of attack; for we knew we had a strong and wily enemy to deal\nwith, and as yet we did not know whether the Count might not be in the\nhouse. In the dining-room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found\neight boxes of earth. Eight boxes only out of the nine, which we sought!\nOur work was not over, and would never be until we should have found the\nmissing box. First we opened the shutters of the window which looked out\nacross a narrow stone-flagged yard at the blank face of a stable,\npointed to look like the front of a miniature house. There were no\nwindows in it, so we were not afraid of being over-looked. We did not\nlose any time in examining the chests. With the tools which we had\nbrought with us we opened them, one by one, and treated them as we had\ntreated those others in the old chapel. It was evident to us that the\nCount was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for\nany of his effects.\n\nAfter a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to attic,\nwe came to the conclusion that the dining-room contained any effects\nwhich might belong to the Count; and so we proceeded to minutely examine\nthem. They lay in a sort of orderly disorder on the great dining-room\ntable. There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in a great bundle;\ndeeds of the purchase of the houses at Mile End and Bermondsey;\nnote-paper, envelopes, and pens and ink. All were covered up in thin\nwrapping paper to keep them from the dust. There were also a clothes\nbrush, a brush and comb, and a jug and basin--the latter containing\ndirty water which was reddened as if with blood. Last of all was a\nlittle heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging to\nthe other houses. When we had examined this last find, Lord Godalming\nand Quincey Morris taking accurate notes of the various addresses of the\nhouses in the East and the South, took with them the keys in a great\nbunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in these places. The rest of us\nare, with what patience we can, waiting their return--or the coming of\nthe Count.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY\n\n\n_3 October._--The time seemed terribly long whilst we were waiting for\nthe coming of Godalming and Quincey Morris. The Professor tried to keep\nour minds active by using them all the time. I could see his beneficent\npurpose, by the side glances which he threw from time to time at Harker.\nThe poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to see.\nLast night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful\nface, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn,\nhaggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning\neyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in\nfact, he is like a living flame. This may yet be his salvation, for, if\nall go well, it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then,\nin a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life. Poor fellow, I\nthought my own trouble was bad enough, but his----! The Professor knows\nthis well enough, and is doing his best to keep his mind active. What he\nhas been saying was, under the circumstances, of absorbing interest. So\nwell as I can remember, here it is:--\n\n I have studied, over and over again since they came into my hands, all\nthe papers relating to this monster; and the more I have studied, the\ngreater seems the necessity to utterly stamp him out. All through there\nare signs of his advance; not only of his power, but of his knowledge of\nit. As I learned from the researches of my friend Arminus of Buda-Pesth,\nhe was in life a most wonderful man. Soldier, statesman, and\nalchemist--which latter was the highest development of the\nscience-knowledge of his time. He had a mighty brain, a learning beyond\ncompare, and a heart that knew no fear and no remorse. He dared even to\nattend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time\nthat he did not essay. Well, in him the brain powers survived the\nphysical death; though it would seem that memory was not all complete.\nIn some faculties of mind he has been, and is, only a child; but he is\ngrowing, and some things that were childish at the first are now of\nman s stature. He is experimenting, and doing it well; and if it had not\nbeen that we have crossed his path he would be yet--he may be yet if we\nfail--the father or furtherer of a new order of beings, whose road must\nlead through Death, not Life. \n\nHarker groaned and said,  And this is all arrayed against my darling!\nBut how is he experimenting? The knowledge may help us to defeat him! \n\n He has all along, since his coming, been trying his power, slowly but\nsurely; that big child-brain of his is working. Well for us, it is, as\nyet, a child-brain; for had he dared, at the first, to attempt certain\nthings he would long ago have been beyond our power. However, he means\nto succeed, and a man who has centuries before him can afford to wait\nand to go slow. _Festina lente_ may well be his motto. \n\n I fail to understand,  said Harker wearily.  Oh, do be more plain to\nme! Perhaps grief and trouble are dulling my brain. \n\nThe Professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke:--\n\n Ah, my child, I will be plain. Do you not see how, of late, this\nmonster has been creeping into knowledge experimentally. How he has been\nmaking use of the zo phagous patient to effect his entry into friend\nJohn s home; for your Vampire, though in all afterwards he can come when\nand how he will, must at the first make entry only when asked thereto by\nan inmate. But these are not his most important experiments. Do we not\nsee how at the first all these so great boxes were moved by others. He\nknew not then but that must be so. But all the time that so great\nchild-brain of his was growing, and he began to consider whether he\nmight not himself move the box. So he began to help; and then, when he\nfound that this be all-right, he try to move them all alone. And so he\nprogress, and he scatter these graves of him; and none but he know where\nthey are hidden. He may have intend to bury them deep in the ground. So\nthat he only use them in the night, or at such time as he can change his\nform, they do him equal well; and none may know these are his\nhiding-place! But, my child, do not despair; this knowledge come to him\njust too late! Already all of his lairs but one be sterilise as for him;\nand before the sunset this shall be so. Then he have no place where he\ncan move and hide. I delayed this morning that so we might be sure. Is\nthere not more at stake for us than for him? Then why we not be even\nmore careful than him? By my clock it is one hour and already, if all be\nwell, friend Arthur and Quincey are on their way to us. To-day is our\nday, and we must go sure, if slow, and lose no chance. See! there are\nfive of us when those absent ones return. \n\nWhilst he was speaking we were startled by a knock at the hall door, the\ndouble postman s knock of the telegraph boy. We all moved out to the\nhall with one impulse, and Van Helsing, holding up his hand to us to\nkeep silence, stepped to the door and opened it. The boy handed in a\ndespatch. The Professor closed the door again, and, after looking at the\ndirection, opened it and read aloud.\n\n Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax hurriedly and\nhastened towards the South. He seems to be going the round and may want\nto see you: Mina. \n\nThere was a pause, broken by Jonathan Harker s voice:--\n\n Now, God be thanked, we shall soon meet!  Van Helsing turned to him\nquickly and said:--\n\n God will act in His own way and time. Do not fear, and do not rejoice\nas yet; for what we wish for at the moment may be our undoings. \n\n I care for nothing now,  he answered hotly,  except to wipe out this\nbrute from the face of creation. I would sell my soul to do it! \n\n Oh, hush, hush, my child!  said Van Helsing.  God does not purchase\nsouls in this wise; and the Devil, though he may purchase, does not keep\nfaith. But God is merciful and just, and knows your pain and your\ndevotion to that dear Madam Mina. Think you, how her pain would be\ndoubled, did she but hear your wild words. Do not fear any of us, we are\nall devoted to this cause, and to-day shall see the end. The time is\ncoming for action; to-day this Vampire is limit to the powers of man,\nand till sunset he may not change. It will take him time to arrive\nhere--see, it is twenty minutes past one--and there are yet some times\nbefore he can hither come, be he never so quick. What we must hope for\nis that my Lord Arthur and Quincey arrive first. \n\nAbout half an hour after we had received Mrs. Harker s telegram, there\ncame a quiet, resolute knock at the hall door. It was just an ordinary\nknock, such as is given hourly by thousands of gentlemen, but it made\nthe Professor s heart and mine beat loudly. We looked at each other, and\ntogether moved out into the hall; we each held ready to use our various\narmaments--the spiritual in the left hand, the mortal in the right. Van\nHelsing pulled back the latch, and, holding the door half open, stood\nback, having both hands ready for action. The gladness of our hearts\nmust have shown upon our faces when on the step, close to the door, we\nsaw Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris. They came quickly in and closed\nthe door behind them, the former saying, as they moved along the\nhall:--\n\n It is all right. We found both places; six boxes in each and we\ndestroyed them all! \n\n Destroyed?  asked the Professor.\n\n For him!  We were silent for a minute, and then Quincey said:--\n\n There s nothing to do but to wait here. If, however, he doesn t turn up\nby five o clock, we must start off; for it won t do to leave Mrs. Harker\nalone after sunset. \n\n He will be here before long now,  said Van Helsing, who had been\nconsulting his pocket-book.  _Nota bene_, in Madam s telegram he went\nsouth from Carfax, that means he went to cross the river, and he could\nonly do so at slack of tide, which should be something before one\no clock. That he went south has a meaning for us. He is as yet only\nsuspicious; and he went from Carfax first to the place where he would\nsuspect interference least. You must have been at Bermondsey only a\nshort time before him. That he is not here already shows that he went to\nMile End next. This took him some time; for he would then have to be\ncarried over the river in some way. Believe me, my friends, we shall not\nhave long to wait now. We should have ready some plan of attack, so that\nwe may throw away no chance. Hush, there is no time now. Have all your\narms! Be ready!  He held up a warning hand as he spoke, for we all could\nhear a key softly inserted in the lock of the hall door.\n\nI could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a\ndominant spirit asserted itself. In all our hunting parties and\nadventures in different parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always\nbeen the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur and I had been\naccustomed to obey him implicitly. Now, the old habit seemed to be\nrenewed instinctively. With a swift glance around the room, he at once\nlaid out our plan of attack, and, without speaking a word, with a\ngesture, placed us each in position. Van Helsing, Harker, and I were\njust behind the door, so that when it was opened the Professor could\nguard it whilst we two stepped between the incomer and the door.\nGodalming behind and Quincey in front stood just out of sight ready to\nmove in front of the window. We waited in a suspense that made the\nseconds pass with nightmare slowness. The slow, careful steps came along\nthe hall; the Count was evidently prepared for some surprise--at least\nhe feared it.\n\nSuddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room, winning a way past\nus before any of us could raise a hand to stay him. There was something\nso panther-like in the movement--something so unhuman, that it seemed\nto sober us all from the shock of his coming. The first to act was\nHarker, who, with a quick movement, threw himself before the door\nleading into the room in the front of the house. As the Count saw us, a\nhorrible sort of snarl passed over his face, showing the eye-teeth long\nand pointed; but the evil smile as quickly passed into a cold stare of\nlion-like disdain. His expression again changed as, with a single\nimpulse, we all advanced upon him. It was a pity that we had not some\nbetter organised plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what\nwe were to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would\navail us anything. Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had\nready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The\nblow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count s\nleap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne\nthrough his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat,\nmaking a wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold\nfell out. The expression of the Count s face was so hellish, that for a\nmoment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife\naloft again for another stroke. Instinctively I moved forward with a\nprotective impulse, holding the Crucifix and Wafer in my left hand. I\nfelt a mighty power fly along my arm; and it was without surprise that I\nsaw the monster cower back before a similar movement made spontaneously\nby each one of us. It would be impossible to describe the expression of\nhate and baffled malignity--of anger and hellish rage--which came over\nthe Count s face. His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast\nof his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed on the\npallid skin like a palpitating wound. The next instant, with a sinuous\ndive he swept under Harker s arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping\na handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw\nhimself at the window. Amid the crash and glitter of the falling glass,\nhe tumbled into the flagged area below. Through the sound of the\nshivering glass I could hear the  ting  of the gold, as some of the\nsovereigns fell on the flagging.\n\nWe ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground. He, rushing up\nthe steps, crossed the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door.\nThere he turned and spoke to us:--\n\n You think to baffle me, you--with your pale faces all in a row, like\nsheep in a butcher s. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think\nyou have left me without a place to rest; but I have more. My revenge is\njust begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your\ngirls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and\nothers shall yet be mine--my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my\njackals when I want to feed. Bah!  With a contemptuous sneer, he passed\nquickly through the door, and we heard the rusty bolt creak as he\nfastened it behind him. A door beyond opened and shut. The first of us\nto speak was the Professor, as, realising the difficulty of following\nhim through the stable, we moved toward the hall.\n\n We have learnt something--much! Notwithstanding his brave words, he\nfears us; he fear time, he fear want! For if not, why he hurry so? His\nvery tone betray him, or my ears deceive. Why take that money? You\nfollow quick. You are hunters of wild beast, and understand it so. For\nme, I make sure that nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he\nreturn.  As he spoke he put the money remaining into his pocket; took\nthe title-deeds in the bundle as Harker had left them, and swept the\nremaining things into the open fireplace, where he set fire to them with\na match.\n\nGodalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and Harker had\nlowered himself from the window to follow the Count. He had, however,\nbolted the stable door; and by the time they had forced it open there\nwas no sign of him. Van Helsing and I tried to make inquiry at the back\nof the house; but the mews was deserted and no one had seen him depart.\n\nIt was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far off. We had to\nrecognise that our game was up; with heavy hearts we agreed with the\nProfessor when he said:--\n\n Let us go back to Madam Mina--poor, poor dear Madam Mina. All we can do\njust now is done; and we can there, at least, protect her. But we need\nnot despair. There is but one more earth-box, and we must try to find\nit; when that is done all may yet be well.  I could see that he spoke as\nbravely as he could to comfort Harker. The poor fellow was quite broken\ndown; now and again he gave a low groan which he could not suppress--he\nwas thinking of his wife.\n\nWith sad hearts we came back to my house, where we found Mrs. Harker\nwaiting us, with an appearance of cheerfulness which did honour to her\nbravery and unselfishness. When she saw our faces, her own became as\npale as death: for a second or two her eyes were closed as if she were\nin secret prayer; and then she said cheerfully:--\n\n I can never thank you all enough. Oh, my poor darling!  As she spoke,\nshe took her husband s grey head in her hands and kissed it-- Lay your\npoor head here and rest it. All will yet be well, dear! God will protect\nus if He so will it in His good intent.  The poor fellow groaned. There\nwas no place for words in his sublime misery.\n\nWe had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and I think it cheered us\nall up somewhat. It was, perhaps, the mere animal heat of food to hungry\npeople--for none of us had eaten anything since breakfast--or the sense\nof companionship may have helped us; but anyhow we were all less\nmiserable, and saw the morrow as not altogether without hope. True to\nour promise, we told Mrs. Harker everything which had passed; and\nalthough she grew snowy white at times when danger had seemed to\nthreaten her husband, and red at others when his devotion to her was\nmanifested, she listened bravely and with calmness. When we came to the\npart where Harker had rushed at the Count so recklessly, she clung to\nher husband s arm, and held it tight as though her clinging could\nprotect him from any harm that might come. She said nothing, however,\ntill the narration was all done, and matters had been brought right up\nto the present time. Then without letting go her husband s hand she\nstood up amongst us and spoke. Oh, that I could give any idea of the\nscene; of that sweet, sweet, good, good woman in all the radiant beauty\nof her youth and animation, with the red scar on her forehead, of which\nshe was conscious, and which we saw with grinding of our\nteeth--remembering whence and how it came; her loving kindness against\nour grim hate; her tender faith against all our fears and doubting; and\nwe, knowing that so far as symbols went, she with all her goodness and\npurity and faith, was outcast from God.\n\n Jonathan,  she said, and the word sounded like music on her lips it was\nso full of love and tenderness,  Jonathan dear, and you all my true,\ntrue friends, I want you to bear something in mind through all this\ndreadful time. I know that you must fight--that you must destroy even as\nyou destroyed the false Lucy so that the true Lucy might live hereafter;\nbut it is not a work of hate. That poor soul who has wrought all this\nmisery is the saddest case of all. Just think what will be his joy when\nhe, too, is destroyed in his worser part that his better part may have\nspiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him, too, though it may\nnot hold your hands from his destruction. \n\nAs she spoke I could see her husband s face darken and draw together, as\nthough the passion in him were shrivelling his being to its core.\nInstinctively the clasp on his wife s hand grew closer, till his\nknuckles looked white. She did not flinch from the pain which I knew she\nmust have suffered, but looked at him with eyes that were more appealing\nthan ever. As she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost tearing\nhis hand from hers as he spoke:--\n\n May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that\nearthly life of him which we are aiming at. If beyond it I could send\nhis soul for ever and ever to burning hell I would do it! \n\n Oh, hush! oh, hush! in the name of the good God. Don t say such things,\nJonathan, my husband; or you will crush me with fear and horror. Just\nthink, my dear--I have been thinking all this long, long day of it--that\n... perhaps ... some day ... I, too, may need such pity; and that some\nother like you--and with equal cause for anger--may deny it to me! Oh,\nmy husband! my husband, indeed I would have spared you such a thought\nhad there been another way; but I pray that God may not have treasured\nyour wild words, except as the heart-broken wail of a very loving and\nsorely stricken man. Oh, God, let these poor white hairs go in evidence\nof what he has suffered, who all his life has done no wrong, and on whom\nso many sorrows have come. \n\nWe men were all in tears now. There was no resisting them, and we wept\nopenly. She wept, too, to see that her sweeter counsels had prevailed.\nHer husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and putting his arms\nround her, hid his face in the folds of her dress. Van Helsing beckoned\nto us and we stole out of the room, leaving the two loving hearts alone\nwith their God.\n\nBefore they retired the Professor fixed up the room against any coming\nof the Vampire, and assured Mrs. Harker that she might rest in peace.\nShe tried to school herself to the belief, and, manifestly for her\nhusband s sake, tried to seem content. It was a brave struggle; and was,\nI think and believe, not without its reward. Van Helsing had placed at\nhand a bell which either of them was to sound in case of any emergency.\nWhen they had retired, Quincey, Godalming, and I arranged that we should\nsit up, dividing the night between us, and watch over the safety of the\npoor stricken lady. The first watch falls to Quincey, so the rest of us\nshall be off to bed as soon as we can. Godalming has already turned in,\nfor his is the second watch. Now that my work is done I, too, shall go\nto bed.\n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_3-4 October, close to midnight._--I thought yesterday would never end.\nThere was over me a yearning for sleep, in some sort of blind belief\nthat to wake would be to find things changed, and that any change must\nnow be for the better. Before we parted, we discussed what our next step\nwas to be, but we could arrive at no result. All we knew was that one\nearth-box remained, and that the Count alone knew where it was. If he\nchooses to lie hidden, he may baffle us for years; and in the\nmeantime!--the thought is too horrible, I dare not think of it even now.\nThis I know: that if ever there was a woman who was all perfection, that\none is my poor wronged darling. I love her a thousand times more for her\nsweet pity of last night, a pity that made my own hate of the monster\nseem despicable. Surely God will not permit the world to be the poorer\nby the loss of such a creature. This is hope to me. We are all drifting\nreefwards now, and faith is our only anchor. Thank God! Mina is\nsleeping, and sleeping without dreams. I fear what her dreams might be\nlike, with such terrible memories to ground them in. She has not been so\ncalm, within my seeing, since the sunset. Then, for a while, there came\nover her face a repose which was like spring after the blasts of March.\nI thought at the time that it was the softness of the red sunset on her\nface, but somehow now I think it has a deeper meaning. I am not sleepy\nmyself, though I am weary--weary to death. However, I must try to sleep;\nfor there is to-morrow to think of, and there is no rest for me\nuntil....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--I must have fallen asleep, for I was awaked by Mina, who was\nsitting up in bed, with a startled look on her face. I could see easily,\nfor we did not leave the room in darkness; she had placed a warning hand\nover my mouth, and now she whispered in my ear:--\n\n Hush! there is someone in the corridor!  I got up softly, and crossing\nthe room, gently opened the door.\n\nJust outside, stretched on a mattress, lay Mr. Morris, wide awake. He\nraised a warning hand for silence as he whispered to me:--\n\n Hush! go back to bed; it is all right. One of us will be here all\nnight. We don t mean to take any chances! \n\nHis look and gesture forbade discussion, so I came back and told Mina.\nShe sighed and positively a shadow of a smile stole over her poor, pale\nface as she put her arms round me and said softly:--\n\n Oh, thank God for good brave men!  With a sigh she sank back again to\nsleep. I write this now as I am not sleepy, though I must try again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_4 October, morning._--Once again during the night I was wakened by\nMina. This time we had all had a good sleep, for the grey of the coming\ndawn was making the windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas flame was\nlike a speck rather than a disc of light. She said to me hurriedly:--\n\n Go, call the Professor. I want to see him at once. \n\n Why?  I asked.\n\n I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night, and matured\nwithout my knowing it. He must hypnotise me before the dawn, and then I\nshall be able to speak. Go quick, dearest; the time is getting close.  I\nwent to the door. Dr. Seward was resting on the mattress, and, seeing\nme, he sprang to his feet.\n\n Is anything wrong?  he asked, in alarm.\n\n No,  I replied;  but Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at once. \n\n I will go,  he said, and hurried into the Professor s room.\n\nIn two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room in his\ndressing-gown, and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming were with Dr. Seward at\nthe door asking questions. When the Professor saw Mina smile--a\npositive smile ousted the anxiety of his face; he rubbed his hands as he\nsaid:--\n\n Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is indeed a change. See! friend Jonathan,\nwe have got our dear Madam Mina, as of old, back to us to-day!  Then\nturning to her, he said, cheerfully:  And what am I do for you? For at\nthis hour you do not want me for nothings. \n\n I want you to hypnotise me!  she said.  Do it before the dawn, for I\nfeel that then I can speak, and speak freely. Be quick, for the time is\nshort!  Without a word he motioned her to sit up in bed.\n\nLooking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her,\nfrom over the top of her head downward, with each hand in turn. Mina\ngazed at him fixedly for a few minutes, during which my own heart beat\nlike a trip hammer, for I felt that some crisis was at hand. Gradually\nher eyes closed, and she sat, stock still; only by the gentle heaving of\nher bosom could one know that she was alive. The Professor made a few\nmore passes and then stopped, and I could see that his forehead was\ncovered with great beads of perspiration. Mina opened her eyes; but she\ndid not seem the same woman. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and\nher voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me. Raising his hand to\nimpose silence, the Professor motioned to me to bring the others in.\nThey came on tip-toe, closing the door behind them, and stood at the\nfoot of the bed, looking on. Mina appeared not to see them. The\nstillness was broken by Van Helsing s voice speaking in a low level tone\nwhich would not break the current of her thoughts:--\n\n Where are you?  The answer came in a neutral way:--\n\n I do not know. Sleep has no place it can call its own.  For several\nminutes there was silence. Mina sat rigid, and the Professor stood\nstaring at her fixedly; the rest of us hardly dared to breathe. The room\nwas growing lighter; without taking his eyes from Mina s face, Dr. Van\nHelsing motioned me to pull up the blind. I did so, and the day seemed\njust upon us. A red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to diffuse\nitself through the room. On the instant the Professor spoke again:--\n\n Where are you now?  The answer came dreamily, but with intention; it\nwere as though she were interpreting something. I have heard her use the\nsame tone when reading her shorthand notes.\n\n I do not know. It is all strange to me! \n\n What do you see? \n\n I can see nothing; it is all dark. \n\n What do you hear?  I could detect the strain in the Professor s patient\nvoice.\n\n The lapping of water. It is gurgling by, and little waves leap. I can\nhear them on the outside. \n\n Then you are on a ship?  We all looked at each other, trying to glean\nsomething each from the other. We were afraid to think. The answer came\nquick:--\n\n Oh, yes! \n\n What else do you hear? \n\n The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about. There is the\ncreaking of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan\nfalls into the rachet. \n\n What are you doing? \n\n I am still--oh, so still. It is like death!  The voice faded away into\na deep breath as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again.\n\nBy this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of\nday. Dr. Van Helsing placed his hands on Mina s shoulders, and laid her\nhead down softly on her pillow. She lay like a sleeping child for a few\nmoments, and then, with a long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder to see\nus all around her.  Have I been talking in my sleep?  was all she said.\nShe seemed, however, to know the situation without telling, though she\nwas eager to know what she had told. The Professor repeated the\nconversation, and she said:--\n\n Then there is not a moment to lose: it may not be yet too late!  Mr.\nMorris and Lord Godalming started for the door but the Professor s calm\nvoice called them back:--\n\n Stay, my friends. That ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor\nwhilst she spoke. There are many ships weighing anchor at the moment in\nyour so great Port of London. Which of them is it that you seek? God be\nthanked that we have once again a clue, though whither it may lead us we\nknow not. We have been blind somewhat; blind after the manner of men,\nsince when we can look back we see what we might have seen looking\nforward if we had been able to see what we might have seen! Alas, but\nthat sentence is a puddle; is it not? We can know now what was in the\nCount s mind, when he seize that money, though Jonathan s so fierce\nknife put him in the danger that even he dread. He meant escape. Hear\nme, ESCAPE! He saw that with but one earth-box left, and a pack of men\nfollowing like dogs after a fox, this London was no place for him. He\nhave take his last earth-box on board a ship, and he leave the land. He\nthink to escape, but no! we follow him. Tally Ho! as friend Arthur would\nsay when he put on his red frock! Our old fox is wily; oh! so wily, and\nwe must follow with wile. I, too, am wily and I think his mind in a\nlittle while. In meantime we may rest and in peace, for there are waters\nbetween us which he do not want to pass, and which he could not if he\nwould--unless the ship were to touch the land, and then only at full or\nslack tide. See, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset is to\nus. Let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need,\nand which we can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with\nus.  Mina looked at him appealingly as she asked:--\n\n But why need we seek him further, when he is gone away from us?  He\ntook her hand and patted it as he replied:--\n\n Ask me nothings as yet. When we have breakfast, then I answer all\nquestions.  He would say no more, and we separated to dress.\n\nAfter breakfast Mina repeated her question. He looked at her gravely for\na minute and then said sorrowfully:--\n\n Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more than ever must we find him\neven if we have to follow him to the jaws of Hell!  She grew paler as\nshe asked faintly:--\n\n Why? \n\n Because,  he answered solemnly,  he can live for centuries, and you are\nbut mortal woman. Time is now to be dreaded--since once he put that mark\nupon your throat. \n\nI was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nDR. SEWARD S PHONOGRAPH DIARY, SPOKEN BY VAN HELSING\n\n\nThis to Jonathan Harker.\n\nYou are to stay with your dear Madam Mina. We shall go to make our\nsearch--if I can call it so, for it is not search but knowing, and we\nseek confirmation only. But do you stay and take care of her to-day.\nThis is your best and most holiest office. This day nothing can find him\nhere. Let me tell you that so you will know what we four know already,\nfor I have tell them. He, our enemy, have gone away; he have gone back\nto his Castle in Transylvania. I know it so well, as if a great hand of\nfire wrote it on the wall. He have prepare for this in some way, and\nthat last earth-box was ready to ship somewheres. For this he took the\nmoney; for this he hurry at the last, lest we catch him before the sun\ngo down. It was his last hope, save that he might hide in the tomb that\nhe think poor Miss Lucy, being as he thought like him, keep open to him.\nBut there was not of time. When that fail he make straight for his last\nresource--his last earth-work I might say did I wish _double entente_.\nHe is clever, oh, so clever! he know that his game here was finish; and\nso he decide he go back home. He find ship going by the route he came,\nand he go in it. We go off now to find what ship, and whither bound;\nwhen we have discover that, we come back and tell you all. Then we will\ncomfort you and poor dear Madam Mina with new hope. For it will be hope\nwhen you think it over: that all is not lost. This very creature that we\npursue, he take hundreds of years to get so far as London; and yet in\none day, when we know of the disposal of him we drive him out. He is\nfinite, though he is powerful to do much harm and suffers not as we do.\nBut we are strong, each in our purpose; and we are all more strong\ntogether. Take heart afresh, dear husband of Madam Mina. This battle is\nbut begun, and in the end we shall win--so sure as that God sits on high\nto watch over His children. Therefore be of much comfort till we return.\n\nVAN HELSING.\n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_4 October._--When I read to Mina, Van Helsing s message in the\nphonograph, the poor girl brightened up considerably. Already the\ncertainty that the Count is out of the country has given her comfort;\nand comfort is strength to her. For my own part, now that his horrible\ndanger is not face to face with us, it seems almost impossible to\nbelieve in it. Even my own terrible experiences in Castle Dracula seem\nlike a long-forgotten dream. Here in the crisp autumn air in the bright\nsunlight----\n\nAlas! how can I disbelieve! In the midst of my thought my eye fell on\nthe red scar on my poor darling s white forehead. Whilst that lasts,\nthere can be no disbelief. And afterwards the very memory of it will\nkeep faith crystal clear. Mina and I fear to be idle, so we have been\nover all the diaries again and again. Somehow, although the reality\nseems greater each time, the pain and the fear seem less. There is\nsomething of a guiding purpose manifest throughout, which is comforting.\nMina says that perhaps we are the instruments of ultimate good. It may\nbe! I shall try to think as she does. We have never spoken to each other\nyet of the future. It is better to wait till we see the Professor and\nthe others after their investigations.\n\nThe day is running by more quickly than I ever thought a day could run\nfor me again. It is now three o clock.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_5 October, 5 p. m._--Our meeting for report. Present: Professor Van\nHelsing, Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan\nHarker, Mina Harker.\n\nDr. Van Helsing described what steps were taken during the day to\ndiscover on what boat and whither bound Count Dracula made his escape:--\n\n As I knew that he wanted to get back to Transylvania, I felt sure that\nhe must go by the Danube mouth; or by somewhere in the Black Sea, since\nby that way he come. It was a dreary blank that was before us. _Omne\nignotum pro magnifico_; and so with heavy hearts we start to find what\nships leave for the Black Sea last night. He was in sailing ship, since\nMadam Mina tell of sails being set. These not so important as to go in\nyour list of the shipping in the _Times_, and so we go, by suggestion of\nLord Godalming, to your Lloyd s, where are note of all ships that sail,\nhowever so small. There we find that only one Black-Sea-bound ship go\nout with the tide. She is the _Czarina Catherine_, and she sail from\nDoolittle s Wharf for Varna, and thence on to other parts and up the\nDanube.  Soh!  said I,  this is the ship whereon is the Count.  So off\nwe go to Doolittle s Wharf, and there we find a man in an office of wood\nso small that the man look bigger than the office. From him we inquire\nof the goings of the _Czarina Catherine_. He swear much, and he red face\nand loud of voice, but he good fellow all the same; and when Quincey\ngive him something from his pocket which crackle as he roll it up, and\nput it in a so small bag which he have hid deep in his clothing, he\nstill better fellow and humble servant to us. He come with us, and ask\nmany men who are rough and hot; these be better fellows too when they\nhave been no more thirsty. They say much of blood and bloom, and of\nothers which I comprehend not, though I guess what they mean; but\nnevertheless they tell us all things which we want to know.\n\n They make known to us among them, how last afternoon at about five\no clock comes a man so hurry. A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose\nand teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning. That he be all in\nblack, except that he have a hat of straw which suit not him or the\ntime. That he scatter his money in making quick inquiry as to what ship\nsails for the Black Sea and for where. Some took him to the office and\nthen to the ship, where he will not go aboard but halt at shore end of\ngang-plank, and ask that the captain come to him. The captain come, when\ntold that he will be pay well; and though he swear much at the first he\nagree to term. Then the thin man go and some one tell him where horse\nand cart can be hired. He go there and soon he come again, himself\ndriving cart on which a great box; this he himself lift down, though it\ntake several to put it on truck for the ship. He give much talk to\ncaptain as to how and where his box is to be place; but the captain like\nit not and swear at him in many tongues, and tell him that if he like he\ncan come and see where it shall be. But he say  no ; that he come not\nyet, for that he have much to do. Whereupon the captain tell him that he\nhad better be quick--with blood--for that his ship will leave the\nplace--of blood--before the turn of the tide--with blood. Then the thin\nman smile and say that of course he must go when he think fit; but he\nwill be surprise if he go quite so soon. The captain swear again,\npolyglot, and the thin man make him bow, and thank him, and say that he\nwill so far intrude on his kindness as to come aboard before the\nsailing. Final the captain, more red than ever, and in more tongues tell\nhim that he doesn t want no Frenchmen--with bloom upon them and also\nwith blood--in his ship--with blood on her also. And so, after asking\nwhere there might be close at hand a ship where he might purchase ship\nforms, he departed.\n\n No one knew where he went  or bloomin  well cared,  as they said, for\nthey had something else to think of--well with blood again; for it soon\nbecame apparent to all that the _Czarina Catherine_ would not sail as\nwas expected. A thin mist began to creep up from the river, and it grew,\nand grew; till soon a dense fog enveloped the ship and all around her.\nThe captain swore polyglot--very polyglot--polyglot with bloom and\nblood; but he could do nothing. The water rose and rose; and he began to\nfear that he would lose the tide altogether. He was in no friendly mood,\nwhen just at full tide, the thin man came up the gang-plank again and\nasked to see where his box had been stowed. Then the captain replied\nthat he wished that he and his box--old and with much bloom and\nblood--were in hell. But the thin man did not be offend, and went down\nwith the mate and saw where it was place, and came up and stood awhile\non deck in fog. He must have come off by himself, for none notice him.\nIndeed they thought not of him; for soon the fog begin to melt away, and\nall was clear again. My friends of the thirst and the language that was\nof bloom and blood laughed, as they told how the captain s swears\nexceeded even his usual polyglot, and was more than ever full of\npicturesque, when on questioning other mariners who were on movement up\nand down on the river that hour, he found that few of them had seen any\nof fog at all, except where it lay round the wharf. However, the ship\nwent out on the ebb tide; and was doubtless by morning far down the\nriver mouth. She was by then, when they told us, well out to sea.\n\n And so, my dear Madam Mina, it is that we have to rest for a time, for\nour enemy is on the sea, with the fog at his command, on his way to the\nDanube mouth. To sail a ship takes time, go she never so quick; and when\nwe start we go on land more quick, and we meet him there. Our best hope\nis to come on him when in the box between sunrise and sunset; for then\nhe can make no struggle, and we may deal with him as we should. There\nare days for us, in which we can make ready our plan. We know all about\nwhere he go; for we have seen the owner of the ship, who have shown us\ninvoices and all papers that can be. The box we seek is to be landed in\nVarna, and to be given to an agent, one Ristics who will there present\nhis credentials; and so our merchant friend will have done his part.\nWhen he ask if there be any wrong, for that so, he can telegraph and\nhave inquiry made at Varna, we say  no ; for what is to be done is not\nfor police or of the customs. It must be done by us alone and in our own\nway. \n\nWhen Dr. Van Helsing had done speaking, I asked him if he were certain\nthat the Count had remained on board the ship. He replied:  We have the\nbest proof of that: your own evidence, when in the hypnotic trance this\nmorning.  I asked him again if it were really necessary that they should\npursue the Count, for oh! I dread Jonathan leaving me, and I know that\nhe would surely go if the others went. He answered in growing passion,\nat first quietly. As he went on, however, he grew more angry and more\nforceful, till in the end we could not but see wherein was at least some\nof that personal dominance which made him so long a master amongst\nmen:--\n\n Yes, it is necessary--necessary--necessary! For your sake in the first,\nand then for the sake of humanity. This monster has done much harm\nalready, in the narrow scope where he find himself, and in the short\ntime when as yet he was only as a body groping his so small measure in\ndarkness and not knowing. All this have I told these others; you, my\ndear Madam Mina, will learn it in the phonograph of my friend John, or\nin that of your husband. I have told them how the measure of leaving his\nown barren land--barren of peoples--and coming to a new land where life\nof man teems till they are like the multitude of standing corn, was the\nwork of centuries. Were another of the Un-Dead, like him, to try to do\nwhat he has done, perhaps not all the centuries of the world that have\nbeen, or that will be, could aid him. With this one, all the forces of\nnature that are occult and deep and strong must have worked together in\nsome wondrous way. The very place, where he have been alive, Un-Dead for\nall these centuries, is full of strangeness of the geologic and chemical\nworld. There are deep caverns and fissures that reach none know whither.\nThere have been volcanoes, some of whose openings still send out waters\nof strange properties, and gases that kill or make to vivify. Doubtless,\nthere is something magnetic or electric in some of these combinations of\noccult forces which work for physical life in strange way; and in\nhimself were from the first some great qualities. In a hard and warlike\ntime he was celebrate that he have more iron nerve, more subtle brain,\nmore braver heart, than any man. In him some vital principle have in\nstrange way found their utmost; and as his body keep strong and grow and\nthrive, so his brain grow too. All this without that diabolic aid which\nis surely to him; for it have to yield to the powers that come from,\nand are, symbolic of good. And now this is what he is to us. He have\ninfect you--oh, forgive me, my dear, that I must say such; but it is for\ngood of you that I speak. He infect you in such wise, that even if he do\nno more, you have only to live--to live in your own old, sweet way; and\nso in time, death, which is of man s common lot and with God s sanction,\nshall make you like to him. This must not be! We have sworn together\nthat it must not. Thus are we ministers of God s own wish: that the\nworld, and men for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters,\nwhose very existence would defame Him. He have allowed us to redeem one\nsoul already, and we go out as the old knights of the Cross to redeem\nmore. Like them we shall travel towards the sunrise; and like them, if\nwe fall, we fall in good cause.  He paused and I said:--\n\n But will not the Count take his rebuff wisely? Since he has been driven\nfrom England, will he not avoid it, as a tiger does the village from\nwhich he has been hunted? \n\n Aha!  he said,  your simile of the tiger good, for me, and I shall\nadopt him. Your man-eater, as they of India call the tiger who has once\ntasted blood of the human, care no more for the other prey, but prowl\nunceasing till he get him. This that we hunt from our village is a\ntiger, too, a man-eater, and he never cease to prowl. Nay, in himself he\nis not one to retire and stay afar. In his life, his living life, he go\nover the Turkey frontier and attack his enemy on his own ground; he be\nbeaten back, but did he stay? No! He come again, and again, and again.\nLook at his persistence and endurance. With the child-brain that was to\nhim he have long since conceive the idea of coming to a great city. What\ndoes he do? He find out the place of all the world most of promise for\nhim. Then he deliberately set himself down to prepare for the task. He\nfind in patience just how is his strength, and what are his powers. He\nstudy new tongues. He learn new social life; new environment of old\nways, the politic, the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new\nland and a new people who have come to be since he was. His glimpse that\nhe have had, whet his appetite only and enkeen his desire. Nay, it help\nhim to grow as to his brain; for it all prove to him how right he was at\nthe first in his surmises. He have done this alone; all alone! from a\nruin tomb in a forgotten land. What more may he not do when the greater\nworld of thought is open to him. He that can smile at death, as we know\nhim; who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole\npeoples. Oh, if such an one was to come from God, and not the Devil,\nwhat a force for good might he not be in this old world of ours. But we\nare pledged to set the world free. Our toil must be in silence, and our\nefforts all in secret; for in this enlightened age, when men believe not\neven what they see, the doubting of wise men would be his greatest\nstrength. It would be at once his sheath and his armour, and his weapons\nto destroy us, his enemies, who are willing to peril even our own souls\nfor the safety of one we love--for the good of mankind, and for the\nhonour and glory of God. \n\nAfter a general discussion it was determined that for to-night nothing\nbe definitely settled; that we should all sleep on the facts, and try to\nthink out the proper conclusions. To-morrow, at breakfast, we are to\nmeet again, and, after making our conclusions known to one another, we\nshall decide on some definite cause of action.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI feel a wonderful peace and rest to-night. It is as if some haunting\npresence were removed from me. Perhaps ...\n\nMy surmise was not finished, could not be; for I caught sight in the\nmirror of the red mark upon my forehead; and I knew that I was still\nunclean.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_5 October._--We all rose early, and I think that sleep did much for\neach and all of us. When we met at early breakfast there was more\ngeneral cheerfulness than any of us had ever expected to experience\nagain.\n\nIt is really wonderful how much resilience there is in human nature. Let\nany obstructing cause, no matter what, be removed in any way--even by\ndeath--and we fly back to first principles of hope and enjoyment. More\nthan once as we sat around the table, my eyes opened in wonder whether\nthe whole of the past days had not been a dream. It was only when I\ncaught sight of the red blotch on Mrs. Harker s forehead that I was\nbrought back to reality. Even now, when I am gravely revolving the\nmatter, it is almost impossible to realise that the cause of all our\ntrouble is still existent. Even Mrs. Harker seems to lose sight of her\ntrouble for whole spells; it is only now and again, when something\nrecalls it to her mind, that she thinks of her terrible scar. We are to\nmeet here in my study in half an hour and decide on our course of\naction. I see only one immediate difficulty, I know it by instinct\nrather than reason: we shall all have to speak frankly; and yet I fear\nthat in some mysterious way poor Mrs. Harker s tongue is tied. I _know_\nthat she forms conclusions of her own, and from all that has been I can\nguess how brilliant and how true they must be; but she will not, or\ncannot, give them utterance. I have mentioned this to Van Helsing, and\nhe and I are to talk it over when we are alone. I suppose it is some of\nthat horrid poison which has got into her veins beginning to work. The\nCount had his own purposes when he gave her what Van Helsing called  the\nVampire s baptism of blood.  Well, there may be a poison that distils\nitself out of good things; in an age when the existence of ptomaines is\na mystery we should not wonder at anything! One thing I know: that if my\ninstinct be true regarding poor Mrs. Harker s silences, then there is a\nterrible difficulty--an unknown danger--in the work before us. The same\npower that compels her silence may compel her speech. I dare not think\nfurther; for so I should in my thoughts dishonour a noble woman!\n\nVan Helsing is coming to my study a little before the others. I shall\ntry to open the subject with him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--When the Professor came in, we talked over the state of\nthings. I could see that he had something on his mind which he wanted to\nsay, but felt some hesitancy about broaching the subject. After beating\nabout the bush a little, he said suddenly:--\n\n Friend John, there is something that you and I must talk of alone, just\nat the first at any rate. Later, we may have to take the others into our\nconfidence ; then he stopped, so I waited; he went on:--\n\n Madam Mina, our poor, dear Madam Mina is changing.  A cold shiver ran\nthrough me to find my worst fears thus endorsed. Van Helsing\ncontinued:--\n\n With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time be warned\nbefore things go too far. Our task is now in reality more difficult than\never, and this new trouble makes every hour of the direst importance. I\ncan see the characteristics of the vampire coming in her face. It is now\nbut very, very slight; but it is to be seen if we have eyes to notice\nwithout to prejudge. Her teeth are some sharper, and at times her eyes\nare more hard. But these are not all, there is to her the silence now\noften; as so it was with Miss Lucy. She did not speak, even when she\nwrote that which she wished to be known later. Now my fear is this. If\nit be that she can, by our hypnotic trance, tell what the Count see and\nhear, is it not more true that he who have hypnotise her first, and who\nhave drink of her very blood and make her drink of his, should, if he\nwill, compel her mind to disclose to him that which she know?  I nodded\nacquiescence; he went on:--\n\n Then, what we must do is to prevent this; we must keep her ignorant of\nour intent, and so she cannot tell what she know not. This is a painful\ntask! Oh, so painful that it heart-break me to think of; but it must be.\nWhen to-day we meet, I must tell her that for reason which we will not\nto speak she must not more be of our council, but be simply guarded by\nus.  He wiped his forehead, which had broken out in profuse perspiration\nat the thought of the pain which he might have to inflict upon the poor\nsoul already so tortured. I knew that it would be some sort of comfort\nto him if I told him that I also had come to the same conclusion; for at\nany rate it would take away the pain of doubt. I told him, and the\neffect was as I expected.\n\nIt is now close to the time of our general gathering. Van Helsing has\ngone away to prepare for the meeting, and his painful part of it. I\nreally believe his purpose is to be able to pray alone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--At the very outset of our meeting a great personal relief was\nexperienced by both Van Helsing and myself. Mrs. Harker had sent a\nmessage by her husband to say that she would not join us at present, as\nshe thought it better that we should be free to discuss our movements\nwithout her presence to embarrass us. The Professor and I looked at each\nother for an instant, and somehow we both seemed relieved. For my own\npart, I thought that if Mrs. Harker realised the danger herself, it was\nmuch pain as well as much danger averted. Under the circumstances we\nagreed, by a questioning look and answer, with finger on lip, to\npreserve silence in our suspicions, until we should have been able to\nconfer alone again. We went at once into our Plan of Campaign. Van\nHelsing roughly put the facts before us first:--\n\n The _Czarina Catherine_ left the Thames yesterday morning. It will take\nher at the quickest speed she has ever made at least three weeks to\nreach Varna; but we can travel overland to the same place in three days.\nNow, if we allow for two days less for the ship s voyage, owing to such\nweather influences as we know that the Count can bring to bear; and if\nwe allow a whole day and night for any delays which may occur to us,\nthen we have a margin of nearly two weeks. Thus, in order to be quite\nsafe, we must leave here on 17th at latest. Then we shall at any rate\nbe in Varna a day before the ship arrives, and able to make such\npreparations as may be necessary. Of course we shall all go armed--armed\nagainst evil things, spiritual as well as physical.  Here Quincey Morris\nadded:--\n\n I understand that the Count comes from a wolf country, and it may be\nthat he shall get there before us. I propose that we add Winchesters to\nour armament. I have a kind of belief in a Winchester when there is any\ntrouble of that sort around. Do you remember, Art, when we had the pack\nafter us at Tobolsk? What wouldn t we have given then for a repeater\napiece! \n\n Good!  said Van Helsing,  Winchesters it shall be. Quincey s head is\nlevel at all times, but most so when there is to hunt, metaphor be more\ndishonour to science than wolves be of danger to man. In the meantime we\ncan do nothing here; and as I think that Varna is not familiar to any of\nus, why not go there more soon? It is as long to wait here as there.\nTo-night and to-morrow we can get ready, and then, if all be well, we\nfour can set out on our journey. \n\n We four?  said Harker interrogatively, looking from one to another of\nus.\n\n Of course!  answered the Professor quickly,  you must remain to take\ncare of your so sweet wife!  Harker was silent for awhile and then said\nin a hollow voice:--\n\n Let us talk of that part of it in the morning. I want to consult with\nMina.  I thought that now was the time for Van Helsing to warn him not\nto disclose our plans to her; but he took no notice. I looked at him\nsignificantly and coughed. For answer he put his finger on his lips and\nturned away.\n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_5 October, afternoon._--For some time after our meeting this morning I\ncould not think. The new phases of things leave my mind in a state of\nwonder which allows no room for active thought. Mina s determination not\nto take any part in the discussion set me thinking; and as I could not\nargue the matter with her, I could only guess. I am as far as ever from\na solution now. The way the others received it, too, puzzled me; the\nlast time we talked of the subject we agreed that there was to be no\nmore concealment of anything amongst us. Mina is sleeping now, calmly\nand sweetly like a little child. Her lips are curved and her face beams\nwith happiness. Thank God, there are such moments still for her.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--How strange it all is. I sat watching Mina s happy sleep, and\ncame as near to being happy myself as I suppose I shall ever be. As the\nevening drew on, and the earth took its shadows from the sun sinking\nlower, the silence of the room grew more and more solemn to me. All at\nonce Mina opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly, said:--\n\n Jonathan, I want you to promise me something on your word of honour. A\npromise made to me, but made holily in God s hearing, and not to be\nbroken though I should go down on my knees and implore you with bitter\ntears. Quick, you must make it to me at once. \n\n Mina,  I said,  a promise like that, I cannot make at once. I may have\nno right to make it. \n\n But, dear one,  she said, with such spiritual intensity that her eyes\nwere like pole stars,  it is I who wish it; and it is not for myself.\nYou can ask Dr. Van Helsing if I am not right; if he disagrees you may\ndo as you will. Nay, more, if you all agree, later, you are absolved\nfrom the promise. \n\n I promise!  I said, and for a moment she looked supremely happy; though\nto me all happiness for her was denied by the red scar on her forehead.\nShe said:--\n\n Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans formed for\nthe campaign against the Count. Not by word, or inference, or\nimplication; not at any time whilst this remains to me!  and she\nsolemnly pointed to the scar. I saw that she was in earnest, and said\nsolemnly:--\n\n I promise!  and as I said it I felt that from that instant a door had\nbeen shut between us.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later, midnight._--Mina has been bright and cheerful all the evening.\nSo much so that all the rest seemed to take courage, as if infected\nsomewhat with her gaiety; as a result even I myself felt as if the pall\nof gloom which weighs us down were somewhat lifted. We all retired\nearly. Mina is now sleeping like a little child; it is a wonderful thing\nthat her faculty of sleep remains to her in the midst of her terrible\ntrouble. Thank God for it, for then at least she can forget her care.\nPerhaps her example may affect me as her gaiety did to-night. I shall\ntry it. Oh! for a dreamless sleep.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_6 October, morning._--Another surprise. Mina woke me early, about the\nsame time as yesterday, and asked me to bring Dr. Van Helsing. I thought\nthat it was another occasion for hypnotism, and without question went\nfor the Professor. He had evidently expected some such call, for I found\nhim dressed in his room. His door was ajar, so that he could hear the\nopening of the door of our room. He came at once; as he passed into the\nroom, he asked Mina if the others might come, too.\n\n No,  she said quite simply,  it will not be necessary. You can tell\nthem just as well. I must go with you on your journey. \n\nDr. Van Helsing was as startled as I was. After a moment s pause he\nasked:--\n\n But why? \n\n You must take me with you. I am safer with you, and you shall be safer,\ntoo. \n\n But why, dear Madam Mina? You know that your safety is our solemnest\nduty. We go into danger, to which you are, or may be, more liable than\nany of us from--from circumstances--things that have been.  He paused,\nembarrassed.\n\nAs she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her forehead:--\n\n I know. That is why I must go. I can tell you now, whilst the sun is\ncoming up; I may not be able again. I know that when the Count wills me\nI must go. I know that if he tells me to come in secret, I must come by\nwile; by any device to hoodwink--even Jonathan.  God saw the look that\nshe turned on me as she spoke, and if there be indeed a Recording Angel\nthat look is noted to her everlasting honour. I could only clasp her\nhand. I could not speak; my emotion was too great for even the relief of\ntears. She went on:--\n\n You men are brave and strong. You are strong in your numbers, for you\ncan defy that which would break down the human endurance of one who had\nto guard alone. Besides, I may be of service, since you can hypnotise me\nand so learn that which even I myself do not know.  Dr. Van Helsing said\nvery gravely:--\n\n Madam Mina, you are, as always, most wise. You shall with us come; and\ntogether we shall do that which we go forth to achieve.  When he had\nspoken, Mina s long spell of silence made me look at her. She had fallen\nback on her pillow asleep; she did not even wake when I had pulled up\nthe blind and let in the sunlight which flooded the room. Van Helsing\nmotioned to me to come with him quietly. We went to his room, and within\na minute Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris were with us also.\nHe told them what Mina had said, and went on:--\n\n In the morning we shall leave for Varna. We have now to deal with a\nnew factor: Madam Mina. Oh, but her soul is true. It is to her an agony\nto tell us so much as she has done; but it is most right, and we are\nwarned in time. There must be no chance lost, and in Varna we must be\nready to act the instant when that ship arrives. \n\n What shall we do exactly?  asked Mr. Morris laconically. The Professor\npaused before replying:--\n\n We shall at the first board that ship; then, when we have identified\nthe box, we shall place a branch of the wild rose on it. This we shall\nfasten, for when it is there none can emerge; so at least says the\nsuperstition. And to superstition must we trust at the first; it was\nman s faith in the early, and it have its root in faith still. Then,\nwhen we get the opportunity that we seek, when none are near to see, we\nshall open the box, and--and all will be well. \n\n I shall not wait for any opportunity,  said Morris.  When I see the box\nI shall open it and destroy the monster, though there were a thousand\nmen looking on, and if I am to be wiped out for it the next moment!  I\ngrasped his hand instinctively and found it as firm as a piece of steel.\nI think he understood my look; I hope he did.\n\n Good boy,  said Dr. Van Helsing.  Brave boy. Quincey is all man. God\nbless him for it. My child, believe me none of us shall lag behind or\npause from any fear. I do but say what we may do--what we must do. But,\nindeed, indeed we cannot say what we shall do. There are so many things\nwhich may happen, and their ways and their ends are so various that\nuntil the moment we may not say. We shall all be armed, in all ways; and\nwhen the time for the end has come, our effort shall not be lack. Now\nlet us to-day put all our affairs in order. Let all things which touch\non others dear to us, and who on us depend, be complete; for none of us\ncan tell what, or when, or how, the end may be. As for me, my own\naffairs are regulate; and as I have nothing else to do, I shall go make\narrangements for the travel. I shall have all tickets and so forth for\nour journey. \n\nThere was nothing further to be said, and we parted. I shall now settle\nup all my affairs of earth, and be ready for whatever may come....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--It is all done; my will is made, and all complete. Mina if she\nsurvive is my sole heir. If it should not be so, then the others who\nhave been so good to us shall have remainder.\n\nIt is now drawing towards the sunset; Mina s uneasiness calls my\nattention to it. I am sure that there is something on her mind which the\ntime of exact sunset will reveal. These occasions are becoming harrowing\ntimes for us all, for each sunrise and sunset opens up some new\ndanger--some new pain, which, however, may in God s will be means to a\ngood end. I write all these things in the diary since my darling must\nnot hear them now; but if it may be that she can see them again, they\nshall be ready.\n\nShe is calling to me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY\n\n\n_11 October, Evening._--Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he\nsays he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept.\n\nI think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs.\nHarker a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to\nunderstand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom;\nwhen her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing\nor restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or condition\nbegins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts\ntill either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with\nthe rays streaming above the horizon. At first there is a sort of\nnegative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute\nfreedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom ceases the\nchange-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of\nwarning silence.\n\nTo-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the\nsigns of an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a\nviolent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. A very few\nminutes, however, gave her complete control of herself; then, motioning\nher husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining,\nshe made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband s hand\nin hers began:--\n\n We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know,\ndear; I know that you will always be with me to the end.  This was to\nher husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon hers.  In\nthe morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in\nstore for any of us. You are going to be so good to me as to take me\nwith you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak\nwoman, whose soul perhaps is lost--no, no, not yet, but is at any rate\nat stake--you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are.\nThere is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which\nmust destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you\nknow as well as I do, that my soul is at stake; and though I know there\nis one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!  She looked\nappealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband.\n\n What is that way?  asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice.  What is that\nway, which we must not--may not--take? \n\n That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before\nthe greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I\nonce dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you\ndid my poor Lucy s. Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing\nthat stood in the way I would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the\nfriends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die\nin such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be\ndone, is God s will. Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the\ncertainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the\nblackest things that the world or the nether world holds!  We were all\nsilent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The\nfaces of the others were set and Harker s grew ashen grey; perhaps he\nguessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued:--\n\n This is what I can give into the hotch-pot.  I could not but note the\nquaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all\nseriousness.  What will each of you give? Your lives I know,  she went\non quickly,  that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God s, and you\ncan give them back to Him; but what will you give to me?  She looked\nagain questioningly, but this time avoided her husband s face. Quincey\nseemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up.  Then I shall tell\nyou plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this\nconnection between us now. You must promise me, one and all--even you,\nmy beloved husband--that, should the time come, you will kill me. \n\n What is that time?  The voice was Quincey s, but it was low and\nstrained.\n\n When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that\nI die than I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will,\nwithout a moment s delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head;\nor do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest! \n\nQuincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her\nand taking her hand in his said solemnly:--\n\n I m only a rough fellow, who hasn t, perhaps, lived as a man should to\nwin such a distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and\ndear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty\nthat you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall make all\ncertain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has\ncome! \n\n My true friend!  was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as,\nbending over, she kissed his hand.\n\n I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!  said Van Helsing.\n\n And I!  said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to\ntake the oath. I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her\nwan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of\nhis hair, and asked:--\n\n And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife? \n\n You too, my dearest,  she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her\nvoice and eyes.  You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and\nall the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all\ntime. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed\ntheir wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the\nhands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more because\nthose that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men s duty\ntowards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my\ndear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at\nthe hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not\nforgotten your mercy in poor Lucy s case to him who loved --she stopped\nwith a flying blush, and changed her phrase-- to him who had best right\nto give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make\nit a happy memory of my husband s life that it was his loving hand which\nset me free from the awful thrall upon me. \n\n Again I swear!  came the Professor s resonant voice. Mrs. Harker\nsmiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and\nsaid:--\n\n And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget:\nthis time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in\nsuch case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a\ntime I myself might be--nay! if the time ever comes, _shall be_--leagued\nwith your enemy against you. \n\n One more request;  she became very solemn as she said this,  it is not\nvital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for\nme, if you will.  We all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need\nto speak:--\n\n I want you to read the Burial Service.  She was interrupted by a deep\ngroan from her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her\nheart, and continued:  You must read it over me some day. Whatever may\nbe the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet\nthought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for\nthen it will be in your voice in my memory for ever--come what may! \n\n But oh, my dear one,  he pleaded,  death is afar off from you. \n\n Nay,  she said, holding up a warning hand.  I am deeper in death at\nthis moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me! \n\n Oh, my wife, must I read it?  he said, before he began.\n\n It would comfort me, my husband!  was all she said; and he began to\nread when she had got the book ready.\n\n How can I--how could any one--tell of that strange scene, its\nsolemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal, its\nsweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter\ntruth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart\nhad he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling\nround that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of\nher husband s voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he\nhad to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial\nof the Dead. I--I cannot go on--words--and--v-voice--f-fail m-me! \n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe was right in her instinct. Strange as it all was, bizarre as it may\nhereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it\ncomforted us much; and the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker s coming\nrelapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any\nof us as we had dreaded.\n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_15 October, Varna._--We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th,\ngot to Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the\nOrient Express. We travelled night and day, arriving here at about five\no clock. Lord Godalming went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had\narrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel-- the\nOdessus.  The journey may have had incidents; I was, however, too eager\nto get on, to care for them. Until the _Czarina Catherine_ comes into\nport there will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world.\nThank God! Mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger; her colour is\ncoming back. She sleeps a great deal; throughout the journey she slept\nnearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very\nwakeful and alert; and it has become a habit for Van Helsing to\nhypnotise her at such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he\nhad to make many passes; but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by\nhabit, and scarcely any action is needed. He seems to have power at\nthese particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts obey him. He\nalways asks her what she can see and hear. She answers to the first:--\n\n Nothing; all is dark.  And to the second:--\n\n I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing\nby. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. The wind is\nhigh--I can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam. \nIt is evident that the _Czarina Catherine_ is still at sea, hastening on\nher way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four\ntelegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect:\nthat the _Czarina Catherine_ had not been reported to Lloyd s from\nanywhere. He had arranged before leaving London that his agent should\nsend him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported. He\nwas to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he might be\nsure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the wire.\n\nWe had dinner and went to bed early. To-morrow we are to see the\nVice-Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship\nas soon as she arrives. Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get\non the boat between sunrise and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the\nform of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and\nso cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man s form without\nsuspicion--which he evidently wishes to avoid--he must remain in the\nbox. If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy;\nfor we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor Lucy,\nbefore he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us will not count for\nmuch. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the\nseamen. Thank God! this is the country where bribery can do anything,\nand we are well supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the\nship cannot come into port between sunset and sunrise without our being\nwarned, and we shall be safe. Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I\nthink!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_16 October._--Mina s report still the same: lapping waves and rushing\nwater, darkness and favouring winds. We are evidently in good time, and\nwhen we hear of the _Czarina Catherine_ we shall be ready. As she must\npass the Dardanelles we are sure to have some report.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_17 October._--Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome\nthe Count on his return from his tour. Godalming told the shippers that\nhe fancied that the box sent aboard might contain something stolen from\na friend of his, and got a half consent that he might open it at his own\nrisk. The owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to give him every\nfacility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship, and also a\nsimilar authorisation to his agent at Varna. We have seen the agent, who\nwas much impressed with Godalming s kindly manner to him, and we are all\nsatisfied that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be done. We\nhave already arranged what to do in case we get the box open. If the\nCount is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at once and\ndrive a stake through his heart. Morris and Godalming and I shall\nprevent interference, even if we have to use the arms which we shall\nhave ready. The Professor says that if we can so treat the Count s body,\nit will soon after fall into dust. In such case there would be no\nevidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were aroused. But\neven if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and perhaps\nsome day this very script may be evidence to come between some of us and\na rope. For myself, I should take the chance only too thankfully if it\nwere to come. We mean to leave no stone unturned to carry out our\nintent. We have arranged with certain officials that the instant the\n_Czarina Catherine_ is seen, we are to be informed by a special\nmessenger.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_24 October._--A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming,\nbut only the same story:  Not yet reported.  Mina s morning and evening\nhypnotic answer is unvaried: lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking\nmasts.\n\n_Telegram, October 24th._\n\n_Rufus Smith, Lloyd s, London, to Lord Godalming, care of H. B. M.\nVice-Consul, Varna._\n\n _Czarina Catherine_ reported this morning from Dardanelles. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_25 October._--How I miss my phonograph! To write diary with a pen is\nirksome to me; but Van Helsing says I must. We were all wild with\nexcitement yesterday when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd s. I\nknow now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard. Mrs.\nHarker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After\nall, it is not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to\nlet her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show any\nexcitement when we were in her presence. In old days she would, I am\nsure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it; but\nin this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The\nlethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is\ngetting back some of her colour, Van Helsing and I are not satisfied. We\ntalk of her often; we have not, however, said a word to the others. It\nwould break poor Harker s heart--certainly his nerve--if he knew that we\nhad even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing examines, he tells me,\nher teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for\nhe says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active\ndanger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be\nnecessary to take steps!... We both know what those steps would have to\nbe, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other. We should\nneither of us shrink from the task--awful though it be to contemplate.\n Euthanasia  is an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to\nwhoever invented it.\n\nIt is only about 24 hours  sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the\nrate the _Czarina Catherine_ has come from London. She should therefore\narrive some time in the morning; but as she cannot possibly get in\nbefore then, we are all about to retire early. We shall get up at one\no clock, so as to be ready.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_25 October, Noon_.--No news yet of the ship s arrival. Mrs. Harker s\nhypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible\nthat we may get news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of\nexcitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and\nan hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife\nwhich he now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the\nCount if the edge of that  Kukri  ever touches his throat, driven by\nthat stern, ice-cold hand!\n\nVan Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker to-day. About\nnoon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like; although we\nkept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. She\nhad been restless all the morning, so that we were at first glad to know\nthat she was sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned casually\nthat she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to\nher room to see for ourselves. She was breathing naturally and looked so\nwell and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than\nanything else. Poor girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder\nthat sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep\nof some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had\nbeen for days. At sunset she made the usual hypnotic report. Wherever he\nmay be in the Black Sea, the Count is hurrying to his destination. To\nhis doom, I trust!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_26 October._--Another day and no tidings of the _Czarina Catherine_.\nShe ought to be here by now. That she is still journeying _somewhere_ is\napparent, for Mrs. Harker s hypnotic report at sunrise was still the\nsame. It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog;\nsome of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of fog\nboth to north and south of the port. We must continue our watching, as\nthe ship may now be signalled any moment.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_27 October, Noon._--Most strange; no news yet of the ship we wait for.\nMrs. Harker reported last night and this morning as usual:  lapping\nwaves and rushing water,  though she added that  the waves were very\nfaint.  The telegrams from London have been the same:  no further\nreport.  Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he\nfears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly:--\n\n I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina s. Souls and memories can do\nstrange things during trance.  I was about to ask him more, but Harker\njust then came in, and he held up a warning hand. We must try to-night\nat sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n     _28 October._--Telegram. _Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming,\n     care H. B. M. Vice Consul, Varna._\n\n      _Czarina Catherine_ reported entering Galatz at one o clock\n     to-day. \n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_28 October._--When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I\ndo not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been\nexpected. True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would\ncome; but I think we all expected that something strange would happen.\nThe delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things\nwould not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the\nchange would occur. None the less, however, was it a surprise. I suppose\nthat nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against\nourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know\nthat they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if\nit be a will-o -the-wisp to man. It was an odd experience and we all\ntook it differently. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a\nmoment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a\nword, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord\nGodalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half\nstunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris\ntightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well; in our\nold wandering days it meant  action.  Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so\nthat the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands\nmeekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled--actually smiled--the\ndark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his\naction belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of\nthe great Kukri knife and rested there.  When does the next train start\nfor Galatz?  said Van Helsing to us generally.\n\n At 6:30 to-morrow morning!  We all started, for the answer came from\nMrs. Harker.\n\n How on earth do you know?  said Art.\n\n You forget--or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so\ndoes Dr. Van Helsing--that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I\nalways used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my\nhusband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of\nthe time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle\nDracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I\nlearned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn,\nas the only train to-morrow leaves as I say. \n\n Wonderful woman!  murmured the Professor.\n\n Can t we get a special?  asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his\nhead:  I fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine; even\nif we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our\nregular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must think.\nNow let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the\ntickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do\nyou, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him\nletters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make search the ship\njust as it was here. Morris Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get\nhis aid with his fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way\nsmooth, so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will stay\nwith Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so if time be long you\nmay be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since I am here\nwith Madam to make report. \n\n And I,  said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she\nhad been for many a long day,  shall try to be of use in all ways, and\nshall think and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting\nfrom me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have been of late! \nThe three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to\nrealise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and I, turning to\neach other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the\ntime, however.\n\nWhen the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs.\nHarker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of\nHarker s journal at the Castle. She went away to get it; when the door\nwas shut upon her he said to me:--\n\n We mean the same! speak out! \n\n There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may\ndeceive us. \n\n Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript? \n\n No!  said I,  unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone. \n\n You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell\nyou something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great--a terrible--risk;\nbut I believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those\nwords that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In\nthe trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her\nmind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship\nwith water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn\nthen that we are here; for she have more to tell in her open life with\neyes to see and ears to hear than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box.\nNow he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her not.\n\n He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call;\nbut he cut her off--take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that\nso she come not to him. Ah! there I have hope that our man-brains that\nhave been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of God, will\ncome higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries,\nthat grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and\ntherefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her of her trance!\nShe know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when\nwe want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great\nbrain which is trained like man s brain, but is of sweet woman and have\na special power which the Count give her, and which he may not take away\naltogether--though he think not so. Hush! let me speak, and you shall\nlearn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never\nfeared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! here she comes! \n\nI thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics,\njust as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled\nhimself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into\nthe room, bright and happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly\nforgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of sheets\nof typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face\nbrightening up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and\nthumb he said:--\n\n Friend John, to you with so much of experience already--and you, too,\ndear Madam Mina, that are young--here is a lesson: do not fear ever to\nthink. A half-thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to\nlet him loose his wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to\nwhere that half-thought come from and I find that he be no half-thought\nat all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet\nstrong to use his little wings. Nay, like the  Ugly Duck  of my friend\nHans Andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that\nsail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I\nread here what Jonathan have written:--\n\n That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought\nhis forces over The Great River into Turkey Land; who, when he was\nbeaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come\nalone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered,\nsince he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph. \n\n What does this tell us? Not much? no! The Count s child-thought see\nnothing; therefore he speak so free. Your man-thought see nothing; my\nman-thought see nothing, till just now. No! But there comes another word\nfrom some one who speak without thought because she, too, know not what\nit mean--what it _might_ mean. Just as there are elements which rest,\nyet when in nature s course they move on their way and they touch--then\npouf! and there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill\nand destroy some; but that show up all earth below for leagues and\nleagues. Is it not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, have you ever\nstudy the philosophy of crime?  Yes  and  No.  You, John, yes; for it is\na study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina; for crime touch you not--not\nbut once. Still, your mind works true, and argues not _a particulari ad\nuniversale_. There is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so constant,\nin all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much\nfrom philosophy, come to know it empirically, that _it is_. That is to\nbe empiric. The criminal always work at one crime--that is the true\ncriminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none other.\nThis criminal has not full man-brain. He is clever and cunning and\nresourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to brain. He be of\nchild-brain in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime\nalso; he, too, have child-brain, and it is of the child to do what he\nhave done. The little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not\nby principle, but empirically; and when he learn to do, then there is to\nhim the ground to start from to do more.  _Dos pou sto_,  said\nArchimedes.  Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!  To do once,\nis the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-brain; and until he have\nthe purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time,\njust as he have done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are\nopened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues,  for\nMrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled. He went on:--\n\n Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see with\nthose so bright eyes.  He took her hand and held it whilst she spoke.\nHis finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and\nunconsciously, as she spoke:--\n\n The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would\nso classify him, and _qu _ criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind.\nThus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a\nclue, and the one page of it that we know--and that from his own\nlips--tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris would call a\n tight place,  he went back to his own country from the land he had\ntried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself\nfor a new effort. He came again better equipped for his work; and won.\nSo he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all\nhope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over\nthe sea to his home; just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube\nfrom Turkey Land. \n\n Good, good! oh, you so clever lady!  said Van Helsing,\nenthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he\nsaid to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick-room\nconsultation:--\n\n Seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. I have hope.  Turning to\nher again, he said with keen expectation:--\n\n But go on. Go on! there is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid;\nJohn and I know. I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right.\nSpeak, without fear! \n\n I will try to; but you will forgive me if I seem egotistical. \n\n Nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think. \n\n Then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is small\nand his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one\npurpose. That purpose is remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube,\nleaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being\nsafe, careless of all. So his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat\nfrom the terrible power which he acquired over me on that dreadful\nnight. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul\nis freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that haunts me\nis a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for\nhis ends.  The Professor stood up:--\n\n He has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in Varna,\nwhilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to\nGalatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us.\nBut his child-mind only saw so far; and it may be that, as ever is in\nGod s Providence, the very thing that the evil-doer most reckoned on for\nhis selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter is taken\nin his own snare, as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he\nis free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so\nmany hours to him, then his selfish child-brain will whisper him to\nsleep. He think, too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind,\nthere can be no knowledge of him to you; there is where he fail! That\nterrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go to him\nin spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the\nsun rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his;\nand this power to good of you and others, as you have won from your\nsuffering at his hands. This is now all the more precious that he know\nit not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his\nknowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and we believe\nthat God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark\nhours. We shall follow him; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril\nourselves that we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great\nhour; and it have done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe\nand write him all down, so that when the others return from their work\nyou can give it to them; then they shall know as we do. \n\nAnd so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker\nhas written with her typewriter all since she brought the MS. to us.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nDR. SEWARD S DIARY\n\n\n_29 October._--This is written in the train from Varna to Galatz. Last\nnight we all assembled a little before the time of sunset. Each of us\nhad done his work as well as he could; so far as thought, and endeavour,\nand opportunity go, we are prepared for the whole of our journey, and\nfor our work when we get to Galatz. When the usual time came round Mrs.\nHarker prepared herself for her hypnotic effort; and after a longer and\nmore serious effort on the part of Van Helsing than has been usually\nnecessary, she sank into the trance. Usually she speaks on a hint; but\nthis time the Professor had to ask her questions, and to ask them pretty\nresolutely, before we could learn anything; at last her answer came:--\n\n I can see nothing; we are still; there are no waves lapping, but only a\nsteady swirl of water softly running against the hawser. I can hear\nmen s voices calling, near and far, and the roll and creak of oars in\nthe rowlocks. A gun is fired somewhere; the echo of it seems far away.\nThere is tramping of feet overhead, and ropes and chains are dragged\nalong. What is this? There is a gleam of light; I can feel the air\nblowing upon me. \n\nHere she stopped. She had risen, as if impulsively, from where she lay\non the sofa, and raised both her hands, palms upwards, as if lifting a\nweight. Van Helsing and I looked at each other with understanding.\nQuincey raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at her intently, whilst\nHarker s hand instinctively closed round the hilt of his Kukri. There\nwas a long pause. We all knew that the time when she could speak was\npassing; but we felt that it was useless to say anything. Suddenly she\nsat up, and, as she opened her eyes, said sweetly:--\n\n Would none of you like a cup of tea? You must all be so tired!  We\ncould only make her happy, and so acquiesced. She bustled off to get\ntea; when she had gone Van Helsing said:--\n\n You see, my friends. _He_ is close to land: he has left his\nearth-chest. But he has yet to get on shore. In the night he may lie\nhidden somewhere; but if he be not carried on shore, or if the ship do\nnot touch it, he cannot achieve the land. In such case he can, if it be\nin the night, change his form and can jump or fly on shore, as he did\nat Whitby. But if the day come before he get on shore, then, unless he\nbe carried he cannot escape. And if he be carried, then the customs men\nmay discover what the box contain. Thus, in fine, if he escape not on\nshore to-night, or before dawn, there will be the whole day lost to him.\nWe may then arrive in time; for if he escape not at night we shall come\non him in daytime, boxed up and at our mercy; for he dare not be his\ntrue self, awake and visible, lest he be discovered. \n\nThere was no more to be said, so we waited in patience until the dawn;\nat which time we might learn more from Mrs. Harker.\n\nEarly this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for her\nresponse in her trance. The hypnotic stage was even longer in coming\nthan before; and when it came the time remaining until full sunrise was\nso short that we began to despair. Van Helsing seemed to throw his whole\nsoul into the effort; at last, in obedience to his will she made\nreply:--\n\n All is dark. I hear lapping water, level with me, and some creaking as\nof wood on wood.  She paused, and the red sun shot up. We must wait till\nto-night.\n\nAnd so it is that we are travelling towards Galatz in an agony of\nexpectation. We are due to arrive between two and three in the morning;\nbut already, at Bucharest, we are three hours late, so we cannot\npossibly get in till well after sun-up. Thus we shall have two more\nhypnotic messages from Mrs. Harker; either or both may possibly throw\nmore light on what is happening.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Sunset has come and gone. Fortunately it came at a time when\nthere was no distraction; for had it occurred whilst we were at a\nstation, we might not have secured the necessary calm and isolation.\nMrs. Harker yielded to the hypnotic influence even less readily than\nthis morning. I am in fear that her power of reading the Count s\nsensations may die away, just when we want it most. It seems to me that\nher imagination is beginning to work. Whilst she has been in the trance\nhitherto she has confined herself to the simplest of facts. If this goes\non it may ultimately mislead us. If I thought that the Count s power\nover her would die away equally with her power of knowledge it would be\na happy thought; but I am afraid that it may not be so. When she did\nspeak, her words were enigmatical:--\n\n Something is going out; I can feel it pass me like a cold wind. I can\nhear, far off, confused sounds--as of men talking in strange tongues,\nfierce-falling water, and the howling of wolves.  She stopped and a\nshudder ran through her, increasing in intensity for a few seconds,\ntill, at the end, she shook as though in a palsy. She said no more, even\nin answer to the Professor s imperative questioning. When she woke from\nthe trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and languid; but her mind was\nall alert. She could not remember anything, but asked what she had said;\nwhen she was told, she pondered over it deeply for a long time and in\nsilence.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_30 October, 7 a. m._--We are near Galatz now, and I may not have time\nto write later. Sunrise this morning was anxiously looked for by us all.\nKnowing of the increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic trance,\nVan Helsing began his passes earlier than usual. They produced no\neffect, however, until the regular time, when she yielded with a still\ngreater difficulty, only a minute before the sun rose. The Professor\nlost no time in his questioning; her answer came with equal quickness:--\n\n All is dark. I hear water swirling by, level with my ears, and the\ncreaking of wood on wood. Cattle low far off. There is another sound, a\nqueer one like----  She stopped and grew white, and whiter still.\n\n Go on; go on! Speak, I command you!  said Van Helsing in an agonised\nvoice. At the same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen sun\nwas reddening even Mrs. Harker s pale face. She opened her eyes, and we\nall started as she said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost\nunconcern:--\n\n Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can t? I don t remember\nanything.  Then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces, she said,\nturning from one to the other with a troubled look:--\n\n What have I said? What have I done? I know nothing, only that I was\nlying here, half asleep, and heard you say  go on! speak, I command you! \nIt seemed so funny to hear you order me about, as if I were a bad\nchild! \n\n Oh, Madam Mina,  he said, sadly,  it is proof, if proof be needed, of\nhow I love and honour you, when a word for your good, spoken more\nearnest than ever, can seem so strange because it is to order her whom I\nam proud to obey! \n\nThe whistles are sounding; we are nearing Galatz. We are on fire with\nanxiety and eagerness.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_30 October._--Mr. Morris took me to the hotel where our rooms had been\nordered by telegraph, he being the one who could best be spared, since\nhe does not speak any foreign language. The forces were distributed\nmuch as they had been at Varna, except that Lord Godalming went to the\nVice-Consul, as his rank might serve as an immediate guarantee of some\nsort to the official, we being in extreme hurry. Jonathan and the two\ndoctors went to the shipping agent to learn particulars of the arrival\nof the _Czarina Catherine_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Lord Godalming has returned. The Consul is away, and the\nVice-Consul sick; so the routine work has been attended to by a clerk.\nHe was very obliging, and offered to do anything in his power.\n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_30 October._--At nine o clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and I called\non Messrs. Mackenzie & Steinkoff, the agents of the London firm of\nHapgood. They had received a wire from London, in answer to Lord\nGodalming s telegraphed request, asking us to show them any civility in\ntheir power. They were more than kind and courteous, and took us at once\non board the _Czarina Catherine_, which lay at anchor out in the river\nharbour. There we saw the Captain, Donelson by name, who told us of his\nvoyage. He said that in all his life he had never had so favourable a\nrun.\n\n Man!  he said,  but it made us afeard, for we expeckit that we should\nhave to pay for it wi  some rare piece o  ill luck, so as to keep up the\naverage. It s no canny to run frae London to the Black Sea wi  a wind\nahint ye, as though the Deil himself were blawin  on yer sail for his\nain purpose. An  a  the time we could no speer a thing. Gin we were nigh\na ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell on us and travelled wi  us,\ntill when after it had lifted and we looked out, the deil a thing could\nwe see. We ran by Gibraltar wi oot bein  able to signal; an  till we\ncame to the Dardanelles and had to wait to get our permit to pass, we\nnever were within hail o  aught. At first I inclined to slack off sail\nand beat about till the fog was lifted; but whiles, I thocht that if the\nDeil was minded to get us into the Black Sea quick, he was like to do it\nwhether we would or no. If we had a quick voyage it would be no to our\nmiscredit wi  the owners, or no hurt to our traffic; an  the Old Mon who\nhad served his ain purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no\nhinderin  him.  This mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition\nand commercial reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said:--\n\n Mine friend, that Devil is more clever than he is thought by some; and\nhe know when he meet his match!  The skipper was not displeased with the\ncompliment, and went on:--\n\n When we got past the Bosphorus the men began to grumble; some o  them,\nthe Roumanians, came and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had\nbeen put on board by a queer lookin  old man just before we had started\nfrae London. I had seen them speer at the fellow, and put out their twa\nfingers when they saw him, to guard against the evil eye. Man! but the\nsupersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly rideeculous! I sent them aboot\ntheir business pretty quick; but as just after a fog closed in on us I\nfelt a wee bit as they did anent something, though I wouldn t say it was\nagin the big box. Well, on we went, and as the fog didn t let up for\nfive days I joost let the wind carry us; for if the Deil wanted to get\nsomewheres--well, he would fetch it up a reet. An  if he didn t, well,\nwe d keep a sharp lookout anyhow. Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and\ndeep water all the time; and two days ago, when the mornin  sun came\nthrough the fog, we found ourselves just in the river opposite Galatz.\nThe Roumanians were wild, and wanted me right or wrong to take out the\nbox and fling it in the river. I had to argy wi  them aboot it wi  a\nhandspike; an  when the last o  them rose off the deck wi  his head in\nhis hand, I had convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the\nproperty and the trust of my owners were better in my hands than in the\nriver Danube. They had, mind ye, taken the box on the deck ready to\nfling in, and as it was marked Galatz _via_ Varna, I thocht I d let it\nlie till we discharged in the port an  get rid o t althegither. We\ndidn t do much clearin  that day, an  had to remain the nicht at anchor;\nbut in the mornin , braw an  airly, an hour before sun-up, a man came\naboard wi  an order, written to him from England, to receive a box\nmarked for one Count Dracula. Sure eneuch the matter was one ready to\nhis hand. He had his papers a  reet, an  glad I was to be rid o  the\ndam  thing, for I was beginnin  masel  to feel uneasy at it. If the Deil\ndid have any luggage aboord the ship, I m thinkin  it was nane ither\nthan that same! \n\n What was the name of the man who took it?  asked Dr. Van Helsing with\nrestrained eagerness.\n\n I ll be tellin  ye quick!  he answered, and, stepping down to his\ncabin, produced a receipt signed  Immanuel Hildesheim.  Burgen-strasse\n16 was the address. We found out that this was all the Captain knew; so\nwith thanks we came away.\n\nWe found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the Adelphi\nTheatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez. His arguments were\npointed with specie--we doing the punctuation--and with a little\nbargaining he told us what he knew. This turned out to be simple but\nimportant. He had received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London, telling\nhim to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a box\nwhich would arrive at Galatz in the _Czarina Catherine_. This he was to\ngive in charge to a certain Petrof Skinsky, who dealt with the Slovaks\nwho traded down the river to the port. He had been paid for his work by\nan English bank note, which had been duly cashed for gold at the Danube\nInternational Bank. When Skinsky had come to him, he had taken him to\nthe ship and handed over the box, so as to save porterage. That was all\nhe knew.\n\nWe then sought for Skinsky, but were unable to find him. One of his\nneighbours, who did not seem to bear him any affection, said that he had\ngone away two days before, no one knew whither. This was corroborated by\nhis landlord, who had received by messenger the key of the house\ntogether with the rent due, in English money. This had been between ten\nand eleven o clock last night. We were at a standstill again.\n\nWhilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out that\nthe body of Skinsky had been found inside the wall of the churchyard of\nSt. Peter, and that the throat had been torn open as if by some wild\nanimal. Those we had been speaking with ran off to see the horror, the\nwomen crying out  This is the work of a Slovak!  We hurried away lest we\nshould have been in some way drawn into the affair, and so detained.\n\nAs we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion. We were all\nconvinced that the box was on its way, by water, to somewhere; but where\nthat might be we would have to discover. With heavy hearts we came home\nto the hotel to Mina.\n\nWhen we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking Mina\nagain into our confidence. Things are getting desperate, and it is at\nleast a chance, though a hazardous one. As a preliminary step, I was\nreleased from my promise to her.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_30 October, evening._--They were so tired and worn out and dispirited\nthat there was nothing to be done till they had some rest; so I asked\nthem all to lie down for half an hour whilst I should enter everything\nup to the moment. I feel so grateful to the man who invented the\n Traveller s  typewriter, and to Mr. Morris for getting this one for\nme. I should have felt quite astray doing the work if I had to write\nwith a pen....\n\nIt is all done; poor dear, dear Jonathan, what he must have suffered,\nwhat must he be suffering now. He lies on the sofa hardly seeming to\nbreathe, and his whole body appears in collapse. His brows are knit; his\nface is drawn with pain. Poor fellow, maybe he is thinking, and I can\nsee his face all wrinkled up with the concentration of his thoughts. Oh!\nif I could only help at all.... I shall do what I can.\n\nI have asked Dr. Van Helsing, and he has got me all the papers that I\nhave not yet seen.... Whilst they are resting, I shall go over all\ncarefully, and perhaps I may arrive at some conclusion. I shall try to\nfollow the Professor s example, and think without prejudice on the facts\nbefore me....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI do believe that under God s providence I have made a discovery. I\nshall get the maps and look over them....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI am more than ever sure that I am right. My new conclusion is ready, so\nI shall get our party together and read it. They can judge it; it is\nwell to be accurate, and every minute is precious.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Memorandum._\n\n(Entered in her Journal.)\n\n_Ground of inquiry._--Count Dracula s problem is to get back to his own\nplace.\n\n(_a_) He must be _brought back_ by some one. This is evident; for had he\npower to move himself as he wished he could go either as man, or wolf,\nor bat, or in some other way. He evidently fears discovery or\ninterference, in the state of helplessness in which he must be--confined\nas he is between dawn and sunset in his wooden box.\n\n(_b_) _How is he to be taken?_--Here a process of exclusions may help\nus. By road, by rail, by water?\n\n1. _By Road._--There are endless difficulties, especially in leaving the\ncity.\n\n(_x_) There are people; and people are curious, and investigate. A hint,\na surmise, a doubt as to what might be in the box, would destroy him.\n\n(_y_) There are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers to pass.\n\n(_z_) His pursuers might follow. This is his highest fear; and in order\nto prevent his being betrayed he has repelled, so far as he can, even\nhis victim--me!\n\n2. _By Rail._--There is no one in charge of the box. It would have to\ntake its chance of being delayed; and delay would be fatal, with enemies\non the track. True, he might escape at night; but what would he be, if\nleft in a strange place with no refuge that he could fly to? This is not\nwhat he intends; and he does not mean to risk it.\n\n3. _By Water._--Here is the safest way, in one respect, but with most\ndanger in another. On the water he is powerless except at night; even\nthen he can only summon fog and storm and snow and his wolves. But were\nhe wrecked, the living water would engulf him, helpless; and he would\nindeed be lost. He could have the vessel drive to land; but if it were\nunfriendly land, wherein he was not free to move, his position would\nstill be desperate.\n\nWe know from the record that he was on the water; so what we have to do\nis to ascertain _what_ water.\n\nThe first thing is to realise exactly what he has done as yet; we may,\nthen, get a light on what his later task is to be.\n\n_Firstly._--We must differentiate between what he did in London as part\nof his general plan of action, when he was pressed for moments and had\nto arrange as best he could.\n\n_Secondly_ we must see, as well as we can surmise it from the facts we\nknow of, what he has done here.\n\nAs to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at Galatz, and sent\ninvoice to Varna to deceive us lest we should ascertain his means of\nexit from England; his immediate and sole purpose then was to escape.\nThe proof of this, is the letter of instructions sent to Immanuel\nHildesheim to clear and take away the box _before sunrise_. There is\nalso the instruction to Petrof Skinsky. These we must only guess at; but\nthere must have been some letter or message, since Skinsky came to\nHildesheim.\n\nThat, so far, his plans were successful we know. The _Czarina Catherine_\nmade a phenomenally quick journey--so much so that Captain Donelson s\nsuspicions were aroused; but his superstition united with his canniness\nplayed the Count s game for him, and he ran with his favouring wind\nthrough fogs and all till he brought up blindfold at Galatz. That the\nCount s arrangements were well made, has been proved. Hildesheim cleared\nthe box, took it off, and gave it to Skinsky. Skinsky took it--and here\nwe lose the trail. We only know that the box is somewhere on the water,\nmoving along. The customs and the octroi, if there be any, have been\navoided.\n\nNow we come to what the Count must have done after his arrival--_on\nland_, at Galatz.\n\nThe box was given to Skinsky before sunrise. At sunrise the Count could\nappear in his own form. Here, we ask why Skinsky was chosen at all to\naid in the work? In my husband s diary, Skinsky is mentioned as dealing\nwith the Slovaks who trade down the river to the port; and the man s\nremark, that the murder was the work of a Slovak, showed the general\nfeeling against his class. The Count wanted isolation.\n\nMy surmise is, this: that in London the Count decided to get back to his\ncastle by water, as the most safe and secret way. He was brought from\nthe castle by Szgany, and probably they delivered their cargo to Slovaks\nwho took the boxes to Varna, for there they were shipped for London.\nThus the Count had knowledge of the persons who could arrange this\nservice. When the box was on land, before sunrise or after sunset, he\ncame out from his box, met Skinsky and instructed him what to do as to\narranging the carriage of the box up some river. When this was done, and\nhe knew that all was in train, he blotted out his traces, as he thought,\nby murdering his agent.\n\nI have examined the map and find that the river most suitable for the\nSlovaks to have ascended is either the Pruth or the Sereth. I read in\nthe typescript that in my trance I heard cows low and water swirling\nlevel with my ears and the creaking of wood. The Count in his box, then,\nwas on a river in an open boat--propelled probably either by oars or\npoles, for the banks are near and it is working against stream. There\nwould be no such sound if floating down stream.\n\nOf course it may not be either the Sereth or the Pruth, but we may\npossibly investigate further. Now of these two, the Pruth is the more\neasily navigated, but the Sereth is, at Fundu, joined by the Bistritza\nwhich runs up round the Borgo Pass. The loop it makes is manifestly as\nclose to Dracula s castle as can be got by water.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal--continued._\n\nWhen I had done reading, Jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me. The\nothers kept shaking me by both hands, and Dr. Van Helsing said:--\n\n Our dear Madam Mina is once more our teacher. Her eyes have been where\nwe were blinded. Now we are on the track once again, and this time we\nmay succeed. Our enemy is at his most helpless; and if we can come on\nhim by day, on the water, our task will be over. He has a start, but he\nis powerless to hasten, as he may not leave his box lest those who carry\nhim may suspect; for them to suspect would be to prompt them to throw\nhim in the stream where he perish. This he knows, and will not. Now men,\nto our Council of War; for, here and now, we must plan what each and all\nshall do. \n\n I shall get a steam launch and follow him,  said Lord Godalming.\n\n And I, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he land,  said Mr.\nMorris.\n\n Good!  said the Professor,  both good. But neither must go alone. There\nmust be force to overcome force if need be; the Slovak is strong and\nrough, and he carries rude arms.  All the men smiled, for amongst them\nthey carried a small arsenal. Said Mr. Morris:--\n\n I have brought some Winchesters; they are pretty handy in a crowd, and\nthere may be wolves. The Count, if you remember, took some other\nprecautions; he made some requisitions on others that Mrs. Harker could\nnot quite hear or understand. We must be ready at all points.  Dr.\nSeward said:--\n\n I think I had better go with Quincey. We have been accustomed to hunt\ntogether, and we two, well armed, will be a match for whatever may come\nalong. You must not be alone, Art. It may be necessary to fight the\nSlovaks, and a chance thrust--for I don t suppose these fellows carry\nguns--would undo all our plans. There must be no chances, this time; we\nshall not rest until the Count s head and body have been separated, and\nwe are sure that he cannot re-incarnate.  He looked at Jonathan as he\nspoke, and Jonathan looked at me. I could see that the poor dear was\ntorn about in his mind. Of course he wanted to be with me; but then the\nboat service would, most likely, be the one which would destroy the ...\nthe ... the ... Vampire. (Why did I hesitate to write the word?) He was\nsilent awhile, and during his silence Dr. Van Helsing spoke:--\n\n Friend Jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons. First, because you\nare young and brave and can fight, and all energies may be needed at the\nlast; and again that it is your right to destroy him--that--which has\nwrought such woe to you and yours. Be not afraid for Madam Mina; she\nwill be my care, if I may. I am old. My legs are not so quick to run as\nonce; and I am not used to ride so long or to pursue as need be, or to\nfight with lethal weapons. But I can be of other service; I can fight in\nother way. And I can die, if need be, as well as younger men. Now let\nme say that what I would is this: while you, my Lord Godalming and\nfriend Jonathan go in your so swift little steamboat up the river, and\nwhilst John and Quincey guard the bank where perchance he might be\nlanded, I will take Madam Mina right into the heart of the enemy s\ncountry. Whilst the old fox is tied in his box, floating on the running\nstream whence he cannot escape to land--where he dares not raise the lid\nof his coffin-box lest his Slovak carriers should in fear leave him to\nperish--we shall go in the track where Jonathan went,--from Bistritz\nover the Borgo, and find our way to the Castle of Dracula. Here, Madam\nMina s hypnotic power will surely help, and we shall find our way--all\ndark and unknown otherwise--after the first sunrise when we are near\nthat fateful place. There is much to be done, and other places to be\nmade sanctify, so that that nest of vipers be obliterated.  Here\nJonathan interrupted him hotly:--\n\n Do you mean to say, Professor Van Helsing, that you would bring Mina,\nin her sad case and tainted as she is with that devil s illness, right\ninto the jaws of his death-trap? Not for the world! Not for Heaven or\nHell!  He became almost speechless for a minute, and then went on:--\n\n Do you know what the place is? Have you seen that awful den of hellish\ninfamy--with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every\nspeck of dust that whirls in the wind a devouring monster in embryo?\nHave you felt the Vampire s lips upon your throat?  Here he turned to\nme, and as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up his arms with a cry:\n Oh, my God, what have we done to have this terror upon us!  and he sank\ndown on the sofa in a collapse of misery. The Professor s voice, as he\nspoke in clear, sweet tones, which seemed to vibrate in the air, calmed\nus all:--\n\n Oh, my friend, it is because I would save Madam Mina from that awful\nplace that I would go. God forbid that I should take her into that\nplace. There is work--wild work--to be done there, that her eyes may not\nsee. We men here, all save Jonathan, have seen with their own eyes what\nis to be done before that place can be purify. Remember that we are in\nterrible straits. If the Count escape us this time--and he is strong and\nsubtle and cunning--he may choose to sleep him for a century, and then\nin time our dear one --he took my hand-- would come to him to keep him\ncompany, and would be as those others that you, Jonathan, saw. You have\ntold us of their gloating lips; you heard their ribald laugh as they\nclutched the moving bag that the Count threw to them. You shudder; and\nwell may it be. Forgive me that I make you so much pain, but it is\nnecessary. My friend, is it not a dire need for the which I am giving,\npossibly my life? If it were that any one went into that place to stay,\nit is I who would have to go to keep them company. \n\n Do as you will,  said Jonathan, with a sob that shook him all over,  we\nare in the hands of God! \n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave men worked.\nHow can women help loving men when they are so earnest, and so true, and\nso brave! And, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of money!\nWhat can it not do when it is properly applied; and what might it do\nwhen basely used. I felt so thankful that Lord Godalming is rich, and\nthat both he and Mr. Morris, who also has plenty of money, are willing\nto spend it so freely. For if they did not, our little expedition could\nnot start, either so promptly or so well equipped, as it will within\nanother hour. It is not three hours since it was arranged what part each\nof us was to do; and now Lord Godalming and Jonathan have a lovely steam\nlaunch, with steam up ready to start at a moment s notice. Dr. Seward\nand Mr. Morris have half a dozen good horses, well appointed. We have\nall the maps and appliances of various kinds that can be had. Professor\nVan Helsing and I are to leave by the 11:40 train to-night for Veresti,\nwhere we are to get a carriage to drive to the Borgo Pass. We are\nbringing a good deal of ready money, as we are to buy a carriage and\nhorses. We shall drive ourselves, for we have no one whom we can trust\nin the matter. The Professor knows something of a great many languages,\nso we shall get on all right. We have all got arms, even for me a\nlarge-bore revolver; Jonathan would not be happy unless I was armed like\nthe rest. Alas! I cannot carry one arm that the rest do; the scar on my\nforehead forbids that. Dear Dr. Van Helsing comforts me by telling me\nthat I am fully armed as there may be wolves; the weather is getting\ncolder every hour, and there are snow-flurries which come and go as\nwarnings.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--It took all my courage to say good-bye to my darling. We may\nnever meet again. Courage, Mina! the Professor is looking at you keenly;\nhis look is a warning. There must be no tears now--unless it may be that\nGod will let them fall in gladness.\n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_October 30. Night._--I am writing this in the light from the furnace\ndoor of the steam launch: Lord Godalming is firing up. He is an\nexperienced hand at the work, as he has had for years a launch of his\nown on the Thames, and another on the Norfolk Broads. Regarding our\nplans, we finally decided that Mina s guess was correct, and that if any\nwaterway was chosen for the Count s escape back to his Castle, the\nSereth and then the Bistritza at its junction, would be the one. We took\nit, that somewhere about the 47th degree, north latitude, would be the\nplace chosen for the crossing the country between the river and the\nCarpathians. We have no fear in running at good speed up the river at\nnight; there is plenty of water, and the banks are wide enough apart to\nmake steaming, even in the dark, easy enough. Lord Godalming tells me to\nsleep for a while, as it is enough for the present for one to be on\nwatch. But I cannot sleep--how can I with the terrible danger hanging\nover my darling, and her going out into that awful place.... My only\ncomfort is that we are in the hands of God. Only for that faith it would\nbe easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble. Mr.\nMorris and Dr. Seward were off on their long ride before we started;\nthey are to keep up the right bank, far enough off to get on higher\nlands where they can see a good stretch of river and avoid the following\nof its curves. They have, for the first stages, two men to ride and lead\ntheir spare horses--four in all, so as not to excite curiosity. When\nthey dismiss the men, which shall be shortly, they shall themselves look\nafter the horses. It may be necessary for us to join forces; if so they\ncan mount our whole party. One of the saddles has a movable horn, and\ncan be easily adapted for Mina, if required.\n\nIt is a wild adventure we are on. Here, as we are rushing along through\nthe darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike\nus; with all the mysterious voices of the night around us, it all comes\nhome. We seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways; into\na whole world of dark and dreadful things. Godalming is shutting the\nfurnace door....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_31 October._--Still hurrying along. The day has come, and Godalming is\nsleeping. I am on watch. The morning is bitterly cold; the furnace heat\nis grateful, though we have heavy fur coats. As yet we have passed only\na few open boats, but none of them had on board any box or package of\nanything like the size of the one we seek. The men were scared every\ntime we turned our electric lamp on them, and fell on their knees and\nprayed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_1 November, evening._--No news all day; we have found nothing of the\nkind we seek. We have now passed into the Bistritza; and if we are wrong\nin our surmise our chance is gone. We have over-hauled every boat, big\nand little. Early this morning, one crew took us for a Government boat,\nand treated us accordingly. We saw in this a way of smoothing matters,\nso at Fundu, where the Bistritza runs into the Sereth, we got a\nRoumanian flag which we now fly conspicuously. With every boat which we\nhave over-hauled since then this trick has succeeded; we have had every\ndeference shown to us, and not once any objection to whatever we chose\nto ask or do. Some of the Slovaks tell us that a big boat passed them,\ngoing at more than usual speed as she had a double crew on board. This\nwas before they came to Fundu, so they could not tell us whether the\nboat turned into the Bistritza or continued on up the Sereth. At Fundu\nwe could not hear of any such boat, so she must have passed there in the\nnight. I am feeling very sleepy; the cold is perhaps beginning to tell\nupon me, and nature must have rest some time. Godalming insists that he\nshall keep the first watch. God bless him for all his goodness to poor\ndear Mina and me.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_2 November, morning._--It is broad daylight. That good fellow would not\nwake me. He says it would have been a sin to, for I slept peacefully and\nwas forgetting my trouble. It seems brutally selfish to me to have slept\nso long, and let him watch all night; but he was quite right. I am a new\nman this morning; and, as I sit here and watch him sleeping, I can do\nall that is necessary both as to minding the engine, steering, and\nkeeping watch. I can feel that my strength and energy are coming back to\nme. I wonder where Mina is now, and Van Helsing. They should have got to\nVeresti about noon on Wednesday. It would take them some time to get the\ncarriage and horses; so if they had started and travelled hard, they\nwould be about now at the Borgo Pass. God guide and help them! I am\nafraid to think what may happen. If we could only go faster! but we\ncannot; the engines are throbbing and doing their utmost. I wonder how\nDr. Seward and Mr. Morris are getting on. There seem to be endless\nstreams running down the mountains into this river, but as none of them\nare very large--at present, at all events, though they are terrible\ndoubtless in winter and when the snow melts--the horsemen may not have\nmet much obstruction. I hope that before we get to Strasba we may see\nthem; for if by that time we have not overtaken the Count, it may be\nnecessary to take counsel together what to do next.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_2 November._--Three days on the road. No news, and no time to write it\nif there had been, for every moment is precious. We have had only the\nrest needful for the horses; but we are both bearing it wonderfully.\nThose adventurous days of ours are turning up useful. We must push on;\nwe shall never feel happy till we get the launch in sight again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_3 November._--We heard at Fundu that the launch had gone up the\nBistritza. I wish it wasn t so cold. There are signs of snow coming; and\nif it falls heavy it will stop us. In such case we must get a sledge and\ngo on, Russian fashion.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_4 November._--To-day we heard of the launch having been detained by an\naccident when trying to force a way up the rapids. The Slovak boats get\nup all right, by aid of a rope and steering with knowledge. Some went up\nonly a few hours before. Godalming is an amateur fitter himself, and\nevidently it was he who put the launch in trim again. Finally, they got\nup the rapids all right, with local help, and are off on the chase\nafresh. I fear that the boat is not any better for the accident; the\npeasantry tell us that after she got upon smooth water again, she kept\nstopping every now and again so long as she was in sight. We must push\non harder than ever; our help may be wanted soon.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_31 October._--Arrived at Veresti at noon. The Professor tells me that\nthis morning at dawn he could hardly hypnotise me at all, and that all I\ncould say was:  dark and quiet.  He is off now buying a carriage and\nhorses. He says that he will later on try to buy additional horses, so\nthat we may be able to change them on the way. We have something more\nthan 70 miles before us. The country is lovely, and most interesting; if\nonly we were under different conditions, how delightful it would be to\nsee it all. If Jonathan and I were driving through it alone what a\npleasure it would be. To stop and see people, and learn something of\ntheir life, and to fill our minds and memories with all the colour and\npicturesqueness of the whole wild, beautiful country and the quaint\npeople! But, alas!--\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Later._--Dr. Van Helsing has returned. He has got the carriage and\nhorses; we are to have some dinner, and to start in an hour. The\nlandlady is putting us up a huge basket of provisions; it seems enough\nfor a company of soldiers. The Professor encourages her, and whispers to\nme that it may be a week before we can get any good food again. He has\nbeen shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful lot of fur coats\nand wraps, and all sorts of warm things. There will not be any chance of\nour being cold.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe shall soon be off. I am afraid to think what may happen to us. We are\ntruly in the hands of God. He alone knows what may be, and I pray Him,\nwith all the strength of my sad and humble soul, that He will watch over\nmy beloved husband; that whatever may happen, Jonathan may know that I\nloved him and honoured him more than I can say, and that my latest and\ntruest thought will be always for him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nMINA HARKER S JOURNAL\n\n\n_1 November._--All day long we have travelled, and at a good speed. The\nhorses seem to know that they are being kindly treated, for they go\nwillingly their full stage at best speed. We have now had so many\nchanges and find the same thing so constantly that we are encouraged to\nthink that the journey will be an easy one. Dr. Van Helsing is laconic;\nhe tells the farmers that he is hurrying to Bistritz, and pays them well\nto make the exchange of horses. We get hot soup, or coffee, or tea; and\noff we go. It is a lovely country; full of beauties of all imaginable\nkinds, and the people are brave, and strong, and simple, and seem full\nof nice qualities. They are _very, very_ superstitious. In the first\nhouse where we stopped, when the woman who served us saw the scar on my\nforehead, she crossed herself and put out two fingers towards me, to\nkeep off the evil eye. I believe they went to the trouble of putting an\nextra amount of garlic into our food; and I can t abide garlic. Ever\nsince then I have taken care not to take off my hat or veil, and so have\nescaped their suspicions. We are travelling fast, and as we have no\ndriver with us to carry tales, we go ahead of scandal; but I daresay\nthat fear of the evil eye will follow hard behind us all the way. The\nProfessor seems tireless; all day he would not take any rest, though he\nmade me sleep for a long spell. At sunset time he hypnotised me, and he\nsays that I answered as usual  darkness, lapping water and creaking\nwood ; so our enemy is still on the river. I am afraid to think of\nJonathan, but somehow I have now no fear for him, or for myself. I write\nthis whilst we wait in a farmhouse for the horses to be got ready. Dr.\nVan Helsing is sleeping. Poor dear, he looks very tired and old and\ngrey, but his mouth is set as firmly as a conqueror s; even in his sleep\nhe is instinct with resolution. When we have well started I must make\nhim rest whilst I drive. I shall tell him that we have days before us,\nand we must not break down when most of all his strength will be\nneeded.... All is ready; we are off shortly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_2 November, morning._--I was successful, and we took turns driving all\nnight; now the day is on us, bright though cold. There is a strange\nheaviness in the air--I say heaviness for want of a better word; I mean\nthat it oppresses us both. It is very cold, and only our warm furs keep\nus comfortable. At dawn Van Helsing hypnotised me; he says I answered\n darkness, creaking wood and roaring water,  so the river is changing as\nthey ascend. I do hope that my darling will not run any chance of\ndanger--more than need be; but we are in God s hands.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_2 November, night._--All day long driving. The country gets wilder as\nwe go, and the great spurs of the Carpathians, which at Veresti seemed\nso far from us and so low on the horizon, now seem to gather round us\nand tower in front. We both seem in good spirits; I think we make an\neffort each to cheer the other; in the doing so we cheer ourselves. Dr.\nVan Helsing says that by morning we shall reach the Borgo Pass. The\nhouses are very few here now, and the Professor says that the last horse\nwe got will have to go on with us, as we may not be able to change. He\ngot two in addition to the two we changed, so that now we have a rude\nfour-in-hand. The dear horses are patient and good, and they give us no\ntrouble. We are not worried with other travellers, and so even I can\ndrive. We shall get to the Pass in daylight; we do not want to arrive\nbefore. So we take it easy, and have each a long rest in turn. Oh, what\nwill to-morrow bring to us? We go to seek the place where my poor\ndarling suffered so much. God grant that we may be guided aright, and\nthat He will deign to watch over my husband and those dear to us both,\nand who are in such deadly peril. As for me, I am not worthy in His\nsight. Alas! I am unclean to His eyes, and shall be until He may deign\nto let me stand forth in His sight as one of those who have not incurred\nHis wrath.\n\n\n_Memorandum by Abraham Van Helsing._\n\n_4 November._--This to my old and true friend John Seward, M.D., of\nPurfleet, London, in case I may not see him. It may explain. It is\nmorning, and I write by a fire which all the night I have kept\nalive--Madam Mina aiding me. It is cold, cold; so cold that the grey\nheavy sky is full of snow, which when it falls will settle for all\nwinter as the ground is hardening to receive it. It seems to have\naffected Madam Mina; she has been so heavy of head all day that she was\nnot like herself. She sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps! She who is usual\nso alert, have done literally nothing all the day; she even have lost\nher appetite. She make no entry into her little diary, she who write so\nfaithful at every pause. Something whisper to me that all is not well.\nHowever, to-night she is more _vif_. Her long sleep all day have refresh\nand restore her, for now she is all sweet and bright as ever. At sunset\nI try to hypnotise her, but alas! with no effect; the power has grown\nless and less with each day, and to-night it fail me altogether. Well,\nGod s will be done--whatever it may be, and whithersoever it may lead!\n\nNow to the historical, for as Madam Mina write not in her stenography, I\nmust, in my cumbrous old fashion, that so each day of us may not go\nunrecorded.\n\nWe got to the Borgo Pass just after sunrise yesterday morning. When I\nsaw the signs of the dawn I got ready for the hypnotism. We stopped our\ncarriage, and got down so that there might be no disturbance. I made a\ncouch with furs, and Madam Mina, lying down, yield herself as usual, but\nmore slow and more short time than ever, to the hypnotic sleep. As\nbefore, came the answer:  darkness and the swirling of water.  Then she\nwoke, bright and radiant and we go on our way and soon reach the Pass.\nAt this time and place, she become all on fire with zeal; some new\nguiding power be in her manifested, for she point to a road and say:--\n\n This is the way. \n\n How know you it?  I ask.\n\n Of course I know it,  she answer, and with a pause, add:  Have not my\nJonathan travelled it and wrote of his travel? \n\nAt first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there be only one\nsuch by-road. It is used but little, and very different from the coach\nroad from the Bukovina to Bistritz, which is more wide and hard, and\nmore of use.\n\nSo we came down this road; when we meet other ways--not always were we\nsure that they were roads at all, for they be neglect and light snow\nhave fallen--the horses know and they only. I give rein to them, and\nthey go on so patient. By-and-by we find all the things which Jonathan\nhave note in that wonderful diary of him. Then we go on for long, long\nhours and hours. At the first, I tell Madam Mina to sleep; she try, and\nshe succeed. She sleep all the time; till at the last, I feel myself to\nsuspicious grow, and attempt to wake her. But she sleep on, and I may\nnot wake her though I try. I do not wish to try too hard lest I harm\nher; for I know that she have suffer much, and sleep at times be\nall-in-all to her. I think I drowse myself, for all of sudden I feel\nguilt, as though I have done something; I find myself bolt up, with the\nreins in my hand, and the good horses go along jog, jog, just as ever. I\nlook down and find Madam Mina still sleep. It is now not far off sunset\ntime, and over the snow the light of the sun flow in big yellow flood,\nso that we throw great long shadow on where the mountain rise so steep.\nFor we are going up, and up; and all is oh! so wild and rocky, as though\nit were the end of the world.\n\nThen I arouse Madam Mina. This time she wake with not much trouble, and\nthen I try to put her to hypnotic sleep. But she sleep not, being as\nthough I were not. Still I try and try, till all at once I find her and\nmyself in dark; so I look round, and find that the sun have gone down.\nMadam Mina laugh, and I turn and look at her. She is now quite awake,\nand look so well as I never saw her since that night at Carfax when we\nfirst enter the Count s house. I am amaze, and not at ease then; but she\nis so bright and tender and thoughtful for me that I forget all fear. I\nlight a fire, for we have brought supply of wood with us, and she\nprepare food while I undo the horses and set them, tethered in shelter,\nto feed. Then when I return to the fire she have my supper ready. I go\nto help her; but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already--that\nshe was so hungry that she would not wait. I like it not, and I have\ngrave doubts; but I fear to affright her, and so I am silent of it. She\nhelp me and I eat alone; and then we wrap in fur and lie beside the\nfire, and I tell her to sleep while I watch. But presently I forget all\nof watching; and when I sudden remember that I watch, I find her lying\nquiet, but awake, and looking at me with so bright eyes. Once, twice\nmore the same occur, and I get much sleep till before morning. When I\nwake I try to hypnotise her; but alas! though she shut her eyes\nobedient, she may not sleep. The sun rise up, and up, and up; and then\nsleep come to her too late, but so heavy that she will not wake. I have\nto lift her up, and place her sleeping in the carriage when I have\nharnessed the horses and made all ready. Madam still sleep, and she look\nin her sleep more healthy and more redder than before. And I like it\nnot. And I am afraid, afraid, afraid!--I am afraid of all things--even\nto think but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is life and\ndeath, or more than these, and we must not flinch.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_5 November, morning._--Let me be accurate in everything, for though you\nand I have seen some strange things together, you may at the first think\nthat I, Van Helsing, am mad--that the many horrors and the so long\nstrain on nerves has at the last turn my brain.\n\nAll yesterday we travel, ever getting closer to the mountains, and\nmoving into a more and more wild and desert land. There are great,\nfrowning precipices and much falling water, and Nature seem to have held\nsometime her carnival. Madam Mina still sleep and sleep; and though I\ndid have hunger and appeased it, I could not waken her--even for food. I\nbegan to fear that the fatal spell of the place was upon her, tainted as\nshe is with that Vampire baptism.  Well,  said I to myself,  if it be\nthat she sleep all the day, it shall also be that I do not sleep at\nnight.  As we travel on the rough road, for a road of an ancient and\nimperfect kind there was, I held down my head and slept. Again I waked\nwith a sense of guilt and of time passed, and found Madam Mina still\nsleeping, and the sun low down. But all was indeed changed; the frowning\nmountains seemed further away, and we were near the top of a\nsteep-rising hill, on summit of which was such a castle as Jonathan tell\nof in his diary. At once I exulted and feared; for now, for good or ill,\nthe end was near.\n\nI woke Madam Mina, and again tried to hypnotise her; but alas!\nunavailing till too late. Then, ere the great dark came upon us--for\neven after down-sun the heavens reflected the gone sun on the snow, and\nall was for a time in a great twilight--I took out the horses and fed\nthem in what shelter I could. Then I make a fire; and near it I make\nMadam Mina, now awake and more charming than ever, sit comfortable amid\nher rugs. I got ready food: but she would not eat, simply saying that\nshe had not hunger. I did not press her, knowing her unavailingness. But\nI myself eat, for I must needs now be strong for all. Then, with the\nfear on me of what might be, I drew a ring so big for her comfort, round\nwhere Madam Mina sat; and over the ring I passed some of the wafer, and\nI broke it fine so that all was well guarded. She sat still all the\ntime--so still as one dead; and she grew whiter and ever whiter till the\nsnow was not more pale; and no word she said. But when I drew near, she\nclung to me, and I could know that the poor soul shook her from head to\nfeet with a tremor that was pain to feel. I said to her presently, when\nshe had grown more quiet:--\n\n Will you not come over to the fire?  for I wished to make a test of\nwhat she could. She rose obedient, but when she have made a step she\nstopped, and stood as one stricken.\n\n Why not go on?  I asked. She shook her head, and, coming back, sat\ndown in her place. Then, looking at me with open eyes, as of one waked\nfrom sleep, she said simply:--\n\n I cannot!  and remained silent. I rejoiced, for I knew that what she\ncould not, none of those that we dreaded could. Though there might be\ndanger to her body, yet her soul was safe!\n\nPresently the horses began to scream, and tore at their tethers till I\ncame to them and quieted them. When they did feel my hands on them, they\nwhinnied low as in joy, and licked at my hands and were quiet for a\ntime. Many times through the night did I come to them, till it arrive to\nthe cold hour when all nature is at lowest; and every time my coming was\nwith quiet of them. In the cold hour the fire began to die, and I was\nabout stepping forth to replenish it, for now the snow came in flying\nsweeps and with it a chill mist. Even in the dark there was a light of\nsome kind, as there ever is over snow; and it seemed as though the\nsnow-flurries and the wreaths of mist took shape as of women with\ntrailing garments. All was in dead, grim silence only that the horses\nwhinnied and cowered, as if in terror of the worst. I began to\nfear--horrible fears; but then came to me the sense of safety in that\nring wherein I stood. I began, too, to think that my imaginings were of\nthe night, and the gloom, and the unrest that I have gone through, and\nall the terrible anxiety. It was as though my memories of all Jonathan s\nhorrid experience were befooling me; for the snow flakes and the mist\nbegan to wheel and circle round, till I could get as though a shadowy\nglimpse of those women that would have kissed him. And then the horses\ncowered lower and lower, and moaned in terror as men do in pain. Even\nthe madness of fright was not to them, so that they could break away. I\nfeared for my dear Madam Mina when these weird figures drew near and\ncircled round. I looked at her, but she sat calm, and smiled at me; when\nI would have stepped to the fire to replenish it, she caught me and held\nme back, and whispered, like a voice that one hears in a dream, so low\nit was:--\n\n No! No! Do not go without. Here you are safe!  I turned to her, and\nlooking in her eyes, said:--\n\n But you? It is for you that I fear!  whereat she laughed--a laugh, low\nand unreal, and said:--\n\n Fear for _me_! Why fear for me? None safer in all the world from them\nthan I am,  and as I wondered at the meaning of her words, a puff of\nwind made the flame leap up, and I see the red scar on her forehead.\nThen, alas! I knew. Did I not, I would soon have learned, for the\nwheeling figures of mist and snow came closer, but keeping ever without\nthe Holy circle. Then they began to materialise till--if God have not\ntake away my reason, for I saw it through my eyes--there were before me\nin actual flesh the same three women that Jonathan saw in the room, when\nthey would have kissed his throat. I knew the swaying round forms, the\nbright hard eyes, the white teeth, the ruddy colour, the voluptuous\nlips. They smiled ever at poor dear Madam Mina; and as their laugh came\nthrough the silence of the night, they twined their arms and pointed to\nher, and said in those so sweet tingling tones that Jonathan said were\nof the intolerable sweetness of the water-glasses:--\n\n Come, sister. Come to us. Come! Come!  In fear I turned to my poor\nMadam Mina, and my heart with gladness leapt like flame; for oh! the\nterror in her sweet eyes, the repulsion, the horror, told a story to my\nheart that was all of hope. God be thanked she was not, yet, of them. I\nseized some of the firewood which was by me, and holding out some of the\nWafer, advanced on them towards the fire. They drew back before me, and\nlaughed their low horrid laugh. I fed the fire, and feared them not; for\nI knew that we were safe within our protections. They could not\napproach, me, whilst so armed, nor Madam Mina whilst she remained within\nthe ring, which she could not leave no more than they could enter. The\nhorses had ceased to moan, and lay still on the ground; the snow fell on\nthem softly, and they grew whiter. I knew that there was for the poor\nbeasts no more of terror.\n\nAnd so we remained till the red of the dawn to fall through the\nsnow-gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror; but\nwhen that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again.\nAt the first coming of the dawn the horrid figures melted in the\nwhirling mist and snow; the wreaths of transparent gloom moved away\ntowards the castle, and were lost.\n\nInstinctively, with the dawn coming, I turned to Madam Mina, intending\nto hypnotise her; but she lay in a deep and sudden sleep, from which I\ncould not wake her. I tried to hypnotise through her sleep, but she made\nno response, none at all; and the day broke. I fear yet to stir. I have\nmade my fire and have seen the horses, they are all dead. To-day I have\nmuch to do here, and I keep waiting till the sun is up high; for there\nmay be places where I must go, where that sunlight, though snow and mist\nobscure it, will be to me a safety.\n\nI will strengthen me with breakfast, and then I will to my terrible\nwork. Madam Mina still sleeps; and, God be thanked! she is calm in her\nsleep....\n\n\n_Jonathan Harker s Journal._\n\n_4 November, evening._--The accident to the launch has been a terrible\nthing for us. Only for it we should have overtaken the boat long ago;\nand by now my dear Mina would have been free. I fear to think of her,\noff on the wolds near that horrid place. We have got horses, and we\nfollow on the track. I note this whilst Godalming is getting ready. We\nhave our arms. The Szgany must look out if they mean fight. Oh, if only\nMorris and Seward were with us. We must only hope! If I write no more\nGood-bye, Mina! God bless and keep you.\n\n\n_Dr. Seward s Diary._\n\n_5 November._--With the dawn we saw the body of Szgany before us dashing\naway from the river with their leiter-wagon. They surrounded it in a\ncluster, and hurried along as though beset. The snow is falling lightly\nand there is a strange excitement in the air. It may be our own\nfeelings, but the depression is strange. Far off I hear the howling of\nwolves; the snow brings them down from the mountains, and there are\ndangers to all of us, and from all sides. The horses are nearly ready,\nand we are soon off. We ride to death of some one. God alone knows who,\nor where, or what, or when, or how it may be....\n\n\n_Dr. Van Helsing s Memorandum._\n\n_5 November, afternoon._--I am at least sane. Thank God for that mercy\nat all events, though the proving it has been dreadful. When I left\nMadam Mina sleeping within the Holy circle, I took my way to the castle.\nThe blacksmith hammer which I took in the carriage from Veresti was\nuseful; though the doors were all open I broke them off the rusty\nhinges, lest some ill-intent or ill-chance should close them, so that\nbeing entered I might not get out. Jonathan s bitter experience served\nme here. By memory of his diary I found my way to the old chapel, for I\nknew that here my work lay. The air was oppressive; it seemed as if\nthere was some sulphurous fume, which at times made me dizzy. Either\nthere was a roaring in my ears or I heard afar off the howl of wolves.\nThen I bethought me of my dear Madam Mina, and I was in terrible plight.\nThe dilemma had me between his horns.\n\nHer, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe from the\nVampire in that Holy circle; and yet even there would be the wolf! I\nresolve me that my work lay here, and that as to the wolves we must\nsubmit, if it were God s will. At any rate it was only death and\nfreedom beyond. So did I choose for her. Had it but been for myself the\nchoice had been easy, the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than\nthe grave of the Vampire! So I make my choice to go on with my work.\n\nI knew that there were at least three graves to find--graves that are\ninhabit; so I search, and search, and I find one of them. She lay in her\nVampire sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty that I shudder as\nthough I have come to do murder. Ah, I doubt not that in old time, when\nsuch things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as mine,\nfound at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve. So he delay,\nand delay, and delay, till the mere beauty and the fascination of the\nwanton Un-Dead have hypnotise him; and he remain on and on, till sunset\ncome, and the Vampire sleep be over. Then the beautiful eyes of the fair\nwoman open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth present to a\nkiss--and man is weak. And there remain one more victim in the Vampire\nfold; one more to swell the grim and grisly ranks of the Un-Dead!...\n\nThere is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the mere presence\nof such an one, even lying as she lay in a tomb fretted with age and\nheavy with the dust of centuries, though there be that horrid odour such\nas the lairs of the Count have had. Yes, I was moved--I, Van Helsing,\nwith all my purpose and with my motive for hate--I was moved to a\nyearning for delay which seemed to paralyse my faculties and to clog my\nvery soul. It may have been that the need of natural sleep, and the\nstrange oppression of the air were beginning to overcome me. Certain it\nwas that I was lapsing into sleep, the open-eyed sleep of one who yields\nto a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled air a\nlong, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the sound\nof a clarion. For it was the voice of my dear Madam Mina that I heard.\n\nThen I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching\naway tomb-tops one other of the sisters, the other dark one. I dared not\npause to look on her as I had on her sister, lest once more I should\nbegin to be enthrall; but I go on searching until, presently, I find in\na high great tomb as if made to one much beloved that other fair sister\nwhich, like Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of\nthe mist. She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so\nexquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me, which calls\nsome of my sex to love and to protect one of hers, made my head whirl\nwith new emotion. But God be thanked, that soul-wail of my dear Madam\nMina had not died out of my ears; and, before the spell could be wrought\nfurther upon me, I had nerved myself to my wild work. By this time I had\nsearched all the tombs in the chapel, so far as I could tell; and as\nthere had been only three of these Un-Dead phantoms around us in the\nnight, I took it that there were no more of active Un-Dead existent.\nThere was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and\nnobly proportioned. On it was but one word\n\n                                DRACULA.\n\nThis then was the Un-Dead home of the King-Vampire, to whom so many more\nwere due. Its emptiness spoke eloquent to make certain what I knew.\nBefore I began to restore these women to their dead selves through my\nawful work, I laid in Dracula s tomb some of the Wafer, and so banished\nhim from it, Un-Dead, for ever.\n\nThen began my terrible task, and I dreaded it. Had it been but one, it\nhad been easy, comparative. But three! To begin twice more after I had\nbeen through a deed of horror; for if it was terrible with the sweet\nMiss Lucy, what would it not be with these strange ones who had survived\nthrough centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing of the\nyears; who would, if they could, have fought for their foul lives....\n\nOh, my friend John, but it was butcher work; had I not been nerved by\nthoughts of other dead, and of the living over whom hung such a pall of\nfear, I could not have gone on. I tremble and tremble even yet, though\ntill all was over, God be thanked, my nerve did stand. Had I not seen\nthe repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole over it just\nere the final dissolution came, as realisation that the soul had been\nwon, I could not have gone further with my butchery. I could not have\nendured the horrid screeching as the stake drove home; the plunging of\nwrithing form, and lips of bloody foam. I should have fled in terror and\nleft my work undone. But it is over! And the poor souls, I can pity them\nnow and weep, as I think of them placid each in her full sleep of death\nfor a short moment ere fading. For, friend John, hardly had my knife\nsevered the head of each, before the whole body began to melt away and\ncrumble in to its native dust, as though the death that should have come\ncenturies agone had at last assert himself and say at once and loud  I\nam here! \n\nBefore I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can\nthe Count enter there Un-Dead.\n\nWhen I stepped into the circle where Madam Mina slept, she woke from her\nsleep, and, seeing, me, cried out in pain that I had endured too much.\n\n Come!  she said,  come away from this awful place! Let us go to meet my\nhusband who is, I know, coming towards us.  She was looking thin and\npale and weak; but her eyes were pure and glowed with fervour. I was\nglad to see her paleness and her illness, for my mind was full of the\nfresh horror of that ruddy vampire sleep.\n\nAnd so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go eastward to meet\nour friends--and _him_--whom Madam Mina tell me that she _know_ are\ncoming to meet us.\n\n\n_Mina Harker s Journal._\n\n_6 November._--It was late in the afternoon when the Professor and I\ntook our way towards the east whence I knew Jonathan was coming. We did\nnot go fast, though the way was steeply downhill, for we had to take\nheavy rugs and wraps with us; we dared not face the possibility of being\nleft without warmth in the cold and the snow. We had to take some of our\nprovisions, too, for we were in a perfect desolation, and, so far as we\ncould see through the snowfall, there was not even the sign of\nhabitation. When we had gone about a mile, I was tired with the heavy\nwalking and sat down to rest. Then we looked back and saw where the\nclear line of Dracula s castle cut the sky; for we were so deep under\nthe hill whereon it was set that the angle of perspective of the\nCarpathian mountains was far below it. We saw it in all its grandeur,\nperched a thousand feet on the summit of a sheer precipice, and with\nseemingly a great gap between it and the steep of the adjacent mountain\non any side. There was something wild and uncanny about the place. We\ncould hear the distant howling of wolves. They were far off, but the\nsound, even though coming muffled through the deadening snowfall, was\nfull of terror. I knew from the way Dr. Van Helsing was searching about\nthat he was trying to seek some strategic point, where we would be less\nexposed in case of attack. The rough roadway still led downwards; we\ncould trace it through the drifted snow.\n\nIn a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up and joined\nhim. He had found a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow in a rock,\nwith an entrance like a doorway between two boulders. He took me by the\nhand and drew me in:  See!  he said,  here you will be in shelter; and\nif the wolves do come I can meet them one by one.  He brought in our\nfurs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some provisions and\nforced them upon me. But I could not eat; to even try to do so was\nrepulsive to me, and, much as I would have liked to please him, I could\nnot bring myself to the attempt. He looked very sad, but did not\nreproach me. Taking his field-glasses from the case, he stood on the top\nof the rock, and began to search the horizon. Suddenly he called out:--\n\n Look! Madam Mina, look! look!  I sprang up and stood beside him on the\nrock; he handed me his glasses and pointed. The snow was now falling\nmore heavily, and swirled about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning\nto blow. However, there were times when there were pauses between the\nsnow flurries and I could see a long way round. From the height where we\nwere it was possible to see a great distance; and far off, beyond the\nwhite waste of snow, I could see the river lying like a black ribbon in\nkinks and curls as it wound its way. Straight in front of us and not far\noff--in fact, so near that I wondered we had not noticed before--came a\ngroup of mounted men hurrying along. In the midst of them was a cart, a\nlong leiter-wagon which swept from side to side, like a dog s tail\nwagging, with each stern inequality of the road. Outlined against the\nsnow as they were, I could see from the men s clothes that they were\npeasants or gypsies of some kind.\n\nOn the cart was a great square chest. My heart leaped as I saw it, for I\nfelt that the end was coming. The evening was now drawing close, and\nwell I knew that at sunset the Thing, which was till then imprisoned\nthere, would take new freedom and could in any of many forms elude all\npursuit. In fear I turned to the Professor; to my consternation,\nhowever, he was not there. An instant later, I saw him below me. Round\nthe rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found shelter in last\nnight. When he had completed it he stood beside me again, saying:--\n\n At least you shall be safe here from _him_!  He took the glasses from\nme, and at the next lull of the snow swept the whole space below us.\n See,  he said,  they come quickly; they are flogging the horses, and\ngalloping as hard as they can.  He paused and went on in a hollow\nvoice:--\n\n They are racing for the sunset. We may be too late. God s will be\ndone!  Down came another blinding rush of driving snow, and the whole\nlandscape was blotted out. It soon passed, however, and once more his\nglasses were fixed on the plain. Then came a sudden cry:--\n\n Look! Look! Look! See, two horsemen follow fast, coming up from the\nsouth. It must be Quincey and John. Take the glass. Look before the snow\nblots it all out!  I took it and looked. The two men might be Dr. Seward\nand Mr. Morris. I knew at all events that neither of them was Jonathan.\nAt the same time I _knew_ that Jonathan was not far off; looking around\nI saw on the north side of the coming party two other men, riding at\nbreak-neck speed. One of them I knew was Jonathan, and the other I took,\nof course, to be Lord Godalming. They, too, were pursuing the party with\nthe cart. When I told the Professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy,\nand, after looking intently till a snow fall made sight impossible, he\nlaid his Winchester rifle ready for use against the boulder at the\nopening of our shelter.  They are all converging,  he said.  When the\ntime comes we shall have gypsies on all sides.  I got out my revolver\nready to hand, for whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves came\nlouder and closer. When the snow storm abated a moment we looked again.\nIt was strange to see the snow falling in such heavy flakes close to us,\nand beyond, the sun shining more and more brightly as it sank down\ntowards the far mountain tops. Sweeping the glass all around us I could\nsee here and there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger\nnumbers--the wolves were gathering for their prey.\n\nEvery instant seemed an age whilst we waited. The wind came now in\nfierce bursts, and the snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us in\ncircling eddies. At times we could not see an arm s length before us;\nbut at others, as the hollow-sounding wind swept by us, it seemed to\nclear the air-space around us so that we could see afar off. We had of\nlate been so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that we knew\nwith fair accuracy when it would be; and we knew that before long the\nsun would set. It was hard to believe that by our watches it was less\nthan an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before the various\nbodies began to converge close upon us. The wind came now with fiercer\nand more bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. It seemingly\nhad driven the snow clouds from us, for, with only occasional bursts,\nthe snow fell. We could distinguish clearly the individuals of each\nparty, the pursued and the pursuers. Strangely enough those pursued did\nnot seem to realise, or at least to care, that they were pursued; they\nseemed, however, to hasten with redoubled speed as the sun dropped lower\nand lower on the mountain tops.\n\nCloser and closer they drew. The Professor and I crouched down behind\nour rock, and held our weapons ready; I could see that he was determined\nthat they should not pass. One and all were quite unaware of our\npresence.\n\nAll at once two voices shouted out to:  Halt!  One was my Jonathan s,\nraised in a high key of passion; the other Mr. Morris  strong resolute\ntone of quiet command. The gypsies may not have known the language, but\nthere was no mistaking the tone, in whatever tongue the words were\nspoken. Instinctively they reined in, and at the instant Lord Godalming\nand Jonathan dashed up at one side and Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris on the\nother. The leader of the gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his\nhorse like a centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his\ncompanions some word to proceed. They lashed the horses which sprang\nforward; but the four men raised their Winchester rifles, and in an\nunmistakable way commanded them to stop. At the same moment Dr. Van\nHelsing and I rose behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them.\nSeeing that they were surrounded the men tightened their reins and drew\nup. The leader turned to them and gave a word at which every man of the\ngypsy party drew what weapon he carried, knife or pistol, and held\nhimself in readiness to attack. Issue was joined in an instant.\n\nThe leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in\nfront, and pointing first to the sun--now close down on the hill\ntops--and then to the castle, said something which I did not understand.\nFor answer, all four men of our party threw themselves from their horses\nand dashed towards the cart. I should have felt terrible fear at seeing\nJonathan in such danger, but that the ardour of battle must have been\nupon me as well as the rest of them; I felt no fear, but only a wild,\nsurging desire to do something. Seeing the quick movement of our\nparties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command; his men instantly\nformed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavour, each one\nshouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry out the\norder.\n\nIn the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring\nof men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart; it was\nevident that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun\nshould set. Nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the\nlevelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor\nthe howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their\nattention. Jonathan s impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his\npurpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him; instinctively they\ncowered, aside and let him pass. In an instant he had jumped upon the\ncart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great\nbox, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime, Mr.\nMorris had had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of\nSzgany. All the time I had been breathlessly watching Jonathan I had,\nwith the tail of my eye, seen him pressing desperately forward, and had\nseen the knives of the gypsies flash as he won a way through them, and\nthey cut at him. He had parried with his great bowie knife, and at first\nI thought that he too had come through in safety; but as he sprang\nbeside Jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, I could see that\nwith his left hand he was clutching at his side, and that the blood was\nspurting through his fingers. He did not delay notwithstanding this, for\nas Jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked one end of the chest,\nattempting to prize off the lid with his great Kukri knife, he attacked\nthe other frantically with his bowie. Under the efforts of both men the\nlid began to yield; the nails drew with a quick screeching sound, and\nthe top of the box was thrown back.\n\nBy this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters,\nand at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made\nno resistance. The sun was almost down on the mountain tops, and the\nshadows of the whole group fell long upon the snow. I saw the Count\nlying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from\nthe cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen\nimage, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I\nknew too well.\n\nAs I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them\nturned to triumph.\n\nBut, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan s great knife.\nI shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same\nmoment Mr. Morris s bowie knife plunged into the heart.\n\nIt was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost in the\ndrawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from\nour sight.\n\nI shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final\ndissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never\ncould have imagined might have rested there.\n\nThe Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone\nof its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the\nsetting sun.\n\nThe gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary\ndisappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as\nif for their lives. Those who were unmounted jumped upon the\nleiter-wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them. The wolves,\nwhich had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving\nus alone.\n\nMr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his\nhand pressed to his side; the blood still gushed through his fingers. I\nflew to him, for the Holy circle did not now keep me back; so did the\ntwo doctors. Jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his\nhead on his shoulder. With a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand\nin that of his own which was unstained. He must have seen the anguish of\nmy heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said:--\n\n I am only too happy to have been of any service! Oh, God!  he cried\nsuddenly, struggling up to a sitting posture and pointing to me,  It was\nworth for this to die! Look! look! \n\nThe sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams\nfell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. With one impulse\nthe men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest  Amen  broke from all\nas their eyes followed the pointing of his finger. The dying man\nspoke:--\n\n Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! the snow is not\nmore stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away! \n\nAnd, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a\ngallant gentleman.\n\n\n\n\n                                  NOTE\n\n\nSeven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of\nsome of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It\nis an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy s birthday is the same\nday as that on which Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the\nsecret belief that some of our brave friend s spirit has passed into\nhim. His bundle of names links all our little band of men together; but\nwe call him Quincey.\n\nIn the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went\nover the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and\nterrible memories. It was almost impossible to believe that the things\nwhich we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were\nliving truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out. The\ncastle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation.\n\nWhen we got home we were talking of the old time--which we could all\nlook back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily\nmarried. I took the papers from the safe where they had been ever since\nour return so long ago. We were struck with the fact, that in all the\nmass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one\nauthentic document; nothing but a mass of typewriting, except the later\nnote-books of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing s memorandum.\nWe could hardly ask any one, even did we wish to, to accept these as\nproofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he said, with\nour boy on his knee:--\n\n We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! This boy will some day\nknow what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her\nsweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so\nloved her, that they did dare much for her sake. \n\nJONATHAN HARKER."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Adventures of the Five Orange Pips",
        "author": "Arthur Conan Doyle",
        "category": "Mystery",
        "EN": "ROSE AND CHRYSANTHEMUM\n\nThe Drawer will still bet on the rose. This is not a wager, but only a\nstrong expression of opinion. The rose will win. It does not look so now.\nTo all appearances, this is the age of the chrysanthemum. What this gaudy\nflower will be, daily expanding and varying to suit the whim of fashion,\nno one can tell. It may be made to bloom like the cabbage; it may spread\nout like an umbrella--it can never be large enough nor showy enough to\nsuit us. Undeniably it is very effective, especially in masses of\ngorgeous color. In its innumerable shades and enlarging proportions, it\nis a triumph of the gardener. It is a rival to the analine dyes and to\nthe marabout feathers. It goes along with all the conceits and fantastic\nunrest of the decorative art. Indeed, but for the discovery of the\ncapacities of the chrysanthemum, modern life would have experienced a\nfatal hitch in its development. It helps out our age of plush with a\nflame of color. There is nothing shamefaced or retiring about it, and it\nalready takes all provinces for its own. One would be only\nhalf-married--civilly, and not fashionably--without a chrysanthemum\nwedding; and it lights the way to the tomb. The maiden wears a bunch of\nit in her corsage in token of her blooming expectations, and the young\nman flaunts it on his coat lapel in an effort to be at once effective and\nin the mode. Young love that used to express its timid desire with the\nviolet, or, in its ardor, with the carnation, now seeks to bring its\nemotions to light by the help of the chrysanthemum. And it can express\nevery shade of feeling, from the rich yellow of prosperous wooing to the\nbrick-colored weariness of life that is hardly distinguishable from the\nliver complaint. It is a little stringy for a boutonniere, but it fills\nthe modern-trained eye as no other flower can fill it. We used to say\nthat a girl was as sweet as a rose; we have forgotten that language. We\nused to call those tender additions to society, on the eve of their event\ninto that world which is always so eager to receive fresh young life,\n rose-buds ; we say now simply  buds,  but we mean chrysanthemum buds.\nThey are as beautiful as ever; they excite the same exquisite interest;\nperhaps in their maiden hearts they are one or another variety of that\nflower which bears such a sweet perfume in all literature; but can it\nmake no difference in character whether a young girl comes out into the\ngarish world as a rose or as a chrysanthemum? Is her life set to the note\nof display, of color and show, with little sweetness, or to that retiring\nmodesty which needs a little encouragement before it fully reveals its\nbeauty and its perfume? If one were to pass his life in moving in a\npalace car from one plush hotel to another, a bunch of chrysanthemums in\nhis hand would seem to be a good symbol of his life. There are aged\npeople who can remember that they used to choose various roses, as to\ntheir color, odor, and degree of unfolding, to express the delicate\nshades of advancing passion and of devotion. What can one do with this\nnew favorite? Is not a bunch of chrysanthemums a sort of\ntake-it-or-leave-it declaration, boldly and showily made, an offer\nwithout discrimination, a tender without romance? A young man will catch\nthe whole family with this flaming message, but where is that sentiment\nthat once set the maiden heart in a flutter? Will she press a\nchrysanthemum, and keep it till the faint perfume reminds her of the\nsweetest moment of her life?\n\nAre we exaggerating this astonishing rise, development, and spread of the\nchrysanthemum? As a fashion it is not so extraordinary as the hoop-skirt,\nor as the neck ruff, which is again rising as a background to the lovely\nhead. But the remarkable thing about it is that heretofore in all nations\nand times, and in all changes of fashion in dress, the rose has held its\nown as the queen of flowers and as the finest expression of sentiment.\nBut here comes a flaunting thing with no desirable perfume, looking as if\nit were cut with scissors out of tissue-paper, but capable of taking\ninfinite varieties of color, and growing as big as a curtain tassel, that\nliterally captures the world, and spreads all over the globe, like the\nCanada thistle. The florists have no eye for anything else, and the\nbiggest floral prizes are awarded for the production of its\neccentricities. Is the rage for this flower typical of this fast and\nflaring age?\n\nThe Drawer is not an enemy to the chrysanthemum, nor to the sunflower,\nnor to any other gorgeous production of nature. But it has an\nold-fashioned love for the modest and unobtrusive virtues, and an abiding\nfaith that they will win over the strained and strident displays of life.\nThere is the violet: all efforts of cultivation fail to make it as big as\nthe peony, and it would be no more dear to the heart if it were\nquadrupled in size. We do, indeed, know that satisfying beauty and\nrefinement are apt to escape us when we strive too much and force nature\ninto extraordinary display, and we know how difficult it is to get mere\nbigness and show without vulgarity. Cultivation has its limits. After we\nhave produced it, we find that the biggest rose even is not the most\nprecious; and lovely as woman is, we instinctively in our admiration put\na limit to her size. There being, then, certain laws that ultimately\nfetch us all up standing, so to speak, it does seem probable that the\nchrysanthemum rage will end in a gorgeous sunset of its splendor; that\nfashion will tire of it, and that the rose, with its secret heart of\nlove; the rose, with its exquisite form; the rose, with its capacity of\nshyly and reluctantly unfolding its beauty; the rose, with that odor--of\nthe first garden exhaled and yet kept down through all the ages of sin\n--will become again the fashion, and be more passionately admired for its\ntemporary banishment. Perhaps the poet will then come back again and\nsing. What poet could now sing of the  awful chrysanthemum of dawn ?\n\n\n\n\nTHE RED BONNET\n\nThe Drawer has no wish to make Lent easier for anybody, or rather to\ndiminish the benefit of the penitential season. But in this period of\nhuman anxiety and repentance it must be said that not enough account is\nmade of the moral responsibility of Things. The doctrine is sound; the\nonly difficulty is in applying it. It can, however, be illustrated by a\nlittle story, which is here confided to the reader in the same trust in\nwhich it was received. There was once a lady, sober in mind and sedate in\nmanner, whose plain dress exactly represented her desire to be\ninconspicuous, to do good, to improve every day of her life in actions\nthat should benefit her kind. She was a serious person, inclined to\nimproving conversation, to the reading of bound books that cost at least\na dollar and a half (fifteen cents of which she gladly contributed to the\nauthor), and she had a distaste for the gay society which was mainly a\nflutter of ribbons and talk and pretty faces; and when she meditated, as\nshe did in her spare moments, her heart was sore over the frivolity of\nlife and the emptiness of fashion. She longed to make the world better,\nand without any priggishness she set it an example of simplicity and\nsobriety, of cheerful acquiescence in plainness and inconspicuousness.\n\nOne day--it was in the autumn--this lady had occasion to buy a new hat.\nFrom a great number offered to her she selected a red one with a dull red\nplume. It did not agree with the rest of her apparel; it did not fit her\napparent character. What impulse led to this selection she could not\nexplain. She was not tired of being good, but something in the jauntiness\nof the hat and the color pleased her. If it were a temptation, she did\nnot intend to yield to it, but she thought she would take the hat home\nand try it. Perhaps her nature felt the need of a little warmth. The hat\npleased her still more when she got it home and put it on and surveyed\nherself in the mirror. Indeed, there was a new expression in her face\nthat corresponded to the hat. She put it off and looked at it. There was\nsomething almost humanly winning and temptatious in it. In short, she\nkept it, and when she wore it abroad she was not conscious of its\nincongruity to herself or to her dress, but of the incongruity of the\nrest of her apparel to the hat, which seemed to have a sort of\nintelligence of its own, at least a power of changing and conforming\nthings to itself. By degrees one article after another in the lady's\nwardrobe was laid aside, and another substituted for it that answered to\nthe demanding spirit of the hat. In a little while this plain lady was\nnot plain any more, but most gorgeously dressed, and possessed with the\ndesire to be in the height of the fashion. It came to this, that she had\na tea-gown made out of a window-curtain with a flamboyant pattern.\nSolomon in all his glory would have been ashamed of himself in her\npresence.\n\nBut this was not all. Her disposition, her ideas, her whole life, was\nchanged. She did not any more think of going about doing good, but of\namusing herself. She read nothing but stories in paper covers. In place\nof being sedate and sober-minded, she was frivolous to excess; she spent\nmost of her time with women who liked to  frivol.  She kept Lent in the\nmost expensive way, so as to make the impression upon everybody that she\nwas better than the extremest kind of Lent. From liking the sedatest\ncompany she passed to liking the gayest society and the most fashionable\nmethod of getting rid of her time. Nothing whatever had happened to her,\nand she is now an ornament to society.\n\nThis story is not an invention; it is a leaf out of life. If this lady\nthat autumn day had bought a plain bonnet she would have continued on in\nher humble, sensible way of living. Clearly it was the hat that made the\nwoman, and not the woman the hat. She had no preconception of it; it\nsimply happened to her, like any accident--as if she had fallen and\nsprained her ankle. Some people may say that she had in her a concealed\npropensity for frivolity; but the hat cannot escape the moral\nresponsibility of calling it out if it really existed. The power of\nthings to change and create character is well attested. Men live up to or\nlive down to their clothes, which have a great moral influence on manner,\nand even on conduct. There was a man run down almost to vagabondage,\nowing to his increasingly shabby clothing, and he was only saved from\nbecoming a moral and physical wreck by a remnant of good-breeding in him\nthat kept his worn boots well polished. In time his boots brought up the\nrest of his apparel and set him on his feet again. Then there is the\nwell-known example of the honest clerk on a small salary who was ruined\nby the gift of a repeating watch--an expensive timepiece that required at\nleast ten thousand a year to sustain it: he is now in Canada.\n\nSometimes the influence of Things is good and sometimes it is bad. We\nneed a philosophy that shall tell us why it is one or the other, and fix\nthe responsibility where it belongs. It does no good, as people always\nfind out by reflex action, to kick an inanimate thing that has offended,\nto smash a perverse watch with a hammer, to break a rocking-chair that\nhas a habit of tipping over backward. If Things are not actually\nmalicious, they seem to have a power of revenging themselves. We ought to\ntry to understand them better, and to be more aware of what they can do\nto us. If the lady who bought the red hat could have known the hidden\nnature of it, could have had a vision of herself as she was transformed\nby it, she would as soon have taken a viper into her bosom as have placed\nthe red tempter on her head. Her whole previous life, her feeling of the\nmoment, show that it was not vanity that changed her, but the\ninconsiderate association with a Thing that happened to strike her fancy,\nand which seemed innocent. But no Thing is really powerless for good or\nevil.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOSS IN CIVILIZATION\n\nHave we yet hit upon the right idea of civilization? The process which\nhas been going on ever since the world began seems to have a defect in\nit; strength, vital power, somehow escapes. When you've got a man\nthoroughly civilized you cannot do anything more with him. And it is\nworth reflection what we should do, what could we spend our energies on,\nand what would evoke them, we who are both civilized and enlightened, if\nall nations were civilized and the earth were entirely subdued. That is\nto say, are not barbarism and vast regions of uncultivated land a\nnecessity of healthful life on this globe? We do not like to admit that\nthis process has its cycles, that nations and men, like trees and fruit,\ngrow, ripen, and then decay. The world has always had a conceit that the\nglobe could be made entirely habitable, and all over the home of a\nsociety constantly growing better. In order to accomplish this we have\nstriven to eliminate barbarism in man and in nature:\n\nIs there anything more unsatisfactory than a perfect house, perfect\ngrounds, perfect gardens, art and nature brought into the most absolute\nharmony of taste and culture? What more can a man do with it? What\nsatisfaction has a man in it if he really gets to the end of his power to\nimprove it? There have been such nearly ideal places, and how strong\nnature, always working against man and in the interest of untamed\nwildness, likes to riot in them and reduce them to picturesque\ndestruction! And what sweet sadness, pathos, romantic suggestion, the\nhuman mind finds in such a ruin! And a society that has attained its end\nin all possible culture, entire refinement in manners, in tastes, in the\nart of elegant intellectual and luxurious living--is there nothing\npathetic in that? Where is the primeval, heroic force that made the joy\nof living in the rough old uncivilized days? Even throw in goodness, a\ncertain amount of altruism, gentleness, warm interest in unfortunate\nhumanity--is the situation much improved? London is probably the most\ncivilized centre the world has ever seen; there are gathered more of the\nelements of that which we reckon the best. Where in history, unless some\none puts in a claim for the Frenchman, shall we find a Man so nearly\napproaching the standard we have set up of civilization as the\nEnglishman, refined by inheritance and tradition, educated almost beyond\nthe disturbance of enthusiasm, and cultivated beyond the chance of\nsurprise? We are speaking of the highest type in manner, information,\ntraining, in the acquisition of what the world has to give. Could these\nmen have conquered the world? Is it possible that our highest\ncivilization has lost something of the rough and admirable element that\nwe admire in the heroes of Homer and of Elizabeth? What is this London,\nthe most civilized city ever known? Why, a considerable part of its\npopulation is more barbarous, more hopelessly barbarous, than any wild\nrace we know, because they are the barbarians of civilization, the refuse\nand slag of it, if we dare say that of any humanity. More hopeless,\nbecause the virility of savagery has measurably gone out of it. We can do\nsomething with a degraded race of savages, if it has any stamina in it.\nWhat can be done with those who are described as  East-Londoners ?\n\nEvery great city has enough of the same element. Is this an accident, or\nis it a necessity of the refinement that we insist on calling\ncivilization? We are always sending out missionaries to savage or\nperverted nations, we are always sending out emigrants to occupy and\nreduce to order neglected territory. This is our main business. How would\nit be if this business were really accomplished, and there were no more\npeoples to teach our way of life to, and no more territory to bring under\nproductive cultivation? Without the necessity of putting forth this\nenergy, a survival of the original force in man, how long would our\ncivilization last? In a word, if the world were actually all civilized,\nwouldn't it be too weak even to ripen? And now, in the great centres,\nwhere is accumulated most of that we value as the product of man's best\nefforts, is there strength enough to elevate the degraded humanity that\nattends our highest cultivation? We have a gay confidence that we can do\nsomething for Africa. Can we reform London and Paris and New York, which\nour own hands have made?\n\nIf we cannot, where is the difficulty? Is this a hopeless world? Must it\nalways go on by spurts and relapses, alternate civilization and\nbarbarism, and the barbarism being necessary to keep us employed and\ngrowing? Or is there some mistake about our ideal of civilization? Does\nour process too much eliminate the rough vigor, courage, stamina of the\nrace? After a time do we just live, or try to live, on literature warmed\nover, on pretty coloring and drawing instead of painting that stirs the\nsoul to the heroic facts and tragedies of life? Where did this virile,\nblood-full, throbbing Russian literature come from; this Russian painting\nof Verestchagin, that smites us like a sword with the consciousness of\nthe tremendous meaning of existence? Is there a barbaric force left in\nthe world that we have been daintily trying to cover and apologize for\nand refine into gentle agreeableness?\n\nThese questions are too deep for these pages. Let us make the world\npleasant, and throw a cover over the refuse. We are doing very well, on\nthe whole, considering what we are and the materials we have to work on.\nAnd we must not leave the world so perfectly civilized that the\ninhabitants, two or three centuries ahead, will have nothing to do.\n\n\n\n\nSOCIAL SCREAMING\n\nOf all the contrivances for amusement in this agreeable world the\n Reception  is the most ingenious, and would probably most excite the\nwonder of an angel sent down to inspect our social life. If he should\npause at the entrance of the house where one is in progress, he would be\npuzzled. The noise that would greet his ears is different from the deep\ncontinuous roar in the streets, it is unlike the hum of millions of\nseventeen-year locusts, it wants the musical quality of the spring\nconventions of the blackbirds in the chestnuts, and he could not compare\nit to the vociferation in a lunatic asylum, for that is really subdued\nand infrequent. He might be incapable of analyzing this, but when he\ncaught sight of the company he would be compelled to recognize it as the\nnoise of our highest civilization. It may not be perfect, for there are\nlimits to human powers of endurance, but it is the best we can do. It is\nnot a chance affair. Here are selected, picked out by special invitation,\nthe best that society can show, the most intelligent, the most\naccomplished, the most beautiful, the best dressed persons in the\ncommunity--all receptions have this character. The angel would notice\nthis at once, and he would be astonished at the number of such persons,\nfor the rooms would be so crowded that he would see the hopelessness of\nattempting to edge or wedge his way through the throng without tearing\noff his wings. An angel, in short, would stand no chance in one of these\nbrilliant assemblies on account of his wings, and he probably could not\nbe heard, on account of the low, heavenly pitch of his voice. His\ninference would be that these people had been selected to come together\nby reason of their superior power of screaming. He would be wrong.\n\n--They are selected on account of their intelligence, agreeableness, and\npower of entertaining each other. They come together, not for exercise,\nbut pleasure, and the more they crowd and jam and struggle, and the\nlouder they scream, the greater the pleasure. It is a kind of contest,\nfull of good-humor and excitement. The one that has the shrillest voice\nand can scream the loudest is most successful. It would seem at first\nthat they are under a singular hallucination, imagining that the more\nnoise there is in the room the better each one can be heard, and so each\none continues to raise his or her voice in order to drown the other\nvoices. The secret of the game is to pitch the voice one or two octaves\nabove the ordinary tone. Some throats cannot stand this strain long; they\nbecome rasped and sore, and the voices break; but this adds to the\nexcitement and enjoyment of those who can scream with less inconvenience.\nThe angel would notice that if at any time silence was called, in order\nthat an announcement of music could be made, in the awful hush that\nfollowed people spoke to each other in their natural voices, and\neverybody could be heard without effort. But this was not the object of\nthe Reception, and in a moment more the screaming would begin again, the\nvoices growing higher and higher, until, if the roof were taken off, one\nvast shriek would go up to heaven.\n\nThis is not only a fashion, it is an art. People have to train for it,\nand as it is a unique amusement, it is worth some trouble to be able to\nsucceed in it. Men, by reason of their stolidity and deeper voices, can\nnever be proficients in it; and they do not have so much practice--unless\nthey are stock-brokers. Ladies keep themselves in training in their\nordinary calls. If three or four meet in a drawing-room they all begin to\nscream, not that they may be heard--for the higher they go the less they\nunderstand each other--but simply to acquire the art of screaming at\nreceptions. If half a dozen ladies meeting by chance in a parlor should\nconverse quietly in their sweet, ordinary home tones, it might be in a\ncertain sense agreeable, but it would not be fashionable, and it would\nnot strike the prevailing note of our civilization. If it were true that\na group of women all like to talk at the same time when they meet (which\nis a slander invented by men, who may be just as loquacious, but not so\nlimber-tongued and quick-witted), and raise their voices to a shriek in\norder to dominate each other, it could be demonstrated that they would be\nmore readily heard if they all spoke in low tones. But the object is not\nconversation; it is the social exhilaration that comes from the wild\nexercise of the voice in working off a nervous energy; it is so seldom\nthat in her own house a lady gets a chance to scream.\n\nThe dinner-party, where there are ten or twelve at table, is a favorite\nchance for this exercise. At a recent dinner, where there were a dozen\nuncommonly intelligent people, all capable of the most entertaining\nconversation, by some chance, or owing to some nervous condition, they\nall began to speak in a high voice as soon as they were seated, and the\neffect was that of a dynamite explosion. It was a cheerful babel of\nindistinguishable noise, so loud and shrill and continuous that it was\nabsolutely impossible for two people seated on the opposite sides of the\ntable, and both shouting at each other, to catch an intelligible\nsentence. This made a lively dinner. Everybody was animated, and if there\nwas no conversation, even between persons seated side by side, there was\na glorious clatter and roar; and when it was over, everybody was hoarse\nand exhausted, and conscious that he had done his best in a high social\nfunction.\n\nThis topic is not the selection of the Drawer, the province of which is\nto note, but not to criticise, the higher civilization. But the inquiry\nhas come from many cities, from many women,  Cannot something be done to\nstop social screaming?  The question is referred to the scientific branch\nof the Social Science Association. If it is a mere fashion, the\nassociation can do nothing. But it might institute some practical\nexperiments. It might get together in a small room fifty people all let\nloose in the ordinary screaming contest, measure the total volume of\nnoise and divide it by fifty, and ascertain how much throat power was\nneeded in one person to be audible to another three feet from the\nlatter's ear. This would sift out the persons fit for such a contest. The\ninvestigator might then call a dead silence in the assembly, and request\neach person to talk in a natural voice, then divide the total noise as\nbefore, and see what chance of being heard an ordinary individual had in\nit. If it turned out in these circumstances that every person present\ncould speak with ease and hear perfectly what was said, then the order\nmight be given for the talk to go on in that tone, and that every person\nwho raised the voice and began to scream should be gagged and removed to\nanother room. In this room could be collected all the screamers to enjoy\ntheir own powers. The same experiment might be tried at a dinner-party,\nnamely, to ascertain if the total hum of low voices in the natural key\nwould not be less for the individual voice to overcome than the total\nscream of all the voices raised to a shriek. If scientific research\ndemonstrated the feasibility of speaking in an ordinary voice at\nreceptions, dinner-parties, and in  calls,  then the Drawer is of opinion\nthat intelligible and enjoyable conversation would be possible on these\noccasions, if it becomes fashionable not to scream.\n\n\n\n\nDOES REFINEMENT KILL INDIVIDUALITY?\n\nIs it true that cultivation, what we call refinement, kills\nindividuality? Or, worse than that even, that one loses his taste by\nover-cultivation? Those persons are uninteresting, certainly, who have\ngone so far in culture that they accept conventional standards supposed\nto be correct, to which they refer everything, and by which they measure\neverybody. Taste usually implies a sort of selection; the cultivated\ntaste of which we speak is merely a comparison, no longer an individual\npreference or appreciation, but only a reference to the conventional and\naccepted standard. When a man or woman has reached this stage of\npropriety we are never curious any more concerning their opinions on any\nsubject. We know that the opinions expressed will not be theirs, evolved\nout of their own feeling, but that they will be the cut-and-dried results\nof conventionality.\n\nIt is doubtless a great comfort to a person to know exactly how to feel\nand what to say in every new contingency, but whether the zest of life is\nnot dulled by this ability is a grave question, for it leaves no room for\nsurprise and little for emotion. O ye belles of Newport and of Bar\nHarbor, in your correct and conventional agreement of what is proper and\nagreeable, are you wasting your sweet lives by rule? Is your compact,\ngraceful, orderly society liable to be monotonous in its gay repetition\nof the same thing week after week? Is there nothing outside of that\nenvied circle which you make so brilliant? Is the Atlantic shore the only\ncoast where beauty may lounge and spread its net of enchantment? The\nAtlantic shore and Europe? Perhaps on the Pacific you might come back to\nyour original selves, and find again that freedom and that charm of\nindividuality that are so attractive. Some sparkling summer morning, if\nyou chanced to drive four-in-hand along the broad beach at Santa Barbara,\ninhaling, the spicy breeze from the Sandwich Islands, along the curved\nshore where the blue of the sea and the purple of the mountains remind\nyou of the Sorrentine promontory, and then dashed away into the canon of\nMontecito, among the vineyards and orange orchards and live-oaks and\npalms, in vales and hills all ablaze with roses and flowers of the garden\nand the hothouse, which bloom the year round in the gracious sea-air,\nwould you not, we wonder, come to yourselves in the sense of a new life\nwhere it is good form to be enthusiastic and not disgraceful to be\nsurprised? It is a far cry from Newport to Santa Barbara, and a whole\nworld of new sensations lies on the way, experiences for which you will\nhave no formula of experience. To take the journey is perhaps too heroic\ntreatment for the disease of conformity--the sort of malaria of our\nexclusive civilization.\n\nThe Drawer is not urging this journey, nor any break-up of the social\norder, for it knows how painful a return to individuality may be. It is\neasier to go on in the subordination of one's personality to the strictly\nconventional life. It expects rather to record a continually perfected\nmachinery, a life in which not only speech but ideas are brought into\nrule. We have had something to say occasionally of the art of\nconversation, which is in danger of being lost in the confused babel of\nthe reception and the chatter of the dinner-party--the art of listening\nand the art of talking both being lost. Society is taking alarm at this,\nand the women as usual are leaders in a reform. Already, by reason of\nclubs-literary, scientific, economic--woman is the well-informed part of\nour society. In the  Conversation Lunch  this information is now brought\ninto use. The lunch, and perhaps the dinner, will no longer be the\noccasion of satisfying the appetite or of gossip, but of improving talk.\nThe giver of the lunch will furnish the topic of conversation. Two\npersons may not speak at once; two persons may not talk with each other;\nall talk is to be general and on the topic assigned, and while one is\nspeaking, the others must listen. Perhaps each lady on taking her seat\nmay find in her napkin a written slip of paper which shall be the guide\nto her remarks. Thus no time is to be wasted on frivolous topics. The\nordinary natural flow of rejoinder and repartee, the swirling of talk\naround one obstacle and another, its winding and rippling here and there\nas individual whim suggests, will not be allowed, but all will be\nimproving, and tend to that general culture of which we have been\nspeaking. The ladies' lunch is not to be exactly a debating society, but\nan open occasion for the delivery of matured thought and the acquisition\nof information.\n\nThe object is not to talk each other down, but to improve the mind,\nwhich, unguided, is apt to get frivolous at the convivial board. It is\nnotorious that men by themselves at lunch or dinner usually shun grave\ntopics and indulge in persiflage, and even descend to talk about wine and\nthe made dishes. The women's lunch of this summer takes higher ground. It\nwill give Mr. Browning his final estimate; it will settle Mr. Ibsen; it\nwill determine the suffrage question; it will adjudicate between the\ntotal abstainers and the halfway covenant of high license; it will not\nhesitate to cut down the tariff.\n\nThe Drawer anticipates a period of repose in all our feverish social\nlife. We shall live more by rule and less by impulse. When we meet we\nshall talk on set topics, determined beforehand. By this concentration we\nshall be able as one man or one woman to reach the human limit of\ncultivation, and get rid of all the aberrations of individual assertion\nand feeling. By studying together in clubs, by conversing in monotone and\nby rule, by thinking the same things and exchanging ideas until we have\nnone left, we shall come into that social placidity which is one dream of\nthe nationalists--one long step towards what may be called a prairie\nmental condition--the slope of Kansas, where those who are five thousand\nfeet above the sea-level seem to be no higher than those who dwell in the\nMissouri Valley.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DIRECTOIRE GOWN\n\nWe are all more or less devoted to 'liberte', 'egalite', and considerable\n'fraternite', and we have various ways of showing it. It is the opinion\nof many that women do not care much about politics, and that if they are\ninterested at all in them, they are by nature aristocrats. It is said,\nindeed, that they care much more about their dress than they do about the\nlaws or the form of government. This notion arises from a misapprehension\nboth of the nature of woman and of the significance of dress.\n\nMen have an idea that fashions are haphazard, and are dictated and guided\nby no fixed principles of action, and represent no great currents in\npolitics or movements of the human mind. Women, who are exceedingly\nsubtle in all their operations, feel that it is otherwise. They have a\nprescience of changes in the drift of public affairs, and a delicate\nsensitiveness that causes them to adjust their raiment to express these\nchanges. Men have written a great deal in their bungling way about the\nphilosophy of clothes. Women exhibit it, and if we should study them more\nand try to understand them instead of ridiculing their fashions as whims\nbred of an inconstant mind and mere desire for change, we would have a\nbetter apprehension of the great currents of modern political life and\nsociety.\n\nMany observers are puzzled by the gradual and insidious return recently\nto the mode of the Directoire, and can see in it no significance other\nthan weariness of some other mode. We need to recall the fact of the\ninfluence of the centenary period upon the human mind. It is nearly a\ncentury since the fashion of the Directoire. What more natural,\nconsidering the evidence that we move in spirals, if not in circles, that\nthe signs of the anniversary of one of the most marked periods in history\nshould be shown in feminine apparel? It is woman's way of hinting what is\nin the air, the spirit that is abroad in the world. It will be remembered\nthat women took a prominent part in the destruction of the Bastile,\nhelping, indeed, to tear down that odious structure with their own hands,\nthe fall of which, it is well known, brought in the classic Greek and\nrepublican simplicity, the subtle meaning of the change being expressed\nin French gowns. Naturally there was a reaction from all this towards\naristocratic privileges and exclusiveness, which went on for many years,\nuntil in France monarchy and empire followed the significant leadership\nof the French modistes. So strong was this that it passed to other\ncountries, and in England the impulse outlasted even the Reform Bill, and\nskirts grew more and more bulbous, until it did not need more than three\nor four women to make a good-sized assembly. This was not the result of,\na whim about clothes, but a subtle recognition of a spirit of\nexclusiveness and defense abroad in the world. Each woman became her own\nBastile. Men surrounded it and thundered against it without the least\neffect. It seemed as permanent as the Pyramids. At every male attack it\nexpanded, and became more aggressive and took up more room. Women have\nsuch an exquisite sense of things--just as they have now in regard to big\nobstructive hats in the theatres. They know that most of the plays are\ninferior and some of them are immoral, and they attend the theatres with\nhead-dresses that will prevent as many people as possible from seeing the\nstage and being corrupted by anything that takes place on it. They object\nto the men seeing some of the women who are now on the stage. It\nhappened, as to the private Bastiles, that the women at last recognized a\nchange in the sociological and political atmosphere of the world, and\nwithout consulting any men of affairs or caring for their opinion, down\nwent the Bastiles. When women attacked them, in obedience to their\npolitical instincts, they collapsed like punctured balloons. Natural\nwoman was measurably (that is, a capacity of being measured) restored to\nthe world. And we all remember the great political revolutionary\nmovements of 1848.\n\nNow France is still the arbiter of the modes. Say what we may about\nBerlin, copy their fashion plates as we will, or about London, or New\nYork, or Tokio, it is indisputable that the woman in any company who has\non a Paris gown--the expression is odious, but there is no other that in\nthese days would be comprehended-- takes the cake.  It is not that the\nwomen care for this as a mere matter of apparel. But they are sensitive\nto the political atmosphere, to the philosophical significance that it\nhas to great impending changes. We are approaching the centenary of the\nfall of the Bastile. The French have no Bastile to lay low, nor, indeed,\nany Tuileries to burn up; but perhaps they might get a good way ahead by\ndemolishing Notre Dame and reducing most of Paris to ashes. Apparently\nthey are on the eve of doing something. The women of the world may not\nknow what it is, but they feel the approaching recurrence of a period.\nTheir movements are not yet decisive. It is as yet only tentatively that\nthey adopt the mode of the Directoire. It is yet uncertain--a sort of\nBoulangerism in dress. But if we watch it carefully we shall be able to\npredict with some assurance the drift in Paris. The Directoire dress\npoints to another period of republican simplicity, anarchy, and the rule\nof a popular despot.\n\nIt is a great pity, in view of this valuable instinct in women and the\nprophetic significance of dress, that women in the United States do not\nexercise their gifts with regard to their own country. We should then\nknow at any given time whether we are drifting into Blaineism, or\nClevelandism, or centralization, or free-trade, or extreme protection, or\nrule by corporations. We boast greatly of our smartness. It is time we\nwere up and dressed to prove it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MYSTERY OF THE SEX\n\nThere appears to be a great quantity of conceit around, especially\nconcerning women. The statement was recently set afloat that a well-known\nlady had admitted that George Meredith understands women better than any\nwriter who has preceded him. This may be true, and it may be a wily\nstatement to again throw men off the track; at any rate it contains the\nold assumption of a mystery, practically insoluble, about the gentler\nsex. Women generally encourage this notion, and men by their gingerly\ntreatment of it seemed to accept it. But is it well-founded, is there any\nmore mystery about women--than about men? Is the feminine nature any more\ndifficult to understand than the masculine nature? Have women, conscious\nof inferior strength, woven this notion of mystery about themselves as a\ndefense, or have men simply idealized them for fictitious purposes? To\nrecur to the case cited, is there any evidence that Mr. Meredith\nunderstands human nature--as exhibited in women any better than human\nnature--in men, or is more consistent in the production of one than of\nthe other? Historically it would be interesting to trace the rise of this\nnotion of woman as an enigma. The savage races do not appear to have it.\nA woman to the North American Indian is a simple affair, dealt with\nwithout circumlocution. In the Bible records there is not much mystery\nabout her; there are many tributes to her noble qualities, and some\npretty severe and uncomplimentary things are said about her, but there is\nlittle affectation of not understanding her. She may be a prophetess, or\na consoler, or a snare, but she is no more  deceitful and desperately\nwicked  than anybody else. There is nothing mysterious about her first\nrecorded performance. Eve trusted the serpent, and Adam trusted Eve. The\nmystery was in the serpent. There is no evidence that the ancient\nEgyptian woman was more difficult to comprehend than the Egyptian man.\nThey were both doubtless wily as highly civilized people are apt to be;\nthe  serpent of old Nile  was in them both. Is it in fact till we come to\nmediaeval times, and the chivalric age, that women are set up as being\nmore incomprehensible than men? That is, less logical, more whimsical,\nmore uncertain in their mental processes? The play-writers and essayists\nof the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries  worked  this notion\ncontinually. They always took an investigating and speculating attitude\ntowards women, that fostered the conceit of their separateness and veiled\npersonality. Every woman was supposed to be playing a part behind a mask.\nMontaigne is always investigating woman as a mystery. It is, for\ninstance, a mystery he does not relish that, as he says, women commonly\nreserve the publication of their vehement affections for their husbands\ntill they have lost them; then the woful countenance  looks not so much\nback as forward, and is intended rather to get a new husband than to\nlament the old.  And he tells this story:\n\n When I was a boy, a very beautiful and virtuous lady who is yet living,\nand the widow of a prince, had, I know not what, more ornament in her\ndress than our laws of widowhood will well allow, which being reproached\nwith as a great indecency, she made answer 'that it was because she was\nnot cultivating more friendships, and would never marry again.'  This\ncynical view of woman, as well as the extravagantly complimentary one\nsometimes taken by the poets, was based upon the notion that woman was an\nunexplainable being. When she herself adopted the idea is uncertain. Of\ncourse all this has a very practical bearing upon modern life, the\nposition of women in it, and the so-called reforms. If woman is so\ndifferent from man, to the extent of being an unexplainable mystery,\nscience ought to determine the exact state of the case, and ascertain if\nthere is any remedy for it. If it is only a literary creation, we ought\nto know it. Science could tell, for instance, whether there is a\npeculiarity in the nervous system, any complications in the nervous\ncentres, by which the telegraphic action of the will gets crossed, so\nthat, for example, in reply to a proposal of marriage, the intended  Yes \n gets delivered as  No.  Is it true that the mental process in one sex is\nintuitive, and in the other logical, with every link necessary and\nvisible? Is it true, as the romancers teach, that the mind in one sex\nacts indirectly and in the other directly, or is this indirect process\nonly characteristic of exceptions in both sexes? Investigation ought to\nfind this out, so that we can adjust the fit occupations for both sexes\non a scientific basis. We are floundering about now in a sea of doubt. As\nsociety becomes more complicated, women will become a greater and greater\nmystery, or rather will be regarded so by themselves and be treated so by\nmen.\n\nWho can tell how much this notion of mystery in the sex stands in the way\nof its free advancement all along the line? Suppose the proposal were\nmade to women to exchange being mysterious for the ballot? Would they do\nit? Or have they a sense of power in the possession of this conceded\nincomprehensibility that they would not lay down for any visible insignia\nof that power? And if the novelists and essayists have raised a mist\nabout the sex, which it willingly masquerades in, is it not time that the\nscientists should determine whether the mystery exists in nature or only\nin the imagination?\n\n\n\n\nTHE CLOTHES OF FICTION\n\nThe Drawer has never undervalued clothes. Whatever other heresies it may\nhave had, however it may have insisted that the more a woman learns, the\nmore she knows of books, the higher her education is carried in all the\nknowledges, the more interesting she will be, not only for an hour, but\nas a companion for life, it has never said that she is less attractive\nwhen dressed with taste and according to the season. Love itself could\nscarcely be expected to survive a winter hat worn after Easter. And the\nphilosophy of this is not on the surface, nor applicable to women only.\nIn this the highest of created things are under a law having a much wider\napplication. Take as an item novels, the works of fiction, which have\nbecome an absolute necessity in the modern world, as necessary to divert\nthe mind loaded with care and under actual strain as to fill the vacancy\nin otherwise idle brains. They have commonly a summer and a winter\napparel. The publishers understand this. As certainly as the birds\nappear, comes the crop of summer novels, fluttering down upon the stalls,\nin procession through the railway trains, littering the drawing-room\ntables, in light paper, covers, ornamental, attractive in colors and\nfanciful designs, as welcome and grateful as the girls in muslin. When\nthe thermometer is in the eighties, anything heavy and formidable is\ndistasteful. The housekeeper knows we want few solid dishes, but salads\nand cooling drinks. The publisher knows that we want our literature (or\nwhat passes for that) in light array. In the winter we prefer the boards\nand the rich heavy binding, however light the tale may be; but in the\nsummer, though the fiction be as grave and tragic as wandering love and\nbankruptcy, we would have it come to us lightly clad--out of stays, as it\nwere.\n\nIt would hardly be worth while to refer to this taste in the apparel of\nour fiction did it not have deep and esoteric suggestions, and could not\nthe novelists themselves get a hint from it. Is it realized how much\ndepends upon the clothes that are worn by the characters in the novels\n--clothes put on not only to exhibit the inner life of the characters,\nbut to please the readers who are to associate with them? It is true that\nthere are novels that almost do away with the necessity of fashion\nmagazines and fashion plates in the family, so faithful are they in the\nlatest millinery details, and so fully do they satisfy the longing of all\nof us to know what is chic for the moment. It is pretty well understood,\nalso, that women, and even men, are made to exhibit the deepest passions\nand the tenderest emotions in the crises of their lives by the clothes\nthey put on. How the woman in such a crisis hesitates before her\nwardrobe, and at last chooses just what will express her innermost\nfeeling! Does she dress for her lover as she dresses to receive her\nlawyer who has come to inform her that she is living beyond her income?\nWould not the lover be spared time and pain if he knew, as the novelist\nknows, whether the young lady is dressing for a rejection or an\nacceptance? Why does the lady intending suicide always throw on a\nwaterproof when she steals out of the house to drown herself? The\nnovelist knows the deep significance of every article of toilet, and\nnature teaches him to array his characters for the summer novel in the\nairy draperies suitable to the season. It is only good art that the cover\nof the novel and the covers of the characters shall be in harmony. He\nknows, also, that the characters in the winter novel must be adequately\nprotected. We speak, of course, of the season stories. Novels that are to\nrun through a year, or maybe many years, and are to set forth the\npassions and trials of changing age and varying circumstance, require\ndifferent treatment and wider millinery knowledge. They are naturally\nmore expensive. The wardrobe required in an all-round novel would\nbankrupt most of us.\n\nBut to confine ourselves to the season novel, it is strange that some one\nhas not invented the patent adjustable story that with a slight change\nwould do for summer or winter, following the broad hint of the\npublishers, who hasten in May to throw whatever fiction they have on hand\ninto summer clothes. The winter novel, by this invention, could be easily\nfitted for summer wear. All the novelist need do would be to change the\nclothes of his characters. And in the autumn, if the novel proved\npopular, he could change again, with the advantage of being in the latest\nfashion. It would only be necessary to alter a few sentences in a few of\nthe stereotype pages. Of course this would make necessary other slight\nalterations, for no kind-hearted writer would be cruel to his own\ncreations, and expose them to the vicissitudes of the seasons. He could\ninsert  rain  for  snow,  and  green leaves  for  skeleton branches, \n make a few verbal changes of that sort, and regulate the thermometer. It\nwould cost very little to adjust the novel in this way to any season. It\nis worth thinking of.\n\nAnd this leads to a remark upon the shocking indifference of some\nnovelists to the ordinary comfort of their characters. In practical life\nwe cannot, but in his realm the novelist can, control the weather. He can\nmake it generally pleasant. We do not object to a terrific thunder-shower\nnow and then, as the sign of despair and a lost soul, but perpetual\ndrizzle and grayness and inclemency are tedious to the reader, who has\nenough bad weather in his private experience. The English are greater\nsinners in this respect than we are. They seem to take a brutal delight\nin making it as unpleasant as possible for their fictitious people. There\nis R--b--rt 'lsm--r', for example. External trouble is piled on to the\ninternal. The characters are in a perpetual soak. There is not a dry rag\non any of them, from the beginning of the book to the end. They are sent\nout in all weathers, and are drenched every day. Often their wet clothes\nare frozen on them; they are exposed to cutting winds and sleet in their\nfaces, bedrabbled in damp grass, stood against slippery fences, with hail\nand frost lowering their vitality, and expected under these circumstances\nto make love and be good Christians. Drenched and wind-blown for years,\nthat is what they are. It may be that this treatment has excited the\nsympathy of the world, but is it legitimate? Has a novelist the right to\nsubject his creations to tortures that he would not dare to inflict upon\nhis friends? It is no excuse to say that this is normal English weather;\nit is not the office of fiction to intensify and rub in the unavoidable\nevils of life. The modern spirit of consideration for fictitious\ncharacters that prevails with regard to dress ought to extend in a\nreasonable degree to their weather. This is not a strained corollary to\nthe demand for an appropriately costumed novel.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROAD A\n\nIt cannot for a moment be supposed that the Drawer would discourage\nself-culture and refinement of manner and of speech. But it would not\nhesitate to give a note of warning if it believed that the present\ndevotion to literature and the pursuits of the mind were likely, by the\nhighest authorities, to be considered bad form. In an intellectually\ninclined city (not in the northeast) a club of ladies has been formed for\nthe cultivation of the broad 'a' in speech. Sporadic efforts have\nhitherto been made for the proper treatment of this letter of the\nalphabet with individual success, especially with those who have been in\nEngland, or have known English men and women of the broad-gauge variety.\nDiscerning travelers have made the American pronunciation of the letter a\na reproach to the republic, that is to say, a means of distinguishing a\nnative of this country. The true American aspires to be cosmopolitan, and\ndoes not want to be  spotted --if that word may be used--in society by\nany peculiarity of speech, that is, by any American peculiarity. Why, at\nthe bottom of the matter, a narrow 'a' should be a disgrace it is not\neasy to see, but it needs no reason if fashion or authority condemns it.\nThis country is so spread out, without any social or literary centre\nuniversally recognized as such, and the narrow 'a' has become so\nprevalent, that even fashion finds it difficult to reform it. The best\npeople, who are determined to broaden all their 'a' 's, will forget in\nmoments of excitement, and fall back into old habits. It requires\nconstant vigilance to keep the letter 'a' flattened out. It is in vain\nthat scholars have pointed out that in the use of this letter lies the\nmain difference between the English and the American speech; either\nAmericans generally do not care if this is the fact, or fashion can only\nwork a reform in a limited number of people. It seems, therefore,\nnecessary that there should be an organized effort to deal with this\npronunciation, and clubs will no doubt be formed all over the country, in\nimitation of the one mentioned, until the broad a will become as common\nas flies in summer. When this result is attained it will be time to\nattack the sound of 'u' with clubs, and make universal the French sound.\nIn time the American pronunciation will become as superior to all others\nas are the American sewing-machines and reapers. In the Broad A Club\nevery member who misbehaves--that is, mispronounces--is fined a nickel\nfor each offense. Of course in the beginning there is a good deal of\nrevenue from this source, but the revenue diminishes as the club\nimproves, so that we have the anomaly of its failure to be\nself-supporting in proportion to its excellence. Just now if these clubs\ncould suddenly become universal, and the penalty be enforced, we could\nhave the means of paying off the national debt in a year.\n\nWe do not wish to attach too much importance to this movement, but rather\nto suggest to a continent yearning for culture in letters and in speech\nwhether it may not be carried too far. The reader will remember that\nthere came a time in Athens when culture could mock at itself, and the\nrest of the country may be warned in time of a possible departure from\ngood form in devotion to language and literature by the present attitude\nof modern Athens. Probably there is no esoteric depth in literature or\nreligion, no refinement in intellectual luxury, that this favored city\nhas not sounded. It is certainly significant, therefore, when the\npriestesses and devotees of mental superiority there turn upon it and\nrend it, when they are heartily tired of the whole literary business.\nThere is always this danger when anything is passionately pursued as a\nfashion, that it will one day cease to be the fashion. Plato and Buddha\nand even Emerson become in time like a last season's fashion plate. Even\na  friend of the spirit  will have to go. Culture is certain to mock\nitself in time.\n\nThe clubs for the improvement of the mind--the female mind--and of\nspeech, which no doubt had their origin in modern Athens, should know,\nthen, that it is the highest mark of female culture now in that beautiful\ntown to despise culture, to affect the gayest and most joyous ignorance\n--ignorance of books, of all forms of so-called intellectual development,\nand all literary men, women, and productions whatsoever! This genuine\nmovement of freedom may be a real emancipation. If it should reach the\nmetropolis, what a relief it might bring to thousands who are, under a\nhigh sense of duty, struggling to advance the intellectual life. There is\nthis to be said, however, that it is only the very brightest people,\nthose who have no need of culture, who have in fact passed beyond all\nculture, who can take this position in regard to it, and actually revel\nin the delights of ignorance. One must pass into a calm place when he is\nbeyond the desire to know anything or to do anything.\n\nIt is a chilling thought, unless one can rise to the highest philosophy\nof life, that even the broad 'a', when it is attained, may not be a\npermanence. Let it be common, and what distinction will there be in it?\nWhen devotion to study, to the reading of books, to conversation on\nimproving topics, becomes a universal fashion, is it not evident that one\ncan only keep a leadership in fashion by throwing the whole thing\noverboard, and going forward into the natural gayety of life, which cares\nfor none of these things? We suppose the Constitution of the United\nStates will stand if the day comes--nay, now is--when the women of\nChicago call the women of Boston frivolous, and the women of Boston know\ntheir immense superiority and advancement in being so, but it would be a\nblank surprise to the country generally to know that it was on the wrong\ntrack. The fact is that culture in this country is full of surprises, and\nso doubles and feints and comes back upon itself that the most diligent\nrecorder can scarcely note its changes. The Drawer can only warn; it\ncannot advise.\n\n\n\n\nCHEWING GUM\n\nNo language that is unfortunately understood by the greater portion of\nthe people who speak English, thousands are saying on the first of\nJanuary--in 1890, a far-off date that it is wonderful any one has lived\nto see-- Let us have a new deal!  It is a natural exclamation, and does\nnot necessarily mean any change of purpose. It always seems to a man that\nif he could shuffle the cards he could increase his advantages in the\ngame of life, and, to continue the figure which needs so little\nexplanation, it usually appears to him that he could play anybody else's\nhand better than his own. In all the good resolutions of the new year,\nthen, it happens that perhaps the most sincere is the determination to\nget a better hand. Many mistake this for repentance and an intention to\nreform, when generally it is only the desire for a new shuffle of the\ncards. Let us have a fresh pack and a new deal, and start fair. It seems\nidle, therefore, for the moralist to indulge in a homily about annual\ngood intentions, and habits that ought to be dropped or acquired, on the\nfirst of January. He can do little more than comment on the passing show.\n\nIt will be admitted that if the world at this date is not socially\nreformed it is not the fault of the Drawer, and for the reason that it\nhas been not so much a critic as an explainer and encourager. It is in\nthe latter character that it undertakes to defend and justify a national\nindustry that has become very important within the past ten years. A\ngreat deal of capital is invested in it, and millions of people are\nactively employed in it. The varieties of chewing gum that are\nmanufactured would be a matter of surprise to those who have paid no\nattention to the subject, and who may suppose that the millions of mouths\nthey see engaged in its mastication have a common and vulgar taste. From\nthe fact that it can be obtained at the apothecary's, an impression has\ngot abroad that it is medicinal. This is not true. The medical profession\ndo not use it, and what distinguishes it from drugs-that they also do not\nuse--is the fact that they do not prescribe it. It is neither a narcotic\nnor a stimulant. It cannot strictly be said to soothe or to excite. The\nhabit of using it differs totally from that of the chewing of tobacco or\nthe dipping of snuff. It might, by a purely mechanical operation, keep a\nperson awake, but no one could go to sleep chewing gum. It is in itself\nneither tonic nor sedative. It is to be noticed also that the gum habit\ndiffers from the tobacco habit in that the aromatic and elastic substance\nis masticated, while the tobacco never is, and that the mastication leads\nto nothing except more mastication. The task is one that can never be\nfinished. The amount of energy expended in this process if capitalized or\nconserved would produce great results. Of course the individual does\nlittle, but if the power evolved by the practice in a district school\ncould be utilized, it would suffice to run the kindergarten department.\nThe writer has seen a railway car--say in the West--filled with young\nwomen, nearly every one of whose jaws and pretty mouths was engaged in\nthis pleasing occupation; and so much power was generated that it would,\nif applied, have kept the car in motion if the steam had been shut\noff--at least it would have furnished the motive for illuminating the car\nby electricity.\n\nThis national industry is the subject of constant detraction, satire, and\nridicule by the newspaper press. This is because it is not understood,\nand it may be because it is mainly a female accomplishment: the few men\nwho chew gum may be supposed to do so by reason of gallantry. There might\nbe no more sympathy with it in the press if the real reason for the\npractice were understood, but it would be treated more respectfully. Some\nhave said that the practice arises from nervousness--the idle desire to\nbe busy without doing anything--and because it fills up the pauses of\nvacuity in conversation. But this would not fully account for the\npractice of it in solitude. Some have regarded it as in obedience to the\nfeminine instinct for the cultivation of patience and self-denial\n--patience in a fruitless activity, and self-denial in the eternal act of\nmastication without swallowing. It is no more related to these virtues\nthan it is to the habit of the reflective cow in chewing her cud. The cow\nwould never chew gum. The explanation is a more philosophical one, and\nrelates to a great modern social movement. It is to strengthen and\ndevelop and make more masculine the lower jaw. The critic who says that\nthis is needless, that the inclination in women to talk would adequately\ndevelop this, misses the point altogether. Even if it could be proved\nthat women are greater chatterers than men, the critic would gain\nnothing. Women have talked freely since creation, but it remains true\nthat a heavy, strong lower jaw is a distinctively masculine\ncharacteristic. It is remarked that if a woman has a strong lower jaw she\nis like a man. Conversation does not create this difference, nor remove\nit; for the development of a lower jaw in women constant mechanical\nexercise of the muscles is needed. Now, a spirit of emancipation, of\nemulation, is abroad, as it ought to be, for the regeneration of the\nworld. It is sometimes called the coming to the front of woman in every\nact and occupation that used to belong almost exclusively to man. It is\nnot necessary to say a word to justify this. But it is often accompanied\nby a misconception, namely, that it is necessary for woman to be like\nman, not only in habits, but in certain physical characteristics. No\nwoman desires a beard, because a beard means care and trouble, and would\ndetract from feminine beauty, but to have a strong and, in appearance, a\nresolute under-jaw may be considered a desirable note of masculinity, and\nof masculine power and privilege, in the good time coming. Hence the\ncultivation of it by the chewing of gum is a recognizable and reasonable\ninstinct, and the practice can be defended as neither a whim nor a vain\nwaste of energy and nervous force. In a generation or two it may be laid\naside as no longer necessary, or men may be compelled to resort to it to\npreserve their supremacy.\n\n\n\n\nWOMEN IN CONGRESS\n\nIt does not seem to be decided yet whether women are to take the Senate\nor the House at Washington in the new development of what is called the\ndual government. There are disadvantages in both. The members of the\nSenate are so few that the women of the country would not be adequately\nrepresented in it; and the Chamber in which the House meets is too large\nfor women to make speeches in with any pleasure to themselves or their\nhearers. This last objection is, however, frivolous, for the speeches\nwill be printed in the Record; and it is as easy to count women on a vote\nas men. There is nothing in the objection, either, that the Chamber would\nneed to be remodeled, and the smoking-rooms be turned into Day Nurseries.\nThe coming woman will not smoke, to be sure; neither will she, in coming\nforward to take charge of the government, plead the Baby Act. Only those\nwomen, we are told, would be elected to Congress whose age and position\nenable them to devote themselves exclusively to politics. The question,\ntherefore, of taking to themselves the Senate or the House will be\ndecided by the women themselves upon other grounds--as to whether they\nwish to take the initiative in legislation and hold the power of the\npurse, or whether they prefer to act as a check, to exercise the high\ntreaty-making power, and to have a voice in selecting the women who shall\nbe sent to represent us abroad. Other things being equal, women will\nnaturally select the Upper House, and especially as that will give them\nan opportunity to reject any but the most competent women for the Supreme\nBench. The irreverent scoffers at our Supreme Court have in the past\ncomplained (though none do now) that there were  old women  in gowns on\nthe bench. There would be no complaint of the kind in the future. The\njudges would be as pretty as those who assisted in the judgment of Paris,\nwith changed functions; there would be no monotony in the dress, and the\nSupreme Bench would be one of the most attractive spectacles in\nWashington. When the judges as well as the advocates are Portias, the law\nwill be an agreeable occupation.\n\nThis is, however, mere speculation. We do not understand that it is the\nimmediate purpose of women to take the whole government, though some\nextravagant expectations are raised by the admission of new States that\nare ruled by women. They may wish to divide--and conquer. One plan is,\ninstead of dual Chambers of opposite sexes, to mingle in both the Senate\nand the House. And this is more likely to be the plan adopted, because\nthe revolution is not to be violent, and, indeed, cannot take place\nwithout some readjustment of the home life. We have at present what\nCharles Reade would have called only a right-handed civilization. To\nspeak metaphorically, men cannot use their left hands, or, to drop the\nmetaphor, before the government can be fully reorganized men must learn\nto do women's work. It may be a fair inference from this movement that\nwomen intend to abandon the sacred principle of Home Rule. This\nabandonment is foreshadowed in a recent election in a small Western city,\nwhere the female voters made a clean sweep, elected an entire city\ncouncil of women and most of the other officers, including the police\njudge and the mayor. The latter lady, by one of those intrusions of\nnature which reform is not yet able to control, became a mother and a\nmayor the same week. Her husband had been city clerk, and held over; but\nfortunately an arrangement was made with him to stay at home and take\ncare of the baby, unofficially, while the mayor attends to her public\nduties. Thus the city clerk will gradually be initiated into the duties\nof home rule, and when the mayor is elected to Congress he will be ready\nto accompany her to Washington and keep house. The imagination likes to\ndwell upon this, for the new order is capable of infinite extension. When\nthe State takes care of all the children in government nurseries, and the\nmayor has taken her place in the United States Senate, her husband, if he\nhas become sufficiently reformed and feminized, may go to the House, and\nthe reunited family of two, clubbing their salaries, can live in great\ncomfort.\n\nAll this can be easily arranged, whether we are to have a dual government\nof sexes or a mixed House and Senate. The real difficulty is about a\nsingle Executive. Neither sex will be willing to yield to the other this\nvast power. We might elect a man and wife President and Vice-President,\nbut the Vice-President, of whatever sex, could not well preside over the\nSenate and in the White House at the same time. It is true that the\nConstitution provides that the President and Vice-President shall not be\nof the same State, but residence can be acquired to get over this as\neasily as to obtain a divorce; and a Constitution that insists upon\nspeaking of the President as  he  is too antiquated to be respected. When\nthe President is a woman, it can matter little whether her husband or\nsome other woman presides in the Senate. Even the reformers will hardly\ninsist upon two Presidents in order to carry out the equality idea, so\nthat we are probably anticipating difficulties that will not occur in\npractice.\n\nThe Drawer has only one more practical suggestion. As the right of voting\ncarries with it the right to hold any elective office, a great change\nmust take place in Washington life. Now for some years the divergence of\nsociety and politics has been increasing at the capital. With women in\nboth Houses, and on the Supreme Bench, and at the heads of the\ndepartments, social and political life will become one and the same\nthing; receptions and afternoon teas will be held in the Senate and\nHouse, and political caucuses in all the drawing-rooms. And then life\nwill begin to be interesting.\n\n\n\n\nSHALL WOMEN PROPOSE?\n\nThe shyness of man--meaning the  other sex  referred to in the woman's\njournals--has often been noticed in novels, and sometimes in real life.\nThis shyness is, however, so exceptional as to be suspicious. The shy\nyoung man may provoke curiosity, but he does not always inspire respect.\nRoughly estimated, shyness is not considered a manly quality, while it is\none of the most pleasing and attractive of the feminine traits, and there\nis something pathetic in the expression  He is as shy as a girl;  it may\nappeal for sympathy and the exercise of the protective instinct in women.\nUnfortunately it is a little discredited, so many of the old plays\nturning upon its assumption by young blades who are no better than they\nshould be.\n\nWhat would be the effect upon the masculine character and comfort if this\nshyness should become general, as it may in a contingency that is already\non the horizon? We refer, of course, to the suggestion, coming from\nvarious quarters, that women should propose. The reasonableness of this\nsuggestion may not lie on the surface; it may not be deduced from the\nuniform practice, beginning with the primitive men and women; it may not\nbe inferred from the open nature of the two sexes (for the sake of\nargument two sexes must still be insisted on); but it is found in the\nadvanced civilization with which we are struggling. Why should not women\npropose? Why should they be at a disadvantage in an affair which concerns\nthe happiness of the whole life? They have as much right to a choice as\nmen, and to an opportunity to exercise it. Why should they occupy a\nnegative position, and be restricted, in making the most important part\nof their career, wholly to the choice implied in refusals? In fact,\nmarriage really concerns them more than it does men; they have to bear\nthe chief of its burdens. A wide and free choice for them would, then,\nseem to be only fair. Undeniably a great many men are inattentive,\nunobserving, immersed in some absorbing pursuit, undecided, and at times\nbashful, and liable to fall into union with women who happen to be near\nthem, rather than with those who are conscious that they would make them\nthe better wives. Men, unaided by the finer feminine instincts of choice,\nare so apt to be deceived. In fact, man's inability to  match  anything\nis notorious. If he cannot be trusted in the matter of worsted-work, why\nshould he have such distinctive liberty in the most important matter of\nhis life? Besides, there are many men--and some of the best who get into\na habit of not marrying at all, simply because the right woman has not\npresented herself at the right time. Perhaps, if women had the open\nprivilege of selection, many a good fellow would be rescued from\nmiserable isolation, and perhaps also many a noble woman whom chance, or\na stationary position, or the inertia of the other sex, has left to bloom\nalone, and waste her sweetness on relations, would be the centre of a\ncharming home, furnishing the finest spectacle seen in this uphill world\n--a woman exercising gracious hospitality, and radiating to a circle far\nbeyond her home the influence of her civilizing personality. For,\nnotwithstanding all the centrifugal forces of this age, it is probable\nthat the home will continue to be the fulcrum on which women will move\nthe world.\n\nIt may be objected that it would be unfair to add this opportunity to the\nalready, overpowering attractions of woman, and that man would be put at\nan immense disadvantage, since he might have too much gallantry, or not\nenough presence of mind, to refuse a proposal squarely and fascinatingly\nmade, although his judgment scarcely consented, and his ability to\nsupport a wife were more than doubtful. Women would need to exercise a\ngreat deal of prudence and discretion, or there would be something like a\npanic, and a cry along the male line of 'Sauve qui peut'; for it is\nmatter of record that the bravest men will sometimes run away from danger\non a sudden impulse.\n\nThis prospective social revolution suggests many inquiries. What would be\nthe effect upon the female character and disposition of a possible,\nthough not probable, refusal, or of several refusals? Would she become\nembittered and desperate, and act as foolishly as men often do? Would her\nown sex be considerate, and give her a fair field if they saw she was\npaying attention to a young man, or an old one? And what effect would\nthis change in relations have upon men? Would it not render that sporadic\nshyness of which we have spoken epidemic? Would it frighten men,\nrendering their position less stable in their own eyes, or would it\nfeminize them--that is, make them retiring, blushing, self-conscious\nbeings? And would this change be of any injury to them in their necessary\nfight for existence in this pushing world? What would be the effect upon\ncourtship if both the men and the women approached each other as wooers?\nIn ordinary transactions one is a buyer and one is a seller--to put it\ncoarsely. If seller met seller and buyer met buyer, trade would languish.\nBut this figure cannot be continued, for there is no romance in a bargain\nof any sort; and what we should most fear in a scientific age is the loss\nof romance.\n\nThis is, however, mere speculation. The serious aspect of the proposed\nchange is the effect it will have upon the character of men, who are not\nenough considered in any of these discussions. The revolution will be a\nradical one in one respect. We may admit that in the future woman can\ntake care of herself, but how will it be with man, who has had little\ndisciplinary experience of adversity, simply because he has been\npermitted to have his own way? Heretofore his life has had a stimulus.\nWhen he proposes to a woman, he in fact says:  I am able to support you;\nI am able to protect you from the rough usage of the world; I am strong\nand ambitious, and eager to take upon myself the lovely bondage of this\nresponsibility. I offer you this love because I feel the courage and\nresponsibility of my position.  That is the manly part of it. What effect\nwill it have upon his character to be waiting round, unselected and\nundecided, until some woman comes to him, and fixes her fascinating eyes\nupon him, and says, in effect:  I can support you; I can defend you. Have\nno fear of the future; I will be at once your shield and your backbone. I\ntake the responsibility of my choice.  There are a great many men now,\nwho have sneaked into their positions by a show of courage, who are\nsupported one way and another by women. It might be humiliating to know\njust how many men live by the labors of their wives. And what would be\nthe effect upon the character of man if the choice, and the\nresponsibility of it, and the support implied by it in marriage, were\ngenerally transferred to woman?\n\n\n\n\nFROCKS AND THE STAGE\n\nThe condescension to literature and to the stage is one of the notable\ncharacteristics of this agreeable time. We have to admit that literature\nis rather the fashion, without the violent presumption that the author\nand the writer have the same social position that is conferred by money,\nor by the mysterious virtue there is in pedigree. A person does not lose\ncaste by using the pen, or even by taking the not-needed pay for using\nit. To publish a book or to have an article accepted by a magazine may\ngive a sort of social distinction, either as an exhibition of a certain\nunexpected capacity or a social eccentricity. It is hardly too much to\nsay that it has become the fashion to write, as it used to be to dance\nthe minuet well, or to use the broadsword, or to stand a gentlemanly mill\nwith a renowned bruiser. Of course one ought not to do this\nprofessionally exactly, ought not to prepare for doing it by study and\nsevere discipline, by training for it as for a trade, but simply to toss\nit off easily, as one makes a call, or pays a compliment, or drives\nfour-in-hand. One does not need to have that interior impulse which\ndrives a poor devil of an author to express himself, that something to\nsay which torments the poet into extreme irritability unless he can be\nrid of it, that noble hunger for fame which comes from a consciousness of\nthe possession of vital thought and emotion.\n\nThe beauty of this condescension to literature of which we speak is that\nit has that quality of spontaneity that does not presuppose either a\ncapacity or a call. There is no mystery about the craft. One resolves to\nwrite a book, as he might to take a journey or to practice on the piano,\nand the thing is done. Everybody can write, at least everybody does\nwrite. It is a wonderful time for literature. The Queen of England writes\nfor it, the Queen of Roumania writes for it, the Shah of Persia writes\nfor it, Lady Brassey, the yachtswoman, wrote for it, Congressmen write\nfor it, peers write for it. The novel is the common recreation of ladies\nof rank, and where is the young woman in this country who has not tried\nher hand at a romance or made a cast at a popular magazine? The effect of\nall this upon literature is expansive and joyous. Superstition about any\nmystery in the art has nearly disappeared. It is a common observation\nthat if persons fail in everything else, if they are fit for nothing\nelse, they can at least write. It is such an easy occupation, and the\nremuneration is in such disproportion to the expenditure! Isn't it indeed\nthe golden era of letters? If only the letters were gold!\n\nIf there is any such thing remaining as a guild of authors, somewhere on\nthe back seats, witnessing this marvelous Kingdom Come of Literature,\nthere must also be a little bunch of actors, born for the stage, who see\nwith mixed feelings their arena taken possession of by fairer if not more\ncompetent players. These players are not to be confounded with the\nplay-actors whom the Puritans denounced, nor with those trained to the\nprofession in the French capital.\n\nIn the United States and in England we are born to enter upon any\navocation, thank Heaven! without training for it. We have not in this\ncountry any such obstacle to universal success as the Theatre Francais,\nbut Providence has given us, for wise purposes no doubt, Private\nTheatricals (not always so private as they should be), which domesticate\nthe drama, and supply the stage with some of the most beautiful and best\ndressed performers the world has ever seen. Whatever they may say of it,\nit is a gallant and a susceptible age, and all men bow to loveliness, and\nall women recognize a talent for clothes. We do not say that there is not\nsuch a thing as dramatic art, and that there are not persons who need as\nsevere training before they attempt to personate nature in art as the\npainter must undergo who attempts to transfer its features to his canvas.\nBut the taste of the age must be taken into account. The public does not\ndemand that an actor shall come in at a private door and climb a steep\nstaircase to get to the stage. When a Star from the Private Theatricals\ndescends upon the boards, with the arms of Venus and the throat of Juno,\nand a wardrobe got out of Paris and through our stingy Custom-house in\nforty trunks, the plodding actor, who has depended upon art, finds out,\nwhat he has been all the time telling us, that all the world's a stage,\nand men and women merely players. Art is good in its way; but what about\na perfect figure? and is not dressing an art? Can training give one an\nelegant form, and study command the services of a man milliner? The stage\nis broadened out and re-enforced by a new element. What went ye out for\nto see?\n\nA person clad in fine raiment, to be sure. Some of the critics may growl\na little, and hint at the invasion of art by fashionable life, but the\neditor, whose motto is that the newspaper is made for man, not man for\nthe newspaper, understands what is required in this inspiring histrionic\nmovement, and when a lovely woman condescends to step from the\ndrawing-room to the stage he confines his descriptions to her person, and\ndoes not bother about her capacity; and instead of wearying us with a\nlist of her plays and performances, he gives us a column about her\ndresses in beautiful language that shows us how closely allied poetry is\nto tailoring. Can the lady act? Why, simpleminded, she has nearly a\nhundred frocks, each one a dream, a conception of genius, a vaporous\nidea, one might say, which will reveal more beauty than it hides, and\nteach the spectator that art is simply nature adorned. Rachel in all her\nglory was not adorned like one of these. We have changed all that. The\nactress used to have a rehearsal. She now has an  opening.  Does it\nrequire nowadays, then, no special talent or gift to go on the stage? No\nmore, we can assure our readers, than it does to write a book. But homely\npeople and poor people can write books. As yet they cannot act.\n\n\n\n\nALTRUISM\n\nChristmas is supposed to be an altruistic festival. Then, if ever, we\nallow ourselves to go out to others in sympathy expressed by gifts and\ngood wishes. Then self-forgetfulness in the happiness of others becomes a\ntemporary fashion. And we find--do we not?--the indulgence of the feeling\nso remunerative that we wish there were other days set apart to it. We\ncan even understand those people who get a private satisfaction in being\ngood on other days besides Sunday. There is a common notion that this\nChristmas altruistic sentiment is particularly shown towards the\nunfortunate and the dependent by those more prosperous, and in what is\ncalled a better social position. We are exhorted on this day to remember\nthe poor. We need to be reminded rather to remember the rich, the lonely,\nnot-easy-to-be-satisfied rich, whom we do not always have with us. The\nDrawer never sees a very rich person that it does not long to give him\nsomething, some token, the value of which is not estimated by its cost,\nthat should be a consoling evidence to him that he has not lost\nsympathetic touch with ordinary humanity. There is a great deal of\nsympathy afloat in the world, but it is especially shown downward in the\nsocial scale. We treat our servants--supposing that we are society\n--better than we treat each other. If we did not, they would leave us. We\nare kinder to the unfortunate or the dependent than to each other, and we\nhave more charity for them.\n\nThe Drawer is not indulging in any indiscriminate railing at society.\nThere is society and society. There is that undefined something, more\nlike a machine than an aggregate of human sensibilities, which is set\ngoing in a  season,  or at a watering-place, or permanently selects\nitself for certain social manifestations. It is this that needs a\nmissionary to infuse into it sympathy and charity. If it were indeed a\nmachine and not made up of sensitive personalities, it would not be to\nits members so selfish and cruel. It would be less an ambitious scramble\nfor place and favor, less remorseless towards the unsuccessful, not so\nharsh and hard and supercilious. In short, it would be much more\nagreeable if it extended to its own members something of the\nconsideration and sympathy that it gives to those it regards as its\ninferiors. It seems to think that good-breeding and good form are\nseparable from kindliness and sympathy and helpfulness. Tender-hearted\nand charitable enough all the individuals of this  society  are to\npersons below them in fortune or position, let us allow, but how are they\nto each other? Nothing can be ruder or less considerate of the feelings\nof others than much of that which is called good society, and this is why\nthe Drawer desires to turn the altruistic sentiment of the world upon it\nin this season, set apart by common consent for usefulness. Unfortunate\nare the fortunate if they are lifted into a sphere which is sapless of\ndelicacy of feeling for its own. Is this an intangible matter? Take\nhospitality, for instance. Does it consist in astonishing the invited, in\noverwhelming him with a sense of your own wealth, or felicity, or family,\nor cleverness even; in trying to absorb him in your concerns, your\nsuccesses, your possessions, in simply what interests you? However\ndelightful all these may be, it is an offense to his individuality to\ninsist that he shall admire at the point of the social bayonet. How do\nyou treat the stranger? Do you adapt yourself and your surroundings to\nhim, or insist that he shall adapt himself to you? How often does the\nstranger, the guest, sit in helpless agony in your circle (all of whom\nknow each other) at table or in the drawing-room, isolated and separate,\nbecause all the talk is local and personal, about your little world, and\nthe affairs of your clique, and your petty interests, in which he or she\ncannot possibly join? Ah! the Sioux Indian would not be so cruel as that\nto a guest. There is no more refined torture to a sensitive person than\nthat. Is it only thoughtlessness? It is more than that. It is a want of\nsympathy of the heart, or it is a lack of intelligence and broad-minded\ninterest in affairs of the world and in other people. It is this\ntrait--absorption in self--pervading society more or less, that makes it\nso unsatisfactory to most people in it. Just a want of human interest;\npeople do not come in contact.\n\nAvid pursuit of wealth, or what is called pleasure, perhaps makes people\nhard to each other, and infuses into the higher social life, which should\nbe the most unselfish and enjoyable life, a certain vulgarity, similar to\nthat noticed in well-bred tourists scrambling for the seats on top of a\nmountain coach. A person of refinement and sensibility and intelligence,\ncast into the company of the select, the country-house, the radiant,\ntwelve-button society, has been struck with infinite pity for it, and\nasks the Drawer to do something about it. The Drawer cannot do anything\nabout it. It can only ask the prayers of all good people on Christmas Day\nfor the rich. As we said, we do not have them with us always--they are\nhere today, they are gone to Canada tomorrow. But this is, of course,\ncurrent facetiousness. The rich are as good as anybody else, according to\ntheir lights, and if what is called society were as good and as kind to\nitself as it is to the poor, it would be altogether enviable. We are not\nof those who say that in this case, charity would cover a multitude of\nsins, but a diffusion in society of the Christmas sentiment of goodwill\nand kindliness to itself would tend to make universal the joy on the\nreturn of this season.\n\n\n\n\nSOCIAL CLEARING-HOUSE\n\nThe Drawer would like to emphasize the noble, self-sacrificing spirit of\nAmerican women. There are none like them in the world. They take up all\nthe burdens of artificial foreign usage, where social caste prevails, and\nbear them with a heroism worthy of a worse cause. They indeed represent\nthese usages to be a burden almost intolerable, and yet they submit to\nthem with a grace and endurance all their own. Probably there is no\nharder-worked person than a lady in the season, let us say in Washington,\nwhere the etiquette of visiting is carried to a perfection that it does\nnot reach even in New York, Boston, or Philadelphia, and where woman's\neffort to keep the social fabric together requires more expenditure of\nintellect and of physical force than was needed to protect the capital in\nits peril a quarter of a century ago. When this cruel war is over, the\nmonument to the women who perished in it will need to be higher than that\nto the Father of his Country. Merely in the item of keeping an account of\nthe visits paid and due, a woman needs a bookkeeper. Only to know the\netiquette of how and when and to whom and in what order the visits are to\nbe paid is to be well educated in a matter that assumes the first\nimportance in her life. This is, however, only a detail of bookkeeping\nand of memory; to pay and receive, or evade, these visits of ceremony is\na work which men can admire without the power to imitate; even on the\nsupposition that a woman has nothing else to do, it calls for our humble\ngratitude and a recognition of the largeness of nature that can put aside\nany duties to husband or children in devotion to the public welfare. The\nfutile round of society life while it lasts admits of no rival. It seems\nas important as the affairs of the government. The Drawer is far from\nsaying that it is not. Perhaps no one can tell what confusion would fall\ninto all the political relations if the social relations of the capital\nwere not kept oiled by the system of exchange of fictitious courtesies\namong the women; and it may be true that society at large--men are so\napt, when left alone, to relapse--would fall into barbarism if our\npasteboard conventions were neglected. All honor to the self-sacrifice of\nwoman!\n\nWhat a beautiful civilization ours is, supposed to be growing in\nintelligence and simplicity, and yet voluntarily taking upon itself this\nartificial burden in an already overtaxed life! The angels in heaven must\nadmire and wonder. The cynic wants to know what is gained for any\nrational being when a city-full of women undertake to make and receive\nformal visits with persons whom for the most part they do not wish to\nsee. What is gained, he asks, by leaving cards with all these people and\nreceiving their cards? When a woman makes her tedious rounds, why is she\nalways relieved to find people not in? When she can count upon her ten\nfingers the people she wants to see, why should she pretend to want to\nsee the others? Is any one deceived by it? Does anybody regard it as\nanything but a sham and a burden? Much the cynic knows about it! Is it\nnot necessary to keep up what is called society? Is it not necessary to\nhave an authentic list of pasteboard acquaintances to invite to the\nreceptions? And what would become of us without Receptions? Everybody\nlikes to give them. Everybody flocks to them with much alacrity. When\nsociety calls the roll, we all know the penalty of being left out. Is\nthere any intellectual or physical pleasure equal to that of jamming so\nmany people into a house that they can hardly move, and treating them to\na Babel of noises in which no one can make herself heard without\nscreaming? There is nothing like a reception in any uncivilized country.\nIt is so exhilarating! When a dozen or a hundred people are gathered\ntogether in a room, they all begin to raise their voices and to shout\nlike pool-sellers in the noble rivalry of  warious langwidges,  rasping\ntheir throats into bronchitis in the bidding of the conversational ring.\nIf they spoke low, or even in the ordinary tone, conversation would be\npossible. But then it would not be a reception, as we understand it. We\ncannot neglect anywhere any of the pleasures of our social life. We train\nfor it in lower assemblies. Half a dozen women in a  call  are obliged to\nshout, just for practice, so that they can be heard by everybody in the\nneighborhood except themselves. Do not men do the same? If they do, it\nonly shows that men also are capable of the higher civilization.\n\nBut does society--that is, the intercourse of congenial people--depend\nupon the elaborate system of exchanging calls with hundreds of people who\nare not congenial? Such thoughts will sometimes come by a winter fireside\nof rational-talking friends, or at a dinner-party not too large for talk\nwithout a telephone, or in the summer-time by the sea, or in the cottage\nin the hills, when the fever of social life has got down to a normal\ntemperature. We fancy that sometimes people will give way to a real\nenjoyment of life and that human intercourse will throw off this\nartificial and wearisome parade, and that if women look back with pride,\nas they may, upon their personal achievements and labors, they will also\nregard them with astonishment. Women, we read every day, long for the\nrights and privileges of men, and the education and serious purpose in\nlife of men. And yet, such is the sweet self-sacrifice of their nature,\nthey voluntarily take on burdens which men have never assumed, and which\nthey would speedily cast off if they had. What should we say of men if\nthey consumed half their time in paying formal calls upon each other\nmerely for the sake of paying calls, and were low-spirited if they did\nnot receive as many cards as they had dealt out to society? Have they not\nthe time? Have women more time? and if they have, why should they spend\nit in this Sisyphus task? Would the social machine go to pieces--the\ninquiry is made in good faith, and solely for information--if they made\nrational business for themselves to be attended to, or even if they gave\nthe time now given to calls they hate to reading and study, and to making\ntheir household civilizing centres of intercourse and enjoyment, and paid\nvisits from some other motive than  clearing off their list ? If all the\nartificial round of calls and cards should tumble down, what valuable\nthing would be lost out of anybody's life?\n\nThe question is too vast for the Drawer, but as an experiment in\nsociology it would like to see the system in abeyance for one season. If\nat the end of it there had not been just as much social enjoyment as\nbefore, and there were not fewer women than usual down with nervous\nprostration, it would agree to start at its own expense a new experiment,\nto wit, a kind of Social Clearing-House, in which all cards should be\ndelivered and exchanged, and all social debts of this kind be balanced by\nexperienced bookkeepers, so that the reputation of everybody for\npropriety and conventionality should be just as good as it is now.\n\n\n\n\nDINNER-TABLE TALK\n\nMany people suppose that it is the easiest thing in the world to dine if\nyou can get plenty to eat. This error is the foundation of much social\nmisery. The world that never dines, and fancies it has a grievance\njustifying anarchy on that account, does not know how much misery it\nescapes. A great deal has been written about the art of dining. From time\nto time geniuses have appeared who knew how to compose a dinner; indeed,\nthe art of doing it can be learned, as well as the art of cooking and\nserving it. It is often possible, also, under extraordinarily favorable\nconditions, to select a company congenial and varied and harmonious\nenough to dine together successfully. The tact for getting the right\npeople together is perhaps rarer than the art of composing the dinner.\nBut it exists. And an elegant table with a handsome and brilliant company\nabout it is a common conjunction in this country. Instructions are not\nwanting as to the shape of the table and the size of the party; it is\nuniversally admitted that the number must be small. The big\ndinner-parties which are commonly made to pay off social debts are\ngenerally of the sort that one would rather contribute to in money than\nin personal attendance. When the dinner is treated as a means of\ndischarging obligations, it loses all character, and becomes one of the\nsocial inflictions. While there is nothing in social intercourse so\nagreeable and inspiring as a dinner of the right sort, society has\ninvented no infliction equal to a large dinner that does not  go,  as the\nphrase is. Why it does not go when the viands are good and the company is\nbright is one of the acknowledged mysteries.\n\nThere need be no mystery about it. The social instinct and the social\nhabit are wanting to a great many people of uncommon intelligence and\ncultivation--that sort of flexibility or adaptability that makes\nagreeable society. But this even does not account for the failure of so\nmany promising dinners. The secret of this failure always is that the\nconversation is not general. The sole object of the dinner is talk--at\nleast in the United States, where  good eating  is pretty common, however\nit may be in England, whence come rumors occasionally of accomplished men\nwho decline to be interrupted by the frivolity of talk upon the\nappearance of favorite dishes. And private talk at a table is not the\nsort that saves a dinner; however good it is, it always kills it. The\nchance of arrangement is that the people who would like to talk together\nare not neighbors; and if they are, they exhaust each other to weariness\nin an hour, at least of topics which can be talked about with the risk of\nbeing overheard. A duet to be agreeable must be to a certain extent\nconfidential, and the dinner-table duet admits of little except\ngeneralities, and generalities between two have their limits of\nentertainment. Then there is the awful possibility that the neighbors at\ntable may have nothing to say to each other; and in the best-selected\ncompany one may sit beside a stupid man--that is, stupid for the purpose\nof a 'tete-a-tete'. But this is not the worst of it. No one can talk well\nwithout an audience; no one is stimulated to say bright things except by\nthe attention and questioning and interest of other minds. There is\nlittle inspiration in side talk to one or two. Nobody ought to go to a\ndinner who is not a good listener, and, if possible, an intelligent one.\nTo listen with a show of intelligence is a great accomplishment. It is\nnot absolutely essential that there should be a great talker or a number\nof good talkers at a dinner if all are good listeners, and able to  chip\nin  a little to the general talk that springs up. For the success of the\ndinner does not necessarily depend upon the talk being brilliant, but it\ndoes depend upon its being general, upon keeping the ball rolling round\nthe table; the old-fashioned game becomes flat when the balls all\ndisappear into private pockets. There are dinners where the object seems\nto be to pocket all the balls as speedily as possible. We have learned\nthat that is not the best game; the best game is when you not only depend\non the carom, but in going to the cushion before you carom; that is to\nsay, including the whole table, and making things lively. The hostess\nsucceeds who is able to excite this general play of all the forces at the\ntable, even using the silent but not non-elastic material as cushions, if\none may continue the figure. Is not this, O brothers and sisters, an evil\nunder the sun, this dinner as it is apt to be conducted? Think of the\nweary hours you have given to a rite that should be the highest social\npleasure! How often when a topic is started that promises well, and might\ncome to something in a general exchange of wit and fancy, and some one\nbegins to speak on it, and speak very well, too, have you not had a lady\nat your side cut in and give you her views on it--views that might be\namusing if thrown out into the discussion, but which are simply\nimpertinent as an interruption! How often when you have tried to get a\n rise  out of somebody opposite have you not had your neighbor cut in\nacross you with some private depressing observation to your next\nneighbor! Private talk at a dinner-table is like private chat at a parlor\nmusicale, only it is more fatal to the general enjoyment. There is a\nnotion that the art of conversation, the ability to talk well, has gone\nout. That is a great mistake. Opportunity is all that is needed. There\nmust be the inspiration of the clash of minds and the encouragement of\ngood listening. In an evening round the fire, when couples begin, to\nwhisper or talk low to each other, it is time to put out the lights.\nInspiring interest is gone. The most brilliant talker in the world is\ndumb. People whose idea of a dinner is private talk between\nseat-neighbors should limit the company to two. They have no right to\nspoil what can be the most agreeable social institution that civilization\nhas evolved.\n\n\n\n\nNATURALIZATION\n\nIs it possible for a person to be entirely naturalized?--that is, to be\ndenationalized, to cast off the prejudice and traditions of one country\nand take up those of another; to give up what may be called the\ninstinctive tendencies of one race and take up those of another. It is\neasy enough to swear off allegiance to a sovereign or a government, and\nto take on in intention new political obligations, but to separate one's\nself from the sympathies into which he was born is quite another affair.\nOne is likely to remain in the inmost recesses of his heart an alien, and\nas a final expression of his feeling to hoist the green flag, or the\ndragon, or the cross of St. George. Probably no other sentiment is, so\nstrong in a man as that of attachment to his own soil and people, a\nsub-sentiment always remaining, whatever new and unbreakable attachments\nhe may form. One can be very proud of his adopted country, and brag for\nit, and fight for it; but lying deep in a man's nature is something, no\ndoubt, that no oath nor material interest can change, and that is never\nnaturalized. We see this experiment in America more than anywhere else,\nbecause here meet more different races than anywhere else with the\nserious intention of changing their nationality. And we have a notion\nthat there is something in our atmosphere, or opportunities, or our\ngovernment, that makes this change more natural and reasonable than it\nhas been anywhere else in history. It is always a surprise to us when a\nborn citizen of the United States changes his allegiance, but it seems a\nthing of course that a person of any other country should, by an oath,\nbecome a good American, and we expect that the act will work a sudden\nchange in him equal to that wrought in a man by what used to be called a\nconviction of sin. We expect that he will not only come into our family,\nbut that he will at once assume all its traditions and dislikes, that\nwhatever may have been his institutions or his race quarrels, the moving\ninfluence of his life hereafter will be the  Spirit of '76. \n\nWhat is this naturalization, however, but a sort of parable of human\nlife? Are we not always trying to adjust ourselves to new relations, to\nget naturalized into a new family? Does one ever do it entirely? And how\nmuch of the lonesomeness of life comes from the failure to do it! It is a\ntremendous experiment, we all admit, to separate a person from his race,\nfrom his country, from his climate, and the habits of his part of the\ncountry, by marriage; it is only an experiment differing in degree to\nintroduce him by marriage into a new circle of kinsfolk. Is he ever\nanything but a sort of tolerated, criticised, or admired alien? Does the\ntime ever come when the distinction ceases between his family and hers?\nThey say love is stronger than death. It may also be stronger than\nfamily--while it lasts; but was there ever a woman yet whose most\nineradicable feeling was not the sentiment of family and blood, a sort of\nbase-line in life upon which trouble and disaster always throw her back?\nDoes she ever lose the instinct of it? We used to say in jest that a\npatriotic man was always willing to sacrifice his wife's relations in\nwar; but his wife took a different view of it; and when it becomes a\nquestion of office, is it not the wife's relations who get them? To be\nsure, Ruth said, thy people shall be my people, and where thou goest I\nwill go, and all that, and this beautiful sentiment has touched all time,\nand man has got the historic notion that he is the head of things. But is\nit true that a woman is ever really naturalized? Is it in her nature to\nbe? Love will carry her a great way, and to far countries, and to many\nendurances, and her capacity of self-sacrifice is greater than man's; but\nwould she ever be entirely happy torn from her kindred, transplanted from\nthe associations and interlacings of her family life? Does anything\nreally take the place of that entire ease and confidence that one has in\nkin, or the inborn longing for their sympathy and society? There are two\ntheories about life, as about naturalization: one is that love is enough,\nthat intention is enough; the other is that the whole circle of human\nrelations and attachments is to be considered in a marriage, and that in\nthe long-run the question of family is a preponderating one. Does the\ngate of divorce open more frequently from following the one theory than\nthe other? If we were to adopt the notion that marriage is really a\ntremendous act of naturalization, of absolute surrender on one side or\nthe other of the deepest sentiments and hereditary tendencies, would\nthere be so many hasty marriages--slip-knots tied by one justice to be\nundone by another? The Drawer did not intend to start such a deep\nquestion as this. Hosts of people are yearly naturalized in this country,\nnot from any love of its institutions, but because they can more easily\nget a living here, and they really surrender none of their hereditary\nideas, and it is only human nature that marriages should be made with\nlike purpose and like reservations. These reservations do not, however,\nmake the best citizens or the most happy marriages. Would it be any\nbetter if country lines were obliterated, and the great brotherhood of\npeoples were established, and there was no such thing as patriotism or\nfamily, and marriage were as free to make and unmake as some people think\nit should be? Very likely, if we could radically change human nature. But\nhuman nature is the most obstinate thing that the International\nConventions have to deal with.\n\n\n\n\nART OF GOVERNING\n\nHe was saying, when he awoke one morning,  I wish I were governor of a\nsmall island, and had nothing to do but to get up and govern.  It was an\nobservation quite worthy of him, and one of general application, for\nthere are many men who find it very difficult to get a living on their\nown resources, to whom it would be comparatively easy to be a very fair\nsort of governor. Everybody who has no official position or routine duty\non a salary knows that the most trying moment in the twenty-four hours is\nthat in which he emerges from the oblivion of sleep and faces life.\nEverything perplexing tumbles in upon him, all the possible vexations of\nthe day rise up before him, and he is little less than a hero if he gets\nup cheerful.\n\nIt is not to be wondered at that people crave office, some salaried\nposition, in order to escape the anxieties, the personal\nresponsibilities, of a single-handed struggle with the world. It must be\nmuch easier to govern an island than to carry on almost any retail\nbusiness. When the governor wakes in the morning he thinks first of his\nsalary; he has not the least anxiety about his daily bread or the support\nof his family. His business is all laid out for him; he has not to create\nit. Business comes to him; he does not have to drum for it. His day is\nagreeably, even if sympathetically, occupied with the troubles of other\npeople, and nothing is so easy to bear as the troubles of other people.\nAfter he has had his breakfast, and read over the  Constitution,  he has\nnothing to do but to  govern  for a few hours, that is, to decide about\nthings on general principles, and with little personal application, and\nperhaps about large concerns which nobody knows anything about, and which\nare much easier to dispose of than the perplexing details of private\nlife. He has to vote several times a day; for giving a decision is really\ncasting a vote; but that is much easier than to scratch around in all the\nanxieties of a retail business. Many men who would make very respectable\nPresidents of the United States could not successfully run a retail\ngrocery store. The anxieties of the grocery would wear them out. For\nconsider the varied ability that the grocery requires-the foresight about\nthe markets, to take advantage of an eighth per cent. off or on here and\nthere; the vigilance required to keep a  full line  and not overstock, to\ndispose of goods before they spoil or the popular taste changes; the\nsuavity and integrity and duplicity and fairness and adaptability needed\nto get customers and keep them; the power to bear the daily and hourly\nworry; the courage to face the ever-present spectre of  failure,  which\nis said to come upon ninety merchants in a hundred; the tact needed to\nmeet the whims and the complaints of patrons, and the difficulty of\ngetting the patrons who grumble most to pay in order to satisfy the\ncreditors. When the retail grocer wakens in the morning he feels that his\nbusiness is not going to come to him spontaneously; he thinks of his\nrivals, of his perilous stock, of his debts and delinquent customers. He\nhas no  Constitution  to go by, nothing but his wits and energy to set\nagainst the world that day, and every day the struggle and the anxiety\nare the same. What a number of details he has to carry in his head\n(consider, for instance, how many different kinds of cheese there are,\nand how different people hate and love the same kind), and how keen must\nbe his appreciation of the popular taste. The complexities and annoyances\nof his business are excessive, and he cannot afford to make many\nmistakes; if he does he will lose his business, and when a man fails in\nbusiness (honestly), he loses his nerve, and his career is ended. It is\nsimply amazing, when you consider it, the amount of talent shown in what\nare called the ordinary businesses of life.\n\nIt has been often remarked with how little wisdom the world is governed.\nThat is the reason it is so easy to govern.  Uneasy lies the head that\nwears a crown  does not refer to the discomfort of wearing it, but to the\ndanger of losing it, and of being put back upon one's native resources,\nhaving to run a grocery or to keep school. Nobody is in such a pitiable\nplight as a monarch or politician out of business. It is very difficult\nfor either to get a living. A man who has once enjoyed the blessed\nfeeling of awaking every morning with the thought that he has a certain\nsalary despises the idea of having to drum up a business by his own\ntalents. It does not disturb the waking hour at all to think that a\ndeputation is waiting in the next room about a post-office in Indiana or\nabout the codfish in Newfoundland waters--the man can take a second nap\non any such affair; but if he knows that the living of himself and family\nthat day depends upon his activity and intelligence, uneasy lies his\nhead. There is something so restful and easy about public business! It is\nso simple! Take the average Congressman. The Secretary of the Treasury\nsends in an elaborate report--a budget, in fact--involving a complete and\nharmonious scheme of revenue and expenditure. Must the Congressman read\nit? No; it is not necessary to do that; he only cares for practical\nmeasures. Or a financial bill is brought in. Does he study that bill? He\nhears it read, at least by title. Does he take pains to inform himself by\nreading and conversation with experts upon its probable effect? Or an\ninternational copyright law is proposed, a measure that will relieve the\npeople of the United States from the world-wide reputation of sneaking\nmeanness towards foreign authors. Does he examine the subject, and try to\nunderstand it? That is not necessary. Or it is a question of tariff. He\nis to vote  yes  or  no  on these proposals. It is not necessary for him\nto master these subjects, but it is necessary for him to know how to\nvote. And how does he find out that? In the first place, by inquiring\nwhat effect the measure will have upon the chance of election of the man\nhe thinks will be nominated for President, and in the second place, what\neffect his vote will have on his own reelection. Thus the principles of\nlegislation become very much simplified, and thus it happens that it is\ncomparatively so much easier to govern than it is to run a grocery store.\n\n\n\n\nLOVE OF DISPLAY\n\nIt is fortunate that a passion for display is implanted in human nature;\nand if we owe a debt of gratitude to anybody, it is to those who make the\ndisplay for us. It would be such a dull, colorless world without it! We\ntry in vain to imagine a city without brass bands, and military\nmarchings, and processions of societies in regalia and banners and\nresplendent uniforms, and gayly caparisoned horses, and men clad in red\nand yellow and blue and gray and gold and silver and feathers, moving in\nbeautiful lines, proudly wheeling with step elate upon some responsive\nhuman being as axis, deploying, opening, and closing ranks in exquisite\nprecision to the strains of martial music, to the thump of the drum and\nthe scream of the fife, going away down the street with nodding plumes,\nheads erect, the very port of heroism. There is scarcely anything in the\nworld so inspiring as that. And the self-sacrifice of it! What will not\nmen do and endure to gratify their fellows! And in the heat of summer,\ntoo, when most we need something to cheer us! The Drawer saw, with\nfeelings that cannot be explained, a noble company of men, the pride of\ntheir city, all large men, all fat men, all dressed alike, but each one\nas beautiful as anything that can be seen on the stage, perspiring\nthrough the gala streets of another distant city, the admiration of\ncrowds of huzzaing men and women and boys, following another company as\nresplendent as itself, every man bearing himself like a hero, despising\nthe heat and the dust, conscious only of doing his duty. We make a great\nmistake if we suppose it is a feeling of ferocity that sets these men\ntramping about in gorgeous uniform, in mud or dust, in rain or under a\nbroiling sun. They have no desire to kill anybody. Out of these\nresplendent clothes they are much like other people; only they have a\nnobler spirit, that which leads them to endure hardships for the sake of\npleasing others. They differ in degree, though not in kind, from those\norders, for keeping secrets, or for encouraging a distaste for strong\ndrink, which also wear bright and attractive regalia, and go about in\nprocessions, with banners and music, and a pomp that cannot be\ndistinguished at a distance from real war. It is very fortunate that men\ndo like to march about in ranks and lines, even without any\ndistinguishing apparel. The Drawer has seen hundreds of citizens in a\nbody, going about the country on an excursion, parading through town\nafter town, with no other distinction of dress than a uniform high white\nhat, who carried joy and delight wherever they went. The good of this\ndisplay cannot be reckoned in figures. Even a funeral is comparatively\ndull without the military band and the four-and-four processions, and the\ncities where these resplendent corteges of woes are of daily occurrence\nare cheerful cities. The brass band itself, when we consider it\nphilosophically, is one of the most striking things in our civilization.\nWe admire its commonly splendid clothes, its drums and cymbals and\nbraying brass, but it is the impartial spirit with which it lends itself\nto our varying wants that distinguishes it. It will not do to say that it\nhas no principles, for nobody has so many, or is so impartial in\nexercising them. It is equally ready to play at a festival or a funeral,\na picnic or an encampment, for the sons of war or the sons of temperance,\nand it is equally willing to express the feeling of a Democratic meeting\nor a Republican gathering, and impartially blows out  Dixie  or  Marching\nthrough Georgia,   The Girl I Left Behind Me  or  My Country, 'tis of\nThee.  It is equally piercing and exciting for St. Patrick or the Fourth\nof July.\n\nThere are cynics who think it strange that men are willing to dress up in\nfantastic uniform and regalia and march about in sun and rain to make a\nholiday for their countrymen, but the cynics are ungrateful, and fail to\ncredit human nature with its trait of self-sacrifice, and they do not at\nall comprehend our civilization. It was doubted at one time whether the\nfreedman and the colored man generally in the republic was capable of the\nhigher civilization. This doubt has all been removed. No other race takes\nmore kindly to martial and civic display than it. No one has a greater\npassion for societies and uniforms and regalias and banners, and the pomp\nof marchings and processions and peaceful war. The negro naturally\ninclines to the picturesque, to the flamboyant, to vivid colors and the\ntrappings of office that give a man distinction. He delights in the drum\nand the trumpet, and so willing is he to add to what is spectacular and\npleasing in life that he would spend half his time in parading. His\ncapacity for a holiday is practically unlimited. He has not yet the means\nto indulge his taste, and perhaps his taste is not yet equal to his\nmeans, but there is no question of his adaptability to the sort of\ndisplay which is so pleasing to the greater part of the human race, and\nwhich contributes so much to the brightness and cheerfulness of this\nworld. We cannot all have decorations, and cannot all wear uniforms, or\neven regalia, and some of us have little time for going about in military\nor civic processions, but we all like to have our streets put on a\nholiday appearance; and we cannot express in words our gratitude to those\nwho so cheerfully spend their time and money in glittering apparel and in\nparades for our entertainment.\n\n\n\n\nVALUE OF THE COMMONPLACE\n\nThe vitality of a fallacy is incalculable. Although the Drawer has been\ngoing many years, there are still remaining people who believe that\n things which are equal to the same thing are equal to each other.  This\nmathematical axiom, which is well enough in its place, has been extended\ninto the field of morals and social life, confused the perception of\nhuman relations, and raised  hob,  as the saying is, in political\neconomy. We theorize and legislate as if people were things. Most of the\nschemes of social reorganization are based on this fallacy. It always\nbreaks down in experience. A has two friends, B and C--to state it\nmathematically. A is equal to B, and A is equal to C. A has for B and\nalso for C the most cordial admiration and affection, and B and C have\nreciprocally the same feeling for A. Such is the harmony that A cannot\ntell which he is more fond of, B or C. And B and C are sure that A is the\nbest friend of each. This harmony, however, is not triangular. A makes\nthe mistake of supposing that it is--having a notion that things which\nare equal to the same thing are equal to each other--and he brings B and\nC together. The result is disastrous. B and C cannot get on with each\nother. Regard for A restrains their animosity, and they hypocritically\npretend to like each other, but both wonder what A finds so congenial in\nthe other. The truth is that this personal equation, as we call it, in\neach cannot be made the subject of mathematical calculation. Human\nrelations will not bend to it. And yet we keep blundering along as if\nthey would. We are always sure, in our letter of introduction, that this\nfriend will be congenial to the other, because we are fond of both.\nSometimes this happens, but half the time we should be more successful in\nbringing people into accord if we gave a letter of introduction to a\nperson we do not know, to be delivered to one we have never seen. On the\nface of it this is as absurd as it is for a politician to indorse the\napplication of a person he does not know for an office the duties of\nwhich he is unacquainted with; but it is scarcely less absurd than the\nexpectation that men and women can be treated like mathematical units and\nequivalents. Upon the theory that they can, rest the present grotesque\nschemes of Nationalism.\n\nIn saying all this the Drawer is well aware that it subjects itself to\nthe charge of being commonplace, but it is precisely the commonplace that\nthis essay seeks to defend. Great is the power of the commonplace.  My\nfriends,  says the preacher, in an impressive manner,  Alexander died;\nNapoleon died; you will all die!  This profound remark, so true, so\nthoughtful, creates a deep sensation. It is deepened by the statement\nthat  man is a moral being.  The profundity of such startling assertions\ncows the spirit; they appeal to the universal consciousness, and we bow\nto the genius that delivers them.  How true!  we exclaim, and go away\nwith an enlarged sense of our own capacity for the comprehension of deep\nthought. Our conceit is flattered. Do we not like the books that raise us\nto the great level of the commonplace, whereon we move with a sense of\npower? Did not Mr. Tupper, that sweet, melodious shepherd of the\nundisputed, lead about vast flocks of sheep over the satisfying plain of\nmediocrity? Was there ever a greater exhibition of power, while it\nlasted? How long did  The Country Parson  feed an eager world with\nrhetorical statements of that which it already knew? The thinner this\nsort of thing is spread out, the more surface it covers, of course. What\nis so captivating and popular as a book of essays which gathers together\nand arranges a lot of facts out of histories and cyclopaedias, set forth\nin the form of conversations that any one could have taken part in? Is\nnot this book pleasing because it is commonplace? And is this because we\ndo not like to be insulted with originality, or because in our experience\nit is only the commonly accepted which is true? The statesman or the poet\nwho launches out unmindful of these conditions will be likely to come to\ngrief in her generation. Will not the wise novelist seek to encounter the\nleast intellectual resistance?\n\nShould one take a cynical view of mankind because he perceives this great\npower of the commonplace? Not at all. He should recognize and respect\nthis power. He may even say that it is this power that makes the world go\non as smoothly and contentedly as it does, on the whole. Woe to us, is\nthe thought of Carlyle, when a thinker is let loose in this world! He\nbecomes a cause of uneasiness, and a source of rage very often. But his\npower is limited. He filters through a few minds, until gradually his\nideas become commonplace enough to be powerful. We draw our supply of\nwater from reservoirs, not from torrents. Probably the man who first said\nthat the line of rectitude corresponds with the line of enjoyment was\ndisliked as well as disbelieved. But how impressive now is the idea that\nvirtue and happiness are twins!\n\nPerhaps it is true that the commonplace needs no defense, since everybody\ntakes it in as naturally as milk, and thrives on it. Beloved and read and\nfollowed is the writer or the preacher of commonplace. But is not the\nsunshine common, and the bloom of May? Why struggle with these things in\nliterature and in life? Why not settle down upon the formula that to be\nplatitudinous is to be happy?\n\n\n\n\nTHE BURDEN OF CHRISTMAS\n\nIt would be the pity of the world to destroy it, because it would be next\nto impossible to make another holiday as good as Christmas. Perhaps there\nis no danger, but the American people have developed an unexpected\ncapacity for destroying things; they can destroy anything. They have even\ninvented a phrase for it--running a thing into the ground. They have\nperfected the art of making so much of a thing as to kill it; they can\nmagnify a man or a recreation or an institution to death. And they do it\nwith such a hearty good-will and enjoyment. Their motto is that you\ncannot have too much of a good thing. They have almost made funerals\nunpopular by over-elaboration and display, especially what are called\npublic funerals, in which an effort is made to confer great distinction\non the dead. So far has it been carried often that there has been a\nreaction of popular sentiment and people have wished the man were alive.\nWe prosecute everything so vigorously that we speedily either wear it out\nor wear ourselves out on it, whether it is a game, or a festival, or a\nholiday. We can use up any sport or game ever invented quicker than any\nother people. We can practice anything, like a vegetable diet, for\ninstance, to an absurd conclusion with more vim than any other nation.\nThis trait has its advantages; nowhere else will a delusion run so fast,\nand so soon run up a tree--another of our happy phrases. There is a\nlargeness and exuberance about us which run even into our ordinary\nphraseology. The sympathetic clergyman, coming from the bedside of a\nparishioner dying of dropsy, says, with a heavy sigh,  The poor fellow is\njust swelling away. \n\nIs Christmas swelling away? If it is not, it is scarcely our fault. Since\nthe American nation fairly got hold of the holiday--in some parts of the\ncountry, as in New England, it has been universal only about fifty\nyears--we have made it hum, as we like to say. We have appropriated the\nEnglish conviviality, the German simplicity, the Roman pomp, and we have\nadded to it an element of expense in keeping with our own greatness. Is\nanybody beginning to feel it a burden, this sweet festival of charity and\ngood-will, and to look forward to it with apprehension? Is the time\napproaching when we shall want to get somebody to play it for us, like\nbase-ball? Anything that interrupts the ordinary flow of life, introduces\ninto it, in short, a social cyclone that upsets everything for a\nfortnight, may in time be as hard to bear as that festival of housewives\ncalled housecleaning, that riot of cleanliness which men fear as they do\na panic in business. Taking into account the present preparations for\nChristmas, and the time it takes to recover from it, we are\nbeginning--are we not?--to consider it one of the most serious events of\nmodern life.\n\nThe Drawer is led into these observations out of its love for Christmas.\nIt is impossible to conceive of any holiday that could take its place,\nnor indeed would it seem that human wit could invent another so adapted\nto humanity. The obvious intention of it is to bring together, for a\nseason at least, all men in the exercise of a common charity and a\nfeeling of good-will, the poor and the rich, the successful and the\nunfortunate, that all the world may feel that in the time called the\nTruce of God the thing common to all men is the best thing in life. How\nwill it suit this intention, then, if in our way of exaggerated\nostentation of charity the distinction between rich and poor is made to\nappear more marked than on ordinary days? Blessed are those that expect\nnothing. But are there not an increasing multitude of persons in the\nUnited States who have the most exaggerated expectations of personal\nprofit on Christmas Day? Perhaps it is not quite so bad as this, but it\nis safe to say that what the children alone expect to receive, in money\nvalue would absorb the national surplus, about which so much fuss is\nmade. There is really no objection to this--the terror of the surplus is\na sort of nightmare in the country--except that it destroys the\nsimplicity of the festival, and belittles small offerings that have their\nchief value in affection. And it points inevitably to the creation of a\nsort of Christmas  Trust --the modern escape out of ruinous competition.\nWhen the expense of our annual charity becomes so great that the poor are\ndiscouraged from sharing in it, and the rich even feel it a burden, there\nwould seem to be no way but the establishment of neighborhood  Trusts  in\norder to equalize both cost and distribution. Each family could buy a\nshare according to its means, and the division on Christmas Day would\ncreate a universal satisfaction in profit sharing--that is, the rich\nwould get as much as the poor, and the rivalry of ostentation would be\nquieted. Perhaps with the money question a little subdued, and the female\nanxieties of the festival allayed, there would be more room for the\ndevelopment of that sweet spirit of brotherly kindness, or all-embracing\ncharity, which we know underlies this best festival of all the ages. Is\nthis an old sermon? The Drawer trusts that it is, for there can be\nnothing new in the preaching of simplicity.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RESPONSIBILITY OF WRITERS\n\nIt is difficult enough to keep the world straight without the\ninterposition of fiction. But the conduct of the novelists and the\npainters makes the task of the conservators of society doubly perplexing.\nNeither the writers nor the artists have a due sense of the\nresponsibilities of their creations. The trouble appears to arise from\nthe imitativeness of the race. Nature herself seems readily to fall into\nimitation. It was noticed by the friends of nature that when the peculiar\ncoal-tar colors were discovered, the same faded, aesthetic, and sometimes\nsickly colors began to appear in the ornamental flower-beds and masses of\nfoliage plants. It was hardly fancy that the flowers took the colors of\nthe ribbons and stuffs of the looms, and that the same instant nature and\nart were sicklied o'er with the same pale hues of fashion. If this\nrelation of nature and art is too subtle for comprehension, there is\nnothing fanciful in the influence of the characters in fiction upon\nsocial manners and morals. To convince ourselves of this, we do not need\nto recall the effect of Werther, of Childe Harold, and of Don Juan, and\nthe imitation of their sentimentality, misanthropy, and adventure, down\nto the copying of the rakishness of the loosely-knotted necktie and the\nbroad turn-over collar. In our own generation the heroes and heroines of\nfiction begin to appear in real life, in dress and manner, while they are\nstill warm from the press. The popular heroine appears on the street in a\nhundred imitations as soon as the popular mind apprehends her traits in\nthe story. We did not know the type of woman in the poems of the\naesthetic school and on the canvas of Rossetti--the red-haired, wide-eyed\nchild of passion and emotion, in lank clothes, enmeshed in spider-webs\n--but so quickly was she multiplied in real life that she seemed to have\nstepped from the book and the frame, ready-made, into the street and the\ndrawing-room. And there is nothing wonderful about this. It is a truism\nto say that the genuine creations in fiction take their places in general\napprehension with historical characters, and sometimes they live more\nvividly on the printed page and on canvas than the others in their pale,\ncontradictory, and incomplete lives. The characters of history we seldom\nagree about, and are always reconstructing on new information; but the\ncharacters of fiction are subject to no such vicissitudes.\n\nThe importance of this matter is hardly yet perceived. Indeed, it is\nunreasonable that it should be, when parents, as a rule, have so slight a\nfeeling of responsibility for the sort of children they bring into the\nworld. In the coming scientific age this may be changed, and society may\nvisit upon a grandmother the sins of her grandchildren, recognizing her\nresponsibility to the very end of the line. But it is not strange that in\nthe apathy on this subject the novelists should be careless and\ninconsiderate as to the characters they produce, either as ideals or\nexamples. They know that the bad example is more likely to be copied than\nto be shunned, and that the low ideal, being easy to, follow, is more\nlikely to be imitated than the high ideal. But the novelists have too\nlittle sense of responsibility in this respect, probably from an\ninadequate conception of their power. Perhaps the most harmful sinners\nare not those who send into the world of fiction the positively wicked\nand immoral, but those who make current the dull, the commonplace, and\nthe socially vulgar. For most readers the wicked character is repellant;\nbut the commonplace raises less protest, and is soon deemed harmless,\nwhile it is most demoralizing. An underbred book--that is, a book in\nwhich the underbred characters are the natural outcome of the author's\nown, mind and apprehension of life--is worse than any possible epidemic;\nfor while the epidemic may kill a number of useless or vulgar people, the\nbook will make a great number. The keen observer must have noticed the\nincreasing number of commonplace, undiscriminating people of low\nintellectual taste in the United States. These are to a degree the result\nof the feeble, underbred literature (so called) that is most hawked\nabout, and most accessible, by cost and exposure, to the greater number\nof people. It is easy to distinguish the young ladies--many of them\nbeautifully dressed, and handsome on first acquaintance--who have been\nbred on this kind of book. They are betrayed by their speech, their\ntaste, their manners. Yet there is a marked public insensibility about\nthis. We all admit that the scrawny young woman, anaemic and physically\nundeveloped, has not had proper nourishing food: But we seldom think that\nthe mentally-vulgar girl, poverty-stricken in ideas, has been starved by\na thin course of diet on anaemic books. The girls are not to blame if\nthey are as vapid and uninteresting as the ideal girls they have been\nassociating with in the books they have read. The responsibility is with\nthe novelist and the writer of stories, the chief characteristic of which\nis vulgar commonplace.\n\nProbably when the Great Assize is held one of the questions asked will\nbe,  Did you, in America, ever write stories for children?  What a\nquaking of knees there will be! For there will stand the victims of this\nsort of literature, who began in their tender years to enfeeble their\nminds with the wishy-washy flood of commonplace prepared for them by dull\nwriters and commercial publishers, and continued on in those so-called\ndomestic stories (as if domestic meant idiotic) until their minds were\ndiluted to that degree that they could not act upon anything that offered\nthe least resistance. Beginning with the pepsinized books, they must\ncontinue with them, and the dull appetite by-and-by must be stimulated\nwith a spice of vulgarity or a little pepper of impropriety. And\nfortunately for their nourishment in this kind, the dullest writers can\nbe indecent.\n\nUnfortunately the world is so ordered that the person of the feeblest\nconstitution can communicate a contagious disease. And these people, bred\non this pabulum, in turn make books. If one, it is now admitted, can do\nnothing else in this world, he can write, and so the evil widens and\nwidens. No art is required, nor any selection, nor any ideality, only\ncapacity for increasing the vacuous commonplace in life. A princess born\nmay have this, or the leader of cotillons. Yet in the judgment the\nresponsibility will rest upon the writers who set the copy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CAP AND GOWN\n\nOne of the burning questions now in the colleges for the higher education\nof women is whether the undergraduates shall wear the cap and gown. The\nsubject is a delicate one, and should not be confused with the broader\none, what is the purpose of the higher education? Some hold that the\npurpose is to enable a woman to dispense with marriage, while others\nmaintain that it is to fit a woman for the higher duties of the married\nlife. The latter opinion will probably prevail, for it has nature on its\nside, and the course of history, and the imagination. But meantime the\npoint of education is conceded, and whether a girl is to educate herself\ninto single or double blessedness need not interfere with the\nconsideration of the habit she is to wear during her college life. That\nis to be determined by weighing a variety of reasons.\n\nNot the least of these is the consideration whether the cap-and-gown\nhabit is becoming. If it is not becoming, it will not go, not even by an\namendment to the Constitution of the United States; for woman's dress\nobeys always the higher law. Masculine opinion is of no value on this\npoint, and the Drawer is aware of the fact that if it thinks the cap and\ngown becoming, it may imperil the cap-and-gown cause to say so; but the\ncold truth is that the habit gives a plain girl distinction, and a\nhandsome girl gives the habit distinction. So that, aside from the\nmysterious working of feminine motive, which makes woman a law unto\nherself, there should be practical unanimity in regard to this habit.\nThere is in the cap and gown a subtle suggestion of the union of learning\nwith womanly charm that is very captivating to the imagination. On the\nother hand, all this may go for nothing with the girl herself, who is\nconscious of the possession of quite other powers and attractions in a\nvaried and constantly changing toilet, which can reflect her moods from\nhour to hour. So that if it is admitted that this habit is almost\nuniversally becoming today, it might, in the inscrutable depths of the\nfeminine nature--the something that education never can and never should\nchange--be irksome tomorrow, and we can hardly imagine what a blight to a\nyoung spirit there might be in three hundred and sixty-five days of\nuniformity.\n\nThe devotees of the higher education will perhaps need to approach the\nsubject from another point of view--namely, what they are willing to\nsurrender in order to come into a distinctly scholastic influence. The\ncap and gown are scholastic emblems. Primarily they marked the student,\nand not alliance with any creed or vows to any religious order. They\nbelong to the universities of learning, and today they have no more\necclesiastic meaning than do the gorgeous robes of the Oxford chancellor\nand vice-chancellor and the scarlet hood. From the scholarly side, then,\nif not from the dress side, there is much to be said for the cap and\ngown. They are badges of devotion, for the time being, to an intellectual\nlife.\n\nThey help the mind in its effort to set itself apart to unworldly\npursuits; they are indications of separateness from the prevailing\nfashions and frivolities. The girl who puts on the cap and gown devotes\nherself to the society which is avowedly in pursuit of a larger\nintellectual sympathy and a wider intellectual life. The enduring of this\nhabit will have a confirming influence on her purposes, and help to keep\nher up to them. It is like the uniform to the soldier or the veil to the\nnun--a sign of separation and devotion. It is difficult in this age to\nkeep any historic consciousness, any proper relations to the past. In the\ncap and gown the girl will at least feel that she is in the line of the\ntraditions of pure learning. And there is also something of order and\ndiscipline in the uniforming of a community set apart for an unworldly\npurpose. Is it believed that three or four years of the kind of\nseparateness marked by this habit in the life of a girl will rob her of\nany desirable womanly quality?\n\nThe cap and gown are only an emphasis of the purpose to devote a certain\nperiod to the higher life, and if they cannot be defended, then we may\nbegin to be skeptical about the seriousness of the intention of a higher\neducation. If the school is merely a method of passing the time until a\ncertain event in the girl's life, she had better dress as if that event\nwere the only one worth considering. But if she wishes to fit herself for\nthe best married life, she may not disdain the help of the cap and gown\nin devoting herself to the highest culture. Of course education has its\ndangers, and the regalia of scholarship may increase them. While our\ncap-and-gown divinity is walking in the groves of Academia, apart from\nthe ways of men, her sisters outside may be dancing and dressing into the\naffections of the marriageable men. But this is not the worst of it. The\nuniversity girl may be educating herself out of sympathy with the\nordinary possible husband. But this will carry its own cure. The educated\ngirl will be so much more attractive in the long-run, will have so many\nmore resources for making a life companionship agreeable, that she will\nbe more and more in demand. And the young men, even those not expecting\nto take up a learned profession, will see the advantage of educating\nthemselves up to the cap-and-gown level. We know that it is the office of\nthe university to raise the standard of the college, and of the college\nto raise the standard of the high school. It will be the inevitable\nresult that these young ladies, setting themselves apart for a period to\nthe intellectual life, will raise the standard of the young men, and of\nmarried life generally. And there is nothing supercilious in the\ninvitation of the cap-and-gown brigade to the young men to come up\nhigher.\n\nThere is one humiliating objection made to the cap and gown-made by\nmembers of the gentle sex themselves--which cannot be passed by. It is of\nsuch a delicate nature, and involves such a disparagement of the sex in a\nvital point, that the Drawer hesitates to put it in words. It is said\nthat the cap and gown will be used to cover untidiness, to conceal the\nmakeshift of a disorderly and unsightly toilet. Undoubtedly the cap and\ngown are democratic, adopted probably to equalize the appearance of rich\nand poor in the same institution, where all are on an intellectual level.\nPerhaps the sex is not perfect; it may be that there are slovens (it is a\nbrutal word) in that sex which is our poetic image of purity. But a neat\nand self-respecting girl will no more be slovenly under a scholastic gown\nthan under any outward finery. If it is true that the sex would take\ncover in this way, and is liable to run down at the heel when it has a\nchance, then to the  examination  will have to be added a periodic\n inspection,  such as the West-Pointers submit to in regard to their\nuniforms. For the real idea of the cap and gown is to encourage\ndiscipline, order, and neatness. We fancy that it is the mission of woman\nin this generation to show the world that the tendency of woman to an\nintellectual life is not, as it used to be said it was, to untidy habits.\n\n\n\n\nA TENDENCY OF THE AGE\n\nThis ingenious age, when studied, seems not less remarkable for its\ndivision of labor than for the disposition of people to shift labor on to\nothers' shoulders. Perhaps it is only another aspect of the spirit of\naltruism, a sort of backhanded vicariousness. In taking an inventory of\ntendencies, this demands some attention.\n\nThe notion appears to be spreading that there must be some way by which\none can get a good intellectual outfit without much personal effort.\nThere are many schemes of education which encourage this idea. If one\ncould only hit upon the right  electives,  he could become a scholar with\nvery little study, and without grappling with any of the real\ndifficulties in the way of an education. It is no more a short-cut we\ndesire, but a road of easy grades, with a locomotive that will pull our\ntrain along while we sit in a palace-car at ease. The discipline to be\nobtained by tackling an obstacle and overcoming it we think of small\nvalue. There must be some way of attaining the end of cultivation without\nmuch labor. We take readily to proprietary medicines. It is easier to\ndose with these than to exercise ordinary prudence about our health. And\nwe readily believe the doctors of learning when they assure us that we\ncan acquire a new language by the same method by which we can restore\nbodily vigor: take one small patent-right volume in six easy lessons,\nwithout even the necessity of  shaking,  and without a regular doctor,\nand we shall know the language. Some one else has done all the work for\nus, and we only need to absorb. It is pleasing to see how this theory is\ngetting to be universally applied. All knowledge can be put into a kind\nof pemican, so that we can have it condensed. Everything must be chopped\nup, epitomized, put in short sentences, and italicized. And we have\nprimers for science, for history, so that we can acquire all the\ninformation we need in this world in a few hasty bites. It is an\nadmirable saving of time-saving of time being more important in this\ngeneration than the saving of ourselves.\n\nAnd the age is so intellectually active, so eager to know! If we wish to\nknow anything, instead of digging for it ourselves, it is much easier to\nflock all together to some lecturer who has put all the results into an\nhour, and perhaps can throw them all upon a screen, so that we can\nacquire all we want by merely using the eyes, and bothering ourselves\nlittle about what is said. Reading itself is almost too much of an\neffort. We hire people to read for us--to interpret, as we call it\n--Browning and Ibsen, even Wagner. Every one is familiar with the\npleasure and profit of  recitations,  of  conversations  which are\nmonologues. There is something fascinating in the scheme of getting\nothers to do our intellectual labor for us, to attempt to fill up our\nminds as if they were jars. The need of the mind for nutriment is like\nthe need of the body, but our theory is that it can be satisfied in a\ndifferent way. There was an old belief that in order that we should enjoy\nfood, and that it should perform its function of assimilation, we must\nwork for it, and that the exertion needed to earn it brought the appetite\nthat made it profitable to the system. We still have the idea that we\nmust eat for ourselves, and that we cannot delegate this performance, as\nwe do the filling of the mind, to some one else. We may have ceased to\nrelish the act of eating, as we have ceased to relish the act of\nstudying, but we cannot yet delegate it, even although our power of\ndigesting food for the body has become almost as feeble as the power of\nacquiring and digesting food for the mind.\n\nIt is beautiful to witness our reliance upon others. The house may be\nfull of books, the libraries may be as free and as unstrained of\nimpurities as city water; but if we wish to read anything or study\nanything we resort to a club. We gather together a number of persons of\nlike capacity with ourselves. A subject which we might grapple with and\nrun down by a few hours of vigorous, absorbed attention in a library,\ngaining strength of mind by resolute encountering of difficulties, by\npersonal effort, we sit around for a month or a season in a club,\nexpecting somehow to take the information by effortless contiguity with\nit. A book which we could master and possess in an evening we can have\nread to us in a month in the club, without the least intellectual effort.\nIs there nothing, then, in the exchange of ideas? Oh yes, when there are\nideas to exchange. Is there nothing stimulating in the conflict of mind\nwith mind? Oh yes, when there is any mind for a conflict. But the mind\ndoes not grow without personal effort and conflict and struggle with\nitself. It is a living organism, and not at all like a jar or other\nreceptacle for fluids. The physiologists say that what we eat will not do\nus much good unless we chew it. By analogy we may presume that the mind\nis not greatly benefited by what it gets without considerable exercise of\nthe mind.\n\nStill, it is a beautiful theory that we can get others to do our reading\nand thinking, and stuff our minds for us. It may be that psychology will\nyet show us how a congregate education by clubs may be the way. But just\nnow the method is a little crude, and lays us open to the charge--which\nevery intelligent person of this scientific age will repudiate--of being\ncontent with the superficial; for instance, of trusting wholly to others\nfor our immortal furnishing, as many are satisfied with the review of a\nbook for the book itself, or--a refinement on that--with a review of the\nreviews. The method is still crude. Perhaps we may expect a further\ndevelopment of the  slot  machine. By dropping a cent in the slot one can\nget his weight, his age, a piece of chewing-gum, a bit of candy, or a\nshock that will energize his nervous system. Why not get from a similar\nmachine a  good business education,  or an  interpretation  of Browning,\nor a new language, or a knowledge of English literature? But even this\nwould be crude. We have hopes of something from electricity. There ought\nto be somewhere a reservoir of knowledge, connected by wires with every\nhouse, and a professional switch-tender, who, upon the pressure of a\nbutton in any house, could turn on the intellectual stream desired.\n--[Prophecy of the Internet of the year 2000 from 110 years ago. D.W.]\n--There must be discovered in time a method by which not only information\nbut intellectual life can be infused into the system by an electric\ncurrent. It would save a world of trouble and expense. For some clubs\neven are a weariness, and it costs money to hire other people to read and\nthink for us.\n\n\n\n\nA LOCOED NOVELIST\n\nEither we have been indulging in an expensive mistake, or a great foreign\nnovelist who preaches the gospel of despair is locoed.\n\nThis word, which may be new to most of our readers, has long been current\nin the Far West, and is likely to be adopted into the language, and\nbecome as indispensable as the typic words taboo and tabooed, which\nHerman Melville gave us some forty years ago. There grows upon the\ndeserts and the cattle ranges of the Rockies a plant of the leguminosae\nfamily, with a purple blossom, which is called the 'loco'. It is sweet to\nthe taste; horses and cattle are fond of it, and when they have once\neaten it they prefer it to anything else, and often refuse other food.\nBut the plant is poisonous, or, rather, to speak exactly, it is a weed of\ninsanity. Its effect upon the horse seems to be mental quite as much as\nphysical. He behaves queerly, he is full of whims; one would say he was\n possessed.  He takes freaks, he trembles, he will not go in certain\nplaces, he will not pull straight, his mind is evidently affected, he is\nmildly insane. In point of fact, he is ruined; that is to say, he is\n'locoed'. Further indulgence in the plant results in death, but rarely\ndoes an animal recover from even one eating of the insane weed.\n\nThe shepherd on the great sheep ranges leads an absolutely isolated life.\nFor weeks, sometimes for months together, he does not see a human being.\nHis only companions are his dogs and the three or four thousand sheep he\nis herding. All day long, under the burning sun, he follows the herd over\nthe rainless prairie, as it nibbles here and there the short grass and\nslowly gathers its food. At night he drives the sheep back to the corral,\nand lies down alone in his hut. He speaks to no one; he almost forgets\nhow to speak. Day and night he hears no sound except the melancholy,\nmonotonous bleat, bleat of the sheep. It becomes intolerable. The animal\nstupidity of the herd enters into him. Gradually he loses his mind. They\nsay that he is locoed. The insane asylums of California contain many\nshepherds.\n\nBut the word locoed has come to have a wider application than to the poor\nshepherds or the horses and cattle that have eaten the loco. Any one who\nacts queerly, talks strangely, is visionary without being actually a\nlunatic, who is what would be called elsewhere a  crank,  is said to be\nlocoed. It is a term describing a shade of mental obliquity and queerness\nsomething short of irresponsible madness, and something more than\ntemporarily  rattled  or bewildered for the moment. It is a good word,\nand needed to apply to many people who have gone off into strange ways,\nand behave as if they had eaten some insane plant--the insane plant being\nprobably a theory in the mazes of which they have wandered until they are\nlost.\n\nPerhaps the loco does not grow in Russia, and the Prophet of\nDiscouragement may never have eaten of it; perhaps he is only like the\nshepherd, mainly withdrawn from human intercourse and sympathy in a\nmorbid mental isolation, hearing only the bleat, bleat, bleat of the\n'muxhiks' in the dullness of the steppes, wandering round in his own\nsated mind until he has lost all clew to life. Whatever the cause may be,\nclearly he is 'locoed'. All his theories have worked out to the\nconclusion that the world is a gigantic mistake, love is nothing but\nanimality, marriage is immorality; according to astronomical calculations\nthis teeming globe and all its life must end some time; and why not now?\nThere shall be no more marriage, no more children; the present population\nshall wind up its affairs with decent haste, and one by one quit the\nscene of their failure, and avoid all the worry of a useless struggle.\n\nThis gospel of the blessedness of extinction has come too late to enable\nus to profit by it in our decennial enumeration. How different the census\nwould have been if taken in the spirit of this new light! How much\nbitterness, how much hateful rivalry would have been spared! We should\nthen have desired a reduction of the population, not an increase of it.\nThere would have been a pious rivalry among all the towns and cities on\nthe way to the millennium of extinction to show the least number of\ninhabitants; and those towns would have been happiest which could exhibit\nnot only a marked decline in numbers, but the greater number of old\npeople. Beautiful St. Paul would have held a thanksgiving service, and\ninvited the Minneapolis enumerators to the feast, Kansas City and St.\nLouis and San Francisco, and a hundred other places, would not have\ndesired a recount, except, perhaps, for overestimate; they would not have\nsaid that thousands were away at the sea or in the mountains, but, on the\ncontrary, that thousands who did not belong there, attracted by the\nsalubrity of the climate, and the desire to injure the town's reputation,\nhad crowded in there in census time. The newspapers, instead of calling\non people to send in the names of the unenumerated, would have rejoiced\nat the small returns, as they would have done if the census had been for\nthe purpose of levying the federal tax upon each place according to its\npopulation. Chicago--well, perhaps the Prophet of the Steppes would have\nmade an exception of Chicago, and been cynically delighted to push it on\nits way of increase, aggregation, and ruin.\n\nBut instead of this, the strain of anxiety was universal and\nheart-rending. So much depended upon swelling the figures. The tension\nwould have been relieved if our faces were all set towards extinction,\nand the speedy evacuation of this unsatisfactory globe. The writer met\nrecently, in the Colorado desert of Arizona, a forlorn census-taker who\nhad been six weeks in the saddle, roaming over the alkali plains in order\nto gratify the vanity of Uncle Sam. He had lost his reckoning, and did\nnot know the day of the week or of the month. In all the vast territory,\naway up to the Utah line, over which he had wandered, he met human beings\n(excluding  Indians and others not taxed  ) so rarely that he was in\ndanger of being locoed. He was almost in despair when, two days before,\nhe had a windfall, which raised his general average in the form of a\nwoman with twenty-six children, and he was rejoicing that he should be\nable to turn in one hundred and fifty people. Alas, the revenue the\ngovernment will derive from these half-nomads will never pay the cost of\nenumerating them.\n\nAnd, alas again, whatever good showing we may make, we shall wish it were\nlarger; the more people we have the more we shall want. In this direction\nthere is no end, any more than there is to life. If extinction, and not\nlife and growth, is the better rule, what a costly mistake we have been\nmaking!\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAS WE GO\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\n\n\nCONTENTS: (28 short studies)\n\nOUR PRESIDENT\nTHE NEWSPAPER-MADE MAN\nINTERESTING GIRLS\nGIVE THE MEN A CHANCE\nTHE ADVENT OF CANDOR\nTHE AMERICAN MAN\nTHE ELECTRIC WAY\nCAN A HUSBAND OPEN HIS WIFE'S LETTERS?\nA LEISURE CLASS\nWEATHER AND CHARACTER\nBORN WITH AN  EGO \n JUVENTUS MUNDI\nA BEAUTIFUL OLD AGE\nTHE ATTRACTION OF THE REPULSIVE\nGIVING AS A LUXURY\nCLIMATE AND HAPPINESS\nTHE NEW FEMININE RESERVE\nREPOSE IN ACTIVITY\nWOMEN--IDEAL AND REAL\nTHE ART OF IDLENESS\nIS THERE ANY CONVERSATION\nTHE TALL GIRL\nTHE DEADLY DIARY\nTHE WHISTLING GIRL\nBORN OLD AND RICH\nTHE  OLD SOLDIER \n THE ISLAND OF BIMINI\nJUNE\n\n\n\n\nOUR PRESIDENT\n\nWe are so much accustomed to kings and queens and other privileged\npersons of that sort in this world that it is only on reflection that we\nwonder how they became so. The mystery is not their continuance, but how\ndid they get a start? We take little help from studying the bees\n--originally no one could have been born a queen. There must have been\nnot only a selection, but an election, not by ballot, but by consent some\nway expressed, and the privileged persons got their positions because\nthey were the strongest, or the wisest, or the most cunning. But the\ndescendants of these privileged persons hold the same positions when they\nare neither strong, nor wise, nor very cunning. This also is a mystery.\nThe persistence of privilege is an unexplained thing in human affairs,\nand the consent of mankind to be led in government and in fashion by\nthose to whom none of the original conditions of leadership attach is a\nphilosophical anomaly. How many of the living occupants of thrones,\ndukedoms, earldoms, and such high places are in position on their own\nmerits, or would be put there by common consent? Referring their origin\nto some sort of an election, their continuance seems to rest simply on\nforbearance. Here in America we are trying a new experiment; we have\nadopted the principle of election, but we have supplemented it with the\nequally authoritative right of deposition. And it is interesting to see\nhow it has worked for a hundred years, for it is human nature to like to\nbe set up, but not to like to be set down. If in our elections we do not\nalways get the best--perhaps few elections ever did--we at least do not\nperpetuate forever in privilege our mistakes or our good hits.\n\nThe celebration in New York, in 1889, of the inauguration of Washington\nwas an instructive spectacle. How much of privilege had been gathered and\nperpetuated in a century? Was it not an occasion that emphasized our\nrepublican democracy? Two things were conspicuous. One was that we did\nnot honor a family, or a dynasty, or a title, but a character; and the\nother was that we did not exalt any living man, but simply the office of\nPresident. It was a demonstration of the power of the people to create\ntheir own royalty, and then to put it aside when they have done with it.\nIt was difficult to see how greater honors could have been paid to any\nman than were given to the President when he embarked at Elizabethport\nand advanced, through a harbor crowded with decorated vessels, to the\ngreat city, the wharves and roofs of which were black with human beings\n--a holiday city which shook with the tumult of the popular welcome.\nWherever he went he drew the swarms in the streets as the moon draws the\ntide. Republican simplicity need not fear comparison with any royal\npageant when the President was received at the Metropolitan, and, in a\nscene of beauty and opulence that might be the flowering of a thousand\nyears instead of a century, stood upon the steps of the  dais  to greet\nthe devoted Centennial Quadrille, which passed before him with the\ncourageous five, 'Imperator, morituri te salutamus'. We had done it--we,\nthe people; that was our royalty. Nobody had imposed it on us. It was not\neven selected out of four hundred. We had taken one of the common people\nand set him up there, creating for the moment also a sort of royal family\nand a court for a background, in a splendor just as imposing for the\npassing hour as an imperial spectacle. We like to show that we can do it,\nand we like to show also that we can undo it. For at the banquet, where\nthe Elected ate his dinner, not only in the presence of, but with,\nrepresentatives of all the people of all the States, looked down on by\nthe acknowledged higher power in American life, there sat also with him\ntwo men who had lately been in his great position, the centre only a\nlittle while ago, as he was at the moment, of every eye in the republic,\nnow only common citizens without a title, without any insignia of rank,\nable to transmit to posterity no family privilege. If our hearts swelled\nwith pride that we could create something just as good as royalty, that\nthe republic had as many men of distinguished appearance, as much beauty,\nand as much brilliance of display as any traditional government, we also\nfelicitated ourselves that we could sweep it all away by a vote and\nreproduce it with new actors next day.\n\nIt must be confessed that it was a people's affair. If at any time there\nwas any idea that it could be controlled only by those who represented\nnames honored for a hundred years, or conspicuous by any social\nprivilege, the idea was swamped in popular feeling. The names that had\nbeen elected a hundred years ago did not stay elected unless the present\nowners were able to distinguish themselves. There is nothing so to be\ncoveted in a country as the perpetuity of honorable names, and the\n centennial  showed that we are rich in those that have been honorably\nborne, but it also showed that the century has gathered no privilege that\ncan count upon permanence.\n\nBut there is another aspect of the situation that is quite as serious and\nsatisfactory. Now that the ladies of the present are coming to dress as\nladies dressed a hundred years ago, we can make an adequate comparison of\nbeauty. Heaven forbid that we should disparage the women of the\nRevolutionary period! They looked as well as they could under all the\ncircumstances of a new country and the hardships of an early settlement.\nSome of them looked exceedingly well--there were beauties in those days\nas there were giants in Old Testament times. The portraits that have come\ndown to us of some of them excite our admiration, and indeed we have a\nsort of tradition of the loveliness of the women of that remote period.\nThe gallant men of the time exalted them. Yet it must be admitted by any\none who witnessed the public and private gatherings of April, 1889, in\nNew York, contributed to as they were by women from every State, and who\nis unprejudiced by family associations, that the women of America seem\nvastly improved in personal appearance since the days when George\nWashington was a lover: that is to say, the number of beautiful women is\ngreater in proportion to the population, and their beauty and charm are\nnot inferior to those which have been so much extolled in the\nRevolutionary time. There is no doubt that if George Washington could\nhave been at the Metropolitan ball he would have acknowledged this, and\nthat while he might have had misgivings about some of our political\nmethods, he would have been more proud than ever to be still acknowledged\nthe Father of his Country.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NEWSPAPER-MADE MAN\n\nA fair correspondent--has the phrase an old-time sound?--thinks we should\npay more attention to men. In a revolutionary time, when great questions\nare in issue, minor matters, which may nevertheless be very important,\nare apt to escape the consideration they deserve. We share our\ncorrespondent's interest in men, but must plead the pressure of\ncircumstances. When there are so many Woman's Journals devoted to the\nwants and aspirations of women alone, it is perhaps time to think of\nhaving a Man's journal, which should try to keep his head above-water in\nthe struggle for social supremacy. When almost every number of the\nleading periodicals has a paper about Woman--written probably by a woman\n--Woman Today, Woman Yesterday, Woman Tomorrow; when the inquiry is daily\nmade in the press as to what is expected of woman, and the new\nrequirements laid upon her by reason of her opportunities, her entrance\ninto various occupations, her education--the impartial observer is likely\nto be confused, if he is not swept away by the rising tide of femininity\nin modern life.\n\nBut this very superiority of interest in the future of women is a warning\nto man to look about him, and see where in this tide he is going to land,\nif he will float or go ashore, and what will be his character and his\nposition in the new social order. It will not do for him to sit on the\nstump of one of his prerogatives that woman has felled, and say with\nBrahma,  They reckon ill who leave me out,  for in the day of the\nSubjection of Man it may be little consolation that he is left in.\n\nIt must be confessed that man has had a long inning. Perhaps it is true\nthat he owed this to his physical strength, and that he will only keep it\nhereafter by intellectual superiority, by the dominance of mind. And how\nin this generation is he equipping himself for the future? He is the\nmoney-making animal. That is beyond dispute. Never before were there such\nbusiness men as this generation can show--Napoleons of finance,\nAlexanders of adventure, Shakespeares of speculation, Porsons of\naccumulation. He is great in his field, but is he leaving the\nintellectual province to woman? Does he read as much as she does? Is he\nbecoming anything but a newspaper-made person? Is his mind getting to be\nlike the newspaper? Speaking generally of the mass of business men--and\nthe mass are business men in this country--have they any habit of reading\nbooks? They have clubs, to be sure, but of what sort? With the exception\nof a conversation club here and there, and a literary club, more or less\nperfunctory, are they not mostly social clubs for comfort and idle\nlounging, many of them known, as other workmen are, by their  chips ?\nWhat sort of a book would a member make out of  Chips from my Workshop ?\nDo the young men, to any extent, join in Browning clubs and Shakespeare\nclubs and Dante clubs? Do they meet for the study of history, of authors,\nof literary periods, for reading, and discussing what they read? Do they\nin concert dig in the encyclopaedias, and write papers about the\ncorrelation of forces, and about Savonarola, and about the Three Kings?\nIn fact, what sort of a hand would the Three Kings suggest to them? In\nthe large cities the women's clubs, pursuing literature, art, languages,\nbotany, history, geography, geology, mythology, are innumerable. And\nthere is hardly a village in the land that has not from one to six clubs\nof young girls who meet once a week for some intellectual purpose. What\nare the young men of the villages and the cities doing meantime? How are\nthey preparing to meet socially these young ladies who are cultivating\ntheir minds? Are they adapting themselves to the new conditions? Or are\nthey counting, as they always have done, on the adaptability of women, on\nthe facility with which the members of the bright sex can interest\nthemselves in base-ball and the speed of horses and the chances of the\n street ? Is it comfortable for the young man, when the talk is about the\nlast notable book, or the philosophy of the popular poet or novelist, to\nfeel that laughing eyes are sounding his ignorance?\n\nMan is a noble creation, and he has fine and sturdy qualities which\ncommand the admiration of the other sex, but how will it be when that\nsex, by reason of superior acquirements, is able to look down on him\nintellectually? It used to be said that women are what men wish to have\nthem, that they endeavored to be the kind of women who would win\nmasculine admiration. How will it be if women have determined to make\nthemselves what it pleases them to be, and to cultivate their powers in\nthe expectation of pleasing men, if they indulge any such expectation, by\ntheir higher qualities only? This is not a fanciful possibility. It is\none that young men will do well to ponder. It is easy to ridicule the\nliterary and economic and historical societies, and the naive courage\nwith which young women in them attack the gravest problems, and to say\nthat they are only a passing fashion, like decorative art and a mode of\ndress. But a fashion is not to be underestimated; and when a fashion\ncontinues and spreads like this one, it is significant of a great change\ngoing on in society. And it is to be noticed that this fashion is\naccompanied by other phenomena as interesting. There is scarcely an\noccupation, once confined almost exclusively to men, in which women are\nnot now conspicuous. Never before were there so many women who are\nsuperior musicians, performers themselves and organizers of musical\nsocieties; never before so many women who can draw well; never so many\nwho are successful in literature, who write stories, translate, compile,\nand are acceptable workers in magazines and in publishing houses; and\nnever before were so many women reading good books, and thinking about\nthem, and talking about them, and trying to apply the lessons in them to\nthe problems of their own lives, which are seen not to end with marriage.\nA great deal of this activity, crude much of it, is on the intellectual\nside, and must tell strongly by-and-by in the position of women. And the\nyoung men will take notice that it is the intellectual force that must\ndominate in life.\n\n\n\n\nINTERESTING GIRLS\n\nIt seems hardly worth while to say that this would be a more interesting\ncountry if there were more interesting people in it. But the remark is\nworth consideration in a land where things are so much estimated by what\nthey cost. It is a very expensive country, especially so in the matter of\neducation, and one cannot but reflect whether the result is in proportion\nto the outlay. It costs a great many thousands of dollars and over four\nyears of time to produce a really good base-ball player, and the time and\nmoney invested in the production of a society young woman are not less.\nNo complaint is made of the cost of these schools of the higher\neducation; the point is whether they produce interesting people. Of\ncourse all women are interesting. It has got pretty well noised about the\nworld that American women are, on the whole, more interesting than any\nothers. This statement is not made boastfully, but simply as a market\nquotation, as one might say. They are sought for; they rule high. They\nhave a  way ; they know how to be fascinating, to be agreeable; they\nunite freedom of manner with modesty of behavior; they are apt to have\nbeauty, and if they have not, they know how to make others think they\nhave. Probably the Greek girls in their highest development under Phidias\nwere never so attractive as the American girls of this period; and if we\nhad a Phidias who could put their charms in marble, all the antique\ngalleries would close up and go out of business.\n\nBut it must be understood that in regard to them, as to the dictionaries,\nit is necessary to  get the best.  Not all women are equally interesting,\nand some of those on whom most educational money is lavished are the\nleast so. It can be said broadly that everybody is interesting up to a\ncertain point. There is no human being from whom the inquiring mind\ncannot learn something. It is so with women. Some are interesting for\nfive minutes, some for ten, some for an hour; some are not exhausted in a\nwhole day; and some (and this shows the signal leniency of Providence)\nare perennially entertaining, even in the presence of masculine\nstupidity. Of course the radical trouble of this world is that there are\nnot more people who are interesting comrades, day in and day out, for a\nlifetime. It is greatly to the credit of American women that so many of\nthem have this quality, and have developed it, unprotected, in free\ncompetition with all countries which have been pouring in women without\nthe least duty laid upon their grace or beauty. We, have a tariff upon\nknowledge--we try to shut out all of that by a duty on books; we have a\ntariff on piety and intelligence in a duty on clergymen; we try to\nexclude art by a levy on it; but we have never excluded the raw material\nof beauty, and the result is that we can successfully compete in the\nmarkets of the world.\n\nThis, however, is a digression. The reader wants to know what this\nquality of being interesting has to do with girls' schools. It is\nadmitted that if one goes into a new place he estimates the agreeableness\nof it according to the number of people it contains with whom it is a\npleasure to converse, who have either the ability to talk well or the\nintelligence to listen appreciatingly even if deceivingly, whose society\nhas the beguiling charm that makes even natural scenery satisfactory. It\nis admitted also that in our day the burden of this end of life, making\nit agreeable, is mainly thrown upon women. Men make their business an\nexcuse for not being entertaining, or the few who cultivate the mind\n(aside from the politicians, who always try to be winning) scarcely think\nit worth while to contribute anything to make society bright and\nengaging. Now if the girls' schools and colleges, technical and other,\nmerely add to the number of people who have practical training and\nknowledge without personal charm, what becomes of social life? We are\nimpressed with the excellence of the schools and colleges for women\n--impressed also with the co-educating institutions. There is no sight\nmore inspiring than an assemblage of four or five hundred young women\nattacking literature, science, and all the arts. The grace and courage of\nthe attack alone are worth all it costs. All the arts and science and\nliterature are benefited, but one of the chief purposes that should be in\nview is unattained if the young women are not made more interesting, both\nto themselves and to others. Ability to earn an independent living may be\nconceded to be important, health is indispensable, and beauty of face and\nform are desirable; knowledge is priceless, and unselfish amiability is\nabove the price of rubies; but how shall we set a value, so far as the\npleasure of living is concerned, upon the power to be interesting? We\nhear a good deal about the highly educated young woman with reverence,\nabout the emancipated young woman with fear and trembling, but what can\ntake the place of the interesting woman? Anxiety is this moment agitating\nthe minds of tens of thousands of mothers about the education of their\ndaughters. Suppose their education should be directed to the purpose of\nmaking them interesting women, what a fascinating country this would be\nabout the year 1900.\n\n\n\n\nGIVE THE MEN A CHANCE\n\nGive the men a chance. Upon the young women of America lies a great\nresponsibility. The next generation will be pretty much what they choose\nto make it; and what are they doing for the elevation of young men? It is\ntrue that there are the colleges for men, which still perform a good\nwork--though some of them run a good deal more to a top-dressing of\naccomplishments than to a sub-soiling of discipline--but these colleges\nreach comparatively few. There remain the great mass who are devoted to\nbusiness and pleasure, and only get such intellectual cultivation as\nsociety gives them or they chance to pick up in current publications. The\nyoung women are the leisure class, consequently--so we hear--the\ncultivated class. Taking a certain large proportion of our society, the\nwomen in it toil not, neither do they spin; they do little or no domestic\nwork; they engage in no productive occupation. They are set apart for a\nhigh and ennobling service--the cultivation of the mind and the rescue of\nsociety from materialism. They are the influence that keeps life elevated\nand sweet--are they not? For what other purpose are they set apart in\nelegant leisure? And nobly do they climb up to the duties of their\nposition. They associate together in esoteric, intellectual societies.\nEvery one is a part of many clubs, the object of which is knowledge and\nthe broadening of the intellectual horizon. Science, languages,\nliterature, are their daily food. They can speak in tongues; they can\ntalk about the solar spectrum; they can interpret Chaucer, criticise\nShakespeare, understand Browning. There is no literature, ancient or\nmodern, that they do not dig up by the roots and turn over, no history\nthat they do not drag before the club for final judgment. In every little\nvillage there is this intellectual stir and excitement; why, even in New\nYork, readings interfere with the german;--['Dances', likely referring to\nthe productions of the Straus family in Vienna. D.W.]--and Boston! Boston\nis no longer divided into wards, but into Browning  sections. \n\nAll this is mainly the work of women. The men are sometimes admitted, are\neven hired to perform and be encouraged and criticised; that is, men who\nare already highly cultivated, or who are in sympathy with the noble\nfeminization of the age. It is a glorious movement. Its professed object\nis to give an intellectual lift to society. And no doubt, unless all\nreports are exaggerated, it is making our great leisure class of women\nhighly intellectual beings. But, encouraging as this prospect is, it\ngives us pause. Who are these young women to associate with? with whom\nare they to hold high converse? For life is a two-fold affair. And\nmeantime what is being done for the young men who are expected to share\nin the high society of the future? Will not the young women by-and-by\nfind themselves in a lonesome place, cultivated away beyond their natural\ncomrades? Where will they spend their evenings? This sobering thought\nsuggests a duty that the young women are neglecting. We refer to the\neducation of the young men. It is all very well for them to form clubs\nfor their own advancement, and they ought not to incur the charge of\nselfishness in so doing; but how much better would they fulfill their\nmission if they would form special societies for the cultivation of young\nmen!--sort of intellectual mission bands. Bring them into the literary\ncircle. Make it attractive for them. Women with their attractions, not to\nspeak of their wiles, can do anything they set out to do. They can\nelevate the entire present generation of young men, if they give their\nminds to it, to care for the intellectual pursuits they care for. Give\nthe men a chance, and----\n\nMusing along in this way we are suddenly pulled up by the reflection that\nit is impossible to make an unqualified statement that is wholly true\nabout anything. What chance have I, anyway? inquires the young man who\nthinks sometimes and occasionally wants to read. What sort of\nleading-strings are these that I am getting into? Look at the drift of\nthings. Is the feminization of the world a desirable thing for a vigorous\nfuture? Are the women, or are they not, taking all the virility out of\nliterature? Answer me that. All the novels are written by, for, or about\nwomen--brought to their standard. Even Henry James, who studies the sex\nuntiringly, speaks about the  feminization of literature.  They write\nmost of the newspaper correspondence--and write it for women. They are\neven trying to feminize the colleges. Granted that woman is the superior\nbeing; all the more, what chance is there for man if this sort of thing\ngoes on? Are you going to make a race of men on feminine fodder? And here\nis the still more perplexing part of it. Unless all analysis of the\nfemale heart is a delusion, and all history false, what women like most\nof all things in this world is a Man, virile, forceful, compelling, a\nsolid rock of dependence, a substantial unfeminine being, whom it is some\nsatisfaction and glory and interest to govern and rule in the right way,\nand twist round the feminine finger. If women should succeed in reducing\nor raising--of course raising--men to the feminine standard, by\nfeminizing society, literature, the colleges, and all that, would they\nnot turn on their creations--for even the Bible intimates that women are\nuncertain and go in search of a Man? It is this sort of blind instinct of\nthe young man for preserving himself in the world that makes him so\ninaccessible to the good he might get from the prevailing culture of the\nleisure class.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENT OF CANDOR\n\nThose who are anxious about the fate of Christmas, whether it is not\nbecoming too worldly and too expensive a holiday to be indulged in except\nby the very poor, mark with pleasure any indications that the true spirit\nof the day--brotherhood and self-abnegation and charity--is infusing\nitself into modern society. The sentimental Christmas of thirty years ago\ncould not last; in time the manufactured jollity got to be more tedious\nand a greater strain on the feelings than any misfortune happening to\none's neighbor. Even for a day it was very difficult to buzz about in the\ncheery manner prescribed, and the reaction put human nature in a bad\nlight. Nor was it much better when gradually the day became one of Great\nExpectations, and the sweet spirit of it was quenched in worry or soured\nin disappointment. It began to take on the aspect of a great lottery, in\nwhich one class expected to draw in reverse proportion to what it put in,\nand another class knew that it would only reap as it had sowed. The day,\nblessed in its origin, and meaningless if there is a grain of selfishness\nin it, was thus likely to become a sort of Clearing-house of all\nobligations and assume a commercial aspect that took the heart out of\nit--like the enormous receptions for paying social debts which take the\nplace of the old-fashioned hospitality. Everybody knew, meantime, that\nthe spirit of good-will, the grace of universal sympathy, was really\ngrowing in the world, and that it was only our awkwardness that, by\nstriving to cram it all for a year into twenty-four hours, made it seem a\nlittle farcical. And everybody knows that when goodness becomes\nfashionable, goodness is likely to suffer a little. A virtue overdone\nfalls on t'other side. And a holiday that takes on such proportions that\nthe Express companies and the Post-office cannot handle it is in danger\nof a collapse. In consideration of these things, and because, as has been\npointed out year after year, Christmas is becoming a burden, the load of\nwhich is looked forward to with apprehension--and back on with nervous\nprostration--fear has been expressed that the dearest of all holidays in\nChristian lands would have to go again under a sort of Puritan protest,\nor into a retreat for rest and purification. We are enabled to announce\nfor the encouragement of the single-minded in this best of all days, at\nthe close of a year which it is best not to characterize, that those who\nstand upon the social watch-towers in Europe and America begin to see a\nlight--or, it would be better to say, to perceive a spirit--in society\nwhich is likely to change many things, and; among others, to work a\nreturn of Christian simplicity. As might be expected in these days, the\nspirit is exhibited in the sex which is first at the wedding and last in\nthe hospital ward. And as might have been expected, also, this spirit is\nshown by the young woman of the period, in whose hands are the issues of\nthe future. If she preserve her present mind long enough, Christmas will\nbecome a day that will satisfy every human being, for the purpose of the\nyoung woman will pervade it. The tendency of the young woman generally to\nsimplicity, of the American young woman to a certain restraint (at least\nwhen abroad), to a deference to her elders, and to tradition, has been\nnoted. The present phenomenon is quite beyond this, and more radical. It\nis, one may venture to say, an attempt to conform the inner being to the\noutward simplicity. If one could suspect the young woman of taking up any\nline not original, it might be guessed that the present fashion (which is\nbewildering the most worldly men with a new and irresistible fascination)\nwas set by the self-revelations of Marie Bashkirtseff. Very likely,\nhowever, it was a new spirit in the world, of which Marie was the first\npublishing example. Its note is self-analysis, searching, unsparing,\nleaving no room for the deception of self or of the world. Its leading\nfeature is extreme candor. It is not enough to tell the truth (that has\nbeen told before); but one must act and tell the whole truth. One does\nnot put on the shirt front and the standing collar and the knotted cravat\nof the other sex as a mere form; it is an act of consecration, of rigid,\nsimple come-out-ness into the light of truth. This noble candor will\nsuffer no concealments. She would not have her lover even, still more the\ngeneral world of men, think she is better, or rather other, than she is.\nNot that she would like to appear a man among men, far from that; but she\nwishes to talk with candor and be talked to candidly, without taking\nadvantage of that false shelter of sex behind which women have been\naccused of dodging. If she is nothing else, she is sincere, one might say\nwantonly sincere. And this lucid, candid inner life is reflected in her\ndress. This is not only simple in its form, in its lines; it is severe.\nTo go into the shop of a European modiste is almost to put one's self\ninto a truthful and candid frame of mind. Those leave frivolous ideas\nbehind who enter here. The 'modiste' will tell the philosopher that it is\nnow the fashion to be severe; in a word, it is 'fesch'. Nothing can go\nbeyond that. And it symbolizes the whole life, its self-examination,\nearnestness, utmost candor in speech and conduct.\n\nThe statesman who is busy about his tariff and his reciprocity, and his\nendeavor to raise money like potatoes, may little heed and much\nundervalue this advent of candor into the world as a social force. But\nthe philosopher will make no such mistake. He knows that they who build\nwithout woman build in vain, and that she is the great regenerator, as\nshe is the great destroyer. He knows too much to disregard the gravity of\nany fashionable movement. He knows that there is no power on earth that\ncan prevent the return of the long skirt. And that if the young woman has\ndecided to be severe and candid and frank with herself and in her\nintercourse with others, we must submit and thank God.\n\nAnd what a gift to the world is this for the Christmas season! The\nclear-eyed young woman of the future, always dear and often an anxiety,\nwill this year be an object of enthusiasm.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN MAN\n\nThe American man only develops himself and spreads himself and grows  for\nall he is worth  in the Great West. He is more free and limber there, and\nunfolds those generous peculiarities and largenesses of humanity which\nnever blossomed before. The  environment  has much to do with it. The\ngreat spaces over which he roams contribute to the enlargement of his\nmental horizon. There have been races before who roamed the illimitable\ndesert, but they traveled on foot or on camelback, and were limited in\ntheir range. There was nothing continental about them, as there is about\nour railway desert travelers, who swing along through thousands of miles\nof sand and sage-bush with a growing contempt for time and space. But\nexpansive and great as these people have become under the new conditions,\nwe have a fancy that the development of the race has only just begun, and\nthat the future will show us in perfection a kind of man new to the\nworld. Out somewhere on the Santa Fe route, where the desert of one day\nwas like the desert of the day before, and the Pullman car rolls and\nswings over the wide waste beneath the blue sky day after day, under its\nblack flag of smoke, in the early gray of morning, when the men were\nwaiting their turns at the ablution bowls, a slip of a boy, perhaps aged\nseven, stood balancing himself on his little legs, clad in\nknicker-bockers, biding his time, with all the nonchalance of an old\ncampaigner.  How did you sleep, cap?  asked a well-meaning elderly\ngentleman.  Well, thank you,  was the dignified response;  as I always do\non a sleeping-car.  Always does? Great horrors! Hardly out of his\nswaddling-clothes, and yet he always sleeps well in a sleeper! Was he\nborn on the wheels? was he cradled in a Pullman? He has always been in\nmotion, probably; he was started at thirty miles an hour, no doubt, this\nmarvelous boy of our new era. He was not born in a house at rest, but the\nlocomotive snatched him along with a shriek and a roar before his eyes\nwere fairly open, and he was rocked in a  section,  and his first\nsensation of life was that of moving rapidly over vast arid spaces,\nthrough cattle ranges and along canons. The effect of quick and easy\nlocomotion on character may have been noted before, but it seems that\nhere is the production of a new sort of man, the direct product of our\nrailway era. It is not simply that this boy is mature, but he must be a\ndifferent and a nobler sort of boy than one born, say, at home or on a\ncanal-boat; for, whether he was born on the rail or not, he belongs to\nthe railway system of civilization. Before he gets into trousers he is\nold in experience, and he has discounted many of the novelties that\nusually break gradually on the pilgrim in this world. He belongs to the\nnew expansive race that must live in motion, whose proper home is the\nPullman (which will probably be improved in time into a dustless,\nsweet-smelling, well-aired bedroom), and whose domestic life will be on\nthe wing, so to speak. The Inter-State Commerce Bill will pass him along\nwithout friction from end to end of the Union, and perhaps a uniform\ndivorce law will enable him to change his marital relations at any place\nwhere he happens to dine. This promising lad is only a faint intimation\nof what we are all coming to when we fully acquire the freedom of the\ncontinent, and come into that expansiveness of feeling and of language\nwhich characterizes the Great West. It is a burst of joyous exuberance\nthat comes from the sense of an illimitable horizon. It shows itself in\nthe tender words of a local newspaper at Bowie, Arizona, on the death of\na beloved citizen:  'Death loves a shining mark,' and she hit a dandy\nwhen she turned loose on Jim.  And also in the closing words of a New\nMexico obituary, which the Kansas Magazine quotes:  Her tired spirit was\nreleased from the pain-racking body and soared aloft to eternal glory at\n4.30 Denver time.  We die, as it were, in motion, as we sleep, and there\nis nowhere any boundary to our expansion. Perhaps we shall never again\nknow any rest as we now understand the term--rest being only change of\nmotion--and we shall not be able to sleep except on the cars, and whether\nwe die by Denver time or by the 90th meridian, we shall only change our\ntime. Blessed be this slip of a boy who is a man before he is an infant,\nand teaches us what rapid transit can do for our race! The only thing\nthat can possibly hinder us in our progress will be second childhood; we\nhave abolished first.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ELECTRIC WAY\n\nWe are quite in the electric way. We boast that we have made electricity\nour slave, but the slave whom we do not understand is our master. And\nbefore we know him we shall be transformed. Mr. Edison proposes to send\nus over the country at the rate of one hundred miles an hour. This\npleases us, because we fancy we shall save time, and because we are\ntaught that the chief object in life is to  get there  quickly. We really\nhave an idea that it is a gain to annihilate distance, forgetting that as\na matter of personal experience we are already too near most people. But\nthis speed by rail will enable us to live in Philadelphia and do business\nin New York. It will make the city of Chicago two hundred miles square.\nAnd the bigger Chicago is, the more important this world becomes. This\npleasing anticipation--that of traveling by lightning, and all being\nhuddled together--is nothing to the promised universal illumination by a\ndiffused light that shall make midnight as bright as noonday. We shall\nthen save all the time there is, and at the age of thirty-five have lived\nthe allotted seventy years, and long, if not for 'Gotterdammerung', at\nleast for some world where, by touching a button, we can discharge our\nlimbs of electricity and take a little repose. The most restless and\nambitious of us can hardly conceive of Chicago as a desirable future\nstate of existence.\n\nThis, however, is only the external or superficial view of the subject;\nat the best it is only symbolical. Mr. Edison is wasting his time in\nobjective experiments, while we are in the deepest ignorance as to our\nelectric personality or our personal electricity. We begin to apprehend\nthat we are electric beings, that these outward manifestations of a\nsubtile form are only hints of our internal state. Mr. Edison should turn\nhis attention from physics to humanity electrically considered in its\nsocial condition. We have heard a great deal about affinities. We are\ntold that one person is positive and another negative, and that\nrepresenting socially opposite poles they should come together and make\nan electric harmony, that two positives or two negatives repel each\nother, and if conventionally united end in divorce, and so on. We read\nthat such a man is magnetic, meaning that he can poll a great many votes;\nor that such a woman thrilled her audience, meaning probably that they\nwere in an electric condition to be shocked by her. Now this is what we\nwant to find out--to know if persons are really magnetic or sympathetic,\nand how to tell whether a person is positive or negative. In politics we\nare quite at sea. What is the good of sending a man to Washington at the\nrate of a hundred miles an hour if we are uncertain of his electric\nstate? The ideal House of Representatives ought to be pretty nearly\nbalanced--half positive, half negative. Some Congresses seem to be made\nup pretty much of negatives. The time for the electrician to test the\ncandidate is before he is put in nomination, not dump him into Congress\nas we do now, utterly ignorant of whether his currents run from his heels\nto his head or from his head to his heels, uncertain, indeed, as to\nwhether he has magnetism to run in at all. Nothing could be more\nunscientific than the process and the result.\n\nIn social life it is infinitely worse. You, an electric unmarried man,\nenter a room full of attractive women. How are you to know who is\npositive and who is negative, or who is a maiden lady in equilibrium, if\nit be true, as scientists affirm, that the genus old maid is one in whom\nthe positive currents neutralize the negative currents? Your affinity is\nperhaps the plainest woman in the room. But beauty is a juggling sprite,\nentirely uncontrolled by electricity, and you are quite likely to make a\nmistake. It is absurd the way we blunder on in a scientific age. We touch\na button, and are married. The judge touches another button, and we are\ndivorced. If when we touched the first button it revealed us both\nnegatives, we should start back in horror, for it is only before\nengagement that two negatives make an affirmative. That is the reason\nthat some clergymen refuse to marry a divorced woman; they see that she\nhas made one electric mistake, and fear she will make another. It is all\nvery well for the officiating clergyman to ask the two intending to\ncommit matrimony if they have a license from the town clerk, if they are\nof age or have the consent of parents, and have a million; but the vital\npoint is omitted. Are they electric affinities? It should be the duty of\nthe town-clerk, by a battery, or by some means to be discovered by\nelectricians, to find out the galvanic habit of the parties, their\nprevailing electric condition. Temporarily they may seem to be in\nharmony, and may deceive themselves into the belief that they are at\nopposite poles equidistant from the equator, and certain to meet on that\nimaginary line in matrimonial bliss. Dreadful will be the awakening to an\ninsipid life, if they find they both have the same sort of currents. It\nis said that women change their minds and their dispositions, that men\nare fickle, and that both give way after marriage to natural inclinations\nthat were suppressed while they were on the good behavior that the\nsupposed necessity of getting married imposes. This is so notoriously\ntrue that it ought to create a public panic. But there is hope in the new\nlight. If we understand it, persons are born in a certain electrical\ncondition, and substantially continue in it, however much they may\napparently wobble about under the influence of infirm minds and acquired\nwickedness. There are, of course, variations of the compass to be\nreckoned with, and the magnet may occasionally be bewitched by near and\npowerful attracting objects. But, on the whole, the magnet remains the\nsame, and it is probable that a person's normal electric condition is the\nthing in him least liable to dangerous variation. If this be true, the\nbest basis for matrimony is the electric, and our social life would have\nfewer disappointments if men and women went about labeled with their\nscientifically ascertained electric qualities.\n\n\n\n\nCAN A HUSBAND OPEN HIS WIFE'S LETTERS?\n\nCan a husband open his wife's letters? That would depend, many would say,\nupon what kind of a husband he is. But it cannot be put aside in that\nflippant manner, for it is a legal right that is in question, and it has\nrecently been decided in a Paris tribunal that the husband has the right\nto open the letters addressed to his wife. Of course in America an appeal\nwould instantly be taken from this decision, and perhaps by husbands\nthemselves; for in this world rights are becoming so impartially\ndistributed that this privilege granted to the husband might at once be\nextended to the wife, and she would read all his business correspondence,\nand his business is sometimes various and complicated. The Paris decision\nmust be based upon the familiar formula that man and wife are one, and\nthat that one is the husband. If a man has the right to read all the\nletters written to his wife, being his property by reason of his\nownership of her, why may he not have a legal right to know all that is\nsaid to her? The question is not whether a wife ought to receive letters\nthat her husband may not read, or listen to talk that he may not hear,\nbut whether he has a sort of lordship that gives him privileges which she\ndoes not enjoy. In our modern notion of marriage, which is getting itself\nexpressed in statute law, marriage is supposed to rest on mutual trust\nand mutual rights. In theory the husband and wife are still one, and\nthere can nothing come into the life of one that is not shared by the\nother; in fact, if the marriage is perfect and the trust absolute, the\npersonality of each is respected by the other, and each is freely the\njudge of what shall be contributed to the common confidence; and if there\nare any concealments, it is well believed that they are for the mutual\ngood. If every one were as perfect in the marriage relation as those who\nare reading these lines, the question of the wife's letters would never\narise. The man, trusting his wife, would not care to pry into any little\nsecrets his wife might have, or bother himself about her correspondence;\nhe would know, indeed, that if he had lost her real affection, a\nsurveillance of her letters could not restore it.\n\nPerhaps it is a modern notion that marriage is a union of trust and not\nof suspicion, of expectation of faithfulness the more there is freedom.\nAt any rate, the tendency, notwithstanding the French decision, is away\nfrom the common-law suspicion and tyranny towards a higher trust in an\nenlarged freedom. And it is certain that the rights cannot all be on one\nside and the duties on the other. If the husband legally may compel his\nwife to show him her letters, the courts will before long grant the same\nprivilege to the wife. But, without pressing this point, we hold strongly\nto the sacredness of correspondence. The letters one receives are in one\nsense not his own. They contain the confessions of another soul, the\nconfidences of another mind, that would be rudely treated if given any\nsort of publicity. And while husband and wife are one to each other, they\nare two in the eyes of other people, and it may well happen that a friend\nwill desire to impart something to a discreet woman which she would not\nintrust to the babbling husband of that woman. Every life must have its\nown privacy and its own place of retirement. The letter is of all things\nthe most personal and intimate thing. Its bloom is gone when another eye\nsees it before the one for which it was intended. Its aroma all escapes\nwhen it is first opened by another person. One might as well wear\nsecond-hand clothing as get a second-hand letter. Here, then, is a sacred\nright that ought to be respected, and can be respected without any injury\nto domestic life. The habit in some families for the members of it to\nshow each other's letters is a most disenchanting one. It is just in the\nfamily, between persons most intimate, that these delicacies of\nconsideration for the privacy of each ought to be most respected. No one\ncan estimate probably how much of the refinement, of the delicacy of\nfeeling, has been lost to the world by the introduction of the\npostal-card. Anything written on a postal-card has no personality; it is\nbanal, and has as little power of charming any one who receives it as an\nadvertisement in the newspaper. It is not simply the cheapness of the\ncommunication that is vulgar, but the publicity of it. One may have\nperhaps only a cent's worth of affection to send, but it seems worth much\nmore when enclosed in an envelope. We have no doubt, then, that on\ngeneral principles the French decision is a mistake, and that it tends\nrather to vulgarize than to retain the purity and delicacy of the\nmarriage relation. And the judges, so long even as men only occupy the\nbench, will no doubt reverse it when the logical march of events forces\nupon them the question whether the wife may open her husband's letters.\n\n\n\n\nA LEISURE CLASS\n\nForeign critics have apologized for real or imagined social and literary\nshortcomings in this country on the ground that the American people have\nlittle leisure. It is supposed that when we have a leisure class we shall\nnot only make a better showing in these respects, but we shall be as\nagreeable--having time to devote to the art of being agreeable--as the\nEnglish are. But we already have a considerable and increasing number of\npeople who can command their own time if we have not a leisure class, and\nthe sociologist might begin to study the effect of this leisureliness\nupon society. Are the people who, by reason of a competence or other\naccidents of good-fortune, have most leisure, becoming more agreeable?\nand are they devoting themselves to the elevation of the social tone, or\nto the improvement of our literature? However this question is answered,\na strong appeal might be made to the people of leisure to do not only\nwhat is expected of them by foreign observers, but to take advantage of\ntheir immense opportunities. In a republic there is no room for a leisure\nclass that is not useful. Those who use their time merely to kill it, in\nimitation of those born to idleness and to no necessity of making an\nexertion, may be ornamental, but having no root in any established\nprivilege to sustain them, they will soon wither away in this atmosphere,\nas a flower would which should set up to be an orchid when it does not\nbelong to the orchid family. It is required here that those who are\nemancipated from the daily grind should vindicate their right to their\nposition not only by setting an example of self-culture, but by\ncontributing something to the general welfare. It is thought by many that\nif society here were established and settled as it is elsewhere, the rich\nwould be less dominated by their money and less conscious of it, and\nhaving leisure, could devote themselves even more than they do now to\nintellectual and spiritual pursuits.\n\nWhether these anticipations will ever be realized, and whether increased\nleisure will make us all happy, is a subject of importance; but it is\nsecondary, and in a manner incidental, to another and deeper matter,\nwhich may be defined as the responsibility of attractiveness. And this\nresponsibility takes two forms the duty of every one to be attractive,\nand the danger of being too attractive. To be winning and agreeable is\nsometimes reckoned a gift, but it is a disposition that can be\ncultivated; and, in a world so given to grippe and misapprehension as\nthis is, personal attractiveness becomes a duty, if it is not an art,\nthat might be taught in the public schools. It used to be charged against\nNew Englanders that they regarded this gift as of little value, and were\ninclined to hide it under a bushel, and it was said of some of their\nneighbors in the Union that they exaggerated its importance, and\nneglected the weightier things of the law. Indeed, disputes have arisen\nas to what attractiveness consisted in--some holding that beauty or charm\nof manner (which is almost as good) and sweetness and gayety were\nsufficient, while others held that a little intelligence sprinkled in was\nessential. But one thing is clear, that while women were held to strict\nresponsibility in this matter, not stress enough was laid upon the equal\nduty of men to be attractive in order to make the world agreeable. Hence\nit is, probably, that while no question has been raised as to the effect\nof the higher education upon the attractiveness of men, the colleges for\ngirls have been jealously watched as to the effect they were likely to\nhave upon the attractiveness of women. Whether the college years of a\nyoung man, during which he knows more than he will ever know again, are\nhis most attractive period is not considered, for he is expected to\ndevelop what is in him later on; but it is gravely questioned whether\ngirls who give their minds to the highest studies are not dropping those\ngraces of personal attractiveness which they will find it difficult to\npick up again. Of course such a question as this could never arise except\nin just such a world as this is. For in an ideal world it could be shown\nthat the highest intelligence and the highest personal charm are twins.\nIf, therefore, it should turn out, which seems absurd, that\ncollege-educated girls are not as attractive as other women with less\nadvantages, it will have to be admitted that something is the matter with\nthe young ladies, which is preposterous, or that the system is still\ndefective. For the postulate that everybody ought to be attractive cannot\nbe abandoned for the sake of any system. Decision on this system cannot\nbe reached without long experience, for it is always to be remembered\nthat the man's point of view of attractiveness may shift, and he may come\nto regard the intellectual graces as supremely attractive; while, on the\nother hand, the woman student may find that a winning smile is just as\neffective in bringing a man to her feet, where he belongs, as a\nlogarithm.\n\nThe danger of being too attractive, though it has historic illustration,\nis thought by many to be more apparent than real. Merely being too\nattractive has often been confounded with a love of flirtation and\nconquest, unbecoming always in a man, and excused in a woman on the\nground of her helplessness. It could easily be shown that to use personal\nattractiveness recklessly to the extent of hopeless beguilement is cruel,\nand it may be admitted that woman ought to be held to strict\nresponsibility for her attractiveness. The lines are indeed hard for her.\nThe duty is upon her in this poor world of being as attractive as she\ncan, and yet she is held responsible for all the mischief her\nattractiveness produces. As if the blazing sun should be called to\naccount by people with weak eyes.\n\n\n\n\nWEATHER AND CHARACTER\n\nThe month of February in all latitudes in the United States is uncertain.\nThe birth of George Washington in it has not raised it in public esteem.\nIn the North, it is a month to flee from; in the South, at best it is a\nwaiting month--a month of rain and fickle skies. A good deal has been\ndone for it. It is the month of St. Valentine, it is distinguished by the\nleap-year addition of a day, and ought to be a favorite of the gentle\nsex; but it remains a sort of off period in the year. Its brevity\nrecommends it, but no one would take any notice of it were it not for its\neffect upon character. A month of rigid weather is supposed to brace up\nthe moral nature, and a month of gentleness is supposed to soften the\nasperities of the disposition, but February contributes to neither of\nthese ends. It is neither a tonic nor a soother; that is, in most parts\nof our inexplicable land. We make no complaint of this. It is probably\nwell to have a period in the year that tests character to the utmost, and\nthe person who can enter spring through the gate of February a better man\nor woman is likely to adorn society the rest of the year.\n\nFebruary, however, is merely an illustration of the effect of weather\nupon the disposition. Persons differ in regard to their sensitiveness to\ncloudy, rainy, and gloomy days. We recognize this in a general way, but\nthe relation of temper and disposition to the weather has never been\nscientifically studied. Our observation of the influence of climate is\nmostly with regard to physical infirmities. We know the effect of damp\nweather upon rheumatics, and of the east wind upon gouty subjects, but\ntoo little allowance is made for the influence of weather upon the\nspirits and the conduct of men. We know that a long period of gloomy\nweather leads to suicides, and we observe that long-continued clouds and\nrain beget  crossness  and ill-temper, and we are all familiar with the\nuniversal exhilaration of sunshine and clear air upon any company of men\nand women. But the point we wish to make is that neither society nor the\nlaw makes any allowance for the aberrations of human nature caused by\ndull and unpleasant weather. And this is very singular in this\nhumanitarian age, when excuse is found for nearly every moral delinquency\nin heredity or environment, that the greatest factor of discontent and\ncrookedness, the weather, should be left out of consideration altogether.\nThe relation of crime to the temperature and the humidity of the\natmosphere is not taken into account. Yet crime and eccentricity of\nconduct are very much the result of atmospheric conditions, since they\ndepend upon the temper and the spirit of the community. Many people are\nhabitually blue and down-hearted in sour weather; a long spell of cloudy,\ndamp, cold weather depresses everybody, lowers hope, tends to melancholy;\nand people when they are not cheerful are more apt to fall into evil\nways, as a rule, than when they are in a normal state of good-humor. And\naside from crimes, the vexation, the friction, the domestic discontent in\nlife, are provoked by bad weather. We should like to have some statistics\nas to incompatibility between married couples produced by damp and raw\ndays, and to know whether divorces are more numerous in the States that\nsuffer from a fickle climate than in those where the climate is more\nequable. It is true that in the Sandwich Islands and in Egypt there is\ngreater mental serenity, less perturbation of spirit, less worry, than in\nthe changeable United States. Something of this placidity and resignation\nto the ills inevitable in human life is due to an even climate, to the\nconstant sun and the dry air. We cannot hope to prevent crime and\nsuffering by statistics, any more than we have been able to improve our\nclimate (which is rather worse now than before the scientists took it in\ncharge) by observations and telegraphic reports; but we can, by careful\ntabulation of the effects of bad weather upon the spirits of a community,\nlearn what places in the Union are favorable to the production of\ncheerfulness and an equal mind. And we should lift a load of reprobation\nfrom some places which now have a reputation for surliness and\nunamiability. We find the people of one place hospitable, lighthearted,\nand agreeable; the people of another place cold, and morose, and\nunpleasant. It would be a satisfaction to know that the weather is\nresponsible for the difference. Observation of this sort would also teach\nus doubtless what places are most conducive to literary production, what\nto happy homes and agreeing wives and husbands. All our territory is\nmapped out as to its sanitary conditions; why not have it colored as to\nits effect upon the spirits and the enjoyment of life? The suggestion\nopens a vast field of investigation.\n\n\n\n\nBORN WITH AN  EGO \n\nThere used to be a notion going round that it would be a good thing for\npeople if they were more  self-centred.  Perhaps there was talk of adding\na course to the college curriculum, in addition to that for training the\nall-competent  journalist,  for the self-centring of the young. To apply\nthe term to a man or woman was considered highly complimentary. The\nadvisers of this state of mind probably meant to suggest a desirable\nequilibrium and mental balance; but the actual effect of the self-centred\ntraining is illustrated by a story told of Thomas H. Benton, who had been\ndescribed as an egotist by some of the newspapers. Meeting Colonel Frank\nBlair one day, he said:  Colonel Blair, I see that the newspapers call me\nan egotist. I wish you would tell me frankly, as a friend, if you think\nthe charge is true.   It is a very direct question, Mr. Benton,  replied\nColonel Blair,  but if you want my honest opinion, I am compelled to say\nthat I think there is some foundation for the charge.   Well, sir,  said\nMr. Benton, throwing his head back and his chest forward,  the difference\nbetween me and these little fellows is that I have an EGO!  Mr. Benton\nwas an interesting man, and it is a fair consideration if a certain\namount of egotism does not add to the interest of any character, but at\nthe same time the self-centred conditions shut a person off from one of\nthe chief enjoyments to be got out of this world, namely, a recognition\nof what is admirable in others in a toleration of peculiarities. It is\nodd, almost amusing, to note how in this country people of one section\napply their local standards to the judgment of people in other sections,\nvery much as an Englishman uses his insular yardstick to measure all the\nrest of the world. It never seems to occur to people in one locality that\nthe manners and speech of those of another may be just as admirable as\ntheir own, and they get a good deal of discomfort out of their\nintercourse with strangers by reason of their inability to adapt\nthemselves to any ways not their own. It helps greatly to make this\ncountry interesting that nearly every State has its peculiarities, and\nthat the inhabitants of different sections differ in manner and speech.\nBut next to an interesting person in social value, is an agreeable one,\nand it would add vastly to the agreeableness of life if our widely spread\nprovinces were not so self-centred in their notion that their own way is\nthe best, to the degree that they criticise any deviation from it as an\neccentricity. It would be a very nice world in these United States if we\ncould all devote ourselves to finding out in communities what is likable\nrather than what is opposed to our experience; that is, in trying to\nadapt ourselves to others rather than insisting that our own standard\nshould measure our opinion and our enjoyment of them.\n\nWhen the Kentuckian describes a man as a  high-toned gentleman  he means\nexactly the same that a Bostonian means when, he says that a man is a\n very good fellow,  only the men described have a different culture, a\ndifferent personal flavor; and it is fortunate that the Kentuckian is not\nlike the Bostonian, for each has a quality that makes intercourse with\nhim pleasant. In the South many people think they have said a severe\nthing when they say that a person or manner is thoroughly Yankee; and\nmany New Englanders intend to express a considerable lack in what is\nessential when they say of men and women that they are very Southern.\nWhen the Yankee is produced he may turn out a cosmopolitan person of the\nmost interesting and agreeable sort; and the Southerner may have traits\nand peculiarities, growing out of climate and social life unlike the New\nEngland, which are altogether charming. We talked once with a Western man\nof considerable age and experience who had the placid mind that is\nsometimes, and may more and more become, the characteristic of those who\nlive in flat countries of illimitable horizons, who said that New\nYorkers, State and city, all had an assertive sort of smartness that was\nvery disagreeable to him. And a lady of New York (a city whose dialect\nthe novelists are beginning to satirize) was much disturbed by the\nflatness of speech prevailing in Chicago, and thought something should be\ndone in the public schools to correct the pronunciation of English. There\ndoubtless should be a common standard of distinct, rounded, melodious\npronunciation, as there is of good breeding, and it is quite as important\nto cultivate the voice in speaking as in singing, but the people of the\nUnited States let themselves be immensely irritated by local differences\nand want of toleration of sectional peculiarities. The truth is that the\nagreeable people are pretty evenly distributed over the country, and\none's enjoyment of them is heightened not only by their differences of\nmanner, but by the different, ways in which they look at life, unless he\ninsists upon applying everywhere the yardstick of his own locality. If\nthe Boston woman sets her eyeglasses at a critical angle towards the\n'laisser faire' flow of social amenity in New Orleans, and the New\nOrleans woman seeks out only the prim and conventional in Boston, each\nmay miss the opportunity to supplement her life by something wanting and\ndesirable in it, to be gained by the exercise of more openness of mind\nand toleration. To some people Yankee thrift is disagreeable; to others,\nSouthern shiftlessness is intolerable. To some travelers the negro of the\nSouth, with his tropical nature, his capacity for picturesque attitudes,\nhis abundant trust in Providence, is an element of restfulness; and if\nthe chief object of life is happiness, the traveler may take a useful\nhint from the race whose utmost desire, in a fit climate, would be fully\nsatisfied by a shirt and a banana-tree. But to another traveler the\ndusky, careless race is a continual affront.\n\nIf a person is born with an  Ego,  and gets the most enjoyment out of the\nworld by trying to make it revolve about himself, and cannot\nmake-allowances for differences, we have nothing to say except to express\npity for such a self-centred condition; which shuts him out of the\nnever-failing pleasure there is in entering into and understanding with\nsympathy the almost infinite variety in American life.\n\n\n\n\nJUVENTUS MUNDI\n\nSometimes the world seems very old. It appeared so to Bernard of Cluny in\nthe twelfth century, when he wrote:\n\n         The world is very evil,\n        The times are waning late. \n\nThere was a general impression among the Christians of the first century\nof our era that the end was near. The world must have seemed very ancient\nto the Egyptians fifteen hundred years before Christ, when the Pyramid of\nCheops was a relic of antiquity, when almost the whole circle of arts,\nsciences, and literature had been run through, when every nation within\nreach had been conquered, when woman had been developed into one of the\nmost fascinating of beings, and even reigned more absolutely than\nElizabeth or Victoria has reigned since: it was a pretty tired old world\nat that time. One might almost say that the further we go back the older\nand more  played out  the world appears, notwithstanding that the poets,\nwho were generally pessimists of the present, kept harping about the\nyouth of the world and the joyous spontaneity of human life in some\ngolden age before their time. In fact, the world is old in spots--in\nMemphis and Boston and Damascus and Salem and Ephesus. Some of these\nplaces are venerable in traditions, and some of them are actually worn\nout and taking a rest from too much civilization--lying fallow, as the\nsaying is. But age is so entirely relative that to many persons the\nlanding of the Mayflower seems more remote than the voyage of Jason, and\na Mayflower chest a more antique piece of furniture than the timbers of\nthe Ark, which some believe can still be seen on top of Mount Ararat.\nBut, speaking generally, the world is still young and growing, and a\nconsiderable portion of it unfinished. The oldest part, indeed, the\nLaurentian Hills, which were first out of water, is still only sparsely\nsettled; and no one pretends that Florida is anything like finished, or\nthat the delta of the Mississippi is in anything more than the process of\nformation. Men are so young and lively in these days that they cannot\nwait for the slow processes of nature, but they fill up and bank up\nplaces, like Holland, where they can live; and they keep on exploring and\ndiscovering incongruous regions, like Alaska, where they can go and\nexercise their juvenile exuberance.\n\nIn many respects the world has been growing younger ever since the\nChristian era. A new spirit came into it then which makes youth\nperpetual, a spirit of living in others, which got the name of universal\nbrotherhood, a spirit that has had a good many discouragements and\nset-backs, but which, on the whole, gains ground, and generally works in\nharmony with the scientific spirit, breaking down the exclusive character\nof the conquests of nature. What used to be the mystery and occultism of\nthe few is now general knowledge, so that all the playing at occultism by\nconceited people now seems jejune and foolish. A little machine called\nthe instantaneous photograph takes pictures as quickly and accurately as\nthe human eye does, and besides makes them permanent. Instead of fooling\ncredulous multitudes with responses from Delphi, we have a Congress which\ncan enact tariff regulations susceptible of interpretations enough to\nsatisfy the love of mystery of the entire nation. Instead of loafing\nround Memnon at sunrise to catch some supernatural tones, we talk words\ninto a little contrivance which will repeat our words and tones to the\nremotest generation of those who shall be curious to know whether we said\nthose words in jest or earnest. All these mysteries made common and\ndiffused certainly increase the feeling of the equality of opportunity in\nthe world. And day by day such wonderful things are discovered and\nscattered abroad that we are warranted in believing that we are only on\nthe threshold of turning to account the hidden forces of nature. There\nwould be great danger of human presumption and conceit in this progress\nif the conceit were not so widely diffused, and where we are all\nconceited there is no one to whom it will appear unpleasant. If there was\nonly one person who knew about the telephone he would be unbearable.\nProbably the Eiffel Tower would be stricken down as a monumental\npresumption, like that of Babel, if it had not been raised with the full\nknowledge and consent of all the world.\n\nThis new spirit, with its multiform manifestations, which came into the\nworld nearly nineteen hundred years ago, is sometimes called the spirit\nof Christmas. And good reasons can be given for supposing that it is. At\nany rate, those nations that have the most of it are the most prosperous,\nand those people who have the most of it are the most agreeable to\nassociate with. Know all men by these Presents, is an old legal form\nwhich has come to have a new meaning in this dispensation. It is by the\nspirit of brotherhood exhibited in giving presents that we know the\nChristmas proper, only we are apt to take it in too narrow a way. The\nreal spirit of Christmas is the general diffusion of helpfulness and\ngood-will. If somebody were to discover an elixir which would make every\none truthful, he would not, in this age of the world, patent it. Indeed,\nthe Patent Office would not let him make a corner on virtue as he does in\nwheat; and it is not respectable any more among the real children of\nChristmas to make a corner in wheat. The world, to be sure, tolerates\nstill a great many things that it does not approve of, and, on the whole,\nChristmas, as an ameliorating and good-fellowship institution, gains a\nlittle year by year. There is still one hitch about it, and a bad one\njust now, namely, that many people think they can buy its spirit by jerks\nof liberality, by costly gifts. Whereas the fact is that a great many of\nthe costliest gifts in this season do not count at all. Crumbs from the\nrich man's table don't avail any more to open the pearly gates even of\npopular esteem in this world. Let us say, in fine, that a loving,\nsympathetic heart is better than a nickel-plated service in this world,\nwhich is surely growing young and sympathetic.\n\n\n\n\nA BEAUTIFUL OLD AGE\n\nIn Autumn the thoughts lightly turn to Age. If the writer has seemed to\nbe interested, sometimes to the neglect of other topics, in the American\nyoung woman, it was not because she is interested in herself, but because\nshe is on the way to be one of the most agreeable objects in this lovely\nworld. She may struggle against it; she may resist it by all the\nlegitimate arts of the coquette and the chemist; she may be convinced\nthat youth and beauty are inseparable allies; but she would have more\npatience if she reflected that the sunset is often finer than the\nsunrise, commonly finer than noon, especially after a stormy day. The\nsecret of a beautiful old age is as well worth seeking as that of a\ncharming young maidenhood. For it is one of the compensations for the\nrest of us, in the decay of this mortal life, that women, whose mission\nit is to allure in youth and to tinge the beginning of the world with\nromance, also make the end of the world more serenely satisfactory and\nbeautiful than the outset. And this has been done without any amendment\nto the Constitution of the United States; in fact, it is possible that\nthe Sixteenth Amendment would rather hinder than help this gracious\nprocess. We are not speaking now of what is called growing old gracefully\nand regretfully, as something to be endured, but as a season to be\ndesired for itself, at least by those whose privilege it is to be\nennobled and cheered by it. And we are not speaking of wicked old women.\nThere is a unique fascination--all the novelists recognize it--in a\nwicked old woman; not very wicked, but a woman of abundant experience,\nwho is perfectly frank and a little cynical, and delights in probing\nhuman nature and flashing her wit on its weaknesses, and who knows as\nmuch about life as a club man is credited with knowing. She may not be a\ngood comrade for the young, but she is immensely more fascinating than a\nsemi-wicked old man. Why, we do not know; that is one of the unfathomable\nmysteries of womanhood. No; we have in mind quite another sort of woman,\nof which America has so many that they are a very noticeable element in\nall cultivated society. And the world has nothing more lovely. For there\nis a loveliness or fascination sometimes in women between the ages of\nsixty and eighty that is unlike any other--a charm that woos us to regard\nautumn as beautiful as spring.\n\nPerhaps these women were great beauties in their day, but scarcely so\nserenely beautiful as now when age has refined all that was most\nattractive. Perhaps they were plain; but it does not matter, for the\nsubtle influence of spiritualized-intelligence has the power of\ntransforming plainness into the beauty of old age. Physical beauty is\ndoubtless a great advantage, and it is never lost if mind shines through\nit (there is nothing so unlovely as a frivolous old woman fighting to\nkeep the skin-deep beauty of her youth); the eyes, if the life has not\nbeen one of physical suffering, usually retain their power of moving\nappeal; the lines of the face, if changed, may be refined by a certain\nspirituality; the gray hair gives dignity and softness and the charm of\ncontrast; the low sweet voice vibrates to the same note of femininity,\nand the graceful and gracious are graceful and gracious still. Even into\nthe face and bearing of the plain woman whose mind has grown, whose\nthoughts have been pure, whose heart has been expanded by good deeds or\nby constant affection, comes a beauty winning and satisfactory in the\nhighest degree.\n\nIt is not that the charm of the women of whom we speak is mainly this\nphysical beauty; that is only incidental, as it were. The delight in\ntheir society has a variety of sources. Their interest in life is broader\nthan it once was, more sympathetically unselfish; they have a certain\nphilosophical serenity that is not inconsistent with great liveliness of\nmind; they have got rid of so much nonsense; they can afford to be\ntruthful--and how much there is to be learned from a woman who is\ntruthful! they have a most delicious courage of opinion, about men, say,\nand in politics, and social topics, and creeds even. They have very\nlittle any longer to conceal; that is, in regard to things that should be\nthought about and talked about at all. They are not afraid to be gay, and\nto have enthusiasms. At sixty and eighty a refined and well-bred woman is\nemancipated in the best way, and in the enjoyment of the full play of the\nrichest qualities of her womanhood. She is as far from prudery as from\nthe least note of vulgarity. Passion, perhaps, is replaced by a great\ncapacity for friendliness, and she was never more a real woman than in\nthese mellow and reflective days. And how interesting she is--adding so\nmuch knowledge of life to the complex interest that inheres in her sex!\nKnowledge of life, yes, and of affairs; for it must be said of these\nladies we have in mind that they keep up with the current thought, that\nthey are readers of books, even of newspapers--for even the newspaper can\nbe helpful and not harmful in the alembic of their minds.\n\nLet not the purpose of this paper be misunderstood. It is not to urge\nyoung women to become old or to act like old women. The independence and\nfrankness of age might not be becoming to them. They must stumble along\nas best they can, alternately attracting and repelling, until by right of\nyears they join that serene company which is altogether beautiful. There\nis a natural unfolding and maturing to the beauty of old age. The mission\nof woman, about which we are pretty weary of hearing, is not accomplished\nby any means in her years of vernal bloom and loveliness; she has equal\npower to bless and sweeten life in the autumn of her pilgrimage. But here\nis an apologue: The peach, from blossom to maturity, is the most\nattractive of fruits. Yet the demands of the market, competition, and\nfashion often cause it to be plucked and shipped while green. It never\nmatures, though it may take a deceptive richness of color; it decays\nwithout ripening. And the last end of that peach is worse than the first.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ATTRACTION OF THE REPULSIVE\n\nOn one of the most charming of the many wonderfully picturesque little\nbeaches on the Pacific coast, near Monterey, is the idlest if not the\nmost disagreeable social group in the world. Just off the shore, farther\nthan a stone's-throw, lies a mass of broken rocks. The surf comes leaping\nand laughing in, sending up, above the curving green breakers and crests\nof foam, jets and spirals of water which flash like silver fountains in\nthe sunlight. These islets of rocks are the homes of the sea-lion. This\nloafer of the coast congregates here by the thousand. Sometimes the rocks\nare quite covered, the smooth rounded surface of the larger one\npresenting the appearance at a distance of a knoll dotted with dirty\nsheep. There is generally a select knot of a dozen floating about in the\nstill water under the lee of the rock, bobbing up their tails and\nflippers very much as black driftwood might heave about in the tide.\nDuring certain parts of the day members of this community are off fishing\nin deep water; but what they like best to do is to crawl up on the rocks\nand grunt and bellow, or go to sleep in the sun. Some of them lie half in\nwater, their tails floating and their ungainly heads wagging. These\nuneasy ones are always wriggling out or plunging in. Some crawl to the\ntops of the rocks and lie like gunny bags stuffed with meal, or they\nrepose on the broken surfaces like masses of jelly. When they are all at\nhome the rocks have not room for them, and they crawl on and over each\nother, and lie like piles of undressed pork. In the water they are black,\nbut when they are dry in the sun the skin becomes a dirty light brown.\nMany of them are huge fellows, with a body as big as an ox. In the water\nthey are repulsively graceful; on the rocks they are as ungainly as\nboneless cows, or hogs that have lost their shape in prosperity. Summer\nand winter (and it is almost always summer on this coast) these beasts,\nwhich are well fitted neither for land nor water, spend their time in\nabsolute indolence, except when they are compelled to cruise around in\nthe deep water for food. They are of no use to anybody, either for their\nskin or their flesh. Nothing could be more thoroughly disgusting and\nuncanny than they are, and yet nothing more fascinating. One can watch\nthem--the irresponsible, formless lumps of intelligent flesh--for hours\nwithout tiring. I scarcely know what the fascination is. A small seal\nplaying by himself near the shore, floating on and diving under the\nbreakers, is not so very disagreeable, especially if he comes so near\nthat you can see his pathetic eyes; but these brutes in this perpetual\nsummer resort are disgustingly attractive. Nearly everything about them,\nincluding their voice, is repulsive. Perhaps it is the absolute idleness\nof the community that makes it so interesting. To fish, to swim, to\nsnooze on the rocks, that is all, for ever and ever. No past, no future.\nA society that lives for the laziest sort of pleasure. If they were rich,\nwhat more could they have? Is not this the ideal of a watering-place\nlife?\n\nThe spectacle of this happy community ought to teach us humility and\ncharity in judgment. Perhaps the philosophy of its attractiveness lies\ndeeper than its 'dolce far niente' existence. We may never have\nconsidered the attraction for us of the disagreeable, the positive\nfascination of the uncommonly ugly. The repulsive fascination of the\nloathly serpent or dragon for women can hardly be explained on\ntheological grounds. Some cranks have maintained that the theory of\ngravitation alone does not explain the universe, that repulsion is as\nnecessary as attraction in our economy. This may apply to society. We are\nall charmed with the luxuriance of a semi-tropical landscape, so\nviolently charmed that we become in time tired of its overpowering bloom\nand color. But what is the charm of the wide, treeless desert, the\nleagues of sand and burnt-up chaparral, the distant savage, fantastic\nmountains, the dry desolation as of a world burnt out? It is not contrast\naltogether. For this illimitable waste has its own charm; and again and\nagain, when we come to a world of vegetation, where the vision is shut in\nby beauty, we shall have an irrepressible longing for these wind-swept\nplains as wide as the sea, with the ashy and pink horizons. We shall long\nto be weary of it all again--its vast nakedness, its shimmering heat, its\ncold, star-studded nights. It seems paradoxical, but it is probably true,\nthat a society composed altogether of agreeable people would become a\nterrible bore. We are a  kittle  lot, and hard to please for long. We\nknow how it is in the matter of climate. Why is it that the masses of the\nhuman race live in the most disagreeable climates to be found on the\nglobe, subject to extremes of heat and cold, sudden and unprovoked\nchanges, frosts, fogs, malarias? In such regions they congregate, and\nseem to like the vicissitudes, to like the excitement of the struggle\nwith the weather and the patent medicines to keep alive. They hate the\nagreeable monotony of one genial day following another the year through.\nThey praise this monotony, all literature is full of it; people always\nsay they are in search of the equable climate; but they continue to live,\nnevertheless, or try to live, in the least equable; and if they can find\none spot more disagreeable than another there they build a big city. If\nman could make his ideal climate he would probably be dissatisfied with\nit in a month. The effect of climate upon disposition and upon manners\nneeds to be considered some day; but we are now only trying to understand\nthe attractiveness of the disagreeable. There must be some reason for it;\nand that would explain a social phenomenon, why there are so many\nunattractive people, and why the attractive readers of these essays could\nnot get on without them.\n\nThe writer of this once traveled for days with an intelligent curmudgeon,\nwho made himself at all points as prickly as the porcupine. There was no\ngetting on with him. And yet when he dropped out of the party he was\nsorely missed. He was more attractively repulsive than the sea-lion. It\nwas such a luxury to hate him. He was such a counter-irritant, such a\nstimulant; such a flavor he gave to life. We are always on the lookout\nfor the odd, the eccentric, the whimsical. We pretend that we like the\norderly, the beautiful, the pleasant. We can find them anywhere--the\nlittle bits of scenery that please the eye, the pleasant households, the\ngroup of delightful people. Why travel, then? We want the abnormal, the\nstrong, the ugly, the unusual at least. We wish to be startled and\nstirred up and repelled. And we ought to be more thankful than we are\nthat there are so many desolate and wearisome and fantastic places, and\nso many tiresome and unattractive people in this lovely world.\n\n\n\n\nGIVING AS A LUXURY\n\nThere must be something very good in human nature, or people would not\nexperience so much pleasure in giving; there must be something very bad\nin human nature, or more people would try the experiment of giving. Those\nwho do try it become enamored of it, and get their chief pleasure in life\nout of it; and so evident is this that there is some basis for the idea\nthat it is ignorance rather than badness which keeps so many people from\nbeing generous. Of course it may become a sort of dissipation, or more\nthan that, a devastation, as many men who have what are called  good\nwives  have reason to know, in the gradual disappearance of their\nwardrobe if they chance to lay aside any of it temporarily. The amount\nthat a good woman can give away is only measured by her opportunity. Her\nmind becomes so trained in the mystery of this pleasure that she\nexperiences no thrill of delight in giving away only the things her\nhusband does not want. Her office in life is to teach him the joy of\nself-sacrifice. She and all other habitual and irreclaimable givers soon\nfind out that there is next to no pleasure in a gift unless it involves\nsome self-denial.\n\nLet one consider seriously whether he ever gets as much satisfaction out\nof a gift received as out of one given. It pleases him for the moment,\nand if it is useful, for a long time; he turns it over, and admires it;\nhe may value it as a token of affection, and it flatters his self-esteem\nthat he is the object of it. But it is a transient feeling compared with\nthat he has when he has made a gift. That substantially ministers to his\nself-esteem. He follows the gift; he dwells upon the delight of the\nreceiver; his imagination plays about it; it will never wear out or\nbecome stale; having parted with it, it is for him a lasting possession.\nIt is an investment as lasting as that in the debt of England. Like a\ngood deed, it grows, and is continually satisfactory. It is something to\nthink of when he first wakes in the morning--a time when most people are\nbadly put to it for want of something pleasant to think of. This fact\nabout giving is so incontestably true that it is a wonder that\nenlightened people do not more freely indulge in giving for their own\ncomfort. It is, above all else, amazing that so many imagine they are\ngoing to get any satisfaction out of what they leave by will. They may be\nin a state where they will enjoy it, if the will is not fought over; but\nit is shocking how little gratitude there is accorded to a departed giver\ncompared to a living giver. He couldn't take the property with him, it is\nsaid; he was obliged to leave it to somebody. By this thought his\ngenerosity is always reduced to a minimum. He may build a monument to\nhimself in some institution, but we do not know enough of the world to\nwhich he has gone to know whether a tiny monument on this earth is any\nsatisfaction to a person who is free of the universe. Whereas every\ngiving or deed of real humanity done while he was living would have\nentered into his character, and would be of lasting service to him--that\nis, in any future which we can conceive.\n\nOf course we are not confining our remarks to what are called Christmas\ngifts--commercially so called--nor would we undertake to estimate the\npleasure there is in either receiving or giving these. The shrewd\nmanufacturers of the world have taken notice of the periodic generosity\nof the race, and ingeniously produce articles to serve it, that is, to\nanticipate the taste and to thwart all individuality or spontaneity in\nit. There is, in short, what is called a  line of holiday goods, \n fitting, it may be supposed, the periodic line of charity. When a person\nreceives some of these things in the blessed season of such, he is apt to\nbe puzzled. He wants to know what they are for, what he is to do with\nthem. If there are no  directions  on the articles, his gratitude is\nsomewhat tempered. He has seen these nondescripts of ingenuity and\nexpense in the shop windows, but he never expected to come into personal\nrelations to them. He is puzzled, and he cannot escape the unpleasant\nfeeling that commerce has put its profit-making fingers into Christmas.\nSuch a lot of things seem to be manufactured on purpose that people may\nperform a duty that is expected of them in the holidays. The house is\nfull of these impossible things; they occupy the mantelpieces, they stand\nabout on the tottering little tables, they are ingenious, they are made\nfor wants yet undiscovered, they tarnish, they break, they will not\n work,  and pretty soon they look  second-hand.  Yet there must be more\nsatisfaction in giving these articles than in receiving them, and maybe a\nspice of malice--not that of course, for in the holidays nearly every\ngift expresses at least kindly remembrance--but if you give them you do\nnot have to live with them. But consider how full the world is of holiday\ngoods--costly goods too--that are of no earthly use, and are not even\nartistic, and how short life is, and how many people actually need books\nand other indispensable articles, and how starved are many fine\ndrawing-rooms, not for holiday goods, but for objects of beauty.\n\nChristmas stands for much, and for more and more in a world that is\nbreaking down its barriers of race and religious intolerance, and one of\nits chief offices has been supposed to be the teaching of men the\npleasure there is in getting rid of some of their possessions for the\nbenefit of others. But this frittering away a good instinct and tendency\nin conventional giving of manufactures made to suit an artificial\ncondition is hardly in the line of developing the spirit that shares the\nlast crust or gives to the thirsty companion in the desert the first pull\nat the canteen. Of course Christmas feeling is the life of trade and all\nthat, and we will be the last to discourage any sort of giving, for one\ncan scarcely disencumber himself of anything in his passage through this\nworld and not be benefited; but the hint may not be thrown away that one\nwill personally get more satisfaction out of his periodic or continual\nbenevolence if he gives during his life the things which he wants and\nother people need, and reserves for a fine show in his will a collected\nbut not selected mass of holiday goods.\n\n\n\n\nCLIMATE AND HAPPINESS\n\nThe idea of the relation of climate to happiness is modern. It is\nprobably born of the telegraph and of the possibility of rapid travel,\nand it is more disturbing to serenity of mind than any other. Providence\nhad so ordered it that if we sat still in almost any region of the globe\nexcept the tropics we would have, in course of the year, almost all the\nkinds of climate that exist. The ancient societies did not trouble\nthemselves about the matter; they froze or thawed, were hot or cold, as\nit pleased the gods. They did not think of fleeing from winter any more\nthan from the summer solstice, and consequently they enjoyed a certain\ncontentment of mind that is absent from modern life. We are more\nintelligent, and therefore more discontented and unhappy. We are always\ntrying to escape winter when we are not trying to escape summer. We are\nhalf the time 'in transitu', flying hither and thither, craving that\nexact adaptation of the weather to our whimsical bodies promised only to\nthe saints who seek a  better country.  There are places, to be sure,\nwhere nature is in a sort of equilibrium, but usually those are places\nwhere we can neither make money nor spend it to our satisfaction. They\nlack either any stimulus to ambition or a historic association, and we\nsoon find that the mind insists upon being cared for quite as much as the\nbody.\n\nHow many wanderers in the past winter left comfortable homes in the\nUnited States to seek a mild climate! Did they find it in the sleet and\nbone-piercing cold of Paris, or anywhere in France, where the wolves were\nforced to come into the villages in the hope of picking up a tender\nchild? If they traveled farther, were the railway carriages anything but\nrefrigerators tempered by cans of cooling water? Was there a place in\nEurope from Spain to Greece, where the American could once be warm\n--really warm without effort--in or out of doors? Was it any better in\ndivine Florence than on the chill Riviera? Northern Italy was blanketed\nwith snow, the Apennines were white, and through the clean streets of the\nbeautiful town a raw wind searched every nook and corner, penetrating\nthrough the thickest of English wraps, and harder to endure than\ningratitude, while a frosty mist enveloped all. The traveler forgot to\nbring with him the contented mind of the Italian. Could he go about in a\nlong cloak and a slouch hat, curl up in doorways out of the blast, and be\ncontent in a feeling of his own picturesqueness? Could he sit all day on\nthe stone pavement and hold out his chilblained hand for soldi? Could he\neven deceive himself, in a palatial apartment with a frescoed ceiling, by\nan appearance of warmth in two sticks ignited by a pine cone set in an\naperture in one end of the vast room, and giving out scarcely heat enough\nto drive the swallows from the chimney? One must be born to this sort of\nthing in order to enjoy it. He needs the poetic temperament which can\nfeel in January the breath of June. The pampered American is not adapted\nto this kind of pleasure. He is very crude, not to say barbarous, yet in\nmany of his tastes, but he has reached one of the desirable things in\ncivilization, and that is a thorough appreciation of physical comfort. He\nhas had the ingenuity to protect himself in his own climate, but when he\ntravels he is at the mercy of customs and traditions in which the idea of\nphysical comfort is still rudimentary. He cannot warm himself before a\ngroup of statuary, or extract heat from a canvas by Raphael, nor keep his\nteeth from chattering by the exquisite view from the Boboli Gardens. The\ncold American is insensible to art, and shivers in the presence of the\nwarmest historical associations. It is doubtful if there is a spot in\nEurope where he can be ordinarily warm in winter. The world, indeed, does\nnot care whether he is warm or not, but it is a matter of great\nimportance to him. As he wanders from palace to palace--and he cannot\nescape the impression that nothing is good enough for him except a\npalace--he cannot think of any cottage in any hamlet in America that is\nnot more comfortable in winter than any palace he can find. And so he is\ndriven on in cold and weary stretches of travel to dwell among the French\nin Algeria, or with the Jews in Tunis, or the Moslems in Cairo. He longs\nfor warmth as the Crusader longed for Jerusalem, but not short of Africa\nshall he find it. The glacial period is coming back on Europe.\n\nThe citizens of the great republic have a reputation for inordinate\nself-appreciation, but we are thinking that they undervalue many of the\nadvantages their ingenuity has won. It is admitted that they are\nrestless, and must always be seeking something that they have not at\nhome. But aside from their ability to be warm in any part of their own\ncountry at any time of the year, where else can they travel three\nthousand miles on a stretch in a well-heated--too much heated--car,\nwithout change of car, without revision of tickets, without encountering\na customhouse, without the necessity of stepping outdoors either for food\nor drink, for a library, for a bath--for any item, in short, that goes to\nthe comfort of a civilized being? And yet we are always prating of the\nsuperior civilization of Europe. Nay, more, the traveler steps into a\ncar--which is as comfortable as a house--in Boston, and alights from it\nonly in the City of Mexico. In what other part of the world can that\nachievement in comfort and convenience be approached?\n\nBut this is not all as to climate and comfort. We have climates of all\nsorts within easy reach, and in quantity, both good and bad, enough to\nexport more in fact than we need of all sorts. If heat is all we want,\nthere are only three or four days between the zero of Maine and the 80\ndeg. of Florida. If New England is inhospitable and New York freezing, it\nis only a matter of four days to the sun and the exhilarating air of New\nMexico and Arizona, and only five to the oranges and roses of that\nsemi-tropical kingdom by the sea, Southern California. And if this does\nnot content us, a day or two more lands us, without sea-sickness, in the\nland of the Aztecs, where we can live in the temperate or the tropic\nzone, eat strange fruits, and be reminded of Egypt and Spain and Italy,\nand see all the colors that the ingenuity of man has been able to give\nhis skin. Fruits and flowers and sun in the winter-time, a climate to\nlounge and be happy in--all this is within easy reach, with the minimum\nof disturbance to our daily habits. We started out, when we turned our\nbacks on the Old World, with the declaration that all men are free, and\nentitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of an agreeable climate. We\nhave yet to learn, it seems, that we can indulge in that pursuit best on\nour own continent. There is no winter climate elsewhere to compare with\nthat found in our extreme Southwest or in Mexico, and the sooner we put\nthis fact into poetry and literature, and begin to make a tradition of\nit, the better will it be for our peace of mind and for our children. And\nif the continent does not satisfy us, there lie the West Indies within a\nfew hours' sail, with all the luxuriance and geniality of the tropics. We\nare only half emancipated yet. We are still apt to see the world through\nthe imagination of England, whose literature we adopted, or of Germany.\nTo these bleak lands Italy was a paradise, and was so sung by poets who\nhad no conception of a winter without frost. We have a winter climate of\nanother sort from any in Europe; we have easy and comfortable access to\nit. The only thing we need to do now is to correct our imagination, which\nhas been led astray. Our poets can at least do this for us by the help of\na quasi-international copyright.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NEW FEMININE RESERVE\n\nIn times past there have been expressed desire and fear that there should\nbe an American aristocracy, and the materials for its formation have been\na good deal canvassed. In a political point of view it is of course\nimpossible, but it has been hoped by many, and feared by more, that a\nsocial state might be created conforming somewhat to the social order in\nEuropean countries. The problem has been exceedingly difficult. An\naristocracy of derived rank and inherited privilege being out of the\nquestion, and an aristocracy of talent never having succeeded anywhere,\nbecause enlightenment of mind tends to liberalism and democracy, there\nwas only left the experiment of an aristocracy of wealth. This does very\nwell for a time, but it tends always to disintegration, and it is\nimpossible to keep it exclusive. It was found, to use the slang of the\ndry-goods shops, that it would not wash, for there were liable to crowd\ninto it at any moment those who had in fact washed for a living. An\naristocracy has a slim tenure that cannot protect itself from this sort\nof intrusion. We have to contrive, therefore, another basis for a class\n(to use an un-American expression), in a sort of culture or training,\nwhich can be perpetual, and which cannot be ordered for money, like a\nball costume or a livery.\n\nPerhaps the  American Girl  may be the agency to bring this about. This\ncharming product of the Western world has come into great prominence of\nlate years in literature and in foreign life, and has attained a\nnotoriety flattering or otherwise to the national pride. No institution\nhas been better known or more marked on the Continent and in England, not\nexcepting the tramway and the Pullman cars. Her enterprise, her daring,\nher freedom from conventionality, have been the theme of the novelists\nand the horror of the dowagers having marriageable daughters. Considered\nas  stock,  the American Girl has been quoted high, and the alliances\nthat she has formed with families impecunious but noble have given her\neclat as belonging to a new and conquering race in the world. But the\nAmerican Girl has not simply a slender figure and a fine eye and a ready\ntongue, she is not simply an engaging and companionable person, she has\nexcellent common-sense, tact, and adaptability. She has at length seen in\nher varied European experience that it is more profitable to have social\ngood form according to local standards than a reputation for dash and\nbrilliancy. Consequently the American Girl of a decade ago has effaced\nherself. She is no longer the dazzling courageous figure. In England, in\nFrance, in Germany, in Italy, she takes, as one may say, the color of the\nland. She has retired behind her mother. She who formerly marched in the\nvan of the family procession, leading them--including the panting\nmother--a whimsical dance, is now the timid and retiring girl, needing\nthe protection of a chaperon on every occasion. The satirist will find no\nmore abroad the American Girl of the old type whom he continues to\ndescribe. The knowing and fascinating creature has changed her tactics\naltogether. And the change has reacted on American society. The mother\nhas come once more to the front, and even if she is obliged to own to\nforty-five years to the census-taker, she has again the position and the\nprivileges of the blooming woman of thirty. Her daughters walk meekly and\nwith downcast (if still expectant) eyes, and wait for a sign.\n\nThat this change is the deliberate work of the American Girl, no one who\nknows her grace and talent will deny. In foreign travel and residence she\nhas been quick to learn her lesson. Dazzled at first by her own capacity\nand the opportunities of the foreign field, she took the situation by\nstorm. But she found too often that she had a barren conquest, and that\nthe social traditions survived her success and became a lifelong\nannoyance; that is to say, it was possible to subdue foreign men, but the\nforeign women were impregnable in their social order. The American Girl\nabroad is now, therefore, with rare exceptions, as carefully chaperoned\nand secluded as her foreign sisters.\n\nIt is not necessary to lay too much stress upon this phase of American\nlife abroad, but the careful observer must notice its reflex action at\nhome. The American freedom and unconventionality in the intercourse of\nthe young of both sexes, which has been so much commented on as\ncharacteristic of American life, may not disappear, but that small\nsection which calls itself  society  may attain a sort of aristocratic\ndistinction by the adoption of this foreign conventionality. It is\nsufficient now to note this tendency, and to claim the credit of it for\nthe wise and intelligent American Girl. It would be a pity if it were to\nbecome nationally universal, for then it would not be the aristocratic\ndistinction of a few, and the American woman who longs for some sort of\ncaste would be driven to some other device.\n\nIt is impossible to tell yet what form this feminine reserve and\nretirement will take. It is not at all likely to go so far as the\nOriental seclusion of women. The American Girl would never even seemingly\ngive up her right of initiative. If she is to stay in the background and\npretend to surrender her choice to her parents, and with it all the\ndelights of a matrimonial campaign, she will still maintain a position of\nobservation. If she seems to be influenced at present by the French and\nItalian examples, we may be sure that she is too intelligent and too fond\nof freedom to long tolerate any system of chaperonage that she cannot\ncontrol. She will find a way to modify the traditional conventionalities\nso as not to fetter her own free spirit. It may be her mission to show\nthe world a social order free from the forward independence and smartness\nof which she has been accused, and yet relieved of the dull stiffness of\nthe older forms. It is enough now to notice that a change is going on,\ndue to the effect of foreign society upon American women, and to express\nthe patriotic belief that whatever forms of etiquette she may bow to, the\nAmerican Girl will still be on earth the last and best gift of God to\nman.\n\n\n\n\nREPOSE IN ACTIVITY\n\nWhat we want is repose. We take infinite trouble and go to the ends of\nthe world to get it. That is what makes us all so restless. If we could\nonly find a spot where we could sit down, content to let the world go by,\naway from the Sunday newspapers and the chronicles of an uneasy society,\nwe think we should be happy. Perhaps such a place is Coronado Beach\n--that semi-tropical flower-garden by the sea. Perhaps another is the\nTimeo Terrace at Taormina. There, without moving, one has the most\nexquisite sea and shore far below him, so far that he has the feeling of\ndomination without effort; the most picturesque crags and castle peaks;\nhe has all classic legend under his eye without the trouble of reading,\nand mediaeval romance as well; ruins from the time of Theocritus to\nFreeman, with no responsibility of describing them; and one of the\nloveliest and most majestic of snow mountains, never twice the same in\nlight and shade, entirely revealed and satisfactory from base to summit,\nwith no self or otherwise imposed duty of climbing it. Here are most of\nthe elements of peace and calm spirit. And the town itself is quite dead,\nutterly exhausted after a turbulent struggle of twenty-five hundred\nyears, its poor inhabitants living along only from habit. The only new\nthings in it--the two caravansaries of the traveler--are a hotel and a\ncemetery. One might end his days here in serene retrospection, and more\ncheaply than in other places of fewer attractions, for it is all Past and\nno Future. Probably, therefore, it would not suit the American, whose\nimagination does not work so easily backward as forward, and who prefers\nto build his own nest rather than settle in anybody else's rookery.\nPerhaps the American deceives himself when he says he wants repose; what\nhe wants is perpetual activity and change; his peace of mind is postponed\nuntil he can get it in his own way. It is in feeling that he is a part of\ngrowth and not of decay. Foreigners are fond of writing essays upon\nAmerican traits and characteristics. They touch mostly on surface\nindications. What really distinguishes the American from all others--for\nall peoples like more or less to roam, and the English of all others are\nglobe-trotters--is not so much his restlessness as his entire accord with\nthe spirit of  go-ahead,  the result of his absolute breaking with the\nPast. He can repose only in the midst of intense activity. He can sit\ndown quietly in a town that is growing rapidly; but if it stands still,\nhe is impelled to move his rocking-chair to one more lively. He wants the\nworld to move, and to move unencumbered; and Europe seems to him to carry\ntoo much baggage. The American is simply the most modern of men, one who\nhas thrown away the impedimenta of tradition. The world never saw such a\nspectacle before, so vast a territory informed with one uniform spirit of\nenergy and progress, and people tumbling into it from all the world,\neager for the fair field and free opportunity. The American delights in\nit; in Europe he misses the swing and  go  of the new life.\n\nThis large explanation may not account for the summer restlessness that\novertakes nearly everybody. We are the annual victims of the delusion\nthat there exists somewhere the ideal spot where manners are simple, and\nmilk is pure, and lodging is cheap, where we shall fall at once into\ncontent. We never do. For content consists not in having all we want,\nnor, in not wanting everything, nor in being unable to get what we want,\nbut in not wanting that we can get. In our summer flittings we carry our\nwants with us to places where they cannot be gratified. A few people have\ndiscovered that repose can be had at home, but this discovery is too\nunfashionable to find favor; we have no rest except in moving about.\nLooked at superficially, it seems curious that the American is, as a\nrule, the only person who does not emigrate. The fact is that he can go\nnowhere else where life is so uneasy, and where, consequently, he would\nhave so little of his sort of repose. To put him in another country would\nbe like putting a nineteenth-century man back into the eighteenth\ncentury. The American wants to be at the head of the procession (as he\nfancies he is), where he can hear the band play, and be the first to see\nthe fireworks of the new era. He thinks that he occupies an advanced\nstation of observation, from which his telescope can sweep the horizon\nfor anything new. And with some reason he thinks so; for not seldom he\ntakes up a foreign idea and tires of it before it is current elsewhere.\nMore than one great writer of England had his first popular recognition\nin America. Even this season the Saturday Review is struggling with\nIbsen, while Boston, having had that disease, has probably gone on to\nsome other fad.\n\nFar be it from us to praise the American for his lack of repose; it is\nenough to attempt to account for it. But from the social, or rather\nsociety, point of view, the subject has a disquieting aspect. If the\nAmerican young man and young woman get it into their heads that repose,\nespecially of manner, is the correct thing, they will go in for it in a\nway to astonish the world. The late cultivation of idiocy by the American\ndude was unique. He carried it to an extreme impossible to the youth of\nany nation less  gifted.  And if the American girl goes in seriously for\n repose,  she will be able to give odds to any modern languidity or to\nany ancient marble. If what is wanted in society is cold hauteur and\nlanguid superciliousness or lofty immobility, we are confident that with\na little practice she can sit stiller, and look more impassive, and move\nwith less motion, than any other created woman. We have that confidence\nin her ability and adaptability. It is a question whether it is worth\nwhile to do this; to sacrifice the vivacity and charm native to her, and\nthe natural impulsiveness and generous gift of herself which belong to a\nnew race in a new land, which is walking always towards the sunrise.\n\nIn fine, although so much is said of the American lack of repose, is it\nnot best for the American to be content to be himself, and let the\ncritics adapt themselves or not, as they choose, to a new phenomenon?\n\nLet us stick a philosophic name to it, and call it repose in activity.\nThe American might take the candid advice given by one friend to another,\nwho complained that it was so difficult to get into the right frame of\nmind.  The best thing you can do,  he said,  is to frame your mind and\nhang it up. \n\n\n\n\nWOMEN--IDEAL AND REAL\n\nWe have not by any means got to the bottom of Realism. It matters very\nlittle what the novelists and critics say about it--what it is and what\nit is not; the attitude of society towards it is the important thing.\nEven if the critic could prove that nature and art are the same thing,\nand that the fiction which is Real is only a copy of nature, or if\nanother should prove that Reality is only to be found in the Ideal,\nlittle would be gained. Literature is well enough in its place, art is an\nagreeable pastime, and it is right that society should take up either in\nseasons when lawn-tennis and polo are impracticable and afternoon teas\nbecome flavorless; but the question that society is or should be\ninterested in is whether the young woman of the future--upon whose\nformation all our social hopes depend--is going to shape herself by a\nRealistic or an Ideal standard. It should be said in parenthesis that the\nyoung woman of the passing period has inclined towards Realism in manner\nand speech, if not in dress, affecting a sort of frank return to the\neasy-going ways of nature itself, even to the adoption of the language of\nthe stock exchange, the race-course, and the clubs--an offering of\nherself on the altar of good-fellowship, with the view, no doubt, of\nmaking life more agreeable to the opposite sex, forgetting the fact that\nmen fall in love always, or used to in the days when they could afford\nthat luxury, with an ideal woman, or if not with an ideal woman, with one\nwhom they idealize. And at this same time the world is full of doubts and\nquestionings as to whether marriage is a failure. Have these questionings\nanything to do with the increasing Realism of women, and a consequent\nloss of ideals?\n\nOf course the reader sees that the difficulty in considering this subject\nis whether woman is to be estimated as a work of nature or of art. And\nhere comes in the everlasting question of what is the highest beauty, and\nwhat is most to be desired. The Greek artists, it seems to be well\nestablished, never used a model, as our artists almost invariably do, in\ntheir plastic and pictorial creations. The antique Greek statues, or\ntheir copies, which give us the highest conceptions of feminine charm and\nmanly beauty, were made after no woman, or man born of woman, but were\ncreations of the ideal raised to the highest conception by the passionate\nlove and long study of nature, but never by faithful copying of it. The\nRomans copied the Greek art. The Greek in his best days created the ideal\nfigure, which we love to accept as nature. Generation after generation\nthe Greek learned to draw and learned to observe, until he was able to\ntransmute his knowledge into the forms of grace and beauty which satisfy\nus as nature at her best; just as the novelist trains all his powers by\nthe observation of life until he is able to transmute all the raw\nmaterial into a creation of fiction which satisfies us. We may be sure\nthat if the Greek artist had employed the service of models in his\nstudio, his art would have been merely a passing phase in human history.\nBut as it is, the world has ever since been in love with his ideal woman,\nand still believes in her possibility.\n\nNow the young woman of today should not be deceived into the notion of a\npreferable Realistic development because the novelist of today gets her\nto sit to him as his model. This may be no certain indication that she is\neither good art or good nature. Indeed she may be quite drifting away\nfrom the ideal that a woman ought to aim at if we are to have a society\nthat is not always tending into a realistic vulgarity and commonplace. It\nis perfectly true that a woman is her own excuse for being, and in a way\nshe is doing enough for the world by simply being a woman. It is\ndifficult to rouse her to any sense of her duty as a standard of\naspiration. And it is difficult to explain exactly what it is that she is\nto do. If she asks if she is expected to be a model woman, the reply must\nbe that the world does not much hanker after what--is called the  model\nwoman.  It seems to be more a matter of tendency than anything else. Is\nshe sagging towards Realism or rising towards Idealism? Is she content to\nbe the woman that some of the novelists, and some of the painters also,\nsay she is, or would she prefer to approach that ideal which all the\nworld loves? It is a question of standards.\n\nIt is natural that in these days, when the approved gospel is that it is\nbetter to be dead than not to be Real, society should try to approach\nnature by the way of the materialistically ignoble, and even go such a\npace of Realism as literature finds it difficult to keep up with; but it\nis doubtful if the young woman will get around to any desirable state of\nnature by this route. We may not be able to explain why servile imitation\nof nature degrades art and degrades woman, but both deteriorate without\nan ideal so high that there is no earthly model for it. Would you like to\nmarry, perhaps, a Greek statue? says the justly contemptuous critic.\n\nNot at all, at least not a Roman copy of one. But it would be better to\nmarry a woman who would rather be like a Greek statue than like some of\nthese figures, without even an idea for clothing, which are lying about\non green banks in our spring exhibitions.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ART OF IDLENESS\n\nIdleness seems to be the last accomplishment of civilization. To be idle\ngracefully and contentedly and picturesquely is an art. It is one in\nwhich the Americans, who do so many things well, do not excel. They have\nmade the excuse that they have not time, or, if they have leisure, that\ntheir temperament and nervous organization do not permit it. This excuse\nwill pass for a while, for we are a new people, and probably we are more\nhighly and sensitively organized than any other nation--at least the\nphysiologists say so; but the excuse seems more and more inadequate as we\naccumulate wealth, and consequently have leisure. We shall not criticise\nthe American colonies in Paris and Rome and Florence, and in other\nContinental places where they congregate. They know whether they are\nrestless or contented, and what examples they set to the peoples who get\ntheir ideas of republican simplicity and virtue from the Americans who\nsojourn among them. They know whether with all their leisure they get\nplacidity of mind and the real rest which the older nations have learned\nto enjoy. It may not be the most desirable thing for a human being to be\nidle, but if he will be, he should be so in a creditable manner, and with\nsome enjoyment to himself. It is no slander to say that we in America\nhave not yet found out the secret of this. Perhaps we shall not until our\nenergies are spent and we are in a state of decay. At present we put as\nmuch energy into our pleasure as into our work, for it is inbred in us\nthat laziness is a sin. This is the Puritan idea, and it must be said for\nit that in our experience virtue and idleness are not commonly\ncompanions. But this does not go to the bottom of the matter.\n\nThe Italians are industrious; they are compelled to be in order to pay\ntheir taxes for the army and navy and get macaroni enough to live on. But\nsee what a long civilization has done for them. They have the manner of\nlaziness, they have the air of leisure, they have worn off the angular\ncorners of existence, and unconsciously their life is picturesque and\nenjoyable. Those among them who have money take their pleasure simply and\nwith the least expense of physical energy. Those who have not money do\nthe same thing. This basis of existence is calm and unexaggerated; life\nis reckoned by centimes, not by dollars. What an ideal place is Venice!\nIt is not only the most picturesque city in the world, rich in all that\nart can invent to please the eye, but how calm it is! The vivacity which\nentertains the traveler is all on the surface. The nobleman in his palace\nif there be any palace that is not turned into a hotel, or a magazine of\ncuriosities, or a municipal office--can live on a diet that would make an\nAmerican workman strike, simply because he has learned to float through\nlife; and the laborer is equally happy on little because he has learned\nto wait without much labor. The gliding, easy motion of the gondola\nexpresses the whole situation; and the gondolier who with consummate\nskill urges his dreamy bark amid the throng and in the tortuous canals\nfor an hour or two, and then sleeps in the sun, is a type of that rest in\nlabor which we do not attain. What happiness there is in a dish of\npolenta, or of a few fried fish, in a cup of coffee, and in one of those\napologies for cigars which the government furnishes, dear at a cent--the\ncigar with a straw in it, as if it were a julep, which it needs five\nminutes to ignite, and then will furnish occupation for a whole evening!\nIs it a hard lot, that of the fishermen and the mariners of the Adriatic?\nThe lights are burning all night long in a cafe on the Riva del\nSchiavoni, and the sailors and idlers of the shore sit there jabbering\nand singing and trying their voices in lusty hallooing till the morning\nlight begins to make the lagoon opalescent. The traveler who lodges near\ncannot sleep, but no more can the sailors, who steal away in the dawn,\nwafted by painted sails. In the heat of the day, when the fish will not\nbite, comes the siesta. Why should the royal night be wasted in slumber?\nThe shore of the Riva, the Grand Canal, the islands, gleam with twinkling\nlamps; the dark boats glide along with a star in the prow, bearing youth\nand beauty and sin and ugliness, all alike softened by the shadows; the\nelectric lights from the shores and the huge steamers shoot gleams on\ntowers and facades; the moon wades among the fleecy clouds; here and\nthere a barge with colored globes of light carries a band of singing men\nand women and players on the mandolin and the fiddle, and from every side\nthe songs of Italy, pathetic in their worn gayety, float to the entranced\nears of those who lean from balconies, or lounge in gondolas and listen\nwith hearts made a little heavy and wistful with so much beauty.\n\nCan any one float in such scenes and be so contentedly idle anywhere in\nour happy land? Have we learned yet the simple art of easy enjoyment? Can\nwe buy it with money quickly, or is it a grace that comes only with long\ncivilization? Italy, for instance, is full of accumulated wealth, of art,\neven of ostentation and display, and the new generation probably have\nlost the power to conceive, if not the skill to execute, the great works\nwhich excite our admiration. Nothing can be much more meretricious than\nits modern art, when anything is produced that is not an exact copy of\nsomething created when there was genius there. But in one respect the\nItalians have entered into the fruits of the ages of trial and of\nfailure, and that, is the capacity of being idle with much money or with\nnone, and getting day by day their pay for the bother of living in this\nworld. It seems a difficult lesson for us to learn in country or city.\nAlas! when we have learned it shall we not want to emigrate, as so many\nof the Italians do? Some philosophers say that men were not created to be\nhappy. Perhaps they were not intended to be idle.\n\n\n\n\nIS THERE ANY CONVERSATION\n\nIs there any such thing as conversation? It is a delicate subject to\ntouch, because many people understand conversation to be talk; not the\nexchange of ideas, but of words; and we would not like to say anything to\nincrease the flow of the latter. We read of times and salons in which\nreal conversation existed, held by men and women. Are they altogether in\nthe past? We believe that men do sometimes converse. Do women ever?\nPerhaps so. In those hours sacred to the relaxation of undress and the\nback hair, in the upper penetralia of the household, where two or three\nor six are gathered together on and about the cushioned frame intended\nfor repose, do they converse, or indulge in that sort of chat from which\nnot one idea is carried away? No one reports, fortunately, and we do not\nknow. But do all the women like this method of spending hour after hour,\nday after day-indeed, a lifetime? Is it invigorating, even restful? Think\nof the talk this past summer, the rivers and oceans of it, on piazzas and\ngalleries in the warm evenings or the fresher mornings, in private\nhouses, on hotel verandas, in the shade of thousands of cottages by the\nsea and in the hills! As you recall it, what was it all about? Was the\nmind in a vapid condition after an evening of it? And there is so much to\nread, and so much to think about, and the world is so interesting, if you\ndo think about it, and nearly every person has some peculiarity of mind\nthat would be worth study if you could only get at it! It is really, we\nrepeat, such an interesting world, and most people get so little out of\nit. Now there is the conversation of hens, when the hens are busy and not\nself-conscious; there is something fascinating about it, because the\nimagination may invest it with a recondite and spicy meaning; but the\ncommon talk of people! We infer sometimes that the hens are not saying\nanything, because they do not read, and consequently their minds are\nempty. And perhaps we are right. As to conversation, there is no use in\nsending the bucket into the well when the well is dry--it only makes a\nrattling of windlass and chain. We do not wish to be understood to be an\nenemy of the light traffic of human speech. Deliver us from the didactic\nand the everlastingly improving style of thing! Conversation, in order to\nbe good, and intellectually inspiring, and spiritually restful, need not\nalways be serious. It must be alert and intelligent, and mean more by its\nsuggestions and allusions than is said. There is the light touch-and-go\nplay about topics more or less profound that is as agreeable as\nheat-lightning in a sultry evening. Why may not a person express the\nwhims and vagaries of a lambent mind (if he can get a lambent mind)\nwithout being hauled up short for it, and plunged into a heated dispute?\nIn the freedom of real conversation the mind throws out half-thoughts,\nparadoxes, for which a man is not to be held strictly responsible to the\nvery roots of his being, and which need to be caught up and played with\nin the same tentative spirit. The dispute and the hot argument are\nusually the bane of conversation and the death of originality. We like to\nexpress a notion, a fancy, without being called upon to defend it, then\nand there, in all its possible consequences, as if it were to be an\narticle in a creed or a plank in a platform. Must we be always either\nvapid or serious?\n\nWe have been obliged to take notice of the extraordinary tendency of\nAmerican women to cultivation, to the improvement of the mind, by means\nof reading, clubs, and other intellectual exercises, and to acknowledge\nthat they are leaving the men behind; that is, the men not in the\nso-called professions. Is this intellectualization beginning to show in\nthe conversation of women when they are together, say in the hours of\nrelaxation in the penetralia spoken of, or in general society? Is there\nless talk about the fashion of dress, and the dearness or cheapness of\nmaterials, and about servants, and the ways of the inchoate citizen\ncalled the baby, and the infinitely little details of the private life of\nother people? Is it true that if a group of men are talking, say about\npolitics, or robust business, or literature, and they are joined by women\n(whose company is always welcome), the conversation is pretty sure to\ntake a lower mental plane, to become more personal, more frivolous,\naccommodating itself to quite a different range? Do the well-read,\nthoughtful women, however beautiful and brilliant and capable of the\ngayest persiflage, prefer to talk with men, to listen to the conversation\nof men, rather than to converse with or listen to their own sex? If this\nis true, why is it? Women, as a rule, in  society  at any rate, have more\nleisure than men. In the facilities and felicities of speech they\ncommonly excel men, and usually they have more of that vivacious dramatic\npower which is called  setting out a thing to the life.  With all these\nadvantages, and all the world open to them in newspapers and in books,\nthey ought to be the leaders and stimulators of the best conversation.\nWith them it should never drop down to the too-common flatness and\nbanality. Women have made this world one of the most beautiful places of\nresidence to be conceived. They might make it one of the most\ninteresting.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TALL GIRL\n\nIt is the fashion for girls to be tall. This is much more than saying\nthat tall girls are the fashion. It means not only that the tall girl has\ncome in, but that girls are tall, and are becoming tall, because it is\nthe fashion, and because there is a demand for that sort of girl. There\nis no hint of stoutness, indeed the willowy pattern is preferred, but\nneither is leanness suggested; the women of the period have got hold of\nthe poet's idea,  tall and most divinely fair,  and are living up to it.\nPerhaps this change in fashion is more noticeable in England and on the\nContinent than in America, but that may be because there is less room for\nchange in America, our girls being always of an aspiring turn. Very\nmarked the phenomenon is in England; on the street, at any concert or\nreception, the number of tall girls is so large as to occasion remark,\nespecially among the young girls just coming into the conspicuousness of\nwomanhood. The tendency of the new generation is towards unusual height\nand gracious slimness. The situation would be embarrassing to thousands\nof men who have been too busy to think about growing upward, were it not\nfor the fact that the tall girl, who must be looked up to, is almost\ninvariably benignant, and bears her height with a sweet timidity that\ndisarms fear. Besides, the tall girl has now come on in such force that\nconfidence is infused into the growing army, and there is a sense of\nsupport in this survival of the tallest that is very encouraging to the\nyoung.\n\nMany theories have been put forward to account for this phenomenon. It is\nknown that delicate plants in dark places struggle up towards the light\nin a frail slenderness, and it is said that in England, which seems to\nhave increasing cloudiness, and in the capital more and more months of\ndeeper darkness and blackness, it is natural that the British girl should\ngrow towards the light. But this is a fanciful view of the case, for it\ncannot be proved that English men have proportionally increased their\nstature. The English man has always seemed big to the Continental\npeoples, partly because objects generally take on gigantic dimensions\nwhen seen through a fog. Another theory, which has much more to commend\nit, is that the increased height of women is due to the aesthetic\nmovement, which has now spent its force, but has left certain results,\nespecially in the change of the taste in colors. The woman of the\naesthetic artist was nearly always tall, usually willowy, not to say\nundulating and serpentine. These forms of feminine loveliness and\ncommanding height have been for many years before the eyes of the women\nof England in paintings and drawings, and it is unavoidable that this\npattern should not have its effect upon the new and plastic generation.\nNever has there been another generation so open to new ideas; and if the\nideal of womanhood held up was that of length and gracious slenderness,\nit would be very odd if women should not aspire to it. We know very well\nthe influence that the heroines of the novelists have had from time to\ntime upon the women of a given period. The heroine of Scott was, no\ndoubt, once common in society--the delicate creature who promptly fainted\non the reminiscence of the scent of a rose, but could stand any amount of\ndragging by the hair through underground passages, and midnight rides on\nlonely moors behind mailed and black-mantled knights, and a run or two of\nhair-removing typhoid fever, and come out at the end of the story as\nfresh as a daisy. She could not be found now, so changed are the\nrequirements of fiction. We may assume, too, that the full-blown\naesthetic girl of that recent period--the girl all soul and faded\nharmonies--would be hard to find, but the fascination of the height and\nslenderness of that girl remains something more than a tradition, and is,\nno doubt, to some extent copied by the maiden just coming into her\nkingdom.\n\nThose who would belittle this matter may say that the appearance of which\nwe speak is due largely to the fashion of dress--the long unbroken lines\nwhich add to the height and encourage the appearance of slenderness. But\nthis argument gives away the case. Why do women wear the present\nfascinating gowns, in which the lithe figure is suggested in all its\nwomanly dignity? In order that they may appear to be tall. That is to\nsay, because it is the fashion to be tall; women born in the mode are\ntall, and those caught in a hereditary shortness endeavor to conform to\nthe stature of the come and coming woman.\n\nThere is another theory, that must be put forward with some hesitation,\nfor the so-called emancipation of woman is a delicate subject to deal\nwith, for while all the sex doubtless feel the impulse of the new time,\nthere are still many who indignantly reject the implication in the\nstruggle for the rights of women. To say, therefore, that women are\nbecoming tall as a part of their outfit for taking the place of men in\nthis world would be to many an affront, so that this theory can only be\nsuggested. Yet probably physiology would bear us out in saying that the\ntruly emancipated woman, taking at last the place in affairs which men\nhave flown in the face of Providence by denying her, would be likely to\nexpand physically as well as mentally, and that as she is beginning to\nlook down upon man intellectually, she is likely to have a corresponding\nphysical standard.\n\nSeriously, however, none of these theories are altogether satisfactory,\nand we are inclined to seek, as is best in all cases, the simplest\nexplanation. Women are tall and becoming tall simply because it is the\nfashion, and that statement never needs nor is capable of any\nexplanation. Awhile ago it was the fashion to be petite and arch; it is\nnow the fashion to be tall and gracious, and nothing more can be said\nabout it. Of course the reader, who is usually inclined to find the\nfacetious side of any grave topic, has already thought of the application\nof the self-denying hymn, that man wants but little here below, and wants\nthat little long; but this may be only a passing sigh of the period. We\nare far from expressing any preference for tall women over short women.\nThere are creative moods of the fancy when each seems the better. We can\nonly chronicle, but never create.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEADLY DIARY\n\nMany people regard the keeping of a diary as a meritorious occupation.\nThe young are urged to take up this cross; it is supposed to benefit\ngirls especially. Whether women should do it is to some minds not an open\nquestion, although there is on record the case of the Frenchman who tried\nto shoot himself when he heard that his wife was keeping a diary. This\nintention of suicide may have arisen from the fear that his wife was\nkeeping a record of his own peccadilloes rather than of her own thoughts\nand emotions. Or it may have been from the fear that she was putting down\nthose little conjugal remarks which the husband always dislikes to have\nthrown up to him, and which a woman can usually quote accurately, it may\nbe for years, it may be forever, without the help of a diary. So we can\nappreciate without approving the terror of the Frenchman at living on and\non in the same house with a growing diary. For it is not simply that this\nlittle book of judgment is there in black and white, but that the maker\nof it is increasing her power of minute observation and analytic\nexpression. In discussing the question whether a woman should keep a\ndiary it is understood that it is not a mere memorandum of events and\nengagements, such as both men and women of business and affairs\nnecessarily keep, but the daily record which sets down feelings,\nemotions, and impressions, and criticises people and records opinions.\nBut this is a question that applies to men as well as to women.\n\nIt has been assumed that the diary serves two good purposes: it is a\ndisciplinary exercise for the keeper of it, and perhaps a moral guide;\nand it has great historical value. As to the first, it may be helpful to\norder, method, discipline, and it may be an indulgence of spleen, whims,\nand unwholesome criticism and conceit. The habit of saying right out what\nyou think of everybody is not a good one, and the record of such opinions\nand impressions, while it is not so mischievous to the public as talking\nmay be, is harmful to the recorder. And when we come to the historical\nvalue of the diary, we confess to a growing suspicion of it. It is such a\ndeadly weapon when it comes to light after the passage of years. It has\nan authority which the spoken words of its keeper never had. It is 'ex\nparte', and it cannot be cross-examined. The supposition is that being\ncontemporaneous with the events spoken of, it must be true, and that it\nis an honest record. Now, as a matter of fact, we doubt if people are any\nmore honest as to themselves or others in a diary than out of it; and\nrumors, reported facts, and impressions set down daily in the heat and\nhaste of the prejudicial hour are about as likely to be wrong as right.\nTwo diaries of the same events rarely agree. And in turning over an old\ndiary we never know what to allow for the personal equation. The diary is\ngreatly relied on by the writers of history, but it is doubtful if there\nis any such liar in the world, even when the keeper of it is honest. It\nis certain to be partisan, and more liable to be misinformed than a\nnewspaper, which exercises some care in view of immediate publicity. The\nwriter happens to know of two diaries which record, on the testimony of\neye-witnesses, the circumstances of the last hours of Garfield, and they\ndiffer utterly in essential particulars. One of these may turn up fifty\nyears from now, and be accepted as true. An infinite amount of gossip\ngoes into diaries about men and women that would not stand the test of a\nmoment's contemporary publication. But by-and-by it may all be used to\nsmirch or brighten unjustly some one's character. Suppose a man in the\nArmy of the Potomac had recorded daily all his opinions of men and\nevents. Reading it over now, with more light and a juster knowledge of\ncharacter and of measures, is it not probable that he would find it a\ntissue of misconceptions? Few things are actually what they seem today;\nthey are colored both by misapprehensions and by moods. If a man writes a\nletter or makes report of an occurrence for immediate publication,\nsubject to universal criticism, there is some restraint on him. In his\nprivate letter, or diary especially, he is apt to set down what comes\ninto his head at the moment, often without much effort at verification.\n\nWe have been led to this disquisition into the fundamental nature of this\nprivate record by the question put to us, whether it is a good plan for a\nwoman to keep a diary. Speaking generally, the diary has become a sort of\nfetich, the authority of which ought to be overthrown. It is fearful to\nthink how our characters are probably being lied away by innumerable pen\nscratches in secret repositories, which may some day come to light as\nunimpeachable witnesses. The reader knows that he is not the sort of man\nwhich the diarist jotted him down to be in a single interview. The diary\nmay be a good thing for self-education, if the keeper could insure its\ndestruction. The mental habit of diarizing may have some value, even when\nit sets undue importance upon trifles. We confess that, never having seen\na woman's private diary (except those that have been published), we do\nnot share the popular impression as to their tenuity implied in the\nquestion put to us. Taking it for granted that they are full of noble\nthoughts and beautiful imaginings, we doubt whether the time spent on\nthem could not be better employed in acquiring knowledge or taking\nexercise. For the diary forgotten and left to the next generation may be\nas dangerous as dynamite.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHISTLING GIRL\n\nThe wisdom of our ancestors packed away in proverbial sayings may always\nbe a little suspected. We have a vague respect for a popular proverb, as\nembodying folk-experience, and expressing not the wit of one, but the\ncommon thought of a race. We accept the saying unquestioning, as a sort\nof inspiration out of the air, true because nobody has challenged it for\nages, and probably for the same reason that we try to see the new moon\nover our left shoulder. Very likely the musty saying was the product of\nthe average ignorance of an unenlightened time, and ought not to have the\nrespect of a scientific and traveled people. In fact it will be found\nthat a large proportion of the proverbial sayings which we glibly use are\nfallacies based on a very limited experience of the world, and probably\nwere set afloat by the idiocy or prejudice of one person. To examine one\nof them is enough for our present purpose.\n\n      Whistling girls and crowing hens\n     Always come to some bad ends. \n\nIt would be interesting to know the origin of this proverb, because it is\nstill much relied on as evincing a deep knowledge of human nature, and as\nan argument against change, that is to say, in this case, against\nprogress. It would seem to have been made by a man, conservative, perhaps\nmalevolent, who had no appreciation of a hen, and a conservatively poor\nopinion of woman. His idea was to keep woman in her place--a good idea\nwhen not carried too far--but he did not know what her place is, and he\nwanted to put a sort of restraint upon her emancipation by coupling her\nwith an emancipated hen. He therefore launched this shaft of ridicule,\nand got it to pass as an arrow of wisdom shot out of a popular experience\nin remote ages.\n\nIn the first place, it is not true, and probably never was true even when\nhens were at their lowest. We doubts its Sanscrit antiquity. It is\nperhaps of Puritan origin, and rhymed in New England. It is false as to\nthe hen. A crowing hen was always an object of interest and distinction;\nshe was pointed out to visitors; the owner was proud of her\naccomplishment, he was naturally likely to preserve her life, and\nespecially if she could lay. A hen that can lay and crow is a 'rara\navis'. And it should be parenthetically said here that the hen who can\ncrow and cannot lay is not a good example for woman. The crowing hen was\nof more value than the silent hen, provided she crowed with discretion;\nand she was likely to be a favorite, and not at all to come to some bad\nend. Except, indeed, where the proverb tended to work its own\nfulfillment. And this is the regrettable side of most proverbs of an\nill-nature, that they do help to work the evil they predict. Some foolish\nboy, who had heard this proverb, and was sent out to the hen-coop in the\nevening to slay for the Thanksgiving feast, thought he was a justifiable\nlittle providence in wringing the neck of the crowing hen, because it was\nproper (according to the saying) that she should come to some bad end.\nAnd as years went on, and that kind of boy increased and got to be a man,\nit became a fixed idea to kill the amusing, interesting, spirited,\nemancipated hen, and naturally the barn-yard became tamer and tamer, the\nproduction of crowing hens was discouraged (the wise old hens laid no\neggs with a crow in them, according to the well-known principle of\nheredity), and the man who had in his youth exterminated the hen of\nprogress actually went about quoting that false couplet as an argument\nagainst the higher education of woman.\n\nAs a matter of fact, also, the couplet is not true about woman; whether\nit ought to be true is an ethical question that will not be considered\nhere. The whistling girl does not commonly come to a bad end. Quite as\noften as any other girl she learns to whistle a cradle song, low and\nsweet and charming, to the young voter in the cradle. She is a girl of\nspirit, of independence of character, of dash and flavor; and as to lips,\nwhy, you must have some sort of presentable lips to whistle; thin ones\nwill not. The whistling girl does not come to a bad end at all (if\nmarriage is still considered a good occupation), except a cloud may be\nthrown upon her exuberant young life by this rascally proverb. Even if\nshe walks the lonely road of life, she has this advantage, that she can\nwhistle to keep her courage up. But in a larger sense, one that this\npractical age can understand, it is not true that the whistling girl\ncomes to a bad end. Whistling pays. It has brought her money; it has\nblown her name about the listening world. Scarcely has a non-whistling\nwoman been more famous. She has set aside the adage. She has done so much\ntowards the emancipation of her sex from the prejudice created by an\nill-natured proverb which never had root in fact.\n\nBut has the whistling woman come to stay? Is it well for woman to\nwhistle? Are the majority of women likely to be whistlers? These are\nserious questions, not to be taken up in a light manner at the end of a\ngrave paper. Will woman ever learn to throw a stone? There it is. The\nfuture is inscrutable. We only know that whereas they did not whistle\nwith approval, now they do; the prejudice of generations gradually melts\naway. And woman's destiny is not linked with that of the hen, nor to be\ncontrolled by a proverb--perhaps not by anything.\n\n\n\n\nBORN OLD AND RICH\n\nWe have been remiss in not proposing a remedy for our present social and\neconomic condition. Looking backward, we see this. The scheme may not be\npractical, any more than the Utopian plans that have been put forward,\nbut it is radical and interesting, and requires, as the other schemes do,\na total change in human nature (which may be a good thing to bring\nabout), and a general recasting of the conditions of life. This is and\nshould be no objection to a socialistic scheme. Surface measures will not\navail. The suggestion for a minor alleviation of inequality, which seems\nto have been acted on, namely, that women should propose, has not had the\ndesired effect if it is true, as reported, that the eligible young men\nare taking to the woods. The workings of such a measure are as impossible\nto predict in advance as the operation of the McKinley tariff. It might\nbe well to legislate that people should be born equal (including equal\nprivileges of the sexes), but the practical difficulty is to keep them\nequal. Life is wrong somehow. Some are born rich and some are born poor,\nand this inequality makes misery, and then some lose their possessions,\nwhich others get hold of, and that makes more misery. We can put our\nfingers on the two great evils of life as it now is: the first is\npoverty; and the second is infirmity, which is the accompaniment of\nincreasing years. Poverty, which is only the unequal distribution of\nthings desired, makes strife, and is the opportunity of lawyers; and\ninfirmity is the excuse for doctors. Think what the world would be\nwithout lawyers and doctors!\n\nWe are all born young, and most of us are born poor. Youth is delightful,\nbut we are always getting away from it. How different it would be if we\nwere always going towards it! Poverty is unpleasant, and the great\nstruggle of life is to get rid of it; but it is the common fortune that\nin proportion as wealth is attained the capacity of enjoying it departs.\nIt seems, therefore, that our life is wrong end first. The remedy\nsuggested is that men should be born rich and old. Instead of the\nnecessity of making a fortune, which is of less and less value as death\napproaches, we should have only the privilege of spending it, and it\nwould have its natural end in the cradle, in which we should be rocked\ninto eternal sleep. Born old, one would, of course, inherit experience,\nso that wealth could be made to contribute to happiness, and each day,\ninstead of lessening the natural powers and increasing infirmities, would\nbring new vigor and capacity of enjoyment. It would be going from winter\nto autumn, from autumn to summer, from summer to spring. The joy of a\nlife without care as to ways and means, and every morning refitted with\nthe pulsations of increasing youth, it is almost impossible to imagine.\nOf course this scheme has difficulties on the face of it. The allotting\nof the measure of wealth would not be difficult to the socialists,\nbecause they would insist that every person should be born with an equal\namount of property. What this should be would depend upon the length of\nlife; and how should this be arrived at? The insurance companies might\nagree, but no one else would admit that he belongs in the average.\nNaturally the Biblical limit of threescore and ten suggests itself; but\nhuman nature is very queer. With the plain fact before them that the\naverage life of man is less than thirty-four years, few would be willing,\nif the choice were offered, to compromise on seventy. Everybody has a\nhope of going beyond that, so that if seventy were proposed as the year\nat birth, there would no doubt be as much dissatisfaction as there is at\nthe present loose arrangement. Science would step in, and demonstrate\nthat there is no reason why, with proper care of the system, it should\nnot run a hundred years. It is improbable, then, that the majority could\nbe induced to vote for the limit of seventy years, or to exchange the\nexciting uncertainty of adding a little to the period which must be\naccompanied by the weight of the grasshopper, for the certainty of only\nseventy years in this much-abused world.\n\nBut suppose a limit to be agreed on, and the rich old man and the rich\nold woman (never now too old to marry) to start on their career towards\nyouth and poverty. The imagination kindles at the idea. The money would\nhold out just as long as life lasted, and though it would all be going\ndownhill, as it were, what a charming descent, without struggle, and with\nonly the lessening infirmities that belong to decreasing age! There would\nbe no second childhood, only the innocence and elasticity of the first.\nIt all seems very fair, but we must not forget that this is a mortal\nworld, and that it is liable to various accidents. Who, for instance,\ncould be sure that he would grow young gracefully? There would be the\nconstant need of fighting the hot tempers and impulses of youth, growing\nmore and more instead of less and less unreasonable. And then, how many\nwould reach youth? More than half, of course, would be cut off in their\nprime, and be more and more liable to go as they fell back into the\npitfalls and errors of childhood. Would people grow young together even\nas harmoniously as they grow old together? It would be a pretty sight,\nthat of the few who descended into the cradle together, but this\ninversion of life would not escape the woes of mortality. And there are\nother considerations, unless it should turn out that a universal tax on\nland should absolutely change human nature. There are some who would be\nas idle and spendthrift going towards youth as they now are going away\nfrom it, and perhaps more, so that half the race on coming to immaturity\nwould be in child asylums. And then others who would be stingy and greedy\nand avaricious, and not properly spend their allotted fortune. And we\nshould have the anomaly, which is so distasteful to the reformer now, of\nrich babies. A few babies inordinately rich, and the rest in asylums.\n\nStill, the plan has more to recommend it than most others for removing\npoverty and equalizing conditions. We should all start rich, and the\ndying off of those who would never attain youth would amply provide\nfortunes for those born old. Crime would be less also; for while there\nwould, doubtless, be some old sinners, the criminal class, which is very\nlargely under thirty, would be much smaller than it is now. Juvenile\ndepravity would proportionally disappear, as not more people would reach\nnon-age than now reach over-age. And the great advantage of the scheme,\none that would indeed transform the world, is that women would always be\ngrowing younger.\n\n\n\n\nTHE  OLD SOLDIER \n\nThe  old soldier  is beginning to outline himself upon the public mind as\na distant character in American life. Literature has not yet got hold of\nhim, and perhaps his evolution is not far enough advanced to make him as\nserviceable as the soldier of the Republic and the Empire, the relic of\nthe Old Guard, was to Hugo and Balzac, the trooper of Italy and Egypt,\nthe maimed hero of Borodino and Waterloo, who expected again the coming\nof the Little Corporal. It takes time to develop a character, and to\nthrow the glamour of romance over what may be essentially commonplace. A\nquarter of a century has not sufficed to separate the great body of the\nsurviving volunteers in the war for the Union from the body of American\ncitizens, notwithstanding the organization of the Grand Army of the\nRepublic, the encampments, the annual reunions, and the distinction of\npensions, and the segregation in Soldiers' Homes. The  old soldier \n slowly eliminates himself from the mass, and begins to take, and to make\nus take, a romantic view of his career. There was one event in his life,\nand his personality in it looms larger and larger as he recedes from it.\nThe heroic sacrifice of it does not diminish, as it should not, in our\nestimation, and he helps us to keep glowing a lively sense of it. The\npast centres about him and his great achievement, and the whole of life\nis seen in the light of it. In his retreat in the Home, and in his\nwandering from one Home to another, he ruminates on it, he talks of it;\nhe separates himself from the rest of mankind by a broad distinction, and\nhis point of view of life becomes as original as it is interesting. In\nthe Homes the battered veterans speak mainly of one thing; and in the\nmonotony of their spent lives develop whimseys and rights and wrongs,\npatriotic ardors and criticisms on their singular fate, which are\noriginal in their character in our society. It is in human nature to like\nrest but not restriction, bounty but not charity, and the tired heroes of\nthe war grow restless, though every physical want is supplied. They have\na fancy that they would like to see again the homes of their youth, the\nfarmhouse in the hills, the cottage in the river valley, the lonesome\nhouse on the wide prairie, the street that ran down to the wharf where\nthe fishing-smacks lay, to see again the friends whom they left there,\nand perhaps to take up the occupations that were laid down when they\nseized the musket in 1861. Alas! it is not their home anymore; the\nfriends are no longer there; and what chance is there of occupation for a\nman who is now feeble in body and who has the habit of campaigning? This\ngeneration has passed on to other things. It looks upon the hero as an\nillustration in the story of the war, which it reads like history. The\nveteran starts out from the shelter of the Home. One evening, towards\nsunset, the comfortable citizen, taking the mild air on his piazza, sees\nan interesting figure approach. Its dress is half military, half that of\nthe wanderer whose attention to his personal appearance is only\nspasmodic.\n\nThe veteran gives the military salute, he holds himself erect, almost too\nerect, and his speech is voluble and florid. It is a delightful evening;\nit seems to be a good growing-time; the country looks prosperous. He is\nsorry to be any trouble or interruption, but the fact is--yes, he is on\nhis way to his old home in Vermont; it seems like he would like to taste\nsome home cooking again, and sit in the old orchard, and perhaps lay his\nbones, what is left of them, in the burying-ground on the hill. He pulls\nout his well-worn papers as he talks; there is the honorable discharge,\nthe permit of the Home, and the pension. Yes, Uncle Sam is generous; it\nis the most generous government God ever made, and he would willingly\nfight for it again. Thirty dollars a month, that is what he has; he is\nnot a beggar; he wants for nothing. But the pension is not payable till\nthe end of the month. It is entirely his own obligation, his own fault;\nhe can fight, but he cannot lie, and nobody is to blame but himself; but\nlast night he fell in with some old comrades at Southdown, and, well, you\nknow how it is. He had plenty of money when he left the Home, and he is\nnot asking for anything now, but if he had a few dollars for his railroad\nfare to the next city, he could walk the rest of the way. Wounded? Well,\nif I stood out here against the light you could just see through me,\nthat's all. Bullets? It's no use to try to get 'em out. But, sir, I'm not\ncomplaining. It had to be done; the country had to be saved; and I'd do\nit again if it were necessary. Had any hot fights? Sir, I was at\nGettysburg! The veteran straightens up, and his eyes flash as if he saw\nagain that sanguinary field. Off goes the citizen's hat. Children, come\nout here; here is one of the soldiers of Gettysburg! Yes, sir; and this\nknee--you see I can't bend it much--got stiffened at Chickamauga; and\nthis scratch here in the neck was from a bullet at Gaines Mill; and this\nhere, sir--thumping his chest--you notice I don't dare to cough much\n--after the explosion of a shell at Petersburg I found myself lying on\nmy-back, and the only one of my squad who was not killed outright. Was it\nthe imagination of the citizen or of the soldier that gave the impression\nthat the hero had been in the forefront of every important action of the\nwar? Well, it doesn't matter much. The citizen was sitting there under\nhis own vine, the comfortable citizen of a free republic, because of the\nwounds in this cheerful and imaginative old wanderer. There, that is\nenough, sir, quite enough. I am no beggar. I thought perhaps you had\nheard of the Ninth Vermont. Woods is my name--Sergeant Woods. I trust\nsome time, sir, I shall be in a position to return the compliment.\nGood-evening, sir; God bless your honor! and accept the blessing of an\nold soldier. And the dear old hero goes down the darkening avenue, not so\nsteady of bearing as when he withstood the charge of Pickett on Cemetery\nHill, and with the independence of the American citizen who deserves well\nof his country, makes his way to the nearest hospitable tavern.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ISLAND OF BIMINI\n\nTo the northward of Hispaniola lies the island of Bimini. It may not be\none of the spice islands, but it grows the best ginger to be found in the\nworld. In it is a fair city, and beside the city a lofty mountain, at the\nfoot of which is a noble spring called the 'Fons Juventutis'. This\nfountain has a sweet savor, as of all manner of spicery, and every hour\nof the day the water changes its savor and its smell. Whoever drinks of\nthis well will be healed of whatever malady he has, and will seem always\nyoung. It is not reported that women and men who drink of this fountain\nwill be always young, but that they will seem so, and probably to\nthemselves, which simply means, in our modern accuracy of language, that\nthey will feel young. This island has never been found. Many voyages have\nbeen made in search of it in ships and in the imagination, and Liars have\nsaid they have landed on it and drunk of the water, but they never could\nguide any one else thither. In the credulous centuries when these voyages\nwere made, other islands were discovered, and a continent much more\nimportant than Bimini; but these discoveries were a disappointment,\nbecause they were not what the adventurers wanted. They did not\nunderstand that they had found a new land in which the world should renew\nits youth and begin a new career. In time the quest was given up, and men\nregarded it as one of the delusions which came to an end in the sixteenth\ncentury. In our day no one has tried to reach Bimini except Heine. Our\nscientific period has a proper contempt for all such superstitions. We\nnow know that the 'Fons Juventutis' is in every man, and that if actually\njuvenility cannot be renewed, the advance of age can be arrested and the\nwaste of tissues be prevented, and an uncalculated length of earthly\nexistence be secured, by the injection of some sort of fluid into the\nsystem. The right fluid has not yet been discovered by science, but\nmillions of people thought that it had the other day, and now confidently\nexpect it. This credulity has a scientific basis, and has no relation to\nthe old absurd belief in Bimini. We thank goodness that we do not live in\na credulous age.\n\nThe world would be in a poor case indeed if it had not always before it\nsome ideal or millennial condition, some panacea, some transmutation of\nbase metals into gold, some philosopher's stone, some fountain of youth,\nsome process of turning charcoal into diamonds, some scheme for\neliminating evil. But it is worth mentioning that in the historical\nevolution we have always got better things than we sought or imagined,\ndevelopments on a much grander scale. History is strewn with the wreck of\npopular delusions, but always in place of them have come realizations\nmore astonishing than the wildest fancies of the dreamers. Florida was a\ndisappointment as a Bimini, so were the land of the Ohio, the land of the\nMississippi, the Dorado of the Pacific coast. But as the illusions,\npushed always westward, vanished in the light of common day, lo! a\ncontinent gradually emerged, with millions of people animated by\nconquering ambition of progress in freedom; an industrial continent,\ncovered with a network of steel, heated by steam, and lighted by\nelectricity. What a spectacle of youth on a grand scale is this!\nChristopher Columbus had not the slightest conception of what he was\ndoing when he touched the button. But we are not satisfied. Quite as far\nfrom being so as ever. The popular imagination runs a hard race with any\npossible natural development. Being in possession of so much, we now\nexpect to travel in the air, to read news in the sending mind before it\nis sent, to create force without cost, to be transported without time,\nand to make everybody equal in fortune and happiness to everybody else by\nact of Congress. Such confidence have we in the power of a  resolution \n of the people and by the people that it seems feasible to make women into\nmen, oblivious of the more important and imperative task that will then\narise of making men into women. Some of these expectations are only\nBiminis of the present, but when they have vanished there will be a\nsocial and industrial world quite beyond our present conceptions, no\ndoubt. In the article of woman, for instance, she may not become the\nbeing that the convention expects, but there may appear a Woman of whom\nall the Aspasias and Helens were only the faintest types. And although no\nprogress will take the conceit out of men, there may appear a Man so\namenable to ordinary reason that he will give up the notion that he can\nlift himself up by his bootstraps, or make one grain of wheat two by\ncalling it two.\n\nOne of the Biminis that have always been looked for is an American\nLiterature. There was an impression that there must be such a thing\nsomewhere on a continent that has everything else. We gave the world\ntobacco and the potato, perhaps the most important contributions to the\ncontent and the fatness of the world made by any new country, and it was\na noble ambition to give it new styles of art and literature also. There\nseems to have been an impression that a literature was something\nindigenous or ready-made, like any other purely native product, not\nneeding any special period of cultivation or development, and that a\nnation would be in a mortifying position without one, even before it\nstaked out its cities or built any roads. Captain John Smith, if he had\never settled here and spread himself over the continent, as he was\ncapable of doing, might have taken the contract to furnish one, and we\nmay be sure that he would have left us nothing to desire in that\ndirection. But the vein of romance he opened was not followed up. Other\nprospectings were made. Holes, so to speak, were dug in New England, and\nin the middle South, and along the frontier, and such leads were found\nthat again and again the certainty arose that at last the real American\nore had been discovered. Meantime a certain process called civilization\nwent on, and certain ideas of breadth entered into our conceptions, and\nideas also of the historical development of the expression of thought in\nthe world, and with these a comprehension of what American really is, and\nthe difficulty of putting the contents of a bushel measure into a pint\ncup. So, while we have been expecting the American Literature to come out\nfrom some locality, neat and clean, like a nugget, or, to change the\nfigure, to bloom any day like a century-plant, in one striking, fragrant\nexpression of American life, behold something else has been preparing and\nmaturing, larger and more promising than our early anticipations. In\nhistory, in biography, in science, in the essay, in the novel and story,\nthere are coming forth a hundred expressions of the hundred aspects of\nAmerican life; and they are also sung by the poets in notes as varied as\nthe migrating birds. The birds perhaps have the best of it thus far, but\nthe bird is limited to a small range of performances while he shifts his\nsinging-boughs through the climates of the continent, whereas the poet,\nthough a little inclined to mistake aspiration for inspiration, and\nvagueness of longing for subtlety, is experimenting in a most hopeful\nmanner. And all these writers, while perhaps not consciously American or\nconsciously seeking to do more than their best in their several ways, are\nanimated by the free spirit of inquiry and expression that belongs to an\nindependent nation, and so our literature is coming to have a stamp of\nits own that is unlike any other national stamp. And it will have this\nstamp more authentically and be clearer and stronger as we drop the\nself-consciousness of the necessity of being American.\n\n\n\n\nJUNE\n\nHere is June again! It never was more welcome in these Northern\nlatitudes. It seems a pity that such a month cannot be twice as long. It\nhas been the pet of the poets, but it is not spoiled, and is just as full\nof enchantment as ever. The secret of this is that it is the month of\nboth hope and fruition. It is the girl of eighteen, standing with all her\ncharms on the eve of womanhood, in the dress and temperament of spring.\nAnd the beauty of it is that almost every woman is young, if ever she\nwere young, in June. For her the roses bloom, and the red clover. It is a\npity the month is so short. It is as full of vigor as of beauty. The\nenergy of the year is not yet spent; indeed, the world is opening on all\nsides; the school-girl is about to graduate into liberty; and the young\nman is panting to kick or row his way into female adoration and general\nnotoriety. The young men have made no mistake about the kind of education\nthat is popular with women. The women like prowess and the manly virtues\nof pluck and endurance. The world has not changed in this respect. It was\nso with the Greeks; it was so when youth rode in tournaments and unhorsed\neach other for the love of a lady. June is the knightly month. On many a\nfield of gold and green the heroes will kick their way into fame; and\nbands of young women, in white, with their diplomas in their hands,\nstar-eyed mathematicians and linguists, will come out to smile upon the\nvictors in that exhibition of strength that women most admire. No, the\nworld is not decaying or losing its juvenility. The motto still is,\n Love, and may the best man win!  How jocund and immortal is woman! Now,\nin a hundred schools and colleges, will stand up the solemn,\nwell-intentioned man before a row of pretty girls, and tell them about\nWomanhood and its Duties, and they will listen just as shyly as if they\nwere getting news, and needed to be instructed by a man on a subject\nwhich has engaged their entire attention since they were five years old.\nIn the light of science and experience the conceit of men is something\ncurious. And in June! the most blossoming, riant, feminine time of the\nyear. The month itself is a liberal education to him who is not\ninsensible to beauty and the strong sweet promise of life. The streams\nrun clear then, as they do not in April; the sky is high and transparent;\nthe world seems so large and fresh and inviting. Our houses, which six\nmonths in the year in these latitudes are fortifications of defense, are\nopen now, and the breath of life flows through them. Even over the city\nthe sky is benign, and all the country is a heavenly exhibition. May was\nsweet and capricious. This is the maidenhood deliciousness of the year.\nIf you were to bisect the heart of a true poet, you would find written\ntherein JUNE.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNINE SHORT ESSAYS\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\n\n\nCONTENTS:\n\nA NIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES\nTRUTHFULNESS\nTHE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS\nLITERATURE AND THE STAGE\nTHE LIFE-SAVING AND LIFE PROLONGING ART\n H.H.  IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA\nSIMPLICITY\nTHE ENGLISH VOLUNTEERS DURING THE LATE INVASION\nNATHAN HALE\n\n\n\n\nA NIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES\n\nIt was in the time of the Second Empire. To be exact, it was the night of\nthe 18th of June, 1868; I remember the date, because, contrary to the\nastronomical theory of short nights at this season, this was the longest\nnight I ever saw. It was the loveliest time of the year in Paris, when\none was tempted to lounge all day in the gardens and to give to sleep\nnone of the balmy nights in this gay capital, where the night was\nilluminated like the day, and some new pleasure or delight always led\nalong the sparkling hours. Any day the Garden of the Tuileries was a\nmicrocosm repaying study. There idle Paris sunned itself; through it the\npromenaders flowed from the Rue de Rivoli gate by the palace to the\nentrance on the Place de la Concorde, out to the Champs-Elysees and back\nagain; here in the north grove gathered thousands to hear the regimental\nband in the afternoon; children chased butterflies about the flower-beds\nand amid the tubs of orange-trees; travelers, guide-book in hand, stood\nresolutely and incredulously before the groups of statuary, wondering\nwhat that Infant was doing with, the snakes and why the recumbent figure\nof the Nile should have so many children climbing over him; or watched\nthe long facade of the palace hour after hour, in the hope of catching at\nsome window the flutter of a royal robe; and swarthy, turbaned Zouaves,\nerect, lithe, insouciant, with the firm, springy step of the tiger,\nlounged along the allees.\n\nNapoleon was at home--a fact attested by a reversal of the hospitable\nrule of democracy, no visitors being admitted to the palace when he was\nat home. The private garden, close to the imperial residence, was also\nclosed to the public, who in vain looked across the sunken fence to the\nparterres, fountains, and statues, in the hope that the mysterious man\nwould come out there and publicly enjoy himself. But he never came,\nthough I have no doubt that he looked out of the windows upon the\nbeautiful garden and his happy Parisians, upon the groves of\nhorse-chestnuts, the needle-like fountain beyond, the Column of Luxor, up\nthe famous and shining vista terminated by the Arch of the Star, and\nreflected with Christian complacency upon the greatness of a monarch who\nwas the lord of such splendors and the goodness of a ruler who opened\nthem all to his children. Especially when the western sunshine streamed\ndown over it all, turning even the dust of the atmosphere into gold and\nemblazoning the windows of the Tuileries with a sort of historic glory,\nhis heart must have swelled within him in throbs of imperial exaltation.\nIt is the fashion nowadays not to consider him a great man, but no one\npretends to measure his goodness.\n\nThe public garden of the Tuileries was closed at dusk, no one being\npermitted to remain in it after dark. I suppose it was not safe to trust\nthe Parisians in the covert of its shades after nightfall, and no one\ncould tell what foreign fanatics and assassins might do if they were\npermitted to pass the night so near the imperial residence. At any rate,\neverybody was drummed out before the twilight fairly began, and at the\nmost fascinating hour for dreaming in the ancient garden. After sundown\nthe great door of the Pavilion de l'Horloge swung open and there issued\nfrom it a drum-corps, which marched across the private garden and down\nthe broad allee of the public garden, drumming as if the judgment-day\nwere at hand, straight to the great gate of the Place de la Concorde, and\nreturning by a side allee, beating up every covert and filling all the\nair with clamor until it disappeared, still thumping, into the court of\nthe palace; and all the square seemed to ache with the sound. Never was\nthere such pounding since Thackeray's old Pierre, who,  just to keep up\nhis drumming, one day drummed down the Bastile :\n\n     At midnight I beat the tattoo,\n     And woke up the Pikemen of Paris\n     To follow the bold Barbaroux.\n\nOn the waves of this drumming the people poured out from every gate of\nthe garden, until the last loiterer passed and the gendarmes closed the\nportals for the night. Before the lamps were lighted along the Rue de\nRivoli and in the great square of the Revolution, the garden was left to\nthe silence of its statues and its thousand memories. I often used to\nwonder, as I looked through the iron railing at nightfall, what might go\non there and whether historic shades might not flit about in the ghostly\nwalks.\n\nLate in the afternoon of the 18th of June, after a long walk through the\ngalleries of the Louvre, and excessively weary, I sat down to rest on a\nsecluded bench in the southern grove of the garden; hidden from view by\nthe tree-trunks. Where I sat I could see the old men and children in that\nsunny flower-garden, La Petite Provence, and I could see the great\nfountain-basin facing the Porte du Pont-Tournant. I must have heard the\nevening drumming, which was the signal for me to quit the garden; for I\nsuppose even the dead in Paris hear that and are sensitive to the throb\nof the glory-calling drum. But if I did hear it,--it was only like an\necho of the past, and I did not heed it any more than Napoleon in his\ntomb at the Invalides heeds, through the drawn curtain, the chanting of\nthe daily mass. Overcome with fatigue, I must have slept soundly.\n\nWhen I awoke it was dark under the trees. I started up and went into the\nbroad promenade. The garden was deserted; I could hear the plash of the\nfountains, but no other sound therein. Lights were gleaming from the\nwindows of the Tuileries, lights blazed along the Rue de Rivoli, dotted\nthe great Square, and glowed for miles up the Champs Elysees. There were\nthe steady roar of wheels and the tramping of feet without, but within\nwas the stillness of death.\n\nWhat should I do? I am not naturally nervous, but to be caught lurking in\nthe Tuileries Garden in the night would involve me in the gravest peril.\nThe simple way would have been to have gone to the gate nearest the\nPavillon de Marsan, and said to the policeman on duty there that I had\ninadvertently fallen asleep, that I was usually a wide-awake citizen of\nthe land that Lafayette went to save, that I wanted my dinner, and would\nlike to get out. I walked down near enough to the gate to see the\npoliceman, but my courage failed. Before I could stammer out half that\nexplanation to him in his trifling language (which foreigners are\nmockingly told is the best in the world for conversation), he would\neither have slipped his hateful rapier through my body, or have raised an\nalarm and called out the guards of the palace to hunt me down like a\nrabbit.\n\nA man in the Tuileries Garden at night! an assassin! a conspirator! one\nof the Carbonari, perhaps a dozen of them--who knows?--Orsini bombs,\ngunpowder, Greek-fire, Polish refugees, murder, emeutes, REVOLUTION!\n\nNo, I'm not going to speak to that person in the cocked hat and\ndress-coat under these circumstances. Conversation with him out of the\nbest phrase-books would be uninteresting. Diplomatic row between the two\ncountries would be the least dreaded result of it. A suspected\nconspirator against the life of Napoleon, without a chance for\nexplanation, I saw myself clubbed, gagged, bound, searched (my minute\nnotes of the Tuileries confiscated), and trundled off to the\nConciergerie, and hung up to the ceiling in an iron cage there, like\nRavaillac.\n\nI drew back into the shade and rapidly walked to the western gate. It was\nclosed, of course. On the gate-piers stand the winged steeds of Marly,\nnever less admired than by me at that moment. They interested me less\nthan a group of the Corps d'Afrique, who lounged outside, guarding the\nentrance from the square, and unsuspicious that any assassin was trying\nto get out. I could see the gleam of the lamps on their bayonets and hear\ntheir soft tread. Ask them to let me out? How nimbly they would have\nscaled the fence and transfixed me! They like to do such things. No,\nno--whatever I do, I must keep away from the clutches of these cats of\nAfrica.\n\nAnd enough there was to do, if I had been in a mind to do it. All the\nseats to sit in, all the statuary to inspect, all the flowers to smell.\nThe southern terrace overlooking the Seine was closed, or I might have\namused myself with the toy railway of the Prince Imperial that ran nearly\nthe whole length of it, with its switches and turnouts and houses; or I\nmight have passed delightful hours there watching the lights along the\nriver and the blazing illumination on the amusement halls. But I ascended\nthe familiar northern terrace and wandered amid its bowers, in company\nwith Hercules, Meleager, and other worthies I knew only by sight,\nsmelling the orange-blossoms, and trying to fix the site of the old\nriding-school where the National Assembly sat in 1789.\n\nIt must have been eleven o'clock when I found myself down by the private\ngarden next the palace. Many of the lights in the offices of the\nhousehold had been extinguished, but the private apartments of the\nEmperor in the wing south of the central pavilion were still illuminated.\nThe Emperor evidently had not so much desire to go to bed as I had. I\nknew the windows of his petits appartements--as what good American did\nnot?--and I wondered if he was just then taking a little supper, if he\nhad bidden good-night to Eugenie, if he was alone in his room, reflecting\nupon his grandeur and thinking what suit he should wear on the morrow in\nhis ride to the Bois. Perhaps he was dictating an editorial for the\nofficial journal; perhaps he was according an interview to the\ncorrespondent of the London Glorifier; perhaps one of the Abbotts was\nwith him. Or was he composing one of those important love-letters of\nstate to Madame Blank which have since delighted the lovers of\nliterature? I am not a spy, and I scorn to look into people's windows\nlate at night, but I was lonesome and hungry, and all that square round\nabout swarmed with imperial guards, policemen, keen-scented Zouaves, and\nnobody knows what other suspicious folk. If Napoleon had known that there\nwas a\n\n        MAN IN THE GARDEN!\n\nI suppose he would have called up his family, waked the drum-corps, sent\nfor the Prefect of Police, put on the alert the 'sergents de ville,'\nordered under arms a regiment of the Imperial Guards, and made it\nunpleasant for the Man.\n\nAll these thoughts passed through my mind, not with the rapidity of\nlightning, as is usual in such cases, but with the slowness of\nconviction. If I should be discovered, death would only stare me in the\nface about a minute. If he waited five minutes, who would believe my\nstory of going to sleep and not hearing the drums? And if it were true,\nwhy didn't I go at once to the gate, and not lurk round there all night\nlike another Clement? And then I wondered if it was not the disagreeable\nhabit of some night-patrol or other to beat round the garden before the\nSire went to bed for good, to find just such characters as I was\ngradually getting to feel myself to be.\n\nBut nobody came. Twelve o'clock, one o'clock sounded from the tower of\nthe church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, from whose belfry the signal was\ngiven for the beginning of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew--the same\nbells that tolled all that dreadful night while the slaughter went on,\nwhile the effeminate Charles IX fired from the windows of the Louvre upon\nstray fugitives on the quay--bells the reminiscent sound of which, a\nlegend (which I fear is not true) says, at length drove Catharine de\nMedici from the Tuileries.\n\nOne o'clock! The lights were going out in the Tuileries, had nearly all\ngone out. I wondered if the suspicious and timid and wasteful Emperor\nwould keep the gas burning all night in his room. The night-roar of Paris\nstill went on, sounding always to foreign ears like the beginning of a\nrevolution. As I stood there, looking at the window that interested me\nmost, the curtains were drawn, the window was opened, and a form appeared\nin a white robe. I had never seen the Emperor before in a night-gown, but\nI should have known him among a thousand. The Man of Destiny had on a\nwhite cotton night-cap, with a peaked top and no tassel. It was the most\nnatural thing in the land; he was taking a last look over his restless\nParis before he turned in. What if he should see me! I respected that\nlast look and withdrew into the shadow. Tired and hungry, I sat down to\nreflect upon the pleasures of the gay capital.\n\nOne o'clock and a half! I had presence of mind enough to wind my watch;\nindeed, I was not likely to forget that, for time hung heavily on my\nhands. It was a gay capital. Would it never put out its lights, and cease\nits uproar, and leave me to my reflections? In less than an hour the\ncountry legions would invade the city, the market-wagons would rumble\ndown the streets, the vegetable-man and the strawberry-woman, the\nfishmongers and the greens-venders would begin their melodious cries, and\nthere would be no repose for a man even in a public garden. It is\nsecluded enough, with the gates locked, and there is plenty of room to\nturn over and change position; but it is a wakeful situation at the best,\na haunting sort of place, and I was not sure it was not haunted.\n\nI had often wondered as I strolled about the place in the daytime or\npeered through the iron fence at dusk, if strange things did not go on\nhere at night, with this crowd of effigies of persons historical and more\nor less mythological, in this garden peopled with the representatives of\nthe dead, and no doubt by the shades of kings and queens and courtiers,\n'intrigantes' and panders, priests and soldiers, who live once in this\nold pile--real shades, which are always invisible in the sunlight. They\nhave local attachments, I suppose. Can science tell when they depart\nforever from the scenes of their objective intrusion into the affairs of\nthis world, or how long they are permitted to revisit them? Is it true\nthat in certain spiritual states, say of isolation or intense nervous\nalertness, we can see them as they can see each other? There was I--the\nI catalogued in the police description--present in that garden, yet so\nearnestly longing to be somewhere else that would it be wonderful if my\n'eidolon' was somewhere else and could be seen?--though not by a\npoliceman, for policemen have no spiritual vision.\n\nThere were no policemen in the garden, that I was certain of; but a\nlittle after half-past one I saw a Man, not a man I had ever seen before,\nclad in doublet and hose, with a short cloak and a felt cap with a white\nplume, come out of the Pavillon de Flore and turn down the quay towards\nthe house I had seen that afternoon where it stood--of the beautiful\nGabrielle d'Estrees. I might have been mistaken but for the fact that,\njust at this moment, a window opened in the wing of the same pavilion,\nand an effeminate, boyish face, weak and cruel, with a crown on its head,\nappeared and looked down into the shadow of the building as if its owner\nsaw what I had seen. And there was nothing remarkable in this, except\nthat nowadays kings do not wear crowns at night. It occurred to me that\nthere was a masquerade going on in the Tuileries, though I heard no\nmusic, except the tinkle of, it might be, a harp, or  the lascivious\npleasing of a lute,  and I walked along down towards the central\npavilion. I was just in time to see two ladies emerge from it and\ndisappear, whispering together, in the shrubbery; the one old, tall, and\ndark, with the Italian complexion, in a black robe, and the other young,\npetite, extraordinarily handsome, and clad in light and bridal stuffs,\nyet both with the same wily look that set me thinking on poisons, and\nwith a grace and a subtle carriage of deceit that could be common only to\nmother and daughter. I didn't choose to walk any farther in the part of\nthe garden they had chosen for a night promenade, and turned off\nabruptly.\n\nWhat?\n\nThere, on the bench of the marble hemicycle in the north grove, sat a row\nof graybeards, old men in the costume of the first Revolution, a sort of\nserene and benignant Areopagus. In the cleared space before them were a\ncrowd of youths and maidens, spectators and participants in the Floral\nGames which were about to commence; behind the old men stood attendants\nwho bore chaplets of flowers, the prizes in the games. The young men wore\nshort red tunics with copper belts, formerly worn by Roman lads at the\nludi, and the girls tunics of white with loosened girdles, leaving their\nlimbs unrestrained for dancing, leaping, or running; their hair was\nconfined only by a fillet about the head. The pipers began to play and\nthe dancers to move in rhythmic measures, with the slow and languid grace\nof those full of sweet wine and the new joy of the Spring, according to\nthe habits of the Golden Age, which had come again by decree in Paris.\nThis was the beginning of the classic sports, but it is not possible for\na modern pen to describe particularly the Floral Games. I remember that\nthe Convention ordered the placing of these hemicycles in the garden, and\nthey were executed from Robespierre's designs; but I suppose I am the\nonly person who ever saw the games played that were expected to be played\nbefore them. It was a curious coincidence that the little livid-green man\nwas also there, leaning against a tree and looking on with a half sneer.\nIt seemed to me an odd classic revival, but then Paris has spasms of\nthat, at the old Theatre Francais and elsewhere.\n\nPipes in the garden, lutes in the palace, paganism, Revolution--the\nsituation was becoming mixed, and I should not have been surprised at a\nghostly procession from the Place de la Concorde, through the western\ngates, of the thousands of headless nobility, victims of the axe and the\nbasket; but, thank Heaven, nothing of that sort appeared to add to the\nwonders of the night; yet, as I turned a moment from the dancers, I\nthought I saw something move in the shrubbery. The Laocoon? It could not\nbe. The arms moving? Yes. As I drew nearer the arms distinctly moved,\nputting away at length the coiling serpent, and pushing from the pedestal\nthe old-men boys, his comrades in agony. Laocoon shut his mouth, which\nhad been stretched open for about eighteen centuries, untwisted the last\ncoil of the snake, and stepped down, a free man. After this it did not\nsurprise me to see Spartacus also step down and approach him, and the two\nancients square off for fisticuffs, as if they had done it often before,\nenjoying at night the release from the everlasting pillory of art. It was\nthe hour of releases, and I found myself in a moment in the midst of a\n classic revival,  whimsical beyond description. Aeneas hastened to\ndeposit his aged father in a heap on the gravel and ran after the Sylvan\nNymphs; Theseus gave the Minotaur a respite; Themistocles was bending\nover the dying Spartan, who was coming to life; Venus Pudica was waltzing\nabout the diagonal basin with Antinous; Ascanius was playing marbles with\nthe infant Hercules. In this unreal phantasmagoria it was a relief to me\nto see walking in the area of the private garden two men: the one a\nstately person with a kingly air, a handsome face, his head covered with\na huge wig that fell upon his shoulders; the other a farmer-like man,\nstout and ungracious, the counterpart of the pictures of the intendant\nColbert. He was pointing up to the palace, and seemed to be speaking of\nsome alterations, to which talk the other listened impatiently. I\nwondered what Napoleon, who by this time was probably dreaming of Mexico,\nwould have said if he had looked out and seen, not one man in the garden,\nbut dozens of men, and all the stir that I saw; if he had known, indeed,\nthat the Great Monarch was walking under his windows.\n\nI said it was a relief to me to see two real men, but I had no reason to\ncomplain of solitude thereafter till daybreak. That any one saw or\nnoticed me I doubt, and I soon became so reassured that I had more\ndelight than fear in watching the coming and going of personages I had\nsupposed dead a hundred years and more; the appearance at windows of\nfaces lovely, faces sad, faces terror-stricken; the opening of casements\nand the dropping of billets into the garden; the flutter of disappearing\nrobes; the faint sounds of revels from the interior of the palace; the\nhurrying of feet, the flashing of lights, the clink of steel, that told\nof partings and sudden armings, and the presence of a king that will be\ndenied at no doors. I saw through the windows of the long Galerie de\nDiane the roues of the Regency at supper, and at table with them a dark,\nsemi-barbarian little man in a coat of Russian sable, the coolest head in\nEurope at a drinking-bout. I saw enter the south pavilion a tall lady in\nblack, with the air of a royal procuress; and presently crossed the\ngarden and disappeared in the pavilion a young Parisian girl, and then\nanother and another, a flock of innocents, and I thought instantly of the\ndreadful Parc aux Cerfs at Versailles.\n\nSo wrought upon was I by the sight of this infamy that I scarcely noticed\nthe incoming of a royal train at the southern end of the palace, and\nnotably in it a lady with light hair and noble mien, and the look in her\nface of a hunted lioness at bay. I say scarcely, for hardly had the royal\ncortege passed within, when there arose a great clamor in the inner\ncourt, like the roar of an angry multitude, a scuffling of many feet,\nfiring of guns, thrusting of pikes, followed by yells of defiance in\nmingled French and German, the pitching of Swiss Guards from doorways and\nwindows, and the flashing of flambeaux that ran hither and thither.  Oh! \n I said,  Paris has come to call upon its sovereign; the pikemen of Paris,\nled by the bold Barbaroux. \n\nThe tumult subsided as suddenly as it had risen, hushed, I imagined, by\nthe jarring of cannon from the direction of St. Roch; and in the quiet I\nsaw a little soldier alight at the Rue de Rivoli gate--a little man whom\nyou might mistake for a corporal of the guard--with a wild,\ncoarse-featured Corsican (say, rather, Basque) face, his disordered\nchestnut hair darkened to black locks by the use of pomatum--a face\nselfish and false, but determined as fate. So this was the beginning of\nthe Napoleon  legend ; and by-and-by this coarse head will be idealized\ninto the Roman Emperor type, in which I myself might have believed but\nfor the revelations of the night of strange adventure.\n\nWhat is history? What is this drama and spectacle, that has been put\nforth as history, but a cover for petty intrigue, and deceit, and\nselfishness, and cruelty? A man shut into the Tuileries Garden begins to\nthink that it is all an illusion, the trick of a disordered fancy. Who\nwas Grand, who was Well-Beloved, who was Desired, who was the Idol of the\nFrench, who was worthy to be called a King of the Citizens? Oh, for the\nlight of day!\n\nAnd it came, faint and tremulous, touching the terraces of the palace and\nthe Column of Luxor. But what procession was that moving along the\nsouthern terrace? A squad of the National Guard on horseback, a score or\nso of King's officers, a King on foot, walking with uncertain step, a\nQueen leaning on his arm, both habited in black, moved out of the western\ngate. The King and the Queen paused a moment on the very spot where Louis\nXVI. was beheaded, and then got into a carriage drawn by one horse and\nwere driven rapidly along the quays in the direction of St. Cloud. And\nagain Revolution, on the heels of the fugitives, poured into the old\npalace and filled it with its tatterdemalions.\n\nEnough for me that daylight began to broaden.  Sleep on,  I said,  O real\nPresident, real Emperor (by the grace of coup d'etat) at last, in the\nmidst of the most virtuous court in Europe, loved of good Americans,\neternally established in the hearts of your devoted Parisians! Peace to\nthe palace and peace to its lovely garden, of both of which I have had\nquite enough for one night! \n\nThe sun came up, and, as I looked about, all the shades and concourse of\nthe night had vanished. Day had begun in the vast city, with all its roar\nand tumult; but the garden gates would not open till seven, and I must\nnot be seen before the early stragglers should enter and give me a chance\nof escape. In my circumstances I would rather be the first to enter than\nthe first to go out in the morning, past those lynx-eyed gendarmes. From\nmy covert I eagerly watched for my coming deliverers. The first to appear\nwas a 'chiffonnier,' who threw his sack and pick down by the basin,\nbathed his face, and drank from his hand. It seemed to me almost like an\nact of worship, and I would have embraced that rag-picker as a brother.\nBut I knew that such a proceeding, in the name even of egalite and\nfraternite would have been misinterpreted; and I waited till two and\nthree and a dozen entered by this gate and that, and I was at full\nliberty to stretch my limbs and walk out upon the quay as nonchalant as\nif I had been taking a morning stroll.\n\nI have reason to believe that the police of Paris never knew where I\nspent the night of the 18th of June. It must have mystified them.\n\n\n\n\nTRUTHFULNESS\n\nTruthfulness is as essential in literature as it is in conduct, in\nfiction as it is in the report of an actual occurrence. Falsehood\nvitiates a poem, a painting, exactly as it does a life. Truthfulness is a\nquality like simplicity. Simplicity in literature is mainly a matter of\nclear vision and lucid expression, however complex the subject-matter may\nbe; exactly as in life, simplicity does not so much depend upon external\nconditions as upon the spirit in which one lives. It may be more\ndifficult to maintain simplicity of living with a great fortune than in\npoverty, but simplicity of spirit--that is, superiority of soul to\ncircumstance--is possible in any condition. Unfortunately the common\nexpression that a certain person has wealth is not so true as it would be\nto say that wealth has him. The life of one with great possessions and\ncorresponding responsibilities may be full of complexity; the subject of\nliterary art may be exceedingly complex; but we do not set complexity\nover against simplicity. For simplicity is a quality essential to true\nlife as it is to literature of the first class; it is opposed to parade,\nto artificiality, to obscurity.\n\nThe quality of truthfulness is not so easily defined. It also is a matter\nof spirit and intuition. We have no difficulty in applying the rules of\ncommon morality to certain functions of writers for the public, for\ninstance, the duties of the newspaper reporter, or the newspaper\ncorrespondent, or the narrator of any event in life the relation of which\nowes its value to its being absolutely true. The same may be said of\nhoaxes, literary or scientific, however clear they may be. The person\nindulging in them not only discredits his office in the eyes of the\npublic, but he injures his own moral fibre, and he contracts such a habit\nof unveracity that he never can hope for genuine literary success. For\nthere never was yet any genuine success in letters without integrity. The\nclever hoax is no better than the trick of imitation, that is, conscious\nimitation of another, which has unveracity to one's self at the bottom of\nit. Burlesque is not the highest order of intellectual performance, but\nit is legitimate, and if cleverly done it may be both useful and amusing,\nbut it is not to be confounded with forgery, that is, with a composition\nwhich the author attempts to pass off as the production of somebody else.\nThe forgery may be amazingly smart, and be even popular, and get the\nauthor, when he is discovered, notoriety, but it is pretty certain that\nwith his ingrained lack of integrity he will never accomplish any\noriginal work of value, and he will be always personally suspected. There\nis nothing so dangerous to a young writer as to begin with hoaxing; or to\nbegin with the invention, either as reporter or correspondent, of\nstatements put forward as facts, which are untrue. This sort of facility\nand smartness may get a writer employment, unfortunately for him and the\npublic, but there is no satisfaction in it to one who desires an\nhonorable career. It is easy to recall the names of brilliant men whose\nfine talents have been eaten away by this habit of unveracity. This habit\nis the greatest danger of the newspaper press of the United States.\n\nIt is easy to define this sort of untruthfulness, and to study the moral\ndeterioration it works in personal character, and in the quality of\nliterary work. It was illustrated in the forgeries of the marvelous boy\nChatterton. The talent he expended in deception might have made him an\nenviable reputation,--the deception vitiated whatever good there was in\nhis work. Fraud in literature is no better than fraud in archaeology,\n--Chatterton deserves no more credit than Shapiro who forged the Moabite\npottery with its inscriptions. The reporter who invents an incident, or\nheightens the horror of a calamity by fictions is in the case of Shapiro.\nThe habit of this sort of invention is certain to destroy the writer's\nquality, and if he attempts a legitimate work of the imagination, he will\ncarry the same unveracity into that. The quality of truthfulness cannot\nbe juggled with. Akin to this is the trick which has put under proper\nsuspicion some very clever writers of our day, and cost them all public\nconfidence in whatever they do,--the trick of posing for what they are\nnot. We do not mean only that the reader does not believe their stories\nof personal adventure, and regards them personally as  frauds,  but that\nthis quality of deception vitiates all their work, as seen from a\nliterary point of view. We mean that the writer who hoaxes the public, by\ninventions which he publishes as facts, or in regard to his own\npersonality, not only will lose the confidence of the public but he will\nlose the power of doing genuine work, even in the field of fiction. Good\nwork is always characterized by integrity.\n\nThese illustrations help us to understand what is meant by literary\nintegrity. For the deception in the case of the correspondent who invents\n news  is of the same quality as the lack of sincerity in a poem or in a\nprose fiction; there is a moral and probably a mental defect in both. The\nstory of Robinson Crusoe is a very good illustration of veracity in\nfiction. It is effective because it has the simple air of truth; it is an\nillusion that satisfies; it is possible; it is good art: but it has no\nmoral deception in it. In fact, looked at as literature, we can see that\nit is sincere and wholesome.\n\nWhat is this quality of truthfulness which we all recognize when it\nexists in fiction? There is much fiction, and some of it, for various\nreasons, that we like and find interesting which is nevertheless\ninsincere if not artificial. We see that the writer has not been honest\nwith himself or with us in his views of human life. There may be just as\nmuch lying in novels as anywhere else. The novelist who offers us what he\ndeclares to be a figment of his own brain may be just as untrue as the\nreporter who sets forth a figment of his own brain which he declares to\nbe a real occurrence. That is, just as much faithfulness to life is\nrequired of the novelist as of the reporter, and in a much higher degree.\nThe novelist must not only tell the truth about life as he sees it,\nmaterial and spiritual, but he must be faithful to his own conceptions.\nIf fortunately he has genius enough to create a character that has\nreality to himself and to others, he must be faithful to that character.\nHe must have conscience about it, and not misrepresent it, any more than\nhe would misrepresent the sayings and doings of a person in real life. Of\ncourse if his own conception is not clear, he will be as unjust as in\nwriting about a person in real life whose character he knew only by\nrumor. The novelist may be mistaken about his own creations and in his\nviews of life, but if he have truthfulness in himself, sincerity will\nshow in his work.\n\nTruthfulness is a quality that needs to be as strongly insisted on in\nliterature as simplicity. But when we carry the matter a step further, we\nsee that there cannot be truthfulness about life without knowledge. The\nworld is full of novels, and their number daily increases, written\nwithout any sense of responsibility, and with very little experience,\nwhich are full of false views of human nature and of society. We can\nalmost always tell in a fiction when the writer passes the boundary of\nhis own experience and observation--he becomes unreal, which is another\nname for untruthful. And there is an absence of sincerity in such work.\nThere seems to be a prevailing impression that any one can write a story.\nBut it scarcely need be said that literature is an art, like painting and\nmusic, and that one may have knowledge of life and perfect sincerity, and\nyet be unable to produce a good, truthful piece of literature, or to\ncompose a piece of music, or to paint a picture.\n\nTruthfulness is in no way opposed to invention or to the exercise of the\nimagination. When we say that the writer needs experience, we do not mean\nto intimate that his invention of character or plot should be literally\nlimited to a person he has known, or to an incident that has occurred,\nbut that they should be true to his experience. The writer may create an\nideally perfect character, or an ideally bad character, and he may try\nhim by a set of circumstances and events never before combined, and this\ncreation may be so romantic as to go beyond the experience of any reader,\nthat is to say, wholly imaginary (like a composed landscape which has no\ncounterpart in any one view of a natural landscape), and yet it may be so\nconsistent in itself, so true to an idea or an aspiration or a hope, that\nit will have the element of truthfulness and subserve a very high\npurpose. It may actually be truer to our sense of verity to life than an\narray of undeniable, naked facts set down without art and without\nimagination.\n\nThe difficulty of telling the truth in literature is about as great as it\nis in real life. We know how nearly impossible it is for one person to\nconvey to another a correct impression of a third person. He may describe\nthe features, the manner, mention certain traits and sayings, all\nliterally true, but absolutely misleading as to the total impression. And\nthis is the reason why extreme, unrelieved realism is apt to give a false\nimpression of persons and scenes. One can hardly help having a whimsical\nnotion occasionally, seeing the miscarriages even in our own attempts at\ntruthfulness, that it absolutely exists only in the imagination.\n\nIn a piece of fiction, especially romantic fiction, an author is\nabsolutely free to be truthful, and he will be if he has personal and\nliterary integrity. He moves freely amid his own creations and\nconceptions, and is not subject to the peril of the writer who admittedly\nuses facts, but uses them so clumsily or with so little conscience, so\nout of their real relations, as to convey a false impression and an\nuntrue view of life. This quality of truthfulness is equally evident in\n The Three Guardsmen  and in  Midsummer Night's Dream.  Dumas is as\nconscientious about his world of adventure as Shakespeare is in his\nsemi-supernatural region. If Shakespeare did not respect the laws of his\nimaginary country, and the creatures of his fancy, if Dumas were not true\nto the characters he conceived, and the achievements possible to them,\nsuch works would fall into confusion. A recent story called  The\nRefugees  set out with a certain promise of veracity, although the reader\nunderstood of course that it was to be a purely romantic invention. But\nvery soon the author recklessly violated his own conception, and when he\ngot his  real  characters upon an iceberg, the fantastic position became\nludicrous without being funny, and the performances of the same\ncharacters in the wilderness of the New World showed such lack of\nknowledge in the writer that the story became an insult to the\nintelligence of the reader. Whereas such a romance as that of  The MS.\nFound in a Copper Cylinder,  although it is humanly impossible and\nvisibly a figment of the imagination, is satisfactory to the reader\nbecause the author is true to his conception, and it is interesting as a\ncurious allegorical and humorous illustration of the ruinous character in\nhuman affairs of extreme unselfishness. There is the same sort of\ntruthfulness in Hawthorne's allegory of  The Celestial Railway,  in\nFroude's  On a Siding at a Railway Station,  and in Bunyan's  Pilgrim's\nProgress. \n\nThe habit of lying carried into fiction vitiates the best work, and\nperhaps it is easier to avoid it in pure romance than in the so-called\nnovels of  every-day life.  And this is probably the reason why so many\nof the novels of  real life  are so much more offensively untruthful to\nus than the wildest romances. In the former the author could perhaps\n prove  every incident he narrates, and produce living every character he\nhas attempted to describe. But the effect is that of a lie, either\nbecause he is not a master of his art, or because he has no literary\nconscience. He is like an artist who is more anxious to produce a\nmeretricious effect than he is to be true to himself or to nature. An\nauthor who creates a character assumes a great responsibility, and if he\nhas not integrity or knowledge enough to respect his own creation, no one\nelse will respect it, and, worse than this, he will tell a falsehood to\nhosts of undiscriminating readers.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS\n\nPerhaps the most curious and interesting phrase ever put into a public\ndocument is  the pursuit of happiness.  It is declared to be an\ninalienable right. It cannot be sold. It cannot be given away. It is\ndoubtful if it could be left by will.\n\nThe right of every man to be six feet high, and of every woman to be five\nfeet four, was regarded as self-evident until women asserted their\nundoubted right to be six feet high also, when some confusion was\nintroduced into the interpretation of this rhetorical fragment of the\neighteenth century.\n\nBut the inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness has never been\nquestioned since it was proclaimed as a new gospel for the New World. The\nAmerican people accepted it with enthusiasm, as if it had been the\ndiscovery of a gold-prospector, and started out in the pursuit as if the\ndevil were after them.\n\nIf the proclamation had been that happiness is a common right of the\nrace, alienable or otherwise, that all men are or may be happy, history\nand tradition might have interfered to raise a doubt whether even the new\nform of government could so change the ethical condition. But the right\nto make a pursuit of happiness, given in a fundamental bill of rights,\nhad quite a different aspect. Men had been engaged in many pursuits, most\nof them disastrous, some of them highly commendable. A sect in Galilee\nhad set up the pursuit of righteousness as the only or the highest object\nof man's immortal powers. The rewards of it, however, were not always\nimmediate. Here was a political sanction of a pursuit that everybody\nacknowledged to be of a good thing.\n\nGiven a heart-aching longing in every human being for happiness, here was\nhigh warrant for going in pursuit of it. And the curious effect of this\n'mot d'ordre' was that the pursuit arrested the attention as the most\nessential, and the happiness was postponed, almost invariably, to some\nfuture season, when leisure or plethora, that is, relaxation or gorged\ndesire, should induce that physical and moral glow which is commonly\naccepted as happiness. This glow of well-being is sometimes called\ncontentment, but contentment was not in the programme. If it came at all,\nit was only to come after strenuous pursuit, that being the inalienable\nright.\n\nPeople, to be sure, have different conceptions of happiness, but whatever\nthey are, it is the custom, almost universal, to postpone the thing\nitself. This, of course, is specially true in our American system, where\nwe have a chartered right to the thing itself. Other nations who have no\nsuch right may take it out in occasional driblets, odd moments that come,\nno doubt, to men and races who have no privilege of voting, or to such\nfavored places as New York city, whose government is always the same,\nhowever they vote.\n\nWe are all authorized to pursue happiness, and we do as a general thing\nmake a pursuit of it. Instead of simply being happy in the condition\nwhere we are, getting the sweets of life in human intercourse, hour by\nhour, as the bees take honey from every flower that opens in the summer\nair, finding happiness in the well-filled and orderly mind, in the sane\nand enlightened spirit, in the self that has become what the self should\nbe, we say that tomorrow, next year, in ten or twenty or thirty years,\nwhen we have arrived at certain coveted possessions or situation, we will\nbe happy. Some philosophers dignify this postponement with the name of\nhope.\n\nSometimes wandering in a primeval forest, in all the witchery of the\nwoods, besought by the kindliest solicitations of nature, wild flowers in\nthe trail, the call of the squirrel, the flutter of birds, the great\nworld-music of the wind in the pine-tops, the flecks of sunlight on the\nbrown carpet and on the rough bark of immemorial trees, I find myself\nunconsciously postponing my enjoyment until I shall reach a hoped-for\nopen place of full sun and boundless prospect.\n\nThe analogy cannot be pushed, for it is the common experience that these\nopen spots in life, where leisure and space and contentment await us, are\nusually grown up with thickets, fuller of obstacles, to say nothing of\nlabors and duties and difficulties, than any part of the weary path we\nhave trod.\n\nWhy add the pursuit of happiness to our other inalienable worries?\nPerhaps there is something wrong in ourselves when we hear the complaint\nso often that men are pursued by disaster instead of being pursued by\nhappiness.\n\nWe all believe in happiness as something desirable and attainable, and I\ntake it that this is the underlying desire when we speak of the pursuit\nof wealth, the pursuit of learning, the pursuit of power in office or in\ninfluence, that is, that we shall come into happiness when the objects\nlast named are attained. No amount of failure seems to lessen this\nbelief. It is matter of experience that wealth and learning and power are\nas likely to bring unhappiness as happiness, and yet this constant lesson\nof experience makes not the least impression upon human conduct. I\nsuppose that the reason of this unheeding of experience is that every\nperson born into the world is the only one exactly of that kind that ever\nwas or ever will be created, so that he thinks he may be exempt from the\ngeneral rules. At any rate, he goes at the pursuit of happiness in\nexactly the old way, as if it were an original undertaking. Perhaps the\nmost melancholy spectacle offered to us in our short sojourn in this\npilgrimage, where the roads are so dusty and the caravansaries so ill\nprovided, is the credulity of this pursuit. Mind, I am not objecting to\nthe pursuit of wealth, or of learning, or of power, they are all\nexplainable, if not justifiable,--but to the blindness that does not\nperceive their futility as a means of attaining the end sought, which is\nhappiness, an end that can only be compassed by the right adjustment of\neach soul to this and to any coming state of existence. For whether the\ngreat scholar who is stuffed with knowledge is happier than the great\nmoney-getter who is gorged with riches, or the wily politician who is a\nWarwick in his realm, depends entirely upon what sort of a man this\npursuit has made him. There is a kind of fallacy current nowadays that a\nvery rich man, no matter by what unscrupulous means he has gathered an\nundue proportion of the world into his possession, can be happy if he can\nturn round and make a generous and lavish distribution of it for worthy\npurposes. If he has preserved a remnant of conscience, this distribution\nmay give him much satisfaction, and justly increase his good opinion of\nhis own deserts; but the fallacy is in leaving out of account the sort of\nman he has become in this sort of pursuit. Has he escaped that hardening\nof the nature, that drying up of the sweet springs of sympathy, which\nusually attend a long-continued selfish undertaking? Has either he or the\ngreat politician or the great scholar cultivated the real sources of\nenjoyment?\n\nThe pursuit of happiness! It is not strange that men call it an illusion.\nBut I am well satisfied that it is not the thing itself, but the pursuit,\nthat is an illusion. Instead of thinking of the pursuit, why not fix our\nthoughts upon the moments, the hours, perhaps the days, of this divine\npeace, this merriment of body and mind, that can be repeated and perhaps\nindefinitely extended by the simplest of all means, namely, a disposition\nto make the best of whatever comes to us? Perhaps the Latin poet was\nright in saying that no man can count himself happy while in this life,\nthat is, in a continuous state of happiness; but as there is for the soul\nno time save the conscious moment called  now,  it is quite possible to\nmake that  now  a happy state of existence. The point I make is that we\nshould not habitually postpone that season of happiness to the future.\n\nNo one, I trust, wishes to cloud the dreams of youth, or to dispel by\nexcess of light what are called the illusions of hope. But why should the\nboy be nurtured in the current notion that he is to be really happy only\nwhen he has finished school, when he has got a business or profession by\nwhich money can be made, when he has come to manhood? The girl also\ndreams that for her happiness lies ahead, in that springtime when she is\ncrossing the line of womanhood,--all the poets make much of this,--when\nshe is married and learns the supreme lesson how to rule by obeying. It\nis only when the girl and the boy look back upon the years of adolescence\nthat they realize how happy they might have been then if they had only\nknown they were happy, and did not need to go in pursuit of happiness.\n\nThe pitiful part of this inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness\nis, however, that most men interpret it to mean the pursuit of wealth,\nand strive for that always, postponing being happy until they get a\nfortune, and if they are lucky in that, find at the end that the\nhappiness has somehow eluded them, that; in short, they have not\ncultivated that in themselves that alone can bring happiness. More than\nthat, they have lost the power of the enjoyment of the essential\npleasures of life. I think that the woman in the Scriptures who out of\nher poverty put her mite into the contribution-box got more happiness out\nof that driblet of generosity and self-sacrifice than some men in our day\nhave experienced in founding a university.\n\nAnd how fares it with the intellectual man? To be a selfish miner of\nlearning, for self-gratification only, is no nobler in reality than to be\na miser of money. And even when the scholar is lavish of his knowledge in\nhelping an ignorant world, he may find that if he has made his studies as\na pursuit of happiness he has missed his object. Much knowledge increases\nthe possibility of enjoyment, but also the possibility of sorrow. If\nintellectual pursuits contribute to an enlightened and altogether\nadmirable character, then indeed has the student found the inner springs\nof happiness. Otherwise one cannot say that the wise man is happier than\nthe ignorant man.\n\nIn fine, and in spite of the political injunction, we need to consider\nthat happiness is an inner condition, not to be raced after. And what an\nadvance in our situation it would be if we could get it into our heads\nhere in this land of inalienable rights that the world would turn round\njust the same if we stood still and waited for the daily coming of our\nLord!\n\n\n\n\nLITERATURE AND THE STAGE\n\nIs the divorce of Literature and the Stage complete, or is it still only\npartial? As the lawyers say, is it a 'vinculo', or only a 'mensa et\nthoro?' And if this divorce is permanent, is it a good thing for\nliterature or the stage? Is the present condition of the stage a\ndegeneration, as some say, or is it a natural evolution of an art\nindependent of literature?\n\nHow long is it since a play has been written and accepted and played\nwhich has in it any so-called literary quality or is an addition to\nliterature? And what is dramatic art as at present understood and\npracticed by the purveyors of plays for the public? If any one can answer\nthese questions, he will contribute something to the discussion about the\ntendency of the modern stage.\n\nEvery one recognizes in the  good old plays  which are occasionally\n revived  both a quality and an intention different from anything in most\ncontemporary productions. They are real dramas, the interest of which\ndepends upon sentiment, upon an exhibition of human nature, upon the\ninteraction of varied character, and upon plot, and we recognize in them\na certain literary art. They can be read with pleasure. Scenery and\nmechanical contrivance may heighten the effects, but they are not\nabsolute essentials.\n\nIn the contemporary play instead of character we have  characters, \n usually exaggerations of some trait, so pushed forward as to become\ncaricatures. Consistency to human nature is not insisted on in plot, but\nthere must be startling and unexpected incidents, mechanical devices, and\na great deal of what is called  business,  which clearly has as much\nrelation to literature as have the steps of a farceur in a clog-dance.\nThe composition of such plays demands literary ability in the least\ndegree, but ingenuity in inventing situations and surprises; the text is\nnothing, the action is everything; but the text is considerably improved\nif it have brightness of repartee and a lively apprehension of\ncontemporary events, including the slang of the hour. These plays appear\nto be made up by the writer, the manager, the carpenter, the costumer. If\nthey are successful with the modern audiences, their success is probably\ndue to other things than any literary quality they may have, or any truth\nto life or to human nature.\n\nWe see how this is in the great number of plays adapted from popular\nnovels. In the  dramatization  of these stories, pretty much everything\nis left out of the higher sort that the reader has valued in the story.\nThe romance of  Monte Cristo  is an illustration of this. The play is\nvulgar melodrama, out of which has escaped altogether the refinement and\nthe romantic idealism of the stirring romance of Dumas. Now and then, to\nbe sure, we get a different result, as in  Olivia,  where all the pathos\nand character of the  Vicar of Wakefield  are preserved, and the effect\nof the play depends upon passion and sentiment. But as a rule, we get\nonly the more obvious saliencies, the bones of the novel, fitted in or\nclothed with stage  business. \n\nOf course it is true that literary men, even dramatic authors, may write\nand always have written dramas not suited to actors, that could not well\nbe put upon the stage. But it remains true that the greatest dramas,\nthose that have endured from the Greek times down, have been (for the\naudiences of their times) both good reading and good acting plays.\n\nI am not competent to criticise the stage or its tendency. But I am\ninterested in noticing the increasing non-literary character of modern\nplays. It may be explained as a necessary and justifiable evolution of\nthe stage. The managers may know what the audience wants, just as the\neditors of some of the most sensational newspapers say that they make a\nnewspaper to suit the public. The newspaper need not be well written, but\nit must startle with incident and surprise, found or invented. An\nobserver must notice that the usual theatre-audience in New York or\nBoston today laughs at and applauds costumes, situations, innuendoes,\ndoubtful suggestions, that it would have blushed at a few years ago. Has\nthe audience been creating a theatre to suit its taste, or have the\nmanagers been educating an audience? Has the divorce of literary art from\nthe mimic art of the stage anything to do with this condition?\n\nThe stage can be amusing, but can it show life as it is without the aid\nof idealizing literary art? And if the stage goes on in this\nmaterialistic way, how long will it be before it ceases to amuse\nintelligent, not to say intellectual people?\n\n\n\n\nTHE LIFE-SAVING AND LIFE PROLONGING ART\n\nIn the minds of the public there is a mystery about the practice of\nmedicine. It deals more or less with the unknown, with the occult, it\nappeals to the imagination. Doubtless confidence in its practitioners is\nstill somewhat due to the belief that they are familiar with the secret\nprocesses of nature, if they are not in actual alliance with the\nsupernatural. Investigation of the ground of the popular faith in the\ndoctor would lead us into metaphysics. And yet our physical condition has\nmuch to do with this faith. It is apt to be weak when one is in perfect\nhealth; but when one is sick it grows strong. Saint and sinner both warm\nup to the doctor when the judgment Day heaves in view.\n\nIn the popular apprehension the doctor is still the Medicine Man. We\nsmile when we hear about his antics in barbarous tribes; he dresses\nfantastically, he puts horns on his head, he draws circles on the ground,\nhe dances about the patient, shaking his rattle and uttering\nincantations. There is nothing to laugh at. He is making an appeal to the\nimagination. And sometimes he cures, and sometimes he kills; in either\ncase he gets his fee. What right have we to laugh? We live in an\nenlightened age, and yet a great proportion of the people, perhaps not a\nmajority, still believe in incantations, have faith in ignorant\npractitioners who advertise a  natural gift,  or a secret process or\nremedy, and prefer the charlatan who is exactly on the level of the\nIndian Medicine Man, to the regular practitioner, and to the scientific\nstudent of mind and body and of the properties of the materia medica.\nWhy, even here in Connecticut, it is impossible to get a law to protect\nthe community from the imposition of knavish or ignorant quacks, and to\nrequire of a man some evidence of capacity and training and skill, before\nhe is let loose to experiment upon suffering humanity. Our teachers must\npass an examination--though the examiner sometimes does not know as much\nas the candidate,--for misguiding the youthful mind; the lawyer cannot\npractice without study and a formal admission to the bar; and even the\nclergyman is not accepted in any responsible charge until he has given\nevidence of some moral and intellectual fitness. But the profession\naffecting directly the health and life of every human body, which needs\nto avail itself of the accumulated experience, knowledge, and science of\nall the ages, is open to every ignorant and stupid practitioner on the\ncredulity of the public. Why cannot we get a law regulating the\nprofession which is of most vital interest to all of us, excluding\nignorance and quackery? Because the majority of our legislature,\nrepresenting, I suppose, the majority of the public, believe in the\n natural bone-setter,  the herb doctor, the root doctor, the old woman\nwho brews a decoction of swamp medicine, the  natural gift  of some\ndabbler in diseases, the magnetic healer, the faith cure, the mind cure,\nthe Christian Science cure, the efficacy of a prescription rapped out on\na table by some hysterical medium,--in anything but sound knowledge,\neducation in scientific methods, steadied by a sense of public\nresponsibility. Not long ago, on a cross-country road, I came across a\nwoman in a farmhouse, where I am sure the barn-yard drained into the\nwell, who was sick; she had taken a shop-full of patent medicines. I\nadvised her to send for a doctor. She had no confidence in doctors, but\nsaid she reckoned she would get along now, for she had sent for the\nseventh son of a seventh son, and didn't I think he could certainly cure\nher? I said that combination ought to fetch any disease except\nagnosticism. That woman probably influenced a vote in the legislature.\nThe legislature believes in incantations; it ought to have in attendance\nan Indian Medicine Man.\n\nWe think the world is progressing in enlightenment; I suppose it is--inch\nby inch. But it is not easy to name an age that has cherished more\ndelusions than ours, or been more superstitious, or more credulous, more\neager to run after quackery. Especially is this true in regard to\nremedies for diseases, and the faith in healers and quacks outside of the\nregular, educated professors of the medical art. Is this an exaggeration?\nConsider the quantity of proprietary medicines taken in this country,\nsome of them harmless, some of them good in some cases, some of them\ninjurious, but generally taken without advice and in absolute ignorance\nof the nature of the disease or the specific action of the remedy. The\ndrug-shops are full of them, especially in country towns; and in the far\nWest and on the Pacific coast I have been astonished at the quantity and\nvariety displayed. They are found in almost every house; the country is\nliterally dosed to death with these manufactured nostrums and\npanaceas--and that is the most popular medicine which can be used for the\ngreatest number of internal and external diseases and injuries. Many\nnewspapers are half supported by advertising them, and millions and\nmillions of dollars are invested in this popular industry. Needless to\nsay that the patented remedies most in request are those that profess a\nsecret and unscientific origin. Those most  purely vegetable  seem most\nsuitable to the wooden-heads who believe in them, but if one were\nsufficiently advertised as not containing a single trace of vegetable\nmatter, avoiding thus all possible conflict of one organic life with\nanother organic life, it would be just as popular. The favorites are\nthose that have been secretly used by an East Indian fakir, or\naccidentally discovered as the natural remedy, dug out of the ground by\nan American Indian tribe, or steeped in a kettle by an ancient colored\nperson in a southern plantation, or washed ashore on the person of a\nsailor from the South Seas, or invented by a very aged man in New Jersey,\nwho could not read, but had spent his life roaming in the woods, and\nwhose capacity for discovering a  universal panacea,  besides his\nignorance and isolation, lay in the fact that his sands of life had\nnearly run. It is the supposed secrecy or low origin of the remedy that\nis its attraction. The basis of the vast proprietary medicine business is\npopular ignorance and credulity. And it needs to be pretty broad to\nsupport a traffic of such enormous proportions.\n\nDuring this generation certain branches of the life-saving and\nlife-prolonging art have made great advances out of empiricism onto the\nsolid ground of scientific knowledge. Of course I refer to surgery, and\nto the discovery of the causes and improvement in the treatment of\ncontagious and epidemic diseases. The general practice has shared in this\nscientific advance, but it is limited and always will be limited within\nexperimental bounds, by the infinite variations in individual\nconstitutions, and the almost incalculable element of the interference of\nmental with physical conditions. When we get an exact science of man, we\nmay expect an exact science of medicine. How far we are from this, we see\nwhen we attempt to make criminal anthropology the basis of criminal\nlegislation. Man is so complex that if we were to eliminate one of his\napparently worse qualities, we might develop others still worse, or throw\nthe whole machine into inefficiency. By taking away what the\nphrenologists call combativeness, we could doubtless stop prize-fight,\nbut we might have a springless society. The only safe way is that taught\nby horticulture, to feed a fruit-tree generously, so that it has vigor\nenough to throw off its degenerate tendencies and its enemies, or, as the\ndoctors say in medical practice, bring up the general system. That is to\nsay, there is more hope for humanity in stimulating the good, than in\ndirectly suppressing the evil. It is on something like this line that the\ngreatest advance has been made in medical practice; I mean in the\ndirection of prevention. This involves, of course, the exclusion of the\nevil, that is, of suppressing the causes that produce disease, as well as\nin cultivating the resistant power of the human system. In sanitation,\ndiet, and exercise are the great fields of medical enterprise and\nadvance. I need not say that the physician who, in the case of those\nunder his charge, or who may possibly require his aid, contents himself\nwith waiting for developed disease, is like the soldier in a besieged\ncity who opens the gates and then attempts to repel the invader who has\neffected a lodgment. I hope the time will come when the chief practice of\nthe physician will be, first, in oversight of the sanitary condition of\nhis neighborhood, and, next, in preventive attendance on people who think\nthey are well, and are all unconscious of the insidious approach of some\nconcealed malady.\n\nAnother great change in modern practice is specialization. Perhaps it has\nnot yet reached the delicate particularity of the practice in ancient\nEgypt, where every minute part of the human economy had its exclusive\ndoctor. This is inevitable in a scientific age, and the result has been\non the whole an advance of knowledge, and improved treatment of specific\nailments. The danger is apparent. It is that of the moral specialist, who\nhas only one hobby and traces every human ill to strong liquor or\ntobacco, or the corset, or taxation of personal property, or denial of\nuniversal suffrage, or the eating of meat, or the want of the\ncentralization of nearly all initiative and interest and property in the\nstate. The tendency of the accomplished specialist in medicine is to\nrefer all physical trouble to the ill conduct of the organ he presides\nover. He can often trace every disease to want of width in the nostrils,\nto a defective eye, to a sensitive throat, to shut-up pores, to an\nirritated stomach, to auricular defect. I suppose he is generally right,\nbut I have a perhaps natural fear that if I happened to consult an\namputationist about catarrh he would want to cut off my leg. I confess to\nan affection for the old-fashioned, all-round country doctor, who took a\ngeneral view of his patient, knew his family, his constitution, all the\ngossip about his mental or business troubles, his affairs of the heart,\ndisappointments in love, incompatibilities of temper, and treated the\npatient, as the phrase is, for all he was worth, and gave him visible\nmedicine out of good old saddle-bags--how much faith we used to have in\nthose saddle-bags--and not a prescription in a dead language to be put up\nby a dead-head clerk who occasionally mistakes arsenic for carbonate of\nsoda. I do not mean, however, to say there is no sense in the retention\nof the hieroglyphics which the doctors use to communicate their ideas to\na druggist, for I had a prescription made in Hartford put up in Naples,\nand that could not have happened if it had been written in English. And I\nam not sure but the mysterious symbols have some effect on the patient.\n\nThe mention of the intimate knowledge of family and constitutional\nconditions possessed by the old-fashioned country doctor, whose main\nstrength lay in this and in his common-sense, reminds me of another great\nadvance in the modern practice, in the attempt to understand nature\nbetter by the scientific study of psychology and the occult relations of\nmind and body. It is in the study of temper, temperament, hereditary\npredispositions, that we may expect the most brilliant results in\npreventive medicine.\n\nAs a layman, I cannot but notice another great advance in the medical\nprofession. It is not alone in it. It is rather expected that the lawyers\nwill divide the oyster between them and leave the shell to the\ncontestants. I suppose that doctors, almost without exception, give more\nof their time and skill in the way of charity than almost any other\nprofession. But somebody must pay, and fees have increased with the\ngeneral cost of living and dying. If fees continue to increase as they\nhave done in the past ten years in the great cities, like New York,\nnobody not a millionaire can afford to be sick. The fees will soon be a\nprohibitive tax. I cannot say that this will be altogether an evil, for\nthe cost of calling medical aid may force people to take better care of\nthemselves. Still, the excessive charges are rather hard on people in\nmoderate circumstances who are compelled to seek surgical aid. And here\nwe touch one of the regrettable symptoms of the times, which is not by\nany means most conspicuous in the medical profession. I mean the tendency\nto subordinate the old notion of professional duty to the greed for\nmoney. The lawyers are almost universally accused of it; even the\nclergymen are often suspected of being influenced by it. The young man is\napt to choose a profession on calculation of its profit. It will be a bad\nday for science and for the progress of the usefulness of the medical\nprofession when the love of money in its practice becomes stronger than\nprofessional enthusiasm, than the noble ambition of distinction for\nadvancing the science, and the devotion to human welfare.\n\nI do not prophesy it. Rather I expect interest in humanity, love of\nscience for itself, sympathy with suffering, self-sacrifice for others,\nto increase in the world, and be stronger in the end than sordid love of\ngain and the low ambition of rivalry in materialistic display. To this\nhigher life the physician is called. I often wonder that there are so\nmany men, brilliant men, able men, with so many talents for success in\nany calling, willing to devote their lives to a profession which demands\nso much self-sacrifice, so much hardship, so much contact with suffering,\nsubject to the call of all the world at any hour of the day or night,\ninvolving so much personal risk, carrying so much heart-breaking\nresponsibility, responded to by so much constant heroism, a heroism\nrequiring the risk of life in a service the only glory of which is a good\nname and the approval of one's conscience.\n\nTo the members of such a profession, in spite of their human infirmities\nand limitations and unworthy hangers-on, I bow with admiration and the\nrespect which we feel for that which is best in this world.\n\n\n\n\n H.H.  IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA\n\nIt seems somehow more nearly an irreparable loss to us than to  H. H. \n that she did not live to taste her very substantial fame in Southern\nCalifornia. We should have had such delight in her unaffected pleasure in\nit, and it would have been one of those satisfactions somewhat adequate\nto our sense of fitness that are so seldom experienced. It was my good\nfortune to see Mrs. Jackson frequently in the days in New York when she\nwas writing  Ramona,  which was begun and perhaps finished in the\nBerkeley House. The theme had complete possession of her, and chapter\nafter chapter flowed from her pen as easily as one would write a letter\nto a friend; and she had an ever fresh and vigorous delight in it. I have\noften thought that no one enjoyed the sensation of living more than Mrs.\nJackson, or was more alive to all the influences of nature and the\ncontact of mind with mind, more responsive to all that was exquisite and\nnoble either in nature or in society, or more sensitive to the\ndisagreeable. This is merely saying that she was a poet; but when she\nbecame interested in the Indians, and especially in the harsh fate of the\nMission Indians in California, all her nature was fused for the time in a\nlofty enthusiasm of pity and indignation, and all her powers seemed to be\nconsecrated to one purpose. Enthusiasm and sympathy will not make a\nnovel, but all the same they are necessary to the production of a work\nthat has in it real vital quality, and in this case all previous\nexperience and artistic training became the unconscious servants of Mrs.\nJackson's heart. I know she had very little conceit about her\nperformance, but she had a simple consciousness that she was doing her\nbest work, and that if the world should care much for anything she had\ndone, after she was gone, it would be for  Ramona.  She had put herself\ninto it.\n\nAnd yet I am certain that she could have had no idea what the novel would\nbe to the people of Southern California, or how it would identify her\nname with all that region, and make so many scenes in it places of\npilgrimage and romantic interest for her sake. I do not mean to say that\nthe people in California knew personally Ramona and Alessandro, or\naltogether believe in them, but that in their idealizations they\nrecognize a verity and the ultimate truth of human nature, while in the\nscenery, in the fading sentiment of the old Spanish life, and the romance\nand faith of the Missions, the author has done for the region very much\nwhat Scott did for the Highlands. I hope she knows now, I presume she\ndoes, that more than one Indian school in the Territories is called the\nRamona School; that at least two villages in California are contending\nfor the priority of using the name Ramona; that all the travelers and\ntourists (at least in the time they can spare from real-estate\nspeculations) go about under her guidance, are pilgrims to the shrines\nshe has described, and eager searchers for the scenes she has made famous\nin her novel; that more than one city and more than one town claims the\nhonor of connection with the story; that the tourist has pointed out to\nhim in more than one village the very house where Ramona lived, where she\nwas married--indeed, that a little crop of legends has already grown up\nabout the story itself. I was myself shown the house in Los Angeles where\nthe story was written, and so strong is the local impression that I\nconfess to looking at the rose-embowered cottage with a good deal of\ninterest, though I had seen the romance growing day by day in the\nBerkeley in New York.\n\nThe undoubted scene of the loves of Ramona and Alessandro is the Comulos\nrancho, on the railway from Newhall to Santa Paula, the route that one\ntakes now (unless he wants to have a lifelong remembrance of the ground\nswells of the Pacific in an uneasy little steamer) to go from Los Angeles\nto Santa Barbara. It is almost the only one remaining of the\nold-fashioned Spanish haciendas, where the old administration prevails.\nThe new railway passes it now, and the hospitable owners have been\nobliged to yield to the public curiosity and provide entertainment for a\ncontinual stream of visitors. The place is so perfectly described in\n Ramona  that I do not need to draw it over again, and I violate no\nconfidence and only certify to the extraordinary powers of delineation of\nthe novelist, when I say that she only spent a few hours there,--not a\nquarter of the time we spent in identifying her picture. We knew the\nsituation before the train stopped by the crosses erected on the\nconspicuous peaks of the serrated ashy--or shall I say purple--hills that\nenfold the fertile valley. It is a great domain, watered by a swift\nriver, and sheltered by wonderfully picturesque mountains. The house is\nstrictly in the old Spanish style, of one story about a large court, with\nflowers and a fountain, in which are the most noisy if not musical frogs\nin the world, and all the interior rooms opening upon a gallery. The real\nfront is towards the garden, and here at the end of the gallery is the\nelevated room where Father Salvierderra slept when he passed a night at\nthe hacienda,--a pretty room which has a case of Spanish books, mostly\nreligious and legal, and some quaint and cheap holy pictures. We had a\nletter to Signora Del Valle, the mistress, and were welcomed with a sort\nof formal extension of hospitality that put us back into the courtly\nmanners of a hundred years ago. The Signora, who is in no sense the\noriginal of the mistress whom  H. H.  describes, is a widow now for seven\nyears, and is the vigilant administrator of all her large domain, of the\nstock, the grazing lands, the vineyard, the sheep ranch, and all the\npeople. Rising very early in the morning, she visits every department,\nand no detail is too minute to escape her inspection, and no one in the\ngreat household but feels her authority.\n\nIt was a very lovely day on the 17th of March (indeed, I suppose it had\nbeen preceded by 364 days exactly like it) as we sat upon the gallery\nlooking on the garden, a garden of oranges, roses, citrons, lemons,\npeaches--what fruit and flower was not growing there?--acres and acres of\nvineyard beyond, with the tall cane and willows by the stream, and the\npurple mountains against the sapphire sky. Was there ever anything more\nexquisite than the peach-blossoms against that blue sky! Such a place of\npeace. A soft south wind was blowing, and all the air was drowsy with the\nhum of bees. In the garden is a vine-covered arbor, with seats and\ntables, and at the end of it is the opening into a little chapel, a\ndomestic chapel, carpeted like a parlor, and bearing all the emblems of a\nloving devotion. By the garden gate hang three small bells, from some old\nmission, all cracked, but serving (each has its office) to summon the\nworkmen or to call to prayer.\n\nPerfect system reigns in Signora Del Valle's establishment, and even the\nleast child in it has its duty. At sundown a little slip of a girl went\nout to the gate and struck one of the bells.  What is that for?  I asked\nas she returned.  It is the Angelus,  she said simply. I do not know what\nwould happen to her if she should neglect to strike it at the hour. At\neight o'clock the largest bell was struck, and the Signora and all her\nhousehold, including the house servants, went out to the little chapel in\nthe garden, which was suddenly lighted with candles, gleaming brilliantly\nthrough the orange groves. The Signora read the service, the household\nresponding--a twenty minutes' service, which is as much a part of the\nadministration of the establishment as visiting the granaries and\npresses, and the bringing home of the goats. The Signora's apartments,\nwhich she permitted us to see, were quite in the nature of an oratory,\nwith shrines and sacred pictures and relics of the faith. By the shrine\nat the head of her bed hung the rosary carried by Father Junipero,--a\npriceless possession. From her presses and armoires, the Signora, seeing\nwe had a taste for such things, brought out the feminine treasures of\nthree generations, the silk and embroidered dresses of last century, the\nribosas, the jewelry, the brilliant stuffs of China and Mexico, each\narticle with a memory and a flavor.\n\nBut I must not be betrayed into writing about Ramona's house. How\ncharming indeed it was the next morning,--though the birds in the garden\nwere astir a little too early,--with the thermometer set to the exact\ndegree of warmth without languor, the sky blue, the wind soft, the air\nscented with orange and jessamine. The Signora had already visited all\nher premises before we were up. We had seen the evening before an\nenclosure near the house full of cashmere goats and kids, whose antics\nwere sufficiently amusing--most of them had now gone afield; workmen were\ncoming for their orders, plowing was going on in the barley fields,\ntraders were driving to the plantation store, the fierce eagle in a big\ncage by the olive press was raging at his detention. Within the house\nenclosure are an olive mill and press, a wine-press and a great\nstorehouse of wine, containing now little but empty casks,--a dusky,\ninteresting place, with pomegranates and dried bunches of grapes and\noranges and pieces of jerked meat hanging from the rafters. Near by is a\ncornhouse and a small distillery, and the corrals for sheep shearing are\nnot far off. The ranches for cattle and sheep are on the other side of\nthe mountain.\n\nPeace be with Comulos. It must please the author of  Ramona  to know that\nit continues in the old ways; and I trust she is undisturbed by the\nknowledge that the rage for change will not long let it be what it now\nis.\n\n\n\n\nSIMPLICITY\n\nNo doubt one of the most charming creations in all poetry is Nausicaa,\nthe white-armed daughter of King Alcinous. There is no scene, no picture,\nin the heroic times more pleasing than the meeting of Ulysses with this\ndamsel on the wild seashore of Scheria, where the Wanderer had been\ntossed ashore by the tempest. The place of this classic meeting was\nprobably on the west coast of Corfu, that incomparable island, to whose\nbeauty the legend of the exquisite maidenhood of the daughter of the king\nof the Phaeacians has added an immortal bloom.\n\nWe have no difficulty in recalling it in all its distinctness: the bright\nmorning on which Nausicaa came forth from the palace, where her mother\nsat and turned the distaff loaded with a fleece dyed in sea-purple,\nmounted the car piled with the robes to be cleansed in the stream, and,\nattended by her bright-haired, laughing handmaidens, drove to the banks\nof the river, where out of its sweet grasses it flowed over clean sand\ninto the Adriatic. The team is loosed to browse the grass; the garments\nare flung into the dark water, then trampled with hasty feet in frolic\nrivalry, and spread upon the gravel to dry. Then the maidens bathe, give\ntheir limbs the delicate oil from the cruse of gold, sit by the stream\nand eat their meal, and, refreshed, mistress and maidens lay aside their\nveils and play at ball, and Nausicaa begins a song. Though all were fair,\nlike Diana was this spotless virgin midst her maids. A missed ball and\nmaidenly screams waken Ulysses from his sleep in the thicket. At the\napparition of the unclad, shipwrecked sailor the maidens flee right and\nleft. Nausicaa alone keeps her place, secure in her unconscious modesty.\nTo the astonished Sport of Fortune the vision of this radiant girl, in\nshape and stature and in noble air, is more than mortal, yet scarcely\nmore than woman:\n\n         Like thee, I saw of late,\n   In Delos, a young palm-tree growing up\n   Beside Apollo's altar. \n\nWhen the Wanderer has bathed, and been clad in robes from the pile on the\nsand, and refreshed with food and wine which the hospitable maidens put\nbefore him, the train sets out for the town, Ulysses following the\nchariot among the bright-haired women. But before that Nausicaa, in the\ncandor of those early days, says to her attendants:\n\n         I would that I might call\n     A man like him my husband, dwelling here\n     And here content to dwell. \n\nIs there any woman in history more to be desired than this sweet,\npure-minded, honest-hearted girl, as she is depicted with a few swift\ntouches by the great poet?--the dutiful daughter in her father's house,\nthe joyous companion of girls, the beautiful woman whose modest bearing\ncommands the instant homage of man. Nothing is more enduring in\nliterature than this girl and the scene on the--Corfu sands.\n\nThe sketch, though distinct, is slight, little more than outlines; no\nelaboration, no analysis; just an incident, as real as the blue sky of\nScheria and the waves on the yellow sand. All the elements of the picture\nare simple, human, natural, standing in as unconfused relations as any\nevents in common life. I am not recalling it because it is a conspicuous\ninstance of the true realism that is touched with the ideality of genius,\nwhich is the immortal element in literature, but as an illustration of\nthe other necessary quality in all productions of the human mind that\nremain age after age, and that is simplicity. This is the stamp of all\nenduring work; this is what appeals to the universal understanding from\ngeneration to generation. All the masterpieces that endure and become a\npart of our lives are characterized by it. The eye, like the mind, hates\nconfusion and overcrowding. All the elements in beauty, grandeur, pathos,\nare simple--as simple as the lines in a Nile picture: the strong river,\nthe yellow desert, the palms, the pyramids; hardly more than a horizontal\nline and a perpendicular line; only there is the sky, the atmosphere, the\ncolor-those need genius.\n\nWe may test contemporary literature by its confortuity to the canon of\nsimplicity--that is, if it has not that, we may conclude that it lacks\none essential lasting quality. It may please;--it may be ingenious\n--brilliant, even; it may be the fashion of the day, and a fashion that\nwill hold its power of pleasing for half a century, but it will be a\nfashion. Mannerisms of course will not deceive us, nor extravagances,\neccentricities, affectations, nor the straining after effect by the use\nof coined or far-fetched words and prodigality in adjectives. But, style?\nYes, there is such a thing as style, good and bad; and the style should\nbe the writer's own and characteristic of him, as his speech is. But the\nmoment I admire a style for its own sake, a style that attracts my\nattention so constantly that I say, How good that is! I begin to be\nsuspicious. If it is too good, too pronouncedly good, I fear I shall not\nlike it so well on a second reading. If it comes to stand between me and\nthe thought, or the personality behind the thought, I grow more and more\nsuspicious. Is the book a window, through which I am to see life? Then I\ncannot have the glass too clear. Is it to affect me like a strain of\nmusic? Then I am still more disturbed by any affectations. Is it to\nproduce the effect of a picture? Then I know I want the simplest harmony\nof color. And I have learned that the most effective word-painting, as it\nis called, is the simplest. This is true if it is a question only of\npresent enjoyment. But we may be sure that any piece of literature which\nattracts only by some trick of style, however it may blaze up for a day\nand startle the world with its flash, lacks the element of endurance. We\ndo not need much experience to tell us the difference between a lamp and\na Roman candle. Even in our day we have seen many reputations flare up,\nilluminate the sky, and then go out in utter darkness. When we take a\nproper historical perspective, we see that it is the universal, the\nsimple, that lasts.\n\nI am not sure whether simplicity is a matter of nature or of cultivation.\nBarbarous nature likes display, excessive ornament; and when we have\narrived at the nobly simple, the perfect proportion, we are always likely\nto relapse into the confused and the complicated. The most cultivated\nmen, we know, are the simplest in manners, in taste, in their style. It\nis a note of some of the purest modern writers that they avoid\ncomparisons, similes, and even too much use of metaphor. But the mass of\nmen are always relapsing into the tawdry and the over-ornamented. It is a\ncharacteristic of youth, and it seems also to be a characteristic of\nover-development. Literature, in any language, has no sooner arrived at\nthe highest vigor of simple expression than it begins to run into\nprettiness, conceits, over-elaboration. This is a fact which may be\nverified by studying different periods, from classic literature to our\nown day.\n\nIt is the same with architecture. The classic Greek runs into the\nexcessive elaboration of the Roman period, the Gothic into the\nflamboyant, and so on. We, have had several attacks of architectural\nmeasles in this country, which have left the land spotted all over with\nhouses in bad taste. Instead of developing the colonial simplicity on\nlines of dignity and harmony to modern use, we stuck on the\npseudo-classic, we broke out in the Mansard, we broke all up into the\nwhimsicalities of the so-called Queen Anne, without regard to climate or\ncomfort. The eye speedily tires of all these things. It is a positive\nrelief to look at an old colonial mansion, even if it is as plain as a\nbarn. What the eye demands is simple lines, proportion, harmony in mass,\ndignity; above all, adaptation to use. And what we must have also is\nindividuality in house and in furniture; that makes the city, the\nvillage, picturesque and interesting. The highest thing in architecture,\nas in literature, is the development of individuality in simplicity.\n\nDress is a dangerous topic to meddle with. I myself like the attire of\nthe maidens of Scheria, though Nausicaa, we must note, was  clad\nroyally.  But climate cannot be disregarded, and the vestment that was so\nfitting on a Greek girl whom I saw at the Second Cataract of the Nile\nwould scarcely be appropriate in New York. If the maidens of one of our\ncolleges for girls, say Vassar for illustration, habited like the\nPhaeacian girls of Scheria, went down to the Hudson to cleanse the rich\nrobes of the house, and were surprised by the advent of a stranger from\nthe city, landing from a steamboat--a wandering broker, let us say, clad\nin wide trousers, long topcoat, and a tall hat--I fancy that he would be\nmore astonished than Ulysses was at the bevy of girls that scattered at\nhis approach. It is not that women must be all things to all men, but\nthat their simplicity must conform to time and circumstance. What I do\nnot understand is that simplicity gets banished altogether, and that\nfashion, on a dictation that no one can trace the origin of, makes that\nlovely in the eyes of women today which will seem utterly abhorrent to\nthem tomorrow. There appears to be no line of taste running through the\nchanges. The only consolation to you, the woman of the moment, is that\nwhile the costume your grandmother wore makes her, in the painting, a guy\nin your eyes, the costume you wear will give your grandchildren the same\nimpression of you. And the satisfaction for you is the thought that the\nlatter raiment will be worse than the other two--that is to say, less\nwell suited to display the shape, station, and noble air which brought\nUlysses to his knees on the sands of Corfu.\n\nAnother reason why I say that I do not know whether simplicity belongs to\nnature or art is that fashion is as strong to pervert and disfigure in\nsavage nations as it is in civilized. It runs to as much eccentricity in\nhair-dressing and ornament in the costume of the jingling belles of\nNootka and the maidens of Nubia as in any court or coterie which we\naspire to imitate. The only difference is that remote and unsophisticated\ncommunities are more constant to a style they once adopt. There are\nisolated peasant communities in Europe who have kept for centuries the\nmost uncouth and inconvenient attire, while we have run through a dozen\nvariations in the art of attraction by dress, from the most puffed and\nbulbous ballooning to the extreme of limpness and lankness. I can only\nconclude that the civilized human being is a restless creature, whose\nmotives in regard to costumes are utterly unfathomable.\n\nWe need, however, to go a little further in this question of simplicity.\nNausicaa was  clad royally.  There was a distinction, then, between her\nand her handmaidens. She was clad simply, according to her condition.\nTaste does not by any means lead to uniformity. I have read of a commune\nin which all the women dressed alike and unbecomingly, so as to\ndiscourage all attempt to please or attract, or to give value to the\ndifferent accents of beauty. The end of those women was worse than the\nbeginning. Simplicity is not ugliness, nor poverty, nor barrenness, nor\nnecessarily plainness. What is simplicity for another may not be for you,\nfor your condition, your tastes, especially for your wants. It is a\npersonal question. You go beyond simplicity when you attempt to\nappropriate more than your wants, your aspirations, whatever they are,\ndemand--that is, to appropriate for show, for ostentation, more than your\nlife can assimilate, can make thoroughly yours. There is no limit to what\nyou may have, if it is necessary for you, if it is not a superfluity to\nyou. What would be simplicity to you may be superfluity to another. The\nrich robes that Nausicaa wore she wore like a goddess. The moment your\ndress, your house, your house-grounds, your furniture, your scale of\nliving, are beyond the rational satisfaction of your own desires--that\nis, are for ostentation, for imposition upon the public--they are\nsuperfluous, the line of simplicity is passed. Every human being has a\nright to whatever can best feed his life, satisfy his legitimate desires,\ncontribute to the growth of his soul. It is not for me to judge whether\nthis is luxury or want. There is no merit in riches nor in poverty. There\nis merit in that simplicity of life which seeks to grasp no more than is\nnecessary for the development and enjoyment of the individual. Most of\nus, in all conditions; are weighted down with superfluities or worried to\nacquire them. Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just\nbaggage enough.\n\nThe needs of every person differ from the needs of every other; we can\nmake no standard for wants or possessions. But the world would be greatly\ntransformed and much more easy to live in if everybody limited his\nacquisitions to his ability to assimilate them to his life. The\ndestruction of simplicity is a craving for things, not because we need\nthem, but because others have them. Because one man who lives in a plain\nlittle house, in all the restrictions of mean surroundings, would be\nhappier in a mansion suited to his taste and his wants, is no argument\nthat another man, living in a palace, in useless ostentation, would not\nbe better off in a dwelling which conforms to his cultivation and habits.\nIt is so hard to learn the lesson that there is no satisfaction in\ngaining more than we personally want.\n\nThe matter of simplicity, then, comes into literary style, into building,\ninto dress, into life, individualized always by one's personality. In\neach we aim at the expression of the best that is in us, not at imitation\nor ostentation.\n\nThe women in history, in legend, in poetry, whom we love, we do not love\nbecause they are  clad royally.  In our day, to be clad royally is\nscarcely a distinction. To have a superfluity is not a distinction. But\nin those moments when we have a clear vision of life, that which seems to\nus most admirable and desirable is the simplicity that endears to us the\nidyl of Nausicaa.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENGLISH VOLUNTEERS DURING THE LATE INVASION\n\nThe most painful event since the bombardment of Alexandria has been what\nis called by an English writer the  invasion  of  American Literature in\nEngland.  The hostile forces, with an advanced guard of what was regarded\nas an  awkward squad,  had been gradually effecting a landing and a\nlodgment not unwelcome to the unsuspicious natives. No alarm was taken\nwhen they threw out a skirmish-line of magazines and began to deploy an\noccasional wild poet, who advanced in buckskin leggings, revolver in\nhand, or a stray sharp-shooting sketcher clad in the picturesque robes of\nthe sunset. Put when the main body of American novelists got fairly\nashore and into position the literary militia of the island rose up as\none man, with the strength of a thousand, to repel the invaders and sweep\nthem back across the Atlantic. The spectacle had a dramatic interest. The\ninvaders were not numerous, did not carry their native tomahawks, they\nhad been careful to wash off the frightful paint with which they usually\ngo into action, they did not utter the defiant whoop of Pogram, and even\nthe militia regarded them as on the whole  amusin' young 'possums  and\nyet all the resources of modern and ancient warfare were brought to bear\nupon them. There was a crack of revolvers from the daily press, a lively\nfusillade of small-arms in the astonished weeklies, a discharge of\npoint-blank blunderbusses from the monthlies; and some of the heavy\nquarterlies loaded up the old pieces of ordnance, that had not been\ncharged in forty years, with slugs and brickbats and junk-bottles, and\npoured in raking broadsides. The effect on the island was something\ntremendous: it shook and trembled, and was almost hidden in the smoke of\nthe conflict. What the effect is upon the invaders it is too soon to\ndetermine. If any of them survive, it will be God's mercy to his weak and\ninnocent children.\n\nIt must be said that the American people--such of them as were aware of\nthis uprising--took the punishment of their presumption in a sweet and\nforgiving spirit. If they did not feel that they deserved it, they\nregarded it as a valuable contribution to the study of sociology and race\ncharacteristics, in which they have taken a lively interest of late. We\nknow how it is ourselves, they said; we used to be thin-skinned and\nself-conscious and sensitive. We used to wince and cringe under English\ncriticism, and try to strike back in a blind fury. We have learned that\ncriticism is good for us, and we are grateful for it from any source. We\nhave learned that English criticism is dictated by love for us, by a warm\ninterest in our intellectual development, just as English anxiety about\nour revenue laws is based upon a yearning that our down-trodden millions\nshall enjoy the benefits of free-trade. We did not understand why a\ncountry that admits our beef and grain and cheese should seem to seek\nprotection against a literary product which is brought into competition\nwith one of the great British staples, the modern novel. It seemed\ninconsistent. But we are no more consistent ourselves. We cannot\nunderstand the action of our own Congress, which protects the American\nauthor by a round duty on foreign books and refuses to protect him by\ngranting a foreign copyright; or, to put it in another way, is willing to\nsteal the brains of the foreign author under the plea of free knowledge,\nbut taxes free knowledge in another form. We have no defense to make of\nthe state of international copyright, though we appreciate the\ncomplication of the matter in the conflicting interests of English and\nAmerican publishers.\n\nYes; we must insist that, under the circumstances, the American people\nhave borne this outburst of English criticism in an admirable spirit. It\nwas as unexpected as it was sudden. Now, for many years our international\nrelations have been uncommonly smooth, oiled every few days by\ncomplimentary banquet speeches, and sweetened by abundance of magazine\nand newspaper  taffy.  Something too much of  taffy  we have thought was\ngiven us at times for, in getting bigger in various ways, we have grown\nmore modest. Though our English admirers may not believe it, we see our\nown faults more clearly than we once did--thanks, partly, to the faithful\ncastigations of our friends--and we sometimes find it difficult to\nconceal our blushes when we are over-praised. We fancied that we were\ngoing on, as an English writer on  Down-Easters  used to say, as  slick\nas ile,  when this miniature tempest suddenly burst out in a revival of\nthe language and methods used in the redoubtable old English periodicals\nforty years ago. We were interested in seeing how exactly this sort of\ncriticism that slew our literary fathers was revived now for the\nexecution of their degenerate children. And yet it was not exactly the\nsame. We used to call it  slang-whanging.  One form of it was a blank\nsurprise at the pretensions of American authors, and a dismissal with the\nformula of previous ignorance of their existence. This is modified now by\na modest expression of  discomfiture  on reading of American authors\n whose very names, much less peculiarities, we never heard of before. \n This is a tribunal from which there is no appeal. Not to have been heard\nof by an Englishman is next door to annihilation. It is at least\ndiscouraging to an author who may think he has gained some reputation\nover what is now conceded to be a considerable portion of the earth's\nsurface, to be cast into total obscurity by the negative damnation of\nEnglish ignorance. There is to us something pathetic in this and in the\nsurprise of the English critic, that there can be any standard of\nrespectable achievement outside of a seven-miles radius turning on\nCharing Cross.\n\nThe pathetic aspect of the case has not, however, we are sorry to say,\nstruck the American press, which has too often treated with unbecoming\nlevity this unaccountable exhibition of English sensitiveness. There has\nbeen little reply to it; at most, generally only an amused report of the\nwar, and now and then a discriminating acceptance of some of the\ncriticism as just, with a friendly recognition of the fact that on the\nwhole the critic had done very well considering the limitation of his\nknowledge of the subject on which he wrote. What is certainly noticeable\nis an entire absence of the irritation that used to be caused by similar\ncomments on America thirty years ago. Perhaps the Americans are reserving\ntheir fire as their ancestors did at Bunker Hill, conscious, maybe, that\nin the end they will be driven out of their slight literary\nentrenchments. Perhaps they were disarmed by the fact that the acrid\ncriticism in the London Quarterly Review was accompanied by a cordial\nappreciation of the novels that seemed to the reviewer characteristically\nAmerican. The interest in the tatter's review of our poor field must be\nlanguid, however, for nobody has taken the trouble to remind its author\nthat Brockden Brown--who is cited as a typical American writer, true to\nlocal character, scenery, and color--put no more flavor of American life\nand soil in his books than is to be found in  Frankenstein. \n\nIt does not, I should suppose, lie in the way of The Century, whose\ngeneral audience on both sides of the Atlantic takes only an amused\ninterest in this singular revival of a traditional literary animosity--an\nanachronism in these tolerant days when the reading world cares less and\nless about the origin of literature that pleases it--it does not lie in\nthe way of The Century to do more than report this phenomenal literary\neffervescence. And yet it cannot escape a certain responsibility as an\nimmediate though innocent occasion of this exhibition of international\ncourtesy, because its last November number contained some papers that\nseem to have been irritating. In one of them Mr. Howells let fall some\nchance remarks on the tendency of modern fiction, without adequately\ndeveloping his theory, which were largely dissented from in this country,\nand were like the uncorking of six vials in England. The other was an\nessay on England, dictated by admiration for the achievements of the\nforemost nation of our time, which, from the awkwardness of the eulogist,\nwas unfortunately the uncorking of the seventh vial--an uncorking which,\nas we happen to know, so prostrated the writer that he resolved never to\nattempt to praise England again. His panic was somewhat allayed by the\nsoothing remark in a kindly paper in Blackwood's Magazine for January,\nthat the writer had discussed his theme  by no means unfairly or\ndisrespectfully.  But with a shudder he recognized what a peril he had\nescaped. Great Scott!--the reference is to a local American deity who is\ninvoked in war, and not to the Biblical commentator--what would have\nhappened to him if he had spoken of England  disrespectfully !\n\nWe gratefully acknowledge also the remark of the Blackwood writer in\nregard-to the claims of America in literature.  These claims,  he says,\n we have hitherto been very charitable to.  How our life depends upon a\ncontinual exhibition by the critics of this divine attribute of charity\nit would perhaps be unwise in us to confess. We can at least take\ncourage that it exists--who does not need it in this world of\nmisunderstandings?--since we know that charity is not puffed up, vaunteth\nnot itself, hopeth all things, endureth all things, is not easily\nprovoked; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be\nknowledge, it shall vanish; but charity never faileth. And when all our\n dialects  on both sides of the water shall vanish, and we shall speak no\nmore Yorkshire or Cape Cod, or London cockney or  Pike  or  Cracker \n vowel flatness, nor write them any more, but all use the noble simplicity\nof the ideal English, and not indulge in such odd-sounding phrases as\nthis of our critic that  the combatants on both sides were by way of\ndetesting each other,  though we speak with the tongues of men and of\nangels--we shall still need charity.\n\nIt will occur to the charitable that the Americans are at a disadvantage\nin this little international  tiff.  For while the offenders have\ninconsiderately written over their own names, the others preserve a\nprivileged anonymity. Any attempt to reply to these voices out of the\ndark reminds one of the famous duel between the Englishman and the\nFrenchman which took place in a pitch-dark chamber, with the frightful\nresult that when the tender-hearted Englishman discharged his revolver up\nthe chimney he brought down his man. One never can tell in a case of this\nkind but a charitable shot might bring down a valued friend or even a\npeer of the realm.\n\nIn all soberness, however, and setting aside the open question, which\ncountry has most diverged from the English as it was at the time of the\nseparation of the colonies from the motherland, we may be permitted a\nword or two in the hope of a better understanding. The offense in The\nCentury paper on  England  seems to have been in phrases such as these:\n When we began to produce something that was the product of our own soil\nand of our own social conditions, it was still judged by the old\nstandards;  and, we are no longer irritated by  the snobbishness of\nEnglish critics of a certain school,   for we see that its criticism is\nonly the result of ignorance simply of inability to understand. \n\nUpon this the reviewer affects to lose his respiration, and with  a gasp\nof incredulity  wants to know what the writer means,  and what standards\nhe proposes to himself when he has given up the English ones?  The\nreviewer makes a more serious case than the writer intended, or than a\nfair construction of the context of his phrases warrants. It is the\ncriticism of  a certain school  only that was said to be the result of\nignorance. It is not the English language nor its body of enduring\nliterature--the noblest monument of our common civilization--that the\nwriter objected to as a standard of our performances. The standard\nobjected to is the narrow insular one (the term  insular  is used purely\nas a geographical one) that measures life, social conditions, feeling,\ntemperament, and national idiosyncrasies expressed in our literature by\ncertain fixed notions prevalent in England. Probably also the expression\nof national peculiarities would diverge somewhat from the  old\nstandards.  All we thought of asking was that allowance should be made\nfor this expression and these peculiarities, as it would be made in case\nof other literatures and peoples. It might have occurred to our critics,\nwe used to think, to ask themselves whether the English literature is not\nelastic enough to permit the play of forces in it which are foreign to\ntheir experience. Genuine literature is the expression, we take it, of\nlife-and truth to that is the standard of its success. Reference was\nintended to this, and not to the common canons of literary art. But we\nhave given up the expectation that the English critic  of a certain\nschool  will take this view of it, and this is the plain reason--not\nintended to be offensive--why much of the English criticism has ceased to\nbe highly valued in this country, and why it has ceased to annoy. At the\nsame time, it ought to be added, English opinion, when it is seen to be\nbased upon knowledge, is as highly respected as ever. And nobody in\nAmerica, so far as we know, entertains, or ever entertained, the idea of\nsetting aside as standards the master-minds in British literature. In\nregard to the  inability to understand,  we can, perhaps, make ourselves\nmore clearly understood, for the Blackwood's reviewer has kindly\nfurnished us an illustration in this very paper, when he passes in\npatronizing review the novels of Mr. Howells. In discussing the character\nof Lydia Blood, in  The Lady of the Aroostook,  he is exceedingly puzzled\nby the fact that a girl from rural New England, brought up amid\nsurroundings homely in the extreme, should have been considered a lady.\nHe says:\n\n The really 'American thing' in it is, we think, quite undiscovered\neither by the author or his heroes, and that is the curious confusion of\nclasses which attributes to a girl brought up on the humblest level all\nthe prejudices and necessities of the highest society. Granting that\nthere was anything dreadful in it, the daughter of a homely small farmer\nin England is not guarded and accompanied like a young lady on her\njourneys from one place to another. Probably her mother at home would be\ndisturbed, like Lydia's aunt, at the thought that there was no woman on\nboard, in case her child should be ill or lonely; but, as for any\nimpropriety, would never think twice on that subject. The difference is\nthat the English girl would not be a young lady. She would find her\nsweetheart among the sailors, and would have nothing to say to the\ngentlemen. This difference is far more curious than the misadventure,\nwhich might have happened anywhere, and far more remarkable than the fact\nthat the gentlemen did behave to her like gentlemen, and did their best\nto set her at ease, which we hope would have happened anywhere else. But\nit is, we think, exclusively American, and very curious and interesting,\nthat this young woman, with her antecedents so distinctly set before us,\nshould be represented as a lady, not at all out of place among her\ncultivated companions, and 'ready to become an ornament of society the\nmoment she lands in Venice. \n\nReams of writing could not more clearly explain what is meant by\n inability to understand  American conditions and to judge fairly the\nliterature growing out of them; and reams of writing would be wasted in\nthe attempt to make our curious critic comprehend the situation. There is\nnothing in his experience of  farmers' daughters  to give him the key to\nit. We might tell him that his notion of a farmer's daughters in England\ndoes not apply to New England. We might tell him of a sort of society of\nwhich he has no conception and can have none, of farmers' daughters and\nfarmers' wives in New England--more numerous, let us confess, thirty or\nforty years ago than now--who lived in homely conditions, dressed with\nplainness, and followed the fashions afar off; did their own household\nwork, even the menial parts of it; cooked the meals for the  men folks \n and the  hired help,  made the butter and cheese, and performed their\nhalf of the labor that wrung an honest but not luxurious living from the\nreluctant soil. And yet those women--the sweet and gracious ornaments of\na self-respecting society--were full of spirit, of modest pride in their\nposition, were familiar with much good literature, could converse with\npiquancy and understanding on subjects of general interest, were trained\nin the subtleties of a solid theology, and bore themselves in any company\nwith that traditional breeding which we associate with the name of lady.\nSuch strong native sense had they, such innate refinement and courtesythe\nproduct, it used to be said, of plain living and high thinking--that,\nignorant as they might be of civic ways, they would, upon being\nintroduced to them, need only a brief space of time to  orient \n themselves to the new circumstances. Much more of this sort might be said\nwithout exaggeration. To us there is nothing incongruous in the\nsupposition that Lydia Blood was  ready to become an ornament to society\nthe moment she lands in Venice. \n\nBut we lack the missionary spirit necessary to the exertion to make our\ninterested critic comprehend such a social condition, and we prefer to\nleave ourselves to his charity, in the hope of the continuance of which\nwe rest in serenity.\n\n\n\n\nNATHAN HALE--1887\n\nIn a Memorial Day address at New Haven in 1881, the Hon. Richard D.\nHubbard suggested the erection of a statue to Nathan Hale in the State\nCapitol. With the exception of the monument in Coventry no memorial of\nthe young hero existed. The suggestion was acted on by the Hon. E. S.\nCleveland, who introduced a resolution in the House of Representatives in\nthe session of 1883, appropriating money for the purpose. The propriety\nof this was urged before a committee of the Legislature by Governor\nHubbard, in a speech of characteristic grace and eloquence, seconded by\nthe Hon. Henry C. Robinson and the Hon. Stephen W. Kellogg. The\nLegislature appropriated the sum of five thousand dollars for a statue in\nbronze, and a committee was appointed to procure it. They opened a public\ncompetition, and, after considerable delay, during which the commission\nwas changed by death and by absence,--indeed four successive governors,\nHubbard, Waller, Harrison, and Lounsbury have served on it,--the work\nwas awarded to Karl Gerhardt, a young sculptor who began his career in\nthis city. It was finished in clay, and accepted in October, 1886, put in\nplaster, and immediately sent to the foundry of Melzar Masman in\nChicopee, Massachusetts.\n\nToday in all its artistic perfection and beauty it stands here to be\nrevealed to the public gaze. It is proper that the citizens of\nConnecticut should know how much of this result they owe to the\nintelligent zeal of Mr. Cleveland, the mover of the resolution in the\nLegislature, who in the commission, and before he became a member of it,\nhas spared neither time nor effort to procure a memorial worthy of the\nhero and of the State. And I am sure that I speak the unanimous sentiment\nof the commission in the regret that the originator of this statue could\nnot have seen the consummation of his idea, and could not have crowned it\nwith the one thing lacking on this occasion, the silver words of\neloquence we always heard from his lips, that compact, nervous speech,\nthe perfect union of strength and grace; for who so fitly as the lamented\nHubbard could have portrayed the moral heroism of the Martyr-Spy?\n\nThis is not a portrait statue. There is no likeness of Nathan Hale\nextant. The only known miniature of his face, in the possession of the\nlady to whom he was betrothed at the time of his death, disappeared many\nyears ago. The artist was obliged, therefore, to create an ideal figure,\naided by a few fragmentary descriptions of Hale's personal appearance.\nHis object has been to represent an American youth of the period, an\nAmerican patriot and scholar, whose manly beauty and grace tradition\nloves to recall, to represent in face and in bearing the moral elevation\nof character that made him conspicuous among his fellows, and to show\nforth, if possible, the deed that made him immortal. For it is the deed\nand the memorable last words we think of when we think of Hale. I know\nthat by one of the canons of art it is held that sculpture should rarely\nfix a momentary action; but if this can be pardoned in the Laocoon, where\nsuffering could not otherwise be depicted to excite the sympathy of the\nspectator, surely it can be justified in this case, where, as one may\nsay, the immortality of the subject rests upon a single act, upon a\nphrase, upon the attitude of the moment. For all the man's life, all his\ncharacter, flowered and blossomed into immortal beauty in this one\nsupreme moment of self-sacrifice, triumph, defiance. The ladder of the\ngallows-tree on which the deserted boy stood, amidst the enemies of his\ncountry, when he uttered those last words which all human annals do not\nparallel in simple patriotism,--the ladder I am sure ran up to heaven,\nand if angels were not seen ascending and descending it in that gray\nmorning, there stood the embodiment of American courage, unconquerable,\nAmerican faith, invincible, American love of country, unquenchable, a new\ndemocratic manhood in the world, visible there for all men to take note\nof, crowned already with the halo of victory in the Revolutionary dawn.\nOh, my Lord Howe! it seemed a trifling incident to you and to your\nbloodhound, Provost Marshal Cunningham, but those winged last words were\nworth ten thousand men to the drooping patriot army. Oh, your Majesty,\nKing George the Third! here was a spirit, could you but have known it,\nthat would cost you an empire, here was an ignominious death that would\ngrow in the estimation of mankind, increasing in nobility above the\nfading pageantry of kings.\n\nOn the 21st of April, 1775, a messenger, riding express from Boston to\nNew York with the tidings of Lexington and Concord, reached New London.\nThe news created intense excitement. A public meeting was called in the\ncourt-house at twilight, and among the speakers who exhorted the people\nto take up arms at once, was one, a youth not yet twenty years of age,\nwho said,  Let us march immediately, and never lay down our arms until we\nhave obtained our independence, --one of the first, perhaps the first, of\nthe public declarations of the purpose of independence. It was Nathan\nHale, already a person of some note in the colony, of a family then not\nunknown and destined in various ways to distinction in the Republic. A\nkinsman of the same name lost his life in the Louisburg fight. He had\nbeen for a year the preceptor of the Union Grammar School at New London.\nThe morning after the meeting he was enrolled as a volunteer, and soon\nmarched away with his company to Cambridge.\n\nNathan Hale, descended from Robert Hale who settled in Charlestown in\n1632, a scion of the Hales of Kent, England, was born in Coventry,\nConnecticut, on the 6th of June, 1755, the sixth child of Richard Hale\nand his wife Elizabeth Strong, persons of strong intellect and the\nhighest moral character, and Puritans of the strictest observances.\nBrought up in this atmosphere, in which duty and moral rectitude were the\nunquestioned obligations in life, he came to manhood with a character\nthat enabled him to face death or obloquy without flinching, when duty\ncalled, so that his behavior at the last was not an excitement of the\nmoment, but the result of ancestry, training, and principle. Feeble\nphysically in infancy, he developed into a robust boy, strong in mind and\nbody, a lively, sweet-tempered, beautiful youth, and into a young manhood\nendowed with every admirable quality. In feats of strength and agility he\nrecalls the traditions of Washington; he early showed a remarkable\navidity for knowledge, which was so sought that he became before he was\nof age one of the best educated young men of his time in the colonies. He\nwas not only a classical scholar, with the limitations of those days;\nbut, what was then rare, he made scientific attainments which greatly\nimpressed those capable of judging, and he had a taste for art and a\nremarkable talent as an artist. His father intended him for the ministry.\nHe received his preparatory education from Dr. Joseph Huntington, a\nclassical scholar and the pastor of the church in Coventry, entered Yale\nCollege at the age of sixteen, and graduated with high honors in a class\nof sixty, in September, 1773. At the time of his graduation his personal\nappearance was notable. Dr. Enos Monro of New Haven, who knew him well in\nthe last year at Yale, said of him,\n\n    He was almost six feet in height, perfectly proportioned, and in\n   figure and deportment he was the most manly man I have ever met.\n   His chest was broad; his muscles were firm; his face wore a most\n   benign expression; his complexion was roseate; his eyes were light\n   blue and beamed with intelligence; his hair was soft and light brown\n   in color, and his speech was rather low, sweet, and musical. His\n   personal beauty and grace of manner were most charming. Why, all\n   the girls in New Haven fell in love with him,  said Dr. Munro,  and\n   wept tears of real sorrow when they heard of his sad fate. In dress\n   he was always neat; he was quick to lend a hand to a being in\n   distress, brute or human; was overflowing with good humor, and was\n   the idol of all his acquaintances. \n\nDr. Jared Sparks, who knew several of Hale's intimate friends, writes of\nhim:\n\n    Possessing genius, taste, and order, he became distinguished as a\n   scholar; and endowed in an eminent degree with those graces and\n   gifts of Nature which add a charm to youthful excellence, he gained\n   universal esteem and confidence. To high moral worth and\n   irreproachable habits were joined gentleness of manner, an ingenuous\n   disposition, and vigor of understanding. No young man of his years\n   put forth a fairer promise of future usefulness and celebrity; the\n   fortunes of none were fostered more sincerely by the generous good\n   wishes of his superiors. \n\nIt was remembered at Yale that he was a brilliant debater as well as\nscholar. At his graduation he engaged in a debate on the question,\n Whether the education of daughters be not, without any just reason, more\nneglected than that of the sons.   In this debate,  wrote James\nHillhouse, one of his classmates,  he was the champion of the daughters,\nand most ably advocated their cause. You may be sure that he received the\nplaudits of the ladies present. \n\nHale seems to have had an irresistible charm for everybody. He was a\nfavorite in society; he had the manners and the qualities that made him a\nleader among men and gained him the admiration of women. He was always\nintelligently busy, and had the Yankee ingenuity,--he  could do anything\nbut spin,  he used to say to the girls of Coventry, laughing over the\nspinning wheel. There is a universal testimony to his alert intelligence,\nvivacity, manliness, sincerity, and winningness.\n\nIt is probable that while still an under-graduate at Yale, he was engaged\nto Alice Adams, who was born in Canterbury, a young lady distinguished\nthen as she was afterwards for great beauty and intelligence. After\nHale's death she married Mr. Eleazer Ripley, and was left a widow at the\nage of eighteen, with one child, who survived its father only one year.\nShe married, the second time, William Lawrence, Esq., of Hartford, and\ndied in this city, greatly respected and admired, in 1845, aged\neighty-eight. It is a touching note of the hold the memory of her young\nhero had upon her admiration that her last words, murmured as life was\nebbing, were,  Write to Nathan. \n\nHale's short career in the American army need not detain us. After his\nflying visit as a volunteer to Cambridge, he returned to New London,\njoined a company with the rank of lieutenant, participated in the siege\nof Boston, was commissioned a captain in the Nineteenth Connecticut\nRegiment in January, 1776, performed the duties of a soldier with\nvigilance, bravery, and patience, and was noted for the discipline of his\ncompany. In the last dispiriting days of 1775, when the terms of his men\nhad expired, he offered to give them his month's pay if they would remain\na month longer. He accompanied the army to New York, and shared its\nfortunes in that discouraging spring and summer. Shortly after his\narrival Captain Hale distinguished himself by the brilliant exploit of\ncutting out a British sloop, laden with provisions, from under the guns\nof the man-of-war  Asia,  sixty-four, lying in the East River, and\nbringing her triumphantly into slip. During the summer he suffered a\nsevere illness.\n\nThe condition of the American army and cause on the 1st of September,\n1776, after the retreat from Long Island, was critical. The army was\ndemoralized, clamoring in vain for pay, and deserting by companies and\nregiments; one-third of the men were without tents, one-fourth of them\nwere on the sick list. On the 7th, Washington called a council of war,\nand anxiously inquired what should be done. On the 12th it was determined\nto abandon the city and take possession of Harlem Heights. The British\narmy, twenty-five thousand strong, admirably equipped, and supported by a\npowerful naval force, threatened to envelop our poor force, and finish\nthe war in a stroke. Washington was unable to penetrate the designs of\nthe British commander, or to obtain any trusty information of the\nintentions or the movements of the British army. Information was\nimperatively necessary to save us from destruction, and it could only be\nobtained by one skilled in military and scientific knowledge and a good\ndraughtsman, a man of quick eye, cool head, tact, sagacity, and courage,\nand one whose judgment and fidelity could be trusted. Washington applied\nto Lieutenant-Colonel Knowlton, who summoned a conference of officers in\nthe name of the commander-in-chief, and laid the matter before them. No\none was willing to undertake the dangerous and ignominious mission.\nKnowlton was in despair, and late in the conference was repeating the\nnecessity, when a young officer, pale from recent illness, entered the\nroom and said,  I will undertake it.  It was Captain Nathan Hale.\nEverybody was astonished. His friends besought him not to attempt it. In\nvain. Hale was under no illusion. He silenced all remonstrances by saying\nthat he thought he owed his country the accomplishment of an object so\nimportant and so much desired by the commander-in-chief, and he knew no\nway to obtain the information except by going into the enemy's camp in\ndisguise.  I wish to be useful,  he said;  and every kind of service\nnecessary for the public good becomes honorable by being necessary. If\nthe exigencies of my country demand a peculiar service, its claims to the\nperformance of that service are imperious. \n\nThe tale is well known. Hale crossed over from Norwalk to Huntington Cove\non Long Island. In the disguise of a schoolmaster, he penetrated the\nBritish lines and the city, made accurate drawings of the fortifications,\nand memoranda in Latin of all that he observed, which he concealed\nbetween the soles of his shoes, and returned to the point on the shore\nwhere he had first landed. He expected to be met by a boat and to cross\nthe Sound to Norwalk the next morning. The next morning he was captured,\nno doubt by Tory treachery, and taken to Howe's headquarters, the mansion\nof James Beekman, situated at (the present) Fiftieth Street and First\nAvenue. That was on the 21st of September. Without trial and upon the\nevidence found on his person, Howe condemned him to be hanged as a spy\nearly next morning. Indeed Hale made no attempt at defense. He frankly\nowned his mission, and expressed regret that he could not serve his\ncountry better. His open, manly bearing and high spirit commanded the\nrespect of his captors. Mercy he did not expect, and pity was not shown\nhim. The British were irritated by a conflagration which had that morning\nlaid almost a third of the city in ashes, and which they attributed to\nincendiary efforts to deprive them of agreeable winter quarters. Hale was\nat first locked up in the Beekman greenhouse. Whether he remained there\nall night is not known, and the place of his execution has been disputed;\nbut the best evidence seems to be that it took place on the farm of\nColonel Rutger, on the west side, in the orchard in the vicinity of the\npresent East Broadway and Market Street, and that he was hanged to the\nlimb of an apple-tree.\n\nIt was a lovely Sunday morning, before the break of day, that he was\nmarched to the place of execution, September 22d. While awaiting the\nnecessary preparations, a courteous young officer permitted him to sit in\nhis tent. He asked for the presence of a chaplain; the request was\nrefused. He asked for a Bible; it was denied. But at the solicitation of\nthe young officer he was furnished with writing materials, and wrote\nbriefly to his mother, his sister, and his betrothed. When the infamous\nCunningham, to whom Howe had delivered him, read what was written, he was\nfurious at the noble and dauntless spirit shown, and with foul oaths tore\nthe letters into shreds, saying afterwards  that the rebels should never\nknow that they had a man who could die with such firmness.  As Hale stood\nupon the fatal ladder, Cunningham taunted him, and tauntingly demanded\nhis  last dying speech and confession.  The hero did not heed the words\nof the brute, but, looking calmly upon the spectators, said in a clear\nvoice,  I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country. \n And the ladder was snatched from under him.\n\nMy friends, we are not honoring today a lad who appears for a moment in a\nheroic light, but one of the most worthy of the citizens of Connecticut,\nwho has by his lofty character long honored her, wherever patriotism is\nnot a mere name, and where Christian manhood is respected. We have had\nmany heroes, many youths of promise, and men of note, whose names are our\nonly great and enduring riches; but no one of them all better\nillustrated, short as was his career, the virtues we desire for all our\nsons. We have long delayed this tribute to his character and his deeds,\nbut in spite of our neglect his fame has grown year by year, as war and\npolitics have taught us what is really admirable in a human being; and we\nare now sure that we are not erecting a monument to an ephemeral\nreputation. It is fit that it should stand here, one of the chief\ndistinctions of our splendid Capitol, here in the political centre of the\nState, here in the city where first in all the world was proclaimed and\nput into a political charter the fundamental idea of democracy, that\n government rests upon the consent of the people,  here in the city where\nby the action of these self existing towns was formed the model, the town\nand the commonwealth, the bi-cameral legislature, of our constitutional\nfederal union. If the soul of Nathan Hale, immortal in youth in the air\nof heaven, can behold today this scene, as doubtless it can, in the midst\nof a State whose prosperity the young colonist could not have imagined in\nhis wildest dreams for his country, he must feel anew the truth that\nthere is nothing too sacred for a man to give for his native land.\n\nGovernor Lounsbury, the labor of the commission is finished. On their\nbehalf I present this work of art to the State of Connecticut.\n\nLet the statue speak for itself.\n\n\n\n\nFASHIONS IN LITERATURE\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nThirty years ago and more those who read and valued good books in this\ncountry made the acquaintance of Mr. Warner, and since the publication of\n My Summer In a Garden  no work of his has needed any other introduction\nthan the presence of his name on the title-page; and now that reputation\nhas mellowed into memory, even the word of interpretation seems\nsuperfluous. Mr. Warner wrote out of a clear, as well as a full mind, and\nlucidity of style was part of that harmonious charm of sincerity and\nurbanity which made him one of the most intelligible and companionable of\nour writers.\n\nIt is a pleasure, however, to recall him as, not long ago, we saw him\nmove and heard him speak in the ripeness of years which brought him the\nfull flavor of maturity without any loss of freshness from his humor or\nserenity from his thought. He shared with Lowell, Longfellow, and Curtis\na harmony of nature and art, a unity of ideal and achievement, which make\nhim a welcome figure, not only for what he said, but for what he was; one\nof those friends whose coming is hailed with joy because they seem always\nat their best, and minister to rather than draw upon our own capital of\nmoral vitality.\n\nMr. Warner was the most undogmatic of idealists, the most winning of\nteachers. He had always some thing to say to the ethical sense, a word\nfor the conscience; but his approach was always through the mind, and his\nenforcement of the moral lesson was by suggestion rather than by\ncommandment. There was nothing ascetic about him, no easy solution of the\ndifficulties of life by ignoring or evading them; nor, on the other hand,\nwas there any confusion of moral standards as the result of a confusion\nof ideas touching the nature and functions of art. He saw clearly, he\nfelt deeply, and he thought straight; hence the rectitude of his mind,\nthe sanity of his spirit, the justice of his dealings with the things\nwhich make for life and art. He used the essay as Addison used it, not\nfor sermonic effect, but as a form of art which permitted a man to deal\nwith serious things in a spirit of gayety, and with that lightness of\ntouch which conveys influence without employing force. He was as deeply\nenamored as George William Curtis with the highest ideals of life for\nAmerica, and, like Curtis, his expression caught the grace and\ndistinction of those ideals.\n\nIt is a pleasure to hear his voice once more, because its very accents\nsuggest the most interesting, high-minded, and captivating ideals of\nliving; he brings with him that air of fine breeding which is diffused by\nthe men who, in mind as in manners, have been, in a distinctive sense,\ngentlemen; who have lived so constantly and habitually on intimate terms\nwith the highest things in thought and character that the tone of this\nreally best society has become theirs. Among men of talent there are\nplebeians as well as patricians; even genius, which is never vulgar, is\nsometimes unable to hide the vulgarity of the aims and ideas which it\nclothes with beauty without concealing their essential nature. Mr. Warner\nwas a patrician; the most democratic of men, he was one of the most\nfastidious in his intellectual companionships and affiliations. The\nsubjects about which he speaks with his oldtime directness and charm in\nthis volume make us aware of the serious temper of his mind, of his deep\ninterest in the life of his time and people, and of the easy and natural\ngrace with which he insisted on facing the fact and bringing it to the\ntest of the highest standards. In his discussion of  Fashions in\nLiterature  he deftly brings before us the significance of literature and\nthe signs which it always wears, while he seems bent upon considering\nsome interesting aspects of contemporary writing.\n\nAnd how admirably he has described his own work in his definition of\nqualities which are common to all literature of a high order: simplicity,\nknowledge of human nature, agreeable personality. It would be impossible\nin briefer or more comprehensive phrase to sum up and express the secret\nof his influence and of the pleasure he gives us. It is to suggest this\napplication of his words to himself that this preparatory comment is\nwritten.\n\nWhen  My Summer In a Garden  appeared, it won a host of friends who did\nnot stop to ask whether it was a piece of excellent journalism or a bit\nof real literature. It was so natural, so informal, so intimate that\nreaders accepted it as matter of course, as they accepted the blooming of\nflowers and the flitting of birds. It was simply a report of certain\nthings which had happened out of doors, made by an observing neighbor,\nwhose talk seemed to be of a piece with the diffused fragrance and light\nand life of the old-fashioned garden. This easy approach, along natural\nlines of interest, by quietly putting himself on common ground with his\nreader, Mr. Warner never abandoned; he was so delightful a companion that\nuntil he ceased to walk beside them, many of his friends of the mind did\nnot realize how much he had enriched them by the way. This charming\nsimplicity, which made it possible for him to put himself on intimate\nterms with his readers, was the result of his sincerity, his clearness of\nthought, and his ripe culture: that knowledge of the best which rids a\nman forever of faith in devices, dexterities, obscurities, and all other\nsubstitutes for the lucid realities of thinking and of character.\n\nTo his love of reality and his sincere interest in men, Mr. Warner added\nnatural shrewdness and long observation of the psychology of men and\nwomen under the stress and strain of experience. His knowledge of human\nnature did not lessen his geniality, but it kept the edge of his mind\nkeen, and gave his work the variety not only of humor but of satire. He\ncared deeply for people, but they did not impose on him; he loved his\ncountry with a passion which was the more genuine because it was exacting\nand, at times, sharply critical. There runs through all his work, as a\ncritic of manners and men, as well as of art, a wisdom of life born of\nwide and keen observation; put not into the form of aphorisms, but of\nshrewd comment, of keen criticism, of nice discrimination between the\nmanifold shadings of insincerity, of insight into the action and reaction\nof conditions, surroundings, social and ethical aims on men and women.\nThe stories written in his later years are full of the evidences of a\nknowledge of human nature which was singularly trustworthy and\npenetrating.\n\nWhen all has been said, however, it remains true of him, as of so many of\nthe writers whom we read and love and love as we read, that the secret of\nhis charm lay in an agreeable personality. At the end of the analysis, if\nthe work is worth while, there is always a man, and the man is the\nexplanation of the work. This is pre-eminently true of those writers\nwhose charm lies less in distinctively intellectual qualities than in\ntemperament, atmosphere, humor-writers of the quality of Steele,\nGoldsmith, Lamb, Irving. It is not only, therefore, a pleasure to recall\nMr. Warner; it is a necessity if one would discover the secret of his\ncharm, the source of his authority.\n\nHe was a New Englander by birth and by long residence, but he was also a\nman of the world in the true sense of the phrase; one whose ethical\njudgment had been broadened without being lowered; who had learned that\ntruth, though often strenuously enforced, is never so convincing as when\nstated in terms of beauty; and to whom it had been revealed that to live\nnaturally, sanely, and productively one must live humanly, with due\nregard to the earthly as well as to heavenly, with ease as well as\nearnestness of spirit, through play no less than through work, in the\nlarge resources of art, society, and humor, as well as with the ancient\nand well-tested rectitudes of the fathers.\n\nThe harmonious play of his whole nature, the breadth of his interests and\nthe sanity of his spirit made Mr. Warner a delightful companion, and kept\nto the very end the freshness of his mind and the spontaneity of his\nhumor; life never lost its savor for him, nor did his style part with its\ndiffused but thoroughly individual humor. This latest collection of his\npapers, dealing with a wide range of subjects from the  Education of the\nNegro  to  Literature and the Stage,  with characteristic comments on\n Truthfulness  and  The Pursuit of Happiness,  shows him at the end of\nhis long and tireless career as a writer still deeply interested in\ncontemporary events, responsive to the appeal of the questions of the\nhour, and sensitive to all things which affected the dignity and\nauthority of literature. In his interests, his bearing, his relations to\nthe public life of the country, no less than in his work, he held fast to\nthe best traditions of literature, and he has taken his place among the\nrepresentative American men of Letters.\n\nHAMILTON W. MABIE.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFASHIONS IN LITERATURE\n\nIf you examine a collection of prints of costumes of different\ngenerations, you are commonly amused by the ludicrous appearance of most\nof them, especially of those that are not familiar to you in your own\ndecade. They are not only inappropriate and inconvenient to your eye, but\nthey offend your taste. You cannot believe that they were ever thought\nbeautiful and becoming. If your memory does not fail you, however, and\nyou retain a little honesty of mind, you can recall the fact that a\ncostume which seems to you ridiculous today had your warm approval ten\nyears ago. You wonder, indeed, how you could ever have tolerated a\ncostume which has not one graceful line, and has no more relation to the\nhuman figure than Mambrino's helmet had to a crown of glory. You cannot\nimagine how you ever approved the vast balloon skirt that gave your\nsweetheart the appearance of the great bell of Moscow, or that you\nyourself could have been complacent in a coat the tails of which reached\nyour heels, and the buttons of which, a rudimentary survival, were\nbetween your shoulder-blades--you who are now devoted to a female figure\nthat resembles an old-fashioned churn surmounted by an isosceles\ntriangle.\n\nThese vagaries of taste, which disfigure or destroy correct proportions\nor hide deformities, are nowhere more evident than in the illustrations\nof works of fiction. The artist who collaborates with the contemporary\nnovelist has a hard fate. If he is faithful to the fashions of the day,\nhe earns the repute of artistic depravity in the eyes of the next\ngeneration. The novel may become a classic, because it represents human\nnature, or even the whimsicalities of a period; but the illustrations of\nthe artist only provoke a smile, because he has represented merely the\nunessential and the fleeting. The interest in his work is archaeological,\nnot artistic. The genius of the great portrait-painter may to some extent\novercome the disadvantages of contemporary costume, but if the costume of\nhis period is hideous and lacks the essential lines of beauty, his work\nis liable to need the apology of quaintness. The Greek artist and the\nMediaeval painter, when the costumes were really picturesque and made us\nforget the lack of simplicity in a noble sumptuousness, had never this\nposthumous difficulty to contend with.\n\nIn the examination of costumes of different races and different ages, we\nare also struck by the fact that with primitive or isolated peoples\ncostumes vary little from age to age, and fashion and the fashions are\nunrecognized, and a habit of dress which is dictated by climate, or has\nbeen proved to be comfortable, is adhered to from one generation to\nanother; while nations that we call highly civilized, meaning commonly\nnot only Occidental peoples, but peoples called progressive, are subject\nto the most frequent and violent changes of fashions, not in generations\nonly, but in decades and years of a generation, as if the mass had no\nmind or taste of its own, but submitted to the irresponsible ukase of\ntailors and modistes, who are in alliance with enterprising manufacturers\nof novelties. In this higher civilization a costume which is artistic and\nbecoming has no more chance of permanence than one which is ugly and\ninconvenient. It might be inferred that this higher civilization produces\nno better taste and discrimination, no more independent judgment, in\ndress than it does in literature. The vagaries in dress of the Western\nnations for a thousand years past, to go back no further, are certainly\nhighly amusing, and would be humiliating to people who regarded taste and\nart as essentials of civilization. But when we speak of civilization, we\ncannot but notice that some of the great civilizations; the longest\npermanent and most notable for highest achievement in learning, science,\nart, or in the graces or comforts of life, the Egyptian, the Saracenic,\nthe Chinese, were subject to no such vagaries in costume, but adhered to\nthat which taste, climate, experience had determined to be the most\nuseful and appropriate. And it is a singular comment upon our modern\nconceit that we make our own vagaries and changeableness, and not any\nfixed principles of art or of utility, the criterion of judgment, on\nother races and other times.\n\nThe more important result of the study of past fashions, in engravings\nand paintings, remains to be spoken of. It is that in all the\nillustrations, from the simplicity of Athens, through the artificiality\nof Louis XIV and the monstrosities of Elizabeth, down to the undescribed\nmodistic inventions of the first McKinley, there is discoverable a\nradical and primitive law of beauty. We acknowledge it among the Greeks,\nwe encounter it in one age and another. I mean a style of dress that is\nartistic as well as picturesque, that satisfies our love of beauty, that\naccords with the grace of the perfect human figure, and that gives as\nperfect satisfaction to the cultivated taste as a drawing by Raphael.\nWhile all the other illustrations of the human ingenuity in making the\nhuman race appear fantastic or ridiculous amuse us or offend our taste,\n--except the tailor fashion-plates of the week that is now,--these few\nexceptions, classic or modern, give us permanent delight, and are\nrecognized as following the eternal law of beauty and utility. And we\nknow, notwithstanding the temporary triumph of bad taste and the public\nlack of any taste, that there is a standard, artistic and imperishable.\n\nThe student of manners might find an interesting field in noting how, in\nour Occidental civilizations, fluctuations of opinions, of morals, and of\nliterary style have been accompanied by more or less significant\nexhibitions of costumes. He will note in the Precieux of France and the\nEuphuist of England a corresponding effeminacy in dress; in the frank\npaganism of the French Revolution the affectation of Greek and Roman\napparel, passing into the Directoire style in the Citizen and the\nCitizeness; in the Calvinistic cut of the Puritan of Geneva and of New\nEngland the grim severity of their theology and morals. These examples\nare interesting as showing an inclination to express an inner condition\nby the outward apparel, as the Quakers indicate an inward peace by an\nexternal drabness, and the American Indian a bellicose disposition by red\nand yellow paint; just as we express by red stripes our desire to kill\nmen with artillery, or by yellow stripes to kill them with cavalry. It is\nnot possible to say whether these external displays are relics of\nbarbarism or are enduring necessities of human nature.\n\nThe fickleness of men in costume in a manner burlesques their shifty and\nuncertain taste in literature. A book or a certain fashion in letters\nwill have a run like a garment, and, like that, will pass away before it\nwaxes old. It seems incredible, as we look back over the literary history\nof the past three centuries only, what prevailing styles and moods of\nexpression, affectations, and prettinesses, each in turn, have pleased\nreasonably cultivated people. What tedious and vapid things they read and\nliked to read! Think of the French, who had once had a Villon,\nintoxicating themselves with somnolent draughts of Richardson. But, then,\nthe French could match the paste euphuisms of Lyly with the novels of\nScudery. Every modern literature has been subject to these epidemics and\ndiseases. It is needless to dwell upon them in detail. Since the great\ndiffusion of printing, these literary crazes have been more frequent and\nof shorter duration. We need go back no further than a generation to find\nabundant examples of eccentricities of style and expression, of crazes\nover some author or some book, as unaccountable on principles of art as\nmany of the fashions in social life.--The more violent the attack, the\nsooner it is over. Readers of middle age can recall the furor over\nTupper, the extravagant expectations as to the brilliant essayist\nGilfillan, the soon-extinguished hopes of the poet Alexander Smith. For\nthe moment the world waited in the belief of the rising of new stars, and\nas suddenly realized that it had been deceived. Sometimes we like\nruggedness, and again we like things made easy. Within a few years a\ndistinguished Scotch clergyman made a fortune by diluting a paragraph\nwritten by Saint Paul. It is in our memory how at one time all the boys\ntried to write like Macaulay, and then like Carlyle, and then like\nRuskin, and we have lived to see the day when all the girls would like to\nwrite like Heine.\n\nIn less than twenty years we have seen wonderful changes in public taste\nand in the efforts of writers to meet it or to create it. We saw the\neverlastingly revived conflict between realism and romanticism. We saw\nthe realist run into the naturalist, the naturalist into the animalist,\nthe psychologist into the sexualist, and the sudden reaction to romance,\nin the form of what is called the historic novel, the receipt for which\ncan be prescribed by any competent pharmacist. The one essential in the\ningredients is that the hero shall be mainly got out of one hole by\ndropping him into a deeper one, until--the proper serial length being\nattained--he is miraculously dropped out into daylight, and stands to\nreceive the plaudits of a tenderhearted world, that is fond of nothing so\nmuch as of fighting.\n\nThe extraordinary vogue of certain recent stories is not so much to be\nwondered at when we consider the millions that have been added to the\nreaders of English during the past twenty-five years. The wonder is that\na new book does not sell more largely, or it would be a wonder if the\nability to buy kept pace with the ability to read, and if discrimination\nhad accompanied the appetite for reading. The critics term these\nsuccesses of some recent fictions  crazes,  but they are really sustained\nby some desirable qualities--they are cleverly written, and they are for\nthe moment undoubtedly entertaining. Some of them as undoubtedly appeal\nto innate vulgarity or to cultivated depravity. I will call no names,\nbecause that would be to indict the public taste. This recent phenomenon\nof sales of stories by the hundred thousand is not, however, wholly due\nto quality. Another element has come in since the publishers have\nawakened to the fact that literature can be treated like merchandise. To\nuse their own phrase, they  handle  books as they would  handle  patent\nmedicines, that is, the popular patent medicines that are desired because\nof the amount of alcohol they contain; indeed, they are sold along with\ndry-goods and fancy notions. I am not objecting to this great and wide\ndistribution any more than I am to the haste of fruit-dealers to market\ntheir products before they decay. The wary critic will be very careful\nabout dogmatizing over the nature and distribution of literary products.\nIt is no certain sign that a book is good because it is popular, nor is\nit any more certain that it is good because it has a very limited sale.\nYet we cannot help seeing that many of the books that are the subject of\ncrazes utterly disappear in a very short time, while many others,\napproved by only a judicious few, continue in the market and slowly\nbecome standards, considered as good stock by the booksellers and\ncontinually in a limited demand.\n\nThe English essayists have spent a good deal of time lately in discussing\nthe question whether it is possible to tell a good contemporary book from\na bad one. Their hesitation is justified by a study of English criticism\nof new books in the quarterly, monthly, and weekly periodicals from the\nlatter part of the eighteenth century to the last quarter of the\nnineteenth; or, to name a definite period, from the verse of the Lake\npoets, from Shelley and Byron, down to Tennyson, there is scarcely a poet\nwho has attained world-wide assent to his position in the first or second\nrank who was not at the hands of the reviewers the subject of mockery and\nbitter detraction. To be original in any degree was to be damned. And\nthere is scarcely one who was at first ranked as a great light during\nthis period who is now known out of the biographical dictionary. Nothing\nin modern literature is more amazing than the bulk of English criticism\nin the last three-quarters of a century, so far as it concerned\nindividual writers, both in poetry and prose. The literary rancor shown\nrose to the dignity almost of theological vituperation.\n\nIs there any way to tell a good book from a bad one? Yes. As certainly as\nyou can tell a good picture from a bad one, or a good egg from a bad one.\nBecause there are hosts who do not discriminate as to the eggs or the\nbutter they eat, it does not follow that a normal taste should not know\nthe difference.\n\nBecause there is a highly artistic nation that welcomes the flavor of\ngarlic in everything, and another which claims to be the most civilized\nin the world that cannot tell coffee from chicory, or because the ancient\nChinese love rancid sesame oil, or the Esquimaux like spoiled blubber and\ntainted fish, it does not follow that there is not in the world a\nwholesome taste for things natural and pure.\n\nIt is clear that the critic of contemporary literature is quite as likely\nto be wrong as right. He is, for one thing, inevitably affected by the\nprevailing fashion of his little day. And, worse still, he is apt to make\nhis own tastes and prejudices the standard of his judgment. His view is\ncommonly provincial instead of cosmopolitan. In the English period just\nreferred to it is easy to see that most of the critical opinion was\ndetermined by political or theological animosity and prejudice. The rule\nwas for a Tory to hit a Whig or a Whig to hit a Tory, under whatever\nliterary guise he appeared. If the new writer was not orthodox in the\nview of his political or theological critic, he was not to be tolerated\nas poet or historian, Dr. Johnson had said everything he could say\nagainst an author when he declared that he was a vile Whig. Macaulay, a\nWhig, always consulted his prejudices for his judgment, equally when he\nwas reviewing Croker's Boswell or the impeachment of Warren Hastings. He\nhated Croker,--a hateful man, to be sure,--and when the latter published\nhis edition of Boswell, Macaulay saw his opportunity, and exclaimed\nbefore he had looked at the book, as you will remember,  Now I will dust\nhis jacket.  The standard of criticism does not lie with the individual\nin literature any more than it does in different periods as to fashions\nand manners. The world is pretty well agreed, and always has been, as to\nthe qualities that make a gentleman. And yet there was a time when the\nvilest and perhaps the most contemptible man who ever occupied the\nEnglish throne,--and that is saying a great deal,--George IV, was\nuniversally called the  First Gentleman of Europe.  The reproach might be\nsomewhat lightened by the fact that George was a foreigner, but for the\nwider fact that no person of English stock has been on the throne since\nSaxon Harold, the chosen and imposed rulers of England having been\nFrench, Welsh, Scotch, and Dutch, many of them being guiltless of the\nEnglish language, and many of them also of the English middle-class\nmorality. The impartial old Wraxall, the memorialist of the times of\nGeorge III, having described a noble as a gambler, a drunkard, a\nsmuggler, an appropriator of public money, who always cheated his\ntradesmen, who was one and sometimes all of them together, and a\nprofligate generally, commonly adds,  But he was a perfect gentleman. \n And yet there has always been a standard that excludes George IV from the\nrank of gentleman, as it excludes Tupper from the rank of poet.\n\nThe standard of literary judgment, then, is not in the individual,--that\nis, in the taste and prejudice of the individual,--any more than it is in\nthe immediate contemporary opinion, which is always in flux and reflux\nfrom one extreme to another; but it is in certain immutable principles\nand qualities which have been slowly evolved during the long historic\nperiods of literary criticism. But how shall we ascertain what these\nprinciples are, so as to apply them to new circumstances and new\ncreations, holding on to the essentials and disregarding contemporary\ntastes; prejudices, and appearances? We all admit that certain pieces of\nliterature have become classic; by general consent there is no dispute\nabout them. How they have become so we cannot exactly explain. Some say\nby a mysterious settling of universal opinion, the operation of which\ncannot be exactly defined. Others say that the highly developed critical\njudgment of a few persons, from time to time, has established forever\nwhat we agree to call masterpieces. But this discussion is immaterial,\nsince these supreme examples of literary excellence exist in all kinds of\ncomposition,--poetry, fable, romance, ethical teaching, prophecy,\ninterpretation, history, humor, satire, devotional flight into the\nspiritual and supernatural, everything in which the human mind has\nexercised itself,--from the days of the Egyptian moralist and the Old\nTestament annalist and poet down to our scientific age. These\nmasterpieces exist from many periods and in many languages, and they all\nhave qualities in common which have insured their persistence. To\ndiscover what these qualities are that have insured permanence and\npromise indefinite continuance is to have a means of judging with an\napproach to scientific accuracy our contemporary literature. There is no\nthing of beauty that does not conform to a law of order and beauty--poem,\nstory, costume, picture, statue, all fall into an ascertainable law of\nart. Nothing of man's making is perfect, but any creation approximates\nperfection in the measure that it conforms to inevitable law.\n\nTo ascertain this law, and apply it, in art or in literature, to the\nchanging conditions of our progressive life, is the business of the\nartist. It is the business of the critic to mark how the performance\nconforms to or departs from the law evolved and transmitted in the\nlong-experience of the race. True criticism, then, is not a matter of\ncaprice or of individual liking or disliking, nor of conformity to a\nprevailing and generally temporary popular judgment. Individual judgment\nmay be very interesting and have its value, depending upon the capacity\nof the judge. It was my good fortune once to fall in with a person who\nhad been moved, by I know not what inspiration, to project himself out of\nhis safe local conditions into France, Greece, Italy, Cairo, and\nJerusalem. He assured me that he had seen nothing anywhere in the wide\nworld of nature and art to compare with the beauty of Nebraska.\n\nWhat are the qualities common to all the masterpieces of literature, or,\nlet us say, to those that have endured in spite of imperfections and\nlocal provincialisms?\n\nFirst of all I should name simplicity, which includes lucidity of\nexpression, the clear thought in fitting, luminous words. And this is\ntrue when the thought is profound and the subject is as complex as life\nitself. This quality is strikingly exhibited for us in Jowett's\ntranslation of Plato--which is as modern in feeling and phrase as\nanything done in Boston--in the naif and direct Herodotus, and, above\nall, in the King James vernacular translation of the Bible, which is the\ngreat text-book of all modern literature.\n\nThe second quality is knowledge of human nature. We can put up with the\nimprobable in invention, because the improbable is always happening in\nlife, but we cannot tolerate the so-called psychological juggling with\nthe human mind, the perversion of the laws of the mind, the forcing of\ncharacter to fit the eccentricities of plot. Whatever excursions the\nwriter makes in fancy, we require fundamental consistency with human\nnature. And this is the reason why psychological studies of the abnormal,\nor biographies of criminal lunatics, are only interesting to pathologists\nand never become classics in literature.\n\nA third quality common to all masterpieces is what we call charm, a\nmatter more or less of style, and which may be defined as the agreeable\npersonality of the writer. This is indispensable. It is this personality\nwhich gives the final value to every work of art as well as of\nliterature. It is not enough to copy nature or to copy, even accurately,\nthe incidents of life. Only by digestion and transmutation through\npersonality does any work attain the dignity of art. The great works of\narchitecture, even, which are somewhat determined by mathematical rule,\nowe their charm to the personal genius of their creators. For this reason\nour imitations of Greek architecture are commonly failures. To speak\ntechnically, the masterpiece of literature is characterized by the same\nknowledge of proportion and perspective as the masterpiece in art.\n\nIf there is a standard of literary excellence, as there is a law of\nbeauty--and it seems to me that to doubt this in the intellectual world\nis to doubt the prevalence of order that exists in the natural--it is\ncertainly possible to ascertain whether a new production conforms, and\nhow far it conforms, to the universally accepted canons of art. To work\nby this rule in literary criticism is to substitute something definite\nfor the individual tastes, moods, and local bias of the critic. It is\ntrue that the vast body of that which we read is ephemeral, and justifies\nits existence by its obvious use for information, recreation, and\nentertainment. But to permit the impression to prevail that an\nunenlightened popular preference for a book, however many may hold it, is\nto be taken as a measure of its excellence, is like claiming that a\ndebased Austrian coin, because it circulates, is as good as a gold stater\nof Alexander. The case is infinitely worse than this; for a slovenly\nliterature, unrebuked and uncorrected, begets slovenly thought and\ndebases our entire intellectual life.\n\nIt should be remembered, however, that the creative faculty in man has\nnot ceased, nor has puny man drawn all there is to be drawn out of the\neternal wisdom. We are probably only in the beginning of our evolution,\nand something new may always be expected, that is, new and fresh\napplications of universal law. The critic of literature needs to be in an\nexpectant and receptive frame of mind. Many critics approach a book with\nhostile intent, and seem to fancy that their business is to look for what\nis bad in it, and not for what is good. It seems to me that the first\nduty of the critic is to try to understand the author, to give him a fair\nchance by coming to his perusal with an open mind. Whatever book you\nread, or sermon or lecture you hear, give yourself for the time\nabsolutely to its influence. This is just to the author, fair to the\npublic, and, above all, valuable to the intellectual sanity of the critic\nhimself. It is a very bad thing for the memory and the judgment to get\ninto a habit of reading carelessly or listening with distracted\nattention. I know of nothing so harmful to the strength of the mind as\nthis habit. There is a valuable mental training in closely following a\ndiscourse that is valueless in itself. After the reader has unreservedly\nsurrendered himself to the influence of the book, and let his mind\nsettle, as we say, and resume its own judgment, he is in a position to\nlook at it objectively and to compare it with other facts of life and of\nliterature dispassionately. He can then compare it as to form, substance,\ntone, with the enduring literature that has come down to us from all the\nages. It is a phenomenon known to all of us that we may for the moment be\ncarried away by a book which upon cool reflection we find is false in\nethics and weak in construction. We find this because we have standards\noutside ourselves.\n\nI am not concerned to define here what is meant by literature. A great\nmass of it has been accumulated in the progress of mankind, and,\nfortunately for different wants and temperaments, it is as varied as the\nvarious minds that produced it. The main thing to be considered is that\nthis great stream of thought is the highest achievement and the most\nvaluable possession of mankind. It is not only that literature is the\nsource of inspiration to youth and the solace of age, but it is what a\nnational language is to a nation, the highest expression of its being.\nWhatever we acquire of science, of art, in discovery, in the application\nof natural laws in industries, is an enlargement of our horizon, and a\ncontribution to the highest needs of man, his intellectual life. The\ncontroversy between the claims of the practical life and the intellectual\nis as idle as the so-called conflict between science and religion. And\nthe highest and final expression of this life of man, his thought, his\nemotion, his feeling, his aspiration, whatever you choose to call it, is\nin the enduring literature he creates. He certainly misses half his\nopportunity on this planet who considers only the physical or what is\ncalled the practical. He is a man only half developed. I can conceive no\nmore dreary existence than that of a man who is past the period of\nbusiness activity, and who cannot, for his entertainment, his happiness,\ndraw upon the great reservoir of literature. For what did I come into\nthis world if I am to be like a stake planted in a fence, and not like a\ntree visited by all the winds of heaven and the birds of the air?\n\nThose who concern themselves with the printed matter in books and\nperiodicals are often in despair over the volume of it, and their actual\ninability to keep up with current literature. They need not worry. If all\nthat appears in books, under the pressure of publishers and the ambition\nof experimenters in writing, were uniformly excellent, no reader would be\nunder any more obligation to read it than he is to see every individual\nflower and blossoming shrub. Specimens of the varieties would suffice.\nBut a vast proportion of it is the product of immature minds, and of a\nyearning for experience rather than a knowledge of life. There is no more\nobligation on the part of the person who would be well informed and\ncultivated to read all this than there is to read all the colored\nincidents, personal gossip, accidents, and crimes repeated daily, with\nsameness of effect, in the newspapers, some of the most widely circulated\nof which are a composite of the police gazette and the comic almanac. A\ngreat deal of the reading done is mere contagion, one form or another of\ncommunicated grippe, and it is consoling and even surprising to know that\nif you escape the run of it for a season, you have lost nothing\nappreciable. Some people, it has been often said, make it a rule never to\nread a book until it is from one to five years old, By this simple device\nthey escape the necessity of reading most of them, but this is only a\npart of their gain. Considering the fact that the world is full of books\nof the highest value for cultivation, entertainment, and information,\nwhich the utmost leisure we can spare from other pressing avocations does\nnot suffice to give us knowledge of, it does seem to be little less than\na moral and intellectual sin to flounder about blindly in the flood of\nnew publications. I am speaking, of course, of the general mass of\nreaders, and not of the specialists who must follow their subjects with\nceaseless inquisition. But for most of us who belong to the still\ncomparatively few who, really read books, the main object of life is not\nto keep up with the printing-press, any more than it is the main object\nof sensible people to follow all the extremes and whims of fashion in\ndress. When a fashion in literature has passed, we are surprised that it\nshould ever have seemed worth the trouble of studying or imitating. When\nthe special craze has passed, we notice another thing, and that is that\nthe author, not being of the first rank or of the second, has generally\ncontributed to the world all that he has to give in one book, and our\ntime has been wasted on his other books; and also that in a special kind\nof writing in a given period--let us say, for example, the\nhistorico-romantic--we perceive that it all has a common character, is\nconstructed on the same lines of adventure and with a prevailing type of\nhero and heroine, according to the pattern set by the first one or two\nstories of the sort which became popular, and we see its more or less\nmechanical construction, and how easily it degenerates into commercial\nbook-making. Now while some of this writing has an individual flavor that\nmakes it entertaining and profitable in this way, we may be excused from\nattempting to follow it all merely because it happens to be talked about\nfor the moment, and generally talked about in a very undiscriminating\nmanner. We need not in any company be ashamed if we have not read it all,\nespecially if we are ashamed that, considering the time at our disposal,\nwe have not made the acquaintance of the great and small masterpieces of\nliterature. It is said that the fashion of this world passeth away, and\nso does the mere fashion in literature, the fashion that does not follow\nthe eternal law of beauty and symmetry, and contribute to the\nintellectual and spiritual part of man. Otherwise it is only a waiting in\na material existence, like the lovers, in the words of the Arabian\nstory-teller,  till there came to them the Destroyer of Delights and the\nSunderer of Companies, he who layeth waste the palaces and peopleth the\ntombs. \n\nWithout special anxiety, then, to keep pace with all the ephemeral in\nliterature, lest we should miss for the moment something that is\npermanent, we can rest content in the vast accumulation of the tried and\ngenuine that the ages have given us. Anything that really belongs to\nliterature today we shall certainly find awaiting us tomorrow.\n\nThe better part of the life of man is in and by the imagination. This is\nnot generally believed, because it is not generally believed that the\nchief end of man is the accumulation of intellectual and spiritual\nmaterial. Hence it is that what is called a practical education is set\nabove the mere enlargement and enrichment of the mind; and the possession\nof the material is valued, and the intellectual life is undervalued. But\nit should be remembered that the best preparation for a practical and\nuseful life is in the high development of the powers of the mind, and\nthat, commonly, by a culture that is not considered practical. The\nnotable fact about the group of great parliamentary orators in the days\nof George III is the exhibition of their intellectual resources in the\nentire world of letters, the classics, and ancient and modern history.\nYet all of them owed their development to a strictly classical training\nin the schools. And most of them had not only the gift of the imagination\nnecessary to great eloquence, but also were so mentally disciplined by\nthe classics that they handled the practical questions upon which they\nlegislated with clearness and precision. The great masters of finance\nwere the classically trained orators William Pitt and Charles James Fox.\n\nIn fine, to return to our knowledge of the short life of fashions that\nare for the moment striking, why should we waste precious time in chasing\nmeteoric appearances, when we can be warmed and invigorated in the\nsunshine of the great literatures?\n\n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN NEWSPAPER\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nOur theme for the hour is the American Newspaper. It is a subject in\nwhich everybody is interested, and about which it is not polite to say\nthat anybody is not well informed; for, although there are scattered\nthrough the land many persons, I am sorry to say, unable to pay for a\nnewspaper, I have never yet heard of anybody unable to edit one.\n\nThe topic has many points of view, and invites various study and comment.\nIn our limited time we must select one only. We have heard a great deal\nabout the power, the opportunity, the duty, the  mission,  of the press.\nThe time has come for a more philosophical treatment of it, for an\ninquiry into its relations to our complex civilization, for some ethical\naccount of it as one of the developments of our day, and for some\ndiscussion of the effect it is producing, and likely to produce, on the\neducation of the people. Has the time come, or is it near at hand, when\nwe can point to a person who is alert, superficial, ready and shallow,\nself-confident and half-informed, and say,  There is a product of the\nAmerican newspaper ? The newspaper is not a willful creation, nor an\nisolated phenomenon, but the legitimate outcome of our age, as much as\nour system of popular education. And I trust that some competent observer\nwill make, perhaps for this association, a philosophical study of it. My\ntask here is a much humbler one. I have thought that it may not be\nunprofitable to treat the newspaper from a practical and even somewhat\nmechanical point of view.\n\nThe newspaper is a private enterprise. Its object is to make money for\nits owner. Whatever motive may be given out for starting a newspaper,\nexpectation of profit by it is the real one, whether the newspaper is\nreligious, political, scientific, or literary. The exceptional cases of\nnewspapers devoted to ideas or  causes  without regard to profit are so\nfew as not to affect the rule. Commonly, the cause, the sect, the party,\nthe trade, the delusion, the idea, gets its newspaper, its organ, its\nadvocate, only when some individual thinks he can see a pecuniary return\nin establishing it.\n\nThis motive is not lower than that which leads people into any other\noccupation or profession. To make a living, and to have a career, is the\noriginal incentive in all cases. Even in purely philanthropical\nenterprises the driving-wheel that keeps them in motion for any length of\ntime is the salary paid the working members. So powerful is this\nincentive that sometimes the wheel will continue to turn round when there\nis no grist to grind. It sometimes happens that the friction of the\nphilanthropic machinery is so great that but very little power is\ntransmitted to the object for which the machinery was made. I knew a\ndevoted agent of the American Colonization Society, who, for several\nyears, collected in Connecticut just enough, for the cause, to buy his\nclothes, and pay his board at a good hotel.\n\nIt is scarcely necessary to say, except to prevent a possible\nmisapprehension, that the editor who has no high ideals, no intention of\nbenefiting his fellow-men by his newspaper, and uses it unscrupulously as\na means of money-making only, sinks to the level of the physician and the\nlawyer who have no higher conception of their callings than that they\noffer opportunities for getting money by appeals to credulity, and by\nassisting in evasions of the law.\n\nIf the excellence of a newspaper is not always measured by its\nprofitableness, it is generally true that, if it does not pay its owner,\nit is valueless to the public. Not all newspapers which make money are\ngood, for some succeed by catering to the lowest tastes of respectable\npeople, and to the prejudice, ignorance, and passion of the lowest class;\nbut, as a rule, the successful journal pecuniarily is the best journal.\nThe reasons for this are on the surface. The impecunious newspaper cannot\ngive its readers promptly the news, nor able discussion of the news, and,\nstill worse, it cannot be independent. The political journal that relies\nfor support upon drippings of party favor or patronage, the general\nnewspaper that finds it necessary to existence to manipulate stock\nreports, the religious weekly that draws precarious support from puffing\ndoubtful enterprises, the literary paper that depends upon the approval\nof publishers, are poor affairs, and, in the long run or short run, come\nto grief. Some newspapers do succeed by sensationalism, as some preachers\ndo; by a kind of quackery, as some doctors do; by trimming and shifting\nto any momentary popular prejudice, as some politicians do; by becoming\nthe paid advocate of a personal ambition or a corporate enterprise, as\nsome lawyers do: but the newspaper only becomes a real power when it is\nable, on the basis of pecuniary independence, to free itself from all\nsuch entanglements. An editor who stands with hat in hand has the respect\naccorded to any other beggar.\n\nThe recognition of the fact that the newspaper is a private and purely\nbusiness enterprise will help to define the mutual relations of the\neditor and the public. His claim upon the public is exactly that of any\nmanufacturer or dealer. It is that of the man who makes cloth, or the\ngrocer who opens a shop--neither has a right to complain if the public\ndoes not buy of him. If the buyer does not like a cloth half shoddy, or\ncoffee half-chicory, he will go elsewhere. If the subscriber does not\nlike one newspaper, he takes another, or none. The appeal for newspaper\nsupport on the ground that such a journal ought to be sustained by an\nenlightened community, or on any other ground than that it is a good\narticle that people want,--or would want if they knew its value,--is\npurely childish in this age of the world. If any person wants to start a\nperiodical devoted to decorated teapots, with the noble view of inducing\nthe people to live up to his idea of a teapot, very good; but he has no\nright to complain if he fails.\n\nOn the other hand, the public has no rights in the newspaper except what\nit pays for; even the  old subscriber  has none, except to drop the paper\nif it ceases to please him. The notion that the subscriber has a right to\ninterfere in the conduct of the paper, or the reader to direct its\nopinions, is based on a misconception of what the newspaper is. The claim\nof the public to have its communications printed in the paper is equally\nbaseless. Whether they shall be printed or not rests in the discretion of\nthe editor, having reference to his own private interest, and to his\napprehension of the public good. Nor is he bound to give any reason for\nhis refusal. It is purely in his discretion whether he will admit a reply\nto any thing that has appeared in his columns. No one has a right to\ndemand it. Courtesy and policy may grant it; but the right to it does not\nexist. If any one is injured, he may seek his remedy at law; and I should\nlike to see the law of libel such and so administered that any person\ninjured by a libel in the newspaper, as well as by slander out of it,\ncould be sure of prompt redress. While the subscribes acquires no right\nto dictate to the newspaper, we can imagine an extreme case when he\nshould have his money back which had been paid in advance, if the\nnewspaper totally changed its character. If he had contracted with a\ndealer to supply him with hard coal during the winter, he might have a\nremedy if the dealer delivered only charcoal in the coldest weather; and\nso if he paid for a Roman Catholic journal which suddenly became an organ\nof the spiritists.\n\nThe advertiser acquires no more rights in the newspaper than the\nsubscriber. He is entitled to use the space for which he pays by the\ninsertion of such material as is approved by the editor. He gains no\ninterest in any other part of the paper, and has no more claim to any\nspace in the editorial columns, than any other one of the public. To give\nhim such space would be unbusiness-like, and the extension of a\npreference which would be unjust to the rest of the public. Nothing more\nquickly destroys the character of a journal, begets distrust of it, and\nso reduces its value, than the well-founded suspicion that its editorial\ncolumns are the property of advertisers. Even a religious journal will,\nafter a while, be injured by this.\n\nYet it must be confessed that here is one of the greatest difficulties of\nmodern journalism. The newspaper must be cheap. It is, considering the\nimmense cost to produce it, the cheapest product ever offered to man.\nMost newspapers cost more than they sell for; they could not live by\nsubscriptions; for any profits, they certainly depend upon\nadvertisements. The advertisements depend upon the circulation; the\ncirculation is likely to dwindle if too much space is occupied by\nadvertisements, or if it is evident that the paper belongs to its favored\nadvertisers. The counting-room desires to conciliate the advertisers; the\neditor looks to making a paper satisfactory to his readers. Between this\nsee-saw of the necessary subscriber and the necessary advertiser, a good\nmany newspapers go down. This difficulty would be measurably removed by\nthe admission of the truth that the newspaper is a strictly business\nenterprise, depending for success upon a 'quid pro quo' between all\nparties connected with it, and upon integrity in its management.\n\nAkin to the false notion that the newspaper is a sort of open channel\nthat the public may use as it chooses, is the conception of it as a\ncharitable institution. The newspaper, which is the property of a private\nperson as much as a drug-shop is, is expected to perform for nothing\nservices which would be asked of no other private person. There is\nscarcely a charitable enterprise to which it is not asked to contribute\nof its space, which is money, ten times more than other persons in the\ncommunity, who are ten times as able as the owner of the newspaper,\ncontribute. The journal is considered  mean  if it will not surrender its\ncolumns freely to notices and announcements of this sort. If a manager\nhas a new hen-coop or a new singer he wishes to introduce to the public,\nhe comes to the newspaper, expecting to have his enterprise extolled for\nnothing, and probably never thinks that it would be just as proper for\nhim to go to one of the regular advertisers in the paper and ask him to\ngive up his space. Anything, from a church picnic to a brass-band concert\nfor the benefit of the widow of the triangles, asks the newspaper to\ncontribute. The party in politics, whose principles the editor advocates,\nhas no doubt of its rightful claim upon him, not only upon the editorial\ncolumns, but upon the whole newspaper. It asks without hesitation that\nthe newspaper should take up its valuable space by printing hundreds and\noften thousands of dollars' worth of political announcements in the\ncourse of a protracted campaign, when it never would think of getting its\nhalls, its speakers, and its brass bands, free of expense. Churches, as\nwell as parties, expect this sort of charity. I have known rich churches,\nto whose members it was a convenience to have their Sunday and other\nservices announced, withdraw the announcements when the editor declined\nany longer to contribute a weekly fifty-cents' worth of space. No private\npersons contribute so much to charity, in proportion to ability, as the\nnewspaper. Perhaps it will get credit for this in the next world: it\ncertainly never does in this.\n\nThe chief function of the newspaper is to collect and print the news.\nUpon the kind of news that should be gathered and published, we shall\nremark farther on. The second function is to elucidate the news, and\ncomment on it, and show its relations. A third function is to furnish\nreading-matter to the general public.\n\nNothing is so difficult for the manager as to know what news is: the\ninstinct for it is a sort of sixth sense. To discern out of the mass of\nmaterials collected not only what is most likely to interest the public,\nbut what phase and aspect of it will attract most attention, and the\nrelative importance of it; to tell the day before or at midnight what the\nworld will be talking about in the morning, and what it will want the\nfullest details of, and to meet that want in advance,--requires a\npeculiar talent. There is always some topic on which the public wants\ninstant information. It is easy enough when the news is developed, and\neverybody is discussing it, for the editor to fall in; but the success of\nthe news printed depends upon a pre-apprehension of all this. Some\npapers, which nevertheless print all the news, are always a day behind,\ndo not appreciate the popular drift till it has gone to something else,\nand err as much by clinging to a subject after it is dead as by not\ntaking it up before it was fairly born. The public craves eagerly for\nonly one thing at a time, and soon wearies of that; and it is to the\nnewspaper's profit to seize the exact point of a debate, the thrilling\nmoment of an accident, the pith of an important discourse; to throw\nitself into it as if life depended on it, and for the hour to flood the\npopular curiosity with it as an engine deluges a fire.\n\nScarcely less important than promptly seizing and printing the news is\nthe attractive arrangement of it, its effective presentation to the eye.\nTwo papers may have exactly the same important intelligence, identically\nthe same despatches: the one will be called bright, attractive,  newsy ;\nthe other, dull and stupid.\n\nWe have said nothing yet about that, which, to most people, is the most\nimportant aspect of the newspaper,--the editor's responsibility to the\npublic for its contents. It is sufficient briefly to say here, that it is\nexactly the responsibility of every other person in society,--the full\nresponsibility of his opportunity. He has voluntarily taken a position in\nwhich he can do a great deal of good or a great deal of evil, and he,\nshould be held and judged by his opportunity: it is greater than that of\nthe preacher, the teacher, the congressman, the physician. He occupies\nthe loftiest pulpit; he is in his teacher's desk seven days in the week;\nhis voice can be heard farther than that of the most lusty fog-horn\npolitician; and often, I am sorry to say, his columns outshine the\nshelves of the druggist in display of proprietary medicines. Nothing else\never invented has the public attention as the newspaper has, or is an\ninfluence so constant and universal. It is this large opportunity that\nhas given the impression that the newspaper is a public rather than a\nprivate enterprise.\n\nIt was a nebulous but suggestive remark that the newspaper occupies the\nborderland between literature and common sense. Literature it certainly\nis not, and in the popular apprehension it seems often too erratic and\nvariable to be credited with the balance-wheel of sense; but it must have\nsomething of the charm of the one, and the steadiness and sagacity of the\nother, or it will fail to please. The model editor, I believe, has yet to\nappear. Notwithstanding the traditional reputation of certain editors in\nthe past, they could not be called great editors by our standards; for\nthe elements of modern journalism did not exist in their time. The old\nnewspaper was a broadside of stale news, with a moral essay attached.\nPerhaps Benjamin Franklin, with our facilities, would have been very near\nthe ideal editor. There was nothing he did not wish to know; and no one\nexcelled him in the ability to communicate what he found out to the\naverage mind. He came as near as anybody ever did to marrying common\nsense to literature: he had it in him to make it sufficient for\njournalistic purposes. He was what somebody said Carlyle was, and what\nthe American editor ought to be,--a vernacular man.\n\nThe assertion has been made recently, publicly, and with evidence\nadduced, that the American newspaper is the best in the world. It is like\nthe assertion that the American government is the best in the world; no\ndoubt it is, for the American people.\n\nJudged by broad standards, it may safely be admitted that the American\nnewspaper is susceptible of some improvement, and that it has something\nto learn from the journals of other nations. We shall be better employed\nin correcting its weaknesses than in complacently contemplating its\nexcellences.\n\nLet us examine it in its three departments already named,--its news,\neditorials, and miscellaneous reading-matter.\n\nIn particularity and comprehensiveness of news-collecting, it may be\nadmitted that the American newspapers for a time led the world. I mean in\nthe picking-up of local intelligence, and the use of the telegraph to\nmake it general. And with this arose the odd notion that news is made\nimportant by the mere fact of its rapid transmission over the wire. The\nEnglish journals followed, speedily overtook, and some of the wealthier\nones perhaps surpassed, the American in the use of the telegraph, and in\nthe presentation of some sorts of local news; not of casualties, and\nsmall city and neighborhood events, and social gossip (until very\nrecently), but certainly in the business of the law courts, and the\ncrimes and mishaps that come within police and legal supervision. The\nleading papers of the German press, though strong in correspondence and\nin discussion of affairs, are far less comprehensive in their news than\nthe American or the English. The French journals, we are accustomed to\nsay, are not newspapers at all. And this is true as we use the word.\nUntil recently, nothing has been of importance to the Frenchman except\nhimself; and what happened outside of France, not directly affecting his\nglory, his profit, or his pleasure, did not interest him: hence, one\ncould nowhere so securely intrench himself against the news of the world\nas behind the barricade of the Paris journals. But let us not make a\nmistake in this matter. We may have more to learn from the Paris journals\nthan from any others. If they do not give what we call news--local news,\nevents, casualties, the happenings of the day,--they do give ideas,\nopinions; they do discuss politics, the social drift; they give the\nintellectual ferment of Paris; they supply the material that Paris likes\nto talk over, the badinage of the boulevard, the wit of the salon, the\nsensation of the stage, the new movement in literature and in politics.\nThis may be important, or it may be trivial: it is commonly more\ninteresting than much of that which we call news.\n\nOur very facility and enterprise in news-gathering have overwhelmed our\nnewspapers, and it may be remarked that editorial discrimination has not\nkept pace with the facilities. We are overpowered with a mass of\nundigested intelligence, collected for the mast part without regard to\nvalue. The force of the newspaper is expended in extending these\nfacilities, with little regard to discriminating selection. The burden is\nalready too heavy for the newspaper, and wearisome to the public.\n\nThe publication of the news is the most important function of the paper.\nHow is it gathered? We must confess that it is gathered very much by\nchance. A drag-net is thrown out, and whatever comes is taken. An\nexamination into the process of collecting shows what sort of news we are\nlikely to get, and that nine-tenths of that printed is collected without\nmuch intelligence exercised in selection. The alliance of the associated\npress with the telegraph company is a fruitful source of news of an\ninferior quality. Of course, it is for the interest of the telegraph\ncompany to swell the volume to be transmitted. It is impossible for the\nassociated press to have an agent in every place to which the telegraph\npenetrates: therefore the telegraphic operators often act as its\npurveyors. It is for their interest to send something; and their judgment\nof what is important is not only biased, but is formed by purely local\nstandards. Our news, therefore, is largely set in motion by telegraphic\noperators, by agents trained to regard only the accidental, the\nstartling, the abnormal, as news; it is picked up by sharp prowlers about\ntown, whose pay depends upon finding something, who are looking for\nsomething spicy and sensational, or which may be dressed up and\nexaggerated to satisfy an appetite for novelty and high flavor, and who\nregard casualties as the chief news. Our newspapers every day are loaded\nwith accidents, casualties, and crimes concerning people of whom we never\nheard before and never shall hear again, the reading of which is of no\nearthly use to any human being.\n\nWhat is news? What is it that an intelligent public should care to hear\nof and talk about? Run your eye down the columns of your journal. There\nwas a drunken squabble last night in a New York groggery; there is a\npetty but carefully elaborated village scandal about a foolish girl; a\nwoman accidentally dropped her baby out of a fourth-story window in\nMaine; in Connecticut, a wife, by mistake, got into the same railway\ntrain with another woman's husband; a child fell into a well in New\nJersey; there is a column about a peripatetic horse-race, which exhibits,\nlike a circus, from city to city; a laborer in a remote town in\nPennsylvania had a sunstroke; there is an edifying dying speech of a\nmurderer, the love-letter of a suicide, the set-to of a couple of\ncongressmen; and there are columns about a gigantic war of half a dozen\npoliticians over the appointment of a sugar-gauger. Granted that this\npabulum is desired by the reader, why not save the expense of\ntransmission by having several columns of it stereotyped, to be\nreproduced at proper intervals? With the date changed, it would always,\nhave its original value, and perfectly satisfy the demand, if a demand\nexists, for this sort of news.\n\nThis is not, as you see, a description of your journal: it is a\ndescription of only one portion of it. It is a complex and wonderful\ncreation. Every morning it is a mirror of the world, more or less\ndistorted and imperfect, but such a mirror as it never had held up to it\nbefore. But consider how much space is taken up with mere trivialities\nand vulgarities under the name of news. And this evil is likely to\ncontinue and increase until news-gatherers learn that more important than\nthe reports of accidents and casualties is the intelligence of opinions\nand thoughts, the moral and intellectual movements of modern life. A\nhorrible assassination in India is instantly telegraphed; but the\nprogress of such a vast movement as that of the Wahabee revival in Islam,\nwhich may change the destiny of great provinces, never gets itself put\nupon the wires. We hear promptly of a landslide in Switzerland, but only\nvery slowly of a political agitation that is changing the constitution of\nthe republic. It should be said, however, that the daily newspaper is not\nalone responsible for this: it is what the age and the community where it\nis published make it. So far as I have observed, the majority of the\nreaders in America peruses eagerly three columns about a mill between an\nEnglish and a naturalized American prize-fighter, but will only glance at\na column report of a debate in the English parliament which involves a\nradical change in the whole policy of England; and devours a page about\nthe Chantilly races, while it ignores a paragraph concerning the\nsuppression of the Jesuit schools.\n\nOur newspapers are overwhelmed with material that is of no importance.\nThe obvious remedy for this would be more intelligent direction in the\ncollection of news, and more careful sifting and supervision of it when\ngathered. It becomes every day more apparent to every manager that such\ndiscrimination is more necessary. There is no limit to the various\nintelligence and gossip that our complex life offers--no paper is big\nenough to contain it; no reader has time enough to read it. And the\njournal must cease to be a sort of waste-basket at the end of a telegraph\nwire, into which any reporter, telegraph operator, or gossip-monger can\ndump whatever he pleases. We must get rid of the superstition that value\nis given to an unimportant  item  by sending it a thousand miles over a\nwire.\n\nPerhaps the most striking feature of the American newspaper, especially\nof the country weekly, is its enormous development of local and\nneighborhood news. It is of recent date. Horace Greeley used to advise\nthe country editors to give small space to the general news of the world,\nbut to cultivate assiduously the home field, to glean every possible\ndetail of private life in the circuit of the county, and print it. The\nadvice was shrewd for a metropolitan editor, and it was not without its\nprofit to the country editor. It was founded on a deep knowledge of human\nnature; namely, upon the fact that people read most eagerly that which\nthey already know, if it is about themselves or their neighbors, if it is\na report of something they have been concerned in, a lecture they have\nheard, a fair, or festival, or wedding, or funeral, or barn-raising they\nhave attended. The result is column after column of short paragraphs of\ngossip and trivialities, chips, chips, chips. Mr. Sales is contemplating\nerecting a new counter in his store; his rival opposite has a new sign;\nMiss Bumps of Gath is visiting her cousin, Miss Smith of Bozrah; the\nsheriff has painted his fence; Farmer Brown has lost his cow; the eminent\nmember from Neopolis has put an ell on one end of his mansion, and a\nmortgage on the other.\n\nOn the face of it nothing is so vapid and profitless as column after\ncolumn of this reading. These  items  have very little interest, except\nto those who already know the facts; but those concerned like to see them\nin print, and take the newspaper on that account. This sort of inanity\ntakes the place of reading-matter that might be of benefit, and its\neffect must be to belittle and contract the mind. But this is not the\nmost serious objection to the publication of these worthless details. It\ncultivates self-consciousness in the community, and love of notoriety; it\ndevelops vanity and self-importance, and elevates the trivial in life\nabove the essential.\n\nAnd this brings me to speak of the mania in this age, and especially in\nAmerica, for notoriety in social life as well as in politics. The\nnewspapers are the vehicle of it, sometimes the occasion, but not the\ncause. The newspaper may have fostered--it has not created--this hunger\nfor publicity. Almost everybody talks about the violation of decency and\nthe sanctity of private life by the newspaper in the publication of\npersonalities and the gossip of society; and the very people who make\nthese strictures are often those who regard the paper as without\nenterprise and dull, if it does not report in detail their weddings,\ntheir balls and parties, the distinguished persons present, the dress of\nthe ladies, the sumptuousness of the entertainment, if it does not\ncelebrate their church services and festivities, their social meetings,\ntheir new house, their distinguished arrivals at this or that\nwatering-place. I believe every newspaper manager will bear me out in\nsaying that there is a constant pressure on him to print much more of\nsuch private matter than his judgment and taste permit or approve, and\nthat the gossip which is brought to his notice, with the hope that he\nwill violate the sensitiveness of social life by printing it, is far away\nlarger in amount than all that he publishes.\n\nTo return for a moment to the subject of general news. The characteristic\nof our modern civilization is sensitiveness, or, as the doctors say,\nnervousness. Perhaps the philanthropist would term it sympathy. No doubt\nan exciting cause of it is the adaptation of electricity to the\ntransmission of facts and ideas. The telegraph, we say, has put us in\nsympathy with all the world. And we reckon this enlargement of nerve\ncontact somehow a gain. Our bared nerves are played upon by a thousand\nwires. Nature, no doubt, has a method of hardening or deadening them to\nthese shocks; but nevertheless, every person who reads is a focus for the\nexcitements, the ills, the troubles, of all the world. In addition to his\nlocal pleasures and annoyances, he is in a manner compelled to be a\nsharer in the universal uneasiness. It might be worth while to inquire\nwhat effect this exciting accumulation of the news of the world upon an\nindividual or a community has upon happiness and upon character. Is the\nNew England man any better able to bear or deal with his extraordinary\nclimate by the daily knowledge of the weather all over the globe? Is a\nman happier, or improved in character, by the woful tale of a world's\ndistress and apprehension that greets him every morning at breakfast?\nKnowledge, we know, increases sorrow; but I suppose the offset to that\nis, that strength only comes through suffering. But this is a digression.\n\nNot second in importance to any department of the journal is the\nreporting; that is, the special reporting as distinguished from the more\ngeneral news-gathering. I mean the reports of proceedings in Congress, in\nconventions, assemblies, and conferences, public conversations, lectures,\nsermons, investigations, law trials, and occurrences of all sorts that\nrise into general importance. These reports are the basis of our\nknowledge and opinions. If they are false or exaggerated, we are ignorant\nof what is taking place, and misled. It is of infinitely more importance\nthat they should be absolutely trustworthy than that the editorial\ncomments should be sound and wise. If the reports on affairs can be\ndepended on, the public can form its own opinion, and act intelligently.\nAnd; if the public has a right to demand anything of a newspaper, it is\nthat its reports of what occurs shall be faithfully accurate,\nunprejudiced, and colorless. They ought not, to be editorials, or the\nvehicles of personal opinion and feeling. The interpretation of, the\nfacts they give should be left to the editor and the public. There should\nbe a sharp line drawn between the report and the editorial.\n\nI am inclined to think that the reporting department is the weakest in\nthe American newspaper, and that there is just ground for the admitted\npublic distrust of it. Too often, if a person would know what has taken\nplace in a given case, he must read the reports in half a dozen journals,\nthen strike a general average of probabilities, allowing for the personal\nequation, and then--suspend his judgment. Of course, there is much\nexcellent reporting, and there are many able men engaged in it who\nreflect the highest honor upon their occupation. And the press of no\nother country shows more occasional brilliant feats in reporting than\nours: these are on occasions when the newspapers make special efforts.\nTake the last two national party conventions. The fullness, the accuracy,\nthe vividness, with which their proceedings were reported in the leading\njournals, were marvelous triumphs of knowledge, skill, and expense. The\nconventions were so photographed by hundreds of pens, that the public\noutside saw them almost as distinctly as the crowd in attendance. This\nresult was attained because the editors determined that it should be,\nsent able men to report, and demanded the best work. But take an opposite\nand a daily illustration of reporting, that of the debates and\nproceedings in Congress. I do not refer to the specials of various\njournals which are good, bad, or indifferent, as the case may be, and\ncommonly colored by partisan considerations, but the regular synopsis\nsent to the country at large. Now, for some years it has been inadequate,\nfrequently unintelligible, often grossly misleading, failing wholly to\ngive the real spirit and meaning of the most important discussions; and\nit is as dry as chips besides. To be both stupid and inaccurate is the\nunpardonable sin in journalism. Contrast these reports with the lively\nand faithful pictures of the French Assembly which are served to the\nParis papers.\n\nBefore speaking of the reasons for the public distrust in reports, it is\nproper to put in one qualification. The public itself, and not the\nnewspapers, is the great factory of baseless rumors and untruths.\nAlthough the newspaper unavoidably gives currency to some of these, it is\nthe great corrector of popular rumors. Concerning any event, a hundred\ndifferent versions and conflicting accounts are instantly set afloat.\nThese would run on, and become settled but unfounded beliefs, as private\nwhispered scandals do run, if the newspaper did not intervene. It is the\nbusiness of the newspaper, on every occurrence of moment, to chase down\nthe rumors, and to find out the facts and print them, and set the public\nmind at rest. The newspaper publishes them under a sense of\nresponsibility for its statements. It is not by any means always correct;\nbut I know that it is the aim of most newspapers to discharge this\nimportant public function faithfully. When this country had few\nnewspapers it was ten times more the prey of false reports and delusions\nthan it is now.\n\nReporting requires as high ability as editorial writing; perhaps of a\ndifferent kind, though in the history of American journalism the best\nreporters have often become the best editors. Talent of this kind must be\nadequately paid; and it happens that in America the reporting field is so\nvast that few journals can afford to make the reporting department\ncorrespond in ability to the editorial, and I doubt if the importance of\ndoing so is yet fully realized. An intelligent and representative\nsynopsis of a lecture or other public performance is rare. The ability to\ngrasp a speaker's meaning, or to follow a long discourse, and reproduce\neither in spirit, and fairly, in a short space, is not common. When the\npublic which has been present reads the inaccurate report, it loses\nconfidence in the newspaper.\n\nIts confidence is again undermined when it learns that an  interview \n which it has read with interest was manufactured; that the report of the\nmovements and sayings of a distinguished stranger was a pure piece of\ningenious invention; that a thrilling adventure alongshore, or in a\nballoon, or in a horse-car, was what is called a sensational article,\nconcocted by some brilliant genius, and spun out by the yard according to\nhis necessities. These reports are entertaining, and often more readable\nthan anything else in the newspaper; and, if they were put into a\ndepartment with an appropriate heading, the public would be less\nsuspicious that all the news in the journal was colored and heightened by\na lively imagination.\n\nIntelligent and honest reporting of whatever interests the public is the\nsound basis of all journalism. And yet so careless have editors been of\nall this that a reporter has been sent to attend the sessions of a\nphilological convention who had not the least linguistic knowledge,\nhaving always been employed on marine disasters. Another reporter, who\nwas assigned to inform the public of the results of a difficult\narcheological investigation, frankly confessed his inability to\nunderstand what was going on; for his ordinary business, he said, was\ncattle. A story is told of a metropolitan journal, which illustrates\nanother difficulty the public has in keeping up its confidence in\nnewspaper infallibility. It may not be true for history, but answers for\nan illustration. The annual November meteors were expected on a certain\nnight. The journal prepared an elaborate article, several columns in\nlength, on meteoric displays in general, and on the display of that night\nin particular, giving in detail the appearance of the heavens from the\nmetropolitan roofs in various parts of the city, the shooting of the\nmeteors amid the blazing constellations, the size and times of flight of\nthe fiery bodies; in short, a most vivid and scientific account of the\nlofty fireworks. Unfortunately the night was cloudy. The article was in\ntype and ready; but the clouds would not break. The last moment for going\nto press arrived: there was a probability that the clouds would lift\nbefore daylight and the manager took the risk. The article that appeared\nwas very interesting; but its scientific value was impaired by the fact\nthat the heavens were obscured the whole night, and the meteors, if any\narrived, were invisible. The reasonable excuse of the editor would be\nthat he could not control the elements.\n\nIf the reporting department needs strengthening and reduction to order in\nthe American journal, we may also query whether the department of\ncorrespondence sustains the boast that the American, newspaper is the\nbest in the world. We have a good deal of excellent correspondence, both\nforeign and domestic; and our  specials  have won distinction, at least\nfor liveliness and enterprise. I cannot dwell upon this feature; but I\nsuggest a comparison with the correspondence of some of the German, and\nwith that especially of the London journals, from the various capitals of\nEurope, and from the occasional seats of war. How surpassing able much of\nit is!\n\nHow full of information, of philosophic observation, of accurate\nknowledge! It appears to be written by men of trained intellect and of\nexperience,--educated men of the world, who, by reason of their position\nand character, have access to the highest sources of information.\n\nThe editorials of our journals seem to me better than formerly, improved\nin tone, in courtesy, in self-respect,--though you may not have to go far\nor search long for the provincial note and the easy grace of the\nfrontier,--and they are better written. This is because the newspaper has\nbecome more profitable, and is able to pay for talent, and has attracted\nto it educated young men. There is a sort of editorial ability, of\nfacility, of force, that can only be acquired by practice and in the\nnewspaper office: no school can ever teach it; but the young editor who\nhas a broad basis of general education, of information in history,\npolitical economy, the classics, and polite literature, has an immense\nadvantage over the man who has merely practical experience. For the\neditorial, if it is to hold its place, must be more and more the product\nof information, culture, and reflection, as well as of sagacity and\nalertness. Ignorance of foreign affairs, and of economic science, the\nAmerican people have in times past winked at; but they will not always\nwink at it.\n\nIt is the belief of some shrewd observers that editorials, the long\neditorials, are not much read, except by editors themselves. A cynic says\nthat, if you have a secret you are very anxious to keep from the female\nportion of the population, the safest place to put it is in an editorial.\nIt seems to me that editorials are not conned as attentively as they once\nwere; and I am sure they have not so much influence as formerly. People\nare not so easily or so visibly led; that is to say, the editorial\ninfluence is not so dogmatic and direct. The editor does not expect to\nform public opinion so much by arguments and appeals as by the news he\npresents and his manner of presenting it, by the iteration of an idea\nuntil it becomes familiar, by the reading-matter selected, and by the\nquotations of opinions as news, and not professedly to influence the\nreader. And this influence is all the more potent because it is indirect,\nand not perceived-by the reader.\n\nThere is an editorial tradition--it might almost be termed a\nsuperstition--which I think will have to be abandoned. It is that a\ncertain space in the journal must be filled with editorial, and that some\nof the editorials must be long, without any reference to the news or the\nnecessity of comment on it, or the capacity of the editor at the moment\nto fill the space with original matter that is readable. There is the\nsacred space, and it must be filled. The London journals are perfect\ntypes of this custom. The result is often a wearisome page of words and\nrhetoric. It may be good rhetoric; but life is too short for so much of\nit. The necessity of filling this space causes the writer, instead of\nstating his idea in the shortest compass in which it can be made\nperspicuous and telling, to beat it out thin, and make it cover as much\nground as possible. This, also, is vanity. In the economy of room, which\nour journals will more and more be compelled to cultivate, I venture to\nsay that this tradition will be set aside. I think that we may fairly\nclaim a superiority in our journals over the English dailies in our habit\nof making brief, pointed editorial paragraphs. They are the life of the\neditorial page. A cultivation of these until they are as finished and\npregnant as the paragraphs of  The London Spectator  and  The New-York\nNation,  the printing of long editorials only when the elucidation of a\nsubject demands length, and the use of the space thus saved for more\ninteresting reading, is probably the line of our editorial evolution.\n\nTo continue the comparison of our journals as a class, with the English\nas a class, ours are more lively, also more flippant, and less restrained\nby a sense of responsibility or by the laws of libel. We furnish, now and\nagain, as good editorial writing for its purpose; but it commonly lacks\nthe dignity, the thoroughness, the wide sweep and knowledge, that\ncharacterizes the best English discussion of political and social topics.\n\nThe third department of the newspaper is that of miscellaneous\nreading-matter. Whether this is the survival of the period when the paper\ncontained little else except  selections,  and other printed matter was\nscarce, or whether it is only the beginning of a development that shall\nsupply the public nearly all its literature, I do not know. Far as our\nnewspapers have already gone in this direction, I am inclined to think\nthat in their evolution they must drop this adjunct, and print simply the\nnews of the day. Some of the leading journals of the world already do\nthis.\n\nIn America I am sure the papers are printing too much miscellaneous\nreading. The perusal of this smattering of everything, these scraps of\ninformation and snatches of literature, this infinite variety and medley,\nin which no subject is adequately treated, is distracting and\ndebilitating to the mind. It prevents the reading of anything in full,\nand its satisfactory assimilation. It is said that the majority of\nAmericans read nothing except the paper. If they read that thoroughly,\nthey have time for nothing else. What is its reader to do when his\njournal thrusts upon him every day the amount contained in a fair-sized\nduodecimo volume, and on Sundays the amount of two of them? Granted that\nthis miscellaneous hodge-podge is the cream of current literature, is it\nprofitable to the reader? Is it a means of anything but superficial\nculture and fragmentary information? Besides, it stimulates an unnatural\nappetite, a liking for the striking, the brilliant, the sensational only;\nfor our selections from current literature are, usually the  plums ; and\nplums are not a wholesome-diet for anybody. A person accustomed to this\nfinds it difficult to sit down patiently to the mastery of a book or a\nsubject, to the study of history, the perusal of extended biography, or\nto acquire that intellectual development and strength which comes from\nthorough reading and reflection.\n\nThe subject has another aspect. Nobody chooses his own reading; and a\nwhole community perusing substantially the same material tends to a\nmental uniformity. The editor has the more than royal power of selecting\nthe intellectual food of a large public. It is a responsibility\ninfinitely greater than that of the compiler of schoolbooks, great as\nthat is. The taste of the editor, or of some assistant who uses the\nscissors, is in a manner forced upon thousands of people, who see little\nother printed matter than that which he gives them. Suppose his taste\nruns to murders and abnormal crimes, and to the sensational in\nliterature: what will be the moral effect upon a community of reading\nthis year after year?\n\nIf this excess of daily miscellany is deleterious to the public, I doubt\nif it will be, in the long run, profitable to the newspaper, which has a\nfield broad enough in reporting and commenting upon the movement of the\nworld, without attempting to absorb the whole reading field.\n\nI should like to say a word, if time permitted, upon the form of the\njournal, and about advertisements. I look to see advertisements shorter,\nprinted with less display, and more numerous. In addition to the use now\nmade of the newspaper by the classes called  advertisers,  I expect it to\nbecome the handy medium of the entire public, the means of ready\ncommunication in regard to all wants and exchanges.\n\nSeveral years ago, the attention of the publishers of American newspapers\nwas called to the convenient form of certain daily journals in South\nGermany, which were made up in small pages, the number of which varied\nfrom day to day, according to the pressure of news or of advertisements.\nThe suggestion as to form has been adopted bit many of our religious,\nliterary, and special weeklies, to the great convenience of the readers,\nand I doubt not of the publishers also. Nothing is more unwieldy than our\nbig blanket-sheets: they are awkward to handle, inconvenient to read,\nunhandy to bind and preserve. It is difficult to classify matter in them.\nIn dull seasons they are too large; in times of brisk advertising, and in\nthe sudden access of important news, they are too small. To enlarge them\nfor the occasion, resort is had to a troublesome fly-sheet, or, if they\nare doubled, there is more space to be filled than is needed. It seems to\nme that the inevitable remedy is a newspaper of small pages or forms,\nindefinite in number, that can at any hour be increased or diminished\naccording to necessity, to be folded, stitched, and cut by machinery.\n\nWe have thus rapidly run over a prolific field, touching only upon some\nof the relations of the newspaper to our civilization, and omitting many\nof the more important and grave. The truth is that the development of the\nmodern journal has been so sudden and marvelous that its conductors find\nthemselves in possession of a machine that they scarcely know how to\nmanage or direct. The change in the newspaper caused by the telegraph,\nthe cable, and by a public demand for news created by wars, by\ndiscoveries, and by a new outburst of the spirit of doubt and inquiry, is\nenormous. The public mind is confused about it, and alternately\noverestimates and underestimates the press, failing to see how integral\nand representative a part it is of modern life.\n\n The power of the press,  as something to be feared or admired, is a\nfavorite theme of dinner-table orators and clergymen. One would think it\nwas some compactly wielded energy, like that of an organized religious\norder, with a possible danger in it to the public welfare. Discrimination\nis not made between the power of the printed word--which is\nlimitless--and the influence that a newspaper, as such, exerts. The power\nof the press is in its facility for making public opinions and events. I\nshould say it is a medium of force rather than force itself. I confess\nthat I am oftener impressed with the powerlessness of the press than\notherwise, its slight influence in bringing about any reform, or in\ninducing the public to do what is for its own good and what it is\ndisinclined to do. Talk about the power of the press, say, in a\nlegislature, when once the members are suspicious that somebody is trying\nto influence them, and see how the press will retire, with what grace it\ncan, before an invincible and virtuous lobby. The fear of the combination\nof the press for any improper purpose, or long for any proper purpose, is\nchimerical. Whomever the newspapers agree with, they do not agree with\neach other. The public itself never takes so many conflicting views of\nany topic or event as the ingenious rival journals are certain to\ndiscover. It is impossible, in their nature, for them to combine. I\nshould as soon expect agreement among doctors in their empirical\nprofession. And there is scarcely ever a cause, or an opinion, or a man,\nthat does not get somewhere in the press a hearer and a defender. We will\ndrop the subject with one remark for the benefit of whom it may concern.\nWith all its faults, I believe the moral tone of the American newspaper\nis higher, as a rule, than that of the community in which it is\npublished.\n\n\n\n\nCERTAIN DIVERSITIES OF AMERICAN LIFE\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nThis is a very interesting age. Within the memory of men not yet come to\nmiddle life the time of the trotting horse has been reduced from two\nminutes forty seconds to two minutes eight and a quarter seconds. During\nthe past fifteen years a universal and wholesome pastime of boys has been\ndeveloped into a great national industry, thoroughly organized and almost\naltogether relegated to professional hands, no longer the exercise of the\nmillion but a spectacle for the million, and a game which rivals the\nStock Exchange as a means of winning money on the difference of opinion\nas to the skill of contending operators.\n\nThe newspapers of the country--pretty accurate and sad indicators of the\npopular taste--devote more daily columns in a week's time to chronicling\nthe news about base-ball than to any other topic that interests the\nAmerican mind, and the most skillful player, the pitcher, often college\nbred, whose entire prowess is devoted to not doing what he seems to be\ndoing, and who has become the hero of the American girl as the Olympian\nwrestler was of the Greek maiden and as the matador is of the Spanish\nsenorita, receives a larger salary for a few hours' exertion each week\nthan any college president is paid for a year's intellectual toil. Such\nhas been the progress in the interest in education during this period\nthat the larger bulk of the news, and that most looked for, printed about\nthe colleges and universities, is that relating to the training, the\nprospects and achievements of the boat crews and the teams of base-ball\nand foot-ball, and the victory of any crew or team is a better means of\nattracting students to its college, a better advertisement, than success\nin any scholastic contest. A few years ago a tournament was organized in\nthe North between several colleges for competition in oratory and\nscholarship; it had a couple of contests and then died of inanition and\nwant of public interest.\n\nDuring the period I am speaking of there has been an enormous advance in\ntechnical education, resulting in the establishment of splendid special\nschools, essential to the development of our national resources; a growth\nof the popular idea that education should be practical,--that is, such an\neducation as can be immediately applied to earning a living and acquiring\nwealth speedily,--and an increasing extension of the elective system in\ncolleges,--based almost solely on the notion, having in view, of course,\nthe practical education, that the inclinations of a young man of eighteen\nare a better guide as to what is best for his mental development and\nequipment for life than all the experience of his predecessors.\n\nIn this period, which you will note is more distinguished by the desire\nfor the accumulation of money than far the general production of wealth,\nthe standard of a fortune has shifted from a fair competence to that of\nmillions of money, so that he is no longer rich who has a hundred\nthousand dollars, but he only who possesses property valued at many\nmillions, and the men most widely known the country through, most talked\nabout, whose doings and sayings are most chronicled in the journals,\nwhose example is most attractive and stimulating to the minds of youth,\nare not the scholars, the scientists, the men of, letters, not even the\norators and statesmen, but those who, by any means, have amassed enormous\nfortunes. We judge the future of a generation by its ideals.\n\nRegarding education from the point of view of its equipment of a man to\nmake money, and enjoy the luxury which money can command, it must be more\nand more practical, that is, it must be adapted not even to the higher\naim of increasing the general wealth of the world, by increasing\nproduction and diminishing waste both of labor and capital, but to the\nlower aim of getting personal possession of it; so that a striking social\nfeature of the period is that one-half--that is hardly an overestimate\n--one-half of the activity in America of which we speak with so much\nenthusiasm, is not directed to the production of wealth, to increasing\nits volume, but to getting the money of other people away from them. In\nbarbarous ages this object was accomplished by violence; it is now\nattained by skill and adroitness. We still punish those who gain property\nby violence; those who get it by smartness and cleverness, we try to\nimitate, and sometimes we reward them with public office.\n\nIt appears, therefore, that speed,-the ability to move rapidly from place\nto place,--a disproportionate reward of physical over intellectual\nscience, an intense desire to be rich, which is strong enough to compel\neven education to grind in the mill of the Philistines, and an inordinate\nelevation in public consideration of rich men simply because they are\nrich, are characteristics of this little point of time on which we stand.\nThey are not the only characteristics; in a reasonably optimistic view,\nthe age is distinguished for unexampled achievements, and for\nopportunities for the well-being of humanity never before in all history\nattainable. But these characteristics are so prominent as to beget the\nfear that we are losing the sense of the relative value of things in this\nlife.\n\nFew persons come to middle life without some conception of these relative\nvalues. It is in the heat and struggle that we fail to appreciate what in\nthe attainment will be most satisfactory to us. After it is over we are\napt to see that our possessions do not bring the happiness we expected;\nor that we have neglected to cultivate the powers and tastes that can\nmake life enjoyable. We come to know, to use a truism, that a person's\nhighest satisfaction depends not upon his exterior acquisitions, but upon\nwhat he himself is. There is no escape from this conclusion. The physical\nsatisfactions are limited and fallacious, the intellectual and moral\nsatisfactions are unlimited. In the last analysis, a man has to live with\nhimself, to be his own companion, and in the last resort the question is,\nwhat can he get out of himself. In the end, his life is worth just what\nhe has become. And I need not say that the mistake commonly made is as to\nrelative values,--that the things of sense are as important as the things\nof the mind. You make that mistake when you devote your best energies to\nyour possession of material substance, and neglect the enlargement, the\ntraining, the enrichment of the mind. You make the same mistake in a less\ndegree, when you bend to the popular ignorance and conceit so far as to\ndirect your college education to sordid ends. The certain end of yielding\nto this so-called practical spirit was expressed by a member of a\nNorthern State legislature who said,  We don't want colleges, we want\nworkshops.  It was expressed in another way by a representative of the\nlower house in Washington who said,  The average ignorance of the country\nhas a right to be represented here.  It is not for me to say whether it\nis represented there. Naturally, I say, we ought by the time of middle\nlife to come to a conception of what sort of things are of most value. By\nanalogy, in the continual growth of the Republic, we ought to have a\nperception of what we have accomplished and acquired, and some clear view\nof our tendencies. We take justifiable pride in the glittering figures of\nour extension of territory, our numerical growth, in the increase of\nwealth, and in our rise to the potential position of almost the first\nnation in the world. A more pertinent inquiry is, what sort of people\nhave we become? What are we intellectually and morally? For after all the\nman is the thing, the production of the right sort of men and women is\nall that gives a nation value. When I read of the establishment of a\ngreat industrial centre in which twenty thousand people are employed in\nthe increase of the amount of steel in the world, before I decide whether\nit would be a good thing for the Republic to create another industrial\ncity of the same sort, I want to know what sort of people the twenty\nthousand are, how they live, what their morals are, what intellectual\nlife they have, what their enjoyment of life is, what they talk about and\nthink about, and what chance they have of getting into any higher life.\nIt does not seem to me a sufficient gain in this situation that we are\nimmensely increasing the amount of steel in the world, or that twenty\nmore people are enabled on account of this to indulge in an unexampled,\nunintellectual luxury. We want more steel, no doubt, but haven't we wit\nenough to get that and at the same time to increase among the producers\nof it the number of men and women whose horizons are extended, who are\ncompanionable, intelligent beings, adding something to the intellectual\nand moral force upon which the real progress of the Republic depends?\n\nThere is no place where I would choose to speak more plainly of our\nnational situation today than in the South, and at the University of the\nSouth; in the South, because it is more plainly in a transition state,\nand at the University of the South, because it is here and in similar\ninstitutions that the question of the higher or lower plane of life in\nthe South is to be determined.\n\nTo a philosophical observer of the Republic, at the end of the hundred\nyears, I should say that the important facts are not its industrial\nenergy, its wealth, or its population, but the stability of the federal\npower, and the integrity of the individual States. That is to say, that\nstress and trial have welded us into an indestructible nation; and not of\nless consequence is the fact that the life of the Union is in the life of\nthe States. The next most encouraging augury for a great future is the\nmarvelous diversity among the members of this republican body. If nothing\nwould be more speedily fatal to our plan of government than increasing\ncentralization, nothing would be more hopeless in our development than\nincreasing monotony, the certain end of which is mediocrity.\n\nSpeaking as one whose highest pride it is to be a citizen of a great and\ninvincible Republic to those whose minds kindle with a like patriotism, I\ncan say that I am glad there are East and North and South, and West,\nMiddle, Northwest, and Southwest, with as many diversities of climate,\ntemperament, habits, idiosyncrasies, genius, as these names imply. Thank\nHeaven we are not all alike; and so long as we have a common purpose in\nthe Union, and mutual toleration, respect, and sympathy, the greater will\nbe our achievement and the nobler our total development, if every section\nis true to the evolution of its local traits. The superficial foreign\nobserver finds sameness in our different States, tiresome family likeness\nin our cities, hideous monotony in our villages, and a certain common\natmosphere of life, which increasing facility of communication tends to\nincrease. This is a view from a railway train. But as soon as you observe\nclosely, you find in each city a peculiar physiognomy, and a peculiar\nspirit remarkable considering the freedom of movement and intercourse,\nand you find the organized action of each State sui generis to a degree\nsurprising considering the general similarity of our laws and\ninstitutions. In each section differences of speech, of habits of\nthought, of temperament prevail. Massachusetts is unlike Louisiana,\nFlorida unlike Tennessee, Georgia is unlike California, Pennsylvania is\nunlike Minnesota, and so on, and the unlikeness is not alone or chiefly\nin physical features. By the different style of living I can tell when I\ncross the line between Connecticut and New York as certainly as when I\ncross the line between Vermont and Canada. The Virginian expanded in\nKentucky is not the same man he was at home, and the New England Yankee\nlet loose in the West takes on proportions that would astonish his\ngrandfather. Everywhere there is a variety in local sentiment, action,\nand development. Sit down in the seats of the State governments and study\nthe methods of treatment of essentially the common institutions of\ngovernment, of charity and discipline, and you will be impressed with the\nvariety of local spirit and performance in the Union. And this, diversity\nis so important, this contribution of diverse elements is so necessary to\nthe complex strength and prosperity of the whole, that one must view with\nalarm all federal interference and tendency to greater centralization.\n\nAnd not less to be dreaded than monotony from the governmental point of\nview, is the obliteration of variety in social life and in literary\ndevelopment. It is not enough for a nation to be great and strong, it\nmust be interesting, and interesting it cannot be without cultivation of\nlocal variety. Better obtrusive peculiarities than universal sameness. It\nis out of variety as well as complexity in American life, and not in\nhomogeneity and imitation, that we are to expect a civilization\nnoteworthy in the progress of the human race.\n\nLet us come a little closer to our subject in details. For a hundred\nyears the South was developed on its own lines, with astonishingly little\nexterior bias. This comparative isolation was due partly to the\ninstitution of slavery, partly to devotion to the production of two or\nthree great staples. While its commercial connection with the North was\nintimate and vital, its literary relation with the North was slight. With\nfew exceptions Northern authors were not read in the South, and the\nliterary movement of its neighbors, such as it was, from 1820 to 1860,\nscarcely affected it. With the exception of Louisiana, which was\nabsolutely ignorant of American literature and drew its inspiration and\nassumed its critical point of view almost wholly from the French, the\nSouth was English, but mainly English of the time of Walter Scott and\nGeorge the Third. While Scott was read at the North for his knowledge of\nhuman nature, as he always will be read, the chivalric age which moves in\nhis pages was taken more seriously at the South, as if it were of\ncontinuing importance in life. In any of its rich private libraries you\nfind yourself in the age of Pope and Dryden, and the classics were\npursued in the spirit of Oxford and Cambridge in the time of Johnson. It\nwas little disturbed by the intellectual and ethical agitation of modern\nEngland or of modern New England. During this period, while the South\nexcelled in the production of statesmen, orators, trained politicians,\ngreat judges, and brilliant lawyers, it produced almost no literature,\nthat is, no indigenous literature, except a few poems and--a few humorous\ncharacter-sketches; its general writing was ornately classic, and its\nfiction romantic on the lines of the foreign romances.\n\nFrom this isolation one thing was developed, and another thing might in\ndue time be expected. The thing developed was a social life, in the\nfavored class, which has an almost unique charm, a power of being\nagreeable, a sympathetic cordiality, an impulsive warmth, a frankness in\nthe expression of emotion, and that delightful quality of manner which\nputs the world at ease and makes life pleasant. The Southerners are no\nmore sincere than the Northerners, but they have less reserve, and in the\nsocial traits that charm all who come in contact with them, they have an\nelement of immense value in the variety of American life.\n\nThe thing that might have been expected in due time, and when the call\ncame--and it is curious to note that the call and cause of any\nrenaissance are always from the outside--was a literary expression fresh\nand indigenous. This expectation, in a brief period since the war, has\nbeen realized by a remarkable performance and is now stimulated by a\nremarkable promise. The acclaim with which the Southern literature has\nbeen received is partly due to its novelty, the new life it exhibited,\nbut more to the recognition in it of a fresh flavor, a literary quality\ndistinctly original and of permanent importance. This production, the\nfirst fruits of which are so engaging in quality, cannot grow and broaden\ninto a stable, varied literature without scholarship and hard work, and\nwithout a sympathetic local audience. But the momentary concern is that\nit should develop on its own lines and in its own spirit, and not under\nthe influence of London or Boston or New York. I do not mean by this that\nit should continue to attract attention by peculiarities of dialect-which\nis only an incidental, temporary phenomenon, that speedily becomes\nwearisome, whether  cracker  or negro or Yankee--but by being true to the\nessential spirit and temperament of Southern life.\n\nDuring this period there was at the North, and especially in the East,\ngreat intellectual activity and agitation, and agitation ethical and\nmoral as well as intellectual. There was awakening, investigation,\nquestioning, doubt. There was a great deal of froth thrown to the\nsurface. In the free action of individual thought and expression grew\neccentricities of belief and of practice, and a crop of so-called  isms, \n more or less temporary, unprofitable, and pernicious. Public opinion\nattained an astonishing degree of freedom,--I never heard of any\ncommunity that was altogether free of its tyranny. At least extraordinary\nlatitude was permitted in the development of extreme ideas, new,\nfantastic, radical, or conservative. For instance, slavery was attacked\nand slavery was defended on the same platform, with almost equal freedom.\nIndeed, for many years, if there was any exception to the general\ntoleration it was in the social ostracism of those who held and expressed\nextreme opinions in regard to immediate emancipation, and were\nstigmatized as abolitionists. There was a general ferment of new ideas,\nnot always fruitful in the direction taken, but hopeful in view of the\nfact that growth and movement are better than stagnation and decay. You\ncan do something with a ship that has headway; it will drift upon the\nrocks if it has not. With much foam and froth, sure to attend agitation,\nthere was immense vital energy, intense life.\n\nOut of this stir and agitation came the aggressive, conquering spirit\nthat carried civilization straight across the continent, that built up\ncities and States, that developed wealth, and by invention, ingenuity,\nand energy performed miracles in the way of the subjugation of nature and\nthe assimilation of societies. Out of this free agitation sprang a\nliterary product, great in quantity and to some degree distinguished in\nquality, groups of historians, poets, novelists, essayists, biographers,\nscientific writers. A conspicuous agency of the period was the lecture\nplatform, which did something in the spread and popularization of\ninformation, but much more in the stimulation of independent thought and\nthe awakening of the mind to use its own powers.\n\nAlong with this and out of this went on the movement of popular education\nand of the high and specialized education. More remarkable than the\nachievements of the common schools has been the development of the\ncolleges, both in the departments of the humanities and of science. If I\nwere writing of education generally, I might have something to say of the\nmeasurable disappointment of the results of the common schools as at\npresent conducted, both as to the diffusion of information and as to the\ndiscipline of the mind and the inculcation of ethical principles; which\nsimply means that they need improvement. But the higher education has\nbeen transformed, and mainly by the application of scientific methods,\nand of the philosophic spirit, to the study of history, economics, and\nthe classics. When we are called to defend the pursuit of metaphysics or\nthe study of the classics, either as indispensable to the discipline or\nto the enlargement of the mind, we are not called on to defend the\nmethods of a generation ago. The study of Greek is no longer an exercise\nin the study of linguistics or the inspection of specimens of an obsolete\nliterature, but the acquaintance with historic thought, habits, and\npolity, with a portion of the continuous history of the human mind, which\nhas a vital relation to our own life.\n\nHowever much or little there may be of permanent value in the vast\nproduction of northern literature, judged by continental or even English\nstandards, the time has came when American scholarship in science, in\nlanguage, in occidental or oriental letters, in philosophic and\nhistorical methods, can court comparison with any other. In some branches\nof research the peers of our scholars must be sought not in England but\nin Germany. So that in one of the best fruits of a period of intellectual\nagitation, scholarship, the restless movement has thoroughly vindicated\nitself.\n\nI have called your attention to this movement in order to say that it was\nneither accidental nor isolated. It was in the historic line, it was fed\nand stimulated by all that had gone before, and by all contemporary\nactivity everywhere. New England, for instance, was alert and progressive\nbecause it kept its doors and windows open. It was hospitable in its\nintellectual freedom, both of trial and debate, to new ideas. It was in\ntouch with the universal movement of humanity and of human thought and\nspeculation. You lose some quiet by this attitude, some repose that is\npleasant and even desirable perhaps, you entertain many errors, you may\ntry many useless experiments, but you gain life and are in the way of\nbetter things. New England, whatever else we may say about it, was in the\nworld. There was no stir of thought, of investigation, of research, of\nthe recasting of old ideas into new forms of life, in Germany, in France,\nin Italy, in England, anywhere, that did not touch it and to which it did\nnot respond with the sympathy that common humanity has in the universal\nprogress. It kept this touch not only in the evolution and expression of\nthought and emotion which we call literature (whether original or\nimitative), but in the application of philosophic methods to education,\nin the attempted regeneration of society and the amelioration of its\nconditions by schemes of reform and discipline, relating to the\ninstitutions of benevolence and to the control of the vicious and\ncriminal. With all these efforts go along always much false\nsentimentality and pseudo-philanthropy, but little by little gain is made\nthat could not be made in a state of isolation and stagnation.\n\nIn fact there is one historic stream of human thought, aspiration, and\nprogress; it is practically continuous, and with all its diversity of\nlocal color and movement it is a unit. If you are in it, you move; if you\nare out of it, you are in an eddy. The eddy may have a provincial\ncurrent, but it is not in the great stream, and when it has gone round\nand round for a century, it is still an eddy, and will not carry you\nanywhere in particular. The value of the modern method of teaching and\nstudy is that it teaches the solidarity of human history, the continuance\nof human thought, in literature, government, philosophy, the unity of the\ndivine purpose, and that nothing that has anywhere befallen the human\nrace is alien to us.\n\nI am not undervaluing the part, the important part, played by\nconservatism, the conservatism that holds on to what has been gained if\nit is good, that insists on discipline and heed to the plain teaching of\nexperience, that refuses to go into hysterics of enthusiasm over every\nflighty suggestion, or to follow every leader simply because he proposes\nsomething new and strange--I do not mean the conservatism that refuses to\ntry anything simply because it is new, and prefers to energetic life the\nstagnation that inevitably leads to decay. Isolation from the great\nhistoric stream of thought and agitation is stagnation. While this is\ntrue, and always has been true in history, it is also true, in regard to\nthe beneficent diversity of American life, which is composed of so many\nelements and forces, as I have often thought and said, that what has been\ncalled the Southern conservatism in respect to beliefs and certain social\nproblems, may have a very important part to play in the development of\nthe life of the Republic.\n\nI shall not be misunderstood here, where the claims of the higher life\nare insisted on and the necessity of pure, accurate scholarship is\nrecognized, in saying that this expectation in regard to the South\ndepends upon the cultivation and diffusion of the highest scholarship in\nall its historic consciousness and critical precision. This sort of\nscholarship, of widely apprehending intellectual activity, keeping step\nwith modern ideas so far as they are historically grounded, is of the\nfirst importance. Everywhere indeed, in our industrial age,--in a society\ninclined to materialism, scholarship, pure and simple scholarship for its\nown sake, no less in Ohio than in Tennessee, is the thing to be insisted\non. If I may refer to an institution, which used to be midway between the\nNorth and the South, and which I may speak of without suspicion of bias,\nan institution where the studies of metaphysics, the philosophy of\nhistory, the classics and pure science are as much insisted on as the\nstudy of applied sciences, the College of New Jersey at Princeton, the\nquestion in regard to a candidate for a professorship or instructorship,\nis not whether he was born North or South, whether he served in one army\nor another or in neither, whether he is a Democrat or a Republican or a\nMugwump, what religious denomination he belongs to, but is he a scholar\nand has he a high character? There is no provincialism in scholarship.\n\nWe are not now considering the matter of the agreeableness of one society\nor another, whether life is on the whole pleasanter in certain conditions\nat the North or at the South, whether there is not a charm sometimes in\nisolation and even in provincialism. It is a fair question to ask, what\neffect upon individual lives and character is produced by an industrial\nand commercial spirit, and by one less restless and more domestic. But\nthe South is now face to face with certain problems which relate her,\ninevitably, to the moving forces of the world. One of these is the\ndevelopment of her natural resources and the change and diversity of her\nindustries. On the industrial side there is pressing need of institutions\nof technology, of schools of applied science, for the diffusion of\ntechnical information and skill in regard to mining and manufacturing,\nand also to agriculture, so that worn-out lands may be reclaimed and good\nlands be kept up to the highest point of production. Neither mines,\nforests, quarries, water-ways, nor textile fabrics can be handled to best\nadvantage without scientific knowledge and skilled labor. The South is\neverywhere demanding these aids to her industrial development. But just\nin the proportion that she gets them, and because she has them, will be\nthe need of higher education. The only safety against the influence of a\nrolling mill is a college, the only safety against the practical and\nmaterializing tendency of an industrial school is the increased study of\nwhatever contributes to the higher and non-sordid life of the mind. The\nSouth would make a poor exchange for her former condition in any amount\nof industrial success without a corresponding development of the highest\nintellectual life.\n\nBut, besides the industrial problem, there is the race problem. It is the\nmost serious in the conditions under which it is presented that ever in\nall history confronted a free people. Whichever way you regard it, it is\nthe nearest insoluble. Under the Constitution it is wisely left to the\naction of the individual States. The heavy responsibility is with them.\nIn the nature of things it is a matter of the deepest concern to the\nwhole Republic, for the prosperity of every part is vital to the\nprosperity of the whole. In working it out you are entitled, from the\noutside, to the most impartial attempt to understand its real nature, to\nthe utmost patience with the facts of human nature, to the most profound\nand most helpful sympathy. It is monstrous to me that the situation\nshould be made on either side a political occasion for private ambition\nor for party ends.\n\nI would speak of this subject with the utmost frankness if I knew what to\nsay. It is not much of a confession to say that I do not. The more I\nstudy it the less I know, and those among you who give it the most\nanxious thought are the most perplexed, the subject has so many\nconflicting aspects. In the first place there is the evolution of an\nundeveloped race. Every race has a right to fair play in the world and to\nmake the most of its capacities, and to the help of the more favored in\nthe attempt. If the suggestion recently made of a wholesale migration to\nMexico were carried out, the South would be relieved in many ways, though\nthe labor problem would be a serious one for a long time, but the\n elevation  would be lost sight of or relegated to a foreign missionary\nenterprise; and as for results to the colored people themselves, there is\nthe example of Hayti. If another suggestion, that of abandoning certain\nStates to this race, were carried out, there is the example of Hayti\nagain, and, besides, an anomaly introduced into the Republic foreign to\nits traditions, spirit, aspirations, and process of assimilation, alien\nto the entire historic movement of the Aryan races, and infinitely more\ndangerous to the idea of the Republic than if solid Ireland were dumped\ndown in the Mississippi valley as an independent State.\n\nOn the other hand, there rests upon you the responsibility of maintaining\na civilization--the civilization of America, not of Hayti or of Guatemala\nwhich we have so hardly won. It is neither to be expected nor desired\nthat you should be ruled by an undeveloped race, ignorant of law,\nletters, history, politics, political economy. There is no right anywhere\nin numbers or unintelligence to rule intelligence. It is a travesty of\ncivilization. No Northern State that I know of would submit to be ruled\nby an undeveloped race. And human nature is exactly in the South what it\nis in the North. That is one impregnable fact, to be taken as the basis\nof all our calculations; the whites of the South will not, cannot, be\ndominated, as matters now stand, by the colored race.\n\nBut, then, there is the suffrage, the universal, unqualified suffrage.\nAnd here is the dilemma. Suffrage once given, cannot be suppressed or\ndenied, perverted by chicane or bribery without incalculable damage to\nthe whole political body. Irregular methods once indulged in for one\npurpose, and towards one class, so sap the moral sense that they come to\nbe used for all purposes. The danger is ultimately as great to those who\nsuppress or pervert as it is to the suppressed and corrupted. It is the\ndemoralization of all sound political action and life. I know whereof I\nspeak. In the North, bribery in elections and intimidation are fatal to\npublic morality. The legislature elected by bribery is a bribable body.\n\nI believe that the fathers were right in making government depend upon\nthe consent of the governed. I believe there has been as yet discovered\nno other basis of government so safe, so stable as popular suffrage, but\nthe fathers never contemplated a suffrage without intelligence. It is a\ncontradiction of terms. A proletariat without any political rights in a\nrepublic is no more dangerous than an unintelligent mob which can be used\nin elections by demagogues. Universal suffrage is not a universal\npanacea; it may be the best device attainable, but it is certain of abuse\nwithout safeguards. One of the absolutely necessary safeguards is an\neducational qualification. No one ought anywhere to exercise it who\ncannot read and write, and if I had my way, no one should cast a ballot\nwho had not a fair conception of the effect of it, shown by a higher test\nof intelligence than the mere fact of ability to scrawl his name and to\nspell out a line or two in the Constitution. This much the State for its\nown protection is bound to require, for suffrage is an expediency, not a\nright belonging to universal humanity regardless of intelligence or of\ncharacter.\n\nThe charge is, with regard to this universal suffrage, that you take the\nfruits of increased representation produced by it, and then deny it to a\nportion of the voters whose action was expected to produce a different\npolitical result. I cannot but regard it as a blunder in statesmanship to\ngive suffrage without an educational qualification, and to deem it\npossible to put ignorance over intelligence. You are not, responsible for\nthe situation, but you are none the less in an illogical position before\nthe law. Now, would you not gain more in a rectification of your position\nthan you would lose in other ways, by making suffrage depend upon an\neducational qualification? I do not mean gain party-wise, but in\npolitical morals and general prosperity. Time would certainly be gained\nby this, and it is possible in this shifting world, in the growth of\nindustries and the flow of populations, that before the question of\nsupremacy was again upon you, foreign and industrial immigration would\nrestore the race balance.\n\nWe come now to education. The colored race being here, I assume that its\neducation, with the probabilities this involves of its elevation, is a\nduty as well as a necessity. I speak both of the inherent justice there\nis in giving every human being the chance of bettering his condition and\nincreasing his happiness that lies in education--unless our whole theory\nof modern life is wrong--and also of the political and social danger\nthere is in a degraded class numerically strong. Granted integral\nmembership in a body politic, education is a necessity. I am aware of the\ndanger of half education, of that smattering of knowledge which only\nbreeds conceit, adroitness, and a consciousness of physical power,\nwithout due responsibility and moral restraint. Education makes a race\nmore powerful both for evil and for good. I see the danger that many\napprehend. And the outlook, with any amount of education, would be\nhopeless, not only as regards the negro and those in neighborhood\nrelations with him, if education should not bring with it thrift, sense\nof responsibility as a citizen, and virtue. What the negro race under the\nmost favorable conditions is capable of remains to be shown; history does\nnot help us much to determine thus far. It has always been a long pull\nfor any race to rise out of primitive conditions; but I am sure for its\nown sake, and for the sake of the republic where it dwells, every\nthoughtful person must desire the most speedy intellectual and moral\ndevelopment possible of the African race. And I mean as a race.\n\nSome distinguished English writers have suggested, with approval, that\nthe solution of the race problem in this country is fusion, and I have\neven heard discouraged Southerners accept it as a possibility. The result\nof their observation of the amalgamation of races and colors in Egypt, in\nSyria, and Mexico, must be very different from mine. When races of\ndifferent color mingle there is almost invariably loss of physical\nstamina, and the lower moral qualities of each are developed in the\ncombination. No race that regards its own future would desire it. The\nabsorption theory as applied to America is, it seems to me, chimerical.\n\nBut to return to education. It should always be fitted to the stage of\ndevelopment. It should always mean discipline, the training of the powers\nand capacities. The early pioneers who planted civilization on the\nWatauga, the Holston, the Kentucky, the Cumberland, had not much broad\nlearning--they would not have been worse if they had had more but they\nhad courage, they were trained in self-reliance, virile common sense, and\ngood judgment, they had inherited the instinct and capacity of\nself-government, they were religious, with all their coarseness they had\nthe fundamental elements of nobility, the domestic virtues, and the\npublic spirit needed in the foundation of states. Their education in all\nthe manly arts and crafts of the backwoodsman fitted them very well for\nthe work they had to do. I should say that the education of the colored\nrace in America should be fundamental. I have not much confidence in an\nornamental top-dressing of philosophy, theology, and classic learning\nupon the foundation of an unformed and unstable mental and moral\ncondition. Somehow, character must be built up, and character depends\nupon industry, upon thrift, upon morals, upon correct ethical\nperceptions. To have control of one's powers, to have skill in labor, so\nthat work in any occupation shall be intelligent, to have self-respect,\nwhich commonly comes from trained capacity, to know how to live, to have\na clean, orderly house, to be grounded in honesty and the domestic\nvirtues,--these are the essentials of progress. I suppose that the\neducation to produce these must be an elemental and practical one, one\nthat fits for the duties of life and not for some imaginary sphere above\nthem.\n\nTo put it in a word, and not denying that there must be schools for\nteaching the teachers, with the understanding that the teachers should be\nable to teach what the mass most needs to know--what the race needs for\nits own good today, are industrial and manual training schools, with the\nvaried and practical discipline and arts of life which they impart.\n\nWhat then? What of the 'modus vivendi' of the two races occupying the\nsame soil? As I said before, I do not know. Providence works slowly. Time\nand patience only solve such enigmas. The impossible is not expected of\nman, only that he shall do today the duty nearest to him. It is easy, you\nsay, for an outsider to preach waiting, patience, forbearance, sympathy,\nhelpfulness. Well, these are the important lessons we get out of history.\nWe struggle, and fume, and fret, and accomplish little in our brief hour,\nbut somehow the world gets on. Fortunately for us, we cannot do today the\nwork of tomorrow. All the gospel in the world can be boiled down into a\nsingle precept. Do right now. I have observed that the boy who starts in\nthe morning with a determination to behave himself till bedtime, usually\ngets through the day without a thrashing.\n\nBut of one thing I am sure. In the rush of industries, in the race\nproblem, it is more and more incumbent upon such institutions as the\nUniversity of the South to maintain the highest standard of pure\nscholarship, to increase the number of men and women devoted to the\nintellectual life. Long ago, in the middle of the seventeenth century,\nJohn Ward of Stratford-on-Avon, clergyman and physician, wrote in his\ndiary:  The wealth of a nation depends upon its populousness, and its\npopulousness depends upon the liberty of conscience that is granted to\nit, for this calls in strangers and promotes trading.  Great is the\nattraction of a benign climate and of a fruitful soil, but a greater\nattraction is an intelligent people, that values the best things in life,\na society hospitable, companionable, instinct with intellectual life,\nawake to the great ideas that make life interesting.\n\nAs I travel through the South and become acquainted with its magnificent\nresources and opportunities, and know better and love more the admirable\nqualities of its people, I cannot but muse in a fond prophecy upon the\nbrilliant part it is to play in the diversified life and the great future\nof the American Republic. But, North and South, we have a hard fight with\nmaterializing tendencies. God bless the University of the South!\n\n\n\n\nTHE PILGRIM, AND THE AMERICAN OF TODAY--1892\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nThis December evening, the imagination, by a law of contrast, recalls\nanother December night two hundred and seventy years ago. The circle of\ndarkness is drawn about a little group of Pilgrims who have come ashore\non a sandy and inhospitable coast. On one side is a vexed and wintry sea,\nthree thousand miles of tossing waves and tempest, beyond which lie the\nhome, the hedgerows and cottages, the church towers, the libraries and\nuniversities, the habits and associations of an old civilization, the\nstrongest and dearest ties that can entwine around a human heart,\nabandoned now definitely and forever by these wanderers; on the other\nside a wintry forest of unknown extent, without highways, the lair of\nwild beasts, impenetrable except by trails known only to the savages,\nwhose sudden appearance and disappearance adds mystery and terror to the\nimpression the imagination has conjured up of the wilderness.\n\nThis darkness is symbolic. It stands for a vaster obscurity. This is an\nencampment on the edge of a continent, the proportions of which are\nunknown, the form of which is only conjectured. Behind this screen of\nforest are there hills, great streams, with broad valleys, ranges of\nmountains perhaps, vast plains, lakes, other wildernesses of illimitable\nextent? The adventurers on the James hoped they could follow the stream\nto highlands that looked off upon the South Sea, a new route to India and\nthe Spice Islands. This unknown continent is attacked, it is true, in\nmore than one place. The Dutch are at the mouth of the Hudson; there is a\nLondon company on the James; the Spaniards have been long in Florida, and\nhave carried religion and civilization into the deserts of New Mexico.\nNevertheless, the continent, vaster and more varied than was guessed, is\npractically undiscovered, untrodden. How inadequate to the subjection of\nany considerable portion of it seems this little band of ill-equipped\nadventurers, who cannot without peril of life stray a league from the bay\nwhere the  Mayflower  lies.\n\nIt is not to be supposed that the Pilgrims had an adequate conception of\nthe continent, or of the magnitude of their mission on it, or of the\nnation to come of which they were laying the foundations. They did the\nduty that lay nearest to them; and the duty done today, perhaps without\nprescience of its consequences, becomes a permanent stone in the edifice\nof the future. They sought a home in a fresh wilderness, where they might\nbe undisturbed by superior human authority; they had no doctrinarian\nnotions of equality, nor of the inequality which is the only possible\ncondition of liberty; the idea of toleration was not born in their age;\nthey did not project a republic; they established a theocracy, a church\nwhich assumed all the functions of a state, recognizing one Supreme\nPower, whose will in human conduct they were to interpret. Already,\nhowever, in the first moment, with a true instinct of self-government,\nthey drew together in the cabin of the  Mayflower  in an association--to\ncarry out the divine will in society. But, behold how speedily their\nideas expanded beyond the Jewish conception, necessarily expanded with\nopportunity and the practical self-dependence of colonies cut off from\nthe aid of tradition, and brought face to face with the problems of\ncommunities left to themselves. Only a few years later, on the banks of\nthe Connecticut, Thomas Hooker, the first American Democrat, proclaimed\nthat  the foundation of authority is laid in the free consent of the\npeople,  that  the choice of public magistrates belongs unto the people,\nby God's own allowance,  that it is the right of the people not only to\nchoose but to limit the power of their rulers, and he exhorted,  as God\nhas given us liberty to take it.  There, at that moment, in Hartford,\nAmerican democracy was born; and in the republican union of the three\ntowns of the Connecticut colony, Hartford, Windsor, and Wethersfield, was\nthe germ of the American federal system, which was adopted into the\nfederal constitution and known at the time as the  Connecticut\nCompromise. \n\nIt were not worth while for me to come a thousand miles to say this, or\nto draw over again for the hundredth time the character of the New\nEngland Pilgrim, nor to sketch his achievement on this continent. But it\nis pertinent to recall his spirit, his attitude toward life, and to\ninquire what he would probably do in the circumstances in which we find\nourselves.\n\nIt is another December night, before the dawn of a new year. And this\nnight still symbolizes the future. You have subdued a continent, and it\nstands in the daylight radiant with a material splendor of which the\nPilgrims never dreamed. Yet a continent as dark, as unknown, exists. It\nis yourselves, your future, your national life. The other continent was\nmade, you had only to discover it, to uncover it. This you must make\nyourselves.\n\nWe have finished the outline sketch of a magnificent nation. The\nterritory is ample; it includes every variety of climate, in the changing\nseasons, every variety of physical conformation, every kind of production\nsuited to the wants, almost everything desired in the imagination, of\nman. It comes nearer than any empire in history to being self-sufficient,\nphysically independent of the rest of the globe. That is to say, if it\nwere shut off from the rest of the world, it has in itself the material\nfor great comfort and civilization. And it has the elements of motion, of\nagitation, of life, because the vast territory is filling up with a\nrapidity unexampled in history. I am not saying that isolated it could\nattain the highest civilization, or that if it did touch a high one it\ncould long hold it in a living growth, cut off from the rest of the\nworld. I do not believe it. For no state, however large, is sufficient\nunto itself. No state is really alive in the highest sense whose\nreceptivity is not equal to its power to contribute to the world with\nwhich its destiny is bound up. It is only at its best when it is a part\nof the vital current of movement, of sympathy, of hope, of enthusiasm of\nthe world at large. There is no doctrine so belittling, so withering to\nour national life, as that which conceives our destiny to be a life of\nexclusion of the affairs and interests of the whole globe, hemmed in to\nthe selfish development of our material wealth and strength, surrounded\nby a Chinese wall built of strata of prejudice on the outside and of\nignorance on the inside. Fortunately it is a conception impossible to be\nrealized.\n\nThere is something captivating to the imagination in being a citizen of a\ngreat nation, one powerful enough to command respect everywhere, and so\njust as not to excite fear anywhere. This proud feeling of citizenship is\na substantial part of a man's enjoyment of life; and there is a certain\ncompensation for hardships, for privations, for self-sacrifice, in the\nglory of one's own country. It is not a delusion that one can afford to\ndie for it. But what in the last analysis is the object of a government?\nWhat is the essential thing, without which even the glory of a nation\npasses into shame, and the vastness of empire becomes a mockery? I will\nnot say that it is the well-being of every individual, because the term\nwell-being--the 'bien etre' of the philosophers of the eighteenth\ncentury--has mainly a materialistic interpretation, and may be attained\nby a compromise of the higher life to comfort, and even of patriotism to\nselfish enjoyment.\n\nThat is the best government in which the people, and all the people, get\nthe most out of life; for the object of being in this world is not\nprimarily to build up a government, a monarchy, an aristocracy, a\ndemocracy, or a republic, or to make a nation, but to live the best sort\nof life that can be lived.\n\nWe think that our form of government is the one best calculated to attain\nthis end. It is of all others yet tried in this world the one least felt\nby the people, least felt as an interference in the affairs of private\nlife, in opinion, in conscience, in our freedom to attain position, to\nmake money, to move from place to place, and to follow any career that is\nopen to our ability. In order to maintain this freedom of action, this\nnon-interference, we are bound to resist centralization of power; for a\ncentral power in a republic, grasped and administered by bosses, is no\nmore tolerable than central power in a despotism, grasped and\nadministered by a hereditary aristocrat. Let us not be deceived by names.\nGovernment by the consent of the people is the best government, but it is\nnot government by the people when it is in the hands of political bosses,\nwho juggle with the theory of majority rule. What republics have most to\nfear is the rule of the boss, who is a tyrant without responsibility. He\nmakes the nominations, he dickers and trades for the elections, and at\nthe end he divides the spoils. The operation is more uncertain than a\nhorse race, which is not decided by the speed of the horses, but by the\nstate of the wagers and the manipulation of the jockeys. We strike\ndirectly at his power for mischief when we organize the entire civil\nservice of the nation and of the States on capacity, integrity,\nexperience, and not on political power.\n\nAnd if we look further, considering the danger of concentration of power\nin irresponsible hands, we see a new cause for alarm in undue federal\nmastery and interference. This we can only resist by the constant\nassertion of the rights, the power, the dignity of the individual State,\nall that it has not surrendered in the fundamental constitution of the\nRepublic. This means the full weight of the State, as a State, as a\npolitical unit, in the election of President; and the full weight of the\nState, as a State, as a political unit, without regard to its population,\nin the senate of the United States. The senate, as it stands, as it was\nmeant to be in the Constitution, is the strongest safeguard which the\nfundamental law established against centralization, against the tyranny\nof mere majorities, against the destruction of liberty, in such a\ndiversity of climates and conditions as we have in our vast continent. It\nis not a mere check upon hasty legislation; like some second chambers in\nEurope, it is the representative of powers whose preservation in their\ndignity is essential to the preservation of the form of our government\nitself.\n\nWe pursue the same distribution of power and responsibility when we pass\nto the States. The federal government is not to interfere in what the\nState can do and ought to do for itself; the State is not to meddle with\nwhat the county can best do for itself; nor the county in the affairs\nbest administered by the town and the municipality. And so we come to the\nindividual citizen. He cannot delegate his responsibility. The government\neven of the smallest community must be, at least is, run by parties and\nby party machinery. But if he wants good government, he must pay as\ncareful attention to the machinery,--call it caucus, primary, convention,\ntown-meeting,--as he does to the machinery of his own business. If he\nhands it over to bosses, who make politics a trade for their own\nlivelihood, he will find himself in the condition of stockholders of a\nbank whose directors are mere dummies, when some day the cashier packs\nthe assets and goes on a foreign journey for his health. When the citizen\nsimply does his duty in the place where he stands, the boss will be\neliminated, in the nation, in the State, in the town, and we shall have,\nwhat by courtesy we say we have now, a government by the people. Then all\nthe way down from the capital to the city ward, we shall have vital\npopular government, free action, discussion, agitation, life. What an\nanomaly it is, that a free people, reputed shrewd and intelligent, should\nintrust their most vital interests, the making of their laws, the laying\nof their taxes, the spending of their money, even their education and the\nmanagement of their public institutions, into the keeping of political\nbosses, whom they would not trust to manage the least of their business\naffairs, nor to arbitrate on what is called a trial of speed at an\nagricultural fair.\n\nBut a good government, the best government, is only an opportunity.\nHowever vast the country may become in wealth and population, it cannot\nrise in quality above the average of the majority of its citizens; and\nits goodness will be tested in history by its value to the average man,\nnot by its bigness, not by its power, but by its adaptability to the\npeople governed, so as to develop the best that is in them. It is\nincidental and imperative that the country should be an agreeable one to\nlive in; but it must be more than that, it must be favorable to the\ngrowth of the higher life. The Puritan community of Massachusetts Bay,\nwhose spirit we may happily contrast with that of the Pilgrims whose\nanniversary we celebrate, must have been as disagreeable to live in as\nany that history records; not only were the physical conditions of life\nhard, but its inquisitorial intolerance overmatched that which it escaped\nin England. It was a theocratic despotism, untempered by recreation or\namusement, and repressive not only of freedom of expression but of\nfreedom of thought. But it had an unconquerable will, a mighty sense of\nduty, a faith in God, which not only established its grip upon the\ncontinent but carried its influence from one ocean to the other. It did\nnot conquer by its bigotry, by its intolerance, its cruel persecuting\nspirit, but by its higher mental and spiritual stamina. These lower and\nbaser qualities of the age of the Puritans leave a stain upon a great\nachievement; it took Massachusetts almost two centuries to cast them off\nand come into a wholesome freedom, but the vital energy and the\nrecognition of the essential verities inhuman life carried all the\ninstitutions of the Puritans that were life-giving over the continent.\n\nHere in the West you are near the centre of a vast empire, you feel its\nmighty pulse, the throb and heartbeat of its immense and growing\nstrength. Some of you have seen this great civilization actually grow on\nthe vacant prairies, in the unoccupied wilderness, on the sandy shores of\nthe inland seas. You have seen the trails of the Indian and the deer\nreplaced by highways of steel, and upon the spots where the first\nimmigrants corralled their wagons, and the voyagers dragged their canoes\nupon the reedy shore, you have seen arise great cities, centres of\nindustry, of commerce, of art, attaining in a generation the proportions\nand the world-wide fame of cities that were already famous before the\ndiscovery of America.\n\nNaturally the country is proud of this achievement. Naturally we magnify\nour material prosperity. But in this age of science and invention this\ndevelopment may be said to be inevitable, and besides it is the necessary\noutlet of the energy of a free people. There must be growth of cities,\nextension of railways, improvement of agriculture, development of\nmanufactures, amassing of wealth, concentration of capital, beautifying\nof homes, splendid public buildings, private palaces, luxury, display.\nWithout reservoirs of wealth there would be no great universities,\nschools of science, museums, galleries of art, libraries, solid\ninstitutions of charity, and perhaps not the wide diffusion of culture\nwhich is the avowed aim of modern civilization.\n\nBut this in its kind is an old story. It is an experiment that has been\nrepeated over and over. History is the record of the rise of splendid\ncivilizations, many of which have flowered into the most glorious\nproducts of learning and of art, and have left monuments of the proudest\nmaterial achievements. Except in the rapidity with which steam and\nelectricity have enabled us to move to our object, and in the discoveries\nof science which enable us to relieve suffering and prolong human life,\nthere is nothing new in our experiment. We are pursuing substantially the\nold ends of material success and display. And the ends are not different\nbecause we have more people in a nation, or bigger cities with taller\nbuildings, or more miles of railway, or grow more corn and cotton, or\nmake more plows and threshing-machines, or have a greater variety of\nproducts than any nation ever had before. I fancy that a pleased visitor\nfrom another planet the other day at Chicago, who was shown an assembly\nmuch larger than ever before met under one roof, might have been\ninterested to know that it was also the wisest, the most cultivated, the\nmost weighty in character of any assembly ever gathered under one roof.\nOur experiment on this continent was intended to be something more than\nthe creation of a nation on the old pattern, that should become big and\nstrong, and rich and luxurious, divided into classes of the very wealthy\nand the very poor, of the enlightened and the illiterate. It was intended\nto be a nation in which the welfare of the people is the supreme object,\nand whatever its show among nations it fails if it does not become this.\nThis welfare is an individual matter, and it means many things. It\nincludes in the first place physical comfort for every person willing and\ndeserving to be physically comfortable, decent lodging, good food,\nsufficient clothing. It means, in the second place, that this shall be an\nagreeable country to live in, by reason of its impartial laws, social\namenities, and a fair chance to enjoy the gifts of nature and Providence.\nAnd it means, again, the opportunity to develop talents, aptitudes for\ncultivation and enjoyment, in short, freedom to make the most possible\nout of our lives. This is what Jefferson meant by the  pursuit of\nhappiness ; it was what the Constitution meant by the  general welfare, \n and what it tried to secure in States, safe-guarded enough to secure\nindependence in the play of local ambition and home rule, and in a\nfederal republic strong enough to protect the whole from foreign\ninterference. We are in no vain chase of an equality which would\neliminate all individual initiative, and check all progress, by ignoring\ndifferences of capacity and strength, and rating muscles equal to brains.\nBut we are in pursuit of equal laws, and a fairer chance of leading happy\nlives than humanity in general ever had yet. And this fairer chance would\nnot, for instance, permit any man to become a millionaire by so\nmanipulating railways that the subscribing towns and private stockholders\nshould lose their investments; nor would it assume that any Gentile or\nJew has the right to grow rich by the chance of compelling poor women to\nmake shirts for six cents apiece. The public opinion which sustains these\ndeeds is as un-American, and as guilty as their doers. While abuses like\nthese exist, tolerated by the majority that not only make public opinion,\nbut make the laws, this is not a government for the people, any more than\na government of bosses is a government by the people.\n\nThe Pilgrims of Plymouth could see no way of shaping their lives in\naccordance with the higher law except by separating themselves from the\nworld. We have their problem, how to make the most of our lives, but the\nconditions have changed. Ours is an age of scientific aggression, fierce\ncompetition, and the widest toleration. The horizon of humanity is\nenlarged. To live the life now is to be no more isolated or separate, but\nto throw ourselves into the great movement of thought, and feeling, and\nachievement. Therefore we are altruists in charity, missionaries of\nhumanity, patriots at home. Therefore we have a justifiable pride in the\ngrowth, the wealth, the power of the nation, the state, the city. But the\nstream cannot rise above its source. The nation is what the majority of\nits citizens are. It is to be judged by the condition of its humblest\nmembers. We shall gain nothing over other experiments in government,\nalthough we have money enough to buy peace from the rest of the world, or\narms enough to conquer it, although we rear upon our material prosperity\na structure of scientific achievement, of art, of literature\nunparalleled, if the common people are not sharers in this great\nprosperity, and are not fuller of hope and of the enjoyment of life than\ncommon people ever were before.\n\nAnd we are all common people when it comes to that. Whatever the\ngreatness of the nation, whatever the accumulation of wealth, the worth\nof the world to us is exactly the worth of our individual lives. The\nmagnificent opportunity in this Republic is that we may make the most\npossible out of our lives, and it will continue only as we adhere to the\noriginal conception of the Republic. Politics without virtue,\nmoney-making without conscience, may result in great splendor, but as\nsuch an experiment is not new, its end can be predicted. An agreeable\nhome for a vast, and a free, and a happy people is quite another thing.\nIt expects thrift, it expects prosperity, but its foundations are in the\nmoral and spiritual life.\n\nTherefore I say that we are still to make the continent we have\ndiscovered and occupied, and that the scope and quality of our national\nlife are still to be determined. If they are determined not by the narrow\ntenets of the Pilgrims, but by their high sense of duty, and of the value\nof the human soul, it will be a nation that will call the world up to a\nhigher plane of action than it ever attained before, and it will bring in\na new era of humanity. If they are determined by the vulgar successes of\na mere material civilization, it is an experiment not worth making. It\nwould have been better to have left the Indians in possession, to see if\nthey could not have evolved out of their barbarism some new line of\naction.\n\nThe Pilgrims were poor, and they built their huts on a shore which gave\nsuch niggardly returns for labor that the utmost thrift was required to\nsecure the necessaries of life. Out of this struggle with nature and\nsavage life was no doubt evolved the hardihood, the endurance, that\nbuilds states and wins the favors of fortune. But poverty is not commonly\na nurse of virtue, long continued, it is a degeneration. It is almost as\ndifficult for the very poor man to be virtuous as for the very rich man;\nand very good and very rich at the same time, says Socrates, a man cannot\nbe. It is a great people that can withstand great prosperity. The\ncondition of comfort without extremes is that which makes a happy life. I\nknow a village of old-fashioned houses and broad elm-shaded streets in\nNew England, indeed more than one, where no one is inordinately rich, and\nno one is very poor, where paupers are so scarce that it is difficult to\nfind beneficiaries for the small traditionary contribution for the church\npoor; where the homes are centres of intelligence, of interest in books,\nin the news of the world, in the church, in the school, in politics;\nwhence go young men and women to the colleges, teachers to the illiterate\nparts of the land, missionaries to the city slums. Multiply such villages\nall over the country, and we have one of the chief requisites for an\nideal republic.\n\nThis has been the longing of humanity. Poets have sung of it; prophets\nhave had visions of it; statesmen have striven for it; patriots have died\nfor it. There must be somewhere, some time, a fruitage of so much\nsuffering, so much sacrifice, a land of equal laws and equal\nopportunities, a government of all the people for the benefit of all the\npeople; where the conditions of living will be so adjusted that every one\ncan make the most out of his life, neither waste it in hopeless slavery\nnor in selfish tyranny, where poverty and crime will not be hereditary\ngeneration after generation, where great fortunes will not be for vulgar\nostentation, but for the service of humanity and the glory of the State,\nwhere the privileges of freemen will be so valued that no one will be\nmean enough to sell his vote nor corrupt enough to attempt to buy a vote,\nwhere the truth will at last be recognized, that the society is not\nprosperous when half its members are lucky, and half are miserable, and\nthat that nation can only be truly great that takes its orders from the\nGreat Teacher of Humanity.\n\nAnd, lo! at last here is a great continent, virgin, fertile, a land of\nsun and shower and bloom, discovered, organized into a great nation, with\na government flexible in a distributed home rule, stiff as steel in a\ncentral power, already rich, already powerful. It is a land of promise.\nThe materials are all here. Will you repeat the old experiment of a\nmaterial success and a moral and spiritual failure? Or will you make it\nwhat humanity has passionately longed for? Only good individual lives can\ndo that.\n\n\n\n\nSOME CAUSES OF THE PREVAILING DISCONTENT\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nThe Declaration of Independence opens with the statement of a great and\nfruitful political truth. But if it had said:-- We hold these truths to\nbe self-evident: that all men are created unequal; that they are endowed\nby their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are\nlife, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,  it would also have stated\nthe truth; and if it had added,  All men are born in society with certain\nduties which cannot be disregarded without danger to the social state, \n it would have laid down a necessary corollary to the first declaration.\nNo doubt those who signed the document understood that the second clause\nlimited the first, and that men are created equal only in respect to\ncertain rights. But the first part of the clause has been taken alone as\nthe statement of a self-evident truth, and the attempt to make this\nunlimited phrase a reality has caused a great deal of misery. In\nconnection with the neglect of the idea that the recognition of certain\nduties is as important as the recognition of rights in the political and\nsocial state--that is, in connection with the doctrine of laissez faire\n--this popular notion of equality is one of the most disastrous forces in\nmodern society.\n\nDoubtless men might have been created equal to each other in every\nrespect, with the same mental capacity, the same physical ability, with\nlike inheritances of good or bad qualities, and born into exactly similar\nconditions, and not dependent on each other. But men never were so\ncreated and born, so far as we have any record of them, and by analogy we\nhave no reason to suppose that they ever will be. Inequality is the most\nstriking fact in life. Absolute equality might be better, but so far as\nwe can see, the law of the universe is infinite diversity in unity; and\nvariety in condition is the essential of what we call progress--it is, in\nfact, life. The great doctrine of the Christian era--the brotherhood of\nman and the duty of the strong to the weak--is in sharp contrast with\nthis doctrinarian notion of equality. The Christian religion never\nproposed to remove the inequalities of life or its suffering, but by the\nincoming of charity and contentment and a high mind to give individual\nmen a power to be superior to their conditions.\n\nIt cannot, however, be denied that the spirit of Christianity has\nameliorated the condition of civilized peoples, cooperating in this with\nbeneficent inventions. Never were the mass of the people so well fed, so\nwell clad, so well housed, as today in the United States. Their ordinary\ndaily comforts and privileges were the luxuries of a former age, often\nindeed unknown and unattainable to the most fortunate and privileged\nclasses. Nowhere else is it or was it so easy for a man to change his\ncondition, to satisfy his wants, nowhere else has he or had he such\nadvantages of education, such facilities of travel, such an opportunity\nto find an environment to suit himself. As a rule the mass of mankind\nhave been spot where they were born. A mighty change has taken place in\nregard to liberty, freedom of personal action, the possibility of coming\ninto contact with varied life and an enlarged participation in the\nbounties of nature and the inventions of genius. The whole world is in\nmotion, and at liberty to be so. Everywhere that civilization has gone\nthere is an immense improvement in material conditions during the last\none hundred years.\n\nAnd yet men were never so discontented, nor did they ever find so many\nways of expressing their discontent. In view of the general amelioration\nof the conditions of life this seems unreasonable and illogical, but it\nmay seem less so when we reflect that human nature is unchanged, and that\nwhich has to be satisfied in this world is the mind. And there are some\nexceptions to this general material prosperity, in its result to the\nworking classes. Manufacturing England is an exception. There is nothing\nso pitiful, so hopeless in the record of man, not in the Middle Ages, not\nin rural France just before the Revolution, as the physical and mental\ncondition of the operators in the great manufacturing cities and in the\nvast reeking slums of London. The political economists have made England\nthe world's great workshop, on the theory that wealth is the greatest\ngood in life, and that with the golden streams flowing into England from\na tributary world, wages would rise, food be cheap, employment constant.\nThe horrible result to humanity is one of the exceptions to the general\nuplift of the race, not paralleled as yet by anything in this country,\nbut to be taken note of as a possible outcome of any material\ncivilization, and fit to set us thinking whether we have not got on a\nwrong track. Mr. Froude, fresh from a sight of the misery of industrial\nEngland, and borne straight on toward Australia over a vast ocean,\nthrough calm and storm, by a great steamer,--horses of fire yoked to a\nsea-chariot,--exclaims:  What, after all, have these wonderful\nachievements done to elevate human nature? Human nature remains as it\nwas. Science grows, but morality is stationary, and art is vulgarized.\nNot here lie the 'things necessary to salvation,' not the things which\ncan give to human life grace, or beauty, or dignity. \n\nIn the United States, with its open opportunities, abundant land, where\nthe condition of the laboring class is better actually and in possibility\nthan it ever was in history, and where there is little poverty except\nthat which is inevitably the accompaniment of human weakness and crime,\nthe prevailing discontent seems groundless. But of course an agitation so\nwidespread, so much in earnest, so capable of evoking sacrifice, even to\nthe verge of starvation and the risk of life, must have some reason in\nhuman nature. Even an illusion--and men are as ready to die for an\nillusion as for a reality--cannot exist without a cause.\n\nNow, content does not depend so much upon a man's actual as his relative\ncondition. Often it is not so much what I need, as what others have that\ndisturbs me. I should be content to walk from Boston to New York, and be\na fortnight on the way, if everybody else was obliged to walk who made\nthat journey. It becomes a hardship when my neighbor is whisked over the\nroute in six hours and I have to walk. It would still be a hardship if he\nattained the ability to go in an hour, when I was only able to accomplish\nthe distance in six hours. While there has been a tremendous uplift all\nalong the line of material conditions, and the laboring man who is sober\nand industrious has comforts and privileges in his daily life which the\nrich man who was sober and industrious did not enjoy a hundred years ago,\nthe relative position of the rich man and the poor man has not greatly\nchanged. It is true, especially in the United States, that the poor have\nbecome rich and the rich poor, but inequality of condition is about as\nmarked as it was before the invention of labor-saving machinery, and\nthough workingmen are better off in many ways, the accumulation of vast\nfortunes, acquired often in brutal disregard of humanity, marks the\ncontrast of conditions perhaps more emphatically than it ever appeared\nbefore. That this inequality should continue in an era of universal\neducation, universal suffrage, universal locomotion, universal\nemancipation from nearly all tradition, is a surprise, and a perfectly\ncomprehensible cause of discontent. It is axiomatic that all men are\ncreated equal. But, somehow, the problem does not work out in the desired\nactual equality of conditions. Perhaps it can be forced to the right\nconclusion by violence.\n\nIt ought to be said, as to the United States, that a very considerable\npart of the discontent is imported, it is not native, nor based on any\nactual state of things existing here. Agitation has become a business. A\ngreat many men and some women, to whom work of any sort is distasteful,\nlive by it. Some of them are refugees from military or political\ndespotism, some are refugees from justice, some from the lowest\nconditions of industrial slavery. When they come here, they assume that\nthe hardships they have come away to escape exist here, and they begin\nagitating against them. Their business is to so mix the real wrongs of\nour social life with imaginary hardships, and to heighten the whole with\nillusory and often debasing theories, that discontent will be engendered.\nFor it is by means of that only that they live. It requires usually a\ngreat deal of labor, of organization, of oratory to work up this\ndiscontent so that it is profitable. The solid workingmen of America who\nknow the value of industry and thrift, and have confidence in the relief\nto be obtained from all relievable wrongs by legitimate political or\nother sedate action, have no time to give to the leadership of agitations\nwhich require them to quit work, and destroy industries, and attack the\nsocial order upon which they depend. The whole case, you may remember,\nwas embodied thousands of years ago in a parable, which Jotham, standing\non the top of Mount Gerizim, spoke to the men of Shechem:\n\n The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said\nunto the olive-tree, 'Reign thou over us.'\n\n But the olive-tree said unto them, 'Should I leave my fatness wherewith\nby me they honor God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'\n\n And the trees said to the fig-tree, 'Come thou and reign over us.'\n\n But the fig-tree said unto them, 'Should I forsake my sweetness and my\ngood fruit, and go to be promoted over the trees?'\n\n Then said the trees unto the vine, 'Come thou and reign over us.'\n\n And the vine said unto them, 'Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God\nand man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'\n\n Then said the trees unto the bramble, 'Come thou and reign over us.'\n\n And the bramble said to the trees, 'If in truth ye anoint me king over\nyou, then come and put your trust in my shadow; and if not, let fire come\nout of the bramble, and devour the cedars of Lebanon.' \n\nIn our day a conflagration of the cedars of Lebanon has been the only\nresult of the kingship of the bramble.\n\nIn the opinion of many, our universal education is one of the chief\ncauses of the discontent. This might be true and not be an argument\nagainst education, for a certain amount of discontent is essential to\nself-development and if, as we believe, the development of the best\npowers of every human being is a good in itself, education ought not to\nbe held responsible for the evils attending a transitional period. Yet we\ncannot ignore the danger, in the present stage, of an education that is\nnecessarily superficial, that engenders conceit of knowledge and power,\nrather than real knowledge and power, and that breeds in two-thirds of\nthose who have it a distaste for useful labor. We believe in education;\nbut there must be something wrong in an education that sets so many\npeople at odds with the facts of life, and, above all, does not furnish\nthem with any protection against the wildest illusions. There is\nsomething wanting in the education that only half educates people.\n\nWhether there is the relation of cause and effect between the two I do\nnot pretend to say, but universal and superficial education in this\ncountry has been accompanied with the most extraordinary delusions and\nthe evolution of the wildest theories. It is only necessary to refer, by\nway of illustration, to the greenback illusion, and to the whole group of\nspiritualistic disturbances and psychological epidemics. It sometimes\nseems as if half the American people were losing the power to apply\nlogical processes to the ordinary affairs of life.\n\nIn studying the discontent in this country which takes the form of a\nlabor movement, one is at first struck by its illogical aspects. So far\nas it is an organized attempt to better the condition of men by\nassociation of interests it is consistent. But it seems strange that the\ndoctrine of individualism should so speedily have an outcome in a\npersonal slavery, only better in the sense that it is voluntary, than\nthat which it protested against. The revolt from authority, the assertion\nof the right of private judgment, has been pushed forward into a\nsocialism which destroys individual liberty of action, or to a state of\nanarchy in which the weak would have no protection. I do not imagine that\nthe leaders who preach socialism, who live by agitation and not by labor,\nreally desire to overturn the social order and bring chaos. If social\nchaos came, their occupation would be gone, for if all men were reduced\nto a level, they would be compelled to scratch about with the rest for a\nliving. They live by agitation, and they are confident that government\nwill be strong enough to hold things together, so that they can continue\nagitation.\n\nThe strange thing is that their followers who live by labor and expect to\nlive by it, and believe in the doctrine of individualism, and love\nliberty of action, should be willing to surrender their discretion to an\narbitrary committee, and should expect that liberty of action would be\npreserved if all property were handed over to the State, which should\nundertake to regulate every man's time, occupation, wages, and so on. The\ncentral committee or authority, or whatever it might be called, would be\nan extraordinary despotism, tempered only by the idea that it could be\noverturned every twenty-four hours. But what security would there be for\nany calculations in life in a state of things in expectation of a\nrevolution any moment? Compared with the freedom of action in such a\ngovernment as ours, any form of communism is an iniquitous and meddlesome\ndespotism. In a less degree an association to which a man surrenders the\nright to say when, where, and for how much he shall work, is a despotism,\nand when it goes further and attempts to put a pressure on all men\noutside of the association, so that they are free neither to work nor to\nhire the workmen they choose, it is an extraordinary tyranny. It almost\nputs in the shade Mexican or Russian personal government. A demand is\nmade upon a railway company that it shall discharge a certain workman\nbecause and only because he is not a member of the union. The company\nrefuses. Then a distant committee orders a strike on that road, which\nthrows business far and wide into confusion, and is the cause of heavy\nloss to tens of thousands who have no interest in any association of\ncapital or labor, many of whom are ruined by this violence. Some of the\nresults of this surrender of personal liberty are as illegal as\nillogical.\n\nThe boycott is a conspiracy to injure another person, and as such\nindictable at common law. A strike, if a conspiracy only to raise wages\nor to reduce hours of labor, may not be indictable, if its object cannot\nbe shown to be the injury of another, though that may be incidentally its\neffect. But in its incidents, such as violence, intimidation, and in some\ncases injury to the public welfare, it often becomes an indictable\noffense. The law of conspiracy is the most ill-defined branch of\njurisprudence, but it is safe to say of the boycott and the strike that\nthey both introduce an insupportable element of tyranny, of dictation, of\ninterference, into private life. If they could be maintained, society\nwould be at the mercy of an irresponsible and even secret tribunal.\n\nThe strike is illogical. Take the recent experience in this country. We\nhave had a long season of depression, in which many earned very little\nand labor sought employment in vain. In the latter part of winter the\nprospect brightened, business revived, orders for goods poured in to all\nthe factories in the country, and everybody believed that we were on the\neve of a very prosperous season. This was the time taken to order\nstrikes, and they were enforced in perhaps a majority of cases against\nthe wishes of those who obeyed the order, and who complained of no\nimmediate grievance. What men chiefly wanted was the opportunity to work.\nThe result has been to throw us all back into the condition of stagnation\nand depression. Many people are ruined, an immense amount of capital\nwhich ventured into enterprises is lost, but of course the greatest\nsufferers are the workingmen themselves.\n\nThe methods of violence suggested by the communists and anarchists are\nnot remedial. Real difficulties exist, but these do not reach them. The\nfact is that people in any relations incur mutual obligations, and the\nworld cannot go on without a recognition of duties as well as rights. We\nall agree that every man has a right to work for whom he pleases, and to\nquit the work if it does not or the wages do not suit him. On the other\nhand, a man has a right to hire whom he pleases, pay such wages as he\nthinks he can afford, and discharge men who do not suit him. But when men\ncome together in the relation of employer and employed, other\nconsiderations arise. A man has capital which, instead of loaning at\ninterest or locking up in real estate or bonds, he puts into a factory.\nIn other words, he unlocks it for the benefit partly of men who want\nwages. He has the expectation of making money, of making more than he\ncould by lending his money. Perhaps he will be disappointed, for a common\nexperience is the loss of capital thus invested. He hires workmen at\ncertain wages. On the strength of this arrangement, he accepts orders and\nmakes contracts for the delivery of goods. He may make money one year and\nlose the next. It is better for the workman that he should prosper, for\nthe fund of capital accumulated is that upon which they depend to give\nthem wages in a dull time. But some day when he is in a corner with\norders, and his rivals are competing for the market, and labor is scarce,\nhis men strike on him.\n\nConversely, take the workman settled down to work in the mill, at the\nbest wages attainable at the time. He has a house and family. He has\ngiven pledges to society. His employer has incurred certain duties in\nregard to him by the very nature of their relations. Suppose the workman\nand his family cannot live in any comfort on the wages he receives. The\nemployer is morally bound to increase the wages if he can. But if,\ninstead of sympathizing with the situation of his workman, he forms a\ncombination with all the mills of his sort, and reduces wages merely to\nincrease his gains, he is guilty of an act as worthy of indictment as the\nstrike. I do not see why a conspiracy against labor is not as illegal as\na conspiracy against capital. The truth is, the possession of power by\nmen or associations makes them selfish and generally cruel. Few employers\nconsider anything but the arithmetic of supply and demand in fixing\nwages, and workingmen who have the power, tend to act as selfishly as the\nmale printers used to act in striking in an establishment which dared to\ngive employment to women typesetters. It is of course sentimental to say\nit, but I do not expect we shall ever get on with less friction than we\nhave now, until men recognize their duties as well as their rights in\ntheir relations with each other.\n\nIn running over some of the reasons for the present discontent, and the\noften illogical expression of it, I am far from saying anything against\nlegitimate associations for securing justice and fair play. Disassociated\nlabor has generally been powerless against accumulated capital. Of\ncourse, organized labor, getting power will use its power (as power is\nalways used) unjustly and tyrannically. It will make mistakes, it will\noften injure itself while inflicting general damage. But with all its\ninjustice, with all its surrender of personal liberty, it seeks to call\nthe attention of the world to certain hideous wrongs, to which the world\nis likely to continue selfishly indifferent unless rudely shaken out of\nits sense of security. Some of the objects proposed by these associations\nare chimerical, but the agitation will doubtless go on until another\nelement is introduced into work and wages than mere supply and demand. I\nbelieve that some time it will be impossible that a woman shall be forced\nto make shirts at six cents apiece, with the gaunt figures of starvation\nor a life of shame waiting at the door. I talked recently with the driver\nof a street-car in a large city. He received a dollar and sixty cents a\nday. He went on to his platform at eight in the morning, and left it at\ntwelve at night, sixteen hours of continuous labor every day in the week.\nHe had no rest for meals, only snatched what he could eat as he drove\nalong, or at intervals of five or eight minutes at the end of routes. He\nhad no Sunday, no holiday in the year.\n\nBetween twelve o'clock at night and eight the next morning he must wash\nand clean his car. Thus his hours of sleep were abridged. He was obliged\nto keep an eye on the passengers to see that they put their fares in the\nbox, to be always, responsible for them, that they got on and off without\naccident, to watch that the rules were enforced, and that collisions and\ncommon street dangers were avoided. This mental and physical strain for\nsixteen consecutive hours, with scant sleep, so demoralized him that he\nwas obliged once in two or three months to hire a substitute and go away\nto sleep. This is treating a human being with less consideration than the\nhorses receive. He is powerless against the great corporation; if he\ncomplains, his place is instantly filled; the public does not care.\n\nNow what I want to say about this case, and that of the woman who makes a\nshirt for six cents (and these are only types of disregard of human souls\nand bodies that we are all familiar with), is that if society remains\nindifferent it must expect that organizations will attempt to right them,\nand the like wrongs, by ways violent and destructive of the innocent and\nguilty alike. It is human nature, it is the lesson of history, that real\nwrongs, unredressed, grow into preposterous demands. Men are much like\nnature in action; a little disturbance of atmospheric equilibrium becomes\na cyclone, a slight break in the levee 'a crevasse with immense\ndestructive power.\n\nIn considering the growth of discontent, and of a natural disregard of\nduties between employers and employed, it is to be noted that while wages\nin nearly all trades are high, the service rendered deteriorates, less\nconscience is put into the work, less care to give a fair day's work for\na fair day's wages, and that pride in good work is vanishing. This may be\nin the nature of retaliation for the indifference to humanity taught by a\ncertain school of political economists, but it is, nevertheless, one of\nthe most alarming features of these times. How to cultivate the sympathy\nof the employers with the employed as men, and how to interest the\nemployed in their work beyond the mere wages they receive, is the double\nproblem.\n\nAs the intention of this paper was not to suggest remedies, but only to\nreview some of the causes of discontent, I will only say, as to this\ndouble problem, that I see no remedy so long as the popular notion\nprevails that the greatest good of life is to make money rapidly, and\nwhile it is denied that all men who contribute to prosperity ought to\nshare equitably in it. The employed must recognize the necessity of an\naccumulated fund of capital, and on the other hand the employer must be\nas anxious to have about him a contented, prosperous community, as to\nheap up money beyond any reasonable use for it. The demand seems to be\nreasonable that the employer in a prosperous year ought to share with the\nworkmen the profits beyond a limit that capital, risk, enterprise, and\nsuperior skill can legitimately claim; and that on the other hand the\nworkmen should stand by the employer in hard times.\n\nDiscontent, then, arises from absurd notions of equality, from natural\nconditions of inequality, from false notions of education, and from the\nvery patent fact, in this age, that men have been educated into wants\nmuch more rapidly than social conditions have been adjusted, or perhaps\never can be adjusted, to satisfy those wants. Beyond all the actual\nhardship and suffering, there is an immense mental discontent which has\nto be reckoned with.\n\nThis leads me to what I chiefly wanted to say in this paper, to the cause\nof discontent which seems to me altogether the most serious, altogether\nthe most difficult to deal with. We may arrive at some conception of it,\nif we consider what it is that the well-to-do, the prosperous, the rich,\nthe educated and cultivated portions of society, most value just now.\n\nIf, to take an illustration which is sufficiently remote to give us the\nnecessary perspective, if the political economists, the manufacturers,\nthe traders and aristocracy of England had had chiefly in mind the\ndevelopment of the laboring people of England into a fine type of men and\nwomen, full of health and physical vigor, with minds capable of expansion\nand enjoyment, the creation of decent, happy, and contented homes, would\nthey have reared the industrial fabric we now see there? If they had not\nput the accumulation of wealth above the good of individual humanity,\nwould they have turned England into a grimy and smoky workshop,\ncommanding the markets of the world by cheap labor, condemning the mass\nof the people to unrelieved toil and the most squalid and degraded\nconditions of life in towns, while the land is more and more set apart\nfor the parks and pleasure grounds of the rich? The policy pursued has\nmade England the richest of countries, a land of the highest refinement\nand luxury for the upper classes, and of the most misery for the great\nmass of common people. On this point we have but to read the testimony of\nEnglish writers themselves. It is not necessary to suppose that the\npolitical economists were inhuman. They no doubt believed that if England\nattained this commanding position, the accumulated wealth would raise all\nclasses into better conditions. Their mistake is that of all peoples who\nhave made money their first object. Looked at merely on the material\nside, you would think that what a philanthropic statesman would desire,\nwho wished a vigorous, prosperous nation, would be a strong and virile\npopulation, thrifty and industrious, and not mere slaves of mines and\nmills, degenerating in their children, year by year, physically and\nmorally. But apparently they have gone upon the theory that it is money,\nnot man, that makes a state.\n\nIn the United States, under totally different conditions, and under an\neconomic theory that, whatever its defects on paper, has nevertheless\ninsisted more upon the worth of the individual man, we have had, all the\nsame, a distinctly material development. When foreign critics have\ncommented upon this, upon our superficiality, our commonplaceness, what\nthey are pleased to call the weary level of our mediocrity, upon the\nraging unrest and race for fortune, and upon the tremendous pace of\nAmerican life, we have said that this is incident to a new country and\nthe necessity of controlling physical conditions, and of fitting our\nheterogeneous population to their environment. It is hardly to be\nexpected, we have said, until, we have the leisure that comes from easy\ncircumstances and accumulated wealth, that we should show the graces of\nthe highest civilization, in intellectual pursuits. Much of this\ncriticism is ignorant, and to say the best of it, ungracious, considering\nwhat we have done in the way of substantial appliances for education, in\nthe field of science, in vast charities, and missionary enterprises, and\nwhat we have to show in the diffused refinements of life.\n\nWe are already wealthy; we have greater resources and higher credit than\nany other nation; we have more wealth than any save one; we have vast\naccumulations of fortune, in private hands and in enormous corporations.\nThere exists already, what could not be said to exist a quarter of a\ncentury ago, a class who have leisure. Now what is the object in life of\nthis great, growing class that has money and leisure, what does it\nchiefly care for? In your experience of society, what is it that it\npursues and desires? Is it things of the mind or things of the senses?\nWhat is it that interests women, men of fortune, club-men, merchants, and\nprofessional men whose incomes give them leisure to follow their\ninclinations, the young men who have inherited money? Is it political\nduties, the affairs of state, economic problems, some adjustment of our\nrelations that shall lighten and relieve the wrongs and misery everywhere\napparent; is the interest in intellectual pursuits and art (except in a\ndilettante way dictated for a season by fashion) in books, in the wide\nrange of mental pleasures which make men superior to the accidents of\nfortune? Or is the interest of this class, for the most part, with some\nnoble exceptions, rather in things grossly material, in what is called\npleasure? To come to somewhat vulgar details, is not the growing desire\nfor equipages, for epicurean entertainments, for display, either refined\nor ostentatious, rivalry in profusion and expense, new methods for\nkilling time, for every imaginable luxury, which is enjoyed partly\nbecause it pleases the senses, and partly because it satisfies an ignoble\ncraving for class distinction?\n\nI am not referring to these things as a moralist at all, but simply in\ntheir relation to popular discontent. The astonishing growth of luxury\nand the habit of sensual indulgence are seen everywhere in this country,\nbut are most striking in the city of New York, since the fashion and\nwealth of the whole country meet there for display and indulgence,--New\nYork, which rivals London and outdoes Paris in sumptuousness. There\ncongregate more than elsewhere idlers, men and women of leisure who have\nnothing to do except to observe or to act in the spectacle of Vanity\nFair. Aside from the display of luxury in the shops, in the streets, in\nprivate houses, one is impressed by the number of idle young men and\nwomen of fashion.\n\nIt is impossible that a workingman who stands upon a metropolitan street\ncorner and observes this Bacchanalian revel and prodigality of expense,\nshould not be embittered by a sense of the inequality of the conditions\nof life. But this is not the most mischievous effect of the spectacle. It\nis the example of what these people care for. With all their wealth and\nopportunities, it seems to him that these select people have no higher\nobject than the pleasures of the senses, and he is taught daily by\nreiterated example that this is the end and aim of life. When he sees the\nvalue the intelligent and the well-to-do set upon material things, and\ntheir small regard for intellectual things and the pleasures of the mind,\nwhy should he not most passionately desire those things which his more\nfortunate neighbors put foremost? It is not the sight of a Peter Cooper\nand his wealth that discontents him, nor the intellectual pursuits of the\nscholar who uses the leisure his fortune gives him for the higher\npleasures of the mind. But when society daily dins upon his senses the\nlesson that not manhood and high thinking and a contented spirit are the\nmost desirable things, whether one is rich or poor, is he to be blamed\nfor having a wrong notion of what will or should satisfy him? What the\nwell-to-do, the prosperous, are seen to value most in life will be the\nthings most desired by the less fortunate in accumulation. It is not so\nmuch the accumulation of money that is mischievous in this country, for\nthe most stupid can see that fortunes are constantly shifting hands, but\nit is the use that is made of the leisure and opportunity that money\nbrings.\n\nAnother observation, which makes men discontented with very slow\naccumulation, is that apparently, in the public estimation it does not\nmake much difference whether a man acquires wealth justly or unjustly. If\nhe only secures enough, he is a power, he has social position, he grasps\nthe high honors and places in the state. The fact is that the toleration\nof men who secure wealth by well known dishonest and sharp practices is a\nchief cause of the demoralization of the public conscience.\n\nHowever the lines social and political may be drawn, we have to keep in\nmind that nothing in one class can be foreign to any other, and that\npractically one philosophy underlies all the movements of an age. If our\nphilosophy is material, resulting in selfish ethics, all our energies\nwill have a materialistic tendency. It is not to be wondered at,\ntherefore, that, in a time when making money is the chief object, if it\nis not reckoned the chief good, our education should all tend to what is\ncalled practical, that is, to that which can be immediately serviceable\nin some profitable occupation of life, to the neglect of those studies\nwhich are only of use in training the intellect and cultivating and\nbroadening the higher intelligence. To this purely material and\nutilitarian idea of life, the higher colleges and universities everywhere\nare urged to conform themselves. Thus is the utilitarian spirit eating\naway the foundations of a higher intellectual life, applying to\neverything a material measure. In proportion as scholars yield to it,\nthey are lowering the standard of what is most to be desired in human\nlife, acting in perfect concert with that spirit which exalts money\nmaking as the chief good, which makes science itself the slave of the\navaricious and greedy, and fills all the world with discontented and\nignoble longing. We do not need to be told that if we neglect pure\nscience for the pursuit of applied science only, applied science will\nspeedily be degraded and unfruitful; and it is just as true that if we\npursue knowledge only for the sake of gain, and not for its own sake,\nknowledge will lose the power it has of satisfying the higher needs of\nthe human soul. If we are seen to put only a money value on the higher\neducation, why should not the workingman, who regards it only as a\ndistinction of class or privilege, estimate it by what he can see of its\npractical results in making men richer, or bringing him more pleasure of\nthe senses?\n\nThe world is ruled by ideas, by abstract thought. Society, literature,\nart, politics, in any given age are what the prevailing system of\nphilosophy makes them. We recognize this clearly in studying any past\nperiod. We see, for instance, how all the currents of human life changed\nupon the adoption of the inductive method; no science, no literature, no\nart, practical or fine, no person, inquiring scholar, day laborer,\ntrader, sailor, fine lady or humblest housekeeper, escaped the influence.\nEven though the prevailing ethics may teach that every man's highest duty\nis to himself, we cannot escape community of sympathy and destiny in this\ncold-blooded philosophy.\n\nNo social or political movement stands by itself. If we inquire, we shall\nfind one preponderating cause underlying every movement of the age. If\nthe utilitarian spirit is abroad, it accounts for the devotion to the\nproduction of wealth, and to the consequent separation of classes and the\ndiscontent, and it accounts also for the demand that all education shall\nbe immediately useful. I was talking the other day with a lady who was\ndoubting what sort of an education to give her daughter, a young girl of\nexceedingly fine mental capacity. If she pursued a classical course, she\nwould, at the age of twenty-one, know very little of the sciences. And I\nsaid, why not make her an intellectual woman? At twenty-one, with a\ntrained mind, all knowledges are at one's feet.\n\nIf anything can correct the evils of devotion to money, it seems to me\nthat it is the production of intellectual men and women, who will find\nother satisfactions in life than those of the senses. And when labor sees\nwhat it is that is really most to be valued, its discontent will be of a\nnobler kind.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EDUCATION OF THE NEGRO\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nAt the close of the war for the Union about five millions of negroes were\nadded to the citizenship of the United States. By the census of 1890 this\nnumber had become over seven and a half millions. I use the word negro\nbecause the descriptive term black or colored is not determinative. There\nare many varieties of negroes among the African tribes, but all of them\nagree in certain physiological if not psychological characteristics,\nwhich separate them from all other races of mankind; whereas there are\nmany races, black or colored, like the Abyssinian, which have no other\nnegro traits.\n\nIt is also a matter of observation that the negro traits persist in\nrecognizable manifestations, to the extent of occasional reversions,\nwhatever may be the mixture of a white race. In a certain degree this\npersistence is true of all races not come from an historic common stock.\n\nIn the political reconstruction the negro was given the ballot without\nany requirements of education or property. This was partly a measure of\nparty balance of power; and partly from a concern that the negro would\nnot be secure in his rights as a citizen without it, and also upon the\ntheory that the ballot is an educating influence.\n\nThis sudden transition and shifting of power was resented at the South,\nresisted at first, and finally it has generally been evaded. This was due\nto a variety of reasons or prejudices, not all of them creditable to a\ngenerous desire for the universal elevation of mankind, but one of them\nthe historian will judge adequate to produce the result. Indeed, it might\nhave been foreseen from the beginning. This reconstruction measure was an\nattempt to put the superior part of the community under the control of\nthe inferior, these parts separated by all the prejudices of race, and by\ntraditions of mastership on the one side and of servitude on the other. I\nventure to say that it was an experiment that would have failed in any\ncommunity in the United States, whether it was presented as a piece of\nphilanthropy or of punishment.\n\nA necessary sequence to the enfranchisement of the negro was his\neducation. However limited our idea of a proper common education may be,\nit is a fundamental requisite in our form of government that every voter\nshould be able to read and write. A recognition of this truth led to the\nestablishment in the South of public schools for the whites and blacks,\nin short, of a public school system. We are not to question the sincerity\nand generousness of this movement, however it may have halted and lost\nenthusiasm in many localities.\n\nThis opportunity of education (found also in private schools) was hailed\nby the negroes, certainly, with enthusiasm. It cannot be doubted that at\nthe close of the war there was a general desire among the freedmen to be\ninstructed in the rudiments of knowledge at least. Many parents,\nespecially women, made great sacrifices to obtain for their children this\nadvantage which had been denied to themselves. Many youths, both boys and\ngirls, entered into it with a genuine thirst for knowledge which it was\npathetic to see.\n\nBut it may be questioned, from developments that speedily followed,\nwhether the mass of negroes did not really desire this advantage as a\nsign of freedom, rather than from a wish for knowledge, and covet it\nbecause it had formerly been the privilege of their masters, and marked a\nbroad distinction between the races. It was natural that this should be\nso, when they had been excluded from this privilege by pains and\npenalties, when in some States it was one of the gravest offenses to\nteach a negro to read and write. This prohibition was accounted for by\nthe peculiar sort of property that slavery created, which would become\ninsecure if intelligent, for the alphabet is a terrible disturber of all\nfalse relations in society.\n\nBut the effort at education went further than the common school and the\nprimary essential instruction. It introduced the higher education.\nColleges usually called universities--for negroes were established in\nmany Southern States, created and stimulated by the generosity of\nNorthern men and societies, and often aided by the liberality of the\nStates where they existed. The curriculum in these was that in colleges\ngenerally,--the classics, the higher mathematics, science, philosophy,\nthe modern languages, and in some instances a certain technical\ninstruction, which was being tried in some Northern colleges. The\nemphasis, however, was laid on liberal culture. This higher education was\noffered to the mass that still lacked the rudiments of intellectual\ntraining, in the belief that education--the education of the moment, the\neducation of superimposed information, can realize the theory of\nuniversal equality.\n\nThis experiment has now been in operation long enough to enable us to\njudge something of its results and its promises for the future. These\nresults are of a nature to lead us seriously to inquire whether our\neffort was founded upon an adequate knowledge of the negro, of his\npresent development, of the requirements for his personal welfare and\nevolution in the scale of civilization, and for his training in useful\nand honorable citizenship. I am speaking of the majority, the mass to be\nconsidered in any general scheme, and not of the exceptional individuals\n--exceptions that will rapidly increase as the mass is lifted--who are\ncapable of taking advantage to the utmost of all means of cultivation,\nand who must always be provided with all the opportunities needed.\n\nMillions of dollars have been invested in the higher education of the\nnegro, while this primary education has been, taking the whole mass,\nwholly inadequate to his needs. This has been upon the supposition that\nthe higher would compel the rise of the lower with the undeveloped negro\nrace as it does with the more highly developed white race. An examination\nof the soundness of this expectation will not lead us far astray from our\nsubject.\n\nThe evolution of a race, distinguishing it from the formation of a\nnation, is a slow process. We recognize a race by certain peculiar\ntraits, and by characteristics which slowly change. They are acquired\nlittle by little in an evolution which, historically, it is often\ndifficult to trace. They are due to the environment, to the discipline of\nlife, and to what is technically called education. These work together to\nmake what is called character, race character, and it is this which is\ntransmitted from generation to generation. Acquirements are not\nhereditary, like habits and peculiarities, physical or mental. A man does\nnot transmit to his descendants his learning, though he may transmit the\naptitude for it. This is illustrated in factories where skilled labor is\nhanded down and fixed in the same families, that is, where the same kind\nof labor is continued from one generation to another. The child, put to\nwork, has not the knowledge of the parent, but a special aptitude in his\nskill and dexterity. Both body and mind have acquired certain\ntransmissible traits. The same thing is seen on a larger scale in a whole\nnation, like the Japanese, who have been trained into what seems an art\ninstinct.\n\nIt is this character, quality, habit, the result of a slow educational\nprocess, which distinguishes one race from another. It is this that the\nrace transmits, and not the more or less accidental education of a decade\nor an era. The Brahmins carry this idea into the next life, and say that\nthe departing spirit carries with him nothing except this individual\ncharacter, no acquirements or information or extraneous culture. It was\nperhaps in the same spirit that the sad preacher in Ecclesiastes said\nthere is no  knowledge nor wisdom in the grave, whither thou goest. \n\nIt is by this character that we classify civilized and even\nsemi-civilized races; by this slowly developed fibre, this slow\naccumulation of inherent quality in the evolution of the human being from\nlower to higher, that continues to exist notwithstanding the powerful\ninfluence of governments and religions. We are understood when we speak\nof the French, the Italian, the Pole, the Spanish, the English, the\nGerman, the Arab race, the Japanese, and so on. It is what a foreign\nwriter calls, not inaptly, a collective race soul. As it is slow in\nevolution, it is persistent in enduring.\n\nFurther, we recognize it as a stage of progress, historically necessary\nin the development of man into a civilized adaptation to his situation in\nthis world. It is a process that cannot be much hurried, and a result\nthat cannot be leaped to out of barbarism by any superimposition of\nknowledge or even quickly by any change of environment. We may be right\nin our modern notion that education has a magical virtue that can work\nany kind of transformation; but we are certainly not right in supposing\nthat it can do this instantly, or that it can work this effect upon a\nbarbarous race in the same period of time that it can upon one more\ndeveloped, one that has acquired at least a race consciousness.\n\nBefore going further, and in order to avoid misunderstanding, it is\nproper to say that I have the firmest belief in the ultimate development\nof all mankind into a higher plane than it occupies now. I should\notherwise be in despair. This faith will never desist in the effort to\nbring about the end desired.\n\nBut, if we work with Providence, we must work in the reasonable ways of\nProvidence, and add to our faith patience.\n\nIt seems to be the rule in all history that the elevation of a lower race\nis effected only by contact with one higher in civilization. Both reform\nand progress come from exterior influences. This is axiomatic, and\napplies to the fields of government, religion, ethics, art, and letters.\n\nWe have been taught to regard Africa as a dark, stolid continent,\nunawakened, unvisited by the agencies and influences that have\ntransformed the world from age to age. Yet it was in northern and\nnortheastern Africa that within historic periods three of the most\npowerful and brilliant civilizations were developed,--the Egyptian, the\nCarthaginian, the Saracenic. That these civilizations had more than a\nsurface contact with the interior, we know. To take the most ancient of\nthem, and that which longest endured, the Egyptian, the Pharaohs carried\ntheir conquests and their power deep into Africa. In the story of their\ninvasions and occupancy of the interior, told in pictures on temple\nwalls, we find the negro figuring as captive and slave. This contact may\nnot have been a fruitful one for the elevation of the negro, but it\nproves that for ages he was in one way or another in contact with a\nsuperior civilization. In later days we find little trace of it in the\nhome of the negro, but in Egypt the negro has left his impress in the\nmixed blood of the Nile valley.\n\nThe most striking example of the contact of the negro with a higher\ncivilization is in the powerful medieval empire of Songhay, established\nin the heart of the negro country. The vast strip of Africa lying north\nof the equator and south of the twentieth parallel and west of the upper\nNile was then, as it is now, the territory of tribes distinctly described\nas Negro. The river Niger, running northward from below Jenne to near\nTimbuctoo, and then turning west and south to the Gulf of Guinea, flows\nthrough one of the richest valleys in the world. In richness it is\ncomparable to that of the Nile and, like that of the Nile, its fertility\ndepends upon the water of the central stream. Here arose in early times\nthe powerful empire of Songhay, which disintegrated and fell into tribal\nconfusion about the middle of the seventeenth century. For a long time\nthe seat of its power was the city of Jenne; in later days it was\nTimbuctoo.\n\nThis is not the place to enlarge upon this extraordinary piece of\nhistory. The best account of the empire of Songhay is to be found in the\npages of Barth, the German traveler, who had access to what seemed to him\na credible Arab history. Considerable light is thrown upon it by a recent\nvolume on Timbuctoo by M. Dubois, a French traveler. M. Dubois finds\nreason to believe that the founders of the Songhese empire came from\nYemen, and sought refuge from Moslem fanaticism in Central Africa some\nhundred and fifty years after the Hejira. The origin of the empire is\nobscure, but the development was not indigenous. It seems probable that\nthe settlers, following traders, penetrated to the Niger valley from the\nvalley of the Nile as early as the third or fourth century of our era. An\nevidence of this early influence, which strengthened from century to\ncentury, Dubois finds in the architecture of Jenne and Timbuctoo. It is\nnot Roman or Saracenic or Gothic, it is distinctly Pharaonic. But\nwhatever the origin of the Songhay empire, it became in time Mohammedan,\nand so continued to the end. Mohammedanism seems, however, to have been\nimposed. Powerful as the empire was, it was never free from tribal\ninsurrection and internal troubles. The highest mark of negro capacity\ndeveloped in this history is, according to the record examined by Barth,\nthat one of the emperors was a negro.\n\nFrom all that can be gathered in the records, the mass of the negroes,\nwhich constituted the body of this empire, remained pagan, did not\nbecome, except in outward conformity, Mohammedan and did not take the\nMoslem civilization as it was developed elsewhere, and that the\ndisintegration of the empire left the negro races practically where they\nwere before in point of development. This fact, if it is not overturned\nby further search, is open to the explanation that the Moslem\ncivilization is not fitted to the development of the African negro.\n\nContact, such as it has been, with higher civilizations, has not in all\nthese ages which have witnessed the wonderful rise and development of\nother races, much affected or changed the negro. He is much as he would\nbe if he had been left to himself. And left to himself, even in such a\nfavorable environment as America, he is slow to change. In Africa there\nhas been no progress in organization, government, art.\n\nNo negro tribe has ever invented a written language. In his exhaustive\nwork on the History of Mankind, Professor Frederick Ratzel, having\nstudied thoroughly the negro belt of Africa, says  of writing properly so\ncalled, neither do the modern negroes show any trace, nor have traces of\nolder writing been found in negro countries. \n\nFrom this outline review we come back to the situation in the United\nStates, where a great mass of negroes--possibly over nine millions of\nmany shades of colors--is for the first time brought into contact with\nChristian civilization. This mass is here to make or mar our national\nlife, and the problem of its destiny has to be met with our own. What can\nwe do, what ought we to do, for his own good and for our peace and\nnational welfare?\n\nIn the first place, it is impossible to escape the profound impression\nthat we have made a mistake in our estimate of his evolution as a race,\nin attempting to apply to him the same treatment for the development of\ncharacter that we would apply to a race more highly organized. Has he\ndeveloped the race consciousness, the race soul, as I said before, a\ncollective soul, which so strongly marks other races more or less\ncivilized according to our standards? Do we find in him, as a mass\n(individuals always excepted), that slow deposit of training and\neducation called  character,  any firm basis of order, initiative of\naction, the capacity of going alone, any sure foundation of morality? It\nhas been said that a race may attain a good degree of standing in the\nworld without the refinement of culture, but never without virtue, either\nin the Roman or the modern meaning of that word.\n\nThe African, now the American negro, has come in the United States into a\nmore favorable position for development than he has ever before had\noffered. He has come to it through hardship, and his severe\napprenticeship is not ended. It is possible that the historians centuries\nhence, looking back over the rough road that all races have traveled in\ntheir evolution, may reckon slavery and the forced transportation to the\nnew world a necessary step in the training of the negro. We do not know.\nThe ways of Providence are not measurable by our foot rules. We see that\nslavery was unjust, uneconomic, and the worst training for citizenship in\nsuch a government as ours. It stifled a number of germs that might have\nproduced a better development, such as individuality, responsibility, and\nthrift,--germs absolutely necessary to the well-being of a race. It laid\nno foundation of morality, but in place of morality saw cultivated a\nsuperstitious, emotional, hysterical religion. It is true that it taught\na savage race subordination and obedience. Nor did it stifle certain\ninherent temperamental virtues, faithfulness, often highly developed, and\nfrequently cheerfulness and philosophic contentment in a situation that\nwould have broken the spirit of a more sensitive race. In short, under\nall the disadvantages of slavery the race showed certain fine traits,\nqualities of humor and good humor, and capacity for devotion, which were\nabundantly testified to by southerners during the progress of the Civil\nWar. It has, as a race, traits wholly distinct from those of the whites,\nwhich are not only interesting, but might be a valuable contribution to a\ncosmopolitan civilization; gifts also, such as the love of music, and\ntemperamental gayety, mixed with a note of sadness, as in the Hungarians.\n\nBut slavery brought about one result, and that the most difficult in the\ndevelopment of a race from savagery, and especially a tropical race, a\nrace that has always been idle in the luxuriance of a nature that\nsupplied its physical needs with little labor. It taught the negro to\nwork, it transformed him, by compulsion it is true, into an industrial\nbeing, and held him in the habit of industry for several generations.\nPerhaps only force could do this, for it was a radical transformation. I\nam glad to see that this result of slavery is recognized by Mr. Booker\nWashington, the ablest and most clear-sighted leader the negro race has\never had.\n\nBut something more was done under this pressure, something more than\ncreation of a habit of physical exertion to productive ends. Skill was\ndeveloped. Skilled labor, which needs brains, was carried to a high\ndegree of performance. On almost all the Southern plantations, and in the\ncities also, negro mechanics were bred, excellent blacksmiths, good\ncarpenters, and house-builders capable of executing plans of high\narchitectural merit. Everywhere were negroes skilled in trades, and\ncompetent in various mechanical industries.\n\nThe opportunity and the disposition to labor make the basis of all our\ncivilization. The negro was taught to work, to be an agriculturist, a\nmechanic, a material producer of something useful. He was taught this\nfundamental thing. Our higher education, applied to him in his present\ndevelopment, operates in exactly the opposite direction.\n\nThis is a serious assertion. Its truth or falsehood cannot be established\nby statistics, but it is an opinion gradually formed by experience, and\nthe observation of men competent to judge, who have studied the problem\nclose at hand. Among the witnesses to the failure of the result expected\nfrom the establishment of colleges and universities for the negro are\nheard, from time to time, and more frequently as time goes on, practical\nmen from the North, railway men, manufacturers, who have initiated\nbusiness enterprises at the South. Their testimony coincides with that of\ncareful students of the economic and social conditions.\n\nThere was reason to assume, from our theory and experience of the higher\neducation in its effect upon white races, that the result would be\ndifferent from what it is. When the negro colleges first opened, there\nwas a glow of enthusiasm, an eagerness of study, a facility of\nacquirement, and a good order that promised everything for the future. It\nseemed as if the light then kindled would not only continue to burn, but\nwould penetrate all the dark and stolid communities. It was my fortune to\nsee many of these institutions in their early days, and to believe that\nthey were full of the greatest promise for the race. I have no intention\nof criticising the generosity and the noble self-sacrifice that produced\nthem, nor the aspirations of their inmates. There is no doubt that they\nfurnish shining examples of emancipation from ignorance, and of useful\nlives. But a few years have thrown much light upon the careers and\ncharacters of a great proportion of the graduates, and their effect upon\nthe communities of which they form a part, I mean, of course, with regard\nto the industrial and moral condition of those communities. Have these\ncolleges, as a whole,--[This sentence should have been further qualified\nby acknowledging the excellent work done by the colleges at Atlanta and\nNashville, which, under exceptionally good management, have sent out\nmuch-needed teachers. I believe that their success, however, is largely\nowing to their practical features.--C.D.W.]--stimulated industry,\nthrift, the inclination to settle down to the necessary hard work of the\nworld, or have they bred idleness, indisposition to work, a vaporous\nambition in politics, and that sort of conceit of gentility of which the\nworld has already enough? If any one is in doubt about this he can\nsatisfy himself by a sojourn in different localities in the South. The\ncondition of New Orleans and its negro universities is often cited. It is\na favorable example, because the ambition of the negro has been aided\nthere by influence outside of the schools. The federal government has\nimposed upon the intelligent and sensitive population negro officials in\nhigh positions, because they were negroes and not because they were\nspecially fitted for those positions by character or ability. It is my\nbelief that the condition of the race in New Orleans is lower than it was\nseveral years ago, and that the influence of the higher education has\nbeen in the wrong direction.\n\nThis is not saying that the higher education is responsible for the\npresent condition of the negro.\n\nOther influences have retarded his elevation and the development of\nproper character, and most important means have been neglected. I only\nsay that we have been disappointed in our extravagant expectations of\nwhat this education could do for a race undeveloped, and so wanting in\ncertain elements of character, and that the millions of money devoted to\nit might have been much better applied.\n\nWe face a grave national situation. It cannot be successfully dealt with\nsentimentally. It should be faced with knowledge and candor. We must\nadmit our mistakes, both social and political, and set about the solution\nof our problem with intelligent resolution and a large charity. It is not\nsimply a Southern question. It is a Northern question as well. For the\ntruth of this I have only to appeal to the consciousness of all Northern\ncommunities in which there are negroes in any considerable numbers. Have\nthe negroes improved, as a rule (always remembering the exceptions), in\nthrift, truthfulness, morality, in the elements of industrious\ncitizenship, even in States and towns where there has been the least\nprejudice against their education? In a paper read at the last session of\nthis Association, Professor W. F. Willcox of Cornell University showed by\nstatistics that in proportion to population there were more negro\ncriminals in the North than in the South.  The negro prisoners in the\nSouthern States to ten thousand negroes increased between 1880 and 1890\ntwenty-nine per cent., while the white prisoners to ten thousand whites\nincreased only eight per cent.   In the States where slavery was never\nestablished, the white prisoners increased seven per cent. faster than\nthe white population, while the negro prisoners no less than thirty-nine\nper cent. faster than the negro population. Thus the increase of negro\ncriminality, so far as it is reflected in the number of prisoners,\nexceeded the increase of white criminality more in the North than it did\nin the South. \n\nThis statement was surprising. It cannot be accounted for by color\nprejudice at the North; it is related to the known shiftlessness and\nirresponsibility of a great portion of the negro population. If it could\nbe believed that this shiftlessness is due to the late state of slavery,\nthe explanation would not do away with the existing conditions. Schools\nat the North have for a long time been open to the negro; though color\nprejudice exists, he has not been on the whole in an unfriendly\natmosphere, and willing hands have been stretched out to help him in his\nambition to rise. It is no doubt true, as has been often said lately,\nthat the negro at the North has been crowded out of many occupations by\nmore vigorous races, newly come to this country, crowded out not only of\nfactory industries and agricultural, but of the positions of servants,\nwaiters, barbers, and other minor ways of earning a living. The general\nverdict is that this loss of position is due to lack of stamina and\ntrustworthiness. Wherever a negro has shown himself able, honest,\nattentive to the moral and economic duties of a citizen, either\nsuccessful in accumulating property or filling honorably his station in\nlife, he has gained respect and consideration in the community in which\nhe is known; and this is as true at the South as at the North,\nnotwithstanding the race antagonism is more accentuated by reason of the\npreponderance of negro population there and the more recent presence of\nslavery. Upon this ugly race antagonism it is not necessary to enlarge\nhere in discussing the problem of education, and I will leave it with the\nsingle observation that I have heard intelligent negroes, who were\nhonestly at work, accumulating property and disposed to postpone active\npolitics to a more convenient season, say that they had nothing to fear\nfrom the intelligent white population, but only from the envy of the\nignorant.\n\nThe whole situation is much aggravated by the fact that there is a\nconsiderable infusion of white blood in the negro race in the United\nStates, leading to complications and social aspirations that are\ninfinitely pathetic. Time only and no present contrivance of ours can\nameliorate this condition.\n\nI have made this outline of our negro problem in no spirit of pessimism\nor of prejudice, but in the belief that the only way to remedy an evil or\na difficulty is candidly and fundamentally to understand it. Two things\nare evident: First, the negro population is certain to increase in the\nUnited States, in a ratio at least equal to that of the whites. Second,\nthe South needs its labor. Its deportation is an idle dream. The only\nvisible solution is for the negro to become an integral and an\nintelligent part of the industrial community. The way may be long, but he\nmust work his way up. Sympathetic aid may do much, but the salvation of\nthe negro is in his own hands, in the development of individual character\nand a race soul. This is fully understood by his wisest leaders. His\nworst enemy is the demagogue who flatters him with the delusion that all\nhe needs for his elevation is freedom and certain privileges that were\ndenied him in slavery.\n\nIn all the Northern cities heroic efforts are made to assimilate the\nforeign population by education and instruction in Americanism. In the\nSouth, in the city and on plantation, the same effort is necessary for\nthe negro, but it must be more radical and fundamental. The common school\nmust be as fully sustained and as far reaching as it is in the North,\nreaching the lowest in the city slums and the most ignorant in the\nagricultural districts, but to its strictly elemental teaching must be\nadded moral instructions, and training in industries and in habits of\nindustry. Only by such rudimentary and industrial training can the mass\nof the negro race in the United States be expected to improve in\ncharacter and position. A top-dressing of culture on a field with no\ndepth of soil may for a moment stimulate the promise of vegetation, but\nno fruit will be produced. It is a gigantic task, and generations may\nelapse before it can in any degree be relaxed.\n\nWhy attempt it? Why not let things drift as they are? Why attempt to\ncivilize the race within our doors, while there are so many distant and\nalien races to whom we ought to turn our civilizing attention? The answer\nis simple and does not need elaboration. A growing ignorant mass in our\nbody politic, inevitably cherishing bitterness of feeling, is an\nincreasing peril to the public.\n\nIn order to remove this peril, by transforming the negro into an\nindustrial, law-abiding citizen, identified with the prosperity of his\ncountry, the cordial assistance of the Southern white population is\nabsolutely essential. It can only be accomplished by regarding him as a\nman, with the natural right to the development of his capacity and to\ncontentment in a secure social state. The effort for his elevation must\nbe fundamental. The opportunity of the common school must be universal,\nand attendance in it compulsory. Beyond this, training in the decencies\nof life, in conduct, and in all the industries, must be offered in such\nindustrial institutions as that of Tuskegee. For the exceptional cases a\nhigher education can be easily provided for those who show themselves\nworthy of it, but not offered as an indiscriminate panacea.\n\nThe question at once arises as to the kind of teachers for these schools\nof various grades. It is one of the most difficult in the whole problem.\nAs a rule, there is little gain, either in instruction or in elevation of\ncharacter, if the teacher is not the superior of the taught. The learners\nmust respect the attainments and the authority of the teacher. It is a\ntoo frequent fault of our common-school system that, owing to inadequate\npay and ignorant selections, the teachers are not competent to their\nresponsible task. The highest skill and attainment are needed to evoke\nthe powers of the common mind, even in a community called enlightened.\nMuch more are they needed when the community is only slightly developed\nmentally and morally. The process of educating teachers of this race, fit\nto promote its elevation, must be a slow one. Teachers of various\nindustries, such as agriculture and the mechanic arts, will be more\nreadily trained than teachers of the rudiments of learning in the common\nschools. It is a very grave question whether, with some exceptions, the\nschool and moral training of the race should not be for a considerable\ntime to come in the control of the white race. But it must be kept in\nmind that instructors cheap in character, attainments, and breeding will\ndo more harm than good. If we give ourselves to this work, we must give\nof our best.\n\nWithout the cordial concurrence in this effort of all parties, black and\nwhite, local and national, it will not be fruitful in fundamental and\npermanent good. Each race must accept the present situation and build on\nit. To this end it is indispensable that one great evil, which was\ninherent in the reconstruction measures and is still persisted in, shall\nbe eliminated. The party allegiance of the negro was bid for by the\ntemptation of office and position for which he was in no sense fit. No\npermanent, righteous adjustment of relations can come till this policy is\nwholly abandoned. Politicians must cease to make the negro a pawn in the\ngame of politics.\n\nLet us admit that we have made a mistake. We seem to have expected that\nwe could accomplish suddenly and by artificial Contrivances a development\nwhich historically has always taken a long time. Without abatement of\neffort or loss of patience, let us put ourselves in the common-sense, the\nscientific, the historic line. It is a gigantic task, only to be\naccomplished by long labor in accord with the Divine purpose.\n\n         Thou wilt not leave us in the dust;\n        Thou madest man, he knows not why,\n        He thinks he was not made to die;\n        And thou hast made him; thou art just.\n\n         Oh, yet we trust that somehow good\n        Will be the final goal of ill,\n        To pangs of nature, sins of will,\n        Defects of doubt, and taints of blood.\n\n         That nothing walks with aimless feet,\n        That not one life shall be destroyed,\n        Or cast as rubbish to the void,\n        When God hath made the pile complete. \n\n\n\n\nTHE INDETERMINATE SENTENCE--WHAT SHALL BE DONE WITH THE CRIMINAL CLASS?\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nThe problem of dealing with the criminal class seems insolvable, and it\nundoubtedly is with present methods. It has never been attempted on a\nfully scientific basis, with due regard to the protection of society and\nto the interests of the criminal.\n\nIt is purely an economic and educational problem, and must rest upon the\nsame principles that govern in any successful industry, or in education,\nand that we recognize in the conduct of life. That little progress has\nbeen made is due to public indifference to a vital question and to the\naction of sentimentalists, who, in their philanthropic zeal; fancy that a\nradical reform can come without radical discipline. We are largely\nwasting our energies in petty contrivances instead of striking at the\nroot of the evil.\n\nWhat do we mean by the criminal class? It is necessary to define this\nwith some precision, in order to discuss intelligently the means of\ndestroying this class. A criminal is one who violates a statute law, or,\nas we say, commits a crime. The human law takes cognizance of crime and\nnot of sin. But all men who commit crime are not necessarily in the\ncriminal class. Speaking technically, we put in that class those whose\nsole occupation is crime, who live by it as a profession, and who have no\nother permanent industry. They prey upon society. They are by their acts\nat war upon it, and are outlaws.\n\nThe State is to a certain extent responsible for this class, for it has\ntrained most of them, from youth up, through successive detentions in\nlock-ups, city prisons, county jails, and in State prisons, and\npenitentiaries on relatively short sentences, under influences which tend\nto educate them as criminals and confirm them in a bad life. That is to\nsay, if a man once violates the law and is caught, he is put into a\nmachine from which it is very difficult for him to escape without further\ndeterioration. It is not simply that the State puts a brand on him in the\neyes of the community, but it takes away his self-respect without giving\nhim an opportunity to recover it. Once recognized as in the criminal\nclass, he has no further concern about the State than that of evading its\npenalties so far as is consistent with pursuing his occupation of crime.\n\nTo avoid misunderstanding as to the subject of this paper, it is\nnecessary to say that it is not dealing with the question of prison\nreform in its whole extent. It attempts to consider only a pretty well\ndefined class. But in doing this it does not say that other aspects of\nour public peril from crime are not as important as this. We cannot relax\nour efforts in regard to the relations of poverty, drink, and unsanitary\nconditions, as leading to crime. We have still to take care of the\nexposed children, of those with parentage and surroundings inclining to\ncrime, of the degenerate and the unfortunate. We have to keep up the\nwarfare all along the line against the demoralization of society. But we\nhave hereto deal with a specific manifestation; we have to capture a\nstronghold, the possession of which will put us in much better position\nto treat in detail the general evil.\n\nWhy should we tolerate any longer a professional criminal class? It is\nnot large. It is contemptibly small compared with our seventy millions of\npeople. If I am not mistaken, a late estimate gave us less than fifty\nthousand persons in our State prisons and penitentiaries. If we add to\nthem those at large who have served one or two terms, and are generally\nknown to the police, we shall not have probably more than eighty thousand\nof the criminal class. But call it a hundred thousand. It is a body that\nseventy millions of people ought to take care of with little difficulty.\nAnd we certainly ought to stop its increase. But we do not. The class\ngrows every day. Those who watch the criminal reports are alarmed by the\nfact that an increasing number of those arrested for felonies are\ndischarged convicts. This is an unmistakable evidence of the growth of\nthe outlaw classes.\n\nBut this is not all. Our taxes are greatly increased on account of this\nclass. We require more police to watch those who are at large and preying\non society. We expend more yearly for apprehending and trying those\ncaught, for the machinery of criminal justice, and for the recurring\nfarce of imprisoning on short sentences and discharging those felons to\ngo on with their work of swindling and robbing. It would be good economy\nfor the public, considered as a taxpayer, to pay for the perpetual keep\nof these felons in secure confinement.\n\nAnd still this is not the worst. We are all living in abject terror of\nthese licensed robbers. We fear robbery night and day; we live behind\nbolts and bars (which should be reserved for the criminal) and we are in\nhourly peril of life and property in our homes and on the highways. But\nthe evil does not stop here. By our conduct we are encouraging the growth\nof the criminal class, and we are inviting disregard of law, and\ndiffusing a spirit of demoralization throughout the country.\n\nI have spoken of the criminal class as very limited; that is, the class\nthat lives by the industry of crime alone. But it is not isolated, and it\nhas widespread relations. There is a large portion of our population not\ntechnically criminals, which is interested in maintaining this criminal\nclass. Every felon is a part of a vast network of criminality. He has his\ndependents, his allies, his society of vice, all the various machinery of\ntemptation and indulgence.\n\nIt happens, therefore, that there is great sympathy with the career of\nthe lawbreakers, many people are hanging on them for support, and among\nthem the so-called criminal lawyers. Any legislation likely to interfere\nseriously with the occupation of the criminal class or with its increase\nis certain to meet with the opposition of a large body of voters. With\nthis active opposition of those interested, and the astonishing\nindifference of the general public, it is easy to see why so little is\ndone to relieve us of this intolerable burden. The fact is, we go on\nincreasing our expenses for police, for criminal procedure, for jails and\nprisons, and we go on increasing the criminal class and those affiliated\nwith it.\n\nAnd what do we gain by our present method? We do not gain the protection\nof society, and we do not gain the reformation of the criminal. These two\nstatements do not admit of contradiction. Even those who cling to the\nantiquated notion that the business of society is to punish the offender\nmust confess that in this game society is getting the worst of it.\nSociety suffers all the time, and the professional criminal goes on with\nhis occupation, interrupted only by periods of seclusion, during which he\nis comfortably housed and fed. The punishment he most fears is being\ncompelled to relinquish his criminal career. The object of punishment for\nviolation of statute law is not vengeance, it is not to inflict injury\nfor injury. Only a few persons now hold to that. They say now that if it\ndoes little good to the offender, it is deterrent as to others. Now, is\nour present system deterrent? The statute law, no doubt, prevents many\npersons from committing crime, but our method of administering it\ncertainly does not lessen the criminal class, and it does not adequately\nprotect society. Is it not time we tried, radically, a scientific, a\ndisciplinary, a really humanitarian method?\n\nThe proposed method is the indeterminate sentence. This strikes directly\nat the criminal class. It puts that class beyond the power of continuing\nits depredations upon society. It is truly deterrent, because it is a\nnotification to any one intending to enter upon that method of living\nthat his career ends with his first felony. As to the general effects of\nthe indeterminate sentence, I will repeat here what I recently wrote for\nthe Yale Law Journal:\n\n   It is unnecessary to say in a law journal that the indeterminate\n   sentence is a measure as yet untried. The phrase has passed into\n   current speech, and a considerable portion of the public is under\n   the impression that an experiment of the indeterminate sentence is\n   actually being made. It is, however, still a theory, not adopted in\n   any legislation or in practice anywhere in the world.\n\n   The misconception in regard to this has arisen from the fact that\n   under certain regulations paroles are granted before the expiration\n   of the statutory sentence.\n\n   An indeterminate sentence is a commitment to prison without any\n   limit. It is exactly such a commitment as the court makes to an\n   asylum of a man who is proved to be insane, and it is paralleled by\n   the practice of sending a sick man to the hospital until he is\n   cured.\n\n   The introduction of the indeterminate sentence into our criminal\n   procedure would be a radical change in our criminal legislation and\n   practice. The original conception was that the offender against the\n   law should be punished, and that the punishment should be made to\n   fit the crime, an 'opera bouffe' conception which has been abandoned\n   in reasoning though not in practice. Under this conception the\n   criminal code was arbitrarily constructed, so much punishment being\n   set down opposite each criminal offense, without the least regard to\n   the actual guilt of the man as an individual sinner.\n\n   Within the present century considerable advance has been made in\n   regard to prison reform, especially with reference to the sanitary\n   condition of places of confinement. And besides this, efforts of\n   various kinds have been made with regard to the treatment of\n   convicts, which show that the idea was gaining ground that criminals\n   should be treated as individuals. The application of the English\n   ticket-of-leave system was one of these efforts; it was based upon\n   the notion that, if any criminal showed sufficient evidence of a\n   wish to lead a different life, he should be conditionally released\n   before the expiration of his sentence. The parole system in the\n   United States was an attempt to carry out the same experiment, and\n   with it went along the practice which enabled the prisoner to\n   shorten the time of his confinement by good behavior. In some of\n   the States reformatories have been established to which convicts\n   have been sent under a sort of sliding sentence; that is, with the\n   privilege given to the authorities of the reformatory to retain the\n   offender to the full statutory term for which he might have been\n   sentenced to State prison, unless he had evidently reformed before\n   the expiration of that period. That is to say, if a penal offense\n   entitled the judge to sentence the prisoner for any period from two\n   to fifteen years, he could be kept in the reformatory at the\n   discretion of the authorities for the full statutory term. It is\n   from this law that the public notion of an indeterminate sentence is\n   derived. It is, in fact, determinate, because the statute\n   prescribes its limit.\n\n   The introduction of the ticket-of-leave and the parole systems, and\n   the earning of time by good behavior were philanthropic suggestions\n   and promising experiments which have not been justified by the\n   results. It is not necessary at this time to argue that no human\n   discretion is adequate to mete out just punishment for crimes; and\n   it has come to be admitted generally, by men enlightened on this\n   subject, that the real basis for dealing with the criminal rests,\n   firstly, upon the right of society to secure itself against the\n   attacks of the vicious, and secondly, upon the duty imposed upon\n   society, to reform the criminal if that is possible. It is patent\n   to the most superficial observation that our present method does not\n   protect society, and does not lessen the number of the criminal\n   class, either by deterrent methods or by reformatory processes,\n   except in a very limited way.\n\n   Our present method is neither economic nor scientific nor\n   philanthropic. If we consider the well-defined criminal class\n   alone, it can be said that our taxes and expenses for police and the\n   whole criminal court machinery, for dealing with those who are\n   apprehended, and watching those who are preying upon society, yearly\n   increase, while all private citizens in their own houses or in the\n   streets live inconstant terror of the depredations of this class.\n   Considered from the scientific point of view, our method is\n   absolutely crude, and but little advance upon mediaeval conditions;\n   and while it has its sentimental aspects, it is not real\n   philanthropy, because comparatively few of the criminal class are\n   permanently rescued.\n\n   The indeterminate sentence has two distinct objects: one is the\n   absolute protection of society from the outlaws whose only business\n   in life is to prey upon society; and the second is the placing of\n   these offenders in a position where they can be kept long enough for\n   scientific treatment as decadent human beings, in the belief that\n   their lives can be changed in their purpose. No specific time can\n   be predicted in which a man by discipline can be expected to lay\n   aside his bad habits and put on good habits, because no two human\n   beings are alike, and it is therefore necessary that an indefinite\n   time in each case should be allowed for the experiment of\n   reformation.\n\n   We have now gone far enough to see that the ticket-of-leave system,\n   the parole system as we administer it in the State prisons (I except\n   now some of the reformatories), and the good conduct method are\n   substantially failures, and must continue to be so until they rest\n   upon the absolute indeterminate sentence. They are worse than\n   failures now, because the public mind is lulled into a false\n   security by them, and efforts at genuine prison reform are defeated.\n\n   It is very significant that the criminal class adapted itself\n   readily to the parole system with its sliding scale. It was natural\n   that this should be so, for it fits in perfectly well with their\n   scheme of life. This is to them a sort of business career,\n   interrupted now and then only by occasional limited periods of\n   seclusion. Any device that shall shorten those periods is welcome\n   to them. As a matter of fact, we see in the State prisons that the\n   men most likely to shorten their time by good behavior, and to get\n   released on parole before the expiration of their sentence, are the\n   men who make crime their career. They accept this discipline as a\n   part of their lot in life, and it does not interfere with their\n   business any more than the occasional bankruptcy of a merchant\n   interferes with his pursuits.\n\n   It follows, therefore, that society is not likely to get security\n   for itself, and the criminal class is not likely to be reduced\n   essentially or reformed, without such a radical measure as the\n   indeterminate sentence, which, accompanied, of course, by scientific\n   treatment, would compel the convict to change his course of life, or\n   to stay perpetually in confinement.\n\n   Of course, the indeterminate sentence would radically change our\n   criminal jurisprudence and our statutory provisions in regard to\n   criminals. It goes without saying that it is opposed by the entire\n   criminal class, and by that very considerable portion of the\n   population which is dependent on or affiliated with the criminal\n   class, which seeks to evade the law and escape its penalties. It is\n   also opposed by a small portion of the legal profession which gets\n   its living out of the criminal class, and it is sure to meet the\n   objection of the sentimentalists who have peculiar notions about\n   depriving a man of his liberty, and it also has to overcome the\n   objections of many who are guided by precedents, and who think the\n   indeterminate sentence would be an infringement of the judicial\n   prerogative.\n\n   It is well to consider this latter a little further. Our criminal\n   code, artificial and indiscriminating as it is, is the growth of\n   ages and is the result of the notion that society ought to take\n   vengeance upon the criminal, at least that it ought to punish him,\n   and that the judge, the interpreter of the criminal law, was not\n   only the proper person to determine the guilt of the accused, by the\n   aid of the jury, but was the sole person to judge of the amount of\n   punishment he should receive for his crime. Now two functions are\n   involved here: one is the determination that the accused has broken\n   the law, the other is gauging within the rules of the code the\n   punishment that, each individual should receive. It is a\n   theological notion that the divine punishment for sin is somehow\n   delegated to man for the punishment of crime, but it does not need\n   any argument to show that no tribunal is able with justice to mete\n   out punishment in any individual case, for probably the same degree\n   of guilt does not attach to two men in the violation of the same\n   statute, and while, in the rough view of the criminal law, even, one\n   ought to have a severe penalty, the other should be treated with\n   more leniency. All that the judge can do under the indiscriminating\n   provisions of the statute is to make a fair guess at what the man\n   should suffer.\n\n   Under the present enlightened opinion which sees that not punishment\n   but the protection of society and the good of the criminal are the\n   things to be aimed at, the judge's office would naturally be reduced\n   to the task of determining the guilt of the man on trial, and then\n   the care of him would be turned over to expert treatment, exactly as\n   in a case when the judge determines the fact of a man's insanity.\n\n   If objection is made to the indeterminate sentence on the ground\n   that it is an unusual or cruel punishment, it may be admitted that\n   it is unusual, but that commitment to detention cannot be called\n   cruel when the convict is given the key to the house in which he is\n   confined. It is for him to choose whether he will become a decent\n   man and go back into society, or whether he will remain a bad man\n   and stay in confinement. For the criminal who is, as we might say,\n   an accidental criminal, or for the criminal who is susceptible to\n   good influences, the term of imprisonment under the indeterminate\n   sentence would be shorter than it would be safe to make it for\n   criminals under the statute. The incorrigible offender, however,\n   would be cut off at once and forever from his occupation, which is,\n   as we said, varied by periodic residence in the comfortable houses\n   belonging to the State.\n\n   A necessary corollary of the indeterminate sentence is that every\n   State prison and penitentiary should be a reformatory, in the modern\n   meaning of that term. It would be against the interest of society,\n   all its instincts of justice, and the height of cruelty to an\n   individual criminal to put him in prison without limit unless all\n   the opportunities were afforded him for changing his habits\n   radically. It may be said in passing that the indeterminate\n   sentence would be in itself to any man a great stimulus to reform,\n   because his reformation would be the only means of his terminating\n   that sentence. At the same time a man left to himself, even in the\n   best ordered of our State prisons which is not a reformatory, would\n   be scarcely likely to make much improvement.\n\n   I have not space in this article to consider the character of the\n   reformatory; that subject is fortunately engaging the attention of\n   scientific people as one of the most interesting of our modern\n   problems. To take a decadent human being, a wreck physically and\n   morally, and try to make a man of him, that is an attempt worthy of\n   a people who claim to be civilized. An illustration of what can be\n   done in this direction is furnished by the Elmira Reformatory, where\n   the experiment is being made with most encouraging results, which,\n   of course, would be still better if the indeterminate sentence were\n   brought to its aid.\n\n   When the indeterminate sentence has been spoken of with a view to\n   legislation, the question has been raised whether it should be\n   applied to prisoners on the first, second, or third conviction of a\n   penal offense. Legislation in regard to the parole system has also\n   considered whether a man should be considered in the criminal class\n   on his first conviction for a penal offense. Without entering upon\n   this question at length, I will suggest that the convict should, for\n   his own sake, have the indeterminate sentence applied to him upon\n   conviction of his first penal offense. He is much more likely to\n   reform then than he would be after he had had a term in the State\n   prison and was again convicted, and the chance of his reformation\n   would be lessened by each subsequent experience of this kind. The\n   great object of the indeterminate sentence, so far as the security\n   of society is concerned, is to diminish the number of the criminal\n   class, and this will be done when it is seen that the first felony a\n   man commits is likely to be his last, and that for a young criminal\n   contemplating this career there is in this direction\n    no thoroughfare. \n\n   By his very first violation of the statute he walks into\n   confinement, to stay there until he has given up the purpose of such\n   a career.\n\n   In the limits of this paper I have been obliged to confine myself to\n   remarks upon the indeterminate sentence itself, without going into\n   the question of the proper organization of reformatory agencies to\n   be applied to the convict, and without consideration of the means of\n   testing the reformation of a man in any given case. I will only add\n   that the methods at Elmira have passed far beyond the experimental\n   stage in this matter.\n\nThe necessary effect of the adoption of the indeterminate sentence for\nfelonies is that every State prison and penitentiary must be a\nreformatory. The convict goes into it for the term of a year at least\n(since the criminal law, according to ancient precedent, might require\nthat, and because the discipline of the reformatory would require it as a\npractical rule), and he stays there until, in the judgment of competent\nauthority, he is fit to be trusted at large.\n\nIf he is incapable of reform, he must stay there for his natural life. He\nis a free agent. He can decide to lead an honest life and have his\nliberty, or he can elect to work for the State all his life in criminal\nconfinement.\n\nWhen I say that every State prison is to be a reformatory, I except, of\ncourse, from its operation, those sentenced for life for murder, or other\ncapital offenses, and those who have proved themselves incorrigible by\nrepeated violations of their parole.\n\nIt is necessary now to consider the treatment in the reformatory. Only a\nbrief outline of it can be given here, with a general statement of the\nunderlying principles. The practical application of these principles can\nbe studied in the Elmira Reformatory of New York, the only prison for\nfelons where the proposed system is carried out with the needed\ndisciplinary severity. In studying Elmira, however, it must be borne in\nmind that the best effects cannot be obtained there, owing to the lack of\nthe indeterminate sentence. In this institution the convict can only be\ndetained for the maximum term provided in the statute for his offense.\nWhen that is reached, the prisoner is released, whether he is reformed or\nnot.\n\nThe system of reform under the indeterminate sentence, which for\nconvenience may be called the Elmira system, is scientific, and it must\nbe administered entirely by trained men and by specialists; the same sort\nof training for the educational and industrial work as is required in a\ncollege or an industrial school, and the special fitness required for an\nalienist in an insane asylum. The discipline of the establishment must be\nequal to that of a military school.\n\nWe have so far advanced in civilization that we no longer think of\nturning the insane, the sick, the feebleminded, over to the care of men\nwithout training chosen by the chance of politics. They are put under\nspecialists for treatment. It is as necessary that convicts should be\nunder the care of specialists, for they are the most difficult and\ninteresting subjects for scientific treatment. If not criminals by\nheredity, they are largely made so by environment; they are either\nphysical degenerates or they are brutalized by vice. They have lost the\npower of distinguishing right from wrong; they commonly lack will-power,\nand so are incapable of changing their habits without external influence.\nIn short, the ordinary criminal is unsound and diseased in mind and body.\n\nTo deal with this sort of human decadent is, therefore, the most\ninteresting problem that can be offered to the psychologist, to the\nphysiologist, to the educator, to the believer in the immortality of the\nsoul. He is still a man, not altogether a mere animal, and there is\nalways a possibility that he may be made a decent man, and a law-abiding,\nproductive member of society.\n\nHere, indeed, is a problem worthy of the application of all our knowledge\nof mind and of matter, of our highest scientific attainments. But it is\nthe same problem that we have in all our education, be it the training of\nthe mind, the development of the body, or the use of both to good ends.\nAnd it goes without saying that its successful solution, in a reformatory\nfor criminals, depends upon the character of the man who administers the\ninstitution. There must be at the head of it a man of character, of\nintellectual force, of administrative ability, and all his subordinate\nofficers must be fitted for their special task, exactly as they should be\nfor a hospital, or a military establishment, for a college, or for a\nschool of practical industries. And when such men are demanded, they will\nbe forthcoming, just as they are in any department in life, when a\nbusiness is to be developed, a great engineering project to be\nundertaken, or an army to be organized and disciplined.\n\nThe development of our railroad system produced a race of great railroad\nmen. The protection of society by the removal and reform of the criminal\nclass, when the public determines upon it, will call into the service a\nclass of men fitted for the great work. We know this is so because\nalready, since the discussion of this question has been current, and has\npassed into actual experiment, a race of workers and prison\nsuperintendents all over the country have come to the front who are\nentirely capable of administering the reform system under the\nindeterminate sentence. It is in this respect, and not in the erection of\nmodel prisons, that the great advance in penology has been made in the\nlast twenty years. Men of scientific attainment are more and more giving\ntheir attention to this problem as the most important in our\ncivilization. And science is ready to take up this problem when the\npublic is tired and ashamed of being any longer harried and bullied and\nterrorized over by the criminal class.\n\nThe note of this reform is discipline, and its success rests upon the law\nof habit. We are all creatures of habit, physical and mental. Habit is\nformed by repetition of any action. Many of our physical habits have\nbecome automatic. Without entering into a physiological argument, we know\nthat repetition produces habit, and that, if this is long continued, the\nhabit becomes inveterate. We know also that there is a habit, physical\nand moral, of doing right as well as doing wrong. The criminal has the\nhabit of doing wrong. We propose to submit him to influences that will\nchange that habit. We also know that this is not accomplished by\nsuppressing that habit, but by putting a good one in its place.\n\nIt is true in this case that nature does not like a vacuum. The thoughts\nof men are not changed by leaving them to themselves, they are changed by\nsubstituting other thoughts.\n\nThe whole theory of the Elmira system is to keep men long enough under a\nstrict discipline to change their habits. This discipline is administered\nin three ways. They are put to school; they are put at work; they are\nprescribed minute and severe rules of conduct, and in the latter training\nis included military drill.\n\nThe school and the workshop are both primarily for discipline and the\nformation of new habits. Only incidentally are the school and the\nworkshop intended to fit a man for an occupation outside of the prison.\nThe whole discipline is to put a man in possession of his faculties, to\ngive him self-respect, to get him in the way of leading a normal and\nnatural life. But it is true that what he acquires by the discipline of\nstudy and the discipline of work will be available in his earning an\nhonest living. Keep a man long enough in this three-ply discipline, and\nhe will form permanent habits of well-doing. If he cannot and will not\nform such habits, his place is in confinement, where he cannot prey upon\nsociety.\n\nThere is not space here to give the details of the practices at Elmira.\nThey are easily attainable. But I will notice one or two objections that\nhave been made. One is that in the congregate system men necessarily\nlearn evil from each other. This is, of course, an evil. It is here,\nhowever, partially overcome by the fact that the inmates are kept so busy\nin the variety of discipline applied to them that they have little or no\ntime for anything else. They study hard, and are under constant\nsupervision as to conduct. And then their prospect of parole depends\nentirely upon the daily record they make, and upon their radical change\nof intention. At night they are separated in their cells. During the day\nthey are associated in class, in the workshop, and in drill, and this\nassociation is absolutely necessary to their training. In separation from\ntheir fellows, they could not be trained. Fear is expressed that men will\ndeceive their keepers and the board which is to pass upon them, and\nobtain parole when they do not deserve it. As a matter of fact, men under\nthis discipline cannot successfully play the hypocrite to the experts who\nwatch them. It is only in the ordinary prison where the parole is in use\nwith no adequate discipline, and without the indefinite sentence, that\ndeception can be practiced. But suppose a man does play the hypocrite so\nas to deceive the officers, who know him as well as any employer knows\nhis workmen or any teacher knows his scholars, and deceives the\nindependent board so as to get a parole. If he violates that parole, he\ncan be remanded to the reformatory, and it will be exceedingly difficult\nfor him to get another parole. And, if he should again violate his\nparole, he would be considered incorrigible and be placed in a life\nprison.\n\nWe have tried all other means of protecting society, of lessening the\ncriminal class, of reforming the criminal. The proposed indeterminate\nsentence, with reformatory discipline, is the only one that promises to\nrelieve society of the insolent domination and the terrorism of the\ncriminal class; is the only one that can deter men from making a career\nof crime; is the only one that offers a fair prospect for the reformation\nof the criminal offender.\n\nWhy not try it? Why not put the whole system of criminal jurisprudence\nand procedure for the suppression of crime upon a sensible and scientific\nbasis?\n\n\n\n\nLITERARY COPYRIGHT\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nThis is the first public meeting of the National Institute of Arts and\nLetters. The original members were selected by an invitation from the\nAmerican Social Science Association, which acted under the power of its\ncharter from the Congress of the United States. The members thus\nselected, who joined the Social Science Association, were given the\nalternative of organizing as an independent institute or as a branch of\nthe Social Science Association.\n\nAt the annual meeting of the Social Science Association on September 4,\n1899, at Saratoga Springs, the members of the Institute voted to organize\nindependently. They formally adopted the revised constitution, which had\nbeen agreed upon at the first meeting, in New York in the preceding\nJanuary, and elected officers as prescribed by the constitution.\n\nThe object is declared to be the advancement of art and literature, and\nthe qualification shall be notable achievements in art or letters. The\nnumber of active members will probably be ultimately fixed at one\nhundred. The society may elect honorary and associate members without\nlimit. By the terms of agreement between the American Social Science\nAssociation and the National Institute, the members of each are 'ipso\nfacto' associate members of the other.\n\nIt is believed that the advancement of art and literature in this country\nwill be promoted by the organization of the producers of literature and\nart. This is in strict analogy with the action of other professions and\nof almost all the industries. No one doubts that literature and art are\nor should be leading interests in our civilization, and their dignity\nwill be enhanced in the public estimation by a visible organization of\ntheir representatives, who are seriously determined upon raising the\nstandards by which the work of writers and artists is judged. The\nassociation of persons having this common aim cannot but stimulate\neffort, soften unworthy rivalry into generous competition, and promote\nenthusiasm and good fellowship in their work. The mere coming together to\ncompare views and discuss interests and tendencies and problems which\nconcern both the workers and the great public, cannot fail to be of\nbenefit to both.\n\nIn no other way so well as by association of this sort can be created the\nfeeling of solidarity in our literature, and the recognition of its\npower. It is not expected to raise any standard of perfection, or in any\nway to hamper individual development, but a body of concentrated opinion\nmay raise the standard by promoting healthful and helpful criticism, by\ndiscouraging mediocrity and meretricious smartness, by keeping alive the\ntraditions of good literature, while it is hospitable to all discoverers\nof new worlds. A safe motto for any such society would be Tradition and\nFreedom--'Traditio et Libertas'.\n\nIt is generally conceded that what literature in America needs at this\nmoment is honest, competent, sound criticism. This is not likely to be\nattained by sporadic efforts, especially in a democracy of letters where\nthe critics are not always superior to the criticised, where the man in\nfront of the book is not always a better marksman than the man behind the\nbook. It may not be attained even by an organization of men united upon\ncertain standards of excellence. I do not like to use the word authority,\nbut it is not unreasonable to suppose that the public will be influenced\nby a body devoted to the advancement of art and literature, whose\nsincerity and discernment it has learned to respect, and admission into\nwhose ranks will, I hope, be considered a distinction to be sought for by\ngood work. The fashion of the day is rarely the judgment of posterity.\nYou will recall what Byron wrote to Coleridge:  I trust you do not permit\nyourself to be depressed by the temporary partiality of what is called\n'the public' for the favorites of the moment; all experience is against\nthe permanency of such impressions. You must have lived to see many of\nthese pass away, and will survive many more. \n\nThe chief concern of the National Institute is with the production of\nworks of art and of literature, and with their distribution. In the\nremarks following I shall confine myself to the production and\ndistribution of literature. In the limits of this brief address I can\nonly in outline speak of certain tendencies and practices which are\naffecting this production and this distribution. The interests involved\nare, first, those of the author; second, those of the publisher; third,\nthose of the public. As to all good literature, the interests of these\nthree are identical if the relations of the three are on the proper\nbasis. For the author, a good book is of more pecuniary value than a poor\none, setting aside the question of fame; to the publisher, the right of\npublishing a good book is solid capital,--an established house, in the\nlong run, makes more money on  Standards  than on  Catchpennies ; and to\nthe public the possession of the best literature is the breath of life,\nas that of the bad and mediocre is moral and intellectual decadence. But\nin practice the interests of the three do not harmonize. The author, even\nsupposing his efforts are stimulated by the highest aspirations for\nexcellence and not by any commercial instinct, is compelled by his\ncircumstances to get the best price for his production; the publisher\nwishes to get the utmost return for his capital and his energy; and the\npublic wants the best going for the least money.\n\nConsider first the author, and I mean the author, and not the mere\ncraftsman who manufactures books for a recognized market. His sole\ncapital is his talent. His brain may be likened to a mine, gold, silver,\ncopper, iron, or tin, which looks like silver when new. Whatever it is,\nthe vein of valuable ore is limited, in most cases it is slight. When it\nis worked out, the man is at the end of his resources. Has he expended or\nproduced capital? I say he has produced it, and contributed to the wealth\nof the world, and that he is as truly entitled to the usufruct of it as\nthe miner who takes gold or silver out of the earth. For how long? I will\nspeak of that later on. The copyright of a book is not analogous to the\npatent right of an invention, which may become of universal necessity to\nthe world. Nor should the greater share of this usufruct be absorbed by\nthe manufacturer and publisher of the book. The publisher has a clear\nright to guard himself against risks, as he has the right of refusal to\nassume them. But there is an injustice somewhere, when for many a book,\nvalued and even profitable to somebody, the author does not receive the\nprice of a laborer's day wages for the time spent on it--to say nothing\nof the long years of its gestation.\n\nThe relation between author and publisher ought to be neither complicated\nnor peculiar. The author may sell his product outright, or he may sell\nhimself by an agreement similar to that which an employee in a\nmanufacturing establishment makes with his master to give to the\nestablishment all his inventions. Either of these methods is fair and\nbusinesslike, though it may not be wise. A method that prevailed in the\nearly years of this century was both fair and wise. The author agreed\nthat the publisher should have the exclusive right to publish his book\nfor a certain term, or to make and sell a certain number of copies. When\nthose conditions were fulfilled, the control of the property reverted to\nthe author. The continuance of these relations between the two depended,\nas it should depend, upon mutual advantage and mutual good-will. By the\npresent common method the author makes over the use of his property to\nthe will of the publisher. It is true that he parts with the use only of\nthe property and not with the property itself, and the publisher in law\nacquires no other title, nor does he acquire any sort of interest in the\nfuture products of the author's brain. But the author loses all control\nof his property, and its profit to him may depend upon his continuing to\nmake over his books to the same publisher. In this continuance he is\nliable to the temptation to work for a market, instead of following the\nfree impulses of his own genius. As to any special book, the publisher is\nthe sole judge whether to push it or to let it sink into the stagnation\nof unadvertised goods.\n\nThe situation is full of complications. Theoretically it is the interest\nof both parties to sell as many books as possible. But the author has an\ninterest in one book, the publisher in a hundred. And it is natural and\nreasonable that the man who risks his money should be the judge of the\npolicy best for his whole establishment. I cannot but think that this\nsituation would be on a juster footing all round if the author returned\nto the old practice of limiting the use of his property by the publisher.\nI say this in full recognition of the fact that the publishers might be\nunwilling to make temporary investments, or to take risks. What then?\nFewer books might be published. Less vanity might be gratified. Less\nmoney might be risked in experiments upon the public, and more might be\nmade by distributing good literature. Would the public be injured? It is\nan idea already discredited that the world owes a living to everybody who\nthinks he can write, and it is a superstition already fading that capital\nwhich exploits literature as a trade acquires any special privileges.\n\nThe present international copyright, which primarily concerns itself with\nthe manufacture of books, rests upon an unintelligible protective tariff\nbasis. It should rest primarily upon an acknowledgment of the author's\nright of property in his own work, the same universal right that he has\nin any other personal property. The author's international copyright\nshould be no more hampered by restrictions and encumbrances than his\nnational copyright. Whatever regulations the government may make for the\nprotection of manufactures, or trade industries, or for purposes of\nrevenue on importations, they should not be confounded with the author's\nright of property. They have no business in an international copyright\nact, agreement, or treaty. The United States copyright for native authors\ncontains no manufacturing restrictions. All we ask is that foreign\nauthors shall enjoy the same privileges we have under our law, and that\nforeign nations shall give our authors the privileges of their local\ncopyright laws. I do not know any American author of any standing who has\never asked or desired protection against foreign authors.\n\nThis subject is so important that I may be permitted to enlarge upon it,\nin order to make clear suggestions already made, and to array again\narguments more or less familiar. I do this in the view of bringing before\nthe institute work worthy of its best efforts, which if successful will\nentitle this body to the gratitude and respect of the country. I refer to\nthe speedy revision of our confused and wholly inadequate American\ncopyright laws, and later on to a readjustment of our international\nrelations.\n\nIn the first place let me bring to your attention what is, to the vast\nbody of authors, a subject of vital interest, which it is not too much to\nsay has never received that treatment from authors themselves which its\nimportance demands. I refer to the property of authors in their\nproductions. In this brief space and time I cannot enter fully upon this\ngreat subject, but must be content to offer certain suggestions for your\nconsideration.\n\nThe property of an author in the product of his mental labor ought to be\nas absolute and unlimited as his property in the product of his physical\nlabor. It seems to me idle to say that the two kinds of labor products\nare so dissimilar that the ownership cannot be protected by like laws. In\nthis age of enlightenment such a proposition is absurd. The history of\ncopyright law seems to show that the treatment of property in brain\nproduct has been based on this erroneous idea. To steal the paper on\nwhich an author has put his brain work into visible, tangible form is in\nall lands a crime, larceny, but to steal the brain work is not a crime.\nThe utmost extent to which our enlightened American legislators, at\nalmost the end of the nineteenth century, have gone in protecting\nproducts of the brain has been to give the author power to sue in civil\ncourts, at large expense, the offender who has taken and sold his\nproperty.\n\nAnd what gross absurdity is the copyright law which limits even this poor\ndefense of author's property to a brief term of years, after the\nexpiration of which he or his children and heirs have no defense, no\nrecognized property whatever in his products.\n\nAnd for some inexplicable reason this term of years in which he may be\nsaid to own his property is divided into two terms, so that at the end of\nthe first he is compelled to re-assert his ownership by renewing his\ncopyright, or he must lose all ownership at the end of the short term.\n\nIt is manifest to all honest minds that if an author is entitled to own\nhis work for a term of years, it is equally the duty of his government to\nmake that ownership perpetual. He can own and protect and leave to his\nchildren and his children's children by will the manuscript paper on\nwhich he has written, and he should have equal right to leave to them\nthat mental product which constitutes the true money value of his labor.\nIt is unnecessary to say that the mental product is always as easy to be\nidentified as the physical product. Its identification is absolutely\ncertain to the intelligence of judges and juries. And it is apparent that\nthe interests of assignees, who are commonly publishers, are equal with\nthose of authors, in making absolute and perpetual this property in which\nboth are dealers.\n\nAnother consideration follows here. Why should the ownership of a bushel\nof wheat, a piece of silk goods, a watch, or a handkerchief in the\npossession of an American carried or sent to England, or brought thence\nto this country, be absolute and unlimited, while the ownership of his\nown products as an author or as a purchaser from an author is made\ndependent on his nationality? Why should the property of the manufacturer\nof cloths, carpets, satins, and any and every description of goods, be\nable to send his products all over the world, subject only to the tariff\nlaws of the various countries, while the author (alone of all known\nproducers) is forbidden to do so? The existing law of our country says to\nthe foreign author,  You can have property in your book only if you\nmanufacture it into salable form in this country.  What would be said of\nthe wisdom or wild folly of a law which sought to protect other American\nindustries by forbidding the importation of all foreign manufactures?\n\nNo question of tariff protection is here involved. What duty shall be\nimposed upon foreign products or foreign manufactures is a question of\npolitical economy. The wrong against which authors should protest is in\nannexing to their terms of ownership of their property a protective\ntariff revision. For, be it observed, this is a subject of abstract\njustice, moral right, and it matters nothing whether the author be\nAmerican, English, German, French, Hindoo, or Chinese,--and it is very\ncertain that when America shall enact a simple, just, copyright law,\ngiving to every human being the same protection of law to his property in\nhis mental products as in the work of his hands, every civilized nation\non earth will follow the noble example.\n\nAs it now stands, authors who annually produce the raw material for\nmanufacturing purposes to an amount in value of millions, supporting vast\npopulations of people, authors whose mental produce rivals and exceeds in\ncommercial value many of the great staple products of our fields, are the\nonly producers who have no distinct property in their products, who are\nnot protected in holding on to the feeble tenure the law gives them, and\nwhose quasi-property in their works, flimsy as it is, is limited to a few\nyears, and cannot with certainty be handed down to their children. It\nwill be said, it is said, that it is impossible for the author to obtain\nan acknowledgment of absolute right of property in his brain work. In our\ncivilization we have not yet arrived at this state of justice. It may be\nso. Indeed some authors have declared that this justice would be against\npublic policy. I trust they are sustained by the lofty thought that in\nthis view they are rising above the petty realm of literature into the\nbroad field of statesmanship.\n\nBut I think there will be a general agreement that in the needed revisal\nof our local copyright law we can attain some measure of justice. Some of\nthe most obvious hardships can be removed. There is no reason why an\nauthor should pay for the privilege of a long life by the loss of his\ncopyrights, and that his old age should be embittered by poverty because\nhe cannot have the results of the labor of his vigorous years. There is\nno reason why if he dies young he should leave those dependent on him\nwithout support, for the public has really no more right to appropriate\nhis book than it would have to take his house from his widow and\nchildren. His income at best is small after he has divided with the\npublishers.\n\nNo, there can certainly be no valid argument against extending the\ncopyright of the author to his own lifetime, with the addition of forty\nor fifty years for the benefit of his heirs. I will not leave this\nportion of the topic without saying that a perfectly harmonious relation\nbetween authors and publishers is most earnestly to be desired, nor\nwithout the frank acknowledgment that, in literary tradition and in the\npresent experience, many of the most noble friendships and the most\ngenerous and helpful relations have subsisted, as they ought always to\nsubsist, between the producers and the distributors of literature,\nespecially when the publisher has a love for literature, and the author\nis a reasonable being and takes pains to inform himself about the\npublishing business.\n\nOne aspect of the publishing business which has become increasingly\nprominent during the last fifteen years cannot be overlooked, for it is\ncertain to affect seriously the production of literature as to quality,\nand its distribution. Capital has discovered that literature is a product\nout of which money can be made, in the same way that it can be made in\ncotton, wheat, or iron. Never before in history has so much money been\ninvested in publishing, with the single purpose of creating and supplying\nthe market with manufactured goods. Never before has there been such an\nappeal to the reading public, or such a study of its tastes, or supposed\ntastes, wants, likes and dislikes, coupled also with the same shrewd\nanxiety to ascertain a future demand that governs the purveyors of spring\nand fall styles in millinery and dressmaking. Not only the contents of\nthe books and periodicals, but the covers, must be made to catch the\nfleeting fancy. Will the public next season wear its hose dotted or\nstriped?\n\nAnother branch of this activity is the so-called syndicating of the\nauthor's products in the control of one salesman, in which good work and\ninferior work are coupled together at a common selling price and in\ncommon notoriety. This insures a wider distribution, but what is its\neffect upon the quality of literature? Is it your observation that the\nwriter for a syndicate, on solicitation for a price or an order for a\ncertain kind of work, produces as good quality as when he works\nindependently, uninfluenced by the spirit of commercialism? The question\nis a serious one for the future of literature.\n\nThe consolidation of capital in great publishing establishments has its\nadvantages and its disadvantages. It increases vastly the yearly output\nof books. The presses must be kept running, printers, papermakers, and\nmachinists are interested in this. The maw of the press must be fed. The\ncapital must earn its money. One advantage of this is that when new and\nusable material is not forthcoming, the  standards  and the best\nliterature must be reproduced in countless editions, and the best\nliterature is broadcast over the world at prices to suit all purses, even\nthe leanest. The disadvantage is that products, in the eagerness of\ncompetition for a market, are accepted which are of a character to harm\nand not help the development of the contemporary mind in moral and\nintellectual strength. The public expresses its fear of this in the\nphrase it has invented-- the spawn of the press.  The author who writes\nsimply to supply this press, and in constant view of a market, is certain\nto deteriorate in his quality, nay more, as a beginner he is satisfied if\nhe can produce something that will sell without regard to its quality. Is\nit extravagant to speak of a tendency to make the author merely an\nadjunct of the publishing house? Take as an illustration the publications\nin books and magazines relating to the late Spanish-American war. How\nmany of them were ordered to meet a supposed market, and how many of them\nwere the spontaneous and natural productions of writers who had something\nto say? I am not quarreling, you see, with the newspapers who do this\nsort of thing; I am speaking of the tendency of what we have been\naccustomed to call literature to take on the transient and hasty\ncharacter of the newspaper.\n\nIn another respect, in method if not in quality, this literature\napproaches the newspaper. It is the habit of some publishing houses, not\nof all, let me distinctly say, to seek always notoriety, not to nurse and\nkeep before the public mind the best that has been evolved from time to\ntime, but to offer always something new. The year's flooring is threshed\noff and the floor swept to make room for a fresh batch. Effort eventually\nceases for the old and approved, and is concentrated on experiments. This\nis like the conduct of a newspaper. It is assumed that the public must be\nstartled all the time.\n\nI speak of this freely because I think it as bad policy for the publisher\nas it is harmful to the public of readers. The same effort used to\nintroduce a novelty will be much better remunerated by pushing the sale\nof an acknowledged good piece of literature.\n\nLiterature depends, like every other product bought by the people, upon\nadvertising, and it needs much effort usually to arrest the attention of\nour hurrying public upon what it would most enjoy if it were brought to\nits knowledge.\n\nIt would not be easy to fix the limit in this vast country to the\ncirculation of a good book if it were properly kept before the public.\nDay by day, year by year, new readers are coming forward with curiosity\nand intellectual wants. The generation that now is should not be deprived\nof the best in the last generation. Nay more, one publication, in any\nform, reaches only a comparatively small portion of the public that would\nbe interested in it. A novel, for instance, may have a large circulation\nin a magazine; it may then appear in a book; it may reach other readers\nserially again in the columns of a newspaper; it may be offered again in\nall the by-ways by subscription, and yet not nearly exhaust its\nlegitimate running power. This is not a supposition but a fact proved by\ntrial. Nor is it to be wondered at, when we consider that we have an\nunequaled homogeneous population with a similar common-school education.\nIn looking over publishers' lists I am constantly coming across good\nbooks out of print, which are practically unknown to this generation, and\nyet are more profitable, truer to life and character, more entertaining\nand amusing, than most of those fresh from the press month by month.\n\nOf the effect upon the literary product of writing to order, in obedience\nto a merely commercial instinct, I need not enlarge to a company of\nauthors, any more than to a company of artists I need to enlarge upon the\neffect of a like commercial instinct upon art.\n\nI am aware that the evolution of literature or art in any period, in\nrelation to the literature and art of the world, cannot be accurately\njudged by contemporaries and participants, nor can it be predicted. But I\nhave great expectations of the product of both in this country, and I am\nsure that both will be affected by the conduct of persons now living. It\nis for this reason that I have spoken.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS:\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH BY THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY.\nTHE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE\n\n\n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH\n\nThe county of Franklin in Northwestern Massachusetts, if not rivaling in\ncertain ways the adjoining Berkshire, has still a romantic beauty of its\nown. In the former half of the nineteenth century its population was\nlargely given up to the pursuit of agriculture, though not under\naltogether favorable conditions. Manufactures had not yet invaded the\nregion either to add to its wealth or to defile its streams. The villages\nwere small, the roads pretty generally wretched save in summer, and from\nmany of the fields the most abundant crop that could be gathered was that\nof stones.\n\nThe character of the people conformed in many ways to that of the soil.\nThe houses which lined the opposite sides of the single street, of which\nthe petty places largely consisted, as well as the dwellings which dotted\nthe country, were the homes of men who possessed in fullness many of the\nfeatures, good and bad, that characterized the Puritan stock to which\nthey belonged. There was a good deal of religion in these rural\ncommunities and occasionally some culture. Still, as a rule, it must be\nconfessed, there would be found in them much more of plain living than of\nhigh thinking. Broad thinking could hardly be said to exist at all. By\nthe dwellers in that region Easter had scarcely even been heard of;\nChristmas was tolerated after a fashion, but was nevertheless looked upon\nwith a good deal of suspicion as a Popish invention. In the beliefs of\nthese men several sins not mentioned in the decalogue took really, if\nunconsciously, precedence of those which chanced to be found in that\nlist. Dancing was distinctly immoral; card-playing led directly to\ngambling with all its attendant evils; theatre-going characterized the\nconduct of the more disreputable denizens of great cities. Fiction was\nnot absolutely forbidden; but the most lenient regarded it as a great\nwaste of time, and the boy who desired its solace on any large scale was\nunder the frequent necessity of seeking the seclusion of the haymow.\n\nBut however rigid and stern the beliefs of men might be, nature was there\nalways charming, not only in her summer beauty, but even in her wildest\nwinter moods. Narrow, too, as might be the views of the members of these\ncommunities about the conduct of life, there was ever before the minds of\nthe best of them an ideal of devotion to duty, an earnest all-pervading\nmoral purpose which implanted the feeling that neither personal success\nnor pleasure of any sort could ever afford even remotely compensation for\nthe neglect of the least obligation which their situation imposed. It was\nno misfortune for any one, who was later to be transported to a broader\nhorizon and more genial air, to have struck the roots of his being in a\nsoil where men felt the full sense of moral responsibility for everything\nsaid or done, and where the conscience was almost as sensitive to the\nsuggestion of sin as to its actual accomplishment.\n\nIt was amidst such surroundings that Charles Dudley Warner was born on\nthe 12th of September, 1829. His birthplace was the hill town of\nPlainfield, over two thousand feet above the level of the sea. His\nfather, a farmer, was a man of cultivation, though not college-bred. He\ndied when his eldest son had reached the age of five, leaving to his\nwidow the care of two children. Three years longer the family continued\nto remain on the farm. But however delightful the scenery of the country\nmight be, its aesthetic attractions did not sufficiently counterbalance\nits agricultural disadvantages. Furthermore, while the summers were\nbeautiful on this high table land, the winters were long and dreary in\nthe enforced solitude of a thinly settled region. In consequence, the\nfarm was sold after the death of the grandfather, and the home broken up.\nThe mother with her two children, went to the neighboring village of\nCharlemont on the banks of the Deerfield. There the elder son took up his\nresidence with his guardian and relative, a man of position and influence\nin the community, who was the owner of a large farm. With him he stayed\nuntil he was twelve years old, enjoying all the pleasures and doing all\nthe miscellaneous jobs of the kind which fall to the lot of a boy brought\nup in an agricultural community.\n\nThe story of this particular period of his life was given by Warner in a\nwork which was published about forty years later. It is the volume\nentitled  Being a Boy.  Nowhere has there been drawn a truer or more\nvivid picture of rural New England. Nowhere else can there be found such\na portrayal of the sights and sounds, the pains and pleasures of life on\na farm as seen from the point of view of a boy. Here we have them all\ngraphically represented: the daily  chores  that must be looked after;\nthe driving of cows to and from the pasture; the clearing up of fields\nwhere vegetation struggled with difficulty against the prevailing stones;\nthe climbing of lofty trees and the swaying back and forth in the wind on\ntheir topmost boughs; the hunting of woodchucks; the nutting excursions\nof November days, culminating in the glories of Thanksgiving; the romance\nof school life, over which vacations, far from being welcomed with\ndelight, cast a gloom as involving extra work; the cold days of winter\nwith its deep or drifting snows, the mercury of the thermometer clinging\nwith fondness to zero, even when the sun was shining brilliantly; the\nlong chilling nights in which the frost carved fantastic structures on\nthe window-panes; the eager watching for the time when the sap would\nbegin to run in the sugar-maples; the evenings given up to reading, with\nthe inevitable inward discontent at being sent to bed too early; the\nlonging for the mild days of spring to come, when the heavy cowhide boots\ncould be discarded, and the boy could rejoice at last in the covering for\nhis feet which the Lord had provided. These and scores of similar\ndescriptions fill up the picture of the life furnished here. It was\nnature's own school wherein was to be gained the fullest intimacy with\nher spirit. While there was much which she could not teach, there was\nalso much which she alone could teach. From his communion with her the\nboy learned lessons which the streets of crowded cities could never have\nimparted.\n\nAt the age of twelve this portion of his education came to an end. The\nfamily then moved to Cazenovia in Madison county in Central New York,\nfrom which place Warner's mother had come, and where her immediate\nrelatives then resided. Until he went to college this was his home. There\nhe attended a preparatory school under the direction of the Methodist\nEpiscopal Church, which was styled the Oneida Conference Seminary. It was\nat this institution that he fitted mainly for college; for to college it\nhad been his father's dying wish that he should go, and the boy himself\ndid not need the spur of this parting injunction. A college near his home\nwas the excellent one of Hamilton in the not distant town of Clinton in\nthe adjoining county of Oneida. Thither he repaired in 1848, and as he\nhad made the best use of his advantages, he was enabled to enter the\nsophomore class. He was graduated in 1851.\n\nBut while fond of study he had all these years been doing something\nbesides studying. The means of the family were limited, and to secure the\neducation he desired, not only was it necessary to husband the resources\nhe possessed, but to increase them in every possible way. Warner had all\nthe American boy's willingness to undertake any occupation not in itself\ndiscreditable. Hence to him fell a full share of those experiences which\nhave diversified the early years of so many men who have achieved\nsuccess. He set up type in a printing office; he acted as an assistant in\na bookstore; he served as clerk in a post-office. He was thus early\nbrought into direct contact with persons of all classes and conditions of\nlife.\n\nThe experience gave to his keenly observant mind an insight into the\nnature of men which was to be of special service to him in later years.\nFurther, it imparted to him a familiarity with their opinions and hopes\nand aspirations which enabled him to understand and sympathize with\nfeelings in which he did not always share.\n\nDuring the years which immediately followed his departure from college,\nWarner led the somewhat desultory and apparently aimless life of many\nAmerican graduates whose future depends upon their own exertions and\nwhose choice of a career is mainly determined by circumstances. From the\nvery earliest period of his life he had been fond of reading. It was an\ninherited taste. The few books he found in his childhood's home would\nhave been almost swept out of sight in the torrent, largely of trash,\nwhich pours now in a steady stream into the humblest household. But the\nbooks, though few, were of a high quality; and because they were few they\nwere read much, and their contents became an integral part of his\nintellectual equipment. Furthermore, these works of the great masters,\nwith which he became familiar, set for him a standard by which to test\nthe value of whatever he read, and saved him even in his earliest years\nfrom having his taste impaired and his judgment misled by the vogue of\nmeretricious productions which every now and then gain popularity for the\ntime. They gave him also a distinct bent towards making literature his\nprofession. But literature, however pleasant and occasionally profitable\nas an avocation, was not to be thought of as a vocation. Few there are at\nany period who have succeeded in finding it a substantial and permanent\nsupport; at that time and in this country such a prospect was practically\nhopeless for any one. It is no matter of surprise, therefore, that\nWarner, though often deviating from the direct path, steadily gravitated\ntoward the profession of law.\n\nStill, even in those early days his natural inclination manifested\nitself. The Knickerbocker Magazine was then the chosen organ to which all\nyoung literary aspirants sent their productions. To it even in his\ncollege days Warner contributed to some extent, though it would doubtless\nbe possible now to gather out of this collection but few pieces which,\nlacking his own identification, could be assigned to him positively. At a\nlater period he contributed articles to Putnam's Magazine, which began\nits existence in 1853. Warner himself at one time, in that period of\nstruggle and uncertainty, expected to become an editor of a monthly which\nwas to be started in Detroit. But before the magazine was actually set on\nfoot the inability of the person who projected it to supply the necessary\nmeans for carrying it on prevented the failure which would inevitably\nhave befallen a venture of that sort, undertaken at that time and in that\nplace. Yet he showed in a way the native bent of his mind by bringing out\ntwo years after his graduation from college a volume of selections from\nEnglish and American authors entitled  The Book of Eloquence.  This work\na publisher many years afterward took advantage of his later reputation\nto reprint.\n\nThis unsettled period of his life lasted for several years. He was\nresident for a while in various places. Part of the time he seems to have\nbeen in Cazenovia; part of the time in New York; part of the time in the\nWest. One thing in particular there was which stood in the way of fixing\ndefinitely his choice of a profession. This was the precarious state of\nhis health, far poorer then than it was in subsequent years. Warner,\nhowever, was never at any period of his life what is called robust. It\nwas his exceeding temperance in all things which enabled him to venture\nupon the assumption and succeed in the accomplishment of tasks which men,\nphysically far stronger than he, would have shrunk from under-taking,\neven had they been possessed of the same abilities. But his condition,\npart of that time, was such that it led him to take a course of treatment\nat the sanatorium in Clifton Springs. It became apparent, however, that\nlife in the open air, for a while at least, was the one thing essential.\nUnder the pressure of this necessity he secured a position as one of an\nengineering party engaged in the survey of a railway in Missouri. In that\noccupation he spent a large part of 1853 and 1854. He came back from this\nexpedition restored to health. With that result accomplished, the duty of\nsettling definitely upon what he was to do became more urgent. Among\nother things he did, while living for a while with his uncle in\nBinghamton, N. Y., he studied law in the office of Daniel S. Dickinson.\n\nIn the Christmas season of 1854 he went with a friend on a visit to\nPhiladelphia and stayed at the house of Philip M. Price, a prominent\ncitizen of that place who was engaged, among other things, in the\nconveyancing of real estate. It will not be surprising to any one who\nknew the charm of his society in later life to be told that he became at\nonce a favorite with the older man. The latter was advanced in years, he\nwas anxious to retire from active business. Acting under his advice,\nWarner was induced to come to Philadelphia in 1855 and join him, and to\nform subsequently a partnership in legal conveyancing with another young\nman who had been employed in Mr. Price's office. Thus came into being the\nfirm of Barton and Warner. Their headquarters were first in Spring Garden\nStreet and later in Walnut Street. The future soon became sufficiently\nassured to justify Warner in marriage, and in October, 1856, he was\nwedded to Susan Lee, daughter of William Elliott Lee of New York City.\n\nBut though in a business allied to the law, Warner was not yet a lawyer.\nHis occupation indeed was only in his eyes a temporary makeshift while he\nwas preparing himself for what was to be his real work in life.\nTherefore, while supporting himself by carrying on the business of\nconveyancing, he attended the courses of study at the law department of\nthe University of Pennsylvania, during the academic years of 1856-57 and\n1857-58. From that institution he received the degree of bachelor of law\nin 1858--often misstated 1856--and was ready to begin the practice of\nhis, profession.\n\nIn those days every young man of ability and ambition was counseled to go\nWest and grow up with the country, and was not unfrequently disposed to\ntake that course of his own accord. Warner felt the general impulse. He\nhad contemplated entering, in fact had pretty definitely made up his mind\nto enter, into a law partnership with a friend in one of the smaller\nplaces in that region. But on a tour, somewhat of exploration, he stopped\nat Chicago. There he met another friend, and after talking over the\nsituation with him he decided to take up his residence in that city. So\nin 1858 the law-firm of Davenport and Warner came into being. It lasted\nuntil 1860. It was not exactly a favorable time for young men to enter\nupon the practice of this profession. The country was just beginning to\nrecover from the depression which had followed the disastrous panic of\n1857; but confidence was as yet far from being restored. The new firm did\na fairly good business; but while there was sufficient work to do, there\nwas but little money to pay for it. Still Warner would doubtless have\ncontinued in the profession had he not received an offer, the acceptance\nof which determined his future and changed entirely his career.\n\nHawley, now United States Senator from Connecticut, was Warner's senior\nby a few years. He had preceded him as a student at the Oneida Conference\nSeminary and at Hamilton College. Practicing law in Hartford, he had\nstarted in 1857, in conjunction with other leading citizens, a paper\ncalled the Evening Press. It was devoted to the advocacy of the\nprinciples of the Republican party, which was at that time still in what\nmay be called the formative state of its existence. This was a period in\nwhich for some years the dissolution had been going on of the two old\nparties which had divided the country. Men were changing sides and were\naligning themselves anew according to their views on questions which were\nevery day assuming greater prominence in the minds of all. There was\nreally but one great subject talked about or thought about. It split into\nopposing sections the whole land over which was lowering the grim, though\nas yet unrecognizable, shadow of civil war. The Republican party had been\nin existence but a very few years, but in that short time it had\nattracted to its ranks the young and enthusiastic spirits of the North,\njust as to the other side were impelled the members of the same class in\nthe South. The intellectual contest which preceded the physical was\nstirring the hearts of all men. Hawley, who was well aware of Warner's\npeculiar ability, was anxious to secure his co-operation and assistance.\nHe urged him to come East and join him in the conduct of the new\nenterprise he had undertaken.\n\nWarner always considered that he derived great benefit from his\ncomparatively limited study and practice of law; and that the little time\nhe had given up to it had been far from being misspent. But the opening\nwhich now presented itself introduced him to a field of activity much\nmore suited to his talents and his tastes. He liked the study of law\nbetter than its practice; for his early training had not been of a kind\nto reconcile him to standing up strongly for clients and causes that he\nhonestly believed to be in the wrong. Furthermore, his heart, as has been\nsaid, had always been in literature; and though journalism could hardly\nbe called much more than a half-sister, the one could provide the support\nwhich the other could never promise with certainty. So in 1860 Warner\nremoved to Hartford and joined his friend as associate editor of the\nnewspaper he had founded. The next year the war broke out. Hawley at once\nentered the army and took part in the four years' struggle. His departure\nleft Warner in editorial charge of the paper, into the conduct of which\nhe threw himself with all the earnestness and energy of his nature, and\nthe ability, both political and literary, displayed in its columns gave\nit at once a high position which it never lost.\n\nAt this point it may be well to give briefly the few further salient\nfacts of Warner's connection with journalism proper. In 1867 the owners\nof the Press purchased the Courant, the well-known morning paper which\nhad been founded more than a century before, and consolidated the Press\nwith it. Of this journal, Hawley and Warner, now in part proprietors,\nwere the editorial writers. The former, who had been mustered out of the\narmy with the rank of brevet Major-General, was soon diverted from\njournalism by other employments. He was elected Governor, he became a\nmember of Congress, serving successively in both branches. The main\neditorial responsibility for the conduct of the paper devolved in\nconsequence upon Warner, and to it he gave up for years nearly all his\nthought and attention. Once only during that early period was his labor\ninterrupted for any considerable length of time. In May, 1868, he set out\non the first of his five trips across the Atlantic. He was absent nearly\na year. Yet even then he cannot be said to have neglected his special\nwork. Articles were sent weekly from the other side, describing what he\nsaw and experienced abroad. His active connection with the paper he never\ngave up absolutely, nor did his interest in it ever cease. But after he\nbecame connected with the editorial staff of Harpers Magazine the\ncontributions he made to his journal were only occasional and what may be\ncalled accidental.\n\nWhen 1870 came, forty years of Warner's life had gone by, and nearly\ntwenty years since he had left college. During the latter ten years of\nthis period he had been a most effective and forcible leader-writer on\npolitical and social questions, never more so than during the storm and\nstress of the Civil War. Outside of these topics he had devoted a great\ndeal of attention to matters connected with literature and art. His\nvaried abilities were fully recognized by the readers of the journal he\nedited.\n\nBut as yet there was little or no recognition outside. It is no easy\nmatter to tell what are the influences, what the circumstances, which\ndetermine the success of a particular writer or of a particular work.\nHitherto Warner's repute was mainly confined to the inhabitants of a\nprovincial capital and its outlying and dependent towns. However\ncultivated the class to which his writings appealed--and as a class it\nwas distinctly cultivated--their number was necessarily not great. To the\ncountry at large what he did or what he was capable of doing was not\nknown at all. Some slight efforts he had occasionally put forth to secure\nthe publication of matter he had prepared. He experienced the usual fate\nof authors who seek to introduce into the market literary wares of a new\nand better sort. His productions did not follow conventional lines.\nPublishers were ready to examine what he offered, and were just as ready\nto declare that these new wares were of a nature in which they were not\ninclined to deal.\n\nBut during 1870 a series of humorous articles appeared in the Hartford\nCourant, detailing his experiences in the cultivation of a garden. Warner\nhad become the owner of a small place then almost on the outskirts of the\ncity. With the dwelling-house went the possession of three acres of land.\nThe opportunity thus presented itself of turning into a blessing the\nprimeval curse of tilling the soil, in this instance not with a hoe, but\nwith a pen. These articles detailing his experiences excited so much\namusement and so much admiration that a general desire was manifested\nthat they should receive a more permanent life than that accorded to\narticles appearing in the columns of newspapers, and should reach a\ncircle larger than that to be found in the society of the Connecticut\ncapital. Warner's previous experience had not disposed him to try his\nfortunes with the members of the publishing fraternity. In fact he did\nnot lay so much stress upon the articles as did his readers and friends.\nHe always insisted that he had previously written other articles which in\nhis eyes certainly were just as good as they, if not better.\n\nIt so chanced that about this time Henry Ward Beecher came to Hartford to\nvisit his sister, Harriet Beecher Stowe. Warner was invited to meet him.\nIn the course of the conversation the articles just mentioned were\nreferred to by some one of those present. Beecher's curiosity was aroused\nand he expressed a desire to see them. To him they were accordingly sent\nfor perusal. No sooner had he run through them than he recognized in them\nthe presence of a rare and delicate humor which struck a distinctly new\nnote in American literature. It was something he felt which should not be\nconfined to the knowledge of any limited circle. He wrote at once to the\npublisher James T. Fields, urging the production of these articles in\nbook form. Beecher's recommendation in those days was sufficient to\ninsure the acceptance of any book by any publisher. Mr. Fields agreed to\nbring out the work, provided the great preacher would prefix an\nintroduction. This he promised to do and did; though in place of the\nsomewhat more formal piece he was asked to write, he sent what he called\nan introductory letter.\n\nThe series of papers published under the title of  My Summer in a Garden \n came out at the very end of 1870, with the date of 1871 on the\ntitle-page. The volume met with instantaneous success. It was the subject\nof comment and conversation everywhere and passed rapidly through several\neditions. There was a general feeling that a new writer had suddenly\nappeared, with a wit and wisdom peculiarly his own, precisely like which\nnothing had previously existed in our literature. To the later editions\nof the work was added an account of a cat which had been presented to the\nauthor by the Stowes. For that reason it was given from the Christian\nname of the husband of the novelist the title of Calvin. To this John was\nsometimes prefixed, as betokening from the purely animal point of view a\ncertain resemblance to the imputed grimness and earnestness of the great\nreformer. There was nothing in the least exaggerated in the account which\nWarner gave of the character and conduct of this really remarkable member\nof the feline race. No biography was ever truer; no appreciation was ever\nmore sympathetic; and in the long line of cats none was ever more worthy\nto have his story truly and sympathetically told. All who had the fortune\nto see Calvin in the flesh will recognize the accuracy with which his\nportrait was drawn. All who read the account of him, though not having\nseen him, will find it one of the most charming of descriptions. It has\nthe fullest right to be termed a cat classic.\n\nWith the publication of  My Summer in a Garden  Warner was launched upon\na career of authorship which lasted without cessation during the thirty\nyears that remained of his life. It covered a wide field. His interests\nwere varied and his activity was unremitting. Literature, art, and that\nvast diversity of topics which are loosely embraced under the general\nname of social science--upon all these he had something fresh to say, and\nhe said it invariably with attractiveness and effect. It mattered little\nwhat he set out to talk about, the talk was sure to be full both of\ninstruction and entertainment. No sooner had the unequivocal success of\nhis first published work brought his name before the public than he was\nbesieged for contributions by conductors of periodicals of all sorts; and\nas he had ideas of his own upon all sorts of subjects, he was constantly\nfurnishing matter of the most diverse kind for the most diverse\naudiences.\n\nAs a result, the volumes here gathered together represent but a limited\nportion of the work he accomplished. All his life, indeed, Warner was not\nonly an omnivorous consumer of the writings of others, but a constant\nproducer. The manifestation of it took place in ways frequently known to\nbut few. It was not merely the fact that as an editor of a daily paper he\nwrote regularly articles on topics of current interest to which he never\nexpected to pay any further attention; but after his name became widely\nknown and his services were in request everywhere, he produced scores of\narticles, some long, some short, some signed, some unsigned, of which he\nmade no account whatever. One looking through the pages of contemporary\nperiodical literature is apt at any moment to light upon pieces, and\nsometimes upon series of them, which the author never took the trouble to\ncollect. Many of those to which his name was not attached can no longer\nbe identified with any approach to certainty. About the preservation of\nmuch that he did--and some of it belonged distinctly to his best and most\ncharacteristic work--he was singularly careless, or it may be better to\nsay, singularly indifferent.\n\nIf I may be permitted to indulge in the recital of a personal experience,\nthere is one incident I recall which will bring out this trait in a\nmarked manner. Once on a visit to him I accompanied him to the office of\nhis paper. While waiting for him to discharge certain duties there, and\nemploying myself in looking over the exchanges, I chanced to light upon a\nleading article on the editorial page of one of the most prominent of the\nNew York dailies. It was devoted to the consideration of some recent\nutterances of a noted orator who, after the actual mission of his life\nhad been accomplished, was employing the decline of it in the\nexploitation of every political and economic vagary which it had entered\ninto the addled brains of men to evolve. The article struck me as one of\nthe most brilliant and entertaining of its kind I had ever read; it was\nnot long indeed before it appeared that the same view of it was taken by\nmany others throughout the country. The peculiar wit of the comment, the\nkeenness of the satire made so much of an impression upon me that I\ncalled Warner away from his work to look at it. At my request he hastily\nglanced over it, but somewhat to my chagrin failed to evince any\nenthusiasm about it. On our way home I again spoke of it and was a good\ndeal nettled at the indifference towards it which he manifested. It\nseemed to imply that my critical judgment was of little value; and\nhowever true might be his conclusion on that point, one does not enjoy\nhaving the fact thrust too forcibly upon the attention in the familiarity\nof conversation. Resenting therefore the tone he had assumed, I took\noccasion not only to reiterate my previously expressed opinion somewhat\nmore aggressively, but also went on to insinuate that he was himself\ndistinctly lacking in any real appreciation of what was excellent. He\nbore with me patiently for a while.  Well, sonny,  he said at last,\n since you seem to take the matter so much to heart, I will tell you in\nconfidence that I wrote the piece myself.  I found that this was not only\ntrue in the case just specified, but that while engaged in preparing\narticles for his own paper he occasionally prepared them for other\njournals. No one besides himself and those immediately concerned, ever\nknew anything about the matter. He never asserted any right to these\npieces, he never sought to collect them, though some of them exhibited\nhis happiest vein of humor. Unclaimed, unidentified, they are swept into\nthat wallet of oblivion in which time stows the best as well as the worst\nof newspaper production.\n\nThe next volume of Warner's writings that made its appearance was\nentitled  Saunterings.  It was the first and, though good of its kind,\nwas by no means the best of a class of productions in which he was to\nexhibit signal excellence. It will be observed that of the various works\ncomprised in this collective edition, no small number consist of what by\na wide extension of the phrase may be termed books of travel. There are\ntwo or three which fall strictly under that designation. Most of them,\nhowever, can be more properly called records of personal experience and\nadventure in different places and regions, with the comments on life and\ncharacter to which they gave rise.\n\nBooks of travel, if they are expected to live, are peculiarly hard to\nwrite. If they come out at a period when curiosity about the region\ndescribed is predominant, they are fairly certain, no matter how\nwretched, to achieve temporary success. But there is no kind of literary\nproduction to which, by the very law of its being, it is more difficult\nto impart vitality. Paradoxical as it may seem, it is perfectly true that\nthe greatest hinderance to their permanent interest is the information\nthey furnish. The more full, specific and even accurate that is, the more\nrapidly does the work containing it lose its value. The fresher knowledge\nconveyed by a new, and it may be much inferior book, crowds out of\ncirculation those which have gone before. The changed or changing\nconditions in the region traversed renders the information previously\nfurnished out of date and even misleading. Hence the older works come in\ntime to have only an antiquarian interest. Their pages are consulted only\nby that very limited number of persons who are anxious to learn what has\nbeen and view with stolid indifference what actually is. Something of\nthis transitory nature belongs to all sketches of travel. It is the one\ngreat reason why so very few of the countless number of such works,\nwritten, and sometimes written by men of highest ability, are hardly\nheard of a few years after publication. Travels form a species of\nliterary production in which great classics are exceedingly rare.\n\nFrom this fatal characteristic, threatening the enduring life of such\nworks, most of Warner's writings of this sort were saved by the method of\nprocedure he followed. He made it his main object not to give facts but\nimpressions. All details of exact information, everything calculated to\ngratify the statistical mind or to quench the thirst of the seeker for\npurely useful information, he was careful, whether consciously or\nunconsciously, to banish from those volumes of his in which he followed\nhis own bent and felt himself under no obligation to say anything but\nwhat he chose. Hence these books are mainly a record of views of men and\nmanners made by an acute observer on the spot, and put down at the moment\nwhen the impression created was most vivid, not deferred till familiarity\nhad dulled the sense of it or custom had caused it to be disregarded.\nTake as an illustration the little book entitled  Baddeck,  one of the\nslightest of his productions in this field. It purports to be and is\nnothing more than an account of a two weeks' tour made to a Cape Breton\nlocality in company with the delightful companion to whom it was\ndedicated. You take it up with the notion that you are going to acquire\ninformation about the whole country journeyed over, you are beguiled at\ntimes with the fancy that you are getting it. In the best sense it may be\nsaid that you do get it; for it is the general impression of the various\nscenes through which the expedition leads the travelers that is left upon\nthe mind, not those accurate details of a single one of them which the\nlapse of a year might render inaccurate. It is to the credit of the work\ntherefore than one gains from it little specific knowledge. In its place\nare the reflections both wise and witty upon life, upon the characters of\nthe men that are met, upon the nature of the sights that are seen.\n\nThis is what constitutes the enduring charm of the best of these pictures\nof travel which Warner produced. It is perhaps misleading to assert that\nthey do not furnish a good deal of information. Still it is not the sort\nof information which the ordinary tourist gives and which the cultivated\nreader resents and is careful not to remember. Their dominant note is\nrather the quiet humor of a delightful story-teller, who cannot fail to\nsay something of interest because he has seen so much; and who out of his\nwide and varied observation selects for recital certain sights he has\nwitnessed, certain experiences he has gone through, and so relates them\nthat the way the thing is told is even more interesting than the thing\ntold. The chief value of these works does not accordingly depend upon the\naccidental, which passes. Inns change and become better or worse.\nFacilities for transportation increase or decrease. Scenery itself alters\nto some extent under the operation of agencies brought to bear upon it\nfor its own improvement or for the improvement of something else. But\nman's nature remains a constant quantity. Traits seen here and now are\nsure to be met with somewhere else, and even in ages to come. Hence works\nof this nature, embodying descriptions of men and manners, always retain\nsomething of the freshness which characterized them on the day of their\nappearance.\n\nOf these productions in which the personal element predominates, and\nwhere the necessity of intruding information is not felt as a burden,\nthose of Warner's works which deal with the Orient take the first rank.\nThe two-- My Winter on the Nile  and  In the Levant --constitute the\nrecord of a visit to the East during the years 1875 and 1876.\n\nThey would naturally have of themselves the most permanent value,\ninasmuch as the countries described have for most educated men an abiding\ninterest. The lifelike representation and graphic characterization which\nWarner was apt to display in his traveling sketches were here seen at\ntheir best, because nowhere else did he find the task of description more\ncongenial. Alike the gorgeousness and the squalor of the Orient appealed\nto his artistic sympathies. Egypt in particular had for him always a\nspecial fascination. Twice he visited it--at the time just mentioned and\nagain in the winter of 1881-82. He rejoiced in every effort made to\ndispel the obscurity which hung over its early history. No one, outside\nof the men most immediately concerned, took a deeper interest than he in\nthe work of the Egyptian Exploration Society, of which he was one of the\nAmerican vice-presidents. To promoting its success he gave no small share\nof time and attention. Everything connected with either the past or the\npresent of the country had for him an attraction. A civilization which\nhad been flourishing for centuries, when the founder of Israel was a\nwandering sheik on the Syrian plains or in the hill-country of Canaan;\nthe slow unraveling of records of dynasties of forgotten kings; the\nmemorials of Egypt's vanished greatness and the vision of her future\nprosperity these and things similar to these made this country, so\npeculiarly the gift of the Nile, of fascinating interest to the modern\ntraveler who saw the same sights which had met the eyes of Herodotus\nnearly twenty-five hundred years before.\n\nTo the general public the volume which followed-- In the Levant --was\nperhaps of even deeper interest. At all events it dealt with scenes and\nmemories with which every reader, educated or uneducated, had\nassociations. The region through which the founder of Christianity\nwandered, the places he visited, the words he said in them, the acts he\ndid, have never lost their hold over the hearts of men, not even during\nthe periods when the precepts of Christianity have had the least\ninfluence over the conduct of those who professed to it their allegiance.\nIn the Levant, too, were seen the beginnings of commerce, of art, of\nletters, in the forms in which the modern world best knows them. These,\ntherefore, have always made the lands about the eastern Mediterranean an\nattraction to cultivated men and the interest of the subject accordingly\nreinforced the skill of the writer.\n\nThere are two or three of these works which can not be included in the\nclass just described. They were written for the specific purpose of\ngiving exact information at the time. Of these the most noticeable are\nthe volumes entitled  South and West  and the account of Southern\nCalifornia which goes under the name of  Our Italy.  They are the outcome\nof journeys made expressly with the intent of investigating and reporting\nupon the actual situation and apparent prospects of the places and\nregions described. As they were written to serve an immediate purpose,\nmuch of the information contained in them tends to grow more and more out\nof date as time goes on; and though of value to the student of history,\nthese volumes must necessarily become of steadily diminishing interest to\nthe ordinary reader. Yet it is to be said of them that while the pill of\nuseful information is there, it has at least been sugar-coated. Nor can\nwe afford to lose sight of the fact that the widely-circulated articles,\ncollected under the title of  South and West,  by the spirit pervading\nthem as well as by the information they gave, had a marked effect in\nbringing the various sections of the country into a better understanding\nof one another, and in imparting to all a fuller sense of the community\nthey possessed in profit and loss, in honor and dishonor.\n\nIt is a somewhat singular fact that these sketches of travel led Warner\nincidentally to enter into an entirely new field of literary exertion.\nThis was novel-writing. Something of this nature he had attempted in\nconjunction with Mark Twain in the composition of  The Gilded Age,  which\nappeared in 1873. The result, however, was unsatisfactory to both the\ncollaborators. Each had humor, but the humor of each was fundamentally\ndifferent. But the magazine with which Warner had become connected was\ndesirous that he should prepare for it an account of some of the\nprincipal watering-places and summer resorts of the country. Each was to\nbe visited in turn and its salient features were to be described. It was\nfinally suggested that this could be done most effectively by weaving\ninto a love story occurrences that might happen at a number of these\nplaces which were made the subjects of description. The principal\ncharacters were to take their tours under the personal conduct of the\nnovelist. They were to go to the particular spots selected North and\nSouth, according to the varying seasons of the year. It was a somewhat\nnovel way of, visiting resorts of this nature; there are those to whom it\nwill seem altogether more agreeable than would be the visiting of them in\nperson. Hence appeared in 1886 the articles which were collected later in\nthe volume entitled  Their Pilgrimage. \n\nWarner executed the task which had been assigned him with his wonted\nskill. The completed work met with success--with so much success indeed\nthat he was led later to try his fortune further in the same field and\nbring out the trilogy of novels which go under the names respectively of\n A Little Journey in the World,   The Golden House,  and  That Fortune. \n Each of these is complete in itself, each can be read by itself; but the\neffect of each and of the whole series can be best secured by reading\nthem in succession. In the first it is the story of how a great fortune\nwas made in the stock market; in the second, how it was fraudulently\ndiverted from the object for which it was intended; and in the third, how\nit was most beneficially and satisfactorily lost. The scene of the last\nnovel was laid in part in Warner's early home in Charlemont. These works\nwere produced with considerable intervals of time between their\nrespective appearances, the first coming out in 1889 and the third ten\nyears later. This detracted to some extent from the popularity which they\nwould have attained had the different members followed one another\nrapidly. Still, they met with distinct success, though it has always been\na question whether this success was due so much to the story as to the\nshrewd observation and caustic wit which were brought to bear upon what\nwas essentially a serious study of one side of American social life.\n\nThe work with which Warner himself was least satisfied was his life of\nCaptain John Smith, which came out in 18881. It was originally intended\nto be one of a series of biographies of noted men, which were to give the\nfacts accurately but to treat them humorously. History and comedy,\nhowever, have never been blended successfully, though desperate attempts\nhave occasionally been made to achieve that result. Warner had not long\nbeen engaged in the task before he recognized its hopelessness. For its\npreparation it required a special study of the man and the period, and\nthe more time he spent upon the preliminary work, the more the humorous\nelement tended to recede. Thus acted on by two impulses, one of a light\nand one of a grave nature, he moved for a while in a sort of diagonal\nbetween the two to nowhere in particular; but finally ended in treating\nthe subject seriously.\n\nIn giving himself up to a biography in which he had no special interest,\nWarner felt conscious that he could not interest others. His forebodings\nwere realized. The work, though made from a careful study of original\nsources, did not please him, nor did it attract the public. The attempt\nwas all the more unfortunate because the time and toil he spent upon it\ndiverted him from carrying out a scheme which had then taken full\npossession of his thoughts. This was the production of a series of essays\nto be entitled  Conversations on Horseback.  Had it been worked up as he\nsketched it in his mind, it would have been the outdoor counterpart of\nhis  Backlog Studies.  Though in a measure based upon a horseback ride\nwhich he took in Pennsylvania in 1880, the incidents of travel as he\noutlined its intended treatment would have barely furnished the slightest\nof backgrounds. Captain John Smith, however, interfered with a project\nspecially suited to his abilities and congenial to his tastes. That he\ndid so possibly led the author of his life to exhibit a somewhat hostile\nattitude towards his hero. When the biography was finished, other\nengagements were pressing upon his attention. The opportunity of taking\nup and completing the projected series of essays never presented itself,\nthough the subject lay in his mind for a long time and he himself\nbelieved that it would have turned out one of the best pieces of work he\never did.\n\nIt was unfortunate. For to me--and very likely to many others if not to\nmost--Warner's strength lay above all in essay-writing. What he\naccomplished in this line was almost invariably pervaded by that genial\ngrace which makes work of the kind attractive, and he exhibited\neverywhere in it the delicate but sure touch which preserves the just\nmean between saying too much and too little. The essay was in his nature,\nand his occupation as a journalist had developed the tendency towards\nthis form of literary activity, as well as skill in its manipulation.\nWhether he wrote sketches of travel, or whether he wrote fiction, the\nscene depicted was from the point of view of the essayist rather than\nfrom that of the tourist or of the novelist. It is this characteristic\nwhich gives to his work in the former field its enduring interest. Again\nin his novels, it was not so much the story that was in his thoughts as\nthe opportunity the varying scenes afforded for amusing observations upon\nmanners, for comments upon life, sometimes good-natured, sometimes\nsevere, but always entertaining, and above all, for serious study of the\nsocial problems which present themselves on every side for examination.\nThis is distinctly the province of the essayist, and in it Warner always\ndisplayed his fullest strength.\n\nWe have seen that his first purely humorous publication of this nature\nwas the one which made him known to the general public. It was speedily\nfollowed, however, by one of a somewhat graver character, which became at\nthe time and has since remained a special favorite of cultivated readers.\nThis is the volume entitled  Backlog Studies.  The attractiveness of this\nwork is as much due to the suggestive social and literary discussions\nwith which it abounds as to the delicate and refined humor with which the\nideas are expressed. Something of the same characteristics was displayed\nin the two little volumes of short pieces dealing with social topics,\nwhich came out later under the respective titles of  As We Were Saying, \n and  As We Go.  But there was a deeper and more serious side of his\nnature which found utterance in several of his essays, particularly in\nsome which were given in the form of addresses delivered at various\ninstitutions of learning. They exhibit the charm which belongs to all his\nwritings; but his feelings were too profoundly interested in the subjects\nconsidered to allow him to give more than occasional play to his humor.\nEssays contained in such a volume, for instance, as  The Relation of\nLiterature to Life  will not appeal to him whose main object in reading\nis amusement. Into them Warner put his deepest and most earnest\nconvictions. The subject from which the book just mentioned derived its\ntitle lay near to his heart. No one felt more strongly than he the\nimportance of art of all kinds, but especially of literary art, for the\nuplifting of a nation. No one saw more distinctly the absolute necessity\nof its fullest recognition in a moneymaking age and in a money-making\nland, if the spread of the dry rot of moral deterioration were to be\nprevented. The ampler horizon it presented, the loftier ideals it set up,\nthe counteracting agency it supplied to the sordidness of motive and act\nwhich, left unchecked, was certain to overwhelm the national spirit--all\nthese were enforced by him again and again with clearness and\neffectiveness. His essays of this kind will never be popular in the sense\nin which are his other writings. But no thoughtful man will rise up from\nreading them without having gained a vivid conception of the part which\nliterature plays in the life of even the humblest, and without a deeper\nconviction of its necessity to any healthy development of the character\nof a people.\n\nDuring the early part of his purely literary career a large proportion of\nWarner's collected writings, which then appeared, were first published in\nthe Atlantic Monthly. But about fourteen years before his death he became\nclosely connected with Harper's Magazine. From May, 1886, to March, 1892,\nhe conducted the Editor's Drawer of that periodical. The month following\nthis last date he succeeded William Dean Howells as the contributor of\nthe Editor's Study. This position he held until July, 1898. The scope of\nthis department was largely expanded after the death of George William\nCurtis in the summer of 1892, and the consequent discontinuance of the\nEditor's Easy Chair. Comments upon other topics than those to which his\ndepartment was originally devoted, especially upon social questions, were\nmade a distinct feature. His editorial connection with the magazine\nnaturally led to his contributing to it numerous articles besides those\nwhich were demanded by the requirements of the position he held. Nearly\nall these, as well as those which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, are\nindicated in the bibliographical notes prefixed to the separate works.\n\nThere were, however, other literary enterprises in which he was\nconcerned; for the calls upon him were numerous, his own appetite for\nwork was insatiable, and his activity was indefatigable. In 1881 he\nassumed the editorship of the American Men of Letters series. This he\nopened with his own biography of Washington Irving, the resemblance\nbetween whom and himself has been made the subject of frequent remark.\nLater he became the editor-in-chief of the thirty odd volumes which make\nup the collection entitled  The World's Best Literature.  To this he\ncontributed several articles of his own and carefully allotted and\nsupervised the preparation of a large number of others. The labor he put\nupon the editing of this collection occupied him a great deal of the time\nfrom 1895 to 1898.\n\nBut literature, though in it lay his chief interest, was but one of the\nsubjects which employed his many-sided activity. He was constantly called\nupon for the discharge of civic duties. The confidence felt by his\nfellow-citizens in his judgment and taste was almost equal to the\nabsolute trust reposed in his integrity. The man who establishes a\nreputation for the possession of these qualities can never escape from\nbearing the burdens which a good character always imposes. If any work of\nart was ordered by the state, Warner was fairly certain to be chosen a\nmember of the commission selected to decide upon the person who was to do\nit and upon the way it was to be done. By his fellow-townsmen he was made\na member of the Park Commission. Such were some of the duties imposed;\nthere were others voluntarily undertaken. During the latter years of his\nlife he became increasingly interested in social questions, some of which\npartook of a semi-political character. One of the subjects which engaged\nhis attention was the best method to be adopted for elevating the\ncharacter and conduct of the negro population of the country. He\nrecognized the gravity of the problem with which the nation had to deal\nand the difficulties attending its solution. One essay on the subject was\nprepared for the meeting held at Washington in May, 1900, of the American\nSocial Science Association, of which he was president. He was not able to\nbe there in person. The disease which was ultimately to strike him down\nhad already made its preliminary attack. His address was accordingly read\nfor him. It was a subject of special regret that he could not be present\nto set forth more fully his views; for the debate, which followed the\npresentation of his paper, was by no means confined to the meeting, but\nextended to the press of the whole country. Whether the conclusions he\nreached were right or wrong, they were in no case adopted hastily nor\nindeed without the fullest consideration.\n\nBut a more special interest of his lay in prison reform. The subject had\nengaged his attention long before he published anything in connection\nwith it. Later one of the earliest articles he wrote for Harper's\nMagazine was devoted to it. It was in his thoughts just before his death.\nHe was a member of the Connecticut commission on prisons, of the National\nPrison Association, and a vice-president of the New York Association for\nPrison Reform. A strong advocate of the doctrine of the indeterminate\nsentence, he had little patience with many of the judicial outgivings on\nthat subject. To him they seemed opinions inherited, not formed, and in\nmost cases were nothing more than the result of prejudice working upon\nignorance. This particular question was one which he purposed to make the\nsubject of his address as president of the Social Science Association, at\nits annual meeting in 1901. He never lived to complete what he had in\nmind.\n\nDuring his later years the rigor of the Northern winter had been too\nsevere for Warner's health. He had accordingly found it advisable to\nspend as much of this season as he could in warmer regions. He visited at\nvarious times parts of the South, Mexico, and California. He passed the\nwinter of 1892-93 at Florence; but he found the air of the valley of the\nArno no perceptible improvement upon that of the valley of the\nConnecticut. In truth, neither disease nor death entertains a prejudice\nagainst any particular locality. This fact he was to learn by personal\nexperience. In the spring of 1899, while at New Orleans, he was stricken\nby pneumonia which nearly brought him to the grave. He recovered, but it\nis probable that the strength of his system was permanently impaired, and\nwith it his power of resisting disease. Still his condition was not such\nas to prevent him from going on with various projects he had been\ncontemplating or from forming new ones. The first distinct warning of the\napproaching end was the facial paralysis which suddenly attacked him in\nApril, 1900, while on a visit to Norfolk, Va. Yet even from that he\nseemed to be apparently on the full road to recovery during the following\nsummer.\n\nIt was in the second week of October, 1900, that Warner paid me a visit\nof two or three days. He was purposing to spend the winter in Southern\nCalifornia, coming back to the East in ample time to attend the annual\nmeeting of the Social Science Association. His thoughts were even then\nbusy with the subject of the address which, as president, he was to\ndeliver on that occasion. It seemed to me that I had never seen him when\nhis mind was more active or more vigorous. I was not only struck by the\nclearness of his views--some of which were distinctly novel, at least to\nme--but by the felicity and effectiveness with which they were put.\n\nNever, too, had I been more impressed with the suavity, the\nagreeableness, the general charm of his manner. He had determined during\nthe coming winter to learn to ride the wheel, and we then and there\nplanned to take a bicycle trip during the following summer, as we had\npreviously made excursions together on horseback. When we parted, it was\nwith the agreement that we should meet the next spring in Washington and\nfix definitely upon the time and region of our intended ride. It was on a\nSaturday morning that I bade him good-by, apparently in the best of\nhealth and spirits. It was on the evening of the following Saturday\n--October 20th--that the condensed, passionless, relentless message which\nthe telegraph transmits, informed me that he had died that afternoon.\n\nThat very day he had lunched at a friend's, where were gathered several\nof his special associates who had chanced to come together at the same\nhouse, and then had gone to the office of the Hartford Courant. There was\nnot the slightest indication apparent of the end that was so near. After\nthe company broke up, he started out to pay a visit to one of the city\nparks, of which he was a commissioner. On his way thither, feeling a\ncertain faintness, he turned aside into a small house whose occupants he\nknew, and asked to sit down for a brief rest, and then, as the faintness\nincreased, to lie undisturbed on the lounge for a few minutes. The few\nminutes passed, and with them his life. In the strictest sense of the\nwords, he had fallen asleep. From one point of view it was an ideal way\nto die. To the individual, death coming so gently, so suddenly, is shorn\nof all its terrors. It is only those who live to remember and to lament\nthat the suffering comes which has been spared the victim. Even to them,\nhowever, is the consolation that though they may have been fully prepared\nfor the coming of the inevitable event, it would have been none the less\npainful when it actually came.\n\nWarner as a writer we all know. The various and varying opinions\nentertained about the quality and value of his work do not require notice\nhere. Future times will assign him his exact position in the roll of\nAmerican authors, and we need not trouble ourselves to anticipate, as we\nshall certainly not be able to influence, its verdict. But to only a\ncomparatively few of those who knew him as a writer was it given to know\nhim as a man; to still fewer to know him in that familiarity of intimacy\nwhich reveals all that is fine or ignoble in a man's personality. Scanty\nis the number of those who will come out of that severest of ordeals so\nsuccessfully as he. The same conclusion would be reached, whether we were\nto consider him in his private relations or in his career as a man of\nletters. Among the irritable race of authors no one was freer from petty\nenvy or jealousy. During many years of close intercourse, in which he\nconstantly gave utterance to his views both of men and things with\nabsolute unreserve, I recall no disparaging opinion ever expressed of any\nwriter with whom he had been compared either for praise or blame. He had\nunquestionably definite and decided opinions. He would point out that\nsuch or such a work was above or below its author's ordinary level; but\nthere was never any ill-nature in his comment, no depreciation for\ndepreciation's sake. Never in truth was any one more loyal to his\nfriends. If his literary conscience would not permit him to say anything\nin favor of something which they had done, he usually contented himself\nwith saying nothing. Whatever failing there was on his critical side was\ndue to this somewhat uncritical attitude; for it is from his particular\nfriends that the writer is apt to get the most dispassionate\nconsideration and sometimes the coldest commendation. It was a part of\nWarner's generous recognition of others that he was in all sincerity\ndisposed to attribute to those he admired and to whom he was attached an\nability of which some of them at least were much inclined to doubt their\nown possession.\n\nWere I indeed compelled to select any one word which would best give the\nimpression, both social and literary, of Warner's personality, I should\nbe disposed to designate it as urbanity. That seems to indicate best the\none trait which most distinguished him either in conversation or writing.\nWhatever it was, it was innate, not assumed. It was the genuine outcome\nof the kindliness and broad-mindedness of his nature and led him to\nsympathize with men of all positions in life and of all kinds of ability.\nIt manifested itself in his attitude towards every one with whom he came\nin contact. It led him to treat with fullest consideration all who were\nin the least degree under his direction, and converted in consequence the\ntoil of subordinates into a pleasure. It impelled him to do unsought\neverything which lay in his power for the success of those in whom he\nfelt interest. Many a young writer will recall his words of encouragement\nat some period in his own career when the quiet appreciation of one meant\nmore to him than did later the loud applause of many. As it was in\npublic, so it was in private life. The generosity of his spirit, the\ngeniality and high-bred courtesy of his manner, rendered a visit to his\nhome as much a social delight as his wide knowledge of literature and his\nappreciation of what was best in it made it an intellectual\nentertainment.\n\n\nTHOMAS R. LOUNSBURY.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE\nPRELIMINARY\n\nThis paper was prepared and delivered at several of our universities as\nintroductory to a course of five lectures which insisted on the value of\nliterature in common life--some hearers thought with an exaggerated\nemphasis--and attempted to maintain the thesis that all genuine, enduring\nliterature is the outcome of the time that produces it, is responsive to\nthe general sentiment of its time; that this close relation to human life\ninsures its welcome ever after as a true representation of human nature;\nand that consequently the most remunerative method of studying a\nliterature is to study the people for whom it was produced. Illustrations\nof this were drawn from the Greek, the French, and the English\nliteratures. This study always throws a flood of light upon the meaning\nof the text of an old author, the same light that the reader\nunconsciously has upon contemporary pages dealing with the life with\nwhich he is familiar. The reader can test this by taking up his\nShakespeare after a thorough investigation of the customs, manners, and\npopular life of the Elizabethan period. Of course the converse is true\nthat good literature is an open door into the life and mode of thought of\nthe time and place where it originated.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE\n\nI hade a vision once--you may all have had a like one--of the stream of\ntime flowing through a limitless land. Along its banks sprang up in\nsuccession the generations of man. They did not move with the stream-they\nlived their lives and sank away; and always below them new generations\nappeared, to play their brief parts in what is called history--the\nsequence of human actions. The stream flowed on, opening for itself\nforever a way through the land. I saw that these successive dwellers on\nthe stream were busy in constructing and setting afloat vessels of\nvarious size and form and rig--arks, galleys, galleons, sloops, brigs,\nboats propelled by oars, by sails, by steam. I saw the anxiety with which\neach builder launched his venture, and watched its performance and\nprogress. The anxiety was to invent and launch something that should\nfloat on to the generations to come, and carry the name of the builder\nand the fame of his generation. It was almost pathetic, these puny\nefforts, because faith always sprang afresh in the success of each new\nventure. Many of the vessels could scarcely be said to be launched at\nall; they sank like lead, close to the shore. Others floated out for a\ntime, and then, struck by a flaw in the wind, heeled over and\ndisappeared. Some, not well put together, broke into fragments in the\nbufleting of the waves. Others danced on the flood, taking the sun on\ntheir sails, and went away with good promise of a long voyage. But only a\nfew floated for any length of time, and still fewer were ever seen by the\ngeneration succeeding that which launched them. The shores of the stream\nwere strewn with wrecks; there lay bleaching in the sand the ribs of many\na once gallant craft.\n\nInnumerable were the devices of the builders to keep their inventions\nafloat. Some paid great attention to the form of the hull, others to the\nkind of cargo and the loading of it, while others--and these seemed the\nmajority--trusted more to some new sort of sail, or new fashion of\nrudder, or new application of propelling power. And it was wonderful to\nsee what these new ingenuities did for a time, and how each generation\nwas deceived into the belief that its products would sail on forever. But\none fate practically came to the most of them. They were too heavy, they\nwere too light, they were built of old material, and they went to the\nbottom, they went ashore, they broke up and floated in fragments. And\nespecially did the crafts built in imitation of something that had\nfloated down from a previous generation come to quick disaster. I saw\nonly here and there a vessel, beaten by weather and blackened by time\n--so old, perhaps, that the name of the maker was no longer legible; or\nsome fragments of antique wood that had evidently come from far up the\nstream. When such a vessel appeared there was sure to arise great dispute\nabout it, and from time to time expeditions were organized to ascend the\nriver and discover the place and circumstances of its origin. Along the\nbanks, at intervals, whole fleets of boats and fragments had gone ashore,\nand were piled up in bays, like the driftwood of a subsided freshet.\nEfforts were made to dislodge these from time to time and set them afloat\nagain, newly christened, with fresh paint and sails, as if they stood a\nbetter chance of the voyage than any new ones. Indeed, I saw that a large\npart of the commerce of this river was, in fact, the old hulks and\nstranded wrecks that each generation had set afloat again. As I saw it in\nthis foolish vision, how pathetic this labor was from generation to\ngeneration; so many vessels launched; so few making a voyage even for a\nlifetime; so many builders confident of immortality; so many lives\noutlasting this coveted reputation! And still the generations, each with\ntouching hopefulness, busied themselves with this child's play on the\nbanks of the stream; and still the river flowed on, whelming and wrecking\nthe most of that so confidently committed to it, and bearing only here\nand there, on its swift, wide tide, a ship, a boat, a shingle.\n\nThese hosts of men whom I saw thus occupied since history began were\nauthors; these vessels were books; these heaps of refuse in the bays were\ngreat libraries. The allegory admits of any amount of ingenious\nparallelism. It is nevertheless misleading; it is the illusion of an idle\nfancy. I have introduced it because it expresses, with some whimsical\nexaggeration--not much more than that of  The Vision of Mirza --the\npopular notion about literature and its relation to human life. In the\npopular conception, literature is as much a thing apart from life as\nthese boats on the stream of time were from the existence, the struggle,\nthe decay of the generations along the shore. I say in the popular\nconception, for literature is wholly different from this, not only in its\neffect upon individual lives, but upon the procession of lives upon this\nearth; it is not only an integral part of all of them, but, with its\nsister arts, it is the one unceasing continuity in history. Literature\nand art are not only the records and monuments made by the successive\nraces of men, not only the local expressions of thought and emotion, but\nthey are, to change the figure, the streams that flow on, enduring, amid\nthe passing show of men, reviving, transforming, ennobling the fleeting\ngenerations. Without this continuity of thought and emotion, history\nwould present us only a succession of meaningless experiments. The\nexperiments fail, the experiments succeed--at any rate, they end--and\nwhat remains for transmission, for the sustenance of succeeding peoples?\nNothing but the thought and emotion evolved and expressed. It is true\nthat every era, each generation, seems to have its peculiar work to do;\nit is to subdue the intractable earth, to repel or to civilize the\nbarbarians, to settle society in order, to build cities, to amass wealth\nin centres, to make deserts bloom, to construct edifices such as were\nnever made before, to bring all men within speaking distance of each\nother--lucky if they have anything to say when that is accomplished--to\nextend the information of the few among the many, or to multiply the\nmeans of easy and luxurious living. Age after age the world labors for\nthese things with the busy absorption of a colony of ants in its castle\nof sand. And we must confess that the process, such, for instance, as\nthat now going on here--this onset of many peoples, which is transforming\nthe continent of America--is a spectacle to excite the imagination in the\nhighest degree. If there were any poet capable of putting into an epic\nthe spirit of this achievement, what an epic would be his! Can it be that\nthere is anything of more consequence in life than the great business in\nhand, which absorbs the vitality and genius of this age? Surely, we say,\nit is better to go by steam than to go afoot, because we reach our\ndestination sooner--getting there quickly being a supreme object. It is\nwell to force the soil to yield a hundred-fold, to congregate men in\nmasses so that all their energies shall be taxed to bring food to\nthemselves, to stimulate industries, drag coal and metal from the bowels\nof the earth, cover its surface with rails for swift-running carriages,\nto build ever larger palaces, warehouses, ships. This gigantic\nachievement strikes the imagination.\n\nIf the world in which you live happens to be the world of books, if your\npursuit is to know what has been done and said in the world, to the end\nthat your own conception of the value of life may be enlarged, and that\nbetter things may be done and said hereafter, this world and this pursuit\nassume supreme importance in your mind. But you can in a moment place\nyourself in relations--you have not to go far, perhaps only to speak to\nyour next neighbor--where the very existence of your world is scarcely\nrecognized. All that has seemed to you of supreme importance is ignored.\nYou have entered a world that is called practical, where the things that\nwe have been speaking of are done; you have interest in it and sympathy\nwith it, because your scheme of life embraces the development of ideas\ninto actions; but these men of realities have only the smallest\nconception of the world that seems to you of the highest importance; and,\nfurther, they have no idea that they owe anything to it, that it has ever\ninfluenced their lives or can add anything to them. And it may chance\nthat you have, for the moment, a sense of insignificance in the small\npart you are playing in the drama going forward. Go out of your library,\nout of the small circle of people who talk of books, who are engaged in\nresearch, whose liveliest interest is in the progress of ideas, in the\nexpression of thought and emotion that is in literature; go out of this\natmosphere into a region where it does not exist, it may be into a place\ngiven up to commerce and exchange, or to manufacturing, or to the\ndevelopment of certain other industries, such as mining, or the pursuit\nof office--which is sometimes called politics. You will speedily be aware\nhow completely apart from human life literature is held to be, how few\npeople regard it seriously as a necessary element in life, as anything\nmore than an amusement or a vexation. I have in mind a mountain district,\nstripped, scarred, and blackened by the ruthless lumbermen, ravished of\nits forest wealth; divested of its beauty, which has recently become the\nfield of vast coal-mining operations. Remote from communication, it was\nyesterday an exhausted, wounded, deserted country. Today audacious\nrailways are entering it, crawling up its mountain slopes, rounding its\ndizzy precipices, spanning its valleys on iron cobwebs, piercing its\nhills with tunnels. Drifts are opened in its coal seams, to which iron\ntracks shoot away from the main line; in the woods is seen the gleam of\nthe engineer's level, is heard the rattle of heavily-laden wagons on the\nnewly-made roads; tents are pitched, uncouth shanties have sprung up,\ngreat stables, boarding-houses, stores, workshops; the miner, the\nblacksmith, the mason, the carpenter have arrived; households have been\nset up in temporary barracks, children are already there who need a\nschool, women who must have a church and society; the stagnation has\ngiven place to excitement, money has flowed in, and everywhere are the\nhum of industry and the swish of the goad of American life. On this\nhillside, which in June was covered with oaks, is already in October a\ntown; the stately trees have been felled; streets are laid out and graded\nand named; there are a hundred dwellings, there are a store, a\npost-office, an inn; the telegraph has reached it, and the telephone and\nthe electric light; in a few weeks more it will be in size a city, with\nthousands of people--a town made out of hand by drawing men and women\nfrom other towns, civilized men and women, who have voluntarily put\nthemselves in a position where they must be civilized over again.\n\nThis is a marvelous exhibition of what energy and capital can do. You\nacknowledge as much to the creators of it. You remember that not far back\nin history such a transformation as this could not have been wrought in a\nhundred years. This is really life, this is doing something in the world,\nand in the presence of it you can see why the creators of it regard your\nworld, which seemed to you so important, the world whose business is the\nevolution and expression of thought and emotion, as insignificant. Here\nis a material addition to the business and wealth of the race, here\nemployment for men who need it, here is industry replacing stagnation,\nhere is the pleasure of overcoming difficulties and conquering obstacles.\nWhy encounter these difficulties? In order that more coal may be procured\nto operate more railway trains at higher speed, to supply more factories,\nto add to the industrial stir of modern life. The men who projected and\nare pushing on this enterprise, with an executive ability that would\nmaintain and manoeuvre an army in a campaign, are not, however,\nconsciously philanthropists, moved by the charitable purpose of giving\nemployment to men, or finding satisfaction in making two blades of grass\ngrow where one grew before. They enjoy no doubt the sense of power in\nbringing things to pass, the feeling of leadership and the consequence\nderived from its recognition; but they embark in this enterprise in order\nthat they may have the position and the luxury that increased wealth will\nbring, the object being, in most cases, simply material\nadvantages--sumptuous houses, furnished with all the luxuries which are\nthe signs of wealth, including, of course, libraries and pictures and\nstatuary and curiosities, the most showy equipages and troops of\nservants; the object being that their wives shall dress magnificently,\nglitter in diamonds and velvets, and never need to put their feet to the\nground; that they may command the best stalls in the church, the best\npews in the theatre, the choicest rooms in the inn, and--a consideration\nthat Plato does not mention, because his world was not our world--that\nthey may impress and reduce to obsequious deference the hotel clerk.\n\nThis life--for this enterprise and its objects are types of a\nconsiderable portion of life--is not without its ideal, its hero, its\nhighest expression, its consummate flower. It is expressed in a word\nwhich I use without any sense of its personality, as the French use the\nword Barnum--for our crude young nation has the distinction of adding a\nverb to the French language, the verb to barnum--it is expressed in the\nwell-known name Croesus. This is a standard--impossible to be reached\nperhaps, but a standard. If one may say so, the country is sown with\nseeds of Croesus, and the crop is forward and promising. The interest to\nus now in the observation of this phase of modern life is not in the\nleast for purposes of satire or of reform. We are inquiring how wholly\nthis conception of life is divorced from the desire to learn what has\nbeen done and said to the end that better things may be done and said\nhereafter, in order that we may understand the popular conception of the\ninsignificant value of literature in human affairs. But it is not aside\nfrom our subject, rather right in its path, to take heed of what the\nphilosophers say of the effect in other respects of the pursuit of\nwealth.\n\nOne cause of the decay of the power of defense in a state, says the\nAthenian Stranger in Plato's Laws--one cause is the love of wealth, which\nwholly absorbs men and never for a moment allows them to think of\nanything but their private possessions; on this the soul of every citizen\nhangs suspended, and can attend to nothing but his daily gain; mankind\nare ready to learn any branch of knowledge and to follow any pursuit\nwhich tends to this end, and they laugh at any other; that is the reason\nwhy a city will not be in earnest about war or any other good and\nhonorable pursuit.\n\nThe accumulation of gold in the treasury of private individuals, says\nSocrates, in the Republic, is the ruin of democracy. They invent illegal\nmodes of expenditure; and what do they or their wives care about the law?\n\n And then one, seeing another's display, proposes to rival him, and thus\nthe whole body of citizens acquires a similar character.\n\n After that they get on in a trade, and the more they think of making a\nfortune, the less they think of virtue; for when riches and virtue are\nplaced together in the balance, the one always rises as the other falls.\n\n And in proportion as riches and rich men are honored in the state,\nvirtue and the virtuous are dishonored.\n\n And what is honored is cultivated, and that which has no honor is\nneglected.\n\n And so at last, instead of loving contention and glory, men become\nlovers of trade and money, and they honor and reverence the rich man and\nmake a ruler of him, and dishonor the poor man.\n\n They do so. \n\nThe object of a reasonable statesman (it is Plato who is really speaking\nin the Laws) is not that the state should be as great and rich as\npossible, should possess gold and silver, and have the greatest empire by\nsea and land.\n\nThe citizen must, indeed, be happy and good, and the legislator will seek\nto make him so; but very rich and very good at the same time he cannot\nbe; not at least in the sense in which many speak of riches. For they\ndescribe by the term  rich  the few who have the most valuable\npossessions, though the owner of them be a rogue. And if this is true, I\ncan never assent to the doctrine that the rich man will be happy: he must\nbe good as well as rich. And good in a high degree and rich in a high\ndegree at the same time he cannot be. Some one will ask, Why not? And we\nshall answer, Because acquisitions which come from sources which are just\nand unjust indifferently are more than double those which come from just\nsources only; and the sums which are expended neither honorably nor\ndisgracefully are only half as great as those which are expended\nhonorably and on honorable purposes. Thus if one acquires double and\nspends half, the other, who is in the opposite case and is a good man,\ncannot possibly be wealthier than he. The first (I am speaking of the\nsaver, and not of the spender) is not always bad; he may indeed in some\ncases be utterly bad, but as I was saying, a good man he never is. For he\nwho receives money unjustly as well as justly, and spends neither justly\nnor unjustly, will be a rich man if he be also thrifty. On the other\nhand, the utterly bad man is generally profligate, and therefore poor;\nwhile he who spends on noble objects, and acquires wealth by just means\nonly, can hardly be remarkable for riches any more than he can be very\npoor. The argument, then, is right in declaring that the very rich are\nnot good, and if they are not good they are not happy.\n\nAnd the conclusion of Plato is that we ought not to pursue any occupation\nto the neglect of that for which riches exist-- I mean,  he says,  soul\nand body, which without gymnastics and without education will never be\nworth anything; and therefore, as we have said not once but many times,\nthe care of riches should have the last place in our thoughts. \n\nMen cannot be happy unless they are good, and they cannot be good unless\nthe care of the soul occupies the first place in their thoughts. That is\nthe first interest of man; the interest in the body is midway; and last\nof all, when rightly regarded, is the interest about money.\n\nThe majority of mankind reverses this order of interests, and therefore\nit sets literature to one side as of no practical account in human life.\nMore than this, it not only drops it out of mind, but it has no\nconception of its influence and power in the very affairs from which it\nseems to be excluded. It is my purpose to show not only the close\nrelation of literature to ordinary life, but its eminent position in\nlife, and its saving power in lives which do not suspect its influence or\nvalue. Just as it is virtue that saves the state, if it be saved,\nalthough the majority do not recognize it and attribute the salvation of\nthe state to energy, and to obedience to the laws of political economy,\nand to discoveries in science, and to financial contrivances; so it is\nthat in the life of generations of men, considered from an ethical and\nnot from a religious point of view, the most potent and lasting influence\nfor a civilization that is worth anything, a civilization that does not\nby its own nature work its decay, is that which I call literature. It is\ntime to define what we mean by literature. We may arrive at the meaning\nby the definition of exclusion. We do not mean all books, but some books;\nnot all that is written and published, but only a small part of it. We do\nnot mean books of law, of theology, of politics, of science, of medicine,\nand not necessarily books of travel, or adventure, or biography, or\nfiction even. These may all be ephemeral in their nature. The term\nbelles-lettres does not fully express it, for it is too narrow. In books\nof law, theology, politics, medicine, science, travel, adventure,\nbiography, philosophy, and fiction there may be passages that possess, or\nthe whole contents may possess, that quality which comes within our\nmeaning of literature. It must have in it something of the enduring and\nthe universal. When we use the term art, we do not mean the arts; we are\nindicating a quality that may be in any of the arts. In art and\nliterature we require not only an expression of the facts in nature and\nin human life, but of feeling, thought, emotion. There must be an appeal\nto the universal in the race. It is, for example, impossible for a\nChristian today to understand what the religious system of the Egyptians\nof three thousand years ago was to the Egyptian mind, or to grasp the\nidea conveyed to a Chinaman's thought in the phrase,  the worship of the\nprinciple of heaven ; but the Christian of today comprehends perfectly\nthe letters of an Egyptian scribe in the time of Thotmes III., who\ndescribed the comical miseries of his campaign with as clear an appeal to\nuniversal human nature as Horace used in his 'Iter Brundusium;' and the\nmaxims of Confucius are as comprehensible as the bitter-sweetness of\nThomas a Kempis. De Quincey distinguishes between the literature of\nknowledge and the literature of power. The definition is not exact; but\nwe may say that the one is a statement of what is known, the other is an\nemanation from the man himself; or that one may add to the sum of human\nknowledge, and the other addresses itself to a higher want in human\nnature than the want of knowledge. We select and set aside as literature\nthat which is original, the product of what we call genius. As I have\nsaid, the subject of a production does not always determine the desired\nquality which makes it literature. A biography may contain all the facts\nin regard to a man and his character, arranged in an orderly and\ncomprehensible manner, and yet not be literature; but it may be so\nwritten, like Plutarch's Lives or Defoe's account of Robinson Crusoe,\nthat it is literature, and of imperishable value as a picture of human\nlife, as a satisfaction to the want of the human mind which is higher\nthan the want of knowledge. And this contribution, which I desire to be\nunderstood to mean when I speak of literature, is precisely the thing of\nmost value in the lives of the majority of men, whether they are aware of\nit or not. It may be weighty and profound; it may be light, as light as\nthe fall of a leaf or a bird's song on the shore; it may be the thought\nof Plato when he discourses of the character necessary in a perfect\nstate, or of Socrates, who, out of the theorem of an absolute beauty,\ngoodness, greatness, and the like, deduces the immortality of the soul;\nor it may be the lovesong of a Scotch plowman: but it has this one\nquality of answering to a need in human nature higher than a need for\nfacts, for knowledge, for wealth.\n\nIn noticing the remoteness in the popular conception of the relation of\nliterature to life, we must not neglect to take into account what may be\ncalled the arrogance of culture, an arrogance that has been emphasized,\nin these days of reaction from the old attitude of literary\nobsequiousness, by harsh distinctions and hard words, which are paid back\nby equally emphasized contempt. The apostles of light regard the rest of\nmankind as barbarians and Philistines, and the world retorts that these\nself-constituted apostles are idle word-mongers, without any sympathy\nwith humanity, critics and jeerers who do nothing to make the conditions\nof life easier. It is natural that every man should magnify the circle of\nthe world in which he is active and imagine that all outside of it is\ncomparatively unimportant. Everybody who is not a drone has his\nsufficient world. To the lawyer it is his cases and the body of law, it\nis the legal relation of men that is of supreme importance; to the\nmerchant and manufacturer all the world consists in buying and selling,\nin the production and exchange of products; to the physician all the\nworld is diseased and in need of remedies; to the clergyman speculation\nand the discussion of dogmas and historical theology assume immense\nimportance; the politician has his world, the artist his also, and the\nman of books and letters a realm still apart from all others. And to each\nof these persons what is outside of his world seems of secondary\nimportance; he is absorbed in his own, which seems to him all-embracing.\nTo the lawyer everybody is or ought to be a litigant; to the grocer the\nworld is that which eats, and pays--with more or less regularity; to the\nscholar the world is in books and ideas. One realizes how possessed he is\nwith his own little world only when by chance he changes his profession\nor occupation and looks back upon the law, or politics, or journalism,\nand sees in its true proportion what it was that once absorbed him and\nseemed to him so large. When Socrates discusses with Gorgias the value of\nrhetoric, the use of which, the latter asserts, relates to the greatest\nand best of human things, Socrates says: I dare say you have heard men\nsinging--at feasts the old drinking-song, in which the singers enumerate\nthe goods of life-first, health; beauty next; thirdly, wealth honestly\nacquired. The producers of these things--the physician, the trainer, the\nmoney-maker--each in turn contends that his art produces the greatest\ngood. Surely, says the physician, health is the greatest good; there is\nmore good in my art, says the trainer, for my business is to make men\nbeautiful and strong in body; and consider, says the money-maker, whether\nany one can produce a greater good than wealth. But, insists Gorgias, the\ngreatest good of men, of which I am the creator, is that which gives men\nfreedom in their persons, and the power of ruling over others in their\nseveral states--that is, the word which persuades the judge in the court,\nor the senators in the council, or the citizens in the assembly: if you\nhave the power of uttering this word, you will have the physician your\nslave, and the trainer your slave, and the moneymaker of whom you talk\nwill be found to gather treasures, not for himself, but for those who are\nable to speak and persuade the multitude.\n\nWhat we call life is divided into occupations and interest, and the\nhorizons of mankind are bounded by them. It happens naturally enough,\ntherefore, that there should be a want of sympathy in regard to these\npursuits among men, the politician despising the scholar, and the scholar\nlooking down upon the politician, and the man of affairs, the man of\nindustries, not caring to conceal his contempt for both the others. And\nstill more reasonable does the division appear between all the world\nwhich is devoted to material life, and the few who live in and for the\nexpression of thought and emotion. It is a pity that this should be so,\nfor it can be shown that life would not be worth living divorced from the\ngracious and ennobling influence of literature, and that literature\nsuffers atrophy when it does not concern itself with the facts and\nfeelings of men.\n\nIf the poet lives in a world apart from the vulgar, the most lenient\napprehension of him is that his is a sort of fool's paradise. One of the\nmost curious features in the relation of literature to life is this, that\nwhile poetry, the production of the poet, is as necessary to universal\nman as the atmosphere, and as acceptable, the poet is regarded with that\nmingling of compassion and undervaluation, and perhaps awe, which once\nattached to the weak-minded and insane, and which is sometimes expressed\nby the term  inspired idiot.  However the poet may have been petted and\ncrowned, however his name may have been diffused among peoples, I doubt\nnot that the popular estimate of him has always been substantially what\nit is today. And we all know that it is true, true in our individual\nconsciousness, that if a man be known as a poet and nothing else, if his\ncharacter is sustained by no other achievement than the production of\npoetry, he suffers in our opinion a loss of respect. And this is only\nrecovered for him after he is dead, and his poetry is left alone to speak\nfor his name. However fond my lord and lady were of the ballad, the place\nof the minstrel was at the lower end of the hall. If we are pushed to say\nwhy this is, why this happens to the poet and not to the producers of\nanything else that excites the admiration of mankind, we are forced to\nadmit that there is something in the poet to sustain the popular judgment\nof his in utility. In all the occupations and professions of life there\nis a sign put up, invisible--but none the less real, and expressing an\nalmost universal feeling-- No poet need apply.  And this is not because\nthere are so many poor poets; for there are poor lawyers, poor soldiers,\npoor statesmen, incompetent business men; but none of the personal\ndisparagement attaches to them that is affixed to the poet. This popular\nestimate of the poet extends also, possibly in less degree, to all the\nproducers of the literature that does not concern itself with knowledge.\nIt is not our care to inquire further why this is so, but to repeat that\nit is strange that it should be so when poetry is, and has been at all\ntimes, the universal solace of all peoples who have emerged out of\nbarbarism, the one thing not supernatural and yet akin to the\nsupernatural, that makes the world, in its hard and sordid conditions,\ntolerable to the race. For poetry is not merely the comfort of the\nrefined and the delight of the educated; it is the alleviator of poverty,\nthe pleasure-ground of the ignorant, the bright spot in the most dreary\npilgrimage. We cannot conceive the abject animal condition of our race\nwere poetry abstracted; and we do not wonder that this should be so when\nwe reflect that it supplies a want higher than the need for food, for\nraiment, or ease of living, and that the mind needs support as much as\nthe body. The majority of mankind live largely in the imagination, the\noffice or use of which is to lift them in spirit out of the bare physical\nconditions in which the majority exist. There are races, which we may\ncall the poetical races, in which this is strikingly exemplified. It\nwould be difficult to find poverty more complete, physical wants less\ngratified, the conditions of life more bare than among the Oriental\npeoples from the Nile to the Ganges and from the Indian Ocean to the\nsteppes of Siberia. But there are perhaps none among the more favored\nraces who live so much in the world of imagination fed by poetry and\nromance. Watch the throng seated about an Arab or Indian or Persian\nstory-teller and poet, men and women with all the marks of want, hungry,\nalmost naked, without any prospect in life of ever bettering their sordid\ncondition; see their eyes kindle, their breathing suspended, their tense\nabsorption; see their tears, hear their laughter, note their excitement\nas the magician unfolds to them a realm of the imagination in which they\nare free for the hour to wander, tasting a keen and deep enjoyment that\nall the wealth of Croesus cannot purchase for his disciples. Measure, if\nyou can, what poetry is to them, what their lives would be without it. To\nthe millions and millions of men who are in this condition, the bard, the\nstory-teller, the creator of what we are considering as literature, comes\nwith the one thing that can lift them out of poverty, suffering--all the\nwoe of which nature is so heedless.\n\nIt is not alone of the poetical nations of the East that this is true,\nnor is this desire for the higher enjoyment always wanting in the savage\ntribes of the West. When the Jesuit Fathers in 1768 landed upon the\nalmost untouched and unexplored southern Pacific coast, they found in the\nSan Gabriel Valley in Lower California that the Indians had games and\nfeasts at which they decked themselves in flower garlands that reached to\ntheir feet, and that at these games there were song contests which\nsometimes lasted for three days. This contest of the poets was an old\ncustom with them. And we remember how the ignorant Icelanders, who had\nnever seen a written character, created the splendid Saga, and handed it\ndown from father to son. We shall scarcely find in Europe a peasantry\nwhose abject poverty is not in some measure alleviated by this power\nwhich literature gives them to live outside it. Through our sacred\nScriptures, through the ancient storytellers, through the tradition which\nin literature made, as I said, the chief continuity in the stream of\ntime, we all live a considerable, perhaps the better, portion of our\nlives in the Orient. But I am not sure that the Scotch peasant, the\ncrofter in his Highland cabin, the operative in his squalid\ntenement-house, in the hopelessness of poverty, in the grime of a life\nmade twice as hard as that of the Arab by an inimical climate, does not\nowe more to literature than the man of culture, whose material\nsurroundings are heaven in the imagination of the poor. Think what his\nwretched life would be, in its naked deformity, without the popular\nballads, without the romances of Scott, which have invested his land for\nhim, as for us, with enduring charm; and especially without the songs of\nBurns, which keep alive in him the feeling that he is a man, which impart\nto his blunted sensibility the delicious throb of spring-songs that\nenable him to hear the birds, to see the bits of blue sky-songs that make\nhim tender of the wee bit daisy at his feet--songs that hearten him when\nhis heart is fit to break with misery. Perhaps the English peasant, the\nEnglish operative, is less susceptible to such influences than the Scotch\nor the Irish; but over him, sordid as his conditions are, close kin as he\nis to the clod, the light of poetry is diffused; there filters into his\nlife, also, something of that divine stream of which we have spoken, a\ndialect poem that touches him, the leaf of a psalm, some bit of\nimagination, some tale of pathos, set afloat by a poor writer so long ago\nthat it has become the common stock of human tradition-maybe from\nPalestine, maybe from the Ganges, perhaps from Athens--some expression of\nreal emotion, some creation, we say, that makes for him a world, vague\nand dimly apprehended, that is not at all the actual world in which he\nsins and suffers. The poor woman, in a hut with an earth floor, a reeking\nroof, a smoky chimney, barren of comfort, so indecent that a gentleman\nwould not stable his horse in it, sits and sews upon a coarse garment,\nwhile she rocks the cradle of an infant about whom she cherishes no\nillusions that his lot will be other than that of his father before him.\nAs she sits forlorn, it is not the wretched hovel that she sees, nor\nother hovels like it--rows of tenements of hopeless poverty, the\nale-house, the gin-shop, the coal-pit, and the choking factory--but:\n\n        Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood\n        Stand dressed in living green \n\nfor her, thanks to the poet. But, alas for the poet there is not a\npeasant nor a wretched operative of them all who will not shake his head\nand tap his forehead with his forefinger when the poor poet chap passes\nby. The peasant has the same opinion of him that the physician, the\ntrainer, and the money-lender had of the rhetorician.\n\nThe hard conditions of the lonely New England life, with its religious\ntheories as sombre as its forests, its rigid notions of duty as difficult\nto make bloom into sweetness and beauty as the stony soil, would have\nbeen unendurable if they had not been touched with the ideal created by\nthe poet. There was in creed and purpose the virility that creates a\nstate, and, as Menander says, the country which is cultivated with\ndifficulty produces brave men; but we leave out an important element in\nthe lives of the Pilgrims if we overlook the means they had of living\nabove their barren circumstances. I do not speak only of the culture\nwhich many of them brought from the universities, of the Greek and Roman\nclassics, and what unworldly literature they could glean from the\nproductive age of Elizabeth and James, but of another source, more\nuniversally resorted to, and more powerful in exciting imagination and\nemotion, and filling the want in human nature of which we have spoken.\nThey had the Bible, and it was more to them, much more, than a book of\nreligion, than a revelation of religious truth, a rule for the conduct of\nlife, or a guide to heaven. It supplied the place to them of the\nMahabharata to the Hindoo, of the story-teller to the Arab. It opened to\nthem a boundless realm of poetry and imagination.\n\nWhat is the Bible? It might have sufficed, accepted as a book of\nrevelation, for all the purposes of moral guidance, spiritual\nconsolation, and systematized authority, if it had been a collection of\nprecepts, a dry code of morals, an arsenal of judgments, and a treasury\nof promises. We are accustomed to think of the Pilgrims as training their\nintellectual faculties in the knottiest problems of human responsibility\nand destiny, toughening their mental fibre in wrestling with dogmas and\nthe decrees of Providence, forgetting what else they drew out of the\nBible: what else it was to them in a degree it has been to few peoples\nmany age. For the Bible is the unequaled record of thought and emotion,\nthe reservoir of poetry, traditions, stories, parables, exaltations,\nconsolations, great imaginative adventure, for which the spirit of man is\nalways longing. It might have been, in warning examples and commands,\nall-sufficient to enable men to make a decent pilgrimage on earth and\nreach a better country; but it would have been a very different book to\nmankind if it had been only a volume of statutes, and if it lacked its\nwonderful literary quality. It might have enabled men to reach a better\ncountry, but not, while on earth, to rise into and live in that better\ncountry, or to live in a region above the sordidness of actual life. For,\napart from its religious intention and sacred character, the book is so\nwritten that it has supremely in its history, poetry, prophecies,\npromises, stories, that clear literary quality that supplies, as\ncertainly no other single book does, the want in the human mind which is\nhigher than the want of facts or knowledge.\n\nThe Bible is the best illustration of the literature of power, for it\nalways concerns itself with life, it touches it at all points. And this\nis the test of any piece of literature--its universal appeal to human\nnature. When I consider the narrow limitations of the Pilgrim households,\nthe absence of luxury, the presence of danger and hardship, the harsh\nlaws--only less severe than the contemporary laws of England and\nVirginia--the weary drudgery, the few pleasures, the curb upon the\nexpression of emotion and of tenderness, the ascetic repression of\nworldly thought, the absence of poetry in the routine occupations and\nconditions, I can feel what the Bible must have been to them. It was an\nopen door into a world where emotion is expressed, where imagination can\nrange, where love and longing find a language, where imagery is given to\nevery noble and suppressed passion of the soul, where every aspiration\nfinds wings. It was history, or, as Thucydides said, philosophy teaching\nby example; it was the romance of real life; it was entertainment\nunfailing; the wonder-book of childhood, the volume of sweet sentiment to\nthe shy maiden, the sword to the soldier, the inciter of the youth to\nheroic enduring of hardness, it was the refuge of the aged in failing\nactivity. Perhaps we can nowhere find a better illustration of the true\nrelation of literature to life than in this example.\n\nLet us consider the comparative value of literature to mankind. By\ncomparative value I mean its worth to men in comparison with other things\nof acknowledged importance, such as the creation of industries, the\ngovernment of States, the manipulation of the politics of an age, the\nachievements in war and discovery, and the lives of admirable men. It\nneeds a certain perspective to judge of this aright, for the near and the\nimmediate always assume importance. The work that an age has on hand,\nwhether it be discovery, conquest, the wars that determine boundaries or\nare fought for policies, the industries that develop a country or affect\nthe character of a people, the wielding of power, the accumulation of\nfortunes, the various activities of any given civilization or period,\nassume such enormous proportions to those engaged in them that such a\nmodest thing as the literary product seems insignificant in comparison;\nand hence it is that the man of action always holds in slight esteem the\nman of thought, and especially the expresser of feeling and emotion, the\npoet and the humorist. It is only when we look back over the ages, when\ncivilizations have passed or changed, over the rivalries of States, the\nambitions and enmities of men, the shining deeds and the base deeds that\nmake up history, that we are enabled to see what remains, what is\npermanent. Perhaps the chief result left to the world out of a period of\nheroic exertion, of passion and struggle and accumulation, is a sheaf of\npoems, or the record by a man of letters of some admirable character.\nSpain filled a large place in the world in the sixteenth century, and its\ninfluence upon history is by no means spent yet; but we have inherited\nout of that period nothing, I dare say, that is of more value than the\nromance of Don Quixote. It is true that the best heritage of generation\nfrom generation is the character of great men; but we always owe its\ntransmission to the poet and the writer. Without Plato there would be no\nSocrates. There is no influence comparable in human life to the\npersonality of a powerful man, so long as he is present to his\ngeneration, or lives in the memory of those who felt his influence. But\nafter time has passed, will the world, will human life, that is\nessentially the same in all changing conditions, be more affected by what\nBismarck did or by what Goethe said?\n\nWe may without impropriety take for an illustration of the comparative\nvalue of literature to human needs the career of a man now living. In the\nopinion of many, Mr. Gladstone is the greatest Englishman of this age.\nWhat would be the position of the British empire, what would be the\ntendency of English politics and society without him, is a matter for\nspeculation. He has not played such a role for England and its neighbors\nas Bismarck has played for Germany and the Continent, but he has been one\nof the most powerful influences in molding English action. He is the\nforemost teacher. Rarely in history has a nation depended more upon a\nsingle man, at times, than the English upon Gladstone, upon his will, his\nability, and especially his character. In certain recent crises the\nthought of losing him produced something like a panic in the English\nmind, justifying in regard to him, the hyperbole of Choate upon the death\nof Webster, that the sailor on the distant sea would feel less safe--as\nif a protecting providence had been withdrawn from the world. His mastery\nof finance and of economic problems, his skill in debate, his marvelous\nachievements in oratory, have extorted the admiration of his enemies.\nThere is scarcely a province in government, letters, art, or research in\nwhich the mind can win triumphs that he has not invaded and displayed his\npower in; scarcely a question in politics, reform, letters, religion,\narchaeology, sociology, which he has not discussed with ability. He is a\nscholar, critic, parliamentarian, orator, voluminous writer. He seems\nequally at home in every field of human activity--a man of prodigious\ncapacity and enormous acquirements. He can take up, with a turn of the\nhand, and always with vigor, the cause of the Greeks, Papal power,\neducation, theology, the influence of Egypt on Homer, the effect of\nEnglish legislation on King O'Brien, contributing something noteworthy to\nall the discussions of the day. But I am not aware that he has ever\nproduced a single page of literature. Whatever space he has filled in his\nown country, whatever and however enduring the impression he has made\nupon English life and society, does it seem likely that the sum total of\nhis immense activity in so many fields, after the passage of so many\nyears, will be worth to the world as much as the simple story of Rab and\nhis Friends? Already in America I doubt if it is. The illustration might\nhave more weight with some minds if I contrasted the work of this great\nman--as to its answering to a deep want in human nature--with a novel\nlike 'Henry Esmond' or a poem like 'In Memoriam'; but I think it is\nsufficient to rest it upon so slight a performance as the sketch by Dr.\nJohn Brown, of Edinburgh. For the truth is that a little page of\nliterature, nothing more than a sheet of paper with a poem written on it,\nmay have that vitality, that enduring quality, that adaptation to life,\nthat make it of more consequence to all who inherit it than every\nmaterial achievement of the age that produced it. It was nothing but a\nsheet of paper with a poem on it, carried to the door of his London\npatron, for which the poet received a guinea, and perhaps a seat at the\nfoot of my lord's table. What was that scrap compared to my lord's\nbusiness, his great establishment, his equipages in the Park, his\nposition in society, his weight in the House of Lords, his influence in\nEurope? And yet that scrap of paper has gone the world over; it has been\nsung in the camp, wept over in the lonely cottage; it has gone with the\nmarching regiments, with the explorers--with mankind, in short, on its\nway down the ages, brightening, consoling, elevating life; and my lord,\nwho regarded as scarcely above a menial the poet to whom he tossed the\nguinea--my lord, with all his pageantry and power, has utterly gone and\nleft no witness.\n\n\n\n\n EQUALITY \n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nIn accordance with the advice of Diogenes of Apollonia in the beginning\nof his treatise on Natural Philosophy-- It appears to me to be well for\nevery one who commences any sort of philosophical treatise to lay down\nsome undeniable principle to start with --we offer this:\n\n        All men are created unequal.\n\nIt would be a most interesting study to trace the growth in the world of\nthe doctrine of  equality.  That is not the purpose of this essay, any\nfurther than is necessary for definition. We use the term in its popular\nsense, in the meaning, somewhat vague, it is true, which it has had since\nthe middle of the eighteenth century. In the popular apprehension it is\napt to be confounded with uniformity; and this not without reason, since\nin many applications of the theory the tendency is to produce likeness or\nuniformity. Nature, with equal laws, tends always to diversity; and\ndoubtless the just notion of equality in human affairs consists with\nunlikeness. Our purpose is to note some of the tendencies of the dogma as\nit is at present understood by a considerable portion of mankind.\n\nWe regard the formulated doctrine as modern. It would be too much to say\nthat some notion of the  equality of men  did not underlie the\nsocialistic and communistic ideas which prevailed from time to time in\nthe ancient world, and broke out with volcanic violence in the Grecian\nand Roman communities. But those popular movements seem to us rather\nblind struggles against physical evils, and to be distinguished from\nthose more intelligent actions based upon the theory which began to stir\nEurope prior to the Reformation.\n\nIt is sufficient for our purpose to take the well-defined theory of\nmodern times. Whether the ideal republic of Plato was merely a convenient\nform for philosophical speculation, or whether, as the greatest authority\non political economy in Germany, Dr. William Roscher, thinks, it  was no\nmere fancy ; whether Plato's notion of the identity of man and the State\nis compatible with the theory of equality, or whether it is, as many\ncommunists say, indispensable to it, we need not here discuss. It is true\nthat in his Republic almost all the social theories which have been\ndeduced from the modern proclamation of equality are elaborated. There\nwas to be a community of property, and also a community of wives and\nchildren. The equality of the sexes was insisted on to the extent of\nliving in common, identical education and pursuits, equal share in all\nlabors, in occupations, and in government. Between the sexes there was\nallowed only one ultimate difference. The Greeks, as Professor Jowett\nsays, had noble conceptions of womanhood; but Plato's ideal for the sexes\nhad no counterpart in their actual life, nor could they have understood\nthe sort of equality upon which he insisted. The same is true of the\nRomans throughout their history.\n\nMore than any other Oriental peoples the Egyptians of the Ancient Empire\nentertained the idea of the equality of the sexes; but the equality of\nman was not conceived by them. Still less did any notion of it exist in\nthe Jewish state. It was the fashion with the socialists of 1793, as it\nhas been with the international assemblages at Geneva in our own day, to\ntrace the genesis of their notions back to the first Christian age. The\nfar-reaching influence of the new gospel in the liberation of the human\nmind and in promoting just and divinely-ordered relations among men is\nadmitted; its origination of the social and political dogma we are\nconsidering is denied. We do not find that Christ himself anywhere\nexpressed it or acted on it. He associated with the lowly, the vile, the\noutcast; he taught that all men, irrespective of rank or possessions, are\nsinners, and in equal need of help. But he attempted no change in the\nconditions of society. The  communism  of the early Christians was the\ntemporary relation of a persecuted and isolated sect, drawn together by\ncommon necessities and dangers, and by the new enthusiasm of\nself-surrender. [ The community of goods of the first Christians at\nJerusalem, so frequently cited and extolled, was only a community of use,\nnot of ownership (Acts iv. 32), and throughout a voluntary act of love,\nnot a duty (v. 4); least of all, a right which the poorer might assert.\nSpite of all this, that community of goods produced a chronic state of\npoverty in the church of Jerusalem.  (Principles of Political Economy. By\nWilliam Roscher. Note to Section LXXXI. English translation. New York:\nHenry Holt & Co. 1878.)]--Paul announced the universal brotherhood of\nman, but he as clearly recognized the subordination of society, in the\nduties of ruler and subject, master and slave, and in all the domestic\nrelations; and although his gospel may be interpreted to contain the\nelements of revolution, it is not probable that he undertook to\ninculcate, by the proclamation of  universal brotherhood,  anything more\nthan the duty of universal sympathy between all peoples and classes as\nsociety then existed.\n\nIf Christianity has been and is the force in promoting and shaping\ncivilization that we regard it, we may be sure that it is not as a\npolitical agent, or an annuller of the inequalities of life, that we are\nto expect aid from it. Its office, or rather one of its chief offices on\nearth, is to diffuse through the world, regardless of condition or\npossessions or talent or opportunity, sympathy and a recognition of the\nvalue of manhood underlying every lot and every diversity--a value not\nmeasured by earthly accidents, but by heavenly standards. This we\nunderstand to be  Christian equality.  Of course it consists with\ninequalities of condition, with subordination, discipline, obedience; to\nobey and serve is as honorable as to command and to be served.\n\nIf the religion of Christ should ever be acclimated on earth, the result\nwould not be the removal of hardships and suffering, or of the necessity\nof self-sacrifice; but the bitterness and discontent at unequal\nconditions would measurably disappear. At the bar of Christianity the\npoor man is the equal of the rich, and the learned of the unlearned,\nsince intellectual acquisition is no guarantee of moral worth. The\ncontent that Christianity would bring to our perturbed society would come\nfrom the practical recognition of the truth that all conditions may be\nequally honorable. The assertion of the dignity of man and of labor is,\nwe imagine, the sum and substance of the equality and communism of the\nNew Testament. But we are to remember that this is not merely a  gospel\nfor the poor. \n\nWhatever the theories of the ancient world were, the development of\ndemocratic ideas is sufficiently marked in the fifteenth century, and\neven in the fourteenth, to rob the eighteenth of the credit of\noriginating the doctrine of equality. To mention only one of the early\nwriters,--[For copious references to authorities on the spread of\ncommunistic and socialistic ideas and libertine community of goods and\nwomen in four periods of the world's history--namely, at the time of the\ndecline of Greece, in the degeneration of the Roman republic, among the\nmoderns in the age of the Reformation, and again in our own day--see\nRoscher's Political Economy, notes to Section LXXIX., et seq.]\n--Marsilio, a physician of Padua, in 1324, said that the laws ought to be\nmade by all the citizens; and he based this sovereignty of the people\nupon the greater likelihood of laws being better obeyed, and also being\ngood laws, when they were made by the whole body of the persons affected.\n\nIn 1750 and 1753, J. J. Rousseau published his two discourses on\nquestions proposed by the Academy of Dijon:  Has the Restoration of\nSciences Contributed to Purify or to Corrupt Manners?  and  What is the\nOrigin of Inequality among Men, and is it Authorized by Natural Law? \n These questions show the direction and the advance of thinking on social\ntopics in the middle of the eighteenth century. Rousseau's Contrat-Social\nand the novel Emile were published in 1761.\n\nBut almost three-quarters of a century before, in 1690, John Locke\npublished his two treatises on government. Rousseau was familiar with\nthem. Mr. John Morley, in his admirable study of Rousseau, [Rousseau. By\nJohn Morley. London: Chapman & Hall. 1873--I have used it freely in the\nglance at this period.]--fully discusses the latter's obligation to\nLocke; and the exposition leaves Rousseau little credit for originality,\nbut considerable for illogical misconception. He was, in fact, the most\nillogical of great men, and the most inconsistent even of geniuses. The\nContrat-Social is a reaction in many things from the discourses, and\nEmile is almost an entire reaction, especially in the theory of\neducation, from both.\n\nHis central doctrine of popular sovereignty was taken from Locke. The\nEnglish philosopher said, in his second treatise,  To understand\npolitical power aright and derive it from its original, we must consider\nwhat state all men are naturally in; and that is a state of perfect\nfreedom to order their actions and dispose of their persons and\npossessions as they think fit, within the bounds of the law of nature,\nwithout asking leave or depending upon the will of any other man--a state\nalso of equality, wherein all the power and jurisdiction is reciprocal,\nno one having more than another; there being nothing more evident than\nthat creatures of the same species and rank, promiscuously born to all\nthe advantages of nature and the use of the same faculties, should also\nbe equal one amongst another, without subordination or subjection, unless\nthe Lord and Master of them all should by any manifest declaration of His\nwill set one above another, and confer on him by an evident and clear\nappointment an undoubted right to dominion and sovereignty.  But a state\nof liberty is not a state of license. We cannot exceed our own rights\nwithout assailing the rights of others. There is no such subordination as\nauthorizes us to destroy one another. As every one is bound to preserve\nhimself, so he is bound to preserve the rest of mankind, and except to do\njustice upon an offender we may not impair the life, liberty, health, or\ngoods of another. Here Locke deduces the power that one man may have over\nanother; community could not exist if transgressors were not punished.\nEvery wrongdoer places himself in  a state of war.  Here is the\ndifference between the state of nature and the state of war, which men,\nsays Locke, have confounded--alluding probably to Hobbes's notion of the\nlawlessness of human society in the original condition.\n\nThe portion of Locke's treatise which was not accepted by the French\ntheorists was that relating to property. Property in lands or goods is\ndue wholly and only to the labor man has put into it. By labor he has\nremoved it from the common state in which nature has placed it, and\nannexed something to it that excludes the common rights of other men.\n\nRousseau borrowed from Hobbes as well as from Locke in his conception of\npopular sovereignty; but this was not his only lack of originality. His\ndiscourse on primitive society, his unscientific and unhistoric notions\nabout the original condition of man, were those common in the middle of\nthe eighteenth century. All the thinkers and philosophers and fine ladies\nand gentlemen assumed a certain state of nature, and built upon it, out\nof words and phrases, an airy and easy reconstruction of society, without\na thought of investigating the past, or inquiring into the development of\nmankind. Every one talked of  the state of nature  as if he knew all\nabout it.  The conditions of primitive man,  says Mr. Morley,  were\ndiscussed by very incompetent ladies and gentlemen at convivial\nsupper-parties, and settled with complete assurance.  That was the age\nwhen solitary Frenchmen plunged into the wilderness of North America,\nconfidently expecting to recover the golden age under the shelter of a\nwigwam and in the society of a squaw.\n\nThe state of nature of Rousseau was a state in which inequality did not\nexist, and with a fervid rhetoric he tried to persuade his readers that\nit was the happier state. He recognized inequality, it is true, as a word\nof two different meanings: first, physical inequality, difference of age,\nstrength, health, and of intelligence and character; second, moral and\npolitical inequality, difference of privileges which some enjoy to the\ndetriment of others-such as riches, honor, power. The first difference is\nestablished by nature, the second by man. So long, however, as the state\nof nature endures, no disadvantages flow from the natural inequalities.\n\nIn Rousseau's account of the means by which equality was lost, the\nincoming of the ideas of property is prominent. From property arose civil\nsociety. With property came in inequality. His exposition of inequality\nis confused, and it is not possible always to tell whether he means\ninequality of possessions or of political rights. His contemporary,\nMorelly, who published the Basileade in 1753, was troubled by no such\nambiguity. He accepts the doctrine that men are formed by laws, but holds\nthat they are by nature good, and that laws, by establishing a division\nof the products of nature, broke up the sociability of men, and that all\npolitical and moral evils are the result of private property. Political\ninequality is an accident of inequality of possessions, and the\nrenovation of the latter lies in the abolition of the former.\n\nThe opening sentence of the Contrat-Social is,  Man is born free, and\neverywhere he is a slave,  a statement which it is difficult to reconcile\nwith the fact that every human being is born helpless, dependent, and\ninto conditions of subjection, conditions that we have no reason to\nsuppose were ever absent from the race. But Rousseau never said,  All men\nare born equal.  He recognized, as we have seen, natural inequality. What\nhe held was that the artificial differences springing from the social\nunion were disproportionate to the capacities springing from the original\nconstitution; and that society, as now organized, tends to make the gulf\nwider between those who have privileges and those who have none.\n\nThe well-known theory upon which Rousseau's superstructure rests is that\nsociety is the result of a compact, a partnership between men. They have\nnot made an agreement to submit their individual sovereignty to some\nsuperior power, but they have made a covenant of brotherhood. It is a\ncontract of association. Men were, and ought to be, equal cooperators,\nnot only in politics, but in industries and all the affairs of life. All\nthe citizens are participants in the sovereign authority. Their\nsovereignty is inalienable; power may be transmitted, but not will; if\nthe people promise to obey, it dissolves itself by the very act--if there\nis a master, there is no longer a people. Sovereignty is also\nindivisible; it cannot be split up into legislative, judiciary, and\nexecutive power.\n\nSociety being the result of a compact made by men, it followed that the\npartners could at any time remake it, their sovereignty being\ninalienable. And this the French socialists, misled by a priori notions,\nattempted to do, on the theory of the Contrat-Social, as if they had a\ntabula rasa, without regarding the existing constituents of society, or\ntraditions, or historical growths.\n\nEquality, as a phrase, having done duty as a dissolvent, was pressed into\nservice as a constructor. As this is not so much an essay on the nature\nof equality is an attempt to indicate some of the modern tendencies to\ncarry out what is illusory in the dogma, perhaps enough has been said of\nthis period. Mr. Morley very well remarks that the doctrine of equality\nas a demand for a fair chance in the world is unanswerable; but that it\nis false when it puts him who uses his chance well on the same level with\nhim who uses it ill. There is no doubt that when Condorcet said,  Not\nonly equality of right, but equality of fact, is the goal of the social\nart,  he uttered the sentiments of the socialists of the Revolution.\n\nThe next authoritative announcement of equality, to which it is necessary\nto refer, is in the American Declaration of Independence, in these words:\n We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal;\nthat they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights;\nthat among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to\nsecure these rights governments are instituted among men, deriving their\njust power from the consent of the governed.  And the Declaration goes\non, in temperate and guarded language, to assert the right of a people to\nchange their form of government when it becomes destructive of the ends\nnamed.\n\nAlthough the genesis of these sentiments seems to be French rather than\nEnglish, and equality is not defined, and critics have differed as to\nwhether the equality clause is independent or qualified by what follows,\nit is not necessary to suppose that Thomas Jefferson meant anything\ninconsistent with the admitted facts of nature and of history. It is\nimportant to bear in mind that the statesmen of our Revolution were\ninaugurating a political and not a social revolution, and that the\ngravamen of their protest was against the authority of a distant crown.\nNevertheless, these dogmas, independent of the circumstances in which\nthey were uttered, have exercised and do exercise a very powerful\ninfluence upon the thinking of mankind on social and political topics,\nand are being applied without limitations, and without recognition of the\nfact that if they are true, in the sense meant by their originators, they\nare not the whole truth. It is to be noticed that rights are mentioned,\nbut not duties, and that if political rights only are meant, political\nduties are not inculcated as of equal moment. It is not announced that\npolitical power is a function to be discharged for the good of the whole\nbody, and not a mere right to be enjoyed for the advantage of the\npossessor; and it is to be noted also that this idea did not enter into\nthe conception of Rousseau.\n\nThe dogma that  government derives its just power from the consent of the\ngoverned  is entirely consonant with the book theories of the eighteenth\ncentury, and needs to be confronted, and practically is confronted, with\nthe equally good dogma that  governments derive their just power from\nconformity with the principles of justice.  We are not to imagine, for\ninstance, that the framers of the Declaration really contemplated the\nexclusion from political organization of all higher law than that in the\n consent of the governed,  or the application of the theory, let us say,\nto a colony composed for the most part of outcasts, murderers, thieves,\nand prostitutes, or to such states as today exist in the Orient. The\nDeclaration was framed for a highly intelligent and virtuous society.\n\nMany writers, and some of them English, have expressed curiosity, if not\nwonder, at the different fortunes which attended the doctrine of equality\nin America and in France. The explanation is on the surface, and need not\nbe sought in the fact of a difference of social and political level in\nthe two countries at the start, nor even in the further fact that the\ncolonies were already accustomed to self-government.\n\nThe simple truth is that the dogmas of the Declaration were not put into\nthe fundamental law. The Constitution is the most practical state\ndocument ever made. It announces no dogmas, proclaims no theories. It\naccepted society as it was, with its habits and traditions; raising no\nabstract questions whether men are born free or equal, or how society\nought to be organized. It is simply a working compact, made by  the\npeople,  to promote union, establish justice, and secure the blessings of\nliberty; and the equality is in the assumption of the right of  the\npeople of the United States  to do this. And yet, in a recent number of\nBlackwood's Magazine, a writer makes the amusing statement,  I have never\nmet an American who could deny that, while firmly maintaining that the\ntheory was sound which, in the beautiful language of the Constitution,\nproclaims that all men were born equal, he was,  etc.\n\nAn enlightening commentary on the meaning of the Declaration, in the\nminds of the American statesmen of the period, is furnished by the\nopinions which some of them expressed upon the French Revolution while it\nwas in progress. Gouverneur Morris, minister to France in 1789, was a\nconservative republican; Thomas Jefferson was a radical democrat. Both of\nthem had a warm sympathy with the French  people  in the Revolution; both\nhoped for a republic; both recognized, we may reasonably infer, the\nsufficient cause of the Revolution in the long-continued corruption of\ncourt and nobility, and the intolerable sufferings of the lower orders;\nand both, we have equal reason to believe, thought that a fair\naccommodation, short of a dissolution of society, was defeated by the\nimbecility of the king and the treachery and malignity of a considerable\nportion of the nobility. The Revolution was not caused by theories,\nhowever much it may have been excited or guided by them. But both Morris\nand Jefferson saw the futility of the application of the abstract dogma\nof equality and the theories of the Social Contract to the reconstruction\nof government and the reorganization of society in France.\n\nIf the aristocracy were malignant--though numbers of them were far from\nbeing so--there was also a malignant prejudice aroused against them, and\nM. Taine is not far wrong when he says of this prejudice,  Its hard, dry\nkernel consists of the abstract idea of equality. --[The French\nRevolution. By H. A. Taine. Vol. i., bk. ii., chap. ii., sec. iii.\nTranslation. New York: Henry Holt & Co.]--Taine's French Revolution is\ncynical, and, with all its accumulation of material, omits some facts\nnecessary to a philosophical history; but a passage following that quoted\nis worth reproducing in this connection:  The treatment of the nobles of\nthe Assembly is the same as the treatment of the Protestants by Louis\nXIV. . . . One hundred thousand Frenchmen driven out at the end of the\nseventeenth century, and one hundred thousand driven out at the end of\nthe eighteenth! Mark how an intolerant democracy completes the work of an\nintolerant monarchy! The moral aristocracy was mowed down in the name of\nuniformity; the social aristocracy is mowed down in the name of equality.\nFor the second time an abstract principle, and with the same effect,\nburies its blade in the heart of a living society. \n\nNotwithstanding the world-wide advertisement of the French experiment, it\nhas taken almost a century for the dogma of equality, at least outside of\nFrance, to filter down from the speculative thinkers into a general\npopular acceptance, as an active principle to be used in the shaping of\naffairs, and to become more potent in the popular mind than tradition or\nhabit. The attempt is made to apply it to society with a brutal logic;\nand we might despair as to the result, if we did not know that the world\nis not ruled by logic. Nothing is so fascinating in the hands of the\nhalf-informed as a neat dogma; it seems the perfect key to all\ndifficulties. The formula is applied in contempt and ignorance of the\npast, as if building up were as easy as pulling down, and as if society\nwere a machine to be moved by mechanical appliances, and not a living\norganism composed of distinct and sensitive beings. Along with the spread\nof a belief in the uniformity of natural law has unfortunately gone a\nsuggestion of parallelism of the moral law to it, and a notion that if we\ncan discover the right formula, human society and government can be\norganized with a mathematical justice to all the parts. By many the dogma\nof equality is held to be that formula, and relief from the greater evils\nof the social state is expected from its logical extension.\n\nLet us now consider some of the present movements and tendencies that are\nrelated, more or less, to this belief:\n\nI. Absolute equality is seen to depend upon absolute supremacy of the\nstate. Professor Henry Fawcett says,  Excessive dependence on the state\nis the most prominent characteristic of modern socialism.   These\nproposals to prohibit inheritance, to abolish private property, and to\nmake the state the owner of all the capital and the administrator of the\nentire industry of the country are put forward as representing socialism\nin its ultimate and highest development. --[ Socialism in Germany and the\nUnited States,  Fortnightly Review, November, 1878.]\n\nSociety and government should be recast till they conform to the theory,\nor, let us say, to its exaggerations. Men can unmake what they have made.\nThere is no higher authority anywhere than the will of the majority, no\nmatter what the majority is in intellect and morals. Fifty-one ignorant\nmen have a natural right to legislate for the one hundred, as against\nforty-nine intelligent men.\n\nAll men being equal, one man is as fit to legislate and execute as\nanother. A recently elected Congressman from Maine vehemently repudiated\nin a public address, as a slander, the accusation that he was educated.\nThe theory was that, uneducated, he was the proper representative of the\naverage ignorance of his district, and that ignorance ought to be\nrepresented in the legislature in kind. The ignorant know better what\nthey want than the educated know for them.  Their education [that of\ncollege men] destroys natural perception and judgment; so that cultivated\npeople are one-sided, and their judgment is often inferior to that of the\nworking people.   Cultured people have made up their minds, and are hard\nto move.   No lawyer should be elected to a place in any legislative\nbody. --[Opinions of working-men, reported in  The Nationals, their\nOrigin and their Aims,  The Atlantic Monthly, November, 1878.]\n\nExperience is of no account, neither is history, nor tradition, nor the\naccumulated wisdom of ages. On all questions of political economy,\nfinance, morals, the ignorant man stands on a par with the best informed\nas a legislator. We might cite any number of the results of these\nillusions. A member of a recent House of Representatives declared that we\n can repair the losses of the war by the issue of a sufficient amount of\npaper money.  An intelligent mechanic of our acquaintance, a leader among\nthe Nationals, urging the theory of his party, that banks should be\ndestroyed, and that the government should issue to the people as much\n paper money  as they need, denied the right of banks or of any\nindividuals to charge interest on money. Yet he would take rent for the\nhouse he owns.\n\nLaws must be the direct expression of the will of the majority, and be\naltered solely on its will. It would be well, therefore, to have a\ncontinuous election, so that, any day, the electors can change their\nrepresentative for a new man.  If my caprice be the source of law, then\nmy enjoyment may be the source of the division of the nation's\nresources. --[Stahl's Rechtsphilosophie, quoted by Roscher.]\n\nProperty is the creator of inequality, and this factor in our artificial\nstate can be eliminated only by absorption. It is the duty of the\ngovernment to provide for all the people, and the sovereign people will\nsee to it that it does. The election franchise is a natural right--a\nman's weapon to protect himself. It may be asked, If it is just this, and\nnot a sacred trust accorded to be exercised for the benefit of society,\nwhy may not a man sell it, if it is for his interest to do so?\n\nWhat is there illogical in these positions from the premise given?\n Communism,  says Roscher, [Political Economy, bk. i., ch. v., 78.]-- is\nthe logically not inconsistent exaggeration of the principle of equality.\nMen who hear themselves designated as the sovereign people, and their\nwelfare as the supreme law of the state, are more apt than others to feel\nmore keenly the distance which separates their own misery from the\nsuperabundance of others. And, indeed, to what an extent our physical\nwants are determined by our intellectual mold! \n\nThe tendency of the exaggeration of man's will as the foundation of\ngovernment is distinctly materialistic; it is a self-sufficiency that\nshuts out God and the higher law.--[ And, indeed, if the will of man is\nall-powerful, if states are to be distinguished from one another only by\ntheir boundaries, if everything may be changed like the scenery in a play\nby a flourish of the magic wand of a system, if man may arbitrarily make\nthe right, if nations can be put through evolutions like regiments of\ntroops, what a field would the world present for attempts at the\nrealizations of the wildest dreams, and what a temptation would be\noffered to take possession, by main force, of the government of human\naffairs, to destroy the rights of property and the rights of capital, to\ngratify ardent longings without trouble, and to provide the much-coveted\nmeans of enjoyment! The Titans have tried to scale the heavens, and have\nfallen into the most degrading materialism. Purely speculative dogmatism\nsinks into materialism.  (M. Wolowski's Essay on the Historical Method,\nprefixed to his translation of Roscher's Political Economy.)]--We need to\nremember that the Creator of man, and not man himself, formed society and\ninstituted government; that God is always behind human society and\nsustains it; that marriage and the family and all social relations are\ndivinely established; that man's duty, coinciding with his right, is, by\nthe light of history, by experience, by observation of men, and by the\naid of revelation, to find out and make operative, as well as he can, the\ndivine law in human affairs. And it may be added that the sovereignty of\nthe people, as a divine trust, may be as logically deduced from the\ndivine institution of government as the old divine right of kings.\nGovernment, by whatever name it is called, is a matter of experience and\nexpediency. If we submit to the will of the majority, it is because it is\nmore convenient to do so; and if the republic or the democracy vindicate\nitself, it is because it works best, on the whole, for a particular\npeople. But it needs no prophet to say that it will not work long if God\nis shut out from it, and man, in a full-blown socialism, is considered\nthe ultimate authority.\n\nII. Equality of education. In our American system there is, not only\ntheoretically but practically, an equality of opportunity in the public\nschools, which are free to all children, and rise by gradations from the\nprimaries to the high-schools, in which the curriculum in most respects\nequals, and in variety exceeds, that of many third-class  colleges.  In\nthese schools nearly the whole round of learning, in languages, science,\nand art, is touched. The system has seemed to be the best that could be\ndevised for a free society, where all take part in the government, and\nwhere so much depends upon the intelligence of the electors. Certain\nobjections, however, have been made to it. As this essay is intended only\nto be tentative, we shall state some of them, without indulging in\nlengthy comments.\n\n( 1. ) The first charge is superficiality--a necessary consequence of\nattempting too much--and a want of adequate preparation for special\npursuits in life.\n\n( 2. ) A uniformity in mediocrity is alleged from the use of the same\ntext-books and methods in all schools, for all grades and capacities.\nThis is one of the most common criticisms on our social state by a\ncertain class of writers in England, who take an unflagging interest in\nour development. One answer to it is this: There is more reason to expect\nvariety of development and character in a generally educated than in an\nignorant community; there is no such uniformity as the dull level of\nignorance.\n\n( 3. ) It is said that secular education--and the general schools open to\nall in a community of mixed religions must be secular--is training the\nrising generation to be materialists and socialists.\n\n( 4. ) Perhaps a better-founded charge is that a system of equal\neducation, with its superficiality, creates discontent with the condition\nin which a majority of men must be--that of labor--a distaste for trades\nand for hand-work, an idea that what is called intellectual labor (let us\nsay, casting up accounts in a shop, or writing trashy stories for a\nsensational newspaper) is more honorable than physical labor; and\nencourages the false notion that  the elevation of the working classes \n implies the removal of men and women from those classes.\n\nWe should hesitate to draw adverse conclusions in regard to a system yet\nso young that its results cannot be fairly estimated. Only after two or\nthree generations can its effects upon the character of a great people be\nmeasured: Observations differ, and testimony is difficult to obtain. We\nthink it safe to say that those states are most prosperous which have the\nbest free schools. But if the philosopher inquires as to the general\neffect upon the national character in respect to the objections named, he\nmust wait for a reply.\n\nIII. The pursuit of the chimera of social equality, from the belief that\nit should logically follow political equality; resulting in extravagance,\nmisapplication of natural capacities, a notion that physical labor is\ndishonorable, or that the state should compel all to labor alike, and in\nefforts to remove inequalities of condition by legislation.\n\nIV. The equality of the sexes. The stir in the middle of the eighteenth\ncentury gave a great impetus to the emancipation of woman; though,\ncuriously enough, Rousseau, in unfolding his plan of education for\nSophie, in Emile, inculcates an almost Oriental subjection of woman--her\neducation simply that she may please man. The true enfranchisement of\nwoman--that is, the recognition (by herself as well as by man) of her\nreal place in the economy of the world, in the full development of her\ncapacities--is the greatest gain to civilization since the Christian era.\nThe movement has its excesses, and the gain has not been without loss.\n When we turn to modern literature,  writes Mr. Money,  from the pages in\nwhich Fenelon speaks of the education of girls, who does not feel that\nthe world has lost a sacred accent--that some ineffable essence has\npassed out from our hearts? \n\nHow far the expectation has been realized that women, in fiction, for\ninstance, would be more accurately described, better understood, and\nappear as nobler and lovelier beings when women wrote the novels, this is\nnot the place to inquire. The movement has results which are unavoidable\nin a period of transition, and probably only temporary. The education of\nwoman and the development of her powers hold the greatest promise for the\nregeneration of society. But this development, yet in its infancy, and\npursued with much crudeness and misconception of the end, is not enough.\nWoman would not only be equal with man, but would be like him; that is,\nperform in society the functions he now performs. Here, again, the notion\nof equality is pushed towards uniformity. The reformers admit structural\ndifferences in the sexes, though these, they say, are greatly exaggerated\nby subjection; but the functional differences are mainly to be\neliminated. Women ought to mingle in all the occupations of men, as if\nthe physical differences did not exist. The movement goes to obliterate,\nas far as possible, the distinction between sexes. Nature is, no doubt,\namused at this attempt. A recent writer--[ Biology and Woman's Rights, \n Quarterly Journal of Science, November, 1878.]--, says:  The 'femme\nlibre' [free woman] of the new social order may, indeed, escape the\ncharge of neglecting her family and her household by contending that it\nis not her vocation to become a wife and a mother! Why, then, we ask, is\nshe constituted a woman at all? Merely that she may become a sort of\nsecond-rate man? \n\nThe truth is that this movement, based always upon a misconception of\nequality, so far as it would change the duties of the sexes, is a\nretrograde.--[ It has been frequently observed that among declining\nnations the social differences between the two sexes are first\nobliterated, and afterwards even the intellectual differences. The more\nmasculine the women become, the more effeminate become the men. It is no\ngood symptom when there are almost as many female writers and female\nrulers as there are male. Such was the case, for instance, in the\nHellenistic kingdoms, and in the age of the Caesars. What today is called\nby many the emancipation of woman would ultimately end in the dissolution\nof the family, and, if carried out, render poor service to the majority\nof women. If man and woman were placed entirely on the same level, and if\nin the competition between the two sexes nothing but an actual\nsuperiority should decide, it is to be feared that woman would soon be\nrelegated to a condition as hard as that in which she is found among all\nbarbarous nations. It is precisely family life and higher civilization\nthat have emancipated woman. Those theorizers who, led astray by the dark\nside of higher civilization, preach a community of goods, generally\ncontemplate in their simultaneous recommendation of the emancipation of\nwoman a more or less developed form of a community of wives. The grounds\nof the two institutions are very similar.  (Roscher's Political Economy,\np. 250.) Note also that difference in costumes of the sexes is least\napparent among lowly civilized peoples.]--One of the most striking\nfeatures in our progress from barbarism to civilization is the proper\nadjustment of the work for men and women. One test of a civilization is\nthe difference of this work. This is a question not merely of division of\nlabor, but of differentiation with regard to sex. It not only takes into\naccount structural differences and physiological disadvantages, but it\nrecognizes the finer and higher use of woman in society.\n\nThe attainable, not to say the ideal, society requires an increase rather\nthan a decrease of the differences between the sexes. The differences may\nbe due to physical organization, but the structural divergence is but a\nfaint type of deeper separation in mental and spiritual constitution.\nThat which makes the charm and power of woman, that for which she is\ncreated, is as distinctly feminine as that which makes the charm and\npower of men is masculine. Progress requires constant differentiation,\nand the line of this is the development of each sex in its special\nfunctions, each being true to the highest ideal for itself, which is not\nthat the woman should be a man, or the man a woman. The enjoyment of\nsocial life rests very largely upon the encounter and play of the subtle\npeculiarities which mark the two sexes; and society, in the limited sense\nof the word, not less than the whole structure of our civilization,\nrequires the development of these peculiarities. It is in diversity, and\nnot in an equality tending to uniformity, that we are to expect the best\nresults from the race.\n\nV. Equality of races; or rather a removal of the inequalities, social and\npolitical, arising in the contact of different races by intermarriage.\n\nPerhaps equality is hardly the word to use here, since uniformity is the\nthing aimed at; but the root of the proposal is in the dogma we are\nconsidering. The tendency of the age is to uniformity. The facilities of\ntravel and communication, the new inventions and the use of machinery in\nmanufacturing, bring men into close and uniform relations, and induce the\ndisappearance of national characteristics and of race peculiarities. Men,\nthe world over, are getting to dress alike, eat alike, and disbelieve in\nthe same things: It is the sentimental complaint of the traveler that his\nsearch for the picturesque is ever more difficult, that race distinctions\nand habits are in a way to be improved off the face of the earth, and\nthat a most uninteresting monotony is supervening. The complaint is not\nwholly sentimental, and has a deeper philosophical reason than the mere\npleasure in variety on this planet.\n\nWe find a striking illustration of the equalizing, not to say leveling,\ntendency of the age in an able paper by Canon George Rawlinson, of the\nUniversity of Oxford, contributed recently to an American periodical of a\nhigh class and conservative character.--[ Duties of Higher towards Lower\nRaces.  By George Rawlinson. Princeton Re-view. November, 1878. New\nYork.]--This paper proposes, as a remedy for the social and political\nevils caused by the negro element in our population, the miscegenation of\nthe white and black races, to the end that the black race may be wholly\nabsorbed in the white--an absorption of four millions by thirty-six\nmillions, which he thinks might reasonably be expected in about a\ncentury, when the lower type would disappear altogether.\n\nPerhaps the pleasure of being absorbed is not equal to the pleasure of\nabsorbing, and we cannot say how this proposal will commend itself to the\nvictims of the euthanasia. The results of miscegenation on this\ncontinent--black with red, and white with black--the results morally,\nintellectually, and physically, are not such as to make it attractive to\nthe American people.\n\nIt is not, however, upon sentimental grounds that we oppose this\nextension of the exaggerated dogma of equality. Our objection is deeper.\nRace distinctions ought to be maintained for the sake of the best\ndevelopment of the race, and for the continuance of that mutual reaction\nand play of peculiar forces between races which promise the highest\ndevelopment for the whole. It is not for nothing, we may suppose, that\ndifferentiation has gone on in the world; and we doubt that either\nbenevolence or self-interest requires this age to attempt to restore an\nassumed lost uniformity, and fuse the race traits in a tiresome\nhomogeneity.\n\nLife consists in an exchange of relations, and the more varied the\nrelations interchanged the higher the life. We want not only different\nraces, but different civilizations in different parts of the globe.\n\nA much more philosophical view of the African problem and the proper\ndestiny of the negro race than that of Canon Rawlinson is given by a\nrecent colored writer,--[ Africa and the Africans.  By Edmund W. Blyden.\nEraser's Magazine, August, 1878.]--an official in the government of\nLiberia. We are mistaken, says this excellent observer, in regarding\nAfrica as a land of a homogeneous population, and in confounding the\ntribes in a promiscuous manner. There are negroes and negroes.  The\nnumerous tribes inhabiting the vast continent of Africa can no more be\nregarded as in every respect equal than the numerous peoples of Asia or\nEurope can be so regarded;  and we are not to expect the civilization of\nAfrica to be under one government, but in a great variety of States,\ndeveloped according to tribal and race affinities. A still greater\nmistake is this:\n\n The mistake which Europeans often make in considering questions of negro\nimprovement and the future of Africa is in supposing that the negro is\nthe European in embryo, in the undeveloped stage, and that when,\nby-and-by, he shall enjoy the advantages of civilization and culture, he\nwill become like the European; in other words, that the negro is on the\nsame line of progress, in the same groove, with the European, but\ninfinitely in the rear . . . . This view proceeds upon the assumption\nthat the two races are called to the same work, and are alike in\npotentiality and ultimate development, the negro only needing the element\nof time, under certain circumstances, to become European. But to our mind\nit is not a question between the two races of inferiority or superiority.\nThere is no absolute or essential superiority on the one side, or\nabsolute or essential inferiority on the other side. It is a question of\ndifference of endowment and difference of destiny. No amount of training\nor culture will make the negro a European. On the other hand, no lack of\ntraining or deficiency of culture will make the European a negro. The two\nraces are not moving in the same groove, with an immeasurable distance\nbetween them, but on parallel lines. They will never meet in the plane of\ntheir activities so as to coincide in capacity or performance. They are\nnot identical, as some think, but unequal; they are distinct, but\nequal--an idea that is in no way incompatible with the Scripture truth\nthat God hath made of one blood all nations of men. \n\nThe writer goes on, in a strain that is not mere fancy, but that involves\none of the truths of inequality, to say that each race is endowed with\npeculiar talents; that the negro has aptitudes and capacities which the\nworld needs, and will lack until he is normally trained. In the grand\nsymphony of the universe,  there are several sounds not yet brought out,\nand the feeblest of all is that hitherto produced by the negro; but he\nalone can furnish it. -- When the African shall come forward with his\npeculiar gifts, they will fill a place never before occupied.  In short,\nthe African must be civilized in the line of his capacities.  The present\npractice of the friends of Africa is to frame laws according to their own\nnotions for the government and improvement of this people, whereas God\nhas already enacted the laws for the government of their affairs, which\nlaws should be carefully ascertained, interpreted, and applied; for until\nthey are found out and conformed to, all labor will be ineffective and\nresultless. \n\nWe have thus passed in review some of the tendencies of the age. We have\nonly touched the edges of a vast subject, and shall be quite satisfied if\nwe have suggested thought in the direction indicated. But in this limited\nview of our complex human problem it is time to ask if we have not pushed\nthe dogma of equality far enough. Is it not time to look the facts\nsquarely in the face, and conform to them in our efforts for social and\npolitical amelioration?\n\nInequality appears to be the divine order; it always has existed;\nundoubtedly it will continue; all our theories and 'a priori'\nspeculations will not change the nature of things. Even inequality of\ncondition is the basis of progress, the incentive to exertion.\nFortunately, if today we could make every man white, every woman as like\nman as nature permits, give to every human being the same opportunity of\neducation, and divide equally among all the accumulated wealth of the\nworld, tomorrow differences, unequal possession, and differentiation\nwould begin again. We are attempting the regeneration of society with a\nmisleading phrase; we are wasting our time with a theory that does not\nfit the facts.\n\nThere is an equality, but it is not of outward show; it is independent of\ncondition; it does not destroy property, nor ignore the difference of\nsex, nor obliterate race traits. It is the equality of men before God, of\nmen before the law; it is the equal honor of all honorable labor. No more\npernicious notion ever obtained lodgment in society than the common one\nthat to  rise in the world  is necessarily to change the  condition.  Let\nthere be content with condition; discontent with individual ignorance and\nimperfection.  We want,  says Emerson,  not a farmer, but a man on a\nfarm.  What a mischievous idea is that which has grown, even in the\nUnited States, that manual labor is discreditable! There is surely some\ndefect in the theory of equality in our society which makes domestic\nservice to be shunned as if it were a disgrace.\n\nIt must be observed, further, that the dogma of equality is not satisfied\nby the usual admission that one is in favor of an equality of rights and\nopportunities, but is against the sweeping application of the theory made\nby the socialists and communists. The obvious reply is that equal rights\nand a fair chance are not possible without equality of condition, and\nthat property and the whole artificial constitution of society\nnecessitate inequality of condition. The damage from the current\nexaggeration of equality is that the attempt to realize the dogma in\nfact--and the attempt is everywhere on foot--can lead only to mischief\nand disappointment.\n\nIt would be considered a humorous suggestion to advocate inequality as a\ntheory or as a working dogma. Let us recognize it, however, as a fact,\nand shape the efforts for the improvement of the race in accordance with\nit, encouraging it in some directions, restraining it from injustice in\nothers. Working by this recognition, we shall save the race from many\nfailures and bitter disappointments, and spare the world the spectacle of\nrepublics ending in despotism and experiments in government ending in\nanarchy.\n\n\n\n\nWHAT IS YOUR CULTURE TO ME?\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\n   Delivered before the Alumni of Hamilton College, Clinton, N. Y.,\n   Wednesday, June 26, 1872\n\nTwenty-one years ago in this house I heard a voice calling me to ascend\nthe platform, and there to stand and deliver. The voice was the voice of\nPresident North; the language was an excellent imitation of that used by\nCicero and Julius Caesar. I remember the flattering invitation--it is the\nclassic tag that clings to the graduate long after he has forgotten the\ngender of the nouns that end in 'um--orator proximus', the grateful voice\nsaid, 'ascendat, videlicet,' and so forth. To be proclaimed an orator,\nand an ascending orator, in such a sonorous tongue, in the face of a\nworld waiting for orators, stirred one's blood like the herald's trumpet\nwhen the lists are thrown open. Alas! for most of us, who crowded so\neagerly into the arena, it was the last appearance as orators on any\nstage.\n\nThe facility of the world for swallowing up orators, and company after\ncompany of educated young men, has been remarked. But it is almost\nincredible to me now that the class of 1851, with its classic sympathies\nand its many revolutionary ideas, disappeared in the flood of the world\nso soon and so silently, causing scarcely a ripple in the smoothly\nflowing stream. I suppose the phenomenon has been repeated for twenty\nyears. Do the young gentlemen at Hamilton, I wonder, still carry on their\nordinary conversation in the Latin tongue, and their familiar vacation\ncorrespondence in the language of Aristophanes? I hope so. I hope they\nare more proficient in such exercises than the young gentlemen of twenty\nyears ago were, for I have still great faith in a culture that is so far\nfrom any sordid aspirations as to approach the ideal; although the young\ngraduate is not long in learning that there is an indifference in the\npublic mind with regard to the first aorist that amounts nearly to\napathy, and that millions of his fellow-creatures will probably live and\ndie without the consolations of the second aorist. It is a melancholy\nfact that, after a thousand years of missionary effort, the vast majority\nof civilized men do not know that gerunds are found only in the singular\nnumber.\n\nI confess that this failure of the annual graduating class to make its\nexpected impression on the world has its pathetic side. Youth is\ncredulous--as it always ought to be--and full of hope--else the world\nwere dead already--and the graduate steps out into life with an ingenuous\nself-confidence in his resources. It is to him an event, this\nturning-point in the career of what he feels to be an important and\nimmortal being. His entrance is public and with some dignity of display.\nFor a day the world stops to see it; the newspapers spread abroad a\nreport of it, and the modest scholar feels that the eyes of mankind are\nfixed on him in expectation and desire. Though modest, he is not\ninsensible to the responsibility of his position. He has only packed away\nin his mind the wisdom of the ages, and he does not intend to be stingy\nabout communicating it to the world which is awaiting his graduation.\nFresh from the communion with great thoughts in great literatures, he is\nin haste to give mankind the benefit of them, and lead it on into new\nenthusiasm and new conquests.\n\nThe world, however, is not very much excited. The birth of a child is in\nitself marvelous, but it is so common. Over and over again, for hundreds\nof years, these young gentlemen have been coming forward with their\nspecimens of learning, tied up in neat little parcels, all ready to\nadminister, and warranted to be of the purest materials. The world is not\nunkind, it is not even indifferent, but it must be confessed that it does\nnot act any longer as if it expected to be enlightened. It is generally\nso busy that it does not even ask the young gentlemen what they can do,\nbut leaves them standing with their little parcels, wondering when the\nperson will pass by who requires one of them, and when there will happen\na little opening in the procession into which they can fall. They\nexpected that way would be made for them with shouts of welcome, but they\nfind themselves before long struggling to get even a standing-place in\nthe crowd--it is only kings, and the nobility, and those fortunates who\ndwell in the tropics, where bread grows on trees and clothing is\nunnecessary, who have reserved seats in this world.\n\nTo the majority of men I fancy that literature is very much the same that\nhistory is; and history is presented as a museum of antiquities and\ncuriosities, classified, arranged, and labeled. One may walk through it\nas he does through the Hotel de Cluny; he feels that he ought to be\ninterested in it, but it is very tiresome. Learning is regarded in like\nmanner as an accumulation of literature, gathered into great storehouses\ncalled libraries--the thought of which excites great respect in most\nminds, but is ineffably tedious. Year after year and age after age it\naccumulates--this evidence and monument of intellectual activity--piling\nitself up in vast collections, which it needs a lifetime even to\ncatalogue, and through which the uncultured walk as the idle do through\nthe British Museum, with no very strong indignation against Omar who\nburned the library at Alexandria.\n\nTo the popular mind this vast accumulation of learning in libraries, or\nin brains that do not visibly apply it, is much the same thing. The\nbusiness of the scholar appears to be this sort of accumulation; and the\nyoung student, who comes to the world with a little portion of this\ntreasure dug out of some classic tomb or mediaeval museum, is received\nwith little more enthusiasm than is the miraculous handkerchief of St.\nVeronica by the crowd of Protestants to whom it is exhibited on Holy Week\nin St. Peter's. The historian must make his museum live again; the\nscholar must vivify his learning with a present purpose.\n\nIt is unnecessary for me to say that all this is only from the\nunsympathetic and worldly side. I should think myself a criminal if I\nsaid anything to chill the enthusiasm of the young scholar, or to dash\nwith any skepticism his longing and his hope. He has chosen the highest.\nHis beautiful faith and his aspiration are the light of life. Without his\nfresh enthusiasm and his gallant devotion to learning, to art, to\nculture, the world would be dreary enough. Through him comes the\never-springing inspiration in affairs. Baffled at every turn and driven\ndefeated from a hundred fields, he carries victory in himself. He belongs\nto a great and immortal army. Let him not be discouraged at his apparent\nlittle influence, even though every sally of every young life may seem\nlike a forlorn hope. No man can see the whole of the battle. It must\nneeds be that regiment after regiment, trained, accomplished, gay, and\nhigh with hope, shall be sent into the field, marching on, into the\nsmoke, into the fire, and be swept away. The battle swallows them, one\nafter the other, and the foe is yet unyielding, and the ever-remorseless\ntrumpet calls for more and more. But not in vain, for some day, and every\nday, along the line, there is a cry,  They fly! they fly!  and the whole\narmy advances, and the flag is planted on an ancient fortress where it\nnever waved before. And, even if you never see this, better than\ninglorious camp-following is it to go in with the wasting regiment; to\ncarry the colors up the slope of the enemy's works, though the next\nmoment you fall and find a grave at the foot of the glacis.\n\nWhat are the relations of culture to common life, of the scholar to the\nday-laborer? What is the value of this vast accumulation of higher\nlearning, what is its point of contact with the mass of humanity, that\ntoils and eats and sleeps and reproduces itself and dies, generation\nafter generation, in an unvarying round, on an unvarying level? We have\nhad discussed lately the relation of culture to religion. Mr. Froude,\nwith a singular, reactionary ingenuity, has sought to prove that the\nprogress of the century, so-called, with all its material alleviations,\nhas done little in regard to a happy life, to the pleasure of existence,\nfor the average individual Englishman. Into neither of these inquiries do\nI purpose to enter; but we may not unprofitably turn our attention to a\nsubject closely connected with both of them.\n\nIt has not escaped your attention that there are indications everywhere\nof what may be called a ground-swell. There is not simply an inquiry as\nto the value of classic culture, a certain jealousy of the schools where\nit is obtained, a rough popular contempt for the graces of learning, a\nfailure to see any connection between the first aorist and the rolling of\nsteel rails, but there is arising an angry protest against the conditions\nof a life which make one free of the serene heights of thought and give\nhim range of all intellectual countries, and keep another at the spade\nand the loom, year after year, that he may earn food for the day and\nlodging for the night. In our day the demand here hinted at has taken\nmore definite form and determinate aim, and goes on, visible to all men,\nto unsettle society and change social and political relations. The great\nmovement of labor, extravagant and preposterous as are some of its\ndemands, demagogic as are most of its leaders, fantastic as are many of\nits theories, is nevertheless real, and gigantic, and full of a certain\nprimeval force, and with a certain justice in it that never sleeps in\nhuman affairs, but moves on, blindly often and destructively often, a\nmovement cruel at once and credulous, deceived and betrayed, and\nrevenging itself on friends and foes alike. Its strength is in the fact\nthat it is natural and human; it might have been predicted from a mere\nknowledge of human nature, which is always restless in any relations it\nis possible to establish, which is always like the sea, seeking a level,\nand never so discontented as when anything like a level is approximated.\n\nWhat is the relation of the scholar to the present phase of this\nmovement? What is the relation of culture to it? By scholar I mean the\nman who has had the advantages of such an institution as this. By culture\nI mean that fine product of opportunity and scholarship which is to mere\nknowledge what manners are to the gentleman. The world has a growing\nbelief in the profit of knowledge, of information, but it has a suspicion\nof culture. There is a lingering notion in matters religious that\nsomething is lost by refinement--at least, that there is danger that the\nplain, blunt, essential truths will be lost in aesthetic graces. The\nlaborer is getting to consent that his son shall go to school, and learn\nhow to build an undershot wheel or to assay metals; but why plant in his\nmind those principles of taste which will make him as sensitive to beauty\nas to pain, why open to him those realms of imagination with the\nillimitable horizons, the contours and colors of which can but fill him\nwith indefinite longing?\n\nIt is not necessary for me in this presence to dwell upon the value of\nculture. I wish rather to have you notice the gulf that exists between\nwhat the majority want to know and that fine fruit of knowledge\nconcerning which there is so widespread an infidelity. Will culture aid a\nminister in a  protracted meeting ? Will the ability to read Chaucer\nassist a shop-keeper? Will the politician add to the  sweetness and\nlight  of his lovely career if he can read the  Battle of the Frogs and\nthe Mice  in the original? What has the farmer to do with the  Rose\nGarden of Saadi ?\n\nI suppose it is not altogether the fault of the majority that the true\nrelation of culture to common life is so misunderstood. The scholar is\nlargely responsible for it; he is largely responsible for the isolation\nof his position, and the want of sympathy it begets. No man can influence\nhis fellows with any power who retires into his own selfishness, and\ngives himself to a self-culture which has no further object. What is he\nthat he should absorb the sweets of the universe, that he should hold all\nthe claims of humanity second to the perfecting of himself? This effort\nto save his own soul was common to Goethe and Francis of Assisi; under\ndifferent manifestations it was the same regard for self. And where it is\nan intellectual and not a spiritual greediness, I suppose it is what an\nold writer calls  laying up treasures in hell. \n\nIt is not an unreasonable demand of the majority that the few who have\nthe advantages of the training of college and university should exhibit\nthe breadth and sweetness of a generous culture, and should shed\neverywhere that light which ennobles common things, and without which\nlife is like one of the old landscapes in which the artist forgot to put\nsunlight. One of the reasons why the college-bred man does not meet this\nreasonable expectation is that his training, too often, has not been\nthorough and conscientious, it has not been of himself; he has acquired,\nbut he is not educated. Another is that, if he is educated, he is not\nimpressed with the intimacy of his relation to that which is below him as\nwell as that which is above him, and his culture is out of sympathy with\nthe great mass that needs it, and must have it, or it will remain a blind\nforce in the world, the lever of demagogues who preach social anarchy and\nmisname it progress. There is no culture so high, no taste so fastidious,\nno grace of learning so delicate, no refinement of art so exquisite, that\nit cannot at this hour find full play for itself in the broadest fields\nof humanity; since it is all needed to soften the attritions of common\nlife, and guide to nobler aspirations the strong materialistic influences\nof our restless society.\n\nOne reason, as I said, for the gulf between the majority and the select\nfew to be educated is, that the college does not seldom disappoint the\nreasonable expectation concerning it. The graduate of the carpenter's\nshop knows how to use his tools--or used to in days before superficial\ntraining in trades became the rule. Does the college graduate know how to\nuse his tools? Or has he to set about fitting himself for some\nemployment, and gaining that culture, that training of himself, that\nutilization of his information which will make him necessary in the\nworld? There has been a great deal of discussion whether a boy should be\ntrained in the classics or mathematics or sciences or modern languages. I\nfeel like saying  yes  to all the various propositions. For Heaven's sake\ntrain him in something, so that he can handle himself, and have free and\nconfident use of his powers. There isn't a more helpless creature in the\nuniverse than a scholar with a vast amount of information over which he\nhas no control. He is like a man with a load of hay so badly put upon his\ncart that it all slides off before he can get to market. The influence of\na man on the world is generally proportioned to his ability to do\nsomething. When Abraham Lincoln was running for the Legislature the first\ntime, on the platform of the improvement of the navigation of the\nSangamon River, he went to secure the votes of thirty men who were\ncradling a wheat field. They asked no questions about internal\nimprovements, but only seemed curious whether Abraham had muscle enough\nto represent them in the Legislature. The obliging man took up a cradle\nand led the gang round the field. The whole thirty voted for him.\n\nWhat is scholarship? The learned Hindu can repeat I do not know how many\nthousands of lines from the Vedas, and perhaps backwards as well as\nforwards. I heard of an excellent old lady who had counted how many times\nthe letter A occurs in the Holy Scriptures. The Chinese students who\naspire to honors spend years in verbally memorizing the classics\n--Confucius and Mencius--and receive degrees and public advancement upon\nability to transcribe from memory without the error of a point, or\nmisplacement of a single tea-chest character, the whole of some books of\nmorals. You do not wonder that China is today more like an herbarium than\nanything else. Learning is a kind of fetish, and it has no influence\nwhatever upon the great inert mass of Chinese humanity.\n\nI suppose it is possible for a young gentleman to be able to read--just\nthink of it, after ten years of grammar and lexicon, not to know Greek\nliterature and have flexible command of all its richness and beauty, but\nto read it!--it is possible, I suppose, for the graduate of college to be\nable to read all the Greek authors, and yet to have gone, in regard to\nhis own culture, very little deeper than a surface reading of them; to\nknow very little of that perfect architecture and what it expressed; nor\nof that marvelous sculpture and the conditions of its immortal beauty;\nnor of that artistic development which made the Acropolis to bud and\nbloom under the blue sky like the final flower of a perfect nature; nor\nof that philosophy, that politics, that society, nor of the life of that\npolished, crafty, joyous race, the springs of it and the far-reaching,\nstill unexpended effects of it.\n\nYet as surely as that nothing perishes, that the Providence of God is not\na patchwork of uncontinued efforts, but a plan and a progress, as surely\nas the Pilgrim embarkation at Delfshaven has a relation to the battle of\nGettysburg, and to the civil rights bill giving the colored man\npermission to ride in a public conveyance and to be buried in a public\ncemetery, so surely has the Parthenon some connection with your new State\ncapitol at Albany, and the daily life of the vine-dresser of the\nPeloponnesus some lesson for the American day-laborer. The scholar is\nsaid to be the torch-bearer, transmitting the increasing light from\ngeneration to generation, so that the feet of all, the humblest and the\nloveliest, may walk in the radiance and not stumble. But he very often\ncarries a dark lantern.\n\nNot what is the use of Greek, of any culture in art or literature, but\nwhat is the good to me of your knowing Greek, is the latest question of\nthe ditch-digger to the scholar--what better off am I for your learning?\nAnd the question, in view of the interdependence of all members of\nsociety, is one that cannot be put away as idle. One reason why the\nscholar does not make the world of the past, the world of books, real to\nhis fellows and serviceable to them, is that it is not real to himself,\nbut a mere unsubstantial place of intellectual idleness, where he dallies\nsome years before he begins his task in life. And another reason is that,\nwhile it may be real to him, while he is actually cultured and trained,\nhe fails to see or to feel that his culture is not a thing apart, and\nthat all the world has a right to share its blessed influence. Failing to\nsee this, he is isolated, and, wanting his sympathy, the untutored world\nmocks at his super-fineness and takes its own rough way to rougher ends.\nGreek art was for the people, Greek poetry was for the people; Raphael\npainted his immortal frescoes where throngs could be lifted in thought\nand feeling by them; Michael Angelo hung the dome over St. Peter's so\nthat the far-off peasant on the Campagna could see it, and the maiden\nkneeling by the shrine in the Alban hills. Do we often stop to think what\ninfluence, direct or other, the scholar, the man of high culture, has\ntoday upon the great mass of our people? Why do they ask, what is the use\nof your learning and your art?\n\nThe artist, in the retirement of his studio, finishes a charming,\nsuggestive, historical picture. The rich man buys it and hangs it in his\nlibrary, where the privileged few can see it. I do not deny that the\naverage rich man needs all the refining influence the picture can exert\non him, and that the picture is doing missionary work in his house; but\nit is nevertheless an example of an educating influence withdrawn and\nappropriated to narrow uses. But the engraver comes, and, by his\nmediating art, transfers it to a thousand sheets, and scatters its sweet\ninfluence far abroad. All the world, in its toil, its hunger, its\nsordidness, pauses a moment to look on it--that gray seacoast, the\nreceding Mayflower, the two young Pilgrims in the foreground regarding\nit, with tender thoughts of the far home--all the world looks on it\nperhaps for a moment thoughtfully, perhaps tearfully, and is touched with\nthe sentiment of it, is kindled into a glow of nobleness by the sight of\nthat faith and love and resolute devotion which have tinged our early\nhistory with the faint light of romance. So art is no longer the\nenjoyment of the few, but the help and solace of the many.\n\nThe scholar who is cultured by books, reflection, travel, by a refined\nsociety, consorts with his kind, and more and more removes himself from\nthe sympathies of common life. I know how almost inevitable this is, how\nalmost impossible it is to resist the segregation of classes according to\nthe affinities of taste. But by what mediation shall the culture that is\nnow the possession of the few be made to leaven the world and to elevate\nand sweeten ordinary life? By books? Yes. By the newspaper? Yes. By the\ndiffusion of works of art? Yes. But when all is done that can be done by\nsuch letters-missive from one class to another, there remains the need of\nmore personal contact, of a human sympathy, diffused and living. The\nworld has had enough of charities. It wants respect and consideration. We\ndesire no longer to be legislated for, it says; we want to be legislated\nwith. Why do you never come to see me but you bring me something? asks\nthe sensitive and poor seamstress. Do you always give some charity to\nyour friends? I want companionship, and not cold pieces; I want to be\ntreated like a human being who has nerves and feelings, and tears too,\nand as much interest in the sunset, and in the birth of Christ, perhaps\nas you. And the mass of uncared-for ignorance and brutality, finding a\nvoice at length, bitterly repels the condescensions of charity; you have\nyour culture, your libraries, your fine houses, your church, your\nreligion, and your God, too; let us alone, we want none of them. In the\nbear-pit at Berne, the occupants, who are the wards of the city, have had\nmeat thrown to them daily for I know not how long, but they are not tamed\nby this charity, and would probably eat up any careless person who fell\ninto their clutches, without apology.\n\nDo not impute to me quixotic notions with regard to the duties of men and\nwomen of culture, or think that I undervalue the difficulties in the way,\nthe fastidiousness on the one side, or the jealousies on the other. It is\nby no means easy to an active participant to define the drift of his own\nage; but I seem to see plainly that unless the culture of the age finds\nmeans to diffuse itself, working downward and reconciling antagonisms by\na commonness of thought and feeling and aim in life, society must more\nand more separate itself into jarring classes, with mutual\nmisunderstandings and hatred and war. To suggest remedies is much more\ndifficult than to see evils; but the comprehension of dangers is the\nfirst step towards mastering them. The problem of our own time--the\nreconciliation of the interests of classes--is as yet very ill defined.\nThis great movement of labor, for instance, does not know definitely what\nit wants, and those who are spectators do not know what their relations\nare to it. The first thing to be done is for them to try to understand\neach other. One class sees that the other has lighter or at least\ndifferent labor, opportunities of travel, a more liberal supply of the\nluxuries of life, a higher enjoyment and a keener relish of the\nbeautiful, the immaterial. Looking only at external conditions, it\nconcludes that all it needs to come into this better place is wealth, and\nso it organizes war upon the rich, and it makes demands of freedom from\ntoil and of compensation which it is in no man's power to give it, and\nwhich would not, if granted over and over again, lift it into that\ncondition it desires. It is a tale in the Gulistan, that a king placed\nhis son with a preceptor, and said,  This is your son; educate him in the\nsame manner as your own.  The preceptor took pains with him for a year,\nbut without success, whilst his own sons were completed in learning and\naccomplishments. The king reproved the preceptor, and said,  You have\nbroken your promise, and not acted faithfully. \n\nHe replied,  O king, the education was the same, but the capacities are\ndifferent. Although silver and gold are produced from a stone, yet these\nmetals are not to be found in every stone. The star Canopus shines all\nover the world, but the scented leather comes only from Yemen.   'Tis an\nabsolute, and, as it were, a divine perfection,  says Montaigne,  for a\nman to know how loyally to enjoy his being. We seek other conditions, by\nreason we do not understand the use of our own; and go out of ourselves,\nbecause we know not how there to reside. \n\nBut nevertheless it becomes a necessity for us to understand the wishes\nof those who demand a change of condition, and it is necessary that they\nshould understand the compensations as well as the limitations of every\ncondition. The dervish congratulated himself that although the only\nmonument of his grave would be a brick, he should at the last day arrive\nat and enter the gate of Paradise before the king had got from under the\nheavy stones of his costly tomb. Nothing will bring us into this\ndesirable mutual understanding except sympathy and personal contact. Laws\nwill not do it; institutions of charity and relief will not do it.\n\nWe must believe, for one thing, that the graces of culture will not be\nthrown away if exercised among the humblest and the least cultured; it is\nfound out that flowers are often more welcome in the squalid\ntenement-houses of Boston than loaves of bread. It is difficult to say\nexactly how culture can extend its influence into places uncongenial and\nto people indifferent to it, but I will try and illustrate what I mean by\nan example or two.\n\nCriminals in this country, when the law took hold of them, used to be\nturned over to the care of men who often had more sympathy with the crime\nthan with the criminal, or at least to those who were almost as coarse in\nfeeling and as brutal in speech as their charges. There have been some\nchanges of late years in the care of criminals, but does public opinion\nyet everywhere demand that jailers and prison-keepers and executioners of\nthe penal law should be men of refinement, of high character, of any\ndegree of culture? I do not know any class more needing the best direct\npersonal influence of the best civilization than the criminal. The\nproblem of its proper treatment and reformation is one of the most\npressing, and it needs practically the aid of our best men and women. I\nshould have great hope of any prison establishment at the head of which\nwas a gentleman of fine education, the purest tastes, the most elevated\nmorality and lively sympathy with men as such, provided he had also will\nand the power of command. I do not know what might not be done for the\nviciously inclined and the transgressors, if they could come under the\ninfluence of refined men and women. And yet you know that a boy or a girl\nmay be arrested for crime, and pass from officer to keeper, and jailer to\nwarden, and spend years in a career of vice and imprisonment, and never\nonce see any man or woman, officially, who has tastes, or sympathies, or\naspirations much above that vulgar level whence the criminals came.\nAnybody who is honest and vigilant is considered good enough to take\ncharge of prison birds.\n\nThe age is merciful and abounds in charities-houses of refuge for poor\nwomen, societies for the conservation of the exposed and the reclamation\nof the lost. It is willing to pay liberally for their support, and to\nhire ministers and distributors of its benefactions. But it is beginning\nto see that it cannot hire the distribution of love, nor buy brotherly\nfeeling. The most encouraging thing I have seen lately is an experiment\nin one of our cities. In the thick of the town the ladies of the city\nhave furnished and opened a reading-room, sewing-room, conversation-room,\nor what not, where young girls, who work for a living and have no\nopportunity for any culture, at home or elsewhere, may spend their\nevenings. They meet there always some of the ladies I have spoken of,\nwhose unostentatious duty and pleasure it is to pass the evening with\nthem, in reading or music or the use of the needle, and the exchange of\nthe courtesies of life in conversation. Whatever grace and kindness and\nrefinement of manner they carry there, I do not suppose are wasted. These\nare some of the ways in which culture can serve men. And I take it that\none of the chief evidences of our progress in this century is the\nrecognition of the truth that there is no selfishness so supreme--not\neven that in the possession of wealth--as that which retires into itself\nwith all the accomplishments of liberal learning and rare opportunities,\nand looks upon the intellectual poverty of the world without a wish to\nrelieve it.  As often as I have been among men,  says Seneca,  I have\nreturned less a man.  And Thomas a Kempis declared that  the greatest\nsaints avoided the company of men as much as they could, and chose to\nlive to God in secret.  The Christian philosophy was no improvement upon\nthe pagan in this respect, and was exactly at variance with the teaching\nand practice of Jesus of Nazareth.\n\nThe American scholar cannot afford to live for himself, nor merely for\nscholarship and the delights of learning. He must make himself more felt\nin the material life of this country. I am aware that it is said that the\nculture of the age is itself materialistic, and that its refinements are\nsensual; that there is little to choose between the coarse excesses of\npoverty and the polished and more decorous animality of the more\nfortunate. Without entering directly upon the consideration of this\nmuch-talked-of tendency, I should like to notice the influence upon our\npresent and probable future of the bounty, fertility, and extraordinary\nopportunities of this still new land.\n\nThe American grows and develops himself with few restraints. Foreigners\nused to describe him as a lean, hungry, nervous animal, gaunt,\ninquisitive, inventive, restless, and certain to shrivel into physical\ninferiority in his dry and highly oxygenated atmosphere. This\napprehension is not well founded. It is quieted by his achievements the\ncontinent over, his virile enterprises, his endurance in war and in the\nmost difficult explorations, his resistance of the influence of great\ncities towards effeminacy and loss of physical vigor. If ever man took\nlarge and eager hold of earthly things and appropriated them to his own\nuse, it is the American. We are gross eaters, we are great drinkers. We\nshall excel the English when we have as long practice as they. I am\nfilled with a kind of dismay when I see the great stock-yards of Chicago\nand Cincinnati, through which flow the vast herds and droves of the\nprairies, marching straight down the throats of Eastern people. Thousands\nare always sowing and reaping and brewing and distilling, to slake the\nimmortal thirst of the country. We take, indeed, strong hold of the\nearth; we absorb its fatness. When Leicester entertained Elizabeth at\nKenilworth, the clock in the great tower was set perpetually at twelve,\nthe hour of feasting. It is always dinner-time in America. I do not know\nhow much land it takes to raise an average citizen, but I should say a\nquarter section. He spreads himself abroad, he riots in abundance; above\nall things he must have profusion, and he wants things that are solid and\nstrong. On the Sorrentine promontory, and on the island of Capri, the\nhardy husbandman and fisherman draws his subsistence from the sea and\nfrom a scant patch of ground. One may feast on a fish and a handful of\nolives. The dinner of the laborer is a dish of polenta, a few figs, some\ncheese, a glass of thin wine. His wants are few and easily supplied. He\nis not overfed, his diet is not stimulating; I should say that he would\npay little to the physician, that familiar of other countries whose\nfamily office is to counteract the effects of over-eating. He is\ntemperate, frugal, content, and apparently draws not more of his life\nfrom the earth or the sea than from the genial sky. He would never build\na Pacific Railway, nor write a hundred volumes of commentary on the\nScriptures; but he is an example of how little a man actually needs of\nthe gross products of the earth.\n\nI suppose that life was never fuller in certain ways than it is here in\nAmerica. If a civilization is judged by its wants, we are certainly\nhighly civilized. We cannot get land enough, nor clothes enough, nor\nhouses enough, nor food enough. A Bedouin tribe would fare sumptuously on\nwhat one American family consumes and wastes. The revenue required for\nthe wardrobe of one woman of fashion would suffice to convert the\ninhabitants of I know not how many square miles in Africa. It absorbs the\nincome of a province to bring up a baby. We riot in prodigality, we vie\nwith each other in material accumulation and expense. Our thoughts are\nmainly on how to increase the products of the world; and get them into\nour own possession.\n\nI think this gross material tendency is strong in America, and more\nlikely to get the mastery over the spiritual and the intellectual here\nthan elsewhere, because of our exhaustless resources. Let us not mistake\nthe nature of a real civilization, nor suppose we have it because we can\nconvert crude iron into the most delicate mechanism, or transport\nourselves sixty miles an hour, or even if we shall refine our carnal\ntastes so as to be satisfied at dinner with the tongues of ortolans and\nthe breasts of singing-birds.\n\nPlato banished the musicians from his feasts because he would not have\nthe charms of conversation interfered with. By comparison, music was to\nhim a sensuous enjoyment. In any society the ideal must be the banishment\nof the more sensuous; the refinement of it will only repeat the continued\nexperiment of history--the end of a civilization in a polished\nmaterialism, and its speedy fall from that into grossness.\n\nI am sure that the scholar, trained to  plain living and high thinking, \n knows that the prosperous life consists in the culture of the man, and\nnot in the refinement and accumulation of the material. The word culture\nis often used to signify that dainty intellectualism which is merely a\nsensuous pampering of the mind, as distinguishable from the healthy\ntraining of the mind as is the education of the body in athletic\nexercises from the petting of it by luxurious baths and unguents. Culture\nis the blossom of knowledge, but it is a fruit blossom, the ornament of\nthe age but the seed of the future. The so-called culture, a mere\nfastidiousness of taste, is a barren flower.\n\nYou would expect spurious culture to stand aloof from common life, as it\ndoes, to extend its charities at the end of a pole, to make of religion a\nmere 'cultus,' to construct for its heaven a sort of Paris, where all the\ninhabitants dress becomingly, and where there are no Communists. Culture,\nlike fine manners, is not always the result of wealth or position. When\nmonseigneur the archbishop makes his rare tour through the Swiss\nmountains, the simple peasants do not crowd upon him with boorish\nimpudence, but strew his stony path with flowers, and receive him with\njoyous but modest sincerity. When the Russian prince made his landing in\nAmerica the determined staring of a bevy of accomplished American women\nnearly swept the young man off the deck of the vessel. One cannot but\nrespect that tremulous sensitiveness which caused the maiden lady to\nshrink from staring at the moon when she heard there was a man in it.\n\nThe materialistic drift of this age--that is, its devotion to material\ndevelopment--is frequently deplored. I suppose it is like all other ages\nin that respect, but there appears to be a more determined demand for\nchange of condition than ever before, and a deeper movement for\nequalization. Here in America this is, in great part, a movement for\nmerely physical or material equalization. The idea seems to be well-nigh\nuniversal that the millennium is to come by a great deal less work and a\ngreat deal more pay. It seems to me that the millennium is to come by an\ninfusion into all society of a truer culture, which is neither of poverty\nnor of wealth, but is the beautiful fruit of the development of the\nhigher part of man's nature.\n\nAnd the thought I wish to leave with you, as scholars and men who can\ncommand the best culture, is that it is all needed to shape and control\nthe strong growth of material development here, to guide the blind\ninstincts of the mass of men who are struggling for a freer place and a\nbreath of fresh air; that you cannot stand aloof in a class isolation;\nthat your power is in a personal sympathy with the humanity which is\nignorant but discontented; and that the question which the man with the\nspade asks about the use of your culture to him is a menace.\n\n\n\n\nMODERN FICTION\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nOne of the worst characteristics of modern fiction is its so-called truth\nto nature. For fiction is an art, as painting is, as sculpture is, as\nacting is. A photograph of a natural object is not art; nor is the\nplaster cast of a man's face, nor is the bare setting on the stage of an\nactual occurrence. Art requires an idealization of nature. The amateur,\nthough she may be a lady, who attempts to represent upon the stage the\nlady of the drawing-room, usually fails to convey to the spectators the\nimpression of a lady. She lacks the art by which the trained actress, who\nmay not be a lady, succeeds. The actual transfer to the stage of the\ndrawing-room and its occupants, with the behavior common in well-bred\nsociety, would no doubt fail of the intended dramatic effect, and the\nspectators would declare the representation unnatural.\n\nHowever our jargon of criticism may confound terms, we do not need to be\nreminded that art and nature are distinct; that art, though dependent on\nnature, is a separate creation; that art is selection and idealization,\nwith a view to impressing the mind with human, or even higher than human,\nsentiments and ideas. We may not agree whether the perfect man and woman\never existed, but we do know that the highest representations of them in\nform--that in the old Greek sculptures--were the result of artistic\nselection of parts of many living figures.\n\nWhen we praise our recent fiction for its photographic fidelity to nature\nwe condemn it, for we deny to it the art which would give it value. We\nforget that the creation of the novel should be, to a certain extent, a\nsynthetic process, and impart to human actions that ideal quality which\nwe demand in painting. Heine regards Cervantes as the originator of the\nmodern novel. The older novels sprang from the poetry of the Middle Ages;\ntheir themes were knightly adventure, their personages were the nobility;\nthe common people did not figure in them. These romances, which had\ndegenerated into absurdities, Cervantes overthrew by  Don Quixote.  But\nin putting an end to the old romances he created a new school of fiction,\ncalled the modern novel, by introducing into his romance of\npseudo-knighthood a faithful description of the lower classes, and\nintermingling the phases of popular life. But he had no one-sided\ntendency to portray the vulgar only; he brought together the higher and\nthe lower in society, to serve as light and shade, and the aristocratic\nelement was as prominent as the popular. This noble and chivalrous\nelement disappears in the novels of the English who imitated Cervantes.\n These English novelists since Richardson's reign,  says Heine,  are\nprosaic natures; to the prudish spirit of their time even pithy\ndescriptions of the life of the common people are repugnant, and we see\non yonder side of the Channel those bourgeoisie novels arise, wherein the\npetty humdrum life of the middle classes is depicted.  But Scott\nappeared, and effected a restoration of the balance in fiction. As\nCervantes had introduced the democratic element into romances, so Scott\nreplaced the aristocratic element, when it had disappeared, and only a\nprosaic, bourgeoisie fiction existed. He restored to romances the\nsymmetry which we admire in  Don Quixote.  The characteristic feature of\nScott's historical romances, in the opinion of the great German critic,\nis the harmony between the artistocratic and democratic elements.\n\nThis is true, but is it the last analysis of the subject? Is it a\nsufficient account of the genius of Cervantes and Scott that they\ncombined in their romances a representation of the higher and lower\nclasses? Is it not of more importance how they represented them? It is\nonly a part of the achievement of Cervantes that he introduced the common\npeople into fiction; it is his higher glory that he idealized his\nmaterial; and it is Scott's distinction also that he elevated into\nartistic creations both nobility and commonalty. In short, the essential\nof fiction is not diversity of social life, but artistic treatment of\nwhatever is depicted. The novel may deal wholly with an aristocracy, or\nwholly with another class, but it must idealize the nature it touches\ninto art. The fault of the bourgeoisie novels, of which Heine complains,\nis not that they treated of one class only, and excluded a higher social\nrange, but that they treated it without art and without ideality. In\nnature there is nothing vulgar to the poet, and in human life there is\nnothing uninteresting to the artist; but nature and human life, for the\npurposes of fiction, need a creative genius. The importation into the\nnovel of the vulgar, sordid, and ignoble in life is always unbearable,\nunless genius first fuses the raw material in its alembic.\n\nWhen, therefore, we say that one of the worst characteristics of modern\nfiction is its so-called truth to nature, we mean that it disregards the\nhigher laws of art, and attempts to give us unidealized pictures of life.\nThe failure is not that vulgar themes are treated, but that the treatment\nis vulgar; not that common life is treated, but that the treatment is\ncommon; not that care is taken with details, but that no selection is\nmade, and everything is photographed regardless of its artistic value. I\nam sure that no one ever felt any repugnance on being introduced by\nCervantes to the muleteers, contrabandistas, servants and serving-maids,\nand idle vagabonds of Spain, any more than to an acquaintance with the\nbeggar-boys and street gamins on the canvases of Murillo. And I believe\nthat the philosophic reason of the disgust of Heine and of every critic\nwith the English bourgeoisie novels, describing the petty, humdrum life\nof the middle classes, was simply the want of art in the writers; the\nfailure on their part to see that a literal transcript of nature is poor\nstuff in literature. We do not need to go back to Richardson's time for\nillustrations of that truth. Every week the English press--which is even\na greater sinner in this respect than the American--turns out a score of\nnovels which are mediocre, not from their subjects, but from their utter\nlack of the artistic quality. It matters not whether they treat of\nmiddle-class life, of low, slum life, or of drawing-room life and lords\nand ladies; they are equally flat and dreary. Perhaps the most inane\nthing ever put forth in the name of literature is the so-called domestic\nnovel, an indigestible, culinary sort of product, that might be named the\ndoughnut of fiction. The usual apology for it is that it depicts family\nlife with fidelity. Its characters are supposed to act and talk as people\nact and talk at home and in society. I trust this is a libel, but, for\nthe sake of the argument, suppose they do. Was ever produced so insipid a\nresult? They are called moral; in the higher sense they are immoral, for\nthey tend to lower the moral tone and stamina of every reader. It needs\ngenius to import into literature ordinary conversation, petty domestic\ndetails, and the commonplace and vulgar phases of life. A report of\nordinary talk, which appears as dialogue in domestic novels, may be true\nto nature; if it is, it is not worth writing or worth reading. I cannot\nsee that it serves any good purpose whatever. Fortunately, we have in our\nday illustrations of a different treatment of the vulgar. I do not know\nany more truly realistic pictures of certain aspects of New England life\nthan are to be found in Judd's  Margaret,  wherein are depicted\nexceedingly pinched and ignoble social conditions. Yet the characters and\nthe life are drawn with the artistic purity of Flaxman's illustrations of\nHomer. Another example is Thomas Hardy's  Far from the Madding Crowd. \n Every character in it is of the lower class in England. But what an\nexquisite creation it is! You have to turn back to Shakespeare for any\ntalk of peasants and clowns and shepherds to compare with the\nconversations in this novel, so racy are they of the soil, and yet so\ntouched with the finest art, the enduring art. Here is not the realism of\nthe photograph, but of the artist; that is to say, it is nature\nidealized.\n\nWhen we criticise our recent fiction it is obvious that we ought to\nremember that it only conforms to the tendencies of our social life, our\nprevailing ethics, and to the art conditions of our time. Literature is\nnever in any age an isolated product. It is closely related to the\ndevelopment or retrogression of the time in all departments of life. The\nliterary production of our day seems, and no doubt is, more various than\nthat of any other, and it is not easy to fix upon its leading tendency.\nIt is claimed for its fiction, however, that it is analytic and\nrealistic, and that much of it has certain other qualities that make it a\nnew school in art. These aspects of it I wish to consider in this paper.\n\nIt is scarcely possible to touch upon our recent fiction, any more than\nupon our recent poetry, without taking into account what is called the\nEsthetic movement--a movement more prominent in England than elsewhere. A\nslight contemplation of this reveals its resemblance to the Romantic\nmovement in Germany, of which the brothers Schlegel were apostles, in the\nlatter part of the last century. The movements are alike in this: that\nthey both sought inspiration in mediaevalism, in feudalism, in the\nsymbols of a Christianity that ran to mysticism, in the quaint, strictly\npre-Raphael art which was supposed to be the result of a simple faith. In\nthe one case, the artless and childlike remains of old German pictures\nand statuary were exhumed and set up as worthy of imitation; in the\nother, we have carried out in art, in costume, and in domestic life, so\nfar as possible, what has been wittily and accurately described as\n stained-glass attitudes.  With all its peculiar vagaries, the English\nschool is essentially a copy of the German, in its return to\nmediaevalism. The two movements have a further likeness, in that they are\nfound accompanied by a highly symbolized religious revival. English\naestheticism would probably disown any religious intention, although it\nhas been accused of a refined interest in Pan and Venus; but in all its\nfeudal sympathies it goes along with the religious art and vestment\nrevival, the return to symbolic ceremonies, monastic vigils, and\nsisterhoods. Years ago, an acute writer in the Catholic World claimed\nDante Gabriel Rossetti as a Catholic writer, from the internal evidence\nof his poems. The German Romanticism, which was fostered by the Romish\npriesthood, ended, or its disciples ended, in the bosom of the Roman\nCatholic Church. It will be interesting to note in what ritualistic\nharbor the aestheticism of our day will finally moor. That two similar\nrevivals should come so near together in time makes us feel that the\nworld moves onward--if it does move onward--in circular figures of very\nshort radii. There seems to be only one thing certain in our Christian\nera, and that is a periodic return to classic models; the only stable\nstandards of resort seem to be Greek art and literature.\n\nThe characteristics which are prominent, when we think of our recent\nfiction, are a wholly unidealized view of human society, which has got\nthe name of realism; a delight in representing the worst phases of social\nlife; an extreme analysis of persons and motives; the sacrifice of action\nto psychological study; the substitution of studies of character for\nanything like a story; a notion that it is not artistic, and that it is\nuntrue to nature, to bring any novel to a definite consummation, and\nespecially to end it happily; and a despondent tone about society,\npolitics, and the whole drift of modern life. Judged by our fiction, we\nare in an irredeemably bad way. There is little beauty, joy, or\nlight-heartedness in living; the spontaneity and charm of life are\nanalyzed out of existence; sweet girls, made to love and be loved, are\nextinct; melancholy Jaques never meets a Rosalind in the forest of Arden,\nand if he sees her in the drawing-room he poisons his pleasure with the\nthought that she is scheming and artificial; there are no happy marriages\n--indeed, marriage itself is almost too inartistic to be permitted by our\nnovelists, unless it can be supplemented by a divorce, and art is\nsupposed to deny any happy consummation of true love. In short, modern\nsociety is going to the dogs, notwithstanding money is only three and a\nhalf per cent. It is a gloomy business life, at the best. Two learned but\ndespondent university professors met, not long ago, at an afternoon\n coffee,  and drew sympathetically together in a corner.  What a world\nthis would be,  said one,  without coffee!   Yes,  replied the other,\nstirring the fragrant cup in a dejected aspect  yes; but what a hell of a\nworld it is with coffee! \n\nThe analytic method in fiction is interesting, when used by a master of\ndissection, but it has this fatal defect in a novel--it destroys\nillusion. We want to think that the characters in a story are real\npersons. We cannot do this if we see the author set them up as if they\nwere marionettes, and take them to pieces every few pages, and show their\ninterior structure, and the machinery by which they are moved. Not only\nis the illusion gone, but the movement of the story, if there is a story,\nis retarded, till the reader loses all enjoyment in impatience and\nweariness. You find yourself saying, perhaps, What a very clever fellow\nthe author is! What an ingenious creation this character is! How brightly\nthe author makes his people talk! This is high praise, but by no means\nthe highest, and when we reflect we see how immeasurably inferior, in\nfiction, the analytic method is to the dramatic. In the dramatic method\nthe characters appear, and show what they are by what they do and say;\nthe reader studies their motives, and a part of his enjoyment is in\nanalyzing them, and his vanity is flattered by the trust reposed in his\nperspicacity. We realize how unnecessary minute analysis of character and\nlong descriptions are in reading a drama by Shakespeare, in which the\ncharacters are so vividly presented to us in action and speech, without\nthe least interference of the author in description, that we regard them\nas persons with whom we might have real relations, and not as bundles of\ntraits and qualities. True, the conditions of dramatic art and the art of\nthe novel are different, in that the drama can dispense with\ndelineations, for its characters are intended to be presented to the eye;\nbut all the same, a good drama will explain itself without the aid of\nactors, and there is no doubt that it is the higher art in the novel,\nwhen once the characters are introduced, to treat them dramatically, and\nlet them work out their own destiny according to their characters. It is\na truism to say that when the reader perceives that the author can compel\nhis characters to do what he pleases all interest in them as real persons\nis gone. In a novel of mere action and adventure, a lower order of\nfiction, where all the interest centres in the unraveling of a plot, of\ncourse this does not so much matter.\n\nNot long ago, in Edinburgh, I amused myself in looking up some of the\nlocalities made famous in Scott's romances, which are as real in the mind\nas any historical places. Afterwards I read  The Heart of Midlothian.  I\nwas surprised to find that, as a work of art, it was inferior to my\nrecollection of it. Its style is open to the charge of prolixity, and\neven of slovenliness in some parts; and it does not move on with\nincreasing momentum and concentration to a climax, as many of Scott's\nnovels do; the story drags along in the disposition of one character\nafter another. Yet, when I had finished the book and put it away, a\nsingular thing happened. It suddenly came to me that in reading it I had\nnot once thought of Scott as the maker; it had never occurred to me that\nhe had created the people in whose fortunes I had been so intensely\nabsorbed; and I never once had felt how clever the novelist was in the\nnaturally dramatic dialogues of the characters. In short, it had not\nentered my mind to doubt the existence of Jeanie and Effie Deans, and\ntheir father, and Reuben Butler, and the others, who seem as real as\nhistorical persons in Scotch history. And when I came to think of it\nafterwards, reflecting upon the assumptions of the modern realistic\nschool, I found that some scenes, notably the night attack on the old\nTolbooth, were as real to me as if I had read them in a police report of\na newspaper of the day. Was Scott, then, only a reporter? Far from it, as\nyou would speedily see if he had thrown into the novel a police report of\nthe occurrences at the Tolbooth before art had shorn it of its\nirrelevancies, magnified its effective and salient points, given events\ntheir proper perspective, and the whole picture due light and shade.\n\nThe sacrifice of action to some extent to psychological evolution in\nmodern fiction may be an advance in the art as an intellectual\nentertainment, if the writer does not make that evolution his end, and\ndoes not forget that the indispensable thing in a novel is the story. The\nnovel of mere adventure or mere plot, it need not be urged, is of a lower\norder than that in which the evolution of characters and their\ninteraction make the story. The highest fiction is that which embodies\nboth; that is, the story in which action is the result of mental and\nspiritual forces in play. And we protest against the notion that the\nnovel of the future is to be, or should be, merely a study of, or an\nessay or a series of analytic essays on, certain phases of social life.\n\nIt is not true that civilization or cultivation has bred out of the world\nthe liking for a story. In this the most highly educated Londoner and the\nEgyptian fellah meet on common human ground. The passion for a story has\nno more died out than curiosity, or than the passion of love. The truth\nis not that stories are not demanded, but that the born raconteur and\nstory-teller is a rare person. The faculty of telling a story is a much\nrarer gift than the ability to analyze character and even than the\nability truly to draw character. It may be a higher or a lower power, but\nit is rarer. It is a natural gift, and it seems that no amount of culture\ncan attain it, any more than learning can make a poet. Nor is the\ncomplaint well founded that the stories have all been told, the possible\nplots all been used, and the combinations of circumstances exhausted. It\nis no doubt our individual experience that we hear almost every day--and\nwe hear nothing so eagerly--some new story, better or worse, but new in\nits exhibition of human character, and in the combination of events. And\nthe strange, eventful histories of human life will no more be exhausted\nthan the possible arrangements of mathematical numbers. We might as well\nsay that there are no more good pictures to be painted as that there are\nno more good stories to be told.\n\nEqually baseless is the assumption that it is inartistic and untrue to\nnature to bring a novel to a definite consummation, and especially to end\nit happily. Life, we are told, is full of incompletion, of broken\ndestinies, of failures, of romances that begin but do not end, of\nambitions and purposes frustrated, of love crossed, of unhappy issues, or\na resultless play of influences. Well, but life is full, also, of\nendings, of the results in concrete action of character, of completed\ndramas. And we expect and give, in the stories we hear and tell in\nordinary intercourse, some point, some outcome, an end of some sort. If\nyou interest me in the preparations of two persons who are starting on a\njourney, and expend all your ingenuity in describing their outfit and\ntheir characters, and do not tell me where they went or what befell them\nafterwards, I do not call that a story. Nor am I any better satisfied\nwhen you describe two persons whom you know, whose characters are\ninteresting, and who become involved in all manner of entanglements, and\nthen stop your narration; and when I ask, say you have not the least idea\nwhether they got out of their difficulties, or what became of them. In\nreal life we do not call that a story where everything is left\nunconcluded and in the air. In point of fact, romances are daily\nbeginning and daily ending, well or otherwise, under our observation.\n\nShould they always end well in the novel? I am very far from saying that.\nTragedy and the pathos of failure have their places in literature as well\nas in life. I only say that, artistically, a good ending is as proper as\na bad ending. Yet the main object of the novel is to entertain, and the\nbest entertainment is that which lifts the imagination and quickens the\nspirit; to lighten the burdens of life by taking us for a time out of our\nhumdrum and perhaps sordid conditions, so that we can see familiar life\nsomewhat idealized, and probably see it all the more truly from an\nartistic point of view. For the majority of the race, in its hard lines,\nfiction is an inestimable boon. Incidentally the novel may teach,\nencourage, refine, elevate. Even for these purposes, that novel is the\nbest which shows us the best possibilities of our lives--the novel which\ngives hope and cheer instead of discouragement and gloom. Familiarity\nwith vice and sordidness in fiction is a low entertainment, and of\ndoubtful moral value, and their introduction is unbearable if it is not\ndone with the idealizing touch of the artist.\n\nDo not misunderstand me to mean that common and low life are not fit\nsubjects of fiction, or that vice is not to be lashed by the satirist, or\nthat the evils of a social state are never to be exposed in the novel.\nFor this, also, is an office of the novel, as it is of the drama, to hold\nthe mirror up to nature, and to human nature as it exhibits itself. But\nwhen the mirror shows nothing but vice and social disorder, leaving out\nthe saving qualities that keep society on the whole, and family life as a\nrule, as sweet and good as they are, the mirror is not held up to nature,\nbut more likely reflects a morbid mind. Still it must be added that the\nstudy of unfortunate social conditions is a legitimate one for the author\nto make; and that we may be in no state to judge justly of his exposure\nwhile the punishment is being inflicted, or while the irritation is\nfresh. For, no doubt, the reader winces often because the novel reveals\nto himself certain possible baseness, selfishness, and meanness. Of this,\nhowever, I (speaking for myself) may be sure: that the artist who so\nrepresents vulgar life that I am more in love with my kind, the satirist\nwho so depicts vice and villainy that I am strengthened in my moral\nfibre, has vindicated his choice of material. On the contrary, those\nnovelists are not justified whose forte it seems to be to so set forth\ngoodness as to make it unattractive.\n\nBut we come back to the general proposition that the indispensable\ncondition of the novel is that it shall entertain. And for this purpose\nthe world is not ashamed to own that it wants, and always will want, a\nstory--a story that has an ending; and if not a good ending, then one\nthat in noble tragedy lifts up our nature into a high plane of sacrifice\nand pathos. In proof of this we have only to refer to the masterpieces of\nfiction which the world cherishes and loves to recur to.\n\nI confess that I am harassed with the incomplete romances, that leave me,\nwhen the book is closed, as one might be on a waste plain at midnight,\nabandoned by his conductor, and without a lantern. I am tired of\naccompanying people for hours through disaster and perplexity and\nmisunderstanding, only to see them lost in a thick mist at last. I am\nweary of going to funerals, which are not my funerals, however chatty and\namusing the undertaker may be. I confess that I should like to see again\nthe lovely heroine, the sweet woman, capable of a great passion and a\ngreat sacrifice; and I do not object if the novelist tries her to the\nverge of endurance, in agonies of mind and in perils, subjecting her to\nwasting sicknesses even, if he only brings her out at the end in a\nblissful compensation of her troubles, and endued with a new and sweeter\ncharm. No doubt it is better for us all, and better art, that in the\nnovel of society the destiny should be decided by character. What an\nartistic and righteous consummation it is when we meet the shrewd and\nwicked old Baroness Bernstein at Continental gaming-tables, and feel that\nthere was no other logical end for the worldly and fascinating Beatrix of\nHenry Esmond! It is one of the great privileges of fiction to right the\nwrongs of life, to do justice to the deserving and the vicious. It is\nwholesome for us to contemplate the justice, even if we do not often see\nit in society. It is true that hypocrisy and vulgar self-seeking often\nsucceed in life, occupying high places, and make their exit in the\npageantry of honored obsequies. Yet always the man is conscious of the\nhollowness of his triumph, and the world takes a pretty accurate measure\nof it. It is the privilege of the novelist, without introducing into such\na career what is called disaster, to satisfy our innate love of justice\nby letting us see the true nature of such prosperity. The unscrupulous\nman amasses wealth, lives in luxury and splendor, and dies in the odor of\nrespectability. His poor and honest neighbor, whom he has wronged and\ndefrauded, lives in misery, and dies in disappointment and penury. The\nnovelist cannot reverse the facts without such a shock to our experience\nas shall destroy for us the artistic value of his fiction, and bring upon\nhis work the deserved reproach of indiscriminately  rewarding the good\nand punishing the bad.  But we have a right to ask that he shall reveal\nthe real heart and character of this passing show of life; for not to do\nthis, to content himself merely with exterior appearances, is for the\nmajority of his readers to efface the lines between virtue and vice. And\nwe ask this not for the sake of the moral lesson, but because not to do\nit is, to our deep consciousness, inartistic and untrue to our judgment\nof life as it goes on. Thackeray used to say that all his talent was in\nhis eyes; meaning that he was only an observer and reporter of what he\nsaw, and not a Providence to rectify human affairs. The great artist\nundervalued his genius. He reported what he saw as Raphael and Murillo\nreported what they saw. With his touch of genius he assigned to\neverything its true value, moving us to tenderness, to pity, to scorn, to\nrighteous indignation, to sympathy with humanity. I find in him the\nhighest art, and not that indifference to the great facts and deep\ncurrents and destinies of human life, that want of enthusiasm and\nsympathy, which has got the name of  art for art's sake.  Literary\nfiction is a barren product if it wants sympathy and love for men.  Art\nfor art's sake  is a good and defensible phrase, if our definition of art\nincludes the ideal, and not otherwise.\n\nI do not know how it has come about that in so large a proportion of\nrecent fiction it is held to be artistic to look almost altogether upon\nthe shady and the seamy side of life, giving to this view the name of\n realism ; to select the disagreeable, the vicious, the unwholesome; to\ngive us for our companions, in our hours of leisure and relaxation, only\nthe silly and the weak-minded woman, the fast and slangy girl, the\nintrigante and the  shady --to borrow the language of the society she\nseeks--the hero of irresolution, the prig, the vulgar, and the vicious;\nto serve us only with the foibles of the fashionable, the low tone of the\ngay, the gilded riffraff of our social state; to drag us forever along\nthe dizzy, half-fractured precipice of the seventh commandment; to bring\nus into relations only with the sordid and the common; to force us to sup\nwith unwholesome company on misery and sensuousness, in tales so utterly\nunpleasant that we are ready to welcome any disaster as a relief; and\nthen--the latest and finest touch of modern art--to leave the whole\nweltering mass in a chaos, without conclusion and without possible issue.\nAnd this is called a picture of real life! Heavens! Is it true that in\nEngland, where a great proportion of the fiction we describe and loathe\nis produced; is it true that in our New England society there is nothing\nbut frivolity, sordidness, decay of purity and faith, ignoble ambition\nand ignoble living? Is there no charm in social life--no self-sacrifice,\ndevotion, courage to stem materialistic conditions, and live above them?\nAre there no noble women, sensible, beautiful, winning, with the grace\nthat all the world loves, albeit with the feminine weaknesses that make\nall the world hope? Is there no manliness left? Are there no homes where\nthe tempter does not live with the tempted in a mush of sentimental\naffinity? Or is it, in fact, more artistic to ignore all these, and paint\nonly the feeble and the repulsive in our social state? The feeble, the\nsordid, and the repulsive in our social state nobody denies, nor does\nanybody deny the exceeding cleverness with which our social disorders are\nreproduced in fiction by a few masters of their art; but is it not time\nthat it should be considered good art to show something of the clean and\nbright side?\n\nThis is pre-eminently the age of the novel. The development of variety of\nfiction since the days of Scott and Cooper is prodigious. The prejudice\nagainst novel-reading is quite broken down, since fiction has taken all\nfields for its province; everybody reads novels. Three-quarters of the\nbooks taken from the circulating library are stories; they make up half\nthe library of the Sunday-schools. If a writer has anything to say, or\nthinks he has, he knows that he can most certainly reach the ear of the\npublic by the medium of a story. So we have novels for children; novels\nreligious, scientific, historical, archaeological, psychological,\npathological, total-abstinence; novels of travel, of adventure and\nexploration; novels domestic, and the perpetual spawn of books called\nnovels of society. Not only is everything turned into a story, real or so\ncalled, but there must be a story in everything. The stump-speaker holds\nhis audience by well-worn stories; the preacher wakes up his congregation\nby a graphic narrative; and the Sunday-school teacher leads his children\ninto all goodness by the entertaining path of romance; we even had a\nPresident who governed the country nearly by anecdotes. The result of\nthis universal demand for fiction is necessarily an enormous supply, and\nas everybody writes, without reference to gifts, the product is mainly\ntrash, and trash of a deleterious sort; for bad art in literature is bad\nmorals. I am not sure but the so-called domestic, the diluted, the\n goody,  namby-pamby, unrobust stories, which are so largely read by\nschool-girls, young ladies, and women, do more harm than the  knowing, \n audacious, wicked ones,--also, it is reported, read by them, and written\nlargely by their own sex. For minds enfeebled and relaxed by stories\nlacking even intellectual fibre are in a poor condition to meet the\nperils of life. This is not the place for discussing the stories written\nfor the young and for the Sunday-school. It seems impossible to check the\nflow of them, now that so much capital is invested in this industry; but\nI think that healthy public sentiment is beginning to recognize the truth\nthat the excessive reading of this class of literature by the young is\nweakening to the mind, besides being a serious hindrance to study and to\nattention to the literature that has substance.\n\nIn his account of the Romantic School in Germany, Heine says,  In the\nbreast of a nation's authors there always lies the image of its future,\nand the critic who, with a knife of sufficient keenness, dissects a new\npoet can easily prophesy, as from the entrails of a sacrificial animal,\nwhat shape matters will assume in Germany.  Now if all the poets and\nnovelists of England and America today were cut up into little pieces\n(and we might sacrifice a few for the sake of the experiment), there is\nno inspecting augur who could divine therefrom our literary future. The\ndiverse indications would puzzle the most acute dissector. Lost in the\nvariety, the multiplicity of minute details, the refinements of analysis\nand introspection, he would miss any leading indications. For with all\nits variety, it seems to me that one characteristic of recent fiction is\nits narrowness--narrowness of vision and of treatment. It deals with\nlives rather than with life. Lacking ideality, it fails of broad\nperception. We are accustomed to think that with the advent of the\ngenuine novel of society, in the first part of this century, a great step\nforward was taken in fiction. And so there was. If the artist did not use\na big canvas, he adopted a broad treatment. But the tendency now is to\npush analysis of individual peculiarities to an extreme, and to\nsubstitute a study of traits for a representation of human life.\n\nIt scarcely need be said that it is not multitude of figures on a\nliterary canvas that secures breadth of treatment. The novel may be\nnarrow, though it swarms with a hundred personages. It may be as wide as\nlife, as high as imagination can lift itself; it may image to us a whole\nsocial state, though it pats in motion no more persons than we made the\nacquaintance of in one of the romances of Hawthorne. Consider for a\nmoment how Thackeray produced his marvelous results. We follow with him,\nin one of his novels of society, the fortunes of a very few people. They\nare so vividly portrayed that we are convinced the author must have known\nthem in that great world with which he was so familiar; we should not be\nsurprised to meet any of them in the streets of London. When we visit the\nCharterhouse School, and see the old forms where the boys sat nearly a\ncentury ago, we have in our minds Colonel Newcome as really as we have\nCharles Lamb and Coleridge and De Quincey. We are absorbed, as we read,\nin the evolution of the characters of perhaps only half a dozen people;\nand yet all the world, all great, roaring, struggling London, is in the\nstory, and Clive, and Philip, and Ethel, and Becky Sharpe, and Captain\nCostigan are a part of life. It is the flowery month of May; the scent of\nthe hawthorn is in the air, and the tender flush of the new spring\nsuffuses the Park, where the tide of fashion and pleasure and idleness\nsurges up and down-the sauntering throng, the splendid equipages, the\nendless cavalcade in Rotten Row, in which Clive descries afar off the\nwhite plume of his ladylove dancing on the waves of an unattainable\nsociety; the club windows are all occupied; Parliament is in session,\nwith its nightly echoes of imperial politics; the thronged streets roar\nwith life from morn till nearly morn again; the drawing-rooms hum and\nsparkle in the crush of a London season; as you walk the midnight\npavement, through the swinging doors of the cider-cellars comes the burst\nof bacchanalian song. Here is the world of the press and of letters; here\nare institutions, an army, a navy, commerce, glimpses of great ships\ngoing to and fro on distant seas, of India, of Australia. This one book\nis an epitome of English life, almost of the empire itself. We are\nconscious of all this, so much breadth and atmosphere has the artist\ngiven his little history of half a dozen people in this struggling world.\n\nBut this background of a great city, of an empire, is not essential to\nthe breadth of treatment upon which we insist in fiction, to broad\ncharacterization, to the play of imagination about common things which\ntransfigures them into the immortal beauty of artistic creations. What a\nsimple idyl in itself is Goethe's  Hermann and Dorothea ! It is the\ncreation of a few master-touches, using only common material. Yet it has\nin it the breadth of life itself, the depth and passion of all our human\nstruggle in the world-a little story with a vast horizon.\n\nIt is constantly said that the conditions in America are unfavorable to\nthe higher fiction; that our society is unformed, without centre, without\nthe definition of classes, which give the light and shade that Heine\nspeaks of in  Don Quixote ; that it lacks types and customs that can be\nwidely recognized and accepted as national and characteristic; that we\nhave no past; that we want both romantic and historic background; that we\nare in a shifting, flowing, forming period which fiction cannot seize on;\nthat we are in diversity and confusion that baffle artistic treatment; in\nshort, that American life is too vast, varied, and crude for the purpose\nof the novelist.\n\nThese excuses might be accepted as fully accounting for our failure--or\nshall we say our delay?--if it were not for two or three of our literary\nperformances. It is true that no novel has been written, and we dare say\nno novel will be written, that is, or will be, an epitome of the manifold\ndiversities of American life, unless it be in the form of one of Walt\nWhitman's catalogues. But we are not without peculiar types; not without\ncharacters, not without incidents, stories, heroisms, inequalities; not\nwithout the charms of nature in infinite variety; and human nature is the\nsame here that it is in Spain, France, and England. Out of these\nmaterials Cooper wrote romances, narratives stamped with the distinct\ncharacteristics of American life and scenery, that were and are eagerly\nread by all civilized peoples, and which secured the universal verdict\nwhich only breadth of treatment commands. Out of these materials, also,\nHawthorne, child-endowed with a creative imagination, wove those\ntragedies of interior life, those novels of our provincial New England,\nwhich rank among the great masterpieces of the novelist's art. The master\nartist can idealize even our crude material, and make it serve. These\nexceptions to a rule do not go to prove the general assertion of a\npoverty of material for fiction here; the simple truth probably is that,\nfor reasons incident to the development of a new region of the earth,\ncreative genius has been turned in other directions than that of\nfictitious literature. Nor do I think that we need to take shelter behind\nthe wellworn and convenient observation, the truth of which stands in\nmuch doubt, that literature is the final flower of a nation's\ncivilization.\n\nHowever, this is somewhat a digression. We are speaking of the tendency\nof recent fiction, very much the same everywhere that novels are written,\nwhich we have imperfectly sketched. It is probably of no more use to\nprotest against it than it is to protest against the vulgar realism in\npictorial art, which holds ugliness and beauty in equal esteem; or\nagainst aestheticism gone to seed in languid affectations; or against the\nenthusiasm of a social life which wreaks its religion on the color of a\nvestment, or sighs out its divine soul over an ancient pewter mug. Most\nof our fiction, in its extreme analysis, introspection and\nself-consciousness, in its devotion to details, in its disregard of the\nideal, in its selection as well as in its treatment of nature, is simply\nof a piece with a good deal else that passes for genuine art. Much of it\nis admirable in workmanship, and exhibits a cleverness in details and a\nsubtlety in the observation of traits which many great novels lack. But I\nshould be sorry to think that the historian will judge our social life by\nit, and I doubt not that most of us are ready for a more ideal, that is\nto say, a more artistic, view of our performances in this bright and\npathetic world.\n\n\n\n\nTHOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY MR. FROUDE'S  PROGRESS \n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nTo revisit this earth, some ages after their departure from it, is a\ncommon wish among men. We frequently hear men say that they would give so\nmany months or years of their lives in exchange for a less number on the\nglobe one or two or three centuries from now. Merely to see the world\nfrom some remote sphere, like the distant spectator of a play which\npasses in dumb show, would not suffice. They would like to be of the\nworld again, and enter into its feelings, passions, hopes; to feel the\nsweep of its current, and so to comprehend what it has become.\n\nI suppose that we all who are thoroughly interested in this world have\nthis desire. There are some select souls who sit apart in calm endurance,\nwaiting to be translated out of a world they are almost tired of\npatronizing, to whom the whole thing seems, doubtless, like a cheap\nperformance. They sit on the fence of criticism, and cannot for the life\nof them see what the vulgar crowd make such a toil and sweat about. The\nprizes are the same dreary, old, fading bay wreaths. As for the soldiers\nmarching past, their uniforms are torn, their hats are shocking, their\nshoes are dusty, they do not appear (to a man sitting on the fence) to\nmarch with any kind of spirit, their flags are old and tattered, the\ndrums they beat are barbarous; and, besides, it is not probable that they\nare going anywhere; they will merely come round again, the same people,\nlike the marching chorus in the  Beggar's Opera.  Such critics, of\ncourse, would not care to see the vulgar show over again; it is enough\nfor them to put on record their protest against it in the weekly\n Judgment Days  which they edit, and by-and-by withdraw out of their\nprivate boxes, with pity for a world in the creation of which they were\nnot consulted.\n\nThe desire to revisit this earth is, I think, based upon a belief,\nwell-nigh universal, that the world is to make some progress, and that it\nwill be more interesting in the future than it is now. I believe that the\nhuman mind, whenever it is developed enough to comprehend its own action,\nrests, and has always rested, in this expectation. I do not know any\nperiod of time in which the civilized mind has not had expectation of\nsomething better for the race in the future. This expectation is\nsometimes stronger than it is at others; and, again, there are always\nthose who say that the Golden Age is behind them. It is always behind or\nbefore us; the poor present alone has no friends; the present, in the\nminds of many, is only the car that is carrying us away from an age of\nvirtue and of happiness, or that is perhaps bearing us on to a time of\nease and comfort and security.\n\nPerhaps it is worth while, in view of certain recent discussions, and\nespecially of some free criticisms of this country, to consider whether\nthere is any intention of progress in this world, and whether that\nintention is discoverable in the age in which we live.\n\nIf it is an old question, it is not a settled one; the practical\ndisbelief in any such progress is widely entertained. Not long ago Mr.\nJames Anthony Froude published an essay on Progress, in which he examined\nsome of the evidences upon which we rely to prove that we live in an  era\nof progress.  It is a melancholy essay, for its tone is that of profound\nskepticism as to certain influences and means of progress upon which we\nin this country most rely. With the illustrative arguments of Mr.\nFroude's essay I do not purpose specially to meddle; I recall it to the\nattention of the reader as a representative type of skepticism regarding\nprogress which is somewhat common among intellectual men, and is not\nconfined to England. It is not exactly an acceptance of Rousseau's notion\nthat civilization is a mistake, and that it would be better for us all to\nreturn to a state of nature--though in John Ruskin's case it nearly\namounts to this; but it is a hostility in its last analysis to what we\nunderstand by the education of the people, and to the government of the\npeople by themselves. If Mr. Froude's essay is anything but an exhibition\nof the scholarly weapons of criticism, it is the expression of a profound\ndisbelief in the intellectual education of the masses of the people. Mr.\nRuskin goes further. He makes his open proclamation against any\nemancipation from hand-toil. Steam is the devil himself let loose from\nthe pit, and all labor-saving machinery is his own invention. Mr. Ruskin\nis the bull that stands upon the track and threatens with annihilation\nthe on-coming locomotive; and I think that any spectator who sees his\nmenacing attitude and hears his roaring cannot but have fears for the\nlocomotive.\n\nThere are two sorts of infidelity concerning humanity, and I do not know\nwhich is the more withering in its effects. One is that which regards\nthis world as only a waste and a desert, across the sands of which we are\nmerely fugitives, fleeing from the wrath to come. The other is that doubt\nof any divine intention in development, in history, which we call\nprogress from age to age.\n\nIn the eyes of this latter infidelity history is not a procession or a\nprogression, but only a series of disconnected pictures, each little era\nrounded with its own growth, fruitage, and decay, a series of incidents\nor experiments, without even the string of a far-reaching purpose to\nconnect them. There is no intention of progress in it all. The race is\nbarbarous, and then it changes to civilized; in the one case the strong\nrob the weak by brute force; in the other the crafty rob the unwary by\nfinesse. The latter is a more agreeable state of things; but it comes to\nabout the same. The robber used to knock us down and take away our\nsheepskins; he now administers chloroform and relieves us of our watches.\nIt is a gentlemanly proceeding, and scientific, and we call it\ncivilization. Meantime human nature remains the same, and the whole thing\nis a weary round that has no advance in it.\n\nIf this is true the succession of men and of races is no better than a\nvegetable succession; and Mr. Froude is quite right in doubting if\neducation of the brain will do the English agricultural laborer any good;\nand Mr. Ruskin ought to be aided in his crusade against machinery, which\nturns the world upside down. The best that can be done with a man is the\nbest that can be done with a plant-set him out in some favorable\nlocality, or leave him where he happened to strike root, and there let\nhim grow and mature in measure and quiet--especially quiet--as he may in\nGod's sun and rain. If he happens to be a cabbage, in Heaven's name don't\ntry to make a rose of him, and do not disturb the vegetable maturing of\nhis head by grafting ideas upon his stock.\n\nThe most serious difficulty in the way of those who maintain that there\nis an intention of progress in this world from century to century, from\nage to age--a discernible growth, a universal development--is the fact\nthat all nations do not make progress at the same time or in the same\nratio; that nations reach a certain development, and then fall away and\neven retrograde; that while one may be advancing into high civilization,\nanother is lapsing into deeper barbarism, and that nations appear to have\na limit of growth. If there were a law of progress, an intention of it in\nall the world, ought not all peoples and tribes to advance pari passu, or\nat least ought there not to be discernible a general movement, historical\nand contemporary? There is no such general movement which can be\ncomputed, the law of which can be discovered--therefore it does not\nexist. In a kind of despair, we are apt to run over in our minds empires\nand pre-eminent civilizations that have existed, and then to doubt\nwhether life in this world is intended to be anything more than a series\nof experiments. There is the German nation of our day, the most\naggressive in various fields of intellectual activity, a Hercules of\nscholarship, the most thoroughly trained and powerful--though its\ncivilization marches to the noise of the hateful and barbarous drum. In\nwhat points is it better than the Greek nation of the age of its\nsuperlative artists, philosophers, poets--the age of the most joyous,\nelastic human souls in the most perfect human bodies?\n\nAgain, it is perhaps a fanciful notion that the Atlantis of Plato was the\nnorthern part of the South American continent, projecting out towards\nAfrica, and that the Antilles are the peaks and headlands of its sunken\nbulk. But there are evidences enough that the shores of the Gulf of\nMexico and the Caribbean Sea were within historic periods the seat of a\nvery considerable civilization--the seat of cities, of commerce, of\ntrade, of palaces and pleasure--gardens--faint images, perhaps, of the\nluxurious civilization of Baia! and Pozzuoli and Capri in the most\nprofligate period of the Roman empire. It is not more difficult to\nbelieve that there was a great material development here than to believe\nit of the African shore of the Mediterranean. Not to multiply instances\nthat will occur to all, we see as many retrograde as advance movements,\nand we see, also, that while one spot of the earth at one time seems to\nbe the chosen theatre of progress, other portions of the globe are\nabsolutely dead and without the least leaven of advancing life, and we\ncannot understand how this can be if there is any such thing as an\nall-pervading and animating intention or law of progress. And then we are\nreminded that the individual human mind long ago attained its height of\npower and capacity. It is enough to recall the names of Moses, Buddha,\nConfucius, Socrates, Paul, Homer, David.\n\nNo doubt it has seemed to other periods and other nations, as it now does\nto the present civilized races, that they were the chosen times and\npeoples of an extraordinary and limitless development. It must have\nseemed so to the Jews who overran Palestine and set their shining cities\non all the hills of heathendom. It must have seemed so to the Babylonish\nconquerors who swept over Palestine in turn, on their way to greater\nconquests in Egypt. It must have seemed so to Greece when the Acropolis\nwas to the outlying world what the imperial calla is to the marsh in\nwhich it lifts its superb flower. It must have seemed so to Rome when its\nsolid roads of stone ran to all parts of a tributary world--the highways\nof the legions, her ministers, and of the wealth that poured into her\ntreasury. It must have seemed so to followers of Mahomet, when the\ncrescent knew no pause in its march up the Arabian peninsula to the\nBosporus, to India, along the Mediterranean shores to Spain, where in the\neighth century it flowered into a culture, a learning, a refinement in\nart and manners, to which the Christian world of that day was a stranger.\nIt must have seemed so in the awakening of the sixteenth century, when\nEurope, Spain leading, began that great movement of discovery and\naggrandizement which has, in the end, been profitable only to a portion\nof the adventurers. And what shall we say of a nation as old, if not\nolder than any of these we have mentioned, slowly building up meantime a\ncivilization and perfecting a system of government and a social economy\nwhich should outlast them all, and remain to our day almost the sole\nmonument of permanence and stability in a shifting world?\n\nHow many times has the face of Europe been changed--and parts of Africa,\nand Asia Minor too, for that matter--by conquests and crusades, and the\nrise and fall of civilizations as well as dynasties? while China has\nendured, almost undisturbed, under a system of law, administration,\nmorality, as old as the Pyramids probably--existed a coherent nation,\nhighly developed in certain essentials, meeting and mastering, so far as\nwe can see, the great problem of an over-populated territory, living in a\ngood degree of peace and social order, of respect for age and law, and\nmaking a continuous history, the mere record of which is printed in a\nthousand bulky volumes. Yet we speak of the Chinese empire as an instance\nof arrested growth, for which there is no salvation, except it shall\ncatch the spirit of progress abroad in the world. What is this progress,\nand where does it come from?\n\nThink for a moment of this significant situation. For thousands of years,\nempires, systems of society, systems of civilization--Egyptian, Jewish,\nGreek, Roman, Moslem, Feudal--have flourished and fallen, grown to a\ncertain height and passed away; great organized fabrics have gone down,\nand, if there has been any progress, it has been as often defeated as\nrenewed. And here is an empire, apart from this scene of alternate\nsuccess and disaster, which has existed in a certain continuity and\nstability, and yet, now that it is uncovered and stands face to face with\nthe rest of the world, it finds that it has little to teach us, and\nalmost everything to learn from us. The old empire sends its students to\nlearn of us, the newest child of civilization; and through us they learn\nall the great past, its literature, law, science, out of which we sprang.\nIt appears, then, that progress has, after all, been with the shifting\nworld, that has been all this time going to pieces, rather than with the\nworld that has been permanent and unshaken.\n\nWhen we speak of progress we may mean two things. We may mean a lifting\nof the races as a whole by reason of more power over the material world,\nby reason of what we call the conquest of nature and a practical use of\nits forces; or we may mean a higher development of the individual man, so\nthat he shall be better and happier. If from age to age it is\ndiscoverable that the earth is better adapted to man as a dwelling-place,\nand he is on the whole fitted to get more out of it for his own growth,\nis not that progress, and is it not evidence of an intention of progress?\n\nNow, it is sometimes said that Providence, in the economy of this world,\ncares nothing for the individual, but works out its ideas and purposes\nthrough the races, and in certain periods, slowly bringing in, by great\nagencies and by processes destructive to individuals and to millions of\nhelpless human beings, truths and principles; so laying stepping-stones\nonward to a great consummation. I do not care to dwell upon this thought,\nbut let us see if we can find any evidence in history of the presence in\nthis world of an intention of progress.\n\nIt is common to say that, if the world makes progress at all, it is by\nits great men, and when anything important for the race is to be done, a\ngreat man is raised up to do it. Yet another way to look at it is, that\nthe doing of something at the appointed time makes the man who does it\ngreat, or at least celebrated. The man often appears to be only a favored\ninstrument of communication. As we glance back we recognize the truth\nthat, at this and that period, the time had come for certain discoveries.\nIntelligence seemed pressing in from the invisible. Many minds were on\nthe alert to apprehend it. We believe, for instance, that if Gutenberg\nhad not invented movable types, somebody else would have given them to\nthe world about that time. Ideas, at certain times, throng for admission\ninto the world; and we are all familiar with the fact that the same\nimportant idea (never before revealed in all the ages) occurs to separate\nand widely distinct minds at about the same time. The invention of the\nelectric telegraph seemed to burst upon the world simultaneously from\nmany quarters--not perfect, perhaps, but the time for the idea had\ncome--and happy was it for the man who entertained it. We have agreed to\ncall Columbus the discoverer of America, but I suppose there is no doubt\nthat America had been visited by European, and probably Asiatic, people\nages before Columbus; that four or five centuries before him people from\nnorthern Europe had settlements here; he was fortunate, however, in\n discovering  it in the fullness of time, when the world, in its\nprogress, was ready for it. If the Greeks had had gunpowder,\nelectro-magnetism, the printing press, history would need to be\nrewritten. Why the inquisitive Greek mind did not find out these things\nis a mystery upon any other theory than the one we are considering.\n\nAnd it is as mysterious that China, having gunpowder and the art of\nprinting, is not today like Germany.\n\nThere seems to me to be a progress, or an intention of progress, in the\nworld, independent of individual men. Things get on by all sorts of\ninstruments, and sometimes by very poor ones. There are times when new\nthoughts or applications of known principles seem to throng from the\ninvisible for expression through human media, and there is hardly ever an\nimportant invention set free in the world that men do not appear to be\nready cordially to receive it. Often we should be justified in saying\nthat there was a widespread expectation of it. Almost all the great\ninventions and the ingenious application of principles have many\nclaimants for the honor of priority.\n\nOn any other theory than this, that there is present in the world an\nintention of progress which outlasts individuals, and even races, I\ncannot account for the fact that, while civilizations decay and pass\naway, and human systems go to pieces, ideas remain and accumulate. We,\nthe latest age, are the inheritors of all the foregoing ages. I do not\nbelieve that anything of importance has been lost to the world. The\nJewish civilization was torn up root and branch, but whatever was\nvaluable in the Jewish polity is ours now. We may say the same of the\ncivilizations of Athens and of Rome; though the entire organization of\nthe ancient world, to use Mr. Froude's figure, collapsed into a heap of\nincoherent sand, the ideas remained, and Greek art and Roman law are part\nof the world's solid possessions.\n\nEven those who question the value to the individual of what we call\nprogress, admit, I suppose, the increase of knowledge in the world from\nage to age, and not only its increase, but its diffusion. The intelligent\nschoolboy today knows more than the ancient sages knew--more about the\nvisible heavens, more of the secrets of the earth, more of the human\nbody. The rudiments of his education, the common experiences of his\neveryday life, were, at the best, the guesses and speculations of a\nremote age. There is certainly an accumulation of facts, ideas,\nknowledge. Whether this makes men better, wiser, happier, is indeed\ndisputed.\n\nIn order to maintain the notion of a general and intended progress, it is\nnot necessary to show that no preceding age has excelled ours in some\nspecial, development. Phidias has had no rival in sculpture, we may\nadmit. It is possible that glass was once made as flexible as leather,\nand that copper could be hardened like steel. But I do not take much\nstock in the  lost arts,  the wondering theme of the lyceums. The\nknowledge of the natural world, and of materials, was never, I believe,\nso extensive and exact as it is today. It is possible that there are\ntricks of chemistry, ingenious processes, secrets of color, of which we\nare ignorant; but I do not believe there was ever an ancient alchemist\nwho could not be taught something in a modern laboratory. The vast\nengineering works of the ancient Egyptians, the remains of their temples\nand pyramids, excite our wonder; but I have no doubt that President\nGrant, if he becomes the tyrant they say he is becoming, and commands the\nlabor of forty millions of slaves--a large proportion of them office\n--holders--could build a Karnak, or erect a string of pyramids across New\nJersey.\n\nMr. Froude runs lightly over a list of subjects upon which the believer\nin progress relies for his belief, and then says of them that the world\ncalls this progress--he calls it only change. I suppose he means by this\ntwo things: that these great movements of our modern life are not any\nevidence of a permanent advance, and that our whole structure may tumble\ninto a heap of incoherent sand, as systems of society have done before;\nand, again, that it is questionable if, in what we call a stride in\ncivilization, the individual citizen is becoming any purer or more just,\nor if his intelligence is directed towards learning and doing what is\nright, or only to the means of more extended pleasures.\n\nIt is, perhaps, idle to speculate upon the first of these points--the\npermanence of our advance, if it is an advance. But we may be encouraged\nby one thing that distinguishes this period--say from the middle of the\neighteenth century--from any that has preceded it. I mean the\nintroduction of machinery, applied to the multiplication of man's power\nin a hundred directions--to manufacturing, to locomotion, to the\ndiffusion of thought and of knowledge. I need not dwell upon this\nfamiliar topic. Since this period began there has been, so far as I know,\nno retrograde movement anywhere, but, besides the material, an\nintellectual and spiritual kindling the world over, for which history has\nno sort of parallel. Truth is always the same, and will make its way, but\nthis subject might be illustrated by a study of the relation of\nChristianity and of the brotherhood of men to machinery. The theme would\ndemand an essay by itself. I leave it with the one remark, that this\ngreat change now being wrought in the world by the multiplicity of\nmachinery is not more a material than it is an intellectual one, and that\nwe have no instance in history of a catastrophe widespread enough and\nadequate to sweep away its results. That is to say, none of the\ncatastrophes, not even the corruptions, which brought to ruin the ancient\ncivilizations, would work anything like the same disaster in an age which\nhas the use of machinery that this age has.\n\nFor instance: Gibbon selects the period between the accession of Trajan\nand the death of Marcus Aurelius as the time in which the human race\nenjoyed more general happiness than they had ever known before, or had\nsince known. Yet, says Mr. Froude, in the midst of this prosperity the\nheart of the empire was dying out of it; luxury and selfishness were\neating away the principle that held society together, and the ancient\nworld was on the point of collapsing into a heap of incoherent sand. Now,\nit is impossible to conceive that the catastrophe which did happen to\nthat civilization could have happened if the world had then possessed the\nsteam-engine, the printing-press, and the electric telegraph. The Roman\npower might have gone down, and the face of the world been recast; but\nsuch universal chaos and such a relapse for the individual people would\nseem impossible.\n\nIf we turn from these general considerations to the evidences that this\nis an  era of progress  in the condition of individual men, we are met by\nmore specific denials. Granted, it is said, all your facilities for\ntravel and communication, for cheap and easy manufacture, for the\ndistribution of cheap literature and news, your cheap education, better\nhomes, and all the comforts and luxuries of your machine civilization, is\nthe average man, the agriculturist, the machinist, the laborer any better\nfor it all? Are there more purity, more honest, fair dealing, genuine\nwork, fear and honor of God? Are the proceeds of labor more evenly\ndistributed? These, it is said, are the criteria of progress; all else is\nmisleading.\n\nNow, it is true that the ultimate end of any system of government or\ncivilization should be the improvement of the individual man. And yet\nthis truth, as Mr. Froude puts it, is only a half-truth, so that this\nsingle test of any system may not do for a given time and a limited area.\nOther and wider considerations come in. Disturbances, which for a while\nunsettle society and do not bring good results to individuals, may,\nnevertheless, be necessary, and may be a sign of progress. Take the\nfavorite illustration of Mr. Froude and Mr. Ruskin--the condition of the\nagricultural laborer of England. If I understand them, the civilization\nof the last century has not helped his position as a man. If I understand\nthem, he was a better man, in a better condition of earthly happiness,\nand with a better chance of heaven, fifty years ago than now, before the\n era of progress  found him out. (It ought to be noticed here, that the\nreport of the Parliamentary Commission on the condition of the English\nagricultural laborer does not sustain Mr. Froude's assumptions. On the\ncontrary, the report shows that his condition is in almost all respects\nvastly better than it was fifty years ago.) Mr. Ruskin would remove the\nsteam-engine and all its devilish works from his vicinity; he would\nabolish factories, speedy travel by rail, new-fangled instruments of\nagriculture, our patent education, and remit him to his ancient\ncondition--tied for life to a bit of ground, which should supply all his\nsimple wants; his wife should weave the clothes for the family; his\nchildren should learn nothing but the catechism and to speak the truth;\nhe should take his religion without question from the hearty, fox-hunting\nparson, and live and die undisturbed by ideas. Now, it seems to me that\nif Mr. Ruskin could realize in some isolated nation this idea of a\npastoral, simple existence, under a paternal government, he would have in\ntime an ignorant, stupid, brutal community in a great deal worse case\nthan the agricultural laborers of England are at present. Three-fourths\nof the crime in the kingdom of Bavaria is committed in the Ultramontane\nregion of the Tyrol, where the conditions of popular education are about\nthose that Mr. Ruskin seems to regret as swept away by the present\nmovement in England--a stagnant state of things, in which any wind of\nheaven would be a blessing, even if it were a tornado. Education of the\nmodern sort unsettles the peasant, renders him unfit for labor, and gives\nus a half-educated idler in place of a conscientious workman. The disuse\nof the apprentice system is not made good by the present system of\neducation, because no one learns a trade well, and the consequence is\npoor work, and a sham civilization generally. There is some truth in\nthese complaints. But the way out is not backward, but forward. The fault\nis not with education, though it may be with the kind of education. The\neducation must go forward; the man must not be half but wholly educated.\nIt is only half-knowledge like half-training in a trade that is\ndangerous.\n\nBut what I wish to say is, that notwithstanding certain unfavorable\nthings in the condition of the English laborer and mechanic, his chance\nis better in the main than it was fifty years ago. The world is a better\nworld for him. He has the opportunity to be more of a man. His world is\nwider, and it is all open to him to go where he will. Mr. Ruskin may not\nso easily find his ideal, contented peasant, but the man himself begins\nto apprehend that this is a world of ideas as well as of food and\nclothes, and I think, if he were consulted, he would have no desire to\nreturn to the condition of his ancestors. In fact, the most hopeful\nsymptom in the condition of the English peasant is his discontent. For,\nas skepticism is in one sense the handmaid of truth, discontent is the\nmother of progress. The man is comparatively of little use in the world\nwho is contented.\n\nThere is another thought pertinent here. It is this: that no man, however\nhumble, can live a full life if he lives to himself alone. He is more of\na man, he lives in a higher plane of thought and of enjoyment, the more\nhis communications are extended with his fellows and the wider his\nsympathies are. I count it a great thing for the English peasant, a solid\naddition to his life, that he is every day being put into more intimate\nrelations with every other man on the globe.\n\nI know it is said that these are only vague and sentimental notions of\nprogress--notions of a  salvation by machinery.  Let us pass to something\nthat may be less vague, even if it be more sentimental. For a hundred\nyears we have reckoned it progress, that the people were taking part in\ngovernment. We have had a good deal of faith in the proposition put forth\nat Philadelphia a century ago, that men are, in effect, equal in\npolitical rights. Out of this simple proposition springs logically the\nextension of suffrage, and a universal education, in order that this\nimportant function of a government by the people may be exercised\nintelligently.\n\nNow we are told by the most accomplished English essayists that this is a\nmistake, that it is change, but no progress. Indeed, there are\nphilosophers in America who think so. At least I infer so from the fact\nthat Mr. Froude fathers one of his definitions of our condition upon an\nAmerican. When a block of printer's type is by accident broken up and\ndisintegrated, it falls into what is called  pi.  The  pi,  a mere chaos,\nis afterwards sorted and distributed, preparatory to being built up into\nfresh combinations.  A distinguished American friend,  says Mr. Froude,\n describes Democracy as making pi.  It is so witty a sarcasm that I\nalmost think Mr. Froude manufactured it himself. Well, we have been\nmaking this  pi  for a hundred years; it seems to be a national dish in\nconsiderable favor with the rest of the world--even such ancient nations\nas China and Japan want a piece of it.\n\nNow, of course, no form of human government is perfect, or anything like\nit, but I should be willing to submit the question to an English traveler\neven, whether, on the whole, the people of the United States do not have\nas fair a chance in life and feel as little the oppression of government\nas any other in the world; whether anywhere the burdens are more lifted\noff men's shoulders.\n\nThis infidelity to popular government and unbelief in any good results to\ncome from it are not, unfortunately, confined to the English essayists. I\nam not sure but the notion is growing in what is called the intellectual\nclass, that it is a mistake to intrust the government to the ignorant\nmany, and that it can only be lodged safely in the hands of the wise few.\nWe hear the corruptions of the times attributed to universal suffrage.\nYet these corruptions certainly are not peculiar to the United States: It\nis also said here, as it is in England, that our diffused and somewhat\nsuperficial education is merely unfitting the mass of men, who must be\nlaborers, for any useful occupation.\n\nThis argument, reduced to plain terms, is simply this: that the mass of\nmankind are unfit to decide properly their own political and social\ncondition; and that for the mass of mankind any but a very limited mental\ndevelopment is to be deprecated. It would be enough to say of this, that\nclass government and popular ignorance have been tried for so many ages,\nand always with disaster and failure in the end, that I should think\nphilanthropical historians would be tired of recommending them. But there\nis more to be said.\n\nI feel that as a resident on earth, part owner of it for a time,\nunavoidably a member of society, I have a right to a voice in determining\nwhat my condition and what my chance in life shall be. I may be ignorant,\nI should be a very poor ruler of other people, but I am better capable of\ndeciding some things that touch me nearly than another is. By what logic\ncan I say that I should have a part in the conduct of this world and that\nmy neighbor should not? Who is to decide what degree of intelligence\nshall fit a man for a share in the government? How are we to select the\nfew capable men that are to rule all the rest? As a matter of fact, men\nhave been rulers who had neither the average intelligence nor virtue of\nthe people they governed. And, as a matter of historical experience, a\nclass in power has always sought its own benefit rather than that of the\nwhole people. Lunacy, extraordinary stupidity, and crime aside, a man is\nthe best guardian of his own liberty and rights.\n\nThe English critics, who say we have taken the government from the\ncapable few and given it to the people, speak of universal suffrage as a\nquack panacea of this  era of progress.  But it is not the manufactured\npanacea of any theorist or philosopher whatever. It is the natural result\nof a diffused knowledge of human rights and of increasing intelligence.\nIt is nothing against it that Napoleon III. used a mockery of it to\ngovern France. It is not a device of the closet, but a method of\ngovernment, which has naturally suggested itself to men as they have\ngrown into a feeling of self-reliance and a consciousness that they have\nsome right in the decision of their own destiny in the world. It is true\nthat suffrage peculiarly fits a people virtuous and intelligent. But\nthere has not yet been invented any government in which a people would\nthrive who were ignorant and vicious.\n\nOur foreign critics seem to regard our  American system,  by the way, as\na sort of invention or patent right, upon which we are experimenting;\nforgetting that it is as legitimate a growth out of our circumstances as\nthe English system is out of its antecedents. Our system is not the\nproduct of theorists or closet philosophers; but it was ordained in\nsubstance and inevitable from the day the first  town meeting  assembled\nin New England, and it was not in the power of Hamilton or any one else\nto make it otherwise.\n\nSo you must have education, now you have the ballot, say the critics of\nthis era of progress; and this is another of your cheap inventions. Not\nthat we undervalue book knowledge. Oh, no! but it really seems to us that\na good trade, with the Lord's Prayer and the Ten Commandments back of it,\nwould be the best thing for most of you. You must work for a living\nanyway; and why, now, should you unsettle your minds?\n\nThis is such an astounding view of human life and destiny that I do not\nknow what to say to it. Did it occur to Mr. Froude to ask the man whether\nhe would be contented with a good trade and the Ten Commandments? Perhaps\nthe man would like eleven commandments? And, if he gets hold of the\neleventh, he may want to know something more about his fellow-men, a\nlittle geography maybe, and some of Mr. Froude's history, and thus he may\nbe led off into literature, and the Lord knows where.\n\nThe inference is that education--book fashion--will unfit the man for\nuseful work. Mr. Froude here again stops at a half-truth. As a general\nthing, intelligence is useful in any position a man occupies. But it is\ntrue that there is a superficial and misdirected sort of education, so\ncalled, which makes the man who receives it despise labor; and it is also\ntrue that in the present educational revival there has been a neglect of\ntraining in the direction of skilled labor, and we all suffer more or\nless from cheap and dishonest work. But the way out of this, again, is\nforward, and not backward. It is a good sign, and not a stigma upon this\nera of progress, that people desire education. But this education must be\nof the whole man; he must be taught to work as well as to read, and he\nis, indeed, poorly educated if he is not fitted to do his work in the\nworld. We certainly shall not have better workmen by having ignorant\nworkmen. I need not say that the real education is that which will best\nfit a man for performing well his duties in life. If Mr. Froude, instead\nof his plaint over the scarcity of good mechanics, and of the Ten\nCommandments in England, had recommended the establishment of industrial\nschools, he would have spoken more to the purpose.\n\nI should say that the fashionable skepticism of today, here and in\nEngland, is in regard to universal suffrage and the capacity of the\npeople to govern themselves. The whole system is the sharp invention of\nThomas Jefferson and others, by which crafty demagogues can rule. Instead\nof being, as we have patriotically supposed, a real progress in human\ndevelopment, it is only a fetich, which is becoming rapidly a failure.\nNow, there is a great deal of truth in the assertion that, whatever the\nform of government, the ablest men, or the strongest, or the most cunning\nin the nation, will rule. And yet it is true that in a popular\ngovernment, like this, the humblest citizen, if he is wronged or\noppressed, has in his hands a readier instrument of redress than he has\never had in any form of government. And it must not be forgotten that the\nballot in the hands of all is perhaps the only safeguard against the\ntyranny of wealth in the hands of the few. It is true that bad men can\nband together and be destructive; but so they can in any government.\nRevolution by ballot is much safer than revolution by violence; and,\ngranting that human nature is selfish, when the whole people are the\ngovernment selfishness is on the side of the government. Can you mention\nany class in this country whose interest it is to overturn the\ngovernment? And, then, as to the wisdom of the popular decisions by the\nballot in this country. Look carefully at all the Presidential elections\nfrom Washington's down, and say, in the light of history, if the popular\ndecision has not, every time, been the best for the country. It may not\nhave seemed so to some of us at the time, but I think it is true, and a\nvery significant fact.\n\nOf course, in this affirmation of belief that one hundred years of\npopular government in this country is a real progress for humanity, and\nnot merely a change from the rule of the fit to the rule of the cunning,\nwe cannot forget that men are pretty much everywhere the same, and that\nwe have abundant reason for national humility. We are pretty well aware\nthat ours is not an ideal state of society, and should be so, even if the\nEnglish who pass by did not revile us, wagging their heads. We might\ndiffer with them about the causes of our disorders. Doubtless, extended\nsuffrage has produced certain results. It seems, strangely enough, to\nhave escaped the observation of our English friends that to suffrage was\ndue the late horse disease. No one can discover any other cause for it.\nBut there is a cause for the various phenomena of this period of shoddy,\nof inflated speculation, of disturbance of all values, social, moral,\npolitical, and material, quite sufficient in the light of history to\naccount for them. It is not suffrage; it is an irredeemable paper\ncurrency. It has borne its usual fruit with us, and neither foreign nor\nhome critics can shift the responsibility of it upon our system of\ngovernment. Yes, it is true, we have contrived to fill the world with our\nscandals of late. I might refer to a loose commercial and political\nmorality; to betrayals of popular trust in politics; to corruptions in\nlegislatures and in corporations; to an abuse of power in the public\npress, which has hardly yet got itself adjusted to its sudden accession\nof enormous influence. We complain of its injustice to individuals\nsometimes. We might imagine that something like this would occur.\n\nA newspaper one day says:  We are exceedingly pained to hear that the\nHon. Mr. Blank, who is running for Congress in the First District, has\npermitted his aged grandmother to go to the town poorhouse. What renders\nthis conduct inexplicable is the fact that Mr. Blank is a man of large\nfortune. \n\nThe next day the newspaper says:  The Hon. Mr. Blank has not seen fit to\ndeny the damaging accusation in regard to the treatment of his\ngrandmother. \n\nThe next day the newspaper says:  Mr. Blank is still silent. He is\nprobably aware that he cannot afford to rest under this grave charge. \n\nThe next day the newspaper asks:  Where's Blank? Has he fled? \n\nAt last, goaded by these remarks, and most unfortunately for himself, Mr.\nBlank writes to the newspaper and most indignantly denies the charge; he\nnever sent his grandmother to the poorhouse.\n\nThereupon the newspaper says:  Of course a rich man who would put his own\ngrandmother in the poorhouse would deny it. Our informant was a gentleman\nof character. Mr. Blank rests the matter on his unsupported word. It is a\nquestion of veracity. \n\nOr, perhaps, Mr. Blank, more unfortunately for himself, begins by making\nan affidavit, wherein he swears that he never sent his grandmother to the\npoorhouse, and that, in point of fact, he has not any grandmother\nwhatever.\n\nThe newspaper then, in language that is now classical,  goes for  Mr.\nBlank. It says:  Mr. Blank resorts to the common device of the rogue\n--the affidavit. If he had been conscious of rectitude, would he not have\nrelied upon his simple denial? \n\nNow, if an extreme case like this could occur, it would be bad enough.\nBut, in our free society, the remedy would be at hand. The constituents\nof Mr. Blank would elect him in triumph. The newspaper would lose public\nconfidence and support and learn to use its position more justly. What I\nmean to indicate by such an extreme instance as this is, that in our very\nlicense of individual freedom there is finally a correcting power.\n\nWe might pursue this general subject of progress by a comparison of the\nsociety of this country now with that of fifty years ago. I have no doubt\nthat in every essential this is better than that, in manners, in\nmorality, in charity and toleration, in education and religion. I know\nthe standard of morality is higher. I know the churches are purer. Not\nfifty years ago, in a New England town, a distinguished doctor of\ndivinity, the pastor of a leading church, was part owner in a distillery.\nHe was a great light in his denomination, but he was an extravagant\nliver, and, being unable to pay his debts, he was arrested and put into\njail, with the liberty of the  limits.  In order not to interrupt his\nministerial work, the jail limits were made to include his house and his\nchurch, so that he could still go in and out before his people. I do not\nthink that could occur anywhere in the United States today.\n\nI will close these fragmentary suggestions by saying that I, for one,\nshould like to see this country a century from now. Those who live then\nwill doubtless say of this period that it was crude, and rather\ndisorderly, and fermenting with a great many new projects; but I have\ngreat faith that they will also say that the present extending notion,\nthat the best government is for the people, by the people, was in the\nline of sound progress. I should expect to find faith in humanity greater\nand not less than it is now, and I should not expect to find that Mr.\nFroude's mournful expectation had been realized, and that the belief in a\nlife beyond the grave had been withdrawn.\n\n\n\n\nENGLAND\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nEngland has played a part in modern history altogether out of proportion\nto its size. The whole of Great Britain, including Ireland, has only\neleven thousand more square miles than Italy; and England and Wales alone\nare not half so large as Italy. England alone is about the size of North\nCarolina. It is, as Franklin, in 1763, wrote to Mary Stevenson in London,\n that petty island which, compared to America, is but a stepping-stone in\na brook, scarce enough of it above water to keep one's shoes dry. \n\nA considerable portion of it is under water, or water-soaked a good part\nof the year, and I suppose it has more acres for breeding frogs than any\nother northern land, except Holland. Old Harrison says that the North\nBritons when overcome by hunger used to creep into the marshes till the\nwater was up to their chins and there remain a long time,  onlie to\nqualifie the heats of their stomachs by violence, which otherwise would\nhave wrought and beene readie to oppresse them for hunger and want of\nsustinance.  It lies so far north--the latitude of Labrador--that the\nwinters are long and the climate inhospitable. It would be severely cold\nif the Gulf Stream did not make it always damp and curtain it with\nclouds. In some parts the soil is heavy with water, in others it is only\na thin stratum above the chalk; in fact, agricultural production could\nscarcely be said to exist there until fortunes made in India and in other\nforeign adventure enabled the owners of the land to pile it knee-deep\nwith fertilizers from Peru and elsewhere. Thanks to accumulated wealth\nand the Gulf Stream, its turf is green and soft; figs, which will not\nmature with us north of the capes of Virginia, ripen in sheltered nooks\nin Oxford, and the large and unfrequent strawberry sometimes appears upon\nthe dinner-table in such profusion that the guests can indulge in one\napiece.\n\nYet this small, originally infertile island has been for two centuries,\nand is today, the most vital influence on the globe. Cast your eye over\nthe world upon her possessions, insular and continental, into any one of\nwhich, almost, England might be dropped, with slight disturbance, as you\nwould transfer a hanging garden. For any parallel to her power and\npossessions you must go back to ancient Rome. Egypt under Thotmes and\nSeti overran the then known world and took tribute of it; but it was a\ntemporary wave of conquest and not an assimilation. Rome sent her laws\nand her roads to the end of the earth, and made an empire of it; but it\nwas an empire of barbarians largely, of dynasties rather than of peoples.\nThe dynasties fought, the dynasties submitted, and the dynasties paid the\ntribute. The modern  people  did not exist. One battle decided the fate\nof half the world--it might be lost or won for a woman's eyes; the flight\nof a chieftain might settle the fate of a province; a campaign might\ndetermine the allegiance of half Asia. There was but one compact,\ndisciplined, law-ordered nation, and that had its seat on the Tiber.\n\nUnder what different circumstances did England win her position! Before\nshe came to the front, Venice controlled, and almost monopolized, the\ntrade of the Orient. When she entered upon her career Spain was almost\nomnipotent in Europe, and was in possession of more than half the Western\nworld; and besides Spain, England had, wherever she went, to contend for\na foothold with Portugal, skilled in trade and adventure; and with\nHolland, rich, and powerful on the sea. That is to say, she met\neverywhere civilizations old and technically her superior. Of the ruling\npowers, she was the least in arts and arms. If you will take time to fill\nout this picture, you will have some conception of the marvelous\nachievements of England, say since the abdication of the Emperor Charles\nV.\n\nThis little island is today the centre of the wealth, of the solid\ncivilization, of the world. I will not say of art, of music, of the\nlighter social graces that make life agreeable; but I will say of the\nmoral forces that make progress possible and worth while. Of this island\nthe centre is London; of London the heart is  the City,  and in the City\nyou can put your finger on one spot where the pulse of the world is\ndistinctly felt to beat. The Moslem regards the Kaaba at Mecca as the\ncentre of the universe; but that is only a theological phrase. The centre\nof the world is the Bank of England in Leadenhall Street. There is not an\noccurrence, not a conquest or a defeat, a revolution, a panic, a famine,\nan abundance, not a change in value of money or material, no depression\nor stoppage in trade, no recovery, no political, and scarcely any great\nreligious movement--say the civil deposition of the Pope or the Wahhabee\nrevival in Arabia and India--that does not report itself instantly at\nthis sensitive spot. Other capitals feel a local influence; this feels\nall the local influences. Put your ear at the door of the Bank or the\nStock Exchange near by, and you hear the roar of the world.\n\nBut this is not all, nor the most striking thing, nor the greatest\ncontrast to the empires of Rome and of Spain. The civilization that has\ngone forth from England is a self-sustaining one, vital to grow where it\nis planted, in vast communities, in an order that does not depend, as\nthat of the Roman world did, upon edicts and legions from the capital.\nAnd it must be remembered that if the land empire of England is not so\nvast as that of Rome, England has for two centuries been mistress of the\nseas, with all the consequences of that opportunity--consequences to\ntrade beyond computation. And we must add to all this that an\nintellectual and moral power has been put forth from England clear round\nthe globe, and felt beyond the limits of the English tongue.\n\nHow is it that England has attained this supremacy--a supremacy in vain\ndisputed on land and on sea by France, but now threatened by an equipped\nand disciplined Germany, by an unformed Colossus--a Slav and Tartar\nconglomerate; and perhaps by one of her own children, the United States?\nI will mention some of the things that have determined England's\nextraordinary career; and they will help us to consider her prospects. I\nname:\n\nI. The Race. It is a mixed race, but with certain dominant qualities,\nwhich we call, loosely, Teutonic; certainly the most aggressive, tough,\nand vigorous people the world has seen. It does not shrink from any\nclimate, from any exposure, from any geographic condition; yet its choice\nof migration and of residence has mainly been on the grass belt of the\nglobe, where soil and moisture produce good turf, where a changing and\nunequal climate, with extremes of heat and cold, calls out the physical\nresources, stimulates invention, and requires an aggressive and defensive\nattitude of mind and body. The early history of this people is marked by\ntwo things:\n\n( 1 ) Town and village organizations, nurseries of law, order, and\nself-dependence, nuclei of power, capable of indefinite expansion,\nleading directly to a free and a strong government, the breeders of civil\nliberty.\n\n( 2 ) Individualism in religion, Protestantism in the widest sense: I\nmean by this, cultivation of the individual conscience as against\nauthority. This trait was as marked in this sturdy people in Catholic\nEngland as it is in Protestant England. It is in the blood. England never\ndid submit to Rome, not even as France did, though the Gallic Church held\nout well. Take the struggle of Henry II. and the hierarchy. Read the\nfight with prerogative all along. The English Church never could submit.\nIt is a shallow reading of history to attribute the final break with Rome\nto the unbridled passion of Henry VIII.; that was an occasion only: if it\nhad not been that, it would have been something else.\n\nHere we have the two necessary traits in the character of a great people:\nthe love and the habit of civil liberty and religious conviction and\nindependence. Allied to these is another trait--truthfulness. To speak\nthe truth in word and action, to the verge of bluntness and offense--and\nwith more relish sometimes because it is individually obnoxious and\nunlovely--is an English trait, clearly to be traced in the character of\nthis people, notwithstanding the equivocations of Elizabethan diplomacy,\nthe proverbial lying of English shopkeepers, and the fraudulent\nadulteration of English manufactures. Not to lie is perhaps as much a\nmatter of insular pride as of morals; to lie is unbecoming an Englishman.\nWhen Captain Burnaby was on his way to Khiva he would tolerate no\nOriental exaggeration of his army rank, although a higher title would\nhave smoothed his way and added to his consideration. An English official\nwho was a captive at Bokhara (or Khiva) was offered his life by the Khan\nif he would abjure the Christian faith and say he was a Moslem; but he\npreferred death rather than the advantage of a temporary equivocation. I\ndo not suppose that he was a specially pious man at home or that he was a\nmartyr to religious principle, but for the moment Christianity stood for\nEngland and English honor and civilization. I can believe that a rough\nEnglish sailor, who had not used a sacred name, except in vain, since he\nsaid his prayer at his mother's knee, accepted death under like\ncircumstances rather than say he was not a Christian.\n\nThe next determining cause in England's career is:\n\nII. The insular position. Poor as the island was, this was the\nopportunity. See what came of it:\n\n( 1 ) Maritime opportunity. The irregular coastlines, the bays and\nharbors, the near islands and mainlands invited to the sea. The nation\nbecame, per force, sailors--as the ancient Greeks were and the modern\nGreeks are: adventurers, discoverers--hardy, ambitious, seeking food from\nthe sea and wealth from every side.\n\n( 2 ) Their position protected them. What they got they could keep;\nwealth could accumulate. Invasion was difficult and practically\nimpossible to their neighbors. And yet they were in the bustling world,\nclose to the continent, commanding the most important of the navigable\nseas. The wealth of Holland was on the one hand, the wealth of France on\nthe other. They held the keys.\n\n( 3 ) The insular position and their free institutions invited refugees\nfrom all the Continent, artisans and skilled laborers of all kinds.\nHence, the beginning of their great industries, which made England rich\nin proportion as her authority and chance of trade expanded over distant\nislands and continents. But this would not have been possible without the\nthird advantage which I shall mention, and that is:\n\nIII. Coal. England's power and wealth rested upon her coal-beds. In this\nbounty nature was more liberal to the tight little island than to any\nother spot in Western Europe, and England took early advantage of it. To\nbe sure, her coal-field is small compared with that of the United\nStates--an area of only 11,900 square miles to our 192,000. But Germany\nhas only 1,770; Belgium, 510; France, 2,086; and Russia only in her\nexpansion of territory leads Europe in this respect, and has now 30,000\nsquare miles of coal-beds. But see the use England makes of this\nmaterial: in 1877, she took out of the ground 134,179,968 tons. The\nUnited States the same year took out 50,000,000 tons; Germany,\n48,000,000; France, 16,000,000; Belgium, 14,000,000. This tells the story\nof the heavy industries.\n\nWe have considered as elements of national greatness the race itself, the\nfavorable position, and the material to work with. I need not enlarge\nupon the might and the possessions of England, nor the general\nbeneficence of her occupation wherever she has established fort, factory,\nor colony. With her flag go much injustice, domineering, and cruelty;\nbut, on the whole, the best elements of civilization.\n\nThe intellectual domination of England has been as striking as the\nphysical. It is stamped upon all her colonies; it has by no means\ndisappeared in the United States. For more than fifty years after our\nindependence we imported our intellectual food--with the exception of\npolitics, and theology in certain forms--and largely our ethical guidance\nfrom England. We read English books, or imitations of the English way of\nlooking at things; we even accepted the English caricatures of our own\nlife as genuine--notably in the case of the so-called typical Yankee. It\nis only recently that our writers have begun to describe our own life as\nit is, and that readers begin to feel that our society may be as\ninteresting in print as that English society which they have been all\ntheir lives accustomed to read about. The reading-books of children in\nschools were filled with English essays, stories, English views of life;\nit was the English heroines over whose woes the girls wept; it was of the\nEnglish heroes that the boys declaimed. I do not know how much the\nimagination has to do in shaping the national character, but for half a\ncentury English writers, by poems and novels, controlled the imagination\nof this country. The principal reading then, as now--and perhaps more\nthen than now--was fiction, and nearly all of this England supplied. We\ntook in with it, it will be noticed, not only the romance and gilding of\nchivalry and legitimacy, such as Scott gives us, but constant instruction\nin a society of ranks and degrees, orders of nobility and commonalty, a\nfixed social status, a well-ordered, and often attractive, permanent\nsocial inequality, a state of life and relations based upon lingering\nfeudal conditions and prejudices. The background of all English fiction\nis monarchical; however liberal it may be, it must be projected upon the\nexisting order of things. We have not been examining these foreign social\nconditions with that simple curiosity which leads us to look into the\nsocial life of Russia as it is depicted in Russian novels; we have, on\nthe contrary, absorbed them generation after generation as part of our\nintellectual development, so that the novels and the other English\nliterature must have had a vast influence in molding our mental\ncharacter, in shaping our thinking upon the political as well as the\nsocial constitution of states.\n\nFor a long time the one American counteraction, almost the only, to this\nEnglish influence was the newspaper, which has always kept alive and\ndiffused a distinctly American spirit--not always lovely or modest, but\nnational. The establishment of periodicals which could afford to pay for\nfiction written about our society and from the American point of view has\nhad a great effect on our literary emancipation. The wise men whom we\nelect to make our laws--and who represent us intellectually and morally a\ngood deal better than we sometimes like to admit--have always gone upon\nthe theory, with regard to the reading for the American people, that the\nchief requisite of it was cheapness, with no regard to its character so\nfar as it is a shaper of notions about government and social life. What\neducating influence English fiction was having upon American life they\nhave not inquired, so long as it was furnished cheap, and its authors\nwere cheated out of any copyright on it.\n\nAt the North, thanks to a free press and periodicals, to a dozen reform\nagitations, and to the intellectual stir generally accompanying\nindustries and commerce, we have been developing an immense intellectual\nactivity, a portion of which has found expression in fiction, in poetry,\nin essays, that are instinct with American life and aspiration; so that\nnow for over thirty years, in the field of literature, we have had a\nvigorous offset to the English intellectual domination of which I spoke.\nHow far this has in the past molded American thought and sentiment, in\nwhat degree it should be held responsible for the infidelity in regard to\nour  American experiment,  I will not undertake to say. The South\nfurnishes a very interesting illustration in this connection. When the\ncivil war broke down the barriers of intellectual non-intercourse behind\nwhich the South had ensconced itself, it was found to be in a colonial\ncondition. Its libraries were English libraries, mostly composed of old\nEnglish literature. Its literary growth stopped with the reign of George\nIII. Its latest news was the Spectator and the Tatler. The social order\nit covered was that of monarchical England, undisturbed by the fiery\nphilippics of Byron or Shelley or the radicalism of a manufacturing age.\nIts chivalry was an imitation of the antiquated age of lords and ladies,\nand tournaments, and buckram courtesies, when men were as touchy to\nfight, at the lift of an eyelid or the drop of the glove, as Brian de\nBois-Guilbert, and as ready for a drinking-bout as Christopher North. The\nintellectual stir of the North, with its disorganizing radicalism, was\nrigorously excluded, and with it all the new life pouring out of its\npresses. The South was tied to a republic, but it was not republican,\neither in its politics or its social order. It was, in its mental\nconstitution, in its prejudices, in its tastes, exactly what you would\nexpect a people to be, excluded from the circulation of free ideas by its\nsystem of slavery, and fed on the English literature of a century ago. I\ndare say that a majority of its reading public, at any time, would have\npreferred a monarchical system and a hierarchy of rank.\n\nTo return to England. I have said that English domination usually carries\nthe best elements of civilization. Yet it must be owned that England has\npursued her magnificent career in a policy often insolent and brutal, and\ngenerally selfish. Scarcely any considerations have stood in the way of\nher trade and profit. I will not dwell upon her opium culture in India,\nwhich is a proximate cause of famine in district after district, nor upon\nher forcing the drug upon China--a policy disgraceful to a Christian\nqueen and people. We have only just got rid of slavery, sustained so long\nby Biblical and official sanction, and may not yet set up as critics. But\nI will refer to a case with which all are familiar--England's treatment\nof her American colonies. In 1760 and onward, when Franklin, the agent of\nthe colonies of Pennsylvania and Massachusetts, was cooling his heels in\nlords' waiting-rooms in London, America was treated exactly as Ireland\nwas--that is, discriminated against in every way; not allowed to\nmanufacture; not permitted to trade with other nations, except under the\nmost vexatious restrictions; and the effort was continued to make her a\nmere agricultural producer and a dependent. All that England cared for us\nwas that we should be a market for her manufactures. This same\nselfishness has been the keynote of her policy down to the present day,\nexcept as the force of circumstances has modified it. Steadily pursued,\nit has contributed largely to make England the monetary and industrial\nmaster of the world.\n\nWith this outline I pass to her present condition and outlook. The\ndictatorial and selfish policy has been forced to give way somewhat in\nregard to the colonies. The spirit of the age and the strength of the\ncolonies forbid its exercise; they cannot be held by the old policy.\nAustralia boldly adopts a protective tariff, and her parliament is only\nnominally controlled by the crown. Canada exacts duties on English goods,\nand England cannot help herself. Even with these concessions, can England\nkeep her great colonies? They are still loyal in word. They still affect\nEnglish manners and English speech, and draw their intellectual supplies\nfrom England. On the prospect of a war with Russia they nearly all\noffered volunteers. But everybody knows that allegiance is on the\ncondition of local autonomy. If united Canada asks to go, she will go. So\nwith Australia. It may be safely predicted that England will never fight\nagain to hold the sovereignty of her new-world possessions against their\npresent occupants. And, in the judgment of many good observers, a\ndissolution of the empire, so far as the Western colonies are concerned,\nis inevitable, unless Great Britain, adopting the plan urged by Franklin,\nbecomes an imperial federation, with parliaments distinct and\nindependent, the crown the only bond of union--the crown, and not the\nEnglish parliament, being the titular and actual sovereign. Sovereign\npower over America in the parliament Franklin never would admit. His idea\nwas that all the inhabitants of the empire must be citizens, not some of\nthem subjects ruled by the home citizens. The two great political parties\nof England are really formed on lines constructed after the passage of\nthe Reform Bill of 1832. The Tories had been long in power. They had made\nmany changes and popular concessions, but they resisted parliamentary\nreform. The great Whig lords, who had tried to govern England without the\npeople and in opposition to the crown in the days of George III., had\nlearned to seek popular support. The Reform Bill, which was ultimately\nforced through by popular pressure and threat of civil war, abolished the\nrotten boroughs, gave representation to the large manufacturing towns and\nincreased representation to the counties, and the suffrage to all men who\nhad 'paid ten pounds a year rent in boroughs, or in the counties owned\nland worth ten pounds a year or paid fifty pounds rent. The immediate\nresult of this was to put power into the hands of the middle classes and\nto give the lower classes high hopes, so that, in 1839, the Chartist\nmovement began, one demand of which was universal suffrage. The old party\nnames of Whig and Tory had been dropped and the two parties had assumed\ntheir present appellations of Conservatives and Liberals. Both parties\nhad, however, learned that there was no rest for any ruling party except\na popular basis, and the Conservative party had the good sense to\nstrengthen itself in 1867 by carrying through Mr. Disraeli's bill, which\ngave the franchise in boroughs to all householders paying rates, and in\ncounties to all occupiers of property rated at fifteen pounds a year.\nThis broadening of the suffrage places the power irrevocably in the hands\nof the people, against whose judgment neither crown nor ministry can\nventure on any important step.\n\nIn general terms it may be said that of these two great parties the\nConservative wishes to preserve existing institutions, and latterly has\nleaned to the prerogatives of the crown, and the Liberal is inclined to\nprogress and reform, and to respond to changes demanded by the people.\nBoth parties, however, like parties elsewhere, propose and oppose\nmeasures and movements, and accept or reject policies, simply to get\noffice or keep office. The Conservative party of late years, principally\nbecause it has the simple task of holding back, has been better able to\ndefine its lines and preserve a compact organization. The Liberals, with\na multitude of reformatory projects, have, of course, a less homogeneous\norganization, and for some years have been without well-defined issues.\nThe Conservative aristocracy seemed to form a secure alliance with the\nfarmers and the great agricultural interests, and at the same time to\nhave a strong hold upon the lower classes. In what his opponents called\nhis  policy of adventure,  Lord Beaconsfield had the support of the lower\npopulace. The Liberal party is an incongruous host. On one wing are the\nWhig lords and great landowners, who cannot be expected to take kindly to\na land reform that would reform them out of territorial power; and on the\nother wing are the Radicals, who would abolish the present land system\nand the crown itself, and institute the rule of a democracy. Between\nthese two is the great body of the middle class, a considerable portion\nof the educated and university trained, the majorities of the\nmanufacturing towns, and perhaps, we may say, generally the\nNonconformists. There are some curious analogies in these two parties to\nour own parties before the war. It is, perhaps, not fanciful to suppose\nthat the Conservative lords resemble our own aristocratic leaders of\ndemocracy, who contrived to keep near the people and had affiliations\nthat secured them the vote of the least educated portion of the voters;\nwhile the great Liberal lords are not unlike our old aristocratic Whigs,\nof the cotton order, who have either little sympathy with the people or\nlittle faculty of showing it. It is a curious fact that during our civil\nwar respect for authority gained us as much sympathy from the\nConservatives, as love for freedom (hampered by the greed of trade and\nrivalry in manufactures) gained us from the Liberals.\n\nTo return to the question of empire. The bulk of the Conservative party\nwould hold the colonies if possible, and pursue an imperial policy; while\ncertainly a large portion of the Liberals--not all, by any means--would\nlet the colonies go, and, with the Manchester school, hope to hold\nEngland's place by free-trade and active competition. The imperial policy\nmay be said to have two branches, in regard to which parties will not\nsharply divide: one is the relations to be held towards the Western\ncolonies, and the other in the policy to be pursued in the East in\nreference to India and to the development of the Indian empire, and also\nthe policy of aggression and subjection in South Africa.\n\nAn imperial policy does not necessarily imply such vagaries as the\nforcible detention of the forcibly annexed Boer republic. But everybody\nsees that the time is near when England must say definitely as to the\nimperial policy generally whether it will pursue it or abandon it. And it\nmay be remarked in passing that the Gladstone government, thus far,\nthough pursuing this policy more moderately than the Beaconsfield\ngovernment, shows no intention of abandoning it. Almost everybody admits\nthat if it is abandoned England must sink to the position of a third-rate\npower like Holland. For what does abandonment mean? It means to have no\nweight, except that of moral example, in Continental affairs: to\nrelinquish her advantages in the Mediterranean; to let Turkey be absorbed\nby Russia; to become so weak in India as to risk rebellion of all the\nprovinces, and probable attack from Russia and her Central Asian allies.\nBut this is not all. Lost control in Asia is lost trade; this is evident\nin every foot of control Russia has gained in the Caucasus, about the\nCaspian Sea, in Persia. There Russian manufactures supplant the English;\nand so in another quarter: in order to enjoy the vast opening trade of\nAfrica, England must be on hand with an exhibition of power. We might\nshow by a hundred examples that the imperial idea in England does not\nrest on pride alone, on national glory altogether, though that is a large\nelement in it, but on trade instincts.  Trade follows the flag  is a\nwell-known motto; and that means that the lines of commerce follow the\nlimits of empire.\n\nTake India as an illustration. Why should England care to keep India? In\nthe last forty years the total revenue from India, set down up to 1880 as\nL 1,517,000,000, has been L 53,000,000 less than the expenditure. It\nvaries with the years, and occasionally the balance is favorable, as in\n1879, when the expenditure was L 63,400,000 and the revenue was L\n64,400,000. But to offset this average deficit the very profitable trade\nof India, which is mostly in British hands, swells the national wealth;\nand this trade would not be so largely in British hands if the flag were\naway.\n\nBut this is not the only value of India. Grasp on India is part of the\nvast Oriental network of English trade and commerce, the carrying trade,\nthe supply of cotton and iron goods. This largely depends upon English\nprestige in the Orient, and to lose India is to lose the grip. On\npractically the same string with India are Egypt, Central Africa, and the\nEuphrates valley. A vast empire of trade opens out. To sink the imperial\npolicy is to shut this vision. With Russia pressing on one side and\nAmerica competing on the other, England cannot afford to lose her\nmilitary lines, her control of the sea, her prestige.\n\nAgain, India offers to the young and the adventurous a career, military,\ncivil, or commercial. This is of great weight--great social weight. One\nof the chief wants of England today is careers and professions for her\nsons. The population of the United Kingdom in 1876 was estimated at near\nthirty-four millions; in the last few decades the decennial increase had\nbeen considerably over two millions; at that rate the population in 1900\nwould be near forty millions. How can they live in their narrow limits?\nThey must emigrate, go for good, or seek employment and means of wealth\nin some such vast field as India. Take away India now, and you cut off\nthe career of hundreds of thousands of young Englishmen, and the hope of\ntens of thousands of households.\n\nThere is another aspect of the case which it would be unfair to ignore.\nOpportunity is the measure of a nation's responsibility. I have no doubt\nthat Mr. Thomas Hughes spoke for a very respectable portion of Christian\nEngland, in 1861, when he wrote Mr. James Russell Lowell, in a prefatory\nnote to  Tom Brown at Oxford,  these words:\n\n    The great tasks of the world are only laid on the strongest\n   shoulders. We, who have India to guide and train, who have for our\n   task the educating of her wretched people into free men, who feel\n   that the work cannot be shifted from ourselves, and must be done as\n   God would have it done, at the peril of England's own life, can and\n   do feel for you. \n\nIt is safe, we think, to say that if the British Empire is to be\ndissolved, disintegration cannot be permitted to begin at home. Ireland\nhas always been a thorn in the side of England. And the policy towards it\ncould not have been much worse, either to impress it with a respect for\nauthority or to win it by conciliation; it has been a strange mixture of\nuntimely concession and untimely cruelty. The problem, in fact, has\nphysical and race elements that make it almost insolvable. A water-logged\ncountry, of which nothing can surely be predicted but the uncertainty of\nits harvests, inhabited by a people of most peculiar mental constitution,\nalien in race, temperament, and religion, having scarcely one point of\nsympathy with the English. But geography settles some things in this\nworld, and the act of union that bound Ireland to the United Kingdom in\n1800 was as much a necessity of the situation as the act of union that\nobliterated the boundary line between Scotland and England in 1707. The\nIrish parliament was confessedly a failure, and it is scarcely within the\npossibilities that the experiment will be tried again. Irish\nindependence, so far as English consent is concerned, and until England's\npower is utterly broken, is a dream. Great changes will doubtless be made\nin the tenure and transfer of land, and these changes will react upon\nEngland to the ultimate abasement of the landed aristocracy; but this\nequalization of conditions would work no consent to separation. The\nundeniable growth of the democratic spirit in England can no more be\nrelied on to bring it about, when we remember what renewed executive\nvigor and cohesion existed with the Commonwealth and the fiery foreign\npolicy of the first republic of France. For three years past we have seen\nthe British Empire in peril on all sides, with the addition of depression\nand incipient rebellion at home, but her horizon is not as dark as it was\nin 1780, when, with a failing cause in America, England had the whole of\nEurope against her.\n\nIn any estimate of the prospects of England we must take into account the\nrecent marked changes in the social condition. Mr. Escott has an\ninstructive chapter on this in his excellent book on England. He notices\nthat the English character is losing its insularity, is more accessible\nto foreign influences, and is adopting foreign, especially French, modes\nof living. Country life is losing its charm; domestic life is changed;\npeople live in  flats  more and more, and the idea of home is not what it\nwas; marriage is not exactly what it was; the increased free and\nindependent relations of the sexes are somewhat demoralizing; women are a\nlittle intoxicated with their newly-acquired freedom; social scandals are\nmore frequent. It should be said, however, that perhaps the present\nperils are due not to the new system, but to the fact that it is new;\nwhen the novelty is worn off the peril may cease.\n\nMr. Escott notices primogeniture as one of the stable and, curious\nenough, one of the democratic institutions of society. It is owing to\nprimogeniture that while there is a nobility in England there is no\nnoblesse. If titles and lands went to all the children there would be the\nmultitudinous noblesse of the Continent. Now, by primogeniture, enough is\nretained for a small nobility, but all the younger sons must go into the\nworld and make a living. The three respectable professions no longer\noffer sufficient inducement, and they crowd more and more into trade.\nThus the middle class is constantly recruited from the upper. Besides,\nthe upper is all the time recruited from the wealthy middle; the union of\naristocracy and plutocracy may be said to be complete. But merit makes\nits way continually from even the lower ranks upward, in the professions,\nin the army, the law, the church, in letters, in trade, and, what Mr.\nEscott does not mention, in the reformed civil service, newly opened to\nthe humblest lad in the land. Thus there is constant movement up and down\nin social England, approaching, except in the traditional nobility, the\nfreedom of movement in our own country. This is all wholesome and sound.\nEven the nobility itself, driven by ennui, or a loss of former political\ncontrol, or by the necessity of more money to support inherited estates,\ngoes into business, into journalism, writes books, enters the\nprofessions.\n\nWhat are the symptoms of decay in England? Unless the accumulation of\nwealth is a symptom of decay, I do not see many. I look at the people\nthemselves. It seems to me that never in their history were they more\nfull of vigor. See what travelers, explorers, adventurers they are. See\nwhat sportsmen, in every part of the globe, how much they endure, and how\nhale and jolly they are--women as well as men. The race, certainly, has\nnot decayed. And look at letters. It may be said that this is not the age\nof pure literature--and I'm sure I hope the English patent for producing\nmachine novels will not be infringed--but the English language was never\nbefore written so vigorously, so clearly, and to such purpose. And this\nis shown even in the excessive refinement and elaboration of trifles, the\nminutia of reflection, the keenness of analysis, the unrelenting pursuit\nof every social topic into subtleties untouched by the older essayists.\nAnd there is still more vigor, without affectation, in scientific\ninvestigation, in the daily conquests made in the realm of social\neconomy, the best methods of living and getting the most out of life. Art\nalso keeps pace with luxury, and shows abundant life and promise for the\nfuture.\n\nI believe, from these and other considerations, that this vigorous people\nwill find a way out of its present embarrassment, and a way out without\nretreating. For myself, I like to see the English sort of civilization\nspreading over the world rather than the Russian or the French. I hope\nEngland will hang on to the East, and not give it over to the havoc of\nsquabbling tribes, with a dozen religions and five hundred dialects, or\nto the military despotism of an empire whose morality is only matched by\nthe superstition of its religion.\n\nThe relations of England and the United States are naturally of the first\ninterest to us. Our love and our hatred have always been that of true\nrelatives. For three-quarters of a century our 'amour propre' was\nconstantly kept raw by the most supercilious patronage. During the past\ndecade, when the quality of England's regard has become more and more a\nmatter of indifference to us, we have been the subject of a more\nintelligent curiosity, of increased respect, accompanied with a sincere\ndesire to understand us. In the diplomatic scale Washington still ranks\nbelow the Sublime Porte, but this anomaly is due to tradition, and does\nnot represent England's real estimate of the status of the republic.\nThere is, and must be, a good deal of selfishness mingled in our\nfriendship--patriotism itself being a form of selfishness--but our ideas\nof civilization so nearly coincide, and we have so many common\naspirations for humanity that we must draw nearer together,\nnotwithstanding old grudges and present differences in social structure.\nOur intercourse is likely to be closer, our business relations will\nbecome more inseparable. I can conceive of nothing so lamentable for the\nprogress of the world as a quarrel between these two English-speaking\npeoples.\n\nBut, in one respect, we are likely to diverge. I refer to literature; in\nthat, assimilation is neither probable nor desirable. We were brought up\non the literature of England; our first efforts were imitations of it; we\nwere criticised--we criticised ourselves on its standards. We compared\nevery new aspirant in letters to some English writer. We were patted on\nthe back if we resembled the English models; we were stared at or sneered\nat if we did not. When we began to produce something that was the product\nof our own soil and our own social conditions, it was still judged by the\nold standards, or, if it was too original for that, it was only accepted\nbecause it was curious or bizarre, interesting for its oddity. The\ncriticism that we received for our best was evidently founded on such\nindifference or toleration that it was galling. At first we were\nsurprised; then we were grieved; then we were indignant. We have long ago\nceased to be either surprised, grieved, or indignant at anything the\nEnglish critics say of us. We have recovered our balance. We know that\nsince Gulliver there has been no piece of original humor produced in\nEngland equal to  Knickerbocker's New York ; that not in this century has\nany English writer equaled the wit and satire of the  Biglow Papers.  We\nused to be irritated at what we called the snobbishness of English\ncritics of a certain school; we are so no longer, for we see that its\ncriticism is only the result of ignorance--simply of inability to\nunderstand.\n\nAnd we the more readily pardon it, because of the inability we have to\nunderstand English conditions, and the English dialect, which has more\nand more diverged from the language as it was at the time of the\nseparation. We have so constantly read English literature, and kept\nourselves so well informed of their social life, as it is exhibited in\nnovels and essays, that we are not so much in the dark with regard to\nthem as they are with regard to us; still we are more and more bothered\nby the insular dialect. I do not propose to criticise it; it is our\nmisfortune, perhaps our fault, that we do not understand it; and I only\nrefer to it to say that we should not be too hard on the Saturday Review\ncritic when he is complaining of the American dialect in the English that\nMr. Howells writes. How can the Englishman be expected to come into\nsympathy with the fiction that has New England for its subject--from\nHawthorne's down to that of our present novelists--when he is ignorant of\nthe whole background on which it is cast; when all the social conditions\nare an enigma to him; when, if he has, historically, some conception of\nPuritan society, he cannot have a glimmer of comprehension of the subtle\nmodifications and changes it has undergone in a century? When he visits\nAmerica and sees it, it is a puzzle to him. How, then, can he be expected\nto comprehend it when it is depicted to the life in books?\n\nNo, we must expect a continual divergence in our literatures. And it is\nbest that there should be. There can be no development of a nation's\nliterature worth anything that is not on its own lines, out of its own\nnative materials. We must not expect that the English will understand\nthat literature that expresses our national life, character, conditions,\nany better than they understand that of the French or of the Germans.\nAnd, on our part, the day has come when we receive their literary efforts\nwith the same respectful desire to be pleased with them that we have to\nlike their dress and their speech.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NOVEL AND THE COMMON SCHOOL\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nThere has been a great improvement in the physical condition of the\npeople of the United States within two generations. This is more\nnoticeable in the West than in the East, but it is marked everywhere; and\nthe foreign traveler who once detected a race deterioration, which he\nattributed to a dry and stimulating atmosphere and to a feverish anxiety,\nwhich was evident in all classes, for a rapid change of condition, finds\nvery little now to sustain his theory. Although the restless energy\ncontinues, the mixed race in America has certainly changed physically for\nthe better. Speaking generally, the contours of face and form are more\nrounded. The change is most marked in regions once noted for leanness,\nangularity, and sallowness of complexion, but throughout the country the\ntypes of physical manhood are more numerous; and if women of rare and\nexceptional beauty are not more numerous, no doubt the average of\ncomeliness and beauty has been raised. Thus far, the increase of beauty\ndue to better development has not been at the expense of delicacy of\ncomplexion and of line, as it has been in some European countries.\nPhysical well-being is almost entirely a matter of nutrition. Something\nis due in our case to the accumulation of money, to the decrease in an\nincreasing number of our population of the daily anxiety about food and\nclothes, to more leisure; but abundant and better-prepared food is the\ndirect agency in our physical change. Good food is not only more abundant\nand more widely distributed than it was two generations ago, but it is to\nbe had in immeasurably greater variety. No other people existing, or that\never did exist, could command such a variety of edible products for daily\nconsumption as the mass of the American people habitually use today. In\nconsequence they have the opportunity of being better nourished than any\nother people ever were. If they are not better nourished, it is because\ntheir food is badly prepared. Whenever we find, either in New England or\nin the South, a community ill-favored, dyspeptic, lean, and faded in\ncomplexion, we may be perfectly sure that its cooking is bad, and that it\nis too ignorant of the laws of health to procure that variety of food\nwhich is so easily obtainable. People who still diet on sodden pie and\nthe products of the frying-pan of the pioneer, and then, in order to\npromote digestion, attempt to imitate the patient cow by masticating some\nelastic and fragrant gum, are doing very little to bring in that\nuniversal physical health or beauty which is the natural heritage of our\nopportunity.\n\nNow, what is the relation of our intellectual development to this\nphysical improvement? It will be said that the general intelligence is\nraised, that the habit of reading is much more widespread, and that the\nincrease of books, periodicals, and newspapers shows a greater mental\nactivity than existed formerly. It will also be said that the opportunity\nfor education was never before so nearly universal. If it is not yet true\neverywhere that all children must go to school, it is true that all may\ngo to school free of cost. Without doubt, also, great advance has been\nmade in American scholarship, in specialized learning and investigation;\nthat is to say, the proportion of scholars of the first rank in\nliterature and in science is much larger to the population than a\ngeneration ago.\n\nBut what is the relation of our general intellectual life to popular\neducation? Or, in other words, what effect is popular education having\nupon the general intellectual habit and taste? There are two ways of\ntesting this. One is by observing whether the mass of minds is better\ntrained and disciplined than formerly, less liable to delusions, better\nable to detect fallacies, more logical, and less likely to be led away by\nnovelties in speculation, or by theories that are unsupported by historic\nevidence or that are contradicted by a knowledge of human nature. If we\nwere tempted to pursue this test, we should be forced to note the seeming\nanomaly of a scientific age peculiarly credulous; the ease with which any\ncharlatan finds followers; the common readiness to fall in with any\ntheory of progress which appeals to the sympathies, and to accept the\nwildest notions of social reorganization. We should be obliged to note\nalso, among scientific men themselves, a disposition to come to\nconclusions on inadequate evidence--a disposition usually due to\none-sided education which lacks metaphysical training and the philosophic\nhabit. Multitudes of fairly intelligent people are afloat without any\nbase-line of thought to which they can refer new suggestions; just as\nmany politicians are floundering about for want of an apprehension of the\nConstitution of the United States and of the historic development of\nsociety. An honest acceptance of the law of gravitation would banish many\npopular delusions; a comprehension that something cannot be made out of\nnothing would dispose of others; and the application of the ordinary\nprinciples of evidence, such as men require to establish a title to\nproperty, would end most of the remaining. How far is our popular\neducation, which we have now enjoyed for two full generations,\nresponsible for this state of mind? If it has not encouraged it, has it\ndone much to correct it?\n\nThe other test of popular education is in the kind of reading sought and\nenjoyed by the majority of the American people. As the greater part of\nthis reading is admitted to be fiction, we have before us the relation of\nthe novel to the common school. As the common school is our universal\nmethod of education, and the novels most in demand are those least worthy\nto be read, we may consider this subject in two aspects: the\nencouragement, by neglect or by teaching, of the taste that demands this\nkind of fiction, and the tendency of the novel to become what this taste\ndemands.\n\nBefore considering the common school, however, we have to notice a\nphenomenon in letters--namely, the evolution of the modern newspaper as a\nvehicle for general reading-matter. Not content with giving the news, or\neven with creating news and increasing its sensational character, it\ngrasps at the wider field of supplying reading material for the million,\nusurping the place of books and to a large extent of periodicals. The\neffect of this new departure in journalism is beginning to attract\nattention. An increasing number of people read nothing except the\nnewspapers. Consequently, they get little except scraps and bits; no\nsubject is considered thoroughly or exhaustively; and they are furnished\nwith not much more than the small change for superficial conversation.\nThe habit of excessive newspaper reading, in which a great variety of\ntopics is inadequately treated, has a curious effect on the mind. It\nbecomes demoralized, gradually loses the power of concentration or of\ncontinuous thought, and even loses the inclination to read the long\narticles which the newspaper prints. The eye catches a thousand things,\nbut is detained by no one. Variety, which in limitations is wholesome in\nliterary as well as in physical diet, creates dyspepsia when it is\nexcessive, and when the literary viands are badly cooked and badly served\nthe evil is increased. The mind loses the power of discrimination, the\ntaste is lowered, and the appetite becomes diseased. The effect of this\nscrappy, desultory reading is bad enough when the hashed compound\nselected is tolerably good. It becomes a very serious matter when the\nreading itself is vapid, frivolous, or bad. The responsibility of\nselecting the mental food for millions of people is serious. When, in the\nlast century, in England, the Society for the Diffusion of Useful\nInformation, which accomplished so much good, was organized, this\nresponsibility was felt, and competent hands prepared the popular books\nand pamphlets that were cheap in price and widely diffused. Now, it\nhappens that a hundred thousand people, perhaps a million in some cases,\nsurrender the right of the all-important selection of the food for their\nminds to some unknown and irresponsible person whose business it is to\nchoose the miscellaneous reading-matter for a particular newspaper. His\nor her taste may be good, or it may be immature and vicious; it may be\nused simply to create a sensation; and yet the million of readers get\nnothing except what this one person chooses they shall read. It is an\nastonishing abdication of individual preference. Day after day, Sunday\nafter Sunday, they read only what this unknown person selects for them.\nInstead of going to the library and cultivating their own tastes, and\npursuing some subject that will increase their mental vigor and add to\ntheir permanent stock of thought, they fritter away their time upon a\nhash of literature chopped up for them by a person possibly very unfit\neven to make good hash. The mere statement of this surrender of one's\njudgment of what shall be his intellectual life is alarming.\n\nBut the modern newspaper is no doubt a natural evolution in our social\nlife. As everything has a cause, it would be worth while to inquire\nwhether the encyclopaedic newspaper is in response to a demand, to a\ntaste created by our common schools. Or, to put the question in another\nform, does the system of education in our common schools give the pupils\na taste for good literature or much power of discrimination? Do they come\nout of school with the habit of continuous reading, of reading books, or\nonly of picking up scraps in the newspapers, as they might snatch a hasty\nmeal at a lunch-counter? What, in short, do the schools contribute to the\ncreation of a taste for good literature?\n\nGreat anxiety is felt in many quarters about the modern novel. It is\nfeared that it will not be realistic enough, that it will be too\nrealistic, that it will be insincere as to the common aspects of life,\nthat it will not sufficiently idealize life to keep itself within the\nlimits of true art. But while the critics are busy saying what the novel\nshould be, and attacking or defending the fiction of the previous age,\nthe novel obeys pretty well the laws of its era, and in many ways,\nespecially in the variety of its development, represents the time.\nRegarded simply as a work of art, it may be said that the novel should be\nan expression of the genius of its writer conscientiously applied to a\nstudy of the facts of life and of human nature, with little reference to\nthe audience. Perhaps the great works of art that have endured have been\nso composed. We may say, for example, that  Don Quixote  had to create\nits sympathetic audience. But, on the other hand, works of art worthy the\nname are sometimes produced to suit a demand and to please a taste\nalready created. A great deal of what passes for literature in these days\nis in this category of supply to suit the demand, and perhaps it can be\nsaid of this generation more fitly than of any other that the novel seeks\nto hit the popular taste; having become a means of livelihood, it must\nsell in order to be profitable to the producer, and in order to sell it\nmust be what the reading public want. The demand and sale are widely\ntaken as the criterion of excellence, or they are at least sufficient\nencouragement of further work on the line of the success. This criterion\nis accepted by the publisher, whose business it is to supply a demand.\nThe conscientious publisher asks two questions: Is the book good? and\nWill it sell? The publisher without a conscience asks only one question:\nWill the book sell? The reflex influence of this upon authors is\nimmediately felt.\n\nThe novel, mediocre, banal, merely sensational, and worthless for any\npurpose of intellectual stimulus or elevation of the ideal, is thus\nencouraged in this age as it never was before. The making of novels has\nbecome a process of manufacture. Usually, after the fashion of the\nsilk-weavers of Lyons, they are made for the central establishment on\nindividual looms at home; but if demand for the sort of goods furnished\nat present continues, there is no reason why they should not be produced,\neven more cheaply than they are now, in great factories, where there can\nbe division of labor and economy of talent. The shoal of English novels\nconscientiously reviewed every seventh day in the London weeklies would\npreserve their present character and gain in firmness of texture if they\nwere made by machinery. One has only to mark what sort of novels reach\nthe largest sale and are most called for in the circulating libraries, to\ngauge pretty accurately the public taste, and to measure the influence of\nthis taste upon modern production. With the exception of the novel now\nand then which touches some religious problem or some socialistic\nspeculation or uneasiness, or is a special freak of sensationalism, the\nnovels which suit the greatest number of readers are those which move in\na plane of absolute mediocrity, and have the slightest claim to be\nconsidered works of art. They represent the chromo stage of development.\n\nThey must be cheap. The almost universal habit of reading is a mark of\nthis age--nowhere else so conspicuous as in America; and considering the\ntraining of this comparatively new reading public, it is natural that it\nshould insist upon cheapness of material, and that it should require\nquality less than quantity. It is a note of our general intellectual\ndevelopment that cheapness in literature is almost as much insisted on by\nthe rich as by the poor. The taste for a good book has not kept pace with\nthe taste for a good dinner, and multitudes who have commendable judgment\nabout the table would think it a piece of extravagance to pay as much for\na book as for a dinner, and would be ashamed to smoke a cigar that cost\nless than a novel. Indeed, we seem to be as yet far away from the\nappreciation of the truth that what we put into the mind is as important\nto our well-being as what we put into the stomach.\n\nNo doubt there are more people capable of appreciating a good book, and\nthere are more good books read, in this age, than in any previous, though\nthe ratio of good judges to the number who read is less; but we are\nconsidering the vast mass of the reading public and its tastes. I say its\ntastes, and probably this is not unfair, although this traveling,\nrestless, reading public meekly takes, as in the case of the reading\nselected in the newspapers, what is most persistently thrust upon its\nattention by the great news agencies, which find it most profitable to\ndeal in that which is cheap and ephemeral. The houses which publish books\nof merit are at a disadvantage with the distributing agencies.\n\nCriticism which condemns the common-school system as a nurse of\nsuperficiality, mediocrity, and conceit does not need serious attention,\nany more than does the criticism that the universal opportunity of\nindividual welfare offered by a republic fails to make a perfect\ngovernment. But this is not saying that the common school does all that\nit can do, and that its results answer to the theories about it. It must\nbe partly due to the want of proper training in the public schools that\nthere are so few readers of discrimination, and that the general taste,\njudged by the sort of books now read, is so mediocre. Most of the public\nschools teach reading, or have taught it, so poorly that the scholars who\ncome from them cannot read easily; hence they must have spice, and blood,\nand vice to stimulate them, just as a man who has lost taste peppers his\nfood. We need not agree with those who say that there is no merit\nwhatever in the mere ability to read; nor, on the other hand, can we join\nthose who say that the art of reading will pretty surely encourage a\ntaste for the nobler kind of reading, and that the habit of reading trash\nwill by-and-by lead the reader to better things. As a matter of\nexperience, the reader of the namby-pamby does not acquire an appetite\nfor anything more virile, and the reader of the sensational requires\nconstantly more highly flavored viands. Nor is it reasonable to expect\ngood taste to be recovered by an indulgence in bad taste.\n\nWhat, then, does the common school usually do for literary taste?\nGenerally there is no thought about it. It is not in the minds of the\nmajority of teachers, even if they possess it themselves. The business is\nto teach the pupils to read; how they shall use the art of reading is\nlittle considered. If we examine the reading-books from the lowest grade\nto the highest, we shall find that their object is to teach words, not\nliterature. The lower-grade books are commonly inane (I will not say\nchildish, for that is a libel on the open minds of children) beyond\ndescription. There is an impression that advanced readers have improved\nmuch in quality within a few years, and doubtless some of them do contain\nspecimens of better literature than their predecessors. But they are on\nthe old plan, which must be radically modified or entirely cast aside,\nand doubtless will be when the new method is comprehended, and teachers\nare well enough furnished to cut loose from the machine. We may say that\nto learn how to read, and not what to read, is confessedly the object of\nthese books; but even this object is not attained. There is an endeavor\nto teach how to call the words of a reading-book, but not to teach how to\nread; for reading involves, certainly for the older scholars, the\ncombination of known words to form new ideas. This is lacking. The taste\nfor good literature is not developed; the habit of continuous pursuit of\na subject, with comprehension of its relations, is not acquired; and no\nconception is gained of the entirety of literature or its importance to\nhuman life. Consequently, there is no power of judgment or faculty of\ndiscrimination.\n\nNow, this radical defect can be easily remedied if the school authorities\nonly clearly apprehend one truth, and that is that the minds of children\nof tender age can be as readily interested and permanently interested in\ngood literature as in the dreary feebleness of the juvenile reader. The\nmind of the ordinary child should not be judged by the mind that produces\nstuff of this sort:  Little Jimmy had a little white pig.   Did the\nlittle pig know Jimmy?   Yes, the little pig knew Jimmy, and would come\nwhen he called.   How did little Jimmy know his pig from the other little\npigs?   By the twist in his tail.  ( Children,  asks the teacher,  what\nis the meaning of 'twist'? )  Jimmy liked to stride the little pig's\nback.   Would the little pig let him?   Yes, when he was absorbed eating\nhis dinner.  ( Children, what is the meaning of 'absorbed'? ) And so on.\n\nThis intellectual exercise is, perhaps, read to children who have not got\nfar enough in  word-building  to read themselves about little Jimmy and\nhis absorbed pig. It may be continued, together with word-learning, until\nthe children are able to say (is it reading?) the entire volume of this\nprecious stuff. To what end? The children are only languidly interested;\ntheir minds are not awakened; the imagination is not appealed to; they\nhave learned nothing, except probably some new words, which are learned\nas signs. Often children have only one book even of this sort, at which\nthey are kept until they learn it through by heart, and they have been\nheard to  read  it with the book bottom side up or shut! All these books\ncultivate inattention and intellectual vacancy. They are--the best of\nthem--only reading exercises; and reading is not perceived to have any\nsort of value. The child is not taught to think, and not a step is taken\nin informing him of his relation to the world about him. His education is\nnot begun.\n\nNow it happens that children go on with this sort of reading and the\nordinary text-books through the grades of the district school into the\nhigh school, and come to the ages of seventeen and eighteen without the\nleast conception of literature, or of art, or of the continuity of the\nrelations of history; are ignorant of the great names which illuminate\nthe ages; have never heard of Socrates, or of Phidias, or of Titian; do\nnot know whether Franklin was an Englishman or an American; would be\npuzzled to say whether it was Ben Franklin or Ben Jonson who invented\nlightning--think it was Ben Somebody; cannot tell whether they lived\nbefore or after Christ, and indeed never have thought that anything\nhappened before the time of Christ; do not know who was on the throne of\nSpain when Columbus discovered America--and so on. These are not imagined\ninstances. The children referred to are in good circumstances and have\nhad fairly intelligent associations, but their education has been\nintrusted to the schools. They know nothing except their text-books, and\nthey know these simply for the purpose of examination. Such pupils come\nto the age of eighteen with not only no taste for the best reading, for\nthe reading of books, but without the ability to be interested even in\nfiction of the first class, because it is full of allusions that convey\nnothing to their minds. The stories they read, if they read at all--the\nnovels, so called, that they have been brought up on--are the diluted and\nfeeble fictions that flood the country, and that scarcely rise above the\nintellectual level of Jimmy and the absorbed pig.\n\nIt has been demonstrated by experiment that it is as easy to begin with\ngood literature as with the sort of reading described. It makes little\ndifference where the beginning is made. Any good book, any real book, is\nan open door into the wide field of literature; that is to say, of\nhistory--that is to say, of interest in the entire human race. Read to\nchildren of tender years, the same day, the story of Jimmy and a Greek\nmyth, or an episode from the  Odyssey,  or any genuine bit of human\nnature and life; and ask the children next day which they wish to hear\nagain. Almost all of them will call for the repetition of the real thing,\nthe verity of which they recognize, and which has appealed to their\nimaginations. But this is not all. If the subject is a Greek myth, they\nspeedily come to comprehend its meaning, and by the aid of the teacher to\ntrace its development elsewhere, to understand its historic significance,\nto have the mind filled with images of beauty, and wonder. Is it the\nHomeric story of Nausicaa? What a picture! How speedily Greek history\nopens to the mind! How readily the children acquire knowledge of the\ngreat historic names, and see how their deeds and their thoughts are\nrelated to our deeds and our thoughts! It is as easy to know about\nSocrates as about Franklin and General Grant. Having the mind open to\nother times and to the significance of great men in history, how much\nmore clearly they comprehend Franklin and Grant and Lincoln! Nor is this\nall. The young mind is open to noble thoughts, to high conceptions; it\nfollows by association easily along the historic and literary line; and\nnot only do great names and fine pieces of literature become familiar,\nbut the meaning of the continual life in the world begins to be\napprehended. This is not at all a fancy sketch. The writer has seen the\nwhole assembly of pupils in a school of six hundred, of all the eight\ngrades, intelligently interested in a talk which contained classical and\nliterary allusions that would have been incomprehensible to an ordinary\nschool brought up on the ordinary readers and text-books.\n\nBut the reading need not be confined to the classics nor to the\nmaster-pieces of literature. Natural history--generally the most\nfascinating of subjects--can be taught; interest in flowers and trees and\nbirds and the habits of animals can be awakened by reading the essays of\nliterary men on these topics as they never can be by the dry text-books.\nThe point I wish to make is that real literature for the young,\nliterature which is almost absolutely neglected in the public schools,\nexcept in a scrappy way as a reading exercise, is the best open door to\nthe development of the mind and to knowledge of all sorts. The unfolding\nof a Greek myth leads directly to art, to love of beauty, to knowledge of\nhistory, to an understanding of ourselves. But whatever the beginning is,\nwhether a classic myth, a Homeric epic, a play of Sophocles, the story of\nthe life and death of Socrates, a mediaeval legend, or any genuine piece\nof literature from the time of Virgil down to our own, it may not so much\nmatter (except that it is better to begin with the ancients in order to\ngain a proper perspective) whatever the beginning is, it should be the\nbest literature. The best is not too good for the youngest child.\nSimplicity, which commonly characterizes greatness, is of course\nessential. But never was a greater mistake made than in thinking that a\nyouthful mind needs watering with the slops ordinarily fed to it. Even\nchildren in the kindergarten are eager for Whittier's  Barefoot Boy  and\nLongfellow's  Hiawatha.  It requires, I repeat, little more pains to\ncreate a good taste in reading than a bad taste.\n\nIt would seem that in the complete organization of the public schools all\neducation of the pupil is turned over to them as it was not formerly, and\nit is possible that in the stress of text-book education there is no time\nfor reading at home. The competent teachers contend not merely with the\ndifficulty of the lack of books and the deficiencies of those in use, but\nwith the more serious difficulty of the erroneous ideas of the function\nof text-books. They will cease to be a commercial commodity of so much\nvalue as now when teachers teach. If it is true that there is no time for\nreading at home, we can account for the deplorable lack of taste in the\ngreat mass of the reading public educated at the common schools; and we\ncan see exactly what the remedy should be--namely, the teaching of the\nliterature at the beginning of school life, and following it up broadly\nand intelligently during the whole school period. It will not crowd out\nanything else, because it underlies everything. After many years of\nperversion and neglect, to take up the study of literature in a\ncomprehensive text-book, as if it were to be learned--like arithmetic, is\na ludicrous proceeding. This, is not teaching literature nor giving the\nscholar a love of good reading. It is merely stuffing the mind with names\nand dates, which are not seen to have any relation to present life, and\nwhich speedily fade out of the mind. The love of literature is not to be\nattained in this way, nor in any way except by reading the best\nliterature.\n\nThe notion that literature can be taken up as a branch of education, and\nlearned at the proper time and when studies permit, is one of the most\nfarcical in our scheme of education. It is only matched in absurdity by\nthe other current idea, that literature is something separate and apart\nfrom general knowledge. Here is the whole body of accumulated thought and\nexperience of all the ages, which indeed forms our present life and\nexplains it, existing partly in tradition and training, but more largely\nin books; and most teachers think, and most pupils are led to believe,\nthat this most important former of the mind, maker of character, and\nguide to action can be acquired in a certain number of lessons out of a\ntextbook! Because this is so, young men and young women come up to\ncollege almost absolutely ignorant of the history of their race and of\nthe ideas that have made our civilization. Some of them have never read a\nbook, except the text-books on the specialties in which they have\nprepared themselves for examination. We have a saying concerning people\nwhose minds appear to be made up of dry, isolated facts, that they have\nno atmosphere. Well, literature is the atmosphere. In it we live, and\nmove, and have our being, intellectually. The first lesson read to, or\nread by, the child should begin to put him in relation with the world and\nthe thought of the world. This cannot be done except by the living\nteacher. No text-book, no one reading-book or series of reading-books,\nwill do it. If the teacher is only the text-book orally delivered, the\nteacher is an uninspired machine. We must revise our notions of the\nfunction of the teacher for the beginners. The teacher is to present\nevidence of truth, beauty, art. Where will he or she find it? Why, in\nexperimental science, if you please, in history, but, in short, in good\nliterature, using the word in its broadest sense. The object in selecting\nreading for children is to make it impossible for them to see any\nevidence except the best. That is the teacher's business, and how few\nunderstand their business! How few are educated! In the best literature\nwe find truth about the world, about human nature; and hence, if children\nread that, they read what their experience will verify. I am told that\npublishers are largely at fault for the quality of the reading used in\nschools--that schools would gladly receive the good literature if they\ncould get it. But I do not know, in this case, how much the demand has to\ndo with the supply. I am certain, however, that educated teachers would\nuse only the best means for forming the minds and enlightening the\nunderstanding of their pupils. It must be kept in mind that reading,\nsilent reading done by the scholar, is not learning signs and calling\nwords; it is getting thought. If children are to get thought, they should\nbe served with the best--that which will not only be true, but appeal so\nnaturally to their minds that they will prefer it to all meaner stuff. If\nit is true that children cannot acquire this taste at home--and it is\ntrue for the vast majority of American children--then it must be given in\nthe public schools. To give it is not to interrupt the acquisition of\nother knowledge; it is literally to open the door to all knowledge.\n\nWhen this truth is recognized in the common schools, and literature is\ngiven its proper place, not only for the development of the mind, but as\nthe most easily-opened door to history, art, science, general\nintelligence, we shall see the taste of the reading public in the United\nStates undergo a mighty change: It will not care for the fiction it likes\nat present, and which does little more than enfeeble its powers; and then\nthere can be no doubt that fiction will rise to supply the demand for\nsomething better. When the trash does not sell, the trash will not be\nproduced, and those who are only capable of supplying the present demand\nwill perhaps find a more useful occupation. It will be again evident that\nliterature is not a trade, but an art requiring peculiar powers and\npatient training. When people know how to read, authors will need to know\nhow to write.\n\nIn all other pursuits we carefully study the relation of supply to\ndemand. Why not in literature? Formerly, when readers were comparatively\nfew, and were of a class that had leisure and the opportunity of\ncultivating the taste, books were generally written for this class, and\naimed at its real or supposed capacities. If the age was coarse in speech\nor specially affected in manner, the books followed the lead given by the\ndemand; but, coarse or affected, they had the quality of art demanded by\nthe best existing cultivation. Naturally, when the art of reading is\nacquired by the great mass of the people, whose taste has not been\ncultivated, the supply for this increased demand will, more or less,\nfollow the level of its intelligence. After our civil war there was a\npatriotic desire to commemorate the heroic sacrifices of our soldiers in\nmonuments, and the deeds of our great captains in statues. This noble\ndesire was not usually accompanied by artistic discrimination, and the\nland is filled with monuments and statues which express the gratitude of\nthe people. The coming age may wish to replace them by images and\nstructures which will express gratitude and patriotism in a higher\nbecause more artistic form. In the matter of art the development is\ndistinctly reflex. The exhibition of works of genius will slowly instruct\nand elevate the popular taste, and in time the cultivated popular taste\nwill reject mediocrity and demand better things. Only a little while ago\nfew people in the United States knew how to draw, and only a few could\ntell good drawing from bad. To realize the change that has taken place,\nwe have only to recall the illustrations in books, magazines, and comic\nnewspapers of less than a quarter of a century ago. Foreign travel,\nforeign study, and the importation of works of art (still blindly\nrestricted by the American Congress) were the lessons that began to work\na change. Now, in all our large towns, and even in hundreds of villages,\nthere are well-established art schools; in the greater cities, unions and\nassociations, under the guidance of skillful artists, where five or six\nhundred young men and women are diligently, day and night, learning the\nrudiments of art. The result is already apparent. Excellent drawing is\nseen in illustrations for books and magazines, in the satirical and comic\npublications, even in the advertisements and theatrical posters. At our\npresent rate of progress, the drawings in all our amusing weeklies will\nsoon be as good as those in the 'Fliegende Blatter.' The change is\nmarvelous; and the popular taste has so improved that it would not be\nprofitable to go back to the ill-drawn illustrations of twenty years ago.\nBut as to fiction, even if the writers of it were all trained in it as an\nart, it is not so easy to lift the public taste to their artistic level.\nThe best supply in this case will only very slowly affect the quality of\nthe demand. When the poor novel sells vastly better than the good novel,\nthe poor will be produced to supply the demand, the general taste will be\nstill further lowered, and the power of discrimination fade out more and\nmore. What is true of the novel is true of all other literature. Taste\nfor it must be cultivated in childhood. The common schools must do for\nliterature what the art schools are doing for art. Not every one can\nbecome an artist, not every one can become a writer--though this is\ncontrary to general opinion; but knowledge to distinguish good drawing\nfrom bad can be acquired by most people, and there are probably few minds\nthat cannot, by right methods applied early, be led to prefer good\nliterature, and to have an enjoyment in it in proportion to its\nsincerity, naturalness, verity, and truth to life.\n\nIt is, perhaps, too much to say that all the American novel needs for its\ndevelopment is an audience, but it is safe to say that an audience would\ngreatly assist it. Evidence is on all sides of a fresh, new, wonderful\nartistic development in America in drawing, painting, sculpture, in\ninstrumental music and singing, and in literature. The promise of this is\nnot only in the climate, the free republican opportunity, the mixed races\nblending the traditions and aptitudes of so many civilizations, but it is\nin a certain temperament which we already recognize as American. It is an\nartistic tendency. This was first most noticeable in American women, to\nwhom the art of dress seemed to come by nature, and the art of being\nagreeable to be easily acquired.\n\nAlready writers have arisen who illustrate this artistic tendency in\nnovels, and especially in short stories. They have not appeared to owe\ntheir origin to any special literary centre; they have come forward in\nthe South, the West, the East. Their writings have to a great degree\n(considering our pupilage to the literature of Great Britain, which is\nprolonged by the lack of an international copyright) the stamp of\noriginality, of naturalness, of sincerity, of an attempt to give the\nfacts of life with a sense of their artistic value. Their affiliation is\nrather with the new literatures of France, of Russia, of Spain, than with\nthe modern fiction of England. They have to compete in the market with\nthe uncopyrighted literature of all other lands, good and bad, especially\nbad, which is sold for little more than the cost of the paper it is\nprinted on, and badly printed at that. But besides this fact, and owing\nto a public taste not cultivated or not corrected in the public schools,\ntheir books do not sell in anything like the quantity that the inferior,\nmediocre, other home novels sell. Indeed, but for the intervention of the\nmagazines, few of the best writers of novels and short stories could earn\nas much as the day laborer earns. In sixty millions of people, all of\nwhom are, or have been, in reach of the common school, it must be\nconfessed that their audience is small.\n\nThis relation between the fiction that is, and that which is to be, and\nthe common school is not fanciful. The lack in the general reading\npublic, in the novels read by the greater number of people, and in the\ncommon school is the same--the lack of inspiration and ideality. The\ncommon school does not cultivate the literary sense, the general public\nlacks literary discrimination, and the stories and tales either produced\nby or addressed to those who have little ideality simply respond to the\ndemand of the times.\n\nIt is already evident, both in positive and negative results, both in the\nschools and the general public taste, that literature cannot be set aside\nin the scheme of education; nay, that it is of the first importance. The\nteacher must be able to inspire the pupil; not only to awaken eagerness\nto know, but to kindle the imagination. The value of the Hindoo or the\nGreek myth, of the Roman story, of the mediaeval legend, of the heroic\nepic, of the lyric poem, of the classic biography, of any genuine piece\nof literature, ancient or modern, is not in the knowledge of it as we may\nknow the rules of grammar and arithmetic or the formulas of a science,\nbut in the enlargement of the mind to a conception of the life and\ndevelopment of the race, to a study of the motives of human action, to a\ncomprehension of history; so that the mind is not simply enriched, but\nbecomes discriminating, and able to estimate the value of events and\nopinions. This office for the mind acquaintance with literature can alone\nperform. So that, in school, literature is not only, as I have said, the\neasiest open door to all else desirable, the best literature is not only\nthe best means of awakening the young mind, the stimulus most congenial,\nbut it is the best foundation for broad and generous culture. Indeed,\nwithout its co-ordinating influence the education of the common school is\na thing of shreds and patches. Besides, the mind aroused to historic\nconsciousness, kindled in itself by the best that has been said and done\nin all ages, is more apt in the pursuit, intelligently, of any specialty;\nso that the shortest road to the practical education so much insisted on\nin these days begins in the awakening of the faculties in the manner\ndescribed. There is no doubt of the value of manual training as an aid in\ngiving definiteness, directness, exactness to the mind, but mere\ntechnical training alone will be barren of those results, in general\ndiscriminating culture, which we hope to see in America.\n\nThe common school is a machine of incalculable value. It is not, however,\nautomatic. If it is a mere machine, it will do little more to lift the\nnation than the mere ability to read will lift it. It can easily be made\nto inculcate a taste for good literature; it can be a powerful influence\nin teaching the American people what to read; and upon a broadened,\nelevated, discriminating public taste depends the fate of American art,\nof American fiction.\n\nIt is not an inappropriate corollary to be drawn from this that an\nelevated public taste will bring about a truer estimate of the value of a\ngenuine literary product. An invention which increases or cheapens the\nconveniences or comforts of life may be a fortune to its originator. A\nbook which amuses, or consoles, or inspires; which contributes to the\nhighest intellectual enjoyment of hundreds of thousands of people; which\nfurnishes substance for thought or for conversation; which dispels the\ncares and lightens the burdens of life; which is a friend when friends\nfail, a companion when other intercourse wearies or is impossible, for a\nyear, for a decade, for a generation perhaps, in a world which has a\nproper sense of values, will bring a like competence to its author.\n(1890.)\n\n\n\n\nTHE PEOPLE FOR WHOM SHAKESPEARE WROTE\n\nBy Charles Dudley Warner\n\nQueen Elizabeth being dead about ten o'clock in the morning, March 24,\n1603, Sir Robert Cary posted away, unsent, to King James of Scotland to\ninform him of the  accident,  and got made a baron of the realm for his\nride. On his way down to take possession of his new kingdom the king\ndistributed the honor of knighthood right and left liberally; at\nTheobald's he created eight-and-twenty knights, of whom Sir Richard\nBaker, afterwards the author of  A Chronicle of the Kings of England, \n was one.  God knows how many hundreds he made the first year,  says the\nchronicler,  but it was indeed fit to give vent to the passage of Honour,\nwhich during Queen Elizabeth's reign had been so stopped that scarce any\ncounty of England had knights enow to make a jury. \n\nSir Richard Baker was born in 1568, and died in 1645; his  Chronicle \n appeared in 1641. It was brought down to the death of James in 1625,\nwhen, he having written the introduction to the life of Charles I, the\nstorm of the season caused him to  break off in amazement,  for he had\nthought the race of  Stewards  likely to continue to the  world's end ;\nand he never resumed his pen. In the reign of James two things lost their\nlustre--the exercise of tilting, which Elizabeth made a special\nsolemnity, and the band of Yeomen of the Guard, choicest persons both for\nstature and other good parts, who graced the court of Elizabeth; James\n was so intentive to Realities that he little regarded shows,  and in his\ntime these came utterly to be neglected. The virgin queen was the last\nruler who seriously regarded the pomps and splendors of feudalism.\n\nIt was characteristic of the age that the death of James, which occurred\nin his fifty-ninth year, should have been by rumor attributed to\n poyson ; but  being dead, and his body opened, there was no sign at all\nof poyson, his inward parts being all sound, but that his Spleen was a\nlittle faulty, which might be cause enough to cast him into an Ague: the\nordinary high-way, especially in old bo'dies, to a natural death. \n\nThe chronicler records among the men of note of James's time Sir Francis\nVere,  who as another Hannibal, with his one eye, could see more in the\nMartial Discipline than common men can do with two ; Sir Edward Coke; Sir\nFrancis Bacon,  who besides his profounder book, of Novum Organum, hath\nwritten the reign of King Henry the Seventh, in so sweet a style, that\nlike Manna, it pleaseth the tast of all palats ; William Camden, whose\nDescription of Britain  seems to keep Queen Elizabeth alive after death ;\n and to speak it in a word, the Trojan Horse was not fuller of Heroick\nGrecians, than King James his Reign was full of men excellent in all\nkindes of Learning.  Among these was an old university acquaintance of\nBaker's,  Mr. John Dunne, who leaving Oxford, lived at the Innes of\nCourt, not dissolute, but very neat; a great Visitor of Ladies, a great\nfrequenter of Playes, a great writer of conceited Verses; until such\ntimes as King James taking notice of the pregnancy of his Wit, was a\nmeans that he betook him to the study of Divinity, and thereupon\nproceeding Doctor, was made Dean of Pauls; and became so rare a Preacher,\nthat he was not only commended, but even admired by all who heard him. \n\nThe times of Elizabeth and James were visited by some awful casualties\nand portents. From December, 1602, to the December following, the plague\ndestroyed 30,518 persons in London; the same disease that in the sixth\nyear of Elizabeth killed 20,500, and in the thirty-sixth year 17,890,\nbesides the lord mayor and three aldermen. In January, 1606, a mighty\nwhale came up the Thames within eight miles of London, whose body, seen\ndivers times above water, was judged to be longer than the largest ship\non the river;  but when she tasted the fresh water and scented the Land,\nshe returned into the sea.  Not so fortunate was a vast whale cast upon\nthe Isle of Thanet, in Kent, in 1575, which was  twenty Ells long, and\nthirteen foot broad from the belly to the backbone, and eleven foot\nbetween the eyes. One of his eyes being taken out of his head was more\nthan a cart with six horses could draw; the Oyl being boyled out of his\nhead was Parmacittee.  Nor the monstrous fish cast ashore in Lincolnshire\nin 1564, which measured six yards between the eyes and had a tail fifteen\nfeet broad;  twelve men stood upright in his mouth to get the Oyl.  In\n1612 a comet appeared, which in the opinion of Dr. Bainbridge, the great\nmathematician of Oxford, was as far above the moon as the moon is above\nthe earth, and the sequel of it was that infinite slaughters and\ndevastations followed it both in Germany and other countries. In 1613, in\nStandish, in Lancashire, a maiden child was born having four legs, four\narms, and one head with two faces--the one before, the other behind, like\nthe picture of Janus. (One thinks of the prodigies that presaged the\nbirth of Glendower.) Also, the same year, in Hampshire, a carpenter,\nlying in bed with his wife and a young child,  was himself and the childe\nboth burned to death with a sudden lightning, no fire appearing outwardly\nupon him, and yet lay burning for the space of almost three days till he\nwas quite consumed to ashes.  This year the Globe playhouse, on the\nBankside, was burned, and the year following the new playhouse, the\nFortune, in Golding Lane,  was by negligence of a candle, clean burned\ndown to the ground.  In this year also, 1614, the town of\nStratford-on-Avon was burned. One of the strangest events, however,\nhappened in the first year of Elizabeth (1558), when  dyed Sir Thomas\nCheney, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, of whom it is reported for a\ncertain, that his pulse did beat more than three quarters of an hour\nafter he was dead, as strongly as if he had been still alive.  In 1580 a\nstrange apparition happened in Somersetshire--three score personages all\nclothed in black, a furlong in distance from those that beheld them;  and\nafter their appearing, and a little while tarrying, they vanished away,\nbut immediately another strange company, in like manner, color, and\nnumber appeared in the same place, and they encountered one another and\nso vanished away. And the third time appeared that number again, all in\nbright armour, and encountered one another, and so vanished away. This\nwas examined before Sir George Norton, and sworn by four honest men that\nsaw it, to be true.  Equally well substantiated, probably, was what\nhappened in Herefordshire in 1571:  A field of three acres, in Blackmore,\nwith the Trees and Fences, moved from its place and passed over another\nfield, traveling in the highway that goeth to Herne, and there stayed. \n Herefordshire was a favorite place for this sort of exercise of nature.\nIn 1575 the little town of Kinnaston was visited by an earthquake:  On\nthe seventeenth of February at six o'clock of the evening, the earth\nbegan to open and a Hill with a Rock under it (making at first a great\nbellowing noise, which was heard a great way off) lifted itself up a\ngreat height, and began to travel, bearing along with it the Trees that\ngrew upon it, the Sheep-folds, and Flocks of Sheep abiding there at the\nsame time. In the place from whence it was first moved, it left a gaping\ndistance forty foot broad, and fourscore Ells long; the whole Field was\nabout twenty Acres. Passing along, it overthrew a Chappell standing in\nthe way, removed an Ewe-Tree planted in the Churchyard, from the West\ninto the East; with the like force it thrust before it High-wayes,\nSheep-folds, Hedges, and Trees, made Tilled ground Pasture, and again\nturned Pasture into Tillage. Having walked in this sort from Saturday in\nthe evening, till Monday noon, it then stood still.  It seems not\nimprobable that Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane.\n\nIt was for an age of faith, for a people whose credulity was fed on such\nprodigies and whose imagination glowed at such wonderful portents, that\nShakespeare wrote, weaving into the realities of sense those awful\nmysteries of the supernatural which hovered not far away from every\nEnglishman of his time.\n\nShakespeare was born in 1564, when Elizabeth had been six years on the\nthrone, and he died in 1616, nine years before James I., of the faulty\nspleen, was carried to the royal chapel in Westminster,  with great\nsolemnity, but with greater lamentation.  Old Baker, who says of himself\nthat he was the unworthiest of the knights made at Theobald's,\ncondescends to mention William Shakespeare at the tail end of the men of\nnote of Elizabeth's time. The ocean is not more boundless, he affirms,\nthan the number of men of note of her time; and after he has finished\nwith the statesmen ( an exquisite statesman for his own ends was Robert\nEarl of Leicester, and for his Countries good, Sir William Cecill, Lord\nBurleigh ), the seamen, the great commanders, the learned gentlemen and\nwriters (among them Roger Askam, who had sometime been schoolmaster to\nQueen Elizabeth, but, taking too great delight in gaming and\ncock-fighting, lived and died in mean estate), the learned divines and\npreachers, he concludes:  After such men, it might be thought ridiculous\nto speak of Stage-players; but seeing excellency in the meanest things\ndeserve remembring, and Roscius the Comedian is recorded in History with\nsuch commendation, it may be allowed us to do the like with some of our\nNation. Richard Bourbidge and Edward Allen, two such actors as no age\nmust ever look to see the like; and to make their Comedies compleat,\nRichard Tarleton, who for the Part called the Clowns Part, never had his\nmatch, never will have. For Writers of Playes, and such as have been\nplayers themselves, William Shakespeare and Benjamin Johnson have\nespecially left their Names recommended to posterity. \n\nRichard Bourbidge (or Burbadge) was the first of the great English tragic\nactors, and was the original of the greater number of Shakespeare's\nheroes--Hamlet, Othello, Lear, Shylock, Macbeth, Richard III., Romeo,\nBrutus, etc. Dick Tarleton, one of the privileged scapegraces of social\nlife, was regarded by his contemporaries as the most witty of clowns and\ncomedians. The clown was a permitted character in the old theatres, and\nintruded not only between the acts, but even into the play itself, with\nhis quips and antics. It is probable that he played the part of clown,\ngrave-digger, etc., in Shakespeare's comedies, and no doubt took\nliberties with his parts. It is thought that part of Hamlet's advice to\nthe players-- and let those that play your clowns speak no more than is\nset down for them,  etc.--was leveled at Tarleton.\n\nThe question is often asked, but I consider it an idle one, whether\nShakespeare was appreciated in his own day as he is now. That the age,\nwas unable to separate him from itself, and see his great stature, is\nprobable; that it enjoyed him with a sympathy to which we are strangers\nthere is no doubt. To us he is inexhaustible. The more we study him, the\nmore are we astonished at his multiform genius. In our complex\ncivilization, there is no development of passion, or character, or trait\nof human nature, no social evolution, that does not find expression\nsomewhere in those marvelous plays; and yet it is impossible for us to\nenter into a full, sympathetic enjoyment of those plays unless we can in\nsome measure recreate for ourselves the atmosphere in which they were\nwritten. To superficial observation great geniuses come into the world at\nrare intervals in history, in a manner independent of what we call the\nprogress of the race. It may be so; but the form the genius shall take is\nalways determined by the age in which it appears, and its expression is\nshaped by the environments. Acquaintance with the Bedouin desert life of\ntoday, which has changed little for three thousand years, illumines the\nbook of Job like an electric light. Modern research into Hellenic and\nAsiatic life has given a new meaning to the Iliad and the Odyssey, and\ngreatly enhanced our enjoyment of them. A fair comprehension of the\nDivina Commedia is impossible without some knowledge of the factions that\nrent Florence; of the wars of Guelf and Ghibelline; of the spirit that\nbanished Dante, and gave him an humble tomb in Ravenna instead of a\nsepulchre in the pantheon of Santa Croce. Shakespeare was a child of his\nage; it had long been preparing for him; its expression culminated in\nhim. It was essentially a dramatic age. He used the accumulated materials\nof centuries. He was playwright as well as poet. His variety and\nmultiform genius cannot otherwise be accounted for. He called in the\ncoinage of many generations, and reissued it purified and unalloyed,\nstamped in his own mint. There was a Hamlet probably, there were\ncertainly Romeos and Juliets, on the stage before Shakespeare. In him\nwere received the imaginations, the inventions, the aspirations, the\nsuperstitions, the humors, the supernatural intimations; in him met the\nconverging rays of the genius of his age, as in a lens, to be sent onward\nthenceforth in an ever-broadening stream of light.\n\nIt was his fortune to live not only in a dramatic age, but in a\ntransition age, when feudalism was passing away, but while its shows and\nsplendors could still be seriously comprehended. The dignity that doth\nhedge a king was so far abated that royalty could be put upon the stage\nas a player's spectacle; but the reality of kings and queens and court\npageantry was not so far past that it did not appeal powerfully to the\nimaginations of the frequenters of the Globe, the Rose, and the Fortune.\nThey had no such feeling as we have in regard to the pasteboard kings and\nqueens who strut their brief hour before us in anachronic absurdity. But,\nbesides that he wrote in the spirit of his age, Shakespeare wrote in the\nlanguage and the literary methods of his time. This is not more evident\nin the contemporary poets than in the chroniclers of that day. They all\ndelighted in ingenuities of phrase, in neat turns and conceits; it was a\ncompliment then to be called a  conceited  writer.\n\nOf all the guides to Shakespeare's time, there is none more profitable or\nentertaining than William Harrison, who wrote for Holinshed's chronicle\n The Description of England,  as it fell under his eyes from 1577 to\n1587. Harrison's England is an unfailing mine of information for all the\nhistorians of the sixteenth century; and in the edition published by the\nNew Shakespeare Society, and edited, with a wealth of notes and\ncontemporary references, by Mr. Frederick J. Furnivall, it is a new\nrevelation of Shakespeare's England to the general reader.\n\nHarrison himself is an interesting character, and trustworthy above the\ngeneral race of chroniclers. He was born in 1534, or, to use his\nexactness of statement,  upon the 18th of April, hora ii, minut 4,\nSecunde 56, at London, in Cordwainer streete, otherwise called\nbowe-lane.  This year was also remarkable as that in which  King Henry 8\npolleth his head; after whom his household and nobility, with the rest of\nhis subjects do the like.  It was the year before Anne Boleyn, haled away\nto the Tower, accused, condemned, and executed in the space of fourteen\ndays,  with sigheing teares  said to the rough Duke of Norfolk,  Hither I\ncame once my lord, to fetch a crown imperial; but now to receive, I hope,\na crown immortal.  In 1544, the boy was at St. Paul's school; the litany\nin the English tongue, by the king's command, was that year sung openly\nin St. Paul's, and we have a glimpse of Harrison with the other children,\nenforced to buy those books, walking in general procession, as was\nappointed, before the king went to Boulogne. Harrison was a student at\nboth Oxford and Cambridge, taking the degree of bachelor of divinity at\nthe latter in 1569, when he had been an Oxford M.A. of seven years'\nstanding. Before this he was household chaplain to Sir William Brooke,\nLord Cobham, who gave him, in 1588-89, the rectory of Radwinter, in\nEssex, which he held till his death, in 1593. In 1586 he was installed\ncanon of Windsor. Between 1559 and 1571 he married Marion Isebrande,--of\nwhom he said in his will, referring to the sometime supposed unlawfulness\nof priests' marriages,  by the laws of God I take and repute in all\nrespects for my true and lawful wife.  At Radwinter, the old parson,\nworking in his garden, collected Roman coins, wrote his chronicles, and\nexpressed his mind about the rascally lawyers of Essex, to whom flowed\nall the wealth of the land. The lawyers in those days stirred up\ncontentions, and then reaped the profits.  Of all that ever I knew in\nEssex,  says Harrison,  Denis and Mainford excelled, till John of Ludlow,\nalias Mason, came in place, unto whom in comparison these two were but\nchildren.  This last did so harry a client for four years that the\nlatter, still called upon for new fees,  went to bed, and within four\ndays made an end of his woeful life, even with care and pensiveness.  And\nafter his death the lawyer so handled his son  that there was never sheep\nshorn in May, so near clipped of his fleece present, as he was of many to\ncome.  The Welsh were the most litigious people. A Welshman would walk up\nto London bare-legged, carrying his hose on his neck, to save wear and\nbecause he had no change, importune his countrymen till he got half a\ndozen writs, with which he would return to molest his neighbors, though\nno one of his quarrels was worth the money he paid for a single writ.\n\nThe humblest mechanic of England today has comforts and conveniences\nwhich the richest nobles lacked in Harrison's day, but it was\nnevertheless an age of great luxury and extravagance; of brave apparel,\ncostly and showy beyond that of any Continental people, though wanting in\nrefined taste; and of mighty banquets, with service of massive plate,\ntroops of attendants, and a surfeit of rich food and strong drink.\n\nIn this luxury the clergy of Harrison's rank did not share. Harrison was\npoor on forty pounds a year. He complains that the clergy were taxed more\nthan ever, the church having become  an ass whereon every man is to ride\nto market and cast his wallet.  They paid tenths and first-fruits and\nsubsidies, so that out of twenty pounds of a benefice the incumbent did\nnot reserve more than L 13 6s. 8d. for himself and his family. They had\nto pay for both prince and laity, and both grumbled at and slandered\nthem. Harrison gives a good account of the higher clergy; he says the\nbishops were loved for their painful diligence in their calling, and that\nthe clergy of England were reputed on the Continent as learned divines,\nskillful in Greek and Hebrew and in the Latin tongue.\n\nThere was, however, a scarcity of preachers and ministers in Elizabeth's\ntime, and their character was not generally high. What could be expected\nwhen covetous patrons canceled their debts to their servants by bestowing\nadvowsons of benefices upon their bakers, butlers, cooks, grooms, pages,\nand lackeys--when even in the universities there was cheating at\nelections for scholarships and fellowships, and gifts were for sale! The\nmorals of the clergy were, however, improved by frequent conferences, at\nwhich the good were praised and the bad reproved; and these conferences\nwere  a notable spur unto all the ministers, whereby to apply their\nbooks, which otherwise (as in times past) would give themselves to\nhawking, hunting, tables, cards, dice, tipling at the ale house,\nshooting, and other like vanities.  The clergy held a social rank with\ntradespeople; their sons learned trades, and their daughters might go out\nto service. Jewell says many of them were the  basest sort of people \n unlearned, fiddlers, pipers, and what not.  Not a few,  says Harrison,\n find fault with our threadbare gowns, as if not our patrons but our\nwives were the causes of our woe.  He thinks the ministers will be better\nwhen the patrons are better, and he defends the right of the clergy to\nmarry and to leave their goods, if they have any, to their widows and\nchildren instead of to the church, or to some school or almshouse. What\nif their wives are fond, after the decease of their husbands, to bestow\nthemselves not so advisedly as their calling requireth; do not duchesses,\ncountesses, and knights' wives offend in the like fully so often as they?\nAnd Eve, remarks the old philosopher of Radwinter-- Eve will be Eve,\nthough Adam would say nay. \n\nThe apparel of the clergy, at any rate, was more comely and decent than\nit ever was in the popish church, when the priests  went either in divers\ncolors like players, or in garments of light hue, as yellow, red, green,\netc.; with their shoes piked, their hair crisped, their girdles armed\nwith silver; their shoes, spurs, bridles, etc., buckled with like metal;\ntheir apparel (for the most part) of silk, and richly furred; their caps\nlaced and buttoned with gold; so that to meet a priest, in those days,\nwas to behold a peacock that spreadeth his tail when he danceth before\nthe hen. \n\nHospitality among the clergy was never better used, and it was increased\nby their marriage; for the meat and drink were prepared more orderly and\nfrugally, the household was better looked to, and the poor oftener fed.\nThere was perhaps less feasting of the rich in bishops' houses, and  it\nis thought much peradventure, that some bishops in our time do come short\nof the ancient gluttony and prodigality of their predecessors;  but this\nis owing to the curtailing of their livings, and the excessive prices\nwhereunto things are grown.\n\nHarrison spoke his mind about dignitaries. He makes a passing reference\nto Thomas a Becket as  the old Cocke of Canturburie,  who did crow in\nbehalf of the see of Rome, and the  young cockerels of other sees did\nimitate his demeanour.  He is glad that images, shrines, and tabernacles\nare removed out of churches. The stories in glass windows remain only\nbecause of the cost of replacing them with white panes. He would like to\nstop the wakes, guilds, paternities, church-ales, and brides-ales, with\nall their rioting, and he thinks they could get on very well without the\nfeasts of apostles, evangelists, martyrs, the holy-days after Christmas,\nEaster, and Whitsuntide, and those of the Virgin Mary, with the rest.  It\nis a world to see,  he wrote of 1552,  how ready the Catholicks are to\ncast the communion tables out of their churches, which in derision they\ncall Oysterboards, and to set up altars whereon to say mass.  And he\ntells with sinful gravity this tale of a sacrilegious sow:  Upon the 23rd\nof August, the high altar of Christ Church in Oxford was trimly decked up\nafter the popish manner and about the middest of evensong, a sow cometh\ninto the quire, and pulled all to the ground; for which heinous fact, it\nis said she was afterwards beheaded; but to that I am not privy.  Think\nof the condition of Oxford when pigs went to mass! Four years after this\nthere was a sickness in England, of which a third part of the people did\ntaste, and many clergymen, who had prayed not to live after the death of\nQueen Mary, had their desire, the Lord hearing their prayer, says\nHarrison,  and intending thereby to give his church a breathing time. \n\nThere were four classes in England--gentlemen, citizens, yeomen, and\nartificers or laborers. Besides the nobles, any one can call himself a\ngentleman who can live without work and buy a coat of arms--though some\nof them  bear a bigger sail than his boat is able to sustain.  The\ncomplaint of sending abroad youth to be educated is an old one; Harrison\nsays the sons of gentlemen went into Italy, and brought nothing home but\nmere atheism, infidelity, vicious conversation, and ambitious, proud\nbehavior, and retained neither religion nor patriotism. Among citizens\nwere the merchants, of whom Harrison thought there were too many; for,\nlike the lawyers, they were no furtherance to the commonwealth, but\nraised the price of all commodities. In former, free-trade times, sugar\nwas sixpence a pound, now it is two shillings sixpence; raisins were one\npenny, and now sixpence. Not content with the old European trade, they\nhave sought out the East and West Indies, and likewise Cathay and\nTartary, whence they pretend, from their now and then suspicious voyages,\nthey bring home great commodities. But Harrison cannot see that prices\nare one whit abated by this enormity, and certainly they carry out of\nEngland the best of its wares.\n\nThe yeomen are the stable, free men, who for the most part stay in one\nplace, working the farms of gentlemen, are diligent, sometimes buy the\nland of unthrifty gentlemen, educate their sons to the schools and the\nlaw courts, and leave them money to live without labor. These are the men\nthat made France afraid. Below these are the laborers and men who work at\ntrades, who have no voice in the commonwealth, and crowds of young\nserving-men who become old beggars, highway-robbers, idle fellows, and\nspreaders of all vices. There was a complaint then, as now, that in many\ntrades men scamped their work, but, on the whole, husbandmen and\nartificers had never been so good; only there were too many of them, too\nmany handicrafts of which the country had no need. It appears to be a\nfault all along in history that there are too many of almost every sort\nof people.\n\nIn Harrison's time the greater part of the building in cities and towns\nwas of timber, only a few of the houses of the commonalty being of stone.\nIn an old plate giving a view of the north side of Cheapside, London, in\n1638, we see little but quaint gable ends and rows of small windows set\nclose together. The houses are of wood and plaster, each story\noverhanging the other, terminating in sharp pediments; the roofs\nprojecting on cantilevers, and the windows occupying the whole front of\neach of the lower stories. They presented a lively and gay appearance on\nholidays, when the pentices of the shop fronts were hung with colored\ndraperies, and the balconies were crowded with spectators, and every pane\nof glass showed a face. In the open country, where timber was scarce, the\nhouses were, between studs, impaneled with clay-red, white, or blue. One\nof the Spaniards who came over in the suite of Philip remarked the large\ndiet in these homely cottages:  These English,  quoth he,  have their\nhouses made of sticks and dirt, but they fare commonly so well as the\nking.   Whereby it appeareth,  comments Harrison,  that he liked better\nof our good fare in such coarse cabins, than of their own thin diet in\ntheir prince-like habitations and palaces.  The timber houses were\ncovered with tiles; the other sort with straw or reeds. The fairest\nhouses were ceiled within with mortar and covered with plaster, the\nwhiteness and evenness of which excited Harrison's admiration. The walls\nwere hung with tapestry, arras-work, or painted cloth, whereon were\ndivers histories, or herbs, or birds, or else ceiled with oak. Stoves had\njust begun to be used, and only in some houses of the gentry,  who build\nthem not to work and feed in, as in Germany and elsewhere, but now and\nthen to sweat in, as occasion and need shall require.  Glass in windows,\nwhich was then good and cheap, and made even in England, had generally\ntaken the place of the lattices and of the horn, and of the beryl which\nnoblemen formerly used in windows. Gentlemen were beginning to build\ntheir houses of brick and stone, in stately and magnificent fashion. The\nfurniture of the houses had also grown in a manner  passing delicacy, \n and not of the nobility and gentry only, but of the lowest sort. In\nnoblemen's houses there was abundance of arras, rich hangings of\ntapestry, and silver vessels, plate often to the value of one thousand\nand two thousand pounds. The knights, gentlemen, and merchants had great\nprovision of tapestry, Turkie work, pewter, brass, fine linen, and\ncupboards of plate worth perhaps a thousand pounds. Even the inferior\nartificers and many farmers had learned also to garnish their cupboards\nwith plate, their joined beds with silk hangings, and their tables with\nfine linen--evidences of wealth for which Harrison thanks God and\nreproaches no man, though he cannot see how it is brought about, when all\nthings are grown to such excessive prices.\n\nOld men of Radwinter noted three things marvelously altered in England\nwithin their remembrance. The first was the multitude of chimneys lately\nerected; whereas in their young days there were not, always except those\nin the religious and manor houses, above two or three chimneys in most\nupland towns of the realm; each one made his fire against a reredos in\nthe hall, where he dined and dressed his meat. The second was the\namendment in lodging. In their youth they lay upon hard straw pallets\ncovered only with a sheet, and mayhap a dogswain coverlet over them, and\na good round log for pillow. If in seven years after marriage a man could\nbuy a mattress and a sack of chaff to rest his head on, he thought\nhimself as well lodged as a lord. Pillows were thought meet only for sick\nwomen. As for servants, they were lucky if they had a sheet over them,\nfor there was nothing under them to keep the straw from pricking their\nhardened hides. The third notable thing was the exchange of treene\n(wooden) platters into pewter, and wooden spoons into silver or tin.\nWooden stuff was plenty, but a good farmer would not have above four\npieces of pewter in his house; with all his frugality, he was unable to\npay his rent of four pounds without selling a cow or horse. It was a time\nof idleness, and if a farmer at an alehouse, in a bravery to show what he\nhad, slapped down his purse with six shillings in it, all the rest\ntogether could not match it. But now, says Harrison, though the rent of\nfour pounds has improved to forty, the farmer has six or seven years'\nrent, lying by him, to purchase a new term, garnish his cupboard with\npewter, buy three or four feather-beds, coverlets, carpets of tapestry, a\nsilver salt, a nest of bowls for wine, and a dozen spoons. All these\nthings speak of the growing wealth and luxury of the age. Only a little\nbefore this date, in 1568, Lord Buckhurst, who had been ordered to\nentertain the Cardinal de Chatillon in Queen Elizabeth's palace at Sheen,\ncomplains of the meanness of the furniture of his rooms. He showed the\nofficers who preceded the cardinal such furniture and stuff as he had,\nbut it did not please them. They wanted plate, he had none; such glass\nvessels as he had they thought too base. They wanted damask for long\ntables, and he had only linen for a square table, and they refused his\nsquare table. He gave the cardinal his only unoccupied tester and\nbedstead, and assigned to the bishop the bedstead upon which his wife's\nwaiting-women did lie, and laid them on the ground. He lent the cardinal\nhis own basin and ewer, candlesticks from his own table,\ndrinking-glasses, small cushions, and pots for the kitchen. My Lord of\nLeicester sent down two pair of fine sheets for the cardinal and one pair\nfor the bishop.\n\nHarrison laments three things in his day: the enhancing of rents, the\ndaily oppression of poor tenants by the lords of manors, and the practice\nof usury--a trade brought in by the Jews, but now practiced by almost\nevery Christian, so that he is accounted a fool that doth lend his money\nfor nothing. He prays the reader to help him, in a lawful manner, to hang\nup all those that take cent. per cent. for money. Another grievance, and\nmost sorrowful of all, is that many gentlemen, men of good port and\ncountenance, to the injury of the farmers and commonalty, actually turn\nBraziers, butchers, tanners, sheep-masters, and woodmen. Harrison also\nnotes the absorption of lands by the rich; the decay of houses in the\ncountry, which comes of the eating up of the poor by the rich; the\nincrease of poverty; the difficulty a poor man had to live on an acre of\nground; his forced contentment with bread made of oats and barley, and\nthe divers places that formerly had good tenants and now were vacant,\nhop-yards and gardens.\n\nHarrison says it is not for him to describe the palaces of Queen\nElizabeth; he dare hardly peep in at her gates. Her houses are of brick\nand stone, neat and well situated, but in good masonry not to be compared\nto those of Henry VIII's building; they are rather curious to the eye,\nlike paper-works, than substantial for continuance. Her court is more\nmagnificent than any other in Europe, whether you regard the rich and\ninfinite furniture of the household, the number of officers, or the\nsumptuous entertainments. And the honest chronicler is so struck with\nadmiration of the virtuous beauty of the maids of honor that he cannot\ntell whether to award preeminence to their amiable countenances or to\ntheir costliness of attire, between which there is daily conflict and\ncontention. The courtiers of both sexes have the use of sundry languages\nand an excellent vein of writing. Would to God the rest of their lives\nand conversation corresponded with these gifts! But the courtiers, the\nmost learned, are the worst men when they come abroad that any man shall\nhear or read of. Many of the gentlewomen have sound knowledge of Greek\nand Latin, and are skillful in Spanish, Italian, and French; and the\nnoblemen even surpass them. The old ladies of the court avoid idleness by\nneedlework, spinning of silk, or continual reading of the Holy Scriptures\nor of histories, and writing diverse volumes of their own, or translating\nforeign works into English or Latin; and the young ladies, when they are\nnot waiting on her majesty,  in the mean time apply their lutes,\ncitherns, pricksong, and all kinds of music.  The elders are skillful in\nsurgery and the distillation of waters, and sundry other artificial\npractices pertaining to the ornature and commendation of their bodies;\nand when they are at home they go into the kitchen and supply a number of\ndelicate dishes of their own devising, mostly after Portuguese receipts;\nand they prepare bills of fare (a trick lately taken up) to give a brief\nrehearsal of all the dishes of every course. I do not know whether this\nwas called the  higher education of women  at the time.\n\nIn every office of the palaces is a Bible, or book of acts of the church,\nor chronicle, for the use of whoever comes in, so that the court looks\nmore like a university than a palace. Would to God the houses of the\nnobles were ruled like the queen's! The nobility are followed by great\ntroops of serving-men in showy liveries; and it is a goodly sight to see\nthem muster at court, which, being filled with them,  is made like to the\nshow of a peacock's tail in the full beauty, or of some meadow garnished\nwith infinite kinds and diversity of pleasant flowers.  Such was the\ndiscipline of Elizabeth's court that any man who struck another within it\nhad his right hand chopped off by the executioner in a most horrible\nmanner.\n\nThe English have always had a passion for gardens and orchards. In the\nRoman time grapes abounded and wine was plenty, but the culture\ndisappeared after the Conquest. From the time of Henry IV. to Henry VIII.\nvegetables were little used, but in Harrison's day the use of melons,\npompions, radishes, cucumbers, cabbages, turnips, and the like was\nrevived. They had beautiful flower-gardens annexed to the houses, wherein\nwere grown also rare and medicinal herbs; it was a wonder to see how many\nstrange herbs, plants, and fruits were daily brought from the Indies,\nAmerica and the Canaries. Every rich man had great store of flowers, and\nin one garden might be seen from three hundred to four hundred medicinal\nherbs. Men extol the foreign herbs to the neglect of the native, and\nespecially tobacco,  which is not found of so great efficacy as they\nwrite.  In the orchards were plums, apples, pears, walnuts, filberts; and\nin noblemen's orchards store of strange fruit-apricots, almonds, peaches,\nfigs, and even in some oranges, lemons, and capers. Grafters also were at\nwork with their artificial mixtures,  dallying, as it were, with nature\nand her course, as if her whole trade were perfectly known unto them: of\nhard fruits they will make soft, of sour sweet, of sweet yet more\ndelicate; bereaving also some of their kernels, others of their cores,\nand finally endowing them with the flavor of musk, amber, or sweet spices\nat their pleasure.  Gardeners turn annual into perpetual herbs, and such\npains are they at that they even used dish-water for plants. The Gardens\nof Hesperides are surely not equal to these. Pliny tells of a rose that\nhad sixty leaves on one bud, but in 1585 there was a rose in Antwerp that\nhad one hundred and eighty leaves; and Harrison might have had a slip of\nit for ten pounds, but he thought it a  tickle hazard.  In his own little\ngarden, of not above three hundred square feet, he had near three hundred\nsamples, and not one of them of the common, or usually to be had.\n\nOur kin beyond sea have always been stout eaters of solid food, and in\nElizabeth's time their tables were more plentifully laden than those of\nany other nation. Harrison scientifically accounts for their inordinate\nappetite.  The situation of our region,  he says,  lying near unto the\nnorth, does cause the heat of our stomachs to be of somewhat greater\nforce; therefore our bodies do crave a little more ample nourishment than\nthe inhabitants of the hotter regions are accustomed withal, whose\ndigestive force is not altogether so vehement, because their internal\nheat is not so strong as ours, which is kept in by the coldness of the\nair, that from time to time (specially in winter) doth environ our\nbodies.  The north Britons in old times were accustomed often to great\nabstinence, and lived when in the woods on roots and herbs. They used\nsometimes a confection,  whereof so much as a bean would qualify their\nhunger above common expectation ; but when they had nothing to qualify it\nwith, they crept into the marsh water up to their chins, and there\nremained a long time,  only to qualify the heat of their stomachs by\nviolence. \n\nIn Harrison's day the abstemious Welsh had learned to eat like the\nEnglish, and the Scotch exceeded the latter in  over much and\ndistemperate gormandize.  The English eat all they can buy, there being\nno restraint of any meat for religion's sake or for public order. The\nwhite meats--milk, butter, and cheese--though very dear, are reputed as\ngood for inferior people, but the more wealthy feed upon the flesh of all\nsorts of cattle and all kinds of fish. The nobility ( whose cooks are for\nthe most part musical-headed Frenchmen and strangers  ) exceed in number\nof dishes and change of meat. Every day at dinner there is beef, mutton,\nveal, lamb, kid, pork, conie, capon, pig, or as many of these as the\nseason yielded, besides deer and wildfowl, and fish, and sundry\ndelicacies  wherein the sweet hand of the seafaring Portingale is not\nwanting.  The food was brought in commonly in silver vessels at tables of\nthe degree of barons, bishops, and upwards, and referred first to the\nprincipal personage, from whom it passed to the lower end of the table,\nthe guests not eating of all, but choosing what each liked; and nobody\nstuffed himself. The dishes were then sent to the servants, and the\nremains of the feast went to the poor, who lay waiting at the gates in\ngreat numbers.\n\nDrink was served in pots, goblets, jugs, and bowls of silver in\nnoblemen's houses, and also in Venice glasses. It was not set upon the\ntable, but the cup was brought to each one who thirsted; he called for\nsuch a cup of drink as he wished, and delivered it again to one of the\nby-standers, who made it clean by pouring out what remained, and restored\nit to the sideboard. This device was to prevent great drinking, which\nmight ensue if the full pot stood always at the elbow. But this order was\nnot used in noblemen's halls, nor in any order under the degree of knight\nor squire of great revenue. It was a world to see how the nobles\npreferred to gold and silver, which abounded, the new Venice glass,\nwhence a great trade sprang up with Murano that made many rich. The\npoorest even would have glass, but home-made--a foolish expense, for the\nglass soon went to bits, and the pieces turned to no profit. Harrison\nwanted the philosopher's stone to mix with this molten glass and toughen\nit.\n\nThere were multitudes of dependents fed at the great houses, and\neverywhere, according to means, a wide-open hospitality was maintained.\nFroude gives a notion of the style of living in earlier times by citing\nthe details of a feast given when George Neville, brother of Warwick the\nking-maker, was made archbishop of York. There were present, including\nservants, thirty-five hundred persons. These are a few of the things used\nat the banquet: three hundred quarters of wheat, three hundred tuns of\nale, one hundred and four tuns of wine, eighty oxen, three thousand\ngeese, two thousand pigs,--four thousand conies, four thousand\nheronshaws, four thousand venison pasties cold and five hundred hot, four\nthousand cold tarts, four thousand cold custards, eight seals, four\nporpoises, and so on.\n\nThe merchants and gentlemen kept much the same tables as the nobles,\nespecially at feasts, but when alone were content with a few dishes. They\nalso desired the dearest food, and would have no meat from the butcher's\nbut the most delicate, while their list of fruits, cakes, Gates, and\noutlandish confections is as long as that at any modern banquet. Wine ran\nin excess. There were used fifty-six kinds of light wines, like the\nFrench, and thirty of the strong sorts, like the Italian and Eastern. The\nstronger the wine, the better it was liked. The strongest and best was in\nold times called theologicum, because it was had from the clergy and\nreligious men, to whose houses the laity sent their bottles to be filled,\nsure that the religious would neither drink nor be served with the worst;\nfor the merchant would have thought his soul should have gone straightway\nto the devil if he had sent them any but the best. The beer served at\nnoblemen's tables was commonly a year old, and sometimes two, but this\nage was not usual. In households generally it was not under a month old,\nfor beer was liked stale if it were not sour, while bread was desired as\nnew as possible so that it was not hot.\n\nThe husbandman and artificer ate such meat as they could easiest come by\nand have most quickly ready; yet the banquets of the trades in London\nwere not inferior to those of the nobility. The husbandmen, however,\nexceed in profusion, and it is incredible to tell what meat is consumed\nat bridals, purifications, and such like odd meetings; but each guest\nbrought his own provision, so that the master of the house had only to\nprovide bread, drink, houseroom, and fire. These lower classes Harrison\nfound very friendly at their tables--merry without malice, plain without\nItalian or French subtlety--so that it would do a man good to be in\ncompany among them; but if they happen to stumble upon a piece of venison\nor a cup of wine or very strong beer, they do not stick to compare\nthemselves with the lord-mayor--and there is no public man in any city of\nEurope that may compare with him in port and countenance during the term\nof his office.\n\nHarrison commends the great silence used at the tables of the wiser sort,\nand generally throughout the realm, and likewise the moderate eating and\ndrinking. But the poorer countrymen do babble somewhat at table, and\nmistake ribaldry and loquacity for wit and wisdom, and occasionally are\ncup-shotten; and what wonder, when they who have hard diet and small\ndrink at home come to such opportunities at a banquet! The wealthier sort\nin the country entertain their visitors from afar, however long they\nstay, with as hearty a welcome the last day as the first; and the\ncountrymen contrast this hospitality with that of their London cousins,\nwho joyfully receive them the first day, tolerate them the second, weary\nof them the third, and wish 'em at the devil after four days.\n\nThe gentry usually ate wheat bread, of which there were four kinds, and\nthe poor generally bread made of rye, barley, and even oats and acorns.\nCorn was getting so dear, owing to the forestallers and middlemen, that,\nsays the historian,  if the world last a while after this rate, wheat and\nrye will be no grain for poor men to feed on; and some catterpillers\n[two-legged speculators] there are that can say so much already. \n\nThe great drink of the realm was, of course, beer (and it is to be noted\nthat a great access of drunkenness came into England with the importation\nmuch later of Holland gin) made from barley, hops, and water, and upon\nthe brewing of it Harrison dwells lovingly, and devotes many pages to a\ndescription of the process, especially as  once in a month practiced by\nmy wife and her maid servants.  They ground eight bushels of malt, added\nhalf a bushel of wheat meal, half a bushel of oat meal, poured in eighty\ngallons of water, then eighty gallons more, and a third eighty gallons,\nand boiled with a couple of pounds of hops. This, with a few spices\nthrown in, made three hogsheads of good beer, meet for a poor man who had\nonly forty pounds a year. This two hundred gallons of beer cost\naltogether twenty shillings; but although he says his wife brewed it\n once in a month,  whether it lasted a whole month the parson does not\nsay. He was particular about the water used: the Thames is best, the\nmarsh worst, and clear spring water next worst;  the fattest standing\nwater is always the best.  Cider and perry were made in some parts of\nEngland, and a delicate sort of drink in Wales, called metheglin; but\nthere was a kind of  swish-swash  made in Essex from honey-combs and\nwater, called mead, which differed from the metheglin as chalk from\ncheese.\n\nIn Shakespeare's day much less time was spent in eating and drinking than\nformerly, when, besides breakfast in the forenoon and dinners, there were\n beverages  or  nuntion  after dinner, and supper before going to bed\n-- a toie brought in by hardie Canutus,  who was a gross feeder.\nGenerally there were, except for the young who could not fast till\ndinnertime, only two meals daily, dinner and supper. Yet the Normans had\nbrought in the habit of sitting long at the table--a custom not yet\naltogether abated, since the great people, especially at banquets, sit\ntill two or three o'clock in the afternoon; so that it is a hard matter\nto rise and go to evening prayers and return in time for supper.\n\nHarrison does not make much account of the early meal called  breakfast ;\nbut Froude says that in Elizabeth's time the common hour of rising, in\nthe country, was four o'clock, summer and winter, and that breakfast was\nat five, after which the laborers went to work and the gentlemen to\nbusiness. The Earl and Countess of Northumberland breakfasted together\nand alone at seven. The meal consisted of a quart of ale, a quart of\nwine, and a chine of beef; a loaf of bread is not mentioned, but we hope\n(says Froude) it may be presumed. The gentry dined at eleven and supped\nat five. The merchants took dinner at noon, and, in London, supped at\nsix. The university scholars out of term ate dinner at ten. The\nhusbandmen dined at high noon, and took supper at seven or eight. As for\nthe poorer sort, it is needless to talk of their order of repast, for\nthey dined and supped when they could. The English usually began meals\nwith the grossest food and ended with the most delicate, taking first the\nmild wines and ending with the hottest; but the prudent Scot did\notherwise, making his entrance with the best, so that he might leave the\nworse to the menials.\n\nI will close this portion of our sketch of English manners with an\nextract from the travels of Hentzner, who visited England in 1598, and\nsaw the great queen go in state to chapel at Greenwich, and afterwards\nwitnessed the laying of the table for her dinner. It was on Sunday. The\nqueen was then in her sixty-fifth year, and  very majestic,  as she\nwalked in the splendid procession of barons, earls, and knights of the\ngarter:  her face, oblong, fair, but wrinkled; her eyes small, yet black\nand pleasant; her nose a little hooked; her lips narrow, and her teeth\nblack (a defect the English seem subject to from their great use of\nsugar). She had in her ears two pearls with very rich drops; she wore\nfalse hair, and that red; upon her head she had a small crown, reported\nto be made of some of the gold of the celebrated Lunebourg table. Her\nbosom was uncovered, as all the English ladies have it till they marry;\nand she had on a necklace of exceeding fine jewels; her hands were small,\nher fingers long, and her stature neither small nor low; her air was\nstately, her manner of speaking mild and obliging. That day she was\ndressed in white silk, bordered with pearls of the size of beans, and\nover it a mantle of black silk, shot with silver threads; her train was\nvery long, and the end of it borne by a marchioness; instead of a chain\nshe had an oblong collar of gold and jewels.  As she swept on in this\nmagnificence, she spoke graciously first to one, then to another, and\nalways in the language of any foreigner she addressed; whoever spoke to\nher kneeled, and wherever she turned her face, as she was going along,\neverybody fell down on his knees. When she pulled off her glove to give\nher hand to be kissed, it was seen to be sparkling with rings and jewels.\nThe ladies of the court, handsome and well shaped, followed, dressed for\nthe most part in white; and on either side she was guarded by fifty\ngentlemen pensioners with gilt battle-axes. In the ante-chapel, where she\ngraciously received petitions, there was an acclaim of  Long live Queen\nElizabeth!  to which she answered,  I thank you, my good people.  The\nmusic in the chapel was excellent, and the whole service was over in half\nan hour. This is Hentzner's description of the setting out of her table:\n\n A gentleman entered the room bearing a rod, and along with him another\nwho had a table-cloth, which, after they had both kneeled three times, he\nspread upon the table; and after kneeling again they both retired. Then\ncame two others, one with the rod again, the other with a salt-cellar, a\nplate, and bread; and when they had kneeled as the others had done, and\nplaced what was brought upon the table, they two retired with the same\nceremonies performed by the first. At last came an unmarried lady (we\nwere told she was a countess) and along with her a married one, bearing a\ntasting-knife; the former was dressed in white silk, who, when she had\nprostrated herself three times, in the most graceful manner approached\nthe table, and rubbed the plates with bread and salt, with as much awe as\nif the Queen had been present. When they had waited there a little while\nthe Yeomen of the Guard entered, bare-headed, clothed in scarlet, with a\ngolden rose upon their backs, bringing in at each turn a course of\ntwenty-four dishes, served in plate, most of it gilt; these dishes were\nreceived by a gentleman in the same order they were brought, and placed\nupon the table, while the Lady Taster gave to each of the guard a\nmouthful to eat, of the particular dish he had brought, for fear of, any\npoison. During the time that this guard, which consists of the tallest\nand stoutest men that can be found in all England, being carefully\nselected for this service, were bringing dinner, twelve trumpets and two\nkettle-drums made the hall ring for half an hour together. At the end of\nall this ceremonial, a number of unmarried ladies appeared, who with\nparticular solemnity lifted the meat off the table and conveyed it into\nthe Queen's inner and more private chamber, where, after she had chosen\nfor herself, the rest goes to the Ladies of the court. \n\nThe queen dined and supped alone, with very few attendants.\nII\n\nWe now approach perhaps the most important matter in this world, namely,\ndress. In nothing were the increasing wealth and extravagance of the\nperiod more shown than in apparel. And in it we are able to study the\norigin of the present English taste for the juxtaposition of striking and\nuncomplementary colors. In Coryat's  Crudities,  1611, we have an\nEnglishman's contrast of the dress of the Venetians and the English. The\nVenetians adhered, without change, to their decent fashion, a thousand\nyears old, wearing usually black: the slender doublet made close to the\nbody, without much quilting; the long hose plain, the jerkin also\nblack--but all of the most costly stuffs Christendom can furnish, satin\nand taffetas, garnished with the best lace. Gravity and good taste\ncharacterized their apparel.  In both these things,  says Coryat,  they\ndiffer much from us Englishmen. For whereas they have but one color, we\nuse many more than are in the rainbow, all the most light, garish, and\nunseemly colors that are in the world. Also for fashion we are much\ninferior to them. For we wear more fantastical fashions than any nation\nunder the sun doth, the French only excepted.  On festival days, in\nprocessions, the senators wore crimson damask gowns, with flaps of\ncrimson velvet cast over their left shoulders; and the Venetian knights\ndiffered from the other gentlemen, for under their black damask gowns,\nwith long sleeves, they wore red apparel, red silk stockings, and red\npantofles.\n\nAndrew Boord, in 1547, attempting to describe the fashions of his\ncountrymen, gave up the effort in sheer despair over the variety and\nfickleness of costume, and drew a naked man with a pair of shears in one\nhand and a piece of cloth in the other, to the end that he should shape\nhis apparel as he himself liked; and this he called an Englishman. Even\nthe gentle Harrison, who gives Boord the too harsh character of a lewd\npopish hypocrite and ungracious priest, admits that he was not void of\njudgment in this; and he finds it easier to inveigh against the enormity,\nthe fickleness, and the fantasticality of the English attire than to\ndescribe it. So unstable is the fashion, he says, that today the Spanish\nguise is in favor; tomorrow the French toys are most fine and delectable;\nthen the high German apparel is the go; next the Turkish manner is best\nliked, the Morisco gowns, the Barbary sleeves, and the short French\nbreeches; in a word,  except it were a dog in a doublet, you shall not\nsee any so disguised as are my countrymen in England. \n\nThis fantastical folly was in all degrees, from the courtier down to the\ntarter.  It is a world to see the costliness and the curiosity, the\nexcess and the vanity, the pomp and the bravery, the change and the\nvariety, and finally the fickleness and the folly that is in all degrees;\ninsomuch that nothing is more constant in England than inconstancy of\nattire. So much cost upon the body, so little upon souls; how many suits\nof apparel hath the one, or how little furniture hath the other!   And\nhow men and women worry the poor tailors, with endless fittings and\nsending back of garments, and trying on!   Then must the long seams of\nour hose be set with a plumb line, then we puff, then we blow, and\nfinally sweat till we drop, that our clothes may stand well upon us. \n\nThe barbers were as cunning in variety as the tailors. Sometimes the head\nwas polled; sometimes the hair was curled, and then suffered to grow long\nlike a woman's locks, and many times cut off, above or under the ears,\nround as by a wooden dish. And so with the beards: some shaved from the\nchin, like the Turks; some cut short, like the beard of the Marquis Otto;\nsome made round, like a rubbing-brush; some peaked, others grown long. If\na man have a lean face, the Marquis Otto's cut makes it broad; if it be\nplatterlike, the long, slender beard makes it seem narrow;  if he be\nweasel-beaked, then much hair left on the cheeks will make the owner look\nbig like a bowdled hen, and so grim as a goose.  Some courageous\ngentlemen wore in their ears rings of gold and stones, to improve God's\nwork, which was otherwise set off by monstrous quilted and stuffed\ndoublets, that puffed out the figure like a barrel.\n\nThere is some consolation, though I don't know why, in the knowledge that\nwriters have always found fault with women's fashions, as they do today.\nHarrison says that the women do far exceed the lightness of the men;\n such staring attire as in time past was supposed meet for light\nhousewives only is now become an habit for chaste and sober matrons.  And\nhe knows not what to say of their doublets, with pendant pieces on the\nbreast full of jags and cuts; their  galligascons,  to make their dresses\nstand out plumb round; their farthingales and divers colored stockings.\n I have met,  he says,  with some of these trulls in London so disguised\nthat it hath passed my skill to determine whether they were men or\nwomen.  Of all classes the merchants were most to be commended for rich\nbut sober attire;  but the younger sort of their wives, both in attire\nand costly housekeeping, cannot tell when and how to make an end, as\nbeing women indeed in whom all kind of curiosity is to be found and\nseen.  Elizabeth's time, like our own, was distinguished by new\nfashionable colors, among which are mentioned a queer greenish-yellow, a\npease-porridge-tawny, a popinjay of blue, a lusty gallant, and the  devil\nin the hedge.  These may be favorites still, for aught I know.\n\nMr. Furnivall quotes a description of a costume of the period, from the\nmanuscript of Orazio Busino's  Anglipotrida.  Busino was the chaplain of\nPiero Contarina, the Venetian ambassador to James I, in 1617. The\nchaplain was one day stunned with grief over the death of the butler of\nthe embassy; and as the Italians sleep away grief, the French sing, the\nGermans drink, and the English go to plays to be rid of it, the\nVenetians, by advice, sought consolation at the Fortune Theatre; and\nthere a trick was played upon old Busino, by placing him among a bevy of\nyoung women, while the concealed ambassador and the secretary enjoyed the\njoke.  These theatres,  says Busino,  are frequented by a number of\nrespectable and handsome ladies, who come freely and seat themselves\namong the men without the slightest hesitation . . . . Scarcely was I\nseated ere a very elegant dame, but in a mask, came and placed herself\nbeside me . . . . She asked me for my address both in French and English;\nand, on my turning a deaf ear, she determined to honor me by showing me\nsome fine diamonds on her fingers, repeatedly taking off no fewer than\nthree gloves, which were worn one over the other . . . . This lady's\nbodice was of yellow satin, richly embroidered, her petticoat--[It is a\ntrifle in human progress, perhaps scarcely worth noting, that the  round\ngown,  that is, an entire skirt, not open in front and parting to show\nthe under petticoat, did not come into fashion till near the close of the\neighteenth century.]--of gold tissue with stripes, her robe of red velvet\nwith a raised pile, lined with yellow muslin with broad stripes of pure\ngold. She wore an apron of point lace of various patterns; her headtire\nwas highly perfumed, and the collar of white satin beneath the delicately\nwrought ruff struck me as exceedingly pretty.  It was quite in keeping\nwith the manners of the day for a lady of rank to have lent herself to\nthis hoax of the chaplain.\n\nVan Meteren, a Netherlander, 1575, speaks also of the astonishing change\nor changeableness in English fashions, but says the women are well\ndressed and modest, and they go about the streets without any covering of\nmantle, hood, or veil; only the married women wear a hat in the street\nand in the house; the unmarried go without a hat; but ladies of\ndistinction have lately learned to cover their faces with silken masks or\nvizards, and to wear feathers. The English, he notes, change their\nfashions every year, and when they go abroad riding or traveling they don\ntheir best clothes, contrary to the practice of other nations. Another\nforeigner, Jacob Rathgeb, 1592, says the English go dressed in exceeding\nfine clothes, and some will even wear velvet in the street, when they\nhave not at home perhaps a piece of dry bread.  The lords and pages of\nthe royal court have a stately, noble air, but dress more after the\nFrench fashion, only they wear short cloaks and sometimes Spanish caps. \n\nHarrison's arraignment of the English fashions of his day may be\nconsidered as almost commendative beside the diatribes of the old Puritan\nPhilip Stubbes, in  The Anatomie of Abuses,  1583. The English language\nis strained for words hot and rude enough to express his indignation,\ncontempt, and fearful expectation of speedy judgments. The men escape his\nhands with scarcely less damage than the women. First he wreaks his\nindignation upon the divers kinds of hats, stuck full of feathers, of\nvarious colors,  ensigns of vanity,   fluttering sails and feathered\nflags of defiance to virtue ; then upon the monstrous ruffs that stand\nout a quarter of a yard from the neck.  As the devil, in the fullness of\nhis malice, first invented these ruffs, so has he found out two stays to\nbear up this his great kingdom of ruffs--one is a kind of liquid matter\nthey call starch; the other is a device made of wires, for an\nunder-propper. Then there are shirts of cambric, holland, and lawn,\nwrought with fine needle-work of silk and curiously stitched, costing\nsometimes as much as five pounds. Worse still are the monstrous doublets,\nreaching down to the middle of the thighs, so hard quilted, stuffed,\nbombasted, and sewed that the wearer can hardly stoop down in them. Below\nthese are the gally-hose of silk, velvet, satin, and damask, reaching\nbelow the knees. So costly are these that now it is a small matter to\nbestow twenty nobles, ten pound, twenty pound, fortie pound, yea a\nhundred pound of one pair of Breeches. (God be merciful unto us!) To\nthese gay hose they add nether-socks, curiously knit with open seams down\nthe leg, with quirks and clocks about the ankles, and sometimes\ninterlaced with gold and silver thread as is wonderful to behold. Time\nhas been when a man could clothe his whole body for the price of these\nnether-socks. Satan was further let loose in the land by reason of cork\nshoes and fine slippers, of all colors, carved, cut, and stitched with\nsilk, and laced on with gold and silver, which went flipping and flapping\nup and down in the dirt. The jerkins and cloaks are of all colors and\nfashions; some short, reaching to the knee; others dragging on the\nground; red, white, black, violet, yellow, guarded, laced, and faced;\nhanged with points and tassels of gold, silver, and silk. The hilts of\ndaggers, rapiers, and swords are gilt thrice over, and have scabbards of\nvelvet. And all this while the poor lie in London streets upon pallets of\nstraw, or else in the mire and dirt, and die like dogs! \n\nStubbes was a stout old Puritan, bent upon hewing his way to heaven\nthrough all the allurements of this world, and suspecting a devil in\nevery fair show. I fear that he looked upon woman as only a vain and\ntrifling image, a delusive toy, away from whom a man must set his face.\nShakespeare, who was country-bred when he came up to London, and lived\nprobably on the roystering South Side, near the theatres and\nbear-gardens, seems to have been impressed with the painted faces of the\nwomen. It is probable that only town-bred women painted. Stubbes declares\nthat the women of England color their faces with oils, liquors, unguents,\nand waters made to that end, thinking to make themselves fairer than God\nmade them--a presumptuous audacity to make God untrue in his word; and he\nheaps vehement curses upon the immodest practice. To this follows the\ntrimming and tricking of their heads, the laying out their hair to show,\nwhich is curled, crisped, and laid out on wreaths and borders from ear to\near. Lest it should fall down it is under-propped with forks, wires, and\nwhat not. On the edges of their bolstered hair (for it standeth crested\nround about their frontiers, and hanging over their faces like pendices\nwith glass windows on every side) is laid great wreaths of gold and\nsilver curiously wrought. But this is not the worst nor the tenth part,\nfor no pen is able to describe the wickedness.  The women use great ruffs\nand neckerchers of holland, lawn, camerick, and such cloth, as the\ngreatest thread shall not be so big as the least hair that is: then, lest\nthey should fall down, they are smeared and starched in the Devil's\nliquor, I mean Starch; after that dried with great diligence, streaked,\npatted and rubbed very nicely, and so applied to their goodly necks, and,\nwithall, under-propped with supportasses, the stately arches of pride;\nbeyond all this they have a further fetch, nothing inferior to the rest;\nas, namely, three or four degrees of minor ruffs, placed gradatim, step\nby step, one beneath another, and all under the Master devil ruff. The\nskirts, then, of these great ruffs are long and side every way, pleted\nand crested full curiously, God wot. \n\nTime will not serve us to follow old Stubbes into his particular\ninquisition of every article of woman's attire, and his hearty damnation\nof them all and several. He cannot even abide their carrying of nosegays\nand posies of flowers to smell at, since the palpable odors and fumes of\nthese do enter the brain to degenerate the spirit and allure to vice.\nThey must needs carry looking-glasses with them;  and good reason,  says\nStubbes, savagely,  for else how could they see the devil in them? for no\ndoubt they are the devil's spectacles [these women] to allure us to pride\nand consequently to destruction forever.  And, as if it were not enough\nto be women, and the devil's aids, they do also have doublets and\njerkins, buttoned up the breast, and made with wings, welts, and pinions\non the shoulder points, as man's apparel is, for all the world. We take\nreluctant leave of this entertaining woman-hater, and only stay to quote\nfrom him a  fearful judgment of God, shewed upon a gentlewoman of Antwerp\nof late, even the 27th of May, 1582,  which may be as profitable to read\nnow as it was then:  This gentlewoman being a very rich Merchant man's\ndaughter: upon a time was invited to a bridal, or wedding, which was\nsolemnized in that Toune, against which day she made great preparation,\nfor the pluming herself in gorgeous array, that as her body was most\nbeautiful, fair, and proper, so her attire in every respect might be\ncorrespondent to the same. For the accomplishment whereof she curled her\nhair, she dyed her locks, and laid them out after the best manner, she\ncolored her face with waters and Ointments: But in no case could she get\nany (so curious and dainty she was) that could starch, and set her Ruffs\nand Neckerchers to her mind wherefore she sent for a couple of\nLaundresses, who did the best they could to please her humors, but in any\nwise they could not. Then fell she to swear and tear, to curse and damn,\ncasting the Ruffs under feet, and wishing that the Devil might take her\nwhen she wear any of those Neckerchers again. In the meantime (through\nthe sufference of God) the Devil transforming himself into the form of a\nyoung man, as brave and proper as she in every point of outward\nappearance, came in, feigning himself to be a wooer or suitor unto her.\nAnd seeing her thus agonized, and in such a pelting chase, he demanded of\nher the cause thereof, who straightway told him (as women can conceal\nnothing that lieth upon their stomachs) how she was abused in the setting\nof her Ruffs, which thing being heard of him, he promised to please her\nmind, and thereto took in hand the setting of her Ruffs, which he\nperformed to her great contentation and liking, in so much as she looking\nherself in a glass (as the Devil bade her) became greatly enamoured of\nhim. This done, the young man kissed her, in the doing whereof she writhe\nher neck in, sunder, so she died miserably, her body being metamorphosed\ninto black and blue colors, most ugglesome to behold, and her face (which\nbefore was so amorous) became most deformed, and fearful to look upon.\nThis being known, preparence was made for her burial, a rich coffin was\nprovided, and her fearful body was laid therein, and it covered very\nsumptuously. Four men immediately assayed to lift up the corpse, but\ncould not move it; then six attempted the like, but could not once stir\nit from the place where it stood. Whereat the standers-by marveling,\ncaused the coffin to be opened to see the cause thereof. Where they found\nthe body to be taken away, and a black Cat very lean and deformed sitting\nin the coffin, setting of great Ruffs, and frizzling of hair, to the\ngreat fear and wonder of all beholders. \n\nBetter than this pride which forerunneth destruction, in the opinion of\nStubbes, is the habit of the Brazilian women, who  esteem so little of\napparel  that they rather choose to go naked than be thought to be proud.\n\nAs I read the times of Elizabeth, there was then greater prosperity and\nenjoyment of life among the common people than fifty or a hundred years\nlater. Into the question of the prices of labor and of food, which Mr.\nFroude considers so fully in the first chapter of his history, I shall\nnot enter any further than to remark that the hardness of the laborer's\nlot, who got, mayhap, only twopence a day, is mitigated by the fact that\nfor a penny he could buy a pound of meat which now costs a shilling. In\ntwo respects England has greatly changed for the traveler, from the\nsixteenth to the eighteenth century--in its inns and its roads.\n\nIn the beginning of Elizabeth's reign travelers had no choice but to ride\non horseback or to walk. Goods were transported on strings of\npack-horses. When Elizabeth rode into the city from her residence at\nGreenwich, she placed herself behind her lord chancellor, on a pillion.\nThe first improvement made was in the construction of a rude wagon a cart\nwithout springs, the body resting solidly on the axles. In such a vehicle\nElizabeth rode to the opening of her fifth Parliament. In 1583, on a\ncertain day, Sir Harry Sydney entered Shrewsbury in his wagon,  with his\ntrompeter blowynge, verey joyfull to behold and see.  Even such\nconveyances fared hard on the execrable roads of the period. Down to the\nend of the seventeenth century most of the country roads were merely\nbroad ditches, water-worn and strewn with loose stones. In 1640 Queen\nHenrietta was four weary days dragging over the road from Dover to\nLondon, the best in England. Not till the close of the sixteenth century\nwas the wagon used, and then rarely. Fifty years later stage-wagons ran,\nwith some regularity, between London and Liverpool; and before the close\nof the seventeenth century the stagecoach, a wonderful invention, which\nhad been used in and about London since 1650, was placed on three\nprincipal roads of the kingdom. It averaged two to three miles an hour.\nIn the reign of Charles II. a Frenchman who landed at Dover was drawn up\nto London in a wagon with six horses in a line, one after the other. Our\nVenetian, Busino, who went to Oxford in the coach with the ambassador in\n1617, was six days in going one hundred and fifty miles, as the coach\noften stuck in the mud, and once broke down. So bad were the main\nthoroughfares, even, that markets were sometimes inaccessible for months\ntogether, and the fruits of the earth rotted in one place, while there\nwas scarcity not many miles distant.\n\nBut this difficulty of travel and liability to be detained long on the\nroad were cheered by good inns, such as did not exist in the world\nelsewhere. All the literature of the period reflects lovingly the\nhomelike delights of these comfortable houses of entertainment. Every\nlittle village boasted an excellent inn, and in the towns on the great\nthoroughfares were sumptuous houses that would accommodate from two to\nthree hundred guests with their horses. The landlords were not tyrants,\nas on the Continent, but servants of their guests; and it was, says\nHarrison, a world to see how they did contend for the entertainment of\ntheir guests--as about fineness and change of linen, furniture of\nbedding, beauty of rooms, service at the table, costliness of plate,\nstrength of drink, variety of wines, or well-using of horses. The\ngorgeous signs at their doors sometimes cost forty pounds. The inns were\ncheap too, and the landlord let no one depart dissatisfied with his bill.\nThe worst inns were in London, and the tradition has been handed down.\nBut the ostlers, Harrison confesses, did sometimes cheat in the feed, and\nthey with the tapsters and chamberlains were in league (and the landlord\nwas not always above suspicion) with highwaymen outside, to ascertain if\nthe traveler carried any valuables; so that when he left the hospitable\ninn he was quite likely to be stopped on the highway and relieved of his\nmoney. The highwayman was a conspicuous character. One of the most\nromantic of these gentry at one time was a woman named Mary Frith, born\nin 1585, and known as Moll Cut-Purse. She dressed in male attire, was an\nadroit fencer, a bold rider, and a staunch royalist; she once took two\nhundred gold jacobuses from the Parliamentary General Fairfax on Hounslow\nHeath. She is the chief character in Middleton's play of the  Roaring\nGirl ; and after a varied life as a thief, cutpurse, pickpocket,\nhighwayman, trainer of animals, and keeper of a thieves' fence, she died\nin peace at the age of seventy. To return to the inns, Fyner Morrison, a\ntraveler in 1617, sustains all that Harrison says of the inns as the best\nand cheapest in the world, where the guest shall have his own pleasure.\nNo sooner does he arrive than the servants run to him--one takes his\nhorse, another shows him his chamber and lights his fire, a third pulls\noff his boots. Then come the host and hostess to inquire what meat he\nwill choose, and he may have their company if he like. He shall be\noffered music while he eats, and if he be solitary the musicians will\ngive him good-day with music in the morning. In short,  a man cannot more\nfreely command at home, in his own house, than he may do in his inn. \n\nThe amusements of the age were often rough, but certainly more moral than\nthey were later; and although the theatres were denounced by such\nreformers as Stubbes as seminaries of vice, and disapproved by Harrison;\nthey were better than after the Restoration, when the plays of\nShakespeare were out of fashion. The Londoners went for amusement to the\nBankside, or South Side of the Thames, where were the famous Paris\nGardens, much used as a rendezvous by gallants; and there were the places\nfor bear and bull baiting; and there were the theatres--the Paris\nGardens, the Swan, the Rose, the Hope, and the Globe. The\npleasure-seekers went over usually in boats, of which there were said to\nbe four thousand plying between banks; for there was only one bridge, and\nthat was crowded with houses. All distinguished visitors were taken over\nto see the gardens and the bears baited by dogs; the queen herself went,\nand perhaps on Sunday, for Sunday was the great day, and Elizabeth is\nsaid to have encouraged Sunday sports, she had been (we read) so much\nhunted on account of religion! These sports are too brutal to think of;\nbut there are amusing accounts of lion-baiting both by bears and dogs, in\nwhich the beast who figures so nobly on the escutcheon nearly always\nproved himself an arrant coward, and escaped away as soon as he could\ninto his den, with his tail between his legs. The spectators were once\nmuch disgusted when a lion and lioness, with the dog that pursued them,\nall ran into the den, and, like good friends, stood very peaceably\ntogether looking out at the people.\n\nThe famous Globe Theatre, which was built in 1599, was burned in 1613,\nand in the fire it is supposed were consumed Shakespeare's manuscripts of\nhis plays. It was of wood (for use in summer only), octagon shaped, with\na thatched roof, open in the centre. The daily performance here, as in\nall theatres, was at three o'clock in the afternoon, and boys outside\nheld the horses of the gentlemen who went in to the play. When theatres\nwere restrained, in 1600, only two were allowed, the Globe and the\nFortune, which was on the north side, on Golden Lane. The Fortune was\nfifty feet square within, and three stories high, with galleries, built\nof wood on a brick foundation, and with a roof of tiles. The stage was\nforty-three feet wide, and projected into the middle of the yard (as the\npit was called), where the groundlings stood. To one of the galleries\nadmission was only twopence. The young gallants used to go into the yards\nand spy about the galleries and boxes for their acquaintances. In these\ntheatres there was a drop-curtain, but little or no scenery. Spectators\nhad boxes looking on the stage behind the curtain, and they often sat\nupon the stage with the actors; sometimes the actors all remained upon\nthe stage during the whole play. There seems to have been great\nfamiliarity between the audience and the actors. Fruits in season,\napples, pears, and nuts, with wine and beer, were carried about to be\nsold, and pipes were smoked. There was neither any prudery in the plays\nor the players, and the audiences in behavior were no better than the\nplays.\n\nThe actors were all men. The female parts were taken usually by boys, but\nfrequently by grown men, and when Juliet or Desdemona was announced, a\ngiant would stride upon the stage. There is a story that Kynaston, a\nhandsome fellow, famous in female characters, and petted by ladies of\nrank, once kept Charles I. waiting while he was being shaved before\nappearing as Evadne in  The Maid's Tragedy.  The innovation of women on\nthe stage was first introduced by a French company in 1629, but the\naudiences would not tolerate it, and hissed and pelted the actresses off\nthe stage. But thirty years later women took the place they have ever\nsince held; when the populace had once experienced the charm of a female\nJuliet and Ophelia, they would have no other, and the rage for actresses\nran to such excess at one time that it was a fashion for women to take\nthe male parts as well. But that was in the abandoned days of Charles II.\nPepys could not control his delight at the appearance of Nell Gwynne,\nespecially  when she comes like a young gallant, and hath the motions and\ncarriage of a spark the most that ever I saw any man have. It makes me, I\nconfess, admire her.  The acting of Shakespeare himself is only a faint\ntradition. He played the ghost in  Hamlet,  and Adam in  As You Like It. \n William Oldys says (Oldys was an antiquarian who was pottering about in\nthe first part of the eighteenth century, picking up gossip in\ncoffee-houses, and making memoranda on scraps of paper in book-shops)\nShakespeare's brother Charles, who lived past the middle of the\nseventeenth century, was much inquired of by actors about the\ncircumstances of Shakespeare's playing. But Charles was so old and weak\nin mind that he could recall nothing except the faint impression that he\nhad once seen  Will  act a part in one of his own comedies, wherein,\nbeing to personate a decrepit old man, he wore a long beard, and appeared\nso weak and drooping and unable to walk that he was forced to be\nsupported and carried by another person to a table, at which he was\nseated among some company who were eating, and one of them sang a song.\nAnd that was Shakespeare!\n\nThe whole Bankside, with its taverns, play-houses, and worse, its bear\npits and gardens, was the scene of roystering and coarse amusement. And\nit is surprising that plays of such sustained moral greatness as\nShakespeare's should have been welcome.\n\nThe more private amusements of the great may well be illustrated by an\naccount given by Busino of a masque (it was Ben Jonson's  Pleasure\nReconciled to Virtue ) performed at Whitehall on Twelfthnight, 1617.\nDuring the play, twelve cavaliers in masks, the central figure of whom\nwas Prince Charles, chose partners, and danced every kind of dance, until\nthey got tired and began to flag; whereupon King James,  who is naturally\ncholeric, got impatient, and shouted aloud, 'Why don't they dance? What\ndid you make me come here for? Devil take you all, dance!' On hearing\nthis, the Marquis of Buckingham, his majesty's most favored minion,\nimmediately sprang forward, cutting a score of lofty and very minute\ncapers, with so much grace and agility that he not only appeased the ire\nof his angry sovereign, but moreover rendered himself the admiration and\ndelight of everybody. The other masquers, being thus encouraged,\ncontinued successively exhibiting their powers with various ladies,\nfinishing in like manner with capers, and by lifting their goddesses from\nthe ground . . . . The prince, however, excelled them all in bowing,\nbeing very exact in making his obeisance both to the king and his\npartner; nor did we ever see him make one single step out of time--a\ncompliment which can scarcely be paid to his companions. Owing to his\nyouth, he has not much wind as yet, but he nevertheless cut a few capers\nvery gracefully.  The prince then went and kissed the hand of his serene\nparent, who embraced and kissed him tenderly. When such capers were cut\nat Whitehall, we may imagine what the revelry was in the Bankside\ntaverns.\n\nThe punishments of the age were not more tender than the amusements were\nrefined. Busino saw a lad of fifteen led to execution for stealing a bag\nof currants. At the end of every month, besides special executions, as\nmany as twenty-five people at a time rode through London streets in\nTyburn carts, singing ribald songs, and carrying sprigs of rosemary in\ntheir hands. Everywhere in the streets the machines of justice were\nvisible-pillories for the neck and hands, stocks for the feet, and chains\nto stretch across, in case of need, and stop a mob. In the suburbs were\noak cages for nocturnal offenders. At the church doors might now and then\nbe seen women enveloped in sheets, doing penance for their evil deeds. A\nbridle, something like a bit for a restive horse, was in use for the\ncurbing of scolds; but this was a later invention than the cucking-stool,\nor ducking-stool. There is an old print of one of these machines standing\non the Thames' bank: on a wheeled platform is an upright post with a\nswinging beam across the top, on one end of which the chair is suspended\nover the river, while the other is worked up and down by a rope; in it is\nseated a light sister of the Bankside, being dipped into the unsavory\nflood. But this was not so hated by the women as a similar\ndiscipline--being dragged in the river by a rope after a boat.\n\nHanging was the common punishment for felony, but traitors and many other\noffenders were drawn, hanged, boweled, and quartered; nobles who were\ntraitors usually escaped with having their heads chopped off only.\nTorture was not practiced; for, says Harrison, our people despise death,\nyet abhor to be tormented, being of frank and open minds. And  this is\none cause why our condemned persons do go so cheerfully to their deaths,\nfor our nation is free, stout, hearty, and prodigal of life and blood,\nand cannot in any wise digest to be used as villains and slaves.  Felony\ncovered a wide range of petty crimes--breach of prison, hunting by night\nwith painted or masked faces, stealing above forty shillings, stealing\nhawks' eggs, conjuring, prophesying upon arms and badges, stealing deer\nby night, cutting purses, counterfeiting coin, etc. Death was the penalty\nfor all these offenses. For poisoning her husband a woman was burned\nalive; a man poisoning another was boiled to death in water or oil;\nheretics were burned alive; some murderers were hanged in chains;\nperjurers were branded on the forehead with the letter P; rogues were\nburned through the ears; suicides were buried in a field with a stake\ndriven through their bodies; witches were burned or hanged; in Halifax\nthieves were beheaded by a machine almost exactly like the modern\nguillotine; scolds were ducked; pirates were hanged on the seashore at\nlow-water mark, and left till three tides overwashed them; those who let\nthe sea-walls decay were staked out in the breach of the banks, and left\nthere as parcel of the foundation of the new wall. Of rogues-that is,\ntramps and petty thieves-the gallows devoured three to four hundred\nannually, in one place or another; and Henry VIII. in his time did hang\nup as many as seventy-two thousand rogues. Any parish which let a thief\nescape was fined. Still the supply held out.\n\nThe legislation against vagabonds, tramps, and sturdy beggars, and their\npunishment by whipping, branding, etc., are too well known to need\ncomment. But considerable provision was made for the unfortunate and\ndeserving poor--poorhouses were built for them, and collections taken up.\nOnly sixty years before Harrison wrote there were few beggars, but in his\nday he numbers them at ten thousand; and most of them were rogues, who\ncounterfeited sores and wounds, and were mere thieves and caterpillars on\nthe commonwealth. He names twenty-three different sorts of vagabonds\nknown by cant names, such as  ruffers,   uprightmen,   priggers, \n  fraters,   palliards,   Abrams,   dummerers  ; and of women,  demanders\nfor glimmer or fire,   mortes,   walking mortes,   doxes,   kinching\ncoves. \n\nLondon was esteemed by its inhabitants and by many foreigners as the\nrichest and most magnificent city in Christendom. The cities of London\nand Westminster lay along the north bank in what seemed an endless\nstretch; on the south side of the Thames the houses were more scattered.\nBut the town was mostly of wood, and its rapid growth was a matter of\nanxiety. Both Elizabeth and James again and again attempted to restrict\nit by forbidding the erection of any new buildings within the town, or\nfor a mile outside; and to this attempt was doubtless due the crowded\nrookeries in the city. They especially forbade the use of wood in\nhouse-fronts and windows, both on account of the danger from fire, and\nbecause all the timber in the kingdom, which was needed for shipping and\nother purposes, was being used up in building. They even ordered the\npulling down of new houses in London, Westminster, and for three miles\naround. But all efforts to stop the growth of the city were vain.\n\nLondon, according to the Venetian Busino, was extremely dirty. He did not\nadmire the wooden architecture; the houses were damp and cold, the\nstaircases spiral and inconvenient, the apartments  sorry and ill\nconnected.  The wretched windows, without shutters, he could neither open\nby day nor close by night. The streets were little better than gutters,\nand were never put in order except for some great parade. Hentzner,\nhowever, thought the streets handsome and clean. When it rained it must\nhave been otherwise. There was no provision for conducting away the\nwater; it poured off the roofs upon the people below, who had not as yet\nheard of the Oriental umbrella; and the countryman, staring at the sights\nof the town, knocked about by the carts, and run over by the horsemen,\nwas often surprised by a douche from a conduit down his back. And,\nbesides, people had a habit of throwing water and slops out of the\nwindows, regardless of passers-by.\n\nThe shops were small, open in front, when the shutters were down, much\nlike those in a Cairo bazaar, and all the goods were in sight. The\nshopkeepers stood in front and cried their wares, and besought customers.\nUntil 1568 there were but few silk shops in London, and all those were\nkept by women. It was not till about that time that citizens' wives\nceased to wear white knit woolen caps, and three-square Minever caps with\npeaks. In the beginning of Elizabeth's reign the apprentices (a\nconspicuous class) wore blue cloaks in winter and blue gowns in summer;\nunless men were threescore years old, it was not lawful to wear gowns\nlower than the calves of the legs, but the length of cloaks was not\nlimited. The journeymen and apprentices wore long daggers in the daytime\nat their backs or sides. When the apprentices attended their masters and\nmistresses in the night they carried lanterns and candles, and a great\nlong club on the neck. These apprentices were apt to lounge with their\nclubs about the fronts of shops, ready to take a hand in any excitement\n--to run down a witch, or raid an objectionable house, or tear down a\ntavern of evil repute, or spoil a playhouse. The high-streets, especially\nin winter-time, were annoyed by hourly frays of sword and buckler-men;\nbut these were suddenly suppressed when the more deadly fight with rapier\nand dagger came in. The streets were entirely unlighted and dangerous at\nnight, and for this reason the plays at the theatres were given at three\nin the afternoon.\n\nAbout Shakespeare's time many new inventions and luxuries came in: masks,\nmuffs, fans, periwigs, shoe-roses, love-handkerchiefs (tokens given by\nmaids and gentlewomen to their favorites), heath-brooms for hair-brushes,\nscarfs, garters, waistcoats, flat-caps; also hops, turkeys, apricots,\nVenice glass, tobacco. In 1524, and for years after, was used this rhyme\n\n         Turkeys, Carpes, Hops: Piccarel, and beers,\n        Came into England: all in one year. \n\nThere were no coffee-houses as yet, for neither tea nor coffee was\nintroduced till about 1661. Tobacco was first made known in England by\nSir John Hawkins in 1565, though not commonly used by men and women till\nsome years after. It was urged as a great medicine for many ills.\nHarrison says, 1573,  In these days the taking in of the smoke of the\nIndian herb called 'Tabaco,' by an instrument formed like a little ladle,\nwhereby it passeth from the mouth into the head and stomach, is greatly\ntaken up and used in England, against Rewmes and some other diseases\nengendered in the lungs and inward parts, and not without effect.  It's\nuse spread rapidly, to the disgust of James I. and others, who doubted\nthat it was good for cold, aches, humors, and rheums. In 1614 it was said\nthat seven thousand houses lived by this trade, and that L 399,375 a year\nwas spent in smoke. Tobacco was even taken on the stage. Every base groom\nmust have his pipe; it was sold in all inns and ale-houses, and the shops\nof apothecaries, grocers, and chandlers were almost never, from morning\ntill night, without company still taking of tobacco.\n\nThere was a saying on the Continent that  England is a paradise for\nwomen, a prison for servants, and a hell or purgatory for horses.  The\nsociety was very simple compared with the complex condition of ours, and\nyet it had more striking contrasts, and was a singular mixture of\ndownrightness and artificiality; plainness and rudeness of speech went\nwith the utmost artificiality of dress and manner. It is curious to note\nthe insular, not to say provincial, character of the people even three\ncenturies ago. When the Londoners saw a foreigner very well made or\nparticularly handsome, they were accustomed to say,  It is a pity he is\nnot an ENGLISHMAN.  It is pleasant, I say, to trace this  certain\ncondescension  in the good old times. Jacob Rathgeb (1592) says the\nEnglish are magnificently dressed, and extremely proud and overbearing;\nthe merchants, who seldom go unto other countries, scoff at foreigners,\nwho are liable to be ill-used by street boys and apprentices, who collect\nin immense crowds and stop the way. Of course Cassandra Stubbes, whose\nmind was set upon a better country, has little good to say of his\ncountrymen.\n\n As concerning the nature, propertie, and disposition of the people they\nbe desirous of new fangles, praising things past, contemning things\npresent, and coveting after things to come. Ambitious, proud, light, and\nunstable, ready to be carried away with every blast of wind.  The French\npaid back with scorn the traditional hatred of the English for the\nFrench. Perlin (1558) finds the people  proud and seditious, with bad\nconsciences and unfaithful to their word in war unfortunate, in peace\nunfaithful ; and there was a Spanish or Italian proverb:  England, good\nland, bad people.  But even Perlin likes the appearance of the people:\n The men are handsome, rosy, large, and dexterous, usually fair-skinned;\nthe women are esteemed the most beautiful in the world, white as\nalabaster, and give place neither to Italian, Flemish, nor German; they\nare joyous, courteous, and hospitable (de bon recueil).  He thinks their\nmanners, however, little civilized: for one thing, they have an\nunpleasant habit of eructation at the table (car iceux routent a la table\nsans honte & ignominie); which recalls Chaucer's description of the\nTrumpington miller's wife and daughter:\n\n         Men might her rowtyng hearen a forlong,\n        The wenche routeth eek par companye. \n\nAnother inference as to the table manners of the period is found in\nCoryat's  Crudities  (1611). He saw in Italy generally a curious custom\nof using a little fork for meat, and whoever should take the meat out of\nthe dish with his fingers--would give offense. And he accounts for this\npeculiarity quite naturally:  The reason of this their curiosity is,\nbecause the Italian cannot by any means indure to have his dish touched\nwith fingers, seeing all men's fingers are not alike cleane.  Coryat found\nthe use of the fork nowhere else in Christendom, and when he returned,\nand, oftentimes in England, imitated the Italian fashion, his exploit was\nregarded in a humorous light. Busino says that fruits were seldom served\nat dessert, but that the whole population were munching them in the\nstreets all day long, and in the places of amusement; and it was an\namusement to go out into the orchards and eat fruit on the spot, in a\nsort of competition of gormandize between the city belles and their\nadmirers. And he avers that one young woman devoured twenty pounds of\ncherries, beating her opponent by two pounds and a half.\n\nAll foreigners were struck with the English love of music and drink, of\nbanqueting and good cheer. Perlin notes a pleasant custom at table:\nduring the feast you hear more than a hundred times,  Drink iou  (he\nloves to air his English), that is to say,  Je m'en vois boyre a toy. \n You respond, in their language,  Iplaigiu ; that is to say,  Je vous\nplege.  If you thank them, they say in their language,  God tanque\nartelay ; that is,  Je vous remercie de bon coeur.  And then, says the\nartless Frenchman, still improving on his English, you should respond\nthus:  Bigod, sol drink iou agoud oin.  At the great and princely\nbanquets, when the pledge went round and the heart's desire of lasting\nhealth, says the chronicler,  the same was straight wayes knowne, by\nsound of Drumme and Trumpet, and the cannon's loudest voyce.  It was so\nin Hamlet's day:\n\n         And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,\n        The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out\n        The triumph of his pledge. \n\nAccording to Hentzner (1598), the English are serious, like the Germans,\nand love show and to be followed by troops of servants wearing the arms\nof their masters; they excel in music and dancing, for they are lively\nand active, though thicker of make than the French; they cut their hair\nclose in the middle of the head, letting it grow on either side;  they\nare good sailors, and better pyrates, cunning, treacherous, and\nthievish;  and, he adds, with a touch of satisfaction,  above three\nhundred are said to be hanged annually in London.  They put a good deal\nof sugar in their drink; they are vastly fond of great noises, firing of\ncannon, beating of drums, and ringing of bells, and when they have a\nglass in their heads they go up into some belfry, and ring the bells for\nhours together, for the sake of exercise. Perlin's comment is that men\nare hung for a trifle in England, and that you will not find many lords\nwhose parents have not had their heads chopped off.\n\nIt is a pleasure to turn to the simple and hearty admiration excited in\nthe breasts of all susceptible foreigners by the English women of the\ntime. Van Meteren, as we said, calls the women beautiful, fair, well\ndressed, and modest. To be sure, the wives are, their lives only\nexcepted, entirely in the power of their husbands, yet they have great\nliberty; go where they please; are shown the greatest honor at banquets,\nwhere they sit at the upper end of the table and are first served; are\nfond of dress and gossip and of taking it easy; and like to sit before\ntheir doors, decked out in fine clothes, in order to see and be seen by\nthe passers-by. Rathgeb also agrees that the women have much more liberty\nthan in any other place. When old Busino went to the Masque at Whitehall,\nhis colleagues kept exclaiming,  Oh, do look at this one--oh, do see\nthat! Whose wife is this?--and that pretty one near her, whose daughter\nis she?  There was some chaff mixed in, he allows, some shriveled skins\nand devotees of S. Carlo Borromeo, but the beauties greatly predominated.\n\nIn the great street pageants, it was the beauty and winsomeness of the\nLondon ladies, looking on, that nearly drove the foreigners wild. In\n1606, upon the entry of the king of Denmark, the chronicler celebrates\n the unimaginable number of gallant ladies, beauteous virgins, and other\ndelicate dames, filling the windows of every house with kind aspect.  And\nin 1638, when Cheapside was all alive with the pageant of the entry of\nthe queen mother,  this miserable old queen,  as Lilly calls Marie de'\nMedicis (Mr. Furnivall reproduces an old cut of the scene), M. de la\nSerre does not try to restrain his admiration for the pretty women on\nview: only the most fecund imagination can represent the content one has\nin admiring the infinite number of beautiful women, each different from\nthe other, and each distinguished by some sweetness or grace to ravish\nthe heart and take captive one's liberty. No sooner has he determined to\nyield to one than a new object of admiration makes him repent the\nprecipitation of his judgment.\n\nAnd all the other foreigners were in the like case of  goneness. \n Kiechel, writing in 1585, says,  Item, the women there are charming, and\nby nature so mighty pretty as I have scarcely ever beheld, for they do\nnot falsify, paint, or bedaub themselves as in Italy or other places; \n yet he confesses (and here is another tradition preserved)  they are\nsomewhat awkward in their style of dress.  His second  item  of gratitude\nis a Netherland custom that pleased him--whenever a foreigner or an\ninhabitant went to a citizen's house on business, or as a guest, he was\nreceived by the master, the lady, or the daughter, and  welcomed  (as it\nis termed in their language);  he has a right to take them by the arm and\nto kiss them, which is the custom of the country; and if any one does not\ndo so, it is regarded and imputed as ignorance and ill-breeding on his\npart.  Even the grave Erasmus, when he visited England, fell easily into\nthis pretty practice, and wrote with untheological fervor of the  girls\nwith angel faces,  who were  so kind and obliging.   Wherever you come, \n he says,  you are received with a kiss by all; when you take your leave\nyou are dismissed with kisses; you return, kisses are repeated. They come\nto visit you, kisses again; they leave you, you kiss them all round.\nShould they meet you anywhere, kisses in abundance in fine, wherever you\nmove there is nothing but kisses --a custom, says this reformer, who has\nnot the fear of Stubbes before his eyes,  never to be sufficiently\ncommended. \n\nWe shall find no more convenient opportunity to end this part of the\nsocial study of the age of Shakespeare than with this naive picture of\nthe sex which most adorned it. Some of the details appear trivial; but\ngrave history which concerns itself only with the actions of conspicuous\npersons, with the manoeuvres of armies, the schemes of politics, the\nbattles of theologies, fails signally to give us the real life of the\npeople by which we judge the character of an age.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nWhen we turn from France to England in, the latter part of the sixteenth\nand the beginning of the seventeenth century, we are in another\natmosphere; we encounter a literature that smacks of the soil, that is as\nvaried, as racy, often as rude, as human life itself, and which cannot be\nadequately appreciated except by a study of the popular mind and the\nhistory of the time which produced it.\n\n Voltaire,  says M. Guizot,  was the first person in France who spoke of\nShakespeare's genius; and although he spoke of him merely as a barbarian\ngenius, the French public were of the opinion that he had said too much\nin his favor. Indeed, they thought it nothing less than profanation to\napply the words genius and glory to dramas which they considered as crude\nas they were coarse. \n\nGuizot was one of the first of his nation to approach Shakespeare in the\nright spirit--that is, in the spirit in which he could hope for any\nenlightenment; and in his admirable essay on  Shakespeare and His Times, \n he pointed out the exact way in which any piece or period of literature\nshould be studied, that is worth studying at all. He inquired into\nEnglish civilization, into the habits, manners, and modes of thought of\nthe people for whom Shakespeare wrote. This method, this inquiry into\npopular sources, has been carried much further since Guizot wrote, and it\nis now considered the most remunerative method, whether the object of\nstudy is literature or politics. By it not only is the literature of a\nperiod for the first time understood, but it is given its just place as\nan exponent of human life and a monument of human action.\n\nThe student who takes up Shakespeare's plays for the purpose of either\namusement or cultivation, I would recommend to throw aside the whole load\nof commentary, and speculation, and disquisition, and devote himself to\ntrying to find out first what was the London and the England of\nShakespeare's day, what were the usages of all classes of society, what\nwere the manners and the character of the people who crowded to hear his\nplays, or who denounced them as the works of the devil and the allies of\nsin. I say again to the student that by this means Shakespeare will\nbecome a new thing to him, his mind will be enlarged to the purpose and\nscope of the great dramatist, and more illumination will be cast upon the\nplays than is received from the whole race of inquisitors into his\nphrases and critics of his genius. In the light of contemporary life, its\nvisions of empire, its spirit of adventure, its piracy, exploration, and\nwarlike turmoil, its credulity and superstitious wonder at natural\nphenomena, its implicit belief in the supernatural, its faith, its\nvirility of daring, coarseness of speech, bluntness of manner, luxury of\napparel, and ostentation of wealth, the mobility of its shifting society,\nthese dramas glow with a new meaning, and awaken a profounder admiration\nof the poet's knowledge of human life.\n\nThe experiences of the poet began with the rude and rural life of\nEngland, and when he passed into the presence of the court and into the\nbustle of great London in an age of amazing agitation, he felt still in\nhis veins the throb of the popular blood. There were classic affectations\nin England, there were masks and mummeries and classic puerilities at\ncourt and in noble houses--Elizabeth's court would well have liked to be\nclassical, remarks Guizot--but Shakespeare was not fettered by classic\nconventionalities, nor did he obey the unities, nor attempt to separate\non the stage the tragedy and comedy of life-- immense and living stage, \n says the writer I like to quote because he is French, upon which all\nthings are represented, as it were, in their solid form, and in the place\nwhich they occupied in a stormy and complicated civilization. In these\ndramas the comic element is introduced whenever its character of reality\ngives it the right of admission and the advantage of opportune\nappearance. Falstaff appears in the train of Henry V., and Doll\nTear-Sheet in the train of Falstaff; the people surround the kings, and\nthe soldiers crowd around their generals; all conditions of society, all\nthe phases of human destiny appear by turns in juxtaposition, with the\nnature which properly belongs to them, and in the position which they\nnaturally occupy. . . .\n\n Thus we find the entire world, the whole of human realities, reproduced\nby Shakespeare in tragedy, which, in his eyes, was the universal theatre\nof life and truth. \n\nIt is possible to make a brutal picture of the England of Shakespeare's\nday by telling nothing that is not true, and by leaving out much that is\ntrue. M. Taine, who has a theory to sustain, does it by a graphic\ncatalogue of details and traits that cannot be denied; only there is a\ngreat deal in English society that he does not include, perhaps does not\napprehend. Nature, he thinks, was never so completely acted out. These\nrobust men give rein to all their passions, delight in the strength of\ntheir limbs like Carmen, indulge in coarse language, undisguised\nsensuality, enjoy gross jests, brutal buffooneries. Humanity is as much\nlacking as decency. Blood, suffering, does not move them. The court\nfrequents bull and bear baitings; Elizabeth beats her maids, spits upon a\ncourtier's fringed coat, boxes Essex's ears; great ladies beat their\nchildren and their servants.  The sixteenth century,  he says,  is like a\nden of lions. Amid passions so strong as these there is not one lacking.\nNature appears here in all its violence, but also in all its fullness. If\nnothing has been softened, nothing has been mutilated. It is the entire\nman who is displayed, heart, mind, body, senses, with his noblest and\nfinest aspirations, as with his most bestial and savage appetites,\nwithout the preponderance of any dominant passion to cast him altogether\nin one direction, to exalt or degrade him. He has not become rigid as he\nwill under Puritanism. He is not uncrowned as in the Restoration.  He has\nentered like a young man into all the lusty experiences of life, every\nallurement is known, the sweetness and novelty of things are strong with\nhim. He plunges into all sensations.  Such were the men of this time,\nRaleigh, Essex, Elizabeth, Henry VIII himself, excessive and inconstant,\nready for devotion and for crime, violent in good and evil, heroic with\nstrange weaknesses, humble with sudden changes of mood, never vile with\npremeditation like the roisterers of the Restoration, never rigid on\nprinciple like the Puritans of the Revolution, capable of weeping like\nchildren, and of dying like men, often base courtiers, more than once\ntrue knights, displaying constantly, amidst all these contradictions of\nbearing, only the overflowing of nature. Thus prepared, they could take\nin everything, sanguinary ferocity and refined generosity, the brutality\nof shameless debauchery, and the most divine innocence of love, accept\nall the characters, wantons and virgins, princes and mountebanks, pass\nquickly from trivial buffoonery to lyrical sublimities, listen\nalternately to the quibbles of clowns and the songs of lovers. The drama\neven, in order to satisfy the prolixity of their nature, must take all\ntongues, pompous, inflated verse, loaded with imagery, and side by side\nwith this vulgar prose; more than this, it must distort its natural style\nand limits, put songs, poetical devices in the discourse of courtiers and\nthe speeches of statesmen; bring on the stage the fairy world of opera,\nas Middleton says, gnomes, nymphs of the land and sea, with their groves\nand meadows; compel the gods to descend upon the stage, and hell itself\nto furnish its world of marvels. No other theatre is so complicated, for\nnowhere else do we find men so complete. \n\nM. Taine heightens this picture in generalizations splashed with\ninnumerable blood-red details of English life and character. The English\nis the most warlike race in Europe, most redoubtable in battle, most\nimpatient of slavery.  English savages  is what Cellini calls them; and\nthe great shins of beef with which they fill themselves nourish the force\nand ferocity of their instincts. To harden them thoroughly, institutions\nwork in the same groove as nature. The nation is armed. Every man is a\nsoldier, bound to have arms according to his condition, to exercise\nhimself on Sundays and holidays. The State resembles an army; punishments\nmust inspire terror; the idea of war is ever present. Such instincts,\nsuch a history, raises before them with tragic severity the idea of life;\ndeath is at hand, wounds, blood, tortures. The fine purple cloaks, the\nholiday garments, elsewhere signs of gayety of mind, are stained with\nblood and bordered with black. Throughout a stern discipline, the axe\nready for every suspicion of treason;  great men, bishops, a chancellor,\nprinces, the king's relations, queens, a protector kneeling in the straw,\nsprinkled the Tower with their blood; one after the other they marched\npast, stretched out their necks; the Duke of Buckingham, Queen Anne\nBoleyn, Queen Catherine Howard, the Earl of Surrey, Admiral Seymour, the\nDuke of Somerset, Lady Jane Grey and her husband, the Duke of\nNorthumberland, the Earl of Essex, all on the throne, or on the steps of\nthe throne, in the highest ranks of honor, beauty, youth, genius; of the\nbright procession nothing is left but senseless trunks, marred by the\ntender mercies of the executioner. \n\nThe gibbet stands by the highways, heads of traitors and criminals grin\non the city gates. Mournful legends multiply, church-yard ghosts, walking\nspirits. In the evening, before bedtime, in the vast country houses, in\nthe poor cottages, people talk of the coach which is seen drawn by\nheadless horses, with headless postilions and coachmen. All this, with\nunbounded luxury, unbridled debauchery, gloom, and revelry hand in hand.\n A threatening and sombre fog veils their mind like their sky, and joy,\nlike the sun, pierces through it and upon them strongly and at\nintervals.  All this riot of passion and frenzy of vigorous life, this\nmadness and sorrow, in which life is a phantom and destiny drives so\nremorselessly, Taine finds on the stage and in the literature of the\nperiod.\n\nTo do him justice, he finds something else, something that might give him\na hint of the innate soundness of English life in its thousands of sweet\nhomes, something of that great force of moral stability, in the midst of\nall violence and excess of passion and performance, which makes a nation\nnoble.  Opposed to this band of tragic figures,  which M. Taine arrays\nfrom the dramas,  with their contorted features, brazen fronts, combative\nattitudes, is a troop (he says) of timid figures, tender before\neverything, the most graceful and love-worthy whom it has been given to\nman to depict. In Shakespeare you will meet them in Miranda, Juliet,\nDesdemona, Virginia, Ophelia, Cordelia, Imogen; but they abound also in\nthe others; and it is a characteristic of the race to have furnished\nthem, as it is of the drama to have represented them. By a singular\ncoincidence the women are more of women, the men more of men, here than\nelsewhere. The two natures go to its extreme--in the one to boldness, the\nspirit of enterprise and resistance, the warlike, imperious, and\nunpolished character; in the other to sweetness, devotion, patience,\ninextinguishable affection (hence the happiness and strength of the\nmarriage tie), a thing unknown in distant lands, and in France especially\na woman here gives herself without drawing back, and places her glory and\nduty in obedience, forgiveness, adoration, wishing, and pretending only\nto be melted and absorbed daily deeper and deeper in him whom she has\nfreely and forever chosen.  This is an old German instinct. The soul in\nthis race is at once primitive and serious. Women are disposed to follow\nthe noble dream called duty.  Thus, supported by innocence and\nconscience, they introduce into love a profound and upright sentiment,\nabjure coquetry, vanity, and flirtation; they do not lie, they are not\naffected. When they love they are not tasting a forbidden fruit, but are\nbinding themselves for their whole life. Thus understood, love becomes\nalmost a holy thing; the spectator no longer wishes to be malicious or to\njest; women do not think of their own happiness, but of that of the loved\nones; they aim not at pleasure, but at devotion. \n\nThus far M. Taine's brilliant antitheses--the most fascinating and most\ndangerous model for a young writer. But we are indebted to him for a most\nsuggestive study of the period. His astonishment, the astonishment of the\nGallic mind, at what he finds, is a measure of the difference in the\nliterature of the two races as an expression of their life. It was\nnatural that he should somewhat exaggerate what he regards as the source\nof this expression, leaving out of view, as he does, certain great forces\nand currents which an outside observer cannot feel as the race itself\nfeels. We look, indeed, for the local color of this English literature in\nthe manners and habits of the times, traits of which Taine has so\nskillfully made a mosaic from Harrison, Stubbes, Stowe, Holinshed, and\nthe pages of Reed and Drake; but we look for that which made it something\nmore than a mirror of contemporary manners, vices, and virtues, made it\nrepresentative of universal men, to other causes and forces-such as the\nReformation, the immense stir, energy, and ambition of the age (the\nresult of invention and discovery), newly awakened to the sense that\nthere was a world to be won and made tributary; that England, and, above\nall places on the globe at that moment, London, was the centre of a\ndisplay of energy and adventure such as has been scarcely paralleled in\nhistory. And underneath it all was the play of an uneasy, protesting\ndemocracy, eager to express itself in adventure, by changing its\ncondition, in the joy of living and overcoming, and in literature, with\nsmall regard for tradition or the unities.\n\nWhen Shakespeare came up to London with his first poems in his pocket,\nthe town was so great and full of marvels, and luxury, and entertainment,\nas to excite the astonishment of continental visitors. It swarmed with\nsoldiers, adventurers, sailors who were familiar with all seas and every\nport, men with projects, men with marvelous tales. It teemed with schemes\nof colonization, plans of amassing wealth by trade, by commerce, by\nplanting, mining, fishing, and by the quick eye and the strong hand.\nSwaggering in the coffee-houses and ruffling it in the streets were the\nmen who had sailed with Frobisher and Drake and Sir Humphrey Gilbert,\nHawkins, and Sir Richard Granville; had perhaps witnessed the heroic\ndeath of Sir Philip Sidney, at Zutphen; had served with Raleigh in Anjou,\nPicardy, Languedoc, in the Netherlands, in the Irish civil war; had taken\npart in the dispersion of the Spanish Armada, and in the bombardment of\nCadiz; had filled their cups to the union of Scotland with England; had\nsuffered shipwreck on the Barbary Coast, or had, by the fortune of war,\nfelt the grip of the Spanish Inquisition; who could tell tales of the\nmarvels seen in new-found America and the Indies, and, perhaps, like\nCaptain John Smith, could mingle stories of the naive simplicity of the\nnatives beyond the Atlantic, with charming narratives of the wars in\nHungary, the beauties of the seraglio of the Grand Turk, and the barbaric\npomp of the Khan of Tartary. There were those in the streets who would\nsee Raleigh go to the block on the scaffold in Old Palace Yard, who would\nfight against King Charles on the fields of Newbury or Naseby, Kineton or\nMarston Moor, and perchance see the exit of Charles himself from another\nscaffold erected over against the Banqueting House.\n\nAlthough London at the accession of James I.(1603) had only about one\nhundred and fifty thousand inhabitants--the population of England then\nnumbering about five million--it was so full of life and activity that\nFrederick, Duke of Wurtemberg, who saw it a few years before, in 1592,\nwas impressed with it as a large, excellent, and mighty city of business,\ncrowded with people buying and selling merchandise, and trading in almost\nevery corner of the world, a very populous city, so that one can scarcely\npass along the streets on account of the throng; the inhabitants, he\nsays, are magnificently appareled, extremely proud and overbearing, who\nscoff and laugh at foreigners, and no one dare oppose them lest the\nstreet boys and apprentices collect together in immense crowds and strike\nto right and left unmercifully without regard to persons.\n\nThere prevailed an insatiable curiosity for seeing strange sights and\nhearing strange adventures, with an eager desire for visiting foreign\ncountries, which Shakespeare and all the play-writers satirize.\nConversation turned upon the wonderful discoveries of travelers, whose\nvoyages to the New World occupied much of the public attention. The\nexaggeration which from love of importance inflated the narratives, the\npoets also take note of. There was also a universal taste for hazard in\nmoney as well as in travel, for putting it out on risks at exorbitant\ninterest, and the habit of gaming reached prodigious excess. The passion\nfor sudden wealth was fired by the success of the sea-rovers, news of\nwhich inflamed the imagination. Samuel Kiechel, a merchant of Ulm, who\nwas in London in 1585, records that,  news arrived of a Spanish ship\ncaptured by Drake, in which it was said there were two millions of\nuncoined gold and silver in ingots, fifty thousand crowns in coined\nreals, seven thousand hides, four chests of pearls, each containing two\nbushels, and some sacks of cochineal--the whole valued at twenty-five\nbarrels of gold; it was said to be one year and a half's tribute from\nPeru. \n\nThe passion for travel was at such a height that those who were unable to\naccomplish distant journeys, but had only crossed over into France and\nItaly, gave themselves great airs on their return.  Farewell, monsieur\ntraveler,  says Shakespeare;  look, you lisp, and wear strange suits;\ndisable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your\nnativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are,\nor I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.  The Londoners dearly\nloved gossip, and indulged in exaggeration of speech and high-flown\ncompliment. One gallant says to another:  O, signior, the star that\ngoverns my life is contentment; give me leave to interre myself in your\narms. -- Not so, sir, it is too unworthy an enclosure to contain such\npreciousness! \n\nDancing was the daily occupation rather than the amusement at court and\nelsewhere, and the names of dances exceeded the list of the virtues--such\nas the French brawl, the pavon, the measure, the canary, and many under\nthe general titles of corantees, jigs, galliards, and fancies. At the\ndinner and ball given by James I. to Juan Fernandez de Velasco, Constable\nof Castile, in 1604, fifty ladies of honor, very elegantly dressed and\nextremely beautiful, danced with the noblemen and gentlemen. Prince Henry\ndanced a galliard with a lady,  with much sprightliness and modesty,\ncutting several capers in the course of the dance ; the Earl of\nSouthampton led out the queen, and with three other couples danced a\nbrando, and so on, the Spanish visitors looking on. When Elizabeth was\nold and had a wrinkled face and black teeth, she was one day discovered\npracticing the dance step alone, to the sound of a fiddle, determined to\nkeep up to the last the limberness and agility necessary to impress\nforeign ambassadors with her grace and youth. There was one custom,\nhowever, that may have made dancing a labor of love: it was considered\nill manners for the gentleman not to kiss his partner. Indeed, in all\nhouseholds and in all ranks of society the guest was expected to salute\nthus all the ladies a custom which the grave Erasmus, who was in England\nin the reign of Henry VIII., found not disagreeable.\n\nMagnificence of display went hand in hand with a taste for cruel and\nbarbarous amusements. At this same dinner to the Constable of Castile,\nthe two buffets of the king and queen in the audience-chamber, where the\nbanquet was held, were loaded with plate of exquisite workmanship, rich\nvessels of gold, agate, and other precious stones. The constable drank to\nthe king the health of the queen from the lid of a cup of agate of\nextraordinary beauty and richness, set with diamonds and rubies, praying\nhis majesty would condescend to drink the toast from the cup, which he\ndid accordingly, and then the constable directed that the cup should\nremain in his majesty's buffet. The constable also drank to the queen the\nhealth of the king from a very beautiful dragon-shaped cup of crystal\ngarnished with gold, drinking from the cover, and the queen, standing up,\ngave the pledge from the cup itself, and then the constable ordered that\nthe cup should remain in the queen's buffet.\n\nThe banquet lasted three hours, when the cloth was removed, the table was\nplaced upon the ground--that is, removed from the dais--and their\nmajesties, standing upon it, washed their hands in basins, as did the\nothers. After the dinner was the ball, and that ended, they took their\nplaces at the windows of a roam that looked out upon a square, where a\nplatform was raised and a vast crowd was assembled to see the king's\nbears fight with greyhounds. This afforded great amusement. Presently a\nbull, tied to the end of a rope, was fiercely baited by dogs. After this\ntumblers danced upon a rope and performed feats of agility on horseback.\nThe constable and his attendants were lighted home by half an hundred\nhalberdiers with torches, and, after the fatigues of the day, supped in\nprivate. We are not surprised to read that on Monday, the 30th, the\nconstable awoke with a slight attack of lumbago.\n\nLike Elizabeth, all her subjects were fond of the savage pastime of bear\nand bull baiting. It cannot be denied that this people had a taste for\nblood, took delight in brutal encounters, and drew the sword and swung\nthe cudgel with great promptitude; nor were they fastidious in the matter\nof public executions. Kiechel says that when the criminal was driven in\nthe cart under the gallows, and left hanging by the neck as the cart\nmoved from under him, his friends and acquaintances pulled at his legs in\norder that he might be strangled the sooner.\n\nWhen Shakespeare was managing his theatres and writing his plays London\nwas full of foreigners, settled in the city, who no doubt formed part of\nhis audience, for they thought that English players had attained great\nperfection. In 1621 there were as many as ten thousand strangers in\nLondon, engaged in one hundred and twenty-one different trades. The poet\nneed not go far from Blackfriars to pick up scraps of German and\nfolk-lore, for the Hanse merchants were located in great numbers in the\nneighborhood of the steel-yard in Lower Thames Street.\n\nForeigners as well as contemporary chronicles and the printed diatribes\nagainst luxury bear witness to the profusion in all ranks of society and\nthe variety and richness in apparel. There was a rage for the display of\nfine clothes. Elizabeth left hanging in her wardrobe above three thousand\ndresses when she was called to take that unseemly voyage down the stream,\non which the clown's brogan jostles the queen's slipper. The plays of\nShakespeare, Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and of all the dramatists,\nare a perfect commentary on the fashions of the day, but a knowledge of\nthe fashions is necessary to a perfect enjoyment of the plays. We see the\nfine lady in a gown of velvet (the foreigners thought it odd that velvet\nshould be worn in the street), or cloth of gold and silver tissue, her\nhair eccentrically dressed, and perhaps dyed, a great hat with waving\nfeathers, sometimes a painted face, maybe a mask or a muffler hiding all\nthe features except the eyes, with a muff, silk stockings, high-heeled\nshoes, imitated from the  chopine  of Venice, perfumed bracelets,\nnecklaces, and gloves-- gloves sweet as damask roses --a\npocket-handkerchief wrought in gold and silver, a small looking-glass\npendant at the girdle, and a love-lock hanging wantonly over the\nshoulder, artificial flowers at the corsage, and a mincing step.  These\nfashionable women, when they are disappointed, dissolve into tears, weep\nwith one eye, laugh with the other, or, like children, laugh and cry they\ncan both together, and as much pity is to be taken of a woman weeping as\nof a goose going barefoot,  says old Burton.\n\nThe men had even greater fondness for finery. Paul Hentzner, the\nBrandenburg jurist, in 1598, saw, at the Fair at St. Bartholomew, the\nlord mayor, attended by twelve gorgeous aldermen, walk in a neighboring\nfield, dressed in a scarlet gown, and about his neck a golden chain, to\nwhich hung a Golden Fleece. Men wore the hair long and flowing, with high\nhats and plumes of feathers, and carried muffs like the women; gallants\nsported gloves on their hats as tokens of ladies' favors, jewels and\nroses in the ears, a long love-lock under the left ear, and gems in a\nribbon round the neck. This tall hat was called a  capatain.  Vincentio,\nin the  Taming of the Shrew,  exclaims:  O fine villain! A silken\ndoublet! A velvet hose! A scarlet cloak! And a capatain hat!  There was\nno limit to the caprice and extravagance. Hose and breeches of silk,\nvelvet, or other rich stuff, and fringed garters wrought of gold or\nsilver, worth five pounds apiece, are some of the items noted. Burton\nsays,  'Tis ordinary for a gallant to put a thousand oaks and an hundred\noxen into a suit of apparel, to wear a whole manor on his back.  Even\nserving-men and tailors wore jewels in their shoes.\n\nWe should note also the magnificence in the furnishing of houses, the\narras, tapestries, cloth of gold and silver, silk hangings of many\ncolors, the splendid plate on the tables and sideboards. Even in the\nhouses of the middle classes the furniture was rich and comfortable, and\nthere was an air of amenity in the chambers and parlors strewn with sweet\nherbs and daily decked with pretty nosegays and fragrant flowers. Lights\nwere placed on antique candelabra, or, wanting these at suppers, there\nwere living candleholders.  Give me a torch,  says Romeo;  I'll be a\ncandle-holder, and look on.  Knowledge of the details of luxury of an\nEnglish home of the sixteenth century will make exceedingly vivid hosts\nof allusions in Shakespeare.\n\nServants were numerous in great households, a large retinue being a mark\nof gentility, and hospitality was unbounded. During the lord mayor's term\nin London he kept open house, and every day any stranger or foreigner\ncould dine at his table, if he could find an empty seat. Dinner, served\nat eleven in the early years of James, attained a degree of epicureanism\nrivaling dinners of the present day, although the guests ate with their\nfingers or their knives, forks not coming in till 1611. There was mighty\neating and swigging at the banquets, and carousing was carried to an\nextravagant height, if we may judge by the account of an orgy at the\nking's palace in 1606, for the delectation of the King and Queen of\nDenmark, when the company and even their majesties abandoned discretion\nand sobriety, and  the ladies are seen to roll about in intoxication. \n\nThe manners of the male population of the period, says Nathan Drake, seem\nto have been compounded from the characters of the two sovereigns. Like\nElizabeth, they are brave, magnanimous, and prudent; and sometimes, like\nJames, they are credulous, curious, and dissipated. The credulity and\nsuperstition of the age, and its belief in the supernatural, and the\nsumptuousness of masques and pageants at the court and in the city, of\nwhich we read so much in the old chronicles, are abundantly reflected in\nthe pages of Jonson, Shakespeare, and other writers.\n\nThe town was full of public-houses and pleasure-gardens, but, curiously\nenough, the favorite place of public parading was the middle aisle of St.\nPaul's Cathedral-- Paul's Walk,  as it was called--which was daily\nfrequented by nobles, gentry, perfumed gallants, and ladies, from ten to\ntwelve and three to six o'clock, to talk on business, politics, or\npleasure. Hither came, to acquire the fashions, make assignations,\narrange for the night's gaming, or shun the bailiff, the gallant, the\ngamester, the ladies whose dresses were better than their manners, the\nstale knight, the captain out of service. Here Falstaff purchased\nBardolph.  I bought him,  say's the knight,  at Paul's.  The tailors went\nthere to get the fashions of dress, as the gallants did to display them,\none suit before dinner and another after. What a study was this varied,\nmixed, flaunting life, this dance of pleasure and license before the very\naltar of the church, for the writers of satire, comedy, and tragedy!\n\nBut it is not alone town life and court life and the society of the fine\nfolk that is reflected in the English drama and literature of the\nseventeenth century, and here is another wide difference between it and\nthe French literature of the same period; rural England and the popular\nlife of the country had quite as much to do in giving tone and color to\nthe writings of the time. It is necessary to know rural England to enter\ninto the spirit of this literature, and to appreciate how thoroughly it\ntook hold of life in every phase. Shakespeare knew it well. He drew from\nlife the country gentleman, the squire, the parson, the pedantic\nschoolmaster who was regarded as half conjurer, the yeoman or farmer, the\ndairy maids, the sweet English girls, the country louts, shepherds,\nboors, and fools. How he loved a fool! He had talked with all these\npersons, and knew their speeches and humors. He had taken part in the\ncountry festivals-May Day, Plow Monday, the Sheep Shearing, the Morris\nDances and Maud Marian, the Harvest Home and Twelfth Night. The rustic\nmerrymakings, the feasts in great halls, the games on the greensward, the\nlove of wonders and of marvelous tales, the regard for portents, the\nnaive superstitions of the time pass before us in his pages. Drake, in\nhis  Shakespeare and his Times,  gives a graphic and indeed charming\npicture of the rural life of this century, drawn from Harrison and other\nsources.\n\nIn his spacious hall, floored with stones and lighted by large transom\nwindows, hung with coats of mail and helmets, and all military\naccoutrements, long a prey to rust, the country squire, seated at a\nraised table at one end, held a baronial state and dispensed prodigal\nhospitality. The long table was divided into upper and lower messes by a\nhuge salt-cellar; and the consequence of the guests was marked by their\nseats above or below the salt. The distinction extended to the fare, for\nwine frequently circulated only above the salt, and below it the food was\nof coarser quality. The literature of the time is full of allusions to\nthis distinction. But the luxury of the table and good cooking were well\nunderstood in the time of Elizabeth and James. There was massive eating\ndone in those days, when the guests dined at eleven, rose from the\nbanquet to go to evening prayers, and returned to a supper at five or\nsix, which was often as substantial as the dinner. Gervase Markham in his\n English Housewife,  after treating of the ordering of great feasts,\ngives directions for  a more humble feast of an ordinary proportion. \n This  humble feast,  he says, should consist for the first course of\n sixteen full dishes, that is, dishes of meat that are of substance, and\nnot empty, or for shew--as thus, for example: first, a shield of brawn\nwith mustard; secondly, a boyl'd capon; thirdly, a boyl'd piece of beef;\nfourthly, a chine of beef rosted; fifthly, a neat's tongue rosted;\nsixthly, a pig rosted; seventhly, chewets bak'd; eighthly, a goose\nrosted; ninthly, a swan rosted; tenthly, a turkey rosted; the eleventh, a\nhaunch of venison rosted; the twelfth, a pasty of venison; the\nthirteenth, a kid with a pudding in the belly; the fourteenth, an\nolive-pye; the fifteenth, a couple of capons; the sixteenth, a custard or\ndowsets. Now to these full dishes may be added sallets, fricases,\n'quelque choses,' and devised paste; as many dishes more as will make no\nless than two and thirty dishes, which is as much as can conveniently\nstand on one table, and in one mess; and after this manner you may\nproportion both your second and third course, holding fullness on one\nhalf the dishes, and shew in the other, which will be both frugal in the\nsplendor, contentment to the guest, and much pleasure and delight to the\nbeholders.  After this frugal repast it needed an interval of prayers\nbefore supper.\n\nThe country squire was a long-lived but not always an intellectual\nanimal. He kept hawks of all kinds, and all sorts of hounds that ran\nbuck, fox, hare, otter, and badger. His great hall was commonly strewn\nwith marrow-bones, and full of hawks' perches, of hounds, spaniels, and\nterriers. His oyster-table stood at one end of the room, and oysters he\nate at dinner and supper. At the upper end of the room stood a small\ntable with a double desk, one side of which held a church Bible, the\nother Fox's  Book of Martyrs.  He drank a glass or two of wine at his\nmeals, put syrup of gilly-flower in his sack, and always had a tun-glass\nof small beer standing by him, which he often stirred about with\nrosemary. After dinner, with a glass of ale by his side he improved his\nmind by listening to the reading of a choice passage out of the  Book of\nMartyrs. \n\nThis is a portrait of one Henry Hastings, of Dorsetshire, in Gilpin's\n Forest Scenery.  He lived to be a hundred, and never lost his sight nor\nused spectacles. He got on horseback without help, and rode to the death\nof the stag till he was past fourscore.\n\nThe plain country fellow, plowman, or clown, is several pegs lower, and\ndescribed by Bishop Earle as one that manures his ground well, but lets\nhimself lie fallow and untitled. His hand guides the plow, and the plow\nhis thoughts. His mind is not much disturbed by objects, but he can fix a\nhalf-hour's contemplation on a good fat cow. His habitation is under a\npoor thatched roof, distinguished from his barn only by loop-holes that\nlet out the smoke. Dinner is serious work, for he sweats at it as much as\nat his labor, and he is a terrible fastener on a piece of beef. His\nreligion is a part of his copyhold, which he takes from his landlord and\nrefers it wholly to his discretion, but he is a good Christian in his\nway, that is, he comes to church in his best clothes, where he is capable\nonly of two prayers--for rain and fair weather.\n\nThe country clergymen, at least those of the lower orders, or readers,\nwere distinguished in Shakespeare's time by the appellation  Sir,  as Sir\nHugh, in the  Merry Wives,  Sir Topas, in  Twelfth Night,  Sir Oliver, in\n As You Like It.  The distinction is marked between priesthood and\nknighthood when Vista says,  I am one that would rather go with Sir\nPriest than Sir Knight.  The clergy were not models of conduct in the\ndays of Elizabeth, but their position excites little wonder when we read\nthat they were often paid less than the cook and the minstrel.\n\nThere was great fondness in cottage and hall for merry tales of errant\nknights, lovers, lords, ladies, dwarfs, friars, thieves, witches,\ngoblins, for old stories told by the fireside, with a toast of ale on the\nhearth, as in Milton's allusion\n\n              ---to the nut-brown ale,\n          With stories told of many a feat \n\nA designation of winter in  Love's Labour's Lost  is\n\n         When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. \n\nTo  turne a crab  is to roast a wild apple in the fire in order to throw\nit hissing hot into a bowl of nutbrown ale, into which had been put a\ntoast with some spice and sugar. Puck describes one of his wanton pranks:\n\n         And sometimes I lurk in a gossip's bowl,\n        In very likeness of a roasted crab,\n        And when she drinks against her lips I bob: \n\nI love no roast, says John Still, in  Gammer Gurton's Needle, \n\n         I love no rost, but a nut-browne torte,\n        And a crab layde in the fyre;\n        A lytle bread shall do me stead,\n        Much bread I not desire. \n\nIn the bibulous days of Shakespeare, the peg tankard, a species of\nwassail or wish-health bowl, was still in use. Introduced to restrain\nintemperance, it became a cause of it, as every drinker was obliged to\ndrink down to the peg. We get our expression of taking a man  a peg\nlower,  or taking him  down a peg,  from this custom.\n\nIn these details I am not attempting any complete picture of the rural\nlife at this time, but rather indicating by illustrations the sort of\nstudy which illuminates its literature. We find, indeed, if we go below\nthe surface of manners, sober, discreet, and sweet domestic life, and an\nappreciation of the virtues. Of the English housewife, says Gervase\nMarkham, was not only expected sanctity and holiness of life, but  great\nmodesty and temperance, as well outwardly as inwardly. She must be of\nchaste thoughts, stout courage, patient, untired, watchful, diligent,\nwitty, pleasant, constant in friendship, full of good neighborhood, wise\nin discourse, but not frequent therein, sharp and quick of speech, but\nnot bitter or talkative, secret in her affairs, comportable in her\ncounsels, and generally skillful in the worthy knowledges which do belong\nto her vocation.  This was the mistress of the hospitable house of the\ncountry knight, whose chief traits were loyalty to church and state, a\nlove of festivity, and an ardent attachment to field sports. His\nwell-educated daughter is charmingly described in an exquisite poem by\nDrayton:\n\nHe had, as antique stories tell,\n\n       He had, as antique stories tell,\n       A daughter cleaped Dawsabel,\n       A maiden fair and free;\n       And for she was her father's heir,\n       Full well she ycond the leir\n       Of mickle courtesy.\n\n        The silk well couth she twist and twine,\n       And make the fine march-pine,\n       And with the needle work:\n       And she couth help the priest to say\n       His matins on a holy day,\n       And sing a psalm in Kirk.\n\n        She wore a frock of frolic green\n       Might well become a maiden queen,\n       Which seemly was to see;\n       A hood to that so neat and fine,\n       In color like the columbine,\n       Ywrought full featously.\n\n        Her features all as fresh above\n       As is the grass that grows by Dove,\n       And lythe as lass of Kent.\n       Her skin as soft as Lemster wool,\n       As white as snow on Peakish Hull,\n       Or swan that swims in Trent.\n\n        This maiden in a morn betime\n       Went forth when May was in the prime\n       To get sweet setywall,\n       The honey-suckle, the harlock,\n       The lily, and the lady-smock,\n       To deck her summer hall. \n\nHow late such a simple and pretty picture could have been drawn to life\nis uncertain, but by the middle of the seventeenth century the luxury of\nthe town had penetrated the country, even into Scotland. The dress of a\nrich farmer's wife is thus described by Dunbar. She had  a robe of fine\nscarlet, with a white hood, a gay purse and gingling keys pendant at her\nside from a silken belt of silver tissue; on each finger she wore two\nrings, and round her waist was bound a sash of grass-green silk, richly\nembroidered with silver. \n\nShakespeare was the mirror of his time in things small as well as great.\nHow far he drew his characters from personal acquaintances has often been\ndiscussed. The clowns, tinkers, shepherds, tapsters, and such folk, he\nprobably knew by name. In the Duke of Manchester's  Court and Society\nfrom Elizabeth to Anne  is a curious suggestion about Hamlet. Reading\nsome letters from Robert, Earl of Essex, to Lady Rich, his sister, the\nhandsome, fascinating, and disreputable Penelope Devereaux, he notes, in\ntheir humorous melancholy and discontent with mankind, something in tone\nand even language which suggests the weak and fantastic side of Hamlet's\nmind, and asks if the poet may not have conceived his character of Hamlet\nfrom Essex, and of Horatio from Southampton, his friend and patron. And\nhe goes on to note some singular coincidences. Essex was supposed by many\nto have a good title to the throne. In person he had his father's beauty\nand was all that Shakespeare has described the Prince of Denmark. His\nmother had been tempted from her duty while her noble and generous\nhusband was alive, and this husband was supposed to have been poisoned by\nher and her paramour. After the father's murder the seducer had married\nthe guilty mother. The father had not perished without expressing\nsuspicion of foul play against himself, yet sending his forgiveness to\nhis faithless wife. There are many other agreements in the facts of the\ncase and the incidents of the play. The relation of Claudius to Hamlet is\nthe same as that of Leicester to Essex: under pretense of fatherly\nfriendship he was suspicious of his motives, jealous of his actions; kept\nhim much in the country and at college; let him see little of his mother,\nand clouded his prospects in the world by an appearance of benignant\nfavor. Gertrude's relations with her son Hamlet were much like those of\nLettice with Robert Devereaux. Again, it is suggested, in his moodiness,\nin his college learning, in his love for the theatre and the players, in\nhis desire for the fiery action for which his nature was most unfit,\nthere are many kinds of hints calling up an image of the Danish Prince.\n\nThis suggestion is interesting in the view that we find in the characters\nof the Elizabethan drama not types and qualities, but individuals\nstrongly projected, with all their idiosyncrasies and contradictions.\nThese dramas touch our sympathies at all points, and are representative\nof human life today, because they reflected the human life of their time.\nThis is supremely true of Shakespeare, and almost equally true of Jonson\nand many of the other stars of that marvelous epoch. In England as well\nas in France, as we have said, it was the period of the classic revival;\nbut in England the energetic reality of the time was strong enough to\nbreak the classic fetters, and to use classic learning for modern\npurposes. The English dramatists, like the French, used classic histories\nand characters. But two things are to be noted in their use of them.\nFirst, that the characters and the play of mind and passion in them are\nthoroughly English and of the modern time. And second, and this seems at\nfirst a paradox, they are truer to the classic spirit than the characters\nin the contemporary French drama. This results from the fact that they\nare truer to the substance of things, to universal human nature, while\nthe French seem to be in great part an imitation, having root neither in\nthe soil of France nor Attica. M. Guizot confesses that France, in order\nto adopt the ancient models, was compelled to limit its field in some\nsort to one corner of human existence. He goes on to say that the present\n demands of the drama pleasures and emotions that can no longer be\nsupplied by the inanimate representation of a world that has ceased to\nexist. The classic system had its origin in the life of the time; that\ntime has passed away; its image subsists in brilliant colors in its\nworks, but can no more be reproduced.  Our own literary monuments must\nrest on other ground.  This ground is not the ground of Corneille or\nRacine, nor is it that of Shakespeare; it is our own; but Shakespeare's\nsystem, as it appears to me, may furnish the plans according to which\ngenius ought now to work. This system alone includes all those social\nconditions and those general and diverse feelings, the simultaneous\nconjuncture and activity of which constitute for us at the present day\nthe spectacle of human things. \n\nThat is certainly all that any one can claim for Shakespeare and his\nfellow-dramatists. They cannot be models in form any more than Sophocles\nand Euripides; but they are to be followed in making the drama, or any\nliterature, expressive of its own time, while it is faithful to the\nemotions and feeling of universal human nature. And herein, it seems to\nme, lies the broad distinction between most of the English and French\nliterature of the latter part of the sixteenth and the beginning of the\nseventeenth centuries. Perhaps I may be indulged in another observation\non this topic, touching a later time. Notwithstanding the prevalent\nnotion that the French poets are the sympathetic heirs of classic\nculture, it appears to me that they are not so imbued with the true\nclassic spirit, art, and mythology as some of our English poets, notably\nKeats and Shelley.\n\nBen Jonson was a man of extensive and exact classical erudition; he was a\nsolid scholar in the Greek and Roman literatures, in the works of the\nphilosophers, poets, and historians. He was also a man of uncommon\nattainments in all the literary knowledge of his time. In some of his\ntragedies his classic learning was thought to be ostentatiously\ndisplayed, but this was not true of his comedy, and on the whole he was\ntoo strong to be swamped in pseudo-classicism. For his experience of men\nand of life was deep and varied. Before he became a public actor and\ndramatist, and served the court and fashionable society with his\nentertaining, if pedantic, masques, he had been student, tradesman, and\nsoldier; he had traveled in Flanders and seen Paris, and wandered on foot\nthrough the length of England. London he knew as well as a man knows his\nown house and club, the comforts of its taverns, the revels of lords and\nladies, the sports of Bartholomew Fair, and the humors of suburban\nvillages; all the phases, language, crafts, professions of high and low\ncity life were familiar to him. And in his comedies, as Mr. A. W. Ward\npertinently says, his marvelously vivid reproduction of manners is\nunsurpassed by any of his contemporaries.  The age lives in his men and\nwomen, his country gulls and town gulls, his imposters and skeldering\ncaptains, his court ladies and would-be court ladies, his puling\npoetasters and whining Puritans, and, above all, in the whole ragamuffin\nrout of his Bartholomew Fair. Its pastimes, fashionable and\nunfashionable, its games and vapors and jeering, its high-polite\ncourtships and its pulpit-shows, its degrading superstitions and\nconfounding hallucinations, its clubs of naughty ladies and its offices\nof lying news, its taverns and its tobacco shops, its giddy heights and\nits meanest depths--all are brought before us by our author. \n\nNo, he was not swamped by classicism, but he was affected by it, and just\nhere, and in that self-consciousness which Shakespeare was free from, and\nwhich may have been more or less the result of his classic erudition, he\nfails of being one of the universal poets of mankind. The genius of\nShakespeare lay in his power to so use the real and individual facts of\nlife as to raise in the minds of his readers a broader and nobler\nconception of human life than they had conceived before. This is creative\ngenius; this is the idealist dealing faithfully with realistic material;\nthis is, as we should say in our day, the work of the artist as\ndistinguished from the work of the photographer. It may be an admirable\nbut it is not the highest work of the sculptor, the painter, or the\nwriter, that does not reveal to the mind--that comes into relation with\nit something before out of his experience and beyond the facts either\nbrought before him or with which he is acquainted.\n\nWhat influence Shakespeare had upon the culture and taste of his own time\nand upon his immediate audience would be a most interesting inquiry. We\nknow what his audiences were. He wrote for the people, and the theatre in\nhis day was a popular amusement for the multitude, probably more than it\nwas a recreation for those who enjoyed the culture of letters. A taste\nfor letters was prevalent among the upper class, and indeed was\nfashionable among both ladies and gentlemen of rank. In this the court of\nElizabeth set the fashion. The daughter of the duchess was taught not\nonly to distill strong waters, but to construe Greek. When the queen was\ntranslating Socrates or Seneca, the maids of honor found it convenient to\naffect at least a taste for the classics. For the nobleman and the\ncourtier an intimacy with Greek, Latin, and Italian was essential to\n good form.  But the taste for erudition was mainly confined to the\nmetropolis or the families who frequented it, and to persons of rank, and\ndid not pervade the country or the middle classes. A few of the country\ngentry had some pretension to learning, but the majority cared little\nexcept for hawks and hounds, gaming and drinking; and if they read it was\nsome old chronicle, or story of knightly adventure,  Amadis de Gaul,  or\na stray playbook, or something like the  History of Long Meg of\nWestminster,  or perhaps a sheet of news. To read and write were still\nrare accomplishments in the country, and Dogberry expressed a common\nnotion when he said reading and writing come by nature. Sheets of news\nhad become common in the town in James's time, the first newspaper being\nthe English Mercury, which appeared in April, 1588, and furnished food\nfor Jonson's satire in his  Staple of News.  His accusation has a\nfamiliar sound when he says that people had a  hunger and thirst after\npublished pamphlets of news, set out every Saturday, but made all at\nhome, and no syllable of truth in them. \n\nThough Elizabeth and James were warm patrons of the theatre, the court\nhad no such influence over the plays and players as had the court in\nParis at the same period. The theatres were built for the people, and the\naudiences included all classes. There was a distinction between what were\ncalled public and private theatres, but the public frequented both. The\nShakespeare theatres, at which his plays were exclusively performed, were\nthe Globe, called public, on the Bankside, and the Blackfriars, called\nprivate, on the City side, the one for summer, the other for winter\nperformances. The Blackfriars was smaller than the Globe, was roofed\nover, and needed to be lighted with candles, and was frequented more by\nthe better class than the more popular Globe. There is no evidence that\nElizabeth ever attended the public theatres, but the companies were often\nsummoned to play before her in Whitehall, where the appointments and\nscenery were much better than in the popular houses.\n\nThe price of general admission to the Globe and Blackfriars was sixpence,\nat the Fashion Theatre twopence, and at some of the inferior theatres one\npenny. The boxes at the Globe were a shilling, at the Blackfriars\none-and-six. The usual net receipts of a performance were from nine to\nten pounds, and this was about the sum that Elizabeth paid to companies\nfor a performance at Whitehall, which was always in the evening and did\nnot interfere with regular hours. The theatres opened as early as one\no'clock and not later than three in the afternoon. The crowds that filled\nthe pit and galleries early, to secure places, amused themselves\nvariously before the performance began: they drank ale, smoked, fought\nfor apples, cracked nuts, chaffed the boxes, and a few read the cheap\npublications of the day that were hawked in the theatre. It was a rough\nand unsavory audience in pit and gallery, but it was a responsive one,\nand it enjoyed the acting with little help to illusion in the way of\nscenery. In fact, scenery did not exist, as we understand it. A board\ninscribed with the name of the country or city indicated the scene of\naction. Occasionally movable painted scenes were introduced. The interior\nroof of the stage was painted sky-blue, or hung with drapery of that\ntint, to represent the heavens. But when the idea of a dark, starless\nnight was to be imposed, or tragedy was to be acted, these heavens were\nhung with black stuffs, a custom illustrated in many allusions in\nShakespeare, like that in the line,\n\n    Hung be the heavens in black, yield day to night \n\nTo hang the stage with black was to prepare it for tragedy. The costumes\nof the players were sometimes less niggardly than the furnishing of the\nstage, for it was an age of rich and picturesque apparel, and it was not\ndifficult to procure the cast-off clothes of fine gentlemen for stage\nuse. But there was no lavishing of expense. I am recalling these details\nto show that the amusement was popular and cheap. The ordinary actors,\nincluding the boys and men who took women's parts (for women did not\nappear on the stage till after the Restoration) received only about five\nor six shillings a week (for Sundays and all), and the first-class actor,\nwho had a share in the net receipts, would not make more than ninety\npounds a year. The ordinary price paid for a new play was less than seven\npounds; Oldys, on what authority is not known, says that Shakespeare\nreceived only five pounds for  Hamlet. \n\nThe influence of the theatre upon politics, contemporary questions that\ninterested the public, and morals, was early recognized in the restraints\nput upon representations by the censorship, and in the floods of attacks\nupon its licentious and demoralizing character. The plays of Shakespeare\ndid not escape the most bitter animadversions of the moral reformers. We\nhave seen how Shakespeare mirrored his age, but we have less means of\nascertaining what effect he produced upon the life of his time. Until\nafter his death his influence was mainly direct, upon the play-goers, and\nconfined to his auditors. He had been dead seven years before his plays\nwere collected. However the people of his day regarded him, it is safe to\nsay that they could not have had any conception of the importance of the\nwork he was doing. They were doubtless satisfied with him. It was a great\nage for romances and story-telling, and he told stories, old in new\ndresses, but he was also careful to use contemporary life, which his\nhearers understood.\n\nIt is not to his own age, but to those following, and especially to our\nown time, that we are to look for the shaping and enormous influence upon\nhuman life of the genius of this poet. And it is measured not by the\nlibraries of comments that his works have called forth, but by the\nprevalence of the language and thought of his poetry in all subsequent\nliterature, and by its entrance into the current of common thought and\nspeech. It may be safely said that the English-speaking world and almost\nevery individual of it are different from what they would have been if\nShakespeare had never lived. Of all the forces that have survived out of\nhis creative time, he is one of the chief."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Moonstone",
        "author": "Wilkie Collins",
        "category": "Mystery",
        "EN": "I\n\nI address these lines written in India to my relatives in England.\n\nMy object is to explain the motive which has induced me to refuse the\nright hand of friendship to my cousin, John Herncastle. The reserve\nwhich I have hitherto maintained in this matter has been misinterpreted\nby members of my family whose good opinion I cannot consent to forfeit.\nI request them to suspend their decision until they have read my\nnarrative. And I declare, on my word of honour, that what I am now\nabout to write is, strictly and literally, the truth.\n\nThe private difference between my cousin and me took its rise in a\ngreat public event in which we were both concerned the storming of\nSeringapatam, under General Baird, on the 4th of May, 1799.\n\nIn order that the circumstances may be clearly understood, I must\nrevert for a moment to the period before the assault, and to the\nstories current in our camp of the treasure in jewels and gold stored\nup in the Palace of Seringapatam.\n\nII\n\nOne of the wildest of these stories related to a Yellow Diamond a\nfamous gem in the native annals of India.\n\nThe earliest known traditions describe the stone as having been set in\nthe forehead of the four-handed Indian god who typifies the Moon.\nPartly from its peculiar colour, partly from a superstition which\nrepresented it as feeling the influence of the deity whom it adorned,\nand growing and lessening in lustre with the waxing and waning of the\nmoon, it first gained the name by which it continues to be known in\nIndia to this day the name of THE MOONSTONE. A similar superstition was\nonce prevalent, as I have heard, in ancient Greece and Rome; not\napplying, however (as in India), to a diamond devoted to the service of\na god, but to a semi-transparent stone of the inferior order of gems,\nsupposed to be affected by the lunar influences the moon, in this\nlatter case also, giving the name by which the stone is still known to\ncollectors in our own time.\n\nThe adventures of the Yellow Diamond begin with the eleventh century of\nthe Christian era.\n\nAt that date, the Mohammedan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni, crossed\nIndia; seized on the holy city of Somnauth; and stripped of its\ntreasures the famous temple, which had stood for centuries the shrine\nof Hindoo pilgrimage, and the wonder of the Eastern world.\n\nOf all the deities worshipped in the temple, the moon-god alone escaped\nthe rapacity of the conquering Mohammedans. Preserved by three\nBrahmins, the inviolate deity, bearing the Yellow Diamond in its\nforehead, was removed by night, and was transported to the second of\nthe sacred cities of India the city of Benares.\n\nHere, in a new shrine in a hall inlaid with precious stones, under a\nroof supported by pillars of gold the moon-god was set up and\nworshipped. Here, on the night when the shrine was completed, Vishnu\nthe Preserver appeared to the three Brahmins in a dream.\n\nThe deity breathed the breath of his divinity on the Diamond in the\nforehead of the god. And the Brahmins knelt and hid their faces in\ntheir robes. The deity commanded that the Moonstone should be watched,\nfrom that time forth, by three priests in turn, night and day, to the\nend of the generations of men. And the Brahmins heard, and bowed before\nhis will. The deity predicted certain disaster to the presumptuous\nmortal who laid hands on the sacred gem, and to all of his house and\nname who received it after him. And the Brahmins caused the prophecy to\nbe written over the gates of the shrine in letters of gold.\n\nOne age followed another and still, generation after generation, the\nsuccessors of the three Brahmins watched their priceless Moonstone,\nnight and day. One age followed another until the first years of the\neighteenth Christian century saw the reign of Aurungzebe, Emperor of\nthe Moguls. At his command havoc and rapine were let loose once more\namong the temples of the worship of Brahmah. The shrine of the\nfour-handed god was polluted by the slaughter of sacred animals; the\nimages of the deities were broken in pieces; and the Moonstone was\nseized by an officer of rank in the army of Aurungzebe.\n\nPowerless to recover their lost treasure by open force, the three\nguardian priests followed and watched it in disguise. The generations\nsucceeded each other; the warrior who had committed the sacrilege\nperished miserably; the Moonstone passed (carrying its curse with it)\nfrom one lawless Mohammedan hand to another; and still, through all\nchances and changes, the successors of the three guardian priests kept\ntheir watch, waiting the day when the will of Vishnu the Preserver\nshould restore to them their sacred gem. Time rolled on from the first\nto the last years of the eighteenth Christian century. The Diamond fell\ninto the possession of Tippoo, Sultan of Seringapatam, who caused it to\nbe placed as an ornament in the handle of a dagger, and who commanded\nit to be kept among the choicest treasures of his armoury. Even then in\nthe palace of the Sultan himself the three guardian priests still kept\ntheir watch in secret. There were three officers of Tippoo s household,\nstrangers to the rest, who had won their master s confidence by\nconforming, or appearing to conform, to the Mussulman faith; and to\nthose three men report pointed as the three priests in disguise.\n\nIII\n\nSo, as told in our camp, ran the fanciful story of the Moonstone. It\nmade no serious impression on any of us except my cousin whose love of\nthe marvellous induced him to believe it. On the night before the\nassault on Seringapatam, he was absurdly angry with me, and with\nothers, for treating the whole thing as a fable. A foolish wrangle\nfollowed; and Herncastle s unlucky temper got the better of him. He\ndeclared, in his boastful way, that we should see the Diamond on his\nfinger, if the English army took Seringapatam. The sally was saluted by\na roar of laughter, and there, as we all thought that night, the thing\nended.\n\nLet me now take you on to the day of the assault.\n\nMy cousin and I were separated at the outset. I never saw him when we\nforded the river; when we planted the English flag in the first breach;\nwhen we crossed the ditch beyond; and, fighting every inch of our way,\nentered the town. It was only at dusk, when the place was ours, and\nafter General Baird himself had found the dead body of Tippoo under a\nheap of the slain, that Herncastle and I met.\n\nWe were each attached to a party sent out by the general s orders to\nprevent the plunder and confusion which followed our conquest. The\ncamp-followers committed deplorable excesses; and, worse still, the\nsoldiers found their way, by an unguarded door, into the treasury of the\nPalace, and loaded themselves with gold and jewels. It was in the court\noutside the treasury that my cousin and I met, to enforce the laws of\ndiscipline on our own soldiers. Herncastle s fiery temper had been, as\nI could plainly see, exasperated to a kind of frenzy by the terrible\nslaughter through which we had passed. He was very unfit, in my\nopinion, to perform the duty that had been entrusted to him.\n\nThere was riot and confusion enough in the treasury, but no violence\nthat I saw. The men (if I may use such an expression) disgraced\nthemselves good-humouredly. All sorts of rough jests and catchwords\nwere bandied about among them; and the story of the Diamond turned up\nagain unexpectedly, in the form of a mischievous joke.  Who s got the\nMoonstone?  was the rallying cry which perpetually caused the\nplundering, as soon as it was stopped in one place, to break out in\nanother. While I was still vainly trying to establish order, I heard a\nfrightful yelling on the other side of the courtyard, and at once ran\ntowards the cries, in dread of finding some new outbreak of the pillage\nin that direction.\n\nI got to an open door, and saw the bodies of two Indians (by their\ndress, as I guessed, officers of the palace) lying across the entrance,\ndead.\n\nA cry inside hurried me into a room, which appeared to serve as an\narmoury. A third Indian, mortally wounded, was sinking at the feet of a\nman whose back was towards me. The man turned at the instant when I\ncame in, and I saw John Herncastle, with a torch in one hand, and a\ndagger dripping with blood in the other. A stone, set like a pommel, in\nthe end of the dagger s handle, flashed in the torchlight, as he turned\non me, like a gleam of fire. The dying Indian sank to his knees,\npointed to the dagger in Herncastle s hand, and said, in his native\nlanguage The Moonstone will have its vengeance yet on you and yours! \nHe spoke those words, and fell dead on the floor.\n\nBefore I could stir in the matter, the men who had followed me across\nthe courtyard crowded in. My cousin rushed to meet them, like a madman.\n Clear the room!  he shouted to me,  and set a guard on the door!  The\nmen fell back as he threw himself on them with his torch and his\ndagger. I put two sentinels of my own company, on whom I could rely, to\nkeep the door. Through the remainder of the night, I saw no more of my\ncousin.\n\nEarly in the morning, the plunder still going on, General Baird\nannounced publicly by beat of drum, that any thief detected in the\nfact, be he whom he might, should be hung. The provost-marshal was in\nattendance, to prove that the General was in earnest; and in the throng\nthat followed the proclamation, Herncastle and I met again.\n\nHe held out his hand, as usual, and said,  Good morning. \n\nI waited before I gave him my hand in return.\n\n Tell me first,  I said,  how the Indian in the armoury met his death,\nand what those last words meant, when he pointed to the dagger in your\nhand. \n\n The Indian met his death, as I suppose, by a mortal wound,  said\nHerncastle.  What his last words meant I know no more than you do. \n\nI looked at him narrowly. His frenzy of the previous day had all calmed\ndown. I determined to give him another chance.\n\n Is that all you have to tell me?  I asked.\n\nHe answered,  That is all. \n\nI turned my back on him; and we have not spoken since.\n\nIV\n\nI beg it to be understood that what I write here about my cousin\n(unless some necessity should arise for making it public) is for the\ninformation of the family only. Herncastle has said nothing that can\njustify me in speaking to our commanding officer. He has been taunted\nmore than once about the Diamond, by those who recollect his angry\noutbreak before the assault; but, as may easily be imagined, his own\nremembrance of the circumstances under which I surprised him in the\narmoury has been enough to keep him silent. It is reported that he\nmeans to exchange into another regiment, avowedly for the purpose of\nseparating himself from _me_.\n\nWhether this be true or not, I cannot prevail upon myself to become his\naccuser and I think with good reason. If I made the matter public, I\nhave no evidence but moral evidence to bring forward. I have not only\nno proof that he killed the two men at the door; I cannot even declare\nthat he killed the third man inside for I cannot say that my own eyes\nsaw the deed committed. It is true that I heard the dying Indian s\nwords; but if those words were pronounced to be the ravings of\ndelirium, how could I contradict the assertion from my own knowledge?\nLet our relatives, on either side, form their own opinion on what I\nhave written, and decide for themselves whether the aversion I now feel\ntowards this man is well or ill founded.\n\nAlthough I attach no sort of credit to the fantastic Indian legend of\nthe gem, I must acknowledge, before I conclude, that I am influenced by\na certain superstition of my own in this matter. It is my conviction,\nor my delusion, no matter which, that crime brings its own fatality\nwith it. I am not only persuaded of Herncastle s guilt; I am even\nfanciful enough to believe that he will live to regret it, if he keeps\nthe Diamond; and that others will live to regret taking it from him, if\nhe gives the Diamond away.\n\n\nTHE STORY\n\n\nFIRST PERIOD\n\n\n THE LOSS OF THE DIAMOND (1848)\n\n_The Events related by Gabriel Betteredge, house-steward in the service\nof Julia, Lady Verinder._\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nIn the first part of _Robinson Crusoe_, at page one hundred and\ntwenty-nine, you will find it thus written:\n\n Now I saw, though too late, the Folly of beginning a Work before we\ncount the Cost, and before we judge rightly of our own Strength to go\nthrough with it. \n\nOnly yesterday, I opened my _Robinson Crusoe_ at that place. Only this\nmorning (May twenty-first, eighteen hundred and fifty), came my lady s\nnephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, and held a short conversation with me, as\nfollows: \n\n Betteredge,  says Mr. Franklin,  I have been to the lawyer s about\nsome family matters; and, among other things, we have been talking of\nthe loss of the Indian Diamond, in my aunt s house in Yorkshire, two\nyears since. Mr. Bruff thinks as I think, that the whole story ought,\nin the interests of truth, to be placed on record in writing and the\nsooner the better. \n\nNot perceiving his drift yet, and thinking it always desirable for the\nsake of peace and quietness to be on the lawyer s side, I said I\nthought so too. Mr. Franklin went on.\n\n In this matter of the Diamond,  he said,  the characters of innocent\npeople have suffered under suspicion already as you know. The memories\nof innocent people may suffer, hereafter, for want of a record of the\nfacts to which those who come after us can appeal. There can be no\ndoubt that this strange family story of ours ought to be told. And I\nthink, Betteredge, Mr. Bruff and I together have hit on the right way\nof telling it. \n\nVery satisfactory to both of them, no doubt. But I failed to see what I\nmyself had to do with it, so far.\n\n We have certain events to relate,  Mr. Franklin proceeded;  and we\nhave certain persons concerned in those events who are capable of\nrelating them. Starting from these plain facts, the idea is that we\nshould all write the story of the Moonstone in turn as far as our own\npersonal experience extends, and no farther. We must begin by showing\nhow the Diamond first fell into the hands of my uncle Herncastle, when\nhe was serving in India fifty years since. This prefatory narrative I\nhave already got by me in the form of an old family paper, which\nrelates the necessary particulars on the authority of an eye-witness.\nThe next thing to do is to tell how the Diamond found its way into my\naunt s house in Yorkshire, two years ago, and how it came to be lost in\nlittle more than twelve hours afterwards. Nobody knows as much as you\ndo, Betteredge, about what went on in the house at that time. So you\nmust take the pen in hand, and start the story. \n\nIn those terms I was informed of what my personal concern was with the\nmatter of the Diamond. If you are curious to know what course I took\nunder the circumstances, I beg to inform you that I did what you would\nprobably have done in my place. I modestly declared myself to be quite\nunequal to the task imposed upon me and I privately felt, all the time,\nthat I was quite clever enough to perform it, if I only gave my own\nabilities a fair chance. Mr. Franklin, I imagine, must have seen my\nprivate sentiments in my face. He declined to believe in my modesty;\nand he insisted on giving my abilities a fair chance.\n\nTwo hours have passed since Mr. Franklin left me. As soon as his back\nwas turned, I went to my writing-desk to start the story. There I have\nsat helpless (in spite of my abilities) ever since; seeing what\nRobinson Crusoe saw, as quoted above namely, the folly of beginning a\nwork before we count the cost, and before we judge rightly of our own\nstrength to go through with it. Please to remember, I opened the book\nby accident, at that bit, only the day before I rashly undertook the\nbusiness now in hand; and, allow me to ask if _that_ isn t prophecy,\nwhat is?\n\nI am not superstitious; I have read a heap of books in my time; I am a\nscholar in my own way. Though turned seventy, I possess an active\nmemory, and legs to correspond. You are not to take it, if you please,\nas the saying of an ignorant man, when I express my opinion that such a\nbook as _Robinson Crusoe_ never was written, and never will be written\nagain. I have tried that book for years generally in combination with a\npipe of tobacco and I have found it my friend in need in all the\nnecessities of this mortal life. When my spirits are bad _Robinson\nCrusoe_. When I want advice _Robinson Crusoe_. In past times when my\nwife plagued me; in present times when I have had a drop too\nmuch _Robinson Crusoe_. I have worn out six stout _Robinson Crusoes_\nwith hard work in my service. On my lady s last birthday she gave me a\nseventh. I took a drop too much on the strength of it; and _Robinson\nCrusoe_ put me right again. Price four shillings and sixpence, bound in\nblue, with a picture into the bargain.\n\nStill, this don t look much like starting the story of the Diamond does\nit? I seem to be wandering off in search of Lord knows what, Lord knows\nwhere. We will take a new sheet of paper, if you please, and begin over\nagain, with my best respects to you.\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nI spoke of my lady a line or two back. Now the Diamond could never have\nbeen in our house, where it was lost, if it had not been made a present\nof to my lady s daughter; and my lady s daughter would never have been\nin existence to have the present, if it had not been for my lady who\n(with pain and travail) produced her into the world. Consequently, if\nwe begin with my lady, we are pretty sure of beginning far enough back.\nAnd that, let me tell you, when you have got such a job as mine in\nhand, is a real comfort at starting.\n\nIf you know anything of the fashionable world, you have heard tell of\nthe three beautiful Miss Herncastles. Miss Adelaide; Miss Caroline; and\nMiss Julia this last being the youngest and the best of the three\nsisters, in my opinion; and I had opportunities of judging, as you\nshall presently see. I went into the service of the old lord, their\nfather (thank God, we have got nothing to do with him, in this business\nof the Diamond; he had the longest tongue and the shortest temper of\nany man, high or low, I ever met with) I say, I went into the service\nof the old lord, as page-boy in waiting on the three honourable young\nladies, at the age of fifteen years. There I lived till Miss Julia\nmarried the late Sir John Verinder. An excellent man, who only wanted\nsomebody to manage him; and, between ourselves, he found somebody to do\nit; and what is more, he throve on it and grew fat on it, and lived\nhappy and died easy on it, dating from the day when my lady took him to\nchurch to be married, to the day when she relieved him of his last\nbreath, and closed his eyes for ever.\n\nI have omitted to state that I went with the bride to the bride s\nhusband s house and lands down here.  Sir John,  she says,  I can t do\nwithout Gabriel Betteredge.   My lady,  says Sir John,  I can t do\nwithout him, either.  That was his way with her and that was how I went\ninto his service. It was all one to me where I went, so long as my\nmistress and I were together.\n\nSeeing that my lady took an interest in the out-of-door work, and the\nfarms, and such like, I took an interest in them too with all the more\nreason that I was a small farmer s seventh son myself. My lady got me\nput under the bailiff, and I did my best, and gave satisfaction, and\ngot promotion accordingly. Some years later, on the Monday as it might\nbe, my lady says,  Sir John, your bailiff is a stupid old man. Pension\nhim liberally, and let Gabriel Betteredge have his place.  On the\nTuesday as it might be, Sir John says,  My lady, the bailiff is\npensioned liberally; and Gabriel Betteredge has got his place.  You\nhear more than enough of married people living together miserably. Here\nis an example to the contrary. Let it be a warning to some of you, and\nan encouragement to others. In the meantime, I will go on with my\nstory.\n\nWell, there I was in clover, you will say. Placed in a position of\ntrust and honour, with a little cottage of my own to live in, with my\nrounds on the estate to occupy me in the morning, and my accounts in\nthe afternoon, and my pipe and my _Robinson Crusoe_ in the evening what\nmore could I possibly want to make me happy? Remember what Adam wanted\nwhen he was alone in the Garden of Eden; and if you don t blame it in\nAdam, don t blame it in me.\n\nThe woman I fixed my eye on, was the woman who kept house for me at my\ncottage. Her name was Selina Goby. I agree with the late William\nCobbett about picking a wife. See that she chews her food well and sets\nher foot down firmly on the ground when she walks, and you re all\nright. Selina Goby was all right in both these respects, which was one\nreason for marrying her. I had another reason, likewise, entirely of my\nown discovering. Selina, being a single woman, made me pay so much a\nweek for her board and services. Selina, being my wife, couldn t charge\nfor her board, and would have to give me her services for nothing. That\nwas the point of view I looked at it from. Economy with a dash of love.\nI put it to my mistress, as in duty bound, just as I had put it to\nmyself.\n\n I have been turning Selina Goby over in my mind,  I said,  and I\nthink, my lady, it will be cheaper to marry her than to keep her. \n\nMy lady burst out laughing, and said she didn t know which to be most\nshocked at my language or my principles. Some joke tickled her, I\nsuppose, of the sort that you can t take unless you are a person of\nquality. Understanding nothing myself but that I was free to put it\nnext to Selina, I went and put it accordingly. And what did Selina say?\nLord! how little you must know of women, if you ask that. Of course she\nsaid, Yes.\n\nAs my time drew nearer, and there got to be talk of my having a new\ncoat for the ceremony, my mind began to misgive me. I have compared\nnotes with other men as to what they felt while they were in my\ninteresting situation; and they have all acknowledged that, about a\nweek before it happened, they privately wished themselves out of it. I\nwent a trifle further than that myself; I actually rose up, as it were,\nand tried to get out of it. Not for nothing! I was too just a man to\nexpect she would let me off for nothing. Compensation to the woman when\nthe man gets out of it, is one of the laws of England. In obedience to\nthe laws, and after turning it over carefully in my mind, I offered\nSelina Goby a feather-bed and fifty shillings to be off the bargain.\nYou will hardly believe it, but it is nevertheless true she was fool\nenough to refuse.\n\nAfter that it was all over with me, of course. I got the new coat as\ncheap as I could, and I went through all the rest of it as cheap as I\ncould. We were not a happy couple, and not a miserable couple. We were\nsix of one and half-a-dozen of the other. How it was I don t\nunderstand, but we always seemed to be getting, with the best of\nmotives, in one another s way. When I wanted to go upstairs, there was\nmy wife coming down; or when my wife wanted to go down, there was I\ncoming up. That is married life, according to my experience of it.\n\nAfter five years of misunderstandings on the stairs, it pleased an\nall-wise Providence to relieve us of each other by taking my wife. I\nwas left with my little girl Penelope, and with no other child. Shortly\nafterwards Sir John died, and my lady was left with her little girl,\nMiss Rachel, and no other child. I have written to very poor purpose of\nmy lady, if you require to be told that my little Penelope was taken\ncare of, under my good mistress s own eye, and was sent to school and\ntaught, and made a sharp girl, and promoted, when old enough, to be\nMiss Rachel s own maid.\n\nAs for me, I went on with my business as bailiff year after year up to\nChristmas 1847, when there came a change in my life. On that day, my\nlady invited herself to a cup of tea alone with me in my cottage. She\nremarked that, reckoning from the year when I started as page-boy in\nthe time of the old lord, I had been more than fifty years in her\nservice, and she put into my hands a beautiful waistcoat of wool that\nshe had worked herself, to keep me warm in the bitter winter weather.\n\nI received this magnificent present quite at a loss to find words to\nthank my mistress with for the honour she had done me. To my great\nastonishment, it turned out, however, that the waistcoat was not an\nhonour, but a bribe. My lady had discovered that I was getting old\nbefore I had discovered it myself, and she had come to my cottage to\nwheedle me (if I may use such an expression) into giving up my hard\nout-of-door work as bailiff, and taking my ease for the rest of my days\nas steward in the house. I made as good a fight of it against the\nindignity of taking my ease as I could. But my mistress knew the weak\nside of me; she put it as a favour to herself. The dispute between us\nended, after that, in my wiping my eyes, like an old fool, with my new\nwoollen waistcoat, and saying I would think about it.\n\nThe perturbation in my mind, in regard to thinking about it, being\ntruly dreadful after my lady had gone away, I applied the remedy which\nI have never yet found to fail me in cases of doubt and emergency. I\nsmoked a pipe and took a turn at _Robinson Crusoe_. Before I had\noccupied myself with that extraordinary book five minutes, I came on a\ncomforting bit (page one hundred and fifty-eight), as follows:  Today\nwe love, what tomorrow we hate.  I saw my way clear directly. Today I\nwas all for continuing to be farm-bailiff; tomorrow, on the authority\nof _Robinson Crusoe_, I should be all the other way. Take myself\ntomorrow while in tomorrow s humour, and the thing was done. My mind\nbeing relieved in this manner, I went to sleep that night in the\ncharacter of Lady Verinder s farm-bailiff, and I woke up the next\nmorning in the character of Lady Verinder s house-steward. All quite\ncomfortable, and all through _Robinson Crusoe_!\n\nMy daughter Penelope has just looked over my shoulder to see what I\nhave done so far. She remarks that it is beautifully written, and every\nword of it true. But she points out one objection. She says what I have\ndone so far isn t in the least what I was wanted to do. I am asked to\ntell the story of the Diamond and, instead of that, I have been telling\nthe story of my own self. Curious, and quite beyond me to account for.\nI wonder whether the gentlemen who make a business and a living out of\nwriting books, ever find their own selves getting in the way of their\nsubjects, like me? If they do, I can feel for them. In the meantime,\nhere is another false start, and more waste of good writing-paper.\nWhat s to be done now? Nothing that I know of, except for you to keep\nyour temper, and for me to begin it all over again for the third time.\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe question of how I am to start the story properly I have tried to\nsettle in two ways. First, by scratching my head, which led to nothing.\nSecond, by consulting my daughter Penelope, which has resulted in an\nentirely new idea.\n\nPenelope s notion is that I should set down what happened, regularly\nday by day, beginning with the day when we got the news that Mr.\nFranklin Blake was expected on a visit to the house. When you come to\nfix your memory with a date in this way, it is wonderful what your\nmemory will pick up for you upon that compulsion. The only difficulty\nis to fetch out the dates, in the first place. This Penelope offers to\ndo for me by looking into her own diary, which she was taught to keep\nwhen she was at school, and which she has gone on keeping ever since.\nIn answer to an improvement on this notion, devised by myself, namely,\nthat she should tell the story instead of me, out of her own diary,\nPenelope observes, with a fierce look and a red face, that her journal\nis for her own private eye, and that no living creature shall ever know\nwhat is in it but herself. When I inquire what this means, Penelope\nsays,  Fiddlesticks!  I say, Sweethearts.\n\nBeginning, then, on Penelope s plan, I beg to mention that I was\nspecially called one Wednesday morning into my lady s own sitting-room,\nthe date being the twenty-fourth of May, eighteen hundred and\nforty-eight.\n\n Gabriel,  says my lady,  here is news that will surprise you. Franklin\nBlake has come back from abroad. He has been staying with his father in\nLondon, and he is coming to us tomorrow to stop till next month, and\nkeep Rachel s birthday. \n\nIf I had had a hat in my hand, nothing but respect would have prevented\nme from throwing that hat up to the ceiling. I had not seen Mr.\nFranklin since he was a boy, living along with us in this house. He\nwas, out of all sight (as I remember him), the nicest boy that ever\nspun a top or broke a window. Miss Rachel, who was present, and to whom\nI made that remark, observed, in return, that _she_ remembered him as\nthe most atrocious tyrant that ever tortured a doll, and the hardest\ndriver of an exhausted little girl in string harness that England could\nproduce.  I burn with indignation, and I ache with fatigue,  was the\nway Miss Rachel summed it up,  when I think of Franklin Blake. \n\nHearing what I now tell you, you will naturally ask how it was that Mr.\nFranklin should have passed all the years, from the time when he was a\nboy to the time when he was a man, out of his own country. I answer,\nbecause his father had the misfortune to be next heir to a Dukedom, and\nnot to be able to prove it.\n\nIn two words, this was how the thing happened:\n\nMy lady s eldest sister married the celebrated Mr. Blake equally famous\nfor his great riches, and his great suit at law. How many years he went\non worrying the tribunals of his country to turn out the Duke in\npossession, and to put himself in the Duke s place how many lawyer s\npurses he filled to bursting, and how many otherwise harmless people he\nset by the ears together disputing whether he was right or wrong is\nmore by a great deal than I can reckon up. His wife died, and two of\nhis three children died, before the tribunals could make up their minds\nto show him the door and take no more of his money. When it was all\nover, and the Duke in possession was left in possession, Mr. Blake\ndiscovered that the only way of being even with his country for the\nmanner in which it had treated him, was not to let his country have the\nhonour of educating his son.  How can I trust my native institutions, \nwas the form in which he put it,  after the way in which my native\ninstitutions have behaved to _me?_  Add to this, that Mr. Blake\ndisliked all boys, his own included, and you will admit that it could\nonly end in one way. Master Franklin was taken from us in England, and\nwas sent to institutions which his father _could_ trust, in that\nsuperior country, Germany; Mr. Blake himself, you will observe,\nremaining snug in England, to improve his fellow-countrymen in the\nParliament House, and to publish a statement on the subject of the Duke\nin possession, which has remained an unfinished statement from that day\nto this.\n\nThere! thank God, that s told! Neither you nor I need trouble our heads\nany more about Mr. Blake, senior. Leave him to the Dukedom; and let you\nand I stick to the Diamond.\n\nThe Diamond takes us back to Mr. Franklin, who was the innocent means\nof bringing that unlucky jewel into the house.\n\nOur nice boy didn t forget us after he went abroad. He wrote every now\nand then; sometimes to my lady, sometimes to Miss Rachel, and sometimes\nto me. We had had a transaction together, before he left, which\nconsisted in his borrowing of me a ball of string, a four-bladed knife,\nand seven-and-sixpence in money the colour of which last I have not\nseen, and never expect to see again. His letters to me chiefly related\nto borrowing more. I heard, however, from my lady, how he got on\nabroad, as he grew in years and stature. After he had learnt what the\ninstitutions of Germany could teach him, he gave the French a turn\nnext, and the Italians a turn after that. They made him among them a\nsort of universal genius, as well as I could understand it. He wrote a\nlittle; he painted a little; he sang and played and composed a\nlittle borrowing, as I suspect, in all these cases, just as he had\nborrowed from me. His mother s fortune (seven hundred a year) fell to\nhim when he came of age, and ran through him, as it might be through a\nsieve. The more money he had, the more he wanted; there was a hole in\nMr. Franklin s pocket that nothing would sew up. Wherever he went, the\nlively, easy way of him made him welcome. He lived here, there, and\neverywhere; his address (as he used to put it himself) being  Post\nOffice, Europe to be left till called for.  Twice over, he made up his\nmind to come back to England and see us; and twice over (saving your\npresence), some unmentionable woman stood in the way and stopped him.\nHis third attempt succeeded, as you know already from what my lady told\nme. On Thursday the twenty-fifth of May, we were to see for the first\ntime what our nice boy had grown to be as a man. He came of good blood;\nhe had a high courage; and he was five-and-twenty years of age, by our\nreckoning. Now you know as much of Mr. Franklin Blake as I did before\nMr. Franklin Blake came down to our house.\n\nThe Thursday was as fine a summer s day as ever you saw: and my lady\nand Miss Rachel (not expecting Mr. Franklin till dinner-time) drove out\nto lunch with some friends in the neighbourhood.\n\nWhen they were gone, I went and had a look at the bedroom which had\nbeen got ready for our guest, and saw that all was straight. Then,\nbeing butler in my lady s establishment, as well as steward (at my own\nparticular request, mind, and because it vexed me to see anybody but\nmyself in possession of the key of the late Sir John s cellar) then, I\nsay, I fetched up some of our famous Latour claret, and set it in the\nwarm summer air to take off the chill before dinner. Concluding to set\nmyself in the warm summer air next seeing that what is good for old\nclaret is equally good for old age I took up my beehive chair to go out\ninto the back court, when I was stopped by hearing a sound like the\nsoft beating of a drum, on the terrace in front of my lady s residence.\n\nGoing round to the terrace, I found three mahogany-coloured Indians, in\nwhite linen frocks and trousers, looking up at the house.\n\nThe Indians, as I saw on looking closer, had small hand-drums slung in\nfront of them. Behind them stood a little delicate-looking light-haired\nEnglish boy carrying a bag. I judged the fellows to be strolling\nconjurors, and the boy with the bag to be carrying the tools of their\ntrade. One of the three, who spoke English and who exhibited, I must\nown, the most elegant manners, presently informed me that my judgment\nwas right. He requested permission to show his tricks in the presence\nof the lady of the house.\n\nNow I am not a sour old man. I am generally all for amusement, and the\nlast person in the world to distrust another person because he happens\nto be a few shades darker than myself. But the best of us have our\nweaknesses and my weakness, when I know a family plate-basket to be out\non a pantry-table, is to be instantly reminded of that basket by the\nsight of a strolling stranger whose manners are superior to my own. I\naccordingly informed the Indian that the lady of the house was out; and\nI warned him and his party off the premises. He made me a beautiful bow\nin return; and he and his party went off the premises. On my side, I\nreturned to my beehive chair, and set myself down on the sunny side of\nthe court, and fell (if the truth must be owned), not exactly into a\nsleep, but into the next best thing to it.\n\nI was roused up by my daughter Penelope running out at me as if the\nhouse was on fire. What do you think she wanted? She wanted to have the\nthree Indian jugglers instantly taken up; for this reason, namely, that\nthey knew who was coming from London to visit us, and that they meant\nsome mischief to Mr. Franklin Blake.\n\nMr. Franklin s name roused me. I opened my eyes, and made my girl\nexplain herself.\n\nIt appeared that Penelope had just come from our lodge, where she had\nbeen having a gossip with the lodge-keeper s daughter. The two girls\nhad seen the Indians pass out, after I had warned them off, followed by\ntheir little boy. Taking it into their heads that the boy was ill-used\nby the foreigners for no reason that I could discover, except that he\nwas pretty and delicate-looking the two girls had stolen along the\ninner side of the hedge between us and the road, and had watched the\nproceedings of the foreigners on the outer side. Those proceedings\nresulted in the performance of the following extraordinary tricks.\n\nThey first looked up the road, and down the road, and made sure that\nthey were alone. Then they all three faced about, and stared hard in\nthe direction of our house. Then they jabbered and disputed in their\nown language, and looked at each other like men in doubt. Then they all\nturned to their little English boy, as if they expected _him_ to help\nthem. And then the chief Indian, who spoke English, said to the boy,\n Hold out your hand. \n\nOn hearing those dreadful words, my daughter Penelope said she didn t\nknow what prevented her heart from flying straight out of her. I\nthought privately that it might have been her stays. All I said,\nhowever, was,  You make my flesh creep.  (_Nota bene:_ Women like these\nlittle compliments.)\n\nWell, when the Indian said,  Hold out your hand,  the boy shrunk back,\nand shook his head, and said he didn t like it. The Indian, thereupon,\nasked him (not at all unkindly), whether he would like to be sent back\nto London, and left where they had found him, sleeping in an empty\nbasket in a market a hungry, ragged, and forsaken little boy. This, it\nseems, ended the difficulty. The little chap unwillingly held out his\nhand. Upon that, the Indian took a bottle from his bosom, and poured\nout of it some black stuff, like ink, into the palm of the boy s hand.\nThe Indian first touching the boy s head, and making signs over it in\nthe air then said,  Look.  The boy became quite stiff, and stood like a\nstatue, looking into the ink in the hollow of his hand.\n\n(So far, it seemed to me to be juggling, accompanied by a foolish waste\nof ink. I was beginning to feel sleepy again, when Penelope s next\nwords stirred me up.)\n\nThe Indians looked up the road and down the road once more and then the\nchief Indian said these words to the boy;  See the English gentleman\nfrom foreign parts. \n\nThe boy said,  I see him. \n\nThe Indian said,  Is it on the road to this house, and on no other,\nthat the English gentleman will travel today? \n\nThe boy said,  It is on the road to this house, and on no other, that\nthe English gentleman will travel today. \n\nThe Indian put a second question after waiting a little first. He said:\n Has the English gentleman got It about him? \n\nThe boy answered also, after waiting a little first Yes. \n\nThe Indian put a third and last question:  Will the English gentleman\ncome here, as he has promised to come, at the close of day? \n\nThe boy said,  I can t tell. \n\nThe Indian asked why.\n\nThe boy said,  I am tired. The mist rises in my head, and puzzles me. I\ncan see no more today. \n\nWith that the catechism ended. The chief Indian said something in his\nown language to the other two, pointing to the boy, and pointing\ntowards the town, in which (as we afterwards discovered) they were\nlodged. He then, after making more signs on the boy s head, blew on his\nforehead, and so woke him up with a start. After that, they all went on\ntheir way towards the town, and the girls saw them no more.\n\nMost things they say have a moral, if you only look for it. What was\nthe moral of this?\n\nThe moral was, as I thought: First, that the chief juggler had heard\nMr. Franklin s arrival talked of among the servants out-of-doors, and\nsaw his way to making a little money by it. Second, that he and his men\nand boy (with a view to making the said money) meant to hang about till\nthey saw my lady drive home, and then to come back, and foretell Mr.\nFranklin s arrival by magic. Third, that Penelope had heard them\nrehearsing their hocus-pocus, like actors rehearsing a play. Fourth,\nthat I should do well to have an eye, that evening, on the\nplate-basket. Fifth, that Penelope would do well to cool down, and\nleave me, her father, to doze off again in the sun.\n\nThat appeared to me to be the sensible view. If you know anything of\nthe ways of young women, you won t be surprised to hear that Penelope\nwouldn t take it. The moral of the thing was serious, according to my\ndaughter. She particularly reminded me of the Indian s third question,\nHas the English gentleman got It about him?  Oh, father!  says\nPenelope, clasping her hands,  don t joke about this. What does  It \nmean? \n\n We ll ask Mr. Franklin, my dear,  I said,  if you can wait till Mr.\nFranklin comes.  I winked to show I meant that in joke. Penelope took\nit quite seriously. My girl s earnestness tickled me.  What on earth\nshould Mr. Franklin know about it?  I inquired.  Ask him,  says\nPenelope.  And see whether _he_ thinks it a laughing matter, too.  With\nthat parting shot, my daughter left me.\n\nI settled it with myself, when she was gone, that I really would ask\nMr. Franklin mainly to set Penelope s mind at rest. What was said\nbetween us, when I did ask him, later on that same day, you will find\nset out fully in its proper place. But as I don t wish to raise your\nexpectations and then disappoint them, I will take leave to warn you\nhere before we go any further that you won t find the ghost of a joke\nin our conversation on the subject of the jugglers. To my great\nsurprise, Mr. Franklin, like Penelope, took the thing seriously. How\nseriously, you will understand, when I tell you that, in his opinion,\n It  meant the Moonstone.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nI am truly sorry to detain you over me and my beehive chair. A sleepy\nold man, in a sunny back yard, is not an interesting object, I am well\naware. But things must be put down in their places, as things actually\nhappened and you must please to jog on a little while longer with me,\nin expectation of Mr. Franklin Blake s arrival later in the day.\n\nBefore I had time to doze off again, after my daughter Penelope had\nleft me, I was disturbed by a rattling of plates and dishes in the\nservants  hall, which meant that dinner was ready. Taking my own meals\nin my own sitting-room, I had nothing to do with the servants  dinner,\nexcept to wish them a good stomach to it all round, previous to\ncomposing myself once more in my chair. I was just stretching my legs,\nwhen out bounced another woman on me. Not my daughter again; only\nNancy, the kitchen-maid, this time. I was straight in her way out; and\nI observed, as she asked me to let her by, that she had a sulky face a\nthing which, as head of the servants, I never allow, on principle, to\npass me without inquiry.\n\n What are you turning your back on your dinner for?  I asked.  What s\nwrong now, Nancy? \n\nNancy tried to push by, without answering; upon which I rose up, and\ntook her by the ear. She is a nice plump young lass, and it is\ncustomary with me to adopt that manner of showing that I personally\napprove of a girl.\n\n What s wrong now?  I said once more.\n\n Rosanna s late again for dinner,  says Nancy.  And I m sent to fetch\nher in. All the hard work falls on my shoulders in this house. Let me\nalone, Mr. Betteredge! \n\nThe person here mentioned as Rosanna was our second housemaid. Having a\nkind of pity for our second housemaid (why, you shall presently know),\nand seeing in Nancy s face, that she would fetch her fellow-servant in\nwith more hard words than might be needful under the circumstances, it\nstruck me that I had nothing particular to do, and that I might as well\nfetch Rosanna myself; giving her a hint to be punctual in future, which\nI knew she would take kindly from _me_.\n\n Where is Rosanna?  I inquired.\n\n At the sands, of course!  says Nancy, with a toss of her head.  She\nhad another of her fainting fits this morning, and she asked to go out\nand get a breath of fresh air. I have no patience with her! \n\n Go back to your dinner, my girl,  I said.  I have patience with her,\nand I ll fetch her in. \n\nNancy (who has a fine appetite) looked pleased. When she looks pleased,\nshe looks nice. When she looks nice, I chuck her under the chin. It\nisn t immorality it s only habit.\n\nWell, I took my stick, and set off for the sands.\n\nNo! it won t do to set off yet. I am sorry again to detain you; but you\nreally must hear the story of the sands, and the story of Rosanna for\nthis reason, that the matter of the Diamond touches them both nearly.\nHow hard I try to get on with my statement without stopping by the way,\nand how badly I succeed! But, there! Persons and Things do turn up so\nvexatiously in this life, and will in a manner insist on being noticed.\nLet us take it easy, and let us take it short; we shall be in the thick\nof the mystery soon, I promise you!\n\nRosanna (to put the Person before the Thing, which is but common\npoliteness) was the only new servant in our house. About four months\nbefore the time I am writing of, my lady had been in London, and had\ngone over a Reformatory, intended to save forlorn women from drifting\nback into bad ways, after they had got released from prison. The\nmatron, seeing my lady took an interest in the place, pointed out a\ngirl to her, named Rosanna Spearman, and told her a most miserable\nstory, which I haven t the heart to repeat here; for I don t like to be\nmade wretched without any use, and no more do you. The upshot of it\nwas, that Rosanna Spearman had been a thief, and not being of the sort\nthat get up Companies in the City, and rob from thousands, instead of\nonly robbing from one, the law laid hold of her, and the prison and the\nreformatory followed the lead of the law. The matron s opinion of\nRosanna was (in spite of what she had done) that the girl was one in a\nthousand, and that she only wanted a chance to prove herself worthy of\nany Christian woman s interest in her. My lady (being a Christian\nwoman, if ever there was one yet) said to the matron, upon that,\n Rosanna Spearman shall have her chance, in my service.  In a week\nafterwards, Rosanna Spearman entered this establishment as our second\nhousemaid.\n\nNot a soul was told the girl s story, excepting Miss Rachel and me. My\nlady, doing me the honour to consult me about most things, consulted me\nabout Rosanna. Having fallen a good deal latterly into the late Sir\nJohn s way of always agreeing with my lady, I agreed with her heartily\nabout Rosanna Spearman.\n\nA fairer chance no girl could have had than was given to this poor girl\nof ours. None of the servants could cast her past life in her teeth,\nfor none of the servants knew what it had been. She had her wages and\nher privileges, like the rest of them; and every now and then a\nfriendly word from my lady, in private, to encourage her. In return,\nshe showed herself, I am bound to say, well worthy of the kind\ntreatment bestowed upon her. Though far from strong, and troubled\noccasionally with those fainting-fits already mentioned, she went about\nher work modestly and uncomplainingly, doing it carefully, and doing it\nwell. But, somehow, she failed to make friends among the other women\nservants, excepting my daughter Penelope, who was always kind to\nRosanna, though never intimate with her.\n\nI hardly know what the girl did to offend them. There was certainly no\nbeauty about her to make the others envious; she was the plainest woman\nin the house, with the additional misfortune of having one shoulder\nbigger than the other. What the servants chiefly resented, I think, was\nher silent tongue and her solitary ways. She read or worked in leisure\nhours when the rest gossiped. And when it came to her turn to go out,\nnine times out of ten she quietly put on her bonnet, and had her turn\nby herself. She never quarrelled, she never took offence; she only kept\na certain distance, obstinately and civilly, between the rest of them\nand herself. Add to this that, plain as she was, there was just a dash\nof something that wasn t like a housemaid, and that _was_ like a lady,\nabout her. It might have been in her voice, or it might have been in\nher face. All I can say is, that the other women pounced on it like\nlightning the first day she came into the house, and said (which was\nmost unjust) that Rosanna Spearman gave herself airs.\n\nHaving now told the story of Rosanna, I have only to notice one of the\nmany queer ways of this strange girl to get on next to the story of the\nsands.\n\nOur house is high up on the Yorkshire coast, and close by the sea. We\nhave got beautiful walks all round us, in every direction but one. That\none I acknowledge to be a horrid walk. It leads, for a quarter of a\nmile, through a melancholy plantation of firs, and brings you out\nbetween low cliffs on the loneliest and ugliest little bay on all our\ncoast.\n\nThe sandhills here run down to the sea, and end in two spits of rock\njutting out opposite each other, till you lose sight of them in the\nwater. One is called the North Spit, and one the South. Between the\ntwo, shifting backwards and forwards at certain seasons of the year,\nlies the most horrible quicksand on the shores of Yorkshire. At the\nturn of the tide, something goes on in the unknown deeps below, which\nsets the whole face of the quicksand shivering and trembling in a\nmanner most remarkable to see, and which has given to it, among the\npeople in our parts, the name of the Shivering Sand. A great bank, half\na mile out, nigh the mouth of the bay, breaks the force of the main\nocean coming in from the offing. Winter and summer, when the tide flows\nover the quicksand, the sea seems to leave the waves behind it on the\nbank, and rolls its waters in smoothly with a heave, and covers the\nsand in silence. A lonesome and a horrid retreat, I can tell you! No\nboat ever ventures into this bay. No children from our fishing-village,\ncalled Cobb s Hole, ever come here to play. The very birds of the air,\nas it seems to me, give the Shivering Sand a wide berth. That a young\nwoman, with dozens of nice walks to choose from, and company to go with\nher, if she only said  Come! , should prefer this place, and should sit\nand work or read in it, all alone, when it s her turn out, I grant you,\npasses belief. It s true, nevertheless, account for it as you may, that\nthis was Rosanna Spearman s favourite walk, except when she went once\nor twice to Cobb s Hole, to see the only friend she had in our\nneighbourhood, of whom more anon. It s also true that I was now setting\nout for this same place, to fetch the girl in to dinner, which brings\nus round happily to our former point, and starts us fair again on our\nway to the sands.\n\nI saw no sign of the girl in the plantation. When I got out, through\nthe sandhills, on to the beach, there she was, in her little straw\nbonnet, and her plain grey cloak that she always wore to hide her\ndeformed shoulder as much as might be there she was, all alone, looking\nout on the quicksand and the sea.\n\nShe started when I came up with her, and turned her head away from me.\nNot looking me in the face being another of the proceedings, which, as\nhead of the servants, I never allow, on principle, to pass without\ninquiry I turned her round my way, and saw that she was crying. My\nbandanna handkerchief one of six beauties given to me by my lady was\nhandy in my pocket. I took it out, and I said to Rosanna,  Come and sit\ndown, my dear, on the slope of the beach along with me. I ll dry your\neyes for you first, and then I ll make so bold as to ask what you have\nbeen crying about. \n\nWhen you come to my age, you will find sitting down on the slope of a\nbeach a much longer job than you think it now. By the time I was\nsettled, Rosanna had dried her own eyes with a very inferior\nhandkerchief to mine cheap cambric. She looked very quiet, and very\nwretched; but she sat down by me like a good girl, when I told her.\nWhen you want to comfort a woman by the shortest way, take her on your\nknee. I thought of this golden rule. But there! Rosanna wasn t Nancy,\nand that s the truth of it!\n\n Now, tell me, my dear,  I said,  what are you crying about? \n\n About the years that are gone, Mr. Betteredge,  says Rosanna quietly.\n My past life still comes back to me sometimes. \n\n Come, come, my girl,  I said,  your past life is all sponged out. Why\ncan t you forget it? \n\nShe took me by one of the lappets of my coat. I am a slovenly old man,\nand a good deal of my meat and drink gets splashed about on my clothes.\nSometimes one of the women, and sometimes another, cleans me of my\ngrease. The day before, Rosanna had taken out a spot for me on the\nlappet of my coat, with a new composition, warranted to remove\nanything. The grease was gone, but there was a little dull place left\non the nap of the cloth where the grease had been. The girl pointed to\nthat place, and shook her head.\n\n The stain is taken off,  she said.  But the place shows, Mr.\nBetteredge the place shows! \n\nA remark which takes a man unawares by means of his own coat is not an\neasy remark to answer. Something in the girl herself, too, made me\nparticularly sorry for her just then. She had nice brown eyes, plain as\nshe was in other ways and she looked at me with a sort of respect for\nmy happy old age and my good character, as things for ever out of her\nown reach, which made my heart heavy for our second housemaid. Not\nfeeling myself able to comfort her, there was only one other thing to\ndo. That thing was to take her in to dinner.\n\n Help me up,  I said.  You re late for dinner, Rosanna and I have come\nto fetch you in. \n\n You, Mr. Betteredge!  says she.\n\n They told Nancy to fetch you,  I said.  But I thought you might like\nyour scolding better, my dear, if it came from me. \n\nInstead of helping me up, the poor thing stole her hand into mine, and\ngave it a little squeeze. She tried hard to keep from crying again, and\nsucceeded for which I respected her.  You re very kind, Mr.\nBetteredge,  she said.  I don t want any dinner today let me bide a\nlittle longer here. \n\n What makes you like to be here?  I asked.  What is it that brings you\neverlastingly to this miserable place? \n\n Something draws me to it,  says the girl, making images with her\nfinger in the sand.  I try to keep away from it, and I can t.\nSometimes,  says she in a low voice, as if she was frightened at her\nown fancy,  sometimes, Mr. Betteredge, I think that my grave is waiting\nfor me here. \n\n There s roast mutton and suet pudding waiting for you!  says I.  Go in\nto dinner directly. This is what comes, Rosanna, of thinking on an\nempty stomach!  I spoke severely, being naturally indignant (at my time\nof life) to hear a young woman of five-and-twenty talking about her\nlatter end!\n\nShe didn t seem to hear me: she put her hand on my shoulder, and kept\nme where I was, sitting by her side.\n\n I think the place has laid a spell on me,  she said.  I dream of it\nnight after night; I think of it when I sit stitching at my work. You\nknow I am grateful, Mr. Betteredge you know I try to deserve your\nkindness, and my lady s confidence in me. But I wonder sometimes\nwhether the life here is too quiet and too good for such a woman as I\nam, after all I have gone through, Mr. Betteredge after all I have gone\nthrough. It s more lonely to me to be among the other servants, knowing\nI am not what they are, than it is to be here. My lady doesn t know,\nthe matron at the reformatory doesn t know, what a dreadful reproach\nhonest people are in themselves to a woman like me. Don t scold me,\nthere s a dear good man. I do my work, don t I? Please not to tell my\nlady I am discontented I am not. My mind s unquiet, sometimes, that s\nall.  She snatched her hand off my shoulder, and suddenly pointed down\nto the quicksand.  Look!  she said  Isn t it wonderful? isn t it\nterrible? I have seen it dozens of times, and it s always as new to me\nas if I had never seen it before! \n\nI looked where she pointed. The tide was on the turn, and the horrid\nsand began to shiver. The broad brown face of it heaved slowly, and\nthen dimpled and quivered all over.  Do you know what it looks like to\n_me?_  says Rosanna, catching me by the shoulder again.  It looks as if\nit had hundreds of suffocating people under it all struggling to get to\nthe surface, and all sinking lower and lower in the dreadful deeps!\nThrow a stone in, Mr. Betteredge! Throw a stone in, and let s see the\nsand suck it down! \n\nHere was unwholesome talk! Here was an empty stomach feeding on an\nunquiet mind! My answer a pretty sharp one, in the poor girl s own\ninterests, I promise you! was at my tongue s end, when it was snapped\nshort off on a sudden by a voice among the sandhills shouting for me by\nmy name.  Betteredge!  cries the voice,  where are you?   Here!  I\nshouted out in return, without a notion in my mind of who it was.\nRosanna started to her feet, and stood looking towards the voice. I was\njust thinking of getting on my own legs next, when I was staggered by a\nsudden change in the girl s face.\n\nHer complexion turned of a beautiful red, which I had never seen in it\nbefore; she brightened all over with a kind of speechless and\nbreathless surprise.  Who is it?  I asked. Rosanna gave me back my own\nquestion.  Oh! who is it?  she said softly, more to herself than to me.\nI twisted round on the sand and looked behind me. There, coming out on\nus from among the hills, was a bright-eyed young gentleman, dressed in\na beautiful fawn-coloured suit, with gloves and hat to match, with a\nrose in his button-hole, and a smile on his face that might have set\nthe Shivering Sand itself smiling at him in return. Before I could get\non my legs, he plumped down on the sand by the side of me, put his arm\nround my neck, foreign fashion, and gave me a hug that fairly squeezed\nthe breath out of my body.  Dear old Betteredge!  says he.  I owe you\nseven-and-sixpence. Now do you know who I am? \n\nLord bless us and save us! Here four good hours before we expected\nhim was Mr. Franklin Blake!\n\nBefore I could say a word, I saw Mr. Franklin, a little surprised to\nall appearance, look up from me to Rosanna. Following his lead, I\nlooked at the girl too. She was blushing of a deeper red than ever,\nseemingly at having caught Mr. Franklin s eye; and she turned and left\nus suddenly, in a confusion quite unaccountable to my mind, without\neither making her curtsey to the gentleman or saying a word to me. Very\nunlike her usual self: a civiller and better-behaved servant, in\ngeneral, you never met with.\n\n That s an odd girl,  says Mr. Franklin.  I wonder what she sees in me\nto surprise her? \n\n I suppose, sir,  I answered, drolling on our young gentleman s\nContinental education,  it s the varnish from foreign parts. \n\nI set down here Mr. Franklin s careless question, and my foolish\nanswer, as a consolation and encouragement to all stupid people it\nbeing, as I have remarked, a great satisfaction to our inferior\nfellow-creatures to find that their betters are, on occasions, no\nbrighter than they are. Neither Mr. Franklin, with his wonderful\nforeign training, nor I, with my age, experience, and natural\nmother-wit, had the ghost of an idea of what Rosanna Spearman s\nunaccountable behaviour really meant. She was out of our thoughts, poor\nsoul, before we had seen the last flutter of her little grey cloak\namong the sandhills. And what of that? you will ask, naturally enough.\nRead on, good friend, as patiently as you can, and perhaps you will be\nas sorry for Rosanna Spearman as I was, when I found out the truth.\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nThe first thing I did, after we were left together alone, was to make a\nthird attempt to get up from my seat on the sand. Mr. Franklin stopped\nme.\n\n There is one advantage about this horrid place,  he said;  we have got\nit all to ourselves. Stay where you are, Betteredge; I have something\nto say to you. \n\nWhile he was speaking, I was looking at him, and trying to see\nsomething of the boy I remembered, in the man before me. The man put me\nout. Look as I might, I could see no more of his boy s rosy cheeks than\nof his boy s trim little jacket. His complexion had got pale: his face,\nat the lower part was covered, to my great surprise and disappointment,\nwith a curly brown beard and moustachios. He had a lively touch-and-go\nway with him, very pleasant and engaging, I admit; but nothing to\ncompare with his free-and-easy manners of other times. To make matters\nworse, he had promised to be tall, and had not kept his promise. He was\nneat, and slim, and well made; but he wasn t by an inch or two up to\nthe middle height. In short, he baffled me altogether. The years that\nhad passed had left nothing of his old self, except the bright,\nstraightforward look in his eyes. There I found our nice boy again, and\nthere I concluded to stop in my investigation.\n\n Welcome back to the old place, Mr. Franklin,  I said.  All the more\nwelcome, sir, that you have come some hours before we expected you. \n\n I have a reason for coming before you expected me,  answered Mr.\nFranklin.  I suspect, Betteredge, that I have been followed and watched\nin London, for the last three or four days; and I have travelled by the\nmorning instead of the afternoon train, because I wanted to give a\ncertain dark-looking stranger the slip. \n\nThose words did more than surprise me. They brought back to my mind, in\na flash, the three jugglers, and Penelope s notion that they meant some\nmischief to Mr. Franklin Blake.\n\n Who s watching you, sir, and why?  I inquired.\n\n Tell me about the three Indians you have had at the house today,  says\nMr. Franklin, without noticing my question.  It s just possible,\nBetteredge, that my stranger and your three jugglers may turn out to be\npieces of the same puzzle. \n\n How do you come to know about the jugglers, sir?  I asked, putting one\nquestion on the top of another, which was bad manners, I own. But you\ndon t expect much from poor human nature so don t expect much from me.\n\n I saw Penelope at the house,  says Mr. Franklin;  and Penelope told\nme. Your daughter promised to be a pretty girl, Betteredge, and she has\nkept her promise. Penelope has got a small ear and a small foot. Did\nthe late Mrs. Betteredge possess those inestimable advantages? \n\n The late Mrs. Betteredge possessed a good many defects, sir,  says I.\n One of them (if you will pardon my mentioning it) was never keeping to\nthe matter in hand. She was more like a fly than a woman: she couldn t\nsettle on anything. \n\n She would just have suited me,  says Mr. Franklin.  I never settle on\nanything either. Betteredge, your edge is better than ever. Your\ndaughter said as much, when I asked for particulars about the jugglers.\n Father will tell you, sir. He s a wonderful man for his age; and he\nexpresses himself beautifully.  Penelope s own words blushing divinely.\nNot even my respect for you prevented me from never mind; I knew her\nwhen she was a child, and she s none the worse for it. Let s be\nserious. What did the jugglers do? \n\nI was something dissatisfied with my daughter not for letting Mr.\nFranklin kiss her; Mr. Franklin was welcome to _that_ but for forcing\nme to tell her foolish story at second hand. However, there was no help\nfor it now but to mention the circumstances. Mr. Franklin s merriment\nall died away as I went on. He sat knitting his eyebrows, and twisting\nhis beard. When I had done, he repeated after me two of the questions\nwhich the chief juggler had put to the boy seemingly for the purpose of\nfixing them well in his mind.\n\n Is it on the road to this house, and on no other, that the English\ngentleman will travel today?   Has the English gentleman got It about\nhim?  I suspect,  says Mr. Franklin, pulling a little sealed paper\nparcel out of his pocket,  that  It  means _this_. And  this, \nBetteredge, means my uncle Herncastle s famous Diamond. \n\n Good Lord, sir!  I broke out,  how do you come to be in charge of the\nwicked Colonel s Diamond? \n\n The wicked Colonel s will has left his Diamond as a birthday present\nto my cousin Rachel,  says Mr. Franklin.  And my father, as the wicked\nColonel s executor, has given it in charge to me to bring down here. \n\nIf the sea, then oozing in smoothly over the Shivering Sand, had been\nchanged into dry land before my own eyes, I doubt if I could have been\nmore surprised than I was when Mr. Franklin spoke those words.\n\n The Colonel s Diamond left to Miss Rachel!  says I.  And your father,\nsir, the Colonel s executor! Why, I would have laid any bet you like,\nMr. Franklin, that your father wouldn t have touched the Colonel with a\npair of tongs! \n\n Strong language, Betteredge! What was there against the Colonel. He\nbelonged to your time, not to mine. Tell me what you know about him,\nand I ll tell you how my father came to be his executor, and more\nbesides. I have made some discoveries in London about my uncle\nHerncastle and his Diamond, which have rather an ugly look to my eyes;\nand I want you to confirm them. You called him the  wicked Colonel \njust now. Search your memory, my old friend, and tell me why. \n\nI saw he was in earnest, and I told him.\n\nHere follows the substance of what I said, written out entirely for\nyour benefit. Pay attention to it, or you will be all abroad, when we\nget deeper into the story. Clear your mind of the children, or the\ndinner, or the new bonnet, or what not. Try if you can t forget\npolitics, horses, prices in the City, and grievances at the club. I\nhope you won t take this freedom on my part amiss; it s only a way I\nhave of appealing to the gentle reader. Lord! haven t I seen you with\nthe greatest authors in your hands, and don t I know how ready your\nattention is to wander when it s a book that asks for it, instead of a\nperson?\n\nI spoke, a little way back, of my lady s father, the old lord with the\nshort temper and the long tongue. He had five children in all. Two sons\nto begin with; then, after a long time, his wife broke out breeding\nagain, and the three young ladies came briskly one after the other, as\nfast as the nature of things would permit; my mistress, as before\nmentioned, being the youngest and best of the three. Of the two sons,\nthe eldest, Arthur, inherited the title and estates. The second, the\nHonourable John, got a fine fortune left him by a relative, and went\ninto the army.\n\nIt s an ill bird, they say, that fouls its own nest. I look on the\nnoble family of the Herncastles as being my nest; and I shall take it\nas a favour if I am not expected to enter into particulars on the\nsubject of the Honourable John. He was, I honestly believe, one of the\ngreatest blackguards that ever lived. I can hardly say more or less for\nhim than that. He went into the army, beginning in the Guards. He had\nto leave the Guards before he was two-and-twenty never mind why. They\nare very strict in the army, and they were too strict for the\nHonourable John. He went out to India to see whether they were equally\nstrict there, and to try a little active service. In the matter of\nbravery (to give him his due), he was a mixture of bull-dog and\ngame-cock, with a dash of the savage. He was at the taking of\nSeringapatam. Soon afterwards he changed into another regiment, and, in\ncourse of time, changed into a third. In the third he got his last step\nas lieutenant-colonel, and, getting that, got also a sunstroke, and\ncame home to England.\n\nHe came back with a character that closed the doors of all his family\nagainst him, my lady (then just married) taking the lead, and declaring\n(with Sir John s approval, of course) that her brother should never\nenter any house of hers. There was more than one slur on the Colonel\nthat made people shy of him; but the blot of the Diamond is all I need\nmention here.\n\nIt was said he had got possession of his Indian jewel by means which,\nbold as he was, he didn t dare acknowledge. He never attempted to sell\nit not being in need of money, and not (to give him his due again)\nmaking money an object. He never gave it away; he never even showed it\nto any living soul. Some said he was afraid of its getting him into a\ndifficulty with the military authorities; others (very ignorant indeed\nof the real nature of the man) said he was afraid, if he showed it, of\nits costing him his life.\n\nThere was perhaps a grain of truth mixed up with this last report. It\nwas false to say that he was afraid; but it was a fact that his life\nhad been twice threatened in India; and it was firmly believed that the\nMoonstone was at the bottom of it. When he came back to England, and\nfound himself avoided by everybody, the Moonstone was thought to be at\nthe bottom of it again. The mystery of the Colonel s life got in the\nColonel s way, and outlawed him, as you may say, among his own people.\nThe men wouldn t let him into their clubs; the women more than one whom\nhe wanted to marry, refused him; friends and relations got too\nnear-sighted to see him in the street.\n\nSome men in this mess would have tried to set themselves right with the\nworld. But to give in, even when he was wrong, and had all society\nagainst him, was not the way of the Honourable John. He had kept the\nDiamond, in flat defiance of assassination, in India. He kept the\nDiamond, in flat defiance of public opinion, in England. There you have\nthe portrait of the man before you, as in a picture: a character that\nbraved everything; and a face, handsome as it was, that looked\npossessed by the devil.\n\nWe heard different rumours about him from time to time. Sometimes they\nsaid he was given up to smoking opium and collecting old books;\nsometimes he was reported to be trying strange things in chemistry;\nsometimes he was seen carousing and amusing himself among the lowest\npeople in the lowest slums of London. Anyhow, a solitary, vicious,\nunderground life was the life the Colonel led. Once, and once only,\nafter his return to England, I myself saw him, face to face.\n\nAbout two years before the time of which I am now writing, and about a\nyear and a half before the time of his death, the Colonel came\nunexpectedly to my lady s house in London. It was the night of Miss\nRachel s birthday, the twenty-first of June; and there was a party in\nhonour of it, as usual. I received a message from the footman to say\nthat a gentleman wanted to see me. Going up into the hall, there I\nfound the Colonel, wasted, and worn, and old, and shabby, and as wild\nand as wicked as ever.\n\n Go up to my sister,  says he;  and say that I have called to wish my\nniece many happy returns of the day. \n\nHe had made attempts by letter, more than once already, to be\nreconciled with my lady, for no other purpose, I am firmly persuaded,\nthan to annoy her. But this was the first time he had actually come to\nthe house. I had it on the tip of my tongue to say that my mistress had\na party that night. But the devilish look of him daunted me. I went\nupstairs with his message, and left him, by his own desire, waiting in\nthe hall. The servants stood staring at him, at a distance, as if he\nwas a walking engine of destruction, loaded with powder and shot, and\nlikely to go off among them at a moment s notice.\n\nMy lady had a dash no more of the family temper.  Tell Colonel\nHerncastle,  she said, when I gave her her brother s message,  that\nMiss Verinder is engaged, and that _I_ decline to see him.  I tried to\nplead for a civiller answer than that; knowing the Colonel s\nconstitutional superiority to the restraints which govern gentlemen in\ngeneral. Quite useless! The family temper flashed out at me directly.\n When I want your advice,  says my lady,  you know that I always ask\nfor it. I don t ask for it now.  I went downstairs with the message, of\nwhich I took the liberty of presenting a new and amended edition of my\nown contriving, as follows:  My lady and Miss Rachel regret that they\nare engaged, Colonel; and beg to be excused having the honour of seeing\nyou. \n\nI expected him to break out, even at that polite way of putting it. To\nmy surprise he did nothing of the sort; he alarmed me by taking the\nthing with an unnatural quiet. His eyes, of a glittering bright grey,\njust settled on me for a moment; and he laughed, not _out_ of himself,\nlike other people, but _into_ himself, in a soft, chuckling, horridly\nmischievous way.  Thank you, Betteredge,  he said.  I shall remember my\nniece s birthday.  With that, he turned on his heel, and walked out of\nthe house.\n\nThe next birthday came round, and we heard he was ill in bed. Six\nmonths afterwards that is to say, six months before the time I am now\nwriting of there came a letter from a highly respectable clergyman to\nmy lady. It communicated two wonderful things in the way of family\nnews. First, that the Colonel had forgiven his sister on his death-bed.\nSecond, that he had forgiven everybody else, and had made a most\nedifying end. I have myself (in spite of the bishops and the clergy) an\nunfeigned respect for the Church; but I am firmly persuaded, at the\nsame time, that the devil remained in undisturbed possession of the\nHonourable John, and that the last abominable act in the life of that\nabominable man was (saving your presence) to take the clergyman in!\n\nThis was the sum-total of what I had to tell Mr. Franklin. I remarked\nthat he listened more and more eagerly the longer I went on. Also, that\nthe story of the Colonel being sent away from his sister s door, on the\noccasion of his niece s birthday, seemed to strike Mr. Franklin like a\nshot that had hit the mark. Though he didn t acknowledge it, I saw that\nI had made him uneasy, plainly enough, in his face.\n\n You have said your say, Betteredge,  he remarked.  It s my turn now.\nBefore, however, I tell you what discoveries I have made in London, and\nhow I came to be mixed up in this matter of the Diamond, I want to know\none thing. You look, my old friend, as if you didn t quite understand\nthe object to be answered by this consultation of ours. Do your looks\nbelie you? \n\n No, sir,  I said.  My looks, on this occasion at any rate, tell the\ntruth. \n\n In that case,  says Mr. Franklin,  suppose I put you up to my point of\nview, before we go any further. I see three very serious questions\ninvolved in the Colonel s birthday-gift to my cousin Rachel. Follow me\ncarefully, Betteredge; and count me off on your fingers, if it will\nhelp you,  says Mr. Franklin, with a certain pleasure in showing how\nclear-headed he could be, which reminded me wonderfully of old times\nwhen he was a boy.  Question the first: Was the Colonel s Diamond the\nobject of a conspiracy in India? Question the second: Has the\nconspiracy followed the Colonel s Diamond to England? Question the\nthird: Did the Colonel know the conspiracy followed the Diamond; and\nhas he purposely left a legacy of trouble and danger to his sister,\nthrough the innocent medium of his sister s child? _That_ is what I am\ndriving at, Betteredge. Don t let me frighten you. \n\nIt was all very well to say that, but he _had_ frightened me.\n\nIf he was right, here was our quiet English house suddenly invaded by a\ndevilish Indian Diamond bringing after it a conspiracy of living\nrogues, set loose on us by the vengeance of a dead man. There was our\nsituation as revealed to me in Mr. Franklin s last words! Who ever\nheard the like of it in the nineteenth century, mind; in an age of\nprogress, and in a country which rejoices in the blessings of the\nBritish constitution? Nobody ever heard the like of it, and,\nconsequently, nobody can be expected to believe it. I shall go on with\nmy story, however, in spite of that.\n\nWhen you get a sudden alarm, of the sort that I had got now, nine times\nout of ten the place you feel it in is your stomach. When you feel it\nin your stomach, your attention wanders, and you begin to fidget. I\nfidgeted silently in my place on the sand. Mr. Franklin noticed me,\ncontending with a perturbed stomach or mind which you please; they mean\nthe same thing and, checking himself just as he was starting with his\npart of the story, said to me sharply,  What do you want? \n\nWhat did I want? I didn t tell _him_; but I ll tell _you_, in\nconfidence. I wanted a whiff of my pipe, and a turn at _Robinson\nCrusoe_.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nKeeping my private sentiments to myself, I respectfully requested Mr.\nFranklin to go on. Mr. Franklin replied,  Don t fidget, Betteredge, \nand went on.\n\nOur young gentleman s first words informed me that his discoveries,\nconcerning the wicked Colonel and the Diamond, had begun with a visit\nwhich he had paid (before he came to us) to the family lawyer, at\nHampstead. A chance word dropped by Mr. Franklin, when the two were\nalone, one day, after dinner, revealed that he had been charged by his\nfather with a birthday present to be taken to Miss Rachel. One thing\nled to another; and it ended in the lawyer mentioning what the present\nreally was, and how the friendly connexion between the late Colonel and\nMr. Blake, senior, had taken its rise. The facts here are really so\nextraordinary, that I doubt if I can trust my own language to do\njustice to them. I prefer trying to report Mr. Franklin s discoveries,\nas nearly as may be, in Mr. Franklin s own words.\n\n You remember the time, Betteredge,  he said,  when my father was\ntrying to prove his title to that unlucky Dukedom? Well! that was also\nthe time when my uncle Herncastle returned from India. My father\ndiscovered that his brother-in-law was in possession of certain papers\nwhich were likely to be of service to him in his lawsuit. He called on\nthe Colonel, on pretence of welcoming him back to England. The Colonel\nwas not to be deluded in that way.  You want something,  he said,  or\nyou would never have compromised your reputation by calling on _me_. \nMy father saw that the one chance for him was to show his hand; he\nadmitted, at once, that he wanted the papers. The Colonel asked for a\nday to consider his answer. His answer came in the shape of a most\nextraordinary letter, which my friend the lawyer showed me. The Colonel\nbegan by saying that he wanted something of my father, and that he\nbegged to propose an exchange of friendly services between them. The\nfortune of war (that was the expression he used) had placed him in\npossession of one of the largest Diamonds in the world; and he had\nreason to believe that neither he nor his precious jewel was safe in\nany house, in any quarter of the globe, which they occupied together.\nUnder these alarming circumstances, he had determined to place his\nDiamond in the keeping of another person. That person was not expected\nto run any risk. He might deposit the precious stone in any place\nespecially guarded and set apart like a banker s or jeweller s\nstrongroom for the safe custody of valuables of high price. His main\npersonal responsibility in the matter was to be of the passive kind. He\nwas to undertake either by himself, or by a trustworthy\nrepresentative to receive at a prearranged address, on certain\nprearranged days in every year, a note from the Colonel, simply stating\nthe fact that he was a living man at that date. In the event of the\ndate passing over without the note being received, the Colonel s\nsilence might be taken as a sure token of the Colonel s death by\nmurder. In that case, and in no other, certain sealed instructions\nrelating to the disposal of the Diamond, and deposited with it, were to\nbe opened, and followed implicitly. If my father chose to accept this\nstrange charge, the Colonel s papers were at his disposal in return.\nThat was the letter. \n\n What did your father do, sir?  I asked.\n\n Do?  says Mr. Franklin.  I ll tell you what he did. He brought the\ninvaluable faculty, called common sense, to bear on the Colonel s\nletter. The whole thing, he declared, was simply absurd. Somewhere in\nhis Indian wanderings, the Colonel had picked up with some wretched\ncrystal which he took for a diamond. As for the danger of his being\nmurdered, and the precautions devised to preserve his life and his\npiece of crystal, this was the nineteenth century, and any man in his\nsenses had only to apply to the police. The Colonel had been a\nnotorious opium-eater for years past; and, if the only way of getting\nat the valuable papers he possessed was by accepting a matter of opium\nas a matter of fact, my father was quite willing to take the ridiculous\nresponsibility imposed on him all the more readily that it involved no\ntrouble to himself. The Diamond and the sealed instructions went into\nhis banker s strongroom, and the Colonel s letters, periodically\nreporting him a living man, were received and opened by our family\nlawyer, Mr. Bruff, as my father s representative. No sensible person,\nin a similar position, could have viewed the matter in any other way.\nNothing in this world, Betteredge, is probable unless it appeals to our\nown trumpery experience; and we only believe in a romance when we see\nit in a newspaper. \n\nIt was plain to me from this, that Mr. Franklin thought his father s\nnotion about the Colonel hasty and wrong.\n\n What is your own private opinion about the matter, sir?  I asked.\n\n Let s finish the story of the Colonel first,  says Mr. Franklin.\n There is a curious want of system, Betteredge, in the English mind;\nand your question, my old friend, is an instance of it. When we are not\noccupied in making machinery, we are (mentally speaking) the most\nslovenly people in the universe. \n\n So much,  I thought to myself,  for a foreign education! He has\nlearned that way of girding at us in France, I suppose. \n\nMr. Franklin took up the lost thread, and went on.\n\n My father,  he said,  got the papers he wanted, and never saw his\nbrother-in-law again from that time. Year after year, on the\nprearranged days, the prearranged letter came from the Colonel, and was\nopened by Mr. Bruff. I have seen the letters, in a heap, all of them\nwritten in the same brief, business-like form of words:  Sir, This is\nto certify that I am still a living man. Let the Diamond be. John\nHerncastle.  That was all he ever wrote, and that came regularly to the\nday; until some six or eight months since, when the form of the letter\nvaried for the first time. It ran now:  Sir, They tell me I am dying.\nCome to me, and help me to make my will.  Mr. Bruff went, and found\nhim, in the little suburban villa, surrounded by its own grounds, in\nwhich he had lived alone, ever since he had left India. He had dogs,\ncats, and birds to keep him company; but no human being near him,\nexcept the person who came daily to do the house-work, and the doctor\nat the bedside. The will was a very simple matter. The Colonel had\ndissipated the greater part of his fortune in his chemical\ninvestigations. His will began and ended in three clauses, which he\ndictated from his bed, in perfect possession of his faculties. The\nfirst clause provided for the safe keeping and support of his animals.\nThe second founded a professorship of experimental chemistry at a\nnorthern university. The third bequeathed the Moonstone as a birthday\npresent to his niece, on condition that my father would act as\nexecutor. My father at first refused to act. On second thoughts,\nhowever, he gave way, partly because he was assured that the\nexecutorship would involve him in no trouble; partly because Mr. Bruff\nsuggested, in Rachel s interest, that the Diamond might be worth\nsomething, after all. \n\n Did the Colonel give any reason, sir,  I inquired,  why he left the\nDiamond to Miss Rachel? \n\n He not only gave the reason he had the reason written in his will, \nsaid Mr. Franklin.  I have got an extract, which you shall see\npresently. Don t be slovenly-minded, Betteredge! One thing at a time.\nYou have heard about the Colonel s Will; now you must hear what\nhappened after the Colonel s death. It was formally necessary to have\nthe Diamond valued, before the Will could be proved. All the jewellers\nconsulted, at once confirmed the Colonel s assertion that he possessed\none of the largest diamonds in the world. The question of accurately\nvaluing it presented some serious difficulties. Its size made it a\nphenomenon in the diamond market; its colour placed it in a category by\nitself; and, to add to these elements of uncertainty, there was a\ndefect, in the shape of a flaw, in the very heart of the stone. Even\nwith this last serious draw-back, however, the lowest of the various\nestimates given was twenty thousand pounds. Conceive my father s\nastonishment! He had been within a hair s-breadth of refusing to act as\nexecutor, and of allowing this magnificent jewel to be lost to the\nfamily. The interest he took in the matter now, induced him to open the\nsealed instructions which had been deposited with the Diamond. Mr.\nBruff showed this document to me, with the other papers; and it\nsuggests (to my mind) a clue to the nature of the conspiracy which\nthreatened the Colonel s life. \n\n Then you do believe, sir,  I said,  that there was a conspiracy? \n\n Not possessing my father s excellent common sense,  answered Mr.\nFranklin,  I believe the Colonel s life was threatened, exactly as the\nColonel said. The sealed instructions, as I think, explain how it was\nthat he died, after all, quietly in his bed. In the event of his death\nby violence (that is to say, in the absence of the regular letter from\nhim at the appointed date), my father was then directed to send the\nMoonstone secretly to Amsterdam. It was to be deposited in that city\nwith a famous diamond-cutter, and it was to be cut up into from four to\nsix separate stones. The stones were then to be sold for what they\nwould fetch, and the proceeds were to be applied to the founding of\nthat professorship of experimental chemistry, which the Colonel has\nsince endowed by his Will. Now, Betteredge, exert those sharp wits of\nyours, and observe the conclusion to which the Colonel s instructions\npoint! \n\nI instantly exerted my wits. They were of the slovenly English sort;\nand they consequently muddled it all, until Mr. Franklin took them in\nhand, and pointed out what they ought to see.\n\n Remark,  says Mr. Franklin,  that the integrity of the Diamond, as a\nwhole stone, is here artfully made dependent on the preservation from\nviolence of the Colonel s life. He is not satisfied with saying to the\nenemies he dreads,  Kill me and you will be no nearer to the Diamond\nthan you are now; it is where you can t get at it in the guarded\nstrongroom of a bank.  He says instead,  Kill me and the Diamond will\nbe the Diamond no longer; its identity will be destroyed.  What does\nthat mean? \n\nHere I had (as I thought) a flash of the wonderful foreign brightness.\n\n I know,  I said.  It means lowering the value of the stone, and\ncheating the rogues in that way! \n\n Nothing of the sort,  says Mr. Franklin.  I have inquired about that.\nThe flawed Diamond, cut up, would actually fetch more than the Diamond\nas it now is; for this plain reason that from four to six perfect\nbrilliants might be cut from it, which would be, collectively, worth\nmore money than the large but imperfect single stone. If robbery for\nthe purpose of gain was at the bottom of the conspiracy, the Colonel s\ninstructions absolutely made the Diamond better worth stealing. More\nmoney could have been got for it, and the disposal of it in the diamond\nmarket would have been infinitely easier, if it had passed through the\nhands of the workmen of Amsterdam. \n\n Lord bless us, sir!  I burst out.  What was the plot, then? \n\n A plot organised among the Indians who originally owned the jewel, \nsays Mr. Franklin a plot with some old Hindoo superstition at the\nbottom of it. That is my opinion, confirmed by a family paper which I\nhave about me at this moment. \n\nI saw, now, why the appearance of the three Indian jugglers at our\nhouse had presented itself to Mr. Franklin in the light of a\ncircumstance worth noting.\n\n I don t want to force my opinion on you,  Mr. Franklin went on.  The\nidea of certain chosen servants of an old Hindoo superstition devoting\nthemselves, through all difficulties and dangers, to watching the\nopportunity of recovering their sacred gem, appears to _me_ to be\nperfectly consistent with everything that we know of the patience of\nOriental races, and the influence of Oriental religions. But then I am\nan imaginative man; and the butcher, the baker, and the tax-gatherer,\nare not the only credible realities in existence to _my_ mind. Let the\nguess I have made at the truth in this matter go for what it is worth,\nand let us get on to the only practical question that concerns us. Does\nthe conspiracy against the Moonstone survive the Colonel s death? And\ndid the Colonel know it, when he left the birthday gift to his niece? \n\nI began to see my lady and Miss Rachel at the end of it all, now. Not a\nword he said escaped me.\n\n I was not very willing, when I discovered the story of the Moonstone, \nsaid Mr. Franklin,  to be the means of bringing it here. But Mr. Bruff\nreminded me that somebody must put my cousin s legacy into my cousin s\nhands and that I might as well do it as anybody else. After taking the\nDiamond out of the bank, I fancied I was followed in the streets by a\nshabby, dark-complexioned man. I went to my father s house to pick up\nmy luggage, and found a letter there, which unexpectedly detained me in\nLondon. I went back to the bank with the Diamond, and thought I saw the\nshabby man again. Taking the Diamond once more out of the bank this\nmorning, I saw the man for the third time, gave him the slip, and\nstarted (before he recovered the trace of me) by the morning instead of\nthe afternoon train. Here I am, with the Diamond safe and sound and\nwhat is the first news that meets me? I find that three strolling\nIndians have been at the house, and that my arrival from London, and\nsomething which I am expected to have about me, are two special objects\nof investigation to them when they believe themselves to be alone. I\ndon t waste time and words on their pouring the ink into the boy s\nhand, and telling him to look in it for a man at a distance, and for\nsomething in that man s pocket. The thing (which I have often seen done\nin the East) is  hocus-pocus  in my opinion, as it is in yours. The\npresent question for us to decide is, whether I am wrongly attaching a\nmeaning to a mere accident? or whether we really have evidence of the\nIndians being on the track of the Moonstone, the moment it is removed\nfrom the safe keeping of the bank? \n\nNeither he nor I seemed to fancy dealing with this part of the inquiry.\nWe looked at each other, and then we looked at the tide, oozing in\nsmoothly, higher and higher, over the Shivering Sand.\n\n What are you thinking of?  says Mr. Franklin, suddenly.\n\n I was thinking, sir,  I answered,  that I should like to shy the\nDiamond into the quicksand, and settle the question in _that_ way. \n\n If you have got the value of the stone in your pocket,  answered Mr.\nFranklin,  say so, Betteredge, and in it goes! \n\nIt s curious to note, when your mind s anxious, how very far in the way\nof relief a very small joke will go. We found a fund of merriment, at\nthe time, in the notion of making away with Miss Rachel s lawful\nproperty, and getting Mr. Blake, as executor, into dreadful\ntrouble though where the merriment was, I am quite at a loss to\ndiscover now.\n\nMr. Franklin was the first to bring the talk back to the talk s proper\npurpose. He took an envelope out of his pocket, opened it, and handed\nto me the paper inside.\n\n Betteredge,  he said,  we must face the question of the Colonel s\nmotive in leaving this legacy to his niece, for my aunt s sake. Bear in\nmind how Lady Verinder treated her brother from the time when he\nreturned to England, to the time when he told you he should remember\nhis niece s birthday. And read that. \n\nHe gave me the extract from the Colonel s Will. I have got it by me\nwhile I write these words; and I copy it, as follows, for your benefit:\n\n Thirdly, and lastly, I give and bequeath to my niece, Rachel Verinder,\ndaughter and only child of my sister, Julia Verinder, widow if her\nmother, the said Julia Verinder, shall be living on the said Rachel\nVerinder s next Birthday after my death the yellow Diamond belonging to\nme, and known in the East by the name of The Moonstone: subject to this\ncondition, that her mother, the said Julia Verinder, shall be living at\nthe time. And I hereby desire my executor to give my Diamond, either by\nhis own hands or by the hands of some trustworthy representative whom\nhe shall appoint, into the personal possession of my said niece Rachel,\non her next birthday after my death, and in the presence, if possible,\nof my sister, the said Julia Verinder. And I desire that my said sister\nmay be informed, by means of a true copy of this, the third and last\nclause of my Will, that I give the Diamond to her daughter Rachel, in\ntoken of my free forgiveness of the injury which her conduct towards me\nhas been the means of inflicting on my reputation in my lifetime; and\nespecially in proof that I pardon, as becomes a dying man, the insult\noffered to me as an officer and a gentleman, when her servant, by her\norders, closed the door of her house against me, on the occasion of her\ndaughter s birthday. \n\nMore words followed these, providing if my lady was dead, or if Miss\nRachel was dead, at the time of the testator s decease, for the Diamond\nbeing sent to Holland, in accordance with the sealed instructions\noriginally deposited with it. The proceeds of the sale were, in that\ncase, to be added to the money already left by the Will for the\nprofessorship of chemistry at the university in the north.\n\nI handed the paper back to Mr. Franklin, sorely troubled what to say to\nhim. Up to that moment, my own opinion had been (as you know) that the\nColonel had died as wickedly as he had lived. I don t say the copy from\nhis Will actually converted me from that opinion: I only say it\nstaggered me.\n\n Well,  says Mr. Franklin,  now you have read the Colonel s own\nstatement, what do you say? In bringing the Moonstone to my aunt s\nhouse, am I serving his vengeance blindfold, or am I vindicating him in\nthe character of a penitent and Christian man? \n\n It seems hard to say, sir,  I answered,  that he died with a horrid\nrevenge in his heart, and a horrid lie on his lips. God alone knows the\ntruth. Don t ask _me_. \n\nMr. Franklin sat twisting and turning the extract from the Will in his\nfingers, as if he expected to squeeze the truth out of it in that\nmanner. He altered quite remarkably, at the same time. From being brisk\nand bright, he now became, most unaccountably, a slow, solemn, and\npondering young man.\n\n This question has two sides,  he said.  An Objective side, and a\nSubjective side. Which are we to take? \n\nHe had had a German education as well as a French. One of the two had\nbeen in undisturbed possession of him (as I supposed) up to this time.\nAnd now (as well as I could make out) the other was taking its place.\nIt is one of my rules in life, never to notice what I don t understand.\nI steered a middle course between the Objective side and the Subjective\nside. In plain English I stared hard, and said nothing.\n\n Let s extract the inner meaning of this,  says Mr. Franklin.  Why did\nmy uncle leave the Diamond to Rachel? Why didn t he leave it to my\naunt? \n\n That s not beyond guessing, sir, at any rate,  I said.  Colonel\nHerncastle knew my lady well enough to know that she would have refused\nto accept any legacy that came to her from _him_. \n\n How did he know that Rachel might not refuse to accept it, too? \n\n Is there any young lady in existence, sir, who could resist the\ntemptation of accepting such a birthday present as The Moonstone? \n\n That s the Subjective view,  says Mr. Franklin.  It does you great\ncredit, Betteredge, to be able to take the Subjective view. But there s\nanother mystery about the Colonel s legacy which is not accounted for\nyet. How are we to explain his only giving Rachel her birthday present\nconditionally on her mother being alive? \n\n I don t want to slander a dead man, sir,  I answered.  But if he _has_\npurposely left a legacy of trouble and danger to his sister, by the\nmeans of her child, it must be a legacy made conditional on his\nsister s being alive to feel the vexation of it. \n\n Oh! That s your interpretation of his motive, is it? The Subjective\ninterpretation again! Have you ever been in Germany, Betteredge? \n\n No, sir. What s your interpretation, if you please? \n\n I can see,  says Mr. Franklin,  that the Colonel s object may, quite\npossibly, have been not to benefit his niece, whom he had never even\nseen but to prove to his sister that he had died forgiving her, and to\nprove it very prettily by means of a present made to her child. There\nis a totally different explanation from yours, Betteredge, taking its\nrise in a Subjective-Objective point of view. From all I can see, one\ninterpretation is just as likely to be right as the other. \n\nHaving brought matters to this pleasant and comforting issue, Mr.\nFranklin appeared to think that he had completed all that was required\nof him. He laid down flat on his back on the sand, and asked what was\nto be done next.\n\nHe had been so clever, and clear-headed (before he began to talk the\nforeign gibberish), and had so completely taken the lead in the\nbusiness up to the present time, that I was quite unprepared for such a\nsudden change as he now exhibited in this helpless leaning upon _me_.\nIt was not till later that I learned by assistance of Miss Rachel, who\nwas the first to make the discovery that these puzzling shifts and\ntransformations in Mr. Franklin were due to the effect on him of his\nforeign training. At the age when we are all of us most apt to take our\ncolouring, in the form of a reflection from the colouring of other\npeople, he had been sent abroad, and had been passed on from one nation\nto another, before there was time for anyone colouring more than\nanother to settle itself on him firmly. As a consequence of this, he\nhad come back with so many different sides to his character, all more\nor less jarring with each other, that he seemed to pass his life in a\nstate of perpetual contradiction with himself. He could be a busy man,\nand a lazy man; cloudy in the head, and clear in the head; a model of\ndetermination, and a spectacle of helplessness, all together. He had\nhis French side, and his German side, and his Italian side the original\nEnglish foundation showing through, every now and then, as much as to\nsay,  Here I am, sorely transmogrified, as you see, but there s\nsomething of me left at the bottom of him still.  Miss Rachel used to\nremark that the Italian side of him was uppermost, on those occasions\nwhen he unexpectedly gave in, and asked you in his nice sweet-tempered\nway to take his own responsibilities on your shoulders. You will do him\nno injustice, I think, if you conclude that the Italian side of him was\nuppermost now.\n\n Isn t it your business, sir,  I asked,  to know what to do next?\nSurely it can t be mine? \n\nMr. Franklin didn t appear to see the force of my question not being in\na position, at the time, to see anything but the sky over his head.\n\n I don t want to alarm my aunt without reason,  he said.  And I don t\nwant to leave her without what may be a needful warning. If you were in\nmy place, Betteredge, tell me, in one word, what would you do? \n\nIn one word, I told him:  Wait. \n\n With all my heart,  says Mr. Franklin.  How long? \n\nI proceeded to explain myself.\n\n As I understand it, sir,  I said,  somebody is bound to put this\nplaguy Diamond into Miss Rachel s hands on her birthday and you may as\nwell do it as another. Very good. This is the twenty-fifth of May, and\nthe birthday is on the twenty-first of June. We have got close on four\nweeks before us. Let s wait and see what happens in that time; and\nlet s warn my lady, or not, as the circumstances direct us. \n\n Perfect, Betteredge, as far as it goes!  says Mr. Franklin.  But\nbetween this and the birthday, what s to be done with the Diamond? \n\n What your father did with it, to be sure, sir!  I answered.  Your\nfather put it in the safe keeping of a bank in London. You put in the\nsafe keeping of the bank at Frizinghall.  (Frizinghall was our nearest\ntown, and the Bank of England wasn t safer than the bank there.)  If I\nwere you, sir,  I added,  I would ride straight away with it to\nFrizinghall before the ladies come back. \n\nThe prospect of doing something and, what is more, of doing that\nsomething on a horse brought Mr. Franklin up like lightning from the\nflat of his back. He sprang to his feet, and pulled me up, without\nceremony, on to mine.  Betteredge, you are worth your weight in gold, \nhe said.  Come along, and saddle the best horse in the stables\ndirectly. \n\nHere (God bless it!) was the original English foundation of him showing\nthrough all the foreign varnish at last! Here was the Master Franklin I\nremembered, coming out again in the good old way at the prospect of a\nride, and reminding me of the good old times! Saddle a horse for him? I\nwould have saddled a dozen horses, if he could only have ridden them\nall!\n\nWe went back to the house in a hurry; we had the fleetest horse in the\nstables saddled in a hurry; and Mr. Franklin rattled off in a hurry, to\nlodge the cursed Diamond once more in the strongroom of a bank. When I\nheard the last of his horse s hoofs on the drive, and when I turned\nabout in the yard and found I was alone again, I felt half inclined to\nask myself if I hadn t woke up from a dream.\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nWhile I was in this bewildered frame of mind, sorely needing a little\nquiet time by myself to put me right again, my daughter Penelope got in\nmy way (just as her late mother used to get in my way on the stairs),\nand instantly summoned me to tell her all that had passed at the\nconference between Mr. Franklin and me. Under present circumstances,\nthe one thing to be done was to clap the extinguisher upon Penelope s\ncuriosity on the spot. I accordingly replied that Mr. Franklin and I\nhad both talked of foreign politics, till we could talk no longer, and\nhad then mutually fallen asleep in the heat of the sun. Try that sort\nof answer when your wife or your daughter next worries you with an\nawkward question at an awkward time, and depend on the natural\nsweetness of women for kissing and making it up again at the next\nopportunity.\n\nThe afternoon wore on, and my lady and Miss Rachel came back.\n\nNeedless to say how astonished they were, when they heard that Mr.\nFranklin Blake had arrived, and had gone off again on horseback.\nNeedless also to say, that _they_ asked awkward questions directly, and\nthat the  foreign politics  and the  falling asleep in the sun \nwouldn t serve a second time over with _them_. Being at the end of my\ninvention, I said Mr. Franklin s arrival by the early train was\nentirely attributable to one of Mr. Franklin s freaks. Being asked,\nupon that, whether his galloping off again on horseback was another of\nMr. Franklin s freaks, I said,  Yes, it was;  and slipped out of it I\nthink very cleverly in that way.\n\nHaving got over my difficulties with the ladies, I found more\ndifficulties waiting for me when I went back to my own room. In came\nPenelope with the natural sweetness of women to kiss and make it up\nagain; and with the natural curiosity of women to ask another question.\nThis time she only wanted me to tell her what was the matter with our\nsecond housemaid, Rosanna Spearman.\n\nAfter leaving Mr. Franklin and me at the Shivering Sand, Rosanna, it\nappeared, had returned to the house in a very unaccountable state of\nmind. She had turned (if Penelope was to be believed) all the colours\nof the rainbow. She had been merry without reason, and sad without\nreason. In one breath she asked hundreds of questions about Mr.\nFranklin Blake, and in another breath she had been angry with Penelope\nfor presuming to suppose that a strange gentleman could possess any\ninterest for her. She had been surprised, smiling, and scribbling Mr.\nFranklin s name inside her workbox. She had been surprised again,\ncrying and looking at her deformed shoulder in the glass. Had she and\nMr. Franklin known anything of each other before today? Quite\nimpossible! Had they heard anything of each other? Impossible again! I\ncould speak to Mr. Franklin s astonishment as genuine, when he saw how\nthe girl stared at him. Penelope could speak to the girl s\ninquisitiveness as genuine, when she asked questions about Mr.\nFranklin. The conference between us, conducted in this way, was\ntiresome enough, until my daughter suddenly ended it by bursting out\nwith what I thought the most monstrous supposition I had ever heard in\nmy life.\n\n Father!  says Penelope, quite seriously,  there s only one explanation\nof it. Rosanna has fallen in love with Mr. Franklin Blake at first\nsight! \n\nYou have heard of beautiful young ladies falling in love at first\nsight, and have thought it natural enough. But a housemaid out of a\nreformatory, with a plain face and a deformed shoulder, falling in\nlove, at first sight, with a gentleman who comes on a visit to her\nmistress s house, match me that, in the way of an absurdity, out of any\nstory-book in Christendom, if you can! I laughed till the tears rolled\ndown my cheeks. Penelope resented my merriment, in rather a strange\nway.  I never knew you cruel before, father,  she said, very gently,\nand went out.\n\nMy girl s words fell upon me like a splash of cold water. I was savage\nwith myself, for feeling uneasy in myself the moment she had spoken\nthem but so it was. We will change the subject, if you please. I am\nsorry I drifted into writing about it; and not without reason, as you\nwill see when we have gone on together a little longer.\n\nThe evening came, and the dressing-bell for dinner rang, before Mr.\nFranklin returned from Frizinghall. I took his hot water up to his room\nmyself, expecting to hear, after this extraordinary delay, that\nsomething had happened. To my great disappointment (and no doubt to\nyours also), nothing had happened. He had not met with the Indians,\neither going or returning. He had deposited the Moonstone in the\nbank describing it merely as a valuable of great price and he had got\nthe receipt for it safe in his pocket. I went downstairs, feeling that\nthis was rather a flat ending, after all our excitement about the\nDiamond earlier in the day.\n\nHow the meeting between Mr. Franklin and his aunt and cousin went off,\nis more than I can tell you.\n\nI would have given something to have waited at table that day. But, in\nmy position in the household, waiting at dinner (except on high family\nfestivals) was letting down my dignity in the eyes of the other\nservants a thing which my lady considered me quite prone enough to do\nalready, without seeking occasions for it. The news brought to me from\nthe upper regions, that evening, came from Penelope and the footman.\nPenelope mentioned that she had never known Miss Rachel so particular\nabout the dressing of her hair, and had never seen her look so bright\nand pretty as she did when she went down to meet Mr. Franklin in the\ndrawing-room. The footman s report was, that the preservation of a\nrespectful composure in the presence of his betters, and the waiting on\nMr. Franklin Blake at dinner, were two of the hardest things to\nreconcile with each other that had ever tried his training in service.\nLater in the evening, we heard them singing and playing duets, Mr.\nFranklin piping high, Miss Rachel piping higher, and my lady, on the\npiano, following them as it were over hedge and ditch, and seeing them\nsafe through it in a manner most wonderful and pleasant to hear through\nthe open windows, on the terrace at night. Later still, I went to Mr.\nFranklin in the smoking-room, with the soda water and brandy, and found\nthat Miss Rachel had put the Diamond clean out of his head.  She s the\nmost charming girl I have seen since I came back to England!  was all I\ncould extract from him, when I endeavoured to lead the conversation to\nmore serious things.\n\nTowards midnight, I went round the house to lock up, accompanied by my\nsecond in command (Samuel, the footman), as usual. When all the doors\nwere made fast, except the side door that opened on the terrace, I sent\nSamuel to bed, and stepped out for a breath of fresh air before I too\nwent to bed in my turn.\n\nThe night was still and close, and the moon was at the full in the\nheavens. It was so silent out of doors, that I heard from time to time,\nvery faint and low, the fall of the sea, as the ground-swell heaved it\nin on the sand-bank near the mouth of our little bay. As the house\nstood, the terrace side was the dark side; but the broad moonlight\nshowed fair on the gravel walk that ran along the next side to the\nterrace. Looking this way, after looking up at the sky, I saw the\nshadow of a person in the moonlight thrown forward from behind the\ncorner of the house.\n\nBeing old and sly, I forbore to call out; but being also,\nunfortunately, old and heavy, my feet betrayed me on the gravel. Before\nI could steal suddenly round the corner, as I had proposed, I heard\nlighter feet than mine and more than one pair of them as I\nthought retreating in a hurry. By the time I had got to the corner, the\ntrespassers, whoever they were, had run into the shrubbery at the off\nside of the walk, and were hidden from sight among the thick trees and\nbushes in that part of the grounds. From the shrubbery, they could\neasily make their way, over our fence into the road. If I had been\nforty years younger, I might have had a chance of catching them before\nthey got clear of our premises. As it was, I went back to set a-going a\nyounger pair of legs than mine. Without disturbing anybody, Samuel and\nI got a couple of guns, and went all round the house and through the\nshrubbery. Having made sure that no persons were lurking about anywhere\nin our grounds, we turned back. Passing over the walk where I had seen\nthe shadow, I now noticed, for the first time, a little bright object,\nlying on the clean gravel, under the light of the moon. Picking the\nobject up, I discovered it was a small bottle, containing a thick\nsweet-smelling liquor, as black as ink.\n\nI said nothing to Samuel. But, remembering what Penelope had told me\nabout the jugglers, and the pouring of the little pool of ink into the\npalm of the boy s hand, I instantly suspected that I had disturbed the\nthree Indians, lurking about the house, and bent, in their heathenish\nway, on discovering the whereabouts of the Diamond that night.\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nHere, for one moment, I find it necessary to call a halt.\n\nOn summoning up my own recollections and on getting Penelope to help\nme, by consulting her journal I find that we may pass pretty rapidly\nover the interval between Mr. Franklin Blake s arrival and Miss\nRachel s birthday. For the greater part of that time the days passed,\nand brought nothing with them worth recording. With your good leave,\nthen, and with Penelope s help, I shall notice certain dates only in\nthis place; reserving to myself to tell the story day by day, once\nmore, as soon as we get to the time when the business of the Moonstone\nbecame the chief business of everybody in our house.\n\nThis said, we may now go on again beginning, of course, with the bottle\nof sweet-smelling ink which I found on the gravel walk at night.\n\nOn the next morning (the morning of the twenty-sixth) I showed Mr.\nFranklin this article of jugglery, and told him what I have already\ntold you. His opinion was, not only that the Indians had been lurking\nabout after the Diamond, but also that they were actually foolish\nenough to believe in their own magic meaning thereby the making of\nsigns on a boy s head, and the pouring of ink into a boy s hand, and\nthen expecting him to see persons and things beyond the reach of human\nvision. In our country, as well as in the East, Mr. Franklin informed\nme, there are people who practise this curious hocus-pocus (without the\nink, however); and who call it by a French name, signifying something\nlike brightness of sight.  Depend upon it,  says Mr. Franklin,  the\nIndians took it for granted that we should keep the Diamond here; and\nthey brought their clairvoyant boy to show them the way to it, if they\nsucceeded in getting into the house last night. \n\n Do you think they ll try again, sir?  I asked.\n\n It depends,  says Mr. Franklin,  on what the boy can really do. If he\ncan see the Diamond through the iron safe of the bank at Frizinghall,\nwe shall be troubled with no more visits from the Indians for the\npresent. If he can t, we shall have another chance of catching them in\nthe shrubbery, before many more nights are over our heads. \n\nI waited pretty confidently for that latter chance; but, strange to\nrelate, it never came.\n\nWhether the jugglers heard, in the town, of Mr. Franklin having been\nseen at the bank, and drew their conclusions accordingly; or whether\nthe boy really did see the Diamond where the Diamond was now lodged\n(which I, for one, flatly disbelieve); or whether, after all, it was a\nmere effect of chance, this at any rate is the plain truth not the\nghost of an Indian came near the house again, through the weeks that\npassed before Miss Rachel s birthday. The jugglers remained in and\nabout the town plying their trade; and Mr. Franklin and I remained\nwaiting to see what might happen, and resolute not to put the rogues on\ntheir guard by showing our suspicions of them too soon. With this\nreport of the proceedings on either side, ends all that I have to say\nabout the Indians for the present.\n\nOn the twenty-ninth of the month, Miss Rachel and Mr. Franklin hit on a\nnew method of working their way together through the time which might\notherwise have hung heavy on their hands. There are reasons for taking\nparticular notice here of the occupation that amused them. You will\nfind it has a bearing on something that is still to come.\n\nGentlefolks in general have a very awkward rock ahead in life the rock\nahead of their own idleness. Their lives being, for the most part,\npassed in looking about them for something to do, it is curious to\nsee especially when their tastes are of what is called the intellectual\nsort how often they drift blindfold into some nasty pursuit. Nine times\nout of ten they take to torturing something, or to spoiling\nsomething and they firmly believe they are improving their minds, when\nthe plain truth is, they are only making a mess in the house. I have\nseen them (ladies, I am sorry to say, as well as gentlemen) go out, day\nafter day, for example, with empty pill-boxes, and catch newts, and\nbeetles, and spiders, and frogs, and come home and stick pins through\nthe miserable wretches, or cut them up, without a pang of remorse, into\nlittle pieces. You see my young master, or my young mistress, poring\nover one of their spiders  insides with a magnifying-glass; or you meet\none of their frogs walking downstairs without his head and when you\nwonder what this cruel nastiness means, you are told that it means a\ntaste in my young master or my young mistress for natural history.\nSometimes, again, you see them occupied for hours together in spoiling\na pretty flower with pointed instruments, out of a stupid curiosity to\nknow what the flower is made of. Is its colour any prettier, or its\nscent any sweeter, when you _do_ know? But there! the poor souls must\nget through the time, you see they must get through the time. You\ndabbled in nasty mud, and made pies, when you were a child; and you\ndabble in nasty science, and dissect spiders, and spoil flowers, when\nyou grow up. In the one case and in the other, the secret of it is,\nthat you have got nothing to think of in your poor empty head, and\nnothing to do with your poor idle hands. And so it ends in your\nspoiling canvas with paints, and making a smell in the house; or in\nkeeping tadpoles in a glass box full of dirty water, and turning\neverybody s stomach in the house; or in chipping off bits of stone\nhere, there, and everywhere, and dropping grit into all the victuals in\nthe house; or in staining your fingers in the pursuit of photography,\nand doing justice without mercy on everybody s face in the house. It\noften falls heavy enough, no doubt, on people who are really obliged to\nget their living, to be forced to work for the clothes that cover them,\nthe roof that shelters them, and the food that keeps them going. But\ncompare the hardest day s work you ever did with the idleness that\nsplits flowers and pokes its way into spiders  stomachs, and thank your\nstars that your head has got something it _must_ think of, and your\nhands something that they _must_ do.\n\nAs for Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel, they tortured nothing, I am glad\nto say. They simply confined themselves to making a mess; and all they\nspoilt, to do them justice, was the panelling of a door.\n\nMr. Franklin s universal genius, dabbling in everything, dabbled in\nwhat he called  decorative painting.  He had invented, he informed us,\na new mixture to moisten paint with, which he described as a  vehicle. \nWhat it was made of, I don t know. What it did, I can tell you in two\nwords it stank. Miss Rachel being wild to try her hand at the new\nprocess, Mr. Franklin sent to London for the materials; mixed them up,\nwith accompaniment of a smell which made the very dogs sneeze when they\ncame into the room; put an apron and a bib over Miss Rachel s gown, and\nset her to work decorating her own little sitting-room called, for want\nof English to name it in, her  boudoir.  They began with the inside of\nthe door. Mr. Franklin scraped off all the nice varnish with\npumice-stone, and made what he described as a surface to work on. Miss\nRachel then covered the surface, under his directions and with his\nhelp, with patterns and devices griffins, birds, flowers, cupids, and\nsuch like copied from designs made by a famous Italian painter, whose\nname escapes me: the one, I mean, who stocked the world with Virgin\nMaries, and had a sweetheart at the baker s. Viewed as work, this\ndecoration was slow to do, and dirty to deal with. But our young lady\nand gentleman never seemed to tire of it. When they were not riding, or\nseeing company, or taking their meals, or piping their songs, there\nthey were with their heads together, as busy as bees, spoiling the\ndoor. Who was the poet who said that Satan finds some mischief still\nfor idle hands to do? If he had occupied my place in the family, and\nhad seen Miss Rachel with her brush, and Mr. Franklin with his vehicle,\nhe could have written nothing truer of either of them than that.\n\nThe next date worthy of notice is Sunday the fourth of June.\n\nOn that evening we, in the servants  hall, debated a domestic question\nfor the first time, which, like the decoration of the door, has its\nbearing on something that is still to come.\n\nSeeing the pleasure which Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel took in each\nother s society, and noting what a pretty match they were in all\npersonal respects, we naturally speculated on the chance of their\nputting their heads together with other objects in view besides the\nornamenting of a door. Some of us said there would be a wedding in the\nhouse before the summer was over. Others (led by me) admitted it was\nlikely enough Miss Rachel might be married; but we doubted (for reasons\nwhich will presently appear) whether her bridegroom would be Mr.\nFranklin Blake.\n\nThat Mr. Franklin was in love, on his side, nobody who saw and heard\nhim could doubt. The difficulty was to fathom Miss Rachel. Let me do\nmyself the honour of making you acquainted with her; after which, I\nwill leave you to fathom for yourself if you can.\n\nMy young lady s eighteenth birthday was the birthday now coming, on the\ntwenty-first of June. If you happen to like dark women (who, I am\ninformed, have gone out of fashion latterly in the gay world), and if\nyou have no particular prejudice in favour of size, I answer for Miss\nRachel as one of the prettiest girls your eyes ever looked on. She was\nsmall and slim, but all in fine proportion from top to toe. To see her\nsit down, to see her get up, and specially to see her walk, was enough\nto satisfy any man in his senses that the graces of her figure (if you\nwill pardon me the expression) were in her flesh and not in her\nclothes. Her hair was the blackest I ever saw. Her eyes matched her\nhair. Her nose was not quite large enough, I admit. Her mouth and chin\nwere (to quote Mr. Franklin) morsels for the gods; and her complexion\n(on the same undeniable authority) was as warm as the sun itself, with\nthis great advantage over the sun, that it was always in nice order to\nlook at. Add to the foregoing that she carried her head as upright as a\ndart, in a dashing, spirited, thoroughbred way that she had a clear\nvoice, with a ring of the right metal in it, and a smile that began\nvery prettily in her eyes before it got to her lips and there behold\nthe portrait of her, to the best of my painting, as large as life!\n\nAnd what about her disposition next? Had this charming creature no\nfaults? She had just as many faults as you have, ma am neither more nor\nless.\n\nTo put it seriously, my dear pretty Miss Rachel, possessing a host of\ngraces and attractions, had one defect, which strict impartiality\ncompels me to acknowledge. She was unlike most other girls of her age,\nin this that she had ideas of her own, and was stiff-necked enough to\nset the fashions themselves at defiance, if the fashions didn t suit\nher views. In trifles, this independence of hers was all well enough;\nbut in matters of importance, it carried her (as my lady thought, and\nas I thought) too far. She judged for herself, as few women of twice\nher age judge in general; never asked your advice; never told you\nbeforehand what she was going to do; never came with secrets and\nconfidences to anybody, from her mother downwards. In little things and\ngreat, with people she loved, and people she hated (and she did both\nwith equal heartiness), Miss Rachel always went on a way of her own,\nsufficient for herself in the joys and sorrows of her life. Over and\nover again I have heard my lady say,  Rachel s best friend and Rachel s\nworst enemy are, one and the other Rachel herself. \n\nAdd one thing more to this, and I have done.\n\nWith all her secrecy, and self-will, there was not so much as the\nshadow of anything false in her. I never remember her breaking her\nword; I never remember her saying No, and meaning Yes. I can call to\nmind, in her childhood, more than one occasion when the good little\nsoul took the blame, and suffered the punishment, for some fault\ncommitted by a playfellow whom she loved. Nobody ever knew her to\nconfess to it, when the thing was found out, and she was charged with\nit afterwards. But nobody ever knew her to lie about it, either. She\nlooked you straight in the face, and shook her little saucy head, and\nsaid plainly,  I won t tell you!  Punished again for this, she would\nown to being sorry for saying  won t;  but, bread and water\nnotwithstanding, she never told you. Self-willed devilish self-willed\nsometimes I grant; but the finest creature, nevertheless, that ever\nwalked the ways of this lower world. Perhaps you think you see a\ncertain contradiction here? In that case, a word in your ear. Study\nyour wife closely, for the next four-and-twenty hours. If your good\nlady doesn t exhibit something in the shape of a contradiction in that\ntime, Heaven help you! you have married a monster.\n\nI have now brought you acquainted with Miss Rachel, which you will find\nputs us face to face, next, with the question of that young lady s\nmatrimonial views.\n\nOn June the twelfth, an invitation from my mistress was sent to a\ngentleman in London, to come and help to keep Miss Rachel s birthday.\nThis was the fortunate individual on whom I believed her heart to be\nprivately set! Like Mr. Franklin, he was a cousin of hers. His name was\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite.\n\nMy lady s second sister (don t be alarmed; we are not going very deep\ninto family matters this time) my lady s second sister, I say, had a\ndisappointment in love; and taking a husband afterwards, on the neck or\nnothing principle, made what they call a misalliance. There was\nterrible work in the family when the Honourable Caroline insisted on\nmarrying plain Mr. Ablewhite, the banker at Frizinghall. He was very\nrich and very respectable, and he begot a prodigious large family all\nin his favour, so far. But he had presumed to raise himself from a low\nstation in the world and that was against him. However, Time and the\nprogress of modern enlightenment put things right; and the misalliance\npassed muster very well. We are all getting liberal now; and (provided\nyou can scratch me, if I scratch you) what do I care, in or out of\nParliament, whether you are a Dustman or a Duke? That s the modern way\nof looking at it and I keep up with the modern way. The Ablewhites\nlived in a fine house and grounds, a little out of Frizinghall. Very\nworthy people, and greatly respected in the neighbourhood. We shall not\nbe much troubled with them in these pages excepting Mr. Godfrey, who\nwas Mr. Ablewhite s second son, and who must take his proper place\nhere, if you please, for Miss Rachel s sake.\n\nWith all his brightness and cleverness and general good qualities, Mr.\nFranklin s chance of topping Mr. Godfrey in our young lady s estimation\nwas, in my opinion, a very poor chance indeed.\n\nIn the first place, Mr. Godfrey was, in point of size, the finest man\nby far of the two. He stood over six feet high; he had a beautiful red\nand white colour; a smooth round face, shaved as bare as your hand; and\na head of lovely long flaxen hair, falling negligently over the poll of\nhis neck. But why do I try to give you this personal description of\nhim? If you ever subscribed to a Ladies  Charity in London, you know\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite as well as I do. He was a barrister by\nprofession; a ladies  man by temperament; and a good Samaritan by\nchoice. Female benevolence and female destitution could do nothing\nwithout him. Maternal societies for confining poor women; Magdalen\nsocieties for rescuing poor women; strong-minded societies for putting\npoor women into poor men s places, and leaving the men to shift for\nthemselves; he was vice-president, manager, referee to them all.\nWherever there was a table with a committee of ladies sitting round it\nin council there was Mr. Godfrey at the bottom of the board, keeping\nthe temper of the committee, and leading the dear creatures along the\nthorny ways of business, hat in hand. I do suppose this was the most\naccomplished philanthropist (on a small independence) that England ever\nproduced. As a speaker at charitable meetings the like of him for\ndrawing your tears and your money was not easy to find. He was quite a\npublic character. The last time I was in London, my mistress gave me\ntwo treats. She sent me to the theatre to see a dancing woman who was\nall the rage; and she sent me to Exeter Hall to hear Mr. Godfrey. The\nlady did it, with a band of music. The gentleman did it, with a\nhandkerchief and a glass of water. Crowds at the performance with the\nlegs. Ditto at the performance with the tongue. And with all this, the\nsweetest tempered person (I allude to Mr. Godfrey) the simplest and\npleasantest and easiest to please you ever met with. He loved\neverybody. And everybody loved _him_. What chance had Mr. Franklin what\nchance had anybody of average reputation and capacities against such a\nman as this?\n\nOn the fourteenth, came Mr. Godfrey s answer.\n\nHe accepted my mistress s invitation, from the Wednesday of the\nbirthday to the evening of Friday when his duties to the Ladies \nCharities would oblige him to return to town. He also enclosed a copy\nof verses on what he elegantly called his cousin s  natal day.  Miss\nRachel, I was informed, joined Mr. Franklin in making fun of the verses\nat dinner; and Penelope, who was all on Mr. Franklin s side, asked me,\nin great triumph, what I thought of that.  Miss Rachel has led _you_\noff on a false scent, my dear,  I replied;  but _my_ nose is not so\neasily mystified. Wait till Mr. Ablewhite s verses are followed by Mr.\nAblewhite himself. \n\nMy daughter replied, that Mr. Franklin might strike in, and try his\nluck, before the verses were followed by the poet. In favour of this\nview, I must acknowledge that Mr. Franklin left no chance untried of\nwinning Miss Rachel s good graces.\n\nThough one of the most inveterate smokers I ever met with, he gave up\nhis cigar, because she said, one day, she hated the stale smell of it\nin his clothes. He slept so badly, after this effort of self-denial,\nfor want of the composing effect of the tobacco to which he was used,\nand came down morning after morning looking so haggard and worn, that\nMiss Rachel herself begged him to take to his cigars again. No! he\nwould take to nothing again that could cause her a moment s annoyance;\nhe would fight it out resolutely, and get back his sleep, sooner or\nlater, by main force of patience in waiting for it. Such devotion as\nthis, you may say (as some of them said downstairs), could never fail\nof producing the right effect on Miss Rachel backed up, too, as it was,\nby the decorating work every day on the door. All very well but she had\na photograph of Mr. Godfrey in her bedroom; represented speaking at a\npublic meeting, with all his hair blown out by the breath of his own\neloquence, and his eyes, most lovely, charming the money out of your\npockets. What do you say to that? Every morning as Penelope herself\nowned to me there was the man whom the women couldn t do without,\nlooking on, in effigy, while Miss Rachel was having her hair combed. He\nwould be looking on, in reality, before long that was my opinion of it.\n\nJune the sixteenth brought an event which made Mr. Franklin s chance\nlook, to my mind, a worse chance than ever.\n\nA strange gentleman, speaking English with a foreign accent, came that\nmorning to the house, and asked to see Mr. Franklin Blake on business.\nThe business could not possibly have been connected with the Diamond,\nfor these two reasons first, that Mr. Franklin told me nothing about\nit; secondly, that he communicated it (when the gentleman had gone, as\nI suppose) to my lady. She probably hinted something about it next to\nher daughter. At any rate, Miss Rachel was reported to have said some\nsevere things to Mr. Franklin, at the piano that evening, about the\npeople he had lived among, and the principles he had adopted in foreign\nparts. The next day, for the first time, nothing was done towards the\ndecoration of the door. I suspect some imprudence of Mr. Franklin s on\nthe Continent with a woman or a debt at the bottom of it had followed\nhim to England. But that is all guesswork. In this case, not only Mr.\nFranklin, but my lady too, for a wonder, left me in the dark.\n\n\nOn the seventeenth, to all appearance, the cloud passed away again.\nThey returned to their decorating work on the door, and seemed to be as\ngood friends as ever. If Penelope was to be believed, Mr. Franklin had\nseized the opportunity of the reconciliation to make an offer to Miss\nRachel, and had neither been accepted nor refused. My girl was sure\n(from signs and tokens which I need not trouble you with) that her\nyoung mistress had fought Mr. Franklin off by declining to believe that\nhe was in earnest, and had then secretly regretted treating him in that\nway afterwards. Though Penelope was admitted to more familiarity with\nher young mistress than maids generally are for the two had been almost\nbrought up together as children still I knew Miss Rachel s reserved\ncharacter too well to believe that she would show her mind to anybody\nin this way. What my daughter told me, on the present occasion, was, as\nI suspected, more what she wished than what she really knew.\n\nOn the nineteenth another event happened. We had the doctor in the\nhouse professionally. He was summoned to prescribe for a person whom I\nhave had occasion to present to you in these pages our second\nhousemaid, Rosanna Spearman.\n\nThis poor girl who had puzzled me, as you know already, at the\nShivering Sand puzzled me more than once again, in the interval time of\nwhich I am now writing. Penelope s notion that her fellow-servant was\nin love with Mr. Franklin (which my daughter, by my orders, kept\nstrictly secret) seemed to be just as absurd as ever. But I must own\nthat what I myself saw, and what my daughter saw also, of our second\nhousemaid s conduct, began to look mysterious, to say the least of it.\n\nFor example, the girl constantly put herself in Mr. Franklin s way very\nslyly and quietly, but she did it. He took about as much notice of her\nas he took of the cat; it never seemed to occur to him to waste a look\non Rosanna s plain face. The poor thing s appetite, never much, fell\naway dreadfully; and her eyes in the morning showed plain signs of\nwaking and crying at night. One day Penelope made an awkward discovery,\nwhich we hushed up on the spot. She caught Rosanna at Mr. Franklin s\ndressing-table, secretly removing a rose which Miss Rachel had given\nhim to wear in his button-hole, and putting another rose like it, of\nher own picking, in its place. She was, after that, once or twice\nimpudent to me, when I gave her a well-meant general hint to be careful\nin her conduct; and, worse still, she was not over-respectful now, on\nthe few occasions when Miss Rachel accidentally spoke to her.\n\nMy lady noticed the change, and asked me what I thought about it. I\ntried to screen the girl by answering that I thought she was out of\nhealth; and it ended in the doctor being sent for, as already\nmentioned, on the nineteenth. He said it was her nerves, and doubted if\nshe was fit for service. My lady offered to remove her for change of\nair to one of our farms, inland. She begged and prayed, with the tears\nin her eyes, to be let to stop; and, in an evil hour, I advised my lady\nto try her for a little longer. As the event proved, and as you will\nsoon see, this was the worst advice I could have given. If I could only\nhave looked a little way into the future, I would have taken Rosanna\nSpearman out of the house, then and there, with my own hand.\n\nOn the twentieth, there came a note from Mr. Godfrey. He had arranged\nto stop at Frizinghall that night, having occasion to consult his\nfather on business. On the afternoon of the next day, he and his two\neldest sisters would ride over to us on horseback, in good time before\ndinner. An elegant little casket in china accompanied the note,\npresented to Miss Rachel, with her cousin s love and best wishes. Mr.\nFranklin had only given her a plain locket not worth half the money. My\ndaughter Penelope, nevertheless such is the obstinacy of women still\nbacked him to win.\n\nThanks be to Heaven, we have arrived at the eve of the birthday at\nlast! You will own, I think, that I have got you over the ground this\ntime, without much loitering by the way. Cheer up! I ll ease you with\nanother new chapter here and, what is more, that chapter shall take you\nstraight into the thick of the story.\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nJune twenty-first, the day of the birthday, was cloudy and unsettled at\nsunrise, but towards noon it cleared up bravely.\n\nWe, in the servants  hall, began this happy anniversary, as usual, by\noffering our little presents to Miss Rachel, with the regular speech\ndelivered annually by me as the chief. I follow the plan adopted by the\nQueen in opening Parliament namely, the plan of saying much the same\nthing regularly every year. Before it is delivered, my speech (like the\nQueen s) is looked for as eagerly as if nothing of the kind had ever\nbeen heard before. When it is delivered, and turns out not to be the\nnovelty anticipated, though they grumble a little, they look forward\nhopefully to something newer next year. An easy people to govern, in\nthe Parliament and in the Kitchen that s the moral of it.\n\nAfter breakfast, Mr. Franklin and I had a private conference on the\nsubject of the Moonstone the time having now come for removing it from\nthe bank at Frizinghall, and placing it in Miss Rachel s own hands.\n\nWhether he had been trying to make love to his cousin again, and had\ngot a rebuff or whether his broken rest, night after night, was\naggravating the queer contradictions and uncertainties in his\ncharacter I don t know. But certain it is, that Mr. Franklin failed to\nshow himself at his best on the morning of the birthday. He was in\ntwenty different minds about the Diamond in as many minutes. For my\npart, I stuck fast by the plain facts as we knew them. Nothing had\nhappened to justify us in alarming my lady on the subject of the jewel;\nand nothing could alter the legal obligation that now lay on Mr.\nFranklin to put it in his cousin s possession. That was my view of the\nmatter; and, twist and turn it as he might, he was forced in the end to\nmake it his view too. We arranged that he was to ride over, after\nlunch, to Frizinghall, and bring the Diamond back, with Mr. Godfrey and\nthe two young ladies, in all probability, to keep him company on the\nway home again.\n\nThis settled, our young gentleman went back to Miss Rachel.\n\nThey consumed the whole morning, and part of the afternoon, in the\neverlasting business of decorating the door, Penelope standing by to\nmix the colours, as directed; and my lady, as luncheon time drew near,\ngoing in and out of the room, with her handkerchief to her nose (for\nthey used a deal of Mr. Franklin s vehicle that day), and trying vainly\nto get the two artists away from their work. It was three o clock\nbefore they took off their aprons, and released Penelope (much the\nworse for the vehicle), and cleaned themselves of their mess. But they\nhad done what they wanted they had finished the door on the birthday,\nand proud enough they were of it. The griffins, cupids, and so on,\nwere, I must own, most beautiful to behold; though so many in number,\nso entangled in flowers and devices, and so topsy-turvy in their\nactions and attitudes, that you felt them unpleasantly in your head for\nhours after you had done with the pleasure of looking at them. If I add\nthat Penelope ended her part of the morning s work by being sick in the\nback-kitchen, it is in no unfriendly spirit towards the vehicle. No!\nno! It left off stinking when it dried; and if Art requires these sort\nof sacrifices though the girl is my own daughter I say, let Art have\nthem!\n\nMr. Franklin snatched a morsel from the luncheon-table, and rode off to\nFrizinghall to escort his cousins, as he told my lady. To fetch the\nMoonstone, as was privately known to himself and to me.\n\nThis being one of the high festivals on which I took my place at the\nside-board, in command of the attendance at table, I had plenty to\noccupy my mind while Mr. Franklin was away. Having seen to the wine,\nand reviewed my men and women who were to wait at dinner, I retired to\ncollect myself before the company came. A whiff of you know what, and a\nturn at a certain book which I have had occasion to mention in these\npages, composed me, body and mind. I was aroused from what I am\ninclined to think must have been, not a nap, but a reverie, by the\nclatter of horses  hoofs outside; and, going to the door, received a\ncavalcade comprising Mr. Franklin and his three cousins, escorted by\none of old Mr. Ablewhite s grooms.\n\nMr. Godfrey struck me, strangely enough, as being like Mr. Franklin in\nthis respect that he did not seem to be in his customary spirits. He\nkindly shook hands with me as usual, and was most politely glad to see\nhis old friend Betteredge wearing so well. But there was a sort of\ncloud over him, which I couldn t at all account for; and when I asked\nhow he had found his father in health, he answered rather shortly,\n Much as usual.  However, the two Miss Ablewhites were cheerful enough\nfor twenty, which more than restored the balance. They were nearly as\nbig as their brother; spanking, yellow-haired, rosy lasses, overflowing\nwith super-abundant flesh and blood; bursting from head to foot with\nhealth and spirits. The legs of the poor horses trembled with carrying\nthem; and when they jumped from their saddles (without waiting to be\nhelped), I declare they bounced on the ground as if they were made of\nindia-rubber. Everything the Miss Ablewhites said began with a large O;\neverything they did was done with a bang; and they giggled and\nscreamed, in season and out of season, on the smallest provocation.\nBouncers that s what I call them.\n\nUnder cover of the noise made by the young ladies, I had an opportunity\nof saying a private word to Mr. Franklin in the hall.\n\n Have you got the Diamond safe, sir? \n\nHe nodded, and tapped the breast-pocket of his coat.\n\n Have you seen anything of the Indians? \n\n Not a glimpse.  With that answer, he asked for my lady, and, hearing\nshe was in the small drawing-room, went there straight. The bell rang,\nbefore he had been a minute in the room, and Penelope was sent to tell\nMiss Rachel that Mr. Franklin Blake wanted to speak to her.\n\nCrossing the hall, about half an hour afterwards, I was brought to a\nsudden standstill by an outbreak of screams from the small\ndrawing-room. I can t say I was at all alarmed; for I recognised in the\nscreams the favourite large O of the Miss Ablewhites. However, I went\nin (on pretence of asking for instructions about the dinner) to\ndiscover whether anything serious had really happened.\n\nThere stood Miss Rachel at the table, like a person fascinated, with\nthe Colonel s unlucky Diamond in her hand. There, on either side of\nher, knelt the two Bouncers, devouring the jewel with their eyes, and\nscreaming with ecstasy every time it flashed on them in a new light.\nThere, at the opposite side of the table, stood Mr. Godfrey, clapping\nhis hands like a large child, and singing out softly,  Exquisite!\nexquisite!  There sat Mr. Franklin in a chair by the bookcase, tugging\nat his beard, and looking anxiously towards the window. And there, at\nthe window, stood the object he was contemplating my lady, having the\nextract from the Colonel s Will in her hand, and keeping her back\nturned on the whole of the company.\n\nShe faced me, when I asked for my instructions; and I saw the family\nfrown gathering over her eyes, and the family temper twitching at the\ncorners of her mouth.\n\n Come to my room in half an hour,  she answered.  I shall have\nsomething to say to you then. \n\nWith those words, she went out. It was plain enough that she was posed\nby the same difficulty which had posed Mr. Franklin and me in our\nconference at the Shivering Sand. Was the legacy of the Moonstone a\nproof that she had treated her brother with cruel injustice? or was it\na proof that he was worse than the worst she had ever thought of him?\nSerious questions those for my lady to determine, while her daughter,\ninnocent of all knowledge of the Colonel s character, stood there with\nthe Colonel s birthday gift in her hand.\n\nBefore I could leave the room in my turn, Miss Rachel, always\nconsiderate to the old servant who had been in the house when she was\nborn, stopped me.  Look, Gabriel!  she said, and flashed the jewel\nbefore my eyes in a ray of sunlight that poured through the window.\n\nLord bless us! it _was_ a Diamond! As large, or nearly, as a plover s\negg! The light that streamed from it was like the light of the harvest\nmoon. When you looked down into the stone, you looked into a yellow\ndeep that drew your eyes into it so that they saw nothing else. It\nseemed unfathomable; this jewel, that you could hold between your\nfinger and thumb, seemed unfathomable as the heavens themselves. We set\nit in the sun, and then shut the light out of the room, and it shone\nawfully out of the depths of its own brightness, with a moony gleam, in\nthe dark. No wonder Miss Rachel was fascinated: no wonder her cousins\nscreamed. The Diamond laid such a hold on _me_ that I burst out with as\nlarge an  O  as the Bouncers themselves. The only one of us who kept\nhis senses was Mr. Godfrey. He put an arm round each of his sister s\nwaists, and, looking compassionately backwards and forwards between the\nDiamond and me, said,  Carbon Betteredge! mere carbon, my good friend,\nafter all! \n\nHis object, I suppose, was to instruct me. All he did, however, was to\nremind me of the dinner. I hobbled off to my army of waiters\ndownstairs. As I went out, Mr. Godfrey said,  Dear old Betteredge, I\nhave the truest regard for him!  He was embracing his sisters, and\nogling Miss Rachel, while he honoured me with that testimony of\naffection. Something like a stock of love to draw on _there!_ Mr.\nFranklin was a perfect savage by comparison with him.\n\nAt the end of half an hour, I presented myself, as directed, in my\nlady s room.\n\nWhat passed between my mistress and me, on this occasion, was, in the\nmain, a repetition of what had passed between Mr. Franklin and me at\nthe Shivering Sand with this difference, that I took care to keep my\nown counsel about the jugglers, seeing that nothing had happened to\njustify me in alarming my lady on this head. When I received my\ndismissal, I could see that she took the blackest view possible of the\nColonel s motives, and that she was bent on getting the Moonstone out\nof her daughter s possession at the first opportunity.\n\nOn my way back to my own part of the house, I was encountered by Mr.\nFranklin. He wanted to know if I had seen anything of his cousin\nRachel. I had seen nothing of her. Could I tell him where his cousin\nGodfrey was? I didn t know; but I began to suspect that cousin Godfrey\nmight not be far away from cousin Rachel. Mr. Franklin s suspicions\napparently took the same turn. He tugged hard at his beard, and went\nand shut himself up in the library with a bang of the door that had a\nworld of meaning in it.\n\nI was interrupted no more in the business of preparing for the birthday\ndinner till it was time for me to smarten myself up for receiving the\ncompany. Just as I had got my white waistcoat on, Penelope presented\nherself at my toilet, on pretence of brushing what little hair I have\ngot left, and improving the tie of my white cravat. My girl was in high\nspirits, and I saw she had something to say to me. She gave me a kiss\non the top of my bald head, and whispered,  News for you, father! Miss\nRachel has refused him. \n\n Who s  _him_ ?  I asked.\n\n The ladies  committee-man, father,  says Penelope.  A nasty sly\nfellow! I hate him for trying to supplant Mr. Franklin! \n\nIf I had had breath enough, I should certainly have protested against\nthis indecent way of speaking of an eminent philanthropic character.\nBut my daughter happened to be improving the tie of my cravat at that\nmoment, and the whole strength of her feelings found its way into her\nfingers. I never was more nearly strangled in my life.\n\n I saw him take her away alone into the rose-garden,  says Penelope.\n And I waited behind the holly to see how they came back. They had gone\nout arm-in-arm, both laughing. They came back, walking separate, as\ngrave as grave could be, and looking straight away from each other in a\nmanner which there was no mistaking. I never was more delighted,\nfather, in my life! There s one woman in the world who can resist Mr.\nGodfrey Ablewhite, at any rate; and, if I was a lady, I should be\nanother! \n\nHere I should have protested again. But my daughter had got the\nhair-brush by this time, and the whole strength of her feelings had\npassed into _that_. If you are bald, you will understand how she\nsacrificed me. If you are not, skip this bit, and thank God you have\ngot something in the way of a defence between your hair-brush and your\nhead.\n\n Just on the other side of the holly,  Penelope went on,  Mr. Godfrey\ncame to a standstill.  You prefer,  says he,  that I should stop here\nas if nothing had happened?  Miss Rachel turned on him like lightning.\n You have accepted my mother s invitation,  she said;  and you are here\nto meet her guests. Unless you wish to make a scandal in the house, you\nwill remain, of course!  She went on a few steps, and then seemed to\nrelent a little.  Let us forget what has passed, Godfrey,  she said,\n and let us remain cousins still.  She gave him her hand. He kissed it,\nwhich _I_ should have considered taking a liberty, and then she left\nhim. He waited a little by himself, with his head down, and his heel\ngrinding a hole slowly in the gravel walk; you never saw a man look\nmore put out in your life.  Awkward!  he said between his teeth, when\nhe looked up, and went on to the house very awkward!  If that was his\nopinion of himself, he was quite right. Awkward enough, I m sure. And\nthe end of it is, father, what I told you all along,  cries Penelope,\nfinishing me off with a last scarification, the hottest of all.  Mr.\nFranklin s the man! \n\nI got possession of the hair-brush, and opened my lips to administer\nthe reproof which, you will own, my daughter s language and conduct\nrichly deserved.\n\nBefore I could say a word, the crash of carriage-wheels outside struck\nin, and stopped me. The first of the dinner-company had come. Penelope\ninstantly ran off. I put on my coat, and looked in the glass. My head\nwas as red as a lobster; but, in other respects, I was as nicely\ndressed for the ceremonies of the evening as a man need be. I got into\nthe hall just in time to announce the two first of the guests. You\nneedn t feel particularly interested about them. Only the\nphilanthropist s father and mother Mr. and Mrs. Ablewhite.\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nOne on the top of the other the rest of the company followed the\nAblewhites, till we had the whole tale of them complete. Including the\nfamily, they were twenty-four in all. It was a noble sight to see, when\nthey were settled in their places round the dinner-table, and the\nRector of Frizinghall (with beautiful elocution) rose and said grace.\n\nThere is no need to worry you with a list of the guests. You will meet\nnone of them a second time in my part of the story, at any rate with\nthe exception of two.\n\nThose two sat on either side of Miss Rachel, who, as queen of the day,\nwas naturally the great attraction of the party. On this occasion she\nwas more particularly the centre-point towards which everybody s eyes\nwere directed; for (to my lady s secret annoyance) she wore her\nwonderful birthday present, which eclipsed all the rest the Moonstone.\nIt was without any setting when it had been placed in her hands; but\nthat universal genius, Mr. Franklin, had contrived, with the help of\nhis neat fingers and a little bit of silver wire, to fix it as a brooch\nin the bosom of her white dress. Everybody wondered at the prodigious\nsize and beauty of the Diamond, as a matter of course. But the only two\nof the company who said anything out of the common way about it were\nthose two guests I have mentioned, who sat by Miss Rachel on her right\nhand and her left.\n\nThe guest on her left was Mr. Candy, our doctor at Frizinghall.\n\nThis was a pleasant, companionable little man, with the drawback,\nhowever, I must own, of being too fond, in season and out of season, of\nhis joke, and of his plunging in rather a headlong manner into talk\nwith strangers, without waiting to feel his way first. In society, he\nwas constantly making mistakes, and setting people unintentionally by\nthe ears together. In his medical practice he was a more prudent man;\npicking up his discretion (as his enemies said) by a kind of instinct,\nand proving to be generally right where more carefully conducted\ndoctors turned out to be wrong. What _he_ said about the Diamond to\nMiss Rachel was said, as usual, by way of a mystification or joke. He\ngravely entreated her (in the interests of science) to let him take it\nhome and burn it.  We will first heat it, Miss Rachel,  says the\ndoctor,  to such and such a degree; then we will expose it to a current\nof air; and, little by little puff! we evaporate the Diamond, and spare\nyou a world of anxiety about the safe keeping of a valuable precious\nstone!  My lady, listening with rather a careworn expression on her\nface, seemed to wish that the doctor had been in earnest, and that he\ncould have found Miss Rachel zealous enough in the cause of science to\nsacrifice her birthday gift.\n\nThe other guest, who sat on my young lady s right hand, was an eminent\npublic character being no other than the celebrated Indian traveller,\nMr. Murthwaite, who, at risk of his life, had penetrated in disguise\nwhere no European had ever set foot before.\n\nThis was a long, lean, wiry, brown, silent man. He had a weary look,\nand a very steady, attentive eye. It was rumoured that he was tired of\nthe humdrum life among the people in our parts, and longing to go back\nand wander off on the tramp again in the wild places of the East.\nExcept what he said to Miss Rachel about her jewel, I doubt if he spoke\nsix words or drank so much as a single glass of wine, all through the\ndinner. The Moonstone was the only object that interested him in the\nsmallest degree. The fame of it seemed to have reached him, in some of\nthose perilous Indian places where his wanderings had lain. After\nlooking at it silently for so long a time that Miss Rachel began to get\nconfused, he said to her in his cool immovable way,  If you ever go to\nIndia, Miss Verinder, don t take your uncle s birthday gift with you. A\nHindoo diamond is sometimes part of a Hindoo religion. I know a certain\ncity, and a certain temple in that city, where, dressed as you are now,\nyour life would not be worth five minutes  purchase.  Miss Rachel, safe\nin England, was quite delighted to hear of her danger in India. The\nBouncers were more delighted still; they dropped their knives and forks\nwith a crash, and burst out together vehemently,  O! how interesting! \nMy lady fidgeted in her chair, and changed the subject.\n\nAs the dinner got on, I became aware, little by little, that this\nfestival was not prospering as other like festivals had prospered\nbefore it.\n\nLooking back at the birthday now, by the light of what happened\nafterwards, I am half inclined to think that the cursed Diamond must\nhave cast a blight on the whole company. I plied them well with wine;\nand being a privileged character, followed the unpopular dishes round\nthe table, and whispered to the company confidentially,  Please to\nchange your mind and try it; for I know it will do you good.  Nine\ntimes out of ten they changed their minds out of regard for their old\noriginal Betteredge, they were pleased to say but all to no purpose.\nThere were gaps of silence in the talk, as the dinner got on, that made\nme feel personally uncomfortable. When they did use their tongues\nagain, they used them innocently, in the most unfortunate manner and to\nthe worst possible purpose. Mr. Candy, the doctor, for instance, said\nmore unlucky things than I ever knew him to say before. Take one sample\nof the way in which he went on, and you will understand what I had to\nput up with at the sideboard, officiating as I was in the character of\na man who had the prosperity of the festival at heart.\n\nOne of our ladies present at dinner was worthy Mrs. Threadgall, widow\nof the late Professor of that name. Talking of her deceased husband\nperpetually, this good lady never mentioned to strangers that he _was_\ndeceased. She thought, I suppose, that every able-bodied adult in\nEngland ought to know as much as that. In one of the gaps of silence,\nsomebody mentioned the dry and rather nasty subject of human anatomy;\nwhereupon good Mrs. Threadgall straightway brought in her late husband\nas usual, without mentioning that he was dead. Anatomy she described as\nthe Professor s favourite recreation in his leisure hours. As ill-luck\nwould have it, Mr. Candy, sitting opposite (who knew nothing of the\ndeceased gentleman), heard her. Being the most polite of men, he seized\nthe opportunity of assisting the Professor s anatomical amusements on\nthe spot.\n\n They have got some remarkably fine skeletons lately at the College of\nSurgeons,  says Mr. Candy, across the table, in a loud cheerful voice.\n I strongly recommend the Professor, ma am, when he next has an hour to\nspare, to pay them a visit. \n\nYou might have heard a pin fall. The company (out of respect to the\nProfessor s memory) all sat speechless. I was behind Mrs. Threadgall at\nthe time, plying her confidentially with a glass of hock. She dropped\nher head, and said in a very low voice,  My beloved husband is no\nmore. \n\nUnluckily Mr. Candy, hearing nothing, and miles away from suspecting\nthe truth, went on across the table louder and politer than ever.\n\n The Professor may not be aware,  says he,  that the card of a member\nof the College will admit him, on any day but Sunday, between the hours\nof ten and four. \n\nMrs. Threadgall dropped her head right into her tucker, and, in a lower\nvoice still, repeated the solemn words,  My beloved husband is no\nmore. \n\nI winked hard at Mr. Candy across the table. Miss Rachel touched his\narm. My lady looked unutterable things at him. Quite useless! On he\nwent, with a cordiality that there was no stopping anyhow.  I shall be\ndelighted,  says he,  to send the Professor my card, if you will oblige\nme by mentioning his present address. \n\n His present address, sir, is _the grave_,  says Mrs. Threadgall,\nsuddenly losing her temper, and speaking with an emphasis and fury that\nmade the glasses ring again.  The Professor has been dead these ten\nyears. \n\n Oh, good Heavens!  says Mr. Candy. Excepting the Bouncers, who burst\nout laughing, such a blank now fell on the company, that they might all\nhave been going the way of the Professor, and hailing as he did from\nthe direction of the grave.\n\nSo much for Mr. Candy. The rest of them were nearly as provoking in\ntheir different ways as the doctor himself. When they ought to have\nspoken, they didn t speak; or when they did speak they were perpetually\nat cross purposes. Mr. Godfrey, though so eloquent in public, declined\nto exert himself in private. Whether he was sulky, or whether he was\nbashful, after his discomfiture in the rose-garden, I can t say. He\nkept all his talk for the private ear of the lady (a member of our\nfamily) who sat next to him. She was one of his committee-women a\nspiritually-minded person, with a fine show of collar-bone and a pretty\ntaste in champagne; liked it dry, you understand, and plenty of it.\nBeing close behind these two at the sideboard, I can testify, from what\nI heard pass between them, that the company lost a good deal of very\nimproving conversation, which I caught up while drawing the corks, and\ncarving the mutton, and so forth. What they said about their Charities\nI didn t hear. When I had time to listen to them, they had got a long\nway beyond their women to be confined, and their women to be rescued,\nand were disputing on serious subjects. Religion (I understand Mr.\nGodfrey to say, between the corks and the carving) meant love. And love\nmeant religion. And earth was heaven a little the worse for wear. And\nheaven was earth, done up again to look like new. Earth had some very\nobjectionable people in it; but, to make amends for that, all the women\nin heaven would be members of a prodigious committee that never\nquarrelled, with all the men in attendance on them as ministering\nangels. Beautiful! beautiful! But why the mischief did Mr. Godfrey keep\nit all to his lady and himself?\n\nMr. Franklin again surely, you will say, Mr. Franklin stirred the\ncompany up into making a pleasant evening of it?\n\nNothing of the sort! He had quite recovered himself, and he was in\nwonderful force and spirits, Penelope having informed him, I suspect,\nof Mr. Godfrey s reception in the rose-garden. But, talk as he might,\nnine times out of ten he pitched on the wrong subject, or he addressed\nhimself to the wrong person; the end of it being that he offended some,\nand puzzled all of them. That foreign training of his those French and\nGerman and Italian sides of him, to which I have already alluded came\nout, at my lady s hospitable board, in a most bewildering manner.\n\nWhat do you think, for instance, of his discussing the lengths to which\na married woman might let her admiration go for a man who was not her\nhusband, and putting it in his clear-headed witty French way to the\nmaiden aunt of the Vicar of Frizinghall? What do you think, when he\nshifted to the German side, of his telling the lord of the manor, while\nthat great authority on cattle was quoting his experience in the\nbreeding of bulls, that experience, properly understood counted for\nnothing, and that the proper way to breed bulls was to look deep into\nyour own mind, evolve out of it the idea of a perfect bull, and produce\nhim? What do you say, when our county member, growing hot, at cheese\nand salad time, about the spread of democracy in England, burst out as\nfollows:  If we once lose our ancient safeguards, Mr. Blake, I beg to\nask you, what have we got left? what do you say to Mr. Franklin\nanswering, from the Italian point of view:  We have got three things\nleft, sir Love, Music, and Salad ? He not only terrified the company\nwith such outbreaks as these, but, when the English side of him turned\nup in due course, he lost his foreign smoothness; and, getting on the\nsubject of the medical profession, said such downright things in\nridicule of doctors, that he actually put good-humoured little Mr.\nCandy in a rage.\n\nThe dispute between them began in Mr. Franklin being led I forget\nhow to acknowledge that he had latterly slept very badly at night. Mr.\nCandy thereupon told him that his nerves were all out of order and that\nhe ought to go through a course of medicine immediately. Mr. Franklin\nreplied that a course of medicine, and a course of groping in the dark,\nmeant, in his estimation, one and the same thing. Mr. Candy, hitting\nback smartly, said that Mr Franklin himself was, constitutionally\nspeaking, groping in the dark after sleep, and that nothing but\nmedicine could help him to find it. Mr. Franklin, keeping the ball up\non his side, said he had often heard of the blind leading the blind,\nand now, for the first time, he knew what it meant. In this way, they\nkept it going briskly, cut and thrust, till they both of them got\nhot Mr. Candy, in particular, so completely losing his self-control, in\ndefence of his profession, that my lady was obliged to interfere, and\nforbid the dispute to go on. This necessary act of authority put the\nlast extinguisher on the spirits of the company. The talk spurted up\nagain here and there, for a minute or two at a time; but there was a\nmiserable lack of life and sparkle in it. The Devil (or the Diamond)\npossessed that dinner-party; and it was a relief to everybody when my\nmistress rose, and gave the ladies the signal to leave the gentlemen\nover their wine.\n\nI had just ranged the decanters in a row before old Mr. Ablewhite (who\nrepresented the master of the house), when there came a sound from the\nterrace which, startled me out of my company manners on the instant.\nMr. Franklin and I looked at each other; it was the sound of the Indian\ndrum. As I live by bread, here were the jugglers returning to us with\nthe return of the Moonstone to the house!\n\nAs they rounded the corner of the terrace, and came in sight, I hobbled\nout to warn them off. But, as ill-luck would have it, the two Bouncers\nwere beforehand with me. They whizzed out on to the terrace like a\ncouple of skyrockets, wild to see the Indians exhibit their tricks. The\nother ladies followed; the gentlemen came out on their side. Before you\ncould say,  Lord bless us!  the rogues were making their salaams; and\nthe Bouncers were kissing the pretty little boy.\n\nMr. Franklin got on one side of Miss Rachel, and I put myself behind\nher. If our suspicions were right, there she stood, innocent of all\nknowledge of the truth, showing the Indians the Diamond in the bosom of\nher dress!\n\nI can t tell you what tricks they performed, or how they did it. What\nwith the vexation about the dinner, and what with the provocation of\nthe rogues coming back just in the nick of time to see the jewel with\ntheir own eyes, I own I lost my head. The first thing that I remember\nnoticing was the sudden appearance on the scene of the Indian\ntraveller, Mr. Murthwaite. Skirting the half-circle in which the\ngentlefolks stood or sat, he came quietly behind the jugglers and spoke\nto them on a sudden in the language of their own country.\n\nIf he had pricked them with a bayonet, I doubt if the Indians could\nhave started and turned on him with a more tigerish quickness than they\ndid, on hearing the first words that passed his lips. The next moment\nthey were bowing and salaaming to him in their most polite and snaky\nway. After a few words in the unknown tongue had passed on either side,\nMr. Murthwaite withdrew as quietly as he had approached. The chief\nIndian, who acted as interpreter, thereupon wheeled about again towards\nthe gentlefolks. I noticed that the fellow s coffee-coloured face had\nturned grey since Mr. Murthwaite had spoken to him. He bowed to my\nlady, and informed her that the exhibition was over. The Bouncers,\nindescribably disappointed, burst out with a loud  O!  directed against\nMr. Murthwaite for stopping the performance. The chief Indian laid his\nhand humbly on his breast, and said a second time that the juggling was\nover. The little boy went round with the hat. The ladies withdrew to\nthe drawing-room; and the gentlemen (excepting Mr. Franklin and Mr.\nMurthwaite) returned to their wine. I and the footman followed the\nIndians, and saw them safe off the premises.\n\nGoing back by way of the shrubbery, I smelt tobacco, and found Mr.\nFranklin and Mr. Murthwaite (the latter smoking a cheroot) walking\nslowly up and down among the trees. Mr. Franklin beckoned to me to join\nthem.\n\n This,  says Mr. Franklin, presenting me to the great traveller,  is\nGabriel Betteredge, the old servant and friend of our family of whom I\nspoke to you just now. Tell him, if you please, what you have just told\nme. \n\nMr. Murthwaite took his cheroot out of his mouth, and leaned, in his\nweary way, against the trunk of a tree.\n\n Mr. Betteredge,  he began,  those three Indians are no more jugglers\nthan you and I are. \n\nHere was a new surprise! I naturally asked the traveller if he had ever\nmet with the Indians before.\n\n Never,  says Mr. Murthwaite;  but I know what Indian juggling really\nis. All you have seen tonight is a very bad and clumsy imitation of it.\nUnless, after long experience, I am utterly mistaken, those men are\nhigh-caste Brahmins. I charged them with being disguised, and you saw\nhow it told on them, clever as the Hindoo people are in concealing\ntheir feelings. There is a mystery about their conduct that I can t\nexplain. They have doubly sacrificed their caste first, in crossing the\nsea; secondly, in disguising themselves as jugglers. In the land they\nlive in that is a tremendous sacrifice to make. There must be some very\nserious motive at the bottom of it, and some justification of no\nordinary kind to plead for them, in recovery of their caste, when they\nreturn to their own country. \n\nI was struck dumb. Mr. Murthwaite went on with his cheroot. Mr.\nFranklin, after what looked to me like a little private veering about\nbetween the different sides of his character, broke the silence as\nfollows:\n\n I feel some hesitation, Mr. Murthwaite, in troubling you with family\nmatters, in which you can have no interest and which I am not very\nwilling to speak of out of our own circle. But, after what you have\nsaid, I feel bound, in the interests of Lady Verinder and her daughter,\nto tell you something which may possibly put the clue into your hands.\nI speak to you in confidence; you will oblige me, I am sure, by not\nforgetting that? \n\nWith this preface, he told the Indian traveller all that he had told me\nat the Shivering Sand. Even the immovable Mr. Murthwaite was so\ninterested in what he heard, that he let his cheroot go out.\n\n Now,  says Mr. Franklin, when he had done,  what does your experience\nsay? \n\n My experience,  answered the traveller,  says that you have had more\nnarrow escapes of your life, Mr. Franklin Blake, than I have had of\nmine; and that is saying a great deal. \n\nIt was Mr. Franklin s turn to be astonished now.\n\n Is it really as serious as that?  he asked.\n\n In my opinion it is,  answered Mr. Murthwaite.  I can t doubt, after\nwhat you have told me, that the restoration of the Moonstone to its\nplace on the forehead of the Indian idol, is the motive and the\njustification of that sacrifice of caste which I alluded to just now.\nThose men will wait their opportunity with the patience of cats, and\nwill use it with the ferocity of tigers. How you have escaped them I\ncan t imagine,  says the eminent traveller, lighting his cheroot again,\nand staring hard at Mr. Franklin.  You have been carrying the Diamond\nbackwards and forwards, here and in London, and you are still a living\nman! Let us try and account for it. It was daylight, both times, I\nsuppose, when you took the jewel out of the bank in London? \n\n Broad daylight,  says Mr. Franklin.\n\n And plenty of people in the streets? \n\n Plenty. \n\n You settled, of course, to arrive at Lady Verinder s house at a\ncertain time? It s a lonely country between this and the station. Did\nyou keep your appointment? \n\n No. I arrived four hours earlier than my appointment. \n\n I beg to congratulate you on that proceeding! When did you take the\nDiamond to the bank at the town here? \n\n I took it an hour after I had brought it to this house and three hours\nbefore anybody was prepared for seeing me in these parts. \n\n I beg to congratulate you again! Did you bring it back here alone? \n\n No. I happened to ride back with my cousins and the groom. \n\n I beg to congratulate you for the third time! If you ever feel\ninclined to travel beyond the civilised limits, Mr. Blake, let me know,\nand I will go with you. You are a lucky man. \n\nHere I struck in. This sort of thing didn t at all square with my\nEnglish ideas.\n\n You don t really mean to say, sir,  I asked,  that they would have\ntaken Mr. Franklin s life, to get their Diamond, if he had given them\nthe chance? \n\n Do you smoke, Mr. Betteredge?  says the traveller.\n\n Yes, sir.\n\n Do you care much for the ashes left in your pipe when you empty it? \n\n No, sir. \n\n In the country those men came from, they care just as much about\nkilling a man, as you care about emptying the ashes out of your pipe.\nIf a thousand lives stood between them and the getting back of their\nDiamond and if they thought they could destroy those lives without\ndiscovery they would take them all. The sacrifice of caste is a serious\nthing in India, if you like. The sacrifice of life is nothing at all. \n\nI expressed my opinion upon this, that they were a set of murdering\nthieves. Mr. Murthwaite expressed _his_ opinion that they were a\nwonderful people. Mr. Franklin, expressing no opinion at all, brought\nus back to the matter in hand.\n\n They have seen the Moonstone on Miss Verinder s dress,  he said.  What\nis to be done? \n\n What your uncle threatened to do,  answered Mr. Murthwaite.  Colonel\nHerncastle understood the people he had to deal with. Send the Diamond\ntomorrow (under guard of more than one man) to be cut up at Amsterdam.\nMake half a dozen diamonds of it, instead of one. There is an end of\nits sacred identity as The Moonstone and there is an end of the\nconspiracy. \n\nMr. Franklin turned to me.\n\n There is no help for it,  he said.  We must speak to Lady Verinder\ntomorrow. \n\n What about tonight, sir?  I asked.  Suppose the Indians come back? \n\nMr. Murthwaite answered me before Mr. Franklin could speak.\n\n The Indians won t risk coming back tonight,  he said.  The direct way\nis hardly ever the way they take to anything let alone a matter like\nthis, in which the slightest mistake might be fatal to their reaching\ntheir end. \n\n But suppose the rogues are bolder than you think, sir?  I persisted.\n\n In that case,  says Mr. Murthwaite,  let the dogs loose. Have you got\nany big dogs in the yard? \n\n Two, sir. A mastiff and a bloodhound. \n\n They will do. In the present emergency, Mr. Betteredge, the mastiff\nand the bloodhound have one great merit they are not likely to be\ntroubled with your scruples about the sanctity of human life. \n\nThe strumming of the piano reached us from the drawing-room, as he\nfired that shot at me. He threw away his cheroot, and took Mr.\nFranklin s arm, to go back to the ladies. I noticed that the sky was\nclouding over fast, as I followed them to the house. Mr. Murthwaite\nnoticed it too. He looked round at me, in his dry, droning way, and\nsaid:\n\n The Indians will want their umbrellas, Mr. Betteredge, tonight! \n\nIt was all very well for _him_ to joke. But I was not an eminent\ntraveller and my way in this world had not led me into playing ducks\nand drakes with my own life, among thieves and murderers in the\noutlandish places of the earth. I went into my own little room, and sat\ndown in my chair in a perspiration, and wondered helplessly what was to\nbe done next. In this anxious frame of mind, other men might have ended\nby working themselves up into a fever; _I_ ended in a different way. I\nlit my pipe, and took a turn at _Robinson Crusoe_.\n\nBefore I had been at it five minutes, I came to this amazing bit page\none hundred and sixty-one as follows:\n\n Fear of Danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than Danger\nitself, when apparent to the Eyes; and we find the Burthen of Anxiety\ngreater, by much, than the Evil which we are anxious about. \n\nThe man who doesn t believe in _Robinson Crusoe_, after _that_, is a\nman with a screw loose in his understanding, or a man lost in the mist\nof his own self-conceit! Argument is thrown away upon him; and pity is\nbetter reserved for some person with a livelier faith.\n\nI was far on with my second pipe, and still lost in admiration of that\nwonderful book, when Penelope (who had been handing round the tea) came\nin with her report from the drawing-room. She had left the Bouncers\nsinging a duet words beginning with a large  O,  and music to\ncorrespond. She had observed that my lady made mistakes in her game of\nwhist for the first time in our experience of her. She had seen the\ngreat traveller asleep in a corner. She had overheard Mr. Franklin\nsharpening his wits on Mr. Godfrey, at the expense of Ladies  Charities\nin general; and she had noticed that Mr. Godfrey hit him back again\nrather more smartly than became a gentleman of his benevolent\ncharacter. She had detected Miss Rachel, apparently engaged in\nappeasing Mrs. Threadgall by showing her some photographs, and really\noccupied in stealing looks at Mr. Franklin, which no intelligent lady s\nmaid could misinterpret for a single instant. Finally, she had missed\nMr. Candy, the doctor, who had mysteriously disappeared from the\ndrawing-room, and had then mysteriously returned, and entered into\nconversation with Mr. Godfrey. Upon the whole, things were prospering\nbetter than the experience of the dinner gave us any right to expect.\nIf we could only hold on for another hour, old Father Time would bring\nup their carriages, and relieve us of them altogether.\n\nEverything wears off in this world; and even the comforting effect of\n_Robinson Crusoe_ wore off, after Penelope left me. I got fidgety\nagain, and resolved on making a survey of the grounds before the rain\ncame. Instead of taking the footman, whose nose was human, and\ntherefore useless in any emergency, I took the bloodhound with me.\n_His_ nose for a stranger was to be depended on. We went all round the\npremises, and out into the road and returned as wise as we went, having\ndiscovered no such thing as a lurking human creature anywhere.\n\nThe arrival of the carriages was the signal for the arrival of the\nrain. It poured as if it meant to pour all night. With the exception of\nthe doctor, whose gig was waiting for him, the rest of the company went\nhome snugly, under cover, in close carriages. I told Mr. Candy that I\nwas afraid he would get wet through. He told me, in return, that he\nwondered I had arrived at my time of life, without knowing that a\ndoctor s skin was waterproof. So he drove away in the rain, laughing\nover his own little joke; and so we got rid of our dinner company.\n\nThe next thing to tell is the story of the night.\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nWhen the last of the guests had driven away, I went back into the inner\nhall and found Samuel at the side-table, presiding over the brandy and\nsoda water. My lady and Miss Rachel came out of the drawing-room,\nfollowed by the two gentlemen. Mr. Godfrey had some brandy and soda\nwater, Mr. Franklin took nothing. He sat down, looking dead tired; the\ntalking on this birthday occasion had, I suppose, been too much for\nhim.\n\nMy lady, turning round to wish them good-night, looked hard at the\nwicked Colonel s legacy shining in her daughter s dress.\n\n Rachel,  she asked,  where are you going to put your Diamond tonight? \n\nMiss Rachel was in high good spirits, just in that humour for talking\nnonsense, and perversely persisting in it as if it was sense, which you\nmay sometimes have observed in young girls, when they are highly\nwrought up, at the end of an exciting day. First, she declared she\ndidn t know where to put the Diamond. Then she said,  on her\ndressing-table, of course, along with her other things.  Then she\nremembered that the Diamond might take to shining of itself, with its\nawful moony light in the dark and that would terrify her in the dead of\nnight. Then she bethought herself of an Indian cabinet which stood in\nher sitting-room; and instantly made up her mind to put the Indian\ndiamond in the Indian cabinet, for the purpose of permitting two\nbeautiful native productions to admire each other. Having let her\nlittle flow of nonsense run on as far as that point, her mother\ninterposed and stopped her.\n\n My dear! your Indian cabinet has no lock to it,  says my lady.\n\n Good Heavens, mamma!  cried Miss Rachel,  is this an hotel? Are there\nthieves in the house? \n\nWithout taking notice of this fantastic way of talking, my lady wished\nthe gentlemen good-night. She next turned to Miss Rachel, and kissed\nher.  Why not let _me_ keep the Diamond for you tonight?  she asked.\n\nMiss Rachel received that proposal as she might, ten years since, have\nreceived a proposal to part her from a new doll. My lady saw there was\nno reasoning with her that night.  Come into my room, Rachel, the first\nthing tomorrow morning,  she said.  I shall have something to say to\nyou.  With those last words she left us slowly; thinking her own\nthoughts, and, to all appearance, not best pleased with the way by\nwhich they were leading her.\n\nMiss Rachel was the next to say good-night. She shook hands first with\nMr. Godfrey, who was standing at the other end of the hall, looking at\na picture. Then she turned back to Mr. Franklin, still sitting weary\nand silent in a corner.\n\nWhat words passed between them I can t say. But standing near the old\noak frame which holds our large looking-glass, I saw her reflected in\nit, slyly slipping the locket which Mr. Franklin had given to her, out\nof the bosom of her dress, and showing it to him for a moment, with a\nsmile which certainly meant something out of the common, before she\ntripped off to bed. This incident staggered me a little in the reliance\nI had previously felt on my own judgment. I began to think that\nPenelope might be right about the state of her young lady s affections,\nafter all.\n\nAs soon as Miss Rachel left him eyes to see with, Mr. Franklin noticed\nme. His variable humour, shifting about everything, had shifted about\nthe Indians already.\n\n Betteredge,  he said,  I m half inclined to think I took Mr.\nMurthwaite too seriously, when we had that talk in the shrubbery. I\nwonder whether he has been trying any of his traveller s tales on us?\nDo you really mean to let the dogs loose? \n\n I ll relieve them of their collars, sir,  I answered,  and leave them\nfree to take a turn in the night, if they smell a reason for it. \n\n All right,  says Mr. Franklin.  We ll see what is to be done tomorrow.\nI am not at all disposed to alarm my aunt, Betteredge, without a very\npressing reason for it. Good-night. \n\nHe looked so worn and pale as he nodded to me, and took his candle to\ngo upstairs, that I ventured to advise his having a drop of\nbrandy-and-water, by way of night-cap. Mr. Godfrey, walking towards us\nfrom the other end of the hall, backed me. He pressed Mr. Franklin, in\nthe friendliest manner, to take something, before he went to bed.\n\nI only note these trifling circumstances, because, after all I had seen\nand heard, that day, it pleased me to observe that our two gentlemen\nwere on just as good terms as ever. Their warfare of words (heard by\nPenelope in the drawing-room), and their rivalry for the best place in\nMiss Rachel s good graces, seemed to have set no serious difference\nbetween them. But there! they were both good-tempered, and both men of\nthe world. And there is certainly this merit in people of station, that\nthey are not nearly so quarrelsome among each other as people of no\nstation at all.\n\nMr. Franklin declined the brandy-and-water, and went upstairs with Mr.\nGodfrey, their rooms being next door to each other. On the landing,\nhowever, either his cousin persuaded him, or he veered about and\nchanged his mind as usual.  Perhaps I may want it in the night,  he\ncalled down to me.  Send up some brandy-and-water into my room. \n\nI sent up Samuel with the brandy-and-water; and then went out and\nunbuckled the dogs  collars. They both lost their heads with\nastonishment on being set loose at that time of night, and jumped upon\nme like a couple of puppies! However, the rain soon cooled them down\nagain: they lapped a drop of water each, and crept back into their\nkennels. As I went into the house, I noticed signs in the sky which\nbetokened a break in the weather for the better. For the present, it\nstill poured heavily, and the ground was in a perfect sop.\n\nSamuel and I went all over the house, and shut up as usual. I examined\neverything myself, and trusted nothing to my deputy on this occasion.\nAll was safe and fast when I rested my old bones in bed, between\nmidnight and one in the morning.\n\nThe worries of the day had been a little too much for me, I suppose. At\nany rate, I had a touch of Mr. Franklin s malady that night. It was\nsunrise before I fell off at last into a sleep. All the time I lay\nawake the house was as quiet as the grave. Not a sound stirred but the\nsplash of the rain, and the sighing of the wind among the trees as a\nbreeze sprang up with the morning.\n\n\nAbout half-past seven I woke, and opened my window on a fine sunshiny\nday. The clock had struck eight, and I was just going out to chain up\nthe dogs again, when I heard a sudden whisking of petticoats on the\nstairs behind me.\n\nI turned about, and there was Penelope flying down after me like mad.\n Father!  she screamed,  come upstairs, for God s sake! _The Diamond is\ngone!_ \n\n Are you out of your mind?  I asked her.\n\n Gone!  says Penelope.  Gone, nobody knows how! Come up and see. \n\nShe dragged me after her into our young lady s sitting-room, which\nopened into her bedroom. There, on the threshold of her bedroom door,\nstood Miss Rachel, almost as white in the face as the white\ndressing-gown that clothed her. There also stood the two doors of the\nIndian cabinet, wide open. One, of the drawers inside was pulled out as\nfar as it would go.\n\n Look!  says Penelope.  I myself saw Miss Rachel put the Diamond into\nthat drawer last night.  I went to the cabinet. The drawer was empty.\n\n Is this true, miss?  I asked.\n\nWith a look that was not like herself, with a voice that was not like\nher own, Miss Rachel answered as my daughter had answered:\n\n The Diamond is gone! \n\nHaving said those words, she withdrew into her bedroom, and shut and\nlocked the door.\n\nBefore we knew which way to turn next, my lady came in, hearing my\nvoice in her daughter s sitting-room, and wondering what had happened.\nThe news of the loss of the Diamond seemed to petrify her. She went\nstraight to Miss Rachel s bedroom, and insisted on being admitted. Miss\nRachel let her in.\n\nThe alarm, running through the house like fire, caught the two\ngentlemen next.\n\nMr. Godfrey was the first to come out of his room. All he did when he\nheard what had happened was to hold up his hands in a state of\nbewilderment, which didn t say much for his natural strength of mind.\nMr. Franklin, whose clear head I had confidently counted on to advise\nus, seemed to be as helpless as his cousin when he heard the news in\nhis turn. For a wonder, he had had a good night s rest at last; and the\nunaccustomed luxury of sleep had, as he said himself, apparently\nstupefied him. However, when he had swallowed his cup of coffee which\nhe always took, on the foreign plan, some hours before he ate any\nbreakfast his brains brightened; the clear-headed side of him turned\nup, and he took the matter in hand, resolutely and cleverly, much as\nfollows:\n\nHe first sent for the servants, and told them to leave all the lower\ndoors and windows (with the exception of the front door, which I had\nopened) exactly as they had been left when we locked up over night. He\nnext proposed to his cousin and to me to make quite sure, before we\ntook any further steps, that the Diamond had not accidentally dropped\nsomewhere out of sight say at the back of the cabinet, or down behind\nthe table on which the cabinet stood. Having searched in both places,\nand found nothing having also questioned Penelope, and discovered from\nher no more than the little she had already told me Mr. Franklin\nsuggested next extending our inquiries to Miss Rachel, and sent\nPenelope to knock at her bedroom door.\n\nMy lady answered the knock, and closed the door behind her. The moment\nafter we heard it locked inside by Miss Rachel. My mistress came out\namong us, looking sorely puzzled and distressed.  The loss of the\nDiamond seems to have quite overwhelmed Rachel,  she said, in reply to\nMr. Franklin.  She shrinks, in the strangest manner, from speaking of\nit, even to _me_. It is impossible you can see her for the present. \n\nHaving added to our perplexities by this account of Miss Rachel, my\nlady, after a little effort, recovered her usual composure, and acted\nwith her usual decision.\n\n I suppose there is no help for it?  she said, quietly.  I suppose I\nhave no alternative but to send for the police? \n\n And the first thing for the police to do,  added Mr. Franklin,\ncatching her up,  is to lay hands on the Indian jugglers who performed\nhere last night. \n\nMy lady and Mr. Godfrey (not knowing what Mr. Franklin and I knew) both\nstarted, and both looked surprised.\n\n I can t stop to explain myself now,  Mr. Franklin went on.  I can only\ntell you that the Indians have certainly stolen the Diamond. Give me a\nletter of introduction,  says he, addressing my lady,  to one of the\nmagistrates at Frizinghall merely telling him that I represent your\ninterests and wishes, and let me ride off with it instantly. Our chance\nof catching the thieves may depend on our not wasting one unnecessary\nminute.  (_Nota bene:_ Whether it was the French side or the English,\nthe right side of Mr. Franklin seemed to be uppermost now. The only\nquestion was, How long would it last?)\n\nHe put pen, ink, and paper before his aunt, who (as it appeared to me)\nwrote the letter he wanted a little unwillingly. If it had been\npossible to overlook such an event as the loss of a jewel worth twenty\nthousand pounds, I believe with my lady s opinion of her late brother,\nand her distrust of his birthday-gift it would have been privately a\nrelief to her to let the thieves get off with the Moonstone scot free.\n\nI went out with Mr. Franklin to the stables, and took the opportunity\nof asking him how the Indians (whom I suspected, of course, as shrewdly\nas he did) could possibly have got into the house.\n\n One of them might have slipped into the hall, in the confusion, when\nthe dinner company were going away,  says Mr. Franklin.  The fellow may\nhave been under the sofa while my aunt and Rachel were talking about\nwhere the Diamond was to be put for the night. He would only have to\nwait till the house was quiet, and there it would be in the cabinet, to\nbe had for the taking.  With those words, he called to the groom to\nopen the gate, and galloped off.\n\nThis seemed certainly to be the only rational explanation. But how had\nthe thief contrived to make his escape from the house? I had found the\nfront door locked and bolted, as I had left it at night, when I went to\nopen it, after getting up. As for the other doors and windows, there\nthey were still, all safe and fast, to speak for themselves. The dogs,\ntoo? Suppose the thief had got away by dropping from one of the upper\nwindows, how had he escaped the dogs? Had he come provided for them\nwith drugged meat? As the doubt crossed my mind, the dogs themselves\ncame galloping at me round a corner, rolling each other over on the wet\ngrass, in such lively health and spirits that it was with no small\ndifficulty I brought them to reason, and chained them up again. The\nmore I turned it over in my mind, the less satisfactory Mr. Franklin s\nexplanation appeared to be.\n\nWe had our breakfasts whatever happens in a house, robbery or murder,\nit doesn t matter, you must have your breakfast. When we had done, my\nlady sent for me; and I found myself compelled to tell her all that I\nhad hitherto concealed, relating to the Indians and their plot. Being a\nwoman of a high courage, she soon got over the first startling effect\nof what I had to communicate. Her mind seemed to be far more perturbed\nabout her daughter than about the heathen rogues and their conspiracy.\n You know how odd Rachel is, and how differently she behaves sometimes\nfrom other girls,  my lady said to me.  But I have never, in all my\nexperience, seen her so strange and so reserved as she is now. The loss\nof her jewel seems almost to have turned her brain. Who would have\nthought that horrible Diamond could have laid such a hold on her in so\nshort a time? \n\nIt was certainly strange. Taking toys and trinkets in general, Miss\nRachel was nothing like so mad after them as most young girls. Yet\nthere she was, still locked up inconsolably in her bedroom. It is but\nfair to add that she was not the only one of us in the house who was\nthrown out of the regular groove. Mr. Godfrey, for instance though\nprofessionally a sort of consoler-general seemed to be at a loss where\nto look for his own resources. Having no company to amuse him, and\ngetting no chance of trying what his experience of women in distress\ncould do towards comforting Miss Rachel, he wandered hither and thither\nabout the house and gardens in an aimless uneasy way. He was in two\ndifferent minds about what it became him to do, after the misfortune\nthat had happened to us. Ought he to relieve the family, in their\npresent situation, of the responsibility of him as a guest, or ought he\nto stay on the chance that even his humble services might be of some\nuse? He decided ultimately that the last course was perhaps the most\ncustomary and considerate course to take, in such a very peculiar case\nof family distress as this was. Circumstances try the metal a man is\nreally made of. Mr. Godfrey, tried by circumstances, showed himself of\nweaker metal than I had thought him to be. As for the women-servants\nexcepting Rosanna Spearman, who kept by herself they took to whispering\ntogether in corners, and staring at nothing suspiciously, as is the\nmanner of that weaker half of the human family, when anything\nextraordinary happens in a house. I myself acknowledge to have been\nfidgety and ill-tempered. The cursed Moonstone had turned us all upside\ndown.\n\nA little before eleven Mr. Franklin came back. The resolute side of him\nhad, to all appearance, given way, in the interval since his departure,\nunder the stress that had been laid on it. He had left us at a gallop;\nhe came back to us at a walk. When he went away, he was made of iron.\nWhen he returned, he was stuffed with cotton, as limp as limp could be.\n\n Well,  says my lady,  are the police coming? \n\n Yes,  says Mr. Franklin;  they said they would follow me in a fly.\nSuperintendent Seegrave, of your local police force, and two of his\nmen. A mere form! The case is hopeless. \n\n What! have the Indians escaped, sir?  I asked.\n\n The poor ill-used Indians have been most unjustly put in prison,  says\nMr. Franklin.  They are as innocent as the babe unborn. My idea that\none of them was hidden in the house has ended, like all the rest of my\nideas, in smoke. It s been proved,  says Mr. Franklin, dwelling with\ngreat relish on his own incapacity,  to be simply impossible. \n\nAfter astonishing us by announcing this totally new turn in the matter\nof the Moonstone, our young gentleman, at his aunt s request, took a\nseat, and explained himself.\n\nIt appeared that the resolute side of him had held out as far as\nFrizinghall. He had put the whole case plainly before the magistrate,\nand the magistrate had at once sent for the police. The first inquiries\ninstituted about the Indians showed that they had not so much as\nattempted to leave the town. Further questions addressed to the police,\nproved that all three had been seen returning to Frizinghall with their\nboy, on the previous night between ten and eleven which (regard being\nhad to hours and distances) also proved that they had walked straight\nback after performing on our terrace. Later still, at midnight, the\npolice, having occasion to search the common lodging-house where they\nlived, had seen them all three again, and their little boy with them,\nas usual. Soon after midnight I myself had safely shut up the house.\nPlainer evidence than this, in favour of the Indians, there could not\nwell be. The magistrate said there was not even a case of suspicion\nagainst them so far. But, as it was just possible, when the police came\nto investigate the matter, that discoveries affecting the jugglers\nmight be made, he would contrive, by committing them as rogues and\nvagabonds, to keep them at our disposal, under lock and key, for a\nweek. They had ignorantly done something (I forget what) in the town,\nwhich barely brought them within the operation of the law. Every human\ninstitution (justice included) will stretch a little, if you only pull\nit the right way. The worthy magistrate was an old friend of my lady s,\nand the Indians were  committed  for a week, as soon as the court\nopened that morning.\n\nSuch was Mr. Franklin s narrative of events at Frizinghall. The Indian\nclue to the mystery of the lost jewel was now, to all appearance, a\nclue that had broken in our hands. If the jugglers were innocent, who,\nin the name of wonder, had taken the Moonstone out of Miss Rachel s\ndrawer?\n\nTen minutes later, to our infinite relief; Superintendent Seegrave\narrived at the house. He reported passing Mr. Franklin on the terrace,\nsitting in the sun (I suppose with the Italian side of him uppermost),\nand warning the police, as they went by, that the investigation was\nhopeless, before the investigation had begun.\n\nFor a family in our situation, the Superintendent of the Frizinghall\npolice was the most comforting officer you could wish to see. Mr.\nSeegrave was tall and portly, and military in his manners. He had a\nfine commanding voice, and a mighty resolute eye, and a grand\nfrock-coat which buttoned beautifully up to his leather stock.  I m the\nman you want!  was written all over his face; and he ordered his two\ninferior police men about with a severity which convinced us all that\nthere was no trifling with _him_.\n\nHe began by going round the premises, outside and in; the result of\nthat investigation proving to him that no thieves had broken in upon us\nfrom outside, and that the robbery, consequently, must have been\ncommitted by some person in the house. I leave you to imagine the state\nthe servants were in when this official announcement first reached\ntheir ears. The Superintendent decided to begin by examining the\nboudoir, and, that done, to examine the servants next. At the same\ntime, he posted one of his men on the staircase which led to the\nservants  bedrooms, with instructions to let nobody in the house pass\nhim, till further orders.\n\nAt this latter proceeding, the weaker half of the human family went\ndistracted on the spot. They bounced out of their corners, whisked\nupstairs in a body to Miss Rachel s room (Rosanna Spearman being\ncarried away among them this time), burst in on Superintendent\nSeegrave, and, all looking equally guilty, summoned him to say which of\nthem he suspected, at once.\n\nMr. Superintendent proved equal to the occasion; he looked at them with\nhis resolute eye, and he cowed them with his military voice.\n\n Now, then, you women, go downstairs again, everyone of you; I won t\nhave you here. Look!  says Mr. Superintendent, suddenly pointing to a\nlittle smear of the decorative painting on Miss Rachel s door, at the\nouter edge, just under the lock.  Look what mischief the petticoats of\nsome of you have done already. Clear out! clear out!  Rosanna Spearman,\nwho was nearest to him, and nearest to the little smear on the door,\nset the example of obedience, and slipped off instantly to her work.\nThe rest followed her out. The Superintendent finished his examination\nof the room, and, making nothing of it, asked me who had first\ndiscovered the robbery. My daughter had first discovered it. My\ndaughter was sent for.\n\nMr. Superintendent proved to be a little too sharp with Penelope at\nstarting.  Now, young woman, attend to me, and mind you speak the\ntruth.  Penelope fired up instantly.  I ve never been taught to tell\nlies Mr. Policeman! and if father can stand there and hear me accused\nof falsehood and thieving, and my own bedroom shut against me, and my\ncharacter taken away, which is all a poor girl has left, he s not the\ngood father I take him for!  A timely word from me put Justice and\nPenelope on a pleasanter footing together. The questions and answers\nwent swimmingly, and ended in nothing worth mentioning. My daughter had\nseen Miss Rachel put the Diamond in the drawer of the cabinet the last\nthing at night. She had gone in with Miss Rachel s cup of tea at eight\nthe next morning, and had found the drawer open and empty. Upon that,\nshe had alarmed the house and there was an end of Penelope s evidence.\n\nMr. Superintendent next asked to see Miss Rachel herself. Penelope\nmentioned his request through the door. The answer reached us by the\nsame road:  I have nothing to tell the policeman I can t see anybody. \nOur experienced officer looked equally surprised and offended when he\nheard that reply. I told him my young lady was ill, and begged him to\nwait a little and see her later. We thereupon went downstairs again,\nand were met by Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Franklin crossing the hall.\n\nThe two gentlemen, being inmates of the house, were summoned to say if\nthey could throw any light on the matter. Neither of them knew anything\nabout it. Had they heard any suspicious noises during the previous\nnight? They had heard nothing but the pattering of the rain. Had I,\nlying awake longer than either of them, heard nothing either? Nothing!\nReleased from examination, Mr. Franklin, still sticking to the helpless\nview of our difficulty, whispered to me:  That man will be of no\nearthly use to us. Superintendent Seegrave is an ass.  Released in his\nturn, Mr. Godfrey whispered to me Evidently a most competent person.\nBetteredge, I have the greatest faith in him!  Many men, many opinions,\nas one of the ancients said, before my time.\n\nMr. Superintendent s next proceeding took him back to the  boudoir \nagain, with my daughter and me at his heels. His object was to discover\nwhether any of the furniture had been moved, during the night, out of\nits customary place his previous investigation in the room having,\napparently, not gone quite far enough to satisfy his mind on this\npoint.\n\nWhile we were still poking about among the chairs and tables, the door\nof the bedroom was suddenly opened. After having denied herself to\neverybody, Miss Rachel, to our astonishment, walked into the midst of\nus of her own accord. She took up her garden hat from a chair, and then\nwent straight to Penelope with this question: \n\n Mr. Franklin Blake sent you with a message to me this morning? \n\n Yes, miss. \n\n He wished to speak to me, didn t he? \n\n Yes, miss. \n\n Where is he now? \n\nHearing voices on the terrace below, I looked out of window, and saw\nthe two gentlemen walking up and down together. Answering for my\ndaughter, I said,  Mr. Franklin is on the terrace, miss. \n\nWithout another word, without heeding Mr. Superintendent, who tried to\nspeak to her, pale as death, and wrapped up strangely in her own\nthoughts, she left the room, and went down to her cousins on the\nterrace.\n\nIt showed a want of due respect, it showed a breach of good manners, on\nmy part, but, for the life of me, I couldn t help looking out of window\nwhen Miss Rachel met the gentlemen outside. She went up to Mr. Franklin\nwithout appearing to notice Mr. Godfrey, who thereupon drew back and\nleft them by themselves. What she said to Mr. Franklin appeared to be\nspoken vehemently. It lasted but for a short time, and, judging by what\nI saw of his face from the window, seemed to astonish him beyond all\npower of expression. While they were still together, my lady appeared\non the terrace. Miss Rachel saw her said a few last words to Mr.\nFranklin and suddenly went back into the house again, before her mother\ncame up with her. My lady surprised herself, and noticing Mr.\nFranklin s surprise, spoke to him. Mr. Godfrey joined them, and spoke\nalso. Mr. Franklin walked away a little between the two, telling them\nwhat had happened I suppose, for they both stopped short, after taking\na few steps, like persons struck with amazement. I had just seen as\nmuch as this, when the door of the sitting-room was opened violently.\nMiss Rachel walked swiftly through to her bedroom, wild and angry, with\nfierce eyes and flaming cheeks. Mr. Superintendent once more attempted\nto question her. She turned round on him at her bedroom door.  _I_ have\nnot sent for you!  she cried out vehemently.  _I_ don t want you. My\nDiamond is lost. Neither you nor anybody else will ever find it!  With\nthose words she went in, and locked the door in our faces. Penelope,\nstanding nearest to it, heard her burst out crying the moment she was\nalone again.\n\nIn a rage, one moment; in tears, the next! What did it mean?\n\nI told the Superintendent it meant that Miss Rachel s temper was upset\nby the loss of her jewel. Being anxious for the honour of the family,\nit distressed me to see my young lady forget herself even with a\npolice-officer and I made the best excuse I could, accordingly. In my\nown private mind I was more puzzled by Miss Rachel s extraordinary\nlanguage and conduct than words can tell. Taking what she had said at\nher bedroom door as a guide to guess by, I could only conclude that she\nwas mortally offended by our sending for the police, and that Mr.\nFranklin s astonishment on the terrace was caused by her having\nexpressed herself to him (as the person chiefly instrumental in\nfetching the police) to that effect. If this guess was right,\nwhy having lost her Diamond should she object to the presence in the\nhouse of the very people whose business it was to recover it for her?\nAnd how, in Heaven s name, could _she_ know that the Moonstone would\nnever be found again?\n\nAs things stood, at present, no answer to those questions was to be\nhoped for from anybody in the house. Mr. Franklin appeared to think it\na point of honour to forbear repeating to a servant even to so old a\nservant as I was what Miss Rachel had said to him on the terrace. Mr.\nGodfrey, who, as a gentleman and a relative, had been probably admitted\ninto Mr. Franklin s confidence, respected that confidence as he was\nbound to do. My lady, who was also in the secret no doubt, and who\nalone had access to Miss Rachel, owned openly that she could make\nnothing of her.  You madden me when you talk of the Diamond!  All her\nmother s influence failed to extract from her a word more than that.\n\nHere we were, then, at a dead-lock about Miss Rachel and at a dead-lock\nabout the Moonstone. In the first case, my lady was powerless to help\nus. In the second (as you shall presently judge), Mr. Seegrave was fast\napproaching the condition of a superintendent at his wits  end.\n\nHaving ferreted about all over the  boudoir,  without making any\ndiscoveries among the furniture, our experienced officer applied to me\nto know, whether the servants in general were or were not acquainted\nwith the place in which the Diamond had been put for the night.\n\n I knew where it was put, sir,  I said,  to begin with. Samuel, the\nfootman, knew also for he was present in the hall, when they were\ntalking about where the Diamond was to be kept that night. My daughter\nknew, as she has already told you. She or Samuel may have mentioned the\nthing to the other servants or the other servants may have heard the\ntalk for themselves, through the side-door of the hall, which might\nhave been open to the back staircase. For all I can tell, everybody in\nthe house may have known where the jewel was, last night. \n\nMy answer presenting rather a wide field for Mr. Superintendent s\nsuspicions to range over, he tried to narrow it by asking about the\nservants  characters next.\n\nI thought directly of Rosanna Spearman. But it was neither my place nor\nmy wish to direct suspicion against a poor girl, whose honesty had been\nabove all doubt as long as I had known her. The matron at the\nReformatory had reported her to my lady as a sincerely penitent and\nthoroughly trustworthy girl. It was the Superintendent s business to\ndiscover reason for suspecting her first and then, and not till then,\nit would be my duty to tell him how she came into my lady s service.\n All our people have excellent characters,  I said.  And all have\ndeserved the trust their mistress has placed in them.  After that,\nthere was but one thing left for Mr. Seegrave to do namely, to set to\nwork, and tackle the servants  characters himself.\n\nOne after another, they were examined. One after another, they proved\nto have nothing to say and said it (so far as the women were concerned)\nat great length, and with a very angry sense of the embargo laid on\ntheir bedrooms. The rest of them being sent back to their places\ndownstairs, Penelope was then summoned, and examined separately a\nsecond time.\n\nMy daughter s little outbreak of temper in the  boudoir,  and her\nreadiness to think herself suspected, appeared to have produced an\nunfavourable impression on Superintendent Seegrave. It seemed also to\ndwell a little on his mind, that she had been the last person who saw\nthe Diamond at night. When the second questioning was over, my girl\ncame back to me in a frenzy. There was no doubt of it any longer the\npolice-officer had almost as good as told her she was the thief! I\ncould scarcely believe him (taking Mr. Franklin s view) to be quite\nsuch an ass as that. But, though he said nothing, the eye with which he\nlooked at my daughter was not a very pleasant eye to see. I laughed it\noff with poor Penelope, as something too ridiculous to be treated\nseriously which it certainly was. Secretly, I am afraid I was foolish\nenough to be angry too. It was a little trying it was, indeed. My girl\nsat down in a corner, with her apron over her head, quite\nbroken-hearted. Foolish of her, you will say. She might have waited\ntill he openly accused her. Well, being a man of just an equal temper,\nI admit that. Still Mr. Superintendent might have remembered never mind\nwhat he might have remembered. The devil take him!\n\nThe next and last step in the investigation brought matters, as they\nsay, to a crisis. The officer had an interview (at which I was present)\nwith my lady. After informing her that the Diamond _must_ have been\ntaken by somebody in the house, he requested permission for himself and\nhis men to search the servants  rooms and boxes on the spot. My good\nmistress, like the generous high-bred woman she was, refused to let us\nbe treated like thieves.  I will never consent to make such a return as\nthat,  she said,  for all I owe to the faithful servants who are\nemployed in my house. \n\nMr. Superintendent made his bow, with a look in my direction, which\nsaid plainly,  Why employ me, if you are to tie my hands in this way? \nAs head of the servants, I felt directly that we were bound, in justice\nto all parties, not to profit by our mistress s generosity.  We\ngratefully thank your ladyship,  I said;  but we ask your permission to\ndo what is right in this matter by giving up our keys. When Gabriel\nBetteredge sets the example,  says I, stopping Superintendent Seegrave\nat the door,  the rest of the servants will follow, I promise you.\nThere are my keys, to begin with!  My lady took me by the hand, and\nthanked me with the tears in her eyes. Lord! what would I not have\ngiven, at that moment, for the privilege of knocking Superintendent\nSeegrave down!\n\nAs I had promised for them, the other servants followed my lead, sorely\nagainst the grain, of course, but all taking the view that I took. The\nwomen were a sight to see, while the police-officers were rummaging\namong their things. The cook looked as if she could grill Mr.\nSuperintendent alive on a furnace, and the other women looked as if\nthey could eat him when he was done.\n\nThe search over, and no Diamond or sign of a Diamond being found, of\ncourse, anywhere, Superintendent Seegrave retired to my little room to\nconsider with himself what he was to do next. He and his men had now\nbeen hours in the house, and had not advanced us one inch towards a\ndiscovery of how the Moonstone had been taken, or of whom we were to\nsuspect as the thief.\n\nWhile the police-officer was still pondering in solitude, I was sent\nfor to see Mr. Franklin in the library. To my unutterable astonishment,\njust as my hand was on the door, it was suddenly opened from the\ninside, and out walked Rosanna Spearman!\n\nAfter the library had been swept and cleaned in the morning, neither\nfirst nor second housemaid had any business in that room at any later\nperiod of the day. I stopped Rosanna Spearman, and charged her with a\nbreach of domestic discipline on the spot.\n\n What might you want in the library at this time of day?  I inquired.\n\n Mr. Franklin Blake dropped one of his rings upstairs,  says Rosanna;\n and I have been into the library to give it to him.  The girl s face\nwas all in a flush as she made me that answer; and she walked away with\na toss of her head and a look of self-importance which I was quite at a\nloss to account for. The proceedings in the house had doubtless upset\nall the women-servants more or less; but none of them had gone clean\nout of their natural characters, as Rosanna, to all appearance, had now\ngone out of hers.\n\nI found Mr. Franklin writing at the library-table. He asked for a\nconveyance to the railway station the moment I entered the room. The\nfirst sound of his voice informed me that we now had the resolute side\nof him uppermost once more. The man made of cotton had disappeared; and\nthe man made of iron sat before me again.\n\n Going to London, sir?  I asked.\n\n Going to telegraph to London,  says Mr. Franklin.  I have convinced my\naunt that we must have a cleverer head than Superintendent Seegrave s\nto help us; and I have got her permission to despatch a telegram to my\nfather. He knows the Chief Commissioner of Police, and the Commissioner\ncan lay his hand on the right man to solve the mystery of the Diamond.\nTalking of mysteries, by-the-bye,  says Mr. Franklin, dropping his\nvoice,  I have another word to say to you before you go to the stables.\nDon t breathe a word of it to anybody as yet; but either Rosanna\nSpearman s head is not quite right, or I am afraid she knows more about\nthe Moonstone than she ought to know. \n\nI can hardly tell whether I was more startled or distressed at hearing\nhim say that. If I had been younger, I might have confessed as much to\nMr. Franklin. But when you are old, you acquire one excellent habit. In\ncases where you don t see your way clearly, you hold your tongue.\n\n She came in here with a ring I dropped in my bedroom,  Mr. Franklin\nwent on.  When I had thanked her, of course I expected her to go.\nInstead of that, she stood opposite to me at the table, looking at me\nin the oddest manner half frightened, and half familiar I couldn t make\nit out.  This is a strange thing about the Diamond, sir,  she said, in\na curiously sudden, headlong way. I said,  Yes, it was,  and wondered\nwhat was coming next. Upon my honour, Betteredge, I think she must be\nwrong in the head! She said,  They will never find the Diamond, sir,\nwill they? No! nor the person who took it I ll answer for that.  She\nactually nodded and smiled at me! Before I could ask her what she\nmeant, we heard your step outside. I suppose she was afraid of your\ncatching her here. At any rate, she changed colour, and left the room.\nWhat on earth does it mean? \n\nI could not bring myself to tell him the girl s story, even then. It\nwould have been almost as good as telling him that she was the thief.\nBesides, even if I had made a clean breast of it, and even supposing\nshe was the thief, the reason why she should let out her secret to Mr.\nFranklin, of all the people in the world, would have been still as far\nto seek as ever.\n\n I can t bear the idea of getting the poor girl into a scrape, merely\nbecause she has a flighty way with her, and talks very strangely,  Mr.\nFranklin went on.  And yet if she had said to the Superintendent what\nshe said to me, fool as he is, I m afraid  He stopped there, and left\nthe rest unspoken.\n\n The best way, sir,  I said,  will be for me to say two words privately\nto my mistress about it at the first opportunity. My lady has a very\nfriendly interest in Rosanna; and the girl may only have been forward\nand foolish, after all. When there s a mess of any kind in a house,\nsir, the women-servants like to look at the gloomy side it gives the\npoor wretches a kind of importance in their own eyes. If there s\nanybody ill, trust the women for prophesying that the person will die.\nIf it s a jewel lost, trust them for prophesying that it will never be\nfound again. \n\nThis view (which I am bound to say, I thought a probable view myself,\non reflection) seemed to relieve Mr. Franklin mightily: he folded up\nhis telegram, and dismissed the subject. On my way to the stables, to\norder the pony-chaise, I looked in at the servants  hall, where they\nwere at dinner. Rosanna Spearman was not among them. On inquiry, I\nfound that she had been suddenly taken ill, and had gone upstairs to\nher own room to lie down.\n\n Curious! She looked well enough when I saw her last,  I remarked.\n\nPenelope followed me out.  Don t talk in that way before the rest of\nthem, father,  she said.  You only make them harder on Rosanna than\never. The poor thing is breaking her heart about Mr. Franklin Blake. \n\nHere was another view of the girl s conduct. If it was possible for\nPenelope to be right, the explanation of Rosanna s strange language and\nbehaviour might have been all in this that she didn t care what she\nsaid, so long as she could surprise Mr. Franklin into speaking to her.\nGranting that to be the right reading of the riddle, it accounted,\nperhaps, for her flighty, self-conceited manner when she passed me in\nthe hall. Though he had only said three words, still she had carried\nher point, and Mr. Franklin _had_ spoken to her.\n\nI saw the pony harnessed myself. In the infernal network of mysteries\nand uncertainties that now surrounded us, I declare it was a relief to\nobserve how well the buckles and straps understood each other! When you\nhad seen the pony backed into the shafts of the chaise, you had seen\nsomething there was no doubt about. And that, let me tell you, was\nbecoming a treat of the rarest kind in our household.\n\nGoing round with the chaise to the front door, I found not only Mr.\nFranklin, but Mr. Godfrey and Superintendent Seegrave also waiting for\nme on the steps.\n\nMr. Superintendent s reflections (after failing to find the Diamond in\nthe servants  rooms or boxes) had led him, it appeared, to an entirely\nnew conclusion. Still sticking to his first text, namely, that somebody\nin the house had stolen the jewel, our experienced officer was now of\nthe opinion that the thief (he was wise enough not to name poor\nPenelope, whatever he might privately think of her!) had been acting in\nconcert with the Indians; and he accordingly proposed shifting his\ninquiries to the jugglers in the prison at Frizinghall. Hearing of this\nnew move, Mr. Franklin had volunteered to take the Superintendent back\nto the town, from which he could telegraph to London as easily as from\nour station. Mr. Godfrey, still devoutly believing in Mr. Seegrave, and\ngreatly interested in witnessing the examination of the Indians, had\nbegged leave to accompany the officer to Frizinghall. One of the two\ninferior policemen was to be left at the house, in case anything\nhappened. The other was to go back with the Superintendent to the town.\nSo the four places in the pony-chaise were just filled.\n\nBefore he took the reins to drive off, Mr. Franklin walked me away a\nfew steps out of hearing of the others.\n\n I will wait to telegraph to London,  he said,  till I see what comes\nof our examination of the Indians. My own conviction is, that this\nmuddle-headed local police-officer is as much in the dark as ever, and\nis simply trying to gain time. The idea of any of the servants being in\nleague with the Indians is a preposterous absurdity, in my opinion.\nKeep about the house, Betteredge, till I come back, and try what you\ncan make of Rosanna Spearman. I don t ask you to do anything degrading\nto your own self-respect, or anything cruel towards the girl. I only\nask you to exercise your observation more carefully than usual. We will\nmake as light of it as we can before my aunt but this is a more\nimportant matter than you may suppose. \n\n It is a matter of twenty thousand pounds, sir,  I said, thinking of\nthe value of the Diamond.\n\n It s a matter of quieting Rachel s mind,  answered Mr. Franklin\ngravely.  I am very uneasy about her. \n\nHe left me suddenly; as if he desired to cut short any further talk\nbetween us. I thought I understood why. Further talk might have let me\ninto the secret of what Miss Rachel had said to him on the terrace.\n\nSo they drove away to Frizinghall. I was ready enough, in the girl s\nown interest, to have a little talk with Rosanna in private. But the\nneedful opportunity failed to present itself. She only came downstairs\nagain at tea-time. When she did appear, she was flighty and excited,\nhad what they call an hysterical attack, took a dose of sal-volatile by\nmy lady s order, and was sent back to her bed.\n\nThe day wore on to its end drearily and miserably enough, I can tell\nyou. Miss Rachel still kept her room, declaring that she was too ill to\ncome down to dinner that day. My lady was in such low spirits about her\ndaughter, that I could not bring myself to make her additionally\nanxious, by reporting what Rosanna Spearman had said to Mr. Franklin.\nPenelope persisted in believing that she was to be forthwith tried,\nsentenced, and transported for theft. The other women took to their\nBibles and hymn-books, and looked as sour as verjuice over their\nreading a result, which I have observed, in my sphere of life, to\nfollow generally on the performance of acts of piety at unaccustomed\nperiods of the day. As for me, I hadn t even heart enough to open my\n_Robinson Crusoe_. I went out into the yard, and, being hard up for a\nlittle cheerful society, set my chair by the kennels, and talked to the\ndogs.\n\nHalf an hour before dinner-time, the two gentlemen came back from\nFrizinghall, having arranged with Superintendent Seegrave that he was\nto return to us the next day. They had called on Mr. Murthwaite, the\nIndian traveller, at his present residence, near the town. At Mr.\nFranklin s request, he had kindly given them the benefit of his\nknowledge of the language, in dealing with those two, out of the three\nIndians, who knew nothing of English. The examination, conducted\ncarefully, and at great length, had ended in nothing; not the shadow of\na reason being discovered for suspecting the jugglers of having\ntampered with any of our servants. On reaching that conclusion, Mr.\nFranklin had sent his telegraphic message to London, and there the\nmatter now rested till tomorrow came.\n\nSo much for the history of the day that followed the birthday. Not a\nglimmer of light had broken in on us, so far. A day or two after,\nhowever, the darkness lifted a little. How, and with what result, you\nshall presently see.\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nThe Thursday night passed, and nothing happened. With the Friday\nmorning came two pieces of news.\n\nItem the first: the baker s man declared he had met Rosanna Spearman,\non the previous afternoon, with a thick veil on, walking towards\nFrizinghall by the foot-path way over the moor. It seemed strange that\nanybody should be mistaken about Rosanna, whose shoulder marked her out\npretty plainly, poor thing but mistaken the man must have been; for\nRosanna, as you know, had been all the Thursday afternoon ill upstairs\nin her room.\n\nItem the second came through the postman. Worthy Mr. Candy had said one\nmore of his many unlucky things, when he drove off in the rain on the\nbirthday night, and told me that a doctor s skin was waterproof. In\nspite of his skin, the wet had got through him. He had caught a chill\nthat night, and was now down with a fever. The last accounts, brought\nby the postman, represented him to be light-headed talking nonsense as\nglibly, poor man, in his delirium as he often talked it in his sober\nsenses. We were all sorry for the little doctor; but Mr. Franklin\nappeared to regret his illness, chiefly on Miss Rachel s account. From\nwhat he said to my lady, while I was in the room at breakfast-time, he\nappeared to think that Miss Rachel if the suspense about the Moonstone\nwas not soon set at rest might stand in urgent need of the best medical\nadvice at our disposal.\n\nBreakfast had not been over long, when a telegram from Mr. Blake, the\nelder, arrived, in answer to his son. It informed us that he had laid\nhands (by help of his friend, the Commissioner) on the right man to\nhelp us. The name of him was Sergeant Cuff; and the arrival of him from\nLondon might be expected by the morning train.\n\nAt reading the name of the new police-officer, Mr. Franklin gave a\nstart. It seems that he had heard some curious anecdotes about Sergeant\nCuff, from his father s lawyer, during his stay in London.\n\n I begin to hope we are seeing the end of our anxieties already,  he\nsaid.  If half the stories I have heard are true, when it comes to\nunravelling a mystery, there isn t the equal in England of Sergeant\nCuff! \n\nWe all got excited and impatient as the time drew near for the\nappearance of this renowned and capable character. Superintendent\nSeegrave, returning to us at his appointed time, and hearing that the\nSergeant was expected, instantly shut himself up in a room, with pen,\nink, and paper, to make notes of the Report which would be certainly\nexpected from him. I should have liked to have gone to the station\nmyself, to fetch the Sergeant. But my lady s carriage and horses were\nnot to be thought of, even for the celebrated Cuff; and the pony-chaise\nwas required later for Mr. Godfrey. He deeply regretted being obliged\nto leave his aunt at such an anxious time; and he kindly put off the\nhour of his departure till as late as the last train, for the purpose\nof hearing what the clever London police-officer thought of the case.\nBut on Friday night he must be in town, having a Ladies  Charity, in\ndifficulties, waiting to consult him on Saturday morning.\n\nWhen the time came for the Sergeant s arrival, I went down to the gate\nto look out for him.\n\nA fly from the railway drove up as I reached the lodge; and out got a\ngrizzled, elderly man, so miserably lean that he looked as if he had\nnot got an ounce of flesh on his bones in any part of him. He was\ndressed all in decent black, with a white cravat round his neck. His\nface was as sharp as a hatchet, and the skin of it was as yellow and\ndry and withered as an autumn leaf. His eyes, of a steely light grey,\nhad a very disconcerting trick, when they encountered your eyes, of\nlooking as if they expected something more from you than you were aware\nof yourself. His walk was soft; his voice was melancholy; his long\nlanky fingers were hooked like claws. He might have been a parson, or\nan undertaker or anything else you like, except what he really was. A\nmore complete opposite to Superintendent Seegrave than Sergeant Cuff,\nand a less comforting officer to look at, for a family in distress, I\ndefy you to discover, search where you may.\n\n Is this Lady Verinder s?  he asked.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n I am Sergeant Cuff. \n\n This way, sir, if you please. \n\nOn our road to the house, I mentioned my name and position in the\nfamily, to satisfy him that he might speak to me about the business on\nwhich my lady was to employ him. Not a word did he say about the\nbusiness, however, for all that. He admired the grounds, and remarked\nthat he felt the sea air very brisk and refreshing. I privately\nwondered, on my side, how the celebrated Cuff had got his reputation.\nWe reached the house, in the temper of two strange dogs, coupled up\ntogether for the first time in their lives by the same chain.\n\nAsking for my lady, and hearing that she was in one of the\nconservatories, we went round to the gardens at the back, and sent a\nservant to seek her. While we were waiting, Sergeant Cuff looked\nthrough the evergreen arch on our left, spied out our rosery, and\nwalked straight in, with the first appearance of anything like interest\nthat he had shown yet. To the gardener s astonishment, and to my\ndisgust, this celebrated policeman proved to be quite a mine of\nlearning on the trumpery subject of rose-gardens.\n\n Ah, you ve got the right exposure here to the south and sou -west, \nsays the Sergeant, with a wag of his grizzled head, and a streak of\npleasure in his melancholy voice.  This is the shape for a\nrosery nothing like a circle set in a square. Yes, yes; with walks\nbetween all the beds. But they oughtn t to be gravel walks like these.\nGrass, Mr. Gardener grass walks between your roses; gravel s too hard\nfor them. That s a sweet pretty bed of white roses and blush roses.\nThey always mix well together, don t they? Here s the white musk rose,\nMr. Betteredge our old English rose holding up its head along with the\nbest and the newest of them. Pretty dear!  says the Sergeant, fondling\nthe Musk Rose with his lanky fingers, and speaking to it as if he was\nspeaking to a child.\n\nThis was a nice sort of man to recover Miss Rachel s Diamond, and to\nfind out the thief who stole it!\n\n You seem to be fond of roses, Sergeant?  I remarked.\n\n I haven t much time to be fond of anything,  says Sergeant Cuff.  But\nwhen I _have_ a moment s fondness to bestow, most times, Mr.\nBetteredge, the roses get it. I began my life among them in my father s\nnursery garden, and I shall end my life among them, if I can. Yes. One\nof these days (please God) I shall retire from catching thieves, and\ntry my hand at growing roses. There will be grass walks, Mr. Gardener,\nbetween my beds,  says the Sergeant, on whose mind the gravel paths of\nour rosery seemed to dwell unpleasantly.\n\n It seems an odd taste, sir,  I ventured to say,  for a man in your\nline of life. \n\n If you will look about you (which most people won t do),  says\nSergeant Cuff,  you will see that the nature of a man s tastes is, most\ntimes, as opposite as possible to the nature of a man s business. Show\nme any two things more opposite one from the other than a rose and a\nthief; and I ll correct my tastes accordingly if it isn t too late at\nmy time of life. You find the damask rose a goodish stock for most of\nthe tender sorts, don t you, Mr. Gardener? Ah! I thought so. Here s a\nlady coming. Is it Lady Verinder? \n\nHe had seen her before either I or the gardener had seen her, though we\nknew which way to look, and he didn t. I began to think him rather a\nquicker man than he appeared to be at first sight.\n\nThe Sergeant s appearance, or the Sergeant s errand one or both seemed\nto cause my lady some little embarrassment. She was, for the first time\nin all my experience of her, at a loss what to say at an interview with\na stranger. Sergeant Cuff put her at her ease directly. He asked if any\nother person had been employed about the robbery before we sent for\nhim; and hearing that another person had been called in, and was now in\nthe house, begged leave to speak to him before anything else was done.\n\nMy lady led the way back. Before he followed her, the Sergeant relieved\nhis mind on the subject of the gravel walks by a parting word to the\ngardener.  Get her ladyship to try grass,  he said, with a sour look at\nthe paths.  No gravel! no gravel! \n\nWhy Superintendent Seegrave should have appeared to be several sizes\nsmaller than life, on being presented to Sergeant Cuff, I can t\nundertake to explain. I can only state the fact. They retired together;\nand remained a weary long time shut up from all mortal intrusion. When\nthey came out, Mr. Superintendent was excited, and Mr. Sergeant was\nyawning.\n\n The Sergeant wishes to see Miss Verinder s sitting-room,  says Mr.\nSeegrave, addressing me with great pomp and eagerness.  The Sergeant\nmay have some questions to ask. Attend the Sergeant, if you please! \n\nWhile I was being ordered about in this way, I looked at the great\nCuff. The great Cuff, on his side, looked at Superintendent Seegrave in\nthat quietly expecting way which I have already noticed. I can t affirm\nthat he was on the watch for his brother officer s speedy appearance in\nthe character of an Ass I can only say that I strongly suspected it.\n\nI led the way upstairs. The Sergeant went softly all over the Indian\ncabinet and all round the  boudoir;  asking questions (occasionally\nonly of Mr. Superintendent, and continually of me), the drift of which\nI believe to have been equally unintelligible to both of us. In due\ntime, his course brought him to the door, and put him face to face with\nthe decorative painting that you know of. He laid one lean inquiring\nfinger on the small smear, just under the lock, which Superintendent\nSeegrave had already noticed, when he reproved the women-servants for\nall crowding together into the room.\n\n That s a pity,  says Sergeant Cuff.  How did it happen? \n\nHe put the question to me. I answered that the women-servants had\ncrowded into the room on the previous morning, and that some of their\npetticoats had done the mischief,  Superintendent Seegrave ordered them\nout, sir,  I added,  before they did any more harm. \n\n Right!  says Mr. Superintendent in his military way.  I ordered them\nout. The petticoats did it, Sergeant the petticoats did it. \n\n Did you notice which petticoat did it?  asked Sergeant Cuff, still\naddressing himself, not to his brother-officer, but to me.\n\n No, sir. \n\nHe turned to Superintendent Seegrave upon that, and said,  _You_\nnoticed, I suppose? \n\nMr. Superintendent looked a little taken aback; but he made the best of\nit.  I can t charge my memory, Sergeant,  he said,  a mere trifle a\nmere trifle. \n\nSergeant Cuff looked at Mr. Seegrave, as he had looked at the gravel\nwalks in the rosery, and gave us, in his melancholy way, the first\ntaste of his quality which we had had yet.\n\n I made a private inquiry last week, Mr. Superintendent,  he said.  At\none end of the inquiry there was a murder, and at the other end there\nwas a spot of ink on a table cloth that nobody could account for. In\nall my experience along the dirtiest ways of this dirty little world, I\nhave never met with such a thing as a trifle yet. Before we go a step\nfurther in this business we must see the petticoat that made the smear,\nand we must know for certain when that paint was wet. \n\nMr. Superintendent taking his set-down rather sulkily asked if he\nshould summon the women. Sergeant Cuff, after considering a minute,\nsighed, and shook his head.\n\n No,  he said,  we ll take the matter of the paint first. It s a\nquestion of Yes or No with the paint which is short. It s a question of\npetticoats with the women which is long. What o clock was it when the\nservants were in this room yesterday morning? Eleven o clock eh? Is\nthere anybody in the house who knows whether that paint was wet or dry,\nat eleven yesterday morning? \n\n Her ladyship s nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, knows,  I said.\n\n Is the gentleman in the house? \n\nMr. Franklin was as close at hand as could be waiting for his first\nchance of being introduced to the great Cuff. In half a minute he was\nin the room, and was giving his evidence as follows:\n\n That door, Sergeant,  he said,  has been painted by Miss Verinder,\nunder my inspection, with my help, and in a vehicle of my own\ncomposition. The vehicle dries whatever colours may be used with it, in\ntwelve hours. \n\n Do you remember when the smeared bit was done, sir?  asked the\nSergeant.\n\n Perfectly,  answered Mr. Franklin.  That was the last morsel of the\ndoor to be finished. We wanted to get it done, on Wednesday last and I\nmyself completed it by three in the afternoon, or soon after. \n\n Today is Friday,  said Sergeant Cuff, addressing himself to\nSuperintendent Seegrave.  Let us reckon back, sir. At three on the\nWednesday afternoon, that bit of the painting was completed. The\nvehicle dried it in twelve hours that is to say, dried it by three\no clock on Thursday morning. At eleven on Thursday morning you held\nyour inquiry here. Take three from eleven, and eight remains. That\npaint had been _eight hours dry_, Mr. Superintendent, when you supposed\nthat the women-servants  petticoats smeared it. \n\nFirst knock-down blow for Mr. Seegrave! If he had not suspected poor\nPenelope, I should have pitied him.\n\nHaving settled the question of the paint, Sergeant Cuff, from that\nmoment, gave his brother-officer up as a bad job and addressed himself\nto Mr. Franklin, as the more promising assistant of the two.\n\n It s quite on the cards, sir,  he said,  that you have put the clue\ninto our hands. \n\nAs the words passed his lips, the bedroom door opened, and Miss Rachel\ncame out among us suddenly.\n\nShe addressed herself to the Sergeant, without appearing to notice (or\nto heed) that he was a perfect stranger to her.\n\n Did you say,  she asked, pointing to Mr. Franklin,  that _he_ had put\nthe clue into your hands? \n\n( This is Miss Verinder,  I whispered, behind the Sergeant.)\n\n That gentleman, miss,  says the Sergeant with his steely-grey eyes\ncarefully studying my young lady s face has possibly put the clue into\nour hands. \n\nShe turned for one moment, and tried to look at Mr. Franklin. I say,\ntried, for she suddenly looked away again before their eyes met. There\nseemed to be some strange disturbance in her mind. She coloured up, and\nthen she turned pale again. With the paleness, there came a new look\ninto her face a look which it startled me to see.\n\n Having answered your question, miss,  says the Sergeant,  I beg leave\nto make an inquiry in my turn. There is a smear on the painting of your\ndoor, here. Do you happen to know when it was done? or who did it? \n\nInstead of making any reply, Miss Rachel went on with her questions, as\nif he had not spoken, or as if she had not heard him.\n\n Are you another police-officer?  she asked.\n\n I am Sergeant Cuff, miss, of the Detective Police. \n\n Do you think a young lady s advice worth having? \n\n I shall be glad to hear it, miss. \n\n Do your duty by yourself and don t allow Mr Franklin Blake to help\nyou! \n\nShe said those words so spitefully, so savagely, with such an\nextraordinary outbreak of ill-will towards Mr. Franklin, in her voice\nand in her look, that though I had known her from a baby, though I\nloved and honoured her next to my lady herself I was ashamed of Miss\nRachel for the first time in my life.\n\nSergeant Cuff s immovable eyes never stirred from off her face.  Thank\nyou, miss,  he said.  Do you happen to know anything about the smear?\nMight you have done it by accident yourself? \n\n I know nothing about the smear. \n\nWith that answer, she turned away, and shut herself up again in her\nbedroom. This time, I heard her as Penelope had heard her before burst\nout crying as soon as she was alone again.\n\nI couldn t bring myself to look at the Sergeant I looked at Mr.\nFranklin, who stood nearest to me. He seemed to be even more sorely\ndistressed at what had passed than I was.\n\n I told you I was uneasy about her,  he said.  And now you see why. \n\n Miss Verinder appears to be a little out of temper about the loss of\nher Diamond,  remarked the Sergeant.  It s a valuable jewel. Natural\nenough! natural enough! \n\nHere was the excuse that I had made for her (when she forgot herself\nbefore Superintendent Seegrave, on the previous day) being made for her\nover again, by a man who couldn t have had _my_ interest in making\nit for he was a perfect stranger! A kind of cold shudder ran through\nme, which I couldn t account for at the time. I know, now, that I must\nhave got my first suspicion, at that moment, of a new light (and horrid\nlight) having suddenly fallen on the case, in the mind of Sergeant\nCuff purely and entirely in consequence of what he had seen in Miss\nRachel, and heard from Miss Rachel, at that first interview between\nthem.\n\n A young lady s tongue is a privileged member, sir,  says the Sergeant\nto Mr. Franklin.  Let us forget what has passed, and go straight on\nwith this business. Thanks to you, we know when the paint was dry. The\nnext thing to discover is when the paint was last seen without that\nsmear. _You_ have got a head on your shoulders and you understand what\nI mean. \n\nMr. Franklin composed himself, and came back with an effort from Miss\nRachel to the matter in hand.\n\n I think I do understand,  he said.  The more we narrow the question of\ntime, the more we also narrow the field of inquiry. \n\n That s it, sir,  said the Sergeant.  Did you notice your work here, on\nthe Wednesday afternoon, after you had done it? \n\nMr. Franklin shook his head, and answered,  I can t say I did. \n\n Did _you?_  inquired Sergeant Cuff, turning to me.\n\n I can t say I did either, sir. \n\n Who was the last person in the room, the last thing on Wednesday\nnight? \n\n Miss Rachel, I suppose, sir. \n\nMr. Franklin struck in there,  Or possibly your daughter, Betteredge. \nHe turned to Sergeant Cuff, and explained that my daughter was Miss\nVerinder s maid.\n\n Mr. Betteredge, ask your daughter to step up. Stop!  says the\nSergeant, taking me away to the window, out of earshot,  Your\nSuperintendent here,  he went on, in a whisper,  has made a pretty full\nreport to me of the manner in which he has managed this case. Among\nother things, he has, by his own confession, set the servants  backs\nup. It s very important to smooth them down again. Tell your daughter,\nand tell the rest of them, these two things, with my compliments:\nFirst, that I have no evidence before me, yet, that the Diamond has\nbeen stolen; I only know that the Diamond has been lost. Second, that\n_my_ business here with the servants is simply to ask them to lay their\nheads together and help me to find it. \n\nMy experience of the women-servants, when Superintendent Seegrave laid\nhis embargo on their rooms, came in handy here.\n\n May I make so bold, Sergeant, as to tell the women a third thing?  I\nasked.  Are they free (with your compliments) to fidget up and\ndownstairs, and whisk in and out of their bedrooms, if the fit takes\nthem? \n\n Perfectly free,  said the Sergeant.\n\n _That_ will smooth them down, sir,  I remarked,  from the cook to the\nscullion. \n\n Go, and do it at once, Mr. Betteredge. \n\nI did it in less than five minutes. There was only one difficulty when\nI came to the bit about the bedrooms. It took a pretty stiff exertion\nof my authority, as chief, to prevent the whole of the female household\nfrom following me and Penelope upstairs, in the character of volunteer\nwitnesses in a burning fever of anxiety to help Sergeant Cuff.\n\nThe Sergeant seemed to approve of Penelope. He became a trifle less\ndreary; and he looked much as he had looked when he noticed the white\nmusk rose in the flower-garden. Here is my daughter s evidence, as\ndrawn off from her by the Sergeant. She gave it, I think, very\nprettily but, there! she is my child all over: nothing of her mother in\nher; Lord bless you, nothing of her mother in her!\n\nPenelope examined: Took a lively interest in the painting on the door,\nhaving helped to mix the colours. Noticed the bit of work under the\nlock, because it was the last bit done. Had seen it, some hours\nafterwards, without a smear. Had left it, as late as twelve at night,\nwithout a smear. Had, at that hour, wished her young lady good-night in\nthe bedroom; had heard the clock strike in the  boudoir ; had her hand\nat the time on the handle of the painted door; knew the paint was wet\n(having helped to mix the colours, as aforesaid); took particular pains\nnot to touch it; could swear that she held up the skirts of her dress,\nand that there was no smear on the paint then; could _not_ swear that\nher dress mightn t have touched it accidentally in going out;\nremembered the dress she had on, because it was new, a present from\nMiss Rachel; her father remembered, and could speak to it, too; could,\nand would, and did fetch it; dress recognised by her father as the\ndress she wore that night; skirts examined, a long job from the size of\nthem; not the ghost of a paint-stain discovered anywhere. End of\nPenelope s evidence and very pretty and convincing, too. Signed,\nGabriel Betteredge.\n\nThe Sergeant s next proceeding was to question me about any large dogs\nin the house who might have got into the room, and done the mischief\nwith a whisk of their tails. Hearing that this was impossible, he next\nsent for a magnifying-glass, and tried how the smear looked, seen that\nway. No skin-mark (as of a human hand) printed off on the paint. All\nthe signs visible signs which told that the paint had been smeared by\nsome loose article of somebody s dress touching it in going by. That\nsomebody (putting together Penelope s evidence and Mr. Franklin s\nevidence) must have been in the room, and done the mischief, between\nmidnight and three o clock on the Thursday morning.\n\nHaving brought his investigation to this point, Sergeant Cuff\ndiscovered that such a person as Superintendent Seegrave was still left\nin the room, upon which he summed up the proceedings for his\nbrother-officer s benefit, as follows:\n\n This trifle of yours, Mr. Superintendent,  says the Sergeant, pointing\nto the place on the door,  has grown a little in importance since you\nnoticed it last. At the present stage of the inquiry there are, as I\ntake it, three discoveries to make, starting from that smear. Find out\n(first) whether there is any article of dress in this house with the\nsmear of the paint on it. Find out (second) who that dress belongs to.\nFind out (third) how the person can account for having been in this\nroom, and smeared the paint, between midnight and three in the morning.\nIf the person can t satisfy you, you haven t far to look for the hand\nthat has got the Diamond. I ll work this by myself, if you please, and\ndetain you no longer from your regular business in the town. You have\ngot one of your men here, I see. Leave him here at my disposal, in case\nI want him and allow me to wish you good morning. \n\nSuperintendent Seegrave s respect for the Sergeant was great; but his\nrespect for himself was greater still. Hit hard by the celebrated Cuff,\nhe hit back smartly, to the best of his ability, on leaving the room.\n\n I have abstained from expressing any opinion, so far,  says Mr.\nSuperintendent, with his military voice still in good working order.  I\nhave now only one remark to offer on leaving this case in your hands.\nThere _is_ such a thing, Sergeant, as making a mountain out of a\nmolehill. Good morning. \n\n There is also such a thing as making nothing out of a molehill, in\nconsequence of your head being too high to see it.  Having returned his\nbrother-officer s compliments in those terms, Sergeant Cuff wheeled\nabout, and walked away to the window by himself.\n\nMr. Franklin and I waited to see what was coming next. The Sergeant\nstood at the window with his hands in his pockets, looking out, and\nwhistling the tune of  The Last Rose of Summer  softly to himself.\nLater in the proceedings, I discovered that he only forgot his manners\nso far as to whistle, when his mind was hard at work, seeing its way\ninch by inch to its own private ends, on which occasions  The Last Rose\nof Summer  evidently helped and encouraged him. I suppose it fitted in\nsomehow with his character. It reminded him, you see, of his favourite\nroses, and, as _he_ whistled it, it was the most melancholy tune going.\n\nTurning from the window, after a minute or two, the Sergeant walked\ninto the middle of the room, and stopped there, deep in thought, with\nhis eyes on Miss Rachel s bedroom door. After a little he roused\nhimself, nodded his head, as much as to say,  That will do,  and,\naddressing me, asked for ten minutes  conversation with my mistress, at\nher ladyship s earliest convenience.\n\nLeaving the room with this message, I heard Mr. Franklin ask the\nSergeant a question, and stopped to hear the answer also at the\nthreshold of the door.\n\n Can you guess yet,  inquired Mr. Franklin,  who has stolen the\nDiamond? \n\n _Nobody has stolen the Diamond_,  answered Sergeant Cuff.\n\nWe both started at that extraordinary view of the case, and both\nearnestly begged him to tell us what he meant.\n\n Wait a little,  said the Sergeant.  The pieces of the puzzle are not\nall put together yet. \n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nI found my lady in her own sitting room. She started and looked annoyed\nwhen I mentioned that Sergeant Cuff wished to speak to her.\n\n _Must_ I see him?  she asked.  Can t you represent me, Gabriel? \n\nI felt at a loss to understand this, and showed it plainly, I suppose,\nin my face. My lady was so good as to explain herself.\n\n I am afraid my nerves are a little shaken,  she said.  There is\nsomething in that police-officer from London which I recoil from I\ndon t know why. I have a presentiment that he is bringing trouble and\nmisery with him into the house. Very foolish, and very unlike _me_ but\nso it is. \n\nI hardly knew what to say to this. The more I saw of Sergeant Cuff, the\nbetter I liked him. My lady rallied a little after having opened her\nheart to me being, naturally, a woman of a high courage, as I have\nalready told you.\n\n If I must see him, I must,  she said.  But I can t prevail on myself\nto see him alone. Bring him in, Gabriel, and stay here as long as he\nstays. \n\nThis was the first attack of the megrims that I remembered in my\nmistress since the time when she was a young girl. I went back to the\n boudoir.  Mr. Franklin strolled out into the garden, and joined Mr.\nGodfrey, whose time for departure was now drawing near. Sergeant Cuff\nand I went straight to my mistress s room.\n\nI declare my lady turned a shade paler at the sight of him! She\ncommanded herself, however, in other respects, and asked the Sergeant\nif he had any objection to my being present. She was so good as to add,\nthat I was her trusted adviser, as well as her old servant, and that in\nanything which related to the household I was the person whom it might\nbe most profitable to consult. The Sergeant politely answered that he\nwould take my presence as a favour, having something to say about the\nservants in general, and having found my experience in that quarter\nalready of some use to him. My lady pointed to two chairs, and we set\nin for our conference immediately.\n\n I have already formed an opinion on this case,  says Sergeant Cuff,\n which I beg your ladyship s permission to keep to myself for the\npresent. My business now is to mention what I have discovered upstairs\nin Miss Verinder s sitting-room, and what I have decided (with your\nladyship s leave) on doing next. \n\nHe then went into the matter of the smear on the paint, and stated the\nconclusions he drew from it just as he had stated them (only with\ngreater respect of language) to Superintendent Seegrave.  One thing, \nhe said, in conclusion,  is certain. The Diamond is missing out of the\ndrawer in the cabinet. Another thing is next to certain. The marks from\nthe smear on the door must be on some article of dress belonging to\nsomebody in this house. We must discover that article of dress before\nwe go a step further. \n\n And that discovery,  remarked my mistress,  implies, I presume, the\ndiscovery of the thief? \n\n I beg your ladyship s pardon I don t say the Diamond is stolen. I only\nsay, at present, that the Diamond is missing. The discovery of the\nstained dress may lead the way to finding it. \n\nHer ladyship looked at me.  Do you understand this?  she said.\n\n Sergeant Cuff understands it, my lady,  I answered.\n\n How do you propose to discover the stained dress?  inquired my\nmistress, addressing herself once more to the Sergeant.  My good\nservants, who have been with me for years, have, I am ashamed to say,\nhad their boxes and rooms searched already by the other officer. I\ncan t and won t permit them to be insulted in that way a second time! \n\n(There was a mistress to serve! There was a woman in ten thousand, if\nyou like!)\n\n That is the very point I was about to put to your ladyship,  said the\nSergeant.  The other officer has done a world of harm to this inquiry,\nby letting the servants see that he suspected them. If I give them\ncause to think themselves suspected a second time, there s no knowing\nwhat obstacles they may not throw in my way the women especially. At\nthe same time, their boxes _must_ be searched again for this plain\nreason, that the first investigation only looked for the Diamond, and\nthat the second investigation must look for the stained dress. I quite\nagree with you, my lady, that the servants  feelings ought to be\nconsulted. But I am equally clear that the servants  wardrobes ought to\nbe searched. \n\nThis looked very like a dead-lock. My lady said so, in choicer language\nthan mine.\n\n I have got a plan to meet the difficulty,  said Sergeant Cuff,  if\nyour ladyship will consent to it. I propose explaining the case to the\nservants. \n\n The women will think themselves suspected directly,  I said,\ninterrupting him.\n\n The women won t, Mr. Betteredge,  answered the Sergeant,  if I can\ntell them I am going to examine the wardrobes of _everybody_ from her\nladyship downwards who slept in the house on Wednesday night. It s a\nmere formality,  he added, with a side look at my mistress;  but the\nservants will accept it as even dealing between them and their betters;\nand, instead of hindering the investigation, they will make a point of\nhonour of assisting it. \n\nI saw the truth of that. My lady, after her first surprise was over,\nsaw the truth of it also.\n\n You are certain the investigation is necessary?  she said.\n\n It s the shortest way that I can see, my lady, to the end we have in\nview. \n\nMy mistress rose to ring the bell for her maid.  You shall speak to the\nservants,  she said,  with the keys of my wardrobe in your hand. \n\nSergeant Cuff stopped her by a very unexpected question.\n\n Hadn t we better make sure first,  he asked,  that the other ladies\nand gentlemen in the house will consent, too? \n\n The only other lady in the house is Miss Verinder,  answered my\nmistress, with a look of surprise.  The only gentlemen are my nephews,\nMr. Blake and Mr. Ablewhite. There is not the least fear of a refusal\nfrom any of the three. \n\nI reminded my lady here that Mr. Godfrey was going away. As I said the\nwords, Mr. Godfrey himself knocked at the door to say good-bye, and was\nfollowed in by Mr. Franklin, who was going with him to the station. My\nlady explained the difficulty. Mr. Godfrey settled it directly. He\ncalled to Samuel, through the window, to take his portmanteau upstairs\nagain, and he then put the key himself into Sergeant Cuff s hand.  My\nluggage can follow me to London,  he said,  when the inquiry is over. \nThe Sergeant received the key with a becoming apology.  I am sorry to\nput you to any inconvenience, sir, for a mere formality; but the\nexample of their betters will do wonders in reconciling the servants to\nthis inquiry.  Mr. Godfrey, after taking leave of my lady, in a most\nsympathising manner, left a farewell message for Miss Rachel, the terms\nof which made it clear to my mind that he had not taken No for an\nanswer, and that he meant to put the marriage question to her once\nmore, at the next opportunity. Mr. Franklin, on following his cousin\nout, informed the Sergeant that all his clothes were open to\nexamination, and that nothing he possessed was kept under lock and key.\nSergeant Cuff made his best acknowledgments. His views, you will\nobserve, had been met with the utmost readiness by my lady, by Mr.\nGodfrey, and by Mr. Franklin. There was only Miss. Rachel now wanting\nto follow their lead, before we called the servants together, and began\nthe search for the stained dress.\n\nMy lady s unaccountable objection to the Sergeant seemed to make our\nconference more distasteful to her than ever, as soon as we were left\nalone again.  If I send you down Miss Verinder s keys,  she said to\nhim,  I presume I shall have done all you want of me for the present? \n\n I beg your ladyship s pardon,  said Sergeant Cuff.  Before we begin, I\nshould like, if convenient, to have the washing-book. The stained\narticle of dress may be an article of linen. If the search leads to\nnothing, I want to be able to account next for all the linen in the\nhouse, and for all the linen sent to the wash. If there is an article\nmissing, there will be at least a presumption that it has got the\npaint-stain on it, and that it has been purposely made away with,\nyesterday or today, by the person owning it. Superintendent Seegrave, \nadded the Sergeant, turning to me,  pointed the attention of the\nwomen-servants to the smear, when they all crowded into the room on\nThursday morning. That _may_ turn out, Mr. Betteredge, to have been one\nmore of Superintendent Seegrave s many mistakes. \n\nMy lady desired me to ring the bell, and order the washing-book. She\nremained with us until it was produced, in case Sergeant Cuff had any\nfurther request to make of her after looking at it.\n\nThe washing-book was brought in by Rosanna Spearman. The girl had come\ndown to breakfast that morning miserably pale and haggard, but\nsufficiently recovered from her illness of the previous day to do her\nusual work. Sergeant Cuff looked attentively at our second housemaid at\nher face, when she came in; at her crooked shoulder, when she went out.\n\n Have you anything more to say to me?  asked my lady, still as eager as\never to be out of the Sergeant s society.\n\nThe great Cuff opened the washing-book, understood it perfectly in half\na minute, and shut it up again.  I venture to trouble your ladyship\nwith one last question,  he said.  Has the young woman who brought us\nthis book been in your employment as long as the other servants? \n\n Why do you ask?  said my lady.\n\n The last time I saw her,  answered the Sergeant,  she was in prison\nfor theft. \n\nAfter that, there was no help for it, but to tell him the truth. My\nmistress dwelt strongly on Rosanna s good conduct in her service, and\non the high opinion entertained of her by the matron at the\nReformatory.  You don t suspect her, I hope?  my lady added, in\nconclusion, very earnestly.\n\n I have already told your ladyship that I don t suspect any person in\nthe house of thieving up to the present time. \n\nAfter that answer, my lady rose to go upstairs, and ask for Miss\nRachel s keys. The Sergeant was beforehand with me in opening the door\nfor her. He made a very low bow. My lady shuddered as she passed him.\n\nWe waited, and waited, and no keys appeared. Sergeant Cuff made no\nremark to me. He turned his melancholy face to the window; he put his\nlanky hands into his pockets; and he whistled  The Last Rose of Summer \nsoftly to himself.\n\nAt last, Samuel came in, not with the keys, but with a morsel of paper\nfor me. I got at my spectacles, with some fumbling and difficulty,\nfeeling the Sergeant s dismal eyes fixed on me all the time. There were\ntwo or three lines on the paper, written in pencil by my lady. They\ninformed me that Miss Rachel flatly refused to have her wardrobe\nexamined. Asked for her reasons, she had burst out crying. Asked again,\nshe had said:  I won t, because I won t. I must yield to force if you\nuse it, but I will yield to nothing else.  I understood my lady s\ndisinclination to face Sergeant Cuff with such an answer from her\ndaughter as that. If I had not been too old for the amiable weaknesses\nof youth, I believe I should have blushed at the notion of facing him\nmyself.\n\n Any news of Miss Verinder s keys?  asked the Sergeant.\n\n My young lady refuses to have her wardrobe examined. \n\n Ah!  said the Sergeant.\n\nHis voice was not quite in such a perfect state of discipline as his\nface. When he said  Ah!  he said it in the tone of a man who had heard\nsomething which he expected to hear. He half angered and half\nfrightened me why, I couldn t tell, but he did it.\n\n Must the search be given up?  I asked.\n\n Yes,  said the Sergeant,  the search must be given up, because your\nyoung lady refuses to submit to it like the rest. We must examine all\nthe wardrobes in the house or none. Send Mr. Ablewhite s portmanteau to\nLondon by the next train, and return the washing-book, with my\ncompliments and thanks, to the young woman who brought it in. \n\nHe laid the washing-book on the table, and taking out his penknife,\nbegan to trim his nails.\n\n You don t seem to be much disappointed,  I said.\n\n No,  said Sergeant Cuff;  I am not much disappointed. \n\nI tried to make him explain himself.\n\n Why should Miss Rachel put an obstacle in your way?  I inquired.\n Isn t it her interest to help you? \n\n Wait a little, Mr. Betteredge wait a little. \n\nCleverer heads than mine might have seen his drift. Or a person less\nfond of Miss Rachel than I was, might have seen his drift. My lady s\nhorror of him might (as I have since thought) have meant that _she_ saw\nhis drift (as the scripture says)  in a glass darkly.  I didn t see it\nyet that s all I know.\n\n What s to be done next?  I asked.\n\nSergeant Cuff finished the nail on which he was then at work, looked at\nit for a moment with a melancholy interest, and put up his penknife.\n\n Come out into the garden,  he said,  and let s have a look at the\nroses. \n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nThe nearest way to the garden, on going out of my lady s sitting-room,\nwas by the shrubbery path, which you already know of. For the sake of\nyour better understanding of what is now to come, I may add to this,\nthat the shrubbery path was Mr. Franklin s favourite walk. When he was\nout in the grounds, and when we failed to find him anywhere else, we\ngenerally found him here.\n\nI am afraid I must own that I am rather an obstinate old man. The more\nfirmly Sergeant Cuff kept his thoughts shut up from me, the more firmly\nI persisted in trying to look in at them. As we turned into the\nshrubbery path, I attempted to circumvent him in another way.\n\n As things are now,  I said,  if I was in your place, I should be at my\nwits  end. \n\n If you were in my place,  answered the Sergeant,  you would have\nformed an opinion and, as things are now, any doubt you might\npreviously have felt about your own conclusions would be completely set\nat rest. Never mind for the present what those conclusions are, Mr.\nBetteredge. I haven t brought you out here to draw me like a badger; I\nhave brought you out here to ask for some information. You might have\ngiven it to me no doubt, in the house, instead of out of it. But doors\nand listeners have a knack of getting together; and, in my line of\nlife, we cultivate a healthy taste for the open air. \n\nWho was to circumvent _this_ man? I gave in and waited as patiently as\nI could to hear what was coming next.\n\n We won t enter into your young lady s motives,  the Sergeant went on;\n we will only say it s a pity she declines to assist me, because, by so\ndoing, she makes this investigation more difficult than it might\notherwise have been. We must now try to solve the mystery of the smear\non the door which, you may take my word for it, means the mystery of\nthe Diamond also in some other way. I have decided to see the servants,\nand to search their thoughts and actions, Mr. Betteredge, instead of\nsearching their wardrobes. Before I begin, however, I want to ask you a\nquestion or two. You are an observant man did you notice anything\nstrange in any of the servants (making due allowance, of course, for\nfright and fluster), after the loss of the Diamond was found out? Any\nparticular quarrel among them? Anyone of them not in his or her usual\nspirits? Unexpectedly out of temper, for instance? or unexpectedly\ntaken ill? \n\nI had just time to think of Rosanna Spearman s sudden illness at\nyesterday s dinner but not time to make any answer when I saw Sergeant\nCuff s eyes suddenly turn aside towards the shrubbery; and I heard him\nsay softly to himself,  Hullo! \n\n What s the matter?  I asked.\n\n A touch of the rheumatics in my back,  said the Sergeant, in a loud\nvoice, as if he wanted some third person to hear us.  We shall have a\nchange in the weather before long. \n\nA few steps further brought us to the corner of the house. Turning off\nsharp to the right, we entered on the terrace, and went down, by the\nsteps in the middle, into the garden below. Sergeant Cuff stopped\nthere, in the open space, where we could see round us on every side.\n\n About that young person, Rosanna Spearman?  he said.  It isn t very\nlikely, with her personal appearance, that she has got a lover. But,\nfor the girl s own sake, I must ask you at once whether _she_ has\nprovided herself with a sweetheart, poor wretch, like the rest of\nthem? \n\nWhat on earth did he mean, under present circumstances, by putting such\na question to me as that? I stared at him, instead of answering him.\n\n I saw Rosanna Spearman hiding in the shrubbery as we went by,  said\nthe Sergeant.\n\n When you said  Hullo ? \n\n Yes when I said  Hullo!  If there s a sweetheart in the case, the\nhiding doesn t much matter. If there isn t as things are in this\nhouse the hiding is a highly suspicious circumstance, and it will be my\npainful duty to act on it accordingly. \n\nWhat, in God s name, was I to say to him? I knew the shrubbery was Mr.\nFranklin s favourite walk; I knew he would most likely turn that way\nwhen he came back from the station; I knew that Penelope had over and\nover again caught her fellow-servant hanging about there, and had\nalways declared to me that Rosanna s object was to attract Mr.\nFranklin s attention. If my daughter was right, she might well have\nbeen lying in wait for Mr. Franklin s return when the Sergeant noticed\nher. I was put between the two difficulties of mentioning Penelope s\nfanciful notion as if it was mine, or of leaving an unfortunate\ncreature to suffer the consequences, the very serious consequences, of\nexciting the suspicion of Sergeant Cuff. Out of pure pity for the\ngirl on my soul and my character, out of pure pity for the girl I gave\nthe Sergeant the necessary explanations, and told him that Rosanna had\nbeen mad enough to set her heart on Mr. Franklin Blake.\n\nSergeant Cuff never laughed. On the few occasions when anything amused\nhim, he curled up a little at the corners of the lips, nothing more. He\ncurled up now.\n\n Hadn t you better say she s mad enough to be an ugly girl and only a\nservant?  he asked.  The falling in love with a gentleman of Mr.\nFranklin Blake s manners and appearance doesn t seem to _me_ to be the\nmaddest part of her conduct by any means. However, I m glad the thing\nis cleared up: it relieves one s mind to have things cleared up. Yes,\nI ll keep it a secret, Mr. Betteredge. I like to be tender to human\ninfirmity though I don t get many chances of exercising that virtue in\nmy line of life. You think Mr. Franklin Blake hasn t got a suspicion of\nthe girl s fancy for him? Ah! he would have found it out fast enough if\nshe had been nice-looking. The ugly women have a bad time of it in this\nworld; let s hope it will be made up to them in another. You have got a\nnice garden here, and a well-kept lawn. See for yourself how much\nbetter the flowers look with grass about them instead of gravel. No,\nthank you. I won t take a rose. It goes to my heart to break them off\nthe stem. Just as it goes to your heart, you know, when there s\nsomething wrong in the servants  hall. Did you notice anything you\ncouldn t account for in any of the servants when the loss of the\nDiamond was first found out? \n\nI had got on very fairly well with Sergeant Cuff so far. But the\nslyness with which he slipped in that last question put me on my guard.\nIn plain English, I didn t at all relish the notion of helping his\ninquiries, when those inquiries took him (in the capacity of snake in\nthe grass) among my fellow-servants.\n\n I noticed nothing,  I said,  except that we all lost our heads\ntogether, myself included. \n\n Oh,  says the Sergeant,  that s all you have to tell me, is it? \n\nI answered, with (as I flattered myself) an unmoved countenance,  That\nis all. \n\nSergeant Cuff s dismal eyes looked me hard in the face.\n\n Mr. Betteredge,  he said,  have you any objection to oblige me by\nshaking hands? I have taken an extraordinary liking to you. \n\n(Why he should have chosen the exact moment when I was deceiving him to\ngive me that proof of his good opinion, is beyond all comprehension! I\nfelt a little proud I really did feel a little proud of having been one\ntoo many at last for the celebrated Cuff!)\n\nWe went back to the house; the Sergeant requesting that I would give\nhim a room to himself, and then send in the servants (the indoor\nservants only), one after another, in the order of their rank, from\nfirst to last.\n\nI showed Sergeant Cuff into my own room, and then called the servants\ntogether in the hall. Rosanna Spearman appeared among them, much as\nusual. She was as quick in her way as the Sergeant in his, and I\nsuspect she had heard what he said to me about the servants in general,\njust before he discovered her. There she was, at any rate, looking as\nif she had never heard of such a place as the shrubbery in her life.\n\nI sent them in, one by one, as desired. The cook was the first to enter\nthe Court of Justice, otherwise my room. She remained but a short time.\nReport, on coming out:  Sergeant Cuff is depressed in his spirits; but\nSergeant Cuff is a perfect gentleman.  My lady s own maid followed.\nRemained much longer. Report, on coming out:  If Sergeant Cuff doesn t\nbelieve a respectable woman, he might keep his opinion to himself, at\nany rate!  Penelope went next. Remained only a moment or two. Report,\non coming out:  Sergeant Cuff is much to be pitied. He must have been\ncrossed in love, father, when he was a young man.  The first housemaid\nfollowed Penelope. Remained, like my lady s maid, a long time. Report,\non coming out:  I didn t enter her ladyship s service, Mr. Betteredge,\nto be doubted to my face by a low police-officer!  Rosanna Spearman\nwent next. Remained longer than any of them. No report on coming\nout dead silence, and lips as pale as ashes. Samuel, the footman,\nfollowed Rosanna. Remained a minute or two. Report, on coming out:\n Whoever blacks Sergeant Cuff s boots ought to be ashamed of himself. \nNancy, the kitchen-maid, went last. Remained a minute or two. Report,\non coming out:  Sergeant Cuff has a heart; _he_ doesn t cut jokes, Mr.\nBetteredge, with a poor hard-working girl. \n\nGoing into the Court of Justice, when it was all over, to hear if there\nwere any further commands for me, I found the Sergeant at his old\ntrick looking out of window, and whistling  The Last Rose of Summer  to\nhimself.\n\n Any discoveries, sir?  I inquired.\n\n If Rosanna Spearman asks leave to go out,  said the Sergeant,  let the\npoor thing go; but let me know first. \n\nI might as well have held my tongue about Rosanna and Mr. Franklin! It\nwas plain enough; the unfortunate girl had fallen under Sergeant Cuff s\nsuspicions, in spite of all I could do to prevent it.\n\n I hope you don t think Rosanna is concerned in the loss of the\nDiamond?  I ventured to say.\n\nThe corners of the Sergeant s melancholy mouth curled up, and he looked\nhard in my face, just as he had looked in the garden.\n\n I think I had better not tell you, Mr. Betteredge,  he said.  You\nmight lose your head, you know, for the second time. \n\nI began to doubt whether I had been one too many for the celebrated\nCuff, after all! It was rather a relief to me that we were interrupted\nhere by a knock at the door, and a message from the cook. Rosanna\nSpearman _had_ asked to go out, for the usual reason, that her head was\nbad, and she wanted a breath of fresh air. At a sign from the Sergeant,\nI said, Yes.  Which is the servants  way out?  he asked, when the\nmessenger had gone. I showed him the servants  way out.  Lock the door\nof your room,  says the Sergeant;  and if anybody asks for me, say I m\nin there, composing my mind.  He curled up again at the corners of the\nlips, and disappeared.\n\nLeft alone, under those circumstances, a devouring curiosity pushed me\non to make some discoveries for myself.\n\nIt was plain that Sergeant Cuff s suspicions of Rosanna had been roused\nby something that he had found out at his examination of the servants\nin my room. Now, the only two servants (excepting Rosanna herself) who\nhad remained under examination for any length of time, were my lady s\nown maid and the first housemaid, those two being also the women who\nhad taken the lead in persecuting their unfortunate fellow-servant from\nthe first. Reaching these conclusions, I looked in on them, casually as\nit might be, in the servants  hall, and, finding tea going forward,\ninstantly invited myself to that meal. (For, _nota bene_, a drop of tea\nis to a woman s tongue what a drop of oil is to a wasting lamp.)\n\nMy reliance on the tea-pot, as an ally, did not go unrewarded. In less\nthan half an hour I knew as much as the Sergeant himself.\n\nMy lady s maid and the housemaid, had, it appeared, neither of them\nbelieved in Rosanna s illness of the previous day. These two devils I\nask your pardon; but how else _can_ you describe a couple of spiteful\nwomen? had stolen upstairs, at intervals during the Thursday afternoon;\nhad tried Rosanna s door, and found it locked; had knocked, and not\nbeen answered; had listened, and not heard a sound inside. When the\ngirl had come down to tea, and had been sent up, still out of sorts, to\nbed again, the two devils aforesaid had tried her door once more, and\nfound it locked; had looked at the keyhole, and found it stopped up;\nhad seen a light under the door at midnight, and had heard the\ncrackling of a fire (a fire in a servant s bedroom in the month of\nJune!) at four in the morning. All this they had told Sergeant Cuff,\nwho, in return for their anxiety to enlighten him, had eyed them with\nsour and suspicious looks, and had shown them plainly that he didn t\nbelieve either one or the other. Hence, the unfavourable reports of him\nwhich these two women had brought out with them from the examination.\nHence, also (without reckoning the influence of the tea-pot), their\nreadiness to let their tongues run to any length on the subject of the\nSergeant s ungracious behaviour to them.\n\nHaving had some experience of the great Cuff s roundabout ways, and\nhaving last seen him evidently bent on following Rosanna privately when\nshe went out for her walk, it seemed clear to me that he had thought it\nunadvisable to let the lady s maid and the housemaid know how\nmaterially they had helped him. They were just the sort of women, if he\nhad treated their evidence as trustworthy, to have been puffed up by\nit, and to have said or done something which would have put Rosanna\nSpearman on her guard.\n\nI walked out in the fine summer afternoon, very sorry for the poor\ngirl, and very uneasy in my mind at the turn things had taken. Drifting\ntowards the shrubbery, some time later, there I met Mr. Franklin. After\nreturning from seeing his cousin off at the station, he had been with\nmy lady, holding a long conversation with her. She had told him of Miss\nRachel s unaccountable refusal to let her wardrobe be examined; and had\nput him in such low spirits about my young lady that he seemed to\nshrink from speaking on the subject. The family temper appeared in his\nface that evening, for the first time in my experience of him.\n\n Well, Betteredge,  he said,  how does the atmosphere of mystery and\nsuspicion in which we are all living now, agree with you? Do you\nremember that morning when I first came here with the Moonstone? I wish\nto God we had thrown it into the quicksand! \n\nAfter breaking out in that way, he abstained from speaking again until\nhe had composed himself. We walked silently, side by side, for a minute\nor two, and then he asked me what had become of Sergeant Cuff. It was\nimpossible to put Mr. Franklin off with the excuse of the Sergeant\nbeing in my room, composing his mind. I told him exactly what had\nhappened, mentioning particularly what my lady s maid and the\nhouse-maid had said about Rosanna Spearman.\n\nMr. Franklin s clear head saw the turn the Sergeant s suspicions had\ntaken, in the twinkling of an eye.\n\n Didn t you tell me this morning,  he said,  that one of the\ntradespeople declared he had met Rosanna yesterday, on the footway to\nFrizinghall, when we supposed her to be ill in her room? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n If my aunt s maid and the other woman have spoken the truth, you may\ndepend upon it the tradesman _did_ meet her. The girl s attack of\nillness was a blind to deceive us. She had some guilty reason for going\nto the town secretly. The paint-stained dress is a dress of hers; and\nthe fire heard crackling in her room at four in the morning was a fire\nlit to destroy it. Rosanna Spearman has stolen the Diamond. I ll go in\ndirectly, and tell my aunt the turn things have taken. \n\n Not just yet, if you please, sir,  said a melancholy voice behind us.\n\nWe both turned about, and found ourselves face to face with Sergeant\nCuff.\n\n Why not just yet?  asked Mr. Franklin.\n\n Because, sir, if you tell her ladyship, her ladyship will tell Miss\nVerinder. \n\n Suppose she does. What then?  Mr. Franklin said those words with a\nsudden heat and vehemence, as if the Sergeant had mortally offended\nhim.\n\n Do you think it s wise, sir,  said Sergeant Cuff, quietly,  to put\nsuch a question as that to me at such a time as this? \n\nThere was a moment s silence between them: Mr. Franklin walked close up\nto the Sergeant. The two looked each other straight in the face. Mr.\nFranklin spoke first, dropping his voice as suddenly as he had raised\nit.\n\n I suppose you know, Mr. Cuff,  he said,  that you are treading on\ndelicate ground? \n\n It isn t the first time, by a good many hundreds, that I find myself\ntreading on delicate ground,  answered the other, as immovable as ever.\n\n I am to understand that you forbid me to tell my aunt what has\nhappened? \n\n You are to understand, if you please, sir, that I throw up the case,\nif you tell Lady Verinder, or tell anybody, what has happened, until I\ngive you leave. \n\nThat settled it. Mr. Franklin had no choice but to submit. He turned\naway in anger and left us.\n\nI had stood there listening to them, all in a tremble; not knowing whom\nto suspect, or what to think next. In the midst of my confusion, two\nthings, however, were plain to me. First, that my young lady was, in\nsome unaccountable manner, at the bottom of the sharp speeches that had\npassed between them. Second, that they thoroughly understood each\nother, without having previously exchanged a word of explanation on\neither side.\n\n Mr. Betteredge,  says the Sergeant,  you have done a very foolish\nthing in my absence. You have done a little detective business on your\nown account. For the future, perhaps you will be so obliging as to do\nyour detective business along with me. \n\nHe took me by the arm, and walked me away with him along the road by\nwhich he had come. I dare say I had deserved his reproof but I was not\ngoing to help him to set traps for Rosanna Spearman, for all that.\nThief or no thief, legal or not legal, I don t care I pitied her.\n\n What do you want of me?  I asked, shaking him off, and stopping short.\n\n Only a little information about the country round here,  said the\nSergeant.\n\nI couldn t well object to improve Sergeant Cuff in his geography.\n\n Is there any path, in that direction, leading to the sea-beach from\nthis house?  asked the Sergeant. He pointed, as he spoke, to the\nfir-plantation which led to the Shivering Sand.\n\n Yes,  I said,  there is a path. \n\n Show it to me. \n\nSide by side, in the grey of the summer evening, Sergeant Cuff and I\nset forth for the Shivering Sand.\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nThe Sergeant remained silent, thinking his own thoughts, till we\nentered the plantation of firs which led to the quicksand. There he\nroused himself, like a man whose mind was made up, and spoke to me\nagain.\n\n Mr. Betteredge,  he said,  as you have honoured me by taking an oar in\nmy boat, and as you may, I think, be of some assistance to me before\nthe evening is out, I see no use in our mystifying one another any\nlonger, and I propose to set you an example of plain speaking on my\nside. You are determined to give me no information to the prejudice of\nRosanna Spearman, because she has been a good girl to _you_, and\nbecause you pity her heartily. Those humane considerations do you a\nworld of credit, but they happen in this instance to be humane\nconsiderations clean thrown away. Rosanna Spearman is not in the\nslightest danger of getting into trouble no, not if I fix her with\nbeing concerned in the disappearance of the Diamond, on evidence which\nis as plain as the nose on your face! \n\n Do you mean that my lady won t prosecute?  I asked.\n\n I mean that your lady _can t_ prosecute,  said the Sergeant.  Rosanna\nSpearman is simply an instrument in the hands of another person, and\nRosanna Spearman will be held harmless for that other person s sake. \n\nHe spoke like a man in earnest there was no denying that. Still, I felt\nsomething stirring uneasily against him in my mind.  Can t you give\nthat other person a name?  I said.\n\n Can t _you_, Mr. Betteredge? \n\n No. \n\nSergeant Cuff stood stock-still, and surveyed me with a look of\nmelancholy interest.\n\n It s always a pleasure to me to be tender towards human infirmity,  he\nsaid.  I feel particularly tender at the present moment, Mr.\nBetteredge, towards you. And you, with the same excellent motive, feel\nparticularly tender towards Rosanna Spearman, don t you? Do you happen\nto know whether she has had a new outfit of linen lately? \n\nWhat he meant by slipping in this extraordinary question unawares, I\nwas at a total loss to imagine. Seeing no possible injury to Rosanna if\nI owned the truth, I answered that the girl had come to us rather\nsparely provided with linen, and that my lady, in recompense for her\ngood conduct (I laid a stress on her good conduct), had given her a new\noutfit not a fortnight since.\n\n This is a miserable world,  says the Sergeant.  Human life, Mr.\nBetteredge, is a sort of target misfortune is always firing at it, and\nalways hitting the mark. But for that outfit, we should have discovered\na new nightgown or petticoat among Rosanna s things, and have nailed\nher in that way. You re not at a loss to follow me, are you? You have\nexamined the servants yourself, and you know what discoveries two of\nthem made outside Rosanna s door. Surely you know what the girl was\nabout yesterday, after she was taken ill? You can t guess? Oh dear me,\nit s as plain as that strip of light there, at the end of the trees. At\neleven, on Thursday morning, Superintendent Seegrave (who is a mass of\nhuman infirmity) points out to all the women servants the smear on the\ndoor. Rosanna has her own reasons for suspecting her own things; she\ntakes the first opportunity of getting to her room, finds the\npaint-stain on her night-gown, or petticoat, or what not, shams ill and\nslips away to the town, gets the materials for making a new petticoat\nor nightgown, makes it alone in her room on the Thursday night, lights\na fire (not to destroy it; two of her fellow-servants are prying\noutside her door, and she knows better than to make a smell of burning,\nand to have a lot of tinder to get rid of) lights a fire, I say, to dry\nand iron the substitute dress after wringing it out, keeps the stained\ndress hidden (probably _on_ her), and is at this moment occupied in\nmaking away with it, in some convenient place, on that lonely bit of\nbeach ahead of us. I have traced her this evening to your fishing\nvillage, and to one particular cottage, which we may possibly have to\nvisit, before we go back. She stopped in the cottage for some time, and\nshe came out with (as I believe) something hidden under her cloak. A\ncloak (on a woman s back) is an emblem of charity it covers a multitude\nof sins. I saw her set off northwards along the coast, after leaving\nthe cottage. Is your sea-shore here considered a fine specimen of\nmarine landscape, Mr. Betteredge? \n\nI answered,  Yes,  as shortly as might be.\n\n Tastes differ,  says Sergeant Cuff.  Looking at it from my point of\nview, I never saw a marine landscape that I admired less. If you happen\nto be following another person along your sea-coast, and if that person\nhappens to look round, there isn t a scrap of cover to hide you\nanywhere. I had to choose between taking Rosanna in custody on\nsuspicion, or leaving her, for the time being, with her little game in\nher own hands. For reasons which I won t trouble you with, I decided on\nmaking any sacrifice rather than give the alarm as soon as tonight to a\ncertain person who shall be nameless between us. I came back to the\nhouse to ask you to take me to the north end of the beach by another\nway. Sand in respect of its printing off people s footsteps is one of\nthe best detective officers I know. If we don t meet with Rosanna\nSpearman by coming round on her in this way, the sand may tell us what\nshe has been at, if the light only lasts long enough. Here _is_ the\nsand. If you will excuse my suggesting it suppose you hold your tongue,\nand let me go first? \n\nIf there is such a thing known at the doctor s shop as a\n_detective-fever_, that disease had now got fast hold of your humble\nservant. Sergeant Cuff went on between the hillocks of sand, down to\nthe beach. I followed him (with my heart in my mouth); and waited at a\nlittle distance for what was to happen next.\n\nAs it turned out, I found myself standing nearly in the same place\nwhere Rosanna Spearman and I had been talking together when Mr.\nFranklin suddenly appeared before us, on arriving at our house from\nLondon. While my eyes were watching the Sergeant, my mind wandered away\nin spite of me to what had passed, on that former occasion, between\nRosanna and me. I declare I almost felt the poor thing slip her hand\nagain into mine, and give it a little grateful squeeze to thank me for\nspeaking kindly to her. I declare I almost heard her voice telling me\nagain that the Shivering Sand seemed to draw her to it against her own\nwill, whenever she went out almost saw her face brighten again, as it\nbrightened when she first set eyes upon Mr. Franklin coming briskly out\non us from among the hillocks. My spirits fell lower and lower as I\nthought of these things and the view of the lonesome little bay, when I\nlooked about to rouse myself, only served to make me feel more uneasy\nstill.\n\nThe last of the evening light was fading away; and over all the\ndesolate place there hung a still and awful calm. The heave of the main\nocean on the great sandbank out in the bay, was a heave that made no\nsound. The inner sea lay lost and dim, without a breath of wind to stir\nit. Patches of nasty ooze floated, yellow-white, on the dead surface of\nthe water. Scum and slime shone faintly in certain places, where the\nlast of the light still caught them on the two great spits of rock\njutting out, north and south, into the sea. It was now the time of the\nturn of the tide: and even as I stood there waiting, the broad brown\nface of the quicksand began to dimple and quiver the only moving thing\nin all the horrid place.\n\nI saw the Sergeant start as the shiver of the sand caught his eye.\nAfter looking at it for a minute or so, he turned and came back to me.\n\n A treacherous place, Mr. Betteredge,  he said;  and no signs of\nRosanna Spearman anywhere on the beach, look where you may. \n\nHe took me down lower on the shore, and I saw for myself that his\nfootsteps and mine were the only footsteps printed off on the sand.\n\n How does the fishing village bear, standing where we are now?  asked\nSergeant Cuff.\n\n Cobb s Hole,  I answered (that being the name of the place),  bears as\nnear as may be, due south. \n\n I saw the girl this evening, walking northward along the shore, from\nCobb s Hole,  said the Sergeant.  Consequently, she must have been\nwalking towards this place. Is Cobb s Hole on the other side of that\npoint of land there? And can we get to it now it s low water by the\nbeach? \n\nI answered,  Yes,  to both those questions.\n\n If you ll excuse my suggesting it, we ll step out briskly,  said the\nSergeant.  I want to find the place where she left the shore, before it\ngets dark. \n\nWe had walked, I should say, a couple of hundred yards towards Cobb s\nHole, when Sergeant Cuff suddenly went down on his knees on the beach,\nto all appearance seized with a sudden frenzy for saying his prayers.\n\n There s something to be said for your marine landscape here, after\nall,  remarked the Sergeant.  Here are a woman s footsteps, Mr.\nBetteredge! Let us call them Rosanna s footsteps, until we find\nevidence to the contrary that we can t resist. Very confused footsteps,\nyou will please to observe purposely confused, I should say. Ah, poor\nsoul, she understands the detective virtues of sand as well as I do!\nBut hasn t she been in rather too great a hurry to tread out the marks\nthoroughly? I think she has. Here s one footstep going _from_ Cobb s\nHole; and here is another going back to it. Isn t that the toe of her\nshoe pointing straight to the water s edge? And don t I see two\nheel-marks further down the beach, close at the water s edge also? I\ndon t want to hurt your feelings, but I m afraid Rosanna is sly. It\nlooks as if she had determined to get to that place you and I have just\ncome from, without leaving any marks on the sand to trace her by. Shall\nwe say that she walked through the water from this point till she got\nto that ledge of rocks behind us, and came back the same way, and then\ntook to the beach again where those two heel marks are still left? Yes,\nwe ll say that. It seems to fit in with my notion that she had\nsomething under her cloak, when she left the cottage. No! not something\nto destroy for, in that case, where would have been the need of all\nthese precautions to prevent my tracing the place at which her walk\nended? Something to hide is, I think, the better guess of the two.\nPerhaps, if we go on to the cottage, we may find out what that\nsomething is? \n\nAt this proposal, my detective-fever suddenly cooled.  You don t want\nme,  I said.  What good can I do? \n\n The longer I know you, Mr. Betteredge,  said the Sergeant,  the more\nvirtues I discover. Modesty oh dear me, how rare modesty is in this\nworld! and how much of that rarity you possess! If I go alone to the\ncottage, the people s tongues will be tied at the first question I put\nto them. If I go with you, I go introduced by a justly respected\nneighbour, and a flow of conversation is the necessary result. It\nstrikes me in that light; how does it strike you? \n\nNot having an answer of the needful smartness as ready as I could have\nwished, I tried to gain time by asking him what cottage he wanted to go\nto.\n\nOn the Sergeant describing the place, I recognised it as a cottage\ninhabited by a fisherman named Yolland, with his wife and two grown-up\nchildren, a son and a daughter. If you will look back, you will find\nthat, in first presenting Rosanna Spearman to your notice, I have\ndescribed her as occasionally varying her walk to the Shivering Sand,\nby a visit to some friends of hers at Cobb s Hole. Those friends were\nthe Yollands respectable, worthy people, a credit to the neighbourhood.\nRosanna s acquaintance with them had begun by means of the daughter,\nwho was afflicted with a misshapen foot, and who was known in our parts\nby the name of Limping Lucy. The two deformed girls had, I suppose, a\nkind of fellow-feeling for each other. Anyway, the Yollands and Rosanna\nalways appeared to get on together, at the few chances they had of\nmeeting, in a pleasant and friendly manner. The fact of Sergeant Cuff\nhaving traced the girl to _their_ cottage, set the matter of my helping\nhis inquiries in quite a new light. Rosanna had merely gone where she\nwas in the habit of going; and to show that she had been in company\nwith the fisherman and his family was as good as to prove that she had\nbeen innocently occupied so far, at any rate. It would be doing the\ngirl a service, therefore, instead of an injury, if I allowed myself to\nbe convinced by Sergeant Cuff s logic. I professed myself convinced by\nit accordingly.\n\nWe went on to Cobb s Hole, seeing the footsteps on the sand, as long as\nthe light lasted.\n\nOn reaching the cottage, the fisherman and his son proved to be out in\nthe boat; and Limping Lucy, always weak and weary, was resting on her\nbed upstairs. Good Mrs. Yolland received us alone in her kitchen. When\nshe heard that Sergeant Cuff was a celebrated character in London, she\nclapped a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes on the table,\nand stared as if she could never see enough of him.\n\nI sat quiet in a corner, waiting to hear how the Sergeant would find\nhis way to the subject of Rosanna Spearman. His usual roundabout manner\nof going to work proved, on this occasion, to be more roundabout than\never. How he managed it is more than I could tell at the time, and more\nthan I can tell now. But this is certain, he began with the Royal\nFamily, the Primitive Methodists, and the price of fish; and he got\nfrom that (in his dismal, underground way) to the loss of the\nMoonstone, the spitefulness of our first house-maid, and the hard\nbehaviour of the women-servants generally towards Rosanna Spearman.\nHaving reached his subject in this fashion, he described himself as\nmaking his inquiries about the lost Diamond, partly with a view to find\nit, and partly for the purpose of clearing Rosanna from the unjust\nsuspicions of her enemies in the house. In about a quarter of an hour\nfrom the time when we entered the kitchen, good Mrs. Yolland was\npersuaded that she was talking to Rosanna s best friend, and was\npressing Sergeant Cuff to comfort his stomach and revive his spirits\nout of the Dutch bottle.\n\nBeing firmly persuaded that the Sergeant was wasting his breath to no\npurpose on Mrs. Yolland, I sat enjoying the talk between them, much as\nI have sat, in my time, enjoying a stage play. The great Cuff showed a\nwonderful patience; trying his luck drearily this way and that way, and\nfiring shot after shot, as it were, at random, on the chance of hitting\nthe mark. Everything to Rosanna s credit, nothing to Rosanna s\nprejudice that was how it ended, try as he might; with Mrs. Yolland\ntalking nineteen to the dozen, and placing the most entire confidence\nin him. His last effort was made, when we had looked at our watches,\nand had got on our legs previous to taking leave.\n\n I shall now wish you good-night, ma am,  says the Sergeant.  And I\nshall only say, at parting, that Rosanna Spearman has a sincere\nwell-wisher in myself, your obedient servant. But, oh dear me! she will\nnever get on in her present place; and my advice to her is leave it. \n\n Bless your heart alive! she is _going_ to leave it!  cries Mrs.\nYolland. (_Nota bene_ I translate Mrs. Yolland out of the Yorkshire\nlanguage into the English language. When I tell you that the\nall-accomplished Cuff was every now and then puzzled to understand her\nuntil I helped him, you will draw your own conclusions as to what\n_your_ state of mind would be if I reported her in her native tongue.)\n\nRosanna Spearman going to leave us! I pricked up my ears at that. It\nseemed strange, to say the least of it, that she should have given no\nwarning, in the first place, to my lady or to me. A certain doubt came\nup in my mind whether Sergeant Cuff s last random shot might not have\nhit the mark. I began to question whether my share in the proceedings\nwas quite as harmless a one as I had thought it. It might be all in the\nway of the Sergeant s business to mystify an honest woman by wrapping\nher round in a network of lies but it was my duty to have remembered,\nas a good Protestant, that the father of lies is the Devil and that\nmischief and the Devil are never far apart. Beginning to smell mischief\nin the air, I tried to take Sergeant Cuff out. He sat down again\ninstantly, and asked for a little drop of comfort out of the Dutch\nbottle. Mrs Yolland sat down opposite to him, and gave him his nip. I\nwent on to the door, excessively uncomfortable, and said I thought I\nmust bid them good-night and yet I didn t go.\n\n So she means to leave?  says the Sergeant.  What is she to do when she\ndoes leave? Sad, sad! The poor creature has got no friends in the\nworld, except you and me. \n\n Ah, but she has though!  says Mrs. Yolland.  She came in here, as I\ntold you, this evening; and, after sitting and talking a little with my\ngirl Lucy and me she asked to go upstairs by herself, into Lucy s room.\nIt s the only room in our place where there s pen and ink.  I want to\nwrite a letter to a friend,  she says  and I can t do it for the prying\nand peeping of the servants up at the house.  Who the letter was\nwritten to I can t tell you: it must have been a mortal long one,\njudging by the time she stopped upstairs over it. I offered her a\npostage-stamp when she came down. She hadn t got the letter in her\nhand, and she didn t accept the stamp. A little close, poor soul (as\nyou know), about herself and her doings. But a friend she has got\nsomewhere, I can tell you; and to that friend you may depend upon it,\nshe will go. \n\n Soon?  asked the Sergeant.\n\n As soon as she can.  says Mrs. Yolland.\n\nHere I stepped in again from the door. As chief of my lady s\nestablishment, I couldn t allow this sort of loose talk about a servant\nof ours going, or not going, to proceed any longer in my presence,\nwithout noticing it.\n\n You must be mistaken about Rosanna Spearman,  I said.  If she had been\ngoing to leave her present situation, she would have mentioned it, in\nthe first place, to _me_. \n\n Mistaken?  cries Mrs. Yolland.  Why, only an hour ago she bought some\nthings she wanted for travelling of my own self, Mr. Betteredge, in\nthis very room. And that reminds me,  says the wearisome woman,\nsuddenly beginning to feel in her pocket,  of something I have got it\non my mind to say about Rosanna and her money. Are you either of you\nlikely to see her when you go back to the house? \n\n I ll take a message to the poor thing, with the greatest pleasure, \nanswered Sergeant Cuff, before I could put in a word edgewise.\n\nMrs. Yolland produced out of her pocket, a few shillings and sixpences,\nand counted them out with a most particular and exasperating\ncarefulness in the palm of her hand. She offered the money to the\nSergeant, looking mighty loth to part with it all the while.\n\n Might I ask you to give this back to Rosanna, with my love and\nrespects?  says Mrs. Yolland.  She insisted on paying me for the one or\ntwo things she took a fancy to this evening and money s welcome enough\nin our house, I don t deny it. Still, I m not easy in my mind about\ntaking the poor thing s little savings. And to tell you the truth, I\ndon t think my man would like to hear that I had taken Rosanna\nSpearman s money, when he comes back tomorrow morning from his work.\nPlease say she s heartily welcome to the things she bought of me as a\ngift. And don t leave the money on the table,  says Mrs. Yolland,\nputting it down suddenly before the Sergeant, as if it burnt her\nfingers don t, there s a good man! For times are hard, and flesh is\nweak; and I _might_ feel tempted to put it back in my pocket again. \n\n Come along!  I said,  I can t wait any longer: I must go back to the\nhouse. \n\n I ll follow you directly,  says Sergeant Cuff.\n\nFor the second time, I went to the door; and, for the second time, try\nas I might, I couldn t cross the threshold.\n\n It s a delicate matter, ma am,  I heard the Sergeant say,  giving\nmoney back. You charged her cheap for the things, I m sure? \n\n Cheap!  says Mrs. Yolland.  Come and judge for yourself. \n\nShe took up the candle and led the Sergeant to a corner of the kitchen.\nFor the life of me, I couldn t help following them. Shaken down in the\ncorner was a heap of odds and ends (mostly old metal), which the\nfisherman had picked up at different times from wrecked ships, and\nwhich he hadn t found a market for yet, to his own mind. Mrs. Yolland\ndived into this rubbish, and brought up an old japanned tin case, with\na cover to it, and a hasp to hang it up by the sort of thing they use,\non board ship, for keeping their maps and charts, and such-like, from\nthe wet.\n\n There!  says she.  When Rosanna came in this evening, she bought the\nfellow to that.  It will just do,  she says,  to put my cuffs and\ncollars in, and keep them from being crumpled in my box.  One and\nninepence, Mr. Cuff. As I live by bread, not a halfpenny more! \n\n Dirt cheap!  says the Sergeant, with a heavy sigh.\n\nHe weighed the case in his hand. I thought I heard a note or two of\n The Last Rose of Summer  as he looked at it. There was no doubt now!\nHe had made another discovery to the prejudice of Rosanna Spearman, in\nthe place of all others where I thought her character was safest, and\nall through me! I leave you to imagine what I felt, and how sincerely I\nrepented having been the medium of introduction between Mrs. Yolland\nand Sergeant Cuff.\n\n That will do,  I said.  We really must go. \n\nWithout paying the least attention to me, Mrs. Yolland took another\ndive into the rubbish, and came up out of it, this time, with a\ndog-chain.\n\n Weigh it in your hand, sir,  she said to the Sergeant.  We had three\nof these; and Rosanna has taken two of them.  What can you want, my\ndear, with a couple of dog s chains?  says I.  If I join them together\nthey ll do round my box nicely,  says she.  Rope s cheapest,  says I.\n Chain s surest,  says she.  Who ever heard of a box corded with\nchain,  says I.  Oh, Mrs. Yolland, don t make objections!  says she;\n let me have my chains!  A strange girl, Mr. Cuff good as gold, and\nkinder than a sister to my Lucy but always a little strange. There! I\nhumoured her. Three and sixpence. On the word of an honest woman, three\n_and_ sixpence, Mr. Cuff! \n\n Each?  says the Sergeant.\n\n Both together!  says Mrs. Yolland.  Three and sixpence for the two. \n\n Given away, ma am,  says the Sergeant, shaking his head.  Clean given\naway! \n\n There s the money,  says Mrs. Yolland, getting back sideways to the\nlittle heap of silver on the table, as if it drew her in spite of\nherself.  The tin case and the dog chains were all she bought, and all\nshe took away. One and ninepence and three and sixpence total, five and\nthree. With my love and respects and I can t find it in my conscience\nto take a poor girl s savings, when she may want them herself. \n\n I can t find it in _my_ conscience, ma am, to give the money back, \nsays Sergeant Cuff.  You have as good as made her a present of the\nthings you have indeed. \n\n Is that your sincere opinion, sir?  says Mrs. Yolland brightening up\nwonderfully.\n\n There can t be a doubt about it,  answered the Sergeant.  Ask Mr.\nBetteredge. \n\nIt was no use asking _me_. All they got out of _me_ was,  Good-night. \n\n Bother the money!  says Mrs. Yolland. With these words, she appeared\nto lose all command over herself; and, making a sudden snatch at the\nheap of silver, put it back, holus-bolus, in her pocket.  It upsets\none s temper, it does, to see it lying there, and nobody taking it, \ncries this unreasonable woman, sitting down with a thump, and looking\nat Sergeant Cuff, as much as to say,  It s in my pocket again now get\nit out if you can! \n\nThis time, I not only went to the door, but went fairly out on the road\nback. Explain it how you may, I felt as if one or both of them had\nmortally offended me. Before I had taken three steps down the village,\nI heard the Sergeant behind me.\n\n Thank you for your introduction, Mr. Betteredge,  he said.  I am\nindebted to the fisherman s wife for an entirely new sensation. Mrs.\nYolland has puzzled me. \n\nIt was on the tip of my tongue to have given him a sharp answer, for no\nbetter reason than this that I was out of temper with him, because I\nwas out of temper with myself. But when he owned to being puzzled, a\ncomforting doubt crossed my mind whether any great harm had been done\nafter all. I waited in discreet silence to hear more.\n\n Yes,  says the Sergeant, as if he was actually reading my thoughts in\nthe dark.  Instead of putting me on the scent, it may console you to\nknow, Mr. Betteredge (with your interest in Rosanna), that you have\nbeen the means of throwing me off. What the girl has done, tonight, is\nclear enough, of course. She has joined the two chains, and has\nfastened them to the hasp in the tin case. She has sunk the case, in\nthe water or in the quicksand. She has made the loose end of the chain\nfast to some place under the rocks, known only to herself. And she will\nleave the case secure at its anchorage till the present proceedings\nhave come to an end; after which she can privately pull it up again out\nof its hiding-place, at her own leisure and convenience. All perfectly\nplain, so far. But,  says the Sergeant, with the first tone of\nimpatience in his voice that I had heard yet,  the mystery is what the\ndevil has she hidden in the tin case? \n\nI thought to myself,  The Moonstone!  But I only said to Sergeant Cuff,\n Can t you guess? \n\n It s not the Diamond,  says the Sergeant.  The whole experience of my\nlife is at fault, if Rosanna Spearman has got the Diamond. \n\nOn hearing those words, the infernal detective-fever began, I suppose,\nto burn in me again. At any rate, I forgot myself in the interest of\nguessing this new riddle. I said rashly,  The stained dress! \n\nSergeant Cuff stopped short in the dark, and laid his hand on my arm.\n\n Is anything thrown into that quicksand of yours, ever thrown up on the\nsurface again?  he asked.\n\n Never,  I answered.  Light or heavy whatever goes into the Shivering\nSand is sucked down, and seen no more. \n\n Does Rosanna Spearman know that? \n\n She knows it as well as I do. \n\n Then,  says the Sergeant,  what on earth has she got to do but to tie\nup a bit of stone in the stained dress and throw it into the quicksand?\nThere isn t the shadow of a reason why she should have hidden it and\nyet she _must_ have hidden it. Query,  says the Sergeant, walking on\nagain,  is the paint-stained dress a petticoat or a night-gown? or is\nit something else which there is a reason for preserving at any risk?\nMr. Betteredge, if nothing occurs to prevent it, I must go to\nFrizinghall tomorrow, and discover what she bought in the town, when\nshe privately got the materials for making the substitute dress. It s a\nrisk to leave the house, as things are now but it s a worse risk still\nto stir another step in this matter in the dark. Excuse my being a\nlittle out of temper; I m degraded in my own estimation I have let\nRosanna Spearman puzzle me. \n\nWhen we got back, the servants were at supper. The first person we saw\nin the outer yard was the policeman whom Superintendent Seegrave had\nleft at the Sergeant s disposal. The Sergeant asked if Rosanna Spearman\nhad returned. Yes. When? Nearly an hour since. What had she done? She\nhad gone upstairs to take off her bonnet and cloak and she was now at\nsupper quietly with the rest.\n\nWithout making any remark, Sergeant Cuff walked on, sinking lower and\nlower in his own estimation, to the back of the house. Missing the\nentrance in the dark, he went on (in spite of my calling to him) till\nhe was stopped by a wicket-gate which led into the garden. When I\njoined him to bring him back by the right way, I found that he was\nlooking up attentively at one particular window, on the bedroom floor,\nat the back of the house.\n\nLooking up, in my turn, I discovered that the object of his\ncontemplation was the window of Miss Rachel s room, and that lights\nwere passing backwards and forwards there as if something unusual was\ngoing on.\n\n Isn t that Miss Verinder s room?  asked Sergeant Cuff.\n\nI replied that it was, and invited him to go in with me to supper. The\nSergeant remained in his place, and said something about enjoying the\nsmell of the garden at night. I left him to his enjoyment. Just as I\nwas turning in at the door, I heard  The Last Rose of Summer  at the\nwicket-gate. Sergeant Cuff had made another discovery! And my young\nlady s window was at the bottom of it this time!\n\nThe latter reflection took me back again to the Sergeant, with a polite\nintimation that I could not find it in my heart to leave him by\nhimself.  Is there anything you don t understand up there?  I added,\npointing to Miss Rachel s window.\n\nJudging by his voice, Sergeant Cuff had suddenly risen again to the\nright place in his own estimation.  You are great people for betting in\nYorkshire, are you not?  he asked.\n\n Well?  I said.  Suppose we are? \n\n If I was a Yorkshireman,  proceeded the Sergeant, taking my arm,  I\nwould lay you an even sovereign, Mr. Betteredge, that your young lady\nhas suddenly resolved to leave the house. If I won on that event, I\nshould offer to lay another sovereign, that the idea has occurred to\nher within the last hour.  The first of the Sergeant s guesses startled\nme. The second mixed itself up somehow in my head with the report we\nhad heard from the policeman, that Rosanna Spearman had returned from\nthe sands within the last hour. The two together had a curious effect\non me as we went in to supper. I shook off Sergeant Cuff s arm, and,\nforgetting my manners, pushed by him through the door to make my own\ninquiries for myself.\n\nSamuel, the footman, was the first person I met in the passage.\n\n Her ladyship is waiting to see you and Sergeant Cuff,  he said, before\nI could put any questions to him.\n\n How long has she been waiting?  asked the Sergeant s voice behind me.\n\n For the last hour, sir. \n\nThere it was again! Rosanna had come back; Miss Rachel had taken some\nresolution out of the common; and my lady had been waiting to see the\nSergeant all within the last hour! It was not pleasant to find these\nvery different persons and things linking themselves together in this\nway. I went on upstairs, without looking at Sergeant Cuff, or speaking\nto him. My hand took a sudden fit of trembling as I lifted it to knock\nat my mistress s door.\n\n I shouldn t be surprised,  whispered the Sergeant over my shoulder,\n if a scandal was to burst up in the house tonight. Don t be alarmed! I\nhave put the muzzle on worse family difficulties than this, in my\ntime. \n\nAs he said the words I heard my mistress s voice calling to us to come\nin.\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nWe found my lady with no light in the room but the reading-lamp. The\nshade was screwed down so as to overshadow her face. Instead of looking\nup at us in her usual straightforward way, she sat close at the table,\nand kept her eyes fixed obstinately on an open book.\n\n Officer,  she said,  is it important to the inquiry you are\nconducting, to know beforehand if any person now in this house wishes\nto leave it? \n\n Most important, my lady. \n\n I have to tell you, then, that Miss Verinder proposes going to stay\nwith her aunt, Mrs. Ablewhite, of Frizinghall. She has arranged to\nleave us the first thing tomorrow morning. \n\nSergeant Cuff looked at me. I made a step forward to speak to my\nmistress and, feeling my heart fail me (if I must own it), took a step\nback again, and said nothing.\n\n May I ask your ladyship _when_ Miss Verinder informed you that she was\ngoing to her aunt s?  inquired the Sergeant.\n\n About an hour since,  answered my mistress.\n\nSergeant Cuff looked at me once more. They say old people s hearts are\nnot very easily moved. _My_ heart couldn t have thumped much harder\nthan it did now, if I had been five-and-twenty again!\n\n I have no claim, my lady,  says the Sergeant,  to control Miss\nVerinder s actions. All I can ask you to do is to put off her\ndeparture, if possible, till later in the day. I must go to Frizinghall\nmyself tomorrow morning and I shall be back by two o clock, if not\nbefore. If Miss Verinder can be kept here till that time, I should wish\nto say two words to her unexpectedly before she goes. \n\nMy lady directed me to give the coachman her orders, that the carriage\nwas not to come for Miss Rachel until two o clock.  Have you more to\nsay?  she asked of the Sergeant, when this had been done.\n\n Only one thing, your ladyship. If Miss Verinder is surprised at this\nchange in the arrangements, please not to mention Me as being the cause\nof putting off her journey. \n\nMy mistress lifted her head suddenly from her book as if she was going\nto say something checked herself by a great effort and, looking back\nagain at the open page, dismissed us with a sign of her hand.\n\n That s a wonderful woman,  said Sergeant Cuff, when we were out in the\nhall again.  But for her self-control, the mystery that puzzles you,\nMr. Betteredge, would have been at an end tonight. \n\nAt those words, the truth rushed at last into my stupid old head. For\nthe moment, I suppose I must have gone clean out of my senses. I seized\nthe Sergeant by the collar of his coat, and pinned him against the\nwall.\n\n Damn you!  I cried out,  there s something wrong about Miss Rachel and\nyou have been hiding it from me all this time! \n\nSergeant Cuff looked up at me flat against the wall without stirring a\nhand, or moving a muscle of his melancholy face.\n\n Ah,  he said,  you ve guessed it at last. \n\nMy hand dropped from his collar, and my head sunk on my breast. Please\nto remember, as some excuse for my breaking out as I did, that I had\nserved the family for fifty years. Miss Rachel had climbed upon my\nknees, and pulled my whiskers, many and many a time when she was a\nchild. Miss Rachel, with all her faults, had been, to my mind, the\ndearest and prettiest and best young mistress that ever an old servant\nwaited on, and loved. I begged Sergeant s Cuff s pardon, but I am\nafraid I did it with watery eyes, and not in a very becoming way.\n\n Don t distress yourself, Mr. Betteredge,  says the Sergeant, with more\nkindness than I had any right to expect from him.  In my line of life\nif we were quick at taking offence, we shouldn t be worth salt to our\nporridge. If it s any comfort to you, collar me again. You don t in the\nleast know how to do it; but I ll overlook your awkwardness in\nconsideration of your feelings. \n\nHe curled up at the corners of his lips, and, in his own dreary way,\nseemed to think he had delivered himself of a very good joke.\n\nI led him into my own little sitting-room, and closed the door.\n\n Tell me the truth, Sergeant,  I said.  What do you suspect? It s no\nkindness to hide it from me now. \n\n I don t suspect,  said Sergeant Cuff.  I know. \n\nMy unlucky temper began to get the better of me again.\n\n Do you mean to tell me, in plain English,  I said,  that Miss Rachel\nhas stolen her own Diamond? \n\n Yes,  says the Sergeant;  that is what I mean to tell you, in so many\nwords. Miss Verinder has been in secret possession of the Moonstone\nfrom first to last; and she has taken Rosanna Spearman into her\nconfidence, because she has calculated on our suspecting Rosanna\nSpearman of the theft. There is the whole case in a nutshell. Collar me\nagain, Mr. Betteredge. If it s any vent to your feelings, collar me\nagain. \n\nGod help me! my feelings were not to be relieved in that way.  Give me\nyour reasons!  That was all I could say to him.\n\n You shall hear my reasons tomorrow,  said the Sergeant.  If Miss\nVerinder refuses to put off her visit to her aunt (which you will find\nMiss Verinder will do), I shall be obliged to lay the whole case before\nyour mistress tomorrow. And, as I don t know what may come of it, I\nshall request you to be present, and to hear what passes on both sides.\nLet the matter rest for tonight. No, Mr. Betteredge, you don t get a\nword more on the subject of the Moonstone out of me. There is your\ntable spread for supper. That s one of the many human infirmities which\nI always treat tenderly. If you will ring the bell, I ll say grace.\n For what we are going to receive \n\n I wish you a good appetite to it, Sergeant,  I said.  _My_ appetite is\ngone. I ll wait and see you served, and then I ll ask you to excuse me,\nif I go away, and try to get the better of this by myself. \n\nI saw him served with the best of everything and I shouldn t have been\nsorry if the best of everything had choked him. The head gardener (Mr.\nBegbie) came in at the same time, with his weekly account. The Sergeant\ngot on the subject of roses and the merits of grass walks and gravel\nwalks immediately. I left the two together, and went out with a heavy\nheart. This was the first trouble I remember for many a long year which\nwasn t to be blown off by a whiff of tobacco, and which was even beyond\nthe reach of _Robinson Crusoe_.\n\nBeing restless and miserable, and having no particular room to go to, I\ntook a turn on the terrace, and thought it over in peace and quietness\nby myself. It doesn t much matter what my thoughts were. I felt\nwretchedly old, and worn out, and unfit for my place and began to\nwonder, for the first time in my life, when it would please God to take\nme. With all this, I held firm, notwithstanding, to my belief in Miss\nRachel. If Sergeant Cuff had been Solomon in all his glory, and had\ntold me that my young lady had mixed herself up in a mean and guilty\nplot, I should have had but one answer for Solomon, wise as he was,\n You don t know her; and I do. \n\nMy meditations were interrupted by Samuel. He brought me a written\nmessage from my mistress.\n\nGoing into the house to get a light to read it by, Samuel remarked that\nthere seemed a change coming in the weather. My troubled mind had\nprevented me from noticing it before. But, now my attention was roused,\nI heard the dogs uneasy, and the wind moaning low. Looking up at the\nsky, I saw the rack of clouds getting blacker and blacker, and hurrying\nfaster and faster over a watery moon. Wild weather coming Samuel was\nright, wild weather coming.\n\nThe message from my lady informed me, that the magistrate at\nFrizinghall had written to remind her about the three Indians. Early in\nthe coming week, the rogues must needs be released, and left free to\nfollow their own devices. If we had any more questions to ask them,\nthere was no time to lose. Having forgotten to mention this, when she\nhad last seen Sergeant Cuff, my mistress now desired me to supply the\nomission. The Indians had gone clean out of my head (as they have, no\ndoubt, gone clean out of yours). I didn t see much use in stirring that\nsubject again. However, I obeyed my orders on the spot, as a matter of\ncourse.\n\nI found Sergeant Cuff and the gardener, with a bottle of Scotch whisky\nbetween them, head over ears in an argument on the growing of roses.\nThe Sergeant was so deeply interested that he held up his hand, and\nsigned to me not to interrupt the discussion, when I came in. As far as\nI could understand it, the question between them was, whether the white\nmoss rose did, or did not, require to be budded on the dog-rose to make\nit grow well. Mr. Begbie said, Yes; and Sergeant Cuff said, No. They\nappealed to me, as hotly as a couple of boys. Knowing nothing whatever\nabout the growing of roses, I steered a middle course just as her\nMajesty s judges do, when the scales of justice bother them by hanging\neven to a hair.  Gentlemen,  I remarked,  there is much to be said on\nboth sides.  In the temporary lull produced by that impartial sentence,\nI laid my lady s written message on the table, under the eyes of\nSergeant Cuff.\n\nI had got by this time, as nearly as might be, to hate the Sergeant.\nBut truth compels me to acknowledge that, in respect of readiness of\nmind, he was a wonderful man.\n\nIn half a minute after he had read the message, he had looked back into\nhis memory for Superintendent Seegrave s report; had picked out that\npart of it in which the Indians were concerned; and was ready with his\nanswer. A certain great traveller, who understood the Indians and their\nlanguage, had figured in Mr. Seegrave s report, hadn t he? Very well.\nDid I know the gentleman s name and address? Very well again. Would I\nwrite them on the back of my lady s message? Much obliged to me.\nSergeant Cuff would look that gentleman up, when he went to Frizinghall\nin the morning.\n\n Do you expect anything to come of it?  I asked.  Superintendent\nSeegrave found the Indians as innocent as the babe unborn. \n\n Superintendent Seegrave has been proved wrong, up to this time, in all\nhis conclusions,  answered the Sergeant.  It may be worth while to find\nout tomorrow whether Superintendent Seegrave was wrong about the\nIndians as well.  With that he turned to Mr. Begbie, and took up the\nargument again exactly at the place where it had left off.  This\nquestion between us is a question of soils and seasons, and patience\nand pains, Mr. Gardener. Now let me put it to you from another point of\nview. You take your white moss rose \n\nBy that time, I had closed the door on them, and was out of hearing of\nthe rest of the dispute.\n\nIn the passage, I met Penelope hanging about, and asked what she was\nwaiting for.\n\nShe was waiting for her young lady s bell, when her young lady chose to\ncall her back to go on with the packing for the next day s journey.\nFurther inquiry revealed to me, that Miss Rachel had given it as a\nreason for wanting to go to her aunt at Frizinghall, that the house was\nunendurable to her, and that she could bear the odious presence of a\npoliceman under the same roof with herself no longer. On being\ninformed, half an hour since, that her departure would be delayed till\ntwo in the afternoon, she had flown into a violent passion. My lady,\npresent at the time, had severely rebuked her, and then (having\napparently something to say, which was reserved for her daughter s\nprivate ear) had sent Penelope out of the room. My girl was in\nwretchedly low spirits about the changed state of things in the house.\n Nothing goes right, father; nothing is like what it used to be. I feel\nas if some dreadful misfortune was hanging over us all. \n\nThat was my feeling too. But I put a good face on it, before my\ndaughter. Miss Rachel s bell rang while we were talking. Penelope ran\nup the back stairs to go on with the packing. I went by the other way\nto the hall, to see what the glass said about the change in the\nweather.\n\nJust as I approached the swing-door leading into the hall from the\nservants  offices, it was violently opened from the other side, and\nRosanna Spearman ran by me, with a miserable look of pain in her face,\nand one of her hands pressed hard over her heart, as if the pang was in\nthat quarter.  What s the matter, my girl?  I asked, stopping her.  Are\nyou ill?   For God s sake, don t speak to me,  she answered, and\ntwisted herself out of my hands, and ran on towards the servants \nstaircase. I called to the cook (who was within hearing) to look after\nthe poor girl. Two other persons proved to be within hearing, as well\nas the cook. Sergeant Cuff darted softly out of my room, and asked what\nwas the matter. I answered,  Nothing.  Mr. Franklin, on the other side,\npulled open the swing-door, and beckoning me into the hall, inquired if\nI had seen anything of Rosanna Spearman.\n\n She has just passed me, sir, with a very disturbed face, and in a very\nodd manner. \n\n I am afraid I am innocently the cause of that disturbance,\nBetteredge. \n\n You, sir! \n\n I can t explain it,  says Mr. Franklin;  but, if the girl _is_\nconcerned in the loss of the Diamond, I do really believe she was on\nthe point of confessing everything to me, of all the people in the\nworld not two minutes since. \n\nLooking towards the swing-door, as he said those last words, I fancied\nI saw it opened a little way from the inner side.\n\nWas there anybody listening? The door fell to, before I could get to\nit. Looking through, the moment after, I thought I saw the tails of\nSergeant Cuff s respectable black coat disappearing round the corner of\nthe passage. He knew, as well as I did, that he could expect no more\nhelp from me, now that I had discovered the turn which his\ninvestigations were really taking. Under those circumstances, it was\nquite in his character to help himself, and to do it by the underground\nway.\n\nNot feeling sure that I had really seen the Sergeant and not desiring\nto make needless mischief, where, Heaven knows, there was mischief\nenough going on already I told Mr. Franklin that I thought one of the\ndogs had got into the house and then begged him to describe what had\nhappened between Rosanna and himself.\n\n Were you passing through the hall, sir?  I asked.  Did you meet her\naccidentally, when she spoke to you? \n\nMr. Franklin pointed to the billiard-table.\n\n I was knocking the balls about,  he said,  and trying to get this\nmiserable business of the Diamond out of my mind. I happened to look\nup and there stood Rosanna Spearman at the side of me, like a ghost!\nHer stealing on me in that way was so strange, that I hardly knew what\nto do at first. Seeing a very anxious expression in her face, I asked\nher if she wished to speak to me. She answered,  Yes, if I dare. \nKnowing what suspicion attached to her, I could only put one\nconstruction on such language as that. I confess it made me\nuncomfortable. I had no wish to invite the girl s confidence. At the\nsame time, in the difficulties that now beset us, I could hardly feel\njustified in refusing to listen to her, if she was really bent on\nspeaking to me. It was an awkward position; and I dare say I got out of\nit awkwardly enough. I said to her,  I don t quite understand you. Is\nthere anything you want me to do?  Mind, Betteredge, I didn t speak\nunkindly! The poor girl can t help being ugly I felt that, at the time.\nThe cue was still in my hand, and I went on knocking the balls about,\nto take off the awkwardness of the thing. As it turned out, I only made\nmatters worse still. I m afraid I mortified her without meaning it! She\nsuddenly turned away.  He looks at the billiard balls,  I heard her\nsay.  Anything rather than look at _me!_  Before I could stop her, she\nhad left the hall. I am not quite easy about it, Betteredge. Would you\nmind telling Rosanna that I meant no unkindness? I have been a little\nhard on her, perhaps, in my own thoughts I have almost hoped that the\nloss of the Diamond might be traced to _her_. Not from any ill-will to\nthe poor girl: but  He stopped there, and going back to the\nbilliard-table, began to knock the balls about once more.\n\nAfter what had passed between the Sergeant and me, I knew what it was\nthat he had left unspoken as well as he knew it himself.\n\nNothing but the tracing of the Moonstone to our second housemaid could\nnow raise Miss Rachel above the infamous suspicion that rested on her\nin the mind of Sergeant Cuff. It was no longer a question of quieting\nmy young lady s nervous excitement; it was a question of proving her\ninnocence. If Rosanna had done nothing to compromise herself, the hope\nwhich Mr. Franklin confessed to having felt would have been hard enough\non her in all conscience. But this was not the case. She had pretended\nto be ill, and had gone secretly to Frizinghall. She had been up all\nnight, making something or destroying something, in private. And she\nhad been at the Shivering Sand, that evening, under circumstances which\nwere highly suspicious, to say the least of them. For all these reasons\n(sorry as I was for Rosanna) I could not but think that Mr. Franklin s\nway of looking at the matter was neither unnatural nor unreasonable, in\nMr. Franklin s position. I said a word to him to that effect.\n\n Yes, yes!  he said in return.  But there is just a chance a very poor\none, certainly that Rosanna s conduct may admit of some explanation\nwhich we don t see at present. I hate hurting a woman s feelings,\nBetteredge! Tell the poor creature what I told you to tell her. And if\nshe wants to speak to me I don t care whether I get into a scrape or\nnot send her to me in the library.  With those kind words he laid down\nthe cue and left me.\n\nInquiry at the servants  offices informed me that Rosanna had retired\nto her own room. She had declined all offers of assistance with thanks,\nand had only asked to be left to rest in quiet. Here, therefore, was an\nend of any confession on her part (supposing she really had a\nconfession to make) for that night. I reported the result to Mr.\nFranklin, who, thereupon, left the library, and went up to bed.\n\nI was putting the lights out, and making the windows fast, when Samuel\ncame in with news of the two guests whom I had left in my room.\n\nThe argument about the white moss rose had apparently come to an end at\nlast. The gardener had gone home, and Sergeant Cuff was nowhere to be\nfound in the lower regions of the house.\n\nI looked into my room. Quite true nothing was to be discovered there\nbut a couple of empty tumblers and a strong smell of hot grog. Had the\nSergeant gone of his own accord to the bedchamber that was prepared for\nhim? I went upstairs to see.\n\nAfter reaching the second landing, I thought I heard a sound of quiet\nand regular breathing on my left-hand side. My left-hand side led to\nthe corridor which communicated with Miss Rachel s room. I looked in,\nand there, coiled up on three chairs placed right across the\npassage there, with a red handkerchief tied round his grizzled head,\nand his respectable black coat rolled up for a pillow, lay and slept\nSergeant Cuff!\n\nHe woke, instantly and quietly, like a dog, the moment I approached\nhim.\n\n Good-night, Mr. Betteredge,  he said.  And mind, if you ever take to\ngrowing roses, the white moss rose is all the better for _not_ being\nbudded on the dog-rose, whatever the gardener may say to the contrary! \n\n What are you doing here?  I asked.  Why are you not in your proper\nbed? \n\n I am not in my proper bed,  answered the Sergeant,  because I am one\nof the many people in this miserable world who can t earn their money\nhonestly and easily at the same time. There was a coincidence, this\nevening, between the period of Rosanna Spearman s return from the Sands\nand the period when Miss Verinder stated her resolution to leave the\nhouse. Whatever Rosanna may have hidden, it s clear to my mind that\nyour young lady couldn t go away until she knew that it _was_ hidden.\nThe two must have communicated privately once already tonight. If they\ntry to communicate again, when the house is quiet, I want to be in the\nway, and stop it. Don t blame me for upsetting your sleeping\narrangements, Mr. Betteredge blame the Diamond. \n\n I wish to God the Diamond had never found its way into this house!  I\nbroke out.\n\nSergeant Cuff looked with a rueful face at the three chairs on which he\nhad condemned himself to pass the night.\n\n So do I,  he said, gravely.\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nNothing happened in the night; and (I am happy to add) no attempt at\ncommunication between Miss Rachel and Rosanna rewarded the vigilance of\nSergeant Cuff.\n\nI had expected the Sergeant to set off for Frizinghall the first thing\nin the morning. He waited about, however, as if he had something else\nto do first. I left him to his own devices; and going into the grounds\nshortly after, met Mr. Franklin on his favourite walk by the shrubbery\nside.\n\nBefore we had exchanged two words, the Sergeant unexpectedly joined us.\nHe made up to Mr. Franklin, who received him, I must own, haughtily\nenough.  Have you anything to say to me?  was all the return he got for\npolitely wishing Mr. Franklin good morning.\n\n I have something to say to you, sir,  answered the Sergeant,  on the\nsubject of the inquiry I am conducting here. You detected the turn that\ninquiry was really taking, yesterday. Naturally enough, in your\nposition, you are shocked and distressed. Naturally enough, also, you\nvisit your own angry sense of your own family scandal upon Me. \n\n What do you want?  Mr. Franklin broke in, sharply enough.\n\n I want to remind you, sir, that I have at any rate, thus far, not been\n_proved_ to be wrong. Bearing that in mind, be pleased to remember, at\nthe same time, that I am an officer of the law acting here under the\nsanction of the mistress of the house. Under these circumstances, is\nit, or is it not, your duty as a good citizen, to assist me with any\nspecial information which you may happen to possess? \n\n I possess no special information,  says Mr. Franklin.\n\nSergeant Cuff put that answer by him, as if no answer had been made.\n\n You may save my time, sir, from being wasted on an inquiry at a\ndistance,  he went on,  if you choose to understand me and speak out. \n\n I don t understand you,  answered Mr. Franklin;  and I have nothing to\nsay. \n\n One of the female servants (I won t mention names) spoke to you\nprivately, sir, last night. \n\nOnce more Mr. Franklin cut him short; once more Mr. Franklin answered,\n I have nothing to say. \n\nStanding by in silence, I thought of the movement in the swing-door on\nthe previous evening, and of the coat-tails which I had seen\ndisappearing down the passage. Sergeant Cuff had, no doubt, just heard\nenough, before I interrupted him, to make him suspect that Rosanna had\nrelieved her mind by confessing something to Mr. Franklin Blake.\n\nThis notion had barely struck me when who should appear at the end of\nthe shrubbery walk but Rosanna Spearman in her own proper person! She\nwas followed by Penelope, who was evidently trying to make her retrace\nher steps to the house. Seeing that Mr. Franklin was not alone, Rosanna\ncame to a standstill, evidently in great perplexity what to do next.\nPenelope waited behind her. Mr. Franklin saw the girls as soon as I saw\nthem. The Sergeant, with his devilish cunning, took on not to have\nnoticed them at all. All this happened in an instant. Before either Mr.\nFranklin or I could say a word, Sergeant Cuff struck in smoothly, with\nan appearance of continuing the previous conversation.\n\n You needn t be afraid of harming the girl, sir,  he said to Mr.\nFranklin, speaking in a loud voice, so that Rosanna might hear him.  On\nthe contrary, I recommend you to honour me with your confidence, if you\nfeel any interest in Rosanna Spearman. \n\nMr. Franklin instantly took on not to have noticed the girls either. He\nanswered, speaking loudly on his side:\n\n I take no interest whatever in Rosanna Spearman. \n\nI looked towards the end of the walk. All I saw at the distance was\nthat Rosanna suddenly turned round, the moment Mr. Franklin had spoken.\nInstead of resisting Penelope, as she had done the moment before, she\nnow let my daughter take her by the arm and lead her back to the house.\n\nThe breakfast-bell rang as the two girls disappeared and even Sergeant\nCuff was now obliged to give it up as a bad job! He said to me quietly,\n I shall go to Frizinghall, Mr. Betteredge; and I shall be back before\ntwo.  He went his way without a word more and for some few hours we\nwere well rid of him.\n\n You must make it right with Rosanna,  Mr. Franklin said to me, when we\nwere alone.  I seem to be fated to say or do something awkward, before\nthat unlucky girl. You must have seen yourself that Sergeant Cuff laid\na trap for both of us. If he could confuse _me_, or irritate _her_ into\nbreaking out, either she or I might have said something which would\nanswer his purpose. On the spur of the moment, I saw no better way out\nof it than the way I took. It stopped the girl from saying anything,\nand it showed the Sergeant that I saw through him. He was evidently\nlistening, Betteredge, when I was speaking to you last night. \n\nHe had done worse than listen, as I privately thought to myself. He had\nremembered my telling him that the girl was in love with Mr. Franklin;\nand he had calculated on _that_, when he appealed to Mr. Franklin s\ninterest in Rosanna in Rosanna s hearing.\n\n As to listening, sir,  I remarked (keeping the other point to myself),\n we shall all be rowing in the same boat if this sort of thing goes on\nmuch longer. Prying, and peeping, and listening are the natural\noccupations of people situated as we are. In another day or two, Mr.\nFranklin, we shall all be struck dumb together for this reason, that we\nshall all be listening to surprise each other s secrets, and all know\nit. Excuse my breaking out, sir. The horrid mystery hanging over us in\nthis house gets into my head like liquor, and makes me wild. I won t\nforget what you have told me. I ll take the first opportunity of making\nit right with Rosanna Spearman. \n\n You haven t said anything to her yet about last night, have you?  Mr.\nFranklin asked.\n\n No, sir. \n\n Then say nothing now. I had better not invite the girl s confidence,\nwith the Sergeant on the look-out to surprise us together. My conduct\nis not very consistent, Betteredge is it? I see no way out of this\nbusiness, which isn t dreadful to think of, unless the Diamond is\ntraced to Rosanna. And yet I can t, and won t, help Sergeant Cuff to\nfind the girl out. \n\nUnreasonable enough, no doubt. But it was my state of mind as well. I\nthoroughly understood him. If you will, for once in your life, remember\nthat you are mortal, perhaps you will thoroughly understand him too.\n\nThe state of things, indoors and out, while Sergeant Cuff was on his\nway to Frizinghall, was briefly this:\n\nMiss Rachel waited for the time when the carriage was to take her to\nher aunt s, still obstinately shut up in her own room. My lady and Mr.\nFranklin breakfasted together. After breakfast, Mr. Franklin took one\nof his sudden resolutions, and went out precipitately to quiet his mind\nby a long walk. I was the only person who saw him go; and he told me he\nshould be back before the Sergeant returned. The change in the weather,\nforeshadowed overnight, had come. Heavy rain had been followed soon\nafter dawn, by high wind. It was blowing fresh, as the day got on. But\nthough the clouds threatened more than once, the rain still held off.\nIt was not a bad day for a walk, if you were young and strong, and\ncould breast the great gusts of wind which came sweeping in from the\nsea.\n\nI attended my lady after breakfast, and assisted her in the settlement\nof our household accounts. She only once alluded to the matter of the\nMoonstone, and that was in the way of forbidding any present mention of\nit between us.  Wait till that man comes back,  she said, meaning the\nSergeant.  We _must_ speak of it then: we are not obliged to speak of\nit now. \n\nAfter leaving my mistress, I found Penelope waiting for me in my room.\n\n I wish, father, you would come and speak to Rosanna,  she said.  I am\nvery uneasy about her. \n\nI suspected what was the matter readily enough. But it is a maxim of\nmine that men (being superior creatures) are bound to improve women if\nthey can. When a woman wants me to do anything (my daughter, or not, it\ndoesn t matter), I always insist on knowing why. The oftener you make\nthem rummage their own minds for a reason, the more manageable you will\nfind them in all the relations of life. It isn t their fault (poor\nwretches!) that they act first and think afterwards; it s the fault of\nthe fools who humour them.\n\nPenelope s reason why, on this occasion, may be given in her own words.\n I am afraid, father,  she said,  Mr. Franklin has hurt Rosanna\ncruelly, without intending it. \n\n What took Rosanna into the shrubbery walk?  I asked.\n\n Her own madness,  says Penelope;  I can call it nothing else. She was\nbent on speaking to Mr. Franklin, this morning, come what might of it.\nI did my best to stop her; you saw that. If I could only have got her\naway before she heard those dreadful words \n\n There! there!  I said,  don t lose your head. I can t call to mind\nthat anything happened to alarm Rosanna. \n\n Nothing to alarm her, father. But Mr. Franklin said he took no\ninterest whatever in her and, oh, he said it in such a cruel voice! \n\n He said it to stop the Sergeant s mouth,  I answered.\n\n I told her that,  says Penelope.  But you see, father (though Mr.\nFranklin isn t to blame), he s been mortifying and disappointing her\nfor weeks and weeks past; and now this comes on the top of it all! She\nhas no right, of course, to expect him to take any interest in her.\nIt s quite monstrous that she should forget herself and her station in\nthat way. But she seems to have lost pride, and proper feeling, and\neverything. She frightened me, father, when Mr. Franklin said those\nwords. They seemed to turn her into stone. A sudden quiet came over\nher, and she has gone about her work, ever since, like a woman in a\ndream. \n\nI began to feel a little uneasy. There was something in the way\nPenelope put it which silenced my superior sense. I called to mind, now\nmy thoughts were directed that way, what had passed between Mr.\nFranklin and Rosanna overnight. She looked cut to the heart on that\noccasion; and now, as ill-luck would have it, she had been unavoidably\nstung again, poor soul, on the tender place. Sad! sad! all the more sad\nbecause the girl had no reason to justify her, and no right to feel it.\n\nI had promised Mr. Franklin to speak to Rosanna, and this seemed the\nfittest time for keeping my word.\n\nWe found the girl sweeping the corridor outside the bedrooms, pale and\ncomposed, and neat as ever in her modest print dress. I noticed a\ncurious dimness and dullness in her eyes not as if she had been crying\nbut as if she had been looking at something too long. Possibly, it was\na misty something raised by her own thoughts. There was certainly no\nobject about her to look at which she had not seen already hundreds on\nhundreds of times.\n\n Cheer up, Rosanna!  I said.  You mustn t fret over your own fancies. I\nhave got something to say to you from Mr. Franklin. \n\nI thereupon put the matter in the right view before her, in the\nfriendliest and most comforting words I could find. My principles, in\nregard to the other sex, are, as you may have noticed, very severe. But\nsomehow or other, when I come face to face with the women, my practice\n(I own) is not conformable.\n\n Mr. Franklin is very kind and considerate. Please to thank him.  That\nwas all the answer she made me.\n\nMy daughter had already noticed that Rosanna went about her work like a\nwoman in a dream. I now added to this observation, that she also\nlistened and spoke like a woman in a dream. I doubted if her mind was\nin a fit condition to take in what I had said to her.\n\n Are you quite sure, Rosanna, that you understand me?  I asked.\n\n Quite sure. \n\nShe echoed me, not like a living woman, but like a creature moved by\nmachinery. She went on sweeping all the time. I took away the broom as\ngently and as kindly as I could.\n\n Come, come, my girl!  I said,  this is not like yourself. You have got\nsomething on your mind. I m your friend and I ll stand your friend,\neven if you have done wrong. Make a clean breast of it, Rosanna make a\nclean breast of it! \n\nThe time had been, when my speaking to her in that way would have\nbrought the tears into her eyes. I could see no change in them now.\n\n Yes,  she said,  I ll make a clean breast of it. \n\n To my lady?  I asked.\n\n No. \n\n To Mr. Franklin? \n\n Yes; to Mr. Franklin. \n\nI hardly knew what to say to that. She was in no condition to\nunderstand the caution against speaking to him in private, which Mr.\nFranklin had directed me to give her. Feeling my way, little by little,\nI only told her Mr. Franklin had gone out for a walk.\n\n It doesn t matter,  she answered.  I shan t trouble Mr. Franklin,\ntoday. \n\n Why not speak to my lady?  I said.  The way to relieve your mind is to\nspeak to the merciful and Christian mistress who has always been kind\nto you. \n\nShe looked at me for a moment with a grave and steady attention, as if\nshe was fixing what I said in her mind. Then she took the broom out of\nmy hands and moved off with it slowly, a little way down the corridor.\n\n No,  she said, going on with her sweeping, and speaking to herself;  I\nknow a better way of relieving my mind than that. \n\n What is it? \n\n Please to let me go on with my work. \n\nPenelope followed her, and offered to help her.\n\nShe answered,  No. I want to do my work. Thank you, Penelope.  She\nlooked round at me.  Thank you, Mr. Betteredge. \n\nThere was no moving her there was nothing more to be said. I signed to\nPenelope to come away with me. We left her, as we had found her,\nsweeping the corridor, like a woman in a dream.\n\n This is a matter for the doctor to look into,  I said.  It s beyond\nme. \n\nMy daughter reminded me of Mr. Candy s illness, owing (as you may\nremember) to the chill he had caught on the night of the dinner-party.\nHis assistant a certain Mr. Ezra Jennings was at our disposal, to be\nsure. But nobody knew much about him in our parts. He had been engaged\nby Mr. Candy under rather peculiar circumstances; and, right or wrong,\nwe none of us liked him or trusted him. There were other doctors at\nFrizinghall. But they were strangers to our house; and Penelope\ndoubted, in Rosanna s present state, whether strangers might not do her\nmore harm than good.\n\nI thought of speaking to my lady. But, remembering the heavy weight of\nanxiety which she already had on her mind, I hesitated to add to all\nthe other vexations this new trouble. Still, there was a necessity for\ndoing something. The girl s state was, to my thinking, downright\nalarming and my mistress ought to be informed of it. Unwilling enough,\nI went to her sitting-room. No one was there. My lady was shut up with\nMiss Rachel. It was impossible for me to see her till she came out\nagain.\n\nI waited in vain till the clock on the front staircase struck the\nquarter to two. Five minutes afterwards, I heard my name called, from\nthe drive outside the house. I knew the voice directly. Sergeant Cuff\nhad returned from Frizinghall.\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nGoing down to the front door, I met the Sergeant on the steps.\n\nIt went against the grain with me, after what had passed between us, to\nshow him that I felt any sort of interest in his proceedings. In spite\nof myself, however, I felt an interest that there was no resisting. My\nsense of dignity sank from under me, and out came the words:  What news\nfrom Frizinghall? \n\n I have seen the Indians,  answered Sergeant Cuff.  And I have found\nout what Rosanna bought privately in the town, on Thursday last. The\nIndians will be set free on Wednesday in next week. There isn t a doubt\non my mind, and there isn t a doubt on Mr. Murthwaite s mind, that they\ncame to this place to steal the Moonstone. Their calculations were all\nthrown out, of course, by what happened in the house on Wednesday\nnight; and they have no more to do with the actual loss of the jewel\nthan you have. But I can tell you one thing, Mr. Betteredge if _we_\ndon t find the Moonstone, _they_ will. You have not heard the last of\nthe three jugglers yet. \n\nMr. Franklin came back from his walk as the Sergeant said those\nstartling words. Governing his curiosity better than I had governed\nmine, he passed us without a word, and went on into the house.\n\nAs for me, having already dropped my dignity, I determined to have the\nwhole benefit of the sacrifice.  So much for the Indians,  I said.\n What about Rosanna next? \n\nSergeant Cuff shook his head.\n\n The mystery in that quarter is thicker than ever,  he said.  I have\ntraced her to a shop at Frizinghall, kept by a linen draper named\nMaltby. She bought nothing whatever at any of the other drapers  shops,\nor at any milliners  or tailors  shops; and she bought nothing at\nMaltby s but a piece of long cloth. She was very particular in choosing\na certain quality. As to quantity, she bought enough to make a\nnightgown. \n\n Whose nightgown?  I asked.\n\n Her own, to be sure. Between twelve and three, on the Thursday\nmorning, she must have slipped down to your young lady s room, to\nsettle the hiding of the Moonstone while all the rest of you were in\nbed. In going back to her own room, her nightgown must have brushed the\nwet paint on the door. She couldn t wash out the stain; and she\ncouldn t safely destroy the night-gown without first providing another\nlike it, to make the inventory of her linen complete. \n\n What proves that it was Rosanna s nightgown?  I objected.\n\n The material she bought for making the substitute dress,  answered the\nSergeant.  If it had been Miss Verinder s nightgown, she would have had\nto buy lace, and frilling, and Lord knows what besides; and she\nwouldn t have had time to make it in one night. Plain long cloth means\na plain servant s nightgown. No, no, Mr. Betteredge all that is clear\nenough. The pinch of the question is why, after having provided the\nsubstitute dress, does she hide the smeared nightgown, instead of\ndestroying it? If the girl won t speak out, there is only one way of\nsettling the difficulty. The hiding-place at the Shivering Sand must be\nsearched and the true state of the case will be discovered there. \n\n How are you to find the place?  I inquired.\n\n I am sorry to disappoint you,  said the Sergeant but that s a secret\nwhich I mean to keep to myself. \n\n(Not to irritate your curiosity, as he irritated mine, I may here\ninform you that he had come back from Frizinghall provided with a\nsearch-warrant. His experience in such matters told him that Rosanna\nwas in all probability carrying about her a memorandum of the\nhiding-place, to guide her, in case she returned to it, under changed\ncircumstances and after a lapse of time. Possessed of this memorandum,\nthe Sergeant would be furnished with all that he could desire.)\n\n Now, Mr. Betteredge,  he went on,  suppose we drop speculation, and\nget to business. I told Joyce to have an eye on Rosanna. Where is\nJoyce? \n\nJoyce was the Frizinghall policeman, who had been left by\nSuperintendent Seegrave at Sergeant Cuff s disposal. The clock struck\ntwo, as he put the question; and, punctual to the moment, the carriage\ncame round to take Miss Rachel to her aunt s.\n\n One thing at a time,  said the Sergeant, stopping me as I was about to\nsend in search of Joyce.  I must attend to Miss Verinder first. \n\nAs the rain was still threatening, it was the close carriage that had\nbeen appointed to take Miss Rachel to Frizinghall. Sergeant Cuff\nbeckoned Samuel to come down to him from the rumble behind.\n\n You will see a friend of mine waiting among the trees, on this side of\nthe lodge gate,  he said.  My friend, without stopping the carriage,\nwill get up into the rumble with you. You have nothing to do but to\nhold your tongue, and shut your eyes. Otherwise, you will get into\ntrouble. \n\nWith that advice, he sent the footman back to his place. What Samuel\nthought I don t know. It was plain, to my mind, that Miss Rachel was to\nbe privately kept in view from the time when she left our house if she\ndid leave it. A watch set on my young lady! A spy behind her in the\nrumble of her mother s carriage! I could have cut my own tongue out for\nhaving forgotten myself so far as to speak to Sergeant Cuff.\n\nThe first person to come out of the house was my lady. She stood aside,\non the top step, posting herself there to see what happened. Not a word\ndid she say, either to the Sergeant or to me. With her lips closed, and\nher arms folded in the light garden cloak which she had wrapped round\nher on coming into the air, there she stood, as still as a statue,\nwaiting for her daughter to appear.\n\nIn a minute more, Miss Rachel came downstairs very nicely dressed in\nsome soft yellow stuff, that set off her dark complexion, and clipped\nher tight (in the form of a jacket) round the waist. She had a smart\nlittle straw hat on her head, with a white veil twisted round it. She\nhad primrose-coloured gloves that fitted her hands like a second skin.\nHer beautiful black hair looked as smooth as satin under her hat. Her\nlittle ears were like rosy shells they had a pearl dangling from each\nof them. She came swiftly out to us, as straight as a lily on its stem,\nand as lithe and supple in every movement she made as a young cat.\nNothing that I could discover was altered in her pretty face, but her\neyes and her lips. Her eyes were brighter and fiercer than I liked to\nsee; and her lips had so completely lost their colour and their smile\nthat I hardly knew them again. She kissed her mother in a hasty and\nsudden manner on the cheek. She said,  Try to forgive me, mamma and\nthen pulled down her veil over her face so vehemently that she tore it.\nIn another moment she had run down the steps, and had rushed into the\ncarriage as if it was a hiding-place.\n\nSergeant Cuff was just as quick on his side. He put Samuel back, and\nstood before Miss Rachel, with the open carriage-door in his hand, at\nthe instant when she settled herself in her place.\n\n What do you want?  says Miss Rachel, from behind her veil.\n\n I want to say one word to you, miss,  answered the Sergeant,  before\nyou go. I can t presume to stop your paying a visit to your aunt. I can\nonly venture to say that your leaving us, as things are now, puts an\nobstacle in the way of my recovering your Diamond. Please to understand\nthat; and now decide for yourself whether you go or stay. \n\nMiss Rachel never even answered him.  Drive on, James!  she called out\nto the coachman.\n\nWithout another word, the Sergeant shut the carriage-door. Just as he\nclosed it, Mr. Franklin came running down the steps.  Good-bye,\nRachel,  he said, holding out his hand.\n\n Drive on!  cried Miss Rachel, louder than ever, and taking no more\nnotice of Mr. Franklin than she had taken of Sergeant Cuff.\n\nMr. Franklin stepped back thunderstruck, as well he might be. The\ncoachman, not knowing what to do, looked towards my lady, still\nstanding immovable on the top step. My lady, with anger and sorrow and\nshame all struggling together in her face, made him a sign to start the\nhorses, and then turned back hastily into the house. Mr. Franklin,\nrecovering the use of his speech, called after her, as the carriage\ndrove off,  Aunt! you were quite right. Accept my thanks for all your\nkindness and let me go. \n\nMy lady turned as though to speak to him. Then, as if distrusting\nherself, waved her hand kindly.  Let me see you, before you leave us,\nFranklin,  she said, in a broken voice and went on to her own room.\n\n Do me a last favour, Betteredge,  says Mr. Franklin, turning to me,\nwith the tears in his eyes.  Get me away to the train as soon as you\ncan! \n\nHe too went his way into the house. For the moment, Miss Rachel had\ncompletely unmanned him. Judge from that, how fond he must have been of\nher!\n\nSergeant Cuff and I were left face to face, at the bottom of the steps.\nThe Sergeant stood with his face set towards a gap in the trees,\ncommanding a view of one of the windings of the drive which led from\nthe house. He had his hands in his pockets, and he was softly whistling\n The Last Rose of Summer  to himself.\n\n There s a time for everything,  I said savagely enough.  This isn t a\ntime for whistling. \n\nAt that moment, the carriage appeared in the distance, through the gap,\non its way to the lodge-gate. There was another man, besides Samuel,\nplainly visible in the rumble behind.\n\n All right!  said the Sergeant to himself. He turned round to me.  It s\nno time for whistling, Mr. Betteredge, as you say. It s time to take\nthis business in hand, now, without sparing anybody. We ll begin with\nRosanna Spearman. Where is Joyce? \n\nWe both called for Joyce, and received no answer. I sent one of the\nstable-boys to look for him.\n\n You heard what I said to Miss Verinder?  remarked the Sergeant, while\nwe were waiting.  And you saw how she received it? I tell her plainly\nthat her leaving us will be an obstacle in the way of my recovering her\nDiamond and she leaves, in the face of that statement! Your young lady\nhas got a travelling companion in her mother s carriage, Mr.\nBetteredge and the name of it is, the Moonstone. \n\nI said nothing. I only held on like death to my belief in Miss Rachel.\n\nThe stable-boy came back, followed very unwillingly, as it appeared to\nme by Joyce.\n\n Where is Rosanna Spearman?  asked Sergeant Cuff.\n\n I can t account for it, sir,  Joyce began;  and I am very sorry. But\nsomehow or other \n\n Before I went to Frizinghall,  said the Sergeant, cutting him short,\n I told you to keep your eyes on Rosanna Spearman, without allowing her\nto discover that she was being watched. Do you mean to tell me that you\nhave let her give you the slip? \n\n I am afraid, sir,  says Joyce, beginning to tremble,  that I was\nperhaps a little _too_ careful not to let her discover me. There are\nsuch a many passages in the lower parts of this house \n\n How long is it since you missed her? \n\n Nigh on an hour since, sir. \n\n You can go back to your regular business at Frizinghall,  said the\nSergeant, speaking just as composedly as ever, in his usual quiet and\ndreary way.  I don t think your talents are at all in our line, Mr.\nJoyce. Your present form of employment is a trifle beyond you. Good\nmorning. \n\nThe man slunk off. I find it very difficult to describe how I was\naffected by the discovery that Rosanna Spearman was missing. I seemed\nto be in fifty different minds about it, all at the same time. In that\nstate, I stood staring at Sergeant Cuff and my powers of language quite\nfailed me.\n\n No, Mr. Betteredge,  said the Sergeant, as if he had discovered the\nuppermost thought in me, and was picking it out to be answered, before\nall the rest.  Your young friend, Rosanna, won t slip through my\nfingers so easy as you think. As long as I know where Miss Verinder is,\nI have the means at my disposal of tracing Miss Verinder s accomplice.\nI prevented them from communicating last night. Very good. They will\nget together at Frizinghall, instead of getting together here. The\npresent inquiry must be simply shifted (rather sooner than I had\nanticipated) from this house, to the house at which Miss Verinder is\nvisiting. In the meantime, I m afraid I must trouble you to call the\nservants together again. \n\nI went round with him to the servants  hall. It is very disgraceful,\nbut it is not the less true, that I had another attack of the\ndetective-fever, when he said those last words. I forgot that I hated\nSergeant Cuff. I seized him confidentially by the arm. I said,  For\ngoodness  sake, tell us what you are going to do with the servants\nnow? \n\nThe great Cuff stood stock-still, and addressed himself in a kind of\nmelancholy rapture to the empty air.\n\n If this man,  said the Sergeant (apparently meaning me),  only\nunderstood the growing of roses he would be the most completely perfect\ncharacter on the face of creation!  After that strong expression of\nfeeling, he sighed, and put his arm through mine.  This is how it\nstands,  he said, dropping down again to business.  Rosanna has done\none of two things. She has either gone direct to Frizinghall (before I\ncan get there), or she has gone first to visit her hiding-place at the\nShivering Sand. The first thing to find out is, which of the servants\nsaw the last of her before she left the house. \n\nOn instituting this inquiry, it turned out that the last person who had\nset eyes on Rosanna was Nancy, the kitchenmaid.\n\nNancy had seen her slip out with a letter in her hand, and stop the\nbutcher s man who had just been delivering some meat at the back door.\nNancy had heard her ask the man to post the letter when he got back to\nFrizinghall. The man had looked at the address, and had said it was a\nroundabout way of delivering a letter directed to Cobb s Hole, to post\nit at Frizinghall and that, moreover, on a Saturday, which would\nprevent the letter from getting to its destination until Monday\nmorning, Rosanna had answered that the delivery of the letter being\ndelayed till Monday was of no importance. The only thing she wished to\nbe sure of was that the man would do what she told him. The man had\npromised to do it, and had driven away. Nancy had been called back to\nher work in the kitchen. And no other person had seen anything\nafterwards of Rosanna Spearman.\n\n Well?  I asked, when we were alone again.\n\n Well,  says the Sergeant.  I must go to Frizinghall. \n\n About the letter, sir? \n\n Yes. The memorandum of the hiding-place is in that letter. I must see\nthe address at the post-office. If it is the address I suspect, I shall\npay our friend, Mrs. Yolland, another visit on Monday next. \n\nI went with the Sergeant to order the pony-chaise. In the stable-yard\nwe got a new light thrown on the missing girl.\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nThe news of Rosanna s disappearance had, as it appeared, spread among\nthe out-of-door servants. They too had made their inquiries; and they\nhad just laid hands on a quick little imp, nicknamed  Duffy who was\noccasionally employed in weeding the garden, and who had seen Rosanna\nSpearman as lately as half-an-hour since. Duffy was certain that the\ngirl had passed him in the fir-plantation, not walking, but _running_,\nin the direction of the sea-shore.\n\n Does this boy know the coast hereabouts?  asked Sergeant Cuff.\n\n He has been born and bred on the coast,  I answered.\n\n Duffy!  says the Sergeant,  do you want to earn a shilling? If you do,\ncome along with me. Keep the pony-chaise ready, Mr. Betteredge, till I\ncome back. \n\nHe started for the Shivering Sand, at a rate that my legs (though well\nenough preserved for my time of life) had no hope of matching. Little\nDuffy, as the way is with the young savages in our parts when they are\nin high spirits, gave a howl, and trotted off at the Sergeant s heels.\n\nHere again, I find it impossible to give anything like a clear account\nof the state of my mind in the interval after Sergeant Cuff had left\nus. A curious and stupefying restlessness got possession of me. I did a\ndozen different needless things in and out of the house, not one of\nwhich I can now remember. I don t even know how long it was after the\nSergeant had gone to the sands, when Duffy came running back with a\nmessage for me. Sergeant Cuff had given the boy a leaf torn out of his\npocket-book, on which was written in pencil,  Send me one of Rosanna\nSpearman s boots, and be quick about it. \n\nI despatched the first woman-servant I could find to Rosanna s room;\nand I sent the boy back to say that I myself would follow him with the\nboot.\n\nThis, I am well aware, was not the quickest way to take of obeying the\ndirections which I had received. But I was resolved to see for myself\nwhat new mystification was going on before I trusted Rosanna s boot in\nthe Sergeant s hands. My old notion of screening the girl, if I could,\nseemed to have come back on me again, at the eleventh hour. This state\nof feeling (to say nothing of the detective-fever) hurried me off, as\nsoon as I had got the boot, at the nearest approach to a run which a\nman turned seventy can reasonably hope to make.\n\nAs I got near the shore, the clouds gathered black, and the rain came\ndown, drifting in great white sheets of water before the wind. I heard\nthe thunder of the sea on the sand-bank at the mouth of the bay. A\nlittle further on, I passed the boy crouching for shelter under the lee\nof the sandhills. Then I saw the raging sea, and the rollers tumbling\nin on the sand-bank, and the driven rain sweeping over the waters like\na flying garment, and the yellow wilderness of the beach with one\nsolitary black figure standing on it the figure of Sergeant Cuff.\n\nHe waved his hand towards the north, when he first saw me.  Keep on\nthat side!  he shouted.  And come on down here to me! \n\nI went down to him, choking for breath, with my heart leaping as if it\nwas like to leap out of me. I was past speaking. I had a hundred\nquestions to put to him; and not one of them would pass my lips. His\nface frightened me. I saw a look in his eyes which was a look of\nhorror. He snatched the boot out of my hand, and set it in a footmark\non the sand, bearing south from us as we stood, and pointing straight\ntowards the rocky ledge called the South Spit. The mark was not yet\nblurred out by the rain and the girl s boot fitted it to a hair.\n\nThe Sergeant pointed to the boot in the footmark, without saying a\nword.\n\nI caught at his arm, and tried to speak to him, and failed as I had\nfailed when I tried before. He went on, following the footsteps down\nand down to where the rocks and the sand joined. The South Spit was\njust awash with the flowing tide; the waters heaved over the hidden\nface of the Shivering Sand. Now this way and now that, with an\nobstinate patience that was dreadful to see, Sergeant Cuff tried the\nboot in the footsteps, and always found it pointing the same\nway straight _to_ the rocks. Hunt as he might, no sign could he find\nanywhere of the footsteps walking _from_ them.\n\nHe gave it up at last. Still keeping silence, he looked again at me;\nand then he looked out at the waters before us, heaving in deeper and\ndeeper over the quicksand. I looked where he looked and I saw his\nthought in his face. A dreadful dumb trembling crawled all over me on a\nsudden. I fell upon my knees on the beach.\n\n She has been back at the hiding-place,  I heard the Sergeant say to\nhimself.  Some fatal accident has happened to her on those rocks. \n\nThe girl s altered looks, and words, and actions the numbed, deadened\nway in which she listened to me, and spoke to me when I had found her\nsweeping the corridor but a few hours since, rose up in my mind, and\nwarned me, even as the Sergeant spoke, that his guess was wide of the\ndreadful truth. I tried to tell him of the fear that had frozen me up.\nI tried to say,  The death she has died, Sergeant, was a death of her\nown seeking.  No! the words wouldn t come. The dumb trembling held me\nin its grip. I couldn t feel the driving rain. I couldn t see the\nrising tide. As in the vision of a dream, the poor lost creature came\nback before me. I saw her again as I had seen her in the past time on\nthe morning when I went to fetch her into the house. I heard her again,\ntelling me that the Shivering Sand seemed to draw her to it against her\nwill, and wondering whether her grave was waiting for her _there_. The\nhorror of it struck at me, in some unfathomable way, through my own\nchild. My girl was just her age. My girl, tried as Rosanna was tried,\nmight have lived that miserable life, and died this dreadful death.\n\nThe Sergeant kindly lifted me up, and turned me away from the sight of\nthe place where she had perished.\n\nWith that relief, I began to fetch my breath again, and to see things\nabout me, as things really were. Looking towards the sandhills, I saw\nthe men-servants from out-of-doors, and the fisherman, named Yolland,\nall running down to us together; and all, having taken the alarm,\ncalling out to know if the girl had been found. In the fewest words,\nthe Sergeant showed them the evidence of the footmarks, and told them\nthat a fatal accident must have happened to her. He then picked out the\nfisherman from the rest, and put a question to him, turning about again\ntowards the sea:  Tell me,  he said.  Could a boat have taken her off,\nin such weather as this, from those rocks where her footmarks stop? \n\nThe fisherman pointed to the rollers tumbling in on the sand-bank, and\nto the great waves leaping up in clouds of foam against the headlands\non either side of us.\n\n No boat that ever was built,  he answered,  could have got to her\nthrough _that_. \n\nSergeant Cuff looked for the last time at the foot-marks on the sand,\nwhich the rain was now fast blurring out.\n\n There,  he said,  is the evidence that she can t have left this place\nby land. And here,  he went on, looking at the fisherman,  is the\nevidence that she can t have got away by sea.  He stopped, and\nconsidered for a minute.  She was seen running towards this place, half\nan hour before I got here from the house,  he said to Yolland.  Some\ntime has passed since then. Call it, altogether, an hour ago. How high\nwould the water be, at that time, on this side of the rocks?  He\npointed to the south side otherwise, the side which was not filled up\nby the quicksand.\n\n As the tide makes today,  said the fisherman,  there wouldn t have\nbeen water enough to drown a kitten on that side of the Spit, an hour\nsince. \n\nSergeant Cuff turned about northward, towards the quicksand.\n\n How much on this side?  he asked.\n\n Less still,  answered Yolland.  The Shivering Sand would have been\njust awash, and no more. \n\nThe Sergeant turned to me, and said that the accident must have\nhappened on the side of the quicksand. My tongue was loosened at that.\n No accident!  I told him.  When she came to this place, she came weary\nof her life, to end it here. \n\nHe started back from me.  How do you know?  he asked. The rest of them\ncrowded round. The Sergeant recovered himself instantly. He put them\nback from me; he said I was an old man; he said the discovery had\nshaken me; he said,  Let him alone a little.  Then he turned to\nYolland, and asked,  Is there any chance of finding her, when the tide\nebbs again?  And Yolland answered,  None. What the Sand gets, the Sand\nkeeps for ever.  Having said that, the fisherman came a step nearer,\nand addressed himself to me.\n\n Mr. Betteredge,  he said,  I have a word to say to you about the young\nwoman s death. Four foot out, broadwise, along the side of the Spit,\nthere s a shelf of rock, about half fathom down under the sand. My\nquestion is why didn t she strike that? If she slipped, by accident,\nfrom off the Spit, she fell in where there s foothold at the bottom, at\na depth that would barely cover her to the waist. She must have waded\nout, or jumped out, into the Deeps beyond or she wouldn t be missing\nnow. No accident, sir! The Deeps of the Quicksand have got her. And\nthey have got her by her own act. \n\nAfter that testimony from a man whose knowledge was to be relied on,\nthe Sergeant was silent. The rest of us, like him, held our peace. With\none accord, we all turned back up the slope of the beach.\n\nAt the sandhillocks we were met by the under-groom, running to us from\nthe house. The lad is a good lad, and has an honest respect for me. He\nhanded me a little note, with a decent sorrow in his face.  Penelope\nsent me with this, Mr. Betteredge,  he said.  She found it in Rosanna s\nroom. \n\nIt was her last farewell word to the old man who had done his\nbest thank God, always done his best to befriend her.\n\n You have often forgiven me, Mr. Betteredge, in past times. When you\nnext see the Shivering Sand, try to forgive me once more. I have found\nmy grave where my grave was waiting for me. I have lived, and died,\nsir, grateful for your kindness. \n\nThere was no more than that. Little as it was, I hadn t manhood enough\nto hold up against it. Your tears come easy, when you re young, and\nbeginning the world. Your tears come easy, when you re old, and leaving\nit. I burst out crying.\n\nSergeant Cuff took a step nearer to me meaning kindly, I don t doubt. I\nshrank back from him.  Don t touch me,  I said.  It s the dread of you,\nthat has driven her to it. \n\n You are wrong, Mr. Betteredge,  he answered, quietly.  But there will\nbe time enough to speak of it when we are indoors again. \n\nI followed the rest of them, with the help of the groom s arm. Through\nthe driving rain we went back to meet the trouble and the terror that\nwere waiting for us at the house.\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nThose in front had spread the news before us. We found the servants in\na state of panic. As we passed my lady s door, it was thrown open\nviolently from the inner side. My mistress came out among us (with Mr.\nFranklin following, and trying vainly to compose her), quite beside\nherself with the horror of the thing.\n\n You are answerable for this!  she cried out, threatening the Sergeant\nwildly with her hand.  Gabriel! give that wretch his money and release\nme from the sight of him! \n\nThe Sergeant was the only one among us who was fit to cope with\nher being the only one among us who was in possession of himself.\n\n I am no more answerable for this distressing calamity, my lady, than\nyou are,  he said.  If, in half an hour from this, you still insist on\nmy leaving the house, I will accept your ladyship s dismissal, but not\nyour ladyship s money. \n\nIt was spoken very respectfully, but very firmly at the same time and\nit had its effect on my mistress as well as on me. She suffered Mr.\nFranklin to lead her back into the room. As the door closed on the two,\nthe Sergeant, looking about among the women-servants in his observant\nway, noticed that while all the rest were merely frightened, Penelope\nwas in tears.  When your father has changed his wet clothes,  he said\nto her,  come and speak to us, in your father s room. \n\nBefore the half-hour was out, I had got my dry clothes on, and had lent\nSergeant Cuff such change of dress as he required. Penelope came in to\nus to hear what the Sergeant wanted with her. I don t think I ever felt\nwhat a good dutiful daughter I had, so strongly as I felt it at that\nmoment. I took her and sat her on my knee and I prayed God bless her.\nShe hid her head on my bosom, and put her arms round my neck and we\nwaited a little while in silence. The poor dead girl must have been at\nthe bottom of it, I think, with my daughter and with me. The Sergeant\nwent to the window, and stood there looking out. I thought it right to\nthank him for considering us both in this way and I did.\n\nPeople in high life have all the luxuries to themselves among others,\nthe luxury of indulging their feelings. People in low life have no such\nprivilege. Necessity, which spares our betters, has no pity on _us_. We\nlearn to put our feelings back into ourselves, and to jog on with our\nduties as patiently as may be. I don t complain of this I only notice\nit. Penelope and I were ready for the Sergeant, as soon as the Sergeant\nwas ready on his side. Asked if she knew what had led her\nfellow-servant to destroy herself, my daughter answered (as you will\nforesee) that it was for love of Mr. Franklin Blake. Asked next, if she\nhad mentioned this notion of hers to any other person, Penelope\nanswered,  I have not mentioned it, for Rosanna s sake.  I felt it\nnecessary to add a word to this. I said,  And for Mr. Franklin s sake,\nmy dear, as well. If Rosanna _has_ died for love of him, it is not with\nhis knowledge or by his fault. Let him leave the house today, if he\ndoes leave it, without the useless pain of knowing the truth.  Sergeant\nCuff said,  Quite right,  and fell silent again; comparing Penelope s\nnotion (as it seemed to me) with some other notion of his own which he\nkept to himself.\n\nAt the end of the half-hour, my mistress s bell rang.\n\nOn my way to answer it, I met Mr. Franklin coming out of his aunt s\nsitting-room. He mentioned that her ladyship was ready to see Sergeant\nCuff in my presence as before and he added that he himself wanted to\nsay two words to the Sergeant first. On our way back to my room, he\nstopped, and looked at the railway time-table in the hall.\n\n Are you really going to leave us, sir?  I asked.  Miss Rachel will\nsurely come right again, if you only give her time? \n\n She will come right again,  answered Mr. Franklin,  when she hears\nthat I have gone away, and that she will see me no more. \n\nI thought he spoke in resentment of my young lady s treatment of him.\nBut it was not so. My mistress had noticed, from the time when the\npolice first came into the house, that the bare mention of him was\nenough to set Miss Rachel s temper in a flame. He had been too fond of\nhis cousin to like to confess this to himself, until the truth had been\nforced on him, when she drove off to her aunt s. His eyes once opened\nin that cruel way which you know of, Mr. Franklin had taken his\nresolution the one resolution which a man of any spirit _could_ take to\nleave the house.\n\nWhat he had to say to the Sergeant was spoken in my presence. He\ndescribed her ladyship as willing to acknowledge that she had spoken\nover-hastily. And he asked if Sergeant Cuff would consent in that\ncase to accept his fee, and to leave the matter of the Diamond where\nthe matter stood now. The Sergeant answered,  No, sir. My fee is paid\nme for doing my duty. I decline to take it, until my duty is done. \n\n I don t understand you,  says Mr. Franklin.\n\n I ll explain myself, sir,  says the Sergeant.  When I came here, I\nundertook to throw the necessary light on the matter of the missing\nDiamond. I am now ready, and waiting to redeem my pledge. When I have\nstated the case to Lady Verinder as the case now stands, and when I\nhave told her plainly what course of action to take for the recovery of\nthe Moonstone, the responsibility will be off my shoulders. Let her\nladyship decide, after that, whether she does, or does not, allow me to\ngo on. I shall then have done what I undertook to do and I ll take my\nfee. \n\nIn those words Sergeant Cuff reminded us that, even in the Detective\nPolice, a man may have a reputation to lose.\n\nThe view he took was so plainly the right one, that there was no more\nto be said. As I rose to conduct him to my lady s room, he asked if Mr.\nFranklin wished to be present. Mr. Franklin answered,  Not unless Lady\nVerinder desires it.  He added, in a whisper to me, as I was following\nthe Sergeant out,  I know what that man is going to say about Rachel;\nand I am too fond of her to hear it, and keep my temper. Leave me by\nmyself. \n\nI left him, miserable enough, leaning on the sill of my window, with\nhis face hidden in his hands and Penelope peeping through the door,\nlonging to comfort him. In Mr. Franklin s place, I should have called\nher in. When you are ill-used by one woman, there is great comfort in\ntelling it to another because, nine times out of ten, the other always\ntakes your side. Perhaps, when my back was turned, he did call her in?\nIn that case it is only doing my daughter justice to declare that she\nwould stick at nothing, in the way of comforting Mr. Franklin Blake.\n\nIn the meantime, Sergeant Cuff and I proceeded to my lady s room.\n\nAt the last conference we had held with her, we had found her not over\nwilling to lift her eyes from the book which she had on the table. On\nthis occasion there was a change for the better. She met the Sergeant s\neye with an eye that was as steady as his own. The family spirit showed\nitself in every line of her face; and I knew that Sergeant Cuff would\nmeet his match, when a woman like my mistress was strung up to hear the\nworst he could say to her.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nThe first words, when we had taken our seats, were spoken by my lady.\n\n Sergeant Cuff,  she said,  there was perhaps some excuse for the\ninconsiderate manner in which I spoke to you half an hour since. I have\nno wish, however, to claim that excuse. I say, with perfect sincerity,\nthat I regret it, if I wronged you. \n\nThe grace of voice and manner with which she made him that atonement\nhad its due effect on the Sergeant. He requested permission to justify\nhimself putting his justification as an act of respect to my mistress.\nIt was impossible, he said, that he could be in any way responsible for\nthe calamity, which had shocked us all, for this sufficient reason,\nthat his success in bringing his inquiry to its proper end depended on\nhis neither saying nor doing anything that could alarm Rosanna\nSpearman. He appealed to me to testify whether he had, or had not,\ncarried that object out. I could, and did, bear witness that he had.\nAnd there, as I thought, the matter might have been judiciously left to\ncome to an end.\n\nSergeant Cuff, however, took it a step further, evidently (as you shall\nnow judge) with the purpose of forcing the most painful of all possible\nexplanations to take place between her ladyship and himself.\n\n I have heard a motive assigned for the young woman s suicide,  said\nthe Sergeant,  which may possibly be the right one. It is a motive\nquite unconnected with the case which I am conducting here. I am bound\nto add, however, that my own opinion points the other way. Some\nunbearable anxiety in connexion with the missing Diamond, has, I\nbelieve, driven the poor creature to her own destruction. I don t\npretend to know what that unbearable anxiety may have been. But I think\n(with your ladyship s permission) I can lay my hand on a person who is\ncapable of deciding whether I am right or wrong. \n\n Is the person now in the house?  my mistress asked, after waiting a\nlittle.\n\n The person has left the house, my lady. \n\nThat answer pointed as straight to Miss Rachel as straight could be. A\nsilence dropped on us which I thought would never come to an end. Lord!\nhow the wind howled, and how the rain drove at the window, as I sat\nthere waiting for one or other of them to speak again!\n\n Be so good as to express yourself plainly,  said my lady.  Do you\nrefer to my daughter? \n\n I do,  said Sergeant Cuff, in so many words.\n\nMy mistress had her cheque-book on the table when we entered the\nroom no doubt to pay the Sergeant his fee. She now put it back in the\ndrawer. It went to my heart to see how her poor hand trembled the hand\nthat had loaded her old servant with benefits; the hand that, I pray\nGod, may take mine, when my time comes, and I leave my place for ever!\n\n I had hoped,  said my lady, very slowly and quietly,  to have\nrecompensed your services, and to have parted with you without Miss\nVerinder s name having been openly mentioned between us as it has been\nmentioned now. My nephew has probably said something of this, before\nyou came into my room? \n\n Mr. Blake gave his message, my lady. And I gave Mr. Blake a reason \n\n It is needless to tell me your reason. After what you have just said,\nyou know as well as I do that you have gone too far to go back. I owe\nit to myself, and I owe it to my child, to insist on your remaining\nhere, and to insist on your speaking out. \n\nThe Sergeant looked at his watch.\n\n If there had been time, my lady,  he answered,  I should have\npreferred writing my report, instead of communicating it by word of\nmouth. But, if this inquiry is to go on, time is of too much importance\nto be wasted in writing. I am ready to go into the matter at once. It\nis a very painful matter for me to speak of, and for you to hear. \n\nThere my mistress stopped him once more.\n\n I may possibly make it less painful to you, and to my good servant and\nfriend here,  she said,  if I set the example of speaking boldly, on my\nside. You suspect Miss Verinder of deceiving us all, by secreting the\nDiamond for some purpose of her own? Is that true? \n\n Quite true, my lady. \n\n Very well. Now, before you begin, I have to tell you, as Miss\nVerinder s mother, that she is _absolutely incapable_ of doing what you\nsuppose her to have done. Your knowledge of her character dates from a\nday or two since. My knowledge of her character dates from the\nbeginning of her life. State your suspicion of her as strongly as you\nplease it is impossible that you can offend me by doing so. I am sure,\nbeforehand, that (with all your experience) the circumstances have\nfatally misled you in this case. Mind! I am in possession of no private\ninformation. I am as absolutely shut out of my daughter s confidence as\nyou are. My one reason for speaking positively, is the reason you have\nheard already. I know my child. \n\nShe turned to me, and gave me her hand. I kissed it in silence.  You\nmay go on,  she said, facing the Sergeant again as steadily as ever.\n\nSergeant Cuff bowed. My mistress had produced but one effect on him.\nHis hatchet-face softened for a moment, as if he was sorry for her. As\nto shaking him in his own conviction, it was plain to see that she had\nnot moved him by a single inch. He settled himself in his chair; and he\nbegan his vile attack on Miss Rachel s character in these words:\n\n I must ask your ladyship,  he said,  to look this matter in the face,\nfrom my point of view as well as from yours. Will you please to suppose\nyourself coming down here, in my place, and with my experience? and\nwill you allow me to mention very briefly what that experience has\nbeen? \n\nMy mistress signed to him that she would do this. The Sergeant went on:\n\n For the last twenty years,  he said,  I have been largely employed in\ncases of family scandal, acting in the capacity of confidential man.\nThe one result of my domestic practice which has any bearing on the\nmatter now in hand, is a result which I may state in two words. It is\nwell within my experience, that young ladies of rank and position do\noccasionally have private debts which they dare not acknowledge to\ntheir nearest relatives and friends. Sometimes, the milliner and the\njeweller are at the bottom of it. Sometimes, the money is wanted for\npurposes which I don t suspect in this case, and which I won t shock\nyou by mentioning. Bear in mind what I have said, my lady and now let\nus see how events in this house have forced me back on my own\nexperience, whether I liked it or not! \n\nHe considered with himself for a moment, and went on with a horrid\nclearness that obliged you to understand him; with an abominable\njustice that favoured nobody.\n\n My first information relating to the loss of the Moonstone,  said the\nSergeant,  came to me from Superintendent Seegrave. He proved to my\ncomplete satisfaction that he was perfectly incapable of managing the\ncase. The one thing he said which struck me as worth listening to, was\nthis that Miss Verinder had declined to be questioned by him, and had\nspoken to him with a perfectly incomprehensible rudeness and contempt.\nI thought this curious but I attributed it mainly to some clumsiness on\nthe Superintendent s part which might have offended the young lady.\nAfter that, I put it by in my mind, and applied myself, single-handed,\nto the case. It ended, as you are aware, in the discovery of the smear\non the door, and in Mr. Franklin Blake s evidence satisfying me, that\nthis same smear, and the loss of the Diamond, were pieces of the same\npuzzle. So far, if I suspected anything, I suspected that the Moonstone\nhad been stolen, and that one of the servants might prove to be the\nthief. Very good. In this state of things, what happens? Miss Verinder\nsuddenly comes out of her room, and speaks to me. I observe three\nsuspicious appearances in that young lady. She is still violently\nagitated, though more than four-and-twenty hours have passed since the\nDiamond was lost. She treats me as she has already treated\nSuperintendent Seegrave. And she is mortally offended with Mr. Franklin\nBlake. Very good again. Here (I say to myself) is a young lady who has\nlost a valuable jewel a young lady, also, as my own eyes and ears\ninform me, who is of an impetuous temperament. Under these\ncircumstances, and with that character, what does she do? She betrays\nan incomprehensible resentment against Mr. Blake, Mr. Superintendent,\nand myself otherwise, the very three people who have all, in their\ndifferent ways, been trying to help her to recover her lost jewel.\nHaving brought my inquiry to that point _then_, my lady, and not till\nthen, I begin to look back into my own mind for my own experience. My\nown experience explains Miss Verinder s otherwise incomprehensible\nconduct. It associates her with those other young ladies that I know\nof. It tells me she has debts she daren t acknowledge, that must be\npaid. And it sets me asking myself, whether the loss of the Diamond may\nnot mean that the Diamond must be secretly pledged to pay them. That is\nthe conclusion which my experience draws from plain facts. What does\nyour ladyship s experience say against it? \n\n What I have said already,  answered my mistress.  The circumstances\nhave misled you. \n\nI said nothing on my side. _Robinson Crusoe_ God knows how had got into\nmy muddled old head. If Sergeant Cuff had found himself, at that\nmoment, transported to a desert island, without a man Friday to keep\nhim company, or a ship to take him off he would have found himself\nexactly where I wished him to be! (_Nota bene:_ I am an average good\nChristian, when you don t push my Christianity too far. And all the\nrest of you which is a great comfort are, in this respect, much the\nsame as I am.)\n\nSergeant Cuff went on:\n\n Right or wrong, my lady,  he said,  having drawn my conclusion, the\nnext thing to do was to put it to the test. I suggested to your\nladyship the examination of all the wardrobes in the house. It was a\nmeans of finding the article of dress which had, in all probability,\nmade the smear; and it was a means of putting my conclusion to the\ntest. How did it turn out? Your ladyship consented; Mr. Blake\nconsented; Mr. Ablewhite consented. Miss Verinder alone stopped the\nwhole proceeding by refusing point-blank. That result satisfied me that\nmy view was the right one. If your ladyship and Mr. Betteredge persist\nin not agreeing with me, you must be blind to what happened before you\nthis very day. In your hearing, I told the young lady that her leaving\nthe house (as things were then) would put an obstacle in the way of my\nrecovering her jewel. You saw yourselves that she drove off in the face\nof that statement. You saw yourself that, so far from forgiving Mr.\nBlake for having done more than all the rest of you to put the clue\ninto my hands, she publicly insulted Mr. Blake, on the steps of her\nmother s house. What do these things mean? If Miss Verinder is not\nprivy to the suppression of the Diamond, what do these things mean? \n\nThis time he looked my way. It was downright frightful to hear him\npiling up proof after proof against Miss Rachel, and to know, while one\nwas longing to defend her, that there was no disputing the truth of\nwhat he said. I am (thank God!) constitutionally superior to reason.\nThis enabled me to hold firm to my lady s view, which was my view also.\nThis roused my spirit, and made me put a bold face on it before\nSergeant Cuff. Profit, good friends, I beseech you, by my example. It\nwill save you from many troubles of the vexing sort. Cultivate a\nsuperiority to reason, and see how you pare the claws of all the\nsensible people when they try to scratch you for your own good!\n\nFinding that I made no remark, and that my mistress made no remark,\nSergeant Cuff proceeded. Lord! how it did enrage me to notice that he\nwas not in the least put out by our silence!\n\n There is the case, my lady, as it stands against Miss Verinder alone, \nhe said.  The next thing is to put the case as it stands against Miss\nVerinder and the deceased Rosanna Spearman taken together. We will go\nback for a moment, if you please, to your daughter s refusal to let her\nwardrobe be examined. My mind being made up, after that circumstance, I\nhad two questions to consider next. First, as to the right method of\nconducting my inquiry. Second, as to whether Miss Verinder had an\naccomplice among the female servants in the house. After carefully\nthinking it over, I determined to conduct the inquiry in, what we\nshould call at our office, a highly irregular manner. For this reason:\nI had a family scandal to deal with, which it was my business to keep\nwithin the family limits. The less noise made, and the fewer strangers\nemployed to help me, the better. As to the usual course of taking\npeople in custody on suspicion, going before the magistrate, and all\nthe rest of it nothing of the sort was to be thought of, when your\nladyship s daughter was (as I believed) at the bottom of the whole\nbusiness. In this case, I felt that a person of Mr. Betteredge s\ncharacter and position in the house knowing the servants as he did, and\nhaving the honour of the family at heart would be safer to take as an\nassistant than any other person whom I could lay my hand on. I should\nhave tried Mr. Blake as well but for one obstacle in the way. _He_ saw\nthe drift of my proceedings at a very early date; and, with his\ninterest in Miss Verinder, any mutual understanding was impossible\nbetween him and me. I trouble your ladyship with these particulars to\nshow you that I have kept the family secret within the family circle. I\nam the only outsider who knows it and my professional existence depends\non holding my tongue. \n\nHere I felt that _my_ professional existence depended on not holding\n_my_ tongue. To be held up before my mistress, in my old age, as a sort\nof deputy-policeman, was, once again, more than my Christianity was\nstrong enough to bear.\n\n I beg to inform your ladyship,  I said,  that I never, to my\nknowledge, helped this abominable detective business, in any way, from\nfirst to last; and I summon Sergeant Cuff to contradict me, if he\ndares! \n\nHaving given vent in those words, I felt greatly relieved. Her ladyship\nhonoured me by a little friendly pat on the shoulder. I looked with\nrighteous indignation at the Sergeant, to see what he thought of such a\ntestimony as _that!_ The Sergeant looked back like a lamb, and seemed\nto like me better than ever.\n\nMy lady informed him that he might continue his statement.  I\nunderstand,  she said,  that you have honestly done your best, in what\nyou believe to be my interest. I am ready to hear what you have to say\nnext. \n\n What I have to say next,  answered Sergeant Cuff,  relates to Rosanna\nSpearman. I recognised the young woman, as your ladyship may remember,\nwhen she brought the washing-book into this room. Up to that time I was\ninclined to doubt whether Miss Verinder had trusted her secret to\nanyone. When I saw Rosanna, I altered my mind. I suspected her at once\nof being privy to the suppression of the Diamond. The poor creature has\nmet her death by a dreadful end, and I don t want your ladyship to\nthink, now she s gone, that I was unduly hard on her. If this had been\na common case of thieving, I should have given Rosanna the benefit of\nthe doubt just as freely as I should have given it to any of the other\nservants in the house. Our experience of the Reformatory woman is, that\nwhen tried in service and when kindly and judiciously treated they\nprove themselves in the majority of cases to be honestly penitent, and\nhonestly worthy of the pains taken with them. But this was not a common\ncase of thieving. It was a case in my mind of a deeply planned fraud,\nwith the owner of the Diamond at the bottom of it. Holding this view,\nthe first consideration which naturally presented itself to me, in\nconnection with Rosanna, was this: Would Miss Verinder be satisfied\n(begging your ladyship s pardon) with leading us all to think that the\nMoonstone was merely lost? Or would she go a step further, and delude\nus into believing that the Moonstone was stolen? In the latter event\nthere was Rosanna Spearman with the character of a thief ready to her\nhand; the person of all others to lead your ladyship off, and to lead\nme off, on a false scent. \n\nWas it possible (I asked myself) that he could put his case against\nMiss Rachel and Rosanna in a more horrid point of view than this? It\n_was_ possible, as you shall now see.\n\n I had another reason for suspecting the deceased woman,  he said,\n which appears to me to have been stronger still. Who would be the very\nperson to help Miss Verinder in raising money privately on the Diamond?\nRosanna Spearman. No young lady in Miss Verinder s position could\nmanage such a risky matter as that by herself. A go-between she must\nhave, and who so fit, I ask again, as Rosanna Spearman? Your ladyship s\ndeceased housemaid was at the top of her profession when she was a\nthief. She had relations, to my certain knowledge, with one of the few\nmen in London (in the money-lending line) who would advance a large sum\non such a notable jewel as the Moonstone, without asking awkward\nquestions, or insisting on awkward conditions. Bear this in mind, my\nlady; and now let me show you how my suspicions have been justified by\nRosanna s own acts, and by the plain inferences to be drawn from them. \n\nHe thereupon passed the whole of Rosanna s proceedings under review.\nYou are already as well acquainted with those proceedings as I am; and\nyou will understand how unanswerably this part of his report fixed the\nguilt of being concerned in the disappearance of the Moonstone on the\nmemory of the poor dead girl. Even my mistress was daunted by what he\nsaid now. She made him no answer when he had done. It didn t seem to\nmatter to the Sergeant whether he was answered or not. On he went\n(devil take him!), just as steady as ever.\n\n Having stated the whole case as I understand it,  he said,  I have\nonly to tell your ladyship, now, what I propose to do next. I see two\nways of bringing this inquiry successfully to an end. One of those ways\nI look upon as a certainty. The other, I admit, is a bold experiment,\nand nothing more. Your ladyship shall decide. Shall we take the\ncertainty first? \n\nMy mistress made him a sign to take his own way, and choose for\nhimself.\n\n Thank you,  said the Sergeant.  We ll begin with the certainty, as\nyour ladyship is so good as to leave it to me. Whether Miss Verinder\nremains at Frizinghall, or whether she returns here, I propose, in\neither case, to keep a careful watch on all her proceedings on the\npeople she sees, on the rides and walks she may take, and on the\nletters she may write and receive. \n\n What next?  asked my mistress.\n\n I shall next,  answered the Sergeant,  request your ladyship s leave\nto introduce into the house, as a servant in the place of Rosanna\nSpearman, a woman accustomed to private inquiries of this sort, for\nwhose discretion I can answer. \n\n What next?  repeated my mistress.\n\n Next,  proceeded the Sergeant,  and last, I propose to send one of my\nbrother-officers to make an arrangement with that money-lender in\nLondon, whom I mentioned just now as formerly acquainted with Rosanna\nSpearman and whose name and address, your ladyship may rely on it, have\nbeen communicated by Rosanna to Miss Verinder. I don t deny that the\ncourse of action I am now suggesting will cost money, and consume time.\nBut the result is certain. We run a line round the Moonstone, and we\ndraw that line closer and closer till we find it in Miss Verinder s\npossession, supposing she decides to keep it. If her debts press, and\nshe decides on sending it away, then we have our man ready, and we meet\nthe Moonstone on its arrival in London. \n\nTo hear her own daughter made the subject of such a proposal as this,\nstung my mistress into speaking angrily for the first time.\n\n Consider your proposal declined, in every particular,  she said.  And\ngo on to your other way of bringing the inquiry to an end. \n\n My other way,  said the Sergeant, going on as easy as ever,  is to try\nthat bold experiment to which I have alluded. I think I have formed a\npretty correct estimate of Miss Verinder s temperament. She is quite\ncapable (according to my belief) of committing a daring fraud. But she\nis too hot and impetuous in temper, and too little accustomed to deceit\nas a habit, to act the hypocrite in small things, and to restrain\nherself under all provocations. Her feelings, in this case, have\nrepeatedly got beyond her control, at the very time when it was plainly\nher interest to conceal them. It is on this peculiarity in her\ncharacter that I now propose to act. I want to give her a great shock\nsuddenly, under circumstances that will touch her to the quick. In\nplain English, I want to tell Miss Verinder, without a word of warning,\nof Rosanna s death on the chance that her own better feelings will\nhurry her into making a clean breast of it. Does your ladyship accept\n_that_ alternative? \n\nMy mistress astonished me beyond all power of expression. She answered\nhim on the instant:\n\n Yes; I do. \n\n The pony-chaise is ready,  said the Sergeant.  I wish your ladyship\ngood morning. \n\nMy lady held up her hand, and stopped him at the door.\n\n My daughter s better feelings shall be appealed to, as you propose, \nshe said.  But I claim the right, as her mother, of putting her to the\ntest myself. You will remain here, if you please; and I will go to\nFrizinghall. \n\nFor once in his life, the great Cuff stood speechless with amazement,\nlike an ordinary man.\n\nMy mistress rang the bell, and ordered her waterproof things. It was\nstill pouring with rain; and the close carriage had gone, as you know,\nwith Miss Rachel to Frizinghall. I tried to dissuade her ladyship from\nfacing the severity of the weather. Quite useless! I asked leave to go\nwith her, and hold the umbrella. She wouldn t hear of it. The\npony-chaise came round, with the groom in charge.  You may rely on two\nthings,  she said to Sergeant Cuff, in the hall.  I will try the\nexperiment on Miss Verinder as boldly as you could try it yourself. And\nI will inform you of the result, either personally or by letter, before\nthe last train leaves for London tonight. \n\nWith that, she stepped into the chaise, and, taking the reins herself,\ndrove off to Frizinghall.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nMy mistress having left us, I had leisure to think of Sergeant Cuff. I\nfound him sitting in a snug corner of the hall, consulting his\nmemorandum book, and curling up viciously at the corners of the lips.\n\n Making notes of the case?  I asked.\n\n No,  said the Sergeant.  Looking to see what my next professional\nengagement is. \n\n Oh!  I said.  You think it s all over then, here? \n\n I think,  answered Sergeant Cuff,  that Lady Verinder is one of the\ncleverest women in England. I also think a rose much better worth\nlooking at than a diamond. Where is the gardener, Mr. Betteredge? \n\nThere was no getting a word more out of him on the matter of the\nMoonstone. He had lost all interest in his own inquiry; and he would\npersist in looking for the gardener. An hour afterwards, I heard them\nat high words in the conservatory, with the dog-rose once more at the\nbottom of the dispute.\n\nIn the meantime, it was my business to find out whether Mr. Franklin\npersisted in his resolution to leave us by the afternoon train. After\nhaving been informed of the conference in my lady s room, and of how it\nhad ended, he immediately decided on waiting to hear the news from\nFrizinghall. This very natural alteration in his plans which, with\nordinary people, would have led to nothing in particular proved, in Mr.\nFranklin s case, to have one objectionable result. It left him\nunsettled, with a legacy of idle time on his hands, and, in so doing,\nit let out all the foreign sides of his character, one on the top of\nanother, like rats out of a bag.\n\nNow as an Italian-Englishman, now as a German-Englishman, and now as a\nFrench-Englishman, he drifted in and out of all the sitting-rooms in\nthe house, with nothing to talk of but Miss Rachel s treatment of him;\nand with nobody to address himself to but me. I found him (for example)\nin the library, sitting under the map of Modern Italy, and quite\nunaware of any other method of meeting his troubles, except the method\nof talking about them.  I have several worthy aspirations, Betteredge;\nbut what am I to do with them now? I am full of dormant good qualities,\nif Rachel would only have helped me to bring them out!  He was so\neloquent in drawing the picture of his own neglected merits, and so\npathetic in lamenting over it when it was done, that I felt quite at my\nwits  end how to console him, when it suddenly occurred to me that here\nwas a case for the wholesome application of a bit of _Robinson Crusoe_.\nI hobbled out to my own room, and hobbled back with that immortal book.\nNobody in the library! The map of Modern Italy stared at _me_; and _I_\nstared at the map of Modern Italy.\n\nI tried the drawing-room. There was his handkerchief on the floor, to\nprove that he had drifted in. And there was the empty room to prove\nthat he had drifted out again.\n\nI tried the dining-room, and discovered Samuel with a biscuit and a\nglass of sherry, silently investigating the empty air. A minute since,\nMr. Franklin had rung furiously for a little light refreshment. On its\nproduction, in a violent hurry, by Samuel, Mr. Franklin had vanished\nbefore the bell downstairs had quite done ringing with the pull he had\ngiven to it.\n\nI tried the morning-room, and found him at last. There he was at the\nwindow, drawing hieroglyphics with his finger in the damp on the glass.\n\n Your sherry is waiting for you, sir,  I said to him. I might as well\nhave addressed myself to one of the four walls of the room; he was down\nin the bottomless deep of his own meditations, past all pulling up.\n How do _you_ explain Rachel s conduct, Betteredge?  was the only\nanswer I received. Not being ready with the needful reply, I produced\n_Robinson Crusoe_, in which I am firmly persuaded some explanation\nmight have been found, if we had only searched long enough for it. Mr.\nFranklin shut up _Robinson Crusoe_, and floundered into his\nGerman-English gibberish on the spot.  Why not look into it?  he said,\nas if I had personally objected to looking into it.  Why the devil lose\nyour patience, Betteredge, when patience is all that s wanted to arrive\nat the truth? Don t interrupt me. Rachel s conduct is perfectly\nintelligible, if you will only do her the common justice to take the\nObjective view first, and the Subjective view next, and the\nObjective-Subjective view to wind up with. What do we know? We know\nthat the loss of the Moonstone, on Thursday morning last, threw her\ninto a state of nervous excitement, from which she has not recovered\nyet. Do you mean to deny the Objective view, so far? Very well,\nthen don t interrupt me. Now, being in a state of nervous excitement,\nhow are we to expect that she should behave as she might otherwise have\nbehaved to any of the people about her? Arguing in this way, from\nwithin-outwards, what do we reach? We reach the Subjective view. I defy\nyou to controvert the Subjective view. Very well then what follows?\nGood Heavens! the Objective-Subjective explanation follows, of course!\nRachel, properly speaking, is _not_ Rachel, but Somebody Else. Do I\nmind being cruelly treated by Somebody Else? You are unreasonable\nenough, Betteredge; but you can hardly accuse me of that. Then how does\nit end? It ends, in spite of your confounded English narrowness and\nprejudice, in my being perfectly happy and comfortable. Where s the\nsherry? \n\nMy head was by this time in such a condition, that I was not quite sure\nwhether it was my own head, or Mr. Franklin s. In this deplorable\nstate, I contrived to do, what I take to have been, three Objective\nthings. I got Mr. Franklin his sherry; I retired to my own room; and I\nsolaced myself with the most composing pipe of tobacco I ever remember\nto have smoked in my life.\n\nDon t suppose, however, that I was quit of Mr. Franklin on such easy\nterms as these. Drifting again, out of the morning-room into the hall,\nhe found his way to the offices next, smelt my pipe, and was instantly\nreminded that he had been simple enough to give up smoking for Miss\nRachel s sake. In the twinkling of an eye, he burst in on me with his\ncigar-case, and came out strong on the one everlasting subject, in his\nneat, witty, unbelieving, French way.  Give me a light, Betteredge. Is\nit conceivable that a man can have smoked as long as I have without\ndiscovering that there is a complete system for the treatment of women\nat the bottom of his cigar-case? Follow me carefully, and I will prove\nit in two words. You choose a cigar, you try it, and it disappoints\nyou. What do you do upon that? You throw it away and try another. Now\nobserve the application! You choose a woman, you try her, and she\nbreaks your heart. Fool! take a lesson from your cigar-case. Throw her\naway, and try another! \n\nI shook my head at that. Wonderfully clever, I dare say, but my own\nexperience was dead against it.  In the time of the late Mrs.\nBetteredge,  I said,  I felt pretty often inclined to try your\nphilosophy, Mr. Franklin. But the law insists on your smoking your\ncigar, sir, when you have once chosen it.  I pointed that observation\nwith a wink. Mr. Franklin burst out laughing and we were as merry as\ncrickets, until the next new side of his character turned up in due\ncourse. So things went on with my young master and me; and so (while\nthe Sergeant and the gardener were wrangling over the roses) we two\nspent the interval before the news came back from Frizinghall.\n\nThe pony-chaise returned a good half hour before I had ventured to\nexpect it. My lady had decided to remain for the present, at her\nsister s house. The groom brought two letters from his mistress; one\naddressed to Mr. Franklin, and the other to me.\n\nMr. Franklin s letter I sent to him in the library into which refuge\nhis driftings had now taken him for the second time. My own letter, I\nread in my own room. A cheque, which dropped out when I opened it,\ninformed me (before I had mastered the contents) that Sergeant Cuff s\ndismissal from the inquiry after the Moonstone was now a settled thing.\n\nI sent to the conservatory to say that I wished to speak to the\nSergeant directly. He appeared, with his mind full of the gardener and\nthe dog-rose, declaring that the equal of Mr. Begbie for obstinacy\nnever had existed yet, and never would exist again. I requested him to\ndismiss such wretched trifling as this from our conversation, and to\ngive his best attention to a really serious matter. Upon that he\nexerted himself sufficiently to notice the letter in my hand.  Ah!  he\nsaid in a weary way,  you have heard from her ladyship. Have I anything\nto do with it, Mr. Betteredge? \n\n You shall judge for yourself, Sergeant.  I thereupon read him the\nletter (with my best emphasis and discretion), in the following words:\n\n MY GOOD GABRIEL, I request that you will inform Sergeant Cuff, that I\nhave performed the promise I made to him; with this result, so far as\nRosanna Spearman is concerned. Miss Verinder solemnly declares, that\nshe has never spoken a word in private to Rosanna, since that unhappy\nwoman first entered my house. They never met, even accidentally, on the\nnight when the Diamond was lost; and no communication of any sort\nwhatever took place between them, from the Thursday morning when the\nalarm was first raised in the house, to this present Saturday\nafternoon, when Miss Verinder left us. After telling my daughter\nsuddenly, and in so many words, of Rosanna Spearman s suicide this is\nwhat has come of it. \n\nHaving reached that point, I looked up, and asked Sergeant Cuff what he\nthought of the letter, so far?\n\n I should only offend you if I expressed _my_ opinion,  answered the\nSergeant.  Go on, Mr. Betteredge,  he said, with the most exasperating\nresignation,  go on. \n\nWhen I remembered that this man had had the audacity to complain of our\ngardener s obstinacy, my tongue itched to  go on  in other words than\nmy mistress s. This time, however, my Christianity held firm. I\nproceeded steadily with her ladyship s letter:\n\n Having appealed to Miss Verinder in the manner which the officer\nthought most desirable, I spoke to her next in the manner which I\nmyself thought most likely to impress her. On two different occasions,\nbefore my daughter left my roof, I privately warned her that she was\nexposing herself to suspicion of the most unendurable and most\ndegrading kind. I have now told her, in the plainest terms, that my\napprehensions have been realised.\n\n Her answer to this, on her own solemn affirmation, is as plain as\nwords can be. In the first place, she owes no money privately to any\nliving creature. In the second place, the Diamond is not now, and never\nhas been, in her possession, since she put it into her cabinet on\nWednesday night.\n\n The confidence which my daughter has placed in me goes no further than\nthis. She maintains an obstinate silence, when I ask her if she can\nexplain the disappearance of the Diamond. She refuses, with tears, when\nI appeal to her to speak out for my sake.  The day will come when you\nwill know why I am careless about being suspected, and why I am silent\neven to _you_. I have done much to make my mother pity me nothing to\nmake my mother blush for me.  Those are my daughter s own words.\n\n After what has passed between the officer and me, I think stranger as\nhe is that he should be made acquainted with what Miss Verinder has\nsaid, as well as you. Read my letter to him, and then place in his\nhands the cheque which I enclose. In resigning all further claim on his\nservices, I have only to say that I am convinced of his honesty and his\nintelligence; but I am more firmly persuaded than ever, that the\ncircumstances, in this case, have fatally misled him. \n\nThere the letter ended. Before presenting the cheque, I asked Sergeant\nCuff if he had any remark to make.\n\n It s no part of my duty, Mr. Betteredge,  he answered,  to make\nremarks on a case, when I have done with it. \n\nI tossed the cheque across the table to him.  Do you believe in _that_\npart of her ladyship s letter?  I said, indignantly.\n\nThe Sergeant looked at the cheque, and lifted up his dismal eyebrows in\nacknowledgment of her ladyship s liberality.\n\n This is such a generous estimate of the value of my time,  he said,\n that I feel bound to make some return for it. I ll bear in mind the\namount in this cheque, Mr. Betteredge, when the occasion comes round\nfor remembering it. \n\n What do you mean?  I asked.\n\n Her ladyship has smoothed matters over for the present very cleverly, \nsaid the Sergeant.  But _this_ family scandal is of the sort that\nbursts up again when you least expect it. We shall have more\ndetective-business on our hands, sir, before the Moonstone is many\nmonths older. \n\nIf those words meant anything, and if the manner in which he spoke them\nmeant anything it came to this. My mistress s letter had proved, to his\nmind, that Miss Rachel was hardened enough to resist the strongest\nappeal that could be addressed to her, and that she had deceived her\nown mother (good God, under what circumstances!) by a series of\nabominable lies. How other people, in my place, might have replied to\nthe Sergeant, I don t know. I answered what he said in these plain\nterms:\n\n Sergeant Cuff, I consider your last observation as an insult to my\nlady and her daughter! \n\n Mr. Betteredge, consider it as a warning to yourself, and you will be\nnearer the mark. \n\nHot and angry as I was, the infernal confidence with which he gave me\nthat answer closed my lips.\n\nI walked to the window to compose myself. The rain had given over; and,\nwho should I see in the court-yard, but Mr. Begbie, the gardener,\nwaiting outside to continue the dog-rose controversy with Sergeant\nCuff.\n\n My compliments to the Sairgent,  said Mr. Begbie, the moment he set\neyes on me.  If he s minded to walk to the station, I m agreeable to go\nwith him. \n\n What!  cries the Sergeant, behind me,  are you not convinced yet? \n\n The de il a bit I m convinced!  answered Mr. Begbie.\n\n Then I ll walk to the station!  says the Sergeant.\n\n Then I ll meet you at the gate!  says Mr. Begbie.\n\nI was angry enough, as you know but how was any man s anger to hold out\nagainst such an interruption as this? Sergeant Cuff noticed the change\nin me, and encouraged it by a word in season.  Come! come!  he said,\n why not treat my view of the case as her ladyship treats it? Why not\nsay, the circumstances have fatally misled me? \n\nTo take anything as her ladyship took it was a privilege worth\nenjoying even with the disadvantage of its having been offered to me by\nSergeant Cuff. I cooled slowly down to my customary level. I regarded\nany other opinion of Miss Rachel, than my lady s opinion or mine, with\na lofty contempt. The only thing I could _not_ do, was to keep off the\nsubject of the Moonstone! My own good sense ought to have warned me, I\nknow, to let the matter rest but, there! the virtues which distinguish\nthe present generation were not invented in my time. Sergeant Cuff had\nhit me on the raw, and, though I did look down upon him with contempt,\nthe tender place still tingled for all that. The end of it was that I\nperversely led him back to the subject of her ladyship s letter.  I am\nquite satisfied myself,  I said.  But never mind that! Go on, as if I\nwas still open to conviction. You think Miss Rachel is not to be\nbelieved on her word; and you say we shall hear of the Moonstone again.\nBack your opinion, Sergeant,  I concluded, in an airy way.  Back your\nopinion. \n\nInstead of taking offence, Sergeant Cuff seized my hand, and shook it\ntill my fingers ached again.\n\n I declare to heaven,  says this strange officer solemnly,  I would\ntake to domestic service tomorrow, Mr. Betteredge, if I had a chance of\nbeing employed along with You! To say you are as transparent as a\nchild, sir, is to pay the children a compliment which nine out of ten\nof them don t deserve. There! there! we won t begin to dispute again.\nYou shall have it out of me on easier terms than that. I won t say a\nword more about her ladyship, or about Miss Verinder I ll only turn\nprophet, for once in a way, and for your sake. I have warned you\nalready that you haven t done with the Moonstone yet. Very well. Now\nI ll tell you, at parting, of three things which will happen in the\nfuture, and which, I believe, will force themselves on your attention,\nwhether you like it or not. \n\n Go on!  I said, quite unabashed, and just as airy as ever.\n\n First,  said the Sergeant,  you will hear something from the\nYollands when the postman delivers Rosanna s letter at Cobb s Hole, on\nMonday next. \n\nIf he had thrown a bucket of cold water over me, I doubt if I could\nhave felt it much more unpleasantly than I felt those words. Miss\nRachel s assertion of her innocence had left Rosanna s conduct the\nmaking the new nightgown, the hiding the smeared nightgown, and all the\nrest of it entirely without explanation. And this had never occurred to\nme, till Sergeant Cuff forced it on my mind all in a moment!\n\n In the second place,  proceeded the Sergeant,  you will hear of the\nthree Indians again. You will hear of them in the neighbourhood, if\nMiss Rachel remains in the neighbourhood. You will hear of them in\nLondon, if Miss Rachel goes to London. \n\nHaving lost all interest in the three jugglers, and having thoroughly\nconvinced myself of my young lady s innocence, I took this second\nprophecy easily enough.  So much for two of the three things that are\ngoing to happen,  I said.  Now for the third! \n\n Third, and last,  said Sergeant Cuff,  you will, sooner or later, hear\nsomething of that money-lender in London, whom I have twice taken the\nliberty of mentioning already. Give me your pocket-book, and I ll make\na note for you of his name and address so that there may be no mistake\nabout it if the thing really happens. \n\nHe wrote accordingly on a blank leaf Mr. Septimus Luker,\nMiddlesex-place, Lambeth, London. \n\n There,  he said, pointing to the address,  are the last words, on the\nsubject of the Moonstone, which I shall trouble you with for the\npresent. Time will show whether I am right or wrong. In the meanwhile,\nsir, I carry away with me a sincere personal liking for you, which I\nthink does honour to both of us. If we don t meet again before my\nprofessional retirement takes place, I hope you will come and see me in\na little house near London, which I have got my eye on. There will be\ngrass walks, Mr. Betteredge, I promise you, in _my_ garden. And as for\nthe white moss rose \n\n The de il a bit ye ll get the white moss rose to grow, unless you bud\nhim on the dogue-rose first,  cried a voice at the window.\n\nWe both turned round. There was the everlasting Mr. Begbie, too eager\nfor the controversy to wait any longer at the gate. The Sergeant wrung\nmy hand, and darted out into the court-yard, hotter still on his side.\n Ask him about the moss rose, when he comes back, and see if I have\nleft him a leg to stand on!  cried the great Cuff, hailing me through\nthe window in his turn.  Gentlemen, both!  I answered, moderating them\nagain as I had moderated them once already.  In the matter of the moss\nrose there is a great deal to be said on both sides!  I might as well\n(as the Irish say) have whistled jigs to a milestone. Away they went\ntogether, fighting the battle of the roses without asking or giving\nquarter on either side. The last I saw of them, Mr. Begbie was shaking\nhis obstinate head, and Sergeant Cuff had got him by the arm like a\nprisoner in charge. Ah, well! well! I own I couldn t help liking the\nSergeant though I hated him all the time.\n\nExplain that state of mind, if you can. You will soon be rid, now, of\nme and my contradictions. When I have reported Mr. Franklin s\ndeparture, the history of the Saturday s events will be finished at\nlast. And when I have next described certain strange things that\nhappened in the course of the new week, I shall have done my part of\nthe Story, and shall hand over the pen to the person who is appointed\nto follow my lead. If you are as tired of reading this narrative as I\nam of writing it Lord, how we shall enjoy ourselves on both sides a few\npages further on!\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nI had kept the pony-chaise ready, in case Mr. Franklin persisted in\nleaving us by the train that night. The appearance of the luggage,\nfollowed downstairs by Mr. Franklin himself, informed me plainly enough\nthat he had held firm to a resolution for once in his life.\n\n So you have really made up your mind, sir?  I said, as we met in the\nhall.  Why not wait a day or two longer, and give Miss Rachel another\nchance? \n\nThe foreign varnish appeared to have all worn off Mr. Franklin, now\nthat the time had come for saying good-bye. Instead of replying to me\nin words, he put the letter which her ladyship had addressed to him\ninto my hand. The greater part of it said over again what had been said\nalready in the other communication received by me. But there was a bit\nabout Miss Rachel added at the end, which will account for the\nsteadiness of Mr. Franklin s determination, if it accounts for nothing\nelse.\n\n You will wonder, I dare say  (her ladyship wrote),  at my allowing my\nown daughter to keep me perfectly in the dark. A Diamond worth twenty\nthousand pounds has been lost and I am left to infer that the mystery\nof its disappearance is no mystery to Rachel, and that some\nincomprehensible obligation of silence has been laid on her, by some\nperson or persons utterly unknown to me, with some object in view at\nwhich I cannot even guess. Is it conceivable that I should allow myself\nto be trifled with in this way? It is quite conceivable, in Rachel s\npresent state. She is in a condition of nervous agitation pitiable to\nsee. I dare not approach the subject of the Moonstone again until time\nhas done something to quiet her. To help this end, I have not hesitated\nto dismiss the police-officer. The mystery which baffles us, baffles\nhim too. This is not a matter in which any stranger can help us. He\nadds to what I have to suffer; and he maddens Rachel if she only hears\nhis name.\n\n My plans for the future are as well settled as they can be. My present\nidea is to take Rachel to London partly to relieve her mind by a\ncomplete change, partly to try what may be done by consulting the best\nmedical advice. Can I ask you to meet us in town? My dear Franklin,\nyou, in your way, must imitate my patience, and wait, as I do, for a\nfitter time. The valuable assistance which you rendered to the inquiry\nafter the lost jewel is still an unpardoned offence, in the present\ndreadful state of Rachel s mind. Moving blindfold in this matter, you\nhave added to the burden of anxiety which she has had to bear, by\ninnocently threatening her secret with discovery, through your\nexertions. It is impossible for me to excuse the perversity that holds\nyou responsible for consequences which neither you nor I could imagine\nor foresee. She is not to be reasoned with she can only be pitied. I am\ngrieved to have to say it, but for the present, you and Rachel are\nbetter apart. The only advice I can offer you is, to give her time. \n\nI handed the letter back, sincerely sorry for Mr. Franklin, for I knew\nhow fond he was of my young lady; and I saw that her mother s account\nof her had cut him to the heart.  You know the proverb, sir,  was all I\nsaid to him.  When things are at the worst, they re sure to mend.\nThings can t be much worse, Mr. Franklin, than they are now. \n\nMr. Franklin folded up his aunt s letter, without appearing to be much\ncomforted by the remark which I had ventured on addressing to him.\n\n When I came here from London with that horrible Diamond,  he said,  I\ndon t believe there was a happier household in England than this. Look\nat the household now! Scattered, disunited the very air of the place\npoisoned with mystery and suspicion! Do you remember that morning at\nthe Shivering Sand, when we talked about my uncle Herncastle, and his\nbirthday gift? The Moonstone has served the Colonel s vengeance,\nBetteredge, by means which the Colonel himself never dreamt of! \n\nWith that he shook me by the hand, and went out to the pony-chaise.\n\nI followed him down the steps. It was very miserable to see him leaving\nthe old place, where he had spent the happiest years of his life, in\nthis way. Penelope (sadly upset by all that had happened in the house)\ncame round crying, to bid him good-bye. Mr. Franklin kissed her. I\nwaved my hand as much as to say,  You re heartily welcome, sir.  Some\nof the other female servants appeared, peeping after him round the\ncorner. He was one of those men whom the women all like. At the last\nmoment, I stopped the pony-chaise, and begged as a favour that he would\nlet us hear from him by letter. He didn t seem to heed what I said he\nwas looking round from one thing to another, taking a sort of farewell\nof the old house and grounds.  Tell us where you are going to, sir!  I\nsaid, holding on by the chaise, and trying to get at his future plans\nin that way. Mr. Franklin pulled his hat down suddenly over his eyes.\n Going?  says he, echoing the word after me.  I am going to the devil! \nThe pony started at the word, as if he had felt a Christian horror of\nit.  God bless you, sir, go where you may!  was all I had time to say,\nbefore he was out of sight and hearing. A sweet and pleasant gentleman!\nWith all his faults and follies, a sweet and pleasant gentleman! He\nleft a sad gap behind him, when he left my lady s house.\n\nIt was dull and dreary enough, when the long summer evening closed in,\non that Saturday night.\n\nI kept my spirits from sinking by sticking fast to my pipe and my\n_Robinson Crusoe_. The women (excepting Penelope) beguiled the time by\ntalking of Rosanna s suicide. They were all obstinately of opinion that\nthe poor girl had stolen the Moonstone, and that she had destroyed\nherself in terror of being found out. My daughter, of course, privately\nheld fast to what she had said all along. Her notion of the motive\nwhich was really at the bottom of the suicide failed, oddly enough,\njust where my young lady s assertion of her innocence failed also. It\nleft Rosanna s secret journey to Frizinghall, and Rosanna s proceedings\nin the matter of the nightgown entirely unaccounted for. There was no\nuse in pointing this out to Penelope; the objection made about as much\nimpression on her as a shower of rain on a waterproof coat. The truth\nis, my daughter inherits my superiority to reason and, in respect to\nthat accomplishment, has got a long way ahead of her own father.\n\nOn the next day (Sunday), the close carriage, which had been kept at\nMr. Ablewhite s, came back to us empty. The coachman brought a message\nfor me, and written instructions for my lady s own maid and for\nPenelope.\n\nThe message informed me that my mistress had determined to take Miss\nRachel to her house in London, on the Monday. The written instructions\ninformed the two maids of the clothing that was wanted, and directed\nthem to meet their mistresses in town at a given hour. Most of the\nother servants were to follow. My lady had found Miss Rachel so\nunwilling to return to the house, after what had happened in it, that\nshe had decided on going to London direct from Frizinghall. I was to\nremain in the country, until further orders, to look after things\nindoors and out. The servants left with me were to be put on board\nwages.\n\nBeing reminded, by all this, of what Mr. Franklin had said about our\nbeing a scattered and disunited household, my mind was led naturally to\nMr. Franklin himself. The more I thought of him, the more uneasy I felt\nabout his future proceedings. It ended in my writing, by the Sunday s\npost, to his father s valet, Mr. Jeffco (whom I had known in former\nyears) to beg he would let me know what Mr. Franklin had settled to do,\non arriving in London.\n\nThe Sunday evening was, if possible, duller even than the Saturday\nevening. We ended the day of rest, as hundreds of thousands of people\nend it regularly, once a week, in these islands that is to say, we all\nanticipated bedtime, and fell asleep in our chairs.\n\nHow the Monday affected the rest of the household I don t know. The\nMonday gave _me_ a good shake up. The first of Sergeant Cuff s\nprophecies of what was to happen namely, that I should hear from the\nYollands came true on that day.\n\nI had seen Penelope and my lady s maid off in the railway with the\nluggage for London, and was pottering about the grounds, when I heard\nmy name called. Turning round, I found myself face to face with the\nfisherman s daughter, Limping Lucy. Bating her lame foot and her\nleanness (this last a horrid draw-back to a woman, in my opinion), the\ngirl had some pleasing qualities in the eye of a man. A dark, keen,\nclever face, and a nice clear voice, and a beautiful brown head of hair\ncounted among her merits. A crutch appeared in the list of her\nmisfortunes. And a temper reckoned high in the sum total of her\ndefects.\n\n Well, my dear,  I said,  what do you want with me? \n\n Where s the man you call Franklin Blake?  says the girl, fixing me\nwith a fierce look, as she rested herself on her crutch.\n\n That s not a respectful way to speak of any gentleman,  I answered.\n If you wish to inquire for my lady s nephew, you will please to\nmention him as Mr. Franklin Blake. \n\nShe limped a step nearer to me, and looked as if she could have eaten\nme alive.  _Mr._ Franklin Blake?  she repeated after me.  Murderer\nFranklin Blake would be a fitter name for him. \n\nMy practice with the late Mrs. Betteredge came in handy here. Whenever\na woman tries to put _you_ out of temper, turn the tables, and put\n_her_ out of temper instead. They are generally prepared for every\neffort you can make in your own defence, but that. One word does it as\nwell as a hundred; and one word did it with Limping Lucy. I looked her\npleasantly in the face; and I said Pooh! \n\nThe girl s temper flamed out directly. She poised herself on her sound\nfoot, and she took her crutch, and beat it furiously three times on the\nground.  He s a murderer! he s a murderer! he s a murderer! He has been\nthe death of Rosanna Spearman!  She screamed that answer out at the top\nof her voice. One or two of the people at work in the grounds near us\nlooked up saw it was Limping Lucy knew what to expect from that\nquarter and looked away again.\n\n He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman?  I repeated.  What makes\nyou say that, Lucy? \n\n What do you care? What does any man care? Oh! if she had only thought\nof the men as I think, she might have been living now! \n\n She always thought kindly of _me_, poor soul,  I said;  and, to the\nbest of my ability, I always tried to act kindly by _her_. \n\nI spoke those words in as comforting a manner as I could. The truth is,\nI hadn t the heart to irritate the girl by another of my smart replies.\nI had only noticed her temper at first. I noticed her wretchedness\nnow and wretchedness is not uncommonly insolent, you will find, in\nhumble life. My answer melted Limping Lucy. She bent her head down, and\nlaid it on the top of her crutch.\n\n I loved her,  the girl said softly.  She had lived a miserable life,\nMr. Betteredge vile people had ill-treated her and led her wrong and it\nhadn t spoiled her sweet temper. She was an angel. She might have been\nhappy with me. I had a plan for our going to London together like\nsisters, and living by our needles. That man came here, and spoilt it\nall. He bewitched her. Don t tell me he didn t mean it, and didn t know\nit. He ought to have known it. He ought to have taken pity on her.  I\ncan t live without him and, oh, Lucy, he never even looks at me. \nThat s what she said. Cruel, cruel, cruel. I said,  No man is worth\nfretting for in that way.  And she said,  There are men worth dying\nfor, Lucy, and he is one of them.  I had saved up a little money. I had\nsettled things with father and mother. I meant to take her away from\nthe mortification she was suffering here. We should have had a little\nlodging in London, and lived together like sisters. She had a good\neducation, sir, as you know, and she wrote a good hand. She was quick\nat her needle. I have a good education, and I write a good hand. I am\nnot as quick at my needle as she was but I could have done. We might\nhave got our living nicely. And, oh! what happens this morning? what\nhappens this morning? Her letter comes and tells me that she has done\nwith the burden of her life. Her letter comes, and bids me good-bye for\never. Where is he?  cries the girl, lifting her head from the crutch,\nand flaming out again through her tears.  Where s this gentleman that I\nmustn t speak of, except with respect? Ha, Mr. Betteredge, the day is\nnot far off when the poor will rise against the rich. I pray Heaven\nthey may begin with _him_. I pray Heaven they may begin with _him_. \n\nHere was another of your average good Christians, and here was the\nusual break-down, consequent on that same average Christianity being\npushed too far! The parson himself (though I own this is saying a great\ndeal) could hardly have lectured the girl in the state she was in now.\nAll I ventured to do was to keep her to the point in the hope of\nsomething turning up which might be worth hearing.\n\n What do you want with Mr. Franklin Blake?  I asked.\n\n I want to see him. \n\n For anything particular? \n\n I have got a letter to give him. \n\n From Rosanna Spearman? \n\n Yes. \n\n Sent to you in your own letter? \n\n Yes. \n\nWas the darkness going to lift? Were all the discoveries that I was\ndying to make, coming and offering themselves to me of their own\naccord? I was obliged to wait a moment. Sergeant Cuff had left his\ninfection behind him. Certain signs and tokens, personal to myself,\nwarned me that the detective-fever was beginning to set in again.\n\n You can t see Mr. Franklin,  I said.\n\n I must, and will, see him. \n\n He went to London last night. \n\nLimping Lucy looked me hard in the face, and saw that I was speaking\nthe truth. Without a word more, she turned about again instantly\ntowards Cobb s Hole.\n\n Stop!  I said.  I expect news of Mr. Franklin Blake tomorrow. Give me\nyour letter, and I ll send it on to him by the post. \n\nLimping Lucy steadied herself on her crutch and looked back at me over\nher shoulder.\n\n I am to give it from my hands into his hands,  she said.  And I am to\ngive it to him in no other way. \n\n Shall I write, and tell him what you have said? \n\n Tell him I hate him. And you will tell him the truth. \n\n Yes, yes. But about the letter ? \n\n If he wants the letter, he must come back here, and get it from Me. \n\nWith those words she limped off on the way to Cobb s Hole. The\ndetective-fever burnt up all my dignity on the spot. I followed her,\nand tried to make her talk. All in vain. It was my misfortune to be a\nman and Limping Lucy enjoyed disappointing me. Later in the day, I\ntried my luck with her mother. Good Mrs. Yolland could only cry, and\nrecommend a drop of comfort out of the Dutch bottle. I found the\nfisherman on the beach. He said it was  a bad job,  and went on mending\nhis net. Neither father nor mother knew more than I knew. The one way\nleft to try was the chance, which might come with the morning, of\nwriting to Mr. Franklin Blake.\n\nI leave you to imagine how I watched for the postman on Tuesday\nmorning. He brought me two letters. One, from Penelope (which I had\nhardly patience enough to read), announced that my lady and Miss Rachel\nwere safely established in London. The other, from Mr. Jeffco, informed\nme that his master s son had left England already.\n\nOn reaching the metropolis, Mr. Franklin had, it appeared, gone\nstraight to his father s residence. He arrived at an awkward time. Mr.\nBlake, the elder, was up to his eyes in the business of the House of\nCommons, and was amusing himself at home that night with the favourite\nparliamentary plaything which they call  a private bill.  Mr. Jeffco\nhimself showed Mr. Franklin into his father s study.  My dear Franklin!\nwhy do you surprise me in this way? Anything wrong?   Yes; something\nwrong with Rachel; I am dreadfully distressed about it.   Grieved to\nhear it. But I can t listen to you now.   When _can_ you listen?   My\ndear boy! I won t deceive you. I can listen at the end of the session,\nnot a moment before. Good-night.   Thank you, sir. Good-night. \n\nSuch was the conversation, inside the study, as reported to me by Mr.\nJeffco. The conversation outside the study, was shorter still.  Jeffco,\nsee what time the tidal train starts tomorrow morning.   At six-forty,\nMr. Franklin.   Have me called at five.   Going abroad, sir?   Going,\nJeffco, wherever the railway chooses to take me.   Shall I tell your\nfather, sir?   Yes; tell him at the end of the session. \n\nThe next morning Mr. Franklin had started for foreign parts. To what\nparticular place he was bound, nobody (himself included) could presume\nto guess. We might hear of him next in Europe, Asia, Africa, or\nAmerica. The chances were as equally divided as possible, in Mr.\nJeffco s opinion, among the four quarters of the globe.\n\nThis news by closing up all prospects of my bringing Limping Lucy and\nMr. Franklin together at once stopped any further progress of mine on\nthe way to discovery. Penelope s belief that her fellow-servant had\ndestroyed herself through unrequited love for Mr. Franklin Blake, was\nconfirmed and that was all. Whether the letter which Rosanna had left\nto be given to him after her death did, or did not, contain the\nconfession which Mr. Franklin had suspected her of trying to make to\nhim in her life-time, it was impossible to say. It might be only a\nfarewell word, telling nothing but the secret of her unhappy fancy for\na person beyond her reach. Or it might own the whole truth about the\nstrange proceedings in which Sergeant Cuff had detected her, from the\ntime when the Moonstone was lost, to the time when she rushed to her\nown destruction at the Shivering Sand. A sealed letter it had been\nplaced in Limping Lucy s hand, and a sealed letter it remained to me\nand to everyone about the girl, her own parents included. We all\nsuspected her of having been in the dead woman s confidence; we all\ntried to make her speak; we all failed. Now one, and now another, of\nthe servants still holding to the belief that Rosanna had stolen the\nDiamond and had hidden it peered and poked about the rocks to which she\nhad been traced, and peered and poked in vain. The tide ebbed, and the\ntide flowed; the summer went on, and the autumn came. And the\nQuicksand, which hid her body, hid her secret too.\n\nThe news of Mr. Franklin s departure from England on the Sunday\nmorning, and the news of my lady s arrival in London with Miss Rachel\non the Monday afternoon, had reached me, as you are aware, by the\nTuesday s post. The Wednesday came, and brought nothing. The Thursday\nproduced a second budget of news from Penelope.\n\nMy girl s letter informed me that some great London doctor had been\nconsulted about her young lady, and had earned a guinea by remarking\nthat she had better be amused. Flower-shows, operas, balls there was a\nwhole round of gaieties in prospect; and Miss Rachel, to her mother s\nastonishment, eagerly took to it all. Mr. Godfrey had called; evidently\nas sweet as ever on his cousin, in spite of the reception he had met\nwith, when he tried his luck on the occasion of the birthday. To\nPenelope s great regret, he had been most graciously received, and had\nadded Miss Rachel s name to one of his Ladies  Charities on the spot.\nMy mistress was reported to be out of spirits, and to have held two\nlong interviews with her lawyer. Certain speculations followed,\nreferring to a poor relation of the family one Miss Clack, whom I have\nmentioned in my account of the birthday dinner, as sitting next to Mr.\nGodfrey, and having a pretty taste in champagne. Penelope was\nastonished to find that Miss Clack had not called yet. She would surely\nnot be long before she fastened herself on my lady as usual and so\nforth, and so forth, in the way women have of girding at each other, on\nand off paper. This would not have been worth mentioning, I admit, but\nfor one reason. I hear you are likely to be turned over to Miss Clack,\nafter parting with me. In that case, just do me the favour of not\nbelieving a word she says, if she speaks of your humble servant.\n\nOn Friday, nothing happened except that one of the dogs showed signs of\na breaking out behind the ears. I gave him a dose of syrup of\nbuckthorn, and put him on a diet of pot-liquor and vegetables till\nfurther orders. Excuse my mentioning this. It has slipped in somehow.\nPass it over please. I am fast coming to the end of my offences against\nyour cultivated modern taste. Besides, the dog was a good creature, and\ndeserved a good physicking; he did indeed.\n\nSaturday, the last day of the week, is also the last day in my\nnarrative.\n\nThe morning s post brought me a surprise in the shape of a London\nnewspaper. The handwriting on the direction puzzled me. I compared it\nwith the money-lender s name and address as recorded in my pocket-book,\nand identified it at once as the writing of Sergeant Cuff.\n\nLooking through the paper eagerly enough, after this discovery, I found\nan ink-mark drawn round one of the police reports. Here it is, at your\nservice. Read it as I read it, and you will set the right value on the\nSergeant s polite attention in sending me the news of the day:\n\n LAMBETH Shortly before the closing of the court, Mr. Septimus Luker,\nthe well-known dealer in ancient gems, carvings, intagli, &c., &c.,\napplied to the sitting magistrate for advice. The applicant stated that\nhe had been annoyed, at intervals throughout the day, by the\nproceedings of some of those strolling Indians who infest the streets.\nThe persons complained of were three in number. After having been sent\naway by the police, they had returned again and again, and had\nattempted to enter the house on pretence of asking for charity. Warned\noff in the front, they had been discovered again at the back of the\npremises. Besides the annoyance complained of, Mr. Luker expressed\nhimself as being under some apprehension that robbery might be\ncontemplated. His collection contained many unique gems, both classical\nand Oriental, of the highest value. He had only the day before been\ncompelled to dismiss a skilled workman in ivory carving from his\nemployment (a native of India, as we understood), on suspicion of\nattempted theft; and he felt by no means sure that this man and the\nstreet jugglers of whom he complained, might not be acting in concert.\nIt might be their object to collect a crowd, and create a disturbance\nin the street, and, in the confusion thus caused, to obtain access to\nthe house. In reply to the magistrate, Mr. Luker admitted that he had\nno evidence to produce of any attempt at robbery being in\ncontemplation. He could speak positively to the annoyance and\ninterruption caused by the Indians, but not to anything else. The\nmagistrate remarked that, if the annoyance were repeated, the applicant\ncould summon the Indians to that court, where they might easily be\ndealt with under the Act. As to the valuables in Mr. Luker s\npossession, Mr. Luker himself must take the best measures for their\nsafe custody. He would do well perhaps to communicate with the police,\nand to adopt such additional precautions as their experience might\nsuggest. The applicant thanked his worship, and withdrew. \n\nOne of the wise ancients is reported (I forget on what occasion) as\nhaving recommended his fellow-creatures to  look to the end.  Looking\nto the end of these pages of mine, and wondering for some days past how\nI should manage to write it, I find my plain statement of facts coming\nto a conclusion, most appropriately, of its own self. We have gone on,\nin this matter of the Moonstone, from one marvel to another; and here\nwe end with the greatest marvel of all namely, the accomplishment of\nSergeant Cuff s three predictions in less than a week from the time\nwhen he had made them.\n\nAfter hearing from the Yollands on the Monday, I had now heard of the\nIndians, and heard of the money-lender, in the news from London Miss\nRachel herself remember, being also in London at the time. You see, I\nput things at their worst, even when they tell dead against my own\nview. If you desert me, and side with the Sergeant, on the evidence\nbefore you if the only rational explanation you can see is, that Miss\nRachel and Mr. Luker must have got together, and that the Moonstone\nmust be now in pledge in the money-lender s house I own, I can t blame\nyou for arriving at that conclusion. In the dark, I have brought you\nthus far. In the dark I am compelled to leave you, with my best\nrespects.\n\nWhy compelled? it may be asked. Why not take the persons who have gone\nalong with me, so far, up into those regions of superior enlightenment\nin which I sit myself?\n\nIn answer to this, I can only state that I am acting under orders, and\nthat those orders have been given to me (as I understand) in the\ninterests of truth. I am forbidden to tell more in this narrative than\nI knew myself at the time. Or, to put it plainer, I am to keep strictly\nwithin the limits of my own experience, and am not to inform you of\nwhat other persons told me for the very sufficient reason that you are\nto have the information from those other persons themselves, at first\nhand. In this matter of the Moonstone the plan is, not to present\nreports, but to produce witnesses. I picture to myself a member of the\nfamily reading these pages fifty years hence. Lord! what a compliment\nhe will feel it, to be asked to take nothing on hear-say, and to be\ntreated in all respects like a Judge on the bench.\n\nAt this place, then, we part for the present, at least after long\njourneying together, with a companionable feeling, I hope, on both\nsides. The devil s dance of the Indian Diamond has threaded its way to\nLondon; and to London you must go after it, leaving me at the country\nhouse. Please to excuse the faults of this composition my talking so\nmuch of myself, and being too familiar, I am afraid, with you. I mean\nno harm; and I drink most respectfully (having just done dinner) to\nyour health and prosperity, in a tankard of her ladyship s ale. May you\nfind in these leaves of my writing, what _Robinson Crusoe_ found in his\nexperience on the desert island namely,  something to comfort\nyourselves from, and to set in the Description of Good and Evil, on the\nCredit Side of the Account. Farewell.\n\nTHE END OF THE FIRST PERIOD.\n\nSECOND PERIOD.\n\n\n THE DISCOVERY OF THE TRUTH. (1848-1849.)\n\n_The Events related in several Narratives._\n\nFIRST NARRATIVE.\n\n_Contributed by Miss Clack; niece of the late Sir John Verinder_\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nI am indebted to my dear parents (both now in heaven) for having had\nhabits of order and regularity instilled into me at a very early age.\n\nIn that happy bygone time, I was taught to keep my hair tidy at all\nhours of the day and night, and to fold up every article of my clothing\ncarefully, in the same order, on the same chair, in the same place at\nthe foot of the bed, before retiring to rest. An entry of the day s\nevents in my little diary invariably preceded the folding up. The\n Evening Hymn  (repeated in bed) invariably followed the folding up.\nAnd the sweet sleep of childhood invariably followed the  Evening\nHymn. \n\nIn later life (alas!) the Hymn has been succeeded by sad and bitter\nmeditations; and the sweet sleep has been but ill exchanged for the\nbroken slumbers which haunt the uneasy pillow of care. On the other\nhand, I have continued to fold my clothes, and to keep my little diary.\nThe former habit links me to my happy childhood before papa was ruined.\nThe latter habit hitherto mainly useful in helping me to discipline the\nfallen nature which we all inherit from Adam has unexpectedly proved\nimportant to my humble interests in quite another way. It has enabled\npoor Me to serve the caprice of a wealthy member of the family into\nwhich my late uncle married. I am fortunate enough to be useful to Mr.\nFranklin Blake.\n\nI have been cut off from all news of my relatives by marriage for some\ntime past. When we are isolated and poor, we are not infrequently\nforgotten. I am now living, for economy s sake, in a little town in\nBrittany, inhabited by a select circle of serious English friends, and\npossessed of the inestimable advantages of a Protestant clergyman and a\ncheap market.\n\nIn this retirement a Patmos amid the howling ocean of popery that\nsurrounds us a letter from England has reached me at last. I find my\ninsignificant existence suddenly remembered by Mr. Franklin Blake. My\nwealthy relative would that I could add my spiritually-wealthy\nrelative! writes, without even an attempt at disguising that he wants\nsomething of me. The whim has seized him to stir up the deplorable\nscandal of the Moonstone: and I am to help him by writing the account\nof what I myself witnessed while visiting at Aunt Verinder s house in\nLondon. Pecuniary remuneration is offered to me with the want of\nfeeling peculiar to the rich. I am to re-open wounds that Time has\nbarely closed; I am to recall the most intensely painful\nremembrances and this done, I am to feel myself compensated by a new\nlaceration, in the shape of Mr. Blake s cheque. My nature is weak. It\ncost me a hard struggle, before Christian humility conquered sinful\npride, and self-denial accepted the cheque.\n\nWithout my diary, I doubt pray let me express it in the grossest\nterms! if I could have honestly earned my money. With my diary, the\npoor labourer (who forgives Mr. Blake for insulting her) is worthy of\nher hire. Nothing escaped me at the time I was visiting dear Aunt\nVerinder. Everything was entered (thanks to my early training) day by\nday as it happened; and everything down to the smallest particular,\nshall be told here. My sacred regard for truth is (thank God) far above\nmy respect for persons. It will be easy for Mr. Blake to suppress what\nmay not prove to be sufficiently flattering in these pages to the\nperson chiefly concerned in them. He has purchased my time, but not\neven _his_ wealth can purchase my conscience too.*\n\n[*Note. _Added by Franklin Blake._ Miss Clack may make her mind quite\neasy on this point. Nothing will be added, altered or removed, in her\nmanuscript, or in any of the other manuscripts which pass through my\nhands. Whatever opinions any of the writers may express, whatever\npeculiarities of treatment may mark, and perhaps in a literary sense,\ndisfigure the narratives which I am now collecting, not a line will be\ntampered with anywhere, from first to last. As genuine documents they\nare sent to me and as genuine documents I shall preserve them, endorsed\nby the attestations of witnesses who can speak to the facts. It only\nremains to be added that  the person chiefly concerned  in Miss Clack s\nnarrative, is happy enough at the present moment, not only to brave the\nsmartest exercise of Miss Clack s pen, but even to recognise its\nunquestionable value as an instrument for the exhibition of Miss\nClack s character.]\n\n\nMy diary informs me, that I was accidentally passing Aunt Verinder s\nhouse in Montagu Square, on Monday, 3rd July, 1848.\n\nSeeing the shutters opened, and the blinds drawn up, I felt that it\nwould be an act of polite attention to knock, and make inquiries. The\nperson who answered the door, informed me that my aunt and her daughter\n(I really cannot call her my cousin!) had arrived from the country a\nweek since, and meditated making some stay in London. I sent up a\nmessage at once, declining to disturb them, and only begging to know\nwhether I could be of any use.\n\nThe person who answered the door, took my message in insolent silence,\nand left me standing in the hall. She is the daughter of a heathen old\nman named Betteredge long, too long, tolerated in my aunt s family. I\nsat down in the hall to wait for my answer and, having always a few\ntracts in my bag, I selected one which proved to be quite\nprovidentially applicable to the person who answered the door. The hall\nwas dirty, and the chair was hard; but the blessed consciousness of\nreturning good for evil raised me quite above any trifling\nconsiderations of that kind. The tract was one of a series addressed to\nyoung women on the sinfulness of dress. In style it was devoutly\nfamiliar. Its title was,  A Word With You On Your Cap-Ribbons. \n\n My lady is much obliged, and begs you will come and lunch tomorrow at\ntwo. \n\nI passed over the manner in which she gave her message, and the\ndreadful boldness of her look. I thanked this young castaway; and I\nsaid, in a tone of Christian interest,  Will you favour me by accepting\na tract? \n\nShe looked at the title.  Is it written by a man or a woman, Miss? If\nit s written by a woman, I had rather not read it on that account. If\nit s written by a man, I beg to inform him that he knows nothing about\nit.  She handed me back the tract, and opened the door. We must sow the\ngood seed somehow. I waited till the door was shut on me, and slipped\nthe tract into the letter-box. When I had dropped another tract through\nthe area railings, I felt relieved, in some small degree, of a heavy\nresponsibility towards others.\n\nWe had a meeting that evening of the Select Committee of the\nMothers -Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society. The object of this excellent\nCharity is as all serious people know to rescue unredeemed fathers \ntrousers from the pawnbroker, and to prevent their resumption, on the\npart of the irreclaimable parent, by abridging them immediately to suit\nthe proportions of the innocent son. I was a member, at that time, of\nthe select committee; and I mention the Society here, because my\nprecious and admirable friend, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, was associated\nwith our work of moral and material usefulness. I had expected to see\nhim in the boardroom, on the Monday evening of which I am now writing,\nand had proposed to tell him, when we met, of dear Aunt Verinder s\narrival in London. To my great disappointment he never appeared. On my\nexpressing a feeling of surprise at his absence, my sisters of the\nCommittee all looked up together from their trousers (we had a great\npressure of business that night), and asked in amazement, if I had not\nheard the news. I acknowledged my ignorance, and was then told, for the\nfirst time, of an event which forms, so to speak, the starting-point of\nthis narrative. On the previous Friday, two gentlemen occupying\nwidely-different positions in society had been the victims of an\noutrage which had startled all London. One of the gentlemen was Mr.\nSeptimus Luker, of Lambeth. The other was Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.\n\nLiving in my present isolation, I have no means of introducing the\nnewspaper-account of the outrage into my narrative. I was also\ndeprived, at the time, of the inestimable advantage of hearing the\nevents related by the fervid eloquence of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. All I\ncan do is to state the facts as they were stated, on that Monday\nevening, to me; proceeding on the plan which I have been taught from\ninfancy to adopt in folding up my clothes. Everything shall be put\nneatly, and everything shall be put in its place. These lines are\nwritten by a poor weak woman. From a poor weak woman who will be cruel\nenough to expect more?\n\nThe date thanks to my dear parents, no dictionary that ever was written\ncan be more particular than I am about dates was Friday, June 30th,\n1848.\n\nEarly on that memorable day, our gifted Mr. Godfrey happened to be\ncashing a cheque at a banking-house in Lombard Street. The name of the\nfirm is accidentally blotted in my diary, and my sacred regard for\ntruth forbids me to hazard a guess in a matter of this kind.\nFortunately, the name of the firm doesn t matter. What does matter is a\ncircumstance that occurred when Mr. Godfrey had transacted his\nbusiness. On gaining the door, he encountered a gentleman a perfect\nstranger to him who was accidentally leaving the office exactly at the\nsame time as himself. A momentary contest of politeness ensued between\nthem as to who should be the first to pass through the door of the\nbank. The stranger insisted on making Mr. Godfrey precede him; Mr.\nGodfrey said a few civil words; they bowed, and parted in the street.\n\nThoughtless and superficial people may say, Here is surely a very\ntrumpery little incident related in an absurdly circumstantial manner.\nOh, my young friends and fellow-sinners! beware of presuming to\nexercise your poor carnal reason. Oh, be morally tidy. Let your faith\nbe as your stockings, and your stockings as your faith. Both ever\nspotless, and both ready to put on at a moment s notice!\n\nI beg a thousand pardons. I have fallen insensibly into my\nSunday-school style. Most inappropriate in such a record as this. Let\nme try to be worldly let me say that trifles, in this case as in many\nothers, led to terrible results. Merely premising that the polite\nstranger was Mr. Luker, of Lambeth, we will now follow Mr. Godfrey home\nto his residence at Kilburn.\n\nHe found waiting for him, in the hall, a poorly clad but delicate and\ninteresting-looking little boy. The boy handed him a letter, merely\nmentioning that he had been entrusted with it by an old lady whom he\ndid not know, and who had given him no instructions to wait for an\nanswer. Such incidents as these were not uncommon in Mr. Godfrey s\nlarge experience as a promoter of public charities. He let the boy go,\nand opened the letter.\n\nThe handwriting was entirely unfamiliar to him. It requested his\nattendance, within an hour s time, at a house in Northumberland Street,\nStrand, which he had never had occasion to enter before. The object\nsought was to obtain from the worthy manager certain details on the\nsubject of the Mothers -Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society, and the\ninformation was wanted by an elderly lady who proposed adding largely\nto the resources of the charity, if her questions were met by\nsatisfactory replies. She mentioned her name, and she added that the\nshortness of her stay in London prevented her from giving any longer\nnotice to the eminent philanthropist whom she addressed.\n\nOrdinary people might have hesitated before setting aside their own\nengagements to suit the convenience of a stranger. The Christian Hero\nnever hesitates where good is to be done. Mr. Godfrey instantly turned\nback, and proceeded to the house in Northumberland Street. A most\nrespectable though somewhat corpulent man answered the door, and, on\nhearing Mr. Godfrey s name, immediately conducted him into an empty\napartment at the back, on the drawing-room floor. He noticed two\nunusual things on entering the room. One of them was a faint odour of\nmusk and camphor. The other was an ancient Oriental manuscript, richly\nilluminated with Indian figures and devices, that lay open to\ninspection on a table.\n\nHe was looking at the book, the position of which caused him to stand\nwith his back turned towards the closed folding doors communicating\nwith the front room, when, without the slightest previous noise to warn\nhim, he felt himself suddenly seized round the neck from behind. He had\njust time to notice that the arm round his neck was naked and of a\ntawny-brown colour, before his eyes were bandaged, his mouth was\ngagged, and he was thrown helpless on the floor by (as he judged) two\nmen. A third rifled his pockets, and if, as a lady, I may venture to\nuse such an expression searched him, without ceremony, through and\nthrough to his skin.\n\nHere I should greatly enjoy saying a few cheering words on the devout\nconfidence which could alone have sustained Mr. Godfrey in an emergency\nso terrible as this. Perhaps, however, the position and appearance of\nmy admirable friend at the culminating period of the outrage (as above\ndescribed) are hardly within the proper limits of female discussion.\nLet me pass over the next few moments, and return to Mr. Godfrey at the\ntime when the odious search of his person had been completed. The\noutrage had been perpetrated throughout in dead silence. At the end of\nit some words were exchanged, among the invisible wretches, in a\nlanguage which he did not understand, but in tones which were plainly\nexpressive (to his cultivated ear) of disappointment and rage. He was\nsuddenly lifted from the ground, placed in a chair, and bound there\nhand and foot. The next moment he felt the air flowing in from the open\ndoor, listened, and concluded that he was alone again in the room.\n\nAn interval elapsed, and he heard a sound below like the rustling sound\nof a woman s dress. It advanced up the stairs, and stopped. A female\nscream rent the atmosphere of guilt. A man s voice below exclaimed\n Hullo!  A man s feet ascended the stairs. Mr. Godfrey felt Christian\nfingers unfastening his bandage, and extracting his gag. He looked in\namazement at two respectable strangers, and faintly articulated,  What\ndoes it mean?  The two respectable strangers looked back, and said,\n Exactly the question we were going to ask _you_. \n\nThe inevitable explanation followed. No! Let me be scrupulously\nparticular. Sal volatile and water followed, to compose dear Mr.\nGodfrey s nerves. The explanation came next.\n\nIt appeared from the statement of the landlord and landlady of the\nhouse (persons of good repute in the neighbourhood), that their first\nand second floor apartments had been engaged, on the previous day, for\na week certain, by a most respectable-looking gentleman the same who\nhas been already described as answering the door to Mr. Godfrey s\nknock. The gentleman had paid the week s rent and all the week s extras\nin advance, stating that the apartments were wanted for three Oriental\nnoblemen, friends of his, who were visiting England for the first time.\nEarly on the morning of the outrage, two of the Oriental strangers,\naccompanied by their respectable English friend, took possession of the\napartments. The third was expected to join them shortly; and the\nluggage (reported as very bulky) was announced to follow when it had\npassed through the Custom-house, late in the afternoon. Not more than\nten minutes previous to Mr. Godfrey s visit, the third foreigner had\narrived. Nothing out of the common had happened, to the knowledge of\nthe landlord and landlady downstairs, until within the last five\nminutes when they had seen the three foreigners, accompanied by their\nrespectable English friend, all leave the house together, walking\nquietly in the direction of the Strand. Remembering that a visitor had\ncalled, and not having seen the visitor also leave the house, the\nlandlady had thought it rather strange that the gentleman should be\nleft by himself upstairs. After a short discussion with her husband,\nshe had considered it advisable to ascertain whether anything was\nwrong. The result had followed, as I have already attempted to describe\nit; and there the explanation of the landlord and the landlady came to\nan end.\n\nAn investigation was next made in the room. Dear Mr. Godfrey s property\nwas found scattered in all directions. When the articles were\ncollected, however, nothing was missing; his watch, chain, purse, keys,\npocket-handkerchief, note-book, and all his loose papers had been\nclosely examined, and had then been left unharmed to be resumed by the\nowner. In the same way, not the smallest morsel of property belonging\nto the proprietors of the house had been abstracted. The Oriental\nnoblemen had removed their own illuminated manuscript, and had removed\nnothing else.\n\nWhat did it mean? Taking the worldly point of view, it appeared to mean\nthat Mr. Godfrey had been the victim of some incomprehensible error,\ncommitted by certain unknown men. A dark conspiracy was on foot in the\nmidst of us; and our beloved and innocent friend had been entangled in\nits meshes. When the Christian hero of a hundred charitable victories\nplunges into a pitfall that has been dug for him by mistake, oh, what a\nwarning it is to the rest of us to be unceasingly on our guard! How\nsoon may our own evil passions prove to be Oriental noblemen who pounce\non us unawares!\n\nI could write pages of affectionate warning on this one theme, but\n(alas!) I am not permitted to improve I am condemned to narrate. My\nwealthy relative s cheque henceforth, the incubus of my existence warns\nme that I have not done with this record of violence yet. We must leave\nMr. Godfrey to recover in Northumberland Street, and must follow the\nproceedings of Mr. Luker at a later period of the day.\n\nAfter leaving the bank, Mr. Luker had visited various parts of London\non business errands. Returning to his own residence, he found a letter\nwaiting for him, which was described as having been left a short time\npreviously by a boy. In this case, as in Mr. Godfrey s case, the\nhandwriting was strange; but the name mentioned was the name of one of\nMr. Luker s customers. His correspondent announced (writing in the\nthird person apparently by the hand of a deputy) that he had been\nunexpectedly summoned to London. He had just established himself in\nlodgings in Alfred Place, Tottenham Court Road; and he desired to see\nMr. Luker immediately, on the subject of a purchase which he\ncontemplated making. The gentleman was an enthusiastic collector of\nOriental antiquities, and had been for many years a liberal patron of\nthe establishment in Lambeth. Oh, when shall we wean ourselves from the\nworship of Mammon! Mr. Luker called a cab, and drove off instantly to\nhis liberal patron.\n\nExactly what had happened to Mr. Godfrey in Northumberland Street now\nhappened to Mr. Luker in Alfred Place. Once more the respectable man\nanswered the door, and showed the visitor upstairs into the back\ndrawing-room. There, again, lay the illuminated manuscript on a table.\nMr. Luker s attention was absorbed, as Mr. Godfrey s attention had been\nabsorbed, by this beautiful work of Indian art. He too was aroused from\nhis studies by a tawny naked arm round his throat, by a bandage over\nhis eyes, and by a gag in his mouth. He too was thrown prostrate and\nsearched to the skin. A longer interval had then elapsed than had\npassed in the experience of Mr. Godfrey; but it had ended as before, in\nthe persons of the house suspecting something wrong, and going upstairs\nto see what had happened. Precisely the same explanation which the\nlandlord in Northumberland Street had given to Mr. Godfrey, the\nlandlord in Alfred Place now gave to Mr. Luker. Both had been imposed\non in the same way by the plausible address and well-filled purse of\nthe respectable stranger, who introduced himself as acting for his\nforeign friends. The one point of difference between the two cases\noccurred when the scattered contents of Mr. Luker s pockets were being\ncollected from the floor. His watch and purse were safe, but (less\nfortunate than Mr. Godfrey) one of the loose papers that he carried\nabout him had been taken away. The paper in question acknowledged the\nreceipt of a valuable of great price which Mr. Luker had that day left\nin the care of his bankers. This document would be useless for purposes\nof fraud, inasmuch as it provided that the valuable should only be\ngiven up on the personal application of the owner. As soon as he\nrecovered himself, Mr. Luker hurried to the bank, on the chance that\nthe thieves who had robbed him might ignorantly present themselves with\nthe receipt. Nothing had been seen of them when he arrived at the\nestablishment, and nothing was seen of them afterwards. Their\nrespectable English friend had (in the opinion of the bankers) looked\nthe receipt over before they attempted to make use of it, and had given\nthem the necessary warning in good time.\n\nInformation of both outrages was communicated to the police, and the\nneedful investigations were pursued, I believe, with great energy. The\nauthorities held that a robbery had been planned, on insufficient\ninformation received by the thieves. They had been plainly not sure\nwhether Mr. Luker had, or had not, trusted the transmission of his\nprecious gem to another person; and poor polite Mr. Godfrey had paid\nthe penalty of having been seen accidentally speaking to him. Add to\nthis, that Mr. Godfrey s absence from our Monday evening meeting had\nbeen occasioned by a consultation of the authorities, at which he was\nrequested to assist and all the explanations required being now given,\nI may proceed with the simpler story of my own little personal\nexperiences in Montagu Square.\n\nI was punctual to the luncheon hour on Tuesday. Reference to my diary\nshows this to have been a chequered day much in it to be devoutly\nregretted, much in it to be devoutly thankful for.\n\nDear Aunt Verinder received me with her usual grace and kindness. But I\nnoticed, after a little while, that something was wrong. Certain\nanxious looks escaped my aunt, all of which took the direction of her\ndaughter. I never see Rachel myself without wondering how it can be\nthat so insignificant-looking a person should be the child of such\ndistinguished parents as Sir John and Lady Verinder. On this occasion,\nhowever, she not only disappointed she really shocked me. There was an\nabsence of all lady-like restraint in her language and manner most\npainful to see. She was possessed by some feverish excitement which\nmade her distressingly loud when she laughed, and sinfully wasteful and\ncapricious in what she ate and drank at lunch. I felt deeply for her\npoor mother, even before the true state of the case had been\nconfidentially made known to me.\n\nLuncheon over, my aunt said:  Remember what the doctor told you,\nRachel, about quieting yourself with a book after taking your meals. \n\n I ll go into the library, mamma,  she answered.  But if Godfrey calls,\nmind I am told of it. I am dying for more news of him, after his\nadventure in Northumberland Street.  She kissed her mother on the\nforehead, and looked my way.  Good-bye, Clack,  she said, carelessly.\nHer insolence roused no angry feeling in me; I only made a private\nmemorandum to pray for her.\n\nWhen we were left by ourselves, my aunt told me the whole horrible\nstory of the Indian Diamond, which, I am happy to know, it is not\nnecessary to repeat here. She did not conceal from me that she would\nhave preferred keeping silence on the subject. But when her own\nservants all knew of the loss of the Moonstone, and when some of the\ncircumstances had actually found their way into the newspapers when\nstrangers were speculating whether there was any connection between\nwhat had happened at Lady Verinder s country house, and what had\nhappened in Northumberland Street and Alfred Place concealment was not\nto be thought of; and perfect frankness became a necessity as well as a\nvirtue.\n\nSome persons, hearing what I now heard, would have been probably\noverwhelmed with astonishment. For my own part, knowing Rachel s spirit\nto have been essentially unregenerate from her childhood upwards, I was\nprepared for whatever my aunt could tell me on the subject of her\ndaughter. It might have gone on from bad to worse till it ended in\nMurder; and I should still have said to myself, The natural result! oh,\ndear, dear, the natural result! The one thing that _did_ shock me was\nthe course my aunt had taken under the circumstances. Here surely was a\ncase for a clergyman, if ever there was one yet! Lady Verinder had\nthought it a case for a physician. All my poor aunt s early life had\nbeen passed in her father s godless household. The natural result\nagain! Oh, dear, dear, the natural result again!\n\n The doctors recommend plenty of exercise and amusement for Rachel, and\nstrongly urge me to keep her mind as much as possible from dwelling on\nthe past,  said Lady Verinder.\n\n Oh, what heathen advice!  I thought to myself.  In this Christian\ncountry, what heathen advice! \n\nMy aunt went on,  I do my best to carry out my instructions. But this\nstrange adventure of Godfrey s happens at a most unfortunate time.\nRachel has been incessantly restless and excited since she first heard\nof it. She left me no peace till I had written and asked my nephew\nAblewhite to come here. She even feels an interest in the other person\nwho was roughly used Mr. Luker, or some such name though the man is, of\ncourse, a total stranger to her. \n\n Your knowledge of the world, dear aunt, is superior to mine,  I\nsuggested diffidently.  But there must be a reason surely for this\nextraordinary conduct on Rachel s part. She is keeping a sinful secret\nfrom you and from everybody. May there not be something in these recent\nevents which threatens her secret with discovery? \n\n Discovery?  repeated my aunt.  What can you possibly mean? Discovery\nthrough Mr. Luker? Discovery through my nephew? \n\nAs the word passed her lips, a special providence occurred. The servant\nopened the door, and announced Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nMr. Godfrey followed the announcement of his name as Mr. Godfrey does\neverything else exactly at the right time. He was not so close on the\nservant s heels as to startle us. He was not so far behind as to cause\nus the double inconvenience of a pause and an open door. It is in the\ncompleteness of his daily life that the true Christian appears. This\ndear man was very complete.\n\n Go to Miss Verinder,  said my aunt, addressing the servant,  and tell\nher Mr. Ablewhite is here. \n\nWe both inquired after his health. We both asked him together whether\nhe felt like himself again, after his terrible adventure of the past\nweek. With perfect tact, he contrived to answer us at the same moment.\nLady Verinder had his reply in words. I had his charming smile.\n\n What,  he cried, with infinite tenderness,  have I done to deserve all\nthis sympathy? My dear aunt! my dear Miss Clack! I have merely been\nmistaken for somebody else. I have only been blindfolded; I have only\nbeen strangled; I have only been thrown flat on my back, on a very thin\ncarpet, covering a particularly hard floor. Just think how much worse\nit might have been! I might have been murdered; I might have been\nrobbed. What have I lost? Nothing but Nervous Force which the law\ndoesn t recognise as property; so that, strictly speaking, I have lost\nnothing at all. If I could have had my own way, I would have kept my\nadventure to myself I shrink from all this fuss and publicity. But Mr.\nLuker made _his_ injuries public, and _my_ injuries, as the necessary\nconsequence, have been proclaimed in their turn. I have become the\nproperty of the newspapers, until the gentle reader gets sick of the\nsubject. I am very sick indeed of it myself. May the gentle reader soon\nbe like me! And how is dear Rachel? Still enjoying the gaieties of\nLondon? So glad to hear it! Miss Clack, I need all your indulgence. I\nam sadly behind-hand with my Committee Work and my dear Ladies. But I\nreally do hope to look in at the Mothers -Small-Clothes next week. Did\nyou make cheering progress at Monday s Committee? Was the Board hopeful\nabout future prospects? And are we nicely off for Trousers? \n\nThe heavenly gentleness of his smile made his apologies irresistible.\nThe richness of his deep voice added its own indescribable charm to the\ninteresting business question which he had just addressed to me. In\ntruth, we were almost _too_ nicely off for Trousers; we were quite\noverwhelmed by them. I was just about to say so, when the door opened\nagain, and an element of worldly disturbance entered the room, in the\nperson of Miss Verinder.\n\nShe approached dear Mr. Godfrey at a most unladylike rate of speed,\nwith her hair shockingly untidy, and her face, what _I_ should call,\nunbecomingly flushed.\n\n I am charmed to see you, Godfrey,  she said, addressing him, I grieve\nto add, in the off-hand manner of one young man talking to another.  I\nwish you had brought Mr. Luker with you. You and he (as long as our\npresent excitement lasts) are the two most interesting men in all\nLondon. It s morbid to say this; it s unhealthy; it s all that a\nwell-regulated mind like Miss Clack s most instinctively shudders at.\nNever mind that. Tell me the whole of the Northumberland Street story\ndirectly. I know the newspapers have left some of it out. \n\nEven dear Mr. Godfrey partakes of the fallen nature which we all\ninherit from Adam it is a very small share of our human legacy, but,\nalas! he has it. I confess it grieved me to see him take Rachel s hand\nin both of his own hands, and lay it softly on the left side of his\nwaistcoat. It was a direct encouragement to her reckless way of\ntalking, and her insolent reference to me.\n\n Dearest Rachel,  he said, in the same voice which had thrilled me when\nhe spoke of our prospects and our trousers,  the newspapers have told\nyou everything and they have told it much better than I can. \n\n Godfrey thinks we all make too much of the matter,  my aunt remarked.\n He has just been saying that he doesn t care to speak of it. \n\n Why? \n\nShe put the question with a sudden flash in her eyes, and a sudden look\nup into Mr. Godfrey s face. On his side, he looked down at her with an\nindulgence so injudicious and so ill-deserved, that I really felt\ncalled on to interfere.\n\n Rachel, darling!  I remonstrated gently,  true greatness and true\ncourage are ever modest. \n\n You are a very good fellow in your way, Godfrey,  she said not taking\nthe smallest notice, observe, of me, and still speaking to her cousin\nas if she was one young man addressing another.  But I am quite sure\nyou are not great; I don t believe you possess any extraordinary\ncourage; and I am firmly persuaded if you ever had any modesty that\nyour lady-worshippers relieved you of that virtue a good many years\nsince. You have some private reason for not talking of your adventure\nin Northumberland Street; and I mean to know it. \n\n My reason is the simplest imaginable, and the most easily\nacknowledged,  he answered, still bearing with her.  I am tired of the\nsubject. \n\n You are tired of the subject? My dear Godfrey, I am going to make a\nremark. \n\n What is it? \n\n You live a great deal too much in the society of women. And you have\ncontracted two very bad habits in consequence. You have learnt to talk\nnonsense seriously, and you have got into a way of telling fibs for the\npleasure of telling them. You can t go straight with your\nlady-worshippers. I mean to make you go straight with _me_. Come, and\nsit down. I am brimful of downright questions; and I expect you to be\nbrimful of downright answers. \n\nShe actually dragged him across the room to a chair by the window,\nwhere the light would fall on his face. I deeply feel being obliged to\nreport such language, and to describe such conduct. But, hemmed in, as\nI am, between Mr. Franklin Blake s cheque on one side and my own sacred\nregard for truth on the other, what am I to do? I looked at my aunt.\nShe sat unmoved; apparently in no way disposed to interfere. I had\nnever noticed this kind of torpor in her before. It was, perhaps, the\nreaction after the trying time she had had in the country. Not a\npleasant symptom to remark, be it what it might, at dear Lady\nVerinder s age, and with dear Lady Verinder s autumnal exuberance of\nfigure.\n\nIn the meantime, Rachel had settled herself at the window with our\namiable and forbearing our too forbearing Mr. Godfrey. She began the\nstring of questions with which she had threatened him, taking no more\nnotice of her mother, or of myself, than if we had not been in the\nroom.\n\n Have the police done anything, Godfrey? \n\n Nothing whatever. \n\n It is certain, I suppose, that the three men who laid the trap for you\nwere the same three men who afterwards laid the trap for Mr. Luker? \n\n Humanly speaking, my dear Rachel, there can be no doubt of it. \n\n And not a trace of them has been discovered? \n\n Not a trace. \n\n It is thought is it not? that these three men are the three Indians\nwho came to our house in the country. \n\n Some people think so. \n\n Do you think so? \n\n My dear Rachel, they blindfolded me before I could see their faces. I\nknow nothing whatever of the matter. How can I offer an opinion on it? \n\nEven the angelic gentleness of Mr. Godfrey was, you see, beginning to\ngive way at last under the persecution inflicted on him. Whether\nunbridled curiosity, or ungovernable dread, dictated Miss Verinder s\nquestions I do not presume to inquire. I only report that, on Mr.\nGodfrey s attempting to rise, after giving her the answer just\ndescribed, she actually took him by the two shoulders, and pushed him\nback into his chair Oh, don t say this was immodest! don t even hint\nthat the recklessness of guilty terror could alone account for such\nconduct as I have described! We must not judge others. My Christian\nfriends, indeed, indeed, indeed, we must not judge others!\n\nShe went on with her questions, unabashed. Earnest Biblical students\nwill perhaps be reminded as I was reminded of the blinded children of\nthe devil, who went on with their orgies, unabashed, in the time before\nthe Flood.\n\n I want to know something about Mr. Luker, Godfrey. \n\n I am again unfortunate, Rachel. No man knows less of Mr. Luker than I\ndo. \n\n You never saw him before you and he met accidentally at the bank? \n\n Never. \n\n You have seen him since? \n\n Yes. We have been examined together, as well as separately, to assist\nthe police. \n\n Mr. Luker was robbed of a receipt which he had got from his\nbanker s was he not? What was the receipt for? \n\n For a valuable gem which he had placed in the safe keeping of the\nbank. \n\n That s what the newspapers say. It may be enough for the general\nreader; but it is not enough for me. The banker s receipt must have\nmentioned what the gem was? \n\n The banker s receipt, Rachel as I have heard it described mentioned\nnothing of the kind. A valuable gem, belonging to Mr. Luker; deposited\nby Mr. Luker; sealed with Mr. Luker s seal; and only to be given up on\nMr. Luker s personal application. That was the form, and that is all I\nknow about it. \n\nShe waited a moment, after he had said that. She looked at her mother,\nand sighed. She looked back again at Mr. Godfrey, and went on.\n\n Some of our private affairs, at home,  she said,  seem to have got\ninto the newspapers? \n\n I grieve to say, it is so. \n\n And some idle people, perfect strangers to us, are trying to trace a\nconnexion between what happened at our house in Yorkshire and what has\nhappened since, here in London? \n\n The public curiosity, in certain quarters, is, I fear, taking that\nturn. \n\n The people who say that the three unknown men who ill-used you and Mr.\nLuker are the three Indians, also say that the valuable gem \n\nThere she stopped. She had become gradually, within the last few\nmoments, whiter and whiter in the face. The extraordinary blackness of\nher hair made this paleness, by contrast, so ghastly to look at, that\nwe all thought she would faint, at the moment when she checked herself\nin the middle of her question. Dear Mr. Godfrey made a second attempt\nto leave his chair. My aunt entreated her to say no more. I followed my\naunt with a modest medicinal peace-offering, in the shape of a bottle\nof salts. We none of us produced the slightest effect on her.  Godfrey,\nstay where you are. Mamma, there is not the least reason to be alarmed\nabout me. Clack, you re dying to hear the end of it I won t faint,\nexpressly to oblige _you_. \n\nThose were the exact words she used taken down in my diary the moment I\ngot home. But, oh, don t let us judge! My Christian friends, don t let\nus judge!\n\nShe turned once more to Mr. Godfrey. With an obstinacy dreadful to see,\nshe went back again to the place where she had checked herself, and\ncompleted her question in these words:\n\n I spoke to you, a minute since, about what people were saying in\ncertain quarters. Tell me plainly, Godfrey, do they any of them say\nthat Mr. Luker s valuable gem is the Moonstone? \n\nAs the name of the Indian Diamond passed her lips, I saw a change come\nover my admirable friend. His complexion deepened. He lost the genial\nsuavity of manner which is one of his greatest charms. A noble\nindignation inspired his reply.\n\n They _do_ say it,  he answered.  There are people who don t hesitate\nto accuse Mr. Luker of telling a falsehood to serve some private\ninterests of his own. He has over and over again solemnly declared\nthat, until this scandal assailed him, he had never even heard of the\nMoonstone. And these vile people reply, without a shadow of proof to\njustify them, He has his reasons for concealment; we decline to believe\nhim on his oath. Shameful! shameful! \n\nRachel looked at him very strangely I can t well describe how while he\nwas speaking. When he had done, she said,  Considering that Mr. Luker\nis only a chance acquaintance of yours, you take up his cause, Godfrey,\nrather warmly. \n\nMy gifted friend made her one of the most truly evangelical answers I\never heard in my life.\n\n I hope, Rachel, I take up the cause of all oppressed people rather\nwarmly,  he said.\n\nThe tone in which those words were spoken might have melted a stone.\nBut, oh dear, what is the hardness of stone? Nothing, compared to the\nhardness of the unregenerate human heart! She sneered. I blush to\nrecord it she sneered at him to his face.\n\n Keep your noble sentiments for your Ladies  Committees, Godfrey. I am\ncertain that the scandal which has assailed Mr. Luker, has not spared\nYou. \n\nEven my aunt s torpor was roused by those words.\n\n My dear Rachel,  she remonstrated,  you have really no right to say\nthat! \n\n I mean no harm, mamma I mean good. Have a moment s patience with me,\nand you will see. \n\nShe looked back at Mr. Godfrey, with what appeared to be a sudden pity\nfor him. She went the length the very unladylike length of taking him\nby the hand.\n\n I am certain,  she said,  that I have found out the true reason of\nyour unwillingness to speak of this matter before my mother and before\nme. An unlucky accident has associated you in people s minds with Mr.\nLuker. You have told me what scandal says of _him_. What does scandal\nsay of _you?_ \n\nEven at the eleventh hour, dear Mr. Godfrey always ready to return good\nfor evil tried to spare her.\n\n Don t ask me!  he said.  It s better forgotten, Rachel it is, indeed. \n\n I _will_ hear it!  she cried out, fiercely, at the top of her voice.\n\n Tell her, Godfrey!  entreated my aunt.  Nothing can do her such harm\nas your silence is doing now! \n\nMr. Godfrey s fine eyes filled with tears. He cast one last appealing\nlook at her and then he spoke the fatal words:\n\n If you will have it, Rachel scandal says that the Moonstone is in\npledge to Mr. Luker, and that I am the man who has pawned it. \n\nShe started to her feet with a scream. She looked backwards and\nforwards from Mr. Godfrey to my aunt, and from my aunt to Mr. Godfrey,\nin such a frantic manner that I really thought she had gone mad.\n\n Don t speak to me! Don t touch me!  she exclaimed, shrinking back from\nall of us (I declare like some hunted animal!) into a corner of the\nroom.  This is my fault! I must set it right. I have sacrificed\nmyself I had a right to do that, if I liked. But to let an innocent man\nbe ruined; to keep a secret which destroys his character for life Oh,\ngood God, it s too horrible! I can t bear it! \n\nMy aunt half rose from her chair, then suddenly sat down again. She\ncalled to me faintly, and pointed to a little phial in her work-box.\n\n Quick!  she whispered.  Six drops, in water. Don t let Rachel see. \n\nUnder other circumstances, I should have thought this strange. There\nwas no time now to think there was only time to give the medicine. Dear\nMr. Godfrey unconsciously assisted me in concealing what I was about\nfrom Rachel, by speaking composing words to her at the other end of the\nroom.\n\n Indeed, indeed, you exaggerate,  I heard him say.  My reputation\nstands too high to be destroyed by a miserable passing scandal like\nthis. It will be all forgotten in another week. Let us never speak of\nit again.  She was perfectly inaccessible, even to such generosity as\nthis. She went on from bad to worse.\n\n I must, and will, stop it,  she said.  Mamma! hear what I say. Miss\nClack! hear what I say. I know the hand that took the Moonstone. I\nknow  she laid a strong emphasis on the words; she stamped her foot in\nthe rage that possessed her _I know that Godfrey Ablewhite is\ninnocent!_ Take me to the magistrate, Godfrey! Take me to the\nmagistrate, and I will swear it! \n\nMy aunt caught me by the hand, and whispered,  Stand between us for a\nminute or two. Don t let Rachel see me.  I noticed a bluish tinge in\nher face which alarmed me. She saw I was startled.  The drops will put\nme right in a minute or two,  she said, and so closed her eyes, and\nwaited a little.\n\nWhile this was going on, I heard dear Mr. Godfrey still gently\nremonstrating.\n\n You must not appear publicly in such a thing as this,  he said.\n _Your_ reputation, dearest Rachel, is something too pure and too\nsacred to be trifled with. \n\n _My_ reputation!  She burst out laughing.  Why, I am accused, Godfrey,\nas well as you. The best detective officer in England declares that I\nhave stolen my own Diamond. Ask him what he thinks and he will tell you\nthat I have pledged the Moonstone to pay my private debts!  She\nstopped, ran across the room and fell on her knees at her mother s\nfeet.  Oh mamma! mamma! mamma! I must be mad mustn t I? not to own the\ntruth _now!_  She was too vehement to notice her mother s condition she\nwas on her feet again, and back with Mr. Godfrey, in an instant.  I\nwon t let you I won t let any innocent man be accused and disgraced\nthrough my fault. If you won t take me before the magistrate, draw out\na declaration of your innocence on paper, and I will sign it. Do as I\ntell you, Godfrey, or I ll write it to the newspapers I ll go out, and\ncry it in the streets! \n\nWe will not say this was the language of remorse we will say it was the\nlanguage of hysterics. Indulgent Mr. Godfrey pacified her by taking a\nsheet of paper, and drawing out the declaration. She signed it in a\nfeverish hurry.  Show it everywhere don t think of _me_,  she said, as\nshe gave it to him.  I am afraid, Godfrey, I have not done you justice,\nhitherto, in my thoughts. You are more unselfish you are a better man\nthan I believed you to be. Come here when you can, and I will try and\nrepair the wrong I have done you. \n\nShe gave him her hand. Alas, for our fallen nature! Alas, for Mr.\nGodfrey! He not only forgot himself so far as to kiss her hand he\nadopted a gentleness of tone in answering her which, in such a case,\nwas little better than a compromise with sin.  I will come, dearest, \nhe said,  on condition that we don t speak of this hateful subject\nagain.  Never had I seen and heard our Christian Hero to less advantage\nthan on this occasion.\n\nBefore another word could be said by anybody, a thundering knock at the\nstreet door startled us all. I looked through the window, and saw the\nWorld, the Flesh, and the Devil waiting before the house as typified in\na carriage and horses, a powdered footman, and three of the most\naudaciously dressed women I ever beheld in my life.\n\nRachel started, and composed herself. She crossed the room to her\nmother.\n\n They have come to take me to the flower-show,  she said.  One word,\nmamma, before I go. I have not distressed you, have I? \n\n(Is the bluntness of moral feeling which could ask such a question as\nthat, after what had just happened, to be pitied or condemned? I like\nto lean towards mercy. Let us pity it.)\n\nThe drops had produced their effect. My poor aunt s complexion was like\nitself again.  No, no, my dear,  she said.  Go with our friends, and\nenjoy yourself. \n\nHer daughter stooped, and kissed her. I had left the window, and was\nnear the door, when Rachel approached it to go out. Another change had\ncome over her she was in tears. I looked with interest at the momentary\nsoftening of that obdurate heart. I felt inclined to say a few earnest\nwords. Alas! my well-meant sympathy only gave offence.  What do you\nmean by pitying me?  she asked in a bitter whisper, as she passed to\nthe door.  Don t you see how happy I am? I m going to the flower-show,\nClack; and I ve got the prettiest bonnet in London.  She completed the\nhollow mockery of that address by blowing me a kiss and so left the\nroom.\n\nI wish I could describe in words the compassion I felt for this\nmiserable and misguided girl. But I am almost as poorly provided with\nwords as with money. Permit me to say my heart bled for her.\n\nReturning to my aunt s chair, I observed dear Mr. Godfrey searching for\nsomething softly, here and there, in different parts of the room.\nBefore I could offer to assist him he had found what he wanted. He came\nback to my aunt and me, with his declaration of innocence in one hand,\nand with a box of matches in the other.\n\n Dear aunt, a little conspiracy!  he said.  Dear Miss Clack, a pious\nfraud which even your high moral rectitude will excuse! Will you leave\nRachel to suppose that I accept the generous self-sacrifice which has\nsigned this paper? And will you kindly bear witness that I destroy it\nin your presence, before I leave the house?  He kindled a match, and,\nlighting the paper, laid it to burn in a plate on the table.  Any\ntrifling inconvenience that I may suffer is as nothing,  he remarked,\n compared with the importance of preserving that pure name from the\ncontaminating contact of the world. There! We have reduced it to a\nlittle harmless heap of ashes; and our dear impulsive Rachel will never\nknow what we have done! How do you feel? My precious friends, how do\nyou feel? For my poor part, I am as light-hearted as a boy! \n\nHe beamed on us with his beautiful smile; he held out a hand to my\naunt, and a hand to me. I was too deeply affected by his noble conduct\nto speak. I closed my eyes; I put his hand, in a kind of spiritual\nself-forgetfulness, to my lips. He murmured a soft remonstrance. Oh the\necstasy, the pure, unearthly ecstasy of that moment! I sat I hardly\nknow on what quite lost in my own exalted feelings. When I opened my\neyes again, it was like descending from heaven to earth. There was\nnobody but my aunt in the room. He had gone.\n\nI should like to stop here I should like to close my narrative with the\nrecord of Mr. Godfrey s noble conduct. Unhappily there is more, much\nmore, which the unrelenting pecuniary pressure of Mr. Blake s cheque\nobliges me to tell. The painful disclosures which were to reveal\nthemselves in my presence, during that Tuesday s visit to Montagu\nSquare, were not at an end yet.\n\nFinding myself alone with Lady Verinder, I turned naturally to the\nsubject of her health; touching delicately on the strange anxiety which\nshe had shown to conceal her indisposition, and the remedy applied to\nit, from the observation of her daughter.\n\nMy aunt s reply greatly surprised me.\n\n Drusilla,  she said (if I have not already mentioned that my Christian\nname is Drusilla, permit me to mention it now),  you are touching quite\ninnocently, I know on a very distressing subject. \n\nI rose immediately. Delicacy left me but one alternative the\nalternative, after first making my apologies, of taking my leave. Lady\nVerinder stopped me, and insisted on my sitting down again.\n\n You have surprised a secret,  she said,  which I had confided to my\nsister Mrs. Ablewhite, and to my lawyer Mr. Bruff, and to no one else.\nI can trust in their discretion; and I am sure, when I tell you the\ncircumstances, I can trust in yours. Have you any pressing engagement,\nDrusilla? or is your time your own this afternoon? \n\nIt is needless to say that my time was entirely at my aunt s disposal.\n\n Keep me company then,  she said,  for another hour. I have something\nto tell you which I believe you will be sorry to hear. And I shall have\na service to ask of you afterwards, if you don t object to assist me. \n\nIt is again needless to say that, so far from objecting, I was all\neagerness to assist her.\n\n You can wait here,  she went on,  till Mr. Bruff comes at five. And\nyou can be one of the witnesses, Drusilla, when I sign my Will. \n\nHer Will! I thought of the drops which I had seen in her work-box. I\nthought of the bluish tinge which I had noticed in her complexion. A\nlight which was not of this world a light shining prophetically from an\nunmade grave dawned on my mind. My aunt s secret was a secret no\nlonger.\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nConsideration for poor Lady Verinder forbade me even to hint that I had\nguessed the melancholy truth, before she opened her lips. I waited her\npleasure in silence; and, having privately arranged to say a few\nsustaining words at the first convenient opportunity, felt prepared for\nany duty that could claim me, no matter how painful it might be.\n\n I have been seriously ill, Drusilla, for some time past,  my aunt\nbegan.  And, strange to say, without knowing it myself. \n\nI thought of the thousands and thousands of perishing human creatures\nwho were all at that moment spiritually ill, without knowing it\nthemselves. And I greatly feared that my poor aunt might be one of the\nnumber.  Yes, dear,  I said, sadly.  Yes. \n\n I brought Rachel to London, as you know, for medical advice,  she went\non.  I thought it right to consult two doctors. \n\nTwo doctors! And, oh me (in Rachel s state), not one clergyman!  Yes,\ndear?  I said once more.  Yes? \n\n One of the two medical men,  proceeded my aunt,  was a stranger to me.\nThe other had been an old friend of my husband s, and had always felt a\nsincere interest in me for my husband s sake. After prescribing for\nRachel, he said he wished to speak to me privately in another room. I\nexpected, of course, to receive some special directions for the\nmanagement of my daughter s health. To my surprise, he took me gravely\nby the hand, and said,  I have been looking at you, Lady Verinder, with\na professional as well as a personal interest. You are, I am afraid,\nfar more urgently in need of medical advice than your daughter.  He put\nsome questions to me, which I was at first inclined to treat lightly\nenough, until I observed that my answers distressed him. It ended in\nhis making an appointment to come and see me, accompanied by a medical\nfriend, on the next day, at an hour when Rachel would not be at home.\nThe result of that visit most kindly and gently conveyed to\nme satisfied both the physicians that there had been precious time\nlost, which could never be regained, and that my case had now passed\nbeyond the reach of their art. For more than two years I have been\nsuffering under an insidious form of heart disease, which, without any\nsymptoms to alarm me, has, by little and little, fatally broken me\ndown. I may live for some months, or I may die before another day has\npassed over my head the doctors cannot, and dare not, speak more\npositively than this. It would be vain to say, my dear, that I have not\nhad some miserable moments since my real situation has been made known\nto me. But I am more resigned than I was, and I am doing my best to set\nmy worldly affairs in order. My one great anxiety is that Rachel should\nbe kept in ignorance of the truth. If she knew it, she would at once\nattribute my broken health to anxiety about the Diamond, and would\nreproach herself bitterly, poor child, for what is in no sense her\nfault. Both the doctors agree that the mischief began two, if not three\nyears since. I am sure you will keep my secret, Drusilla for I am sure\nI see sincere sorrow and sympathy for me in your face. \n\nSorrow and sympathy! Oh, what Pagan emotions to expect from a Christian\nEnglishwoman anchored firmly on her faith!\n\nLittle did my poor aunt imagine what a gush of devout thankfulness\nthrilled through me as she approached the close of her melancholy\nstory. Here was a career of usefulness opened before me! Here was a\nbeloved relative and perishing fellow-creature, on the eve of the great\nchange, utterly unprepared; and led, providentially led, to reveal her\nsituation to Me! How can I describe the joy with which I now remembered\nthat the precious clerical friends on whom I could rely, were to be\ncounted, not by ones or twos, but by tens and twenties. I took my aunt\nin my arms my overflowing tenderness was not to be satisfied, _now_,\nwith anything less than an embrace.  Oh!  I said to her, fervently,\n the indescribable interest with which you inspire me! Oh! the good I\nmean to do you, dear, before we part!  After another word or two of\nearnest prefatory warning, I gave her her choice of three precious\nfriends, all plying the work of mercy from morning to night in her own\nneighbourhood; all equally inexhaustible in exhortation; all\naffectionately ready to exercise their gifts at a word from _me_. Alas!\nthe result was far from encouraging. Poor Lady Verinder looked puzzled\nand frightened, and met everything I could say to her with the purely\nworldly objection that she was not strong enough to face strangers. I\nyielded for the moment only, of course. My large experience (as Reader\nand Visitor, under not less, first and last, than fourteen beloved\nclerical friends) informed me that this was another case for\npreparation by books. I possessed a little library of works, all\nsuitable to the present emergency, all calculated to arouse, convince,\nprepare, enlighten, and fortify my aunt.  You will read, dear, won t\nyou?  I said, in my most winning way.  You will read, if I bring you my\nown precious books? Turned down at all the right places, aunt. And\nmarked in pencil where you are to stop and ask yourself,  Does this\napply to me?  Even that simple appeal so absolutely heathenising is\nthe influence of the world appeared to startle my aunt. She said,  I\nwill do what I can, Drusilla, to please you,  with a look of surprise,\nwhich was at once instructive and terrible to see. Not a moment was to\nbe lost. The clock on the mantel-piece informed me that I had just time\nto hurry home; to provide myself with a first series of selected\nreadings (say a dozen only); and to return in time to meet the lawyer,\nand witness Lady Verinder s Will. Promising faithfully to be back by\nfive o clock, I left the house on my errand of mercy.\n\nWhen no interests but my own are involved, I am humbly content to get\nfrom place to place by the omnibus. Permit me to give an idea of my\ndevotion to my aunt s interests by recording that, on this occasion, I\ncommitted the prodigality of taking a cab.\n\nI drove home, selected and marked my first series of readings, and\ndrove back to Montagu Square, with a dozen works in a carpet-bag, the\nlike of which, I firmly believe, are not to be found in the literature\nof any other country in Europe. I paid the cabman exactly his fare. He\nreceived it with an oath; upon which I instantly gave him a tract. If I\nhad presented a pistol at his head, this abandoned wretch could hardly\nhave exhibited greater consternation. He jumped up on his box, and,\nwith profane exclamations of dismay, drove off furiously. Quite\nuseless, I am happy to say! I sowed the good seed, in spite of him, by\nthrowing a second tract in at the window of the cab.\n\nThe servant who answered the door not the person with the cap-ribbons,\nto my great relief, but the foot-man informed me that the doctor had\ncalled, and was still shut up with Lady Verinder. Mr. Bruff, the\nlawyer, had arrived a minute since and was waiting in the library. I\nwas shown into the library to wait too.\n\nMr. Bruff looked surprised to see me. He is the family solicitor, and\nwe had met more than once, on previous occasions, under Lady Verinder s\nroof. A man, I grieve to say, grown old and grizzled in the service of\nthe world. A man who, in his hours of business, was the chosen prophet\nof Law and Mammon; and who, in his hours of leisure, was equally\ncapable of reading a novel and of tearing up a tract.\n\n Have you come to stay here, Miss Clack?  he asked, with a look at my\ncarpet-bag.\n\nTo reveal the contents of my precious bag to such a person as this\nwould have been simply to invite an outburst of profanity. I lowered\nmyself to his own level, and mentioned my business in the house.\n\n My aunt has informed me that she is about to sign her Will,  I\nanswered.  She has been so good as to ask me to be one of the\nwitnesses. \n\n Aye? aye? Well, Miss Clack, you will do. You are over twenty-one, and\nyou have not the slightest pecuniary interest in Lady Verinder s Will. \n\nNot the slightest pecuniary interest in Lady Verinder s Will. Oh, how\nthankful I felt when I heard that! If my aunt, possessed of thousands,\nhad remembered poor Me, to whom five pounds is an object if my name had\nappeared in the Will, with a little comforting legacy attached to it my\nenemies might have doubted the motive which had loaded me with the\nchoicest treasures of my library, and had drawn upon my failing\nresources for the prodigal expenses of a cab. Not the cruellest scoffer\nof them all could doubt now. Much better as it was! Oh, surely, surely,\nmuch better as it was!\n\nI was aroused from these consoling reflections by the voice of Mr.\nBruff. My meditative silence appeared to weigh upon the spirits of this\nworldling, and to force him, as it were, into talking to me against his\nown will.\n\n Well, Miss Clack, what s the last news in the charitable circles? How\nis your friend Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, after the mauling he got from the\nrogues in Northumberland Street? Egad! they re telling a pretty story\nabout that charitable gentleman at my club! \n\nI had passed over the manner in which this person had remarked that I\nwas more than twenty-one, and that I had no pecuniary interest in my\naunt s Will. But the tone in which he alluded to dear Mr. Godfrey was\ntoo much for my forbearance. Feeling bound, after what had passed in my\npresence that afternoon, to assert the innocence of my admirable\nfriend, whenever I found it called in question I own to having also\nfelt bound to include in the accomplishment of this righteous purpose,\na stinging castigation in the case of Mr. Bruff.\n\n I live very much out of the world,  I said;  and I don t possess the\nadvantage, sir, of belonging to a club. But I happen to know the story\nto which you allude; and I also know that a viler falsehood than that\nstory never was told. \n\n Yes, yes, Miss Clack you believe in your friend. Natural enough. Mr.\nGodfrey Ablewhite, won t find the world in general quite so easy to\nconvince as a committee of charitable ladies. Appearances are dead\nagainst him. He was in the house when the Diamond was lost. And he was\nthe first person in the house to go to London afterwards. Those are\nugly circumstances, ma am, viewed by the light of later events. \n\nI ought, I know, to have set him right before he went any farther. I\nought to have told him that he was speaking in ignorance of a testimony\nto Mr. Godfrey s innocence, offered by the only person who was\nundeniably competent to speak from a positive knowledge of the subject.\nAlas! the temptation to lead the lawyer artfully on to his own\ndiscomfiture was too much for me. I asked what he meant by  later\nevents with an appearance of the utmost innocence.\n\n By later events, Miss Clack, I mean events in which the Indians are\nconcerned,  proceeded Mr. Bruff, getting more and more superior to poor\nMe, the longer he went on.  What do the Indians do, the moment they are\nlet out of the prison at Frizinghall? They go straight to London, and\nfix on Mr. Luker. What follows? Mr. Luker feels alarmed for the safety\nof  a valuable of great price,  which he has got in the house. He\nlodges it privately (under a general description) in his bankers \nstrongroom. Wonderfully clever of him: but the Indians are just as\nclever on their side. They have their suspicions that the  valuable of\ngreat price  is being shifted from one place to another; and they hit\non a singularly bold and complete way of clearing those suspicions up.\nWhom do they seize and search? Not Mr. Luker only which would be\nintelligible enough but Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite as well. Why? Mr.\nAblewhite s explanation is, that they acted on blind suspicion, after\nseeing him accidentally speaking to Mr. Luker. Absurd! Half-a-dozen\nother people spoke to Mr. Luker that morning. Why were they not\nfollowed home too, and decoyed into the trap? No! no! The plain\ninference is, that Mr. Ablewhite had his private interest in the\n valuable  as well as Mr. Luker, and that the Indians were so uncertain\nas to which of the two had the disposal of it, that there was no\nalternative but to search them both. Public opinion says that, Miss\nClack. And public opinion, on this occasion, is not easily refuted. \n\nHe said those last words, looking so wonderfully wise in his own\nworldly conceit, that I really (to my shame be it spoken) could not\nresist leading him a little farther still, before I overwhelmed him\nwith the truth.\n\n I don t presume to argue with a clever lawyer like you,  I said.  But\nis it quite fair, sir, to Mr. Ablewhite to pass over the opinion of the\nfamous London police officer who investigated this case? Not the shadow\nof a suspicion rested upon anybody but Miss Verinder, in the mind of\nSergeant Cuff. \n\n Do you mean to tell me, Miss Clack, that you agree with the Sergeant? \n\n I judge nobody, sir, and I offer no opinion. \n\n And I commit both those enormities, ma am. I judge the Sergeant to\nhave been utterly wrong; and I offer the opinion that, if he had known\nRachel s character as I know it, he would have suspected everybody in\nthe house but _her_. I admit that she has her faults she is secret, and\nself-willed; odd and wild, and unlike other girls of her age. But true\nas steel, and high-minded and generous to a fault. If the plainest\nevidence in the world pointed one way, and if nothing but Rachel s word\nof honour pointed the other, I would take her word before the evidence,\nlawyer as I am! Strong language, Miss Clack; but I mean it. \n\n Would you object to illustrate your meaning, Mr. Bruff, so that I may\nbe sure I understand it? Suppose you found Miss Verinder quite\nunaccountably interested in what has happened to Mr. Ablewhite and Mr.\nLuker? Suppose she asked the strangest questions about this dreadful\nscandal, and displayed the most ungovernable agitation when she found\nout the turn it was taking? \n\n Suppose anything you please, Miss Clack, it wouldn t shake my belief\nin Rachel Verinder by a hair s-breadth. \n\n She is so absolutely to be relied on as that? \n\n So absolutely to be relied on as that. \n\n Then permit me to inform you, Mr. Bruff, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite\nwas in this house not two hours since, and that his entire innocence of\nall concern in the disappearance of the Moonstone was proclaimed by\nMiss Verinder herself, in the strongest language I ever heard used by a\nyoung lady in my life. \n\nI enjoyed the triumph the unholy triumph, I fear I must admit of seeing\nMr. Bruff utterly confounded and overthrown by a few plain words from\nMe. He started to his feet, and stared at me in silence. I kept my\nseat, undisturbed, and related the whole scene as it had occurred.  And\nwhat do you say about Mr. Ablewhite _now?_  I asked, with the utmost\npossible gentleness, as soon as I had done.\n\n If Rachel has testified to his innocence, Miss Clack, I don t scruple\nto say that I believe in his innocence as firmly as you do. I have been\nmisled by appearances, like the rest of the world; and I will make the\nbest atonement I can, by publicly contradicting the scandal which has\nassailed your friend wherever I meet with it. In the meantime, allow me\nto congratulate you on the masterly manner in which you have opened the\nfull fire of your batteries on me at the moment when I least expected\nit. You would have done great things in my profession, ma am, if you\nhad happened to be a man. \n\nWith those words he turned away from me, and began walking irritably up\nand down the room.\n\nI could see plainly that the new light I had thrown on the subject had\ngreatly surprised and disturbed him. Certain expressions dropped from\nhis lips, as he became more and more absorbed in his own thoughts,\nwhich suggested to my mind the abominable view that he had hitherto\ntaken of the mystery of the lost Moonstone. He had not scrupled to\nsuspect dear Mr. Godfrey of the infamy of stealing the Diamond, and to\nattribute Rachel s conduct to a generous resolution to conceal the\ncrime. On Miss Verinder s own authority a perfectly unassailable\nauthority, as you are aware, in the estimation of Mr. Bruff that\nexplanation of the circumstances was now shown to be utterly wrong. The\nperplexity into which I had plunged this high legal authority was so\noverwhelming that he was quite unable to conceal it from notice.  What\na case!  I heard him say to himself, stopping at the window in his\nwalk, and drumming on the glass with his fingers.  It not only defies\nexplanation, it s even beyond conjecture. \n\nThere was nothing in these words which made any reply at all needful,\non my part and yet, I answered them! It seems hardly credible that I\nshould not have been able to let Mr. Bruff alone, even now. It seems\nalmost beyond mere mortal perversity that I should have discovered, in\nwhat he had just said, a new opportunity of making myself personally\ndisagreeable to him. But ah, my friends! nothing is beyond mortal\nperversity; and anything is credible when our fallen natures get the\nbetter of us!\n\n Pardon me for intruding on your reflections,  I said to the\nunsuspecting Mr. Bruff.  But surely there is a conjecture to make which\nhas not occurred to us yet. \n\n Maybe, Miss Clack. I own I don t know what it is. \n\n Before I was so fortunate, sir, as to convince you of Mr. Ablewhite s\ninnocence, you mentioned it as one of the reasons for suspecting him,\nthat he was in the house at the time when the Diamond was lost. Permit\nme to remind you that Mr. Franklin Blake was also in the house at the\ntime when the Diamond was lost. \n\nThe old worldling left the window, took a chair exactly opposite to\nmine, and looked at me steadily, with a hard and vicious smile.\n\n You are not so good a lawyer, Miss Clack,  he remarked in a meditative\nmanner,  as I supposed. You don t know how to let well alone. \n\n I am afraid I fail to follow you, Mr. Bruff,  I said, modestly.\n\n It won t do, Miss Clack it really won t do a second time. Franklin\nBlake is a prime favourite of mine, as you are well aware. But that\ndoesn t matter. I ll adopt your view, on this occasion, before you have\ntime to turn round on me. You re quite right, ma am. I have suspected\nMr. Ablewhite, on grounds which abstractedly justify suspecting Mr.\nBlake too. Very good let s suspect them together. It s quite in his\ncharacter, we will say, to be capable of stealing the Moonstone. The\nonly question is, whether it was his interest to do so. \n\n Mr. Franklin Blake s debts,  I remarked,  are matters of family\nnotoriety. \n\n And Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite s debts have not arrived at that stage of\ndevelopment yet. Quite true. But there happen to be two difficulties in\nthe way of your theory, Miss Clack. I manage Franklin Blake s affairs,\nand I beg to inform you that the vast majority of his creditors\n(knowing his father to be a rich man) are quite content to charge\ninterest on their debts, and to wait for their money. There is the\nfirst difficulty which is tough enough. You will find the second\ntougher still. I have it on the authority of Lady Verinder herself,\nthat her daughter was ready to marry Franklin Blake, before that\ninfernal Indian Diamond disappeared from the house. She had drawn him\non and put him off again, with the coquetry of a young girl. But she\nhad confessed to her mother that she loved cousin Franklin, and her\nmother had trusted cousin Franklin with the secret. So there he was,\nMiss Clack, with his creditors content to wait, and with the certain\nprospect before him of marrying an heiress. By all means consider him a\nscoundrel; but tell me, if you please, why he should steal the\nMoonstone? \n\n The human heart is unsearchable,  I said gently.  Who is to fathom\nit? \n\n In other words, ma am though he hadn t the shadow of a reason for\ntaking the Diamond he might have taken it, nevertheless, through\nnatural depravity. Very well. Say he did. Why the devil \n\n I beg your pardon, Mr. Bruff. If I hear the devil referred to in that\nmanner, I must leave the room. \n\n I beg _your_ pardon, Miss Clack I ll be more careful in my choice of\nlanguage for the future. All I meant to ask was this. Why even\nsupposing he did take the Diamond should Franklin Blake make himself\nthe most prominent person in the house in trying to recover it? You may\ntell me he cunningly did that to divert suspicion from himself. I\nanswer that he had no need to divert suspicion because nobody suspected\nhim. He first steals the Moonstone (without the slightest reason)\nthrough natural depravity; and he then acts a part, in relation to the\nloss of the jewel, which there is not the slightest necessity to act,\nand which leads to his mortally offending the young lady who would\notherwise have married him. That is the monstrous proposition which you\nare driven to assert, if you attempt to associate the disappearance of\nthe Moonstone with Franklin Blake. No, no, Miss Clack! After what has\npassed here today, between us two, the dead-lock, in this case, is\ncomplete. Rachel s own innocence is (as her mother knows, and as I\nknow) beyond a doubt. Mr. Ablewhite s innocence is equally certain or\nRachel would never have testified to it. And Franklin Blake s\ninnocence, as you have just seen, unanswerably asserts itself. On the\none hand, we are morally certain of all these things. And, on the other\nhand, we are equally sure that somebody has brought the Moonstone to\nLondon, and that Mr. Luker, or his banker, is in private possession of\nit at this moment. What is the use of my experience, what is the use of\nany person s experience, in such a case as that? It baffles me; it\nbaffles you, it baffles everybody. \n\nNo not everybody. It had not baffled Sergeant Cuff. I was about to\nmention this, with all possible mildness, and with every necessary\nprotest against being supposed to cast a slur upon Rachel when the\nservant came in to say that the doctor had gone, and that my aunt was\nwaiting to receive us.\n\nThis stopped the discussion. Mr. Bruff collected his papers, looking a\nlittle exhausted by the demands which our conversation had made on him.\nI took up my bag-full of precious publications, feeling as if I could\nhave gone on talking for hours. We proceeded in silence to Lady\nVerinder s room.\n\nPermit me to add here, before my narrative advances to other events,\nthat I have not described what passed between the lawyer and me,\nwithout having a definite object in view. I am ordered to include in my\ncontribution to the shocking story of the Moonstone a plain disclosure,\nnot only of the turn which suspicion took, but even of the names of the\npersons on whom suspicion rested, at the time when the Indian Diamond\nwas believed to be in London. A report of my conversation in the\nlibrary with Mr. Bruff appeared to me to be exactly what was wanted to\nanswer this purpose while, at the same time, it possessed the great\nmoral advantage of rendering a sacrifice of sinful self-esteem\nessentially necessary on my part. I have been obliged to acknowledge\nthat my fallen nature got the better of me. In making that humiliating\nconfession, _I_ get the better of my fallen nature. The moral balance\nis restored; the spiritual atmosphere feels clear once more. Dear\nfriends, we may go on again.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nThe signing of the Will was a much shorter matter than I had\nanticipated. It was hurried over, to my thinking, in indecent haste.\nSamuel, the footman, was sent for to act as second witness and the pen\nwas put at once into my aunt s hand. I felt strongly urged to say a few\nappropriate words on this solemn occasion. But Mr. Bruff s manner\nconvinced me that it was wisest to check the impulse while he was in\nthe room. In less than two minutes it was all over and Samuel\n(unbenefited by what I might have said) had gone downstairs again.\n\nMr. Bruff folded up the Will, and then looked my way; apparently\nwondering whether I did or did not mean to leave him alone with my\naunt. I had my mission of mercy to fulfil, and my bag of precious\npublications ready on my lap. He might as well have expected to move\nSt. Paul s Cathedral by looking at it, as to move Me. There was one\nmerit about him (due no doubt to his worldly training) which I have no\nwish to deny. He was quick at seeing things. I appeared to produce\nalmost the same impression on him which I had produced on the cabman.\n_He_ too uttered a profane expression, and withdrew in a violent hurry,\nand left me mistress of the field.\n\nAs soon as we were alone, my aunt reclined on the sofa, and then\nalluded, with some appearance of confusion, to the subject of her Will.\n\n I hope you won t think yourself neglected, Drusilla,  she said.  I\nmean to _give_ you your little legacy, my dear, with my own hand. \n\nHere was a golden opportunity! I seized it on the spot. In other words,\nI instantly opened my bag, and took out the top publication. It proved\nto be an early edition only the twenty-fifth of the famous anonymous\nwork (believed to be by precious Miss Bellows), entitled _The Serpent\nat Home_. The design of the book with which the worldly reader may not\nbe acquainted is to show how the Evil One lies in wait for us in all\nthe most apparently innocent actions of our daily lives. The chapters\nbest adapted to female perusal are  Satan in the Hair Brush;   Satan\nbehind the Looking Glass;   Satan under the Tea Table;   Satan out of\nthe Window and many others.\n\n Give your attention, dear aunt, to this precious book and you will\ngive me all I ask.  With those words, I handed it to her open, at a\nmarked passage one continuous burst of burning eloquence! Subject:\nSatan among the Sofa Cushions.\n\nPoor Lady Verinder (reclining thoughtlessly on her own sofa cushions)\nglanced at the book, and handed it back to me looking more confused\nthan ever.\n\n I m afraid, Drusilla,  she said,  I must wait till I am a little\nbetter, before I can read that. The doctor \n\nThe moment she mentioned the doctor s name, I knew what was coming.\nOver and over again in my past experience among my perishing\nfellow-creatures, the members of the notoriously infidel profession of\nMedicine had stepped between me and my mission of mercy on the\nmiserable pretence that the patient wanted quiet, and that the\ndisturbing influence of all others which they most dreaded, was the\ninfluence of Miss Clack and her Books. Precisely the same blinded\nmaterialism (working treacherously behind my back) now sought to rob me\nof the only right of property that my poverty could claim my right of\nspiritual property in my perishing aunt.\n\n The doctor tells me,  my poor misguided relative went on,  that I am\nnot so well today. He forbids me to see any strangers; and he orders\nme, if I read at all, only to read the lightest and the most amusing\nbooks.  Do nothing, Lady Verinder, to weary your head, or to quicken\nyour pulse those were his last words, Drusilla, when he left me\ntoday. \n\nThere was no help for it but to yield again for the moment only, as\nbefore. Any open assertion of the infinitely superior importance of\nsuch a ministry as mine, compared with the ministry of the medical man,\nwould only have provoked the doctor to practise on the human weakness\nof his patient, and to threaten to throw up the case. Happily, there\nare more ways than one of sowing the good seed, and few persons are\nbetter versed in those ways than myself.\n\n You might feel stronger, dear, in an hour or two,  I said.  Or you\nmight wake, tomorrow morning, with a sense of something wanting, and\neven this unpretending volume might be able to supply it. You will let\nme leave the book, aunt? The doctor can hardly object to that! \n\nI slipped it under the sofa cushions, half in, and half out, close by\nher handkerchief, and her smelling-bottle. Every time her hand searched\nfor either of these, it would touch the book; and, sooner or later (who\nknows?) the book might touch _her_. After making this arrangement, I\nthought it wise to withdraw.  Let me leave you to repose, dear aunt; I\nwill call again tomorrow.  I looked accidentally towards the window as\nI said that. It was full of flowers, in boxes and pots. Lady Verinder\nwas extravagantly fond of these perishable treasures, and had a habit\nof rising every now and then, and going to look at them and smell them.\nA new idea flashed across my mind.  Oh! may I take a flower?  I\nsaid and got to the window unsuspected, in that way. Instead of taking\naway a flower, I added one, in the shape of another book from my bag,\nwhich I left, to surprise my aunt, among the geraniums and roses. The\nhappy thought followed,  Why not do the same for her, poor dear, in\nevery other room that she enters?  I immediately said good-bye; and,\ncrossing the hall, slipped into the library. Samuel, coming up to let\nme out, and supposing I had gone, went downstairs again. On the library\ntable I noticed two of the  amusing books  which the infidel doctor had\nrecommended. I instantly covered them from sight with two of my own\nprecious publications. In the breakfast-room I found my aunt s\nfavourite canary singing in his cage. She was always in the habit of\nfeeding the bird herself. Some groundsel was strewed on a table which\nstood immediately under the cage. I put a book among the groundsel. In\nthe drawing-room I found more cheering opportunities of emptying my\nbag. My aunt s favourite musical pieces were on the piano. I slipped in\ntwo more books among the music. I disposed of another in the back\ndrawing-room, under some unfinished embroidery, which I knew to be of\nLady Verinder s working. A third little room opened out of the back\ndrawing-room, from which it was shut off by curtains instead of a door.\nMy aunt s plain old-fashioned fan was on the chimney-piece. I opened my\nninth book at a very special passage, and put the fan in as a marker,\nto keep the place. The question then came, whether I should go higher\nstill, and try the bedroom floor at the risk, undoubtedly, of being\ninsulted, if the person with the cap-ribbons happened to be in the\nupper regions of the house, and to find me out. But oh, what of that?\nIt is a poor Christian that is afraid of being insulted. I went\nupstairs, prepared to bear anything. All was silent and solitary it was\nthe servants  tea-time, I suppose. My aunt s room was in front. The\nminiature of my late dear uncle, Sir John, hung on the wall opposite\nthe bed. It seemed to smile at me; it seemed to say,  Drusilla! deposit\na book.  There were tables on either side of my aunt s bed. She was a\nbad sleeper, and wanted, or thought she wanted, many things at night. I\nput a book near the matches on one side, and a book under the box of\nchocolate drops on the other. Whether she wanted a light, or whether\nshe wanted a drop, there was a precious publication to meet her eye, or\nto meet her hand, and to say with silent eloquence, in either case,\n Come, try me! try me!  But one book was now left at the bottom of my\nbag, and but one apartment was still unexplored the bath-room, which\nopened out of the bedroom. I peeped in; and the holy inner voice that\nnever deceives, whispered to me,  You have met her, Drusilla,\neverywhere else; meet her at the bath, and the work is done.  I\nobserved a dressing-gown thrown across a chair. It had a pocket in it,\nand in that pocket I put my last book. Can words express my exquisite\nsense of duty done, when I had slipped out of the house, unsuspected by\nany of them, and when I found myself in the street with my empty bag\nunder my arm? Oh, my worldly friends, pursuing the phantom, Pleasure,\nthrough the guilty mazes of Dissipation, how easy it is to be happy, if\nyou will only be good!\n\nWhen I folded up my things that night when I reflected on the _true_\nriches which I had scattered with such a lavish hand, from top to\nbottom of the house of my wealthy aunt I declare I felt as free from\nall anxiety as if I had been a child again. I was so light-hearted that\nI sang a verse of the Evening Hymn. I was so light-hearted that I fell\nasleep before I could sing another. Quite like a child again! quite\nlike a child again!\n\nSo I passed that blissful night. On rising the next morning, how young\nI felt! I might add, how young I looked, if I were capable of dwelling\non the concerns of my own perishable body. But I am not capable and I\nadd nothing.\n\nTowards luncheon time not for the sake of the creature-comforts, but\nfor the certainty of finding dear aunt I put on my bonnet to go to\nMontagu Square. Just as I was ready, the maid at the lodgings in which\nI then lived looked in at the door, and said,  Lady Verinder s servant,\nto see Miss Clack. \n\nI occupied the parlour-floor, at that period of my residence in London.\nThe front parlour was my sitting-room. Very small, very low in the\nceiling, very poorly furnished but, oh, so neat! I looked into the\npassage to see which of Lady Verinder s servants had asked for me. It\nwas the young footman, Samuel a civil fresh-coloured person, with a\nteachable look and a very obliging manner. I had always felt a\nspiritual interest in Samuel, and a wish to try him with a few serious\nwords. On this occasion, I invited him into my sitting-room.\n\nHe came in, with a large parcel under his arm. When he put the parcel\ndown, it appeared to frighten him.  My lady s love, Miss; and I was to\nsay that you would find a letter inside.  Having given that message,\nthe fresh-coloured young footman surprised me by looking as if he would\nhave liked to run away.\n\nI detained him to make a few kind inquiries. Could I see my aunt, if I\ncalled in Montagu Square? No; she had gone out for a drive. Miss Rachel\nhad gone with her, and Mr. Ablewhite had taken a seat in the carriage,\ntoo. Knowing how sadly dear Mr. Godfrey s charitable work was in\narrear, I thought it odd that he should be going out driving, like an\nidle man. I stopped Samuel at the door, and made a few more kind\ninquiries. Miss Rachel was going to a ball that night, and Mr.\nAblewhite had arranged to come to coffee, and go with her. There was a\nmorning concert advertised for tomorrow, and Samuel was ordered to take\nplaces for a large party, including a place for Mr. Ablewhite.  All the\ntickets may be gone, Miss,  said this innocent youth,  if I don t run\nand get them at once!  He ran as he said the words and I found myself\nalone again, with some anxious thoughts to occupy me.\n\nWe had a special meeting of the Mothers -Small-Clothes-Conversion\nSociety that night, summoned expressly with a view to obtaining Mr.\nGodfrey s advice and assistance. Instead of sustaining our sisterhood,\nunder an overwhelming flow of Trousers which quite prostrated our\nlittle community, he had arranged to take coffee in Montagu Square, and\nto go to a ball afterwards! The afternoon of the next day had been\nselected for the Festival of the\nBritish-Ladies -Servants -Sunday-Sweetheart-Supervision Society.\nInstead of being present, the life and soul of that struggling\nInstitution, he had engaged to make one of a party of worldlings at a\nmorning concert! I asked myself what did it mean? Alas! it meant that\nour Christian Hero was to reveal himself to me in a new character, and\nto become associated in my mind with one of the most awful backslidings\nof modern times.\n\nTo return, however, to the history of the passing day. On finding\nmyself alone in my room, I naturally turned my attention to the parcel\nwhich appeared to have so strangely intimidated the fresh-coloured\nyoung footman. Had my aunt sent me my promised legacy? and had it taken\nthe form of cast-off clothes, or worn-out silver spoons, or\nunfashionable jewellery, or anything of that sort? Prepared to accept\nall, and to resent nothing, I opened the parcel and what met my view?\nThe twelve precious publications which I had scattered through the\nhouse, on the previous day; all returned to me by the doctor s orders!\nWell might the youthful Samuel shrink when he brought his parcel into\nmy room! Well might he run when he had performed his miserable errand!\nAs to my aunt s letter, it simply amounted, poor soul, to this that she\ndare not disobey her medical man.\n\nWhat was to be done now? With my training and my principles, I never\nhad a moment s doubt.\n\nOnce self-supported by conscience, once embarked on a career of\nmanifest usefulness, the true Christian never yields. Neither public\nnor private influences produce the slightest effect on us, when we have\nonce got our mission. Taxation may be the consequence of a mission;\nriots may be the consequence of a mission; wars may be the consequence\nof a mission: we go on with our work, irrespective of every human\nconsideration which moves the world outside us. We are above reason; we\nare beyond ridicule; we see with nobody s eyes, we hear with nobody s\nears, we feel with nobody s hearts, but our own. Glorious, glorious\nprivilege! And how is it earned? Ah, my friends, you may spare\nyourselves the useless inquiry! We are the only people who can earn\nit for we are the only people who are always right.\n\nIn the case of my misguided aunt, the form which pious perseverance was\nnext to take revealed itself to me plainly enough.\n\nPreparation by clerical friends had failed, owing to Lady Verinder s\nown reluctance. Preparation by books had failed, owing to the doctor s\ninfidel obstinacy. So be it! What was the next thing to try? The next\nthing to try was Preparation by Little Notes. In other words, the books\nthemselves having been sent back, select extracts from the books,\ncopied by different hands, and all addressed as letters to my aunt,\nwere, some to be sent by post, and some to be distributed about the\nhouse on the plan I had adopted on the previous day. As letters they\nwould excite no suspicion; as letters they would be opened and, once\nopened, might be read. Some of them I wrote myself.  Dear aunt, may I\nask your attention to a few lines?  &c.  Dear aunt, I was reading last\nnight, and I chanced on the following passage,  &c. Other letters were\nwritten for me by my valued fellow-workers, the sisterhood at the\nMothers -Small-Clothes.  Dear madam, pardon the interest taken in you\nby a true, though humble, friend.   Dear madam, may a serious person\nsurprise you by saying a few cheering words?  Using these and other\nsimilar forms of courteous appeal, we reintroduced all my precious\npassages under a form which not even the doctor s watchful materialism\ncould suspect. Before the shades of evening had closed around us, I had\na dozen awakening letters for my aunt, instead of a dozen awakening\nbooks. Six I made immediate arrangements for sending through the post,\nand six I kept in my pocket for personal distribution in the house the\nnext day.\n\nSoon after two o clock I was again on the field of pious conflict,\naddressing more kind inquiries to Samuel at Lady Verinder s door.\n\nMy aunt had had a bad night. She was again in the room in which I had\nwitnessed her Will, resting on the sofa, and trying to get a little\nsleep.\n\nI said I would wait in the library, on the chance of seeing her. In the\nfervour of my zeal to distribute the letters, it never occurred to me\nto inquire about Rachel. The house was quiet, and it was past the hour\nat which the musical performance began. I took it for granted that she\nand her party of pleasure-seekers (Mr. Godfrey, alas! included) were\nall at the concert, and eagerly devoted myself to my good work, while\ntime and opportunity were still at my own disposal.\n\nMy aunt s correspondence of the morning including the six awakening\nletters which I had posted overnight was lying unopened on the library\ntable. She had evidently not felt herself equal to dealing with a large\nmass of letters and she might be daunted by the number of them, if she\nentered the library later in the day. I put one of my second set of six\nletters on the chimney-piece by itself; leaving it to attract her\ncuriosity, by means of its solitary position, apart from the rest. A\nsecond letter I put purposely on the floor in the breakfast-room. The\nfirst servant who went in after me would conclude that my aunt had\ndropped it, and would be specially careful to restore it to her. The\nfield thus sown on the basement story, I ran lightly upstairs to\nscatter my mercies next over the drawing-room floor.\n\nJust as I entered the front room, I heard a double knock at the\nstreet-door a soft, fluttering, considerate little knock. Before I\ncould think of slipping back to the library (in which I was supposed to\nbe waiting), the active young footman was in the hall, answering the\ndoor. It mattered little, as I thought. In my aunt s state of health,\nvisitors in general were not admitted. To my horror and amazement, the\nperformer of the soft little knock proved to be an exception to general\nrules. Samuel s voice below me (after apparently answering some\nquestions which I did not hear) said, unmistakably,  Upstairs, if you\nplease, sir.  The next moment I heard footsteps a man s\nfootsteps approaching the drawing-room floor. Who could this favoured\nmale visitor possibly be? Almost as soon as I asked myself the\nquestion, the answer occurred to me. Who _could_ it be but the doctor?\n\nIn the case of any other visitor, I should have allowed myself to be\ndiscovered in the drawing-room. There would have been nothing out of\nthe common in my having got tired of the library, and having gone\nupstairs for a change. But my own self-respect stood in the way of my\nmeeting the person who had insulted me by sending me back my books. I\nslipped into the little third room, which I have mentioned as\ncommunicating with the back drawing-room, and dropped the curtains\nwhich closed the open doorway. If I only waited there for a minute or\ntwo, the usual result in such cases would take place. That is to say,\nthe doctor would be conducted to his patient s room.\n\nI waited a minute or two, and more than a minute or two. I heard the\nvisitor walking restlessly backwards and forwards. I also heard him\ntalking to himself. I even thought I recognised the voice. Had I made a\nmistake? Was it not the doctor, but somebody else? Mr. Bruff, for\ninstance? No! an unerring instinct told me it was not Mr. Bruff.\nWhoever he was, he was still talking to himself. I parted the heavy\ncurtains the least little morsel in the world, and listened.\n\nThe words I heard were,  I ll do it today!  And the voice that spoke\nthem was Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite s.\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nMy hand dropped from the curtain. But don t suppose oh, don t\nsuppose that the dreadful embarrassment of my situation was the\nuppermost idea in my mind! So fervent still was the sisterly interest I\nfelt in Mr. Godfrey, that I never stopped to ask myself why he was not\nat the concert. No! I thought only of the words the startling\nwords which had just fallen from his lips. He would do it today. He had\nsaid, in a tone of terrible resolution, he would do it today. What, oh\nwhat, would he do? Something even more deplorably unworthy of him than\nwhat he had done already? Would he apostatise from the faith? Would he\nabandon us at the Mothers -Small-Clothes? Had we seen the last of his\nangelic smile in the committee-room? Had we heard the last of his\nunrivalled eloquence at Exeter Hall? I was so wrought up by the bare\nidea of such awful eventualities as these in connection with such a\nman, that I believe I should have rushed from my place of concealment,\nand implored him in the name of all the Ladies  Committees in London to\nexplain himself when I suddenly heard another voice in the room. It\npenetrated through the curtains; it was loud, it was bold, it was\nwanting in every female charm. The voice of Rachel Verinder.\n\n Why have you come up here, Godfrey?  she asked.  Why didn t you go\ninto the library? \n\nHe laughed softly, and answered,  Miss Clack is in the library. \n\n Clack in the library!  She instantly seated herself on the ottoman in\nthe back drawing-room.  You are quite right, Godfrey. We had much\nbetter stop here. \n\nI had been in a burning fever, a moment since, and in some doubt what\nto do next. I became extremely cold now, and felt no doubt whatever. To\nshow myself, after what I had heard, was impossible. To retreat except\ninto the fireplace was equally out of the question. A martyrdom was\nbefore me. In justice to myself, I noiselessly arranged the curtains so\nthat I could both see and hear. And then I met my martyrdom, with the\nspirit of a primitive Christian.\n\n Don t sit on the ottoman,  the young lady proceeded.  Bring a chair,\nGodfrey. I like people to be opposite to me when I talk to them. \n\nHe took the nearest seat. It was a low chair. He was very tall, and\nmany sizes too large for it. I never saw his legs to such disadvantage\nbefore.\n\n Well?  she went on.  What did you say to them? \n\n Just what you said, dear Rachel, to me. \n\n That mamma was not at all well today? And that I didn t quite like\nleaving her to go to the concert? \n\n Those were the words. They were grieved to lose you at the concert,\nbut they quite understood. All sent their love; and all expressed a\ncheering belief that Lady Verinder s indisposition would soon pass\naway. \n\n _You_ don t think it s serious, do you, Godfrey? \n\n Far from it! In a few days, I feel quite sure, all will be well\nagain. \n\n I think so, too. I was a little frightened at first, but I think so\ntoo. It was very kind to go and make my excuses for me to people who\nare almost strangers to you. But why not have gone with them to the\nconcert? It seems very hard that you should miss the music too. \n\n Don t say that, Rachel! If you only knew how much happier I am here,\nwith you! \n\nHe clasped his hands, and looked at her. In the position which he\noccupied, when he did that, he turned my way. Can words describe how I\nsickened when I noticed exactly the same pathetic expression on his\nface, which had charmed me when he was pleading for destitute millions\nof his fellow-creatures on the platform at Exeter Hall!\n\n It s hard to get over one s bad habits, Godfrey. But do try to get\nover the habit of paying compliments do, to please me. \n\n I never paid _you_ a compliment, Rachel, in my life. Successful love\nmay sometimes use the language of flattery, I admit. But hopeless love,\ndearest, always speaks the truth. \n\nHe drew his chair close, and took her hand, when he said  hopeless\nlove.  There was a momentary silence. He, who thrilled everybody, had\ndoubtless thrilled _her_. I thought I now understood the words which\nhad dropped from him when he was alone in the drawing-room,  I ll do it\ntoday.  Alas! the most rigid propriety could hardly have failed to\ndiscover that he was doing it now.\n\n Have you forgotten what we agreed on, Godfrey, when you spoke to me in\nthe country? We agreed that we were to be cousins, and nothing more. \n\n I break the agreement, Rachel, every time I see you. \n\n Then don t see me. \n\n Quite useless! I break the agreement every time I think of you. Oh,\nRachel! how kindly you told me, only the other day, that my place in\nyour estimation was a higher place than it had ever been yet! Am I mad\nto build the hopes I do on those dear words? Am I mad to dream of some\nfuture day when your heart may soften to me? Don t tell me so, if I am!\nLeave me my delusion, dearest! I must have _that_ to cherish, and to\ncomfort me, if I have nothing else! \n\nHis voice trembled, and he put his white handkerchief to his eyes.\nExeter Hall again! Nothing wanting to complete the parallel but the\naudience, the cheers, and the glass of water.\n\nEven _her_ obdurate nature was touched. I saw her lean a little nearer\nto him. I heard a new tone of interest in her next words.\n\n Are you really sure, Godfrey, that you are so fond of me as that? \n\n Sure! You know what I was, Rachel. Let me tell you what I am. I have\nlost every interest in life, but my interest in you. A transformation\nhas come over me which I can t account for, myself. Would you believe\nit? My charitable business is an unendurable nuisance to me; and when I\nsee a Ladies  Committee now, I wish myself at the uttermost ends of the\nearth! \n\nIf the annals of apostasy offer anything comparable to such a\ndeclaration as that, I can only say that the case in point is not\nproducible from the stores of _my_ reading. I thought of the\nMothers -Small-Clothes. I thought of the Sunday-Sweetheart-Supervision.\nI thought of the other Societies, too numerous to mention, all built up\non this man as on a tower of strength. I thought of the struggling\nFemale Boards, who, so to speak, drew the breath of their business-life\nthrough the nostrils of Mr. Godfrey of that same Mr. Godfrey who had\njust reviled our good work as a  nuisance and just declared that he\nwished he was at the uttermost ends of the earth when he found himself\nin our company! My young female friends will feel encouraged to\npersevere, when I mention that it tried even my discipline before I\ncould devour my own righteous indignation in silence. At the same time,\nit is only justice to myself to add, that I didn t lose a syllable of\nthe conversation. Rachel was the next to speak.\n\n You have made your confession,  she said.  I wonder whether it would\ncure you of your unhappy attachment to me, if I made mine? \n\nHe started. I confess I started too. He thought, and I thought, that\nshe was about to divulge the mystery of the Moonstone.\n\n Would you think, to look at me,  she went on,  that I am the\nwretchedest girl living? It s true, Godfrey. What greater wretchedness\ncan there be than to live degraded in your own estimation? That is my\nlife now. \n\n My dear Rachel! it s impossible you can have any reason to speak of\nyourself in that way! \n\n How do you know I have no reason? \n\n Can you ask me the question! I know it, because I know _you_. Your\nsilence, dearest, has never lowered you in the estimation of your true\nfriends. The disappearance of your precious birthday gift may seem\nstrange; your unexplained connection with that event may seem stranger\nstill \n\n Are you speaking of the Moonstone, Godfrey? \n\n I certainly thought that you referred \n\n I referred to nothing of the sort. I can hear of the loss of the\nMoonstone, let who will speak of it, without feeling degraded in my own\nestimation. If the story of the Diamond ever comes to light, it will be\nknown that I accepted a dreadful responsibility; it will be known that\nI involved myself in the keeping of a miserable secret but it will be\nas clear as the sun at noon-day that I did nothing mean! You have\nmisunderstood me, Godfrey. It s my fault for not speaking more plainly.\nCost me what it may, I will be plainer now. Suppose you were not in\nlove with me? Suppose you were in love with some other woman? \n\n Yes? \n\n Suppose you discovered that woman to be utterly unworthy of you?\nSuppose you were quite convinced that it was a disgrace to you to waste\nanother thought on her? Suppose the bare idea of ever marrying such a\nperson made your face burn, only with thinking of it. \n\n Yes? \n\n And, suppose, in spite of all that you couldn t tear her from your\nheart? Suppose the feeling she had roused in you (in the time when you\nbelieved in her) was not a feeling to be hidden? Suppose the love this\nwretch had inspired in you? Oh, how can I find words to say it in! How\ncan I make a _man_ understand that a feeling which horrifies me at\nmyself, can be a feeling that fascinates me at the same time? It s the\nbreath of my life, Godfrey, and it s the poison that kills me both in\none! Go away! I must be out of my mind to talk as I am talking now. No!\nyou mustn t leave me you mustn t carry away a wrong impression. I must\nsay what is to be said in my own defence. Mind this! _He_ doesn t\nknow he never will know, what I have told _you_. I will never see him I\ndon t care what happens I will never, never, never see him again! Don t\nask me his name! Don t ask me any more! Let s change the subject. Are\nyou doctor enough, Godfrey, to tell me why I feel as if I was stifling\nfor want of breath? Is there a form of hysterics that bursts into words\ninstead of tears? I dare say! What does it matter? You will get over\nany trouble I have caused you, easily enough now. I have dropped to my\nright place in your estimation, haven t I? Don t notice me! Don t pity\nme! For God s sake, go away! \n\nShe turned round on a sudden, and beat her hands wildly on the back of\nthe ottoman. Her head dropped on the cushions; and she burst out\ncrying. Before I had time to feel shocked, at this, I was horror-struck\nby an entirely unexpected proceeding on the part of Mr. Godfrey. Will\nit be credited that he fell on his knees at her feet? on _both_ knees,\nI solemnly declare! May modesty mention that he put his arms round her\nnext? And may reluctant admiration acknowledge that he electrified her\nwith two words?\n\n Noble creature! \n\nNo more than that! But he did it with one of the bursts which have made\nhis fame as a public speaker. She sat, either quite thunderstruck, or\nquite fascinated I don t know which without even making an effort to\nput his arms back where his arms ought to have been. As for me, my\nsense of propriety was completely bewildered. I was so painfully\nuncertain whether it was my first duty to close my eyes, or to stop my\nears, that I did neither. I attribute my being still able to hold the\ncurtain in the right position for looking and listening, entirely to\nsuppressed hysterics. In suppressed hysterics, it is admitted, even by\nthe doctors, that one must hold something.\n\n Yes,  he said, with all the fascination of his evangelical voice and\nmanner,  you are a noble creature! A woman who can speak the truth, for\nthe truth s own sake a woman who will sacrifice her pride, rather than\nsacrifice an honest man who loves her is the most priceless of all\ntreasures. When such a woman marries, if her husband only wins her\nesteem and regard, he wins enough to ennoble his whole life. You have\nspoken, dearest, of your place in my estimation. Judge what that place\nis when I implore you on my knees, to let the cure of your poor wounded\nheart be my care. Rachel! will you honour me, will you bless me, by\nbeing my wife? \n\nBy this time I should certainly have decided on stopping my ears, if\nRachel had not encouraged me to keep them open, by answering him in the\nfirst sensible words I had ever heard fall from her lips.\n\n Godfrey!  she said,  you must be mad! \n\n I never spoke more reasonably, dearest in your interests, as well as\nin mine. Look for a moment to the future. Is your happiness to be\nsacrificed to a man who has never known how you feel towards him, and\nwhom you are resolved never to see again? Is it not your duty to\nyourself to forget this ill-fated attachment? and is forgetfulness to\nbe found in the life you are leading now? You have tried that life, and\nyou are wearying of it already. Surround yourself with nobler interests\nthan the wretched interests of the world. A heart that loves and\nhonours you; a home whose peaceful claims and happy duties win gently\non you day by day try the consolation, Rachel, which is to be found\n_there!_ I don t ask for your love I will be content with your\naffection and regard. Let the rest be left, confidently left, to your\nhusband s devotion, and to Time that heals even wounds as deep as\nyours. \n\nShe began to yield already. Oh, what a bringing-up she must have had!\nOh, how differently I should have acted in her place!\n\n Don t tempt me, Godfrey,  she said;  I am wretched enough and reckless\nenough as it is. Don t tempt me to be more wretched and more wreckless\nstill! \n\n One question, Rachel. Have you any personal objection to me? \n\n I! I always liked you. After what you have just said to me, I should\nbe insensible indeed if I didn t respect and admire you as well. \n\n Do you know many wives, my dear Rachel, who respect and admire their\nhusbands? And yet they and their husbands get on very well. How many\nbrides go to the altar with hearts that would bear inspection by the\nmen who take them there? And yet it doesn t end unhappily somehow or\nother the nuptial establishment jogs on. The truth is, that women try\nmarriage as a Refuge, far more numerously than they are willing to\nadmit; and, what is more, they find that marriage has justified their\nconfidence in it. Look at your own case once again. At your age, and\nwith your attractions, is it possible for you to sentence yourself to a\nsingle life? Trust my knowledge of the world nothing is less possible.\nIt is merely a question of time. You may marry some other man, some\nyears hence. Or you may marry the man, dearest, who is now at your\nfeet, and who prizes your respect and admiration above the love of any\nother woman on the face of the earth. \n\n Gently, Godfrey! you are putting something into my head which I never\nthought of before. You are tempting me with a new prospect, when all my\nother prospects are closed before me. I tell you again, I am miserable\nenough and desperate enough, if you say another word, to marry you on\nyour own terms. Take the warning, and go! \n\n I won t even rise from my knees, till you have said yes! \n\n If I say yes you will repent, and I shall repent, when it is too\nlate! \n\n We shall both bless the day, darling, when I pressed, and when you\nyielded. \n\n Do you feel as confidently as you speak? \n\n You shall judge for yourself. I speak from what I have seen in my own\nfamily. Tell me what you think of our household at Frizinghall. Do my\nfather and mother live unhappily together? \n\n Far from it so far as I can see. \n\n When my mother was a girl, Rachel (it is no secret in the family), she\nhad loved as you love she had given her heart to a man who was unworthy\nof her. She married my father, respecting him, admiring him, but\nnothing more. Your own eyes have seen the result. Is there no\nencouragement in it for you and for me? *\n\n* See Betteredge s Narrative, chapter viii.\n\n\n You won t hurry me, Godfrey? \n\n My time shall be yours. \n\n You won t ask me for more than I can give? \n\n My angel! I only ask you to give me yourself. \n\n Take me! \n\nIn those two words, she accepted him!\n\nHe had another burst a burst of unholy rapture this time. He drew her\nnearer and nearer to him till her face touched his; and then No! I\nreally cannot prevail upon myself to carry this shocking disclosure any\nfarther. Let me only say, that I tried to close my eyes before it\nhappened, and that I was just one moment too late. I had calculated,\nyou see, on her resisting. She submitted. To every right-feeling person\nof my own sex, volumes could say no more.\n\nEven my innocence in such matters began to see its way to the end of\nthe interview now. They understood each other so thoroughly by this\ntime, that I fully expected to see them walk off together, arm in arm,\nto be married. There appeared, however, judging by Mr. Godfrey s next\nwords, to be one more trifling formality which it was necessary to\nobserve. He seated himself unforbidden this time on the ottoman by her\nside.  Shall I speak to your dear mother?  he asked.  Or will you? \n\nShe declined both alternatives.\n\n Let my mother hear nothing from either of us, until she is better. I\nwish it to be kept a secret for the present, Godfrey. Go now, and come\nback this evening. We have been here alone together quite long enough. \n\nShe rose, and, in rising, looked for the first time towards the little\nroom in which my martyrdom was going on.\n\n Who has drawn those curtains?  she exclaimed.\n\n The room is close enough, as it is, without keeping the air out of it\nin that way. \n\nShe advanced to the curtains. At the moment when she laid her hand on\nthem at the moment when the discovery of me appeared to be quite\ninevitable the voice of the fresh-coloured young footman, on the\nstairs, suddenly suspended any further proceedings on her side or on\nmine. It was unmistakably the voice of a man in great alarm.\n\n Miss Rachel!  he called out,  where are you, Miss Rachel? \n\nShe sprang back from the curtains, and ran to the door.\n\nThe footman came just inside the room. His ruddy colour was all gone.\nHe said,  Please to come downstairs, Miss! My lady has fainted, and we\ncan t bring her to again. \n\nIn a moment more I was alone, and free to go downstairs in my turn,\nquite unobserved.\n\nMr. Godfrey passed me in the hall, hurrying out, to fetch the doctor.\n Go in, and help them!  he said, pointing to the room. I found Rachel\non her knees by the sofa, with her mother s head on her bosom. One look\nat my aunt s face (knowing what I knew) was enough to warn me of the\ndreadful truth. I kept my thoughts to myself till the doctor came in.\nIt was not long before he arrived. He began by sending Rachel out of\nthe room and then he told the rest of us that Lady Verinder was no\nmore. Serious persons, in search of proofs of hardened scepticism, may\nbe interested in hearing that he showed no signs of remorse when he\nlooked at Me.\n\nAt a later hour I peeped into the breakfast-room, and the library. My\naunt had died without opening one of the letters which I had addressed\nto her. I was so shocked at this, that it never occurred to me, until\nsome days afterwards, that she had also died without giving me my\nlittle legacy.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n(1.)  Miss Clack presents her compliments to Mr. Franklin Blake; and,\nin sending him the fifth chapter of her humble narrative, begs to say\nthat she feels quite unequal to enlarge as she could wish on an event\nso awful, under the circumstances, as Lady Verinder s death. She has,\ntherefore, attached to her own manuscripts, copious Extracts from\nprecious publications in her possession, all bearing on this terrible\nsubject. And may those Extracts (Miss Clack fervently hopes) sound as\nthe blast of a trumpet in the ears of her respected kinsman, Mr.\nFranklin Blake. \n\n(2.)  Mr. Franklin Blake presents his compliments to Miss Clack, and\nbegs to thank her for the fifth chapter of her narrative. In returning\nthe extracts sent with it, he will refrain from mentioning any personal\nobjection which he may entertain to this species of literature, and\nwill merely say that the proposed additions to the manuscript are not\nnecessary to the fulfilment of the purpose that he has in view. \n\n(3.)  Miss Clack begs to acknowledge the return of her Extracts. She\naffectionately reminds Mr. Franklin Blake that she is a Christian, and\nthat it is, therefore, quite impossible for him to offend her. Miss C.\npersists in feeling the deepest interest in Mr. Blake, and pledges\nherself, on the first occasion when sickness may lay him low, to offer\nhim the use of her Extracts for the second time. In the meanwhile she\nwould be glad to know, before beginning the final chapters of her\nnarrative, whether she may be permitted to make her humble contribution\ncomplete, by availing herself of the light which later discoveries have\nthrown on the mystery of the Moonstone. \n\n(4.)  Mr. Franklin Blake is sorry to disappoint Miss Clack. He can only\nrepeat the instructions which he had the honour of giving her when she\nbegan her narrative. She is requested to limit herself to her own\nindividual experience of persons and events, as recorded in her diary.\nLater discoveries she will be good enough to leave to the pens of those\npersons who can write in the capacity of actual witnesses. \n\n(5.)  Miss Clack is extremely sorry to trouble Mr. Franklin Blake with\nanother letter. Her Extracts have been returned, and the expression of\nher matured views on the subject of the Moonstone has been forbidden.\nMiss Clack is painfully conscious that she ought (in the worldly\nphrase) to feel herself put down. But, no Miss C. has learnt\nPerseverance in the School of Adversity. Her object in writing is to\nknow whether Mr. Blake (who prohibits everything else) prohibits the\nappearance of the present correspondence in Miss Clack s narrative?\nSome explanation of the position in which Mr. Blake s interference has\nplaced her as an authoress, seems due on the ground of common justice.\nAnd Miss Clack, on her side, is most anxious that her letters should be\nproduced to speak for themselves. \n\n(6.)  Mr. Franklin Blake agrees to Miss Clack s proposal, on the\nunderstanding that she will kindly consider this intimation of his\nconsent as closing the correspondence between them. \n\n(7.)  Miss Clack feels it an act of Christian duty (before the\ncorrespondence closes) to inform Mr. Franklin Blake that his last\nletter evidently intended to offend her has not succeeded in\naccomplishing the object of the writer. She affectionately requests Mr.\nBlake to retire to the privacy of his own room, and to consider with\nhimself whether the training which can thus elevate a poor weak woman\nabove the reach of insult, be not worthy of greater admiration than he\nis now disposed to feel for it. On being favoured with an intimation to\nthat effect, Miss C. solemnly pledges herself to send back the complete\nseries of her Extracts to Mr. Franklin Blake. \n\n[To this letter no answer was received. Comment is needless.\n\n(Signed) DRUSILLA CLACK.]\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nThe foregoing correspondence will sufficiently explain why no choice is\nleft to me but to pass over Lady Verinder s death with the simple\nannouncement of the fact which ends my fifth chapter.\n\nKeeping myself for the future strictly within the limits of my own\npersonal experience, I have next to relate that a month elapsed from\nthe time of my aunt s decease before Rachel Verinder and I met again.\nThat meeting was the occasion of my spending a few days under the same\nroof with her. In the course of my visit, something happened, relative\nto her marriage-engagement with Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, which is\nimportant enough to require special notice in these pages. When this\nlast of many painful family circumstances has been disclosed, my task\nwill be completed; for I shall then have told all that I know, as an\nactual (and most unwilling) witness of events.\n\nMy aunt s remains were removed from London, and were buried in the\nlittle cemetery attached to the church in her own park. I was invited\nto the funeral with the rest of the family. But it was impossible (with\nmy religious views) to rouse myself in a few days only from the shock\nwhich this death had caused me. I was informed, moreover, that the\nrector of Frizinghall was to read the service. Having myself in past\ntimes seen this clerical castaway making one of the players at Lady\nVerinder s whist-table, I doubt, even if I had been fit to travel,\nwhether I should have felt justified in attending the ceremony.\n\nLady Verinder s death left her daughter under the care of her\nbrother-in-law, Mr. Ablewhite the elder. He was appointed guardian by\nthe will, until his niece married, or came of age. Under these\ncircumstances, Mr. Godfrey informed his father, I suppose, of the new\nrelation in which he stood towards Rachel. At any rate, in ten days\nfrom my aunt s death, the secret of the marriage-engagement was no\nsecret at all within the circle of the family, and the grand question\nfor Mr. Ablewhite senior another confirmed castaway! was how to make\nhimself and his authority most agreeable to the wealthy young lady who\nwas going to marry his son.\n\nRachel gave him some trouble at the outset, about the choice of a place\nin which she could be prevailed upon to reside. The house in Montagu\nSquare was associated with the calamity of her mother s death. The\nhouse in Yorkshire was associated with the scandalous affair of the\nlost Moonstone. Her guardian s own residence at Frizinghall was open to\nneither of these objections. But Rachel s presence in it, after her\nrecent bereavement, operated as a check on the gaieties of her cousins,\nthe Miss Ablewhites and she herself requested that her visit might be\ndeferred to a more favourable opportunity. It ended in a proposal,\nemanating from old Mr. Ablewhite, to try a furnished house at Brighton.\nHis wife, an invalid daughter, and Rachel were to inhabit it together,\nand were to expect him to join them later in the season. They would see\nno society but a few old friends, and they would have his son Godfrey,\ntravelling backwards and forwards by the London train, always at their\ndisposal.\n\nI describe this aimless flitting about from one place of residence to\nanother this insatiate restlessness of body and appalling stagnation of\nsoul merely with the view to arriving at results. The event which\n(under Providence) proved to be the means of bringing Rachel Verinder\nand myself together again, was no other than the hiring of the house at\nBrighton.\n\nMy Aunt Ablewhite is a large, silent, fair-complexioned woman, with one\nnoteworthy point in her character. From the hour of her birth she has\nnever been known to do anything for herself. She has gone through life,\naccepting everybody s help, and adopting everybody s opinions. A more\nhopeless person, in a spiritual point of view, I have never met\nwith there is absolutely, in this perplexing case, no obstructive\nmaterial to work upon. Aunt Ablewhite would listen to the Grand Lama of\nThibet exactly as she listens to Me, and would reflect his views quite\nas readily as she reflects mine. She found the furnished house at\nBrighton by stopping at an hotel in London, composing herself on a\nsofa, and sending for her son. She discovered the necessary servants by\nbreakfasting in bed one morning (still at the hotel), and giving her\nmaid a holiday on condition that the girl  would begin enjoying herself\nby fetching Miss Clack.  I found her placidly fanning herself in her\ndressing-gown at eleven o clock.  Drusilla, dear, I want some servants.\nYou are so clever please get them for me.  I looked round the untidy\nroom. The church-bells were going for a week-day service; they\nsuggested a word of affectionate remonstrance on my part.  Oh, aunt!  I\nsaid sadly.  Is _this_ worthy of a Christian Englishwoman? Is the\npassage from time to eternity to be made in _this_ manner?  My aunt\nanswered,  I ll put on my gown, Drusilla, if you will be kind enough to\nhelp me.  What was to be said after that? I have done wonders with\nmurderesses I have never advanced an inch with Aunt Ablewhite.  Where\nis the list,  I asked,  of the servants whom you require?  My aunt\nshook her head; she hadn t even energy enough to keep the list.  Rachel\nhas got it, dear,  she said,  in the next room.  I went into the next\nroom, and so saw Rachel again for the first time since we had parted in\nMontagu Square.\n\nShe looked pitiably small and thin in her deep mourning. If I attached\nany serious importance to such a perishable trifle as personal\nappearance, I might be inclined to add that hers was one of those\nunfortunate complexions which always suffer when not relieved by a\nborder of white next the skin. But what are our complexions and our\nlooks? Hindrances and pitfalls, dear girls, which beset us on our way\nto higher things! Greatly to my surprise, Rachel rose when I entered\nthe room, and came forward to meet me with outstretched hand.\n\n I am glad to see you,  she said.  Drusilla, I have been in the habit\nof speaking very foolishly and very rudely to you, on former occasions.\nI beg your pardon. I hope you will forgive me. \n\nMy face, I suppose, betrayed the astonishment I felt at this. She\ncoloured up for a moment, and then proceeded to explain herself.\n\n In my poor mother s lifetime,  she went on,  her friends were not\nalways my friends, too. Now I have lost her, my heart turns for comfort\nto the people she liked. She liked you. Try to be friends with me,\nDrusilla, if you can. \n\nTo any rightly-constituted mind, the motive thus acknowledged was\nsimply shocking. Here in Christian England was a young woman in a state\nof bereavement, with so little idea of where to look for true comfort,\nthat she actually expected to find it among her mother s friends! Here\nwas a relative of mine, awakened to a sense of her shortcomings towards\nothers, under the influence, not of conviction and duty, but of\nsentiment and impulse! Most deplorable to think of but, still,\nsuggestive of something hopeful, to a person of my experience in plying\nthe good work. There could be no harm, I thought, in ascertaining the\nextent of the change which the loss of her mother had wrought in\nRachel s character. I decided, as a useful test, to probe her on the\nsubject of her marriage-engagement to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.\n\nHaving first met her advances with all possible cordiality, I sat by\nher on the sofa, at her own request. We discussed family affairs and\nfuture plans always excepting that one future plan which was to end in\nher marriage. Try as I might to turn the conversation that way, she\nresolutely declined to take the hint. Any open reference to the\nquestion, on my part, would have been premature at this early stage of\nour reconciliation. Besides, I had discovered all I wanted to know. She\nwas no longer the reckless, defiant creature whom I had heard and seen,\non the occasion of my martyrdom in Montagu Square. This was, of itself,\nenough to encourage me to take her future conversion in hand beginning\nwith a few words of earnest warning directed against the hasty\nformation of the marriage tie, and so getting on to higher things.\nLooking at her, now, with this new interest and calling to mind the\nheadlong suddenness with which she had met Mr. Godfrey s matrimonial\nviews I felt the solemn duty of interfering with a fervour which\nassured me that I should achieve no common results. Rapidity of\nproceeding was, as I believed, of importance in this case. I went back\nat once to the question of the servants wanted for the furnished house.\n\n Where is the list, dear? \n\nRachel produced it.\n\n Cook, kitchen-maid, housemaid, and footman,  I read.  My dear Rachel,\nthese servants are only wanted for a term the term during which your\nguardian has taken the house. We shall have great difficulty in finding\npersons of character and capacity to accept a temporary engagement of\nthat sort, if we try in London. Has the house in Brighton been found\nyet? \n\n Yes. Godfrey has taken it; and persons in the house wanted him to hire\nthem as servants. He thought they would hardly do for us, and came back\nhaving settled nothing. \n\n And you have no experience yourself in these matters, Rachel? \n\n None whatever. \n\n And Aunt Ablewhite won t exert herself? \n\n No, poor dear. Don t blame her, Drusilla. I think she is the only\nreally happy woman I have ever met with. \n\n There are degrees in happiness, darling. We must have a little talk,\nsome day, on that subject. In the meantime I will undertake to meet the\ndifficulty about the servants. Your aunt will write a letter to the\npeople of the house \n\n She will sign a letter, if I write it for her, which comes to the same\nthing. \n\n Quite the same thing. I shall get the letter, and I will go to\nBrighton tomorrow. \n\n How extremely kind of you! We will join you as soon as you are ready\nfor us. And you will stay, I hope, as _my_ guest. Brighton is so\nlively; you are sure to enjoy it. \n\nIn those words the invitation was given, and the glorious prospect of\ninterference was opened before me.\n\nIt was then the middle of the week. By Saturday afternoon the house was\nready for them. In that short interval I had sifted, not the characters\nonly, but the religious views as well, of all the disengaged servants\nwho applied to me, and had succeeded in making a selection which my\nconscience approved. I also discovered, and called on two serious\nfriends of mine, residents in the town, to whom I knew I could confide\nthe pious object which had brought me to Brighton. One of them a\nclerical friend kindly helped me to take sittings for our little party\nin the church in which he himself ministered. The other a single lady,\nlike myself placed the resources of her library (composed throughout of\nprecious publications) entirely at my disposal. I borrowed half-a-dozen\nworks, all carefully chosen with a view to Rachel. When these had been\njudiciously distributed in the various rooms she would be likely to\noccupy, I considered that my preparations were complete. Sound doctrine\nin the servants who waited on her; sound doctrine in the minister who\npreached to her; sound doctrine in the books that lay on her table such\nwas the treble welcome which my zeal had prepared for the motherless\ngirl! A heavenly composure filled my mind, on that Saturday afternoon,\nas I sat at the window waiting the arrival of my relatives. The giddy\nthrong passed and repassed before my eyes. Alas! how many of them felt\nmy exquisite sense of duty done? An awful question. Let us not pursue\nit.\n\nBetween six and seven the travellers arrived. To my indescribable\nsurprise, they were escorted, not by Mr. Godfrey (as I had\nanticipated), but by the lawyer, Mr. Bruff.\n\n How do you do, Miss Clack?  he said.  I mean to stay this time. \n\nThat reference to the occasion on which I had obliged him to postpone\nhis business to mine, when we were both visiting in Montagu Square,\nsatisfied me that the old worldling had come to Brighton with some\nobject of his own in view. I had prepared quite a little Paradise for\nmy beloved Rachel and here was the Serpent already!\n\n Godfrey was very much vexed, Drusilla, not to be able to come with\nus,  said my Aunt Ablewhite.  There was something in the way which kept\nhim in town. Mr. Bruff volunteered to take his place, and make a\nholiday of it till Monday morning. By-the-bye, Mr. Bruff, I m ordered\nto take exercise, and I don t like it. That,  added Aunt Ablewhite,\npointing out of window to an invalid going by in a chair on wheels,\ndrawn by a man,  is my idea of exercise. If it s air you want, you get\nit in your chair. And if it s fatigue you want, I am sure it s fatigue\nenough to look at the man. \n\nRachel stood silent, at a window by herself, with her eyes fixed on the\nsea.\n\n Tired, love?  I inquired.\n\n No. Only a little out of spirits,  she answered.  I have often seen\nthe sea, on our Yorkshire coast, with that light on it. And I was\nthinking, Drusilla, of the days that can never come again. \n\nMr. Bruff remained to dinner, and stayed through the evening. The more\nI saw of him, the more certain I felt that he had some private end to\nserve in coming to Brighton. I watched him carefully. He maintained the\nsame appearance of ease, and talked the same godless gossip, hour after\nhour, until it was time to take leave. As he shook hands with Rachel, I\ncaught his hard and cunning eyes resting on her for a moment with a\npeculiar interest and attention. She was plainly concerned in the\nobject that he had in view. He said nothing out of the common to her or\nto anyone on leaving. He invited himself to luncheon the next day, and\nthen he went away to his hotel.\n\nIt was impossible the next morning to get my Aunt Ablewhite out of her\ndressing-gown in time for church. Her invalid daughter (suffering from\nnothing, in my opinion, but incurable laziness, inherited from her\nmother) announced that she meant to remain in bed for the day. Rachel\nand I went alone together to church. A magnificent sermon was preached\nby my gifted friend on the heathen indifference of the world to the\nsinfulness of little sins. For more than an hour his eloquence\n(assisted by his glorious voice) thundered through the sacred edifice.\nI said to Rachel, when we came out,  Has it found its way to your\nheart, dear?  And she answered,  No; it has only made my head ache. \nThis might have been discouraging to some people; but, once embarked on\na career of manifest usefulness, nothing discourages Me.\n\nWe found Aunt Ablewhite and Mr. Bruff at luncheon. When Rachel declined\neating anything, and gave as a reason for it that she was suffering\nfrom a headache, the lawyer s cunning instantly saw, and seized, the\nchance that she had given him.\n\n There is only one remedy for a headache,  said this horrible old man.\n A walk, Miss Rachel, is the thing to cure you. I am entirely at your\nservice, if you will honour me by accepting my arm. \n\n With the greatest pleasure. A walk is the very thing I was longing\nfor. \n\n It s past two,  I gently suggested.  And the afternoon service,\nRachel, begins at three. \n\n How can you expect me to go to church again,  she asked, petulantly,\n with such a headache as mine? \n\nMr. Bruff officiously opened the door for her. In another minute more\nthey were both out of the house. I don t know when I have felt the\nsolemn duty of interfering so strongly as I felt it at that moment. But\nwhat was to be done? Nothing was to be done but to interfere at the\nfirst opportunity, later in the day.\n\nOn my return from the afternoon service I found that they had just got\nback. One look at them told me that the lawyer had said what he wanted\nto say. I had never before seen Rachel so silent and so thoughtful. I\nhad never before seen Mr. Bruff pay her such devoted attention, and\nlook at her with such marked respect. He had (or pretended that he had)\nan engagement to dinner that day and he took an early leave of us all;\nintending to go back to London by the first train the next morning.\n\n Are you sure of your own resolution?  he said to Rachel at the door.\n\n Quite sure,  she answered and so they parted.\n\nThe moment his back was turned, Rachel withdrew to her own room. She\nnever appeared at dinner. Her maid (the person with the cap-ribbons)\nwas sent downstairs to announce that her headache had returned. I ran\nup to her and made all sorts of sisterly offers through the door. It\nwas locked, and she kept it locked. Plenty of obstructive material to\nwork on here! I felt greatly cheered and stimulated by her locking the\ndoor.\n\nWhen her cup of tea went up to her the next morning, I followed it in.\nI sat by her bedside and said a few earnest words. She listened with\nlanguid civility. I noticed my serious friend s precious publications\nhuddled together on a table in a corner. Had she chanced to look into\nthem? I asked. Yes and they had not interested her. Would she allow me\nto read a few passages of the deepest interest, which had probably\nescaped her eye? No, not now she had other things to think of. She gave\nthese answers, with her attention apparently absorbed in folding and\nrefolding the frilling on her nightgown. It was plainly necessary to\nrouse her by some reference to those worldly interests which she still\nhad at heart.\n\n Do you know, love,  I said,  I had an odd fancy, yesterday, about Mr.\nBruff? I thought, when I saw you after your walk with him, that he had\nbeen telling you some bad news. \n\nHer fingers dropped from the frilling of her nightgown, and her fierce\nblack eyes flashed at me.\n\n Quite the contrary!  she said.  It was news I was interested in\nhearing and I am deeply indebted to Mr. Bruff for telling me of it. \n\n Yes?  I said, in a tone of gentle interest.\n\nHer fingers went back to the frilling, and she turned her head sullenly\naway from me. I had been met in this manner, in the course of plying\nthe good work, hundreds of times. She merely stimulated me to try\nagain. In my dauntless zeal for her welfare, I ran the great risk, and\nopenly alluded to her marriage engagement.\n\n News you were interested in hearing?  I repeated.  I suppose, my dear\nRachel, that must be news of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite? \n\nShe started up in the bed, and turned deadly pale. It was evidently on\nthe tip of her tongue to retort on me with the unbridled insolence of\nformer times. She checked herself laid her head back on the\npillow considered a minute and then answered in these remarkable words:\n\n _I shall never marry Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite._ \n\nIt was my turn to start at that.\n\n What can you possibly mean?  I exclaimed.  The marriage is considered\nby the whole family as a settled thing! \n\n Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite is expected here today,  she said doggedly.\n Wait till he comes and you will see. \n\n But my dear Rachel \n\nShe rang the bell at the head of her bed. The person with the\ncap-ribbons appeared.\n\n Penelope! my bath. \n\nLet me give her her due. In the state of my feelings at that moment, I\ndo sincerely believe that she had hit on the only possible way of\nforcing me to leave the room.\n\nBy the mere worldly mind my position towards Rachel might have been\nviewed as presenting difficulties of no ordinary kind. I had reckoned\non leading her to higher things by means of a little earnest\nexhortation on the subject of her marriage. And now, if she was to be\nbelieved, no such event as her marriage was to take place at all. But\nah, my friends! a working Christian of my experience (with an\nevangelising prospect before her) takes broader views than these.\nSupposing Rachel really broke off the marriage, on which the\nAblewhites, father and son, counted as a settled thing, what would be\nthe result? It could only end, if she held firm, in an exchanging of\nhard words and bitter accusations on both sides. And what would be the\neffect on Rachel when the stormy interview was over? A salutary moral\ndepression would be the effect. Her pride would be exhausted, her\nstubbornness would be exhausted, by the resolute resistance which it\nwas in her character to make under the circumstances. She would turn\nfor sympathy to the nearest person who had sympathy to offer. And I was\nthat nearest person brimful of comfort, charged to overflowing with\nseasonable and reviving words. Never had the evangelising prospect\nlooked brighter, to _my_ eyes, than it looked now.\n\nShe came down to breakfast, but she ate nothing, and hardly uttered a\nword.\n\nAfter breakfast she wandered listlessly from room to room then suddenly\nroused herself, and opened the piano. The music she selected to play\nwas of the most scandalously profane sort, associated with performances\non the stage which it curdles one s blood to think of. It would have\nbeen premature to interfere with her at such a time as this. I\nprivately ascertained the hour at which Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was\nexpected, and then I escaped the music by leaving the house.\n\nBeing out alone, I took the opportunity of calling upon my two resident\nfriends. It was an indescribable luxury to find myself indulging in\nearnest conversation with serious persons. Infinitely encouraged and\nrefreshed, I turned my steps back again to the house, in excellent time\nto await the arrival of our expected visitor. I entered the\ndining-room, always empty at that hour of the day, and found myself\nface to face with Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite!\n\nHe made no attempt to fly the place. Quite the contrary. He advanced to\nmeet me with the utmost eagerness.\n\n Dear Miss Clack, I have been only waiting to see _you!_ Chance set me\nfree of my London engagements today sooner than I had expected, and I\nhave got here, in consequence, earlier than my appointed time. \n\nNot the slightest embarrassment encumbered his explanation, though this\nwas his first meeting with me after the scene in Montagu Square. He was\nnot aware, it is true, of my having been a witness of that scene. But\nhe knew, on the other hand, that my attendances at the Mothers \nSmall-Clothes, and my relations with friends attached to other\ncharities, must have informed me of his shameless neglect of his Ladies\nand of his Poor. And yet there he was before me, in full possession of\nhis charming voice and his irresistible smile!\n\n Have you seen Rachel yet?  I asked.\n\nHe sighed gently, and took me by the hand. I should certainly have\nsnatched my hand away, if the manner in which he gave his answer had\nnot paralysed me with astonishment.\n\n I have seen Rachel,  he said with perfect tranquillity.  You are\naware, dear friend, that she was engaged to me? Well, she has taken a\nsudden resolution to break the engagement. Reflection has convinced her\nthat she will best consult her welfare and mine by retracting a rash\npromise, and leaving me free to make some happier choice elsewhere.\nThat is the only reason she will give, and the only answer she will\nmake to every question that I can ask of her. \n\n What have you done on your side?  I inquired.  Have you submitted. \n\n Yes,  he said with the most unruffled composure,  I have submitted. \n\nHis conduct, under the circumstances, was so utterly inconceivable,\nthat I stood bewildered with my hand in his. It is a piece of rudeness\nto stare at anybody, and it is an act of indelicacy to stare at a\ngentleman. I committed both those improprieties. And I said, as if in a\ndream,  What does it mean? \n\n Permit me to tell you,  he replied.  And suppose we sit down? \n\nHe led me to a chair. I have an indistinct remembrance that he was very\naffectionate. I don t think he put his arm round my waist to support\nme but I am not sure. I was quite helpless, and his ways with ladies\nwere very endearing. At any rate, we sat down. I can answer for that,\nif I can answer for nothing more.\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n I have lost a beautiful girl, an excellent social position, and a\nhandsome income,  Mr. Godfrey began;  and I have submitted to it\nwithout a struggle. What can be the motive for such extraordinary\nconduct as that? My precious friend, there is no motive. \n\n No motive?  I repeated.\n\n Let me appeal, my dear Miss Clack, to your experience of children,  he\nwent on.  A child pursues a certain course of conduct. You are greatly\nstruck by it, and you attempt to get at the motive. The dear little\nthing is incapable of telling you its motive. You might as well ask the\ngrass why it grows, or the birds why they sing. Well! in this matter, I\nam like the dear little thing like the grass like the birds. I don t\nknow why I made a proposal of marriage to Miss Verinder. I don t know\nwhy I have shamefully neglected my dear Ladies. I don t know why I have\napostatised from the Mothers  Small-Clothes. You say to the child, Why\nhave you been naughty? And the little angel puts its finger into its\nmouth, and doesn t know. My case exactly, Miss Clack! I couldn t\nconfess it to anybody else. I feel impelled to confess it to _you!_ \n\nI began to recover myself. A mental problem was involved here. I am\ndeeply interested in mental problems and I am not, it is thought,\nwithout some skill in solving them.\n\n Best of friends, exert your intellect, and help me,  he proceeded.\n Tell me why does a time come when these matrimonial proceedings of\nmine begin to look like something done in a dream? Why does it suddenly\noccur to me that my true happiness is in helping my dear Ladies, in\ngoing my modest round of useful work, in saying my few earnest words\nwhen called on by my Chairman? What do I want with a position? I have\ngot a position! What do I want with an income? I can pay for my bread\nand cheese, and my nice little lodging, and my two coats a year. What\ndo I want with Miss Verinder? She has told me with her own lips (this,\ndear lady, is between ourselves) that she loves another man, and that\nher only idea in marrying me is to try and put that other man out of\nher head. What a horrid union is this! Oh, dear me, what a horrid union\nis this! Such are my reflections, Miss Clack, on my way to Brighton. I\napproach Rachel with the feeling of a criminal who is going to receive\nhis sentence. When I find that she has changed her mind too when I hear\nher propose to break the engagement I experience (there is no sort of\ndoubt about it) a most overpowering sense of relief. A month ago I was\npressing her rapturously to my bosom. An hour ago, the happiness of\nknowing that I shall never press her again, intoxicates me like strong\nliquor. The thing seems impossible the thing can t be. And yet there\nare the facts, as I had the honour of stating them when we first sat\ndown together in these two chairs. I have lost a beautiful girl, an\nexcellent social position, and a handsome income; and I have submitted\nto it without a struggle. Can _you_ account for it, dear friend? It s\nquite beyond _me_. \n\nHis magnificent head sank on his breast, and he gave up his own mental\nproblem in despair.\n\nI was deeply touched. The case (if I may speak as a spiritual\nphysician) was now quite plain to me. It is no uncommon event, in the\nexperience of us all, to see the possessors of exalted ability\noccasionally humbled to the level of the most poorly-gifted people\nabout them. The object, no doubt, in the wise economy of Providence, is\nto remind greatness that it is mortal and that the power which has\nconferred it can also take it away. It was now to my mind easy to\ndiscern one of these salutary humiliations in the deplorable\nproceedings on dear Mr. Godfrey s part, of which I had been the unseen\nwitness. And it was equally easy to recognise the welcome reappearance\nof his own finer nature in the horror with which he recoiled from the\nidea of a marriage with Rachel, and in the charming eagerness which he\nshowed to return to his Ladies and his Poor.\n\nI put this view before him in a few simple and sisterly words. His joy\nwas beautiful to see. He compared himself, as I went on, to a lost man\nemerging from the darkness into the light. When I answered for a loving\nreception of him at the Mothers  Small-Clothes, the grateful heart of\nour Christian Hero overflowed. He pressed my hands alternately to his\nlips. Overwhelmed by the exquisite triumph of having got him back among\nus, I let him do what he liked with my hands. I closed my eyes. I felt\nmy head, in an ecstasy of spiritual self-forgetfulness, sinking on his\nshoulder. In a moment more I should certainly have swooned away in his\narms, but for an interruption from the outer world, which brought me to\nmyself again. A horrid rattling of knives and forks sounded outside the\ndoor, and the footman came in to lay the table for luncheon.\n\nMr. Godfrey started up, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.\n\n How time flies with _you!_  he exclaimed.  I shall barely catch the\ntrain. \n\nI ventured on asking why he was in such a hurry to get back to town.\nHis answer reminded me of family difficulties that were still to be\nreconciled, and of family disagreements that were yet to come.\n\n I have heard from my father,  he said.  Business obliges him to leave\nFrizinghall for London today, and he proposes coming on here, either\nthis evening or tomorrow. I must tell him what has happened between\nRachel and me. His heart is set on our marriage there will be great\ndifficulty, I fear, in reconciling him to the breaking-off of the\nengagement. I must stop him, for all our sakes, from coming here till\nhe _is_ reconciled. Best and dearest of friends, we shall meet again! \n\nWith those words he hurried out. In equal haste on my side, I ran\nupstairs to compose myself in my own room before meeting Aunt Ablewhite\nand Rachel at the luncheon-table.\n\nI am well aware to dwell for a moment yet on the subject of Mr.\nGodfrey that the all-profaning opinion of the world has charged him\nwith having his own private reasons for releasing Rachel from her\nengagement, at the first opportunity she gave him. It has also reached\nmy ears, that his anxiety to recover his place in my estimation has\nbeen attributed in certain quarters, to a mercenary eagerness to make\nhis peace (through me) with a venerable committee-woman at the Mothers \nSmall-Clothes, abundantly blessed with the goods of this world, and a\nbeloved and intimate friend of my own. I only notice these odious\nslanders for the sake of declaring that they never had a moment s\ninfluence on my mind. In obedience to my instructions, I have exhibited\nthe fluctuations in my opinion of our Christian Hero, exactly as I find\nthem recorded in my diary. In justice to myself, let me here add that,\nonce reinstated in his place in my estimation, my gifted friend never\nlost that place again. I write with the tears in my eyes, burning to\nsay more. But no I am cruelly limited to my actual experience of\npersons and things. In less than a month from the time of which I am\nnow writing, events in the money-market (which diminished even _my_\nmiserable little income) forced me into foreign exile, and left me with\nnothing but a loving remembrance of Mr. Godfrey which the slander of\nthe world has assailed, and assailed in vain.\n\nLet me dry my eyes, and return to my narrative.\n\nI went downstairs to luncheon, naturally anxious to see how Rachel was\naffected by her release from her marriage engagement.\n\nIt appeared to me but I own I am a poor authority in such matters that\nthe recovery of her freedom had set her thinking again of that other\nman whom she loved, and that she was furious with herself for not being\nable to control a revulsion of feeling of which she was secretly\nashamed. Who was the man? I had my suspicions but it was needless to\nwaste time in idle speculation. When I had converted her, she would, as\na matter of course, have no concealments from Me. I should hear all\nabout the man; I should hear all about the Moonstone. If I had had no\nhigher object in stirring her up to a sense of spiritual things, the\nmotive of relieving her mind of its guilty secrets would have been\nenough of itself to encourage me to go on.\n\nAunt Ablewhite took her exercise in the afternoon in an invalid chair.\nRachel accompanied her.  I wish I could drag the chair,  she broke out,\nrecklessly.  I wish I could fatigue myself till I was ready to drop. \n\nShe was in the same humour in the evening. I discovered in one of my\nfriend s precious publications the _Life, Letters, and Labours of Miss\nJane Ann Stamper_, forty-fourth edition passages which bore with a\nmarvellous appropriateness on Rachel s present position. Upon my\nproposing to read them, she went to the piano. Conceive how little she\nmust have known of serious people, if she supposed that my patience was\nto be exhausted in that way! I kept Miss Jane Ann Stamper by me, and\nwaited for events with the most unfaltering trust in the future.\n\nOld Mr. Ablewhite never made his appearance that night. But I knew the\nimportance which his worldly greed attached to his son s marriage with\nMiss Verinder and I felt a positive conviction (do what Mr. Godfrey\nmight to prevent it) that we should see him the next day. With his\ninterference in the matter, the storm on which I had counted would\ncertainly come, and the salutary exhaustion of Rachel s resisting\npowers would as certainly follow. I am not ignorant that old Mr.\nAblewhite has the reputation generally (especially among his inferiors)\nof being a remarkably good-natured man. According to my observation of\nhim, he deserves his reputation as long as he has his own way, and not\na moment longer.\n\nThe next day, exactly as I had foreseen, Aunt Ablewhite was as near to\nbeing astonished as her nature would permit, by the sudden appearance\nof her husband. He had barely been a minute in the house, before he was\nfollowed, to _my_ astonishment this time, by an unexpected complication\nin the shape of Mr. Bruff.\n\nI never remember feeling the presence of the lawyer to be more\nunwelcome than I felt it at that moment. He looked ready for anything\nin the way of an obstructive proceeding capable even of keeping the\npeace with Rachel for one of the combatants!\n\n This is a pleasant surprise, sir,  said Mr. Ablewhite, addressing\nhimself with his deceptive cordiality to Mr. Bruff.  When I left your\noffice yesterday, I didn t expect to have the honour of seeing you at\nBrighton today. \n\n I turned over our conversation in my mind, after you had gone, \nreplied Mr. Bruff.  And it occurred to me that I might perhaps be of\nsome use on this occasion. I was just in time to catch the train, and I\nhad no opportunity of discovering the carriage in which you were\ntravelling. \n\nHaving given that explanation, he seated himself by Rachel. I retired\nmodestly to a corner with Miss Jane Ann Stamper on my lap, in case of\nemergency. My aunt sat at the window; placidly fanning herself as\nusual. Mr. Ablewhite stood up in the middle of the room, with his bald\nhead much pinker than I had ever seen it yet, and addressed himself in\nthe most affectionate manner to his niece.\n\n Rachel, my dear,  he said,  I have heard some very extraordinary news\nfrom Godfrey. And I am here to inquire about it. You have a\nsitting-room of your own in this house. Will you honour me by showing\nme the way to it? \n\nRachel never moved. Whether she was determined to bring matters to a\ncrisis, or whether she was prompted by some private sign from Mr.\nBruff, is more than I can tell. She declined doing old Mr. Ablewhite\nthe honour of conducting him into her sitting-room.\n\n Whatever you wish to say to me,  she answered,  can be said here in\nthe presence of my relatives, and in the presence  (she looked at Mr.\nBruff)  of my mother s trusted old friend. \n\n Just as you please, my dear,  said the amiable Mr. Ablewhite. He took\na chair. The rest of them looked at his face as if they expected it,\nafter seventy years of worldly training, to speak the truth. I looked\nat the top of his bald head; having noticed on other occasions that the\ntemper which was really in him had a habit of registering itself\n_there_.\n\n Some weeks ago,  pursued the old gentleman,  my son informed me that\nMiss Verinder had done him the honour to engage herself to marry him.\nIs it possible, Rachel, that he can have misinterpreted or presumed\nupon what you really said to him? \n\n Certainly not,  she replied.  I did engage myself to marry him. \n\n Very frankly answered!  said Mr. Ablewhite.  And most satisfactory, my\ndear, so far. In respect to what happened some weeks since, Godfrey has\nmade no mistake. The error is evidently in what he told me yesterday. I\nbegin to see it now. You and he have had a lovers  quarrel and my\nfoolish son has interpreted it seriously. Ah! I should have known\nbetter than that at his age. \n\nThe fallen nature in Rachel the mother Eve, so to speak began to chafe\nat this.\n\n Pray let us understand each other, Mr. Ablewhite,  she said.  Nothing\nin the least like a quarrel took place yesterday between your son and\nme. If he told you that I proposed breaking off our marriage\nengagement, and that he agreed on his side he told you the truth. \n\nThe self-registering thermometer at the top of Mr. Ablewhite s bald\nhead began to indicate a rise of temper. His face was more amiable than\never but _there_ was the pink at the top of his face, a shade deeper\nalready!\n\n Come, come, my dear!  he said, in his most soothing manner,  now don t\nbe angry, and don t be hard on poor Godfrey! He has evidently said some\nunfortunate thing. He was always clumsy from a child but he means well,\nRachel, he means well! \n\n Mr. Ablewhite, I have either expressed myself very badly, or you are\npurposely mistaking me. Once for all, it is a settled thing between\nyour son and myself that we remain, for the rest of our lives, cousins\nand nothing more. Is that plain enough? \n\nThe tone in which she said those words made it impossible, even for old\nMr. Ablewhite, to mistake her any longer. His thermometer went up\nanother degree, and his voice when he next spoke, ceased to be the\nvoice which is appropriate to a notoriously good-natured man.\n\n I am to understand, then,  he said,  that your marriage engagement is\nbroken off? \n\n You are to understand that, Mr. Ablewhite, if you please. \n\n I am also to take it as a matter of fact that the proposal to withdraw\nfrom the engagement came, in the first instance, from _you?_ \n\n It came, in the first instance, from me. And it met, as I have told\nyou, with your son s consent and approval. \n\nThe thermometer went up to the top of the register. I mean, the pink\nchanged suddenly to scarlet.\n\n My son is a mean-spirited hound!  cried this furious old worldling.\n In justice to myself as his father not in justice to _him_ I beg to\nask you, Miss Verinder, what complaint you have to make of Mr. Godfrey\nAblewhite? \n\nHere Mr. Bruff interfered for the first time.\n\n You are not bound to answer that question,  he said to Rachel.\n\nOld Mr. Ablewhite fastened on him instantly.\n\n Don t forget, sir,  he said,  that you are a self-invited guest here.\nYour interference would have come with a better grace if you had waited\nuntil it was asked for. \n\nMr. Bruff took no notice. The smooth varnish on _his_ wicked old face\nnever cracked. Rachel thanked him for the advice he had given to her,\nand then turned to old Mr. Ablewhite preserving her composure in a\nmanner which (having regard to her age and her sex) was simply awful to\nsee.\n\n Your son put the same question to me which you have just asked,  she\nsaid.  I had only one answer for him, and I have only one answer for\nyou. I proposed that we should release each other, because reflection\nhad convinced me that I should best consult his welfare and mine by\nretracting a rash promise, and leaving him free to make his choice\nelsewhere. \n\n What has my son done?  persisted Mr. Ablewhite.  I have a right to\nknow that. What has my son done? \n\nShe persisted just as obstinately on her side.\n\n You have had the only explanation which I think it necessary to give\nto you, or to him,  she answered.\n\n In plain English, it s your sovereign will and pleasure, Miss\nVerinder, to jilt my son? \n\nRachel was silent for a moment. Sitting close behind her, I heard her\nsigh. Mr. Bruff took her hand, and gave it a little squeeze. She\nrecovered herself, and answered Mr. Ablewhite as boldly as ever.\n\n I have exposed myself to worse misconstruction than that,  she said.\n And I have borne it patiently. The time has gone by, when you could\nmortify me by calling me a jilt. \n\nShe spoke with a bitterness of tone which satisfied me that the scandal\nof the Moonstone had been in some way recalled to her mind.  I have no\nmore to say,  she added, wearily, not addressing the words to anyone in\nparticular, and looking away from us all, out of the window that was\nnearest to her.\n\nMr. Ablewhite got upon his feet, and pushed away his chair so violently\nthat it toppled over and fell on the floor.\n\n I have something more to say on my side,  he announced, bringing down\nthe flat of his hand on the table with a bang.  I have to say that if\nmy son doesn t feel this insult, I do! \n\nRachel started, and looked at him in sudden surprise.\n\n Insult?  she repeated.  What do you mean? \n\n Insult!  reiterated Mr. Ablewhite.  I know your motive, Miss Verinder,\nfor breaking your promise to my son! I know it as certainly as if you\nhad confessed it in so many words. Your cursed family pride is\ninsulting Godfrey, as it insulted _me_ when I married your aunt. Her\nfamily her beggarly family turned their backs on her for marrying an\nhonest man, who had made his own place and won his own fortune. I had\nno ancestors. I wasn t descended from a set of cut-throat scoundrels\nwho lived by robbery and murder. I couldn t point to the time when the\nAblewhites hadn t a shirt to their backs, and couldn t sign their own\nnames. Ha! ha! I wasn t good enough for the Herncastles, when _I_\nmarried. And now, it comes to the pinch, my son isn t good enough for\n_you_. I suspected it, all along. You have got the Herncastle blood in\nyou, my young lady! I suspected it all along. \n\n A very unworthy suspicion,  remarked Mr. Bruff.  I am astonished that\nyou have the courage to acknowledge it. \n\nBefore Mr. Ablewhite could find words to answer in, Rachel spoke in a\ntone of the most exasperating contempt.\n\n Surely,  she said to the lawyer,  this is beneath notice. If he can\nthink in _that_ way, let us leave him to think as he pleases. \n\nFrom scarlet, Mr. Ablewhite was now becoming purple. He gasped for\nbreath; he looked backwards and forwards from Rachel to Mr. Bruff in\nsuch a frenzy of rage with both of them that he didn t know which to\nattack first. His wife, who had sat impenetrably fanning herself up to\nthis time, began to be alarmed, and attempted, quite uselessly, to\nquiet him. I had, throughout this distressing interview, felt more than\none inward call to interfere with a few earnest words, and had\ncontrolled myself under a dread of the possible results, very unworthy\nof a Christian Englishwoman who looks, not to what is meanly prudent,\nbut to what is morally right. At the point at which matters had now\narrived, I rose superior to all considerations of mere expediency. If I\nhad contemplated interposing any remonstrance of my own humble\ndevising, I might possibly have still hesitated. But the distressing\ndomestic emergency which now confronted me, was most marvellously and\nbeautifully provided for in the Correspondence of Miss Jane Ann\nStamper Letter one thousand and one, on  Peace in Families.  I rose in\nmy modest corner, and I opened my precious book.\n\n Dear Mr. Ablewhite,  I said,  one word! \n\nWhen I first attracted the attention of the company by rising, I could\nsee that he was on the point of saying something rude to me. My\nsisterly form of address checked him. He stared at me in heathen\nastonishment.\n\n As an affectionate well-wisher and friend,  I proceeded,  and as one\nlong accustomed to arouse, convince, prepare, enlighten, and fortify\nothers, permit me to take the most pardonable of all liberties the\nliberty of composing your mind. \n\nHe began to recover himself; he was on the point of breaking out he\n_would_ have broken out, with anybody else. But my voice (habitually\ngentle) possesses a high note or so, in emergencies. In this emergency,\nI felt imperatively called upon to have the highest voice of the two.\n\nI held up my precious book before him; I rapped the open page\nimpressively with my forefinger.  Not my words!  I exclaimed, in a\nburst of fervent interruption.  Oh, don t suppose that I claim\nattention for My humble words! Manna in the wilderness, Mr. Ablewhite!\nDew on the parched earth! Words of comfort, words of wisdom, words of\nlove the blessed, blessed, blessed words of Miss Jane Ann Stamper! \n\nI was stopped there by a momentary impediment of the breath. Before I\ncould recover myself, this monster in human form shouted out furiously,\n\n Miss Jane Ann Stamper be  ! \n\nIt is impossible for me to write the awful word, which is here\nrepresented by a blank. I shrieked as it passed his lips; I flew to my\nlittle bag on the side table; I shook out all my tracts; I seized the\none particular tract on profane swearing, entitled,  Hush, for Heaven s\nSake! ; I handed it to him with an expression of agonised entreaty. He\ntore it in two, and threw it back at me across the table. The rest of\nthem rose in alarm, not knowing what might happen next. I instantly sat\ndown again in my corner. There had once been an occasion, under\nsomewhat similar circumstances, when Miss Jane Ann Stamper had been\ntaken by the two shoulders and turned out of a room. I waited, inspired\nby _her_ spirit, for a repetition of _her_ martyrdom.\n\nBut no it was not to be. His wife was the next person whom he\naddressed.  Who who who,  he said, stammering with rage,  who asked\nthis impudent fanatic into the house? Did you? \n\nBefore Aunt Ablewhite could say a word, Rachel answered for her.\n\n Miss Clack is here,  she said,  as my guest. \n\nThose words had a singular effect on Mr. Ablewhite. They suddenly\nchanged him from a man in a state of red-hot anger to a man in a state\nof icy-cold contempt. It was plain to everybody that Rachel had said\nsomething short and plain as her answer had been which gave him the\nupper hand of her at last.\n\n Oh?  he said.  Miss Clack is here as _your_ guest in _my_ house? \n\nIt was Rachel s turn to lose her temper at that. Her colour rose, and\nher eyes brightened fiercely. She turned to the lawyer, and, pointing\nto Mr. Ablewhite, asked haughtily,  What does he mean? \n\nMr. Bruff interfered for the third time.\n\n You appear to forget,  he said, addressing Mr. Ablewhite,  that you\ntook this house as Miss Verinder s guardian, for Miss Verinder s use. \n\n Not quite so fast,  interposed Mr. Ablewhite.  I have a last word to\nsay, which I should have said some time since, if this  He looked my\nway, pondering what abominable name he should call me if this Rampant\nSpinster had not interrupted us. I beg to inform you, sir, that, if my\nson is not good enough to be Miss Verinder s husband, I cannot presume\nto consider his father good enough to be Miss Verinder s guardian.\nUnderstand, if you please, that I refuse to accept the position which\nis offered to me by Lady Verinder s will. In your legal phrase, I\ndecline to act. This house has necessarily been hired in my name. I\ntake the entire responsibility of it on my shoulders. It is my house. I\ncan keep it, or let it, just as I please. I have no wish to hurry Miss\nVerinder. On the contrary, I beg her to remove her guest and her\nluggage, at her own entire convenience.  He made a low bow, and walked\nout of the room.\n\nThat was Mr. Ablewhite s revenge on Rachel, for refusing to marry his\nson!\n\nThe instant the door closed, Aunt Ablewhite exhibited a phenomenon\nwhich silenced us all. She became endowed with energy enough to cross\nthe room!\n\n My dear,  she said, taking Rachel by the hand,  I should be ashamed of\nmy husband, if I didn t know that it is his temper which has spoken to\nyou, and not himself. You,  continued Aunt Ablewhite, turning on me in\nmy corner with another endowment of energy, in her looks this time\ninstead of her limbs you are the mischievous person who irritated him.\nI hope I shall never see you or your tracts again.  She went back to\nRachel and kissed her.  I beg your pardon, my dear,  she said,  in my\nhusband s name. What can I do for you? \n\nConsistently perverse in everything capricious and unreasonable in all\nthe actions of her life Rachel melted into tears at those commonplace\nwords, and returned her aunt s kiss in silence.\n\n If I may be permitted to answer for Miss Verinder,  said Mr. Bruff,\n might I ask you, Mrs. Ablewhite, to send Penelope down with her\nmistress s bonnet and shawl. Leave us ten minutes together,  he added,\nin a lower tone,  and you may rely on my setting matters right, to your\nsatisfaction as well as to Rachel s. \n\nThe trust of the family in this man was something wonderful to see.\nWithout a word more, on her side, Aunt Ablewhite left the room.\n\n Ah!  said Mr. Bruff, looking after her.  The Herncastle blood has its\ndrawbacks, I admit. But there _is_ something in good breeding after\nall! \n\nHaving made that purely worldly remark, he looked hard at my corner, as\nif he expected me to go. My interest in Rachel an infinitely higher\ninterest than his riveted me to my chair.\n\nMr. Bruff gave it up, exactly as he had given it up at Aunt Verinder s,\nin Montagu Square. He led Rachel to a chair by the window, and spoke to\nher there.\n\n My dear young lady,  he said,  Mr. Ablewhite s conduct has naturally\nshocked you, and taken you by surprise. If it was worth while to\ncontest the question with such a man, we might soon show him that he is\nnot to have things all his own way. But it isn t worth while. You were\nquite right in what you said just now; he is beneath our notice. \n\nHe stopped, and looked round at my corner. I sat there quite immovable,\nwith my tracts at my elbow and with Miss Jane Ann Stamper on my lap.\n\n You know,  he resumed, turning back again to Rachel,  that it was part\nof your poor mother s fine nature always to see the best of the people\nabout her, and never the worst. She named her brother-in-law your\nguardian because she believed in him, and because she thought it would\nplease her sister. I had never liked Mr. Ablewhite myself, and I\ninduced your mother to let me insert a clause in the will, empowering\nher executors, in certain events, to consult with me about the\nappointment of a new guardian. One of those events has happened today;\nand I find myself in a position to end all these dry business details,\nI hope agreeably, with a message from my wife. Will you honour Mrs.\nBruff by becoming her guest? And will you remain under my roof, and be\none of my family, until we wise people have laid our heads together,\nand have settled what is to be done next? \n\nAt those words, I rose to interfere. Mr. Bruff had done exactly what I\nhad dreaded he would do, when he asked Mrs. Ablewhite for Rachel s\nbonnet and shawl.\n\nBefore I could interpose a word, Rachel had accepted his invitation in\nthe warmest terms. If I suffered the arrangement thus made between them\nto be carried out if she once passed the threshold of Mr. Bruff s\ndoor farewell to the fondest hope of my life, the hope of bringing my\nlost sheep back to the fold! The bare idea of such a calamity as this\nquite overwhelmed me. I cast the miserable trammels of worldly\ndiscretion to the winds, and spoke with the fervour that filled me, in\nthe words that came first.\n\n Stop!  I said stop! I must be heard. Mr. Bruff! you are not related\nto her, and I am. I invite her I summon the executors to appoint _me_\nguardian. Rachel, dearest Rachel, I offer you my modest home; come to\nLondon by the next train, love, and share it with me! \n\nMr. Bruff said nothing. Rachel looked at me with a cruel astonishment\nwhich she made no effort to conceal.\n\n You are very kind, Drusilla,  she said.  I shall hope to visit you\nwhenever I happen to be in London. But I have accepted Mr. Bruff s\ninvitation, and I think it will be best, for the present, if I remain\nunder Mr. Bruff s care. \n\n Oh, don t say so!  I pleaded.  I can t part with you, Rachel I can t\npart with you! \n\nI tried to fold her in my arms. But she drew back. My fervour did not\ncommunicate itself; it only alarmed her.\n\n Surely,  she said,  this is a very unnecessary display of agitation? I\ndon t understand it. \n\n No more do I,  said Mr. Bruff.\n\nTheir hardness their hideous, worldly hardness revolted me.\n\n Oh, Rachel! Rachel!  I burst out.  Haven t you seen _yet_, that my\nheart yearns to make a Christian of you? Has no inner voice told you\nthat I am trying to do for _you_, what I was trying to do for your dear\nmother when death snatched her out of my hands? \n\nRachel advanced a step nearer, and looked at me very strangely.\n\n I don t understand your reference to my mother,  she said.  Miss\nClack, will you have the goodness to explain yourself? \n\nBefore I could answer, Mr. Bruff came forward, and offering his arm to\nRachel, tried to lead her out of the room.\n\n You had better not pursue the subject, my dear,  he said.  And Miss\nClack had better not explain herself. \n\nIf I had been a stock or a stone, such an interference as this must\nhave roused me into testifying to the truth. I put Mr. Bruff aside\nindignantly with my own hand, and, in solemn and suitable language, I\nstated the view with which sound doctrine does not scruple to regard\nthe awful calamity of dying unprepared.\n\nRachel started back from me I blush to write with a scream of horror.\n\n Come away!  she said to Mr. Bruff.  Come away, for God s sake, before\nthat woman can say any more! Oh, think of my poor mother s harmless,\nuseful, beautiful life! You were at the funeral, Mr. Bruff; you saw how\neverybody loved her; you saw the poor helpless people crying at her\ngrave over the loss of their best friend. And that wretch stands there,\nand tries to make me doubt that my mother, who was an angel on earth,\nis an angel in heaven now! Don t stop to talk about it! Come away! It\nstifles me to breathe the same air with her! It frightens me to feel\nthat we are in the same room together! \n\nDeaf to all remonstrance, she ran to the door.\n\nAt the same moment, her maid entered with her bonnet and shawl. She\nhuddled them on anyhow.  Pack my things,  she said,  and bring them to\nMr. Bruff s.  I attempted to approach her I was shocked and grieved,\nbut, it is needless to say, not offended. I only wished to say to her,\n May your hard heart be softened! I freely forgive you!  She pulled\ndown her veil, and tore her shawl away from my hand, and, hurrying out,\nshut the door in my face. I bore the insult with my customary\nfortitude. I remember it now with my customary superiority to all\nfeeling of offence.\n\nMr. Bruff had his parting word of mockery for me, before he too hurried\nout, in his turn.\n\n You had better not have explained yourself, Miss Clack,  he said, and\nbowed, and left the room.\n\nThe person with the cap-ribbons followed.\n\n It s easy to see who has set them all by the ears together,  she said.\n I m only a poor servant but I declare I m ashamed of you!  She too\nwent out, and banged the door after her.\n\nI was left alone in the room. Reviled by them all, deserted by them\nall, I was left alone in the room.\n\nIs there more to be added to this plain statement of facts to this\ntouching picture of a Christian persecuted by the world? No! my diary\nreminds me that one more of the many chequered chapters in my life ends\nhere. From that day forth, I never saw Rachel Verinder again. She had\nmy forgiveness at the time when she insulted me. She has had my\nprayerful good wishes ever since. And when I die to complete the return\non my part of good for evil she will have the _Life, Letters, and\nLabours of Miss Jane Ann Stamper_ left her as a legacy by my will.\n\n\nSECOND NARRATIVE.\n\n_Contributed by Mathew Bruff, Solicitor, of Gray s Inn Square._\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nMy fair friend, Miss Clack, having laid down the pen, there are two\nreasons for my taking it up next, in my turn.\n\nIn the first place, I am in a position to throw the necessary light on\ncertain points of interest which have thus far been left in the dark.\nMiss Verinder had her own private reason for breaking her marriage\nengagement and I was at the bottom of it. Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had his\nown private reason for withdrawing all claim to the hand of his\ncharming cousin and I discovered what it was.\n\nIn the second place, it was my good or ill fortune, I hardly know\nwhich, to find myself personally involved at the period of which I am\nnow writing in the mystery of the Indian Diamond. I had the honour of\nan interview, at my own office, with an Oriental stranger of\ndistinguished manners, who was no other, unquestionably, than the chief\nof the three Indians. Add to this, that I met with the celebrated\ntraveller, Mr. Murthwaite, the day afterwards, and that I held a\nconversation with him on the subject of the Moonstone, which has a very\nimportant bearing on later events. And there you have the statement of\nmy claims to fill the position which I occupy in these pages.\n\nThe true story of the broken marriage engagement comes first in point\nof time, and must therefore take the first place in the present\nnarrative. Tracing my way back along the chain of events, from one end\nto the other, I find it necessary to open the scene, oddly enough as\nyou will think, at the bedside of my excellent client and friend, the\nlate Sir John Verinder.\n\nSir John had his share perhaps rather a large share of the more\nharmless and amiable of the weaknesses incidental to humanity. Among\nthese, I may mention as applicable to the matter in hand, an invincible\nreluctance so long as he enjoyed his usual good health to face the\nresponsibility of making his will. Lady Verinder exerted her influence\nto rouse him to a sense of duty in this matter; and I exerted my\ninfluence. He admitted the justice of our views but he went no further\nthan that, until he found himself afflicted with the illness which\nultimately brought him to his grave. Then, I was sent for at last, to\ntake my client s instructions on the subject of his will. They proved\nto be the simplest instructions I had ever received in the whole of my\nprofessional career.\n\nSir John was dozing, when I entered the room. He roused himself at the\nsight of me.\n\n How do you do, Mr. Bruff?  he said.  I sha n t be very long about\nthis. And then I ll go to sleep again.  He looked on with great\ninterest while I collected pens, ink, and paper.  Are you ready?  he\nasked. I bowed and took a dip of ink, and waited for my instructions.\n\n I leave everything to my wife,  said Sir John.  That s all.  He turned\nround on his pillow, and composed himself to sleep again.\n\nI was obliged to disturb him.\n\n Am I to understand,  I asked,  that you leave the whole of the\nproperty, of every sort and description, of which you die possessed,\nabsolutely to Lady Verinder? \n\n Yes,  said Sir John.  Only, _I_ put it shorter. Why can t _you_ put it\nshorter, and let me go to sleep again? Everything to my wife. That s my\nWill. \n\nHis property was entirely at his own disposal, and was of two kinds.\nProperty in land (I purposely abstain from using technical language),\nand property in money. In the majority of cases, I am afraid I should\nhave felt it my duty to my client to ask him to reconsider his Will. In\nthe case of Sir John, I knew Lady Verinder to be, not only worthy of\nthe unreserved trust which her husband had placed in her (all good\nwives are worthy of that) but to be also capable of properly\nadministering a trust (which, in my experience of the fair sex, not one\nin a thousand of them is competent to do). In ten minutes, Sir John s\nWill was drawn, and executed, and Sir John himself, good man, was\nfinishing his interrupted nap.\n\nLady Verinder amply justified the confidence which her husband had\nplaced in her. In the first days of her widowhood, she sent for me, and\nmade her Will. The view she took of her position was so thoroughly\nsound and sensible, that I was relieved of all necessity for advising\nher. My responsibility began and ended with shaping her instructions\ninto the proper legal form. Before Sir John had been a fortnight in his\ngrave, the future of his daughter had been most wisely and most\naffectionately provided for.\n\nThe Will remained in its fireproof box at my office, through more years\nthan I like to reckon up. It was not till the summer of eighteen\nhundred and forty-eight that I found occasion to look at it again under\nvery melancholy circumstances.\n\nAt the date I have mentioned, the doctors pronounced the sentence on\npoor Lady Verinder, which was literally a sentence of death. I was the\nfirst person whom she informed of her situation; and I found her\nanxious to go over her Will again with me.\n\nIt was impossible to improve the provisions relating to her daughter.\nBut, in the lapse of time, her wishes in regard to certain minor\nlegacies, left to different relatives, had undergone some modification;\nand it became necessary to add three or four Codicils to the original\ndocument. Having done this at once, for fear of accident, I obtained\nher ladyship s permission to embody her recent instructions in a second\nWill. My object was to avoid certain inevitable confusions and\nrepetitions which now disfigured the original document, and which, to\nown the truth, grated sadly on my professional sense of the fitness of\nthings.\n\nThe execution of this second Will has been described by Miss Clack, who\nwas so obliging as to witness it. So far as regarded Rachel Verinder s\npecuniary interests, it was, word for word, the exact counterpart of\nthe first Will. The only changes introduced related to the appointment\nof a guardian, and to certain provisions concerning that appointment,\nwhich were made under my advice. On Lady Verinder s death, the Will was\nplaced in the hands of my proctor to be  proved  (as the phrase is) in\nthe usual way.\n\nIn about three weeks from that time as well as I can remember the first\nwarning reached me of something unusual going on under the surface. I\nhappened to be looking in at my friend the proctor s office, and I\nobserved that he received me with an appearance of greater interest\nthan usual.\n\n I have some news for you,  he said.  What do you think I heard at\nDoctors  Commons this morning? Lady Verinder s Will has been asked for,\nand examined, already! \n\nThis was news indeed! There was absolutely nothing which could be\ncontested in the Will; and there was nobody I could think of who had\nthe slightest interest in examining it. (I shall perhaps do well if I\nexplain in this place, for the benefit of the few people who don t know\nit already, that the law allows all Wills to be examined at Doctors \nCommons by anybody who applies, on the payment of a shilling fee.)\n\n Did you hear who asked for the Will?  I asked.\n\n Yes; the clerk had no hesitation in telling _me_. Mr. Smalley, of the\nfirm of Skipp and Smalley, asked for it. The Will has not been copied\nyet into the great Folio Registers. So there was no alternative but to\ndepart from the usual course, and to let him see the original document.\nHe looked it over carefully, and made a note in his pocket-book. Have\nyou any idea of what he wanted with it? \n\nI shook my head.  I shall find out,  I answered,  before I am a day\nolder.  With that I went back at once to my own office.\n\nIf any other firm of solicitors had been concerned in this\nunaccountable examination of my deceased client s Will, I might have\nfound some difficulty in making the necessary discovery. But I had a\nhold over Skipp and Smalley which made my course in this matter a\ncomparatively easy one. My common-law clerk (a most competent and\nexcellent man) was a brother of Mr. Smalley s; and, owing to this sort\nof indirect connection with me, Skipp and Smalley had, for some years\npast, picked up the crumbs that fell from my table, in the shape of\ncases brought to my office, which, for various reasons, I did not think\nit worth while to undertake. My professional patronage was, in this\nway, of some importance to the firm. I intended, if necessary, to\nremind them of that patronage, on the present occasion.\n\nThe moment I got back I spoke to my clerk; and, after telling him what\nhad happened, I sent him to his brother s office,  with Mr. Bruff s\ncompliments, and he would be glad to know why Messrs. Skipp and Smalley\nhad found it necessary to examine Lady Verinder s will. \n\nThis message brought Mr. Smalley back to my office in company with his\nbrother. He acknowledged that he had acted under instructions received\nfrom a client. And then he put it to me, whether it would not be a\nbreach of professional confidence on his part to say more.\n\nWe had a smart discussion upon that. He was right, no doubt; and I was\nwrong. The truth is, I was angry and suspicious and I insisted on\nknowing more. Worse still, I declined to consider any additional\ninformation offered me, as a secret placed in my keeping: I claimed\nperfect freedom to use my own discretion. Worse even than that, I took\nan unwarrantable advantage of my position.  Choose, sir,  I said to Mr.\nSmalley,  between the risk of losing your client s business and the\nrisk of losing Mine.  Quite indefensible, I admit an act of tyranny,\nand nothing less. Like other tyrants, I carried my point. Mr. Smalley\nchose his alternative, without a moment s hesitation.\n\nHe smiled resignedly, and gave up the name of his client:\n\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite.\n\nThat was enough for me I wanted to know no more.\n\nHaving reached this point in my narrative, it now becomes necessary to\nplace the reader of these lines so far as Lady Verinder s Will is\nconcerned on a footing of perfect equality, in respect of information,\nwith myself.\n\nLet me state, then, in the fewest possible words, that Rachel Verinder\nhad nothing but a life-interest in the property. Her mother s excellent\nsense, and my long experience, had combined to relieve her of all\nresponsibility, and to guard her from all danger of becoming the victim\nin the future of some needy and unscrupulous man. Neither she, nor her\nhusband (if she married), could raise sixpence, either on the property\nin land, or on the property in money. They would have the houses in\nLondon and in Yorkshire to live in, and they would have the handsome\nincome and that was all.\n\nWhen I came to think over what I had discovered, I was sorely perplexed\nwhat to do next.\n\nHardly a week had passed since I had heard (to my surprise and\ndistress) of Miss Verinder s proposed marriage. I had the sincerest\nadmiration and affection for her; and I had been inexpressibly grieved\nwhen I heard that she was about to throw herself away on Mr. Godfrey\nAblewhite. And now, here was the man whom I had always believed to be a\nsmooth-tongued impostor justifying the very worst that I had thought of\nhim, and plainly revealing the mercenary object of the marriage, on his\nside! And what of that? you may reply the thing is done every day.\nGranted, my dear sir. But would you think of it quite as lightly as you\ndo, if the thing was done (let us say) with your own sister?\n\nThe first consideration which now naturally occurred to me was this.\nWould Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite hold to his engagement, after what his\nlawyer had discovered for him?\n\nIt depended entirely on his pecuniary position, of which I knew\nnothing. If that position was not a desperate one, it would be well\nworth his while to marry Miss Verinder for her income alone. If, on the\nother hand, he stood in urgent need of realising a large sum by a given\ntime, then Lady Verinder s Will would exactly meet the case, and would\npreserve her daughter from falling into a scoundrel s hands.\n\nIn the latter event, there would be no need for me to distress Miss\nRachel, in the first days of her mourning for her mother, by an\nimmediate revelation of the truth. In the former event, if I remained\nsilent, I should be conniving at a marriage which would make her\nmiserable for life.\n\nMy doubts ended in my calling at the hotel in London, at which I knew\nMrs. Ablewhite and Miss Verinder to be staying. They informed me that\nthey were going to Brighton the next day, and that an unexpected\nobstacle prevented Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite from accompanying them. I at\nonce proposed to take his place. While I was only thinking of Rachel\nVerinder, it was possible to hesitate. When I actually saw her, my mind\nwas made up directly, come what might of it, to tell her the truth.\n\nI found my opportunity, when I was out walking with her, on the day\nafter my arrival.\n\n May I speak to you,  I asked,  about your marriage engagement? \n\n Yes,  she said, indifferently,  if you have nothing more interesting\nto talk about. \n\n Will you forgive an old friend and servant of your family, Miss\nRachel, if I venture on asking whether your heart is set on this\nmarriage? \n\n I am marrying in despair, Mr. Bruff on the chance of dropping into\nsome sort of stagnant happiness which may reconcile me to my life. \n\nStrong language! and suggestive of something below the surface, in the\nshape of a romance. But I had my own object in view, and I declined (as\nwe lawyers say) to pursue the question into its side issues.\n\n Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite can hardly be of your way of thinking,  I said.\n _His_ heart must be set on the marriage at any rate? \n\n He says so, and I suppose I ought to believe him. He would hardly\nmarry me, after what I have owned to him, unless he was fond of me. \n\nPoor thing! the bare idea of a man marrying her for his own selfish and\nmercenary ends had never entered her head. The task I had set myself\nbegan to look like a harder task than I had bargained for.\n\n It sounds strangely,  I went on,  in my old-fashioned ears \n\n What sounds strangely?  she asked.\n\n To hear you speak of your future husband as if you were not quite sure\nof the sincerity of his attachment. Are you conscious of any reason in\nyour own mind for doubting him? \n\nHer astonishing quickness of perception, detected a change in my voice,\nor my manner, when I put that question, which warned her that I had\nbeen speaking all along with some ulterior object in view. She stopped,\nand taking her arm out of mine, looked me searchingly in the face.\n\n Mr. Bruff,  she said,  you have something to tell me about Godfrey\nAblewhite. Tell it. \n\nI knew her well enough to take her at her word. I told it.\n\nShe put her arm again into mine, and walked on with me slowly. I felt\nher hand tightening its grasp mechanically on my arm, and I saw her\ngetting paler and paler as I went on but, not a word passed her lips\nwhile I was speaking. When I had done, she still kept silence. Her head\ndrooped a little, and she walked by my side, unconscious of my\npresence, unconscious of everything about her; lost buried, I might\nalmost say in her own thoughts.\n\nI made no attempt to disturb her. My experience of her disposition\nwarned me, on this, as on former occasions, to give her time.\n\nThe first instinct of girls in general, on being told of anything which\ninterests them, is to ask a multitude of questions, and then to run\noff, and talk it all over with some favourite friend. Rachel Verinder s\nfirst instinct, under similar circumstances, was to shut herself up in\nher own mind, and to think it over by herself. This absolute\nself-dependence is a great virtue in a man. In a woman it has a serious\ndrawback of morally separating her from the mass of her sex, and so\nexposing her to misconstruction by the general opinion. I strongly\nsuspect myself of thinking as the rest of the world think in this\nmatter except in the case of Rachel Verinder. The self-dependence in\n_her_ character, was one of its virtues in my estimation; partly, no\ndoubt, because I sincerely admired and liked her; partly, because the\nview I took of her connexion with the loss of the Moonstone was based\non my own special knowledge of her disposition. Badly as appearances\nmight look, in the matter of the Diamond shocking as it undoubtedly was\nto know that she was associated in any way with the mystery of an\nundiscovered theft I was satisfied nevertheless that she had done\nnothing unworthy of her, because I was also satisfied that she had not\nstirred a step in the business, without shutting herself up in her own\nmind, and thinking it over first.\n\nWe had walked on, for nearly a mile I should say, before Rachel roused\nherself. She suddenly looked up at me with a faint reflection of her\nsmile of happier times the most irresistible smile I have ever seen on\na woman s face.\n\n I owe much already to your kindness,  she said.  And I feel more\ndeeply indebted to it now than ever. If you hear any rumours of my\nmarriage when you get back to London contradict them at once, on my\nauthority. \n\n Have you resolved to break your engagement?  I asked.\n\n Can you doubt it?  she returned proudly,  after what you have told\nme! \n\n My dear Miss Rachel, you are very young and you may find more\ndifficulty in withdrawing from your present position than you\nanticipate. Have you no one I mean a lady, of course whom you could\nconsult? \n\n No one,  she answered.\n\nIt distressed me, it did indeed distress me, to hear her say that. She\nwas so young and so lonely and she bore it so well! The impulse to help\nher got the better of any sense of my own unfitness which I might have\nfelt under the circumstances; and I stated such ideas on the subject as\noccurred to me on the spur of the moment, to the best of my ability. I\nhave advised a prodigious number of clients, and have dealt with some\nexceedingly awkward difficulties, in my time. But this was the first\noccasion on which I had ever found myself advising a young lady how to\nobtain her release from a marriage engagement. The suggestion I offered\namounted briefly to this. I recommended her to tell Mr. Godfrey\nAblewhite at a private interview, of course that he had, to her certain\nknowledge, betrayed the mercenary nature of the motive on his side. She\nwas then to add that their marriage, after what she had discovered, was\na simple impossibility and she was to put it to him, whether he thought\nit wisest to secure her silence by falling in with her views, or to\nforce her, by opposing them, to make the motive under which she was\nacting generally known. If he attempted to defend himself, or to deny\nthe facts, she was, in that event, to refer him to _me_.\n\nMiss Verinder listened attentively till I had done. She then thanked me\nvery prettily for my advice, but informed me at the same time that it\nwas impossible for her to follow it.\n\n May I ask,  I said,  what objection you see to following it? \n\nShe hesitated and then met me with a question on her side.\n\n Suppose you were asked to express your opinion of Mr. Godfrey\nAblewhite s conduct?  she began.\n\n Yes? \n\n What would you call it? \n\n I should call it the conduct of a meanly deceitful man. \n\n Mr. Bruff! I have believed in that man. I have promised to marry that\nman. How can I tell him he is mean, how can I tell him he has deceived\nme, how can I disgrace him in the eyes of the world after that? I have\ndegraded myself by ever thinking of him as my husband. If I say what\nyou tell me to say to him I am owning that I have degraded myself to\nhis face. I can t do that. After what has passed between us, I can t do\nthat! The shame of it would be nothing to _him_. But the shame of it\nwould be unendurable to _me_. \n\nHere was another of the marked peculiarities in her character\ndisclosing itself to me without reserve. Here was her sensitive horror\nof the bare contact with anything mean, blinding her to every\nconsideration of what she owed to herself, hurrying her into a false\nposition which might compromise her in the estimation of all her\nfriends! Up to this time, I had been a little diffident about the\npropriety of the advice I had given to her. But, after what she had\njust said, I had no sort of doubt that it was the best advice that\ncould have been offered; and I felt no sort of hesitation in pressing\nit on her again.\n\nShe only shook her head, and repeated her objection in other words.\n\n He has been intimate enough with me to ask me to be his wife. He has\nstood high enough in my estimation to obtain my consent. I can t tell\nhim to his face that he is the most contemptible of living creatures,\nafter that! \n\n But, my dear Miss Rachel,  I remonstrated,  it s equally impossible\nfor you to tell him that you withdraw from your engagement without\ngiving some reason for it. \n\n I shall say that I have thought it over, and that I am satisfied it\nwill be best for both of us if we part.\n\n No more than that? \n\n No more. \n\n Have you thought of what he may say, on his side? \n\n He may say what he pleases. \n\nIt was impossible not to admire her delicacy and her resolution, and it\nwas equally impossible not to feel that she was putting herself in the\nwrong. I entreated her to consider her own position. I reminded her\nthat she would be exposing herself to the most odious misconstruction\nof her motives.  You can t brave public opinion,  I said,  at the\ncommand of private feeling. \n\n I can,  she answered.  I have done it already. \n\n What do you mean? \n\n You have forgotten the Moonstone, Mr. Bruff. Have I not braved public\nopinion, _there_, with my own private reasons for it? \n\nHer answer silenced me for the moment. It set me trying to trace the\nexplanation of her conduct, at the time of the loss of the Moonstone,\nout of the strange avowal which had just escaped her. I might perhaps\nhave done it when I was younger. I certainly couldn t do it now.\n\nI tried a last remonstrance before we returned to the house. She was\njust as immovable as ever. My mind was in a strange conflict of\nfeelings about her when I left her that day. She was obstinate; she was\nwrong. She was interesting; she was admirable; she was deeply to be\npitied. I made her promise to write to me the moment she had any news\nto send. And I went back to my business in London, with a mind\nexceedingly ill at ease.\n\nOn the evening of my return, before it was possible for me to receive\nmy promised letter, I was surprised by a visit from Mr. Ablewhite the\nelder, and was informed that Mr. Godfrey had got his dismissal _and had\naccepted it_ that very day.\n\nWith the view I already took of the case, the bare fact stated in the\nwords that I have underlined, revealed Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite s motive\nfor submission as plainly as if he had acknowledged it himself. He\nneeded a large sum of money; and he needed it by a given time. Rachel s\nincome, which would have helped him to anything else, would not help\nhim here; and Rachel had accordingly released herself, without\nencountering a moment s serious opposition on his part. If I am told\nthat this is a mere speculation, I ask, in my turn, what other theory\nwill account for his giving up a marriage which would have maintained\nhim in splendour for the rest of his life?\n\nAny exultation I might otherwise have felt at the lucky turn which\nthings had now taken, was effectually checked by what passed at my\ninterview with old Mr. Ablewhite.\n\nHe came, of course, to know whether I could give him any explanation of\nMiss Verinder s extraordinary conduct. It is needless to say that I was\nquite unable to afford him the information he wanted. The annoyance\nwhich I thus inflicted, following on the irritation produced by a\nrecent interview with his son, threw Mr. Ablewhite off his guard. Both\nhis looks and his language convinced me that Miss Verinder would find\nhim a merciless man to deal with, when he joined the ladies at Brighton\nthe next day.\n\nI had a restless night, considering what I ought to do next. How my\nreflections ended, and how thoroughly well founded my distrust of Mr.\nAblewhite proved to be, are items of information which (as I am told)\nhave already been put tidily in their proper places, by that exemplary\nperson, Miss Clack. I have only to add in completion of her\nnarrative that Miss Verinder found the quiet and repose which she sadly\nneeded, poor thing, in my house at Hampstead. She honoured us by making\na long stay. My wife and daughters were charmed with her; and, when the\nexecutors decided on the appointment of a new guardian, I feel sincere\npride and pleasure in recording that my guest and my family parted like\nold friends, on either side.\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nThe next thing I have to do, is to present such additional information\nas I possess on the subject of the Moonstone, or, to speak more\ncorrectly, on the subject of the Indian plot to steal the Diamond. The\nlittle that I have to tell is (as I think I have already said) of some\nimportance, nevertheless, in respect of its bearing very remarkably on\nevents which are still to come.\n\nAbout a week or ten days after Miss Verinder had left us, one of my\nclerks entered the private room at my office, with a card in his hand,\nand informed me that a gentleman was below, who wanted to speak to me.\n\nI looked at the card. There was a foreign name written on it, which has\nescaped my memory. It was followed by a line written in English at the\nbottom of the card, which I remember perfectly well:\n\n Recommended by Mr. Septimus Luker. \n\nThe audacity of a person in Mr. Luker s position presuming to recommend\nanybody to _me_, took me so completely by surprise, that I sat silent\nfor the moment, wondering whether my own eyes had not deceived me. The\nclerk, observing my bewilderment, favoured me with the result of his\nown observation of the stranger who was waiting downstairs.\n\n Here s rather a remarkable-looking man, sir. So dark in the complexion\nthat we all set him down in the office for an Indian, or something of\nthat sort. \n\nAssociating the clerk s idea with the line inscribed on the card in my\nhand, I thought it possible that the Moonstone might be at the bottom\nof Mr. Luker s recommendation, and of the stranger s visit at my\noffice. To the astonishment of my clerk, I at once decided on granting\nan interview to the gentleman below.\n\nIn justification of the highly unprofessional sacrifice to mere\ncuriosity which I thus made, permit me to remind anybody who may read\nthese lines, that no living person (in England, at any rate) can claim\nto have had such an intimate connexion with the romance of the Indian\nDiamond as mine has been. I was trusted with the secret of Colonel\nHerncastle s plan for escaping assassination. I received the Colonel s\nletters, periodically reporting himself a living man. I drew his Will,\nleaving the Moonstone to Miss Verinder. I persuaded his executor to\nact, on the chance that the jewel might prove to be a valuable\nacquisition to the family. And, lastly, I combated Mr. Franklin Blake s\nscruples, and induced him to be the means of transporting the Diamond\nto Lady Verinder s house. If anyone can claim a prescriptive right of\ninterest in the Moonstone, and in everything connected with it, I think\nit is hardly to be denied that I am the man.\n\nThe moment my mysterious client was shown in, I felt an inner\nconviction that I was in the presence of one of the three\nIndians probably of the chief. He was carefully dressed in European\ncostume. But his swarthy complexion, his long lithe figure, and his\ngrave and graceful politeness of manner were enough to betray his\nOriental origin to any intelligent eyes that looked at him.\n\nI pointed to a chair, and begged to be informed of the nature of his\nbusiness with me.\n\nAfter first apologising in an excellent selection of English words for\nthe liberty which he had taken in disturbing me, the Indian produced a\nsmall parcel the outer covering of which was of cloth of gold. Removing\nthis and a second wrapping of some silken fabric, he placed a little\nbox, or casket, on my table, most beautifully and richly inlaid in\njewels, on an ebony ground.\n\n I have come, sir,  he said,  to ask you to lend me some money. And I\nleave this as an assurance to you that my debt will be paid back. \n\nI pointed to his card.  And you apply to me,  I rejoined,  at Mr.\nLuker s recommendation? \n\nThe Indian bowed.\n\n May I ask how it is that Mr. Luker himself did not advance the money\nthat you require? \n\n Mr. Luker informed me, sir, that he had no money to lend. \n\n And so he recommended you to come to me? \n\nThe Indian, in his turn, pointed to the card.  It is written there,  he\nsaid.\n\nBriefly answered, and thoroughly to the purpose! If the Moonstone had\nbeen in my possession, this Oriental gentleman would have murdered me,\nI am well aware, without a moment s hesitation. At the same time, and\nbarring that slight drawback, I am bound to testify that he was the\nperfect model of a client. He might not have respected my life. But he\ndid what none of my own countrymen had ever done, in all my experience\nof them he respected my time.\n\n I am sorry,  I said,  that you should have had the trouble of coming\nto me. Mr. Luker is quite mistaken in sending you here. I am trusted,\nlike other men in my profession, with money to lend. But I never lend\nit to strangers, and I never lend it on such a security as you have\nproduced. \n\nFar from attempting, as other people would have done, to induce me to\nrelax my own rules, the Indian only made me another bow, and wrapped up\nhis box in its two coverings without a word of protest. He rose this\nadmirable assassin rose to go, the moment I had answered him!\n\n Will your condescension towards a stranger, excuse my asking one\nquestion,  he said,  before I take my leave? \n\nI bowed on my side. Only one question at parting! The average in my\nexperience was fifty.\n\n Supposing, sir, it had been possible (and customary) for _you_ to lend\nme the money,  he said,  in what space of time would it have been\npossible (and customary) for _me_ to pay it back? \n\n According to the usual course pursued in this country,  I answered,\n you would have been entitled to pay the money back (if you liked) in\none year s time from the date at which it was first advanced to you. \n\nThe Indian made me a last bow, the lowest of all and suddenly and\nsoftly walked out of the room.\n\nIt was done in a moment, in a noiseless, supple, cat-like way, which a\nlittle startled me, I own. As soon as I was composed enough to think, I\narrived at one distinct conclusion in reference to the otherwise\nincomprehensible visitor who had favoured me with a call.\n\nHis face, voice, and manner while I was in his company were under such\nperfect control that they set all scrutiny at defiance. But he had\ngiven me one chance of looking under the smooth outer surface of him,\nfor all that. He had not shown the slightest sign of attempting to fix\nanything that I had said to him in his mind, until I mentioned the time\nat which it was customary to permit the earliest repayment, on the part\nof a debtor, of money that had been advanced as a loan. When I gave him\nthat piece of information, he looked me straight in the face, while I\nwas speaking, for the first time. The inference I drew from this\nwas that he had a special purpose in asking me his last question, and a\nspecial interest in hearing my answer to it. The more carefully I\nreflected on what had passed between us, the more shrewdly I suspected\nthe production of the casket, and the application for the loan, of\nhaving been mere formalities, designed to pave the way for the parting\ninquiry addressed to me.\n\nI had satisfied myself of the correctness of this conclusion and was\ntrying to get on a step further, and penetrate the Indian s motives\nnext when a letter was brought to me, which proved to be from no less a\nperson that Mr. Septimus Luker himself. He asked my pardon in terms of\nsickening servility, and assured me that he could explain matters to my\nsatisfaction, if I would honour him by consenting to a personal\ninterview.\n\nI made another unprofessional sacrifice to mere curiosity. I honoured\nhim by making an appointment at my office, for the next day.\n\nMr. Luker was, in every respect, such an inferior creature to the\nIndian he was so vulgar, so ugly, so cringing, and so prosy that he is\nquite unworthy of being reported, at any length, in these pages. The\nsubstance of what he had to tell me may be fairly stated as follows:\n\nThe day before I had received the visit of the Indian, Mr. Luker had\nbeen favoured with a call from that accomplished gentleman. In spite of\nhis European disguise, Mr. Luker had instantly identified his visitor\nwith the chief of the three Indians, who had formerly annoyed him by\nloitering about his house, and who had left him no alternative but to\nconsult a magistrate. From this startling discovery he had rushed to\nthe conclusion (naturally enough I own) that he must certainly be in\nthe company of one of the three men, who had blindfolded him, gagged\nhim, and robbed him of his banker s receipt. The result was that he\nbecame quite paralysed with terror, and that he firmly believed his\nlast hour had come.\n\nOn his side, the Indian preserved the character of a perfect stranger.\nHe produced the little casket, and made exactly the same application\nwhich he had afterwards made to me. As the speediest way of getting rid\nof him, Mr. Luker had at once declared that he had no money. The Indian\nhad thereupon asked to be informed of the best and safest person to\napply to for the loan he wanted. Mr. Luker had answered that the best\nand safest person, in such cases, was usually a respectable solicitor.\nAsked to name some individual of that character and profession, Mr.\nLuker had mentioned me for the one simple reason that, in the extremity\nof his terror, mine was the first name which occurred to him.  The\nperspiration was pouring off me like rain, sir,  the wretched creature\nconcluded.  I didn t know what I was talking about. And I hope you ll\nlook over it, Mr. Bruff, sir, in consideration of my having been really\nand truly frightened out of my wits. \n\nI excused the fellow graciously enough. It was the readiest way of\nreleasing myself from the sight of him. Before he left me, I detained\nhim to make one inquiry.\n\nHad the Indian said anything noticeable, at the moment of quitting Mr.\nLuker s house?\n\nYes! The Indian had put precisely the same question to Mr. Luker, at\nparting, which he had put to me; receiving of course, the same answer\nas the answer which I had given him.\n\nWhat did it mean? Mr. Luker s explanation gave me no assistance towards\nsolving the problem. My own unaided ingenuity, consulted next, proved\nquite unequal to grapple with the difficulty. I had a dinner engagement\nthat evening; and I went upstairs, in no very genial frame of mind,\nlittle suspecting that the way to my dressing-room and the way to\ndiscovery, meant, on this particular occasion, one and the same thing.\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe prominent personage among the guests at the dinner party I found to\nbe Mr. Murthwaite.\n\nOn his appearance in England, after his wanderings, society had been\ngreatly interested in the traveller, as a man who had passed through\nmany dangerous adventures, and who had escaped to tell the tale. He had\nnow announced his intention of returning to the scene of his exploits,\nand of penetrating into regions left still unexplored. This magnificent\nindifference to placing his safety in peril for the second time,\nrevived the flagging interest of the worshippers in the hero. The law\nof chances was clearly against his escaping on this occasion. It is not\nevery day that we can meet an eminent person at dinner, and feel that\nthere is a reasonable prospect of the news of his murder being the news\nthat we hear of him next.\n\nWhen the gentlemen were left by themselves in the dining-room, I found\nmyself sitting next to Mr. Murthwaite. The guests present being all\nEnglish, it is needless to say that, as soon as the wholesome check\nexercised by the presence of the ladies was removed, the conversation\nturned on politics as a necessary result.\n\nIn respect to this all-absorbing national topic, I happen to be one of\nthe most un-English Englishmen living. As a general rule, political\ntalk appears to me to be of all talk the most dreary and the most\nprofitless. Glancing at Mr. Murthwaite, when the bottles had made their\nfirst round of the table, I found that he was apparently of my way of\nthinking. He was doing it very dexterously with all possible\nconsideration for the feelings of his host but it is not the less\ncertain that he was composing himself for a nap. It struck me as an\nexperiment worth attempting, to try whether a judicious allusion to the\nsubject of the Moonstone would keep him awake, and, if it did, to see\nwhat _he_ thought of the last new complication in the Indian\nconspiracy, as revealed in the prosaic precincts of my office.\n\n If I am not mistaken, Mr. Murthwaite,  I began,  you were acquainted\nwith the late Lady Verinder, and you took some interest in the strange\nsuccession of events which ended in the loss of the Moonstone? \n\nThe eminent traveller did me the honour of waking up in an instant, and\nasking me who I was.\n\nI informed him of my professional connection with the Herncastle\nfamily, not forgetting the curious position which I had occupied\ntowards the Colonel and his Diamond in the bygone time.\n\nMr. Murthwaite shifted round in his chair, so as to put the rest of the\ncompany behind him (Conservatives and Liberals alike), and concentrated\nhis whole attention on plain Mr. Bruff, of Gray s Inn Square.\n\n Have you heard anything, lately, of the Indians?  he asked.\n\n I have every reason to believe,  I answered,  that one of them had an\ninterview with me, in my office, yesterday. \n\nMr. Murthwaite was not an easy man to astonish; but that last answer of\nmine completely staggered him. I described what had happened to Mr.\nLuker, and what had happened to myself, exactly as I have described it\nhere.  It is clear that the Indian s parting inquiry had an object,  I\nadded.  Why should he be so anxious to know the time at which a\nborrower of money is usually privileged to pay the money back? \n\n Is it possible that you don t see his motive, Mr. Bruff? \n\n I am ashamed of my stupidity, Mr. Murthwaite but I certainly don t see\nit. \n\nThe great traveller became quite interested in sounding the immense\nvacuity of my dulness to its lowest depths.\n\n Let me ask you one question,  he said.  In what position does the\nconspiracy to seize the Moonstone now stand? \n\n I can t say,  I answered.  The Indian plot is a mystery to me. \n\n The Indian plot, Mr. Bruff, can only be a mystery to you, because you\nhave never seriously examined it. Shall we run it over together, from\nthe time when you drew Colonel Herncastle s Will, to the time when the\nIndian called at your office? In your position, it may be of very\nserious importance to the interests of Miss Verinder, that you should\nbe able to take a clear view of this matter in case of need. Tell me,\nbearing that in mind, whether you will penetrate the Indian s motive\nfor yourself? or whether you wish me to save you the trouble of making\nany inquiry into it? \n\nIt is needless to say that I thoroughly appreciated the practical\npurpose which I now saw that he had in view, and that the first of the\ntwo alternatives was the alternative I chose.\n\n Very good,  said Mr. Murthwaite.  We will take the question of the\nages of the three Indians first. I can testify that they all look much\nabout the same age and you can decide for yourself, whether the man\nwhom you saw was, or was not, in the prime of life. Not forty, you\nthink? My idea too. We will say not forty. Now look back to the time\nwhen Colonel Herncastle came to England, and when you were concerned in\nthe plan he adopted to preserve his life. I don t want you to count the\nyears. I will only say, it is clear that these present Indians, at\ntheir age, must be the successors of three other Indians (high caste\nBrahmins all of them, Mr. Bruff, when they left their native country!)\nwho followed the Colonel to these shores. Very well. These present men\nof ours have succeeded to the men who were here before them. If they\nhad only done that, the matter would not have been worth inquiring\ninto. But they have done more. They have succeeded to the organisation\nwhich their predecessors established in this country. Don t start! The\norganisation is a very trumpery affair, according to our ideas, I have\nno doubt. I should reckon it up as including the command of money; the\nservices, when needed, of that shady sort of Englishman, who lives in\nthe byways of foreign life in London; and, lastly, the secret sympathy\nof such few men of their own country, and (formerly, at least) of their\nown religion, as happen to be employed in ministering to some of the\nmultitudinous wants of this great city. Nothing very formidable, as you\nsee! But worth notice at starting, because we _may_ find occasion to\nrefer to this modest little Indian organisation as we go on. Having now\ncleared the ground, I am going to ask you a question; and I expect your\nexperience to answer it. What was the event which gave the Indians\ntheir first chance of seizing the Diamond? \n\nI understood the allusion to my experience.\n\n The first chance they got,  I replied,  was clearly offered to them by\nColonel Herncastle s death. They would be aware of his death, I\nsuppose, as a matter of course? \n\n As a matter of course. And his death, as you say, gave them their\nfirst chance. Up to that time the Moonstone was safe in the strongroom\nof the bank. You drew the Colonel s Will leaving his jewel to his\nniece; and the Will was proved in the usual way. As a lawyer, you can\nbe at no loss to know what course the Indians would take (under English\nadvice) after _that_. \n\n They would provide themselves with a copy of the Will from Doctors \nCommons,  I said.\n\n Exactly. One or other of those shady Englishmen to whom I have\nalluded, would get them the copy you have described. That copy would\ninform them that the Moonstone was bequeathed to the daughter of Lady\nVerinder, and that Mr. Blake the elder, or some person appointed by\nhim, was to place it in her hands. You will agree with me that the\nnecessary information about persons in the position of Lady Verinder\nand Mr. Blake, would be perfectly easy information to obtain. The one\ndifficulty for the Indians would be to decide whether they should make\ntheir attempt on the Diamond when it was in course of removal from the\nkeeping of the bank, or whether they should wait until it was taken\ndown to Yorkshire to Lady Verinder s house. The second way would be\nmanifestly the safest way and there you have the explanation of the\nappearance of the Indians at Frizinghall, disguised as jugglers, and\nwaiting their time. In London, it is needless to say, they had their\norganisation at their disposal to keep them informed of events. Two men\nwould do it. One to follow anybody who went from Mr. Blake s house to\nthe bank. And one to treat the lower men servants with beer, and to\nhear the news of the house. These commonplace precautions would readily\ninform them that Mr. Franklin Blake had been to the bank, and that Mr.\nFranklin Blake was the only person in the house who was going to visit\nLady Verinder. What actually followed upon that discovery, you\nremember, no doubt, quite as correctly as I do. \n\nI remembered that Franklin Blake had detected one of the spies, in the\nstreet that he had, in consequence, advanced the time of his arrival in\nYorkshire by some hours and that (thanks to old Betteredge s excellent\nadvice) he had lodged the Diamond in the bank at Frizinghall, before\nthe Indians were so much as prepared to see him in the neighbourhood.\nAll perfectly clear so far. But the Indians being ignorant of the\nprecautions thus taken, how was it that they had made no attempt on\nLady Verinder s house (in which they must have supposed the Diamond to\nbe) through the whole of the interval that elapsed before Rachel s\nbirthday?\n\nIn putting this difficulty to Mr. Murthwaite, I thought it right to add\nthat I had heard of the little boy, and the drop of ink, and the rest\nof it, and that any explanation based on the theory of clairvoyance was\nan explanation which would carry no conviction whatever with it, to\n_my_ mind.\n\n Nor to mine either,  said Mr. Murthwaite.  The clairvoyance in this\ncase is simply a development of the romantic side of the Indian\ncharacter. It would be refreshment and an encouragement to those\nmen quite inconceivable, I grant you, to the English mind to surround\ntheir wearisome and perilous errand in this country with a certain halo\nof the marvellous and the supernatural. Their boy is unquestionably a\nsensitive subject to the mesmeric influence and, under that influence,\nhe has no doubt reflected what was already in the mind of the person\nmesmerising him. I have tested the theory of clairvoyance and I have\nnever found the manifestations get beyond that point. The Indians don t\ninvestigate the matter in this way; the Indians look upon their boy as\na Seer of things invisible to their eyes and, I repeat, in that marvel\nthey find the source of a new interest in the purpose that unites them.\nI only notice this as offering a curious view of human character, which\nmust be quite new to you. We have nothing whatever to do with\nclairvoyance, or with mesmerism, or with anything else that is hard of\nbelief to a practical man, in the inquiry that we are now pursuing. My\nobject in following the Indian plot, step by step, is to trace results\nback, by rational means, to natural causes. Have I succeeded to your\nsatisfaction so far? \n\n Not a doubt of it, Mr. Murthwaite! I am waiting, however, with some\nanxiety, to hear the rational explanation of the difficulty which I\nhave just had the honour of submitting to you. \n\nMr. Murthwaite smiled.  It s the easiest difficulty to deal with of\nall,  he said.  Permit me to begin by admitting your statement of the\ncase as a perfectly correct one. The Indians were undoubtedly not aware\nof what Mr. Franklin Blake had done with the Diamond for we find them\nmaking their first mistake, on the first night of Mr. Blake s arrival\nat his aunt s house. \n\n Their first mistake?  I repeated.\n\n Certainly! The mistake of allowing themselves to be surprised, lurking\nabout the terrace at night, by Gabriel Betteredge. However, they had\nthe merit of seeing for themselves that they had taken a false\nstep for, as you say, again, with plenty of time at their disposal,\nthey never came near the house for weeks afterwards. \n\n Why, Mr. Murthwaite? That s what I want to know! Why? \n\n Because no Indian, Mr. Bruff, ever runs an unnecessary risk. The\nclause you drew in Colonel Herncastle s Will, informed them (didn t\nit?) that the Moonstone was to pass absolutely into Miss Verinder s\npossession on her birthday. Very well. Tell me which was the safest\ncourse for men in their position? To make their attempt on the Diamond\nwhile it was under the control of Mr. Franklin Blake, who had shown\nalready that he could suspect and outwit them? Or to wait till the\nDiamond was at the disposal of a young girl, who would innocently\ndelight in wearing the magnificent jewel at every possible opportunity?\nPerhaps you want a proof that my theory is correct? Take the conduct of\nthe Indians themselves as the proof. They appeared at the house, after\nwaiting all those weeks, on Miss Verinder s birthday; and they were\nrewarded for the patient accuracy of their calculations by seeing the\nMoonstone in the bosom of her dress! When I heard the story of the\nColonel and the Diamond, later in the evening, I felt so sure about the\nrisk Mr. Franklin Blake had run (they would have certainly attacked\nhim, if he had not happened to ride back to Lady Verinder s in the\ncompany of other people); and I was so strongly convinced of the worse\nrisk still, in store for Miss Verinder, that I recommended following\nthe Colonel s plan, and destroying the identity of the gem by having it\ncut into separate stones. How its extraordinary disappearance that\nnight, made my advice useless, and utterly defeated the Hindoo plot and\nhow all further action on the part of the Indians was paralysed the\nnext day by their confinement in prison as rogues and vagabonds you\nknow as well as I do. The first act in the conspiracy closes there.\nBefore we go on to the second, may I ask whether I have met your\ndifficulty, with an explanation which is satisfactory to the mind of a\npractical man? \n\nIt was impossible to deny that he had met my difficulty fairly; thanks\nto his superior knowledge of the Indian character and thanks to his not\nhaving had hundreds of other Wills to think of since Colonel\nHerncastle s time!\n\n So far, so good,  resumed Mr. Murthwaite.  The first chance the\nIndians had of seizing the Diamond was a chance lost, on the day when\nthey were committed to the prison at Frizinghall. When did the second\nchance offer itself? The second chance offered itself as I am in a\ncondition to prove while they were still in confinement. \n\nHe took out his pocket-book, and opened it at a particular leaf, before\nhe went on.\n\n I was staying,  he resumed,  with some friends at Frizinghall, at the\ntime. A day or two before the Indians were set free (on a Monday, I\nthink), the governor of the prison came to me with a letter. It had\nbeen left for the Indians by one Mrs. Macann, of whom they had hired\nthe lodging in which they lived; and it had been delivered at Mrs.\nMacann s door, in ordinary course of post, on the previous morning. The\nprison authorities had noticed that the postmark was  Lambeth,  and\nthat the address on the outside, though expressed in correct English,\nwas, in form, oddly at variance with the customary method of directing\na letter. On opening it, they had found the contents to be written in a\nforeign language, which they rightly guessed at as Hindustani. Their\nobject in coming to me was, of course, to have the letter translated to\nthem. I took a copy in my pocket-book of the original, and of my\ntranslation and there they are at your service. \n\nHe handed me the open pocket-book. The address on the letter was the\nfirst thing copied. It was all written in one paragraph, without any\nattempt at punctuation, thus:  To the three Indian men living with the\nlady called Macann at Frizinghall in Yorkshire.  The Hindoo characters\nfollowed; and the English translation appeared at the end, expressed in\nthese mysterious words:\n\n In the name of the Regent of the Night, whose seat is on the Antelope,\nwhose arms embrace the four corners of the earth.\n\n Brothers, turn your faces to the south, and come to me in the street\nof many noises, which leads down to the muddy river.\n\n The reason is this.\n\n My own eyes have seen it. \n\nThere the letter ended, without either date or signature. I handed it\nback to Mr. Murthwaite, and owned that this curious specimen of Hindoo\ncorrespondence rather puzzled me.\n\n I can explain the first sentence to you,  he said;  and the conduct of\nthe Indians themselves will explain the rest. The god of the moon is\nrepresented, in the Hindoo mythology, as a four-armed deity, seated on\nan antelope; and one of his titles is the regent of the night. Here,\nthen, to begin with, is something which looks suspiciously like an\nindirect reference to the Moonstone. Now, let us see what the Indians\ndid, after the prison authorities had allowed them to receive their\nletter. On the very day when they were set free they went at once to\nthe railway station, and took their places in the first train that\nstarted for London. We all thought it a pity at Frizinghall that their\nproceedings were not privately watched. But, after Lady Verinder had\ndismissed the police-officer, and had stopped all further inquiry into\nthe loss of the Diamond, no one else could presume to stir in the\nmatter. The Indians were free to go to London, and to London they went.\nWhat was the next news we heard of them, Mr. Bruff? \n\n They were annoying Mr. Luker,  I answered,  by loitering about the\nhouse at Lambeth. \n\n Did you read the report of Mr. Luker s application to the magistrate? \n\n Yes. \n\n In the course of his statement he referred, if you remember, to a\nforeign workman in his employment, whom he had just dismissed on\nsuspicion of attempted theft, and whom he also distrusted as possibly\nacting in collusion with the Indians who had annoyed him. The inference\nis pretty plain, Mr. Bruff, as to who wrote that letter which puzzled\nyou just now, and as to which of Mr. Luker s Oriental treasures the\nworkman had attempted to steal. \n\nThe inference (as I hastened to acknowledge) was too plain to need\nbeing pointed out. I had never doubted that the Moonstone had found its\nway into Mr. Luker s hands, at the time Mr. Murthwaite alluded to. My\nonly question had been, How had the Indians discovered the\ncircumstance? This question (the most difficult to deal with of all, as\nI had thought) had now received its answer, like the rest. Lawyer as I\nwas, I began to feel that I might trust Mr. Murthwaite to lead me\nblindfold through the last windings of the labyrinth, along which he\nhad guided me thus far. I paid him the compliment of telling him this,\nand found my little concession very graciously received.\n\n You shall give me a piece of information in your turn before we go\non,  he said.  Somebody must have taken the Moonstone from Yorkshire to\nLondon. And somebody must have raised money on it, or it would never\nhave been in Mr. Luker s possession. Has there been any discovery made\nof who that person was? \n\n None that I know of. \n\n There was a story (was there not?) about Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. I am\ntold he is an eminent philanthropist which is decidedly against him, to\nbegin with. \n\nI heartily agreed in this with Mr. Murthwaite. At the same time, I felt\nbound to inform him (without, it is needless to say, mentioning Miss\nVerinder s name) that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had been cleared of all\nsuspicion, on evidence which I could answer for as entirely beyond\ndispute.\n\n Very well,  said Mr. Murthwaite, quietly,  let us leave it to time to\nclear the matter up. In the meanwhile, Mr. Bruff, we must get back\nagain to the Indians, on your account. Their journey to London simply\nended in their becoming the victims of another defeat. The loss of\ntheir second chance of seizing the Diamond is mainly attributable, as I\nthink, to the cunning and foresight of Mr. Luker who doesn t stand at\nthe top of the prosperous and ancient profession of usury for nothing!\nBy the prompt dismissal of the man in his employment, he deprived the\nIndians of the assistance which their confederate would have rendered\nthem in getting into the house. By the prompt transport of the\nMoonstone to his banker s, he took the conspirators by surprise before\nthey were prepared with a new plan for robbing him. How the Indians, in\nthis latter case, suspected what he had done, and how they contrived to\npossess themselves of his banker s receipt, are events too recent to\nneed dwelling on. Let it be enough to say that they know the Moonstone\nto be once more out of their reach; deposited (under the general\ndescription of  a valuable of great price ) in a banker s strong room.\nNow, Mr. Bruff, what is their third chance of seizing the Diamond? and\nwhen will it come? \n\nAs the question passed his lips, I penetrated the motive of the\nIndian s visit to my office at last!\n\n I see it!  I exclaimed.  The Indians take it for granted, as we do,\nthat the Moonstone has been pledged; and they want to be certainly\ninformed of the earliest period at which the pledge can be\nredeemed because that will be the earliest period at which the Diamond\ncan be removed from the safe keeping of the bank! \n\n I told you you would find it out for yourself, Mr. Bruff, if I only\ngave you a fair chance. In a year from the time when the Moonstone was\npledged, the Indians will be on the watch for their third chance. Mr.\nLuker s own lips have told them how long they will have to wait, and\nyour respectable authority has satisfied them that Mr. Luker has spoken\nthe truth. When do we suppose, at a rough guess, that the Diamond found\nits way into the money-lender s hands? \n\n Towards the end of last June,  I answered,  as well as I can reckon\nit. \n\n And we are now in the year  forty-eight. Very good. If the unknown\nperson who has pledged the Moonstone can redeem it in a year, the jewel\nwill be in that person s possession again at the end of June,\n forty-nine. I shall be thousands of miles from England and English\nnews at that date. But it may be worth _your_ while to take a note of\nit, and to arrange to be in London at the time. \n\n You think something serious will happen?  I said.\n\n I think I shall be safer,  he answered,  among the fiercest fanatics\nof Central Asia than I should be if I crossed the door of the bank with\nthe Moonstone in my pocket. The Indians have been defeated twice\nrunning, Mr. Bruff. It s my firm belief that they won t be defeated a\nthird time. \n\nThose were the last words he said on the subject. The coffee came in;\nthe guests rose, and dispersed themselves about the room; and we joined\nthe ladies of the dinner-party upstairs.\n\nI made a note of the date, and it may not be amiss if I close my\nnarrative by repeating that note here:\n\n_June,  forty-nine. Expect news of the Indians, towards the end of the\nmonth._\n\nAnd that done, I hand the pen, which I have now no further claim to\nuse, to the writer who follows me next.\n\n\nTHIRD NARRATIVE.\n\n_Contributed by Franklin Blake._\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nIn the spring of the year eighteen hundred and forty-nine I was\nwandering in the East, and had then recently altered the travelling\nplans which I had laid out some months before, and which I had\ncommunicated to my lawyer and my banker in London.\n\nThis change made it necessary for me to send one of my servants to\nobtain my letters and remittances from the English consul in a certain\ncity, which was no longer included as one of my resting-places in my\nnew travelling scheme. The man was to join me again at an appointed\nplace and time. An accident, for which he was not responsible, delayed\nhim on his errand. For a week I and my people waited, encamped on the\nborders of a desert. At the end of that time the missing man made his\nappearance, with the money and the letters, at the entrance of my tent.\n\n I am afraid I bring you bad news, sir,  he said, and pointed to one of\nthe letters, which had a mourning border round it, and the address on\nwhich was in the handwriting of Mr. Bruff.\n\nI know nothing, in a case of this kind, so unendurable as suspense. The\nletter with the mourning border was the letter that I opened first.\n\nIt informed me that my father was dead, and that I was heir to his\ngreat fortune. The wealth which had thus fallen into my hands brought\nits responsibilities with it, and Mr. Bruff entreated me to lose no\ntime in returning to England.\n\nBy daybreak the next morning, I was on my way back to my own country.\n\nThe picture presented of me, by my old friend Betteredge, at the time\nof my departure from England, is (as I think) a little overdrawn. He\nhas, in his own quaint way, interpreted seriously one of his young\nmistress s many satirical references to my foreign education; and has\npersuaded himself that he actually saw those French, German, and\nItalian sides to my character, which my lively cousin only professed to\ndiscover in jest, and which never had any real existence, except in our\ngood Betteredge s own brain. But, barring this drawback, I am bound to\nown that he has stated no more than the truth in representing me as\nwounded to the heart by Rachel s treatment, and as leaving England in\nthe first keenness of suffering caused by the bitterest disappointment\nof my life.\n\nI went abroad, resolved if change and absence could help me to forget\nher. It is, I am persuaded, no true view of human nature which denies\nthat change and absence _do_ help a man under these circumstances; they\nforce his attention away from the exclusive contemplation of his own\nsorrow. I never forgot her; but the pang of remembrance lost its worst\nbitterness, little by little, as time, distance, and novelty interposed\nthemselves more and more effectually between Rachel and me.\n\nOn the other hand, it is no less certain that, with the act of turning\nhomeward, the remedy which had gained its ground so steadily, began\nnow, just as steadily, to drop back. The nearer I drew to the country\nwhich she inhabited, and to the prospect of seeing her again, the more\nirresistibly her influence began to recover its hold on me. On leaving\nEngland she was the last person in the world whose name I would have\nsuffered to pass my lips. On returning to England, she was the first\nperson I inquired after, when Mr. Bruff and I met again.\n\nI was informed, of course, of all that had happened in my absence; in\nother words, of all that has been related here in continuation of\nBetteredge s narrative one circumstance only being excepted. Mr. Bruff\ndid not, at that time, feel himself at liberty to inform me of the\nmotives which had privately influenced Rachel and Godfrey Ablewhite in\nrecalling the marriage promise, on either side. I troubled him with no\nembarrassing questions on this delicate subject. It was relief enough\nto me, after the jealous disappointment caused by hearing that she had\never contemplated being Godfrey s wife, to know that reflection had\nconvinced her of acting rashly, and that she had effected her own\nrelease from her marriage engagement.\n\nHaving heard the story of the past, my next inquiries (still inquiries\nafter Rachel!) advanced naturally to the present time. Under whose care\nhad she been placed after leaving Mr. Bruff s house? and where was she\nliving now?\n\nShe was living under the care of a widowed sister of the late Sir John\nVerinder one Mrs. Merridew whom her mother s executors had requested to\nact as guardian, and who had accepted the proposal. They were reported\nto me as getting on together admirably well, and as being now\nestablished, for the season, in Mrs. Merridew s house in Portland\nPlace.\n\nHalf an hour after receiving this information, I was on my way to\nPortland Place without having had the courage to own it to Mr. Bruff!\n\nThe man who answered the door was not sure whether Miss Verinder was at\nhome or not. I sent him upstairs with my card, as the speediest way of\nsetting the question at rest. The man came down again with an\nimpenetrable face, and informed me that Miss Verinder was out.\n\nI might have suspected other people of purposely denying themselves to\nme. But it was impossible to suspect Rachel. I left word that I would\ncall again at six o clock that evening.\n\nAt six o clock I was informed for the second time that Miss Verinder\nwas not at home. Had any message been left for me. No message had been\nleft for me. Had Miss Verinder not received my card? The servant begged\nmy pardon Miss Verinder _had_ received it.\n\nThe inference was too plain to be resisted. Rachel declined to see me.\n\nOn my side, I declined to be treated in this way, without making an\nattempt, at least, to discover a reason for it. I sent up my name to\nMrs. Merridew, and requested her to favour me with a personal interview\nat any hour which it might be most convenient to her to name.\n\nMrs. Merridew made no difficulty about receiving me at once. I was\nshown into a comfortable little sitting-room, and found myself in the\npresence of a comfortable little elderly lady. She was so good as to\nfeel great regret and much surprise, entirely on my account. She was at\nthe same time, however, not in a position to offer me any explanation,\nor to press Rachel on a matter which appeared to relate to a question\nof private feeling alone. This was said over and over again, with a\npolite patience that nothing could tire; and this was all I gained by\napplying to Mrs. Merridew.\n\nMy last chance was to write to Rachel. My servant took a letter to her\nthe next day, with strict instructions to wait for an answer.\n\nThe answer came back, literally in one sentence.\n\n Miss Verinder begs to decline entering into any correspondence with\nMr. Franklin Blake. \n\nFond as I was of her, I felt indignantly the insult offered to me in\nthat reply. Mr. Bruff came in to speak to me on business, before I had\nrecovered possession of myself. I dismissed the business on the spot,\nand laid the whole case before him. He proved to be as incapable of\nenlightening me as Mrs. Merridew herself. I asked him if any slander\nhad been spoken of me in Rachel s hearing. Mr. Bruff was not aware of\nany slander of which I was the object. Had she referred to me in any\nway while she was staying under Mr. Bruff s roof? Never. Had she not so\nmuch as asked, during all my long absence, whether I was living or\ndead? No such question had ever passed her lips. I took out of my\npocket-book the letter which poor Lady Verinder had written to me from\nFrizinghall, on the day when I left her house in Yorkshire. And I\npointed Mr. Bruff s attention to these two sentences in it:\n\n The valuable assistance which you rendered to the inquiry after the\nlost jewel is still an unpardoned offence, in the present dreadful\nstate of Rachel s mind. Moving blindfold in this matter, you have added\nto the burden of anxiety which she has had to bear, by innocently\nthreatening her secret with discovery through your exertions. \n\n Is it possible,  I asked,  that the feeling towards me which is there\ndescribed, is as bitter as ever against me now? \n\nMr. Bruff looked unaffectedly distressed.\n\n If you insist on an answer,  he said,  I own I can place no other\ninterpretation on her conduct than that. \n\nI rang the bell, and directed my servant to pack my portmanteau, and to\nsend out for a railway guide. Mr. Bruff asked, in astonishment, what I\nwas going to do.\n\n I am going to Yorkshire,  I answered,  by the next train. \n\n May I ask for what purpose? \n\n Mr. Bruff, the assistance I innocently rendered to the inquiry after\nthe Diamond was an unpardoned offence, in Rachel s mind, nearly a year\nsince; and it remains an unpardoned offence still. I won t accept that\nposition! I am determined to find out the secret of her silence towards\nher mother, and her enmity towards _me_. If time, pains, and money can\ndo it, I will lay my hand on the thief who took the Moonstone! \n\nThe worthy old gentleman attempted to remonstrate to induce me to\nlisten to reason to do his duty towards me, in short. I was deaf to\neverything that he could urge. No earthly consideration would, at that\nmoment, have shaken the resolution that was in me.\n\n I shall take up the inquiry again,  I went on,  at the point where I\ndropped it; and I shall follow it onwards, step by step, till I come to\nthe present time. There are missing links in the evidence, as _I_ left\nit, which Gabriel Betteredge can supply, and to Gabriel Betteredge I\ngo! \n\nTowards sunset that evening I stood again on the well-remembered\nterrace, and looked once more at the peaceful old country house. The\ngardener was the first person whom I saw in the deserted grounds. He\nhad left Betteredge, an hour since, sunning himself in the customary\ncorner of the back yard. I knew it well; and I said I would go and seek\nhim myself.\n\nI walked round by the familiar paths and passages, and looked in at the\nopen gate of the yard.\n\nThere he was the dear old friend of the happy days that were never to\ncome again there he was in the old corner, on the old beehive chair,\nwith his pipe in his mouth, and his _Robinson Crusoe_ on his lap, and\nhis two friends, the dogs, dozing on either side of him! In the\nposition in which I stood, my shadow was projected in front of me by\nthe last slanting rays of the sun. Either the dogs saw it, or their\nkeen scent informed them of my approach; they started up with a growl.\nStarting in his turn, the old man quieted them by a word, and then\nshaded his failing eyes with his hand, and looked inquiringly at the\nfigure at the gate.\n\nMy own eyes were full of tears. I was obliged to wait a moment before I\ncould trust myself to speak to him.\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n Betteredge!  I said, pointing to the well-remembered book on his knee,\n has _Robinson Crusoe_ informed you, this evening, that you might\nexpect to see Franklin Blake? \n\n By the lord Harry, Mr. Franklin!  cried the old man,  that s exactly\nwhat _Robinson Crusoe_ has done! \n\nHe struggled to his feet with my assistance, and stood for a moment,\nlooking backwards and forwards between _Robinson Crusoe_ and me,\napparently at a loss to discover which of us had surprised him most.\nThe verdict ended in favour of the book. Holding it open before him in\nboth hands, he surveyed the wonderful volume with a stare of\nunutterable anticipation as if he expected to see Robinson Crusoe\nhimself walk out of the pages, and favour us with a personal interview.\n\n Here s the bit, Mr. Franklin!  he said, as soon as he had recovered\nthe use of his speech.  As I live by bread, sir, here s the bit I was\nreading, the moment before you came in! Page one hundred and fifty-six\nas follows: I stood like one Thunderstruck, or as if I had seen an\nApparition.  If that isn t as much as to say:  Expect the sudden\nappearance of Mr. Franklin Blake there s no meaning in the English\nlanguage!  said Betteredge, closing the book with a bang, and getting\none of his hands free at last to take the hand which I offered him.\n\nI had expected him, naturally enough under the circumstances, to\noverwhelm me with questions. But no the hospitable impulse was the\nuppermost impulse in the old servant s mind, when a member of the\nfamily appeared (no matter how!) as a visitor at the house.\n\n Walk in, Mr. Franklin,  he said, opening the door behind him, with his\nquaint old-fashioned bow.  I ll ask what brings you here afterwards I\nmust make you comfortable first. There have been sad changes, since you\nwent away. The house is shut up, and the servants are gone. Never mind\nthat! I ll cook your dinner; and the gardener s wife will make your\nbed and if there s a bottle of our famous Latour claret left in the\ncellar, down your throat, Mr. Franklin, that bottle shall go. I bid you\nwelcome, sir! I bid you heartily welcome!  said the poor old fellow,\nfighting manfully against the gloom of the deserted house, and\nreceiving me with the sociable and courteous attention of the bygone\ntime.\n\nIt vexed me to disappoint him. But the house was Rachel s house, now.\nCould I eat in it, or sleep in it, after what had happened in London?\nThe commonest sense of self-respect forbade me properly forbade me to\ncross the threshold.\n\nI took Betteredge by the arm, and led him out into the garden. There\nwas no help for it. I was obliged to tell him the truth. Between his\nattachment to Rachel, and his attachment to me, he was sorely puzzled\nand distressed at the turn things had taken. His opinion, when he\nexpressed it, was given in his usual downright manner, and was\nagreeably redolent of the most positive philosophy I know the\nphilosophy of the Betteredge school.\n\n Miss Rachel has her faults I ve never denied it,  he began.  And\nriding the high horse, now and then, is one of them. She has been\ntrying to ride over _you_ and you have put up with it. Lord, Mr.\nFranklin, don t you know women by this time better than that? You have\nheard me talk of the late Mrs. Betteredge? \n\nI had heard him talk of the late Mrs. Betteredge pretty\noften invariably producing her as his one undeniable example of the\ninbred frailty and perversity of the other sex. In that capacity he\nexhibited her now.\n\n Very well, Mr. Franklin. Now listen to me. Different women have\ndifferent ways of riding the high horse. The late Mrs. Betteredge took\nher exercise on that favourite female animal whenever I happened to\ndeny her anything that she had set her heart on. So sure as I came home\nfrom my work on these occasions, so sure was my wife to call to me up\nthe kitchen stairs, and to say that, after my brutal treatment of her,\nshe hadn t the heart to cook me my dinner. I put up with it for some\ntime just as you are putting up with it now from Miss Rachel. At last\nmy patience wore out. I went downstairs, and I took Mrs.\nBetteredge affectionately, you understand up in my arms, and carried\nher, holus-bolus, into the best parlour where she received her company.\nI said  That s the right place for you, my dear,  and so went back to\nthe kitchen. I locked myself in, and took off my coat, and turned up my\nshirt-sleeves, and cooked my own dinner. When it was done, I served it\nup in my best manner, and enjoyed it most heartily. I had my pipe and\nmy drop of grog afterwards; and then I cleared the table, and washed\nthe crockery, and cleaned the knives and forks, and put the things\naway, and swept up the hearth. When things were as bright and clean\nagain, as bright and clean could be, I opened the door and let Mrs.\nBetteredge in.  I ve had my dinner, my dear,  I said;  and I hope you\nwill find that I have left the kitchen all that your fondest wishes can\ndesire.  For the rest of that woman s life, Mr. Franklin, I never had\nto cook my dinner again! Moral: You have put up with Miss Rachel in\nLondon; don t put up with her in Yorkshire. Come back to the house! \n\nQuite unanswerable! I could only assure my good friend that even _his_\npowers of persuasion were, in this case, thrown away on me.\n\n It s a lovely evening,  I said.  I shall walk to Frizinghall, and stay\nat the hotel, and you must come tomorrow morning and breakfast with me.\nI have something to say to you. \n\nBetteredge shook his head gravely.\n\n I am heartily sorry for this,  he said.  I had hoped, Mr. Franklin, to\nhear that things were all smooth and pleasant again between you and\nMiss Rachel. If you must have your own way, sir,  he continued, after a\nmoment s reflection,  there is no need to go to Frizinghall tonight for\na bed. It s to be had nearer than that. There s Hotherstone s Farm,\nbarely two miles from here. You can hardly object to _that_ on Miss\nRachel s account,  the old man added slily.  Hotherstone lives, Mr.\nFranklin, on his own freehold. \n\nI remembered the place the moment Betteredge mentioned it. The\nfarm-house stood in a sheltered inland valley, on the banks of the\nprettiest stream in that part of Yorkshire: and the farmer had a spare\nbedroom and parlour, which he was accustomed to let to artists,\nanglers, and tourists in general. A more agreeable place of abode,\nduring my stay in the neighbourhood, I could not have wished to find.\n\n Are the rooms to let?  I inquired.\n\n Mrs. Hotherstone herself, sir, asked for my good word to recommend the\nrooms, yesterday. \n\n I ll take them, Betteredge, with the greatest pleasure. \n\nWe went back to the yard, in which I had left my travelling-bag. After\nputting a stick through the handle, and swinging the bag over his\nshoulder, Betteredge appeared to relapse into the bewilderment which my\nsudden appearance had caused, when I surprised him in the beehive\nchair. He looked incredulously at the house, and then he wheeled about,\nand looked more incredulously still at me.\n\n I ve lived a goodish long time in the world,  said this best and\ndearest of all old servants but the like of this, I never did expect\nto see. There stands the house, and here stands Mr. Franklin Blake and,\nDamme, if one of them isn t turning his back on the other, and going to\nsleep in a lodging! \n\nHe led the way out, wagging his head and growling ominously.  There s\nonly one more miracle that _can_ happen,  he said to me, over his\nshoulder.  The next thing you ll do, Mr. Franklin, will be to pay me\nback that seven-and-sixpence you borrowed of me when you were a boy. \n\nThis stroke of sarcasm put him in a better humour with himself and with\nme. We left the house, and passed through the lodge gates. Once clear\nof the grounds, the duties of hospitality (in Betteredge s code of\nmorals) ceased, and the privileges of curiosity began.\n\nHe dropped back, so as to let me get on a level with him.  Fine evening\nfor a walk, Mr. Franklin,  he said, as if we had just accidentally\nencountered each other at that moment.  Supposing you had gone to the\nhotel at Frizinghall, sir? \n\n Yes? \n\n I should have had the honour of breakfasting with you, tomorrow\nmorning. \n\n Come and breakfast with me at Hotherstone s Farm, instead. \n\n Much obliged to you for your kindness, Mr. Franklin. But it wasn t\nexactly breakfast that I was driving at. I think you mentioned that you\nhad something to say to me? If it s no secret, sir,  said Betteredge,\nsuddenly abandoning the crooked way, and taking the straight one,  I m\nburning to know what s brought you down here, if you please, in this\nsudden way. \n\n What brought me here before?  I asked.\n\n The Moonstone, Mr. Franklin. But what brings you now, sir? \n\n The Moonstone again, Betteredge. \n\nThe old man suddenly stood still, and looked at me in the grey twilight\nas if he suspected his own ears of deceiving him.\n\n If that s a joke, sir,  he said,  I m afraid I m getting a little dull\nin my old age. I don t take it. \n\n It s no joke,  I answered.  I have come here to take up the inquiry\nwhich was dropped when I left England. I have come here to do what\nnobody has done yet to find out who took the Diamond. \n\n Let the Diamond be, Mr. Franklin! Take my advice, and let the Diamond\nbe! That cursed Indian jewel has misguided everybody who has come near\nit. Don t waste your money and your temper in the fine spring time of\nyour life, sir by meddling with the Moonstone. How can _you_ hope to\nsucceed (saving your presence), when Sergeant Cuff himself made a mess\nof it? Sergeant Cuff!  repeated Betteredge, shaking his forefinger at\nme sternly.  The greatest policeman in England! \n\n My mind is made up, my old friend. Even Sergeant Cuff doesn t daunt\nme. By-the-bye, I may want to speak to him, sooner or later. Have you\nheard anything of him lately? \n\n The Sergeant won t help you, Mr. Franklin. \n\n Why not? \n\n There has been an event, sir, in the police-circles, since you went\naway. The great Cuff has retired from business. He has got a little\ncottage at Dorking; and he s up to his eyes in the growing of roses. I\nhave it in his own handwriting, Mr. Franklin. He has grown the white\nmoss rose, without budding it on the dog-rose first. And Mr. Begbie the\ngardener is to go to Dorking, and own that the Sergeant has beaten him\nat last. \n\n It doesn t much matter,  I said.  I must do without Sergeant Cuff s\nhelp. And I must trust to you, at starting. \n\nIt is likely enough that I spoke rather carelessly.\n\nAt any rate, Betteredge seemed to be piqued by something in the reply\nwhich I had just made to him.  You might trust to worse than me, Mr.\nFranklin I can tell you that,  he said a little sharply.\n\nThe tone in which he retorted, and a certain disturbance, after he had\nspoken, which I detected in his manner, suggested to me that he was\npossessed of some information which he hesitated to communicate.\n\n I expect you to help me,  I said,  in picking up the fragments of\nevidence which Sergeant Cuff has left behind him. I know you can do\nthat. Can you do no more? \n\n What more can you expect from me, sir?  asked Betteredge, with an\nappearance of the utmost humility.\n\n I expect more from what you said just now. \n\n Mere boasting, Mr. Franklin,  returned the old man obstinately.  Some\npeople are born boasters, and they never get over it to their dying\nday. I m one of them. \n\nThere was only one way to take with him. I appealed to his interest in\nRachel, and his interest in me.\n\n Betteredge, would you be glad to hear that Rachel and I were good\nfriends again? \n\n I have served your family, sir, to mighty little purpose, if you doubt\nit! \n\n Do you remember how Rachel treated me, before I left England? \n\n As well as if it was yesterday! My lady herself wrote you a letter\nabout it; and you were so good as to show the letter to me. It said\nthat Miss Rachel was mortally offended with you, for the part you had\ntaken in trying to recover her jewel. And neither my lady, nor you, nor\nanybody else could guess why.\n\n Quite true, Betteredge! And I come back from my travels, and find her\nmortally offended with me still. I knew that the Diamond was at the\nbottom of it, last year, and I know that the Diamond is at the bottom\nof it now. I have tried to speak to her, and she won t see me. I have\ntried to write to her, and she won t answer me. How, in Heaven s name,\nam I to clear the matter up? The chance of searching into the loss of\nthe Moonstone, is the one chance of inquiry that Rachel herself has\nleft me. \n\nThose words evidently put the case before him, as he had not seen it\nyet. He asked a question which satisfied me that I had shaken him.\n\n There is no ill-feeling in this, Mr. Franklin, on your side is there? \n\n There was some anger,  I answered,  when I left London. But that is\nall worn out now. I want to make Rachel come to an understanding with\nme and I want nothing more. \n\n You don t feel any fear, sir supposing you make any discoveries in\nregard to what you may find out about Miss Rachel? \n\nI understood the jealous belief in his young mistress which prompted\nthose words.\n\n I am as certain of her as you are,  I answered.  The fullest\ndisclosure of her secret will reveal nothing that can alter her place\nin your estimation, or in mine. \n\nBetteredge s last-left scruples vanished at that.\n\n If I am doing wrong to help you, Mr. Franklin,  he exclaimed,  all I\ncan say is I am as innocent of seeing it as the babe unborn! I can put\nyou on the road to discovery, if you can only go on by yourself. You\nremember that poor girl of ours Rosanna Spearman? \n\n Of course! \n\n You always thought she had some sort of confession in regard to this\nmatter of the Moonstone, which she wanted to make to you? \n\n I certainly couldn t account for her strange conduct in any other\nway. \n\n You may set that doubt at rest, Mr. Franklin, whenever you please. \n\nIt was my turn to come to a standstill now. I tried vainly, in the\ngathering darkness, to see his face. In the surprise of the moment, I\nasked a little impatiently what he meant.\n\n Steady, sir!  proceeded Betteredge.  I mean what I say. Rosanna\nSpearman left a sealed letter behind her a letter addressed to _you_. \n\n Where is it? \n\n In the possession of a friend of hers, at Cobb s Hole. You must have\nheard tell, when you were here last, sir, of Limping Lucy a lame girl\nwith a crutch. \n\n The fisherman s daughter? \n\n The same, Mr. Franklin. \n\n Why wasn t the letter forwarded to me? \n\n Limping Lucy has a will of her own, sir. She wouldn t give it into any\nhands but yours. And you had left England before I could write to you. \n\n Let s go back, Betteredge, and get it at once! \n\n Too late, sir, tonight. They re great savers of candles along our\ncoast; and they go to bed early at Cobb s Hole. \n\n Nonsense! We might get there in half an hour. \n\n _You_ might, sir. And when you did get there, you would find the door\nlocked. He pointed to a light, glimmering below us; and, at the same\nmoment, I heard through the stillness of the evening the bubbling of a\nstream.  There s the Farm, Mr. Franklin! Make yourself comfortable for\ntonight, and come to me tomorrow morning if you ll be so kind? \n\n You will go with me to the fisherman s cottage? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Early? \n\n As early, Mr. Franklin, as you like. \n\nWe descended the path that led to the Farm.\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nI have only the most indistinct recollection of what happened at\nHotherstone s Farm.\n\nI remember a hearty welcome; a prodigious supper, which would have fed\na whole village in the East; a delightfully clean bedroom, with nothing\nin it to regret but that detestable product of the folly of our\nforefathers a feather-bed; a restless night, with much kindling of\nmatches, and many lightings of one little candle; and an immense\nsensation of relief when the sun rose, and there was a prospect of\ngetting up.\n\nIt had been arranged over-night with Betteredge, that I was to call for\nhim, on our way to Cobb s Hole, as early as I liked which, interpreted\nby my impatience to get possession of the letter, meant as early as I\ncould. Without waiting for breakfast at the Farm, I took a crust of\nbread in my hand, and set forth, in some doubt whether I should not\nsurprise the excellent Betteredge in his bed. To my great relief he\nproved to be quite as excited about the coming event as I was. I found\nhim ready, and waiting for me, with his stick in his hand.\n\n How are you this morning, Betteredge? \n\n Very poorly, sir. \n\n Sorry to hear it. What do you complain of? \n\n I complain of a new disease, Mr. Franklin, of my own inventing. I\ndon t want to alarm you, but you re certain to catch it before the\nmorning is out. \n\n The devil I am! \n\n Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the pit of your stomach, sir? and\na nasty thumping at the top of your head? Ah! not yet? It will lay hold\nof you at Cobb s Hole, Mr. Franklin. I call it the detective-fever; and\n_I_ first caught it in the company of Sergeant Cuff. \n\n Aye! aye! and the cure in this instance is to open Rosanna Spearman s\nletter, I suppose? Come along, and let s get it. \n\nEarly as it was, we found the fisherman s wife astir in her kitchen. On\nmy presentation by Betteredge, good Mrs. Yolland performed a social\nceremony, strictly reserved (as I afterwards learnt) for strangers of\ndistinction. She put a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes\non the table, and opened the conversation by saying,  What news from\nLondon, sir? \n\nBefore I could find an answer to this immensely comprehensive question,\nan apparition advanced towards me, out of a dark corner of the kitchen.\nA wan, wild, haggard girl, with remarkably beautiful hair, and with a\nfierce keenness in her eyes, came limping up on a crutch to the table\nat which I was sitting, and looked at me as if I was an object of\nmingled interest and horror, which it quite fascinated her to see.\n\n Mr. Betteredge,  she said, without taking her eyes off me,  mention\nhis name again, if you please. \n\n This gentleman s name,  answered Betteredge (with a strong emphasis on\n_gentleman_),  is Mr. Franklin Blake. \n\nThe girl turned her back on me, and suddenly left the room. Good Mrs.\nYolland as I believe made some apologies for her daughter s odd\nbehaviour, and Betteredge (probably) translated them into polite\nEnglish. I speak of this in complete uncertainty. My attention was\nabsorbed in following the sound of the girl s crutch. Thump-thump, up\nthe wooden stairs; thump-thump across the room above our heads;\nthump-thump down the stairs again and there stood the apparition at the\nopen door, with a letter in its hand, beckoning me out!\n\nI left more apologies in course of delivery behind me, and followed\nthis strange creature limping on before me, faster and faster down the\nslope of the beach. She led me behind some boats, out of sight and\nhearing of the few people in the fishing-village, and then stopped, and\nfaced me for the first time.\n\n Stand there,  she said,  I want to look at you. \n\nThere was no mistaking the expression on her face. I inspired her with\nthe strongest emotions of abhorrence and disgust. Let me not be vain\nenough to say that no woman had ever looked at me in this manner\nbefore. I will only venture on the more modest assertion that no woman\nhad ever let me perceive it yet. There is a limit to the length of the\ninspection which a man can endure, under certain circumstances. I\nattempted to direct Limping Lucy s attention to some less revolting\nobject than my face.\n\n I think you have got a letter to give me,  I began.  Is it the letter\nthere, in your hand? \n\n Say that again,  was the only answer I received.\n\nI repeated the words, like a good child learning its lesson.\n\n No,  said the girl, speaking to herself, but keeping her eyes still\nmercilessly fixed on me.  I can t find out what she saw in his face. I\ncan t guess what she heard in his voice.  She suddenly looked away from\nme, and rested her head wearily on the top of her crutch.  Oh, my poor\ndear!  she said, in the first soft tones which had fallen from her, in\nmy hearing.  Oh, my lost darling! what could you see in this man?  She\nlifted her head again fiercely, and looked at me once more.  Can you\neat and drink?  she asked.\n\nI did my best to preserve my gravity, and answered,  Yes. \n\n Can you sleep? \n\n Yes. \n\n When you see a poor girl in service, do you feel no remorse? \n\n Certainly not. Why should I? \n\nShe abruptly thrust the letter (as the phrase is) into my face.\n\n Take it!  she exclaimed furiously.  I never set eyes on you before.\nGod Almighty forbid I should ever set eyes on you again. \n\nWith those parting words she limped away from me at the top of her\nspeed. The one interpretation that I could put on her conduct has, no\ndoubt, been anticipated by everybody. I could only suppose that she was\nmad.\n\nHaving reached that inevitable conclusion, I turned to the more\ninteresting object of investigation which was presented to me by\nRosanna Spearman s letter. The address was written as follows: For\nFranklin Blake, Esq. To be given into his own hands (and not to be\ntrusted to anyone else), by Lucy Yolland. \n\nI broke the seal. The envelope contained a letter: and this, in its\nturn, contained a slip of paper. I read the letter first: \n\n Sir, If you are curious to know the meaning of my behaviour to you,\nwhilst you were staying in the house of my mistress, Lady Verinder, do\nwhat you are told to do in the memorandum enclosed with this and do it\nwithout any person being present to overlook you. Your humble servant,\n\n\n ROSANNA SPEARMAN. \n\n\nI turned to the slip of paper next. Here is the literal copy of it,\nword for word:\n\n Memorandum: To go to the Shivering Sand at the turn of the tide. To\nwalk out on the South Spit, until I get the South Spit Beacon, and the\nflagstaff at the Coast-guard station above Cobb s Hole in a line\ntogether. To lay down on the rocks, a stick, or any straight thing to\nguide my hand, exactly in the line of the beacon and the flagstaff. To\ntake care, in doing this, that one end of the stick shall be at the\nedge of the rocks, on the side of them which overlooks the quicksand.\nTo feel along the stick, among the seaweed (beginning from the end of\nthe stick which points towards the beacon), for the Chain. To run my\nhand along the Chain, when found, until I come to the part of it which\nstretches over the edge of the rocks, down into the quicksand. _And\nthen, to pull the chain._ \n\nJust as I had read the last words underlined in the original I heard\nthe voice of Betteredge behind me. The inventor of the detective-fever\nhad completely succumbed to that irresistible malady.  I can t stand it\nany longer, Mr. Franklin. What does her letter say? For mercy s sake,\nsir, tell us, what does her letter say? \n\nI handed him the letter, and the memorandum. He read the first without\nappearing to be much interested in it. But the second the\nmemorandum produced a strong impression on him.\n\n The Sergeant said it!  cried Betteredge.  From first to last, sir, the\nSergeant said she had got a memorandum of the hiding-place. And here it\nis! Lord save us, Mr. Franklin, here is the secret that puzzled\neverybody, from the great Cuff downwards, ready and waiting, as one may\nsay, to show itself to _you!_ It s the ebb now, sir, as anybody may see\nfor themselves. How long will it be till the turn of the tide?  He\nlooked up, and observed a lad at work, at some little distance from us,\nmending a net.  Tammie Bright!  he shouted at the top of his voice.\n\n I hear you!  Tammie shouted back.\n\n When s the turn of the tide? \n\n In an hour s time. \n\nWe both looked at our watches.\n\n We can go round by the coast, Mr. Franklin,  said Betteredge;  and get\nto the quicksand in that way with plenty of time to spare. What do you\nsay, sir? \n\n Come along! \n\nOn our way to the Shivering Sand, I applied to Betteredge to revive my\nmemory of events (as affecting Rosanna Spearman) at the period of\nSergeant Cuff s inquiry. With my old friend s help, I soon had the\nsuccession of circumstances clearly registered in my mind. Rosanna s\njourney to Frizinghall, when the whole household believed her to be ill\nin her own room Rosanna s mysterious employment of the night-time with\nher door locked, and her candle burning till the morning Rosanna s\nsuspicious purchase of the japanned tin case, and the two dog s chains\nfrom Mrs. Yolland the Sergeant s positive conviction that Rosanna had\nhidden something at the Shivering Sand, and the Sergeant s absolute\nignorance as to what that something might be all these strange results\nof the abortive inquiry into the loss of the Moonstone were clearly\npresent to me again, when we reached the quicksand, and walked out\ntogether on the low ledge of rocks called the South Spit.\n\nWith Betteredge s help, I soon stood in the right position to see the\nBeacon and the Coast-guard flagstaff in a line together. Following the\nmemorandum as our guide, we next laid my stick in the necessary\ndirection, as neatly as we could, on the uneven surface of the rocks.\nAnd then we looked at our watches once more.\n\nIt wanted nearly twenty minutes yet of the turn of the tide. I\nsuggested waiting through this interval on the beach, instead of on the\nwet and slippery surface of the rocks. Having reached the dry sand, I\nprepared to sit down; and, greatly to my surprise, Betteredge prepared\nto leave me.\n\n What are you going away for?  I asked.\n\n Look at the letter again, sir, and you will see. \n\nA glance at the letter reminded me that I was charged, when I made my\ndiscovery, to make it alone.\n\n It s hard enough for me to leave you, at such a time as this,  said\nBetteredge.  But she died a dreadful death, poor soul and I feel a kind\nof call on me, Mr. Franklin, to humour that fancy of hers. Besides,  he\nadded, confidentially,  there s nothing in the letter against your\nletting out the secret afterwards. I ll hang about in the\nfir-plantation, and wait till you pick me up. Don t be longer than you\ncan help, sir. The detective-fever isn t an easy disease to deal with,\nunder _these_ circumstances. \n\nWith that parting caution, he left me.\n\nThe interval of expectation, short as it was when reckoned by the\nmeasure of time, assumed formidable proportions when reckoned by the\nmeasure of suspense. This was one of the occasions on which the\ninvaluable habit of smoking becomes especially precious and\nconsolatory. I lit a cigar, and sat down on the slope of the beach.\n\nThe sunlight poured its unclouded beauty on every object that I could\nsee. The exquisite freshness of the air made the mere act of living and\nbreathing a luxury. Even the lonely little bay welcomed the morning\nwith a show of cheerfulness; and the bared wet surface of the quicksand\nitself, glittering with a golden brightness, hid the horror of its\nfalse brown face under a passing smile. It was the finest day I had\nseen since my return to England.\n\nThe turn of the tide came, before my cigar was finished. I saw the\npreliminary heaving of the Sand, and then the awful shiver that crept\nover its surface as if some spirit of terror lived and moved and\nshuddered in the fathomless deeps beneath. I threw away my cigar, and\nwent back again to the rocks.\n\nMy directions in the memorandum instructed me to feel along the line\ntraced by the stick, beginning with the end which was nearest to the\nbeacon.\n\nI advanced, in this manner, more than half way along the stick, without\nencountering anything but the edges of the rocks. An inch or two\nfurther on, however, my patience was rewarded. In a narrow little\nfissure, just within reach of my forefinger, I felt the chain.\nAttempting, next, to follow it, by touch, in the direction of the\nquicksand, I found my progress stopped by a thick growth of\nseaweed which had fastened itself into the fissure, no doubt, in the\ntime that had elapsed since Rosanna Spearman had chosen her\nhiding-place.\n\nIt was equally impossible to pull up the seaweed, or to force my hand\nthrough it. After marking the spot indicated by the end of the stick\nwhich was placed nearest to the quicksand, I determined to pursue the\nsearch for the chain on a plan of my own. My idea was to  sound \nimmediately under the rocks, on the chance of recovering the lost trace\nof the chain at the point at which it entered the sand. I took up the\nstick, and knelt down on the brink of the South Spit.\n\nIn this position, my face was within a few feet of the surface of the\nquicksand. The sight of it so near me, still disturbed at intervals by\nits hideous shivering fit, shook my nerves for the moment. A horrible\nfancy that the dead woman might appear on the scene of her suicide, to\nassist my search an unutterable dread of seeing her rise through the\nheaving surface of the sand, and point to the place forced itself into\nmy mind, and turned me cold in the warm sunlight. I own I closed my\neyes at the moment when the point of the stick first entered the\nquicksand.\n\nThe instant afterwards, before the stick could have been submerged more\nthan a few inches, I was free from the hold of my own superstitious\nterror, and was throbbing with excitement from head to foot. Sounding\nblindfold, at my first attempt at that first attempt I had sounded\nright! The stick struck the chain.\n\nTaking a firm hold of the roots of the seaweed with my left hand, I\nlaid myself down over the brink, and felt with my right hand under the\noverhanging edges of the rock. My right hand found the chain.\n\nI drew it up without the slightest difficulty. And there was the\njapanned tin case fastened to the end of it.\n\nThe action of the water had so rusted the chain, that it was impossible\nfor me to unfasten it from the hasp which attached it to the case.\nPutting the case between my knees and exerting my utmost strength, I\ncontrived to draw off the cover. Some white substance filled the whole\ninterior when I looked in. I put in my hand, and found it to be linen.\n\nIn drawing out the linen, I also drew out a letter crumpled up with it.\nAfter looking at the direction, and discovering that it bore my name, I\nput the letter in my pocket, and completely removed the linen. It came\nout in a thick roll, moulded, of course, to the shape of the case in\nwhich it had been so long confined, and perfectly preserved from any\ninjury by the sea.\n\nI carried the linen to the dry sand of the beach, and there unrolled\nand smoothed it out. There was no mistaking it as an article of dress.\nIt was a nightgown.\n\nThe uppermost side, when I spread it out, presented to view innumerable\nfolds and creases, and nothing more. I tried the undermost side,\nnext and instantly discovered the smear of the paint from the door of\nRachel s boudoir!\n\nMy eyes remained riveted on the stain, and my mind took me back at a\nleap from present to past. The very words of Sergeant Cuff recurred to\nme, as if the man himself was at my side again, pointing to the\nunanswerable inference which he drew from the smear on the door.\n\n Find out whether there is any article of dress in this house with the\nstain of paint on it. Find out who that dress belongs to. Find out how\nthe person can account for having been in the room, and smeared the\npaint between midnight and three in the morning. If the person can t\nsatisfy you, you haven t far to look for the hand that took the\nDiamond. \n\nOne after another those words travelled over my memory, repeating\nthemselves again and again with a wearisome, mechanical reiteration. I\nwas roused from what felt like a trance of many hours from what was\nreally, no doubt, the pause of a few moments only by a voice calling to\nme. I looked up, and saw that Betteredge s patience had failed him at\nlast. He was just visible between the sandhills, returning to the\nbeach.\n\nThe old man s appearance recalled me, the moment I perceived it, to my\nsense of present things, and reminded me that the inquiry which I had\npursued thus far still remained incomplete. I had discovered the smear\non the nightgown. To whom did the nightgown belong?\n\nMy first impulse was to consult the letter in my pocket the letter\nwhich I had found in the case.\n\nAs I raised my hand to take it out, I remembered that there was a\nshorter way to discovery than this. The nightgown itself would reveal\nthe truth, for, in all probability, the nightgown was marked with its\nowner s name.\n\nI took it up from the sand, and looked for the mark.\n\nI found the mark, and read MY OWN NAME.\n\nThere were the familiar letters which told me that the nightgown was\nmine. I looked up from them. There was the sun; there were the\nglittering waters of the bay; there was old Betteredge, advancing\nnearer and nearer to me. I looked back again at the letters. My own\nname. Plainly confronting me my own name.\n\n If time, pains, and money can do it, I will lay my hand on the thief\nwho took the Moonstone. I had left London, with those words on my\nlips. I had penetrated the secret which the quicksand had kept from\nevery other living creature. And, on the unanswerable evidence of the\npaint-stain, I had discovered Myself as the Thief.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nI have not a word to say about my own sensations.\n\nMy impression is that the shock inflicted on me completely suspended my\nthinking and feeling power. I certainly could not have known what I was\nabout when Betteredge joined me for I have it on his authority that I\nlaughed, when he asked what was the matter, and putting the nightgown\ninto his hands, told him to read the riddle for himself.\n\nOf what was said between us on the beach, I have not the faintest\nrecollection. The first place in which I can now see myself again\nplainly is the plantation of firs. Betteredge and I are walking back\ntogether to the house; and Betteredge is telling me that I shall be\nable to face it, and he will be able to face it, when we have had a\nglass of grog.\n\nThe scene shifts from the plantation, to Betteredge s little\nsitting-room. My resolution not to enter Rachel s house is forgotten. I\nfeel gratefully the coolness and shadiness and quiet of the room. I\ndrink the grog (a perfectly new luxury to me, at that time of day),\nwhich my good old friend mixes with icy-cold water from the well. Under\nany other circumstances, the drink would simply stupefy me. As things\nare, it strings up my nerves. I begin to  face it,  as Betteredge has\npredicted. And Betteredge, on his side, begins to  face it,  too.\n\nThe picture which I am now presenting of myself, will, I suspect, be\nthought a very strange one, to say the least of it. Placed in a\nsituation which may, I think, be described as entirely without\nparallel, what is the first proceeding to which I resort? Do I seclude\nmyself from all human society? Do I set my mind to analyse the\nabominable impossibility which, nevertheless, confronts me as an\nundeniable fact? Do I hurry back to London by the first train to\nconsult the highest authorities, and to set a searching inquiry on foot\nimmediately? No. I accept the shelter of a house which I had resolved\nnever to degrade myself by entering again; and I sit, tippling spirits\nand water in the company of an old servant, at ten o clock in the\nmorning. Is this the conduct that might have been expected from a man\nplaced in my horrible position? I can only answer that the sight of old\nBetteredge s familiar face was an inexpressible comfort to me, and that\nthe drinking of old Betteredge s grog helped me, as I believe nothing\nelse would have helped me, in the state of complete bodily and mental\nprostration into which I had fallen. I can only offer this excuse for\nmyself; and I can only admire that invariable preservation of dignity,\nand that strictly logical consistency of conduct which distinguish\nevery man and woman who may read these lines, in every emergency of\ntheir lives from the cradle to the grave.\n\n Now, Mr. Franklin, there s one thing certain, at any rate,  said\nBetteredge, throwing the nightgown down on the table between us, and\npointing to it as if it was a living creature that could hear him.\n _He s_ a liar, to begin with. \n\nThis comforting view of the matter was not the view that presented\nitself to my mind.\n\n I am as innocent of all knowledge of having taken the Diamond as you\nare,  I said.  But there is the witness against me! The paint on the\nnightgown, and the name on the nightgown are facts. \n\nBetteredge lifted my glass, and put it persuasively into my hand.\n\n Facts?  he repeated.  Take a drop more grog, Mr. Franklin, and you ll\nget over the weakness of believing in facts! Foul play, sir!  he\ncontinued, dropping his voice confidentially.  That is how I read the\nriddle. Foul play somewhere and you and I must find it out. Was there\nnothing else in the tin case, when you put your hand into it? \n\nThe question instantly reminded me of the letter in my pocket. I took\nit out, and opened it. It was a letter of many pages, closely written.\nI looked impatiently for the signature at the end.  Rosanna Spearman. \n\nAs I read the name, a sudden remembrance illuminated my mind, and a\nsudden suspicion rose out of the new light.\n\n Stop!  I exclaimed.  Rosanna Spearman came to my aunt out of a\nreformatory? Rosanna Spearman had once been a thief? \n\n There s no denying that, Mr. Franklin. What of it now, if you please? \n\n What of it now? How do we know she may not have stolen the Diamond\nafter all? How do we know she may not have smeared my nightgown\npurposely with the paint? \n\nBetteredge laid his hand on my arm, and stopped me before I could say\nany more.\n\n You will be cleared of this, Mr. Franklin, beyond all doubt. But I\nhope you won t be cleared in _that_ way. See what the letter says, sir.\nIn justice to the girl s memory, see what it says. \n\nI felt the earnestness with which he spoke felt it as a friendly rebuke\nto me.  You shall form your own judgment on her letter,  I said.  I\nwill read it out. \n\nI began and read these lines:\n\n Sir I have something to own to you. A confession which means much\nmisery, may sometimes be made in very few words. This confession can be\nmade in three words. I love you. \n\nThe letter dropped from my hand. I looked at Betteredge.  In the name\nof Heaven,  I said,  what does it mean? \n\nHe seemed to shrink from answering the question.\n\n You and Limping Lucy were alone together this morning, sir,  he said.\n Did she say nothing about Rosanna Spearman? \n\n She never even mentioned Rosanna Spearman s name. \n\n Please to go back to the letter, Mr. Franklin. I tell you plainly, I\ncan t find it in my heart to distress you, after what you have had to\nbear already. Let her speak for herself, sir. And get on with your\ngrog. For your own sake, get on with your grog. \n\nI resumed the reading of the letter.\n\n It would be very disgraceful to me to tell you this, if I was a living\nwoman when you read it. I shall be dead and gone, sir, when you find my\nletter. It is that which makes me bold. Not even my grave will be left\nto tell of me. I may own the truth with the quicksand waiting to hide\nme when the words are written.\n\n Besides, you will find your nightgown in my hiding-place, with the\nsmear of the paint on it; and you will want to know how it came to be\nhidden by me? and why I said nothing to you about it in my life-time? I\nhave only one reason to give. I did these strange things, because I\nloved you.\n\n I won t trouble you with much about myself, or my life, before you\ncame to my lady s house. Lady Verinder took me out of a reformatory. I\nhad gone to the reformatory from the prison. I was put in the prison,\nbecause I was a thief. I was a thief, because my mother went on the\nstreets when I was quite a little girl. My mother went on the streets,\nbecause the gentleman who was my father deserted her. There is no need\nto tell such a common story as this, at any length. It is told quite\noften enough in the newspapers.\n\n Lady Verinder was very kind to me, and Mr. Betteredge was very kind to\nme. Those two, and the matron at the reformatory, are the only good\npeople I have ever met with in all my life. I might have got on in my\nplace not happily but I might have got on, if you had not come\nvisiting. I don t blame _you_, sir. It s my fault all my fault.\n\n Do you remember when you came out on us from among the sandhills, that\nmorning, looking for Mr. Betteredge? You were like a prince in a\nfairy-story. You were like a lover in a dream. You were the most\nadorable human creature I had ever seen. Something that felt like the\nhappy life I had never led yet, leapt up in me at the instant I set\neyes on you. Don t laugh at this if you can help it. Oh, if I could\nonly make you feel how serious it is to _me!_\n\n I went back to the house, and wrote your name and mine in my work-box,\nand drew a true lovers  knot under them. Then, some devil no, I ought\nto say some good angel whispered to me,  Go and look in the glass.  The\nglass told me never mind what. I was too foolish to take the warning. I\nwent on getting fonder and fonder of you, just as if I was a lady in\nyour own rank of life, and the most beautiful creature your eyes ever\nrested on. I tried oh, dear, how I tried to get you to look at me. If\nyou had known how I used to cry at night with the misery and the\nmortification of your never taking any notice of me, you would have\npitied me perhaps, and have given me a look now and then to live on.\n\n It would have been no very kind look, perhaps, if you had known how I\nhated Miss Rachel. I believe I found out you were in love with her,\nbefore you knew it yourself. She used to give you roses to wear in your\nbutton-hole. Ah, Mr. Franklin, you wore _my_ roses oftener than either\nyou or she thought! The only comfort I had at that time, was putting my\nrose secretly in your glass of water, in place of hers and then\nthrowing her rose away.\n\n If she had been really as pretty as you thought her, I might have\nborne it better. No; I believe I should have been more spiteful against\nher still. Suppose you put Miss Rachel into a servant s dress, and took\nher ornaments off? I don t know what is the use of my writing in this\nway. It can t be denied that she had a bad figure; she was too thin.\nBut who can tell what the men like? And young ladies may behave in a\nmanner which would cost a servant her place. It s no business of mine.\nI can t expect you to read my letter, if I write it in this way. But it\ndoes stir one up to hear Miss Rachel called pretty, when one knows all\nthe time that it s her dress does it, and her confidence in herself.\n\n Try not to lose patience with me, sir. I will get on as fast as I can\nto the time which is sure to interest you the time when the Diamond was\nlost.\n\n But there is one thing which I have got it on my mind to tell you\nfirst.\n\n My life was not a very hard life to bear, while I was a thief. It was\nonly when they had taught me at the reformatory to feel my own\ndegradation, and to try for better things, that the days grew long and\nweary. Thoughts of the future forced themselves on me now. I felt the\ndreadful reproach that honest people even the kindest of honest\npeople were to me in themselves. A heart-breaking sensation of\nloneliness kept with me, go where I might, and do what I might, and see\nwhat persons I might. It was my duty, I know, to try and get on with my\nfellow-servants in my new place. Somehow, I couldn t make friends with\nthem. They looked (or I thought they looked) as if they suspected what\nI had been. I don t regret, far from it, having been roused to make the\neffort to be a reformed woman but, indeed, indeed it was a weary life.\nYou had come across it like a beam of sunshine at first and then you\ntoo failed me. I was mad enough to love you; and I couldn t even\nattract your notice. There was great misery there really was great\nmisery in that.\n\n Now I am coming to what I wanted to tell you. In those days of\nbitterness, I went two or three times, when it was my turn to go out,\nto my favourite place the beach above the Shivering Sand. And I said to\nmyself,  I think it will end here. When I can bear it no longer, I\nthink it will end here.  You will understand, sir, that the place had\nlaid a kind of spell on me before you came. I had always had a notion\nthat something would happen to me at the quicksand. But I had never\nlooked at it, with the thought of its being the means of my making away\nwith myself, till the time came of which I am now writing. Then I did\nthink that here was a place which would end all my troubles for me in a\nmoment or two and hide me for ever afterwards.\n\n This is all I have to say about myself, reckoning from the morning\nwhen I first saw you, to the morning when the alarm was raised in the\nhouse that the Diamond was lost.\n\n I was so aggravated by the foolish talk among the women servants, all\nwondering who was to be suspected first; and I was so angry with you\n(knowing no better at that time) for the pains you took in hunting for\nthe jewel, and sending for the police, that I kept as much as possible\naway by myself, until later in the day, when the officer from\nFrizinghall came to the house.\n\n Mr. Seegrave began, as you may remember, by setting a guard on the\nwomen s bedrooms; and the women all followed him upstairs in a rage, to\nknow what he meant by the insult he had put on them. I went with the\nrest, because if I had done anything different from the rest, Mr.\nSeegrave was the sort of man who would have suspected me directly. We\nfound him in Miss Rachel s room. He told us he wouldn t have a lot of\nwomen there; and he pointed to the smear on the painted door, and said\nsome of our petticoats had done the mischief, and sent us all\ndownstairs again.\n\n After leaving Miss Rachel s room, I stopped a moment on one of the\nlandings, by myself, to see if I had got the paint-stain by any chance\non _my_ gown. Penelope Betteredge (the only one of the women with whom\nI was on friendly terms) passed, and noticed what I was about.\n\n You needn t trouble yourself, Rosanna,  she said.  The paint on Miss\nRachel s door has been dry for hours. If Mr. Seegrave hadn t set a\nwatch on our bedrooms, I might have told him as much. I don t know what\n_you_ think _I_ was never so insulted before in my life! \n\n Penelope was a hot-tempered girl. I quieted her, and brought her back\nto what she had said about the paint on the door having been dry for\nhours.\n\n How do you know that?  I asked.\n\n I was with Miss Rachel, and Mr. Franklin, all yesterday morning, \nPenelope said,  mixing the colours, while they finished the door. I\nheard Miss Rachel ask whether the door would be dry that evening, in\ntime for the birthday company to see it. And Mr. Franklin shook his\nhead, and said it wouldn t be dry in less than twelve hours. It was\nlong past luncheon-time it was three o clock before they had done. What\ndoes your arithmetic say, Rosanna? Mine says the door was dry by three\nthis morning. \n\n Did some of the ladies go upstairs yesterday evening to see it?  I\nasked.  I thought I heard Miss Rachel warning them to keep clear of the\ndoor. \n\n None of the ladies made the smear,  Penelope answered.  I left Miss\nRachel in bed at twelve last night. And I noticed the door, and there\nwas nothing wrong with it then. \n\n Oughtn t you to mention this to Mr. Seegrave, Penelope? \n\n I wouldn t say a word to help Mr. Seegrave for anything that could be\noffered to me! \n\n She went to her work, and I went to mine. \n\n My work, sir, was to make your bed, and to put your room tidy. It was\nthe happiest hour I had in the whole day. I used to kiss the pillow on\nwhich your head had rested all night. No matter who has done it since,\nyou have never had your clothes folded as nicely as I folded them for\nyou. Of all the little knick-knacks in your dressing-case, there wasn t\none that had so much as a speck on it. You never noticed it, any more\nthan you noticed me. I beg your pardon; I am forgetting myself. I will\nmake haste, and go on again.\n\n Well, I went in that morning to do my work in your room. There was\nyour nightgown tossed across the bed, just as you had thrown it off. I\ntook it up to fold it and I saw the stain of the paint from Miss\nRachel s door!\n\n I was so startled by the discovery that I ran out with the nightgown\nin my hand, and made for the back stairs, and locked myself into my own\nroom, to look at it in a place where nobody could intrude and interrupt\nme.\n\n As soon as I got my breath again, I called to mind my talk with\nPenelope, and I said to myself,  Here s the proof that he was in Miss\nRachel s sitting-room between twelve last night, and three this\nmorning! \n\n I shall not tell you in plain words what was the first suspicion that\ncrossed my mind, when I had made that discovery. You would only be\nangry and, if you were angry, you might tear my letter up and read no\nmore of it.\n\n Let it be enough, if you please, to say only this. After thinking it\nover to the best of my ability, I made it out that the thing wasn t\nlikely, for a reason that I will tell you. If you had been in Miss\nRachel s sitting-room, at that time of night, with Miss Rachel s\nknowledge (and if you had been foolish enough to forget to take care of\nthe wet door) _she_ would have reminded you _she_ would never have let\nyou carry away such a witness against her, as the witness I was looking\nat now! At the same time, I own I was not completely certain in my own\nmind that I had proved my own suspicion to be wrong. You will not have\nforgotten that I have owned to hating Miss Rachel. Try to think, if you\ncan, that there was a little of that hatred in all this. It ended in my\ndetermining to keep the nightgown, and to wait, and watch, and see what\nuse I might make of it. At that time, please to remember, not the ghost\nof an idea entered my head that _you_ had stolen the Diamond. \n\nThere, I broke off in the reading of the letter for the second time.\n\nI had read those portions of the miserable woman s confession which\nrelated to myself, with unaffected surprise, and, I can honestly add,\nwith sincere distress. I had regretted, truly regretted, the aspersion\nwhich I had thoughtlessly cast on her memory, before I had seen a line\nof her letter. But when I had advanced as far as the passage which is\nquoted above, I own I felt my mind growing bitterer and bitterer\nagainst Rosanna Spearman as I went on.  Read the rest for yourself,  I\nsaid, handing the letter to Betteredge across the table.  If there is\nanything in it that I _must_ look at, you can tell me as you go on. \n\n I understand you, Mr. Franklin,  he answered.  It s natural, sir, in\n_you_. And, God help us all!  he added, in a lower tone,  it s no less\nnatural in _her_. \n\nI proceed to copy the continuation of the letter from the original, in\nmy own possession: \n\n Having determined to keep the nightgown, and to see what use my love,\nor my revenge (I hardly know which) could turn it to in the future, the\nnext thing to discover was how to keep it without the risk of being\nfound out.\n\n There was only one way to make another nightgown exactly like it,\nbefore Saturday came, and brought the laundry-woman and her inventory\nto the house.\n\n I was afraid to put it off till next day (the Friday); being in doubt\nlest some accident might happen in the interval. I determined to make\nthe new nightgown on that same day (the Thursday), while I could count,\nif I played my cards properly, on having my time to myself. The first\nthing to do (after locking up your nightgown in my drawer) was to go\nback to your bedroom not so much to put it to rights (Penelope would\nhave done that for me, if I had asked her) as to find out whether you\nhad smeared off any of the paint-stain from your nightgown, on the bed,\nor on any piece of furniture in the room.\n\n I examined everything narrowly, and at last, I found a few streaks of\nthe paint on the inside of your dressing-gown not the linen\ndressing-gown you usually wore in that summer season, but a flannel\ndressing-gown which you had with you also. I suppose you felt chilly\nafter walking to and fro in nothing but your nightdress, and put on the\nwarmest thing you could find. At any rate, there were the stains, just\nvisible, on the inside of the dressing-gown. I easily got rid of these\nby scraping away the stuff of the flannel. This done, the only proof\nleft against you was the proof locked up in my drawer.\n\n I had just finished your room when I was sent for to be questioned by\nMr. Seegrave, along with the rest of the servants. Next came the\nexamination of all our boxes. And then followed the most extraordinary\nevent of the day to _me_ since I had found the paint on your nightgown.\nThis event came out of the second questioning of Penelope Betteredge by\nSuperintendent Seegrave.\n\n Penelope returned to us quite beside herself with rage at the manner\nin which Mr. Seegrave had treated her. He had hinted, beyond the\npossibility of mistaking him, that he suspected her of being the thief.\nWe were all equally astonished at hearing this, and we all asked, Why?\n\n Because the Diamond was in Miss Rachel s sitting-room,  Penelope\nanswered.  And because I was the last person in the sitting-room at\nnight! \n\n Almost before the words had left her lips, I remembered that another\nperson had been in the sitting-room later than Penelope. That person\nwas yourself. My head whirled round, and my thoughts were in dreadful\nconfusion. In the midst of it all, something in my mind whispered to me\nthat the smear on your nightgown might have a meaning entirely\ndifferent to the meaning which I had given to it up to that time.  If\nthe last person who was in the room is the person to be suspected,  I\nthought to myself,  the thief is not Penelope, but Mr. Franklin Blake! \n\n In the case of any other gentleman, I believe I should have been\nashamed of suspecting him of theft, almost as soon as the suspicion had\npassed through my mind.\n\n But the bare thought that _you_ had let yourself down to my level, and\nthat I, in possessing myself of your nightgown, had also possessed\nmyself of the means of shielding you from being discovered, and\ndisgraced for life I say, sir, the bare thought of this seemed to open\nsuch a chance before me of winning your good will, that I passed\nblindfold, as one may say, from suspecting to believing. I made up my\nmind, on the spot, that you had shown yourself the busiest of anybody\nin fetching the police, as a blind to deceive us all; and that the hand\nwhich had taken Miss Rachel s jewel could by no possibility be any\nother hand than yours.\n\n The excitement of this new discovery of mine must, I think, have\nturned my head for a while. I felt such a devouring eagerness to see\nyou to try you with a word or two about the Diamond, and to _make_ you\nlook at me, and speak to me, in that way that I put my hair tidy, and\nmade myself as nice as I could, and went to you boldly in the library\nwhere I knew you were writing.\n\n You had left one of your rings upstairs, which made as good an excuse\nfor my intrusion as I could have desired. But, oh, sir! if you have\never loved, you will understand how it was that all my courage cooled,\nwhen I walked into the room, and found myself in your presence. And\nthen, you looked up at me so coldly, and you thanked me for finding\nyour ring in such an indifferent manner, that my knees trembled under\nme, and I felt as if I should drop on the floor at your feet. When you\nhad thanked me, you looked back, if you remember, at your writing. I\nwas so mortified at being treated in this way, that I plucked up spirit\nenough to speak. I said,  This is a strange thing about the Diamond,\nsir.  And you looked up again, and said,  Yes, it is!  You spoke\ncivilly (I can t deny that); but still you kept a distance a cruel\ndistance between us. Believing, as I did, that you had got the lost\nDiamond hidden about you, while you were speaking, your coolness so\nprovoked me that I got bold enough, in the heat of the moment, to give\nyou a hint. I said,  They will never find the Diamond, sir, will they?\nNo! nor the person who took it I ll answer for that.  I nodded, and\nsmiled at you, as much as to say,  I know!  _This_ time, you looked up\nat me with something like interest in your eyes; and I felt that a few\nmore words on your side and mine might bring out the truth. Just at\nthat moment, Mr. Betteredge spoilt it all by coming to the door. I knew\nhis footstep, and I also knew that it was against his rules for me to\nbe in the library at that time of day let alone being there along with\nyou. I had only just time to get out of my own accord, before he could\ncome in and tell me to go. I was angry and disappointed; but I was not\nentirely without hope for all that. The ice, you see, was broken\nbetween us and I thought I would take care, on the next occasion, that\nMr. Betteredge was out of the way.\n\n When I got back to the servants  hall, the bell was going for our\ndinner. Afternoon already! and the materials for making the new\nnightgown were still to be got! There was but one chance of getting\nthem. I shammed ill at dinner; and so secured the whole of the interval\nfrom then till tea-time to my own use.\n\n What I was about, while the household believed me to be lying down in\nmy own room; and how I spent the night, after shamming ill again at\ntea-time, and having been sent up to bed, there is no need to tell you.\nSergeant Cuff discovered that much, if he discovered nothing more. And\nI can guess how. I was detected (though I kept my veil down) in the\ndraper s shop at Frizinghall. There was a glass in front of me, at the\ncounter where I was buying the longcloth; and in that glass I saw one\nof the shopmen point to my shoulder and whisper to another. At night\nagain, when I was secretly at work, locked into my room, I heard the\nbreathing of the women servants who suspected me, outside my door.\n\n It didn t matter then; it doesn t matter now. On the Friday morning,\nhours before Sergeant Cuff entered the house, there was the new\nnightgown to make up your number in place of the nightgown that I had\ngot made, wrung out, dried, ironed, marked, and folded as the laundry\nwoman folded all the others, safe in your drawer. There was no fear (if\nthe linen in the house was examined) of the newness of the nightgown\nbetraying me. All your underclothing had been renewed, when you came to\nour house I suppose on your return home from foreign parts.\n\n The next thing was the arrival of Sergeant Cuff; and the next great\nsurprise was the announcement of what _he_ thought about the smear on\nthe door.\n\n I had believed you to be guilty (as I have owned), more because I\nwanted you to be guilty than for any other reason. And now, the\nSergeant had come round by a totally different way to the same\nconclusion (respecting the nightgown) as mine! And I had got the dress\nthat was the only proof against you! And not a living creature knew\nit yourself included! I am afraid to tell you how I felt when I called\nthese things to mind you would hate my memory for ever afterwards. \n\nAt that place, Betteredge looked up from the letter.\n\n Not a glimmer of light so far, Mr. Franklin,  said the old man, taking\noff his heavy tortoiseshell spectacles, and pushing Rosanna Spearman s\nconfession a little away from him.  Have you come to any conclusion,\nsir, in your own mind, while I have been reading? \n\n Finish the letter first, Betteredge; there may be something to\nenlighten us at the end of it. I shall have a word or two to say to you\nafter that. \n\n Very good, sir. I ll just rest my eyes, and then I ll go on again. In\nthe meantime, Mr. Franklin I don t want to hurry you but would you mind\ntelling me, in one word, whether you see your way out of this dreadful\nmess yet? \n\n I see my way back to London,  I said,  to consult Mr. Bruff. If he\ncan t help me \n\n Yes, sir? \n\n And if the Sergeant won t leave his retirement at Dorking \n\n He won t, Mr. Franklin! \n\n Then, Betteredge as far as I can see now I am at the end of my\nresources. After Mr. Bruff and the Sergeant, I don t know of a living\ncreature who can be of the slightest use to me. \n\nAs the words passed my lips, some person outside knocked at the door of\nthe room.\n\nBetteredge looked surprised as well as annoyed by the interruption.\n\n Come in,  he called out, irritably,  whoever you are! \n\nThe door opened, and there entered to us, quietly, the most\nremarkable-looking man that I had ever seen. Judging him by his figure\nand his movements, he was still young. Judging him by his face, and\ncomparing him with Betteredge, he looked the elder of the two. His\ncomplexion was of a gipsy darkness; his fleshless cheeks had fallen\ninto deep hollows, over which the bone projected like a penthouse. His\nnose presented the fine shape and modelling so often found among the\nancient people of the East, so seldom visible among the newer races of\nthe West. His forehead rose high and straight from the brow. His marks\nand wrinkles were innumerable. From this strange face, eyes, stranger\nstill, of the softest brown eyes dreamy and mournful, and deeply sunk\nin their orbits looked out at you, and (in my case, at least) took your\nattention captive at their will. Add to this a quantity of thick\nclosely-curling hair, which, by some freak of Nature, had lost its\ncolour in the most startlingly partial and capricious manner. Over the\ntop of his head it was still of the deep black which was its natural\ncolour. Round the sides of his head without the slightest gradation of\ngrey to break the force of the extraordinary contrast it had turned\ncompletely white. The line between the two colours preserved no sort of\nregularity. At one place, the white hair ran up into the black; at\nanother, the black hair ran down into the white. I looked at the man\nwith a curiosity which, I am ashamed to say, I found it quite\nimpossible to control. His soft brown eyes looked back at me gently;\nand he met my involuntary rudeness in staring at him, with an apology\nwhich I was conscious that I had not deserved.\n\n I beg your pardon,  he said.  I had no idea that Mr. Betteredge was\nengaged.  He took a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to\nBetteredge.  The list for next week,  he said. His eyes just rested on\nme again and he left the room as quietly as he had entered it.\n\n Who is that?  I asked.\n\n Mr. Candy s assistant,  said Betteredge.  By-the-bye, Mr. Franklin,\nyou will be sorry to hear that the little doctor has never recovered\nthat illness he caught, going home from the birthday dinner. He s\npretty well in health; but he lost his memory in the fever, and he has\nnever recovered more than the wreck of it since. The work all falls on\nhis assistant. Not much of it now, except among the poor. _They_ can t\nhelp themselves, you know. _They_ must put up with the man with the\npiebald hair, and the gipsy complexion or they would get no doctoring\nat all. \n\n You don t seem to like him, Betteredge? \n\n Nobody likes him, sir. \n\n Why is he so unpopular? \n\n Well, Mr. Franklin, his appearance is against him, to begin with. And\nthen there s a story that Mr. Candy took him with a very doubtful\ncharacter. Nobody knows who he is and he hasn t a friend in the place.\nHow can you expect one to like him, after that? \n\n Quite impossible, of course! May I ask what he wanted with you, when\nhe gave you that bit of paper? \n\n Only to bring me the weekly list of the sick people about here, sir,\nwho stand in need of a little wine. My lady always had a regular\ndistribution of good sound port and sherry among the infirm poor; and\nMiss Rachel wishes the custom to be kept up. Times have changed! times\nhave changed! I remember when Mr. Candy himself brought the list to my\nmistress. Now it s Mr. Candy s assistant who brings the list to me.\nI ll go on with the letter, if you will allow me, sir,  said\nBetteredge, drawing Rosanna Spearman s confession back to him.  It\nisn t lively reading, I grant you. But, there! it keeps me from getting\nsour with thinking of the past.  He put on his spectacles, and wagged\nhis head gloomily.  There s a bottom of good sense, Mr. Franklin, in\nour conduct to our mothers, when they first start us on the journey of\nlife. We are all of us more or less unwilling to be brought into the\nworld. And we are all of us right. \n\nMr. Candy s assistant had produced too strong an impression on me to be\nimmediately dismissed from my thoughts. I passed over the last\nunanswerable utterance of the Betteredge philosophy; and returned to\nthe subject of the man with the piebald hair.\n\n What is his name?  I asked.\n\n As ugly a name as need be,  Betteredge answered gruffly.  Ezra\nJennings. \n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nHaving told me the name of Mr. Candy s assistant, Betteredge appeared\nto think that we had wasted enough of our time on an insignificant\nsubject. He resumed the perusal of Rosanna Spearman s letter.\n\nOn my side, I sat at the window, waiting until he had done. Little by\nlittle, the impression produced on me by Ezra Jennings it seemed\nperfectly unaccountable, in such a situation as mine, that any human\nbeing should have produced an impression on me at all! faded from my\nmind. My thoughts flowed back into their former channel. Once more, I\nforced myself to look my own incredible position resolutely in the\nface. Once more, I reviewed in my own mind the course which I had at\nlast summoned composure enough to plan out for the future.\n\nTo go back to London that day; to put the whole case before Mr. Bruff;\nand, last and most important, to obtain (no matter by what means or at\nwhat sacrifice) a personal interview with Rachel this was my plan of\naction, so far as I was capable of forming it at the time. There was\nmore than an hour still to spare before the train started. And there\nwas the bare chance that Betteredge might discover something in the\nunread portion of Rosanna Spearman s letter, which it might be useful\nfor me to know before I left the house in which the Diamond had been\nlost. For that chance I was now waiting.\n\nThe letter ended in these terms:\n\n You have no need to be angry, Mr. Franklin, even if I did feel some\nlittle triumph at knowing that I held all your prospects in life in my\nown hands. Anxieties and fears soon came back to me. With the view\nSergeant Cuff took of the loss of the Diamond, he would be sure to end\nin examining our linen and our dresses. There was no place in my\nroom there was no place in the house which I could feel satisfied would\nbe safe from him. How to hide the nightgown so that not even the\nSergeant could find it? and how to do that without losing one moment of\nprecious time? these were not easy questions to answer. My\nuncertainties ended in my taking a way that may make you laugh. I\nundressed, and put the nightgown on me. You had worn it and I had\nanother little moment of pleasure in wearing it after you.\n\n The next news that reached us in the servants  hall showed that I had\nnot made sure of the nightgown a moment too soon. Sergeant Cuff wanted\nto see the washing-book.\n\n I found it, and took it to him in my lady s sitting-room. The Sergeant\nand I had come across each other more than once in former days. I was\ncertain he would know me again and I was _not_ certain of what he might\ndo when he found me employed as servant in a house in which a valuable\njewel had been lost. In this suspense, I felt it would be a relief to\nme to get the meeting between us over, and to know the worst of it at\nonce.\n\n He looked at me as if I was a stranger, when I handed him the\nwashing-book; and he was very specially polite in thanking me for\nbringing it. I thought those were both bad signs. There was no knowing\nwhat he might say of me behind my back; there was no knowing how soon I\nmight not find myself taken in custody on suspicion, and searched. It\nwas then time for your return from seeing Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite off by\nthe railway; and I went to your favourite walk in the shrubbery, to try\nfor another chance of speaking to you the last chance, for all I knew\nto the contrary, that I might have.\n\n You never appeared; and, what was worse still, Mr. Betteredge and\nSergeant Cuff passed by the place where I was hiding and the Sergeant\nsaw me.\n\n I had no choice, after that, but to return to my proper place and my\nproper work, before more disasters happened to me. Just as I was going\nto step across the path, you came back from the railway. You were\nmaking straight for the shrubbery, when you saw me I am certain, sir,\nyou saw me and you turned away as if I had got the plague, and went\ninto the house.*\n\n* NOTE; by Franklin Blake. The writer is entirely mistaken, poor\ncreature. I never noticed her. My intention was certainly to have taken\na turn in the shrubbery. But, remembering at the same moment that my\naunt might wish to see me, after my return from the railway, I altered\nmy mind, and went into the house.\n\n\n I made the best of my way indoors again, returning by the servants \nentrance. There was nobody in the laundry-room at that time; and I sat\ndown there alone. I have told you already of the thoughts which the\nShivering Sand put into my head. Those thoughts came back to me now. I\nwondered in myself which it would be harder to do, if things went on in\nthis manner to bear Mr. Franklin Blake s indifference to me, or to jump\ninto the quicksand and end it for ever in that way?\n\n It s useless to ask me to account for my own conduct, at this time. I\ntry and I can t understand it myself.\n\n Why didn t I stop you, when you avoided me in that cruel manner? Why\ndidn t I call out,  Mr. Franklin, I have got something to say to you;\nit concerns yourself, and you must, and shall, hear it?  You were at my\nmercy I had got the whip-hand of you, as they say. And better than\nthat, I had the means (if I could only make you trust me) of being\nuseful to you in the future. Of course, I never supposed that you a\ngentleman had stolen the Diamond for the mere pleasure of stealing it.\nNo. Penelope had heard Miss Rachel, and I had heard Mr. Betteredge,\ntalk about your extravagance and your debts. It was plain enough to me\nthat you had taken the Diamond to sell it, or pledge it, and so to get\nthe money of which you stood in need. Well! I could have told you of a\nman in London who would have advanced a good large sum on the jewel,\nand who would have asked no awkward questions about it either.\n\n Why didn t I speak to you! why didn t I speak to you!\n\n I wonder whether the risks and difficulties of keeping the nightgown\nwere as much as I could manage, without having other risks and\ndifficulties added to them? This might have been the case with some\nwomen but how could it be the case with me? In the days when I was a\nthief, I had run fifty times greater risks, and found my way out of\ndifficulties to which _this_ difficulty was mere child s play. I had\nbeen apprenticed, as you may say, to frauds and deceptions some of them\non such a grand scale, and managed so cleverly, that they became\nfamous, and appeared in the newspapers. Was such a little thing as the\nkeeping of the nightgown likely to weigh on my spirits, and to set my\nheart sinking within me, at the time when I ought to have spoken to\nyou? What nonsense to ask the question! The thing couldn t be.\n\n Where is the use of my dwelling in this way on my own folly? The plain\ntruth is plain enough, surely? Behind your back, I loved you with all\nmy heart and soul. Before your face there s no denying it I was\nfrightened of you; frightened of making you angry with me; frightened\nof what you might say to me (though you _had_ taken the Diamond) if I\npresumed to tell you that I had found it out. I had gone as near to it\nas I dared when I spoke to you in the library. You had not turned your\nback on me then. You had not started away from me as if I had got the\nplague. I tried to provoke myself into feeling angry with you, and to\nrouse up my courage in that way. No! I couldn t feel anything but the\nmisery and the mortification of it. You re a plain girl; you have got a\ncrooked shoulder; you re only a housemaid what do you mean by\nattempting to speak to Me?  You never uttered a word of that, Mr.\nFranklin; but you said it all to me, nevertheless! Is such madness as\nthis to be accounted for? No. There is nothing to be done but to\nconfess it, and let it be.\n\n I ask your pardon, once more, for this wandering of my pen. There is\nno fear of its happening again. I am close at the end now.\n\n The first person who disturbed me by coming into the empty room was\nPenelope. She had found out my secret long since, and she had done her\nbest to bring me to my senses and done it kindly too.\n\n Ah!  she said,  I know why you re sitting here, and fretting, all by\nyourself. The best thing that can happen for your advantage, Rosanna,\nwill be for Mr. Franklin s visit here to come to an end. It s my belief\nthat he won t be long now before he leaves the house. \n\n In all my thoughts of you I had never thought of your going away. I\ncouldn t speak to Penelope. I could only look at her.\n\n I ve just left Miss Rachel,  Penelope went on.  And a hard matter I\nhave had of it to put up with her temper. She says the house is\nunbearable to her with the police in it; and she s determined to speak\nto my lady this evening, and to go to her Aunt Ablewhite tomorrow. If\nshe does that, Mr. Franklin will be the next to find a reason for going\naway, you may depend on it! \n\n I recovered the use of my tongue at that.  Do you mean to say Mr.\nFranklin will go with her?  I asked.\n\n Only too gladly, if she would let him; but she won t. _He_ has been\nmade to feel her temper; _he_ is in her black books too and that after\nhaving done all he can to help her, poor fellow! No! no! If they don t\nmake it up before tomorrow, you will see Miss Rachel go one way, and\nMr. Franklin another. Where he may betake himself to I can t say. But\nhe will never stay here, Rosanna, after Miss Rachel has left us. \n\n I managed to master the despair I felt at the prospect of your going\naway. To own the truth, I saw a little glimpse of hope for myself if\nthere was really a serious disagreement between Miss Rachel and you.\n Do you know,  I asked,  what the quarrel is between them? \n\n It is all on Miss Rachel s side,  Penelope said.  And, for anything I\nknow to the contrary, it s all Miss Rachel s temper, and nothing else.\nI am loth to distress you, Rosanna; but don t run away with the notion\nthat Mr. Franklin is ever likely to quarrel with _her_. He s a great\ndeal too fond of her for that! \n\n She had only just spoken those cruel words when there came a call to\nus from Mr. Betteredge. All the indoor servants were to assemble in the\nhall. And then we were to go in, one by one, and be questioned in Mr.\nBetteredge s room by Sergeant Cuff.\n\n It came to my turn to go in, after her ladyship s maid and the upper\nhousemaid had been questioned first. Sergeant Cuff s inquiries though\nhe wrapped them up very cunningly soon showed me that those two women\n(the bitterest enemies I had in the house) had made their discoveries\noutside my door, on the Tuesday afternoon, and again on the Thursday\nnight. They had told the Sergeant enough to open his eyes to some part\nof the truth. He rightly believed me to have made a new nightgown\nsecretly, but he wrongly believed the paint-stained nightgown to be\nmine. I felt satisfied of another thing, from what he said, which it\npuzzled me to understand. He suspected me, of course, of being\nconcerned in the disappearance of the Diamond. But, at the same time,\nhe let me see purposely, as I thought that he did not consider me as\nthe person chiefly answerable for the loss of the jewel. He appeared to\nthink that I had been acting under the direction of somebody else. Who\nthat person might be, I couldn t guess then, and can t guess now.\n\n In this uncertainty, one thing was plain that Sergeant Cuff was miles\naway from knowing the whole truth. You were safe as long as the\nnightgown was safe and not a moment longer.\n\n I quite despair of making you understand the distress and terror which\npressed upon me now. It was impossible for me to risk wearing your\nnightgown any longer. I might find myself taken off, at a moment s\nnotice, to the police court at Frizinghall, to be charged on suspicion,\nand searched accordingly. While Sergeant Cuff still left me free, I had\nto choose and at once between destroying the nightgown, or hiding it in\nsome safe place, at some safe distance from the house.\n\n If I had only been a little less fond of you, I think I should have\ndestroyed it. But oh! how could I destroy the only thing I had which\nproved that I had saved you from discovery? If we did come to an\nexplanation together, and if you suspected me of having some bad\nmotive, and denied it all, how could I win upon you to trust me, unless\nI had the nightgown to produce? Was it wronging you to believe, as I\ndid and do still, that you might hesitate to let a poor girl like me be\nthe sharer of your secret, and your accomplice in the theft which your\nmoney-troubles had tempted you to commit? Think of your cold behaviour\nto me, sir, and you will hardly wonder at my unwillingness to destroy\nthe only claim on your confidence and your gratitude which it was my\nfortune to possess.\n\n I determined to hide it; and the place I fixed on was the place I knew\nbest the Shivering Sand.\n\n As soon as the questioning was over, I made the first excuse that came\ninto my head, and got leave to go out for a breath of fresh air. I went\nstraight to Cobb s Hole, to Mr. Yolland s cottage. His wife and\ndaughter were the best friends I had. Don t suppose I trusted them with\nyour secret I have trusted nobody. All I wanted was to write this\nletter to you, and to have a safe opportunity of taking the nightgown\noff me. Suspected as I was, I could do neither of those things with any\nsort of security, at the house.\n\n And now I have nearly got through my long letter, writing it alone in\nLucy Yolland s bedroom. When it is done, I shall go downstairs with the\nnightgown rolled up, and hidden under my cloak. I shall find the means\nI want for keeping it safe and dry in its hiding-place, among the\nlitter of old things in Mrs. Yolland s kitchen. And then I shall go to\nthe Shivering Sand don t be afraid of my letting my footmarks betray\nme! and hide the nightgown down in the sand, where no living creature\ncan find it without being first let into the secret by myself.\n\n And, when that s done, what then?\n\n Then, Mr. Franklin, I shall have two reasons for making another\nattempt to say the words to you which I have not said yet. If you leave\nthe house, as Penelope believes you will leave it, and if I haven t\nspoken to you before that, I shall lose my opportunity forever. That is\none reason. Then, again, there is the comforting knowledge if my\nspeaking does make you angry that I have got the nightgown ready to\nplead my cause for me as nothing else can. That is my other reason. If\nthese two together don t harden my heart against the coldness which has\nhitherto frozen it up (I mean the coldness of your treatment of me),\nthere will be the end of my efforts and the end of my life.\n\n Yes. If I miss my next opportunity if you are as cruel as ever, and if\nI feel it again as I have felt it already good-bye to the world which\nhas grudged me the happiness that it gives to others. Good-bye to life,\nwhich nothing but a little kindness from _you_ can ever make\npleasurable to me again. Don t blame yourself, sir, if it ends in this\nway. But try do try to feel some forgiving sorrow for me! I shall take\ncare that you find out what I have done for you, when I am past telling\nyou of it myself. Will you say something kind of me then in the same\ngentle way that you have when you speak to Miss Rachel? If you do that,\nand if there are such things as ghosts, I believe my ghost will hear\nit, and tremble with the pleasure of it.\n\n It s time I left off. I am making myself cry. How am I to see my way\nto the hiding-place if I let these useless tears come and blind me?\n\n Besides, why should I look at the gloomy side? Why not believe, while\nI can, that it will end well after all? I may find you in a good humour\ntonight or, if not, I may succeed better tomorrow morning. I sha n t\nimprove my plain face by fretting shall I? Who knows but I may have\nfilled all these weary long pages of paper for nothing? They will go,\nfor safety s sake (never mind now for what other reason) into the\nhiding-place along with the nightgown. It has been hard, hard work\nwriting my letter. Oh! if we only end in understanding each other, how\nI shall enjoy tearing it up!\n\n I beg to remain, sir, your true lover and humble servant,\n\n ROSANNA SPEARMAN. \n\n\nThe reading of the letter was completed by Betteredge in silence. After\ncarefully putting it back in the envelope, he sat thinking, with his\nhead bowed down, and his eyes on the ground.\n\n Betteredge,  I said,  is there any hint to guide me at the end of the\nletter? \n\nHe looked up slowly, with a heavy sigh.\n\n There is nothing to guide you, Mr. Franklin,  he answered.  If you\ntake my advice you will keep the letter in the cover till these present\nanxieties of yours have come to an end. It will sorely distress you,\nwhenever you read it. Don t read it now. \n\nI put the letter away in my pocket-book.\n\nA glance back at the sixteenth and seventeenth chapters of Betteredge s\nNarrative will show that there really was a reason for my thus sparing\nmyself, at a time when my fortitude had been already cruelly tried.\nTwice over, the unhappy woman had made her last attempt to speak to me.\nAnd twice over, it had been my misfortune (God knows how innocently!)\nto repel the advances she had made to me. On the Friday night, as\nBetteredge truly describes it, she had found me alone at the\nbilliard-table. Her manner and language suggested to me and would have\nsuggested to any man, under the circumstances that she was about to\nconfess a guilty knowledge of the disappearance of the Diamond. For her\nown sake, I had purposely shown no special interest in what was coming;\nfor her own sake, I had purposely looked at the billiard-balls, instead\nof looking at _her_ and what had been the result? I had sent her away\nfrom me, wounded to the heart! On the Saturday again on the day when\nshe must have foreseen, after what Penelope had told her, that my\ndeparture was close at hand the same fatality still pursued us. She had\nonce more attempted to meet me in the shrubbery walk, and she had found\nme there in company with Betteredge and Sergeant Cuff. In her hearing,\nthe Sergeant, with his own underhand object in view, had appealed to my\ninterest in Rosanna Spearman. Again for the poor creature s own sake, I\nhad met the police-officer with a flat denial, and had declared loudly\ndeclared, so that she might hear _me_ too that I felt  no interest\nwhatever in Rosanna Spearman.  At those words, solely designed to warn\nher against attempting to gain my private ear, she had turned away and\nleft the place: cautioned of her danger, as I then believed;\nself-doomed to destruction, as I know now. From that point, I have\nalready traced the succession of events which led me to the astounding\ndiscovery at the quicksand. The retrospect is now complete. I may leave\nthe miserable story of Rosanna Spearman to which, even at this distance\nof time, I cannot revert without a pang of distress to suggest for\nitself all that is here purposely left unsaid. I may pass from the\nsuicide at the Shivering Sand, with its strange and terrible influence\non my present position and future prospects, to interests which concern\nthe living people of this narrative, and to events which were already\npaving my way for the slow and toilsome journey from the darkness to\nthe light.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nI walked to the railway station accompanied, it is needless to say, by\nGabriel Betteredge. I had the letter in my pocket, and the nightgown\nsafely packed in a little bag both to be submitted, before I slept that\nnight, to the investigation of Mr. Bruff.\n\nWe left the house in silence. For the first time in my experience of\nhim, I found old Betteredge in my company without a word to say to me.\nHaving something to say on my side, I opened the conversation as soon\nas we were clear of the lodge gates.\n\n Before I go to London,  I began,  I have two questions to ask you.\nThey relate to myself, and I believe they will rather surprise you. \n\n If they will put that poor creature s letter out of my head, Mr.\nFranklin, they may do anything else they like with me. Please to begin\nsurprising me, sir, as soon as you can. \n\n My first question, Betteredge, is this. Was I drunk on the night of\nRachel s Birthday? \n\n _You_ drunk!  exclaimed the old man.  Why it s the great defect of\nyour character, Mr. Franklin that you only drink with your dinner, and\nnever touch a drop of liquor afterwards! \n\n But the birthday was a special occasion. I might have abandoned my\nregular habits, on that night of all others. \n\nBetteredge considered for a moment.\n\n You did go out of your habits, sir,  he said.  And I ll tell you how.\nYou looked wretchedly ill and we persuaded you to have a drop of brandy\nand water to cheer you up a little. \n\n I am not used to brandy and water. It is quite possible \n\n Wait a bit, Mr. Franklin. I knew you were not used, too. I poured you\nout half a wineglass-full of our fifty year old Cognac; and (more shame\nfor me!) I drowned that noble liquor in nigh on a tumbler-full of cold\nwater. A child couldn t have got drunk on it let alone a grown man! \n\nI knew I could depend on his memory, in a matter of this kind. It was\nplainly impossible that I could have been intoxicated. I passed on to\nthe second question.\n\n Before I was sent abroad, Betteredge, you saw a great deal of me when\nI was a boy? Now tell me plainly, do you remember anything strange of\nme, after I had gone to bed at night? Did you ever discover me walking\nin my sleep? \n\nBetteredge stopped, looked at me for a moment, nodded his head, and\nwalked on again.\n\n I see your drift now, Mr. Franklin!  he said  You re trying to account\nfor how you got the paint on your nightgown, without knowing it\nyourself. It won t do, sir. You re miles away still from getting at the\ntruth. Walk in your sleep? You never did such a thing in your life! \n\nHere again, I felt that Betteredge must be right. Neither at home nor\nabroad had my life ever been of the solitary sort. If I had been a\nsleep-walker, there were hundreds on hundreds of people who must have\ndiscovered me, and who, in the interest of my own safety, would have\nwarned me of the habit, and have taken precautions to restrain it.\n\nStill, admitting all this, I clung with an obstinacy which was surely\nnatural and excusable, under the circumstances to one or other of the\nonly two explanations that I could see which accounted for the\nunendurable position in which I then stood. Observing that I was not\nyet satisfied, Betteredge shrewdly adverted to certain later events in\nthe history of the Moonstone; and scattered both my theories to the\nwind at once and for ever.\n\n Let s try it another way, sir,  he said.  Keep your own opinion, and\nsee how far it will take you towards finding out the truth. If we are\nto believe the nightgown which I don t for one you not only smeared off\nthe paint from the door, without knowing it, but you also took the\nDiamond without knowing it. Is that right, so far? \n\n Quite right. Go on. \n\n Very good, sir. We ll say you were drunk, or walking in your sleep,\nwhen you took the jewel. That accounts for the night and morning, after\nthe birthday. But how does it account for what has happened since that\ntime? The Diamond has been taken to London, since that time. The\nDiamond has been pledged to Mr. Luker, since that time. Did you do\nthose two things, without knowing it, too? Were you drunk when I saw\nyou off in the pony-chaise on that Saturday evening? And did you walk\nin your sleep to Mr. Luker s, when the train had brought you to your\njourney s end? Excuse me for saying it, Mr. Franklin, but this business\nhas so upset you, that you re not fit yet to judge for yourself. The\nsooner you lay your head alongside Mr. Bruff s head, the sooner you\nwill see your way out of the dead-lock that has got you now. \n\nWe reached the station, with only a minute or two to spare.\n\nI hurriedly gave Betteredge my address in London, so that he might\nwrite to me, if necessary; promising, on my side, to inform him of any\nnews which I might have to communicate. This done, and just as I was\nbidding him farewell, I happened to glance towards the\nbook-and-newspaper stall. There was Mr. Candy s remarkable-looking\nassistant again, speaking to the keeper of the stall! Our eyes met at\nthe same moment. Ezra Jennings took off his hat to me. I returned the\nsalute, and got into a carriage just as the train started. It was a\nrelief to my mind, I suppose, to dwell on any subject which appeared to\nbe, personally, of no sort of importance to me. At all events, I began\nthe momentous journey back which was to take me to Mr. Bruff,\nwondering absurdly enough, I admit that I should have seen the man with\nthe piebald hair twice in one day!\n\nThe hour at which I arrived in London precluded all hope of my finding\nMr. Bruff at his place of business. I drove from the railway to his\nprivate residence at Hampstead, and disturbed the old lawyer dozing\nalone in his dining-room, with his favourite pug-dog on his lap, and\nhis bottle of wine at his elbow.\n\nI shall best describe the effect which my story produced on the mind of\nMr. Bruff by relating his proceedings when he had heard it to the end.\nHe ordered lights, and strong tea, to be taken into his study; and he\nsent a message to the ladies of his family, forbidding them to disturb\nus on any pretence whatever. These preliminaries disposed of, he first\nexamined the nightgown, and then devoted himself to the reading of\nRosanna Spearman s letter.\n\nThe reading completed, Mr. Bruff addressed me for the first time since\nwe had been shut up together in the seclusion of his own room.\n\n Franklin Blake,  said the old gentleman,  this is a very serious\nmatter, in more respects than one. In my opinion, it concerns Rachel\nquite as nearly as it concerns you. Her extraordinary conduct is no\nmystery _now_. She believes you have stolen the Diamond. \n\nI had shrunk from reasoning my own way fairly to that revolting\nconclusion. But it had forced itself on me, nevertheless. My resolution\nto obtain a personal interview with Rachel, rested really and truly on\nthe ground just stated by Mr. Bruff.\n\n The first step to take in this investigation,  the lawyer proceeded,\n is to appeal to Rachel. She has been silent all this time, from\nmotives which I (who know her character) can readily understand. It is\nimpossible, after what has happened, to submit to that silence any\nlonger. She must be persuaded to tell us, or she must be forced to tell\nus, on what grounds she bases her belief that you took the Moonstone.\nThe chances are, that the whole of this case, serious as it seems now,\nwill tumble to pieces, if we can only break through Rachel s inveterate\nreserve, and prevail upon her to speak out. \n\n That is a very comforting opinion for _me_,  I said.  I own I should\nlike to know \n\n You would like to know how I can justify it,  interposed Mr. Bruff.  I\ncan tell you in two minutes. Understand, in the first place, that I\nlook at this matter from a lawyer s point of view. It s a question of\nevidence, with me. Very well. The evidence breaks down, at the outset,\non one important point. \n\n On what point? \n\n You shall hear. I admit that the mark of the name proves the nightgown\nto be yours. I admit that the mark of the paint proves the nightgown to\nhave made the smear on Rachel s door. But what evidence is there to\nprove that you are the person who wore it, on the night when the\nDiamond was lost? \n\nThe objection struck me, all the more forcibly that it reflected an\nobjection which I had felt myself.\n\n As to this,  pursued the lawyer taking up Rosanna Spearman s\nconfession,  I can understand that the letter is a distressing one to\n_you_. I can understand that you may hesitate to analyse it from a\npurely impartial point of view. But _I_ am not in your position. I can\nbring my professional experience to bear on this document, just as I\nshould bring it to bear on any other. Without alluding to the woman s\ncareer as a thief, I will merely remark that her letter proves her to\nhave been an adept at deception, on her own showing; and I argue from\nthat, that I am justified in suspecting her of not having told the\nwhole truth. I won t start any theory, at present, as to what she may\nor may not have done. I will only say that, if Rachel has suspected you\n_on the evidence of the nightgown only_, the chances are ninety-nine to\na hundred that Rosanna Spearman was the person who showed it to her. In\nthat case, there is the woman s letter, confessing that she was jealous\nof Rachel, confessing that she changed the roses, confessing that she\nsaw a glimpse of hope for herself, in the prospect of a quarrel between\nRachel and you. I don t stop to ask who took the Moonstone (as a means\nto her end, Rosanna Spearman would have taken fifty Moonstones) I only\nsay that the disappearance of the jewel gave this reclaimed thief who\nwas in love with you, an opportunity of setting you and Rachel at\nvariance for the rest of your lives. She had not decided on destroying\nherself, _then_, remember; and, having the opportunity, I distinctly\nassert that it was in her character, and in her position at the time,\nto take it. What do you say to that? \n\n Some such suspicion,  I answered,  crossed my own mind, as soon as I\nopened the letter. \n\n Exactly! And when you had read the letter, you pitied the poor\ncreature, and couldn t find it in your heart to suspect her. Does you\ncredit, my dear sir does you credit! \n\n But suppose it turns out that I did wear the nightgown? What then? \n\n I don t see how the fact can be proved,  said Mr. Bruff.  But assuming\nthe proof to be possible, the vindication of your innocence would be no\neasy matter. We won t go into that, now. Let us wait and see whether\nRachel hasn t suspected you on the evidence of the nightgown only. \n\n Good God, how coolly you talk of Rachel suspecting me!  I broke out.\n What right has she to suspect Me, on any evidence, of being a thief? \n\n A very sensible question, my dear sir. Rather hotly put but well worth\nconsidering for all that. What puzzles you, puzzles me too. Search your\nmemory, and tell me this. Did anything happen while you were staying at\nthe house not, of course, to shake Rachel s belief in your honour but,\nlet us say, to shake her belief (no matter with how little reason) in\nyour principles generally? \n\nI started, in ungovernable agitation, to my feet. The lawyer s question\nreminded me, for the first time since I had left England, that\nsomething _had_ happened.\n\nIn the eighth chapter of Betteredge s Narrative, an allusion will be\nfound to the arrival of a foreigner and a stranger at my aunt s house,\nwho came to see me on business. The nature of his business was this.\n\nI had been foolish enough (being, as usual, straitened for money at the\ntime) to accept a loan from the keeper of a small restaurant in Paris,\nto whom I was well known as a customer. A time was settled between us\nfor paying the money back; and when the time came, I found it (as\nthousands of other honest men have found it) impossible to keep my\nengagement. I sent the man a bill. My name was unfortunately too well\nknown on such documents: he failed to negotiate it. His affairs had\nfallen into disorder, in the interval since I had borrowed of him;\nbankruptcy stared him in the face; and a relative of his, a French\nlawyer, came to England to find me, and to insist upon the payment of\nmy debt. He was a man of violent temper; and he took the wrong way with\nme. High words passed on both sides; and my aunt and Rachel were\nunfortunately in the next room, and heard us. Lady Verinder came in,\nand insisted on knowing what was the matter. The Frenchman produced his\ncredentials, and declared me to be responsible for the ruin of a poor\nman, who had trusted in my honour. My aunt instantly paid him the\nmoney, and sent him off. She knew me better of course than to take the\nFrenchman s view of the transaction. But she was shocked at my\ncarelessness, and justly angry with me for placing myself in a\nposition, which, but for her interference, might have become a very\ndisgraceful one. Either her mother told her, or Rachel heard what\npassed I can t say which. She took her own romantic, high-flown view of\nthe matter. I was  heartless ; I was  dishonourable ; I had  no\nprinciple ; there was  no knowing what I might do next in short, she\nsaid some of the severest things to me which I had ever heard from a\nyoung lady s lips. The breach between us lasted for the whole of the\nnext day. The day after, I succeeded in making my peace, and thought no\nmore of it. Had Rachel reverted to this unlucky accident, at the\ncritical moment when my place in her estimation was again, and far more\nseriously, assailed? Mr. Bruff, when I had mentioned the circumstances\nto him, answered the question at once in the affirmative.\n\n It would have its effect on her mind,  he said gravely.  And I wish,\nfor your sake, the thing had not happened. However, we have discovered\nthat there _was_ a predisposing influence against you and there is one\nuncertainty cleared out of our way, at any rate. I see nothing more\nthat we can do now. Our next step in this inquiry must be the step that\ntakes us to Rachel. \n\nHe rose, and began walking thoughtfully up and down the room. Twice, I\nwas on the point of telling him that I had determined on seeing Rachel\npersonally; and twice, having regard to his age and his character, I\nhesitated to take him by surprise at an unfavourable moment.\n\n The grand difficulty is,  he resumed,  how to make her show her whole\nmind in this matter, without reserve. Have you any suggestions to\noffer? \n\n I have made up my mind, Mr. Bruff, to speak to Rachel myself. \n\n You!  He suddenly stopped in his walk, and looked at me as if he\nthought I had taken leave of my senses.  You, of all the people in the\nworld!  He abruptly checked himself, and took another turn in the room.\n Wait a little,  he said.  In cases of this extraordinary kind, the\nrash way is sometimes the best way.  He considered the question for a\nmoment or two, under that new light, and ended boldly by a decision in\nmy favour.  Nothing venture, nothing have,  the old gentleman resumed.\n You have a chance in your favour which I don t possess and you shall\nbe the first to try the experiment. \n\n A chance in my favour?  I repeated, in the greatest surprise.\n\nMr. Bruff s face softened, for the first time, into a smile.\n\n This is how it stands,  he said.  I tell you fairly, I don t trust\nyour discretion, and I don t trust your temper. But I do trust in\nRachel s still preserving, in some remote little corner of her heart, a\ncertain perverse weakness for _you_. Touch that and trust to the\nconsequences for the fullest disclosures that can flow from a woman s\nlips! The question is how are you to see her? \n\n She has been a guest of yours at this house,  I answered.  May I\nventure to suggest if nothing was said about me beforehand that I might\nsee her here? \n\n Cool!  said Mr. Bruff. With that one word of comment on the reply that\nI had made to him, he took another turn up and down the room.\n\n In plain English,  he said,  my house is to be turned into a trap to\ncatch Rachel; with a bait to tempt her, in the shape of an invitation\nfrom my wife and daughters. If you were anybody else but Franklin\nBlake, and if this matter was one atom less serious than it really is,\nI should refuse point-blank. As things are, I firmly believe Rachel\nwill live to thank me for turning traitor to her in my old age.\nConsider me your accomplice. Rachel shall be asked to spend the day\nhere; and you shall receive due notice of it. \n\n When? Tomorrow? \n\n Tomorrow won t give us time enough to get her answer. Say the day\nafter. \n\n How shall I hear from you? \n\n Stay at home all the morning and expect me to call on you. \n\nI thanked him for the inestimable assistance which he was rendering to\nme, with the gratitude that I really felt; and, declining a hospitable\ninvitation to sleep that night at Hampstead, returned to my lodgings in\nLondon.\n\nOf the day that followed, I have only to say that it was the longest\nday of my life. Innocent as I knew myself to be, certain as I was that\nthe abominable imputation which rested on me must sooner or later be\ncleared off, there was nevertheless a sense of self-abasement in my\nmind which instinctively disinclined me to see any of my friends. We\noften hear (almost invariably, however, from superficial observers)\nthat guilt can look like innocence. I believe it to be infinitely the\ntruer axiom of the two that innocence can look like guilt. I caused\nmyself to be denied all day, to every visitor who called; and I only\nventured out under cover of the night.\n\nThe next morning, Mr. Bruff surprised me at the breakfast-table. He\nhanded me a large key, and announced that he felt ashamed of himself\nfor the first time in his life.\n\n Is she coming? \n\n She is coming today, to lunch and spend the afternoon with my wife and\nmy girls. \n\n Are Mrs. Bruff, and your daughters, in the secret? \n\n Inevitably. But women, as you may have observed, have no principles.\nMy family don t feel my pangs of conscience. The end being to bring you\nand Rachel together again, my wife and daughters pass over the means\nemployed to gain it, as composedly as if they were Jesuits. \n\n I am infinitely obliged to them. What is this key? \n\n The key of the gate in my back-garden wall. Be there at three this\nafternoon. Let yourself into the garden, and make your way in by the\nconservatory door. Cross the small drawing-room, and open the door in\nfront of you which leads into the music-room. There, you will find\nRachel and find her, alone. \n\n How can I thank you! \n\n I will tell you how. Don t blame _me_ for what happens afterwards. \n\nWith those words, he went out.\n\nI had many weary hours still to wait through. To while away the time, I\nlooked at my letters. Among them was a letter from Betteredge.\n\nI opened it eagerly. To my surprise and disappointment, it began with\nan apology warning me to expect no news of any importance. In the next\nsentence the everlasting Ezra Jennings appeared again! He had stopped\nBetteredge on the way out of the station, and had asked who I was.\nInformed on this point, he had mentioned having seen me to his master\nMr. Candy. Mr. Candy hearing of this, had himself driven over to\nBetteredge, to express his regret at our having missed each other. He\nhad a reason for wishing particularly to speak to me; and when I was\nnext in the neighbourhood of Frizinghall, he begged I would let him\nknow. Apart from a few characteristic utterances of the Betteredge\nphilosophy, this was the sum and substance of my correspondent s\nletter. The warm-hearted, faithful old man acknowledged that he had\nwritten  mainly for the pleasure of writing to me. \n\nI crumpled up the letter in my pocket, and forgot it the moment after,\nin the all-absorbing interest of my coming interview with Rachel.\n\nAs the clock of Hampstead church struck three, I put Mr. Bruff s key\ninto the lock of the door in the wall. When I first stepped into the\ngarden, and while I was securing the door again on the inner side, I\nown to having felt a certain guilty doubtfulness about what might\nhappen next. I looked furtively on either side of me; suspicious of the\npresence of some unexpected witness in some unknown corner of the\ngarden. Nothing appeared, to justify my apprehensions. The walks were,\none and all, solitudes; and the birds and the bees were the only\nwitnesses.\n\nI passed through the garden; entered the conservatory; and crossed the\nsmall drawing-room. As I laid my hand on the door opposite, I heard a\nfew plaintive chords struck on the piano in the room within. She had\noften idled over the instrument in this way, when I was staying at her\nmother s house. I was obliged to wait a little, to steady myself. The\npast and present rose side by side, at that supreme moment and the\ncontrast shook me.\n\nAfter the lapse of a minute, I roused my manhood, and opened the door.\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nAt the moment when I showed myself in the doorway, Rachel rose from the\npiano.\n\nI closed the door behind me. We confronted each other in silence, with\nthe full length of the room between us. The movement she had made in\nrising appeared to be the one exertion of which she was capable. All\nuse of every other faculty, bodily or mental, seemed to be merged in\nthe mere act of looking at me.\n\nA fear crossed my mind that I had shown myself too suddenly. I advanced\na few steps towards her. I said gently,  Rachel! \n\nThe sound of my voice brought the life back to her limbs, and the\ncolour to her face. She advanced, on her side, still without speaking.\nSlowly, as if acting under some influence independent of her own will,\nshe came nearer and nearer to me; the warm dusky colour flushing her\ncheeks, the light of reviving intelligence brightening every instant in\nher eyes. I forgot the object that had brought me into her presence; I\nforgot the vile suspicion that rested on my good name; I forgot every\nconsideration, past, present, and future, which I was bound to\nremember. I saw nothing but the woman I loved coming nearer and nearer\nto me. She trembled; she stood irresolute. I could resist it no\nlonger I caught her in my arms, and covered her face with kisses.\n\nThere was a moment when I thought the kisses were returned; a moment\nwhen it seemed as if she, too might have forgotten. Almost before the\nidea could shape itself in my mind, her first voluntary action made me\nfeel that she remembered. With a cry which was like a cry of\nhorror with a strength which I doubt if I could have resisted if I had\ntried she thrust me back from her. I saw merciless anger in her eyes; I\nsaw merciless contempt on her lips. She looked me over, from head to\nfoot, as she might have looked at a stranger who had insulted her.\n\n You coward!  she said.  You mean, miserable, heartless coward! \n\nThose were her first words! The most unendurable reproach that a woman\ncan address to a man, was the reproach that she picked out to address\nto Me.\n\n I remember the time, Rachel,  I said,  when you could have told me\nthat I had offended you, in a worthier way than that. I beg your\npardon. \n\nSomething of the bitterness that I felt may have communicated itself to\nmy voice. At the first words of my reply, her eyes, which had been\nturned away the moment before, looked back at me unwillingly. She\nanswered in a low tone, with a sullen submission of manner which was\nquite new in my experience of her.\n\n Perhaps there is some excuse for me,  she said.  After what you have\ndone, is it a manly action, on your part, to find your way to me as you\nhave found it today? It seems a cowardly experiment, to try an\nexperiment on my weakness for you. It seems a cowardly surprise, to\nsurprise me into letting you kiss me. But that is only a woman s view.\nI ought to have known it couldn t be your view. I should have done\nbetter if I had controlled myself, and said nothing. \n\nThe apology was more unendurable than the insult. The most degraded man\nliving would have felt humiliated by it.\n\n If my honour was not in your hands,  I said,  I would leave you this\ninstant, and never see you again. You have spoken of what I have done.\nWhat have I done? \n\n What have you done! _You_ ask that question of _me_? \n\n I ask it. \n\n I have kept your infamy a secret,  she answered.  And I have suffered\nthe consequences of concealing it. Have I no claim to be spared the\ninsult of your asking me what you have done? Is _all_ sense of\ngratitude dead in you? You were once a gentleman. You were once dear to\nmy mother, and dearer still to me \n\nHer voice failed her. She dropped into a chair, and turned her back on\nme, and covered her face with her hands.\n\nI waited a little before I trusted myself to say any more. In that\nmoment of silence, I hardly know which I felt most keenly the sting\nwhich her contempt had planted in me, or the proud resolution which\nshut me out from all community with her distress.\n\n If you will not speak first,  I said,  I must. I have come here with\nsomething serious to say to you. Will you do me the common justice of\nlistening while I say it? \n\nShe neither moved, nor answered. I made no second appeal to her; I\nnever advanced an inch nearer to her chair. With a pride which was as\nobstinate as her pride, I told her of my discovery at the Shivering\nSand, and of all that had led to it. The narrative, of necessity,\noccupied some little time. From beginning to end, she never looked\nround at me, and she never uttered a word.\n\nI kept my temper. My whole future depended, in all probability, on my\nnot losing possession of myself at that moment. The time had come to\nput Mr. Bruff s theory to the test. In the breathless interest of\ntrying that experiment, I moved round so as to place myself in front of\nher.\n\n I have a question to ask you,  I said.  It obliges me to refer again\nto a painful subject. Did Rosanna Spearman show you the nightgown. Yes,\nor No? \n\nShe started to her feet; and walked close up to me of her own accord.\nHer eyes looked me searchingly in the face, as if to read something\nthere which they had never read yet.\n\n Are you mad?  she asked.\n\nI still restrained myself. I said quietly,  Rachel, will you answer my\nquestion? \n\nShe went on, without heeding me.\n\n Have you some object to gain which I don t understand? Some mean fear\nabout the future, in which I am concerned? They say your father s death\nhas made you a rich man. Have you come here to compensate me for the\nloss of my Diamond? And have you heart enough left to feel ashamed of\nyour errand? Is _that_ the secret of your pretence of innocence, and\nyour story about Rosanna Spearman? Is there a motive of shame at the\nbottom of all the falsehood, this time? \n\nI stopped her there. I could control myself no longer.\n\n You have done me an infamous wrong!  I broke out hotly.  You suspect\nme of stealing your Diamond. I have a right to know, and I _will_ know,\nthe reason why! \n\n Suspect you!  she exclaimed, her anger rising with mine.  _You\nvillain, I saw you take the Diamond with my own eyes!_ \n\nThe revelation which burst upon me in those words, the overthrow which\nthey instantly accomplished of the whole view of the case on which Mr.\nBruff had relied, struck me helpless. Innocent as I was, I stood before\nher in silence. To her eyes, to any eyes, I must have looked like a man\noverwhelmed by the discovery of his own guilt.\n\nShe drew back from the spectacle of my humiliation and of her triumph.\nThe sudden silence that had fallen upon me seemed to frighten her.  I\nspared you, at the time,  she said.  I would have spared you now, if\nyou had not forced me to speak.  She moved away as if to leave the\nroom and hesitated before she got to the door.  Why did you come here\nto humiliate yourself?  she asked.  Why did you come here to humiliate\nme?  She went on a few steps, and paused once more.  For God s sake,\nsay something!  she exclaimed, passionately.  If you have any mercy\nleft, don t let me degrade myself in this way! Say something and drive\nme out of the room! \n\nI advanced towards her, hardly conscious of what I was doing. I had\npossibly some confused idea of detaining her until she had told me\nmore. From the moment when I knew that the evidence on which I stood\ncondemned in Rachel s mind, was the evidence of her own eyes,\nnothing not even my conviction of my own innocence was clear to my\nmind. I took her by the hand; I tried to speak firmly and to the\npurpose. All I could say was,  Rachel, you once loved me. \n\nShe shuddered, and looked away from me. Her hand lay powerless and\ntrembling in mine.  Let go of it,  she said faintly.\n\nMy touch seemed to have the same effect on her which the sound of my\nvoice had produced when I first entered the room. After she had said\nthe word which called me a coward, after she had made the avowal which\nbranded me as a thief while her hand lay in mine I was her master\nstill!\n\nI drew her gently back into the middle of the room. I seated her by the\nside of me.  Rachel,  I said,  I can t explain the contradiction in\nwhat I am going to tell you. I can only speak the truth as you have\nspoken it. You saw me with your own eyes, you saw me take the Diamond.\nBefore God who hears us, I declare that I now know I took it for the\nfirst time! Do you doubt me still? \n\nShe had neither heeded nor heard me.  Let go of my hand,  she repeated\nfaintly. That was her only answer. Her head sank on my shoulder; and\nher hand unconsciously closed on mine, at the moment when she asked me\nto release it.\n\nI refrained from pressing the question. But there my forbearance\nstopped. My chance of ever holding up my head again among honest men\ndepended on my chance of inducing her to make her disclosure complete.\nThe one hope left for me was the hope that she might have overlooked\nsomething in the chain of evidence some mere trifle, perhaps, which\nmight nevertheless, under careful investigation, be made the means of\nvindicating my innocence in the end. I own I kept possession of her\nhand. I own I spoke to her with all that I could summon back of the\nsympathy and confidence of the bygone time.\n\n I want to ask you something,  I said.  I want you to tell me\neverything that happened, from the time when we wished each other\ngood-night, to the time when you saw me take the Diamond. \n\nShe lifted her head from my shoulder, and made an effort to release her\nhand.  Oh, why go back to it!  she said.  Why go back to it! \n\n I will tell you why, Rachel. You are the victim, and I am the victim,\nof some monstrous delusion which has worn the mask of truth. If we look\nat what happened on the night of your birthday together, we may end in\nunderstanding each other yet. \n\nHer head dropped back on my shoulder. The tears gathered in her eyes,\nand fell slowly over her cheeks.  Oh!  she said,  have _I_ never had\nthat hope? Have _I_ not tried to see it, as you are trying now? \n\n You have tried by yourself,  I answered.  You have not tried with me\nto help you. \n\nThose words seemed to awaken in her something of the hope which I felt\nmyself when I uttered them. She replied to my questions with more than\ndocility she exerted her intelligence; she willingly opened her whole\nmind to me.\n\n Let us begin,  I said,  with what happened after we had wished each\nother good-night. Did you go to bed? or did you sit up? \n\n I went to bed. \n\n Did you notice the time? Was it late? \n\n Not very. About twelve o clock, I think. \n\n Did you fall asleep? \n\n No. I couldn t sleep that night. \n\n You were restless? \n\n I was thinking of you. \n\nThe answer almost unmanned me. Something in the tone, even more than in\nthe words, went straight to my heart. It was only after pausing a\nlittle first that I was able to go on.\n\n Had you any light in your room?  I asked.\n\n None until I got up again, and lit my candle. \n\n How long was that, after you had gone to bed? \n\n About an hour after, I think. About one o clock. \n\n Did you leave your bedroom? \n\n I was going to leave it. I had put on my dressing-gown; and I was\ngoing into my sitting-room to get a book \n\n Had you opened your bedroom door? \n\n I had just opened it. \n\n But you had not gone into the sitting-room? \n\n No I was stopped from going into it. \n\n What stopped you?\n\n I saw a light, under the door; and I heard footsteps approaching it. \n\n Were you frightened? \n\n Not then. I knew my poor mother was a bad sleeper; and I remembered\nthat she had tried hard, that evening, to persuade me to let her take\ncharge of my Diamond. She was unreasonably anxious about it, as I\nthought; and I fancied she was coming to me to see if I was in bed, and\nto speak to me about the Diamond again, if she found that I was up. \n\n What did you do? \n\n I blew out my candle, so that she might think I was in bed. I was\nunreasonable, on my side I was determined to keep my Diamond in the\nplace of my own choosing. \n\n After blowing out the candle, did you go back to bed? \n\n I had no time to go back. At the moment when I blew the candle out,\nthe sitting-room door opened, and I saw \n\n You saw? \n\n You. \n\n Dressed as usual? \n\n No. \n\n In my nightgown? \n\n In your nightgown with your bedroom candle in your hand. \n\n Alone? \n\n Alone. \n\n Could you see my face? \n\n Yes. \n\n Plainly? \n\n Quite plainly. The candle in your hand showed it to me. \n\n Were my eyes open? \n\n Yes. \n\n Did you notice anything strange in them? Anything like a fixed, vacant\nexpression? \n\n Nothing of the sort. Your eyes were bright brighter than usual. You\nlooked about in the room, as if you knew you were where you ought not\nto be, and as if you were afraid of being found out. \n\n Did you observe one thing when I came into the room did you observe\nhow I walked? \n\n You walked as you always do. You came in as far as the middle of the\nroom and then you stopped and looked about you. \n\n What did you do, on first seeing me? \n\n I could do nothing. I was petrified. I couldn t speak, I couldn t call\nout, I couldn t even move to shut my door. \n\n Could I see you, where you stood? \n\n You might certainly have seen me. But you never looked towards me.\nIt s useless to ask the question. I am sure you never saw me. \n\n How are you sure? \n\n Would you have taken the Diamond? would you have acted as you did\nafterwards? would you be here now if you had seen that I was awake and\nlooking at you? Don t make me talk of that part of it! I want to answer\nyou quietly. Help me to keep as calm as I can. Go on to something\nelse. \n\nShe was right in every way, right. I went on to other things.\n\n What did I do, after I had got to the middle of the room, and had\nstopped there? \n\n You turned away, and went straight to the corner near the window where\nmy Indian cabinet stands. \n\n When I was at the cabinet, my back must have been turned towards you.\nHow did you see what I was doing? \n\n When you moved, I moved. \n\n So as to see what I was about with my hands? \n\n There are three glasses in my sitting-room. As you stood there, I saw\nall that you did, reflected in one of them. \n\n What did you see? \n\n You put your candle on the top of the cabinet. You opened, and shut,\none drawer after another, until you came to the drawer in which I had\nput my Diamond. You looked at the open drawer for a moment. And then\nyou put your hand in, and took the Diamond out. \n\n How do you know I took the Diamond out? \n\n I saw your hand go into the drawer. And I saw the gleam of the stone\nbetween your finger and thumb, when you took your hand out. \n\n Did my hand approach the drawer again to close it, for instance? \n\n No. You had the Diamond in your right hand; and you took the candle\nfrom the top of the cabinet with your left hand. \n\n Did I look about me again, after that? \n\n No. \n\n Did I leave the room immediately? \n\n No. You stood quite still, for what seemed a long time. I saw your\nface sideways in the glass. You looked like a man thinking, and\ndissatisfied with his own thoughts. \n\n What happened next? \n\n You roused yourself on a sudden, and you went straight out of the\nroom. \n\n Did I close the door after me? \n\n No. You passed out quickly into the passage, and left the door open. \n\n And then? \n\n Then, your light disappeared, and the sound of your steps died away,\nand I was left alone in the dark. \n\n Did nothing happen from that time, to the time when the whole house\nknew that the Diamond was lost? \n\n Nothing. \n\n Are you sure of that? Might you not have been asleep a part of the\ntime? \n\n I never slept. I never went back to my bed. Nothing happened until\nPenelope came in, at the usual time in the morning. \n\nI dropped her hand, and rose, and took a turn in the room. Every\nquestion that I could put had been answered. Every detail that I could\ndesire to know had been placed before me. I had even reverted to the\nidea of sleep-walking, and the idea of intoxication; and, again, the\nworthlessness of the one theory and the other had been proved on the\nauthority, this time, of the witness who had seen me. What was to be\nsaid next? what was to be done next? There rose the horrible fact of\nthe Theft the one visible, tangible object that confronted me, in the\nmidst of the impenetrable darkness which enveloped all besides! Not a\nglimpse of light to guide me, when I had possessed myself of Rosanna\nSpearman s secret at the Shivering Sand. And not a glimpse of light\nnow, when I had appealed to Rachel herself, and had heard the hateful\nstory of the night from her own lips.\n\nShe was the first, this time, to break the silence.\n\n Well?  she said,  you have asked, and I have answered. You have made\nme hope something from all this, because _you_ hoped something from it.\nWhat have you to say now? \n\nThe tone in which she spoke warned me that my influence over her was a\nlost influence once more.\n\n We were to look at what happened on my birthday night, together,  she\nwent on;  and we were then to understand each other. Have we done\nthat? \n\nShe waited pitilessly for my reply. In answering her I committed a\nfatal error I let the exasperating helplessness of my situation get the\nbetter of my self-control. Rashly and uselessly, I reproached her for\nthe silence which had kept me until that moment in ignorance of the\ntruth.\n\n If you had spoken when you ought to have spoken,  I began;  if you had\ndone me the common justice to explain yourself \n\nShe broke in on me with a cry of fury. The few words I had said seemed\nto have lashed her on the instant into a frenzy of rage.\n\n Explain myself!  she repeated.  Oh! is there another man like this in\nthe world? I spare him, when my heart is breaking; I screen him when my\nown character is at stake; and _he_ of all human beings, _he_ turns on\nme now, and tells me that I ought to have explained myself! After\nbelieving in him as I did, after loving him as I did, after thinking of\nhim by day, and dreaming of him by night he wonders I didn t charge him\nwith his disgrace the first time we met:  My heart s darling, you are a\nThief! My hero whom I love and honour, you have crept into my room\nunder cover of the night, and stolen my Diamond!  That is what I ought\nto have said. You villain, you mean, mean, mean villain, I would have\nlost fifty diamonds, rather than see your face lying to me, as I see it\nlying now! \n\nI took up my hat. In mercy to _her_ yes! I can honestly say it in mercy\nto _her_, I turned away without a word, and opened the door by which I\nhad entered the room.\n\nShe followed, and snatched the door out of my hand; she closed it, and\npointed back to the place that I had left.\n\n No!  she said.  Not yet! It seems that _I_ owe a justification of my\nconduct to _you_. You shall stay and hear it. Or you shall stoop to the\nlowest infamy of all, and force your way out. \n\nIt wrung my heart to see her; it wrung my heart to hear her. I answered\nby a sign it was all I could do that I submitted myself to her will.\n\nThe crimson flush of anger began to fade out of her face, as I went\nback, and took my chair in silence. She waited a little, and steadied\nherself. When she went on, but one sign of feeling was discernible in\nher. She spoke without looking at me. Her hands were fast clasped in\nher lap, and her eyes were fixed on the ground.\n\n I ought to have done you the common justice to explain myself,  she\nsaid, repeating my own words.  You shall see whether I did try to do\nyou justice, or not. I told you just now that I never slept, and never\nreturned to my bed, after you had left my sitting-room. It s useless to\ntrouble you by dwelling on what I thought you would not understand my\nthoughts I will only tell you what I did, when time enough had passed\nto help me to recover myself. I refrained from alarming the house, and\ntelling everybody what had happened as I ought to have done. In spite\nof what I had seen, I was fond enough of you to believe no matter\nwhat! any impossibility, rather than admit it to my own mind that you\nwere deliberately a thief. I thought and thought and I ended in writing\nto you. \n\n I never received the letter. \n\n I know you never received it. Wait a little, and you shall hear why.\nMy letter would have told you nothing openly. It would not have ruined\nyou for life, if it had fallen into some other person s hands. It would\nonly have said in a manner which you yourself could not possibly have\nmistaken that I had reason to know you were in debt, and that it was in\nmy experience and in my mother s experience of you, that you were not\nvery discreet, or very scrupulous about how you got money when you\nwanted it. You would have remembered the visit of the French lawyer,\nand you would have known what I referred to. If you had read on with\nsome interest after that, you would have come to an offer I had to make\nto you the offer, privately (not a word, mind, to be said openly about\nit between us!), of the loan of as large a sum of money as I could\nget. And I would have got it!  she exclaimed, her colour beginning to\nrise again, and her eyes looking up at me once more.  I would have\npledged the Diamond myself, if I could have got the money in no other\nway! In those words I wrote to you. Wait! I did more than that. I\narranged with Penelope to give you the letter when nobody was near. I\nplanned to shut myself into my bedroom, and to have the sitting-room\nleft open and empty all the morning. And I hoped with all my heart and\nsoul I hoped! that you would take the opportunity, and put the Diamond\nback secretly in the drawer. \n\nI attempted to speak. She lifted her hand impatiently, and stopped me.\nIn the rapid alternations of her temper, her anger was beginning to\nrise again. She got up from her chair, and approached me.\n\n I know what you are going to say,  she went on.  You are going to\nremind me again that you never received my letter. I can tell you why.\nI tore it up.\n\n For what reason?  I asked.\n\n For the best of reasons. I preferred tearing it up to throwing it away\nupon such a man as you! What was the first news that reached me in the\nmorning? Just as my little plan was complete, what did I hear? I heard\nthat you you!!! were the foremost person in the house in fetching the\npolice. You were the active man; you were the leader; you were working\nharder than any of them to recover the jewel! You even carried your\naudacity far enough to ask to speak to _me_ about the loss of the\nDiamond the Diamond which you yourself had stolen; the Diamond which\nwas all the time in your own hands! After that proof of your horrible\nfalseness and cunning, I tore up my letter. But even then even when I\nwas maddened by the searching and questioning of the policeman, whom\n_you_ had sent in even then, there was some infatuation in my mind\nwhich wouldn t let me give you up. I said to myself,  He has played his\nvile farce before everybody else in the house. Let me try if he can\nplay it before me.  Somebody told me you were on the terrace. I went\ndown to the terrace. I forced myself to look at you; I forced myself to\nspeak to you. Have you forgotten what I said? \n\nI might have answered that I remembered every word of it. But what\npurpose, at that moment, would the answer have served?\n\nHow could I tell her that what she had said had astonished me, had\ndistressed me, had suggested to me that she was in a state of dangerous\nnervous excitement, had even roused a moment s doubt in my mind whether\nthe loss of the jewel was as much a mystery to her as to the rest of\nus but had never once given me so much as a glimpse at the truth?\nWithout the shadow of a proof to produce in vindication of my\ninnocence, how could I persuade her that I knew no more than the\nveriest stranger could have known of what was really in her thoughts\nwhen she spoke to me on the terrace?\n\n It may suit your convenience to forget; it suits my convenience to\nremember,  she went on.  I know what I said for I considered it with\nmyself, before I said it. I gave you one opportunity after another of\nowning the truth. I left nothing unsaid that I _could_ say short of\nactually telling you that I knew you had committed the theft. And all\nthe return you made, was to look at me with your vile pretence of\nastonishment, and your false face of innocence just as you have looked\nat me today; just as you are looking at me now! I left you, that\nmorning, knowing you at last for what you were for what you are as base\na wretch as ever walked the earth! \n\n If you had spoken out at the time, you might have left me, Rachel,\nknowing that you had cruelly wronged an innocent man. \n\n If I had spoken out before other people,  she retorted, with another\nburst of indignation,  you would have been disgraced for life! If I had\nspoken out to no ears but yours, you would have denied it, as you are\ndenying it now! Do you think I should have believed you? Would a man\nhesitate at a lie, who had done what I saw _you_ do who had behaved\nabout it afterwards, as I saw _you_ behave? I tell you again, I shrank\nfrom the horror of hearing you lie, after the horror of seeing you\nthieve. You talk as if this was a misunderstanding which a few words\nmight have set right! Well! the misunderstanding is at an end. Is the\nthing set right? No! the thing is just where it was. I don t believe\nyou _now!_ I don t believe you found the nightgown, I don t believe in\nRosanna Spearman s letter, I don t believe a word you have said. You\nstole it I saw you! You affected to help the police I saw you! You\npledged the Diamond to the money-lender in London I am sure of it! You\ncast the suspicion of your disgrace (thanks to my base silence!) on an\ninnocent man! You fled to the Continent with your plunder the next\nmorning! After all that vileness, there was but one thing more you\n_could_ do. You could come here with a last falsehood on your lips you\ncould come here, and tell me that I have wronged you! \n\nIf I had stayed a moment more, I know not what words might have escaped\nme which I should have remembered with vain repentance and regret. I\npassed by her, and opened the door for the second time. For the second\ntime with the frantic perversity of a roused woman she caught me by the\narm, and barred my way out.\n\n Let me go, Rachel  I said.  It will be better for both of us. Let me\ngo. \n\nThe hysterical passion swelled in her bosom her quickened convulsive\nbreathing almost beat on my face, as she held me back at the door.\n\n Why did you come here?  she persisted, desperately.  I ask you\nagain why did you come here? Are you afraid I shall expose you? Now you\nare a rich man, now you have got a place in the world, now you may\nmarry the best lady in the land are you afraid I shall say the words\nwhich I have never said yet to anybody but you? I can t say the words!\nI can t expose you! I am worse, if worse can be, than you are\nyourself.  Sobs and tears burst from her. She struggled with them\nfiercely; she held me more and more firmly.  I can t tear you out of my\nheart,  she said,  even now! You may trust in the shameful, shameful\nweakness which can only struggle against you in this way!  She suddenly\nlet go of me she threw up her hands, and wrung them frantically in the\nair.  Any other woman living would shrink from the disgrace of touching\nhim!  she exclaimed.  Oh, God! I despise myself even more heartily than\nI despise _him_! \n\nThe tears were forcing their way into my eyes in spite of me the horror\nof it was to be endured no longer.\n\n You shall know that you have wronged me, yet,  I said.  Or you shall\nnever see me again! \n\nWith those words, I left her. She started up from the chair on which\nshe had dropped the moment before: she started up the noble\ncreature! and followed me across the outer room, with a last merciful\nword at parting.\n\n Franklin!  she said,  I forgive you! Oh, Franklin, Franklin! we shall\nnever meet again. Say you forgive _me!_ \n\nI turned, so as to let my face show her that I was past speaking I\nturned, and waved my hand, and saw her dimly, as in a vision, through\nthe tears that had conquered me at last.\n\nThe next moment, the worst bitterness of it was over. I was out in the\ngarden again. I saw her, and heard her, no more.\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nLate that evening, I was surprised at my lodgings by a visit from Mr.\nBruff.\n\nThere was a noticeable change in the lawyer s manner. It had lost its\nusual confidence and spirit. He shook hands with me, for the first time\nin his life, in silence.\n\n Are you going back to Hampstead?  I asked, by way of saying something.\n\n I have just left Hampstead,  he answered.  I know, Mr. Franklin, that\nyou have got at the truth at last. But, I tell you plainly, if I could\nhave foreseen the price that was to be paid for it, I should have\npreferred leaving you in the dark. \n\n You have seen Rachel? \n\n I have come here after taking her back to Portland Place; it was\nimpossible to let her return in the carriage by herself. I can hardly\nhold you responsible considering that you saw her in my house and by my\npermission for the shock that this unlucky interview has inflicted on\nher. All I can do is to provide against a repetition of the mischief.\nShe is young she has a resolute spirit she will get over this, with\ntime and rest to help her. I want to be assured that you will do\nnothing to hinder her recovery. May I depend on your making no second\nattempt to see her except with my sanction and approval? \n\n After what she has suffered, and after what I have suffered,  I said,\n you may rely on me. \n\n I have your promise? \n\n You have my promise. \n\nMr. Bruff looked relieved. He put down his hat, and drew his chair\nnearer to mine.\n\n That s settled!  he said.  Now, about the future _your_ future, I\nmean. To my mind, the result of the extraordinary turn which the matter\nhas now taken is briefly this. In the first place, we are sure that\nRachel has told you the whole truth, as plainly as words can tell it.\nIn the second place though we know that there must be some dreadful\nmistake somewhere we can hardly blame her for believing you to be\nguilty, on the evidence of her own senses; backed, as that evidence has\nbeen, by circumstances which appear, on the face of them, to tell dead\nagainst you. \n\nThere I interposed.  I don t blame Rachel,  I said.  I only regret that\nshe could not prevail on herself to speak more plainly to me at the\ntime. \n\n You might as well regret that Rachel is not somebody else,  rejoined\nMr. Bruff.  And even then, I doubt if a girl of any delicacy, whose\nheart had been set on marrying you, could have brought herself to\ncharge you to your face with being a thief. Anyhow, it was not in\nRachel s nature to do it. In a very different matter to this matter of\nyours which placed her, however, in a position not altogether unlike\nher position towards you I happen to know that she was influenced by a\nsimilar motive to the motive which actuated her conduct in your case.\nBesides, as she told me herself, on our way to town this evening, if\nshe _had_ spoken plainly, she would no more have believed your denial\nthen than she believes it now. What answer can you make to that? There\nis no answer to be made to it. Come, come, Mr. Franklin! my view of the\ncase has been proved to be all wrong, I admit but, as things are now,\nmy advice may be worth having for all that. I tell you plainly, we\nshall be wasting our time, and cudgelling our brains to no purpose, if\nwe attempt to try back, and unravel this frightful complication from\nthe beginning. Let us close our minds resolutely to all that happened\nlast year at Lady Verinder s country house; and let us look to what we\n_can_ discover in the future, instead of to what we can _not_ discover\nin the past. \n\n Surely you forget,  I said,  that the whole thing is essentially a\nmatter of the past so far as I am concerned? \n\n Answer me this,  retorted Mr. Bruff.  Is the Moonstone at the bottom\nof all the mischief or is it not? \n\n It is of course. \n\n Very good. What do we believe was done with the Moonstone, when it was\ntaken to London? \n\n It was pledged to Mr. Luker. \n\n We know that you are not the person who pledged it. Do we know who\ndid? \n\n No. \n\n Where do we believe the Moonstone to be now? \n\n Deposited in the keeping of Mr. Luker s bankers. \n\n Exactly. Now observe. We are already in the month of June. Towards the\nend of the month (I can t be particular to a day) a year will have\nelapsed from the time when we believe the jewel to have been pledged.\nThere is a chance to say the least that the person who pawned it, may\nbe prepared to redeem it when the year s time has expired. If he\nredeems it, Mr. Luker must himself according to the terms of his own\narrangement take the Diamond out of his banker s hands. Under these\ncircumstances, I propose setting a watch at the bank, as the present\nmonth draws to an end, and discovering who the person is to whom Mr.\nLuker restores the Moonstone. Do you see it now? \n\nI admitted (a little unwillingly) that the idea was a new one, at any\nrate.\n\n It s Mr. Murthwaite s idea quite as much as mine,  said Mr. Bruff.  It\nmight have never entered my head, but for a conversation we had\ntogether some time since. If Mr. Murthwaite is right, the Indians are\nlikely to be on the lookout at the bank, towards the end of the month\ntoo and something serious may come of it. What comes of it doesn t\nmatter to you and me except as it may help us to lay our hands on the\nmysterious Somebody who pawned the Diamond. That person, you may rely\non it, is responsible (I don t pretend to know how) for the position in\nwhich you stand at this moment; and that person alone can set you right\nin Rachel s estimation. \n\n I can t deny,  I said,  that the plan you propose meets the difficulty\nin a way that is very daring, and very ingenious, and very new. But \n\n But you have an objection to make? \n\n Yes. My objection is, that your proposal obliges us to wait. \n\n Granted. As I reckon the time, it requires you to wait about a\nfortnight more or less. Is that so very long? \n\n It s a life-time, Mr. Bruff, in such a situation as mine. My existence\nwill be simply unendurable to me, unless I do something towards\nclearing my character at once. \n\n Well, well, I understand that. Have you thought yet of what you can\ndo? \n\n I have thought of consulting Sergeant Cuff. \n\n He has retired from the police. It s useless to expect the Sergeant to\nhelp you. \n\n I know where to find him; and I can but try. \n\n Try,  said Mr. Bruff, after a moment s consideration.  The case has\nassumed such an extraordinary aspect since Sergeant Cuff s time, that\nyou _may_ revive his interest in the inquiry. Try, and let me hear the\nresult. In the meanwhile,  he continued, rising,  if you make no\ndiscoveries between this, and the end of the month, am I free to try,\non my side, what can be done by keeping a lookout at the bank? \n\n Certainly,  I answered unless I relieve you of all necessity for\ntrying the experiment in the interval. \n\nMr. Bruff smiled, and took up his hat.\n\n Tell Sergeant Cuff,  he rejoined,  that _I_ say the discovery of the\ntruth depends on the discovery of the person who pawned the Diamond.\nAnd let me hear what the Sergeant s experience says to that. \n\nSo we parted.\n\nEarly the next morning, I set forth for the little town of Dorking the\nplace of Sergeant Cuff s retirement, as indicated to me by Betteredge.\n\nInquiring at the hotel, I received the necessary directions for finding\nthe Sergeant s cottage. It was approached by a quiet bye-road, a little\nway out of the town, and it stood snugly in the middle of its own plot\nof garden ground, protected by a good brick wall at the back and the\nsides, and by a high quickset hedge in front. The gate, ornamented at\nthe upper part by smartly-painted trellis-work, was locked. After\nringing at the bell, I peered through the trellis-work, and saw the\ngreat Cuff s favourite flower everywhere; blooming in his garden,\nclustering over his door, looking in at his windows. Far from the\ncrimes and the mysteries of the great city, the illustrious thief-taker\nwas placidly living out the last Sybarite years of his life, smothered\nin roses!\n\nA decent elderly woman opened the gate to me, and at once annihilated\nall the hopes I had built on securing the assistance of Sergeant Cuff.\nHe had started, only the day before, on a journey to Ireland.\n\n Has he gone there on business?  I asked.\n\nThe woman smiled.  He has only one business now, sir,  she said;  and\nthat s roses. Some great man s gardener in Ireland has found out\nsomething new in the growing of roses and Mr. Cuff s away to inquire\ninto it. \n\n Do you know when he will be back? \n\n It s quite uncertain, sir. Mr. Cuff said he should come back directly,\nor be away some time, just according as he found the new discovery\nworth nothing, or worth looking into. If you have any message to leave\nfor him, I ll take care, sir, that he gets it. \n\nI gave her my card, having first written on it in pencil:  I have\nsomething to say about the Moonstone. Let me hear from you as soon as\nyou get back.  That done, there was nothing left but to submit to\ncircumstances, and return to London.\n\nIn the irritable condition of my mind, at the time of which I am now\nwriting, the abortive result of my journey to the Sergeant s cottage\nsimply aggravated the restless impulse in me to be doing something. On\nthe day of my return from Dorking, I determined that the next morning\nshould find me bent on a new effort at forcing my way, through all\nobstacles, from the darkness to the light.\n\nWhat form was my next experiment to take?\n\nIf the excellent Betteredge had been present while I was considering\nthat question, and if he had been let into the secret of my thoughts,\nhe would, no doubt, have declared that the German side of me was, on\nthis occasion, my uppermost side. To speak seriously, it is perhaps\npossible that my German training was in some degree responsible for the\nlabyrinth of useless speculations in which I now involved myself. For\nthe greater part of the night, I sat smoking, and building up theories,\none more profoundly improbable than another. When I did get to sleep,\nmy waking fancies pursued me in dreams. I rose the next morning, with\nObjective-Subjective and Subjective-Objective inextricably entangled\ntogether in my mind; and I began the day which was to witness my next\neffort at practical action of some kind, by doubting whether I had any\nsort of right (on purely philosophical grounds) to consider any sort of\nthing (the Diamond included) as existing at all.\n\nHow long I might have remained lost in the mist of my own metaphysics,\nif I had been left to extricate myself, it is impossible for me to say.\nAs the event proved, accident came to my rescue, and happily delivered\nme. I happened to wear, that morning, the same coat which I had worn on\nthe day of my interview with Rachel. Searching for something else in\none of the pockets, I came upon a crumpled piece of paper, and, taking\nit out, found Betteredge s forgotten letter in my hand.\n\nIt seemed hard on my good old friend to leave him without a reply. I\nwent to my writing-table, and read his letter again.\n\nA letter which has nothing of the slightest importance in it, is not\nalways an easy letter to answer. Betteredge s present effort at\ncorresponding with me came within this category. Mr. Candy s assistant,\notherwise Ezra Jennings, had told his master that he had seen me; and\nMr. Candy, in his turn, wanted to see me and say something to me, when\nI was next in the neighbourhood of Frizinghall. What was to be said in\nanswer to that, which would be worth the paper it was written on? I sat\nidly drawing likenesses from memory of Mr. Candy s remarkable-looking\nassistant, on the sheet of paper which I had vowed to dedicate to\nBetteredge until it suddenly occurred to me that here was the\nirrepressible Ezra Jennings getting in my way again! I threw a dozen\nportraits, at least, of the man with the piebald hair (the hair in\nevery case, remarkably like), into the waste-paper basket and then and\nthere, wrote my answer to Betteredge. It was a perfectly commonplace\nletter but it had one excellent effect on me. The effort of writing a\nfew sentences, in plain English, completely cleared my mind of the\ncloudy nonsense which had filled it since the previous day.\n\nDevoting myself once more to the elucidation of the impenetrable puzzle\nwhich my own position presented to me, I now tried to meet the\ndifficulty by investigating it from a plainly practical point of view.\nThe events of the memorable night being still unintelligible to me, I\nlooked a little farther back, and searched my memory of the earlier\nhours of the birthday for any incident which might prove of some\nassistance to me in finding the clue.\n\nHad anything happened while Rachel and I were finishing the painted\ndoor? or, later, when I rode over to Frizinghall? or afterwards, when I\nwent back with Godfrey Ablewhite and his sisters? or, later again, when\nI put the Moonstone into Rachel s hands? or, later still, when the\ncompany came, and we all assembled round the dinner-table? My memory\ndisposed of that string of questions readily enough, until I came to\nthe last. Looking back at the social event of the birthday dinner, I\nfound myself brought to a standstill at the outset of the inquiry. I\nwas not even capable of accurately remembering the number of the guests\nwho had sat at the same table with me.\n\nTo feel myself completely at fault here, and to conclude, thereupon,\nthat the incidents of the dinner might especially repay the trouble of\ninvestigating them, formed parts of the same mental process, in my\ncase. I believe other people, in a similar situation, would have\nreasoned as I did. When the pursuit of our own interests causes us to\nbecome objects of inquiry to ourselves, we are naturally suspicious of\nwhat we don t know. Once in possession of the names of the persons who\nhad been present at the dinner, I resolved as a means of enriching the\ndeficient resources of my own memory to appeal to the memory of the\nrest of the guests; to write down all that they could recollect of the\nsocial events of the birthday; and to test the result, thus obtained,\nby the light of what had happened afterwards, when the company had left\nthe house.\n\nThis last and newest of my many contemplated experiments in the art of\ninquiry which Betteredge would probably have attributed to the\nclear-headed, or French, side of me being uppermost for the moment may\nfairly claim record here, on its own merits. Unlikely as it may seem, I\nhad now actually groped my way to the root of the matter at last. All I\nwanted was a hint to guide me in the right direction at starting.\nBefore another day had passed over my head, that hint was given me by\none of the company who had been present at the birthday feast!\n\nWith the plan of proceeding which I now had in view, it was first\nnecessary to possess the complete list of the guests. This I could\neasily obtain from Gabriel Betteredge. I determined to go back to\nYorkshire on that day, and to begin my contemplated investigation the\nnext morning.\n\nIt was just too late to start by the train which left London before\nnoon. There was no alternative but to wait, nearly three hours, for the\ndeparture of the next train. Was there anything I could do in London,\nwhich might usefully occupy this interval of time?\n\nMy thoughts went back again obstinately to the birthday dinner.\n\nThough I had forgotten the numbers, and, in many cases, the names of\nthe guests, I remembered readily enough that by far the larger\nproportion of them came from Frizinghall, or from its neighbourhood.\nBut the larger proportion was not all. Some few of us were not regular\nresidents in the country. I myself was one of the few. Mr. Murthwaite\nwas another. Godfrey Ablewhite was a third. Mr. Bruff no: I called to\nmind that business had prevented Mr. Bruff from making one of the\nparty. Had any ladies been present, whose usual residence was in\nLondon? I could only remember Miss Clack as coming within this latter\ncategory. However, here were three of the guests, at any rate, whom it\nwas clearly advisable for me to see before I left town. I drove off at\nonce to Mr. Bruff s office; not knowing the addresses of the persons of\nwhom I was in search, and thinking it probable that he might put me in\nthe way of finding them.\n\nMr. Bruff proved to be too busy to give me more than a minute of his\nvaluable time. In that minute, however, he contrived to dispose in the\nmost discouraging manner of all the questions I had to put to him.\n\nIn the first place, he considered my newly-discovered method of finding\na clue to the mystery as something too purely fanciful to be seriously\ndiscussed. In the second, third, and fourth places, Mr. Murthwaite was\nnow on his way back to the scene of his past adventures; Miss Clack had\nsuffered losses, and had settled, from motives of economy, in France;\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite might, or might not, be discoverable somewhere in\nLondon. Suppose I inquired at his club? And suppose I excused Mr.\nBruff, if he went back to his business and wished me good morning?\n\nThe field of inquiry in London, being now so narrowed as only to\ninclude the one necessity of discovering Godfrey s address, I took the\nlawyer s hint, and drove to his club.\n\nIn the hall, I met with one of the members, who was an old friend of my\ncousin s, and who was also an acquaintance of my own. This gentleman,\nafter enlightening me on the subject of Godfrey s address, told me of\ntwo recent events in his life, which were of some importance in\nthemselves, and which had not previously reached my ears.\n\nIt appeared that Godfrey, far from being discouraged by Rachel s\nwithdrawal from her engagement to him had made matrimonial advances\nsoon afterwards to another young lady, reputed to be a great heiress.\nHis suit had prospered, and his marriage had been considered as a\nsettled and certain thing. But, here again, the engagement had been\nsuddenly and unexpectedly broken off owing, it was said, on this\noccasion, to a serious difference of opinion between the bridegroom and\nthe lady s father, on the question of settlements.\n\nAs some compensation for this second matrimonial disaster, Godfrey had\nsoon afterwards found himself the object of fond pecuniary remembrance,\non the part of one of his many admirers. A rich old lady highly\nrespected at the Mothers  Small-Clothes-Conversion-Society, and a great\nfriend of Miss Clack s (to whom she left nothing but a mourning\nring) had bequeathed to the admirable and meritorious Godfrey a legacy\nof five thousand pounds. After receiving this handsome addition to his\nown modest pecuniary resources, he had been heard to say that he felt\nthe necessity of getting a little respite from his charitable labours,\nand that his doctor prescribed  a run on the Continent, as likely to be\nproductive of much future benefit to his health.  If I wanted to see\nhim, it would be advisable to lose no time in paying my contemplated\nvisit.\n\nI went, then and there, to pay my visit.\n\nThe same fatality which had made me just one day too late in calling on\nSergeant Cuff, made me again one day too late in calling on Godfrey. He\nhad left London, on the previous morning, by the tidal train, for\nDover. He was to cross to Ostend; and his servant believed he was going\non to Brussels. The time of his return was rather uncertain; but I\nmight be sure he would be away at least three months.\n\nI went back to my lodgings a little depressed in spirits. Three of the\nguests at the birthday dinner and those three all exceptionally\nintelligent people were out of my reach, at the very time when it was\nmost important to be able to communicate with them. My last hopes now\nrested on Betteredge, and on the friends of the late Lady Verinder whom\nI might still find living in the neighbourhood of Rachel s country\nhouse.\n\nOn this occasion, I travelled straight to Frizinghall the town being\nnow the central point in my field of inquiry. I arrived too late in the\nevening to be able to communicate with Betteredge. The next morning, I\nsent a messenger with a letter, requesting him to join me at the hotel,\nat his earliest convenience.\n\nHaving taken the precaution partly to save time, partly to accommodate\nBetteredge of sending my messenger in a fly, I had a reasonable\nprospect, if no delays occurred, of seeing the old man within less than\ntwo hours from the time when I had sent for him. During this interval,\nI arranged to employ myself in opening my contemplated inquiry, among\nthe guests present at the birthday dinner who were personally known to\nme, and who were easily within my reach. These were my relatives, the\nAblewhites, and Mr. Candy. The doctor had expressed a special wish to\nsee me, and the doctor lived in the next street. So to Mr. Candy I went\nfirst.\n\nAfter what Betteredge had told me, I naturally anticipated finding\ntraces in the doctor s face of the severe illness from which he had\nsuffered. But I was utterly unprepared for such a change as I saw in\nhim when he entered the room and shook hands with me. His eyes were\ndim; his hair had turned completely grey; his face was wizen; his\nfigure had shrunk. I looked at the once lively, rattlepated, humorous\nlittle doctor associated in my remembrance with the perpetration of\nincorrigible social indiscretions and innumerable boyish jokes and I\nsaw nothing left of his former self, but the old tendency to vulgar\nsmartness in his dress. The man was a wreck; but his clothes and his\njewellery in cruel mockery of the change in him were as gay and as\ngaudy as ever.\n\n I have often thought of you, Mr. Blake,  he said;  and I am heartily\nglad to see you again at last. If there is anything I can do for you,\npray command my services, sir pray command my services! \n\nHe said those few commonplace words with needless hurry and eagerness,\nand with a curiosity to know what had brought me to Yorkshire, which he\nwas perfectly I might say childishly incapable of concealing from\nnotice.\n\nWith the object that I had in view, I had of course foreseen the\nnecessity of entering into some sort of personal explanation, before I\ncould hope to interest people, mostly strangers to me, in doing their\nbest to assist my inquiry. On the journey to Frizinghall I had arranged\nwhat my explanation was to be and I seized the opportunity now offered\nto me of trying the effect of it on Mr. Candy.\n\n I was in Yorkshire, the other day, and I am in Yorkshire again now, on\nrather a romantic errand,  I said.  It is a matter, Mr. Candy, in which\nthe late Lady Verinder s friends all took some interest. You remember\nthe mysterious loss of the Indian Diamond, now nearly a year since?\nCircumstances have lately happened which lead to the hope that it may\nyet be found and I am interesting myself, as one of the family, in\nrecovering it. Among the obstacles in my way, there is the necessity of\ncollecting again all the evidence which was discovered at the time, and\nmore if possible. There are peculiarities in this case which make it\ndesirable to revive my recollection of everything that happened in the\nhouse, on the evening of Miss Verinder s birthday. And I venture to\nappeal to her late mother s friends who were present on that occasion,\nto lend me the assistance of their memories \n\nI had got as far as that in rehearsing my explanatory phrases, when I\nwas suddenly checked by seeing plainly in Mr. Candy s face that my\nexperiment on him was a total failure.\n\nThe little doctor sat restlessly picking at the points of his fingers\nall the time I was speaking. His dim watery eyes were fixed on my face\nwith an expression of vacant and wistful inquiry very painful to see.\nWhat he was thinking of, it was impossible to divine. The one thing\nclearly visible was that I had failed, after the first two or three\nwords, in fixing his attention. The only chance of recalling him to\nhimself appeared to lie in changing the subject. I tried a new topic\nimmediately.\n\n So much,  I said, gaily,  for what brings me to Frizinghall! Now, Mr.\nCandy, it s your turn. You sent me a message by Gabriel Betteredge \n\nHe left off picking at his fingers, and suddenly brightened up.\n\n Yes! yes! yes!  he exclaimed eagerly.  That s it! I sent you a\nmessage! \n\n And Betteredge duly communicated it by letter,  I went on.  You had\nsomething to say to me, the next time I was in your neighbourhood.\nWell, Mr. Candy, here I am! \n\n Here you are!  echoed the doctor.  And Betteredge was quite right. I\nhad something to say to you. That was my message. Betteredge is a\nwonderful man. What a memory! At his age, what a memory! \n\nHe dropped back into silence, and began picking at his fingers again.\nRecollecting what I had heard from Betteredge about the effect of the\nfever on his memory, I went on with the conversation, in the hope that\nI might help him at starting.\n\n It s a long time since we met,  I said.  We last saw each other at the\nlast birthday dinner my poor aunt was ever to give. \n\n That s it!  cried Mr. Candy.  The birthday dinner!  He started\nimpulsively to his feet, and looked at me. A deep flush suddenly\noverspread his faded face, and he abruptly sat down again, as if\nconscious of having betrayed a weakness which he would fain have\nconcealed. It was plain, pitiably plain, that he was aware of his own\ndefect of memory, and that he was bent on hiding it from the\nobservation of his friends.\n\nThus far he had appealed to my compassion only. But the words he had\njust said few as they were roused my curiosity instantly to the highest\npitch. The birthday dinner had already become the one event in the\npast, at which I looked back with strangely-mixed feelings of hope and\ndistrust. And here was the birthday dinner unmistakably proclaiming\nitself as the subject on which Mr. Candy had something important to say\nto me!\n\nI attempted to help him out once more. But, this time, my own interests\nwere at the bottom of my compassionate motive, and they hurried me on a\nlittle too abruptly, to the end I had in view.\n\n It s nearly a year now,  I said,  since we sat at that pleasant table.\nHave you made any memorandum in your diary, or otherwise of what you\nwanted to say to me? \n\nMr. Candy understood the suggestion, and showed me that he understood\nit, as an insult.\n\n I require no memorandum, Mr. Blake,  he said, stiffly enough.  I am\nnot such a very old man, yet and my memory (thank God) is to be\nthoroughly depended on! \n\nIt is needless to say that I declined to understand that he was\noffended with me.\n\n I wish I could say the same of _my_ memory,  I answered.  When _I_ try\nto think of matters that are a year old, I seldom find my remembrance\nas vivid as I could wish it to be. Take the dinner at Lady Verinder s,\nfor instance \n\nMr. Candy brightened up again, the moment the allusion passed my lips.\n\n Ah! the dinner, the dinner at Lady Verinder s!  he exclaimed, more\neagerly than ever.  I have got something to say to you about that. \n\nHis eyes looked at me again with the painful expression of inquiry, so\nwistful, so vacant, so miserably helpless to see. He was evidently\ntrying hard, and trying in vain, to recover the lost recollection.  It\nwas a very pleasant dinner,  he burst out suddenly, with an air of\nsaying exactly what he wanted to say.  A very pleasant dinner, Mr.\nBlake, wasn t it?  He nodded and smiled, and appeared to think, poor\nfellow, that he had succeeded in concealing the total failure of his\nmemory, by a well-timed exertion of his own presence of mind.\n\nIt was so distressing that I at once shifted the talk deeply as I was\ninterested in his recovering the lost remembrance to topics of local\ninterest.\n\nHere, he got on glibly enough. Trumpery little scandals and quarrels in\nthe town, some of them as much as a month old, appeared to recur to his\nmemory readily. He chattered on, with something of the smooth gossiping\nfluency of former times. But there were moments, even in the full flow\nof his talkativeness, when he suddenly hesitated looked at me for a\nmoment with the vacant inquiry once more in his eyes controlled\nhimself and went on again. I submitted patiently to my martyrdom (it is\nsurely nothing less than martyrdom to a man of cosmopolitan sympathies,\nto absorb in silent resignation the news of a country town?) until the\nclock on the chimney-piece told me that my visit had been prolonged\nbeyond half an hour. Having now some right to consider the sacrifice as\ncomplete, I rose to take leave. As we shook hands, Mr. Candy reverted\nto the birthday festival of his own accord.\n\n I am so glad we have met again,  he said.  I had it on my mind I\nreally had it on my mind, Mr. Blake, to speak to you. About the dinner\nat Lady Verinder s, you know? A pleasant dinner really a pleasant\ndinner now, wasn t it? \n\nOn repeating the phrase, he seemed to feel hardly as certain of having\nprevented me from suspecting his lapse of memory, as he had felt on the\nfirst occasion. The wistful look clouded his face again: and, after\napparently designing to accompany me to the street door, he suddenly\nchanged his mind, rang the bell for the servant, and remained in the\ndrawing-room.\n\nI went slowly down the doctor s stairs, feeling the disheartening\nconviction that he really had something to say which it was vitally\nimportant to me to hear, and that he was morally incapable of saying\nit. The effort of remembering that he wanted to speak to me was, but\ntoo evidently, the only effort that his enfeebled memory was now able\nto achieve.\n\nJust as I reached the bottom of the stairs, and had turned a corner on\nmy way to the outer hall, a door opened softly somewhere on the ground\nfloor of the house, and a gentle voice said behind me: \n\n I am afraid, sir, you find Mr. Candy sadly changed? \n\nI turned round, and found myself face to face with Ezra Jennings.\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nThe doctor s pretty housemaid stood waiting for me, with the street\ndoor open in her hand. Pouring brightly into the hall, the morning\nlight fell full on the face of Mr. Candy s assistant when I turned, and\nlooked at him.\n\nIt was impossible to dispute Betteredge s assertion that the appearance\nof Ezra Jennings, speaking from a popular point of view, was against\nhim. His gipsy-complexion, his fleshless cheeks, his gaunt facial\nbones, his dreamy eyes, his extraordinary parti-coloured hair, the\npuzzling contradiction between his face and figure which made him look\nold and young both together were all more or less calculated to produce\nan unfavourable impression of him on a stranger s mind. And yet feeling\nthis as I certainly did it is not to be denied that Ezra Jennings made\nsome inscrutable appeal to my sympathies, which I found it impossible\nto resist. While my knowledge of the world warned me to answer the\nquestion which he had put, acknowledging that I did indeed find Mr.\nCandy sadly changed, and then to proceed on my way out of the house my\ninterest in Ezra Jennings held me rooted to the place, and gave him the\nopportunity of speaking to me in private about his employer, for which\nhe had been evidently on the watch.\n\n Are you walking my way, Mr. Jennings?  I said, observing that he held\nhis hat in his hand.  I am going to call on my aunt, Mrs. Ablewhite. \n\nEzra Jennings replied that he had a patient to see, and that he was\nwalking my way.\n\nWe left the house together. I observed that the pretty servant girl who\nwas all smiles and amiability, when I wished her good morning on my way\nout received a modest little message from Ezra Jennings, relating to\nthe time at which he might be expected to return, with pursed-up lips,\nand with eyes which ostentatiously looked anywhere rather than look in\nhis face. The poor wretch was evidently no favourite in the house. Out\nof the house, I had Betteredge s word for it that he was unpopular\neverywhere.  What a life!  I thought to myself, as we descended the\ndoctor s doorsteps.\n\nHaving already referred to Mr. Candy s illness on his side, Ezra\nJennings now appeared determined to leave it to me to resume the\nsubject. His silence said significantly,  It s your turn now.  I, too,\nhad my reasons for referring to the doctor s illness: and I readily\naccepted the responsibility of speaking first.\n\n Judging by the change I see in him,  I began,  Mr. Candy s illness\nmust have been far more serious than I had supposed? \n\n It is almost a miracle,  said Ezra Jennings,  that he lived through\nit. \n\n Is his memory never any better than I have found it today? He has been\ntrying to speak to me \n\n Of something which happened before he was taken ill?  asked the\nassistant, observing that I hesitated.\n\n Yes. \n\n His memory of events, at that past time, is hopelessly enfeebled, \nsaid Ezra Jennings.  It is almost to be deplored, poor fellow, that\neven the wreck of it remains. While he remembers dimly plans that he\nformed things, here and there, that he had to say or do before his\nillness he is perfectly incapable of recalling what the plans were, or\nwhat the thing was that he had to say or do. He is painfully conscious\nof his own deficiency, and painfully anxious, as you must have seen, to\nhide it from observation. If he could only have recovered in a complete\nstate of oblivion as to the past, he would have been a happier man.\nPerhaps we should all be happier,  he added, with a sad smile,  if we\ncould but completely forget! \n\n There are some events surely in all men s lives,  I replied,  the\nmemory of which they would be unwilling entirely to lose? \n\n That is, I hope, to be said of most men, Mr. Blake. I am afraid it\ncannot truly be said of _all_. Have you any reason to suppose that the\nlost remembrance which Mr. Candy tried to recover while you were\nspeaking to him just now was a remembrance which it was important to\n_you_ that he should recall? \n\nIn saying those words, he had touched, of his own accord, on the very\npoint upon which I was anxious to consult him. The interest I felt in\nthis strange man had impelled me, in the first instance, to give him\nthe opportunity of speaking to me; reserving what I might have to say,\non my side, in relation to his employer, until I was first satisfied\nthat he was a person in whose delicacy and discretion I could trust.\nThe little that he had said, thus far, had been sufficient to convince\nme that I was speaking to a gentleman. He had what I may venture to\ndescribe as the _unsought self-possession_, which is a sure sign of\ngood breeding, not in England only, but everywhere else in the\ncivilised world. Whatever the object which he had in view, in putting\nthe question that he had just addressed to me, I felt no doubt that I\nwas justified so far in answering him without reserve.\n\n I believe I have a strong interest,  I said,  in tracing the lost\nremembrance which Mr. Candy was unable to recall. May I ask whether you\ncan suggest to me any method by which I might assist his memory? \n\nEzra Jennings looked at me, with a sudden flash of interest in his\ndreamy brown eyes.\n\n Mr. Candy s memory is beyond the reach of assistance,  he said.  I\nhave tried to help it often enough since his recovery, to be able to\nspeak positively on that point. \n\nThis disappointed me; and I owned it.\n\n I confess you led me to hope for a less discouraging answer than\nthat,  I said.\n\nEzra Jennings smiled.  It may not, perhaps, be a final answer, Mr.\nBlake. It may be possible to trace Mr. Candy s lost recollection,\nwithout the necessity of appealing to Mr. Candy himself. \n\n Indeed? Is it an indiscretion, on my part, to ask how? \n\n By no means. My only difficulty in answering your question, is the\ndifficulty of explaining myself. May I trust to your patience, if I\nrefer once more to Mr. Candy s illness: and if I speak of it this time\nwithout sparing you certain professional details? \n\n Pray go on! You have interested me already in hearing the details. \n\nMy eagerness seemed to amuse perhaps, I might rather say, to please\nhim. He smiled again. We had by this time left the last houses in the\ntown behind us. Ezra Jennings stopped for a moment, and picked some\nwild flowers from the hedge by the roadside.  How beautiful they are! \nhe said, simply, showing his little nosegay to me.  And how few people\nin England seem to admire them as they deserve! \n\n You have not always been in England?  I said.\n\n No. I was born, and partly brought up, in one of our colonies. My\nfather was an Englishman; but my mother We are straying away from our\nsubject, Mr. Blake; and it is my fault. The truth is, I have\nassociations with these modest little hedgeside flowers It doesn t\nmatter; we were speaking of Mr. Candy. To Mr. Candy let us return. \n\nConnecting the few words about himself which thus reluctantly escaped\nhim, with the melancholy view of life which led him to place the\nconditions of human happiness in complete oblivion of the past, I felt\nsatisfied that the story which I had read in his face was, in two\nparticulars at least, the story that it really told. He had suffered as\nfew men suffer; and there was the mixture of some foreign race in his\nEnglish blood.\n\n You have heard, I dare say, of the original cause of Mr. Candy s\nillness?  he resumed.  The night of Lady Verinder s dinner-party was a\nnight of heavy rain. My employer drove home through it in his gig, and\nreached the house wetted to the skin. He found an urgent message from a\npatient, waiting for him; and he most unfortunately went at once to\nvisit the sick person, without stopping to change his clothes. I was\nmyself professionally detained, that night, by a case at some distance\nfrom Frizinghall. When I got back the next morning, I found Mr. Candy s\ngroom waiting in great alarm to take me to his master s room. By that\ntime the mischief was done; the illness had set in. \n\n The illness has only been described to me, in general terms, as a\nfever,  I said.\n\n I can add nothing which will make the description more accurate, \nanswered Ezra Jennings.  From first to last the fever assumed no\nspecific form. I sent at once to two of Mr. Candy s medical friends in\nthe town, both physicians, to come and give me their opinion of the\ncase. They agreed with me that it looked serious; but they both\nstrongly dissented from the view I took of the treatment. We differed\nentirely in the conclusions which we drew from the patient s pulse. The\ntwo doctors, arguing from the rapidity of the beat, declared that a\nlowering treatment was the only treatment to be adopted. On my side, I\nadmitted the rapidity of the pulse, but I also pointed to its alarming\nfeebleness as indicating an exhausted condition of the system, and as\nshowing a plain necessity for the administration of stimulants. The two\ndoctors were for keeping him on gruel, lemonade, barley-water, and so\non. I was for giving him champagne, or brandy, ammonia, and quinine. A\nserious difference of opinion, as you see! A difference between two\nphysicians of established local repute, and a stranger who was only an\nassistant in the house. For the first few days, I had no choice but to\ngive way to my elders and betters; the patient steadily sinking all the\ntime. I made a second attempt to appeal to the plain, undeniably plain,\nevidence of the pulse. Its rapidity was unchecked, and its feebleness\nhad increased. The two doctors took offence at my obstinacy. They said,\n Mr. Jennings, either we manage this case, or you manage it. Which is\nit to be?  I said,  Gentlemen, give me five minutes to consider, and\nthat plain question shall have a plain reply.  When the time expired, I\nwas ready with my answer. I said,  You positively refuse to try the\nstimulant treatment?  They refused in so many words.  I mean to try it\nat once, gentlemen. Try it, Mr. Jennings, and we withdraw from the\ncase.  I sent down to the cellar for a bottle of champagne; and I\nadministered half a tumbler-full of it to the patient with my own hand.\nThe two physicians took up their hats in silence, and left the house. \n\n You had assumed a serious responsibility,  I said.  In your place, I\nam afraid I should have shrunk from it. \n\n In my place, Mr. Blake, you would have remembered that Mr. Candy had\ntaken you into his employment, under circumstances which made you his\ndebtor for life. In my place, you would have seen him sinking, hour by\nhour; and you would have risked anything, rather than let the one man\non earth who had befriended you, die before your eyes. Don t suppose\nthat I had no sense of the terrible position in which I had placed\nmyself! There were moments when I felt all the misery of my\nfriendlessness, all the peril of my dreadful responsibility. If I had\nbeen a happy man, if I had led a prosperous life, I believe I should\nhave sunk under the task I had imposed on myself. But _I_ had no happy\ntime to look back at, no past peace of mind to force itself into\ncontrast with my present anxiety and suspense and I held firm to my\nresolution through it all. I took an interval in the middle of the day,\nwhen my patient s condition was at its best, for the repose I needed.\nFor the rest of the four-and-twenty hours, as long as his life was in\ndanger, I never left his bedside. Towards sunset, as usual in such\ncases, the delirium incidental to the fever came on. It lasted more or\nless through the night; and then intermitted, at that terrible time in\nthe early morning from two o clock to five when the vital energies even\nof the healthiest of us are at their lowest. It is then that Death\ngathers in his human harvest most abundantly. It was then that Death\nand I fought our fight over the bed, which should have the man who lay\non it. I never hesitated in pursuing the treatment on which I had\nstaked everything. When wine failed, I tried brandy. When the other\nstimulants lost their influence, I doubled the dose. After an interval\nof suspense the like of which I hope to God I shall never feel\nagain there came a day when the rapidity of the pulse slightly, but\nappreciably, diminished; and, better still, there came also a change in\nthe beat an unmistakable change to steadiness and strength. _Then_, I\nknew that I had saved him; and then I own I broke down. I laid the poor\nfellow s wasted hand back on the bed, and burst out crying. An\nhysterical relief, Mr. Blake nothing more! Physiology says, and says\ntruly, that some men are born with female constitutions and I am one of\nthem! \n\nHe made that bitterly professional apology for his tears, speaking\nquietly and unaffectedly, as he had spoken throughout. His tone and\nmanner, from beginning to end, showed him to be especially, almost\nmorbidly, anxious not to set himself up as an object of interest to me.\n\n You may well ask, why I have wearied you with all these details?  he\nwent on.  It is the only way I can see, Mr. Blake, of properly\nintroducing to you what I have to say next. Now you know exactly what\nmy position was, at the time of Mr. Candy s illness, you will the more\nreadily understand the sore need I had of lightening the burden on my\nmind by giving it, at intervals, some sort of relief. I have had the\npresumption to occupy my leisure, for some years past, in writing a\nbook, addressed to the members of my profession a book on the intricate\nand delicate subject of the brain and the nervous system. My work will\nprobably never be finished; and it will certainly never be published.\nIt has none the less been the friend of many lonely hours; and it\nhelped me to while away the anxious time the time of waiting, and\nnothing else at Mr. Candy s bedside. I told you he was delirious, I\nthink? And I mentioned the time at which his delirium came on? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, I had reached a section of my book, at that time, which touched\non this same question of delirium. I won t trouble you at any length\nwith my theory on the subject I will confine myself to telling you only\nwhat it is your present interest to know. It has often occurred to me\nin the course of my medical practice, to doubt whether we can\njustifiably infer in cases of delirium that the loss of the faculty of\nspeaking connectedly, implies of necessity the loss of the faculty of\nthinking connectedly as well. Poor Mr. Candy s illness gave me an\nopportunity of putting this doubt to the test. I understand the art of\nwriting in shorthand; and I was able to take down the patient s\n wanderings , exactly as they fell from his lips. Do you see, Mr.\nBlake, what I am coming to at last? \n\nI saw it clearly, and waited with breathless interest to hear more.\n\n At odds and ends of time,  Ezra Jennings went on,  I reproduced my\nshorthand notes, in the ordinary form of writing leaving large spaces\nbetween the broken phrases, and even the single words, as they had\nfallen disconnectedly from Mr. Candy s lips. I then treated the result\nthus obtained, on something like the principle which one adopts in\nputting together a child s  puzzle.  It is all confusion to begin with;\nbut it may be all brought into order and shape, if you can only find\nthe right way. Acting on this plan, I filled in each blank space on the\npaper, with what the words or phrases on either side of it suggested to\nme as the speaker s meaning; altering over and over again, until my\nadditions followed naturally on the spoken words which came before\nthem, and fitted naturally into the spoken words which came after them.\nThe result was, that I not only occupied in this way many vacant and\nanxious hours, but that I arrived at something which was (as it seemed\nto me) a confirmation of the theory that I held. In plainer words,\nafter putting the broken sentences together I found the superior\nfaculty of thinking going on, more or less connectedly, in my patient s\nmind, while the inferior faculty of expression was in a state of almost\ncomplete incapacity and confusion. \n\n One word!  I interposed eagerly.  Did my name occur in any of his\nwanderings? \n\n You shall hear, Mr. Blake. Among my written proofs of the assertion\nwhich I have just advanced or, I ought to say, among the written\nexperiments, tending to put my assertion to the proof there _is_ one,\nin which your name occurs. For nearly the whole of one night, Mr.\nCandy s mind was occupied with _something_ between himself and you. I\nhave got the broken words, as they dropped from his lips, on one sheet\nof paper. And I have got the links of my own discovering which connect\nthose words together, on another sheet of paper. The product (as the\narithmeticians would say) is an intelligible statement first, of\nsomething actually done in the past; secondly, of something which Mr.\nCandy contemplated doing in the future, if his illness had not got in\nthe way, and stopped him. The question is whether this does, or does\nnot, represent the lost recollection which he vainly attempted to find\nwhen you called on him this morning? \n\n Not a doubt of it!  I answered.  Let us go back directly, and look at\nthe papers! \n\n Quite impossible, Mr. Blake. \n\n Why? \n\n Put yourself in my position for a moment,  said Ezra Jennings.  Would\n_you_ disclose to another person what had dropped unconsciously from\nthe lips of your suffering patient and your helpless friend, without\nfirst knowing that there was a necessity to justify you in opening your\nlips? \n\nI felt that he was unanswerable, here; but I tried to argue the\nquestion, nevertheless.\n\n My conduct in such a delicate matter as you describe,  I replied,\n would depend greatly on whether the disclosure was of a nature to\ncompromise my friend or not. \n\n I have disposed of all necessity for considering that side of the\nquestion, long since,  said Ezra Jennings.  Wherever my notes included\nanything which Mr. Candy might have wished to keep secret, those notes\nhave been destroyed. My manuscript experiments at my friend s bedside,\ninclude nothing, now, which he would have hesitated to communicate to\nothers, if he had recovered the use of his memory. In your case, I have\nevery reason to suppose that my notes contain something which he\nactually wished to say to you. \n\n And yet, you hesitate? \n\n And yet, I hesitate. Remember the circumstances under which I obtained\nthe information which I possess! Harmless as it is, I cannot prevail\nupon myself to give it up to you, unless you first satisfy me that\nthere is a reason for doing so. He was so miserably ill, Mr. Blake! and\nhe was so helplessly dependent upon Me! Is it too much to ask, if I\nrequest you only to hint to me what your interest is in the lost\nrecollection or what you believe that lost recollection to be? \n\nTo have answered him with the frankness which his language and his\nmanner both claimed from me, would have been to commit myself to openly\nacknowledging that I was suspected of the theft of the Diamond.\nStrongly as Ezra Jennings had intensified the first impulsive interest\nwhich I had felt in him, he had not overcome my unconquerable\nreluctance to disclose the degrading position in which I stood. I took\nrefuge once more in the explanatory phrases with which I had prepared\nmyself to meet the curiosity of strangers.\n\nThis time I had no reason to complain of a want of attention on the\npart of the person to whom I addressed myself. Ezra Jennings listened\npatiently, even anxiously, until I had done.\n\n I am sorry to have raised your expectations, Mr. Blake, only to\ndisappoint them,  he said.  Throughout the whole period of Mr. Candy s\nillness, from first to last, not one word about the Diamond escaped his\nlips. The matter with which I heard him connect your name has, I can\nassure you, no discoverable relation whatever with the loss or the\nrecovery of Miss Verinder s jewel. \n\nWe arrived, as he said those words, at a place where the highway along\nwhich we had been walking branched off into two roads. One led to Mr.\nAblewhite s house, and the other to a moorland village some two or\nthree miles off. Ezra Jennings stopped at the road which led to the\nvillage.\n\n My way lies in this direction,  he said.  I am really and truly sorry,\nMr. Blake, that I can be of no use to you. \n\nHis voice told me that he spoke sincerely. His soft brown eyes rested\non me for a moment with a look of melancholy interest. He bowed, and\nwent, without another word, on his way to the village.\n\nFor a minute or more I stood and watched him, walking farther and\nfarther away from me; carrying farther and farther away with him what I\nnow firmly believed to be the clue of which I was in search. He turned,\nafter walking on a little way, and looked back. Seeing me still\nstanding at the place where we had parted, he stopped, as if doubting\nwhether I might not wish to speak to him again. There was no time for\nme to reason out my own situation to remind myself that I was losing my\nopportunity, at what might be the turning point of my life, and all to\nflatter nothing more important than my own self-esteem! There was only\ntime to call him back first, and to think afterwards. I suspect I am\none of the rashest of existing men. I called him back and then I said\nto myself,  Now there is no help for it. I must tell him the truth! \n\nHe retraced his steps directly. I advanced along the road to meet him.\n\n Mr. Jennings,  I said.  I have not treated you quite fairly. My\ninterest in tracing Mr. Candy s lost recollection is not the interest\nof recovering the Moonstone. A serious personal matter is at the bottom\nof my visit to Yorkshire. I have but one excuse for not having dealt\nfrankly with you in this matter. It is more painful to me than I can\nsay, to mention to anybody what my position really is. \n\nEzra Jennings looked at me with the first appearance of embarrassment\nwhich I had seen in him yet.\n\n I have no right, Mr. Blake, and no wish,  he said,  to intrude myself\ninto your private affairs. Allow me to ask your pardon, on my side, for\nhaving (most innocently) put you to a painful test. \n\n You have a perfect right,  I rejoined,  to fix the terms on which you\nfeel justified in revealing what you heard at Mr. Candy s bedside. I\nunderstand and respect the delicacy which influences you in this\nmatter. How can I expect to be taken into your confidence if I decline\nto admit you into mine? You ought to know, and you shall know, why I am\ninterested in discovering what Mr. Candy wanted to say to me. If I turn\nout to be mistaken in my anticipations, and if you prove unable to help\nme when you are really aware of what I want, I shall trust to your\nhonour to keep my secret and something tells me that I shall not trust\nin vain. \n\n Stop, Mr. Blake. I have a word to say, which must be said before you\ngo any farther. \n\nI looked at him in astonishment. The grip of some terrible emotion\nseemed to have seized him, and shaken him to the soul. His gipsy\ncomplexion had altered to a livid greyish paleness; his eyes had\nsuddenly become wild and glittering; his voice had dropped to a\ntone low, stern, and resolute which I now heard for the first time. The\nlatent resources in the man, for good or for evil it was hard, at that\nmoment, to say which leapt up in him and showed themselves to me, with\nthe suddenness of a flash of light.\n\n Before you place any confidence in me,  he went on,  you ought to\nknow, and you _must_ know, under what circumstances I have been\nreceived into Mr. Candy s house. It won t take long. I don t profess,\nsir, to tell my story (as the phrase is) to any man. My story will die\nwith me. All I ask, is to be permitted to tell you, what I have told\nMr. Candy. If you are still in the mind, when you have heard that, to\nsay what you have proposed to say, you will command my attention and\ncommand my services. Shall we walk on? \n\nThe suppressed misery in his face silenced me. I answered his question\nby a sign. We walked on.\n\nAfter advancing a few hundred yards, Ezra Jennings stopped at a gap in\nthe rough stone wall which shut off the moor from the road, at this\npart of it.\n\n Do you mind resting a little, Mr. Blake?  he asked.  I am not what I\nwas and some things shake me. \n\nI agreed of course. He led the way through the gap to a patch of turf\non the heathy ground, screened by bushes and dwarf trees on the side\nnearest to the road, and commanding in the opposite direction a grandly\ndesolate view over the broad brown wilderness of the moor. The clouds\nhad gathered, within the last half hour. The light was dull; the\ndistance was dim. The lovely face of Nature met us, soft and still\ncolourless met us without a smile.\n\nWe sat down in silence. Ezra Jennings laid aside his hat, and passed\nhis hand wearily over his forehead, wearily through his startling white\nand black hair. He tossed his little nosegay of wild flowers away from\nhim, as if the remembrances which it recalled were remembrances which\nhurt him now.\n\n Mr. Blake!  he said, suddenly.  You are in bad company. The cloud of a\nhorrible accusation has rested on me for years. I tell you the worst at\nonce. I am a man whose life is a wreck, and whose character is gone. \n\nI attempted to speak. He stopped me.\n\n No,  he said.  Pardon me; not yet. Don t commit yourself to\nexpressions of sympathy which you may afterwards wish to recall. I have\nmentioned an accusation which has rested on me for years. There are\ncircumstances in connexion with it that tell against me. I cannot bring\nmyself to acknowledge what the accusation is. And I am incapable,\nperfectly incapable, of proving my innocence. I can only assert my\ninnocence. I assert it, sir, on my oath, as a Christian. It is useless\nto appeal to my honour as a man. \n\nHe paused again. I looked round at him. He never looked at me in\nreturn. His whole being seemed to be absorbed in the agony of\nrecollecting, and in the effort to speak.\n\n There is much that I might say,  he went on,  about the merciless\ntreatment of me by my own family, and the merciless enmity to which I\nhave fallen a victim. But the harm is done; the wrong is beyond all\nremedy. I decline to weary or distress you, sir, if I can help it. At\nthe outset of my career in this country, the vile slander to which I\nhave referred struck me down at once and for ever. I resigned my\naspirations in my profession obscurity was the only hope left for me. I\nparted with the woman I loved how could I condemn her to share my\ndisgrace? A medical assistant s place offered itself, in a remote\ncorner of England. I got the place. It promised me peace; it promised\nme obscurity, as I thought. I was wrong. Evil report, with time and\nchance to help it, travels patiently, and travels far. The accusation\nfrom which I had fled followed me. I got warning of its approach. I was\nable to leave my situation voluntarily, with the testimonials that I\nhad earned. They got me another situation in another remote district.\nTime passed again; and again the slander that was death to my character\nfound me out. On this occasion I had no warning. My employer said,  Mr.\nJennings, I have no complaint to make against you; but you must set\nyourself right, or leave me.  I had but one choice I left him. It s\nuseless to dwell on what I suffered after that. I am only forty years\nold now. Look at my face, and let it tell for me the story of some\nmiserable years. It ended in my drifting to this place, and meeting\nwith Mr. Candy. He wanted an assistant. I referred him, on the question\nof capacity, to my last employer. The question of character remained. I\ntold him what I have told you and more. I warned him that there were\ndifficulties in the way, even if he believed me.  Here, as elsewhere, \nI said  I scorn the guilty evasion of living under an assumed name: I\nam no safer at Frizinghall than at other places from the cloud that\nfollows me, go where I may.  He answered,  I don t do things by\nhalves I believe you, and I pity you. If _you_ will risk what may\nhappen, _I_ will risk it too.  God Almighty bless him! He has given me\nshelter, he has given me employment, he has given me rest of mind and I\nhave the certain conviction (I have had it for some months past) that\nnothing will happen now to make him regret it. \n\n The slander has died out?  I said.\n\n The slander is as active as ever. But when it follows me here, it will\ncome too late. \n\n You will have left the place? \n\n No, Mr. Blake I shall be dead. For ten years past I have suffered from\nan incurable internal complaint. I don t disguise from you that I\nshould have let the agony of it kill me long since, but for one last\ninterest in life, which makes my existence of some importance to me\nstill. I want to provide for a person very dear to me whom I shall\nnever see again. My own little patrimony is hardly sufficient to make\nher independent of the world. The hope, if I could only live long\nenough, of increasing it to a certain sum, has impelled me to resist\nthe disease by such palliative means as I could devise. The one\neffectual palliative in my case, is opium. To that all-potent and\nall-merciful drug I am indebted for a respite of many years from my\nsentence of death. But even the virtues of opium have their limit. The\nprogress of the disease has gradually forced me from the use of opium\nto the abuse of it. I am feeling the penalty at last. My nervous system\nis shattered; my nights are nights of horror. The end is not far off\nnow. Let it come I have not lived and worked in vain. The little sum is\nnearly made up; and I have the means of completing it, if my last\nreserves of life fail me sooner than I expect. I hardly know how I have\nwandered into telling you this. I don t think I am mean enough to\nappeal to your pity. Perhaps, I fancy you may be all the readier to\nbelieve me, if you know that what I have said to you, I have said with\nthe certain knowledge in me that I am a dying man. There is no\ndisguising, Mr. Blake, that you interest me. I have attempted to make\nmy poor friend s loss of memory the means of bettering my acquaintance\nwith you. I have speculated on the chance of your feeling a passing\ncuriosity about what he wanted to say, and of my being able to satisfy\nit. Is there no excuse for my intruding myself on you? Perhaps there is\nsome excuse. A man who has lived as I have lived has his bitter moments\nwhen he ponders over human destiny. You have youth, health, riches, a\nplace in the world, a prospect before you. You, and such as you, show\nme the sunny side of human life, and reconcile me with the world that I\nam leaving, before I go. However this talk between us may end, I shall\nnot forget that you have done me a kindness in doing that. It rests\nwith you, sir, to say what you proposed saying, or to wish me good\nmorning. \n\nI had but one answer to make to that appeal. Without a moment s\nhesitation I told him the truth, as unreservedly as I have told it in\nthese pages.\n\nHe started to his feet, and looked at me with breathless eagerness as I\napproached the leading incident of my story.\n\n It is certain that I went into the room,  I said;  it is certain that\nI took the Diamond. I can only meet those two plain facts by declaring\nthat, do what I might, I did it without my own knowledge \n\nEzra Jennings caught me excitedly by the arm.\n\n Stop!  he said.  You have suggested more to me than you suppose. Have\n_you_ ever been accustomed to the use of opium? \n\n I never tasted it in my life. \n\n Were your nerves out of order, at this time last year? Were you\nunusually restless and irritable? \n\n Yes. \n\n Did you sleep badly? \n\n Wretchedly. Many nights I never slept at all. \n\n Was the birthday night an exception? Try, and remember. Did you sleep\nwell on that one occasion? \n\n I do remember! I slept soundly. \n\nHe dropped my arm as suddenly as he had taken it and looked at me with\nthe air of a man whose mind was relieved of the last doubt that rested\non it.\n\n This is a marked day in your life, and in mine,  he said, gravely.  I\nam absolutely certain, Mr. Blake, of one thing I have got what Mr.\nCandy wanted to say to you this morning, in the notes that I took at my\npatient s bedside. Wait! that is not all. I am firmly persuaded that I\ncan prove you to have been unconscious of what you were about, when you\nentered the room and took the Diamond. Give me time to think, and time\nto question you. I believe the vindication of your innocence is in my\nhands! \n\n Explain yourself, for God s sake! What do you mean? \n\nIn the excitement of our colloquy, we had walked on a few steps, beyond\nthe clump of dwarf trees which had hitherto screened us from view.\nBefore Ezra Jennings could answer me, he was hailed from the high road\nby a man, in great agitation, who had been evidently on the look-out\nfor him.\n\n I am coming,  he called back;  I am coming as fast as I can!  He\nturned to me.  There is an urgent case waiting for me at the village\nyonder; I ought to have been there half an hour since I must attend to\nit at once. Give me two hours from this time, and call at Mr. Candy s\nagain and I will engage to be ready for you. \n\n How am I to wait!  I exclaimed, impatiently.  Can t you quiet my mind\nby a word of explanation before we part? \n\n This is far too serious a matter to be explained in a hurry, Mr.\nBlake. I am not wilfully trying your patience I should only be adding\nto your suspense, if I attempted to relieve it as things are now. At\nFrizinghall, sir, in two hours  time! \n\nThe man on the high road hailed him again. He hurried away, and left\nme.\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nHow the interval of suspense in which I was now condemned might have\naffected other men in my position, I cannot pretend to say. The\ninfluence of the two hours  probation upon _my_ temperament was simply\nthis. I felt physically incapable of remaining still in any one place,\nand morally incapable of speaking to any one human being, until I had\nfirst heard all that Ezra Jennings had to say to me.\n\nIn this frame of mind, I not only abandoned my contemplated visit to\nMrs. Ablewhite I even shrank from encountering Gabriel Betteredge\nhimself.\n\nReturning to Frizinghall, I left a note for Betteredge, telling him\nthat I had been unexpectedly called away for a few hours, but that he\nmight certainly expect me to return towards three o clock in the\nafternoon. I requested him, in the interval, to order his dinner at the\nusual hour, and to amuse himself as he pleased. He had, as I well knew,\nhosts of friends in Frizinghall; and he would be at no loss how to fill\nup his time until I returned to the hotel.\n\nThis done, I made the best of my way out of the town again, and roamed\nthe lonely moorland country which surrounds Frizinghall, until my watch\ntold me that it was time, at last, to return to Mr. Candy s house.\n\nI found Ezra Jennings ready and waiting for me.\n\nHe was sitting alone in a bare little room, which communicated by a\nglazed door with a surgery. Hideous coloured diagrams of the ravages of\nhideous diseases decorated the barren buff-coloured walls. A bookcase\nfilled with dingy medical works, and ornamented at the top with a\nskull, in place of the customary bust; a large deal table copiously\nsplashed with ink; wooden chairs of the sort that are seen in kitchens\nand cottages; a threadbare drugget in the middle of the floor; a sink\nof water, with a basin and waste-pipe roughly let into the wall,\nhorribly suggestive of its connection with surgical\noperations comprised the entire furniture of the room. The bees were\nhumming among a few flowers placed in pots outside the window; the\nbirds were singing in the garden, and the faint intermittent jingle of\na tuneless piano in some neighbouring house forced itself now and again\non the ear. In any other place, these everyday sounds might have spoken\npleasantly of the everyday world outside. Here, they came in as\nintruders on a silence which nothing but human suffering had the\nprivilege to disturb. I looked at the mahogany instrument case, and at\nthe huge roll of lint, occupying places of their own on the\nbookshelves, and shuddered inwardly as I thought of the sounds,\nfamiliar and appropriate to the everyday use of Ezra Jennings  room.\n\n I make no apology, Mr. Blake, for the place in which I am receiving\nyou,  he said.  It is the only room in the house, at this hour of the\nday, in which we can feel quite sure of being left undisturbed. Here\nare my papers ready for you; and here are two books to which we may\nhave occasion to refer, before we have done. Bring your chair to the\ntable, and we shall be able to consult them together. \n\nI drew up to the table; and Ezra Jennings handed me his manuscript\nnotes. They consisted of two large folio leaves of paper. One leaf\ncontained writing which only covered the surface at intervals. The\nother presented writing, in red and black ink, which completely filled\nthe page from top to bottom. In the irritated state of my curiosity, at\nthat moment, I laid aside the second sheet of paper in despair.\n\n Have some mercy on me!  I said.  Tell me what I am to expect, before I\nattempt to read this. \n\n Willingly, Mr. Blake! Do you mind my asking you one or two more\nquestions? \n\n Ask me anything you like! \n\nHe looked at me with the sad smile on his lips, and the kindly interest\nin his soft brown eyes.\n\n You have already told me,  he said,  that you have never to your\nknowledge tasted opium in your life. \n\n To my knowledge,  I repeated.\n\n You will understand directly why I speak with that reservation. Let us\ngo on. You are not aware of ever having taken opium. At this time, last\nyear, you were suffering from nervous irritation, and you slept\nwretchedly at night. On the night of the birthday, however, there was\nan exception to the rule you slept soundly. Am I right, so far? \n\n Quite right! \n\n Can you assign any cause for the nervous suffering, and your want of\nsleep? \n\n I can assign no cause. Old Betteredge made a guess at the cause, I\nremember. But that is hardly worth mentioning. \n\n Pardon me. Anything is worth mentioning in such a case as this.\nBetteredge attributed your sleeplessness to something. To what? \n\n To my leaving off smoking. \n\n Had you been an habitual smoker? \n\n Yes. \n\n Did you leave off the habit suddenly? \n\n Yes. \n\n Betteredge was perfectly right, Mr. Blake. When smoking is a habit a\nman must have no common constitution who can leave it off suddenly\nwithout some temporary damage to his nervous system. Your sleepless\nnights are accounted for, to my mind. My next question refers to Mr.\nCandy. Do you remember having entered into anything like a dispute with\nhim at the birthday dinner, or afterwards on the subject of his\nprofession? \n\nThe question instantly awakened one of my dormant remembrances in\nconnection with the birthday festival. The foolish wrangle which took\nplace, on that occasion, between Mr. Candy and myself, will be found\ndescribed at much greater length than it deserves in the tenth chapter\nof Betteredge s Narrative. The details there presented of the\ndispute so little had I thought of it afterwards entirely failed to\nrecur to my memory. All that I could now recall, and all that I could\ntell Ezra Jennings was, that I had attacked the art of medicine at the\ndinner-table with sufficient rashness and sufficient pertinacity to put\neven Mr. Candy out of temper for the moment. I also remembered that\nLady Verinder had interfered to stop the dispute, and that the little\ndoctor and I had  made it up again,  as the children say, and had\nbecome as good friends as ever, before we shook hands that night.\n\n There is one thing more,  said Ezra Jennings,  which it is very\nimportant I should know. Had you any reason for feeling any special\nanxiety about the Diamond, at this time last year? \n\n I had the strongest reasons for feeling anxiety about the Diamond. I\nknew it to be the object of a conspiracy; and I was warned to take\nmeasures for Miss Verinder s protection, as the possessor of the\nstone. \n\n Was the safety of the Diamond the subject of conversation between you\nand any other person, immediately before you retired to rest on the\nbirthday night? \n\n It was the subject of a conversation between Lady Verinder and her\ndaughter \n\n Which took place in your hearing? \n\n Yes. \n\nEzra Jennings took up his notes from the table, and placed them in my\nhands.\n\n Mr. Blake,  he said,  if you read those notes now, by the light which\nmy questions and your answers have thrown on them, you will make two\nastounding discoveries concerning yourself. You will find: First, that\nyou entered Miss Verinder s sitting-room and took the Diamond, in a\nstate of trance, produced by opium. Secondly, that the opium was given\nto you by Mr. Candy without your own knowledge as a practical\nrefutation of the opinions which you had expressed to him at the\nbirthday dinner. \n\nI sat with the papers in my hand completely stupefied.\n\n Try and forgive poor Mr. Candy,  said the assistant gently.  He has\ndone dreadful mischief, I own; but he has done it innocently. If you\nwill look at the notes, you will see that but for his illness he would\nhave returned to Lady Verinder s the morning after the party, and would\nhave acknowledged the trick that he had played you. Miss Verinder would\nhave heard of it, and Miss Verinder would have questioned him and the\ntruth which has laid hidden for a year would have been discovered in a\nday. \n\nI began to regain my self-possession.  Mr. Candy is beyond the reach of\nmy resentment,  I said angrily.  But the trick that he played me is not\nthe less an act of treachery, for all that. I may forgive, but I shall\nnot forget it. \n\n Every medical man commits that act of treachery, Mr. Blake, in the\ncourse of his practice. The ignorant distrust of opium (in England) is\nby no means confined to the lower and less cultivated classes. Every\ndoctor in large practice finds himself, every now and then, obliged to\ndeceive his patients, as Mr. Candy deceived you. I don t defend the\nfolly of playing you a trick under the circumstances. I only plead with\nyou for a more accurate and more merciful construction of motives. \n\n How was it done?  I asked.  Who gave me the laudanum, without my\nknowing it myself? \n\n I am not able to tell you. Nothing relating to that part of the matter\ndropped from Mr. Candy s lips, all through his illness. Perhaps your\nown memory may point to the person to be suspected. \n\n No. \n\n It is useless, in that case, to pursue the inquiry. The laudanum was\nsecretly given to you in some way. Let us leave it there, and go on to\nmatters of more immediate importance. Read my notes, if you can.\nFamiliarise your mind with what has happened in the past. I have\nsomething very bold and very startling to propose to you, which relates\nto the future. \n\nThose last words roused me.\n\nI looked at the papers, in the order in which Ezra Jennings had placed\nthem in my hands. The paper which contained the smaller quantity of\nwriting was the uppermost of the two. On this, the disconnected words,\nand fragments of sentences, which had dropped from Mr. Candy in his\ndelirium, appeared as follows:\n\n ... Mr. Franklin Blake ... and agreeable ... down a peg ... medicine\n... confesses ... sleep at night ... tell him ... out of order ...\nmedicine ... he tells me ... and groping in the dark mean one and the\nsame thing ... all the company at the dinner-table ... I say ...\ngroping after sleep ... nothing but medicine ... he says ... leading\nthe blind ... know what it means ... witty ... a night s rest in spite\nof his teeth ... wants sleep ... Lady Verinder s medicine chest ...\nfive-and-twenty minims ... without his knowing it ... tomorrow morning\n... Well, Mr. Blake ... medicine today ... never ... without it ...\nout, Mr. Candy ... excellent ... without it ... down on him ... truth\n... something besides ... excellent ... dose of laudanum, sir ... bed\n... what ... medicine now. \n\nThere, the first of the two sheets of paper came to an end. I handed it\nback to Ezra Jennings.\n\n That is what you heard at his bedside?  I said.\n\n Literally and exactly what I heard,  he answered except that the\nrepetitions are not transferred here from my short-hand notes. He\nreiterated certain words and phrases a dozen times over, fifty times\nover, just as he attached more or less importance to the idea which\nthey represented. The repetitions, in this sense, were of some\nassistance to me in putting together those fragments. Don t suppose, \nhe added, pointing to the second sheet of paper,  that I claim to have\nreproduced the expressions which Mr. Candy himself would have used if\nhe had been capable of speaking connectedly. I only say that I have\npenetrated through the obstacle of the disconnected expression, to the\nthought which was underlying it connectedly all the time. Judge for\nyourself. \n\nI turned to the second sheet of paper, which I now knew to be the key\nto the first.\n\nOnce more, Mr. Candy s wanderings appeared, copied in black ink; the\nintervals between the phrases being filled up by Ezra Jennings in red\nink. I reproduce the result here, in one plain form; the original\nlanguage and the interpretation of it coming close enough together in\nthese pages to be easily compared and verified.\n\n ... Mr. Franklin Blake is clever and agreeable, but he wants taking\ndown a peg when he talks of medicine. He confesses that he has been\nsuffering from want of sleep at night. I tell him that his nerves are\nout of order, and that he ought to take medicine. He tells me that\ntaking medicine and groping in the dark mean one and the same thing.\nThis before all the company at the dinner-table. I say to him, you are\ngroping after sleep, and nothing but medicine can help you to find it.\nHe says to me, I have heard of the blind leading the blind, and now I\nknow what it means. Witty but I can give him a night s rest in spite of\nhis teeth. He really wants sleep; and Lady Verinder s medicine chest is\nat my disposal. Give him five-and-twenty minims of laudanum tonight,\nwithout his knowing it; and then call tomorrow morning.  Well, Mr.\nBlake, will you try a little medicine today? You will never sleep\nwithout it. There you are out, Mr. Candy: I have had an excellent\nnight s rest without it.  Then, come down on him with the truth!  You\nhave had something besides an excellent night s rest; you had a dose of\nlaudanum, sir, before you went to bed. What do you say to the art of\nmedicine, now? \n\nAdmiration of the ingenuity which had woven this smooth and finished\ntexture out of the ravelled skein was naturally the first impression\nthat I felt, on handing the manuscript back to Ezra Jennings. He\nmodestly interrupted the first few words in which my sense of surprise\nexpressed itself, by asking me if the conclusion which he had drawn\nfrom his notes was also the conclusion at which my own mind had\narrived.\n\n Do you believe as I believe,  he said,  that you were acting under the\ninfluence of the laudanum in doing all that you did, on the night of\nMiss Verinder s birthday, in Lady Verinder s house? \n\n I am too ignorant of the influence of laudanum to have an opinion of\nmy own,  I answered.  I can only follow your opinion, and feel\nconvinced that you are right. \n\n Very well. The next question is this. You are convinced; and I am\nconvinced how are we to carry our conviction to the minds of other\npeople? \n\nI pointed to the two manuscripts, lying on the table between us. Ezra\nJennings shook his head.\n\n Useless, Mr. Blake! Quite useless, as they stand now for three\nunanswerable reasons. In the first place, those notes have been taken\nunder circumstances entirely out of the experience of the mass of\nmankind. Against them, to begin with! In the second place, those notes\nrepresent a medical and metaphysical theory. Against them, once more!\nIn the third place, those notes are of _my_ making; there is nothing\nbut _my_ assertion to the contrary, to guarantee that they are not\nfabrications. Remember what I told you on the moor and ask yourself\nwhat my assertion is worth. No! my notes have but one value, looking to\nthe verdict of the world outside. Your innocence is to be vindicated;\nand they show how it can be done. We must put our conviction to the\nproof and You are the man to prove it! \n\n How?  I asked.\n\nHe leaned eagerly nearer to me across the table that divided us.\n\n Are you willing to try a bold experiment? \n\n I will do anything to clear myself of the suspicion that rests on me\nnow. \n\n Will you submit to some personal inconvenience for a time? \n\n To any inconvenience, no matter what it may be. \n\n Will you be guided implicitly by my advice? It may expose you to the\nridicule of fools; it may subject you to the remonstrances of friends\nwhose opinions you are bound to respect. \n\n Tell me what to do!  I broke out impatiently.  And, come what may,\nI ll do it. \n\n You shall do this, Mr. Blake,  he answered.  You shall steal the\nDiamond, unconsciously, for the second time, in the presence of\nwitnesses whose testimony is beyond dispute. \n\nI started to my feet. I tried to speak. I could only look at him.\n\n I believe it _can_ be done,  he went on.  And it _shall_ be done if\nyou will only help me. Try to compose yourself sit down, and hear what\nI have to say to you. You have resumed the habit of smoking; I have\nseen that for myself. How long have you resumed it. \n\n For nearly a year. \n\n Do you smoke more or less than you did? \n\n More. \n\n Will you give up the habit again? Suddenly, mind! as you gave it up\nbefore. \n\nI began dimly to see his drift.  I will give it up, from this moment, \nI answered.\n\n If the same consequences follow, which followed last June,  said Ezra\nJennings if you suffer once more as you suffered then, from sleepless\nnights, we shall have gained our first step. We shall have put you back\nagain into something assimilating to your nervous condition on the\nbirthday night. If we can next revive, or nearly revive, the domestic\ncircumstances which surrounded you; and if we can occupy your mind\nagain with the various questions concerning the Diamond which formerly\nagitated it, we shall have replaced you, as nearly as possible in the\nsame position, physically and morally, in which the opium found you\nlast year. In that case we may fairly hope that a repetition of the\ndose will lead, in a greater or lesser degree, to a repetition of the\nresult. There is my proposal, expressed in a few hasty words. You shall\nnow see what reasons I have to justify me in making it. \n\nHe turned to one of the books at his side, and opened it at a place\nmarked by a small slip of paper.\n\n Don t suppose that I am going to weary you with a lecture on\nphysiology,  he said.  I think myself bound to prove, in justice to\nboth of us, that I am not asking you to try this experiment in\ndeference to any theory of my own devising. Admitted principles, and\nrecognised authorities, justify me in the view that I take. Give me\nfive minutes of your attention; and I will undertake to show you that\nScience sanctions my proposal, fanciful as it may seem. Here, in the\nfirst place, is the physiological principle on which I am acting,\nstated by no less a person than Dr. Carpenter. Read it for yourself. \n\nHe handed me the slip of paper which had marked the place in the book.\nIt contained a few lines of writing, as follows: \n\n There seems much ground for the belief, that _every_ sensory\nimpression which has once been recognised by the perceptive\nconsciousness, is registered (so to speak) in the brain, and may be\nreproduced at some subsequent time, although there may be no\nconsciousness of its existence in the mind during the whole\nintermediate period. \n\n Is that plain, so far?  asked Ezra Jennings.\n\n Perfectly plain. \n\nHe pushed the open book across the table to me, and pointed to a\npassage, marked by pencil lines.\n\n Now,  he said,  read that account of a case, which has as I believe a\ndirect bearing on your own position, and on the experiment which I am\ntempting you to try. Observe, Mr. Blake, before you begin, that I am\nnow referring you to one of the greatest of English physiologists. The\nbook in your hand is Doctor Elliotson s _Human Physiology_; and the\ncase which the doctor cites rests on the well-known authority of Mr.\nCombe. \n\nThe passage pointed out to me was expressed in these terms: \n\n Dr. Abel informed me,  says Mr. Combe,  of an Irish porter to a\nwarehouse, who forgot, when sober, what he had done when drunk; but,\nbeing drunk, again recollected the transactions of his former state of\nintoxication. On one occasion, being drunk, he had lost a parcel of\nsome value, and in his sober moments could give no account of it. Next\ntime he was intoxicated, he recollected that he had left the parcel at\na certain house, and there being no address on it, it had remained\nthere safely, and was got on his calling for it. \n\n Plain again?  asked Ezra Jennings.\n\n As plain as need be. \n\nHe put back the slip of paper in its place, and closed the book.\n\n Are you satisfied that I have not spoken without good authority to\nsupport me?  he asked.  If not, I have only to go to those bookshelves,\nand you have only to read the passages which I can point out to you. \n\n I am quite satisfied,  I said,  without reading a word more. \n\n In that case, we may return to your own personal interest in this\nmatter. I am bound to tell you that there is something to be said\nagainst the experiment as well as for it. If we could, this year,\nexactly reproduce, in your case, the conditions as they existed last\nyear, it is physiologically certain that we should arrive at exactly\nthe same result. But this there is no denying it is simply impossible.\nWe can only hope to approximate to the conditions; and if we don t\nsucceed in getting you nearly enough back to what you were, this\nventure of ours will fail. If we do succeed and I am myself hopeful of\nsuccess you may at least so far repeat your proceedings on the birthday\nnight, as to satisfy any reasonable person that you are guiltless,\nmorally speaking, of the theft of the Diamond. I believe, Mr. Blake, I\nhave now stated the question, on both sides of it, as fairly as I can,\nwithin the limits that I have imposed on myself. If there is anything\nthat I have not made clear to you, tell me what it is and if I can\nenlighten you, I will. \n\n All that you have explained to me,  I said,  I understand perfectly.\nBut I own I am puzzled on one point, which you have not made clear to\nme yet. \n\n What is the point? \n\n I don t understand the effect of the laudanum on me. I don t\nunderstand my walking downstairs, and along corridors, and my opening\nand shutting the drawers of a cabinet, and my going back again to my\nown room. All these are active proceedings. I thought the influence of\nopium was first to stupefy you, and then to send you to sleep. \n\n The common error about opium, Mr. Blake! I am, at this moment,\nexerting my intelligence (such as it is) in your service, under the\ninfluence of a dose of laudanum, some ten times larger than the dose\nMr. Candy administered to you. But don t trust to my authority even on\na question which comes within my own personal experience. I anticipated\nthe objection you have just made: and I have again provided myself with\nindependent testimony which will carry its due weight with it in your\nown mind, and in the minds of your friends. \n\nHe handed me the second of the two books which he had by him on the\ntable.\n\n There,  he said,  are the far-famed _Confessions of an English Opium\nEater_! Take the book away with you, and read it. At the passage which\nI have marked, you will find that when De Quincey had committed what he\ncalls  a debauch of opium,  he either went to the gallery at the Opera\nto enjoy the music, or he wandered about the London markets on Saturday\nnight, and interested himself in observing all the little shifts and\nbargainings of the poor in providing their Sunday s dinner. So much for\nthe capacity of a man to occupy himself actively, and to move about\nfrom place to place under the influence of opium. \n\n I am answered so far,  I said;  but I am not answered yet as to the\neffect produced by the opium on myself. \n\n I will try to answer you in a few words,  said Ezra Jennings.  The\naction of opium is comprised, in the majority of cases, in two\ninfluences a stimulating influence first, and a sedative influence\nafterwards. Under the stimulating influence, the latest and most vivid\nimpressions left on your mind namely, the impressions relating to the\nDiamond would be likely, in your morbidly sensitive nervous condition,\nto become intensified in your brain, and would subordinate to\nthemselves your judgment and your will exactly as an ordinary dream\nsubordinates to itself your judgment and your will. Little by little,\nunder this action, any apprehensions about the safety of the Diamond\nwhich you might have felt during the day would be liable to develop\nthemselves from the state of doubt to the state of certainty would\nimpel you into practical action to preserve the jewel would direct your\nsteps, with that motive in view, into the room which you entered and\nwould guide your hand to the drawers of the cabinet, until you had\nfound the drawer which held the stone. In the spiritualised\nintoxication of opium, you would do all that. Later, as the sedative\naction began to gain on the stimulant action, you would slowly become\ninert and stupefied. Later still you would fall into a deep sleep. When\nthe morning came, and the effect of the opium had been all slept off,\nyou would wake as absolutely ignorant of what you had done in the night\nas if you had been living at the Antipodes. Have I made it tolerably\nclear to you so far? \n\n You have made it so clear,  I said,  that I want you to go farther.\nYou have shown me how I entered the room, and how I came to take the\nDiamond. But Miss Verinder saw me leave the room again, with the jewel\nin my hand. Can you trace my proceedings from that moment? Can you\nguess what I did next? \n\n That is the very point I was coming to,  he rejoined.  It is a\nquestion with me whether the experiment which I propose as a means of\nvindicating your innocence, may not also be made a means of recovering\nthe lost Diamond as well. When you left Miss Verinder s sitting-room,\nwith the jewel in your hand, you went back in all probability to your\nown room \n\n Yes? and what then? \n\n It is possible, Mr. Blake I dare not say more that your idea of\npreserving the Diamond led, by a natural sequence, to the idea of\nhiding the Diamond, and that the place in which you hid it was\nsomewhere in your bedroom. In that event, the case of the Irish porter\nmay be your case. You may remember, under the influence of the second\ndose of opium, the place in which you hid the Diamond under the\ninfluence of the first. \n\nIt was my turn, now, to enlighten Ezra Jennings. I stopped him, before\nhe could say any more.\n\n You are speculating,  I said,  on a result which cannot possibly take\nplace. The Diamond is, at this moment, in London. \n\nHe started, and looked at me in great surprise.\n\n In London?  he repeated.  How did it get to London from Lady\nVerinder s house? \n\n Nobody knows. \n\n You removed it with your own hand from Miss Verinder s room. How was\nit taken out of your keeping? \n\n I have no idea how it was taken out of my keeping. \n\n Did you see it, when you woke in the morning? \n\n No. \n\n Has Miss Verinder recovered possession of it? \n\n No. \n\n Mr. Blake! there seems to be something here which wants clearing up.\nMay I ask how you know that the Diamond is, at this moment, in London? \n\nI had put precisely the same question to Mr. Bruff when I made my first\ninquiries about the Moonstone, on my return to England. In answering\nEzra Jennings, I accordingly repeated what I had myself heard from the\nlawyer s own lips and what is already familiar to the readers of these\npages.\n\nHe showed plainly that he was not satisfied with my reply.\n\n With all deference to you,  he said,  and with all deference to your\nlegal adviser, I maintain the opinion which I expressed just now. It\nrests, I am well aware, on a mere assumption. Pardon me for reminding\nyou, that your opinion also rests on a mere assumption as well. \n\nThe view he took of the matter was entirely new to me. I waited\nanxiously to hear how he would defend it.\n\n _I_ assume,  pursued Ezra Jennings,  that the influence of the\nopium after impelling you to possess yourself of the Diamond, with the\npurpose of securing its safety might also impel you, acting under the\nsame influence and the same motive, to hide it somewhere in your own\nroom. _You_ assume that the Hindoo conspirators could by no possibility\ncommit a mistake. The Indians went to Mr. Luker s house after the\nDiamond and, therefore, in Mr. Luker s possession the Diamond must be!\nHave you any evidence to prove that the Moonstone was taken to London\nat all? You can t even guess how, or by whom, it was removed from Lady\nVerinder s house! Have you any evidence that the jewel was pledged to\nMr. Luker? He declares that he never heard of the Moonstone; and his\nbankers  receipt acknowledges nothing but the deposit of a valuable of\ngreat price. The Indians assume that Mr. Luker is lying and you assume\nagain that the Indians are right. All I say, in differing with you,\nis that my view is possible. What more, Mr. Blake, either logically, or\nlegally, can be said for yours? \n\nIt was put strongly; but there was no denying that it was put truly as\nwell.\n\n I confess you stagger me,  I replied.  Do you object to my writing to\nMr. Bruff, and telling him what you have said? \n\n On the contrary, I shall be glad if you will write to Mr. Bruff. If we\nconsult his experience, we may see the matter under a new light. For\nthe present, let us return to our experiment with the opium. We have\ndecided that you leave off the habit of smoking from this moment. \n\n From this moment? \n\n That is the first step. The next step is to reproduce, as nearly as we\ncan, the domestic circumstances which surrounded you last year. \n\nHow was this to be done? Lady Verinder was dead. Rachel and I, so long\nas the suspicion of theft rested on me, were parted irrevocably.\nGodfrey Ablewhite was away travelling on the Continent. It was simply\nimpossible to reassemble the people who had inhabited the house, when I\nhad slept in it last. The statement of this objection did not appear to\nembarrass Ezra Jennings. He attached very little importance, he said,\nto reassembling the same people seeing that it would be vain to expect\nthem to reassume the various positions which they had occupied towards\nme in the past times. On the other hand, he considered it essential to\nthe success of the experiment, that I should see the same objects about\nme which had surrounded me when I was last in the house.\n\n Above all things,  he said,  you must sleep in the room which you\nslept in, on the birthday night, and it must be furnished in the same\nway. The stairs, the corridors, and Miss Verinder s sitting-room, must\nalso be restored to what they were when you saw them last. It is\nabsolutely necessary, Mr. Blake, to replace every article of furniture\nin that part of the house which may now be put away. The sacrifice of\nyour cigars will be useless, unless we can get Miss Verinder s\npermission to do that. \n\n Who is to apply to her for permission?  I asked.\n\n Is it not possible for _you_ to apply? \n\n Quite out of the question. After what has passed between us on the\nsubject of the lost Diamond, I can neither see her, nor write to her,\nas things are now. \n\nEzra Jennings paused, and considered for a moment.\n\n May I ask you a delicate question?  he said.\n\nI signed to him to go on.\n\n Am I right, Mr. Blake, in fancying (from one or two things which have\ndropped from you) that you felt no common interest in Miss Verinder, in\nformer times? \n\n Quite right. \n\n Was the feeling returned? \n\n It was. \n\n Do you think Miss Verinder would be likely to feel a strong interest\nin the attempt to prove your innocence? \n\n I am certain of it. \n\n In that case, _I_ will write to Miss Verinder if you will give me\nleave. \n\n Telling her of the proposal that you have made to me? \n\n Telling her of everything that has passed between us today. \n\nIt is needless to say that I eagerly accepted the service which he had\noffered to me.\n\n I shall have time to write by today s post,  he said, looking at his\nwatch.  Don t forget to lock up your cigars, when you get back to the\nhotel! I will call tomorrow morning and hear how you have passed the\nnight. \n\nI rose to take leave of him; and attempted to express the grateful\nsense of his kindness which I really felt.\n\nHe pressed my hand gently.  Remember what I told you on the moor,  he\nanswered.  If I can do you this little service, Mr. Blake, I shall feel\nit like a last gleam of sunshine, falling on the evening of a long and\nclouded day. \n\nWe parted. It was then the fifteenth of June. The events of the next\nten days everyone of them more or less directly connected with the\nexperiment of which I was the passive object are all placed on record,\nexactly as they happened, in the Journal habitually kept by Mr. Candy s\nassistant. In the pages of Ezra Jennings nothing is concealed, and\nnothing is forgotten. Let Ezra Jennings tell how the venture with the\nopium was tried, and how it ended.\n\n\nFOURTH NARRATIVE.\n\n_Extracted from the Journal of Ezra Jennings._\n\n\n1849. June 15.... With some interruption from patients, and some\ninterruption from pain, I finished my letter to Miss Verinder in time\nfor today s post. I failed to make it as short a letter as I could have\nwished. But I think I have made it plain. It leaves her entirely\nmistress of her own decision. If she consents to assist the experiment,\nshe consents of her own free will, and not as a favour to Mr. Franklin\nBlake or to me.\n\nJune 16th. Rose late, after a dreadful night; the vengeance of\nyesterday s opium, pursuing me through a series of frightful dreams. At\none time I was whirling through empty space with the phantoms of the\ndead, friends and enemies together. At another, the one beloved face\nwhich I shall never see again, rose at my bedside, hideously\nphosphorescent in the black darkness, and glared and grinned at me. A\nslight return of the old pain, at the usual time in the early morning,\nwas welcome as a change. It dispelled the visions and it was bearable\nbecause it did that.\n\nMy bad night made it late in the morning, before I could get to Mr.\nFranklin Blake. I found him stretched on the sofa, breakfasting on\nbrandy and soda water, and a dry biscuit.\n\n I am beginning, as well as you could possibly wish,  he said.  A\nmiserable, restless night; and a total failure of appetite this\nmorning. Exactly what happened last year, when I gave up my cigars. The\nsooner I am ready for my second dose of laudanum, the better I shall be\npleased. \n\n You shall have it on the earliest possible day,  I answered.  In the\nmeantime, we must be as careful of your health as we can. If we allow\nyou to become exhausted, we shall fail in that way. You must get an\nappetite for your dinner. In other words, you must get a ride or a walk\nthis morning, in the fresh air. \n\n I will ride, if they can find me a horse here. By-the-bye, I wrote to\nMr. Bruff, yesterday. Have you written to Miss Verinder? \n\n Yes by last night s post. \n\n Very good. We shall have some news worth hearing, to tell each other\ntomorrow. Don t go yet! I have a word to say to you. You appeared to\nthink, yesterday, that our experiment with the opium was not likely to\nbe viewed very favourably by some of my friends. You were quite right.\nI call old Gabriel Betteredge one of my friends; and you will be amused\nto hear that he protested strongly when I saw him yesterday.  You have\ndone a wonderful number of foolish things in the course of your life,\nMr. Franklin, but this tops them all!  There is Betteredge s opinion!\nYou will make allowance for his prejudices, I am sure, if you and he\nhappen to meet? \n\nI left Mr. Blake, to go my rounds among my patients; feeling the better\nand the happier even for the short interview that I had had with him.\n\nWhat is the secret of the attraction that there is for me in this man?\nDoes it only mean that I feel the contrast between the frankly kind\nmanner in which he has allowed me to become acquainted with him, and\nthe merciless dislike and distrust with which I am met by other people?\nOr is there really something in him which answers to the yearning that\nI have for a little human sympathy the yearning, which has survived the\nsolitude and persecution of many years; which seems to grow keener and\nkeener, as the time comes nearer and nearer when I shall endure and\nfeel no more? How useless to ask these questions! Mr. Blake has given\nme a new interest in life. Let that be enough, without seeking to know\nwhat the new interest is.\n\nJune 17th. Before breakfast, this morning, Mr. Candy informed me that\nhe was going away for a fortnight, on a visit to a friend in the south\nof England. He gave me as many special directions, poor fellow, about\nthe patients, as if he still had the large practice which he possessed\nbefore he was taken ill. The practice is worth little enough now! Other\ndoctors have superseded _him;_ and nobody who can help it will employ\n_me_.\n\nIt is perhaps fortunate that he is to be away just at this time. He\nwould have been mortified if I had not informed him of the experiment\nwhich I am going to try with Mr. Blake. And I hardly know what\nundesirable results might not have happened, if I had taken him into my\nconfidence. Better as it is. Unquestionably, better as it is.\n\nThe post brought me Miss Verinder s answer, after Mr. Candy had left\nthe house.\n\nA charming letter! It gives me the highest opinion of her. There is no\nattempt to conceal the interest that she feels in our proceedings. She\ntells me, in the prettiest manner, that my letter has satisfied her of\nMr. Blake s innocence, without the slightest need (so far as she is\nconcerned) of putting my assertion to the proof. She even upbraids\nherself most undeservedly, poor thing! for not having divined at the\ntime what the true solution of the mystery might really be. The motive\nunderlying all this proceeds evidently from something more than a\ngenerous eagerness to make atonement for a wrong which she has\ninnocently inflicted on another person. It is plain that she has loved\nhim, throughout the estrangement between them. In more than one place\nthe rapture of discovering that he has deserved to be loved, breaks its\nway innocently through the stoutest formalities of pen and ink, and\neven defies the stronger restraint still of writing to a stranger. Is\nit possible (I ask myself, in reading this delightful letter) that I,\nof all men in the world, am chosen to be the means of bringing these\ntwo young people together again? My own happiness has been trampled\nunder foot; my own love has been torn from me. Shall I live to see a\nhappiness of others, which is of my making a love renewed, which is of\nmy bringing back? Oh merciful Death, let me see it before your arms\nenfold me, before your voice whispers to me,  Rest at last! \n\nThere are two requests contained in the letter. One of them prevents me\nfrom showing it to Mr. Franklin Blake. I am authorised to tell him that\nMiss Verinder willingly consents to place her house at our disposal;\nand, that said, I am desired to add no more.\n\nSo far, it is easy to comply with her wishes. But the second request\nembarrasses me seriously.\n\nNot content with having written to Mr. Betteredge, instructing him to\ncarry out whatever directions I may have to give, Miss Verinder asks\nleave to assist me, by personally superintending the restoration of her\nown sitting-room. She only waits a word of reply from me to make the\njourney to Yorkshire, and to be present as one of the witnesses on the\nnight when the opium is tried for the second time.\n\nHere, again, there is a motive under the surface; and, here again, I\nfancy that I can find it out.\n\nWhat she has forbidden me to tell Mr. Franklin Blake, she is (as I\ninterpret it) eager to tell him with her own lips, _before_ he is put\nto the test which is to vindicate his character in the eyes of other\npeople. I understand and admire this generous anxiety to acquit him,\nwithout waiting until his innocence may, or may not, be proved. It is\nthe atonement that she is longing to make, poor girl, after having\ninnocently and inevitably wronged him. But the thing cannot be done. I\nhave no sort of doubt that the agitation which a meeting between them\nwould produce on both sides reviving dormant feelings, appealing to old\nmemories, awakening new hopes would, in their effect on the mind of Mr.\nBlake, be almost certainly fatal to the success of our experiment. It\nis hard enough, as things are, to reproduce in him the conditions as\nthey existed, or nearly as they existed, last year. With new interests\nand new emotions to agitate him, the attempt would be simply useless.\n\nAnd yet, knowing this, I cannot find it in my heart to disappoint her.\nI must try if I can discover some new arrangement, before post-time,\nwhich will allow me to say Yes to Miss Verinder, without damage to the\nservice which I have bound myself to render to Mr. Franklin Blake.\n\nTwo o clock. I have just returned from my round of medical visits;\nhaving begun, of course, by calling at the hotel.\n\nMr. Blake s report of the night is the same as before. He has had some\nintervals of broken sleep, and no more. But he feels it less today,\nhaving slept after yesterday s dinner. This after-dinner sleep is the\nresult, no doubt, of the ride which I advised him to take. I fear I\nshall have to curtail his restorative exercise in the fresh air. He\nmust not be too well; he must not be too ill. It is a case (as a sailor\nwould say) of very fine steering.\n\nHe has not heard yet from Mr. Bruff. I found him eager to know if I had\nreceived any answer from Miss Verinder.\n\nI told him exactly what I was permitted to tell, and no more. It was\nquite needless to invent excuses for not showing him the letter. He\ntold me bitterly enough, poor fellow, that he understood the delicacy\nwhich disinclined me to produce it.  She consents, of course, as a\nmatter of common courtesy and common justice,  he said.  But she keeps\nher own opinion of me, and waits to see the result.  I was sorely\ntempted to hint that he was now wronging her as she had wronged him. On\nreflection, I shrank from forestalling her in the double luxury of\nsurprising and forgiving him.\n\nMy visit was a very short one. After the experience of the other night,\nI have been compelled once more to give up my dose of opium. As a\nnecessary result, the agony of the disease that is in me has got the\nupper hand again. I felt the attack coming on, and left abruptly, so as\nnot to alarm or distress him. It only lasted a quarter of an hour this\ntime, and it left me strength enough to go on with my work.\n\nFive o clock. I have written my reply to Miss Verinder.\n\nThe arrangement I have proposed reconciles the interests on both sides,\nif she will only consent to it. After first stating the objections that\nthere are to a meeting between Mr. Blake and herself, before the\nexperiment is tried, I have suggested that she should so time her\njourney as to arrive at the house privately, on the evening when we\nmake the attempt. Travelling by the afternoon train from London, she\nwould delay her arrival until nine o clock. At that hour, I have\nundertaken to see Mr. Blake safely into his bedchamber; and so to leave\nMiss Verinder free to occupy her own rooms until the time comes for\nadministering the laudanum. When that has been done, there can be no\nobjection to her watching the result, with the rest of us. On the next\nmorning, she shall show Mr. Blake (if she likes) her correspondence\nwith me, and shall satisfy him in that way that he was acquitted in her\nestimation, before the question of his innocence was put to the proof.\n\nIn that sense, I have written to her. This is all that I can do today.\nTomorrow I must see Mr. Betteredge, and give the necessary directions\nfor re-opening the house.\n\nJune 18th. Late again, in calling on Mr. Franklin Blake. More of that\nhorrible pain in the early morning; followed, this time, by complete\nprostration, for some hours. I foresee, in spite of the penalties which\nit exacts from me, that I shall have to return to the opium for the\nhundredth time. If I had only myself to think of, I should prefer the\nsharp pains to the frightful dreams. But the physical suffering\nexhausts me. If I let myself sink, it may end in my becoming useless to\nMr. Blake at the time when he wants me most.\n\nIt was nearly one o clock before I could get to the hotel today. The\nvisit, even in my shattered condition, proved to be a most amusing\none thanks entirely to the presence on the scene of Gabriel Betteredge.\n\nI found him in the room, when I went in. He withdrew to the window and\nlooked out, while I put my first customary question to my patient. Mr.\nBlake had slept badly again, and he felt the loss of rest this morning\nmore than he had felt it yet.\n\nI asked next if he had heard from Mr. Bruff.\n\nA letter had reached him that morning. Mr. Bruff expressed the\nstrongest disapproval of the course which his friend and client was\ntaking under my advice. It was mischievous for it excited hopes that\nmight never be realised. It was quite unintelligible to _his_ mind,\nexcept that it looked like a piece of trickery, akin to the trickery of\nmesmerism, clairvoyance, and the like. It unsettled Miss Verinder s\nhouse, and it would end in unsettling Miss Verinder herself. He had put\nthe case (without mentioning names) to an eminent physician; and the\neminent physician had smiled, had shaken his head, and had\nsaid nothing. On these grounds, Mr. Bruff entered his protest, and left\nit there.\n\nMy next inquiry related to the subject of the Diamond. Had the lawyer\nproduced any evidence to prove that the jewel was in London?\n\nNo, the lawyer had simply declined to discuss the question. He was\nhimself satisfied that the Moonstone had been pledged to Mr. Luker. His\neminent absent friend, Mr. Murthwaite (whose consummate knowledge of\nthe Indian character no one could deny), was satisfied also. Under\nthese circumstances, and with the many demands already made on him, he\nmust decline entering into any disputes on the subject of evidence.\nTime would show; and Mr. Bruff was willing to wait for time.\n\nIt was quite plain even if Mr. Blake had not made it plainer still by\nreporting the substance of the letter, instead of reading what was\nactually written that distrust of _me_ was at the bottom of all this.\nHaving myself foreseen that result, I was neither mortified nor\nsurprised. I asked Mr. Blake if his friend s protest had shaken him. He\nanswered emphatically, that it had not produced the slightest effect on\nhis mind. I was free after that to dismiss Mr. Bruff from\nconsideration and I did dismiss him accordingly.\n\nA pause in the talk between us, followed and Gabriel Betteredge came\nout from his retirement at the window.\n\n Can you favour me with your attention, sir?  he inquired, addressing\nhimself to me.\n\n I am quite at your service,  I answered.\n\nBetteredge took a chair and seated himself at the table. He produced a\nhuge old-fashioned leather pocket-book, with a pencil of dimensions to\nmatch. Having put on his spectacles, he opened the pocket-book, at a\nblank page, and addressed himself to me once more.\n\n I have lived,  said Betteredge, looking at me sternly,  nigh on fifty\nyears in the service of my late lady. I was page-boy before that, in\nthe service of the old lord, her father. I am now somewhere between\nseventy and eighty years of age never mind exactly where! I am reckoned\nto have got as pretty a knowledge and experience of the world as most\nmen. And what does it all end in? It ends, Mr. Ezra Jennings, in a\nconjuring trick being performed on Mr. Franklin Blake, by a doctor s\nassistant with a bottle of laudanum and by the living jingo, I m\nappointed, in my old age, to be conjurer s boy! \n\nMr. Blake burst out laughing. I attempted to speak. Betteredge held up\nhis hand, in token that he had not done yet.\n\n Not a word, Mr. Jennings!  he said,  It don t want a word, sir, from\nyou. I have got my principles, thank God. If an order comes to me,\nwhich is own brother to an order come from Bedlam, it don t matter. So\nlong as I get it from my master or mistress, as the case may be, I obey\nit. I may have my own opinion, which is also, you will please to\nremember, the opinion of Mr. Bruff the Great Mr. Bruff!  said\nBetteredge, raising his voice, and shaking his head at me solemnly.  It\ndon t matter; I withdraw my opinion, for all that. My young lady says,\n Do it.  And I say,  Miss, it shall be done.  Here I am, with my book\nand my pencil the latter not pointed so well as I could wish, but when\nChristians take leave of their senses, who is to expect that pencils\nwill keep their points? Give me your orders, Mr. Jennings. I ll have\nthem in writing, sir. I m determined not to be behind  em, or before\n em, by so much as a hair s breadth. I m a blind agent that s what I\nam. A blind agent!  repeated Betteredge, with infinite relish of his\nown description of himself.\n\n I am very sorry,  I began,  that you and I don t agree \n\n Don t bring _me_, into it!  interposed Betteredge.  This is not a\nmatter of agreement, it s a matter of obedience. Issue your directions,\nsir issue your directions! \n\nMr. Blake made me a sign to take him at his word. I  issued my\ndirections  as plainly and as gravely as I could.\n\n I wish certain parts of the house to be re-opened,  I said,  and to be\nfurnished, exactly as they were furnished at this time last year. \n\nBetteredge gave his imperfectly-pointed pencil a preliminary lick with\nhis tongue.  Name the parts, Mr. Jennings!  he said loftily.\n\n First, the inner hall, leading to the chief staircase. \n\n First, the inner hall,  Betteredge wrote.  Impossible to furnish\nthat, sir, as it was furnished last year to begin with. \n\n Why? \n\n Because there was a stuffed buzzard, Mr. Jennings, in the hall last\nyear. When the family left, the buzzard was put away with the other\nthings. When the buzzard was put away he burst. \n\n We will except the buzzard then. \n\nBetteredge took a note of the exception.  The inner hall to be\nfurnished again, as furnished last year. A burst buzzard alone\nexcepted.  Please to go on, Mr. Jennings. \n\n The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before. \n\n The carpet to be laid down on the stairs, as before.  Sorry to\ndisappoint you, sir. But that can t be done either. \n\n Why not? \n\n Because the man who laid that carpet down is dead, Mr. Jennings and\nthe like of him for reconciling together a carpet and a corner, is not\nto be found in all England, look where you may. \n\n Very well. We must try the next best man in England. \n\nBetteredge took another note; and I went on issuing my directions.\n\n Miss Verinder s sitting-room to be restored exactly to what it was\nlast year. Also, the corridor leading from the sitting-room to the\nfirst landing. Also, the second corridor, leading from the second\nlanding to the best bedrooms. Also, the bedroom occupied last June by\nMr. Franklin Blake. \n\nBetteredge s blunt pencil followed me conscientiously, word by word.\n Go on, sir,  he said, with sardonic gravity.  There s a deal of\nwriting left in the point of this pencil yet. \n\nI told him that I had no more directions to give.  Sir,  said\nBetteredge,  in that case, I have a point or two to put on my own\nbehalf.  He opened the pocket-book at a new page, and gave the\ninexhaustible pencil another preliminary lick.\n\n I wish to know,  he began,  whether I may, or may not, wash my\nhands \n\n You may decidedly,  said Mr. Blake.  I ll ring for the waiter. \n\n of certain responsibilities,  pursued Betteredge, impenetrably\ndeclining to see anybody in the room but himself and me.  As to Miss\nVerinder s sitting-room, to begin with. When we took up the carpet last\nyear, Mr. Jennings, we found a surprising quantity of pins. Am I\nresponsible for putting back the pins? \n\n Certainly not. \n\nBetteredge made a note of that concession, on the spot.\n\n As to the first corridor next,  he resumed.  When we moved the\nornaments in that part, we moved a statue of a fat naked\nchild profanely described in the catalogue of the house as  Cupid, god\nof Love.  He had two wings last year, in the fleshy part of his\nshoulders. My eye being off him, for the moment, he lost one of them.\nAm I responsible for Cupid s wing? \n\nI made another concession, and Betteredge made another note.\n\n As to the second corridor,  he went on.  There having been nothing in\nit, last year, but the doors of the rooms (to everyone of which I can\nswear, if necessary), my mind is easy, I admit, respecting that part of\nthe house only. But, as to Mr. Franklin s bedroom (if _that_ is to be\nput back to what it was before), I want to know who is responsible for\nkeeping it in a perpetual state of litter, no matter how often it may\nbe set right his trousers here, his towels there, and his French novels\neverywhere. I say, who is responsible for untidying the tidiness of Mr.\nFranklin s room, him or me? \n\nMr. Blake declared that he would assume the whole responsibility with\nthe greatest pleasure. Betteredge obstinately declined to listen to any\nsolution of the difficulty, without first referring it to my sanction\nand approval. I accepted Mr. Blake s proposal; and Betteredge made a\nlast entry in the pocket-book to that effect.\n\n Look in when you like, Mr. Jennings, beginning from tomorrow,  he\nsaid, getting on his legs.  You will find me at work, with the\nnecessary persons to assist me. I respectfully beg to thank you, sir,\nfor overlooking the case of the stuffed buzzard, and the other case of\nthe Cupid s wing as also for permitting me to wash my hands of all\nresponsibility in respect of the pins on the carpet, and the litter in\nMr. Franklin s room. Speaking as a servant, I am deeply indebted to\nyou. Speaking as a man, I consider you to be a person whose head is\nfull of maggots, and I take up my testimony against your experiment as\na delusion and a snare. Don t be afraid, on that account, of my\nfeelings as a man getting in the way of my duty as a servant! You shall\nbe obeyed. The maggots notwithstanding, sir, you shall be obeyed. If it\nends in your setting the house on fire, Damme if I send for the\nengines, unless you ring the bell and order them first! \n\nWith that farewell assurance, he made me a bow, and walked out of the\nroom.\n\n Do you think we can depend on him?  I asked.\n\n Implicitly,  answered Mr. Blake.  When we go to the house, we shall\nfind nothing neglected, and nothing forgotten. \n\nJune 19th. Another protest against our contemplated proceedings! From a\nlady this time.\n\nThe morning s post brought me two letters. One from Miss Verinder,\nconsenting, in the kindest manner, to the arrangement that I have\nproposed. The other from the lady under whose care she is living one\nMrs. Merridew.\n\nMrs. Merridew presents her compliments, and does not pretend to\nunderstand the subject on which I have been corresponding with Miss\nVerinder, in its scientific bearings. Viewed in its social bearings,\nhowever, she feels free to pronounce an opinion. I am probably, Mrs.\nMerridew thinks, not aware that Miss Verinder is barely nineteen years\nof age. To allow a young lady, at her time of life, to be present\n(without a  chaperone ) in a house full of men among whom a medical\nexperiment is being carried on, is an outrage on propriety which Mrs.\nMerridew cannot possibly permit. If the matter is allowed to proceed,\nshe will feel it to be her duty at a serious sacrifice of her own\npersonal convenience to accompany Miss Verinder to Yorkshire. Under\nthese circumstances, she ventures to request that I will kindly\nreconsider the subject; seeing that Miss Verinder declines to be guided\nby any opinion but mine. Her presence cannot possibly be necessary; and\na word from me, to that effect, would relieve both Mrs. Merridew and\nmyself of a very unpleasant responsibility.\n\nTranslated from polite commonplace into plain English, the meaning of\nthis is, as I take it, that Mrs. Merridew stands in mortal fear of the\nopinion of the world. She has unfortunately appealed to the very last\nman in existence who has any reason to regard that opinion with\nrespect. I won t disappoint Miss Verinder; and I won t delay a\nreconciliation between two young people who love each other, and who\nhave been parted too long already. Translated from plain English into\npolite commonplace, this means that Mr. Jennings presents his\ncompliments to Mrs. Merridew, and regrets that he cannot feel justified\nin interfering any farther in the matter.\n\nMr. Blake s report of himself, this morning, was the same as before. We\ndetermined not to disturb Betteredge by overlooking him at the house\ntoday. Tomorrow will be time enough for our first visit of inspection.\n\nJune 20th. Mr. Blake is beginning to feel his continued restlessness at\nnight. The sooner the rooms are refurnished, now, the better.\n\nOn our way to the house, this morning, he consulted me, with some\nnervous impatience and irresolution, about a letter (forwarded to him\nfrom London) which he had received from Sergeant Cuff.\n\nThe Sergeant writes from Ireland. He acknowledges the receipt (through\nhis housekeeper) of a card and message which Mr. Blake left at his\nresidence near Dorking, and announces his return to England as likely\nto take place in a week or less. In the meantime, he requests to be\nfavoured with Mr. Blake s reasons for wishing to speak to him (as\nstated in the message) on the subject of the Moonstone. If Mr. Blake\ncan convict him of having made any serious mistake, in the course of\nhis last year s inquiry concerning the Diamond, he will consider it a\nduty (after the liberal manner in which he was treated by the late Lady\nVerinder) to place himself at that gentleman s disposal. If not, he\nbegs permission to remain in his retirement, surrounded by the peaceful\nhorticultural attractions of a country life.\n\nAfter reading the letter, I had no hesitation in advising Mr. Blake to\ninform Sergeant Cuff, in reply, of all that had happened since the\ninquiry was suspended last year, and to leave him to draw his own\nconclusions from the plain facts.\n\nOn second thoughts I also suggested inviting the Sergeant to be present\nat the experiment, in the event of his returning to England in time to\njoin us. He would be a valuable witness to have, in any case; and, if I\nproved to be wrong in believing the Diamond to be hidden in Mr. Blake s\nroom, his advice might be of great importance, at a future stage of the\nproceedings over which I could exercise no control. This last\nconsideration appeared to decide Mr. Blake. He promised to follow my\nadvice.\n\nThe sound of the hammer informed us that the work of refurnishing was\nin full progress, as we entered the drive that led to the house.\n\nBetteredge, attired for the occasion in a fisherman s red cap, and an\napron of green baize, met us in the outer hall. The moment he saw me,\nhe pulled out the pocket-book and pencil, and obstinately insisted on\ntaking notes of everything that I said to him. Look where we might, we\nfound, as Mr. Blake had foretold that the work was advancing as rapidly\nand as intelligently as it was possible to desire. But there was still\nmuch to be done in the inner hall, and in Miss Verinder s room. It\nseemed doubtful whether the house would be ready for us before the end\nof the week.\n\nHaving congratulated Betteredge on the progress that he had made (he\npersisted in taking notes every time I opened my lips; declining, at\nthe same time, to pay the slightest attention to anything said by Mr.\nBlake); and having promised to return for a second visit of inspection\nin a day or two, we prepared to leave the house, going out by the back\nway. Before we were clear of the passages downstairs, I was stopped by\nBetteredge, just as I was passing the door which led into his own room.\n\n Could I say two words to you in private?  he asked, in a mysterious\nwhisper.\n\nI consented of course. Mr. Blake walked on to wait for me in the\ngarden, while I accompanied Betteredge into his room. I fully\nanticipated a demand for certain new concessions, following the\nprecedent already established in the cases of the stuffed buzzard, and\nthe Cupid s wing. To my great surprise, Betteredge laid his hand\nconfidentially on my arm, and put this extraordinary question to me:\n\n Mr. Jennings, do you happen to be acquainted with _Robinson Crusoe_? \n\nI answered that I had read _Robinson Crusoe_ when I was a child.\n\n Not since then?  inquired Betteredge.\n\n Not since then. \n\nHe fell back a few steps, and looked at me with an expression of\ncompassionate curiosity, tempered by superstitious awe.\n\n He has not read _Robinson Crusoe_ since he was a child,  said\nBetteredge, speaking to himself not to me.  Let s try how _Robinson\nCrusoe_ strikes him now! \n\nHe unlocked a cupboard in a corner, and produced a dirty and\ndog s-eared book, which exhaled a strong odour of stale tobacco as he\nturned over the leaves. Having found a passage of which he was\napparently in search, he requested me to join him in the corner; still\nmysteriously confidential, and still speaking under his breath.\n\n In respect to this hocus-pocus of yours, sir, with the laudanum and\nMr. Franklin Blake,  he began.  While the workpeople are in the house,\nmy duty as a servant gets the better of my feelings as a man. When the\nworkpeople are gone, my feelings as a man get the better of my duty as\na servant. Very good. Last night, Mr. Jennings, it was borne in\npowerfully on my mind that this new medical enterprise of yours would\nend badly. If I had yielded to that secret Dictate, I should have put\nall the furniture away again with my own hand, and have warned the\nworkmen off the premises when they came the next morning. \n\n I am glad to find, from what I have seen upstairs,  I said,  that you\nresisted the secret Dictate. \n\n Resisted isn t the word,  answered Betteredge.  Wrostled is the word.\nI wrostled, sir, between the silent orders in my bosom pulling me one\nway, and the written orders in my pocket-book pushing me the other,\nuntil (saving your presence) I was in a cold sweat. In that dreadful\nperturbation of mind and laxity of body, to what remedy did I apply? To\nthe remedy, sir, which has never failed me yet for the last thirty\nyears and more to This Book! \n\nHe hit the book a sounding blow with his open hand, and struck out of\nit a stronger smell of stale tobacco than ever.\n\n What did I find here,  pursued Betteredge,  at the first page I\nopened? This awful bit, sir, page one hundred and seventy-eight, as\nfollows: Upon these, and many like Reflections, I afterwards made it a\ncertain rule with me, That whenever I found those secret Hints or\nPressings of my Mind, to doing, or not doing any Thing that presented;\nor to going this Way, or that Way, I never failed to obey the secret\nDictate.  As I live by bread, Mr. Jennings, those were the first words\nthat met my eye, exactly at the time when I myself was setting the\nsecret Dictate at defiance! You don t see anything at all out of the\ncommon in that, do you, sir? \n\n I see a coincidence nothing more. \n\n You don t feel at all shaken, Mr. Jennings, in respect to this medical\nenterprise of yours?\n\n Not the least in the world. \n\nBetteredge stared hard at me, in dead silence. He closed the book with\ngreat deliberation; he locked it up again in the cupboard with\nextraordinary care; he wheeled round, and stared hard at me once more.\nThen he spoke.\n\n Sir,  he said gravely,  there are great allowances to be made for a\nman who has not read _Robinson Crusoe_ since he was a child. I wish you\ngood morning. \n\nHe opened his door with a low bow, and left me at liberty to find my\nown way into the garden. I met Mr. Blake returning to the house.\n\n You needn t tell me what has happened,  he said.  Betteredge has\nplayed his last card: he has made another prophetic discovery in\n_Robinson Crusoe_. Have you humoured his favourite delusion? No? You\nhave let him see that you don t believe in _Robinson Crusoe_? Mr.\nJennings! you have fallen to the lowest possible place in Betteredge s\nestimation. Say what you like, and do what you like, for the future.\nYou will find that he won t waste another word on you now. \n\nJune 21st. A short entry must suffice in my journal today.\n\nMr. Blake has had the worst night that he has passed yet. I have been\nobliged, greatly against my will, to prescribe for him. Men of his\nsensitive organisation are fortunately quick in feeling the effect of\nremedial measures. Otherwise, I should be inclined to fear that he will\nbe totally unfit for the experiment when the time comes to try it.\n\nAs for myself, after some little remission of my pains for the last two\ndays I had an attack this morning, of which I shall say nothing but\nthat it has decided me to return to the opium. I shall close this book,\nand take my full dose five hundred drops.\n\nJune 22nd. Our prospects look better today. Mr. Blake s nervous\nsuffering is greatly allayed. He slept a little last night. _My_ night,\nthanks to the opium, was the night of a man who is stunned. I can t say\nthat I woke this morning; the fitter expression would be, that I\nrecovered my senses.\n\nWe drove to the house to see if the refurnishing was done. It will be\ncompleted tomorrow Saturday. As Mr. Blake foretold, Betteredge raised\nno further obstacles. From first to last, he was ominously polite, and\nominously silent.\n\nMy medical enterprise (as Betteredge calls it) must now, inevitably, be\ndelayed until Monday next. Tomorrow evening the workmen will be late in\nthe house. On the next day, the established Sunday tyranny which is one\nof the institutions of this free country, so times the trains as to\nmake it impossible to ask anybody to travel to us from London. Until\nMonday comes, there is nothing to be done but to watch Mr. Blake\ncarefully, and to keep him, if possible, in the same state in which I\nfind him today.\n\nIn the meanwhile, I have prevailed on him to write to Mr. Bruff, making\na point of it that he shall be present as one of the witnesses. I\nespecially choose the lawyer, because he is strongly prejudiced against\nus. If we convince _him_, we place our victory beyond the possibility\nof dispute.\n\nMr. Blake has also written to Sergeant Cuff; and I have sent a line to\nMiss Verinder. With these, and with old Betteredge (who is really a\nperson of importance in the family) we shall have witnesses enough for\nthe purpose without including Mrs. Merridew, if Mrs. Merridew persists\nin sacrificing herself to the opinion of the world.\n\nJune 23rd. The vengeance of the opium overtook me again last night. No\nmatter; I must go on with it now till Monday is past and gone.\n\nMr. Blake is not so well again today. At two this morning, he confesses\nthat he opened the drawer in which his cigars are put away. He only\nsucceeded in locking it up again by a violent effort. His next\nproceeding, in case of temptation, was to throw the key out of window.\nThe waiter brought it in this morning, discovered at the bottom of an\nempty cistern such is Fate! I have taken possession of the key until\nTuesday next.\n\nJune 24th. Mr. Blake and I took a long drive in an open carriage. We\nboth felt beneficially the blessed influence of the soft summer air. I\ndined with him at the hotel. To my great relief for I found him in an\nover-wrought, over-excited state this morning he had two hours  sound\nsleep on the sofa after dinner. If he has another bad night, now I am\nnot afraid of the consequences.\n\nJune 25th, Monday. The day of the experiment! It is five o clock in the\nafternoon. We have just arrived at the house.\n\nThe first and foremost question, is the question of Mr. Blake s health.\n\nSo far as it is possible for me to judge, he promises (physically\nspeaking) to be quite as susceptible to the action of the opium tonight\nas he was at this time last year. He is, this afternoon, in a state of\nnervous sensitiveness which just stops short of nervous irritation. He\nchanges colour readily; his hand is not quite steady; and he starts at\nchance noises, and at unexpected appearances of persons and things.\n\nThese results have all been produced by deprivation of sleep, which is\nin its turn the nervous consequence of a sudden cessation in the habit\nof smoking, after that habit has been carried to an extreme. Here are\nthe same causes at work again, which operated last year; and here are,\napparently, the same effects. Will the parallel still hold good, when\nthe final test has been tried? The events of the night must decide.\n\nWhile I write these lines, Mr. Blake is amusing himself at the billiard\ntable in the inner hall, practising different strokes in the game, as\nhe was accustomed to practise them when he was a guest in this house in\nJune last. I have brought my journal here, partly with a view to\noccupying the idle hours which I am sure to have on my hands between\nthis and tomorrow morning; partly in the hope that something may happen\nwhich it may be worth my while to place on record at the time.\n\nHave I omitted anything, thus far? A glance at yesterday s entry shows\nme that I have forgotten to note the arrival of the morning s post. Let\nme set this right before I close these leaves for the present, and join\nMr. Blake.\n\nI received a few lines then, yesterday, from Miss Verinder. She has\narranged to travel by the afternoon train, as I recommended. Mrs.\nMerridew has insisted on accompanying her. The note hints that the old\nlady s generally excellent temper is a little ruffled, and requests all\ndue indulgence for her, in consideration of her age and her habits. I\nwill endeavour, in my relations with Mrs. Merridew, to emulate the\nmoderation which Betteredge displays in his relations with me. He\nreceived us today, portentously arrayed in his best black suit, and his\nstiffest white cravat. Whenever he looks my way, he remembers that I\nhave not read _Robinson Crusoe_ since I was a child, and he\nrespectfully pities me.\n\nYesterday, also, Mr. Blake had the lawyer s answer. Mr. Bruff accepts\nthe invitation under protest. It is, he thinks, clearly necessary that\na gentleman possessed of the average allowance of common sense, should\naccompany Miss Verinder to the scene of, what we will venture to call,\nthe proposed exhibition. For want of a better escort, Mr. Bruff himself\nwill be that gentleman. So here is poor Miss Verinder provided with two\n chaperones.  It is a relief to think that the opinion of the world\nmust surely be satisfied with this!\n\nNothing has been heard of Sergeant Cuff. He is no doubt still in\nIreland. We must not expect to see him tonight.\n\nBetteredge has just come in, to say that Mr. Blake has asked for me. I\nmust lay down my pen for the present.\n\nSeven o clock. We have been all over the refurnished rooms and\nstaircases again; and we have had a pleasant stroll in the shrubbery,\nwhich was Mr. Blake s favourite walk when he was here last. In this\nway, I hope to revive the old impressions of places and things as\nvividly as possible in his mind.\n\nWe are now going to dine, exactly at the hour at which the birthday\ndinner was given last year. My object, of course, is a purely medical\none in this case. The laudanum must find the process of digestion, as\nnearly as may be, where the laudanum found it last year.\n\nAt a reasonable time after dinner I propose to lead the conversation\nback again as inartificially as I can to the subject of the Diamond,\nand of the Indian conspiracy to steal it. When I have filled his mind\nwith these topics, I shall have done all that it is in my power to do,\nbefore the time comes for giving him the second dose.\n\nHalf-past eight. I have only this moment found an opportunity of\nattending to the most important duty of all; the duty of looking in the\nfamily medicine chest, for the laudanum which Mr. Candy used last year.\n\nTen minutes since, I caught Betteredge at an unoccupied moment, and\ntold him what I wanted. Without a word of objection, without so much as\nan attempt to produce his pocket-book, he led the way (making\nallowances for me at every step) to the store-room in which the\nmedicine chest is kept.\n\nI discovered the bottle, carefully guarded by a glass stopper tied over\nwith leather. The preparation which it contained was, as I had\nanticipated, the common Tincture of Opium. Finding the bottle still\nwell filled, I have resolved to use it, in preference to employing\neither of the two preparations with which I had taken care to provide\nmyself, in case of emergency.\n\nThe question of the quantity which I am to administer presents certain\ndifficulties. I have thought it over, and have decided on increasing\nthe dose.\n\nMy notes inform me that Mr. Candy only administered twenty-five minims.\nThis is a small dose to have produced the results which followed even\nin the case of a person so sensitive as Mr. Blake. I think it highly\nprobable that Mr. Candy gave more than he supposed himself to have\ngiven knowing, as I do, that he has a keen relish of the pleasures of\nthe table, and that he measured out the laudanum on the birthday, after\ndinner. In any case, I shall run the risk of enlarging the dose to\nforty minims. On this occasion, Mr. Blake knows beforehand that he is\ngoing to take the laudanum which is equivalent, physiologically\nspeaking, to his having (unconsciously to himself) a certain capacity\nin him to resist the effects. If my view is right, a larger quantity is\ntherefore imperatively required, this time, to repeat the results which\nthe smaller quantity produced, last year.\n\nTen o clock. The witnesses, or the company (which shall I call them?)\nreached the house an hour since.\n\nA little before nine o clock, I prevailed on Mr. Blake to accompany me\nto his bedroom; stating, as a reason, that I wished him to look round\nit, for the last time, in order to make quite sure that nothing had\nbeen forgotten in the refurnishing of the room. I had previously\narranged with Betteredge, that the bedchamber prepared for Mr. Bruff\nshould be the next room to Mr. Blake s, and that I should be informed\nof the lawyer s arrival by a knock at the door. Five minutes after the\nclock in the hall had struck nine, I heard the knock; and, going out\nimmediately, met Mr. Bruff in the corridor.\n\nMy personal appearance (as usual) told against me. Mr. Bruff s distrust\nlooked at me plainly enough out of Mr. Bruff s eyes. Being well used to\nproducing this effect on strangers, I did not hesitate a moment in\nsaying what I wanted to say, before the lawyer found his way into Mr.\nBlake s room.\n\n You have travelled here, I believe, in company with Mrs. Merridew and\nMiss Verinder?  I said.\n\n Yes,  answered Mr. Bruff, as drily as might be.\n\n Miss Verinder has probably told you, that I wish her presence in the\nhouse (and Mrs. Merridew s presence of course) to be kept a secret from\nMr. Blake, until my experiment on him has been tried first? \n\n I know that I am to hold my tongue, sir!  said Mr. Bruff, impatiently.\n Being habitually silent on the subject of human folly, I am all the\nreadier to keep my lips closed on this occasion. Does that satisfy\nyou? \n\nI bowed, and left Betteredge to show him to his room. Betteredge gave\nme one look at parting, which said, as if in so many words,  You have\ncaught a Tartar, Mr. Jennings and the name of him is Bruff. \n\nIt was next necessary to get the meeting over with the two ladies. I\ndescended the stairs a little nervously, I confess on my way to Miss\nVerinder s sitting-room.\n\nThe gardener s wife (charged with looking after the accommodation of\nthe ladies) met me in the first-floor corridor. This excellent woman\ntreats me with an excessive civility which is plainly the offspring of\ndown-right terror. She stares, trembles, and curtseys, whenever I speak\nto her. On my asking for Miss Verinder, she stared, trembled, and would\nno doubt have curtseyed next, if Miss Verinder herself had not cut that\nceremony short, by suddenly opening her sitting-room door.\n\n Is that Mr. Jennings?  she asked.\n\nBefore I could answer, she came out eagerly to speak to me in the\ncorridor. We met under the light of a lamp on a bracket. At the first\nsight of me, Miss Verinder stopped, and hesitated. She recovered\nherself instantly, coloured for a moment and then, with a charming\nfrankness, offered me her hand.\n\n I can t treat you like a stranger, Mr. Jennings,  she said.  Oh, if\nyou only knew how happy your letters have made me! \n\nShe looked at my ugly wrinkled face, with a bright gratitude so new to\nme in _my_ experience of my fellow-creatures, that I was at a loss how\nto answer her. Nothing had prepared me for her kindness and her beauty.\nThe misery of many years has not hardened my heart, thank God. I was as\nawkward and as shy with her, as if I had been a lad in my teens.\n\n Where is he now?  she asked, giving free expression to her one\ndominant interest the interest in Mr. Blake.  What is he doing? Has he\nspoken of me? Is he in good spirits? How does he bear the sight of the\nhouse, after what happened in it last year? When are you going to give\nhim the laudanum? May I see you pour it out? I am so interested; I am\nso excited I have ten thousand things to say to you, and they all crowd\ntogether so that I don t know what to say first. Do you wonder at the\ninterest I take in this? \n\n No,  I said.  I venture to think that I thoroughly understand it. \n\nShe was far above the paltry affectation of being confused. She\nanswered me as she might have answered a brother or a father.\n\n You have relieved me of indescribable wretchedness; you have given me\na new life. How can I be ungrateful enough to have any concealment from\n_you?_ I love him,  she said simply,  I have loved him from first to\nlast even when I was wronging him in my own thoughts; even when I was\nsaying the hardest and the cruellest words to him. Is there any excuse\nfor me, in that? I hope there is I am afraid it is the only excuse I\nhave. When tomorrow comes, and he knows that I am in the house, do you\nthink \n\nShe stopped again, and looked at me very earnestly.\n\n When tomorrow comes,  I said,  I think you have only to tell him what\nyou have just told me. \n\nHer face brightened; she came a step nearer to me. Her fingers trifled\nnervously with a flower which I had picked in the garden, and which I\nhad put into the button-hole of my coat.\n\n You have seen a great deal of him lately,  she said.  Have you, really\nand truly, seen _that?_ \n\n Really and truly,  I answered.  I am quite certain of what will happen\ntomorrow. I wish I could feel as certain of what will happen tonight. \n\nAt that point in the conversation, we were interrupted by the\nappearance of Betteredge with the tea-tray. He gave me another\nsignificant look as he passed on into the sitting-room.  Aye! aye! make\nyour hay while the sun shines. The Tartar s upstairs, Mr. Jennings the\nTartar s upstairs! \n\nWe followed him into the room. A little old lady, in a corner, very\nnicely dressed, and very deeply absorbed over a smart piece of\nembroidery, dropped her work in her lap, and uttered a faint little\nscream at the first sight of my gipsy complexion and my piebald hair.\n\n Mrs. Merridew,  said Miss Verinder,  this is Mr. Jennings. \n\n I beg Mr. Jennings s pardon,  said the old lady, looking at Miss\nVerinder, and speaking at _me_.  Railway travelling always makes me\nnervous. I am endeavouring to quiet my mind by occupying myself as\nusual. I don t know whether my embroidery is out of place, on this\nextraordinary occasion. If it interferes with Mr. Jennings s medical\nviews, I shall be happy to put it away of course. \n\nI hastened to sanction the presence of the embroidery, exactly as I had\nsanctioned the absence of the burst buzzard and the Cupid s wing. Mrs.\nMerridew made an effort a grateful effort to look at my hair. No! it\nwas not to be done. Mrs. Merridew looked back again at Miss Verinder.\n\n If Mr. Jennings will permit me,  pursued the old lady,  I should like\nto ask a favour. Mr. Jennings is about to try a scientific experiment\ntonight. I used to attend scientific experiments when I was a girl at\nschool. They invariably ended in an explosion. If Mr. Jennings will be\nso very kind, I should like to be warned of the explosion this time.\nWith a view to getting it over, if possible, before I go to bed. \n\nI attempted to assure Mrs. Merridew that an explosion was not included\nin the programme on this occasion.\n\n No,  said the old lady.  I am much obliged to Mr. Jennings I am aware\nthat he is only deceiving me for my own good. I prefer plain dealing. I\nam quite resigned to the explosion but I _do_ want to get it over, if\npossible, before I go to bed. \n\nHere the door opened, and Mrs. Merridew uttered another little scream.\nThe advent of the explosion? No: only the advent of Betteredge.\n\n I beg your pardon, Mr. Jennings,  said Betteredge, in his most\nelaborately confidential manner.  Mr. Franklin wishes to know where you\nare. Being under your orders to deceive him, in respect to the presence\nof my young lady in the house, I have said I don t know. That you will\nplease to observe, was a lie. Having one foot already in the grave,\nsir, the fewer lies you expect me to tell, the more I shall be indebted\nto you, when my conscience pricks me and my time comes. \n\nThere was not a moment to be wasted on the purely speculative question\nof Betteredge s conscience. Mr. Blake might make his appearance in\nsearch of me, unless I went to him at once in his own room. Miss\nVerinder followed me out into the corridor.\n\n They seem to be in a conspiracy to persecute you,  she said.  What\ndoes it mean? \n\n Only the protest of the world, Miss Verinder on a very small\nscale against anything that is new. \n\n What are we to do with Mrs. Merridew? \n\n Tell her the explosion will take place at nine tomorrow morning. \n\n So as to send her to bed? \n\n Yes so as to send her to bed. \n\nMiss Verinder went back to the sitting-room, and I went upstairs to Mr.\nBlake.\n\nTo my surprise I found him alone; restlessly pacing his room, and a\nlittle irritated at being left by himself.\n\n Where is Mr. Bruff?  I asked.\n\nHe pointed to the closed door of communication between the two rooms.\nMr. Bruff had looked in on him, for a moment; had attempted to renew\nhis protest against our proceedings; and had once more failed to\nproduce the smallest impression on Mr. Blake. Upon this, the lawyer had\ntaken refuge in a black leather bag, filled to bursting with\nprofessional papers.  The serious business of life,  he admitted,  was\nsadly out of place on such an occasion as the present. But the serious\nbusiness of life must be carried on, for all that. Mr. Blake would\nperhaps kindly make allowance for the old-fashioned habits of a\npractical man. Time was money and, as for Mr. Jennings, he might depend\non it that Mr. Bruff would be forthcoming when called upon.  With that\napology, the lawyer had gone back to his own room, and had immersed\nhimself obstinately in his black bag.\n\nI thought of Mrs. Merridew and her embroidery, and of Betteredge and\nhis conscience. There is a wonderful sameness in the solid side of the\nEnglish character just as there is a wonderful sameness in the solid\nexpression of the English face.\n\n When are you going to give me the laudanum?  asked Mr. Blake\nimpatiently.\n\n You must wait a little longer,  I said.  I will stay and keep you\ncompany till the time comes. \n\nIt was then not ten o clock. Inquiries which I had made, at various\ntimes, of Betteredge and Mr. Blake, had led me to the conclusion that\nthe dose of laudanum given by Mr. Candy could not possibly have been\nadministered before eleven. I had accordingly determined not to try the\nsecond dose until that time.\n\nWe talked a little; but both our minds were preoccupied by the coming\nordeal. The conversation soon flagged then dropped altogether. Mr.\nBlake idly turned over the books on his bedroom table. I had taken the\nprecaution of looking at them, when we first entered the room. _The\nGuardian_; _The Tatler_; Richardson s _Pamela_; Mackenzie s _Man of\nFeeling_; Roscoe s _Lorenzo de  Medici_; and Robertson s _Charles the\nFifth_ all classical works; all (of course) immeasurably superior to\nanything produced in later times; and all (from my present point of\nview) possessing the one great merit of enchaining nobody s interest,\nand exciting nobody s brain. I left Mr. Blake to the composing\ninfluence of Standard Literature, and occupied myself in making this\nentry in my journal.\n\nMy watch informs me that it is close on eleven o clock. I must shut up\nthese leaves once more.\n\nTwo o clock A.M. The experiment has been tried. With what result, I am\nnow to describe.\n\nAt eleven o clock, I rang the bell for Betteredge, and told Mr. Blake\nthat he might at last prepare himself for bed.\n\nI looked out of the window at the night. It was mild and rainy,\nresembling, in this respect, the night of the birthday the twenty-first\nof June, last year. Without professing to believe in omens, it was at\nleast encouraging to find no direct nervous influences no stormy or\nelectric perturbations in the atmosphere. Betteredge joined me at the\nwindow, and mysteriously put a little slip of paper into my hand. It\ncontained these lines:\n\n Mrs. Merridew has gone to bed, on the distinct understanding that the\nexplosion is to take place at nine tomorrow morning, and that I am not\nto stir out of this part of the house until she comes and sets me free.\nShe has no idea that the chief scene of the experiment is my\nsitting-room or she would have remained in it for the whole night! I am\nalone, and very anxious. Pray let me see you measure out the laudanum;\nI want to have something to do with it, even in the unimportant\ncharacter of a mere looker-on. R.V. \n\nI followed Betteredge out of the room, and told him to remove the\nmedicine-chest into Miss Verinder s sitting-room.\n\nThe order appeared to take him completely by surprise. He looked as if\nhe suspected me of some occult medical design on Miss Verinder!  Might\nI presume to ask,  he said,  what my young lady and the medicine-chest\nhave got to do with each other? \n\n Stay in the sitting-room, and you will see. \n\nBetteredge appeared to doubt his own unaided capacity to superintend me\neffectually, on an occasion when a medicine-chest was included in the\nproceedings.\n\n Is there any objection, sir  he asked,  to taking Mr. Bruff into this\npart of the business? \n\n Quite the contrary! I am now going to ask Mr. Bruff to accompany me\ndownstairs. \n\nBetteredge withdrew to fetch the medicine-chest, without another word.\nI went back into Mr. Blake s room, and knocked at the door of\ncommunication. Mr. Bruff opened it, with his papers in his\nhand immersed in Law; impenetrable to Medicine.\n\n I am sorry to disturb you,  I said.  But I am going to prepare the\nlaudanum for Mr. Blake; and I must request you to be present, and to\nsee what I do. \n\n Yes?  said Mr. Bruff, with nine-tenths of his attention riveted on his\npapers, and with one-tenth unwillingly accorded to me.  Anything else? \n\n I must trouble you to return here with me, and to see me administer\nthe dose. \n\n Anything else? \n\n One thing more. I must put you to the inconvenience of remaining in\nMr. Blake s room, and of waiting to see what happens. \n\n Oh, very good!  said Mr. Bruff.  My room, or Mr. Blake s room it\ndoesn t matter which; I can go on with my papers anywhere. Unless you\nobject, Mr. Jennings, to my importing _that_ amount of common sense\ninto the proceedings? \n\nBefore I could answer, Mr. Blake addressed himself to the lawyer,\nspeaking from his bed.\n\n Do you really mean to say that you don t feel any interest in what we\nare going to do?  he asked.  Mr. Bruff, you have no more imagination\nthan a cow! \n\n A cow is a very useful animal, Mr. Blake,  said the lawyer. With that\nreply he followed me out of the room, still keeping his papers in his\nhand.\n\nWe found Miss Verinder, pale and agitated, restlessly pacing her\nsitting-room from end to end. At a table in a corner stood Betteredge,\non guard over the medicine-chest. Mr. Bruff sat down on the first chair\nthat he could find, and (emulating the usefulness of the cow) plunged\nback again into his papers on the spot.\n\nMiss Verinder drew me aside, and reverted instantly to her one\nall-absorbing interest her interest in Mr. Blake.\n\n How is he now?  she asked.  Is he nervous? is he out of temper? Do you\nthink it will succeed? Are you sure it will do no harm? \n\n Quite sure. Come, and see me measure it out. \n\n One moment! It is past eleven now. How long will it be before anything\nhappens? \n\n It is not easy to say. An hour perhaps. \n\n I suppose the room must be dark, as it was last year? \n\n Certainly. \n\n I shall wait in my bedroom just as I did before. I shall keep the door\na little way open. It was a little way open last year. I will watch the\nsitting-room door; and the moment it moves, I will blow out my light.\nIt all happened in that way, on my birthday night. And it must all\nhappen again in the same way, musn t it? \n\n Are you sure you can control yourself, Miss Verinder? \n\n In _his_ interests, I can do anything!  she answered fervently.\n\nOne look at her face told me that I could trust her. I addressed myself\nagain to Mr. Bruff.\n\n I must trouble you to put your papers aside for a moment,  I said.\n\n Oh, certainly!  He got up with a start as if I had disturbed him at a\nparticularly interesting place and followed me to the medicine-chest.\nThere, deprived of the breathless excitement incidental to the practice\nof his profession, he looked at Betteredge and yawned wearily.\n\nMiss Verinder joined me with a glass jug of cold water, which she had\ntaken from a side-table.  Let me pour out the water,  she whispered.  I\n_must_ have a hand in it! \n\nI measured out the forty minims from the bottle, and poured the\nlaudanum into a medicine glass.  Fill it till it is three parts full, \nI said, and handed the glass to Miss Verinder. I then directed\nBetteredge to lock up the medicine chest; informing him that I had done\nwith it now. A look of unutterable relief overspread the old servant s\ncountenance. He had evidently suspected me of a medical design on his\nyoung lady!\n\nAfter adding the water as I had directed, Miss Verinder seized a\nmoment while Betteredge was locking the chest, and while Mr. Bruff was\nlooking back to his papers and slyly kissed the rim of the medicine\nglass.  When you give it to him,  said the charming girl,  give it to\nhim on that side! \n\nI took the piece of crystal which was to represent the Diamond from my\npocket, and gave it to her.\n\n You must have a hand in this, too,  I said.  You must put it where you\nput the Moonstone last year. \n\nShe led the way to the Indian cabinet, and put the mock Diamond into\nthe drawer which the real Diamond had occupied on the birthday night.\nMr. Bruff witnessed this proceeding, under protest, as he had witnessed\neverything else. But the strong dramatic interest which the experiment\nwas now assuming, proved (to my great amusement) to be too much for\nBetteredge s capacity of self-restraint. His hand trembled as he held\nthe candle, and he whispered anxiously,  Are you sure, miss, it s the\nright drawer? \n\nI led the way out again, with the laudanum and water in my hand. At the\ndoor, I stopped to address a last word to Miss Verinder.\n\n Don t be long in putting out the lights,  I said.\n\n I will put them out at once,  she answered.  And I will wait in my\nbedroom, with only one candle alight. \n\nShe closed the sitting-room door behind us. Followed by Mr. Bruff and\nBetteredge, I went back to Mr. Blake s room.\n\nWe found him moving restlessly from side to side of the bed, and\nwondering irritably whether he was to have the laudanum that night. In\nthe presence of the two witnesses, I gave him the dose, and shook up\nhis pillows, and told him to lie down again quietly and wait.\n\nHis bed, provided with light chintz curtains, was placed, with the head\nagainst the wall of the room, so as to leave a good open space on\neither side of it. On one side, I drew the curtains completely and in\nthe part of the room thus screened from his view, I placed Mr. Bruff\nand Betteredge, to wait for the result. At the bottom of the bed I half\ndrew the curtains and placed my own chair at a little distance, so that\nI might let him see me or not see me, speak to me or not speak to me,\njust as the circumstances might direct. Having already been informed\nthat he always slept with a light in the room, I placed one of the two\nlighted candles on a little table at the head of the bed, where the\nglare of the light would not strike on his eyes. The other candle I\ngave to Mr. Bruff; the light, in this instance, being subdued by the\nscreen of the chintz curtains. The window was open at the top, so as to\nventilate the room. The rain fell softly, the house was quiet. It was\ntwenty minutes past eleven, by my watch, when the preparations were\ncompleted, and I took my place on the chair set apart at the bottom of\nthe bed.\n\nMr. Bruff resumed his papers, with every appearance of being as deeply\ninterested in them as ever. But looking towards him now, I saw certain\nsigns and tokens which told me that the Law was beginning to lose its\nhold on him at last. The suspended interest of the situation in which\nwe were now placed was slowly asserting its influence even on _his_\nunimaginative mind. As for Betteredge, consistency of principle and\ndignity of conduct had become, in his case, mere empty words. He forgot\nthat I was performing a conjuring trick on Mr. Franklin Blake; he\nforgot that I had upset the house from top to bottom; he forgot that I\nhad not read _Robinson Crusoe_ since I was a child.  For the Lord s\nsake, sir,  he whispered to me,  tell us when it will begin to work. \n\n Not before midnight,  I whispered back.  Say nothing, and sit still. \n\nBetteredge dropped to the lowest depth of familiarity with me, without\na struggle to save himself. He answered by a wink!\n\nLooking next towards Mr. Blake, I found him as restless as ever in his\nbed; fretfully wondering why the influence of the laudanum had not\nbegun to assert itself yet. To tell him, in his present humour, that\nthe more he fidgeted and wondered, the longer he would delay the result\nfor which we were now waiting, would have been simply useless. The\nwiser course to take was to dismiss the idea of the opium from his\nmind, by leading him insensibly to think of something else.\n\nWith this view, I encouraged him to talk to me; contriving so to direct\nthe conversation, on my side, as to lead it back again to the subject\nwhich had engaged us earlier in the evening the subject of the Diamond.\nI took care to revert to those portions of the story of the Moonstone,\nwhich related to the transport of it from London to Yorkshire; to the\nrisk which Mr. Blake had run in removing it from the bank at\nFrizinghall; and to the unexpected appearance of the Indians at the\nhouse, on the evening of the birthday. And I purposely assumed, in\nreferring to these events, to have misunderstood much of what Mr. Blake\nhimself had told me a few hours since. In this way, I set him talking\non the subject with which it was now vitally important to fill his\nmind without allowing him to suspect that I was making him talk for a\npurpose. Little by little, he became so interested in putting me right\nthat he forgot to fidget in the bed. His mind was far away from the\nquestion of the opium, at the all-important time when his eyes first\ntold me that the opium was beginning to lay its hold on his brain.\n\nI looked at my watch. It wanted five minutes to twelve, when the\npremonitory symptoms of the working of the laudanum first showed\nthemselves to me.\n\nAt this time, no unpractised eyes would have detected any change in\nhim. But, as the minutes of the new morning wore away, the\nswiftly-subtle progress of the influence began to show itself more\nplainly. The sublime intoxication of opium gleamed in his eyes; the dew\nof a stealthy perspiration began to glisten on his face. In five\nminutes more, the talk which he still kept up with me, failed in\ncoherence. He held steadily to the subject of the Diamond; but he\nceased to complete his sentences. A little later, the sentences dropped\nto single words. Then, there was an interval of silence. Then, he sat\nup in bed. Then, still busy with the subject of the Diamond, he began\nto talk again not to me, but to himself. That change told me that the\nfirst stage in the experiment was reached. The stimulant influence of\nthe opium had got him.\n\nThe time, now, was twenty-three minutes past twelve. The next half\nhour, at most, would decide the question of whether he would, or would\nnot, get up from his bed, and leave the room.\n\nIn the breathless interest of watching him in the unutterable triumph\nof seeing the first result of the experiment declare itself in the\nmanner, and nearly at the time, which I had anticipated I had utterly\nforgotten the two companions of my night vigil. Looking towards them\nnow, I saw the Law (as represented by Mr. Bruff s papers) lying\nunheeded on the floor. Mr. Bruff himself was looking eagerly through a\ncrevice left in the imperfectly-drawn curtains of the bed. And\nBetteredge, oblivious of all respect for social distinctions, was\npeeping over Mr. Bruff s shoulder.\n\nThey both started back, on finding that I was looking at them, like two\nboys caught out by their schoolmaster in a fault. I signed to them to\ntake off their boots quietly, as I was taking off mine. If Mr. Blake\ngave us the chance of following him, it was vitally necessary to follow\nhim without noise.\n\nTen minutes passed and nothing happened. Then, he suddenly threw the\nbed-clothes off him. He put one leg out of bed. He waited.\n\n I wish I had never taken it out of the bank,  he said to himself.  It\nwas safe in the bank. \n\nMy heart throbbed fast; the pulses at my temples beat furiously. The\ndoubt about the safety of the Diamond was, once more, the dominant\nimpression in his brain! On that one pivot, the whole success of the\nexperiment turned. The prospect thus suddenly opened before me was too\nmuch for my shattered nerves. I was obliged to look away from him or I\nshould have lost my self-control.\n\nThere was another interval of silence.\n\nWhen I could trust myself to look back at him he was out of his bed,\nstanding erect at the side of it. The pupils of his eyes were now\ncontracted; his eyeballs gleamed in the light of the candle as he moved\nhis head slowly to and fro. He was thinking; he was doubting he spoke\nagain.\n\n How do I know?  he said.  The Indians may be hidden in the house. \n\nHe stopped, and walked slowly to the other end of the room. He\nturned waited came back to the bed.\n\n It s not even locked up,  he went on.  It s in the drawer of her\ncabinet. And the drawer doesn t lock. \n\nHe sat down on the side of the bed.  Anybody might take it,  he said.\n\nHe rose again restlessly, and reiterated his first words.\n\n How do I know? The Indians may be hidden in the house. \n\nHe waited again. I drew back behind the half curtain of the bed. He\nlooked about the room, with a vacant glitter in his eyes. It was a\nbreathless moment. There was a pause of some sort. A pause in the\naction of the opium? a pause in the action of the brain? Who could\ntell? Everything depended, now, on what he did next.\n\nHe laid himself down again on the bed!\n\nA horrible doubt crossed my mind. Was it possible that the sedative\naction of the opium was making itself felt already? It was not in my\nexperience that it should do this. But what is experience, where opium\nis concerned? There are probably no two men in existence on whom the\ndrug acts in exactly the same manner. Was some constitutional\npeculiarity in him, feeling the influence in some new way? Were we to\nfail on the very brink of success?\n\nNo! He got up again abruptly.  How the devil am I to sleep,  he said,\n with _this_ on my mind? \n\nHe looked at the light, burning on the table at the head of his bed.\nAfter a moment, he took the candle in his hand.\n\nI blew out the second candle, burning behind the closed curtains. I\ndrew back, with Mr. Bruff and Betteredge, into the farthest corner by\nthe bed. I signed to them to be silent, as if their lives had depended\non it.\n\nWe waited seeing and hearing nothing. We waited, hidden from him by the\ncurtains.\n\nThe light which he was holding on the other side of us moved suddenly.\nThe next moment he passed us, swift and noiseless, with the candle in\nhis hand.\n\nHe opened the bedroom door, and went out.\n\nWe followed him along the corridor. We followed him down the stairs. We\nfollowed him along the second corridor. He never looked back; he never\nhesitated.\n\nHe opened the sitting-room door, and went in, leaving it open behind\nhim.\n\nThe door was hung (like all the other doors in the house) on large\nold-fashioned hinges. When it was opened, a crevice was opened between\nthe door and the post. I signed to my two companions to look through\nthis, so as to keep them from showing themselves. I placed\nmyself outside the door also on the opposite side. A recess in the wall\nwas at my left hand, in which I could instantly hide myself, if he\nshowed any signs of looking back into the corridor.\n\nHe advanced to the middle of the room, with the candle still in his\nhand: he looked about him but he never looked back.\n\nI saw the door of Miss Verinder s bedroom, standing ajar. She had put\nout her light. She controlled herself nobly. The dim white outline of\nher summer dress was all that I could see. Nobody who had not known it\nbeforehand would have suspected that there was a living creature in the\nroom. She kept back, in the dark: not a word, not a movement escaped\nher.\n\nIt was now ten minutes past one. I heard, through the dead silence, the\nsoft drip of the rain and the tremulous passage of the night air\nthrough the trees.\n\nAfter waiting irresolute, for a minute or more, in the middle of the\nroom, he moved to the corner near the window, where the Indian cabinet\nstood.\n\nHe put his candle on the top of the cabinet. He opened, and shut, one\ndrawer after another, until he came to the drawer in which the mock\nDiamond was put. He looked into the drawer for a moment. Then he took\nthe mock Diamond out with his right hand. With the other hand, he took\nthe candle from the top of the cabinet.\n\nHe walked back a few steps towards the middle of the room, and stood\nstill again.\n\nThus far, he had exactly repeated what he had done on the birthday\nnight. Would his next proceeding be the same as the proceeding of last\nyear? Would he leave the room? Would he go back now, as I believed he\nhad gone back then, to his bedchamber? Would he show us what he had\ndone with the Diamond, when he had returned to his own room?\n\nHis first action, when he moved once more, proved to be an action which\nhe had _not_ performed, when he was under the influence of the opium\nfor the first time. He put the candle down on a table, and wandered on\na little towards the farther end of the room. There was a sofa there.\nHe leaned heavily on the back of it, with his left hand then roused\nhimself, and returned to the middle of the room. I could now see his\neyes. They were getting dull and heavy; the glitter in them was fast\ndying out.\n\nThe suspense of the moment proved too much for Miss Verinder s\nself-control. She advanced a few steps then stopped again. Mr. Bruff\nand Betteredge looked across the open doorway at me for the first time.\nThe prevision of a coming disappointment was impressing itself on their\nminds as well as on mine.\n\nStill, so long as he stood where he was, there was hope. We waited, in\nunutterable expectation, to see what would happen next.\n\nThe next event was decisive. He let the mock Diamond drop out of his\nhand.\n\nIt fell on the floor, before the doorway plainly visible to him, and to\neveryone. He made no effort to pick it up: he looked down at it\nvacantly, and, as he looked, his head sank on his breast. He\nstaggered roused himself for an instant walked back unsteadily to the\nsofa and sat down on it. He made a last effort; he tried to rise, and\nsank back. His head fell on the sofa cushions. It was then twenty-five\nminutes past one o clock. Before I had put my watch back in my pocket,\nhe was asleep.\n\nIt was all over now. The sedative influence had got him; the experiment\nwas at an end.\n\nI entered the room, telling Mr. Bruff and Betteredge that they might\nfollow me. There was no fear of disturbing him. We were free to move\nand speak.\n\n The first thing to settle,  I said,  is the question of what we are to\ndo with him. He will probably sleep for the next six or seven hours, at\nleast. It is some distance to carry him back to his own room. When I\nwas younger, I could have done it alone. But my health and strength are\nnot what they were I am afraid I must ask you to help me. \n\nBefore they could answer, Miss Verinder called to me softly. She met me\nat the door of her room, with a light shawl, and with the counterpane\nfrom her own bed.\n\n Do you mean to watch him while he sleeps?  she asked.\n\n Yes, I am not sure enough of the action of the opium in his case to be\nwilling to leave him alone. \n\nShe handed me the shawl and the counterpane.\n\n Why should you disturb him?  she whispered.  Make his bed on the sofa.\nI can shut my door, and keep in my room. \n\nIt was infinitely the simplest and the safest way of disposing of him\nfor the night. I mentioned the suggestion to Mr. Bruff and\nBetteredge who both approved of my adopting it. In five minutes I had\nlaid him comfortably on the sofa, and had covered him lightly with the\ncounterpane and the shawl. Miss Verinder wished us good-night, and\nclosed the door. At my request, we three then drew round the table in\nthe middle of the room, on which the candle was still burning, and on\nwhich writing materials were placed.\n\n Before we separate,  I began,  I have a word to say about the\nexperiment which has been tried tonight. Two distinct objects were to\nbe gained by it. The first of these objects was to prove, that Mr.\nBlake entered this room, and took the Diamond, last year, acting\nunconsciously and irresponsibly, under the influence of opium. After\nwhat you have both seen, are you both satisfied, so far? \n\nThey answered me in the affirmative, without a moment s hesitation.\n\n The second object,  I went on,  was to discover what he did with the\nDiamond, after he was seen by Miss Verinder to leave her sitting-room\nwith the jewel in his hand, on the birthday night. The gaining of this\nobject depended, of course, on his still continuing exactly to repeat\nhis proceedings of last year. He has failed to do that; and the purpose\nof the experiment is defeated accordingly. I can t assert that I am not\ndisappointed at the result but I can honestly say that I am not\nsurprised by it. I told Mr. Blake from the first, that our complete\nsuccess in this matter depended on our completely reproducing in him\nthe physical and moral conditions of last year and I warned him that\nthis was the next thing to a downright impossibility. We have only\npartially reproduced the conditions, and the experiment has been only\npartially successful in consequence. It is also possible that I may\nhave administered too large a dose of laudanum. But I myself look upon\nthe first reason that I have given, as the true reason why we have to\nlament a failure, as well as to rejoice over a success. \n\nAfter saying those words, I put the writing materials before Mr. Bruff,\nand asked him if he had any objection before we separated for the\nnight to draw out, and sign, a plain statement of what he had seen. He\nat once took the pen, and produced the statement with the fluent\nreadiness of a practised hand.\n\n I owe you this,  he said, signing the paper,  as some atonement for\nwhat passed between us earlier in the evening. I beg your pardon, Mr.\nJennings, for having doubted you. You have done Franklin Blake an\ninestimable service. In our legal phrase, you have proved your case. \n\nBetteredge s apology was characteristic of the man.\n\n Mr. Jennings,  he said,  when you read _Robinson Crusoe_ again (which\nI strongly recommend you to do), you will find that he never scruples\nto acknowledge it, when he turns out to have been in the wrong. Please\nto consider me, sir, as doing what Robinson Crusoe did, on the present\noccasion.  With those words he signed the paper in his turn.\n\nMr. Bruff took me aside, as we rose from the table.\n\n One word about the Diamond,  he said.  Your theory is that Franklin\nBlake hid the Moonstone in his room. My theory is, that the Moonstone\nis in the possession of Mr. Luker s bankers in London. We won t dispute\nwhich of us is right. We will only ask, which of us is in a position to\nput his theory to the test? \n\n The test, in my case,  I answered,  has been tried tonight, and has\nfailed. \n\n The test, in my case,  rejoined Mr. Bruff,  is still in process of\ntrial. For the last two days I have had a watch set for Mr. Luker at\nthe bank; and I shall cause that watch to be continued until the last\nday of the month. I know that he must take the Diamond himself out of\nhis bankers  hands and I am acting on the chance that the person who\nhas pledged the Diamond may force him to do this by redeeming the\npledge. In that case I may be able to lay my hand on the person. If I\nsucceed, I clear up the mystery, exactly at the point where the mystery\nbaffles us now! Do you admit that, so far? \n\nI admitted it readily.\n\n I am going back to town by the morning train,  pursued the lawyer.  I\nmay hear, when I return, that a discovery has been made and it may be\nof the greatest importance that I should have Franklin Blake at hand to\nappeal to, if necessary. I intend to tell him, as soon as he wakes,\nthat he must return with me to London. After all that has happened, may\nI trust to your influence to back me? \n\n Certainly!  I said.\n\nMr. Bruff shook hands with me, and left the room. Betteredge followed\nhim out.\n\nI went to the sofa to look at Mr. Blake. He had not moved since I had\nlaid him down and made his bed he lay locked in a deep and quiet sleep.\n\nWhile I was still looking at him, I heard the bedroom door softly\nopened. Once more, Miss Verinder appeared on the threshold, in her\npretty summer dress.\n\n Do me a last favour?  she whispered.  Let me watch him with you. \n\nI hesitated not in the interests of propriety; only in the interest of\nher night s rest. She came close to me, and took my hand.\n\n I can t sleep; I can t even sit still, in my own room,  she said.  Oh,\nMr. Jennings, if you were me, only think how you would long to sit and\nlook at him. Say, yes! Do! \n\nIs it necessary to mention that I gave way? Surely not!\n\nShe drew a chair to the foot of the sofa. She looked at him in a silent\necstasy of happiness, till the tears rose in her eyes. She dried her\neyes, and said she would fetch her work. She fetched her work, and\nnever did a single stitch of it. It lay in her lap she was not even\nable to look away from him long enough to thread her needle. I thought\nof my own youth; I thought of the gentle eyes which had once looked\nlove at _me_. In the heaviness of my heart I turned to my Journal for\nrelief, and wrote in it what is written here.\n\nSo we kept our watch together in silence. One of us absorbed in his\nwriting; the other absorbed in her love.\n\nHour after hour he lay in his deep sleep. The light of the new day grew\nand grew in the room, and still he never moved.\n\nTowards six o clock, I felt the warning which told me that my pains\nwere coming back. I was obliged to leave her alone with him for a\nlittle while. I said I would go upstairs, and fetch another pillow for\nhim out of his room. It was not a long attack, this time. In a little\nwhile I was able to venture back, and let her see me again.\n\nI found her at the head of the sofa, when I returned. She was just\ntouching his forehead with her lips. I shook my head as soberly as I\ncould, and pointed to her chair. She looked back at me with a bright\nsmile, and a charming colour in her face.  You would have done it,  she\nwhispered,  in my place! \n\nIt is just eight o clock. He is beginning to move for the first time.\n\nMiss Verinder is kneeling by the side of the sofa. She has so placed\nherself that when his eyes first open, they must open on her face.\n\nShall I leave them together?\n\nYes!\n\nEleven o clock. The house is empty again. They have arranged it among\nthemselves; they have all gone to London by the ten o clock train. My\nbrief dream of happiness is over. I have awakened again to the\nrealities of my friendless and lonely life.\n\nI dare not trust myself to write down, the kind words that have been\nsaid to me especially by Miss Verinder and Mr. Blake. Besides, it is\nneedless. Those words will come back to me in my solitary hours, and\nwill help me through what is left of the end of my life. Mr. Blake is\nto write, and tell me what happens in London. Miss Verinder is to\nreturn to Yorkshire in the autumn (for her marriage, no doubt); and I\nam to take a holiday, and be a guest in the house. Oh me, how I felt,\nas the grateful happiness looked at me out of her eyes, and the warm\npressure of her hand said,  This is your doing! \n\nMy poor patients are waiting for me. Back again, this morning, to the\nold routine! Back again, tonight, to the dreadful alternative between\nthe opium and the pain!\n\nGod be praised for His mercy! I have seen a little sunshine I have had\na happy time.\n\n\nFIFTH NARRATIVE.\n\n_The Story resumed by Franklin Blake._\n\n CHAPTER I\n\nBut few words are needed, on my part, to complete the narrative that\nhas been presented in the Journal of Ezra Jennings.\n\nOf myself, I have only to say that I awoke on the morning of the\ntwenty-sixth, perfectly ignorant of all that I had said and done under\nthe influence of the opium from the time when the drug first laid its\nhold on me, to the time when I opened my eyes, in Rachel s\nsitting-room.\n\nOf what happened after my waking, I do not feel called upon to render\nan account in detail. Confining myself merely to results, I have to\nreport that Rachel and I thoroughly understood each other, before a\nsingle word of explanation had passed on either side. I decline to\naccount, and Rachel declines to account, for the extraordinary rapidity\nof our reconciliation. Sir and Madam, look back at the time when you\nwere passionately attached to each other and you will know what\nhappened, after Ezra Jennings had shut the door of the sitting-room, as\nwell as I know it myself.\n\nI have, however, no objection to add, that we should have been\ncertainly discovered by Mrs. Merridew, but for Rachel s presence of\nmind. She heard the sound of the old lady s dress in the corridor, and\ninstantly ran out to meet her; I heard Mrs. Merridew say,  What is the\nmatter?  and I heard Rachel answer,  The explosion!  Mrs. Merridew\ninstantly permitted herself to be taken by the arm, and led into the\ngarden, out of the way of the impending shock. On her return to the\nhouse, she met me in the hall, and expressed herself as greatly struck\nby the vast improvement in Science, since the time when she was a girl\nat school.  Explosions, Mr. Blake, are infinitely milder than they\nwere. I assure you, I barely heard Mr. Jennings s explosion from the\ngarden. And no smell afterwards, that I can detect, now we have come\nback to the house! I must really apologise to your medical friend. It\nis only due to him to say that he has managed it beautifully! \n\nSo, after vanquishing Betteredge and Mr. Bruff, Ezra Jennings\nvanquished Mrs. Merridew herself. There is a great deal of undeveloped\nliberal feeling in the world, after all!\n\nAt breakfast, Mr. Bruff made no secret of his reasons for wishing that\nI should accompany him to London by the morning train. The watch kept\nat the bank, and the result which might yet come of it, appealed so\nirresistibly to Rachel s curiosity, that she at once decided (if Mrs.\nMerridew had no objection) on accompanying us back to town so as to be\nwithin reach of the earliest news of our proceedings.\n\nMrs. Merridew proved to be all pliability and indulgence, after the\ntruly considerate manner in which the explosion had conducted itself;\nand Betteredge was accordingly informed that we were all four to travel\nback together by the morning train. I fully expected that he would have\nasked leave to accompany us. But Rachel had wisely provided her\nfaithful old servant with an occupation that interested him. He was\ncharged with completing the refurnishing of the house, and was too full\nof his domestic responsibilities to feel the  detective-fever  as he\nmight have felt it under other circumstances.\n\nOur one subject of regret, in going to London, was the necessity of\nparting, more abruptly than we could have wished, with Ezra Jennings.\nIt was impossible to persuade him to accompany us. I could only promise\nto write to him and Rachel could only insist on his coming to see her\nwhen she returned to Yorkshire. There was every prospect of our meeting\nagain in a few months and yet there was something very sad in seeing\nour best and dearest friend left standing alone on the platform, as the\ntrain moved out of the station.\n\nOn our arrival in London, Mr. Bruff was accosted at the terminus by a\nsmall boy, dressed in a jacket and trousers of threadbare black cloth,\nand personally remarkable in virtue of the extraordinary prominence of\nhis eyes. They projected so far, and they rolled about so loosely, that\nyou wondered uneasily why they remained in their sockets. After\nlistening to the boy, Mr. Bruff asked the ladies whether they would\nexcuse our accompanying them back to Portland Place. I had barely time\nto promise Rachel that I would return, and tell her everything that had\nhappened, before Mr. Bruff seized me by the arm, and hurried me into a\ncab. The boy with the ill-secured eyes took his place on the box by the\ndriver, and the driver was directed to go to Lombard Street.\n\n News from the bank?  I asked, as we started.\n\n News of Mr. Luker,  said Mr. Bruff.  An hour ago, he was seen to leave\nhis house at Lambeth, in a cab, accompanied by two men, who were\nrecognised by _my_ men as police officers in plain clothes. If Mr.\nLuker s dread of the Indians is at the bottom of this precaution, the\ninference is plain enough. He is going to take the Diamond out of the\nbank. \n\n And we are going to the bank to see what comes of it? \n\n Yes or to hear what has come of it, if it is all over by this time.\nDid you notice my boy on the box, there? \n\n I noticed his eyes. \n\nMr. Bruff laughed.  They call the poor little wretch  Gooseberry  at\nthe office,  he said.  I employ him to go on errands and I only wish my\nclerks who have nick-named him were as thoroughly to be depended on as\nhe is. Gooseberry is one of the sharpest boys in London, Mr. Blake, in\nspite of his eyes. \n\nIt was twenty minutes to five when we drew up before the bank in\nLombard Street. Gooseberry looked longingly at his master, as he opened\nthe cab door.\n\n Do you want to come in too?  asked Mr. Bruff kindly.  Come in then,\nand keep at my heels till further orders. He s as quick as lightning, \npursued Mr. Bruff, addressing me in a whisper.  Two words will do with\nGooseberry, where twenty would be wanted with another boy. \n\nWe entered the bank. The outer office with the long counter, behind\nwhich the cashiers sat was crowded with people; all waiting their turn\nto take money out, or to pay money in, before the bank closed at five\no clock.\n\nTwo men among the crowd approached Mr. Bruff, as soon as he showed\nhimself.\n\n Well,  asked the lawyer.  Have you seen him? \n\n He passed us here half an hour since, sir, and went on into the inner\noffice. \n\n Has he not come out again yet? \n\n No, sir. \n\nMr. Bruff turned to me.  Let us wait,  he said.\n\nI looked round among the people about me for the three Indians. Not a\nsign of them was to be seen anywhere. The only person present with a\nnoticeably dark complexion was a tall man in a pilot coat, and a round\nhat, who looked like a sailor. Could this be one of them in disguise?\nImpossible! The man was taller than any of the Indians; and his face,\nwhere it was not hidden by a bushy black beard, was twice the breadth\nof any of their faces at least.\n\n They must have their spy somewhere,  said Mr. Bruff, looking at the\ndark sailor in his turn.  And he may be the man. \n\nBefore he could say more, his coat-tail was respectfully pulled by his\nattendant sprite with the gooseberry eyes. Mr. Bruff looked where the\nboy was looking.  Hush!  he said.  Here is Mr. Luker! \n\nThe money-lender came out from the inner regions of the bank, followed\nby his two guardian policemen in plain clothes.\n\n Keep your eye on him,  whispered Mr. Bruff.  If he passes the Diamond\nto anybody, he will pass it here. \n\nWithout noticing either of us, Mr. Luker slowly made his way to the\ndoor now in the thickest, now in the thinnest part of the crowd. I\ndistinctly saw his hand move, as he passed a short, stout man,\nrespectably dressed in a suit of sober grey. The man started a little,\nand looked after him. Mr. Luker moved on slowly through the crowd. At\nthe door his guard placed themselves on either side of him. They were\nall three followed by one of Mr. Bruff s men and I saw them no more.\n\nI looked round at the lawyer, and then looked significantly towards the\nman in the suit of sober grey.  Yes!  whispered Mr. Bruff,  I saw it\ntoo!  He turned about, in search of his second man. The second man was\nnowhere to be seen. He looked behind him for his attendant sprite.\nGooseberry had disappeared.\n\n What the devil does it mean?  said Mr. Bruff angrily.  They have both\nleft us at the very time when we want them most. \n\nIt came to the turn of the man in the grey suit to transact his\nbusiness at the counter. He paid in a cheque received a receipt for\nit and turned to go out.\n\n What is to be done?  asked Mr. Bruff.  _We_ can t degrade ourselves by\nfollowing him. \n\n _I_ can!  I said.  I wouldn t lose sight of that man for ten thousand\npounds! \n\n In that case,  rejoined Mr. Bruff,  I wouldn t lose sight of _you_,\nfor twice the money. A nice occupation for a man in my position,  he\nmuttered to himself, as we followed the stranger out of the bank.  For\nHeaven s sake don t mention it. I should be ruined if it was known. \n\nThe man in the grey suit got into an omnibus, going westward. We got in\nafter him. There were latent reserves of youth still left in Mr. Bruff.\nI assert it positively when he took his seat in the omnibus, he\nblushed!\n\nThe man in the grey suit stopped the omnibus, and got out in Oxford\nStreet. We followed him again. He went into a chemist s shop.\n\nMr. Bruff started.  My chemist!  he exclaimed.  I am afraid we have\nmade a mistake. \n\nWe entered the shop. Mr. Bruff and the proprietor exchanged a few words\nin private. The lawyer joined me again, with a very crestfallen face.\n\n It s greatly to our credit,  he said, as he took my arm, and led me\nout that s one comfort! \n\n What is to our credit?  I asked.\n\n Mr. Blake! you and I are the two worst amateur detectives that ever\ntried their hands at the trade. The man in the grey suit has been\nthirty years in the chemist s service. He was sent to the bank to pay\nmoney to his master s account and he knows no more of the Moonstone\nthan the babe unborn. \n\nI asked what was to be done next.\n\n Come back to my office,  said Mr. Bruff.  Gooseberry, and my second\nman, have evidently followed somebody else. Let us hope that _they_ had\ntheir eyes about them at any rate! \n\nWhen we reached Gray s Inn Square, the second man had arrived there\nbefore us. He had been waiting for more than a quarter of an hour.\n\n Well!  asked Mr. Bruff.  What s your news? \n\n I am sorry to say, sir,  replied the man,  that I have made a mistake.\nI could have taken my oath that I saw Mr. Luker pass something to an\nelderly gentleman, in a light-coloured paletot. The elderly gentleman\nturns out, sir, to be a most respectable master iron-monger in\nEastcheap. \n\n Where is Gooseberry?  asked Mr. Bruff resignedly.\n\nThe man stared.  I don t know, sir. I have seen nothing of him since I\nleft the bank. \n\nMr. Bruff dismissed the man.  One of two things,  he said to me.\n Either Gooseberry has run away, or he is hunting on his own account.\nWhat do you say to dining here, on the chance that the boy may come\nback in an hour or two? I have got some good wine in the cellar, and we\ncan get a chop from the coffee-house. \n\nWe dined at Mr. Bruff s chambers. Before the cloth was removed,  a\nperson  was announced as wanting to speak to the lawyer. Was the person\nGooseberry? No: only the man who had been employed to follow Mr. Luker\nwhen he left the bank.\n\nThe report, in this case, presented no feature of the slightest\ninterest. Mr. Luker had gone back to his own house, and had there\ndismissed his guard. He had not gone out again afterwards. Towards\ndusk, the shutters had been put up, and the doors had been bolted. The\nstreet before the house, and the alley behind the house, had been\ncarefully watched. No signs of the Indians had been visible. No person\nwhatever had been seen loitering about the premises. Having stated\nthese facts, the man waited to know whether there were any further\norders. Mr. Bruff dismissed him for the night.\n\n Do you think Mr. Luker has taken the Moonstone home with him?  I\nasked.\n\n Not he,  said Mr. Bruff.  He would never have dismissed his two\npolicemen, if he had run the risk of keeping the Diamond in his own\nhouse again. \n\nWe waited another half-hour for the boy, and waited in vain. It was\nthen time for Mr. Bruff to go to Hampstead, and for me to return to\nRachel in Portland Place. I left my card, in charge of the porter at\nthe chambers, with a line written on it to say that I should be at my\nlodgings at half past ten, that night. The card was to be given to the\nboy, if the boy came back.\n\nSome men have a knack of keeping appointments; and other men have a\nknack of missing them. I am one of the other men. Add to this, that I\npassed the evening at Portland Place, on the same seat with Rachel, in\na room forty feet long, with Mrs. Merridew at the further end of it.\nDoes anybody wonder that I got home at half past twelve instead of half\npast ten? How thoroughly heartless that person must be! And how\nearnestly I hope I may never make that person s acquaintance!\n\nMy servant handed me a morsel of paper when he let me in.\n\nI read, in a neat legal handwriting, these words If you please, sir, I\nam getting sleepy. I will come back tomorrow morning, between nine and\nten.  Inquiry proved that a boy, with very extraordinary-looking eyes,\nhad called, and presented my card and message, had waited an hour, had\ndone nothing but fall asleep and wake up again, had written a line for\nme, and had gone home after gravely informing the servant that  he was\nfit for nothing unless he got his night s rest. \n\nAt nine, the next morning, I was ready for my visitor. At half past\nnine, I heard steps outside my door.  Come in, Gooseberry!  I called\nout.  Thank you, sir,  answered a grave and melancholy voice. The door\nopened. I started to my feet, and confronted Sergeant Cuff!\n\n I thought I would look in here, Mr. Blake, on the chance of your being\nin town, before I wrote to Yorkshire,  said the Sergeant.\n\nHe was as dreary and as lean as ever. His eyes had not lost their old\ntrick (so subtly noticed in Betteredge s Narrative) of  looking as if\nthey expected something more from you than you were aware of yourself. \nBut, so far as dress can alter a man, the great Cuff was changed beyond\nall recognition. He wore a broad-brimmed white hat, a light shooting\njacket, white trousers, and drab gaiters. He carried a stout oak stick.\nHis whole aim and object seemed to be to look as if he had lived in the\ncountry all his life. When I complimented him on his Metamorphosis, he\ndeclined to take it as a joke. He complained, quite gravely, of the\nnoises and the smells of London. I declare I am far from sure that he\ndid not speak with a slightly rustic accent! I offered him breakfast.\nThe innocent countryman was quite shocked. _His_ breakfast hour was\nhalf-past six and _he_ went to bed with the cocks and hens!\n\n I only got back from Ireland last night,  said the Sergeant, coming\nround to the practical object of his visit, in his own impenetrable\nmanner.  Before I went to bed, I read your letter, telling me what has\nhappened since my inquiry after the Diamond was suspended last year.\nThere s only one thing to be said about the matter on my side. I\ncompletely mistook my case. How any man living was to have seen things\nin their true light, in such a situation as mine was at the time, I\ndon t profess to know. But that doesn t alter the facts as they stand.\nI own that I made a mess of it. Not the first mess, Mr. Blake, which\nhas distinguished my professional career! It s only in books that the\nofficers of the detective force are superior to the weakness of making\na mistake. \n\n You have come in the nick of time to recover your reputation,  I said.\n\n I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake,  rejoined the Sergeant.  Now I have\nretired from business, I don t care a straw about my reputation. I have\ndone with my reputation, thank God! I am here, sir, in grateful\nremembrance of the late Lady Verinder s liberality to me. I will go\nback to my old work if you want me, and if you will trust me on that\nconsideration, and on no other. Not a farthing of money is to pass, if\nyou please, from you to me. This is on honour. Now tell me, Mr. Blake,\nhow the case stands since you wrote to me last. \n\nI told him of the experiment with the opium, and of what had occurred\nafterwards at the bank in Lombard Street. He was greatly struck by the\nexperiment it was something entirely new in his experience. And he was\nparticularly interested in the theory of Ezra Jennings, relating to\nwhat I had done with the Diamond, after I had left Rachel s\nsitting-room, on the birthday night.\n\n I don t hold with Mr. Jennings that you hid the Moonstone,  said\nSergeant Cuff.  But I agree with him, that you must certainly have\ntaken it back to your own room. \n\n Well?  I asked.  And what happened then? \n\n Have you no suspicion yourself of what happened, sir? \n\n None whatever. \n\n Has Mr. Bruff no suspicion? \n\n No more than I have. \n\nSergeant Cuff rose, and went to my writing-table. He came back with a\nsealed envelope. It was marked  Private;  it was addressed to me; and\nit had the Sergeant s signature in the corner.\n\n I suspected the wrong person, last year,  he said:  and I may be\nsuspecting the wrong person now. Wait to open the envelope, Mr. Blake,\ntill you have got at the truth. And then compare the name of the guilty\nperson, with the name that I have written in that sealed letter. \n\nI put the letter into my pocket and then asked for the Sergeant s\nopinion of the measures which we had taken at the bank.\n\n Very well intended, sir,  he answered,  and quite the right thing to\ndo. But there was another person who ought to have been looked after\nbesides Mr. Luker. \n\n The person named in the letter you have just given to me? \n\n Yes, Mr. Blake, the person named in the letter. It can t be helped\nnow. I shall have something to propose to you and Mr. Bruff, sir, when\nthe time comes. Let s wait, first, and see if the boy has anything to\ntell us that is worth hearing. \n\nIt was close on ten o clock, and the boy had not made his appearance.\nSergeant Cuff talked of other matters. He asked after his old friend\nBetteredge, and his old enemy the gardener. In a minute more, he would\nno doubt have got from this, to the subject of his favourite roses, if\nmy servant had not interrupted us by announcing that the boy was below.\n\nOn being brought into the room, Gooseberry stopped at the threshold of\nthe door, and looked distrustfully at the stranger who was in my\ncompany. I told the boy to come to me.\n\n You may speak before this gentleman,  I said.  He is here to assist\nme; and he knows all that has happened. Sergeant Cuff,  I added,  this\nis the boy from Mr. Bruff s office. \n\nIn our modern system of civilisation, celebrity (no matter of what\nkind) is the lever that will move anything. The fame of the great Cuff\nhad even reached the ears of the small Gooseberry. The boy s ill-fixed\neyes rolled, when I mentioned the illustrious name, till I thought they\nreally must have dropped on the carpet.\n\n Come here, my lad,  said the Sergeant,  and let s hear what you have\ngot to tell us. \n\nThe notice of the great man the hero of many a famous story in every\nlawyer s office in London appeared to fascinate the boy. He placed\nhimself in front of Sergeant Cuff, and put his hands behind him, after\nthe approved fashion of a neophyte who is examined in his catechism.\n\n What is your name?  said the Sergeant, beginning with the first\nquestion in the catechism.\n\n Octavius Guy,  answered the boy.  They call me Gooseberry at the\noffice because of my eyes. \n\n Octavius Guy, otherwise Gooseberry,  pursued the Sergeant, with the\nutmost gravity,  you were missed at the bank yesterday. What were you\nabout? \n\n If you please, sir, I was following a man. \n\n Who was he? \n\n A tall man, sir, with a big black beard, dressed like a sailor. \n\n I remember the man!  I broke in.  Mr. Bruff and I thought he was a spy\nemployed by the Indians. \n\nSergeant Cuff did not appear to be much impressed by what Mr. Bruff and\nI had thought. He went on catechising Gooseberry.\n\n Well?  he said and why did you follow the sailor? \n\n If you please, sir, Mr. Bruff wanted to know whether Mr. Luker passed\nanything to anybody on his way out of the bank. I saw Mr. Luker pass\nsomething to the sailor with the black beard. \n\n Why didn t you tell Mr. Bruff what you saw? \n\n I hadn t time to tell anybody, sir, the sailor went out in such a\nhurry. \n\n And you ran out after him eh? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Gooseberry,  said the Sergeant, patting his head,  you have got\nsomething in that small skull of yours and it isn t cotton-wool. I am\ngreatly pleased with you, so far. \n\nThe boy blushed with pleasure. Sergeant Cuff went on.\n\n Well? and what did the sailor do, when he got into the street? \n\n He called a cab, sir. \n\n And what did you do? \n\n Held on behind, and run after it. \n\nBefore the Sergeant could put his next question, another visitor was\nannounced the head clerk from Mr. Bruff s office.\n\nFeeling the importance of not interrupting Sergeant Cuff s examination\nof the boy, I received the clerk in another room. He came with bad news\nof his employer. The agitation and excitement of the last two days had\nproved too much for Mr. Bruff. He had awoke that morning with an attack\nof gout; he was confined to his room at Hampstead; and, in the present\ncritical condition of our affairs, he was very uneasy at being\ncompelled to leave me without the advice and assistance of an\nexperienced person. The chief clerk had received orders to hold himself\nat my disposal, and was willing to do his best to replace Mr. Bruff.\n\nI wrote at once to quiet the old gentleman s mind, by telling him of\nSergeant Cuff s visit: adding that Gooseberry was at that moment under\nexamination; and promising to inform Mr. Bruff, either personally, or\nby letter, of whatever might occur later in the day. Having despatched\nthe clerk to Hampstead with my note, I returned to the room which I had\nleft, and found Sergeant Cuff at the fireplace, in the act of ringing\nthe bell.\n\n I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake,  said the Sergeant.  I was just going to\nsend word by your servant that I wanted to speak to you. There isn t a\ndoubt on my mind that this boy this most meritorious boy,  added the\nSergeant, patting Gooseberry on the head,  has followed the right man.\nPrecious time has been lost, sir, through your unfortunately not being\nat home at half past ten last night. The only thing to do, now, is to\nsend for a cab immediately. \n\nIn five minutes more, Sergeant Cuff and I (with Gooseberry on the box\nto guide the driver) were on our way eastward, towards the City.\n\n One of these days,  said the Sergeant, pointing through the front\nwindow of the cab,  that boy will do great things in my late\nprofession. He is the brightest and cleverest little chap I have met\nwith, for many a long year past. You shall hear the substance, Mr.\nBlake, of what he told me while you were out of the room. You were\npresent, I think, when he mentioned that he held on behind the cab, and\nran after it? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well, sir, the cab went from Lombard Street to the Tower Wharf. The\nsailor with the black beard got out, and spoke to the steward of the\nRotterdam steamboat, which was to start next morning. He asked if he\ncould be allowed to go on board at once, and sleep in his berth\nover-night. The steward said, No. The cabins, and berths, and bedding\nwere all to have a thorough cleaning that evening, and no passenger\ncould be allowed to come on board, before the morning. The sailor\nturned round, and left the wharf. When he got into the street again,\nthe boy noticed for the first time, a man dressed like a respectable\nmechanic, walking on the opposite side of the road, and apparently\nkeeping the sailor in view. The sailor stopped at an eating-house in\nthe neighbourhood, and went in. The boy not being able to make up his\nmind, at the moment hung about among some other boys, staring at the\ngood things in the eating-house window. He noticed the mechanic\nwaiting, as he himself was waiting but still on the opposite side of\nthe street. After a minute, a cab came by slowly, and stopped where the\nmechanic was standing. The boy could only see plainly one person in the\ncab, who leaned forward at the window to speak to the mechanic. He\ndescribed that person, Mr. Blake, without any prompting from me, as\nhaving a dark face, like the face of an Indian. \n\nIt was plain, by this time, that Mr. Bruff and I had made another\nmistake. The sailor with the black beard was clearly not a spy in the\nservice of the Indian conspiracy. Was he, by any possibility, the man\nwho had got the Diamond?\n\n After a little,  pursued the Sergeant,  the cab moved on slowly down\nthe street. The mechanic crossed the road, and went into the\neating-house. The boy waited outside till he was hungry and tired and\nthen went into the eating-house, in his turn. He had a shilling in his\npocket; and he dined sumptuously, he tells me, on a black-pudding, an\neel-pie, and a bottle of ginger-beer. What can a boy _not_ digest? The\nsubstance in question has never been found yet. \n\n What did he see in the eating-house?  I asked.\n\n Well, Mr. Blake, he saw the sailor reading the newspaper at one table,\nand the mechanic reading the newspaper at another. It was dusk before\nthe sailor got up, and left the place. He looked about him suspiciously\nwhen he got out into the street. The boy _being_ a boy passed\nunnoticed. The mechanic had not come out yet. The sailor walked on,\nlooking about him, and apparently not very certain of where he was\ngoing next. The mechanic appeared once more, on the opposite side of\nthe road. The sailor went on, till he got to Shore Lane, leading into\nLower Thames Street. There he stopped before a public-house, under the\nsign of  The Wheel of Fortune,  and, after examining the place outside,\nwent in. Gooseberry went in too. There were a great many people, mostly\nof the decent sort, at the bar.  The Wheel of Fortune  is a very\nrespectable house, Mr. Blake; famous for its porter and pork-pies. \n\nThe Sergeant s digressions irritated me. He saw it; and confined\nhimself more strictly to Gooseberry s evidence when he went on.\n\n The sailor,  he resumed,  asked if he could have a bed. The landlord\nsaid  No; they were full.  The barmaid corrected him, and said  Number\nTen was empty.  A waiter was sent for to show the sailor to Number Ten.\nJust before that, Gooseberry had noticed the mechanic among the people\nat the bar. Before the waiter had answered the call, the mechanic had\nvanished. The sailor was taken off to his room. Not knowing what to do\nnext, Gooseberry had the wisdom to wait and see if anything happened.\nSomething did happen. The landlord was called for. Angry voices were\nheard upstairs. The mechanic suddenly made his appearance again,\ncollared by the landlord, and exhibiting, to Gooseberry s great\nsurprise, all the signs and tokens of being drunk. The landlord thrust\nhim out at the door, and threatened him with the police if he came\nback. From the altercation between them, while this was going on, it\nappeared that the man had been discovered in Number Ten, and had\ndeclared with drunken obstinacy that he had taken the room. Gooseberry\nwas so struck by this sudden intoxication of a previously sober person,\nthat he couldn t resist running out after the mechanic into the street.\nAs long as he was in sight of the public-house, the man reeled about in\nthe most disgraceful manner. The moment he turned the corner of the\nstreet, he recovered his balance instantly, and became as sober a\nmember of society as you could wish to see. Gooseberry went back to\n The Wheel of Fortune  in a very bewildered state of mind. He waited\nabout again, on the chance of something happening. Nothing happened;\nand nothing more was to be heard, or seen, of the sailor. Gooseberry\ndecided on going back to the office. Just as he came to this\nconclusion, who should appear, on the opposite side of the street as\nusual, but the mechanic again! He looked up at one particular window at\nthe top of the public-house, which was the only one that had a light in\nit. The light seemed to relieve his mind. He left the place directly.\nThe boy made his way back to Gray s Inn got your card and\nmessage called and failed to find you. There you have the state of the\ncase, Mr. Blake, as it stands at the present time. \n\n What is your own opinion of the case, Sergeant? \n\n I think it s serious, sir. Judging by what the boy saw, the Indians\nare in it, to begin with. \n\n Yes. And the sailor is evidently the person to whom Mr. Luker passed\nthe Diamond. It seems odd that Mr. Bruff, and I, and the man in Mr.\nBruff s employment, should all have been mistaken about who the person\nwas. \n\n Not at all, Mr. Blake. Considering the risk that person ran, it s\nlikely enough that Mr. Luker purposely misled you, by previous\narrangement between them. \n\n Do you understand the proceedings at the public-house?  I asked.  The\nman dressed like a mechanic was acting of course in the employment of\nthe Indians. But I am as much puzzled to account for his sudden\nassumption of drunkenness as Gooseberry himself. \n\n I think I can give a guess at what it means, sir,  said the Sergeant.\n If you will reflect, you will see that the man must have had some\npretty strict instructions from the Indians. They were far too\nnoticeable themselves to risk being seen at the bank, or in the\npublic-house they were obliged to trust everything to their deputy.\nVery good. Their deputy hears a certain number named in the\npublic-house, as the number of the room which the sailor is to have for\nthe night that being also the room (unless our notion is all wrong)\nwhich the Diamond is to have for the night, too. Under those\ncircumstances, the Indians, you may rely on it, would insist on having\na description of the room of its position in the house, of its\ncapability of being approached from the outside, and so on. What was\nthe man to do, with such orders as these? Just what he did! He ran\nupstairs to get a look at the room, before the sailor was taken into\nit. He was found there, making his observations and he shammed drunk,\nas the easiest way of getting out of the difficulty. That s how I read\nthe riddle. After he was turned out of the public-house, he probably\nwent with his report to the place where his employers were waiting for\nhim. And his employers, no doubt, sent him back to make sure that the\nsailor was really settled at the public-house till the next morning. As\nfor what happened at  The Wheel of Fortune,  after the boy left we\nought to have discovered that last night. It s eleven in the morning,\nnow. We must hope for the best, and find out what we can. \n\nIn a quarter of an hour more, the cab stopped in Shore Lane, and\nGooseberry opened the door for us to get out.\n\n All right?  asked the Sergeant.\n\n All right,  answered the boy.\n\nThe moment we entered  The Wheel of Fortune  it was plain even to my\ninexperienced eyes that there was something wrong in the house.\n\nThe only person behind the counter at which the liquors were served,\nwas a bewildered servant girl, perfectly ignorant of the business. One\nor two customers, waiting for their morning drink, were tapping\nimpatiently on the counter with their money. The barmaid appeared from\nthe inner regions of the parlour, excited and preoccupied. She answered\nSergeant Cuff s inquiry for the landlord, by telling him sharply that\nher master was upstairs, and was not to be bothered by anybody.\n\n Come along with me, sir,  said Sergeant Cuff, coolly leading the way\nupstairs, and beckoning to the boy to follow him.\n\nThe barmaid called to her master, and warned him that strangers were\nintruding themselves into the house. On the first floor we were\nencountered by the landlord, hurrying down, in a highly irritated\nstate, to see what was the matter.\n\n Who the devil are you? and what do you want here?  he asked.\n\n Keep your temper,  said the Sergeant, quietly.  I ll tell you who I am\nto begin with. I am Sergeant Cuff. \n\nThe illustrious name instantly produced its effect. The angry landlord\nthrew open the door of a sitting-room, and asked the Sergeant s pardon.\n\n I am annoyed and out of sorts, sir that s the truth,  he said.\n Something unpleasant has happened in the house this morning. A man in\nmy way of business has a deal to upset his temper, Sergeant Cuff. \n\n Not a doubt of it,  said the Sergeant.  I ll come at once, if you will\nallow me, to what brings us here. This gentleman and I want to trouble\nyou with a few inquiries, on a matter of some interest to both of us. \n\n Relating to what, sir?  asked the landlord.\n\n Relating to a dark man, dressed like a sailor, who slept here last\nnight. \n\n Good God! that s the man who is upsetting the whole house at this\nmoment!  exclaimed the landlord.  Do you, or does this gentleman know\nanything about him? \n\n We can t be certain till we see him,  answered the Sergeant.\n\n See him?  echoed the landlord.  That s the one thing that nobody has\nbeen able to do since seven o clock this morning. That was the time\nwhen he left word, last night, that he was to be called. He _was_\ncalled and there was no getting an answer from him, and no opening his\ndoor to see what was the matter. They tried again at eight, and they\ntried again at nine. No use! There was the door still locked and not a\nsound to be heard in the room! I have been out this morning and I only\ngot back a quarter of an hour ago. I have hammered at the door\nmyself and all to no purpose. The potboy has gone to fetch a carpenter.\nIf you can wait a few minutes, gentlemen, we will have the door opened,\nand see what it means. \n\n Was the man drunk last night?  asked Sergeant Cuff.\n\n Perfectly sober, sir or I would never have let him sleep in my house. \n\n Did he pay for his bed beforehand? \n\n No. \n\n Could he leave the room in any way, without going out by the door? \n\n The room is a garret,  said the landlord.  But there s a trap-door in\nthe ceiling, leading out on to the roof and a little lower down the\nstreet, there s an empty house under repair. Do you think, Sergeant,\nthe blackguard has got off in that way, without paying? \n\n A sailor,  said Sergeant Cuff,  might have done it early in the\nmorning, before the street was astir. He would be used to climbing, and\nhis head wouldn t fail him on the roofs of the houses. \n\nAs he spoke, the arrival of the carpenter was announced. We all went\nupstairs, at once, to the top story. I noticed that the Sergeant was\nunusually grave, even for _him_. It also struck me as odd that he told\nthe boy (after having previously encouraged him to follow us), to wait\nin the room below till we came down again.\n\nThe carpenter s hammer and chisel disposed of the resistance of the\ndoor in a few minutes. But some article of furniture had been placed\nagainst it inside, as a barricade. By pushing at the door, we thrust\nthis obstacle aside, and so got admission to the room. The landlord\nentered first; the Sergeant second; and I third. The other persons\npresent followed us.\n\nWe all looked towards the bed, and all started.\n\nThe man had not left the room. He lay, dressed, on the bed with a white\npillow over his face, which completely hid it from view.\n\n What does that mean?  said the landlord, pointing to the pillow.\n\nSergeant Cuff led the way to the bed, without answering, and removed\nthe pillow.\n\nThe man s swarthy face was placid and still; his black hair and beard\nwere slightly, very slightly, discomposed. His eyes stared wide-open,\nglassy and vacant, at the ceiling. The filmy look and the fixed\nexpression of them horrified me. I turned away, and went to the open\nwindow. The rest of them remained, where Sergeant Cuff remained, at the\nbed.\n\n He s in a fit!  I heard the landlord say.\n\n He s dead,  the Sergeant answered.  Send for the nearest doctor, and\nsend for the police. \n\nThe waiter was despatched on both errands. Some strange fascination\nseemed to hold Sergeant Cuff to the bed. Some strange curiosity seemed\nto keep the rest of them waiting, to see what the Sergeant would do\nnext.\n\nI turned again to the window. The moment afterwards, I felt a soft pull\nat my coat-tails, and a small voice whispered,  Look here, sir! \n\nGooseberry had followed us into the room. His loose eyes rolled\nfrightfully not in terror, but in exultation. He had made a\ndetective-discovery on his own account.  Look here, sir,  he\nrepeated and led me to a table in the corner of the room.\n\nOn the table stood a little wooden box, open, and empty. On one side of\nthe box lay some jewellers  cotton. On the other side, was a torn sheet\nof white paper, with a seal on it, partly destroyed, and with an\ninscription in writing, which was still perfectly legible. The\ninscription was in these words:\n\n Deposited with Messrs. Bushe, Lysaught, and Bushe, by Mr. Septimus\nLuker, of Middlesex Place, Lambeth, a small wooden box, sealed up in\nthis envelope, and containing a valuable of great price. The box, when\nclaimed, to be only given up by Messrs. Bushe and Co. on the personal\napplication of Mr. Luker. \n\nThose lines removed all further doubt, on one point at least. The\nsailor had been in possession of the Moonstone, when he had left the\nbank on the previous day.\n\nI felt another pull at my coat-tails. Gooseberry had not done with me\nyet.\n\n Robbery!  whispered the boy, pointing, in high delight, to the empty\nbox.\n\n You were told to wait downstairs,  I said.  Go away! \n\n And Murder!  added Gooseberry, pointing, with a keener relish still,\nto the man on the bed.\n\nThere was something so hideous in the boy s enjoyment of the horror of\nthe scene, that I took him by the two shoulders and put him out of the\nroom.\n\nAt the moment when I crossed the threshold of the door, I heard\nSergeant Cuff s voice, asking where I was. He met me, as I returned\ninto the room, and forced me to go back with him to the bedside.\n\n Mr. Blake!  he said.  Look at the man s face. It is a face\ndisguised and here s the proof of it! \n\nHe traced with his finger a thin line of livid white, running backward\nfrom the dead man s forehead, between the swarthy complexion, and the\nslightly-disturbed black hair.  Let s see what is under this,  said the\nSergeant, suddenly seizing the black hair, with a firm grip of his\nhand.\n\nMy nerves were not strong enough to bear it. I turned away again from\nthe bed.\n\nThe first sight that met my eyes, at the other end of the room, was the\nirrepressible Gooseberry, perched on a chair, and looking with\nbreathless interest, over the heads of his elders, at the Sergeant s\nproceedings.\n\n He s pulling off his wig!  whispered Gooseberry, compassionating my\nposition, as the only person in the room who could see nothing.\n\nThere was a pause and then a cry of astonishment among the people round\nthe bed.\n\n He s pulled off his beard!  cried Gooseberry.\n\nThere was another pause Sergeant Cuff asked for something. The landlord\nwent to the wash-hand-stand, and returned to the bed with a basin of\nwater and a towel.\n\nGooseberry danced with excitement on the chair.  Come up here, along\nwith me, sir! He s washing off his complexion now! \n\nThe Sergeant suddenly burst his way through the people about him, and\ncame, with horror in his face, straight to the place where I was\nstanding.\n\n Come back to the bed, sir!  he began. He looked at me closer, and\nchecked himself  No!  he resumed.  Open the sealed letter first the\nletter I gave you this morning. \n\nI opened the letter.\n\n Read the name, Mr. Blake, that I have written inside. \n\nI read the name that he had written. It was _Godfrey Ablewhite_.\n\n Now,  said the Sergeant,  come with me, and look at the man on the\nbed. \n\nI went with him, and looked at the man on the bed.\n\nGODFREY ABLEWHITE!\n\n\nSIXTH NARRATIVE.\n\n_Contributed by Sergeant Cuff._\n\nI\n\nDorking, Surrey, July 30th, 1849. To Franklin Blake, Esq. Sir, I beg to\napologise for the delay that has occurred in the production of the\nReport, with which I engaged to furnish you. I have waited to make it a\ncomplete Report; and I have been met, here and there, by obstacles\nwhich it was only possible to remove by some little expenditure of\npatience and time.\n\nThe object which I proposed to myself has now, I hope, been attained.\nYou will find, in these pages, answers to the greater part if not\nall of the questions, concerning the late Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, which\noccurred to your mind when I last had the honour of seeing you.\n\nI propose to tell you in the first place what is known of the manner in\nwhich your cousin met his death; appending to the statement such\ninferences and conclusions as we are justified (according to my\nopinion) in drawing from the facts.\n\nI shall then endeavour in the second place to put you in possession of\nsuch discoveries as I have made, respecting the proceedings of Mr.\nGodfrey Ablewhite, before, during and after the time, when you and he\nmet as guests at the late Lady Verinder s country house.\n\n\nII\n\nAs to your cousin s death, then, first.\n\nIt appears to be established, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he was\nkilled (while he was asleep, or immediately on his waking) by being\nsmothered with a pillow from his bed that the persons guilty of\nmurdering him are the three Indians and that the object contemplated\n(and achieved) by the crime, was to obtain possession of the diamond,\ncalled the Moonstone.\n\nThe facts from which this conclusion is drawn, are derived partly from\nan examination of the room at the tavern; and partly from the evidence\nobtained at the Coroner s Inquest.\n\nOn forcing the door of the room, the deceased gentleman was discovered,\ndead, with the pillow of the bed over his face. The medical man who\nexamined him, being informed of this circumstance, considered the\npost-mortem appearances as being perfectly compatible with murder by\nsmothering that is to say, with murder committed by some person, or\npersons, pressing the pillow over the nose and mouth of the deceased,\nuntil death resulted from congestion of the lungs.\n\nNext, as to the motive for the crime.\n\nA small box, with a sealed paper torn off from it (the paper containing\nan inscription) was found open, and empty, on a table in the room. Mr.\nLuker has himself personally identified the box, the seal, and the\ninscription. He has declared that the box did actually contain the\ndiamond, called the Moonstone; and he has admitted having given the box\n(thus sealed up) to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite (then concealed under a\ndisguise), on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth of June last. The fair\ninference from all this is, that the stealing of the Moonstone was the\nmotive of the crime.\n\nNext, as to the manner in which the crime was committed.\n\nOn examination of the room (which is only seven feet high), a trap-door\nin the ceiling, leading out on to the roof of the house, was discovered\nopen. The short ladder, used for obtaining access to the trap-door (and\nkept under the bed), was found placed at the opening, so as to enable\nany person or persons, in the room, to leave it again easily. In the\ntrap-door itself was found a square aperture cut in the wood,\napparently with some exceedingly sharp instrument, just behind the bolt\nwhich fastened the door on the inner side. In this way, any person from\nthe outside could have drawn back the bolt, and opened the door, and\nhave dropped (or have been noiselessly lowered by an accomplice) into\nthe room its height, as already observed, being only seven feet. That\nsome person, or persons, must have got admission in this way, appears\nevident from the fact of the aperture being there. As to the manner in\nwhich he (or they) obtained access to the roof of the tavern, it is to\nbe remarked that the third house, lower down in the street, was empty,\nand under repair that a long ladder was left by the workmen, leading\nfrom the pavement to the top of the house and that, on returning to\ntheir work, on the morning of the 27th, the men found the plank which\nthey had tied to the ladder, to prevent anyone from using it in their\nabsence, removed, and lying on the ground. As to the possibility of\nascending by this ladder, passing over the roofs of the houses, passing\nback, and descending again, unobserved it is discovered, on the\nevidence of the night policeman, that he only passes through Shore Lane\ntwice in an hour, when out on his beat. The testimony of the\ninhabitants also declares, that Shore Lane, after midnight, is one of\nthe quietest and loneliest streets in London. Here again, therefore, it\nseems fair to infer that with ordinary caution, and presence of\nmind any man, or men, might have ascended by the ladder, and might have\ndescended again, unobserved. Once on the roof of the tavern, it has\nbeen proved, by experiment, that a man might cut through the trap-door,\nwhile lying down on it, and that in such a position, the parapet in\nfront of the house would conceal him from the view of anyone passing in\nthe street.\n\nLastly, as to the person, or persons, by whom the crime was committed.\n\nIt is known (1) that the Indians had an interest in possessing\nthemselves of the Diamond. (2) It is at least probable that the man\nlooking like an Indian, whom Octavius Guy saw at the window of the cab,\nspeaking to the man dressed like a mechanic, was one of the three\nHindoo conspirators. (3) It is certain that this same man dressed like\na mechanic, was seen keeping Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite in view, all through\nthe evening of the 26th, and was found in the bedroom (before Mr.\nAblewhite was shown into it) under circumstances which lead to the\nsuspicion that he was examining the room. (4) A morsel of torn gold\nthread was picked up in the bedroom, which persons expert in such\nmatters, declare to be of Indian manufacture, and to be a species of\ngold thread not known in England. (5) On the morning of the 27th, three\nmen, answering to the description of the three Indians, were observed\nin Lower Thames Street, were traced to the Tower Wharf, and were seen\nto leave London by the steamer bound for Rotterdam.\n\nThere is here, moral, if not legal, evidence, that the murder was\ncommitted by the Indians.\n\nWhether the man personating a mechanic was, or was not, an accomplice\nin the crime, it is impossible to say. That he could have committed the\nmurder alone, seems beyond the limits of probability. Acting by\nhimself, he could hardly have smothered Mr. Ablewhite who was the\ntaller and stronger man of the two without a struggle taking place, or\na cry being heard. A servant girl, sleeping in the next room, heard\nnothing. The landlord, sleeping in the room below, heard nothing. The\nwhole evidence points to the inference that more than one man was\nconcerned in this crime and the circumstances, I repeat, morally\njustify the conclusion that the Indians committed it.\n\nI have only to add, that the verdict at the Coroner s Inquest was\nWilful Murder against some person, or persons, unknown. Mr. Ablewhite s\nfamily have offered a reward, and no effort has been left untried to\ndiscover the guilty persons. The man dressed like a mechanic has eluded\nall inquiries. The Indians have been traced. As to the prospect of\nultimately capturing these last, I shall have a word to say to you on\nthat head, when I reach the end of the present Report.\n\nIn the meanwhile, having now written all that is needful on the subject\nof Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite s death, I may pass next to the narrative of\nhis proceedings before, during, and after the time, when you and he met\nat the late Lady Verinder s house.\n\n\nIII\n\nWith regard to the subject now in hand, I may state, at the outset,\nthat Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite s life had two sides to it.\n\nThe side turned up to the public view, presented the spectacle of a\ngentleman, possessed of considerable reputation as a speaker at\ncharitable meetings, and endowed with administrative abilities, which\nhe placed at the disposal of various Benevolent Societies, mostly of\nthe female sort. The side kept hidden from the general notice,\nexhibited this same gentleman in the totally different character of a\nman of pleasure, with a villa in the suburbs which was not taken in his\nown name, and with a lady in the villa, who was not taken in his own\nname, either.\n\nMy investigations in the villa have shown me several fine pictures and\nstatues; furniture tastefully selected, and admirably made; and a\nconservatory of the rarest flowers, the match of which it would not be\neasy to find in all London. My investigation of the lady has resulted\nin the discovery of jewels which are worthy to take rank with the\nflowers, and of carriages and horses which have (deservedly) produced a\nsensation in the Park, among persons well qualified to judge of the\nbuild of the one, and the breed of the others.\n\nAll this is, so far, common enough. The villa and the lady are such\nfamiliar objects in London life, that I ought to apologise for\nintroducing them to notice. But what is not common and not familiar (in\nmy experience), is that all these fine things were not only ordered,\nbut paid for. The pictures, the statues, the flowers, the jewels, the\ncarriages, and the horses inquiry proved, to my indescribable\nastonishment, that not a sixpence of debt was owing on any of them. As\nto the villa, it had been bought, out and out, and settled on the lady.\n\nI might have tried to find the right reading of this riddle, and tried\nin vain but for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite s death, which caused an inquiry\nto be made into the state of his affairs.\n\nThe inquiry elicited these facts: \n\nThat Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was entrusted with the care of a sum of\ntwenty thousand pounds as one of two Trustees for a young gentleman,\nwho was still a minor in the year eighteen hundred and forty-eight.\nThat the Trust was to lapse, and that the young gentleman was to\nreceive the twenty thousand pounds on the day when he came of age, in\nthe month of February, eighteen hundred and fifty. That, pending the\narrival of this period, an income of six hundred pounds was to be paid\nto him by his two Trustees, half-yearly at Christmas and Midsummer Day.\nThat this income was regularly paid by the active Trustee, Mr. Godfrey\nAblewhite. That the twenty thousand pounds (from which the income was\nsupposed to be derived) had every farthing of it been sold out of the\nFunds, at different periods, ending with the end of the year eighteen\nhundred and forty-seven. That the power of attorney, authorising the\nbankers to sell out the stock, and the various written orders telling\nthem what amounts to sell out, were formally signed by both the\nTrustees. That the signature of the second Trustee (a retired army\nofficer, living in the country) was a signature forged, in every case,\nby the active Trustee otherwise Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.\n\nIn these facts lies the explanation of Mr. Godfrey s honourable\nconduct, in paying the debts incurred for the lady and the villa and\n(as you will presently see) of more besides.\n\nWe may now advance to the date of Miss Verinder s birthday (in the year\neighteen hundred and forty-eight) the twenty-first of June.\n\nOn the day before, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite arrived at his father s house,\nand asked (as I know from Mr. Ablewhite, senior, himself) for a loan of\nthree hundred pounds. Mark the sum; and remember at the same time, that\nthe half-yearly payment to the young gentleman was due on the\ntwenty-fourth of the month. Also, that the whole of the young\ngentleman s fortune had been spent by his Trustee, by the end of the\nyear  forty-seven.\n\nMr. Ablewhite, senior, refused to lend his son a farthing.\n\nThe next day Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite rode over, with you, to Lady\nVerinder s house. A few hours afterwards, Mr. Godfrey (as you yourself\nhave told me) made a proposal of marriage to Miss Verinder. Here, he\nsaw his way no doubt if accepted to the end of all his money anxieties,\npresent and future. But, as events actually turned out, what happened?\nMiss Verinder refused him.\n\nOn the night of the birthday, therefore, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite s\npecuniary position was this. He had three hundred pounds to find on the\ntwenty-fourth of the month, and twenty thousand pounds to find in\nFebruary eighteen hundred and fifty. Failing to raise these sums, at\nthese times, he was a ruined man.\n\nUnder those circumstances, what takes place next?\n\nYou exasperate Mr. Candy, the doctor, on the sore subject of his\nprofession; and he plays you a practical joke, in return, with a dose\nof laudanum. He trusts the administration of the dose, prepared in a\nlittle phial, to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite who has himself confessed the\nshare he had in the matter, under circumstances which shall presently\nbe related to you. Mr. Godfrey is all the readier to enter into the\nconspiracy, having himself suffered from your sharp tongue in the\ncourse of the evening. He joins Betteredge in persuading you to drink a\nlittle brandy and water before you go to bed. He privately drops the\ndose of laudanum into your cold grog. And you drink the mixture.\n\nLet us now shift the scene, if you please to Mr. Luker s house at\nLambeth. And allow me to remark, by way of preface, that Mr. Bruff and\nI, together, have found a means of forcing the money-lender to make a\nclean breast of it. We have carefully sifted the statement he has\naddressed to us; and here it is at your service.\n\n\nIV\n\nLate on the evening of Friday, the twenty-third of June ( forty-eight),\nMr. Luker was surprised by a visit from Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. He was\nmore than surprised, when Mr. Godfrey produced the Moonstone. No such\nDiamond (according to Mr. Luker s experience) was in the possession of\nany private person in Europe.\n\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite had two modest proposals to make, in relation to\nthis magnificent gem. First, Would Mr. Luker be so good as to buy it?\nSecondly, Would Mr. Luker (in default of seeing his way to the\npurchase) undertake to sell it on commission, and to pay a sum down, on\nthe anticipated result?\n\nMr. Luker tested the Diamond, weighed the Diamond and estimated the\nvalue of the Diamond, before he answered a word. _His_ estimate\n(allowing for the flaw in the stone) was thirty thousand pounds.\n\nHaving reached that result, Mr. Luker opened his lips, and put a\nquestion:  How did you come by this?  Only six words! But what volumes\nof meaning in them!\n\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite began a story. Mr. Luker opened his lips again,\nand only said three words, this time.  That won t do! \n\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite began another story. Mr. Luker wasted no more\nwords on him. He got up, and rang the bell for the servant to show the\ngentleman out.\n\nUpon this compulsion, Mr. Godfrey made an effort, and came out with a\nnew and amended version of the affair, to the following effect.\n\nAfter privately slipping the laudanum into your brandy and water, he\nwished you good-night, and went into his own room. It was the next room\nto yours; and the two had a door of communication between them. On\nentering his own room Mr. Godfrey (as he supposed) closed his door. His\nmoney troubles kept him awake. He sat, in his dressing-gown and\nslippers, for nearly an hour, thinking over his position. Just as he\nwas preparing to get into bed, he heard you, talking to yourself, in\nyour own room, and going to the door of communication, found that he\nhad not shut it as he supposed.\n\nHe looked into your room to see what was the matter. He discovered you\nwith the candle in your hand, just leaving your bedchamber. He heard\nyou say to yourself, in a voice quite unlike your own voice,  How do I\nknow? The Indians may be hidden in the house. \n\nUp to that time, he had simply supposed himself (in giving you the\nlaudanum) to be helping to make you the victim of a harmless practical\njoke. It now occurred to him, that the laudanum had taken some effect\non you, which had not been foreseen by the doctor, any more than by\nhimself. In the fear of an accident happening he followed you softly to\nsee what you would do.\n\nHe followed you to Miss Verinder s sitting-room, and saw you go in. You\nleft the door open. He looked through the crevice thus produced,\nbetween the door and the post, before he ventured into the room\nhimself.\n\nIn that position, he not only detected you in taking the Diamond out of\nthe drawer he also detected Miss Verinder, silently watching you from\nher bedroom, through her open door. His own eyes satisfied him that\n_she_ saw you take the Diamond, too.\n\nBefore you left the sitting-room again, you hesitated a little. Mr.\nGodfrey took advantage of this hesitation to get back again to his\nbedroom before you came out, and discovered him. He had barely got\nback, before you got back too. You saw him (as he supposes) just as he\nwas passing through the door of communication. At any rate, you called\nto him in a strange, drowsy voice.\n\nHe came back to you. You looked at him in a dull sleepy way. You put\nthe Diamond into his hand. You said to him,  Take it back, Godfrey, to\nyour father s bank. It s safe there it s not safe here.  You turned\naway unsteadily, and put on your dressing-gown. You sat down in the\nlarge arm-chair in your room. You said,  _I_ can t take it back to the\nbank. My head s like lead and I can t feel my feet under me.  Your head\nsank on the back of the chair you heaved a heavy sigh and you fell\nasleep.\n\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite went back, with the Diamond, into his own room.\nHis statement is, that he came to no conclusion, at that time except\nthat he would wait, and see what happened in the morning.\n\nWhen the morning came, your language and conduct showed that you were\nabsolutely ignorant of what you had said and done overnight. At the\nsame time, Miss Verinder s language and conduct showed that she was\nresolved to say nothing (in mercy to you) on her side. If Mr. Godfrey\nAblewhite chose to keep the Diamond, he might do so with perfect\nimpunity. The Moonstone stood between him and ruin. He put the\nMoonstone into his pocket.\n\n\nV\n\nThis was the story told by your cousin (under pressure of necessity) to\nMr. Luker.\n\nMr. Luker believed the story to be, as to all main essentials, true on\nthis ground, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was too great a fool to have\ninvented it. Mr. Bruff and I agree with Mr. Luker, in considering this\ntest of the truth of the story to be a perfectly reliable one.\n\nThe next question, was the question of what Mr. Luker would do in the\nmatter of the Moonstone. He proposed the following terms, as the only\nterms on which he would consent to mix himself up with, what was (even\nin _his_ line of business) a doubtful and dangerous transaction.\n\nMr. Luker would consent to lend Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite the sum of two\nthousand pounds, on condition that the Moonstone was to be deposited\nwith him as a pledge. If, at the expiration of one year from that date,\nMr. Godfrey Ablewhite paid three thousand pounds to Mr. Luker, he was\nto receive back the Diamond, as a pledge redeemed. If he failed to\nproduce the money at the expiration of the year, the pledge (otherwise\nthe Moonstone) was to be considered as forfeited to Mr. Luker who\nwould, in this latter case, generously make Mr. Godfrey a present of\ncertain promissory notes of his (relating to former dealings) which\nwere then in the money-lender s possession.\n\nIt is needless to say, that Mr. Godfrey indignantly refused to listen\nto these monstrous terms. Mr. Luker thereupon, handed him back the\nDiamond, and wished him good-night.\n\nYour cousin went to the door, and came back again. How was he to be\nsure that the conversation of that evening would be kept strictly\nsecret between his friend and himself?\n\nMr. Luker didn t profess to know how. If Mr. Godfrey had accepted his\nterms, Mr. Godfrey would have made him an accomplice, and might have\ncounted on his silence as on a certainty. As things were, Mr. Luker\nmust be guided by his own interests. If awkward inquiries were made,\nhow could he be expected to compromise himself, for the sake of a man\nwho had declined to deal with him?\n\nReceiving this reply, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite did, what all animals\n(human and otherwise) do, when they find themselves caught in a trap.\nHe looked about him in a state of helpless despair. The day of the\nmonth, recorded on a neat little card in a box on the money-lender s\nchimney-piece, happened to attract his eye. It was the twenty-third of\nJune. On the twenty-fourth he had three hundred pounds to pay to the\nyoung gentleman for whom he was trustee, and no chance of raising the\nmoney, except the chance that Mr. Luker had offered to him. But for\nthis miserable obstacle, he might have taken the Diamond to Amsterdam,\nand have made a marketable commodity of it, by having it cut up into\nseparate stones. As matters stood, he had no choice but to accept Mr.\nLuker s terms. After all, he had a year at his disposal, in which to\nraise the three thousand pounds and a year is a long time.\n\nMr. Luker drew out the necessary documents on the spot. When they were\nsigned, he gave Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite two cheques. One, dated June\n23rd, for three hundred pounds. Another, dated a week on, for the\nremaining balance seventeen hundred pounds.\n\nHow the Moonstone was trusted to the keeping of Mr Luker s bankers, and\nhow the Indians treated Mr. Luker and Mr. Godfrey (after that had been\ndone) you know already.\n\nThe next event in your cousin s life refers again to Miss Verinder. He\nproposed marriage to her for the second time and (after having being\naccepted) he consented, at her request, to consider the marriage as\nbroken off. One of his reasons for making this concession has been\npenetrated by Mr. Bruff. Miss Verinder had only a life interest in her\nmother s property and there was no raising the twenty thousand pounds\non _that_.\n\nBut you will say, he might have saved the three thousand pounds, to\nredeem the pledged Diamond, if he had married. He might have done so\ncertainly supposing neither his wife, nor her guardians and trustees,\nobjected to his anticipating more than half of the income at his\ndisposal, for some unknown purpose, in the first year of his marriage.\nBut even if he got over this obstacle, there was another waiting for\nhim in the background. The lady at the Villa, had heard of his\ncontemplated marriage. A superb woman, Mr. Blake, of the sort that are\nnot to be trifled with the sort with the light complexion and the Roman\nnose. She felt the utmost contempt for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. It would\nbe silent contempt, if he made a handsome provision for her. Otherwise,\nit would be contempt with a tongue to it. Miss Verinder s life interest\nallowed him no more hope of raising the  provision  than of raising the\ntwenty thousand pounds. He couldn t marry he really couldn t marry,\nunder all the circumstances.\n\nHow he tried his luck again with another lady, and how _that_ marriage\nalso broke down on the question of money, you know already. You also\nknow of the legacy of five thousand pounds, left to him shortly\nafterwards, by one of those many admirers among the soft sex whose good\ngraces this fascinating man had contrived to win. That legacy (as the\nevent has proved) led him to his death.\n\nI have ascertained that when he went abroad, on getting his five\nthousand pounds, he went to Amsterdam. There he made all the necessary\narrangements for having the Diamond cut into separate stones. He came\nback (in disguise), and redeemed the Moonstone, on the appointed day. A\nfew days were allowed to elapse (as a precaution agreed to by both\nparties) before the jewel was actually taken out of the bank. If he had\ngot safe with it to Amsterdam, there would have been just time between\nJuly  forty-nine, and February  fifty (when the young gentleman came of\nage) to cut the Diamond, and to make a marketable commodity (polished\nor unpolished) of the separate stones. Judge from this, what motives he\nhad to run the risk which he actually ran. It was  neck or nothing \nwith him if ever it was  neck or nothing  with a man yet.\n\nI have only to remind you, before closing this Report, that there is a\nchance of laying hands on the Indians, and of recovering the Moonstone\nyet. They are now (there is every reason to believe) on their passage\nto Bombay, in an East Indiaman. The ship (barring accidents) will touch\nat no other port on her way out; and the authorities at Bombay (already\ncommunicated with by letter, overland) will be prepared to board the\nvessel, the moment she enters the harbour.\n\nI have the honour to remain, dear sir, your obedient servant, RICHARD\nCUFF (late sergeant in the Detective Force, Scotland Yard, London).*\n\n* NOTE. Wherever the Report touches on the events of the birthday, or\nof the three days that followed it, compare with Betteredge s\nNarrative, chapters viii. to xiii.\n\nSEVENTH NARRATIVE.\n\n_In a Letter from Mr. Candy._\n\n\nFrizinghall, Wednesday, September 26th, 1849. Dear Mr. Franklin Blake,\nyou will anticipate the sad news I have to tell you, on finding your\nletter to Ezra Jennings returned to you, unopened, in this enclosure.\nHe died in my arms, at sunrise, on Wednesday last.\n\nI am not to blame for having failed to warn you that his end was at\nhand. He expressly forbade me to write to you.  I am indebted to Mr.\nFranklin Blake,  he said,  for having seen some happy days. Don t\ndistress him, Mr. Candy don t distress him. \n\nHis sufferings, up to the last six hours of his life, were terrible to\nsee. In the intervals of remission, when his mind was clear, I\nentreated him to tell me of any relatives of his to whom I might write.\nHe asked to be forgiven for refusing anything to _me_. And then he\nsaid not bitterly that he would die as he had lived, forgotten and\nunknown. He maintained that resolution to the last. There is no hope\nnow of making any discoveries concerning him. His story is a blank.\n\nThe day before he died, he told me where to find all his papers. I\nbrought them to him on his bed. There was a little bundle of old\nletters which he put aside. There was his unfinished book. There was\nhis Diary in many locked volumes. He opened the volume for this year,\nand tore out, one by one, the pages relating to the time when you and\nhe were together.  Give those,  he said,  to Mr. Franklin Blake. In\nyears to come, he may feel an interest in looking back at what is\nwritten there.  Then he clasped his hands, and prayed God fervently to\nbless you, and those dear to you. He said he should like to see you\nagain. But the next moment he altered his mind.  No,  he answered when\nI offered to write.  I won t distress him! I won t distress him! \n\nAt his request I next collected the other papers that is to say, the\nbundle of letters, the unfinished book and the volumes of the Diary and\nenclosed them all in one wrapper, sealed with my own seal.  Promise, \nhe said,  that you will put this into my coffin with your own hand; and\nthat you will see that no other hand touches it afterwards. \n\nI gave him my promise. And the promise has been performed.\n\nHe asked me to do one other thing for him which it cost me a hard\nstruggle to comply with. He said,  Let my grave be forgotten. Give me\nyour word of honour that you will allow no monument of any sort not\neven the commonest tombstone to mark the place of my burial. Let me\nsleep, nameless. Let me rest, unknown.  When I tried to plead with him\nto alter his resolution, he became for the first, and only time,\nviolently agitated. I could not bear to see it; and I gave way. Nothing\nbut a little grass mound marks the place of his rest. In time, the\ntombstones will rise round it. And the people who come after us will\nlook and wonder at the nameless grave.\n\nAs I have told you, for six hours before his death his sufferings\nceased. He dozed a little. I think he dreamed. Once or twice he smiled.\nA woman s name, as I suppose the name of  Ella was often on his lips\nat this time. A few minutes before the end he asked me to lift him on\nhis pillow, to see the sun rise through the window. He was very weak.\nHis head fell on my shoulder. He whispered,  It s coming!  Then he\nsaid,  Kiss me!  I kissed his forehead. On a sudden he lifted his head.\nThe sunlight touched his face. A beautiful expression, an angelic\nexpression, came over it. He cried out three times,  Peace! peace!\npeace!  His head sank back again on my shoulder, and the long trouble\nof his life was at an end.\n\nSo he has gone from us. This was, as I think, a great man though the\nworld never knew him. He had the sweetest temper I have ever met with.\nThe loss of him makes me feel very lonely. Perhaps I have never been\nquite myself since my illness. Sometimes, I think of giving up my\npractice, and going away, and trying what some of the foreign baths and\nwaters will do for me.\n\nIt is reported here, that you and Miss Verinder are to be married next\nmonth. Please to accept my best congratulations.\n\nThe pages of my poor friend s Journal are waiting for you at my\nhouse sealed up, with your name on the wrapper. I was afraid to trust\nthem to the post.\n\nMy best respects and good wishes attend Miss Verinder. I remain, dear\nMr. Franklin Blake, truly yours,\n\nTHOMAS CANDY.\n\n\nEIGHTH NARRATIVE.\n\n_Contributed by Gabriel Betteredge._\n\n\nI am the person (as you remember no doubt) who led the way in these\npages, and opened the story. I am also the person who is left behind,\nas it were, to close the story up.\n\nLet nobody suppose that I have any last words to say here concerning\nthe Indian Diamond. I hold that unlucky jewel in abhorrence and I refer\nyou to other authority than mine, for such news of the Moonstone as you\nmay, at the present time, be expected to receive. My purpose, in this\nplace, is to state a fact in the history of the family, which has been\npassed over by everybody, and which I won t allow to be disrespectfully\nsmothered up in that way. The fact to which I allude is the marriage of\nMiss Rachel and Mr. Franklin Blake. This interesting event took place\nat our house in Yorkshire, on Tuesday, October ninth, eighteen hundred\nand forty-nine. I had a new suit of clothes on the occasion. And the\nmarried couple went to spend the honeymoon in Scotland.\n\nFamily festivals having been rare enough at our house, since my poor\nmistress s death, I own on this occasion of the wedding to having\n(towards the latter part of the day) taken a drop too much on the\nstrength of it.\n\nIf you have ever done the same sort of thing yourself you will\nunderstand and feel for me. If you have not, you will very likely say,\n Disgusting old man! why does he tell us this?  The reason why is now\nto come.\n\nHaving, then, taken my drop (bless you! you have got your favourite\nvice, too; only your vice isn t mine, and mine isn t yours), I next\napplied the one infallible remedy that remedy being, as you know,\n_Robinson Crusoe_. Where I opened that unrivalled book, I can t say.\nWhere the lines of print at last left off running into each other, I\nknow, however, perfectly well. It was at page three hundred and\neighteen a domestic bit concerning Robinson Crusoe s marriage, as\nfollows:\n\n With those Thoughts, I considered my new Engagement, that I had a\nWife (Observe! so had Mr. Franklin!) one Child born (Observe again!\nthat might yet be Mr. Franklin s case, too!) and my Wife then What\nRobinson Crusoe s wife did, or did not do,  then,  I felt no desire to\ndiscover. I scored the bit about the Child with my pencil, and put a\nmorsel of paper for a mark to keep the place;  Lie you there,  I said,\n till the marriage of Mr. Franklin and Miss Rachel is some months\nolder and then we ll see! \n\nThe months passed (more than I had bargained for), and no occasion\npresented itself for disturbing that mark in the book. It was not till\nthis present month of November, eighteen hundred and fifty, that Mr.\nFranklin came into my room, in high good spirits, and said,\n Betteredge! I have got some news for you! Something is going to happen\nin the house, before we are many months older. \n\n Does it concern the family, sir?  I asked.\n\n It decidedly concerns the family,  says Mr. Franklin.\n\n Has your good lady anything to do with it, if you please, sir? \n\n She has a great deal to do with it,  says Mr. Franklin, beginning to\nlook a little surprised.\n\n You needn t say a word more, sir,  I answered.  God bless you both!\nI m heartily glad to hear it. \n\nMr. Franklin stared like a person thunderstruck.  May I venture to\ninquire where you got your information?  he asked.  I only got mine\n(imparted in the strictest secrecy) five minutes since. \n\nHere was an opportunity of producing _Robinson Crusoe_! Here was a\nchance of reading that domestic bit about the child which I had marked\non the day of Mr. Franklin s marriage! I read those miraculous words\nwith an emphasis which did them justice, and then I looked him severely\nin the face.  _Now_, sir, do you believe in _Robinson Crusoe_?  I\nasked, with a solemnity, suitable to the occasion.\n\n Betteredge!  says Mr. Franklin, with equal solemnity,  I m convinced\nat last.  He shook hands with me and I felt that I had converted him.\n\nWith the relation of this extraordinary circumstance, my reappearance\nin these pages comes to an end. Let nobody laugh at the unique anecdote\nhere related. You are welcome to be as merry as you please over\neverything else I have written. But when I write of _Robinson Crusoe_,\nby the Lord it s serious and I request you to take it accordingly!\n\nWhen this is said, all is said. Ladies and gentlemen, I make my bow,\nand shut up the story.\n\n\nEPILOGUE.\n\n\n THE FINDING OF THE DIAMOND.\n\n\nI\n\n\n THE STATEMENT OF SERGEANT CUFF S MAN. (1849.)\n\nOn the twenty-seventh of June last, I received instructions from\nSergeant Cuff to follow three men; suspected of murder, and described\nas Indians. They had been seen on the Tower Wharf that morning,\nembarking on board the steamer bound for Rotterdam.\n\nI left London by a steamer belonging to another company, which sailed\non the morning of Thursday the twenty-eighth. Arriving at Rotterdam, I\nsucceeded in finding the commander of the Wednesday s steamer. He\ninformed me that the Indians had certainly been passengers on board his\nvessel but as far as Gravesend only. Off that place, one of the three\nhad inquired at what time they would reach Calais. On being informed\nthat the steamer was bound to Rotterdam, the spokesman of the party\nexpressed the greatest surprise and distress at the mistake which he\nand his two friends had made. They were all willing (he said) to\nsacrifice their passage money, if the commander of the steamer would\nonly put them ashore. Commiserating their position, as foreigners in a\nstrange land, and knowing no reason for detaining them, the commander\nsignalled for a shore boat, and the three men left the vessel.\n\nThis proceeding of the Indians having been plainly resolved on\nbeforehand, as a means of preventing their being traced, I lost no time\nin returning to England. I left the steamer at Gravesend, and\ndiscovered that the Indians had gone from that place to London. Thence,\nI again traced them as having left for Plymouth. Inquiries made at\nPlymouth proved that they had sailed, forty-eight hours previously, in\nthe _Bewley Castle_, East Indiaman, bound direct to Bombay.\n\nOn receiving this intelligence, Sergeant Cuff caused the authorities at\nBombay to be communicated with, overland so that the vessel might be\nboarded by the police immediately on her entering the port. This step\nhaving been taken, my connection with the matter came to an end. I have\nheard nothing more of it since that time.\n\n\nII\n\n\n THE STATEMENT OF THE CAPTAIN. (1849.)\n\nI am requested by Sergeant Cuff to set in writing certain facts,\nconcerning three men (believed to be Hindoos) who were passengers, last\nsummer, in the ship _Bewley Castle_, bound for Bombay direct, under my\ncommand.\n\nThe Hindoos joined us at Plymouth. On the passage out I heard no\ncomplaint of their conduct. They were berthed in the forward part of\nthe vessel. I had but few occasions myself of personally noticing them.\n\nIn the latter part of the voyage, we had the misfortune to be becalmed\nfor three days and nights, off the coast of India. I have not got the\nship s journal to refer to, and I cannot now call to mind the latitude\nand longitude. As to our position, therefore, I am only able to state\ngenerally that the currents drifted us in towards the land, and that\nwhen the wind found us again, we reached our port in twenty-four hours\nafterwards.\n\nThe discipline of a ship (as all seafaring persons know) becomes\nrelaxed in a long calm. The discipline of my ship became relaxed.\nCertain gentlemen among the passengers got some of the smaller boats\nlowered, and amused themselves by rowing about, and swimming, when the\nsun at evening time was cool enough to let them divert themselves in\nthat way. The boats when done with ought to have been slung up again in\ntheir places. Instead of this they were left moored to the ship s side.\nWhat with the heat, and what with the vexation of the weather, neither\nofficers nor men seemed to be in heart for their duty while the calm\nlasted.\n\nOn the third night, nothing unusual was heard or seen by the watch on\ndeck. When the morning came, the smallest of the boats was missing and\nthe three Hindoos were next reported to be missing, too.\n\nIf these men had stolen the boat shortly after dark (which I have no\ndoubt they did), we were near enough to the land to make it vain to\nsend in pursuit of them, when the discovery was made in the morning. I\nhave no doubt they got ashore, in that calm weather (making all due\nallowance for fatigue and clumsy rowing), before day-break.\n\nOn reaching our port, I there learnt, for the first time, the reason\nthese passengers had for seizing their opportunity of escaping from the\nship. I could only make the same statement to the authorities which I\nhave made here. They considered me to blame for allowing the discipline\nof the vessel to be relaxed. I have expressed my regret on this score\nto them, and to my owners.\n\nSince that time, nothing has been heard to my knowledge of the three\nHindoos. I have no more to add to what is here written.\n\n\nIII\n\n\n THE STATEMENT OF MR. MURTHWAITE. (1850.)\n\n_(In a letter to Mr. Bruff.)_\n\n\nHave you any recollection, my dear sir, of a semi-savage person whom\nyou met out at dinner, in London, in the autumn of  forty-eight? Permit\nme to remind you that the person s name was Murthwaite, and that you\nand he had a long conversation together after dinner. The talk related\nto an Indian Diamond, called the Moonstone, and to a conspiracy then in\nexistence to get possession of the gem.\n\nSince that time, I have been wandering in Central Asia. Thence I have\ndrifted back to the scene of some of my past adventures in the north\nand north-west of India. About a fortnight since, I found myself in a\ncertain district or province (but little known to Europeans) called\nKattiawar.\n\nHere an adventure befell me, in which (incredible as it may appear) you\nare personally interested.\n\nIn the wild regions of Kattiawar (and how wild they are, you will\nunderstand, when I tell you that even the husbandmen plough the land,\narmed to the teeth), the population is fanatically devoted to the old\nHindoo religion to the ancient worship of Bramah and Vishnu. The few\nMahometan families, thinly scattered about the villages in the\ninterior, are afraid to taste meat of any kind. A Mahometan even\nsuspected of killing that sacred animal, the cow, is, as a matter of\ncourse, put to death without mercy in these parts by the pious Hindoo\nneighbours who surround him. To strengthen the religious enthusiasm of\nthe people, two of the most famous shrines of Hindoo pilgrimage are\ncontained within the boundaries of Kattiawar. One of them is Dwarka,\nthe birthplace of the god Krishna. The other is the sacred city of\nSomnauth sacked, and destroyed as long since as the eleventh century,\nby the Mahometan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni.\n\nFinding myself, for the second time, in these romantic regions, I\nresolved not to leave Kattiawar, without looking once more on the\nmagnificent desolation of Somnauth. At the place where I planned to do\nthis, I was (as nearly as I could calculate it) some three days\ndistant, journeying on foot, from the sacred city.\n\nI had not been long on the road, before I noticed that other people by\ntwos and threes appeared to be travelling in the same direction as\nmyself.\n\nTo such of these as spoke to me, I gave myself out as a\nHindoo-Boodhist, from a distant province, bound on a pilgrimage. It is\nneedless to say that my dress was of the sort to carry out this\ndescription. Add, that I know the language as well as I know my own,\nand that I am lean enough and brown enough to make it no easy matter to\ndetect my European origin and you will understand that I passed muster\nwith the people readily: not as one of themselves, but as a stranger\nfrom a distant part of their own country.\n\nOn the second day, the number of Hindoos travelling in my direction had\nincreased to fifties and hundreds. On the third day, the throng had\nswollen to thousands; all slowly converging to one point the city of\nSomnauth.\n\nA trifling service which I was able to render to one of my\nfellow-pilgrims, during the third day s journey, proved the means of\nintroducing me to certain Hindoos of the higher caste. From these men I\nlearnt that the multitude was on its way to a great religious ceremony,\nwhich was to take place on a hill at a little distance from Somnauth.\nThe ceremony was in honour of the god of the Moon; and it was to be\nheld at night.\n\nThe crowd detained us as we drew near to the place of celebration. By\nthe time we reached the hill the moon was high in the heaven. My Hindoo\nfriends possessed some special privileges which enabled them to gain\naccess to the shrine. They kindly allowed me to accompany them. When we\narrived at the place, we found the shrine hidden from our view by a\ncurtain hung between two magnificent trees. Beneath the trees a flat\nprojection of rock jutted out, and formed a species of natural\nplatform. Below this, I stood, in company with my Hindoo friends.\n\nLooking back down the hill, the view presented the grandest spectacle\nof Nature and Man, in combination, that I have ever seen. The lower\nslopes of the eminence melted imperceptibly into a grassy plain, the\nplace of the meeting of three rivers. On one side, the graceful winding\nof the waters stretched away, now visible, now hidden by trees, as far\nas the eye could see. On the other, the waveless ocean slept in the\ncalm of the night. People this lovely scene with tens of thousands of\nhuman creatures, all dressed in white, stretching down the sides of the\nhill, overflowing into the plain, and fringing the nearer banks of the\nwinding rivers. Light this halt of the pilgrims by the wild red flames\nof cressets and torches, streaming up at intervals from every part of\nthe innumerable throng. Imagine the moonlight of the East, pouring in\nunclouded glory over all and you will form some idea of the view that\nmet me when I looked forth from the summit of the hill.\n\nA strain of plaintive music, played on stringed instruments and flutes,\nrecalled my attention to the hidden shrine.\n\nI turned, and saw on the rocky platform the figures of three men. In\nthe central figure of the three I recognised the man to whom I had\nspoken in England, when the Indians appeared on the terrace at Lady\nVerinder s house. The other two who had been his companions on that\noccasion were no doubt his companions also on this.\n\nOne of the spectators, near whom I was standing, saw me start. In a\nwhisper, he explained to me the apparition of the three figures on the\nplatform of rock.\n\nThey were Brahmins (he said) who had forfeited their caste in the\nservice of the god. The god had commanded that their purification\nshould be the purification by pilgrimage. On that night, the three men\nwere to part. In three separate directions, they were to set forth as\npilgrims to the shrines of India. Never more were they to look on each\nother s faces. Never more were they to rest on their wanderings, from\nthe day which witnessed their separation, to the day which witnessed\ntheir death.\n\nAs those words were whispered to me, the plaintive music ceased. The\nthree men prostrated themselves on the rock, before the curtain which\nhid the shrine. They rose they looked on one another they embraced.\nThen they descended separately among the people. The people made way\nfor them in dead silence. In three different directions I saw the crowd\npart, at one and the same moment. Slowly the grand white mass of the\npeople closed together again. The track of the doomed men through the\nranks of their fellow mortals was obliterated. We saw them no more.\n\nA new strain of music, loud and jubilant, rose from the hidden shrine.\nThe crowd around me shuddered, and pressed together.\n\nThe curtain between the trees was drawn aside, and the shrine was\ndisclosed to view.\n\nThere, raised high on a throne seated on his typical antelope, with his\nfour arms stretching towards the four corners of the earth there,\nsoared above us, dark and awful in the mystic light of heaven, the god\nof the Moon. And there, in the forehead of the deity, gleamed the\nyellow Diamond, whose splendour had last shone on me in England, from\nthe bosom of a woman s dress!\n\nYes! after the lapse of eight centuries, the Moonstone looks forth once\nmore, over the walls of the sacred city in which its story first began.\nHow it has found its way back to its wild native land by what accident,\nor by what crime, the Indians regained possession of their sacred gem,\nmay be in your knowledge, but is not in mine. You have lost sight of it\nin England, and (if I know anything of this people) you have lost sight\nof it for ever.\n\nSo the years pass, and repeat each other; so the same events revolve in\nthe cycles of time. What will be the next adventures of the Moonstone?\nWho can tell?\n\n\nFINISH"
    },
    {
        "title": "The Murders in the Rue Morgue",
        "author": "Edgar Allan Poe",
        "category": "Mystery",
        "EN": "THE PURLOINED LETTER\n\n\nNil sapienti  odiosius acumine nimio. _Seneca_.\n\n      At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-,\n      I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum,\n      in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back\n      library, or book-closet, _au troisi me_, No. 33, _Rue Dun t,\n      Faubourg St. Germain_. For one hour at least we had maintained a\n      profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have\n      seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies\n      of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For\n      myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which\n      had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier\n      period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and\n      the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rog t. I looked upon\n      it, therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of\n      our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance,\n      Monsieur G , the Prefect of the Parisian police.\n\n      We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much\n      of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we\n      had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the\n      dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but\n      sat down again, without doing so, upon G. s saying that he had\n      called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend,\n      about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of\n      trouble.\n\n       If it is any point requiring reflection,  observed Dupin, as he\n      forebore to enkindle the wick,  we shall examine it to better\n      purpose in the dark. \n\n       That is another of your odd notions,  said the Prefect, who had\n      a fashion of calling every thing  odd  that was beyond his\n      comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of\n       oddities. \n\n       Very true,  said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe,\n      and rolled towards him a comfortable chair.\n\n       And what is the difficulty now?  I asked.  Nothing more in the\n      assassination way, I hope? \n\n       Oh no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is very\n      simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it\n      sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like\n      to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd. \n\n       Simple and odd,  said Dupin.\n\n       Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all\n      been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet\n      baffles us altogether. \n\n       Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at\n      fault,  said my friend.\n\n       What nonsense you do talk!  replied the Prefect, laughing\n      heartily.\n\n       Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain,  said Dupin.\n\n       Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea? \n\n       A little too self-evident. \n\n       Ha! ha! ha ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!  roared our visitor,\n      profoundly amused,  oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet! \n\n       And what, after all, is the matter on hand?  I asked.\n\n       Why, I will tell you,  replied the Prefect, as he gave a long,\n      steady and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair.\n       I will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me\n      caution you that this is an affair demanding the greatest\n      secrecy, and that I should most probably lose the position I now\n      hold, were it known that I confided it to any one. \n\n       Proceed,  said I.\n\n       Or not,  said Dupin.\n\n       Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very\n      high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance has\n      been purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who\n      purloined it is known; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take\n      it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his possession. \n\n       How is this known?  asked Dupin.\n\n       It is clearly inferred,  replied the Prefect,  from the nature\n      of the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results\n      which would at once arise from its passing out of the robber s\n      possession; that is to say, from his employing it as he must\n      design in the end to employ it. \n\n       Be a little more explicit,  I said.\n\n       Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its\n      holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is\n      immensely valuable.  The Prefect was fond of the cant of\n      diplomacy.\n\n       Still I do not quite understand,  said Dupin.\n\n       No? Well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, who\n      shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a\n      personage of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder\n      of the document an ascendancy over the illustrious personage\n      whose honor and peace are so jeopardized. \n\n       But this ascendancy,  I interposed,  would depend upon the\n      robber s knowledge of the loser s knowledge of the robber. Who\n      would dare \n\n       The thief,  said G.,  is the Minister D , who dares all things,\n      those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The method of\n      the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document in\n      question a letter, to be frank had been received by the personage\n      robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she\n      was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted\n      personage from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it.\n      After a hurried and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she\n      was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The\n      address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus\n      unexposed, the letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters the\n      Minister D . His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper,\n      recognises the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion\n      of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some\n      business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he\n      produces a letter somewhat similar to the one in question, opens\n      it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close\n      juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen\n      minutes, upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he\n      takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim.\n      Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention\n      to the act, in the presence of the third personage who stood at\n      her elbow. The minister decamped; leaving his own letter one of\n      no importance upon the table. \n\n       Here, then,  said Dupin to me,  you have precisely what you\n      demand to make the ascendancy complete the robber s knowledge of\n      the loser s knowledge of the robber. \n\n       Yes,  replied the Prefect;  and the power thus attained has, for\n      some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very\n      dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly\n      convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter.\n      But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to\n      despair, she has committed the matter to me. \n\n       Than whom,  said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke,  no\n      more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even\n      imagined. \n\n       You flatter me,  replied the Prefect;  but it is possible that\n      some such opinion may have been entertained. \n\n       It is clear,  said I,  as you observe, that the letter is still\n      in possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and\n      not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With\n      the employment the power departs. \n\n       True,  said G.;  and upon this conviction I proceeded. My first\n      care was to make thorough search of the minister s hotel; and\n      here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching\n      without his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned of\n      the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect\n      our design. \n\n       But,  said I,  you are quite au fait in these investigations.\n      The Parisian police have done this thing often before. \n\n       Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of\n      the minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently\n      absent from home all night. His servants are by no means\n      numerous. They sleep at a distance from their master s apartment,\n      and, being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have\n      keys, as you know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet\n      in Paris. For three months a night has not passed, during the\n      greater part of which I have not been engaged, personally, in\n      ransacking the D  Hotel. My honor is interested, and, to mention\n      a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the\n      search until I had become fully satisfied that the thief is a\n      more astute man than myself. I fancy that I have investigated\n      every nook and corner of the premises in which it is possible\n      that the paper can be concealed. \n\n       But is it not possible,  I suggested,  that although the letter\n      may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he\n      may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises? \n\n       This is barely possible,  said Dupin.  The present peculiar\n      condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues\n      in which D  is known to be involved, would render the instant\n      availability of the document its susceptibility of being produced\n      at a moment s notice a point of nearly equal importance with its\n      possession. \n\n       Its susceptibility of being produced?  said I.\n\n       That is to say, of being destroyed,  said Dupin.\n\n       True,  I observed;  the paper is clearly then upon the premises.\n      As for its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider\n      that as out of the question. \n\n       Entirely,  said the Prefect.  He has been twice waylaid, as if\n      by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my own\n      inspection. \n\n       You might have spared yourself this trouble,  said Dupin.  D ,\n      I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have\n      anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course. \n\n       Not altogether a fool,  said G.,  but then he s a poet, which I\n      take to be only one remove from a fool. \n\n       True,  said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his\n      meerschaum,  although I have been guilty of certain doggrel\n      myself. \n\n       Suppose you detail,  said I,  the particulars of your search. \n\n       Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched _everywhere_.\n      I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire\n      building, room by room; devoting the nights of a whole week to\n      each. We examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We\n      opened every possible drawer; and I presume you know that, to a\n      properly trained police agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is\n      impossible. Any man is a dolt who permits a  secret  drawer to\n      escape him in a search of this kind. The thing is so plain. There\n      is a certain amount of bulk of space to be accounted for in every\n      cabinet. Then we have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line\n      could not escape us. After the cabinets we took the chairs. The\n      cushions we probed with the fine long needles you have seen me\n      employ. From the tables we removed the tops. \n\n       Why so? \n\n       Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece\n      of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an\n      article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within\n      the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of\n      bedposts are employed in the same way. \n\n       But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?  I asked.\n\n       By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient\n      wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we\n      were obliged to proceed without noise. \n\n       But you could not have removed you could not have taken to\n      pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been\n      possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter\n      may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in\n      shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it\n      might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did\n      not take to pieces all the chairs? \n\n       Certainly not; but we did better we examined the rungs of every\n      chair in the hotel, and, indeed the jointings of every\n      description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful\n      microscope. Had there been any traces of recent disturbance we\n      should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of\n      gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple.\n      Any disorder in the glueing any unusual gaping in the\n      joints would have sufficed to insure detection. \n\n       I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the\n      plates, and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as well as\n      the curtains and carpets. \n\n       That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every\n      particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house\n      itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which we\n      numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinized each\n      individual square inch throughout the premises, including the two\n      houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope, as before. \n\n       The two houses adjoining!  I exclaimed;  you must have had a\n      great deal of trouble. \n\n       We had; but the reward offered is prodigious! \n\n       You include the grounds about the houses? \n\n       All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively\n      little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and\n      found it undisturbed. \n\n       You looked among D s papers, of course, and into the books of\n      the library? \n\n       Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only\n      opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume,\n      not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the\n      fashion of some of our police officers. We also measured the\n      thickness of every book-cover, with the most accurate\n      admeasurement, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny of\n      the microscope. Had any of the bindings been recently meddled\n      with, it would have been utterly impossible that the fact should\n      have escaped observation. Some five or six volumes, just from the\n      hands of the binder, we carefully probed, longitudinally, with\n      the needles. \n\n       You explored the floors beneath the carpets? \n\n       Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards\n      with the microscope. \n\n       And the paper on the walls? \n\n       Yes. \n\n       You looked into the cellars? \n\n       We did. \n\n       Then,  I said,  you have been making a miscalculation, and the\n      letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose. \n\n       I fear you are right there,  said the Prefect.  And now, Dupin,\n      what would you advise me to do? \n\n       To make a thorough re-search of the premises. \n\n       That is absolutely needless,  replied G .  I am not more sure\n      that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the Hotel. \n\n       I have no better advice to give you,  said Dupin.  You have, of\n      course, an accurate description of the letter? \n\n       Oh yes! And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum-book,\n      proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and\n      especially of the external appearance of the missing document.\n      Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his\n      departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever\n      known the good gentleman before.\n\n      In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and found\n      us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and\n      entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said, \n\n       Well, but G , what of the purloined letter? I presume you have\n      at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as\n      overreaching the Minister? \n\n       Confound him, say I yes; I made the re-examination, however, as\n      Dupin suggested but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would\n      be. \n\n       How much was the reward offered, did you say?  asked Dupin.\n\n       Why, a very great deal a very liberal reward I don t like to say\n      how much, precisely; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn t\n      mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any\n      one who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming\n      of more and more importance every day; and the reward has been\n      lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more\n      than I have done. \n\n       Why, yes,  said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of his\n      meerschaum,  I really think, G , you have not exerted\n      yourself to the utmost in this matter. You might do a little\n      more, I think, eh? \n\n       How? in what way? \n\n       Why puff, puff you might puff, puff employ counsel in the\n      matter, eh? puff, puff, puff. Do you remember the story they tell\n      of Abernethy? \n\n       No; hang Abernethy! \n\n       To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, a\n      certain rich miser conceived the design of spunging upon this\n      Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an\n      ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his\n      case to the physician, as that of an imaginary individual.\n\n       We will suppose,  said the miser,  that his symptoms are such\n      and such; now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take? \n\n       Take!  said Abernethy,  why, take advice, to be sure. \n\n       But,  said the Prefect, a little discomposed,  I am perfectly\n      willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give\n      fifty thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter. \n\n       In that case,  replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a\n      check-book,  you may as well fill me up a check for the amount\n      mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter. \n\n      I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely\n      thunder-stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and\n      motionless, looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth,\n      and eyes that seemed starting from their sockets; then,\n      apparently recovering himself in some measure, he seized a pen,\n      and after several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and\n      signed a check for fifty thousand francs, and handed it across\n      the table to Dupin. The latter examined it carefully and\n      deposited it in his pocket-book; then, unlocking an escritoire,\n      took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. This functionary\n      grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling\n      hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling\n      and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoniously from\n      the room and from the house, without having uttered a syllable\n      since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check.\n\n      When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations.\n\n       The Parisian police,  he said,  are exceedingly able in their\n      way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly\n      versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to\n      demand. Thus, when G  detailed to us his mode of searching the\n      premises at the Hotel D , I felt entire confidence in his having\n      made a satisfactory investigation so far as his labors extended. \n\n       So far as his labors extended?  said I.\n\n       Yes,  said Dupin.  The measures adopted were not only the best\n      of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the\n      letter been deposited within the range of their search, these\n      fellows would, beyond a question, have found it. \n\n      I merely laughed but he seemed quite serious in all that he said.\n\n       The measures, then,  he continued,  were good in their kind, and\n      well executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to\n      the case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious\n      resources are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to\n      which he forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by\n      being too deep or too shallow for the matter in hand; and many a\n      schoolboy is a better reasoner than he. I knew one about eight\n      years of age, whose success at guessing in the game of  even and\n      odd  attracted universal admiration. This game is simple, and is\n      played with marbles. One player holds in his hand a number of\n      these toys, and demands of another whether that number is even or\n      odd. If the guess is right, the guesser wins one; if wrong, he\n      loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles of the\n      school. Of course he had some principle of guessing; and this lay\n      in mere observation and admeasurement of the astuteness of his\n      opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and,\n      holding up his closed hand, asks,  are they even or odd?  Our\n      schoolboy replies,  odd,  and loses; but upon the second trial he\n      wins, for he then says to himself,  the simpleton had them even\n      upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just\n      sufficient to make him have them odd upon the second; I will\n      therefore guess odd; he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a\n      simpleton a degree above the first, he would have reasoned thus:\n       This fellow finds that in the first instance I guessed odd, and,\n      in the second, he will propose to himself, upon the first\n      impulse, a simple variation from even to odd, as did the first\n      simpleton; but then a second thought will suggest that this is\n      too simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon putting\n      it even as before. I will therefore guess even; he guesses even,\n      and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his\n      fellows termed  lucky, what, in its last analysis, is it? \n\n       It is merely,  I said,  an identification of the reasoner s\n      intellect with that of his opponent. \n\n       It is,  said Dupin;  and, upon inquiring of the boy by what\n      means he effected the thorough identification in which his\n      success consisted, I received answer as follows:  When I wish to\n      find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is\n      any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the\n      expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in accordance\n      with the expression of his, and then wait to see what thoughts or\n      sentiments arise in my mind or heart, as if to match or\n      correspond with the expression.  This response of the schoolboy\n      lies at the bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been\n      attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, to Machiavelli, and\n      to Campanella. \n\n       And the identification,  I said,  of the reasoner s intellect\n      with that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright,\n      upon the accuracy with which the opponent s intellect is\n      admeasured. \n\n       For its practical value it depends upon this,  replied Dupin;\n       and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by\n      default of this identification, and, secondly, by\n      ill-admeasurement, or rather through non-admeasurement, of the\n      intellect with which they are engaged. They consider only their\n      own ideas of ingenuity; and, in searching for anything hidden,\n      advert only to the modes in which they would have hidden it. They\n      are right in this much that their own ingenuity is a faithful\n      representative of that of the mass; but when the cunning of the\n      individual felon is diverse in character from their own, the\n      felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it is above\n      their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no\n      variation of principle in their investigations; at best, when\n      urged by some unusual emergency by some extraordinary reward they\n      extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without\n      touching their principles. What, for example, in this case of\n      D , has been done to vary the principle of action? What is all\n      this boring, and probing, and sounding, and scrutinizing with the\n      microscope and dividing the surface of the building into\n      registered square inches what is it all but an exaggeration of\n      the application of the one principle or set of principles of\n      search, which are based upon the one set of notions regarding\n      human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine of his\n      duty, has been accustomed? Do you not see he has taken it for\n      granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter, not exactly in\n      a gimlet hole bored in a chair-leg but, at least, in some\n      out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of\n      thought which would urge a man to secrete a letter in a\n      gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg? And do you not see also, that\n      such recherch s nooks for concealment are adapted only for\n      ordinary occasions, and would be adopted only by ordinary\n      intellects; for, in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the\n      article concealed a disposal of it in this recherch  manner, is,\n      in the very first instance, presumable and presumed; and thus its\n      discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but altogether\n      upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the seekers;\n      and where the case is of importance or, what amounts to the same\n      thing in the political eyes, when the reward is of magnitude, the\n      qualities in question have never been known to fail. You will now\n      understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined\n      letter been hidden any where within the limits of the Prefect s\n      examination in other words, had the principle of its concealment\n      been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect its\n      discovery would have been a matter altogether beyond question.\n      This functionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified; and the\n      remote source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the\n      Minister is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet. All\n      fools are poets; this the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty\n      of a non distributio medii in thence inferring that all poets are\n      fools. \n\n       But is this really the poet?  I asked.  There are two brothers,\n      I know; and both have attained reputation in letters. The\n      Minister I believe has written learnedly on the Differential\n      Calculus. He is a mathematician, and no poet. \n\n       You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and\n      mathematician, he would reason well; as mere mathematician, he\n      could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the\n      mercy of the Prefect. \n\n       You surprise me,  I said,  by these opinions, which have been\n      contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at\n      naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical\n      reason has long been regarded as the reason par excellence. \n\n       Il y a   pari r,  replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort,  que\n      toute id e publique, toute convention re ue est une sottise, car\n      elle a convenue au plus grand nombre.  The mathematicians, I\n      grant you, have done their best to promulgate the popular error\n      to which you allude, and which is none the less an error for its\n      promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for\n      example, they have insinuated the term  analysis  into\n      application to algebra. The French are the originators of this\n      particular deception; but if a term is of any importance if words\n      derive any value from applicability then  analysis  conveys\n       algebra  about as much as, in Latin,  ambitus  implies\n       ambition,   _religio_   religion,  or  _homines honesti_  a set\n      of _honorable_ men. \n\n       You have a quarrel on hand, I see,  said I,  with some of the\n      algebraists of Paris; but proceed. \n\n       I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason\n      which is cultivated in any especial form other than the\n      abstractly logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed\n      by mathematical study. The mathematics are the science of form\n      and quantity; mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to\n      observation upon form and quantity. The great error lies in\n      supposing that even the truths of what is called pure algebra,\n      are abstract or general truths. And this error is so egregious\n      that I am confounded at the universality with which it has been\n      received. Mathematical axioms are not axioms of general truth.\n      What is true of relation of form and quantity is often grossly\n      false in regard to morals, for example. In this latter science it\n      is very usually untrue that the aggregated parts are equal to the\n      whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the consideration of\n      motive it fails; for two motives, each of a given value, have\n      not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their\n      values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which\n      are only truths within the limits of relation. But the\n      mathematician argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as\n      if they were of an absolutely general applicability as the world\n      indeed imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned\n       Mythology,  mentions an analogous source of error, when he says\n      that  although the Pagan fables are not believed, yet we forget\n      ourselves continually, and make inferences from them as existing\n      realities.  With the algebraists, however, who are Pagans\n      themselves, the  Pagan fables  are believed, and the inferences\n      are made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through an\n      unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet\n      encountered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of\n      equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point\n      of his faith that x2+px was absolutely and unconditionally equal\n      to q. Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you\n      please, that you believe occasions may occur where x2+px is not\n      altogether equal to q, and, having made him understand what you\n      mean, get out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond\n      doubt, he will endeavor to knock you down.\n\n       I mean to say,  continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his\n      last observations,  that if the Minister had been no more than a\n      mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no necessity of\n      giving me this check. I know him, however, as both mathematician\n      and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity, with\n      reference to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. I knew\n      him as a courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I\n      considered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary policial\n      modes of action. He could not have failed to anticipate and\n      events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate the\n      waylayings to which he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I\n      reflected, the secret investigations of his premises. His\n      frequent absences from home at night, which were hailed by the\n      Prefect as certain aids to his success, I regarded only as ruses,\n      to afford opportunity for thorough search to the police, and thus\n      the sooner to impress them with the conviction to which G , in\n      fact, did finally arrive the conviction that the letter was not\n      upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole train of thought,\n      which I was at some pains in detailing to you just now,\n      concerning the invariable principle of policial action in\n      searches for articles concealed I felt that this whole train of\n      thought would necessarily pass through the mind of the Minister.\n      It would imperatively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks\n      of concealment. He could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to\n      see that the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would\n      be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the probes,\n      to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the Prefect. I saw, in\n      fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of course, to\n      simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as a matter of\n      choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately the Prefect\n      laughed when I suggested, upon our first interview, that it was\n      just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of its\n      being so very self-evident. \n\n       Yes,  said I,  I remember his merriment well. I really thought\n      he would have fallen into convulsions. \n\n       The material world,  continued Dupin,  abounds with very strict\n      analogies to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has\n      been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may\n      be made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a\n      description. The principle of the vis inerti , for example, seems\n      to be identical in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true\n      in the former, that a large body is with more difficulty set in\n      motion than a smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is\n      commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the latter,\n      that intellects of the vaster capacity, while more forcible, more\n      constant, and more eventful in their movements than those of\n      inferior grade, are yet the less readily moved, and more\n      embarrassed and full of hesitation in the first few steps of\n      their progress. Again: have you ever noticed which of the street\n      signs, over the shop-doors, are the most attractive of\n      attention? \n\n       I have never given the matter a thought,  I said.\n\n       There is a game of puzzles,  he resumed,  which is played upon a\n      map. One party playing requires another to find a given word the\n      name of town, river, state or empire any word, in short, upon the\n      motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game\n      generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the\n      most minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as\n      stretch, in large characters, from one end of the chart to the\n      other. These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards\n      of the street, escape observation by dint of being excessively\n      obvious; and here the physical oversight is precisely analogous\n      with the moral inapprehension by which the intellect suffers to\n      pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and\n      too palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears,\n      somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the Prefect. He\n      never once thought it probable, or possible, that the Minister\n      had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose of the\n      whole world, by way of best preventing any portion of that world\n      from perceiving it.\n\n       But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and\n      discriminating ingenuity of D ; upon the fact that the document\n      must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good\n      purpose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect,\n      that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary s\n      ordinary search the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this\n      letter, the Minister had resorted to the comprehensive and\n      sagacious expedient of not attempting to conceal it at all.\n\n       Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green\n      spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at\n      the Ministerial hotel. I found D  at home, yawning, lounging,\n      and dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last\n      extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic\n      human being now alive but that is only when nobody sees him.\n\n       To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented\n      the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I\n      cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while\n      seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host.\n\n       I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he\n      sat, and upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters\n      and other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few\n      books. Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny,\n      I saw nothing to excite particular suspicion.\n\n       At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a\n      trumpery fillagree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by\n      a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the\n      middle of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four\n      compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary\n      letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn\n      nearly in two, across the middle as if a design, in the first\n      instance, to tear it entirely up as worthless, had been altered,\n      or stayed, in the second. It had a large black seal, bearing the\n      D  cipher _very_ conspicuously, and was addressed, in a\n      diminutive female hand, to D , the minister, himself. It was\n      thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into\n      one of the uppermost divisions of the rack.\n\n       No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it to\n      be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all\n      appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect\n      had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and\n      black, with the D  cipher; there it was small and red, with the\n      ducal arms of the S  family. Here, the address, to the Minister,\n      diminutive and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain\n      royal personage, was markedly bold and decided; the size alone\n      formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of\n      these differences, which was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and\n      torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true\n      methodical habits of D , and so suggestive of a design to delude\n      the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the\n      document these things, together with the hyper-obtrusive\n      situation of this document, full in the view of every visitor,\n      and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I\n      had previously arrived; these things, I say, were strongly\n      corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to\n      suspect.\n\n       I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I\n      maintained a most animated discussion with the Minister upon a\n      topic which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite\n      him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this\n      examination, I committed to memory its external appearance and\n      arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a\n      discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have\n      entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed\n      them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the\n      broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having\n      been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a\n      reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed\n      the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to\n      me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out,\n      re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good morning, and\n      took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the\n      table.\n\n       The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed,\n      quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus\n      engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard\n      immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded\n      by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified\n      mob. D  rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In\n      the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it\n      in my pocket, and replaced it by a fac-simile, (so far as regards\n      externals,) which I had carefully prepared at my\n      lodgings imitating the D  cipher, very readily, by means of a\n      seal formed of bread.\n\n       The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic\n      behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of\n      women and children. It proved, however, to have been without\n      ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a\n      drunkard. When he had gone, D  came from the window, whither I\n      had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view.\n      Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a\n      man in my own pay. \n\n       But what purpose had you,  I asked,  in replacing the letter by\n      a fac-simile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit,\n      to have seized it openly, and departed? \n\n       D ,  replied Dupin,  is a desperate man, and a man of nerve.\n      His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his\n      interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never\n      have left the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of\n      Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart\n      from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions.\n      In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For\n      eighteen months the Minister has had her in his power. She has\n      now him in hers since, being unaware that the letter is not in\n      his possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was.\n      Thus will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political\n      destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than\n      awkward. It is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus\n      Averni; but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of\n      singing, it is far more easy to get up than to come down. In the\n      present instance I have no sympathy at least no pity for him who\n      descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an unprincipled man of\n      genius. I confess, however, that I should like very well to know\n      the precise character of his thoughts, when, being defied by her\n      whom the Prefect terms  a certain personage  he is reduced to\n      opening the letter which I left for him in the card-rack. \n\n       How? did you put any thing particular in it? \n\n       Why it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior\n      blank that would have been insulting. D , at Vienna once, did me\n      an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I\n      should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in\n      regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I\n      thought it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted\n      with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet\n      the words \n\n          Un dessein si funeste,\n      S il n est digne d Atr e, est digne de Thyeste.\n\n      They are to be found in Cr billon s  Atr e. \n\n\n\n\nTHE THOUSAND-AND-SECOND TALE OF SCHEHERAZADE\n\n\nTruth is stranger than fiction. _Old Saying_\n\n      Having had occasion, lately, in the course of some Oriental\n      investigations, to consult the Tellmenow Isits ornot, a work\n      which (like the Zohar of Simeon Jochaides) is scarcely known at\n      all, even in Europe; and which has never been quoted, to my\n      knowledge, by any American if we except, perhaps, the author of\n      the  Curiosities of American Literature ; having had occasion, I\n      say, to turn over some pages of the first-mentioned very\n      remarkable work, I was not a little astonished to discover that\n      the literary world has hitherto been strangely in error\n      respecting the fate of the vizier s daughter, Scheherazade, as\n      that fate is depicted in the  Arabian Nights ; and that the\n      _d nouement_ there given, if not altogether inaccurate, as far as\n      it goes, is at least to blame in not having gone very much\n      farther.\n\n      For full information on this interesting topic, I must refer the\n      inquisitive reader to the  Isits ornot  itself; but in the\n      meantime, I shall be pardoned for giving a summary of what I\n      there discovered.\n\n      It will be remembered, that, in the usual version of the tales, a\n      certain monarch having good cause to be jealous of his queen, not\n      only puts her to death, but makes a vow, by his beard and the\n      prophet, to espouse each night the most beautiful maiden in his\n      dominions, and the next morning to deliver her up to the\n      executioner.\n\n      Having fulfilled this vow for many years to the letter, and with\n      a religious punctuality and method that conferred great credit\n      upon him as a man of devout feeling and excellent sense, he was\n      interrupted one afternoon (no doubt at his prayers) by a visit\n      from his grand vizier, to whose daughter, it appears, there had\n      occurred an idea.\n\n      Her name was Scheherazade, and her idea was, that she would\n      either redeem the land from the depopulating tax upon its beauty,\n      or perish, after the approved fashion of all heroines, in the\n      attempt.\n\n      Accordingly, and although we do not find it to be leap-year\n      (which makes the sacrifice more meritorious), she deputes her\n      father, the grand vizier, to make an offer to the king of her\n      hand. This hand the king eagerly accepts (he had intended to take\n      it at all events, and had put off the matter from day to day,\n      only through fear of the vizier), but, in accepting it now, he\n      gives all parties very distinctly to understand, that, grand\n      vizier or no grand vizier, he has not the slightest design of\n      giving up one iota of his vow or of his privileges. When,\n      therefore, the fair Scheherazade insisted upon marrying the king,\n      and did actually marry him despite her father s excellent advice\n      not to do any thing of the kind when she would and did marry him,\n      I say, will I, nill I, it was with her beautiful black eyes as\n      thoroughly open as the nature of the case would allow.\n\n      It seems, however, that this politic damsel (who had been reading\n      Machiavelli, beyond doubt), had a very ingenious little plot in\n      her mind. On the night of the wedding, she contrived, upon I\n      forget what specious pretence, to have her sister occupy a couch\n      sufficiently near that of the royal pair to admit of easy\n      conversation from bed to bed; and, a little before cock-crowing,\n      she took care to awaken the good monarch, her husband (who bore\n      her none the worse will because he intended to wring her neck on\n      the morrow), she managed to awaken him, I say, (although on\n      account of a capital conscience and an easy digestion, he slept\n      well) by the profound interest of a story (about a rat and a\n      black cat, I think) which she was narrating (all in an undertone,\n      of course) to her sister. When the day broke, it so happened that\n      this history was not altogether finished, and that Scheherazade,\n      in the nature of things could not finish it just then, since it\n      was high time for her to get up and be bowstrung a thing very\n      little more pleasant than hanging, only a trifle more genteel!\n\n      The king s curiosity, however, prevailing, I am sorry to say,\n      even over his sound religious principles, induced him for this\n      once to postpone the fulfilment of his vow until next morning,\n      for the purpose and with the hope of hearing that night how it\n      fared in the end with the black cat (a black cat, I think it was)\n      and the rat.\n\n      The night having arrived, however, the lady Scheherazade not only\n      put the finishing stroke to the black cat and the rat (the rat\n      was blue) but before she well knew what she was about, found\n      herself deep in the intricacies of a narration, having reference\n      (if I am not altogether mistaken) to a pink horse (with green\n      wings) that went, in a violent manner, by clockwork, and was\n      wound up with an indigo key. With this history the king was even\n      more profoundly interested than with the other and, as the day\n      broke before its conclusion (notwithstanding all the queen s\n      endeavors to get through with it in time for the bowstringing),\n      there was again no resource but to postpone that ceremony as\n      before, for twenty-four hours. The next night there happened a\n      similar accident with a similar result; and then the next and\n      then again the next; so that, in the end, the good monarch,\n      having been unavoidably deprived of all opportunity to keep his\n      vow during a period of no less than one thousand and one nights,\n      either forgets it altogether by the expiration of this time, or\n      gets himself absolved of it in the regular way, or (what is more\n      probable) breaks it outright, as well as the head of his father\n      confessor. At all events, Scheherazade, who, being lineally\n      descended from Eve, fell heir, perhaps, to the whole seven\n      baskets of talk, which the latter lady, we all know, picked up\n      from under the trees in the garden of Eden; Scheherazade, I say,\n      finally triumphed, and the tariff upon beauty was repealed.\n\n      Now, this conclusion (which is that of the story as we have it\n      upon record) is, no doubt, excessively proper and pleasant but\n      alas! like a great many pleasant things, is more pleasant than\n      true, and I am indebted altogether to the  Isits ornot  for the\n      means of correcting the error.  Le mieux,  says a French proverb,\n       est l ennemi du bien,  and, in mentioning that Scheherazade had\n      inherited the seven baskets of talk, I should have added that she\n      put them out at compound interest until they amounted to\n      seventy-seven.\n\n       My dear sister,  said she, on the thousand-and-second night, (I\n      quote the language of the  Isits ornot  at this point, verbatim)\n       my dear sister,  said she,  now that all this little difficulty\n      about the bowstring has blown over, and that this odious tax is\n      so happily repealed, I feel that I have been guilty of great\n      indiscretion in withholding from you and the king (who I am sorry\n      to say, snores a thing no gentleman would do) the full conclusion\n      of Sinbad the sailor. This person went through numerous other and\n      more interesting adventures than those which I related; but the\n      truth is, I felt sleepy on the particular night of their\n      narration, and so was seduced into cutting them short a grievous\n      piece of misconduct, for which I only trust that Allah will\n      forgive me. But even yet it is not too late to remedy my great\n      neglect and as soon as I have given the king a pinch or two in\n      order to wake him up so far that he may stop making that horrible\n      noise, I will forthwith entertain you (and him if he pleases)\n      with the sequel of this very remarkable story. \n\n      Hereupon the sister of Scheherazade, as I have it from the\n       Isits ornot,  expressed no very particular intensity of\n      gratification; but the king, having been sufficiently pinched, at\n      length ceased snoring, and finally said,  Hum!  and then  Hoo! \n      when the queen, understanding these words (which are no doubt\n      Arabic) to signify that he was all attention, and would do his\n      best not to snore any more the queen, I say, having arranged\n      these matters to her satisfaction, re-entered thus, at once, into\n      the history of Sinbad the sailor:\n\n       At length, in my old age,  [these are the words of Sinbad\n      himself, as retailed by Scheherazade] at length, in my old age,\n      and after enjoying many years of tranquillity at home, I became\n      once more possessed of a desire of visiting foreign countries;\n      and one day, without acquainting any of my family with my design,\n      I packed up some bundles of such merchandise as was most precious\n      and least bulky, and, engaging a porter to carry them, went with\n      him down to the sea-shore, to await the arrival of any chance\n      vessel that might convey me out of the kingdom into some region\n      which I had not as yet explored.\n\n       Having deposited the packages upon the sands, we sat down\n      beneath some trees, and looked out into the ocean in the hope of\n      perceiving a ship, but during several hours we saw none whatever.\n      At length I fancied that I could hear a singular buzzing or\n      humming sound; and the porter, after listening awhile, declared\n      that he also could distinguish it. Presently it grew louder, and\n      then still louder, so that we could have no doubt that the object\n      which caused it was approaching us. At length, on the edge of the\n      horizon, we discovered a black speck, which rapidly increased in\n      size until we made it out to be a vast monster, swimming with a\n      great part of its body above the surface of the sea. It came\n      toward us with inconceivable swiftness, throwing up huge waves of\n      foam around its breast, and illuminating all that part of the sea\n      through which it passed, with a long line of fire that extended\n      far off into the distance.\n\n       As the thing drew near we saw it very distinctly. Its length\n      was equal to that of three of the loftiest trees that grow, and\n      it was as wide as the great hall of audience in your palace, O\n      most sublime and munificent of the Caliphs. Its body, which was\n      unlike that of ordinary fishes, was as solid as a rock, and of a\n      jetty blackness throughout all that portion of it which floated\n      above the water, with the exception of a narrow blood-red streak\n      that completely begirdled it. The belly, which floated beneath\n      the surface, and of which we could get only a glimpse now and\n      then as the monster rose and fell with the billows, was entirely\n      covered with metallic scales, of a color like that of the moon in\n      misty weather. The back was flat and nearly white, and from it\n      there extended upwards of six spines, about half the length of\n      the whole body.\n\n       This horrible creature had no mouth that we could perceive;\n      but, as if to make up for this deficiency, it was provided with\n      at least four score of eyes, that protruded from their sockets\n      like those of the green dragon-fly, and were arranged all around\n      the body in two rows, one above the other, and parallel to the\n      blood-red streak, which seemed to answer the purpose of an\n      eyebrow. Two or three of these dreadful eyes were much larger\n      than the others, and had the appearance of solid gold.\n\n       Although this beast approached us, as I have before said, with\n      the greatest rapidity, it must have been moved altogether by\n      necromancy for it had neither fins like a fish nor web-feet like\n      a duck, nor wings like the seashell which is blown along in the\n      manner of a vessel; nor yet did it writhe itself forward as do\n      the eels. Its head and its tail were shaped precisely alike,\n      only, not far from the latter, were two small holes that served\n      for nostrils, and through which the monster puffed out its thick\n      breath with prodigious violence, and with a shrieking,\n      disagreeable noise.\n\n       Our terror at beholding this hideous thing was very great, but\n      it was even surpassed by our astonishment, when upon getting a\n      nearer look, we perceived upon the creature s back a vast number\n      of animals about the size and shape of men, and altogether much\n      resembling them, except that they wore no garments (as men do),\n      being supplied (by nature, no doubt) with an ugly uncomfortable\n      covering, a good deal like cloth, but fitting so tight to the\n      skin, as to render the poor wretches laughably awkward, and put\n      them apparently to severe pain. On the very tips of their heads\n      were certain square-looking boxes, which, at first sight, I\n      thought might have been intended to answer as turbans, but I soon\n      discovered that they were excessively heavy and solid, and I\n      therefore concluded they were contrivances designed, by their\n      great weight, to keep the heads of the animals steady and safe\n      upon their shoulders. Around the necks of the creatures were\n      fastened black collars, (badges of servitude, no doubt,) such as\n      we keep on our dogs, only much wider and infinitely stiffer, so\n      that it was quite impossible for these poor victims to move their\n      heads in any direction without moving the body at the same time;\n      and thus they were doomed to perpetual contemplation of their\n      noses a view puggish and snubby in a wonderful, if not positively\n      in an awful degree.\n\n       When the monster had nearly reached the shore where we stood,\n      it suddenly pushed out one of its eyes to a great extent, and\n      emitted from it a terrible flash of fire, accompanied by a dense\n      cloud of smoke, and a noise that I can compare to nothing but\n      thunder. As the smoke cleared away, we saw one of the odd\n      man-animals standing near the head of the large beast with a\n      trumpet in his hand, through which (putting it to his mouth) he\n      presently addressed us in loud, harsh, and disagreeable accents,\n      that, perhaps, we should have mistaken for language, had they not\n      come altogether through the nose.\n\n       Being thus evidently spoken to, I was at a loss how to reply,\n      as I could in no manner understand what was said; and in this\n      difficulty I turned to the porter, who was near swooning through\n      affright, and demanded of him his opinion as to what species of\n      monster it was, what it wanted, and what kind of creatures those\n      were that so swarmed upon its back. To this the porter replied,\n      as well as he could for trepidation, that he had once before\n      heard of this sea-beast; that it was a cruel demon, with bowels\n      of sulphur and blood of fire, created by evil genii as the means\n      of inflicting misery upon mankind; that the things upon its back\n      were vermin, such as sometimes infest cats and dogs, only a\n      little larger and more savage; and that these vermin had their\n      uses, however evil for, through the torture they caused the beast\n      by their nibbling and stingings, it was goaded into that degree\n      of wrath which was requisite to make it roar and commit ill, and\n      so fulfil the vengeful and malicious designs of the wicked genii.\n\n       This account determined me to take to my heels, and, without\n      once even looking behind me, I ran at full speed up into the\n      hills, while the porter ran equally fast, although nearly in an\n      opposite direction, so that, by these means, he finally made his\n      escape with my bundles, of which I have no doubt he took\n      excellent care although this is a point I cannot determine, as I\n      do not remember that I ever beheld him again.\n\n       For myself, I was so hotly pursued by a swarm of the men-vermin\n      (who had come to the shore in boats) that I was very soon\n      overtaken, bound hand and foot, and conveyed to the beast, which\n      immediately swam out again into the middle of the sea.\n\n       I now bitterly repented my folly in quitting a comfortable home\n      to peril my life in such adventures as this; but regret being\n      useless, I made the best of my condition, and exerted myself to\n      secure the goodwill of the man-animal that owned the trumpet, and\n      who appeared to exercise authority over his fellows. I succeeded\n      so well in this endeavor that, in a few days, the creature\n      bestowed upon me various tokens of his favor, and in the end even\n      went to the trouble of teaching me the rudiments of what it was\n      vain enough to denominate its language; so that, at length, I was\n      enabled to converse with it readily, and came to make it\n      comprehend the ardent desire I had of seeing the world.\n\n       Washish squashish squeak, Sinbad, hey-diddle diddle, grunt unt\n      grumble, hiss, fiss, whiss,  said he to me, one day after\n      dinner but I beg a thousand pardons, I had forgotten that your\n      majesty is not conversant with the dialect of the Cock-neighs (so\n      the man-animals were called; I presume because their language\n      formed the connecting link between that of the horse and that of\n      the rooster). With your permission, I will translate.  Washish\n      squashish,  and so forth: that is to say,  I am happy to find, my\n      dear Sinbad, that you are really a very excellent fellow; we are\n      now about doing a thing which is called circumnavigating the\n      globe; and since you are so desirous of seeing the world, I will\n      strain a point and give you a free passage upon back of the\n      beast. \n\n      When the Lady Scheherazade had proceeded thus far, relates the\n       Isits ornot,  the king turned over from his left side to his\n      right, and said:\n\n       It is, in fact, very surprising, my dear queen, that you\n      omitted, hitherto, these latter adventures of Sinbad. Do you know\n      I think them exceedingly entertaining and strange? \n\n      The king having thus expressed himself, we are told, the fair\n      Scheherazade resumed her history in the following words:\n\n       Sinbad went on in this manner with his narrative I thanked the\n      man-animal for its kindness, and soon found myself very much at\n      home on the beast, which swam at a prodigious rate through the\n      ocean; although the surface of the latter is, in that part of the\n      world, by no means flat, but round like a pomegranate, so that we\n      went so to say either up hill or down hill all the time. \n\n       That I think, was very singular,  interrupted the king.\n\n       Nevertheless, it is quite true,  replied Scheherazade.\n\n       I have my doubts,  rejoined the king;  but, pray, be so good as\n      to go on with the story. \n\n       I will,  said the queen.  The beast,  continued Sinbad to the\n      caliph,  swam, as I have related, up hill and down hill until, at\n      length, we arrived at an island, many hundreds of miles in\n      circumference, but which, nevertheless, had been built in the\n      middle of the sea by a colony of little things like\n      caterpillars.  (*1)\n\n       Hum!  said the king.\n\n       Leaving this island,  said Sinbad (for Scheherazade, it must be\n      understood, took no notice of her husband s ill-mannered\n      ejaculation)  leaving this island, we came to another where the\n      forests were of solid stone, and so hard that they shivered to\n      pieces the finest-tempered axes with which we endeavoured to cut\n      them down.  (*2)\n\n       Hum!  said the king, again; but Scheherazade, paying him no\n      attention, continued in the language of Sinbad.\n\n       Passing beyond this last island, we reached a country where\n      there was a cave that ran to the distance of thirty or forty\n      miles within the bowels of the earth, and that contained a\n      greater number of far more spacious and more magnificent palaces\n      than are to be found in all Damascus and Bagdad. From the roofs\n      of these palaces there hung myriads of gems, like diamonds, but\n      larger than men; and in among the streets of towers and pyramids\n      and temples, there flowed immense rivers as black as ebony, and\n      swarming with fish that had no eyes.  (*3)\n\n       Hum!  said the king.\n\n       We then swam into a region of the sea where we found a lofty\n      mountain, down whose sides there streamed torrents of melted\n      metal, some of which were twelve miles wide and sixty miles long\n      (*4); while from an abyss on the summit, issued so vast a\n      quantity of ashes that the sun was entirely blotted out from the\n      heavens, and it became darker than the darkest midnight; so that\n      when we were even at the distance of a hundred and fifty miles\n      from the mountain, it was impossible to see the whitest object,\n      however close we held it to our eyes.  (*5)\n\n       Hum!  said the king.\n\n       After quitting this coast, the beast continued his voyage until\n      we met with a land in which the nature of things seemed\n      reversed for we here saw a great lake, at the bottom of which,\n      more than a hundred feet beneath the surface of the water, there\n      flourished in full leaf a forest of tall and luxuriant trees. \n      (*6)\n\n       Hoo!  said the king.\n\n       Some hundred miles farther on brought us to a climate where the\n      atmosphere was so dense as to sustain iron or steel, just as our\n      own does feather.  (*7)\n\n       Fiddle de dee,  said the king.\n\n       Proceeding still in the same direction, we presently arrived at\n      the most magnificent region in the whole world. Through it there\n      meandered a glorious river for several thousands of miles. This\n      river was of unspeakable depth, and of a transparency richer than\n      that of amber. It was from three to six miles in width; and its\n      banks which arose on either side to twelve hundred feet in\n      perpendicular height, were crowned with ever-blossoming trees and\n      perpetual sweet-scented flowers, that made the whole territory\n      one gorgeous garden; but the name of this luxuriant land was the\n      Kingdom of Horror, and to enter it was inevitable death.  (*8)\n\n       Humph!  said the king.\n\n       We left this kingdom in great haste, and, after some days, came\n      to another, where we were astonished to perceive myriads of\n      monstrous animals with horns resembling scythes upon their heads.\n      These hideous beasts dig for themselves vast caverns in the soil,\n      of a funnel shape, and line the sides of them with rocks, so\n      disposed one upon the other that they fall instantly, when\n      trodden upon by other animals, thus precipitating them into the\n      monster s dens, where their blood is immediately sucked, and\n      their carcasses afterwards hurled contemptuously out to an\n      immense distance from  the caverns of death.\"  (*9)\n\n       Pooh!  said the king.\n\n       Continuing our progress, we perceived a district with\n      vegetables that grew not upon any soil but in the air. (*10)\n      There were others that sprang from the substance of other\n      vegetables; (*11) others that derived their substance from the\n      bodies of living animals; (*12) and then again, there were others\n      that glowed all over with intense fire; (*13) others that moved\n      from place to place at pleasure, (*14) and what was still more\n      wonderful, we discovered flowers that lived and breathed and\n      moved their limbs at will and had, moreover, the detestable\n      passion of mankind for enslaving other creatures, and confining\n      them in horrid and solitary prisons until the fulfillment of\n      appointed tasks.  (*15)\n\n       Pshaw!  said the king.\n\n       Quitting this land, we soon arrived at another in which the\n      bees and the birds are mathematicians of such genius and\n      erudition, that they give daily instructions in the science of\n      geometry to the wise men of the empire. The king of the place\n      having offered a reward for the solution of two very difficult\n      problems, they were solved upon the spot the one by the bees, and\n      the other by the birds; but the king keeping their solution a\n      secret, it was only after the most profound researches and labor,\n      and the writing of an infinity of big books, during a long series\n      of years, that the men-mathematicians at length arrived at the\n      identical solutions which had been given upon the spot by the\n      bees and by the birds.  (*16)\n\n       Oh my!  said the king.\n\n       We had scarcely lost sight of this empire when we found\n      ourselves close upon another, from whose shores there flew over\n      our heads a flock of fowls a mile in breadth, and two hundred and\n      forty miles long; so that, although they flew a mile during every\n      minute, it required no less than four hours for the whole flock\n      to pass over us in which there were several millions of millions\n      of fowl.  (*17)\n\n       Oh fy!  said the king.\n\n       No sooner had we got rid of these birds, which occasioned us\n      great annoyance, than we were terrified by the appearance of a\n      fowl of another kind, and infinitely larger than even the rocs\n      which I met in my former voyages; for it was bigger than the\n      biggest of the domes on your seraglio, oh, most Munificent of\n      Caliphs. This terrible fowl had no head that we could perceive,\n      but was fashioned entirely of belly, which was of a prodigious\n      fatness and roundness, of a soft-looking substance, smooth,\n      shining and striped with various colors. In its talons, the\n      monster was bearing away to his eyrie in the heavens, a house\n      from which it had knocked off the roof, and in the interior of\n      which we distinctly saw human beings, who, beyond doubt, were in\n      a state of frightful despair at the horrible fate which awaited\n      them. We shouted with all our might, in the hope of frightening\n      the bird into letting go of its prey, but it merely gave a snort\n      or puff, as if of rage and then let fall upon our heads a heavy\n      sack which proved to be filled with sand! \n\n       Stuff!  said the king.\n\n       It was just after this adventure that we encountered a\n      continent of immense extent and prodigious solidity, but which,\n      nevertheless, was supported entirely upon the back of a sky-blue\n      cow that had no fewer than four hundred horns.  (*18)\n\n       That, now, I believe,  said the king,  because I have read\n      something of the kind before, in a book. \n\n       We passed immediately beneath this continent, (swimming in\n      between the legs of the cow), and, after some hours, found\n      ourselves in a wonderful country indeed, which, I was informed by\n      the man-animal, was his own native land, inhabited by things of\n      his own species. This elevated the man-animal very much in my\n      esteem, and in fact, I now began to feel ashamed of the\n      contemptuous familiarity with which I had treated him; for I\n      found that the man-animals in general were a nation of the most\n      powerful magicians, who lived with worms in their brain, (*19)\n      which, no doubt, served to stimulate them by their painful\n      writhings and wrigglings to the most miraculous efforts of\n      imagination! \n\n       Nonsense!  said the king.\n\n       Among the magicians, were domesticated several animals of very\n      singular kinds; for example, there was a huge horse whose bones\n      were iron and whose blood was boiling water. In place of corn, he\n      had black stones for his usual food; and yet, in spite of so hard\n      a diet, he was so strong and swift that he would drag a load more\n      weighty than the grandest temple in this city, at a rate\n      surpassing that of the flight of most birds.  (*20)\n\n       Twattle!  said the king.\n\n       I saw, also, among these people a hen without feathers, but\n      bigger than a camel; instead of flesh and bone she had iron and\n      brick; her blood, like that of the horse, (to whom, in fact, she\n      was nearly related,) was boiling water; and like him she ate\n      nothing but wood or black stones. This hen brought forth very\n      frequently, a hundred chickens in the day; and, after birth, they\n      took up their residence for several weeks within the stomach of\n      their mother.  (*21)\n\n       Fal lal!  said the king.\n\n       One of this nation of mighty conjurors created a man out of\n      brass and wood, and leather, and endowed him with such ingenuity\n      that he would have beaten at chess, all the race of mankind with\n      the exception of the great Caliph, Haroun Alraschid. (*22)\n      Another of these magi constructed (of like material) a creature\n      that put to shame even the genius of him who made it; for so\n      great were its reasoning powers that, in a second, it performed\n      calculations of so vast an extent that they would have required\n      the united labor of fifty thousand fleshy men for a year. (*23)\n      But a still more wonderful conjuror fashioned for himself a\n      mighty thing that was neither man nor beast, but which had brains\n      of lead, intermixed with a black matter like pitch, and fingers\n      that it employed with such incredible speed and dexterity that it\n      would have had no trouble in writing out twenty thousand copies\n      of the Koran in an hour, and this with so exquisite a precision,\n      that in all the copies there should not be found one to vary from\n      another by the breadth of the finest hair. This thing was of\n      prodigious strength, so that it erected or overthrew the\n      mightiest empires at a breath; but its powers were exercised\n      equally for evil and for good. \n\n       Ridiculous!  said the king.\n\n       Among this nation of necromancers there was also one who had in\n      his veins the blood of the salamanders; for he made no scruple of\n      sitting down to smoke his chibouc in a red-hot oven until his\n      dinner was thoroughly roasted upon its floor. (*24) Another had\n      the faculty of converting the common metals into gold, without\n      even looking at them during the process. (*25) Another had such a\n      delicacy of touch that he made a wire so fine as to be invisible.\n      (*26) Another had such quickness of perception that he counted\n      all the separate motions of an elastic body, while it was\n      springing backward and forward at the rate of nine hundred\n      millions of times in a second.  (*27)\n\n       Absurd!  said the king.\n\n       Another of these magicians, by means of a fluid that nobody\n      ever yet saw, could make the corpses of his friends brandish\n      their arms, kick out their legs, fight, or even get up and dance\n      at his will. (*28) Another had cultivated his voice to so great\n      an extent that he could have made himself heard from one end of\n      the world to the other. (*29) Another had so long an arm that he\n      could sit down in Damascus and indite a letter at Bagdad or\n      indeed at any distance whatsoever. (*30) Another commanded the\n      lightning to come down to him out of the heavens, and it came at\n      his call; and served him for a plaything when it came. Another\n      took two loud sounds and out of them made a silence. Another\n      constructed a deep darkness out of two brilliant lights. (*31)\n      Another made ice in a red-hot furnace. (*32) Another directed the\n      sun to paint his portrait, and the sun did. (*33) Another took\n      this luminary with the moon and the planets, and having first\n      weighed them with scrupulous accuracy, probed into their depths\n      and found out the solidity of the substance of which they were\n      made. But the whole nation is, indeed, of so surprising a\n      necromantic ability, that not even their infants, nor their\n      commonest cats and dogs have any difficulty in seeing objects\n      that do not exist at all, or that for twenty millions of years\n      before the birth of the nation itself had been blotted out from\n      the face of creation.  (*34)\n\n       Preposterous!  said the king.\n\n       The wives and daughters of these incomparably great and wise\n      magi,  continued Scheherazade, without being in any manner\n      disturbed by these frequent and most ungentlemanly interruptions\n      on the part of her husband the wives and daughters of these\n      eminent conjurers are every thing that is accomplished and\n      refined; and would be every thing that is interesting and\n      beautiful, but for an unhappy fatality that besets them, and from\n      which not even the miraculous powers of their husbands and\n      fathers has, hitherto, been adequate to save. Some fatalities\n      come in certain shapes, and some in others but this of which I\n      speak has come in the shape of a crotchet. \n\n       A what?  said the king.\n\n       A crotchet  said Scheherazade.  One of the evil genii, who\n      are perpetually upon the watch to inflict ill, has put it into\n      the heads of these accomplished ladies that the thing which we\n      describe as personal beauty consists altogether in the\n      protuberance of the region which lies not very far below the\n      small of the back. Perfection of loveliness, they say, is in the\n      direct ratio of the extent of this lump. Having been long\n      possessed of this idea, and bolsters being cheap in that country,\n      the days have long gone by since it was possible to distinguish a\n      woman from a dromedary \n\n       Stop!  said the king I can t stand that, and I won t. You have\n      already given me a dreadful headache with your lies. The day,\n      too, I perceive, is beginning to break. How long have we been\n      married? my conscience is getting to be troublesome again. And\n      then that dromedary touch do you take me for a fool? Upon the\n      whole, you might as well get up and be throttled. \n\n      These words, as I learn from the  Isits ornot,  both grieved and\n      astonished Scheherazade; but, as she knew the king to be a man of\n      scrupulous integrity, and quite unlikely to forfeit his word, she\n      submitted to her fate with a good grace. She derived, however,\n      great consolation, (during the tightening of the bowstring,) from\n      the reflection that much of the history remained still untold,\n      and that the petulance of her brute of a husband had reaped for\n      him a most righteous reward, in depriving him of many\n      inconceivable adventures.\n\n\n\n\nA DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM.\n\n\n  The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways; \n  nor are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the\n  vastness, profundity, and unsearchableness of His works, _which have\n  a depth in them greater than the well of Democritus_.\n\n _Joseph Glanville_.\n\n      We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some\n      minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak.\n\n       Not long ago,  said he at length,  and I could have guided you\n      on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about\n      three years past, there happened to me an event such as never\n      happened to mortal man or at least such as no man ever survived\n      to tell of and the six hours of deadly terror which I then\n      endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a _very_\n      old man but I am not. It took less than a single day to change\n      these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and\n      to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion,\n      and am frightened at a shadow. Do you know I can scarcely look\n      over this little cliff without getting giddy? \n\n      The  little cliff,  upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown\n      himself down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung\n      over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his\n      elbow on its extreme and slippery edge this  little cliff  arose,\n      a sheer unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some\n      fifteen or sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath\n      us. Nothing would have tempted me to within half a dozen yards of\n      its brink. In truth so deeply was I excited by the perilous\n      position of my companion, that I fell at full length upon the\n      ground, clung to the shrubs around me, and dared not even glance\n      upward at the sky while I struggled in vain to divest myself of\n      the idea that the very foundations of the mountain were in danger\n      from the fury of the winds. It was long before I could reason\n      myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look out into the\n      distance.\n\n       You must get over these fancies,  said the guide,  for I have\n      brought you here that you might have the best possible view of\n      the scene of that event I mentioned and to tell you the whole\n      story with the spot just under your eye. \n\n       We are now,  he continued, in that particularizing manner which\n      distinguished him we are now close upon the Norwegian coast in\n      the sixty-eighth degree of latitude in the great province of\n      Nordland and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain upon\n      whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise yourself up\n      a little higher hold on to the grass if you feel giddy so and\n      look out, beyond the belt of vapor beneath us, into the sea. \n\n      I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose\n      waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the\n      Nubian geographer s account of the _Mare Tenebrarum_. A panorama\n      more deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To\n      the right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay\n      outstretched, like ramparts of the world, lines of horridly black\n      and beetling cliff, whose character of gloom was but the more\n      forcibly illustrated by the surf which reared high up against its\n      white and ghastly crest, howling and shrieking forever. Just\n      opposite the promontory upon whose apex we were placed, and at a\n      distance of some five or six miles out at sea, there was visible\n      a small, bleak-looking island; or, more properly, its position\n      was discernible through the wilderness of surge in which it was\n      enveloped. About two miles nearer the land, arose another of\n      smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encompassed at\n      various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks.\n\n      The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more\n      distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about\n      it. Although, at the time, so strong a gale was blowing landward\n      that a brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed\n      trysail, and constantly plunged her whole hull out of sight,\n      still there was here nothing like a regular swell, but only a\n      short, quick, angry cross dashing of water in every direction as\n      well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. Of foam there was\n      little except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks.\n\n       The island in the distance,  resumed the old man,  is called by\n      the Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a mile to\n      the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm,\n      Keildhelm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off between Moskoe and\n      Vurrgh are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. These\n      are the true names of the places but why it has been thought\n      necessary to name them at all, is more than either you or I can\n      understand. Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the\n      water? \n\n      We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to\n      which we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we\n      had caught no glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from\n      the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and\n      gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of\n      buffaloes upon an American prairie; and at the same moment I\n      perceived that what seamen term the _chopping_ character of the\n      ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set\n      to the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a\n      monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed to its\n      headlong impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea, as far as\n      Vurrgh, was lashed into ungovernable fury; but it was between\n      Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the\n      vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand\n      conflicting channels, burst suddenly into phrensied\n      convulsion heaving, boiling, hissing gyrating in gigantic and\n      innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the\n      eastward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes\n      except in precipitous descents.\n\n      In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical\n      alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and\n      the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks\n      of foam became apparent where none had been seen before. These\n      streaks, at length, spreading out to a great distance, and\n      entering into combination, took unto themselves the gyratory\n      motion of the subsided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of\n      another more vast. Suddenly very suddenly this assumed a distinct\n      and definite existence, in a circle of more than a mile in\n      diameter. The edge of the whirl was represented by a broad belt\n      of gleaming spray; but no particle of this slipped into the mouth\n      of the terrific funnel, whose interior, as far as the eye could\n      fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and jet-black wall of water,\n      inclined to the horizon at an angle of some forty-five degrees,\n      speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying and sweltering\n      motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling voice, half\n      shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of\n      Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to Heaven.\n\n      The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. I\n      threw myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an\n      excess of nervous agitation.\n\n       This,  said I at length, to the old man this _can_ be nothing\n      else than the great whirlpool of the Maelstr m. \n\n       So it is sometimes termed,  said he.  We Norwegians call it the\n      Moskoe-str m, from the island of Moskoe in the midway. \n\n      The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared me\n      for what I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most\n      circumstantial of any, cannot impart the faintest conception\n      either of the magnificence, or of the horror of the scene or of\n      the wild bewildering sense of _the novel_ which confounds the\n      beholder. I am not sure from what point of view the writer in\n      question surveyed it, nor at what time; but it could neither have\n      been from the summit of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are\n      some passages of his description, nevertheless, which may be\n      quoted for their details, although their effect is exceedingly\n      feeble in conveying an impression of the spectacle.\n\n       Between Lofoden and Moskoe,  he says,  the depth of the water is\n      between thirty-six and forty fathoms; but on the other side,\n      toward Ver (Vurrgh) this depth decreases so as not to afford a\n      convenient passage for a vessel, without the risk of splitting on\n      the rocks, which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is\n      flood, the stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe\n      with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to\n      the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful\n      cataracts; the noise being heard several leagues off, and the\n      vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship\n      comes within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed and\n      carried down to the bottom, and there beat to pieces against the\n      rocks; and when the water relaxes, the fragments thereof are\n      thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquility are only at\n      the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but\n      a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When the\n      stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, it\n      is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts,\n      and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it\n      before they were within its reach. It likewise happens\n      frequently, that whales come too near the stream, and are\n      overpowered by its violence; and then it is impossible to\n      describe their howlings and bellowings in their fruitless\n      struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, attempting to\n      swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the stream and borne\n      down, while he roared terribly, so as to be heard on shore. Large\n      stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed by the\n      current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if\n      bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist\n      of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This\n      stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea it being\n      constantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645,\n      early in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such\n      noise and impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the\n      coast fell to the ground. \n\n      In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this\n      could have been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of\n      the vortex. The  forty fathoms  must have reference only to\n      portions of the channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or\n      Lofoden. The depth in the centre of the Moskoe-str m must be\n      immeasurably greater; and no better proof of this fact is\n      necessary than can be obtained from even the sidelong glance into\n      the abyss of the whirl which may be had from the highest crag of\n      Helseggen. Looking down from this pinnacle upon the howling\n      Phlegethon below, I could not help smiling at the simplicity with\n      which the honest Jonas Ramus records, as a matter difficult of\n      belief, the anecdotes of the whales and the bears; for it\n      appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing, that the largest\n      ship of the line in existence, coming within the influence of\n      that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather\n      the hurricane, and must disappear bodily and at once.\n\n      The attempts to account for the phenomenon some of which, I\n      remember, seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal now wore\n      a very different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally\n      received is that this, as well as three smaller vortices among\n      the Ferroe islands,  have no other cause than the collision of\n      waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a ridge of\n      rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it\n      precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the\n      flood rises, the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result\n      of all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodigious suction of which\n      is sufficiently known by lesser experiments. These are the words\n      of the Encyclop dia Britannica. Kircher and others imagine that\n      in the centre of the channel of the Maelstr m is an abyss\n      penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very remote part the\n      Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in one instance.\n      This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed,\n      my imagination most readily assented; and, mentioning it to the\n      guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it\n      was the view almost universally entertained of the subject by the\n      Norwegians, it nevertheless was not his own. As to the former\n      notion he confessed his inability to comprehend it; and here I\n      agreed with him for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes\n      altogether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the thunder of\n      the abyss.\n\n       You have had a good look at the whirl now,  said the old man,\n       and if you will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee,\n      and deaden the roar of the water, I will tell you a story that\n      will convince you I ought to know something of the Moskoe-str m. \n\n      I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded.\n\n       Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged smack of\n      about seventy tons burthen, with which we were in the habit of\n      fishing among the islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In all\n      violent eddies at sea there is good fishing, at proper\n      opportunities, if one has only the courage to attempt it; but\n      among the whole of the Lofoden coastmen, we three were the only\n      ones who made a regular business of going out to the islands, as\n      I tell you. The usual grounds are a great way lower down to the\n      southward. There fish can be got at all hours, without much risk,\n      and therefore these places are preferred. The choice spots over\n      here among the rocks, however, not only yield the finest variety,\n      but in far greater abundance; so that we often got in a single\n      day, what the more timid of the craft could not scrape together\n      in a week. In fact, we made it a matter of desperate\n      speculation the risk of life standing instead of labor, and\n      courage answering for capital.\n\n       We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the coast\n      than this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take\n      advantage of the fifteen minutes  slack to push across the main\n      channel of the Moskoe-str m, far above the pool, and then drop\n      down upon anchorage somewhere near Otterholm, or Sandflesen,\n      where the eddies are not so violent as elsewhere. Here we used to\n      remain until nearly time for slack-water again, when we weighed\n      and made for home. We never set out upon this expedition without\n      a steady side wind for going and coming one that we felt sure\n      would not fail us before our return and we seldom made a\n      mis-calculation upon this point. Twice, during six years, we were\n      forced to stay all night at anchor on account of a dead calm,\n      which is a rare thing indeed just about here; and once we had to\n      remain on the grounds nearly a week, starving to death, owing to\n      a gale which blew up shortly after our arrival, and made the\n      channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon this occasion we\n      should have been driven out to sea in spite of everything, (for\n      the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently, that, at\n      length, we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been\n      that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents here\n      to-day and gone to-morrow which drove us under the lee of Flimen,\n      where, by good luck, we brought up.\n\n       I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we\n      encountered  on the grounds it is a bad spot to be in, even in\n      good weather but we made shift always to run the gauntlet of the\n      Moskoe-str m itself without accident; although at times my heart\n      has been in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind\n      or before the slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we\n      thought it at starting, and then we made rather less way than we\n      could wish, while the current rendered the smack unmanageable. My\n      eldest brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout\n      boys of my own. These would have been of great assistance at such\n      times, in using the sweeps, as well as afterward in fishing but,\n      somehow, although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the heart\n      to let the young ones get into the danger for, after all is said\n      and done, it _was_ a horrible danger, and that is the truth.\n\n       It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going\n      to tell you occurred. It was on the tenth day of July, 18 , a day\n      which the people of this part of the world will never forget for\n      it was one in which blew the most terrible hurricane that ever\n      came out of the heavens. And yet all the morning, and indeed\n      until late in the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady breeze\n      from the south-west, while the sun shone brightly, so that the\n      oldest seaman among us could not have foreseen what was to\n      follow.\n\n       The three of us my two brothers and myself had crossed over to\n      the islands about two o clock P. M., and had soon nearly loaded\n      the smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more\n      plenty that day than we had ever known them. It was just seven,\n      _by my watch_, when we weighed and started for home, so as to\n      make the worst of the Str m at slack water, which we knew would\n      be at eight.\n\n       We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for\n      some time spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of\n      danger, for indeed we saw not the slightest reason to apprehend\n      it. All at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over\n      Helseggen. This was most unusual something that had never\n      happened to us before and I began to feel a little uneasy,\n      without exactly knowing why. We put the boat on the wind, but\n      could make no headway at all for the eddies, and I was upon the\n      point of proposing to return to the anchorage, when, looking\n      astern, we saw the whole horizon covered with a singular\n      copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing velocity.\n\n       In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, and\n      we were dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This\n      state of things, however, did not last long enough to give us\n      time to think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon\n      us in less than two the sky was entirely overcast and what with\n      this and the driving spray, it became suddenly so dark that we\n      could not see each other in the smack.\n\n       Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing.\n      The oldest seaman in Norway never experienced any thing like it.\n      We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us;\n      but, at the first puff, both our masts went by the board as if\n      they had been sawed off the mainmast taking with it my youngest\n      brother, who had lashed himself to it for safety.\n\n       Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon\n      water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near\n      the bow, and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten\n      down when about to cross the Str m, by way of precaution against\n      the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have\n      foundered at once for we lay entirely buried for some moments.\n      How my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I\n      never had an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as\n      I had let the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my\n      feet against the narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands\n      grasping a ring-bolt near the foot of the fore-mast. It was mere\n      instinct that prompted me to do this which was undoubtedly the\n      very best thing I could have done for I was too much flurried to\n      think.\n\n       For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and all\n      this time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could\n      stand it no longer I raised myself upon my knees, still keeping\n      hold with my hands, and thus got my head clear. Presently our\n      little boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming\n      out of the water, and thus rid herself, in some measure, of the\n      seas. I was now trying to get the better of the stupor that had\n      come over me, and to collect my senses so as to see what was to\n      be done, when I felt somebody grasp my arm. It was my elder\n      brother, and my heart leaped for joy, for I had made sure that he\n      was overboard but the next moment all this joy was turned into\n      horror for he put his mouth close to my ear, and screamed out the\n      word  _Moskoe-str m!_ \n\n       No one ever will know what my feelings were at that moment. I\n      shook from head to foot as if I had had the most violent fit of\n      the ague. I knew what he meant by that one word well enough I\n      knew what he wished to make me understand. With the wind that now\n      drove us on, we were bound for the whirl of the Str m, and\n      nothing could save us!\n\n       You perceive that in crossing the Str m _channel_, we always\n      went a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather,\n      and then had to wait and watch carefully for the slack but now we\n      were driving right upon the pool itself, and in such a hurricane\n      as this!  To be sure,  I thought,  we shall get there just about\n      the slack there is some little hope in that but in the next\n      moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of\n      hope at all. I knew very well that we were doomed, had we been\n      ten times a ninety-gun ship.\n\n       By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or\n      perhaps we did not feel it so much, as we scudded before it, but\n      at all events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the\n      wind, and lay flat and frothing, now got up into absolute\n      mountains. A singular change, too, had come over the heavens.\n      Around in every direction it was still as black as pitch, but\n      nearly overhead there burst out, all at once, a circular rift of\n      clear sky as clear as I ever saw and of a deep bright blue and\n      through it there blazed forth the full moon with a lustre that I\n      never before knew her to wear. She lit up every thing about us\n      with the greatest distinctness but, oh God, what a scene it was\n      to light up!\n\n       I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother but, in\n      some manner which I could not understand, the din had so\n      increased that I could not make him hear a single word, although\n      I screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook\n      his head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his\n      fingers, as if to say _ listen!  _\n\n       At first I could not make out what he meant but soon a hideous\n      thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It was\n      not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then burst\n      into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. _It had run\n      down at seven o clock! We were behind the time of the slack, and\n      the whirl of the Str m was in full fury!_\n\n       When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep laden,\n      the waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always\n      to slip from beneath her which appears very strange to a\n      landsman and this is what is called _riding_, in sea phrase.\n\n       Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly; but\n      presently a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the\n      counter, and bore us with it as it rose up up as if into the sky.\n      I would not have believed that any wave could rise so high. And\n      then down we came with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made\n      me feel sick and dizzy, as if I was falling from some lofty\n      mountain-top in a dream. But while we were up I had thrown a\n      quick glance around and that one glance was all sufficient. I saw\n      our exact position in an instant. The Moskoe-Str m whirlpool was\n      about a quarter of a mile dead ahead but no more like the\n      every-day Moskoe-Str m than the whirl as you now see it, is like\n      a mill-race. If I had not known where we were, and what we had to\n      expect, I should not have recognised the place at all. As it was,\n      I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. The lids clenched\n      themselves together as if in a spasm.\n\n       It could not have been more than two minutes afterward until we\n      suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. The\n      boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in its\n      new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roaring\n      noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill\n      shriek such a sound as you might imagine given out by the\n      waste-pipes of many thousand steam-vessels, letting off their\n      steam all together. We were now in the belt of surf that always\n      surrounds the whirl; and I thought, of course, that another\n      moment would plunge us into the abyss, down which we could only\n      see indistinctly on account of the amazing velocity with which we\n      wore borne along. The boat did not seem to sink into the water at\n      all, but to skim like an air-bubble upon the surface of the\n      surge. Her starboard side was next the whirl, and on the larboard\n      arose the world of ocean we had left. It stood like a huge\n      writhing wall between us and the horizon.\n\n       It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws of\n      the gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching\n      it. Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great\n      deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. I suppose it was\n      despair that strung my nerves.\n\n       It may look like boasting but what I tell you is truth I began\n      to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a\n      manner, and how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a\n      consideration as my own individual life, in view of so wonderful\n      a manifestation of God s power. I do believe that I blushed with\n      shame when this idea crossed my mind. After a little while I\n      became possessed with the keenest curiosity about the whirl\n      itself. I positively felt a _wish_ to explore its depths, even at\n      the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was\n      that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore\n      about the mysteries I should see. These, no doubt, were singular\n      fancies to occupy a man s mind in such extremity and I have often\n      thought since, that the revolutions of the boat around the pool\n      might have rendered me a little light-headed.\n\n       There was another circumstance which tended to restore my\n      self-possession; and this was the cessation of the wind, which\n      could not reach us in our present situation for, as you saw\n      yourself, the belt of surf is considerably lower than the general\n      bed of the ocean, and this latter now towered above us, a high,\n      black, mountainous ridge. If you have never been at sea in a\n      heavy gale, you can form no idea of the confusion of mind\n      occasioned by the wind and spray together. They blind, deafen,\n      and strangle you, and take away all power of action or\n      reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, rid of these\n      annoyances just as death-condemned felons in prison are allowed\n      petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is yet\n      uncertain.\n\n       How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to\n      say. We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying\n      rather than floating, getting gradually more and more into the\n      middle of the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible\n      inner edge. All this time I had never let go of the ring-bolt. My\n      brother was at the stern, holding on to a small empty water-cask\n      which had been securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and\n      was the only thing on deck that had not been swept overboard when\n      the gale first took us. As we approached the brink of the pit he\n      let go his hold upon this, and made for the ring, from which, in\n      the agony of his terror, he endeavored to force my hands, as it\n      was not large enough to afford us both a secure grasp. I never\n      felt deeper grief than when I saw him attempt this act although I\n      knew he was a madman when he did it a raving maniac through sheer\n      fright. I did not care, however, to contest the point with him. I\n      knew it could make no difference whether either of us held on at\n      all; so I let him have the bolt, and went astern to the cask.\n      This there was no great difficulty in doing; for the smack flew\n      round steadily enough, and upon an even keel only swaying to and\n      fro, with the immense sweeps and swelters of the whirl. Scarcely\n      had I secured myself in my new position, when we gave a wild\n      lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. I\n      muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over.\n\n       As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had\n      instinctively tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my\n      eyes. For some seconds I dared not open them while I expected\n      instant destruction, and wondered that I was not already in my\n      death-struggles with the water. But moment after moment elapsed.\n      I still lived. The sense of falling had ceased; and the motion of\n      the vessel seemed much as it had been before, while in the belt\n      of foam, with the exception that she now lay more along. I took\n      courage, and looked once again upon the scene.\n\n       Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and\n      admiration with which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be\n      hanging, as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior surface\n      of a funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in depth, and whose\n      perfectly smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but\n      for the bewildering rapidity with which they spun around, and for\n      the gleaming and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of\n      the full moon, from that circular rift amid the clouds which I\n      have already described, streamed in a flood of golden glory along\n      the black walls, and far away down into the inmost recesses of\n      the abyss.\n\n       At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately.\n      The general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld.\n      When I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell\n      instinctively downward. In this direction I was able to obtain an\n      unobstructed view, from the manner in which the smack hung on the\n      inclined surface of the pool. She was quite upon an even\n      keel that is to say, her deck lay in a plane parallel with that\n      of the water but this latter sloped at an angle of more than\n      forty-five degrees, so that we seemed to be lying upon our\n      beam-ends. I could not help observing, nevertheless, that I had\n      scarcely more difficulty in maintaining my hold and footing in\n      this situation, than if we had been upon a dead level; and this,\n      I suppose, was owing to the speed at which we revolved.\n\n       The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of the\n      profound gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, on\n      account of a thick mist in which everything there was enveloped,\n      and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow\n      and tottering bridge which Mussulmen say is the only pathway\n      between Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt\n      occasioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as\n      they all met together at the bottom but the yell that went up to\n      the Heavens from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to\n      describe.\n\n       Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam\n      above, had carried us a great distance down the slope; but our\n      farther descent was by no means proportionate. Round and round we\n      swept not with any uniform movement but in dizzying swings and\n      jerks, that sent us sometimes only a few hundred yards sometimes\n      nearly the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress downward,\n      at each revolution, was slow, but very perceptible.\n\n       Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which we\n      were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only\n      object in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were\n      visible fragments of vessels, large masses of building timber and\n      trunks of trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of\n      house furniture, broken boxes, barrels and staves. I have already\n      described the unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my\n      original terrors. It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer\n      and nearer to my dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a\n      strange interest, the numerous things that floated in our\n      company. I _must_ have been delirious, for I even sought\n      _amusement_ in speculating upon the relative velocities of their\n      several descents toward the foam below.  This fir tree,  I found\n      myself at one time saying,  will certainly be the next thing that\n      takes the awful plunge and disappears, and then I was\n      disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant ship\n      overtook it and went down before. At length, after making several\n      guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all this fact the\n      fact of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of\n      reflection that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat\n      heavily once more.\n\n       It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a\n      more exciting _hope_. This hope arose partly from memory, and\n      partly from present observation. I called to mind the great\n      variety of buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden,\n      having been absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-str m.\n      By far the greater number of the articles were shattered in the\n      most extraordinary way so chafed and roughened as to have the\n      appearance of being stuck full of splinters but then I distinctly\n      recollected that there were _some_ of them which were not\n      disfigured at all. Now I could not account for this difference\n      except by supposing that the roughened fragments were the only\n      ones which had been _completely absorbed_ that the others had\n      entered the whirl at so late a period of the tide, or, for some\n      reason, had descended so slowly after entering, that they did not\n      reach the bottom before the turn of the flood came, or of the\n      ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, in either\n      instance, that they might thus be whirled up again to the level\n      of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had been\n      drawn in more early, or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also,\n      three important observations. The first was, that, as a general\n      rule, the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their\n      descent the second, that, between two masses of equal extent, the\n      one spherical, and the other _of any other shape_, the\n      superiority in speed of descent was with the sphere the third,\n      that, between two masses of equal size, the one cylindrical, and\n      the other of any other shape, the cylinder was absorbed the more\n      slowly. Since my escape, I have had several conversations on this\n      subject with an old school-master of the district; and it was\n      from him that I learned the use of the words  cylinder  and\n       sphere.  He explained to me although I have forgotten the\n      explanation how what I observed was, in fact, the natural\n      consequence of the forms of the floating fragments and showed me\n      how it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered\n      more resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater\n      difficulty than an equally bulky body, of any form whatever. (*1)\n\n       There was one startling circumstance which went a great way in\n      enforcing these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn\n      them to account, and this was that, at every revolution, we\n      passed something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a\n      vessel, while many of these things, which had been on our level\n      when I first opened my eyes upon the wonders of the whirlpool,\n      were now high up above us, and seemed to have moved but little\n      from their original station.\n\n       I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself\n      securely to the water cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose\n      from the counter, and to throw myself with it into the water. I\n      attracted my brother s attention by signs, pointed to the\n      floating barrels that came near us, and did everything in my\n      power to make him understand what I was about to do. I thought at\n      length that he comprehended my design but, whether this was the\n      case or not, he shook his head despairingly, and refused to move\n      from his station by the ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach\n      him; the emergency admitted of no delay; and so, with a bitter\n      struggle, I resigned him to his fate, fastened myself to the cask\n      by means of the lashings which secured it to the counter, and\n      precipitated myself with it into the sea, without another\n      moment s hesitation.\n\n       The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is\n      myself who now tell you this tale as you see that I _did_\n      escape and as you are already in possession of the mode in which\n      this escape was effected, and must therefore anticipate all that\n      I have farther to say I will bring my story quickly to\n      conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout, after my\n      quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance\n      beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid\n      succession, and, bearing my loved brother with it, plunged\n      headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam below. The\n      barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half\n      the distance between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which\n      I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in the\n      character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast\n      funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the\n      whirl grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the\n      froth and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf\n      seemed slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone\n      down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I\n      found myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the\n      shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the\n      Moskoe-str m _had been_. It was the hour of the slack but the sea\n      still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the\n      hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Str m,\n      and in a few minutes was hurried down the coast into the\n       grounds  of the fishermen. A boat picked me up exhausted from\n      fatigue and (now that the danger was removed) speechless from the\n      memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old\n      mates and daily companions but they knew me no more than they\n      would have known a traveller from the spirit-land. My hair which\n      had been raven-black the day before, was as white as you see it\n      now. They say too that the whole expression of my countenance had\n      changed. I told them my story they did not believe it. I now tell\n      it to _you_ and I can scarcely expect you to put more faith in it\n      than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden. \n\n\n\n\nVON KEMPELEN AND HIS DISCOVERY\n\n\n      After the very minute and elaborate paper by Arago, to say\n      nothing of the summary in  Silliman s Journal,  with the detailed\n      statement just published by Lieutenant Maury, it will not be\n      supposed, of course, that in offering a few hurried remarks in\n      reference to Von Kempelen s discovery, I have any design to look\n      at the subject in a scientific point of view. My object is\n      simply, in the first place, to say a few words of Von Kempelen\n      himself (with whom, some years ago, I had the honor of a slight\n      personal acquaintance), since every thing which concerns him must\n      necessarily, at this moment, be of interest; and, in the second\n      place, to look in a general way, and speculatively, at the\n      results of the discovery.\n\n      It may be as well, however, to premise the cursory observations\n      which I have to offer, by denying, very decidedly, what seems to\n      be a general impression (gleaned, as usual in a case of this\n      kind, from the newspapers), viz.: that this discovery, astounding\n      as it unquestionably is, is unanticipated.\n\n      By reference to the  Diary of Sir Humphrey Davy  (Cottle and\n      Munroe, London, pp. 150), it will be seen at pp. 53 and 82, that\n      this illustrious chemist had not only conceived the idea now in\n      question, but had actually made no inconsiderable progress,\n      experimentally, in the very identical analysis now so\n      triumphantly brought to an issue by Von Kempelen, who although he\n      makes not the slightest allusion to it, is, without doubt (I say\n      it unhesitatingly, and can prove it, if required), indebted to\n      the  Diary  for at least the first hint of his own undertaking.\n\n      The paragraph from the  Courier and Enquirer,  which is now going\n      the rounds of the press, and which purports to claim the\n      invention for a Mr. Kissam, of Brunswick, Maine, appears to me, I\n      confess, a little apocryphal, for several reasons; although there\n      is nothing either impossible or very improbable in the statement\n      made. I need not go into details. My opinion of the paragraph is\n      founded principally upon its manner. It does not look true.\n      Persons who are narrating facts, are seldom so particular as Mr.\n      Kissam seems to be, about day and date and precise location.\n      Besides, if Mr. Kissam actually did come upon the discovery he\n      says he did, at the period designated nearly eight years ago how\n      happens it that he took no steps, on the instant, to reap the\n      immense benefits which the merest bumpkin must have known would\n      have resulted to him individually, if not to the world at large,\n      from the discovery? It seems to me quite incredible that any man\n      of common understanding could have discovered what Mr. Kissam\n      says he did, and yet have subsequently acted so like a baby so\n      like an owl as Mr. Kissam admits that he did. By-the-way, who is\n      Mr. Kissam? and is not the whole paragraph in the  Courier and\n      Enquirer  a fabrication got up to  make a talk ? It must be\n      confessed that it has an amazingly moon-hoaxy-air. Very little\n      dependence is to be placed upon it, in my humble opinion; and if\n      I were not well aware, from experience, how very easily men of\n      science are mystified, on points out of their usual range of\n      inquiry, I should be profoundly astonished at finding so eminent\n      a chemist as Professor Draper, discussing Mr. Kissam s (or is it\n      Mr. Quizzem s?) pretensions to the discovery, in so serious a\n      tone.\n\n      But to return to the  Diary  of Sir Humphrey Davy. This pamphlet\n      was not designed for the public eye, even upon the decease of the\n      writer, as any person at all conversant with authorship may\n      satisfy himself at once by the slightest inspection of the style.\n      At page 13, for example, near the middle, we read, in reference\n      to his researches about the protoxide of azote:  In less than\n      half a minute the respiration being continued, diminished\n      gradually and were succeeded by analogous to gentle pressure on\n      all the muscles.  That the respiration was not  diminished,  is\n      not only clear by the subsequent context, but by the use of the\n      plural,  were.  The sentence, no doubt, was thus intended:  In\n      less than half a minute, the respiration [being continued, these\n      feelings] diminished gradually, and were succeeded by [a\n      sensation] analogous to gentle pressure on all the muscles.  A\n      hundred similar instances go to show that the MS. so\n      inconsiderately published, was merely a rough note-book, meant\n      only for the writer s own eye, but an inspection of the pamphlet\n      will convince almost any thinking person of the truth of my\n      suggestion. The fact is, Sir Humphrey Davy was about the last man\n      in the world to commit himself on scientific topics. Not only had\n      he a more than ordinary dislike to quackery, but he was morbidly\n      afraid of appearing empirical; so that, however fully he might\n      have been convinced that he was on the right track in the matter\n      now in question, he would never have spoken out, until he had\n      every thing ready for the most practical demonstration. I verily\n      believe that his last moments would have been rendered wretched,\n      could he have suspected that his wishes in regard to burning this\n       Diary  (full of crude speculations) would have been unattended\n      to; as, it seems, they were. I say  his wishes,  for that he\n      meant to include this note-book among the miscellaneous papers\n      directed  to be burnt,  I think there can be no manner of doubt.\n      Whether it escaped the flames by good fortune or by bad, yet\n      remains to be seen. That the passages quoted above, with the\n      other similar ones referred to, gave Von Kempelen the hint, I do\n      not in the slightest degree question; but I repeat, it yet\n      remains to be seen whether this momentous discovery itself\n      (momentous under any circumstances) will be of service or\n      disservice to mankind at large. That Von Kempelen and his\n      immediate friends will reap a rich harvest, it would be folly to\n      doubt for a moment. They will scarcely be so weak as not to\n       realize,  in time, by large purchases of houses and land, with\n      other property of intrinsic value.\n\n      In the brief account of Von Kempelen which appeared in the  Home\n      Journal,  and has since been extensively copied, several\n      misapprehensions of the German original seem to have been made by\n      the translator, who professes to have taken the passage from a\n      late number of the Presburg  Schnellpost.   Viele  has evidently\n      been misconceived (as it often is), and what the translator\n      renders by  sorrows,  is probably  lieden,  which, in its true\n      version,  sufferings,  would give a totally different complexion\n      to the whole account; but, of course, much of this is merely\n      guess, on my part.\n\n      Von Kempelen, however, is by no means  a misanthrope,  in\n      appearance, at least, whatever he may be in fact. My acquaintance\n      with him was casual altogether; and I am scarcely warranted in\n      saying that I know him at all; but to have seen and conversed\n      with a man of so _prodigious_ a notoriety as he has attained, or\n      _will_ attain in a few days, is not a small matter, as times go.\n\n       The Literary World  speaks of him, confidently, as a native of\n      Presburg (misled, perhaps, by the account in  The Home Journal )\n      but I am pleased in being able to state _positively_, since I\n      have it from his own lips, that he was born in Utica, in the\n      State of New York, although both his parents, I believe, are of\n      Presburg descent. The family is connected, in some way, with\n      M elzel, of Automaton-chess-player memory. In person, he is short\n      and stout, with large, _fat_, blue eyes, sandy hair and whiskers,\n      a wide but pleasing mouth, fine teeth, and I think a Roman nose.\n      There is some defect in one of his feet. His address is frank,\n      and his whole manner noticeable for bonhomie. Altogether, he\n      looks, speaks, and acts as little like  a misanthrope  as any man\n      I ever saw. We were fellow-sojourners for a week about six years\n      ago, at Earl s Hotel, in Providence, Rhode Island; and I presume\n      that I conversed with him, at various times, for some three or\n      four hours altogether. His principal topics were those of the\n      day; and nothing that fell from him led me to suspect his\n      scientific attainments. He left the hotel before me, intending to\n      go to New York, and thence to Bremen; it was in the latter city\n      that his great discovery was first made public; or, rather, it\n      was there that he was first suspected of having made it. This is\n      about all that I personally know of the now immortal Von\n      Kempelen; but I have thought that even these few details would\n      have interest for the public.\n\n      There can be little question that most of the marvellous rumors\n      afloat about this affair are pure inventions, entitled to about\n      as much credit as the story of Aladdin s lamp; and yet, in a case\n      of this kind, as in the case of the discoveries in California, it\n      is clear that the truth may be stranger than fiction. The\n      following anecdote, at least, is so well authenticated, that we\n      may receive it implicitly.\n\n      Von Kempelen had never been even tolerably well off during his\n      residence at Bremen; and often, it was well known, he had been\n      put to extreme shifts in order to raise trifling sums. When the\n      great excitement occurred about the forgery on the house of\n      Gutsmuth & Co., suspicion was directed toward Von Kempelen, on\n      account of his having purchased a considerable property in\n      Gasperitch Lane, and his refusing, when questioned, to explain\n      how he became possessed of the purchase money. He was at length\n      arrested, but nothing decisive appearing against him, was in the\n      end set at liberty. The police, however, kept a strict watch upon\n      his movements, and thus discovered that he left home frequently,\n      taking always the same road, and invariably giving his watchers\n      the slip in the neighborhood of that labyrinth of narrow and\n      crooked passages known by the flash name of the  Dondergat. \n      Finally, by dint of great perseverance, they traced him to a\n      garret in an old house of seven stories, in an alley called\n      Flatzplatz, and, coming upon him suddenly, found him, as they\n      imagined, in the midst of his counterfeiting operations. His\n      agitation is represented as so excessive that the officers had\n      not the slightest doubt of his guilt. After hand-cuffing him,\n      they searched his room, or rather rooms, for it appears he\n      occupied all the mansarde.\n\n      Opening into the garret where they caught him, was a closet, ten\n      feet by eight, fitted up with some chemical apparatus, of which\n      the object has not yet been ascertained. In one corner of the\n      closet was a very small furnace, with a glowing fire in it, and\n      on the fire a kind of duplicate crucible two crucibles connected\n      by a tube. One of these crucibles was nearly full of lead in a\n      state of fusion, but not reaching up to the aperture of the tube,\n      which was close to the brim. The other crucible had some liquid\n      in it, which, as the officers entered, seemed to be furiously\n      dissipating in vapor. They relate that, on finding himself taken,\n      Kempelen seized the crucibles with both hands (which were encased\n      in gloves that afterwards turned out to be asbestic), and threw\n      the contents on the tiled floor. It was now that they hand-cuffed\n      him; and before proceeding to ransack the premises they searched\n      his person, but nothing unusual was found about him, excepting a\n      paper parcel, in his coat-pocket, containing what was afterward\n      ascertained to be a mixture of antimony and some unknown\n      substance, in nearly, but not quite, equal proportions. All\n      attempts at analyzing the unknown substance have, so far, failed,\n      but that it will ultimately be analyzed, is not to be doubted.\n\n      Passing out of the closet with their prisoner, the officers went\n      through a sort of ante-chamber, in which nothing material was\n      found, to the chemist s sleeping-room. They here rummaged some\n      drawers and boxes, but discovered only a few papers, of no\n      importance, and some good coin, silver and gold. At length,\n      looking under the bed, they saw a large, common hair trunk,\n      without hinges, hasp, or lock, and with the top lying carelessly\n      across the bottom portion. Upon attempting to draw this trunk out\n      from under the bed, they found that, with their united strength\n      (there were three of them, all powerful men), they  could not\n      stir it one inch.  Much astonished at this, one of them crawled\n      under the bed, and looking into the trunk, said:\n\n       No wonder we couldn t move it why it s full to the brim of old\n      bits of brass! \n\n      Putting his feet, now, against the wall so as to get a good\n      purchase, and pushing with all his force, while his companions\n      pulled with all theirs, the trunk, with much difficulty, was slid\n      out from under the bed, and its contents examined. The supposed\n      brass with which it was filled was all in small, smooth pieces,\n      varying from the size of a pea to that of a dollar; but the\n      pieces were irregular in shape, although more or less\n      flat-looking, upon the whole,  very much as lead looks when\n      thrown upon the ground in a molten state, and there suffered to\n      grow cool.  Now, not one of these officers for a moment suspected\n      this metal to be anything _but_ brass. The idea of its being\n      _gold_ never entered their brains, of course; how _could_ such a\n      wild fancy have entered it? And their astonishment may be well\n      conceived, when the next day it became known, all over Bremen,\n      that the  lot of brass  which they had carted so contemptuously\n      to the police office, without putting themselves to the trouble\n      of pocketing the smallest scrap, was not only gold real gold but\n      gold far finer than any employed in coinage gold, in fact,\n      absolutely pure, virgin, without the slightest appreciable alloy.\n\n      I need not go over the details of Von Kempelen s confession (as\n      far as it went) and release, for these are familiar to the\n      public. That he has actually realized, in spirit and in effect,\n      if not to the letter, the old chimaera of the philosopher s\n      stone, no sane person is at liberty to doubt. The opinions of\n      Arago are, of course, entitled to the greatest consideration; but\n      he is by no means infallible; and what he says of bismuth, in his\n      report to the Academy, must be taken _cum grano salis_. The\n      simple truth is, that up to this period all analysis has failed;\n      and until Von Kempelen chooses to let us have the key to his own\n      published enigma, it is more than probable that the matter will\n      remain, for years, in statu quo. All that as yet can fairly be\n      said to be known is, that  Pure gold can be made at will, and\n      very readily from lead in connection with certain other\n      substances, in kind and in proportions, unknown. \n\n      Speculation, of course, is busy as to the immediate and ultimate\n      results of this discovery a discovery which few thinking persons\n      will hesitate in referring to an increased interest in the matter\n      of gold generally, by the late developments in California; and\n      this reflection brings us inevitably to another the exceeding\n      inopportuneness of Von Kempelen s analysis. If many were\n      prevented from adventuring to California, by the mere\n      apprehension that gold would so materially diminish in value, on\n      account of its plentifulness in the mines there, as to render the\n      speculation of going so far in search of it a doubtful one what\n      impression will be wrought now, upon the minds of those about to\n      emigrate, and especially upon the minds of those actually in the\n      mineral region, by the announcement of this astounding discovery\n      of Von Kempelen? a discovery which declares, in so many words,\n      that beyond its intrinsic worth for manufacturing purposes\n      (whatever that worth may be), gold now is, or at least soon will\n      be (for it cannot be supposed that Von Kempelen can long retain\n      his secret), of no greater value than lead, and of far inferior\n      value to silver. It is, indeed, exceedingly difficult to\n      speculate prospectively upon the consequences of the discovery,\n      but one thing may be positively maintained that the announcement\n      of the discovery six months ago would have had material influence\n      in regard to the settlement of California.\n\n      In Europe, as yet, the most noticeable results have been a rise\n      of two hundred per cent. in the price of lead, and nearly\n      twenty-five per cent. that of silver.\n\n\n\n\nMESMERIC REVELATION\n\n\nWhatever doubt may still envelop the _rationale_ of mesmerism, its\nstartling _facts_ are now almost universally admitted. Of these latter,\nthose who doubt, are your mere doubters by profession an unprofitable\nand disreputable tribe. There can be no more absolute waste of time\nthan the attempt to _prove_, at the present day, that man, by mere\nexercise of will, can so impress his fellow, as to cast him into an\nabnormal condition, of which the phenomena resemble very closely those\nof _death_, or at least resemble them more nearly than they do the\nphenomena of any other normal condition within our cognizance; that,\nwhile in this state, the person so impressed employs only with effort,\nand then feebly, the external organs of sense, yet perceives, with\nkeenly refined perception, and through channels supposed unknown,\nmatters beyond the scope of the physical organs; that, moreover, his\nintellectual faculties are wonderfully exalted and invigorated; that\nhis sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound; and,\nfinally, that his susceptibility to the impression increases with its\nfrequency, while, in the same proportion, the peculiar phenomena\nelicited are more extended and more _pronounced_.\n\nI say that these which are the laws of mesmerism in its general\nfeatures it would be supererogation to demonstrate; nor shall I inflict\nupon my readers so needless a demonstration; to-day. My purpose at\npresent is a very different one indeed. I am impelled, even in the\nteeth of a world of prejudice, to detail without comment the very\nremarkable substance of a colloquy, occurring between a sleep-waker and\nmyself.\n\nI had been long in the habit of mesmerizing the person in question (Mr.\nVankirk), and the usual acute susceptibility and exaltation of the\nmesmeric perception had supervened. For many months he had been\nlaboring under confirmed phthisis, the more distressing effects of\nwhich had been relieved by my manipulations; and on the night of\nWednesday, the fifteenth instant, I was summoned to his bedside.\n\nThe invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the heart,\nand breathed with great difficulty, having all the ordinary symptoms of\nasthma. In spasms such as these he had usually found relief from the\napplication of mustard to the nervous centres, but to-night this had\nbeen attempted in vain.\n\nAs I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile, and although\nevidently in much bodily pain, appeared to be, mentally, quite at ease.\n\n I sent for you to-night,  he said,  not so much to administer to my\nbodily ailment, as to satisfy me concerning certain psychal impressions\nwhich, of late, have occasioned me much anxiety and surprise. I need\nnot tell you how sceptical I have hitherto been on the topic of the\nsoul s immortality. I cannot deny that there has always existed, as if\nin that very soul which I have been denying, a vague half-sentiment of\nits own existence. But this half-sentiment at no time amounted to\nconviction. With it my reason had nothing to do. All attempts at\nlogical inquiry resulted, indeed, in leaving me more sceptical than\nbefore. I had been advised to study Cousin. I studied him in his own\nworks as well as in those of his European and American echoes. The\n Charles Elwood  of Mr. Brownson, for example, was placed in my hands.\nI read it with profound attention. Throughout I found it logical, but\nthe portions which were not _merely_ logical were unhappily the initial\narguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it\nseemed evident to me that the reasoner had not even succeeded in\nconvincing himself. His end had plainly forgotten his beginning, like\nthe government of Trinculo. In short, I was not long in perceiving that\nif man is to be intellectually convinced of his own immortality, he\nwill never be so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so\nlong the fashion of the moralists of England, of France, and of\nGermany. Abstractions may amuse and exercise, but take no hold on the\nmind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am persuaded, will\nalways in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as things. The will\nmay assent the soul the intellect, never.\n\n I repeat, then, that I only half felt, and never intellectually\nbelieved. But latterly there has been a certain deepening of the\nfeeling, until it has come so nearly to resemble the acquiescence of\nreason, that I find it difficult to distinguish between the two. I am\nenabled, too, plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence. I\ncannot better explain my meaning than by the hypothesis that the\nmesmeric exaltation enables me to perceive a train of ratiocination\nwhich, in my abnormal existence, convinces, but which, in full\naccordance with the mesmeric phenomena, does not extend, except through\nits _effect_, into my normal condition. In sleep-waking, the reasoning\nand its conclusion the cause and its effect are present together. In my\nnatural state, the cause vanishing, the effect only, and perhaps only\npartially, remains.\n\n These considerations have led me to think that some good results might\nensue from a series of well-directed questions propounded to me while\nmesmerized. You have often observed the profound self-cognizance\nevinced by the sleep-waker the extensive knowledge he displays upon all\npoints relating to the mesmeric condition itself; and from this\nself-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of a\ncatechism. \n\nI consented of course to make this experiment.  A few passes threw Mr.\nVankirk into the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became immediately more\neasy, and he seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness. The following\nconversation then ensued: V. in the dialogue representing the patient,\nand P. myself.\n\n      _P._ Are you asleep?\n\n      _V._ Yes no; I would rather sleep more soundly.\n\n      _P._ [_After a few more passes._] Do you sleep now?\n\n      _V._ Yes.\n\n      _P._ How do you think your present illness will result?\n\n      _V._ [_After a long hesitation and speaking as if with effort_.]\n      I must die.\n\n      _P._ Does the idea of death afflict you?\n\n      _V._ [_Very quickly_.] No no!\n\n      _P._ Are you pleased with the prospect?\n\n      _V._ If I were awake I should like to die, but now it is no\n      matter. The mesmeric condition is so near death as to content me.\n\n      _P._ I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Vankirk.\n\n      _V._ I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I\n      feel able to make. You do not question me properly.\n\n      _P._ What then shall I ask?\n\n      _V._ You must begin at the beginning.\n\n      _P._ The beginning! But where is the beginning?\n\n      _V._ You know that the beginning is GOD. [_This was said in a\n      low, fluctuating tone, and with every sign of the most profound\n      veneration_.]\n\n      _P._ What then, is God?\n\n      _V._ [_Hesitating for many minutes._] I cannot tell.\n\n      _P._ Is not God spirit?\n\n      _V._ While I was awake I knew what you meant by  spirit,  but now\n      it seems only a word such, for instance, as truth, beauty a\n      quality, I mean.\n\n      _P._ Is not God immaterial?\n\n      _V._ There is no immateriality it is a mere word. That which is\n      not matter, is not at all unless qualities are things.\n\n      _P._ Is God, then, material?\n\n      _V._ No. [_This reply startled me very much._]\n\n      _P._ What, then, is he?\n\n      _V._ [_After a long pause, and mutteringly._] I see but it is a\n      thing difficult to tell. [_Another long pause._] He is not\n      spirit, for he exists. Nor is he matter, as _you understand it_.\n      But there are _gradations_ of matter of which man knows nothing;\n      the grosser impelling the finer, the finer pervading the grosser.\n      The atmosphere, for example, impels the electric principle, while\n      the electric principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations\n      of matter increase in rarity or fineness, until we arrive at a\n      matter _unparticled_ without particles indivisible _one;_ and\n      here the law of impulsion and permeation is modified. The\n      ultimate, or unparticled matter, not only permeates all things\n      but impels all things; and thus _is_ all things within itself.\n      This matter is God. What men attempt to embody in the word\n       thought,  is this matter in motion.\n\n      _P._ The metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible to\n      motion and thinking, and that the latter is the origin of the\n      former.\n\n      _V._ Yes; and I now see the confusion of idea. Motion is the\n      action of _mind_, not of _thinking_. The unparticled matter, or\n      God, in quiescence, is (as nearly as we can conceive it) what men\n      call mind. And the power of self-movement (equivalent in effect\n      to human volition) is, in the unparticled matter, the result of\n      its unity and omniprevalence; _how_ I know not, and now clearly\n      see that I shall never know. But the unparticled matter, set in\n      motion by a law, or quality, existing within itself, is thinking.\n\n      _P._ Can you give me no more precise idea of what you term the\n      unparticled matter?\n\n      _V._ The matters of which man is cognizant escape the senses in\n      gradation. We have, for example, a metal, a piece of wood, a drop\n      of water, the atmosphere, a gas, caloric, electricity, the\n      luminiferous ether. Now we call all these things matter, and\n      embrace all matter in one general definition; but in spite of\n      this, there can be no two ideas more essentially distinct than\n      that which we attach to a metal, and that which we attach to the\n      luminiferous ether. When we reach the latter, we feel an almost\n      irresistible inclination to class it with spirit, or with\n      nihility. The only consideration which restrains us is our\n      conception of its atomic constitution; and here, even, we have to\n      seek aid from our notion of an atom, as something possessing in\n      infinite minuteness, solidity, palpability, weight. Destroy the\n      idea of the atomic constitution and we should no longer be able\n      to regard the ether as an entity, or at least as matter. For want\n      of a better word we might term it spirit. Take, now, a step\n      beyond the luminiferous ether conceive a matter as much more rare\n      than the ether, as this ether is more rare than the metal, and we\n      arrive at once (in spite of all the school dogmas) at a unique\n      mass an unparticled matter. For although we may admit infinite\n      littleness in the atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness\n      in the spaces between them is an absurdity. There will be a\n      point there will be a degree of rarity, at which, if the atoms\n      are sufficiently numerous, the interspaces must vanish, and the\n      mass absolutely coalesce. But the consideration of the atomic\n      constitution being now taken away, the nature of the mass\n      inevitably glides into what we conceive of spirit. It is clear,\n      however, that it is as fully matter as before. The truth is, it\n      is impossible to conceive spirit, since it is impossible to\n      imagine what is not. When we flatter ourselves that we have\n      formed its conception, we have merely deceived our understanding\n      by the consideration of infinitely rarified matter.\n\n      _P._ There seems to me an insurmountable objection to the idea of\n      absolute coalescence; and that is the very slight resistance\n      experienced by the heavenly bodies in their revolutions through\n      space a resistance now ascertained, it is true, to exist in\n      _some_ degree, but which is, nevertheless, so slight as to have\n      been quite overlooked by the sagacity even of Newton. We know\n      that the resistance of bodies is, chiefly, in proportion to their\n      density. Absolute coalescence is absolute density. Where there\n      are no interspaces, there can be no yielding. An ether,\n      absolutely dense, would put an infinitely more effectual stop to\n      the progress of a star than would an ether of adamant or of iron.\n\n      _V._ Your objection is answered with an ease which is nearly in\n      the ratio of its apparent unanswerability. As regards the\n      progress of the star, it can make no difference whether the star\n      passes through the ether _or the ether through it_. There is no\n      astronomical error more unaccountable than that which reconciles\n      the known retardation of the comets with the idea of their\n      passage through an ether: for, however rare this ether be\n      supposed, it would put a stop to all sidereal revolution in a\n      very far briefer period than has been admitted by those\n      astronomers who have endeavored to slur over a point which they\n      found it impossible to comprehend. The retardation actually\n      experienced is, on the other hand, about that which might be\n      expected from the _friction_ of the ether in the instantaneous\n      passage through the orb. In the one case, the retarding force is\n      momentary and complete within itself in the other it is endlessly\n      accumulative.\n\n      _P._ But in all this in this identification of mere matter with\n      God is there nothing of irreverence? [_I was forced to repeat\n      this question before the sleep-waker fully comprehended my\n      meaning_.]\n\n      _V._ Can you say _why_ matter should be less reverenced than\n      mind? But you forget that the matter of which I speak is, in all\n      respects, the very  mind  or  spirit  of the schools, so far as\n      regards its high capacities, and is, moreover, the  matter  of\n      these schools at the same time. God, with all the powers\n      attributed to spirit, is but the perfection of matter.\n\n      _P._ You assert, then, that the unparticled matter, in motion, is\n      thought?\n\n      _V._ In general, this motion is the universal thought of the\n      universal mind. This thought creates. All created things are but\n      the thoughts of God.\n\n      _P._ You say,  in general. \n\n      _V._ Yes. The universal mind is God. For new individualities,\n      _matter_ is necessary.\n\n      _P._ But you now speak of  mind  and  matter  as do the\n      metaphysicians.\n\n      _V._ Yes to avoid confusion. When I say  mind,  I mean the\n      unparticled or ultimate matter; by  matter,  I intend all else.\n\n      _P._ You were saying that  for new individualities matter is\n      necessary. \n\n      _V._ Yes; for mind, existing unincorporate, is merely God. To\n      create individual, thinking beings, it was necessary to incarnate\n      portions of the divine mind. Thus man is individualized. Divested\n      of corporate investiture, he were God. Now, the particular motion\n      of the incarnated portions of the unparticled matter is the\n      thought of man; as the motion of the whole is that of God.\n\n      _P._ You say that divested of the body man will be God?\n\n      _V._ [_After much hesitation._] I could not have said this; it is\n      an absurdity.\n\n      _P._ [_Referring to my notes._] You _did_ say that  divested of\n      corporate investiture man were God. \n\n      _V._ And this is true. Man thus divested _would be_ God would be\n      unindividualized. But he can never be thus divested at least\n      never _will be_ else we must imagine an action of God returning\n      upon itself a purposeless and futile action. Man is a creature.\n      Creatures are thoughts of God. It is the nature of thought to be\n      irrevocable.\n\n      _P._ I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put off the\n      body?\n\n      _V._ I say that he will never be bodiless.\n\n      _P._ Explain.\n\n      _V._ There are two bodies the rudimental and the complete;\n      corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the\n      butterfly. What we call  death,  is but the painful\n      metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive,\n      preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate,\n      immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.\n\n      _P._ But of the worm s metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant.\n\n      _V._ _We_, certainly but not the worm. The matter of which our\n      rudimental body is composed, is within the ken of the organs of\n      that body; or, more distinctly, our rudimental organs are adapted\n      to the matter of which is formed the rudimental body; but not to\n      that of which the ultimate is composed. The ultimate body thus\n      escapes our rudimental senses, and we perceive only the shell\n      which falls, in decaying, from the inner form; not that inner\n      form itself; but this inner form, as well as the shell, is\n      appreciable by those who have already acquired the ultimate life.\n\n      _P._ You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly\n      resembles death. How is this?\n\n      _V._ When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles\n      the ultimate life; for when I am entranced the senses of my\n      rudimental life are in abeyance, and I perceive external things\n      directly, without organs, through a medium which I shall employ\n      in the ultimate, unorganized life.\n\n      _P._ Unorganized?\n\n      _V._ Yes; organs are contrivances by which the individual is\n      brought into sensible relation with particular classes and forms\n      of matter, to the exclusion of other classes and forms. The\n      organs of man are adapted to his rudimental condition, and to\n      that only; his ultimate condition, being unorganized, is of\n      unlimited comprehension in all points but one the nature of the\n      volition of God that is to say, the motion of the unparticled\n      matter. You will have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by\n      conceiving it to be entire brain. This it is _not_; but a\n      conception of this nature will bring you near a comprehension of\n      what it _is_. A luminous body imparts vibration to the\n      luminiferous ether. The vibrations generate similar ones within\n      the retina; these again communicate similar ones to the optic\n      nerve. The nerve conveys similar ones to the brain; the brain,\n      also, similar ones to the unparticled matter which permeates it.\n      The motion of this latter is thought, of which perception is the\n      first undulation. This is the mode by which the mind of the\n      rudimental life communicates with the external world; and this\n      external world is, to the rudimental life, limited, through the\n      idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in the ultimate, unorganized\n      life, the external world reaches the whole body, (which is of a\n      substance having affinity to brain, as I have said,) with no\n      other intervention than that of an infinitely rarer ether than\n      even the luminiferous; and to this ether in unison with it the\n      whole body vibrates, setting in motion the unparticled matter\n      which permeates it. It is to the absence of idiosyncratic organs,\n      therefore, that we must attribute the nearly unlimited perception\n      of the ultimate life. To rudimental beings, organs are the cages\n      necessary to confine them until fledged.\n\n      _P._ You speak of rudimental  beings.  Are there other rudimental\n      thinking beings than man?\n\n      _V._ The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebul ,\n      planets, suns, and other bodies which are neither nebul , suns,\n      nor planets, is for the sole purpose of supplying _pabulum_ for\n      the idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental\n      beings. But for the necessity of the rudimental, prior to the\n      ultimate life, there would have been no bodies such as these.\n      Each of these is tenanted by a distinct variety of organic,\n      rudimental, thinking creatures. In all, the organs vary with the\n      features of the place tenanted. At death, or metamorphosis, these\n      creatures, enjoying the ultimate life immortality and cognizant\n      of all secrets but _the one_, act all things and pass everywhere\n      by mere volition: indwelling, not the stars, which to us seem the\n      sole palpabilities, and for the accommodation of which we blindly\n      deem space created but that SPACE itself that infinity of which\n      the truly substantive vastness swallows up the\n      star-shadows blotting them out as non-entities from the\n      perception of the angels.\n\n      _P._ You say that  but for the _necessity_ of the rudimental\n      life  there would have been no stars. But why this necessity?\n\n      _V._ In the inorganic life, as well as in the inorganic matter\n      generally, there is nothing to impede the action of one simple\n      _unique_ law the Divine Volition. With the view of producing\n      impediment, the organic life and matter, (complex, substantial,\n      and law-encumbered,) were contrived.\n\n      _P._ But again why need this impediment have been produced?\n\n      _V._ The result of law inviolate is perfection right negative\n      happiness. The result of law violate is imperfection, wrong,\n      positive pain. Through the impediments afforded by the number,\n      complexity, and substantiality of the laws of organic life and\n      matter, the violation of law is rendered, to a certain extent,\n      practicable. Thus pain, which in the inorganic life is\n      impossible, is possible in the organic.\n\n      _P._ But to what good end is pain thus rendered possible?\n\n      _V._ All things are either good or bad by comparison. A\n      sufficient analysis will show that pleasure, in all cases, is but\n      the contrast of pain. _Positive_ pleasure is a mere idea. To be\n      happy at any one point we must have suffered at the same. Never\n      to suffer would have been never to have been blessed. But it has\n      been shown that, in the inorganic life, pain cannot be thus the\n      necessity for the organic. The pain of the primitive life of\n      Earth, is the sole basis of the bliss of the ultimate life in\n      Heaven.\n\n      _P._ Still, there is one of your expressions which I find it\n      impossible to comprehend the truly _substantive_ vastness of\n      infinity. \n\n      _V._ This, probably, is because you have no sufficiently generic\n      conception of the term  _substance_  itself. We must not regard\n      it as a quality, but as a sentiment: it is the perception, in\n      thinking beings, of the adaptation of matter to their\n      organization. There are many things on the Earth, which would be\n      nihility to the inhabitants of Venus many things visible and\n      tangible in Venus, which we could not be brought to appreciate as\n      existing at all. But to the inorganic beings to the angels the\n      whole of the unparticled matter is substance that is to say, the\n      whole of what we term  space  is to them the truest\n      substantiality; the stars, meantime, through what we consider\n      their materiality, escaping the angelic sense, just in proportion\n      as the unparticled matter, through what we consider its\n      immateriality, eludes the organic.\n\n      As the sleep-waker pronounced these latter words, in a feeble\n      tone, I observed on his countenance a singular expression, which\n      somewhat alarmed me, and induced me to awake him at once. No\n      sooner had I done this, than, with a bright smile irradiating all\n      his features, he fell back upon his pillow and expired. I noticed\n      that in less than a minute afterward his corpse had all the stern\n      rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness of ice. Thus,\n      ordinarily, should it have appeared, only after long pressure\n      from Azrael s hand. Had the sleep-waker, indeed, during the\n      latter portion of his discourse, been addressing me from out the\n      region of the shadows?\n\n\n\n\nTHE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR\n\n\n      Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for\n      wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited\n      discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not especially\n      under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties\n      concerned, to keep the affair from the public, at least for the\n      present, or until we had farther opportunities for\n      investigation through our endeavors to effect this a garbled or\n      exaggerated account made its way into society, and became the\n      source of many unpleasant misrepresentations; and, very\n      naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.\n\n      It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts as far as I\n      comprehend them myself. They are, succinctly, these:\n\n      My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn\n      to the subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago it\n      occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the series of experiments\n      made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most\n      unaccountable omission: no person had as yet been mesmerized in\n      articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first, whether, in such\n      condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the\n      magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was\n      impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what extent,\n      or for how long a period, the encroachments of Death might be\n      arrested by the process. There were other points to be\n      ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity the last in\n      especial, from the immensely important character of its\n      consequences.\n\n      In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test\n      these particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest\n      Valdemar, the well-known compiler of the  Bibliotheca Forensica, \n      and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the\n      Polish versions of  Wallenstein  and  Gargantua.  M. Valdemar,\n      who has resided principally at Harlem, N.Y., since the year 1839,\n      is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme spareness of\n      his person his lower limbs much resembling those of John\n      Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in\n      violent contrast to the blackness of his hair the latter, in\n      consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His\n      temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject\n      for mesmeric experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him\n      to sleep with little difficulty, but was disappointed in other\n      results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to\n      anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or thoroughly,\n      under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I could\n      accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always\n      attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of\n      his health. For some months previous to my becoming acquainted\n      with him, his physicians had declared him in a confirmed\n      phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his\n      approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor\n      regretted.\n\n      When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it\n      was of course very natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I\n      knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any\n      scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who would\n      be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject;\n      and, to my surprise, his interest seemed vividly excited. I say\n      to my surprise, for, although he had always yielded his person\n      freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens\n      of sympathy with what I did. His disease was of that character\n      which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of\n      its termination in death; and it was finally arranged between us\n      that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the\n      period announced by his physicians as that of his decease.\n\n      It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M.\n      Valdemar himself, the subjoined note:\n\n      MY DEAR P ,\n\n      You may as well come now. D  and F  are agreed that I cannot\n      hold out beyond to-morrow midnight; and I think they have hit the\n      time very nearly.\n\n      VALDEMAR\n\n      I received this note within half an hour after it was written,\n      and in fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man s chamber. I\n      had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful\n      alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face\n      wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the\n      emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been broken through\n      by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse\n      was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very\n      remarkable manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of\n      physical strength. He spoke with distinctness took some\n      palliative medicines without aid and, when I entered the room,\n      was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was\n      propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D  and F  were in\n      attendance.\n\n      After pressing Valdemar s hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and\n      obtained from them a minute account of the patient s condition.\n      The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous or\n      cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for all\n      purposes of vitality. The right, in its upper portion, was also\n      partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower region\n      was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running one into\n      another. Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one\n      point, permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These\n      appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date.\n      The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no\n      sign of it had been discovered a month before, and the adhesion\n      had only been observed during the three previous days.\n      Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of\n      aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symptoms\n      rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of\n      both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the\n      morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o clock on Saturday evening.\n\n      On quitting the invalid s bed-side to hold conversation with\n      myself, Doctors D  and F  had bidden him a final farewell. It\n      had not been their intention to return; but, at my request, they\n      agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night.\n\n      When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the\n      subject of his approaching dissolution, as well as, more\n      particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still professed\n      himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged\n      me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were in\n      attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to\n      engage in a task of this character with no more reliable\n      witnesses than these people, in case of sudden accident, might\n      prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the\n      next night, when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had\n      some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L l,) relieved me from farther\n      embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait for the\n      physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent\n      entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I\n      had not a moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast.\n\n      Mr. L l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take\n      notes of all that occurred, and it is from his memoranda that\n      what I now have to relate is, for the most part, either condensed\n      or copied verbatim.\n\n      It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient s\n      hand, I begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr.\n      L l, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should\n      make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition.\n\n      He replied feebly, yet quite audibly,  Yes, I wish to be. I fear\n      you have mesmerized adding immediately afterwards:  I fear you\n      have deferred it too long. \n\n      While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already\n      found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced\n      with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but\n      although I exerted all my powers, no further perceptible effect\n      was induced until some minutes after ten o clock, when Doctors\n      D  and F  called, according to appointment. I explained to\n      them, in a few words, what I designed, and as they opposed no\n      objection, saying that the patient was already in the death\n      agony, I proceeded without hesitation exchanging, however, the\n      lateral passes for downward ones, and directing my gaze entirely\n      into the right eye of the sufferer.\n\n      By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was\n      stertorous, and at intervals of half a minute.\n\n      This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At\n      the expiration of this period, however, a natural although a very\n      deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorous\n      breathing ceased that is to say, its stertorousness was no longer\n      apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient s\n      extremities were of an icy coldness.\n\n      At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of\n      the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed\n      for that expression of uneasy inward examination which is never\n      seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite\n      impossible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the\n      lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few more I closed\n      them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but\n      continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest\n      exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs\n      of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy\n      position. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so,\n      and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loin. The\n      head was very slightly elevated.\n\n      When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I\n      requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar s\n      condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be an\n      unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both\n      the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D  resolved at once to\n      remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F  took leave with\n      a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L l and the nurses remained.\n\n      We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three\n      o clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in\n      precisely the same condition as when Dr. F  went away that is to\n      say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible;\n      the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the\n      application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed\n      naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble.\n      Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death.\n\n      As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to\n      influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the\n      latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experiments\n      with this patient, I had never perfectly succeeded before, and\n      assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to my\n      astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed\n      every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a\n      few words of conversation.\n\n       M. Valdemar,  I said,  are you asleep?  He made no answer, but I\n      perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat\n      the question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole\n      frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids\n      unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of the\n      ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a\n      barely audible whisper, issued the words:\n\n       Yes; asleep now. Do not wake me! let me die so! \n\n      I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right\n      arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the\n      sleep-waker again:\n\n       Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar? \n\n      The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before:\n\n       No pain I am dying. \n\n      I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then,\n      and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F ,\n      who came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded\n      astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling\n      the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to\n      speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying:\n\n       M. Valdemar, do you still sleep? \n\n      As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during\n      the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies\n      to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question, he said very\n      faintly, almost inaudibly:\n\n       Yes; still asleep dying. \n\n      It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians,\n      that M. Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his\n      present apparently tranquil condition, until death should\n      supervene and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place\n      within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once\n      more, and merely repeated my previous question.\n\n      While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of\n      the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the\n      pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a\n      cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper;\n      and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly\n      defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this\n      expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in\n      mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a\n      puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed\n      itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered\n      completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk,\n      leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view\n      the swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the\n      party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed horrors;\n      but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M.\n      Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back\n      from the region of the bed.\n\n      I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which\n      every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my\n      business, however, simply to proceed.\n\n      There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar;\n      and concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the\n      charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was\n      observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At\n      the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended\n      and motionless jaws a voice such as it would be madness in me to\n      attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets\n      which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might\n      say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and\n      hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple\n      reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of\n      humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I\n      thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as\n      characteristic of the intonation as well adapted to convey some\n      idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice\n      seemed to reach our ears at least mine from a vast distance, or\n      from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it\n      impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make\n      myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress\n      the sense of touch.\n\n      I have spoken both of  sound  and of  voice.  I mean to say that\n      the sound was one of distinct of even wonderfully, thrillingly\n      distinct syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke obviously in reply to\n      the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had\n      asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said:\n\n       Yes; no; I have been sleeping and now now I am dead. \n\n      No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress,\n      the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus\n      uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L l (the student)\n      swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not\n      be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to\n      render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied\n      ourselves, silently without the utterance of a word in endeavors\n      to revive Mr. L l. When he came to himself, we addressed\n      ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar s condition.\n\n      It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the\n      exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of\n      respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I\n      should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my\n      will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my\n      hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric\n      influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue,\n      whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be\n      making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition.\n      To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed\n      utterly insensible although I endeavored to place each member of\n      the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have\n      now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the\n      sleep-waker s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured;\n      and at ten o clock I left the house in company with the two\n      physicians and Mr. L l.\n\n      In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His\n      condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion\n      as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had\n      little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be\n      served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what\n      is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric\n      process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar\n      would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy,\n      dissolution.\n\n      From this period until the close of last week an interval of\n      nearly seven months we continued to make daily calls at M.\n      Valdemar s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other\n      friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained _exactly_ as I\n      have last described him. The nurses  attentions were continual.\n\n      It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the\n      experiment of awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is\n      the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which\n      has given rise to so much discussion in private circles to so\n      much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling.\n\n      For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric\n      trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time,\n      were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded\n      by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially\n      remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by\n      the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the\n      lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor.\n\n      It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the\n      patient s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr.\n      F  then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so,\n      as follows:\n\n       M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or\n      wishes now? \n\n      There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks;\n      the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth\n      (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before), and at\n      length the same hideous voice which I have already described,\n      broke forth:\n\n       For God s sake! quick! quick! put me to sleep or, quick! waken\n      me! quick! I say to you that I am dead! \n\n      I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided\n      what to do. At first I made an endeavor to recompose the patient;\n      but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I\n      retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In\n      this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful or at least I\n      soon fancied that my success would be complete and I am sure that\n      all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken.\n\n      For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that\n      any human being could have been prepared.\n\n      As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of\n       dead! dead!  absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from\n      the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once within the\n      space of a single minute, or even less,\n      shrunk crumbled absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the\n      bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of\n      loathsome of detestable putrescence.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLACK CAT.\n\n\n      For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to\n      pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be\n      to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own\n      evidence. Yet, mad am I not and very surely do I not dream. But\n      to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My\n      immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly,\n      succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household\n      events. In their consequences, these events have terrified have\n      tortured have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound\n      them. To me, they have presented little but horror to many they\n      will seem less terrible than _barroques_. Hereafter, perhaps,\n      some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the\n      common-place some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less\n      excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances\n      I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of\n      very natural causes and effects.\n\n      From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my\n      disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to\n      make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of\n      animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of\n      pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy\n      as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character\n      grew with my growth, and in my manhood, I derived from it one of\n      my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an\n      affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at\n      the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the\n      gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish\n      and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the\n      heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry\n      friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere _Man_.\n\n      I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition\n      not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic\n      pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most\n      agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a\n      small monkey, and _a cat_.\n\n      This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely\n      black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his\n      intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured\n      with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular\n      notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not\n      that she was ever _serious_ upon this point and I mention the\n      matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just\n      now, to be remembered.\n\n      Pluto this was the cat s name was my favorite pet and playmate. I\n      alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the\n      house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from\n      following me through the streets.\n\n      Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during\n      which my general temperament and character through the\n      instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance had (I blush to confess\n      it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day\n      by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the\n      feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language\n      to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My\n      pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition.\n      I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I\n      still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating\n      him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey,\n      or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they\n      came in my way. But my disease grew upon me for what disease is\n      like Alcohol! and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old,\n      and consequently somewhat peevish even Pluto began to experience\n      the effects of my ill temper.\n\n      One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my\n      haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I\n      seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a\n      slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon\n      instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul\n      seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than\n      fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my\n      frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it,\n      grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of\n      its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen\n      the damnable atrocity.\n\n      When reason returned with the morning when I had slept off the\n      fumes of the night s debauch I experienced a sentiment half of\n      horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been\n      guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and\n      the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and\n      soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.\n\n      In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost\n      eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no\n      longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as\n      usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my\n      approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first\n      grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which\n      had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to\n      irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable\n      overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy\n      takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than\n      I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the\n      human heart one of the indivisible primary faculties, or\n      sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has\n      not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly\n      action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not?\n      Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best\n      judgment, to violate that which is _Law_, merely because we\n      understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say,\n      came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of\n      the soul _to vex itself_ to offer violence to its own nature to\n      do wrong for the wrong s sake only that urged me to continue and\n      finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the\n      unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose\n      about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; hung it with\n      the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse\n      at my heart; hung it _because_ I knew that it had loved me, and\n      _because_ I felt it had given me no reason of offence; hung it\n      _because_ I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin a deadly\n      sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it if\n      such a thing wore possible even beyond the reach of the infinite\n      mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.\n\n      On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was\n      aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed\n      were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great\n      difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape\n      from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire\n      worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself\n      thenceforward to despair.\n\n      I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of\n      cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am\n      detailing a chain of facts and wish not to leave even a possible\n      link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the\n      ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This\n      exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which\n      stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested\n      the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure,\n      resisted the action of the fire a fact which I attributed to its\n      having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were\n      collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular\n      portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words\n       strange!   singular!  and other similar expressions, excited my\n      curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in _bas relief_\n      upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic _cat_. The\n      impression was given with an accuracy truly marvellous. There was\n      a rope about the animal s neck.\n\n      When I first beheld this apparition for I could scarcely regard\n      it as less my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length\n      reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung\n      in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this\n      garden had been immediately filled by the crowd by some one of\n      whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown,\n      through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been\n      done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of\n      other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the\n      substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with\n      the flames, and the _ammonia_ from the carcass, had then\n      accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.\n\n      Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether\n      to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did\n      not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For\n      months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and,\n      during this period, there came back into my spirit a\n      half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far\n      as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among\n      the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another\n      pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with\n      which to supply its place.\n\n      One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy,\n      my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing\n      upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of gin, or of rum,\n      which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had\n      been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some\n      minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had\n      not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and\n      touched it with my hand. It was a black cat a very large\n      one fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every\n      respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of\n      his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch\n      of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast. Upon my\n      touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against\n      my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was\n      the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to\n      purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to\n      it knew nothing of it had never seen it before.\n\n      I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the\n      animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to\n      do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When\n      it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became\n      immediately a great favorite with my wife.\n\n      For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me.\n      This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but I know\n      not how or why it was its evident fondness for myself rather\n      disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust\n      and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the\n      creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my\n      former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it.\n      I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use\n      it; but gradually very gradually I came to look upon it with\n      unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious\n      presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.\n\n      What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the\n      discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like\n      Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This\n      circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I\n      have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of\n      feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the\n      source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.\n\n      With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself\n      seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity\n      which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend.\n      Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon\n      my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to\n      walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down,\n      or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in\n      this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to\n      destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly\n      by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly let me confess it at\n      once by absolute dread of the beast.\n\n      This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil and yet I\n      should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost\n      ashamed to own yes, even in this felon s cell, I am almost\n      ashamed to own that the terror and horror with which the animal\n      inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras\n      it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my\n      attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white\n      hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole\n      visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had\n      destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although\n      large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow\n      degrees degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time\n      my reason struggled to reject as fanciful it had, at length,\n      assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the\n      representation of an object that I shudder to name and for this,\n      above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of\n      the monster _had I dared_ it was now, I say, the image of a\n      hideous of a ghastly thing of the GALLOWS! oh, mournful and\n      terrible engine of Horror and of Crime of Agony and of Death!\n\n      And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere\n      Humanity. And _a brute beast _ whose fellow I had contemptuously\n      destroyed _a brute beast_ to work out for _me_ for me a man,\n      fashioned in the image of the High God so much of insufferable\n      woe! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of\n      rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment\n      alone, and in the latter I started hourly from dreams of\n      unutterable fear to find the hot breath of _the thing_ upon my\n      face, and its vast weight an incarnate nightmare that I had no\n      power to shake off incumbent eternally upon my _heart!_\n\n      Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble\n      remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my\n      sole intimates the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The\n      moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things\n      and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and\n      ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned\n      myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas, was the most usual and the\n      most patient of sufferers.\n\n      One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the\n      cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to\n      inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly\n      throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an\n      axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had\n      hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of\n      course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I\n      wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife.\n      Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I\n      withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain.\n      She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.\n\n      This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and\n      with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I\n      knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or\n      by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors.\n      Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting\n      the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At\n      another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the\n      cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the\n      yard about packing it in a box, as if merchandise, with the usual\n      arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house.\n      Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than\n      either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar as the\n      monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their\n      victims.\n\n      For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls\n      were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered\n      throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the\n      atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the\n      walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace,\n      that had been filled up, and made to resemble the red of the\n      cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks\n      at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as\n      before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in\n      this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I\n      easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the\n      body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position,\n      while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it\n      originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with\n      every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not\n      be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully\n      went over the new brickwork. When I had finished, I felt\n      satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the\n      slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the\n      floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around\n      triumphantly, and said to myself:  Here at least, then, my labor\n      has not been in vain. \n\n      My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause\n      of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to\n      put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment,\n      there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that\n      the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous\n      anger, and forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is\n      impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful\n      sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature\n      occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the\n      night; and thus for one night at least, since its introduction\n      into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even\n      with the burden of murder upon my soul!\n\n      The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came\n      not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror,\n      had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My\n      happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but\n      little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been\n      readily answered. Even a search had been instituted but of course\n      nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as\n      secured.\n\n      Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police\n      came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to\n      make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in\n      the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no\n      embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in\n      their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length,\n      for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I\n      quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who\n      slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I\n      folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The\n      police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee\n      at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if\n      but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their\n      assurance of my guiltlessness.\n\n       Gentlemen,  I said at last, as the party ascended the steps,  I\n      delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health,\n      and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this this is a\n      very well-constructed house.  (In the rabid desire to say\n      something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.) I may\n      say an _excellently_ well-constructed house. These walls are you\n      going, gentlemen? these walls are solidly put together;  and\n      here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with\n      a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the\n      brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.\n\n      But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the\n      Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into\n      silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! by\n      a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child,\n      and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous\n      scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman a howl a wailing shriek,\n      half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen\n      only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the damned in\n      their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.\n\n      Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to\n      the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs\n      remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In\n      the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell\n      bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with\n      gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its\n      head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the\n      hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose\n      informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the\n      monster up within the tomb!\n\n\n\n\nTHE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER\n\n\n     Son c ur est un luth suspendu;\n     Sit t qu on le touche il r sonne..\n\n _De B ranger_.\n\n      During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn\n      of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the\n      heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a\n      singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself,\n      as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the\n      melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was but, with the\n      first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom\n      pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was\n      unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic,\n      sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest\n      natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the\n      scene before me upon the mere house, and the simple landscape\n      features of the domain upon the bleak walls upon the vacant\n      eye-like windows upon a few rank sedges and upon a few white\n      trunks of decayed trees with an utter depression of soul which I\n      can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the\n      after-dream of the reveller upon opium the bitter lapse into\n      everyday life the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an\n      iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart an unredeemed\n      dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could\n      torture into aught of the sublime. What was it I paused to\n      think what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the\n      House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I\n      grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I\n      pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory\n      conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there _are_ combinations of\n      very simple natural objects which have the power of thus\n      affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among\n      considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected,\n      that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the\n      scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to\n      modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful\n      impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the\n      precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled\n      lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down but with a shudder even\n      more thrilling than before upon the remodelled and inverted\n      images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the\n      vacant and eye-like windows.\n\n      Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a\n      sojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been\n      one of my boon companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed\n      since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately reached me\n      in a distant part of the country a letter from him which, in its\n      wildly importunate nature, had admitted of no other than a\n      personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The\n      writer spoke of acute bodily illness of a mental disorder which\n      oppressed him and of an earnest desire to see me, as his best,\n      and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of attempting,\n      by the cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his\n      malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much more, was\n      said it was the apparent _heart_ that went with his request which\n      allowed me no room for hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed\n      forthwith what I still considered a very singular summons.\n\n      Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet I\n      really knew little of my friend. His reserve had been always\n      excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very\n      ancient family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar\n      sensibility of temperament, displaying itself, through long ages,\n      in many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late, in\n      repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as\n      in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even more\n      than to the orthodox and easily recognisable beauties, of musical\n      science. I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact, that the\n      stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it was, had put\n      forth, at no period, any enduring branch; in other words, that\n      the entire family lay in the direct line of descent, and had\n      always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so lain.\n      It was this deficiency, I considered, while running over in\n      thought the perfect keeping of the character of the premises with\n      the accredited character of the people, and while speculating\n      upon the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse of\n      centuries, might have exercised upon the other it was this\n      deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent\n      undeviating transmission, from sire to son, of the patrimony with\n      the name, which had, at length, so identified the two as to merge\n      the original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal\n      appellation of the  House of Usher an appellation which seemed\n      to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, both the\n      family and the family mansion.\n\n      I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish\n      experiment that of looking down within the tarn had been to\n      deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that\n      the consciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition for\n      why should I not so term it? served mainly to accelerate the\n      increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law\n      of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it might have\n      been for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted my eyes to\n      the house itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my\n      mind a strange fancy a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but\n      mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations which\n      oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as really to\n      believe that about the whole mansion and domain there hung an\n      atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity an\n      atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but\n      which had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall,\n      and the silent tarn a pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish,\n      faintly discernible, and leaden-hued.\n\n      Shaking off from my spirit what _must_ have been a dream, I\n      scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its\n      principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity.\n      The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread\n      the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the\n      eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary\n      dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there\n      appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect\n      adaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the\n      individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of the\n      specious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for long\n      years in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the\n      breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of extensive\n      decay, however, the fabric gave little token of instability.\n      Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered\n      a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of\n      the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag\n      direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.\n\n      Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house.\n      A servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the Gothic\n      archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted\n      me, in silence, through many dark and intricate passages in my\n      progress to the _studio_ of his master. Much that I encountered\n      on the way contributed, I know not how, to heighten the vague\n      sentiments of which I have already spoken. While the objects\n      around me while the carvings of the ceilings, the sombre\n      tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and\n      the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rattled as I strode,\n      were but matters to which, or to such as which, I had been\n      accustomed from my infancy while I hesitated not to acknowledge\n      how familiar was all this I still wondered to find how unfamiliar\n      were the fancies which ordinary images were stirring up. On one\n      of the staircases, I met the physician of the family. His\n      countenance, I thought, wore a mingled expression of low cunning\n      and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation and passed on.\n      The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the presence\n      of his master.\n\n      The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The\n      windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance\n      from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from\n      within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through\n      the trellissed panes, and served to render sufficiently distinct\n      the more prominent objects around; the eye, however, struggled in\n      vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the recesses\n      of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the\n      walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique,\n      and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered\n      about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I felt that\n      I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and\n      irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all.\n\n      Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been\n      lying at full length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth\n      which had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone\n      cordiality of the constrained effort of the _ennuy _ man of the\n      world. A glance, however, at his countenance, convinced me of his\n      perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for some moments, while he\n      spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity, half of\n      awe. Surely, man had never before so terribly altered, in so\n      brief a period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty\n      that I could bring myself to admit the identity of the wan being\n      before me with the companion of my early boyhood. Yet the\n      character of his face had been at all times remarkable. A\n      cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous\n      beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a\n      surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew model,\n      but with a breadth of nostril unusual in similar formations; a\n      finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a\n      want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and\n      tenuity; these features, with an inordinate expansion above the\n      regions of the temple, made up altogether a countenance not\n      easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of the\n      prevailing character of these features, and of the expression\n      they were wont to convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to\n      whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now\n      miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even\n      awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered to grow all\n      unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated rather\n      than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect\n      its Arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity.\n\n      In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an\n      incoherence an inconsistency; and I soon found this to arise from\n      a series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an habitual\n      trepidancy an excessive nervous agitation. For something of this\n      nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by his letter, than by\n      reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions\n      deduced from his peculiar physical conformation and temperament.\n      His action was alternately vivacious and sullen. His voice varied\n      rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits\n      seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species of energetic\n      concision that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and hollow-sounding\n      enunciation that leaden, self-balanced and perfectly modulated\n      guttural utterance, which may be observed in the lost drunkard,\n      or the irreclaimable eater of opium, during the periods of his\n      most intense excitement.\n\n      It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his\n      earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he expected me to\n      afford him. He entered, at some length, into what he conceived to\n      be the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a constitutional\n      and a family evil, and one for which he despaired to find a\n      remedy a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, which\n      would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a host of\n      unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he detailed them,\n      interested and bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms, and\n      the general manner of the narration had their weight. He suffered\n      much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid food\n      was alone endurable; he could wear only garments of certain\n      texture; the odors of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were\n      tortured by even a faint light; and there were but peculiar\n      sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did not\n      inspire him with horror.\n\n      To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave.  I\n      shall perish,  said he,  I must perish in this deplorable folly.\n      Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the\n      events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I\n      shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident,\n      which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I\n      have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute\n      effect in terror. In this unnerved in this pitiable condition I\n      feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when I must\n      abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the grim\n      phantasm, FEAR. \n\n      I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and\n      equivocal hints, another singular feature of his mental\n      condition. He was enchained by certain superstitious impressions\n      in regard to the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence, for many\n      years, he had never ventured forth in regard to an influence\n      whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here\n      to be re-stated an influence which some peculiarities in the mere\n      form and substance of his family mansion, had, by dint of long\n      sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit an effect which the\n      _physique_ of the gray walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn\n      into which they all looked down, had, at length, brought about\n      upon the _morale_ of his existence.\n\n      He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the\n      peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a more\n      natural and far more palpable origin to the severe and\n      long-continued illness indeed to the evidently approaching\n      dissolution of a tenderly beloved sister his sole companion for\n      long years his last and only relative on earth.  Her decease,  he\n      said, with a bitterness which I can never forget,  would leave\n      him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race\n      of the Ushers.  While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she\n      called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the apartment,\n      and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared. I regarded\n      her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread and yet I\n      found it impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation of\n      stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her retreating steps.\n      When a door, at length, closed upon her, my glance sought\n      instinctively and eagerly the countenance of the brother but he\n      had buried his face in his hands, and I could only perceive that\n      a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the emaciated\n      fingers through which trickled many passionate tears.\n\n      The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of\n      her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the\n      person, and frequent although transient affections of a partially\n      cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she\n      had steadily borne up against the pressure of her malady, and had\n      not betaken herself finally to bed; but, on the closing in of the\n      evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed (as her brother\n      told me at night with inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating\n      power of the destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had\n      obtained of her person would thus probably be the last I should\n      obtain that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me\n      no more.\n\n      For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either\n      Usher or myself; and during this period I was busied in earnest\n      endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted\n      and read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild\n      improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a closer and\n      still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into the\n      recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the\n      futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which darkness,\n      as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon all objects\n      of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing radiation of\n      gloom.\n\n      I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I\n      thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I\n      should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact\n      character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he\n      involved me, or led me the way. An excited and highly distempered\n      ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. His long improvised\n      dirges will ring forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold\n      painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification\n      of the wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the\n      paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew,\n      touch by touch, into vaguenesses at which I shuddered the more\n      thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not why from these\n      paintings (vivid as their images now are before me) I would in\n      vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion which should lie\n      within the compass of merely written words. By the utter\n      simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and\n      overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal\n      was Roderick Usher. For me at least in the circumstances then\n      surrounding me there arose out of the pure abstractions which the\n      hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canvass, an intensity\n      of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the\n      contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries\n      of Fuseli.\n\n      One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not\n      so rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed forth,\n      although feebly, in words. A small picture presented the interior\n      of an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low\n      walls, smooth, white, and without interruption or device. Certain\n      accessory points of the design served well to convey the idea\n      that this excavation lay at an exceeding depth below the surface\n      of the earth. No outlet was observed in any portion of its vast\n      extent, and no torch, or other artificial source of light was\n      discernible; yet a flood of intense rays rolled throughout, and\n      bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate splendor.\n\n      I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve\n      which rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with the\n      exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It was,\n      perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon\n      the guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the fantastic\n      character of his performances. But the fervid _facility_ of his\n      _impromptus_ could not be so accounted for. They must have been,\n      and were, in the notes, as well as in the words of his wild\n      fantasias (for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with\n      rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that intense mental\n      collectedness and concentration to which I have previously\n      alluded as observable only in particular moments of the highest\n      artificial excitement. The words of one of these rhapsodies I\n      have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly\n      impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under or mystic\n      current of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the\n      first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher of the\n      tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which\n      were entitled  The Haunted Palace,  ran very nearly, if not\n      accurately, thus:\n\n                        I.\n     In the greenest of our valleys,\n    By good angels tenanted,\n     Once a fair and stately palace \n    Radiant palace reared its head.\n     In the monarch Thought s dominion \n    It stood there!\n     Never seraph spread a pinion\n    Over fabric half so fair.\n\n                        II.\n     Banners yellow, glorious, golden,\n    On its roof did float and flow;\n     (This all this was in the olden\n    Time long ago)\n     And every gentle air that dallied,\n    In that sweet day,\n     Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,\n    A winged odor went away.\n\n                        III.\n     Wanderers in that happy valley\n    Through two luminous windows saw\n     Spirits moving musically\n    To a lute s well-tun d law,\n     Round about a throne, where sitting\n    (Porphyrogene!)\n     In state his glory well befitting,\n    The ruler of the realm was seen.\n\n                        IV.\n     And all with pearl and ruby glowing\n    Was the fair palace door,\n     Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,\n    And sparkling evermore,\n     A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty\n    Was but to sing,\n     In voices of surpassing beauty,\n    The wit and wisdom of their king.\n\n                        V.\n     But evil things, in robes of sorrow,\n    Assailed the monarch s high estate;\n     (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow\n    Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)\n     And, round about his home, the glory\n    That blushed and bloomed\n     Is but a dim-remembered story\n    Of the old time entombed.\n\n                        VI.\n     And travellers now within that valley,\n    Through the red-litten windows, see\n     Vast forms that move fantastically\n    To a discordant melody;\n     While, like a rapid ghastly river,\n    Through the pale door,\n     A hideous throng rush out forever,\n    And laugh but smile no more.\n\n      I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad, led us\n      into a train of thought wherein there became manifest an opinion\n      of Usher s which I mention not so much on account of its novelty,\n      (for other men * have thought thus,) as on account of the\n      pertinacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its\n      general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things.\n      But, in his disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring\n      character, and trespassed, under certain conditions, upon the\n      kingdom of inorganization. I lack words to express the full\n      extent, or the earnest _abandon_ of his persuasion. The belief,\n      however, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with the\n      gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions of the\n      sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the method of\n      collocation of these stones in the order of their arrangement, as\n      well as in that of the many _fungi_ which overspread them, and of\n      the decayed trees which stood around above all, in the long\n      undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its\n      reduplication in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence the\n      evidence of the sentience was to be seen, he said, (and I here\n      started as he spoke,) in the gradual yet certain condensation of\n      an atmosphere of their own about the waters and the walls. The\n      result was discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet\n      importunate and terrible influence which for centuries had\n      moulded the destinies of his family, and which made _him_ what I\n      now saw him what he was. Such opinions need no comment, and I\n      will make none.\n\n      * Watson, Dr. Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop of\n      Landaff. See  Chemical Essays,  vol v.\n\n      Our books the books which, for years, had formed no small portion\n      of the mental existence of the invalid were, as might be\n      supposed, in strict keeping with this character of phantasm. We\n      pored together over such works as the Ververt et Chartreuse of\n      Gresset; the Belphegor of Machiavelli; the Heaven and Hell of\n      Swedenborg; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm by Holberg;\n      the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean D Indagin , and of De la\n      Chambre; the Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck; and the\n      City of the Sun of Campanella. One favorite volume was a small\n      octavo edition of the _Directorium Inquisitorium_, by the\n      Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and there were passages in\n      Pomponius Mela, about the old African Satyrs and OEgipans, over\n      which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight,\n      however, was found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and\n      curious book in quarto Gothic the manual of a forgotten\n      church the _Vigiliae Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesiae\n      Maguntinae_.\n\n      I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of\n      its probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening,\n      having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more,\n      he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight,\n      (previously to its final interment,) in one of the numerous\n      vaults within the main walls of the building. The worldly reason,\n      however, assigned for this singular proceeding, was one which I\n      did not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother had been led to\n      his resolution (so he told me) by consideration of the unusual\n      character of the malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive and\n      eager inquiries on the part of her medical men, and of the remote\n      and exposed situation of the burial-ground of the family. I will\n      not deny that when I called to mind the sinister countenance of\n      the person whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of my\n      arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose what I regarded\n      as at best but a harmless, and by no means an unnatural,\n      precaution.\n\n      At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the\n      arrangements for the temporary entombment. The body having been\n      encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in which\n      we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our\n      torches, half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us\n      little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and\n      entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great\n      depth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in which\n      was my own sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in\n      remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a donjon-keep,\n      and, in later days, as a place of deposit for powder, or some\n      other highly combustible substance, as a portion of its floor,\n      and the whole interior of a long archway through which we reached\n      it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of massive\n      iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight\n      caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its\n      hinges.\n\n      Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this\n      region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid\n      of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the tenant. A striking\n      similitude between the brother and sister now first arrested my\n      attention; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured\n      out some few words from which I learned that the deceased and\n      himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a scarcely\n      intelligible nature had always existed between them. Our glances,\n      however, rested not long upon the dead for we could not regard\n      her unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the lady in the\n      maturity of youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a\n      strictly cataleptical character, the mockery of a faint blush\n      upon the bosom and the face, and that suspiciously lingering\n      smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. We replaced and\n      screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made\n      our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apartments of\n      the upper portion of the house.\n\n      And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable\n      change came over the features of the mental disorder of my\n      friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary\n      occupations were neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber\n      to chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless step. The pallor\n      of his countenance had assumed, if possible, a more ghastly\n      hue but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out. The\n      once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a\n      tremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually\n      characterized his utterance. There were times, indeed, when I\n      thought his unceasingly agitated mind was laboring with some\n      oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the\n      necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to resolve all\n      into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him\n      gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the\n      profoundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary sound.\n      It was no wonder that his condition terrified that it infected\n      me. I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the\n      wild influences of his own fantastic yet impressive\n      superstitions.\n\n      It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the\n      seventh or eighth day after the placing of the lady Madeline\n      within the donjon, that I experienced the full power of such\n      feelings. Sleep came not near my couch while the hours waned and\n      waned away. I struggled to reason off the nervousness which had\n      dominion over me. I endeavored to believe that much, if not all\n      of what I felt, was due to the bewildering influence of the\n      gloomy furniture of the room of the dark and tattered draperies,\n      which, tortured into motion by the breath of a rising tempest,\n      swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily\n      about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were fruitless.\n      An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my frame; and, at\n      length, there sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly\n      causeless alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, I\n      uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within\n      the intense darkness of the chamber, harkened I know not why,\n      except that an instinctive spirit prompted me to certain low and\n      indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at\n      long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense\n      sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my\n      clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more during\n      the night), and endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable\n      condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro\n      through the apartment.\n\n      I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an\n      adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognised\n      it as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped, with a\n      gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His\n      countenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan but, moreover, there\n      was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes an evidently restrained\n      _hysteria_ in his whole demeanor. His air appalled me but\n      anything was preferable to the solitude which I had so long\n      endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief.\n\n       And you have not seen it?  he said abruptly, after having stared\n      about him for some moments in silence you have not then seen\n      it? but, stay! you shall.  Thus speaking, and having carefully\n      shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, and threw it\n      freely open to the storm.\n\n      The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our\n      feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night,\n      and one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind\n      had apparently collected its force in our vicinity; for there\n      were frequent and violent alterations in the direction of the\n      wind; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung so low\n      as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent our\n      perceiving the life-like velocity with which they flew careering\n      from all points against each other, without passing away into the\n      distance. I say that even their exceeding density did not prevent\n      our perceiving this yet we had no glimpse of the moon or\n      stars nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the\n      under surfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as\n      all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were glowing in\n      the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible\n      gaseous exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the mansion.\n\n       You must not you shall not behold this!  said I, shudderingly,\n      to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle violence, from the window\n      to a seat.  These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely\n      electrical phenomena not uncommon or it may be that they have\n      their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close\n      this casement; the air is chilling and dangerous to your frame.\n      Here is one of your favorite romances. I will read, and you shall\n      listen; and so we will pass away this terrible night together. \n\n      The antique volume which I had taken up was the  Mad Trist  of\n      Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of Usher s\n      more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little\n      in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had\n      interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. It\n      was, however, the only book immediately at hand; and I indulged a\n      vague hope that the excitement which now agitated the\n      hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history of mental\n      disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of\n      the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by\n      the wild overstrained air of vivacity with which he harkened, or\n      apparently harkened, to the words of the tale, I might well have\n      congratulated myself upon the success of my design.\n\n      I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where\n      Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for\n      peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to\n      make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the\n      words of the narrative run thus:\n\n       And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was\n      now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine\n      which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the\n      hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn,\n      but, feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising\n      of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows, made\n      quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted\n      hand; and now pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and\n      ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and\n      hollow-sounding wood alarummed and reverberated throughout the\n      forest. \n\n      At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment,\n      paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that\n      my excited fancy had deceived me) it appeared to me that, from\n      some very remote portion of the mansion, there came,\n      indistinctly, to my ears, what might have been, in its exact\n      similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one\n      certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which Sir\n      Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond doubt,\n      the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid\n      the rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary\n      commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in\n      itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or\n      disturbed me. I continued the story:\n\n       But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door,\n      was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the\n      maliceful hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly\n      and prodigious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in\n      guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon\n      the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend\n      enwritten \n\n     Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;\n     Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win;\n\n      And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the\n      dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with\n      a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that\n      Ethelred had fain to close his ears with his hands against the\n      dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never before heard. \n\n      Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild\n      amazement for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this\n      instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it\n      proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently\n      distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or\n      grating sound the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already\n      conjured up for the dragon s unnatural shriek as described by the\n      romancer.\n\n      Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second\n      and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting\n      sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were predominant,\n      I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting,\n      by any observation, the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I\n      was by no means certain that he had noticed the sounds in\n      question; although, assuredly, a strange alteration had, during\n      the last few minutes, taken place in his demeanor. From a\n      position fronting my own, he had gradually brought round his\n      chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber; and\n      thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I saw\n      that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His\n      head had dropped upon his breast yet I knew that he was not\n      asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a\n      glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was at\n      variance with this idea for he rocked from side to side with a\n      gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice\n      of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus\n      proceeded:\n\n       And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of\n      the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the\n      breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed the\n      carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valorously\n      over the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield was\n      upon the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full coming,\n      but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty\n      great and terrible ringing sound. \n\n      No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than as if a shield\n      of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor\n      of silver I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and\n      clangorous, yet apparently muffled reverberation. Completely\n      unnerved, I leaped to my feet; but the measured rocking movement\n      of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he sat.\n      His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole\n      countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my\n      hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder over his\n      whole person; a sickly smile quivered about his lips; and I saw\n      that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if\n      unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length\n      drank in the hideous import of his words.\n\n       Not hear it? yes, I hear it, and _have_ heard it.\n      Long long long many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard\n      it yet I dared not oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! I\n      dared not I _dared_ not speak! _We have put her living in the\n      tomb!_ Said I not that my senses were acute? I _now_ tell you\n      that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I\n      heard them many, many days ago yet I dared not _I dared not\n      speak!_ And now to-night Ethelred ha! ha! the breaking of the\n      hermit s door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor\n      of the shield! say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the\n      grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her struggles\n      within the coppered archway of the vault! Oh whither shall I fly?\n      Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for\n      my haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair? Do I not\n      distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart?\n      Madman! here he sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked out\n      his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his\n      soul _Madman! I tell you that she now stands without the door!_ \n\n      As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been\n      found the potency of a spell the huge antique pannels to which\n      the speaker pointed, threw slowly back, upon the instant, their\n      ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust but\n      then without those doors there _did_ stand the lofty and\n      enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood\n      upon her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle\n      upon every portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she\n      remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the\n      threshold then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon\n      the person of her brother, and in her violent and now final\n      death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to\n      the terrors he had anticipated.\n\n      From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The\n      storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself\n      crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a\n      wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could\n      have issued; for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind\n      me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red\n      moon, which now shone vividly through that once\n      barely-discernible fissure, of which I have before spoken as\n      extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction,\n      to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened there\n      came a fierce breath of the whirlwind the entire orb of the\n      satellite burst at once upon my sight my brain reeled as I saw\n      the mighty walls rushing asunder there was a long tumultuous\n      shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters and the deep\n      and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the\n      fragments of the  _House of Usher_. \n\n\n\n\nSILENCE A FABLE\n\n\n      The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags and caves _are\n     silent_. \n\n       Listen to me,  said the Demon as he placed his hand upon my\n      head.  The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya,\n      by the borders of the river Zaire. And there is no quiet there,\n      nor silence.\n\n       The waters of the river have a saffron and sickly hue; and they\n      flow not onwards to the sea, but palpitate forever and forever\n      beneath the red eye of the sun with a tumultuous and convulsive\n      motion. For many miles on either side of the river s oozy bed is\n      a pale desert of gigantic water-lilies. They sigh one unto the\n      other in that solitude, and stretch towards the heaven their long\n      and ghastly necks, and nod to and fro their everlasting heads.\n      And there is an indistinct murmur which cometh out from among\n      them like the rushing of subterrene water. And they sigh one unto\n      the other.\n\n       But there is a boundary to their realm the boundary of the dark,\n      horrible, lofty forest. There, like the waves about the Hebrides,\n      the low underwood is agitated continually. But there is no wind\n      throughout the heaven. And the tall primeval trees rock eternally\n      hither and thither with a crashing and mighty sound. And from\n      their high summits, one by one, drop everlasting dews. And at the\n      roots strange poisonous flowers lie writhing in perturbed\n      slumber. And overhead, with a rustling and loud noise, the gray\n      clouds rush westwardly forever, until they roll, a cataract, over\n      the fiery wall of the horizon. But there is no wind throughout\n      the heaven. And by the shores of the river Zaire there is neither\n      quiet nor silence.\n\n       It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but,\n      having fallen, it was blood. And I stood in the morass among the\n      tall and the rain fell upon my head and the lilies sighed one\n      unto the other in the solemnity of their desolation.\n\n       And, all at once, the moon arose through the thin ghastly mist,\n      and was crimson in color. And mine eyes fell upon a huge gray\n      rock which stood by the shore of the river, and was lighted by\n      the light of the moon. And the rock was gray, and ghastly, and\n      tall, and the rock was gray. Upon its front were characters\n      engraven in the stone; and I walked through the morass of\n      water-lilies, until I came close unto the shore, that I might\n      read the characters upon the stone. But I could not decypher\n      them. And I was going back into the morass, when the moon shone\n      with a fuller red, and I turned and looked again upon the rock,\n      and upon the characters, and the characters were DESOLATION.\n\n       And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of\n      the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might\n      discover the actions of the man. And the man was tall and stately\n      in form, and was wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the\n      toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were\n      indistinct but his features were the features of a deity; for the\n      mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the\n      dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow\n      was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and, in the\n      few furrows upon his cheek I read the fables of sorrow, and\n      weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after\n      solitude.\n\n       And the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his\n      hand, and looked out upon the desolation. He looked down into the\n      low unquiet shrubbery, and up into the tall primeval trees, and\n      up higher at the rustling heaven, and into the crimson moon. And\n      I lay close within shelter of the lilies, and observed the\n      actions of the man. And the man trembled in the solitude; but the\n      night waned, and he sat upon the rock.\n\n       And the man turned his attention from the heaven, and looked out\n      upon the dreary river Zaire, and upon the yellow ghastly waters,\n      and upon the pale legions of the water-lilies. And the man\n      listened to the sighs of the water-lilies, and to the murmur that\n      came up from among them. And I lay close within my covert and\n      observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the\n      solitude; but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.\n\n       Then I went down into the recesses of the morass, and waded afar\n      in among the wilderness of the lilies, and called unto the\n      hippopotami which dwelt among the fens in the recesses of the\n      morass. And the hippopotami heard my call, and came, with the\n      behemoth, unto the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and\n      fearfully beneath the moon. And I lay close within my covert and\n      observed the actions of the man. And the man trembled in the\n      solitude; but the night waned and he sat upon the rock.\n\n       Then I cursed the elements with the curse of tumult; and a\n      frightful tempest gathered in the heaven where, before, there had\n      been no wind. And the heaven became livid with the violence of\n      the tempest and the rain beat upon the head of the man and the\n      floods of the river came down and the river was tormented into\n      foam and the water-lilies shrieked within their beds and the\n      forest crumbled before the wind and the thunder rolled and the\n      lightning fell and the rock rocked to its foundation. And I lay\n      close within my covert and observed the actions of the man. And\n      the man trembled in the solitude; but the night waned and he sat\n      upon the rock.\n\n       Then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the\n      river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the\n      heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies. And\n      they became accursed, and were still. And the moon ceased to\n      totter up its pathway to heaven and the thunder died away and the\n      lightning did not flash and the clouds hung motionless and the\n      waters sunk to their level and remained and the trees ceased to\n      rock and the water-lilies sighed no more and the murmur was heard\n      no longer from among them, nor any shadow of sound throughout the\n      vast illimitable desert. And I looked upon the characters of the\n      rock, and they were changed; and the characters were SILENCE.\n\n       And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his\n      countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his\n      head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened.\n      But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert,\n      and the characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man\n      shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in haste,\n      so that I beheld him no more. \n\n      Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi in the\n      iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are\n      glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the\n      mighty sea and of the Genii that over-ruled the sea, and the\n      earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore too in the\n      sayings which were said by the Sybils; and holy, holy things were\n      heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona but,\n      as Allah liveth, that fable which the Demon told me as he sat by\n      my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most\n      wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he\n      fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could\n      not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not\n      laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out\n      therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at\n      him steadily in the face.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH.\n\n\n      The  Red Death  had long devastated the country. No pestilence\n      had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and\n      its seal the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp\n      pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the\n      pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and\n      especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which\n      shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his\n      fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of\n      the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.\n\n      But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious.\n      When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his\n      presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the\n      knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the\n      deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an\n      extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince s\n      own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled\n      it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having\n      entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts.\n      They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the\n      sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey\n      was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might\n      bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of\n      itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The\n      prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were\n      buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers,\n      there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these\n      and security were within. Without was the  Red Death. \n\n      It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his\n      seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad,\n      that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a\n      masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.\n\n      It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell\n      of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven an imperial\n      suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and\n      straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the\n      walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is\n      scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have\n      been expected from the duke s love of the bizarre. The apartments\n      were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little\n      more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty\n      or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right\n      and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic\n      window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the\n      windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose\n      color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the\n      decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the\n      eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue and vividly blue\n      were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments\n      and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was\n      green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was\n      furnished and lighted with orange the fifth with white the sixth\n      with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black\n      velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the\n      walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material\n      and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows\n      failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were\n      scarlet a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments\n      was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden\n      ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the\n      roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or\n      candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that\n      followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy\n      tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that projected its rays through\n      the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus\n      were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But\n      in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that\n      streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes,\n      was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the\n      countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the\n      company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.\n\n      It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the\n      western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to\n      and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the\n      minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be\n      stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound\n      which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of\n      so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour,\n      the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause,\n      momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and\n      thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was\n      a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the\n      chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest\n      grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over\n      their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the\n      echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the\n      assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at\n      their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each\n      to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce\n      in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty\n      minutes (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of\n      the Time that flies), there came yet another chiming of the\n      clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and\n      meditation as before.\n\n      But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent\n      revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye\n      for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere\n      fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions\n      glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have\n      thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was\n      necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was\n      not.\n\n      He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of\n      the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great f te; and it was\n      his own guiding taste which had given character to the\n      masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare\n      and glitter and piquancy and phantasm much of what has been since\n      seen in  Hernani.  There were arabesque figures with unsuited\n      limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the\n      madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the\n      wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a\n      little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in\n      the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams.\n      And these the dreams writhed in and about, taking hue from the\n      rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the\n      echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock\n      which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment,\n      all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The\n      dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the\n      chime die away they have endured but an instant and a light,\n      half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now\n      again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and\n      fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many-tinted\n      windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to\n      the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are\n      now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning\n      away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored\n      panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him\n      whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near\n      clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any\n      which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties\n      of the other apartments.\n\n      But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat\n      feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on,\n      until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the\n      clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the\n      evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy\n      cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve\n      strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it\n      happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time,\n      into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled.\n      And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes\n      of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many\n      individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of\n      the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention\n      of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new\n      presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at\n      length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of\n      disapprobation and surprise then, finally, of terror, of horror,\n      and of disgust.\n\n      In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well\n      be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such\n      sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was\n      nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded\n      Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince s indefinite\n      decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless\n      which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly\n      lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters\n      of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed\n      now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the\n      stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall\n      and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of\n      the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly\n      to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the\n      closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat.\n      And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the\n      mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume\n      the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood and\n      his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was\n      besprinkled with the scarlet horror.\n\n      When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image\n      (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to\n      sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was\n      seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder\n      either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened\n      with rage.\n\n       Who dares?  he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near\n      him who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him\n      and unmask him that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise,\n      from the battlements! \n\n      It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince\n      Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the\n      seven rooms loudly and clearly for the prince was a bold and\n      robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his\n      hand.\n\n      It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of\n      pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a\n      slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the\n      intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with\n      deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker.\n      But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of\n      the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none\n      who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed\n      within a yard of the prince s person; and, while the vast\n      assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the\n      rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the\n      same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from\n      the first, through the blue chamber to the purple through the\n      purple to the green through the green to the orange through this\n      again to the white and even thence to the violet, ere a decided\n      movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that\n      the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own\n      momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers,\n      while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had\n      seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had\n      approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of\n      the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the\n      extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted\n      his pursuer. There was a sharp cry and the dagger dropped\n      gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards,\n      fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the\n      wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw\n      themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer,\n      whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of\n      the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the\n      grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so\n      violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.\n\n      And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had\n      come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the\n      revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died\n      each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the\n      ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the\n      flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red\n      Death held illimitable dominion over all.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CASK OF AMONTILLADO.\n\n\n      The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could;\n      but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so\n      well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that\n      I gave utterance to a threat. _At length_ I would be avenged;\n      this was a point definitively settled but the very definitiveness\n      with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must\n      not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed\n      when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally\n      unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such\n      to him who has done the wrong.\n\n      It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had I given\n      Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my\n      wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile\n      _now_ was at the thought of his immolation.\n\n      He had a weak point this Fortunato although in other regards he\n      was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on\n      his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso\n      spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the\n      time and opportunity to practise imposture upon the British and\n      Austrian _millionaires_. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like\n      his countrymen, was a quack but in the matter of old wines he was\n      sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I\n      was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely\n      whenever I could.\n\n      It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the\n      carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me\n      with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man\n      wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and\n      his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so\n      pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done\n      wringing his hand.\n\n      I said to him:  My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How\n      remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a\n      pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts. \n\n       How?  said he.  Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the\n      middle of the carnival! \n\n       I have my doubts,  I replied;  and I was silly enough to pay the\n      full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You\n      were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain. \n\n       Amontillado! \n\n       I have my doubts. \n\n       Amontillado! \n\n       And I must satisfy them. \n\n       Amontillado! \n\n       As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a\n      critical turn, it is he. He will tell me \n\n       Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry. \n\n       And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for\n      your own. \n\n       Come, let us go. \n\n       Whither? \n\n       To your vaults. \n\n       My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I\n      perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi \n\n       I have no engagement; come. \n\n       My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold\n      with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are\n      insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre. \n\n       Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing.\n      Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he\n      cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado. \n\n      Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on\n      a mask of black silk, and drawing a _roquelaire_ closely about my\n      person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.\n\n      There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make\n      merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not\n      return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not\n      to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well\n      knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as\n      soon as my back was turned.\n\n      I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to\n      Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the\n      archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and\n      winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed.\n      We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together\n      on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.\n\n      The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap\n      jingled as he strode.\n\n       The pipe,  said he.\n\n       It is farther on,  said I;  but observe the white web-work which\n      gleams from these cavern walls. \n\n      He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs\n      that distilled the rheum of intoxication.\n\n       Nitre?  he asked, at length.\n\n       Nitre,  I replied.  How long have you had that cough? \n\n       Ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh!\n      ugh! ugh! \n\n      My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.\n\n       It is nothing,  he said, at last.\n\n       Come,  I said, with decision,  we will go back; your health is\n      precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are\n      happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no\n      matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be\n      responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi \n\n       Enough,  he said;  the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill\n      me. I shall not die of a cough. \n\n       True true,  I replied;  and, indeed, I had no intention of\n      alarming you unnecessarily but you should use all proper caution.\n      A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps. \n\n      Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long\n      row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.\n\n       Drink,  I said, presenting him the wine.\n\n      He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me\n      familiarly, while his bells jingled.\n\n       I drink,  he said,  to the buried that repose around us. \n\n       And I to your long life. \n\n      He again took my arm, and we proceeded.\n\n       These vaults,  he said,  are extensive. \n\n       The Montresors,  I replied,  were a great and numerous family. \n\n       I forget your arms. \n\n       A huge human foot d or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a\n      serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel. \n\n       And the motto? \n\n       _Nemo me impune lacessit_. \n\n       Good!  he said.\n\n      The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy\n      grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled\n      bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost\n      recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made\n      bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.\n\n       The nitre!  I said:  see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon\n      the vaults. We are below the river s bed. The drops of moisture\n      trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too\n      late. Your cough \n\n       It is nothing,  he said;  let us go on. But first, another\n      draught of the Medoc. \n\n      I broke and reached him a flagon of De Gr ve. He emptied it at a\n      breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and\n      threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not\n      understand.\n\n      I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement a grotesque\n      one.\n\n       You do not comprehend?  he said.\n\n       Not I,  I replied.\n\n       Then you are not of the brotherhood. \n\n       How? \n\n       You are not of the masons. \n\n       Yes, yes,  I said,  yes, yes. \n\n       You? Impossible! A mason? \n\n       A mason,  I replied.\n\n       A sign,  he said.\n\n       It is this,  I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the\n      folds of my _roquelaire_.\n\n       You jest,  he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces.  But let us\n      proceed to the Amontillado. \n\n       Be it so,  I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and\n      again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We\n      continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed\n      through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and\n      descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness\n      of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.\n\n      At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less\n      spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to\n      the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of\n      Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented\n      in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down,\n      and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a\n      mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the\n      displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in\n      depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It\n      seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself,\n      but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal\n      supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of\n      their circumscribing walls of solid granite.\n\n      It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch,\n      endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination\n      the feeble light did not enable us to see.\n\n       Proceed,  I said;  herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi \n\n       He is an ignoramus,  interrupted my friend, as he stepped\n      unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In\n      an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding\n      his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A\n      moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface\n      were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet,\n      horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the\n      other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but\n      the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded\n      to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.\n\n       Pass your hand,  I said,  over the wall; you cannot help feeling\n      the nitre. Indeed it is _very_ damp. Once more let me _implore_\n      you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must\n      first render you all the little attentions in my power. \n\n       The Amontillado!  ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from\n      his astonishment.\n\n       True,  I replied;  the Amontillado. \n\n      As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of\n      which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered\n      a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and\n      with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the\n      entrance of the niche.\n\n      I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I\n      discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great\n      measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low\n      moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was _not_ the cry of\n      a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I\n      laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I\n      heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for\n      several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with\n      the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the\n      bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel,\n      and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the\n      seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my\n      breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the\n      mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.\n\n      A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from\n      the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently\n      back. For a brief moment I hesitated I trembled. Unsheathing my\n      rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the\n      thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the\n      solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached\n      the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I\n      re-echoed I aided I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I\n      did this, and the clamorer grew still.\n\n      It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had\n      completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had\n      finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained\n      but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled\n      with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position.\n      But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected\n      the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I\n      had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The\n      voice said \n\n       Ha! ha! ha! he! he! a very good joke indeed an excellent jest.\n      We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo he! he!\n      he! over our wine he! he! he! \n\n       The Amontillado!  I said.\n\n       He! he! he! he! he! he! yes, the Amontillado. But is it not\n      getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the\n      Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone. \n\n       Yes,  I said,  let us be gone. \n\n       _For the love of God, Montressor!_ \n\n       Yes,  I said,  for the love of God! \n\n      But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew\n      impatient. I called aloud \n\n       Fortunato! \n\n      No answer. I called again \n\n       Fortunato! \n\n      No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture\n      and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a\n      jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick on account of the\n      dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor.\n      I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.\n      Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones.\n      For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. _In pace\n      requiescat!_\n\n\n\n\nTHE IMP OF THE PERVERSE\n\n\n      In the consideration of the faculties and impulses of the prima\n      mobilia of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make\n      room for a propensity which, although obviously existing as a\n      radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally\n      overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them. In the\n      pure arrogance of the reason, we have all overlooked it. We have\n      suffered its existence to escape our senses, solely through want\n      of belief of faith; whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith\n      in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred to us, simply\n      because of its supererogation. We saw no need of the impulse for\n      the propensity. We could not perceive its necessity. We could not\n      understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, had the\n      notion of this primum mobile ever obtruded itself; we could not\n      have understood in what manner it might be made to further the\n      objects of humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be\n      denied that phrenology and, in great measure, all\n      metaphysicianism have been concocted a priori. The intellectual\n      or logical man, rather than the understanding or observant man,\n      set himself to imagine designs to dictate purposes to God. Having\n      thus fathomed, to his satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah,\n      out of these intentions he built his innumerable systems of mind.\n      In the matter of phrenology, for example, we first determined,\n      naturally enough, that it was the design of the Deity that man\n      should eat. We then assigned to man an organ of alimentiveness,\n      and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels man,\n      will-I nill-I, into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be\n      God s will that man should continue his species, we discovered an\n      organ of amativeness, forthwith. And so with combativeness, with\n      ideality, with causality, with constructiveness, so, in short,\n      with every organ, whether representing a propensity, a moral\n      sentiment, or a faculty of the pure intellect. And in these\n      arrangements of the Principia of human action, the Spurzheimites,\n      whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole, have but\n      followed, in principle, the footsteps of their predecessors;\n      deducing and establishing every thing from the preconceived\n      destiny of man, and upon the ground of the objects of his\n      Creator.\n\n      It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify\n      (if classify we must) upon the basis of what man usually or\n      occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than\n      upon the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended\n      him to do. If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how\n      then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into\n      being? If we cannot understand him in his objective creatures,\n      how then in his substantive moods and phases of creation?\n\n      Induction, _a posteriori_, would have brought phrenology to\n      admit, as an innate and primitive principle of human action, a\n      paradoxical something, which we may call _perverseness_, for want\n      of a more characteristic term. In the sense I intend, it is, in\n      fact, a _mobile_ without motive, a motive not _motivirt_. Through\n      its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this\n      shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far\n      modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we\n      act, for the reason that we should _not_. In theory, no reason\n      can be more unreasonable, but, in fact, there is none more\n      strong. With certain minds, under certain conditions, it becomes\n      absolutely irresistible. I am not more certain that I breathe,\n      than that the assurance of the wrong or error of any action is\n      often the one unconquerable _force_ which impels us, and alone\n      impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency\n      to do wrong for the wrong s sake, admit of analysis, or\n      resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a primitive\n      impulse elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that when we\n      persist in acts because we feel we should not persist in them,\n      our conduct is but a modification of that which ordinarily\n      springs from the combativeness of phrenology. But a glance will\n      show the fallacy of this idea. The phrenological combativeness\n      has for its essence, the necessity of self-defence. It is our\n      safeguard against injury. Its principle regards our well-being;\n      and thus the desire to be well is excited simultaneously with its\n      development. It follows, that the desire to be well must be\n      excited simultaneously with any principle which shall be merely a\n      modification of combativeness, but in the case of that something\n      which I term perverseness, the desire to be well is not only not\n      aroused, but a strongly antagonistical sentiment exists.\n\n      An appeal to one s own heart is, after all, the best reply to the\n      sophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and\n      thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the\n      entire radicalness of the propensity in question. It is not more\n      incomprehensible than distinctive. There lives no man who at some\n      period has not been tormented, for example, by an earnest desire\n      to tantalize a listener by circumlocution. The speaker is aware\n      that he displeases; he has every intention to please, he is\n      usually curt, precise, and clear; the most laconic and luminous\n      language is struggling for utterance upon his tongue; it is only\n      with difficulty that he restrains himself from giving it flow; he\n      dreads and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses; yet,\n      the thought strikes him, that by certain involutions and\n      parentheses this anger may be engendered. That single thought is\n      enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire,\n      the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the\n      deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of\n      all consequences) is indulged.\n\n      We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We\n      know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most important\n      crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy\n      and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence\n      the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our\n      whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be undertaken to-day,\n      and yet we put it off until to-morrow; and why? There is no\n      answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word with no\n      comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a\n      more impatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very\n      increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a positively\n      fearful, because unfathomable, craving for delay. This craving\n      gathers strength as the moments fly. The last hour for action is\n      at hand. We tremble with the violence of the conflict within\n      us, of the definite with the indefinite of the substance with the\n      shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thus far, it is the\n      shadow which prevails, we struggle in vain. The clock strikes,\n      and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is the\n      chanticleer-note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It\n      flies it disappears we are free. The old energy returns. We will\n      labor now. Alas, it is too late!\n\n      We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss we\n      grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the\n      danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and\n      dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable\n      feeling. By gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud\n      assumes shape, as did the vapor from the bottle out of which\n      arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of this our cloud\n      upon the precipice s edge, there grows into palpability, a shape,\n      far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet\n      it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills\n      the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight\n      of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our\n      sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a\n      height. And this fall this rushing annihilation for the very\n      reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of\n      all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering\n      which have ever presented themselves to our imagination for this\n      very cause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our\n      reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the\n      most impetuously approach it. There is no passion in nature so\n      demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the\n      edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge, for a\n      moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for\n      reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say,\n      that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we\n      fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the\n      abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.\n\n      Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them\n      resulting solely from the spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate\n      them because we feel that we should not. Beyond or behind this\n      there is no intelligible principle; and we might, indeed, deem\n      this perverseness a direct instigation of the Arch-Fiend, were it\n      not occasionally known to operate in furtherance of good.\n\n      I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your\n      question that I may explain to you why I am here that I may\n      assign to you something that shall have at least the faint aspect\n      of a cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting\n      this cell of the condemned. Had I not been thus prolix, you might\n      either have misunderstood me altogether, or, with the rabble,\n      have fancied me mad. As it is, you will easily perceive that I am\n      one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse.\n\n      It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a\n      more thorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered\n      upon the means of the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes,\n      because their accomplishment involved a _chance_ of detection. At\n      length, in reading some French memoirs, I found an account of a\n      nearly fatal illness that occurred to Madame Pilau, through the\n      agency of a candle accidentally poisoned. The idea struck my\n      fancy at once. I knew my victim s habit of reading in bed. I\n      knew, too, that his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated. But\n      I need not vex you with impertinent details. I need not describe\n      the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-room\n      candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I\n      there found. The next morning he was discovered dead in his bed,\n      and the coroner s verdict was Death by the visitation of God. \n\n      Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The\n      idea of detection never once entered my brain. Of the remains of\n      the fatal taper I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no\n      shadow of a clew by which it would be possible to convict, or\n      even to suspect me of the crime. It is inconceivable how rich a\n      sentiment of satisfaction arose in my bosom as I reflected upon\n      my absolute security. For a very long period of time I was\n      accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded me more real\n      delight than all the mere worldly advantages accruing from my\n      sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, from which the\n      pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations,\n      into a haunting and harassing thought. It harassed because it\n      haunted. I could scarcely get rid of it for an instant. It is\n      quite a common thing to be thus annoyed with the ringing in our\n      ears, or rather in our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary\n      song, or some unimpressive snatches from an opera. Nor will we be\n      the less tormented if the song in itself be good, or the opera\n      air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetually\n      catch myself pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low\n      undertone, the phrase,  I am safe. \n\n      One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself\n      in the act of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syllables.\n      In a fit of petulance, I remodelled them thus:  I am safe I am\n      safe yes if I be not fool enough to make open confession! \n\n      No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill\n      creep to my heart. I had had some experience in these fits of\n      perversity (whose nature I have been at some trouble to explain),\n      and I remembered well that in no instance I had successfully\n      resisted their attacks. And now my own casual self-suggestion\n      that I might possibly be fool enough to confess the murder of\n      which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of\n      him whom I had murdered and beckoned me on to death.\n\n      At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the\n      soul. I walked vigorously faster still faster at length I ran. I\n      felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of\n      thought overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too\n      well understood that to think, in my situation, was to be lost. I\n      still quickened my pace. I bounded like a madman through the\n      crowded thoroughfares. At length, the populace took the alarm,\n      and pursued me. I felt then the consummation of my fate. Could I\n      have torn out my tongue, I would have done it, but a rough voice\n      resounded in my ears a rougher grasp seized me by the shoulder. I\n      turned I gasped for breath. For a moment I experienced all the\n      pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; and\n      then some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad\n      palm upon the back. The long imprisoned secret burst forth from\n      my soul.\n\n      They say that I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with\n      marked emphasis and passionate hurry, as if in dread of\n      interruption before concluding the brief but pregnant sentences\n      that consigned me to the hangman and to hell.\n\n      Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial\n      conviction, I fell prostrate in a swoon.\n\n      But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am\n      _here!_ To-morrow I shall be fetterless! _but where?_\n\n\n\n\nTHE ISLAND OF THE FAY\n\n\nNullus enim locus sine genio est. _Servius_.\n\n       La musique,  says Marmontel, in those  Contes Moraux  (*1) which\n      in all our translations, we have insisted upon calling  Moral\n      Tales,  as if in mockery of their spirit la musique est le seul\n      des talents qui jouissent de lui-m me; tous les autres veulent\n      des temoins.  He here confounds the pleasure derivable from sweet\n      sounds with the capacity for creating them. No more than any\n      other talent, is that for music susceptible of complete\n      enjoyment, where there is no second party to appreciate its\n      exercise. And it is only in common with other talents that it\n      produces effects which may be fully enjoyed in solitude. The idea\n      which the raconteur has either failed to entertain clearly, or\n      has sacrificed in its expression to his national love of point,\n      is, doubtless, the very tenable one that the higher order of\n      music is the most thoroughly estimated when we are exclusively\n      alone. The proposition, in this form, will be admitted at once by\n      those who love the lyre for its own sake, and for its spiritual\n      uses. But there is one pleasure still within the reach of fallen\n      mortality and perhaps only one which owes even more than does\n      music to the accessory sentiment of seclusion. I mean the\n      happiness experienced in the contemplation of natural scenery. In\n      truth, the man who would behold aright the glory of God upon\n      earth must in solitude behold that glory. To me, at least, the\n      presence not of human life only, but of life in any other form\n      than that of the green things which grow upon the soil and are\n      voiceless is a stain upon the landscape is at war with the genius\n      of the scene. I love, indeed, to regard the dark valleys, and the\n      gray rocks, and the waters that silently smile, and the forests\n      that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud watchful mountains\n      that look down upon all, I love to regard these as themselves but\n      the colossal members of one vast animate and sentient whole a\n      whole whose form (that of the sphere) is the most perfect and\n      most inclusive of all; whose path is among associate planets;\n      whose meek handmaiden is the moon, whose mediate sovereign is the\n      sun; whose life is eternity, whose thought is that of a God;\n      whose enjoyment is knowledge; whose destinies are lost in\n      immensity, whose cognizance of ourselves is akin with our own\n      cognizance of the animalculae which infest the brain a being\n      which we, in consequence, regard as purely inanimate and material\n      much in the same manner as these animalculae must thus regard us.\n\n      Our telescopes and our mathematical investigations assure us on\n      every hand notwithstanding the cant of the more ignorant of the\n      priesthood that space, and therefore that bulk, is an important\n      consideration in the eyes of the Almighty. The cycles in which\n      the stars move are those best adapted for the evolution, without\n      collision, of the greatest possible number of bodies. The forms\n      of those bodies are accurately such as, within a given surface,\n      to include the greatest possible amount of matter; while the\n      surfaces themselves are so disposed as to accommodate a denser\n      population than could be accommodated on the same surfaces\n      otherwise arranged. Nor is it any argument against bulk being an\n      object with God, that space itself is infinite; for there may be\n      an infinity of matter to fill it. And since we see clearly that\n      the endowment of matter with vitality is a principle indeed, as\n      far as our judgments extend, the leading principle in the\n      operations of Deity, it is scarcely logical to imagine it\n      confined to the regions of the minute, where we daily trace it,\n      and not extending to those of the august. As we find cycle within\n      cycle without end, yet all revolving around one far-distant\n      centre which is the God-head, may we not analogically suppose in\n      the same manner, life within life, the less within the greater,\n      and all within the Spirit Divine? In short, we are madly erring,\n      through self-esteem, in believing man, in either his temporal or\n      future destinies, to be of more moment in the universe than that\n      vast  clod of the valley  which he tills and contemns, and to\n      which he denies a soul for no more profound reason than that he\n      does not behold it in operation. (*2)\n\n      These fancies, and such as these, have always given to my\n      meditations among the mountains and the forests, by the rivers\n      and the ocean, a tinge of what the everyday world would not fail\n      to term fantastic. My wanderings amid such scenes have been many,\n      and far-searching, and often solitary; and the interest with\n      which I have strayed through many a dim, deep valley, or gazed\n      into the reflected Heaven of many a bright lake, has been an\n      interest greatly deepened by the thought that I have strayed and\n      gazed alone. What flippant Frenchman was it who said in allusion\n      to the well-known work of Zimmerman, that,  la solitude est une\n      belle chose; mais il faut quelqu un pour vous dire que la\n      solitude est une belle chose?  The epigram cannot be gainsayed;\n      but the necessity is a thing that does not exist.\n\n      It was during one of my lonely journeyings, amid a far distant\n      region of mountain locked within mountain, and sad rivers and\n      melancholy tarn writhing or sleeping within all that I chanced\n      upon a certain rivulet and island. I came upon them suddenly in\n      the leafy June, and threw myself upon the turf, beneath the\n      branches of an unknown odorous shrub, that I might doze as I\n      contemplated the scene. I felt that thus only should I look upon\n      it such was the character of phantasm which it wore.\n\n      On all sides save to the west, where the sun was about\n      sinking arose the verdant walls of the forest. The little river\n      which turned sharply in its course, and was thus immediately lost\n      to sight, seemed to have no exit from its prison, but to be\n      absorbed by the deep green foliage of the trees to the east while\n      in the opposite quarter (so it appeared to me as I lay at length\n      and glanced upward) there poured down noiselessly and\n      continuously into the valley, a rich golden and crimson waterfall\n      from the sunset fountains of the sky.\n\n      About midway in the short vista which my dreamy vision took in,\n      one small circular island, profusely verdured, reposed upon the\n      bosom of the stream.\n\n      So blended bank and shadow there\n      That each seemed pendulous in air \n\n      so mirror-like was the glassy water, that it was scarcely\n      possible to say at what point upon the slope of the emerald turf\n      its crystal dominion began.\n\n      My position enabled me to include in a single view both the\n      eastern and western extremities of the islet; and I observed a\n      singularly-marked difference in their aspects. The latter was all\n      one radiant harem of garden beauties. It glowed and blushed\n      beneath the eyes of the slant sunlight, and fairly laughed with\n      flowers. The grass was short, springy, sweet-scented, and\n      asphodel-interspersed. The trees were lithe, mirthful,\n      erect bright, slender, and graceful, of Eastern figure and\n      foliage, with bark smooth, glossy, and parti-colored. There\n      seemed a deep sense of life and joy about all; and although no\n      airs blew from out the heavens, yet every thing had motion\n      through the gentle sweepings to and fro of innumerable\n      butterflies, that might have been mistaken for tulips with wings.\n      (*4)\n\n      The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest\n      shade. A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom here pervaded\n      all things. The trees were dark in color, and mournful in form\n      and attitude, wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral\n      shapes that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death.\n      The grass wore the deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its\n      blades hung droopingly, and hither and thither among it were many\n      small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that\n      had the aspect of graves, but were not; although over and all\n      about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shade of the\n      trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself\n      therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I\n      fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower,\n      separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth, and\n      thus became absorbed by the stream; while other shadows issued\n      momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors\n      thus entombed.\n\n      This idea, having once seized upon my fancy, greatly excited it,\n      and I lost myself forthwith in revery.  If ever island were\n      enchanted,  said I to myself,  this is it. This is the haunt of\n      the few gentle Fays who remain from the wreck of the race. Are\n      these green tombs theirs? or do they yield up their sweet lives\n      as mankind yield up their own? In dying, do they not rather waste\n      away mournfully, rendering unto God, little by little, their\n      existence, as these trees render up shadow after shadow,\n      exhausting their substance unto dissolution? What the wasting\n      tree is to the water that imbibes its shade, growing thus blacker\n      by what it preys upon, may not the life of the Fay be to the\n      death which engulfs it? \n\n      As I thus mused, with half-shut eyes, while the sun sank rapidly\n      to rest, and eddying currents careered round and round the\n      island, bearing upon their bosom large, dazzling, white flakes of\n      the bark of the sycamore flakes which, in their multiform\n      positions upon the water, a quick imagination might have\n      converted into anything it pleased while I thus mused, it\n      appeared to me that the form of one of those very Fays about whom\n      I had been pondering made its way slowly into the darkness from\n      out the light at the western end of the island. She stood erect\n      in a singularly fragile canoe, and urged it with the mere phantom\n      of an oar. While within the influence of the lingering sunbeams,\n      her attitude seemed indicative of joy but sorrow deformed it as\n      she passed within the shade. Slowly she glided along, and at\n      length rounded the islet and re-entered the region of light.  The\n      revolution which has just been made by the Fay,  continued I,\n      musingly,  is the cycle of the brief year of her life. She has\n      floated through her winter and through her summer. She is a year\n      nearer unto Death; for I did not fail to see that, as she came\n      into the shade, her shadow fell from her, and was swallowed up in\n      the dark water, making its blackness more black. \n\n      And again the boat appeared and the Fay; but about the attitude\n      of the latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of\n      elastic joy. She floated again from out the light and into the\n      gloom (which deepened momently) and again her shadow fell from\n      her into the ebony water, and became absorbed into its blackness.\n      And again and again she made the circuit of the island, (while\n      the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at each issuing into\n      the light there was more sorrow about her person, while it grew\n      feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each passage\n      into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became\n      whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length when the sun had\n      utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self,\n      went disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony\n      flood and that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for\n      darkness fell over all things and I beheld her magical figure no\n      more.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ASSIGNATION\n\n\n     Stay for me there! I will not fail.\n     To meet thee in that hollow vale.\n\n(_Exequy on the death of his wife, by Henry King, Bishop of\nChichester_.)\n\n      Ill-fated and mysterious man! bewildered in the brilliancy of\n      thine own imagination, and fallen in the flames of thine own\n      youth! Again in fancy I behold thee! Once more thy form hath\n      risen before me! not oh! not as thou art in the cold valley and\n      shadow but as thou _shouldst be_ squandering away a life of\n      magnificent meditation in that city of dim visions, thine own\n      Venice which is a star-beloved Elysium of the sea, and the wide\n      windows of whose Palladian palaces look down with a deep and\n      bitter meaning upon the secrets of her silent waters. Yes! I\n      repeat it as thou _shouldst be_. There are surely other worlds\n      than this other thoughts than the thoughts of the multitude other\n      speculations than the speculations of the sophist. Who then shall\n      call thy conduct into question? who blame thee for thy visionary\n      hours, or denounce those occupations as a wasting away of life,\n      which were but the overflowings of thine everlasting energies?\n\n      It was at Venice, beneath the covered archway there called the\n      _Ponte di Sospiri_, that I met for the third or fourth time the\n      person of whom I speak. It is with a confused recollection that I\n      bring to mind the circumstances of that meeting. Yet I\n      remember ah! how should I forget? the deep midnight, the Bridge\n      of Sighs, the beauty of woman, and the Genius of Romance that\n      stalked up and down the narrow canal.\n\n      It was a night of unusual gloom. The great clock of the Piazza\n      had sounded the fifth hour of the Italian evening. The square of\n      the Campanile lay silent and deserted, and the lights in the old\n      Ducal Palace were dying fast away. I was returning home from the\n      Piazetta, by way of the Grand Canal. But as my gondola arrived\n      opposite the mouth of the canal San Marco, a female voice from\n      its recesses broke suddenly upon the night, in one wild,\n      hysterical, and long continued shriek. Startled at the sound, I\n      sprang upon my feet: while the gondolier, letting slip his single\n      oar, lost it in the pitchy darkness beyond a chance of recovery,\n      and we were consequently left to the guidance of the current\n      which here sets from the greater into the smaller channel. Like\n      some huge and sable-feathered condor, we were slowly drifting\n      down towards the Bridge of Sighs, when a thousand flambeaux\n      flashing from the windows, and down the staircases of the Ducal\n      Palace, turned all at once that deep gloom into a livid and\n      preternatural day.\n\n      A child, slipping from the arms of its own mother, had fallen\n      from an upper window of the lofty structure into the deep and dim\n      canal. The quiet waters had closed placidly over their victim;\n      and, although my own gondola was the only one in sight, many a\n      stout swimmer, already in the stream, was seeking in vain upon\n      the surface, the treasure which was to be found, alas! only\n      within the abyss. Upon the broad black marble flagstones at the\n      entrance of the palace, and a few steps above the water, stood a\n      figure which none who then saw can have ever since forgotten. It\n      was the Marchesa Aphrodite the adoration of all Venice the gayest\n      of the gay the most lovely where all were beautiful but still the\n      young wife of the old and intriguing Mentoni, and the mother of\n      that fair child, her first and only one, who now, deep beneath\n      the murky water, was thinking in bitterness of heart upon her\n      sweet caresses, and exhausting its little life in struggles to\n      call upon her name.\n\n      She stood alone. Her small, bare, and silvery feet gleamed in the\n      black mirror of marble beneath her. Her hair, not as yet more\n      than half loosened for the night from its ball-room array,\n      clustered, amid a shower of diamonds, round and round her\n      classical head, in curls like those of the young hyacinth. A\n      snowy-white and gauze-like drapery seemed to be nearly the sole\n      covering to her delicate form; but the mid-summer and midnight\n      air was hot, sullen, and still, and no motion in the statue-like\n      form itself, stirred even the folds of that raiment of very vapor\n      which hung around it as the heavy marble hangs around the Niobe.\n      Yet strange to say! her large lustrous eyes were not turned\n      downwards upon that grave wherein her brightest hope lay\n      buried but riveted in a widely different direction! The prison of\n      the Old Republic is, I think, the stateliest building in all\n      Venice but how could that lady gaze so fixedly upon it, when\n      beneath her lay stifling her only child? Yon dark, gloomy niche,\n      too, yawns right opposite her chamber window what, then, _could_\n      there be in its shadows in its architecture in its ivy-wreathed\n      and solemn cornices that the Marchesa di Mentoni had not wondered\n      at a thousand times before? Nonsense! Who does not remember that,\n      at such a time as this, the eye, like a shattered mirror,\n      multiplies the images of its sorrow, and sees in innumerable\n      far-off places, the woe which is close at hand?\n\n      Many steps above the Marchesa, and within the arch of the\n      water-gate, stood, in full dress, the Satyr-like figure of\n      Mentoni himself. He was occasionally occupied in thrumming a\n      guitar, and seemed _ennuye_ to the very death, as at intervals he\n      gave directions for the recovery of his child. Stupefied and\n      aghast, I had myself no power to move from the upright position I\n      had assumed upon first hearing the shriek, and must have\n      presented to the eyes of the agitated group a spectral and\n      ominous appearance, as with pale countenance and rigid limbs, I\n      floated down among them in that funereal gondola.\n\n      All efforts proved in vain. Many of the most energetic in the\n      search were relaxing their exertions, and yielding to a gloomy\n      sorrow. There seemed but little hope for the child; (how much\n      less than for the mother!) but now, from the interior of that\n      dark niche which has been already mentioned as forming a part of\n      the Old Republican prison, and as fronting the lattice of the\n      Marchesa, a figure muffled in a cloak, stepped out within reach\n      of the light, and, pausing a moment upon the verge of the giddy\n      descent, plunged headlong into the canal. As, in an instant\n      afterwards, he stood with the still living and breathing child\n      within his grasp, upon the marble flagstones by the side of the\n      Marchesa, his cloak, heavy with the drenching water, became\n      unfastened, and, falling in folds about his feet, discovered to\n      the wonder-stricken spectators the graceful person of a very\n      young man, with the sound of whose name the greater part of\n      Europe was then ringing.\n\n      No word spoke the deliverer. But the Marchesa! She will now\n      receive her child she will press it to her heart she will cling\n      to its little form, and smother it with her caresses. Alas!\n      _another s_ arms have taken it from the stranger _another s_ arms\n      have taken it away, and borne it afar off, unnoticed, into the\n      palace! And the Marchesa! Her lip her beautiful lip trembles;\n      tears are gathering in her eyes those eyes which, like Pliny s\n      acanthus, are  soft and almost liquid.  Yes! tears are gathering\n      in those eyes and see! the entire woman thrills throughout the\n      soul, and the statue has started into life! The pallor of the\n      marble countenance, the swelling of the marble bosom, the very\n      purity of the marble feet, we behold suddenly flushed over with a\n      tide of ungovernable crimson; and a slight shudder quivers about\n      her delicate frame, as a gentle air at Napoli about the rich\n      silver lilies in the grass.\n\n      Why _should_ that lady blush! To this demand there is no\n      answer except that, having left, in the eager haste and terror of\n      a mother s heart, the privacy of her own _boudoir_, she has\n      neglected to enthral her tiny feet in their slippers, and utterly\n      forgotten to throw over her Venetian shoulders that drapery which\n      is their due. What other possible reason could there have been\n      for her so blushing? for the glance of those wild appealing\n      eyes? for the unusual tumult of that throbbing bosom? for the\n      convulsive pressure of that trembling hand? that hand which fell,\n      as Mentoni turned into the palace, accidentally, upon the hand of\n      the stranger. What reason could there have been for the low the\n      singularly low tone of those unmeaning words which the lady\n      uttered hurriedly in bidding him adieu?  Thou hast conquered, \n      she said, or the murmurs of the water deceived me;  thou hast\n      conquered one hour after sunrise we shall meet so let it be! \n\n      The tumult had subsided, the lights had died away within the\n      palace, and the stranger, whom I now recognized, stood alone upon\n      the flags. He shook with inconceivable agitation, and his eye\n      glanced around in search of a gondola. I could not do less than\n      offer him the service of my own; and he accepted the civility.\n      Having obtained an oar at the water-gate, we proceeded together\n      to his residence, while he rapidly recovered his self-possession,\n      and spoke of our former slight acquaintance in terms of great\n      apparent cordiality.\n\n      There are some subjects upon which I take pleasure in being\n      minute. The person of the stranger let me call him by this title,\n      who to all the world was still a stranger the person of the\n      stranger is one of these subjects. In height he might have been\n      below rather than above the medium size: although there were\n      moments of intense passion when his frame actually _expanded_ and\n      belied the assertion. The light, almost slender symmetry of his\n      figure, promised more of that ready activity which he evinced at\n      the Bridge of Sighs, than of that Herculean strength which he has\n      been known to wield without an effort, upon occasions of more\n      dangerous emergency. With the mouth and chin of a deity singular,\n      wild, full, liquid eyes, whose shadows varied from pure hazel to\n      intense and brilliant jet and a profusion of curling, black hair,\n      from which a forehead of unusual breadth gleamed forth at\n      intervals all light and ivory his were features than which I have\n      seen none more classically regular, except, perhaps, the marble\n      ones of the Emperor Commodus. Yet his countenance was,\n      nevertheless, one of those which all men have seen at some period\n      of their lives, and have never afterwards seen again. It had no\n      peculiar, it had no settled predominant expression to be fastened\n      upon the memory; a countenance seen and instantly forgotten, but\n      forgotten with a vague and never-ceasing desire of recalling it\n      to mind. Not that the spirit of each rapid passion failed, at any\n      time, to throw its own distinct image upon the mirror of that\n      face but that the mirror, mirror-like, retained no vestige of the\n      passion, when the passion had departed.\n\n      Upon leaving him on the night of our adventure, he solicited me,\n      in what I thought an urgent manner, to call upon him _very_ early\n      the next morning. Shortly after sunrise, I found myself\n      accordingly at his Palazzo, one of those huge structures of\n      gloomy, yet fantastic pomp, which tower above the waters of the\n      Grand Canal in the vicinity of the Rialto. I was shown up a broad\n      winding staircase of mosaics, into an apartment whose\n      unparalleled splendor burst through the opening door with an\n      actual glare, making me blind and dizzy with luxuriousness.\n\n      I knew my acquaintance to be wealthy. Report had spoken of his\n      possessions in terms which I had even ventured to call terms of\n      ridiculous exaggeration. But as I gazed about me, I could not\n      bring myself to believe that the wealth of any subject in Europe\n      could have supplied the princely magnificence which burned and\n      blazed around.\n\n      Although, as I say, the sun had arisen, yet the room was still\n      brilliantly lighted up. I judge from this circumstance, as well\n      as from an air of exhaustion in the countenance of my friend,\n      that he had not retired to bed during the whole of the preceding\n      night. In the architecture and embellishments of the chamber, the\n      evident design had been to dazzle and astound. Little attention\n      had been paid to the _decora_ of what is technically called\n      _keeping_, or to the proprieties of nationality. The eye wandered\n      from object to object, and rested upon none neither the\n      _grotesques_ of the Greek painters, nor the sculptures of the\n      best Italian days, nor the huge carvings of untutored Egypt. Rich\n      draperies in every part of the room trembled to the vibration of\n      low, melancholy music, whose origin was not to be discovered. The\n      senses were oppressed by mingled and conflicting perfumes,\n      reeking up from strange convolute censers, together with\n      multitudinous flaring and flickering tongues of emerald and\n      violet fire. The rays of the newly risen sun poured in upon the\n      whole, through windows, formed each of a single pane of\n      crimson-tinted glass. Glancing to and fro, in a thousand\n      reflections, from curtains which rolled from their cornices like\n      cataracts of molten silver, the beams of natural glory mingled at\n      length fitfully with the artificial light, and lay weltering in\n      subdued masses upon a carpet of rich, liquid-looking cloth of\n      Chili gold.\n\n       Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! laughed the proprietor, motioning me to\n      a seat as I entered the room, and throwing himself back at\n      full-length upon an ottoman.  I see,  said he, perceiving that I\n      could not immediately reconcile myself to the _bienseance_ of so\n      singular a welcome I see you are astonished at my apartment at\n      my statues my pictures my originality of conception in\n      architecture and upholstery! absolutely drunk, eh, with my\n      magnificence? But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of voice\n      dropped to the very spirit of cordiality,) pardon me for my\n      uncharitable laughter. You appeared so _utterly_ astonished.\n      Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous, that a man\n      _must_ laugh or die. To die laughing, must be the most glorious\n      of all glorious deaths! Sir Thomas More a very fine man was Sir\n      Thomas More Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also in\n      the _Absurdities_ of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of\n      characters who came to the same magnificent end. Do you know,\n      however,  continued he musingly,  that at Sparta (which is now\n      Pal ochori,) at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel, among\n      a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of _socle_, upon\n      which are still legible the letters  . They are undoubtedly\n      part of  . Now, at Sparta were a thousand temples and\n      shrines to a thousand different divinities. How exceedingly\n      strange that the altar of Laughter should have survived all the\n      others! But in the present instance,  he resumed, with a singular\n      alteration of voice and manner,  I have no right to be merry at\n      your expense. You might well have been amazed. Europe cannot\n      produce anything so fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My\n      other apartments are by no means of the same order mere _ultras_\n      of fashionable insipidity. This is better than fashion is it not?\n      Yet this has but to be seen to become the rage that is, with\n      those who could afford it at the cost of their entire patrimony.\n      I have guarded, however, against any such profanation. With one\n      exception, you are the only human being besides myself and my\n      _valet_, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these\n      imperial precincts, since they have been bedizened as you see! \n\n      I bowed in acknowledgment for the overpowering sense of splendor\n      and perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity\n      of his address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in\n      words, my appreciation of what I might have construed into a\n      compliment.\n\n       Here,  he resumed, arising and leaning on my arm as he sauntered\n      around the apartment,  here are paintings from the Greeks to\n      Cimabue, and from Cimabue to the present hour. Many are chosen,\n      as you see, with little deference to the opinions of Virtu. They\n      are all, however, fitting tapestry for a chamber such as this.\n      Here, too, are some _chefs d oeuvre_ of the unknown great; and\n      here, unfinished designs by men, celebrated in their day, whose\n      very names the perspicacity of the academies has left to silence\n      and to me. What think you,  said he, turning abruptly as he\n      spoke what think you of this Madonna della Pieta? \n\n       It is Guido s own!  I said, with all the enthusiasm of my\n      nature, for I had been poring intently over its surpassing\n      loveliness.  It is Guido s own! how _could_ you have obtained\n      it? she is undoubtedly in painting what the Venus is in\n      sculpture. \n\n       Ha!  said he thoughtfully,  the Venus the beautiful Venus? the\n      Venus of the Medici? she of the diminutive head and the gilded\n      hair? Part of the left arm (here his voice dropped so as to be\n      heard with difficulty,) and all the right, are restorations; and\n      in the coquetry of that right arm lies, I think, the quintessence\n      of all affectation. Give _me_ the Canova! The Apollo, too, is a\n      copy there can be no doubt of it blind fool that I am, who cannot\n      behold the boasted inspiration of the Apollo! I cannot help pity\n      me! I cannot help preferring the Antinous. Was it not Socrates\n      who said that the statuary found his statue in the block of\n      marble? Then Michael Angelo was by no means original in his\n      couplet \n\n      Non ha l ottimo artista alcun concetto\n     Che un marmo solo in se non circunscriva. \n\n      It has been, or should be remarked, that, in the manner of the\n      true gentleman, we are always aware of a difference from the\n      bearing of the vulgar, without being at once precisely able to\n      determine in what such difference consists. Allowing the remark\n      to have applied in its full force to the outward demeanor of my\n      acquaintance, I felt it, on that eventful morning, still more\n      fully applicable to his moral temperament and character. Nor can\n      I better define that peculiarity of spirit which seemed to place\n      him so essentially apart from all other human beings, than by\n      calling it a _habit_ of intense and continual thought, pervading\n      even his most trivial actions intruding upon his moments of\n      dalliance and interweaving itself with his very flashes of\n      merriment like adders which writhe from out the eyes of the\n      grinning masks in the cornices around the temples of Persepolis.\n\n      I could not help, however, repeatedly observing, through the\n      mingled tone of levity and solemnity with which he rapidly\n      descanted upon matters of little importance, a certain air of\n      trepidation a degree of nervous _unction_ in action and in\n      speech an unquiet excitability of manner which appeared to me at\n      all times unaccountable, and upon some occasions even filled me\n      with alarm. Frequently, too, pausing in the middle of a sentence\n      whose commencement he had apparently forgotten, he seemed to be\n      listening in the deepest attention, as if either in momentary\n      expectation of a visitor, or to sounds which must have had\n      existence in his imagination alone.\n\n      It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent\n      abstraction, that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar\n      Politian s beautiful tragedy  The Orfeo,  (the first native\n      Italian tragedy,) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered\n      a passage underlined in pencil. It was a passage towards the end\n      of the third act a passage of the most heart-stirring\n      excitement a passage which, although tainted with impurity, no\n      man shall read without a thrill of novel emotion no woman without\n      a sigh. The whole page was blotted with fresh tears; and, upon\n      the opposite interleaf, were the following English lines, written\n      in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my\n      acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in recognising it as his\n      own: \n\nThou wast that all to me, love,\n    For which my soul did pine \nA green isle in the sea, love,\n    A fountain and a shrine,\nAll wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers;\n    And all the flowers were mine.\n\nAh, dream too bright to last!\n    Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise\nBut to be overcast!\n    A voice from out the Future cries,\n Onward! but o er the Past\n    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,\nMute motionless aghast!\n\nFor alas!  alas!  with me\n    The light of life is o er.\n No more no more no more, \n    (Such language holds the solemn sea\nTo the sands upon the shore,)\n    Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,\nOr the stricken eagle soar!\n\nNow all my hours are trances;\n    And all my nightly dreams\nAre where the dark eye glances,\n    And where thy footstep gleams,\nIn what ethereal dances,\n    By what Italian streams.\n\nAlas!  for that accursed time\n    They bore thee o er the billow,\nFrom Love to titled age and crime,\n    And an unholy pillow! \nFrom me, and from our misty clime,\n    Where weeps the silver willow!\n\n      That these lines were written in English a language with which I\n      had not believed their author acquainted afforded me little\n      matter for surprise. I was too well aware of the extent of his\n      acquirements, and of the singular pleasure he took in concealing\n      them from observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery;\n      but the place of date, I must confess, occasioned me no little\n      amazement. It had been originally written _London_, and\n      afterwards carefully overscored not, however, so effectually as\n      to conceal the word from a scrutinizing eye. I say, this\n      occasioned me no little amazement; for I well remember that, in a\n      former conversation with a friend, I particularly inquired if he\n      had at any time met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for\n      some years previous to her marriage had resided in that city,)\n      when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand that he\n      had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as\n      well here mention, that I have more than once heard, (without, of\n      course, giving credit to a report involving so many\n      improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak, was not only\n      by birth, but in education, an _Englishman_.\n\n There is one painting,  said he, without being aware of my notice of\nthe tragedy there is still one painting which you have not seen.  And\nthrowing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-length portrait of the\nMarchesa Aphrodite.\n\nHuman art could have done no more in the delineation of her superhuman\nbeauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before me the preceding\nnight upon the steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me once again.\nBut in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all over\nwith smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly!) that fitful\nstain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the\nperfection of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom.\nWith her left she pointed downward to a curiously fashioned vase. One\nsmall, fairy foot, alone visible, barely touched the earth; and,\nscarcely discernible in the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to\nencircle and enshrine her loveliness, floated a pair of the most\ndelicately imagined wings. My glance fell from the painting to the\nfigure of my friend, and the vigorous words of Chapman s _Bussy\nD Ambois_, quivered instinctively upon my lips:\n\n     He is up\nThere like a Roman statue!  He will stand\nTill Death hath made him marble! \n\n       Come,  he said at length, turning towards a table of richly\n      enamelled and massive silver, upon which were a few goblets\n      fantastically stained, together with two large Etruscan vases,\n      fashioned in the same extraordinary model as that in the\n      foreground of the portrait, and filled with what I supposed to be\n      Johannisberger.  Come,  he said, abruptly,  let us drink! It is\n      early but let us drink. It is _indeed_ early,  he continued,\n      musingly, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer made the\n      apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise:  It is _indeed_\n      early but what matters it? let us drink! Let us pour out an\n      offering to yon solemn sun which these gaudy lamps and censers\n      are so eager to subdue!  And, having made me pledge him in a\n      bumper, he swallowed in rapid succession several goblets of the\n      wine.\n\n       To dream,  he continued, resuming the tone of his desultory\n      conversation, as he held up to the rich light of a censer one of\n      the magnificent vases to dream has been the business of my life.\n      I have therefore framed for myself, as you see, a bower of\n      dreams. In the heart of Venice could I have erected a better? You\n      behold around you, it is true, a medley of architectural\n      embellishments. The chastity of Ionia is offended by antediluvian\n      devices, and the sphynxes of Egypt are outstretched upon carpets\n      of gold. Yet the effect is incongruous to the timid alone.\n      Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are the bugbears\n      which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent.\n      Once I was myself a decorist; but that sublimation of folly has\n      palled upon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my purpose.\n      Like these arabesque censers, my spirit is writhing in fire, and\n      the delirium of this scene is fashioning me for the wilder\n      visions of that land of real dreams whither I am now rapidly\n      departing.  He here paused abruptly, bent his head to his bosom,\n      and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. At\n      length, erecting his frame, he looked upwards, and ejaculated the\n      lines of the Bishop of Chichester:\n\n     _ Stay for me there!  I will not fail_\n     _To meet thee in that hollow vale. _\n\n      In the next instant, confessing the power of the wine, he threw\n      himself at full-length upon an ottoman.\n\n      A quick step was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock\n      at the door rapidly succeeded. I was hastening to anticipate a\n      second disturbance, when a page of Mentoni s household burst into\n      the room, and faltered out, in a voice choking with emotion, the\n      incoherent words,  My mistress! my mistress! Poisoned! poisoned!\n      Oh, beautiful oh, beautiful Aphrodite! \n\n      Bewildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the\n      sleeper to a sense of the startling intelligence. But his limbs\n      were rigid his lips were livid his lately beaming eyes were\n      riveted in _death_. I staggered back towards the table my hand\n      fell upon a cracked and blackened goblet and a consciousness of\n      the entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over my soul.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PIT AND THE PENDULUM\n\n\n     Impia tortorum longos hic turba furores\n     Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.\n     Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,\n     Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.\n\n[_Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to be erected upon the\nsite of the Jacobin Club House at Paris_.]\n\n      I was sick sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at\n      length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my\n      senses were leaving me. The sentence the dread sentence of\n      death was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my\n      ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed\n      merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul\n      the idea of _revolution_ perhaps from its association in fancy\n      with the burr of a mill wheel. This only for a brief period, for\n      presently I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw but with how\n      terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed\n      judges. They appeared to me white whiter than the sheet upon\n      which I trace these words and thin even to grotesqueness; thin\n      with the intensity of their expression of firmness of immoveable\n      resolution of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the\n      decrees of what to me was Fate, were still issuing from those\n      lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them\n      fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no\n      sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious\n      horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable\n      draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my\n      vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first\n      they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white and slender\n      angels who would save me; but then, all at once, there came a\n      most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my\n      frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery,\n      while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of\n      flame, and I saw that from them there would be no help. And then\n      there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought\n      of what sweet rest there must be in the grave. The thought came\n      gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained full\n      appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length properly to\n      feel and entertain it, the figures of the judges vanished, as if\n      magically, from before me; the tall candles sank into\n      nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the blackness of\n      darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a\n      mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and\n      stillness, night were the universe.\n\n      I had swooned; but still will not say that all of consciousness\n      was lost. What of it there remained I will not attempt to define,\n      or even to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest\n      slumber no! In delirium no! In a swoon no! In death no! even in\n      the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man.\n      Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, we break the\n      gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail\n      may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed. In\n      the return to life from the swoon there are two stages; first,\n      that of the sense of mental or spiritual; secondly, that of the\n      sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon\n      reaching the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the\n      first, we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of\n      the gulf beyond. And that gulf is what? How at least shall we\n      distinguish its shadows from those of the tomb? But if the\n      impressions of what I have termed the first stage are not, at\n      will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not come\n      unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He who has never\n      swooned, is not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar\n      faces in coals that glow; is not he who beholds floating in\n      mid-air the sad visions that the many may not view; is not he who\n      ponders over the perfume of some novel flower; is not he whose\n      brain grows bewildered with the meaning of some musical cadence\n      which has never before arrested his attention.\n\n      Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest\n      struggles to regather some token of the state of seeming\n      nothingness into which my soul had lapsed, there have been\n      moments when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief,\n      very brief periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the\n      lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could have had reference\n      only to that condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows\n      of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and\n      bore me in silence down down still down till a hideous dizziness\n      oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the\n      descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, on account\n      of that heart s unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden\n      motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a\n      ghastly train!) had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the\n      limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After\n      this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is\n      madness the madness of a memory which busies itself among\n      forbidden things.\n\n      Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound the\n      tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its\n      beating. Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound,\n      and motion, and touch a tingling sensation pervading my frame.\n      Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought a\n      condition which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and\n      shuddering terror, and earnest endeavor to comprehend my true\n      state. Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a\n      rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to move. And now\n      a full memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable\n      draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then\n      entire forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that a later\n      day and much earnestness of endeavor have enabled me vaguely to\n      recall.\n\n      So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back,\n      unbound. I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon\n      something damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many\n      minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I\n      longed, yet dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first\n      glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look\n      upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be\n      nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I\n      quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were\n      confirmed. The blackness of eternal night encompassed me. I\n      struggled for breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to\n      oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably close. I\n      still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise my reason. I\n      brought to mind the inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from\n      that point to deduce my real condition. The sentence had passed;\n      and it appeared to me that a very long interval of time had since\n      elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead.\n      Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is\n      altogether inconsistent with real existence; but where and in\n      what state was I? The condemned to death, I knew, perished\n      usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these had been held on the\n      very night of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to my\n      dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take place\n      for many months? This I at once saw could not be. Victims had\n      been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all\n      the condemned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was\n      not altogether excluded.\n\n      A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my\n      heart, and for a brief period, I once more relapsed into\n      insensibility. Upon recovering, I at once started to my feet,\n      trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly\n      above and around me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet\n      dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of\n      a tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big\n      beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length\n      intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms\n      extended, and my eyes straining from their sockets, in the hope\n      of catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for many paces;\n      but still all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely.\n      It seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the most hideous\n      of fates.\n\n      And now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there\n      came thronging upon my recollection a thousand vague rumors of\n      the horrors of Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange\n      things narrated fables I had always deemed them but yet strange,\n      and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. Was I left to\n      perish of starvation in this subterranean world of darkness; or\n      what fate, perhaps even more fearful, awaited me? That the result\n      would be death, and a death of more than customary bitterness, I\n      knew too well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode and\n      the hour were all that occupied or distracted me.\n\n      My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid\n      obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry very\n      smooth, slimy, and cold. I followed it up; stepping with all the\n      careful distrust with which certain antique narratives had\n      inspired me. This process, however, afforded me no means of\n      ascertaining the dimensions of my dungeon; as I might make its\n      circuit, and return to the point whence I set out, without being\n      aware of the fact; so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I\n      therefore sought the knife which had been in my pocket, when led\n      into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was gone; my clothes had\n      been exchanged for a wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought of\n      forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to\n      identify my point of departure. The difficulty, nevertheless, was\n      but trivial; although, in the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at\n      first insuperable. I tore a part of the hem from the robe and\n      placed the fragment at full length, and at right angles to the\n      wall. In groping my way around the prison, I could not fail to\n      encounter this rag upon completing the circuit. So, at least I\n      thought: but I had not counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or\n      upon my own weakness. The ground was moist and slippery. I\n      staggered onward for some time, when I stumbled and fell. My\n      excessive fatigue induced me to remain prostrate; and sleep soon\n      overtook me as I lay.\n\n      Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found beside me a\n      loaf and a pitcher with water. I was too much exhausted to\n      reflect upon this circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity.\n      Shortly afterward, I resumed my tour around the prison, and with\n      much toil came at last upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the\n      period when I fell I had counted fifty-two paces, and upon\n      resuming my walk, I had counted forty-eight more when I arrived\n      at the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred paces; and,\n      admitting two paces to the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be\n      fifty yards in circuit. I had met, however, with many angles in\n      the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the shape of the\n      vault, for vault I could not help supposing it to be.\n\n      I had little object certainly no hope in these researches; but a\n      vague curiosity prompted me to continue them. Quitting the wall,\n      I resolved to cross the area of the enclosure. At first I\n      proceeded with extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingly\n      of solid material, was treacherous with slime. At length,\n      however, I took courage, and did not hesitate to step firmly;\n      endeavoring to cross in as direct a line as possible. I had\n      advanced some ten or twelve paces in this manner, when the\n      remnant of the torn hem of my robe became entangled between my\n      legs. I stepped on it, and fell violently on my face.\n\n      In the confusion attending my fall, I did not immediately\n      apprehend a somewhat startling circumstance, which yet, in a few\n      seconds afterward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my\n      attention. It was this: my chin rested upon the floor of the\n      prison, but my lips and the upper portion of my head, although\n      seemingly at a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing. At\n      the same time my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and\n      the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put\n      forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I had fallen at the\n      very brink of a circular pit, whose extent, of course, I had no\n      means of ascertaining at the moment. Groping about the masonry\n      just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a small\n      fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For many seconds I\n      hearkened to its reverberations as it dashed against the sides of\n      the chasm in its descent; at length there was a sullen plunge\n      into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the same moment there\n      came a sound resembling the quick opening, and as rapid closing\n      of a door overhead, while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly\n      through the gloom, and as suddenly faded away.\n\n      I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for me, and\n      congratulated myself upon the timely accident by which I had\n      escaped. Another step before my fall, and the world had seen me\n      no more. And the death just avoided, was of that very character\n      which I had regarded as fabulous and frivolous in the tales\n      respecting the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny, there\n      was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies, or\n      death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved\n      for the latter. By long suffering my nerves had been unstrung,\n      until I trembled at the sound of my own voice, and had become in\n      every respect a fitting subject for the species of torture which\n      awaited me.\n\n      Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the wall resolving\n      there to perish rather than risk the terrors of the wells, of\n      which my imagination now pictured many in various positions about\n      the dungeon. In other conditions of mind I might have had courage\n      to end my misery at once by a plunge into one of these abysses;\n      but now I was the veriest of cowards. Neither could I forget what\n      I had read of these pits that the sudden extinction of life\n      formed no part of their most horrible plan.\n\n      Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours, but at\n      length I again slumbered. Upon arousing, I found by my side, as\n      before, a loaf and a pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed\n      me, and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have been\n      drugged for scarcely had I drunk, before I became irresistibly\n      drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me a sleep like that of death. How\n      long it lasted of course, I know not; but when, once again, I\n      unclosed my eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a wild\n      sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I could not at first\n      determine, I was enabled to see the extent and aspect of the\n      prison.\n\n      In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole circuit of its\n      walls did not exceed twenty-five yards. For some minutes this\n      fact occasioned me a world of vain trouble; vain indeed! for what\n      could be of less importance, under the terrible circumstances\n      which environed me, then the mere dimensions of my dungeon? But\n      my soul took a wild interest in trifles, and I busied myself in\n      endeavors to account for the error I had committed in my\n      measurement. The truth at length flashed upon me. In my first\n      attempt at exploration I had counted fifty-two paces, up to the\n      period when I fell; I must then have been within a pace or two of\n      the fragment of serge; in fact, I had nearly performed the\n      circuit of the vault. I then slept and, upon awaking, I must have\n      returned upon my steps thus supposing the circuit nearly double\n      what it actually was. My confusion of mind prevented me from\n      observing that I began my tour with the wall to the left, and\n      ended it with the wall to the right.\n\n      I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the\n      enclosure. In feeling my way I had found many angles, and thus\n      deduced an idea of great irregularity; so potent is the effect of\n      total darkness upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep! The\n      angles were simply those of a few slight depressions, or niches,\n      at odd intervals. The general shape of the prison was square.\n      What I had taken for masonry seemed now to be iron, or some other\n      metal, in huge plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned the\n      depression. The entire surface of this metallic enclosure was\n      rudely daubed in all the hideous and repulsive devices to which\n      the charnel superstition of the monks has given rise. The figures\n      of fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms, and other\n      more really fearful images, overspread and disfigured the walls.\n      I observed that the outlines of these monstrosities were\n      sufficiently distinct, but that the colors seemed faded and\n      blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now\n      noticed the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned\n      the circular pit from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the\n      only one in the dungeon.\n\n      All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort for my personal\n      condition had been greatly changed during slumber. I now lay upon\n      my back, and at full length, on a species of low framework of\n      wood. To this I was securely bound by a long strap resembling a\n      surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about my limbs and\n      body, leaving at liberty only my head, and my left arm to such\n      extent that I could, by dint of much exertion, supply myself with\n      food from an earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. I\n      saw, to my horror, that the pitcher had been removed. I say to my\n      horror for I was consumed with intolerable thirst. This thirst it\n      appeared to be the design of my persecutors to stimulate for the\n      food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.\n\n      Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was some\n      thirty or forty feet overhead, and constructed much as the side\n      walls. In one of its panels a very singular figure riveted my\n      whole attention. It was the painted figure of Time as he is\n      commonly represented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held\n      what, at a casual glance, I supposed to be the pictured image of\n      a huge pendulum such as we see on antique clocks. There was\n      something, however, in the appearance of this machine which\n      caused me to regard it more attentively. While I gazed directly\n      upward at it (for its position was immediately over my own) I\n      fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward the\n      fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I\n      watched it for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more in\n      wonder. Wearied at length with observing its dull movement, I\n      turned my eyes upon the other objects in the cell.\n\n      A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to the floor, I\n      saw several enormous rats traversing it. They had issued from the\n      well, which lay just within view to my right. Even then, while I\n      gazed, they came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes,\n      allured by the scent of the meat. From this it required much\n      effort and attention to scare them away.\n\n      It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an hour, (for I\n      could take but imperfect note of time) before I again cast my\n      eyes upward. What I then saw confounded and amazed me. The sweep\n      of the pendulum had increased in extent by nearly a yard. As a\n      natural consequence, its velocity was also much greater. But what\n      mainly disturbed me was the idea that had perceptibly descended.\n      I now observed with what horror it is needless to say that its\n      nether extremity was formed of a crescent of glittering steel,\n      about a foot in length from horn to horn; the horns upward, and\n      the under edge evidently as keen as that of a razor. Like a razor\n      also, it seemed massy and heavy, tapering from the edge into a\n      solid and broad structure above. It was appended to a weighty rod\n      of brass, and the whole hissed as it swung through the air.\n\n      I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me by monkish\n      ingenuity in torture. My cognizance of the pit had become known\n      to the inquisitorial agents _the pit_, whose horrors had been\n      destined for so bold a recusant as myself the pit, typical of\n      hell, and regarded by rumor as the Ultima Thule of all their\n      punishments. The plunge into this pit I had avoided by the merest\n      of accidents, I knew that surprise, or entrapment into torment,\n      formed an important portion of all the grotesquerie of these\n      dungeon deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no part of the\n      demon plan to hurl me into the abyss; and thus (there being no\n      alternative) a different and a milder destruction awaited me.\n      Milder! I half smiled in my agony as I thought of such\n      application of such a term.\n\n      What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than\n      mortal, during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the\n      steel! Inch by inch line by line with a descent only appreciable\n      at intervals that seemed ages down and still down it came! Days\n      passed it might have been that many days passed ere it swept so\n      closely over me as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of\n      the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed I\n      wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew\n      frantically mad, and struggled to force myself upward against the\n      sweep of the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm, and\n      lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some rare\n      bauble.\n\n      There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief;\n      for, upon again lapsing into life there had been no perceptible\n      descent in the pendulum. But it might have been long; for I knew\n      there were demons who took note of my swoon, and who could have\n      arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt\n      very oh! inexpressibly sick and weak, as if through long\n      inanition. Even amid the agonies of that period, the human nature\n      craved food. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as\n      far as my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small\n      remnant which had been spared me by the rats. As I put a portion\n      of it within my lips, there rushed to my mind a half formed\n      thought of joy of hope. Yet what business had _I_ with hope? It\n      was, as I say, a half formed thought man has many such, which are\n      never completed. I felt that it was of joy of hope; but felt also\n      that it had perished in its formation. In vain I struggled to\n      perfect to regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all\n      my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile an idiot.\n\n      The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles to my length. I\n      saw that the crescent was designed to cross the region of the\n      heart. It would fray the serge of my robe it would return and\n      repeat its operations again and again. Notwithstanding its\n      terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more) and the\n      hissing vigor of its descent, sufficient to sunder these very\n      walls of iron, still the fraying of my robe would be all that,\n      for several minutes, it would accomplish. And at this thought I\n      paused. I dared not go farther than this reflection. I dwelt upon\n      it with a pertinacity of attention as if, in so dwelling, I could\n      arrest here the descent of the steel. I forced myself to ponder\n      upon the sound of the crescent as it should pass across the\n      garment upon the peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction\n      of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon all this\n      frivolity until my teeth were on edge.\n\n      Down steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in\n      contrasting its downward with its lateral velocity. To the\n      right to the left far and wide with the shriek of a damned\n      spirit! to my heart with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I\n      alternately laughed and howled as the one or the other idea grew\n      predominant.\n\n      Down certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated within three\n      inches of my bosom! I struggled violently, furiously, to free my\n      left arm. This was free only from the elbow to the hand. I could\n      reach the latter, from the platter beside me, to my mouth, with\n      great effort, but no farther. Could I have broken the fastenings\n      above the elbow, I would have seized and attempted to arrest the\n      pendulum. I might as well have attempted to arrest an avalanche!\n\n      Down still unceasingly still inevitably down! I gasped and\n      struggled at each vibration. I shrunk convulsively at its every\n      sweep. My eyes followed its outward or upward whirls with the\n      eagerness of the most unmeaning despair; they closed themselves\n      spasmodically at the descent, although death would have been a\n      relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I quivered in every nerve to\n      think how slight a sinking of the machinery would precipitate\n      that keen, glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope that\n      prompted the nerve to quiver the frame to shrink. It was hope the\n      hope that triumphs on the rack that whispers to the\n      death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.\n\n      I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel in\n      actual contact with my robe, and with this observation there\n      suddenly came over my spirit all the keen, collected calmness of\n      despair. For the first time during many hours or perhaps days I\n      thought. It now occurred to me that the bandage, or surcingle,\n      which enveloped me, was unique. I was tied by no separate cord.\n      The first stroke of the razorlike crescent athwart any portion of\n      the band, would so detach it that it might be unwound from my\n      person by means of my left hand. But how fearful, in that case,\n      the proximity of the steel! The result of the slightest struggle\n      how deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions of the\n      torturer had not foreseen and provided for this possibility? Was\n      it probable that the bandage crossed my bosom in the track of the\n      pendulum? Dreading to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my last\n      hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to obtain a\n      distinct view of my breast. The surcingle enveloped my limbs and\n      body close in all directions save in the path of the destroying\n      crescent.\n\n      Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its original position,\n      when there flashed upon my mind what I cannot better describe\n      than as the unformed half of that idea of deliverance to which I\n      have previously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated\n      indeterminately through my brain when I raised food to my burning\n      lips. The whole thought was now present feeble, scarcely sane,\n      scarcely definite, but still entire. I proceeded at once, with\n      the nervous energy of despair, to attempt its execution.\n\n      For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low framework upon\n      which I lay had been literally swarming with rats. They were\n      wild, bold, ravenous their red eyes glaring upon me as if they\n      waited but for motionlessness on my part to make me their prey.\n       To what food,  I thought,  have they been accustomed in the\n      well? \n\n      They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to prevent them,\n      all but a small remnant of the contents of the dish. I had fallen\n      into an habitual see-saw, or wave of the hand about the platter;\n      and, at length, the unconscious uniformity of the movement\n      deprived it of effect. In their voracity the vermin frequently\n      fastened their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the particles of\n      the oily and spicy viand which now remained, I thoroughly rubbed\n      the bandage wherever I could reach it; then, raising my hand from\n      the floor, I lay breathlessly still.\n\n      At first the ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the\n      change at the cessation of movement. They shrank alarmedly back;\n      many sought the well. But this was only for a moment. I had not\n      counted in vain upon their voracity. Observing that I remained\n      without motion, one or two of the boldest leaped upon the\n      frame-work, and smelt at the surcingle. This seemed the signal\n      for a general rush. Forth from the well they hurried in fresh\n      troops. They clung to the wood they overran it, and leaped in\n      hundreds upon my person. The measured movement of the pendulum\n      disturbed them not at all. Avoiding its strokes they busied\n      themselves with the anointed bandage. They pressed they swarmed\n      upon me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my throat;\n      their cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by their\n      thronging pressure; disgust, for which the world has no name,\n      swelled my bosom, and chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart.\n      Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle would be over.\n      Plainly I perceived the loosening of the bandage. I knew that in\n      more than one place it must be already severed. With a more than\n      human resolution I lay still.\n\n      Nor had I erred in my calculations nor had I endured in vain. I\n      at length felt that I was free. The surcingle hung in ribands\n      from my body. But the stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon\n      my bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It had cut\n      through the linen beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp\n      sense of pain shot through every nerve. But the moment of escape\n      had arrived. At a wave of my hand my deliverers hurried\n      tumultuously away. With a steady movement cautious, sidelong,\n      shrinking, and slow I slid from the embrace of the bandage and\n      beyond the reach of the scimitar. For the moment, at least, I was\n      free.\n\n      Free! and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I had scarcely stepped\n      from my wooden bed of horror upon the stone floor of the prison,\n      when the motion of the hellish machine ceased and I beheld it\n      drawn up, by some invisible force, through the ceiling. This was\n      a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My every motion was\n      undoubtedly watched. Free! I had but escaped death in one form of\n      agony, to be delivered unto worse than death in some other. With\n      that thought I rolled my eves nervously around on the barriers of\n      iron that hemmed me in. Something unusual some change which, at\n      first, I could not appreciate distinctly it was obvious, had\n      taken place in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy and\n      trembling abstraction, I busied myself in vain, unconnected\n      conjecture. During this period, I became aware, for the first\n      time, of the origin of the sulphurous light which illumined the\n      cell. It proceeded from a fissure, about half an inch in width,\n      extending entirely around the prison at the base of the walls,\n      which thus appeared, and were, completely separated from the\n      floor. I endeavored, but of course in vain, to look through the\n      aperture.\n\n      As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the\n      chamber broke at once upon my understanding. I have observed\n      that, although the outlines of the figures upon the walls were\n      sufficiently distinct, yet the colors seemed blurred and\n      indefinite. These colors had now assumed, and were momentarily\n      assuming, a startling and most intense brilliancy, that gave to\n      the spectral and fiendish portraitures an aspect that might have\n      thrilled even firmer nerves than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild\n      and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand directions,\n      where none had been visible before, and gleamed with the lurid\n      lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagination to regard\n      as unreal.\n\n      _Unreal!_ Even while I breathed there came to my nostrils the\n      breath of the vapour of heated iron! A suffocating odour pervaded\n      the prison! A deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes that\n      glared at my agonies! A richer tint of crimson diffused itself\n      over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I gasped for\n      breath! There could be no doubt of the design of my\n      tormentors oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of men! I\n      shrank from the glowing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the\n      thought of the fiery destruction that impended, the idea of the\n      coolness of the well came over my soul like balm. I rushed to its\n      deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. The glare from\n      the enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild\n      moment, did my spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of what I\n      saw. At length it forced it wrestled its way into my soul it\n      burned itself in upon my shuddering reason. Oh! for a voice to\n      speak! oh! horror! oh! any horror but this! With a shriek, I\n      rushed from the margin, and buried my face in my hands weeping\n      bitterly.\n\n      The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up,\n      shuddering as with a fit of the ague. There had been a second\n      change in the cell and now the change was obviously in the form.\n      As before, it was in vain that I, at first, endeavoured to\n      appreciate or understand what was taking place. But not long was\n      I left in doubt. The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by\n      my two-fold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the\n      King of Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that two of its\n      iron angles were now acute two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful\n      difference quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning\n      sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted its form into that\n      of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped not here I neither hoped\n      nor desired it to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my\n      bosom as a garment of eternal peace.  Death,  I said,  any death\n      but that of the pit!  Fool! might I have not known that into the\n      pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me? Could I\n      resist its glow? or, if even that, could I withstand its\n      pressure? And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a\n      rapidity that left me no time for contemplation. Its centre, and\n      of course, its greatest width, came just over the yawning gulf. I\n      shrank back but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward.\n      At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an\n      inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no\n      more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and\n      final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink I\n      averted my eyes \n\n      There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud\n      blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a\n      thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched\n      arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was\n      that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The\n      Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PREMATURE BURIAL\n\n\n      There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing,\n      but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of\n      legitimate fiction. These the mere romanticist must eschew, if he\n      do not wish to offend or to disgust. They are with propriety\n      handled only when the severity and majesty of Truth sanctify and\n      sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense of\n       pleasurable pain  over the accounts of the Passage of the\n      Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at London,\n      of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the stifling of the\n      hundred and twenty-three prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta.\n      But in these accounts it is the fact it is the reality it is\n      the history which excites. As inventions, we should regard them\n      with simple abhorrence.\n\n      I have mentioned some few of the more prominent and august\n      calamities on record; but in these it is the extent, not less\n      than the character of the calamity, which so vividly impresses\n      the fancy. I need not remind the reader that, from the long and\n      weird catalogue of human miseries, I might have selected many\n      individual instances more replete with essential suffering than\n      any of these vast generalities of disaster. The true\n      wretchedness, indeed the ultimate woe is particular, not\n      diffuse. That the ghastly extremes of agony are endured by man\n      the unit, and never by man the mass for this let us thank a\n      merciful God!\n\n      To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific\n      of these extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere\n      mortality. That it has frequently, very frequently, so fallen\n      will scarcely be denied by those who think. The boundaries which\n      divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall\n      say where the one ends, and where the other begins? We know that\n      there are diseases in which occur total cessations of all the\n      apparent functions of vitality, and yet in which these cessations\n      are merely suspensions, properly so called. They are only\n      temporary pauses in the incomprehensible mechanism. A certain\n      period elapses, and some unseen mysterious principle again sets\n      in motion the magic pinions and the wizard wheels. The silver\n      cord was not for ever loosed, nor the golden bowl irreparably\n      broken. But where, meantime, was the soul?\n\n      Apart, however, from the inevitable conclusion, _a priori_ that\n      such causes must produce such effects that the well-known\n      occurrence of such cases of suspended animation must naturally\n      give rise, now and then, to premature interments apart from this\n      consideration, we have the direct testimony of medical and\n      ordinary experience to prove that a vast number of such\n      interments have actually taken place. I might refer at once, if\n      necessary, to a hundred well-authenticated instances. One of very\n      remarkable character, and of which the circumstances may be fresh\n      in the memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago,\n      in the neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a\n      painful, intense, and widely-extended excitement. The wife of one\n      of the most respectable citizens a lawyer of eminence and a\n      member of Congress was seized with a sudden and unaccountable\n      illness, which completely baffled the skill of her physicians.\n      After much suffering she died, or was supposed to die. No one\n      suspected, indeed, or had reason to suspect, that she was not\n      actually dead. She presented all the ordinary appearances of\n      death. The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline. The\n      lips were of the usual marble pallor. The eyes were lustreless.\n      There was no warmth. Pulsation had ceased. For three days the\n      body was preserved unburied, during which it had acquired a stony\n      rigidity. The funeral, in short, was hastened, on account of the\n      rapid advance of what was supposed to be decomposition.\n\n      The lady was deposited in her family vault, which, for three\n      subsequent years, was undisturbed. At the expiration of this term\n      it was opened for the reception of a sarcophagus; but, alas! how\n      fearful a shock awaited the husband, who, personally, threw open\n      the door! As its portals swung outwardly back, some\n      white-apparelled object fell rattling within his arms. It was the\n      skeleton of his wife in her yet unmoulded shroud.\n\n      A careful investigation rendered it evident that she had revived\n      within two days after her entombment; that her struggles within\n      the coffin had caused it to fall from a ledge, or shelf to the\n      floor, where it was so broken as to permit her escape. A lamp\n      which had been accidentally left, full of oil, within the tomb,\n      was found empty; it might have been exhausted, however, by\n      evaporation. On the uttermost of the steps which led down into\n      the dread chamber was a large fragment of the coffin, with which,\n      it seemed, that she had endeavored to arrest attention by\n      striking the iron door. While thus occupied, she probably\n      swooned, or possibly died, through sheer terror; and, in failing,\n      her shroud became entangled in some iron-work which projected\n      interiorly. Thus she remained, and thus she rotted, erect.\n\n      In the year 1810, a case of living inhumation happened in France,\n      attended with circumstances which go far to warrant the assertion\n      that truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction. The heroine of the\n      story was a Mademoiselle Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of\n      illustrious family, of wealth, and of great personal beauty.\n      Among her numerous suitors was Julien Bossuet, a poor\n      _litterateur_, or journalist of Paris. His talents and general\n      amiability had recommended him to the notice of the heiress, by\n      whom he seems to have been truly beloved; but her pride of birth\n      decided her, finally, to reject him, and to wed a Monsieur\n      Renelle, a banker and a diplomatist of some eminence. After\n      marriage, however, this gentleman neglected, and, perhaps, even\n      more positively ill-treated her. Having passed with him some\n      wretched years, she died at least her condition so closely\n      resembled death as to deceive every one who saw her. She was\n      buried not in a vault, but in an ordinary grave in the village\n      of her nativity. Filled with despair, and still inflamed by the\n      memory of a profound attachment, the lover journeys from the\n      capital to the remote province in which the village lies, with\n      the romantic purpose of disinterring the corpse, and possessing\n      himself of its luxuriant tresses. He reaches the grave. At\n      midnight he unearths the coffin, opens it, and is in the act of\n      detaching the hair, when he is arrested by the unclosing of the\n      beloved eyes. In fact, the lady had been buried alive. Vitality\n      had not altogether departed, and she was aroused by the caresses\n      of her lover from the lethargy which had been mistaken for death.\n      He bore her frantically to his lodgings in the village. He\n      employed certain powerful restoratives suggested by no little\n      medical learning. In fine, she revived. She recognized her\n      preserver. She remained with him until, by slow degrees, she\n      fully recovered her original health. Her woman s heart was not\n      adamant, and this last lesson of love sufficed to soften it. She\n      bestowed it upon Bossuet. She returned no more to her husband,\n      but, concealing from him her resurrection, fled with her lover to\n      America. Twenty years afterward, the two returned to France, in\n      the persuasion that time had so greatly altered the lady s\n      appearance that her friends would be unable to recognize her.\n      They were mistaken, however, for, at the first meeting, Monsieur\n      Renelle did actually recognize and make claim to his wife. This\n      claim she resisted, and a judicial tribunal sustained her in her\n      resistance, deciding that the peculiar circumstances, with the\n      long lapse of years, had extinguished, not only equitably, but\n      legally, the authority of the husband.\n\n      The  Chirurgical Journal  of Leipsic, a periodical of high\n      authority and merit, which some American bookseller would do well\n      to translate and republish, records in a late number a very\n      distressing event of the character in question.\n\n      An officer of artillery, a man of gigantic stature and of robust\n      health, being thrown from an unmanageable horse, received a very\n      severe contusion upon the head, which rendered him insensible at\n      once; the skull was slightly fractured, but no immediate danger\n      was apprehended. Trepanning was accomplished successfully. He was\n      bled, and many other of the ordinary means of relief were\n      adopted. Gradually, however, he fell into a more and more\n      hopeless state of stupor, and, finally, it was thought that he\n      died.\n\n      The weather was warm, and he was buried with indecent haste in\n      one of the public cemeteries. His funeral took place on Thursday.\n      On the Sunday following, the grounds of the cemetery were, as\n      usual, much thronged with visitors, and about noon an intense\n      excitement was created by the declaration of a peasant that,\n      while sitting upon the grave of the officer, he had distinctly\n      felt a commotion of the earth, as if occasioned by some one\n      struggling beneath. At first little attention was paid to the\n      man s asseveration; but his evident terror, and the dogged\n      obstinacy with which he persisted in his story, had at length\n      their natural effect upon the crowd. Spades were hurriedly\n      procured, and the grave, which was shamefully shallow, was in a\n      few minutes so far thrown open that the head of its occupant\n      appeared. He was then seemingly dead; but he sat nearly erect\n      within his coffin, the lid of which, in his furious struggles, he\n      had partially uplifted.\n\n      He was forthwith conveyed to the nearest hospital, and there\n      pronounced to be still living, although in an asphytic condition.\n      After some hours he revived, recognized individuals of his\n      acquaintance, and, in broken sentences spoke of his agonies in\n      the grave.\n\n      From what he related, it was clear that he must have been\n      conscious of life for more than an hour, while inhumed, before\n      lapsing into insensibility. The grave was carelessly and loosely\n      filled with an exceedingly porous soil; and thus some air was\n      necessarily admitted. He heard the footsteps of the crowd\n      overhead, and endeavored to make himself heard in turn. It was\n      the tumult within the grounds of the cemetery, he said, which\n      appeared to awaken him from a deep sleep, but no sooner was he\n      awake than he became fully aware of the awful horrors of his\n      position.\n\n      This patient, it is recorded, was doing well and seemed to be in\n      a fair way of ultimate recovery, but fell a victim to the\n      quackeries of medical experiment. The galvanic battery was\n      applied, and he suddenly expired in one of those ecstatic\n      paroxysms which, occasionally, it superinduces.\n\n      The mention of the galvanic battery, nevertheless, recalls to my\n      memory a well known and very extraordinary case in point, where\n      its action proved the means of restoring to animation a young\n      attorney of London, who had been interred for two days. This\n      occurred in 1831, and created, at the time, a very profound\n      sensation wherever it was made the subject of converse.\n\n      The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently of typhus\n      fever, accompanied with some anomalous symptoms which had excited\n      the curiosity of his medical attendants. Upon his seeming\n      decease, his friends were requested to sanction a post-mortem\n      examination, but declined to permit it. As often happens, when\n      such refusals are made, the practitioners resolved to disinter\n      the body and dissect it at leisure, in private. Arrangements were\n      easily effected with some of the numerous corps of\n      body-snatchers, with which London abounds; and, upon the third\n      night after the funeral, the supposed corpse was unearthed from a\n      grave eight feet deep, and deposited in the opening chamber of\n      one of the private hospitals.\n\n      An incision of some extent had been actually made in the abdomen,\n      when the fresh and undecayed appearance of the subject suggested\n      an application of the battery. One experiment succeeded another,\n      and the customary effects supervened, with nothing to\n      characterize them in any respect, except, upon one or two\n      occasions, a more than ordinary degree of life-likeness in the\n      convulsive action.\n\n      It grew late. The day was about to dawn; and it was thought\n      expedient, at length, to proceed at once to the dissection. A\n      student, however, was especially desirous of testing a theory of\n      his own, and insisted upon applying the battery to one of the\n      pectoral muscles. A rough gash was made, and a wire hastily\n      brought in contact, when the patient, with a hurried but quite\n      unconvulsive movement, arose from the table, stepped into the\n      middle of the floor, gazed about him uneasily for a few seconds,\n      and then spoke. What he said was unintelligible, but words were\n      uttered; the syllabification was distinct. Having spoken, he fell\n      heavily to the floor.\n\n      For some moments all were paralyzed with awe but the urgency of\n      the case soon restored them their presence of mind. It was seen\n      that Mr. Stapleton was alive, although in a swoon. Upon\n      exhibition of ether he revived and was rapidly restored to\n      health, and to the society of his friends from whom, however, all\n      knowledge of his resuscitation was withheld, until a relapse was\n      no longer to be apprehended. Their wonder their rapturous\n      astonishment may be conceived.\n\n      The most thrilling peculiarity of this incident, nevertheless, is\n      involved in what Mr. S. himself asserts. He declares that at no\n      period was he altogether insensible that, dully and confusedly,\n      he was aware of everything which happened to him, from the moment\n      in which he was pronounced dead by his physicians, to that in\n      which he fell swooning to the floor of the hospital.  I am\n      alive,  were the uncomprehended words which, upon recognizing the\n      locality of the dissecting-room, he had endeavored, in his\n      extremity, to utter.\n\n      It were an easy matter to multiply such histories as these but I\n      forbear for, indeed, we have no need of such to establish the\n      fact that premature interments occur. When we reflect how very\n      rarely, from the nature of the case, we have it in our power to\n      detect them, we must admit that they may frequently occur without\n      our cognizance. Scarcely, in truth, is a graveyard ever\n      encroached upon, for any purpose, to any great extent, that\n      skeletons are not found in postures which suggest the most\n      fearful of suspicions.\n\n      Fearful indeed the suspicion but more fearful the doom! It may be\n      asserted, without hesitation, that no event is so terribly well\n      adapted to inspire the supremeness of bodily and of mental\n      distress, as is burial before death. The unendurable oppression\n      of the lungs the stifling fumes from the damp earth the clinging\n      to the death garments the rigid embrace of the narrow house the\n      blackness of the absolute Night the silence like a sea that\n      overwhelms the unseen but palpable presence of the Conqueror\n      Worm these things, with the thoughts of the air and grass above,\n      with memory of dear friends who would fly to save us if but\n      informed of our fate, and with consciousness that of this fate\n      they can never be informed that our hopeless portion is that of\n      the really dead these considerations, I say, carry into the\n      heart, which still palpitates, a degree of appalling and\n      intolerable horror from which the most daring imagination must\n      recoil. We know of nothing so agonizing upon Earth we can dream\n      of nothing half so hideous in the realms of the nethermost Hell.\n      And thus all narratives upon this topic have an interest\n      profound; an interest, nevertheless, which, through the sacred\n      awe of the topic itself, very properly and very peculiarly\n      depends upon our conviction of the truth of the matter narrated.\n      What I have now to tell is of my own actual knowledge of my own\n      positive and personal experience.\n\n      For several years I had been subject to attacks of the singular\n      disorder which physicians have agreed to term catalepsy, in\n      default of a more definitive title. Although both the immediate\n      and the predisposing causes, and even the actual diagnosis, of\n      this disease are still mysterious, its obvious and apparent\n      character is sufficiently well understood. Its variations seem to\n      be chiefly of degree. Sometimes the patient lies, for a day only,\n      or even for a shorter period, in a species of exaggerated\n      lethargy. He is senseless and externally motionless; but the\n      pulsation of the heart is still faintly perceptible; some traces\n      of warmth remain; a slight color lingers within the centre of the\n      cheek; and, upon application of a mirror to the lips, we can\n      detect a torpid, unequal, and vacillating action of the lungs.\n      Then again the duration of the trance is for weeks even for\n      months; while the closest scrutiny, and the most rigorous medical\n      tests, fail to establish any material distinction between the\n      state of the sufferer and what we conceive of absolute death.\n      Very usually he is saved from premature interment solely by the\n      knowledge of his friends that he has been previously subject to\n      catalepsy, by the consequent suspicion excited, and, above all,\n      by the non-appearance of decay. The advances of the malady are,\n      luckily, gradual. The first manifestations, although marked, are\n      unequivocal. The fits grow successively more and more\n      distinctive, and endure each for a longer term than the\n      preceding. In this lies the principal security from inhumation.\n      The unfortunate whose first attack should be of the extreme\n      character which is occasionally seen, would almost inevitably be\n      consigned alive to the tomb.\n\n      My own case differed in no important particular from those\n      mentioned in medical books. Sometimes, without any apparent\n      cause, I sank, little by little, into a condition of\n      semi-syncope, or half swoon; and, in this condition, without\n      pain, without ability to stir, or, strictly speaking, to think,\n      but with a dull lethargic consciousness of life and of the\n      presence of those who surrounded my bed, I remained, until the\n      crisis of the disease restored me, suddenly, to perfect\n      sensation. At other times I was quickly and impetuously smitten.\n      I grew sick, and numb, and chilly, and dizzy, and so fell\n      prostrate at once. Then, for weeks, all was void, and black, and\n      silent, and Nothing became the universe. Total annihilation could\n      be no more. From these latter attacks I awoke, however, with a\n      gradation slow in proportion to the suddenness of the seizure.\n      Just as the day dawns to the friendless and houseless beggar who\n      roams the streets throughout the long desolate winter night just\n      so tardily just so wearily just so cheerily came back the light\n      of the Soul to me.\n\n      Apart from the tendency to trance, however, my general health\n      appeared to be good; nor could I perceive that it was at all\n      affected by the one prevalent malady unless, indeed, an\n      idiosyncrasy in my ordinary sleep may be looked upon as\n      superinduced. Upon awaking from slumber, I could never gain, at\n      once, thorough possession of my senses, and always remained, for\n      many minutes, in much bewilderment and perplexity the mental\n      faculties in general, but the memory in especial, being in a\n      condition of absolute abeyance.\n\n      In all that I endured there was no physical suffering but of\n      moral distress an infinitude. My fancy grew charnel, I talked  of\n      worms, of tombs, and epitaphs.  I was lost in reveries of death,\n      and the idea of premature burial held continual possession of my\n      brain. The ghastly Danger to which I was subjected haunted me day\n      and night. In the former, the torture of meditation was\n      excessive in the latter, supreme. When the grim Darkness\n      overspread the Earth, then, with every horror of thought, I\n      shook shook as the quivering plumes upon the hearse. When Nature\n      could endure wakefulness no longer, it was with a struggle that I\n      consented to sleep for I shuddered to reflect that, upon awaking,\n      I might find myself the tenant of a grave. And when, finally, I\n      sank into slumber, it was only to rush at once into a world of\n      phantasms, above which, with vast, sable, overshadowing wing,\n      hovered, predominant, the one sepulchral Idea.\n\n      From the innumerable images of gloom which thus oppressed me in\n      dreams, I select for record but a solitary vision. Methought I\n      was immersed in a cataleptic trance of more than usual duration\n      and profundity. Suddenly there came an icy hand upon my forehead,\n      and an impatient, gibbering voice whispered the word  Arise! \n      within my ear.\n\n      I sat erect. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure\n      of him who had aroused me. I could call to mind neither the\n      period at which I had fallen into the trance, nor the locality in\n      which I then lay. While I remained motionless, and busied in\n      endeavors to collect my thought, the cold hand grasped me\n      fiercely by the wrist, shaking it petulantly, while the gibbering\n      voice said again:\n\n       Arise! did I not bid thee arise? \n\n       And who,  I demanded,  art thou? \n\n       I have no name in the regions which I inhabit,  replied the\n      voice, mournfully;  I was mortal, but am fiend. I was merciless,\n      but am pitiful. Thou dost feel that I shudder. My teeth chatter\n      as I speak, yet it is not with the chilliness of the night of the\n      night without end. But this hideousness is insufferable. How\n      canst thou tranquilly sleep? I cannot rest for the cry of these\n      great agonies. These sights are more than I can bear. Get thee\n      up! Come with me into the outer Night, and let me unfold to thee\n      the graves. Is not this a spectacle of woe? Behold! \n\n      I looked; and the unseen figure, which still grasped me by the\n      wrist, had caused to be thrown open the graves of all mankind;\n      and from each issued the faint phosphoric radiance of decay; so\n      that I could see into the innermost recesses, and there view the\n      shrouded bodies in their sad and solemn slumbers with the worm.\n      But alas! the real sleepers were fewer, by many millions, than\n      those who slumbered not at all; and there was a feeble\n      struggling; and there was a general sad unrest; and from out the\n      depths of the countless pits there came a melancholy rustling\n      from the garments of the buried. And of those who seemed\n      tranquilly to repose, I saw that a vast number had changed, in a\n      greater or less degree, the rigid and uneasy position in which\n      they had originally been entombed. And the voice again said to me\n      as I gazed:\n\n       Is it not oh! is it _not_ a pitiful sight?  But, before I could\n      find words to reply, the figure had ceased to grasp my wrist, the\n      phosphoric lights expired, and the graves were closed with a\n      sudden violence, while from out them arose a tumult of despairing\n      cries, saying again:  Is it not O, God, is it _not_ a very\n      pitiful sight? \n\n      Phantasies such as these, presenting themselves at night,\n      extended their terrific influence far into my waking hours. My\n      nerves became thoroughly unstrung, and I fell a prey to perpetual\n      horror. I hesitated to ride, or to walk, or to indulge in any\n      exercise that would carry me from home. In fact, I no longer\n      dared trust myself out of the immediate presence of those who\n      were aware of my proneness to catalepsy, lest, falling into one\n      of my usual fits, I should be buried before my real condition\n      could be ascertained. I doubted the care, the fidelity of my\n      dearest friends. I dreaded that, in some trance of more than\n      customary duration, they might be prevailed upon to regard me as\n      irrecoverable. I even went so far as to fear that, as I\n      occasioned much trouble, they might be glad to consider any very\n      protracted attack as sufficient excuse for getting rid of me\n      altogether. It was in vain they endeavored to reassure me by the\n      most solemn promises. I exacted the most sacred oaths, that under\n      no circumstances they would bury me until decomposition had so\n      materially advanced as to render farther preservation impossible.\n      And, even then, my mortal terrors would listen to no reason would\n      accept no consolation. I entered into a series of elaborate\n      precautions. Among other things, I had the family vault so\n      remodelled as to admit of being readily opened from within. The\n      slightest pressure upon a long lever that extended far into the\n      tomb would cause the iron portal to fly back. There were\n      arrangements also for the free admission of air and light, and\n      convenient receptacles for food and water, within immediate reach\n      of the coffin intended for my reception. This coffin was warmly\n      and softly padded, and was provided with a lid, fashioned upon\n      the principle of the vault-door, with the addition of springs so\n      contrived that the feeblest movement of the body would be\n      sufficient to set it at liberty. Besides all this, there was\n      suspended from the roof of the tomb, a large bell, the rope of\n      which, it was designed, should extend through a hole in the\n      coffin, and so be fastened to one of the hands of the corpse.\n      But, alas? what avails the vigilance against the Destiny of man?\n      Not even these well-contrived securities sufficed to save from\n      the uttermost agonies of living inhumation, a wretch to these\n      agonies foredoomed!\n\n      There arrived an epoch as often before there had arrived in which\n      I found myself emerging from total unconsciousness into the first\n      feeble and indefinite sense of existence. Slowly with a tortoise\n      gradation approached the faint gray dawn of the psychal day. A\n      torpid uneasiness. An apathetic endurance of dull pain. No\n      care no hope no effort. Then, after a long interval, a ringing in\n      the ears; then, after a lapse still longer, a prickling or\n      tingling sensation in the extremities; then a seemingly eternal\n      period of pleasurable quiescence, during which the awakening\n      feelings are struggling into thought; then a brief re-sinking\n      into non-entity; then a sudden recovery. At length the slight\n      quivering of an eyelid, and immediately thereupon, an electric\n      shock of a terror, deadly and indefinite, which sends the blood\n      in torrents from the temples to the heart. And now the first\n      positive effort to think. And now the first endeavor to remember.\n      And now a partial and evanescent success. And now the memory has\n      so far regained its dominion, that, in some measure, I am\n      cognizant of my state. I feel that I am not awaking from ordinary\n      sleep. I recollect that I have been subject to catalepsy. And\n      now, at last, as if by the rush of an ocean, my shuddering spirit\n      is overwhelmed by the one grim Danger by the one spectral and\n      ever-prevalent idea.\n\n      For some minutes after this fancy possessed me, I remained\n      without motion. And why? I could not summon courage to move. I\n      dared not make the effort which was to satisfy me of my fate and\n      yet there was something at my heart which whispered me it was\n      sure. Despair such as no other species of wretchedness ever calls\n      into being despair alone urged me, after long irresolution, to\n      uplift the heavy lids of my eyes. I uplifted them. It was\n      dark all dark. I knew that the fit was over. I knew that the\n      crisis of my disorder had long passed. I knew that I had now\n      fully recovered the use of my visual faculties and yet it was\n      dark all dark the intense and utter raylessness of the Night that\n      endureth for evermore.\n\n      I endeavored to shriek; and my lips and my parched tongue moved\n      convulsively together in the attempt but no voice issued from the\n      cavernous lungs, which oppressed as if by the weight of some\n      incumbent mountain, gasped and palpitated, with the heart, at\n      every elaborate and struggling inspiration.\n\n      The movement of the jaws, in this effort to cry aloud, showed me\n      that they were bound up, as is usual with the dead. I felt, too,\n      that I lay upon some hard substance; and by something similar my\n      sides were, also, closely compressed. So far, I had not ventured\n      to stir any of my limbs but now I violently threw up my arms,\n      which had been lying at length, with the wrists crossed. They\n      struck a solid wooden substance, which extended above my person\n      at an elevation of not more than six inches from my face. I could\n      no longer doubt that I reposed within a coffin at last.\n\n      And now, amid all my infinite miseries, came sweetly the cherub\n      Hope for I thought of my precautions. I writhed, and made\n      spasmodic exertions to force open the lid: it would not move. I\n      felt my wrists for the bell-rope: it was not to be found. And now\n      the Comforter fled for ever, and a still sterner Despair reigned\n      triumphant; for I could not help perceiving the absence of the\n      paddings which I had so carefully prepared and then, too, there\n      came suddenly to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist\n      earth. The conclusion was irresistible. I was not within the\n      vault. I had fallen into a trance while absent from home while\n      among strangers when, or how, I could not remember and it was\n      they who had buried me as a dog nailed up in some common\n      coffin and thrust deep, deep, and for ever, into some ordinary\n      and nameless grave.\n\n      As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost\n      chambers of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in\n      this second endeavor I succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous\n      shriek, or yell of agony, resounded through the realms of the\n      subterranean Night.\n\n       Hillo! hillo, there!  said a gruff voice, in reply.\n\n       What the devil s the matter now!  said a second.\n\n       Get out o  that!  said a third.\n\n       What do you mean by yowling in that ere kind of style, like a\n      cattymount?  said a fourth; and hereupon I was seized and shaken\n      without ceremony, for several minutes, by a junto of very\n      rough-looking individuals. They did not arouse me from my\n      slumber for I was wide awake when I screamed but they restored me\n      to the full possession of my memory.\n\n      This adventure occurred near Richmond, in Virginia. Accompanied\n      by a friend, I had proceeded, upon a gunning expedition, some\n      miles down the banks of the James River. Night approached, and we\n      were overtaken by a storm. The cabin of a small sloop lying at\n      anchor in the stream, and laden with garden mould, afforded us\n      the only available shelter. We made the best of it, and passed\n      the night on board. I slept in one of the only two berths in the\n      vessel and the berths of a sloop of sixty or twenty tons need\n      scarcely be described. That which I occupied had no bedding of\n      any kind. Its extreme width was eighteen inches. The distance of\n      its bottom from the deck overhead was precisely the same. I found\n      it a matter of exceeding difficulty to squeeze myself in.\n      Nevertheless, I slept soundly, and the whole of my vision for it\n      was no dream, and no nightmare arose naturally from the\n      circumstances of my position from my ordinary bias of thought and\n      from the difficulty, to which I have alluded, of collecting my\n      senses, and especially of regaining my memory, for a long time\n      after awaking from slumber. The men who shook me were the crew of\n      the sloop, and some laborers engaged to unload it. From the load\n      itself came the earthly smell. The bandage about the jaws was a\n      silk handkerchief in which I had bound up my head, in default of\n      my customary nightcap.\n\n      The tortures endured, however, were indubitably quite equal for\n      the time, to those of actual sepulture. They were fearfully they\n      were inconceivably hideous; but out of Evil proceeded Good; for\n      their very excess wrought in my spirit an inevitable revulsion.\n      My soul acquired tone acquired temper. I went abroad. I took\n      vigorous exercise. I breathed the free air of Heaven. I thought\n      upon other subjects than Death. I discarded my medical books.\n       Buchan  I burned. I read no  Night Thoughts no fustian about\n      churchyards no bugaboo tales such as this. In short, I became a\n      new man, and lived a man s life. From that memorable night, I\n      dismissed forever my charnel apprehensions, and with them\n      vanished the cataleptic disorder, of which, perhaps, they had\n      been less the consequence than the cause.\n\n      There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the\n      world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell but\n      the imagination of man is no Carathis, to explore with impunity\n      its every cavern. Alas! the grim legion of sepulchral terrors\n      cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful but, like the Demons in\n      whose company Afrasiab made his voyage down the Oxus, they must\n      sleep, or they will devour us they must be suffered to slumber,\n      or we perish.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM\n\n\nThe garden like a lady fair was cut,\n    That lay as if she slumbered in delight,\nAnd to the open skies her eyes did shut.\n    The azure fields of Heaven were  sembled right\n    In a large round, set with the flowers of light.\nThe flowers de luce, and the round sparks of dew\nThat hung upon their azure leaves did shew\nLike twinkling stars that sparkle in the evening blue.\n                     _Giles Fletcher_.\n\n      From his cradle to his grave a gale of prosperity bore my friend\n      Ellison along. Nor do I use the word prosperity in its mere\n      worldly sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person\n      of whom I speak seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the\n      doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestley, and Condorcet of\n      exemplifying by individual instance what has been deemed the\n      chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of Ellison\n      I fancy that I have seen refuted the dogma, that in man s very\n      nature lies some hidden principle, the antagonist of bliss. An\n      anxious examination of his career has given me to understand that\n      in general, from the violation of a few simple laws of humanity\n      arises the wretchedness of mankind that as a species we have in\n      our possession the as yet unwrought elements of content and that,\n      even now, in the present darkness and madness of all thought on\n      the great question of the social condition, it is not impossible\n      that man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly\n      fortuitous conditions, may be happy.\n\n      With opinions such as these my young friend, too, was fully\n      imbued, and thus it is worthy of observation that the\n      uninterrupted enjoyment which distinguished his life was, in\n      great measure, the result of preconcert. It is indeed evident\n      that with less of the instinctive philosophy which, now and then,\n      stands so well in the stead of experience, Mr. Ellison would have\n      found himself precipitated, by the very extraordinary success of\n      his life, into the common vortex of unhappiness which yawns for\n      those of pre-eminent endowments. But it is by no means my object\n      to pen an essay on happiness. The ideas of my friend may be\n      summed up in a few words. He admitted but four elementary\n      principles, or more strictly, conditions of bliss. That which he\n      considered chief was (strange to say!) the simple and purely\n      physical one of free exercise in the open air.  The health,  he\n      said,  attainable by other means is scarcely worth the name.  He\n      instanced the ecstasies of the fox-hunter, and pointed to the\n      tillers of the earth, the only people who, as a class, can be\n      fairly considered happier than others. His second condition was\n      the love of woman. His third, and most difficult of realization,\n      was the contempt of ambition. His fourth was an object of\n      unceasing pursuit; and he held that, other things being equal,\n      the extent of attainable happiness was in proportion to the\n      spirituality of this object.\n\n      Ellison was remarkable in the continuous profusion of good gifts\n      lavished upon him by fortune. In personal grace and beauty he\n      exceeded all men. His intellect was of that order to which the\n      acquisition of knowledge is less a labor than an intuition and a\n      necessity. His family was one of the most illustrious of the\n      empire. His bride was the loveliest and most devoted of women.\n      His possessions had been always ample; but on the attainment of\n      his majority, it was discovered that one of those extraordinary\n      freaks of fate had been played in his behalf which startle the\n      whole social world amid which they occur, and seldom fail\n      radically to alter the moral constitution of those who are their\n      objects.\n\n      It appears that about a hundred years before Mr. Ellison s coming\n      of age, there had died, in a remote province, one Mr. Seabright\n      Ellison. This gentleman had amassed a princely fortune, and,\n      having no immediate connections, conceived the whim of suffering\n      his wealth to accumulate for a century after his decease.\n      Minutely and sagaciously directing the various modes of\n      investment, he bequeathed the aggregate amount to the nearest of\n      blood, bearing the name of Ellison, who should be alive at the\n      end of the hundred years. Many attempts had been made to set\n      aside this singular bequest; their ex post facto character\n      rendered them abortive; but the attention of a jealous government\n      was aroused, and a legislative act finally obtained, forbidding\n      all similar accumulations. This act, however, did not prevent\n      young Ellison from entering into possession, on his twenty-first\n      birthday, as the heir of his ancestor Seabright, of a fortune of\n      four hundred and fifty millions of dollars. (*1)\n\n      When it had become known that such was the enormous wealth\n      inherited, there were, of course, many speculations as to the\n      mode of its disposal. The magnitude and the immediate\n      availability of the sum bewildered all who thought on the topic.\n      The possessor of any appreciable amount of money might have been\n      imagined to perform any one of a thousand things. With riches\n      merely surpassing those of any citizen, it would have been easy\n      to suppose him engaging to supreme excess in the fashionable\n      extravagances of his time or busying himself with political\n      intrigue or aiming at ministerial power or purchasing increase of\n      nobility or collecting large museums of virtu or playing the\n      munificent patron of letters, of science, of art or endowing, and\n      bestowing his name upon extensive institutions of charity. But\n      for the inconceivable wealth in the actual possession of the\n      heir, these objects and all ordinary objects were felt to afford\n      too limited a field. Recourse was had to figures, and these but\n      sufficed to confound. It was seen that, even at three per cent.,\n      the annual income of the inheritance amounted to no less than\n      thirteen millions and five hundred thousand dollars; which was\n      one million and one hundred and twenty-five thousand per month;\n      or thirty-six thousand nine hundred and eighty-six per day; or\n      one thousand five hundred and forty-one per hour; or six and\n      twenty dollars for every minute that flew. Thus the usual track\n      of supposition was thoroughly broken up. Men knew not what to\n      imagine. There were some who even conceived that Mr. Ellison\n      would divest himself of at least one-half of his fortune, as of\n      utterly superfluous opulence enriching whole troops of his\n      relatives by division of his superabundance. To the nearest of\n      these he did, in fact, abandon the very unusual wealth which was\n      his own before the inheritance.\n\n      I was not surprised, however, to perceive that he had long made\n      up his mind on a point which had occasioned so much discussion to\n      his friends. Nor was I greatly astonished at the nature of his\n      decision. In regard to individual charities he had satisfied his\n      conscience. In the possibility of any improvement, properly so\n      called, being effected by man himself in the general condition of\n      man, he had (I am sorry to confess it) little faith. Upon the\n      whole, whether happily or unhappily, he was thrown back, in very\n      great measure, upon self.\n\n      In the widest and noblest sense he was a poet. He comprehended,\n      moreover, the true character, the august aims, the supreme\n      majesty and dignity of the poetic sentiment. The fullest, if not\n      the sole proper satisfaction of this sentiment he instinctively\n      felt to lie in the creation of novel forms of beauty. Some\n      peculiarities, either in his early education, or in the nature of\n      his intellect, had tinged with what is termed materialism all his\n      ethical speculations; and it was this bias, perhaps, which led\n      him to believe that the most advantageous at least, if not the\n      sole legitimate field for the poetic exercise, lies in the\n      creation of novel moods of purely physical loveliness. Thus it\n      happened he became neither musician nor poet if we use this\n      latter term in its every-day acceptation. Or it might have been\n      that he neglected to become either, merely in pursuance of his\n      idea that in contempt of ambition is to be found one of the\n      essential principles of happiness on earth. Is it not indeed,\n      possible that, while a high order of genius is necessarily\n      ambitious, the highest is above that which is termed ambition?\n      And may it not thus happen that many far greater than Milton have\n      contentedly remained  mute and inglorious?  I believe that the\n      world has never seen and that, unless through some series of\n      accidents goading the noblest order of mind into distasteful\n      exertion, the world will never see that full extent of triumphant\n      execution, in the richer domains of art, of which the human\n      nature is absolutely capable.\n\n      Ellison became neither musician nor poet; although no man lived\n      more profoundly enamored of music and poetry. Under other\n      circumstances than those which invested him, it is not impossible\n      that he would have become a painter. Sculpture, although in its\n      nature rigorously poetical was too limited in its extent and\n      consequences, to have occupied, at any time, much of his\n      attention. And I have now mentioned all the provinces in which\n      the common understanding of the poetic sentiment has declared it\n      capable of expatiating. But Ellison maintained that the richest,\n      the truest, and most natural, if not altogether the most\n      extensive province, had been unaccountably neglected. No\n      definition had spoken of the landscape-gardener as of the poet;\n      yet it seemed to my friend that the creation of the\n      landscape-garden offered to the proper Muse the most magnificent\n      of opportunities. Here, indeed, was the fairest field for the\n      display of imagination in the endless combining of forms of novel\n      beauty; the elements to enter into combination being, by a vast\n      superiority, the most glorious which the earth could afford. In\n      the multiform and multicolor of the flowers and the trees, he\n      recognised the most direct and energetic efforts of Nature at\n      physical loveliness. And in the direction or concentration of\n      this effort or, more properly, in its adaptation to the eyes\n      which were to behold it on earth he perceived that he should be\n      employing the best means laboring to the greatest advantage in\n      the fulfilment, not only of his own destiny as poet, but of the\n      august purposes for which the Deity had implanted the poetic\n      sentiment in man.\n\n       Its adaptation to the eyes which were to behold it on earth.  In\n      his explanation of this phraseology, Mr. Ellison did much toward\n      solving what has always seemed to me an enigma: I mean the fact\n      (which none but the ignorant dispute) that no such combination of\n      scenery exists in nature as the painter of genius may produce. No\n      such paradises are to be found in reality as have glowed on the\n      canvas of Claude. In the most enchanting of natural landscapes,\n      there will always be found a defect or an excess many excesses\n      and defects. While the component parts may defy, individually,\n      the highest skill of the artist, the arrangement of these parts\n      will always be susceptible of improvement. In short, no position\n      can be attained on the wide surface of the natural earth, from\n      which an artistical eye, looking steadily, will not find matter\n      of offence in what is termed the  composition  of the landscape.\n      And yet how unintelligible is this! In all other matters we are\n      justly instructed to regard nature as supreme. With her details\n      we shrink from competition. Who shall presume to imitate the\n      colors of the tulip, or to improve the proportions of the lily of\n      the valley? The criticism which says, of sculpture or\n      portraiture, that here nature is to be exalted or idealized\n      rather than imitated, is in error. No pictorial or sculptural\n      combinations of points of human liveliness do more than approach\n      the living and breathing beauty. In landscape alone is the\n      principle of the critic true; and, having felt its truth here, it\n      is but the headlong spirit of generalization which has led him to\n      pronounce it true throughout all the domains of art. Having, I\n      say, felt its truth here; for the feeling is no affectation or\n      chimera. The mathematics afford no more absolute demonstrations\n      than the sentiments of his art yields the artist. He not only\n      believes, but positively knows, that such and such apparently\n      arbitrary arrangements of matter constitute and alone constitute\n      the true beauty. His reasons, however, have not yet been matured\n      into expression. It remains for a more profound analysis than the\n      world has yet seen, fully to investigate and express them.\n      Nevertheless he is confirmed in his instinctive opinions by the\n      voice of all his brethren. Let a  composition  be defective; let\n      an emendation be wrought in its mere arrangement of form; let\n      this emendation be submitted to every artist in the world; by\n      each will its necessity be admitted. And even far more than this;\n      in remedy of the defective composition, each insulated member of\n      the fraternity would have suggested the identical emendation.\n\n      I repeat that in landscape arrangements alone is the physical\n      nature susceptible of exaltation, and that, therefore, her\n      susceptibility of improvement at this one point, was a mystery I\n      had been unable to solve. My own thoughts on the subject had\n      rested in the idea that the primitive intention of nature would\n      have so arranged the earth s surface as to have fulfilled at all\n      points man s sense of perfection in the beautiful, the sublime,\n      or the picturesque; but that this primitive intention had been\n      frustrated by the known geological disturbances disturbances of\n      form and color grouping, in the correction or allaying of which\n      lies the soul of art. The force of this idea was much weakened,\n      however, by the necessity which it involved of considering the\n      disturbances abnormal and unadapted to any purpose. It was\n      Ellison who suggested that they were prognostic of death. He thus\n      explained: Admit the earthly immortality of man to have been the\n      first intention. We have then the primitive arrangement of the\n      earth s surface adapted to his blissful estate, as not existent\n      but designed. The disturbances were the preparations for his\n      subsequently conceived deathful condition.\n\n       Now,  said my friend,  what we regard as exaltation of the\n      landscape may be really such, as respects only the moral or human\n      point of view. Each alteration of the natural scenery may\n      possibly effect a blemish in the picture, if we can suppose this\n      picture viewed at large in mass from some point distant from the\n      earth s surface, although not beyond the limits of its\n      atmosphere. It is easily understood that what might improve a\n      closely scrutinized detail, may at the same time injure a general\n      or more distantly observed effect. There may be a class of\n      beings, human once, but now invisible to humanity, to whom, from\n      afar, our disorder may seem order our unpicturesqueness\n      picturesque; in a word, the earth-angels, for whose scrutiny more\n      especially than our own, and for whose death-refined appreciation\n      of the beautiful, may have been set in array by God the wide\n      landscape-gardens of the hemispheres. \n\n      In the course of discussion, my friend quoted some passages from\n      a writer on landscape-gardening who has been supposed to have\n      well treated his theme:\n\n       There are properly but two styles of landscape-gardening, the\n      natural and the artificial. One seeks to recall the original\n      beauty of the country, by adapting its means to the surrounding\n      scenery, cultivating trees in harmony with the hills or plain of\n      the neighboring land; detecting and bringing into practice those\n      nice relations of size, proportion, and color which, hid from the\n      common observer, are revealed everywhere to the experienced\n      student of nature. The result of the natural style of gardening,\n      is seen rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities in\n      the prevalence of a healthy harmony and order than in the\n      creation of any special wonders or miracles. The artificial style\n      has as many varieties as there are different tastes to gratify.\n      It has a certain general relation to the various styles of\n      building. There are the stately avenues and retirements of\n      Versailles; Italian terraces; and a various mixed old English\n      style, which bears some relation to the domestic Gothic or\n      English Elizabethan architecture. Whatever may be said against\n      the abuses of the artificial landscape-gardening, a mixture of\n      pure art in a garden scene adds to it a great beauty. This is\n      partly pleasing to the eye, by the show of order and design, and\n      partly moral. A terrace, with an old moss-covered balustrade,\n      calls up at once to the eye the fair forms that have passed there\n      in other days. The slightest exhibition of art is an evidence of\n      care and human interest. \n\n       From what I have already observed,  said Ellison,  you will\n      understand that I reject the idea, here expressed, of recalling\n      the original beauty of the country. The original beauty is never\n      so great as that which may be introduced. Of course, every thing\n      depends on the selection of a spot with capabilities. What is\n      said about detecting and bringing into practice nice relations of\n      size, proportion, and color, is one of those mere vaguenesses of\n      speech which serve to veil inaccuracy of thought. The phrase\n      quoted may mean any thing, or nothing, and guides in no degree.\n      That the true result of the natural style of gardening is seen\n      rather in the absence of all defects and incongruities than in\n      the creation of any special wonders or miracles, is a proposition\n      better suited to the grovelling apprehension of the herd than to\n      the fervid dreams of the man of genius. The negative merit\n      suggested appertains to that hobbling criticism which, in\n      letters, would elevate Addison into apotheosis. In truth, while\n      that virtue which consists in the mere avoidance of vice appeals\n      directly to the understanding, and can thus be circumscribed in\n      rule, the loftier virtue, which flames in creation, can be\n      apprehended in its results alone. Rule applies but to the merits\n      of denial to the excellencies which refrain. Beyond these, the\n      critical art can but suggest. We may be instructed to build a\n       Cato,  but we are in vain told how to conceive a Parthenon or an\n       Inferno.  The thing done, however; the wonder accomplished; and\n      the capacity for apprehension becomes universal. The sophists of\n      the negative school who, through inability to create, have\n      scoffed at creation, are now found the loudest in applause. What,\n      in its chrysalis condition of principle, affronted their demure\n      reason, never fails, in its maturity of accomplishment, to extort\n      admiration from their instinct of beauty.\n\n       The author s observations on the artificial style,  continued\n      Ellison,  are less objectionable. A mixture of pure art in a\n      garden scene adds to it a great beauty. This is just; as also is\n      the reference to the sense of human interest. The principle\n      expressed is incontrovertible but there may be something beyond\n      it. There may be an object in keeping with the principle an\n      object unattainable by the means ordinarily possessed by\n      individuals, yet which, if attained, would lend a charm to the\n      landscape-garden far surpassing that which a sense of merely\n      human interest could bestow. A poet, having very unusual\n      pecuniary resources, might, while retaining the necessary idea of\n      art or culture, or, as our author expresses it, of interest, so\n      imbue his designs at once with extent and novelty of beauty, as\n      to convey the sentiment of spiritual interference. It will be\n      seen that, in bringing about such result, he secures all the\n      advantages of interest or design, while relieving his work of the\n      harshness or technicality of the worldly art. In the most rugged\n      of wildernesses in the most savage of the scenes of pure\n      nature there is apparent the art of a creator; yet this art is\n      apparent to reflection only; in no respect has it the obvious\n      force of a feeling. Now let us suppose this sense of the Almighty\n      design to be one step depressed to be brought into something like\n      harmony or consistency with the sense of human art to form an\n      intermedium between the two: let us imagine, for example, a\n      landscape whose combined vastness and definitiveness whose united\n      beauty, magnificence, and strangeness, shall convey the idea of\n      care, or culture, or superintendence, on the part of beings\n      superior, yet akin to humanity then the sentiment of interest is\n      preserved, while the art intervolved is made to assume the air of\n      an intermediate or secondary nature a nature which is not God,\n      nor an emanation from God, but which still is nature in the sense\n      of the handiwork of the angels that hover between man and God. \n\n      It was in devoting his enormous wealth to the embodiment of a\n      vision such as this in the free exercise in the open air ensured\n      by the personal superintendence of his plans in the unceasing\n      object which these plans afforded in the high spirituality of the\n      object in the contempt of ambition which it enabled him truly to\n      feel in the perennial springs with which it gratified, without\n      possibility of satiating, that one master passion of his soul,\n      the thirst for beauty, above all, it was in the sympathy of a\n      woman, not unwomanly, whose loveliness and love enveloped his\n      existence in the purple atmosphere of Paradise, that Ellison\n      thought to find, and found, exemption from the ordinary cares of\n      humanity, with a far greater amount of positive happiness than\n      ever glowed in the rapt day-dreams of De Sta l.\n\n      I despair of conveying to the reader any distinct conception of\n      the marvels which my friend did actually accomplish. I wish to\n      describe, but am disheartened by the difficulty of description,\n      and hesitate between detail and generality. Perhaps the better\n      course will be to unite the two in their extremes.\n\n      Mr. Ellison s first step regarded, of course, the choice of a\n      locality, and scarcely had he commenced thinking on this point,\n      when the luxuriant nature of the Pacific Islands arrested his\n      attention. In fact, he had made up his mind for a voyage to the\n      South Seas, when a night s reflection induced him to abandon the\n      idea.  Were I misanthropic,  he said,  such a locale would suit\n      me. The thoroughness of its insulation and seclusion, and the\n      difficulty of ingress and egress, would in such case be the charm\n      of charms; but as yet I am not Timon. I wish the composure but\n      not the depression of solitude. There must remain with me a\n      certain control over the extent and duration of my repose. There\n      will be frequent hours in which I shall need, too, the sympathy\n      of the poetic in what I have done. Let me seek, then, a spot not\n      far from a populous city whose vicinity, also, will best enable\n      me to execute my plans. \n\n      In search of a suitable place so situated, Ellison travelled for\n      several years, and I was permitted to accompany him. A thousand\n      spots with which I was enraptured he rejected without hesitation,\n      for reasons which satisfied me, in the end, that he was right. We\n      came at length to an elevated table-land of wonderful fertility\n      and beauty, affording a panoramic prospect very little less in\n      extent than that of Aetna, and, in Ellison s opinion as well as\n      my own, surpassing the far-famed view from that mountain in all\n      the true elements of the picturesque.\n\n       I am aware,  said the traveller, as he drew a sigh of deep\n      delight after gazing on this scene, entranced, for nearly an\n      hour,  I know that here, in my circumstances, nine-tenths of the\n      most fastidious of men would rest content. This panorama is\n      indeed glorious, and I should rejoice in it but for the excess of\n      its glory. The taste of all the architects I have ever known\n      leads them, for the sake of  prospect,  to put up buildings on\n      hill-tops. The error is obvious. Grandeur in any of its moods,\n      but especially in that of extent, startles, excites and then\n      fatigues, depresses. For the occasional scene nothing can be\n      better for the constant view nothing worse. And, in the constant\n      view, the most objectionable phase of grandeur is that of extent;\n      the worst phase of extent, that of distance. It is at war with\n      the sentiment and with the sense of seclusion the sentiment and\n      sense which we seek to humor in  retiring to the country.  In\n      looking from the summit of a mountain we cannot help feeling\n      abroad in the world. The heart-sick avoid distant prospects as a\n      pestilence. \n\n      It was not until toward the close of the fourth year of our\n      search that we found a locality with which Ellison professed\n      himself satisfied. It is, of course, needless to say where was\n      the locality. The late death of my friend, in causing his domain\n      to be thrown open to certain classes of visitors, has given to\n      Arnheim a species of secret and subdued if not solemn celebrity,\n      similar in kind, although infinitely superior in degree, to that\n      which so long distinguished Fonthill.\n\n      The usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visitor left\n      the city in the early morning. During the forenoon he passed\n      between shores of a tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed\n      innumerable sheep, their white fleeces spotting the vivid green\n      of rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of cultivation subsided\n      into that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became merged in a\n      sense of retirement this again in a consciousness of solitude. As\n      the evening approached, the channel grew more narrow; the banks\n      more and more precipitous; and these latter were clothed in rich,\n      more profuse, and more sombre foliage. The water increased in\n      transparency. The stream took a thousand turns, so that at no\n      moment could its gleaming surface be seen for a greater distance\n      than a furlong. At every instant the vessel seemed imprisoned\n      within an enchanted circle, having insuperable and impenetrable\n      walls of foliage, a roof of ultramarine satin, and no floor the\n      keel balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom\n      bark which, by some accident having been turned upside down,\n      floated in constant company with the substantial one, for the\n      purpose of sustaining it. The channel now became a gorge although\n      the term is somewhat inapplicable, and I employ it merely because\n      the language has no word which better represents the most\n      striking not the most distinctive feature of the scene. The\n      character of gorge was maintained only in the height and\n      parallelism of the shores; it was lost altogether in their other\n      traits. The walls of the ravine (through which the clear water\n      still tranquilly flowed) arose to an elevation of a hundred and\n      occasionally of a hundred and fifty feet, and inclined so much\n      toward each other as, in a great measure, to shut out the light\n      of day; while the long plume-like moss which depended densely\n      from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm\n      an air of funereal gloom. The windings became more frequent and\n      intricate, and seemed often as if returning in upon themselves,\n      so that the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. He was,\n      moreover, enwrapt in an exquisite sense of the strange. The\n      thought of nature still remained, but her character seemed to\n      have undergone modification, there was a weird symmetry, a\n      thrilling uniformity, a wizard propriety in these her works. Not\n      a dead branch not a withered leaf not a stray pebble not a patch\n      of the brown earth was anywhere visible. The crystal water welled\n      up against the clean granite, or the unblemished moss, with a\n      sharpness of outline that delighted while it bewildered the eye.\n\n      Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the\n      gloom deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the\n      vessel brought it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a\n      circular basin of very considerable extent when compared with the\n      width of the gorge. It was about two hundred yards in diameter,\n      and girt in at all points but one that immediately fronting the\n      vessel as it entered by hills equal in general height to the\n      walls of the chasm, although of a thoroughly different character.\n      Their sides sloped from the water s edge at an angle of some\n      forty-five degrees, and they were clothed from base to summit not\n      a perceptible point escaping in a drapery of the most gorgeous\n      flower-blossoms; scarcely a green leaf being visible among the\n      sea of odorous and fluctuating color. This basin was of great\n      depth, but so transparent was the water that the bottom, which\n      seemed to consist of a thick mass of small round alabaster\n      pebbles, was distinctly visible by glimpses that is to say,\n      whenever the eye could permit itself not to see, far down in the\n      inverted heaven, the duplicate blooming of the hills. On these\n      latter there were no trees, nor even shrubs of any size. The\n      impressions wrought on the observer were those of richness,\n      warmth, color, quietude, uniformity, softness, delicacy,\n      daintiness, voluptuousness, and a miraculous extremeness of\n      culture that suggested dreams of a new race of fairies,\n      laborious, tasteful, magnificent, and fastidious; but as the eye\n      traced upward the myriad-tinted slope, from its sharp junction\n      with the water to its vague termination amid the folds of\n      overhanging cloud, it became, indeed, difficult not to fancy a\n      panoramic cataract of rubies, sapphires, opals, and golden\n      onyxes, rolling silently out of the sky.\n\n      The visitor, shooting suddenly into this bay from out the gloom\n      of the ravine, is delighted but astounded by the full orb of the\n      declining sun, which he had supposed to be already far below the\n      horizon, but which now confronts him, and forms the sole\n      termination of an otherwise limitless vista seen through another\n      chasm-like rift in the hills.\n\n      But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far,\n      and descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque\n      devices in vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and\n      beak of this boat arise high above the water, with sharp points,\n      so that the general form is that of an irregular crescent. It\n      lies on the surface of the bay with the proud grace of a swan. On\n      its ermined floor reposes a single feathery paddle of satin-wood;\n      but no oarsmen or attendant is to be seen. The guest is bidden to\n      be of good cheer that the fates will take care of him. The larger\n      vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies\n      apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. While he\n      considers what course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a\n      gentle movement in the fairy bark. It slowly swings itself around\n      until its prow points toward the sun. It advances with a gentle\n      but gradually accelerated velocity, while the slight ripples it\n      creates seem to break about the ivory side in divinest\n      melody seem to offer the only possible explanation of the\n      soothing yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin the\n      bewildered voyager looks around him in vain.\n\n      The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is\n      approached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen. To\n      the right arise a chain of lofty hills rudely and luxuriantly\n      wooded. It is observed, however, that the trait of exquisite\n      cleanness where the bank dips into the water, still prevails.\n      There is not one token of the usual river _d bris_. To the left\n      the character of the scene is softer and more obviously\n      artificial. Here the bank slopes upward from the stream in a very\n      gentle ascent, forming a broad sward of grass of a texture\n      resembling nothing so much as velvet, and of a brilliancy of\n      green which would bear comparison with the tint of the purest\n      emerald. This plateau varies in width from ten to three hundred\n      yards; reaching from the river-bank to a wall, fifty feet high,\n      which extends, in an infinity of curves, but following the\n      general direction of the river, until lost in the distance to the\n      westward. This wall is of one continuous rock, and has been\n      formed by cutting perpendicularly the once rugged precipice of\n      the stream s southern bank, but no trace of the labor has been\n      suffered to remain. The chiselled stone has the hue of ages, and\n      is profusely overhung and overspread with the ivy, the coral\n      honeysuckle, the eglantine, and the clematis. The uniformity of\n      the top and bottom lines of the wall is fully relieved by\n      occasional trees of gigantic height, growing singly or in small\n      groups, both along the plateau and in the domain behind the wall,\n      but in close proximity to it; so that frequent limbs (of the\n      black walnut especially) reach over and dip their pendent\n      extremities into the water. Farther back within the domain, the\n      vision is impeded by an impenetrable screen of foliage.\n\n      These things are observed during the canoe s gradual approach to\n      what I have called the gate of the vista. On drawing nearer to\n      this, however, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet\n      from the bay is discovered to the left in which direction the\n      wall is also seen to sweep, still following the general course of\n      the stream. Down this new opening the eye cannot penetrate very\n      far; for the stream, accompanied by the wall, still bends to the\n      left, until both are swallowed up by the leaves.\n\n      The boat, nevertheless, glides magically into the winding\n      channel; and here the shore opposite the wall is found to\n      resemble that opposite the wall in the straight vista. Lofty\n      hills, rising occasionally into mountains, and covered with\n      vegetation in wild luxuriance, still shut in the scene.\n\n      Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented,\n      the voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress\n      apparently barred by a gigantic gate or rather door of burnished\n      gold, elaborately carved and fretted, and reflecting the direct\n      rays of the now fast-sinking sun with an effulgence that seems to\n      wreath the whole surrounding forest in flames. This gate is\n      inserted in the lofty wall; which here appears to cross the river\n      at right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the\n      main body of the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive\n      curve to the left, the wall following it as before, while a\n      stream of considerable volume, diverging from the principal one,\n      makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door, and is thus\n      hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and\n      approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically\n      expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid\n      descent into a vast amphitheatre entirely begirt with purple\n      mountains, whose bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout\n      the full extent of their circuit. Meantime the whole Paradise of\n      Arnheim bursts upon the view. There is a gush of entrancing\n      melody; there is an oppressive sense of strange sweet odor; there\n      is a dream-like intermingling to the eye of tall slender Eastern\n      trees bosky shrubberies flocks of golden and crimson\n      birds lily-fringed lakes meadows of violets, tulips, poppies,\n      hyacinths, and tuberoses long intertangled lines of silver\n      streamlets and, upspringing confusedly from amid all, a mass of\n      semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic architecture sustaining itself by\n      miracle in mid-air, glittering in the red sunlight with a hundred\n      oriels, minarets, and pinnacles; and seeming the phantom\n      handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the\n      Genii and of the Gnomes.\n\n\n\n\nLANDOR S COTTAGE\n\n\nA Pendant to  The Domain of Arnheim \n\n      During A pedestrian trip last summer, through one or two of the\n      river counties of New York, I found myself, as the day declined,\n      somewhat embarrassed about the road I was pursuing. The land\n      undulated very remarkably; and my path, for the last hour, had\n      wound about and about so confusedly, in its effort to keep in the\n      valleys, that I no longer knew in what direction lay the sweet\n      village of B , where I had determined to stop for the night. The\n      sun had scarcely shone strictly speaking during the day, which\n      nevertheless, had been unpleasantly warm. A smoky mist,\n      resembling that of the Indian summer, enveloped all things, and\n      of course, added to my uncertainty. Not that I cared much about\n      the matter. If I did not hit upon the village before sunset, or\n      even before dark, it was more than possible that a little Dutch\n      farmhouse, or something of that kind, would soon make its\n      appearance although, in fact, the neighborhood (perhaps on\n      account of being more picturesque than fertile) was very sparsely\n      inhabited. At all events, with my knapsack for a pillow, and my\n      hound as a sentry, a bivouac in the open air was just the thing\n      which would have amused me. I sauntered on, therefore, quite at\n      ease Ponto taking charge of my gun until at length, just as I had\n      begun to consider whether the numerous little glades that led\n      hither and thither, were intended to be paths at all, I was\n      conducted by one of them into an unquestionable carriage track.\n      There could be no mistaking it. The traces of light wheels were\n      evident; and although the tall shrubberies and overgrown\n      undergrowth met overhead, there was no obstruction whatever\n      below, even to the passage of a Virginian mountain wagon the most\n      aspiring vehicle, I take it, of its kind. The road, however,\n      except in being open through the wood if wood be not too weighty\n      a name for such an assemblage of light trees and except in the\n      particulars of evident wheel-tracks bore no resemblance to any\n      road I had before seen. The tracks of which I speak were but\n      faintly perceptible having been impressed upon the firm, yet\n      pleasantly moist surface of what looked more like green Genoese\n      velvet than any thing else. It was grass, clearly but grass such\n      as we seldom see out of England so short, so thick, so even, and\n      so vivid in color. Not a single impediment lay in the\n      wheel-route not even a chip or dead twig. The stones that once\n      obstructed the way had been carefully _placed_ not thrown along\n      the sides of the lane, so as to define its boundaries at bottom\n      with a kind of half-precise, half-negligent, and wholly\n      picturesque definition. Clumps of wild flowers grew everywhere,\n      luxuriantly, in the interspaces.\n\n      What to make of all this, of course I knew not. Here was art\n      undoubtedly that did not surprise me all roads, in the ordinary\n      sense, are works of art; nor can I say that there was much to\n      wonder at in the mere excess of art manifested; all that seemed\n      to have been done, might have been done here with such natural\n       capabilities  (as they have it in the books on Landscape\n      Gardening) with very little labor and expense. No; it was not the\n      amount but the character of the art which caused me to take a\n      seat on one of the blossomy stones and gaze up and down this\n      fairy-like avenue for half an hour or more in bewildered\n      admiration. One thing became more and more evident the longer I\n      gazed: an artist, and one with a most scrupulous eye for form,\n      had superintended all these arrangements. The greatest care had\n      been taken to preserve a due medium between the neat and graceful\n      on the one hand, and the pittoresque, in the true sense of the\n      Italian term, on the other. There were few straight, and no long\n      uninterrupted lines. The same effect of curvature or of color\n      appeared twice, usually, but not oftener, at any one point of\n      view. Everywhere was variety in uniformity. It was a piece of\n       composition,  in which the most fastidiously critical taste\n      could scarcely have suggested an emendation.\n\n      I had turned to the right as I entered this road, and now,\n      arising, I continued in the same direction. The path was so\n      serpentine, that at no moment could I trace its course for more\n      than two or three paces in advance. Its character did not undergo\n      any material change.\n\n      Presently the murmur of water fell gently upon my ear and in a\n      few moments afterward, as I turned with the road somewhat more\n      abruptly than hitherto, I became aware that a building of some\n      kind lay at the foot of a gentle declivity just before me. I\n      could see nothing distinctly on account of the mist which\n      occupied all the little valley below. A gentle breeze, however,\n      now arose, as the sun was about descending; and while I remained\n      standing on the brow of the slope, the fog gradually became\n      dissipated into wreaths, and so floated over the scene.\n\n      As it came fully into view thus gradually as I describe it piece\n      by piece, here a tree, there a glimpse of water, and here again\n      the summit of a chimney, I could scarcely help fancying that the\n      whole was one of the ingenious illusions sometimes exhibited\n      under the name of  vanishing pictures. \n\n      By the time, however, that the fog had thoroughly disappeared,\n      the sun had made its way down behind the gentle hills, and\n      thence, as if with a slight chassez to the south, had come again\n      fully into sight, glaring with a purplish lustre through a chasm\n      that entered the valley from the west. Suddenly, therefore and as\n      if by the hand of magic this whole valley and every thing in it\n      became brilliantly visible.\n\n      The first _coup d il_, as the sun slid into the position\n      described, impressed me very much as I have been impressed, when\n      a boy, by the concluding scene of some well-arranged theatrical\n      spectacle or melodrama. Not even the monstrosity of color was\n      wanting; for the sunlight came out through the chasm, tinted all\n      orange and purple; while the vivid green of the grass in the\n      valley was reflected more or less upon all objects from the\n      curtain of vapor that still hung overhead, as if loth to take its\n      total departure from a scene so enchantingly beautiful.\n\n      The little vale into which I thus peered down from under the fog\n      canopy could not have been more than four hundred yards long;\n      while in breadth it varied from fifty to one hundred and fifty or\n      perhaps two hundred. It was most narrow at its northern\n      extremity, opening out as it tended southwardly, but with no very\n      precise regularity. The widest portion was within eighty yards of\n      the southern extreme. The slopes which encompassed the vale could\n      not fairly be called hills, unless at their northern face. Here a\n      precipitous ledge of granite arose to a height of some ninety\n      feet; and, as I have mentioned, the valley at this point was not\n      more than fifty feet wide; but as the visitor proceeded\n      southwardly from the cliff, he found on his right hand and on his\n      left, declivities at once less high, less precipitous, and less\n      rocky. All, in a word, sloped and softened to the south; and yet\n      the whole vale was engirdled by eminences, more or less high,\n      except at two points. One of these I have already spoken of. It\n      lay considerably to the north of west, and was where the setting\n      sun made its way, as I have before described, into the\n      amphitheatre, through a cleanly cut natural cleft in the granite\n      embankment; this fissure might have been ten yards wide at its\n      widest point, so far as the eye could trace it. It seemed to lead\n      up, up like a natural causeway, into the recesses of unexplored\n      mountains and forests. The other opening was directly at the\n      southern end of the vale. Here, generally, the slopes were\n      nothing more than gentle inclinations, extending from east to\n      west about one hundred and fifty yards. In the middle of this\n      extent was a depression, level with the ordinary floor of the\n      valley. As regards vegetation, as well as in respect to every\n      thing else, the scene softened and sloped to the south. To the\n      north on the craggy precipice a few paces from the verge up\n      sprang the magnificent trunks of numerous hickories, black\n      walnuts, and chestnuts, interspersed with occasional oak; and the\n      strong lateral branches thrown out by the walnuts especially,\n      spread far over the edge of the cliff. Proceeding southwardly,\n      the explorer saw, at first, the same class of trees, but less and\n      less lofty and Salvatorish in character; then he saw the gentler\n      elm, succeeded by the sassafras and locust these again by the\n      softer linden, red-bud, catalpa, and maple these yet again by\n      still more graceful and more modest varieties. The whole face of\n      the southern declivity was covered with wild shrubbery alone an\n      occasional silver willow or white poplar excepted. In the bottom\n      of the valley itself (for it must be borne in mind that the\n      vegetation hitherto mentioned grew only on the cliffs or\n      hillsides) were to be seen three insulated trees. One was an elm\n      of fine size and exquisite form: it stood guard over the southern\n      gate of the vale. Another was a hickory, much larger than the\n      elm, and altogether a much finer tree, although both were\n      exceedingly beautiful: it seemed to have taken charge of the\n      northwestern entrance, springing from a group of rocks in the\n      very jaws of the ravine, and throwing its graceful body, at an\n      angle of nearly forty-five degrees, far out into the sunshine of\n      the amphitheatre. About thirty yards east of this tree stood,\n      however, the pride of the valley, and beyond all question the\n      most magnificent tree I have ever seen, unless, perhaps, among\n      the cypresses of the Itchiatuckanee. It was a triple-stemmed\n      tulip-tree the Liriodendron Tulipiferum one of the natural order\n      of magnolias. Its three trunks separated from the parent at about\n      three feet from the soil, and diverging very slightly and\n      gradually, were not more than four feet apart at the point where\n      the largest stem shot out into foliage: this was at an elevation\n      of about eighty feet. The whole height of the principal division\n      was one hundred and twenty feet. Nothing can surpass in beauty\n      the form, or the glossy, vivid green of the leaves of the\n      tulip-tree. In the present instance they were fully eight inches\n      wide; but their glory was altogether eclipsed by the gorgeous\n      splendor of the profuse blossoms. Conceive, closely congregated,\n      a million of the largest and most resplendent tulips! Only thus\n      can the reader get any idea of the picture I would convey. And\n      then the stately grace of the clean, delicately-granulated\n      columnar stems, the largest four feet in diameter, at twenty from\n      the ground. The innumerable blossoms, mingling with those of\n      other trees scarcely less beautiful, although infinitely less\n      majestic, filled the valley with more than Arabian perfumes.\n\n      The general floor of the amphitheatre was grass of the same\n      character as that I had found in the road; if anything, more\n      deliciously soft, thick, velvety, and miraculously green. It was\n      hard to conceive how all this beauty had been attained.\n\n      I have spoken of two openings into the vale. From the one to the\n      northwest issued a rivulet, which came, gently murmuring and\n      slightly foaming, down the ravine, until it dashed against the\n      group of rocks out of which sprang the insulated hickory. Here,\n      after encircling the tree, it passed on a little to the north of\n      east, leaving the tulip tree some twenty feet to the south, and\n      making no decided alteration in its course until it came near the\n      midway between the eastern and western boundaries of the valley.\n      At this point, after a series of sweeps, it turned off at right\n      angles and pursued a generally southern direction meandering as\n      it went until it became lost in a small lake of irregular figure\n      (although roughly oval), that lay gleaming near the lower\n      extremity of the vale. This lakelet was, perhaps, a hundred yards\n      in diameter at its widest part. No crystal could be clearer than\n      its waters. Its bottom, which could be distinctly seen, consisted\n      altogether, of pebbles brilliantly white. Its banks, of the\n      emerald grass already described, rounded, rather than sloped, off\n      into the clear heaven below; and so clear was this heaven, so\n      perfectly, at times, did it reflect all objects above it, that\n      where the true bank ended and where the mimic one commenced, it\n      was a point of no little difficulty to determine. The trout, and\n      some other varieties of fish, with which this pond seemed to be\n      almost inconveniently crowded, had all the appearance of\n      veritable flying-fish. It was almost impossible to believe that\n      they were not absolutely suspended in the air. A light birch\n      canoe that lay placidly on the water, was reflected in its\n      minutest fibres with a fidelity unsurpassed by the most\n      exquisitely polished mirror. A small island, fairly laughing with\n      flowers in full bloom, and affording little more space than just\n      enough for a picturesque little building, seemingly a\n      fowl-house arose from the lake not far from its northern shore to\n      which it was connected by means of an inconceivably light-looking\n      and yet very primitive bridge. It was formed of a single, broad\n      and thick plank of the tulip wood. This was forty feet long, and\n      spanned the interval between shore and shore with a slight but\n      very perceptible arch, preventing all oscillation. From the\n      southern extreme of the lake issued a continuation of the\n      rivulet, which, after meandering for, perhaps, thirty yards,\n      finally passed through the  depression  (already described) in\n      the middle of the southern declivity, and tumbling down a sheer\n      precipice of a hundred feet, made its devious and unnoticed way\n      to the Hudson.\n\n      The lake was deep at some points thirty feet but the rivulet\n      seldom exceeded three, while its greatest width was about eight.\n      Its bottom and banks were as those of the pond if a defect could\n      have been attributed, in point of picturesqueness, it was that of\n      excessive neatness.\n\n      The expanse of the green turf was relieved, here and there, by an\n      occasional showy shrub, such as the hydrangea, or the common\n      snowball, or the aromatic seringa; or, more frequently, by a\n      clump of geraniums blossoming gorgeously in great varieties.\n      These latter grew in pots which were carefully buried in the\n      soil, so as to give the plants the appearance of being\n      indigenous. Besides all this, the lawn s velvet was exquisitely\n      spotted with sheep a considerable flock of which roamed about the\n      vale, in company with three tamed deer, and a vast number of\n      brilliantly-plumed ducks. A very large mastiff seemed to be in\n      vigilant attendance upon these animals, each and all.\n\n      Along the eastern and western cliffs where, toward the upper\n      portion of the amphitheatre, the boundaries were more or less\n      precipitous grew ivy in great profusion so that only here and\n      there could even a glimpse of the naked rock be obtained. The\n      northern precipice, in like manner, was almost entirely clothed\n      by grape-vines of rare luxuriance; some springing from the soil\n      at the base of the cliff, and others from ledges on its face.\n\n      The slight elevation which formed the lower boundary of this\n      little domain, was crowned by a neat stone wall, of sufficient\n      height to prevent the escape of the deer. Nothing of the fence\n      kind was observable elsewhere; for nowhere else was an artificial\n      enclosure needed: any stray sheep, for example, which should\n      attempt to make its way out of the vale by means of the ravine,\n      would find its progress arrested, after a few yards  advance, by\n      the precipitous ledge of rock over which tumbled the cascade that\n      had arrested my attention as I first drew near the domain. In\n      short, the only ingress or egress was through a gate occupying a\n      rocky pass in the road, a few paces below the point at which I\n      stopped to reconnoitre the scene.\n\n      I have described the brook as meandering very irregularly through\n      the whole of its course. Its two general directions, as I have\n      said, were first from west to east, and then from north to south.\n      At the turn, the stream, sweeping backward, made an almost\n      circular loop, so as to form a peninsula which was very nearly an\n      island, and which included about the sixteenth of an acre. On\n      this peninsula stood a dwelling-house and when I say that this\n      house, like the infernal terrace seen by Vathek,  etait d une\n      architecture inconnue dans les annales de la terre,  I mean,\n      merely, that its tout ensemble struck me with the keenest sense\n      of combined novelty and propriety in a word, of poetry (for, than\n      in the words just employed, I could scarcely give, of poetry in\n      the abstract, a more rigorous definition) and I do not mean that\n      merely outre was perceptible in any respect.\n\n      In fact nothing could well be more simple more utterly\n      unpretending than this cottage. Its marvellous effect lay\n      altogether in its artistic arrangement as a picture. I could have\n      fancied, while I looked at it, that some eminent\n      landscape-painter had built it with his brush.\n\n      The point of view from which I first saw the valley, was not\n      altogether, although it was nearly, the best point from which to\n      survey the house. I will therefore describe it as I afterwards\n      saw it from a position on the stone wall at the southern extreme\n      of the amphitheatre.\n\n      The main building was about twenty-four feet long and sixteen\n      broad certainly not more. Its total height, from the ground to\n      the apex of the roof, could not have exceeded eighteen feet. To\n      the west end of this structure was attached one about a third\n      smaller in all its proportions: the line of its front standing\n      back about two yards from that of the larger house, and the line\n      of its roof, of course, being considerably depressed below that\n      of the roof adjoining. At right angles to these buildings, and\n      from the rear of the main one not exactly in the middle extended\n      a third compartment, very small being, in general, one-third less\n      than the western wing. The roofs of the two larger were very\n      steep sweeping down from the ridge-beam with a long concave\n      curve, and extending at least four feet beyond the walls in\n      front, so as to form the roofs of two piazzas. These latter\n      roofs, of course, needed no support; but as they had the air of\n      needing it, slight and perfectly plain pillars were inserted at\n      the corners alone. The roof of the northern wing was merely an\n      extension of a portion of the main roof. Between the chief\n      building and western wing arose a very tall and rather slender\n      square chimney of hard Dutch bricks, alternately black and red: a\n      slight cornice of projecting bricks at the top. Over the gables\n      the roofs also projected very much: in the main building about\n      four feet to the east and two to the west. The principal door was\n      not exactly in the main division, being a little to the\n      east while the two windows were to the west. These latter did not\n      extend to the floor, but were much longer and narrower than\n      usual they had single shutters like doors the panes were of\n      lozenge form, but quite large. The door itself had its upper half\n      of glass, also in lozenge panes a movable shutter secured it at\n      night. The door to the west wing was in its gable, and quite\n      simple a single window looked out to the south. There was no\n      external door to the north wing, and it also had only one window\n      to the east.\n\n      The blank wall of the eastern gable was relieved by stairs (with\n      a balustrade) running diagonally across it the ascent being from\n      the south. Under cover of the widely projecting eave these steps\n      gave access to a door leading to the garret, or rather loft for\n      it was lighted only by a single window to the north, and seemed\n      to have been intended as a store-room.\n\n      The piazzas of the main building and western wing had no floors,\n      as is usual; but at the doors and at each window, large, flat\n      irregular slabs of granite lay imbedded in the delicious turf,\n      affording comfortable footing in all weather. Excellent paths of\n      the same material not nicely adapted, but with the velvety sod\n      filling frequent intervals between the stones, led hither and\n      thither from the house, to a crystal spring about five paces off,\n      to the road, or to one or two out-houses that lay to the north,\n      beyond the brook, and were thoroughly concealed by a few locusts\n      and catalpas.\n\n      Not more than six steps from the main door of the cottage stood\n      the dead trunk of a fantastic pear-tree, so clothed from head to\n      foot in the gorgeous bignonia blossoms that one required no\n      little scrutiny to determine what manner of sweet thing it could\n      be. From various arms of this tree hung cages of different kinds.\n      In one, a large wicker cylinder with a ring at top, revelled a\n      mocking bird; in another an oriole; in a third the impudent\n      bobolink while three or four more delicate prisons were loudly\n      vocal with canaries.\n\n      The pillars of the piazza were enwreathed in jasmine and sweet\n      honeysuckle; while from the angle formed by the main structure\n      and its west wing, in front, sprang a grape-vine of unexampled\n      luxuriance. Scorning all restraint, it had clambered first to the\n      lower roof then to the higher; and along the ridge of this latter\n      it continued to writhe on, throwing out tendrils to the right and\n      left, until at length it fairly attained the east gable, and fell\n      trailing over the stairs.\n\n      The whole house, with its wings, was constructed of the\n      old-fashioned Dutch shingles broad, and with unrounded corners.\n      It is a peculiarity of this material to give houses built of it\n      the appearance of being wider at bottom than at top after the\n      manner of Egyptian architecture; and in the present instance,\n      this exceedingly picturesque effect was aided by numerous pots of\n      gorgeous flowers that almost encompassed the base of the\n      buildings.\n\n      The shingles were painted a dull gray; and the happiness with\n      which this neutral tint melted into the vivid green of the tulip\n      tree leaves that partially overshadowed the cottage, can readily\n      be conceived by an artist.\n\n      From the position near the stone wall, as described, the\n      buildings were seen at great advantage for the southeastern angle\n      was thrown forward so that the eye took in at once the whole of\n      the two fronts, with the picturesque eastern gable, and at the\n      same time obtained just a sufficient glimpse of the northern\n      wing, with parts of a pretty roof to the spring-house, and nearly\n      half of a light bridge that spanned the brook in the near\n      vicinity of the main buildings.\n\n      I did not remain very long on the brow of the hill, although long\n      enough to make a thorough survey of the scene at my feet. It was\n      clear that I had wandered from the road to the village, and I had\n      thus good traveller s excuse to open the gate before me, and\n      inquire my way, at all events; so, without more ado, I proceeded.\n\n      The road, after passing the gate, seemed to lie upon a natural\n      ledge, sloping gradually down along the face of the north-eastern\n      cliffs. It led me on to the foot of the northern precipice, and\n      thence over the bridge, round by the eastern gable to the front\n      door. In this progress, I took notice that no sight of the\n      out-houses could be obtained.\n\n      As I turned the corner of the gable, the mastiff bounded towards\n      me in stern silence, but with the eye and the whole air of a\n      tiger. I held him out my hand, however, in token of amity and I\n      never yet knew the dog who was proof against such an appeal to\n      his courtesy. He not only shut his mouth and wagged his tail, but\n      absolutely offered me his paw afterward extending his civilities\n      to Ponto.\n\n      As no bell was discernible, I rapped with my stick against the\n      door, which stood half open. Instantly a figure advanced to the\n      threshold that of a young woman about twenty-eight years of\n      age slender, or rather slight, and somewhat above the medium\n      height. As she approached, with a certain modest decision of step\n      altogether indescribable. I said to myself,  Surely here I have\n      found the perfection of natural, in contradistinction from\n      artificial grace.  The second impression which she made on me,\n      but by far the more vivid of the two, was that of enthusiasm. So\n      intense an expression of romance, perhaps I should call it, or of\n      unworldliness, as that which gleamed from her deep-set eyes, had\n      never so sunk into my heart of hearts before. I know not how it\n      is, but this peculiar expression of the eye, wreathing itself\n      occasionally into the lips, is the most powerful, if not\n      absolutely the sole spell, which rivets my interest in woman.\n       Romance,  provided my readers fully comprehended what I would\n      here imply by the word romance  and  womanliness  seem to me\n      convertible terms: and, after all, what man truly loves in woman,\n      is simply her womanhood. The eyes of Annie (I heard some one from\n      the interior call her  Annie, darling! ) were  spiritual grey; \n      her hair, a light chestnut: this is all I had time to observe of\n      her.\n\n      At her most courteous of invitations, I entered passing first\n      into a tolerably wide vestibule. Having come mainly to observe, I\n      took notice that to my right as I stepped in, was a window, such\n      as those in front of the house; to the left, a door leading into\n      the principal room; while, opposite me, an open door enabled me\n      to see a small apartment, just the size of the vestibule,\n      arranged as a study, and having a large bow window looking out to\n      the north.\n\n      Passing into the parlor, I found myself with Mr. Landor for this,\n      I afterwards found, was his name. He was civil, even cordial in\n      his manner, but just then, I was more intent on observing the\n      arrangements of the dwelling which had so much interested me,\n      than the personal appearance of the tenant.\n\n      The north wing, I now saw, was a bed-chamber, its door opened\n      into the parlor. West of this door was a single window, looking\n      toward the brook. At the west end of the parlor, were a\n      fireplace, and a door leading into the west wing probably a\n      kitchen.\n\n      Nothing could be more rigorously simple than the furniture of the\n      parlor. On the floor was an ingrain carpet, of excellent\n      texture a white ground, spotted with small circular green\n      figures. At the windows were curtains of snowy white jaconet\n      muslin: they were tolerably full, and hung decisively, perhaps\n      rather formally in sharp, parallel plaits to the floor just to\n      the floor. The walls were prepared with a French paper of great\n      delicacy, a silver ground, with a faint green cord running\n      zig-zag throughout. Its expanse was relieved merely by three of\n      Julien s exquisite lithographs a trois crayons, fastened to the\n      wall without frames. One of these drawings was a scene of\n      Oriental luxury, or rather voluptuousness; another was a\n       carnival piece,  spirited beyond compare; the third was a Greek\n      female head a face so divinely beautiful, and yet of an\n      expression so provokingly indeterminate, never before arrested my\n      attention.\n\n      The more substantial furniture consisted of a round table, a few\n      chairs (including a large rocking-chair), and a sofa, or rather\n       settee;  its material was plain maple painted a creamy white,\n      slightly interstriped with green; the seat of cane. The chairs\n      and table were  to match,  but the forms of all had evidently\n      been designed by the same brain which planned  the grounds;  it\n      is impossible to conceive anything more graceful.\n\n      On the table were a few books; a large, square, crystal bottle of\n      some novel perfume; a plain ground glass _astral_ (not solar)\n      lamp with an Italian shade; and a large vase of\n      resplendently-blooming flowers. Flowers, indeed, of gorgeous\n      colours and delicate odour formed the sole mere decoration of the\n      apartment. The fire-place was nearly filled with a vase of\n      brilliant geranium. On a triangular shelf in each angle of the\n      room stood also a similar vase, varied only as to its lovely\n      contents. One or two smaller bouquets adorned the mantel, and\n      late violets clustered about the open windows.\n\n      It is not the purpose of this work to do more than give in\n      detail, a picture of Mr. Landor s residence as I found it. How he\n      made it what it was and why with some particulars of Mr. Landor\n      himself may, possibly form the subject of another article.\n\n\n\n\nWILLIAM WILSON\n\n\n    What say of it? what say of CONSCIENCE grim,\n    That spectre in my path?\n                     _Chamberlayne s Pharronida._\n\n      Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair\n      page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real\n      appellation. This has been already too much an object for the\n      scorn for the horror for the detestation of my race. To the\n      uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds\n      bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most\n      abandoned! to the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honors,\n      to its flowers, to its golden aspirations? and a cloud, dense,\n      dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy\n      hopes and heaven?\n\n      I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my\n      later years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This\n      epoch these later years took unto themselves a sudden elevation\n      in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to\n      assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant,\n      all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. From comparatively trivial\n      wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than\n      the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance what one event\n      brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate.\n      Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a\n      softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through\n      the dim valley, for the sympathy I had nearly said for the\n      pity of my fellow men. I would fain have them believe that I have\n      been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human\n      control. I would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I\n      am about to give, some little oasis of fatality amid a wilderness\n      of error. I would have them allow what they cannot refrain from\n      allowing that, although temptation may have erewhile existed as\n      great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before certainly,\n      never thus fell. And is it therefore that he has never thus\n      suffered? Have I not indeed been living in a dream? And am I not\n      now dying a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest\n      of all sublunary visions?\n\n      I am the descendant of a race whose imaginative and easily\n      excitable temperament has at all times rendered them remarkable;\n      and, in my earliest infancy, I gave evidence of having fully\n      inherited the family character. As I advanced in years it was\n      more strongly developed; becoming, for many reasons, a cause of\n      serious disquietude to my friends, and of positive injury to\n      myself. I grew self-willed, addicted to the wildest caprices, and\n      a prey to the most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and beset\n      with constitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could\n      do but little to check the evil propensities which distinguished\n      me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts resulted in complete\n      failure on their part, and, of course, in total triumph on mine.\n      Thenceforward my voice was a household law; and at an age when\n      few children have abandoned their leading-strings, I was left to\n      the guidance of my own will, and became, in all but name, the\n      master of my own actions.\n\n      My earliest recollections of a school-life, are connected with a\n      large, rambling, Elizabethan house, in a misty-looking village of\n      England, where were a vast number of gigantic and gnarled trees,\n      and where all the houses were excessively ancient. In truth, it\n      was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old\n      town. At this moment, in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness\n      of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its\n      thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight,\n      at the deep hollow note of the church-bell, breaking, each hour,\n      with sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky\n      atmosphere in which the fretted Gothic steeple lay imbedded and\n      asleep.\n\n      It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any\n      manner experience, to dwell upon minute recollections of the\n      school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am misery, alas!\n      only too real I shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however\n      slight and temporary, in the weakness of a few rambling details.\n      These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in\n      themselves, assume, to my fancy, adventitious importance, as\n      connected with a period and a locality when and where I recognise\n      the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so\n      fully overshadowed me. Let me then remember.\n\n      The house, I have said, was old and irregular. The grounds were\n      extensive, and a high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of\n      mortar and broken glass, encompassed the whole. This prison-like\n      rampart formed the limit of our domain; beyond it we saw but\n      thrice a week once every Saturday afternoon, when, attended by\n      two ushers, we were permitted to take brief walks in a body\n      through some of the neighbouring fields and twice during Sunday,\n      when we were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and\n      evening service in the one church of the village. Of this church\n      the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of\n      wonder and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote\n      pew in the gallery, as, with step solemn and slow, he ascended\n      the pulpit! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely\n      benign, with robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig\n      so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast, -could this be he\n      who, of late, with sour visage, and in snuffy habiliments,\n      administered, ferule in hand, the Draconian laws of the academy?\n      Oh, gigantic paradox, too utterly monstrous for solution!\n\n      At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate.\n      It was riveted and studded with iron bolts, and surmounted with\n      jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe did it inspire!\n      It was never opened save for the three periodical egressions and\n      ingressions already mentioned; then, in every creak of its mighty\n      hinges, we found a plenitude of mystery a world of matter for\n      solemn remark, or for more solemn meditation.\n\n      The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many\n      capacious recesses. Of these, three or four of the largest\n      constituted the play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine\n      hard gravel. I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor\n      anything similar within it. Of course it was in the rear of the\n      house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other\n      shrubs, but through this sacred division we passed only upon rare\n      occasions indeed such as a first advent to school or final\n      departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having\n      called for us, we joyfully took our way home for the Christmas or\n      Midsummer holidays.\n\n      But the house! how quaint an old building was this! to me how\n      veritably a palace of enchantment! There was really no end to its\n      windings to its incomprehensible subdivisions. It was difficult,\n      at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two\n      stories one happened to be. From each room to every other there\n      were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or\n      descent. Then the lateral branches were\n      innumerable inconceivable and so returning in upon themselves,\n      that our most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not\n      very far different from those with which we pondered upon\n      infinity. During the five years of my residence here, I was never\n      able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay the\n      little sleeping apartment assigned to myself and some eighteen or\n      twenty other scholars.\n\n      The school-room was the largest in the house I could not help\n      thinking, in the world. It was very long, narrow, and dismally\n      low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a\n      remote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight\n      or ten feet, comprising the sanctum,  during hours,  of our\n      principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure,\n      with massy door, sooner than open which in the absence of the\n       Dominie,  we would all have willingly perished by the _peine\n      forte et dure_. In other angles were two other similar boxes, far\n      less reverenced, indeed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of\n      these was the pulpit of the  classical  usher, one of the\n       English and mathematical.  Interspersed about the room, crossing\n      and recrossing in endless irregularity, were innumerable benches\n      and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately with\n      much-bethumbed books, and so beseamed with initial letters, names\n      at full length, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts\n      of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little of original\n      form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge\n      bucket with water stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock\n      of stupendous dimensions at the other.\n\n      Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy, I\n      passed, yet not in tedium or disgust, the years of the third\n      lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no\n      external world of incident to occupy or amuse it; and the\n      apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with more\n      intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury,\n      or my full manhood from crime. Yet I must believe that my first\n      mental development had in it much of the uncommon even much of\n      the _outr _. Upon mankind at large the events of very early\n      existence rarely leave in mature age any definite impression. All\n      is gray shadow a weak and irregular remembrance an indistinct\n      regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me\n      this is not so. In childhood I must have felt with the energy of\n      a man what I now find stamped upon memory in lines as vivid, as\n      deep, and as durable as the _exergues_ of the Carthaginian\n      medals.\n\n      Yet in fact in the fact of the world s view how little was there\n      to remember! The morning s awakening, the nightly summons to bed;\n      the connings, the recitations; the periodical half-holidays, and\n      perambulations; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes,\n      its intrigues; these, by a mental sorcery long forgotten, were\n      made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich\n      incident, an universe of varied emotion, of excitement the most\n      passionate and spirit-stirring.  _Oh, le bon temps, que ce si cle\n      de fer!_ \n\n      In truth, the ardor, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my\n      disposition, soon rendered me a marked character among my\n      schoolmates, and by slow, but natural gradations, gave me an\n      ascendancy over all not greatly older than myself; over all with\n      a single exception. This exception was found in the person of a\n      scholar, who, although no relation, bore the same Christian and\n      surname as myself; a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable;\n      for, notwithstanding a noble descent, mine was one of those\n      everyday appellations which seem, by prescriptive right, to have\n      been, time out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this\n      narrative I have therefore designated myself as William Wilson, a\n      fictitious title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake\n      alone, of those who in school phraseology constituted  our set, \n      presumed to compete with me in the studies of the class in the\n      sports and broils of the play-ground to refuse implicit belief in\n      my assertions, and submission to my will indeed, to interfere\n      with my arbitrary dictation in any respect whatsoever. If there\n      is on earth a supreme and unqualified despotism, it is the\n      despotism of a master-mind in boyhood over the less energetic\n      spirits of its companions.\n\n      Wilson s rebellion was to me a source of the greatest\n      embarrassment; the more so as, in spite of the bravado with which\n      in public I made a point of treating him and his pretensions, I\n      secretly felt that I feared him, and could not help thinking the\n      equality which he maintained so easily with myself, a proof of\n      his true superiority; since not to be overcome cost me a\n      perpetual struggle. Yet this superiority even this equality was\n      in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associates, by\n      some unaccountable blindness, seemed not even to suspect it.\n      Indeed, his competition, his resistance, and especially his\n      impertinent and dogged interference with my purposes, were not\n      more pointed than private. He appeared to be destitute alike of\n      the ambition which urged, and of the passionate energy of mind\n      which enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he might have been\n      supposed actuated solely by a whimsical desire to thwart,\n      astonish, or mortify myself; although there were times when I\n      could not help observing, with a feeling made up of wonder,\n      abasement, and pique, that he mingled with his injuries, his\n      insults, or his contradictions, a certain most inappropriate, and\n      assuredly most unwelcome affectionateness of manner. I could only\n      conceive this singular behavior to arise from a consummate\n      self-conceit assuming the vulgar airs of patronage and\n      protection.\n\n      Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson s conduct, conjoined\n      with our identity of name, and the mere accident of our having\n      entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the notion\n      that we were brothers, among the senior classes in the academy.\n      These do not usually inquire with much strictness into the\n      affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have\n      said, that Wilson was not, in the most remote degree, connected\n      with my family. But assuredly if we had been brothers we must\n      have been twins; for, after leaving Dr. Bransby s, I casually\n      learned that my namesake was born on the nineteenth of January,\n      1813 and this is a somewhat remarkable coincidence; for the day\n      is precisely that of my own nativity.\n\n      It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety\n      occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, and his intolerable\n      spirit of contradiction, I could not bring myself to hate him\n      altogether. We had, to be sure, nearly every day a quarrel in\n      which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he, in some\n      manner, contrived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved\n      it; yet a sense of pride on my part, and a veritable dignity on\n      his own, kept us always upon what are called  speaking terms, \n      while there were many points of strong congeniality in our\n      tempers, operating to awake me in a sentiment which our position\n      alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into friendship. It is\n      difficult, indeed, to define, or even to describe, my real\n      feelings towards him. They formed a motley and heterogeneous\n      admixture; some petulant animosity, which was not yet hatred,\n      some esteem, more respect, much fear, with a world of uneasy\n      curiosity. To the moralist it will be unnecessary to say, in\n      addition, that Wilson and myself were the most inseparable of\n      companions.\n\n      It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between\n      us, which turned all my attacks upon him, (and they were many,\n      either open or covert) into the channel of banter or practical\n      joke (giving pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather\n      than into a more serious and determined hostility. But my\n      endeavours on this head were by no means uniformly successful,\n      even when my plans were the most wittily concocted; for my\n      namesake had much about him, in character, of that unassuming and\n      quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own\n      jokes, has no heel of Achilles in itself, and absolutely refuses\n      to be laughed at. I could find, indeed, but one vulnerable point,\n      and that, lying in a personal peculiarity, arising, perhaps, from\n      constitutional disease, would have been spared by any antagonist\n      less at his wit s end than myself; my rival had a weakness in the\n      faucal or guttural organs, which precluded him from raising his\n      voice at any time above a very low whisper. Of this defect I did\n      not fail to take what poor advantage lay in my power.\n\n      Wilson s retaliations in kind were many; and there was one form\n      of his practical wit that disturbed me beyond measure. How his\n      sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex\n      me, is a question I never could solve; but, having discovered, he\n      habitually practised the annoyance. I had always felt aversion to\n      my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if not plebeian\n      praenomen. The words were venom in my ears; and when, upon the\n      day of my arrival, a second William Wilson came also to the\n      academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly\n      disgusted with the name because a stranger bore it, who would be\n      the cause of its twofold repetition, who would be constantly in\n      my presence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the\n      school business, must inevitably, on account of the detestable\n      coincidence, be often confounded with my own.\n\n      The feeling of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every\n      circumstance tending to show resemblance, moral or physical,\n      between my rival and myself. I had not then discovered the\n      remarkable fact that we were of the same age; but I saw that we\n      were of the same height, and I perceived that we were even\n      singularly alike in general contour of person and outline of\n      feature. I was galled, too, by the rumor touching a relationship,\n      which had grown current in the upper forms. In a word, nothing\n      could more seriously disturb me, (although I scrupulously\n      concealed such disturbance,) than any allusion to a similarity of\n      mind, person, or condition existing between us. But, in truth, I\n      had no reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter\n      of relationship, and in the case of Wilson himself,) this\n      similarity had ever been made a subject of comment, or even\n      observed at all by our schoolfellows. That he observed it in all\n      its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was apparent; but that he\n      could discover in such circumstances so fruitful a field of\n      annoyance, can only be attributed, as I said before, to his more\n      than ordinary penetration.\n\n      His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in\n      words and in actions; and most admirably did he play his part. My\n      dress it was an easy matter to copy; my gait and general manner\n      were, without difficulty, appropriated; in spite of his\n      constitutional defect, even my voice did not escape him. My\n      louder tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key it\n      was identical; _and his singular whisper, it grew the very echo\n      of my own_.\n\n      How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it\n      could not justly be termed a caricature,) I will not now venture\n      to describe. I had but one consolation in the fact that the\n      imitation, apparently, was noticed by myself alone, and that I\n      had to endure only the knowing and strangely sarcastic smiles of\n      my namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in my bosom\n      the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the\n      sting he had inflicted, and was characteristically disregardful\n      of the public applause which the success of his witty endeavours\n      might have so easily elicited. That the school, indeed, did not\n      feel his design, perceive its accomplishment, and participate in\n      his sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not\n      resolve. Perhaps the gradation of his copy rendered it not so\n      readily perceptible; or, more possibly, I owed my security to the\n      master air of the copyist, who, disdaining the letter, (which in\n      a painting is all the obtuse can see,) gave but the full spirit\n      of his original for my individual contemplation and chagrin.\n\n      I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of\n      patronage which he assumed toward me, and of his frequent\n      officious interference with my will. This interference often took\n      the ungracious character of advice; advice not openly given, but\n      hinted or insinuated. I received it with a repugnance which\n      gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let\n      me do him the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no\n      occasion when the suggestions of my rival were on the side of\n      those errors or follies so usual to his immature age and seeming\n      inexperience; that his moral sense, at least, if not his general\n      talents and worldly wisdom, was far keener than my own; and that\n      I might, to-day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, had\n      I less frequently rejected the counsels embodied in those meaning\n      whispers which I then but too cordially hated and too bitterly\n      despised.\n\n      As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme under his\n      distasteful supervision, and daily resented more and more openly\n      what I considered his intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in\n      the first years of our connexion as schoolmates, my feelings in\n      regard to him might have been easily ripened into friendship;\n      but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy,\n      although the intrusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt,\n      in some measure, abated, my sentiments, in nearly similar\n      proportion, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one\n      occasion he saw this, I think, and afterwards avoided, or made a\n      show of avoiding me.\n\n      It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an\n      altercation of violence with him, in which he was more than\n      usually thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an\n      openness of demeanor rather foreign to his nature, I discovered,\n      or fancied I discovered, in his accent, his air, and general\n      appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply\n      interested me, by bringing to mind dim visions of my earliest\n      infancy wild, confused and thronging memories of a time when\n      memory herself was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the\n      sensation which oppressed me than by saying that I could with\n      difficulty shake off the belief of my having been acquainted with\n      the being who stood before me, at some epoch very long ago some\n      point of the past even infinitely remote. The delusion, however,\n      faded rapidly as it came; and I mention it at all but to define\n      the day of the last conversation I there held with my singular\n      namesake.\n\n      The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several\n      large chambers communicating with each other, where slept the\n      greater number of the students. There were, however, (as must\n      necessarily happen in a building so awkwardly planned,) many\n      little nooks or recesses, the odds and ends of the structure; and\n      these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted up as\n      dormitories; although, being the merest closets, they were\n      capable of accommodating but a single individual. One of these\n      small apartments was occupied by Wilson.\n\n      One night, about the close of my fifth year at the school, and\n      immediately after the altercation just mentioned, finding every\n      one wrapped in sleep, I arose from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole\n      through a wilderness of narrow passages from my own bedroom to\n      that of my rival. I had long been plotting one of those\n      ill-natured pieces of practical wit at his expense in which I had\n      hitherto been so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my intention,\n      now, to put my scheme in operation, and I resolved to make him\n      feel the whole extent of the malice with which I was imbued.\n      Having reached his closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving the\n      lamp, with a shade over it, on the outside. I advanced a step,\n      and listened to the sound of his tranquil breathing. Assured of\n      his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again\n      approached the bed. Close curtains were around it, which, in the\n      prosecution of my plan, I slowly and quietly withdrew, when the\n      bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes, at the\n      same moment, upon his countenance. I looked; and a numbness, an\n      iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame. My breast heaved,\n      my knees tottered, my whole spirit became possessed with an\n      objectless yet intolerable horror. Gasping for breath, I lowered\n      the lamp in still nearer proximity to the face. Were these these\n      the lineaments of William Wilson? I saw, indeed, that they were\n      his, but I shook as if with a fit of the ague in fancying they\n      were not. What was there about them to confound me in this\n      manner? I gazed; while my brain reeled with a multitude of\n      incoherent thoughts. Not thus he appeared assuredly not thus in\n      the vivacity of his waking hours. The same name! the same contour\n      of person! the same day of arrival at the academy! And then his\n      dogged and meaningless imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits,\n      and my manner! Was it, in truth, within the bounds of human\n      possibility, that what I now saw was the result, merely, of the\n      habitual practice of this sarcastic imitation? Awe-stricken, and\n      with a creeping shudder, I extinguished the lamp, passed silently\n      from the chamber, and left, at once, the halls of that old\n      academy, never to enter them again.\n\n      After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I\n      found myself a student at Eton. The brief interval had been\n      sufficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr.\n      Bransby s, or at least to effect a material change in the nature\n      of the feelings with which I remembered them. The truth the\n      tragedy of the drama was no more. I could now find room to doubt\n      the evidence of my senses; and seldom called up the subject at\n      all but with wonder at extent of human credulity, and a smile at\n      the vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily\n      possessed. Neither was this species of scepticism likely to be\n      diminished by the character of the life I led at Eton. The vortex\n      of thoughtless folly into which I there so immediately and so\n      recklessly plunged, washed away all but the froth of my past\n      hours, engulfed at once every solid or serious impression, and\n      left to memory only the veriest levities of a former existence.\n\n      I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable\n      profligacy here a profligacy which set at defiance the laws,\n      while it eluded the vigilance of the institution. Three years of\n      folly, passed without profit, had but given me rooted habits of\n      vice, and added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to my bodily\n      stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a\n      small party of the most dissolute students to a secret carousal\n      in my chambers. We met at a late hour of the night; for our\n      debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until morning. The\n      wine flowed freely, and there were not wanting other and perhaps\n      more dangerous seductions; so that the gray dawn had already\n      faintly appeared in the east, while our delirious extravagance\n      was at its height. Madly flushed with cards and intoxication, I\n      was in the act of insisting upon a toast of more than wonted\n      profanity, when my attention was suddenly diverted by the\n      violent, although partial unclosing of the door of the apartment,\n      and by the eager voice of a servant from without. He said that\n      some person, apparently in great haste, demanded to speak with me\n      in the hall.\n\n      Wildly excited with wine, the unexpected interruption rather\n      delighted than surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a\n      few steps brought me to the vestibule of the building. In this\n      low and small room there hung no lamp; and now no light at all\n      was admitted, save that of the exceedingly feeble dawn which made\n      its way through the semi-circular window. As I put my foot over\n      the threshold, I became aware of the figure of a youth about my\n      own height, and habited in a white kerseymere morning frock, cut\n      in the novel fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This\n      the faint light enabled me to perceive; but the features of his\n      face I could not distinguish. Upon my entering he strode\n      hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by the arm with a gesture of\n      petulant impatience, whispered the words  William Wilson!  in my\n      ear.\n\n      I grew perfectly sober in an instant.\n\n      There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the\n      tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, as he held it between my\n      eyes and the light, which filled me with unqualified amazement;\n      but it was not this which had so violently moved me. It was the\n      pregnancy of solemn admonition in the singular, low, hissing\n      utterance; and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the\n      key, of those few, simple, and familiar, yet whispered syllables,\n      which came with a thousand thronging memories of bygone days, and\n      struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I\n      could recover the use of my senses he was gone.\n\n      Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon my\n      disordered imagination, yet was it evanescent as vivid. For some\n      weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped\n      in a cloud of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to disguise\n      from my perception the identity of the singular individual who\n      thus perseveringly interfered with my affairs, and harassed me\n      with his insinuated counsel. But who and what was this\n      Wilson? and whence came he? and what were his purposes? Upon\n      neither of these points could I be satisfied; merely\n      ascertaining, in regard to him, that a sudden accident in his\n      family had caused his removal from Dr. Bransby s academy on the\n      afternoon of the day in which I myself had eloped. But in a brief\n      period I ceased to think upon the subject; my attention being all\n      absorbed in a contemplated departure for Oxford. Thither I soon\n      went; the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me with\n      an outfit and annual establishment, which would enable me to\n      indulge at will in the luxury already so dear to my heart, to vie\n      in profuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the\n      wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain.\n\n      Excited by such appliances to vice, my constitutional temperament\n      broke forth with redoubled ardor, and I spurned even the common\n      restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. But it\n      were absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. Let it\n      suffice, that among spendthrifts I out-Heroded Herod, and that,\n      giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added no brief\n      appendix to the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most\n      dissolute university of Europe.\n\n      It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so\n      utterly fallen from the gentlemanly estate, as to seek\n      acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession,\n      and, having become an adept in his despicable science, to\n      practise it habitually as a means of increasing my already\n      enormous income at the expense of the weak-minded among my\n      fellow-collegians. Such, nevertheless, was the fact. And the very\n      enormity of this offence against all manly and honourable\n      sentiment proved, beyond doubt, the main if not the sole reason\n      of the impunity with which it was committed. Who, indeed, among\n      my most abandoned associates, would not rather have disputed the\n      clearest evidence of his senses, than have suspected of such\n      courses, the gay, the frank, the generous William Wilson the\n      noblest and most liberal commoner at Oxford him whose follies\n      (said his parasites) were but the follies of youth and unbridled\n      fancy whose errors but inimitable whim whose darkest vice but a\n      careless and dashing extravagance?\n\n      I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when\n      there came to the university a young parvenu nobleman,\n      Glendinning rich, said report, as Herodes Atticus his riches,\n      too, as easily acquired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and,\n      of course, marked him as a fitting subject for my skill. I\n      frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with the gambler s\n      usual art, to let him win considerable sums, the more effectually\n      to entangle him in my snares. At length, my schemes being ripe, I\n      met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be\n      final and decisive) at the chambers of a fellow-commoner, (Mr.\n      Preston,) equally intimate with both, but who, to do him justice,\n      entertained not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give to\n      this a better coloring, I had contrived to have assembled a party\n      of some eight or ten, and was solicitously careful that the\n      introduction of cards should appear accidental, and originate in\n      the proposal of my contemplated dupe himself. To be brief upon a\n      vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted, so customary\n      upon similar occasions that it is a just matter for wonder how\n      any are still found so besotted as to fall its victim.\n\n      We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at\n      length effected the manoeuvre of getting Glendinning as my sole\n      antagonist. The game, too, was my favorite _ cart !_ The rest of\n      the company, interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned\n      their own cards, and were standing around us as spectators. The\n      _parvenu_, who had been induced by my artifices in the early part\n      of the evening, to drink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played,\n      with a wild nervousness of manner for which his intoxication, I\n      thought, might partially, but could not altogether account. In a\n      very short period he had become my debtor to a large amount,\n      when, having taken a long draught of port, he did precisely what\n      I had been coolly anticipating he proposed to double our already\n      extravagant stakes. With a well-feigned show of reluctance, and\n      not until after my repeated refusal had seduced him into some\n      angry words which gave a color of pique to my compliance, did I\n      finally comply. The result, of course, did but prove how entirely\n      the prey was in my toils: in less than an hour he had quadrupled\n      his debt. For some time his countenance had been losing the\n      florid tinge lent it by the wine; but now, to my astonishment, I\n      perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly fearful. I say to\n      my astonishment. Glendinning had been represented to my eager\n      inquiries as immeasurably wealthy; and the sums which he had as\n      yet lost, although in themselves vast, could not, I supposed,\n      very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect him. That he\n      was overcome by the wine just swallowed, was the idea which most\n      readily presented itself; and, rather with a view to the\n      preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates,\n      than from any less interested motive, I was about to insist,\n      peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play, when some\n      expressions at my elbow from among the company, and an\n      ejaculation evincing utter despair on the part of Glendinning,\n      gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin under\n      circumstances which, rendering him an object for the pity of all,\n      should have protected him from the ill offices even of a fiend.\n\n      What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The\n      pitiable condition of my dupe had thrown an air of embarrassed\n      gloom over all; and, for some moments, a profound silence was\n      maintained, during which I could not help feeling my cheeks\n      tingle with the many burning glances of scorn or reproach cast\n      upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even own that\n      an intolerable weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted\n      from my bosom by the sudden and extraordinary interruption which\n      ensued. The wide, heavy folding doors of the apartment were all\n      at once thrown open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and\n      rushing impetuosity that extinguished, as if by magic, every\n      candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to\n      perceive that a stranger had entered, about my own height, and\n      closely muffled in a cloak. The darkness, however, was now total;\n      and we could only feel that he was standing in our midst. Before\n      any one of us could recover from the extreme astonishment into\n      which this rudeness had thrown all, we heard the voice of the\n      intruder.\n\n       Gentlemen,  he said, in a low, distinct, and\n      never-to-be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the very marrow\n      of my bones,  Gentlemen, I make no apology for this behaviour,\n      because in thus behaving, I am but fulfilling a duty. You are,\n      beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of the person who\n      has to-night won at _ cart _ a large sum of money from Lord\n      Glendinning. I will therefore put you upon an expeditious and\n      decisive plan of obtaining this very necessary information.\n      Please to examine, at your leisure, the inner linings of the cuff\n      of his left sleeve, and the several little packages which may be\n      found in the somewhat capacious pockets of his embroidered\n      morning wrapper. \n\n      While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have\n      heard a pin drop upon the floor. In ceasing, he departed at once,\n      and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I shall I describe my\n      sensations? Must I say that I felt all the horrors of the damned?\n      Most assuredly I had little time given for reflection. Many hands\n      roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were immediately\n      reprocured. A search ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were\n      found all the court cards essential in _ cart _, and, in the\n      pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, facsimiles of those\n      used at our sittings, with the single exception that mine were of\n      the species called, technically, arrondees; the honours being\n      slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at\n      the sides. In this disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary,\n      at the length of the pack, will invariably find that he cuts his\n      antagonist an honor; while the gambler, cutting at the breadth,\n      will, as certainly, cut nothing for his victim which may count in\n      the records of the game.\n\n      Any burst of indignation upon this discovery would have affected\n      me less than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic composure,\n      with which it was received.\n\n       Mr. Wilson,  said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his\n      feet an exceedingly luxurious cloak of rare furs,  Mr. Wilson,\n      this is your property.  (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting\n      my own room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper,\n      putting it off upon reaching the scene of play.)  I presume it is\n      supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the folds of the garment with\n      a bitter smile) for any farther evidence of your skill. Indeed,\n      we have had enough. You will see the necessity, I hope, of\n      quitting Oxford at all events, of quitting instantly my\n      chambers. \n\n      Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I\n      should have resented this galling language by immediate personal\n      violence, had not my whole attention been at the moment arrested\n      by a fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I had\n      worn was of a rare description of fur; how rare, how\n      extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion,\n      too, was of my own fantastic invention; for I was fastidious to\n      an absurd degree of coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous\n      nature. When, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had\n      picked up upon the floor, and near the folding doors of the\n      apartment, it was with an astonishment nearly bordering upon\n      terror, that I perceived my own already hanging on my arm, (where\n      I had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) and that the one presented\n      me was but its exact counterpart in every, in even the minutest\n      possible particular. The singular being who had so disastrously\n      exposed me, had been muffled, I remembered, in a cloak; and none\n      had been worn at all by any of the members of our party with the\n      exception of myself. Retaining some presence of mind, I took the\n      one offered me by Preston; placed it, unnoticed, over my own;\n      left the apartment with a resolute scowl of defiance; and, next\n      morning ere dawn of day, commenced a hurried journey from Oxford\n      to the continent, in a perfect agony of horror and of shame.\n\n      I fled in vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation,\n      and proved, indeed, that the exercise of its mysterious dominion\n      had as yet only begun. Scarcely had I set foot in Paris ere I had\n      fresh evidence of the detestable interest taken by this Wilson in\n      my concerns. Years flew, while I experienced no relief.\n      Villain! at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an\n      officiousness, stepped he in between me and my ambition! At\n      Vienna, too at Berlin and at Moscow! Where, in truth, had I not\n      bitter cause to curse him within my heart? From his inscrutable\n      tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a\n      pestilence; and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain.\n\n      And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit,\n      would I demand the questions  Who is he? whence came he? and what\n      are his objects?  But no answer was there found. And then I\n      scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods,\n      and the leading traits of his impertinent supervision. But even\n      here there was very little upon which to base a conjecture. It\n      was noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied\n      instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he so\n      crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those\n      actions, which, if fully carried out, might have resulted in\n      bitter mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for an\n      authority so imperiously assumed! Poor indemnity for natural\n      rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied!\n\n      I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very\n      long period of time, (while scrupulously and with miraculous\n      dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with\n      myself,) had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied\n      interference with my will, that I saw not, at any moment, the\n      features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least,\n      was but the veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an\n      instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton in the\n      destroyer of my honor at Oxford, in him who thwarted my ambition\n      at Rome, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or\n      what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt, that in this, my\n      arch-enemy and evil genius, could fail to recognise the William\n      Wilson of my school boy days, the namesake, the companion, the\n      rival, the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby s?\n      Impossible! But let me hasten to the last eventful scene of the\n      drama.\n\n      Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination.\n      The sentiment of deep awe with which I habitually regarded the\n      elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent\n      omnipresence and omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of\n      even terror, with which certain other traits in his nature and\n      assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me\n      with an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to\n      suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to\n      his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up\n      entirely to wine; and its maddening influence upon my hereditary\n      temper rendered me more and more impatient of control. I began to\n      murmur, to hesitate, to resist. And was it only fancy which\n      induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness,\n      that of my tormentor underwent a proportional diminution? Be this\n      as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope,\n      and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and\n      desperate resolution that I would submit no longer to be\n      enslaved.\n\n      It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18 , that I attended a\n      masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I\n      had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the\n      wine-table; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded\n      rooms irritated me beyond endurance. The difficulty, too, of\n      forcing my way through the mazes of the company contributed not a\n      little to the ruffling of my temper; for I was anxiously seeking,\n      (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay,\n      the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too\n      unscrupulous confidence she had previously communicated to me the\n      secret of the costume in which she would be habited, and now,\n      having caught a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my\n      way into her presence. At this moment I felt a light hand placed\n      upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable\n      _whisper_ within my ear.\n\n      In an absolute phrenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who\n      had thus interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar.\n      He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether\n      similar to my own; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt\n      about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A mask\n      of black silk entirely covered his face.\n\n       Scoundrel!  I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every\n      syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury,  scoundrel!\n      impostor! accursed villain! you shall not you shall not dog me\n      unto death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand! and I\n      broke my way from the ball-room into a small ante-chamber\n      adjoining, dragging him unresistingly with me as I went.\n\n      Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered\n      against the wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and\n      commanded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant; then,\n      with a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his\n      defence.\n\n      The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of\n      wild excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and\n      power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer\n      strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy,\n      plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly through and\n      through his bosom.\n\n      At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I\n      hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned\n      to my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately\n      portray that astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the\n      spectacle then presented to view? The brief moment in which I\n      averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a\n      material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end\n      of the room. A large mirror, so at first it seemed to me in my\n      confusion now stood where none had been perceptible before; and,\n      as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but\n      with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me\n      with a feeble and tottering gait.\n\n      Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist it was\n      Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his\n      dissolution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them,\n      upon the floor. Not a thread in all his raiment not a line in all\n      the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not,\n      even in the most absolute identity, mine own!\n\n      It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could\n      have fancied that I myself was speaking while he said:\n\n      _ You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou\n      also dead dead to the World, to Heaven and to Hope! In me didst\n      thou exist and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine\n      own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself. _\n\n\n\n\nTHE TELL-TALE HEART.\n\n\n      True! nervous very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am;\n      but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my\n      senses not destroyed not dulled them. Above all was the sense of\n      hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.\n      I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and\n      observe how healthily how calmly I can tell you the whole story.\n\n      It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but\n      once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was\n      none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never\n      wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no\n      desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye\n      of a vulture a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it\n      fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees very\n      gradually I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and\n      thus rid myself of the eye forever.\n\n      Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But\n      you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I\n      proceeded with what caution with what foresight with what\n      dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man\n      than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night,\n      about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh,\n      so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my\n      head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light\n      shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have\n      laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it\n      slowly very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old\n      man s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the\n      opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed.\n      Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my\n      head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously oh, so\n      cautiously cautiously (for the hinges creaked) I undid it just so\n      much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I\n      did for seven long nights every night just at midnight but I\n      found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the\n      work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye.\n      And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the\n      chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a\n      hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you\n      see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to\n      suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him\n      while he slept.\n\n      Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening\n      the door. A watch s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine.\n      Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers of\n      my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To\n      think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and\n      he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly\n      chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on\n      the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew\n      back but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick\n      darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of\n      robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the\n      door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.\n\n      I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my\n      thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up\n      in bed, crying out Who s there? \n\n      I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not\n      move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down.\n      He was still sitting up in the bed listening; just as I have\n      done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the\n      wall.\n\n      Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of\n      mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief oh, no! it\n      was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul\n      when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night,\n      just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from\n      my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that\n      distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man\n      felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that\n      he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when\n      he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing\n      upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could\n      not. He had been saying to himself It is nothing but the wind in\n      the chimney it is only a mouse crossing the floor,  or  It is\n      merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.  Yes, he had been\n      trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had\n      found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him\n      had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the\n      victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived\n      shadow that caused him to feel although he neither saw nor\n      heard to feel the presence of my head within the room.\n\n      When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing\n      him lie down, I resolved to open a little a very, very little\n      crevice in the lantern. So I opened it you cannot imagine how\n      stealthily, stealthily until, at length a simple dim ray, like\n      the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full\n      upon the vulture eye.\n\n      It was open wide, wide open and I grew furious as I gazed upon\n      it. I saw it with perfect distinctness all a dull blue, with a\n      hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones;\n      but I could see nothing else of the old man s face or person: for\n      I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the\n      damned spot.\n\n      And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but\n      over-acuteness of the sense? now, I say, there came to my ears a\n      low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in\n      cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the\n      old man s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum\n      stimulates the soldier into courage.\n\n      But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I\n      held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could\n      maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the\n      heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and\n      louder every instant. The old man s terror must have been\n      extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! do you mark\n      me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at\n      the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old\n      house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable\n      terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still.\n      But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must\n      burst. And now a new anxiety seized me the sound would be heard\n      by a neighbour! The old man s hour had come! With a loud yell, I\n      threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked\n      once once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and\n      pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the\n      deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a\n      muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be\n      heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was\n      dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was\n      stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it\n      there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead.\n      His eye would trouble me no more.\n\n      If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I\n      describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the\n      body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.\n      First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the\n      arms and the legs.\n\n      I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and\n      deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards\n      so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye not even his could\n      have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out no\n      stain of any kind no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for\n      that. A tub had caught all ha! ha!\n\n      When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o clock still\n      dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a\n      knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light\n      heart, for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who\n      introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the\n      police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night;\n      suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been\n      lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been\n      deputed to search the premises.\n\n      I smiled, for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome.\n      The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I\n      mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over\n      the house. I bade them search search well. I led them, at length,\n      to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed.\n      In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the\n      room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I\n      myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own\n      seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the\n      victim.\n\n      The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was\n      singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they\n      chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting\n      pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing\n      in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing\n      became more distinct: it continued and became more distinct: I\n      talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued\n      and gained definiteness until, at length, I found that the noise\n      was not within my ears.\n\n      No doubt I now grew _very_ pale; but I talked more fluently, and\n      with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased and what could I\n      do? It was a low, dull, quick sound much such a sound as a watch\n      makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath and yet the\n      officers heard it not. I talked more quickly more vehemently; but\n      the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles,\n      in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise\n      steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor\n      to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the\n      observations of the men but the noise steadily increased. Oh God!\n      what could I do? I foamed I raved I swore! I swung the chair upon\n      which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the\n      noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew\n      louder louder louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and\n      smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! no, no!\n      They heard! they suspected! they knew! they were making a mockery\n      of my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was\n      better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this\n      derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I\n      felt that I must scream or die! and now again! hark! louder!\n      louder! louder! _louder!_\n\n       Villains!  I shrieked,  dissemble no more! I admit the\n      deed! tear up the planks! here, here! It is the beating of his\n      hideous heart! \n\n\n\n\nBERENICE\n\n\n     Dicebant mihi sodales, si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas\n     aliquar tulum fore levatas. _Ebn Zaiat_.\n\n      Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform.\n      Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as\n      various as the hues of that arch as distinct too, yet as\n      intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow!\n      How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of\n      unloveliness? from the covenant of peace, a simile of sorrow? But\n      as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of\n      joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the\n      anguish of to-day, or the agonies which _are_, have their origin\n      in the ecstasies which _might have been_.\n\n      My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my family I will not\n      mention. Yet there are no towers in the land more time-honored\n      than my gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our line has been called\n      a race of visionaries; and in many striking particulars in the\n      character of the family mansion in the frescos of the chief\n      saloon in the tapestries of the dormitories in the chiselling of\n      some buttresses in the armory but more especially in the gallery\n      of antique paintings in the fashion of the library chamber and,\n      lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library s\n      contents there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the\n      belief.\n\n      The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that\n      chamber, and with its volumes of which latter I will say no more.\n      Here died my mother. Herein was I born. But it is mere idleness\n      to say that I had not lived before that the soul has no previous\n      existence. You deny it? let us not argue the matter. Convinced\n      myself, I seek not to convince. There is, however, a remembrance\n      of aerial forms of spiritual and meaning eyes of sounds, musical\n      yet sad a remembrance which will not be excluded; a memory like a\n      shadow vague, variable, indefinite, unsteady; and like a shadow,\n      too, in the impossibility of my getting rid of it while the\n      sunlight of my reason shall exist.\n\n      In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of\n      what seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once into the very\n      regions of fairy land into a palace of imagination into the wild\n      dominions of monastic thought and erudition it is not singular\n      that I gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye that I\n      loitered away my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in\n      reverie; but it _is_ singular that as years rolled away, and the\n      noon of manhood found me still in the mansion of my fathers it\n      _is_ wonderful what stagnation there fell upon the springs of my\n      life wonderful how total an inversion took place in the character\n      of my commonest thought. The realities of the world affected me\n      as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land\n      of dreams became, in turn, not the material of my every-day\n      existence, but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in\n      itself.\n\n      Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my\n      paternal halls. Yet differently we grew I, ill of health, and\n      buried in gloom she, agile, graceful, and overflowing with\n      energy; hers, the ramble on the hill-side mine the studies of the\n      cloister; I, living within my own heart, and addicted, body and\n      soul, to the most intense and painful meditation she, roaming\n      carelessly through life, with no thought of the shadows in her\n      path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours. Berenice! I\n      call upon her name Berenice! and from the gray ruins of memory a\n      thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound! Ah,\n      vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of her\n      light-heartedness and joy! Oh, gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! Oh,\n      sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! Oh, Naiad among its\n      fountains! And then then all is mystery and terror, and a tale\n      which should not be told. Disease a fatal disease, fell like the\n      simoon upon her frame; and, even while I gazed upon her, the\n      spirit of change swept over her, pervading her mind, her habits,\n      and her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible,\n      disturbing even the identity of her person! Alas! the destroyer\n      came and went! and the victim where is she? I knew her not or\n      knew her no longer as Berenice.\n\n      Among the numerous train of maladies superinduced by that fatal\n      and primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind\n      in the moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as\n      the most distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of\n      epilepsy not unfrequently terminating in _trance_ itself trance\n      very nearly resembling positive dissolution, and from which her\n      manner of recovery was in most instances, startlingly abrupt. In\n      the mean time my own disease for I have been told that I should\n      call it by no other appellation my own disease, then, grew\n      rapidly upon me, and assumed finally a monomaniac character of a\n      novel and extraordinary form hourly and momently gaining\n      vigor and at length obtaining over me the most incomprehensible\n      ascendancy. This monomania, if I must so term it, consisted in a\n      morbid irritability of those properties of the mind in\n      metaphysical science termed the _attentive_. It is more than\n      probable that I am not understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is\n      in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general\n      reader, an adequate idea of that nervous _intensity of interest_\n      with which, in my case, the powers of meditation (not to speak\n      technically) busied and buried themselves, in the contemplation\n      of even the most ordinary objects of the universe.\n\n      To muse for long unwearied hours, with my attention riveted to\n      some frivolous device on the margin, or in the typography of a\n      book; to become absorbed, for the better part of a summer s day,\n      in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry or upon the\n      floor; to lose myself, for an entire night, in watching the\n      steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire; to dream away\n      whole days over the perfume of a flower; to repeat, monotonously,\n      some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent\n      repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind; to\n      lose all sense of motion or physical existence, by means of\n      absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in:\n      such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries\n      induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed,\n      altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to\n      anything like analysis or explanation.\n\n      Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, earnest, and morbid\n      attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous,\n      must not be confounded in character with that ruminating\n      propensity common to all mankind, and more especially indulged in\n      by persons of ardent imagination. It was not even, as might be at\n      first supposed, an extreme condition, or exaggeration of such\n      propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct and different.\n      In the one instance, the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested\n      by an object usually _not_ frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight\n      of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions\n      issuing therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day-dream _often\n      replete with luxury_, he finds the _incitamentum_, or first cause\n      of his musings, entirely vanished and forgotten. In my case, the\n      primary object was _invariably frivolous_, although assuming,\n      through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and\n      unreal importance. Few deductions, if any, were made; and those\n      few pertinaciously returning in upon the original object as a\n      centre. The meditations were _never_ pleasurable; and, at the\n      termination of the reverie, the first cause, so far from being\n      out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated\n      interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a\n      word, the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with\n      me, as I have said before, the _attentive_, and are, with the\n      day-dreamer, the _speculative_.\n\n      My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to\n      irritate the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in\n      their imaginative and inconsequential nature, of the\n      characteristic qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember,\n      among others, the treatise of the noble Italian, Coelius Secundus\n      Curio,  _De Amplitudine Beati Regni Dei;_  St. Austin s great\n      work, the  City of God;  and Tertullian s  _De Carne Christi_, \n      in which the paradoxical sentence  _Mortuus est Dei filius;\n      credible est quia ineptum est: et sepultus resurrexit; certum est\n      quia impossibile est,_  occupied my undivided time, for many\n      weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation.\n\n      Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial\n      things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of\n      by Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of\n      human violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds,\n      trembled only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel. And\n      although, to a careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond\n      doubt, that the alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the\n      _moral_ condition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for\n      the exercise of that intense and abnormal meditation whose nature\n      I have been at some trouble in explaining, yet such was not in\n      any degree the case. In the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her\n      calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and, taking deeply to heart that\n      total wreck of her fair and gentle life, I did not fail to\n      ponder, frequently and bitterly, upon the wonder-working means by\n      which so strange a revolution had been so suddenly brought to\n      pass. But these reflections partook not of the idiosyncrasy of my\n      disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar\n      circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to its own\n      character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more\n      startling changes wrought in the _physical_ frame of Berenice in\n      the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal\n      identity.\n\n      During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely\n      I had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence,\n      feelings with me, _had never been_ of the heart, and my passions\n      _always were_ of the mind. Through the gray of the early\n      morning among the trellised shadows of the forest at noonday and\n      in the silence of my library at night she had flitted by my eyes,\n      and I had seen her not as the living and breathing Berenice, but\n      as the Berenice of a dream; not as a being of the earth, earthy,\n      but as the abstraction of such a being; not as a thing to admire,\n      but to analyze; not as an object of love, but as the theme of the\n      most abstruse although desultory speculation. And _now_ now I\n      shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet,\n      bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I called to\n      mind that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke\n      to her of marriage.\n\n      And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when,\n      upon an afternoon in the winter of the year one of those\n      unseasonably warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of\n      the beautiful Halcyon (*1), I sat, (and sat, as I thought,\n      alone,) in the inner apartment of the library. But, uplifting my\n      eyes, I saw that Berenice stood before me.\n\n      Was it my own excited imagination or the misty influence of the\n      atmosphere or the uncertain twilight of the chamber or the gray\n      draperies which fell around her figure that caused in it so\n      vacillating and indistinct an outline? I could not tell. She\n      spoke no word; and I not for worlds could I have uttered a\n      syllable. An icy chill ran through my frame; a sense of\n      insufferable anxiety oppressed me; a consuming curiosity pervaded\n      my soul; and sinking back upon the chair, I remained for some\n      time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted upon her\n      person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige\n      of the former being lurked in any single line of the contour. My\n      burning glances at length fell upon the face.\n\n      The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and\n      the once jetty hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the\n      hollow temples with innumerable ringlets, now of a vivid yellow,\n      and jarring discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the\n      reigning melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless,\n      and lustreless, and seemingly pupilless, and I shrank\n      involuntarily from their glassy stare to the contemplation of the\n      thin and shrunken lips. They parted; and in a smile of peculiar\n      meaning, _the teeth_ of the changed Berenice disclosed themselves\n      slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them, or\n      that, having done so, I had died!\n\n      The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found\n      that my cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the\n      disordered chamber of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and\n      would not be driven away, the white and ghastly _spectrum_ of the\n      teeth. Not a speck on their surface not a shade on their\n      enamel not an indenture in their edges but what that period of\n      her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I saw them\n      _now_ even more unequivocally than I beheld them _then_. The\n      teeth! the teeth! they were here, and there, and everywhere, and\n      visibly and palpably before me; long, narrow, and excessively\n      white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very\n      moment of their first terrible development. Then came the full\n      fury of my _monomania_, and I struggled in vain against its\n      strange and irresistible influence. In the multiplied objects of\n      the external world I had no thoughts but for the teeth. For these\n      I longed with a phrenzied desire. All other matters and all\n      different interests became absorbed in their single\n      contemplation. They they alone were present to the mental eye,\n      and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of my\n      mental life. I held them in every light. I turned them in every\n      attitude. I surveyed their characteristics. I dwelt upon their\n      peculiarities. I pondered upon their conformation. I mused upon\n      the alteration in their nature. I shuddered as I assigned to them\n      in imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even when\n      unassisted by the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of\n      Mademoiselle Salle it has been well said,  _Que tous ses pas\n      etaient des sentiments_,  and of Berenice I more seriously\n      believed _que toutes ses dents etaient des id es_. _Des\n      id es!_ ah here was the idiotic thought that destroyed me! _Des\n      id es!_ ah, _therefore_ it was that I coveted them so madly! I\n      felt that their possession could alone ever restore me to peace,\n      in giving me back to reason.\n\n      And the evening closed in upon me thus and then the darkness\n      came, and tarried, and went and the day again dawned and the\n      mists of a second night were now gathering around and still I sat\n      motionless in that solitary room and still I sat buried in\n      meditation and still the _phantasma_ of the teeth maintained its\n      terrible ascendancy, as, with the most vivid hideous\n      distinctness, it floated about amid the changing lights and\n      shadows of the chamber. At length there broke in upon my dreams a\n      cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause,\n      succeeded the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with many\n      low moanings of sorrow or of pain. I arose from my seat, and\n      throwing open one of the doors of the library, saw standing out\n      in the ante-chamber a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me\n      that Berenice was no more! She had been seized with epilepsy in\n      the early morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the\n      grave was ready for its tenant, and all the preparations for the\n      burial were completed.\n\n      I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there\n      alone. It seemed that I had newly awakened from a confused and\n      exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well\n      aware, that since the setting of the sun, Berenice had been\n      interred. But of that dreary period which intervened I had no\n      positive, at least no definite comprehension. Yet its memory was\n      replete with horror horror more horrible from being vague, and\n      terror more terrible from ambiguity. It was a fearful page in the\n      record my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and\n      unintelligible recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in\n      vain; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound,\n      the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be\n      ringing in my ears. I had done a deed what was it? I asked myself\n      the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of the chamber\n      answered me, _What was it?_ \n\n      On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little\n      box. It was of no remarkable character, and I had seen it\n      frequently before, for it was the property of the family\n      physician; but how came it _there_, upon my table, and why did I\n      shudder in regarding it? These things were in no manner to be\n      accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open pages of\n      a book, and to a sentence underscored therein. The words were the\n      singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat: _Dicebant mihi\n      sodales si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum\n      fore levatas_.  Why then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my\n      head erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body become\n      congealed within my veins?\n\n      There came a light tap at the library door and, pale as the\n      tenant of a tomb, a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were\n      wild with terror, and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky,\n      and very low. What said he? some broken sentences I heard. He\n      told of a wild cry disturbing the silence of the night of the\n      gathering together of the household of a search in the direction\n      of the sound; and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he\n      whispered me of a violated grave of a disfigured body enshrouded,\n      yet still breathing still palpitating _still alive_!\n\n      He pointed to garments; they were muddy and clotted with gore. I\n      spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand: it was indented\n      with the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some\n      object against the wall. I looked at it for some minutes: it was\n      a spade. With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the\n      box that lay upon it. But I could not force it open; and in my\n      tremor, it slipped from my hands, and fell heavily, and burst\n      into pieces; and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out\n      some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with thirty-two\n      small, white and ivory-looking substances that were scattered to\n      and fro about the floor.\n\n\n\n\nELEONORA\n\n\n     Sub conservatione form  specific  salva anima.\n                     _Raymond Lully_.\n\n      I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of\n      passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet\n      settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest\n      intelligence whether much that is glorious whether all that is\n      profound does not spring from disease of thought from moods of\n      mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who\n      dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who\n      dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses\n      of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have\n      been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn\n      something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere\n      knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless\n      or compassless into the vast ocean of the  light ineffable,  and\n      again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer,  agressi\n      sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi. \n\n      We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there\n      are two distinct conditions of my mental existence the condition\n      of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the\n      memory of events forming the first epoch of my life and a\n      condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and\n      to the recollection of what constitutes the second great era of\n      my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period,\n      believe; and to what I may relate of the later time, give only\n      such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt\n      it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.\n\n      She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and\n      distinctly these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the only\n      sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the name of my\n      cousin. We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun,\n      in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. No unguided footstep\n      ever came upon that vale; for it lay away up among a range of\n      giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the\n      sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its\n      vicinity; and, to reach our happy home, there was need of putting\n      back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees,\n      and of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant\n      flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of\n      the world without the valley I, and my cousin, and her mother.\n\n      From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our\n      encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river,\n      brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding\n      stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length,\n      through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those\n      whence it had issued. We called it the  River of Silence ; for\n      there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur\n      arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the\n      pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its\n      bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each\n      in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.\n\n      The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that\n      glided through devious ways into its channel, as well as the\n      spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths\n      of the streams until they reached the bed of pebbles at the\n      bottom, these spots, not less than the whole surface of the\n      valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled it in, were\n      carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even,\n      and vanilla-perfumed, but so besprinkled throughout with the\n      yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the\n      ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our hearts\n      in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God.\n\n      And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like\n      wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall\n      slender stems stood not upright, but slanted gracefully toward\n      the light that peered at noon-day into the centre of the valley.\n      Their mark was speckled with the vivid alternate splendor of\n      ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save the cheeks of\n      Eleonora; so that, but for the brilliant green of the huge leaves\n      that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying\n      with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of\n      Syria doing homage to their sovereign the Sun.\n\n      Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with\n      Eleonora before Love entered within our hearts. It was one\n      evening at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the\n      fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in each other s embrace,\n      beneath the serpent-like trees, and looked down within the water\n      of the River of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words\n      during the rest of that sweet day, and our words even upon the\n      morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the God Eros from\n      that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us the\n      fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for\n      centuries distinguished our race, came thronging with the fancies\n      for which they had been equally noted, and together breathed a\n      delirious bliss over the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A\n      change fell upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers,\n      star-shaped, burn out upon the trees where no flowers had been\n      known before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when,\n      one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up in\n      place of them, ten by ten of the ruby-red asphodel. And life\n      arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with\n      all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us.\n      The golden and silver fish haunted the river, out of the bosom of\n      which issued, little by little, a murmur that swelled, at length,\n      into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of\n       olus sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too,\n      a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in the regions of\n      Hesper, floated out thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and\n      settling in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower and lower,\n      until its edges rested upon the tops of the mountains, turning\n      all their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us up, as if\n      forever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory.\n\n      The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was\n      a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among\n      the flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated\n      her heart, and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we\n      walked together in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and\n      discoursed of the mighty changes which had lately taken place\n      therein.\n\n      At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad\n      change which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only\n      upon this one sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our\n      converse, as, in the songs of the bard of Schiraz, the same\n      images are found occurring, again and again, in every impressive\n      variation of phrase.\n\n      She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom that,\n      like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only\n      to die; but the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a\n      consideration which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight,\n      by the banks of the River of Silence. She grieved to think that,\n      having entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, I\n      would quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love\n      which now was so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer\n      and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly\n      at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself and to\n      Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any\n      daughter of Earth that I would in no manner prove recreant to her\n      dear memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which\n      she had blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe\n      to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I\n      invoked of Him and of her, a saint in Helusion should I prove\n      traitorous to that promise, involved a penalty the exceeding\n      great horror of which will not permit me to make record of it\n      here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my words;\n      and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been taken from her\n      breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but she made\n      acceptance of the vow, (for what was she but a child?) and it\n      made easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not\n      many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of what I\n      had done for the comfort of her spirit she would watch over me in\n      that spirit when departed, and, if so it were permitted her\n      return to me visibly in the watches of the night; but, if this\n      thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise,\n      that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her\n      presence, sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filling the\n      air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels.\n      And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent\n      life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own.\n\n      Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in\n      Time s path, formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with\n      the second era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over\n      my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But\n      let me on. Years dragged themselves along heavily, and still I\n      dwelled within the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass; but a second\n      change had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank\n      into the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of\n      the green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby-red asphodels\n      withered away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten,\n      dark, eye-like violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever\n      encumbered with dew. And Life departed from our paths; for the\n      tall flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us,\n      but flew sadly from the vale into the hills, with all the gay\n      glowing birds that had arrived in his company. And the golden and\n      silver fish swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our\n      domain and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling\n      melody that had been softer than the wind-harp of  olus, and more\n      divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it died little by\n      little away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until the stream\n      returned, at length, utterly, into the solemnity of its original\n      silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and,\n      abandoning the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell\n      back into the regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold\n      golden and gorgeous glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored\n      Grass.\n\n      Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the\n      sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams\n      of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley; and at\n      lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed my\n      brow came unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct murmurs\n      filled often the night air, and once oh, but once only! I was\n      awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the\n      pressing of spiritual lips upon my own.\n\n      But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I\n      longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At\n      length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and\n      I left it for ever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of\n      the world.\n\n      I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have\n      served to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed\n      so long in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps and\n      pageantries of a stately court, and the mad clangor of arms, and\n      the radiant loveliness of women, bewildered and intoxicated my\n      brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the\n      indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in\n      the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations they\n      ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood\n      aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible\n      temptations which beset me; for there came from some far, far\n      distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I\n      served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded\n      at once at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in\n      the most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What,\n      indeed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in\n      comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the\n      spirit-lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my\n      whole soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde? Oh,\n      bright was the seraph Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had\n      room for none other. Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as\n      I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought\n      only of them and of her.\n\n      I wedded nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness\n      was not visited upon me. And once but once again in the silence\n      of the night; there came through my lattice the soft sighs which\n      had forsaken me; and they modelled themselves into familiar and\n      sweet voice, saying:\n\n       Sleep in peace! for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and,\n      in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art\n      absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in\n      Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora. \n\n\n\n\nNOTES TO THE SECOND VOLUME\n\n\nNotes   Scheherazade\n\n      (*1) The coralites.\n\n      (*2)  One of the most remarkable natural curiosities in Texas is\n      a petrified forest, near the head of Pasigno river. It consists\n      of several hundred trees, in an erect position, all turned to\n      stone. Some trees, now growing, are partly petrified. This is a\n      startling fact for natural philosophers, and must cause them to\n      modify the existing theory of petrification. _Kennedy_.\n\n      This account, at first discredited, has since been corroborated\n      by the discovery of a completely petrified forest, near the head\n      waters of the Cheyenne, or Chienne river, which has its source in\n      the Black Hills of the rocky chain.\n\n      There is scarcely, perhaps, a spectacle on the surface of the\n      globe more remarkable, either in a geological or picturesque\n      point of view than that presented by the petrified forest, near\n      Cairo. The traveller, having passed the tombs of the caliphs,\n      just beyond the gates of the city, proceeds to the southward,\n      nearly at right angles to the road across the desert to Suez, and\n      after having travelled some ten miles up a low barren valley,\n      covered with sand, gravel, and sea shells, fresh as if the tide\n      had retired but yesterday, crosses a low range of sandhills,\n      which has for some distance run parallel to his path. The scene\n      now presented to him is beyond conception singular and desolate.\n      A mass of fragments of trees, all converted into stone, and when\n      struck by his horse s hoof ringing like cast iron, is seen to\n      extend itself for miles and miles around him, in the form of a\n      decayed and prostrate forest. The wood is of a dark brown hue,\n      but retains its form in perfection, the pieces being from one to\n      fifteen feet in length, and from half a foot to three feet in\n      thickness, strewed so closely together, as far as the eye can\n      reach, that an Egyptian donkey can scarcely thread its way\n      through amongst them, and so natural that, were it in Scotland or\n      Ireland, it might pass without remark for some enormous drained\n      bog, on which the exhumed trees lay rotting in the sun. The roots\n      and rudiments of the branches are, in many cases, nearly perfect,\n      and in some the worm-holes eaten under the bark are readily\n      recognizable. The most delicate of the sap vessels, and all the\n      finer portions of the centre of the wood, are perfectly entire,\n      and bear to be examined with the strongest magnifiers. The whole\n      are so thoroughly silicified as to scratch glass and are capable\n      of receiving the highest polish.  _Asiatic Magazine_.\n\n      (*3) The Mammoth Cave of Kentucky.\n\n      (*4) In Iceland, 1783.\n\n      (*5)  During the eruption of Hecla, in 1766, clouds of this kind\n      produced such a degree of darkness that, at Glaumba, which is\n      more than fifty leagues from the mountain, people could only find\n      their way by groping. During the eruption of Vesuvius, in 1794,\n      at Caserta, four leagues distant, people could only walk by the\n      light of torches. On the first of May, 1812, a cloud of volcanic\n      ashes and sand, coming from a volcano in the island of St.\n      Vincent, covered the whole of Barbadoes, spreading over it so\n      intense a darkness that, at mid-day, in the open air, one could\n      not perceive the trees or other objects near him, or even a white\n      handkerchief placed at the distance of six inches from the\n      eye._ Murray, p. 215, Phil. edit._\n\n      (*6) In the year 1790, in the Caraccas during an earthquake a\n      portion of the granite soil sank and left a lake eight hundred\n      yards in diameter, and from eighty to a hundred feet deep. It was\n      a part of the forest of Aripao which sank, and the trees remained\n      green for several months under the water. _Murray_, p. 221\n\n      (*7) The hardest steel ever manufactured may, under the action of\n      a blowpipe, be reduced to an impalpable powder, which will float\n      readily in the atmospheric air.\n\n      (*8) The region of the Niger. See Simmona s _Colonial Magazine_.\n\n      (*9) The _Myrmeleon_ lion-ant. The term  monster  is equally\n      applicable to small abnormal things and to great, while such\n      epithets as  vast  are merely comparative. The cavern of the\n      myrmeleon is vast in comparison with the hole of the common red\n      ant. A grain of silex is also a  rock. \n\n      (*10) The _Epidendron, Flos Aeris,_ of the family of the\n      _Orchideae_, grows with merely the surface of its roots attached\n      to a tree or other object, from which it derives no\n      nutriment subsisting altogether upon air.\n\n      (*11) The _Parasites,_ such as the wonderful _Rafflesia\n      Arnaldii_.\n\n      (*12) _Schouw_ advocates a class of plants that grow upon living\n      animals the _Plantae_ _Epizoae_. Of this class are the _Fuci_ and\n      _Algae_.\n\n      _Mr. J. B. Williams, of Salem, Mass._, presented the  National\n      Institute  with an insect from New Zealand, with the following\n      description:  _The Hotte_, a decided caterpillar, or worm, is\n      found gnawing at the root of the _Rota_ tree, with a plant\n      growing out of its head. This most peculiar and extraordinary\n      insect travels up both the _Rota_ and _Ferriri_ trees, and\n      entering into the top, eats its way, perforating the trunk of the\n      trees until it reaches the root, and dies, or remains dormant,\n      and the plant propagates out of its head; the body remains\n      perfect and entire, of a harder substance than when alive. From\n      this insect the natives make a coloring for tattooing.\n\n      (*13) In mines and natural caves we find a species of\n      cryptogamous _fungus_ that emits an intense phosphorescence.\n\n      (*14) The orchis, scabius and valisneria.\n\n      (*15) The corolla of this flower (_Aristolochia Clematitis_),\n      which is tubular, but terminating upwards in a ligulate limb, is\n      inflated into a globular figure at the base. The tubular part is\n      internally beset with stiff hairs, pointing downwards. The\n      globular part contains the pistil, which consists merely of a\n      germen and stigma, together with the surrounding stamens. But the\n      stamens, being shorter than the germen, cannot discharge the\n      pollen so as to throw it upon the stigma, as the flower stands\n      always upright till after impregnation. And hence, without some\n      additional and peculiar aid, the pollen must necessarily fan down\n      to the bottom of the flower. Now, the aid that nature has\n      furnished in this case, is that of the _Tiputa Pennicornis_, a\n      small insect, which entering the tube of the corrolla in quest of\n      honey, descends to the bottom, and rummages about till it becomes\n      quite covered with pollen; but not being able to force its way\n      out again, owing to the downward position of the hairs, which\n      converge to a point like the wires of a mouse-trap, and being\n      somewhat impatient of its confinement it brushes backwards and\n      forwards, trying every corner, till, after repeatedly traversing\n      the stigma, it covers it with pollen sufficient for its\n      impregnation, in consequence of which the flower soon begins to\n      droop, and the hairs to shrink to the sides of the tube,\n      effecting an easy passage for the escape of the insect. _Rev. P.\n      Keith-System of Physiological Botany_.\n\n      (*16) The bees ever since bees were have been constructing their\n      cells with just such sides, in just such number, and at just such\n      inclinations, as it has been demonstrated (in a problem involving\n      the profoundest mathematical principles) are the very sides, in\n      the very number, and at the very angles, which will afford the\n      creatures the most room that is compatible with the greatest\n      stability of structure.\n\n      During the latter part of the last century, the question arose\n      among mathematicians to determine the best form that can be\n      given to the sails of a windmill, according to their varying\n      distances from the revolving vanes, and likewise from the centres\n      of the revolution.  This is an excessively complex problem, for\n      it is, in other words, to find the best possible position at an\n      infinity of varied distances and at an infinity of points on the\n      arm. There were a thousand futile attempts to answer the query on\n      the part of the most illustrious mathematicians, and when at\n      length, an undeniable solution was discovered, men found that the\n      wings of a bird had given it with absolute precision ever since\n      the first bird had traversed the air.\n\n      (*17) He observed a flock of pigeons passing betwixt Frankfort\n      and the Indian territory, one mile at least in breadth; it took\n      up four hours in passing, which, at the rate of one mile per\n      minute, gives a length of 240 miles; and, supposing three pigeons\n      to each square yard, gives 2,230,272,000 Pigeons. _Travels in\n      Canada and the United States,  by Lieut. F. Hall._\n\n      (*18) The earth is upheld by a cow of a blue color, having horns\n      four hundred in number. _Sale s Koran_.\n\n      (*19)  The _Entozoa_, or intestinal worms, have repeatedly been\n      observed in the muscles, and in the cerebral substance of\n      men. See Wyatt s Physiology, p. 143.\n\n      (*20) On the Great Western Railway, between London and Exeter, a\n      speed of 71 miles per hour has been attained. A train weighing 90\n      tons was whirled from Paddington to Didcot (53 miles) in 51\n      minutes.\n\n      (*21) The _Eccalobeion_\n\n      (*22) M elzel s Automaton Chess-player.\n\n      (*23) Babbage s Calculating Machine.\n\n      (*24) _Chabert_, and since him, a hundred others.\n\n      (*25) The Electrotype.\n\n      (*26) _Wollaston_ made of platinum for the field of views in a\n      telescope a wire one eighteen-thousandth part of an inch in\n      thickness. It could be seen only by means of the microscope.\n\n      (*27) Newton demonstrated that the retina beneath the influence\n      of the violet ray of the spectrum, vibrated 900,000,000 of times\n      in a second.\n\n      (*28) Voltaic pile.\n\n      (*29) The Electro Telegraph Printing Apparatus.\n\n      (*30) The Electro telegraph transmits intelligence\n      instantaneously at least at so far as regards any distance upon\n      the earth.\n\n      (*31) Common experiments in Natural Philosophy. If two red rays\n      from two luminous points be admitted into a dark chamber so as to\n      fall on a white surface, and differ in their length by 0.0000258\n      of an inch, their intensity is doubled. So also if the difference\n      in length be any whole-number multiple of that fraction. A\n      multiple by 2 1/4, 3 1/4, &c., gives an intensity equal to one\n      ray only; but a multiple by 2 1/2, 3 1/2, &c., gives the result\n      of total darkness. In violet rays similar effects arise when the\n      difference in length is 0.000157 of an inch; and with all other\n      rays the results are the same the difference varying with a\n      uniform increase from the violet to the red.\n\n       Analogous experiments in respect to sound produce analogous\n      results. \n\n      (*32) Place a platina crucible over a spirit lamp, and keep it a\n      red heat; pour in some sulphuric acid, which, though the most\n      volatile of bodies at a common temperature, will be found to\n      become completely fixed in a hot crucible, and not a drop\n      evaporates being surrounded by an atmosphere of its own, it does\n      not, in fact, touch the sides. A few drops of water are now\n      introduced, when the acid, immediately coming in contact with the\n      heated sides of the crucible, flies off in sulphurous acid vapor,\n      and so rapid is its progress, that the caloric of the water\n      passes off with it, which falls a lump of ice to the bottom; by\n      taking advantage of the moment before it is allowed to remelt, it\n      may be turned out a lump of ice from a red-hot vessel.\n\n      (*33) The Daguerreotype.\n\n      (*34) Although light travels 167,000 miles in a second, the\n      distance of 61 Cygni (the only star whose distance is\n      ascertained) is so inconceivably great, that its rays would\n      require more than ten years to reach the earth. For stars beyond\n      this, 20 or even 1000 years would be a moderate estimate. Thus,\n      if they had been annihilated 20, or 1000 years ago, we might\n      still see them to-day by the light which started from their\n      surfaces 20 or 1000 years in the past time. That many which we\n      see daily are really extinct, is not impossible not even\n      improbable.\n\nNotes Maelstrom\n\n      (*1) See Archimedes,  _De Incidentibus in Fluido_. lib. 2.\n\nNotes Island of the Fay\n\n      (*1) Moraux is here derived from moeurs, and its meaning is\n       fashionable  or more strictly  of manners. \n\n      (*2) Speaking of the tides, Pomponius Mela, in his treatise  De\n      Situ Orbis,  says  either the world is a great animal, or  etc\n\n      (*3) Balzac in substance I do not remember the words\n\n      (*4) Florem putares nare per liquidum aethera. P. Commire.\n\nNotes   Domain of Arnheim\n\n      (*1) An incident, similar in outline to the one here imagined,\n      occurred, not very long ago, in England. The name of the\n      fortunate heir was Thelluson. I first saw an account of this\n      matter in the  Tour  of Prince Puckler Muskau, who makes the sum\n      inherited _ninety millions of pounds_, and justly observes that\n       in the contemplation of so vast a sum, and of the services to\n      which it might be applied, there is something even of the\n      sublime.  To suit the views of this article I have followed the\n      Prince s statement, although a grossly exaggerated one. The germ,\n      and in fact, the commencement of the present paper was published\n      many years ago previous to the issue of the first number of Sue s\n      admirable _Juif Errant_, which may possibly have been suggested\n      to him by Muskau s account.\n\nNotes Berenice\n\n      (*1) For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven\n      days of warmth, men have called this element and temperate time\n      the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon _Simonides_"
    },
    {
        "title": "The Mystery of the Yellow Room",
        "author": "Gaston Leroux",
        "category": "Mystery",
        "EN": "PREFACE\n\nBook I of this volume occupies a quarter or a third of the volume,\nand consists of matter written about four years ago, but not hitherto\npublished in book form. It contained errors of judgment and of fact. I\nhave now corrected these to the best of my ability and later knowledge.\n\n\nBook II was written at the beginning of 1903, and has not until\nnow appeared in any form. In it my purpose has been to present a\ncharacter-portrait of Mrs. Eddy, drawn from her own acts and words\nsolely, not from hearsay and rumor; and to explain the nature and scope\nof her Monarchy, as revealed in the Laws by which she governs it, and\nwhich she wrote herself.\n\nMARK TWAIN\n\nNEW YORK. January, 1907\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nVIENNA 1899.\n\nThis last summer, when I was on my way back to Vienna from the\nAppetite-Cure in the mountains, I fell over a cliff in the twilight, and\nbroke some arms and legs and one thing or another, and by good luck was\nfound by some peasants who had lost an ass, and they carried me to the\nnearest habitation, which was one of those large, low, thatch-roofed\nfarm-houses, with apartments in the garret for the family, and a cunning\nlittle porch under the deep gable decorated with boxes of bright colored\nflowers and cats; on the ground floor a large and light sitting-room,\nseparated from the milch-cattle apartment by a partition; and in the\nfront yard rose stately and fine the wealth and pride of the house, the\nmanure-pile. That sentence is Germanic, and shows that I am acquiring\nthat sort of mastery of the art and spirit of the language which enables\na man to travel all day in one sentence without changing cars.\n\nThere was a village a mile away, and a horse doctor lived there, but\nthere was no surgeon. It seemed a bad outlook; mine was distinctly\na surgery case. Then it was remembered that a lady from Boston was\nsummering in that village, and she was a Christian Science doctor and\ncould cure anything. So she was sent for. It was night by this time, and\nshe could not conveniently come, but sent word that it was no matter,\nthere was no hurry, she would give me  absent treatment  now, and come\nin the morning; meantime she begged me to make myself tranquil and\ncomfortable and remember that there was nothing the matter with me. I\nthought there must be some mistake.\n\n Did you tell her I walked off a cliff seventy-five feet high? \n\n Yes. \n\n And struck a boulder at the bottom and bounced? \n\n Yes. \n\n And struck another one and bounced again? \n\n Yes. \n\n And struck another one and bounced yet again? \n\n Yes. \n\n And broke the boulders? \n\n Yes. \n\n That accounts for it; she is thinking of the boulders. Why didn't you\ntell her I got hurt, too? \n\n I did. I told her what you told me to tell her: that you were now\nbut an incoherent series of compound fractures extending from your\nscalp-lock to your heels, and that the comminuted projections caused you\nto look like a hat-rack. \n\n And it was after this that she wished me to remember that there was\nnothing the matter with me? \n\n Those were her words. \n\n I do not understand it. I believe she has not diagnosed the case with\nsufficient care. Did she look like a person who was theorizing, or did\nshe look like one who has fallen off precipices herself and brings to\nthe aid of abstract science the confirmations of personal experience? \n\n Bitte? \n\nIt was too large a contract for the Stubenmadchen's vocabulary; she\ncouldn't call the hand. I allowed the subject to rest there, and asked\nfor something to eat and smoke, and something hot to drink, and a basket\nto pile my legs in; but I could not have any of these things.\n\n Why? \n\n She said you would need nothing at all. \n\n But I am hungry and thirsty, and in desperate pain. \n\n She said you would have these delusions, but must pay no attention\nto them. She wants you to particularly remember that there are no such\nthings as hunger and thirst and pain.''\n\n She does does she? \n\n It is what she said. \n\n Does she seem to be in full and functionable possession of her\nintellectual plant, such as it is? \n\n Bitte? \n\n Do they let her run at large, or do they tie her up? \n\n Tie her up? \n\n There, good-night, run along, you are a good girl, but your mental\nGeschirr is not arranged for light and airy conversation. Leave me to my\ndelusions. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nIt was a night of anguish, of course--at least, I supposed it was, for\nit had all the symptoms of it--but it passed at last, and the Christian\nScientist came, and I was glad She was middle-aged, and large and bony,\nand erect, and had an austere face and a resolute jaw and a Roman beak\nand was a widow in the third degree, and her name was Fuller. I was\neager to get to business and find relief, but she was distressingly\ndeliberate. She unpinned and unhooked and uncoupled her upholsteries one\nby one, abolished the wrinkles with a flirt of her hand, and hung the\narticles up; peeled off her gloves and disposed of them, got a book out\nof her hand-bag, then drew a chair to the bedside, descended into it\nwithout hurry, and I hung out my tongue. She said, with pity but without\npassion:\n\n Return it to its receptacle. We deal with the mind only, not with its\ndumb servants. \n\nI could not offer my pulse, because the connection was broken; but she\ndetected the apology before I could word it, and indicated by a negative\ntilt of her head that the pulse was another dumb servant that she had no\nuse for. Then I thought I would tell her my symptoms and how I felt, so\nthat she would understand the case; but that was another inconsequence,\nshe did not need to know those things; moreover, my remark about how I\nfelt was an abuse of language, a misapplication of terms.\n\n One does not feel,  she explained;  there is no such thing as\nfeeling: therefore, to speak of a non-existent thing as existent is a\ncontradiction. Matter has no existence; nothing exists but mind; the\nmind cannot feel pain, it can only imagine it. \n\n But if it hurts, just the same-- \n\n It doesn't. A thing which is unreal cannot exercise the functions of\nreality. Pain is unreal; hence, pain cannot hurt. \n\nIn making a sweeping gesture to indicate the act of shooing the illusion\nof pain out of the mind, she raked her hand on a pin in her dress, said\n Ouch!  and went tranquilly on with her talk.  You should never allow\nyourself to speak of how you feel, nor permit others to ask you how\nyou are feeling; you should never concede that you are ill, nor permit\nothers to talk about disease or pain or death or similar nonexistences\nin your presence. Such talk only encourages the mind to continue its\nempty imaginings.  Just at that point the Stuben-madchen trod on the\ncat's tail, and the cat let fly a frenzy of cat-profanity. I asked, with\ncaution:\n\n Is a cat's opinion about pain valuable? \n\n A cat has no opinion; opinions proceed from mind only; the lower\nanimals, being eternally perishable, have not been granted mind; without\nmind, opinion is impossible. \n\n She merely imagined she felt a pain--the cat? \n\n She cannot imagine a pain, for imagining is an effect of mind; without\nmind, there is no imagination. A cat has no imagination. \n\n Then she had a real pain? \n\n I have already told you there is no such thing as real pain. \n\n It is strange and interesting. I do wonder what was the matter with\nthe cat. Because, there being no such thing as a real pain, and she not\nbeing able to imagine an imaginary one, it would seem that God in His\npity has compensated the cat with some kind of a mysterious emotion\nusable when her tail is trodden on which, for the moment, joins cat and\nChristian in one common brotherhood of-- \n\nShe broke in with an irritated--\n\n Peace! The cat feels nothing, the Christian feels nothing. Your empty\nand foolish imaginings are profanation and blasphemy, and can do you an\ninjury. It is wiser and better and holier to recognize and confess that\nthere is no such thing as disease or pain or death. \n\n I am full of imaginary tortures,  I said,  but I do not think I could\nbe any more uncomfortable if they were real ones. What must I do to get\nrid of them? \n\n There is no occasion to get rid of them since they do not exist. They\nare illusions propagated by matter, and matter has no existence; there\nis no such thing as matter. \n\n It sounds right and clear, but yet it seems in a degree elusive; it\nseems to slip through, just when you think you are getting a grip on\nit. \n\n Explain. \n\n Well, for instance: if there is no such thing as matter, how can matter\npropagate things? \n\nIn her compassion she almost smiled. She would have smiled if there were\nany such thing as a smile.\n\n It is quite simple,  she said;  the fundamental propositions of\nChristian Science explain it, and they are summarized in the four\nfollowing self-evident propositions: 1. God is All in all. 2. God is\ngood. Good is Mind 3. God, Spirit, being all, nothing is matter 4. Life,\nGod, omnipotent Good, deny death, evil, sin, disease.\n\n There--now you see. \n\nIt seemed nebulous; it did not seem to say anything about the difficulty\nin hand--how non-existent matter can propagate illusions I said, with\nsome hesitancy:\n\n Does--does it explain? \n\n Doesn't it? Even if read backward it will do it. \n\nWith a budding hope, I asked her to do it backwards.\n\n Very well. Disease sin evil death deny Good omnipotent God life matter\nis nothing all being Spirit God Mind is Good good is God all in All is\nGod. There do you understand now?\n\n It--it--well, it is plainer than it was before; still-- \n\n Well? \n\n Could you try it some more ways? \n\n As many as you like; it always means the same. Interchanged in any way\nyou please it cannot be made to mean anything different from what it\nmeans when put in any other way. Because it is perfect. You can jumble\nit all up, and it makes no difference: it always comes out the way it\nwas before. It was a marvelous mind that produced it. As a mental tour\nde force it is without a mate, it defies alike the simple, the concrete,\nand the occult. \n\n It seems to be a corker. \n\nI blushed for the word, but it was out before I could stop it.\n\n A what? \n\n A--wonderful structure--combination, so to speak, of profound\nthoughts--unthinkable ones--um-- \n\n It is true. Read backward, or forward, or perpendicularly, or at any\ngiven angle, these four propositions will always be found to agree in\nstatement and proof. \n\n Ah--proof. Now we are coming at it. The statements agree; they agree\nwith--with--anyway, they agree; I noticed that; but what is it they\nprove I mean, in particular? \n\n Why, nothing could be clearer. They prove:\n\n 1. GOD--Principle, Life, Truth, Love, Soul, Spirit, Mind. Do you get\nthat? \n\n I--well, I seem to. Go on, please. \n\n 2. MAN--God's universal idea, individual, perfect, eternal. Is it\nclear? \n\n It--I think so. Continue. \n\n 3. IDEA--An image in Mind; the immediate object of understanding. There\nit is--the whole sublime Arcana of Christian Science in a nutshell. Do\nyou find a weak place in it anywhere? \n\n Well--no; it seems strong. \n\n Very well There is more. Those three constitute the Scientific\nDefinition of Immortal Mind. Next, we have the Scientific Definition\nof Mortal Mind. Thus. FIRST DEGREE: Depravity I. Physical-Passions and\nappetites, fear, depraved will, pride, envy, deceit, hatred, revenge,\nsin, disease, death. \n\n Phantasms, madam--unrealities, as I understand it. \n\n Every one. SECOND DEGREE: Evil Disappearing. I. Moral-Honesty,\naffection, compassion, hope, faith, meekness, temperance. Is it clear? \n\n Crystal. \n\n THIRD DEGREE: Spiritual Salvation. I. Spiritual-Faith, wisdom, power,\npurity, understanding, health, love. You see how searchingly and\nco-ordinately interdependent and anthropomorphous it all is. In this\nThird Degree, as we know by the revelations of Christian Science, mortal\nmind disappears. \n\n Not earlier? \n\n No, not until the teaching and preparation for the Third Degree are\ncompleted. \n\n It is not until then that one is enabled to take hold of Christian\nScience effectively, and with the right sense of sympathy and kinship,\nas I understand you. That is to say, it could not succeed during the\nprocesses of the Second Degree, because there would still be remains\nof mind left; and therefore--but I interrupted you. You were about\nto further explain the good results proceeding from the erosions and\ndisintegrations effected by the Third Degree. It is very interesting; go\non, please. \n\n Yes, as I was saying, in this Third Degree mortal mind disappears.\nScience so reverses the evidence before the corporeal human senses as\nto make this scriptural testimony true in our hearts, 'the last shall\nbe first and the first shall be last,' that God and His idea may be to\nus--what divinity really is, and must of necessity be all-inclusive. \n\n It is beautiful. And with what exhaustive exactness your choice and\narrangement of words confirm and establish what you have claimed for\nthe powers and functions of the Third Degree. The Second could probably\nproduce only temporary absence of mind; it is reserved to the Third to\nmake it permanent. A sentence framed under the auspices of the\nSecond could have a kind of meaning--a sort of deceptive semblance of\nit--whereas it is only under the magic of the Third that that defect\nwould disappear. Also, without doubt, it is the Third Degree that\ncontributes another remarkable specialty to Christian Science--viz.,\nease and flow and lavishness of words, and rhythm and swing and\nsmoothness. There must be a special reason for this? \n\n Yes--God--all, all--God, good God, non-Matter, Matteration, Spirit,\nBones, Truth. \n\n That explains it. \n\n There is nothing in Christian Science that is not explicable; for God\nis one, Time is one, Individuality is one, and may be one of a series,\none of many, as an individual man, individual horse; whereas God is one,\nnot one of a series, but one alone and without an equal. \n\n These are noble thoughts. They make one burn to know more. How does\nChristian Science explain the spiritual relation of systematic duality\nto incidental deflection? \n\n Christian Science reverses the seeming relation of Soul and body--as\nastronomy reverses the human perception of the movement of the solar\nsystem--and makes body tributary to the Mind. As it is the earth which\nis in motion, While the sun is at rest, though in viewing the sun rise\none finds it impossible to believe the sun not to be really rising, so\nthe body is but the humble servant of the restful Mind, though it seems\notherwise to finite sense; but we shall never understand this while we\nadmit that soul is in body, or mind in matter, and that man is included\nin non-intelligence. Soul is God, unchangeable and eternal; and man\ncoexists with and reflects Soul, for the All-in-all is the Altogether,\nand the Altogether embraces the All-one, Soul-Mind, Mind-Soul, Love,\nSpirit, Bones, Liver, one of a series, alone and without an equal. \n\n What is the origin of Christian Science? Is it a gift of God, or did it\njust happen? \n\n In a sense, it is a gift of God. That is to say, its powers are from\nHim, but the credit of the discovery of the powers and what they are for\nis due to an American lady. \n\n Indeed? When did this occur? \n\n In 1866. That is the immortal date when pain and disease and death\ndisappeared from the earth to return no more forever. That is, the\nfancies for which those terms stand disappeared. The things themselves\nhad never existed; therefore, as soon as it was perceived that there\nwere no such things, they were easily banished. The history and nature\nof the great discovery are set down in the book here, and-- \n\n Did the lady write the book? \n\n Yes, she wrote it all, herself. The title is Science and Health, with\nKey to the Scriptures--for she explains the Scriptures; they were not\nunderstood before. Not even by the twelve Disciples. She begins thus--I\nwill read it to you. \n\nBut she had forgotten to bring her glasses.\n\n Well, it is no matter,  she said.  I remember the words--indeed, all\nChristian Scientists know the book by heart; it is necessary in our\npractice. We should otherwise make mistakes and do harm. She begins\nthus: 'In the year 1866 I discovered the Science of Metaphysical\nHealing, and named it Christian Science.' And She says quite\nbeautifully, I think--'Through Christian Science, religion and medicine\nare inspired with a diviner nature and essence, fresh pinions are\ngiven to faith and understanding, and thoughts acquaint themselves\nintelligently with God.' Her very words. \n\n It is elegant. And it is a fine thought, too--marrying religion to\nmedicine, instead of medicine to the undertaker in the old way; for\nreligion and medicine properly belong together, they being the basis of\nall spiritual and physical health. What kind of medicine do you give for\nthe ordinary diseases, such as-- \n\n We never give medicine in any circumstances whatever! We-- \n\n But, madam, it says-- \n\n I don't care what it says, and I don't wish to talk about it. \n\n I am sorry if I have offended, but you see the mention seemed in some\nway inconsistent, and-- \n\n There are no inconsistencies in Christian Science. The thing is\nimpossible, for the Science is absolute. It cannot be otherwise, since\nit proceeds directly from the All-in-all and the Everything-in-Which,\nalso Soul, Bones, Truth, one of a series, alone and without equal. It is\nMathematics purified from material dross and made spiritual. \n\n I can see that, but-- \n\n It rests upon the immovable basis of an Apodictical Principle. \n\nThe word flattened itself against my mind in trying to get in, and\ndisordered me a little, and before I could inquire into its pertinency,\nshe was already throwing the needed light:\n\n This Apodictical Principle is the absolute Principle of Scientific\nMind-healing, the sovereign Omnipotence which delivers the children of\nmen from pain, disease, decay, and every ill that flesh is heir to. \n\n Surely not every ill, every decay? \n\n Every one; there are no exceptions; there is no such thing as decay--it\nis an unreality, it has no existence. \n\n But without your glasses your failing eyesight does not permit you\nto-- \n\n My eyesight cannot fail; nothing can fail; the Mind is master, and the\nMind permits no retrogression. \n\nShe was under the inspiration of the Third Degree, therefore there could\nbe no profit in continuing this part of the subject. I shifted to other\nground and inquired further concerning the Discoverer of the Science.\n\n Did the discovery come suddenly, like Klondike, or after long study and\ncalculation, like America? \n\n The comparisons are not respectful, since they refer to\ntrivialities--but let it pass. I will answer in the Discoverer's own\nwords: 'God had been graciously fitting me, during many years, for the\nreception of a final revelation of the absolute Principle of Scientific\nMind-healing.' \n\n Many years. How many? \n\n Eighteen centuries! \n\n All--God, God--good, good--God, Truth, Bones, Liver, one of a series,\nalone and without equal--it is amazing! \n\n You may well say it, sir. Yet it is but the truth This American lady,\nour revered and sacred Founder, is distinctly referred to, and her\ncoming prophesied, in the twelfth chapter of the Apocalypse; she could\nnot have been more plainly indicated by St. John without actually\nmentioning her name. \n\n How strange, how wonderful! \n\n I will quote her own words, from her Key to the Scriptures: 'The\ntwelfth chapter of the Apocalypse has a special suggestiveness in\nconnection with this nineteenth century.' There--do you note that?\nThink--note it well. \n\n\n But--what does it mean? \n\n Listen, and you will know. I quote her inspired words again: 'In the\nopening of the Sixth Seal, typical of six thousand years since Adam,\nthere is one distinctive feature which has special reference to the\npresent age. Thus:\n\n 'Revelation xii. I. And there appeared a great wonder in heaven--a\nwoman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her\nhead a crown of twelve stars.'\n\n That is our Head, our Chief, our Discoverer of Christian\nScience--nothing can be plainer, nothing surer. And note this:\n\n 'Revelation xii. 6. And the woman fled into the wilderness, where she\nhad a place prepared of God.'\n\n That is Boston. I recognize it, madam. These are sublime things, and\nimpressive; I never understood these passages before; please go on with\nthe--with the--proofs. \n\n Very well. Listen:\n\n 'And I saw another mighty angel come down from heaven, clothed with a\ncloud; and a rainbow was upon his head, and his face was as it were the\nsun, and his feet as pillars of fire. And he held in his hand a little\nbook.'\n\n A little book, merely a little book--could words be modester? Yet how\nstupendous its importance! Do you know what book that was? \n\n Was it-- \n\n I hold it in my hand--Christian Science! \n\n Love, Livers, Lights, Bones, Truth, Kidneys, one of a series, alone and\nwithout equal--it is beyond imagination for wonder! \n\n Hear our Founder's eloquent words: 'Then will a voice from harmony cry,\n Go and take the little book: take it and eat it up, and it shall make\nthy belly bitter; but it shall be in thy mouth sweet as honey. \n Mortal, obey the heavenly evangel. Take up Divine Science. Read it from\nbeginning to end. Study it, ponder it. It will be, indeed, sweet at its\nfirst taste, when it heals you; but murmur not over Truth, if you find\nits digestion bitter.' You now know the history of our dear and holy\nScience, sir, and that its origin is not of this earth, but only its\ndiscovery. I will leave the book with you and will go, now; but give\nyourself no uneasiness--I will give you absent treatment from now till I\ngo to bed. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nUnder the powerful influence of the near treatment and the absent\ntreatment together, my bones were gradually retreating inward and\ndisappearing from view. The good work took a brisk start, now, and went\non swiftly. My body was diligently straining and stretching, this way\nand that, to accommodate the processes of restoration, and every minute\nor two I heard a dull click inside and knew that the two ends of\na fracture had been successfully joined. This muffled clicking and\ngritting and grinding and rasping continued during the next three\nhours, and then stopped--the connections had all been made. All except\ndislocations; there were only seven of these: hips, shoulders, knees,\nneck; so that was soon over; one after another they slipped into their\nsockets with a sound like pulling a distant cork, and I jumped up as\ngood as new, as to framework, and sent for the horse-doctor.\n\nI was obliged to do this because I had a stomach-ache and a cold in\nthe head, and I was not willing to trust these things any longer in the\nhands of a woman whom I did not know, and whose ability to successfully\ntreat mere disease I had lost all confidence. My position was justified\nby the fact that the cold and the ache had been in her charge from the\nfirst, along with the fractures, but had experienced not a shade of\nrelief; and, indeed, the ache was even growing worse and worse, and more\nand more bitter, now, probably on account of the protracted abstention\nfrom food and drink.\n\nThe horse-doctor came, a pleasant man and full of hope and professional\ninterest in the case. In the matter of smell he was pretty aromatic--in\nfact, quite horsy--and I tried to arrange with him for absent treatment,\nbut it was not in his line, so, out of delicacy, I did not press it.\nHe looked at my teeth and examined my hock, and said my age and general\ncondition were favorable to energetic measures; therefore he would give\nme something to turn the stomach-ache into the botts and the cold in\nthe head into the blind staggers; then he should be on his own beat\nand would know what to do. He made up a bucket of bran-mash, and said\na dipperful of it every two hours, alternated with a drench with\nturpentine and axle-grease in it, would either knock my ailments out of\nme in twenty-four hours, or so interest me in other ways as to make me\nforget they were on the premises. He administered my first dose himself,\nthen took his leave, saying I was free to eat and drink anything I\npleased and in any quantity I liked. But I was not hungry any more, and\ndid not care for food.\n\nI took up the Christian Science book and read half of it, then took a\ndipperful of drench and read the other half. The resulting experiences\nwere full of interest and adventure. All through the rumblings and\ngrindings and quakings and effervescings accompanying the evolution of\nthe ache into the botts and the cold into the blind staggers I could\nnote the generous struggle for mastery going on between the mash and the\ndrench and the literature; and often I could tell which was ahead, and\ncould easily distinguish the literature from the others when the others\nwere separate, though not when they were mixed; for when a bran-mash\nand an eclectic drench are mixed together they look just like the\nApodictical Principle out on a lark, and no one can tell it from that.\nThe finish was reached at last, the evolutions were complete, and a\nfine success, but I think that this result could have been achieved with\nfewer materials. I believe the mash was necessary to the conversion of\nthe stomach-ache into the botts, but I think one could develop the blind\nstaggers out of the literature by itself; also, that blind staggers\nproduced in this way would be of a better quality and more lasting than\nany produced by the artificial processes of the horse-doctor.\n\nFor of all the strange and frantic and incomprehensible and\nuninterpretable books which the imagination of man has created, surely\nthis one is the prize sample. It is written with a limitless confidence\nand complacency, and with a dash and stir and earnestness which often\ncompel the effects of eloquence, even when the words do not seem to\nhave any traceable meaning. There are plenty of people who imagine they\nunderstand the book; I know this, for I have talked with them; but in\nall cases they were people who also imagined that there were no such\nthings as pain, sickness, and death, and no realities in the world;\nnothing actually existent but Mind. It seems to me to modify the value\nof their testimony. When these people talk about Christian Science\nthey do as Mrs. Fuller did: they do not use their own language, but the\nbook's; they pour out the book's showy incoherences, and leave you to\nfind out later that they were not originating, but merely quoting;\nthey seem to know the volume by heart, and to revere it as they would\na Bible--another Bible, perhaps I ought to say. Plainly the book was\nwritten under the mental desolations of the Third Degree, and I feel\nsure that none but the membership of that Degree can discover meanings\nin it. When you read it you seem to be listening to a lively and\naggressive and oracular speech delivered in an unknown tongue, a speech\nwhose spirit you get but not the particulars; or, to change the figure,\nyou seem to be listening to a vigorous instrument which is making a\nnoise which it thinks is a tune, but which, to persons not members of\nthe band, is only the martial tooting of a trombone, and merrily stirs\nthe soul through the noise, but does not convey a meaning.\n\nThe book's serenities of self-satisfaction do almost seem to smack of\na heavenly origin--they have no blood-kin in the earth. It is more than\nhuman to be so placidly certain about things, and so finely superior,\nand so airily content with one's performance. Without ever presenting\nanything which may rightfully be called by the strong name of Evidence,\nand sometimes without even mentioning a reason for a deduction at all,\nit thunders out the startling words,  I have Proved  so and so. It takes\nthe Pope and all the great guns of his Church in battery assembled to\nauthoritatively settle and establish the meaning of a sole and single\nunclarified passage of Scripture, and this at vast cost of time and\nstudy and reflection, but the author of this work is superior to all\nthat: she finds the whole Bible in an unclarified audition, and at small\nexpense of time and no expense of mental effort she clarifies it from\nlid to lid, reorganizes and improves the meanings, then authoritatively\nsettles and establishes them with formulas which you cannot tell from\n Let there be light!  and  Here you have it!  It is the first time since\nthe dawn-days of Creation that a Voice has gone crashing through space\nwith such placid and complacent confidence and command.\n\n[January, 1903. The first reading of any book whose terminology is\nnew and strange is nearly sure to leave the reader in a bewildered and\nsarcastic state of mind. But now that, during the past two months,\nI have, by diligence gained a fair acquaintanceship with Science and\nHealth technicalities, I no longer find the bulk of that work hard to\nunderstand.--M. T.]\n\nP.S. The wisdom harvested from the foregoing thoughts has already done\nme a service and saved me a sorrow. Nearly a month ago there came to me\nfrom one of the universities a tract by Dr. Edward Anthony Spitzka on\nthe  Encephalic Anatomy of the Races.  I judged that my opinion was\ndesired by the university, and I was greatly pleased with this attention\nand wrote and said I would furnish it as soon as I could. That night\nI put my plodding and disheartening Christian Science mining aside and\ntook hold of the matter. I wrote an eager chapter, and was expecting to\nfinish my opinion the next day, but was called away for a week, and my\nmind was soon charged with other interests. It was not until to-day,\nafter the lapse of nearly a month, that I happened upon my Encephalic\nchapter again. Meantime, the new wisdom had come to me, and I read it\nwith shame. I recognized that I had entered upon that work in far from\nthe right temper--far from the respectful and judicial spirit which was\nits due of reverence. I had begun upon it with the following paragraph\nfor fuel:\n\n FISSURES OF THE PARIETAL AND OCCIPITAL LOBES (LATERAL SURFACE).--The\nPostcentral Fissural Complex--In this hemicerebrum, the postcentral and\nsubcentral are combined to form a continuous fissure, attaining a length\nof 8.5 cm. Dorsally, the fissure bifurcates, embracing the gyre\nindented by the caudal limb of the paracentral. The caudal limb of the\npostcentral is joined by a transparietal piece. In all, five additional\nrami spring from the combined fissure. A vadum separates it from the\nparietal; another from the central. \n\nIt humiliates me, now, to see how angry I got over that; and how\nscornful. I said that the style was disgraceful; that it was labored and\ntumultuous, and in places violent, that the treatment was involved and\nerratic, and almost, as a rule, bewildering; that to lack of simplicity\nwas added a lack of vocabulary; that there was quite too much feeling\nshown; that if I had a dog that would get so excited and incoherent over\na tranquil subject like Encephalic Anatomy I would not pay his tax; and\nat that point I got excited myself and spoke bitterly of these mongrel\ninsanities, and said a person might as well try to understand Science\nand Health.\n\n[I know, now, where the trouble was, and am glad of the interruption\nthat saved me from sending my verdict to the university. It makes me\ncold to think what those people might have thought of me.--M. T.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nNo one doubts--certainly not I--that the mind exercises a powerful\ninfluence over the body. From the beginning of time, the sorcerer, the\ninterpreter of dreams, the fortune-teller, the charlatan, the quack,\nthe wild medicine-man, the educated physician, the mesmerist, and the\nhypnotist have made use of the client's imagination to help them in\ntheir work. They have all recognized the potency and availability of\nthat force. Physicians cure many patients with a bread pill; they know\nthat where the disease is only a fancy, the patient's confidence in the\ndoctor will make the bread pill effective.\n\nFaith in the doctor. Perhaps that is the entire thing. It seems to look\nlike it. In old times the King cured the king's evil by the touch of the\nroyal hand. He frequently made extraordinary cures. Could his footman\nhave done it? No--not in his own clothes. Disguised as the King, could\nhe have done it? I think we may not doubt it. I think we may feel sure\nthat it was not the King's touch that made the cure in any instance,\nbut the patient's faith in the efficacy of a King's touch. Genuine and\nremarkable cures have been achieved through contact with the relics of a\nsaint. Is it not likely that any other bones would have done as well if\nthe substitution had been concealed from the patient? When I was a boy a\nfarmer's wife who lived five miles from our village had great fame as\na faith-doctor--that was what she called herself. Sufferers came to\nher from all around, and she laid her hand upon them and said,  Have\nfaith--it is all that is necessary,  and they went away well of their\nailments. She was not a religious woman, and pretended to no occult\npowers. She said that the patient's faith in her did the work. Several\ntimes I saw her make immediate cures of severe toothaches. My mother was\nthe patient. In Austria there is a peasant who drives a great trade in\nthis sort of industry, and has both the high and the low for patients.\nHe gets into prison every now and then for practising without a diploma,\nbut his business is as brisk as ever when he gets out, for his work\nis unquestionably successful and keeps his reputation high. In Bavaria\nthere is a man who performed so many great cures that he had to retire\nfrom his profession of stage-carpentering in order to meet the demand\nof his constantly increasing body of customers. He goes on from year\nto year doing his miracles, and has become very rich. He pretends to no\nreligious helps, no supernatural aids, but thinks there is something in\nhis make-up which inspires the confidence of his patients, and that it\nis this confidence which does the work, and not some mysterious power\nissuing from himself.\n\nWithin the last quarter of a century, in America, several sects of\ncurers have appeared under various names and have done notable things in\nthe way of healing ailments without the use of medicines. There are the\nMind Cure the Faith Cure, the Prayer Cure, the Mental Science Cure, and\nthe Christian-Science Cure; and apparently they all do their miracles\nwith the same old, powerful instrument--the patient's imagination.\nDiffering names, but no difference in the process. But they do not give\nthat instrument the credit; each sect claims that its way differs from\nthe ways of the others.\n\nThey all achieve some cures, there is no question about it; and the\nFaith Cure and the Prayer Cure probably do no harm when they do no good,\nsince they do not forbid the patient to help out the cure with medicines\nif he wants to; but the others bar medicines, and claim ability to cure\nevery conceivable human ailment through the application of their mental\nforces alone. There would seem to be an element of danger here. It has\nthe look of claiming too much, I think. Public confidence would probably\nbe increased if less were claimed.\n\nThe Christian Scientist was not able to cure my stomach-ache and my\ncold; but the horse-doctor did it. This convinces me that Christian\nScience claims too much. In my opinion it ought to let diseases alone\nand confine itself to surgery. There it would have everything its own\nway.\n\nThe horse-doctor charged me thirty kreutzers, and I paid him; in fact,\nI doubled it and gave him a shilling. Mrs. Fuller brought in an itemized\nbill for a crate of broken bones mended in two hundred and thirty-four\nplaces--one dollar per fracture.\n\n Nothing exists but Mind? \n\n Nothing,  she answered.  All else is substanceless, all else is\nimaginary. \n\nI gave her an imaginary check, and now she is suing me for substantial\ndollars. It looks inconsistent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nLet us consider that we are all partially insane. It will explain us to\neach other; it will unriddle many riddles; it will make clear and simple\nmany things which are involved in haunting and harassing difficulties\nand obscurities now.\n\nThose of us who are not in the asylum, and not demonstrably due there,\nare nevertheless, no doubt, insane in one or two particulars. I think\nwe must admit this; but I think that we are otherwise healthy-minded.\nI think that when we all see one thing alike, it is evidence that, as\nregards that one thing, our minds are perfectly sound. Now there are\nreally several things which we do all see alike; things which we all\naccept, and about which we do not dispute. For instance, we who are\noutside of the asylum all agree that water seeks its level; that the\nsun gives light and heat; that fire consumes; that fog is damp; that six\ntimes six are thirty-six, that two from ten leaves eight; that eight\nand seven are fifteen. These are, perhaps, the only things we are agreed\nabout; but, although they are so few, they are of inestimable value,\nbecause they make an infallible standard of sanity. Whosoever accepts\nthem him we know to be substantially sane; sufficiently sane; in the\nworking essentials, sane. Whoever disputes a single one of them him we\nknow to be wholly insane, and qualified for the asylum.\n\nVery well, the man who disputes none of them we concede to be entitled\nto go at large. But that is concession enough. We cannot go any further\nthan that; for we know that in all matters of mere opinion that same man\nis insane--just as insane as we are; just as insane as Shakespeare was.\nWe know exactly where to put our finger upon his insanity: it is where\nhis opinion differs from ours.\n\nThat is a simple rule, and easy to remember. When I, a thoughtful\nand unblessed Presbyterian, examine the Koran, I know that beyond any\nquestion every Mohammedan is insane; not in all things, but in religious\nmatters. When a thoughtful and unblessed Mohammedan examines the\nWestminster Catechism, he knows that beyond any question I am\nspiritually insane. I cannot prove to him that he is insane, because\nyou never can prove anything to a lunatic--for that is a part of his\ninsanity and the evidence of it. He cannot prove to me that I am insane,\nfor my mind has the same defect that afflicts his. All Democrats are\ninsane, but not one of them knows it; none but the Republicans and\nMugwumps know it. All the Republicans are insane, but only the Democrats\nand Mugwumps can perceive it. The rule is perfect: in all matters of\nopinion our adversaries are insane. When I look around me, I am often\ntroubled to see how many people are mad. To mention only a few:\n\nThe Atheist, The Theosophists, The Infidel, The Swedenborgians, The\nAgnostic, The Shakers, The Baptist, The Millerites, The Methodist, The\nMormons, The Christian Scientist, The Laurence Oliphant Harrisites, The\nCatholic, and the 115 Christian sects, the Presbyterian excepted,\nThe Grand Lama's people, The Monarchists, The Imperialists, The 72\nMohammedan sects, The Democrats, The Republicans (but not the\nMugwumps), The Buddhist, The Blavatsky-Buddhist, The Mind-Curists, The\nFaith-Curists, The Nationalist, The Mental Scientists, The Confucian,\nThe Spiritualist, The Allopaths, The 2000 East Indian sects, The\nHomeopaths, The Electropaths, The Peculiar People, The--\n\nBut there's no end to the list; there are millions of them! And all\ninsane; each in his own way; insane as to his pet fad or opinion,\nbut otherwise sane and rational. This should move us to be charitable\ntowards one another's lunacies. I recognize that in his special belief\nthe Christian Scientist is insane, because he does not believe as I\ndo; but I hail him as my mate and fellow, because I am as insane as he\ninsane from his point of view, and his point of view is as authoritative\nas mine and worth as much. That is to say, worth a brass farthing. Upon\na great religious or political question, the opinion of the dullest head\nin the world is worth the same as the opinion of the brightest head in\nthe world--a brass farthing. How do we arrive at this? It is simple.\nThe affirmative opinion of a stupid man is neutralized by the negative\nopinion of his stupid neighbor no decision is reached; the affirmative\nopinion of the intellectual giant Gladstone is neutralized by the\nnegative opinion of the intellectual giant Newman--no decision is\nreached. Opinions that prove nothing are, of course, without value any\nbut a dead person knows that much. This obliges us to admit the truth\nof the unpalatable proposition just mentioned above--that, in disputed\nmatters political and religious, one man's opinion is worth no more than\nhis peer's, and hence it followers that no man's opinion possesses any\nreal value. It is a humbling thought, but there is no way to get around\nit: all opinions upon these great subjects are brass-farthing opinions.\n\nIt is a mere plain, simple fact--as clear and as certain as that eight\nand seven make fifteen. And by it we recognize that we are all insane,\nas concerns those matters. If we were sane, we should all see a\npolitical or religious doctrine alike; there would be no dispute: it\nwould be a case of eight and seven--just as it is in heaven, where all\nare sane and none insane. There there is but one religion, one belief;\nthe harmony is perfect; there is never a discordant note.\n\nUnder protection of these preliminaries, I suppose I may now repeat\nwithout offence that the Christian Scientist is insane. I mean him\nno discourtesy, and I am not charging--nor even imagining--that he\nis insaner than the rest of the human race. I think he is more\npicturesquely insane than some of us. At the same time, I am quite sure\nthat in one important and splendid particular he is much saner than is\nthe vast bulk of the race.\n\nWhy is he insane? I told you before: it is because his opinions are not\nours. I know of no other reason, and I do not need any other; it is the\nonly way we have of discovering insanity when it is not violent. It\nis merely the picturesqueness of his insanity that makes it more\ninteresting than my kind or yours. For instance, consider his  little\nbook ; the  little book  exposed in the sky eighteen centuries ago by\nthe flaming angel of the Apocalypse, and handed down in our day to Mrs.\nMary Baker G. Eddy, of New Hampshire, and translated by her, word for\nword, into English (with help of a polisher), and now published and\ndistributed in hundreds of editions by her at a clear profit per volume,\nabove cost, of seven hundred per cent.!--a profit which distinctly\nbelongs to the angel of the Apocalypse, and let him collect it if he\ncan; a  little book  which the C.S. very frequently calls by just that\nname, and always enclosed in quotation-marks to keep its high origin\nexultantly in mind; a  little book  which  explains  and reconstructs\nand new-paints and decorates the Bible, and puts a mansard roof on it\nand a lightning-rod and all the other modern improvements; a  little\nbook  which for the present affects to travel in yoke with the Bible and\nbe friendly to it, and within half a century will hitch the Bible in the\nrear and thenceforth travel tandem, itself in the lead, in the coming\ngreat march of Christian Scientism through the Protestant dominions of\nthe planet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n Hungry ones throng to hear the Bible read in connection with the\ntext-book of Christian Science, Science and Health, with Key to the\nScriptures, by Mary Baker G. Eddy. These are our only preachers. They\nare the word of God.   Christian Science Journal , October, 1898.\n\nIs that picturesque? A lady has told me that in a chapel of the Mosque\nin Boston there is a picture or image of Mrs. Eddy, and that before it\nburns a never-extinguished light. Is that picturesque? How long do you\nthink it will be before the Christian Scientist will be worshipping that\npicture or image and praying to it? How long do you think it will\nbe before it is claimed that Mrs. Eddy is a Redeemer, a Christ, and\nChrist's equal? Already her army of disciples speak of her reverently as\n Our Mother. \n\nHow long will it be before they place her on the steps of the Throne\nbeside the Virgin--and, later, a step higher? First, Mary the Virgin and\nMary the Matron; later, with a change of precedence, Mary the Matron\nand Mary the Virgin. Let the artist get ready with his canvas and his\nbrushes; the new Renaissance is on its way, and there will be money in\naltar-canvases--a thousand times as much as the Popes and their Church\never spent on the Old Masters; for their riches were poverty as\ncompared with what is going to pour into the treasure-chest of the\nChristian-Scientist Papacy by-and-by, let us not doubt it. We will\nexamine the financial outlook presently and see what it promises. A\nfavorite subject of the new Old Master will be the first verse of the\ntwelfth chapter of Revelation--a verse which Mrs. Eddy says (in her\nAnnex to the Scriptures) has  one distinctive feature which has special\nreference to the present age --and to her, as is rather pointedly\nindicated:\n\n And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the\nsun, and the moon under her feet,  etc.\n\nThe woman clothed with the sun will be a portrait of Mrs. Eddy.\n\nIs it insanity to believe that Christian-Scientism is destined to make\nthe most formidable show that any new religion has made in the world\nsince the birth and spread of Mohammedanism, and that within a century\nfrom now it may stand second to Rome only, in numbers and power in\nChristendom?\n\nIf this is a wild dream it will not be easy to prove it so just yet, I\nthink. There seems argument that it may come true. The Christian-Science\n boom,  proper, is not yet five years old; yet already it has two\nhundred and fifty churches.\n\nIt has its start, you see, and it is a phenomenally good one. Moreover,\nit is latterly spreading with a constantly accelerating swiftness. It\nhas a better chance to grow and prosper and achieve permanency than any\nother existing  ism ; for it has more to offer than any other. The past\nteaches us that in order to succeed, a movement like this must not be\na mere philosophy, it must be a religion; also, that it must not claim\nentire originality, but content itself with passing for an improvement\non an existing religion, and show its hand later, when strong and\nprosperous--like Mohammedanism.\n\nNext, there must be money--and plenty of it.\n\nNext, the power and authority and capital must be concentrated in the\ngrip of a small and irresponsible clique, with nobody outside privileged\nto ask questions or find fault.\n\nNext, as before remarked, it must bait its hook with some new and\nattractive advantages over the baits offered by its competitors. A new\nmovement equipped with some of these endowments--like spiritualism, for\ninstance may count upon a considerable success; a new movement equipped\nwith the bulk of them--like Mohammedanism, for instance--may count upon\na widely extended conquest. Mormonism had all the requisites but one it\nhad nothing new and nothing valuable to bait with. Spiritualism lacked\nthe important detail of concentration of money and authority in the\nhands of an irresponsible clique.\n\nThe above equipment is excellent, admirable, powerful, but not perfect.\nThere is yet another detail which is worth the whole of it put together\nand more; a detail which has never been joined (in the beginning of\na religious movement) to a supremely good working equipment since the\nworld began, until now: a new personage to worship. Christianity had\nthe Saviour, but at first and for generations it lacked money and\nconcentrated power. In Mrs. Eddy, Christian Science possesses the new\npersonage for worship, and in addition--here in the very beginning--a\nworking equipment that has not a flaw in it. In the beginning,\nMohammedanism had no money; and it has never had anything to offer its\nclient but heaven--nothing here below that was valuable. In addition to\nheaven hereafter, Christian Science has present health and a cheerful\nspirit to offer; and in comparison with this bribe all other this-world\nbribes are poor and cheap. You recognize that this estimate is\nadmissible, do you not?\n\nTo whom does Bellamy's  Nationalism  appeal? Necessarily to the few:\npeople who read and dream, and are compassionate, and troubled for the\npoor and the hard-driven. To whom does Spiritualism appeal? Necessarily\nto the few; its  boom  has lasted for half a century, and I believe it\nclaims short of four millions of adherents in America. Who are attracted\nby Swedenborgianism and some of the other fine and delicate  isms ? The\nfew again: educated people, sensitively organized, with superior mental\nendowments, who seek lofty planes of thought and find their contentment\nthere. And who are attracted by Christian Science? There is no limit;\nits field is horizonless; its appeal is as universal as is the appeal\nof Christianity itself. It appeals to the rich, the poor, the high, the\nlow, the cultured, the ignorant, the gifted, the stupid, the modest,\nthe vain, the wise, the silly, the soldier, the civilian, the hero, the\ncoward, the idler, the worker, the godly, the godless, the freeman, the\nslave, the adult, the child; they who are ailing in body or mind,\nthey who have friends that are ailing in body or mind. To mass it in a\nphrase, its clientage is the Human Race. Will it march? I think so.\n\nRemember its principal great offer: to rid the Race of pain and disease.\nCan it do so? In large measure, yes. How much of the pain and disease in\nthe world is created by the imaginations of the sufferers, and then kept\nalive by those same imaginations? Four-fifths? Not anything short of\nthat, I should think. Can Christian Science banish that four-fifths? I\nthink so. Can any other (organized) force do it? None that I know of.\nWould this be a new world when that was accomplished? And a pleasanter\none--for us well people, as well as for those fussy and fretting sick\nones? Would it seem as if there was not as much gloomy weather as there\nused to be? I think so.\n\nIn the mean time, would the Scientist kill off a good many patients? I\nthink so. More than get killed off now by the legalized methods? I will\ntake up that question presently.\n\nAt present, I wish to ask you to examine some of the Scientist's\nperformances, as registered in his magazine, The Christian Science\nJournal--October number, 1898. First, a Baptist clergyman gives us this\ntrue picture of  the average orthodox Christian --and he could have\nadded that it is a true picture of the average (civilized) human being:\n\n He is a worried and fretted and fearful man; afraid of himself and his\npropensities, afraid of colds and fevers, afraid of treading on serpents\nor drinking deadly things. \n\nThen he gives us this contrast:\n\n The average Christian Scientist has put all anxiety and fretting under\nhis feet. He does have a victory over fear and care that is not achieved\nby the average orthodox Christian. \n\nHe has put all anxiety and fretting under his feet. What proportion of\nyour earnings or income would you be willing to pay for that frame of\nmind, year in, year out? It really outvalues any price that can be put\nupon it. Where can you purchase it, at any outlay of any sort, in any\nChurch or out of it, except the Scientist's?\n\nWell, it is the anxiety and fretting about colds, and fevers, and\ndraughts, and getting our feet wet, and about forbidden food eaten in\nterror of indigestion, that brings on the cold and the fever and the\nindigestion and the most of our other ailments; and so, if the Science\ncan banish that anxiety from the world I think it can reduce the world's\ndisease and pain about four-fifths.\n\nIn this October number many of the redeemed testify and give thanks;\nand not coldly, but with passionate gratitude. As a rule they seem\ndrunk with health, and with the surprise of it, the wonder of it, the\nunspeakable glory and splendor of it, after a long, sober spell spent in\ninventing imaginary diseases and concreting them with doctor-stuff.\nThe first witness testifies that when  this most beautiful Truth first\ndawned on him  he had  nearly all the ills that flesh is heir to ; that\nthose he did not have he thought he had--and this made the tale about\ncomplete. What was the natural result? Why, he was a dump-pit  for all\nthe doctors, druggists, and patent medicines of the country.  Christian\nScience came to his help, and  the old sick conditions passed away,  and\nalong with them the  dismal forebodings  which he had been accustomed\nto employ in conjuring up ailments. And so he was a healthy and cheerful\nman, now, and astonished.\n\nBut I am not astonished, for from other sources I know what must have\nbeen his method of applying Christian Science. If I am in the right, he\nwatchfully and diligently diverted his mind from unhealthy channels and\ncompelled it to travel in healthy ones. Nothing contrivable by human\ninvention could be more formidably effective than that, in banishing\nimaginary ailments and in closing the entrances against sub-sequent\napplicants of their breed. I think his method was to keep saying,  I\nam well! I am sound!--sound and well! well and sound! Perfectly sound,\nperfectly well! I have no pain; there's no such thing as pain! I have no\ndisease; there's no such thing as disease! Nothing is real but Mind; all\nis Mind, All-Good Good-Good, Life, Soul, Liver, Bones, one of a series,\nante and pass the buck! \n\nI do not mean that that was exactly the formula used, but that it\ndoubtless contains the spirit of it. The Scientist would attach value to\nthe exact formula, no doubt, and to the religious spirit in which it was\nused. I should think that any formula that would divert the mind from\nunwholesome channels and force it into healthy ones would answer every\npurpose with some people, though not with all. I think it most likely\nthat a very religious man would find the addition of the religious\nspirit a powerful reinforcement in his case.\n\nThe second witness testifies that the Science banished  an old organic\ntrouble,  which the doctor and the surgeon had been nursing with drugs\nand the knife for seven years.\n\nHe calls it his  claim.  A surface-miner would think it was not\nhis claim at all, but the property of the doctor and his pal the\nsurgeon--for he would be misled by that word, which is Christian-Science\nslang for  ailment.  The Christian Scientist has no ailment; to him\nthere is no such thing, and he will not use the hateful word. All that\nhappens to him is that upon his attention an imaginary disturbance\nsometimes obtrudes itself which claims to be an ailment but isn't.\n\nThis witness offers testimony for a clergyman seventy years old who had\npreached forty years in a Christian church, and has now gone over to the\nnew sect. He was  almost blind and deaf.  He was treated by the C. S.\nmethod, and  when he heard the voice of Truth he saw spiritually.  Saw\nspiritually? It is a little indefinite; they had better treat him again.\nIndefinite testimonies might properly be waste-basketed, since there is\nevidently no lack of definite ones procurable; but this C. S. magazine\nis poorly edited, and so mistakes of this kind must be expected.\n\nThe next witness is a soldier of the Civil War. When Christian Science\nfound him, he had in stock the following claims:\n\nIndigestion, Rheumatism, Catarrh, Chalky deposits in Shoulder-joints,\nArm-joints, Hand-joints, Insomnia, Atrophy of the muscles of Arms.\nShoulders, Stiffness of all those joints, Excruciating pains most of the\ntime.\n\nThese claims have a very substantial sound. They came of exposure in the\ncampaigns. The doctors did all they could, but it was little. Prayers\nwere tried, but  I never realized any physical relief from that source. \n After thirty years of torture, he went to a Christian Scientist and took\nan hour's treatment and went home painless. Two days later, he  began\nto eat like a well man.  Then  the claims vanished--some at once, others\nmore gradually ; finally,  they have almost entirely disappeared. \n And--a thing which is of still greater value--he is now  contented and\nhappy.  That is a detail which, as earlier remarked, is a Scientist\nChurch specialty. And, indeed, one may go further and assert with\nlittle or no exaggeration that it is a Christian-Science monopoly. With\nthirty-one years' effort, the Methodist Church had not succeeded in\nfurnishing it to this harassed soldier.\n\nAnd so the tale goes on. Witness after witness bulletins his claims,\ndeclares their prompt abolishment, and gives Mrs. Eddy's Discovery the\npraise. Milk-leg is cured; nervous prostration is cured; consumption is\ncured; and St. Vitus's dance is made a pastime. Even without a fiddle.\nAnd now and then an interesting new addition to the Science slang\nappears on the page. We have  demonstrations over chilblains  and such\nthings. It seems to be a curtailed way of saying  demonstrations of\nthe power of Christian-Science Truth over the fiction which masquerades\nunder the name of Chilblains.  The children, as well as the adults,\nshare in the blessings of the Science.  Through the study of the 'little\nbook' they are learning how to be healthful, peaceful, and wise. \n Sometimes they are cured of their little claims by the professional\nhealer, and sometimes more advanced children say over the formula and\ncure themselves.\n\nA little Far-Western girl of nine, equipped with an adult vocabulary,\nstates her age and says,  I thought I would write a demonstration to\nyou.  She had a claim, derived from getting flung over a pony's head and\nlanded on a rockpile. She saved herself from disaster by remembering to\nsay  God is All  while she was in the air. I couldn't have done it.\nI shouldn't even have thought of it. I should have been too excited.\nNothing but Christian Science could have enabled that child to do that\ncalm and thoughtful and judicious thing in those circumstances. She came\ndown on her head, and by all the rules she should have broken it;\nbut the intervention of the formula prevented that, so the only claim\nresulting was a blackened eye. Monday morning it was still swollen and\nshut. At school  it hurt pretty badly--that is, it seemed to.  So  I was\nexcused, and went down to the basement and said, 'Now I am depending on\nmamma instead of God, and I will depend on God instead of mamma.'  No\ndoubt this would have answered; but, to make sure, she added Mrs. Eddy\nto the team and recited  the Scientific Statement of Being,  which\nis one of the principal incantations, I judge. Then  I felt my eye\nopening.  Why, dear, it would have opened an oyster. I think it is one\nof the touchingest things in child-history, that pious little rat down\ncellar pumping away at the Scientific Statement of Being.\n\nThere is a page about another good child--little Gordon. Little Gordon\n came into the world without the assistance of surgery or anaesthetics. \n He was a  demonstration.  A painless one; therefore, his coming evoked\n joy and thankfulness to God and the Discoverer of Christian Science. \n It is a noticeable feature of this literature--the so frequent linking\ntogether of the Two Beings in an equal bond; also of Their Two Bibles.\nWhen little Gordon was two years old,  he was playing horse on the bed,\nwhere I had left my 'little book.' I noticed him stop in his play, take\nthe book carefully in his little hands, kiss it softly, then look about\nfor the highest place of safety his arms could reach, and put it there. \n This pious act filled the mother  with such a train of thought as I had\nnever experienced before. I thought of the sweet mother of long ago\nwho kept things in her heart,  etc. It is a bold comparison; however,\nunconscious profanations are about as common in the mouths of the lay\nmember ship of the new Church as are frank and open ones in the mouths\nof its consecrated chiefs.\n\nSome days later, the family library--Christian-Science books--was lying\nin a deep-seated window. This was another chance for the holy child to\nshow off. He left his play and went there and pushed all the books to\none side, except the Annex  It he took in both hands, slowly raised\nit to his lips, then removed it carefully, and seated himself in the\nwindow.  It had seemed to the mother too wonderful to be true, that\nfirst time; but now she was convinced that  neither imagination nor\naccident had anything to do with it.  Later, little Gordon let the\nauthor of his being see him do it. After that he did it frequently;\nprobably every time anybody was looking. I would rather have that child\nthan a chromo. If this tale has any object, it is to intimate that the\ninspired book was supernaturally able to convey a sense of its sacred\nand awful character to this innocent little creature, without\nthe intervention of outside aids. The magazine is not edited with\nhigh-priced discretion. The editor has a  claim,  and he ought to get it\ntreated.\n\nAmong other witnesses there is one who had a  jumping toothache, \n which several times tempted her to  believe that there was sensation in\nmatter, but each time it was overcome by the power of Truth.  She would\nnot allow the dentist to use cocaine, but sat there and let him\npunch and drill and split and crush the tooth, and tear and slash its\nulcerations, and pull out the nerve, and dig out fragments of bone; and\nshe wouldn't once confess that it hurt. And to this day she thinks it\ndidn't, and I have not a doubt that she is nine-tenths right, and that\nher Christian Science faith did her better service than she could have\ngotten out of cocaine.\n\nThere is an account of a boy who got broken all up into small bits by\nan accident, but said over the Scientific Statement of Being, or some of\nthe other incantations, and got well and sound without having suffered\nany real pain and without the intrusion of a surgeon.\n\nAlso, there is an account of the restoration to perfect health, in\na single night, of a fatally injured horse, by the application of\nChristian Science. I can stand a good deal, but I recognize that the ice\nis getting thin, here. That horse had as many as fifty claims; how\ncould he demonstrate over them? Could he do the All-Good, Good-Good,\nGood-Gracious, Liver, Bones, Truth, All down but Nine, Set them up on\nthe Other Alley? Could he intone the Scientific Statement of Being?\nNow, could he? Wouldn't it give him a relapse? Let us draw the line at\nhorses. Horses and furniture.\n\nThere is plenty of other testimonies in the magazine, but these quoted\nsamples will answer. They show the kind of trade the Science is driving.\nNow we come back to the question, Does the Science kill a patient here\nand there and now and then? We must concede it. Does it compensate\nfor this? I am persuaded that it can make a plausible showing in that\ndirection. For instance: when it lays its hand upon a soldier who has\nsuffered thirty years of helpless torture and makes him whole in body\nand mind, what is the actual sum of that achievement? This, I think:\nthat it has restored to life a subject who had essentially died ten\ndeaths a year for thirty years, and each of them a long and painful one.\nBut for its interference that man in the three years which have since\nelapsed, would have essentially died thirty times more. There are\nthousands of young people in the land who are now ready to enter upon a\nlife-long death similar to that man's. Every time the Science\ncaptures one of these and secures to him life-long immunity from\nimagination-manufactured disease, it may plausibly claim that in his\nperson it has saved three hundred lives. Meantime, it will kill a man\nevery now and then. But no matter, it will still be ahead on the credit\nside.\n\n[NOTE.--I have received several letters (two from educated and\nostensibly intelligent persons), which contained, in substance, this\nprotest:  I don't object to men and women chancing their lives with\nthese people, but it is a burning shame that the law should allow them\nto trust their helpless little children in their deadly hands.  Isn't it\ntouching? Isn't it deep? Isn't it modest? It is as if the person said:\n I know that to a parent his child is the core of his heart, the apple\nof his eye, a possession so dear, so precious that he will trust its\nlife in no hands but those which he believes, with all his soul, to be\nthe very best and the very safest, but it is a burning shame that the\nlaw does not require him to come to me to ask what kind of healer I will\nallow him to call.  The public is merely a multiplied  me. --M.T.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n We consciously declare that Science and Health, with Key to the\nScriptures, was foretold, as well as its author, Mary Baker Eddy, in\nRevelation x. She is the 'mighty angel,' or God's highest thought to\nthis age (verse 1), giving us the spiritual interpretation of the\nBible in the 'little book open' (verse 2). Thus we prove that Christian\nScience is the second coming of Christ-Truth-Spirit. --Lecture by Dr.\nGeorge Tomkins, D.D. C.S.\n\nThere you have it in plain speech. She is the mighty angel; she is the\ndivinely and officially sent bearer of God's highest thought. For the\npresent, she brings the Second Advent. We must expect that before she\nhas been in her grave fifty years she will be regarded by her following\nas having been herself the Second Advent. She is already worshiped, and\nwe must expect this feeling to spread, territorially, and also to deepen\nin intensity.\n\nParticularly after her death; for then, as any one can foresee,\nEddy-Worship will be taught in the Sunday-schools and pulpits of the\ncult. Already whatever she puts her trade-mark on, though it be only\na memorial-spoon, is holy and is eagerly and gratefully bought by the\ndisciple, and becomes a fetish in his house. I say bought, for the\nBoston Christian-Science Trust gives nothing away; everything it has\nis for sale. And the terms are cash; and not only cash, but cash in\nadvance. Its god is Mrs. Eddy first, then the Dollar. Not a spiritual\nDollar, but a real one. From end to end of the Christian Science\nliterature not a single (material) thing in the world is conceded to be\nreal, except the Dollar. But all through and through its advertisements\nthat reality is eagerly and persistently recognized.\n\nThe Dollar is hunted down in all sorts of ways; the Christian-Science\nMother-Church and Bargain-Counter in Boston peddles all kinds of\nspiritual wares to the faithful, and always on the one condition--cash,\ncash in advance. The Angel of the Apocalypse could not go there and get\na copy of his own pirated book on credit. Many, many precious Christian\nScience things are to be had there for cash: Bible Lessons; Church\nManual; C. S. Hymnal; History of the building of the Mother-Church; lot\nof Sermons; Communion Hymn,  Saw Ye My Saviour,  by Mrs. Eddy, half a\ndollar a copy,  words used by special permission of Mrs. Eddy.  Also we\nhave Mrs. Eddy's and the Angel's little Blue-Annex in eight styles\nof binding at eight kinds of war-prices; among these a sweet thing in\n levant, divinity circuit, leather lined to edge, round corners, gold\nedge, silk sewed, each, prepaid, $6,  and if you take a million you get\nthem a shilling cheaper--that is to say,  prepaid, $5.75.  Also we\nhave Mrs. Eddy's Miscellaneous Writings, at 'andsome big prices, the\ndivinity-circuit style heading the exertions, shilling discount where\nyou take an edition Next comes Christ and Christmas, by the fertile Mrs.\nEddy--a poem--would God I could see it!--price $3, cash in advance. Then\nfollow five more books by Mrs. Eddy, at highwayman's rates, some of\nthem in  leatherette covers,  some of them in  pebble cloth,  with\ndivinity-circuit, compensation-balance, twin-screw, and the other modern\nimprovements; and at the same bargain-counter can be had The Christian\nScience Journal.\n\nChristian-Science literary discharges are a monopoly of the\nMother-Church Headquarters Factory in Boston; none genuine without the\ntrade-mark of the Trust. You must apply there and not elsewhere.\n\nOne hundred dollars for it. And I have a case among my statistics where\nthe student had a three weeks' course and paid three hundred for it.\n\nThe Trust does love the Dollar, when it isn't a spiritual one.\n\nIn order to force the sale of Mrs Eddy's Bible-Annex, no healer,\nMetaphysical-College-bred or other, is allowed to practice the game\nunless he possesses a copy of that book. That means a large and\nconstantly augmenting income for the Trust. No C.S. family would\nconsider itself loyal or pious or pain-proof without an Annex or two in\nthe house. That means an income for the Trust, in the near future, of\nmillions; not thousands-millions a year.\n\nNo member, young or old, of a branch Christian-Scientist church can\nacquire and retain membership in the Mother-Church unless he pay\n capitation tax  (of  not less than a dollar,  say the By-Laws) to the\nBoston Trust every year. That means an income for the Trust, in the near\nfuture, of--let us venture to say--millions more per year.\n\nIt is a reasonably safe guess that in America in 1920 there will be ten\nmillion Christian Scientists, and three millions in Great Britain;\nthat these figures will be trebled in 1930; that in America in 1920\nthe Christian Scientists will be a political force, in 1930 politically\nformidable, and in 1940 the governing power in the Republic--to remain\nthat, permanently. And I think it a reasonable guess that the Trust\n(which is already in our day pretty brusque in its ways) will then be\nthe most insolent and unscrupulous and tyrannical politico-religious\nmaster that has dominated a people since the palmy days of the\nInquisition. And a stronger master than the strongest of bygone times,\nbecause this one will have a financial strength not dreamed of by any\npredecessor; as effective a concentration of irresponsible power as any\npredecessor has had; in the railway, the telegraph, and the subsidized\nnewspaper, better facilities for watching and managing his empire\nthan any predecessor has had; and, after a generation or two, he will\nprobably divide Christendom with the Catholic Church.\n\nThe Roman Church has a perfect organization, and it has an effective\ncentralization of power--but not of its cash. Its multitude of Bishops\nare rich, but their riches remain in large measure in their own hands.\nThey collect from two hundred millions of people, but they keep the\nbulk of the result at home. The Boston Pope of by-and-by will draw his\ndollar-a-head capitation-tax from three hundred millions of the human\nrace, and the Annex and the rest of his book-shop stock will fetch in as\nmuch more; and his Metaphysical Colleges, the annual Pilgrimage to Mrs.\nEddy's tomb, from all over the world-admission, the Christian-Science\nDollar (payable in advance)--purchases of consecrated glass beads,\ncandles, memorial spoons, aureoled chrome-portraits and bogus autographs\nof Mrs. Eddy; cash offerings at her shrine no crutches of cured cripples\nreceived, and no imitations of miraculously restored broken legs and\nnecks allowed to be hung up except when made out of the Holy Metal\nand proved by fire-assay; cash for miracles worked at the tomb: these\nmoney-sources, with a thousand to be yet invented and ambushed upon the\ndevotee, will bring the annual increment well up above a billion. And\nnobody but the Trust will have the handling of it. In that day, the\nTrust will monopolize the manufacture and sale of the Old and New\nTestaments as well as the Annex, and raise their price to Annex rates,\nand compel the devotee to buy (for even to-day a healer has to have the\nAnnex and the Scriptures or he is not allowed to work the game), and\nthat will bring several hundred million dollars more. In those days, the\nTrust will have an income approaching five million dollars a day, and\nno expenses to be taken out of it; no taxes to pay, and no charities\nto support. That last detail should not be lightly passed over by the\nreader; it is well entitled to attention.\n\nNo charities to support. No, nor even to contribute to. One searches in\nvain the Trust's advertisements and the utterances of its organs for\nany suggestion that it spends a penny on orphans, widows, discharged\nprisoners, hospitals, ragged schools, night missions, city missions,\nlibraries, old people's homes, or any other object that appeals to a\nhuman being's purse through his heart.\n\nI have hunted, hunted, and hunted, by correspondence and otherwise, and\nhave not yet got upon the track of a farthing that the Trust has spent\nupon any worthy object. Nothing makes a Scientist so uncomfortable as to\nask him if he knows of a case where Christian Science has spent money\non a benevolence, either among its own adherents or elsewhere. He is\nobliged to say  No  And then one discovers that the person questioned\nhas been asked the question many times before, and that it is getting to\nbe a sore subject with him. Why a sore subject? Because he has written\nhis chiefs and asked with high confidence for an answer that will\nconfound these questioners--and the chiefs did not reply. He has written\nagain, and then again--not with confidence, but humbly, now--and has\nbegged for defensive ammunition in the voice of supplication. A reply\ndoes at last come to this effect:  We must have faith in Our Mother, and\nrest content in the conviction that whatever She does with the money\nit is in accordance with orders from Heaven, for She does no act of any\nkind without first 'demonstrating over' it. \n\nThat settles it--as far as the disciple is concerned. His mind\nis satisfied with that answer; he gets down his Annex and does an\nincantation or two, and that mesmerizes his spirit and puts that to\nsleep--brings it peace. Peace and comfort and joy, until some inquirer\npunctures the old sore again.\n\nThrough friends in America I asked some questions, and in some cases\ngot definite and informing answers; in other cases the answers were not\ndefinite and not valuable. To the question,  Does any of the money go to\ncharities?  the answer from an authoritative source was:  No, not in\nthe sense usually conveyed by this word.  (The italics are mine.) That\nanswer is cautious. But definite, I think--utterly and unassailably\ndefinite--although quite Christian-Scientifically foggy in its phrasing.\nChristian-Science testimony is generally foggy, generally diffuse,\ngenerally garrulous. The writer was aware that the first word in his\nphrase answered the question which I was asking, but he could not help\nadding nine dark words. Meaningless ones, unless explained by him. It is\nquite likely, as intimated by him, that Christian Science has invented\na new class of objects to apply the word  charity  to, but without an\nexplanation we cannot know what they are. We quite easily and naturally\nand confidently guess that they are in all cases objects which will\nreturn five hundred per cent. on the Trust's investment in them,\nbut guessing is not knowledge; it is merely, in this case, a sort\nof nine-tenths certainty deducible from what we think we know of the\nTrust's trade principles and its sly and furtive and shifty ways.\n\nSly? Deep? Judicious? The Trust understands its business. The Trust does\nnot give itself away. It defeats all the attempts of us impertinents to\nget at its trade secrets. To this day, after all our diligence, we have\nnot been able to get it to confess what it does with the money. It does\nnot even let its own disciples find out. All it says is, that the matter\nhas been  demonstrated over.  Now and then a lay Scientist says, with\na grateful exultation, that Mrs. Eddy is enormously rich, but he stops\nthere; as to whether any of the money goes to other charities or not,\nhe is obliged to admit that he does not know. However, the Trust is\ncomposed of human beings; and this justifies the conjecture that if it\nhad a charity on its list which it was proud of, we should soon hear of\nit.\n\n Without money and without price.  Those used to be the terms. Mrs.\nEddy's Annex cancels them. The motto of Christian Science is,  The\nlaborer is worthy of his hire.  And now that it has been  demonstrated\nover,  we find its spiritual meaning to be,  Do anything and everything\nyour hand may find to do; and charge cash for it, and collect the money\nin advance.  The Scientist has on his tongue's end a cut-and-dried,\nBoston-supplied set of rather lean arguments, whose function is to show\nthat it is a Heaven-commanded duty to do this, and that the croupiers of\nthe game have no choice but to obey.\n\nThe Trust seems to be a reincarnation. Exodus xxxii. 4.\n\nI have no reverence for the Trust, but I am not lacking in reverence for\nthe sincerities of the lay membership of the new Church. There is every\nevidence that the lay members are entirely sincere in their faith, and\nI think sincerity is always entitled to honor and respect, let the\ninspiration of the sincerity be what it may. Zeal and sincerity can\ncarry a new religion further than any other missionary except fire and\nsword, and I believe that the new religion will conquer the half of\nChristendom in a hundred years. I am not intending this as a compliment\nto the human race; I am merely stating an opinion. And yet I think that\nperhaps it is a compliment to the race. I keep in mind that saying of\nan orthodox preacher--quoted further back. He conceded that this new\nChristianity frees its possessor's life from frets, fears, vexations,\nbitterness, and all sorts of imagination-propagated maladies and pains,\nand fills his world with sunshine and his heart with gladness. If\nChristian Science, with this stupendous equipment--and final salvation\nadded--cannot win half the Christian globe, I must be badly mistaken in\nthe make-up of the human race.\n\nI think the Trust will be handed down like the other Papacy, and will\nalways know how to handle its limitless cash. It will press the button;\nthe zeal, the energy, the sincerity, the enthusiasm of its countless\nvassals will do the rest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nThe power which a man's imagination has over his body to heal it or make\nit sick is a force which none of us is born without. The first man had\nit, the last one will possess it. If left to himself, a man is most\nlikely to use only the mischievous half of the force--the half which\ninvents imaginary ailments for him and cultivates them; and if he is\none of these--very wise people, he is quite likely to scoff at the\nbeneficent half of the force and deny its existence. And so, to heal\nor help that man, two imaginations are required: his own and some\noutsider's. The outsider, B, must imagine that his incantations are the\nhealing-power that is curing A, and A must imagine that this is so. I\nthink it is not so, at all; but no matter, the cure is effected, and\nthat is the main thing. The outsider's work is unquestionably valuable;\nso valuable that it may fairly be likened to the essential work\nperformed by the engineer when he handles the throttle and turns on the\nsteam; the actual power is lodged exclusively in the engine, but if\nthe engine were left alone it would never start of itself. Whether the\nengineer be named Jim, or Bob, or Tom, it is all one--his services are\nnecessary, and he is entitled to such wage as he can get you to pay.\nWhether he be named Christian Scientist, or Mental Scientist, or Mind\nCurist, or King's-Evil Expert, or Hypnotist, it is all one; he is merely\nthe Engineer; he simply turns on the same old steam and the engine does\nthe whole work.\n\nThe Christian-Scientist engineer drives exactly the same trade as the\nother engineers, yet he out-prospers the whole of them put together.\n\nIs it because he has captured the takingest name? I think that that is\nonly a small part of it. I think that the secret of his high prosperity\nlies elsewhere.\n\nThe Christian Scientist has organized the business. Now that was\ncertainly a gigantic idea. Electricity, in limitless volume, has\nexisted in the air and the rocks and the earth and everywhere since\ntime began--and was going to waste all the while. In our time we have\norganized that scattered and wandering force and set it to work,\nand backed the business with capital, and concentrated it in few and\ncompetent hands, and the results are as we see.\n\nThe Christian Scientist has taken a force which has been lying idle in\nevery member of the human race since time began, and has organized it,\nand backed the business with capital, and concentrated it at Boston\nheadquarters in the hands of a small and very competent Trust, and there\nare results.\n\nTherein lies the promise that this monopoly is going to extend its\ncommerce wide in the earth. I think that if the business were conducted\nin the loose and disconnected fashion customary with such things, it\nwould achieve but little more than the modest prosperity usually secured\nby unorganized great moral and commercial ventures; but I believe that\nso long as this one remains compactly organized and closely concentrated\nin a Trust, the spread of its dominion will continue.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nFour years ago I wrote the preceding chapters. I was assured by the wise\nthat Christian Science was a fleeting craze and would soon perish. This\nprompt and all-competent stripe of prophet is always to be had in the\nmarket at ground-floor rates. He does not stop to load, or consider, or\ntake aim, but lets fly just as he stands. Facts are nothing to him, he\nhas no use for such things; he works wholly by inspiration. And so, when\nhe is asked why he considers a new movement a passing fad and quickly\nperishable, he finds himself unprepared with a reason and is more or\nless embarrassed. For a moment. Only for a moment. Then he waylays the\nfirst spectre of a reason that goes flitting through the desert places\nof his mind, and is at once serene again and ready for conflict. Serene\nand confident. Yet he should not be so, since he has had no chance\nto examine his catch, and cannot know whether it is going to help his\ncontention or damage it.\n\nThe impromptu reason furnished by the early prophets of whom I have\nspoken was this:\n\n There is nothing to Christian Science; there is nothing about it\nthat appeals to the intellect; its market will be restricted to the\nunintelligent, the mentally inferior, the people who do not think. \n\nThey called that a reason why the cult would not flourish and endure. It\nseems the equivalent of saying:\n\n There is no money in tinware; there is nothing about it that appeals to\nthe rich; its market will be restricted to the poor. \n\nIt is like bringing forward the best reason in the world why Christian\nScience should flourish and live, and then blandly offering it as a\nreason why it should sicken and die.\n\nThat reason was furnished me by the complacent and unfrightened\nprophets four years ago, and it has been furnished me again to-day. If\nconversions to new religions or to old ones were in any considerable\ndegree achieved through the intellect, the aforesaid reason would be\nsound and sufficient, no doubt; the inquirer into Christian Science\nmight go away unconvinced and unconverted. But we all know that\nconversions are seldom made in that way; that such a thing as a serious\nand painstaking and fairly competent inquiry into the claims of a\nreligion or of a political dogma is a rare occurrence; and that the\nvast mass of men and women are far from being capable of making such\nan examination. They are not capable, for the reason that their minds,\nhowsoever good they may be, are not trained for such examinations. The\nmind not trained for that work is no more competent to do it than\nare lawyers and farmers competent to make successful clothes without\nlearning the tailor's trade. There are seventy-five million men and\nwomen among us who do not know how to cut out and make a dress-suit, and\nthey would not think of trying; yet they all think they can competently\nthink out a political or religious scheme without any apprenticeship to\nthe business, and many of them believe they have actually worked that\nmiracle. But, indeed, the truth is, almost all the men and women of our\nnation or of any other get their religion and their politics where they\nget their astronomy--entirely at second hand. Being untrained, they are\nno more able to intelligently examine a dogma or a policy than they are\nto calculate an eclipse.\n\nMen are usually competent thinkers along the lines of their specialized\ntraining only. Within these limits alone are their opinions and\njudgments valuable; outside of these limits they grope and are\nlost--usually without knowing it. In a church assemblage of five hundred\npersons, there will be a man or two whose trained minds can seize upon\neach detail of a great manufacturing scheme and recognize its value\nor its lack of value promptly; and can pass the details in intelligent\nreview, section by section, and finally as a whole, and then deliver a\nverdict upon the scheme which cannot be flippantly set aside nor easily\nanswered. And there will be one or two other men there who can do the\nsame thing with a great and complicated educational project; and one\nor two others who can do the like with a large scheme for applying\nelectricity in a new and unheard-of way; and one or two others who can\ndo it with a showy scheme for revolutionizing the scientific world's\naccepted notions regarding geology. And so on, and so on. But the\nmanufacturing experts will not be competent to examine the educational\nscheme intelligently, and their opinion about it would not be valuable;\nneither of these two groups will be able to understand and pass upon the\nelectrical scheme; none of these three batches of experts will be able\nto understand and pass upon the geological revolution; and probably not\none man in the entire lot will be competent to examine, capably, the\nintricacies of a political or religious scheme, new or old, and deliver\na judgment upon it which any one need regard as precious.\n\nThere you have the top crust. There will be four hundred and\nseventy-five men and women present who can draw upon their training and\ndeliver incontrovertible judgments concerning cheese, and leather,\nand cattle, and hardware, and soap, and tar, and candles, and patent\nmedicines, and dreams, and apparitions, and garden trucks, and cats, and\nbaby food, and warts, and hymns, and time-tables, and freight-rates, and\nsummer resorts, and whiskey, and law, and surgery, and dentistry, and\nblacksmithing, and shoemaking, and dancing, and Huyler's candy, and\nmathematics, and dog fights, and obstetrics, and music, and sausages,\nand dry goods, and molasses, and railroad stocks, and horses, and\nliterature, and labor unions, and vegetables, and morals, and lamb's\nfries, and etiquette, and agriculture. And not ten among the five\nhundred--let their minds be ever so good and bright--will be competent,\nby grace of the requisite specialized mental training, to take hold of a\ncomplex abstraction of any kind and make head or tail of it.\n\nThe whole five hundred are thinkers, and they are all capable\nthinkers--but only within the narrow limits of their specialized\ntrainings. Four hundred and ninety of them cannot competently examine\neither a religious plan or a political one. A scattering few of them do\nexamine both--that is, they think they do. With results as precious as\nwhen I examine the nebular theory and explain it to myself.\n\nIf the four hundred and ninety got their religion through their minds,\nand by weighed and measured detail, Christian Science would not be a\nscary apparition. But they don't; they get a little of it through their\nminds, more of it through their feelings, and the overwhelming bulk of\nit through their environment.\n\nEnvironment is the chief thing to be considered when one is proposing to\npredict the future of Christian Science. It is not the ability to reason\nthat makes the Presbyterian, or the Baptist, or the Methodist, or the\nCatholic, or the Mohammedan, or the Buddhist, or the Mormon; it is\nenvironment. If religions were got by reasoning, we should have the\nextraordinary spectacle of an American family with a Presbyterian in it,\nand a Baptist, a Methodist, a Catholic, a Mohammedan, a Buddhist, and\na Mormon. A Presbyterian family does not produce Catholic families\nor other religious brands, it produces its own kind; and not\nby intellectual processes, but by association. And so also with\nMohammedanism, the cult which in our day is spreading with the sweep of\na world-conflagration through the Orient, that native home of profound\nthought and of subtle intellectual fence, that fertile womb whence has\nsprung every great religion that exists. Including our own; for with all\nour brains we cannot invent a religion and market it.\n\nThe language of my quoted prophets recurs to us now, and we wonder to\nthink how small a space in the world the mighty Mohammedan Church would\nbe occupying now, if a successful trade in its line of goods had been\nconditioned upon an exhibit that would  appeal to the intellect  instead\nof to  the unintelligent, the mentally inferior, the people who do not\nthink. \n\nThe Christian Science Church, like the Mohammedan Church, makes no\nembarrassing appeal to the intellect, has no occasion to do it, and can\nget along quite well without it.\n\nProvided. Provided what? That it can secure that thing which is\nworth two or three hundred thousand times more than an  appeal to the\nintellect --an environment. Can it get that? Will it be a menace\nto regular Christianity if it gets that? Is it time for regular\nChristianity to get alarmed? Or shall regular Christianity smile a smile\nand turn over and take another nap? Won't it be wise and proper for\nregular Christianity to do the old way, Me customary way, the historical\nway--lock the stable-door after the horse is gone? Just as Protestantism\nhas smiled and nodded this long time (while the alert and diligent\nCatholic was slipping in and capturing the public schools), and is now\nbeginning to hunt around for the key when it is too late?\n\nWill Christian Science get a chance to show its wares? It has already\nsecured that chance. Will it flourish and spread and prosper if it\nshall create for itself the one thing essential to those conditions--an\nenvironment? It has already created an environment. There are families\nof Christian Scientists in every community in America, and each family\nis a factory; each family turns out a Christian Science product at the\ncustomary intervals, and contributes it to the Cause in the only way\nin which contributions of recruits to Churches are ever made on a large\nscale--by the puissant forces of personal contact and association.\nEach family is an agency for the Cause, and makes converts among the\nneighbors, and starts some more factories.\n\nFour years ago there were six Christian Scientists in a certain town\nthat I am acquainted with; a year ago there were two hundred and fifty\nthere; they have built a church, and its membership now numbers four\nhundred. This has all been quietly done; done without frenzied revivals,\nwithout uniforms, brass bands, street parades, corner oratory, or any of\nthe other customary persuasions to a godly life. Christian Science, like\nMohammedanism, is  restricted  to the  unintelligent, the people who\ndo not think.  There lies the danger. It makes Christian Science\nformidable. It is  restricted  to ninety-nine one-hundredths of the\nhuman race, and must be reckoned with by regular Christianity. And will\nbe, as soon as it is too late.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK II\n\n There were remarkable things about the stranger called the\nMan--Mystery-things so very extraordinary that they monopolized\nattention and made all of him seem extraordinary; but this was not so,\nthe most of his qualities being of the common, every-day size and like\nanybody else's. It was curious. He was of the ordinary stature, and had\nthe ordinary aspects; yet in him were hidden such strange contradictions\nand disproportions! He was majestically fearless and heroic; he had\nthe strength of thirty men and the daring of thirty thousand; handling\narmies, organizing states, administering governments--these were\npastimes to him; he publicly and ostentatiously accepted the human race\nat its own valuation--as demigods--and privately and successfully dealt\nwith it at quite another and juster valuation--as children and slaves;\nhis ambitions were stupendous, and his dreams had no commerce with the\nhumble plain, but moved with the cloud-rack among the snow-summits.\nThese features of him were, indeed, extraordinary, but the rest of\nhim was ordinary and usual. He was so mean-minded, in the matter of\njealousy, that it was thought he was descended from a god; he was vain\nin little ways, and had a pride in trivialities; he doted on ballads\nabout moonshine and bruised hearts; in education he was deficient, he\nwas indifferent to literature, and knew nothing of art; he was dumb upon\nall subjects but one, indifferent to all except that one--the Nebular\nTheory. Upon that one his flow of words was full and free, he was a\ngeyser. The official astronomers disputed his facts and deeded his\nviews, and said that he had invented both, they not being findable in\nany of the books. But many of the laity, who wanted their nebulosities\nfresh, admired his doctrine and adopted it, and it attained to great\nprosperity in spite of the hostility of the experts. --The Legend of the\nMan-Mystery, ch. i.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nJANUARY, 1903. When we do not know a public man personally, we guess him\nout by the facts of his career. When it is Washington, we all arrive\nat about one and the same result. We agree that his words and his acts\nclearly interpret his character to us, and that they never leave us in\ndoubt as to the motives whence the words and acts proceeded. It is the\nsame with Joan of Arc, it is the same with two or three or five or six\nothers among the immortals. But in the matter of motives and of a few\ndetails of character we agree to disagree upon Napoleon, Cromwell, and\nall the rest; and to this list we must add Mrs. Eddy. I think we can\npeacefully agree as to two or three extraordinary features of her\nmake-up, but not upon the other features of it. We cannot peacefully\nagree as to her motives, therefore her character must remain crooked to\nsome of us and straight to the others.\n\nNo matter, she is interesting enough without an amicable agreement. In\nseveral ways she is the most interesting woman that ever lived, and the\nmost extraordinary. The same may be said of her career, and the same\nmay be said of its chief result. She started from nothing. Her enemies\ncharge that she surreptitiously took from Quimby a peculiar system of\nhealing which was mind-cure with a Biblical basis. She and her friends\ndeny that she took anything from him. This is a matter which we\ncan discuss by-and-by. Whether she took it or invented it, it\nwas--materially--a sawdust mine when she got it, and she has turned it\ninto a Klondike; its spiritual dock had next to no custom, if any at\nall: from it she has launched a world-religion which has now six hundred\nand sixty-three churches, and she charters a new one every four days.\nWhen we do not know a person--and also when we do--we have to judge his\nsize by the size and nature of his achievements, as compared with the\nachievements of others in his special line of business--there is no\nother way. Measured by this standard, it is thirteen hundred years\nsince the world has produced any one who could reach up to Mrs. Eddy's\nwaistbelt.\n\nFiguratively speaking, Mrs. Eddy is already as tall as the Eiffel tower.\nShe is adding surprisingly to her stature every day. It is quite within\nthe probabilities that a century hence she will be the most imposing\nfigure that has cast its shadow across the globe since the inauguration\nof our era. I grant that after saying these strong things, it is\nnecessary that I offer some details calculated to satisfactorily\ndemonstrate the proportions which I have claimed for her. I will do that\npresently; but before exhibiting the matured sequoia gigantea, I believe\nit will be best to exhibit the sprout from which it sprang. It may save\nthe reader from making miscalculations. The person who imagines that a\nBig Tree sprout is bigger than other kinds of sprouts is quite mistaken.\nIt is the ordinary thing; it makes no show, it compels no notice, it\nhasn't a detectible quality in it that entitles it to attention, or\nsuggests the future giant its sap is suckling. That is the kind of\nsprout Mrs. Eddy was.\n\nFrom her childhood days up to where she was running a half-century a\nclose race and gaining on it, she was most humanly commonplace.\n\nShe is the witness I am drawing this from. She has revealed it in her\nautobiography not intentionally, of course--I am not claiming that. An\nautobiography is the most treacherous thing there is. It lets out\nevery secret its author is trying to keep; it lets the truth shine\nunobstructed through every harmless little deception he tries to play;\nit pitilessly exposes him as a tin hero worshipping himself as Big Metal\nevery time he tries to do the modest-unconsciousness act before the\nreader. This is not guessing; I am speaking from autobiographical\npersonal experience; I was never able to refrain from mentioning, with\na studied casualness that could deceive none but the most incautious\nreader, that an ancestor of mine was sent ambassador to Spain by Charles\nI., nor that in a remote branch of my family there exists a claimant\nto an earldom, nor that an uncle of mine used to own a dog that was\ndescended from the dog that was in the Ark; and at the same time I was\nnever able to persuade myself to call a gibbet by its right name when\naccounting for other ancestors of mine, but always spoke of it as the\n platform --puerilely intimating that they were out lecturing when it\nhappened.\n\nIt is Mrs. Eddy over again. As regards her minor half, she is as\ncommonplace as the rest of us. Vain of trivial things all the first half\nof her life, and still vain of them at seventy and recording them with\nnaive satisfaction--even rescuing some early rhymes of hers of the sort\nthat we all scribble in the innocent days of our youth--rescuing them\nand printing them without pity or apology, just as the weakest and\ncommonest of us do in our gray age. More--she still frankly admires\nthem; and in her introduction of them profanely confers upon them the\nholy name of  poetry.  Sample:\n\n      And laud the land whose talents rock\n     The cradle of her power,\n     And wreaths are twined round Plymouth Rock\n     From erudition's bower. \n\n      Minerva's silver sandals still\n     Are loosed and not effete. \n\nYou note it is not a shade above the thing which all human beings churn\nout in their youth.\n\nYou would not think that in a little wee primer--for that is what the\nAutobiography is--a person with a tumultuous career of seventy years\nbehind her could find room for two or three pages of padding of this\nkind, but such is the case. She evidently puts narrative together with\ndifficulty and is not at home in it, and is glad to have something\nready-made to fill in with. Another sample:\n\n      Here fame-honored Hickory rears his bold form,\n     And bears a brave breast to the lightning and storm,\n     While Palm, Bay, and Laurel in classical glee,\n     Chase Tulip, Magnolia, and fragrant Fringe-tree. \n\nVivid? You can fairly see those trees galloping around. That she\ncould still treasure up, and print, and manifestly admire those Poems,\nindicates that the most daring and masculine and masterful woman that\nhas appeared in the earth in centuries has the same soft, girly-girly\nplaces in her that the rest of us have.\n\nWhen it comes to selecting her ancestors she is still human, natural,\nvain, commonplace--as commonplace as I am myself when I am sorting\nancestors for my autobiography. She combs out some creditable Scots, and\nlabels them and sets them aside for use, not overlooking the one to whom\nSir William Wallace gave  a heavy sword encased in a brass scabbard, \n and naively explaining which Sir William Wallace it was, lest we get\nthe wrong one by the hassock; this is the one  from whose patriotism\nand bravery comes that heart-stirring air, 'Scots wha hae wi' Wallace\nbled.'  Hannah More was related to her ancestors. She explains who\nHannah More was.\n\nWhenever a person informs us who Sir William Wallace was, or who wrote\n Hamlet,  or where the Declaration of Independence was fought, it fills\nus with a suspicion wellnigh amounting to conviction, that that person\nwould not suspect us of being so empty of knowledge if he wasn't\nsuffering from the same  claim  himself. Then we turn to page 20 of the\nAutobiography and happen upon this passage, and that hasty suspicion\nstands rebuked:\n\n I gained book-knowledge with far less labor than is usually requisite.\nAt ten years of age I was as familiar with Lindley Murray's Grammar as\nwith the Westminster Catechism; and the latter I had to repeat every\nSunday. My favorite studies were Natural Philosophy, Logic, and Moral\nScience. From my brother Albert I received lessons in the ancient\ntongues, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. \n\nYou catch your breath in astonishment, and feel again and still again\nthe pang of that rebuke. But then your eye falls upon the next sentence\nbut one, and the pain passes away and you set up the suspicion again\nwith evil satisfaction:\n\n After my discovery of Christian Science, most of the knowledge I had\ngleaned from school-books vanished like a dream. \n\nThat disappearance accounts for much in her miscellaneous writings. As I\nwas saying, she handles her  ancestral shadows,  as she calls them, just\nas I do mine. It is remarkable. When she runs across  a relative of my\nGrandfather Baker, General Henry Knox, of Revolutionary fame,  she sets\nhim down; when she finds another good one,  the late Sir John Macneill,\nin the line of my Grandfather Baker's family,  she sets him down, and\nremembers that he  was prominent in British politics, and at one time\nheld the position of ambassador to Persia ; when she discovers that her\ngrandparents  were likewise connected with Captain John Lovewell, whose\ngallant leadership and death in the Indian troubles of 1722-25 caused\nthat prolonged contest to be known historically as Lovewell's War, \n she sets the Captain down; when it turns out that a cousin of her\ngrandmother  was John Macneill, the New Hampshire general, who fought at\nLundy's Lane and won distinction in 1814 at the battle of Chippewa, \n she catalogues the General. (And tells where Chippewa was.) And then she\nskips all her platform people; never mentions one of them. It shows that\nshe is just as human as any of us.\n\nYet, after all, there is something very touching in her pride in these\nworthy small-fry, and something large and fine in her modesty in not\ncaring to remember that their kinship to her can confer no distinction\nupon her, whereas her mere mention of their names has conferred upon\nthem a faceless earthly immortality.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nWhen she wrote this little biography her great life-work had already\nbeen achieved, she was become renowned; to multitudes of reverent\ndisciples she was a sacred personage, a familiar of God, and His\ninspired channel of communication with the human race. Also, to them\nthese following things were facts, and not doubted:\n\nShe had written a Bible in middle age, and had published it; she had\nrecast it, enlarged it, and published it again; she had not stopped\nthere, but had enlarged it further, polished its phrasing, improved\nits form, and published it yet again. It was at last become a compact,\ngrammatical, dignified, and workman-like body of literature. This was\ngood training, persistent training; and in all arts it is training that\nbrings the art to perfection. We are now confronted with one of the most\nteasing and baffling riddles of Mrs. Eddy's history--a riddle which may\nbe formulated thus:\n\nHow is it that a primitive literary gun which began as a hundred-yard\nflint-lock smooth-bore muzzle-loader, and in the course of forty years\nhas acquired one notable improvement after another--percussion cap;\nfixed cartridge; rifled barrel; efficiency at half a mile how is it that\nsuch a gun, sufficiently good on an elephant hunt (Christian Science)\nfrom the beginning, and growing better and better all the time during\nforty years, has always collapsed back to its original flint-lock\nestate the moment the huntress trained it on any other creature than an\nelephant?\n\nSomething more than a generation ago Mrs. Eddy went out with her\nflint-lock on the rabbit range; and this was a part of the result:\n\n After his decease, and a severe casualty deemed fatal by skilful\nphysicians, we discovered that the Principle of all healing and the law\nthat governs it is God, a divine Principle, and a spiritual not material\nlaw, and regained health. --Preface to Science and Health, first\nrevision, 1883.\n\nN.B. Not from the book itself; from the Preface.\n\nYou will notice the awkwardness of that English. If you should carry\nthat paragraph up to the Supreme Court of the United States in order\nto find out for good and all whether the fatal casualty happened to the\ndead man--as the paragraph almost asserts--or to some person or persons\nnot even hinted at in the paragraph, the Supreme Court would be obliged\nto say that the evidence established nothing with certainty except that\nthere had been a casualty--victim not known.\n\nThe context thinks it explains who the victim was, but it does nothing\nof the kind. It furnishes some guessing-material of a sort which enables\nyou to infer that it was  we  that suffered the mentioned injury, but if\nyou should carry the language to a court you would not be able to prove\nthat it necessarily meant that.  We  are Mrs. Eddy; a funny little\naffectation. She replaced it later with the more dignified third person.\n\nThe quoted paragraph is from Mrs. Eddy's preface to the first revision\nof Science and Health (1883). Sixty-four pages further along--in the\nbody of the book (the elephant-range), she went out with that same\nflint-lock and got this following result. Its English is very nearly\nas straight and clean and competent as is the English of the latest\nrevision of Science and Health after the gun has been improved from\nsmooth-bore musket up to globe-sighted, long distance rifle:\n\n Man controlled by his Maker has no physical suffering. His body is\nharmonious, his days are multiplying instead of diminishing, he is\njourneying towards Life instead of death, and bringing out the new man\nand crucifying the old affections, cutting them off in every material\ndirection until he learns the utter supremacy of Spirit and yields\nobedience thereto. \n\nIn the latest revision of Science and Health (1902), the perfected\ngun furnishes the following. The English is clean, compact, dignified,\nalmost perfect. But it is observable that it is not prominently better\nthan it is in the above paragraph, which was a product of the primitive\nflint-lock:\n\n How unreasonable is the belief that we are wearing out life and\nhastening to death, and at the same time we are communing with\nimmortality? If the departed are in rapport with mortality, or matter,\nthey are not spiritual, but must still be mortal, sinful, suffering,\nand dying. Then wherefore look to them--even were communication\npossible--for proofs of immortality and accept them as oracles? \n --Edition of 1902, page 78.\n\nWith the above paragraphs compare these that follow. It is Mrs. Eddy\nwriting--after a good long twenty years of pen-practice. Compare also\nwith the alleged Poems already quoted. The prominent characteristic of\nthe Poems is affectation, artificiality; their makeup is a complacent\nand pretentious outpour of false figures and fine writing, in the\nsophomoric style. The same qualities and the same style will be found,\nunchanged, unbettered, in these following paragraphs--after a lapse of\nmore than fifty years, and after--as aforesaid--long literary training.\nThe italics are mine:\n\n1.  What plague spot or bacilli were [sic] gnawing [sic] at the heart of\nthis metropolis... and bringing it [the heart] on bended knee? Why, it\nwas an institute that had entered its vitals--that, among other things,\ntaught games,  et cetera.--C.S. Journal, p. 670, article entitled  A\nNarrative--by Mary Baker G. Eddy. \n\n2.  Parks sprang up [sic]... electric-cars run [sic] merrily through\nseveral streets, concrete sidewalks and macadamized roads dotted [sic]\nthe place,  et cetera.--Ibid.\n\n3.  Shorn [sic] of its suburbs it had indeed little left to admire, save\nto [sic] such as fancy a skeleton above ground breathing [sic] slowly\nthrough a barren [sic] breast. --Ibid.\n\nThis is not English--I mean, grown-up English. But it is\nfifteen-year-old English, and has not grown a month since the same\nmind produced the Poems. The standard of the Poems and of the\nplague-spot-and-bacilli effort is exactly the same. It is most strange\nthat the same intellect that worded the simple and self-contained and\nclean-cut paragraph beginning with  How unreasonable is the belief, \n should in the very same lustrum discharge upon the world such a verbal\nchaos as the utterance concerning that plague-spot or bacilli which\nwere gnawing at the insides of the metropolis and bringing its heart on\nbended knee, thus exposing to the eye the rest of the skeleton breathing\nslowly through a barren breast.\n\nThe immense contrast between the legitimate English of Science and\nHealth and the bastard English of Mrs. Eddy's miscellaneous work, and\nbetween the maturity of the one diction and the juvenility of the other,\nsuggests--compels--the question, Are there two guns? It would seem so.\nIs there a poor, foolish, old, scattering flint-lock for rabbit, and a\nlong-range, centre-driving, up-to-date Mauser-magazine for elephant?\nIt looks like it. For it is observable that in Science and Health (the\nelephant-ground) the practice was good at the start and has remained so,\nand that the practice in the miscellaneous, outside, small-game field\nwas very bad at the start and was never less bad at any later time.\n\nI wish to say that of Mrs. Eddy I am not requiring perfect English,\nbut only good English. No one can write perfect English and keep it\nup through a stretch of ten chapters. It has never been done. It was\napproached in the  well of English undefiled ; it has been approached\nin Mrs. Eddy's Annex to that Book; it has been approached in several\nEnglish grammars; I have even approached it myself; but none of us has\nmade port.\n\nNow, the English of Science and Health is good. In passages to be found\nin Mrs. Eddy's Autobiography (on pages 53, 57, 101, and 113), and on\npage 6 of her squalid preface to Science and Health, first revision, she\nseems to me to claim the whole and sole authorship of the book. That\nshe wrote the Autobiography, and that preface, and the Poems, and the\nPlague-spot-Bacilli, we are not permitted to doubt. Indeed, we know she\nwrote them. But the very certainty that she wrote these things compels\na doubt that she wrote Science and Health. She is guilty of little\nawkwardnesses of expression in the Autobiography which a practiced pen\nwould hardly allow to go uncorrected in even a hasty private letter,\nand could not dream of passing by uncorrected in passages intended for\nprint. But she passes them placidly by; as placidly as if she did not\nsuspect that they were offenses against third-class English. I think\nthat that placidity was born of that very unawareness, so to speak. I\nwill cite a few instances from the Autobiography. The italics are mine:\n\n I remember reading in my childhood certain manuscripts containing\nScriptural Sonnets, besides other verses and enigmas,  etc. Page 7.\n\n[On page 27.]  Many pale cripples went into the Church leaning on\ncrutches who came out carrying them on their shoulders. \n\nIt is awkward, because at the first glance it seems to say that the\ncripples went in leaning on crutches which went out carrying the\ncripples on their shoulders. It would have cost her no trouble to\nput her  who  after her  cripples.  I blame her a little; I think her\nproof-reader should have been shot. We may let her capital C pass, but\nit is another awkwardness, for she is talking about a building, not\nabout a religious society.\n\n Marriage and Parentage  [Chapter-heading. Page 30]. You imagine that\nshe is going to begin a talk about her marriage and finish with\nsome account of her father and mother. And so you will be deceived.\n Marriage  was right, but  Parentage  was not the best word for the rest\nof the record. It refers to the birth of her own child. After a certain\nperiod of time  my babe was born.  Marriage and Motherhood--Marriage and\nMaternity--Marriage and Product--Marriage and Dividend--either of these\nwould have fitted the facts and made the matter clear.\n\n Without my knowledge he was appointed a guardian.  Page 32.\n\nShe is speaking of her child. She means that a guardian for her child\nwas appointed, but that isn't what she says.\n\n If spiritual conclusions are separated from their premises, the\nnexus is lost, and the argument with its rightful conclusions, becomes\ncorrespondingly obscure.  Page 34.\n\nWe shall never know why she put the word  correspondingly  in\nthere. Any fine, large word would have answered just as well:\npsychosuperintangibly--electroincandescently--oligarcheologically--\nsanchrosynchro-stereoptically--any of these would have answered,\nany of these would have filled the void.\n\n His spiritual noumenon and phenomenon silenced portraiture.  Page 34.\n\nYet she says she forgot everything she knew, when she discovered\nChristian Science. I realize that noumenon is a daisy; and I will not\ndeny that I shall use it whenever I am in a company which I think I can\nembarrass with it; but, at the same time, I think it is out of place\namong friends in an autobiography. There, I think a person ought not\nto have anything up his sleeve. It undermines confidence. But my\ndissatisfaction with the quoted passage is not on account of noumenon;\nit is on account of the misuse of the word  silenced.  You cannot\nsilence portraiture with a noumenon; if portraiture should make a noise,\na way could be found to silence it, but even then it could not be done\nwith a noumenon. Not even with a brick, some authorities think.\n\n It may be that the mortal life-battle still wages,  etc. Page 35.\n\nThat is clumsy. Battles do not wage, battles are waged. Mrs. Eddy has\none very curious and interesting peculiarity: whenever she notices that\nshe is chortling along without saying anything, she pulls up with a\nsudden  God is over us all,  or some other sounding irrelevancy, and for\nthe moment it seems to light up the whole district; then, before you can\nrecover from the shock, she goes flitting pleasantly and meaninglessly\nalong again, and you hurry hopefully after her, thinking you are going\nto get something this time; but as soon as she has led you far enough\naway from her turkey lot she takes to a tree. Whenever she discovers\nthat she is getting pretty disconnected, she couples-up with an\nostentatious  But  which has nothing to do with anything that went\nbefore or is to come after, then she hitches some empties to the\ntrain-unrelated verses from the Bible, usually--and steams out of sight\nand leaves you wondering how she did that clever thing. For striking\ninstances, see bottom paragraph on page 34 and the paragraph on page\n35 of her Autobiography. She has a purpose--a deep and dark and artful\npurpose--in what she is saying in the first paragraph, and you guess\nwhat it is, but that is due to your own talent, not hers; she has\nmade it as obscure as language could do it. The other paragraph has\nno meaning and no discoverable intention. It is merely one of her\nGod-over-alls. I cannot spare room for it in this place.\n\n I beheld with ineffable awe our great Master's marvelous skill in\ndemanding neither obedience to hygienic laws nor,  etc. Page 41.\n\nThe word is loosely chosen-skill. She probably meant judgment,\nintuition, penetration, or wisdom.\n\n Naturally, my first jottings were but efforts to express in feeble\ndiction Truth's ultimate.  Page 42.\n\nOne understands what she means, but she should have been able to say\nwhat she meant--at any time before she discovered Christian Science and\nforgot everything she knew--and after it, too. If she had put  feeble \n in front of  efforts  and then left out  in  and  diction,  she would\nhave scored.\n\n ... its written expression increases in perfection under the guidance\nof the great Master.  Page 43.\n\nIt is an error. Not even in those advantageous circumstances can\nincrease be added to perfection.\n\n Evil is not mastered by evil; it can only be overcome with Good.\nThis brings out the nothingness of evil, and the eternal Somethingness\nvindicates the Divine Principle and improves the race of Adam.  Page 76.\n\nThis is too extraneous for me. That is the trouble with Mrs. Eddy when\nshe sets out to explain an over-large exhibit: the minute you think the\nlight is bursting upon you the candle goes out and your mind begins to\nwander.\n\n No one else can drain the cup which I have drunk to the dregs, as the\ndiscoverer and teacher of Christian Science  Page 47.\n\nThat is saying we cannot empty an empty cup. We knew it before; and we\nknow she meant to tell us that that particular cup is going to remain\nempty. That is, we think that that was the idea, but we cannot be sure.\nShe has a perfectly astonishing talent for putting words together\nin such a way as to make successful inquiry into their intention\nimpossible.\n\nShe generally makes us uneasy when she begins to tune up on her\nfine-writing timbrel. It carries me back to her Plague-Spot and Poetry\ndays, and I just dread those:\n\n Into mortal mind's material obliquity I gazed and stood abashed.\nBlanched was the cheek of pride. My heart bent low before the\nomnipotence of Spirit, and a tint of humility soft as the heart of\na moonbeam mantled the earth. Bethlehem and Bethany, Gethsemane and\nCalvary, spoke to my chastened sense as by the tearful lips of a babe. \n Page 48.\n\nThe heart of a moonbeam is a pretty enough Friendship's-Album\nexpression--let it pass, though I do think the figure a little strained;\nbut humility has no tint, humility has no complexion, and if it had it\ncould not mantle the earth. A moonbeam might--I do not know--but she\ndid not say it was the moonbeam. But let it go, I cannot decide it, she\nmixes me up so. A babe hasn't  tearful lips,  it's its eyes. You find\nnone of Mrs. Eddy's kind of English in Science and Health--not a line of\nit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nSetting aside title-page, index, etc., the little Autobiography begins\non page 7 and ends on page 130. My quotations are from the first forty\npages. They seem to me to prove the presence of the 'prentice hand. The\nstyle of the forty pages is loose and feeble and 'prentice-like. The\nmovement of the narrative is not orderly and sequential, but rambles\naround, and skips forward and back and here and there and yonder,\n'prentice-fashion. Many a journeyman has broken up his narrative and\nskipped about and rambled around, but he did it for a purpose, for\nan advantage; there was art in it, and points to be scored by it; the\nobservant reader perceived the game, and enjoyed it and respected it, if\nit was well played. But Mrs. Eddy's performance was without intention,\nand destitute of art. She could score no points by it on those terms,\nand almost any reader can see that her work was the uncalculated\nputtering of a novice.\n\nIn the above paragraph I have described the first third of the booklet.\nThat third being completed, Mrs. Eddy leaves the rabbit-range,\ncrosses the frontier, and steps out upon her far-spreading big-game\nterritory--Christian Science and there is an instant change! The style\nsmartly improves; and the clumsy little technical offenses disappear. In\nthese two-thirds of the booklet I find only one such offence, and it has\nthe look of being a printer's error.\n\nI leave the riddle with the reader. Perhaps he can explain how it is\nthat a person-trained or untrained--who on the one day can write nothing\nbetter than Plague-Spot-Bacilli and feeble and stumbling and wandering\npersonal history littered with false figures and obscurities and\ntechnical blunders, can on the next day sit down and write fluently,\nsmoothly, compactly, capably, and confidently on a great big thundering\nsubject, and do it as easily and comfortably as a whale paddles around\nthe globe.\n\nAs for me, I have scribbled so much in fifty years that I have become\nsaturated with convictions of one sort and another concerning a\nscribbler's limitations; and these are so strong that when I am familiar\nwith a literary person's work I feel perfectly sure that I know enough\nabout his limitations to know what he can not do. If Mr. Howells should\npretend to me that he wrote the Plague-Spot Bacilli rhapsody, I should\nreceive the statement courteously; but I should know it for a--well, for\na perversion. If the late Josh Billings should rise up and tell me that\nhe wrote Herbert Spencer's philosophies; I should answer and say that\nthe spelling casts a doubt upon his claim. If the late Jonathan Edwards\nshould rise up and tell me he wrote Mr. Dooley's books, I should answer\nand say that the marked difference between his style and Dooley's is\nargument against the soundness of his statement. You see how much I\nthink of circumstantial evidence. In literary matters--in my belief--it\nis often better than any person's word, better than any shady\ncharacter's oath. It is difficult for me to believe that the same hand\nthat wrote the Plague-Spot-Bacilli and the first third of the little\nEddy biography wrote also Science and Health. Indeed, it is more than\ndifficult, it is impossible.\n\nLargely speaking, I have read acres of what purported to be Mrs. Eddy's\nwritings, in the past two months. I cannot know, but I am convinced,\nthat the circumstantial evidence shows that her actual share in the\nwork of composing and phrasing these things was so slight as to be\ninconsequential. Where she puts her literary foot down, her trail\nacross her paid polisher's page is as plain as the elephant's in a\nSunday-school procession. Her verbal output, when left undoctored by\nher clerks, is quite unmistakable It always exhibits the strongly\ndistinctive features observable in the virgin passages from her pen\nalready quoted by me:\n\nDesert vacancy, as regards thought. Self-complacency. Puerility.\nSentimentality. Affectations of scholarly learning. Lust after eloquent\nand flowery expression. Repetition of pet poetic picturesquenesses.\nConfused and wandering statement. Metaphor gone insane. Meaningless\nwords, used because they are pretty, or showy, or unusual. Sorrowful\nattempts at the epigrammatic. Destitution of originality.\n\nThe fat volume called Miscellaneous Writings of Mrs. Eddy contains\nseveral hundred pages. Of the five hundred and fifty-four pages of prose\nin it I find ten lines, on page 319, to be Mrs. Eddy's; also about a\npage of the preface or  Prospectus ; also about fifteen pages scattered\nalong through the book. If she wrote any of the rest of the prose, it\nwas rewritten after her by another hand. Here I will insert two-thirds\nof her page of the prospectus. It is evident that whenever, under the\ninspiration of the Deity, she turns out a book, she is always allowed to\ndo some of the preface. I wonder why that is? It always mars the work.\nI think it is done in humorous malice I think the clerks like to see\nher give herself away. They know she will, her stock of usable materials\nbeing limited and her procedure in employing them always the same,\nsubstantially. They know that when the initiated come upon her first\nerudite allusion, or upon any one of her other stage-properties, they\ncan shut their eyes and tell what will follow. She usually throws off\nan easy remark all sodden with Greek or Hebrew or Latin learning; she\nusually has a person watching for a star--she can seldom get away\nfrom that poetic idea--sometimes it is a Chaldee, sometimes a Walking\nDelegate, sometimes an entire stranger, but be he what he may, he is\ngenerally there when the train is ready to move, and has his pass in his\nhat-band; she generally has a Being with a Dome on him, or some other\ncover that is unusual and out of the fashion; she likes to fire off a\nScripture-verse where it will make the handsomest noise and come nearest\nto breaking the connection; she often throws out a Forefelt, or a\nForesplendor, or a Foreslander where it will have a fine nautical\nforeto'gallant sound and make the sentence sing; after which she is\nnearly sure to throw discretion away and take to her deadly passion,\nIntoxicated Metaphor. At such a time the Mrs. Eddy that does not\nhesitate is lost:\n\n The ancient Greek looked longingly for the Olympiad. The Chaldee\nwatched the appearing of a star; to him no higher destiny dawned on the\ndome of being than that foreshadowed by signs in the heavens. The meek\nNazarene, the scoffed of all scoffers, said, 'Ye can discern the face\nof the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?'--for He\nforefelt and foresaw the ordeal of a perfect Christianity, hated by\nsinners.\n\n To kindle all minds with a gleam of gratitude, the new idea that comes\nwelling up from infinite Truth needs to be understood. The seer of this\nage should be a sage.\n\n Humility is the stepping-stone to a higher recognition of Deity. The\nmounting sense gathers fresh forms and strange fire from the ashes\nof dissolving self, and drops the world. Meekness heightens immortal\nattributes, only by removing the dust that dims them. Goodness reveals\nanother scene and another self seemingly rolled up in shades, but\nbrought to light by the evolutions of advancing thought, whereby we\ndiscern the power of Truth and Love to heal the sick.\n\n Pride is ignorance; those assume most who have the least wisdom or\nexperience; and they steal from their neighbor, because they have so\nlittle of their own. --Miscellaneous Writings, page 1, and six lines at\ntop of page 2.\n\nIt is not believable that the hand that wrote those clumsy and affected\nsentences wrote the smooth English of Science and Health.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nIt is often said in print that Mrs. Eddy claims that God was the Author\nof Science and Health. Mr. Peabody states in his pamphlet that  she says\nnot she but God was the Author.  I cannot find that in her autobiography\nshe makes this transference of the authorship, but I think that in\nit she definitely claims that she did her work under His\ninspiration--definitely for her; for as a rule she is not a very\ndefinite person, even when she seems to be trying her best to be clear\nand positive. Speaking of the early days when her Science was beginning\nto unfold itself and gather form in her mind, she says (Autobiography,\npage 43):\n\n The divine hand led me into a new world of light and Life, a fresh\nuniverse--old to God, but new to His 'little one.' \n\nShe being His little one, as I understand it.\n\nThe divine hand led her. It seems to mean  God inspired me ; but when\na person uses metaphors instead of statistics--and that is Mrs. Eddy's\ncommon fashion--one cannot always feel sure about the intention.\n\n[Page 56.]  Even the Scripture gave no direct interpretation of the\nScientific basis for demonstrating the spiritual Principle of healing,\nuntil our Heavenly Father saw fit, through the Key to the Scriptures, in\nScience and Health, to unlock this 'mystery of godliness.' \n\nAnother baffling metaphor. If she had used plain forecastle English,\nand said  God wrote the Key and I put it in my book ; or if she had said\n God furnished me the solution of the mystery and I put it on paper ;\nor if she had said  God did it all,  then we should understand; but her\nphrase is open to any and all of those translations, and is a Key\nwhich unlocks nothing--for us. However, it seems to at least mean  God\ninspired me,  if nothing more.\n\nThere was personal and intimate communion, at any rate we get that\nmuch out of the riddles. The connection extended to business, after the\nestablishment of the teaching and healing industry.\n\n[Page 71.]  When God impelled me to set a price on my instruction,  etc.\nFurther down:  God has since shown me, in multitudinous ways, the wisdom\nof this decision. \n\nShe was not able to think of a  financial equivalent --meaning a\npecuniary equivalent--for her  instruction in Christian Science\nMind-healing.  In this emergency she was  led  to charge three hundred\ndollars for a term of  twelve half-days.  She does not say who led her,\nshe only says that the amount greatly troubled her. I think it means\nthat the price was suggested from above,  led  being a theological term\nidentical with our commercial phrase  personally conducted.  She  shrank\nfrom asking it, but was finally led, by a strange providence, to accept\nthis fee.   Providence  is another theological term. Two leds and\na providence, taken together, make a pretty strong argument for\ninspiration. I think that these statistics make it clear that the price\nwas arranged above. This view is constructively supported by the fact,\nalready quoted, that God afterwards approved,  in multitudinous\nways,  her wisdom in accepting the mentioned fee.  Multitudinous\nways --multitudinous encoring--suggests enthusiasm. Business enthusiasm.\nAnd it suggests nearness. God's nearness to his  little one.  Nearness,\nand a watchful personal interest. A warm, palpitating, Standard-Oil\ninterest, so to speak. All this indicates inspiration. We may assume,\nthen, two inspirations: one for the book, the other for the business.\n\nThe evidence for inspiration is further augmented by the testimony of\nRev. George Tomkins, D.D., already quoted, that Mrs. Eddy and her book\nwere foretold in Revelation, and that Mrs. Eddy  is God's brightest\nthought to this age, giving us the spiritual interpretation of the Bible\nin the 'little book'  of the Angel.\n\nI am aware that it is not Mr. Tomkins that is speaking, but Mrs. Eddy.\nThe commissioned lecturers of the Christian Science Church have to be\nmembers of the Board of Lectureship. (By-laws Sec. 2, p. 70.) The Board\nof Lectureship is selected by the Board of Directors of the Church.\n(By-laws, Sec. 3, p. 70.) The Board of Directors of the Church is the\nproperty of Mrs. Eddy. (By-laws, p. 22.) Mr. Tomkins did not make that\nstatement without authorization from headquarters. He necessarily got it\nfrom the Board of Directors, the Board of Directors from Mrs. Eddy, Mrs.\nEddy from the Deity. Mr. Tomkins would have been turned down by that\nprocession if his remarks had been unsatisfactory to it.\n\nIt may be that there is evidence somewhere--as has been claimed--that\nMrs. Eddy has charged upon the Deity the verbal authorship of Science\nand Health. But if she ever made the charge, she has withdrawn it (as it\nseems to me), and in the most formal and unqualified; of all ways. See\nAutobiography, page 57:\n\n When the demand for this book increased... the copyright was infringed.\nI entered a suit at Law, and my copyright was protected. \n\nThus it is plain that she did not plead that the Deity was the (verbal)\nAuthor; for if she had done that, she would have lost her case--and with\nrude promptness. It was in the old days before the Berne Convention and\nbefore the passage of our amended law of 1891, and the court would have\nquoted the following stern clause from the existing statute and frowned\nher out of the place:\n\n No Foreigner can acquire copyright in the United States. \n\nTo sum up. The evidence before me indicates three things:\n\n1. That Mrs. Eddy claims the verbal author ship for herself. 2. That she\ndenies it to the Deity. 3. That--in her belief--she wrote the book under\nthe inspiration of the Deity, but furnished the language herself.\n\nIn one place in the Autobiography she claims both the language and\nthe ideas; but when this witness is testifying, one must draw the line\nsomewhere, or she will prove both sides of her case-nine sides, if\ndesired.\n\nIt is too true. Much too true. Many, many times too true. She is a most\ntrying witness--the most trying witness that ever kissed the Book, I am\nsure. There is no keeping up with her erratic testimony. As soon as you\nhave got her share of the authorship nailed where you half hope and half\nbelieve it will stay and cannot be joggled loose any more, she joggles\nit loose again--or seems to; you cannot be sure, for her habit of\ndealing in meaningless metaphors instead of in plain, straightforward\nstatistics, makes it nearly always impossible to tell just what it\nis she is trying to say. She was definite when she claimed both the\nlanguage and the ideas of the book. That seemed to settle the matter.\nIt seemed to distribute the percentages of credit with precision between\nthe collaborators: ninety-two per cent. to Mrs. Eddy, who did all the\nwork, and eight per cent. to the Deity, who furnished the inspiration\nnot enough of it to damage the copyright in a country closed against\nForeigners, and yet plenty to advertise the book and market it at famine\nrates. Then Mrs. Eddy does not keep still, but fetches around and comes\nforward and testifies again. It is most injudicious. For she resorts to\nmetaphor this time, and it makes trouble, for she seems to reverse the\npercentages and claim only the eight per cent. for her self. I quote\nfrom Mr. Peabody's book (Eddyism, or Christian Science. Boston: 15 Court\nSquare, price twenty-five cents):\n\n Speaking of this book, Mrs. Eddy, in January last (1901) said: 'I\nshould blush to write of Science and Health, with Key to the Scriptures,\nas I have, were it of human origin, and I, apart from God, its author;\nbut as I was only a scribe echoing the harmonies of Heaven in\ndivine metaphysics, I cannot be supermodest of the Christian Science\ntext-book. '\n\nMr. Peabody's comment:\n\n Nothing could be plainer than that. Here is a distinct avowal that the\nbook entitled Science and Health was the work of Almighty God. \n\nIt does seem to amount to that. She was only a  scribe.  Confound the\nword, it is just a confusion, it has no determinable meaning there, it\nleaves us in the air. A scribe is merely a person who writes. He may be\na copyist, he may be an amanuensis, he may be a writer of originals, and\nfurnish both the language and the ideas. As usual with Mrs. Eddy, the\nconnection affords no help-- echoing  throws no light upon  scribe.  A\nrock can reflect an echo, a wall can do it, a mountain can do it, many\nthings can do it, but a scribe can't. A scribe that could reflect\nan echo could get over thirty dollars a week in a side-show. Many\nimpresarios would rather have him than a cow with four tails. If we\nallow that this present scribe was setting down the  harmonies of\nHeaven --and certainly that seems to have been the case then there was\nonly one way to do it that I can think of: listen to the music and put\ndown the notes one after another as they fell. In that case Mrs.\nEddy did not invent the tune, she only entered it on paper. Therefore\ndropping the metaphor--she was merely an amanuensis, and furnished\nneither the language of Science and Health nor the ideas. It reduces her\nto eight per cent. (and the dividends on that and the rest).\n\nIs that it? We shall never know. For Mrs. Eddy is liable to testify\nagain at any time. But until she does it, I think we must conclude\nthat the Deity was Author of the whole book, and Mrs. Eddy merely His\ntelephone and stenographer. Granting this, her claim as the Voice of God\nstands-for the present--justified and established.\n\n\n\n\nPOSTSCRIPT\n\nI overlooked something. It appears that there was more of that utterance\nthan Mr. Peabody has quoted in the above paragraph. It will be found\nin Mrs. Eddy's organ, the Christian Science Journal (January, 1901) and\nreads as follows:\n\n It was not myself... which dictated Science and Health, with Key to the\nScriptures. \n\nThat is certainly clear enough. The words which I have removed from that\nimportant sentence explain Who it was that did the dictating. It was\ndone by\n\n the divine power of Truth and Love, infinitely above me. \n\nCertainly that is definite. At last, through her personal testimony,\nwe have a sure grip upon the following vital facts, and they settle the\nauthorship of Science and Health beyond peradventure:\n\n1. Mrs. Eddy furnished  the ideas and the language.  2. God furnished\nthe ideas and the language.\n\nIt is a great comfort to have the matter authoritatively settled.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nIt is hard to locate her, she shifts about so much. She is a shining\ndrop of quicksilver which you put your finger on and it isn't there.\nThere is a paragraph in the Autobiography (page 96) which places in\nseemingly darkly significant procession three Personages:\n\n1. The Virgin Mary 2. Jesus of Nazareth. 3. Mrs. Eddy.\n\nThis is the paragraph referred to:\n\n No person can take the individual place of the Virgin Mary. No person\ncan compass or fulfil the individual mission of Jesus of Nazareth.\nNo person can take the place of the author of Science and Health, the\ndiscoverer and founder of Christian Science. Each individual must fill\nhis own niche in time and eternity. \n\nI have read it many times, but I still cannot be sure that I rightly\nunderstand it. If the Saviour's name had been placed first and the\nVirgin Mary's second and Mrs. Eddy's third, I should draw the inference\nthat a descending scale from First Importance to Second Importance and\nthen to Small Importance was indicated; but to place the Virgin first,\nthe Saviour second, and Mrs. Eddy third, seems to turn the scale the\nother way and make it an ascending scale of Importances, with Mrs. Eddy\nranking the other two and holding first place.\n\nI think that that was perhaps the intention, but none but a seasoned\nChristian Scientist can examine a literary animal of Mrs. Eddy's\ncreation and tell which end of it the tail is on. She is easily the most\nbaffling and bewildering writer in the literary trade.\n\nEddy is a commonplace name, and would have an unimpressive aspect in the\nlist of the reformed Holy Family. She has thought of that. In the book\nof By-laws written by her-- impelled by a power not one's own --there is\na paragraph which explains how and when her disciples came to confer a\ntitle upon her; and this explanation is followed by a warning as to what\nwill happen to any female Scientist who shall desecrate it:\n\n The title of Mother. Therefore if a student of Christian Science shall\napply this title, either to herself or to others, except as the term for\nkinship according to the flesh, it shall be regarded by the Church as an\nindication of disrespect for their Pastor Emeritus, and unfitness to be\na member of the Mother-Church. \n\nShe is the Pastor Emeritus.\n\nWhile the quoted paragraph about the Procession seems to indicate that\nMrs. Eddy is expecting to occupy the First Place in it, that expectation\nis not definitely avowed. In an earlier utterance of hers she is\nclearer--clearer, and does not claim the first place all to herself, but\nonly the half of it. I quote from Mr. Peabody's book again:\n\n In the Christian Science Journal for April, 1889, when it was her\nproperty, and published by her, it was claimed for her, and with her\nsanction, that she was equal with Jesus, and elaborate effort was made\nto establish the claim.\n\n Mrs. Eddy has distinctly authorized the claim in her behalf that she\nherself was the chosen successor to and equal of Jesus. \n\nIn her Miscellaneous Writings (using her once favorite  We  for  I ) she\nsays that  While we entertain decided views... and shall express them as\nduty demands, we shall claim no especial gift from our divine origin, \n etc.\n\nOur divine origin. It suggests Equal again. It is inferable, then,\nthat in the near by-and-by the new Church will officially rank the Holy\nFamily in the following order:\n\n1. Jesus of Nazareth.--1. Our Mother. 2. The Virgin Mary.\n\n\n\n\nSUMMARY\n\nI am not playing with Christian Science and its founder, I am examining\nthem; and I am doing it because of the interest I feel in the inquiry.\nMy results may seem inadequate to the reader, but they have for me\nclarified a muddle and brought a sort of order out of a chaos, and so I\nvalue them.\n\nMy readings of Mrs. Eddy's uninspired miscellaneous literary efforts\nhave convinced me of several things:\n\n1. That she did not write Science and Health. 2. That the Deity did (or\ndid not) write it. 3. That She thinks She wrote it. 4. That She believes\nShe wrote it under the Deity's inspiration. 5. That She believes She is\na Member of the Holy Family. 6. That She believes She is the equal of\nthe Head of it.\n\nFinally, I think She is now entitled to the capital S--on her own\nevidence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nThus far we have a part of Mrs. Eddy's portrait. Not made of fictions,\nsurmises, reports, rumors, innuendoes, dropped by her enemies; no, she\nhas furnished all of the materials herself, and laid them on the canvas,\nunder my general superintendence and direction. As far as she has gone\nwith it, it is the presentation of a complacent, commonplace, illiterate\nNew England woman who  forgot everything she knew  when she discovered\nher discovery, then wrote a Bible in good English under the inspiration\nof God, and climbed up it to the supremest summit of earthly grandeur\nattainable by man--where she sits serene to-day, beloved and worshiped\nby a multitude of human beings of as good average intelligence as is\npossessed by those that march under the banner of any competing cult.\nThis is not intended to flatter the competing cults, it is merely a\nstatement of cold fact.\n\nThat a commonplace person should go climbing aloft and become a god or\na half-god or a quarter-god and be worshiped by men and women of average\nintelligence, is nothing. It has happened a million times, it will\nhappen a hundred million more. It has been millions of years since the\nfirst of these supernaturals appeared, and by the time the last one in\nthat inconceivably remote future shall have performed his solemn little\nhigh-jinks on the stage and closed the business, there will be enough\nof them accumulated in the museum on the Other Side to start a heaven of\ntheir own-and jam it.\n\nEach in his turn those little supernaturals of our by-gone ages and\naeons joined the monster procession of his predecessors and marched\nhorizonward, disappeared, and was forgotten. They changed nothing,\nthey built nothing, they left nothing behind them to remember them by,\nnothing to hold their disciples together, nothing to solidify their work\nand enable it to defy the assaults of time and the weather. They passed,\nand left a vacancy. They made one fatal mistake; they all made it,\neach in his turn: they failed to organize their forces, they failed to\ncentralize their strength, they failed to provide a fresh Bible and a\nsure and perpetual cash income for business, and often they failed to\nprovide a new and accepted Divine Personage to worship.\n\nMrs. Eddy is not of that small fry. The materials that go to the\nmaking of the rest of her portrait will prove it. She will furnish them\nherself:\n\nShe published her book. She copyrighted it. She copyrights everything.\nIf she should say,  Good-morning; how do you do?  she would copyright\nit; for she is a careful person, and knows the value of small things.\n\nShe began to teach her Science, she began to heal, she began to gather\nconverts to her new religion--fervent, sincere, devoted, grateful\npeople. A year or two later she organized her first Christian Science\n Association,  with six of her disciples on the roster.\n\nShe continued to teach and heal. She was charging nothing, she says,\nalthough she was very poor. She taught and healed gratis four years\naltogether, she says.\n\nThen, in 1879-81 she was become strong enough, and well enough\nestablished, to venture a couple of impressively important moves. The\nfirst of these moves was to aggrandize the  Association  to a  Church. \n Brave? It is the right name for it, I think. The former name suggests\nnothing, invited no remark, no criticism, no inquiry, no hostility; the\nnew name invited them all. She must have made this intrepid venture on\nher own motion. She could have had no important advisers at that early\nday. If we accept it as her own idea and her own act--and I think we\nmust--we have one key to her character. And it will explain subsequent\nacts of hers that would merely stun us and stupefy us without it. Shall\nwe call it courage? Or shall we call it recklessness? Courage observes;\nreflects; calculates; surveys the whole situation; counts the cost,\nestimates the odds, makes up its mind; then goes at the enterprise\nresolute to win or perish. Recklessness does not reflect, it plunges\nfearlessly in with a hurrah, and takes the risks, whatever they may be,\nregardless of expense. Recklessness often fails, Mrs. Eddy has never\nfailed--from the point of view of her followers. The point of view of\nother people is naturally not a matter of weighty importance to her.\n\nThe new Church was not born loose-jointed and featureless, but had a\ndefined plan, a definite character, definite aims, and a name which was\na challenge, and defied all comers. It was  a Mind-healing Church.  It\nwas  without a creed.  Its name,  The Church of Christ, Scientist. \n\nMrs. Eddy could not copyright her Church, but she chartered it, which\nwas the same thing and relieved the pain. It had twenty-six charter\nmembers. Mrs. Eddy was at once installed as its pastor.\n\nThe other venture, above referred to, was Mrs. Eddy's Massachusetts\nMetaphysical College, in which was taught  the pathology of spiritual\npower.  She could not copyright it, but she got it chartered. For\nfaculty it had herself, her husband of the period (Dr. Eddy), and her\nadopted son, Dr. Foster-Eddy. The college term was  barely three\nweeks,  she says. Again she was bold, brave, rash, reckless--choose for\nyourself--for she not only began to charge the student, but charged him\na hundred dollars a week for the enlightenments. And got it? some may\nask. Easily. Pupils flocked from far and near. They came by the hundred.\nPresently the term was cut down nearly half, but the price remained as\nbefore. To be exact, the term-cut was to seven lessons--price,\nthree hundred dollars. The college  yielded a large income.  This is\nbelievable. In seven years Mrs. Eddy taught, as she avers, over four\nthousand students in it. (Preface to 1902 edition of Science and\nHealth.) Three hundred times four thousand is--but perhaps you can\ncipher it yourself. I could do it ordinarily, but I fell down yesterday\nand hurt my leg. Cipher it; you will see that it is a grand sum for a\nwoman to earn in seven years. Yet that was not all she got out of her\ncollege in the seven.\n\nAt the time that she was charging the primary student three hundred\ndollars for twelve lessons she was not content with this tidy\nassessment, but had other ways of plundering him. By advertisement she\noffered him privileges whereby he could add eighteen lessons to his\nstore for five hundred dollars more. That is to say, he could get a\ntotal of thirty lessons in her college for eight hundred dollars.\n\nFour thousand times eight hundred is--but it is a difficult sum for a\ncripple who has not been  demonstrated over  to cipher; let it go.\nShe taught  over  four thousand students in seven years.  Over  is not\ndefinite, but it probably represents a non-paying surplus of learners\nover and above the paying four thousand. Charity students, doubtless. I\nthink that as interesting an advertisement as has been printed since the\nromantic old days of the other buccaneers is this one from the Christian\nScience Journal for September, 1886:\n\n\n MASSACHUSETTS METAPHYSICAL COLLEGE\n\n Rev. MARY BAKER G. EDDY, PRESIDENT\n\n 571 Columbus Avenue, Boston\n\n The collegiate course in Christian Science metaphysical healing\nincludes twelve lessons. Tuition, three hundred dollars.\n\n Course in metaphysical obstetrics includes six daily lectures, and is\nopen only to students from this college. Tuition, one hundred dollars.\n\n Class in theology, open (like the above) to graduates, receives six\nadditional lectures on the Scriptures, and summary of the principle and\npractice of Christian Science, two hundred dollars.\n\n Normal class is open to those who have taken the first course at this\ncollege; six daily lectures complete the Normal course. Tuition, two\nhundred dollars.\n\n No invalids, and only persons of good moral character, are accepted\nas students. All students are subject to examination and rejection; and\nthey are liable to leave the class if found unfit to remain in it.\n\n A limited number of clergymen received free of charge.\n\n Largest discount to indigent students, one hundred dollars on the first\ncourse.\n\n No deduction on the others.\n\n Husband and wife, entered together, three hundred dollars.\n\n Tuition for all strictly in advance. \n\nThere it is--the horse-leech's daughter alive again, after a\nthree-century vacation. Fifty or sixty hours' lecturing for eight\nhundred dollars.\n\nI was in error as to one matter: there are no charity students.\nGratis-taught clergymen must not be placed under that head; they are\nmerely an advertisement. Pauper students can get into the infant class\non a two-third rate (cash in advance), but not even an archangel can get\ninto the rest of the game at anything short of par, cash down. For it is\n in the spirit of Christ's charity, as one who is joyful to hear healing\nto the sick  that Mrs. Eddy is working the game. She sends the healing\nto them outside. She cannot bear it to them inside the college, for the\nreason that she does not allow a sick candidate to get in. It is true\nthat this smells of inconsistency, but that is nothing; Mrs. Eddy\nwould not be Mrs. Eddy if she should ever chance to be consistent about\nanything two days running.\n\nExcept in the matter of the Dollar. The Dollar, and appetite for power\nand notoriety. English must also be added; she is always consistent,\nshe is always Mrs. Eddy, in her English: it is always and consistently\nconfused and crippled and poor. She wrote the Advertisement; her\nliterary trade-marks are there. When she says all  students  are subject\nto examination, she does not mean students, she means candidates for\nthat lofty place When she says students are  liable  to leave the class\nif found unfit to remain in it, she does not mean that if they find\nthemselves unfit, or be found unfit by others, they will be likely to\nask permission to leave the class; she means that if she finds them\nunfit she will be  liable  to fire them out. When she nobly offers\n tuition for all strictly in advance,  she does not mean  instruction\nfor all in advance-payment for it later.  No, that is only what she\nsays, it is not what she means. If she had written Science and Health,\nthe oldest man in the world would not be able to tell with certainty\nwhat any passage in it was intended to mean.\n\nHer Church was on its legs.\n\nShe was its pastor. It was prospering.\n\nShe was appointed one of a committee to draught By-laws for its\ngovernment. It may be observed, without overplus of irreverence, that\nthis was larks for her. She did all of the draughting herself. From the\nvery beginning she was always in the front seat when there was business\nto be done; in the front seat, with both eyes open, and looking sharply\nout for Number One; in the front seat, working Mortal Mind with fine\neffectiveness and giving Immortal Mind a rest for Sunday. When her\nChurch was reorganized, by-and-by, the By-laws were retained. She saw\nto that. In these Laws for the government of her Church, her empire, her\ndespotism, Mrs. Eddy's character is embalmed for good and all. I think\na particularized examination of these Church-laws will be found\ninteresting. And not the less so if we keep in mind that they were\n impelled by a power not one's own,  as she says--Anglice--the\ninspiration of God.\n\nIt is a Church  without a creed.  Still, it has one. Mrs. Eddy draughted\nit--and copyrighted it. In her own name. You cannot become a member of\nthe Mother-Church (nor of any Christian Science Church) without signing\nit. It forms the first chapter of the By-laws, and is called  Tenets. \n  Tenets of The Mother Church, The First Church of Christ, Scientist.  It\nhas no hell in it--it throws it overboard.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PASTOR EMERITUS\n\nAbout the time of the reorganization, Mrs. Eddy retired from her\nposition of pastor of her Church, abolished the office of pastor in\nall branch Churches, and appointed her book, Science and Health, to be\npastor-universal. Mrs. Eddy did not disconnect herself from the office\nentirely, when she retired, but appointed herself Pastor Emeritus. It is\na misleading title, and belongs to the family of that phrase  without\na creed.  It advertises her as being a merely honorary official, with\nnothing to do, and no authority. The Czar of Russia is Emperor Emeritus\non the same terms. Mrs. Eddy was Autocrat of the Church before, with\nlimitless authority, and she kept her grip on that limitless authority\nwhen she took that fictitious title.\n\nIt is curious and interesting to note with what an unerring instinct the\nPastor Emeritus has thought out and forecast all possible encroachments\nupon her planned autocracy, and barred the way against them, in the\nBy-laws which she framed and copyrighted--under the guidance of the\nSupreme Being.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOARD OF DIRECTORS\n\nFor instance, when Article I. speaks of a President and Board of\nDirectors, you think you have discovered a formidable check upon the\npowers and ambitions of the honorary pastor, the ornamental pastor, the\nfunctionless pastor, the Pastor Emeritus, but it is a mistake. These\ngreat officials are of the phrase--family of the Church-Without-a-Creed\nand the Pastor-With-Nothing-to-Do; that is to say, of the family of\nLarge-Names-Which-Mean-Nothing. The Board is of so little consequence\nthat the By-laws do not state how it is chosen, nor who does it; but\nthey do state, most definitely, that the Board cannot fill a vacancy in\nits number  except the candidate is approved by the Pastor Emeritus. \n\nThe  candidate.  The Board cannot even proceed to an election until the\nPastor Emeritus has examined the list and squelched such candidates as\nare not satisfactory to her.\n\nWhether the original first Board began as the personal property of Mrs.\nEddy or not, it is foreseeable that in time, under this By-law, she\nwould own it. Such a first Board might chafe under such a rule as that,\nand try to legislate it out of existence some day. But Mrs. Eddy was\nawake. She foresaw that danger, and added this ingenious and effective\nclause:\n\n This By-law can neither be amended nor annulled, except by consent of\nMrs. Eddy, the Pastor Emeritus. \n\n\n\n\nTHE PRESIDENT\n\nThe Board of Directors, or Serfs, or Ciphers, elects the President.\n\nOn these clearly worded terms:  Subject to the approval of the Pastor\nEmeritus. \n\nTherefore She elects him.\n\nA long term can invest a high official with influence and power, and\nmake him dangerous. Mrs. Eddy reflected upon that; so she limits the\nPresident's term to a year. She has a capable commercial head, an\norganizing head, a head for government.\n\n\n\n\nTREASURER AND CLERK\n\nThere are a Treasurer and a Clerk. They are elected by the Board of\nDirectors. That is to say, by Mrs. Eddy.\n\nTheir terms of office expire on the first Tuesday in June of each year,\n or upon the election of their successors.  They must be watchfully\nobedient and satisfactory to her, or she will elect and install their\nsuccessors with a suddenness that can be unpleasant to them. It goes\nwithout saying that the Treasurer manages the Treasury to suit Mrs.\nEddy, and is in fact merely Temporary Deputy Treasurer.\n\nApparently the Clerk has but two duties to perform: to read messages\nfrom Mrs. Eddy to First Members assembled in solemn Council, and provide\nlists of candidates for Church membership. The select body entitled\nFirst Members are the aristocracy of the Mother-Church, the Charter\nMembers, the Aborigines, a sort of stylish but unsalaried little\nCollege of Cardinals, good for show, but not indispensable. Nobody is\nindispensable in Mrs. Eddy's empire; she sees to that.\n\nWhen the Pastor Emeritus sends a letter or message to that little\nSanhedrin, it is the Clerk's  imperative duty  to read it  at the place\nand time specified.  Otherwise, the world might come to an end. These\nare fine, large frills, and remind us of the ways of emperors and such.\nSuch do not use the penny-post, they send a gilded and painted special\nmessenger, and he strides into the Parliament, and business comes to\na sudden and solemn and awful stop; and in the impressive hush that\nfollows, the Chief Clerk reads the document. It is his  imperative\nduty.  If he should neglect it, his official life would end. It is\nthe same with this Mother-Church Clerk;  if he fail to perform this\nimportant function of his office,  certain majestic and unshirkable\nsolemnities must follow: a special meeting  shall  be called; a member\nof the Church  shall  make formal complaint; then the Clerk  shall  be\n removed from office.  Complaint is sufficient, no trial is necessary.\n\nThere is something very sweet and juvenile and innocent and pretty about\nthese little tinsel vanities, these grave apings of monarchical fuss and\nfeathers and ceremony, here on our ostentatiously democratic soil. She\nis the same lady that we found in the Autobiography, who was so naively\nvain of all that little ancestral military riffraff that she had dug up\nand annexed. A person's nature never changes. What it is in childhood,\nit remains. Under pressure, or a change of interest, it can partially or\nwholly disappear from sight, and for considerable stretches of time, but\nnothing can ever permanently modify it, nothing can ever remove it.\n\n\n\n\nBOARD OF TRUSTEES\n\nThere isn't any--now. But with power and money piling up higher and\nhigher every day and the Church's dominion spreading daily wider and\nfarther, a time could come when the envious and ambitious could start\nthe idea that it would be wise and well to put a watch upon these\nassets--a watch equipped with properly large authority. By custom, a\nBoard of Trustees. Mrs. Eddy has foreseen that probability--for she is\na woman with a long, long look ahead, the longest look ahead that ever a\nwoman had--and she has provided for that emergency. In Art. I., Sec.\n5, she has decreed that no Board of Trustees shall ever exist in the\nMother-Church  except it be constituted by the Pastor Emeritus. \n\nThe magnificence of it, the daring of it! Thus far, she is:\n\nThe Massachusetts Metaphysical College; Pastor Emeritus; President;\nBoard of Directors; Treasurer; Clerk; and future Board of Trustees;\n\nand is still moving onward, ever onward. When I contemplate her from\na commercial point of view, there are no words that can convey my\nadmiration of her.\n\n\n\n\nREADERS\n\nThese are a feature of first importance in the church-machinery of\nChristian Science. For they occupy the pulpit. They hold the place\nthat the preacher holds in the other Christian Churches. They hold that\nplace, but they do not preach. Two of them are on duty at a time--a man\nand a woman. One reads a passage from the Bible, the other reads\nthe explanation of it from Science and Health--and so they go on\nalternating. This constitutes the service--this, with choir-music. They\nutter no word of their own. Art. IV., Sec. 6, closes their mouths with\nthis uncompromising gag:\n\n They shall make no remarks explanatory of the Lesson-Sermon at any time\nduring the service. \n\nIt seems a simple little thing. One is not startled by it at a first\nreading of it; nor at the second, nor the third. One may have to read it\na dozen times before the whole magnitude of it rises before the mind.\nIt far and away oversizes and outclasses the best business-idea yet\ninvented for the safe-guarding and perpetuating of a religion. If it had\nbeen thought of and put in force eighteen hundred and seventy years ago,\nthere would be but one Christian sect in the world now, instead of ten\ndozens of them.\n\nThere are many varieties of men in the world, consequently there are\nmany varieties of minds in its pulpits. This insures many differing\ninterpretations of important Scripture texts, and this in turn insures\nthe splitting up of a religion into many sects. It is what has happened;\nit was sure to happen.\n\nMrs. Eddy has noted this disastrous result of preaching, and has put up\nthe bars. She will have no preaching in her Church. She has explained\nall essential Scriptures, and set the explanations down in her book. In\nher belief her underlings cannot improve upon those explanations, and\nin that stern sentence  they shall make no explanatory remarks  she has\nbarred them for all time from trying. She will be obeyed; there is no\nquestion about that.\n\nIn arranging her government she has borrowed ideas from various\nsources--not poor ones, but the best in the governmental market--but\nthis one is new, this one came out of no ordinary business-head, this\none must have come out of her own, there has been no other commercial\nskull in a thousand centuries that was equal to it. She has borrowed\nfreely and wisely, but I am sure that this idea is many times\nlarger than all her borrowings bulked together. One must respect the\nbusiness-brain that produced it--the splendid pluck and impudence that\nventured to promulgate it, anyway.\n\n\n\n\nELECTION OF READERS\n\nReaders are not taken at hap-hazard, any more than preachers are taken\nat hap-hazard for the pulpits of other sects. No, Readers are elected by\nthe Board of Directors. But--\n\n Section 3. The Board shall inform the Pas. for Emeritus of the names\nof candidates for Readers before they are elected, and if she objects to\nthe nomination, said candidates shall not be chosen. \n\nIs that an election--by the Board? Thus far I have not been able to\nfind out what that Board of Spectres is for. It certainly has no real\nfunction, no duty which the hired girl could not perform, no office\nbeyond the mere recording of the autocrat's decrees.\n\nThere are no dangerously long office-terms in Mrs. Eddy's government.\nThe Readers are elected for but one year. This insures their\nsubserviency to their proprietor.\n\nReaders are not allowed to copy out passages and read them from the\nmanuscript in the pulpit; they must read from Mrs. Eddy's book itself.\nShe is right. Slight changes could be slyly made, repeated, and in time\nget acceptance with congregations. Branch sects could grow out of these\npractices. Mrs. Eddy knows the human race, and how far to trust it. Her\nlimit is not over a quarter of an inch. It is all that a wise person\nwill risk.\n\nMrs. Eddy's inborn disposition to copyright everything, charter\neverything, secure the rightful and proper credit to herself for\neverything she does, and everything she thinks she does, and everything\nshe thinks, and everything she thinks she thinks or has thought or\nintends to think, is illustrated in Sec. 5 of Art. IV., defining the\nduties of official Readers--in church:\n\n Naming Book and Author. The Reader of Science and Health, with Key\nto the Scriptures, before commencing to read from this book, shall\ndistinctly announce its full title and give the author's name. \n\nOtherwise the congregation might get the habit of forgetting who\n(ostensibly) wrote the book.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ARISTOCRACY\n\nThis consists of First Members and their apostolic succession. It is a\nclose corporation, and its membership limit is one hundred. Forty will\nanswer, but if the number fall below that, there must be an election, to\nfill the grand quorum.\n\nThis Sanhedrin can't do anything of the slightest importance, but it\ncan talk. It can  discuss.  That is, it can discuss  important questions\nrelative to Church members , evidently persons who are already Church\nmembers. This affords it amusement, and does no harm.\n\nIt can  fix the salaries of the Readers. \n\nTwice a year it  votes on  admitting candidates. That is, for Church\nmembership. But its work is cut out for it beforehand, by Art. IX.:\n\n Every recommendation for membership In the Church 'shall be\ncountersigned by a loyal student of Mrs. Eddy's, by a Director of this\nChurch, or by a First Member.' \n\nAll these three classes of beings are the personal property of Mrs.\nEddy. She has absolute control of the elections.\n\nAlso it must  transact any Church business that may properly come before\nit. \n\n Properly  is a thoughtful word. No important business can come before\nit. The By laws have attended to that. No important business goes before\nany one for the final word except Mrs. Eddy. She has looked to that.\n\nThe Sanhedrin  votes on  candidates for admission to its own body. But\nis its vote worth any more than mine would be? No, it isn't. Sec. 4, of\nArt. V.--Election of First Members--makes this quite plain:\n\n Before being elected, the candidates for First Members shall be\napproved by the Pastor Emeritus over her own signature. \n\nThus the Sanhedrin is the personal property of Mrs. Eddy. She owns it.\nIt has no functions, no authority, no real existence. It is another\nBoard of Shadows. Mrs. Eddy is the Sanhedrin herself.\n\nBut it is time to foot up again and  see where we are at.  Thus far,\nMrs. Eddy is:\n\nThe Massachusetts Metaphysical College; Pastor Emeritus, President;\nBoard of Directors; Treasurer; Clerk; Future Board of Trustees;\nProprietor of the Priesthood: Dictator of the Services; Proprietor of\nthe Sanhedrin. She has come far, and is still on her way.\n\n\n\n\nCHURCH MEMBERSHIP\n\nIn this Article there is another exhibition of a couple of the large\nfeatures of Mrs. Eddy's remarkable make-up: her business-talent and her\nknowledge of human nature.\n\nShe does not beseech and implore people to join her Church. She knows\nthe human race better than that. She gravely goes through the motions of\nreluctantly granting admission to the applicant as a favor to him. The\nidea is worth untold shekels. She does not stand at the gate of the fold\nwith welcoming arms spread, and receive the lost sheep with glad emotion\nand set up the fatted calf and invite the neighbor and have a time. No,\nshe looks upon him coldly, she snubs him, she says:\n\n Who are you? Who is your sponsor? Who asked you to come here? Go away,\nand don't come again until you are invited. \n\nIt is calculated to strikingly impress a person accustomed to Moody and\nSankey and Sam Jones revivals; accustomed to brain-turning appeals to\nthe unknown and unendorsed sinner to come forward and enter into the\njoy, etc.-- just as he is ; accustomed to seeing him do it; accustomed\nto seeing him pass up the aisle through sobbing seas of welcome, and\nlove, and congratulation, and arrive at the mourner's bench and be\nreceived like a long-lost government bond.\n\nNo, there is nothing of that kind in Mrs. Eddy's system. She knows that\nif you wish to confer upon a human being something which he is not sure\nhe wants, the best way is to make it apparently difficult for him to get\nit--then he is no son of Adam if that apple does not assume an interest\nin his eyes which it lacked before. In time this interest can grow into\ndesire. Mrs. Eddy knows that when you cannot get a man to try--free of\ncost--a new and effective remedy for a disease he is afflicted with, you\ncan generally sell it to him if you will put a price upon it which he\ncannot afford. When, in the beginning, she taught Christian Science\ngratis (for good reasons), pupils were few and reluctant, and required\npersuasion; it was when she raised the limit to three hundred dollars\nfor a dollar's worth that she could not find standing room for the\ninvasion of pupils that followed.\n\nWith fine astuteness she goes through the motions of making it difficult\nto get membership in her Church. There is a twofold value in this\nsystem: it gives membership a high value in the eyes of the applicant;\nand at the same time the requirements exacted enable Mrs. Eddy to keep\nhim out if she has doubts about his value to her. A word further as to\napplications for membership:\n\n Applications of students of the Metaphysical College must be signed by\nthe Board of Directors. \n\nThat is safe. Mrs. Eddy is proprietor of that Board.\n\nChildren of twelve may be admitted if invited by  one of Mrs. Eddy's\nloyal students, or by a First Member, or by a Director. \n\nThese sponsors are the property of Mrs. Eddy, therefore her Church is\nsafeguarded from the intrusion of undesirable children.\n\nOther Students. Applicants who have not studied with Mrs. Eddy can get\nin only  by invitation and recommendation from students of Mrs. Eddy....\nor from members of the Mother-Church. \n\nOther paragraphs explain how two or three other varieties of applicants\nare to be challenged and obstructed, and tell us who is authorized to\ninvite them, recommend them endorse them, and all that.\n\nThe safeguards are definite, and would seem to be sufficiently\nstrenuous--to Mr. Sam Jones, at any rate. Not for Mrs. Eddy. She adds\nthis clincher:\n\n The candidates be elected by a majority vote of the First Members\npresent. \n\nThat is the aristocracy, the aborigines, the Sanhedrin. It is Mrs.\nEddy's property. She herself is the Sanhedrin. No one can get into the\nChurch if she wishes to keep him out.\n\nThis veto power could some time or other have a large value for her,\ntherefore she was wise to reserve it.\n\nIt is likely that it is not frequently used. It is also probable that\nthe difficulties attendant upon getting admission to membership have\nbeen instituted more to invite than to deter, more to enhance the\nvalue of membership and make people long for it than to make it really\ndifficult to get. I think so, because the Mother. Church has many\nthousands of members more than its building can accommodate.\n\n\n\n\nAND SOME ENGLISH REQUIRED\n\nMrs. Eddy is very particular as regards one detail curiously so, for\nher, all things considered. The Church Readers must be  good English\nscholars ; they must be  thorough English scholars. \n\nShe is thus sensitive about the English of her subordinates for cause,\npossibly. In her chapter defining the duties of the Clerk there is an\nindication that she harbors resentful memories of an occasion when the\nhazy quality of her own English made unforeseen and mortifying trouble:\n\n Understanding Communications. Sec. 2. If the Clerk of this Church shall\nreceive a communication from the Pastor Emeritus which he does not fully\nunderstand, he shall inform her of this fact before presenting it to\nthe Church, and obtain a clear understanding of the matter--then act in\naccordance therewith. \n\nShe should have waited to calm down, then, but instead she added this,\nwhich lacks sugar:\n\n Failing to adhere to this By-law, the Clerk must resign. \n\nI wish I could see that communication that broke the camel's back.\nIt was probably the one beginning:  What plague spot or bacilli were\ngnawing at the heart of this metropolis and bringing it on bended knee? \n and I think it likely that the kindly disposed Clerk tried to translate\nit into English and lost his mind and had to go to the hospital.\nThat Bylaw was not the offspring of a forecast, an intuition, it was\ncertainly born of a sorrowful experience. Its temper gives the fact\naway.\n\nThe little book of By-laws has manifestly been tinkered by one of Mrs.\nEddy's  thorough English scholars,  for in the majority of cases its\nmeanings are clear. The book is not even marred by Mrs. Eddy's peculiar\nspecialty--lumbering clumsinesses of speech. I believe the salaried\npolisher has weeded them all out but one. In one place, after referring\nto Science and Health, Mrs. Eddy goes on to say  the Bible and the\nabove-named book, with other works by the same author,  etc.\n\nIt is an unfortunate sentence, for it could mislead a hasty or careless\nreader for a moment. Mrs. Eddy framed it--it is her very own--it bears\nher trade-mark.  The Bible and Science and Health, with other works by\nthe same author,  could have come from no literary vacuum but the one\nwhich produced the remark (in the Autobiography):  I remember reading,\nin my childhood, certain manuscripts containing Scriptural Sonnets,\nbesides other verses and enigmas. \n\nWe know what she means, in both instances, but a low-priced Clerk would\nnot necessarily know, and on a salary like his he could quite excusably\naver that the Pastor Emeritus had commanded him to come and make\nproclamation that she was author of the Bible, and that she was thinking\nof discharging some Scriptural sonnets and other enigmas upon the\ncongregation. It could lose him his place, but it would not be fair, if\nit happened before the edict about  Understanding Communications  was\npromulgated.\n\n\n\n\n READERS  AGAIN\n\nThe By-law book makes a showy pretence of orderliness and system, but it\nis only a pretence. I will not go so far as to say it is a harum-scarum\njumble, for it is not that, but I think it fair to say it is at least\njumbulacious in places. For instance, Articles III. and IV. set forth\nin much detail the qualifications and duties of Readers, she then\nskips some thirty pages and takes up the subject again. It looks\nlike slovenliness, but it may be only art. The belated By-law has a\nsufficiently quiet look, but it has a ton of dynamite in it. It makes\nall the Christian Science Church Readers on the globe the personal\nchattels of Mrs. Eddy. Whenever she chooses, she can stretch her long\narm around the world's fat belly and flirt a Reader out of his pulpit,\nthough he be tucked away in seeming safety and obscurity in a lost\nvillage in the middle of China:\n\n In any Church. Sec. 2. The Pastor Emeritus of the Mother-Church shall\nhave the right (through a letter addressed to the individual and Church\nof which he is the Reader) to remove a Reader from this office in any\nChurch of Christ, Scientist, both in America and in foreign nations;\nor to appoint the Reader to fill any office belonging to the Christian\nScience denomination. \n\nShe does not have to prefer charges against him, she does not have to\nfind him lazy, careless, incompetent, untidy, ill-mannered, unholy,\ndishonest, she does not have to discover a fault of any kind in him,\nshe does not have to tell him nor his congregation why she dismisses and\ndisgraces him and insults his meek flock, she does not have to explain\nto his family why she takes the bread out of their mouths and turns them\nout-of-doors homeless and ashamed in a strange land; she does not have\nto do anything but send a letter and say:  Pack!--and ask no questions! \n\nHas the Pope this power?--the other Pope--the one in Rome. Has he\nanything approaching it? Can he turn a priest out of his pulpit and\nstrip him of his office and his livelihood just upon a whim, a caprice,\nand meanwhile furnishing no reasons to the parish? Not in America. And\nnot elsewhere, we may believe.\n\nIt is odd and strange, to see intelligent and educated people among\nus worshipping this self-seeking and remorseless tyrant as a God. This\nworship is denied--by persons who are themselves worshippers of Mrs.\nEddy. I feel quite sure that it is a worship which will continue during\nages.\n\nThat Mrs. Eddy wrote that amazing By-law with her own hand we have much\nbetter evidence than her word. We have her English. It is there. It\ncannot be imitated. She ought never to go to the expense of copyrighting\nher verbal discharges. When any one tries to claim them she should call\nme; I can always tell them from any other literary apprentice's at a\nglance. It was like her to call America a  nation ; she would call a\nsand-bar a nation if it should fall into a sentence in which she was\nspeaking of peoples, for she would not know how to untangle it and get\nit out and classify it by itself. And the closing arrangement of that\nBy-law is in true Eddysonian form, too. In it she reserves authority to\nmake a Reader fill any office connected with a Science church-sexton,\ngrave-digger, advertising-agent, Annex-polisher, leader of the choir,\nPresident, Director, Treasurer, Clerk, etc. She did not mean that.\nShe already possessed that authority. She meant to clothe herself with\npower, despotic and unchallengeable, to appoint all Science Readers to\ntheir offices, both at home and abroad. The phrase  or to appoint \n is another miscarriage of intention; she did not mean  or,  she meant\n and. \n\n\nThat By-law puts into Mrs. Eddy's hands absolute command over the most\nformidable force and influence existent in the Christian Science kingdom\noutside of herself, and it does this unconditionally and (by auxiliary\nforce of Laws already quoted) irrevocably. Still, she is not quite\nsatisfied. Something might happen, she doesn't know what. Therefore she\ndrives in one more nail, to make sure, and drives it deep:\n\n This By-law can neither be amended nor annulled, except by consent of\nthe Pastor Emeritus. \n\nLet some one with a wild and delirious fancy try and see if he can\nimagine her furnishing that consent.\n\n\n\n\nMONOPOLY OF SPIRITUAL BREAD\n\nVery properly, the first qualification for membership in the\nMother-Church is belief in the doctrines of Christian Science.\n\nBut these doctrines must not be gathered from secondary sources. There\nis but one recognized source. The candidate must be a believer in the\ndoctrines of Christian Science  according to the platform and teaching\ncontained in the Christian Science text-book, 'Science and Health, with\nKey to the Scriptures,' by Rev. Mary Baker G. Eddy. \n\nThat is definite, and is final. There are to be no commentaries, no\nlabored volumes of exposition and explanation by anybody except Mrs.\nEddy. Because such things could sow error, create warring opinions,\nsplit the religion into sects, and disastrously cripple its power. Mrs.\nEddy will do the whole of the explaining, Herself--has done it, in fact.\nShe has written several books. They are to be had (for cash in advance),\nthey are all sacred; additions to them can never be needed and will\nnever be permitted. They tell the candidate how to instruct himself,\nhow to teach others, how to do all things comprised in the business--and\nthey close the door against all would-be competitors, and monopolize the\ntrade:\n\n The Bible and the above--named book [Science and Health], with\nother works by the same author,  must be his only text-books for the\ncommerce--he cannot forage outside.\n\nMrs. Eddy's words are to be the sole elucidators of the Bible and\nScience and Health--forever. Throughout the ages, whenever there is\ndoubt as to the meaning of a passage in either of these books the\ninquirer will not dream of trying to explain it to himself; he would\nshudder at the thought of such temerity, such profanity, he would be\nhaled to the Inquisition and thence to the public square and the stake\nif he should be caught studying into text-meanings on his own hook; he\nwill be prudent and seek the meanings at the only permitted source, Mrs.\nEddy's commentaries.\n\nValue of this Strait-jacket. One must not underrate the magnificence\nof this long-headed idea, one must not underestimate its giant\npossibilities in the matter of trooping the Church solidly together and\nkeeping it so. It squelches independent inquiry, and makes such a thing\nimpossible, profane, criminal, it authoritatively settles every dispute\nthat can arise. It starts with finality--a point which the Roman Church\nhas travelled towards fifteen or sixteen centuries, stage by stage,\nand has not yet reached. The matter of the Immaculate Conception of\nthe Virgin Mary was not authoritatively settled until the days of Pius\nIX.--yesterday, so to speak.\n\nAs already noticed, the Protestants are broken up into a long array of\nsects, a result of disputes about the meanings of texts, disputes made\nunavoidable by the absence of an infallible authority to submit doubtful\npassages to. A week or two ago (I am writing in the middle of January,\n1903), the clergy and others hereabouts had a warm dispute in the papers\nover this question: Did Jesus anywhere claim to be God? It seemed an\neasy question, but it turned out to be a hard one. It was ably and\nelaborately discussed, by learned men of several denominations, but in\nthe end it remained unsettled.\n\nA week ago, another discussion broke out. It was over this text:\n\n Sell all that thou hast and distribute unto the poor. \n\nOne verdict was worded as follows:\n\n When Christ answered the rich young man and said for him to give to the\npoor all he possessed or he could not gain everlasting life, He did not\nmean it in the literal sense. My interpretation of His words is that we\nshould part with what comes between us and Christ.\n\n There is no doubt that Jesus believed that the rich young man thought\nmore of his wealth than he did of his soul, and, such being the case, it\nwas his duty to give up the wealth.\n\n Every one of us knows that there is something we should give up for\nChrist. Those who are true believers and followers know what they have\ngiven up, and those who are not yet followers know down in their hearts\nwhat they must give up. \n\nTen clergymen of various denominations were interviewed, and nine of\nthem agreed with that verdict. That did not settle the matter, because\nthe tenth said the language of Jesus was so strait and definite that it\nexplained itself:  Sell all,  not a percentage.\n\nThere is a most unusual feature about that dispute: the nine persons\nwho decided alike, quoted not a single authority in support of their\nposition. I do not know when I have seen trained disputants do the like\nof that before. The nine merely furnished their own opinions, founded\nupon--nothing at all. In the other dispute ( Did Jesus anywhere claim to\nbe God? ) the same kind of men--trained and learned clergymen--backed up\ntheir arguments with chapter and verse. On both sides. Plenty of verses.\nWere no reinforcing verses to be found in the present case? It looks\nthat way.\n\nThe opinion of the nine seems strange to me, for it is unsupported\nby authority, while there was at least constructive authority for the\nopposite view.\n\nIt is hair-splitting differences of opinion over disputed text-meanings\nthat have divided into many sects a once united Church. One may\ninfer from some of the names in the following list that some of\nthe differences are very slight--so slight as to be not distinctly\nimportant, perhaps--yet they have moved groups to withdraw from\ncommunions to which they belonged and set up a sect of their own. The\nlist--accompanied by various Church statistics for 1902, compiled by\nRev. Dr. H. K. Carroll--was published, January 8, 1903, in the New York\nChristian Advocate:\n\nAdventists (6 bodies), Baptists (13 bodies), Brethren (Plymouth) (4\nbodies), Brethren (River) (3 bodies), Catholics (8 bodies), Catholic\nApostolic, Christadelphians, Christian Connection, Christian Catholics,\nChristian Missionary Association, Christian Scientists, Church of God\n(Wine-brennarian), Church of the New Jerusalem, Congregationalists,\nDisciples of Christ, Dunkards (4 bodies), Evangelical (2 bodies),\nFriends (4 bodies), Friends of the Temple, German Evangelical\nProtestant, German Evangelical Synod, Independent congregations, Jews (2\nbodies), Latter-day Saints (2 bodies), Lutherans (22 bodies), Mennonites\n(12 bodies), Methodists (17 bodies), Moravians, Presbyterians (12\nbodies), Protestant Episcopal (2 bodies), Reformed (3 bodies),\nSchwenkfeldians, Social Brethren, Spiritualists, Swedish Evangelical\nMiss. Covenant (Waldenstromians), Unitarians, United Brethren (2\nbodies), Universalists.\n\nTotal of sects and splits--139.\n\nIn the present month (February), Mr. E. I. Lindh, A.M., has communicated\nto the Boston Transcript a hopeful article on the solution of the\nproblem of the  divided church.  Divided is not too violent a term.\nSubdivided could have been permitted if he had thought of it. He came\nnear thinking of it, for he mentions some of the subdivisions himself:\n the 12 kinds of Presbyterians, the 17 kinds of Methodists, the 13 kinds\nof Baptists, etc.  He overlooked the 12 kinds of Mennonites and the 22\nkinds of Lutherans, but they are in Rev. Mr. Carroll's list. Altogether,\n76 splits under 5 flags. The Literary Digest (February 14th) is pleased\nwith Mr. Lindh's optimistic article, and also with the signs of the\ntimes, and perceives that  the idea of Church unity is in the air. \n\nNow, then, is not Mrs. Eddy profoundly wise in forbidding, for all time,\nall explanations of her religion except such as she shall let on to be\nher own?\n\nI think so. I think there can be no doubt of it. In a way, they will be\nher own; for, no matter which member of her clerical staff shall furnish\nthe explanations, not a line of them will she ever allow to be printed\nuntil she shall have approved it, accepted it, copyrighted it, cabbaged\nit. We may depend on that with a four-ace confidence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NEW INFALLIBILITY\n\nAll in proper time Mrs. Eddy's factory will take hold of that\nCommandment, and explain it for good and all. It may be that one member\nof the shift will vote that the word  all  means all; it may be that ten\nmembers of the shift will vote that  all  means only a percentage; but\nit is Mrs. Eddy, not the eleven, who will do the deciding. And if she\nsays it is percentage, then percentage it is, forevermore--and that\nis what I am expecting, for she doesn't sell all herself, nor any\nconsiderable part of it, and as regards the poor, she doesn't declare\nany dividend; but if she says  all  means all, then all it is, to the\nend of time, and no follower of hers will ever be allowed to reconstruct\nthat text, or shrink it, or inflate it, or meddle with it in any way at\nall. Even to-day--right here in the beginning--she is the sole person\nwho, in the matter of Christian Science exegesis, is privileged to\nexploit the Spiral Twist. The Christian world has two Infallibles now.\n\nOf equal power? For the present only. When Leo XIII. passes to his rest\nanother Infallible will ascend his throne; others, and yet others, and\nstill others will follow him, and be as infallible as he, and decide\nquestions of doctrine as long as they may come up, all down the far\nfuture; but Mary Baker G. Eddy is the only Infallible that will ever\noccupy the Science throne. Many a Science Pope will succeed her, but\nshe has closed their mouths; they will repeat and reverently praise and\nadore her infallibilities, but venture none themselves. In her grave she\nwill still outrank all other Popes, be they of what Church they may.\nShe will hold the supremest of earthly titles, The Infallible--with\na capital T. Many in the world's history have had a hunger for such\nnuggets and slices of power as they might reasonably hope to grab out\nof an empire's or a religion's assets, but Mrs. Eddy is the only person\nalive or dead who has ever struck for the whole of them. For small\nthings she has the eye of a microscope, for large ones the eye of a\ntelescope, and whatever she sees, she wants. Wants it all.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SACRED POEMS\n\nWhen Mrs. Eddy's  sacred revelations  (that is the language of the\nBy-laws) are read in public, their authorship must be named. The By-laws\ntwice command this, therefore we mention it twice, to be fair.\n\nBut it is also commanded that when a member publicly quotes  from the\npoems of our Pastor Emeritus  the authorship shall be named. For these\nare sacred, too. There are kindly people who may suspect a hidden\ngenerosity in that By-law; they may think it is there to protect the\nOfficial Reader from the suspicion of having written the poems himself.\nSuch do not know Mrs. Eddy. She does an inordinate deal of protecting,\nbut in no distinctly named and specified case in her history has Number\nTwo been the object of it. Instances have been claimed, but they have\nfailed of proof, and even of plausibility.\n\n Members shall also instruct their students  to look out and advertise\nthe authorship when they read those poems and things. Not on Mrs. Eddy's\naccount, but  for the good of our Cause. \n\n\n\n\nTHE CHURCH EDIFICE\n\n1. Mrs. Eddy gave the land. It was not of much value at the time, but it\nis very valuable now. 2. Her people built the Mother-Church edifice on\nit, at a cost of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. 3. Then they\ngave the whole property to her. 4. Then she gave it to the Board of\nDirectors. She is the Board of Directors. She took it out of one pocket\nand put it in the other. 5. Sec. 10 (of the deed).  Whenever said\nDirectors shall determine that it is inexpedient to maintain preaching,\nreading, or speaking in said church in accordance with the terms of this\ndeed, they are authorized and required to reconvey forthwith said lot\nof land with the building thereon to Mary Baker G. Eddy, her heirs and\nassigns forever, by a proper deed of conveyance. \n\nShe is never careless, never slipshod, about a matter of business.\nOwning the property through her Board of Waxworks was safe enough, still\nit was sound business to set another grip on it to cover accidents,\nand she did it. Her barkers (what a curious name; I wonder if it is\ncopyrighted); her barkers persistently advertise to the public her\ngenerosity in giving away a piece of land which cost her a trifle, and\na two--hundred--and--fifty--thousand--dollar church which cost her\nnothing; and they can hardly speak of the unselfishness of it without\nbreaking down and crying; yet they know she gave nothing away, and never\nintended to. However, such is the human race. Often it does seem such a\npity that Noah and his party did not miss the boat.\n\nSome of the hostiles think that Mrs. Eddy's idea in protecting this\nproperty in the interest of her heirs, and in accumulating a great money\nfortune, is, that she may leave her natural heirs well provided for when\nshe goes. I think it is a mistake. I think she is of late years giving\nherself large concern about only one interest-her power and glory, and\nthe perpetuation and worship of her Name--with a capital N. Her Church\nis her pet heir, and I think it will get her wealth. It is the torch\nwhich is to light the world and the ages with her glory.\n\nI think she once prized money for the ease and comfort it could bring,\nthe showy vanities it could furnish, and the social promotion it could\ncommand; for we have seen that she was born into the world with little\nways and instincts and aspirations and affectations that are duplicates\nof our own. I do not think her money-passion has ever diminished in\nferocity, I do not think that she has ever allowed a dollar that had no\nfriends to get by her alive, but I think her reason for wanting it\nhas changed. I think she wants it now to increase and establish and\nperpetuate her power and glory with, not to add to her comforts and\nluxuries, not to furnish paint and fuss and feathers for vain display.\nI think her ambitions have soared away above the fuss-and-feather stage.\nShe still likes the little shows and vanities--a fact which she\nexposed in a public utterance two or three days ago when she was not\nnoticing--but I think she does not place a large value upon them now.\nShe could build a mighty and far-shining brass-mounted palace if she\nwanted to, but she does not do it. She would have had that kind of an\nambition in the early scrabbling times. She could go to England to-day\nand be worshiped by earls, and get a comet's attention from the\nmillion, if she cared for such things. She would have gone in the early\nscrabbling days for much less than an earl, and been vain of it, and\nglad to show off before the remains of the Scotch kin. But those things\nare very small to her now--next to invisible, observed through the\ncloud-rack from the dizzy summit where she perches in these great days.\nShe does not want that church property for herself. It is worth but a\nquarter of a million--a sum she could call in from her far-spread flocks\nto-morrow with a lift of her hand. Not a squeeze of it, just a lift. It\nwould come without a murmur; come gratefully, come gladly. And if her\nglory stood in more need of the money in Boston than it does where her\nflocks are propagating it, she would lift the hand, I think.\n\nShe is still reaching for the Dollar, she will continue to reach for it;\nbut not that she may spend it upon herself; not that she may spend it\nupon charities; not that she may indemnify an early deprivation and\nclothe herself in a blaze of North Adams gauds; not that she may have\nnine breeds of pie for breakfast, as only the rich New-Englander can;\nnot that she may indulge any petty material vanity or appetite that once\nwas hers and prized and nursed, but that she may apply that Dollar to\nstatelier uses, and place it where it may cast the metallic sheen of her\nglory farthest across the receding expanses of the globe.\n\n\n\n\nPRAYER\n\nA brief and good one is furnished in the book of By-laws. The Scientist\nis required to pray it every day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LORD'S PRAYER-AMENDED\n\nThis is not in the By-laws, it is in the first chapter of Science and\nHealth, edition of 1902. I do not find it in the edition of 1884. It\nis probable that it had not at that time been handed down. Science and\nHealth's (latest) rendering of its  spiritual sense  is as follows:\n\n Our Father-Mother God' all-harmonious, adorable One. Thy kingdom is\nwithin us, Thou art ever-present. Enable us to know--as in heaven, so\non earth--God is supreme. Give us grace for to-day; feed the famished\naffections. And infinite Love is reflected in love. And Love leadeth us\nnot into temptation, but delivereth from sin, disease, and death. For\nGod is now and forever all Life, Truth, and Love. \n\nIf I thought my opinion was desired and would be properly revered, I\nshould say that in my judgment that is as good a piece of carpentering\nas any of those eleven Commandment--experts could do with the material\nafter all their practice. I notice only one doubtful place.  Lead us not\ninto temptation  seems to me to be a very definite request, and that the\nnew rendering turns the definite request into a definite assertion. I\nshall be glad to have that turned back to the old way and the marks of\nthe Spiral Twist removed, or varnished over; then I shall be satisfied,\nand will do the best I can with what is left. At the same time, I do\nfeel that the shrinkage in our spiritual assets is getting serious.\nFirst the Commandments, now the Prayer. I never expected to see these\nsteady old reliable securities watered down to this. And this is not\nthe whole of it. Last summer the Presbyterians extended the Calling and\nElection suffrage to nearly everybody entitled to salvation. They did\nnot even stop there, but let out all the unbaptized American infants\nwe had been accumulating for two hundred years and more. There are some\nthat believe they would have let the Scotch ones out, too, if they could\nhave done it. Everything is going to ruin; in no long time we shall have\nnothing left but the love of God.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NEW UNPARDONABLE SIN\n\n Working Against the Cause. Sec. 2. If a member of this Church shall\nwork against the accomplishment of what the Discoverer and Founder of\nChristian Science understands is advantageous to the individual, to this\nChurch, and to the Cause of Christian Science --out he goes. Forever.\n\nThe member may think that what he is doing will advance the Cause,\nbut he is not invited to do any thinking. More than that, he is not\npermitted to do any--as he will clearly gather from this By-law. When a\nperson joins Mrs. Eddy's Church he must leave his thinker at home. Leave\nit permanently. To make sure that it will not go off some time or other\nwhen he is not watching, it will be safest for him to spike it. If he\nshould forget himself and think just once, the By-law provides that he\nshall be fired out-instantly-forever-no return.\n\n It shall be the duty of this Church immediately to call a meeting, and\ndrop forever the name of this member from its records. \n\nMy, but it breathes a towering indignation!\n\nThere are forgivable offenses, but this is not one of them; there are\nadmonitions, probations, suspensions, in several minor cases; mercy is\nshown the derelict, in those cases he is gently used, and in time he can\nget back into the fold--even when he has repeated his offence. But let\nhim think, just once, without getting his thinker set to Eddy time,\nand that is enough; his head comes off. There is no second offence, and\nthere is no gate open to that lost sheep, ever again.\n\n This rule cannot be changed, amended, or annulled, except by unanimous\nvote of all the First Members. \n\nThe same being Mrs. Eddy. It is naively sly and pretty to see her keep\nputting forward First Members, and Boards of This and That, and other\nbroideries and ruffles of her raiment, as if they were independent\nentities, instead of a part of her clothes, and could do things all by\nthemselves when she was outside of them.\n\nMrs. Eddy did not need to copyright the sentence just quoted, its\nEnglish would protect it. None but she would have shovelled that\ncomically superfluous  all  in there.\n\nThe former Unpardonable Sin has gone out of service. We may frame the\nnew Christian Science one thus:\n\n Whatsoever Member shall think, and without Our Mother's permission act\nupon his think, the same shall be cut off from the Church forever. \n\nIt has been said that I make many mistakes about Christian Science\nthrough being ignorant of the spiritual meanings of its terminology.\nI believe it is true. I have been misled all this time by that word\nMember, because there was no one to tell me that its spiritual meaning\nwas Slave.\n\n\n\n\nAXE AND BLOCK\n\nThere is a By-law which forbids Members to practice hypnotism; the\npenalty is excommunication.\n\n1. If a member is found to be a mental practitioner--2. Complaint is to\nbe entered against him--3. By the Pastor Emeritus, and by none else;\n4. No member is allowed to make complaint to her in the matter; 5. Upon\nMrs. Eddy's mere  complaint --unbacked by evidence or proof, and without\ngiving the accused a chance to be heard--his name shall be dropped from\nthis Church.\n\nMrs. Eddy has only to say a member is guilty--that is all. That ends\nit. It is not a case of he  may  be cut off from Christian Science\nsalvation, it is a case of he  shall  be. Her serfs must see to it, and\nnot say a word.\n\nDoes the other Pope possess this prodigious and irresponsible power?\nCertainly not in our day.\n\nSome may be curious to know how Mrs. Eddy finds out that a member is\npracticing hypnotism, since no one is allowed to come before her throne\nand accuse him. She has explained this in Christian Science History,\nfirst and second editions, page 16:\n\n I possess a spiritual sense of what the malicious mental practitioner\nis mentally arguing which cannot be deceived; I can discern in the human\nmind thoughts, motives, and purposes, and neither mental arguments nor\npsychic power can affect this spiritual insight. \n\nA marvelous woman; with a hunger for power such as has never been seen\nin the world before. No thing, little or big, that contains any seed or\nsuggestion of power escapes her avaricious eye; and when once she gets\nthat eye on it, her remorseless grip follows. There isn't a Christian\nScientist who isn't ecclesiastically as much her property as if she had\nbought him and paid for him, and copyrighted him and got a charter.\nShe cannot be satisfied when she has handcuffed a member, and put a\nleg-chain and ball on him and plugged his ears and removed his thinker,\nshe goes on wrapping needless chains round and round him, just as a\nspider would. For she trusts no one, believes in no one's honesty,\njudges every one by herself. Although we have seen that she has absolute\nand irresponsible command over her spectral Boards and over every\nofficial and servant of her Church, at home and abroad, over every\nminute detail of her Church's government, present and future, and can\npurge her membership of guilty or suspected persons by various plausible\nformalities and whenever she will, she is still not content, but must\nset her queer mind to work and invent a way by which she can take a\nmember--any member--by neck and crop and fling him out without anything\nresembling a formality at all.\n\nShe is sole accuser and sole witness, and her testimony is final and\ncarries uncompromising and irremediable doom with it.\n\nThe Sole-Witness Court! It should make the Council of Ten and the\nCouncil of Three turn in their graves for shame, to see how little they\nknew about satanic concentrations of irresponsible power. Here we have\none Accuser, one Witness, one Judge, one Headsman--and all four bunched\ntogether in Mrs. Eddy, the Inspired of God, His Latest Thought to His\nPeople, New Member of the Holy Family, the Equal of Jesus.\n\nWhen a Member is not satisfactory to Mrs. Eddy, and yet is blameless in\nhis life and faultless in his membership and in his Christian Science\nwalk and conversation, shall he hold up his head and tilt his hat over\none ear and imagine himself safe because of these perfections? Why,\nin that very moment Mrs. Eddy will cast that spiritual X-ray of hers\nthrough his dungarees and say:\n\n I see his hypnotism working, among his insides--remove him to the\nblock! \n\nWhat shall it profit him to know it isn't so? Nothing. His testimony is\nof no value. No one wants it, no one will ask for it. He is not present\nto offer it (he does not know he has been accused), and if he were there\nto offer it, it would not be listened to.\n\nIt was out of powers approaching Mrs. Eddy's--though not equalling\nthem--that the Inquisition and the devastations of the Interdict grew.\nShe will transmit hers. The man born two centuries from now will think\nhe has arrived in hell; and all in good time he will think he knows it.\nVast concentrations of irresponsible power have never in any age been\nused mercifully, and there is nothing to suggest that the Christian\nScience Papacy is going to spend money on novelties.\n\nSeveral Christian Scientists have asked me to refrain from prophecy.\nThere is no prophecy in our day but history. But history is a\ntrustworthy prophet. History is always repeating itself, because\nconditions are always repeating themselves. Out of duplicated conditions\nhistory always gets a duplicate product.\n\n\n\n\nREADING LETTERS AT MEETINGS\n\nI wonder if there is anything a Member can do that will not raise Mrs.\nEddy's jealousy? The By-laws seem to hunt him from pillar to post all\nthe time, and turn all his thoughts and acts and words into sins against\nthe meek and lowly new deity of his worship. Apparently her jealousy\nnever sleeps. Apparently any trifle can offend it, and but one penalty\nappease it--excommunication. The By-laws might properly and reasonably\nbe entitled Laws for the Coddling and Comforting of Our Mother's Petty\nJealousies. The By-law named at the head of this paragraph reads its\ntransgressor out of the Church if he shall carry a letter from Mrs. Eddy\nto the congregation and forget to read it or fail to read the whole of\nit.\n\n\n\n\nHONESTY REQUISITE\n\nDishonest members are to be admonished; if they continue in dishonest\npractices, excommunication follows. Considering who it is that draughted\nthis law, there is a certain amount of humor in it.\n\n\n\n\nFURTHER APPLICATIONS OF THE AXE\n\nHere follow the titles of some more By-laws whose infringement is\npunishable by excommunication:\n\n\nSilence Enjoined. Misteaching. Departure from Tenets. Violation of\nChristian Fellowship. Moral Offences. Illegal Adoption. Broken By-laws.\nViolation of By-laws. (What is the difference?) Formulas Forbidden.\nOfficial Advice. (Forbids Tom, Dick, and Harry's clack.) Unworthy of\nMembership. Final Excommunication. Organizing Churches.\n\nThis looks as if Mrs. Eddy had devoted a large share of her time and\ntalent to inventing ways to get rid of her Church members. Yet in\nanother place she seems to invite membership. Not in any urgent way,\nit is true, still she throws out a bait to such as like notice and\ndistinction (in other words, the Human Race). Page 82:\n\n It is important that these seemingly strict conditions be complied\nwith, as the names of the Members of the Mother-Church will be recorded\nin the history of the Church and become a part thereof. \n\nWe all want to be historical.\n\n\n\n\nMORE SELF-PROTECTIONS\n\nThe Hymnal. There is a Christian Science Hymnal. Entrance to it was\nclosed in 1898. Christian Science students who make hymns nowadays may\npossibly get them sung in the Mother-Church,  but not unless approved by\nthe Pastor Emeritus.  Art. XXVII, Sec. 2.\n\nSolo Singers. Mrs. Eddy has contributed the words of three of the hymns\nin the Hymnal. Two of them appear in it six times altogether, each of\nthem being set to three original forms of musical anguish. Mrs. Eddy,\nalways thoughtful, has promulgated a By-law requiring the singing of one\nof her three hymns in the Mother Church  as often as once each month. \n It is a good idea. A congregation could get tired of even Mrs. Eddy's\nmuse in the course of time, without the cordializing incentive of\ncompulsion. We all know how wearisome the sweetest and touchingest\nthings can become, through rep-rep-repetition, and still\nrep-rep-repetition, and more rep-rep-repetition-like  the sweet\nby-and-by, in the sweet by-and-by,  for instance, and  Tah-rah-rah\nboom-de-aye ; and surely it is not likely that Mrs. Eddy's machine has\nturned out goods that could outwear those great heart-stirrers, without\nthe assistance of the lash.  O'er Waiting Harpstrings of the Mind  is\npretty good, quite fair to middling--the whole seven of the stanzas--but\nrepetition would be certain to take the excitement out of it in the\ncourse of time, even if there were fourteen, and then it would sound\nlike the multiplication table, and would cease to save. The congregation\nwould be perfectly sure to get tired; in fact, did get tired--hence the\ncompulsory By-law. It is a measure born of experience, not foresight.\n\nThe By-laws say that  if a solo singer shall neglect or refuse to sing\nalone  one of those three hymns as often as once a month, and oftener if\nso directed by the Board of Directors--which is Mrs. Eddy--the singer's\nsalary shall be stopped. It is circumstantial evidence that some\nsoloists neglected this sacrament and others refused it. At least that\nis the charitable view to take of it. There is only one other view to\ntake: that Mrs. Eddy did really foresee that there would be singers\nwho would some day get tired of doing her hymns and proclaiming the\nauthorship, unless persuaded by a Bylaw, with a penalty attached. The\nidea could of course occur to her wise head, for she would know that a\nseven-stanza break might well be a calamitous strain upon a soloist, and\nthat he might therefore avoid it if unwatched. He could not curtail it,\nfor the whole of anything that Mrs. Eddy does is sacred, and cannot be\ncut.\n\n\n\n\nBOARD OF EDUCATION\n\nIt consists of four members, one of whom is President of it. Its members\nare elected annually. Subject to Mrs. Eddy's approval. Art. XXX., Sec.\n2.\n\nShe owns the Board--is the Board.\n\nMrs. Eddy is President of the Metaphysical College. If at any time she\nshall vacate that office, the Directors of the College (that is to say,\nMrs. Eddy)  shall  elect to the vacancy the President of the Board of\nEducation (which is merely re-electing herself).\n\nIt is another case of  Pastor Emeritus.  She gives up the shadow of\nauthority, but keeps a good firm hold on the substance.\n\n\n\n\nPUBLIC TEACHERS\n\nApplicants for admission to this industry must pass a thorough three\ndays' examination before the Board of Education  in Science and Health,\nchapter on 'Recapitulation'; the Platform of Christian Science; page 403\nof Christian Science Practice, from line second to the second paragraph\nof page 405; and page 488, second and third paragraphs. \n\n\n\n\nBOARD OF LECTURESHIP\n\nThe lecturers are exceedingly important servants of Mrs. Eddy, and she\nchooses them with great care. Each of them has an appointed territory\nin which to perform his duties--in the North, the South, the East, the\nWest, in Canada, in Great Britain, and so on--and each must stick to\nhis own territory and not forage beyond its boundaries. I think it goes\nwithout saying--from what we have seen of Mrs. Eddy--that no lecture is\ndelivered until she has examined and approved it, and that the lecturer\nis not allowed to change it afterwards.\n\nThe members of the Board of Lectureship are elected annually--\n\n Subject to the approval of Rev. Mary Baker G. Eddy. \n\n\n\n\nMISSIONARIES\n\nThere are but four. They are elected--like the rest of the\ndomestics--annually. So far as I can discover, not a single servant of\nthe Sacred Household has a steady job except Mrs. Eddy. It is plain that\nshe trusts no human being but herself.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BY-LAWS\n\nThe branch Churches are strictly forbidden to use them.\n\nSo far as I can see, they could not do it if they wanted to. The By-laws\nare merely the voice of the master issuing commands to the servants.\nThere is nothing and nobody for the servants to re-utter them to.\n\nThat useless edict is repeated in the little book, a few pages farther\non. There are several other repetitions of prohibitions in the book that\ncould be spared-they only take up room for nothing.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CREED It is copyrighted. I do not know why, but I suppose it is to\nkeep adventurers from some day claiming that they invented it, and\nnot Mrs. Eddy and that  strange Providence  that has suggested so many\nclever things to her.\n\nNo Change. It is forbidden to change the Creed. That is important, at\nany rate.\n\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT\n\nI can understand why Mrs. Eddy copyrighted the early editions\nand revisions of Science and Health, and why she had a mania for\ncopyrighting every scrap of every sort that came from her pen in those\njejune days when to be in print probably seemed a wonderful distinction\nto her in her provincial obscurity, but why she should continue this\ndelirium in these days of her godship and her far-spread fame, I cannot\nexplain to myself. And particularly as regards Science and Health. She\nknows, now, that that Annex is going to live for many centuries; and so,\nwhat good is a fleeting forty-two-year copyright going to do it?\n\nNow a perpetual copyright would be quite another matter. I would like to\ngive her a hint. Let her strike for a perpetual copyright on that book.\nThere is precedent for it. There is one book in the world which bears\nthe charmed life of perpetual copyright (a fact not known to twenty\npeople in the world). By a hardy perversion of privilege on the part of\nthe lawmaking power the Bible has perpetual copyright in Great Britain.\nThere is no justification for it in fairness, and no explanation of it\nexcept that the Church is strong enough there to have its way, right\nor wrong. The recent Revised Version enjoys perpetual copyright, too--a\nstronger precedent, even, than the other one.\n\nNow, then, what is the Annex but a Revised Version itself? Which of\ncourse it is--Lord's Prayer and all. With that pair of formidable\nBritish precedents to proceed upon, what Congress of ours--\n\nBut how short-sighted I am. Mrs. Eddy has thought of it long ago. She\nthinks of everything. She knows she has only to keep her copyright of\n1902 alive through its first stage of twenty-eight years, and perpetuity\nis assured. A Christian Science Congress will reign in the Capitol then.\nShe probably attaches small value to the first edition (1875). Although\nit was a Revelation from on high, it was slim, lank, incomplete, padded\nwith bales of refuse rags, and puffs from lassoed celebrities to fill\nit out, an uncreditable book, a book easily sparable, a book not to\nbe mentioned in the same year with the sleek, fat, concise, compact,\ncompressed, and competent Annex of to-day, in its dainty flexible\ncovers, gilt--edges, rounded corners, twin screw, spiral twist,\ncompensation balance, Testament-counterfeit, and all that; a book just\nborn to curl up on the hymn-book-shelf in church and look just too sweet\nand holy for anything. Yes, I see now what she was copyrighting that\nchild for.\n\n\n\n\nCHRISTIAN SCIENCE PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION\n\nIt is true in matters of business Mrs. Eddy thinks of everything. She\nthought of an organ, to disseminate the Truth as it was in Mrs. Eddy.\nStraightway she started one--the Christian Science Journal.\n\nIt is true--in matters of business Mrs. Eddy thinks of everything. As\nsoon as she had got the Christian Science Journal sufficiently in debt\nto make its presence on the premises disagreeable to her, it occurred\nto her to make somebody a present of it. Which she did, along with\nits debts. It was in the summer of 1889. The victim selected was\nher Church--called, in those days, The National Christian Scientist\nAssociation.\n\nShe delivered this sorrow to those lambs as a  gift  in consideration of\ntheir  loyalty to our great cause. \n\nAlso--still thinking of everything--she told them to retain Mr. Bailey\nin the editorship and make Mr. Nixon publisher. We do not know what it\nwas she had against those men; neither do we know whether she scored on\nBailey or not, we only know that God protected Nixon, and for that I am\nsincerely glad, although I do not know Nixon and have never even seen\nhim.\n\nNixon took the Journal and the rest of the Publishing Society's\nliabilities, and demonstrated over them during three years, then brought\nin his report:\n\n On assuming my duties as publisher, there was not a dollar in the\ntreasury; but on the contrary the Society owed unpaid printing and\npaper bills to the amount of several hundred dollars, not to mention\na contingent liability of many more hundreds --represented by\nadvance--subscriptions paid for the Journal and the  Series,  the which\ngoods Mrs. Eddy had not delivered. And couldn't, very well, perhaps, on\na Metaphysical College income of but a few thousand dollars a day, or a\nweek, or whatever it was in those magnificently flourishing times. The\nstruggling Journal had swallowed up those advance-payments, but its\n claim  was a severe one and they had failed to cure it. But Nixon cured\nit in his diligent three years, and joyously reported the news that he\nhad cleared off all the debts and now had a fat six thousand dollars in\nthe bank.\n\nIt made Mrs. Eddy's mouth water.\n\nAt the time that Mrs. Eddy had unloaded that dismal gift on to her\nNational Association, she had followed her inveterate custom: she had\ntied a string to its hind leg, and kept one end of it hitched to her\nbelt. We have seen her do that in the case of the Boston Mosque. When\nshe deeds property, she puts in that string-clause. It provides that\nunder certain conditions she can pull the string and land the property\nin the cherished home of its happy youth. In the present case she\nbelieved that she had made provision that if at any time the National\nChristian Science Association should dissolve itself by a formal vote,\nshe could pull.\n\nA year after Nixon's handsome report, she writes the Association that\nshe has a  unique request to lay before it.  It has dissolved, and she\nis not quite sure that the Christian Science Journal has  already fallen\ninto her hands  by that act, though it  seems  to her to have met with\nthat accident; so she would like to have the matter decided by a formal\nvote. But whether there is a doubt or not,  I see the wisdom,  she says,\n of again owning this Christian Science waif. \n\nI think that that is unassailable evidence that the waif was making\nmoney, hands down.\n\nShe pulled her gift in. A few years later she donated the Publishing\nSociety, along with its real estate, its buildings, its plant, its\npublications, and its money--the whole worth twenty--two thousand\ndollars, and free of debt--to--Well, to the Mother-Church!\n\nThat is to say, to herself. There is an account of it in the Christian\nScience Journal, and of how she had already made some other handsome\ngifts--to her Church--and others to--to her Cause besides  an almost\ncountless number of private charities  of cloudy amount and otherwise\nindefinite. This landslide of generosities overwhelmed one of her\nliterary domestics. While he was in that condition he tried to express\nwhat he felt:\n\n Let us endeavor to lift up our hearts in thankfulness to... our Mother\nin Israel for these evidences of generosity and self-sacrifice that\nappeal to our deepest sense of gratitude, even while surpassing our\ncomprehension. \n\nA year or two later, Mrs. Eddy promulgated some By-laws of a\nself-sacrificing sort which assuaged him, perhaps, and perhaps enabled\nhis surpassed comprehension to make a sprint and catch up. These are to\nbe found in Art. XII., entitled.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHRISTIAN SCIENCE PUBLISHING SOCIETY\n\nThis Article puts the whole publishing business into the hands of a\npublishing Board--special. Mrs. Eddy appoints to its vacancies.\n\nThe profits go semi-annually to the Treasurer of the Mother-Church. Mrs.\nEddy owns the Treasurer.\n\nEditors and publishers of the Christian Science Journal cannot be\nelected or removed without Mrs. Eddy's knowledge and consent.\n\nEvery candidate for employment in a high capacity or a low one, on the\nother periodicals or in the publishing house, must first be  accepted\nby Mrs. Eddy as suitable.  And  by the Board of Directors --which is\nsurplusage, since Mrs. Eddy owns the Board.\n\nIf at any time a weekly shall be started,  it shall be owned by The\nFirst Church of Christ, Scientist --which is Mrs. Eddy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nI think that any one who will carefully examine the By-laws (I have\nplaced all of the important ones before the reader), will arrive at the\nconclusion that of late years the master-passion in Mrs. Eddy's heart is\na hunger for power and glory; and that while her hunger for money still\nremains, she wants it now for the expansion and extension it can furnish\nto that power and glory, rather than what it can do for her towards\nsatisfying minor and meaner ambitions.\n\nI wish to enlarge a little upon this matter. I think it is quite clear\nthat the reason why Mrs. Eddy has concentrated in herself all powers,\nall distinctions, all revenues that are within the command of the\nChristian Science Church Universal is that she desires and intends\nto devote them to the purpose just suggested--the upbuilding of her\npersonal glory--hers, and no one else's; that, and the continuing of her\nname's glory after she shall have passed away. If she has overlooked a\nsingle power, howsoever minute, I cannot discover it. If she has found\none, large or small, which she has not seized and made her own, there is\nno record of it, no trace of it. In her foragings and depredations she\nusually puts forward the Mother-Church--a lay figure--and hides behind\nit. Whereas, she is in manifest reality the Mother-Church herself. It\nhas an impressive array of officials, and committees, and Boards of\nDirection, of Education, of Lectureship, and so on--geldings, every one,\nshadows, spectres, apparitions, wax-figures: she is supreme over them\nall, she can abolish them when she will; blow them out as she would a\ncandle. She is herself the Mother-Church. Now there is one By-law which\nsays that the Mother-Church:\n\n shall be officially controlled by no other church. \n\nThat does not surprise us--we know by the rest of the By-laws that that\nis a quite irrelevant remark. Yet we do vaguely and hazily wonder why\nshe takes the trouble to say it; why she wastes the words; what her\nobject can be--seeing that that emergency has been in so many, many\nways, and so effectively and drastically barred off and made impossible.\nThen presently the object begins to dawn upon us. That is, it does after\nwe have read the rest of the By-law three or four times, wondering\nand admiring to see Mrs. Eddy--Mrs. Eddy--Mrs. Eddy, of all\npersons--throwing away power!--making a fair exchange--doing a fair\nthing for once more, an almost generous thing! Then we look it through\nyet once more unsatisfied, a little suspicious--and find that it is\nnothing but a sly, thin make-believe, and that even the very title of it\nis a sarcasm and embodies a falsehood-- self  government:\n\n Local Self-Government. The First Church of Christ, Scientist, in\nBoston, Massachusetts, shall assume no official control of other\nchurches of this denomination. It shall be officially controlled by no\nother church. \n\nIt has a most pious and deceptive give-and-take air of perfect fairness,\nunselfishness, magnanimity--almost godliness, indeed. But it is all art.\n\n\nIn the By-laws, Mrs. Eddy, speaking by the mouth of her other self, the\nMother-Church, proclaims that she will assume no official control of\nother churches-branch churches. We examine the other By-laws, and they\nanswer some important questions for us:\n\n1. What is a branch Church? It is a body of Christian Scientists,\norganized in the one and only permissible way--by a member, in good\nstanding, of the Mother-Church, and who is also a pupil of one of Mrs.\nEddy's accredited students. That is to say, one of her properties. No\nother can do it. There are other indispensable requisites; what are\nthey?\n\n2. The new Church cannot enter upon its functions until its members have\nindividually signed, and pledged allegiance to, a Creed furnished by\nMrs. Eddy.\n\n3. They are obliged to study her books, and order their lives by them.\nAnd they must read no outside religious works.\n\n4. They must sing the hymns and pray the prayers provided by her, and\nuse no others in the services, except by her permission.\n\n5. They cannot have preachers and pastors. Her law.\n\n6. In their Church they must have two Readers--a man and a woman.\n\n7. They must read the services framed and appointed by her.\n\n8. She--not the branch Church--appoints those Readers.\n\n9. She--not the branch Church--dismisses them and fills the vacancies.\n\n10. She can do this without consulting the branch Church, and without\nexplaining.\n\n11. The branch Church can have a religious lecture from time to time. By\napplying to Mrs. Eddy. There is no other way.\n\n12. But the branch Church cannot select the lecturer. Mrs. Eddy does it.\n\n13. The branch Church pays his fee.\n\n14. The harnessing of all Christian Science wedding-teams, members\nof the branch Church, must be done by duly authorized and consecrated\nChristian Science functionaries. Her factory is the only one that makes\nand licenses them.\n\n[15. Nothing is said about christenings. It is inferable from this that\na Christian Science child is born a Christian Scientist and requires no\ntinkering.]\n\n[16. Nothing is said about funerals. It is inferable, then, that a\nbranch Church is privileged to do in that matter as it may choose.]\n\nTo sum up. Are any important Church-functions absent from the list? I\ncannot call any to mind. Are there any lacking ones whose exercise\ncould make the branch in any noticeable way independent of the Mother.\nChurch?--even in any trifling degree? I think of none. If the named\nfunctions were abolished would there still be a Church left? Would there\nbe even a shadow of a Church left? Would there be anything at all left?\neven the bare name?\n\nManifestly not. There isn't a single vital and essential Church-function\nof any kind, that is not named in the list. And over every one of them\nthe Mother-Church has permanent and unchallengeable control, upon\nevery one of them Mrs. Eddy has set her irremovable grip. She holds,\nin perpetuity, autocratic and indisputable sovereignty and control over\nevery branch Church in the earth; and yet says, in that sugary, naive,\nangel-beguiling way of hers, that the Mother-Church:\n\n shall assume no official control of other churches of this\ndenomination. \n\nWhereas in truth the unmeddled-with liberties of a branch Christian\nScience Church are but very, very few in number, and are these:\n\n1. It can appoint its own furnace-stoker, winters. 2. It can appoint\nits own fan-distributors, summers. 3. It can, in accordance with its own\nchoice in the matter, burn, bury, or preserve members who are pretending\nto be dead--whereas there is no such thing as death. 4. It can take up a\ncollection.\n\nThe branch Churches have no important liberties, none that give them an\nimportant voice in their own affairs. Those are all locked up, and Mrs.\nEddy has the key.  Local Self-Government  is a large name and sounds\nwell; but the branch Churches have no more of it than have the privates\nin the King of Dahomey's army.\n\n\n\n\n MOTHER-CHURCH UNIQUE \n\nMrs. Eddy, with an envious and admiring eye upon the solitary and\nrivalless and world-shadowing majesty of St. Peter's, reveals in her\nBy-laws her purpose to set the Mother-Church apart by itself in a\nstately seclusion and make it duplicate that lone sublimity under the\nWestern sky. The By-law headed  Mother-Church Unique  says--\n\n In its relation to other Christian Science churches, the Mother-Church\nstands alone.\n\n It occupies a position that no other Church can fill.\n\n Then for a branch Church to assume such position would be disastrous to\nChristian Science,\n\n Therefore-- \n\nTherefore no branch Church is allowed to have branches. There shall\nbe no Christian Science St. Peter's in the earth but just one--the\nMother-Church in Boston.\n\n\n\n\n NO FIRST MEMBERS \n\nBut for the thoughtful By-law thus entitled, every Science branch in the\nearth would imitate the Mother-Church and set up an aristocracy. Every\nlittle group of ground-floor Smiths and Furgusons and Shadwells and\nSimpsons that organized a branch would assume that great title, of\n First Members,  along with its vast privileges of  discussing  the\nweather and casting blank ballots, and soon there would be such a\nlocust-plague of them burdening the globe that the title would lose its\nvalue and have to be abolished.\n\nBut where business and glory are concerned, Mrs. Eddy thinks of\neverything, and so she did not fail to take care of her Aborigines,\nher stately and exclusive One Hundred, her college of functionless\ncardinals, her Sanhedrin of Privileged Talkers (Limited). After taking\naway all the liberties of the branch Churches, and in the same breath\ndisclaiming all official control over their affairs, she smites them on\nthe mouth with this--the very mouth that was watering for those nobby\nground-floor honors--\n\n No First Members. Branch Churches shall not organize with First\nMembers, that special method of organization being adapted to the\nMother-Church alone. \n\nAnd so, first members being prohibited, we pierce through the cloud\nof Mrs. Eddy's English and perceive that they must then necessarily\norganize with Subsequent Members. There is no other way. It will occur\nto them by-and-by to found an aristocracy of Early Subsequent Members.\nThere is no By-law against it.\n\n\n\n\n THE \n\nI uncover to that imperial word. And to the mind, too, that conceived\nthe idea of seizing and monopolizing it as a title. I believe it is Mrs.\nEddy's dazzlingest invention. For show, and style, and grandeur, and\nthunder and lightning and fireworks it outclasses all the previous\ninventions of man, and raises the limit on the Pope. He can never put\nhis avid hand on that word of words--it is pre-empted. And copyrighted,\nof course. It lifts the Mother-Church away up in the sky, and\nfellowships it with the rare and select and exclusive little company of\nthe THE's of deathless glory--persons and things whereof history and\nthe ages could furnish only single examples, not two: the Saviour, the\nVirgin, the Milky Way, the Bible, the Earth, the Equator, the Devil,\nthe Missing Link--and now The First Church, Scientist. And by clamor of\nedict and By-law Mrs. Eddy gives personal notice to all branch Scientist\nChurches on this planet to leave that THE alone.\n\nShe has demonstrated over it and made it sacred to the Mother-Church:\n\n The article 'The' must not be used before the titles of branch\nChurches--\n\n Nor written on applications for membership in naming such churches. \n\nThose are the terms. There can and will be a million First Churches\nof Christ, Scientist, scattered over the world, in a million towns and\nvillages and hamlets and cities, and each may call itself (suppressing\nthe article),  First Church of Christ. Scientist --it is permissible,\nand no harm; but there is only one The Church of Christ, Scientist, and\nthere will never be another. And whether that great word fall in the\nmiddle of a sentence or at the beginning of it, it must always have its\ncapital T.\n\nI do not suppose that a juvenile passion for fussy little worldly shows\nand vanities can furnish a match to this, anywhere in the history of\nthe nursery. Mrs. Eddy does seem to be a shade fonder of little special\ndistinctions and pomps than is usual with human beings.\n\nShe instituted that immodest  The  with her own hand; she did not wait\nfor somebody else to think of it.\n\n\n\n\nA LIFE-TERM MONOPOLY\n\nThere is but one human Pastor in the whole Christian Science world; she\nreserves that exalted place to herself.\n\n\n\n\nA PERPETUAL ONE\n\nThere is but one other object in the whole Christian Science world\nhonored with that title and holding that office: it is her book, the\nAnnex--permanent Pastor of The First Church, and of all branch Churches.\n\nWith her own hand she draughted the By-laws which make her the only\nreally absolute sovereign that lives to-day in Christendom.\n\nShe does not allow any objectionable pictures to be exhibited in the\nroom where her book is sold, nor any indulgence in idle gossip there;\nand from the general look of that By-law I judge that a lightsome and\nimproper person can be as uncomfortable in that place as he could be in\nheaven.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SANCTUM SANCTORUM AND SACRED CHAIR\n\nIn a room in The First Church of Christ, Scientist, there is a museum\nof objects which have attained to holiness through contact with Mrs.\nEddy--among them an electrically lighted oil-picture of a chair which\nshe used to sit in--and disciples from all about the world go softly\nin there, in restricted groups, under proper guard, and reverently gaze\nupon those relics. It is worship. Mrs. Eddy could stop it if she was not\nfond of it, for her sovereignty over that temple is supreme.\n\nThe fitting-up of that place as a shrine is not an accident, nor a\ncasual, unweighed idea; it is imitated from age--old religious custom.\nIn Treves the pilgrim reverently gazes upon the Seamless Robe, and\nhumbly worships; and does the same in that other continental church\nwhere they keep a duplicate; and does likewise in the Church of the\nHoly Sepulchre, in Jerusalem, where memorials of the Crucifixion are\npreserved; and now, by good fortune we have our Holy Chair and things,\nand a market for our adorations nearer home.\n\nBut is there not a detail that is new, fresh, original? Yes, whatever\nold thing Mrs. Eddy touches gets something new by the contact--something\nnot thought of before by any one--something original, all her own, and\ncopyrightable. The new feature is self worship--exhibited in permitting\nthis shrine to be installed during her lifetime, and winking her sacred\neye at it.\n\nA prominent Christian Scientist has assured me that the Scientists do\nnot worship Mrs. Eddy, and I think it likely that there may be five or\nsix of the cult in the world who do not worship her, but she herself\nis certainly not of that company. Any healthy-minded person who will\nexamine Mrs. Eddy's little Autobiography and the Manual of By-laws\nwritten by her will be convinced that she worships herself; and that she\nbrings to this service a fervor of devotion surpassing even that which\nshe formerly laid at the feet of the Dollar, and equalling any which\nrises to the Throne of Grace from any quarter.\n\nI think this is as good a place as any to salve a hurt which I was the\nmeans of inflicting upon a Christian Scientist lately. The first third\nof this book was written in 1899 in Vienna. Until last summer I had\nsupposed that that third had been printed in a book which I published\nabout a year later--a hap which had not happened. I then sent the\nchapters composing it to the North American Review, but failed in one\ninstance, to date them. And so, in an undated chapter I said a lady told\nme  last night  so and so. There was nothing to indicate to the reader\nthat that  last night  was several years old, therefore the phrase\nseemed to refer to a night of very recent date. What the lady had told\nme was, that in a part of the Mother-Church in Boston she had seen\nScientists worshipping a portrait of Mrs. Eddy before which a light was\nkept constantly burning.\n\nA Scientist came to me and wished me to retract that  untruth.  He said\nthere was no such portrait, and that if I wanted to be sure of it I\ncould go to Boston and see for myself. I explained that my  last night \n meant a good while ago; that I did not doubt his assertion that there\nwas no such portrait there now, but that I should continue to believe it\nhad been there at the time of the lady's visit until she should retract\nher statement herself. I was at no time vouching for the truth of the\nremark, nevertheless I considered it worth par.\n\nAnd yet I am sorry the lady told me, since a wound which brings me no\nhappiness has resulted. I am most willing to apply such salve as I can.\nThe best way to set the matter right and make everything pleasant and\nagreeable all around will be to print in this place a description of the\nshrine as it appeared to a recent visitor, Mr. Frederick W. Peabody, of\nBoston. I will copy his newspaper account, and the reader will see that\nMrs. Eddy's portrait is not there now:\n\n We lately stood on the threshold of the Holy of Holies of the\nMother-Church, and with a crowd of worshippers patiently waited for\nadmittance to the hallowed precincts of the 'Mother's Room.' Over the\ndoorway was a sign informing us that but four persons at a time would be\nadmitted; that they would be permitted to remain but five minutes only,\nand would please retire from the 'Mother's Room' at the ringing of the\nbell. Entering with three of the faithful, we looked with profane\neyes upon the consecrated furnishings. A show-woman in attendance\nmonotonously announced the character of the different appointments.\nSet in a recess of the wall and illumined with electric light was an\noil-painting the show-woman seriously declared to be a lifelike and\nrealistic picture of the Chair in which the Mother sat when she composed\nher 'inspired' work. It was a picture of an old-fashioned? country, hair\ncloth rocking-chair, and an exceedingly commonplace-looking table with a\npile of manuscript, an ink-bottle, and pen conspicuously upon it. On\nthe floor were sheets of manuscript. 'The mantel-piece is of pure onyx,'\ncontinued the show-woman, 'and the beehive upon the window-sill is made\nfrom one solid block of onyx; the rug is made of a hundred breasts of\neider-down ducks, and the toilet-room you see in the corner is of the\nlatest design, with gold-plated drain-pipes; the painted windows are\nfrom the Mother's poem,  Christ and Christmas,  and that case contains\ncomplete copies of all the Mother's books.' The chairs upon which the\nsacred person of the Mother had reposed were protected from sacrilegious\ntouch by a broad band of satin ribbon. My companions expressed their\nadmiration in subdued and reverent tones, and at the tinkling of the\nbell we reverently tiptoed out of the room to admit another delegation\nof the patient waiters at the door. \n\nNow, then, I hope the wound is healed. I am willing to relinquish the\nportrait, and compromise on the Chair. At the same time, if I were going\nto worship either, I should not choose the Chair.\n\nAs a picturesquely and persistently interesting personage, there is no\nmate to Mrs. Eddy, the accepted Equal of the Saviour. But some of her\ntastes are so different from His! I find it quite impossible to imagine\nHim, in life, standing sponsor for that museum there, and taking\npleasure in its sumptuous shows. I believe He would put that Chair in\nthe fire, and the bell along with it; and I think He would make the\nshow-woman go away. I think He would break those electric bulbs, and the\n mantel-piece of pure onyx,  and say reproachful things about the golden\ndrain-pipes of the lavatory, and give the costly rug of duck-breasts to\nthe poor, and sever the satin ribbon and invite the weary to rest and\nease their aches in the consecrated chairs. What He would do with the\npainted windows we can better conjecture when we come presently to\nexamine their peculiarities.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHRISTIAN SCIENCE PASTOR-UNIVERSAL\n\nWhen Mrs. Eddy turned the pastors out of all the Christian Science\nchurches and abolished the office for all time as far as human occupancy\nis concerned--she appointed the Holy Ghost to fill their place. If this\nlanguage be blasphemous, I did not invent the blasphemy, I am merely\nstating a fact. I will quote from page 227 of Science and Health\n(edition 1899), as a first step towards an explanation of this startling\nmatter--a passage which sets forth and classifies the Christian Science\nTrinity:\n\n Life, Truth, and Love constitute the triune God, or triply divine\nPrinciple. They represent a trinity in unity, three in one--the same in\nessence, though multiform in office: God the Father; Christ the type of\nSonship; Divine Science, or the Holy Comforter....\n\n The Holy Ghost, or Spirit, reveals this triune Principle, and (the Holy\nGhost) is expressed in Divine Science, which is the Comforter,\nleading into all Truth, and revealing the divine Principle of the\nuniverse--universal and perpetual harmony. \n\nI will cite another passage. Speaking of Jesus--\n\n His students then received the Holy Ghost. By this is meant, that by\nall they had witnessed and suffered they were roused to an enlarged\nunderstanding of Divine Science, even to the spiritual interpretation..\n... of His teachings,  etc.\n\nAlso, page 579, in the chapter called the Glossary:\n\n HOLY GHOST. Divine Science; the developments of Life, Truth, and Love. \n\nThe Holy Ghost reveals the massed spirit of the fused trinity; this\nmassed spirit is expressed in Divine Science, and is the Comforter;\nDivine Science conveys to men the  spiritual interpretation  of\nthe Saviour's teachings. That seems to be the meaning of the quoted\npassages.\n\nDivine Science is Christian Science; the book  Science and Health  is a\n revelation  of the whole spirit of the Trinity, and is therefore  The\nHoly Ghost ; it conveys to men the  spiritual interpretation  of the\nBible's teachings and therefore is  the Comforter. \n\nI do not find this analyzing work easy, I would rather saw wood; and a\nperson can never tell whether he has added up a Science and Health sum\nright or not, anyway, after all his trouble. Neither can he easily find\nout whether the texts are still on the market or have been discarded\nfrom the Book; for two hundred and fifty-eight editions of it have been\nissued, and no two editions seem to be alike. The annual changes--in\ntechnical terminology; in matter and wording; in transpositions of\nchapters and verses; in leaving out old chapters and verses and putting\nin new ones--seem to be next to innumerable, and as there is no index,\nthere is no way to find a thing one wants without reading the book\nthrough. If ever I inspire a Bible-Annex I will not rush at it in a\nhalf-digested, helter-skelter way and have to put in thirty-eight years\ntrying to get some of it the way I want it, I will sit down and think it\nout and know what it is I want to say before I begin. An inspirer cannot\ninspire for Mrs. Eddy and keep his reputation. I have never seen such\nslipshod work, bar the ten that interpreted for the home market the\n sell all thou hast.  I have quoted one  spiritual  rendering of the\nLord's Prayer, I have seen one other one, and am told there are\nfive more. Yet the inspirer of Mrs. Eddy the new Infallible casts a\ncomplacent critical stone at the other Infallible for being unable to\nmake up its mind about such things. Science and Health, edition 1899,\npage 33:\n\n The decisions, by vote of Church Councils, as to what should and\nshould not be considered Holy Writ, the manifest mistakes in the ancient\nversions: the thirty thousand different readings in the Old Testament\nand the three hundred thousand in the New--these facts show how a mortal\nand material sense stole into the divine record, darkening, to some\nextent, the inspired pages with its own hue. \n\nTo some extent, yes--speaking cautiously. But it is nothing, really\nnothing; Mrs. Eddy is only a little way behind, and if her inspirer\nlives to get her Annex to suit him that Catholic record will have to  go\n'way back and set down,  as the ballad says. Listen to the boastful song\nof Mrs. Eddy's organ, the Christian Science Journal for March, 1902,\nabout that year's revamping and half-soling of Science and Health,\nwhose official name is the Holy Ghost, the Comforter, and who is now\nthe Official Pastor and Infallible and Unerring Guide of every Christian\nScience church in the two hemispheres, hear Simple Simon that met the\npieman brag of the Infallible's fallibility:\n\n Throughout the entire book the verbal changes are so numerous as to\nindicate the vast amount of time and labor Mrs. Eddy has devoted to this\nrevision. The time and labor thus bestowed is relatively as great as\nthat of--the committee who revised the Bible.... Thus we have additional\nevidence of the herculean efforts our beloved Leader has made and is\nconstantly making for the promulgation of Truth and the furtherance of\nher divinely bestowed mission,  etc.\n\nIt is a steady job. I could help inspire if desired; I am not doing\nmuch now, and would work for half-price, and should not object to the\ncountry.\n\n\n\n\nPRICE OF THE PASTOR-UNIVERSAL\n\nThe price of the Pastor-Universal, Science and Health, called in Science\nliterature the Comforter--and by that other sacred Name--is three\ndollars in cloth, as heretofore, six when it is finely bound, and shaped\nto imitate the Testament, and is broken into verses. Margin of profit\nabove cost of manufacture, from five hundred to seven hundred per\ncent., as already noted In the profane subscription-trade, it costs\nthe publisher heavily to canvass a three-dollar book; he must pay the\ngeneral agent sixty per cent. commission--that is to say, one dollar and\neighty-cents. Mrs. Eddy escapes this blistering tax, because she owns\nthe Christian Science canvasser, and can compel him to work for nothing.\nRead the following command--not request--fulminated by Mrs. Eddy, over\nher signature, in the Christian Science Journal for March, 1897, and\nquoted by Mr. Peabody in his book. The book referred to is Science and\nHealth:\n\n It shall be the duty of all Christian Scientists to circulate and to\nsell as many of these books as they can. \n\nThat is flung at all the elect, everywhere that the sun shines, but no\npenalty is shaken over their heads to scare them. The same command was\nissued to the members (numbering to-day twenty-five thousand) of The\nMother-Church, also, but with it went a threat, of the infliction, in\ncase of disobedience, of the most dreaded punishment that has a place\nin the Church's list of penalties for transgressions of Mrs. Eddy's\nedicts--excommunication:\n\n If a member of The First Church of Christ, Scientist, shall fail to\nobey this injunction, it will render him liable to lose his membership\nin this Church. MARY BAKER EDDY. \n\nIt is the spirit of the Spanish Inquisition.\n\nNone but accepted and well established gods can venture an affront like\nthat and do it with confidence. But the human race will take anything\nfrom that class. Mrs. Eddy knows the human race; knows it better than\nany mere human being has known it in a thousand centuries. My confidence\nin her human-beingship is getting shaken, my confidence in her godship\nis stiffening.\n\n\n\n\nSEVEN HUNDRED PER CENT.\n\nA Scientist out West has visited a bookseller--with intent to find fault\nwith me--and has brought away the information that the price at which\nMrs. Eddy sells Science and Health is not an unusually high one for the\nsize and make of the book. That is true. But in the book-trade--that\nprofit-devourer unknown to Mrs. Eddy's book--a three-dollar book that\nis made for thirty-five or forty cents in large editions is put at\nthree dollars because the publisher has to pay author, middleman, and\nadvertising, and if the price were much below three the profit accruing\nwould not pay him fairly for his time and labor. At the same time, if\nhe could get ten dollars for the book he would take it, and his morals\nwould not fall under criticism.\n\nBut if he were an inspired person commissioned by the Deity to receive\nand print and spread broadcast among sorrowing and suffering and poor\nmen a precious message of healing and cheer and salvation, he would have\nto do as Bible Societies do--sell the book at a pinched margin above\ncost to such as could pay, and give it free to all that couldn't; and\nhis name would be praised. But if he sold it at seven hundred per cent.\nprofit and put the money in his pocket, his name would be mocked and\nderided. Just as Mrs. Eddy's is. And most justifiably, as it seems to\nme.\n\nThe complete Bible contains one million words. The New Testament by\nitself contains two hundred and forty thousand words.\n\nMy '84 edition of Science and Health contains one hundred and twenty\nthousand words--just half as many as the New Testament.\n\nScience and Health has since been so inflated by later inspirations that\nthe 1902 edition contains one hundred and eighty thousand words--not\ncounting the thirty thousand at the back, devoted by Mrs. Eddy to\nadvertising the book's healing abilities--and the inspiring continues\nright along.\n\nIf you have a book whose market is so sure and so great that you\ncan give a printer an everlasting order for thirty or forty or fifty\nthousand copies a year he will furnish them at a cheap rate, because\nwhenever there is a slack time in his press-room and bindery he can\nfill the idle intervals on your book and be making something instead\nof losing. That is the kind of contract that can be let on Science and\nHealth every year. I am obliged to doubt that the three-dollar Science\nand Health costs Mrs. Eddy above fifteen cents, or that the six dollar\ncopy costs her above eighty cents. I feel quite sure that the average\nprofit to her on these books, above cost of manufacture, is all of seven\nhundred per cent.\n\nEvery proper Christian Scientist has to buy and own (and canvass for)\nScience and Health (one hundred and eighty thousand words), and he must\nalso own a Bible (one million words). He can buy the one for from three\nto six dollars, and the other for fifteen cents. Or, if three dollars is\nall the money he has, he can get his Bible for nothing. When the Supreme\nBeing disseminates a saving Message through uninspired agents--the New\nTestament, for instance--it can be done for five cents a copy, but when\nHe sends one containing only two-thirds as many words through the shop\nof a Divine Personage, it costs sixty times as much. I think that\nin matters of such importance it is bad economy to employ a wild-cat\nagency.\n\nHere are some figures which are perfectly authentic, and which seem to\njustify my opinion.\n\n These [Bible] societies, inspired only by a sense of religious duty,\nare issuing the Bible at a price so small that they have made it the\ncheapest book printed. For example, the American Bible Society offers an\nedition of the whole Bible as low as fifteen cents and the New Testament\nat five cents, and the British Society at sixpence and one penny,\nrespectively. These low prices, made possible by their policy of selling\nthe books at cost or below cost,  etc.--New York Sun, February 25, 1903.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nWe may now make a final footing-up of Mrs. Eddy, and see what she is, in\nthe fulness of her powers. She is:\n\nThe Massachusetts Metaphysical College Pastor Emeritus; President; Board\nof Directors; Board of Education; Board of Lectureships; Future Board of\nTrustees, Proprietor of the Publishing-House and Periodicals; Treasurer;\nClerk; Proprietor of the Teachers; Proprietor of the Lecturers;\nProprietor of the Missionaries; Proprietor of the Readers; Dictator of\nthe Services; sole Voice of the Pulpit; Proprietor of the Sanhedrin;\nSole Proprietor of the Creed. (Copyrighted.); Indisputable Autocrat\nof the Branch Churches, with their life and death in her hands; Sole\nThinker for The First Church (and the others); Sole and Infallible\nExpounder of Doctrine, in life and in death; Sole permissible\nDiscoverer, Denouncer, Judge, and Executioner of Ostensible Hypnotists;\nFifty-handed God of Excommunication--with a thunderbolt in every hand;\nAppointer and Installer of the Pastor of all the Churches--the Perpetual\nPastor-Universal, Science and Health,  the Comforter. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nThere she stands-painted by herself. No witness but herself has been\nallowed to testify. She stands there painted by her acts, and decorated\nby her words. When she talks, she has only a decorative value as\na witness, either for or against herself, for she deals mainly in\nunsupported assertion; and in the rare cases where she puts forward a\nverifiable fact she gets out of it a meaning which it refuses to furnish\nto anybody else. Also, when she talks, she is unstable, she wanders,\nshe is incurably inconsistent; what she says to-day she contradicts\ntomorrow.\n\nBut her acts are consistent. They are always faithful to her, they never\nmisinterpret her, they are a mirror which always reflects her exactly,\nprecisely, minutely, unerringly, and always the same, to date, with only\nthose progressive little natural changes in stature, dress, complexion,\nmood, and carriage that mark--exteriorly--the march of the years and\nrecord the accumulations of experience, while--interiorly--through all\nthis steady drift of evolution the one essential detail, the commanding\ndetail, the master detail of the make-up remains as it was in the\nbeginning, suffers no change and can suffer none; the basis of the\ncharacter; the temperament, the disposition, that indestructible iron\nframework upon which the character is built, and whose shape it must\ntake, and keep, throughout life. We call it a person's nature.\n\nThe man who is born stingy can be taught to give liberally--with his\nhands; but not with his heart. The man born kind and compassionate\ncan have that disposition crushed down out of sight by embittering\nexperience; but if it were an organ the post-mortem would find it still\nin his corpse. The man born ambitious of power and glory may live long\nwithout finding it out, but when the opportunity comes he will know,\nwill strike for the largest thing within the limit of his chances at the\ntime-constable, perhaps--and will be glad and proud when he gets it,\nand will write home about it. But he will not stop with that start; his\nappetite will come again; and by-and-by again, and yet again; and when\nhe has climbed to police commissioner it will at last begin to dawn upon\nhim that what his Napoleon soul wants and was born for is something away\nhigher up--he does not quite know what, but Circumstance and Opportunity\nwill indicate the direction and he will cut a road through and find out.\n\nI think Mrs. Eddy was born with a far-seeing business-eye, but did not\nknow it; and with a great organizing and executive talent, and did not\nknow it; and with a large appetite for power and distinction, and did\nnot know it. I think the reason that her make did not show up until\nmiddle life was that she had General Grant's luck--Circumstance and\nOpportunity did not come her way when she was younger. The qualities\nthat were born in her had to wait for circumstance and opportunity--but\nthey were there: they were there to stay, whether they ever got a chance\nto fructify or not. If they had come early, they would have found her\nready and competent. And they--not she--would have determined what they\nwould set her at and what they would make of her. If they had elected to\ncommission her as second-assistant cook in a bankrupt boarding-house,\nI know the rest of it--I know what would have happened. She would have\nowned the boarding-house within six months; she would have had the late\nproprietor on salary and humping himself, as the worldly say; she would\nhave had that boarding-house spewing money like a mint; she would have\nworked the servants and the late landlord up to the limit; she would\nhave squeezed the boarders till they wailed, and by some mysterious\nquality born in her she would have kept the affections of certain of the\nlot whose love and esteem she valued, and flung the others down the back\narea; in two years she would own all the boarding-houses in the town, in\nfive all the boarding-houses in the State, in twenty all the hotels in\nAmerica, in forty all the hotels on the planet, and would sit at home\nwith her finger on a button and govern the whole combination as easily\nas a bench-manager governs a dog-show.\n\nIt would be a grand thing to see, and I feel a kind of\ndisappointment--but never mind, a religion is better and larger; and\nthere is more to it. And I have not been steeping myself in Christian\nScience all these weeks without finding out that the one sensible thing\nto do with a disappointment is to put it out of your mind and think of\nsomething cheerfuler.\n\nWe outsiders cannot conceive of Mrs. Eddy's Christian Science Religion\nas being a sudden and miraculous birth, but only as a growth from a seed\nplanted by circumstances, and developed stage by stage by command and\ncompulsion of the same force. What the stages were we cannot know, but\nare privileged to guess. She may have gotten the mental-healing idea\nfrom Quimby--it had been experimented with for ages, and was no one's\nspecial property. [For the present, for convenience' sake, let us\nproceed upon the hypothesis that that was all she got of him, and that\nshe put up the rest of the assets herself. This will strain us, but\nlet us try it.] In each and all its forms and under all its many names,\nmental healing had had limits, always, and they were rather narrow\nones--Mrs. Eddy, let us imagine, removed the fence, abolished the\nfrontiers. Not by expanding mental-healing, but by absorbing its small\nbulk into the vaster bulk of Christian Science--Divine Science, The Holy\nGhost, the Comforter--which was a quite different and sublimer force,\nand one which had long lain dormant and unemployed.\n\nThe Christian Scientist believes that the Spirit of God (life and love)\npervades the universe like an atmosphere; that whoso will study Science\nand Health can get from it the secret of how to inhale that transforming\nair; that to breathe it is to be made new; that from the new man all\nsorrow, all care, all miseries of the mind vanish away, for that only\npeace, contentment and measureless joy can live in that divine fluid;\nthat it purifies the body from disease, which is a vicious creation of\nthe gross human mind, and cannot continue to exist in the presence of\nthe Immortal Mind, the renewing Spirit of God.\n\nThe Scientist finds this reasonable, natural, and not harder to believe\nthan that the disease germ, a creature of darkness, perishes when\nexposed to the light of the great sun--a new revelation of profane\nscience which no one doubts. He reminds us that the actinic ray, shining\nupon lupus, cures it--a horrible disease which was incurable fifteen\nyears ago, and had been incurable for ten million years before; that\nthis wonder, unbelievable by the physicians at first, is believed by\nthem now; and so he is tranquilly confident that the time is coming when\nthe world will be educated up to a point where it will comprehend and\ngrant that the light of the Spirit of God, shining unobstructed upon the\nsoul, is an actinic ray which can purge both mind and body from disease\nand set them free and make them whole.\n\nIt is apparent, then, that in Christian Science it is not one man's mind\nacting upon another man's mind that heals; that it is solely the Spirit\nof God that heals; that the healer's mind performs no office but to\nconvey that force to the patient; that it is merely the wire which\ncarries the electric fluid, so to speak, and delivers the message.\nTherefore, if these things be true, mental-healing and Science-healing\nare separate and distinct processes, and no kinship exists between them.\n\nTo heal the body of its ills and pains is a mighty benefaction, but in\nour day our physicians and surgeons work a thousand miracles--prodigies\nwhich would have ranked as miracles fifty years ago--and they have so\ngreatly extended their domination over disease that we feel so well\nprotected that we are able to look with a good deal of composure and\nabsence of hysterics upon the claims of new competitors in that field.\n\nBut there is a mightier benefaction than the healing of the body, and\nthat is the healing of the spirit--which is Christian Science's other\nclaim. So far as I know, so far as I can find out, it makes it good.\nPersonally I have not known a Scientist who did not seem serene,\ncontented, unharassed. I have not found an outsider whose observation\nof Scientists furnished him a view that differed from my own. Buoyant\nspirits, comfort of mind, freedom from care these happinesses we all\nhave, at intervals; but in the spaces between, dear me, the black hours!\nThey have put a curse upon the life of every human being I have ever\nknown, young or old. I concede not a single exception. Unless it might\nbe those Scientists just referred to. They may have been playing a part\nwith me; I hope they were not, and I believe they were not.\n\nTime will test the Science's claim. If time shall make it good; if time\nshall prove that the Science can heal the persecuted spirit of man and\nbanish its troubles and keep it serene and sunny and content--why, then\nMrs. Eddy will have a monument that will reach above the clouds. For if\nshe did not hit upon that imperial idea and evolve it and deliver it,\nits discoverer can never be identified with certainty, now, I think.\nIt is the giant feature, it is the sun that rides in the zenith of\nChristian Science, the auxiliary features are of minor consequence [Let\nus still leave the large  if  aside, for the present, and proceed as if\nit had no existence.]\n\nIt is not supposable that Mrs. Eddy realized, at first, the size of her\nplunder. (No, find--that is the word; she did not realize the size of\nher find, at first.) It had to grow upon her, by degrees, in accordance\nwith the inalterable custom of Circumstance, which works by stages, and\nby stages only, and never furnishes any mind with all the materials for\na large idea at one time.\n\nIn the beginning, Mrs. Eddy was probably interested merely in the\nmental-healing detail, and perhaps mainly interested in it pecuniary,\nfor she was poor.\n\nShe would succeed in anything she undertook. She would attract pupils,\nand her commerce would grow. She would inspire in patient and pupil\nconfidence in her earnestness, her history is evidence that she would\nnot fail of that.\n\nThere probably came a time, in due course, when her students began to\nthink there was something deeper in her teachings than they had\nbeen suspecting--a mystery beyond mental-healing, and higher. It is\nconceivable that by consequence their manner towards her changed little\nby little, and from respectful became reverent. It is conceivable that\nthis would have an influence upon her; that it would incline her to\nwonder if their secret thought--that she was inspired--might not be a\nwell-grounded guess. It is conceivable that as time went on the\nthought in their minds and its reflection in hers might solidify into\nconviction.\n\nShe would remember, then, that as a child she had been called, more\nthan once, by a mysterious voice--just as had happened to little Samuel.\n(Mentioned in her Autobiography.) She would be impressed by that ancient\nreminiscence, now, and it could have a prophetic meaning for her.\n\nIt is conceivable that the persuasive influences around her and within\nher would give a new and powerful impulse to her philosophizings, and\nthat from this, in time, would result that great birth, the healing of\nbody and mind by the inpouring of the Spirit of God--the central and\ndominant idea of Christian Science--and that when this idea came she\nwould not doubt that it was an inspiration direct from Heaven.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n[I must rest a little, now. To sit here and painstakingly spin out a\nscheme which imagines Mrs. Eddy, of all people, working her mind on\na plane above commercialism; imagines her thinking, philosophizing,\ndiscovering majestic things; and even imagines her dealing in\nsincerities--to be frank, I find it a large contract But I have begun\nit, and I will go through with it.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nIt is evident that she made disciples fast, and that their belief in her\nand in the authenticity of her heavenly ambassadorship was not of the\nlukewarm and half-way sort, but was profoundly earnest and sincere.\nHer book was issued from the press in 1875, it began its work of\nconvert-making, and within six years she had successfully launched a new\nReligion and a new system of healing, and was teaching them to crowds of\neager students in a College of her own, at prices so extraordinary\nthat we are almost compelled to accept her statement (no, her guarded\nintimation) that the rates were arranged on high, since a mere human\nbeing unacquainted with commerce and accustomed to think in pennies\ncould hardly put up such a hand as that without supernatural help.\n\nFrom this stage onward--Mrs. Eddy being what she was--the rest of the\ndevelopment--stages would follow naturally and inevitably.\n\nBut if she had been anybody else, there would have been a different\narrangement of them, with different results. Being the extraordinary\nperson she was, she realized her position and its possibilities;\nrealized the possibilities, and had the daring to use them for all they\nwere worth.\n\nWe have seen what her methods were after she passed the stage where her\ndivine ambassadorship was granted its executer in the hearts and minds\nof her followers; we have seen how steady and fearless and calculated\nand orderly was her march thenceforth from conquest to conquest; we have\nseen her strike dead, without hesitancy, any hostile or questionable\nforce that rose in her path: first, the horde of pretenders that sprang\nup and tried to take her Science and its market away from her--she\ncrushed them, she obliterated them; when her own National Christian\nScience Association became great in numbers and influence, and loosely\nand dangerously garrulous, and began to expound the doctrines according\nto its own uninspired notions, she took up her sponge without a tremor\nof fear and wiped that Association out; when she perceived that\nthe preachers in her pulpits were becoming afflicted with\ndoctrine-tinkering, she recognized the danger of it, and did not\nhesitate nor temporize, but promptly dismissed the whole of them in a\nday, and abolished their office permanently; we have seen that, as fast\nas her power grew, she was competent to take the measure of it, and that\nas fast as its expansion suggested to her gradually awakening native\nambition a higher step she took it; and so, by this evolutionary\nprocess, we have seen the gross money-lust relegated to second place,\nand the lust of empire and glory rise above it. A splendid dream; and by\nforce of the qualities born in her she is making it come true.\n\nThese qualities--and the capacities growing out of them by the nurturing\ninfluences of training, observation, and experience seem to be clearly\nindicated by the character of her career and its achievements. They seem\nto be:\n\nA clear head for business, and a phenomenally long one; Clear\nunderstanding of business situations; Accuracy in estimating the\nopportunities they offer; Intelligence in planning a business move;\nFirmness in sticking to it after it has been decided upon; Extraordinary\ndaring; Indestructible persistency; Devouring ambition; Limitless\nselfishness; A knowledge of the weaknesses and poverties and docilities\nof human nature and how to turn them to account which has never been\nsurpassed, if ever equalled.\n\nAnd--necessarily--the foundation-stone of Mrs. Eddy's character is a\nnever-wavering confidence in herself.\n\nIt is a granite character. And--quite naturally--a measure of the talc\nof smallnesses common to human nature is mixed up in it and distributed\nthrough it. When Mrs. Eddy is not dictating servilities from her throne\nin the clouds to her official domestics in Boston or to her far-spread\nsubjects round about the planet, but is down on the ground, she is kin\nto us and one of us: sentimental as a girl, garrulous, ungrammatical,\nincomprehensible, affected, vain of her little human ancestry, unstable,\ninconsistent, unreliable in statement, and naively and everlastingly\nself-contradictory-oh, trivial and common and commonplace as the\ncommonest of us! just a Napoleon as Madame de Remusat saw him, a brass\ngod with clay legs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nIn drawing Mrs. Eddy's portrait it has been my purpose to restrict\nmyself to materials furnished by herself, and I believe I have done\nthat. If I have misinterpreted any of her acts, it was not done\nintentionally.\n\nIt will be noticed that in skeletonizing a list of the qualities which\nhave carried her to the dizzy summit which she occupies, I have not\nmentioned the power which was the commanding force employed in achieving\nthat lofty flight. It did not belong in that list; it was a force that\nwas not a detail of her character, but was an outside one. It was\nthe power which proceeded from her people's recognition of her as\na supernatural personage, conveyer of the Latest Word, and divinely\ncommissioned to deliver it to the world. The form which such a\nrecognition takes, consciously or unconsciously, is worship; and worship\ndoes not question nor criticize, it obeys. The object of it does not\nneed to coddle it, bribe it, beguile it, reason with it, convince\nit--it commands it; that is sufficient; the obedience rendered is not\nreluctant, but prompt and whole-hearted. Admiration for a Napoleon,\nconfidence in him, pride in him, affection for him, can lift him high\nand carry him far; and these are forms of worship, and are strong\nforces, but they are worship of a mere human being, after all, and are\ninfinitely feeble, as compared with those that are generated by that\nother worship, the worship of a divine personage. Mrs. Eddy has this\nefficient worship, this massed and centralized force, this force which\nis indifferent to opposition, untroubled by fear, and goes to battle\nsinging, like Cromwell's soldiers; and while she has it she can command\nand it will obey, and maintain her on her throne, and extend her empire.\n\nShe will have it until she dies; and then we shall see a curious and\ninteresting further development of her revolutionary work begin.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nThe President and Board of Directors will succeed her, and the\ngovernment will go on without a hitch. The By-laws will bear that\ninterpretation. All the Mother-Church's vast powers are concentrated in\nthat Board. Mrs. Eddy's unlimited personal reservations make the Board's\nostensible supremacy, during her life, a sham, and the Board itself a\nshadow. But Mrs. Eddy has not made those reservations for any one but\nherself--they are distinctly personal, they bear her name, they are not\nusable by another individual. When she dies her reservations die, and\nthe Board's shadow-powers become real powers, without the change of\nany important By-law, and the Board sits in her place as absolute and\nirresponsible a sovereign as she was.\n\nIt consists of but five persons, a much more manageable Cardinalate than\nthe Roman Pope's. I think it will elect its Pope from its own body, and\nthat it will fill its own vacancies. An elective Papacy is a safe and\nwise system, and a long-liver.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nWe may take that up now.\n\nIt is not a single if, but a several-jointed one; not an oyster, but a\nvertebrate.\n\n1. Did Mrs. Eddy borrow from Quimby the Great Idea, or only the little\none, the old-timer, the ordinary mental-healing-healing by  mortal \n mind?\n\n2. If she borrowed the Great Idea, did she carry it away in her head, or\nin manuscript?\n\n3. Did she hit upon the Great Idea herself? By the Great Idea I mean, of\ncourse, the conviction that the Force involved was still existent, and\ncould be applied now just as it was applied by Christ's Disciples and\ntheir converts, and as successfully.\n\n4. Did she philosophize it, systematize it, and write it down in a book?\n\n5. Was it she, and not another, that built a new Religion upon the book\nand organized it?\n\nI think No. 5 can be answered with a Yes, and dismissed from the\ncontroversy. And I think that the Great Idea, great as it was, would\nhave enjoyed but a brief activity, and would then have gone to sleep\nagain for some more centuries, but for the perpetuating impulse it got\nfrom that organized and tremendous force.\n\nAs for Nos. 1, 2, and 4, the hostiles contend that Mrs. Eddy got the\nGreat Idea from Quimby and carried it off in manuscript. But their\ntestimony, while of consequence, lacks the most important detail; so far\nas my information goes, the Quimby manuscript has not been produced. I\nthink we cannot discuss No. 1 and No. 2 profitably. Let them go.\n\nFor me, No. 3 has a mild interest, and No. 4 a violent one.\n\nAs regards No. 3, Mrs. Eddy was brought up, from the cradle, an\nold-time, boiler-iron, Westminster-Catechism Christian, and knew\nher Bible as well as Captain Kydd knew his,  when he sailed, when he\nsailed,  and perhaps as sympathetically. The Great Idea had struck a\nmillion Bible-readers before her as being possible of resurrection and\napplication--it must have struck as many as that, and been cogitated,\nindolently, doubtingly, then dropped and forgotten--and it could have\nstruck her, in due course. But how it could interest her, how it\ncould appeal to her--with her make this a thing that is difficult to\nunderstand.\n\nFor the thing back of it is wholly gracious and beautiful: the power,\nthrough loving mercifulness and compassion, to heal fleshly ills and\npains and grief--all--with a word, with a touch of the hand! This power\nwas given by the Saviour to the Disciples, and to all the converted.\nAll--every one. It was exercised for generations afterwards.\nAny Christian who was in earnest and not a make-believe, not a\npolicy--Christian, not a Christian for revenue only, had that healing\npower, and could cure with it any disease or any hurt or damage possible\nto human flesh and bone. These things are true, or they are not. If they\nwere true seventeen and eighteen and nineteen centuries ago it would be\ndifficult to satisfactorily explain why or how or by what argument that\npower should be nonexistent in Christians now.\n\nTo wish to exercise it could occur to Mrs. Eddy--but would it?\n\nGrasping, sordid, penurious, famishing for everything she sees--money,\npower, glory--vain, untruthful, jealous, despotic, arrogant, insolent,\npitiless where thinkers and hypnotists are concerned, illiterate,\nshallow, incapable of reasoning outside of commercial lines,\nimmeasurably selfish--\n\nOf course the Great Idea could strike her, we have to grant that, but\nwhy it should interest her is a question which can easily overstrain the\nimagination and bring on nervous prostration, or something like that,\nand is better left alone by the judicious, it seems to me--\n\nUnless we call to our help the alleged other side of Mrs. Eddy's\nmake and character the side which her multitude of followers see, and\nsincerely believe in. Fairness requires that their view be stated\nhere. It is the opposite of the one which I have drawn from Mrs. Eddy's\nhistory and from her By-laws. To her followers she is this:\n\nPatient, gentle, loving, compassionate, noble hearted, unselfish,\nsinless, widely cultured, splendidly equipped mentally, a profound\nthinker, an able writer, a divine personage, an inspired messenger whose\nacts are dictated from the Throne, and whose every utterance is the\nVoice of God.\n\nShe has delivered to them a religion which has revolutionized their\nlives, banished the glooms that shadowed them, and filled them and\nflooded them with sunshine and gladness and peace; a religion which has\nno hell; a religion whose heaven is not put off to another time, with\na break and a gulf between, but begins here and now, and melts into\neternity as fancies of the waking day melt into the dreams of sleep.\n\nThey believe it is a Christianity that is in the New Testament; that\nit has always been there, that in the drift of ages it was lost through\ndisuse and neglect, and that this benefactor has found it and given it\nback to men, turning the night of life into day, its terrors into myths,\nits lamentations into songs of emancipation and rejoicing.\n\nThere we have Mrs. Eddy as her followers see her. She has lifted\nthem out of grief and care and doubt and fear, and made their lives\nbeautiful; she found them wandering forlorn in a wintry wilderness, and\nhas led them to a tropic paradise like that of which the poet sings:\n\n      O, islands there are on the face of the deep\n     Where the leaves never fade and the skies never weep. \n\nTo ask them to examine with a microscope the character of such a\nbenefactor; to ask them to examine it at all; to ask them to look at a\nblemish which another person believes he has found in it--well, in their\nplace could you do it? Would you do it? Wouldn't you be ashamed to do\nit? If a tramp had rescued your child from fire and death, and saved its\nmother's heart from breaking, could you see his rags? Could you smell\nhis breath? Mrs. Eddy has done more than that for these people.\n\nThey are prejudiced witnesses. To the credit of human nature it is not\npossible that they should be otherwise. They sincerely believe that\nMrs. Eddy's character is pure and perfect and beautiful, and her history\nwithout stain or blot or blemish. But that does not settle it. They\nsincerely believe she did not borrow the Great Idea from Quimby, but hit\nupon it herself. It may be so, and it could be so. Let it go--there\nis no way to settle it. They believe she carried away no Quimby\nmanuscripts. Let that go, too--there is no way to settle it. They\nbelieve that she, and not another, built the Religion upon the book, and\norganized it. I believe it, too.\n\nFinally, they believe that she philosophized Christian Science,\nexplained it, systematized it, and wrote it all out with her own hand in\nthe book Science and Health.\n\nI am not able to believe that. Let us draw the line there. The known\nand undisputed products of her pen are a formidable witness against\nher. They do seem to me to prove, quite clearly and conclusively, that\nwriting, upon even simple subjects, is a difficult labor for her: that\nshe has never been able to write anything above third-rate English; that\nshe is weak in the matter of grammar; that she has but a rude and\ndull sense of the values of words; that she so lacks in the matter of\nliterary precision that she can seldom put a thought into words that\nexpress it lucidly to the reader and leave no doubts in his mind as to\nwhether he has rightly understood or not; that she cannot even draught a\nPreface that a person can fully comprehend, nor one which can by any\nart be translated into a fully understandable form; that she can\nseldom inject into a Preface even single sentences whose meaning is\nuncompromisingly clear--yet Prefaces are her specialty, if she has one.\n\nMrs. Eddy's known and undisputed writings are very limited in bulk;\nthey exhibit no depth, no analytical quality, no thought above school\ncomposition size, and but juvenile ability in handling thoughts of even\nthat modest magnitude. She has a fine commercial ability, and could\ngovern a vast railway system in great style; she could draught a set\nof rules that Satan himself would say could not be improved on--for\ndevilish effectiveness--by his staff; but we know, by our excursions\namong the Mother-Church's By-laws, that their English would discredit\nthe deputy baggage-smasher. I am quite sure that Mrs. Eddy cannot write\nwell upon any subject, even a commercial one.\n\nIn the very first revision of Science and Health (1883), Mrs. Eddy wrote\na Preface which is an unimpeachable witness that the rest of the book\nwas written by somebody else. I have put it in the Appendix along with a\npage or two taken from the body of the book, and will ask the reader to\ncompare the labored and lumbering and confused gropings of this Preface\nwith the easy and flowing and direct English of the other exhibit, and\nsee if he can believe that the one hand and brain produced both.\n\nAnd let him take the Preface apart, sentence by sentence, and\nsearchingly examine each sentence word by word, and see if he can find\nhalf a dozen sentences whose meanings he is so sure of that he can\nrephrase them--in words of his own--and reproduce what he takes to be\nthose meanings. Money can be lost on this game. I know, for I am the one\nthat lost it.\n\nNow let the reader turn to the excerpt which I have made from the\nchapter on  Prayer  (last year's edition of Science and Health), and\ncompare that wise and sane and elevated and lucid and compact piece of\nwork with the aforesaid Preface, and with Mrs. Eddy's poetry concerning\nthe gymnastic trees, and Minerva's not yet effete sandals, and the\nwreaths imported from Erudition's bower for the decoration of Plymouth\nRock, and the Plague-spot and Bacilli, and my other exhibits (turn back\nto my Chapters I. and II.) from the Autobiography, and finally with\nthe late Communication concerning me, and see if he thinks anybody's\naffirmation, or anybody's sworn testimony, or any other testimony of\nany imaginable kind would ever be likely to convince him that Mrs. Eddy\nwrote that chapter on Prayer.\n\nI do not wish to impose my opinion on any one who will not permit\nit, but such as it is I offer it here for what it is worth. I cannot\nbelieve, and I do not believe, that Mrs. Eddy originated any of the\nthoughts and reasonings out of which the book Science and Health is\nconstructed; and I cannot believe, and do not believe that she ever\nwrote any part of that book.\n\nI think that if anything in the world stands proven, and well and\nsolidly proven, by unimpeachable testimony--the treacherous testimony of\nher own pen in her known and undisputed literary productions--it is that\nMrs. Eddy is not capable of thinking upon high planes, nor of reasoning\nclearly nor writing intelligently upon low ones.\n\nInasmuch as--in my belief--the very first editions of the book Science\nand Health were far above the reach of Mrs. Eddy's mental and literary\nabilities, I think she has from the very beginning been claiming as\nher own another person's book, and wearing as her own property laurels\nrightfully belonging to that person--the real author of Science and\nHealth. And I think the reason--and the only reason--that he has not\nprotested is because his work was not exposed to print until after he\nwas safely dead.\n\nThat with an eye to business, and by grace of her business talent,\nshe has restored to the world neglected and abandoned features of the\nChristian religion which her thousands of followers find gracious and\nblessed and contenting, I recognize and confess; but I am convinced that\nevery single detail of the work except just that one--the delivery of\nthe Product to the world--was conceived and performed by another.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX A\n\nORIGINAL FIRST PREFACE TO SCIENCE AND HEALTH\n\nThere seems a Christian necessity of learning God's power and purpose to\nheal both mind and body. This thought grew out of our early seeking\nHim in all our ways, and a hopeless as singular invalidism that drugs\nincreased instead of diminished, and hygiene benefited only for a\nseason. By degrees we have drifted into more spiritual latitudes of\nthought, and experimented as we advanced until demonstrating fully the\npower of mind over the body. About the year 1862, having heard of a\nmesmerist in Portland who was treating the sick by manipulation, we\nvisited him; he helped us for a time, then we relapsed somewhat. After\nhis decease, and a severe casualty deemed fatal by skilful physicians,\nwe discovered that the Principle of all healing and the law that governs\nit is God, a divine Principle, and a spiritual not material law, and\nregained health.\n\nIt was not an individual or mortal mind acting upon another so-called\nmind that healed us. It was the glorious truths of Christian Science\nthat we discovered as we neared that verge of so-called material life\nnamed death; yea, it was the great Shekinah, the spirit of Life, Truth,\nand Love illuminating our understanding of the action and might of\nOmnipotence! The old gentleman to whom we have referred had some very\nadvanced views on healing, but he was not avowedly religious neither\nscholarly. We interchanged thoughts on the subject of healing the sick.\nI restored some patients of his that he failed to heal, and left in\nhis possession some manuscripts of mine containing corrections of his\ndesultory pennings, which I am informed at his decease passed into the\nhands of a patient of his, now residing in Scotland. He died in 1865 and\nleft no published works. The only manuscript that we ever held of his,\nlonger than to correct it, was one of perhaps a dozen pages, most of\nwhich we had composed. He manipulated the sick; hence his ostensible\nmethod of healing was physical instead of mental.\n\nWe helped him in the esteem of the public by our writings, but never\nknew of his stating orally or in writing that he treated his patients\nmentally; never heard him give any directions to that effect; and have\nit from one of his patients, who now asserts that he was the founder of\nmental healing, that he never revealed to anyone his method. We refer\nto these facts simply to refute the calumnies and false claims of our\nenemies, that we are preferring dishonest claims to the discovery and\nfounding at this period of Metaphysical Healing or Christian Science.\n\nThe Science and laws of a purely mental healing and their method of\napplication through spiritual power alone, else a mental argument\nagainst disease, are our own discovery at this date. True, the Principle\nis divine and eternal, but the application of it to heal the sick had\nbeen lost sight of, and required to be again spiritually discerned\nand its science discovered, that man might retain it through the\nunderstanding. Since our discovery in 1866 of the divine science of\nChristian Healing, we have labored with tongue and pen to found this\nsystem. In this endeavor every obstacle has been thrown in our path that\nthe envy and revenge of a few disaffected students could devise. The\nsuperstition and ignorance of even this period have not failed to\ncontribute their mite towards misjudging us, while its Christian\nadvancement and scientific research have helped sustain our feeble\nefforts.\n\nSince our first Edition of Science and Health, published in 1875, two\nof the aforesaid students have plagiarized and pirated our works. In the\nissues of E. J. A., almost exclusively ours, were thirteen paragraphs,\nwithout credit, taken verbatim from our books.\n\nNot one of our printed works was ever copied or abstracted from the\npublished or from the unpublished writings of anyone. Throughout our\npublications of Metaphysical Healing or Christian Science, when writing\nor dictating them, we have given ourselves to contemplation wholly apart\nfrom the observation of the material senses: to look upon a copy would\nhave distracted our thoughts from the subject before us. We were seldom\nable to copy our own compositions, and have employed an amanuensis\nfor the last six years. Every work that we have had published has been\nextemporaneously written; and out of fifty lectures and sermons that we\nhave delivered the last year, forty-four have been extemporaneous. We\nhave distributed many of our unpublished manuscripts; loaned to one of\nour youngest students, R. K--------y, between three and four hundred\npages, of which we were sole author--giving him liberty to copy but not\nto publish them.\n\nLeaning on the sustaining Infinite with loving trust, the trials of\nto-day grow brief, and to-morrow is big with blessings.\n\nThe wakeful shepherd, tending his flocks, beholds from the mountain's\ntop the first faint morning beam ere cometh the risen day. So from\nSoul's loftier summits shines the pale star to prophet-shepherd, and\nit traverses night, over to where the young child lies, in cradled\nobscurity, that shall waken a world. Over the night of error dawn the\nmorning beams and guiding star of Truth, and  the wise men  are led by\nit to Science, which repeats the eternal harmony that it reproduced, in\nproof of immortality. The time for thinkers has come; and the time for\nrevolutions, ecclesiastical and civil, must come. Truth, independent of\ndoctrines or time-honored systems, stands at the threshold of history.\nContentment with the past, or the cold conventionality of custom, may no\nlonger shut the door on science; though empires fall,  He whose right it\nis shall reign.  Ignorance of God should no longer be the stepping-stone\nto faith; understanding Him,  whom to know aright is Life eternal,  is\nthe only guaranty of obedience.\n\nThis volume may not open a new thought, and make it at once familiar. It\nhas the sturdy task of a pioneer, to hack away at the tall oaks and cut\nthe rough granite, leaving future ages to declare what it has done.\nWe made our first discovery of the adaptation of metaphysics to the\ntreatment of disease in the winter of 1866; since then we have tested\nthe Principle on ourselves and others, and never found it to fail to\nprove the statements herein made of it. We must learn the science of\nLife, to reach the perfection of man. To understand God as the Principle\nof all being, and to live in accordance with this Principle, is the\nScience of Life. But to reproduce this harmony of being, the error\nof personal sense must yield to science, even as the science of music\ncorrects tones caught from the ear, and gives the sweet concord of\nsound. There are many theories of physic and theology, and many calls in\neach of their directions for the right way; but we propose to settle the\nquestion of  What is Truth?  on the ground of proof, and let that method\nof healing the sick and establishing Christianity be adopted that is\nfound to give the most health and to make the best Christians; science\nwill then have a fair field, in which case we are assured of its triumph\nover all opinions and beliefs. Sickness and sin have ever had their\ndoctors; but the question is, Have they become less because of them? The\nlongevity of our antediluvians would say, No! and the criminal records\nof today utter their voices little in favor of such a conclusion. Not\nthat we would deny to Caesar the things that are his, but that we\nask for the things that belong to Truth; and safely affirm, from the\ndemonstrations we have been able to make, that the science of man\nunderstood would have eradicated sin, sickness, and death, in a less\nperiod than six thousand years. We find great difficulties in starting\nthis work right. Some shockingly false claims are already made to a\nmetaphysical practice; mesmerism, its very antipodes, is one of them.\nHitherto we have never, in a single instance of our discovery, found\nthe slightest resemblance between mesmerism and metaphysics. No especial\nidiosyncrasy is requisite to acquire a knowledge of metaphysical\nhealing; spiritual sense is more important to its discernment than the\nintellect; and those who would learn this science without a high moral\nstandard of thought and action, will fail to understand it until they\ngo up higher. Owing to our explanations constantly vibrating between the\nsame points, an irksome repetition of words must occur; also the use of\ncapital letters, genders, and technicalities peculiar to the science.\nVariety of language, or beauty of diction, must give place to close\nanalysis and unembellished thought.  Hoping all things, enduring all\nthings,  to do good to our enemies, to bless them that curse us, and to\nbear to the sorrowing and the sick consolation and healing, we commit\nthese pages to posterity.\n\nMARY BAKER G. EDDY.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX B\n\nThe Gospel narratives bear brief testimony even to the life of our great\nMaster. His spiritual noumenon and phenomenon, silenced portraiture.\nWriters, less wise than the Apostles, essayed in the Apocryphal New\nTestament, a legendary and traditional history of the early life of\nJesus. But Saint Paul summarized the character of Jesus as the model\nof Christianity, in these words:  Consider Him who endured such\ncontradictions of sinners against Himself. Who for the joy that was set\nbefore Him, endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at\nthe right hand of the throne of God. \n\nIt may be that the mortal life battle still wages, and must continue\ntill its involved errors are vanquished by victory-bringing Science; but\nthis triumph will come! God is over all. He alone is our origin, aim,\nand Being. The real man is not of the dust, nor is he ever created\nthrough the flesh; for his father and mother are the one Spirit, and his\nbrethren are all the children of one parent, the eternal Good.\n\nAny kind of literary composition was excessively difficult for Mrs.\nEddy. She found it grinding hard work to dig out anything to say. She\nrealized, at the above stage in her life, that with all her trouble she\nhad not been able to scratch together even material enough for a child's\nAutobiography, and also that what she had secured was in the main not\nvaluable, not important, considering the age and the fame of the person\nshe was writing about; and so it occurred to her to attempt, in that\nparagraph, to excuse the meagreness and poor quality of the feast she\nwas spreading, by letting on that she could do ever so much better if\nshe wanted to, but was under constraint of Divine etiquette. To feed\nwith more than a few indifferent crumbs a plebeian appetite for personal\ndetails about Personages in her class was not the correct thing, and she\nblandly points out that there is Precedent for this reserve. When Mrs.\nEddy tries to be artful--in literature--it is generally after the manner\nof the ostrich; and with the ostrich's luck. Please try to find the\nconnection between the two paragraphs.--M. T.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX C\n\nThe following is the spiritual signification of the Lord's Prayer:\n\nPrinciple, eternal and harmonious, Nameless and adorable Intelligence,\nThou art ever present and supreme. And when this supremacy of\nSpirit shall appear, the dream of matter will disappear. Give us the\nunderstanding of Truth and Love. And loving we shall learn God, and\nTruth will destroy all error. And lead us unto the Life that is Soul,\nand deliver us from the errors of sense, sin, sickness, and death, For\nGod is Life, Truth, and Love for ever.--Science and Health, edition of\n1881.\n\nIt seems to me that this one is distinctly superior to the one that was\ninspired for last year's edition. It is strange, but to my mind plain,\nthat inspiring is an art which does not improve with practice.--M. T.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX D\n\n For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain,\nBe thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in\nhis heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come\nto pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith. Therefore I say unto you,\nWhat things soever ye desire when ye pray, believe that ye receive them,\nand ye shall have them.\n\n Your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask\nHim. --CHRIST JESUS.\n\nThe prayer that reclaims the sinner and heals the sick, is an absolute\nfaith that all things are possible to God--a spiritual understanding of\nHim--an unselfed love. Regardless of what another may say or think\non this subject, I speak from experience. This prayer, combined with\nself-sacrifice and toil, is the means whereby God has enabled me to do\nwhat I have done for the religion and health of mankind.\n\nThoughts unspoken are not unknown to the divine Mind. Desire is prayer;\nand no less can occur from trusting God with our desires, that they may\nbe moulded and exalted before they take form in audible word, and in\ndeeds.\n\nWhat are the motives for prayer? Do we pray to make ourselves better, or\nto benefit those that hear us; to enlighten the Infinite, or to be heard\nof men? Are we benefited by praying? Yes, the desire which goes forth\nhungering after righteousness is blessed of our Father, and it does not\nreturn unto us void.\n\nGod is not moved by the breath of praise to do more than He has already\ndone; nor can the Infinite do less than bestow all good, since He is\nunchanging Wisdom and Love. We can do more for ourselves by humble\nfervent petitions; but the All-loving does not grant them simply on the\nground of lip-service, for He already knows all.\n\nPrayer cannot change the Science of Being, but it does bring us into\nharmony with it. Goodness reaches the demonstration of Truth. A request\nthat another may work for us never does our work. The habit of pleading\nwith the divine Mind, as one pleads with a human being, perpetuates the\nbelief in God as humanly circumscribed--an error which impedes spiritual\ngrowth.\n\nGod is Love. Can we ask Him to be more? God is Intelligence. Can we\ninform the infinite Mind, or tell Him anything He does not already\ncomprehend? Do we hope to change perfection? Shall we plead for more\nat the open fount, which always pours forth more than we receive? The\nunspoken prayer does bring us nearer the Source of all existence and\nblessedness.\n\nAsking God to be God is a  vain repetition.  God is  the same yesterday,\nand to-day, and forever ; and He who is immutably right will do right,\nwithout being reminded of His province. The wisdom of man is not\nsufficient to warrant him in advising God.\n\nWho would stand before a blackboard, and pray the principle of\nmathematics to work out the problem? The rule is already established,\nand it is our task to work out the solution. Shall we ask the divine\nPrinciple of all goodness to do His own work? His work is done; and\nwe have only to avail ourselves of God's rule, in order to receive the\nblessing thereof.\n\nThe divine Being must be reflected by man--else man is not the image and\nlikeness of the patient, tender, and true, the one  altogether lovely ;\nbut to understand God is the work of eternity, and demands absolute\nconcentration of thought and energy.\n\nHow empty are our conceptions of Deity! We admit theoretically that\nGod is good, omnipotent, omnipresent, infinite, and then we try to give\ninformation to this infinite Mind; and plead for unmerited pardon, and a\nliberal outpouring of benefactions. Are we really grateful for the good\nalready received? Then we shall avail ourselves of the blessings we\nhave, and thus be fitted to receive more. Gratitude is much more than a\nverbal expression of thanks. Action expresses more gratitude than speech.\n\nIf we are ungrateful for Life, Truth, and Love, and yet return thanks to\nGod for all blessings, we are insincere; and incur the sharp censure\nour Master pronounces on hypocrites. In such a case the only acceptable\nprayer is to put the finger on the lips and remember our blessings.\nWhile the heart is far from divine Truth and Love, we cannot conceal the\ningratitude of barren lives, for God knoweth all things.\n\nWhat we most need is the prayer of fervent desire for growth in grace,\nexpressed in patience, meekness, love, and good deeds. To keep the\ncommandments of our Master and follow his example, is our proper debt to\nHim, and the only worthy evidence of our gratitude for all He has\ndone. Outward worship is not of itself sufficient to express loyal\nand heartfelt gratitude, since He has said:  If ye love Me, keep My\nCommandments. \n\nThe habitual struggle to be always good, is unceasing prayer. Its\nmotives are made manifest in the blessings they bring--which, if\nnot acknowledged in audible words, attest our worthiness to be made\npartakers of Love.\n\nSimply asking that we may love God will never make us love Him; but the\nlonging to be better and holier--expressed in daily watchfulness, and in\nstriving to assimilate more of the divine character--this will mould and\nfashion us anew, until we awake in His likeness. We reach the Science\nof Christianity through demonstration of the divine nature; but in this\nwicked world goodness will  be evil spoken of,  and patience must work\nexperience.\n\nAudible prayer can never do the works of spiritual understanding, which\nregenerates; but silent prayer, watchfulness, and devout obedience,\nenable us to follow Jesus' example. Long prayers, ecclesiasticism, and\ncreeds, have clipped the divine pinions of Love, and clad religion in\nhuman robes. They materialize worship, hinder the Spirit, and keep man\nfrom demonstrating his power over error.\n\nSorrow for wrong-doing is but one step towards reform, and the very\neasiest step. The next and great step required by Wisdom is the test of\nour sincerity--namely, reformation. To this end we are placed under the\nstress of circumstances. Temptation bids us repeat the offence, and woe\ncomes in return for what is done. So it will ever be, till we learn that\nthere is no discount in the law of justice, and that we must pay  the\nuttermost farthing.  The measure ye mete  shall be measured to you\nagain,  and it will be full  and running over. \n\nSaints and sinners get their full award, but not always in this world.\nThe followers of Christ drank His cup. Ingratitude and persecution\nfilled it to the brim; but God pours the riches of His love into the\nunderstanding and affections, giving us strength according to our day.\nSinners flourish  like a green bay-tree ; but, looking farther, the\nPsalmist could see their end--namely, the destruction of sin through\nsuffering.\n\nPrayer is sometimes used, as a confessional to cancel sin. This error\nimpedes true religion. Sin is forgiven, only as it is destroyed by\nChrist-Truth and Life. If prayer nourishes the belief that sin is\ncancelled, and that man is made better by merely praying, it is an evil.\nHe grows worse who continues in sin because he thinks himself forgiven.\n\nAn apostle says that the Son of God (Christ) came to  destroy the\nworks of the devil.  We should follow our divine Exemplar, and seek the\ndestruction of all evil works, error and disease included. We cannot\nescape the penalty due for sin. The Scriptures say, that if we deny\nChrist,  He also will deny us. \n\nThe divine Love corrects and governs man. Men may pardon, but this\ndivine Principle alone reforms the sinner. God is not separate from the\nwisdom He bestows. The talents He gives we must improve. Calling on\nHim to forgive our work, badly done or left undone, implies the vain\nsupposition that we have nothing to do but to ask pardon, and that\nafterwards we shall be free to repeat the offence.\n\nTo cause suffering, as the result of sin, is the means of destroying\nsin. Every supposed pleasure in sin will furnish more than its\nequivalent of pain, until belief in material life and sin is destroyed.\nTo reach heaven, the harmony of Being, we must understand the divine\nPrinciple of Being.\n\n God is Love.  More than this we cannot ask; higher we cannot look;\nfarther we cannot go. To suppose that God forgives or punishes sin,\naccording as His mercy is sought or unsought, is to misunderstand Love\nand make prayer the safety-valve for wrong-doing.\n\nJesus uncovered and rebuked sin before He cast it out. Of a sick woman\nHe said that Satan had bound her; and to Peter He said,  Thou art an\noffense unto me.  He came teaching and showing men how to destroy sin,\nsickness, and death. He said of the fruitless tree,  It is hewn down. \n\nIt is believed by many that a certain magistrate, who lived in the time\nof Jesus, left this record:  His rebuke is fearful.  The strong language\nof our Master confirms this description.\n\nThe only civil sentence which He had for error was,  Get thee behind\nMe, Satan.  Still stronger evidence that Jesus' reproof was pointed and\npungent is in His own words--showing the necessity for such forcible\nutterance, when He cast out devils and healed the sick and sinful. The\nrelinquishment of error deprives material sense of its false claims.\n\nAudible prayer is impressive; it gives momentary solemnity and elevation\nto thought; but does it produce any lasting benefit? Looking deeply into\nthese things, we find that  a zeal... not according to knowledge,  gives\noccasion for reaction unfavorable to spiritual growth, sober resolve,\nand wholesome perception of God's requirements. The motives for verbal\nprayer may embrace too much love of applause to induce or encourage\nChristian sentiment.\n\nPhysical sensation, not Soul, produces material ecstasy, and emotions.\nIf spiritual sense always guided men at such times, there would grow out\nof those ecstatic moments a higher experience and a better life, with\nmore devout self-abnegation, and purity. A self-satisfied ventilation\nof fervent sentiments never makes a Christian. God is not influenced by\nman. The  divine ear  is not an auditorial nerve. It is the all-hearing\nand all-knowing Mind, to whom each want of man is always known, and by\nwhom it will be supplied.\n\nThe danger from audible prayer is, that it may lead us into temptation.\nBy it we may become involuntary hypocrites, uttering desires which\nare not real, and consoling ourselves in the midst of sin, with the\nrecollection that we have prayed over it--or mean to ask forgiveness at\nsome later day. Hypocrisy is fatal to religion.\n\nA wordy prayer may afford a quiet sense of self-justification, though it\nmakes the sinner a hypocrite. We never need despair of an honest heart,\nbut there is little hope for those who only come spasmodically face to\nface with their wickedness, and then seek to hide it. Their prayers are\nindexes which do not correspond with their character. They hold secret\nfellowship with sin; and such externals are spoken of by Jesus as  like\nunto whited sepulchres... full of all uncleanness. \n\nIf a man, though apparently fervent and prayerful, is impure, and\ntherefore insincere, what must be the comment upon him? If he had\nreached the loftiness of his prayer, there would be no occasion for such\ncomment. If we feel the aspiration, humility, gratitude, and love\nwhich our words express--this God accepts; and it is wise not to try to\ndeceive ourselves or others, for  there is nothing covered that shall\nnot be revealed.  Professions and audible prayers are like charity in\none respect--they  cover a multitude of sins.  Praying for humility,\nwith whatever fervency of expression, does not always mean a desire\nfor it. If we turn away from the poor, we are not ready to receive the\nreward of Him who blesses the poor. We confess to having a very wicked\nheart, and ask that it may be laid bare before us; but do we not already\nknow more of this heart than we are willing to have our neighbor see?\n\nWe ought to examine ourselves, and learn what is the affection and\npurpose of the heart; for this alone can show us what we honestly are.\nIf a friend informs us of a fault, do we listen to the rebuke patiently,\nand credit what is said? Do we not rather give thanks that we are  not\nas other men?  During many years the author has been most grateful for\nmerited rebuke. The sting lies in unmerited censure--in the falsehood\nwhich does no one any good.\n\nThe test of all prayer lies in the answer to these questions: Do we\nlove our neighbor better because of this asking? Do we pursue the old\nselfishness, satisfied with having prayed for something better,\nthough we give no evidence of the sincerity of our requests by living\nconsistently with our prayer? If selfishness has given place to\nkindness, we shall regard our neighbor unselfishly, and bless them that\ncurse us; but we shall never meet this great duty by simply asking that\nit may be done. There is a cross to be taken up, before we can enjoy the\nfruition of our hope and faith.\n\nDost thou  love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy\nsoul, and with all thy mind?  This command includes much--even the\nsurrender of all merely material sensation, affection, and worship. This\nis the El Dorado of Christianity. It involves the Science of Life,\nand recognizes only the divine control of Spirit, wherein Soul is our\nmaster, and material sense and human will have no place.\n\nAre you willing to leave all for Christ, for Truth, and so be counted\namong sinners? No! Do you really desire to attain this point? No! Then\nwhy make long prayers about it, and ask to be Christians, since you care\nnot to tread in the footsteps of our dear Master? If unwilling to follow\nHis example, wherefore pray with the lips that you may be partakers of\nHis nature? Consistent prayer is the desire to do right. Prayer means\nthat we desire to, and will, walk in the light so far as we receive it,\neven though with bleeding footsteps, and waiting patiently on the Lord,\nwill leave our real desires to be rewarded by Him.\n\nThe world must grow to the spiritual understanding of prayer. If good\nenough to profit by Jesus' cup of earthly sorrows, God will sustain us\nunder these sorrows. Until we are thus divinely qualified, and willing\nto drink His cup, millions of vain repetitions will never pour into\nprayer the unction of Spirit, in demonstration of power, and  with signs\nfollowing.  Christian Science reveals a necessity for overcoming the\nworld, the flesh and evil, and thus destroying all error.\n\nSeeking is not sufficient. It is striving which enables us to enter.\nSpiritual attainments open the door to a higher understanding of the\ndivine Life.\n\nOne of the forms of worship in Thibet is to carry a praying-machine\nthrough the streets, and stop at the doors to earn a penny by grinding\nout a prayer; whereas civilization pays for clerical prayers, in lofty\nedifices. Is the difference very great, after all?\n\nExperience teaches us that we do not always receive the blessings we ask\nfor in prayer.\n\nThere is some misapprehension of the source and means of all goodness\nand blessedness, or we should certainly receive what we ask for. The\nScriptures say:  Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, that ye\nmay consume it upon your lusts.  What we desire and ask for it is not\nalways best for us to receive. In this case infinite Love will not grant\nthe request. Do you ask Wisdom to be merciful and not punish sin? Then\n ye ask amiss.  Without punishment, sin would multiply. Jesus' prayer,\n forgive us our debts,  specified also the terms of forgiveness. When\nforgiving the adulterous woman He said,  Go, and sin no more. \n\nA magistrate sometimes remits the penalty, but this may be no moral\nbenefit to the criminal; and at best, it only saves him from one form\nof punishment. The moral law, which has the right to acquit or condemn,\nalways demands restitution, before mortals can  go up higher.  Broken\nlaw brings penalty, in order to compel this progress.\n\nMere legal pardon (and there is no other, for divine Principle never\npardons our sins or mistakes till they are corrected) leaves the\noffender free to repeat the offense; if, indeed, he has not already\nsuffered sufficiently from vice to make him turn from it with loathing.\nTruth bestows no pardon upon error, but wipes it out in the most\neffectual manner. Jesus suffered for our sins, not to annul the divine\nsentence against an individual's sin, but to show that sin must bring\ninevitable suffering.\n\nPetitions only bring to mortals the results of their own faith. We know\nthat a desire for holiness is requisite in order to gain it; but if we\ndesire holiness above all else, we shall sacrifice everything for it.\nWe must be willing to do this, that we may walk securely in the only\npractical road to holiness. Prayer alone cannot change the unalterable\nTruth, or give us an understanding of it; but prayer coupled with a\nfervent habitual desire to know and do the will of God will bring us\ninto all Truth. Such a desire has little need of audible expression. It\nis best expressed in thought and life.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX E\n\nReverend Heber Newton on Christian Science:\n\nTo begin, then, at the beginning, Christian Science accepts the work\nof healing sickness as an integral part of the discipleship of Jesus\nChrist. In Christ it finds, what the Church has always recognized,\ntheoretically, though it has practically ignored the fact--the Great\nPhysician. That Christ healed the sick, we none of us question. It\nstands plainly upon the record. This ministry of healing was too large\na part of His work to be left out from any picture of that life. Such\nservice was not an incident of His career--it was an essential\nelement of that career. It was an integral factor in His mission. The\nEvangelists leave us no possibility of confusion on this point. Co-equal\nwith his work of instruction and inspiration was His work of healing.\n\nThe records make it equally clear that the Master laid His charge upon\nHis disciples to do as He had done.  When He had called unto Him His\ntwelve disciples, He gave them power over unclean spirits, to cast them\nout, and to heal all manner of sickness and all manner of disease.  In\nsending them forth,  He commanded them, saying,... As ye go, preach,\nsaying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Heal the sick, cleanse the\nlepers, raise the dead, cast out demons. \n\nThat the twelve disciples undertook to do the Master's work of healing,\nand that they, in their measure, succeeded, seems beyond question. They\nfound in themselves the same power that the Master found in Himself,\nand they used it as He had used His power. The record of The Acts of the\nApostles, if at all trustworthy history, shows that they, too, healed\nthe sick.\n\nBeyond the circle of the original twelve, it is equally clear that the\nearly disciples believed themselves charged with the same mission, and\nthat they sought to fulfil it. The records of the early Church make it\nindisputable that powers of healing were recognized as among the gifts\nof the Spirit. St. Paul's letters render it certain that these gifts\nwere not a privilege of the original twelve, merely, but that they were\nthe heritage into which all the disciples entered.\n\nBeyond the era of the primitive Church, through several generations, the\nearly Christians felt themselves called to the same ministry of healing,\nand enabled with the same secret of power. Through wellnigh three\ncenturies, the gifts of healing appear to have been, more or less,\nrecognized and exercised in the Church. Through those generations,\nhowever, there was a gradual disuse of this power, following upon a\nfailing recognition of its possession. That which was originally the\nrule became the exception. By degrees, the sense of authority and power\nto heal passed out from the consciousness of the Church. It ceased to be\na sign of the indwelling Spirit. For fifteen centuries, the recognition\nof this authority and power has been altogether exceptional. Here and\nthere, through the history of these centuries, there have been those who\nhave entered into this belief of their own privilege and duty, and have\nused the gift which they recognized. The Church has never been left\nwithout a line of witnesses to this aspect of the discipleship of\nChrist. But she has come to accept it as the normal order of things that\nwhat was once the rule in the Christian Church should be now only\nthe exception. Orthodoxy has framed a theory of the words of Jesus to\naccount for this strange departure of His Church from them. It teaches\nus to believe that His example was not meant to be followed, in this\nrespect, by all His disciples. The power of healing which was in Him\nwas a purely exceptional power. It was used as an evidence of His divine\nmission. It was a miraculous gift. The gift of working miracles was not\nbestowed upon His Church at large. His original disciples, the twelve\napostles, received this gift, as a necessity of the critical epoch of\nChristianity--the founding of the Church. Traces of the power lingered\non, in weakening activity, until they gradually ceased, and the normal\ncondition of the Church was entered upon, in which miracles are no\nlonger possible.\n\n\nWe accept this, unconsciously, as the true state of things in\nChristianity. But it is a conception which will not bear a moment's\nexamination. There is not the slightest suggestion upon record that\nChrist set any limit to this charge which He gave His disciples. On the\ncontrary, there are not lacking hints that He looked for the possession\nand exercise of this power wherever His spirit breathed in men.\n\nEven if the concluding paragraph of St. Mark's Gospel were a later\nappendix, it may none the less have been a faithful echo of words of\nthe Master, as it certainly is a trustworthy record of the belief of the\nearly Christians as to the thought of Jesus concerning His followers.\nIn that interesting passage, Jesus, after His death, appeared to the\neleven, and formally commissioned them, again, to take up His work in\nthe world; bidding them,  Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel\nto every creature.   And these signs,  He tells them,  shall follow them\nthat believe --not the apostles only, but  them that believe,  without\nlimit of time;  in My name they shall cast out devils... they shall lay\nhands on the sick and they shall recover.  The concluding discourse to\nthe disciples, recorded in the Gospel according to St. John, affirms the\nsame expectation on the part of Jesus; emphasizing it in His solemn way:\n Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that believeth on Me, the works that\nI do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do. \n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX F\n\nFew will deny that an intelligence apart from man formed and governs the\nspiritual universe and man; and this intelligence is the eternal\nMind, and neither matter nor man created this intelligence and divine\nPrinciple; nor can this Principle produce aught unlike itself. All that\nwe term sin, sickness, and death is comprised in the belief of matter.\nThe realm of the real is spiritual; the opposite of Spirit is matter;\nand the opposite of the real is unreal or material. Matter is an error\nof statement, for there is no matter. This error of premises leads to\nerror of conclusion in every statement of matter as a basis. Nothing\nwe can say or believe regarding matter is true, except that matter is\nunreal, simply a belief that has its beginning and ending.\n\nThe conservative firm called matter and mind God never formed. The\nunerring and eternal Mind destroys this imaginary copartnership,\nformed only to be dissolved in a manner and at a period unknown. This\ncopartnership is obsolete. Placed under the microscope of metaphysics\nmatter disappears. Only by understanding there are not two, matter\nand mind, is a logical and correct conclusion obtained by either one.\nScience gathers not grapes of thorns or figs of thistles. Intelligence\nnever produced non-intelligence, such as matter: the immortal never\nproduced mortality, good never resulted in evil. The science of Mind\nshows conclusively that matter is a myth. Metaphysics are above physics,\nand drag not matter, or what is termed that, into one of its premises\nor conclusions. Metaphysics resolves things into thoughts, and exchanges\nthe objects of sense for the ideas of Soul. These ideas are perfectly\ntangible and real to consciousness, and they have this advantage--they\nare eternal. Mind and its thoughts comprise the whole of God, the\nuniverse, and of man. Reason and revelation coincide with this\nstatement, and support its proof every hour, for nothing is harmonious\nor eternal that is not spiritual: the realization of this will bring\nout objects from a higher source of thought; hence more beautiful and\nimmortal.\n\nThe fact of spiritualization produces results in striking contrast to\nthe farce of materialization: the one produces the results of chastity\nand purity, the other the downward tendencies and earthward gravitation\nof sensualism and impurity.\n\nThe exalting and healing effects of metaphysics show their fountain.\nNothing in pathology has exceeded the application of metaphysics.\nThrough mind alone we have prevented disease and preserved health. In\ncases of chronic and acute diseases, in their severest forms, we have\nchanged the secretions, renewed structure, and restored health; have\nelongated shortened limbs, relaxed rigid muscles, made cicatrized joints\nsupple; restored carious bones to healthy conditions, renewed that\nwhich is termed the lost substance of the lungs; and restored healthy\norganizations where disease was organic instead of functional.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. EDDY IN ERROR\n\nI feel almost sure that Mrs. Eddy's inspiration--works are getting out\nof repair. I think so because they made some errors in a statement which\nshe uttered through the press on the 17th of January. Not large ones,\nperhaps, still it is a friend's duty to straighten such things out and\nget them right when he can. Therefore I will put my other duties aside\nfor a moment and undertake this helpful service. She said as follows:\n\n In view of the circulation of certain criticisms from the pen of Mark\nTwain, I submit the following statement:\n\n It is a fact, well understood, that I begged the students who first\ngave me the endearing appellative 'mother' not to name me thus. But,\nwithout my consent, that word spread like wildfire. I still must think\nthe name is not applicable to me. I stand in relation to this century as\na Christian discoverer, founder, and leader. I regard self-deification\nas blasphemous; I may be more loved, but I am less lauded, pampered,\nprovided for, and cheered than others before me--and wherefore? Because\nChristian Science is not yet popular, and I refuse adulation.\n\n My visit to the Mother-Church after it was built and dedicated pleased\nme, and the situation was satisfactory. The dear members wanted to greet\nme with escort and the ringing of bells, but I declined, and went alone\nin my carriage to the church, entered it, and knelt in thanks upon the\nsteps of its altar. There the foresplendor of the beginnings of truth\nfell mysteriously upon my spirit. I believe in one Christ, teach one\nChrist, know of but one Christ. I believe in but one incarnation, one\nMother Mary, and know I am not that one, and never claimed to be. It\nsuffices me to learn the Science of the Scriptures relative to this\nsubject.\n\n Christian Scientists have no quarrel with Protestants, Catholics,\nor any other sect. They need to be understood as following the divine\nPrinciple God, Love and not imagined to be unscientific worshippers of a\nhuman being.\n\n In the aforesaid article, of which I have seen only extracts, Mark\nTwain's wit was not wasted In certain directions. Christian Science\neschews divine rights in human beings. If the individual governed human\nconsciousness, my statement of Christian Science would be disproved, but\nto understand the spiritual idea is essential to demonstrate Science\nand its pure monotheism--one God, one Christ, no idolatry, no human\npropaganda. Jesus taught and proved that what feeds a few feeds all. His\nlife-work subordinated the material to the spiritual, and He left\nthis legacy of truth to mankind. His metaphysics is not the sport of\nphilosophy, religion, or Science; rather it is the pith and finale of\nthem all.\n\n I have not the inspiration or aspiration to be a first or second\nVirgin-Mother--her duplicate, antecedent, or subsequent. What I am\nremains to be proved by the good I do. We need much humility, wisdom,\nand love to perform the functions of foreshadowing and foretasting\nheaven within us. This glory is molten in the furnace of affliction. \n\nShe still thinks the name of Our Mother not applicable to her; and she\nis also able to remember that it distressed her when it was conferred\nupon her, and that she begged to have it suppressed. Her memory is at\nfault here. If she will take her By-laws, and refer to Section 1 of\nArticle XXII., written with her own hand--she will find that she has\nreserved that title to herself, and is so pleased with it, and so--may\nwe say jealous?--about it, that she threatens with excommunication any\nsister Scientist who shall call herself by it. This is that Section 1:\n\n The Title of Mother. In the year 1895 loyal Christian Scientists\nhad given to the author of their text-book, the Founder of Christian\nScience, the individual, endearing term of Mother. Therefore, if a\nstudent of Christian Science shall apply this title, either to herself\nor to others, except as the term for kinship according to the flesh, it\nshall be regarded by the Church as an indication of disrespect for their\nPastor Emeritus, and unfitness to be a member of the Mother-Church. \n\nMrs. Eddy is herself the Mother-Church--its powers and authorities are\nin her possession solely--and she can abolish that title whenever it may\nplease her to do so. She has only to command her people, wherever they\nmay be in the earth, to use it no more, and it will never be uttered\nagain. She is aware of this.\n\nIt may be that she  refuses adulation  when she is not awake, but when\nshe is awake she encourages it and propagates it in that museum called\n Our Mother's Room,  in her Church in Boston. She could abolish that\ninstitution with a word, if she wanted to. She is aware of that. I will\nsay a further word about the museum presently.\n\nFurther down the column, her memory is unfaithful again:\n\n I believe in... but one Mother Mary, and know I am not that one, and\nnever claimed to be. \n\nAt a session of the National Christian Science Association, held in the\ncity of New York on the 27th of May, 1890, the secretary was  instructed\nto send to our Mother greetings and words of affection from her\nassembled children. \n\nHer telegraphic response was read to the Association at next day's\nmeeting:\n\n All hail! He hath filled the hungry with good things and the sick hath\nHe not sent empty away.--MOTHER MARY. \n\nWhich Mother Mary is this one? Are there two? If so, she is both\nof them; for, when she signed this telegram in this satisfied and\nunprotesting way, the Mother-title which she was going to so strenuously\nobject to, and put from her with humility, and seize with both hands,\nand reserve as her sole property, and protect her monopoly of it with\na stern By-law, while recognizing with diffidence that it was  not\napplicable  to her (then and to-day)--that Mother--title was not yet\nborn, and would not be offered to her until five years later. The date\nof the above  Mother Mary  is 1890; the  individual, endearing title of\nMother  was given her  in 1895 --according to her own testimony. See her\nBy-law quoted above.\n\nIn his opening Address to that Convention of 1890, the President\nrecognized this Mary--our Mary-and abolished all previous ones. He said:\n\n There is but one Moses, one Jesus; and there is but one Mary. \n\nThe confusions being now dispersed, we have this clarified result:\n\nThere had been a Moses at one time, and only one; there had been a Jesus\nat one time, and only one; there is a Mary and  only one.  She is not a\nHas Been, she is an Is--the  Author of Science and Health; and we cannot\nignore her. \n\n1. In 1890, there was but one Mother Mary. The President said so. 2.\nMrs. Eddy was that one. She said so, in signing the telegram. 3. Mrs.\nEddy was not that one for she says so, in her Associated Press utterance\nof January 17th. 4. And has  never claimed to be that one --unless the\nsignature to the telegram is a claim.\n\nThus it stands proven and established that she is that Mary and isn't,\nand thought she was and knows she wasn't. That much is clear.\n\nShe is also  The Mother,  by the election of 1895, and did not want the\ntitle, and thinks it is not applicable to her, and will excommunicate\nany one that tries to take it away from her. So that is clear.\n\nI think that the only really troublesome confusion connected with these\nparticular matters has arisen from the name Mary. Much vexation, much\nmisunderstanding, could have been avoided if Mrs. Eddy had used some of\nher other names in place of that one.  Mother Mary  was certain to stir\nup discussion. It would have been much better if she had signed\nthe telegram  Mother Baker ; then there would have been no Biblical\ncompetition, and, of course, that is a thing to avoid. But it is not too\nlate, yet.\n\nI wish to break in here with a parenthesis, and then take up this\nexamination of Mrs. Eddy's Claim of January 17th again.\n\nThe history of her  Mother Mary  telegram--as told to me by one who\nought to be a very good authority--is curious and interesting. The\ntelegram ostensibly quotes verse 53 from the  Magnificat,  but really\nmakes some pretty formidable changes in it. This is St. Luke's version:\n\n He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He hath sent\nempty away. \n\nThis is  Mother Mary's  telegraphed version:\n\n He hath filled the hungry with good things, and the sick hath He not\nsent empty away. \n\nTo judge by the Official Report, the bursting of this bombshell in that\nmassed convention of trained Christians created no astonishment, since\nit caused no remark, and the business of the convention went tranquilly\non, thereafter, as if nothing had happened.\n\nDid those people detect those changes? We cannot know. I think they must\nhave noticed them, the wording of St. Luke's verse being as familiar to\nall Christians as is the wording of the Beatitudes; and I think that the\nreason the new version provoked no surprise and no comment was, that the\nassemblage took it for a  Key --a spiritualized explanation of verse 53,\nnewly sent down from heaven through Mrs. Eddy. For all Scientists study\ntheir Bibles diligently, and they know their Magnificat. I believe that\ntheir confidence in the authenticity of Mrs. Eddy's inspirations is so\nlimitless and so firmly established that no change, however violent,\nwhich she might make in a Bible text could disturb their composure or\nprovoke from them a protest.\n\nHer improved rendition of verse 53 went into the convention's report and\nappeared in a New York paper the next day. The (at that time) Scientist\nwhom I mentioned a minute ago, and who had not been present at the\nconvention, saw it and marvelled; marvelled and was indignant--indignant\nwith the printer or the telegrapher, for making so careless and so\ndreadful an error. And greatly distressed, too; for, of course, the\nnewspaper people would fall foul of it, and be sarcastic, and make fun\nof it, and have a blithe time over it, and be properly thankful for the\nchance. It shows how innocent he was; it shows that he did not know the\nlimitations of newspaper men in the matter of Biblical knowledge. The\nnew verse 53 raised no insurrection in the press; in fact, it was not\neven remarked upon; I could have told him the boys would not know there\nwas anything the matter with it. I have been a newspaper man myself, and\nin those days I had my limitations like the others.\n\nThe Scientist hastened to Concord and told Mrs. Eddy what a disastrous\nmistake had been made, but he found to his bewilderment that she was\ntranquil about it, and was not proposing to correct it. He was not able\nto get her to promise to make a correction. He asked her secretary if\nhe had heard aright when the telegram was dictated to him; the secretary\nsaid he had, and took the filed copy of it and verified its authenticity\nby comparing it with the stenographic notes.\n\nMrs. Eddy did make the correction, two months later, in her official\norgan. It attracted no attention among the Scientists; and, naturally,\nnone elsewhere, for that periodical's circulation was practically\nconfined to disciples of the cult.\n\nThat is the tale as it was told to me by an ex-Scientist. Verse\n53--renovated and spiritualized--had a narrow escape from a tremendous\ncelebrity. The newspaper men would have made it as famous as the\nassassination of Caesar, but for their limitations.\n\nTo return to the Claim. I find myself greatly embarrassed by Mrs. Eddy's\nremark:  I regard self-deification as blasphemous.  If she is right\nabout that, I have written a half-ream of manuscript this past week\nwhich I must not print, either in the book which I am writing, or\nelsewhere: for it goes into that very matter with extensive elaboration,\nciting, in detail, words and acts of Mrs. Eddy's which seem to me to\nprove that she is a faithful and untiring worshipper of herself, and has\ncarried self-deification to a length which has not been before ventured\nin ages. If ever. There is not room enough in this chapter for that\nSurvey, but I can epitomize a portion of it here.\n\nWith her own untaught and untrained mind, and without outside help,\nshe has erected upon a firm and lasting foundation the most minutely\nperfect, and wonderful, and smoothly and exactly working, and best\nsafe-guarded system of government that has yet been devised in the\nworld, as I believe, and as I am sure I could prove if I had room for my\ndocumentary evidences here.\n\nIt is a despotism (on this democratic soil); a sovereignty more absolute\nthan the Roman Papacy, more absolute than the Russian Czarship; it has\nnot a single power, not a shred of authority, legislative or executive,\nwhich is not lodged solely in the sovereign; all its dreams, its\nfunctions, its energies, have a single object, a single reason for\nexisting, and only the one--to build to the sky the glory of the\nsovereign, and keep it bright to the end of time.\n\nMrs. Eddy is the sovereign; she devised that great place for herself,\nshe occupies that throne.\n\nIn 1895, she wrote a little primer, a little body of autocratic laws,\ncalled the Manual of The First Church of Christ, Scientist, and put\nthose laws in force, in permanence. Her government is all there; all\nin that deceptively innocent-looking little book, that cunning little\ndevilish book, that slumbering little brown volcano, with hell in its\nbowels. In that book she has planned out her system, and classified and\ndefined its purposes and powers.\n\n\n\n\nMAIN PARTS OF THE MACHINE\n\nA Supreme Church. At Boston. Branch Churches. All over the world One\nPastor for the whole of them: to wit, her book, Science and Health. Term\nof the book's office--forever.\n\nIn every C.S. pulpit, two  Readers,  a man and a woman. No talkers,\nno preachers, in any Church-readers only. Readers of the Bible and her\nbooks--no others. No commentators allowed to write or print.\n\nA Church Service. She has framed it--for all the C.S. Churches--selected\nits readings, its prayers, and the hymns to be used, and has appointed\nthe order of procedure. No changes permitted.\n\nA Creed. She wrote it. All C.S. Churches must subscribe to it. No other\npermitted.\n\nA Treasury. At Boston. She carries the key.\n\nA C.S. Book--Publishing House. For books approved by her. No others\npermitted.\n\nJournals and Magazines. These are organs of hers, and are controlled by\nher.\n\nA College. For teaching C.S.\n\n\n\n\nDISTRIBUTION OF THE MACHINE'S POWERS AND DIGNITIES\n\nSupreme Church. Pastor Emeritus--Mrs. Eddy. Board of Directors. Board\nof Education. Board of Finance. College Faculty. Various Committees.\nTreasurer. Clerk. First Members (of the Supreme Church). Members of the\nSupreme Church.\n\nIt looks fair, it looks real, but it is all a fiction.\n\nEven the little  Pastor Emeritus  is a fiction. Instead of being merely\nan honorary and ornamental official, Mrs. Eddy is the only official in\nthe entire body that has the slightest power. In her Manual, she has\nprovided a prodigality of ways and forms whereby she can rid herself of\nany functionary in the government whenever she wants to. The officials\nare all shadows, save herself; she is the only reality. She allows no\none to hold office more than a year--no one gets a chance to become\nover-popular or over-useful, and dangerous.  Excommunication  is the\nfavorite penalty-it is threatened at every turn. It is evidently the pet\ndread and terror of the Church's membership.\n\nThe member who thinks, without getting his thought from Mrs. Eddy before\nuttering it, is banished permanently. One or two kinds of sinners can\nplead their way back into the fold, but this one, never. To think--in\nthe Supreme Church--is the New Unpardonable Sin.\n\nTo nearly every severe and fierce rule, Mrs. Eddy adds this rivet:  This\nBy-law shall not be changed without the consent of the Pastor Emeritus. \n\nMrs. Eddy is the entire Supreme Church, in her own person, in the matter\nof powers and authorities.\n\nAlthough she has provided so many ways of getting rid of unsatisfactory\nmembers and officials, she was still afraid she might have left a\nlife-preserver lying around somewhere, therefore she devised a rule to\ncover that defect. By applying it, she can excommunicate (and this is\nperpetual again) every functionary connected with the Supreme Church,\nand every one of the twenty-five thousand members of that Church, at an\nhour's notice--and do it all by herself without anybody's help.\n\nBy authority of this astonishing By-law, she has only to say a\nperson connected with that Church is secretly practicing hypnotism or\nmesmerism; whereupon, immediate excommunication, without a hearing,\nis his portion! She does not have to order a trial and produce\nevidence--her accusation is all that is necessary.\n\nWhere is the Pope? and where the Czar? As the ballad says:\n\n      Ask of the winds that far away\n     With fragments strewed the sea! \n\nThe Branch Church's pulpit is occupied by two  Readers.  Without them\nthe Branch Church is as dead as if its throat had been cut. To have\ncontrol, then, of the Readers, is to have control of the Branch\nChurches. Mrs. Eddy has that control--a control wholly without limit, a\ncontrol shared with no one.\n\n1. No Reader can be appointed to any Church in the Christian Science\nworld without her express approval.\n\n2. She can summarily expel from his or her place any Reader, at home or\nabroad, by a mere letter of dismissal, over her signature, and without\nfurnishing any reason for it, to either the congregation or the Reader.\n\nThus she has as absolute control over all Branch Churches as she has\nover the Supreme Church. This power exceeds the Pope's.\n\nIn simple truth, she is the only absolute sovereign in all Christendom.\nThe authority of the other sovereigns has limits, hers has none, none\nwhatever. And her yoke does not fret, does not offend. Many of the\nsubjects of the other monarchs feel their yoke, and are restive under\nit; their loyalty is insincere. It is not so with this one's human\nproperty; their loyalty is genuine, earnest, sincere, enthusiastic.\nThe sentiment which they feel for her is one which goes out in sheer\nperfection to no other occupant of a throne; for it is love, pure from\ndoubt, envy, exaction, fault-seeking, a love whose sun has no\nspot--that form of love, strong, great, uplifting, limitless, whose vast\nproportions are compassable by no word but one, the prodigious word,\nWorship. And it is not as a human being that her subjects worship her,\nbut as a supernatural one, a divine one, one who has comradeship with\nGod, and speaks by His voice.\n\nMrs. Eddy has herself created all these personal grandeurs and\nautocracies--with others which I have not (in this article) mentioned.\nThey place her upon an Alpine solitude and supremacy of power and\nspectacular show not hitherto attained by any other self-seeking\nenslaver disguised in the Christian name, and they persuade me that,\nalthough she may regard  self-deification as blasphemous,  she is as\nfond of it as I am of pie.\n\nShe knows about  Our Mother's Room  in the Supreme Church in\nBoston--above referred to--for she has been in it. In a recently\npublished North American Review article, I quoted a lady as saying Mrs.\nEddy's portrait could be seen there in a shrine, lit by always-burning\nlights, and that C.S. disciples came and worshiped it. That remark hurt\nthe feelings of more than one Scientist. They said it was not true, and\nasked me to correct it. I comply with pleasure. Whether the portrait was\nthere four years ago or not, it is not there now, for I have\ninquired. The only object in the shrine now, and lit by electrics--and\nworshiped--is an oil-portrait of the horse-hair chair Mrs. Eddy used\nto sit in when she was writing Science and Health! It seems to me that\nadulation has struck bottom, here.\n\nMrs. Eddy knows about that. She has been there, she has seen it, she has\nseen the worshippers. She could abolish that sarcasm with a word. She\nwithholds the word. Once more I seem to recognize in her exactly the\nsame appetite for self-deification that I have for pie. We seem to be\ncuriously alike; for the love of self-deification is really only the\nspiritual form of the material appetite for pie, and nothing could be\nmore strikingly Christian-Scientifically  harmonious. \n\nI note this phrase:\n\n Christian Science eschews divine rights in human beings. \n\n Rights  is vague; I do not know what it means there. Mrs. Eddy is not\nwell acquainted with the English language, and she is seldom able to say\nin it what she is trying to say. She has no ear for the exact word, and\ndoes not often get it.  Rights.  Does it mean  honors?   attributes? \n\n Eschews.  This is another umbrella where there should be a torch; it\ndoes not illumine the sentence, it only deepens the shadows. Does she\nmean  denies?   refuses?   forbids?  or something in that line? Does she\nmean:\n\n Christian Science denies divine honors to human beings?  Or:\n\n Christian Science refuses to recognize divine attributes in human\nbeings?  Or:\n\n Christian Science forbids the worship of human beings? \n\nThe bulk of the succeeding sentence is to me a tunnel, but, when I\nemerge at this end of it, I seem to come into daylight. Then I seem to\nunderstand both sentences--with this result:\n\n Christian Science recognizes but one God, forbids the worship of human\nbeings, and refuses to recognize the possession of divine attributes by\nany member of the race. \n\nI am subject to correction, but I think that that is about what Mrs.\nEddy was intending to convey. Has her English--which is always difficult\nto me--beguiled me into misunderstanding the following remark, which she\nmakes (calling herself  we,  after an old regal fashion of hers) in her\npreface to her Miscellaneous Writings?\n\n While we entertain decided views as to the best method for elevating\nthe race physically, morally, and spiritually, and shall express these\nviews as duty demands, we shall claim no especial gift from our divine\norgan, no supernatural power. \n\nWas she meaning to say:\n\n Although I am of divine origin and gifted with supernatural power, I\nshall not draw upon these resources in determining the best method of\nelevating the race? \n\nIf she had left out the word  our,  she might then seem to say:\n\n I claim no especial or unusual degree of divine origin-- \n\nWhich is awkward--most awkward; for one either has a divine origin or\nhasn't; shares in it, degrees of it, are surely impossible. The idea of\ncrossed breeds in cattle is a thing we can entertain, for we are used to\nit, and it is possible; but the idea of a divine mongrel is unthinkable.\n\nWell, then, what does she mean? I am sure I do not know, for certain. It\nis the word  our  that makes all the trouble. With the  our  in, she is\nplainly saying  my divine origin.  The word  from  seems to be intended\nto mean  on account of.  It has to mean that or nothing, if  our  is\nallowed to stay. The clause then says:\n\n I shall claim no especial gift on account of my divine origin. \n\nAnd I think that the full sentence was intended to mean what I have\nalready suggested:\n\n Although I am of divine origin, and gifted with supernatural power, I\nshall not draw upon these resources in determining the best method of\nelevating the race. \n\nWhen Mrs. Eddy copyrighted that Preface seven years ago, she had long\nbeen used to regarding herself as a divine personage. I quote from Mr.\nF. W. Peabody's book:\n\n In the Christian Science Journal for April, 1889, when it was her\nproperty, and published by her, it was claimed for her, and with her\nsanction, that she was equal with Jesus, and elaborate effort was made\nto establish the claim. \n\n Mrs. Eddy has distinctly authorized the claim in her behalf, that she\nherself was the chosen successor to and equal of Jesus. \n\nThe following remark in that April number, quoted by Mr. Peabody,\nindicates that her claim had been previously made, and had excited\n horror  among some  good people :\n\n Now, a word about the horror many good people have of our making the\nAuthor of Science and Health 'equal with Jesus.' \n\nSurely, if it had excited horror in Mrs. Eddy also, she would have\npublished a disclaimer. She owned the paper; she could say what she\npleased in its columns. Instead of rebuking her editor, she lets him\nrebuke those  good people  for objecting to the claim.\n\nThese things seem to throw light upon those words,  our [my] divine\norigin. \n\nIt may be that  Christian Science eschews divine rights in human\nbeings,  and forbids worship of any but  one God, one Christ ; but, if\nthat is the case, it looks as if Mrs. Eddy is a very unsound Christian\nScientist, and needs disciplining. I believe she has a serious\nmalady-- self-deification ; and that it will be well to have one of the\nexperts demonstrate over it.\n\nMeantime, let her go on living--for my sake. Closely examined,\npainstakingly studied, she is easily the most interesting person on the\nplanet, and, in several ways, as easily the most extraordinary woman\nthat was ever born upon it.\n\n\nP.S.--Since I wrote the foregoing, Mr. McCrackan's article appeared\n(in the March number of the North American Review). Before his article\nappeared--that is to say, during December, January, and February--I had\nwritten a new book, a character-portrait of Mrs. Eddy, drawn from her\nown acts and words, and it was then--together with the three brief\narticles previously published in the North American Review--ready to\nbe delivered to the printer for issue in book form. In that book, by\naccident and good luck, I have answered the objections made by Mr.\nMcCrackan to my views, and therefore do not need to add an answer here.\nAlso, in it I have corrected certain misstatements of mine which he has\nnoticed, and several others which he has not referred to. There are\none or two important matters of opinion upon which he and I are not\nin disagreement; but there are others upon which we must continue to\ndisagree, I suppose; indeed, I know we must; for instance, he believes\nMrs. Eddy wrote Science and Health, whereas I am quite sure I can\nconvince a person unhampered by predilections that she did not.\n\nAs concerns one considerable matter I hope to convert him. He believes\nMrs. Eddy's word; in his article he cites her as a witness, and takes\nher testimony at par; but if he will make an excursion through my book\nwhen it comes out, and will dispassionately examine her testimonies as\nthere accumulated, I think he will in candor concede that she is by a\nlarge percentage the most erratic and contradictory and untrustworthy\nwitness that has occupied the stand since the days of the lamented\nAnanias.\n\n\n\n\nCONCLUSION\n\nBroadly speaking, the hostiles reject and repudiate all the pretensions\nof Christian Science Christianity. They affirm that it has added nothing\nnew to Christianity; that it can do nothing that Christianity could not\ndo and was not doing before Christian Science was born.\n\nIn that case is there no field for the new Christianity, no opportunity\nfor usefulness, precious usefulness, great and distinguished usefulness?\nI think there is. I am far from being confident that it can fill it,\nbut I will indicate that unoccupied field--without charge--and if it can\nconquer it, it will deserve the praise and gratitude of the Christian\nworld, and will get it, I am sure.\n\nThe present Christianity makes an excellent private Christian, but its\nendeavors to make an excellent public one go for nothing, substantially.\n\nThis is an honest nation--in private life. The American Christian is a\nstraight and clean and honest man, and in his private commerce with his\nfellows can be trusted to stand faithfully by the principles of honor\nand honesty imposed upon him by his religion. But the moment he comes\nforward to exercise a public trust he can be confidently counted upon\nto betray that trust in nine cases out of ten, if  party loyalty  shall\nrequire it.\n\nIf there are two tickets in the field in his city, one composed of\nhonest men and the other of notorious blatherskites and criminals, he\nwill not hesitate to lay his private Christian honor aside and vote for\nthe blatherskites if his  party honor  shall exact it. His Christianity\nis of no use to him and has no influence upon him when he is acting in\na public capacity. He has sound and sturdy private morals, but he has no\npublic ones. In the last great municipal election in New York, almost\na complete one-half of the votes representing 3,500,000 Christians were\ncast for a ticket that had hardly a man on it whose earned and proper\nplace was outside of a jail. But that vote was present at church next\nSunday the same as ever, and as unconscious of its perfidy as if nothing\nhad happened.\n\nOur Congresses consist of Christians. In their private life they are\ntrue to every obligation of honor; yet in every session they violate\nthem all, and do it without shame; because honor to party is above honor\nto themselves. It is an accepted law of public life that in it a man\nmay soil his honor in the interest of party expediency--must do it when\nparty expediency requires it. In private life those men would bitterly\nresent--and justly--any insinuation that it would not be safe to leave\nunwatched money within their reach; yet you could not wound their\nfeelings by reminding them that every time they vote ten dollars to the\npension appropriation nine of it is stolen money and they the marauders.\nThey have filched the money to take care of the party; they believe it\nwas right to do it; they do not see how their private honor is affected;\ntherefore their consciences are clear and at rest. By vote they do\nwrongful things every day, in the party interest, which they could not\nbe persuaded to do in private life. In the interest of party expediency\nthey give solemn pledges, they make solemn compacts; in the interest\nof party expediency they repudiate them without a blush. They would not\ndream of committing these strange crimes in private life.\n\nNow then, can Christian Science introduce the Congressional Blush? There\nare Christian Private Morals, but there are no Christian Public Morals,\nat the polls, or in Congress or anywhere else--except here and there\nand scattered around like lost comets in the solar system. Can Christian\nScience persuade the nation and Congress to throw away their public\nmorals and use none but their private ones henceforth in all their\nactivities, both public and private?\n\nI do not think so; but no matter about me: there is the field--a grand\none, a splendid one, a sublime one, and absolutely unoccupied. Has\nChristian Science confidence enough in itself to undertake to enter in\nand try to possess it?\n\nMake the effort, Christian Science; it is a most noble cause, and it\nmight succeed. It could succeed. Then we should have a new literature,\nwith romances entitled, How To Be an Honest Congressman Though a\nChristian; How To Be a Creditable Citizen Though a Christian."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Secret Adversary",
        "author": "Agatha Christie",
        "category": "Mystery",
        "EN": "Chapter I.\n\n\nMy father s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my\ninfant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit\nthan Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.\n\nI give Pirrip as my father s family name, on the authority of his\ntombstone and my sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith.\nAs I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of\neither of them (for their days were long before the days of\nphotographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like were\nunreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on\nmy father s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man,\nwith curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription,\n _Also Georgiana Wife of the Above_,  I drew a childish conclusion that\nmy mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each\nabout a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside\ntheir grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of\nmine, who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that\nuniversal struggle, I am indebted for a belief I religiously\nentertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands\nin their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state\nof existence.\n\nOurs was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river\nwound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad\nimpression of the identity of things seems to me to have been gained on\na memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out\nfor certain that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the\nchurchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also\nGeorgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander,\nBartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the\naforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness\nbeyond the churchyard, intersected with dikes and mounds and gates,\nwith scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low\nleaden line beyond was the river; and that the distant savage lair from\nwhich the wind was rushing was the sea; and that the small bundle of\nshivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.\n\n Hold your noise!  cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from\namong the graves at the side of the church porch.  Keep still, you\nlittle devil, or I ll cut your throat! \n\nA fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A man\nwith no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his\nhead. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and\nlamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by\nbriars; who limped, and shivered, and glared, and growled; and whose\nteeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.\n\n Oh! Don t cut my throat, sir,  I pleaded in terror.  Pray don t do it,\nsir. \n\n Tell us your name!  said the man.  Quick! \n\n Pip, sir. \n\n Once more,  said the man, staring at me.  Give it mouth! \n\n Pip. Pip, sir. \n\n Show us where you live,  said the man.  Pint out the place! \n\nI pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the\nalder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.\n\nThe man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and\nemptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread.\nWhen the church came to itself, for he was so sudden and strong that he\nmade it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my\nfeet, when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high\ntombstone, trembling while he ate the bread ravenously.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n You young dog,  said the man, licking his lips,  what fat cheeks you\nha  got. \n\nI believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my\nyears, and not strong.\n\n Darn me if I couldn t eat  em,  said the man, with a threatening shake\nof his head,  and if I han t half a mind to t! \n\nI earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn t, and held tighter to the\ntombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it;\npartly, to keep myself from crying.\n\n Now lookee here!  said the man.  Where s your mother? \n\n There, sir!  said I.\n\nHe started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.\n\n There, sir!  I timidly explained.  Also Georgiana. That s my mother. \n\n Oh!  said he, coming back.  And is that your father alonger your\nmother? \n\n Yes, sir,  said I;  him too; late of this parish. \n\n Ha!  he muttered then, considering.  Who d ye live with, supposin \nyou re kindly let to live, which I han t made up my mind about? \n\n My sister, sir, Mrs. Joe Gargery, wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith,\nsir. \n\n Blacksmith, eh?  said he. And looked down at his leg.\n\nAfter darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to\nmy tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he\ncould hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine,\nand mine looked most helplessly up into his.\n\n Now lookee here,  he said,  the question being whether you re to be\nlet to live. You know what a file is? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n And you know what wittles is? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\nAfter each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a\ngreater sense of helplessness and danger.\n\n You get me a file.  He tilted me again.  And you get me wittles.  He\ntilted me again.  You bring  em both to me.  He tilted me again.  Or\nI ll have your heart and liver out.  He tilted me again.\n\nI was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both\nhands, and said,  If you would kindly please to let me keep upright,\nsir, perhaps I shouldn t be sick, and perhaps I could attend more. \n\nHe gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped\nover its own weathercock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright\nposition on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms: \n\n You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You\nbring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and\nyou never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your\nhaving seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall\nbe let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no\nmatter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be tore\nout, roasted, and ate. Now, I ain t alone, as you may think I am.\nThere s a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man I\nam a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man has\na secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his\nheart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide\nhimself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in\nbed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think\nhimself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and\ncreep his way to him and tear him open. I am a keeping that young man\nfrom harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. I\nfind it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, what\ndo you say? \n\nI said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken\nbits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in\nthe morning.\n\n Say Lord strike you dead if you don t!  said the man.\n\nI said so, and he took me down.\n\n Now,  he pursued,  you remember what you ve undertook, and you\nremember that young man, and you get home! \n\n Goo-good night, sir,  I faltered.\n\n Much of that!  said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat.  I\nwish I was a frog. Or a eel! \n\nAt the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both his\narms, clasping himself, as if to hold himself together, and limped\ntowards the low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among the\nnettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he looked\nin my young eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people,\nstretching up cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his\nankle and pull him in.\n\nWhen he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose\nlegs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. When\nI saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use of\nmy legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going on\nagain towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms, and\npicking his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into\nthe marshes here and there, for stepping-places when the rains were\nheavy or the tide was in.\n\nThe marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stopped\nto look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, not\nnearly so broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of long\nangry red lines and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of the\nriver I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the\nprospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was the\nbeacon by which the sailors steered, like an unhooped cask upon a\npole, an ugly thing when you were near it; the other, a gibbet, with\nsome chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man was\nlimping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life,\nand come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me a\nterrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting their\nheads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I\nlooked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of\nhim. But now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II.\n\n\nMy sister, Mrs. Joe Gargery, was more than twenty years older than I,\nand had established a great reputation with herself and the neighbours\nbecause she had brought me up  by hand.  Having at that time to find\nout for myself what the expression meant, and knowing her to have a\nhard and heavy hand, and to be much in the habit of laying it upon her\nhusband as well as upon me, I supposed that Joe Gargery and I were both\nbrought up by hand.\n\nShe was not a good-looking woman, my sister; and I had a general\nimpression that she must have made Joe Gargery marry her by hand. Joe\nwas a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth\nface, and with eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to\nhave somehow got mixed with their own whites. He was a mild,\ngood-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish, dear fellow, a sort\nof Hercules in strength, and also in weakness.\n\nMy sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing\nredness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether it was possible\nshe washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap. She was tall\nand bony, and almost always wore a coarse apron, fastened over her\nfigure behind with two loops, and having a square impregnable bib in\nfront, that was stuck full of pins and needles. She made it a powerful\nmerit in herself, and a strong reproach against Joe, that she wore this\napron so much. Though I really see no reason why she should have worn\nit at all; or why, if she did wear it at all, she should not have taken\nit off, every day of her life.\n\nJoe s forge adjoined our house, which was a wooden house, as many of\nthe dwellings in our country were, most of them, at that time. When I\nran home from the churchyard, the forge was shut up, and Joe was\nsitting alone in the kitchen. Joe and I being fellow-sufferers, and\nhaving confidences as such, Joe imparted a confidence to me, the moment\nI raised the latch of the door and peeped in at him opposite to it,\nsitting in the chimney corner.\n\n Mrs. Joe has been out a dozen times, looking for you, Pip. And she s\nout now, making it a baker s dozen. \n\n Is she? \n\n Yes, Pip,  said Joe;  and what s worse, she s got Tickler with her. \n\nAt this dismal intelligence, I twisted the only button on my waistcoat\nround and round, and looked in great depression at the fire. Tickler\nwas a wax-ended piece of cane, worn smooth by collision with my tickled\nframe.\n\n She sot down,  said Joe,  and she got up, and she made a grab at\nTickler, and she Ram-paged out. That s what she did,  said Joe, slowly\nclearing the fire between the lower bars with the poker, and looking at\nit;  she Ram-paged out, Pip. \n\n Has she been gone long, Joe?  I always treated him as a larger species\nof child, and as no more than my equal.\n\n Well,  said Joe, glancing up at the Dutch clock,  she s been on the\nRam-page, this last spell, about five minutes, Pip. She s a-coming! Get\nbehind the door, old chap, and have the jack-towel betwixt you. \n\nI took the advice. My sister, Mrs. Joe, throwing the door wide open,\nand finding an obstruction behind it, immediately divined the cause,\nand applied Tickler to its further investigation. She concluded by\nthrowing me I often served as a connubial missile at Joe, who, glad to\nget hold of me on any terms, passed me on into the chimney and quietly\nfenced me up there with his great leg.\n\n Where have you been, you young monkey?  said Mrs. Joe, stamping her\nfoot.  Tell me directly what you ve been doing to wear me away with\nfret and fright and worrit, or I d have you out of that corner if you\nwas fifty Pips, and he was five hundred Gargerys. \n\n I have only been to the churchyard,  said I, from my stool, crying and\nrubbing myself.\n\n Churchyard!  repeated my sister.  If it warn t for me you d have been\nto the churchyard long ago, and stayed there. Who brought you up by\nhand? \n\n You did,  said I.\n\n And why did I do it, I should like to know?  exclaimed my sister.\n\nI whimpered,  I don t know. \n\n _I_ don t!  said my sister.  I d never do it again! I know that. I may\ntruly say I ve never had this apron of mine off since born you were.\nIt s bad enough to be a blacksmith s wife (and him a Gargery) without\nbeing your mother. \n\nMy thoughts strayed from that question as I looked disconsolately at\nthe fire. For the fugitive out on the marshes with the ironed leg, the\nmysterious young man, the file, the food, and the dreadful pledge I was\nunder to commit a larceny on those sheltering premises, rose before me\nin the avenging coals.\n\n Hah!  said Mrs. Joe, restoring Tickler to his station.  Churchyard,\nindeed! You may well say churchyard, you two.  One of us, by the by,\nhad not said it at all.  You ll drive _me_ to the churchyard betwixt\nyou, one of these days, and O, a pr-r-recious pair you d be without\nme! \n\nAs she applied herself to set the tea-things, Joe peeped down at me\nover his leg, as if he were mentally casting me and himself up, and\ncalculating what kind of pair we practically should make, under the\ngrievous circumstances foreshadowed. After that, he sat feeling his\nright-side flaxen curls and whisker, and following Mrs. Joe about with\nhis blue eyes, as his manner always was at squally times.\n\nMy sister had a trenchant way of cutting our bread and butter for us,\nthat never varied. First, with her left hand she jammed the loaf hard\nand fast against her bib, where it sometimes got a pin into it, and\nsometimes a needle, which we afterwards got into our mouths. Then she\ntook some butter (not too much) on a knife and spread it on the loaf,\nin an apothecary kind of way, as if she were making a plaster, using\nboth sides of the knife with a slapping dexterity, and trimming and\nmoulding the butter off round the crust. Then, she gave the knife a\nfinal smart wipe on the edge of the plaster, and then sawed a very\nthick round off the loaf: which she finally, before separating from the\nloaf, hewed into two halves, of which Joe got one, and I the other.\n\nOn the present occasion, though I was hungry, I dared not eat my slice.\nI felt that I must have something in reserve for my dreadful\nacquaintance, and his ally the still more dreadful young man. I knew\nMrs. Joe s housekeeping to be of the strictest kind, and that my\nlarcenous researches might find nothing available in the safe.\nTherefore I resolved to put my hunk of bread and butter down the leg of\nmy trousers.\n\nThe effort of resolution necessary to the achievement of this purpose I\nfound to be quite awful. It was as if I had to make up my mind to leap\nfrom the top of a high house, or plunge into a great depth of water.\nAnd it was made the more difficult by the unconscious Joe. In our\nalready-mentioned freemasonry as fellow-sufferers, and in his\ngood-natured companionship with me, it was our evening habit to compare\nthe way we bit through our slices, by silently holding them up to each\nother s admiration now and then, which stimulated us to new exertions.\nTo-night, Joe several times invited me, by the display of his fast\ndiminishing slice, to enter upon our usual friendly competition; but he\nfound me, each time, with my yellow mug of tea on one knee, and my\nuntouched bread and butter on the other. At last, I desperately\nconsidered that the thing I contemplated must be done, and that it had\nbest be done in the least improbable manner consistent with the\ncircumstances. I took advantage of a moment when Joe had just looked at\nme, and got my bread and butter down my leg.\n\nJoe was evidently made uncomfortable by what he supposed to be my loss\nof appetite, and took a thoughtful bite out of his slice, which he\ndidn t seem to enjoy. He turned it about in his mouth much longer than\nusual, pondering over it a good deal, and after all gulped it down like\na pill. He was about to take another bite, and had just got his head on\none side for a good purchase on it, when his eye fell on me, and he saw\nthat my bread and butter was gone.\n\nThe wonder and consternation with which Joe stopped on the threshold of\nhis bite and stared at me, were too evident to escape my sister s\nobservation.\n\n What s the matter _now_?  said she, smartly, as she put down her cup.\n\n I say, you know!  muttered Joe, shaking his head at me in very serious\nremonstrance.  Pip, old chap! You ll do yourself a mischief. It ll\nstick somewhere. You can t have chawed it, Pip. \n\n What s the matter now?  repeated my sister, more sharply than before.\n\n If you can cough any trifle on it up, Pip, I d recommend you to do\nit,  said Joe, all aghast.  Manners is manners, but still your elth s\nyour elth. \n\nBy this time, my sister was quite desperate, so she pounced on Joe,\nand, taking him by the two whiskers, knocked his head for a little\nwhile against the wall behind him, while I sat in the corner, looking\nguiltily on.\n\n Now, perhaps you ll mention what s the matter,  said my sister, out of\nbreath,  you staring great stuck pig. \n\nJoe looked at her in a helpless way, then took a helpless bite, and\nlooked at me again.\n\n You know, Pip,  said Joe, solemnly, with his last bite in his cheek,\nand speaking in a confidential voice, as if we two were quite alone,\n you and me is always friends, and I d be the last to tell upon you,\nany time. But such a  he moved his chair and looked about the floor\nbetween us, and then again at me such a most oncommon Bolt as that! \n\n Been bolting his food, has he?  cried my sister.\n\n You know, old chap,  said Joe, looking at me, and not at Mrs. Joe,\nwith his bite still in his cheek,  I Bolted, myself, when I was your\nage frequent and as a boy I ve been among a many Bolters; but I never\nsee your Bolting equal yet, Pip, and it s a mercy you ain t Bolted\ndead. \n\nMy sister made a dive at me, and fished me up by the hair, saying\nnothing more than the awful words,  You come along and be dosed. \n\nSome medical beast had revived Tar-water in those days as a fine\nmedicine, and Mrs. Joe always kept a supply of it in the cupboard;\nhaving a belief in its virtues correspondent to its nastiness. At the\nbest of times, so much of this elixir was administered to me as a\nchoice restorative, that I was conscious of going about, smelling like\na new fence. On this particular evening the urgency of my case demanded\na pint of this mixture, which was poured down my throat, for my greater\ncomfort, while Mrs. Joe held my head under her arm, as a boot would be\nheld in a bootjack. Joe got off with half a pint; but was made to\nswallow that (much to his disturbance, as he sat slowly munching and\nmeditating before the fire),  because he had had a turn.  Judging from\nmyself, I should say he certainly had a turn afterwards, if he had had\nnone before.\n\nConscience is a dreadful thing when it accuses man or boy; but when, in\nthe case of a boy, that secret burden co-operates with another secret\nburden down the leg of his trousers, it is (as I can testify) a great\npunishment. The guilty knowledge that I was going to rob Mrs. Joe I\nnever thought I was going to rob Joe, for I never thought of any of the\nhousekeeping property as his united to the necessity of always keeping\none hand on my bread and butter as I sat, or when I was ordered about\nthe kitchen on any small errand, almost drove me out of my mind. Then,\nas the marsh winds made the fire glow and flare, I thought I heard the\nvoice outside, of the man with the iron on his leg who had sworn me to\nsecrecy, declaring that he couldn t and wouldn t starve until\nto-morrow, but must be fed now. At other times, I thought, What if the\nyoung man who was with so much difficulty restrained from imbruing his\nhands in me should yield to a constitutional impatience, or should\nmistake the time, and should think himself accredited to my heart and\nliver to-night, instead of to-morrow! If ever anybody s hair stood on\nend with terror, mine must have done so then. But, perhaps, nobody s\never did?\n\nIt was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day, with\na copper-stick, from seven to eight by the Dutch clock. I tried it with\nthe load upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the\nload on _his_ leg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the\nbread and butter out at my ankle, quite unmanageable. Happily I slipped\naway, and deposited that part of my conscience in my garret bedroom.\n\n Hark!  said I, when I had done my stirring, and was taking a final\nwarm in the chimney corner before being sent up to bed;  was that great\nguns, Joe? \n\n Ah!  said Joe.  There s another conwict off. \n\n What does that mean, Joe?  said I.\n\nMrs. Joe, who always took explanations upon herself, said, snappishly,\n Escaped. Escaped.  Administering the definition like Tar-water.\n\nWhile Mrs. Joe sat with her head bending over her needlework, I put my\nmouth into the forms of saying to Joe,  What s a convict?  Joe put\n_his_ mouth into the forms of returning such a highly elaborate answer,\nthat I could make out nothing of it but the single word  Pip. \n\n There was a conwict off last night,  said Joe, aloud,  after\nsunset-gun. And they fired warning of him. And now it appears they re\nfiring warning of another. \n\n _Who s_ firing?  said I.\n\n Drat that boy,  interposed my sister, frowning at me over her work,\n what a questioner he is. Ask no questions, and you ll be told no\nlies. \n\nIt was not very polite to herself, I thought, to imply that I should be\ntold lies by her even if I did ask questions. But she never was polite\nunless there was company.\n\nAt this point Joe greatly augmented my curiosity by taking the utmost\npains to open his mouth very wide, and to put it into the form of a\nword that looked to me like  sulks.  Therefore, I naturally pointed to\nMrs. Joe, and put my mouth into the form of saying,  her?  But Joe\nwouldn t hear of that, at all, and again opened his mouth very wide,\nand shook the form of a most emphatic word out of it. But I could make\nnothing of the word.\n\n Mrs. Joe,  said I, as a last resort,  I should like to know if you\nwouldn t much mind where the firing comes from? \n\n Lord bless the boy!  exclaimed my sister, as if she didn t quite mean\nthat but rather the contrary.  From the Hulks! \n\n Oh-h!  said I, looking at Joe.  Hulks! \n\nJoe gave a reproachful cough, as much as to say,  Well, I told you so. \n\n And please, what s Hulks?  said I.\n\n That s the way with this boy!  exclaimed my sister, pointing me out\nwith her needle and thread, and shaking her head at me.  Answer him one\nquestion, and he ll ask you a dozen directly. Hulks are prison-ships,\nright  cross th  meshes.  We always used that name for marshes, in our\ncountry.\n\n I wonder who s put into prison-ships, and why they re put there?  said\nI, in a general way, and with quiet desperation.\n\nIt was too much for Mrs. Joe, who immediately rose.  I tell you what,\nyoung fellow,  said she,  I didn t bring you up by hand to badger\npeople s lives out. It would be blame to me and not praise, if I had.\nPeople are put in the Hulks because they murder, and because they rob,\nand forge, and do all sorts of bad; and they always begin by asking\nquestions. Now, you get along to bed! \n\nI was never allowed a candle to light me to bed, and, as I went\nupstairs in the dark, with my head tingling, from Mrs. Joe s thimble\nhaving played the tambourine upon it, to accompany her last words, I\nfelt fearfully sensible of the great convenience that the hulks were\nhandy for me. I was clearly on my way there. I had begun by asking\nquestions, and I was going to rob Mrs. Joe.\n\nSince that time, which is far enough away now, I have often thought\nthat few people know what secrecy there is in the young under terror.\nNo matter how unreasonable the terror, so that it be terror. I was in\nmortal terror of the young man who wanted my heart and liver; I was in\nmortal terror of my interlocutor with the iron leg; I was in mortal\nterror of myself, from whom an awful promise had been extracted; I had\nno hope of deliverance through my all-powerful sister, who repulsed me\nat every turn; I am afraid to think of what I might have done on\nrequirement, in the secrecy of my terror.\n\nIf I slept at all that night, it was only to imagine myself drifting\ndown the river on a strong spring-tide, to the Hulks; a ghostly pirate\ncalling out to me through a speaking-trumpet, as I passed the\ngibbet-station, that I had better come ashore and be hanged there at\nonce, and not put it off. I was afraid to sleep, even if I had been\ninclined, for I knew that at the first faint dawn of morning I must rob\nthe pantry. There was no doing it in the night, for there was no\ngetting a light by easy friction then; to have got one I must have\nstruck it out of flint and steel, and have made a noise like the very\npirate himself rattling his chains.\n\nAs soon as the great black velvet pall outside my little window was\nshot with grey, I got up and went downstairs; every board upon the way,\nand every crack in every board calling after me,  Stop thief!  and  Get\nup, Mrs. Joe!  In the pantry, which was far more abundantly supplied\nthan usual, owing to the season, I was very much alarmed by a hare\nhanging up by the heels, whom I rather thought I caught, when my back\nwas half turned, winking. I had no time for verification, no time for\nselection, no time for anything, for I had no time to spare. I stole\nsome bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which I\ntied up in my pocket-handkerchief with my last night s slice), some\nbrandy from a stone bottle (which I decanted into a glass bottle I had\nsecretly used for making that intoxicating fluid,\nSpanish-liquorice-water, up in my room: diluting the stone bottle from\na jug in the kitchen cupboard), a meat bone with very little on it, and\na beautiful round compact pork pie. I was nearly going away without the\npie, but I was tempted to mount upon a shelf, to look what it was that\nwas put away so carefully in a covered earthenware dish in a corner,\nand I found it was the pie, and I took it in the hope that it was not\nintended for early use, and would not be missed for some time.\n\nThere was a door in the kitchen, communicating with the forge; I\nunlocked and unbolted that door, and got a file from among Joe s tools.\nThen I put the fastenings as I had found them, opened the door at which\nI had entered when I ran home last night, shut it, and ran for the\nmisty marshes.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III.\n\n\nIt was a rimy morning, and very damp. I had seen the damp lying on the\noutside of my little window, as if some goblin had been crying there\nall night, and using the window for a pocket-handkerchief. Now, I saw\nthe damp lying on the bare hedges and spare grass, like a coarser sort\nof spiders  webs; hanging itself from twig to twig and blade to blade.\nOn every rail and gate, wet lay clammy, and the marsh mist was so\nthick, that the wooden finger on the post directing people to our\nvillage a direction which they never accepted, for they never came\nthere was invisible to me until I was quite close under it. Then, as I\nlooked up at it, while it dripped, it seemed to my oppressed conscience\nlike a phantom devoting me to the Hulks.\n\nThe mist was heavier yet when I got out upon the marshes, so that\ninstead of my running at everything, everything seemed to run at me.\nThis was very disagreeable to a guilty mind. The gates and dikes and\nbanks came bursting at me through the mist, as if they cried as plainly\nas could be,  A boy with somebody else s pork pie! Stop him!  The\ncattle came upon me with like suddenness, staring out of their eyes,\nand steaming out of their nostrils,  Halloa, young thief!  One black\nox, with a white cravat on, who even had to my awakened conscience\nsomething of a clerical air, fixed me so obstinately with his eyes, and\nmoved his blunt head round in such an accusatory manner as I moved\nround, that I blubbered out to him,  I couldn t help it, sir! It wasn t\nfor myself I took it!  Upon which he put down his head, blew a cloud of\nsmoke out of his nose, and vanished with a kick-up of his hind-legs and\na flourish of his tail.\n\nAll this time, I was getting on towards the river; but however fast I\nwent, I couldn t warm my feet, to which the damp cold seemed riveted,\nas the iron was riveted to the leg of the man I was running to meet. I\nknew my way to the Battery, pretty straight, for I had been down there\non a Sunday with Joe, and Joe, sitting on an old gun, had told me that\nwhen I was  prentice to him, regularly bound, we would have such Larks\nthere! However, in the confusion of the mist, I found myself at last\ntoo far to the right, and consequently had to try back along the\nriver-side, on the bank of loose stones above the mud and the stakes\nthat staked the tide out. Making my way along here with all despatch, I\nhad just crossed a ditch which I knew to be very near the Battery, and\nhad just scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch, when I saw the man\nsitting before me. His back was towards me, and he had his arms folded,\nand was nodding forward, heavy with sleep.\n\nI thought he would be more glad if I came upon him with his breakfast,\nin that unexpected manner, so I went forward softly and touched him on\nthe shoulder. He instantly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but\nanother man!\n\nAnd yet this man was dressed in coarse grey, too, and had a great iron\non his leg, and was lame, and hoarse, and cold, and was everything that\nthe other man was; except that he had not the same face, and had a flat\nbroad-brimmed low-crowned felt hat on. All this I saw in a moment, for\nI had only a moment to see it in: he swore an oath at me, made a hit at\nme, it was a round weak blow that missed me and almost knocked himself\ndown, for it made him stumble, and then he ran into the mist, stumbling\ntwice as he went, and I lost him.\n\n It s the young man!  I thought, feeling my heart shoot as I identified\nhim. I dare say I should have felt a pain in my liver, too, if I had\nknown where it was.\n\nI was soon at the Battery after that, and there was the right\nman, hugging himself and limping to and fro, as if he had never all\nnight left off hugging and limping, waiting for me. He was awfully\ncold, to be sure. I half expected to see him drop down before my face\nand die of deadly cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry too, that\nwhen I handed him the file and he laid it down on the grass, it\noccurred to me he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my\nbundle. He did not turn me upside down this time to get at what I had,\nbut left me right side upwards while I opened the bundle and emptied my\npockets.\n\n What s in the bottle, boy?  said he.\n\n Brandy,  said I.\n\nHe was already handing mincemeat down his throat in the most curious\nmanner, more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent\nhurry, than a man who was eating it, but he left off to take some of\nthe liquor. He shivered all the while so violently, that it was quite\nas much as he could do to keep the neck of the bottle between his\nteeth, without biting it off.\n\n I think you have got the ague,  said I.\n\n I m much of your opinion, boy,  said he.\n\n It s bad about here,  I told him.  You ve been lying out on the\nmeshes, and they re dreadful aguish. Rheumatic too. \n\n I ll eat my breakfast afore they re the death of me,  said he.  I d do\nthat, if I was going to be strung up to that there gallows as there is\nover there, directly afterwards. I ll beat the shivers so far, I ll bet\nyou. \n\nHe was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all\nat once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round\nus, and often stopping even stopping his jaws to listen. Some real or\nfancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the\nmarsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly, \n\n You re not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you? \n\n No, sir! No! \n\n Nor giv  no one the office to follow you? \n\n No! \n\n Well,  said he,  I believe you. You d be but a fierce young hound\nindeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched\nwarmint hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint\nis! \n\nSomething clicked in his throat as if he had works in him like a clock,\nand was going to strike. And he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over\nhis eyes.\n\nPitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down\nupon the pie, I made bold to say,  I am glad you enjoy it. \n\n Did you speak? \n\n I said I was glad you enjoyed it. \n\n Thankee, my boy. I do. \n\nI had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now\nnoticed a decided similarity between the dog s way of eating, and the\nman s. The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog. He\nswallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast;\nand he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought\nthere was danger in every direction of somebody s coming to take the\npie away. He was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it, to\nappreciate it comfortably I thought, or to have anybody to dine with\nhim, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor. In all of\nwhich particulars he was very like the dog.\n\n I am afraid you won t leave any of it for him,  said I, timidly; after\na silence during which I had hesitated as to the politeness of making\nthe remark.  There s no more to be got where that came from.  It was\nthe certainty of this fact that impelled me to offer the hint.\n\n Leave any for him? Who s him?  said my friend, stopping in his\ncrunching of pie-crust.\n\n The young man. That you spoke of. That was hid with you. \n\n Oh ah!  he returned, with something like a gruff laugh.  Him? Yes,\nyes! _He_ don t want no wittles. \n\n I thought he looked as if he did,  said I.\n\nThe man stopped eating, and regarded me with the keenest scrutiny and\nthe greatest surprise.\n\n Looked? When? \n\n Just now. \n\n Where? \n\n Yonder,  said I, pointing;  over there, where I found him nodding\nasleep, and thought it was you. \n\nHe held me by the collar and stared at me so, that I began to think his\nfirst idea about cutting my throat had revived.\n\n Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat,  I explained, trembling;\n and and I was very anxious to put this delicately and with the same\nreason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn t you hear the cannon last\nnight? \n\n Then there _was_ firing!  he said to himself.\n\n I wonder you shouldn t have been sure of that,  I returned,  for we\nheard it up at home, and that s farther away, and we were shut in\nbesides. \n\n Why, see now!  said he.  When a man s alone on these flats, with a\nlight head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears\nnothin  all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. Hears? He sees\nthe soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried\nafore, closing in round him. Hears his number called, hears himself\nchallenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders  Make\nready! Present! Cover him steady, men!  and is laid hands on and\nthere s nothin ! Why, if I see one pursuing party last night coming up\nin order, Damn  em, with their tramp, tramp I see a hundred. And as to\nfiring! Why, I see the mist shake with the cannon, arter it was broad\nday, But this man ; he had said all the rest, as if he had forgotten my\nbeing there;  did you notice anything in him? \n\n He had a badly bruised face,  said I, recalling what I hardly knew I\nknew.\n\n Not here?  exclaimed the man, striking his left cheek mercilessly,\nwith the flat of his hand.\n\n Yes, there! \n\n Where is he?  He crammed what little food was left, into the breast of\nhis grey jacket.  Show me the way he went. I ll pull him down, like a\nbloodhound. Curse this iron on my sore leg! Give us hold of the file,\nboy. \n\nI indicated in what direction the mist had shrouded the other man, and\nhe looked up at it for an instant. But he was down on the rank wet\ngrass, filing at his iron like a madman, and not minding me or minding\nhis own leg, which had an old chafe upon it and was bloody, but which\nhe handled as roughly as if it had no more feeling in it than the file.\nI was very much afraid of him again, now that he had worked himself\ninto this fierce hurry, and I was likewise very much afraid of keeping\naway from home any longer. I told him I must go, but he took no notice,\nso I thought the best thing I could do was to slip off. The last I saw\nof him, his head was bent over his knee and he was working hard at his\nfetter, muttering impatient imprecations at it and at his leg. The last\nI heard of him, I stopped in the mist to listen, and the file was still\ngoing.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV.\n\n\nI fully expected to find a Constable in the kitchen, waiting to take me\nup. But not only was there no Constable there, but no discovery had yet\nbeen made of the robbery. Mrs. Joe was prodigiously busy in getting the\nhouse ready for the festivities of the day, and Joe had been put upon\nthe kitchen doorstep to keep him out of the dust-pan, an article into\nwhich his destiny always led him, sooner or later, when my sister was\nvigorously reaping the floors of her establishment.\n\n And where the deuce ha  _you_ been?  was Mrs. Joe s Christmas\nsalutation, when I and my conscience showed ourselves.\n\nI said I had been down to hear the Carols.  Ah! well!  observed Mrs.\nJoe.  You might ha  done worse.  Not a doubt of that I thought.\n\n Perhaps if I warn t a blacksmith s wife, and (what s the same thing) a\nslave with her apron never off, _I_ should have been to hear the\nCarols,  said Mrs. Joe.  I m rather partial to Carols, myself, and\nthat s the best of reasons for my never hearing any. \n\nJoe, who had ventured into the kitchen after me as the dustpan had\nretired before us, drew the back of his hand across his nose with a\nconciliatory air, when Mrs. Joe darted a look at him, and, when her\neyes were withdrawn, secretly crossed his two forefingers, and\nexhibited them to me, as our token that Mrs. Joe was in a cross temper.\nThis was so much her normal state, that Joe and I would often, for\nweeks together, be, as to our fingers, like monumental Crusaders as to\ntheir legs.\n\nWe were to have a superb dinner, consisting of a leg of pickled pork\nand greens, and a pair of roast stuffed fowls. A handsome mince-pie had\nbeen made yesterday morning (which accounted for the mincemeat not\nbeing missed), and the pudding was already on the boil. These extensive\narrangements occasioned us to be cut off unceremoniously in respect of\nbreakfast;  for I ain t,  said Mrs. Joe, I ain t a-going to have no\nformal cramming and busting and washing up now, with what I ve got\nbefore me, I promise you! \n\nSo, we had our slices served out, as if we were two thousand troops on\na forced march instead of a man and boy at home; and we took gulps of\nmilk and water, with apologetic countenances, from a jug on the\ndresser. In the meantime, Mrs. Joe put clean white curtains up, and\ntacked a new flowered flounce across the wide chimney to replace the\nold one, and uncovered the little state parlour across the passage,\nwhich was never uncovered at any other time, but passed the rest of the\nyear in a cool haze of silver paper, which even extended to the four\nlittle white crockery poodles on the mantel-shelf, each with a black\nnose and a basket of flowers in his mouth, and each the counterpart of\nthe other. Mrs. Joe was a very clean housekeeper, but had an exquisite\nart of making her cleanliness more uncomfortable and unacceptable than\ndirt itself. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and some people do the\nsame by their religion.\n\nMy sister, having so much to do, was going to church vicariously, that\nis to say, Joe and I were going. In his working-clothes, Joe was a\nwell-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he\nwas more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else.\nNothing that he wore then fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and\neverything that he wore then grazed him. On the present festive\noccasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells were going,\nthe picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials. As to me,\nI think my sister must have had some general idea that I was a young\noffender whom an Accoucheur Policeman had taken up (on my birthday) and\ndelivered over to her, to be dealt with according to the outraged\nmajesty of the law. I was always treated as if I had insisted on being\nborn in opposition to the dictates of reason, religion, and morality,\nand against the dissuading arguments of my best friends. Even when I\nwas taken to have a new suit of clothes, the tailor had orders to make\nthem like a kind of Reformatory, and on no account to let me have the\nfree use of my limbs.\n\nJoe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle\nfor compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to\nwhat I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs.\nJoe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be\nequalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had\ndone. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether the\nChurch would be powerful enough to shield me from the vengeance of the\nterrible young man, if I divulged to that establishment. I conceived\nthe idea that the time when the banns were read and when the clergyman\nsaid,  Ye are now to declare it!  would be the time for me to rise and\npropose a private conference in the vestry. I am far from being sure\nthat I might not have astonished our small congregation by resorting to\nthis extreme measure, but for its being Christmas Day and no Sunday.\n\nMr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble\nthe wheelwright and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe s uncle,\nbut Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in\nthe nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was\nhalf-past one. When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and\nMrs. Joe dressed, and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked\n(it never was at any other time) for the company to enter by, and\neverything most splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.\n\nThe time came, without bringing with it any relief to my feelings, and\nthe company came. Mr. Wopsle, united to a Roman nose and a large\nshining bald forehead, had a deep voice which he was uncommonly proud\nof; indeed it was understood among his acquaintance that if you could\nonly give him his head, he would read the clergyman into fits; he\nhimself confessed that if the Church was  thrown open,  meaning to\ncompetition, he would not despair of making his mark in it. The Church\nnot being  thrown open,  he was, as I have said, our clerk. But he\npunished the Amens tremendously; and when he gave out the psalm, always\ngiving the whole verse, he looked all round the congregation first, as\nmuch as to say,  You have heard my friend overhead; oblige me with your\nopinion of this style! \n\nI opened the door to the company, making believe that it was a habit of\nours to open that door, and I opened it first to Mr. Wopsle, next to\nMr. and Mrs. Hubble, and last of all to Uncle Pumblechook. N.B. _I_ was\nnot allowed to call him uncle, under the severest penalties.\n\n Mrs. Joe,  said Uncle Pumblechook, a large hard-breathing middle-aged\nslow man, with a mouth like a fish, dull staring eyes, and sandy hair\nstanding upright on his head, so that he looked as if he had just been\nall but choked, and had that moment come to,  I have brought you as the\ncompliments of the season I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of sherry\nwine and I have brought you, Mum, a bottle of port wine. \n\nEvery Christmas Day he presented himself, as a profound novelty, with\nexactly the same words, and carrying the two bottles like dumb-bells.\nEvery Christmas Day, Mrs. Joe replied, as she now replied,  O, Un cle\nPum-ble chook! This _is_ kind!  Every Christmas Day, he retorted, as he\nnow retorted,  It s no more than your merits. And now are you all\nbobbish, and how s Sixpennorth of halfpence?  meaning me.\n\nWe dined on these occasions in the kitchen, and adjourned, for the nuts\nand oranges and apples to the parlour; which was a change very like\nJoe s change from his working-clothes to his Sunday dress. My sister\nwas uncommonly lively on the present occasion, and indeed was generally\nmore gracious in the society of Mrs. Hubble than in other company. I\nremember Mrs. Hubble as a little curly sharp-edged person in sky-blue,\nwho held a conventionally juvenile position, because she had married\nMr. Hubble, I don t know at what remote period, when she was much\nyounger than he. I remember Mr Hubble as a tough, high-shouldered,\nstooping old man, of a sawdusty fragrance, with his legs\nextraordinarily wide apart: so that in my short days I always saw some\nmiles of open country between them when I met him coming up the lane.\n\nAmong this good company I should have felt myself, even if I hadn t\nrobbed the pantry, in a false position. Not because I was squeezed in\nat an acute angle of the tablecloth, with the table in my chest, and\nthe Pumblechookian elbow in my eye, nor because I was not allowed to\nspeak (I didn t want to speak), nor because I was regaled with the\nscaly tips of the drumsticks of the fowls, and with those obscure\ncorners of pork of which the pig, when living, had had the least reason\nto be vain. No; I should not have minded that, if they would only have\nleft me alone. But they wouldn t leave me alone. They seemed to think\nthe opportunity lost, if they failed to point the conversation at me,\nevery now and then, and stick the point into me. I might have been an\nunfortunate little bull in a Spanish arena, I got so smartingly touched\nup by these moral goads.\n\nIt began the moment we sat down to dinner. Mr. Wopsle said grace with\ntheatrical declamation, as it now appears to me, something like a\nreligious cross of the Ghost in Hamlet with Richard the Third, and\nended with the very proper aspiration that we might be truly grateful.\nUpon which my sister fixed me with her eye, and said, in a low\nreproachful voice,  Do you hear that? Be grateful. \n\n Especially,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  be grateful, boy, to them which\nbrought you up by hand. \n\nMrs. Hubble shook her head, and contemplating me with a mournful\npresentiment that I should come to no good, asked,  Why is it that the\nyoung are never grateful?  This moral mystery seemed too much for the\ncompany until Mr. Hubble tersely solved it by saying,  Naterally\nwicious.  Everybody then murmured  True!  and looked at me in a\nparticularly unpleasant and personal manner.\n\nJoe s station and influence were something feebler (if possible) when\nthere was company than when there was none. But he always aided and\ncomforted me when he could, in some way of his own, and he always did\nso at dinner-time by giving me gravy, if there were any. There being\nplenty of gravy to-day, Joe spooned into my plate, at this point, about\nhalf a pint.\n\nA little later on in the dinner, Mr. Wopsle reviewed the sermon with\nsome severity, and intimated in the usual hypothetical case of the\nChurch being  thrown open what kind of sermon _he_ would have given\nthem. After favouring them with some heads of that discourse, he\nremarked that he considered the subject of the day s homily, ill\nchosen; which was the less excusable, he added, when there were so many\nsubjects  going about. \n\n True again,  said Uncle Pumblechook.  You ve hit it, sir! Plenty of\nsubjects going about, for them that know how to put salt upon their\ntails. That s what s wanted. A man needn t go far to find a subject, if\nhe s ready with his salt-box.  Mr. Pumblechook added, after a short\ninterval of reflection,  Look at Pork alone. There s a subject! If you\nwant a subject, look at Pork! \n\n True, sir. Many a moral for the young,  returned Mr. Wopsle, and I\nknew he was going to lug me in, before he said it;  might be deduced\nfrom that text. \n\n( You listen to this,  said my sister to me, in a severe parenthesis.)\n\nJoe gave me some more gravy.\n\n Swine,  pursued Mr. Wopsle, in his deepest voice, and pointing his\nfork at my blushes, as if he were mentioning my Christian name, swine\nwere the companions of the prodigal. The gluttony of Swine is put\nbefore us, as an example to the young.  (I thought this pretty well in\nhim who had been praising up the pork for being so plump and juicy.)\n What is detestable in a pig is more detestable in a boy. \n\n Or girl,  suggested Mr. Hubble.\n\n Of course, or girl, Mr. Hubble,  assented Mr. Wopsle, rather\nirritably,  but there is no girl present. \n\n Besides,  said Mr. Pumblechook, turning sharp on me,  think what\nyou ve got to be grateful for. If you d been born a Squeaker \n\n He _was_, if ever a child was,  said my sister, most emphatically.\n\nJoe gave me some more gravy.\n\n Well, but I mean a four-footed Squeaker,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  If\nyou had been born such, would you have been here now? Not you \n\n Unless in that form,  said Mr. Wopsle, nodding towards the dish.\n\n But I don t mean in that form, sir,  returned Mr. Pumblechook, who had\nan objection to being interrupted;  I mean, enjoying himself with his\nelders and betters, and improving himself with their conversation, and\nrolling in the lap of luxury. Would he have been doing that? No, he\nwouldn t. And what would have been your destination?  turning on me\nagain.  You would have been disposed of for so many shillings according\nto the market price of the article, and Dunstable the butcher would\nhave come up to you as you lay in your straw, and he would have whipped\nyou under his left arm, and with his right he would have tucked up his\nfrock to get a penknife from out of his waistcoat-pocket, and he would\nhave shed your blood and had your life. No bringing up by hand then.\nNot a bit of it! \n\nJoe offered me more gravy, which I was afraid to take.\n\n He was a world of trouble to you, ma am,  said Mrs. Hubble,\ncommiserating my sister.\n\n Trouble?  echoed my sister;  trouble?  and then entered on a fearful\ncatalogue of all the illnesses I had been guilty of, and all the acts\nof sleeplessness I had committed, and all the high places I had tumbled\nfrom, and all the low places I had tumbled into, and all the injuries I\nhad done myself, and all the times she had wished me in my grave, and I\nhad contumaciously refused to go there.\n\nI think the Romans must have aggravated one another very much, with\ntheir noses. Perhaps, they became the restless people they were, in\nconsequence. Anyhow, Mr. Wopsle s Roman nose so aggravated me, during\nthe recital of my misdemeanours, that I should have liked to pull it\nuntil he howled. But, all I had endured up to this time was nothing in\ncomparison with the awful feelings that took possession of me when the\npause was broken which ensued upon my sister s recital, and in which\npause everybody had looked at me (as I felt painfully conscious) with\nindignation and abhorrence.\n\n Yet,  said Mr. Pumblechook, leading the company gently back to the\ntheme from which they had strayed,  Pork regarded as biled is rich,\ntoo; ain t it? \n\n Have a little brandy, uncle,  said my sister.\n\nO Heavens, it had come at last! He would find it was weak, he would say\nit was weak, and I was lost! I held tight to the leg of the table under\nthe cloth, with both hands, and awaited my fate.\n\nMy sister went for the stone bottle, came back with the stone bottle,\nand poured his brandy out: no one else taking any. The wretched man\ntrifled with his glass, took it up, looked at it through the light, put\nit down, prolonged my misery. All this time Mrs. Joe and Joe were\nbriskly clearing the table for the pie and pudding.\n\nI couldn t keep my eyes off him. Always holding tight by the leg of the\ntable with my hands and feet, I saw the miserable creature finger his\nglass playfully, take it up, smile, throw his head back, and drink the\nbrandy off. Instantly afterwards, the company were seized with\nunspeakable consternation, owing to his springing to his feet, turning\nround several times in an appalling spasmodic whooping-cough dance, and\nrushing out at the door; he then became visible through the window,\nviolently plunging and expectorating, making the most hideous faces,\nand apparently out of his mind.\n\nI held on tight, while Mrs. Joe and Joe ran to him. I didn t know how I\nhad done it, but I had no doubt I had murdered him somehow. In my\ndreadful situation, it was a relief when he was brought back, and\nsurveying the company all round as if _they_ had disagreed with him,\nsank down into his chair with the one significant gasp,  Tar! \n\nI had filled up the bottle from the tar-water jug. I knew he would be\nworse by and by. I moved the table, like a Medium of the present day,\nby the vigor of my unseen hold upon it.\n\n Tar!  cried my sister, in amazement.  Why, how ever could Tar come\nthere? \n\nBut, Uncle Pumblechook, who was omnipotent in that kitchen, wouldn t\nhear the word, wouldn t hear of the subject, imperiously waved it all\naway with his hand, and asked for hot gin and water. My sister, who had\nbegun to be alarmingly meditative, had to employ herself actively in\ngetting the gin, the hot water, the sugar, and the lemon-peel, and\nmixing them. For the time being at least, I was saved. I still held on\nto the leg of the table, but clutched it now with the fervor of\ngratitude.\n\nBy degrees, I became calm enough to release my grasp and partake of\npudding. Mr. Pumblechook partook of pudding. All partook of pudding.\nThe course terminated, and Mr. Pumblechook had begun to beam under the\ngenial influence of gin and water. I began to think I should get over\nthe day, when my sister said to Joe,  Clean plates, cold. \n\nI clutched the leg of the table again immediately, and pressed it to my\nbosom as if it had been the companion of my youth and friend of my\nsoul. I foresaw what was coming, and I felt that this time I really was\ngone.\n\n You must taste,  said my sister, addressing the guests with her best\ngrace you must taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious\npresent of Uncle Pumblechook s! \n\nMust they! Let them not hope to taste it!\n\n You must know,  said my sister, rising,  it s a pie; a savory pork\npie. \n\nThe company murmured their compliments. Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of\nhaving deserved well of his fellow-creatures, said, quite vivaciously,\nall things considered, Well, Mrs. Joe, we ll do our best endeavours;\nlet us have a cut at this same pie. \n\nMy sister went out to get it. I heard her steps proceed to the pantry.\nI saw Mr. Pumblechook balance his knife. I saw reawakening appetite in\nthe Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle. I heard Mr. Hubble remark that  a bit\nof savory pork pie would lay atop of anything you could mention, and do\nno harm,  and I heard Joe say,  You shall have some, Pip.  I have never\nbeen absolutely certain whether I uttered a shrill yell of terror,\nmerely in spirit, or in the bodily hearing of the company. I felt that\nI could bear no more, and that I must run away. I released the leg of\nthe table, and ran for my life.\n\nBut I ran no farther than the house door, for there I ran head-foremost\ninto a party of soldiers with their muskets, one of whom held out a\npair of handcuffs to me, saying,  Here you are, look sharp, come on! \n\n\n\n\nChapter V.\n\n\nThe apparition of a file of soldiers ringing down the but-ends of their\nloaded muskets on our door-step, caused the dinner-party to rise from\ntable in confusion, and caused Mrs. Joe re-entering the kitchen\nempty-handed, to stop short and stare, in her wondering lament of\n Gracious goodness gracious me, what s gone with the pie! \n\nThe sergeant and I were in the kitchen when Mrs. Joe stood staring; at\nwhich crisis I partially recovered the use of my senses. It was the\nsergeant who had spoken to me, and he was now looking round at the\ncompany, with his handcuffs invitingly extended towards them in his\nright hand, and his left on my shoulder.\n\n Excuse me, ladies and gentleman,  said the sergeant,  but as I have\nmentioned at the door to this smart young shaver,  (which he hadn t),\n I am on a chase in the name of the king, and I want the blacksmith. \n\n And pray what might you want with _him_?  retorted my sister, quick to\nresent his being wanted at all.\n\n Missis,  returned the gallant sergeant,  speaking for myself, I should\nreply, the honour and pleasure of his fine wife s acquaintance;\nspeaking for the king, I answer, a little job done. \n\nThis was received as rather neat in the sergeant; insomuch that Mr.\nPumblechook cried audibly,  Good again! \n\n You see, blacksmith,  said the sergeant, who had by this time picked\nout Joe with his eye,  we have had an accident with these, and I find\nthe lock of one of  em goes wrong, and the coupling don t act pretty.\nAs they are wanted for immediate service, will you throw your eye over\nthem? \n\nJoe threw his eye over them, and pronounced that the job would\nnecessitate the lighting of his forge fire, and would take nearer two\nhours than one.  Will it? Then will you set about it at once,\nblacksmith?  said the off-hand sergeant,  as it s on his Majesty s\nservice. And if my men can bear a hand anywhere, they ll make\nthemselves useful.  With that, he called to his men, who came trooping\ninto the kitchen one after another, and piled their arms in a corner.\nAnd then they stood about, as soldiers do; now, with their hands\nloosely clasped before them; now, resting a knee or a shoulder; now,\neasing a belt or a pouch; now, opening the door to spit stiffly over\ntheir high stocks, out into the yard.\n\nAll these things I saw without then knowing that I saw them, for I was\nin an agony of apprehension. But beginning to perceive that the\nhandcuffs were not for me, and that the military had so far got the\nbetter of the pie as to put it in the background, I collected a little\nmore of my scattered wits.\n\n Would you give me the time?  said the sergeant, addressing himself to\nMr. Pumblechook, as to a man whose appreciative powers justified the\ninference that he was equal to the time.\n\n It s just gone half past two. \n\n That s not so bad,  said the sergeant, reflecting;  even if I was\nforced to halt here nigh two hours, that ll do. How far might you call\nyourselves from the marshes, hereabouts? Not above a mile, I reckon? \n\n Just a mile,  said Mrs. Joe.\n\n That ll do. We begin to close in upon  em about dusk. A little before\ndusk, my orders are. That ll do. \n\n Convicts, sergeant?  asked Mr. Wopsle, in a matter-of-course way.\n\n Ay!  returned the sergeant,  two. They re pretty well known to be out\non the marshes still, and they won t try to get clear of  em before\ndusk. Anybody here seen anything of any such game? \n\nEverybody, myself excepted, said no, with confidence. Nobody thought of\nme.\n\n Well!  said the sergeant,  they ll find themselves trapped in a\ncircle, I expect, sooner than they count on. Now, blacksmith! If you re\nready, his Majesty the King is. \n\nJoe had got his coat and waistcoat and cravat off, and his leather\napron on, and passed into the forge. One of the soldiers opened its\nwooden windows, another lighted the fire, another turned to at the\nbellows, the rest stood round the blaze, which was soon roaring. Then\nJoe began to hammer and clink, hammer and clink, and we all looked on.\n\nThe interest of the impending pursuit not only absorbed the general\nattention, but even made my sister liberal. She drew a pitcher of beer\nfrom the cask for the soldiers, and invited the sergeant to take a\nglass of brandy. But Mr. Pumblechook said, sharply,  Give him wine,\nMum. I ll engage there s no tar in that:  so, the sergeant thanked him\nand said that as he preferred his drink without tar, he would take\nwine, if it was equally convenient. When it was given him, he drank his\nMajesty s health and compliments of the season, and took it all at a\nmouthful and smacked his lips.\n\n Good stuff, eh, sergeant?  said Mr. Pumblechook.\n\n I ll tell you something,  returned the sergeant;  I suspect that\nstuff s of _your_ providing. \n\nMr. Pumblechook, with a fat sort of laugh, said,  Ay, ay? Why? \n\n Because,  returned the sergeant, clapping him on the shoulder,  you re\na man that knows what s what. \n\n D ye think so?  said Mr. Pumblechook, with his former laugh.  Have\nanother glass! \n\n With you. Hob and nob,  returned the sergeant.  The top of mine to the\nfoot of yours, the foot of yours to the top of mine, Ring once, ring\ntwice, the best tune on the Musical Glasses! Your health. May you live\na thousand years, and never be a worse judge of the right sort than you\nare at the present moment of your life! \n\nThe sergeant tossed off his glass again and seemed quite ready for\nanother glass. I noticed that Mr. Pumblechook in his hospitality\nappeared to forget that he had made a present of the wine, but took the\nbottle from Mrs. Joe and had all the credit of handing it about in a\ngush of joviality. Even I got some. And he was so very free of the wine\nthat he even called for the other bottle, and handed that about with\nthe same liberality, when the first was gone.\n\nAs I watched them while they all stood clustering about the forge,\nenjoying themselves so much, I thought what terrible good sauce for a\ndinner my fugitive friend on the marshes was. They had not enjoyed\nthemselves a quarter so much, before the entertainment was brightened\nwith the excitement he furnished. And now, when they were all in lively\nanticipation of  the two villains  being taken, and when the bellows\nseemed to roar for the fugitives, the fire to flare for them, the smoke\nto hurry away in pursuit of them, Joe to hammer and clink for them, and\nall the murky shadows on the wall to shake at them in menace as the\nblaze rose and sank, and the red-hot sparks dropped and died, the pale\nafternoon outside almost seemed in my pitying young fancy to have\nturned pale on their account, poor wretches.\n\nAt last, Joe s job was done, and the ringing and roaring stopped. As\nJoe got on his coat, he mustered courage to propose that some of us\nshould go down with the soldiers and see what came of the hunt. Mr.\nPumblechook and Mr. Hubble declined, on the plea of a pipe and ladies \nsociety; but Mr. Wopsle said he would go, if Joe would. Joe said he was\nagreeable, and would take me, if Mrs. Joe approved. We never should\nhave got leave to go, I am sure, but for Mrs. Joe s curiosity to know\nall about it and how it ended. As it was, she merely stipulated,  If\nyou bring the boy back with his head blown to bits by a musket, don t\nlook to me to put it together again. \n\nThe sergeant took a polite leave of the ladies, and parted from Mr.\nPumblechook as from a comrade; though I doubt if he were quite as fully\nsensible of that gentleman s merits under arid conditions, as when\nsomething moist was going. His men resumed their muskets and fell in.\nMr. Wopsle, Joe, and I, received strict charge to keep in the rear, and\nto speak no word after we reached the marshes. When we were all out in\nthe raw air and were steadily moving towards our business, I\ntreasonably whispered to Joe,  I hope, Joe, we shan t find them.  and\nJoe whispered to me,  I d give a shilling if they had cut and run,\nPip. \n\nWe were joined by no stragglers from the village, for the weather was\ncold and threatening, the way dreary, the footing bad, darkness coming\non, and the people had good fires in-doors and were keeping the day. A\nfew faces hurried to glowing windows and looked after us, but none came\nout. We passed the finger-post, and held straight on to the churchyard.\nThere we were stopped a few minutes by a signal from the sergeant s\nhand, while two or three of his men dispersed themselves among the\ngraves, and also examined the porch. They came in again without finding\nanything, and then we struck out on the open marshes, through the gate\nat the side of the churchyard. A bitter sleet came rattling against us\nhere on the east wind, and Joe took me on his back.\n\nNow that we were out upon the dismal wilderness where they little\nthought I had been within eight or nine hours and had seen both men\nhiding, I considered for the first time, with great dread, if we should\ncome upon them, would my particular convict suppose that it was I who\nhad brought the soldiers there? He had asked me if I was a deceiving\nimp, and he had said I should be a fierce young hound if I joined the\nhunt against him. Would he believe that I was both imp and hound in\ntreacherous earnest, and had betrayed him?\n\nIt was of no use asking myself this question now. There I was, on Joe s\nback, and there was Joe beneath me, charging at the ditches like a\nhunter, and stimulating Mr. Wopsle not to tumble on his Roman nose, and\nto keep up with us. The soldiers were in front of us, extending into a\npretty wide line with an interval between man and man. We were taking\nthe course I had begun with, and from which I had diverged in the mist.\nEither the mist was not out again yet, or the wind had dispelled it.\nUnder the low red glare of sunset, the beacon, and the gibbet, and the\nmound of the Battery, and the opposite shore of the river, were plain,\nthough all of a watery lead colour.\n\nWith my heart thumping like a blacksmith at Joe s broad shoulder, I\nlooked all about for any sign of the convicts. I could see none, I\ncould hear none. Mr. Wopsle had greatly alarmed me more than once, by\nhis blowing and hard breathing; but I knew the sounds by this time, and\ncould dissociate them from the object of pursuit. I got a dreadful\nstart, when I thought I heard the file still going; but it was only a\nsheep-bell. The sheep stopped in their eating and looked timidly at us;\nand the cattle, their heads turned from the wind and sleet, stared\nangrily as if they held us responsible for both annoyances; but, except\nthese things, and the shudder of the dying day in every blade of grass,\nthere was no break in the bleak stillness of the marshes.\n\nThe soldiers were moving on in the direction of the old Battery, and we\nwere moving on a little way behind them, when, all of a sudden, we all\nstopped. For there had reached us on the wings of the wind and rain, a\nlong shout. It was repeated. It was at a distance towards the east, but\nit was long and loud. Nay, there seemed to be two or more shouts raised\ntogether, if one might judge from a confusion in the sound.\n\nTo this effect the sergeant and the nearest men were speaking under\ntheir breath, when Joe and I came up. After another moment s listening,\nJoe (who was a good judge) agreed, and Mr. Wopsle (who was a bad judge)\nagreed. The sergeant, a decisive man, ordered that the sound should not\nbe answered, but that the course should be changed, and that his men\nshould make towards it  at the double.  So we slanted to the right\n(where the East was), and Joe pounded away so wonderfully, that I had\nto hold on tight to keep my seat.\n\nIt was a run indeed now, and what Joe called, in the only two words he\nspoke all the time,  a Winder.  Down banks and up banks, and over\ngates, and splashing into dikes, and breaking among coarse rushes: no\nman cared where he went. As we came nearer to the shouting, it became\nmore and more apparent that it was made by more than one voice.\nSometimes, it seemed to stop altogether, and then the soldiers stopped.\nWhen it broke out again, the soldiers made for it at a greater rate\nthan ever, and we after them. After a while, we had so run it down,\nthat we could hear one voice calling  Murder!  and another voice,\n Convicts! Runaways! Guard! This way for the runaway convicts!  Then\nboth voices would seem to be stifled in a struggle, and then would\nbreak out again. And when it had come to this, the soldiers ran like\ndeer, and Joe too.\n\nThe sergeant ran in first, when we had run the noise quite down, and\ntwo of his men ran in close upon him. Their pieces were cocked and\nlevelled when we all ran in.\n\n Here are both men!  panted the sergeant, struggling at the bottom of a\nditch.  Surrender, you two! and confound you for two wild beasts! Come\nasunder! \n\nWater was splashing, and mud was flying, and oaths were being sworn,\nand blows were being struck, when some more men went down into the\nditch to help the sergeant, and dragged out, separately, my convict and\nthe other one. Both were bleeding and panting and execrating and\nstruggling; but of course I knew them both directly.\n\n Mind!  said my convict, wiping blood from his face with his ragged\nsleeves, and shaking torn hair from his fingers:  _I_ took him! _I_\ngive him up to you! Mind that! \n\n It s not much to be particular about,  said the sergeant;  it ll do\nyou small good, my man, being in the same plight yourself. Handcuffs\nthere! \n\n I don t expect it to do me any good. I don t want it to do me more\ngood than it does now,  said my convict, with a greedy laugh.  I took\nhim. He knows it. That s enough for me. \n\nThe other convict was livid to look at, and, in addition to the old\nbruised left side of his face, seemed to be bruised and torn all over.\nHe could not so much as get his breath to speak, until they were both\nseparately handcuffed, but leaned upon a soldier to keep himself from\nfalling.\n\n Take notice, guard, he tried to murder me,  were his first words.\n\n Tried to murder him?  said my convict, disdainfully.  Try, and not do\nit? I took him, and giv  him up; that s what I done. I not only\nprevented him getting off the marshes, but I dragged him here, dragged\nhim this far on his way back. He s a gentleman, if you please, this\nvillain. Now, the Hulks has got its gentleman again, through me. Murder\nhim? Worth my while, too, to murder him, when I could do worse and drag\nhim back! \n\nThe other one still gasped,  He tried he tried-to murder me. Bear bear\nwitness. \n\n Lookee here!  said my convict to the sergeant.  Single-handed I got\nclear of the prison-ship; I made a dash and I done it. I could ha  got\nclear of these death-cold flats likewise look at my leg: you won t find\nmuch iron on it if I hadn t made the discovery that _he_ was here. Let\n_him_ go free? Let _him_ profit by the means as I found out? Let _him_\nmake a tool of me afresh and again? Once more? No, no, no. If I had\ndied at the bottom there,  and he made an emphatic swing at the ditch\nwith his manacled hands,  I d have held to him with that grip, that you\nshould have been safe to find him in my hold. \n\nThe other fugitive, who was evidently in extreme horror of his\ncompanion, repeated,  He tried to murder me. I should have been a dead\nman if you had not come up. \n\n He lies!  said my convict, with fierce energy.  He s a liar born, and\nhe ll die a liar. Look at his face; ain t it written there? Let him\nturn those eyes of his on me. I defy him to do it. \n\nThe other, with an effort at a scornful smile, which could not,\nhowever, collect the nervous working of his mouth into any set\nexpression, looked at the soldiers, and looked about at the marshes and\nat the sky, but certainly did not look at the speaker.\n\n Do you see him?  pursued my convict.  Do you see what a villain he is?\nDo you see those grovelling and wandering eyes? That s how he looked\nwhen we were tried together. He never looked at me. \n\nThe other, always working and working his dry lips and turning his eyes\nrestlessly about him far and near, did at last turn them for a moment\non the speaker, with the words,  You are not much to look at,  and with\na half-taunting glance at the bound hands. At that point, my convict\nbecame so frantically exasperated, that he would have rushed upon him\nbut for the interposition of the soldiers.  Didn t I tell you,  said\nthe other convict then,  that he would murder me, if he could?  And any\none could see that he shook with fear, and that there broke out upon\nhis lips curious white flakes, like thin snow.\n\n Enough of this parley,  said the sergeant.  Light those torches. \n\nAs one of the soldiers, who carried a basket in lieu of a gun, went\ndown on his knee to open it, my convict looked round him for the first\ntime, and saw me. I had alighted from Joe s back on the brink of the\nditch when we came up, and had not moved since. I looked at him eagerly\nwhen he looked at me, and slightly moved my hands and shook my head. I\nhad been waiting for him to see me that I might try to assure him of my\ninnocence. It was not at all expressed to me that he even comprehended\nmy intention, for he gave me a look that I did not understand, and it\nall passed in a moment. But if he had looked at me for an hour or for a\nday, I could not have remembered his face ever afterwards, as having\nbeen more attentive.\n\nThe soldier with the basket soon got a light, and lighted three or four\ntorches, and took one himself and distributed the others. It had been\nalmost dark before, but now it seemed quite dark, and soon afterwards\nvery dark. Before we departed from that spot, four soldiers standing in\na ring, fired twice into the air. Presently we saw other torches\nkindled at some distance behind us, and others on the marshes on the\nopposite bank of the river.  All right,  said the sergeant.  March. \n\nWe had not gone far when three cannon were fired ahead of us with a\nsound that seemed to burst something inside my ear.  You are expected\non board,  said the sergeant to my convict;  they know you are coming.\nDon t straggle, my man. Close up here. \n\nThe two were kept apart, and each walked surrounded by a separate\nguard. I had hold of Joe s hand now, and Joe carried one of the\ntorches. Mr. Wopsle had been for going back, but Joe was resolved to\nsee it out, so we went on with the party. There was a reasonably good\npath now, mostly on the edge of the river, with a divergence here and\nthere where a dike came, with a miniature windmill on it and a muddy\nsluice-gate. When I looked round, I could see the other lights coming\nin after us. The torches we carried dropped great blotches of fire upon\nthe track, and I could see those, too, lying smoking and flaring. I\ncould see nothing else but black darkness. Our lights warmed the air\nabout us with their pitchy blaze, and the two prisoners seemed rather\nto like that, as they limped along in the midst of the muskets. We\ncould not go fast, because of their lameness; and they were so spent,\nthat two or three times we had to halt while they rested.\n\nAfter an hour or so of this travelling, we came to a rough wooden hut\nand a landing-place. There was a guard in the hut, and they challenged,\nand the sergeant answered. Then, we went into the hut, where there was\na smell of tobacco and whitewash, and a bright fire, and a lamp, and a\nstand of muskets, and a drum, and a low wooden bedstead, like an\novergrown mangle without the machinery, capable of holding about a\ndozen soldiers all at once. Three or four soldiers who lay upon it in\ntheir great-coats were not much interested in us, but just lifted their\nheads and took a sleepy stare, and then lay down again. The sergeant\nmade some kind of report, and some entry in a book, and then the\nconvict whom I call the other convict was drafted off with his guard,\nto go on board first.\n\nMy convict never looked at me, except that once. While we stood in the\nhut, he stood before the fire looking thoughtfully at it, or putting up\nhis feet by turns upon the hob, and looking thoughtfully at them as if\nhe pitied them for their recent adventures. Suddenly, he turned to the\nsergeant, and remarked, \n\n I wish to say something respecting this escape. It may prevent some\npersons laying under suspicion alonger me. \n\n You can say what you like,  returned the sergeant, standing coolly\nlooking at him with his arms folded,  but you have no call to say it\nhere. You ll have opportunity enough to say about it, and hear about\nit, before it s done with, you know. \n\n I know, but this is another pint, a separate matter. A man can t\nstarve; at least _I_ can t. I took some wittles, up at the willage over\nyonder, where the church stands a most out on the marshes. \n\n You mean stole,  said the sergeant.\n\n And I ll tell you where from. From the blacksmith s. \n\n Halloa!  said the sergeant, staring at Joe.\n\n Halloa, Pip!  said Joe, staring at me.\n\n It was some broken wittles that s what it was and a dram of liquor,\nand a pie. \n\n Have you happened to miss such an article as a pie, blacksmith?  asked\nthe sergeant, confidentially.\n\n My wife did, at the very moment when you came in. Don t you know,\nPip? \n\n So,  said my convict, turning his eyes on Joe in a moody manner, and\nwithout the least glance at me, so you re the blacksmith, are you?\nThan I m sorry to say, I ve eat your pie. \n\n God knows you re welcome to it, so far as it was ever mine,  returned\nJoe, with a saving remembrance of Mrs. Joe.  We don t know what you\nhave done, but we wouldn t have you starved to death for it, poor\nmiserable fellow-creatur. Would us, Pip? \n\nThe something that I had noticed before, clicked in the man s throat\nagain, and he turned his back. The boat had returned, and his guard\nwere ready, so we followed him to the landing-place made of rough\nstakes and stones, and saw him put into the boat, which was rowed by a\ncrew of convicts like himself. No one seemed surprised to see him, or\ninterested in seeing him, or glad to see him, or sorry to see him, or\nspoke a word, except that somebody in the boat growled as if to dogs,\n Give way, you!  which was the signal for the dip of the oars. By the\nlight of the torches, we saw the black Hulk lying out a little way from\nthe mud of the shore, like a wicked Noah s ark. Cribbed and barred and\nmoored by massive rusty chains, the prison-ship seemed in my young eyes\nto be ironed like the prisoners. We saw the boat go alongside, and we\nsaw him taken up the side and disappear. Then, the ends of the torches\nwere flung hissing into the water, and went out, as if it were all over\nwith him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI.\n\n\nMy state of mind regarding the pilfering from which I had been so\nunexpectedly exonerated did not impel me to frank disclosure; but I\nhope it had some dregs of good at the bottom of it.\n\nI do not recall that I felt any tenderness of conscience in reference\nto Mrs. Joe, when the fear of being found out was lifted off me. But I\nloved Joe, perhaps for no better reason in those early days than\nbecause the dear fellow let me love him, and, as to him, my inner self\nwas not so easily composed. It was much upon my mind (particularly when\nI first saw him looking about for his file) that I ought to tell Joe\nthe whole truth. Yet I did not, and for the reason that I mistrusted\nthat if I did, he would think me worse than I was. The fear of losing\nJoe s confidence, and of thenceforth sitting in the chimney corner at\nnight staring drearily at my forever lost companion and friend, tied up\nmy tongue. I morbidly represented to myself that if Joe knew it, I\nnever afterwards could see him at the fireside feeling his fair\nwhisker, without thinking that he was meditating on it. That, if Joe\nknew it, I never afterwards could see him glance, however casually, at\nyesterday s meat or pudding when it came on to-day s table, without\nthinking that he was debating whether I had been in the pantry. That,\nif Joe knew it, and at any subsequent period of our joint domestic life\nremarked that his beer was flat or thick, the conviction that he\nsuspected tar in it, would bring a rush of blood to my face. In a word,\nI was too cowardly to do what I knew to be right, as I had been too\ncowardly to avoid doing what I knew to be wrong. I had had no\nintercourse with the world at that time, and I imitated none of its\nmany inhabitants who act in this manner. Quite an untaught genius, I\nmade the discovery of the line of action for myself.\n\nAs I was sleepy before we were far away from the prison-ship, Joe took\nme on his back again and carried me home. He must have had a tiresome\njourney of it, for Mr. Wopsle, being knocked up, was in such a very bad\ntemper that if the Church had been thrown open, he would probably have\nexcommunicated the whole expedition, beginning with Joe and myself. In\nhis lay capacity, he persisted in sitting down in the damp to such an\ninsane extent, that when his coat was taken off to be dried at the\nkitchen fire, the circumstantial evidence on his trousers would have\nhanged him, if it had been a capital offence.\n\nBy that time, I was staggering on the kitchen floor like a little\ndrunkard, through having been newly set upon my feet, and through\nhaving been fast asleep, and through waking in the heat and lights and\nnoise of tongues. As I came to myself (with the aid of a heavy thump\nbetween the shoulders, and the restorative exclamation  Yah! Was there\never such a boy as this!  from my sister,) I found Joe telling them\nabout the convict s confession, and all the visitors suggesting\ndifferent ways by which he had got into the pantry. Mr. Pumblechook\nmade out, after carefully surveying the premises, that he had first got\nupon the roof of the forge, and had then got upon the roof of the\nhouse, and had then let himself down the kitchen chimney by a rope made\nof his bedding cut into strips; and as Mr. Pumblechook was very\npositive and drove his own chaise-cart over everybody it was agreed\nthat it must be so. Mr. Wopsle, indeed, wildly cried out,  No!  with\nthe feeble malice of a tired man; but, as he had no theory, and no coat\non, he was unanimously set at naught, not to mention his smoking hard\nbehind, as he stood with his back to the kitchen fire to draw the damp\nout: which was not calculated to inspire confidence.\n\nThis was all I heard that night before my sister clutched me, as a\nslumberous offence to the company s eyesight, and assisted me up to bed\nwith such a strong hand that I seemed to have fifty boots on, and to be\ndangling them all against the edges of the stairs. My state of mind, as\nI have described it, began before I was up in the morning, and lasted\nlong after the subject had died out, and had ceased to be mentioned\nsaving on exceptional occasions.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII.\n\n\nAt the time when I stood in the churchyard reading the family\ntombstones, I had just enough learning to be able to spell them out. My\nconstruction even of their simple meaning was not very correct, for I\nread  wife of the Above  as a complimentary reference to my father s\nexaltation to a better world; and if any one of my deceased relations\nhad been referred to as  Below,  I have no doubt I should have formed\nthe worst opinions of that member of the family. Neither were my\nnotions of the theological positions to which my Catechism bound me, at\nall accurate; for, I have a lively remembrance that I supposed my\ndeclaration that I was to  walk in the same all the days of my life, \nlaid me under an obligation always to go through the village from our\nhouse in one particular direction, and never to vary it by turning down\nby the wheelwright s or up by the mill.\n\nWhen I was old enough, I was to be apprenticed to Joe, and until I\ncould assume that dignity I was not to be what Mrs. Joe called\n Pompeyed,  or (as I render it) pampered. Therefore, I was not only\nodd-boy about the forge, but if any neighbour happened to want an extra\nboy to frighten birds, or pick up stones, or do any such job, I was\nfavoured with the employment. In order, however, that our superior\nposition might not be compromised thereby, a money-box was kept on the\nkitchen mantel-shelf, into which it was publicly made known that all my\nearnings were dropped. I have an impression that they were to be\ncontributed eventually towards the liquidation of the National Debt,\nbut I know I had no hope of any personal participation in the treasure.\n\nMr. Wopsle s great-aunt kept an evening school in the village; that is\nto say, she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited\ninfirmity, who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening, in\nthe society of youth who paid two pence per week each, for the\nimproving opportunity of seeing her do it. She rented a small cottage,\nand Mr. Wopsle had the room upstairs, where we students used to\noverhear him reading aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner, and\noccasionally bumping on the ceiling. There was a fiction that Mr.\nWopsle  examined  the scholars once a quarter. What he did on those\noccasions was to turn up his cuffs, stick up his hair, and give us Mark\nAntony s oration over the body of Caesar. This was always followed by\nCollins s Ode on the Passions, wherein I particularly venerated Mr.\nWopsle as Revenge throwing his blood-stained sword in thunder down, and\ntaking the War-denouncing trumpet with a withering look. It was not\nwith me then, as it was in later life, when I fell into the society of\nthe Passions, and compared them with Collins and Wopsle, rather to the\ndisadvantage of both gentlemen.\n\nMr. Wopsle s great-aunt, besides keeping this Educational Institution,\nkept in the same room a little general shop. She had no idea what stock\nshe had, or what the price of anything in it was; but there was a\nlittle greasy memorandum-book kept in a drawer, which served as a\nCatalogue of Prices, and by this oracle Biddy arranged all the shop\ntransactions. Biddy was Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s granddaughter; I\nconfess myself quite unequal to the working out of the problem, what\nrelation she was to Mr. Wopsle. She was an orphan like myself; like me,\ntoo, had been brought up by hand. She was most noticeable, I thought,\nin respect of her extremities; for, her hair always wanted brushing,\nher hands always wanted washing, and her shoes always wanted mending\nand pulling up at heel. This description must be received with a\nweek-day limitation. On Sundays, she went to church elaborated.\n\nMuch of my unassisted self, and more by the help of Biddy than of Mr.\nWopsle s great-aunt, I struggled through the alphabet as if it had been\na bramble-bush; getting considerably worried and scratched by every\nletter. After that I fell among those thieves, the nine figures, who\nseemed every evening to do something new to disguise themselves and\nbaffle recognition. But, at last I began, in a purblind groping way, to\nread, write, and cipher, on the very smallest scale.\n\nOne night I was sitting in the chimney corner with my slate, expending\ngreat efforts on the production of a letter to Joe. I think it must\nhave been a full year after our hunt upon the marshes, for it was a\nlong time after, and it was winter and a hard frost. With an alphabet\non the hearth at my feet for reference, I contrived in an hour or two\nto print and smear this epistle: \n\n MI DEER JO i OPE U R KRWITE WELL i OPE i SHAL SON B HABELL 4 2 TEEDGE\nU JO AN THEN WE SHORL B SO GLODD AN WEN i M PRENGTD 2 U JO WOT LARX AN\nBLEVE ME INF XN PIP. \n\n\nThere was no indispensable necessity for my communicating with Joe by\nletter, inasmuch as he sat beside me and we were alone. But I delivered\nthis written communication (slate and all) with my own hand, and Joe\nreceived it as a miracle of erudition.\n\n I say, Pip, old chap!  cried Joe, opening his blue eyes wide,  what a\nscholar you are! An t you? \n\n I should like to be,  said I, glancing at the slate as he held it;\nwith a misgiving that the writing was rather hilly.\n\n Why, here s a J,  said Joe,  and a O equal to anythink! Here s a J and\na O, Pip, and a J-O, Joe. \n\n[Illustration]\n\nI had never heard Joe read aloud to any greater extent than this\nmonosyllable, and I had observed at church last Sunday, when I\naccidentally held our Prayer-Book upside down, that it seemed to suit\nhis convenience quite as well as if it had been all right. Wishing to\nembrace the present occasion of finding out whether in teaching Joe, I\nshould have to begin quite at the beginning, I said,  Ah! But read the\nrest, Jo. \n\n The rest, eh, Pip?  said Joe, looking at it with a slow, searching\neye,  One, two, three. Why, here s three Js, and three Os, and three\nJ-O, Joes in it, Pip! \n\nI leaned over Joe, and, with the aid of my forefinger read him the\nwhole letter.\n\n Astonishing!  said Joe, when I had finished.  You ARE a scholar. \n\n How do you spell Gargery, Joe?  I asked him, with a modest patronage.\n\n I don t spell it at all,  said Joe.\n\n But supposing you did? \n\n It _can t_ be supposed,  said Joe.  Tho  I m uncommon fond of reading,\ntoo. \n\n Are you, Joe? \n\n On-common. Give me,  said Joe,  a good book, or a good newspaper, and\nsit me down afore a good fire, and I ask no better. Lord!  he\ncontinued, after rubbing his knees a little,  when you _do_ come to a J\nand a O, and says you,  Here, at last, is a J-O, Joe,  how interesting\nreading is! \n\nI derived from this, that Joe s education, like Steam, was yet in its\ninfancy. Pursuing the subject, I inquired, \n\n Didn t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me? \n\n No, Pip. \n\n Why didn t you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me? \n\n Well, Pip,  said Joe, taking up the poker, and settling himself to his\nusual occupation when he was thoughtful, of slowly raking the fire\nbetween the lower bars;  I ll tell you. My father, Pip, he were given\nto drink, and when he were overtook with drink, he hammered away at my\nmother, most onmerciful. It were a most the only hammering he did,\nindeed,  xcepting at myself. And he hammered at me with a wigor only to\nbe equalled by the wigor with which he didn t hammer at his\nanwil. You re a listening and understanding, Pip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n Consequence, my mother and me we ran away from my father several\ntimes; and then my mother she d go out to work, and she d say,  Joe, \nshe d say,  now, please God, you shall have some schooling, child,  and\nshe d put me to school. But my father were that good in his hart that\nhe couldn t abear to be without us. So, he d come with a most\ntremenjous crowd and make such a row at the doors of the houses where\nwe was, that they used to be obligated to have no more to do with us\nand to give us up to him. And then he took us home and hammered us.\nWhich, you see, Pip,  said Joe, pausing in his meditative raking of the\nfire, and looking at me,  were a drawback on my learning. \n\n Certainly, poor Joe! \n\n Though mind you, Pip,  said Joe, with a judicial touch or two of the\npoker on the top bar,  rendering unto all their doo, and maintaining\nequal justice betwixt man and man, my father were that good in his\nhart, don t you see? \n\nI didn t see; but I didn t say so.\n\n Well!  Joe pursued,  somebody must keep the pot a-biling, Pip, or the\npot won t bile, don t you know? \n\nI saw that, and said so.\n\n Consequence, my father didn t make objections to my going to work; so\nI went to work at my present calling, which were his too, if he would\nhave followed it, and I worked tolerable hard, I assure _you_, Pip. In\ntime I were able to keep him, and I kep him till he went off in a\npurple leptic fit. And it were my intentions to have had put upon his\ntombstone that, Whatsume er the failings on his part, Remember reader\nhe were that good in his heart. \n\nJoe recited this couplet with such manifest pride and careful\nperspicuity, that I asked him if he had made it himself.\n\n I made it,  said Joe,  my own self. I made it in a moment. It was like\nstriking out a horseshoe complete, in a single blow. I never was so\nmuch surprised in all my life, couldn t credit my own ed, to tell you\nthe truth, hardly believed it _were_ my own ed. As I was saying, Pip,\nit were my intentions to have had it cut over him; but poetry costs\nmoney, cut it how you will, small or large, and it were not done. Not\nto mention bearers, all the money that could be spared were wanted for\nmy mother. She were in poor elth, and quite broke. She weren t long of\nfollowing, poor soul, and her share of peace come round at last. \n\nJoe s blue eyes turned a little watery; he rubbed first one of them,\nand then the other, in a most uncongenial and uncomfortable manner,\nwith the round knob on the top of the poker.\n\n It were but lonesome then,  said Joe,  living here alone, and I got\nacquainted with your sister. Now, Pip, Joe looked firmly at me as if\nhe knew I was not going to agree with him; your sister is a fine\nfigure of a woman. \n\nI could not help looking at the fire, in an obvious state of doubt.\n\n Whatever family opinions, or whatever the world s opinions, on that\nsubject may be, Pip, your sister is,  Joe tapped the top bar with the\npoker after every word following,  a-fine-figure of a woman! \n\nI could think of nothing better to say than  I am glad you think so,\nJoe. \n\n So am I,  returned Joe, catching me up.  _I_ am glad I think so, Pip.\nA little redness or a little matter of Bone, here or there, what does\nit signify to Me? \n\nI sagaciously observed, if it didn t signify to him, to whom did it\nsignify?\n\n Certainly!  assented Joe.  That s it. You re right, old chap! When I\ngot acquainted with your sister, it were the talk how she was bringing\nyou up by hand. Very kind of her too, all the folks said, and I said,\nalong with all the folks. As to you,  Joe pursued with a countenance\nexpressive of seeing something very nasty indeed,  if you could have\nbeen aware how small and flabby and mean you was, dear me, you d have\nformed the most contemptible opinion of yourself! \n\nNot exactly relishing this, I said,  Never mind me, Joe. \n\n But I did mind you, Pip,  he returned with tender simplicity.  When I\noffered to your sister to keep company, and to be asked in church at\nsuch times as she was willing and ready to come to the forge, I said to\nher,  And bring the poor little child. God bless the poor little\nchild,  I said to your sister,  there s room for _him_ at the forge! \n\nI broke out crying and begging pardon, and hugged Joe round the neck:\nwho dropped the poker to hug me, and to say,  Ever the best of friends;\nan t us, Pip? Don t cry, old chap! \n\nWhen this little interruption was over, Joe resumed: \n\n Well, you see, Pip, and here we are! That s about where it lights;\nhere we are! Now, when you take me in hand in my learning, Pip (and I\ntell you beforehand I am awful dull, most awful dull), Mrs. Joe mustn t\nsee too much of what we re up to. It must be done, as I may say, on the\nsly. And why on the sly? I ll tell you why, Pip. \n\nHe had taken up the poker again; without which, I doubt if he could\nhave proceeded in his demonstration.\n\n Your sister is given to government. \n\n Given to government, Joe?  I was startled, for I had some shadowy idea\n(and I am afraid I must add, hope) that Joe had divorced her in a\nfavour of the Lords of the Admiralty, or Treasury.\n\n Given to government,  said Joe.  Which I meantersay the government of\nyou and myself. \n\n Oh! \n\n And she an t over partial to having scholars on the premises,  Joe\ncontinued,  and in partickler would not be over partial to my being a\nscholar, for fear as I might rise. Like a sort of rebel, don t you\nsee? \n\nI was going to retort with an inquiry, and had got as far as  Why \nwhen Joe stopped me.\n\n Stay a bit. I know what you re a-going to say, Pip; stay a bit! I\ndon t deny that your sister comes the Mo-gul over us, now and again. I\ndon t deny that she do throw us back-falls, and that she do drop down\nupon us heavy. At such times as when your sister is on the Ram-page,\nPip,  Joe sank his voice to a whisper and glanced at the door,  candour\ncompels fur to admit that she is a Buster. \n\nJoe pronounced this word, as if it began with at least twelve capital\nBs.\n\n Why don t I rise? That were your observation when I broke it off,\nPip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n Well,  said Joe, passing the poker into his left hand, that he might\nfeel his whisker; and I had no hope of him whenever he took to that\nplacid occupation;  your sister s a master-mind. A master-mind. \n\n What s that?  I asked, in some hope of bringing him to a stand. But\nJoe was readier with his definition than I had expected, and completely\nstopped me by arguing circularly, and answering with a fixed look,\n Her. \n\n And I ain t a master-mind,  Joe resumed, when he had unfixed his look,\nand got back to his whisker.  And last of all, Pip, and this I want to\nsay very serious to you, old chap, I see so much in my poor mother, of\na woman drudging and slaving and breaking her honest hart and never\ngetting no peace in her mortal days, that I m dead afeerd of going\nwrong in the way of not doing what s right by a woman, and I d fur\nrather of the two go wrong the t other way, and be a little\nill-conwenienced myself. I wish it was only me that got put out, Pip; I\nwish there warn t no Tickler for you, old chap; I wish I could take it\nall on myself; but this is the up-and-down-and-straight on it, Pip, and\nI hope you ll overlook shortcomings. \n\nYoung as I was, I believe that I dated a new admiration of Joe from\nthat night. We were equals afterwards, as we had been before; but,\nafterwards at quiet times when I sat looking at Joe and thinking about\nhim, I had a new sensation of feeling conscious that I was looking up\nto Joe in my heart.\n\n However,  said Joe, rising to replenish the fire;  here s the\nDutch-clock a-working himself up to being equal to strike Eight of  em,\nand she s not come home yet! I hope Uncle Pumblechook s mare mayn t\nhave set a forefoot on a piece o  ice, and gone down. \n\nMrs. Joe made occasional trips with Uncle Pumblechook on market-days,\nto assist him in buying such household stuffs and goods as required a\nwoman s judgment; Uncle Pumblechook being a bachelor and reposing no\nconfidences in his domestic servant. This was market-day, and Mrs. Joe\nwas out on one of these expeditions.\n\nJoe made the fire and swept the hearth, and then we went to the door to\nlisten for the chaise-cart. It was a dry cold night, and the wind blew\nkeenly, and the frost was white and hard. A man would die to-night of\nlying out on the marshes, I thought. And then I looked at the stars,\nand considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to\nthem as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the\nglittering multitude.\n\n Here comes the mare,  said Joe,  ringing like a peal of bells! \n\nThe sound of her iron shoes upon the hard road was quite musical, as\nshe came along at a much brisker trot than usual. We got a chair out,\nready for Mrs. Joe s alighting, and stirred up the fire that they might\nsee a bright window, and took a final survey of the kitchen that\nnothing might be out of its place. When we had completed these\npreparations, they drove up, wrapped to the eyes. Mrs. Joe was soon\nlanded, and Uncle Pumblechook was soon down too, covering the mare with\na cloth, and we were soon all in the kitchen, carrying so much cold air\nin with us that it seemed to drive all the heat out of the fire.\n\n Now,  said Mrs. Joe, unwrapping herself with haste and excitement, and\nthrowing her bonnet back on her shoulders where it hung by the strings,\n if this boy ain t grateful this night, he never will be! \n\nI looked as grateful as any boy possibly could, who was wholly\nuninformed why he ought to assume that expression.\n\n It s only to be hoped,  said my sister,  that he won t be Pompeyed.\nBut I have my fears. \n\n She ain t in that line, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  She knows\nbetter. \n\nShe? I looked at Joe, making the motion with my lips and eyebrows,\n She?  Joe looked at me, making the motion with _his_ lips and\neyebrows,  She?  My sister catching him in the act, he drew the back of\nhis hand across his nose with his usual conciliatory air on such\noccasions, and looked at her.\n\n Well?  said my sister, in her snappish way.  What are you staring at?\nIs the house afire? \n\n Which some individual,  Joe politely hinted,  mentioned she. \n\n And she is a she, I suppose?  said my sister.  Unless you call Miss\nHavisham a he. And I doubt if even you ll go so far as that. \n\n Miss Havisham, up town?  said Joe.\n\n Is there any Miss Havisham down town?  returned my sister.\n\n She wants this boy to go and play there. And of course he s going. And\nhe had better play there,  said my sister, shaking her head at me as an\nencouragement to be extremely light and sportive,  or I ll work him. \n\nI had heard of Miss Havisham up town, everybody for miles round had\nheard of Miss Havisham up town, as an immensely rich and grim lady who\nlived in a large and dismal house barricaded against robbers, and who\nled a life of seclusion.\n\n Well to be sure!  said Joe, astounded.  I wonder how she come to know\nPip! \n\n Noodle!  cried my sister.  Who said she knew him? \n\n Which some individual,  Joe again politely hinted,  mentioned that\nshe wanted him to go and play there. \n\n And couldn t she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and\nplay there? Isn t it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be\na tenant of hers, and that he may sometimes we won t say quarterly or\nhalf-yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you but\nsometimes go there to pay his rent? And couldn t she then ask Uncle\nPumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn t\nUncle Pumblechook, being always considerate and thoughtful for\nus though you may not think it, Joseph,  in a tone of the deepest\nreproach, as if he were the most callous of nephews,  then mention this\nboy, standing Prancing here which I solemnly declare I was not\ndoing that I have for ever been a willing slave to? \n\n Good again!  cried Uncle Pumblechook.  Well put! Prettily pointed!\nGood indeed! Now Joseph, you know the case. \n\n No, Joseph,  said my sister, still in a reproachful manner, while Joe\napologetically drew the back of his hand across and across his nose,\n you do not yet though you may not think it know the case. You may\nconsider that you do, but you do _not_, Joseph. For you do not know\nthat Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell,\nthis boy s fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havisham s, has\noffered to take him into town to-night in his own chaise-cart, and to\nkeep him to-night, and to take him with his own hands to Miss\nHavisham s to-morrow morning. And Lor-a-mussy me!  cried my sister,\ncasting off her bonnet in sudden desperation,  here I stand talking to\nmere Mooncalfs, with Uncle Pumblechook waiting, and the mare catching\ncold at the door, and the boy grimed with crock and dirt from the hair\nof his head to the sole of his foot! \n\nWith that, she pounced upon me, like an eagle on a lamb, and my face\nwas squeezed into wooden bowls in sinks, and my head was put under taps\nof water-butts, and I was soaped, and kneaded, and towelled, and\nthumped, and harrowed, and rasped, until I really was quite beside\nmyself. (I may here remark that I suppose myself to be better\nacquainted than any living authority, with the ridgy effect of a\nwedding-ring, passing unsympathetically over the human countenance.)\n\nWhen my ablutions were completed, I was put into clean linen of the\nstiffest character, like a young penitent into sackcloth, and was\ntrussed up in my tightest and fearfullest suit. I was then delivered\nover to Mr. Pumblechook, who formally received me as if he were the\nSheriff, and who let off upon me the speech that I knew he had been\ndying to make all along:  Boy, be forever grateful to all friends, but\nespecially unto them which brought you up by hand! \n\n Good-bye, Joe! \n\n God bless you, Pip, old chap! \n\nI had never parted from him before, and what with my feelings and what\nwith soapsuds, I could at first see no stars from the chaise-cart. But\nthey twinkled out one by one, without throwing any light on the\nquestions why on earth I was going to play at Miss Havisham s, and what\non earth I was expected to play at.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII.\n\n\nMr. Pumblechook s premises in the High Street of the market town, were\nof a peppercorny and farinaceous character, as the premises of a\ncornchandler and seedsman should be. It appeared to me that he must be\na very happy man indeed, to have so many little drawers in his shop;\nand I wondered when I peeped into one or two on the lower tiers, and\nsaw the tied-up brown paper packets inside, whether the flower-seeds\nand bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of those jails, and\nbloom.\n\nIt was in the early morning after my arrival that I entertained this\nspeculation. On the previous night, I had been sent straight to bed in\nan attic with a sloping roof, which was so low in the corner where the\nbedstead was, that I calculated the tiles as being within a foot of my\neyebrows. In the same early morning, I discovered a singular affinity\nbetween seeds and corduroys. Mr. Pumblechook wore corduroys, and so did\nhis shopman; and somehow, there was a general air and flavour about the\ncorduroys, so much in the nature of seeds, and a general air and\nflavour about the seeds, so much in the nature of corduroys, that I\nhardly knew which was which. The same opportunity served me for\nnoticing that Mr. Pumblechook appeared to conduct his business by\nlooking across the street at the saddler, who appeared to transact\n_his_ business by keeping his eye on the coachmaker, who appeared to\nget on in life by putting his hands in his pockets and contemplating\nthe baker, who in his turn folded his arms and stared at the grocer,\nwho stood at his door and yawned at the chemist. The watchmaker, always\nporing over a little desk with a magnifying-glass at his eye, and\nalways inspected by a group of smock-frocks poring over him through the\nglass of his shop-window, seemed to be about the only person in the\nHigh Street whose trade engaged his attention.\n\nMr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight o clock in the parlour\nbehind the shop, while the shopman took his mug of tea and hunch of\nbread and butter on a sack of peas in the front premises. I considered\nMr. Pumblechook wretched company. Besides being possessed by my\nsister s idea that a mortifying and penitential character ought to be\nimparted to my diet, besides giving me as much crumb as possible in\ncombination with as little butter, and putting such a quantity of warm\nwater into my milk that it would have been more candid to have left the\nmilk out altogether, his conversation consisted of nothing but\narithmetic. On my politely bidding him Good-morning, he said,\npompously,  Seven times nine, boy?  And how should _I_ be able to\nanswer, dodged in that way, in a strange place, on an empty stomach! I\nwas hungry, but before I had swallowed a morsel, he began a running sum\nthat lasted all through the breakfast.  Seven?   And four?   And\neight?   And six?   And two?   And ten?  And so on. And after each\nfigure was disposed of, it was as much as I could do to get a bite or a\nsup, before the next came; while he sat at his ease guessing nothing,\nand eating bacon and hot roll, in (if I may be allowed the expression)\na gorging and gormandizing manner.\n\nFor such reasons, I was very glad when ten o clock came and we started\nfor Miss Havisham s; though I was not at all at my ease regarding the\nmanner in which I should acquit myself under that lady s roof. Within a\nquarter of an hour we came to Miss Havisham s house, which was of old\nbrick, and dismal, and had a great many iron bars to it. Some of the\nwindows had been walled up; of those that remained, all the lower were\nrustily barred. There was a courtyard in front, and that was barred; so\nwe had to wait, after ringing the bell, until some one should come to\nopen it. While we waited at the gate, I peeped in (even then Mr.\nPumblechook said,  And fourteen?  but I pretended not to hear him), and\nsaw that at the side of the house there was a large brewery. No brewing\nwas going on in it, and none seemed to have gone on for a long long\ntime.\n\nA window was raised, and a clear voice demanded  What name?  To which\nmy conductor replied,  Pumblechook.  The voice returned,  Quite right, \nand the window was shut again, and a young lady came across the\ncourt-yard, with keys in her hand.\n\n This,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  is Pip. \n\n This is Pip, is it?  returned the young lady, who was very pretty and\nseemed very proud;  come in, Pip. \n\nMr. Pumblechook was coming in also, when she stopped him with the gate.\n\n Oh!  she said.  Did you wish to see Miss Havisham? \n\n If Miss Havisham wished to see me,  returned Mr. Pumblechook,\ndiscomfited.\n\n Ah!  said the girl;  but you see she don t. \n\nShe said it so finally, and in such an undiscussible way, that Mr.\nPumblechook, though in a condition of ruffled dignity, could not\nprotest. But he eyed me severely, as if _I_ had done anything to\nhim! and departed with the words reproachfully delivered:  Boy! Let\nyour behaviour here be a credit unto them which brought you up by\nhand!  I was not free from apprehension that he would come back to\npropound through the gate,  And sixteen?  But he didn t.\n\nMy young conductress locked the gate, and we went across the courtyard.\nIt was paved and clean, but grass was growing in every crevice. The\nbrewery buildings had a little lane of communication with it, and the\nwooden gates of that lane stood open, and all the brewery beyond stood\nopen, away to the high enclosing wall; and all was empty and disused.\nThe cold wind seemed to blow colder there than outside the gate; and it\nmade a shrill noise in howling in and out at the open sides of the\nbrewery, like the noise of wind in the rigging of a ship at sea.\n\nShe saw me looking at it, and she said,  You could drink without hurt\nall the strong beer that s brewed there now, boy. \n\n I should think I could, miss,  said I, in a shy way.\n\n Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, boy;\ndon t you think so? \n\n It looks like it, miss. \n\n Not that anybody means to try,  she added,  for that s all done with,\nand the place will stand as idle as it is till it falls. As to strong\nbeer, there s enough of it in the cellars already, to drown the Manor\nHouse. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n Is that the name of this house, miss? \n\n One of its names, boy. \n\n It has more than one, then, miss? \n\n One more. Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or\nHebrew, or all three or all one to me for enough. \n\n Enough House,  said I;  that s a curious name, miss. \n\n Yes,  she replied;  but it meant more than it said. It meant, when it\nwas given, that whoever had this house could want nothing else. They\nmust have been easily satisfied in those days, I should think. But\ndon t loiter, boy. \n\nThough she called me  boy  so often, and with a carelessness that was\nfar from complimentary, she was of about my own age. She seemed much\nolder than I, of course, being a girl, and beautiful and\nself-possessed; and she was as scornful of me as if she had been\none-and-twenty, and a queen.\n\nWe went into the house by a side door, the great front entrance had two\nchains across it outside, and the first thing I noticed was, that the\npassages were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there.\nShe took it up, and we went through more passages and up a staircase,\nand still it was all dark, and only the candle lighted us.\n\nAt last we came to the door of a room, and she said,  Go in. \n\nI answered, more in shyness than politeness,  After you, miss. \n\nTo this she returned:  Don t be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in. \nAnd scornfully walked away, and what was worse took the candle with\nher.\n\nThis was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid. However, the only\nthing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told\nfrom within to enter. I entered, therefore, and found myself in a\npretty large room, well lighted with wax candles. No glimpse of\ndaylight was to be seen in it. It was a dressing-room, as I supposed\nfrom the furniture, though much of it was of forms and uses then quite\nunknown to me. But prominent in it was a draped table with a gilded\nlooking-glass, and that I made out at first sight to be a fine lady s\ndressing-table.\n\nWhether I should have made out this object so soon if there had been no\nfine lady sitting at it, I cannot say. In an arm-chair, with an elbow\nresting on the table and her head leaning on that hand, sat the\nstrangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever see.\n\nShe was dressed in rich materials, satins, and lace, and silks, all of\nwhite. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent\nfrom her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was\nwhite. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and\nsome other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid\nthan the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about.\nShe had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on, the\nother was on the table near her hand, her veil was but half arranged,\nher watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay\nwith those trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some\nflowers, and a Prayer-Book all confusedly heaped about the\nlooking-glass.\n\nIt was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though\nI saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But I\nsaw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been\nwhite long ago, and had lost its lustre and was faded and yellow. I saw\nthat the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and\nlike the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her\nsunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure\nof a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose had\nshrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly\nwaxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what impossible personage\nlying in state. Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches\nto see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress that had been dug out of\na vault under the church pavement. Now, waxwork and skeleton seemed to\nhave dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if\nI could.\n\n Who is it?  said the lady at the table.\n\n Pip, ma am. \n\n Pip? \n\n Mr. Pumblechook s boy, ma am. Come to play. \n\n Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close. \n\nIt was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of\nthe surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped\nat twenty minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at\ntwenty minutes to nine.\n\n Look at me,  said Miss Havisham.  You are not afraid of a woman who\nhas never seen the sun since you were born? \n\nI regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie\ncomprehended in the answer  No. \n\n Do you know what I touch here?  she said, laying her hands, one upon\nthe other, on her left side.\n\n Yes, ma am.  (It made me think of the young man.)\n\n What do I touch? \n\n Your heart. \n\n Broken! \n\nShe uttered the word with an eager look, and with strong emphasis, and\nwith a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it. Afterwards she kept\nher hands there for a little while, and slowly took them away as if\nthey were heavy.\n\n I am tired,  said Miss Havisham.  I want diversion, and I have done\nwith men and women. Play. \n\nI think it will be conceded by my most disputatious reader, that she\ncould hardly have directed an unfortunate boy to do anything in the\nwide world more difficult to be done under the circumstances.\n\n I sometimes have sick fancies,  she went on,  and I have a sick fancy\nthat I want to see some play. There, there!  with an impatient movement\nof the fingers of her right hand;  play, play, play! \n\nFor a moment, with the fear of my sister s working me before my eyes, I\nhad a desperate idea of starting round the room in the assumed\ncharacter of Mr. Pumblechook s chaise-cart. But I felt myself so\nunequal to the performance that I gave it up, and stood looking at Miss\nHavisham in what I suppose she took for a dogged manner, inasmuch as\nshe said, when we had taken a good look at each other, \n\n Are you sullen and obstinate? \n\n No, ma am, I am very sorry for you, and very sorry I can t play just\nnow. If you complain of me I shall get into trouble with my sister, so\nI would do it if I could; but it s so new here, and so strange, and so\nfine, and melancholy .  I stopped, fearing I might say too much, or had\nalready said it, and we took another look at each other.\n\nBefore she spoke again, she turned her eyes from me, and looked at the\ndress she wore, and at the dressing-table, and finally at herself in\nthe looking-glass.\n\n So new to him,  she muttered,  so old to me; so strange to him, so\nfamiliar to me; so melancholy to both of us! Call Estella. \n\nAs she was still looking at the reflection of herself, I thought she\nwas still talking to herself, and kept quiet.\n\n Call Estella,  she repeated, flashing a look at me.  You can do that.\nCall Estella. At the door. \n\nTo stand in the dark in a mysterious passage of an unknown house,\nbawling Estella to a scornful young lady neither visible nor\nresponsive, and feeling it a dreadful liberty so to roar out her name,\nwas almost as bad as playing to order. But she answered at last, and\nher light came along the dark passage like a star.\n\nMiss Havisham beckoned her to come close, and took up a jewel from the\ntable, and tried its effect upon her fair young bosom and against her\npretty brown hair.  Your own, one day, my dear, and you will use it\nwell. Let me see you play cards with this boy. \n\n With this boy? Why, he is a common labouring-boy! \n\nI thought I overheard Miss Havisham answer, only it seemed so\nunlikely, Well? You can break his heart. \n\n What do you play, boy?  asked Estella of myself, with the greatest\ndisdain.\n\n Nothing but beggar my neighbour, miss. \n\n Beggar him,  said Miss Havisham to Estella. So we sat down to cards.\n\nIt was then I began to understand that everything in the room had\nstopped, like the watch and the clock, a long time ago. I noticed that\nMiss Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had\ntaken it up. As Estella dealt the cards, I glanced at the\ndressing-table again, and saw that the shoe upon it, once white, now\nyellow, had never been worn. I glanced down at the foot from which the\nshoe was absent, and saw that the silk stocking on it, once white, now\nyellow, had been trodden ragged. Without this arrest of everything,\nthis standing still of all the pale decayed objects, not even the\nwithered bridal dress on the collapsed form could have looked so like\ngrave-clothes, or the long veil so like a shroud.\n\nSo she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards; the frillings and\ntrimmings on her bridal dress, looking like earthy paper. I knew\nnothing then of the discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies\nburied in ancient times, which fall to powder in the moment of being\ndistinctly seen; but, I have often thought since, that she must have\nlooked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have\nstruck her to dust.\n\n He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy!  said Estella with disdain,\nbefore our first game was out.  And what coarse hands he has! And what\nthick boots! \n\nI had never thought of being ashamed of my hands before; but I began to\nconsider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so\nstrong, that it became infectious, and I caught it.\n\nShe won the game, and I dealt. I misdealt, as was only natural, when I\nknew she was lying in wait for me to do wrong; and she denounced me for\na stupid, clumsy labouring-boy.\n\n You say nothing of her,  remarked Miss Havisham to me, as she looked\non.  She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What\ndo you think of her? \n\n I don t like to say,  I stammered.\n\n Tell me in my ear,  said Miss Havisham, bending down.\n\n I think she is very proud,  I replied, in a whisper.\n\n Anything else? \n\n I think she is very pretty. \n\n Anything else? \n\n I think she is very insulting.  (She was looking at me then with a\nlook of supreme aversion.)\n\n Anything else? \n\n I think I should like to go home. \n\n And never see her again, though she is so pretty? \n\n I am not sure that I shouldn t like to see her again, but I should\nlike to go home now. \n\n You shall go soon,  said Miss Havisham, aloud.  Play the game out. \n\nSaving for the one weird smile at first, I should have felt almost sure\nthat Miss Havisham s face could not smile. It had dropped into a\nwatchful and brooding expression, most likely when all the things about\nher had become transfixed, and it looked as if nothing could ever lift\nit up again. Her chest had dropped, so that she stooped; and her voice\nhad dropped, so that she spoke low, and with a dead lull upon her;\naltogether, she had the appearance of having dropped body and soul,\nwithin and without, under the weight of a crushing blow.\n\nI played the game to an end with Estella, and she beggared me. She\nthrew the cards down on the table when she had won them all, as if she\ndespised them for having been won of me.\n\n When shall I have you here again?  said Miss Havisham.  Let me think. \n\nI was beginning to remind her that to-day was Wednesday, when she\nchecked me with her former impatient movement of the fingers of her\nright hand.\n\n There, there! I know nothing of days of the week; I know nothing of\nweeks of the year. Come again after six days. You hear? \n\n Yes, ma am. \n\n Estella, take him down. Let him have something to eat, and let him\nroam and look about him while he eats. Go, Pip. \n\nI followed the candle down, as I had followed the candle up, and she\nstood it in the place where we had found it. Until she opened the side\nentrance, I had fancied, without thinking about it, that it must\nnecessarily be night-time. The rush of the daylight quite confounded\nme, and made me feel as if I had been in the candlelight of the strange\nroom many hours.\n\n You are to wait here, you boy,  said Estella; and disappeared and\nclosed the door.\n\nI took the opportunity of being alone in the courtyard to look at my\ncoarse hands and my common boots. My opinion of those accessories was\nnot favourable. They had never troubled me before, but they troubled me\nnow, as vulgar appendages. I determined to ask Joe why he had ever\ntaught me to call those picture-cards Jacks, which ought to be called\nknaves. I wished Joe had been rather more genteelly brought up, and\nthen I should have been so too.\n\nShe came back, with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer. She\nput the mug down on the stones of the yard, and gave me the bread and\nmeat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in\ndisgrace. I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry, I\ncannot hit upon the right name for the smart God knows what its name\nwas, that tears started to my eyes. The moment they sprang there, the\ngirl looked at me with a quick delight in having been the cause of\nthem. This gave me power to keep them back and to look at her: so, she\ngave a contemptuous toss but with a sense, I thought, of having made\ntoo sure that I was so wounded and left me.\n\nBut when she was gone, I looked about me for a place to hide my face\nin, and got behind one of the gates in the brewery-lane, and leaned my\nsleeve against the wall there, and leaned my forehead on it and cried.\nAs I cried, I kicked the wall, and took a hard twist at my hair; so\nbitter were my feelings, and so sharp was the smart without a name,\nthat needed counteraction.\n\nMy sister s bringing up had made me sensitive. In the little world in\nwhich children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is\nnothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice. It may be\nonly small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is\nsmall, and its world is small, and its rocking-horse stands as many\nhands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter. Within\nmyself, I had sustained, from my babyhood, a perpetual conflict with\ninjustice. I had known, from the time when I could speak, that my\nsister, in her capricious and violent coercion, was unjust to me. I had\ncherished a profound conviction that her bringing me up by hand gave\nher no right to bring me up by jerks. Through all my punishments,\ndisgraces, fasts, and vigils, and other penitential performances, I had\nnursed this assurance; and to my communing so much with it, in a\nsolitary and unprotected way, I in great part refer the fact that I was\nmorally timid and very sensitive.\n\nI got rid of my injured feelings for the time by kicking them into the\nbrewery wall, and twisting them out of my hair, and then I smoothed my\nface with my sleeve, and came from behind the gate. The bread and meat\nwere acceptable, and the beer was warming and tingling, and I was soon\nin spirits to look about me.\n\nTo be sure, it was a deserted place, down to the pigeon-house in the\nbrewery-yard, which had been blown crooked on its pole by some high\nwind, and would have made the pigeons think themselves at sea, if there\nhad been any pigeons there to be rocked by it. But there were no\npigeons in the dove-cot, no horses in the stable, no pigs in the sty,\nno malt in the storehouse, no smells of grains and beer in the copper\nor the vat. All the uses and scents of the brewery might have\nevaporated with its last reek of smoke. In a by-yard, there was a\nwilderness of empty casks, which had a certain sour remembrance of\nbetter days lingering about them; but it was too sour to be accepted as\na sample of the beer that was gone, and in this respect I remember\nthose recluses as being like most others.\n\nBehind the furthest end of the brewery, was a rank garden with an old\nwall; not so high but that I could struggle up and hold on long enough\nto look over it, and see that the rank garden was the garden of the\nhouse, and that it was overgrown with tangled weeds, but that there was\na track upon the green and yellow paths, as if some one sometimes\nwalked there, and that Estella was walking away from me even then. But\nshe seemed to be everywhere. For when I yielded to the temptation\npresented by the casks, and began to walk on them, I saw _her_ walking\non them at the end of the yard of casks. She had her back towards me,\nand held her pretty brown hair spread out in her two hands, and never\nlooked round, and passed out of my view directly. So, in the brewery\nitself, by which I mean the large paved lofty place in which they used\nto make the beer, and where the brewing utensils still were. When I\nfirst went into it, and, rather oppressed by its gloom, stood near the\ndoor looking about me, I saw her pass among the extinguished fires, and\nascend some light iron stairs, and go out by a gallery high overhead,\nas if she were going out into the sky.\n\nIt was in this place, and at this moment, that a strange thing happened\nto my fancy. I thought it a strange thing then, and I thought it a\nstranger thing long afterwards. I turned my eyes a little dimmed by\nlooking up at the frosty light towards a great wooden beam in a low\nnook of the building near me on my right hand, and I saw a figure\nhanging there by the neck. A figure all in yellow white, with but one\nshoe to the feet; and it hung so, that I could see that the faded\ntrimmings of the dress were like earthy paper, and that the face was\nMiss Havisham s, with a movement going over the whole countenance as if\nshe were trying to call to me. In the terror of seeing the figure, and\nin the terror of being certain that it had not been there a moment\nbefore, I at first ran from it, and then ran towards it. And my terror\nwas greatest of all when I found no figure there.\n\nNothing less than the frosty light of the cheerful sky, the sight of\npeople passing beyond the bars of the court-yard gate, and the reviving\ninfluence of the rest of the bread and meat and beer, would have\nbrought me round. Even with those aids, I might not have come to myself\nas soon as I did, but that I saw Estella approaching with the keys, to\nlet me out. She would have some fair reason for looking down upon me, I\nthought, if she saw me frightened; and she would have no fair reason.\n\nShe gave me a triumphant glance in passing me, as if she rejoiced that\nmy hands were so coarse and my boots were so thick, and she opened the\ngate, and stood holding it. I was passing out without looking at her,\nwhen she touched me with a taunting hand.\n\n Why don t you cry? \n\n Because I don t want to. \n\n You do,  said she.  You have been crying till you are half blind, and\nyou are near crying again now. \n\nShe laughed contemptuously, pushed me out, and locked the gate upon me.\nI went straight to Mr. Pumblechook s, and was immensely relieved to\nfind him not at home. So, leaving word with the shopman on what day I\nwas wanted at Miss Havisham s again, I set off on the four-mile walk to\nour forge; pondering, as I went along, on all I had seen, and deeply\nrevolving that I was a common labouring-boy; that my hands were coarse;\nthat my boots were thick; that I had fallen into a despicable habit of\ncalling knaves Jacks; that I was much more ignorant than I had\nconsidered myself last night, and generally that I was in a low-lived\nbad way.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX.\n\n\nWhen I reached home, my sister was very curious to know all about Miss\nHavisham s, and asked a number of questions. And I soon found myself\ngetting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of the neck and the\nsmall of the back, and having my face ignominiously shoved against the\nkitchen wall, because I did not answer those questions at sufficient\nlength.\n\nIf a dread of not being understood be hidden in the breasts of other\nyoung people to anything like the extent to which it used to be hidden\nin mine, which I consider probable, as I have no particular reason to\nsuspect myself of having been a monstrosity, it is the key to many\nreservations. I felt convinced that if I described Miss Havisham s as\nmy eyes had seen it, I should not be understood. Not only that, but I\nfelt convinced that Miss Havisham too would not be understood; and\nalthough she was perfectly incomprehensible to me, I entertained an\nimpression that there would be something coarse and treacherous in my\ndragging her as she really was (to say nothing of Miss Estella) before\nthe contemplation of Mrs. Joe. Consequently, I said as little as I\ncould, and had my face shoved against the kitchen wall.\n\nThe worst of it was that that bullying old Pumblechook, preyed upon by\na devouring curiosity to be informed of all I had seen and heard, came\ngaping over in his chaise-cart at tea-time, to have the details\ndivulged to him. And the mere sight of the torment, with his fishy eyes\nand mouth open, his sandy hair inquisitively on end, and his waistcoat\nheaving with windy arithmetic, made me vicious in my reticence.\n\n Well, boy,  Uncle Pumblechook began, as soon as he was seated in the\nchair of honour by the fire.  How did you get on up town? \n\nI answered,  Pretty well, sir,  and my sister shook her fist at me.\n\n Pretty well?  Mr. Pumblechook repeated.  Pretty well is no answer.\nTell us what you mean by pretty well, boy? \n\nWhitewash on the forehead hardens the brain into a state of obstinacy\nperhaps. Anyhow, with whitewash from the wall on my forehead, my\nobstinacy was adamantine. I reflected for some time, and then answered\nas if I had discovered a new idea,  I mean pretty well. \n\nMy sister with an exclamation of impatience was going to fly at me, I\nhad no shadow of defence, for Joe was busy in the forge, when Mr.\nPumblechook interposed with  No! Don t lose your temper. Leave this lad\nto me, ma am; leave this lad to me.  Mr. Pumblechook then turned me\ntowards him, as if he were going to cut my hair, and said, \n\n First (to get our thoughts in order): Forty-three pence? \n\nI calculated the consequences of replying  Four Hundred Pound,  and\nfinding them against me, went as near the answer as I could which was\nsomewhere about eightpence off. Mr. Pumblechook then put me through my\npence-table from  twelve pence make one shilling,  up to  forty pence\nmake three and fourpence,  and then triumphantly demanded, as if he had\ndone for me,  _Now!_ How much is forty-three pence?  To which I\nreplied, after a long interval of reflection,  I don t know.  And I was\nso aggravated that I almost doubt if I did know.\n\nMr. Pumblechook worked his head like a screw to screw it out of me, and\nsaid,  Is forty-three pence seven and sixpence three fardens, for\ninstance? \n\n Yes!  said I. And although my sister instantly boxed my ears, it was\nhighly gratifying to me to see that the answer spoilt his joke, and\nbrought him to a dead stop.\n\n Boy! What like is Miss Havisham?  Mr. Pumblechook began again when he\nhad recovered; folding his arms tight on his chest and applying the\nscrew.\n\n Very tall and dark,  I told him.\n\n Is she, uncle?  asked my sister.\n\nMr. Pumblechook winked assent; from which I at once inferred that he\nhad never seen Miss Havisham, for she was nothing of the kind.\n\n Good!  said Mr. Pumblechook conceitedly. ( This is the way to have\nhim! We are beginning to hold our own, I think, Mum? )\n\n I am sure, uncle,  returned Mrs. Joe,  I wish you had him always; you\nknow so well how to deal with him. \n\n Now, boy! What was she a-doing of, when you went in today?  asked Mr.\nPumblechook.\n\n She was sitting,  I answered,  in a black velvet coach. \n\nMr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another as they well\nmight and both repeated,  In a black velvet coach? \n\n Yes,  said I.  And Miss Estella that s her niece, I think handed her\nin cake and wine at the coach-window, on a gold plate. And we all had\ncake and wine on gold plates. And I got up behind the coach to eat\nmine, because she told me to. \n\n Was anybody else there?  asked Mr. Pumblechook.\n\n Four dogs,  said I.\n\n Large or small? \n\n Immense,  said I.  And they fought for veal-cutlets out of a silver\nbasket. \n\nMr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another again, in utter\namazement. I was perfectly frantic, a reckless witness under the\ntorture, and would have told them anything.\n\n Where _was_ this coach, in the name of gracious?  asked my sister.\n\n In Miss Havisham s room.  They stared again.  But there weren t any\nhorses to it.  I added this saving clause, in the moment of rejecting\nfour richly caparisoned coursers which I had had wild thoughts of\nharnessing.\n\n Can this be possible, uncle?  asked Mrs. Joe.  What can the boy mean? \n\n I ll tell you, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  My opinion is, it s a\nsedan-chair. She s flighty, you know, very flighty, quite flighty\nenough to pass her days in a sedan-chair. \n\n Did you ever see her in it, uncle?  asked Mrs. Joe.\n\n How could I,  he returned, forced to the admission,  when I never see\nher in my life? Never clapped eyes upon her! \n\n Goodness, uncle! And yet you have spoken to her? \n\n Why, don t you know,  said Mr. Pumblechook, testily,  that when I have\nbeen there, I have been took up to the outside of her door, and the\ndoor has stood ajar, and she has spoke to me that way. Don t say you\ndon t know _that_, Mum. Howsever, the boy went there to play. What did\nyou play at, boy? \n\n We played with flags,  I said. (I beg to observe that I think of\nmyself with amazement, when I recall the lies I told on this occasion.)\n\n Flags!  echoed my sister.\n\n Yes,  said I.  Estella waved a blue flag, and I waved a red one, and\nMiss Havisham waved one sprinkled all over with little gold stars, out\nat the coach-window. And then we all waved our swords and hurrahed. \n\n Swords!  repeated my sister.  Where did you get swords from? \n\n Out of a cupboard,  said I.  And I saw pistols in it, and jam, and\npills. And there was no daylight in the room, but it was all lighted up\nwith candles. \n\n That s true, Mum,  said Mr. Pumblechook, with a grave nod.  That s the\nstate of the case, for that much I ve seen myself.  And then they both\nstared at me, and I, with an obtrusive show of artlessness on my\ncountenance, stared at them, and plaited the right leg of my trousers\nwith my right hand.\n\nIf they had asked me any more questions, I should undoubtedly have\nbetrayed myself, for I was even then on the point of mentioning that\nthere was a balloon in the yard, and should have hazarded the statement\nbut for my invention being divided between that phenomenon and a bear\nin the brewery. They were so much occupied, however, in discussing the\nmarvels I had already presented for their consideration, that I\nescaped. The subject still held them when Joe came in from his work to\nhave a cup of tea. To whom my sister, more for the relief of her own\nmind than for the gratification of his, related my pretended\nexperiences.\n\nNow, when I saw Joe open his blue eyes and roll them all round the\nkitchen in helpless amazement, I was overtaken by penitence; but only\nas regarded him, not in the least as regarded the other two. Towards\nJoe, and Joe only, I considered myself a young monster, while they sat\ndebating what results would come to me from Miss Havisham s\nacquaintance and favour. They had no doubt that Miss Havisham would  do\nsomething  for me; their doubts related to the form that something\nwould take. My sister stood out for  property.  Mr. Pumblechook was in\nfavour of a handsome premium for binding me apprentice to some genteel\ntrade, say, the corn and seed trade, for instance. Joe fell into the\ndeepest disgrace with both, for offering the bright suggestion that I\nmight only be presented with one of the dogs who had fought for the\nveal-cutlets.  If a fool s head can t express better opinions than\nthat,  said my sister,  and you have got any work to do, you had better\ngo and do it.  So he went.\n\nAfter Mr. Pumblechook had driven off, and when my sister was washing\nup, I stole into the forge to Joe, and remained by him until he had\ndone for the night. Then I said,  Before the fire goes out, Joe, I\nshould like to tell you something. \n\n Should you, Pip?  said Joe, drawing his shoeing-stool near the forge.\n Then tell us. What is it, Pip? \n\n Joe,  said I, taking hold of his rolled-up shirt sleeve, and twisting\nit between my finger and thumb,  you remember all that about Miss\nHavisham s? \n\n Remember?  said Joe.  I believe you! Wonderful! \n\n It s a terrible thing, Joe; it ain t true. \n\n What are you telling of, Pip?  cried Joe, falling back in the greatest\namazement.  You don t mean to say it s \n\n Yes I do; it s lies, Joe. \n\n But not all of it? Why sure you don t mean to say, Pip, that there was\nno black welwet co eh?  For, I stood shaking my head.  But at least\nthere was dogs, Pip? Come, Pip,  said Joe, persuasively,  if there\nwarn t no weal-cutlets, at least there was dogs? \n\n No, Joe. \n\n A dog?  said Joe.  A puppy? Come? \n\n No, Joe, there was nothing at all of the kind. \n\nAs I fixed my eyes hopelessly on Joe, Joe contemplated me in dismay.\n Pip, old chap! This won t do, old fellow! I say! Where do you expect\nto go to? \n\n It s terrible, Joe; ain t it? \n\n Terrible?  cried Joe.  Awful! What possessed you? \n\n I don t know what possessed me, Joe,  I replied, letting his shirt\nsleeve go, and sitting down in the ashes at his feet, hanging my head;\n but I wish you hadn t taught me to call Knaves at cards Jacks; and I\nwish my boots weren t so thick nor my hands so coarse. \n\nAnd then I told Joe that I felt very miserable, and that I hadn t been\nable to explain myself to Mrs. Joe and Pumblechook, who were so rude to\nme, and that there had been a beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham s\nwho was dreadfully proud, and that she had said I was common, and that\nI knew I was common, and that I wished I was not common, and that the\nlies had come of it somehow, though I didn t know how.\n\nThis was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal\nwith as for me. But Joe took the case altogether out of the region of\nmetaphysics, and by that means vanquished it.\n\n There s one thing you may be sure of, Pip,  said Joe, after some\nrumination,  namely, that lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn t\nought to come, and they come from the father of lies, and work round to\nthe same. Don t you tell no more of  em, Pip. _That_ ain t the way to\nget out of being common, old chap. And as to being common, I don t make\nit out at all clear. You are oncommon in some things. You re oncommon\nsmall. Likewise you re a oncommon scholar. \n\n No, I am ignorant and backward, Joe. \n\n Why, see what a letter you wrote last night! Wrote in print even! I ve\nseen letters Ah! and from gentlefolks! that I ll swear weren t wrote in\nprint,  said Joe.\n\n I have learnt next to nothing, Joe. You think much of me. It s only\nthat. \n\n Well, Pip,  said Joe,  be it so or be it son t, you must be a common\nscholar afore you can be a oncommon one, I should hope! The king upon\nhis throne, with his crown upon his ed, can t sit and write his acts of\nParliament in print, without having begun, when he were a unpromoted\nPrince, with the alphabet. Ah!  added Joe, with a shake of the head\nthat was full of meaning,  and begun at A too, and worked his way to Z.\nAnd _I_ know what that is to do, though I can t say I ve exactly done\nit. \n\nThere was some hope in this piece of wisdom, and it rather encouraged\nme.\n\n Whether common ones as to callings and earnings,  pursued Joe,\nreflectively,  mightn t be the better of continuing for to keep company\nwith common ones, instead of going out to play with oncommon\nones, which reminds me to hope that there were a flag, perhaps? \n\n No, Joe. \n\n (I m sorry there weren t a flag, Pip). Whether that might be or\nmightn t be, is a thing as can t be looked into now, without putting\nyour sister on the Rampage; and that s a thing not to be thought of as\nbeing done intentional. Lookee here, Pip, at what is said to you by a\ntrue friend. Which this to you the true friend say. If you can t get to\nbe oncommon through going straight, you ll never get to do it through\ngoing crooked. So don t tell no more on  em, Pip, and live well and die\nhappy. \n\n You are not angry with me, Joe? \n\n No, old chap. But bearing in mind that them were which I meantersay of\na stunning and outdacious sort, alluding to them which bordered on\nweal-cutlets and dog-fighting, a sincere well-wisher would adwise, Pip,\ntheir being dropped into your meditations, when you go upstairs to bed.\nThat s all, old chap, and don t never do it no more. \n\nWhen I got up to my little room and said my prayers, I did not forget\nJoe s recommendation, and yet my young mind was in that disturbed and\nunthankful state, that I thought long after I laid me down, how common\nEstella would consider Joe, a mere blacksmith; how thick his boots, and\nhow coarse his hands. I thought how Joe and my sister were then sitting\nin the kitchen, and how I had come up to bed from the kitchen, and how\nMiss Havisham and Estella never sat in a kitchen, but were far above\nthe level of such common doings. I fell asleep recalling what I  used\nto do  when I was at Miss Havisham s; as though I had been there weeks\nor months, instead of hours; and as though it were quite an old subject\nof remembrance, instead of one that had arisen only that day.\n\nThat was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it\nis the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it,\nand think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read\nthis, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of\nthorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the\nformation of the first link on one memorable day.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X.\n\n\nThe felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I woke,\nthat the best step I could take towards making myself uncommon was to\nget out of Biddy everything she knew. In pursuance of this luminous\nconception I mentioned to Biddy when I went to Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt s at night, that I had a particular reason for wishing to\nget on in life, and that I should feel very much obliged to her if she\nwould impart all her learning to me. Biddy, who was the most obliging\nof girls, immediately said she would, and indeed began to carry out her\npromise within five minutes.\n\nThe Educational scheme or Course established by Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt\nmay be resolved into the following synopsis. The pupils ate apples and\nput straws down one another s backs, until Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt\ncollected her energies, and made an indiscriminate totter at them with\na birch-rod. After receiving the charge with every mark of derision,\nthe pupils formed in line and buzzingly passed a ragged book from hand\nto hand. The book had an alphabet in it, some figures and tables, and a\nlittle spelling, that is to say, it had had once. As soon as this\nvolume began to circulate, Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt fell into a state of\ncoma, arising either from sleep or a rheumatic paroxysm. The pupils\nthen entered among themselves upon a competitive examination on the\nsubject of Boots, with the view of ascertaining who could tread the\nhardest upon whose toes. This mental exercise lasted until Biddy made a\nrush at them and distributed three defaced Bibles (shaped as if they\nhad been unskilfully cut off the chump end of something), more\nillegibly printed at the best than any curiosities of literature I have\nsince met with, speckled all over with ironmould, and having various\nspecimens of the insect world smashed between their leaves. This part\nof the Course was usually lightened by several single combats between\nBiddy and refractory students. When the fights were over, Biddy gave\nout the number of a page, and then we all read aloud what we could, or\nwhat we couldn t in a frightful chorus; Biddy leading with a high,\nshrill, monotonous voice, and none of us having the least notion of, or\nreverence for, what we were reading about. When this horrible din had\nlasted a certain time, it mechanically awoke Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt,\nwho staggered at a boy fortuitously, and pulled his ears. This was\nunderstood to terminate the Course for the evening, and we emerged into\nthe air with shrieks of intellectual victory. It is fair to remark that\nthere was no prohibition against any pupil s entertaining himself with\na slate or even with the ink (when there was any), but that it was not\neasy to pursue that branch of study in the winter season, on account of\nthe little general shop in which the classes were holden and which was\nalso Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s sitting-room and bedchamber being but\nfaintly illuminated through the agency of one low-spirited dip-candle\nand no snuffers.\n\nIt appeared to me that it would take time to become uncommon, under\nthese circumstances: nevertheless, I resolved to try it, and that very\nevening Biddy entered on our special agreement, by imparting some\ninformation from her little catalogue of Prices, under the head of\nmoist sugar, and lending me, to copy at home, a large old English D\nwhich she had imitated from the heading of some newspaper, and which I\nsupposed, until she told me what it was, to be a design for a buckle.\n\nOf course there was a public-house in the village, and of course Joe\nliked sometimes to smoke his pipe there. I had received strict orders\nfrom my sister to call for him at the Three Jolly Bargemen, that\nevening, on my way from school, and bring him home at my peril. To the\nThree Jolly Bargemen, therefore, I directed my steps.\n\nThere was a bar at the Jolly Bargemen, with some alarmingly long chalk\nscores in it on the wall at the side of the door, which seemed to me to\nbe never paid off. They had been there ever since I could remember, and\nhad grown more than I had. But there was a quantity of chalk about our\ncountry, and perhaps the people neglected no opportunity of turning it\nto account.\n\nIt being Saturday night, I found the landlord looking rather grimly at\nthese records; but as my business was with Joe and not with him, I\nmerely wished him good evening, and passed into the common room at the\nend of the passage, where there was a bright large kitchen fire, and\nwhere Joe was smoking his pipe in company with Mr. Wopsle and a\nstranger. Joe greeted me as usual with  Halloa, Pip, old chap!  and the\nmoment he said that, the stranger turned his head and looked at me.\n\nHe was a secret-looking man whom I had never seen before. His head was\nall on one side, and one of his eyes was half shut up, as if he were\ntaking aim at something with an invisible gun. He had a pipe in his\nmouth, and he took it out, and, after slowly blowing all his smoke away\nand looking hard at me all the time, nodded. So, I nodded, and then he\nnodded again, and made room on the settle beside him that I might sit\ndown there.\n\nBut as I was used to sit beside Joe whenever I entered that place of\nresort, I said  No, thank you, sir,  and fell into the space Joe made\nfor me on the opposite settle. The strange man, after glancing at Joe,\nand seeing that his attention was otherwise engaged, nodded to me again\nwhen I had taken my seat, and then rubbed his leg in a very odd way, as\nit struck me.\n\n You was saying,  said the strange man, turning to Joe,  that you was a\nblacksmith. \n\n Yes. I said it, you know,  said Joe.\n\n What ll you drink, Mr. ? You didn t mention your name, by the bye. \n\nJoe mentioned it now, and the strange man called him by it.  What ll\nyou drink, Mr. Gargery? At my expense? To top up with? \n\n Well,  said Joe,  to tell you the truth, I ain t much in the habit of\ndrinking at anybody s expense but my own. \n\n Habit? No,  returned the stranger,  but once and away, and on a\nSaturday night too. Come! Put a name to it, Mr. Gargery. \n\n I wouldn t wish to be stiff company,  said Joe.  Rum. \n\n Rum,  repeated the stranger.  And will the other gentleman originate a\nsentiment. \n\n Rum,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Three Rums!  cried the stranger, calling to the landlord.  Glasses\nround! \n\n This other gentleman,  observed Joe, by way of introducing Mr. Wopsle,\n is a gentleman that you would like to hear give it out. Our clerk at\nchurch. \n\n Aha!  said the stranger, quickly, and cocking his eye at me.  The\nlonely church, right out on the marshes, with graves round it! \n\n That s it,  said Joe.\n\nThe stranger, with a comfortable kind of grunt over his pipe, put his\nlegs up on the settle that he had to himself. He wore a flapping\nbroad-brimmed traveller s hat, and under it a handkerchief tied over\nhis head in the manner of a cap: so that he showed no hair. As he\nlooked at the fire, I thought I saw a cunning expression, followed by a\nhalf-laugh, come into his face.\n\n I am not acquainted with this country, gentlemen, but it seems a\nsolitary country towards the river. \n\n Most marshes is solitary,  said Joe.\n\n No doubt, no doubt. Do you find any gypsies, now, or tramps, or\nvagrants of any sort, out there? \n\n No,  said Joe;  none but a runaway convict now and then. And we don t\nfind _them_, easy. Eh, Mr. Wopsle? \n\nMr. Wopsle, with a majestic remembrance of old discomfiture, assented;\nbut not warmly.\n\n Seems you have been out after such?  asked the stranger.\n\n Once,  returned Joe.  Not that we wanted to take them, you understand;\nwe went out as lookers on; me, and Mr. Wopsle, and Pip. Didn t us,\nPip? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\nThe stranger looked at me again, still cocking his eye, as if he were\nexpressly taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and said,  He s a\nlikely young parcel of bones that. What is it you call him? \n\n Pip,  said Joe.\n\n Christened Pip? \n\n No, not christened Pip. \n\n Surname Pip? \n\n No,  said Joe,  it s a kind of family name what he gave himself when a\ninfant, and is called by. \n\n Son of yours? \n\n Well,  said Joe, meditatively, not, of course, that it could be in\nanywise necessary to consider about it, but because it was the way at\nthe Jolly Bargemen to seem to consider deeply about everything that was\ndiscussed over pipes, well no. No, he ain t. \n\n Nevvy?  said the strange man.\n\n Well,  said Joe, with the same appearance of profound cogitation,  he\nis not no, not to deceive you, he is _not_ my nevvy. \n\n What the Blue Blazes is he?  asked the stranger. Which appeared to me\nto be an inquiry of unnecessary strength.\n\nMr. Wopsle struck in upon that; as one who knew all about\nrelationships, having professional occasion to bear in mind what female\nrelations a man might not marry; and expounded the ties between me and\nJoe. Having his hand in, Mr. Wopsle finished off with a most\nterrifically snarling passage from Richard the Third, and seemed to\nthink he had done quite enough to account for it when he added,  as\nthe poet says. \n\nAnd here I may remark that when Mr. Wopsle referred to me, he\nconsidered it a necessary part of such reference to rumple my hair and\npoke it into my eyes. I cannot conceive why everybody of his standing\nwho visited at our house should always have put me through the same\ninflammatory process under similar circumstances. Yet I do not call to\nmind that I was ever in my earlier youth the subject of remark in our\nsocial family circle, but some large-handed person took some such\nophthalmic steps to patronise me.\n\nAll this while, the strange man looked at nobody but me, and looked at\nme as if he were determined to have a shot at me at last, and bring me\ndown. But he said nothing after offering his Blue Blazes observation,\nuntil the glasses of rum and water were brought; and then he made his\nshot, and a most extraordinary shot it was.\n\nIt was not a verbal remark, but a proceeding in dumb-show, and was\npointedly addressed to me. He stirred his rum and water pointedly at\nme, and he tasted his rum and water pointedly at me. And he stirred it\nand he tasted it; not with a spoon that was brought to him, but _with a\nfile_.\n\nHe did this so that nobody but I saw the file; and when he had done it\nhe wiped the file and put it in a breast-pocket. I knew it to be Joe s\nfile, and I knew that he knew my convict, the moment I saw the\ninstrument. I sat gazing at him, spell-bound. But he now reclined on\nhis settle, taking very little notice of me, and talking principally\nabout turnips.\n\nThere was a delicious sense of cleaning-up and making a quiet pause\nbefore going on in life afresh, in our village on Saturday nights,\nwhich stimulated Joe to dare to stay out half an hour longer on\nSaturdays than at other times. The half-hour and the rum and water\nrunning out together, Joe got up to go, and took me by the hand.\n\n Stop half a moment, Mr. Gargery,  said the strange man.  I think I ve\ngot a bright new shilling somewhere in my pocket, and if I have, the\nboy shall have it. \n\nHe looked it out from a handful of small change, folded it in some\ncrumpled paper, and gave it to me.  Yours!  said he.  Mind! Your own. \n\nI thanked him, staring at him far beyond the bounds of good manners,\nand holding tight to Joe. He gave Joe good-night, and he gave Mr.\nWopsle good-night (who went out with us), and he gave me only a look\nwith his aiming eye, no, not a look, for he shut it up, but wonders may\nbe done with an eye by hiding it.\n\nOn the way home, if I had been in a humour for talking, the talk must\nhave been all on my side, for Mr. Wopsle parted from us at the door of\nthe Jolly Bargemen, and Joe went all the way home with his mouth wide\nopen, to rinse the rum out with as much air as possible. But I was in a\nmanner stupefied by this turning up of my old misdeed and old\nacquaintance, and could think of nothing else.\n\nMy sister was not in a very bad temper when we presented ourselves in\nthe kitchen, and Joe was encouraged by that unusual circumstance to\ntell her about the bright shilling.  A bad un, I ll be bound,  said\nMrs. Joe triumphantly,  or he wouldn t have given it to the boy! Let s\nlook at it. \n\nI took it out of the paper, and it proved to be a good one.  But what s\nthis?  said Mrs. Joe, throwing down the shilling and catching up the\npaper.  Two One-Pound notes? \n\nNothing less than two fat sweltering one-pound notes that seemed to\nhave been on terms of the warmest intimacy with all the cattle-markets\nin the county. Joe caught up his hat again, and ran with them to the\nJolly Bargemen to restore them to their owner. While he was gone, I sat\ndown on my usual stool and looked vacantly at my sister, feeling pretty\nsure that the man would not be there.\n\nPresently, Joe came back, saying that the man was gone, but that he,\nJoe, had left word at the Three Jolly Bargemen concerning the notes.\nThen my sister sealed them up in a piece of paper, and put them under\nsome dried rose-leaves in an ornamental teapot on the top of a press in\nthe state parlour. There they remained, a nightmare to me, many and\nmany a night and day.\n\nI had sadly broken sleep when I got to bed, through thinking of the\nstrange man taking aim at me with his invisible gun, and of the\nguiltily coarse and common thing it was, to be on secret terms of\nconspiracy with convicts, a feature in my low career that I had\npreviously forgotten. I was haunted by the file too. A dread possessed\nme that when I least expected it, the file would reappear. I coaxed\nmyself to sleep by thinking of Miss Havisham s, next Wednesday; and in\nmy sleep I saw the file coming at me out of a door, without seeing who\nheld it, and I screamed myself awake.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI.\n\n\nAt the appointed time I returned to Miss Havisham s, and my hesitating\nring at the gate brought out Estella. She locked it after admitting me,\nas she had done before, and again preceded me into the dark passage\nwhere her candle stood. She took no notice of me until she had the\ncandle in her hand, when she looked over her shoulder, superciliously\nsaying,  You are to come this way to-day,  and took me to quite another\npart of the house.\n\nThe passage was a long one, and seemed to pervade the whole square\nbasement of the Manor House. We traversed but one side of the square,\nhowever, and at the end of it she stopped, and put her candle down and\nopened a door. Here, the daylight reappeared, and I found myself in a\nsmall paved courtyard, the opposite side of which was formed by a\ndetached dwelling-house, that looked as if it had once belonged to the\nmanager or head clerk of the extinct brewery. There was a clock in the\nouter wall of this house. Like the clock in Miss Havisham s room, and\nlike Miss Havisham s watch, it had stopped at twenty minutes to nine.\n\nWe went in at the door, which stood open, and into a gloomy room with a\nlow ceiling, on the ground-floor at the back. There was some company in\nthe room, and Estella said to me as she joined it,  You are to go and\nstand there boy, till you are wanted.   There , being the window, I\ncrossed to it, and stood  there,  in a very uncomfortable state of\nmind, looking out.\n\nIt opened to the ground, and looked into a most miserable corner of the\nneglected garden, upon a rank ruin of cabbage-stalks, and one box-tree\nthat had been clipped round long ago, like a pudding, and had a new\ngrowth at the top of it, out of shape and of a different colour, as if\nthat part of the pudding had stuck to the saucepan and got burnt. This\nwas my homely thought, as I contemplated the box-tree. There had been\nsome light snow, overnight, and it lay nowhere else to my knowledge;\nbut, it had not quite melted from the cold shadow of this bit of\ngarden, and the wind caught it up in little eddies and threw it at the\nwindow, as if it pelted me for coming there.\n\nI divined that my coming had stopped conversation in the room, and that\nits other occupants were looking at me. I could see nothing of the room\nexcept the shining of the fire in the window-glass, but I stiffened in\nall my joints with the consciousness that I was under close inspection.\n\nThere were three ladies in the room and one gentleman. Before I had\nbeen standing at the window five minutes, they somehow conveyed to me\nthat they were all toadies and humbugs, but that each of them pretended\nnot to know that the others were toadies and humbugs: because the\nadmission that he or she did know it, would have made him or her out to\nbe a toady and humbug.\n\nThey all had a listless and dreary air of waiting somebody s pleasure,\nand the most talkative of the ladies had to speak quite rigidly to\nrepress a yawn. This lady, whose name was Camilla, very much reminded\nme of my sister, with the difference that she was older, and (as I\nfound when I caught sight of her) of a blunter cast of features.\nIndeed, when I knew her better I began to think it was a Mercy she had\nany features at all, so very blank and high was the dead wall of her\nface.\n\n Poor dear soul!  said this lady, with an abruptness of manner quite my\nsister s.  Nobody s enemy but his own! \n\n It would be much more commendable to be somebody else s enemy,  said\nthe gentleman;  far more natural. \n\n Cousin Raymond,  observed another lady,  we are to love our\nneighbour. \n\n Sarah Pocket,  returned Cousin Raymond,  if a man is not his own\nneighbour, who is? \n\nMiss Pocket laughed, and Camilla laughed and said (checking a yawn),\n The idea!  But I thought they seemed to think it rather a good idea\ntoo. The other lady, who had not spoken yet, said gravely and\nemphatically,  _Very_ true! \n\n Poor soul!  Camilla presently went on (I knew they had all been\nlooking at me in the mean time),  he is so very strange! Would anyone\nbelieve that when Tom s wife died, he actually could not be induced to\nsee the importance of the children s having the deepest of trimmings to\ntheir mourning?  Good Lord!  says he,  Camilla, what can it signify so\nlong as the poor bereaved little things are in black?  So like Matthew!\nThe idea! \n\n Good points in him, good points in him,  said Cousin Raymond;  Heaven\nforbid I should deny good points in him; but he never had, and he never\nwill have, any sense of the proprieties. \n\n You know I was obliged,  said Camilla, I was obliged to be firm. I\nsaid,  It WILL NOT DO, for the credit of the family.  I told him that,\nwithout deep trimmings, the family was disgraced. I cried about it from\nbreakfast till dinner. I injured my digestion. And at last he flung out\nin his violent way, and said, with a D,  Then do as you like.  Thank\nGoodness it will always be a consolation to me to know that I instantly\nwent out in a pouring rain and bought the things. \n\n _He_ paid for them, did he not?  asked Estella.\n\n It s not the question, my dear child, who paid for them,  returned\nCamilla.  _I_ bought them. And I shall often think of that with peace,\nwhen I wake up in the night. \n\nThe ringing of a distant bell, combined with the echoing of some cry or\ncall along the passage by which I had come, interrupted the\nconversation and caused Estella to say to me,  Now, boy!  On my turning\nround, they all looked at me with the utmost contempt, and, as I went\nout, I heard Sarah Pocket say,  Well I am sure! What next!  and Camilla\nadd, with indignation,  Was there ever such a fancy! The i-d_e_-a! \n\nAs we were going with our candle along the dark passage, Estella\nstopped all of a sudden, and, facing round, said in her taunting\nmanner, with her face quite close to mine, \n\n Well? \n\n Well, miss?  I answered, almost falling over her and checking myself.\n\nShe stood looking at me, and, of course, I stood looking at her.\n\n Am I pretty? \n\n Yes; I think you are very pretty. \n\n Am I insulting? \n\n Not so much so as you were last time,  said I.\n\n Not so much so? \n\n No. \n\nShe fired when she asked the last question, and she slapped my face\nwith such force as she had, when I answered it.\n\n Now?  said she.  You little coarse monster, what do you think of me\nnow? \n\n I shall not tell you. \n\n Because you are going to tell upstairs. Is that it? \n\n No,  said I,  that s not it. \n\n Why don t you cry again, you little wretch? \n\n Because I ll never cry for you again,  said I. Which was, I suppose,\nas false a declaration as ever was made; for I was inwardly crying for\nher then, and I know what I know of the pain she cost me afterwards.\n\nWe went on our way upstairs after this episode; and, as we were going\nup, we met a gentleman groping his way down.\n\n Whom have we here?  asked the gentleman, stopping and looking at me.\n\n A boy,  said Estella.\n\nHe was a burly man of an exceedingly dark complexion, with an\nexceedingly large head, and a corresponding large hand. He took my chin\nin his large hand and turned up my face to have a look at me by the\nlight of the candle. He was prematurely bald on the top of his head,\nand had bushy black eyebrows that wouldn t lie down but stood up\nbristling. His eyes were set very deep in his head, and were\ndisagreeably sharp and suspicious. He had a large watch-chain, and\nstrong black dots where his beard and whiskers would have been if he\nhad let them. He was nothing to me, and I could have had no foresight\nthen, that he ever would be anything to me, but it happened that I had\nthis opportunity of observing him well.\n\n Boy of the neighbourhood? Hey?  said he.\n\n Yes, sir,  said I.\n\n How do _you_ come here? \n\n Miss Havisham sent for me, sir,  I explained.\n\n Well! Behave yourself. I have a pretty large experience of boys, and\nyou re a bad set of fellows. Now mind!  said he, biting the side of his\ngreat forefinger as he frowned at me,  you behave yourself! \n\nWith those words, he released me which I was glad of, for his hand\nsmelt of scented soap and went his way downstairs. I wondered whether\nhe could be a doctor; but no, I thought; he couldn t be a doctor, or he\nwould have a quieter and more persuasive manner. There was not much\ntime to consider the subject, for we were soon in Miss Havisham s room,\nwhere she and everything else were just as I had left them. Estella\nleft me standing near the door, and I stood there until Miss Havisham\ncast her eyes upon me from the dressing-table.\n\n So!  she said, without being startled or surprised:  the days have\nworn away, have they? \n\n Yes, ma am. To-day is \n\n There, there, there!  with the impatient movement of her fingers.  I\ndon t want to know. Are you ready to play? \n\nI was obliged to answer in some confusion,  I don t think I am, ma am. \n\n Not at cards again?  she demanded, with a searching look.\n\n Yes, ma am; I could do that, if I was wanted. \n\n Since this house strikes you old and grave, boy,  said Miss Havisham,\nimpatiently,  and you are unwilling to play, are you willing to work? \n\nI could answer this inquiry with a better heart than I had been able to\nfind for the other question, and I said I was quite willing.\n\n Then go into that opposite room,  said she, pointing at the door\nbehind me with her withered hand,  and wait there till I come. \n\nI crossed the staircase landing, and entered the room she indicated.\nFrom that room, too, the daylight was completely excluded, and it had\nan airless smell that was oppressive. A fire had been lately kindled in\nthe damp old-fashioned grate, and it was more disposed to go out than\nto burn up, and the reluctant smoke which hung in the room seemed\ncolder than the clearer air, like our own marsh mist. Certain wintry\nbranches of candles on the high chimney-piece faintly lighted the\nchamber; or it would be more expressive to say, faintly troubled its\ndarkness. It was spacious, and I dare say had once been handsome, but\nevery discernible thing in it was covered with dust and mould, and\ndropping to pieces. The most prominent object was a long table with a\ntablecloth spread on it, as if a feast had been in preparation when the\nhouse and the clocks all stopped together. An epergne or centre-piece\nof some kind was in the middle of this cloth; it was so heavily\noverhung with cobwebs that its form was quite undistinguishable; and,\nas I looked along the yellow expanse out of which I remember its\nseeming to grow, like a black fungus, I saw speckle-legged spiders with\nblotchy bodies running home to it, and running out from it, as if some\ncircumstances of the greatest public importance had just transpired in\nthe spider community.\n\nI heard the mice too, rattling behind the panels, as if the same\noccurrence were important to their interests. But the black beetles\ntook no notice of the agitation, and groped about the hearth in a\nponderous elderly way, as if they were short-sighted and hard of\nhearing, and not on terms with one another.\n\nThese crawling things had fascinated my attention, and I was watching\nthem from a distance, when Miss Havisham laid a hand upon my shoulder.\nIn her other hand she had a crutch-headed stick on which she leaned,\nand she looked like the Witch of the place.\n\n This,  said she, pointing to the long table with her stick,  is where\nI will be laid when I am dead. They shall come and look at me here. \n\nWith some vague misgiving that she might get upon the table then and\nthere and die at once, the complete realisation of the ghastly waxwork\nat the Fair, I shrank under her touch.\n\n What do you think that is?  she asked me, again pointing with her\nstick;  that, where those cobwebs are? \n\n I can t guess what it is, ma am. \n\n It s a great cake. A bride-cake. Mine! \n\nShe looked all round the room in a glaring manner, and then said,\nleaning on me while her hand twitched my shoulder,  Come, come, come!\nWalk me, walk me! \n\nI made out from this, that the work I had to do, was to walk Miss\nHavisham round and round the room. Accordingly, I started at once, and\nshe leaned upon my shoulder, and we went away at a pace that might have\nbeen an imitation (founded on my first impulse under that roof) of Mr.\nPumblechook s chaise-cart.\n\nShe was not physically strong, and after a little time said,  Slower! \nStill, we went at an impatient fitful speed, and as we went, she\ntwitched the hand upon my shoulder, and worked her mouth, and led me to\nbelieve that we were going fast because her thoughts went fast. After a\nwhile she said,  Call Estella!  so I went out on the landing and roared\nthat name as I had done on the previous occasion. When her light\nappeared, I returned to Miss Havisham, and we started away again round\nand round the room.\n\nIf only Estella had come to be a spectator of our proceedings, I should\nhave felt sufficiently discontented; but as she brought with her the\nthree ladies and the gentleman whom I had seen below, I didn t know\nwhat to do. In my politeness, I would have stopped; but Miss Havisham\ntwitched my shoulder, and we posted on, with a shame-faced\nconsciousness on my part that they would think it was all my doing.\n\n Dear Miss Havisham,  said Miss Sarah Pocket.  How well you look! \n\n I do not,  returned Miss Havisham.  I am yellow skin and bone. \n\nCamilla brightened when Miss Pocket met with this rebuff; and she\nmurmured, as she plaintively contemplated Miss Havisham,  Poor dear\nsoul! Certainly not to be expected to look well, poor thing. The idea! \n\n And how are _you_?  said Miss Havisham to Camilla. As we were close to\nCamilla then, I would have stopped as a matter of course, only Miss\nHavisham wouldn t stop. We swept on, and I felt that I was highly\nobnoxious to Camilla.\n\n Thank you, Miss Havisham,  she returned,  I am as well as can be\nexpected. \n\n Why, what s the matter with you?  asked Miss Havisham, with exceeding\nsharpness.\n\n Nothing worth mentioning,  replied Camilla.  I don t wish to make a\ndisplay of my feelings, but I have habitually thought of you more in\nthe night than I am quite equal to. \n\n Then don t think of me,  retorted Miss Havisham.\n\n Very easily said!  remarked Camilla, amiably repressing a sob, while a\nhitch came into her upper lip, and her tears overflowed.  Raymond is a\nwitness what ginger and sal volatile I am obliged to take in the night.\nRaymond is a witness what nervous jerkings I have in my legs. Chokings\nand nervous jerkings, however, are nothing new to me when I think with\nanxiety of those I love. If I could be less affectionate and sensitive,\nI should have a better digestion and an iron set of nerves. I am sure I\nwish it could be so. But as to not thinking of you in the night The\nidea!  Here, a burst of tears.\n\nThe Raymond referred to, I understood to be the gentleman present, and\nhim I understood to be Mr. Camilla. He came to the rescue at this\npoint, and said in a consolatory and complimentary voice,  Camilla, my\ndear, it is well known that your family feelings are gradually\nundermining you to the extent of making one of your legs shorter than\nthe other. \n\n I am not aware,  observed the grave lady whose voice I had heard but\nonce,  that to think of any person is to make a great claim upon that\nperson, my dear. \n\nMiss Sarah Pocket, whom I now saw to be a little dry, brown, corrugated\nold woman, with a small face that might have been made of\nwalnut-shells, and a large mouth like a cat s without the whiskers,\nsupported this position by saying,  No, indeed, my dear. Hem! \n\n Thinking is easy enough,  said the grave lady.\n\n What is easier, you know?  assented Miss Sarah Pocket.\n\n Oh, yes, yes!  cried Camilla, whose fermenting feelings appeared to\nrise from her legs to her bosom.  It s all very true! It s a weakness\nto be so affectionate, but I can t help it. No doubt my health would be\nmuch better if it was otherwise, still I wouldn t change my disposition\nif I could. It s the cause of much suffering, but it s a consolation to\nknow I possess it, when I wake up in the night.  Here another burst of\nfeeling.\n\nMiss Havisham and I had never stopped all this time, but kept going\nround and round the room; now brushing against the skirts of the\nvisitors, now giving them the whole length of the dismal chamber.\n\n There s Matthew!  said Camilla.  Never mixing with any natural ties,\nnever coming here to see how Miss Havisham is! I have taken to the sofa\nwith my staylace cut, and have lain there hours insensible, with my\nhead over the side, and my hair all down, and my feet I don t know\nwhere \n\n( Much higher than your head, my love,  said Mr. Camilla.)\n\n I have gone off into that state, hours and hours, on account of\nMatthew s strange and inexplicable conduct, and nobody has thanked me. \n\n Really I must say I should think not!  interposed the grave lady.\n\n You see, my dear,  added Miss Sarah Pocket (a blandly vicious\npersonage),  the question to put to yourself is, who did you expect to\nthank you, my love? \n\n Without expecting any thanks, or anything of the sort,  resumed\nCamilla,  I have remained in that state, hours and hours, and Raymond\nis a witness of the extent to which I have choked, and what the total\ninefficacy of ginger has been, and I have been heard at the piano-forte\ntuner s across the street, where the poor mistaken children have even\nsupposed it to be pigeons cooing at a distance, and now to be told \nHere Camilla put her hand to her throat, and began to be quite chemical\nas to the formation of new combinations there.\n\nWhen this same Matthew was mentioned, Miss Havisham stopped me and\nherself, and stood looking at the speaker. This change had a great\ninfluence in bringing Camilla s chemistry to a sudden end.\n\n Matthew will come and see me at last,  said Miss Havisham, sternly,\n when I am laid on that table. That will be his place, there,  striking\nthe table with her stick,  at my head! And yours will be there! And\nyour husband s there! And Sarah Pocket s there! And Georgiana s there!\nNow you all know where to take your stations when you come to feast\nupon me. And now go! \n\nAt the mention of each name, she had struck the table with her stick in\na new place. She now said,  Walk me, walk me!  and we went on again.\n\n I suppose there s nothing to be done,  exclaimed Camilla,  but comply\nand depart. It s something to have seen the object of one s love and\nduty for even so short a time. I shall think of it with a melancholy\nsatisfaction when I wake up in the night. I wish Matthew could have\nthat comfort, but he sets it at defiance. I am determined not to make a\ndisplay of my feelings, but it s very hard to be told one wants to\nfeast on one s relations, as if one was a Giant, and to be told to go.\nThe bare idea! \n\nMr. Camilla interposing, as Mrs. Camilla laid her hand upon her heaving\nbosom, that lady assumed an unnatural fortitude of manner which I\nsupposed to be expressive of an intention to drop and choke when out of\nview, and kissing her hand to Miss Havisham, was escorted forth. Sarah\nPocket and Georgiana contended who should remain last; but Sarah was\ntoo knowing to be outdone, and ambled round Georgiana with that artful\nslipperiness that the latter was obliged to take precedence. Sarah\nPocket then made her separate effect of departing with,  Bless you,\nMiss Havisham dear!  and with a smile of forgiving pity on her\nwalnut-shell countenance for the weaknesses of the rest.\n\nWhile Estella was away lighting them down, Miss Havisham still walked\nwith her hand on my shoulder, but more and more slowly. At last she\nstopped before the fire, and said, after muttering and looking at it\nsome seconds, \n\n This is my birthday, Pip. \n\nI was going to wish her many happy returns, when she lifted her stick.\n\n I don t suffer it to be spoken of. I don t suffer those who were here\njust now, or any one to speak of it. They come here on the day, but\nthey dare not refer to it. \n\nOf course _I_ made no further effort to refer to it.\n\n On this day of the year, long before you were born, this heap of\ndecay,  stabbing with her crutched stick at the pile of cobwebs on the\ntable, but not touching it,  was brought here. It and I have worn away\ntogether. The mice have gnawed at it, and sharper teeth than teeth of\nmice have gnawed at me. \n\nShe held the head of her stick against her heart as she stood looking\nat the table; she in her once white dress, all yellow and withered; the\nonce white cloth all yellow and withered; everything around in a state\nto crumble under a touch.\n\n When the ruin is complete,  said she, with a ghastly look,  and when\nthey lay me dead, in my bride s dress on the bride s table, which shall\nbe done, and which will be the finished curse upon him, so much the\nbetter if it is done on this day! \n\nShe stood looking at the table as if she stood looking at her own\nfigure lying there. I remained quiet. Estella returned, and she too\nremained quiet. It seemed to me that we continued thus for a long time.\nIn the heavy air of the room, and the heavy darkness that brooded in\nits remoter corners, I even had an alarming fancy that Estella and I\nmight presently begin to decay.\n\nAt length, not coming out of her distraught state by degrees, but in an\ninstant, Miss Havisham said,  Let me see you two play cards; why have\nyou not begun?  With that, we returned to her room, and sat down as\nbefore; I was beggared, as before; and again, as before, Miss Havisham\nwatched us all the time, directed my attention to Estella s beauty, and\nmade me notice it the more by trying her jewels on Estella s breast and\nhair.\n\nEstella, for her part, likewise treated me as before, except that she\ndid not condescend to speak. When we had played some half-dozen games,\na day was appointed for my return, and I was taken down into the yard\nto be fed in the former dog-like manner. There, too, I was again left\nto wander about as I liked.\n\nIt is not much to the purpose whether a gate in that garden wall which\nI had scrambled up to peep over on the last occasion was, on that last\noccasion, open or shut. Enough that I saw no gate then, and that I saw\none now. As it stood open, and as I knew that Estella had let the\nvisitors out, for she had returned with the keys in her hand, I\nstrolled into the garden, and strolled all over it. It was quite a\nwilderness, and there were old melon-frames and cucumber-frames in it,\nwhich seemed in their decline to have produced a spontaneous growth of\nweak attempts at pieces of old hats and boots, with now and then a\nweedy offshoot into the likeness of a battered saucepan.\n\nWhen I had exhausted the garden and a greenhouse with nothing in it but\na fallen-down grape-vine and some bottles, I found myself in the dismal\ncorner upon which I had looked out of the window. Never questioning for\na moment that the house was now empty, I looked in at another window,\nand found myself, to my great surprise, exchanging a broad stare with a\npale young gentleman with red eyelids and light hair.\n\nThis pale young gentleman quickly disappeared, and reappeared beside\nme. He had been at his books when I had found myself staring at him,\nand I now saw that he was inky.\n\n Halloa!  said he,  young fellow! \n\nHalloa being a general observation which I had usually observed to be\nbest answered by itself, _I_ said,  Halloa!  politely omitting young\nfellow.\n\n Who let _you_ in?  said he.\n\n Miss Estella. \n\n Who gave you leave to prowl about? \n\n Miss Estella. \n\n Come and fight,  said the pale young gentleman.\n\nWhat could I do but follow him? I have often asked myself the question\nsince; but what else could I do? His manner was so final, and I was so\nastonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a\nspell.\n\n Stop a minute, though,  he said, wheeling round before we had gone\nmany paces.  I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it\nis!  In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against\none another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my\nhair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my\nstomach.\n\nThe bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was\nunquestionably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was\nparticularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit\nout at him and was going to hit out again, when he said,  Aha! Would\nyou?  and began dancing backwards and forwards in a manner quite\nunparalleled within my limited experience.\n\n Laws of the game!  said he. Here, he skipped from his left leg on to\nhis right.  Regular rules!  Here, he skipped from his right leg on to\nhis left.  Come to the ground, and go through the preliminaries!  Here,\nhe dodged backwards and forwards, and did all sorts of things while I\nlooked helplessly at him.\n\nI was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt\nmorally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have\nhad no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to\nconsider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I\nfollowed him without a word, to a retired nook of the garden, formed by\nthe junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking\nme if I was satisfied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he\nbegged my leave to absent himself for a moment, and quickly returned\nwith a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar.  Available for\nboth,  he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to\npulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a\nmanner at once light-hearted, business-like, and bloodthirsty.\n\nAlthough he did not look very healthy, having pimples on his face, and\na breaking out at his mouth, these dreadful preparations quite appalled\nme. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he\nhad a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For\nthe rest, he was a young gentleman in a grey suit (when not denuded for\nbattle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in\nadvance of the rest of him as to development.\n\nMy heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every\ndemonstration of mechanical nicety, and eyeing my anatomy as if he were\nminutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my life,\nas I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back,\nlooking up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly\nfore-shortened.\n\nBut, he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a\ngreat show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest\nsurprise I have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again,\nlooking up at me out of a black eye.\n\nHis spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no\nstrength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked\ndown; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or\ndrinking out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in\nseconding himself according to form, and then came at me with an air\nand a show that made me believe he really was going to do for me at\nlast. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I\nhit him, the harder I hit him; but he came up again and again and\nagain, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head\nagainst the wall. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and\nturned round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was;\nbut finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up: at the\nsame time panting out,  That means you have won. \n\nHe seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the\ncontest, I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go\nso far as to hope that I regarded myself while dressing as a species of\nsavage young wolf or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly\nwiping my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said,  Can I help you? \nand he said  No thankee,  and I said  Good afternoon,  and _he_ said\n Same to you. \n\nWhen I got into the courtyard, I found Estella waiting with the keys.\nBut she neither asked me where I had been, nor why I had kept her\nwaiting; and there was a bright flush upon her face, as though\nsomething had happened to delight her. Instead of going straight to the\ngate, too, she stepped back into the passage, and beckoned me.\n\n Come here! You may kiss me, if you like. \n\nI kissed her cheek as she turned it to me. I think I would have gone\nthrough a great deal to kiss her cheek. But I felt that the kiss was\ngiven to the coarse common boy as a piece of money might have been, and\nthat it was worth nothing.\n\nWhat with the birthday visitors, and what with the cards, and what with\nthe fight, my stay had lasted so long, that when I neared home the\nlight on the spit of sand off the point on the marshes was gleaming\nagainst a black night-sky, and Joe s furnace was flinging a path of\nfire across the road.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII.\n\n\nMy mind grew very uneasy on the subject of the pale young gentleman.\nThe more I thought of the fight, and recalled the pale young gentleman\non his back in various stages of puffy and incrimsoned countenance, the\nmore certain it appeared that something would be done to me. I felt\nthat the pale young gentleman s blood was on my head, and that the Law\nwould avenge it. Without having any definite idea of the penalties I\nhad incurred, it was clear to me that village boys could not go\nstalking about the country, ravaging the houses of gentlefolks and\npitching into the studious youth of England, without laying themselves\nopen to severe punishment. For some days, I even kept close at home,\nand looked out at the kitchen door with the greatest caution and\ntrepidation before going on an errand, lest the officers of the County\nJail should pounce upon me. The pale young gentleman s nose had stained\nmy trousers, and I tried to wash out that evidence of my guilt in the\ndead of night. I had cut my knuckles against the pale young gentleman s\nteeth, and I twisted my imagination into a thousand tangles, as I\ndevised incredible ways of accounting for that damnatory circumstance\nwhen I should be haled before the Judges.\n\nWhen the day came round for my return to the scene of the deed of\nviolence, my terrors reached their height. Whether myrmidons of\nJustice, especially sent down from London, would be lying in ambush\nbehind the gate; whether Miss Havisham, preferring to take personal\nvengeance for an outrage done to her house, might rise in those\ngrave-clothes of hers, draw a pistol, and shoot me dead: whether\nsuborned boys a numerous band of mercenaries might be engaged to fall\nupon me in the brewery, and cuff me until I was no more; it was high\ntestimony to my confidence in the spirit of the pale young gentleman,\nthat I never imagined _him_ accessory to these retaliations; they\nalways came into my mind as the acts of injudicious relatives of his,\ngoaded on by the state of his visage and an indignant sympathy with the\nfamily features.\n\nHowever, go to Miss Havisham s I must, and go I did. And behold!\nnothing came of the late struggle. It was not alluded to in any way,\nand no pale young gentleman was to be discovered on the premises. I\nfound the same gate open, and I explored the garden, and even looked in\nat the windows of the detached house; but my view was suddenly stopped\nby the closed shutters within, and all was lifeless. Only in the corner\nwhere the combat had taken place could I detect any evidence of the\nyoung gentleman s existence. There were traces of his gore in that\nspot, and I covered them with garden-mould from the eye of man.\n\nOn the broad landing between Miss Havisham s own room and that other\nroom in which the long table was laid out, I saw a garden-chair, a\nlight chair on wheels, that you pushed from behind. It had been placed\nthere since my last visit, and I entered, that same day, on a regular\noccupation of pushing Miss Havisham in this chair (when she was tired\nof walking with her hand upon my shoulder) round her own room, and\nacross the landing, and round the other room. Over and over and over\nagain, we would make these journeys, and sometimes they would last as\nlong as three hours at a stretch. I insensibly fall into a general\nmention of these journeys as numerous, because it was at once settled\nthat I should return every alternate day at noon for these purposes,\nand because I am now going to sum up a period of at least eight or ten\nmonths.\n\nAs we began to be more used to one another, Miss Havisham talked more\nto me, and asked me such questions as what had I learnt and what was I\ngoing to be? I told her I was going to be apprenticed to Joe, I\nbelieved; and I enlarged upon my knowing nothing and wanting to know\neverything, in the hope that she might offer some help towards that\ndesirable end. But she did not; on the contrary, she seemed to prefer\nmy being ignorant. Neither did she ever give me any money, or anything\nbut my daily dinner, nor ever stipulate that I should be paid for my\nservices.\n\nEstella was always about, and always let me in and out, but never told\nme I might kiss her again. Sometimes, she would coldly tolerate me;\nsometimes, she would condescend to me; sometimes, she would be quite\nfamiliar with me; sometimes, she would tell me energetically that she\nhated me. Miss Havisham would often ask me in a whisper, or when we\nwere alone,  Does she grow prettier and prettier, Pip?  And when I said\nyes (for indeed she did), would seem to enjoy it greedily. Also, when\nwe played at cards Miss Havisham would look on, with a miserly relish\nof Estella s moods, whatever they were. And sometimes, when her moods\nwere so many and so contradictory of one another that I was puzzled\nwhat to say or do, Miss Havisham would embrace her with lavish\nfondness, murmuring something in her ear that sounded like  Break their\nhearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy! \n\nThere was a song Joe used to hum fragments of at the forge, of which\nthe burden was Old Clem. This was not a very ceremonious way of\nrendering homage to a patron saint, but I believe Old Clem stood in\nthat relation towards smiths. It was a song that imitated the measure\nof beating upon iron, and was a mere lyrical excuse for the\nintroduction of Old Clem s respected name. Thus, you were to hammer\nboys round Old Clem! With a thump and a sound Old Clem! Beat it out,\nbeat it out Old Clem! With a clink for the stout Old Clem! Blow the\nfire, blow the fire Old Clem! Roaring dryer, soaring higher Old Clem!\nOne day soon after the appearance of the chair, Miss Havisham suddenly\nsaying to me, with the impatient movement of her fingers,  There,\nthere, there! Sing!  I was surprised into crooning this ditty as I\npushed her over the floor. It happened so to catch her fancy that she\ntook it up in a low brooding voice as if she were singing in her sleep.\nAfter that, it became customary with us to have it as we moved about,\nand Estella would often join in; though the whole strain was so\nsubdued, even when there were three of us, that it made less noise in\nthe grim old house than the lightest breath of wind.\n\nWhat could I become with these surroundings? How could my character\nfail to be influenced by them? Is it to be wondered at if my thoughts\nwere dazed, as my eyes were, when I came out into the natural light\nfrom the misty yellow rooms?\n\nPerhaps I might have told Joe about the pale young gentleman, if I had\nnot previously been betrayed into those enormous inventions to which I\nhad confessed. Under the circumstances, I felt that Joe could hardly\nfail to discern in the pale young gentleman, an appropriate passenger\nto be put into the black velvet coach; therefore, I said nothing of\nhim. Besides, that shrinking from having Miss Havisham and Estella\ndiscussed, which had come upon me in the beginning, grew much more\npotent as time went on. I reposed complete confidence in no one but\nBiddy; but I told poor Biddy everything. Why it came natural to me to\ndo so, and why Biddy had a deep concern in everything I told her, I did\nnot know then, though I think I know now.\n\nMeanwhile, councils went on in the kitchen at home, fraught with almost\ninsupportable aggravation to my exasperated spirit. That ass,\nPumblechook, used often to come over of a night for the purpose of\ndiscussing my prospects with my sister; and I really do believe (to\nthis hour with less penitence than I ought to feel), that if these\nhands could have taken a linchpin out of his chaise-cart, they would\nhave done it. The miserable man was a man of that confined stolidity of\nmind, that he could not discuss my prospects without having me before\nhim, as it were, to operate upon, and he would drag me up from my stool\n(usually by the collar) where I was quiet in a corner, and, putting me\nbefore the fire as if I were going to be cooked, would begin by saying,\n Now, Mum, here is this boy! Here is this boy which you brought up by\nhand. Hold up your head, boy, and be forever grateful unto them which\nso did do. Now, Mum, with respections to this boy!  And then he would\nrumple my hair the wrong way, which from my earliest remembrance, as\nalready hinted, I have in my soul denied the right of any\nfellow-creature to do, and would hold me before him by the sleeve, a\nspectacle of imbecility only to be equalled by himself.\n\nThen, he and my sister would pair off in such nonsensical speculations\nabout Miss Havisham, and about what she would do with me and for me,\nthat I used to want quite painfully to burst into spiteful tears, fly\nat Pumblechook, and pummel him all over. In these dialogues, my sister\nspoke to me as if she were morally wrenching one of my teeth out at\nevery reference; while Pumblechook himself, self-constituted my patron,\nwould sit supervising me with a depreciatory eye, like the architect of\nmy fortunes who thought himself engaged on a very unremunerative job.\n\nIn these discussions, Joe bore no part. But he was often talked at,\nwhile they were in progress, by reason of Mrs. Joe s perceiving that he\nwas not favourable to my being taken from the forge. I was fully old\nenough now to be apprenticed to Joe; and when Joe sat with the poker on\nhis knees thoughtfully raking out the ashes between the lower bars, my\nsister would so distinctly construe that innocent action into\nopposition on his part, that she would dive at him, take the poker out\nof his hands, shake him, and put it away. There was a most irritating\nend to every one of these debates. All in a moment, with nothing to\nlead up to it, my sister would stop herself in a yawn, and catching\nsight of me as it were incidentally, would swoop upon me with,  Come!\nthere s enough of _you_! _You_ get along to bed; _you_ ve given trouble\nenough for one night, I hope!  As if I had besought them as a favour to\nbother my life out.\n\nWe went on in this way for a long time, and it seemed likely that we\nshould continue to go on in this way for a long time, when one day Miss\nHavisham stopped short as she and I were walking, she leaning on my\nshoulder; and said with some displeasure, \n\n You are growing tall, Pip! \n\nI thought it best to hint, through the medium of a meditative look,\nthat this might be occasioned by circumstances over which I had no\ncontrol.\n\nShe said no more at the time; but she presently stopped and looked at\nme again; and presently again; and after that, looked frowning and\nmoody. On the next day of my attendance, when our usual exercise was\nover, and I had landed her at her dressing-table, she stayed me with a\nmovement of her impatient fingers: \n\n Tell me the name again of that blacksmith of yours. \n\n Joe Gargery, ma am. \n\n Meaning the master you were to be apprenticed to? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n You had better be apprenticed at once. Would Gargery come here with\nyou, and bring your indentures, do you think? \n\nI signified that I had no doubt he would take it as an honour to be\nasked.\n\n Then let him come. \n\n At any particular time, Miss Havisham? \n\n There, there! I know nothing about times. Let him come soon, and come\nalong with you. \n\nWhen I got home at night, and delivered this message for Joe, my sister\n went on the Rampage,  in a more alarming degree than at any previous\nperiod. She asked me and Joe whether we supposed she was door-mats\nunder our feet, and how we dared to use her so, and what company we\ngraciously thought she _was_ fit for? When she had exhausted a torrent\nof such inquiries, she threw a candlestick at Joe, burst into a loud\nsobbing, got out the dustpan, which was always a very bad sign, put on\nher coarse apron, and began cleaning up to a terrible extent. Not\nsatisfied with a dry cleaning, she took to a pail and scrubbing-brush,\nand cleaned us out of house and home, so that we stood shivering in the\nback-yard. It was ten o clock at night before we ventured to creep in\nagain, and then she asked Joe why he hadn t married a Negress Slave at\nonce? Joe offered no answer, poor fellow, but stood feeling his whisker\nand looking dejectedly at me, as if he thought it really might have\nbeen a better speculation.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII.\n\n\nIt was a trial to my feelings, on the next day but one, to see Joe\narraying himself in his Sunday clothes to accompany me to Miss\nHavisham s. However, as he thought his court-suit necessary to the\noccasion, it was not for me to tell him that he looked far better in\nhis working-dress; the rather, because I knew he made himself so\ndreadfully uncomfortable, entirely on my account, and that it was for\nme he pulled up his shirt-collar so very high behind, that it made the\nhair on the crown of his head stand up like a tuft of feathers.\n\nAt breakfast-time my sister declared her intention of going to town\nwith us, and being left at Uncle Pumblechook s and called for  when we\nhad done with our fine ladies a way of putting the case, from which\nJoe appeared inclined to augur the worst. The forge was shut up for the\nday, and Joe inscribed in chalk upon the door (as it was his custom to\ndo on the very rare occasions when he was not at work) the monosyllable\nHOUT, accompanied by a sketch of an arrow supposed to be flying in the\ndirection he had taken.\n\nWe walked to town, my sister leading the way in a very large beaver\nbonnet, and carrying a basket like the Great Seal of England in plaited\nStraw, a pair of pattens, a spare shawl, and an umbrella, though it was\na fine bright day. I am not quite clear whether these articles were\ncarried penitentially or ostentatiously; but I rather think they were\ndisplayed as articles of property, much as Cleopatra or any other\nsovereign lady on the Rampage might exhibit her wealth in a pageant or\nprocession.\n\nWhen we came to Pumblechook s, my sister bounced in and left us. As it\nwas almost noon, Joe and I held straight on to Miss Havisham s house.\nEstella opened the gate as usual, and, the moment she appeared, Joe\ntook his hat off and stood weighing it by the brim in both his hands;\nas if he had some urgent reason in his mind for being particular to\nhalf a quarter of an ounce.\n\nEstella took no notice of either of us, but led us the way that I knew\nso well. I followed next to her, and Joe came last. When I looked back\nat Joe in the long passage, he was still weighing his hat with the\ngreatest care, and was coming after us in long strides on the tips of\nhis toes.\n\nEstella told me we were both to go in, so I took Joe by the coat-cuff\nand conducted him into Miss Havisham s presence. She was seated at her\ndressing-table, and looked round at us immediately.\n\n Oh!  said she to Joe.  You are the husband of the sister of this boy? \n\nI could hardly have imagined dear old Joe looking so unlike himself or\nso like some extraordinary bird; standing as he did speechless, with\nhis tuft of feathers ruffled, and his mouth open as if he wanted a\nworm.\n\n You are the husband,  repeated Miss Havisham,  of the sister of this\nboy? \n\nIt was very aggravating; but, throughout the interview, Joe persisted\nin addressing Me instead of Miss Havisham.\n\n Which I meantersay, Pip,  Joe now observed in a manner that was at\nonce expressive of forcible argumentation, strict confidence, and great\npoliteness,  as I hup and married your sister, and I were at the time\nwhat you might call (if you was anyways inclined) a single man. \n\n Well!  said Miss Havisham.  And you have reared the boy, with the\nintention of taking him for your apprentice; is that so, Mr. Gargery? \n\n You know, Pip,  replied Joe,  as you and me were ever friends, and it\nwere looked for ard to betwixt us, as being calc lated to lead to\nlarks. Not but what, Pip, if you had ever made objections to the\nbusiness, such as its being open to black and sut, or such-like, not\nbut what they would have been attended to, don t you see? \n\n Has the boy,  said Miss Havisham,  ever made any objection? Does he\nlike the trade? \n\n Which it is well beknown to yourself, Pip,  returned Joe,\nstrengthening his former mixture of argumentation, confidence, and\npoliteness,  that it were the wish of your own hart.  (I saw the idea\nsuddenly break upon him that he would adapt his epitaph to the\noccasion, before he went on to say)  And there weren t no objection on\nyour part, and Pip it were the great wish of your hart! \n\nIt was quite in vain for me to endeavour to make him sensible that he\nought to speak to Miss Havisham. The more I made faces and gestures to\nhim to do it, the more confidential, argumentative, and polite, he\npersisted in being to Me.\n\n Have you brought his indentures with you?  asked Miss Havisham.\n\n Well, Pip, you know,  replied Joe, as if that were a little\nunreasonable,  you yourself see me put  em in my  at, and therefore you\nknow as they are here.  With which he took them out, and gave them, not\nto Miss Havisham, but to me. I am afraid I was ashamed of the dear good\nfellow, I _know_ I was ashamed of him, when I saw that Estella stood at\nthe back of Miss Havisham s chair, and that her eyes laughed\nmischievously. I took the indentures out of his hand and gave them to\nMiss Havisham.\n\n You expected,  said Miss Havisham, as she looked them over,  no\npremium with the boy? \n\n Joe!  I remonstrated, for he made no reply at all.  Why don t you\nanswer \n\n Pip,  returned Joe, cutting me short as if he were hurt,  which I\nmeantersay that were not a question requiring a answer betwixt yourself\nand me, and which you know the answer to be full well No. You know it\nto be No, Pip, and wherefore should I say it? \n\nMiss Havisham glanced at him as if she understood what he really was\nbetter than I had thought possible, seeing what he was there; and took\nup a little bag from the table beside her.\n\n Pip has earned a premium here,  she said,  and here it is. There are\nfive-and-twenty guineas in this bag. Give it to your master, Pip. \n\nAs if he were absolutely out of his mind with the wonder awakened in\nhim by her strange figure and the strange room, Joe, even at this pass,\npersisted in addressing me.\n\n This is wery liberal on your part, Pip,  said Joe,  and it is as such\nreceived and grateful welcome, though never looked for, far nor near,\nnor nowheres. And now, old chap,  said Joe, conveying to me a\nsensation, first of burning and then of freezing, for I felt as if that\nfamiliar expression were applied to Miss Havisham, and now, old chap,\nmay we do our duty! May you and me do our duty, both on us, by one and\nanother, and by them which your liberal present have-conweyed to be for\nthe satisfaction of mind-of them as never  here Joe showed that he\nfelt he had fallen into frightful difficulties, until he triumphantly\nrescued himself with the words,  and from myself far be it!  These\nwords had such a round and convincing sound for him that he said them\ntwice.\n\n Good-bye, Pip!  said Miss Havisham.  Let them out, Estella. \n\n Am I to come again, Miss Havisham?  I asked.\n\n No. Gargery is your master now. Gargery! One word! \n\nThus calling him back as I went out of the door, I heard her say to Joe\nin a distinct emphatic voice,  The boy has been a good boy here, and\nthat is his reward. Of course, as an honest man, you will expect no\nother and no more. \n\nHow Joe got out of the room, I have never been able to determine; but I\nknow that when he did get out he was steadily proceeding upstairs\ninstead of coming down, and was deaf to all remonstrances until I went\nafter him and laid hold of him. In another minute we were outside the\ngate, and it was locked, and Estella was gone. When we stood in the\ndaylight alone again, Joe backed up against a wall, and said to me,\n Astonishing!  And there he remained so long saying,  Astonishing  at\nintervals, so often, that I began to think his senses were never coming\nback. At length he prolonged his remark into  Pip, I do assure _you_\nthis is as-TON-ishing!  and so, by degrees, became conversational and\nable to walk away.\n\nI have reason to think that Joe s intellects were brightened by the\nencounter they had passed through, and that on our way to Pumblechook s\nhe invented a subtle and deep design. My reason is to be found in what\ntook place in Mr. Pumblechook s parlour: where, on our presenting\nourselves, my sister sat in conference with that detested seedsman.\n\n Well?  cried my sister, addressing us both at once.  And what s\nhappened to _you_? I wonder you condescend to come back to such poor\nsociety as this, I am sure I do! \n\n Miss Havisham,  said Joe, with a fixed look at me, like an effort of\nremembrance,  made it wery partick ler that we should give her were it\ncompliments or respects, Pip? \n\n Compliments,  I said.\n\n Which that were my own belief,  answered Joe;  her compliments to Mrs.\nJ. Gargery \n\n Much good they ll do me!  observed my sister; but rather gratified\ntoo.\n\n And wishing,  pursued Joe, with another fixed look at me, like another\neffort of remembrance,  that the state of Miss Havisham s elth were\nsitch as would have allowed, were it, Pip? \n\n Of her having the pleasure,  I added.\n\n Of ladies  company,  said Joe. And drew a long breath.\n\n Well!  cried my sister, with a mollified glance at Mr. Pumblechook.\n She might have had the politeness to send that message at first, but\nit s better late than never. And what did she give young Rantipole\nhere? \n\n She giv  him,  said Joe,  nothing. \n\nMrs. Joe was going to break out, but Joe went on.\n\n What she giv ,  said Joe,  she giv  to his friends.  And by his\nfriends,  were her explanation,  I mean into the hands of his sister\nMrs. J. Gargery.  Them were her words;  Mrs. J. Gargery.  She mayn t\nhave know d,  added Joe, with an appearance of reflection,  whether it\nwere Joe, or Jorge. \n\nMy sister looked at Pumblechook: who smoothed the elbows of his wooden\narm-chair, and nodded at her and at the fire, as if he had known all\nabout it beforehand.\n\n And how much have you got?  asked my sister, laughing. Positively\nlaughing!\n\n What would present company say to ten pound?  demanded Joe.\n\n They d say,  returned my sister, curtly,  pretty well. Not too much,\nbut pretty well. \n\n It s more than that, then,  said Joe.\n\nThat fearful Impostor, Pumblechook, immediately nodded, and said, as he\nrubbed the arms of his chair,  It s more than that, Mum. \n\n Why, you don t mean to say  began my sister.\n\n Yes I do, Mum,  said Pumblechook;  but wait a bit. Go on, Joseph. Good\nin you! Go on! \n\n What would present company say,  proceeded Joe,  to twenty pound? \n\n Handsome would be the word,  returned my sister.\n\n Well, then,  said Joe,  It s more than twenty pound. \n\nThat abject hypocrite, Pumblechook, nodded again, and said, with a\npatronizing laugh,  It s more than that, Mum. Good again! Follow her\nup, Joseph! \n\n Then to make an end of it,  said Joe, delightedly handing the bag to\nmy sister;  it s five-and-twenty pound. \n\n It s five-and-twenty pound, Mum,  echoed that basest of swindlers,\nPumblechook, rising to shake hands with her;  and it s no more than\nyour merits (as I said when my opinion was asked), and I wish you joy\nof the money! \n\nIf the villain had stopped here, his case would have been sufficiently\nawful, but he blackened his guilt by proceeding to take me into\ncustody, with a right of patronage that left all his former criminality\nfar behind.\n\n Now you see, Joseph and wife,  said Pumblechook, as he took me by the\narm above the elbow,  I am one of them that always go right through\nwith what they ve begun. This boy must be bound, out of hand. That s\n_my_ way. Bound out of hand. \n\n Goodness knows, Uncle Pumblechook,  said my sister (grasping the\nmoney),  we re deeply beholden to you. \n\n Never mind me, Mum,  returned that diabolical cornchandler.  A\npleasure s a pleasure all the world over. But this boy, you know; we\nmust have him bound. I said I d see to it to tell you the truth. \n\nThe Justices were sitting in the Town Hall near at hand, and we at once\nwent over to have me bound apprentice to Joe in the Magisterial\npresence. I say we went over, but I was pushed over by Pumblechook,\nexactly as if I had that moment picked a pocket or fired a rick;\nindeed, it was the general impression in Court that I had been taken\nred-handed; for, as Pumblechook shoved me before him through the crowd,\nI heard some people say,  What s he done?  and others,  He s a young\n un, too, but looks bad, don t he?  One person of mild and benevolent\naspect even gave me a tract ornamented with a woodcut of a malevolent\nyoung man fitted up with a perfect sausage-shop of fetters, and\nentitled TO BE READ IN MY CELL.\n\nThe Hall was a queer place, I thought, with higher pews in it than a\nchurch, and with people hanging over the pews looking on, and with\nmighty Justices (one with a powdered head) leaning back in chairs, with\nfolded arms, or taking snuff, or going to sleep, or writing, or reading\nthe newspapers, and with some shining black portraits on the walls,\nwhich my unartistic eye regarded as a composition of hardbake and\nsticking-plaster. Here, in a corner my indentures were duly signed and\nattested, and I was  bound ; Mr. Pumblechook holding me all the while\nas if we had looked in on our way to the scaffold, to have those little\npreliminaries disposed of.\n\nWhen we had come out again, and had got rid of the boys who had been\nput into great spirits by the expectation of seeing me publicly\ntortured, and who were much disappointed to find that my friends were\nmerely rallying round me, we went back to Pumblechook s. And there my\nsister became so excited by the twenty-five guineas, that nothing would\nserve her but we must have a dinner out of that windfall at the Blue\nBoar, and that Pumblechook must go over in his chaise-cart, and bring\nthe Hubbles and Mr. Wopsle.\n\nIt was agreed to be done; and a most melancholy day I passed. For, it\ninscrutably appeared to stand to reason, in the minds of the whole\ncompany, that I was an excrescence on the entertainment. And to make it\nworse, they all asked me from time to time, in short, whenever they had\nnothing else to do, why I didn t enjoy myself? And what could I\npossibly do then, but say I _was_ enjoying myself, when I wasn t!\n\nHowever, they were grown up and had their own way, and they made the\nmost of it. That swindling Pumblechook, exalted into the beneficent\ncontriver of the whole occasion, actually took the top of the table;\nand, when he addressed them on the subject of my being bound, and had\nfiendishly congratulated them on my being liable to imprisonment if I\nplayed at cards, drank strong liquors, kept late hours or bad company,\nor indulged in other vagaries which the form of my indentures appeared\nto contemplate as next to inevitable, he placed me standing on a chair\nbeside him to illustrate his remarks.\n\nMy only other remembrances of the great festival are, That they\nwouldn t let me go to sleep, but whenever they saw me dropping off,\nwoke me up and told me to enjoy myself. That, rather late in the\nevening Mr. Wopsle gave us Collins s ode, and threw his bloodstained\nsword in thunder down, with such effect, that a waiter came in and\nsaid,  The Commercials underneath sent up their compliments, and it\nwasn t the Tumblers  Arms.  That, they were all in excellent spirits on\nthe road home, and sang, O Lady Fair! Mr. Wopsle taking the bass, and\nasserting with a tremendously strong voice (in reply to the inquisitive\nbore who leads that piece of music in a most impertinent manner, by\nwanting to know all about everybody s private affairs) that _he_ was\nthe man with his white locks flowing, and that he was upon the whole\nthe weakest pilgrim going.\n\nFinally, I remember that when I got into my little bedroom, I was truly\nwretched, and had a strong conviction on me that I should never like\nJoe s trade. I had liked it once, but once was not now.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV.\n\n\nIt is a most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home. There may be\nblack ingratitude in the thing, and the punishment may be retributive\nand well deserved; but that it is a miserable thing, I can testify.\n\nHome had never been a very pleasant place to me, because of my sister s\ntemper. But, Joe had sanctified it, and I had believed in it. I had\nbelieved in the best parlour as a most elegant saloon; I had believed\nin the front door, as a mysterious portal of the Temple of State whose\nsolemn opening was attended with a sacrifice of roast fowls; I had\nbelieved in the kitchen as a chaste though not magnificent apartment; I\nhad believed in the forge as the glowing road to manhood and\nindependence. Within a single year all this was changed. Now it was all\ncoarse and common, and I would not have had Miss Havisham and Estella\nsee it on any account.\n\nHow much of my ungracious condition of mind may have been my own fault,\nhow much Miss Havisham s, how much my sister s, is now of no moment to\nme or to any one. The change was made in me; the thing was done. Well\nor ill done, excusably or inexcusably, it was done.\n\nOnce, it had seemed to me that when I should at last roll up my\nshirt-sleeves and go into the forge, Joe s  prentice, I should be\ndistinguished and happy. Now the reality was in my hold, I only felt\nthat I was dusty with the dust of small-coal, and that I had a weight\nupon my daily remembrance to which the anvil was a feather. There have\nbeen occasions in my later life (I suppose as in most lives) when I\nhave felt for a time as if a thick curtain had fallen on all its\ninterest and romance, to shut me out from anything save dull endurance\nany more. Never has that curtain dropped so heavy and blank, as when my\nway in life lay stretched out straight before me through the newly\nentered road of apprenticeship to Joe.\n\nI remember that at a later period of my  time,  I used to stand about\nthe churchyard on Sunday evenings when night was falling, comparing my\nown perspective with the windy marsh view, and making out some likeness\nbetween them by thinking how flat and low both were, and how on both\nthere came an unknown way and a dark mist and then the sea. I was quite\nas dejected on the first working-day of my apprenticeship as in that\nafter-time; but I am glad to know that I never breathed a murmur to Joe\nwhile my indentures lasted. It is about the only thing I _am_ glad to\nknow of myself in that connection.\n\nFor, though it includes what I proceed to add, all the merit of what I\nproceed to add was Joe s. It was not because I was faithful, but\nbecause Joe was faithful, that I never ran away and went for a soldier\nor a sailor. It was not because I had a strong sense of the virtue of\nindustry, but because Joe had a strong sense of the virtue of industry,\nthat I worked with tolerable zeal against the grain. It is not possible\nto know how far the influence of any amiable honest-hearted duty-doing\nman flies out into the world; but it is very possible to know how it\nhas touched one s self in going by, and I know right well that any good\nthat intermixed itself with my apprenticeship came of plain contented\nJoe, and not of restlessly aspiring discontented me.\n\nWhat I wanted, who can say? How can _I_ say, when I never knew? What I\ndreaded was, that in some unlucky hour I, being at my grimiest and\ncommonest, should lift up my eyes and see Estella looking in at one of\nthe wooden windows of the forge. I was haunted by the fear that she\nwould, sooner or later, find me out, with a black face and hands, doing\nthe coarsest part of my work, and would exult over me and despise me.\nOften after dark, when I was pulling the bellows for Joe, and we were\nsinging Old Clem, and when the thought how we used to sing it at Miss\nHavisham s would seem to show me Estella s face in the fire, with her\npretty hair fluttering in the wind and her eyes scorning me, often at\nsuch a time I would look towards those panels of black night in the\nwall which the wooden windows then were, and would fancy that I saw her\njust drawing her face away, and would believe that she had come at\nlast.\n\nAfter that, when we went in to supper, the place and the meal would\nhave a more homely look than ever, and I would feel more ashamed of\nhome than ever, in my own ungracious breast.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV.\n\n\nAs I was getting too big for Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt s room, my\neducation under that preposterous female terminated. Not, however,\nuntil Biddy had imparted to me everything she knew, from the little\ncatalogue of prices, to a comic song she had once bought for a\nhalf-penny. Although the only coherent part of the latter piece of\nliterature were the opening lines,\n\n     When I went to Lunnon town sirs,\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Wasn t I done very brown sirs?\n     Too rul loo rul\n     Too rul loo rul\n\n\n still, in my desire to be wiser, I got this composition by heart with\nthe utmost gravity; nor do I recollect that I questioned its merit,\nexcept that I thought (as I still do) the amount of Too rul somewhat in\nexcess of the poetry. In my hunger for information, I made proposals to\nMr. Wopsle to bestow some intellectual crumbs upon me, with which he\nkindly complied. As it turned out, however, that he only wanted me for\na dramatic lay-figure, to be contradicted and embraced and wept over\nand bullied and clutched and stabbed and knocked about in a variety of\nways, I soon declined that course of instruction; though not until Mr.\nWopsle in his poetic fury had severely mauled me.\n\nWhatever I acquired, I tried to impart to Joe. This statement sounds so\nwell, that I cannot in my conscience let it pass unexplained. I wanted\nto make Joe less ignorant and common, that he might be worthier of my\nsociety and less open to Estella s reproach.\n\nThe old Battery out on the marshes was our place of study, and a broken\nslate and a short piece of slate-pencil were our educational\nimplements: to which Joe always added a pipe of tobacco. I never knew\nJoe to remember anything from one Sunday to another, or to acquire,\nunder my tuition, any piece of information whatever. Yet he would smoke\nhis pipe at the Battery with a far more sagacious air than anywhere\nelse, even with a learned air, as if he considered himself to be\nadvancing immensely. Dear fellow, I hope he did.\n\nIt was pleasant and quiet, out there with the sails on the river\npassing beyond the earthwork, and sometimes, when the tide was low,\nlooking as if they belonged to sunken ships that were still sailing on\nat the bottom of the water. Whenever I watched the vessels standing out\nto sea with their white sails spread, I somehow thought of Miss\nHavisham and Estella; and whenever the light struck aslant, afar off,\nupon a cloud or sail or green hillside or water-line, it was just the\nsame. Miss Havisham and Estella and the strange house and the strange\nlife appeared to have something to do with everything that was\npicturesque.\n\nOne Sunday when Joe, greatly enjoying his pipe, had so plumed himself\non being  most awful dull,  that I had given him up for the day, I lay\non the earthwork for some time with my chin on my hand, descrying\ntraces of Miss Havisham and Estella all over the prospect, in the sky\nand in the water, until at last I resolved to mention a thought\nconcerning them that had been much in my head.\n\n Joe,  said I;  don t you think I ought to make Miss Havisham a visit? \n\n Well, Pip,  returned Joe, slowly considering.  What for? \n\n What for, Joe? What is any visit made for? \n\n There is some wisits p r aps,  said Joe,  as for ever remains open to\nthe question, Pip. But in regard to wisiting Miss Havisham. She might\nthink you wanted something, expected something of her. \n\n Don t you think I might say that I did not, Joe? \n\n You might, old chap,  said Joe.  And she might credit it. Similarly\nshe mightn t. \n\nJoe felt, as I did, that he had made a point there, and he pulled hard\nat his pipe to keep himself from weakening it by repetition.\n\n You see, Pip,  Joe pursued, as soon as he was past that danger,  Miss\nHavisham done the handsome thing by you. When Miss Havisham done the\nhandsome thing by you, she called me back to say to me as that were\nall. \n\n Yes, Joe. I heard her. \n\n ALL,  Joe repeated, very emphatically.\n\n Yes, Joe. I tell you, I heard her. \n\n Which I meantersay, Pip, it might be that her meaning were, Make a end\non it! As you was! Me to the North, and you to the South! Keep in\nsunders! \n\nI had thought of that too, and it was very far from comforting to me to\nfind that he had thought of it; for it seemed to render it more\nprobable.\n\n But, Joe. \n\n Yes, old chap. \n\n Here am I, getting on in the first year of my time, and, since the day\nof my being bound, I have never thanked Miss Havisham, or asked after\nher, or shown that I remember her. \n\n That s true, Pip; and unless you was to turn her out a set of shoes\nall four round, and which I meantersay as even a set of shoes all four\nround might not be acceptable as a present, in a total wacancy of\nhoofs \n\n I don t mean that sort of remembrance, Joe; I don t mean a present. \n\nBut Joe had got the idea of a present in his head and must harp upon\nit.  Or even,  said he,  if you was helped to knocking her up a new\nchain for the front door, or say a gross or two of shark-headed screws\nfor general use, or some light fancy article, such as a toasting-fork\nwhen she took her muffins, or a gridiron when she took a sprat or such\nlike \n\n I don t mean any present at all, Joe,  I interposed.\n\n Well,  said Joe, still harping on it as though I had particularly\npressed it,  if I was yourself, Pip, I wouldn t. No, I would _not_. For\nwhat s a door-chain when she s got one always up? And shark-headers is\nopen to misrepresentations. And if it was a toasting-fork, you d go\ninto brass and do yourself no credit. And the oncommonest workman can t\nshow himself oncommon in a gridiron, for a gridiron IS a gridiron, \nsaid Joe, steadfastly impressing it upon me, as if he were endeavouring\nto rouse me from a fixed delusion,  and you may haim at what you like,\nbut a gridiron it will come out, either by your leave or again your\nleave, and you can t help yourself \n\n My dear Joe,  I cried, in desperation, taking hold of his coat,  don t\ngo on in that way. I never thought of making Miss Havisham any\npresent. \n\n No, Pip,  Joe assented, as if he had been contending for that, all\nalong;  and what I say to you is, you are right, Pip. \n\n Yes, Joe; but what I wanted to say, was, that as we are rather slack\njust now, if you would give me a half-holiday to-morrow, I think I\nwould go uptown and make a call on Miss Est Havisham. \n\n Which her name,  said Joe, gravely,  ain t Estavisham, Pip, unless she\nhave been rechris ened. \n\n I know, Joe, I know. It was a slip of mine. What do you think of it,\nJoe? \n\nIn brief, Joe thought that if I thought well of it, he thought well of\nit. But, he was particular in stipulating that if I were not received\nwith cordiality, or if I were not encouraged to repeat my visit as a\nvisit which had no ulterior object but was simply one of gratitude for\na favour received, then this experimental trip should have no\nsuccessor. By these conditions I promised to abide.\n\nNow, Joe kept a journeyman at weekly wages whose name was Orlick. He\npretended that his Christian name was Dolge, a clear Impossibility, but\nhe was a fellow of that obstinate disposition that I believe him to\nhave been the prey of no delusion in this particular, but wilfully to\nhave imposed that name upon the village as an affront to its\nunderstanding. He was a broadshouldered loose-limbed swarthy fellow of\ngreat strength, never in a hurry, and always slouching. He never even\nseemed to come to his work on purpose, but would slouch in as if by\nmere accident; and when he went to the Jolly Bargemen to eat his\ndinner, or went away at night, he would slouch out, like Cain or the\nWandering Jew, as if he had no idea where he was going and no intention\nof ever coming back. He lodged at a sluice-keeper s out on the marshes,\nand on working-days would come slouching from his hermitage, with his\nhands in his pockets and his dinner loosely tied in a bundle round his\nneck and dangling on his back. On Sundays he mostly lay all day on the\nsluice-gates, or stood against ricks and barns. He always slouched,\nlocomotively, with his eyes on the ground; and, when accosted or\notherwise required to raise them, he looked up in a half-resentful,\nhalf-puzzled way, as though the only thought he ever had was, that it\nwas rather an odd and injurious fact that he should never be thinking.\n\nThis morose journeyman had no liking for me. When I was very small and\ntimid, he gave me to understand that the Devil lived in a black corner\nof the forge, and that he knew the fiend very well: also that it was\nnecessary to make up the fire, once in seven years, with a live boy,\nand that I might consider myself fuel. When I became Joe s  prentice,\nOrlick was perhaps confirmed in some suspicion that I should displace\nhim; howbeit, he liked me still less. Not that he ever said anything,\nor did anything, openly importing hostility; I only noticed that he\nalways beat his sparks in my direction, and that whenever I sang Old\nClem, he came in out of time.\n\nDolge Orlick was at work and present, next day, when I reminded Joe of\nmy half-holiday. He said nothing at the moment, for he and Joe had just\ngot a piece of hot iron between them, and I was at the bellows; but by\nand by he said, leaning on his hammer, \n\n Now, master! Sure you re not a-going to favour only one of us. If\nYoung Pip has a half-holiday, do as much for Old Orlick.  I suppose he\nwas about five-and-twenty, but he usually spoke of himself as an\nancient person.\n\n Why, what ll you do with a half-holiday, if you get it?  said Joe.\n\n What ll _I_ do with it! What ll _he_ do with it? I ll do as much with\nit as _him_,  said Orlick.\n\n As to Pip, he s going up town,  said Joe.\n\n Well then, as to Old Orlick, _he_ s a-going up town,  retorted that\nworthy.  Two can go up town. Tain t only one wot can go up town.\n\n Don t lose your temper,  said Joe.\n\n Shall if I like,  growled Orlick.  Some and their uptowning! Now,\nmaster! Come. No favouring in this shop. Be a man! \n\nThe master refusing to entertain the subject until the journeyman was\nin a better temper, Orlick plunged at the furnace, drew out a red-hot\nbar, made at me with it as if he were going to run it through my body,\nwhisked it round my head, laid it on the anvil, hammered it out, as if\nit were I, I thought, and the sparks were my spirting blood, and\nfinally said, when he had hammered himself hot and the iron cold, and\nhe again leaned on his hammer, \n\n Now, master! \n\n Are you all right now?  demanded Joe.\n\n Ah! I am all right,  said gruff Old Orlick.\n\n Then, as in general you stick to your work as well as most men,  said\nJoe,  let it be a half-holiday for all. \n\nMy sister had been standing silent in the yard, within hearing, she was\na most unscrupulous spy and listener, and she instantly looked in at\none of the windows.\n\n Like you, you fool!  said she to Joe,  giving holidays to great idle\nhulkers like that. You are a rich man, upon my life, to waste wages in\nthat way. I wish _I_ was his master! \n\n You d be everybody s master, if you durst,  retorted Orlick, with an\nill-favoured grin.\n\n( Let her alone,  said Joe.)\n\n I d be a match for all noodles and all rogues,  returned my sister,\nbeginning to work herself into a mighty rage.  And I couldn t be a\nmatch for the noodles, without being a match for your master, who s the\ndunder-headed king of the noodles. And I couldn t be a match for the\nrogues, without being a match for you, who are the blackest-looking and\nthe worst rogue between this and France. Now! \n\n You re a foul shrew, Mother Gargery,  growled the journeyman.  If that\nmakes a judge of rogues, you ought to be a good un. \n\n( Let her alone, will you?  said Joe.)\n\n What did you say?  cried my sister, beginning to scream.  What did you\nsay? What did that fellow Orlick say to me, Pip? What did he call me,\nwith my husband standing by? Oh! oh! oh!  Each of these exclamations\nwas a shriek; and I must remark of my sister, what is equally true of\nall the violent women I have ever seen, that passion was no excuse for\nher, because it is undeniable that instead of lapsing into passion, she\nconsciously and deliberately took extraordinary pains to force herself\ninto it, and became blindly furious by regular stages;  what was the\nname he gave me before the base man who swore to defend me? Oh! Hold\nme! Oh! \n\n Ah-h-h!  growled the journeyman, between his teeth,  I d hold you, if\nyou was my wife. I d hold you under the pump, and choke it out of you. \n\n( I tell you, let her alone,  said Joe.)\n\n Oh! To hear him!  cried my sister, with a clap of her hands and a\nscream together, which was her next stage.  To hear the names he s\ngiving me! That Orlick! In my own house! Me, a married woman! With my\nhusband standing by! Oh! Oh!  Here my sister, after a fit of clappings\nand screamings, beat her hands upon her bosom and upon her knees, and\nthrew her cap off, and pulled her hair down, which were the last stages\non her road to frenzy. Being by this time a perfect Fury and a complete\nsuccess, she made a dash at the door which I had fortunately locked.\n\nWhat could the wretched Joe do now, after his disregarded parenthetical\ninterruptions, but stand up to his journeyman, and ask him what he\nmeant by interfering betwixt himself and Mrs. Joe; and further whether\nhe was man enough to come on? Old Orlick felt that the situation\nadmitted of nothing less than coming on, and was on his defence\nstraightway; so, without so much as pulling off their singed and burnt\naprons, they went at one another, like two giants. But, if any man in\nthat neighbourhood could stand uplong against Joe, I never saw the man.\nOrlick, as if he had been of no more account than the pale young\ngentleman, was very soon among the coal-dust, and in no hurry to come\nout of it. Then Joe unlocked the door and picked up my sister, who had\ndropped insensible at the window (but who had seen the fight first, I\nthink), and who was carried into the house and laid down, and who was\nrecommended to revive, and would do nothing but struggle and clench her\nhands in Joe s hair. Then came that singular calm and silence which\nsucceed all uproars; and then, with the vague sensation which I have\nalways connected with such a lull, namely, that it was Sunday, and\nsomebody was dead, I went upstairs to dress myself.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWhen I came down again, I found Joe and Orlick sweeping up, without any\nother traces of discomposure than a slit in one of Orlick s nostrils,\nwhich was neither expressive nor ornamental. A pot of beer had appeared\nfrom the Jolly Bargemen, and they were sharing it by turns in a\npeaceable manner. The lull had a sedative and philosophical influence\non Joe, who followed me out into the road to say, as a parting\nobservation that might do me good,  On the Rampage, Pip, and off the\nRampage, Pip: such is Life! \n\nWith what absurd emotions (for we think the feelings that are very\nserious in a man quite comical in a boy) I found myself again going to\nMiss Havisham s, matters little here. Nor, how I passed and repassed\nthe gate many times before I could make up my mind to ring. Nor, how I\ndebated whether I should go away without ringing; nor, how I should\nundoubtedly have gone, if my time had been my own, to come back.\n\nMiss Sarah Pocket came to the gate. No Estella.\n\n How, then? You here again?  said Miss Pocket.  What do you want? \n\nWhen I said that I only came to see how Miss Havisham was, Sarah\nevidently deliberated whether or no she should send me about my\nbusiness. But unwilling to hazard the responsibility, she let me in,\nand presently brought the sharp message that I was to  come up. \n\nEverything was unchanged, and Miss Havisham was alone.\n\n Well?  said she, fixing her eyes upon me.  I hope you want nothing?\nYou ll get nothing. \n\n No indeed, Miss Havisham. I only wanted you to know that I am doing\nvery well in my apprenticeship, and am always much obliged to you. \n\n There, there!  with the old restless fingers.  Come now and then; come\non your birthday. Ay!  she cried suddenly, turning herself and her\nchair towards me,  You are looking round for Estella? Hey? \n\nI had been looking round, in fact, for Estella, and I stammered that I\nhoped she was well.\n\n Abroad,  said Miss Havisham;  educating for a lady; far out of reach;\nprettier than ever; admired by all who see her. Do you feel that you\nhave lost her? \n\nThere was such a malignant enjoyment in her utterance of the last\nwords, and she broke into such a disagreeable laugh, that I was at a\nloss what to say. She spared me the trouble of considering, by\ndismissing me. When the gate was closed upon me by Sarah of the\nwalnut-shell countenance, I felt more than ever dissatisfied with my\nhome and with my trade and with everything; and that was all I took by\n_that_ motion.\n\nAs I was loitering along the High Street, looking in disconsolately at\nthe shop windows, and thinking what I would buy if I were a gentleman,\nwho should come out of the bookshop but Mr. Wopsle. Mr. Wopsle had in\nhis hand the affecting tragedy of George Barnwell, in which he had that\nmoment invested sixpence, with the view of heaping every word of it on\nthe head of Pumblechook, with whom he was going to drink tea. No sooner\ndid he see me, than he appeared to consider that a special Providence\nhad put a  prentice in his way to be read at; and he laid hold of me,\nand insisted on my accompanying him to the Pumblechookian parlour. As I\nknew it would be miserable at home, and as the nights were dark and the\nway was dreary, and almost any companionship on the road was better\nthan none, I made no great resistance; consequently, we turned into\nPumblechook s just as the street and the shops were lighting up.\n\nAs I never assisted at any other representation of George Barnwell, I\ndon t know how long it may usually take; but I know very well that it\ntook until half-past nine o  clock that night, and that when Mr. Wopsle\ngot into Newgate, I thought he never would go to the scaffold, he\nbecame so much slower than at any former period of his disgraceful\ncareer. I thought it a little too much that he should complain of being\ncut short in his flower after all, as if he had not been running to\nseed, leaf after leaf, ever since his course began. This, however, was\na mere question of length and wearisomeness. What stung me, was the\nidentification of the whole affair with my unoffending self. When\nBarnwell began to go wrong, I declare that I felt positively\napologetic, Pumblechook s indignant stare so taxed me with it. Wopsle,\ntoo, took pains to present me in the worst light. At once ferocious and\nmaudlin, I was made to murder my uncle with no extenuating\ncircumstances whatever; Millwood put me down in argument, on every\noccasion; it became sheer monomania in my master s daughter to care a\nbutton for me; and all I can say for my gasping and procrastinating\nconduct on the fatal morning, is, that it was worthy of the general\nfeebleness of my character. Even after I was happily hanged and Wopsle\nhad closed the book, Pumblechook sat staring at me, and shaking his\nhead, and saying,  Take warning, boy, take warning!  as if it were a\nwell-known fact that I contemplated murdering a near relation, provided\nI could only induce one to have the weakness to become my benefactor.\n\nIt was a very dark night when it was all over, and when I set out with\nMr. Wopsle on the walk home. Beyond town, we found a heavy mist out,\nand it fell wet and thick. The turnpike lamp was a blur, quite out of\nthe lamp s usual place apparently, and its rays looked solid substance\non the fog. We were noticing this, and saying how that the mist rose\nwith a change of wind from a certain quarter of our marshes, when we\ncame upon a man, slouching under the lee of the turnpike house.\n\n Halloa!  we said, stopping.  Orlick there? \n\n Ah!  he answered, slouching out.  I was standing by a minute, on the\nchance of company. \n\n You are late,  I remarked.\n\nOrlick not unnaturally answered,  Well? And _you_ re late. \n\n We have been,  said Mr. Wopsle, exalted with his late performance, we\nhave been indulging, Mr. Orlick, in an intellectual evening. \n\nOld Orlick growled, as if he had nothing to say about that, and we all\nwent on together. I asked him presently whether he had been spending\nhis half-holiday up and down town?\n\n Yes,  said he,  all of it. I come in behind yourself. I didn t see\nyou, but I must have been pretty close behind you. By the by, the guns\nis going again. \n\n At the Hulks?  said I.\n\n Ay! There s some of the birds flown from the cages. The guns have been\ngoing since dark, about. You ll hear one presently. \n\nIn effect, we had not walked many yards further, when the\nwell-remembered boom came towards us, deadened by the mist, and heavily\nrolled away along the low grounds by the river, as if it were pursuing\nand threatening the fugitives.\n\n A good night for cutting off in,  said Orlick.  We d be puzzled how to\nbring down a jail-bird on the wing, to-night. \n\nThe subject was a suggestive one to me, and I thought about it in\nsilence. Mr. Wopsle, as the ill-requited uncle of the evening s\ntragedy, fell to meditating aloud in his garden at Camberwell. Orlick,\nwith his hands in his pockets, slouched heavily at my side. It was very\ndark, very wet, very muddy, and so we splashed along. Now and then, the\nsound of the signal cannon broke upon us again, and again rolled\nsulkily along the course of the river. I kept myself to myself and my\nthoughts. Mr. Wopsle died amiably at Camberwell, and exceedingly game\non Bosworth Field, and in the greatest agonies at Glastonbury. Orlick\nsometimes growled,  Beat it out, beat it out, Old Clem! With a clink\nfor the stout, Old Clem!  I thought he had been drinking, but he was\nnot drunk.\n\nThus, we came to the village. The way by which we approached it took us\npast the Three Jolly Bargemen, which we were surprised to find it being\neleven o clock in a state of commotion, with the door wide open, and\nunwonted lights that had been hastily caught up and put down scattered\nabout. Mr. Wopsle dropped in to ask what was the matter (surmising that\na convict had been taken), but came running out in a great hurry.\n\n There s something wrong,  said he, without stopping,  up at your\nplace, Pip. Run all! \n\n What is it?  I asked, keeping up with him. So did Orlick, at my side.\n\n I can t quite understand. The house seems to have been violently\nentered when Joe Gargery was out. Supposed by convicts. Somebody has\nbeen attacked and hurt. \n\nWe were running too fast to admit of more being said, and we made no\nstop until we got into our kitchen. It was full of people; the whole\nvillage was there, or in the yard; and there was a surgeon, and there\nwas Joe, and there were a group of women, all on the floor in the midst\nof the kitchen. The unemployed bystanders drew back when they saw me,\nand so I became aware of my sister, lying without sense or movement on\nthe bare boards where she had been knocked down by a tremendous blow on\nthe back of the head, dealt by some unknown hand when her face was\nturned towards the fire, destined never to be on the Rampage again,\nwhile she was the wife of Joe.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI.\n\n\nWith my head full of George Barnwell, I was at first disposed to\nbelieve that _I_ must have had some hand in the attack upon my sister,\nor at all events that as her near relation, popularly known to be under\nobligations to her, I was a more legitimate object of suspicion than\nany one else. But when, in the clearer light of next morning, I began\nto reconsider the matter and to hear it discussed around me on all\nsides, I took another view of the case, which was more reasonable.\n\nJoe had been at the Three Jolly Bargemen, smoking his pipe, from a\nquarter after eight o clock to a quarter before ten. While he was\nthere, my sister had been seen standing at the kitchen door, and had\nexchanged Good Night with a farm-labourer going home. The man could not\nbe more particular as to the time at which he saw her (he got into\ndense confusion when he tried to be), than that it must have been\nbefore nine. When Joe went home at five minutes before ten, he found\nher struck down on the floor, and promptly called in assistance. The\nfire had not then burnt unusually low, nor was the snuff of the candle\nvery long; the candle, however, had been blown out.\n\nNothing had been taken away from any part of the house. Neither, beyond\nthe blowing out of the candle, which stood on a table between the door\nand my sister, and was behind her when she stood facing the fire and\nwas struck, was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such\nas she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one\nremarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with\nsomething blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were\ndealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable\nviolence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when\nJoe picked her up, was a convict s leg-iron which had been filed\nasunder.\n\nNow, Joe, examining this iron with a smith s eye, declared it to have\nbeen filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the\nHulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe s opinion was\ncorroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the\nprison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they\nclaimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been\nworn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further,\none of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his\niron.\n\nKnowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed\nthe iron to be my convict s iron, the iron I had seen and heard him\nfiling at, on the marshes, but my mind did not accuse him of having put\nit to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have\nbecome possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account.\nEither Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file.\n\nNow, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we\npicked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the\nevening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and\nhe had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against\nhim, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with\neverybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if\nhe had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no\ndispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore\nthem. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in\nso silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could\nlook round.\n\nIt was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however\nundesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered\nunspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I\nshould at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the\nstory. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally\nin the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The\ncontention came, after all, to this; the secret was such an old one\nnow, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not\ntear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much\nmischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me\nif he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not\nbelieve it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets\nas a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of\ncourse for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing\nis always done? and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see\nany such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of\nthe assailant.\n\nThe Constables and the Bow Street men from London for, this happened in\nthe days of the extinct red-waistcoated police were about the house for\na week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like\nauthorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously\nwrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas,\nand persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead\nof trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood\nabout the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks\nthat filled the whole neighbourhood with admiration; and they had a\nmysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as\ntaking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it.\n\nLong after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay\nvery ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects\nmultiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of\nthe realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and\nher speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as\nto be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always\nby her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate\nin speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than\nindifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader,\nextraordinary complications arose between them which I was always\ncalled in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine,\nthe substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among\nthe mildest of my own mistakes.\n\nHowever, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A\ntremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part\nof her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three\nmonths, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then\nremain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We\nwere at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a\ncircumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had\nfallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment.\n\nIt may have been about a month after my sister s reappearance in the\nkitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the\nwhole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household.\nAbove all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly\ncut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had\nbeen accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me\nevery now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened,  Such a fine\nfigure of a woman as she once were, Pip!  Biddy instantly taking the\ncleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe\nbecame able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life,\nand to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that\ndid him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had\nall more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that\nthey had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest\nspirits they had ever encountered.\n\nBiddy s first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that\nhad completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made\nnothing of it. Thus it was: \n\nAgain and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a\ncharacter that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost\neagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly\nwanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T,\nfrom tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the\nsign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my\nsister s ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a\nqualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one\nafter another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the\nshape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and\ndisplayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook\nher head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified\nlest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck.\n\nWhen my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this\nmysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at\nit, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked\nthoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his\ninitial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me.\n\n Why, of course!  cried Biddy, with an exultant face.  Don t you see?\nIt s _him_! \n\nOrlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify\nhim by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the\nkitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his\narm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out,\nwith a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly\ndistinguished him.\n\nI confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was\ndisappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest\nanxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his\nbeing at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given\nsomething to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were\nparticularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his\nreception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and\nthere was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have\nseen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that\nday, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate,\nand without Orlick s slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as\nif he knew no more than I did what to make of it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII.\n\n\nI now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was\nvaried beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more\nremarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying\nanother visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty\nat the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she\nspoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words.\nThe interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I\nwas going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention\nat once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking\nthe guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than\ncausing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after\nthat, I took it.\n\nSo unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened\nroom, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that\nI felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that\nmysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew\nolder, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my\nthoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact.\nIt bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate\nmy trade and to be ashamed of home.\n\nImperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her\nshoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands\nwere always clean. She was not beautiful, she was common, and could not\nbe like Estella, but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered.\nShe had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly\nout of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself\none evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes\nthat were very pretty and very good.\n\nIt came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring\nat writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at\nonce by a sort of stratagem and seeing Biddy observant of what I was\nabout. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without\nlaying it down.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you\nare very clever. \n\n What is it that I manage? I don t know,  returned Biddy, smiling.\n\nShe managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not\nmean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising.\n\n How do you manage, Biddy,  said I,  to learn everything that I learn,\nand always to keep up with me?  I was beginning to be rather vain of my\nknowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the\ngreater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have\nno doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price.\n\n I might as well ask you,  said Biddy,  how _you_ manage? \n\n No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see\nme turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy. \n\n I suppose I must catch it like a cough,  said Biddy, quietly; and went\non with her sewing.\n\nPursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at\nBiddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her\nrather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was\nequally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our\ndifferent sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I\nknew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith\nas I, or better.\n\n You are one of those, Biddy,  said I,  who make the most of every\nchance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how\nimproved you are! \n\nBiddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing.  I was\nyour first teacher though; wasn t I?  said she, as she sewed.\n\n Biddy!  I exclaimed, in amazement.  Why, you are crying! \n\n No I am not,  said Biddy, looking up and laughing.  What put that in\nyour head? \n\nWhat could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it\ndropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been\nuntil Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of\nliving, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled\nthe hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the\nmiserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school,\nwith that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and\nshouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must\nhave been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first\nuneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of\ncourse. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I\nlooked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps\nI had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too\nreserved, and should have patronised her more (though I did not use\nthat precise word in my meditations) with my confidence.\n\n Yes, Biddy,  I observed, when I had done turning it over,  you were my\nfirst teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being\ntogether like this, in this kitchen. \n\n Ah, poor thing!  replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to\ntransfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her,\nmaking her more comfortable;  that s sadly true! \n\n Well!  said I,  we must talk together a little more, as we used to do.\nAnd I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a\nquiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat. \n\nMy sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook\nthe care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out\ntogether. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed\nthe village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the\nmarshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I\nbegan to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my\nusual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank,\nwith the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it\nwould have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time\nand place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence.\n\n Biddy,  said I, after binding her to secrecy,  I want to be a\ngentleman. \n\n O, I wouldn t, if I was you!  she returned.  I don t think it would\nanswer. \n\n Biddy,  said I, with some severity,  I have particular reasons for\nwanting to be a gentleman. \n\n You know best, Pip; but don t you think you are happier as you are? \n\n Biddy,  I exclaimed, impatiently,  I am not at all happy as I am. I am\ndisgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to\neither, since I was bound. Don t be absurd. \n\n Was I absurd?  said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows;  I am sorry\nfor that; I didn t mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be\ncomfortable. \n\n Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be\ncomfortable or anything but miserable there, Biddy! unless I can lead a\nvery different sort of life from the life I lead now. \n\n That s a pity!  said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air.\n\nNow, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind\nof quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half\ninclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave\nutterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I\nknew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped.\n\n If I could have settled down,  I said to Biddy, plucking up the short\ngrass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings\nout of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall, if I could have\nsettled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was\nlittle, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe\nwould have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone\npartners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to\nkeep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a\nfine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for\n_you_; shouldn t I, Biddy? \n\nBiddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for\nanswer,  Yes; I am not over-particular.  It scarcely sounded\nflattering, but I knew she meant well.\n\n Instead of that,  said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade\nor two,  see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable,\nand what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had\ntold me so! \n\nBiddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more\nattentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships.\n\n It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say,  she\nremarked, directing her eyes to the ships again.  Who said it? \n\nI was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I\nwas going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I\nanswered,  The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham s, and she s more\nbeautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I\nwant to be a gentleman on her account.  Having made this lunatic\nconfession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I\nhad some thoughts of following it.\n\n Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over? \nBiddy quietly asked me, after a pause.\n\n I don t know,  I moodily answered.\n\n Because, if it is to spite her,  Biddy pursued,  I should think but\nyou know best that might be better and more independently done by\ncaring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should\nthink but you know best she was not worth gaining over. \n\nExactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was\nperfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed\nvillage lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and\nwisest of men fall every day?\n\n It may be all quite true,  said I to Biddy,  but I admire her\ndreadfully. \n\nIn short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good\ngrasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All\nthe while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and\nmisplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face\nright, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the\npebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot.\n\nBiddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me.\nShe put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by\nwork, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my\nhair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with\nmy face upon my sleeve I cried a little, exactly as I had done in the\nbrewery yard, and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used\nby somebody, or by everybody; I can t say which.\n\n I am glad of one thing,  said Biddy,  and that is, that you have felt\nyou could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing,\nand that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it\nand always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a\npoor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your\nteacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would\nset. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her,\nand it s of no use now.  So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from\nthe bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice,  Shall\nwe walk a little farther, or go home? \n\n Biddy,  I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving\nher a kiss,  I shall always tell you everything. \n\n Till you re a gentleman,  said Biddy.\n\n You know I never shall be, so that s always. Not that I have any\noccasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know, as I\ntold you at home the other night. \n\n Ah!  said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships.\nAnd then repeated, with her former pleasant change,  shall we walk a\nlittle farther, or go home? \n\nI said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the\nsummer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very\nbeautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and\nwholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing\nbeggar my neighbour by candle-light in the room with the stopped\nclocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good\nfor me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those\nremembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish\nwhat I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked\nmyself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were\nbeside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable?\nI was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said\nto myself,  Pip, what a fool you are! \n\nWe talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed\nright. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and\nsomebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no\npleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her\nown breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her\nmuch the better of the two?\n\n Biddy,  said I, when we were walking homeward,  I wish you could put\nme right. \n\n I wish I could!  said Biddy.\n\n If I could only get myself to fall in love with you, you don t mind my\nspeaking so openly to such an old acquaintance? \n\n Oh dear, not at all!  said Biddy.  Don t mind me. \n\n If I could only get myself to do it, _that_ would be the thing for\nme. \n\n But you never will, you see,  said Biddy.\n\nIt did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would\nhave done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore\nobserved I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she _was_, and\nshe said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet\nI took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point.\n\nWhen we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and\nget over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate,\nor from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant\nway), Old Orlick.\n\n Halloa!  he growled,  where are you two going? \n\n Where should we be going, but home? \n\n Well, then,  said he,  I m jiggered if I don t see you home! \n\nThis penalty of being jiggered was a favourite supposititious case of\nhis. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of,\nbut used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind,\nand convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger,\nI had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he\nwould have done it with a sharp and twisted hook.\n\nBiddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper,\n Don t let him come; I don t like him.  As I did not like him either, I\ntook the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn t want\nseeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of\nlaughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little\ndistance.\n\nCurious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in\nthat murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give\nany account, I asked her why she did not like him.\n\n Oh!  she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us,\n because I I am afraid he likes me. \n\n Did he ever tell you he liked you?  I asked indignantly.\n\n No,  said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again,  he never told me\nso; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye. \n\nHowever novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not\ndoubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon\nOld Orlick s daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on\nmyself.\n\n But it makes no difference to you, you know,  said Biddy, calmly.\n\n No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don t like it; I don t\napprove of it. \n\n Nor I neither,  said Biddy.  Though _that_ makes no difference to\nyou. \n\n Exactly,  said I;  but I must tell you I should have no opinion of\nyou, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent. \n\nI kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances\nwere favourable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that\ndemonstration. He had struck root in Joe s establishment, by reason of\nmy sister s sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him\ndismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as\nI had reason to know thereafter.\n\nAnd now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated\nits confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I\nwas clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the\nplain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be\nashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and\nhappiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my\ndisaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was\ngrowing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company\nwith Biddy, when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the\nHavisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and\nscatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and\noften before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in\nall directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss\nHavisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out.\n\nIf my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my\nperplexities, I dare say. It never did run out, however, but was\nbrought to a premature end, as I proceed to relate.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII.\n\n\nIt was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to Joe, and it was a\nSaturday night. There was a group assembled round the fire at the Three\nJolly Bargemen, attentive to Mr. Wopsle as he read the newspaper aloud.\nOf that group I was one.\n\nA highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr. Wopsle was imbrued\nin blood to the eyebrows. He gloated over every abhorrent adjective in\nthe description, and identified himself with every witness at the\nInquest. He faintly moaned,  I am done for,  as the victim, and he\nbarbarously bellowed,  I ll serve you out,  as the murderer. He gave\nthe medical testimony, in pointed imitation of our local practitioner;\nand he piped and shook, as the aged turnpike-keeper who had heard\nblows, to an extent so very paralytic as to suggest a doubt regarding\nthe mental competency of that witness. The coroner, in Mr. Wopsle s\nhands, became Timon of Athens; the beadle, Coriolanus. He enjoyed\nhimself thoroughly, and we all enjoyed ourselves, and were delightfully\ncomfortable. In this cosey state of mind we came to the verdict Wilful\nMurder.\n\nThen, and not sooner, I became aware of a strange gentleman leaning\nover the back of the settle opposite me, looking on. There was an\nexpression of contempt on his face, and he bit the side of a great\nforefinger as he watched the group of faces.\n\n Well!  said the stranger to Mr. Wopsle, when the reading was done,\n you have settled it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt? \n\nEverybody started and looked up, as if it were the murderer. He looked\nat everybody coldly and sarcastically.\n\n Guilty, of course?  said he.  Out with it. Come! \n\n Sir,  returned Mr. Wopsle,  without having the honour of your\nacquaintance, I do say Guilty.  Upon this we all took courage to unite\nin a confirmatory murmur.\n\n I know you do,  said the stranger;  I knew you would. I told you so.\nBut now I ll ask you a question. Do you know, or do you not know, that\nthe law of England supposes every man to be innocent, until he is\nproved proved to be guilty? \n\n Sir,  Mr. Wopsle began to reply,  as an Englishman myself, I \n\n Come!  said the stranger, biting his forefinger at him.  Don t evade\nthe question. Either you know it, or you don t know it. Which is it to\nbe? \n\nHe stood with his head on one side and himself on one side, in a\nbullying, interrogative manner, and he threw his forefinger at Mr.\nWopsle, as it were to mark him out before biting it again.\n\n Now!  said he.  Do you know it, or don t you know it? \n\n Certainly I know it,  replied Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Certainly you know it. Then why didn t you say so at first? Now, I ll\nask you another question, taking possession of Mr. Wopsle, as if he\nhad a right to him, _do_ you know that none of these witnesses have\nyet been cross-examined? \n\nMr. Wopsle was beginning,  I can only say  when the stranger stopped\nhim.\n\n What? You won t answer the question, yes or no? Now, I ll try you\nagain.  Throwing his finger at him again.  Attend to me. Are you aware,\nor are you not aware, that none of these witnesses have yet been\ncross-examined? Come, I only want one word from you. Yes, or no? \n\nMr. Wopsle hesitated, and we all began to conceive rather a poor\nopinion of him.\n\n Come!  said the stranger,  I ll help you. You don t deserve help, but\nI ll help you. Look at that paper you hold in your hand. What is it? \n\n What is it?  repeated Mr. Wopsle, eyeing it, much at a loss.\n\n Is it,  pursued the stranger in his most sarcastic and suspicious\nmanner,  the printed paper you have just been reading from? \n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n Undoubtedly. Now, turn to that paper, and tell me whether it\ndistinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that his legal\nadvisers instructed him altogether to reserve his defence? \n\n I read that just now,  Mr. Wopsle pleaded.\n\n Never mind what you read just now, sir; I don t ask you what you read\njust now. You may read the Lord s Prayer backwards, if you like, and,\nperhaps, have done it before to-day. Turn to the paper. No, no, no my\nfriend; not to the top of the column; you know better than that; to the\nbottom, to the bottom.  (We all began to think Mr. Wopsle full of\nsubterfuge.)  Well? Have you found it? \n\n Here it is,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Now, follow that passage with your eye, and tell me whether it\ndistinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that he was\ninstructed by his legal advisers wholly to reserve his defence? Come!\nDo you make that of it? \n\nMr. Wopsle answered,  Those are not the exact words. \n\n Not the exact words!  repeated the gentleman bitterly.  Is that the\nexact substance? \n\n Yes,  said Mr. Wopsle.\n\n Yes,  repeated the stranger, looking round at the rest of the company\nwith his right hand extended towards the witness, Wopsle.  And now I\nask you what you say to the conscience of that man who, with that\npassage before his eyes, can lay his head upon his pillow after having\npronounced a fellow-creature guilty, unheard? \n\nWe all began to suspect that Mr. Wopsle was not the man we had thought\nhim, and that he was beginning to be found out.\n\n And that same man, remember,  pursued the gentleman, throwing his\nfinger at Mr. Wopsle heavily, that same man might be summoned as a\njuryman upon this very trial, and, having thus deeply committed\nhimself, might return to the bosom of his family and lay his head upon\nhis pillow, after deliberately swearing that he would well and truly\ntry the issue joined between Our Sovereign Lord the King and the\nprisoner at the bar, and would a true verdict give according to the\nevidence, so help him God! \n\nWe were all deeply persuaded that the unfortunate Wopsle had gone too\nfar, and had better stop in his reckless career while there was yet\ntime.\n\nThe strange gentleman, with an air of authority not to be disputed, and\nwith a manner expressive of knowing something secret about every one of\nus that would effectually do for each individual if he chose to\ndisclose it, left the back of the settle, and came into the space\nbetween the two settles, in front of the fire, where he remained\nstanding, his left hand in his pocket, and he biting the forefinger of\nhis right.\n\n From information I have received,  said he, looking round at us as we\nall quailed before him,  I have reason to believe there is a blacksmith\namong you, by name Joseph or Joe Gargery. Which is the man? \n\n Here is the man,  said Joe.\n\nThe strange gentleman beckoned him out of his place, and Joe went.\n\n You have an apprentice,  pursued the stranger,  commonly known as Pip?\nIs he here? \n\n I am here!  I cried.\n\nThe stranger did not recognise me, but I recognised him as the\ngentleman I had met on the stairs, on the occasion of my second visit\nto Miss Havisham. I had known him the moment I saw him looking over the\nsettle, and now that I stood confronting him with his hand upon my\nshoulder, I checked off again in detail his large head, his dark\ncomplexion, his deep-set eyes, his bushy black eyebrows, his large\nwatch-chain, his strong black dots of beard and whisker, and even the\nsmell of scented soap on his great hand.\n\n I wish to have a private conference with you two,  said he, when he\nhad surveyed me at his leisure.  It will take a little time. Perhaps we\nhad better go to your place of residence. I prefer not to anticipate my\ncommunication here; you will impart as much or as little of it as you\nplease to your friends afterwards; I have nothing to do with that. \n\nAmidst a wondering silence, we three walked out of the Jolly Bargemen,\nand in a wondering silence walked home. While going along, the strange\ngentleman occasionally looked at me, and occasionally bit the side of\nhis finger. As we neared home, Joe vaguely acknowledging the occasion\nas an impressive and ceremonious one, went on ahead to open the front\ndoor. Our conference was held in the state parlour, which was feebly\nlighted by one candle.\n\nIt began with the strange gentleman s sitting down at the table,\ndrawing the candle to him, and looking over some entries in his\npocket-book. He then put up the pocket-book and set the candle a little\naside, after peering round it into the darkness at Joe and me, to\nascertain which was which.\n\n My name,  he said,  is Jaggers, and I am a lawyer in London. I am\npretty well known. I have unusual business to transact with you, and I\ncommence by explaining that it is not of my originating. If my advice\nhad been asked, I should not have been here. It was not asked, and you\nsee me here. What I have to do as the confidential agent of another, I\ndo. No less, no more. \n\nFinding that he could not see us very well from where he sat, he got\nup, and threw one leg over the back of a chair and leaned upon it; thus\nhaving one foot on the seat of the chair, and one foot on the ground.\n\n Now, Joseph Gargery, I am the bearer of an offer to relieve you of\nthis young fellow your apprentice. You would not object to cancel his\nindentures at his request and for his good? You would want nothing for\nso doing? \n\n Lord forbid that I should want anything for not standing in Pip s\nway,  said Joe, staring.\n\n Lord forbidding is pious, but not to the purpose,  returned Mr.\nJaggers.  The question is, Would you want anything? Do you want\nanything? \n\n The answer is,  returned Joe, sternly,  No. \n\nI thought Mr. Jaggers glanced at Joe, as if he considered him a fool\nfor his disinterestedness. But I was too much bewildered between\nbreathless curiosity and surprise, to be sure of it.\n\n Very well,  said Mr. Jaggers.  Recollect the admission you have made,\nand don t try to go from it presently. \n\n Who s a-going to try?  retorted Joe.\n\n I don t say anybody is. Do you keep a dog? \n\n Yes, I do keep a dog. \n\n Bear in mind then, that Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better.\nBear that in mind, will you?  repeated Mr. Jaggers, shutting his eyes\nand nodding his head at Joe, as if he were forgiving him something.\n Now, I return to this young fellow. And the communication I have got\nto make is, that he has great expectations. \n\nJoe and I gasped, and looked at one another.\n\n I am instructed to communicate to him,  said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his\nfinger at me sideways,  that he will come into a handsome property.\nFurther, that it is the desire of the present possessor of that\nproperty, that he be immediately removed from his present sphere of\nlife and from this place, and be brought up as a gentleman, in a word,\nas a young fellow of great expectations. \n\nMy dream was out; my wild fancy was surpassed by sober reality; Miss\nHavisham was going to make my fortune on a grand scale.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip,  pursued the lawyer,  I address the rest of what I have\nto say, to you. You are to understand, first, that it is the request of\nthe person from whom I take my instructions that you always bear the\nname of Pip. You will have no objection, I dare say, to your great\nexpectations being encumbered with that easy condition. But if you have\nany objection, this is the time to mention it. \n\nMy heart was beating so fast, and there was such a singing in my ears,\nthat I could scarcely stammer I had no objection.\n\n I should think not! Now you are to understand, secondly, Mr. Pip, that\nthe name of the person who is your liberal benefactor remains a\nprofound secret, until the person chooses to reveal it. I am empowered\nto mention that it is the intention of the person to reveal it at first\nhand by word of mouth to yourself. When or where that intention may be\ncarried out, I cannot say; no one can say. It may be years hence. Now,\nyou are distinctly to understand that you are most positively\nprohibited from making any inquiry on this head, or any allusion or\nreference, however distant, to any individual whomsoever as _the_\nindividual, in all the communications you may have with me. If you have\na suspicion in your own breast, keep that suspicion in your own breast.\nIt is not the least to the purpose what the reasons of this prohibition\nare; they may be the strongest and gravest reasons, or they may be mere\nwhim. This is not for you to inquire into. The condition is laid down.\nYour acceptance of it, and your observance of it as binding, is the\nonly remaining condition that I am charged with, by the person from\nwhom I take my instructions, and for whom I am not otherwise\nresponsible. That person is the person from whom you derive your\nexpectations, and the secret is solely held by that person and by me.\nAgain, not a very difficult condition with which to encumber such a\nrise in fortune; but if you have any objection to it, this is the time\nto mention it. Speak out. \n\nOnce more, I stammered with difficulty that I had no objection.\n\n I should think not! Now, Mr. Pip, I have done with stipulations. \nThough he called me Mr. Pip, and began rather to make up to me, he\nstill could not get rid of a certain air of bullying suspicion; and\neven now he occasionally shut his eyes and threw his finger at me while\nhe spoke, as much as to express that he knew all kinds of things to my\ndisparagement, if he only chose to mention them.  We come next, to mere\ndetails of arrangement. You must know that, although I have used the\nterm  expectations  more than once, you are not endowed with\nexpectations only. There is already lodged in my hands a sum of money\namply sufficient for your suitable education and maintenance. You will\nplease consider me your guardian. Oh!  for I was going to thank him,  I\ntell you at once, I am paid for my services, or I shouldn t render\nthem. It is considered that you must be better educated, in accordance\nwith your altered position, and that you will be alive to the\nimportance and necessity of at once entering on that advantage. \n\nI said I had always longed for it.\n\n Never mind what you have always longed for, Mr. Pip,  he retorted;\n keep to the record. If you long for it now, that s enough. Am I\nanswered that you are ready to be placed at once under some proper\ntutor? Is that it? \n\nI stammered yes, that was it.\n\n Good. Now, your inclinations are to be consulted. I don t think that\nwise, mind, but it s my trust. Have you ever heard of any tutor whom\nyou would prefer to another? \n\nI had never heard of any tutor but Biddy and Mr. Wopsle s great-aunt;\nso, I replied in the negative.\n\n There is a certain tutor, of whom I have some knowledge, who I think\nmight suit the purpose,  said Mr. Jaggers.  I don t recommend him,\nobserve; because I never recommend anybody. The gentleman I speak of is\none Mr. Matthew Pocket. \n\nAh! I caught at the name directly. Miss Havisham s relation. The\nMatthew whom Mr. and Mrs. Camilla had spoken of. The Matthew whose\nplace was to be at Miss Havisham s head, when she lay dead, in her\nbride s dress on the bride s table.\n\n You know the name?  said Mr. Jaggers, looking shrewdly at me, and then\nshutting up his eyes while he waited for my answer.\n\nMy answer was, that I had heard of the name.\n\n Oh!  said he.  You have heard of the name. But the question is, what\ndo you say of it? \n\nI said, or tried to say, that I was much obliged to him for his\nrecommendation \n\n No, my young friend!  he interrupted, shaking his great head very\nslowly.  Recollect yourself! \n\nNot recollecting myself, I began again that I was much obliged to him\nfor his recommendation \n\n No, my young friend,  he interrupted, shaking his head and frowning\nand smiling both at once, no, no, no; it s very well done, but it\nwon t do; you are too young to fix me with it. Recommendation is not\nthe word, Mr. Pip. Try another. \n\nCorrecting myself, I said that I was much obliged to him for his\nmention of Mr. Matthew Pocket \n\n _That_ s more like it!  cried Mr. Jaggers. And (I added), I would\ngladly try that gentleman.\n\n Good. You had better try him in his own house. The way shall be\nprepared for you, and you can see his son first, who is in London. When\nwill you come to London? \n\nI said (glancing at Joe, who stood looking on, motionless), that I\nsupposed I could come directly.\n\n First,  said Mr. Jaggers,  you should have some new clothes to come\nin, and they should not be working-clothes. Say this day week. You ll\nwant some money. Shall I leave you twenty guineas? \n\nHe produced a long purse, with the greatest coolness, and counted them\nout on the table and pushed them over to me. This was the first time he\nhad taken his leg from the chair. He sat astride of the chair when he\nhad pushed the money over, and sat swinging his purse and eyeing Joe.\n\n Well, Joseph Gargery? You look dumbfoundered? \n\n I _am_!  said Joe, in a very decided manner.\n\n It was understood that you wanted nothing for yourself, remember? \n\n It were understood,  said Joe.  And it are understood. And it ever\nwill be similar according. \n\n But what,  said Mr. Jaggers, swinging his purse, what if it was in my\ninstructions to make you a present, as compensation? \n\n As compensation what for?  Joe demanded.\n\n For the loss of his services. \n\nJoe laid his hand upon my shoulder with the touch of a woman. I have\noften thought him since, like the steam-hammer that can crush a man or\npat an egg-shell, in his combination of strength with gentleness.  Pip\nis that hearty welcome,  said Joe,  to go free with his services, to\nhonour and fortun , as no words can tell him. But if you think as Money\ncan make compensation to me for the loss of the little child what come\nto the forge and ever the best of friends! \n\nO dear good Joe, whom I was so ready to leave and so unthankful to, I\nsee you again, with your muscular blacksmith s arm before your eyes,\nand your broad chest heaving, and your voice dying away. O dear good\nfaithful tender Joe, I feel the loving tremble of your hand upon my\narm, as solemnly this day as if it had been the rustle of an angel s\nwing!\n\nBut I encouraged Joe at the time. I was lost in the mazes of my future\nfortunes, and could not retrace the by-paths we had trodden together. I\nbegged Joe to be comforted, for (as he said) we had ever been the best\nof friends, and (as I said) we ever would be so. Joe scooped his eyes\nwith his disengaged wrist, as if he were bent on gouging himself, but\nsaid not another word.\n\nMr. Jaggers had looked on at this, as one who recognised in Joe the\nvillage idiot, and in me his keeper. When it was over, he said,\nweighing in his hand the purse he had ceased to swing: \n\n Now, Joseph Gargery, I warn you this is your last chance. No half\nmeasures with me. If you mean to take a present that I have it in\ncharge to make you, speak out, and you shall have it. If on the\ncontrary you mean to say  Here, to his great amazement, he was stopped\nby Joe s suddenly working round him with every demonstration of a fell\npugilistic purpose.\n\n Which I meantersay,  cried Joe,  that if you come into my place\nbull-baiting and badgering me, come out! Which I meantersay as sech if\nyou re a man, come on! Which I meantersay that what I say, I meantersay\nand stand or fall by! \n\nI drew Joe away, and he immediately became placable; merely stating to\nme, in an obliging manner and as a polite expostulatory notice to any\none whom it might happen to concern, that he were not a-going to be\nbull-baited and badgered in his own place. Mr. Jaggers had risen when\nJoe demonstrated, and had backed near the door. Without evincing any\ninclination to come in again, he there delivered his valedictory\nremarks. They were these.\n\n Well, Mr. Pip, I think the sooner you leave here as you are to be a\ngentleman the better. Let it stand for this day week, and you shall\nreceive my printed address in the meantime. You can take a\nhackney-coach at the stage-coach office in London, and come straight to\nme. Understand, that I express no opinion, one way or other, on the\ntrust I undertake. I am paid for undertaking it, and I do so. Now,\nunderstand that, finally. Understand that! \n\nHe was throwing his finger at both of us, and I think would have gone\non, but for his seeming to think Joe dangerous, and going off.\n\nSomething came into my head which induced me to run after him, as he\nwas going down to the Jolly Bargemen, where he had left a hired\ncarriage.\n\n I beg your pardon, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Halloa!  said he, facing round,  what s the matter? \n\n I wish to be quite right, Mr. Jaggers, and to keep to your directions;\nso I thought I had better ask. Would there be any objection to my\ntaking leave of any one I know, about here, before I go away? \n\n No,  said he, looking as if he hardly understood me.\n\n I don t mean in the village only, but up town? \n\n No,  said he.  No objection. \n\nI thanked him and ran home again, and there I found that Joe had\nalready locked the front door and vacated the state parlour, and was\nseated by the kitchen fire with a hand on each knee, gazing intently at\nthe burning coals. I too sat down before the fire and gazed at the\ncoals, and nothing was said for a long time.\n\nMy sister was in her cushioned chair in her corner, and Biddy sat at\nher needle-work before the fire, and Joe sat next Biddy, and I sat next\nJoe in the corner opposite my sister. The more I looked into the\nglowing coals, the more incapable I became of looking at Joe; the\nlonger the silence lasted, the more unable I felt to speak.\n\nAt length I got out,  Joe, have you told Biddy? \n\n No, Pip,  returned Joe, still looking at the fire, and holding his\nknees tight, as if he had private information that they intended to\nmake off somewhere,  which I left it to yourself, Pip. \n\n I would rather you told, Joe. \n\n Pip s a gentleman of fortun  then,  said Joe,  and God bless him in\nit! \n\nBiddy dropped her work, and looked at me. Joe held his knees and looked\nat me. I looked at both of them. After a pause, they both heartily\ncongratulated me; but there was a certain touch of sadness in their\ncongratulations that I rather resented.\n\nI took it upon myself to impress Biddy (and through Biddy, Joe) with\nthe grave obligation I considered my friends under, to know nothing and\nsay nothing about the maker of my fortune. It would all come out in\ngood time, I observed, and in the meanwhile nothing was to be said,\nsave that I had come into great expectations from a mysterious patron.\nBiddy nodded her head thoughtfully at the fire as she took up her work\nagain, and said she would be very particular; and Joe, still detaining\nhis knees, said,  Ay, ay, I ll be ekervally partickler, Pip;  and then\nthey congratulated me again, and went on to express so much wonder at\nthe notion of my being a gentleman that I didn t half like it.\n\nInfinite pains were then taken by Biddy to convey to my sister some\nidea of what had happened. To the best of my belief, those efforts\nentirely failed. She laughed and nodded her head a great many times,\nand even repeated after Biddy, the words  Pip  and  Property.  But I\ndoubt if they had more meaning in them than an election cry, and I\ncannot suggest a darker picture of her state of mind.\n\nI never could have believed it without experience, but as Joe and Biddy\nbecame more at their cheerful ease again, I became quite gloomy.\nDissatisfied with my fortune, of course I could not be; but it is\npossible that I may have been, without quite knowing it, dissatisfied\nwith myself.\n\nAnyhow, I sat with my elbow on my knee and my face upon my hand,\nlooking into the fire, as those two talked about my going away, and\nabout what they should do without me, and all that. And whenever I\ncaught one of them looking at me, though never so pleasantly (and they\noften looked at me, particularly Biddy), I felt offended: as if they\nwere expressing some mistrust of me. Though Heaven knows they never did\nby word or sign.\n\nAt those times I would get up and look out at the door; for our kitchen\ndoor opened at once upon the night, and stood open on summer evenings\nto air the room. The very stars to which I then raised my eyes, I am\nafraid I took to be but poor and humble stars for glittering on the\nrustic objects among which I had passed my life.\n\n Saturday night,  said I, when we sat at our supper of bread and cheese\nand beer.  Five more days, and then the day before _the_ day! They ll\nsoon go. \n\n Yes, Pip,  observed Joe, whose voice sounded hollow in his beer-mug.\n They ll soon go. \n\n Soon, soon go,  said Biddy.\n\n I have been thinking, Joe, that when I go down town on Monday, and\norder my new clothes, I shall tell the tailor that I ll come and put\nthem on there, or that I ll have them sent to Mr. Pumblechook s. It\nwould be very disagreeable to be stared at by all the people here. \n\n Mr. and Mrs. Hubble might like to see you in your new gen-teel figure\ntoo, Pip,  said Joe, industriously cutting his bread, with his cheese\non it, in the palm of his left hand, and glancing at my untasted supper\nas if he thought of the time when we used to compare slices.  So might\nWopsle. And the Jolly Bargemen might take it as a compliment. \n\n That s just what I don t want, Joe. They would make such a business of\nit, such a coarse and common business, that I couldn t bear myself. \n\n Ah, that indeed, Pip!  said Joe.  If you couldn t abear yourself \n\nBiddy asked me here, as she sat holding my sister s plate,  Have you\nthought about when you ll show yourself to Mr. Gargery, and your sister\nand me? You will show yourself to us; won t you? \n\n Biddy,  I returned with some resentment,  you are so exceedingly quick\nthat it s difficult to keep up with you. \n\n( She always were quick,  observed Joe.)\n\n If you had waited another moment, Biddy, you would have heard me say\nthat I shall bring my clothes here in a bundle one evening, most likely\non the evening before I go away. \n\nBiddy said no more. Handsomely forgiving her, I soon exchanged an\naffectionate good night with her and Joe, and went up to bed. When I\ngot into my little room, I sat down and took a long look at it, as a\nmean little room that I should soon be parted from and raised above,\nfor ever. It was furnished with fresh young remembrances too, and even\nat the same moment I fell into much the same confused division of mind\nbetween it and the better rooms to which I was going, as I had been in\nso often between the forge and Miss Havisham s, and Biddy and Estella.\n\nThe sun had been shining brightly all day on the roof of my attic, and\nthe room was warm. As I put the window open and stood looking out, I\nsaw Joe come slowly forth at the dark door, below, and take a turn or\ntwo in the air; and then I saw Biddy come, and bring him a pipe and\nlight it for him. He never smoked so late, and it seemed to hint to me\nthat he wanted comforting, for some reason or other.\n\nHe presently stood at the door immediately beneath me, smoking his\npipe, and Biddy stood there too, quietly talking to him, and I knew\nthat they talked of me, for I heard my name mentioned in an endearing\ntone by both of them more than once. I would not have listened for\nmore, if I could have heard more; so I drew away from the window, and\nsat down in my one chair by the bedside, feeling it very sorrowful and\nstrange that this first night of my bright fortunes should be the\nloneliest I had ever known.\n\nLooking towards the open window, I saw light wreaths from Joe s pipe\nfloating there, and I fancied it was like a blessing from Joe, not\nobtruded on me or paraded before me, but pervading the air we shared\ntogether. I put my light out, and crept into bed; and it was an uneasy\nbed now, and I never slept the old sound sleep in it any more.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX.\n\n\nMorning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life,\nand brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same. What lay\nheaviest on my mind was, the consideration that six days intervened\nbetween me and the day of departure; for I could not divest myself of a\nmisgiving that something might happen to London in the meanwhile, and\nthat, when I got there, it would be either greatly deteriorated or\nclean gone.\n\nJoe and Biddy were very sympathetic and pleasant when I spoke of our\napproaching separation; but they only referred to it when I did. After\nbreakfast, Joe brought out my indentures from the press in the best\nparlour, and we put them in the fire, and I felt that I was free. With\nall the novelty of my emancipation on me, I went to church with Joe,\nand thought perhaps the clergyman wouldn t have read that about the\nrich man and the kingdom of Heaven, if he had known all.\n\nAfter our early dinner, I strolled out alone, purposing to finish off\nthe marshes at once, and get them done with. As I passed the church, I\nfelt (as I had felt during service in the morning) a sublime compassion\nfor the poor creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after\nSunday, all their lives through, and to lie obscurely at last among the\nlow green mounds. I promised myself that I would do something for them\none of these days, and formed a plan in outline for bestowing a dinner\nof roast-beef and plum-pudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of\ncondescension, upon everybody in the village.\n\nIf I had often thought before, with something allied to shame, of my\ncompanionship with the fugitive whom I had once seen limping among\nthose graves, what were my thoughts on this Sunday, when the place\nrecalled the wretch, ragged and shivering, with his felon iron and\nbadge! My comfort was, that it happened a long time ago, and that he\nhad doubtless been transported a long way off, and that he was dead to\nme, and might be veritably dead into the bargain.\n\nNo more low, wet grounds, no more dikes and sluices, no more of these\ngrazing cattle, though they seemed, in their dull manner, to wear a\nmore respectful air now, and to face round, in order that they might\nstare as long as possible at the possessor of such great\nexpectations, farewell, monotonous acquaintances of my childhood,\nhenceforth I was for London and greatness; not for smith s work in\ngeneral, and for you! I made my exultant way to the old Battery, and,\nlying down there to consider the question whether Miss Havisham\nintended me for Estella, fell asleep.\n\nWhen I awoke, I was much surprised to find Joe sitting beside me,\nsmoking his pipe. He greeted me with a cheerful smile on my opening my\neyes, and said, \n\n As being the last time, Pip, I thought I d foller. \n\n And Joe, I am very glad you did so. \n\n Thankee, Pip. \n\n You may be sure, dear Joe,  I went on, after we had shaken hands,\n that I shall never forget you. \n\n No, no, Pip!  said Joe, in a comfortable tone,  _I_ m sure of that.\nAy, ay, old chap! Bless you, it were only necessary to get it well\nround in a man s mind, to be certain on it. But it took a bit of time\nto get it well round, the change come so oncommon plump; didn t it? \n\nSomehow, I was not best pleased with Joe s being so mightily secure of\nme. I should have liked him to have betrayed emotion, or to have said,\n It does you credit, Pip,  or something of that sort. Therefore, I made\nno remark on Joe s first head; merely saying as to his second, that the\ntidings had indeed come suddenly, but that I had always wanted to be a\ngentleman, and had often and often speculated on what I would do, if I\nwere one.\n\n Have you though?  said Joe.  Astonishing! \n\n It s a pity now, Joe,  said I,  that you did not get on a little more,\nwhen we had our lessons here; isn t it? \n\n Well, I don t know,  returned Joe.  I m so awful dull. I m only master\nof my own trade. It were always a pity as I was so awful dull; but it s\nno more of a pity now, than it was this day twelvemonth don t you see? \n\nWhat I had meant was, that when I came into my property and was able to\ndo something for Joe, it would have been much more agreeable if he had\nbeen better qualified for a rise in station. He was so perfectly\ninnocent of my meaning, however, that I thought I would mention it to\nBiddy in preference.\n\nSo, when we had walked home and had had tea, I took Biddy into our\nlittle garden by the side of the lane, and, after throwing out in a\ngeneral way for the elevation of her spirits, that I should never\nforget her, said I had a favour to ask of her.\n\n And it is, Biddy,  said I,  that you will not omit any opportunity of\nhelping Joe on, a little. \n\n How helping him on?  asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance.\n\n Well! Joe is a dear good fellow, in fact, I think he is the dearest\nfellow that ever lived, but he is rather backward in some things. For\ninstance, Biddy, in his learning and his manners. \n\nAlthough I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her\neyes very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me.\n\n O, his manners! won t his manners do then?  asked Biddy, plucking a\nblack-currant leaf.\n\n My dear Biddy, they do very well here \n\n O! they _do_ very well here?  interrupted Biddy, looking closely at\nthe leaf in her hand.\n\n Hear me out, but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I\nshall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would\nhardly do him justice. \n\n And don t you think he knows that?  asked Biddy.\n\nIt was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most\ndistant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly, \n\n Biddy, what do you mean? \n\nBiddy, having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands, and the\nsmell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that\nevening in the little garden by the side of the lane, said,  Have you\nnever considered that he may be proud? \n\n Proud?  I repeated, with disdainful emphasis.\n\n O! there are many kinds of pride,  said Biddy, looking full at me and\nshaking her head;  pride is not all of one kind \n\n Well? What are you stopping for?  said I.\n\n Not all of one kind,  resumed Biddy.  He may be too proud to let any\none take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills\nwell and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is; though it\nsounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far better than I\ndo. \n\n Now, Biddy,  said I,  I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not\nexpect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You\nare dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can t help\nshowing it. \n\n If you have the heart to think so,  returned Biddy,  say so. Say so\nover and over again, if you have the heart to think so. \n\n If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy,  said I, in a\nvirtuous and superior tone;  don t put it off upon me. I am very sorry\nto see it, and it s a it s a bad side of human nature. I did intend to\nask you to use any little opportunities you might have after I was\ngone, of improving dear Joe. But after this I ask you nothing. I am\nextremely sorry to see this in you, Biddy,  I repeated.  It s a it s a\nbad side of human nature. \n\n Whether you scold me or approve of me,  returned poor Biddy,  you may\nequally depend upon my trying to do all that lies in my power, here, at\nall times. And whatever opinion you take away of me, shall make no\ndifference in my remembrance of you. Yet a gentleman should not be\nunjust neither,  said Biddy, turning away her head.\n\nI again warmly repeated that it was a bad side of human nature (in\nwhich sentiment, waiving its application, I have since seen reason to\nthink I was right), and I walked down the little path away from Biddy,\nand Biddy went into the house, and I went out at the garden gate and\ntook a dejected stroll until supper-time; again feeling it very\nsorrowful and strange that this, the second night of my bright\nfortunes, should be as lonely and unsatisfactory as the first.\n\nBut, morning once more brightened my view, and I extended my clemency\nto Biddy, and we dropped the subject. Putting on the best clothes I\nhad, I went into town as early as I could hope to find the shops open,\nand presented myself before Mr. Trabb, the tailor, who was having his\nbreakfast in the parlour behind his shop, and who did not think it\nworth his while to come out to me, but called me in to him.\n\n Well!  said Mr. Trabb, in a hail-fellow-well-met kind of way.  How are\nyou, and what can I do for you? \n\nMr. Trabb had sliced his hot roll into three feather-beds, and was\nslipping butter in between the blankets, and covering it up. He was a\nprosperous old bachelor, and his open window looked into a prosperous\nlittle garden and orchard, and there was a prosperous iron safe let\ninto the wall at the side of his fireplace, and I did not doubt that\nheaps of his prosperity were put away in it in bags.\n\n Mr. Trabb,  said I,  it s an unpleasant thing to have to mention,\nbecause it looks like boasting; but I have come into a handsome\nproperty. \n\nA change passed over Mr. Trabb. He forgot the butter in bed, got up\nfrom the bedside, and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth, exclaiming,\n Lord bless my soul! \n\n I am going up to my guardian in London,  said I, casually drawing some\nguineas out of my pocket and looking at them;  and I want a fashionable\nsuit of clothes to go in. I wish to pay for them,  I added otherwise I\nthought he might only pretend to make them,  with ready money. \n\n My dear sir,  said Mr. Trabb, as he respectfully bent his body, opened\nhis arms, and took the liberty of touching me on the outside of each\nelbow,  don t hurt me by mentioning that. May I venture to congratulate\nyou? Would you do me the favour of stepping into the shop? \n\nMr. Trabb s boy was the most audacious boy in all that country-side.\nWhen I had entered he was sweeping the shop, and he had sweetened his\nlabours by sweeping over me. He was still sweeping when I came out into\nthe shop with Mr. Trabb, and he knocked the broom against all possible\ncorners and obstacles, to express (as I understood it) equality with\nany blacksmith, alive or dead.\n\n Hold that noise,  said Mr. Trabb, with the greatest sternness,  or\nI ll knock your head off! Do me the favour to be seated, sir. Now,\nthis,  said Mr. Trabb, taking down a roll of cloth, and tiding it out\nin a flowing manner over the counter, preparatory to getting his hand\nunder it to show the gloss,  is a very sweet article. I can recommend\nit for your purpose, sir, because it really is extra super. But you\nshall see some others. Give me Number Four, you!  (To the boy, and with\na dreadfully severe stare; foreseeing the danger of that miscreant s\nbrushing me with it, or making some other sign of familiarity.)\n\nMr. Trabb never removed his stern eye from the boy until he had\ndeposited number four on the counter and was at a safe distance again.\nThen he commanded him to bring number five, and number eight.  And let\nme have none of your tricks here,  said Mr. Trabb,  or you shall repent\nit, you young scoundrel, the longest day you have to live. \n\nMr. Trabb then bent over number four, and in a sort of deferential\nconfidence recommended it to me as a light article for summer wear, an\narticle much in vogue among the nobility and gentry, an article that it\nwould ever be an honour to him to reflect upon a distinguished\nfellow-townsman s (if he might claim me for a fellow-townsman) having\nworn.  Are you bringing numbers five and eight, you vagabond,  said Mr.\nTrabb to the boy after that,  or shall I kick you out of the shop and\nbring them myself? \n\nI selected the materials for a suit, with the assistance of Mr. Trabb s\njudgment, and re-entered the parlour to be measured. For although Mr.\nTrabb had my measure already, and had previously been quite contented\nwith it, he said apologetically that it  wouldn t do under existing\ncircumstances, sir, wouldn t do at all.  So, Mr. Trabb measured and\ncalculated me in the parlour, as if I were an estate and he the finest\nspecies of surveyor, and gave himself such a world of trouble that I\nfelt that no suit of clothes could possibly remunerate him for his\npains. When he had at last done and had appointed to send the articles\nto Mr. Pumblechook s on the Thursday evening, he said, with his hand\nupon the parlour lock,  I know, sir, that London gentlemen cannot be\nexpected to patronise local work, as a rule; but if you would give me a\nturn now and then in the quality of a townsman, I should greatly esteem\nit. Good-morning, sir, much obliged. Door! \n\nThe last word was flung at the boy, who had not the least notion what\nit meant. But I saw him collapse as his master rubbed me out with his\nhands, and my first decided experience of the stupendous power of money\nwas, that it had morally laid upon his back Trabb s boy.\n\nAfter this memorable event, I went to the hatter s, and the\nbootmaker s, and the hosier s, and felt rather like Mother Hubbard s\ndog whose outfit required the services of so many trades. I also went\nto the coach-office and took my place for seven o clock on Saturday\nmorning. It was not necessary to explain everywhere that I had come\ninto a handsome property; but whenever I said anything to that effect,\nit followed that the officiating tradesman ceased to have his attention\ndiverted through the window by the High Street, and concentrated his\nmind upon me. When I had ordered everything I wanted, I directed my\nsteps towards Pumblechook s, and, as I approached that gentleman s\nplace of business, I saw him standing at his door.\n\nHe was waiting for me with great impatience. He had been out early with\nthe chaise-cart, and had called at the forge and heard the news. He had\nprepared a collation for me in the Barnwell parlour, and he too ordered\nhis shopman to  come out of the gangway  as my sacred person passed.\n\n My dear friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook, taking me by both hands, when\nhe and I and the collation were alone,  I give you joy of your good\nfortune. Well deserved, well deserved! \n\nThis was coming to the point, and I thought it a sensible way of\nexpressing himself.\n\n To think,  said Mr. Pumblechook, after snorting admiration at me for\nsome moments,  that I should have been the humble instrument of leading\nup to this, is a proud reward. \n\nI begged Mr. Pumblechook to remember that nothing was to be ever said\nor hinted, on that point.\n\n My dear young friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook;  if you will allow me to\ncall you so \n\nI murmured  Certainly,  and Mr. Pumblechook took me by both hands\nagain, and communicated a movement to his waistcoat, which had an\nemotional appearance, though it was rather low down,  My dear young\nfriend, rely upon my doing my little all in your absence, by keeping\nthe fact before the mind of Joseph. Joseph!  said Mr. Pumblechook, in\nthe way of a compassionate adjuration.  Joseph!! Joseph!!!  Thereupon\nhe shook his head and tapped it, expressing his sense of deficiency in\nJoseph.\n\n But my dear young friend,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  you must be hungry,\nyou must be exhausted. Be seated. Here is a chicken had round from the\nBoar, here is a tongue had round from the Boar, here s one or two\nlittle things had round from the Boar, that I hope you may not despise.\nBut do I,  said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again the moment after he\nhad sat down,  see afore me, him as I ever sported with in his times of\nhappy infancy? And may I _may_ I ? \n\nThis May I, meant might he shake hands? I consented, and he was\nfervent, and then sat down again.\n\n Here is wine,  said Mr. Pumblechook.  Let us drink, Thanks to Fortune,\nand may she ever pick out her favourites with equal judgment! And yet I\ncannot,  said Mr. Pumblechook, getting up again,  see afore me One and\nlikewise drink to One without again expressing May I _may_ I ? \n\nI said he might, and he shook hands with me again, and emptied his\nglass and turned it upside down. I did the same; and if I had turned\nmyself upside down before drinking, the wine could not have gone more\ndirect to my head.\n\nMr. Pumblechook helped me to the liver wing, and to the best slice of\ntongue (none of those out-of-the-way No Thoroughfares of Pork now), and\ntook, comparatively speaking, no care of himself at all.  Ah! poultry,\npoultry! You little thought,  said Mr. Pumblechook, apostrophising the\nfowl in the dish,  when you was a young fledgling, what was in store\nfor you. You little thought you was to be refreshment beneath this\nhumble roof for one as Call it a weakness, if you will,  said Mr.\nPumblechook, getting up again,  but may I? _may_ I ? \n\nIt began to be unnecessary to repeat the form of saying he might, so he\ndid it at once. How he ever did it so often without wounding himself\nwith my knife, I don t know.\n\n And your sister,  he resumed, after a little steady eating,  which had\nthe honour of bringing you up by hand! It s a sad picter, to reflect\nthat she s no longer equal to fully understanding the honour. May \n\nI saw he was about to come at me again, and I stopped him.\n\n We ll drink her health,  said I.\n\n Ah!  cried Mr. Pumblechook, leaning back in his chair, quite flaccid\nwith admiration,  that s the way you know  em, sir!  (I don t know who\nSir was, but he certainly was not I, and there was no third person\npresent);  that s the way you know the noble-minded, sir! Ever\nforgiving and ever affable. It might,  said the servile Pumblechook,\nputting down his untasted glass in a hurry and getting up again,  to a\ncommon person, have the appearance of repeating but _may_ I ? \n\nWhen he had done it, he resumed his seat and drank to my sister.  Let\nus never be blind,  said Mr. Pumblechook,  to her faults of temper, but\nit is to be hoped she meant well. \n\nAt about this time, I began to observe that he was getting flushed in\nthe face; as to myself, I felt all face, steeped in wine and smarting.\n\nI mentioned to Mr. Pumblechook that I wished to have my new clothes\nsent to his house, and he was ecstatic on my so distinguishing him. I\nmentioned my reason for desiring to avoid observation in the village,\nand he lauded it to the skies. There was nobody but himself, he\nintimated, worthy of my confidence, and in short, might he? Then he\nasked me tenderly if I remembered our boyish games at sums, and how we\nhad gone together to have me bound apprentice, and, in effect, how he\nhad ever been my favourite fancy and my chosen friend? If I had taken\nten times as many glasses of wine as I had, I should have known that he\nnever had stood in that relation towards me, and should in my heart of\nhearts have repudiated the idea. Yet for all that, I remember feeling\nconvinced that I had been much mistaken in him, and that he was a\nsensible, practical, good-hearted prime fellow.\n\nBy degrees he fell to reposing such great confidence in me, as to ask\nmy advice in reference to his own affairs. He mentioned that there was\nan opportunity for a great amalgamation and monopoly of the corn and\nseed trade on those premises, if enlarged, such as had never occurred\nbefore in that or any other neighbourhood. What alone was wanting to\nthe realisation of a vast fortune, he considered to be More Capital.\nThose were the two little words, more capital. Now it appeared to him\n(Pumblechook) that if that capital were got into the business, through\na sleeping partner, sir, which sleeping partner would have nothing to\ndo but walk in, by self or deputy, whenever he pleased, and examine the\nbooks, and walk in twice a year and take his profits away in his\npocket, to the tune of fifty per cent, it appeared to him that that\nmight be an opening for a young gentleman of spirit combined with\nproperty, which would be worthy of his attention. But what did I think?\nHe had great confidence in my opinion, and what did I think? I gave it\nas my opinion.  Wait a bit!  The united vastness and distinctness of\nthis view so struck him, that he no longer asked if he might shake\nhands with me, but said he really must, and did.\n\nWe drank all the wine, and Mr. Pumblechook pledged himself over and\nover again to keep Joseph up to the mark (I don t know what mark), and\nto render me efficient and constant service (I don t know what\nservice). He also made known to me for the first time in my life, and\ncertainly after having kept his secret wonderfully well, that he had\nalways said of me,  That boy is no common boy, and mark me, his fortun \nwill be no common fortun .  He said with a tearful smile that it was a\nsingular thing to think of now, and I said so too. Finally, I went out\ninto the air, with a dim perception that there was something unwonted\nin the conduct of the sunshine, and found that I had slumberously got\nto the turnpike without having taken any account of the road.\n\nThere, I was roused by Mr. Pumblechook s hailing me. He was a long way\ndown the sunny street, and was making expressive gestures for me to\nstop. I stopped, and he came up breathless.\n\n No, my dear friend,  said he, when he had recovered wind for speech.\n Not if I can help it. This occasion shall not entirely pass without\nthat affability on your part. May I, as an old friend and well-wisher?\n_May_ I? \n\nWe shook hands for the hundredth time at least, and he ordered a young\ncarter out of my way with the greatest indignation. Then, he blessed me\nand stood waving his hand to me until I had passed the crook in the\nroad; and then I turned into a field and had a long nap under a hedge\nbefore I pursued my way home.\n\nI had scant luggage to take with me to London, for little of the little\nI possessed was adapted to my new station. But I began packing that\nsame afternoon, and wildly packed up things that I knew I should want\nnext morning, in a fiction that there was not a moment to be lost.\n\nSo, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, passed; and on Friday morning I\nwent to Mr. Pumblechook s, to put on my new clothes and pay my visit to\nMiss Havisham. Mr. Pumblechook s own room was given up to me to dress\nin, and was decorated with clean towels expressly for the event. My\nclothes were rather a disappointment, of course. Probably every new and\neagerly expected garment ever put on since clothes came in, fell a\ntrifle short of the wearer s expectation. But after I had had my new\nsuit on some half an hour, and had gone through an immensity of\nposturing with Mr. Pumblechook s very limited dressing-glass, in the\nfutile endeavour to see my legs, it seemed to fit me better. It being\nmarket morning at a neighbouring town some ten miles off, Mr.\nPumblechook was not at home. I had not told him exactly when I meant to\nleave, and was not likely to shake hands with him again before\ndeparting. This was all as it should be, and I went out in my new\narray, fearfully ashamed of having to pass the shopman, and suspicious\nafter all that I was at a personal disadvantage, something like Joe s\nin his Sunday suit.\n\nI went circuitously to Miss Havisham s by all the back ways, and rang\nat the bell constrainedly, on account of the stiff long fingers of my\ngloves. Sarah Pocket came to the gate, and positively reeled back when\nshe saw me so changed; her walnut-shell countenance likewise turned\nfrom brown to green and yellow.\n\n You?  said she.  You? Good gracious! What do you want? \n\n I am going to London, Miss Pocket,  said I,  and want to say good-bye\nto Miss Havisham. \n\nI was not expected, for she left me locked in the yard, while she went\nto ask if I were to be admitted. After a very short delay, she returned\nand took me up, staring at me all the way.\n\nMiss Havisham was taking exercise in the room with the long spread\ntable, leaning on her crutch stick. The room was lighted as of yore,\nand at the sound of our entrance, she stopped and turned. She was then\njust abreast of the rotted bride-cake.\n\n Don t go, Sarah,  she said.  Well, Pip? \n\n I start for London, Miss Havisham, to-morrow,  I was exceedingly\ncareful what I said,  and I thought you would kindly not mind my taking\nleave of you. \n\n This is a gay figure, Pip,  said she, making her crutch stick play\nround me, as if she, the fairy godmother who had changed me, were\nbestowing the finishing gift.\n\n I have come into such good fortune since I saw you last, Miss\nHavisham,  I murmured.  And I am so grateful for it, Miss Havisham! \n\n Ay, ay!  said she, looking at the discomfited and envious Sarah, with\ndelight.  I have seen Mr. Jaggers. _I_ have heard about it, Pip. So you\ngo to-morrow? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n And you are adopted by a rich person? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n Not named? \n\n No, Miss Havisham. \n\n And Mr. Jaggers is made your guardian? \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\nShe quite gloated on these questions and answers, so keen was her\nenjoyment of Sarah Pocket s jealous dismay.  Well!  she went on;  you\nhave a promising career before you. Be good deserve it and abide by Mr.\nJaggers s instructions.  She looked at me, and looked at Sarah, and\nSarah s countenance wrung out of her watchful face a cruel smile.\n Good-bye, Pip! you will always keep the name of Pip, you know. \n\n Yes, Miss Havisham. \n\n Good-bye, Pip! \n\nShe stretched out her hand, and I went down on my knee and put it to my\nlips. I had not considered how I should take leave of her; it came\nnaturally to me at the moment to do this. She looked at Sarah Pocket\nwith triumph in her weird eyes, and so I left my fairy godmother, with\nboth her hands on her crutch stick, standing in the midst of the dimly\nlighted room beside the rotten bride-cake that was hidden in cobwebs.\n\nSarah Pocket conducted me down, as if I were a ghost who must be seen\nout. She could not get over my appearance, and was in the last degree\nconfounded. I said  Good-bye, Miss Pocket;  but she merely stared, and\ndid not seem collected enough to know that I had spoken. Clear of the\nhouse, I made the best of my way back to Pumblechook s, took off my new\nclothes, made them into a bundle, and went back home in my older dress,\ncarrying it to speak the truth much more at my ease too, though I had\nthe bundle to carry.\n\nAnd now, those six days which were to have run out so slowly, had run\nout fast and were gone, and to-morrow looked me in the face more\nsteadily than I could look at it. As the six evenings had dwindled\naway, to five, to four, to three, to two, I had become more and more\nappreciative of the society of Joe and Biddy. On this last evening, I\ndressed myself out in my new clothes for their delight, and sat in my\nsplendour\t until bedtime. We had a hot supper on the occasion,\ngraced by the inevitable roast fowl, and we had some flip to finish\nwith. We were all very low, and none the higher for pretending to be in\nspirits.\n\nI was to leave our village at five in the morning, carrying my little\nhand-portmanteau, and I had told Joe that I wished to walk away all\nalone. I am afraid sore afraid that this purpose originated in my sense\nof the contrast there would be between me and Joe, if we went to the\ncoach together. I had pretended with myself that there was nothing of\nthis taint in the arrangement; but when I went up to my little room on\nthis last night, I felt compelled to admit that it might be so, and had\nan impulse upon me to go down again and entreat Joe to walk with me in\nthe morning. I did not.\n\nAll night there were coaches in my broken sleep, going to wrong places\ninstead of to London, and having in the traces, now dogs, now cats, now\npigs, now men, never horses. Fantastic failures of journeys occupied me\nuntil the day dawned and the birds were singing. Then, I got up and\npartly dressed, and sat at the window to take a last look out, and in\ntaking it fell asleep.\n\nBiddy was astir so early to get my breakfast, that, although I did not\nsleep at the window an hour, I smelt the smoke of the kitchen fire when\nI started up with a terrible idea that it must be late in the\nafternoon. But long after that, and long after I had heard the clinking\nof the teacups and was quite ready, I wanted the resolution to go\ndownstairs. After all, I remained up there, repeatedly unlocking and\nunstrapping my small portmanteau and locking and strapping it up again,\nuntil Biddy called to me that I was late.\n\nIt was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal,\nsaying with a sort of briskness, as if it had only just occurred to me,\n Well! I suppose I must be off!  and then I kissed my sister who was\nlaughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair, and kissed Biddy,\nand threw my arms around Joe s neck. Then I took up my little\nportmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them was, when I\npresently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back, saw Joe throwing\nan old shoe after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped\nthen, to wave my hat, and dear old Joe waved his strong right arm above\nhis head, crying huskily  Hooroar!  and Biddy put her apron to her\nface.\n\nI walked away at a good pace, thinking it was easier to go than I had\nsupposed it would be, and reflecting that it would never have done to\nhave had an old shoe thrown after the coach, in sight of all the High\nStreet. I whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very\npeaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to\nshow me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all\nbeyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment with a strong heave\nand sob I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the\nvillage, and I laid my hand upon it, and said,  Good-bye, O my dear,\ndear friend! \n\nHeaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain\nupon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was\nbetter after I had cried than before, more sorry, more aware of my own\ningratitude, more gentle. If I had cried before, I should have had Joe\nwith me then.\n\nSo subdued I was by those tears, and by their breaking out again in the\ncourse of the quiet walk, that when I was on the coach, and it was\nclear of the town, I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would\nnot get down when we changed horses and walk back, and have another\nevening at home, and a better parting. We changed, and I had not made\nup my mind, and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite\npracticable to get down and walk back, when we changed again. And while\nI was occupied with these deliberations, I would fancy an exact\nresemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us, and my\nheart would beat high. As if he could possibly be there!\n\nWe changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to\ngo back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and\nthe world lay spread before me.\n\nThis is the end of the first stage of Pip s expectations.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XX.\n\n\nThe journey from our town to the metropolis was a journey of about five\nhours. It was a little past midday when the four-horse stage-coach by\nwhich I was a passenger, got into the ravel of traffic frayed out about\nthe Cross Keys, Wood Street, Cheapside, London.\n\nWe Britons had at that time particularly settled that it was\ntreasonable to doubt our having and our being the best of everything:\notherwise, while I was scared by the immensity of London, I think I\nmight have had some faint doubts whether it was not rather ugly,\ncrooked, narrow, and dirty.\n\nMr. Jaggers had duly sent me his address; it was, Little Britain, and\nhe had written after it on his card,  just out of Smithfield, and close\nby the coach-office.  Nevertheless, a hackney-coachman, who seemed to\nhave as many capes to his greasy great-coat as he was years old, packed\nme up in his coach and hemmed me in with a folding and jingling barrier\nof steps, as if he were going to take me fifty miles. His getting on\nhis box, which I remember to have been decorated with an old\nweather-stained pea-green hammercloth moth-eaten into rags, was quite a\nwork of time. It was a wonderful equipage, with six great coronets\noutside, and ragged things behind for I don t know how many footmen to\nhold on by, and a harrow below them, to prevent amateur footmen from\nyielding to the temptation.\n\nI had scarcely had time to enjoy the coach and to think how like a\nstraw-yard it was, and yet how like a rag-shop, and to wonder why the\nhorses  nose-bags were kept inside, when I observed the coachman\nbeginning to get down, as if we were going to stop presently. And stop\nwe presently did, in a gloomy street, at certain offices with an open\ndoor, whereon was painted MR. JAGGERS.\n\n How much?  I asked the coachman.\n\nThe coachman answered,  A shilling unless you wish to make it more. \n\nI naturally said I had no wish to make it more.\n\n Then it must be a shilling,  observed the coachman.  I don t want to\nget into trouble. _I_ know _him_!  He darkly closed an eye at Mr.\nJaggers s name, and shook his head.\n\nWhen he had got his shilling, and had in course of time completed the\nascent to his box, and had got away (which appeared to relieve his\nmind), I went into the front office with my little portmanteau in my\nhand and asked, Was Mr. Jaggers at home?\n\n He is not,  returned the clerk.  He is in Court at present. Am I\naddressing Mr. Pip? \n\nI signified that he was addressing Mr. Pip.\n\n Mr. Jaggers left word, would you wait in his room. He couldn t say how\nlong he might be, having a case on. But it stands to reason, his time\nbeing valuable, that he won t be longer than he can help. \n\nWith those words, the clerk opened a door, and ushered me into an inner\nchamber at the back. Here, we found a gentleman with one eye, in a\nvelveteen suit and knee-breeches, who wiped his nose with his sleeve on\nbeing interrupted in the perusal of the newspaper.\n\n Go and wait outside, Mike,  said the clerk.\n\nI began to say that I hoped I was not interrupting, when the clerk\nshoved this gentleman out with as little ceremony as I ever saw used,\nand tossing his fur cap out after him, left me alone.\n\nMr. Jaggers s room was lighted by a skylight only, and was a most\ndismal place; the skylight, eccentrically pitched like a broken head,\nand the distorted adjoining houses looking as if they had twisted\nthemselves to peep down at me through it. There were not so many papers\nabout, as I should have expected to see; and there were some odd\nobjects about, that I should not have expected to see, such as an old\nrusty pistol, a sword in a scabbard, several strange-looking boxes and\npackages, and two dreadful casts on a shelf, of faces peculiarly\nswollen, and twitchy about the nose. Mr. Jaggers s own high-backed\nchair was of deadly black horsehair, with rows of brass nails round it,\nlike a coffin; and I fancied I could see how he leaned back in it, and\nbit his forefinger at the clients. The room was but small, and the\nclients seemed to have had a habit of backing up against the wall; the\nwall, especially opposite to Mr. Jaggers s chair, being greasy with\nshoulders. I recalled, too, that the one-eyed gentleman had shuffled\nforth against the wall when I was the innocent cause of his being\nturned out.\n\nI sat down in the cliental chair placed over against Mr. Jaggers s\nchair, and became fascinated by the dismal atmosphere of the place. I\ncalled to mind that the clerk had the same air of knowing something to\neverybody else s disadvantage, as his master had. I wondered how many\nother clerks there were upstairs, and whether they all claimed to have\nthe same detrimental mastery of their fellow-creatures. I wondered what\nwas the history of all the odd litter about the room, and how it came\nthere. I wondered whether the two swollen faces were of Mr. Jaggers s\nfamily, and, if he were so unfortunate as to have had a pair of such\nill-looking relations, why he stuck them on that dusty perch for the\nblacks and flies to settle on, instead of giving them a place at home.\nOf course I had no experience of a London summer day, and my spirits\nmay have been oppressed by the hot exhausted air, and by the dust and\ngrit that lay thick on everything. But I sat wondering and waiting in\nMr. Jaggers s close room, until I really could not bear the two casts\non the shelf above Mr. Jaggers s chair, and got up and went out.\n\nWhen I told the clerk that I would take a turn in the air while I\nwaited, he advised me to go round the corner and I should come into\nSmithfield. So I came into Smithfield; and the shameful place, being\nall asmear with filth and fat and blood and foam, seemed to stick to\nme. So, I rubbed it off with all possible speed by turning into a\nstreet where I saw the great black dome of Saint Paul s bulging at me\nfrom behind a grim stone building which a bystander said was Newgate\nPrison. Following the wall of the jail, I found the roadway covered\nwith straw to deaden the noise of passing vehicles; and from this, and\nfrom the quantity of people standing about smelling strongly of spirits\nand beer, I inferred that the trials were on.\n\nWhile I looked about me here, an exceedingly dirty and partially drunk\nminister of justice asked me if I would like to step in and hear a\ntrial or so: informing me that he could give me a front place for half\na crown, whence I should command a full view of the Lord Chief Justice\nin his wig and robes, mentioning that awful personage like waxwork, and\npresently offering him at the reduced price of eighteen-pence. As I\ndeclined the proposal on the plea of an appointment, he was so good as\nto take me into a yard and show me where the gallows was kept, and also\nwhere people were publicly whipped, and then he showed me the Debtors \nDoor, out of which culprits came to be hanged; heightening the interest\nof that dreadful portal by giving me to understand that  four on  em \nwould come out at that door the day after to-morrow at eight in the\nmorning, to be killed in a row. This was horrible, and gave me a\nsickening idea of London; the more so as the Lord Chief Justice s\nproprietor wore (from his hat down to his boots and up again to his\npocket-handkerchief inclusive) mildewed clothes which had evidently not\nbelonged to him originally, and which I took it into my head he had\nbought cheap of the executioner. Under these circumstances I thought\nmyself well rid of him for a shilling.\n\nI dropped into the office to ask if Mr. Jaggers had come in yet, and I\nfound he had not, and I strolled out again. This time, I made the tour\nof Little Britain, and turned into Bartholomew Close; and now I became\naware that other people were waiting about for Mr. Jaggers, as well as\nI. There were two men of secret appearance lounging in Bartholomew\nClose, and thoughtfully fitting their feet into the cracks of the\npavement as they talked together, one of whom said to the other when\nthey first passed me, that  Jaggers would do it if it was to be done. \nThere was a knot of three men and two women standing at a corner, and\none of the women was crying on her dirty shawl, and the other comforted\nher by saying, as she pulled her own shawl over her shoulders,  Jaggers\nis for him,  Melia, and what more _could_ you have?  There was a\nred-eyed little Jew who came into the Close while I was loitering\nthere, in company with a second little Jew whom he sent upon an errand;\nand while the messenger was gone, I remarked this Jew, who was of a\nhighly excitable temperament, performing a jig of anxiety under a\nlamp-post and accompanying himself, in a kind of frenzy, with the\nwords,  O Jaggerth, Jaggerth, Jaggerth! all otherth ith Cag-Maggerth,\ngive me Jaggerth!  These testimonies to the popularity of my guardian\nmade a deep impression on me, and I admired and wondered more than\never.\n\nAt length, as I was looking out at the iron gate of Bartholomew Close\ninto Little Britain, I saw Mr. Jaggers coming across the road towards\nme. All the others who were waiting saw him at the same time, and there\nwas quite a rush at him. Mr. Jaggers, putting a hand on my shoulder and\nwalking me on at his side without saying anything to me, addressed\nhimself to his followers.\n\nFirst, he took the two secret men.\n\n Now, I have nothing to say to _you_,  said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his\nfinger at them.  I want to know no more than I know. As to the result,\nit s a toss-up. I told you from the first it was a toss-up. Have you\npaid Wemmick? \n\n We made the money up this morning, sir,  said one of the men,\nsubmissively, while the other perused Mr. Jaggers s face.\n\n I don t ask you when you made it up, or where, or whether you made it\nup at all. Has Wemmick got it? \n\n Yes, sir,  said both the men together.\n\n Very well; then you may go. Now, I won t have it!  said Mr Jaggers,\nwaving his hand at them to put them behind him.  If you say a word to\nme, I ll throw up the case. \n\n We thought, Mr. Jaggers  one of the men began, pulling off his hat.\n\n That s what I told you not to do,  said Mr. Jaggers.  _You_ thought! I\nthink for you; that s enough for you. If I want you, I know where to\nfind you; I don t want you to find me. Now I won t have it. I won t\nhear a word. \n\nThe two men looked at one another as Mr. Jaggers waved them behind\nagain, and humbly fell back and were heard no more.\n\n And now _you_!  said Mr. Jaggers, suddenly stopping, and turning on\nthe two women with the shawls, from whom the three men had meekly\nseparated, Oh! Amelia, is it? \n\n Yes, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n And do you remember,  retorted Mr. Jaggers,  that but for me you\nwouldn t be here and couldn t be here? \n\n O yes, sir!  exclaimed both women together.  Lord bless you, sir, well\nwe knows that! \n\n Then why,  said Mr. Jaggers,  do you come here? \n\n My Bill, sir!  the crying woman pleaded.\n\n Now, I tell you what!  said Mr. Jaggers.  Once for all. If you don t\nknow that your Bill s in good hands, I know it. And if you come here\nbothering about your Bill, I ll make an example of both your Bill and\nyou, and let him slip through my fingers. Have you paid Wemmick? \n\n O yes, sir! Every farden. \n\n Very well. Then you have done all you have got to do. Say another\nword one single word and Wemmick shall give you your money back. \n\nThis terrible threat caused the two women to fall off immediately. No\none remained now but the excitable Jew, who had already raised the\nskirts of Mr. Jaggers s coat to his lips several times.\n\n I don t know this man!  said Mr. Jaggers, in the same devastating\nstrain:  What does this fellow want? \n\n Ma thear Mithter Jaggerth. Hown brother to Habraham Latharuth? \n\n Who s he?  said Mr. Jaggers.  Let go of my coat. \n\nThe suitor, kissing the hem of the garment again before relinquishing\nit, replied,  Habraham Latharuth, on thuthpithion of plate. \n\n You re too late,  said Mr. Jaggers.  I am over the way. \n\n Holy father, Mithter Jaggerth!  cried my excitable acquaintance,\nturning white,  don t thay you re again Habraham Latharuth! \n\n I am,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and there s an end of it. Get out of the\nway. \n\n Mithter Jaggerth! Half a moment! My hown cuthen th gone to Mithter\nWemmick at thith prethent minute, to hoffer him hany termth. Mithter\nJaggerth! Half a quarter of a moment! If you d have the condethenthun\nto be bought off from the t other thide at hany thuperior prithe! money\nno object! Mithter Jaggerth Mithter ! \n\nMy guardian threw his supplicant off with supreme indifference, and\nleft him dancing on the pavement as if it were red hot. Without further\ninterruption, we reached the front office, where we found the clerk and\nthe man in velveteen with the fur cap.\n\n Here s Mike,  said the clerk, getting down from his stool, and\napproaching Mr. Jaggers confidentially.\n\n Oh!  said Mr. Jaggers, turning to the man, who was pulling a lock of\nhair in the middle of his forehead, like the Bull in Cock Robin pulling\nat the bell-rope;  your man comes on this afternoon. Well? \n\n Well, Mas r Jaggers,  returned Mike, in the voice of a sufferer from a\nconstitutional cold;  arter a deal o  trouble, I ve found one, sir, as\nmight do. \n\n What is he prepared to swear? \n\n Well, Mas r Jaggers,  said Mike, wiping his nose on his fur cap this\ntime;  in a general way, anythink. \n\nMr. Jaggers suddenly became most irate.  Now, I warned you before, \nsaid he, throwing his forefinger at the terrified client,  that if you\never presumed to talk in that way here, I d make an example of you. You\ninfernal scoundrel, how dare you tell ME that? \n\nThe client looked scared, but bewildered too, as if he were unconscious\nwhat he had done.\n\n Spooney!  said the clerk, in a low voice, giving him a stir with his\nelbow.  Soft Head! Need you say it face to face? \n\n Now, I ask you, you blundering booby,  said my guardian, very sternly,\n once more and for the last time, what the man you have brought here is\nprepared to swear? \n\nMike looked hard at my guardian, as if he were trying to learn a lesson\nfrom his face, and slowly replied,  Ayther to character, or to having\nbeen in his company and never left him all the night in question. \n\n Now, be careful. In what station of life is this man? \n\nMike looked at his cap, and looked at the floor, and looked at the\nceiling, and looked at the clerk, and even looked at me, before\nbeginning to reply in a nervous manner,  We ve dressed him up like \nwhen my guardian blustered out, \n\n What? You WILL, will you? \n\n( Spooney!  added the clerk again, with another stir.)\n\nAfter some helpless casting about, Mike brightened and began again: \n\n He is dressed like a  spectable pieman. A sort of a pastry-cook. \n\n Is he here?  asked my guardian.\n\n I left him,  said Mike,  a setting on some doorsteps round the\ncorner. \n\n Take him past that window, and let me see him. \n\nThe window indicated was the office window. We all three went to it,\nbehind the wire blind, and presently saw the client go by in an\naccidental manner, with a murderous-looking tall individual, in a short\nsuit of white linen and a paper cap. This guileless confectioner was\nnot by any means sober, and had a black eye in the green stage of\nrecovery, which was painted over.\n\n Tell him to take his witness away directly,  said my guardian to the\nclerk, in extreme disgust,  and ask him what he means by bringing such\na fellow as that. \n\nMy guardian then took me into his own room, and while he lunched,\nstanding, from a sandwich-box and a pocket-flask of sherry (he seemed\nto bully his very sandwich as he ate it), informed me what arrangements\nhe had made for me. I was to go to  Barnard s Inn,  to young Mr.\nPocket s rooms, where a bed had been sent in for my accommodation; I\nwas to remain with young Mr. Pocket until Monday; on Monday I was to go\nwith him to his father s house on a visit, that I might try how I liked\nit. Also, I was told what my allowance was to be, it was a very liberal\none, and had handed to me from one of my guardian s drawers, the cards\nof certain tradesmen with whom I was to deal for all kinds of clothes,\nand such other things as I could in reason want.  You will find your\ncredit good, Mr. Pip,  said my guardian, whose flask of sherry smelt\nlike a whole caskful, as he hastily refreshed himself,  but I shall by\nthis means be able to check your bills, and to pull you up if I find\nyou outrunning the constable. Of course you ll go wrong somehow, but\nthat s no fault of mine. \n\nAfter I had pondered a little over this encouraging sentiment, I asked\nMr. Jaggers if I could send for a coach? He said it was not worth\nwhile, I was so near my destination; Wemmick should walk round with me,\nif I pleased.\n\nI then found that Wemmick was the clerk in the next room. Another clerk\nwas rung down from upstairs to take his place while he was out, and I\naccompanied him into the street, after shaking hands with my guardian.\nWe found a new set of people lingering outside, but Wemmick made a way\namong them by saying coolly yet decisively,  I tell you it s no use; he\nwon t have a word to say to one of you;  and we soon got clear of them,\nand went on side by side.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXI.\n\n\nCasting my eyes on Mr. Wemmick as we went along, to see what he was\nlike in the light of day, I found him to be a dry man, rather short in\nstature, with a square wooden face, whose expression seemed to have\nbeen imperfectly chipped out with a dull-edged chisel. There were some\nmarks in it that might have been dimples, if the material had been\nsofter and the instrument finer, but which, as it was, were only dints.\nThe chisel had made three or four of these attempts at embellishment\nover his nose, but had given them up without an effort to smooth them\noff. I judged him to be a bachelor from the frayed condition of his\nlinen, and he appeared to have sustained a good many bereavements; for\nhe wore at least four mourning rings, besides a brooch representing a\nlady and a weeping willow at a tomb with an urn on it. I noticed, too,\nthat several rings and seals hung at his watch-chain, as if he were\nquite laden with remembrances of departed friends. He had glittering\neyes, small, keen, and black, and thin wide mottled lips. He had had\nthem, to the best of my belief, from forty to fifty years.\n\n So you were never in London before?  said Mr. Wemmick to me.\n\n No,  said I.\n\n _I_ was new here once,  said Mr. Wemmick.  Rum to think of now! \n\n You are well acquainted with it now? \n\n Why, yes,  said Mr. Wemmick.  I know the moves of it. \n\n Is it a very wicked place?  I asked, more for the sake of saying\nsomething than for information.\n\n You may get cheated, robbed, and murdered in London. But there are\nplenty of people anywhere, who ll do that for you. \n\n If there is bad blood between you and them,  said I, to soften it off\na little.\n\n O! I don t know about bad blood,  returned Mr. Wemmick;  there s not\nmuch bad blood about. They ll do it, if there s anything to be got by\nit. \n\n That makes it worse. \n\n You think so?  returned Mr. Wemmick.  Much about the same, I should\nsay. \n\nHe wore his hat on the back of his head, and looked straight before\nhim: walking in a self-contained way as if there were nothing in the\nstreets to claim his attention. His mouth was such a post-office of a\nmouth that he had a mechanical appearance of smiling. We had got to the\ntop of Holborn Hill before I knew that it was merely a mechanical\nappearance, and that he was not smiling at all.\n\n Do you know where Mr. Matthew Pocket lives?  I asked Mr. Wemmick.\n\n Yes,  said he, nodding in the direction.  At Hammersmith, west of\nLondon. \n\n Is that far? \n\n Well! Say five miles. \n\n Do you know him? \n\n Why, you re a regular cross-examiner!  said Mr. Wemmick, looking at me\nwith an approving air.  Yes, I know him. _I_ know him! \n\nThere was an air of toleration or depreciation about his utterance of\nthese words that rather depressed me; and I was still looking sideways\nat his block of a face in search of any encouraging note to the text,\nwhen he said here we were at Barnard s Inn. My depression was not\nalleviated by the announcement, for, I had supposed that establishment\nto be an hotel kept by Mr. Barnard, to which the Blue Boar in our town\nwas a mere public-house. Whereas I now found Barnard to be a\ndisembodied spirit, or a fiction, and his inn the dingiest collection\nof shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a rank corner as a club\nfor Tom-cats.\n\nWe entered this haven through a wicket-gate, and were disgorged by an\nintroductory passage into a melancholy little square that looked to me\nlike a flat burying-ground. I thought it had the most dismal trees in\nit, and the most dismal sparrows, and the most dismal cats, and the\nmost dismal houses (in number half a dozen or so), that I had ever\nseen. I thought the windows of the sets of chambers into which those\nhouses were divided were in every stage of dilapidated blind and\ncurtain, crippled flower-pot, cracked glass, dusty decay, and miserable\nmakeshift; while To Let, To Let, To Let, glared at me from empty rooms,\nas if no new wretches ever came there, and the vengeance of the soul of\nBarnard were being slowly appeased by the gradual suicide of the\npresent occupants and their unholy interment under the gravel. A frowzy\nmourning of soot and smoke attired this forlorn creation of Barnard,\nand it had strewn ashes on its head, and was undergoing penance and\nhumiliation as a mere dust-hole. Thus far my sense of sight; while dry\nrot and wet rot and all the silent rots that rot in neglected roof and\ncellar, rot of rat and mouse and bug and coaching-stables near at hand\nbesides addressed themselves faintly to my sense of smell, and moaned,\n Try Barnard s Mixture. \n\nSo imperfect was this realisation of the first of my great\nexpectations, that I looked in dismay at Mr. Wemmick.  Ah!  said he,\nmistaking me;  the retirement reminds you of the country. So it does\nme. \n\nHe led me into a corner and conducted me up a flight of stairs, which\nappeared to me to be slowly collapsing into sawdust, so that one of\nthose days the upper lodgers would look out at their doors and find\nthemselves without the means of coming down, to a set of chambers on\nthe top floor. MR. POCKET, JUN., was painted on the door, and there was\na label on the letter-box,  Return shortly. \n\n He hardly thought you d come so soon,  Mr. Wemmick explained.  You\ndon t want me any more? \n\n No, thank you,  said I.\n\n As I keep the cash,  Mr. Wemmick observed,  we shall most likely meet\npretty often. Good day. \n\n Good day. \n\nI put out my hand, and Mr. Wemmick at first looked at it as if he\nthought I wanted something. Then he looked at me, and said, correcting\nhimself, \n\n To be sure! Yes. You re in the habit of shaking hands? \n\nI was rather confused, thinking it must be out of the London fashion,\nbut said yes.\n\n I have got so out of it!  said Mr. Wemmick, except at last. Very\nglad, I m sure, to make your acquaintance. Good day! \n\nWhen we had shaken hands and he was gone, I opened the staircase window\nand had nearly beheaded myself, for, the lines had rotted away, and it\ncame down like the guillotine. Happily it was so quick that I had not\nput my head out. After this escape, I was content to take a foggy view\nof the Inn through the window s encrusting dirt, and to stand dolefully\nlooking out, saying to myself that London was decidedly overrated.\n\nMr. Pocket, Junior s, idea of Shortly was not mine, for I had nearly\nmaddened myself with looking out for half an hour, and had written my\nname with my finger several times in the dirt of every pane in the\nwindow, before I heard footsteps on the stairs. Gradually there arose\nbefore me the hat, head, neckcloth, waistcoat, trousers, boots, of a\nmember of society of about my own standing. He had a paper-bag under\neach arm and a pottle of strawberries in one hand, and was out of\nbreath.\n\n Mr. Pip?  said he.\n\n Mr. Pocket?  said I.\n\n Dear me!  he exclaimed.  I am extremely sorry; but I knew there was a\ncoach from your part of the country at midday, and I thought you would\ncome by that one. The fact is, I have been out on your account, not\nthat that is any excuse, for I thought, coming from the country, you\nmight like a little fruit after dinner, and I went to Covent Garden\nMarket to get it good. \n\nFor a reason that I had, I felt as if my eyes would start out of my\nhead. I acknowledged his attention incoherently, and began to think\nthis was a dream.\n\n Dear me!  said Mr. Pocket, Junior.  This door sticks so! \n\nAs he was fast making jam of his fruit by wrestling with the door while\nthe paper-bags were under his arms, I begged him to allow me to hold\nthem. He relinquished them with an agreeable smile, and combated with\nthe door as if it were a wild beast. It yielded so suddenly at last,\nthat he staggered back upon me, and I staggered back upon the opposite\ndoor, and we both laughed. But still I felt as if my eyes must start\nout of my head, and as if this must be a dream.\n\n Pray come in,  said Mr. Pocket, Junior.  Allow me to lead the way. I\nam rather bare here, but I hope you ll be able to make out tolerably\nwell till Monday. My father thought you would get on more agreeably\nthrough to-morrow with me than with him, and might like to take a walk\nabout London. I am sure I shall be very happy to show London to you. As\nto our table, you won t find that bad, I hope, for it will be supplied\nfrom our coffee-house here, and (it is only right I should add) at your\nexpense, such being Mr. Jaggers s directions. As to our lodging, it s\nnot by any means splendid, because I have my own bread to earn, and my\nfather hasn t anything to give me, and I shouldn t be willing to take\nit, if he had. This is our sitting-room, just such chairs and tables\nand carpet and so forth, you see, as they could spare from home. You\nmustn t give me credit for the tablecloth and spoons and castors,\nbecause they come for you from the coffee-house. This is my little\nbedroom; rather musty, but Barnard s _is_ musty. This is your bedroom;\nthe furniture s hired for the occasion, but I trust it will answer the\npurpose; if you should want anything, I ll go and fetch it. The\nchambers are retired, and we shall be alone together, but we shan t\nfight, I dare say. But dear me, I beg your pardon, you re holding the\nfruit all this time. Pray let me take these bags from you. I am quite\nashamed. \n\nAs I stood opposite to Mr. Pocket, Junior, delivering him the bags,\nOne, Two, I saw the starting appearance come into his own eyes that I\nknew to be in mine, and he said, falling back, \n\n Lord bless me, you re the prowling boy! \n\n And you,  said I,  are the pale young gentleman! \n\n\n\n\nChapter XXII.\n\n\nThe pale young gentleman and I stood contemplating one another in\nBarnard s Inn, until we both burst out laughing.  The idea of its being\nyou!  said he.  The idea of its being _you_!  said I. And then we\ncontemplated one another afresh, and laughed again.  Well!  said the\npale young gentleman, reaching out his hand good-humouredly,  it s all\nover now, I hope, and it will be magnanimous in you if you ll forgive\nme for having knocked you about so. \n\nI derived from this speech that Mr. Herbert Pocket (for Herbert was the\npale young gentleman s name) still rather confounded his intention with\nhis execution. But I made a modest reply, and we shook hands warmly.\n\n You hadn t come into your good fortune at that time?  said Herbert\nPocket.\n\n No,  said I.\n\n No,  he acquiesced:  I heard it had happened very lately. _I_ was\nrather on the lookout for good fortune then. \n\n Indeed? \n\n Yes. Miss Havisham had sent for me, to see if she could take a fancy\nto me. But she couldn t, at all events, she didn t. \n\nI thought it polite to remark that I was surprised to hear that.\n\n Bad taste,  said Herbert, laughing,  but a fact. Yes, she had sent for\nme on a trial visit, and if I had come out of it successfully, I\nsuppose I should have been provided for; perhaps I should have been\nwhat-you-may-called it to Estella. \n\n What s that?  I asked, with sudden gravity.\n\nHe was arranging his fruit in plates while we talked, which divided his\nattention, and was the cause of his having made this lapse of a word.\n Affianced,  he explained, still busy with the fruit.  Betrothed.\nEngaged. What s-his-named. Any word of that sort. \n\n How did you bear your disappointment?  I asked.\n\n Pooh!  said he,  I didn t care much for it. _She s_ a Tartar. \n\n Miss Havisham? \n\n I don t say no to that, but I meant Estella. That girl s hard and\nhaughty and capricious to the last degree, and has been brought up by\nMiss Havisham to wreak revenge on all the male sex. \n\n What relation is she to Miss Havisham? \n\n None,  said he.  Only adopted. \n\n Why should she wreak revenge on all the male sex? What revenge? \n\n Lord, Mr. Pip!  said he.  Don t you know? \n\n No,  said I.\n\n Dear me! It s quite a story, and shall be saved till dinner-time. And\nnow let me take the liberty of asking you a question. How did you come\nthere, that day? \n\nI told him, and he was attentive until I had finished, and then burst\nout laughing again, and asked me if I was sore afterwards? I didn t ask\nhim if _he_ was, for my conviction on that point was perfectly\nestablished.\n\n Mr. Jaggers is your guardian, I understand?  he went on.\n\n Yes. \n\n You know he is Miss Havisham s man of business and solicitor, and has\nher confidence when nobody else has? \n\nThis was bringing me (I felt) towards dangerous ground. I answered with\na constraint I made no attempt to disguise, that I had seen Mr. Jaggers\nin Miss Havisham s house on the very day of our combat, but never at\nany other time, and that I believed he had no recollection of having\never seen me there.\n\n He was so obliging as to suggest my father for your tutor, and he\ncalled on my father to propose it. Of course he knew about my father\nfrom his connection with Miss Havisham. My father is Miss Havisham s\ncousin; not that that implies familiar intercourse between them, for he\nis a bad courtier and will not propitiate her. \n\nHerbert Pocket had a frank and easy way with him that was very taking.\nI had never seen any one then, and I have never seen any one since, who\nmore strongly expressed to me, in every look and tone, a natural\nincapacity to do anything secret and mean. There was something\nwonderfully hopeful about his general air, and something that at the\nsame time whispered to me he would never be very successful or rich. I\ndon t know how this was. I became imbued with the notion on that first\noccasion before we sat down to dinner, but I cannot define by what\nmeans.\n\nHe was still a pale young gentleman, and had a certain conquered\nlanguor about him in the midst of his spirits and briskness, that did\nnot seem indicative of natural strength. He had not a handsome face,\nbut it was better than handsome: being extremely amiable and cheerful.\nHis figure was a little ungainly, as in the days when my knuckles had\ntaken such liberties with it, but it looked as if it would always be\nlight and young. Whether Mr. Trabb s local work would have sat more\ngracefully on him than on me, may be a question; but I am conscious\nthat he carried off his rather old clothes much better than I carried\noff my new suit.\n\nAs he was so communicative, I felt that reserve on my part would be a\nbad return unsuited to our years. I therefore told him my small story,\nand laid stress on my being forbidden to inquire who my benefactor was.\nI further mentioned that as I had been brought up a blacksmith in a\ncountry place, and knew very little of the ways of politeness, I would\ntake it as a great kindness in him if he would give me a hint whenever\nhe saw me at a loss or going wrong.\n\n With pleasure,  said he,  though I venture to prophesy that you ll\nwant very few hints. I dare say we shall be often together, and I\nshould like to banish any needless restraint between us. Will you do me\nthe favour to begin at once to call me by my Christian name, Herbert? \n\nI thanked him and said I would. I informed him in exchange that my\nChristian name was Philip.\n\n I don t take to Philip,  said he, smiling,  for it sounds like a moral\nboy out of the spelling-book, who was so lazy that he fell into a pond,\nor so fat that he couldn t see out of his eyes, or so avaricious that\nhe locked up his cake till the mice ate it, or so determined to go a\nbird s-nesting that he got himself eaten by bears who lived handy in\nthe neighbourhood. I tell you what I should like. We are so harmonious,\nand you have been a blacksmith, would you mind it? \n\n I shouldn t mind anything that you propose,  I answered,  but I don t\nunderstand you. \n\n Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There s a charming piece of\nmusic by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith. \n\n I should like it very much. \n\n Then, my dear Handel,  said he, turning round as the door opened,\n here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the\ntable, because the dinner is of your providing. \n\nThis I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him. It was a\nnice little dinner, seemed to me then a very Lord Mayor s Feast, and it\nacquired additional relish from being eaten under those independent\ncircumstances, with no old people by, and with London all around us.\nThis again was heightened by a certain gypsy character that set the\nbanquet off; for while the table was, as Mr. Pumblechook might have\nsaid, the lap of luxury, being entirely furnished forth from the\ncoffee-house, the circumjacent region of sitting-room was of a\ncomparatively pastureless and shifty character; imposing on the waiter\nthe wandering habits of putting the covers on the floor (where he fell\nover them), the melted butter in the arm-chair, the bread on the\nbookshelves, the cheese in the coal-scuttle, and the boiled fowl into\nmy bed in the next room, where I found much of its parsley and butter\nin a state of congelation when I retired for the night. All this made\nthe feast delightful, and when the waiter was not there to watch me, my\npleasure was without alloy.\n\nWe had made some progress in the dinner, when I reminded Herbert of his\npromise to tell me about Miss Havisham.\n\n True,  he replied.  I ll redeem it at once. Let me introduce the\ntopic, Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to put\nthe knife in the mouth, for fear of accidents, and that while the fork\nis reserved for that use, it is not put further in than necessary. It\nis scarcely worth mentioning, only it s as well to do as other people\ndo. Also, the spoon is not generally used over-hand, but under. This\nhas two advantages. You get at your mouth better (which after all is\nthe object), and you save a good deal of the attitude of opening\noysters, on the part of the right elbow. \n\nHe offered these friendly suggestions in such a lively way, that we\nboth laughed and I scarcely blushed.\n\n Now,  he pursued,  concerning Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham, you must\nknow, was a spoilt child. Her mother died when she was a baby, and her\nfather denied her nothing. Her father was a country gentleman down in\nyour part of the world, and was a brewer. I don t know why it should be\na crack thing to be a brewer; but it is indisputable that while you\ncannot possibly be genteel and bake, you may be as genteel as never was\nand brew. You see it every day. \n\n Yet a gentleman may not keep a public-house; may he?  said I.\n\n Not on any account,  returned Herbert;  but a public-house may keep a\ngentleman. Well! Mr. Havisham was very rich and very proud. So was his\ndaughter. \n\n Miss Havisham was an only child?  I hazarded.\n\n Stop a moment, I am coming to that. No, she was not an only child; she\nhad a half-brother. Her father privately married again his cook, I\nrather think. \n\n I thought he was proud,  said I.\n\n My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife privately,\nbecause he was proud, and in course of time _she_ died. When she was\ndead, I apprehend he first told his daughter what he had done, and then\nthe son became a part of the family, residing in the house you are\nacquainted with. As the son grew a young man, he turned out riotous,\nextravagant, undutiful, altogether bad. At last his father disinherited\nhim; but he softened when he was dying, and left him well off, though\nnot nearly so well off as Miss Havisham. Take another glass of wine,\nand excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one to\nbe so strictly conscientious in emptying one s glass, as to turn it\nbottom upwards with the rim on one s nose. \n\nI had been doing this, in an excess of attention to his recital. I\nthanked him, and apologised. He said,  Not at all,  and resumed.\n\n Miss Havisham was now an heiress, and you may suppose was looked after\nas a great match. Her half-brother had now ample means again, but what\nwith debts and what with new madness wasted them most fearfully again.\nThere were stronger differences between him and her than there had been\nbetween him and his father, and it is suspected that he cherished a\ndeep and mortal grudge against her as having influenced the father s\nanger. Now, I come to the cruel part of the story, merely breaking off,\nmy dear Handel, to remark that a dinner-napkin will not go into a\ntumbler. \n\nWhy I was trying to pack mine into my tumbler, I am wholly unable to\nsay. I only know that I found myself, with a perseverance worthy of a\nmuch better cause, making the most strenuous exertions to compress it\nwithin those limits. Again I thanked him and apologised, and again he\nsaid in the cheerfullest manner,  Not at all, I am sure!  and resumed.\n\n There appeared upon the scene say at the races, or the public balls,\nor anywhere else you like a certain man, who made love to Miss\nHavisham. I never saw him (for this happened five-and-twenty years ago,\nbefore you and I were, Handel), but I have heard my father mention that\nhe was a showy man, and the kind of man for the purpose. But that he\nwas not to be, without ignorance or prejudice, mistaken for a\ngentleman, my father most strongly asseverates; because it is a\nprinciple of his that no man who was not a true gentleman at heart ever\nwas, since the world began, a true gentleman in manner. He says, no\nvarnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you\nput on, the more the grain will express itself. Well! This man pursued\nMiss Havisham closely, and professed to be devoted to her. I believe\nshe had not shown much susceptibility up to that time; but all the\nsusceptibility she possessed certainly came out then, and she\npassionately loved him. There is no doubt that she perfectly idolized\nhim. He practised on her affection in that systematic way, that he got\ngreat sums of money from her, and he induced her to buy her brother out\nof a share in the brewery (which had been weakly left him by his\nfather) at an immense price, on the plea that when he was her husband\nhe must hold and manage it all. Your guardian was not at that time in\nMiss Havisham s counsels, and she was too haughty and too much in love\nto be advised by any one. Her relations were poor and scheming, with\nthe exception of my father; he was poor enough, but not time-serving or\njealous. The only independent one among them, he warned her that she\nwas doing too much for this man, and was placing herself too\nunreservedly in his power. She took the first opportunity of angrily\nordering my father out of the house, in his presence, and my father has\nnever seen her since. \n\nI thought of her having said,  Matthew will come and see me at last\nwhen I am laid dead upon that table;  and I asked Herbert whether his\nfather was so inveterate against her?\n\n It s not that,  said he,  but she charged him, in the presence of her\nintended husband, with being disappointed in the hope of fawning upon\nher for his own advancement, and, if he were to go to her now, it would\nlook true even to him and even to her. To return to the man and make an\nend of him. The marriage day was fixed, the wedding dresses were\nbought, the wedding tour was planned out, the wedding guests were\ninvited. The day came, but not the bridegroom. He wrote her a letter \n\n Which she received,  I struck in,  when she was dressing for her\nmarriage? At twenty minutes to nine? \n\n At the hour and minute,  said Herbert, nodding,  at which she\nafterwards stopped all the clocks. What was in it, further than that it\nmost heartlessly broke the marriage off, I can t tell you, because I\ndon t know. When she recovered from a bad illness that she had, she\nlaid the whole place waste, as you have seen it, and she has never\nsince looked upon the light of day. \n\n Is that all the story?  I asked, after considering it.\n\n All I know of it; and indeed I only know so much, through piecing it\nout for myself; for my father always avoids it, and, even when Miss\nHavisham invited me to go there, told me no more of it than it was\nabsolutely requisite I should understand. But I have forgotten one\nthing. It has been supposed that the man to whom she gave her misplaced\nconfidence acted throughout in concert with her half-brother; that it\nwas a conspiracy between them; and that they shared the profits. \n\n I wonder he didn t marry her and get all the property,  said I.\n\n He may have been married already, and her cruel mortification may have\nbeen a part of her half-brother s scheme,  said Herbert.  Mind! I don t\nknow that. \n\n What became of the two men?  I asked, after again considering the\nsubject.\n\n They fell into deeper shame and degradation if there can be deeper and\nruin. \n\n Are they alive now? \n\n I don t know. \n\n You said just now that Estella was not related to Miss Havisham, but\nadopted. When adopted? \n\nHerbert shrugged his shoulders.  There has always been an Estella,\nsince I have heard of a Miss Havisham. I know no more. And now,\nHandel,  said he, finally throwing off the story as it were,  there is\na perfectly open understanding between us. All that I know about Miss\nHavisham, you know. \n\n And all that I know,  I retorted,  you know. \n\n I fully believe it. So there can be no competition or perplexity\nbetween you and me. And as to the condition on which you hold your\nadvancement in life, namely, that you are not to inquire or discuss to\nwhom you owe it, you may be very sure that it will never be encroached\nupon, or even approached, by me, or by any one belonging to me. \n\nIn truth, he said this with so much delicacy, that I felt the subject\ndone with, even though I should be under his father s roof for years\nand years to come. Yet he said it with so much meaning, too, that I\nfelt he as perfectly understood Miss Havisham to be my benefactress, as\nI understood the fact myself.\n\nIt had not occurred to me before, that he had led up to the theme for\nthe purpose of clearing it out of our way; but we were so much the\nlighter and easier for having broached it, that I now perceived this to\nbe the case. We were very gay and sociable, and I asked him, in the\ncourse of conversation, what he was? He replied,  A capitalist, an\nInsurer of Ships.  I suppose he saw me glancing about the room in\nsearch of some tokens of Shipping, or capital, for he added,  In the\nCity. \n\nI had grand ideas of the wealth and importance of Insurers of Ships in\nthe City, and I began to think with awe of having laid a young Insurer\non his back, blackened his enterprising eye, and cut his responsible\nhead open. But again there came upon me, for my relief, that odd\nimpression that Herbert Pocket would never be very successful or rich.\n\n I shall not rest satisfied with merely employing my capital in\ninsuring ships. I shall buy up some good Life Assurance shares, and cut\ninto the Direction. I shall also do a little in the mining way. None of\nthese things will interfere with my chartering a few thousand tons on\nmy own account. I think I shall trade,  said he, leaning back in his\nchair,  to the East Indies, for silks, shawls, spices, dyes, drugs, and\nprecious woods. It s an interesting trade. \n\n And the profits are large?  said I.\n\n Tremendous!  said he.\n\nI wavered again, and began to think here were greater expectations than\nmy own.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n I think I shall trade, also,  said he, putting his thumbs in his\nwaist-coat pockets,  to the West Indies, for sugar, tobacco, and rum.\nAlso to Ceylon, especially for elephants  tusks. \n\n You will want a good many ships,  said I.\n\n A perfect fleet,  said he.\n\nQuite overpowered by the magnificence of these transactions, I asked\nhim where the ships he insured mostly traded to at present?\n\n I haven t begun insuring yet,  he replied.  I am looking about me. \n\nSomehow, that pursuit seemed more in keeping with Barnard s Inn. I said\n(in a tone of conviction),  Ah-h! \n\n Yes. I am in a counting-house, and looking about me. \n\n Is a counting-house profitable?  I asked.\n\n To do you mean to the young fellow who s in it?  he asked, in reply.\n\n Yes; to you. \n\n Why, n-no; not to me.  He said this with the air of one carefully\nreckoning up and striking a balance.  Not directly profitable. That is,\nit doesn t pay me anything, and I have to keep myself. \n\nThis certainly had not a profitable appearance, and I shook my head as\nif I would imply that it would be difficult to lay by much accumulative\ncapital from such a source of income.\n\n But the thing is,  said Herbert Pocket,  that you look about you.\n_That s_ the grand thing. You are in a counting-house, you know, and\nyou look about you. \n\nIt struck me as a singular implication that you couldn t be out of a\ncounting-house, you know, and look about you; but I silently deferred\nto his experience.\n\n Then the time comes,  said Herbert,  when you see your opening. And\nyou go in, and you swoop upon it and you make your capital, and then\nthere you are! When you have once made your capital, you have nothing\nto do but employ it. \n\nThis was very like his way of conducting that encounter in the garden;\nvery like. His manner of bearing his poverty, too, exactly corresponded\nto his manner of bearing that defeat. It seemed to me that he took all\nblows and buffets now with just the same air as he had taken mine then.\nIt was evident that he had nothing around him but the simplest\nnecessaries, for everything that I remarked upon turned out to have\nbeen sent in on my account from the coffee-house or somewhere else.\n\nYet, having already made his fortune in his own mind, he was so\nunassuming with it that I felt quite grateful to him for not being\npuffed up. It was a pleasant addition to his naturally pleasant ways,\nand we got on famously. In the evening we went out for a walk in the\nstreets, and went half-price to the Theatre; and next day we went to\nchurch at Westminster Abbey, and in the afternoon we walked in the\nParks; and I wondered who shod all the horses there, and wished Joe\ndid.\n\nOn a moderate computation, it was many months, that Sunday, since I had\nleft Joe and Biddy. The space interposed between myself and them\npartook of that expansion, and our marshes were any distance off. That\nI could have been at our old church in my old church-going clothes, on\nthe very last Sunday that ever was, seemed a combination of\nimpossibilities, geographical and social, solar and lunar. Yet in the\nLondon streets so crowded with people and so brilliantly lighted in the\ndusk of evening, there were depressing hints of reproaches for that I\nhad put the poor old kitchen at home so far away; and in the dead of\nnight, the footsteps of some incapable impostor of a porter mooning\nabout Barnard s Inn, under pretence of watching it, fell hollow on my\nheart.\n\nOn the Monday morning at a quarter before nine, Herbert went to the\ncounting-house to report himself, to look about him, too, I\nsuppose, and I bore him company. He was to come away in an hour or two\nto attend me to Hammersmith, and I was to wait about for him. It\nappeared to me that the eggs from which young Insurers were hatched\nwere incubated in dust and heat, like the eggs of ostriches, judging\nfrom the places to which those incipient giants repaired on a Monday\nmorning. Nor did the counting-house where Herbert assisted, show in my\neyes as at all a good Observatory; being a back second floor up a yard,\nof a grimy presence in all particulars, and with a look into another\nback second floor, rather than a look out.\n\nI waited about until it was noon, and I went upon  Change, and I saw\nfluey men sitting there under the bills about shipping, whom I took to\nbe great merchants, though I couldn t understand why they should all be\nout of spirits. When Herbert came, we went and had lunch at a\ncelebrated house which I then quite venerated, but now believe to have\nbeen the most abject superstition in Europe, and where I could not help\nnoticing, even then, that there was much more gravy on the tablecloths\nand knives and waiters  clothes, than in the steaks. This collation\ndisposed of at a moderate price (considering the grease, which was not\ncharged for), we went back to Barnard s Inn and got my little\nportmanteau, and then took coach for Hammersmith. We arrived there at\ntwo or three o clock in the afternoon, and had very little way to walk\nto Mr. Pocket s house. Lifting the latch of a gate, we passed direct\ninto a little garden overlooking the river, where Mr. Pocket s children\nwere playing about. And unless I deceive myself on a point where my\ninterests or prepossessions are certainly not concerned, I saw that Mr.\nand Mrs. Pocket s children were not growing up or being brought up, but\nwere tumbling up.\n\nMrs. Pocket was sitting on a garden chair under a tree, reading, with\nher legs upon another garden chair; and Mrs. Pocket s two nurse-maids\nwere looking about them while the children played.  Mamma,  said\nHerbert,  this is young Mr. Pip.  Upon which Mrs. Pocket received me\nwith an appearance of amiable dignity.\n\n Master Alick and Miss Jane,  cried one of the nurses to two of the\nchildren,  if you go a bouncing up against them bushes you ll fall over\ninto the river and be drownded, and what ll your pa say then? \n\nAt the same time this nurse picked up Mrs. Pocket s handkerchief, and\nsaid,  If that don t make six times you ve dropped it, Mum!  Upon which\nMrs. Pocket laughed and said,  Thank you, Flopson,  and settling\nherself in one chair only, resumed her book. Her countenance\nimmediately assumed a knitted and intent expression as if she had been\nreading for a week, but before she could have read half a dozen lines,\nshe fixed her eyes upon me, and said,  I hope your mamma is quite\nwell?  This unexpected inquiry put me into such a difficulty that I\nbegan saying in the absurdest way that if there had been any such\nperson I had no doubt she would have been quite well and would have\nbeen very much obliged and would have sent her compliments, when the\nnurse came to my rescue.\n\n Well!  she cried, picking up the pocket-handkerchief,  if that don t\nmake seven times! What ARE you a-doing of this afternoon, Mum!  Mrs.\nPocket received her property, at first with a look of unutterable\nsurprise as if she had never seen it before, and then with a laugh of\nrecognition, and said,  Thank you, Flopson,  and forgot me, and went on\nreading.\n\nI found, now I had leisure to count them, that there were no fewer than\nsix little Pockets present, in various stages of tumbling up. I had\nscarcely arrived at the total when a seventh was heard, as in the\nregion of air, wailing dolefully.\n\n If there ain t Baby!  said Flopson, appearing to think it most\nsurprising.  Make haste up, Millers. \n\nMillers, who was the other nurse, retired into the house, and by\ndegrees the child s wailing was hushed and stopped, as if it were a\nyoung ventriloquist with something in its mouth. Mrs. Pocket read all\nthe time, and I was curious to know what the book could be.\n\nWe were waiting, I supposed, for Mr. Pocket to come out to us; at any\nrate we waited there, and so I had an opportunity of observing the\nremarkable family phenomenon that whenever any of the children strayed\nnear Mrs. Pocket in their play, they always tripped themselves up and\ntumbled over her, always very much to her momentary astonishment, and\ntheir own more enduring lamentation. I was at a loss to account for\nthis surprising circumstance, and could not help giving my mind to\nspeculations about it, until by and by Millers came down with the baby,\nwhich baby was handed to Flopson, which Flopson was handing it to Mrs.\nPocket, when she too went fairly head foremost over Mrs. Pocket, baby\nand all, and was caught by Herbert and myself.\n\n Gracious me, Flopson!  said Mrs. Pocket, looking off her book for a\nmoment,  everybody s tumbling! \n\n Gracious you, indeed, Mum!  returned Flopson, very red in the face;\n what have you got there? \n\n _I_ got here, Flopson?  asked Mrs. Pocket.\n\n Why, if it ain t your footstool!  cried Flopson.  And if you keep it\nunder your skirts like that, who s to help tumbling? Here! Take the\nbaby, Mum, and give me your book. \n\nMrs. Pocket acted on the advice, and inexpertly danced the infant a\nlittle in her lap, while the other children played about it. This had\nlasted but a very short time, when Mrs. Pocket issued summary orders\nthat they were all to be taken into the house for a nap. Thus I made\nthe second discovery on that first occasion, that the nurture of the\nlittle Pockets consisted of alternately tumbling up and lying down.\n\nUnder these circumstances, when Flopson and Millers had got the\nchildren into the house, like a little flock of sheep, and Mr. Pocket\ncame out of it to make my acquaintance, I was not much surprised to\nfind that Mr. Pocket was a gentleman with a rather perplexed expression\nof face, and with his very grey hair disordered on his head, as if he\ndidn t quite see his way to putting anything straight.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII.\n\n\nMr. Pocket said he was glad to see me, and he hoped I was not sorry to\nsee him.  For, I really am not,  he added, with his son s smile,  an\nalarming personage.  He was a young-looking man, in spite of his\nperplexities and his very grey hair, and his manner seemed quite\nnatural. I use the word natural, in the sense of its being unaffected;\nthere was something comic in his distraught way, as though it would\nhave been downright ludicrous but for his own perception that it was\nvery near being so. When he had talked with me a little, he said to\nMrs. Pocket, with a rather anxious contraction of his eyebrows, which\nwere black and handsome,  Belinda, I hope you have welcomed Mr. Pip? \nAnd she looked up from her book, and said,  Yes.  She then smiled upon\nme in an absent state of mind, and asked me if I liked the taste of\norange-flower water? As the question had no bearing, near or remote, on\nany foregone or subsequent transaction, I consider it to have been\nthrown out, like her previous approaches, in general conversational\ncondescension.\n\nI found out within a few hours, and may mention at once, that Mrs.\nPocket was the only daughter of a certain quite accidental deceased\nKnight, who had invented for himself a conviction that his deceased\nfather would have been made a Baronet but for somebody s determined\nopposition arising out of entirely personal motives, I forget whose, if\nI ever knew, the Sovereign s, the Prime Minister s, the Lord\nChancellor s, the Archbishop of Canterbury s, anybody s, and had tacked\nhimself on to the nobles of the earth in right of this quite\nsupposititious fact. I believe he had been knighted himself for\nstorming the English grammar at the point of the pen, in a desperate\naddress engrossed on vellum, on the occasion of the laying of the first\nstone of some building or other, and for handing some Royal Personage\neither the trowel or the mortar. Be that as it may, he had directed\nMrs. Pocket to be brought up from her cradle as one who in the nature\nof things must marry a title, and who was to be guarded from the\nacquisition of plebeian domestic knowledge.\n\nSo successful a watch and ward had been established over the young lady\nby this judicious parent, that she had grown up highly ornamental, but\nperfectly helpless and useless. With her character thus happily formed,\nin the first bloom of her youth she had encountered Mr. Pocket: who was\nalso in the first bloom of youth, and not quite decided whether to\nmount to the Woolsack, or to roof himself in with a mitre. As his doing\nthe one or the other was a mere question of time, he and Mrs. Pocket\nhad taken Time by the forelock (when, to judge from its length, it\nwould seem to have wanted cutting), and had married without the\nknowledge of the judicious parent. The judicious parent, having nothing\nto bestow or withhold but his blessing, had handsomely settled that\ndower upon them after a short struggle, and had informed Mr. Pocket\nthat his wife was  a treasure for a Prince.  Mr. Pocket had invested\nthe Prince s treasure in the ways of the world ever since, and it was\nsupposed to have brought him in but indifferent interest. Still, Mrs.\nPocket was in general the object of a queer sort of respectful pity,\nbecause she had not married a title; while Mr. Pocket was the object of\na queer sort of forgiving reproach, because he had never got one.\n\nMr. Pocket took me into the house and showed me my room: which was a\npleasant one, and so furnished as that I could use it with comfort for\nmy own private sitting-room. He then knocked at the doors of two other\nsimilar rooms, and introduced me to their occupants, by name Drummle\nand Startop. Drummle, an old-looking young man of a heavy order of\narchitecture, was whistling. Startop, younger in years and appearance,\nwas reading and holding his head, as if he thought himself in danger of\nexploding it with too strong a charge of knowledge.\n\nBoth Mr. and Mrs. Pocket had such a noticeable air of being in somebody\nelse s hands, that I wondered who really was in possession of the house\nand let them live there, until I found this unknown power to be the\nservants. It was a smooth way of going on, perhaps, in respect of\nsaving trouble; but it had the appearance of being expensive, for the\nservants felt it a duty they owed to themselves to be nice in their\neating and drinking, and to keep a deal of company downstairs. They\nallowed a very liberal table to Mr. and Mrs. Pocket, yet it always\nappeared to me that by far the best part of the house to have boarded\nin would have been the kitchen, always supposing the boarder capable of\nself-defence, for, before I had been there a week, a neighbouring lady\nwith whom the family were personally unacquainted, wrote in to say that\nshe had seen Millers slapping the baby. This greatly distressed Mrs.\nPocket, who burst into tears on receiving the note, and said that it\nwas an extraordinary thing that the neighbours couldn t mind their own\nbusiness.\n\nBy degrees I learnt, and chiefly from Herbert, that Mr. Pocket had been\neducated at Harrow and at Cambridge, where he had distinguished\nhimself; but that when he had had the happiness of marrying Mrs. Pocket\nvery early in life, he had impaired his prospects and taken up the\ncalling of a Grinder. After grinding a number of dull blades, of whom\nit was remarkable that their fathers, when influential, were always\ngoing to help him to preferment, but always forgot to do it when the\nblades had left the Grindstone, he had wearied of that poor work and\nhad come to London. Here, after gradually failing in loftier hopes, he\nhad  read  with divers who had lacked opportunities or neglected them,\nand had refurbished divers others for special occasions, and had turned\nhis acquirements to the account of literary compilation and correction,\nand on such means, added to some very moderate private resources, still\nmaintained the house I saw.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Pocket had a toady neighbour; a widow lady of that highly\nsympathetic nature that she agreed with everybody, blessed everybody,\nand shed smiles and tears on everybody, according to circumstances.\nThis lady s name was Mrs. Coiler, and I had the honour of taking her\ndown to dinner on the day of my installation. She gave me to understand\non the stairs, that it was a blow to dear Mrs. Pocket that dear Mr.\nPocket should be under the necessity of receiving gentlemen to read\nwith him. That did not extend to me, she told me in a gush of love and\nconfidence (at that time, I had known her something less than five\nminutes); if they were all like Me, it would be quite another thing.\n\n But dear Mrs. Pocket,  said Mrs. Coiler,  after her early\ndisappointment (not that dear Mr. Pocket was to blame in that),\nrequires so much luxury and elegance \n\n Yes, ma am,  I said, to stop her, for I was afraid she was going to\ncry.\n\n And she is of so aristocratic a disposition \n\n Yes, ma am,  I said again, with the same object as before.\n\n That it _is_ hard,  said Mrs. Coiler,  to have dear Mr. Pocket s time\nand attention diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket. \n\nI could not help thinking that it might be harder if the butcher s time\nand attention were diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket; but I said nothing,\nand indeed had enough to do in keeping a bashful watch upon my company\nmanners.\n\nIt came to my knowledge, through what passed between Mrs. Pocket and\nDrummle while I was attentive to my knife and fork, spoon, glasses, and\nother instruments of self-destruction, that Drummle, whose Christian\nname was Bentley, was actually the next heir but one to a baronetcy. It\nfurther appeared that the book I had seen Mrs. Pocket reading in the\ngarden was all about titles, and that she knew the exact date at which\nher grandpapa would have come into the book, if he ever had come at\nall. Drummle didn t say much, but in his limited way (he struck me as a\nsulky kind of fellow) he spoke as one of the elect, and recognised Mrs.\nPocket as a woman and a sister. No one but themselves and Mrs. Coiler\nthe toady neighbour showed any interest in this part of the\nconversation, and it appeared to me that it was painful to Herbert; but\nit promised to last a long time, when the page came in with the\nannouncement of a domestic affliction. It was, in effect, that the cook\nhad mislaid the beef. To my unutterable amazement, I now, for the first\ntime, saw Mr. Pocket relieve his mind by going through a performance\nthat struck me as very extraordinary, but which made no impression on\nanybody else, and with which I soon became as familiar as the rest. He\nlaid down the carving-knife and fork, being engaged in carving, at the\nmoment, put his two hands into his disturbed hair, and appeared to make\nan extraordinary effort to lift himself up by it. When he had done\nthis, and had not lifted himself up at all, he quietly went on with\nwhat he was about.\n\nMrs. Coiler then changed the subject and began to flatter me. I liked\nit for a few moments, but she flattered me so very grossly that the\npleasure was soon over. She had a serpentine way of coming close at me\nwhen she pretended to be vitally interested in the friends and\nlocalities I had left, which was altogether snaky and fork-tongued; and\nwhen she made an occasional bounce upon Startop (who said very little\nto her), or upon Drummle (who said less), I rather envied them for\nbeing on the opposite side of the table.\n\nAfter dinner the children were introduced, and Mrs. Coiler made\nadmiring comments on their eyes, noses, and legs, a sagacious way of\nimproving their minds. There were four little girls, and two little\nboys, besides the baby who might have been either, and the baby s next\nsuccessor who was as yet neither. They were brought in by Flopson and\nMillers, much as though those two non-commissioned officers had been\nrecruiting somewhere for children and had enlisted these, while Mrs.\nPocket looked at the young Nobles that ought to have been as if she\nrather thought she had had the pleasure of inspecting them before, but\ndidn t quite know what to make of them.\n\n Here! Give me your fork, Mum, and take the baby,  said Flopson.  Don t\ntake it that way, or you ll get its head under the table. \n\nThus advised, Mrs. Pocket took it the other way, and got its head upon\nthe table; which was announced to all present by a prodigious\nconcussion.\n\n Dear, dear! Give it me back, Mum,  said Flopson;  and Miss Jane, come\nand dance to baby, do! \n\nOne of the little girls, a mere mite who seemed to have prematurely\ntaken upon herself some charge of the others, stepped out of her place\nby me, and danced to and from the baby until it left off crying, and\nlaughed. Then, all the children laughed, and Mr. Pocket (who in the\nmeantime had twice endeavoured to lift himself up by the hair) laughed,\nand we all laughed and were glad.\n\nFlopson, by dint of doubling the baby at the joints like a Dutch doll,\nthen got it safely into Mrs. Pocket s lap, and gave it the nut-crackers\nto play with; at the same time recommending Mrs. Pocket to take notice\nthat the handles of that instrument were not likely to agree with its\neyes, and sharply charging Miss Jane to look after the same. Then, the\ntwo nurses left the room, and had a lively scuffle on the staircase\nwith a dissipated page who had waited at dinner, and who had clearly\nlost half his buttons at the gaming-table.\n\nI was made very uneasy in my mind by Mrs. Pocket s falling into a\ndiscussion with Drummle respecting two baronetcies, while she ate a\nsliced orange steeped in sugar and wine, and, forgetting all about the\nbaby on her lap, who did most appalling things with the nut-crackers.\nAt length little Jane, perceiving its young brains to be imperilled,\nsoftly left her place, and with many small artifices coaxed the\ndangerous weapon away. Mrs. Pocket finishing her orange at about the\nsame time, and not approving of this, said to Jane, \n\n You naughty child, how dare you? Go and sit down this instant! \n\n Mamma dear,  lisped the little girl,  baby ood have put hith eyeth\nout. \n\n How dare you tell me so?  retorted Mrs. Pocket.  Go and sit down in\nyour chair this moment! \n\nMrs. Pocket s dignity was so crushing, that I felt quite abashed, as if\nI myself had done something to rouse it.\n\n Belinda,  remonstrated Mr. Pocket, from the other end of the table,\n how can you be so unreasonable? Jane only interfered for the\nprotection of baby. \n\n I will not allow anybody to interfere,  said Mrs. Pocket.  I am\nsurprised, Matthew, that you should expose me to the affront of\ninterference. \n\n Good God!  cried Mr. Pocket, in an outbreak of desolate desperation.\n Are infants to be nut-crackered into their tombs, and is nobody to\nsave them? \n\n I will not be interfered with by Jane,  said Mrs. Pocket, with a\nmajestic glance at that innocent little offender.  I hope I know my\npoor grandpapa s position. Jane, indeed! \n\nMr. Pocket got his hands in his hair again, and this time really did\nlift himself some inches out of his chair.  Hear this!  he helplessly\nexclaimed to the elements.  Babies are to be nut-crackered dead, for\npeople s poor grandpapa s positions!  Then he let himself down again,\nand became silent.\n\nWe all looked awkwardly at the tablecloth while this was going on. A\npause succeeded, during which the honest and irrepressible baby made a\nseries of leaps and crows at little Jane, who appeared to me to be the\nonly member of the family (irrespective of servants) with whom it had\nany decided acquaintance.\n\n Mr. Drummle,  said Mrs. Pocket,  will you ring for Flopson? Jane, you\nundutiful little thing, go and lie down. Now, baby darling, come with\nma! \n\nThe baby was the soul of honour, and protested with all its might. It\ndoubled itself up the wrong way over Mrs. Pocket s arm, exhibited a\npair of knitted shoes and dimpled ankles to the company in lieu of its\nsoft face, and was carried out in the highest state of mutiny. And it\ngained its point after all, for I saw it through the window within a\nfew minutes, being nursed by little Jane.\n\nIt happened that the other five children were left behind at the\ndinner-table, through Flopson s having some private engagement, and\ntheir not being anybody else s business. I thus became aware of the\nmutual relations between them and Mr. Pocket, which were exemplified in\nthe following manner. Mr. Pocket, with the normal perplexity of his\nface heightened and his hair rumpled, looked at them for some minutes,\nas if he couldn t make out how they came to be boarding and lodging in\nthat establishment, and why they hadn t been billeted by Nature on\nsomebody else. Then, in a distant Missionary way he asked them certain\nquestions, as why little Joe had that hole in his frill, who said, Pa,\nFlopson was going to mend it when she had time, and how little Fanny\ncame by that whitlow, who said, Pa, Millers was going to poultice it\nwhen she didn t forget. Then, he melted into parental tenderness, and\ngave them a shilling apiece and told them to go and play; and then as\nthey went out, with one very strong effort to lift himself up by the\nhair he dismissed the hopeless subject.\n\nIn the evening there was rowing on the river. As Drummle and Startop\nhad each a boat, I resolved to set up mine, and to cut them both out. I\nwas pretty good at most exercises in which country boys are adepts, but\nas I was conscious of wanting elegance of style for the Thames, not to\nsay for other waters, I at once engaged to place myself under the\ntuition of the winner of a prize-wherry who plied at our stairs, and to\nwhom I was introduced by my new allies. This practical authority\nconfused me very much by saying I had the arm of a blacksmith. If he\ncould have known how nearly the compliment lost him his pupil, I doubt\nif he would have paid it.\n\nThere was a supper-tray after we got home at night, and I think we\nshould all have enjoyed ourselves, but for a rather disagreeable\ndomestic occurrence. Mr. Pocket was in good spirits, when a housemaid\ncame in, and said,  If you please, sir, I should wish to speak to you. \n\n Speak to your master?  said Mrs. Pocket, whose dignity was roused\nagain.  How can you think of such a thing? Go and speak to Flopson. Or\nspeak to me at some other time. \n\n Begging your pardon, ma am,  returned the housemaid,  I should wish to\nspeak at once, and to speak to master. \n\nHereupon, Mr. Pocket went out of the room, and we made the best of\nourselves until he came back.\n\n This is a pretty thing, Belinda!  said Mr. Pocket, returning with a\ncountenance expressive of grief and despair.  Here s the cook lying\ninsensibly drunk on the kitchen floor, with a large bundle of fresh\nbutter made up in the cupboard ready to sell for grease! \n\nMrs. Pocket instantly showed much amiable emotion, and said,  This is\nthat odious Sophia s doing! \n\n What do you mean, Belinda?  demanded Mr. Pocket.\n\n Sophia has told you,  said Mrs. Pocket.  Did I not see her with my own\neyes and hear her with my own ears, come into the room just now and ask\nto speak to you? \n\n But has she not taken me downstairs, Belinda,  returned Mr. Pocket,\n and shown me the woman, and the bundle too? \n\n And do you defend her, Matthew,  said Mrs. Pocket,  for making\nmischief? \n\nMr. Pocket uttered a dismal groan.\n\n Am I, grandpapa s granddaughter, to be nothing in the house?  said\nMrs. Pocket.  Besides, the cook has always been a very nice respectful\nwoman, and said in the most natural manner when she came to look after\nthe situation, that she felt I was born to be a Duchess. \n\nThere was a sofa where Mr. Pocket stood, and he dropped upon it in the\nattitude of the Dying Gladiator. Still in that attitude he said, with a\nhollow voice,  Good night, Mr. Pip,  when I deemed it advisable to go\nto bed and leave him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV.\n\n\nAfter two or three days, when I had established myself in my room and\nhad gone backwards and forwards to London several times, and had\nordered all I wanted of my tradesmen, Mr. Pocket and I had a long talk\ntogether. He knew more of my intended career than I knew myself, for he\nreferred to his having been told by Mr. Jaggers that I was not designed\nfor any profession, and that I should be well enough educated for my\ndestiny if I could  hold my own  with the average of young men in\nprosperous circumstances. I acquiesced, of course, knowing nothing to\nthe contrary.\n\nHe advised my attending certain places in London, for the acquisition\nof such mere rudiments as I wanted, and my investing him with the\nfunctions of explainer and director of all my studies. He hoped that\nwith intelligent assistance I should meet with little to discourage me,\nand should soon be able to dispense with any aid but his. Through his\nway of saying this, and much more to similar purpose, he placed himself\non confidential terms with me in an admirable manner; and I may state\nat once that he was always so zealous and honourable in fulfilling his\ncompact with me, that he made me zealous and honourable in fulfilling\nmine with him. If he had shown indifference as a master, I have no\ndoubt I should have returned the compliment as a pupil; he gave me no\nsuch excuse, and each of us did the other justice. Nor did I ever\nregard him as having anything ludicrous about him or anything but what\nwas serious, honest, and good in his tutor communication with me.\n\nWhen these points were settled, and so far carried out as that I had\nbegun to work in earnest, it occurred to me that if I could retain my\nbedroom in Barnard s Inn, my life would be agreeably varied, while my\nmanners would be none the worse for Herbert s society. Mr. Pocket did\nnot object to this arrangement, but urged that before any step could\npossibly be taken in it, it must be submitted to my guardian. I felt\nthat this delicacy arose out of the consideration that the plan would\nsave Herbert some expense, so I went off to Little Britain and imparted\nmy wish to Mr. Jaggers.\n\n If I could buy the furniture now hired for me,  said I,  and one or\ntwo other little things, I should be quite at home there. \n\n Go it!  said Mr. Jaggers, with a short laugh.  I told you you d get\non. Well! How much do you want? \n\nI said I didn t know how much.\n\n Come!  retorted Mr. Jaggers.  How much? Fifty pounds? \n\n O, not nearly so much. \n\n Five pounds?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\nThis was such a great fall, that I said in discomfiture,  O, more than\nthat. \n\n More than that, eh!  retorted Mr. Jaggers, lying in wait for me, with\nhis hands in his pockets, his head on one side, and his eyes on the\nwall behind me;  how much more? \n\n It is so difficult to fix a sum,  said I, hesitating.\n\n Come!  said Mr. Jaggers.  Let s get at it. Twice five; will that do?\nThree times five; will that do? Four times five; will that do? \n\nI said I thought that would do handsomely.\n\n Four times five will do handsomely, will it?  said Mr. Jaggers,\nknitting his brows.  Now, what do you make of four times five? \n\n What do I make of it? \n\n Ah!  said Mr. Jaggers;  how much? \n\n I suppose you make it twenty pounds,  said I, smiling.\n\n Never mind what _I_ make it, my friend,  observed Mr. Jaggers, with a\nknowing and contradictory toss of his head.  I want to know what _you_\nmake it. \n\n Twenty pounds, of course. \n\n Wemmick!  said Mr. Jaggers, opening his office door.  Take Mr. Pip s\nwritten order, and pay him twenty pounds. \n\nThis strongly marked way of doing business made a strongly marked\nimpression on me, and that not of an agreeable kind. Mr. Jaggers never\nlaughed; but he wore great bright creaking boots, and, in poising\nhimself on these boots, with his large head bent down and his eyebrows\njoined together, awaiting an answer, he sometimes caused the boots to\ncreak, as if _they_ laughed in a dry and suspicious way. As he happened\nto go out now, and as Wemmick was brisk and talkative, I said to\nWemmick that I hardly knew what to make of Mr. Jaggers s manner.\n\n Tell him that, and he ll take it as a compliment,  answered Wemmick;\n he don t mean that you _should_ know what to make of it. Oh!  for I\nlooked surprised,  it s not personal; it s professional: only\nprofessional. \n\nWemmick was at his desk, lunching and crunching on a dry hard biscuit;\npieces of which he threw from time to time into his slit of a mouth, as\nif he were posting them.\n\n Always seems to me,  said Wemmick,  as if he had set a man-trap and\nwas watching it. Suddenly click you re caught! \n\nWithout remarking that man-traps were not among the amenities of life,\nI said I supposed he was very skilful?\n\n Deep,  said Wemmick,  as Australia.  Pointing with his pen at the\noffice floor, to express that Australia was understood, for the\npurposes of the figure, to be symmetrically on the opposite spot of the\nglobe.  If there was anything deeper,  added Wemmick, bringing his pen\nto paper,  he d be it. \n\nThen, I said I supposed he had a fine business, and Wemmick said,\n Ca-pi-tal!  Then I asked if there were many clerks? to which he\nreplied, \n\n We don t run much into clerks, because there s only one Jaggers, and\npeople won t have him at second hand. There are only four of us. Would\nyou like to see  em? You are one of us, as I may say. \n\nI accepted the offer. When Mr. Wemmick had put all the biscuit into the\npost, and had paid me my money from a cash-box in a safe, the key of\nwhich safe he kept somewhere down his back and produced from his\ncoat-collar like an iron-pigtail, we went upstairs. The house was dark\nand shabby, and the greasy shoulders that had left their mark in Mr.\nJaggers s room seemed to have been shuffling up and down the staircase\nfor years. In the front first floor, a clerk who looked something\nbetween a publican and a rat-catcher a large pale, puffed, swollen\nman was attentively engaged with three or four people of shabby\nappearance, whom he treated as unceremoniously as everybody seemed to\nbe treated who contributed to Mr. Jaggers s coffers.  Getting evidence\ntogether,  said Mr. Wemmick, as we came out,  for the Bailey.  In the\nroom over that, a little flabby terrier of a clerk with dangling hair\n(his cropping seemed to have been forgotten when he was a puppy) was\nsimilarly engaged with a man with weak eyes, whom Mr. Wemmick presented\nto me as a smelter who kept his pot always boiling, and who would melt\nme anything I pleased, and who was in an excessive white-perspiration,\nas if he had been trying his art on himself. In a back room, a\nhigh-shouldered man with a face-ache tied up in dirty flannel, who was\ndressed in old black clothes that bore the appearance of having been\nwaxed, was stooping over his work of making fair copies of the notes of\nthe other two gentlemen, for Mr. Jaggers s own use.\n\nThis was all the establishment. When we went downstairs again, Wemmick\nled me into my guardian s room, and said,  This you ve seen already. \n\n Pray,  said I, as the two odious casts with the twitchy leer upon them\ncaught my sight again,  whose likenesses are those? \n\n These?  said Wemmick, getting upon a chair, and blowing the dust off\nthe horrible heads before bringing them down.  These are two celebrated\nones. Famous clients of ours that got us a world of credit. This chap\n(why you must have come down in the night and been peeping into the\ninkstand, to get this blot upon your eyebrow, you old rascal!) murdered\nhis master, and, considering that he wasn t brought up to evidence,\ndidn t plan it badly. \n\n Is it like him?  I asked, recoiling from the brute, as Wemmick spat\nupon his eyebrow and gave it a rub with his sleeve.\n\n Like him? It s himself, you know. The cast was made in Newgate,\ndirectly after he was taken down. You had a particular fancy for me,\nhadn t you, Old Artful?  said Wemmick. He then explained this\naffectionate apostrophe, by touching his brooch representing the lady\nand the weeping willow at the tomb with the urn upon it, and saying,\n Had it made for me, express! \n\n Is the lady anybody?  said I.\n\n No,  returned Wemmick.  Only his game. (You liked your bit of game,\ndidn t you?) No; deuce a bit of a lady in the case, Mr. Pip, except\none, and she wasn t of this slender lady-like sort, and you wouldn t\nhave caught _her_ looking after this urn, unless there was something to\ndrink in it.  Wemmick s attention being thus directed to his brooch, he\nput down the cast, and polished the brooch with his\npocket-handkerchief.\n\n Did that other creature come to the same end?  I asked.  He has the\nsame look. \n\n You re right,  said Wemmick;  it s the genuine look. Much as if one\nnostril was caught up with a horse-hair and a little fish-hook. Yes, he\ncame to the same end; quite the natural end here, I assure you. He\nforged wills, this blade did, if he didn t also put the supposed\ntestators to sleep too. You were a gentlemanly Cove, though  (Mr.\nWemmick was again apostrophising),  and you said you could write Greek.\nYah, Bounceable! What a liar you were! I never met such a liar as you! \nBefore putting his late friend on his shelf again, Wemmick touched the\nlargest of his mourning rings and said,  Sent out to buy it for me,\nonly the day before. \n\nWhile he was putting up the other cast and coming down from the chair,\nthe thought crossed my mind that all his personal jewelry was derived\nfrom like sources. As he had shown no diffidence on the subject, I\nventured on the liberty of asking him the question, when he stood\nbefore me, dusting his hands.\n\n O yes,  he returned,  these are all gifts of that kind. One brings\nanother, you see; that s the way of it. I always take  em. They re\ncuriosities. And they re property. They may not be worth much, but,\nafter all, they re property and portable. It don t signify to you with\nyour brilliant lookout, but as to myself, my guiding-star always is,\n Get hold of portable property . \n\nWhen I had rendered homage to this light, he went on to say, in a\nfriendly manner: \n\n If at any odd time when you have nothing better to do, you wouldn t\nmind coming over to see me at Walworth, I could offer you a bed, and I\nshould consider it an honour. I have not much to show you; but such two\nor three curiosities as I have got you might like to look over; and I\nam fond of a bit of garden and a summer-house. \n\nI said I should be delighted to accept his hospitality.\n\n Thankee,  said he;  then we ll consider that it s to come off, when\nconvenient to you. Have you dined with Mr. Jaggers yet? \n\n Not yet. \n\n Well,  said Wemmick,  he ll give you wine, and good wine. I ll give\nyou punch, and not bad punch. And now I ll tell you something. When you\ngo to dine with Mr. Jaggers, look at his housekeeper. \n\n Shall I see something very uncommon? \n\n Well,  said Wemmick,  you ll see a wild beast tamed. Not so very\nuncommon, you ll tell me. I reply, that depends on the original\nwildness of the beast, and the amount of taming. It won t lower your\nopinion of Mr. Jaggers s powers. Keep your eye on it. \n\nI told him I would do so, with all the interest and curiosity that his\npreparation awakened. As I was taking my departure, he asked me if I\nwould like to devote five minutes to seeing Mr. Jaggers  at it? \n\nFor several reasons, and not least because I didn t clearly know what\nMr. Jaggers would be found to be  at,  I replied in the affirmative. We\ndived into the City, and came up in a crowded police-court, where a\nblood-relation (in the murderous sense) of the deceased, with the\nfanciful taste in brooches, was standing at the bar, uncomfortably\nchewing something; while my guardian had a woman under examination or\ncross-examination, I don t know which, and was striking her, and the\nbench, and everybody present, with awe. If anybody, of whatsoever\ndegree, said a word that he didn t approve of, he instantly required to\nhave it  taken down.  If anybody wouldn t make an admission, he said,\n I ll have it out of you!  and if anybody made an admission, he said,\n Now I have got you!  The magistrates shivered under a single bite of\nhis finger. Thieves and thief-takers hung in dread rapture on his\nwords, and shrank when a hair of his eyebrows turned in their\ndirection. Which side he was on I couldn t make out, for he seemed to\nme to be grinding the whole place in a mill; I only know that when I\nstole out on tiptoe, he was not on the side of the bench; for, he was\nmaking the legs of the old gentleman who presided, quite convulsive\nunder the table, by his denunciations of his conduct as the\nrepresentative of British law and justice in that chair that day.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXV.\n\n\nBentley Drummle, who was so sulky a fellow that he even took up a book\nas if its writer had done him an injury, did not take up an\nacquaintance in a more agreeable spirit. Heavy in figure, movement, and\ncomprehension, in the sluggish complexion of his face, and in the\nlarge, awkward tongue that seemed to loll about in his mouth as he\nhimself lolled about in a room, he was idle, proud, niggardly,\nreserved, and suspicious. He came of rich people down in Somersetshire,\nwho had nursed this combination of qualities until they made the\ndiscovery that it was just of age and a blockhead. Thus, Bentley\nDrummle had come to Mr. Pocket when he was a head taller than that\ngentleman, and half a dozen heads thicker than most gentlemen.\n\nStartop had been spoilt by a weak mother and kept at home when he ought\nto have been at school, but he was devotedly attached to her, and\nadmired her beyond measure. He had a woman s delicacy of feature, and\nwas as you may see, though you never saw her,  said Herbert to\nme exactly like his mother.  It was but natural that I should take to\nhim much more kindly than to Drummle, and that, even in the earliest\nevenings of our boating, he and I should pull homeward abreast of one\nanother, conversing from boat to boat, while Bentley Drummle came up in\nour wake alone, under the overhanging banks and among the rushes. He\nwould always creep in-shore like some uncomfortable amphibious\ncreature, even when the tide would have sent him fast upon his way; and\nI always think of him as coming after us in the dark or by the\nback-water, when our own two boats were breaking the sunset or the\nmoonlight in mid-stream.\n\nHerbert was my intimate companion and friend. I presented him with a\nhalf-share in my boat, which was the occasion of his often coming down\nto Hammersmith; and my possession of a half-share in his chambers often\ntook me up to London. We used to walk between the two places at all\nhours. I have an affection for the road yet (though it is not so\npleasant a road as it was then), formed in the impressibility of\nuntried youth and hope.\n\nWhen I had been in Mr. Pocket s family a month or two, Mr. and Mrs.\nCamilla turned up. Camilla was Mr. Pocket s sister. Georgiana, whom I\nhad seen at Miss Havisham s on the same occasion, also turned up. She\nwas a cousin, an indigestive single woman, who called her rigidity\nreligion, and her liver love. These people hated me with the hatred of\ncupidity and disappointment. As a matter of course, they fawned upon me\nin my prosperity with the basest meanness. Towards Mr. Pocket, as a\ngrown-up infant with no notion of his own interests, they showed the\ncomplacent forbearance I had heard them express. Mrs. Pocket they held\nin contempt; but they allowed the poor soul to have been heavily\ndisappointed in life, because that shed a feeble reflected light upon\nthemselves.\n\nThese were the surroundings among which I settled down, and applied\nmyself to my education. I soon contracted expensive habits, and began\nto spend an amount of money that within a few short months I should\nhave thought almost fabulous; but through good and evil I stuck to my\nbooks. There was no other merit in this, than my having sense enough to\nfeel my deficiencies. Between Mr. Pocket and Herbert I got on fast;\nand, with one or the other always at my elbow to give me the start I\nwanted, and clear obstructions out of my road, I must have been as\ngreat a dolt as Drummle if I had done less.\n\nI had not seen Mr. Wemmick for some weeks, when I thought I would write\nhim a note and propose to go home with him on a certain evening. He\nreplied that it would give him much pleasure, and that he would expect\nme at the office at six o clock. Thither I went, and there I found him,\nputting the key of his safe down his back as the clock struck.\n\n Did you think of walking down to Walworth?  said he.\n\n Certainly,  said I,  if you approve. \n\n Very much,  was Wemmick s reply,  for I have had my legs under the\ndesk all day, and shall be glad to stretch them. Now, I ll tell you\nwhat I have got for supper, Mr. Pip. I have got a stewed steak, which\nis of home preparation, and a cold roast fowl, which is from the\ncook s-shop. I think it s tender, because the master of the shop was a\nJuryman in some cases of ours the other day, and we let him down easy.\nI reminded him of it when I bought the fowl, and I said,  Pick us out a\ngood one, old Briton, because if we had chosen to keep you in the box\nanother day or two, we could easily have done it.  He said to that,\n Let me make you a present of the best fowl in the shop.  I let him, of\ncourse. As far as it goes, it s property and portable. You don t object\nto an aged parent, I hope? \n\nI really thought he was still speaking of the fowl, until he added,\n Because I have got an aged parent at my place.  I then said what\npoliteness required.\n\n So, you haven t dined with Mr. Jaggers yet?  he pursued, as we walked\nalong.\n\n Not yet. \n\n He told me so this afternoon when he heard you were coming. I expect\nyou ll have an invitation to-morrow. He s going to ask your pals, too.\nThree of  em; ain t there? \n\nAlthough I was not in the habit of counting Drummle as one of my\nintimate associates, I answered,  Yes. \n\n Well, he s going to ask the whole gang, I hardly felt complimented by\nthe word, and whatever he gives you, he ll give you good. Don t look\nforward to variety, but you ll have excellence. And there s another rum\nthing in his house,  proceeded Wemmick, after a moment s pause, as if\nthe remark followed on the housekeeper understood;  he never lets a\ndoor or window be fastened at night. \n\n Is he never robbed? \n\n That s it!  returned Wemmick.  He says, and gives it out publicly,  I\nwant to see the man who ll rob _me_.  Lord bless you, I have heard him,\na hundred times, if I have heard him once, say to regular cracksmen in\nour front office,  You know where I live; now, no bolt is ever drawn\nthere; why don t you do a stroke of business with me? Come; can t I\ntempt you?  Not a man of them, sir, would be bold enough to try it on,\nfor love or money. \n\n They dread him so much?  said I.\n\n Dread him,  said Wemmick.  I believe you they dread him. Not but what\nhe s artful, even in his defiance of them. No silver, sir. Britannia\nmetal, every spoon. \n\n So they wouldn t have much,  I observed,  even if they \n\n Ah! But _he_ would have much,  said Wemmick, cutting me short,  and\nthey know it. He d have their lives, and the lives of scores of  em.\nHe d have all he could get. And it s impossible to say what he couldn t\nget, if he gave his mind to it. \n\nI was falling into meditation on my guardian s greatness, when Wemmick\nremarked: \n\n As to the absence of plate, that s only his natural depth, you know. A\nriver s its natural depth, and he s his natural depth. Look at his\nwatch-chain. That s real enough. \n\n It s very massive,  said I.\n\n Massive?  repeated Wemmick.  I think so. And his watch is a gold\nrepeater, and worth a hundred pound if it s worth a penny. Mr. Pip,\nthere are about seven hundred thieves in this town who know all about\nthat watch; there s not a man, a woman, or a child, among them, who\nwouldn t identify the smallest link in that chain, and drop it as if it\nwas red hot, if inveigled into touching it. \n\nAt first with such discourse, and afterwards with conversation of a\nmore general nature, did Mr. Wemmick and I beguile the time and the\nroad, until he gave me to understand that we had arrived in the\ndistrict of Walworth.\n\nIt appeared to be a collection of back lanes, ditches, and little\ngardens, and to present the aspect of a rather dull retirement.\nWemmick s house was a little wooden cottage in the midst of plots of\ngarden, and the top of it was cut out and painted like a battery\nmounted with guns.\n\n My own doing,  said Wemmick.  Looks pretty; don t it? \n\nI highly commended it, I think it was the smallest house I ever saw;\nwith the queerest gothic windows (by far the greater part of them\nsham), and a gothic door almost too small to get in at.\n\n That s a real flagstaff, you see,  said Wemmick,  and on Sundays I run\nup a real flag. Then look here. After I have crossed this bridge, I\nhoist it up so and cut off the communication. \n\nThe bridge was a plank, and it crossed a chasm about four feet wide and\ntwo deep. But it was very pleasant to see the pride with which he\nhoisted it up and made it fast; smiling as he did so, with a relish and\nnot merely mechanically.\n\n At nine o clock every night, Greenwich time,  said Wemmick,  the gun\nfires. There he is, you see! And when you hear him go, I think you ll\nsay he s a Stinger. \n\nThe piece of ordnance referred to, was mounted in a separate fortress,\nconstructed of lattice-work. It was protected from the weather by an\ningenious little tarpaulin contrivance in the nature of an umbrella.\n\n Then, at the back,  said Wemmick,  out of sight, so as not to impede\nthe idea of fortifications, for it s a principle with me, if you have\nan idea, carry it out and keep it up, I don t know whether that s your\nopinion \n\nI said, decidedly.\n\n At the back, there s a pig, and there are fowls and rabbits; then, I\nknock together my own little frame, you see, and grow cucumbers; and\nyou ll judge at supper what sort of a salad I can raise. So, sir,  said\nWemmick, smiling again, but seriously too, as he shook his head,  if\nyou can suppose the little place besieged, it would hold out a devil of\na time in point of provisions. \n\nThen, he conducted me to a bower about a dozen yards off, but which was\napproached by such ingenious twists of path that it took quite a long\ntime to get at; and in this retreat our glasses were already set forth.\nOur punch was cooling in an ornamental lake, on whose margin the bower\nwas raised. This piece of water (with an island in the middle which\nmight have been the salad for supper) was of a circular form, and he\nhad constructed a fountain in it, which, when you set a little mill\ngoing and took a cork out of a pipe, played to that powerful extent\nthat it made the back of your hand quite wet.\n\n I am my own engineer, and my own carpenter, and my own plumber, and my\nown gardener, and my own Jack of all Trades,  said Wemmick, in\nacknowledging my compliments.  Well; it s a good thing, you know. It\nbrushes the Newgate cobwebs away, and pleases the Aged. You wouldn t\nmind being at once introduced to the Aged, would you? It wouldn t put\nyou out? \n\nI expressed the readiness I felt, and we went into the castle. There we\nfound, sitting by a fire, a very old man in a flannel coat: clean,\ncheerful, comfortable, and well cared for, but intensely deaf.\n\n Well aged parent,  said Wemmick, shaking hands with him in a cordial\nand jocose way,  how am you? \n\n All right, John; all right!  replied the old man.\n\n Here s Mr. Pip, aged parent,  said Wemmick,  and I wish you could hear\nhis name. Nod away at him, Mr. Pip; that s what he likes. Nod away at\nhim, if you please, like winking! \n\n This is a fine place of my son s, sir,  cried the old man, while I\nnodded as hard as I possibly could.  This is a pretty pleasure-ground,\nsir. This spot and these beautiful works upon it ought to be kept\ntogether by the Nation, after my son s time, for the people s\nenjoyment. \n\n You re as proud of it as Punch; ain t you, Aged?  said Wemmick,\ncontemplating the old man, with his hard face really softened;\n _there s_ a nod for you;  giving him a tremendous one;  _there s_\nanother for you;  giving him a still more tremendous one;  you like\nthat, don t you? If you re not tired, Mr. Pip though I know it s tiring\nto strangers will you tip him one more? You can t think how it pleases\nhim. \n\nI tipped him several more, and he was in great spirits. We left him\nbestirring himself to feed the fowls, and we sat down to our punch in\nthe arbour; where Wemmick told me, as he smoked a pipe, that it had\ntaken him a good many years to bring the property up to its present\npitch of perfection.\n\n Is it your own, Mr. Wemmick? \n\n O yes,  said Wemmick,  I have got hold of it, a bit at a time. It s a\nfreehold, by George! \n\n Is it indeed? I hope Mr. Jaggers admires it? \n\n Never seen it,  said Wemmick.  Never heard of it. Never seen the Aged.\nNever heard of him. No; the office is one thing, and private life is\nanother. When I go into the office, I leave the Castle behind me, and\nwhen I come into the Castle, I leave the office behind me. If it s not\nin any way disagreeable to you, you ll oblige me by doing the same. I\ndon t wish it professionally spoken about. \n\nOf course I felt my good faith involved in the observance of his\nrequest. The punch being very nice, we sat there drinking it and\ntalking, until it was almost nine o clock.  Getting near gun-fire, \nsaid Wemmick then, as he laid down his pipe;  it s the Aged s treat. \n\nProceeding into the Castle again, we found the Aged heating the poker,\nwith expectant eyes, as a preliminary to the performance of this great\nnightly ceremony. Wemmick stood with his watch in his hand until the\nmoment was come for him to take the red-hot poker from the Aged, and\nrepair to the battery. He took it, and went out, and presently the\nStinger went off with a Bang that shook the crazy little box of a\ncottage as if it must fall to pieces, and made every glass and teacup\nin it ring. Upon this, the Aged who I believe would have been blown out\nof his arm-chair but for holding on by the elbows cried out exultingly,\n He s fired! I heerd him!  and I nodded at the old gentleman until it\nis no figure of speech to declare that I absolutely could not see him.\n\nThe interval between that time and supper Wemmick devoted to showing me\nhis collection of curiosities. They were mostly of a felonious\ncharacter; comprising the pen with which a celebrated forgery had been\ncommitted, a distinguished razor or two, some locks of hair, and\nseveral manuscript confessions written under condemnation, upon which\nMr. Wemmick set particular value as being, to use his own words,  every\none of  em Lies, sir.  These were agreeably dispersed among small\nspecimens of china and glass, various neat trifles made by the\nproprietor of the museum, and some tobacco-stoppers carved by the Aged.\nThey were all displayed in that chamber of the Castle into which I had\nbeen first inducted, and which served, not only as the general\nsitting-room but as the kitchen too, if I might judge from a saucepan\non the hob, and a brazen bijou over the fireplace designed for the\nsuspension of a roasting-jack.\n\nThere was a neat little girl in attendance, who looked after the Aged\nin the day. When she had laid the supper-cloth, the bridge was lowered\nto give her means of egress, and she withdrew for the night. The supper\nwas excellent; and though the Castle was rather subject to dry-rot\ninsomuch that it tasted like a bad nut, and though the pig might have\nbeen farther off, I was heartily pleased with my whole entertainment.\nNor was there any drawback on my little turret bedroom, beyond there\nbeing such a very thin ceiling between me and the flagstaff, that when\nI lay down on my back in bed, it seemed as if I had to balance that\npole on my forehead all night.\n\nWemmick was up early in the morning, and I am afraid I heard him\ncleaning my boots. After that, he fell to gardening, and I saw him from\nmy gothic window pretending to employ the Aged, and nodding at him in a\nmost devoted manner. Our breakfast was as good as the supper, and at\nhalf-past eight precisely we started for Little Britain. By degrees,\nWemmick got dryer and harder as we went along, and his mouth tightened\ninto a post-office again. At last, when we got to his place of business\nand he pulled out his key from his coat-collar, he looked as\nunconscious of his Walworth property as if the Castle and the\ndrawbridge and the arbour and the lake and the fountain and the Aged,\nhad all been blown into space together by the last discharge of the\nStinger.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVI.\n\n\nIt fell out as Wemmick had told me it would, that I had an early\nopportunity of comparing my guardian s establishment with that of his\ncashier and clerk. My guardian was in his room, washing his hands with\nhis scented soap, when I went into the office from Walworth; and he\ncalled me to him, and gave me the invitation for myself and friends\nwhich Wemmick had prepared me to receive.  No ceremony,  he stipulated,\n and no dinner dress, and say to-morrow.  I asked him where we should\ncome to (for I had no idea where he lived), and I believe it was in his\ngeneral objection to make anything like an admission, that he replied,\n Come here, and I ll take you home with me.  I embrace this opportunity\nof remarking that he washed his clients off, as if he were a surgeon or\na dentist. He had a closet in his room, fitted up for the purpose,\nwhich smelt of the scented soap like a perfumer s shop. It had an\nunusually large jack-towel on a roller inside the door, and he would\nwash his hands, and wipe them and dry them all over this towel,\nwhenever he came in from a police court or dismissed a client from his\nroom. When I and my friends repaired to him at six o clock next day, he\nseemed to have been engaged on a case of a darker complexion than\nusual, for we found him with his head butted into this closet, not only\nwashing his hands, but laving his face and gargling his throat. And\neven when he had done all that, and had gone all round the jack-towel,\nhe took out his penknife and scraped the case out of his nails before\nhe put his coat on.\n\nThere were some people slinking about as usual when we passed out into\nthe street, who were evidently anxious to speak with him; but there was\nsomething so conclusive in the halo of scented soap which encircled his\npresence, that they gave it up for that day. As we walked along\nwestward, he was recognised ever and again by some face in the crowd of\nthe streets, and whenever that happened he talked louder to me; but he\nnever otherwise recognised anybody, or took notice that anybody\nrecognised him.\n\nHe conducted us to Gerrard Street, Soho, to a house on the south side\nof that street. Rather a stately house of its kind, but dolefully in\nwant of painting, and with dirty windows. He took out his key and\nopened the door, and we all went into a stone hall, bare, gloomy, and\nlittle used. So, up a dark brown staircase into a series of three dark\nbrown rooms on the first floor. There were carved garlands on the\npanelled walls, and as he stood among them giving us welcome, I know\nwhat kind of loops I thought they looked like.\n\nDinner was laid in the best of these rooms; the second was his\ndressing-room; the third, his bedroom. He told us that he held the\nwhole house, but rarely used more of it than we saw. The table was\ncomfortably laid no silver in the service, of course and at the side of\nhis chair was a capacious dumb-waiter, with a variety of bottles and\ndecanters on it, and four dishes of fruit for dessert. I noticed\nthroughout, that he kept everything under his own hand, and distributed\neverything himself.\n\nThere was a bookcase in the room; I saw from the backs of the books,\nthat they were about evidence, criminal law, criminal biography,\ntrials, acts of Parliament, and such things. The furniture was all very\nsolid and good, like his watch-chain. It had an official look, however,\nand there was nothing merely ornamental to be seen. In a corner was a\nlittle table of papers with a shaded lamp: so that he seemed to bring\nthe office home with him in that respect too, and to wheel it out of an\nevening and fall to work.\n\nAs he had scarcely seen my three companions until now, for he and I had\nwalked together, he stood on the hearth-rug, after ringing the bell,\nand took a searching look at them. To my surprise, he seemed at once to\nbe principally if not solely interested in Drummle.\n\n Pip,  said he, putting his large hand on my shoulder and moving me to\nthe window,  I don t know one from the other. Who s the Spider? \n\n The spider?  said I.\n\n The blotchy, sprawly, sulky fellow. \n\n That s Bentley Drummle,  I replied;  the one with the delicate face is\nStartop. \n\nNot making the least account of  the one with the delicate face,  he\nreturned,  Bentley Drummle is his name, is it? I like the look of that\nfellow. \n\nHe immediately began to talk to Drummle: not at all deterred by his\nreplying in his heavy reticent way, but apparently led on by it to\nscrew discourse out of him. I was looking at the two, when there came\nbetween me and them the housekeeper, with the first dish for the table.\n\nShe was a woman of about forty, I supposed, but I may have thought her\nyounger than she was. Rather tall, of a lithe nimble figure, extremely\npale, with large faded eyes, and a quantity of streaming hair. I cannot\nsay whether any diseased affection of the heart caused her lips to be\nparted as if she were panting, and her face to bear a curious\nexpression of suddenness and flutter; but I know that I had been to see\nMacbeth at the theatre, a night or two before, and that her face looked\nto me as if it were all disturbed by fiery air, like the faces I had\nseen rise out of the Witches  caldron.\n\nShe set the dish on, touched my guardian quietly on the arm with a\nfinger to notify that dinner was ready, and vanished. We took our seats\nat the round table, and my guardian kept Drummle on one side of him,\nwhile Startop sat on the other. It was a noble dish of fish that the\nhousekeeper had put on table, and we had a joint of equally choice\nmutton afterwards, and then an equally choice bird. Sauces, wines, all\nthe accessories we wanted, and all of the best, were given out by our\nhost from his dumb-waiter; and when they had made the circuit of the\ntable, he always put them back again. Similarly, he dealt us clean\nplates and knives and forks, for each course, and dropped those just\ndisused into two baskets on the ground by his chair. No other attendant\nthan the housekeeper appeared. She set on every dish; and I always saw\nin her face, a face rising out of the caldron. Years afterwards, I made\na dreadful likeness of that woman, by causing a face that had no other\nnatural resemblance to it than it derived from flowing hair to pass\nbehind a bowl of flaming spirits in a dark room.\n\nInduced to take particular notice of the housekeeper, both by her own\nstriking appearance and by Wemmick s preparation, I observed that\nwhenever she was in the room she kept her eyes attentively on my\nguardian, and that she would remove her hands from any dish she put\nbefore him, hesitatingly, as if she dreaded his calling her back, and\nwanted him to speak when she was nigh, if he had anything to say. I\nfancied that I could detect in his manner a consciousness of this, and\na purpose of always holding her in suspense.\n\nDinner went off gayly, and although my guardian seemed to follow rather\nthan originate subjects, I knew that he wrenched the weakest part of\nour dispositions out of us. For myself, I found that I was expressing\nmy tendency to lavish expenditure, and to patronise Herbert, and to\nboast of my great prospects, before I quite knew that I had opened my\nlips. It was so with all of us, but with no one more than Drummle: the\ndevelopment of whose inclination to gird in a grudging and suspicious\nway at the rest, was screwed out of him before the fish was taken off.\n\nIt was not then, but when we had got to the cheese, that our\nconversation turned upon our rowing feats, and that Drummle was rallied\nfor coming up behind of a night in that slow amphibious way of his.\nDrummle upon this, informed our host that he much preferred our room to\nour company, and that as to skill he was more than our master, and that\nas to strength he could scatter us like chaff. By some invisible\nagency, my guardian wound him up to a pitch little short of ferocity\nabout this trifle; and he fell to baring and spanning his arm to show\nhow muscular it was, and we all fell to baring and spanning our arms in\na ridiculous manner.\n\nNow the housekeeper was at that time clearing the table; my guardian,\ntaking no heed of her, but with the side of his face turned from her,\nwas leaning back in his chair biting the side of his forefinger and\nshowing an interest in Drummle, that, to me, was quite inexplicable.\nSuddenly, he clapped his large hand on the housekeeper s, like a trap,\nas she stretched it across the table. So suddenly and smartly did he do\nthis, that we all stopped in our foolish contention.\n\n If you talk of strength,  said Mr. Jaggers,  _I_ ll show you a wrist.\nMolly, let them see your wrist. \n\nHer entrapped hand was on the table, but she had already put her other\nhand behind her waist.  Master,  she said, in a low voice, with her\neyes attentively and entreatingly fixed upon him.  Don t. \n\n _I_ ll show you a wrist,  repeated Mr. Jaggers, with an immovable\ndetermination to show it.  Molly, let them see your wrist. \n\n Master,  she again murmured.  Please! \n\n Molly,  said Mr. Jaggers, not looking at her, but obstinately looking\nat the opposite side of the room,  let them see _both_ your wrists.\nShow them. Come! \n\nHe took his hand from hers, and turned that wrist up on the table. She\nbrought her other hand from behind her, and held the two out side by\nside. The last wrist was much disfigured, deeply scarred and scarred\nacross and across. When she held her hands out she took her eyes from\nMr. Jaggers, and turned them watchfully on every one of the rest of us\nin succession.\n\n There s power here,  said Mr. Jaggers, coolly tracing out the sinews\nwith his forefinger.  Very few men have the power of wrist that this\nwoman has. It s remarkable what mere force of grip there is in these\nhands. I have had occasion to notice many hands; but I never saw\nstronger in that respect, man s or woman s, than these. \n\nWhile he said these words in a leisurely, critical style, she continued\nto look at every one of us in regular succession as we sat. The moment\nhe ceased, she looked at him again.  That ll do, Molly,  said Mr.\nJaggers, giving her a slight nod;  you have been admired, and can go. \nShe withdrew her hands and went out of the room, and Mr. Jaggers,\nputting the decanters on from his dumb-waiter, filled his glass and\npassed round the wine.\n\n At half-past nine, gentlemen,  said he,  we must break up. Pray make\nthe best use of your time. I am glad to see you all. Mr. Drummle, I\ndrink to you. \n\nIf his object in singling out Drummle were to bring him out still more,\nit perfectly succeeded. In a sulky triumph, Drummle showed his morose\ndepreciation of the rest of us, in a more and more offensive degree,\nuntil he became downright intolerable. Through all his stages, Mr.\nJaggers followed him with the same strange interest. He actually seemed\nto serve as a zest to Mr. Jaggers s wine.\n\nIn our boyish want of discretion I dare say we took too much to drink,\nand I know we talked too much. We became particularly hot upon some\nboorish sneer of Drummle s, to the effect that we were too free with\nour money. It led to my remarking, with more zeal than discretion, that\nit came with a bad grace from him, to whom Startop had lent money in my\npresence but a week or so before.\n\n Well,  retorted Drummle;  he ll be paid. \n\n I don t mean to imply that he won t,  said I,  but it might make you\nhold your tongue about us and our money, I should think. \n\n _You_ should think!  retorted Drummle.  Oh Lord! \n\n I dare say,  I went on, meaning to be very severe,  that you wouldn t\nlend money to any of us if we wanted it. \n\n You are right,  said Drummle.  I wouldn t lend one of you a sixpence.\nI wouldn t lend anybody a sixpence. \n\n Rather mean to borrow under those circumstances, I should say. \n\n _You_ should say,  repeated Drummle.  Oh Lord! \n\nThis was so very aggravating the more especially as I found myself\nmaking no way against his surly obtuseness that I said, disregarding\nHerbert s efforts to check me, \n\n Come, Mr. Drummle, since we are on the subject, I ll tell you what\npassed between Herbert here and me, when you borrowed that money. \n\n _I_ don t want to know what passed between Herbert there and you, \ngrowled Drummle. And I think he added in a lower growl, that we might\nboth go to the devil and shake ourselves.\n\n I ll tell you, however,  said I,  whether you want to know or not. We\nsaid that as you put it in your pocket very glad to get it, you seemed\nto be immensely amused at his being so weak as to lend it. \n\nDrummle laughed outright, and sat laughing in our faces, with his hands\nin his pockets and his round shoulders raised; plainly signifying that\nit was quite true, and that he despised us as asses all.\n\nHereupon Startop took him in hand, though with a much better grace than\nI had shown, and exhorted him to be a little more agreeable. Startop,\nbeing a lively, bright young fellow, and Drummle being the exact\nopposite, the latter was always disposed to resent him as a direct\npersonal affront. He now retorted in a coarse, lumpish way, and Startop\ntried to turn the discussion aside with some small pleasantry that made\nus all laugh. Resenting this little success more than anything,\nDrummle, without any threat or warning, pulled his hands out of his\npockets, dropped his round shoulders, swore, took up a large glass, and\nwould have flung it at his adversary s head, but for our entertainer s\ndexterously seizing it at the instant when it was raised for that\npurpose.\n\n Gentlemen,  said Mr. Jaggers, deliberately putting down the glass, and\nhauling out his gold repeater by its massive chain,  I am exceedingly\nsorry to announce that it s half past nine. \n\nOn this hint we all rose to depart. Before we got to the street door,\nStartop was cheerily calling Drummle  old boy,  as if nothing had\nhappened. But the old boy was so far from responding, that he would not\neven walk to Hammersmith on the same side of the way; so Herbert and I,\nwho remained in town, saw them going down the street on opposite sides;\nStartop leading, and Drummle lagging behind in the shadow of the\nhouses, much as he was wont to follow in his boat.\n\nAs the door was not yet shut, I thought I would leave Herbert there for\na moment, and run upstairs again to say a word to my guardian. I found\nhim in his dressing-room surrounded by his stock of boots, already hard\nat it, washing his hands of us.\n\nI told him I had come up again to say how sorry I was that anything\ndisagreeable should have occurred, and that I hoped he would not blame\nme much.\n\n Pooh!  said he, sluicing his face, and speaking through the\nwater-drops;  it s nothing, Pip. I like that Spider though. \n\nHe had turned towards me now, and was shaking his head, and blowing,\nand towelling himself.\n\n I am glad you like him, sir,  said I but I don t. \n\n No, no,  my guardian assented;  don t have too much to do with him.\nKeep as clear of him as you can. But I like the fellow, Pip; he is one\nof the true sort. Why, if I was a fortune-teller \n\nLooking out of the towel, he caught my eye.\n\n But I am not a fortune-teller,  he said, letting his head drop into a\nfestoon of towel, and towelling away at his two ears.  You know what I\nam, don t you? Good night, Pip. \n\n Good night, sir. \n\nIn about a month after that, the Spider s time with Mr. Pocket was up\nfor good, and, to the great relief of all the house but Mrs. Pocket, he\nwent home to the family hole.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVII.\n\n\n MY DEAR MR PIP: \n\n I write this by request of Mr. Gargery, for to let you know that he is\ngoing to London in company with Mr. Wopsle and would be glad if\nagreeable to be allowed to see you. He would call at Barnard s Hotel\nTuesday morning at nine o clock, when if not agreeable please leave\nword. Your poor sister is much the same as when you left. We talk of\nyou in the kitchen every night, and wonder what you are saying and\ndoing. If now considered in the light of a liberty, excuse it for the\nlove of poor old days. No more, dear Mr. Pip, from\n\n Your ever obliged, and affectionate servant,\n BIDDY. \n\n\n P.S. He wishes me most particular to write _what larks_. He says you\nwill understand. I hope and do not doubt it will be agreeable to see\nhim, even though a gentleman, for you had ever a good heart, and he is\na worthy, worthy man. I have read him all, excepting only the last\nlittle sentence, and he wishes me most particular to write again _what\nlarks_. \n\nI received this letter by the post on Monday morning, and therefore its\nappointment was for next day. Let me confess exactly with what feelings\nI looked forward to Joe s coming.\n\nNot with pleasure, though I was bound to him by so many ties; no; with\nconsiderable disturbance, some mortification, and a keen sense of\nincongruity. If I could have kept him away by paying money, I certainly\nwould have paid money. My greatest reassurance was that he was coming\nto Barnard s Inn, not to Hammersmith, and consequently would not fall\nin Bentley Drummle s way. I had little objection to his being seen by\nHerbert or his father, for both of whom I had a respect; but I had the\nsharpest sensitiveness as to his being seen by Drummle, whom I held in\ncontempt. So, throughout life, our worst weaknesses and meannesses are\nusually committed for the sake of the people whom we most despise.\n\nI had begun to be always decorating the chambers in some quite\nunnecessary and inappropriate way or other, and very expensive those\nwrestles with Barnard proved to be. By this time, the rooms were vastly\ndifferent from what I had found them, and I enjoyed the honour of\noccupying a few prominent pages in the books of a neighbouring\nupholsterer. I had got on so fast of late, that I had even started a\nboy in boots, top boots, in bondage and slavery to whom I might have\nbeen said to pass my days. For, after I had made the monster (out of\nthe refuse of my washerwoman s family), and had clothed him with a blue\ncoat, canary waistcoat, white cravat, creamy breeches, and the boots\nalready mentioned, I had to find him a little to do and a great deal to\neat; and with both of those horrible requirements he haunted my\nexistence.\n\nThis avenging phantom was ordered to be on duty at eight on Tuesday\nmorning in the hall, (it was two feet square, as charged for\nfloorcloth,) and Herbert suggested certain things for breakfast that he\nthought Joe would like. While I felt sincerely obliged to him for being\nso interested and considerate, I had an odd half-provoked sense of\nsuspicion upon me, that if Joe had been coming to see _him_, he\nwouldn t have been quite so brisk about it.\n\nHowever, I came into town on the Monday night to be ready for Joe, and\nI got up early in the morning, and caused the sitting-room and\nbreakfast-table to assume their most splendid appearance. Unfortunately\nthe morning was drizzly, and an angel could not have concealed the fact\nthat Barnard was shedding sooty tears outside the window, like some\nweak giant of a Sweep.\n\nAs the time approached I should have liked to run away, but the Avenger\npursuant to orders was in the hall, and presently I heard Joe on the\nstaircase. I knew it was Joe, by his clumsy manner of coming\nupstairs, his state boots being always too big for him, and by the time\nit took him to read the names on the other floors in the course of his\nascent. When at last he stopped outside our door, I could hear his\nfinger tracing over the painted letters of my name, and I afterwards\ndistinctly heard him breathing in at the keyhole. Finally he gave a\nfaint single rap, and Pepper such was the compromising name of the\navenging boy announced  Mr. Gargery!  I thought he never would have\ndone wiping his feet, and that I must have gone out to lift him off the\nmat, but at last he came in.\n\n Joe, how are you, Joe? \n\n Pip, how AIR you, Pip? \n\nWith his good honest face all glowing and shining, and his hat put down\non the floor between us, he caught both my hands and worked them\nstraight up and down, as if I had been the last-patented Pump.\n\n I am glad to see you, Joe. Give me your hat. \n\nBut Joe, taking it up carefully with both hands, like a bird s-nest\nwith eggs in it, wouldn t hear of parting with that piece of property,\nand persisted in standing talking over it in a most uncomfortable way.\n\n Which you have that growed,  said Joe,  and that swelled, and that\ngentle-folked;  Joe considered a little before he discovered this word;\n as to be sure you are a honour to your king and country. \n\n And you, Joe, look wonderfully well. \n\n Thank God,  said Joe,  I m ekerval to most. And your sister, she s no\nworse than she were. And Biddy, she s ever right and ready. And all\nfriends is no backerder, if not no forarder.  Ceptin Wopsle; he s had a\ndrop. \n\nAll this time (still with both hands taking great care of the\nbird s-nest), Joe was rolling his eyes round and round the room, and\nround and round the flowered pattern of my dressing-gown.\n\n Had a drop, Joe? \n\n Why yes,  said Joe, lowering his voice,  he s left the Church and went\ninto the playacting. Which the playacting have likeways brought him to\nLondon along with me. And his wish were,  said Joe, getting the\nbird s-nest under his left arm for the moment, and groping in it for an\negg with his right;  if no offence, as I would  and you that. \n\nI took what Joe gave me, and found it to be the crumpled play-bill of a\nsmall metropolitan theatre, announcing the first appearance, in that\nvery week, of  the celebrated Provincial Amateur of Roscian renown,\nwhose unique performance in the highest tragic walk of our National\nBard has lately occasioned so great a sensation in local dramatic\ncircles. \n\n Were you at his performance, Joe?  I inquired.\n\n I _were_,  said Joe, with emphasis and solemnity.\n\n Was there a great sensation? \n\n Why,  said Joe,  yes, there certainly were a peck of orange-peel.\nPartickler when he see the ghost. Though I put it to yourself, sir,\nwhether it were calc lated to keep a man up to his work with a good\nhart, to be continiwally cutting in betwixt him and the Ghost with\n Amen!  A man may have had a misfortun  and been in the Church,  said\nJoe, lowering his voice to an argumentative and feeling tone,  but that\nis no reason why you should put him out at such a time. Which I\nmeantersay, if the ghost of a man s own father cannot be allowed to\nclaim his attention, what can, Sir? Still more, when his mourning  at\nis unfortunately made so small as that the weight of the black feathers\nbrings it off, try to keep it on how you may. \n\nA ghost-seeing effect in Joe s own countenance informed me that Herbert\nhad entered the room. So, I presented Joe to Herbert, who held out his\nhand; but Joe backed from it, and held on by the bird s-nest.\n\n Your servant, Sir,  said Joe,  which I hope as you and Pip here his\neye fell on the Avenger, who was putting some toast on table, and so\nplainly denoted an intention to make that young gentleman one of the\nfamily, that I frowned it down and confused him more I meantersay, you\ntwo gentlemen, which I hope as you get your elths in this close spot?\nFor the present may be a werry good inn, according to London opinions, \nsaid Joe, confidentially,  and I believe its character do stand it; but\nI wouldn t keep a pig in it myself, not in the case that I wished him\nto fatten wholesome and to eat with a meller flavour on him. \n\nHaving borne this flattering testimony to the merits of our\ndwelling-place, and having incidentally shown this tendency to call me\n sir,  Joe, being invited to sit down to table, looked all round the\nroom for a suitable spot on which to deposit his hat, as if it were\nonly on some very few rare substances in nature that it could find a\nresting place, and ultimately stood it on an extreme corner of the\nchimney-piece, from which it ever afterwards fell off at intervals.\n\n Do you take tea, or coffee, Mr. Gargery?  asked Herbert, who always\npresided of a morning.\n\n Thankee, Sir,  said Joe, stiff from head to foot,  I ll take whichever\nis most agreeable to yourself. \n\n What do you say to coffee? \n\n Thankee, Sir,  returned Joe, evidently dispirited by the proposal,\n since you _are_ so kind as make chice of coffee, I will not run\ncontrairy to your own opinions. But don t you never find it a little\n eating? \n\n Say tea then,  said Herbert, pouring it out.\n\nHere Joe s hat tumbled off the mantel-piece, and he started out of his\nchair and picked it up, and fitted it to the same exact spot. As if it\nwere an absolute point of good breeding that it should tumble off again\nsoon.\n\n When did you come to town, Mr. Gargery? \n\n Were it yesterday afternoon?  said Joe, after coughing behind his\nhand, as if he had had time to catch the whooping-cough since he came.\n No it were not. Yes it were. Yes. It were yesterday afternoon  (with\nan appearance of mingled wisdom, relief, and strict impartiality).\n\n Have you seen anything of London yet? \n\n Why, yes, Sir,  said Joe,  me and Wopsle went off straight to look at\nthe Blacking Ware us. But we didn t find that it come up to its\nlikeness in the red bills at the shop doors; which I meantersay,  added\nJoe, in an explanatory manner,  as it is there drawd too\narchitectooralooral. \n\nI really believe Joe would have prolonged this word (mightily\nexpressive to my mind of some architecture that I know) into a perfect\nChorus, but for his attention being providentially attracted by his\nhat, which was toppling. Indeed, it demanded from him a constant\nattention, and a quickness of eye and hand, very like that exacted by\nwicket-keeping. He made extraordinary play with it, and showed the\ngreatest skill; now, rushing at it and catching it neatly as it\ndropped; now, merely stopping it midway, beating it up, and humouring\nit in various parts of the room and against a good deal of the pattern\nof the paper on the wall, before he felt it safe to close with it;\nfinally splashing it into the slop-basin, where I took the liberty of\nlaying hands upon it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAs to his shirt-collar, and his coat-collar, they were perplexing to\nreflect upon, insoluble mysteries both. Why should a man scrape himself\nto that extent, before he could consider himself full dressed? Why\nshould he suppose it necessary to be purified by suffering for his\nholiday clothes? Then he fell into such unaccountable fits of\nmeditation, with his fork midway between his plate and his mouth; had\nhis eyes attracted in such strange directions; was afflicted with such\nremarkable coughs; sat so far from the table, and dropped so much more\nthan he ate, and pretended that he hadn t dropped it; that I was\nheartily glad when Herbert left us for the City.\n\nI had neither the good sense nor the good feeling to know that this was\nall my fault, and that if I had been easier with Joe, Joe would have\nbeen easier with me. I felt impatient of him and out of temper with\nhim; in which condition he heaped coals of fire on my head.\n\n Us two being now alone, sir, began Joe.\n\n Joe,  I interrupted, pettishly,  how can you call me, sir? \n\nJoe looked at me for a single instant with something faintly like\nreproach. Utterly preposterous as his cravat was, and as his collars\nwere, I was conscious of a sort of dignity in the look.\n\n Us two being now alone,  resumed Joe,  and me having the intentions\nand abilities to stay not many minutes more, I will now\nconclude leastways begin to mention what have led to my having had the\npresent honour. For was it not,  said Joe, with his old air of lucid\nexposition,  that my only wish were to be useful to you, I should not\nhave had the honour of breaking wittles in the company and abode of\ngentlemen. \n\nI was so unwilling to see the look again, that I made no remonstrance\nagainst this tone.\n\n Well, sir,  pursued Joe,  this is how it were. I were at the Bargemen\nt other night, Pip; whenever he subsided into affection, he called me\nPip, and whenever he relapsed into politeness he called me sir;  when\nthere come up in his shay-cart, Pumblechook. Which that same\nidentical,  said Joe, going down a new track,  do comb my  air the\nwrong way sometimes, awful, by giving out up and down town as it were\nhim which ever had your infant companionation and were looked upon as a\nplayfellow by yourself. \n\n Nonsense. It was you, Joe. \n\n Which I fully believed it were, Pip,  said Joe, slightly tossing his\nhead,  though it signify little now, sir. Well, Pip; this same\nidentical, which his manners is given to blusterous, come to me at the\nBargemen (wot a pipe and a pint of beer do give refreshment to the\nworkingman, sir, and do not over stimilate), and his word were,\n Joseph, Miss Havisham she wish to speak to you. \n\n Miss Havisham, Joe? \n\n She wish,  were Pumblechook s word,  to speak to you.  Joe sat and\nrolled his eyes at the ceiling.\n\n Yes, Joe? Go on, please. \n\n Next day, sir,  said Joe, looking at me as if I were a long way off,\n having cleaned myself, I go and I see Miss A. \n\n Miss A., Joe? Miss Havisham? \n\n Which I say, sir,  replied Joe, with an air of legal formality, as if\nhe were making his will,  Miss A., or otherways Havisham. Her\nexpression air then as follering:  Mr. Gargery. You air in\ncorrespondence with Mr. Pip?  Having had a letter from you, I were able\nto say  I am.  (When I married your sister, sir, I said  I will;  and\nwhen I answered your friend, Pip, I said  I am. )  Would you tell him,\nthen,  said she,  that which Estella has come home and would be glad to\nsee him. \n\nI felt my face fire up as I looked at Joe. I hope one remote cause of\nits firing may have been my consciousness that if I had known his\nerrand, I should have given him more encouragement.\n\n Biddy,  pursued Joe,  when I got home and asked her fur to write the\nmessage to you, a little hung back. Biddy says,  I know he will be very\nglad to have it by word of mouth, it is holiday time, you want to see\nhim, go!  I have now concluded, sir,  said Joe, rising from his chair,\n and, Pip, I wish you ever well and ever prospering to a greater and a\ngreater height. \n\n But you are not going now, Joe? \n\n Yes I am,  said Joe.\n\n But you are coming back to dinner, Joe? \n\n No I am not,  said Joe.\n\nOur eyes met, and all the  Sir  melted out of that manly heart as he\ngave me his hand.\n\n Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded\ntogether, as I may say, and one man s a blacksmith, and one s a\nwhitesmith, and one s a goldsmith, and one s a coppersmith. Diwisions\namong such must come, and must be met as they come. If there s been any\nfault at all to-day, it s mine. You and me is not two figures to be\ntogether in London; nor yet anywheres else but what is private, and\nbeknown, and understood among friends. It ain t that I am proud, but\nthat I want to be right, as you shall never see me no more in these\nclothes. I m wrong in these clothes. I m wrong out of the forge, the\nkitchen, or off th  meshes. You won t find half so much fault in me if\nyou think of me in my forge dress, with my hammer in my hand, or even\nmy pipe. You won t find half so much fault in me if, supposing as you\nshould ever wish to see me, you come and put your head in at the forge\nwindow and see Joe the blacksmith, there, at the old anvil, in the old\nburnt apron, sticking to the old work. I m awful dull, but I hope I ve\nbeat out something nigh the rights of this at last. And so GOD bless\nyou, dear old Pip, old chap, GOD bless you! \n\nI had not been mistaken in my fancy that there was a simple dignity in\nhim. The fashion of his dress could no more come in its way when he\nspoke these words than it could come in its way in Heaven. He touched\nme gently on the forehead, and went out. As soon as I could recover\nmyself sufficiently, I hurried out after him and looked for him in the\nneighbouring streets; but he was gone.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVIII.\n\n\nIt was clear that I must repair to our town next day, and in the first\nflow of my repentance, it was equally clear that I must stay at Joe s.\nBut, when I had secured my box-place by to-morrow s coach, and had been\ndown to Mr. Pocket s and back, I was not by any means convinced on the\nlast point, and began to invent reasons and make excuses for putting up\nat the Blue Boar. I should be an inconvenience at Joe s; I was not\nexpected, and my bed would not be ready; I should be too far from Miss\nHavisham s, and she was exacting and mightn t like it. All other\nswindlers upon earth are nothing to the self-swindlers, and with such\npretences did I cheat myself. Surely a curious thing. That I should\ninnocently take a bad half-crown of somebody else s manufacture is\nreasonable enough; but that I should knowingly reckon the spurious coin\nof my own make as good money! An obliging stranger, under pretence of\ncompactly folding up my bank-notes for security s sake, abstracts the\nnotes and gives me nutshells; but what is his sleight of hand to mine,\nwhen I fold up my own nutshells and pass them on myself as notes!\n\nHaving settled that I must go to the Blue Boar, my mind was much\ndisturbed by indecision whether or not to take the Avenger. It was\ntempting to think of that expensive Mercenary publicly airing his boots\nin the archway of the Blue Boar s posting-yard; it was almost solemn to\nimagine him casually produced in the tailor s shop, and confounding the\ndisrespectful senses of Trabb s boy. On the other hand, Trabb s boy\nmight worm himself into his intimacy and tell him things; or, reckless\nand desperate wretch as I knew he could be, might hoot him in the High\nStreet. My patroness, too, might hear of him, and not approve. On the\nwhole, I resolved to leave the Avenger behind.\n\nIt was the afternoon coach by which I had taken my place, and, as\nwinter had now come round, I should not arrive at my destination until\ntwo or three hours after dark. Our time of starting from the Cross Keys\nwas two o clock. I arrived on the ground with a quarter of an hour to\nspare, attended by the Avenger, if I may connect that expression with\none who never attended on me if he could possibly help it.\n\nAt that time it was customary to carry Convicts down to the dock-yards\nby stage-coach. As I had often heard of them in the capacity of outside\npassengers, and had more than once seen them on the high road dangling\ntheir ironed legs over the coach roof, I had no cause to be surprised\nwhen Herbert, meeting me in the yard, came up and told me there were\ntwo convicts going down with me. But I had a reason that was an old\nreason now for constitutionally faltering whenever I heard the word\n convict. \n\n You don t mind them, Handel?  said Herbert.\n\n O no! \n\n I thought you seemed as if you didn t like them? \n\n I can t pretend that I do like them, and I suppose you don t\nparticularly. But I don t mind them. \n\n See! There they are,  said Herbert,  coming out of the Tap. What a\ndegraded and vile sight it is! \n\nThey had been treating their guard, I suppose, for they had a gaoler\nwith them, and all three came out wiping their mouths on their hands.\nThe two convicts were handcuffed together, and had irons on their\nlegs, irons of a pattern that I knew well. They wore the dress that I\nlikewise knew well. Their keeper had a brace of pistols, and carried a\nthick-knobbed bludgeon under his arm; but he was on terms of good\nunderstanding with them, and stood with them beside him, looking on at\nthe putting-to of the horses, rather with an air as if the convicts\nwere an interesting Exhibition not formally open at the moment, and he\nthe Curator. One was a taller and stouter man than the other, and\nappeared as a matter of course, according to the mysterious ways of the\nworld, both convict and free, to have had allotted to him the smaller\nsuit of clothes. His arms and legs were like great pincushions of those\nshapes, and his attire disguised him absurdly; but I knew his\nhalf-closed eye at one glance. There stood the man whom I had seen on\nthe settle at the Three Jolly Bargemen on a Saturday night, and who had\nbrought me down with his invisible gun!\n\nIt was easy to make sure that as yet he knew me no more than if he had\nnever seen me in his life. He looked across at me, and his eye\nappraised my watch-chain, and then he incidentally spat and said\nsomething to the other convict, and they laughed and slued themselves\nround with a clink of their coupling manacle, and looked at something\nelse. The great numbers on their backs, as if they were street doors;\ntheir coarse mangy ungainly outer surface, as if they were lower\nanimals; their ironed legs, apologetically garlanded with\npocket-handkerchiefs; and the way in which all present looked at them\nand kept from them; made them (as Herbert had said) a most disagreeable\nand degraded spectacle.\n\nBut this was not the worst of it. It came out that the whole of the\nback of the coach had been taken by a family removing from London, and\nthat there were no places for the two prisoners but on the seat in\nfront behind the coachman. Hereupon, a choleric gentleman, who had\ntaken the fourth place on that seat, flew into a most violent passion,\nand said that it was a breach of contract to mix him up with such\nvillainous company, and that it was poisonous, and pernicious, and\ninfamous, and shameful, and I don t know what else. At this time the\ncoach was ready and the coachman impatient, and we were all preparing\nto get up, and the prisoners had come over with their keeper, bringing\nwith them that curious flavour of bread-poultice, baize, rope-yarn, and\nhearthstone, which attends the convict presence.\n\n Don t take it so much amiss, sir,  pleaded the keeper to the angry\npassenger;  I ll sit next you myself. I ll put  em on the outside of\nthe row. They won t interfere with you, sir. You needn t know they re\nthere. \n\n And don t blame _me_,  growled the convict I had recognised.  _I_\ndon t want to go. _I_ am quite ready to stay behind. As fur as I am\nconcerned any one s welcome to _my_ place. \n\n Or mine,  said the other, gruffly.  _I_ wouldn t have incommoded none\nof you, if I d had _my_ way.  Then they both laughed, and began\ncracking nuts, and spitting the shells about. As I really think I\nshould have liked to do myself, if I had been in their place and so\ndespised.\n\nAt length, it was voted that there was no help for the angry gentleman,\nand that he must either go in his chance company or remain behind. So\nhe got into his place, still making complaints, and the keeper got into\nthe place next him, and the convicts hauled themselves up as well as\nthey could, and the convict I had recognised sat behind me with his\nbreath on the hair of my head.\n\n Good-bye, Handel!  Herbert called out as we started. I thought what a\nblessed fortune it was, that he had found another name for me than Pip.\n\nIt is impossible to express with what acuteness I felt the convict s\nbreathing, not only on the back of my head, but all along my spine. The\nsensation was like being touched in the marrow with some pungent and\nsearching acid, it set my very teeth on edge. He seemed to have more\nbreathing business to do than another man, and to make more noise in\ndoing it; and I was conscious of growing high-shouldered on one side,\nin my shrinking endeavours to fend him off.\n\nThe weather was miserably raw, and the two cursed the cold. It made us\nall lethargic before we had gone far, and when we had left the Half-way\nHouse behind, we habitually dozed and shivered and were silent. I dozed\noff, myself, in considering the question whether I ought to restore a\ncouple of pounds sterling to this creature before losing sight of him,\nand how it could best be done. In the act of dipping forward as if I\nwere going to bathe among the horses, I woke in a fright and took the\nquestion up again.\n\nBut I must have lost it longer than I had thought, since, although I\ncould recognise nothing in the darkness and the fitful lights and\nshadows of our lamps, I traced marsh country in the cold damp wind that\nblew at us. Cowering forward for warmth and to make me a screen against\nthe wind, the convicts were closer to me than before. The very first\nwords I heard them interchange as I became conscious, were the words of\nmy own thought,  Two One Pound notes. \n\n How did he get  em?  said the convict I had never seen.\n\n How should I know?  returned the other.  He had  em stowed away\nsomehows. Giv him by friends, I expect. \n\n I wish,  said the other, with a bitter curse upon the cold,  that I\nhad  em here. \n\n Two one pound notes, or friends? \n\n Two one pound notes. I d sell all the friends I ever had for one, and\nthink it a blessed good bargain. Well? So he says ? \n\n So he says,  resumed the convict I had recognised, it was all said\nand done in half a minute, behind a pile of timber in the\nDock-yard, You re a-going to be discharged?  Yes, I was. Would I find\nout that boy that had fed him and kep his secret, and give him them two\none pound notes? Yes, I would. And I did. \n\n More fool you,  growled the other.  I d have spent  em on a Man, in\nwittles and drink. He must have been a green one. Mean to say he knowed\nnothing of you? \n\n Not a ha porth. Different gangs and different ships. He was tried\nagain for prison breaking, and got made a Lifer. \n\n And was that Honour! the only time you worked out, in this part of the\ncountry? \n\n The only time. \n\n What might have been your opinion of the place? \n\n A most beastly place. Mudbank, mist, swamp, and work; work, swamp,\nmist, and mudbank. \n\nThey both execrated the place in very strong language, and gradually\ngrowled themselves out, and had nothing left to say.\n\nAfter overhearing this dialogue, I should assuredly have got down and\nbeen left in the solitude and darkness of the highway, but for feeling\ncertain that the man had no suspicion of my identity. Indeed, I was not\nonly so changed in the course of nature, but so differently dressed and\nso differently circumstanced, that it was not at all likely he could\nhave known me without accidental help. Still, the coincidence of our\nbeing together on the coach, was sufficiently strange to fill me with a\ndread that some other coincidence might at any moment connect me, in\nhis hearing, with my name. For this reason, I resolved to alight as\nsoon as we touched the town, and put myself out of his hearing. This\ndevice I executed successfully. My little portmanteau was in the boot\nunder my feet; I had but to turn a hinge to get it out; I threw it down\nbefore me, got down after it, and was left at the first lamp on the\nfirst stones of the town pavement. As to the convicts, they went their\nway with the coach, and I knew at what point they would be spirited off\nto the river. In my fancy, I saw the boat with its convict crew waiting\nfor them at the slime-washed stairs, again heard the gruff  Give way,\nyou!  like and order to dogs, again saw the wicked Noah s Ark lying out\non the black water.\n\nI could not have said what I was afraid of, for my fear was altogether\nundefined and vague, but there was great fear upon me. As I walked on\nto the hotel, I felt that a dread, much exceeding the mere apprehension\nof a painful or disagreeable recognition, made me tremble. I am\nconfident that it took no distinctness of shape, and that it was the\nrevival for a few minutes of the terror of childhood.\n\nThe coffee-room at the Blue Boar was empty, and I had not only ordered\nmy dinner there, but had sat down to it, before the waiter knew me. As\nsoon as he had apologised for the remissness of his memory, he asked me\nif he should send Boots for Mr. Pumblechook?\n\n No,  said I,  certainly not. \n\nThe waiter (it was he who had brought up the Great Remonstrance from\nthe Commercials, on the day when I was bound) appeared surprised, and\ntook the earliest opportunity of putting a dirty old copy of a local\nnewspaper so directly in my way, that I took it up and read this\nparagraph: \n\nOur readers will learn, not altogether without interest, in reference\nto the recent romantic rise in fortune of a young artificer in iron of\nthis neighbourhood (what a theme, by the way, for the magic pen of our\nas yet not universally acknowledged townsman TOOBY, the poet of our\ncolumns!) that the youth s earliest patron, companion, and friend, was\na highly respected individual not entirely unconnected with the corn\nand seed trade, and whose eminently convenient and commodious business\npremises are situate within a hundred miles of the High Street. It is\nnot wholly irrespective of our personal feelings that we record HIM as\nthe Mentor of our young Telemachus, for it is good to know that our\ntown produced the founder of the latter s fortunes. Does the\nthought-contracted brow of the local Sage or the lustrous eye of local\nBeauty inquire whose fortunes? We believe that Quintin Matsys was the\nBLACKSMITH of Antwerp. VERB. SAP.\n\nI entertain a conviction, based upon large experience, that if in the\ndays of my prosperity I had gone to the North Pole, I should have met\nsomebody there, wandering Esquimaux or civilized man, who would have\ntold me that Pumblechook was my earliest patron and the founder of my\nfortunes.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIX.\n\n\nBetimes in the morning I was up and out. It was too early yet to go to\nMiss Havisham s, so I loitered into the country on Miss Havisham s side\nof town, which was not Joe s side; I could go there to-morrow, thinking\nabout my patroness, and painting brilliant pictures of her plans for\nme.\n\nShe had adopted Estella, she had as good as adopted me, and it could\nnot fail to be her intention to bring us together. She reserved it for\nme to restore the desolate house, admit the sunshine into the dark\nrooms, set the clocks a-going and the cold hearths a-blazing, tear down\nthe cobwebs, destroy the vermin, in short, do all the shining deeds of\nthe young Knight of romance, and marry the Princess. I had stopped to\nlook at the house as I passed; and its seared red brick walls, blocked\nwindows, and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with\nits twigs and tendons, as if with sinewy old arms, had made up a rich\nattractive mystery, of which I was the hero. Estella was the\ninspiration of it, and the heart of it, of course. But, though she had\ntaken such strong possession of me, though my fancy and my hope were so\nset upon her, though her influence on my boyish life and character had\nbeen all-powerful, I did not, even that romantic morning, invest her\nwith any attributes save those she possessed. I mention this in this\nplace, of a fixed purpose, because it is the clue by which I am to be\nfollowed into my poor labyrinth. According to my experience, the\nconventional notion of a lover cannot be always true. The unqualified\ntruth is, that when I loved Estella with the love of a man, I loved her\nsimply because I found her irresistible. Once for all; I knew to my\nsorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved her against\nreason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against\nhappiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I\nloved her none the less because I knew it, and it had no more influence\nin restraining me than if I had devoutly believed her to be human\nperfection.\n\nI so shaped out my walk as to arrive at the gate at my old time. When I\nhad rung at the bell with an unsteady hand, I turned my back upon the\ngate, while I tried to get my breath and keep the beating of my heart\nmoderately quiet. I heard the side-door open, and steps come across the\ncourtyard; but I pretended not to hear, even when the gate swung on its\nrusty hinges.\n\nBeing at last touched on the shoulder, I started and turned. I started\nmuch more naturally then, to find myself confronted by a man in a sober\ngrey dress. The last man I should have expected to see in that place of\nporter at Miss Havisham s door.\n\n Orlick! \n\n Ah, young master, there s more changes than yours. But come in, come\nin. It s opposed to my orders to hold the gate open. \n\nI entered and he swung it, and locked it, and took the key out.  Yes! \nsaid he, facing round, after doggedly preceding me a few steps towards\nthe house.  Here I am! \n\n How did you come here? \n\n I come here,  he retorted,  on my legs. I had my box brought alongside\nme in a barrow. \n\n Are you here for good? \n\n I ain t here for harm, young master, I suppose? \n\nI was not so sure of that. I had leisure to entertain the retort in my\nmind, while he slowly lifted his heavy glance from the pavement, up my\nlegs and arms, to my face.\n\n Then you have left the forge?  I said.\n\n Do this look like a forge?  replied Orlick, sending his glance all\nround him with an air of injury.  Now, do it look like it? \n\nI asked him how long he had left Gargery s forge?\n\n One day is so like another here,  he replied,  that I don t know\nwithout casting it up. However, I come here some time since you left. \n\n I could have told you that, Orlick. \n\n Ah!  said he, dryly.  But then you ve got to be a scholar. \n\nBy this time we had come to the house, where I found his room to be one\njust within the side-door, with a little window in it looking on the\ncourtyard. In its small proportions, it was not unlike the kind of\nplace usually assigned to a gate-porter in Paris. Certain keys were\nhanging on the wall, to which he now added the gate key; and his\npatchwork-covered bed was in a little inner division or recess. The\nwhole had a slovenly, confined, and sleepy look, like a cage for a\nhuman dormouse; while he, looming dark and heavy in the shadow of a\ncorner by the window, looked like the human dormouse for whom it was\nfitted up, as indeed he was.\n\n I never saw this room before,  I remarked;  but there used to be no\nPorter here. \n\n No,  said he;  not till it got about that there was no protection on\nthe premises, and it come to be considered dangerous, with convicts and\nTag and Rag and Bobtail going up and down. And then I was recommended\nto the place as a man who could give another man as good as he brought,\nand I took it. It s easier than bellowsing and hammering. That s\nloaded, that is. \n\nMy eye had been caught by a gun with a brass-bound stock over the\nchimney-piece, and his eye had followed mine.\n\n Well,  said I, not desirous of more conversation,  shall I go up to\nMiss Havisham? \n\n Burn me, if I know!  he retorted, first stretching himself and then\nshaking himself;  my orders ends here, young master. I give this here\nbell a rap with this here hammer, and you go on along the passage till\nyou meet somebody. \n\n I am expected, I believe? \n\n Burn me twice over, if I can say!  said he.\n\nUpon that, I turned down the long passage which I had first trodden in\nmy thick boots, and he made his bell sound. At the end of the passage,\nwhile the bell was still reverberating, I found Sarah Pocket, who\nappeared to have now become constitutionally green and yellow by reason\nof me.\n\n Oh!  said she.  You, is it, Mr. Pip? \n\n It is, Miss Pocket. I am glad to tell you that Mr. Pocket and family\nare all well. \n\n Are they any wiser?  said Sarah, with a dismal shake of the head;\n they had better be wiser, than well. Ah, Matthew, Matthew! You know\nyour way, sir? \n\nTolerably, for I had gone up the staircase in the dark, many a time. I\nascended it now, in lighter boots than of yore, and tapped in my old\nway at the door of Miss Havisham s room.  Pip s rap,  I heard her say,\nimmediately;  come in, Pip. \n\nShe was in her chair near the old table, in the old dress, with her two\nhands crossed on her stick, her chin resting on them, and her eyes on\nthe fire. Sitting near her, with the white shoe, that had never been\nworn, in her hand, and her head bent as she looked at it, was an\nelegant lady whom I had never seen.\n\n Come in, Pip,  Miss Havisham continued to mutter, without looking\nround or up;  come in, Pip, how do you do, Pip? so you kiss my hand as\nif I were a queen, eh? Well? \n\nShe looked up at me suddenly, only moving her eyes, and repeated in a\ngrimly playful manner, \n\n Well? \n\n I heard, Miss Havisham,  said I, rather at a loss,  that you were so\nkind as to wish me to come and see you, and I came directly. \n\n Well? \n\nThe lady whom I had never seen before, lifted up her eyes and looked\narchly at me, and then I saw that the eyes were Estella s eyes. But she\nwas so much changed, was so much more beautiful, so much more womanly,\nin all things winning admiration, had made such wonderful advance, that\nI seemed to have made none. I fancied, as I looked at her, that I\nslipped hopelessly back into the coarse and common boy again. O the\nsense of distance and disparity that came upon me, and the\ninaccessibility that came about her!\n\nShe gave me her hand. I stammered something about the pleasure I felt\nin seeing her again, and about my having looked forward to it, for a\nlong, long time.\n\n Do you find her much changed, Pip?  asked Miss Havisham, with her\ngreedy look, and striking her stick upon a chair that stood between\nthem, as a sign to me to sit down there.\n\n When I came in, Miss Havisham, I thought there was nothing of Estella\nin the face or figure; but now it all settles down so curiously into\nthe old \n\n What? You are not going to say into the old Estella?  Miss Havisham\ninterrupted.  She was proud and insulting, and you wanted to go away\nfrom her. Don t you remember? \n\nI said confusedly that that was long ago, and that I knew no better\nthen, and the like. Estella smiled with perfect composure, and said she\nhad no doubt of my having been quite right, and of her having been very\ndisagreeable.\n\n Is _he_ changed?  Miss Havisham asked her.\n\n Very much,  said Estella, looking at me.\n\n Less coarse and common?  said Miss Havisham, playing with Estella s\nhair.\n\nEstella laughed, and looked at the shoe in her hand, and laughed again,\nand looked at me, and put the shoe down. She treated me as a boy still,\nbut she lured me on.\n\nWe sat in the dreamy room among the old strange influences which had so\nwrought upon me, and I learnt that she had but just come home from\nFrance, and that she was going to London. Proud and wilful as of old,\nshe had brought those qualities into such subjection to her beauty that\nit was impossible and out of nature or I thought so to separate them\nfrom her beauty. Truly it was impossible to dissociate her presence\nfrom all those wretched hankerings after money and gentility that had\ndisturbed my boyhood, from all those ill-regulated aspirations that had\nfirst made me ashamed of home and Joe, from all those visions that had\nraised her face in the glowing fire, struck it out of the iron on the\nanvil, extracted it from the darkness of night to look in at the wooden\nwindow of the forge, and flit away. In a word, it was impossible for me\nto separate her, in the past or in the present, from the innermost life\nof my life.\n\nIt was settled that I should stay there all the rest of the day, and\nreturn to the hotel at night, and to London to-morrow. When we had\nconversed for a while, Miss Havisham sent us two out to walk in the\nneglected garden: on our coming in by and by, she said, I should wheel\nher about a little, as in times of yore.\n\nSo, Estella and I went out into the garden by the gate through which I\nhad strayed to my encounter with the pale young gentleman, now Herbert;\nI, trembling in spirit and worshipping the very hem of her dress; she,\nquite composed and most decidedly not worshipping the hem of mine. As\nwe drew near to the place of encounter, she stopped and said, \n\n I must have been a singular little creature to hide and see that fight\nthat day; but I did, and I enjoyed it very much. \n\n You rewarded me very much. \n\n Did I?  she replied, in an incidental and forgetful way.  I remember I\nentertained a great objection to your adversary, because I took it ill\nthat he should be brought here to pester me with his company. \n\n He and I are great friends now. \n\n Are you? I think I recollect though, that you read with his father? \n\n Yes. \n\nI made the admission with reluctance, for it seemed to have a boyish\nlook, and she already treated me more than enough like a boy.\n\n Since your change of fortune and prospects, you have changed your\ncompanions,  said Estella.\n\n Naturally,  said I.\n\n And necessarily,  she added, in a haughty tone;  what was fit company\nfor you once, would be quite unfit company for you now. \n\nIn my conscience, I doubt very much whether I had any lingering\nintention left of going to see Joe; but if I had, this observation put\nit to flight.\n\n You had no idea of your impending good fortune, in those times?  said\nEstella, with a slight wave of her hand, signifying in the fighting\ntimes.\n\n Not the least. \n\nThe air of completeness and superiority with which she walked at my\nside, and the air of youthfulness and submission with which I walked at\nhers, made a contrast that I strongly felt. It would have rankled in me\nmore than it did, if I had not regarded myself as eliciting it by being\nso set apart for her and assigned to her.\n\nThe garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and\nafter we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out again\ninto the brewery yard. I showed her to a nicety where I had seen her\nwalking on the casks, that first old day, and she said, with a cold and\ncareless look in that direction,  Did I?  I reminded her where she had\ncome out of the house and given me my meat and drink, and she said,  I\ndon t remember.   Not remember that you made me cry?  said I.  No, \nsaid she, and shook her head and looked about her. I verily believe\nthat her not remembering and not minding in the least, made me cry\nagain, inwardly, and that is the sharpest crying of all.\n\n You must know,  said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and\nbeautiful woman might,  that I have no heart, if that has anything to\ndo with my memory. \n\nI got through some jargon to the effect that I took the liberty of\ndoubting that. That I knew better. That there could be no such beauty\nwithout it.\n\n Oh! I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt,  said\nEstella,  and of course if it ceased to beat I should cease to be. But\nyou know what I mean. I have no softness there,\nno sympathy sentiment nonsense. \n\nWhat _was_ it that was borne in upon my mind when she stood still and\nlooked attentively at me? Anything that I had seen in Miss Havisham?\nNo. In some of her looks and gestures there was that tinge of\nresemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to have been\nacquired by children, from grown person with whom they have been much\nassociated and secluded, and which, when childhood is passed, will\nproduce a remarkable occasional likeness of expression between faces\nthat are otherwise quite different. And yet I could not trace this to\nMiss Havisham. I looked again, and though she was still looking at me,\nthe suggestion was gone.\n\nWhat _was_ it?\n\n I am serious,  said Estella, not so much with a frown (for her brow\nwas smooth) as with a darkening of her face;  if we are to be thrown\nmuch together, you had better believe it at once. No!  imperiously\nstopping me as I opened my lips.  I have not bestowed my tenderness\nanywhere. I have never had any such thing. \n\nIn another moment we were in the brewery, so long disused, and she\npointed to the high gallery where I had seen her going out on that same\nfirst day, and told me she remembered to have been up there, and to\nhave seen me standing scared below. As my eyes followed her white hand,\nagain the same dim suggestion that I could not possibly grasp crossed\nme. My involuntary start occasioned her to lay her hand upon my arm.\nInstantly the ghost passed once more and was gone.\n\nWhat _was_ it?\n\n What is the matter?  asked Estella.  Are you scared again? \n\n I should be, if I believed what you said just now,  I replied, to turn\nit off.\n\n Then you don t? Very well. It is said, at any rate. Miss Havisham will\nsoon be expecting you at your old post, though I think that might be\nlaid aside now, with other old belongings. Let us make one more round\nof the garden, and then go in. Come! You shall not shed tears for my\ncruelty to-day; you shall be my Page, and give me your shoulder. \n\nHer handsome dress had trailed upon the ground. She held it in one hand\nnow, and with the other lightly touched my shoulder as we walked. We\nwalked round the ruined garden twice or thrice more, and it was all in\nbloom for me. If the green and yellow growth of weed in the chinks of\nthe old wall had been the most precious flowers that ever blew, it\ncould not have been more cherished in my remembrance.\n\nThere was no discrepancy of years between us to remove her far from me;\nwe were of nearly the same age, though of course the age told for more\nin her case than in mine; but the air of inaccessibility which her\nbeauty and her manner gave her, tormented me in the midst of my\ndelight, and at the height of the assurance I felt that our patroness\nhad chosen us for one another. Wretched boy!\n\nAt last we went back into the house, and there I heard, with surprise,\nthat my guardian had come down to see Miss Havisham on business, and\nwould come back to dinner. The old wintry branches of chandeliers in\nthe room where the mouldering table was spread had been lighted while\nwe were out, and Miss Havisham was in her chair and waiting for me.\n\nIt was like pushing the chair itself back into the past, when we began\nthe old slow circuit round about the ashes of the bridal feast. But, in\nthe funereal room, with that figure of the grave fallen back in the\nchair fixing its eyes upon her, Estella looked more bright and\nbeautiful than before, and I was under stronger enchantment.\n\nThe time so melted away, that our early dinner-hour drew close at hand,\nand Estella left us to prepare herself. We had stopped near the centre\nof the long table, and Miss Havisham, with one of her withered arms\nstretched out of the chair, rested that clenched hand upon the yellow\ncloth. As Estella looked back over her shoulder before going out at the\ndoor, Miss Havisham kissed that hand to her, with a ravenous intensity\nthat was of its kind quite dreadful.\n\nThen, Estella being gone and we two left alone, she turned to me, and\nsaid in a whisper, \n\n Is she beautiful, graceful, well-grown? Do you admire her? \n\n Everybody must who sees her, Miss Havisham. \n\nShe drew an arm round my neck, and drew my head close down to hers as\nshe sat in the chair.  Love her, love her, love her! How does she use\nyou? \n\nBefore I could answer (if I could have answered so difficult a question\nat all) she repeated,  Love her, love her, love her! If she favours\nyou, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to\npieces, and as it gets older and stronger it will tear deeper, love\nher, love her, love her! \n\nNever had I seen such passionate eagerness as was joined to her\nutterance of these words. I could feel the muscles of the thin arm\nround my neck swell with the vehemence that possessed her.\n\n Hear me, Pip! I adopted her, to be loved. I bred her and educated her,\nto be loved. I developed her into what she is, that she might be loved.\nLove her! \n\nShe said the word often enough, and there could be no doubt that she\nmeant to say it; but if the often repeated word had been hate instead\nof love despair revenge dire death it could not have sounded from her\nlips more like a curse.\n\n I ll tell you,  said she, in the same hurried passionate whisper,\n what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning\nself-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself\nand against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the\nsmiter as I did! \n\nWhen she came to that, and to a wild cry that followed that, I caught\nher round the waist. For she rose up in the chair, in her shroud of a\ndress, and struck at the air as if she would as soon have struck\nherself against the wall and fallen dead.\n\nAll this passed in a few seconds. As I drew her down into her chair, I\nwas conscious of a scent that I knew, and turning, saw my guardian in\nthe room.\n\nHe always carried (I have not yet mentioned it, I think) a\npocket-handkerchief of rich silk and of imposing proportions, which was\nof great value to him in his profession. I have seen him so terrify a\nclient or a witness by ceremoniously unfolding this pocket-handkerchief\nas if he were immediately going to blow his nose, and then pausing, as\nif he knew he should not have time to do it before such client or\nwitness committed himself, that the self-committal has followed\ndirectly, quite as a matter of course. When I saw him in the room he\nhad this expressive pocket-handkerchief in both hands, and was looking\nat us. On meeting my eye, he said plainly, by a momentary and silent\npause in that attitude,  Indeed? Singular!  and then put the\nhandkerchief to its right use with wonderful effect.\n\nMiss Havisham had seen him as soon as I, and was (like everybody else)\nafraid of him. She made a strong attempt to compose herself, and\nstammered that he was as punctual as ever.\n\n As punctual as ever,  he repeated, coming up to us.  (How do you do,\nPip? Shall I give you a ride, Miss Havisham? Once round?) And so you\nare here, Pip? \n\nI told him when I had arrived, and how Miss Havisham had wished me to\ncome and see Estella. To which he replied,  Ah! Very fine young lady! \nThen he pushed Miss Havisham in her chair before him, with one of his\nlarge hands, and put the other in his trousers-pocket as if the pocket\nwere full of secrets.\n\n Well, Pip! How often have you seen Miss Estella before?  said he, when\nhe came to a stop.\n\n How often? \n\n Ah! How many times? Ten thousand times? \n\n Oh! Certainly not so many. \n\n Twice? \n\n Jaggers,  interposed Miss Havisham, much to my relief,  leave my Pip\nalone, and go with him to your dinner. \n\nHe complied, and we groped our way down the dark stairs together. While\nwe were still on our way to those detached apartments across the paved\nyard at the back, he asked me how often I had seen Miss Havisham eat\nand drink; offering me a breadth of choice, as usual, between a hundred\ntimes and once.\n\nI considered, and said,  Never. \n\n And never will, Pip,  he retorted, with a frowning smile.  She has\nnever allowed herself to be seen doing either, since she lived this\npresent life of hers. She wanders about in the night, and then lays\nhands on such food as she takes. \n\n Pray, sir,  said I,  may I ask you a question? \n\n You may,  said he,  and I may decline to answer it. Put your\nquestion. \n\n Estella s name. Is it Havisham or ?  I had nothing to add.\n\n Or what?  said he.\n\n Is it Havisham? \n\n It is Havisham. \n\nThis brought us to the dinner-table, where she and Sarah Pocket awaited\nus. Mr. Jaggers presided, Estella sat opposite to him, I faced my green\nand yellow friend. We dined very well, and were waited on by a\nmaid-servant whom I had never seen in all my comings and goings, but\nwho, for anything I know, had been in that mysterious house the whole\ntime. After dinner a bottle of choice old port was placed before my\nguardian (he was evidently well acquainted with the vintage), and the\ntwo ladies left us.\n\nAnything to equal the determined reticence of Mr. Jaggers under that\nroof I never saw elsewhere, even in him. He kept his very looks to\nhimself, and scarcely directed his eyes to Estella s face once during\ndinner. When she spoke to him, he listened, and in due course answered,\nbut never looked at her, that I could see. On the other hand, she often\nlooked at him, with interest and curiosity, if not distrust, but his\nface never showed the least consciousness. Throughout dinner he took a\ndry delight in making Sarah Pocket greener and yellower, by often\nreferring in conversation with me to my expectations; but here, again,\nhe showed no consciousness, and even made it appear that he\nextorted and even did extort, though I don t know how those references\nout of my innocent self.\n\nAnd when he and I were left alone together, he sat with an air upon him\nof general lying by in consequence of information he possessed, that\nreally was too much for me. He cross-examined his very wine when he had\nnothing else in hand. He held it between himself and the candle, tasted\nthe port, rolled it in his mouth, swallowed it, looked at his glass\nagain, smelt the port, tried it, drank it, filled again, and\ncross-examined the glass again, until I was as nervous as if I had\nknown the wine to be telling him something to my disadvantage. Three or\nfour times I feebly thought I would start conversation; but whenever he\nsaw me going to ask him anything, he looked at me with his glass in his\nhand, and rolling his wine about in his mouth, as if requesting me to\ntake notice that it was of no use, for he couldn t answer.\n\nI think Miss Pocket was conscious that the sight of me involved her in\nthe danger of being goaded to madness, and perhaps tearing off her\ncap, which was a very hideous one, in the nature of a muslin mop, and\nstrewing the ground with her hair, which assuredly had never grown on\n_her_ head. She did not appear when we afterwards went up to Miss\nHavisham s room, and we four played at whist. In the interval, Miss\nHavisham, in a fantastic way, had put some of the most beautiful jewels\nfrom her dressing-table into Estella s hair, and about her bosom and\narms; and I saw even my guardian look at her from under his thick\neyebrows, and raise them a little, when her loveliness was before him,\nwith those rich flushes of glitter and colour in it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOf the manner and extent to which he took our trumps into custody, and\ncame out with mean little cards at the ends of hands, before which the\nglory of our Kings and Queens was utterly abased, I say nothing; nor,\nof the feeling that I had, respecting his looking upon us personally in\nthe light of three very obvious and poor riddles that he had found out\nlong ago. What I suffered from, was the incompatibility between his\ncold presence and my feelings towards Estella. It was not that I knew I\ncould never bear to speak to him about her, that I knew I could never\nbear to hear him creak his boots at her, that I knew I could never bear\nto see him wash his hands of her; it was, that my admiration should be\nwithin a foot or two of him, it was, that my feelings should be in the\nsame place with him, _that_, was the agonizing circumstance.\n\nWe played until nine o clock, and then it was arranged that when\nEstella came to London I should be forewarned of her coming and should\nmeet her at the coach; and then I took leave of her, and touched her\nand left her.\n\nMy guardian lay at the Boar in the next room to mine. Far into the\nnight, Miss Havisham s words,  Love her, love her, love her!  sounded\nin my ears. I adapted them for my own repetition, and said to my\npillow,  I love her, I love her, I love her!  hundreds of times. Then,\na burst of gratitude came upon me, that she should be destined for me,\nonce the blacksmith s boy. Then I thought if she were, as I feared, by\nno means rapturously grateful for that destiny yet, when would she\nbegin to be interested in me? When should I awaken the heart within her\nthat was mute and sleeping now?\n\nAh me! I thought those were high and great emotions. But I never\nthought there was anything low and small in my keeping away from Joe,\nbecause I knew she would be contemptuous of him. It was but a day gone,\nand Joe had brought the tears into my eyes; they had soon dried, God\nforgive me! soon dried.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXX.\n\n\nAfter well considering the matter while I was dressing at the Blue Boar\nin the morning, I resolved to tell my guardian that I doubted Orlick s\nbeing the right sort of man to fill a post of trust at Miss Havisham s.\n Why of course he is not the right sort of man, Pip,  said my guardian,\ncomfortably satisfied beforehand on the general head,  because the man\nwho fills the post of trust never is the right sort of man.  It seemed\nquite to put him into spirits to find that this particular post was not\nexceptionally held by the right sort of man, and he listened in a\nsatisfied manner while I told him what knowledge I had of Orlick.  Very\ngood, Pip,  he observed, when I had concluded,  I ll go round\npresently, and pay our friend off.  Rather alarmed by this summary\naction, I was for a little delay, and even hinted that our friend\nhimself might be difficult to deal with.  Oh no he won t,  said my\nguardian, making his pocket-handkerchief-point, with perfect\nconfidence;  I should like to see him argue the question with _me_. \n\nAs we were going back together to London by the midday coach, and as I\nbreakfasted under such terrors of Pumblechook that I could scarcely\nhold my cup, this gave me an opportunity of saying that I wanted a\nwalk, and that I would go on along the London road while Mr. Jaggers\nwas occupied, if he would let the coachman know that I would get into\nmy place when overtaken. I was thus enabled to fly from the Blue Boar\nimmediately after breakfast. By then making a loop of about a couple of\nmiles into the open country at the back of Pumblechook s premises, I\ngot round into the High Street again, a little beyond that pitfall, and\nfelt myself in comparative security.\n\nIt was interesting to be in the quiet old town once more, and it was\nnot disagreeable to be here and there suddenly recognised and stared\nafter. One or two of the tradespeople even darted out of their shops\nand went a little way down the street before me, that they might turn,\nas if they had forgotten something, and pass me face to face, on which\noccasions I don t know whether they or I made the worse pretence; they\nof not doing it, or I of not seeing it. Still my position was a\ndistinguished one, and I was not at all dissatisfied with it, until\nFate threw me in the way of that unlimited miscreant, Trabb s boy.\n\nCasting my eyes along the street at a certain point of my progress, I\nbeheld Trabb s boy approaching, lashing himself with an empty blue bag.\nDeeming that a serene and unconscious contemplation of him would best\nbeseem me, and would be most likely to quell his evil mind, I advanced\nwith that expression of countenance, and was rather congratulating\nmyself on my success, when suddenly the knees of Trabb s boy smote\ntogether, his hair uprose, his cap fell off, he trembled violently in\nevery limb, staggered out into the road, and crying to the populace,\n Hold me! I m so frightened!  feigned to be in a paroxysm of terror and\ncontrition, occasioned by the dignity of my appearance. As I passed\nhim, his teeth loudly chattered in his head, and with every mark of\nextreme humiliation, he prostrated himself in the dust.\n\nThis was a hard thing to bear, but this was nothing. I had not advanced\nanother two hundred yards when, to my inexpressible terror, amazement,\nand indignation, I again beheld Trabb s boy approaching. He was coming\nround a narrow corner. His blue bag was slung over his shoulder, honest\nindustry beamed in his eyes, a determination to proceed to Trabb s with\ncheerful briskness was indicated in his gait. With a shock he became\naware of me, and was severely visited as before; but this time his\nmotion was rotatory, and he staggered round and round me with knees\nmore afflicted, and with uplifted hands as if beseeching for mercy. His\nsufferings were hailed with the greatest joy by a knot of spectators,\nand I felt utterly confounded.\n\nI had not got as much further down the street as the post-office, when\nI again beheld Trabb s boy shooting round by a back way. This time, he\nwas entirely changed. He wore the blue bag in the manner of my\ngreat-coat, and was strutting along the pavement towards me on the\nopposite side of the street, attended by a company of delighted young\nfriends to whom he from time to time exclaimed, with a wave of his\nhand,  Don t know yah!  Words cannot state the amount of aggravation\nand injury wreaked upon me by Trabb s boy, when passing abreast of me,\nhe pulled up his shirt-collar, twined his side-hair, stuck an arm\nakimbo, and smirked extravagantly by, wriggling his elbows and body,\nand drawling to his attendants,  Don t know yah, don t know yah,  pon\nmy soul don t know yah!  The disgrace attendant on his immediately\nafterwards taking to crowing and pursuing me across the bridge with\ncrows, as from an exceedingly dejected fowl who had known me when I was\na blacksmith, culminated the disgrace with which I left the town, and\nwas, so to speak, ejected by it into the open country.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBut unless I had taken the life of Trabb s boy on that occasion, I\nreally do not even now see what I could have done save endure. To have\nstruggled with him in the street, or to have exacted any lower\nrecompense from him than his heart s best blood, would have been futile\nand degrading. Moreover, he was a boy whom no man could hurt; an\ninvulnerable and dodging serpent who, when chased into a corner, flew\nout again between his captor s legs, scornfully yelping. I wrote,\nhowever, to Mr. Trabb by next day s post, to say that Mr. Pip must\ndecline to deal further with one who could so far forget what he owed\nto the best interests of society, as to employ a boy who excited\nLoathing in every respectable mind.\n\nThe coach, with Mr. Jaggers inside, came up in due time, and I took my\nbox-seat again, and arrived in London safe, but not sound, for my heart\nwas gone. As soon as I arrived, I sent a penitential codfish and barrel\nof oysters to Joe (as reparation for not having gone myself), and then\nwent on to Barnard s Inn.\n\nI found Herbert dining on cold meat, and delighted to welcome me back.\nHaving despatched The Avenger to the coffee-house for an addition to\nthe dinner, I felt that I must open my breast that very evening to my\nfriend and chum. As confidence was out of the question with The Avenger\nin the hall, which could merely be regarded in the light of an\nantechamber to the keyhole, I sent him to the Play. A better proof of\nthe severity of my bondage to that taskmaster could scarcely be\nafforded, than the degrading shifts to which I was constantly driven to\nfind him employment. So mean is extremity, that I sometimes sent him to\nHyde Park corner to see what o clock it was.\n\nDinner done and we sitting with our feet upon the fender, I said to\nHerbert,  My dear Herbert, I have something very particular to tell\nyou. \n\n My dear Handel,  he returned,  I shall esteem and respect your\nconfidence. \n\n It concerns myself, Herbert,  said I,  and one other person. \n\nHerbert crossed his feet, looked at the fire with his head on one side,\nand having looked at it in vain for some time, looked at me because I\ndidn t go on.\n\n Herbert,  said I, laying my hand upon his knee,  I love I\nadore Estella. \n\nInstead of being transfixed, Herbert replied in an easy\nmatter-of-course way,  Exactly. Well? \n\n Well, Herbert? Is that all you say? Well? \n\n What next, I mean?  said Herbert.  Of course I know _that_. \n\n How do you know it?  said I.\n\n How do I know it, Handel? Why, from you. \n\n I never told you. \n\n Told me! You have never told me when you have got your hair cut, but I\nhave had senses to perceive it. You have always adored her, ever since\nI have known you. You brought your adoration and your portmanteau here\ntogether. Told me! Why, you have always told me all day long. When you\ntold me your own story, you told me plainly that you began adoring her\nthe first time you saw her, when you were very young indeed. \n\n Very well, then,  said I, to whom this was a new and not unwelcome\nlight,  I have never left off adoring her. And she has come back, a\nmost beautiful and most elegant creature. And I saw her yesterday. And\nif I adored her before, I now doubly adore her. \n\n Lucky for you then, Handel,  said Herbert,  that you are picked out\nfor her and allotted to her. Without encroaching on forbidden ground,\nwe may venture to say that there can be no doubt between ourselves of\nthat fact. Have you any idea yet, of Estella s views on the adoration\nquestion? \n\nI shook my head gloomily.  Oh! She is thousands of miles away, from\nme,  said I.\n\n Patience, my dear Handel: time enough, time enough. But you have\nsomething more to say? \n\n I am ashamed to say it,  I returned,  and yet it s no worse to say it\nthan to think it. You call me a lucky fellow. Of course, I am. I was a\nblacksmith s boy but yesterday; I am what shall I say I am to-day? \n\n Say a good fellow, if you want a phrase,  returned Herbert, smiling,\nand clapping his hand on the back of mine a good fellow, with\nimpetuosity and hesitation, boldness and diffidence, action and\ndreaming, curiously mixed in him. \n\nI stopped for a moment to consider whether there really was this\nmixture in my character. On the whole, I by no means recognised the\nanalysis, but thought it not worth disputing.\n\n When I ask what I am to call myself to-day, Herbert,  I went on,  I\nsuggest what I have in my thoughts. You say I am lucky. I know I have\ndone nothing to raise myself in life, and that Fortune alone has raised\nme; that is being very lucky. And yet, when I think of Estella \n\n( And when don t you, you know?  Herbert threw in, with his eyes on the\nfire; which I thought kind and sympathetic of him.)\n\n Then, my dear Herbert, I cannot tell you how dependent and uncertain\nI feel, and how exposed to hundreds of chances. Avoiding forbidden\nground, as you did just now, I may still say that on the constancy of\none person (naming no person) all my expectations depend. And at the\nbest, how indefinite and unsatisfactory, only to know so vaguely what\nthey are!  In saying this, I relieved my mind of what had always been\nthere, more or less, though no doubt most since yesterday.\n\n Now, Handel,  Herbert replied, in his gay, hopeful way,  it seems to\nme that in the despondency of the tender passion, we are looking into\nour gift-horse s mouth with a magnifying-glass. Likewise, it seems to\nme that, concentrating our attention on the examination, we altogether\noverlook one of the best points of the animal. Didn t you tell me that\nyour guardian, Mr. Jaggers, told you in the beginning, that you were\nnot endowed with expectations only? And even if he had not told you\nso, though that is a very large If, I grant, could you believe that of\nall men in London, Mr. Jaggers is the man to hold his present relations\ntowards you unless he were sure of his ground? \n\nI said I could not deny that this was a strong point. I said it (people\noften do so, in such cases) like a rather reluctant concession to truth\nand justice; as if I wanted to deny it!\n\n I should think it _was_ a strong point,  said Herbert,  and I should\nthink you would be puzzled to imagine a stronger; as to the rest, you\nmust bide your guardian s time, and he must bide his client s time.\nYou ll be one-and-twenty before you know where you are, and then\nperhaps you ll get some further enlightenment. At all events, you ll be\nnearer getting it, for it must come at last. \n\n What a hopeful disposition you have!  said I, gratefully admiring his\ncheery ways.\n\n I ought to have,  said Herbert,  for I have not much else. I must\nacknowledge, by the by, that the good sense of what I have just said is\nnot my own, but my father s. The only remark I ever heard him make on\nyour story, was the final one,  The thing is settled and done, or Mr.\nJaggers would not be in it.  And now before I say anything more about\nmy father, or my father s son, and repay confidence with confidence, I\nwant to make myself seriously disagreeable to you for a\nmoment, positively repulsive. \n\n You won t succeed,  said I.\n\n O yes I shall!  said he.  One, two, three, and now I am in for it.\nHandel, my good fellow; though he spoke in this light tone, he was\nvery much in earnest, I have been thinking since we have been talking\nwith our feet on this fender, that Estella surely cannot be a condition\nof your inheritance, if she was never referred to by your guardian. Am\nI right in so understanding what you have told me, as that he never\nreferred to her, directly or indirectly, in any way? Never even hinted,\nfor instance, that your patron might have views as to your marriage\nultimately? \n\n Never. \n\n Now, Handel, I am quite free from the flavour of sour grapes, upon my\nsoul and honour! Not being bound to her, can you not detach yourself\nfrom her? I told you I should be disagreeable. \n\nI turned my head aside, for, with a rush and a sweep, like the old\nmarsh winds coming up from the sea, a feeling like that which had\nsubdued me on the morning when I left the forge, when the mists were\nsolemnly rising, and when I laid my hand upon the village finger-post,\nsmote upon my heart again. There was silence between us for a little\nwhile.\n\n Yes; but my dear Handel,  Herbert went on, as if we had been talking,\ninstead of silent,  its having been so strongly rooted in the breast of\na boy whom nature and circumstances made so romantic, renders it very\nserious. Think of her bringing-up, and think of Miss Havisham. Think of\nwhat she is herself (now I am repulsive and you abominate me). This may\nlead to miserable things. \n\n I know it, Herbert,  said I, with my head still turned away,  but I\ncan t help it. \n\n You can t detach yourself? \n\n No. Impossible! \n\n You can t try, Handel? \n\n No. Impossible! \n\n Well!  said Herbert, getting up with a lively shake as if he had been\nasleep, and stirring the fire,  now I ll endeavour to make myself\nagreeable again! \n\nSo he went round the room and shook the curtains out, put the chairs in\ntheir places, tidied the books and so forth that were lying about,\nlooked into the hall, peeped into the letter-box, shut the door, and\ncame back to his chair by the fire: where he sat down, nursing his left\nleg in both arms.\n\n I was going to say a word or two, Handel, concerning my father and my\nfather s son. I am afraid it is scarcely necessary for my father s son\nto remark that my father s establishment is not particularly brilliant\nin its housekeeping. \n\n There is always plenty, Herbert,  said I, to say something\nencouraging.\n\n O yes! and so the dustman says, I believe, with the strongest\napproval, and so does the marine-store shop in the back street.\nGravely, Handel, for the subject is grave enough, you know how it is as\nwell as I do. I suppose there was a time once when my father had not\ngiven matters up; but if ever there was, the time is gone. May I ask\nyou if you have ever had an opportunity of remarking, down in your part\nof the country, that the children of not exactly suitable marriages are\nalways most particularly anxious to be married? \n\nThis was such a singular question, that I asked him in return,  Is it\nso? \n\n I don t know,  said Herbert,  that s what I want to know. Because it\nis decidedly the case with us. My poor sister Charlotte, who was next\nme and died before she was fourteen, was a striking example. Little\nJane is the same. In her desire to be matrimonially established, you\nmight suppose her to have passed her short existence in the perpetual\ncontemplation of domestic bliss. Little Alick in a frock has already\nmade arrangements for his union with a suitable young person at Kew.\nAnd indeed, I think we are all engaged, except the baby. \n\n Then you are?  said I.\n\n I am,  said Herbert;  but it s a secret. \n\nI assured him of my keeping the secret, and begged to be favoured with\nfurther particulars. He had spoken so sensibly and feelingly of my\nweakness that I wanted to know something about his strength.\n\n May I ask the name?  I said.\n\n Name of Clara,  said Herbert.\n\n Live in London? \n\n Yes, perhaps I ought to mention,  said Herbert, who had become\ncuriously crestfallen and meek, since we entered on the interesting\ntheme,  that she is rather below my mother s nonsensical family\nnotions. Her father had to do with the victualling of passenger-ships.\nI think he was a species of purser. \n\n What is he now?  said I.\n\n He s an invalid now,  replied Herbert.\n\n Living on ? \n\n On the first floor,  said Herbert. Which was not at all what I meant,\nfor I had intended my question to apply to his means.  I have never\nseen him, for he has always kept his room overhead, since I have known\nClara. But I have heard him constantly. He makes tremendous\nrows, roars, and pegs at the floor with some frightful instrument.  In\nlooking at me and then laughing heartily, Herbert for the time\nrecovered his usual lively manner.\n\n Don t you expect to see him?  said I.\n\n O yes, I constantly expect to see him,  returned Herbert,  because I\nnever hear him, without expecting him to come tumbling through the\nceiling. But I don t know how long the rafters may hold. \n\nWhen he had once more laughed heartily, he became meek again, and told\nme that the moment he began to realise Capital, it was his intention to\nmarry this young lady. He added as a self-evident proposition,\nengendering low spirits,  But you _can t_ marry, you know, while you re\nlooking about you. \n\nAs we contemplated the fire, and as I thought what a difficult vision\nto realise this same Capital sometimes was, I put my hands in my\npockets. A folded piece of paper in one of them attracting my\nattention, I opened it and found it to be the play-bill I had received\nfrom Joe, relative to the celebrated provincial amateur of Roscian\nrenown.  And bless my heart,  I involuntarily added aloud,  it s\nto-night! \n\nThis changed the subject in an instant, and made us hurriedly resolve\nto go to the play. So, when I had pledged myself to comfort and abet\nHerbert in the affair of his heart by all practicable and impracticable\nmeans, and when Herbert had told me that his affianced already knew me\nby reputation and that I should be presented to her, and when we had\nwarmly shaken hands upon our mutual confidence, we blew out our\ncandles, made up our fire, locked our door, and issued forth in quest\nof Mr. Wopsle and Denmark.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXI.\n\n\nOn our arrival in Denmark, we found the king and queen of that country\nelevated in two arm-chairs on a kitchen-table, holding a Court. The\nwhole of the Danish nobility were in attendance; consisting of a noble\nboy in the wash-leather boots of a gigantic ancestor, a venerable Peer\nwith a dirty face who seemed to have risen from the people late in\nlife, and the Danish chivalry with a comb in its hair and a pair of\nwhite silk legs, and presenting on the whole a feminine appearance. My\ngifted townsman stood gloomily apart, with folded arms, and I could\nhave wished that his curls and forehead had been more probable.\n\nSeveral curious little circumstances transpired as the action\nproceeded. The late king of the country not only appeared to have been\ntroubled with a cough at the time of his decease, but to have taken it\nwith him to the tomb, and to have brought it back. The royal phantom\nalso carried a ghostly manuscript round its truncheon, to which it had\nthe appearance of occasionally referring, and that too, with an air of\nanxiety and a tendency to lose the place of reference which were\nsuggestive of a state of mortality. It was this, I conceive, which led\nto the Shade s being advised by the gallery to  turn over! a\nrecommendation which it took extremely ill. It was likewise to be noted\nof this majestic spirit, that whereas it always appeared with an air of\nhaving been out a long time and walked an immense distance, it\nperceptibly came from a closely contiguous wall. This occasioned its\nterrors to be received derisively. The Queen of Denmark, a very buxom\nlady, though no doubt historically brazen, was considered by the public\nto have too much brass about her; her chin being attached to her diadem\nby a broad band of that metal (as if she had a gorgeous toothache), her\nwaist being encircled by another, and each of her arms by another, so\nthat she was openly mentioned as  the kettle-drum.  The noble boy in\nthe ancestral boots was inconsistent, representing himself, as it were\nin one breath, as an able seaman, a strolling actor, a grave-digger, a\nclergyman, and a person of the utmost importance at a Court\nfencing-match, on the authority of whose practised eye and nice\ndiscrimination the finest strokes were judged. This gradually led to a\nwant of toleration for him, and even on his being detected in holy\norders, and declining to perform the funeral service to the general\nindignation taking the form of nuts. Lastly, Ophelia was a prey to such\nslow musical madness, that when, in course of time, she had taken off\nher white muslin scarf, folded it up, and buried it, a sulky man who\nhad been long cooling his impatient nose against an iron bar in the\nfront row of the gallery, growled,  Now the baby s put to bed let s\nhave supper!  Which, to say the least of it, was out of keeping.\n\nUpon my unfortunate townsman all these incidents accumulated with\nplayful effect. Whenever that undecided Prince had to ask a question or\nstate a doubt, the public helped him out with it. As for example; on\nthe question whether  twas nobler in the mind to suffer, some roared\nyes, and some no, and some inclining to both opinions said  Toss up for\nit;  and quite a Debating Society arose. When he asked what should such\nfellows as he do crawling between earth and heaven, he was encouraged\nwith loud cries of  Hear, hear!  When he appeared with his stocking\ndisordered (its disorder expressed, according to usage, by one very\nneat fold in the top, which I suppose to be always got up with a flat\niron), a conversation took place in the gallery respecting the paleness\nof his leg, and whether it was occasioned by the turn the ghost had\ngiven him. On his taking the recorders, very like a little black flute\nthat had just been played in the orchestra and handed out at the\ndoor, he was called upon unanimously for Rule Britannia. When he\nrecommended the player not to saw the air thus, the sulky man said,\n And don t _you_ do it, neither; you re a deal worse than _him_!  And I\ngrieve to add that peals of laughter greeted Mr. Wopsle on every one of\nthese occasions.\n\nBut his greatest trials were in the churchyard, which had the\nappearance of a primeval forest, with a kind of small ecclesiastical\nwash-house on one side, and a turnpike gate on the other. Mr. Wopsle in\na comprehensive black cloak, being descried entering at the turnpike,\nthe gravedigger was admonished in a friendly way,  Look out! Here s the\nundertaker a coming, to see how you re a getting on with your work!  I\nbelieve it is well known in a constitutional country that Mr. Wopsle\ncould not possibly have returned the skull, after moralizing over it,\nwithout dusting his fingers on a white napkin taken from his breast;\nbut even that innocent and indispensable action did not pass without\nthe comment,  Wai-ter!  The arrival of the body for interment (in an\nempty black box with the lid tumbling open), was the signal for a\ngeneral joy, which was much enhanced by the discovery, among the\nbearers, of an individual obnoxious to identification. The joy attended\nMr. Wopsle through his struggle with Laertes on the brink of the\norchestra and the grave, and slackened no more until he had tumbled the\nking off the kitchen-table, and had died by inches from the ankles\nupward.\n\nWe had made some pale efforts in the beginning to applaud Mr. Wopsle;\nbut they were too hopeless to be persisted in. Therefore we had sat,\nfeeling keenly for him, but laughing, nevertheless, from ear to ear. I\nlaughed in spite of myself all the time, the whole thing was so droll;\nand yet I had a latent impression that there was something decidedly\nfine in Mr. Wopsle s elocution, not for old associations  sake, I am\nafraid, but because it was very slow, very dreary, very uphill and\ndownhill, and very unlike any way in which any man in any natural\ncircumstances of life or death ever expressed himself about anything.\nWhen the tragedy was over, and he had been called for and hooted, I\nsaid to Herbert,  Let us go at once, or perhaps we shall meet him. \n\nWe made all the haste we could downstairs, but we were not quick enough\neither. Standing at the door was a Jewish man with an unnatural heavy\nsmear of eyebrow, who caught my eyes as we advanced, and said, when we\ncame up with him, \n\n Mr. Pip and friend? \n\nIdentity of Mr. Pip and friend confessed.\n\n Mr. Waldengarver,  said the man,  would be glad to have the honour. \n\n Waldengarver?  I repeated when Herbert murmured in my ear,  Probably\nWopsle. \n\n Oh!  said I.  Yes. Shall we follow you? \n\n A few steps, please.  When we were in a side alley, he turned and\nasked,  How did you think he looked? I dressed him. \n\nI don t know what he had looked like, except a funeral; with the\naddition of a large Danish sun or star hanging round his neck by a blue\nribbon, that had given him the appearance of being insured in some\nextraordinary Fire Office. But I said he had looked very nice.\n\n When he come to the grave,  said our conductor,  he showed his cloak\nbeautiful. But, judging from the wing, it looked to me that when he see\nthe ghost in the queen s apartment, he might have made more of his\nstockings. \n\nI modestly assented, and we all fell through a little dirty swing door,\ninto a sort of hot packing-case immediately behind it. Here Mr. Wopsle\nwas divesting himself of his Danish garments, and here there was just\nroom for us to look at him over one another s shoulders, by keeping the\npacking-case door, or lid, wide open.\n\n Gentlemen,  said Mr. Wopsle,  I am proud to see you. I hope, Mr. Pip,\nyou will excuse my sending round. I had the happiness to know you in\nformer times, and the Drama has ever had a claim which has ever been\nacknowledged, on the noble and the affluent. \n\nMeanwhile, Mr. Waldengarver, in a frightful perspiration, was trying to\nget himself out of his princely sables.\n\n Skin the stockings off Mr. Waldengarver,  said the owner of that\nproperty,  or you ll bust  em. Bust  em, and you ll bust\nfive-and-thirty shillings. Shakspeare never was complimented with a\nfiner pair. Keep quiet in your chair now, and leave  em to me. \n\nWith that, he went upon his knees, and began to flay his victim; who,\non the first stocking coming off, would certainly have fallen over\nbackward with his chair, but for there being no room to fall anyhow.\n\nI had been afraid until then to say a word about the play. But then,\nMr. Waldengarver looked up at us complacently, and said, \n\n Gentlemen, how did it seem to you, to go, in front? \n\nHerbert said from behind (at the same time poking me),  Capitally.  So\nI said  Capitally. \n\n How did you like my reading of the character, gentlemen?  said Mr.\nWaldengarver, almost, if not quite, with patronage.\n\nHerbert said from behind (again poking me),  Massive and concrete.  So\nI said boldly, as if I had originated it, and must beg to insist upon\nit,  Massive and concrete. \n\n I am glad to have your approbation, gentlemen,  said Mr. Waldengarver,\nwith an air of dignity, in spite of his being ground against the wall\nat the time, and holding on by the seat of the chair.\n\n But I ll tell you one thing, Mr. Waldengarver,  said the man who was\non his knees,  in which you re out in your reading. Now mind! I don t\ncare who says contrairy; I tell you so. You re out in your reading of\nHamlet when you get your legs in profile. The last Hamlet as I dressed,\nmade the same mistakes in his reading at rehearsal, till I got him to\nput a large red wafer on each of his shins, and then at that rehearsal\n(which was the last) I went in front, sir, to the back of the pit, and\nwhenever his reading brought him into profile, I called out  I don t\nsee no wafers!  And at night his reading was lovely. \n\nMr. Waldengarver smiled at me, as much as to say  a faithful\nDependent I overlook his folly;  and then said aloud,  My view is a\nlittle classic and thoughtful for them here; but they will improve,\nthey will improve. \n\nHerbert and I said together, O, no doubt they would improve.\n\n Did you observe, gentlemen,  said Mr. Waldengarver,  that there was a\nman in the gallery who endeavoured to cast derision on the service, I\nmean, the representation? \n\nWe basely replied that we rather thought we had noticed such a man. I\nadded,  He was drunk, no doubt. \n\n O dear no, sir,  said Mr. Wopsle,  not drunk. His employer would see\nto that, sir. His employer would not allow him to be drunk. \n\n You know his employer?  said I.\n\nMr. Wopsle shut his eyes, and opened them again; performing both\nceremonies very slowly.  You must have observed, gentlemen,  said he,\n an ignorant and a blatant ass, with a rasping throat and a countenance\nexpressive of low malignity, who went through I will not say\nsustained the r le (if I may use a French expression) of Claudius, King\nof Denmark. That is his employer, gentlemen. Such is the profession! \n\nWithout distinctly knowing whether I should have been more sorry for\nMr. Wopsle if he had been in despair, I was so sorry for him as it was,\nthat I took the opportunity of his turning round to have his braces put\non, which jostled us out at the doorway, to ask Herbert what he thought\nof having him home to supper? Herbert said he thought it would be kind\nto do so; therefore I invited him, and he went to Barnard s with us,\nwrapped up to the eyes, and we did our best for him, and he sat until\ntwo o clock in the morning, reviewing his success and developing his\nplans. I forget in detail what they were, but I have a general\nrecollection that he was to begin with reviving the Drama, and to end\nwith crushing it; inasmuch as his decease would leave it utterly bereft\nand without a chance or hope.\n\nMiserably I went to bed after all, and miserably thought of Estella,\nand miserably dreamed that my expectations were all cancelled, and that\nI had to give my hand in marriage to Herbert s Clara, or play Hamlet to\nMiss Havisham s Ghost, before twenty thousand people, without knowing\ntwenty words of it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXII.\n\n\nOne day when I was busy with my books and Mr. Pocket, I received a note\nby the post, the mere outside of which threw me into a great flutter;\nfor, though I had never seen the handwriting in which it was addressed,\nI divined whose hand it was. It had no set beginning, as Dear Mr. Pip,\nor Dear Pip, or Dear Sir, or Dear Anything, but ran thus: \n\n I am to come to London the day after to-morrow by the midday coach. I\nbelieve it was settled you should meet me? At all events Miss Havisham\nhas that impression, and I write in obedience to it. She sends you her\nregard.\n\n\n Yours, ESTELLA. \n\n\nIf there had been time, I should probably have ordered several suits of\nclothes for this occasion; but as there was not, I was fain to be\ncontent with those I had. My appetite vanished instantly, and I knew no\npeace or rest until the day arrived. Not that its arrival brought me\neither; for, then I was worse than ever, and began haunting the\ncoach-office in Wood Street, Cheapside, before the coach had left the\nBlue Boar in our town. For all that I knew this perfectly well, I still\nfelt as if it were not safe to let the coach-office be out of my sight\nlonger than five minutes at a time; and in this condition of unreason I\nhad performed the first half-hour of a watch of four or five hours,\nwhen Wemmick ran against me.\n\n Halloa, Mr. Pip,  said he;  how do you do? I should hardly have\nthought this was _your_ beat. \n\nI explained that I was waiting to meet somebody who was coming up by\ncoach, and I inquired after the Castle and the Aged.\n\n Both flourishing thankye,  said Wemmick,  and particularly the Aged.\nHe s in wonderful feather. He ll be eighty-two next birthday. I have a\nnotion of firing eighty-two times, if the neighbourhood shouldn t\ncomplain, and that cannon of mine should prove equal to the pressure.\nHowever, this is not London talk. Where do you think I am going to? \n\n To the office?  said I, for he was tending in that direction.\n\n Next thing to it,  returned Wemmick,  I am going to Newgate. We are in\na banker s-parcel case just at present, and I have been down the road\ntaking a squint at the scene of action, and thereupon must have a word\nor two with our client. \n\n Did your client commit the robbery?  I asked.\n\n Bless your soul and body, no,  answered Wemmick, very drily.  But he\nis accused of it. So might you or I be. Either of us might be accused\nof it, you know. \n\n Only neither of us is,  I remarked.\n\n Yah!  said Wemmick, touching me on the breast with his forefinger;\n you re a deep one, Mr. Pip! Would you like to have a look at Newgate?\nHave you time to spare? \n\nI had so much time to spare, that the proposal came as a relief,\nnotwithstanding its irreconcilability with my latent desire to keep my\neye on the coach-office. Muttering that I would make the inquiry\nwhether I had time to walk with him, I went into the office, and\nascertained from the clerk with the nicest precision and much to the\ntrying of his temper, the earliest moment at which the coach could be\nexpected, which I knew beforehand, quite as well as he. I then rejoined\nMr. Wemmick, and affecting to consult my watch, and to be surprised by\nthe information I had received, accepted his offer.\n\nWe were at Newgate in a few minutes, and we passed through the lodge\nwhere some fetters were hanging up on the bare walls among the prison\nrules, into the interior of the jail. At that time jails were much\nneglected, and the period of exaggerated reaction consequent on all\npublic wrongdoing and which is always its heaviest and longest\npunishment was still far off. So, felons were not lodged and fed better\nthan soldiers (to say nothing of paupers), and seldom set fire to their\nprisons with the excusable object of improving the flavour of their\nsoup. It was visiting time when Wemmick took me in, and a potman was\ngoing his rounds with beer; and the prisoners, behind bars in yards,\nwere buying beer, and talking to friends; and a frowzy, ugly,\ndisorderly, depressing scene it was.\n\nIt struck me that Wemmick walked among the prisoners much as a gardener\nmight walk among his plants. This was first put into my head by his\nseeing a shoot that had come up in the night, and saying,  What,\nCaptain Tom? Are _you_ there? Ah, indeed!  and also,  Is that Black\nBill behind the cistern? Why I didn t look for you these two months;\nhow do you find yourself?  Equally in his stopping at the bars and\nattending to anxious whisperers, always singly, Wemmick with his\npost-office in an immovable state, looked at them while in conference,\nas if he were taking particular notice of the advance they had made,\nsince last observed, towards coming out in full blow at their trial.\n\nHe was highly popular, and I found that he took the familiar department\nof Mr. Jaggers s business; though something of the state of Mr. Jaggers\nhung about him too, forbidding approach beyond certain limits. His\npersonal recognition of each successive client was comprised in a nod,\nand in his settling his hat a little easier on his head with both\nhands, and then tightening the post-office, and putting his hands in\nhis pockets. In one or two instances there was a difficulty respecting\nthe raising of fees, and then Mr. Wemmick, backing as far as possible\nfrom the insufficient money produced, said,  it s no use, my boy. I m\nonly a subordinate. I can t take it. Don t go on in that way with a\nsubordinate. If you are unable to make up your quantum, my boy, you had\nbetter address yourself to a principal; there are plenty of principals\nin the profession, you know, and what is not worth the while of one,\nmay be worth the while of another; that s my recommendation to you,\nspeaking as a subordinate. Don t try on useless measures. Why should\nyou? Now, who s next? \n\nThus, we walked through Wemmick s greenhouse, until he turned to me and\nsaid,  Notice the man I shall shake hands with.  I should have done so,\nwithout the preparation, as he had shaken hands with no one yet.\n\nAlmost as soon as he had spoken, a portly upright man (whom I can see\nnow, as I write) in a well-worn olive-coloured frock-coat, with a\npeculiar pallor overspreading the red in his complexion, and eyes that\nwent wandering about when he tried to fix them, came up to a corner of\nthe bars, and put his hand to his hat which had a greasy and fatty\nsurface like cold broth with a half-serious and half-jocose military\nsalute.\n\n Colonel, to you!  said Wemmick;  how are you, Colonel? \n\n All right, Mr. Wemmick. \n\n Everything was done that could be done, but the evidence was too\nstrong for us, Colonel. \n\n Yes, it was too strong, sir, but _I_ don t care. \n\n No, no,  said Wemmick, coolly,  _you_ don t care.  Then, turning to\nme,  Served His Majesty this man. Was a soldier in the line and bought\nhis discharge. \n\nI said,  Indeed?  and the man s eyes looked at me, and then looked over\nmy head, and then looked all round me, and then he drew his hand across\nhis lips and laughed.\n\n I think I shall be out of this on Monday, sir,  he said to Wemmick.\n\n Perhaps,  returned my friend,  but there s no knowing. \n\n I am glad to have the chance of bidding you good-bye, Mr. Wemmick, \nsaid the man, stretching out his hand between two bars.\n\n Thankye,  said Wemmick, shaking hands with him.  Same to you,\nColonel. \n\n If what I had upon me when taken had been real, Mr. Wemmick,  said the\nman, unwilling to let his hand go,  I should have asked the favour of\nyour wearing another ring in acknowledgment of your attentions. \n\n I ll accept the will for the deed,  said Wemmick.  By the by; you were\nquite a pigeon-fancier.  The man looked up at the sky.  I am told you\nhad a remarkable breed of tumblers. _Could_ you commission any friend\nof yours to bring me a pair, if you ve no further use for  em? \n\n It shall be done, sir. \n\n All right,  said Wemmick,  they shall be taken care of.\nGood-afternoon, Colonel. Good-bye!  They shook hands again, and as we\nwalked away Wemmick said to me,  A Coiner, a very good workman. The\nRecorder s report is made to-day, and he is sure to be executed on\nMonday. Still you see, as far as it goes, a pair of pigeons are\nportable property all the same.  With that, he looked back, and nodded\nat this dead plant, and then cast his eyes about him in walking out of\nthe yard, as if he were considering what other pot would go best in its\nplace.\n\nAs we came out of the prison through the lodge, I found that the great\nimportance of my guardian was appreciated by the turnkeys, no less than\nby those whom they held in charge.  Well, Mr. Wemmick,  said the\nturnkey, who kept us between the two studded and spiked lodge gates,\nand who carefully locked one before he unlocked the other,  what s Mr.\nJaggers going to do with that water-side murder? Is he going to make it\nmanslaughter, or what s he going to make of it? \n\n Why don t you ask him?  returned Wemmick.\n\n O yes, I dare say!  said the turnkey.\n\n Now, that s the way with them here, Mr. Pip,  remarked Wemmick,\nturning to me with his post-office elongated.  They don t mind what\nthey ask of me, the subordinate; but you ll never catch  em asking any\nquestions of my principal. \n\n Is this young gentleman one of the  prentices or articled ones of your\noffice?  asked the turnkey, with a grin at Mr. Wemmick s humour.\n\n There he goes again, you see!  cried Wemmick,  I told you so! Asks\nanother question of the subordinate before his first is dry! Well,\nsupposing Mr. Pip is one of them? \n\n Why then,  said the turnkey, grinning again,  he knows what Mr.\nJaggers is. \n\n Yah!  cried Wemmick, suddenly hitting out at the turnkey in a\nfacetious way,  you re dumb as one of your own keys when you have to do\nwith my principal, you know you are. Let us out, you old fox, or I ll\nget him to bring an action against you for false imprisonment. \n\nThe turnkey laughed, and gave us good day, and stood laughing at us\nover the spikes of the wicket when we descended the steps into the\nstreet.\n\n Mind you, Mr. Pip,  said Wemmick, gravely in my ear, as he took my arm\nto be more confidential;  I don t know that Mr. Jaggers does a better\nthing than the way in which he keeps himself so high. He s always so\nhigh. His constant height is of a piece with his immense abilities.\nThat Colonel durst no more take leave of _him_, than that turnkey durst\nask him his intentions respecting a case. Then, between his height and\nthem, he slips in his subordinate, don t you see? and so he has  em,\nsoul and body. \n\nI was very much impressed, and not for the first time, by my guardian s\nsubtlety. To confess the truth, I very heartily wished, and not for the\nfirst time, that I had had some other guardian of minor abilities.\n\nMr. Wemmick and I parted at the office in Little Britain, where\nsuppliants for Mr. Jaggers s notice were lingering about as usual, and\nI returned to my watch in the street of the coach-office, with some\nthree hours on hand. I consumed the whole time in thinking how strange\nit was that I should be encompassed by all this taint of prison and\ncrime; that, in my childhood out on our lonely marshes on a winter\nevening, I should have first encountered it; that, it should have\nreappeared on two occasions, starting out like a stain that was faded\nbut not gone; that, it should in this new way pervade my fortune and\nadvancement. While my mind was thus engaged, I thought of the beautiful\nyoung Estella, proud and refined, coming towards me, and I thought with\nabsolute abhorrence of the contrast between the jail and her. I wished\nthat Wemmick had not met me, or that I had not yielded to him and gone\nwith him, so that, of all days in the year on this day, I might not\nhave had Newgate in my breath and on my clothes. I beat the prison dust\noff my feet as I sauntered to and fro, and I shook it out of my dress,\nand I exhaled its air from my lungs. So contaminated did I feel,\nremembering who was coming, that the coach came quickly after all, and\nI was not yet free from the soiling consciousness of Mr. Wemmick s\nconservatory, when I saw her face at the coach window and her hand\nwaving to me.\n\nWhat _was_ the nameless shadow which again in that one instant had\npassed?\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIII.\n\n\nIn her furred travelling-dress, Estella seemed more delicately\nbeautiful than she had ever seemed yet, even in my eyes. Her manner was\nmore winning than she had cared to let it be to me before, and I\nthought I saw Miss Havisham s influence in the change.\n\nWe stood in the Inn Yard while she pointed out her luggage to me, and\nwhen it was all collected I remembered having forgotten everything but\nherself in the meanwhile that I knew nothing of her destination.\n\n I am going to Richmond,  she told me.  Our lesson is, that there are\ntwo Richmonds, one in Surrey and one in Yorkshire, and that mine is the\nSurrey Richmond. The distance is ten miles. I am to have a carriage,\nand you are to take me. This is my purse, and you are to pay my charges\nout of it. O, you must take the purse! We have no choice, you and I,\nbut to obey our instructions. We are not free to follow our own\ndevices, you and I. \n\nAs she looked at me in giving me the purse, I hoped there was an inner\nmeaning in her words. She said them slightingly, but not with\ndispleasure.\n\n A carriage will have to be sent for, Estella. Will you rest here a\nlittle? \n\n Yes, I am to rest here a little, and I am to drink some tea, and you\nare to take care of me the while. \n\nShe drew her arm through mine, as if it must be done, and I requested a\nwaiter who had been staring at the coach like a man who had never seen\nsuch a thing in his life, to show us a private sitting-room. Upon that,\nhe pulled out a napkin, as if it were a magic clue without which he\ncouldn t find the way upstairs, and led us to the black hole of the\nestablishment, fitted up with a diminishing mirror (quite a superfluous\narticle, considering the hole s proportions), an anchovy sauce-cruet,\nand somebody s pattens. On my objecting to this retreat, he took us\ninto another room with a dinner-table for thirty, and in the grate a\nscorched leaf of a copy-book under a bushel of coal-dust. Having looked\nat this extinct conflagration and shaken his head, he took my order;\nwhich, proving to be merely,  Some tea for the lady,  sent him out of\nthe room in a very low state of mind.\n\nI was, and I am, sensible that the air of this chamber, in its strong\ncombination of stable with soup-stock, might have led one to infer that\nthe coaching department was not doing well, and that the enterprising\nproprietor was boiling down the horses for the refreshment department.\nYet the room was all in all to me, Estella being in it. I thought that\nwith her I could have been happy there for life. (I was not at all\nhappy there at the time, observe, and I knew it well.)\n\n Where are you going to, at Richmond?  I asked Estella.\n\n I am going to live,  said she,  at a great expense, with a lady there,\nwho has the power or says she has of taking me about, and introducing\nme, and showing people to me and showing me to people. \n\n I suppose you will be glad of variety and admiration? \n\n Yes, I suppose so. \n\nShe answered so carelessly, that I said,  You speak of yourself as if\nyou were some one else. \n\n Where did you learn how I speak of others? Come, come,  said Estella,\nsmiling delightfully,  you must not expect me to go to school to _you_;\nI must talk in my own way. How do you thrive with Mr. Pocket? \n\n I live quite pleasantly there; at least  It appeared to me that I was\nlosing a chance.\n\n At least?  repeated Estella.\n\n As pleasantly as I could anywhere, away from you. \n\n You silly boy,  said Estella, quite composedly,  how can you talk such\nnonsense? Your friend Mr. Matthew, I believe, is superior to the rest\nof his family? \n\n Very superior indeed. He is nobody s enemy \n\n Don t add but his own,  interposed Estella,  for I hate that class of\nman. But he really is disinterested, and above small jealousy and\nspite, I have heard? \n\n I am sure I have every reason to say so. \n\n You have not every reason to say so of the rest of his people,  said\nEstella, nodding at me with an expression of face that was at once\ngrave and rallying,  for they beset Miss Havisham with reports and\ninsinuations to your disadvantage. They watch you, misrepresent you,\nwrite letters about you (anonymous sometimes), and you are the torment\nand the occupation of their lives. You can scarcely realise to yourself\nthe hatred those people feel for you. \n\n They do me no harm, I hope? \n\nInstead of answering, Estella burst out laughing. This was very\nsingular to me, and I looked at her in considerable perplexity. When\nshe left off and she had not laughed languidly, but with real\nenjoyment I said, in my diffident way with her, \n\n I hope I may suppose that you would not be amused if they did me any\nharm. \n\n No, no you may be sure of that,  said Estella.  You may be certain\nthat I laugh because they fail. O, those people with Miss Havisham, and\nthe tortures they undergo!  She laughed again, and even now when she\nhad told me why, her laughter was very singular to me, for I could not\ndoubt its being genuine, and yet it seemed too much for the occasion. I\nthought there must really be something more here than I knew; she saw\nthe thought in my mind, and answered it.\n\n It is not easy for even you.  said Estella,  to know what satisfaction\nit gives me to see those people thwarted, or what an enjoyable sense of\nthe ridiculous I have when they are made ridiculous. For you were not\nbrought up in that strange house from a mere baby. I was. You had not\nyour little wits sharpened by their intriguing against you, suppressed\nand defenceless, under the mask of sympathy and pity and what not that\nis soft and soothing. I had. You did not gradually open your round\nchildish eyes wider and wider to the discovery of that impostor of a\nwoman who calculates her stores of peace of mind for when she wakes up\nin the night. I did. \n\nIt was no laughing matter with Estella now, nor was she summoning these\nremembrances from any shallow place. I would not have been the cause of\nthat look of hers for all my expectations in a heap.\n\n Two things I can tell you,  said Estella.  First, notwithstanding the\nproverb that constant dropping will wear away a stone, you may set your\nmind at rest that these people never will never would in a hundred\nyears impair your ground with Miss Havisham, in any particular, great\nor small. Second, I am beholden to you as the cause of their being so\nbusy and so mean in vain, and there is my hand upon it. \n\nAs she gave it to me playfully, for her darker mood had been but\nmomentary I held it and put it to my lips.  You ridiculous boy,  said\nEstella,  will you never take warning? Or do you kiss my hand in the\nsame spirit in which I once let you kiss my cheek? \n\n What spirit was that?  said I.\n\n I must think a moment. A spirit of contempt for the fawners and\nplotters. \n\n If I say yes, may I kiss the cheek again? \n\n You should have asked before you touched the hand. But, yes, if you\nlike. \n\nI leaned down, and her calm face was like a statue s.  Now,  said\nEstella, gliding away the instant I touched her cheek,  you are to take\ncare that I have some tea, and you are to take me to Richmond. \n\nHer reverting to this tone as if our association were forced upon us,\nand we were mere puppets, gave me pain; but everything in our\nintercourse did give me pain. Whatever her tone with me happened to be,\nI could put no trust in it, and build no hope on it; and yet I went on\nagainst trust and against hope. Why repeat it a thousand times? So it\nalways was.\n\nI rang for the tea, and the waiter, reappearing with his magic clue,\nbrought in by degrees some fifty adjuncts to that refreshment, but of\ntea not a glimpse. A teaboard, cups and saucers, plates, knives and\nforks (including carvers), spoons (various), salt-cellars, a meek\nlittle muffin confined with the utmost precaution under a strong iron\ncover, Moses in the bulrushes typified by a soft bit of butter in a\nquantity of parsley, a pale loaf with a powdered head, two proof\nimpressions of the bars of the kitchen fireplace on triangular bits of\nbread, and ultimately a fat family urn; which the waiter staggered in\nwith, expressing in his countenance burden and suffering. After a\nprolonged absence at this stage of the entertainment, he at length came\nback with a casket of precious appearance containing twigs. These I\nsteeped in hot water, and so from the whole of these appliances\nextracted one cup of I don t know what for Estella.\n\nThe bill paid, and the waiter remembered, and the ostler not forgotten,\nand the chambermaid taken into consideration, in a word, the whole\nhouse bribed into a state of contempt and animosity, and Estella s\npurse much lightened, we got into our post-coach and drove away.\nTurning into Cheapside and rattling up Newgate Street, we were soon\nunder the walls of which I was so ashamed.\n\n What place is that?  Estella asked me.\n\nI made a foolish pretence of not at first recognising it, and then told\nher. As she looked at it, and drew in her head again, murmuring,\n Wretches!  I would not have confessed to my visit for any\nconsideration.\n\n Mr. Jaggers,  said I, by way of putting it neatly on somebody else,\n has the reputation of being more in the secrets of that dismal place\nthan any man in London. \n\n He is more in the secrets of every place, I think,  said Estella, in a\nlow voice.\n\n You have been accustomed to see him often, I suppose? \n\n I have been accustomed to see him at uncertain intervals, ever since I\ncan remember. But I know him no better now, than I did before I could\nspeak plainly. What is your own experience of him? Do you advance with\nhim? \n\n Once habituated to his distrustful manner,  said I,  I have done very\nwell. \n\n Are you intimate? \n\n I have dined with him at his private house. \n\n I fancy,  said Estella, shrinking  that must be a curious place. \n\n It is a curious place. \n\nI should have been chary of discussing my guardian too freely even with\nher; but I should have gone on with the subject so far as to describe\nthe dinner in Gerrard Street, if we had not then come into a sudden\nglare of gas. It seemed, while it lasted, to be all alight and alive\nwith that inexplicable feeling I had had before; and when we were out\nof it, I was as much dazed for a few moments as if I had been in\nlightning.\n\nSo we fell into other talk, and it was principally about the way by\nwhich we were travelling, and about what parts of London lay on this\nside of it, and what on that. The great city was almost new to her, she\ntold me, for she had never left Miss Havisham s neighbourhood until she\nhad gone to France, and she had merely passed through London then in\ngoing and returning. I asked her if my guardian had any charge of her\nwhile she remained here? To that she emphatically said  God forbid! \nand no more.\n\nIt was impossible for me to avoid seeing that she cared to attract me;\nthat she made herself winning, and would have won me even if the task\nhad needed pains. Yet this made me none the happier, for even if she\nhad not taken that tone of our being disposed of by others, I should\nhave felt that she held my heart in her hand because she wilfully chose\nto do it, and not because it would have wrung any tenderness in her to\ncrush it and throw it away.\n\nWhen we passed through Hammersmith, I showed her where Mr. Matthew\nPocket lived, and said it was no great way from Richmond, and that I\nhoped I should see her sometimes.\n\n O yes, you are to see me; you are to come when you think proper; you\nare to be mentioned to the family; indeed you are already mentioned. \n\nI inquired was it a large household she was going to be a member of?\n\n No; there are only two; mother and daughter. The mother is a lady of\nsome station, though not averse to increasing her income. \n\n I wonder Miss Havisham could part with you again so soon. \n\n It is a part of Miss Havisham s plans for me, Pip,  said Estella, with\na sigh, as if she were tired;  I am to write to her constantly and see\nher regularly and report how I go on, I and the jewels, for they are\nnearly all mine now. \n\nIt was the first time she had ever called me by my name. Of course she\ndid so purposely, and knew that I should treasure it up.\n\nWe came to Richmond all too soon, and our destination there was a house\nby the green, a staid old house, where hoops and powder and patches,\nembroidered coats, rolled stockings, ruffles and swords, had had their\ncourt days many a time. Some ancient trees before the house were still\ncut into fashions as formal and unnatural as the hoops and wigs and\nstiff skirts; but their own allotted places in the great procession of\nthe dead were not far off, and they would soon drop into them and go\nthe silent way of the rest.\n\nA bell with an old voice which I dare say in its time had often said to\nthe house, Here is the green farthingale, Here is the diamond-hilted\nsword, Here are the shoes with red heels and the blue solitaire sounded\ngravely in the moonlight, and two cherry-coloured maids came fluttering\nout to receive Estella. The doorway soon absorbed her boxes, and she\ngave me her hand and a smile, and said good-night, and was absorbed\nlikewise. And still I stood looking at the house, thinking how happy I\nshould be if I lived there with her, and knowing that I never was happy\nwith her, but always miserable.\n\nI got into the carriage to be taken back to Hammersmith, and I got in\nwith a bad heart-ache, and I got out with a worse heart-ache. At our\nown door, I found little Jane Pocket coming home from a little party\nescorted by her little lover; and I envied her little lover, in spite\nof his being subject to Flopson.\n\nMr. Pocket was out lecturing; for, he was a most delightful lecturer on\ndomestic economy, and his treatises on the management of children and\nservants were considered the very best text-books on those themes. But\nMrs. Pocket was at home, and was in a little difficulty, on account of\nthe baby s having been accommodated with a needle-case to keep him\nquiet during the unaccountable absence (with a relative in the Foot\nGuards) of Millers. And more needles were missing than it could be\nregarded as quite wholesome for a patient of such tender years either\nto apply externally or to take as a tonic.\n\nMr. Pocket being justly celebrated for giving most excellent practical\nadvice, and for having a clear and sound perception of things and a\nhighly judicious mind, I had some notion in my heart-ache of begging\nhim to accept my confidence. But happening to look up at Mrs. Pocket as\nshe sat reading her book of dignities after prescribing Bed as a\nsovereign remedy for baby, I thought Well No, I wouldn t.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIV.\n\n\nAs I had grown accustomed to my expectations, I had insensibly begun to\nnotice their effect upon myself and those around me. Their influence on\nmy own character I disguised from my recognition as much as possible,\nbut I knew very well that it was not all good. I lived in a state of\nchronic uneasiness respecting my behaviour to Joe. My conscience was\nnot by any means comfortable about Biddy. When I woke up in the\nnight, like Camilla, I used to think, with a weariness on my spirits,\nthat I should have been happier and better if I had never seen Miss\nHavisham s face, and had risen to manhood content to be partners with\nJoe in the honest old forge. Many a time of an evening, when I sat\nalone looking at the fire, I thought, after all there was no fire like\nthe forge fire and the kitchen fire at home.\n\nYet Estella was so inseparable from all my restlessness and disquiet of\nmind, that I really fell into confusion as to the limits of my own part\nin its production. That is to say, supposing I had had no expectations,\nand yet had had Estella to think of, I could not make out to my\nsatisfaction that I should have done much better. Now, concerning the\ninfluence of my position on others, I was in no such difficulty, and so\nI perceived though dimly enough perhaps that it was not beneficial to\nanybody, and, above all, that it was not beneficial to Herbert. My\nlavish habits led his easy nature into expenses that he could not\nafford, corrupted the simplicity of his life, and disturbed his peace\nwith anxieties and regrets. I was not at all remorseful for having\nunwittingly set those other branches of the Pocket family to the poor\narts they practised; because such littlenesses were their natural bent,\nand would have been evoked by anybody else, if I had left them\nslumbering. But Herbert s was a very different case, and it often\ncaused me a twinge to think that I had done him evil service in\ncrowding his sparely furnished chambers with incongruous upholstery\nwork, and placing the Canary-breasted Avenger at his disposal.\n\nSo now, as an infallible way of making little ease great ease, I began\nto contract a quantity of debt. I could hardly begin but Herbert must\nbegin too, so he soon followed. At Startop s suggestion, we put\nourselves down for election into a club called The Finches of the\nGrove: the object of which institution I have never divined, if it were\nnot that the members should dine expensively once a fortnight, to\nquarrel among themselves as much as possible after dinner, and to cause\nsix waiters to get drunk on the stairs. I know that these gratifying\nsocial ends were so invariably accomplished, that Herbert and I\nunderstood nothing else to be referred to in the first standing toast\nof the society: which ran  Gentlemen, may the present promotion of good\nfeeling ever reign predominant among the Finches of the Grove. \n\nThe Finches spent their money foolishly (the Hotel we dined at was in\nCovent Garden), and the first Finch I saw when I had the honour of\njoining the Grove was Bentley Drummle, at that time floundering about\ntown in a cab of his own, and doing a great deal of damage to the posts\nat the street corners. Occasionally, he shot himself out of his\nequipage headforemost over the apron; and I saw him on one occasion\ndeliver himself at the door of the Grove in this unintentional way like\ncoals. But here I anticipate a little, for I was not a Finch, and could\nnot be, according to the sacred laws of the society, until I came of\nage.\n\nIn my confidence in my own resources, I would willingly have taken\nHerbert s expenses on myself; but Herbert was proud, and I could make\nno such proposal to him. So he got into difficulties in every\ndirection, and continued to look about him. When we gradually fell into\nkeeping late hours and late company, I noticed that he looked about him\nwith a desponding eye at breakfast-time; that he began to look about\nhim more hopefully about midday; that he drooped when he came into\ndinner; that he seemed to descry Capital in the distance, rather\nclearly, after dinner; that he all but realised Capital towards\nmidnight; and that at about two o clock in the morning, he became so\ndeeply despondent again as to talk of buying a rifle and going to\nAmerica, with a general purpose of compelling buffaloes to make his\nfortune.\n\nI was usually at Hammersmith about half the week, and when I was at\nHammersmith I haunted Richmond, whereof separately by and by. Herbert\nwould often come to Hammersmith when I was there, and I think at those\nseasons his father would occasionally have some passing perception that\nthe opening he was looking for, had not appeared yet. But in the\ngeneral tumbling up of the family, his tumbling out in life somewhere,\nwas a thing to transact itself somehow. In the meantime Mr. Pocket grew\ngreyer, and tried oftener to lift himself out of his perplexities by\nthe hair. While Mrs. Pocket tripped up the family with her footstool,\nread her book of dignities, lost her pocket-handkerchief, told us about\nher grandpapa, and taught the young idea how to shoot, by shooting it\ninto bed whenever it attracted her notice.\n\nAs I am now generalising a period of my life with the object of\nclearing my way before me, I can scarcely do so better than by at once\ncompleting the description of our usual manners and customs at\nBarnard s Inn.\n\nWe spent as much money as we could, and got as little for it as people\ncould make up their minds to give us. We were always more or less\nmiserable, and most of our acquaintance were in the same condition.\nThere was a gay fiction among us that we were constantly enjoying\nourselves, and a skeleton truth that we never did. To the best of my\nbelief, our case was in the last aspect a rather common one.\n\nEvery morning, with an air ever new, Herbert went into the City to look\nabout him. I often paid him a visit in the dark back-room in which he\nconsorted with an ink-jar, a hat-peg, a coal-box, a string-box, an\nalmanac, a desk and stool, and a ruler; and I do not remember that I\never saw him do anything else but look about him. If we all did what we\nundertake to do, as faithfully as Herbert did, we might live in a\nRepublic of the Virtues. He had nothing else to do, poor fellow, except\nat a certain hour of every afternoon to  go to Lloyd s in observance\nof a ceremony of seeing his principal, I think. He never did anything\nelse in connection with Lloyd s that I could find out, except come back\nagain. When he felt his case unusually serious, and that he positively\nmust find an opening, he would go on  Change at a busy time, and walk\nin and out, in a kind of gloomy country dance figure, among the\nassembled magnates.  For,  says Herbert to me, coming home to dinner on\none of those special occasions,  I find the truth to be, Handel, that\nan opening won t come to one, but one must go to it, so I have been. \n\nIf we had been less attached to one another, I think we must have hated\none another regularly every morning. I detested the chambers beyond\nexpression at that period of repentance, and could not endure the sight\nof the Avenger s livery; which had a more expensive and a less\nremunerative appearance then than at any other time in the\nfour-and-twenty hours. As we got more and more into debt, breakfast\nbecame a hollower and hollower form, and, being on one occasion at\nbreakfast-time threatened (by letter) with legal proceedings,  not\nunwholly unconnected,  as my local paper might put it,  with jewelery, \nI went so far as to seize the Avenger by his blue collar and shake him\noff his feet, so that he was actually in the air, like a booted\nCupid, for presuming to suppose that we wanted a roll.\n\nAt certain times meaning at uncertain times, for they depended on our\nhumour I would say to Herbert, as if it were a remarkable discovery, \n\n My dear Herbert, we are getting on badly. \n\n My dear Handel,  Herbert would say to me, in all sincerity,  if you\nwill believe me, those very words were on my lips, by a strange\ncoincidence. \n\n Then, Herbert,  I would respond,  let us look into our affairs. \n\nWe always derived profound satisfaction from making an appointment for\nthis purpose. I always thought this was business, this was the way to\nconfront the thing, this was the way to take the foe by the throat. And\nI know Herbert thought so too.\n\nWe ordered something rather special for dinner, with a bottle of\nsomething similarly out of the common way, in order that our minds\nmight be fortified for the occasion, and we might come well up to the\nmark. Dinner over, we produced a bundle of pens, a copious supply of\nink, and a goodly show of writing and blotting paper. For there was\nsomething very comfortable in having plenty of stationery.\n\nI would then take a sheet of paper, and write across the top of it, in\na neat hand, the heading,  Memorandum of Pip s debts ; with Barnard s\nInn and the date very carefully added. Herbert would also take a sheet\nof paper, and write across it with similar formalities,  Memorandum of\nHerbert s debts. \n\nEach of us would then refer to a confused heap of papers at his side,\nwhich had been thrown into drawers, worn into holes in pockets, half\nburnt in lighting candles, stuck for weeks into the looking-glass, and\notherwise damaged. The sound of our pens going refreshed us\nexceedingly, insomuch that I sometimes found it difficult to\ndistinguish between this edifying business proceeding and actually\npaying the money. In point of meritorious character, the two things\nseemed about equal.\n\nWhen we had written a little while, I would ask Herbert how he got on?\nHerbert probably would have been scratching his head in a most rueful\nmanner at the sight of his accumulating figures.\n\n They are mounting up, Handel,  Herbert would say;  upon my life, they\nare mounting up. \n\n Be firm, Herbert,  I would retort, plying my own pen with great\nassiduity.  Look the thing in the face. Look into your affairs. Stare\nthem out of countenance. \n\n So I would, Handel, only they are staring _me_ out of countenance. \n\nHowever, my determined manner would have its effect, and Herbert would\nfall to work again. After a time he would give up once more, on the\nplea that he had not got Cobbs s bill, or Lobbs s, or Nobbs s, as the\ncase might be.\n\n Then, Herbert, estimate; estimate it in round numbers, and put it\ndown. \n\n What a fellow of resource you are!  my friend would reply, with\nadmiration.  Really your business powers are very remarkable. \n\nI thought so too. I established with myself, on these occasions, the\nreputation of a first-rate man of business, prompt, decisive,\nenergetic, clear, cool-headed. When I had got all my responsibilities\ndown upon my list, I compared each with the bill, and ticked it off. My\nself-approval when I ticked an entry was quite a luxurious sensation.\nWhen I had no more ticks to make, I folded all my bills up uniformly,\ndocketed each on the back, and tied the whole into a symmetrical\nbundle. Then I did the same for Herbert (who modestly said he had not\nmy administrative genius), and felt that I had brought his affairs into\na focus for him.\n\nMy business habits had one other bright feature, which I called\n leaving a Margin.  For example; supposing Herbert s debts to be one\nhundred and sixty-four pounds four-and-twopence, I would say,  Leave a\nmargin, and put them down at two hundred.  Or, supposing my own to be\nfour times as much, I would leave a margin, and put them down at seven\nhundred. I had the highest opinion of the wisdom of this same Margin,\nbut I am bound to acknowledge that on looking back, I deem it to have\nbeen an expensive device. For, we always ran into new debt immediately,\nto the full extent of the margin, and sometimes, in the sense of\nfreedom and solvency it imparted, got pretty far on into another\nmargin.\n\nBut there was a calm, a rest, a virtuous hush, consequent on these\nexaminations of our affairs that gave me, for the time, an admirable\nopinion of myself. Soothed by my exertions, my method, and Herbert s\ncompliments, I would sit with his symmetrical bundle and my own on the\ntable before me among the stationery, and feel like a Bank of some\nsort, rather than a private individual.\n\nWe shut our outer door on these solemn occasions, in order that we\nmight not be interrupted. I had fallen into my serene state one\nevening, when we heard a letter dropped through the slit in the said\ndoor, and fall on the ground.  It s for you, Handel,  said Herbert,\ngoing out and coming back with it,  and I hope there is nothing the\nmatter.  This was in allusion to its heavy black seal and border.\n\nThe letter was signed Trabb & Co., and its contents were simply, that I\nwas an honoured sir, and that they begged to inform me that Mrs. J.\nGargery had departed this life on Monday last at twenty minutes past\nsix in the evening, and that my attendance was requested at the\ninterment on Monday next at three o clock in the afternoon.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXV.\n\n\nIt was the first time that a grave had opened in my road of life, and\nthe gap it made in the smooth ground was wonderful. The figure of my\nsister in her chair by the kitchen fire, haunted me night and day. That\nthe place could possibly be, without her, was something my mind seemed\nunable to compass; and whereas she had seldom or never been in my\nthoughts of late, I had now the strangest ideas that she was coming\ntowards me in the street, or that she would presently knock at the\ndoor. In my rooms too, with which she had never been at all associated,\nthere was at once the blankness of death and a perpetual suggestion of\nthe sound of her voice or the turn of her face or figure, as if she\nwere still alive and had been often there.\n\nWhatever my fortunes might have been, I could scarcely have recalled my\nsister with much tenderness. But I suppose there is a shock of regret\nwhich may exist without much tenderness. Under its influence (and\nperhaps to make up for the want of the softer feeling) I was seized\nwith a violent indignation against the assailant from whom she had\nsuffered so much; and I felt that on sufficient proof I could have\nrevengefully pursued Orlick, or any one else, to the last extremity.\n\nHaving written to Joe, to offer him consolation, and to assure him that\nI would come to the funeral, I passed the intermediate days in the\ncurious state of mind I have glanced at. I went down early in the\nmorning, and alighted at the Blue Boar in good time to walk over to the\nforge.\n\nIt was fine summer weather again, and, as I walked along, the times\nwhen I was a little helpless creature, and my sister did not spare me,\nvividly returned. But they returned with a gentle tone upon them that\nsoftened even the edge of Tickler. For now, the very breath of the\nbeans and clover whispered to my heart that the day must come when it\nwould be well for my memory that others walking in the sunshine should\nbe softened as they thought of me.\n\nAt last I came within sight of the house, and saw that Trabb and Co.\nhad put in a funereal execution and taken possession. Two dismally\nabsurd persons, each ostentatiously exhibiting a crutch done up in a\nblack bandage, as if that instrument could possibly communicate any\ncomfort to anybody, were posted at the front door; and in one of them I\nrecognised a postboy discharged from the Boar for turning a young\ncouple into a sawpit on their bridal morning, in consequence of\nintoxication rendering it necessary for him to ride his horse clasped\nround the neck with both arms. All the children of the village, and\nmost of the women, were admiring these sable warders and the closed\nwindows of the house and forge; and as I came up, one of the two\nwarders (the postboy) knocked at the door, implying that I was far too\nmuch exhausted by grief to have strength remaining to knock for myself.\n\nAnother sable warder (a carpenter, who had once eaten two geese for a\nwager) opened the door, and showed me into the best parlour. Here, Mr.\nTrabb had taken unto himself the best table, and had got all the leaves\nup, and was holding a kind of black Bazaar, with the aid of a quantity\nof black pins. At the moment of my arrival, he had just finished\nputting somebody s hat into black long-clothes, like an African baby;\nso he held out his hand for mine. But I, misled by the action, and\nconfused by the occasion, shook hands with him with every testimony of\nwarm affection.\n\nPoor dear Joe, entangled in a little black cloak tied in a large bow\nunder his chin, was seated apart at the upper end of the room; where,\nas chief mourner, he had evidently been stationed by Trabb. When I bent\ndown and said to him,  Dear Joe, how are you?  he said,  Pip, old chap,\nyou knowed her when she were a fine figure of a  and clasped my hand\nand said no more.\n\nBiddy, looking very neat and modest in her black dress, went quietly\nhere and there, and was very helpful. When I had spoken to Biddy, as I\nthought it not a time for talking I went and sat down near Joe, and\nthere began to wonder in what part of the house it she my sister was.\nThe air of the parlour being faint with the smell of sweet-cake, I\nlooked about for the table of refreshments; it was scarcely visible\nuntil one had got accustomed to the gloom, but there was a cut-up plum\ncake upon it, and there were cut-up oranges, and sandwiches, and\nbiscuits, and two decanters that I knew very well as ornaments, but had\nnever seen used in all my life; one full of port, and one of sherry.\nStanding at this table, I became conscious of the servile Pumblechook\nin a black cloak and several yards of hatband, who was alternately\nstuffing himself, and making obsequious movements to catch my\nattention. The moment he succeeded, he came over to me (breathing\nsherry and crumbs), and said in a subdued voice,  May I, dear sir?  and\ndid. I then descried Mr. and Mrs. Hubble; the last-named in a decent\nspeechless paroxysm in a corner. We were all going to  follow,  and\nwere all in course of being tied up separately (by Trabb) into\nridiculous bundles.\n\n Which I meantersay, Pip,  Joe whispered me, as we were being what Mr.\nTrabb called  formed  in the parlour, two and two, and it was\ndreadfully like a preparation for some grim kind of dance;  which I\nmeantersay, sir, as I would in preference have carried her to the\nchurch myself, along with three or four friendly ones wot come to it\nwith willing harts and arms, but it were considered wot the neighbours\nwould look down on such and would be of opinions as it were wanting in\nrespect. \n\n Pocket-handkerchiefs out, all!  cried Mr. Trabb at this point, in a\ndepressed business-like voice.  Pocket-handkerchiefs out! We are\nready! \n\nSo we all put our pocket-handkerchiefs to our faces, as if our noses\nwere bleeding, and filed out two and two; Joe and I; Biddy and\nPumblechook; Mr. and Mrs. Hubble. The remains of my poor sister had\nbeen brought round by the kitchen door, and, it being a point of\nUndertaking ceremony that the six bearers must be stifled and blinded\nunder a horrible black velvet housing with a white border, the whole\nlooked like a blind monster with twelve human legs, shuffling and\nblundering along, under the guidance of two keepers, the postboy and\nhis comrade.\n\nThe neighbourhood, however, highly approved of these arrangements, and\nwe were much admired as we went through the village; the more youthful\nand vigorous part of the community making dashes now and then to cut us\noff, and lying in wait to intercept us at points of vantage. At such\ntimes the more exuberant among them called out in an excited manner on\nour emergence round some corner of expectancy,  _Here_ they come! \n _Here_ they are!  and we were all but cheered. In this progress I was\nmuch annoyed by the abject Pumblechook, who, being behind me, persisted\nall the way as a delicate attention in arranging my streaming hatband,\nand smoothing my cloak. My thoughts were further distracted by the\nexcessive pride of Mr. and Mrs. Hubble, who were surpassingly conceited\nand vainglorious in being members of so distinguished a procession.\n\nAnd now the range of marshes lay clear before us, with the sails of the\nships on the river growing out of it; and we went into the churchyard,\nclose to the graves of my unknown parents, Philip Pirrip, late of this\nparish, and Also Georgiana, Wife of the Above. And there, my sister was\nlaid quietly in the earth, while the larks sang high above it, and the\nlight wind strewed it with beautiful shadows of clouds and trees.\n\nOf the conduct of the worldly minded Pumblechook while this was doing,\nI desire to say no more than it was all addressed to me; and that even\nwhen those noble passages were read which remind humanity how it\nbrought nothing into the world and can take nothing out, and how it\nfleeth like a shadow and never continueth long in one stay, I heard him\ncough a reservation of the case of a young gentleman who came\nunexpectedly into large property. When we got back, he had the\nhardihood to tell me that he wished my sister could have known I had\ndone her so much honour, and to hint that she would have considered it\nreasonably purchased at the price of her death. After that, he drank\nall the rest of the sherry, and Mr. Hubble drank the port, and the two\ntalked (which I have since observed to be customary in such cases) as\nif they were of quite another race from the deceased, and were\nnotoriously immortal. Finally, he went away with Mr. and Mrs.\nHubble, to make an evening of it, I felt sure, and to tell the Jolly\nBargemen that he was the founder of my fortunes and my earliest\nbenefactor.\n\nWhen they were all gone, and when Trabb and his men but not his Boy; I\nlooked for him had crammed their mummery into bags, and were gone too,\nthe house felt wholesomer. Soon afterwards, Biddy, Joe, and I, had a\ncold dinner together; but we dined in the best parlour, not in the old\nkitchen, and Joe was so exceedingly particular what he did with his\nknife and fork and the saltcellar and what not, that there was great\nrestraint upon us. But after dinner, when I made him take his pipe, and\nwhen I had loitered with him about the forge, and when we sat down\ntogether on the great block of stone outside it, we got on better. I\nnoticed that after the funeral Joe changed his clothes so far, as to\nmake a compromise between his Sunday dress and working dress; in which\nthe dear fellow looked natural, and like the Man he was.\n\nHe was very much pleased by my asking if I might sleep in my own little\nroom, and I was pleased too; for I felt that I had done rather a great\nthing in making the request. When the shadows of evening were closing\nin, I took an opportunity of getting into the garden with Biddy for a\nlittle talk.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  I think you might have written to me about these sad\nmatters. \n\n Do you, Mr. Pip?  said Biddy.  I should have written if I had thought\nthat. \n\n Don t suppose that I mean to be unkind, Biddy, when I say I consider\nthat you ought to have thought that. \n\n Do you, Mr. Pip? \n\nShe was so quiet, and had such an orderly, good, and pretty way with\nher, that I did not like the thought of making her cry again. After\nlooking a little at her downcast eyes as she walked beside me, I gave\nup that point.\n\n I suppose it will be difficult for you to remain here now, Biddy\ndear? \n\n Oh! I can t do so, Mr. Pip,  said Biddy, in a tone of regret but still\nof quiet conviction.  I have been speaking to Mrs. Hubble, and I am\ngoing to her to-morrow. I hope we shall be able to take some care of\nMr. Gargery, together, until he settles down. \n\n How are you going to live, Biddy? If you want any mo \n\n How am I going to live?  repeated Biddy, striking in, with a momentary\nflush upon her face.  I ll tell you, Mr. Pip. I am going to try to get\nthe place of mistress in the new school nearly finished here. I can be\nwell recommended by all the neighbours, and I hope I can be industrious\nand patient, and teach myself while I teach others. You know, Mr. Pip, \npursued Biddy, with a smile, as she raised her eyes to my face,  the\nnew schools are not like the old, but I learnt a good deal from you\nafter that time, and have had time since then to improve. \n\n I think you would always improve, Biddy, under any circumstances. \n\n Ah! Except in my bad side of human nature,  murmured Biddy.\n\nIt was not so much a reproach as an irresistible thinking aloud. Well!\nI thought I would give up that point too. So, I walked a little further\nwith Biddy, looking silently at her downcast eyes.\n\n I have not heard the particulars of my sister s death, Biddy. \n\n They are very slight, poor thing. She had been in one of her bad\nstates though they had got better of late, rather than worse for four\ndays, when she came out of it in the evening, just at tea-time, and\nsaid quite plainly,  Joe.  As she had never said any word for a long\nwhile, I ran and fetched in Mr. Gargery from the forge. She made signs\nto me that she wanted him to sit down close to her, and wanted me to\nput her arms round his neck. So I put them round his neck, and she laid\nher head down on his shoulder quite content and satisfied. And so she\npresently said  Joe  again, and once  Pardon,  and once  Pip.  And so\nshe never lifted her head up any more, and it was just an hour later\nwhen we laid it down on her own bed, because we found she was gone. \n\nBiddy cried; the darkening garden, and the lane, and the stars that\nwere coming out, were blurred in my own sight.\n\n Nothing was ever discovered, Biddy? \n\n Nothing. \n\n Do you know what is become of Orlick? \n\n I should think from the colour of his clothes that he is working in\nthe quarries. \n\n Of course you have seen him then? Why are you looking at that dark\ntree in the lane? \n\n I saw him there, on the night she died. \n\n That was not the last time either, Biddy? \n\n No; I have seen him there, since we have been walking here. It is of\nno use,  said Biddy, laying her hand upon my arm, as I was for running\nout,  you know I would not deceive you; he was not there a minute, and\nhe is gone. \n\nIt revived my utmost indignation to find that she was still pursued by\nthis fellow, and I felt inveterate against him. I told her so, and told\nher that I would spend any money or take any pains to drive him out of\nthat country. By degrees she led me into more temperate talk, and she\ntold me how Joe loved me, and how Joe never complained of anything, she\ndidn t say, of me; she had no need; I knew what she meant, but ever did\nhis duty in his way of life, with a strong hand, a quiet tongue, and a\ngentle heart.\n\n Indeed, it would be hard to say too much for him,  said I;  and Biddy,\nwe must often speak of these things, for of course I shall be often\ndown here now. I am not going to leave poor Joe alone. \n\nBiddy said never a single word.\n\n Biddy, don t you hear me? \n\n Yes, Mr. Pip. \n\n Not to mention your calling me Mr. Pip, which appears to me to be in\nbad taste, Biddy, what do you mean? \n\n What do I mean?  asked Biddy, timidly.\n\n Biddy,  said I, in a virtuously self-asserting manner,  I must request\nto know what you mean by this? \n\n By this?  said Biddy.\n\n Now, don t echo,  I retorted.  You used not to echo, Biddy. \n\n Used not!  said Biddy.  O Mr. Pip! Used! \n\nWell! I rather thought I would give up that point too. After another\nsilent turn in the garden, I fell back on the main position.\n\n Biddy,  said I,  I made a remark respecting my coming down here often,\nto see Joe, which you received with a marked silence. Have the\ngoodness, Biddy, to tell me why. \n\n Are you quite sure, then, that you WILL come to see him often?  asked\nBiddy, stopping in the narrow garden walk, and looking at me under the\nstars with a clear and honest eye.\n\n O dear me!  said I, as if I found myself compelled to give up Biddy in\ndespair.  This really is a very bad side of human nature! Don t say any\nmore, if you please, Biddy. This shocks me very much. \n\nFor which cogent reason I kept Biddy at a distance during supper, and\nwhen I went up to my own old little room, took as stately a leave of\nher as I could, in my murmuring soul, deem reconcilable with the\nchurchyard and the event of the day. As often as I was restless in the\nnight, and that was every quarter of an hour, I reflected what an\nunkindness, what an injury, what an injustice, Biddy had done me.\n\nEarly in the morning I was to go. Early in the morning I was out, and\nlooking in, unseen, at one of the wooden windows of the forge. There I\nstood, for minutes, looking at Joe, already at work with a glow of\nhealth and strength upon his face that made it show as if the bright\nsun of the life in store for him were shining on it.\n\n Good-bye, dear Joe! No, don t wipe it off for God s sake, give me your\nblackened hand! I shall be down soon and often. \n\n[Illustration]\n\n Never too soon, sir,  said Joe,  and never too often, Pip! \n\nBiddy was waiting for me at the kitchen door, with a mug of new milk\nand a crust of bread.  Biddy,  said I, when I gave her my hand at\nparting,  I am not angry, but I am hurt. \n\n No, don t be hurt,  she pleaded quite pathetically;  let only me be\nhurt, if I have been ungenerous. \n\nOnce more, the mists were rising as I walked away. If they disclosed to\nme, as I suspect they did, that I should _not_ come back, and that\nBiddy was quite right, all I can say is, they were quite right too.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVI.\n\n\nHerbert and I went on from bad to worse, in the way of increasing our\ndebts, looking into our affairs, leaving Margins, and the like\nexemplary transactions; and Time went on, whether or no, as he has a\nway of doing; and I came of age, in fulfilment of Herbert s prediction,\nthat I should do so before I knew where I was.\n\nHerbert himself had come of age eight months before me. As he had\nnothing else than his majority to come into, the event did not make a\nprofound sensation in Barnard s Inn. But we had looked forward to my\none-and-twentieth birthday, with a crowd of speculations and\nanticipations, for we had both considered that my guardian could hardly\nhelp saying something definite on that occasion.\n\nI had taken care to have it well understood in Little Britain when my\nbirthday was. On the day before it, I received an official note from\nWemmick, informing me that Mr. Jaggers would be glad if I would call\nupon him at five in the afternoon of the auspicious day. This convinced\nus that something great was to happen, and threw me into an unusual\nflutter when I repaired to my guardian s office, a model of\npunctuality.\n\nIn the outer office Wemmick offered me his congratulations, and\nincidentally rubbed the side of his nose with a folded piece of\ntissue-paper that I liked the look of. But he said nothing respecting\nit, and motioned me with a nod into my guardian s room. It was\nNovember, and my guardian was standing before his fire leaning his back\nagainst the chimney-piece, with his hands under his coattails.\n\n Well, Pip,  said he,  I must call you Mr. Pip to-day. Congratulations,\nMr. Pip. \n\nWe shook hands, he was always a remarkably short shaker, and I thanked\nhim.\n\n Take a chair, Mr. Pip,  said my guardian.\n\nAs I sat down, and he preserved his attitude and bent his brows at his\nboots, I felt at a disadvantage, which reminded me of that old time\nwhen I had been put upon a tombstone. The two ghastly casts on the\nshelf were not far from him, and their expression was as if they were\nmaking a stupid apoplectic attempt to attend to the conversation.\n\n Now my young friend,  my guardian began, as if I were a witness in the\nbox,  I am going to have a word or two with you. \n\n If you please, sir. \n\n What do you suppose,  said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at the\nground, and then throwing his head back to look at the ceiling, what\ndo you suppose you are living at the rate of? \n\n At the rate of, sir? \n\n At,  repeated Mr. Jaggers, still looking at the ceiling,\n the rate of?  And then looked all round the room, and paused with his\npocket-handkerchief in his hand, half-way to his nose.\n\nI had looked into my affairs so often, that I had thoroughly destroyed\nany slight notion I might ever have had of their bearings. Reluctantly,\nI confessed myself quite unable to answer the question. This reply\nseemed agreeable to Mr. Jaggers, who said,  I thought so!  and blew his\nnose with an air of satisfaction.\n\n Now, I have asked _you_ a question, my friend,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n Have you anything to ask _me_? \n\n Of course it would be a great relief to me to ask you several\nquestions, sir; but I remember your prohibition. \n\n Ask one,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Is my benefactor to be made known to me to-day? \n\n No. Ask another. \n\n Is that confidence to be imparted to me soon? \n\n Waive that, a moment,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and ask another. \n\nI looked about me, but there appeared to be now no possible escape from\nthe inquiry,  Have-I anything to receive, sir?  On that, Mr. Jaggers\nsaid, triumphantly,  I thought we should come to it!  and called to\nWemmick to give him that piece of paper. Wemmick appeared, handed it\nin, and disappeared.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers,  attend, if you please. You have been\ndrawing pretty freely here; your name occurs pretty often in Wemmick s\ncash-book; but you are in debt, of course? \n\n I am afraid I must say yes, sir. \n\n You know you must say yes; don t you?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n I don t ask you what you owe, because you don t know; and if you did\nknow, you wouldn t tell me; you would say less. Yes, yes, my friend, \ncried Mr. Jaggers, waving his forefinger to stop me as I made a show of\nprotesting:  it s likely enough that you think you wouldn t, but you\nwould. You ll excuse me, but I know better than you. Now, take this\npiece of paper in your hand. You have got it? Very good. Now, unfold it\nand tell me what it is. \n\n This is a bank-note,  said I,  for five hundred pounds. \n\n That is a bank-note,  repeated Mr. Jaggers,  for five hundred pounds.\nAnd a very handsome sum of money too, I think. You consider it so? \n\n How could I do otherwise! \n\n Ah! But answer the question,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Undoubtedly. \n\n You consider it, undoubtedly, a handsome sum of money. Now, that\nhandsome sum of money, Pip, is your own. It is a present to you on this\nday, in earnest of your expectations. And at the rate of that handsome\nsum of money per annum, and at no higher rate, you are to live until\nthe donor of the whole appears. That is to say, you will now take your\nmoney affairs entirely into your own hands, and you will draw from\nWemmick one hundred and twenty-five pounds per quarter, until you are\nin communication with the fountain-head, and no longer with the mere\nagent. As I have told you before, I am the mere agent. I execute my\ninstructions, and I am paid for doing so. I think them injudicious, but\nI am not paid for giving any opinion on their merits. \n\nI was beginning to express my gratitude to my benefactor for the great\nliberality with which I was treated, when Mr. Jaggers stopped me.  I am\nnot paid, Pip,  said he, coolly,  to carry your words to any one;  and\nthen gathered up his coat-tails, as he had gathered up the subject, and\nstood frowning at his boots as if he suspected them of designs against\nhim.\n\nAfter a pause, I hinted, \n\n There was a question just now, Mr. Jaggers, which you desired me to\nwaive for a moment. I hope I am doing nothing wrong in asking it\nagain? \n\n What is it?  said he.\n\nI might have known that he would never help me out; but it took me\naback to have to shape the question afresh, as if it were quite new.\n Is it likely,  I said, after hesitating,  that my patron, the\nfountain-head you have spoken of, Mr. Jaggers, will soon  there I\ndelicately stopped.\n\n Will soon what?  asked Mr. Jaggers.  That s no question as it stands,\nyou know. \n\n Will soon come to London,  said I, after casting about for a precise\nform of words,  or summon me anywhere else? \n\n Now, here,  replied Mr. Jaggers, fixing me for the first time with his\ndark deep-set eyes,  we must revert to the evening when we first\nencountered one another in your village. What did I tell you then,\nPip? \n\n You told me, Mr. Jaggers, that it might be years hence when that\nperson appeared. \n\n Just so,  said Mr. Jaggers,  that s my answer. \n\nAs we looked full at one another, I felt my breath come quicker in my\nstrong desire to get something out of him. And as I felt that it came\nquicker, and as I felt that he saw that it came quicker, I felt that I\nhad less chance than ever of getting anything out of him.\n\n Do you suppose it will still be years hence, Mr. Jaggers? \n\nMr. Jaggers shook his head, not in negativing the question, but in\naltogether negativing the notion that he could anyhow be got to answer\nit, and the two horrible casts of the twitched faces looked, when my\neyes strayed up to them, as if they had come to a crisis in their\nsuspended attention, and were going to sneeze.\n\n Come!  said Mr. Jaggers, warming the backs of his legs with the backs\nof his warmed hands,  I ll be plain with you, my friend Pip. That s a\nquestion I must not be asked. You ll understand that better, when I\ntell you it s a question that might compromise _me_. Come! I ll go a\nlittle further with you; I ll say something more. \n\nHe bent down so low to frown at his boots, that he was able to rub the\ncalves of his legs in the pause he made.\n\n When that person discloses,  said Mr. Jaggers, straightening himself,\n you and that person will settle your own affairs. When that person\ndiscloses, my part in this business will cease and determine. When that\nperson discloses, it will not be necessary for me to know anything\nabout it. And that s all I have got to say. \n\nWe looked at one another until I withdrew my eyes, and looked\nthoughtfully at the floor. From this last speech I derived the notion\nthat Miss Havisham, for some reason or no reason, had not taken him\ninto her confidence as to her designing me for Estella; that he\nresented this, and felt a jealousy about it; or that he really did\nobject to that scheme, and would have nothing to do with it. When I\nraised my eyes again, I found that he had been shrewdly looking at me\nall the time, and was doing so still.\n\n If that is all you have to say, sir,  I remarked,  there can be\nnothing left for me to say. \n\nHe nodded assent, and pulled out his thief-dreaded watch, and asked me\nwhere I was going to dine? I replied at my own chambers, with Herbert.\nAs a necessary sequence, I asked him if he would favour us with his\ncompany, and he promptly accepted the invitation. But he insisted on\nwalking home with me, in order that I might make no extra preparation\nfor him, and first he had a letter or two to write, and (of course) had\nhis hands to wash. So I said I would go into the outer office and talk\nto Wemmick.\n\nThe fact was, that when the five hundred pounds had come into my\npocket, a thought had come into my head which had been often there\nbefore; and it appeared to me that Wemmick was a good person to advise\nwith concerning such thought.\n\nHe had already locked up his safe, and made preparations for going\nhome. He had left his desk, brought out his two greasy office\ncandlesticks and stood them in line with the snuffers on a slab near\nthe door, ready to be extinguished; he had raked his fire low, put his\nhat and great-coat ready, and was beating himself all over the chest\nwith his safe-key, as an athletic exercise after business.\n\n Mr. Wemmick,  said I,  I want to ask your opinion. I am very desirous\nto serve a friend. \n\nWemmick tightened his post-office and shook his head, as if his opinion\nwere dead against any fatal weakness of that sort.\n\n This friend,  I pursued,  is trying to get on in commercial life, but\nhas no money, and finds it difficult and disheartening to make a\nbeginning. Now I want somehow to help him to a beginning. \n\n With money down?  said Wemmick, in a tone drier than any sawdust.\n\n With _some_ money down,  I replied, for an uneasy remembrance shot\nacross me of that symmetrical bundle of papers at home with _some_\nmoney down, and perhaps some anticipation of my expectations. \n\n Mr. Pip,  said Wemmick,  I should like just to run over with you on my\nfingers, if you please, the names of the various bridges up as high as\nChelsea Reach. Let s see; there s London, one; Southwark, two;\nBlackfriars, three; Waterloo, four; Westminster, five; Vauxhall, six. \nHe had checked off each bridge in its turn, with the handle of his\nsafe-key on the palm of his hand.  There s as many as six, you see, to\nchoose from. \n\n I don t understand you,  said I.\n\n Choose your bridge, Mr. Pip,  returned Wemmick,  and take a walk upon\nyour bridge, and pitch your money into the Thames over the centre arch\nof your bridge, and you know the end of it. Serve a friend with it, and\nyou may know the end of it too, but it s a less pleasant and profitable\nend. \n\nI could have posted a newspaper in his mouth, he made it so wide after\nsaying this.\n\n This is very discouraging,  said I.\n\n Meant to be so,  said Wemmick.\n\n Then is it your opinion,  I inquired, with some little indignation,\n that a man should never \n\n Invest portable property in a friend?  said Wemmick.  Certainly he\nshould not. Unless he wants to get rid of the friend, and then it\nbecomes a question how much portable property it may be worth to get\nrid of him. \n\n And that,  said I,  is your deliberate opinion, Mr. Wemmick? \n\n That,  he returned,  is my deliberate opinion in this office. \n\n Ah!  said I, pressing him, for I thought I saw him near a loophole\nhere;  but would that be your opinion at Walworth? \n\n Mr. Pip,  he replied, with gravity,  Walworth is one place, and this\noffice is another. Much as the Aged is one person, and Mr. Jaggers is\nanother. They must not be confounded together. My Walworth sentiments\nmust be taken at Walworth; none but my official sentiments can be taken\nin this office. \n\n Very well,  said I, much relieved,  then I shall look you up at\nWalworth, you may depend upon it. \n\n Mr. Pip,  he returned,  you will be welcome there, in a private and\npersonal capacity. \n\nWe had held this conversation in a low voice, well knowing my\nguardian s ears to be the sharpest of the sharp. As he now appeared in\nhis doorway, towelling his hands, Wemmick got on his great-coat and\nstood by to snuff out the candles. We all three went into the street\ntogether, and from the door-step Wemmick turned his way, and Mr.\nJaggers and I turned ours.\n\nI could not help wishing more than once that evening, that Mr. Jaggers\nhad had an Aged in Gerrard Street, or a Stinger, or a Something, or a\nSomebody, to unbend his brows a little. It was an uncomfortable\nconsideration on a twenty-first birthday, that coming of age at all\nseemed hardly worth while in such a guarded and suspicious world as he\nmade of it. He was a thousand times better informed and cleverer than\nWemmick, and yet I would a thousand times rather have had Wemmick to\ndinner. And Mr. Jaggers made not me alone intensely melancholy,\nbecause, after he was gone, Herbert said of himself, with his eyes\nfixed on the fire, that he thought he must have committed a felony and\nforgotten the details of it, he felt so dejected and guilty.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVII.\n\n\nDeeming Sunday the best day for taking Mr. Wemmick s Walworth\nsentiments, I devoted the next ensuing Sunday afternoon to a pilgrimage\nto the Castle. On arriving before the battlements, I found the Union\nJack flying and the drawbridge up; but undeterred by this show of\ndefiance and resistance, I rang at the gate, and was admitted in a most\npacific manner by the Aged.\n\n My son, sir,  said the old man, after securing the drawbridge,  rather\nhad it in his mind that you might happen to drop in, and he left word\nthat he would soon be home from his afternoon s walk. He is very\nregular in his walks, is my son. Very regular in everything, is my\nson. \n\nI nodded at the old gentleman as Wemmick himself might have nodded, and\nwe went in and sat down by the fireside.\n\n You made acquaintance with my son, sir,  said the old man, in his\nchirping way, while he warmed his hands at the blaze,  at his office, I\nexpect?  I nodded.  Hah! I have heerd that my son is a wonderful hand\nat his business, sir?  I nodded hard.  Yes; so they tell me. His\nbusiness is the Law?  I nodded harder.  Which makes it more surprising\nin my son,  said the old man,  for he was not brought up to the Law,\nbut to the Wine-Coopering. \n\nCurious to know how the old gentleman stood informed concerning the\nreputation of Mr. Jaggers, I roared that name at him. He threw me into\nthe greatest confusion by laughing heartily and replying in a very\nsprightly manner,  No, to be sure; you re right.  And to this hour I\nhave not the faintest notion what he meant, or what joke he thought I\nhad made.\n\nAs I could not sit there nodding at him perpetually, without making\nsome other attempt to interest him, I shouted at inquiry whether his\nown calling in life had been  the Wine-Coopering.  By dint of straining\nthat term out of myself several times and tapping the old gentleman on\nthe chest to associate it with him, I at last succeeded in making my\nmeaning understood.\n\n No,  said the old gentleman;  the warehousing, the warehousing. First,\nover yonder;  he appeared to mean up the chimney, but I believe he\nintended to refer me to Liverpool;  and then in the City of London\nhere. However, having an infirmity for I am hard of hearing, sir \n\nI expressed in pantomime the greatest astonishment.\n\n Yes, hard of hearing; having that infirmity coming upon me, my son he\nwent into the Law, and he took charge of me, and he by little and\nlittle made out this elegant and beautiful property. But returning to\nwhat you said, you know,  pursued the old man, again laughing heartily,\n what I say is, No to be sure; you re right. \n\nI was modestly wondering whether my utmost ingenuity would have enabled\nme to say anything that would have amused him half as much as this\nimaginary pleasantry, when I was startled by a sudden click in the wall\non one side of the chimney, and the ghostly tumbling open of a little\nwooden flap with  JOHN  upon it. The old man, following my eyes, cried\nwith great triumph,  My son s come home!  and we both went out to the\ndrawbridge.\n\nIt was worth any money to see Wemmick waving a salute to me from the\nother side of the moat, when we might have shaken hands across it with\nthe greatest ease. The Aged was so delighted to work the drawbridge,\nthat I made no offer to assist him, but stood quiet until Wemmick had\ncome across, and had presented me to Miss Skiffins; a lady by whom he\nwas accompanied.\n\nMiss Skiffins was of a wooden appearance, and was, like her escort, in\nthe post-office branch of the service. She might have been some two or\nthree years younger than Wemmick, and I judged her to stand possessed\nof portable property. The cut of her dress from the waist upward, both\nbefore and behind, made her figure very like a boy s kite; and I might\nhave pronounced her gown a little too decidedly orange, and her gloves\na little too intensely green. But she seemed to be a good sort of\nfellow, and showed a high regard for the Aged. I was not long in\ndiscovering that she was a frequent visitor at the Castle; for, on our\ngoing in, and my complimenting Wemmick on his ingenious contrivance for\nannouncing himself to the Aged, he begged me to give my attention for a\nmoment to the other side of the chimney, and disappeared. Presently\nanother click came, and another little door tumbled open with  Miss\nSkiffins  on it; then Miss Skiffins shut up and John tumbled open; then\nMiss Skiffins and John both tumbled open together, and finally shut up\ntogether. On Wemmick s return from working these mechanical appliances,\nI expressed the great admiration with which I regarded them, and he\nsaid,  Well, you know, they re both pleasant and useful to the Aged.\nAnd by George, sir, it s a thing worth mentioning, that of all the\npeople who come to this gate, the secret of those pulls is only known\nto the Aged, Miss Skiffins, and me! \n\n And Mr. Wemmick made them,  added Miss Skiffins,  with his own hands\nout of his own head. \n\nWhile Miss Skiffins was taking off her bonnet (she retained her green\ngloves during the evening as an outward and visible sign that there was\ncompany), Wemmick invited me to take a walk with him round the\nproperty, and see how the island looked in wintertime. Thinking that he\ndid this to give me an opportunity of taking his Walworth sentiments, I\nseized the opportunity as soon as we were out of the Castle.\n\nHaving thought of the matter with care, I approached my subject as if I\nhad never hinted at it before. I informed Wemmick that I was anxious in\nbehalf of Herbert Pocket, and I told him how we had first met, and how\nwe had fought. I glanced at Herbert s home, and at his character, and\nat his having no means but such as he was dependent on his father for;\nthose, uncertain and unpunctual. I alluded to the advantages I had\nderived in my first rawness and ignorance from his society, and I\nconfessed that I feared I had but ill repaid them, and that he might\nhave done better without me and my expectations. Keeping Miss Havisham\nin the background at a great distance, I still hinted at the\npossibility of my having competed with him in his prospects, and at the\ncertainty of his possessing a generous soul, and being far above any\nmean distrusts, retaliations, or designs. For all these reasons (I told\nWemmick), and because he was my young companion and friend, and I had a\ngreat affection for him, I wished my own good fortune to reflect some\nrays upon him, and therefore I sought advice from Wemmick s experience\nand knowledge of men and affairs, how I could best try with my\nresources to help Herbert to some present income, say of a hundred a\nyear, to keep him in good hope and heart, and gradually to buy him on\nto some small partnership. I begged Wemmick, in conclusion, to\nunderstand that my help must always be rendered without Herbert s\nknowledge or suspicion, and that there was no one else in the world\nwith whom I could advise. I wound up by laying my hand upon his\nshoulder, and saying,  I can t help confiding in you, though I know it\nmust be troublesome to you; but that is your fault, in having ever\nbrought me here. \n\nWemmick was silent for a little while, and then said with a kind of\nstart,  Well you know, Mr. Pip, I must tell you one thing. This is\ndevilish good of you. \n\n Say you ll help me to be good then,  said I.\n\n Ecod,  replied Wemmick, shaking his head,  that s not my trade. \n\n Nor is this your trading-place,  said I.\n\n You are right,  he returned.  You hit the nail on the head. Mr. Pip,\nI ll put on my considering-cap, and I think all you want to do may be\ndone by degrees. Skiffins (that s her brother) is an accountant and\nagent. I ll look him up and go to work for you. \n\n I thank you ten thousand times. \n\n On the contrary,  said he,  I thank you, for though we are strictly in\nour private and personal capacity, still it may be mentioned that there\n_are_ Newgate cobwebs about, and it brushes them away. \n\nAfter a little further conversation to the same effect, we returned\ninto the Castle where we found Miss Skiffins preparing tea. The\nresponsible duty of making the toast was delegated to the Aged, and\nthat excellent old gentleman was so intent upon it that he seemed to me\nin some danger of melting his eyes. It was no nominal meal that we were\ngoing to make, but a vigorous reality. The Aged prepared such a\nhay-stack of buttered toast, that I could scarcely see him over it as\nit simmered on an iron stand hooked on to the top-bar; while Miss\nSkiffins brewed such a jorum of tea, that the pig in the back premises\nbecame strongly excited, and repeatedly expressed his desire to\nparticipate in the entertainment.\n\nThe flag had been struck, and the gun had been fired, at the right\nmoment of time, and I felt as snugly cut off from the rest of Walworth\nas if the moat were thirty feet wide by as many deep. Nothing disturbed\nthe tranquillity of the Castle, but the occasional tumbling open of\nJohn and Miss Skiffins: which little doors were a prey to some\nspasmodic infirmity that made me sympathetically uncomfortable until I\ngot used to it. I inferred from the methodical nature of Miss\nSkiffins s arrangements that she made tea there every Sunday night; and\nI rather suspected that a classic brooch she wore, representing the\nprofile of an undesirable female with a very straight nose and a very\nnew moon, was a piece of portable property that had been given her by\nWemmick.\n\nWe ate the whole of the toast, and drank tea in proportion, and it was\ndelightful to see how warm and greasy we all got after it. The Aged\nespecially, might have passed for some clean old chief of a savage\ntribe, just oiled. After a short pause of repose, Miss Skiffins in the\nabsence of the little servant who, it seemed, retired to the bosom of\nher family on Sunday afternoons washed up the tea-things, in a trifling\nlady-like amateur manner that compromised none of us. Then, she put on\nher gloves again, and we drew round the fire, and Wemmick said,  Now,\nAged Parent, tip us the paper. \n\nWemmick explained to me while the Aged got his spectacles out, that\nthis was according to custom, and that it gave the old gentleman\ninfinite satisfaction to read the news aloud.  I won t offer an\napology,  said Wemmick,  for he isn t capable of many pleasures are\nyou, Aged P.? \n\n All right, John, all right,  returned the old man, seeing himself\nspoken to.\n\n Only tip him a nod every now and then when he looks off his paper, \nsaid Wemmick,  and he ll be as happy as a king. We are all attention,\nAged One. \n\n All right, John, all right!  returned the cheerful old man, so busy\nand so pleased, that it really was quite charming.\n\nThe Aged s reading reminded me of the classes at Mr. Wopsle s\ngreat-aunt s, with the pleasanter peculiarity that it seemed to come\nthrough a keyhole. As he wanted the candles close to him, and as he was\nalways on the verge of putting either his head or the newspaper into\nthem, he required as much watching as a powder-mill. But Wemmick was\nequally untiring and gentle in his vigilance, and the Aged read on,\nquite unconscious of his many rescues. Whenever he looked at us, we all\nexpressed the greatest interest and amazement, and nodded until he\nresumed again.\n\nAs Wemmick and Miss Skiffins sat side by side, and as I sat in a\nshadowy corner, I observed a slow and gradual elongation of Mr.\nWemmick s mouth, powerfully suggestive of his slowly and gradually\nstealing his arm round Miss Skiffins s waist. In course of time I saw\nhis hand appear on the other side of Miss Skiffins; but at that moment\nMiss Skiffins neatly stopped him with the green glove, unwound his arm\nagain as if it were an article of dress, and with the greatest\ndeliberation laid it on the table before her. Miss Skiffins s composure\nwhile she did this was one of the most remarkable sights I have ever\nseen, and if I could have thought the act consistent with abstraction\nof mind, I should have deemed that Miss Skiffins performed it\nmechanically.\n\nBy and by, I noticed Wemmick s arm beginning to disappear again, and\ngradually fading out of view. Shortly afterwards, his mouth began to\nwiden again. After an interval of suspense on my part that was quite\nenthralling and almost painful, I saw his hand appear on the other side\nof Miss Skiffins. Instantly, Miss Skiffins stopped it with the neatness\nof a placid boxer, took off that girdle or cestus as before, and laid\nit on the table. Taking the table to represent the path of virtue, I am\njustified in stating that during the whole time of the Aged s reading,\nWemmick s arm was straying from the path of virtue and being recalled\nto it by Miss Skiffins.\n\nAt last, the Aged read himself into a light slumber. This was the time\nfor Wemmick to produce a little kettle, a tray of glasses, and a black\nbottle with a porcelain-topped cork, representing some clerical\ndignitary of a rubicund and social aspect. With the aid of these\nappliances we all had something warm to drink, including the Aged, who\nwas soon awake again. Miss Skiffins mixed, and I observed that she and\nWemmick drank out of one glass. Of course I knew better than to offer\nto see Miss Skiffins home, and under the circumstances I thought I had\nbest go first; which I did, taking a cordial leave of the Aged, and\nhaving passed a pleasant evening.\n\nBefore a week was out, I received a note from Wemmick, dated Walworth,\nstating that he hoped he had made some advance in that matter\nappertaining to our private and personal capacities, and that he would\nbe glad if I could come and see him again upon it. So, I went out to\nWalworth again, and yet again, and yet again, and I saw him by\nappointment in the City several times, but never held any communication\nwith him on the subject in or near Little Britain. The upshot was, that\nwe found a worthy young merchant or shipping-broker, not long\nestablished in business, who wanted intelligent help, and who wanted\ncapital, and who in due course of time and receipt would want a\npartner. Between him and me, secret articles were signed of which\nHerbert was the subject, and I paid him half of my five hundred pounds\ndown, and engaged for sundry other payments: some, to fall due at\ncertain dates out of my income: some, contingent on my coming into my\nproperty. Miss Skiffins s brother conducted the negotiation. Wemmick\npervaded it throughout, but never appeared in it.\n\nThe whole business was so cleverly managed, that Herbert had not the\nleast suspicion of my hand being in it. I never shall forget the\nradiant face with which he came home one afternoon, and told me, as a\nmighty piece of news, of his having fallen in with one Clarriker (the\nyoung merchant s name), and of Clarriker s having shown an\nextraordinary inclination towards him, and of his belief that the\nopening had come at last. Day by day as his hopes grew stronger and his\nface brighter, he must have thought me a more and more affectionate\nfriend, for I had the greatest difficulty in restraining my tears of\ntriumph when I saw him so happy. At length, the thing being done, and\nhe having that day entered Clarriker s House, and he having talked to\nme for a whole evening in a flush of pleasure and success, I did really\ncry in good earnest when I went to bed, to think that my expectations\nhad done some good to somebody.\n\nA great event in my life, the turning point of my life, now opens on my\nview. But, before I proceed to narrate it, and before I pass on to all\nthe changes it involved, I must give one chapter to Estella. It is not\nmuch to give to the theme that so long filled my heart.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVIII.\n\n\nIf that staid old house near the Green at Richmond should ever come to\nbe haunted when I am dead, it will be haunted, surely, by my ghost. O\nthe many, many nights and days through which the unquiet spirit within\nme haunted that house when Estella lived there! Let my body be where it\nwould, my spirit was always wandering, wandering, wandering, about that\nhouse.\n\nThe lady with whom Estella was placed, Mrs. Brandley by name, was a\nwidow, with one daughter several years older than Estella. The mother\nlooked young, and the daughter looked old; the mother s complexion was\npink, and the daughter s was yellow; the mother set up for frivolity,\nand the daughter for theology. They were in what is called a good\nposition, and visited, and were visited by, numbers of people. Little,\nif any, community of feeling subsisted between them and Estella, but\nthe understanding was established that they were necessary to her, and\nthat she was necessary to them. Mrs. Brandley had been a friend of Miss\nHavisham s before the time of her seclusion.\n\nIn Mrs. Brandley s house and out of Mrs. Brandley s house, I suffered\nevery kind and degree of torture that Estella could cause me. The\nnature of my relations with her, which placed me on terms of\nfamiliarity without placing me on terms of favour, conduced to my\ndistraction. She made use of me to tease other admirers, and she turned\nthe very familiarity between herself and me to the account of putting a\nconstant slight on my devotion to her. If I had been her secretary,\nsteward, half-brother, poor relation, if I had been a younger brother\nof her appointed husband, I could not have seemed to myself further\nfrom my hopes when I was nearest to her. The privilege of calling her\nby her name and hearing her call me by mine became, under the\ncircumstances an aggravation of my trials; and while I think it likely\nthat it almost maddened her other lovers, I know too certainly that it\nalmost maddened me.\n\nShe had admirers without end. No doubt my jealousy made an admirer of\nevery one who went near her; but there were more than enough of them\nwithout that.\n\nI saw her often at Richmond, I heard of her often in town, and I used\noften to take her and the Brandleys on the water; there were picnics,\nf te days, plays, operas, concerts, parties, all sorts of pleasures,\nthrough which I pursued her, and they were all miseries to me. I never\nhad one hour s happiness in her society, and yet my mind all round the\nfour-and-twenty hours was harping on the happiness of having her with\nme unto death.\n\nThroughout this part of our intercourse, and it lasted, as will\npresently be seen, for what I then thought a long time, she habitually\nreverted to that tone which expressed that our association was forced\nupon us. There were other times when she would come to a sudden check\nin this tone and in all her many tones, and would seem to pity me.\n\n Pip, Pip,  she said one evening, coming to such a check, when we sat\napart at a darkening window of the house in Richmond;  will you never\ntake warning? \n\n Of what? \n\n Of me. \n\n Warning not to be attracted by you, do you mean, Estella? \n\n Do I mean! If you don t know what I mean, you are blind. \n\nI should have replied that Love was commonly reputed blind, but for the\nreason that I always was restrained and this was not the least of my\nmiseries by a feeling that it was ungenerous to press myself upon her,\nwhen she knew that she could not choose but obey Miss Havisham. My\ndread always was, that this knowledge on her part laid me under a heavy\ndisadvantage with her pride, and made me the subject of a rebellious\nstruggle in her bosom.\n\n At any rate,  said I,  I have no warning given me just now, for you\nwrote to me to come to you, this time. \n\n That s true,  said Estella, with a cold careless smile that always\nchilled me.\n\nAfter looking at the twilight without, for a little while, she went on\nto say: \n\n The time has come round when Miss Havisham wishes to have me for a day\nat Satis. You are to take me there, and bring me back, if you will. She\nwould rather I did not travel alone, and objects to receiving my maid,\nfor she has a sensitive horror of being talked of by such people. Can\nyou take me? \n\n Can I take you, Estella! \n\n You can then? The day after to-morrow, if you please. You are to pay\nall charges out of my purse. You hear the condition of your going? \n\n And must obey,  said I.\n\nThis was all the preparation I received for that visit, or for others\nlike it; Miss Havisham never wrote to me, nor had I ever so much as\nseen her handwriting. We went down on the next day but one, and we\nfound her in the room where I had first beheld her, and it is needless\nto add that there was no change in Satis House.\n\nShe was even more dreadfully fond of Estella than she had been when I\nlast saw them together; I repeat the word advisedly, for there was\nsomething positively dreadful in the energy of her looks and embraces.\nShe hung upon Estella s beauty, hung upon her words, hung upon her\ngestures, and sat mumbling her own trembling fingers while she looked\nat her, as though she were devouring the beautiful creature she had\nreared.\n\nFrom Estella she looked at me, with a searching glance that seemed to\npry into my heart and probe its wounds.  How does she use you, Pip; how\ndoes she use you?  she asked me again, with her witch-like eagerness,\neven in Estella s hearing. But, when we sat by her flickering fire at\nnight, she was most weird; for then, keeping Estella s hand drawn\nthrough her arm and clutched in her own hand, she extorted from her, by\ndint of referring back to what Estella had told her in her regular\nletters, the names and conditions of the men whom she had fascinated;\nand as Miss Havisham dwelt upon this roll, with the intensity of a mind\nmortally hurt and diseased, she sat with her other hand on her crutch\nstick, and her chin on that, and her wan bright eyes glaring at me, a\nvery spectre.\n\nI saw in this, wretched though it made me, and bitter the sense of\ndependence and even of degradation that it awakened, I saw in this that\nEstella was set to wreak Miss Havisham s revenge on men, and that she\nwas not to be given to me until she had gratified it for a term. I saw\nin this, a reason for her being beforehand assigned to me. Sending her\nout to attract and torment and do mischief, Miss Havisham sent her with\nthe malicious assurance that she was beyond the reach of all admirers,\nand that all who staked upon that cast were secured to lose. I saw in\nthis that I, too, was tormented by a perversion of ingenuity, even\nwhile the prize was reserved for me. I saw in this the reason for my\nbeing staved off so long and the reason for my late guardian s\ndeclining to commit himself to the formal knowledge of such a scheme.\nIn a word, I saw in this Miss Havisham as I had her then and there\nbefore my eyes, and always had had her before my eyes; and I saw in\nthis, the distinct shadow of the darkened and unhealthy house in which\nher life was hidden from the sun.\n\nThe candles that lighted that room of hers were placed in sconces on\nthe wall. They were high from the ground, and they burnt with the\nsteady dulness of artificial light in air that is seldom renewed. As I\nlooked round at them, and at the pale gloom they made, and at the\nstopped clock, and at the withered articles of bridal dress upon the\ntable and the ground, and at her own awful figure with its ghostly\nreflection thrown large by the fire upon the ceiling and the wall, I\nsaw in everything the construction that my mind had come to, repeated\nand thrown back to me. My thoughts passed into the great room across\nthe landing where the table was spread, and I saw it written, as it\nwere, in the falls of the cobwebs from the centre-piece, in the\ncrawlings of the spiders on the cloth, in the tracks of the mice as\nthey betook their little quickened hearts behind the panels, and in the\ngropings and pausings of the beetles on the floor.\n\nIt happened on the occasion of this visit that some sharp words arose\nbetween Estella and Miss Havisham. It was the first time I had ever\nseen them opposed.\n\nWe were seated by the fire, as just now described, and Miss Havisham\nstill had Estella s arm drawn through her own, and still clutched\nEstella s hand in hers, when Estella gradually began to detach herself.\nShe had shown a proud impatience more than once before, and had rather\nendured that fierce affection than accepted or returned it.\n\n What!  said Miss Havisham, flashing her eyes upon her,  are you tired\nof me? \n\n Only a little tired of myself,  replied Estella, disengaging her arm,\nand moving to the great chimney-piece, where she stood looking down at\nthe fire.\n\n Speak the truth, you ingrate!  cried Miss Havisham, passionately\nstriking her stick upon the floor;  you are tired of me. \n\nEstella looked at her with perfect composure, and again looked down at\nthe fire. Her graceful figure and her beautiful face expressed a\nself-possessed indifference to the wild heat of the other, that was\nalmost cruel.\n\n You stock and stone!  exclaimed Miss Havisham.  You cold, cold heart! \n\n What?  said Estella, preserving her attitude of indifference as she\nleaned against the great chimney-piece and only moving her eyes;  do\nyou reproach me for being cold? You? \n\n Are you not?  was the fierce retort.\n\n You should know,  said Estella.  I am what you have made me. Take all\nthe praise, take all the blame; take all the success, take all the\nfailure; in short, take me. \n\n O, look at her, look at her!  cried Miss Havisham, bitterly;  Look at\nher so hard and thankless, on the hearth where she was reared! Where I\ntook her into this wretched breast when it was first bleeding from its\nstabs, and where I have lavished years of tenderness upon her! \n\n[Illustration]\n\n At least I was no party to the compact,  said Estella,  for if I could\nwalk and speak, when it was made, it was as much as I could do. But\nwhat would you have? You have been very good to me, and I owe\neverything to you. What would you have? \n\n Love,  replied the other.\n\n You have it. \n\n I have not,  said Miss Havisham.\n\n Mother by adoption,  retorted Estella, never departing from the easy\ngrace of her attitude, never raising her voice as the other did, never\nyielding either to anger or tenderness, mother by adoption, I have\nsaid that I owe everything to you. All I possess is freely yours. All\nthat you have given me, is at your command to have again. Beyond that,\nI have nothing. And if you ask me to give you, what you never gave me,\nmy gratitude and duty cannot do impossibilities. \n\n Did I never give her love!  cried Miss Havisham, turning wildly to me.\n Did I never give her a burning love, inseparable from jealousy at all\ntimes, and from sharp pain, while she speaks thus to me! Let her call\nme mad, let her call me mad! \n\n Why should I call you mad,  returned Estella,  I, of all people? Does\nany one live, who knows what set purposes you have, half as well as I\ndo? Does any one live, who knows what a steady memory you have, half as\nwell as I do? I who have sat on this same hearth on the little stool\nthat is even now beside you there, learning your lessons and looking up\ninto your face, when your face was strange and frightened me! \n\n Soon forgotten!  moaned Miss Havisham.  Times soon forgotten! \n\n No, not forgotten,  retorted Estella, not forgotten, but treasured up\nin my memory. When have you found me false to your teaching? When have\nyou found me unmindful of your lessons? When have you found me giving\nadmission here,  she touched her bosom with her hand,  to anything that\nyou excluded? Be just to me. \n\n So proud, so proud!  moaned Miss Havisham, pushing away her grey hair\nwith both her hands.\n\n Who taught me to be proud?  returned Estella.  Who praised me when I\nlearnt my lesson? \n\n So hard, so hard!  moaned Miss Havisham, with her former action.\n\n Who taught me to be hard?  returned Estella.  Who praised me when I\nlearnt my lesson? \n\n But to be proud and hard to _me_!  Miss Havisham quite shrieked, as\nshe stretched out her arms.  Estella, Estella, Estella, to be proud and\nhard to _me_! \n\nEstella looked at her for a moment with a kind of calm wonder, but was\nnot otherwise disturbed; when the moment was past, she looked down at\nthe fire again.\n\n I cannot think,  said Estella, raising her eyes after a silence  why\nyou should be so unreasonable when I come to see you after a\nseparation. I have never forgotten your wrongs and their causes. I have\nnever been unfaithful to you or your schooling. I have never shown any\nweakness that I can charge myself with. \n\n Would it be weakness to return my love?  exclaimed Miss Havisham.  But\nyes, yes, she would call it so! \n\n I begin to think,  said Estella, in a musing way, after another moment\nof calm wonder,  that I almost understand how this comes about. If you\nhad brought up your adopted daughter wholly in the dark confinement of\nthese rooms, and had never let her know that there was such a thing as\nthe daylight by which she had never once seen your face, if you had\ndone that, and then, for a purpose had wanted her to understand the\ndaylight and know all about it, you would have been disappointed and\nangry? \n\nMiss Havisham, with her head in her hands, sat making a low moaning,\nand swaying herself on her chair, but gave no answer.\n\n Or,  said Estella, which is a nearer case, if you had taught her,\nfrom the dawn of her intelligence, with your utmost energy and might,\nthat there was such a thing as daylight, but that it was made to be her\nenemy and destroyer, and she must always turn against it, for it had\nblighted you and would else blight her; if you had done this, and then,\nfor a purpose, had wanted her to take naturally to the daylight and she\ncould not do it, you would have been disappointed and angry? \n\nMiss Havisham sat listening (or it seemed so, for I could not see her\nface), but still made no answer.\n\n So,  said Estella,  I must be taken as I have been made. The success\nis not mine, the failure is not mine, but the two together make me. \n\nMiss Havisham had settled down, I hardly knew how, upon the floor,\namong the faded bridal relics with which it was strewn. I took\nadvantage of the moment I had sought one from the first to leave the\nroom, after beseeching Estella s attention to her, with a movement of\nmy hand. When I left, Estella was yet standing by the great\nchimney-piece, just as she had stood throughout. Miss Havisham s grey\nhair was all adrift upon the ground, among the other bridal wrecks, and\nwas a miserable sight to see.\n\nIt was with a depressed heart that I walked in the starlight for an\nhour and more, about the courtyard, and about the brewery, and about\nthe ruined garden. When I at last took courage to return to the room, I\nfound Estella sitting at Miss Havisham s knee, taking up some stitches\nin one of those old articles of dress that were dropping to pieces, and\nof which I have often been reminded since by the faded tatters of old\nbanners that I have seen hanging up in cathedrals. Afterwards, Estella\nand I played at cards, as of yore, only we were skilful now, and played\nFrench games, and so the evening wore away, and I went to bed.\n\nI lay in that separate building across the courtyard. It was the first\ntime I had ever lain down to rest in Satis House, and sleep refused to\ncome near me. A thousand Miss Havishams haunted me. She was on this\nside of my pillow, on that, at the head of the bed, at the foot, behind\nthe half-opened door of the dressing-room, in the dressing-room, in the\nroom overhead, in the room beneath, everywhere. At last, when the night\nwas slow to creep on towards two o clock, I felt that I absolutely\ncould no longer bear the place as a place to lie down in, and that I\nmust get up. I therefore got up and put on my clothes, and went out\nacross the yard into the long stone passage, designing to gain the\nouter courtyard and walk there for the relief of my mind. But I was no\nsooner in the passage than I extinguished my candle; for I saw Miss\nHavisham going along it in a ghostly manner, making a low cry. I\nfollowed her at a distance, and saw her go up the staircase. She\ncarried a bare candle in her hand, which she had probably taken from\none of the sconces in her own room, and was a most unearthly object by\nits light. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I felt the mildewed\nair of the feast-chamber, without seeing her open the door, and I heard\nher walking there, and so across into her own room, and so across again\ninto that, never ceasing the low cry. After a time, I tried in the dark\nboth to get out, and to go back, but I could do neither until some\nstreaks of day strayed in and showed me where to lay my hands. During\nthe whole interval, whenever I went to the bottom of the staircase, I\nheard her footstep, saw her light pass above, and heard her ceaseless\nlow cry.\n\nBefore we left next day, there was no revival of the difference between\nher and Estella, nor was it ever revived on any similar occasion; and\nthere were four similar occasions, to the best of my remembrance. Nor,\ndid Miss Havisham s manner towards Estella in anywise change, except\nthat I believed it to have something like fear infused among its former\ncharacteristics.\n\nIt is impossible to turn this leaf of my life, without putting Bentley\nDrummle s name upon it; or I would, very gladly.\n\nOn a certain occasion when the Finches were assembled in force, and\nwhen good feeling was being promoted in the usual manner by nobody s\nagreeing with anybody else, the presiding Finch called the Grove to\norder, forasmuch as Mr. Drummle had not yet toasted a lady; which,\naccording to the solemn constitution of the society, it was the brute s\nturn to do that day. I thought I saw him leer in an ugly way at me\nwhile the decanters were going round, but as there was no love lost\nbetween us, that might easily be. What was my indignant surprise when\nhe called upon the company to pledge him to  Estella! \n\n Estella who?  said I.\n\n Never you mind,  retorted Drummle.\n\n Estella of where?  said I.  You are bound to say of where.  Which he\nwas, as a Finch.\n\n Of Richmond, gentlemen,  said Drummle, putting me out of the question,\n and a peerless beauty. \n\nMuch he knew about peerless beauties, a mean, miserable idiot! I\nwhispered Herbert.\n\n I know that lady,  said Herbert, across the table, when the toast had\nbeen honoured.\n\n _Do_ you?  said Drummle.\n\n And so do I,  I added, with a scarlet face.\n\n _Do_ you?  said Drummle.  _O_, Lord! \n\nThis was the only retort except glass or crockery that the heavy\ncreature was capable of making; but, I became as highly incensed by it\nas if it had been barbed with wit, and I immediately rose in my place\nand said that I could not but regard it as being like the honourable\nFinch s impudence to come down to that Grove, we always talked about\ncoming down to that Grove, as a neat Parliamentary turn of\nexpression, down to that Grove, proposing a lady of whom he knew\nnothing. Mr. Drummle, upon this, starting up, demanded what I meant by\nthat? Whereupon I made him the extreme reply that I believed he knew\nwhere I was to be found.\n\nWhether it was possible in a Christian country to get on without blood,\nafter this, was a question on which the Finches were divided. The\ndebate upon it grew so lively, indeed, that at least six more\nhonourable members told six more, during the discussion, that they\nbelieved _they_ knew where _they_ were to be found. However, it was\ndecided at last (the Grove being a Court of Honour) that if Mr. Drummle\nwould bring never so slight a certificate from the lady, importing that\nhe had the honour of her acquaintance, Mr. Pip must express his regret,\nas a gentleman and a Finch, for  having been betrayed into a warmth\nwhich.  Next day was appointed for the production (lest our honour\nshould take cold from delay), and next day Drummle appeared with a\npolite little avowal in Estella s hand, that she had had the honour of\ndancing with him several times. This left me no course but to regret\nthat I had been  betrayed into a warmth which,  and on the whole to\nrepudiate, as untenable, the idea that I was to be found anywhere.\nDrummle and I then sat snorting at one another for an hour, while the\nGrove engaged in indiscriminate contradiction, and finally the\npromotion of good feeling was declared to have gone ahead at an amazing\nrate.\n\nI tell this lightly, but it was no light thing to me. For, I cannot\nadequately express what pain it gave me to think that Estella should\nshow any favour to a contemptible, clumsy, sulky booby, so very far\nbelow the average. To the present moment, I believe it to have been\nreferable to some pure fire of generosity and disinterestedness in my\nlove for her, that I could not endure the thought of her stooping to\nthat hound. No doubt I should have been miserable whomsoever she had\nfavoured; but a worthier object would have caused me a different kind\nand degree of distress.\n\nIt was easy for me to find out, and I did soon find out, that Drummle\nhad begun to follow her closely, and that she allowed him to do it. A\nlittle while, and he was always in pursuit of her, and he and I crossed\none another every day. He held on, in a dull persistent way, and\nEstella held him on; now with encouragement, now with discouragement,\nnow almost flattering him, now openly despising him, now knowing him\nvery well, now scarcely remembering who he was.\n\nThe Spider, as Mr. Jaggers had called him, was used to lying in wait,\nhowever, and had the patience of his tribe. Added to that, he had a\nblockhead confidence in his money and in his family greatness, which\nsometimes did him good service, almost taking the place of\nconcentration and determined purpose. So, the Spider, doggedly watching\nEstella, outwatched many brighter insects, and would often uncoil\nhimself and drop at the right nick of time.\n\nAt a certain Assembly Ball at Richmond (there used to be Assembly Balls\nat most places then), where Estella had outshone all other beauties,\nthis blundering Drummle so hung about her, and with so much toleration\non her part, that I resolved to speak to her concerning him. I took the\nnext opportunity; which was when she was waiting for Mrs. Blandley to\ntake her home, and was sitting apart among some flowers, ready to go. I\nwas with her, for I almost always accompanied them to and from such\nplaces.\n\n Are you tired, Estella? \n\n Rather, Pip. \n\n You should be. \n\n Say rather, I should not be; for I have my letter to Satis House to\nwrite, before I go to sleep. \n\n Recounting to-night s triumph?  said I.  Surely a very poor one,\nEstella. \n\n What do you mean? I didn t know there had been any. \n\n Estella,  said I,  do look at that fellow in the corner yonder, who is\nlooking over here at us. \n\n Why should I look at him?  returned Estella, with her eyes on me\ninstead.  What is there in that fellow in the corner yonder, to use\nyour words, that I need look at? \n\n Indeed, that is the very question I want to ask you,  said I.  For he\nhas been hovering about you all night. \n\n Moths, and all sorts of ugly creatures,  replied Estella, with a\nglance towards him,  hover about a lighted candle. Can the candle help\nit? \n\n No,  I returned;  but cannot the Estella help it? \n\n Well!  said she, laughing, after a moment,  perhaps. Yes. Anything you\nlike. \n\n But, Estella, do hear me speak. It makes me wretched that you should\nencourage a man so generally despised as Drummle. You know he is\ndespised. \n\n Well?  said she.\n\n You know he is as ungainly within as without. A deficient,\nill-tempered, lowering, stupid fellow. \n\n Well?  said she.\n\n You know he has nothing to recommend him but money and a ridiculous\nroll of addle-headed predecessors; now, don t you? \n\n Well?  said she again; and each time she said it, she opened her\nlovely eyes the wider.\n\nTo overcome the difficulty of getting past that monosyllable, I took it\nfrom her, and said, repeating it with emphasis,  Well! Then, that is\nwhy it makes me wretched. \n\nNow, if I could have believed that she favoured Drummle with any idea\nof making me me wretched, I should have been in better heart about it;\nbut in that habitual way of hers, she put me so entirely out of the\nquestion, that I could believe nothing of the kind.\n\n Pip,  said Estella, casting her glance over the room,  don t be\nfoolish about its effect on you. It may have its effect on others, and\nmay be meant to have. It s not worth discussing. \n\n Yes it is,  said I,  because I cannot bear that people should say,\n she throws away her graces and attractions on a mere boor, the lowest\nin the crowd. \n\n I can bear it,  said Estella.\n\n Oh! don t be so proud, Estella, and so inflexible. \n\n Calls me proud and inflexible in this breath!  said Estella, opening\nher hands.  And in his last breath reproached me for stooping to a\nboor! \n\n There is no doubt you do,  said I, something hurriedly,  for I have\nseen you give him looks and smiles this very night, such as you never\ngive to me. \n\n Do you want me then,  said Estella, turning suddenly with a fixed and\nserious, if not angry, look,  to deceive and entrap you? \n\n Do you deceive and entrap him, Estella? \n\n Yes, and many others, all of them but you. Here is Mrs. Brandley. I ll\nsay no more. \n\n\n\n\nAnd now that I have given the one chapter to the theme that so filled\nmy heart, and so often made it ache and ache again, I pass on\nunhindered, to the event that had impended over me longer yet; the\nevent that had begun to be prepared for, before I knew that the world\nheld Estella, and in the days when her baby intelligence was receiving\nits first distortions from Miss Havisham s wasting hands.\n\nIn the Eastern story, the heavy slab that was to fall on the bed of\nstate in the flush of conquest was slowly wrought out of the quarry,\nthe tunnel for the rope to hold it in its place was slowly carried\nthrough the leagues of rock, the slab was slowly raised and fitted in\nthe roof, the rope was rove to it and slowly taken through the miles of\nhollow to the great iron ring. All being made ready with much labour,\nand the hour come, the sultan was aroused in the dead of the night, and\nthe sharpened axe that was to sever the rope from the great iron ring\nwas put into his hand, and he struck with it, and the rope parted and\nrushed away, and the ceiling fell. So, in my case; all the work, near\nand afar, that tended to the end, had been accomplished; and in an\ninstant the blow was struck, and the roof of my stronghold dropped upon\nme.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIX.\n\n\nI was three-and-twenty years of age. Not another word had I heard to\nenlighten me on the subject of my expectations, and my twenty-third\nbirthday was a week gone. We had left Barnard s Inn more than a year,\nand lived in the Temple. Our chambers were in Garden-court, down by the\nriver.\n\nMr. Pocket and I had for some time parted company as to our original\nrelations, though we continued on the best terms. Notwithstanding my\ninability to settle to anything, which I hope arose out of the restless\nand incomplete tenure on which I held my means, I had a taste for\nreading, and read regularly so many hours a day. That matter of\nHerbert s was still progressing, and everything with me was as I have\nbrought it down to the close of the last preceding chapter.\n\nBusiness had taken Herbert on a journey to Marseilles. I was alone, and\nhad a dull sense of being alone. Dispirited and anxious, long hoping\nthat to-morrow or next week would clear my way, and long disappointed,\nI sadly missed the cheerful face and ready response of my friend.\n\nIt was wretched weather; stormy and wet, stormy and wet; and mud, mud,\nmud, deep in all the streets. Day after day, a vast heavy veil had been\ndriving over London from the East, and it drove still, as if in the\nEast there were an eternity of cloud and wind. So furious had been the\ngusts, that high buildings in town had had the lead stripped off their\nroofs; and in the country, trees had been torn up, and sails of\nwindmills carried away; and gloomy accounts had come in from the coast,\nof shipwreck and death. Violent blasts of rain had accompanied these\nrages of wind, and the day just closed as I sat down to read had been\nthe worst of all.\n\nAlterations have been made in that part of the Temple since that time,\nand it has not now so lonely a character as it had then, nor is it so\nexposed to the river. We lived at the top of the last house, and the\nwind rushing up the river shook the house that night, like discharges\nof cannon, or breakings of a sea. When the rain came with it and dashed\nagainst the windows, I thought, raising my eyes to them as they rocked,\nthat I might have fancied myself in a storm-beaten lighthouse.\nOccasionally, the smoke came rolling down the chimney as though it\ncould not bear to go out into such a night; and when I set the doors\nopen and looked down the staircase, the staircase lamps were blown out;\nand when I shaded my face with my hands and looked through the black\nwindows (opening them ever so little was out of the question in the\nteeth of such wind and rain), I saw that the lamps in the court were\nblown out, and that the lamps on the bridges and the shore were\nshuddering, and that the coal-fires in barges on the river were being\ncarried away before the wind like red-hot splashes in the rain.\n\nI read with my watch upon the table, purposing to close my book at\neleven o clock. As I shut it, Saint Paul s, and all the many\nchurch-clocks in the City some leading, some accompanying, some\nfollowing struck that hour. The sound was curiously flawed by the wind;\nand I was listening, and thinking how the wind assailed and tore it,\nwhen I heard a footstep on the stair.\n\nWhat nervous folly made me start, and awfully connect it with the\nfootstep of my dead sister, matters not. It was past in a moment, and I\nlistened again, and heard the footstep stumble in coming on.\nRemembering then, that the staircase-lights were blown out, I took up\nmy reading-lamp and went out to the stair-head. Whoever was below had\nstopped on seeing my lamp, for all was quiet.\n\n There is some one down there, is there not?  I called out, looking\ndown.\n\n Yes,  said a voice from the darkness beneath.\n\n What floor do you want? \n\n The top. Mr. Pip. \n\n That is my name. There is nothing the matter? \n\n Nothing the matter,  returned the voice. And the man came on.\n\nI stood with my lamp held out over the stair-rail, and he came slowly\nwithin its light. It was a shaded lamp, to shine upon a book, and its\ncircle of light was very contracted; so that he was in it for a mere\ninstant, and then out of it. In the instant, I had seen a face that was\nstrange to me, looking up with an incomprehensible air of being touched\nand pleased by the sight of me.\n\nMoving the lamp as the man moved, I made out that he was substantially\ndressed, but roughly, like a voyager by sea. That he had long iron-grey\nhair. That his age was about sixty. That he was a muscular man, strong\non his legs, and that he was browned and hardened by exposure to\nweather. As he ascended the last stair or two, and the light of my lamp\nincluded us both, I saw, with a stupid kind of amazement, that he was\nholding out both his hands to me.\n\n Pray what is your business?  I asked him.\n\n My business?  he repeated, pausing.  Ah! Yes. I will explain my\nbusiness, by your leave. \n\n Do you wish to come in? \n\n Yes,  he replied;  I wish to come in, master. \n\nI had asked him the question inhospitably enough, for I resented the\nsort of bright and gratified recognition that still shone in his face.\nI resented it, because it seemed to imply that he expected me to\nrespond to it. But I took him into the room I had just left, and,\nhaving set the lamp on the table, asked him as civilly as I could to\nexplain himself.\n\nHe looked about him with the strangest air, an air of wondering\npleasure, as if he had some part in the things he admired, and he\npulled off a rough outer coat, and his hat. Then, I saw that his head\nwas furrowed and bald, and that the long iron-grey hair grew only on\nits sides. But, I saw nothing that in the least explained him. On the\ncontrary, I saw him next moment, once more holding out both his hands\nto me.\n\n What do you mean?  said I, half suspecting him to be mad.\n\nHe stopped in his looking at me, and slowly rubbed his right hand over\nhis head.  It s disapinting to a man,  he said, in a coarse broken\nvoice,  arter having looked for ard so distant, and come so fur; but\nyou re not to blame for that, neither on us is to blame for that. I ll\nspeak in half a minute. Give me half a minute, please. \n\nHe sat down on a chair that stood before the fire, and covered his\nforehead with his large brown veinous hands. I looked at him\nattentively then, and recoiled a little from him; but I did not know\nhim.\n\n There s no one nigh,  said he, looking over his shoulder;  is there? \n\n Why do you, a stranger coming into my rooms at this time of the night,\nask that question?  said I.\n\n You re a game one,  he returned, shaking his head at me with a\ndeliberate affection, at once most unintelligible and most\nexasperating;  I m glad you ve grow d up, a game one! But don t catch\nhold of me. You d be sorry arterwards to have done it. \n\nI relinquished the intention he had detected, for I knew him! Even yet\nI could not recall a single feature, but I knew him! If the wind and\nthe rain had driven away the intervening years, had scattered all the\nintervening objects, had swept us to the churchyard where we first\nstood face to face on such different levels, I could not have known my\nconvict more distinctly than I knew him now as he sat in the chair\nbefore the fire. No need to take a file from his pocket and show it to\nme; no need to take the handkerchief from his neck and twist it round\nhis head; no need to hug himself with both his arms, and take a\nshivering turn across the room, looking back at me for recognition. I\nknew him before he gave me one of those aids, though, a moment before,\nI had not been conscious of remotely suspecting his identity.\n\nHe came back to where I stood, and again held out both his hands. Not\nknowing what to do, for, in my astonishment I had lost my\nself-possession, I reluctantly gave him my hands. He grasped them\nheartily, raised them to his lips, kissed them, and still held them.\n\n You acted noble, my boy,  said he.  Noble, Pip! And I have never\nforgot it! \n\nAt a change in his manner as if he were even going to embrace me, I\nlaid a hand upon his breast and put him away.\n\n Stay!  said I.  Keep off! If you are grateful to me for what I did\nwhen I was a little child, I hope you have shown your gratitude by\nmending your way of life. If you have come here to thank me, it was not\nnecessary. Still, however you have found me out, there must be\nsomething good in the feeling that has brought you here, and I will not\nrepulse you; but surely you must understand that I \n\nMy attention was so attracted by the singularity of his fixed look at\nme, that the words died away on my tongue.\n\n You was a-saying,  he observed, when we had confronted one another in\nsilence,  that surely I must understand. What, surely must I\nunderstand? \n\n That I cannot wish to renew that chance intercourse with you of long\nago, under these different circumstances. I am glad to believe you have\nrepented and recovered yourself. I am glad to tell you so. I am glad\nthat, thinking I deserve to be thanked, you have come to thank me. But\nour ways are different ways, none the less. You are wet, and you look\nweary. Will you drink something before you go? \n\nHe had replaced his neckerchief loosely, and had stood, keenly\nobservant of me, biting a long end of it.  I think,  he answered, still\nwith the end at his mouth and still observant of me,  that I _will_\ndrink (I thank you) afore I go. \n\nThere was a tray ready on a side-table. I brought it to the table near\nthe fire, and asked him what he would have? He touched one of the\nbottles without looking at it or speaking, and I made him some hot rum\nand water. I tried to keep my hand steady while I did so, but his look\nat me as he leaned back in his chair with the long draggled end of his\nneckerchief between his teeth evidently forgotten made my hand very\ndifficult to master. When at last I put the glass to him, I saw with\namazement that his eyes were full of tears.\n\nUp to this time I had remained standing, not to disguise that I wished\nhim gone. But I was softened by the softened aspect of the man, and\nfelt a touch of reproach.  I hope,  said I, hurriedly putting something\ninto a glass for myself, and drawing a chair to the table,  that you\nwill not think I spoke harshly to you just now. I had no intention of\ndoing it, and I am sorry for it if I did. I wish you well and happy! \n\nAs I put my glass to my lips, he glanced with surprise at the end of\nhis neckerchief, dropping from his mouth when he opened it, and\nstretched out his hand. I gave him mine, and then he drank, and drew\nhis sleeve across his eyes and forehead.\n\n How are you living?  I asked him.\n\n I ve been a sheep-farmer, stock-breeder, other trades besides, away in\nthe new world,  said he;  many a thousand mile of stormy water off from\nthis. \n\n I hope you have done well? \n\n I ve done wonderfully well. There s others went out alonger me as has\ndone well too, but no man has done nigh as well as me. I m famous for\nit. \n\n I am glad to hear it. \n\n I hope to hear you say so, my dear boy. \n\nWithout stopping to try to understand those words or the tone in which\nthey were spoken, I turned off to a point that had just come into my\nmind.\n\n Have you ever seen a messenger you once sent to me,  I inquired,\n since he undertook that trust? \n\n Never set eyes upon him. I warn t likely to it. \n\n He came faithfully, and he brought me the two one-pound notes. I was a\npoor boy then, as you know, and to a poor boy they were a little\nfortune. But, like you, I have done well since, and you must let me pay\nthem back. You can put them to some other poor boy s use.  I took out\nmy purse.\n\nHe watched me as I laid my purse upon the table and opened it, and he\nwatched me as I separated two one-pound notes from its contents. They\nwere clean and new, and I spread them out and handed them over to him.\nStill watching me, he laid them one upon the other, folded them\nlong-wise, gave them a twist, set fire to them at the lamp, and dropped\nthe ashes into the tray.\n\n May I make so bold,  he said then, with a smile that was like a frown,\nand with a frown that was like a smile,  as ask you _how_ you have done\nwell, since you and me was out on them lone shivering marshes? \n\n How? \n\n Ah! \n\nHe emptied his glass, got up, and stood at the side of the fire, with\nhis heavy brown hand on the mantel-shelf. He put a foot up to the bars,\nto dry and warm it, and the wet boot began to steam; but, he neither\nlooked at it, nor at the fire, but steadily looked at me. It was only\nnow that I began to tremble.\n\nWhen my lips had parted, and had shaped some words that were without\nsound, I forced myself to tell him (though I could not do it\ndistinctly), that I had been chosen to succeed to some property.\n\n Might a mere warmint ask what property?  said he.\n\nI faltered,  I don t know. \n\n Might a mere warmint ask whose property?  said he.\n\nI faltered again,  I don t know. \n\n Could I make a guess, I wonder,  said the Convict,  at your income\nsince you come of age! As to the first figure now. Five? \n\nWith my heart beating like a heavy hammer of disordered action, I rose\nout of my chair, and stood with my hand upon the back of it, looking\nwildly at him.\n\n Concerning a guardian,  he went on.  There ought to have been some\nguardian, or such-like, whiles you was a minor. Some lawyer, maybe. As\nto the first letter of that lawyer s name now. Would it be J? \n\nAll the truth of my position came flashing on me; and its\ndisappointments, dangers, disgraces, consequences of all kinds, rushed\nin in such a multitude that I was borne down by them and had to\nstruggle for every breath I drew.\n\n Put it,  he resumed,  as the employer of that lawyer whose name begun\nwith a J, and might be Jaggers, put it as he had come over sea to\nPortsmouth, and had landed there, and had wanted to come on to you.\n However, you have found me out,  you says just now. Well! However, did\nI find you out? Why, I wrote from Portsmouth to a person in London, for\nparticulars of your address. That person s name? Why, Wemmick. \n\nI could not have spoken one word, though it had been to save my life. I\nstood, with a hand on the chair-back and a hand on my breast, where I\nseemed to be suffocating, I stood so, looking wildly at him, until I\ngrasped at the chair, when the room began to surge and turn. He caught\nme, drew me to the sofa, put me up against the cushions, and bent on\none knee before me, bringing the face that I now well remembered, and\nthat I shuddered at, very near to mine.\n\n Yes, Pip, dear boy, I ve made a gentleman on you! It s me wot has done\nit! I swore that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that guinea\nshould go to you. I swore arterwards, sure as ever I spec lated and got\nrich, you should get rich. I lived rough, that you should live smooth;\nI worked hard, that you should be above work. What odds, dear boy? Do I\ntell it, fur you to feel a obligation? Not a bit. I tell it, fur you to\nknow as that there hunted dunghill dog wot you kep life in, got his\nhead so high that he could make a gentleman, and, Pip, you re him! \n\nThe abhorrence in which I held the man, the dread I had of him, the\nrepugnance with which I shrank from him, could not have been exceeded\nif he had been some terrible beast.\n\n Look ee here, Pip. I m your second father. You re my son, more to me\nnor any son. I ve put away money, only for you to spend. When I was a\nhired-out shepherd in a solitary hut, not seeing no faces but faces of\nsheep till I half forgot wot men s and women s faces wos like, I see\nyourn. I drops my knife many a time in that hut when I was a-eating my\ndinner or my supper, and I says,  Here s the boy again, a looking at me\nwhiles I eats and drinks!  I see you there a many times, as plain as\never I see you on them misty marshes.  Lord strike me dead!  I says\neach time, and I goes out in the air to say it under the open\nheavens, but wot, if I gets liberty and money, I ll make that boy a\ngentleman!  And I done it. Why, look at you, dear boy! Look at these\nhere lodgings of yourn, fit for a lord! A lord? Ah! You shall show\nmoney with lords for wagers, and beat  em! \n\nIn his heat and triumph, and in his knowledge that I had been nearly\nfainting, he did not remark on my reception of all this. It was the one\ngrain of relief I had.\n\n Look ee here!  he went on, taking my watch out of my pocket, and\nturning towards him a ring on my finger, while I recoiled from his\ntouch as if he had been a snake,  a gold  un and a beauty: _that s_ a\ngentleman s, I hope! A diamond all set round with rubies; _that s_ a\ngentleman s, I hope! Look at your linen; fine and beautiful! Look at\nyour clothes; better ain t to be got! And your books too,  turning his\neyes round the room,  mounting up, on their shelves, by hundreds! And\nyou read  em; don t you? I see you d been a reading of  em when I come\nin. Ha, ha, ha! You shall read  em to me, dear boy! And if they re in\nforeign languages wot I don t understand, I shall be just as proud as\nif I did. \n\nAgain he took both my hands and put them to his lips, while my blood\nran cold within me.\n\n Don t you mind talking, Pip,  said he, after again drawing his sleeve\nover his eyes and forehead, as the click came in his throat which I\nwell remembered, and he was all the more horrible to me that he was so\nmuch in earnest;  you can t do better nor keep quiet, dear boy. You\nain t looked slowly forward to this as I have; you wosn t prepared for\nthis as I wos. But didn t you never think it might be me? \n\n O no, no, no,  I returned,  Never, never! \n\n Well, you see it _wos_ me, and single-handed. Never a soul in it but\nmy own self and Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Was there no one else?  I asked.\n\n No,  said he, with a glance of surprise:  who else should there be?\nAnd, dear boy, how good looking you have growed! There s bright eyes\nsomewheres eh? Isn t there bright eyes somewheres, wot you love the\nthoughts on? \n\nO Estella, Estella!\n\n They shall be yourn, dear boy, if money can buy  em. Not that a\ngentleman like you, so well set up as you, can t win  em off of his own\ngame; but money shall back you! Let me finish wot I was a telling you,\ndear boy. From that there hut and that there hiring-out, I got money\nleft me by my master (which died, and had been the same as me), and got\nmy liberty and went for myself. In every single thing I went for, I\nwent for you.  Lord strike a blight upon it,  I says, wotever it was I\nwent for,  if it ain t for him!  It all prospered wonderful. As I giv \nyou to understand just now, I m famous for it. It was the money left\nme, and the gains of the first few year wot I sent home to Mr.\nJaggers all for you when he first come arter you, agreeable to my\nletter. \n\nO that he had never come! That he had left me at the forge, far from\ncontented, yet, by comparison happy!\n\n And then, dear boy, it was a recompense to me, look ee here, to know\nin secret that I was making a gentleman. The blood horses of them\ncolonists might fling up the dust over me as I was walking; what do I\nsay? I says to myself,  I m making a better gentleman nor ever _you_ ll\nbe!  When one of  em says to another,  He was a convict, a few year\nago, and is a ignorant common fellow now, for all he s lucky,  what do\nI say? I says to myself,  If I ain t a gentleman, nor yet ain t got no\nlearning, I m the owner of such. All on you owns stock and land; which\non you owns a brought-up London gentleman?  This way I kep myself\na-going. And this way I held steady afore my mind that I would for\ncertain come one day and see my boy, and make myself known to him, on\nhis own ground. \n\nHe laid his hand on my shoulder. I shuddered at the thought that for\nanything I knew, his hand might be stained with blood.\n\n It warn t easy, Pip, for me to leave them parts, nor yet it warn t\nsafe. But I held to it, and the harder it was, the stronger I held, for\nI was determined, and my mind firm made up. At last I done it. Dear\nboy, I done it! \n\nI tried to collect my thoughts, but I was stunned. Throughout, I had\nseemed to myself to attend more to the wind and the rain than to him;\neven now, I could not separate his voice from those voices, though\nthose were loud and his was silent.\n\n Where will you put me?  he asked, presently.  I must be put\nsomewheres, dear boy. \n\n To sleep?  said I.\n\n Yes. And to sleep long and sound,  he answered;  for I ve been\nsea-tossed and sea-washed, months and months. \n\n My friend and companion,  said I, rising from the sofa,  is absent;\nyou must have his room. \n\n He won t come back to-morrow; will he? \n\n No,  said I, answering almost mechanically, in spite of my utmost\nefforts;  not to-morrow. \n\n Because, look ee here, dear boy,  he said, dropping his voice, and\nlaying a long finger on my breast in an impressive manner,  caution is\nnecessary. \n\n How do you mean? Caution? \n\n By G , it s Death! \n\n What s death? \n\n I was sent for life. It s death to come back. There s been overmuch\ncoming back of late years, and I should of a certainty be hanged if\ntook. \n\nNothing was needed but this; the wretched man, after loading wretched\nme with his gold and silver chains for years, had risked his life to\ncome to me, and I held it there in my keeping! If I had loved him\ninstead of abhorring him; if I had been attracted to him by the\nstrongest admiration and affection, instead of shrinking from him with\nthe strongest repugnance; it could have been no worse. On the contrary,\nit would have been better, for his preservation would then have\nnaturally and tenderly addressed my heart.\n\nMy first care was to close the shutters, so that no light might be seen\nfrom without, and then to close and make fast the doors. While I did\nso, he stood at the table drinking rum and eating biscuit; and when I\nsaw him thus engaged, I saw my convict on the marshes at his meal\nagain. It almost seemed to me as if he must stoop down presently, to\nfile at his leg.\n\nWhen I had gone into Herbert s room, and had shut off any other\ncommunication between it and the staircase than through the room in\nwhich our conversation had been held, I asked him if he would go to\nbed? He said yes, but asked me for some of my  gentleman s linen  to\nput on in the morning. I brought it out, and laid it ready for him, and\nmy blood again ran cold when he again took me by both hands to give me\ngood-night.\n\nI got away from him, without knowing how I did it, and mended the fire\nin the room where we had been together, and sat down by it, afraid to\ngo to bed. For an hour or more, I remained too stunned to think; and it\nwas not until I began to think, that I began fully to know how wrecked\nI was, and how the ship in which I had sailed was gone to pieces.\n\nMiss Havisham s intentions towards me, all a mere dream; Estella not\ndesigned for me; I only suffered in Satis House as a convenience, a\nsting for the greedy relations, a model with a mechanical heart to\npractise on when no other practice was at hand; those were the first\nsmarts I had. But, sharpest and deepest pain of all, it was for the\nconvict, guilty of I knew not what crimes, and liable to be taken out\nof those rooms where I sat thinking, and hanged at the Old Bailey door,\nthat I had deserted Joe.\n\nI would not have gone back to Joe now, I would not have gone back to\nBiddy now, for any consideration; simply, I suppose, because my sense\nof my own worthless conduct to them was greater than every\nconsideration. No wisdom on earth could have given me the comfort that\nI should have derived from their simplicity and fidelity; but I could\nnever, never, undo what I had done.\n\nIn every rage of wind and rush of rain, I heard pursuers. Twice, I\ncould have sworn there was a knocking and whispering at the outer door.\nWith these fears upon me, I began either to imagine or recall that I\nhad had mysterious warnings of this man s approach. That, for weeks\ngone by, I had passed faces in the streets which I had thought like\nhis. That these likenesses had grown more numerous, as he, coming over\nthe sea, had drawn nearer. That his wicked spirit had somehow sent\nthese messengers to mine, and that now on this stormy night he was as\ngood as his word, and with me.\n\nCrowding up with these reflections came the reflection that I had seen\nhim with my childish eyes to be a desperately violent man; that I had\nheard that other convict reiterate that he had tried to murder him;\nthat I had seen him down in the ditch tearing and fighting like a wild\nbeast. Out of such remembrances I brought into the light of the fire a\nhalf-formed terror that it might not be safe to be shut up there with\nhim in the dead of the wild solitary night. This dilated until it\nfilled the room, and impelled me to take a candle and go in and look at\nmy dreadful burden.\n\nHe had rolled a handkerchief round his head, and his face was set and\nlowering in his sleep. But he was asleep, and quietly too, though he\nhad a pistol lying on the pillow. Assured of this, I softly removed the\nkey to the outside of his door, and turned it on him before I again sat\ndown by the fire. Gradually I slipped from the chair and lay on the\nfloor. When I awoke without having parted in my sleep with the\nperception of my wretchedness, the clocks of the Eastward churches were\nstriking five, the candles were wasted out, the fire was dead, and the\nwind and rain intensified the thick black darkness.\n\nTHIS IS THE END OF THE SECOND STAGE OF PIP S EXPECTATIONS.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XL.\n\n\nIt was fortunate for me that I had to take precautions to ensure (so\nfar as I could) the safety of my dreaded visitor; for, this thought\npressing on me when I awoke, held other thoughts in a confused\nconcourse at a distance.\n\nThe impossibility of keeping him concealed in the chambers was\nself-evident. It could not be done, and the attempt to do it would\ninevitably engender suspicion. True, I had no Avenger in my service\nnow, but I was looked after by an inflammatory old female, assisted by\nan animated rag-bag whom she called her niece, and to keep a room\nsecret from them would be to invite curiosity and exaggeration. They\nboth had weak eyes, which I had long attributed to their chronically\nlooking in at keyholes, and they were always at hand when not wanted;\nindeed that was their only reliable quality besides larceny. Not to get\nup a mystery with these people, I resolved to announce in the morning\nthat my uncle had unexpectedly come from the country.\n\nThis course I decided on while I was yet groping about in the darkness\nfor the means of getting a light. Not stumbling on the means after all,\nI was fain to go out to the adjacent Lodge and get the watchman there\nto come with his lantern. Now, in groping my way down the black\nstaircase I fell over something, and that something was a man crouching\nin a corner.\n\nAs the man made no answer when I asked him what he did there, but\neluded my touch in silence, I ran to the Lodge and urged the watchman\nto come quickly; telling him of the incident on the way back. The wind\nbeing as fierce as ever, we did not care to endanger the light in the\nlantern by rekindling the extinguished lamps on the staircase, but we\nexamined the staircase from the bottom to the top and found no one\nthere. It then occurred to me as possible that the man might have\nslipped into my rooms; so, lighting my candle at the watchman s, and\nleaving him standing at the door, I examined them carefully, including\nthe room in which my dreaded guest lay asleep. All was quiet, and\nassuredly no other man was in those chambers.\n\nIt troubled me that there should have been a lurker on the stairs, on\nthat night of all nights in the year, and I asked the watchman, on the\nchance of eliciting some hopeful explanation as I handed him a dram at\nthe door, whether he had admitted at his gate any gentleman who had\nperceptibly been dining out? Yes, he said; at different times of the\nnight, three. One lived in Fountain Court, and the other two lived in\nthe Lane, and he had seen them all go home. Again, the only other man\nwho dwelt in the house of which my chambers formed a part had been in\nthe country for some weeks, and he certainly had not returned in the\nnight, because we had seen his door with his seal on it as we came\nupstairs.\n\n The night being so bad, sir,  said the watchman, as he gave me back my\nglass,  uncommon few have come in at my gate. Besides them three\ngentlemen that I have named, I don t call to mind another since about\neleven o clock, when a stranger asked for you. \n\n My uncle,  I muttered.  Yes. \n\n You saw him, sir? \n\n Yes. Oh yes. \n\n Likewise the person with him? \n\n Person with him!  I repeated.\n\n I judged the person to be with him,  returned the watchman.  The\nperson stopped, when he stopped to make inquiry of me, and the person\ntook this way when he took this way. \n\n What sort of person? \n\nThe watchman had not particularly noticed; he should say a working\nperson; to the best of his belief, he had a dust-coloured kind of\nclothes on, under a dark coat. The watchman made more light of the\nmatter than I did, and naturally; not having my reason for attaching\nweight to it.\n\nWhen I had got rid of him, which I thought it well to do without\nprolonging explanations, my mind was much troubled by these two\ncircumstances taken together. Whereas they were easy of innocent\nsolution apart, as, for instance, some diner out or diner at home, who\nhad not gone near this watchman s gate, might have strayed to my\nstaircase and dropped asleep there, and my nameless visitor might have\nbrought some one with him to show him the way, still, joined, they had\nan ugly look to one as prone to distrust and fear as the changes of a\nfew hours had made me.\n\nI lighted my fire, which burnt with a raw pale flare at that time of\nthe morning, and fell into a doze before it. I seemed to have been\ndozing a whole night when the clocks struck six. As there was full an\nhour and a half between me and daylight, I dozed again; now, waking up\nuneasily, with prolix conversations about nothing, in my ears; now,\nmaking thunder of the wind in the chimney; at length, falling off into\na profound sleep from which the daylight woke me with a start.\n\nAll this time I had never been able to consider my own situation, nor\ncould I do so yet. I had not the power to attend to it. I was greatly\ndejected and distressed, but in an incoherent wholesale sort of way. As\nto forming any plan for the future, I could as soon have formed an\nelephant. When I opened the shutters and looked out at the wet wild\nmorning, all of a leaden hue; when I walked from room to room; when I\nsat down again shivering, before the fire, waiting for my laundress to\nappear; I thought how miserable I was, but hardly knew why, or how long\nI had been so, or on what day of the week I made the reflection, or\neven who I was that made it.\n\nAt last, the old woman and the niece came in, the latter with a head\nnot easily distinguishable from her dusty broom, and testified surprise\nat sight of me and the fire. To whom I imparted how my uncle had come\nin the night and was then asleep, and how the breakfast preparations\nwere to be modified accordingly. Then I washed and dressed while they\nknocked the furniture about and made a dust; and so, in a sort of dream\nor sleep-waking, I found myself sitting by the fire again, waiting\nfor Him to come to breakfast.\n\nBy and by, his door opened and he came out. I could not bring myself to\nbear the sight of him, and I thought he had a worse look by daylight.\n\n I do not even know,  said I, speaking low as he took his seat at the\ntable,  by what name to call you. I have given out that you are my\nuncle. \n\n That s it, dear boy! Call me uncle. \n\n You assumed some name, I suppose, on board ship? \n\n Yes, dear boy. I took the name of Provis. \n\n Do you mean to keep that name? \n\n Why, yes, dear boy, it s as good as another, unless you d like\nanother. \n\n What is your real name?  I asked him in a whisper.\n\n Magwitch,  he answered, in the same tone;  chrisen d Abel. \n\n What were you brought up to be? \n\n A warmint, dear boy. \n\nHe answered quite seriously, and used the word as if it denoted some\nprofession.\n\n When you came into the Temple last night  said I, pausing to wonder\nwhether that could really have been last night, which seemed so long\nago.\n\n Yes, dear boy? \n\n When you came in at the gate and asked the watchman the way here, had\nyou any one with you? \n\n With me? No, dear boy. \n\n But there was some one there? \n\n I didn t take particular notice,  he said, dubiously,  not knowing the\nways of the place. But I think there _was_ a person, too, come in\nalonger me. \n\n Are you known in London? \n\n I hope not!  said he, giving his neck a jerk with his forefinger that\nmade me turn hot and sick.\n\n Were you known in London, once? \n\n Not over and above, dear boy. I was in the provinces mostly. \n\n Were you tried in London? \n\n Which time?  said he, with a sharp look.\n\n The last time. \n\nHe nodded.  First knowed Mr. Jaggers that way. Jaggers was for me. \n\nIt was on my lips to ask him what he was tried for, but he took up a\nknife, gave it a flourish, and with the words,  And what I done is\nworked out and paid for!  fell to at his breakfast.\n\nHe ate in a ravenous way that was very disagreeable, and all his\nactions were uncouth, noisy, and greedy. Some of his teeth had failed\nhim since I saw him eat on the marshes, and as he turned his food in\nhis mouth, and turned his head sideways to bring his strongest fangs to\nbear upon it, he looked terribly like a hungry old dog. If I had begun\nwith any appetite, he would have taken it away, and I should have sat\nmuch as I did, repelled from him by an insurmountable aversion, and\ngloomily looking at the cloth.\n\n I m a heavy grubber, dear boy,  he said, as a polite kind of apology\nwhen he made an end of his meal,  but I always was. If it had been in\nmy constitution to be a lighter grubber, I might ha  got into lighter\ntrouble. Similarly, I must have my smoke. When I was first hired out as\nshepherd t other side the world, it s my belief I should ha  turned\ninto a molloncolly-mad sheep myself, if I hadn t a had my smoke. \n\nAs he said so, he got up from table, and putting his hand into the\nbreast of the pea-coat he wore, brought out a short black pipe, and a\nhandful of loose tobacco of the kind that is called Negro-head. Having\nfilled his pipe, he put the surplus tobacco back again, as if his\npocket were a drawer. Then, he took a live coal from the fire with the\ntongs, and lighted his pipe at it, and then turned round on the\nhearth-rug with his back to the fire, and went through his favourite\naction of holding out both his hands for mine.\n\n And this,  said he, dandling my hands up and down in his, as he puffed\nat his pipe, and this is the gentleman what I made! The real genuine\nOne! It does me good fur to look at you, Pip. All I stip late, is, to\nstand by and look at you, dear boy! \n\nI released my hands as soon as I could, and found that I was beginning\nslowly to settle down to the contemplation of my condition. What I was\nchained to, and how heavily, became intelligible to me, as I heard his\nhoarse voice, and sat looking up at his furrowed bald head with its\niron grey hair at the sides.\n\n I mustn t see my gentleman a footing it in the mire of the streets;\nthere mustn t be no mud on _his_ boots. My gentleman must have horses,\nPip! Horses to ride, and horses to drive, and horses for his servant to\nride and drive as well. Shall colonists have their horses (and blood\n uns, if you please, good Lord!) and not my London gentleman? No, no.\nWe ll show  em another pair of shoes than that, Pip; won t us? \n\nHe took out of his pocket a great thick pocket-book, bursting with\npapers, and tossed it on the table.\n\n There s something worth spending in that there book, dear boy. It s\nyourn. All I ve got ain t mine; it s yourn. Don t you be afeerd on it.\nThere s more where that come from. I ve come to the old country fur to\nsee my gentleman spend his money _like_ a gentleman. That ll be _my_\npleasure. _My_ pleasure  ull be fur to see him do it. And blast you\nall!  he wound up, looking round the room and snapping his fingers once\nwith a loud snap,  blast you every one, from the judge in his wig, to\nthe colonist a stirring up the dust, I ll show a better gentleman than\nthe whole kit on you put together! \n\n Stop!  said I, almost in a frenzy of fear and dislike,  I want to\nspeak to you. I want to know what is to be done. I want to know how you\nare to be kept out of danger, how long you are going to stay, what\nprojects you have. \n\n Look ee here, Pip,  said he, laying his hand on my arm in a suddenly\naltered and subdued manner;  first of all, look ee here. I forgot\nmyself half a minute ago. What I said was low; that s what it was; low.\nLook ee here, Pip. Look over it. I ain t a-going to be low. \n\n First,  I resumed, half groaning,  what precautions can be taken\nagainst your being recognised and seized? \n\n No, dear boy,  he said, in the same tone as before,  that don t go\nfirst. Lowness goes first. I ain t took so many year to make a\ngentleman, not without knowing what s due to him. Look ee here, Pip. I\nwas low; that s what I was; low. Look over it, dear boy. \n\nSome sense of the grimly-ludicrous moved me to a fretful laugh, as I\nreplied,  I _have_ looked over it. In Heaven s name, don t harp upon\nit! \n\n Yes, but look ee here,  he persisted.  Dear boy, I ain t come so fur,\nnot fur to be low. Now, go on, dear boy. You was a saying \n\n How are you to be guarded from the danger you have incurred? \n\n Well, dear boy, the danger ain t so great. Without I was informed\nagen, the danger ain t so much to signify. There s Jaggers, and there s\nWemmick, and there s you. Who else is there to inform? \n\n Is there no chance person who might identify you in the street?  said\nI.\n\n Well,  he returned,  there ain t many. Nor yet I don t intend to\nadvertise myself in the newspapers by the name of A.M. come back from\nBotany Bay; and years have rolled away, and who s to gain by it? Still,\nlook ee here, Pip. If the danger had been fifty times as great, I\nshould ha  come to see you, mind you, just the same. \n\n And how long do you remain? \n\n How long?  said he, taking his black pipe from his mouth, and dropping\nhis jaw as he stared at me.  I m not a-going back. I ve come for good. \n\n Where are you to live?  said I.  What is to be done with you? Where\nwill you be safe? \n\n Dear boy,  he returned,  there s disguising wigs can be bought for\nmoney, and there s hair powder, and spectacles, and black\nclothes, shorts and what not. Others has done it safe afore, and what\nothers has done afore, others can do agen. As to the where and how of\nliving, dear boy, give me your own opinions on it. \n\n You take it smoothly now,  said I,  but you were very serious last\nnight, when you swore it was Death. \n\n And so I swear it is Death,  said he, putting his pipe back in his\nmouth,  and Death by the rope, in the open street not fur from this,\nand it s serious that you should fully understand it to be so. What\nthen, when that s once done? Here I am. To go back now  ud be as bad as\nto stand ground worse. Besides, Pip, I m here, because I ve meant it by\nyou, years and years. As to what I dare, I m a old bird now, as has\ndared all manner of traps since first he was fledged, and I m not\nafeerd to perch upon a scarecrow. If there s Death hid inside of it,\nthere is, and let him come out, and I ll face him, and then I ll\nbelieve in him and not afore. And now let me have a look at my\ngentleman agen. \n\nOnce more, he took me by both hands and surveyed me with an air of\nadmiring proprietorship: smoking with great complacency all the while.\n\nIt appeared to me that I could do no better than secure him some quiet\nlodging hard by, of which he might take possession when Herbert\nreturned: whom I expected in two or three days. That the secret must be\nconfided to Herbert as a matter of unavoidable necessity, even if I\ncould have put the immense relief I should derive from sharing it with\nhim out of the question, was plain to me. But it was by no means so\nplain to Mr. Provis (I resolved to call him by that name), who reserved\nhis consent to Herbert s participation until he should have seen him\nand formed a favourable judgment of his physiognomy.  And even then,\ndear boy,  said he, pulling a greasy little clasped black Testament out\nof his pocket,  we ll have him on his oath. \n\nTo state that my terrible patron carried this little black book about\nthe world solely to swear people on in cases of emergency, would be to\nstate what I never quite established; but this I can say, that I never\nknew him put it to any other use. The book itself had the appearance of\nhaving been stolen from some court of justice, and perhaps his\nknowledge of its antecedents, combined with his own experience in that\nwise, gave him a reliance on its powers as a sort of legal spell or\ncharm. On this first occasion of his producing it, I recalled how he\nhad made me swear fidelity in the churchyard long ago, and how he had\ndescribed himself last night as always swearing to his resolutions in\nhis solitude.\n\nAs he was at present dressed in a seafaring slop suit, in which he\nlooked as if he had some parrots and cigars to dispose of, I next\ndiscussed with him what dress he should wear. He cherished an\nextraordinary belief in the virtues of  shorts  as a disguise, and had\nin his own mind sketched a dress for himself that would have made him\nsomething between a dean and a dentist. It was with considerable\ndifficulty that I won him over to the assumption of a dress more like a\nprosperous farmer s; and we arranged that he should cut his hair close,\nand wear a little powder. Lastly, as he had not yet been seen by the\nlaundress or her niece, he was to keep himself out of their view until\nhis change of dress was made.\n\nIt would seem a simple matter to decide on these precautions; but in my\ndazed, not to say distracted, state, it took so long, that I did not\nget out to further them until two or three in the afternoon. He was to\nremain shut up in the chambers while I was gone, and was on no account\nto open the door.\n\nThere being to my knowledge a respectable lodging-house in Essex\nStreet, the back of which looked into the Temple, and was almost within\nhail of my windows, I first of all repaired to that house, and was so\nfortunate as to secure the second floor for my uncle, Mr. Provis. I\nthen went from shop to shop, making such purchases as were necessary to\nthe change in his appearance. This business transacted, I turned my\nface, on my own account, to Little Britain. Mr. Jaggers was at his\ndesk, but, seeing me enter, got up immediately and stood before his\nfire.\n\n Now, Pip,  said he,  be careful. \n\n I will, sir,  I returned. For, coming along I had thought well of what\nI was going to say.\n\n Don t commit yourself,  said Mr. Jaggers,  and don t commit any one.\nYou understand any one. Don t tell me anything: I don t want to know\nanything; I am not curious. \n\nOf course I saw that he knew the man was come.\n\n I merely want, Mr. Jaggers,  said I,  to assure myself that what I\nhave been told is true. I have no hope of its being untrue, but at\nleast I may verify it. \n\nMr. Jaggers nodded.  But did you say  told  or  informed ?  he asked\nme, with his head on one side, and not looking at me, but looking in a\nlistening way at the floor.  Told would seem to imply verbal\ncommunication. You can t have verbal communication with a man in New\nSouth Wales, you know. \n\n I will say, informed, Mr. Jaggers. \n\n Good. \n\n I have been informed by a person named Abel Magwitch, that he is the\nbenefactor so long unknown to me. \n\n That is the man,  said Mr. Jaggers,  in New South Wales. \n\n And only he?  said I.\n\n And only he,  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n I am not so unreasonable, sir, as to think you at all responsible for\nmy mistakes and wrong conclusions; but I always supposed it was Miss\nHavisham. \n\n As you say, Pip,  returned Mr. Jaggers, turning his eyes upon me\ncoolly, and taking a bite at his forefinger,  I am not at all\nresponsible for that. \n\n And yet it looked so like it, sir,  I pleaded with a downcast heart.\n\n Not a particle of evidence, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, shaking his head\nand gathering up his skirts.  Take nothing on its looks; take\neverything on evidence. There s no better rule. \n\n I have no more to say,  said I, with a sigh, after standing silent for\na little while.  I have verified my information, and there s an end. \n\n And Magwitch in New South Wales having at last disclosed himself, \nsaid Mr. Jaggers,  you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly throughout my\ncommunication with you, I have always adhered to the strict line of\nfact. There has never been the least departure from the strict line of\nfact. You are quite aware of that? \n\n Quite, sir. \n\n I communicated to Magwitch in New South Wales when he first wrote to\nme from New South Wales the caution that he must not expect me ever to\ndeviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him\nanother caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his\nletter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I\ncautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all\nlikely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his\nnatural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be\nan act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the\nlaw. I gave Magwitch that caution,  said Mr. Jaggers, looking hard at\nme;  I wrote it to New South Wales. He guided himself by it, no doubt. \n\n No doubt,  said I.\n\n I have been informed by Wemmick,  pursued Mr. Jaggers, still looking\nhard at me,  that he has received a letter, under date Portsmouth, from\na colonist of the name of Purvis, or \n\n Or Provis,  I suggested.\n\n Or Provis thank you, Pip. Perhaps it _is_ Provis? Perhaps you know\nit s Provis? \n\n Yes,  said I.\n\n You know it s Provis. A letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist\nof the name of Provis, asking for the particulars of your address, on\nbehalf of Magwitch. Wemmick sent him the particulars, I understand, by\nreturn of post. Probably it is through Provis that you have received\nthe explanation of Magwitch in New South Wales? \n\n It came through Provis,  I replied.\n\n Good day, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, offering his hand;  glad to have\nseen you. In writing by post to Magwitch in New South Wales or in\ncommunicating with him through Provis, have the goodness to mention\nthat the particulars and vouchers of our long account shall be sent to\nyou, together with the balance; for there is still a balance remaining.\nGood-day, Pip! \n\nWe shook hands, and he looked hard at me as long as he could see me. I\nturned at the door, and he was still looking hard at me, while the two\nvile casts on the shelf seemed to be trying to get their eyelids open,\nand to force out of their swollen throats,  O, what a man he is! \n\nWemmick was out, and though he had been at his desk he could have done\nnothing for me. I went straight back to the Temple, where I found the\nterrible Provis drinking rum and water and smoking negro-head, in\nsafety.\n\nNext day the clothes I had ordered all came home, and he put them on.\nWhatever he put on, became him less (it dismally seemed to me) than\nwhat he had worn before. To my thinking, there was something in him\nthat made it hopeless to attempt to disguise him. The more I dressed\nhim and the better I dressed him, the more he looked like the slouching\nfugitive on the marshes. This effect on my anxious fancy was partly\nreferable, no doubt, to his old face and manner growing more familiar\nto me; but I believe too that he dragged one of his legs as if there\nwere still a weight of iron on it, and that from head to foot there was\nConvict in the very grain of the man.\n\nThe influences of his solitary hut-life were upon him besides, and gave\nhim a savage air that no dress could tame; added to these were the\ninfluences of his subsequent branded life among men, and, crowning all,\nhis consciousness that he was dodging and hiding now. In all his ways\nof sitting and standing, and eating and drinking, of brooding about in\na high-shouldered reluctant style, of taking out his great horn-handled\njackknife and wiping it on his legs and cutting his food, of lifting\nlight glasses and cups to his lips, as if they were clumsy\npannikins, of chopping a wedge off his bread, and soaking up with it\nthe last fragments of gravy round and round his plate, as if to make\nthe most of an allowance, and then drying his finger-ends on it, and\nthen swallowing it, in these ways and a thousand other small nameless\ninstances arising every minute in the day, there was Prisoner, Felon,\nBondsman, plain as plain could be.\n\nIt had been his own idea to wear that touch of powder, and I had\nconceded the powder after overcoming the shorts. But I can compare the\neffect of it, when on, to nothing but the probable effect of rouge upon\nthe dead; so awful was the manner in which everything in him that it\nwas most desirable to repress, started through that thin layer of\npretence, and seemed to come blazing out at the crown of his head. It\nwas abandoned as soon as tried, and he wore his grizzled hair cut\nshort.\n\nWords cannot tell what a sense I had, at the same time, of the dreadful\nmystery that he was to me. When he fell asleep of an evening, with his\nknotted hands clenching the sides of the easy-chair, and his bald head\ntattooed with deep wrinkles falling forward on his breast, I would sit\nand look at him, wondering what he had done, and loading him with all\nthe crimes in the Calendar, until the impulse was powerful on me to\nstart up and fly from him. Every hour so increased my abhorrence of\nhim, that I even think I might have yielded to this impulse in the\nfirst agonies of being so haunted, notwithstanding all he had done for\nme and the risk he ran, but for the knowledge that Herbert must soon\ncome back. Once, I actually did start out of bed in the night, and\nbegin to dress myself in my worst clothes, hurriedly intending to leave\nhim there with everything else I possessed, and enlist for India as a\nprivate soldier.\n\nI doubt if a ghost could have been more terrible to me, up in those\nlonely rooms in the long evenings and long nights, with the wind and\nthe rain always rushing by. A ghost could not have been taken and\nhanged on my account, and the consideration that he could be, and the\ndread that he would be, were no small addition to my horrors. When he\nwas not asleep, or playing a complicated kind of Patience with a ragged\npack of cards of his own, a game that I never saw before or since, and\nin which he recorded his winnings by sticking his jackknife into the\ntable, when he was not engaged in either of these pursuits, he would\nask me to read to him, Foreign language, dear boy!  While I complied,\nhe, not comprehending a single word, would stand before the fire\nsurveying me with the air of an Exhibitor, and I would see him, between\nthe fingers of the hand with which I shaded my face, appealing in dumb\nshow to the furniture to take notice of my proficiency. The imaginary\nstudent pursued by the misshapen creature he had impiously made, was\nnot more wretched than I, pursued by the creature who had made me, and\nrecoiling from him with a stronger repulsion, the more he admired me\nand the fonder he was of me.\n\nThis is written of, I am sensible, as if it had lasted a year. It\nlasted about five days. Expecting Herbert all the time, I dared not go\nout, except when I took Provis for an airing after dark. At length, one\nevening when dinner was over and I had dropped into a slumber quite\nworn out, for my nights had been agitated and my rest broken by fearful\ndreams, I was roused by the welcome footstep on the staircase. Provis,\nwho had been asleep too, staggered up at the noise I made, and in an\ninstant I saw his jackknife shining in his hand.\n\n Quiet! It s Herbert!  I said; and Herbert came bursting in, with the\nairy freshness of six hundred miles of France upon him.\n\n Handel, my dear fellow, how are you, and again how are you, and again\nhow are you? I seem to have been gone a twelvemonth! Why, so I must\nhave been, for you have grown quite thin and pale! Handel, my Halloa! I\nbeg your pardon. \n\nHe was stopped in his running on and in his shaking hands with me, by\nseeing Provis. Provis, regarding him with a fixed attention, was slowly\nputting up his jackknife, and groping in another pocket for something\nelse.\n\n Herbert, my dear friend,  said I, shutting the double doors, while\nHerbert stood staring and wondering,  something very strange has\nhappened. This is a visitor of mine. \n\n It s all right, dear boy!  said Provis coming forward, with his little\nclasped black book, and then addressing himself to Herbert.  Take it in\nyour right hand. Lord strike you dead on the spot, if ever you split in\nany way sumever! Kiss it! \n\n Do so, as he wishes it,  I said to Herbert. So, Herbert, looking at me\nwith a friendly uneasiness and amazement, complied, and Provis\nimmediately shaking hands with him, said,  Now you re on your oath, you\nknow. And never believe me on mine, if Pip shan t make a gentleman on\nyou! \n\n\n\n\nChapter XLI.\n\n\nIn vain should I attempt to describe the astonishment and disquiet of\nHerbert, when he and I and Provis sat down before the fire, and I\nrecounted the whole of the secret. Enough, that I saw my own feelings\nreflected in Herbert s face, and not least among them, my repugnance\ntowards the man who had done so much for me.\n\nWhat would alone have set a division between that man and us, if there\nhad been no other dividing circumstance, was his triumph in my story.\nSaving his troublesome sense of having been  low  on one occasion since\nhis return, on which point he began to hold forth to Herbert, the\nmoment my revelation was finished, he had no perception of the\npossibility of my finding any fault with my good fortune. His boast\nthat he had made me a gentleman, and that he had come to see me support\nthe character on his ample resources, was made for me quite as much as\nfor himself. And that it was a highly agreeable boast to both of us,\nand that we must both be very proud of it, was a conclusion quite\nestablished in his own mind.\n\n Though, look ee here, Pip s comrade,  he said to Herbert, after having\ndiscoursed for some time,  I know very well that once since I come\nback for half a minute I ve been low. I said to Pip, I knowed as I had\nbeen low. But don t you fret yourself on that score. I ain t made Pip a\ngentleman, and Pip ain t a-going to make you a gentleman, not fur me\nnot to know what s due to ye both. Dear boy, and Pip s comrade, you two\nmay count upon me always having a genteel muzzle on. Muzzled I have\nbeen since that half a minute when I was betrayed into lowness, muzzled\nI am at the present time, muzzled I ever will be. \n\nHerbert said,  Certainly,  but looked as if there were no specific\nconsolation in this, and remained perplexed and dismayed. We were\nanxious for the time when he would go to his lodging and leave us\ntogether, but he was evidently jealous of leaving us together, and sat\nlate. It was midnight before I took him round to Essex Street, and saw\nhim safely in at his own dark door. When it closed upon him, I\nexperienced the first moment of relief I had known since the night of\nhis arrival.\n\nNever quite free from an uneasy remembrance of the man on the stairs, I\nhad always looked about me in taking my guest out after dark, and in\nbringing him back; and I looked about me now. Difficult as it is in a\nlarge city to avoid the suspicion of being watched, when the mind is\nconscious of danger in that regard, I could not persuade myself that\nany of the people within sight cared about my movements. The few who\nwere passing passed on their several ways, and the street was empty\nwhen I turned back into the Temple. Nobody had come out at the gate\nwith us, nobody went in at the gate with me. As I crossed by the\nfountain, I saw his lighted back windows looking bright and quiet, and,\nwhen I stood for a few moments in the doorway of the building where I\nlived, before going up the stairs, Garden Court was as still and\nlifeless as the staircase was when I ascended it.\n\nHerbert received me with open arms, and I had never felt before so\nblessedly what it is to have a friend. When he had spoken some sound\nwords of sympathy and encouragement, we sat down to consider the\nquestion, What was to be done?\n\nThe chair that Provis had occupied still remaining where it had\nstood, for he had a barrack way with him of hanging about one spot, in\none unsettled manner, and going through one round of observances with\nhis pipe and his negro-head and his jackknife and his pack of cards,\nand what not, as if it were all put down for him on a slate, I say his\nchair remaining where it had stood, Herbert unconsciously took it, but\nnext moment started out of it, pushed it away, and took another. He had\nno occasion to say after that that he had conceived an aversion for my\npatron, neither had I occasion to confess my own. We interchanged that\nconfidence without shaping a syllable.\n\n What,  said I to Herbert, when he was safe in another chair, what is\nto be done? \n\n My poor dear Handel,  he replied, holding his head,  I am too stunned\nto think. \n\n So was I, Herbert, when the blow first fell. Still, something must be\ndone. He is intent upon various new expenses, horses, and carriages,\nand lavish appearances of all kinds. He must be stopped somehow. \n\n You mean that you can t accept \n\n How can I?  I interposed, as Herbert paused.  Think of him! Look at\nhim! \n\nAn involuntary shudder passed over both of us.\n\n Yet I am afraid the dreadful truth is, Herbert, that he is attached to\nme, strongly attached to me. Was there ever such a fate! \n\n My poor dear Handel,  Herbert repeated.\n\n Then,  said I,  after all, stopping short here, never taking another\npenny from him, think what I owe him already! Then again: I am heavily\nin debt, very heavily for me, who have now no expectations, and I have\nbeen bred to no calling, and I am fit for nothing. \n\n Well, well, well!  Herbert remonstrated.  Don t say fit for nothing. \n\n What am I fit for? I know only one thing that I am fit for, and that\nis, to go for a soldier. And I might have gone, my dear Herbert, but\nfor the prospect of taking counsel with your friendship and affection. \n\nOf course I broke down there: and of course Herbert, beyond seizing a\nwarm grip of my hand, pretended not to know it.\n\n Anyhow, my dear Handel,  said he presently,  soldiering won t do. If\nyou were to renounce this patronage and these favours, I suppose you\nwould do so with some faint hope of one day repaying what you have\nalready had. Not very strong, that hope, if you went soldiering!\nBesides, it s absurd. You would be infinitely better in Clarriker s\nhouse, small as it is. I am working up towards a partnership, you\nknow. \n\nPoor fellow! He little suspected with whose money.\n\n But there is another question,  said Herbert.  This is an ignorant,\ndetermined man, who has long had one fixed idea. More than that, he\nseems to me (I may misjudge him) to be a man of a desperate and fierce\ncharacter. \n\n I know he is,  I returned.  Let me tell you what evidence I have seen\nof it.  And I told him what I had not mentioned in my narrative, of\nthat encounter with the other convict.\n\n See, then,  said Herbert;  think of this! He comes here at the peril\nof his life, for the realisation of his fixed idea. In the moment of\nrealisation, after all his toil and waiting, you cut the ground from\nunder his feet, destroy his idea, and make his gains worthless to him.\nDo you see nothing that he might do, under the disappointment? \n\n I have seen it, Herbert, and dreamed of it, ever since the fatal night\nof his arrival. Nothing has been in my thoughts so distinctly as his\nputting himself in the way of being taken. \n\n Then you may rely upon it,  said Herbert,  that there would be great\ndanger of his doing it. That is his power over you as long as he\nremains in England, and that would be his reckless course if you\nforsook him. \n\nI was so struck by the horror of this idea, which had weighed upon me\nfrom the first, and the working out of which would make me regard\nmyself, in some sort, as his murderer, that I could not rest in my\nchair, but began pacing to and fro. I said to Herbert, meanwhile, that\neven if Provis were recognised and taken, in spite of himself, I should\nbe wretched as the cause, however innocently. Yes; even though I was so\nwretched in having him at large and near me, and even though I would\nfar rather have worked at the forge all the days of my life than I\nwould ever have come to this!\n\nBut there was no staving off the question, What was to be done?\n\n The first and the main thing to be done,  said Herbert,  is to get him\nout of England. You will have to go with him, and then he may be\ninduced to go. \n\n But get him where I will, could I prevent his coming back? \n\n My good Handel, is it not obvious that with Newgate in the next\nstreet, there must be far greater hazard in your breaking your mind to\nhim and making him reckless, here, than elsewhere? If a pretext to get\nhim away could be made out of that other convict, or out of anything\nelse in his life, now. \n\n There, again!  said I, stopping before Herbert, with my open hands\nheld out, as if they contained the desperation of the case.  I know\nnothing of his life. It has almost made me mad to sit here of a night\nand see him before me, so bound up with my fortunes and misfortunes,\nand yet so unknown to me, except as the miserable wretch who terrified\nme two days in my childhood! \n\nHerbert got up, and linked his arm in mine, and we slowly walked to and\nfro together, studying the carpet.\n\n Handel,  said Herbert, stopping,  you feel convinced that you can take\nno further benefits from him; do you? \n\n Fully. Surely you would, too, if you were in my place? \n\n And you feel convinced that you must break with him? \n\n Herbert, can you ask me? \n\n And you have, and are bound to have, that tenderness for the life he\nhas risked on your account, that you must save him, if possible, from\nthrowing it away. Then you must get him out of England before you stir\na finger to extricate yourself. That done, extricate yourself, in\nHeaven s name, and we ll see it out together, dear old boy. \n\nIt was a comfort to shake hands upon it, and walk up and down again,\nwith only that done.\n\n Now, Herbert,  said I,  with reference to gaining some knowledge of\nhis history. There is but one way that I know of. I must ask him point\nblank. \n\n Yes. Ask him,  said Herbert,  when we sit at breakfast in the\nmorning.  For he had said, on taking leave of Herbert, that he would\ncome to breakfast with us.\n\nWith this project formed, we went to bed. I had the wildest dreams\nconcerning him, and woke unrefreshed; I woke, too, to recover the fear\nwhich I had lost in the night, of his being found out as a returned\ntransport. Waking, I never lost that fear.\n\nHe came round at the appointed time, took out his jackknife, and sat\ndown to his meal. He was full of plans  for his gentleman s coming out\nstrong, and like a gentleman,  and urged me to begin speedily upon the\npocket-book which he had left in my possession. He considered the\nchambers and his own lodging as temporary residences, and advised me to\nlook out at once for a  fashionable crib  near Hyde Park, in which he\ncould have  a shake-down.  When he had made an end of his breakfast,\nand was wiping his knife on his leg, I said to him, without a word of\npreface, \n\n After you were gone last night, I told my friend of the struggle that\nthe soldiers found you engaged in on the marshes, when we came up. You\nremember? \n\n Remember!  said he.  I think so! \n\n We want to know something about that man and about you. It is strange\nto know no more about either, and particularly you, than I was able to\ntell last night. Is not this as good a time as another for our knowing\nmore? \n\n Well!  he said, after consideration.  You re on your oath, you know,\nPip s comrade? \n\n Assuredly,  replied Herbert.\n\n As to anything I say, you know,  he insisted.  The oath applies to\nall. \n\n I understand it to do so. \n\n And look ee here! Wotever I done is worked out and paid for,  he\ninsisted again.\n\n So be it. \n\nHe took out his black pipe and was going to fill it with negro-head,\nwhen, looking at the tangle of tobacco in his hand, he seemed to think\nit might perplex the thread of his narrative. He put it back again,\nstuck his pipe in a button-hole of his coat, spread a hand on each\nknee, and after turning an angry eye on the fire for a few silent\nmoments, looked round at us and said what follows.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLII.\n\n\n Dear boy and Pip s comrade. I am not a-going fur to tell you my life\nlike a song, or a story-book. But to give it you short and handy, I ll\nput it at once into a mouthful of English. In jail and out of jail, in\njail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail. There, you ve got it.\nThat s _my_ life pretty much, down to such times as I got shipped off,\narter Pip stood my friend.\n\n I ve been done everything to, pretty well except hanged. I ve been\nlocked up as much as a silver tea-kittle. I ve been carted here and\ncarted there, and put out of this town, and put out of that town, and\nstuck in the stocks, and whipped and worried and drove. I ve no more\nnotion where I was born than you have if so much. I first become aware\nof myself down in Essex, a thieving turnips for my living. Summun had\nrun away from me a man a tinker and he d took the fire with him, and\nleft me wery cold.\n\n I know d my name to be Magwitch, chrisen d Abel. How did I know it?\nMuch as I know d the birds  names in the hedges to be chaffinch,\nsparrer, thrush. I might have thought it was all lies together, only as\nthe birds  names come out true, I supposed mine did.\n\n So fur as I could find, there warn t a soul that see young Abel\nMagwitch, with us little on him as in him, but wot caught fright at\nhim, and either drove him off, or took him up. I was took up, took up,\ntook up, to that extent that I reg larly grow d up took up.\n\n This is the way it was, that when I was a ragged little creetur as\nmuch to be pitied as ever I see (not that I looked in the glass, for\nthere warn t many insides of furnished houses known to me), I got the\nname of being hardened.  This is a terrible hardened one,  they says to\nprison wisitors, picking out me.  May be said to live in jails, this\nboy.  Then they looked at me, and I looked at them, and they measured\nmy head, some on  em, they had better a measured my stomach, and others\non  em giv me tracts what I couldn t read, and made me speeches what I\ncouldn t understand. They always went on agen me about the Devil. But\nwhat the Devil was I to do? I must put something into my stomach,\nmustn t I? Howsomever, I m a getting low, and I know what s due. Dear\nboy and Pip s comrade, don t you be afeerd of me being low.\n\n Tramping, begging, thieving, working sometimes when I could, though\nthat warn t as often as you may think, till you put the question\nwhether you would ha  been over-ready to give me work yourselves, a bit\nof a poacher, a bit of a labourer, a bit of a wagoner, a bit of a\nhaymaker, a bit of a hawker, a bit of most things that don t pay and\nlead to trouble, I got to be a man. A deserting soldier in a\nTraveller s Rest, what lay hid up to the chin under a lot of taturs,\nlearnt me to read; and a travelling Giant what signed his name at a\npenny a time learnt me to write. I warn t locked up as often now as\nformerly, but I wore out my good share of key-metal still.\n\n At Epsom races, a matter of over twenty years ago, I got acquainted\nwi  a man whose skull I d crack wi  this poker, like the claw of a\nlobster, if I d got it on this hob. His right name was Compeyson; and\nthat s the man, dear boy, what you see me a pounding in the ditch,\naccording to what you truly told your comrade arter I was gone last\nnight.\n\n He set up fur a gentleman, this Compeyson, and he d been to a public\nboarding-school and had learning. He was a smooth one to talk, and was\na dab at the ways of gentlefolks. He was good-looking too. It was the\nnight afore the great race, when I found him on the heath, in a booth\nthat I know d on. Him and some more was a sitting among the tables when\nI went in, and the landlord (which had a knowledge of me, and was a\nsporting one) called him out, and said,  I think this is a man that\nmight suit you, meaning I was.\n\n Compeyson, he looks at me very noticing, and I look at him. He has a\nwatch and a chain and a ring and a breast-pin and a handsome suit of\nclothes.\n\n To judge from appearances, you re out of luck,  says Compeyson to me.\n\n Yes, master, and I ve never been in it much.  (I had come out of\nKingston Jail last on a vagrancy committal. Not but what it might have\nbeen for something else; but it warn t.)\n\n Luck changes,  says Compeyson;  perhaps yours is going to change. \n\n I says,  I hope it may be so. There s room. \n\n What can you do?  says Compeyson.\n\n Eat and drink,  I says;  if you ll find the materials. \n\n Compeyson laughed, looked at me again very noticing, giv me five\nshillings, and appointed me for next night. Same place.\n\n I went to Compeyson next night, same place, and Compeyson took me on\nto be his man and pardner. And what was Compeyson s business in which\nwe was to go pardners? Compeyson s business was the swindling,\nhandwriting forging, stolen bank-note passing, and such-like. All sorts\nof traps as Compeyson could set with his head, and keep his own legs\nout of and get the profits from and let another man in for, was\nCompeyson s business. He d no more heart than a iron file, he was as\ncold as death, and he had the head of the Devil afore mentioned.\n\n There was another in with Compeyson, as was called Arthur, not as\nbeing so chrisen d, but as a surname. He was in a Decline, and was a\nshadow to look at. Him and Compeyson had been in a bad thing with a\nrich lady some years afore, and they d made a pot of money by it; but\nCompeyson betted and gamed, and he d have run through the king s taxes.\nSo, Arthur was a dying, and a dying poor and with the horrors on him,\nand Compeyson s wife (which Compeyson kicked mostly) was a having pity\non him when she could, and Compeyson was a having pity on nothing and\nnobody.\n\n I might a took warning by Arthur, but I didn t; and I won t pretend I\nwas partick ler for where  ud be the good on it, dear boy and comrade?\nSo I begun wi  Compeyson, and a poor tool I was in his hands. Arthur\nlived at the top of Compeyson s house (over nigh Brentford it was), and\nCompeyson kept a careful account agen him for board and lodging, in\ncase he should ever get better to work it out. But Arthur soon settled\nthe account. The second or third time as ever I see him, he come a\ntearing down into Compeyson s parlour late at night, in only a flannel\ngown, with his hair all in a sweat, and he says to Compeyson s wife,\n Sally, she really is upstairs alonger me, now, and I can t get rid of\nher. She s all in white,  he says,  wi  white flowers in her hair, and\nshe s awful mad, and she s got a shroud hanging over her arm, and she\nsays she ll put it on me at five in the morning. \n\n Says Compeyson:  Why, you fool, don t you know she s got a living\nbody? And how should she be up there, without coming through the door,\nor in at the window, and up the stairs? \n\n I don t know how she s there,  says Arthur, shivering dreadful with\nthe horrors,  but she s standing in the corner at the foot of the bed,\nawful mad. And over where her heart s broke _you_ broke it! there s\ndrops of blood. \n\n Compeyson spoke hardy, but he was always a coward.  Go up alonger this\ndrivelling sick man,  he says to his wife,  and Magwitch, lend her a\nhand, will you?  But he never come nigh himself.\n\n Compeyson s wife and me took him up to bed agen, and he raved most\ndreadful.  Why look at her!  he cries out.  She s a shaking the shroud\nat me! Don t you see her? Look at her eyes! Ain t it awful to see her\nso mad?  Next he cries,  She ll put it on me, and then I m done for!\nTake it away from her, take it away!  And then he catched hold of us,\nand kep on a talking to her, and answering of her, till I half believed\nI see her myself.\n\n Compeyson s wife, being used to him, giv him some liquor to get the\nhorrors off, and by and by he quieted.  O, she s gone! Has her keeper\nbeen for her?  he says.  Yes,  says Compeyson s wife.  Did you tell him\nto lock her and bar her in?   Yes.   And to take that ugly thing away\nfrom her?   Yes, yes, all right.   You re a good creetur,  he says,\n don t leave me, whatever you do, and thank you! \n\n He rested pretty quiet till it might want a few minutes of five, and\nthen he starts up with a scream, and screams out,  Here she is! She s\ngot the shroud again. She s unfolding it. She s coming out of the\ncorner. She s coming to the bed. Hold me, both on you one of each\nside don t let her touch me with it. Hah! she missed me that time.\nDon t let her throw it over my shoulders. Don t let her lift me up to\nget it round me. She s lifting me up. Keep me down!  Then he lifted\nhimself up hard, and was dead.\n\n Compeyson took it easy as a good riddance for both sides. Him and me\nwas soon busy, and first he swore me (being ever artful) on my own\nbook, this here little black book, dear boy, what I swore your comrade\non.\n\n Not to go into the things that Compeyson planned, and I done which  ud\ntake a week I ll simply say to you, dear boy, and Pip s comrade, that\nthat man got me into such nets as made me his black slave. I was always\nin debt to him, always under his thumb, always a working, always a\ngetting into danger. He was younger than me, but he d got craft, and\nhe d got learning, and he overmatched me five hundred times told and no\nmercy. My Missis as I had the hard time wi Stop though! I ain t\nbrought _her_ in \n\nHe looked about him in a confused way, as if he had lost his place in\nthe book of his remembrance; and he turned his face to the fire, and\nspread his hands broader on his knees, and lifted them off and put them\non again.\n\n There ain t no need to go into it,  he said, looking round once more.\n The time wi  Compeyson was a most as hard a time as ever I had; that\nsaid, all s said. Did I tell you as I was tried, alone, for\nmisdemeanor, while with Compeyson? \n\nI answered, No.\n\n Well!  he said,  I _was_, and got convicted. As to took up on\nsuspicion, that was twice or three times in the four or five year that\nit lasted; but evidence was wanting. At last, me and Compeyson was both\ncommitted for felony, on a charge of putting stolen notes in\ncirculation, and there was other charges behind. Compeyson says to me,\n Separate defences, no communication,  and that was all. And I was so\nmiserable poor, that I sold all the clothes I had, except what hung on\nmy back, afore I could get Jaggers.\n\n When we was put in the dock, I noticed first of all what a gentleman\nCompeyson looked, wi  his curly hair and his black clothes and his\nwhite pocket-handkercher, and what a common sort of a wretch I looked.\nWhen the prosecution opened and the evidence was put short, aforehand,\nI noticed how heavy it all bore on me, and how light on him. When the\nevidence was giv in the box, I noticed how it was always me that had\ncome for ard, and could be swore to, how it was always me that the\nmoney had been paid to, how it was always me that had seemed to work\nthe thing and get the profit. But when the defence come on, then I see\nthe plan plainer; for, says the counsellor for Compeyson,  My lord and\ngentlemen, here you has afore you, side by side, two persons as your\neyes can separate wide; one, the younger, well brought up, who will be\nspoke to as such; one, the elder, ill brought up, who will be spoke to\nas such; one, the younger, seldom if ever seen in these here\ntransactions, and only suspected; t other, the elder, always seen in\n em and always wi  his guilt brought home. Can you doubt, if there is\nbut one in it, which is the one, and, if there is two in it, which is\nmuch the worst one?  And such-like. And when it come to character,\nwarn t it Compeyson as had been to the school, and warn t it his\nschoolfellows as was in this position and in that, and warn t it him as\nhad been know d by witnesses in such clubs and societies, and nowt to\nhis disadvantage? And warn t it me as had been tried afore, and as had\nbeen know d up hill and down dale in Bridewells and Lock-Ups! And when\nit come to speech-making, warn t it Compeyson as could speak to  em wi \nhis face dropping every now and then into his white\npocket-handkercher, ah! and wi  verses in his speech, too, and warn t\nit me as could only say,  Gentlemen, this man at my side is a most\nprecious rascal ? And when the verdict come, warn t it Compeyson as was\nrecommended to mercy on account of good character and bad company, and\ngiving up all the information he could agen me, and warn t it me as got\nnever a word but Guilty? And when I says to Compeyson,  Once out of\nthis court, I ll smash that face of yourn!  ain t it Compeyson as prays\nthe Judge to be protected, and gets two turnkeys stood betwixt us? And\nwhen we re sentenced, ain t it him as gets seven year, and me fourteen,\nand ain t it him as the Judge is sorry for, because he might a done so\nwell, and ain t it me as the Judge perceives to be a old offender of\nwiolent passion, likely to come to worse? \n\nHe had worked himself into a state of great excitement, but he checked\nit, took two or three short breaths, swallowed as often, and stretching\nout his hand towards me said, in a reassuring manner,  I ain t a-going\nto be low, dear boy! \n\nHe had so heated himself that he took out his handkerchief and wiped\nhis face and head and neck and hands, before he could go on.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n I had said to Compeyson that I d smash that face of his, and I swore\nLord smash mine! to do it. We was in the same prison-ship, but I\ncouldn t get at him for long, though I tried. At last I come behind him\nand hit him on the cheek to turn him round and get a smashing one at\nhim, when I was seen and seized. The black-hole of that ship warn t a\nstrong one, to a judge of black-holes that could swim and dive. I\nescaped to the shore, and I was a hiding among the graves there,\nenvying them as was in  em and all over, when I first see my boy! \n\nHe regarded me with a look of affection that made him almost abhorrent\nto me again, though I had felt great pity for him.\n\n By my boy, I was giv to understand as Compeyson was out on them\nmarshes too. Upon my soul, I half believe he escaped in his terror, to\nget quit of me, not knowing it was me as had got ashore. I hunted him\ndown. I smashed his face.  And now,  says I  as the worst thing I can\ndo, caring nothing for myself, I ll drag you back.  And I d have swum\noff, towing him by the hair, if it had come to that, and I d a got him\naboard without the soldiers.\n\n Of course he d much the best of it to the last, his character was so\ngood. He had escaped when he was made half wild by me and my murderous\nintentions; and his punishment was light. I was put in irons, brought\nto trial again, and sent for life. I didn t stop for life, dear boy and\nPip s comrade, being here. \n\nHe wiped himself again, as he had done before, and then slowly took his\ntangle of tobacco from his pocket, and plucked his pipe from his\nbutton-hole, and slowly filled it, and began to smoke.\n\n Is he dead?  I asked, after a silence.\n\n Is who dead, dear boy? \n\n Compeyson. \n\n He hopes _I_ am, if he s alive, you may be sure,  with a fierce look.\n I never heerd no more of him. \n\nHerbert had been writing with his pencil in the cover of a book. He\nsoftly pushed the book over to me, as Provis stood smoking with his\neyes on the fire, and I read in it: \n\n Young Havisham s name was Arthur. Compeyson is the man who professed\nto be Miss Havisham s lover. \n\nI shut the book and nodded slightly to Herbert, and put the book by;\nbut we neither of us said anything, and both looked at Provis as he\nstood smoking by the fire.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIII.\n\n\nWhy should I pause to ask how much of my shrinking from Provis might be\ntraced to Estella? Why should I loiter on my road, to compare the state\nof mind in which I had tried to rid myself of the stain of the prison\nbefore meeting her at the coach-office, with the state of mind in which\nI now reflected on the abyss between Estella in her pride and beauty,\nand the returned transport whom I harboured? The road would be none the\nsmoother for it, the end would be none the better for it, he would not\nbe helped, nor I extenuated.\n\nA new fear had been engendered in my mind by his narrative; or rather,\nhis narrative had given form and purpose to the fear that was already\nthere. If Compeyson were alive and should discover his return, I could\nhardly doubt the consequence. That Compeyson stood in mortal fear of\nhim, neither of the two could know much better than I; and that any\nsuch man as that man had been described to be would hesitate to release\nhimself for good from a dreaded enemy by the safe means of becoming an\ninformer was scarcely to be imagined.\n\nNever had I breathed, and never would I breathe or so I resolved a word\nof Estella to Provis. But, I said to Herbert that, before I could go\nabroad, I must see both Estella and Miss Havisham. This was when we\nwere left alone on the night of the day when Provis told us his story.\nI resolved to go out to Richmond next day, and I went.\n\nOn my presenting myself at Mrs. Brandley s, Estella s maid was called\nto tell that Estella had gone into the country. Where? To Satis House,\nas usual. Not as usual, I said, for she had never yet gone there\nwithout me; when was she coming back? There was an air of reservation\nin the answer which increased my perplexity, and the answer was, that\nher maid believed she was only coming back at all for a little while. I\ncould make nothing of this, except that it was meant that I should make\nnothing of it, and I went home again in complete discomfiture.\n\nAnother night consultation with Herbert after Provis was gone home (I\nalways took him home, and always looked well about me), led us to the\nconclusion that nothing should be said about going abroad until I came\nback from Miss Havisham s. In the mean time, Herbert and I were to\nconsider separately what it would be best to say; whether we should\ndevise any pretence of being afraid that he was under suspicious\nobservation; or whether I, who had never yet been abroad, should\npropose an expedition. We both knew that I had but to propose anything,\nand he would consent. We agreed that his remaining many days in his\npresent hazard was not to be thought of.\n\nNext day I had the meanness to feign that I was under a binding promise\nto go down to Joe; but I was capable of almost any meanness towards Joe\nor his name. Provis was to be strictly careful while I was gone, and\nHerbert was to take the charge of him that I had taken. I was to be\nabsent only one night, and, on my return, the gratification of his\nimpatience for my starting as a gentleman on a greater scale was to be\nbegun. It occurred to me then, and as I afterwards found to Herbert\nalso, that he might be best got away across the water, on that\npretence, as, to make purchases, or the like.\n\nHaving thus cleared the way for my expedition to Miss Havisham s, I set\noff by the early morning coach before it was yet light, and was out on\nthe open country road when the day came creeping on, halting and\nwhimpering and shivering, and wrapped in patches of cloud and rags of\nmist, like a beggar. When we drove up to the Blue Boar after a drizzly\nride, whom should I see come out under the gateway, toothpick in hand,\nto look at the coach, but Bentley Drummle!\n\nAs he pretended not to see me, I pretended not to see him. It was a\nvery lame pretence on both sides; the lamer, because we both went into\nthe coffee-room, where he had just finished his breakfast, and where I\nordered mine. It was poisonous to me to see him in the town, for I very\nwell knew why he had come there.\n\nPretending to read a smeary newspaper long out of date, which had\nnothing half so legible in its local news, as the foreign matter of\ncoffee, pickles, fish sauces, gravy, melted butter, and wine with which\nit was sprinkled all over, as if it had taken the measles in a highly\nirregular form, I sat at my table while he stood before the fire. By\ndegrees it became an enormous injury to me that he stood before the\nfire. And I got up, determined to have my share of it. I had to put my\nhand behind his legs for the poker when I went up to the fireplace to\nstir the fire, but still pretended not to know him.\n\n Is this a cut?  said Mr. Drummle.\n\n Oh!  said I, poker in hand;  it s you, is it? How do you do? I was\nwondering who it was, who kept the fire off. \n\nWith that, I poked tremendously, and having done so, planted myself\nside by side with Mr. Drummle, my shoulders squared and my back to the\nfire.\n\n You have just come down?  said Mr. Drummle, edging me a little away\nwith his shoulder.\n\n Yes,  said I, edging _him_ a little away with _my_ shoulder.\n\n Beastly place,  said Drummle.  Your part of the country, I think? \n\n Yes,  I assented.  I am told it s very like your Shropshire. \n\n Not in the least like it,  said Drummle.\n\nHere Mr. Drummle looked at his boots and I looked at mine, and then Mr.\nDrummle looked at my boots, and I looked at his.\n\n Have you been here long?  I asked, determined not to yield an inch of\nthe fire.\n\n Long enough to be tired of it,  returned Drummle, pretending to yawn,\nbut equally determined.\n\n Do you stay here long? \n\n Can t say,  answered Mr. Drummle.  Do you? \n\n Can t say,  said I.\n\nI felt here, through a tingling in my blood, that if Mr. Drummle s\nshoulder had claimed another hair s breadth of room, I should have\njerked him into the window; equally, that if my own shoulder had urged\na similar claim, Mr. Drummle would have jerked me into the nearest box.\nHe whistled a little. So did I.\n\n Large tract of marshes about here, I believe?  said Drummle.\n\n Yes. What of that?  said I.\n\nMr. Drummle looked at me, and then at my boots, and then said,  Oh! \nand laughed.\n\n Are you amused, Mr. Drummle? \n\n No,  said he,  not particularly. I am going out for a ride in the\nsaddle. I mean to explore those marshes for amusement. Out-of-the-way\nvillages there, they tell me. Curious little public-houses and\nsmithies and that. Waiter! \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Is that horse of mine ready? \n\n Brought round to the door, sir. \n\n I say. Look here, you sir. The lady won t ride to-day; the weather\nwon t do. \n\n Very good, sir. \n\n And I don t dine, because I m going to dine at the lady s. \n\n Very good, sir. \n\nThen, Drummle glanced at me, with an insolent triumph on his\ngreat-jowled face that cut me to the heart, dull as he was, and so\nexasperated me, that I felt inclined to take him in my arms (as the\nrobber in the story-book is said to have taken the old lady) and seat\nhim on the fire.\n\nOne thing was manifest to both of us, and that was, that until relief\ncame, neither of us could relinquish the fire. There we stood, well\nsquared up before it, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot, with our\nhands behind us, not budging an inch. The horse was visible outside in\nthe drizzle at the door, my breakfast was put on the table, Drummle s\nwas cleared away, the waiter invited me to begin, I nodded, we both\nstood our ground.\n\n Have you been to the Grove since?  said Drummle.\n\n No,  said I,  I had quite enough of the Finches the last time I was\nthere. \n\n Was that when we had a difference of opinion? \n\n Yes,  I replied, very shortly.\n\n Come, come! They let you off easily enough,  sneered Drummle.  You\nshouldn t have lost your temper. \n\n Mr. Drummle,  said I,  you are not competent to give advice on that\nsubject. When I lose my temper (not that I admit having done so on that\noccasion), I don t throw glasses. \n\n I do,  said Drummle.\n\nAfter glancing at him once or twice, in an increased state of\nsmouldering ferocity, I said, \n\n Mr. Drummle, I did not seek this conversation, and I don t think it an\nagreeable one. \n\n I am sure it s not,  said he, superciliously over his shoulder;  I\ndon t think anything about it. \n\n And therefore,  I went on,  with your leave, I will suggest that we\nhold no kind of communication in future. \n\n Quite my opinion,  said Drummle,  and what I should have suggested\nmyself, or done more likely without suggesting. But don t lose your\ntemper. Haven t you lost enough without that? \n\n What do you mean, sir? \n\n Waiter!  said Drummle, by way of answering me.\n\nThe waiter reappeared.\n\n Look here, you sir. You quite understand that the young lady don t\nride to-day, and that I dine at the young lady s? \n\n Quite so, sir! \n\nWhen the waiter had felt my fast-cooling teapot with the palm of his\nhand, and had looked imploringly at me, and had gone out, Drummle,\ncareful not to move the shoulder next me, took a cigar from his pocket\nand bit the end off, but showed no sign of stirring. Choking and\nboiling as I was, I felt that we could not go a word further, without\nintroducing Estella s name, which I could not endure to hear him utter;\nand therefore I looked stonily at the opposite wall, as if there were\nno one present, and forced myself to silence. How long we might have\nremained in this ridiculous position it is impossible to say, but for\nthe incursion of three thriving farmers laid on by the waiter, I\nthink who came into the coffee-room unbuttoning their great-coats and\nrubbing their hands, and before whom, as they charged at the fire, we\nwere obliged to give way.\n\nI saw him through the window, seizing his horse s mane, and mounting in\nhis blundering brutal manner, and sidling and backing away. I thought\nhe was gone, when he came back, calling for a light for the cigar in\nhis mouth, which he had forgotten. A man in a dust-coloured dress\nappeared with what was wanted, I could not have said from where:\nwhether from the inn yard, or the street, or where not, and as Drummle\nleaned down from the saddle and lighted his cigar and laughed, with a\njerk of his head towards the coffee-room windows, the slouching\nshoulders and ragged hair of this man whose back was towards me\nreminded me of Orlick.\n\nToo heavily out of sorts to care much at the time whether it were he or\nno, or after all to touch the breakfast, I washed the weather and the\njourney from my face and hands, and went out to the memorable old house\nthat it would have been so much the better for me never to have\nentered, never to have seen.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIV.\n\n\nIn the room where the dressing-table stood, and where the wax-candles\nburnt on the wall, I found Miss Havisham and Estella; Miss Havisham\nseated on a settee near the fire, and Estella on a cushion at her feet.\nEstella was knitting, and Miss Havisham was looking on. They both\nraised their eyes as I went in, and both saw an alteration in me. I\nderived that, from the look they interchanged.\n\n And what wind,  said Miss Havisham,  blows you here, Pip? \n\nThough she looked steadily at me, I saw that she was rather confused.\nEstella, pausing a moment in her knitting with her eyes upon me, and\nthen going on, I fancied that I read in the action of her fingers, as\nplainly as if she had told me in the dumb alphabet, that she perceived\nI had discovered my real benefactor.\n\n Miss Havisham,  said I,  I went to Richmond yesterday, to speak to\nEstella; and finding that some wind had blown _her_ here, I followed. \n\nMiss Havisham motioning to me for the third or fourth time to sit down,\nI took the chair by the dressing-table, which I had often seen her\noccupy. With all that ruin at my feet and about me, it seemed a natural\nplace for me, that day.\n\n What I had to say to Estella, Miss Havisham, I will say before you,\npresently in a few moments. It will not surprise you, it will not\ndisplease you. I am as unhappy as you can ever have meant me to be. \n\nMiss Havisham continued to look steadily at me. I could see in the\naction of Estella s fingers as they worked that she attended to what I\nsaid; but she did not look up.\n\n I have found out who my patron is. It is not a fortunate discovery,\nand is not likely ever to enrich me in reputation, station, fortune,\nanything. There are reasons why I must say no more of that. It is not\nmy secret, but another s. \n\nAs I was silent for a while, looking at Estella and considering how to\ngo on, Miss Havisham repeated,  It is not your secret, but another s.\nWell? \n\n When you first caused me to be brought here, Miss Havisham, when I\nbelonged to the village over yonder, that I wish I had never left, I\nsuppose I did really come here, as any other chance boy might have\ncome, as a kind of servant, to gratify a want or a whim, and to be paid\nfor it? \n\n Ay, Pip,  replied Miss Havisham, steadily nodding her head;  you did. \n\n And that Mr. Jaggers \n\n Mr. Jaggers,  said Miss Havisham, taking me up in a firm tone,  had\nnothing to do with it, and knew nothing of it. His being my lawyer, and\nhis being the lawyer of your patron is a coincidence. He holds the same\nrelation towards numbers of people, and it might easily arise. Be that\nas it may, it did arise, and was not brought about by any one. \n\nAny one might have seen in her haggard face that there was no\nsuppression or evasion so far.\n\n But when I fell into the mistake I have so long remained in, at least\nyou led me on?  said I.\n\n Yes,  she returned, again nodding steadily,  I let you go on. \n\n Was that kind? \n\n Who am I,  cried Miss Havisham, striking her stick upon the floor and\nflashing into wrath so suddenly that Estella glanced up at her in\nsurprise, who am I, for God s sake, that I should be kind? \n\nIt was a weak complaint to have made, and I had not meant to make it. I\ntold her so, as she sat brooding after this outburst.\n\n Well, well, well!  she said.  What else? \n\n I was liberally paid for my old attendance here,  I said, to soothe\nher,  in being apprenticed, and I have asked these questions only for\nmy own information. What follows has another (and I hope more\ndisinterested) purpose. In humouring my mistake, Miss Havisham, you\npunished practised on perhaps you will supply whatever term expresses\nyour intention, without offence your self-seeking relations? \n\n I did. Why, they would have it so! So would you. What has been my\nhistory, that I should be at the pains of entreating either them or you\nnot to have it so! You made your own snares. _I_ never made them. \n\nWaiting until she was quiet again, for this, too, flashed out of her in\na wild and sudden way, I went on.\n\n I have been thrown among one family of your relations, Miss Havisham,\nand have been constantly among them since I went to London. I know them\nto have been as honestly under my delusion as I myself. And I should be\nfalse and base if I did not tell you, whether it is acceptable to you\nor no, and whether you are inclined to give credence to it or no, that\nyou deeply wrong both Mr. Matthew Pocket and his son Herbert, if you\nsuppose them to be otherwise than generous, upright, open, and\nincapable of anything designing or mean. \n\n They are your friends,  said Miss Havisham.\n\n They made themselves my friends,  said I,  when they supposed me to\nhave superseded them; and when Sarah Pocket, Miss Georgiana, and\nMistress Camilla were not my friends, I think. \n\nThis contrasting of them with the rest seemed, I was glad to see, to do\nthem good with her. She looked at me keenly for a little while, and\nthen said quietly, \n\n What do you want for them? \n\n Only,  said I,  that you would not confound them with the others. They\nmay be of the same blood, but, believe me, they are not of the same\nnature. \n\nStill looking at me keenly, Miss Havisham repeated, \n\n What do you want for them? \n\n I am not so cunning, you see,  I said, in answer, conscious that I\nreddened a little,  as that I could hide from you, even if I desired,\nthat I do want something. Miss Havisham, if you would spare the money\nto do my friend Herbert a lasting service in life, but which from the\nnature of the case must be done without his knowledge, I could show you\nhow. \n\n Why must it be done without his knowledge?  she asked, settling her\nhands upon her stick, that she might regard me the more attentively.\n\n Because,  said I,  I began the service myself, more than two years\nago, without his knowledge, and I don t want to be betrayed. Why I fail\nin my ability to finish it, I cannot explain. It is a part of the\nsecret which is another person s and not mine. \n\nShe gradually withdrew her eyes from me, and turned them on the fire.\nAfter watching it for what appeared in the silence and by the light of\nthe slowly wasting candles to be a long time, she was roused by the\ncollapse of some of the red coals, and looked towards me again at\nfirst, vacantly then, with a gradually concentrating attention. All\nthis time Estella knitted on. When Miss Havisham had fixed her\nattention on me, she said, speaking as if there had been no lapse in\nour dialogue, \n\n What else? \n\n Estella,  said I, turning to her now, and trying to command my\ntrembling voice,  you know I love you. You know that I have loved you\nlong and dearly. \n\nShe raised her eyes to my face, on being thus addressed, and her\nfingers plied their work, and she looked at me with an unmoved\ncountenance. I saw that Miss Havisham glanced from me to her, and from\nher to me.\n\n I should have said this sooner, but for my long mistake. It induced me\nto hope that Miss Havisham meant us for one another. While I thought\nyou could not help yourself, as it were, I refrained from saying it.\nBut I must say it now. \n\nPreserving her unmoved countenance, and with her fingers still going,\nEstella shook her head.\n\n I know,  said I, in answer to that action, I know. I have no hope\nthat I shall ever call you mine, Estella. I am ignorant what may become\nof me very soon, how poor I may be, or where I may go. Still, I love\nyou. I have loved you ever since I first saw you in this house. \n\nLooking at me perfectly unmoved and with her fingers busy, she shook\nher head again.\n\n It would have been cruel in Miss Havisham, horribly cruel, to practise\non the susceptibility of a poor boy, and to torture me through all\nthese years with a vain hope and an idle pursuit, if she had reflected\non the gravity of what she did. But I think she did not. I think that,\nin the endurance of her own trial, she forgot mine, Estella. \n\nI saw Miss Havisham put her hand to her heart and hold it there, as she\nsat looking by turns at Estella and at me.\n\n It seems,  said Estella, very calmly,  that there are sentiments,\nfancies, I don t know how to call them, which I am not able to\ncomprehend. When you say you love me, I know what you mean, as a form\nof words; but nothing more. You address nothing in my breast, you touch\nnothing there. I don t care for what you say at all. I have tried to\nwarn you of this; now, have I not? \n\nI said in a miserable manner,  Yes. \n\n Yes. But you would not be warned, for you thought I did not mean it.\nNow, did you not think so? \n\n I thought and hoped you could not mean it. You, so young, untried, and\nbeautiful, Estella! Surely it is not in Nature. \n\n It is in _my_ nature,  she returned. And then she added, with a stress\nupon the words,  It is in the nature formed within me. I make a great\ndifference between you and all other people when I say so much. I can\ndo no more. \n\n Is it not true,  said I,  that Bentley Drummle is in town here, and\npursuing you? \n\n It is quite true,  she replied, referring to him with the indifference\nof utter contempt.\n\n That you encourage him, and ride out with him, and that he dines with\nyou this very day? \n\nShe seemed a little surprised that I should know it, but again replied,\n Quite true. \n\n You cannot love him, Estella! \n\nHer fingers stopped for the first time, as she retorted rather angrily,\n What have I told you? Do you still think, in spite of it, that I do\nnot mean what I say? \n\n You would never marry him, Estella? \n\nShe looked towards Miss Havisham, and considered for a moment with her\nwork in her hands. Then she said,  Why not tell you the truth? I am\ngoing to be married to him. \n\nI dropped my face into my hands, but was able to control myself better\nthan I could have expected, considering what agony it gave me to hear\nher say those words. When I raised my face again, there was such a\nghastly look upon Miss Havisham s, that it impressed me, even in my\npassionate hurry and grief.\n\n Estella, dearest Estella, do not let Miss Havisham lead you into this\nfatal step. Put me aside for ever, you have done so, I well know, but\nbestow yourself on some worthier person than Drummle. Miss Havisham\ngives you to him, as the greatest slight and injury that could be done\nto the many far better men who admire you, and to the few who truly\nlove you. Among those few there may be one who loves you even as\ndearly, though he has not loved you as long, as I. Take him, and I can\nbear it better, for your sake! \n\nMy earnestness awoke a wonder in her that seemed as if it would have\nbeen touched with compassion, if she could have rendered me at all\nintelligible to her own mind.\n\n I am going,  she said again, in a gentler voice,  to be married to\nhim. The preparations for my marriage are making, and I shall be\nmarried soon. Why do you injuriously introduce the name of my mother by\nadoption? It is my own act. \n\n Your own act, Estella, to fling yourself away upon a brute? \n\n On whom should I fling myself away?  she retorted, with a smile.\n Should I fling myself away upon the man who would the soonest feel (if\npeople do feel such things) that I took nothing to him? There! It is\ndone. I shall do well enough, and so will my husband. As to leading me\ninto what you call this fatal step, Miss Havisham would have had me\nwait, and not marry yet; but I am tired of the life I have led, which\nhas very few charms for me, and I am willing enough to change it. Say\nno more. We shall never understand each other. \n\n Such a mean brute, such a stupid brute!  I urged, in despair.\n\n Don t be afraid of my being a blessing to him,  said Estella;  I shall\nnot be that. Come! Here is my hand. Do we part on this, you visionary\nboy or man? \n\n O Estella!  I answered, as my bitter tears fell fast on her hand, do\nwhat I would to restrain them;  even if I remained in England and could\nhold my head up with the rest, how could I see you Drummle s wife? \n\n Nonsense,  she returned, nonsense. This will pass in no time. \n\n Never, Estella! \n\n You will get me out of your thoughts in a week. \n\n Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You\nhave been in every line I have ever read since I first came here, the\nrough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been\nin every prospect I have ever seen since, on the river, on the sails of\nthe ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the\ndarkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You\nhave been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever\nbecome acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London\nbuildings are made are not more real, or more impossible to be\ndisplaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to\nme, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my\nlife, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the\nlittle good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation, I\nassociate you only with the good; and I will faithfully hold you to\nthat always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me\nfeel now what sharp distress I may. O God bless you, God forgive you! \n\nIn what ecstasy of unhappiness I got these broken words out of myself,\nI don t know. The rhapsody welled up within me, like blood from an\ninward wound, and gushed out. I held her hand to my lips some lingering\nmoments, and so I left her. But ever afterwards, I remembered, and soon\nafterwards with stronger reason, that while Estella looked at me merely\nwith incredulous wonder, the spectral figure of Miss Havisham, her hand\nstill covering her heart, seemed all resolved into a ghastly stare of\npity and remorse.\n\nAll done, all gone! So much was done and gone, that when I went out at\nthe gate, the light of the day seemed of a darker colour than when I\nwent in. For a while, I hid myself among some lanes and by-paths, and\nthen struck off to walk all the way to London. For, I had by that time\ncome to myself so far as to consider that I could not go back to the\ninn and see Drummle there; that I could not bear to sit upon the coach\nand be spoken to; that I could do nothing half so good for myself as\ntire myself out.\n\nIt was past midnight when I crossed London Bridge. Pursuing the narrow\nintricacies of the streets which at that time tended westward near the\nMiddlesex shore of the river, my readiest access to the Temple was\nclose by the river-side, through Whitefriars. I was not expected till\nto-morrow; but I had my keys, and, if Herbert were gone to bed, could\nget to bed myself without disturbing him.\n\nAs it seldom happened that I came in at that Whitefriars gate after the\nTemple was closed, and as I was very muddy and weary, I did not take it\nill that the night-porter examined me with much attention as he held\nthe gate a little way open for me to pass in. To help his memory I\nmentioned my name.\n\n I was not quite sure, sir, but I thought so. Here s a note, sir. The\nmessenger that brought it, said would you be so good as read it by my\nlantern? \n\n[Illustration]\n\nMuch surprised by the request, I took the note. It was directed to\nPhilip Pip, Esquire, and on the top of the superscription were the\nwords,  PLEASE READ THIS, HERE.  I opened it, the watchman holding up\nhis light, and read inside, in Wemmick s writing, \n\n DON T GO HOME. \n\n\n\n\nChapter XLV.\n\n\nTurning from the Temple gate as soon as I had read the warning, I made\nthe best of my way to Fleet Street, and there got a late hackney\nchariot and drove to the Hummums in Covent Garden. In those times a bed\nwas always to be got there at any hour of the night, and the\nchamberlain, letting me in at his ready wicket, lighted the candle next\nin order on his shelf, and showed me straight into the bedroom next in\norder on his list. It was a sort of vault on the ground floor at the\nback, with a despotic monster of a four-post bedstead in it, straddling\nover the whole place, putting one of his arbitrary legs into the\nfireplace and another into the doorway, and squeezing the wretched\nlittle washing-stand in quite a Divinely Righteous manner.\n\nAs I had asked for a night-light, the chamberlain had brought me in,\nbefore he left me, the good old constitutional rushlight of those\nvirtuous days an object like the ghost of a walking-cane, which\ninstantly broke its back if it were touched, which nothing could ever\nbe lighted at, and which was placed in solitary confinement at the\nbottom of a high tin tower, perforated with round holes that made a\nstaringly wide-awake pattern on the walls. When I had got into bed, and\nlay there footsore, weary, and wretched, I found that I could no more\nclose my own eyes than I could close the eyes of this foolish Argus.\nAnd thus, in the gloom and death of the night, we stared at one\nanother.\n\nWhat a doleful night! How anxious, how dismal, how long! There was an\ninhospitable smell in the room, of cold soot and hot dust; and, as I\nlooked up into the corners of the tester over my head, I thought what a\nnumber of blue-bottle flies from the butchers , and earwigs from the\nmarket, and grubs from the country, must be holding on up there, lying\nby for next summer. This led me to speculate whether any of them ever\ntumbled down, and then I fancied that I felt light falls on my face, a\ndisagreeable turn of thought, suggesting other and more objectionable\napproaches up my back. When I had lain awake a little while, those\nextraordinary voices with which silence teems began to make themselves\naudible. The closet whispered, the fireplace sighed, the little\nwashing-stand ticked, and one guitar-string played occasionally in the\nchest of drawers. At about the same time, the eyes on the wall acquired\na new expression, and in every one of those staring rounds I saw\nwritten, DON T GO HOME.\n\nWhatever night-fancies and night-noises crowded on me, they never\nwarded off this DON T GO HOME. It plaited itself into whatever I\nthought of, as a bodily pain would have done. Not long before, I had\nread in the newspapers, how a gentleman unknown had come to the Hummums\nin the night, and had gone to bed, and had destroyed himself, and had\nbeen found in the morning weltering in blood. It came into my head that\nhe must have occupied this very vault of mine, and I got out of bed to\nassure myself that there were no red marks about; then opened the door\nto look out into the passages, and cheer myself with the companionship\nof a distant light, near which I knew the chamberlain to be dozing. But\nall this time, why I was not to go home, and what had happened at home,\nand when I should go home, and whether Provis was safe at home, were\nquestions occupying my mind so busily, that one might have supposed\nthere could be no more room in it for any other theme. Even when I\nthought of Estella, and how we had parted that day forever, and when I\nrecalled all the circumstances of our parting, and all her looks and\ntones, and the action of her fingers while she knitted, even then I was\npursuing, here and there and everywhere, the caution, Don t go home.\nWhen at last I dozed, in sheer exhaustion of mind and body, it became a\nvast shadowy verb which I had to conjugate. Imperative mood, present\ntense: Do not thou go home, let him not go home, let us not go home, do\nnot ye or you go home, let not them go home. Then potentially: I may\nnot and I cannot go home; and I might not, could not, would not, and\nshould not go home; until I felt that I was going distracted, and\nrolled over on the pillow, and looked at the staring rounds upon the\nwall again.\n\nI had left directions that I was to be called at seven; for it was\nplain that I must see Wemmick before seeing any one else, and equally\nplain that this was a case in which his Walworth sentiments only could\nbe taken. It was a relief to get out of the room where the night had\nbeen so miserable, and I needed no second knocking at the door to\nstartle me from my uneasy bed.\n\nThe Castle battlements arose upon my view at eight o clock. The little\nservant happening to be entering the fortress with two hot rolls, I\npassed through the postern and crossed the drawbridge in her company,\nand so came without announcement into the presence of Wemmick as he was\nmaking tea for himself and the Aged. An open door afforded a\nperspective view of the Aged in bed.\n\n Halloa, Mr. Pip!  said Wemmick.  You did come home, then? \n\n Yes,  I returned;  but I didn t go home. \n\n That s all right,  said he, rubbing his hands.  I left a note for you\nat each of the Temple gates, on the chance. Which gate did you come\nto? \n\nI told him.\n\n I ll go round to the others in the course of the day and destroy the\nnotes,  said Wemmick;  it s a good rule never to leave documentary\nevidence if you can help it, because you don t know when it may be put\nin. I m going to take a liberty with you. _Would_ you mind toasting\nthis sausage for the Aged P.? \n\nI said I should be delighted to do it.\n\n Then you can go about your work, Mary Anne,  said Wemmick to the\nlittle servant;  which leaves us to ourselves, don t you see, Mr. Pip? \nhe added, winking, as she disappeared.\n\nI thanked him for his friendship and caution, and our discourse\nproceeded in a low tone, while I toasted the Aged s sausage and he\nbuttered the crumb of the Aged s roll.\n\n Now, Mr. Pip, you know,  said Wemmick,  you and I understand one\nanother. We are in our private and personal capacities, and we have\nbeen engaged in a confidential transaction before to-day. Official\nsentiments are one thing. We are extra official. \n\nI cordially assented. I was so very nervous, that I had already lighted\nthe Aged s sausage like a torch, and been obliged to blow it out.\n\n I accidentally heard, yesterday morning,  said Wemmick,  being in a\ncertain place where I once took you, even between you and me, it s as\nwell not to mention names when avoidable \n\n Much better not,  said I.  I understand you. \n\n I heard there by chance, yesterday morning,  said Wemmick,  that a\ncertain person not altogether of uncolonial pursuits, and not\nunpossessed of portable property, I don t know who it may really be, we\nwon t name this person \n\n Not necessary,  said I.\n\n Had made some little stir in a certain part of the world where a good\nmany people go, not always in gratification of their own inclinations,\nand not quite irrespective of the government expense \n\nIn watching his face, I made quite a firework of the Aged s sausage,\nand greatly discomposed both my own attention and Wemmick s; for which\nI apologised.\n\n By disappearing from such place, and being no more heard of\nthereabouts. From which,  said Wemmick,  conjectures had been raised\nand theories formed. I also heard that you at your chambers in Garden\nCourt, Temple, had been watched, and might be watched again. \n\n By whom?  said I.\n\n I wouldn t go into that,  said Wemmick, evasively,  it might clash\nwith official responsibilities. I heard it, as I have in my time heard\nother curious things in the same place. I don t tell it you on\ninformation received. I heard it. \n\nHe took the toasting-fork and sausage from me as he spoke, and set\nforth the Aged s breakfast neatly on a little tray. Previous to placing\nit before him, he went into the Aged s room with a clean white cloth,\nand tied the same under the old gentleman s chin, and propped him up,\nand put his nightcap on one side, and gave him quite a rakish air. Then\nhe placed his breakfast before him with great care, and said,  All\nright, ain t you, Aged P.?  To which the cheerful Aged replied,  All\nright, John, my boy, all right!  As there seemed to be a tacit\nunderstanding that the Aged was not in a presentable state, and was\ntherefore to be considered invisible, I made a pretence of being in\ncomplete ignorance of these proceedings.\n\n This watching of me at my chambers (which I have once had reason to\nsuspect),  I said to Wemmick when he came back,  is inseparable from\nthe person to whom you have adverted; is it? \n\nWemmick looked very serious.  I couldn t undertake to say that, of my\nown knowledge. I mean, I couldn t undertake to say it was at first. But\nit either is, or it will be, or it s in great danger of being. \n\nAs I saw that he was restrained by fealty to Little Britain from saying\nas much as he could, and as I knew with thankfulness to him how far out\nof his way he went to say what he did, I could not press him. But I\ntold him, after a little meditation over the fire, that I would like to\nask him a question, subject to his answering or not answering, as he\ndeemed right, and sure that his course would be right. He paused in his\nbreakfast, and crossing his arms, and pinching his shirt-sleeves (his\nnotion of in-door comfort was to sit without any coat), he nodded to me\nonce, to put my question.\n\n You have heard of a man of bad character, whose true name is\nCompeyson? \n\nHe answered with one other nod.\n\n Is he living? \n\nOne other nod.\n\n Is he in London? \n\nHe gave me one other nod, compressed the post-office exceedingly, gave\nme one last nod, and went on with his breakfast.\n\n Now,  said Wemmick,  questioning being over,  which he emphasised and\nrepeated for my guidance,  I come to what I did, after hearing what I\nheard. I went to Garden Court to find you; not finding you, I went to\nClarriker s to find Mr. Herbert. \n\n And him you found?  said I, with great anxiety.\n\n And him I found. Without mentioning any names or going into any\ndetails, I gave him to understand that if he was aware of anybody Tom,\nJack, or Richard being about the chambers, or about the immediate\nneighbourhood, he had better get Tom, Jack, or Richard out of the way\nwhile you were out of the way. \n\n He would be greatly puzzled what to do? \n\n He _was_ puzzled what to do; not the less, because I gave him my\nopinion that it was not safe to try to get Tom, Jack, or Richard too\nfar out of the way at present. Mr. Pip, I ll tell you something. Under\nexisting circumstances, there is no place like a great city when you\nare once in it. Don t break cover too soon. Lie close. Wait till things\nslacken, before you try the open, even for foreign air. \n\nI thanked him for his valuable advice, and asked him what Herbert had\ndone?\n\n Mr. Herbert,  said Wemmick,  after being all of a heap for half an\nhour, struck out a plan. He mentioned to me as a secret, that he is\ncourting a young lady who has, as no doubt you are aware, a bedridden\nPa. Which Pa, having been in the Purser line of life, lies a-bed in a\nbow-window where he can see the ships sail up and down the river. You\nare acquainted with the young lady, most probably? \n\n Not personally,  said I.\n\nThe truth was, that she had objected to me as an expensive companion\nwho did Herbert no good, and that, when Herbert had first proposed to\npresent me to her, she had received the proposal with such very\nmoderate warmth, that Herbert had felt himself obliged to confide the\nstate of the case to me, with a view to the lapse of a little time\nbefore I made her acquaintance. When I had begun to advance Herbert s\nprospects by stealth, I had been able to bear this with cheerful\nphilosophy: he and his affianced, for their part, had naturally not\nbeen very anxious to introduce a third person into their interviews;\nand thus, although I was assured that I had risen in Clara s esteem,\nand although the young lady and I had long regularly interchanged\nmessages and remembrances by Herbert, I had never seen her. However, I\ndid not trouble Wemmick with these particulars.\n\n The house with the bow-window,  said Wemmick,  being by the\nriver-side, down the Pool there between Limehouse and Greenwich, and\nbeing kept, it seems, by a very respectable widow who has a furnished\nupper floor to let, Mr. Herbert put it to me, what did I think of that\nas a temporary tenement for Tom, Jack, or Richard? Now, I thought very\nwell of it, for three reasons I ll give you. That is to say: _Firstly_.\nIt s altogether out of all your beats, and is well away from the usual\nheap of streets great and small. _Secondly_. Without going near it\nyourself, you could always hear of the safety of Tom, Jack, or Richard,\nthrough Mr. Herbert. _Thirdly_. After a while and when it might be\nprudent, if you should want to slip Tom, Jack, or Richard on board a\nforeign packet-boat, there he is ready. \n\nMuch comforted by these considerations, I thanked Wemmick again and\nagain, and begged him to proceed.\n\n Well, sir! Mr. Herbert threw himself into the business with a will,\nand by nine o clock last night he housed Tom, Jack, or\nRichard, whichever it may be, you and I don t want to know, quite\nsuccessfully. At the old lodgings it was understood that he was\nsummoned to Dover, and, in fact, he was taken down the Dover road and\ncornered out of it. Now, another great advantage of all this is, that\nit was done without you, and when, if any one was concerning himself\nabout your movements, you must be known to be ever so many miles off\nand quite otherwise engaged. This diverts suspicion and confuses it;\nand for the same reason I recommended that, even if you came back last\nnight, you should not go home. It brings in more confusion, and you\nwant confusion. \n\nWemmick, having finished his breakfast, here looked at his watch, and\nbegan to get his coat on.\n\n And now, Mr. Pip,  said he, with his hands still in the sleeves,  I\nhave probably done the most I can do; but if I can ever do more, from a\nWalworth point of view, and in a strictly private and personal\ncapacity, I shall be glad to do it. Here s the address. There can be no\nharm in your going here to-night, and seeing for yourself that all is\nwell with Tom, Jack, or Richard, before you go home, which is another\nreason for your not going home last night. But, after you have gone\nhome, don t go back here. You are very welcome, I am sure, Mr. Pip ;\nhis hands were now out of his sleeves, and I was shaking them;  and let\nme finally impress one important point upon you.  He laid his hands\nupon my shoulders, and added in a solemn whisper:  Avail yourself of\nthis evening to lay hold of his portable property. You don t know what\nmay happen to him. Don t let anything happen to the portable property. \n\nQuite despairing of making my mind clear to Wemmick on this point, I\nforbore to try.\n\n Time s up,  said Wemmick,  and I must be off. If you had nothing more\npressing to do than to keep here till dark, that s what I should\nadvise. You look very much worried, and it would do you good to have a\nperfectly quiet day with the Aged, he ll be up presently, and a little\nbit of you remember the pig? \n\n Of course,  said I.\n\n Well; and a little bit of _him_. That sausage you toasted was his, and\nhe was in all respects a first-rater. Do try him, if it is only for old\nacquaintance sake. Good-bye, Aged Parent!  in a cheery shout.\n\n All right, John; all right, my boy!  piped the old man from within.\n\nI soon fell asleep before Wemmick s fire, and the Aged and I enjoyed\none another s society by falling asleep before it more or less all day.\nWe had loin of pork for dinner, and greens grown on the estate; and I\nnodded at the Aged with a good intention whenever I failed to do it\ndrowsily. When it was quite dark, I left the Aged preparing the fire\nfor toast; and I inferred from the number of teacups, as well as from\nhis glances at the two little doors in the wall, that Miss Skiffins was\nexpected.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVI.\n\n\nEight o clock had struck before I got into the air, that was scented,\nnot disagreeably, by the chips and shavings of the long-shore\nboat-builders, and mast, oar, and block makers. All that water-side\nregion of the upper and lower Pool below Bridge was unknown ground to\nme; and when I struck down by the river, I found that the spot I wanted\nwas not where I had supposed it to be, and was anything but easy to\nfind. It was called Mill Pond Bank, Chinks s Basin; and I had no other\nguide to Chinks s Basin than the Old Green Copper Rope-walk.\n\nIt matters not what stranded ships repairing in dry docks I lost myself\namong, what old hulls of ships in course of being knocked to pieces,\nwhat ooze and slime and other dregs of tide, what yards of\nship-builders and ship-breakers, what rusty anchors blindly biting into\nthe ground, though for years off duty, what mountainous country of\naccumulated casks and timber, how many rope-walks that were not the Old\nGreen Copper. After several times falling short of my destination and\nas often overshooting it, I came unexpectedly round a corner, upon Mill\nPond Bank. It was a fresh kind of place, all circumstances considered,\nwhere the wind from the river had room to turn itself round; and there\nwere two or three trees in it, and there was the stump of a ruined\nwindmill, and there was the Old Green Copper Rope-walk, whose long and\nnarrow vista I could trace in the moonlight, along a series of wooden\nframes set in the ground, that looked like superannuated\nhaymaking-rakes which had grown old and lost most of their teeth.\n\nSelecting from the few queer houses upon Mill Pond Bank a house with a\nwooden front and three stories of bow-window (not bay-window, which is\nanother thing), I looked at the plate upon the door, and read there,\nMrs. Whimple. That being the name I wanted, I knocked, and an elderly\nwoman of a pleasant and thriving appearance responded. She was\nimmediately deposed, however, by Herbert, who silently led me into the\nparlour and shut the door. It was an odd sensation to see his very\nfamiliar face established quite at home in that very unfamiliar room\nand region; and I found myself looking at him, much as I looked at the\ncorner-cupboard with the glass and china, the shells upon the\nchimney-piece, and the coloured engravings on the wall, representing\nthe death of Captain Cook, a ship-launch, and his Majesty King George\nthe Third in a state coachman s wig, leather-breeches, and top-boots,\non the terrace at Windsor.\n\n All is well, Handel,  said Herbert,  and he is quite satisfied, though\neager to see you. My dear girl is with her father; and if you ll wait\ntill she comes down, I ll make you known to her, and then we ll go\nupstairs. _That s_ her father. \n\nI had become aware of an alarming growling overhead, and had probably\nexpressed the fact in my countenance.\n\n I am afraid he is a sad old rascal,  said Herbert, smiling,  but I\nhave never seen him. Don t you smell rum? He is always at it. \n\n At rum?  said I.\n\n Yes,  returned Herbert,  and you may suppose how mild it makes his\ngout. He persists, too, in keeping all the provisions upstairs in his\nroom, and serving them out. He keeps them on shelves over his head, and\n_will_ weigh them all. His room must be like a chandler s shop. \n\nWhile he thus spoke, the growling noise became a prolonged roar, and\nthen died away.\n\n What else can be the consequence,  said Herbert, in explanation,  if\nhe _will_ cut the cheese? A man with the gout in his right hand and\neverywhere else can t expect to get through a Double Gloucester without\nhurting himself. \n\nHe seemed to have hurt himself very much, for he gave another furious\nroar.\n\n To have Provis for an upper lodger is quite a godsend to Mrs.\nWhimple,  said Herbert,  for of course people in general won t stand\nthat noise. A curious place, Handel; isn t it? \n\nIt was a curious place, indeed; but remarkably well kept and clean.\n\n Mrs. Whimple,  said Herbert, when I told him so,  is the best of\nhousewives, and I really do not know what my Clara would do without her\nmotherly help. For, Clara has no mother of her own, Handel, and no\nrelation in the world but old Gruffandgrim. \n\n Surely that s not his name, Herbert? \n\n No, no,  said Herbert,  that s my name for him. His name is Mr.\nBarley. But what a blessing it is for the son of my father and mother\nto love a girl who has no relations, and who can never bother herself\nor anybody else about her family! \n\nHerbert had told me on former occasions, and now reminded me, that he\nfirst knew Miss Clara Barley when she was completing her education at\nan establishment at Hammersmith, and that on her being recalled home to\nnurse her father, he and she had confided their affection to the\nmotherly Mrs. Whimple, by whom it had been fostered and regulated with\nequal kindness and discretion, ever since. It was understood that\nnothing of a tender nature could possibly be confided to old Barley, by\nreason of his being totally unequal to the consideration of any subject\nmore psychological than Gout, Rum, and Purser s stores.\n\nAs we were thus conversing in a low tone while Old Barley s sustained\ngrowl vibrated in the beam that crossed the ceiling, the room door\nopened, and a very pretty, slight, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so came\nin with a basket in her hand: whom Herbert tenderly relieved of the\nbasket, and presented, blushing, as  Clara.  She really was a most\ncharming girl, and might have passed for a captive fairy, whom that\ntruculent Ogre, Old Barley, had pressed into his service.\n\n Look here,  said Herbert, showing me the basket, with a compassionate\nand tender smile, after we had talked a little;  here s poor Clara s\nsupper, served out every night. Here s her allowance of bread, and\nhere s her slice of cheese, and here s her rum, which I drink. This is\nMr. Barley s breakfast for to-morrow, served out to be cooked. Two\nmutton-chops, three potatoes, some split peas, a little flour, two\nounces of butter, a pinch of salt, and all this black pepper. It s\nstewed up together, and taken hot, and it s a nice thing for the gout,\nI should think! \n\nThere was something so natural and winning in Clara s resigned way of\nlooking at these stores in detail, as Herbert pointed them out; and\nsomething so confiding, loving, and innocent in her modest manner of\nyielding herself to Herbert s embracing arm; and something so gentle in\nher, so much needing protection on Mill Pond Bank, by Chinks s Basin,\nand the Old Green Copper Rope-walk, with Old Barley growling in the\nbeam, that I would not have undone the engagement between her and\nHerbert for all the money in the pocket-book I had never opened.\n\nI was looking at her with pleasure and admiration, when suddenly the\ngrowl swelled into a roar again, and a frightful bumping noise was\nheard above, as if a giant with a wooden leg were trying to bore it\nthrough the ceiling to come at us. Upon this Clara said to Herbert,\n Papa wants me, darling!  and ran away.\n\n There is an unconscionable old shark for you!  said Herbert.  What do\nyou suppose he wants now, Handel? \n\n I don t know,  said I.  Something to drink? \n\n That s it!  cried Herbert, as if I had made a guess of extraordinary\nmerit.  He keeps his grog ready mixed in a little tub on the table.\nWait a moment, and you ll hear Clara lift him up to take some. There he\ngoes!  Another roar, with a prolonged shake at the end.  Now,  said\nHerbert, as it was succeeded by silence,  he s drinking. Now,  said\nHerbert, as the growl resounded in the beam once more,  he s down again\non his back! \n\nClara returned soon afterwards, and Herbert accompanied me upstairs to\nsee our charge. As we passed Mr. Barley s door, he was heard hoarsely\nmuttering within, in a strain that rose and fell like wind, the\nfollowing Refrain, in which I substitute good wishes for something\nquite the reverse: \n\n Ahoy! Bless your eyes, here s old Bill Barley. Here s old Bill Barley,\nbless your eyes. Here s old Bill Barley on the flat of his back, by the\nLord. Lying on the flat of his back like a drifting old dead flounder,\nhere s your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy! Bless you. \n\nIn this strain of consolation, Herbert informed me the invisible Barley\nwould commune with himself by the day and night together; Often, while\nit was light, having, at the same time, one eye at a telescope which\nwas fitted on his bed for the convenience of sweeping the river.\n\nIn his two cabin rooms at the top of the house, which were fresh and\nairy, and in which Mr. Barley was less audible than below, I found\nProvis comfortably settled. He expressed no alarm, and seemed to feel\nnone that was worth mentioning; but it struck me that he was\nsoftened, indefinably, for I could not have said how, and could never\nafterwards recall how when I tried, but certainly.\n\nThe opportunity that the day s rest had given me for reflection had\nresulted in my fully determining to say nothing to him respecting\nCompeyson. For anything I knew, his animosity towards the man might\notherwise lead to his seeking him out and rushing on his own\ndestruction. Therefore, when Herbert and I sat down with him by his\nfire, I asked him first of all whether he relied on Wemmick s judgment\nand sources of information?\n\n Ay, ay, dear boy!  he answered, with a grave nod,  Jaggers knows. \n\n Then, I have talked with Wemmick,  said I,  and have come to tell you\nwhat caution he gave me and what advice. \n\nThis I did accurately, with the reservation just mentioned; and I told\nhim how Wemmick had heard, in Newgate prison (whether from officers or\nprisoners I could not say), that he was under some suspicion, and that\nmy chambers had been watched; how Wemmick had recommended his keeping\nclose for a time, and my keeping away from him; and what Wemmick had\nsaid about getting him abroad. I added, that of course, when the time\ncame, I should go with him, or should follow close upon him, as might\nbe safest in Wemmick s judgment. What was to follow that I did not\ntouch upon; neither, indeed, was I at all clear or comfortable about it\nin my own mind, now that I saw him in that softer condition, and in\ndeclared peril for my sake. As to altering my way of living by\nenlarging my expenses, I put it to him whether in our present unsettled\nand difficult circumstances, it would not be simply ridiculous, if it\nwere no worse?\n\nHe could not deny this, and indeed was very reasonable throughout. His\ncoming back was a venture, he said, and he had always known it to be a\nventure. He would do nothing to make it a desperate venture, and he had\nvery little fear of his safety with such good help.\n\nHerbert, who had been looking at the fire and pondering, here said that\nsomething had come into his thoughts arising out of Wemmick s\nsuggestion, which it might be worth while to pursue.  We are both good\nwatermen, Handel, and could take him down the river ourselves when the\nright time comes. No boat would then be hired for the purpose, and no\nboatmen; that would save at least a chance of suspicion, and any chance\nis worth saving. Never mind the season; don t you think it might be a\ngood thing if you began at once to keep a boat at the Temple stairs,\nand were in the habit of rowing up and down the river? You fall into\nthat habit, and then who notices or minds? Do it twenty or fifty times,\nand there is nothing special in your doing it the twenty-first or\nfifty-first. \n\nI liked this scheme, and Provis was quite elated by it. We agreed that\nit should be carried into execution, and that Provis should never\nrecognise us if we came below Bridge, and rowed past Mill Pond Bank.\nBut we further agreed that he should pull down the blind in that part\nof his window which gave upon the east, whenever he saw us and all was\nright.\n\nOur conference being now ended, and everything arranged, I rose to go;\nremarking to Herbert that he and I had better not go home together, and\nthat I would take half an hour s start of him.  I don t like to leave\nyou here,  I said to Provis,  though I cannot doubt your being safer\nhere than near me. Good-bye! \n\n Dear boy,  he answered, clasping my hands,  I don t know when we may\nmeet again, and I don t like good-bye. Say good-night! \n\n Good-night! Herbert will go regularly between us, and when the time\ncomes you may be certain I shall be ready. Good-night, good-night! \n\nWe thought it best that he should stay in his own rooms; and we left\nhim on the landing outside his door, holding a light over the\nstair-rail to light us downstairs. Looking back at him, I thought of\nthe first night of his return, when our positions were reversed, and\nwhen I little supposed my heart could ever be as heavy and anxious at\nparting from him as it was now.\n\nOld Barley was growling and swearing when we repassed his door, with no\nappearance of having ceased or of meaning to cease. When we got to the\nfoot of the stairs, I asked Herbert whether he had preserved the name\nof Provis. He replied, certainly not, and that the lodger was Mr.\nCampbell. He also explained that the utmost known of Mr. Campbell there\nwas, that he (Herbert) had Mr. Campbell consigned to him, and felt a\nstrong personal interest in his being well cared for, and living a\nsecluded life. So, when we went into the parlour where Mrs. Whimple and\nClara were seated at work, I said nothing of my own interest in Mr.\nCampbell, but kept it to myself.\n\nWhen I had taken leave of the pretty, gentle, dark-eyed girl, and of\nthe motherly woman who had not outlived her honest sympathy with a\nlittle affair of true love, I felt as if the Old Green Copper Rope-walk\nhad grown quite a different place. Old Barley might be as old as the\nhills, and might swear like a whole field of troopers, but there were\nredeeming youth and trust and hope enough in Chinks s Basin to fill it\nto overflowing. And then I thought of Estella, and of our parting, and\nwent home very sadly.\n\nAll things were as quiet in the Temple as ever I had seen them. The\nwindows of the rooms on that side, lately occupied by Provis, were dark\nand still, and there was no lounger in Garden Court. I walked past the\nfountain twice or thrice before I descended the steps that were between\nme and my rooms, but I was quite alone. Herbert, coming to my bedside\nwhen he came in, for I went straight to bed, dispirited and\nfatigued, made the same report. Opening one of the windows after that,\nhe looked out into the moonlight, and told me that the pavement was as\nsolemnly empty as the pavement of any cathedral at that same hour.\n\nNext day I set myself to get the boat. It was soon done, and the boat\nwas brought round to the Temple stairs, and lay where I could reach her\nwithin a minute or two. Then, I began to go out as for training and\npractice: sometimes alone, sometimes with Herbert. I was often out in\ncold, rain, and sleet, but nobody took much note of me after I had been\nout a few times. At first, I kept above Blackfriars Bridge; but as the\nhours of the tide changed, I took towards London Bridge. It was Old\nLondon Bridge in those days, and at certain states of the tide there\nwas a race and fall of water there which gave it a bad reputation. But\nI knew well enough how to  shoot  the bridge after seeing it done, and\nso began to row about among the shipping in the Pool, and down to\nErith. The first time I passed Mill Pond Bank, Herbert and I were\npulling a pair of oars; and, both in going and returning, we saw the\nblind towards the east come down. Herbert was rarely there less\nfrequently than three times in a week, and he never brought me a single\nword of intelligence that was at all alarming. Still, I knew that there\nwas cause for alarm, and I could not get rid of the notion of being\nwatched. Once received, it is a haunting idea; how many undesigning\npersons I suspected of watching me, it would be hard to calculate.\n\nIn short, I was always full of fears for the rash man who was in\nhiding. Herbert had sometimes said to me that he found it pleasant to\nstand at one of our windows after dark, when the tide was running down,\nand to think that it was flowing, with everything it bore, towards\nClara. But I thought with dread that it was flowing towards Magwitch,\nand that any black mark on its surface might be his pursuers, going\nswiftly, silently, and surely, to take him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVII.\n\n\nSome weeks passed without bringing any change. We waited for Wemmick,\nand he made no sign. If I had never known him out of Little Britain,\nand had never enjoyed the privilege of being on a familiar footing at\nthe Castle, I might have doubted him; not so for a moment, knowing him\nas I did.\n\nMy worldly affairs began to wear a gloomy appearance, and I was pressed\nfor money by more than one creditor. Even I myself began to know the\nwant of money (I mean of ready money in my own pocket), and to relieve\nit by converting some easily spared articles of jewelery into cash. But\nI had quite determined that it would be a heartless fraud to take more\nmoney from my patron in the existing state of my uncertain thoughts and\nplans. Therefore, I had sent him the unopened pocket-book by Herbert,\nto hold in his own keeping, and I felt a kind of satisfaction whether\nit was a false kind or a true, I hardly know in not having profited by\nhis generosity since his revelation of himself.\n\nAs the time wore on, an impression settled heavily upon me that Estella\nwas married. Fearful of having it confirmed, though it was all but a\nconviction, I avoided the newspapers, and begged Herbert (to whom I had\nconfided the circumstances of our last interview) never to speak of her\nto me. Why I hoarded up this last wretched little rag of the robe of\nhope that was rent and given to the winds, how do I know? Why did you\nwho read this, commit that not dissimilar inconsistency of your own\nlast year, last month, last week?\n\nIt was an unhappy life that I lived; and its one dominant anxiety,\ntowering over all its other anxieties, like a high mountain above a\nrange of mountains, never disappeared from my view. Still, no new cause\nfor fear arose. Let me start from my bed as I would, with the terror\nfresh upon me that he was discovered; let me sit listening, as I would\nwith dread, for Herbert s returning step at night, lest it should be\nfleeter than ordinary, and winged with evil news, for all that, and\nmuch more to like purpose, the round of things went on. Condemned to\ninaction and a state of constant restlessness and suspense, I rowed\nabout in my boat, and waited, waited, waited, as I best could.\n\nThere were states of the tide when, having been down the river, I could\nnot get back through the eddy-chafed arches and starlings of old London\nBridge; then, I left my boat at a wharf near the Custom House, to be\nbrought up afterwards to the Temple stairs. I was not averse to doing\nthis, as it served to make me and my boat a commoner incident among the\nwater-side people there. From this slight occasion sprang two meetings\nthat I have now to tell of.\n\nOne afternoon, late in the month of February, I came ashore at the\nwharf at dusk. I had pulled down as far as Greenwich with the ebb tide,\nand had turned with the tide. It had been a fine bright day, but had\nbecome foggy as the sun dropped, and I had had to feel my way back\namong the shipping, pretty carefully. Both in going and returning, I\nhad seen the signal in his window, All well.\n\nAs it was a raw evening, and I was cold, I thought I would comfort\nmyself with dinner at once; and as I had hours of dejection and\nsolitude before me if I went home to the Temple, I thought I would\nafterwards go to the play. The theatre where Mr. Wopsle had achieved\nhis questionable triumph was in that water-side neighbourhood (it is\nnowhere now), and to that theatre I resolved to go. I was aware that\nMr. Wopsle had not succeeded in reviving the Drama, but, on the\ncontrary, had rather partaken of its decline. He had been ominously\nheard of, through the play-bills, as a faithful Black, in connection\nwith a little girl of noble birth, and a monkey. And Herbert had seen\nhim as a predatory Tartar of comic propensities, with a face like a red\nbrick, and an outrageous hat all over bells.\n\nI dined at what Herbert and I used to call a geographical chop-house,\nwhere there were maps of the world in porter-pot rims on every\nhalf-yard of the tablecloths, and charts of gravy on every one of the\nknives, to this day there is scarcely a single chop-house within the\nLord Mayor s dominions which is not geographical, and wore out the time\nin dozing over crumbs, staring at gas, and baking in a hot blast of\ndinners. By and by, I roused myself, and went to the play.\n\nThere, I found a virtuous boatswain in His Majesty s service, a most\nexcellent man, though I could have wished his trousers not quite so\ntight in some places, and not quite so loose in others, who knocked all\nthe little men s hats over their eyes, though he was very generous and\nbrave, and who wouldn t hear of anybody s paying taxes, though he was\nvery patriotic. He had a bag of money in his pocket, like a pudding in\nthe cloth, and on that property married a young person in\nbed-furniture, with great rejoicings; the whole population of\nPortsmouth (nine in number at the last census) turning out on the beach\nto rub their own hands and shake everybody else s, and sing  Fill,\nfill!  A certain dark-complexioned Swab, however, who wouldn t fill, or\ndo anything else that was proposed to him, and whose heart was openly\nstated (by the boatswain) to be as black as his figure-head, proposed\nto two other Swabs to get all mankind into difficulties; which was so\neffectually done (the Swab family having considerable political\ninfluence) that it took half the evening to set things right, and then\nit was only brought about through an honest little grocer with a white\nhat, black gaiters, and red nose, getting into a clock, with a\ngridiron, and listening, and coming out, and knocking everybody down\nfrom behind with the gridiron whom he couldn t confute with what he had\noverheard. This led to Mr. Wopsle s (who had never been heard of\nbefore) coming in with a star and garter on, as a plenipotentiary of\ngreat power direct from the Admiralty, to say that the Swabs were all\nto go to prison on the spot, and that he had brought the boatswain down\nthe Union Jack, as a slight acknowledgment of his public services. The\nboatswain, unmanned for the first time, respectfully dried his eyes on\nthe Jack, and then cheering up, and addressing Mr. Wopsle as Your\nHonour, solicited permission to take him by the fin. Mr. Wopsle,\nconceding his fin with a gracious dignity, was immediately shoved into\na dusty corner, while everybody danced a hornpipe; and from that\ncorner, surveying the public with a discontented eye, became aware of\nme.\n\nThe second piece was the last new grand comic Christmas pantomime, in\nthe first scene of which, it pained me to suspect that I detected Mr.\nWopsle with red worsted legs under a highly magnified phosphoric\ncountenance and a shock of red curtain-fringe for his hair, engaged in\nthe manufacture of thunderbolts in a mine, and displaying great\ncowardice when his gigantic master came home (very hoarse) to dinner.\nBut he presently presented himself under worthier circumstances; for,\nthe Genius of Youthful Love being in want of assistance, on account of\nthe parental brutality of an ignorant farmer who opposed the choice of\nhis daughter s heart, by purposely falling upon the object, in a\nflour-sack, out of the first-floor window, summoned a sententious\nEnchanter; and he, coming up from the antipodes rather unsteadily,\nafter an apparently violent journey, proved to be Mr. Wopsle in a\nhigh-crowned hat, with a necromantic work in one volume under his arm.\nThe business of this enchanter on earth being principally to be talked\nat, sung at, butted at, danced at, and flashed at with fires of various\ncolours, he had a good deal of time on his hands. And I observed, with\ngreat surprise, that he devoted it to staring in my direction as if he\nwere lost in amazement.\n\nThere was something so remarkable in the increasing glare of Mr.\nWopsle s eye, and he seemed to be turning so many things over in his\nmind and to grow so confused, that I could not make it out. I sat\nthinking of it long after he had ascended to the clouds in a large\nwatch-case, and still I could not make it out. I was still thinking of\nit when I came out of the theatre an hour afterwards, and found him\nwaiting for me near the door.\n\n How do you do?  said I, shaking hands with him as we turned down the\nstreet together.  I saw that you saw me. \n\n Saw you, Mr. Pip!  he returned.  Yes, of course I saw you. But who\nelse was there? \n\n Who else? \n\n It is the strangest thing,  said Mr. Wopsle, drifting into his lost\nlook again;  and yet I could swear to him. \n\nBecoming alarmed, I entreated Mr. Wopsle to explain his meaning.\n\n Whether I should have noticed him at first but for your being there, \nsaid Mr. Wopsle, going on in the same lost way,  I can t be positive;\nyet I think I should. \n\nInvoluntarily I looked round me, as I was accustomed to look round me\nwhen I went home; for these mysterious words gave me a chill.\n\n Oh! He can t be in sight,  said Mr. Wopsle.  He went out before I went\noff. I saw him go. \n\nHaving the reason that I had for being suspicious, I even suspected\nthis poor actor. I mistrusted a design to entrap me into some\nadmission. Therefore I glanced at him as we walked on together, but\nsaid nothing.\n\n I had a ridiculous fancy that he must be with you, Mr. Pip, till I saw\nthat you were quite unconscious of him, sitting behind you there like a\nghost. \n\nMy former chill crept over me again, but I was resolved not to speak\nyet, for it was quite consistent with his words that he might be set on\nto induce me to connect these references with Provis. Of course, I was\nperfectly sure and safe that Provis had not been there.\n\n I dare say you wonder at me, Mr. Pip; indeed, I see you do. But it is\nso very strange! You ll hardly believe what I am going to tell you. I\ncould hardly believe it myself, if you told me. \n\n Indeed?  said I.\n\n No, indeed. Mr. Pip, you remember in old times a certain Christmas\nDay, when you were quite a child, and I dined at Gargery s, and some\nsoldiers came to the door to get a pair of handcuffs mended? \n\n I remember it very well. \n\n And you remember that there was a chase after two convicts, and that\nwe joined in it, and that Gargery took you on his back, and that I took\nthe lead, and you kept up with me as well as you could? \n\n I remember it all very well.  Better than he thought, except the last\nclause.\n\n And you remember that we came up with the two in a ditch, and that\nthere was a scuffle between them, and that one of them had been\nseverely handled and much mauled about the face by the other? \n\n I see it all before me. \n\n And that the soldiers lighted torches, and put the two in the centre,\nand that we went on to see the last of them, over the black marshes,\nwith the torchlight shining on their faces, I am particular about\nthat, with the torchlight shining on their faces, when there was an\nouter ring of dark night all about us? \n\n Yes,  said I.  I remember all that. \n\n Then, Mr. Pip, one of those two prisoners sat behind you tonight. I\nsaw him over your shoulder. \n\n Steady!  I thought. I asked him then,  Which of the two do you suppose\nyou saw? \n\n The one who had been mauled,  he answered readily,  and I ll swear I\nsaw him! The more I think of him, the more certain I am of him. \n\n This is very curious!  said I, with the best assumption I could put on\nof its being nothing more to me.  Very curious indeed! \n\nI cannot exaggerate the enhanced disquiet into which this conversation\nthrew me, or the special and peculiar terror I felt at Compeyson s\nhaving been behind me  like a ghost.  For if he had ever been out of my\nthoughts for a few moments together since the hiding had begun, it was\nin those very moments when he was closest to me; and to think that I\nshould be so unconscious and off my guard after all my care was as if I\nhad shut an avenue of a hundred doors to keep him out, and then had\nfound him at my elbow. I could not doubt, either, that he was there,\nbecause I was there, and that, however slight an appearance of danger\nthere might be about us, danger was always near and active.\n\nI put such questions to Mr. Wopsle as, When did the man come in? He\ncould not tell me that; he saw me, and over my shoulder he saw the man.\nIt was not until he had seen him for some time that he began to\nidentify him; but he had from the first vaguely associated him with me,\nand known him as somehow belonging to me in the old village time. How\nwas he dressed? Prosperously, but not noticeably otherwise; he thought,\nin black. Was his face at all disfigured? No, he believed not. I\nbelieved not too, for, although in my brooding state I had taken no\nespecial notice of the people behind me, I thought it likely that a\nface at all disfigured would have attracted my attention.\n\nWhen Mr. Wopsle had imparted to me all that he could recall or I\nextract, and when I had treated him to a little appropriate\nrefreshment, after the fatigues of the evening, we parted. It was\nbetween twelve and one o clock when I reached the Temple, and the gates\nwere shut. No one was near me when I went in and went home.\n\nHerbert had come in, and we held a very serious council by the fire.\nBut there was nothing to be done, saving to communicate to Wemmick what\nI had that night found out, and to remind him that we waited for his\nhint. As I thought that I might compromise him if I went too often to\nthe Castle, I made this communication by letter. I wrote it before I\nwent to bed, and went out and posted it; and again no one was near me.\nHerbert and I agreed that we could do nothing else but be very\ncautious. And we were very cautious indeed, more cautious than before,\nif that were possible, and I for my part never went near Chinks s\nBasin, except when I rowed by, and then I only looked at Mill Pond Bank\nas I looked at anything else.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVIII.\n\n\nThe second of the two meetings referred to in the last chapter occurred\nabout a week after the first. I had again left my boat at the wharf\nbelow Bridge; the time was an hour earlier in the afternoon; and,\nundecided where to dine, I had strolled up into Cheapside, and was\nstrolling along it, surely the most unsettled person in all the busy\nconcourse, when a large hand was laid upon my shoulder by some one\novertaking me. It was Mr. Jaggers s hand, and he passed it through my\narm.\n\n As we are going in the same direction, Pip, we may walk together.\nWhere are you bound for? \n\n For the Temple, I think,  said I.\n\n Don t you know?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Well,  I returned, glad for once to get the better of him in\ncross-examination,  I do _not_ know, for I have not made up my mind. \n\n You are going to dine?  said Mr. Jaggers.  You don t mind admitting\nthat, I suppose? \n\n No,  I returned,  I don t mind admitting that. \n\n And are not engaged? \n\n I don t mind admitting also that I am not engaged. \n\n Then,  said Mr. Jaggers,  come and dine with me. \n\nI was going to excuse myself, when he added,  Wemmick s coming.  So I\nchanged my excuse into an acceptance, the few words I had uttered,\nserving for the beginning of either, and we went along Cheapside and\nslanted off to Little Britain, while the lights were springing up\nbrilliantly in the shop windows, and the street lamp-lighters, scarcely\nfinding ground enough to plant their ladders on in the midst of the\nafternoon s bustle, were skipping up and down and running in and out,\nopening more red eyes in the gathering fog than my rushlight tower at\nthe Hummums had opened white eyes in the ghostly wall.\n\nAt the office in Little Britain there was the usual letter-writing,\nhand-washing, candle-snuffing, and safe-locking, that closed the\nbusiness of the day. As I stood idle by Mr. Jaggers s fire, its rising\nand falling flame made the two casts on the shelf look as if they were\nplaying a diabolical game at bo-peep with me; while the pair of coarse,\nfat office candles that dimly lighted Mr. Jaggers as he wrote in a\ncorner were decorated with dirty winding-sheets, as if in remembrance\nof a host of hanged clients.\n\nWe went to Gerrard Street, all three together, in a hackney-coach: And,\nas soon as we got there, dinner was served. Although I should not have\nthought of making, in that place, the most distant reference by so much\nas a look to Wemmick s Walworth sentiments, yet I should have had no\nobjection to catching his eye now and then in a friendly way. But it\nwas not to be done. He turned his eyes on Mr. Jaggers whenever he\nraised them from the table, and was as dry and distant to me as if\nthere were twin Wemmicks, and this was the wrong one.\n\n Did you send that note of Miss Havisham s to Mr. Pip, Wemmick?  Mr.\nJaggers asked, soon after we began dinner.\n\n No, sir,  returned Wemmick;  it was going by post, when you brought\nMr. Pip into the office. Here it is.  He handed it to his principal\ninstead of to me.\n\n It s a note of two lines, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, handing it on,  sent\nup to me by Miss Havisham on account of her not being sure of your\naddress. She tells me that she wants to see you on a little matter of\nbusiness you mentioned to her. You ll go down? \n\n Yes,  said I, casting my eyes over the note, which was exactly in\nthose terms.\n\n When do you think of going down? \n\n I have an impending engagement,  said I, glancing at Wemmick, who was\nputting fish into the post-office,  that renders me rather uncertain of\nmy time. At once, I think. \n\n If Mr. Pip has the intention of going at once,  said Wemmick to Mr.\nJaggers,  he needn t write an answer, you know. \n\nReceiving this as an intimation that it was best not to delay, I\nsettled that I would go to-morrow, and said so. Wemmick drank a glass\nof wine, and looked with a grimly satisfied air at Mr. Jaggers, but not\nat me.\n\n So, Pip! Our friend the Spider,  said Mr. Jaggers,  has played his\ncards. He has won the pool. \n\nIt was as much as I could do to assent.\n\n Hah! He is a promising fellow in his way but he may not have it all\nhis own way. The stronger will win in the end, but the stronger has to\nbe found out first. If he should turn to, and beat her \n\n Surely,  I interrupted, with a burning face and heart,  you do not\nseriously think that he is scoundrel enough for that, Mr. Jaggers? \n\n I didn t say so, Pip. I am putting a case. If he should turn to and\nbeat her, he may possibly get the strength on his side; if it should be\na question of intellect, he certainly will not. It would be chance work\nto give an opinion how a fellow of that sort will turn out in such\ncircumstances, because it s a toss-up between two results. \n\n May I ask what they are? \n\n A fellow like our friend the Spider,  answered Mr. Jaggers,  either\nbeats or cringes. He may cringe and growl, or cringe and not growl; but\nhe either beats or cringes. Ask Wemmick _his_ opinion. \n\n Either beats or cringes,  said Wemmick, not at all addressing himself\nto me.\n\n So here s to Mrs. Bentley Drummle,  said Mr. Jaggers, taking a\ndecanter of choicer wine from his dumb-waiter, and filling for each of\nus and for himself,  and may the question of supremacy be settled to\nthe lady s satisfaction! To the satisfaction of the lady _and_ the\ngentleman, it never will be. Now, Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly, how slow\nyou are to-day! \n\nShe was at his elbow when he addressed her, putting a dish upon the\ntable. As she withdrew her hands from it, she fell back a step or two,\nnervously muttering some excuse. And a certain action of her fingers,\nas she spoke, arrested my attention.\n\n What s the matter?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Nothing. Only the subject we were speaking of,  said I,  was rather\npainful to me. \n\nThe action of her fingers was like the action of knitting. She stood\nlooking at her master, not understanding whether she was free to go, or\nwhether he had more to say to her and would call her back if she did\ngo. Her look was very intent. Surely, I had seen exactly such eyes and\nsuch hands on a memorable occasion very lately!\n\nHe dismissed her, and she glided out of the room. But she remained\nbefore me as plainly as if she were still there. I looked at those\nhands, I looked at those eyes, I looked at that flowing hair; and I\ncompared them with other hands, other eyes, other hair, that I knew of,\nand with what those might be after twenty years of a brutal husband and\na stormy life. I looked again at those hands and eyes of the\nhousekeeper, and thought of the inexplicable feeling that had come over\nme when I last walked not alone in the ruined garden, and through the\ndeserted brewery. I thought how the same feeling had come back when I\nsaw a face looking at me, and a hand waving to me from a stage-coach\nwindow; and how it had come back again and had flashed about me like\nlightning, when I had passed in a carriage not alone through a sudden\nglare of light in a dark street. I thought how one link of association\nhad helped that identification in the theatre, and how such a link,\nwanting before, had been riveted for me now, when I had passed by a\nchance swift from Estella s name to the fingers with their knitting\naction, and the attentive eyes. And I felt absolutely certain that this\nwoman was Estella s mother.\n\nMr. Jaggers had seen me with Estella, and was not likely to have missed\nthe sentiments I had been at no pains to conceal. He nodded when I said\nthe subject was painful to me, clapped me on the back, put round the\nwine again, and went on with his dinner.\n\nOnly twice more did the housekeeper reappear, and then her stay in the\nroom was very short, and Mr. Jaggers was sharp with her. But her hands\nwere Estella s hands, and her eyes were Estella s eyes, and if she had\nreappeared a hundred times I could have been neither more sure nor less\nsure that my conviction was the truth.\n\nIt was a dull evening, for Wemmick drew his wine, when it came round,\nquite as a matter of business, just as he might have drawn his salary\nwhen that came round, and with his eyes on his chief, sat in a state of\nperpetual readiness for cross-examination. As to the quantity of wine,\nhis post-office was as indifferent and ready as any other post-office\nfor its quantity of letters. From my point of view, he was the wrong\ntwin all the time, and only externally like the Wemmick of Walworth.\n\nWe took our leave early, and left together. Even when we were groping\namong Mr. Jaggers s stock of boots for our hats, I felt that the right\ntwin was on his way back; and we had not gone half a dozen yards down\nGerrard Street in the Walworth direction, before I found that I was\nwalking arm in arm with the right twin, and that the wrong twin had\nevaporated into the evening air.\n\n Well!  said Wemmick,  that s over! He s a wonderful man, without his\nliving likeness; but I feel that I have to screw myself up when I dine\nwith him, and I dine more comfortably unscrewed. \n\nI felt that this was a good statement of the case, and told him so.\n\n Wouldn t say it to anybody but yourself,  he answered.  I know that\nwhat is said between you and me goes no further. \n\nI asked him if he had ever seen Miss Havisham s adopted daughter, Mrs.\nBentley Drummle. He said no. To avoid being too abrupt, I then spoke of\nthe Aged and of Miss Skiffins. He looked rather sly when I mentioned\nMiss Skiffins, and stopped in the street to blow his nose, with a roll\nof the head, and a flourish not quite free from latent boastfulness.\n\n Wemmick,  said I,  do you remember telling me, before I first went to\nMr. Jaggers s private house, to notice that housekeeper? \n\n Did I?  he replied.  Ah, I dare say I did. Deuce take me,  he added,\nsuddenly,  I know I did. I find I am not quite unscrewed yet. \n\n A wild beast tamed, you called her. \n\n And what do _you_ call her? \n\n The same. How did Mr. Jaggers tame her, Wemmick? \n\n That s his secret. She has been with him many a long year. \n\n I wish you would tell me her story. I feel a particular interest in\nbeing acquainted with it. You know that what is said between you and me\ngoes no further. \n\n Well!  Wemmick replied,  I don t know her story, that is, I don t know\nall of it. But what I do know I ll tell you. We are in our private and\npersonal capacities, of course. \n\n Of course. \n\n A score or so of years ago, that woman was tried at the Old Bailey for\nmurder, and was acquitted. She was a very handsome young woman, and I\nbelieve had some gypsy blood in her. Anyhow, it was hot enough when it\nwas up, as you may suppose. \n\n But she was acquitted. \n\n Mr. Jaggers was for her,  pursued Wemmick, with a look full of\nmeaning,  and worked the case in a way quite astonishing. It was a\ndesperate case, and it was comparatively early days with him then, and\nhe worked it to general admiration; in fact, it may almost be said to\nhave made him. He worked it himself at the police-office, day after day\nfor many days, contending against even a committal; and at the trial\nwhere he couldn t work it himself, sat under counsel, and every one\nknew put in all the salt and pepper. The murdered person was a woman, a\nwoman a good ten years older, very much larger, and very much stronger.\nIt was a case of jealousy. They both led tramping lives, and this woman\nin Gerrard Street here had been married very young, over the broomstick\n(as we say), to a tramping man, and was a perfect fury in point of\njealousy. The murdered woman, more a match for the man, certainly, in\npoint of years was found dead in a barn near Hounslow Heath. There had\nbeen a violent struggle, perhaps a fight. She was bruised and scratched\nand torn, and had been held by the throat, at last, and choked. Now,\nthere was no reasonable evidence to implicate any person but this\nwoman, and on the improbabilities of her having been able to do it Mr.\nJaggers principally rested his case. You may be sure,  said Wemmick,\ntouching me on the sleeve,  that he never dwelt upon the strength of\nher hands then, though he sometimes does now. \n\nI had told Wemmick of his showing us her wrists, that day of the dinner\nparty.\n\n Well, sir!  Wemmick went on;  it happened happened, don t you\nsee? that this woman was so very artfully dressed from the time of her\napprehension, that she looked much slighter than she really was; in\nparticular, her sleeves are always remembered to have been so skilfully\ncontrived that her arms had quite a delicate look. She had only a\nbruise or two about her, nothing for a tramp, but the backs of her\nhands were lacerated, and the question was, Was it with finger-nails?\nNow, Mr. Jaggers showed that she had struggled through a great lot of\nbrambles which were not as high as her face; but which she could not\nhave got through and kept her hands out of; and bits of those brambles\nwere actually found in her skin and put in evidence, as well as the\nfact that the brambles in question were found on examination to have\nbeen broken through, and to have little shreds of her dress and little\nspots of blood upon them here and there. But the boldest point he made\nwas this: it was attempted to be set up, in proof of her jealousy, that\nshe was under strong suspicion of having, at about the time of the\nmurder, frantically destroyed her child by this man some three years\nold to revenge herself upon him. Mr. Jaggers worked that in this way:\n We say these are not marks of finger-nails, but marks of brambles, and\nwe show you the brambles. You say they are marks of finger-nails, and\nyou set up the hypothesis that she destroyed her child. You must accept\nall consequences of that hypothesis. For anything we know, she may have\ndestroyed her child, and the child in clinging to her may have\nscratched her hands. What then? You are not trying her for the murder\nof her child; why don t you? As to this case, if you _will_ have\nscratches, we say that, for anything we know, you may have accounted\nfor them, assuming for the sake of argument that you have not invented\nthem?   To sum up, sir,  said Wemmick,  Mr. Jaggers was altogether too\nmany for the jury, and they gave in. \n\n Has she been in his service ever since? \n\n Yes; but not only that,  said Wemmick,  she went into his service\nimmediately after her acquittal, tamed as she is now. She has since\nbeen taught one thing and another in the way of her duties, but she was\ntamed from the beginning. \n\n Do you remember the sex of the child? \n\n Said to have been a girl. \n\n You have nothing more to say to me to-night? \n\n Nothing. I got your letter and destroyed it. Nothing. \n\nWe exchanged a cordial good-night, and I went home, with new matter for\nmy thoughts, though with no relief from the old.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIX.\n\n\nPutting Miss Havisham s note in my pocket, that it might serve as my\ncredentials for so soon reappearing at Satis House, in case her\nwaywardness should lead her to express any surprise at seeing me, I\nwent down again by the coach next day. But I alighted at the Halfway\nHouse, and breakfasted there, and walked the rest of the distance; for\nI sought to get into the town quietly by the unfrequented ways, and to\nleave it in the same manner.\n\nThe best light of the day was gone when I passed along the quiet\nechoing courts behind the High Street. The nooks of ruin where the old\nmonks had once had their refectories and gardens, and where the strong\nwalls were now pressed into the service of humble sheds and stables,\nwere almost as silent as the old monks in their graves. The cathedral\nchimes had at once a sadder and a more remote sound to me, as I hurried\non avoiding observation, than they had ever had before; so, the swell\nof the old organ was borne to my ears like funeral music; and the\nrooks, as they hovered about the grey tower and swung in the bare high\ntrees of the priory garden, seemed to call to me that the place was\nchanged, and that Estella was gone out of it for ever.\n\nAn elderly woman, whom I had seen before as one of the servants who\nlived in the supplementary house across the back courtyard, opened the\ngate. The lighted candle stood in the dark passage within, as of old,\nand I took it up and ascended the staircase alone. Miss Havisham was\nnot in her own room, but was in the larger room across the landing.\nLooking in at the door, after knocking in vain, I saw her sitting on\nthe hearth in a ragged chair, close before, and lost in the\ncontemplation of, the ashy fire.\n\nDoing as I had often done, I went in, and stood touching the old\nchimney-piece, where she could see me when she raised her eyes. There\nwas an air of utter loneliness upon her, that would have moved me to\npity though she had wilfully done me a deeper injury than I could\ncharge her with. As I stood compassionating her, and thinking how, in\nthe progress of time, I too had come to be a part of the wrecked\nfortunes of that house, her eyes rested on me. She stared, and said in\na low voice,  Is it real? \n\n It is I, Pip. Mr. Jaggers gave me your note yesterday, and I have lost\nno time. \n\n Thank you. Thank you. \n\nAs I brought another of the ragged chairs to the hearth and sat down, I\nremarked a new expression on her face, as if she were afraid of me.\n\n I want,  she said,  to pursue that subject you mentioned to me when\nyou were last here, and to show you that I am not all stone. But\nperhaps you can never believe, now, that there is anything human in my\nheart? \n\nWhen I said some reassuring words, she stretched out her tremulous\nright hand, as though she was going to touch me; but she recalled it\nagain before I understood the action, or knew how to receive it.\n\n You said, speaking for your friend, that you could tell me how to do\nsomething useful and good. Something that you would like done, is it\nnot? \n\n Something that I would like done very much. \n\n What is it? \n\nI began explaining to her that secret history of the partnership. I had\nnot got far into it, when I judged from her looks that she was thinking\nin a discursive way of me, rather than of what I said. It seemed to be\nso; for, when I stopped speaking, many moments passed before she showed\nthat she was conscious of the fact.\n\n Do you break off,  she asked then, with her former air of being afraid\nof me,  because you hate me too much to bear to speak to me? \n\n No, no,  I answered,  how can you think so, Miss Havisham! I stopped\nbecause I thought you were not following what I said. \n\n Perhaps I was not,  she answered, putting a hand to her head.  Begin\nagain, and let me look at something else. Stay! Now tell me. \n\nShe set her hand upon her stick in the resolute way that sometimes was\nhabitual to her, and looked at the fire with a strong expression of\nforcing herself to attend. I went on with my explanation, and told her\nhow I had hoped to complete the transaction out of my means, but how in\nthis I was disappointed. That part of the subject (I reminded her)\ninvolved matters which could form no part of my explanation, for they\nwere the weighty secrets of another.\n\n So!  said she, assenting with her head, but not looking at me.  And\nhow much money is wanting to complete the purchase? \n\nI was rather afraid of stating it, for it sounded a large sum.  Nine\nhundred pounds. \n\n If I give you the money for this purpose, will you keep my secret as\nyou have kept your own? \n\n Quite as faithfully. \n\n And your mind will be more at rest? \n\n Much more at rest. \n\n Are you very unhappy now? \n\nShe asked this question, still without looking at me, but in an\nunwonted tone of sympathy. I could not reply at the moment, for my\nvoice failed me. She put her left arm across the head of her stick, and\nsoftly laid her forehead on it.\n\n I am far from happy, Miss Havisham; but I have other causes of\ndisquiet than any you know of. They are the secrets I have mentioned. \n\nAfter a little while, she raised her head, and looked at the fire\nagain.\n\n It is noble in you to tell me that you have other causes of\nunhappiness. Is it true? \n\n Too true. \n\n Can I only serve you, Pip, by serving your friend? Regarding that as\ndone, is there nothing I can do for you yourself? \n\n Nothing. I thank you for the question. I thank you even more for the\ntone of the question. But there is nothing. \n\nShe presently rose from her seat, and looked about the blighted room\nfor the means of writing. There were none there, and she took from her\npocket a yellow set of ivory tablets, mounted in tarnished gold, and\nwrote upon them with a pencil in a case of tarnished gold that hung\nfrom her neck.\n\n You are still on friendly terms with Mr. Jaggers? \n\n Quite. I dined with him yesterday. \n\n This is an authority to him to pay you that money, to lay out at your\nirresponsible discretion for your friend. I keep no money here; but if\nyou would rather Mr. Jaggers knew nothing of the matter, I will send it\nto you. \n\n Thank you, Miss Havisham; I have not the least objection to receiving\nit from him. \n\nShe read me what she had written; and it was direct and clear, and\nevidently intended to absolve me from any suspicion of profiting by the\nreceipt of the money. I took the tablets from her hand, and it trembled\nagain, and it trembled more as she took off the chain to which the\npencil was attached, and put it in mine. All this she did without\nlooking at me.\n\n My name is on the first leaf. If you can ever write under my name,  I\nforgive her,  though ever so long after my broken heart is dust pray do\nit! \n\n O Miss Havisham,  said I,  I can do it now. There have been sore\nmistakes; and my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want\nforgiveness and direction far too much, to be bitter with you. \n\nShe turned her face to me for the first time since she had averted it,\nand, to my amazement, I may even add to my terror, dropped on her knees\nat my feet; with her folded hands raised to me in the manner in which,\nwhen her poor heart was young and fresh and whole, they must often have\nbeen raised to heaven from her mother s side.\n\nTo see her with her white hair and her worn face kneeling at my feet\ngave me a shock through all my frame. I entreated her to rise, and got\nmy arms about her to help her up; but she only pressed that hand of\nmine which was nearest to her grasp, and hung her head over it and\nwept. I had never seen her shed a tear before, and, in the hope that\nthe relief might do her good, I bent over her without speaking. She was\nnot kneeling now, but was down upon the ground.\n\n O!  she cried, despairingly.  What have I done! What have I done! \n\n If you mean, Miss Havisham, what have you done to injure me, let me\nanswer. Very little. I should have loved her under any circumstances.\nIs she married? \n\n Yes. \n\nIt was a needless question, for a new desolation in the desolate house\nhad told me so.\n\n What have I done! What have I done!  She wrung her hands, and crushed\nher white hair, and returned to this cry over and over again.  What\nhave I done! \n\nI knew not how to answer, or how to comfort her. That she had done a\ngrievous thing in taking an impressionable child to mould into the form\nthat her wild resentment, spurned affection, and wounded pride found\nvengeance in, I knew full well. But that, in shutting out the light of\nday, she had shut out infinitely more; that, in seclusion, she had\nsecluded herself from a thousand natural and healing influences; that,\nher mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased, as all minds do and\nmust and will that reverse the appointed order of their Maker, I knew\nequally well. And could I look upon her without compassion, seeing her\npunishment in the ruin she was, in her profound unfitness for this\nearth on which she was placed, in the vanity of sorrow which had become\na master mania, like the vanity of penitence, the vanity of remorse,\nthe vanity of unworthiness, and other monstrous vanities that have been\ncurses in this world?\n\n Until you spoke to her the other day, and until I saw in you a\nlooking-glass that showed me what I once felt myself, I did not know\nwhat I had done. What have I done! What have I done!  And so again,\ntwenty, fifty times over, What had she done!\n\n Miss Havisham,  I said, when her cry had died away,  you may dismiss\nme from your mind and conscience. But Estella is a different case, and\nif you can ever undo any scrap of what you have done amiss in keeping a\npart of her right nature away from her, it will be better to do that\nthan to bemoan the past through a hundred years. \n\n Yes, yes, I know it. But, Pip my dear!  There was an earnest womanly\ncompassion for me in her new affection.  My dear! Believe this: when\nshe first came to me, I meant to save her from misery like my own. At\nfirst, I meant no more. \n\n Well, well!  said I.  I hope so. \n\n But as she grew, and promised to be very beautiful, I gradually did\nworse, and with my praises, and with my jewels, and with my teachings,\nand with this figure of myself always before her, a warning to back and\npoint my lessons, I stole her heart away, and put ice in its place. \n\n Better,  I could not help saying,  to have left her a natural heart,\neven to be bruised or broken. \n\nWith that, Miss Havisham looked distractedly at me for a while, and\nthen burst out again, What had she done!\n\n If you knew all my story,  she pleaded,  you would have some\ncompassion for me and a better understanding of me. \n\n Miss Havisham,  I answered, as delicately as I could,  I believe I may\nsay that I do know your story, and have known it ever since I first\nleft this neighbourhood. It has inspired me with great commiseration,\nand I hope I understand it and its influences. Does what has passed\nbetween us give me any excuse for asking you a question relative to\nEstella? Not as she is, but as she was when she first came here? \n\nShe was seated on the ground, with her arms on the ragged chair, and\nher head leaning on them. She looked full at me when I said this, and\nreplied,  Go on. \n\n Whose child was Estella? \n\nShe shook her head.\n\n You don t know? \n\nShe shook her head again.\n\n But Mr. Jaggers brought her here, or sent her here? \n\n Brought her here. \n\n Will you tell me how that came about? \n\nShe answered in a low whisper and with caution:  I had been shut up in\nthese rooms a long time (I don t know how long; you know what time the\nclocks keep here), when I told him that I wanted a little girl to rear\nand love, and save from my fate. I had first seen him when I sent for\nhim to lay this place waste for me; having read of him in the\nnewspapers, before I and the world parted. He told me that he would\nlook about him for such an orphan child. One night he brought her here\nasleep, and I called her Estella. \n\n Might I ask her age then? \n\n Two or three. She herself knows nothing, but that she was left an\norphan and I adopted her. \n\nSo convinced I was of that woman s being her mother, that I wanted no\nevidence to establish the fact in my own mind. But, to any mind, I\nthought, the connection here was clear and straight.\n\nWhat more could I hope to do by prolonging the interview? I had\nsucceeded on behalf of Herbert, Miss Havisham had told me all she knew\nof Estella, I had said and done what I could to ease her mind. No\nmatter with what other words we parted; we parted.\n\nTwilight was closing in when I went downstairs into the natural air. I\ncalled to the woman who had opened the gate when I entered, that I\nwould not trouble her just yet, but would walk round the place before\nleaving. For I had a presentiment that I should never be there again,\nand I felt that the dying light was suited to my last view of it.\n\nBy the wilderness of casks that I had walked on long ago, and on which\nthe rain of years had fallen since, rotting them in many places, and\nleaving miniature swamps and pools of water upon those that stood on\nend, I made my way to the ruined garden. I went all round it; round by\nthe corner where Herbert and I had fought our battle; round by the\npaths where Estella and I had walked. So cold, so lonely, so dreary\nall!\n\nTaking the brewery on my way back, I raised the rusty latch of a little\ndoor at the garden end of it, and walked through. I was going out at\nthe opposite door, not easy to open now, for the damp wood had started\nand swelled, and the hinges were yielding, and the threshold was\nencumbered with a growth of fungus, when I turned my head to look back.\nA childish association revived with wonderful force in the moment of\nthe slight action, and I fancied that I saw Miss Havisham hanging to\nthe beam. So strong was the impression, that I stood under the beam\nshuddering from head to foot before I knew it was a fancy, though to be\nsure I was there in an instant.\n\nThe mournfulness of the place and time, and the great terror of this\nillusion, though it was but momentary, caused me to feel an\nindescribable awe as I came out between the open wooden gates where I\nhad once wrung my hair after Estella had wrung my heart. Passing on\ninto the front courtyard, I hesitated whether to call the woman to let\nme out at the locked gate of which she had the key, or first to go\nupstairs and assure myself that Miss Havisham was as safe and well as I\nhad left her. I took the latter course and went up.\n\nI looked into the room where I had left her, and I saw her seated in\nthe ragged chair upon the hearth close to the fire, with her back\ntowards me. In the moment when I was withdrawing my head to go quietly\naway, I saw a great flaming light spring up. In the same moment I saw\nher running at me, shrieking, with a whirl of fire blazing all about\nher, and soaring at least as many feet above her head as she was high.\n\nI had a double-caped great-coat on, and over my arm another thick coat.\nThat I got them off, closed with her, threw her down, and got them over\nher; that I dragged the great cloth from the table for the same\npurpose, and with it dragged down the heap of rottenness in the midst,\nand all the ugly things that sheltered there; that we were on the\nground struggling like desperate enemies, and that the closer I covered\nher, the more wildly she shrieked and tried to free herself, that this\noccurred I knew through the result, but not through anything I felt, or\nthought, or knew I did. I knew nothing until I knew that we were on the\nfloor by the great table, and that patches of tinder yet alight were\nfloating in the smoky air, which, a moment ago, had been her faded\nbridal dress.\n\nThen, I looked round and saw the disturbed beetles and spiders running\naway over the floor, and the servants coming in with breathless cries\nat the door. I still held her forcibly down with all my strength, like\na prisoner who might escape; and I doubt if I even knew who she was, or\nwhy we had struggled, or that she had been in flames, or that the\nflames were out, until I saw the patches of tinder that had been her\ngarments no longer alight but falling in a black shower around us.\n\nShe was insensible, and I was afraid to have her moved, or even\ntouched. Assistance was sent for, and I held her until it came, as if I\nunreasonably fancied (I think I did) that, if I let her go, the fire\nwould break out again and consume her. When I got up, on the surgeon s\ncoming to her with other aid, I was astonished to see that both my\nhands were burnt; for, I had no knowledge of it through the sense of\nfeeling.\n\nOn examination it was pronounced that she had received serious hurts,\nbut that they of themselves were far from hopeless; the danger lay\nmainly in the nervous shock. By the surgeon s directions, her bed was\ncarried into that room and laid upon the great table, which happened to\nbe well suited to the dressing of her injuries. When I saw her again,\nan hour afterwards, she lay, indeed, where I had seen her strike her\nstick, and had heard her say that she would lie one day.\n\nThough every vestige of her dress was burnt, as they told me, she still\nhad something of her old ghastly bridal appearance; for, they had\ncovered her to the throat with white cotton-wool, and as she lay with a\nwhite sheet loosely overlying that, the phantom air of something that\nhad been and was changed was still upon her.\n\nI found, on questioning the servants, that Estella was in Paris, and I\ngot a promise from the surgeon that he would write to her by the next\npost. Miss Havisham s family I took upon myself; intending to\ncommunicate with Mr. Matthew Pocket only, and leave him to do as he\nliked about informing the rest. This I did next day, through Herbert,\nas soon as I returned to town.\n\nThere was a stage, that evening, when she spoke collectedly of what had\nhappened, though with a certain terrible vivacity. Towards midnight she\nbegan to wander in her speech; and after that it gradually set in that\nshe said innumerable times in a low solemn voice,  What have I done! \nAnd then,  When she first came, I meant to save her from misery like\nmine.  And then,  Take the pencil and write under my name,  I forgive\nher!  She never changed the order of these three sentences, but she\nsometimes left out a word in one or other of them; never putting in\nanother word, but always leaving a blank and going on to the next word.\n\nAs I could do no service there, and as I had, nearer home, that\npressing reason for anxiety and fear which even her wanderings could\nnot drive out of my mind, I decided, in the course of the night that I\nwould return by the early morning coach, walking on a mile or so, and\nbeing taken up clear of the town. At about six o clock of the morning,\ntherefore, I leaned over her and touched her lips with mine, just as\nthey said, not stopping for being touched,  Take the pencil and write\nunder my name,  I forgive her. \n\n\n\n\nChapter L.\n\n\nMy hands had been dressed twice or thrice in the night, and again in\nthe morning. My left arm was a good deal burned to the elbow, and, less\nseverely, as high as the shoulder; it was very painful, but the flames\nhad set in that direction, and I felt thankful it was no worse. My\nright hand was not so badly burnt but that I could move the fingers. It\nwas bandaged, of course, but much less inconveniently than my left hand\nand arm; those I carried in a sling; and I could only wear my coat like\na cloak, loose over my shoulders and fastened at the neck. My hair had\nbeen caught by the fire, but not my head or face.\n\nWhen Herbert had been down to Hammersmith and seen his father, he came\nback to me at our chambers, and devoted the day to attending on me. He\nwas the kindest of nurses, and at stated times took off the bandages,\nand steeped them in the cooling liquid that was kept ready, and put\nthem on again, with a patient tenderness that I was deeply grateful\nfor.\n\nAt first, as I lay quiet on the sofa, I found it painfully difficult, I\nmight say impossible, to get rid of the impression of the glare of the\nflames, their hurry and noise, and the fierce burning smell. If I dozed\nfor a minute, I was awakened by Miss Havisham s cries, and by her\nrunning at me with all that height of fire above her head. This pain of\nthe mind was much harder to strive against than any bodily pain I\nsuffered; and Herbert, seeing that, did his utmost to hold my attention\nengaged.\n\nNeither of us spoke of the boat, but we both thought of it. That was\nmade apparent by our avoidance of the subject, and by our\nagreeing without agreement to make my recovery of the use of my hands a\nquestion of so many hours, not of so many weeks.\n\nMy first question when I saw Herbert had been of course, whether all\nwas well down the river? As he replied in the affirmative, with perfect\nconfidence and cheerfulness, we did not resume the subject until the\nday was wearing away. But then, as Herbert changed the bandages, more\nby the light of the fire than by the outer light, he went back to it\nspontaneously.\n\n I sat with Provis last night, Handel, two good hours. \n\n Where was Clara? \n\n Dear little thing!  said Herbert.  She was up and down with\nGruffandgrim all the evening. He was perpetually pegging at the floor\nthe moment she left his sight. I doubt if he can hold out long, though.\nWhat with rum and pepper, and pepper and rum, I should think his\npegging must be nearly over. \n\n And then you will be married, Herbert? \n\n How can I take care of the dear child otherwise? Lay your arm out upon\nthe back of the sofa, my dear boy, and I ll sit down here, and get the\nbandage off so gradually that you shall not know when it comes. I was\nspeaking of Provis. Do you know, Handel, he improves? \n\n I said to you I thought he was softened when I last saw him. \n\n So you did. And so he is. He was very communicative last night, and\ntold me more of his life. You remember his breaking off here about some\nwoman that he had had great trouble with. Did I hurt you? \n\nI had started, but not under his touch. His words had given me a start.\n\n I had forgotten that, Herbert, but I remember it now you speak of it. \n\n Well! He went into that part of his life, and a dark wild part it is.\nShall I tell you? Or would it worry you just now? \n\n Tell me by all means. Every word. \n\nHerbert bent forward to look at me more nearly, as if my reply had been\nrather more hurried or more eager than he could quite account for.\n Your head is cool?  he said, touching it.\n\n Quite,  said I.  Tell me what Provis said, my dear Herbert. \n\n It seems,  said Herbert,  there s a bandage off most charmingly, and\nnow comes the cool one, makes you shrink at first, my poor dear fellow,\ndon t it? but it will be comfortable presently, it seems that the woman\nwas a young woman, and a jealous woman, and a revengeful woman;\nrevengeful, Handel, to the last degree. \n\n To what last degree? \n\n Murder. Does it strike too cold on that sensitive place? \n\n I don t feel it. How did she murder? Whom did she murder? \n\n Why, the deed may not have merited quite so terrible a name,  said\nHerbert,  but, she was tried for it, and Mr. Jaggers defended her, and\nthe reputation of that defence first made his name known to Provis. It\nwas another and a stronger woman who was the victim, and there had been\na struggle in a barn. Who began it, or how fair it was, or how unfair,\nmay be doubtful; but how it ended is certainly not doubtful, for the\nvictim was found throttled. \n\n Was the woman brought in guilty? \n\n No; she was acquitted. My poor Handel, I hurt you! \n\n It is impossible to be gentler, Herbert. Yes? What else? \n\n This acquitted young woman and Provis had a little child; a little\nchild of whom Provis was exceedingly fond. On the evening of the very\nnight when the object of her jealousy was strangled as I tell you, the\nyoung woman presented herself before Provis for one moment, and swore\nthat she would destroy the child (which was in her possession), and he\nshould never see it again; then she vanished. There s the worst arm\ncomfortably in the sling once more, and now there remains but the right\nhand, which is a far easier job. I can do it better by this light than\nby a stronger, for my hand is steadiest when I don t see the poor\nblistered patches too distinctly. You don t think your breathing is\naffected, my dear boy? You seem to breathe quickly. \n\n Perhaps I do, Herbert. Did the woman keep her oath? \n\n There comes the darkest part of Provis s life. She did. \n\n That is, he says she did. \n\n Why, of course, my dear boy,  returned Herbert, in a tone of surprise,\nand again bending forward to get a nearer look at me.  He says it all.\nI have no other information. \n\n No, to be sure. \n\n Now, whether,  pursued Herbert,  he had used the child s mother ill,\nor whether he had used the child s mother well, Provis doesn t say; but\nshe had shared some four or five years of the wretched life he\ndescribed to us at this fireside, and he seems to have felt pity for\nher, and forbearance towards her. Therefore, fearing he should be\ncalled upon to depose about this destroyed child, and so be the cause\nof her death, he hid himself (much as he grieved for the child), kept\nhimself dark, as he says, out of the way and out of the trial, and was\nonly vaguely talked of as a certain man called Abel, out of whom the\njealousy arose. After the acquittal she disappeared, and thus he lost\nthe child and the child s mother. \n\n I want to ask \n\n A moment, my dear boy, and I have done. That evil genius, Compeyson,\nthe worst of scoundrels among many scoundrels, knowing of his keeping\nout of the way at that time and of his reasons for doing so, of course\nafterwards held the knowledge over his head as a means of keeping him\npoorer and working him harder. It was clear last night that this barbed\nthe point of Provis s animosity. \n\n I want to know,  said I,  and particularly, Herbert, whether he told\nyou when this happened? \n\n Particularly? Let me remember, then, what he said as to that. His\nexpression was,  a round score o  year ago, and a most directly after I\ntook up wi  Compeyson.  How old were you when you came upon him in the\nlittle churchyard? \n\n I think in my seventh year. \n\n Ay. It had happened some three or four years then, he said, and you\nbrought into his mind the little girl so tragically lost, who would\nhave been about your age. \n\n Herbert,  said I, after a short silence, in a hurried way,  can you\nsee me best by the light of the window, or the light of the fire? \n\n By the firelight,  answered Herbert, coming close again.\n\n Look at me. \n\n I do look at you, my dear boy. \n\n Touch me. \n\n I do touch you, my dear boy. \n\n You are not afraid that I am in any fever, or that my head is much\ndisordered by the accident of last night? \n\n N-no, my dear boy,  said Herbert, after taking time to examine me.\n You are rather excited, but you are quite yourself. \n\n I know I am quite myself. And the man we have in hiding down the\nriver, is Estella s Father. \n\n\n\n\nChapter LI.\n\n\nWhat purpose I had in view when I was hot on tracing out and proving\nEstella s parentage, I cannot say. It will presently be seen that the\nquestion was not before me in a distinct shape until it was put before\nme by a wiser head than my own.\n\nBut when Herbert and I had held our momentous conversation, I was\nseized with a feverish conviction that I ought to hunt the matter\ndown, that I ought not to let it rest, but that I ought to see Mr.\nJaggers, and come at the bare truth. I really do not know whether I\nfelt that I did this for Estella s sake, or whether I was glad to\ntransfer to the man in whose preservation I was so much concerned some\nrays of the romantic interest that had so long surrounded me. Perhaps\nthe latter possibility may be the nearer to the truth.\n\nAny way, I could scarcely be withheld from going out to Gerrard Street\nthat night. Herbert s representations that, if I did, I should probably\nbe laid up and stricken useless, when our fugitive s safety would\ndepend upon me, alone restrained my impatience. On the understanding,\nagain and again reiterated, that, come what would, I was to go to Mr.\nJaggers to-morrow, I at length submitted to keep quiet, and to have my\nhurts looked after, and to stay at home. Early next morning we went out\ntogether, and at the corner of Giltspur Street by Smithfield, I left\nHerbert to go his way into the City, and took my way to Little Britain.\n\nThere were periodical occasions when Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick went over\nthe office accounts, and checked off the vouchers, and put all things\nstraight. On these occasions, Wemmick took his books and papers into\nMr. Jaggers s room, and one of the upstairs clerks came down into the\nouter office. Finding such clerk on Wemmick s post that morning, I knew\nwhat was going on; but I was not sorry to have Mr. Jaggers and Wemmick\ntogether, as Wemmick would then hear for himself that I said nothing to\ncompromise him.\n\nMy appearance, with my arm bandaged and my coat loose over my\nshoulders, favoured my object. Although I had sent Mr. Jaggers a brief\naccount of the accident as soon as I had arrived in town, yet I had to\ngive him all the details now; and the speciality of the occasion caused\nour talk to be less dry and hard, and less strictly regulated by the\nrules of evidence, than it had been before. While I described the\ndisaster, Mr. Jaggers stood, according to his wont, before the fire.\nWemmick leaned back in his chair, staring at me, with his hands in the\npockets of his trousers, and his pen put horizontally into the post.\nThe two brutal casts, always inseparable in my mind from the official\nproceedings, seemed to be congestively considering whether they didn t\nsmell fire at the present moment.\n\nMy narrative finished, and their questions exhausted, I then produced\nMiss Havisham s authority to receive the nine hundred pounds for\nHerbert. Mr. Jaggers s eyes retired a little deeper into his head when\nI handed him the tablets, but he presently handed them over to Wemmick,\nwith instructions to draw the check for his signature. While that was\nin course of being done, I looked on at Wemmick as he wrote, and Mr.\nJaggers, poising and swaying himself on his well-polished boots, looked\non at me.  I am sorry, Pip,  said he, as I put the check in my pocket,\nwhen he had signed it,  that we do nothing for _you_. \n\n Miss Havisham was good enough to ask me,  I returned,  whether she\ncould do nothing for me, and I told her No. \n\n Everybody should know his own business,  said Mr. Jaggers. And I saw\nWemmick s lips form the words  portable property. \n\n I should _not_ have told her No, if I had been you,  said Mr Jaggers;\n but every man ought to know his own business best. \n\n Every man s business,  said Wemmick, rather reproachfully towards me,\n is portable property. \n\nAs I thought the time was now come for pursuing the theme I had at\nheart, I said, turning on Mr. Jaggers: \n\n I did ask something of Miss Havisham, however, sir. I asked her to\ngive me some information relative to her adopted daughter, and she gave\nme all she possessed. \n\n Did she?  said Mr. Jaggers, bending forward to look at his boots and\nthen straightening himself.  Hah! I don t think I should have done so,\nif I had been Miss Havisham. But _she_ ought to know her own business\nbest. \n\n I know more of the history of Miss Havisham s adopted child than Miss\nHavisham herself does, sir. I know her mother. \n\nMr. Jaggers looked at me inquiringly, and repeated  Mother? \n\n I have seen her mother within these three days. \n\n Yes?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n And so have you, sir. And you have seen her still more recently. \n\n Yes?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Perhaps I know more of Estella s history than even you do,  said I.  I\nknow her father too. \n\nA certain stop that Mr. Jaggers came to in his manner he was too\nself-possessed to change his manner, but he could not help its being\nbrought to an indefinably attentive stop assured me that he did not\nknow who her father was. This I had strongly suspected from Provis s\naccount (as Herbert had repeated it) of his having kept himself dark;\nwhich I pieced on to the fact that he himself was not Mr. Jaggers s\nclient until some four years later, and when he could have no reason\nfor claiming his identity. But, I could not be sure of this\nunconsciousness on Mr. Jaggers s part before, though I was quite sure\nof it now.\n\n So! You know the young lady s father, Pip?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Yes,  I replied,  and his name is Provis from New South Wales. \n\nEven Mr. Jaggers started when I said those words. It was the slightest\nstart that could escape a man, the most carefully repressed and the\nsooner checked, but he did start, though he made it a part of the\naction of taking out his pocket-handkerchief. How Wemmick received the\nannouncement I am unable to say; for I was afraid to look at him just\nthen, lest Mr. Jaggers s sharpness should detect that there had been\nsome communication unknown to him between us.\n\n And on what evidence, Pip,  asked Mr. Jaggers, very coolly, as he\npaused with his handkerchief half way to his nose,  does Provis make\nthis claim? \n\n He does not make it,  said I,  and has never made it, and has no\nknowledge or belief that his daughter is in existence. \n\nFor once, the powerful pocket-handkerchief failed. My reply was so\nunexpected, that Mr. Jaggers put the handkerchief back into his pocket\nwithout completing the usual performance, folded his arms, and looked\nwith stern attention at me, though with an immovable face.\n\nThen I told him all I knew, and how I knew it; with the one reservation\nthat I left him to infer that I knew from Miss Havisham what I in fact\nknew from Wemmick. I was very careful indeed as to that. Nor did I look\ntowards Wemmick until I had finished all I had to tell, and had been\nfor some time silently meeting Mr. Jaggers s look. When I did at last\nturn my eyes in Wemmick s direction, I found that he had unposted his\npen, and was intent upon the table before him.\n\n Hah!  said Mr. Jaggers at last, as he moved towards the papers on the\ntable.  What item was it you were at, Wemmick, when Mr. Pip came in? \n\nBut I could not submit to be thrown off in that way, and I made a\npassionate, almost an indignant appeal, to him to be more frank and\nmanly with me. I reminded him of the false hopes into which I had\nlapsed, the length of time they had lasted, and the discovery I had\nmade: and I hinted at the danger that weighed upon my spirits. I\nrepresented myself as being surely worthy of some little confidence\nfrom him, in return for the confidence I had just now imparted. I said\nthat I did not blame him, or suspect him, or mistrust him, but I wanted\nassurance of the truth from him. And if he asked me why I wanted it,\nand why I thought I had any right to it, I would tell him, little as he\ncared for such poor dreams, that I had loved Estella dearly and long,\nand that although I had lost her, and must live a bereaved life,\nwhatever concerned her was still nearer and dearer to me than anything\nelse in the world. And seeing that Mr. Jaggers stood quite still and\nsilent, and apparently quite obdurate, under this appeal, I turned to\nWemmick, and said,  Wemmick, I know you to be a man with a gentle\nheart. I have seen your pleasant home, and your old father, and all the\ninnocent, cheerful playful ways with which you refresh your business\nlife. And I entreat you to say a word for me to Mr. Jaggers, and to\nrepresent to him that, all circumstances considered, he ought to be\nmore open with me! \n\nI have never seen two men look more oddly at one another than Mr.\nJaggers and Wemmick did after this apostrophe. At first, a misgiving\ncrossed me that Wemmick would be instantly dismissed from his\nemployment; but it melted as I saw Mr. Jaggers relax into something\nlike a smile, and Wemmick become bolder.\n\n What s all this?  said Mr. Jaggers.  You with an old father, and you\nwith pleasant and playful ways? \n\n Well!  returned Wemmick.  If I don t bring  em here, what does it\nmatter? \n\n Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers, laying his hand upon my arm, and smiling\nopenly,  this man must be the most cunning impostor in all London. \n\n Not a bit of it,  returned Wemmick, growing bolder and bolder.  I\nthink you re another. \n\nAgain they exchanged their former odd looks, each apparently still\ndistrustful that the other was taking him in.\n\n _You_ with a pleasant home?  said Mr. Jaggers.\n\n Since it don t interfere with business,  returned Wemmick,  let it be\nso. Now, I look at you, sir, I shouldn t wonder if _you_ might be\nplanning and contriving to have a pleasant home of your own one of\nthese days, when you re tired of all this work. \n\nMr. Jaggers nodded his head retrospectively two or three times, and\nactually drew a sigh.  Pip,  said he,  we won t talk about  poor\ndreams;  you know more about such things than I, having much fresher\nexperience of that kind. But now about this other matter. I ll put a\ncase to you. Mind! I admit nothing. \n\nHe waited for me to declare that I quite understood that he expressly\nsaid that he admitted nothing.\n\n Now, Pip,  said Mr. Jaggers,  put this case. Put the case that a\nwoman, under such circumstances as you have mentioned, held her child\nconcealed, and was obliged to communicate the fact to her legal\nadviser, on his representing to her that he must know, with an eye to\nthe latitude of his defence, how the fact stood about that child. Put\nthe case that, at the same time he held a trust to find a child for an\neccentric rich lady to adopt and bring up. \n\n I follow you, sir. \n\n Put the case that he lived in an atmosphere of evil, and that all he\nsaw of children was their being generated in great numbers for certain\ndestruction. Put the case that he often saw children solemnly tried at\na criminal bar, where they were held up to be seen; put the case that\nhe habitually knew of their being imprisoned, whipped, transported,\nneglected, cast out, qualified in all ways for the hangman, and growing\nup to be hanged. Put the case that pretty nigh all the children he saw\nin his daily business life he had reason to look upon as so much spawn,\nto develop into the fish that were to come to his net, to be\nprosecuted, defended, forsworn, made orphans, bedevilled somehow. \n\n I follow you, sir. \n\n Put the case, Pip, that here was one pretty little child out of the\nheap who could be saved; whom the father believed dead, and dared make\nno stir about; as to whom, over the mother, the legal adviser had this\npower:  I know what you did, and how you did it. You came so and so,\nyou did such and such things to divert suspicion. I have tracked you\nthrough it all, and I tell it you all. Part with the child, unless it\nshould be necessary to produce it to clear you, and then it shall be\nproduced. Give the child into my hands, and I will do my best to bring\nyou off. If you are saved, your child is saved too; if you are lost,\nyour child is still saved.  Put the case that this was done, and that\nthe woman was cleared. \n\n I understand you perfectly. \n\n But that I make no admissions? \n\n That you make no admissions.  And Wemmick repeated,  No admissions. \n\n Put the case, Pip, that passion and the terror of death had a little\nshaken the woman s intellects, and that when she was set at liberty,\nshe was scared out of the ways of the world, and went to him to be\nsheltered. Put the case that he took her in, and that he kept down the\nold, wild, violent nature whenever he saw an inkling of its breaking\nout, by asserting his power over her in the old way. Do you comprehend\nthe imaginary case? \n\n Quite. \n\n Put the case that the child grew up, and was married for money. That\nthe mother was still living. That the father was still living. That the\nmother and father, unknown to one another, were dwelling within so many\nmiles, furlongs, yards if you like, of one another. That the secret was\nstill a secret, except that you had got wind of it. Put that last case\nto yourself very carefully. \n\n I do. \n\n I ask Wemmick to put it to _him_self very carefully. \n\nAnd Wemmick said,  I do. \n\n For whose sake would you reveal the secret? For the father s? I think\nhe would not be much the better for the mother. For the mother s? I\nthink if she had done such a deed she would be safer where she was. For\nthe daughter s? I think it would hardly serve her to establish her\nparentage for the information of her husband, and to drag her back to\ndisgrace, after an escape of twenty years, pretty secure to last for\nlife. But add the case that you had loved her, Pip, and had made her\nthe subject of those  poor dreams  which have, at one time or another,\nbeen in the heads of more men than you think likely, then I tell you\nthat you had better and would much sooner when you had thought well of\nit chop off that bandaged left hand of yours with your bandaged right\nhand, and then pass the chopper on to Wemmick there, to cut _that_ off\ntoo. \n\nI looked at Wemmick, whose face was very grave. He gravely touched his\nlips with his forefinger. I did the same. Mr. Jaggers did the same.\n Now, Wemmick,  said the latter then, resuming his usual manner,  what\nitem was it you were at when Mr. Pip came in? \n\nStanding by for a little, while they were at work, I observed that the\nodd looks they had cast at one another were repeated several times:\nwith this difference now, that each of them seemed suspicious, not to\nsay conscious, of having shown himself in a weak and unprofessional\nlight to the other. For this reason, I suppose, they were now\ninflexible with one another; Mr. Jaggers being highly dictatorial, and\nWemmick obstinately justifying himself whenever there was the smallest\npoint in abeyance for a moment. I had never seen them on such ill\nterms; for generally they got on very well indeed together.\n\nBut they were both happily relieved by the opportune appearance of\nMike, the client with the fur cap and the habit of wiping his nose on\nhis sleeve, whom I had seen on the very first day of my appearance\nwithin those walls. This individual, who, either in his own person or\nin that of some member of his family, seemed to be always in trouble\n(which in that place meant Newgate), called to announce that his eldest\ndaughter was taken up on suspicion of shoplifting. As he imparted this\nmelancholy circumstance to Wemmick, Mr. Jaggers standing magisterially\nbefore the fire and taking no share in the proceedings, Mike s eye\nhappened to twinkle with a tear.\n\n What are you about?  demanded Wemmick, with the utmost indignation.\n What do you come snivelling here for? \n\n I didn t go to do it, Mr. Wemmick. \n\n You did,  said Wemmick.  How dare you? You re not in a fit state to\ncome here, if you can t come here without spluttering like a bad pen.\nWhat do you mean by it? \n\n A man can t help his feelings, Mr. Wemmick,  pleaded Mike.\n\n His what?  demanded Wemmick, quite savagely.  Say that again! \n\n Now look here my man,  said Mr. Jaggers, advancing a step, and\npointing to the door.  Get out of this office. I ll have no feelings\nhere. Get out. \n\n It serves you right,  said Wemmick,  Get out. \n\nSo, the unfortunate Mike very humbly withdrew, and Mr. Jaggers and\nWemmick appeared to have re-established their good understanding, and\nwent to work again with an air of refreshment upon them as if they had\njust had lunch.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LII.\n\n\nFrom Little Britain I went, with my check in my pocket, to Miss\nSkiffins s brother, the accountant; and Miss Skiffins s brother, the\naccountant, going straight to Clarriker s and bringing Clarriker to me,\nI had the great satisfaction of concluding that arrangement. It was the\nonly good thing I had done, and the only completed thing I had done,\nsince I was first apprised of my great expectations.\n\nClarriker informing me on that occasion that the affairs of the House\nwere steadily progressing, that he would now be able to establish a\nsmall branch-house in the East which was much wanted for the extension\nof the business, and that Herbert in his new partnership capacity would\ngo out and take charge of it, I found that I must have prepared for a\nseparation from my friend, even though my own affairs had been more\nsettled. And now, indeed, I felt as if my last anchor were loosening\nits hold, and I should soon be driving with the winds and waves.\n\nBut there was recompense in the joy with which Herbert would come home\nof a night and tell me of these changes, little imagining that he told\nme no news, and would sketch airy pictures of himself conducting Clara\nBarley to the land of the Arabian Nights, and of me going out to join\nthem (with a caravan of camels, I believe), and of our all going up the\nNile and seeing wonders. Without being sanguine as to my own part in\nthose bright plans, I felt that Herbert s way was clearing fast, and\nthat old Bill Barley had but to stick to his pepper and rum, and his\ndaughter would soon be happily provided for.\n\nWe had now got into the month of March. My left arm, though it\npresented no bad symptoms, took, in the natural course, so long to heal\nthat I was still unable to get a coat on. My right arm was tolerably\nrestored; disfigured, but fairly serviceable.\n\nOn a Monday morning, when Herbert and I were at breakfast, I received\nthe following letter from Wemmick by the post.\n\n Walworth. Burn this as soon as read. Early in the week, or say\nWednesday, you might do what you know of, if you felt disposed to try\nit. Now burn. \n\nWhen I had shown this to Herbert and had put it in the fire but not\nbefore we had both got it by heart we considered what to do. For, of\ncourse my being disabled could now be no longer kept out of view.\n\n I have thought it over again and again,  said Herbert,  and I think I\nknow a better course than taking a Thames waterman. Take Startop. A\ngood fellow, a skilled hand, fond of us, and enthusiastic and\nhonourable. \n\nI had thought of him more than once.\n\n But how much would you tell him, Herbert? \n\n It is necessary to tell him very little. Let him suppose it a mere\nfreak, but a secret one, until the morning comes: then let him know\nthat there is urgent reason for your getting Provis aboard and away.\nYou go with him? \n\n No doubt. \n\n Where? \n\nIt had seemed to me, in the many anxious considerations I had given the\npoint, almost indifferent what port we made for, Hamburg, Rotterdam,\nAntwerp, the place signified little, so that he was out of England. Any\nforeign steamer that fell in our way and would take us up would do. I\nhad always proposed to myself to get him well down the river in the\nboat; certainly well beyond Gravesend, which was a critical place for\nsearch or inquiry if suspicion were afoot. As foreign steamers would\nleave London at about the time of high-water, our plan would be to get\ndown the river by a previous ebb-tide, and lie by in some quiet spot\nuntil we could pull off to one. The time when one would be due where we\nlay, wherever that might be, could be calculated pretty nearly, if we\nmade inquiries beforehand.\n\nHerbert assented to all this, and we went out immediately after\nbreakfast to pursue our investigations. We found that a steamer for\nHamburg was likely to suit our purpose best, and we directed our\nthoughts chiefly to that vessel. But we noted down what other foreign\nsteamers would leave London with the same tide, and we satisfied\nourselves that we knew the build and colour of each. We then separated\nfor a few hours: I, to get at once such passports as were necessary;\nHerbert, to see Startop at his lodgings. We both did what we had to do\nwithout any hindrance, and when we met again at one o clock reported it\ndone. I, for my part, was prepared with passports; Herbert had seen\nStartop, and he was more than ready to join.\n\nThose two should pull a pair of oars, we settled, and I would steer;\nour charge would be sitter, and keep quiet; as speed was not our\nobject, we should make way enough. We arranged that Herbert should not\ncome home to dinner before going to Mill Pond Bank that evening; that\nhe should not go there at all to-morrow evening, Tuesday; that he\nshould prepare Provis to come down to some stairs hard by the house, on\nWednesday, when he saw us approach, and not sooner; that all the\narrangements with him should be concluded that Monday night; and that\nhe should be communicated with no more in any way, until we took him on\nboard.\n\nThese precautions well understood by both of us, I went home.\n\nOn opening the outer door of our chambers with my key, I found a letter\nin the box, directed to me; a very dirty letter, though not\nill-written. It had been delivered by hand (of course, since I left\nhome), and its contents were these: \n\n If you are not afraid to come to the old marshes to-night or to-morrow\nnight at nine, and to come to the little sluice-house by the limekiln,\nyou had better come. If you want information regarding _your uncle\nProvis_, you had much better come and tell no one, and lose no time.\n_You must come alone_. Bring this with you. \n\nI had had load enough upon my mind before the receipt of this strange\nletter. What to do now, I could not tell. And the worst was, that I\nmust decide quickly, or I should miss the afternoon coach, which would\ntake me down in time for to-night. To-morrow night I could not think of\ngoing, for it would be too close upon the time of the flight. And\nagain, for anything I knew, the proffered information might have some\nimportant bearing on the flight itself.\n\nIf I had had ample time for consideration, I believe I should still\nhave gone. Having hardly any time for consideration, my watch showing\nme that the coach started within half an hour, I resolved to go. I\nshould certainly not have gone, but for the reference to my Uncle\nProvis. That, coming on Wemmick s letter and the morning s busy\npreparation, turned the scale.\n\nIt is so difficult to become clearly possessed of the contents of\nalmost any letter, in a violent hurry, that I had to read this\nmysterious epistle again twice, before its injunction to me to be\nsecret got mechanically into my mind. Yielding to it in the same\nmechanical kind of way, I left a note in pencil for Herbert, telling\nhim that as I should be so soon going away, I knew not for how long, I\nhad decided to hurry down and back, to ascertain for myself how Miss\nHavisham was faring. I had then barely time to get my great-coat, lock\nup the chambers, and make for the coach-office by the short by-ways. If\nI had taken a hackney-chariot and gone by the streets, I should have\nmissed my aim; going as I did, I caught the coach just as it came out\nof the yard. I was the only inside passenger, jolting away knee-deep in\nstraw, when I came to myself.\n\nFor I really had not been myself since the receipt of the letter; it\nhad so bewildered me, ensuing on the hurry of the morning. The morning\nhurry and flutter had been great; for, long and anxiously as I had\nwaited for Wemmick, his hint had come like a surprise at last. And now\nI began to wonder at myself for being in the coach, and to doubt\nwhether I had sufficient reason for being there, and to consider\nwhether I should get out presently and go back, and to argue against\never heeding an anonymous communication, and, in short, to pass through\nall those phases of contradiction and indecision to which I suppose\nvery few hurried people are strangers. Still, the reference to Provis\nby name mastered everything. I reasoned as I had reasoned already\nwithout knowing it, if that be reasoning, in case any harm should\nbefall him through my not going, how could I ever forgive myself!\n\nIt was dark before we got down, and the journey seemed long and dreary\nto me, who could see little of it inside, and who could not go outside\nin my disabled state. Avoiding the Blue Boar, I put up at an inn of\nminor reputation down the town, and ordered some dinner. While it was\npreparing, I went to Satis House and inquired for Miss Havisham; she\nwas still very ill, though considered something better.\n\nMy inn had once been a part of an ancient ecclesiastical house, and I\ndined in a little octagonal common-room, like a font. As I was not able\nto cut my dinner, the old landlord with a shining bald head did it for\nme. This bringing us into conversation, he was so good as to entertain\nme with my own story, of course with the popular feature that\nPumblechook was my earliest benefactor and the founder of my fortunes.\n\n Do you know the young man?  said I.\n\n Know him!  repeated the landlord.  Ever since he was no height at\nall. \n\n Does he ever come back to this neighbourhood? \n\n Ay, he comes back,  said the landlord,  to his great friends, now and\nagain, and gives the cold shoulder to the man that made him. \n\n What man is that? \n\n Him that I speak of,  said the landlord.  Mr. Pumblechook. \n\n Is he ungrateful to no one else? \n\n No doubt he would be, if he could,  returned the landlord,  but he\ncan t. And why? Because Pumblechook done everything for him. \n\n Does Pumblechook say so? \n\n Say so!  replied the landlord.  He han t no call to say so. \n\n But does he say so? \n\n It would turn a man s blood to white wine winegar to hear him tell of\nit, sir,  said the landlord.\n\nI thought,  Yet Joe, dear Joe, _you_ never tell of it. Long-suffering\nand loving Joe, _you_ never complain. Nor you, sweet-tempered Biddy! \n\n Your appetite s been touched like by your accident,  said the\nlandlord, glancing at the bandaged arm under my coat.  Try a tenderer\nbit. \n\n No, thank you,  I replied, turning from the table to brood over the\nfire.  I can eat no more. Please take it away. \n\nI had never been struck at so keenly, for my thanklessness to Joe, as\nthrough the brazen impostor Pumblechook. The falser he, the truer Joe;\nthe meaner he, the nobler Joe.\n\nMy heart was deeply and most deservedly humbled as I mused over the\nfire for an hour or more. The striking of the clock aroused me, but not\nfrom my dejection or remorse, and I got up and had my coat fastened\nround my neck, and went out. I had previously sought in my pockets for\nthe letter, that I might refer to it again; but I could not find it,\nand was uneasy to think that it must have been dropped in the straw of\nthe coach. I knew very well, however, that the appointed place was the\nlittle sluice-house by the limekiln on the marshes, and the hour nine.\nTowards the marshes I now went straight, having no time to spare.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nChapter LIII.\n\n\nIt was a dark night, though the full moon rose as I left the enclosed\nlands, and passed out upon the marshes. Beyond their dark line there\nwas a ribbon of clear sky, hardly broad enough to hold the red large\nmoon. In a few minutes she had ascended out of that clear field, in\namong the piled mountains of cloud.\n\nThere was a melancholy wind, and the marshes were very dismal. A\nstranger would have found them insupportable, and even to me they were\nso oppressive that I hesitated, half inclined to go back. But I knew\nthem well, and could have found my way on a far darker night, and had\nno excuse for returning, being there. So, having come there against my\ninclination, I went on against it.\n\nThe direction that I took was not that in which my old home lay, nor\nthat in which we had pursued the convicts. My back was turned towards\nthe distant Hulks as I walked on, and, though I could see the old\nlights away on the spits of sand, I saw them over my shoulder. I knew\nthe limekiln as well as I knew the old Battery, but they were miles\napart; so that, if a light had been burning at each point that night,\nthere would have been a long strip of the blank horizon between the two\nbright specks.\n\nAt first, I had to shut some gates after me, and now and then to stand\nstill while the cattle that were lying in the banked-up pathway arose\nand blundered down among the grass and reeds. But after a little while\nI seemed to have the whole flats to myself.\n\nIt was another half-hour before I drew near to the kiln. The lime was\nburning with a sluggish stifling smell, but the fires were made up and\nleft, and no workmen were visible. Hard by was a small stone-quarry. It\nlay directly in my way, and had been worked that day, as I saw by the\ntools and barrows that were lying about.\n\nComing up again to the marsh level out of this excavation, for the rude\npath lay through it, I saw a light in the old sluice-house. I quickened\nmy pace, and knocked at the door with my hand. Waiting for some reply,\nI looked about me, noticing how the sluice was abandoned and broken,\nand how the house of wood with a tiled roof would not be proof against\nthe weather much longer, if it were so even now, and how the mud and\nooze were coated with lime, and how the choking vapour of the kiln\ncrept in a ghostly way towards me. Still there was no answer, and I\nknocked again. No answer still, and I tried the latch.\n\nIt rose under my hand, and the door yielded. Looking in, I saw a\nlighted candle on a table, a bench, and a mattress on a truckle\nbedstead. As there was a loft above, I called,  Is there any one here? \nbut no voice answered. Then I looked at my watch, and, finding that it\nwas past nine, called again,  Is there any one here?  There being still\nno answer, I went out at the door, irresolute what to do.\n\nIt was beginning to rain fast. Seeing nothing save what I had seen\nalready, I turned back into the house, and stood just within the\nshelter of the doorway, looking out into the night. While I was\nconsidering that some one must have been there lately and must soon be\ncoming back, or the candle would not be burning, it came into my head\nto look if the wick were long. I turned round to do so, and had taken\nup the candle in my hand, when it was extinguished by some violent\nshock; and the next thing I comprehended was, that I had been caught in\na strong running noose, thrown over my head from behind.\n\n Now,  said a suppressed voice with an oath,  I ve got you! \n\n What is this?  I cried, struggling.  Who is it? Help, help, help! \n\nNot only were my arms pulled close to my sides, but the pressure on my\nbad arm caused me exquisite pain. Sometimes, a strong man s hand,\nsometimes a strong man s breast, was set against my mouth to deaden my\ncries, and with a hot breath always close to me, I struggled\nineffectually in the dark, while I was fastened tight to the wall.  And\nnow,  said the suppressed voice with another oath,  call out again, and\nI ll make short work of you! \n\nFaint and sick with the pain of my injured arm, bewildered by the\nsurprise, and yet conscious how easily this threat could be put in\nexecution, I desisted, and tried to ease my arm were it ever so little.\nBut, it was bound too tight for that. I felt as if, having been burnt\nbefore, it were now being boiled.\n\nThe sudden exclusion of the night, and the substitution of black\ndarkness in its place, warned me that the man had closed a shutter.\nAfter groping about for a little, he found the flint and steel he\nwanted, and began to strike a light. I strained my sight upon the\nsparks that fell among the tinder, and upon which he breathed and\nbreathed, match in hand, but I could only see his lips, and the blue\npoint of the match; even those but fitfully. The tinder was damp, no\nwonder there, and one after another the sparks died out.\n\nThe man was in no hurry, and struck again with the flint and steel. As\nthe sparks fell thick and bright about him, I could see his hands, and\ntouches of his face, and could make out that he was seated and bending\nover the table; but nothing more. Presently I saw his blue lips again,\nbreathing on the tinder, and then a flare of light flashed up, and\nshowed me Orlick.\n\nWhom I had looked for, I don t know. I had not looked for him. Seeing\nhim, I felt that I was in a dangerous strait indeed, and I kept my eyes\nupon him.\n\nHe lighted the candle from the flaring match with great deliberation,\nand dropped the match, and trod it out. Then he put the candle away\nfrom him on the table, so that he could see me, and sat with his arms\nfolded on the table and looked at me. I made out that I was fastened to\na stout perpendicular ladder a few inches from the wall, a fixture\nthere, the means of ascent to the loft above.\n\n Now,  said he, when we had surveyed one another for some time,  I ve\ngot you. \n\n Unbind me. Let me go! \n\n Ah!  he returned,  _I_ ll let you go. I ll let you go to the moon,\nI ll let you go to the stars. All in good time. \n\n Why have you lured me here? \n\n Don t you know?  said he, with a deadly look.\n\n Why have you set upon me in the dark? \n\n Because I mean to do it all myself. One keeps a secret better than\ntwo. O you enemy, you enemy! \n\nHis enjoyment of the spectacle I furnished, as he sat with his arms\nfolded on the table, shaking his head at me and hugging himself, had a\nmalignity in it that made me tremble. As I watched him in silence, he\nput his hand into the corner at his side, and took up a gun with a\nbrass-bound stock.\n\n Do you know this?  said he, making as if he would take aim at me.  Do\nyou know where you saw it afore? Speak, wolf! \n\n Yes,  I answered.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n You cost me that place. You did. Speak! \n\n What else could I do? \n\n You did that, and that would be enough, without more. How dared you to\ncome betwixt me and a young woman I liked? \n\n When did I? \n\n When didn t you? It was you as always give Old Orlick a bad name to\nher. \n\n You gave it to yourself; you gained it for yourself. I could have done\nyou no harm, if you had done yourself none. \n\n You re a liar. And you ll take any pains, and spend any money, to\ndrive me out of this country, will you?  said he, repeating my words to\nBiddy in the last interview I had with her.  Now, I ll tell you a piece\nof information. It was never so well worth your while to get me out of\nthis country as it is to-night. Ah! If it was all your money twenty\ntimes told, to the last brass farden!  As he shook his heavy hand at\nme, with his mouth snarling like a tiger s, I felt that it was true.\n\n What are you going to do to me? \n\n I m a-going,  said he, bringing his fist down upon the table with a\nheavy blow, and rising as the blow fell to give it greater force, I m\na-going to have your life! \n\nHe leaned forward staring at me, slowly unclenched his hand and drew it\nacross his mouth as if his mouth watered for me, and sat down again.\n\n You was always in Old Orlick s way since ever you was a child. You\ngoes out of his way this present night. He ll have no more on you.\nYou re dead. \n\nI felt that I had come to the brink of my grave. For a moment I looked\nwildly round my trap for any chance of escape; but there was none.\n\n More than that,  said he, folding his arms on the table again,  I\nwon t have a rag of you, I won t have a bone of you, left on earth.\nI ll put your body in the kiln, I d carry two such to it, on my\nshoulders and, let people suppose what they may of you, they shall\nnever know nothing. \n\nMy mind, with inconceivable rapidity followed out all the consequences\nof such a death. Estella s father would believe I had deserted him,\nwould be taken, would die accusing me; even Herbert would doubt me,\nwhen he compared the letter I had left for him with the fact that I had\ncalled at Miss Havisham s gate for only a moment; Joe and Biddy would\nnever know how sorry I had been that night, none would ever know what I\nhad suffered, how true I had meant to be, what an agony I had passed\nthrough. The death close before me was terrible, but far more terrible\nthan death was the dread of being misremembered after death. And so\nquick were my thoughts, that I saw myself despised by unborn\ngenerations, Estella s children, and their children, while the wretch s\nwords were yet on his lips.\n\n Now, wolf,  said he,  afore I kill you like any other beast, which is\nwot I mean to do and wot I have tied you up for, I ll have a good look\nat you and a good goad at you. O you enemy! \n\nIt had passed through my thoughts to cry out for help again; though few\ncould know better than I, the solitary nature of the spot, and the\nhopelessness of aid. But as he sat gloating over me, I was supported by\na scornful detestation of him that sealed my lips. Above all things, I\nresolved that I would not entreat him, and that I would die making some\nlast poor resistance to him. Softened as my thoughts of all the rest of\nmen were in that dire extremity; humbly beseeching pardon, as I did, of\nHeaven; melted at heart, as I was, by the thought that I had taken no\nfarewell, and never now could take farewell of those who were dear to\nme, or could explain myself to them, or ask for their compassion on my\nmiserable errors, still, if I could have killed him, even in dying, I\nwould have done it.\n\nHe had been drinking, and his eyes were red and bloodshot. Around his\nneck was slung a tin bottle, as I had often seen his meat and drink\nslung about him in other days. He brought the bottle to his lips, and\ntook a fiery drink from it; and I smelt the strong spirits that I saw\nflash into his face.\n\n Wolf!  said he, folding his arms again,  Old Orlick s a-going to tell\nyou somethink. It was you as did for your shrew sister. \n\nAgain my mind, with its former inconceivable rapidity, had exhausted\nthe whole subject of the attack upon my sister, her illness, and her\ndeath, before his slow and hesitating speech had formed these words.\n\n It was you, villain,  said I.\n\n I tell you it was your doing, I tell you it was done through you,  he\nretorted, catching up the gun, and making a blow with the stock at the\nvacant air between us.  I come upon her from behind, as I come upon you\nto-night. _I_ giv  it her! I left her for dead, and if there had been a\nlimekiln as nigh her as there is now nigh you, she shouldn t have come\nto life again. But it warn t Old Orlick as did it; it was you. You was\nfavoured, and he was bullied and beat. Old Orlick bullied and beat, eh?\nNow you pays for it. You done it; now you pays for it. \n\nHe drank again, and became more ferocious. I saw by his tilting of the\nbottle that there was no great quantity left in it. I distinctly\nunderstood that he was working himself up with its contents to make an\nend of me. I knew that every drop it held was a drop of my life. I knew\nthat when I was changed into a part of the vapour that had crept\ntowards me but a little while before, like my own warning ghost, he\nwould do as he had done in my sister s case, make all haste to the\ntown, and be seen slouching about there drinking at the alehouses. My\nrapid mind pursued him to the town, made a picture of the street with\nhim in it, and contrasted its lights and life with the lonely marsh and\nthe white vapour creeping over it, into which I should have dissolved.\n\nIt was not only that I could have summed up years and years and years\nwhile he said a dozen words, but that what he did say presented\npictures to me, and not mere words. In the excited and exalted state of\nmy brain, I could not think of a place without seeing it, or of persons\nwithout seeing them. It is impossible to overstate the vividness of\nthese images, and yet I was so intent, all the time, upon him\nhimself, who would not be intent on the tiger crouching to spring! that\nI knew of the slightest action of his fingers.\n\nWhen he had drunk this second time, he rose from the bench on which he\nsat, and pushed the table aside. Then, he took up the candle, and,\nshading it with his murderous hand so as to throw its light on me,\nstood before me, looking at me and enjoying the sight.\n\n Wolf, I ll tell you something more. It was Old Orlick as you tumbled\nover on your stairs that night. \n\nI saw the staircase with its extinguished lamps. I saw the shadows of\nthe heavy stair-rails, thrown by the watchman s lantern on the wall. I\nsaw the rooms that I was never to see again; here, a door half open;\nthere, a door closed; all the articles of furniture around.\n\n And why was Old Orlick there? I ll tell you something more, wolf. You\nand her _have_ pretty well hunted me out of this country, so far as\ngetting a easy living in it goes, and I ve took up with new companions,\nand new masters. Some of  em writes my letters when I wants  em\nwrote, do you mind? writes my letters, wolf! They writes fifty hands;\nthey re not like sneaking you, as writes but one. I ve had a firm mind\nand a firm will to have your life, since you was down here at your\nsister s burying. I han t seen a way to get you safe, and I ve looked\narter you to know your ins and outs. For, says Old Orlick to himself,\n Somehow or another I ll have him!  What! When I looks for you, I finds\nyour uncle Provis, eh? \n\nMill Pond Bank, and Chinks s Basin, and the Old Green Copper Rope-walk,\nall so clear and plain! Provis in his rooms, the signal whose use was\nover, pretty Clara, the good motherly woman, old Bill Barley on his\nback, all drifting by, as on the swift stream of my life fast running\nout to sea!\n\n _You_ with a uncle too! Why, I know d you at Gargery s when you was so\nsmall a wolf that I could have took your weazen betwixt this finger and\nthumb and chucked you away dead (as I d thoughts o  doing, odd times,\nwhen I see you loitering amongst the pollards on a Sunday), and you\nhadn t found no uncles then. No, not you! But when Old Orlick come for\nto hear that your uncle Provis had most like wore the leg-iron wot Old\nOrlick had picked up, filed asunder, on these meshes ever so many year\nago, and wot he kep by him till he dropped your sister with it, like a\nbullock, as he means to drop you hey? when he come for to hear\nthat hey? \n\nIn his savage taunting, he flared the candle so close at me that I\nturned my face aside to save it from the flame.\n\n Ah!  he cried, laughing, after doing it again,  the burnt child dreads\nthe fire! Old Orlick knowed you was burnt, Old Orlick knowed you was\nsmuggling your uncle Provis away, Old Orlick s a match for you and\nknow d you d come to-night! Now I ll tell you something more, wolf, and\nthis ends it. There s them that s as good a match for your uncle Provis\nas Old Orlick has been for you. Let him  ware them, when he s lost his\nnevvy! Let him  ware them, when no man can t find a rag of his dear\nrelation s clothes, nor yet a bone of his body. There s them that can t\nand that won t have Magwitch, yes, _I_ know the name! alive in the same\nland with them, and that s had such sure information of him when he was\nalive in another land, as that he couldn t and shouldn t leave it\nunbeknown and put them in danger. P raps it s them that writes fifty\nhands, and that s not like sneaking you as writes but one.  Ware\nCompeyson, Magwitch, and the gallows! \n\nHe flared the candle at me again, smoking my face and hair, and for an\ninstant blinding me, and turned his powerful back as he replaced the\nlight on the table. I had thought a prayer, and had been with Joe and\nBiddy and Herbert, before he turned towards me again.\n\nThere was a clear space of a few feet between the table and the\nopposite wall. Within this space, he now slouched backwards and\nforwards. His great strength seemed to sit stronger upon him than ever\nbefore, as he did this with his hands hanging loose and heavy at his\nsides, and with his eyes scowling at me. I had no grain of hope left.\nWild as my inward hurry was, and wonderful the force of the pictures\nthat rushed by me instead of thoughts, I could yet clearly understand\nthat, unless he had resolved that I was within a few moments of surely\nperishing out of all human knowledge, he would never have told me what\nhe had told.\n\nOf a sudden, he stopped, took the cork out of his bottle, and tossed it\naway. Light as it was, I heard it fall like a plummet. He swallowed\nslowly, tilting up the bottle by little and little, and now he looked\nat me no more. The last few drops of liquor he poured into the palm of\nhis hand, and licked up. Then, with a sudden hurry of violence and\nswearing horribly, he threw the bottle from him, and stooped; and I saw\nin his hand a stone-hammer with a long heavy handle.\n\nThe resolution I had made did not desert me, for, without uttering one\nvain word of appeal to him, I shouted out with all my might, and\nstruggled with all my might. It was only my head and my legs that I\ncould move, but to that extent I struggled with all the force, until\nthen unknown, that was within me. In the same instant I heard\nresponsive shouts, saw figures and a gleam of light dash in at the\ndoor, heard voices and tumult, and saw Orlick emerge from a struggle of\nmen, as if it were tumbling water, clear the table at a leap, and fly\nout into the night.\n\nAfter a blank, I found that I was lying unbound, on the floor, in the\nsame place, with my head on some one s knee. My eyes were fixed on the\nladder against the wall, when I came to myself, had opened on it before\nmy mind saw it, and thus as I recovered consciousness, I knew that I\nwas in the place where I had lost it.\n\nToo indifferent at first, even to look round and ascertain who\nsupported me, I was lying looking at the ladder, when there came\nbetween me and it a face. The face of Trabb s boy!\n\n I think he s all right!  said Trabb s boy, in a sober voice;  but\nain t he just pale though! \n\nAt these words, the face of him who supported me looked over into mine,\nand I saw my supporter to be \n\n Herbert! Great Heaven! \n\n Softly,  said Herbert.  Gently, Handel. Don t be too eager. \n\n And our old comrade, Startop!  I cried, as he too bent over me.\n\n Remember what he is going to assist us in,  said Herbert,  and be\ncalm. \n\nThe allusion made me spring up; though I dropped again from the pain in\nmy arm.  The time has not gone by, Herbert, has it? What night is\nto-night? How long have I been here?  For, I had a strange and strong\nmisgiving that I had been lying there a long time a day and a\nnight, two days and nights, more.\n\n The time has not gone by. It is still Monday night. \n\n Thank God! \n\n And you have all to-morrow, Tuesday, to rest in,  said Herbert.  But\nyou can t help groaning, my dear Handel. What hurt have you got? Can\nyou stand? \n\n Yes, yes,  said I,  I can walk. I have no hurt but in this throbbing\narm. \n\nThey laid it bare, and did what they could. It was violently swollen\nand inflamed, and I could scarcely endure to have it touched. But, they\ntore up their handkerchiefs to make fresh bandages, and carefully\nreplaced it in the sling, until we could get to the town and obtain\nsome cooling lotion to put upon it. In a little while we had shut the\ndoor of the dark and empty sluice-house, and were passing through the\nquarry on our way back. Trabb s boy Trabb s overgrown young man\nnow went before us with a lantern, which was the light I had seen come\nin at the door. But, the moon was a good two hours higher than when I\nhad last seen the sky, and the night, though rainy, was much lighter.\nThe white vapour of the kiln was passing from us as we went by, and as\nI had thought a prayer before, I thought a thanksgiving now.\n\nEntreating Herbert to tell me how he had come to my rescue, which at\nfirst he had flatly refused to do, but had insisted on my remaining\nquiet, I learnt that I had in my hurry dropped the letter, open, in our\nchambers, where he, coming home to bring with him Startop whom he had\nmet in the street on his way to me, found it, very soon after I was\ngone. Its tone made him uneasy, and the more so because of the\ninconsistency between it and the hasty letter I had left for him. His\nuneasiness increasing instead of subsiding, after a quarter of an\nhour s consideration, he set off for the coach-office with Startop, who\nvolunteered his company, to make inquiry when the next coach went down.\nFinding that the afternoon coach was gone, and finding that his\nuneasiness grew into positive alarm, as obstacles came in his way, he\nresolved to follow in a post-chaise. So he and Startop arrived at the\nBlue Boar, fully expecting there to find me, or tidings of me; but,\nfinding neither, went on to Miss Havisham s, where they lost me.\nHereupon they went back to the hotel (doubtless at about the time when\nI was hearing the popular local version of my own story) to refresh\nthemselves and to get some one to guide them out upon the marshes.\nAmong the loungers under the Boar s archway happened to be Trabb s\nBoy, true to his ancient habit of happening to be everywhere where he\nhad no business, and Trabb s boy had seen me passing from Miss\nHavisham s in the direction of my dining-place. Thus Trabb s boy became\ntheir guide, and with him they went out to the sluice-house, though by\nthe town way to the marshes, which I had avoided. Now, as they went\nalong, Herbert reflected, that I might, after all, have been brought\nthere on some genuine and serviceable errand tending to Provis s\nsafety, and, bethinking himself that in that case interruption must be\nmischievous, left his guide and Startop on the edge of the quarry, and\nwent on by himself, and stole round the house two or three times,\nendeavouring to ascertain whether all was right within. As he could\nhear nothing but indistinct sounds of one deep rough voice (this was\nwhile my mind was so busy), he even at last began to doubt whether I\nwas there, when suddenly I cried out loudly, and he answered the cries,\nand rushed in, closely followed by the other two.\n\nWhen I told Herbert what had passed within the house, he was for our\nimmediately going before a magistrate in the town, late at night as it\nwas, and getting out a warrant. But, I had already considered that such\na course, by detaining us there, or binding us to come back, might be\nfatal to Provis. There was no gainsaying this difficulty, and we\nrelinquished all thoughts of pursuing Orlick at that time. For the\npresent, under the circumstances, we deemed it prudent to make rather\nlight of the matter to Trabb s boy; who, I am convinced, would have\nbeen much affected by disappointment, if he had known that his\nintervention saved me from the limekiln. Not that Trabb s boy was of a\nmalignant nature, but that he had too much spare vivacity, and that it\nwas in his constitution to want variety and excitement at anybody s\nexpense. When we parted, I presented him with two guineas (which seemed\nto meet his views), and told him that I was sorry ever to have had an\nill opinion of him (which made no impression on him at all).\n\nWednesday being so close upon us, we determined to go back to London\nthat night, three in the post-chaise; the rather, as we should then be\nclear away before the night s adventure began to be talked of. Herbert\ngot a large bottle of stuff for my arm; and by dint of having this\nstuff dropped over it all the night through, I was just able to bear\nits pain on the journey. It was daylight when we reached the Temple,\nand I went at once to bed, and lay in bed all day.\n\nMy terror, as I lay there, of falling ill, and being unfitted for\nto-morrow, was so besetting, that I wonder it did not disable me of\nitself. It would have done so, pretty surely, in conjunction with the\nmental wear and tear I had suffered, but for the unnatural strain upon\nme that to-morrow was. So anxiously looked forward to, charged with\nsuch consequences, its results so impenetrably hidden, though so near.\n\nNo precaution could have been more obvious than our refraining from\ncommunication with him that day; yet this again increased my\nrestlessness. I started at every footstep and every sound, believing\nthat he was discovered and taken, and this was the messenger to tell me\nso. I persuaded myself that I knew he was taken; that there was\nsomething more upon my mind than a fear or a presentiment; that the\nfact had occurred, and I had a mysterious knowledge of it. As the days\nwore on, and no ill news came, as the day closed in and darkness fell,\nmy overshadowing dread of being disabled by illness before to-morrow\nmorning altogether mastered me. My burning arm throbbed, and my burning\nhead throbbed, and I fancied I was beginning to wander. I counted up to\nhigh numbers, to make sure of myself, and repeated passages that I knew\nin prose and verse. It happened sometimes that in the mere escape of a\nfatigued mind, I dozed for some moments or forgot; then I would say to\nmyself with a start,  Now it has come, and I am turning delirious! \n\nThey kept me very quiet all day, and kept my arm constantly dressed,\nand gave me cooling drinks. Whenever I fell asleep, I awoke with the\nnotion I had had in the sluice-house, that a long time had elapsed and\nthe opportunity to save him was gone. About midnight I got out of bed\nand went to Herbert, with the conviction that I had been asleep for\nfour-and-twenty hours, and that Wednesday was past. It was the last\nself-exhausting effort of my fretfulness, for after that I slept\nsoundly.\n\nWednesday morning was dawning when I looked out of window. The winking\nlights upon the bridges were already pale, the coming sun was like a\nmarsh of fire on the horizon. The river, still dark and mysterious, was\nspanned by bridges that were turning coldly grey, with here and there\nat top a warm touch from the burning in the sky. As I looked along the\nclustered roofs, with church-towers and spires shooting into the\nunusually clear air, the sun rose up, and a veil seemed to be drawn\nfrom the river, and millions of sparkles burst out upon its waters.\nFrom me too, a veil seemed to be drawn, and I felt strong and well.\n\nHerbert lay asleep in his bed, and our old fellow-student lay asleep on\nthe sofa. I could not dress myself without help; but I made up the\nfire, which was still burning, and got some coffee ready for them. In\ngood time they too started up strong and well, and we admitted the\nsharp morning air at the windows, and looked at the tide that was still\nflowing towards us.\n\n When it turns at nine o clock,  said Herbert, cheerfully,  look out\nfor us, and stand ready, you over there at Mill Pond Bank! \n\n\n\n\nChapter LIV.\n\n\nIt was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind\nblows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. We\nhad our pea-coats with us, and I took a bag. Of all my worldly\npossessions I took no more than the few necessaries that filled the\nbag. Where I might go, what I might do, or when I might return, were\nquestions utterly unknown to me; nor did I vex my mind with them, for\nit was wholly set on Provis s safety. I only wondered for the passing\nmoment, as I stopped at the door and looked back, under what altered\ncircumstances I should next see those rooms, if ever.\n\nWe loitered down to the Temple stairs, and stood loitering there, as if\nwe were not quite decided to go upon the water at all. Of course, I had\ntaken care that the boat should be ready and everything in order. After\na little show of indecision, which there were none to see but the two\nor three amphibious creatures belonging to our Temple stairs, we went\non board and cast off; Herbert in the bow, I steering. It was then\nabout high-water, half-past eight.\n\nOur plan was this. The tide, beginning to run down at nine, and being\nwith us until three, we intended still to creep on after it had turned,\nand row against it until dark. We should then be well in those long\nreaches below Gravesend, between Kent and Essex, where the river is\nbroad and solitary, where the water-side inhabitants are very few, and\nwhere lone public-houses are scattered here and there, of which we\ncould choose one for a resting-place. There, we meant to lie by all\nnight. The steamer for Hamburg and the steamer for Rotterdam would\nstart from London at about nine on Thursday morning. We should know at\nwhat time to expect them, according to where we were, and would hail\nthe first; so that, if by any accident we were not taken abroad, we\nshould have another chance. We knew the distinguishing marks of each\nvessel.\n\nThe relief of being at last engaged in the execution of the purpose was\nso great to me that I felt it difficult to realise the condition in\nwhich I had been a few hours before. The crisp air, the sunlight, the\nmovement on the river, and the moving river itself, the road that ran\nwith us, seeming to sympathise with us, animate us, and encourage us\non, freshened me with new hope. I felt mortified to be of so little use\nin the boat; but, there were few better oarsmen than my two friends,\nand they rowed with a steady stroke that was to last all day.\n\nAt that time, the steam-traffic on the Thames was far below its present\nextent, and watermen s boats were far more numerous. Of barges, sailing\ncolliers, and coasting-traders, there were perhaps, as many as now; but\nof steam-ships, great and small, not a tithe or a twentieth part so\nmany. Early as it was, there were plenty of scullers going here and\nthere that morning, and plenty of barges dropping down with the tide;\nthe navigation of the river between bridges, in an open boat, was a\nmuch easier and commoner matter in those days than it is in these; and\nwe went ahead among many skiffs and wherries briskly.\n\nOld London Bridge was soon passed, and old Billingsgate Market with its\noyster-boats and Dutchmen, and the White Tower and Traitor s Gate, and\nwe were in among the tiers of shipping. Here were the Leith, Aberdeen,\nand Glasgow steamers, loading and unloading goods, and looking\nimmensely high out of the water as we passed alongside; here, were\ncolliers by the score and score, with the coal-whippers plunging off\nstages on deck, as counterweights to measures of coal swinging up,\nwhich were then rattled over the side into barges; here, at her\nmoorings was to-morrow s steamer for Rotterdam, of which we took good\nnotice; and here to-morrow s for Hamburg, under whose bowsprit we\ncrossed. And now I, sitting in the stern, could see, with a faster\nbeating heart, Mill Pond Bank and Mill Pond stairs.\n\n Is he there?  said Herbert.\n\n Not yet. \n\n Right! He was not to come down till he saw us. Can you see his\nsignal? \n\n Not well from here; but I think I see it. Now I see him! Pull both.\nEasy, Herbert. Oars! \n\nWe touched the stairs lightly for a single moment, and he was on board,\nand we were off again. He had a boat-cloak with him, and a black canvas\nbag; and he looked as like a river-pilot as my heart could have wished.\n\n Dear boy!  he said, putting his arm on my shoulder, as he took his\nseat.  Faithful dear boy, well done. Thankye, thankye! \n\nAgain among the tiers of shipping, in and out, avoiding rusty\nchain-cables frayed hempen hawsers and bobbing buoys, sinking for the\nmoment floating broken baskets, scattering floating chips of wood and\nshaving, cleaving floating scum of coal, in and out, under the\nfigure-head of the _John of Sunderland_ making a speech to the winds\n(as is done by many Johns), and the _Betsy of Yarmouth_ with a firm\nformality of bosom and her knobby eyes starting two inches out of her\nhead; in and out, hammers going in ship-builders  yards, saws going at\ntimber, clashing engines going at things unknown, pumps going in leaky\nships, capstans going, ships going out to sea, and unintelligible\nsea-creatures roaring curses over the bulwarks at respondent\nlightermen, in and out, out at last upon the clearer river, where the\nships  boys might take their fenders in, no longer fishing in troubled\nwaters with them over the side, and where the festooned sails might fly\nout to the wind.\n\nAt the stairs where we had taken him abroad, and ever since, I had\nlooked warily for any token of our being suspected. I had seen none. We\ncertainly had not been, and at that time as certainly we were not\neither attended or followed by any boat. If we had been waited on by\nany boat, I should have run in to shore, and have obliged her to go on,\nor to make her purpose evident. But we held our own without any\nappearance of molestation.\n\nHe had his boat-cloak on him, and looked, as I have said, a natural\npart of the scene. It was remarkable (but perhaps the wretched life he\nhad led accounted for it) that he was the least anxious of any of us.\nHe was not indifferent, for he told me that he hoped to live to see his\ngentleman one of the best of gentlemen in a foreign country; he was not\ndisposed to be passive or resigned, as I understood it; but he had no\nnotion of meeting danger half way. When it came upon him, he confronted\nit, but it must come before he troubled himself.\n\n If you knowed, dear boy,  he said to me,  what it is to sit here\nalonger my dear boy and have my smoke, arter having been day by day\nbetwixt four walls, you d envy me. But you don t know what it is. \n\n I think I know the delights of freedom,  I answered.\n\n Ah,  said he, shaking his head gravely.  But you don t know it equal\nto me. You must have been under lock and key, dear boy, to know it\nequal to me, but I ain t a-going to be low. \n\nIt occurred to me as inconsistent, that, for any mastering idea, he\nshould have endangered his freedom, and even his life. But I reflected\nthat perhaps freedom without danger was too much apart from all the\nhabit of his existence to be to him what it would be to another man. I\nwas not far out, since he said, after smoking a little: \n\n You see, dear boy, when I was over yonder, t other side the world, I\nwas always a looking to this side; and it come flat to be there, for\nall I was a growing rich. Everybody knowed Magwitch, and Magwitch could\ncome, and Magwitch could go, and nobody s head would be troubled about\nhim. They ain t so easy concerning me here, dear boy, wouldn t be,\nleastwise, if they knowed where I was. \n\n If all goes well,  said I,  you will be perfectly free and safe again\nwithin a few hours. \n\n Well,  he returned, drawing a long breath,  I hope so. \n\n And think so? \n\nHe dipped his hand in the water over the boat s gunwale, and said,\nsmiling with that softened air upon him which was not new to me: \n\n Ay, I s pose I think so, dear boy. We d be puzzled to be more quiet\nand easy-going than we are at present. But it s a flowing so soft and\npleasant through the water, p raps, as makes me think it I was a\nthinking through my smoke just then, that we can no more see to the\nbottom of the next few hours than we can see to the bottom of this\nriver what I catches hold of. Nor yet we can t no more hold their tide\nthan I can hold this. And it s run through my fingers and gone, you\nsee!  holding up his dripping hand.\n\n But for your face I should think you were a little despondent,  said\nI.\n\n Not a bit on it, dear boy! It comes of flowing on so quiet, and of\nthat there rippling at the boat s head making a sort of a Sunday tune.\nMaybe I m a growing a trifle old besides. \n\nHe put his pipe back in his mouth with an undisturbed expression of\nface, and sat as composed and contented as if we were already out of\nEngland. Yet he was as submissive to a word of advice as if he had been\nin constant terror; for, when we ran ashore to get some bottles of beer\ninto the boat, and he was stepping out, I hinted that I thought he\nwould be safest where he was, and he said.  Do you, dear boy?  and\nquietly sat down again.\n\nThe air felt cold upon the river, but it was a bright day, and the\nsunshine was very cheering. The tide ran strong, I took care to lose\nnone of it, and our steady stroke carried us on thoroughly well. By\nimperceptible degrees, as the tide ran out, we lost more and more of\nthe nearer woods and hills, and dropped lower and lower between the\nmuddy banks, but the tide was yet with us when we were off Gravesend.\nAs our charge was wrapped in his cloak, I purposely passed within a\nboat or two s length of the floating Custom House, and so out to catch\nthe stream, alongside of two emigrant ships, and under the bows of a\nlarge transport with troops on the forecastle looking down at us. And\nsoon the tide began to slacken, and the craft lying at anchor to swing,\nand presently they had all swung round, and the ships that were taking\nadvantage of the new tide to get up to the Pool began to crowd upon us\nin a fleet, and we kept under the shore, as much out of the strength of\nthe tide now as we could, standing carefully off from low shallows and\nmudbanks.\n\nOur oarsmen were so fresh, by dint of having occasionally let her drive\nwith the tide for a minute or two, that a quarter of an hour s rest\nproved full as much as they wanted. We got ashore among some slippery\nstones while we ate and drank what we had with us, and looked about. It\nwas like my own marsh country, flat and monotonous, and with a dim\nhorizon; while the winding river turned and turned, and the great\nfloating buoys upon it turned and turned, and everything else seemed\nstranded and still. For now the last of the fleet of ships was round\nthe last low point we had headed; and the last green barge,\nstraw-laden, with a brown sail, had followed; and some\nballast-lighters, shaped like a child s first rude imitation of a boat,\nlay low in the mud; and a little squat shoal-lighthouse on open piles\nstood crippled in the mud on stilts and crutches; and slimy stakes\nstuck out of the mud, and slimy stones stuck out of the mud, and red\nlandmarks and tidemarks stuck out of the mud, and an old landing-stage\nand an old roofless building slipped into the mud, and all about us was\nstagnation and mud.\n\nWe pushed off again, and made what way we could. It was much harder\nwork now, but Herbert and Startop persevered, and rowed and rowed and\nrowed until the sun went down. By that time the river had lifted us a\nlittle, so that we could see above the bank. There was the red sun, on\nthe low level of the shore, in a purple haze, fast deepening into\nblack; and there was the solitary flat marsh; and far away there were\nthe rising grounds, between which and us there seemed to be no life,\nsave here and there in the foreground a melancholy gull.\n\nAs the night was fast falling, and as the moon, being past the full,\nwould not rise early, we held a little council; a short one, for\nclearly our course was to lie by at the first lonely tavern we could\nfind. So, they plied their oars once more, and I looked out for\nanything like a house. Thus we held on, speaking little, for four or\nfive dull miles. It was very cold, and, a collier coming by us, with\nher galley-fire smoking and flaring, looked like a comfortable home.\nThe night was as dark by this time as it would be until morning; and\nwhat light we had, seemed to come more from the river than the sky, as\nthe oars in their dipping struck at a few reflected stars.\n\nAt this dismal time we were evidently all possessed by the idea that we\nwere followed. As the tide made, it flapped heavily at irregular\nintervals against the shore; and whenever such a sound came, one or\nother of us was sure to start, and look in that direction. Here and\nthere, the set of the current had worn down the bank into a little\ncreek, and we were all suspicious of such places, and eyed them\nnervously. Sometimes,  What was that ripple?  one of us would say in a\nlow voice. Or another,  Is that a boat yonder?  And afterwards we would\nfall into a dead silence, and I would sit impatiently thinking with\nwhat an unusual amount of noise the oars worked in the thowels.\n\nAt length we descried a light and a roof, and presently afterwards ran\nalongside a little causeway made of stones that had been picked up hard\nby. Leaving the rest in the boat, I stepped ashore, and found the light\nto be in a window of a public-house. It was a dirty place enough, and I\ndare say not unknown to smuggling adventurers; but there was a good\nfire in the kitchen, and there were eggs and bacon to eat, and various\nliquors to drink. Also, there were two double-bedded rooms, such as\nthey were,  the landlord said. No other company was in the house than\nthe landlord, his wife, and a grizzled male creature, the  Jack  of the\nlittle causeway, who was as slimy and smeary as if he had been\nlow-water mark too.\n\nWith this assistant, I went down to the boat again, and we all came\nashore, and brought out the oars, and rudder and boat-hook, and all\nelse, and hauled her up for the night. We made a very good meal by the\nkitchen fire, and then apportioned the bedrooms: Herbert and Startop\nwere to occupy one; I and our charge the other. We found the air as\ncarefully excluded from both, as if air were fatal to life; and there\nwere more dirty clothes and bandboxes under the beds than I should have\nthought the family possessed. But we considered ourselves well off,\nnotwithstanding, for a more solitary place we could not have found.\n\nWhile we were comforting ourselves by the fire after our meal, the\nJack who was sitting in a corner, and who had a bloated pair of shoes\non, which he had exhibited while we were eating our eggs and bacon, as\ninteresting relics that he had taken a few days ago from the feet of a\ndrowned seaman washed ashore asked me if we had seen a four-oared\ngalley going up with the tide? When I told him No, he said she must\nhave gone down then, and yet she  took up too,  when she left there.\n\n They must ha  thought better on t for some reason or another,  said\nthe Jack,  and gone down. \n\n A four-oared galley, did you say?  said I.\n\n A four,  said the Jack,  and two sitters. \n\n Did they come ashore here? \n\n They put in with a stone two-gallon jar for some beer. I d ha  been\nglad to pison the beer myself,  said the Jack,  or put some rattling\nphysic in it. \n\n Why? \n\n _I_ know why,  said the Jack. He spoke in a slushy voice, as if much\nmud had washed into his throat.\n\n He thinks,  said the landlord, a weakly meditative man with a pale\neye, who seemed to rely greatly on his Jack, he thinks they was, what\nthey wasn t. \n\n _I_ knows what I thinks,  observed the Jack.\n\n _You_ thinks Custom  Us, Jack?  said the landlord.\n\n I do,  said the Jack.\n\n Then you re wrong, Jack. \n\n AM I! \n\nIn the infinite meaning of his reply and his boundless confidence in\nhis views, the Jack took one of his bloated shoes off, looked into it,\nknocked a few stones out of it on the kitchen floor, and put it on\nagain. He did this with the air of a Jack who was so right that he\ncould afford to do anything.\n\n Why, what do you make out that they done with their buttons then,\nJack?  asked the landlord, vacillating weakly.\n\n Done with their buttons?  returned the Jack.  Chucked  em overboard.\nSwallered  em. Sowed  em, to come up small salad. Done with their\nbuttons! \n\n Don t be cheeky, Jack,  remonstrated the landlord, in a melancholy and\npathetic way.\n\n A Custom  Us officer knows what to do with his Buttons,  said the\nJack, repeating the obnoxious word with the greatest contempt,  when\nthey comes betwixt him and his own light. A four and two sitters don t\ngo hanging and hovering, up with one tide and down with another, and\nboth with and against another, without there being Custom  Us at the\nbottom of it.  Saying which he went out in disdain; and the landlord,\nhaving no one to reply upon, found it impracticable to pursue the\nsubject.\n\nThis dialogue made us all uneasy, and me very uneasy. The dismal wind\nwas muttering round the house, the tide was flapping at the shore, and\nI had a feeling that we were caged and threatened. A four-oared galley\nhovering about in so unusual a way as to attract this notice was an\nugly circumstance that I could not get rid of. When I had induced\nProvis to go up to bed, I went outside with my two companions (Startop\nby this time knew the state of the case), and held another council.\nWhether we should remain at the house until near the steamer s time,\nwhich would be about one in the afternoon, or whether we should put off\nearly in the morning, was the question we discussed. On the whole we\ndeemed it the better course to lie where we were, until within an hour\nor so of the steamer s time, and then to get out in her track, and\ndrift easily with the tide. Having settled to do this, we returned into\nthe house and went to bed.\n\nI lay down with the greater part of my clothes on, and slept well for a\nfew hours. When I awoke, the wind had risen, and the sign of the house\n(the Ship) was creaking and banging about, with noises that startled\nme. Rising softly, for my charge lay fast asleep, I looked out of the\nwindow. It commanded the causeway where we had hauled up our boat, and,\nas my eyes adapted themselves to the light of the clouded moon, I saw\ntwo men looking into her. They passed by under the window, looking at\nnothing else, and they did not go down to the landing-place which I\ncould discern to be empty, but struck across the marsh in the direction\nof the Nore.\n\nMy first impulse was to call up Herbert, and show him the two men going\naway. But reflecting, before I got into his room, which was at the back\nof the house and adjoined mine, that he and Startop had had a harder\nday than I, and were fatigued, I forbore. Going back to my window, I\ncould see the two men moving over the marsh. In that light, however, I\nsoon lost them, and, feeling very cold, lay down to think of the\nmatter, and fell asleep again.\n\nWe were up early. As we walked to and fro, all four together, before\nbreakfast, I deemed it right to recount what I had seen. Again our\ncharge was the least anxious of the party. It was very likely that the\nmen belonged to the Custom House, he said quietly, and that they had no\nthought of us. I tried to persuade myself that it was so, as, indeed,\nit might easily be. However, I proposed that he and I should walk away\ntogether to a distant point we could see, and that the boat should take\nus aboard there, or as near there as might prove feasible, at about\nnoon. This being considered a good precaution, soon after breakfast he\nand I set forth, without saying anything at the tavern.\n\nHe smoked his pipe as we went along, and sometimes stopped to clap me\non the shoulder. One would have supposed that it was I who was in\ndanger, not he, and that he was reassuring me. We spoke very little. As\nwe approached the point, I begged him to remain in a sheltered place,\nwhile I went on to reconnoitre; for it was towards it that the men had\npassed in the night. He complied, and I went on alone. There was no\nboat off the point, nor any boat drawn up anywhere near it, nor were\nthere any signs of the men having embarked there. But, to be sure, the\ntide was high, and there might have been some footprints under water.\n\nWhen he looked out from his shelter in the distance, and saw that I\nwaved my hat to him to come up, he rejoined me, and there we waited;\nsometimes lying on the bank, wrapped in our coats, and sometimes moving\nabout to warm ourselves, until we saw our boat coming round. We got\naboard easily, and rowed out into the track of the steamer. By that\ntime it wanted but ten minutes of one o clock, and we began to look out\nfor her smoke.\n\nBut, it was half-past one before we saw her smoke, and soon afterwards\nwe saw behind it the smoke of another steamer. As they were coming on\nat full speed, we got the two bags ready, and took that opportunity of\nsaying good-bye to Herbert and Startop. We had all shaken hands\ncordially, and neither Herbert s eyes nor mine were quite dry, when I\nsaw a four-oared galley shoot out from under the bank but a little way\nahead of us, and row out into the same track.\n\nA stretch of shore had been as yet between us and the steamer s smoke,\nby reason of the bend and wind of the river; but now she was visible,\ncoming head on. I called to Herbert and Startop to keep before the\ntide, that she might see us lying by for her, and I adjured Provis to\nsit quite still, wrapped in his cloak. He answered cheerily,  Trust to\nme, dear boy,  and sat like a statue. Meantime the galley, which was\nvery skilfully handled, had crossed us, let us come up with her, and\nfallen alongside. Leaving just room enough for the play of the oars,\nshe kept alongside, drifting when we drifted, and pulling a stroke or\ntwo when we pulled. Of the two sitters one held the rudder-lines, and\nlooked at us attentively, as did all the rowers; the other sitter was\nwrapped up, much as Provis was, and seemed to shrink, and whisper some\ninstruction to the steerer as he looked at us. Not a word was spoken in\neither boat.\n\nStartop could make out, after a few minutes, which steamer was first,\nand gave me the word  Hamburg,  in a low voice, as we sat face to face.\nShe was nearing us very fast, and the beating of her peddles grew\nlouder and louder. I felt as if her shadow were absolutely upon us,\nwhen the galley hailed us. I answered.\n\n You have a returned Transport there,  said the man who held the lines.\n That s the man, wrapped in the cloak. His name is Abel Magwitch,\notherwise Provis. I apprehend that man, and call upon him to surrender,\nand you to assist. \n\nAt the same moment, without giving any audible direction to his crew,\nhe ran the galley abroad of us. They had pulled one sudden stroke\nahead, had got their oars in, had run athwart us, and were holding on\nto our gunwale, before we knew what they were doing. This caused great\nconfusion on board the steamer, and I heard them calling to us, and\nheard the order given to stop the paddles, and heard them stop, but\nfelt her driving down upon us irresistibly. In the same moment, I saw\nthe steersman of the galley lay his hand on his prisoner s shoulder,\nand saw that both boats were swinging round with the force of the tide,\nand saw that all hands on board the steamer were running forward quite\nfrantically. Still, in the same moment, I saw the prisoner start up,\nlean across his captor, and pull the cloak from the neck of the\nshrinking sitter in the galley. Still in the same moment, I saw that\nthe face disclosed, was the face of the other convict of long ago.\nStill, in the same moment, I saw the face tilt backward with a white\nterror on it that I shall never forget, and heard a great cry on board\nthe steamer, and a loud splash in the water, and felt the boat sink\nfrom under me.\n\nIt was but for an instant that I seemed to struggle with a thousand\nmill-weirs and a thousand flashes of light; that instant past, I was\ntaken on board the galley. Herbert was there, and Startop was there;\nbut our boat was gone, and the two convicts were gone.\n\nWhat with the cries aboard the steamer, and the furious blowing off of\nher steam, and her driving on, and our driving on, I could not at first\ndistinguish sky from water or shore from shore; but the crew of the\ngalley righted her with great speed, and, pulling certain swift strong\nstrokes ahead, lay upon their oars, every man looking silently and\neagerly at the water astern. Presently a dark object was seen in it,\nbearing towards us on the tide. No man spoke, but the steersman held up\nhis hand, and all softly backed water, and kept the boat straight and\ntrue before it. As it came nearer, I saw it to be Magwitch, swimming,\nbut not swimming freely. He was taken on board, and instantly manacled\nat the wrists and ankles.\n\nThe galley was kept steady, and the silent, eager look-out at the water\nwas resumed. But, the Rotterdam steamer now came up, and apparently not\nunderstanding what had happened, came on at speed. By the time she had\nbeen hailed and stopped, both steamers were drifting away from us, and\nwe were rising and falling in a troubled wake of water. The look-out\nwas kept, long after all was still again and the two steamers were\ngone; but everybody knew that it was hopeless now.\n\nAt length we gave it up, and pulled under the shore towards the tavern\nwe had lately left, where we were received with no little surprise.\nHere I was able to get some comforts for Magwitch, Provis no\nlonger, who had received some very severe injury in the chest, and a\ndeep cut in the head.\n\nHe told me that he believed himself to have gone under the keel of the\nsteamer, and to have been struck on the head in rising. The injury to\nhis chest (which rendered his breathing extremely painful) he thought\nhe had received against the side of the galley. He added that he did\nnot pretend to say what he might or might not have done to Compeyson,\nbut that, in the moment of his laying his hand on his cloak to identify\nhim, that villain had staggered up and staggered back, and they had\nboth gone overboard together, when the sudden wrenching of him\n(Magwitch) out of our boat, and the endeavour of his captor to keep him\nin it, had capsized us. He told me in a whisper that they had gone down\nfiercely locked in each other s arms, and that there had been a\nstruggle under water, and that he had disengaged himself, struck out,\nand swum away.\n\nI never had any reason to doubt the exact truth of what he thus told\nme. The officer who steered the galley gave the same account of their\ngoing overboard.\n\nWhen I asked this officer s permission to change the prisoner s wet\nclothes by purchasing any spare garments I could get at the\npublic-house, he gave it readily: merely observing that he must take\ncharge of everything his prisoner had about him. So the pocket-book\nwhich had once been in my hands passed into the officer s. He further\ngave me leave to accompany the prisoner to London; but declined to\naccord that grace to my two friends.\n\nThe Jack at the Ship was instructed where the drowned man had gone\ndown, and undertook to search for the body in the places where it was\nlikeliest to come ashore. His interest in its recovery seemed to me to\nbe much heightened when he heard that it had stockings on. Probably, it\ntook about a dozen drowned men to fit him out completely; and that may\nhave been the reason why the different articles of his dress were in\nvarious stages of decay.\n\nWe remained at the public-house until the tide turned, and then\nMagwitch was carried down to the galley and put on board. Herbert and\nStartop were to get to London by land, as soon as they could. We had a\ndoleful parting, and when I took my place by Magwitch s side, I felt\nthat that was my place henceforth while he lived.\n\nFor now, my repugnance to him had all melted away; and in the hunted,\nwounded, shackled creature who held my hand in his, I only saw a man\nwho had meant to be my benefactor, and who had felt affectionately,\ngratefully, and generously, towards me with great constancy through a\nseries of years. I only saw in him a much better man than I had been to\nJoe.\n\nHis breathing became more difficult and painful as the night drew on,\nand often he could not repress a groan. I tried to rest him on the arm\nI could use, in any easy position; but it was dreadful to think that I\ncould not be sorry at heart for his being badly hurt, since it was\nunquestionably best that he should die. That there were, still living,\npeople enough who were able and willing to identify him, I could not\ndoubt. That he would be leniently treated, I could not hope. He who had\nbeen presented in the worst light at his trial, who had since broken\nprison and had been tried again, who had returned from transportation\nunder a life sentence, and who had occasioned the death of the man who\nwas the cause of his arrest.\n\nAs we returned towards the setting sun we had yesterday left behind us,\nand as the stream of our hopes seemed all running back, I told him how\ngrieved I was to think that he had come home for my sake.\n\n Dear boy,  he answered,  I m quite content to take my chance. I ve\nseen my boy, and he can be a gentleman without me. \n\nNo. I had thought about that, while we had been there side by side. No.\nApart from any inclinations of my own, I understood Wemmick s hint now.\nI foresaw that, being convicted, his possessions would be forfeited to\nthe Crown.\n\n Lookee here, dear boy,  said he  It s best as a gentleman should not\nbe knowed to belong to me now. Only come to see me as if you come by\nchance alonger Wemmick. Sit where I can see you when I am swore to, for\nthe last o  many times, and I don t ask no more. \n\n I will never stir from your side,  said I,  when I am suffered to be\nnear you. Please God, I will be as true to you as you have been to me! \n\nI felt his hand tremble as it held mine, and he turned his face away as\nhe lay in the bottom of the boat, and I heard that old sound in his\nthroat, softened now, like all the rest of him. It was a good thing\nthat he had touched this point, for it put into my mind what I might\nnot otherwise have thought of until too late, that he need never know\nhow his hopes of enriching me had perished.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LV.\n\n\nHe was taken to the Police Court next day, and would have been\nimmediately committed for trial, but that it was necessary to send down\nfor an old officer of the prison-ship from which he had once escaped,\nto speak to his identity. Nobody doubted it; but Compeyson, who had\nmeant to depose to it, was tumbling on the tides, dead, and it happened\nthat there was not at that time any prison officer in London who could\ngive the required evidence. I had gone direct to Mr. Jaggers at his\nprivate house, on my arrival over night, to retain his assistance, and\nMr. Jaggers on the prisoner s behalf would admit nothing. It was the\nsole resource; for he told me that the case must be over in five\nminutes when the witness was there, and that no power on earth could\nprevent its going against us.\n\nI imparted to Mr. Jaggers my design of keeping him in ignorance of the\nfate of his wealth. Mr. Jaggers was querulous and angry with me for\nhaving  let it slip through my fingers,  and said we must memorialise\nby and by, and try at all events for some of it. But he did not conceal\nfrom me that, although there might be many cases in which the\nforfeiture would not be exacted, there were no circumstances in this\ncase to make it one of them. I understood that very well. I was not\nrelated to the outlaw, or connected with him by any recognisable tie;\nhe had put his hand to no writing or settlement in my favour before his\napprehension, and to do so now would be idle. I had no claim, and I\nfinally resolved, and ever afterwards abided by the resolution, that my\nheart should never be sickened with the hopeless task of attempting to\nestablish one.\n\nThere appeared to be reason for supposing that the drowned informer had\nhoped for a reward out of this forfeiture, and had obtained some\naccurate knowledge of Magwitch s affairs. When his body was found, many\nmiles from the scene of his death, and so horribly disfigured that he\nwas only recognisable by the contents of his pockets, notes were still\nlegible, folded in a case he carried. Among these were the name of a\nbanking-house in New South Wales, where a sum of money was, and the\ndesignation of certain lands of considerable value. Both these heads of\ninformation were in a list that Magwitch, while in prison, gave to Mr.\nJaggers, of the possessions he supposed I should inherit. His\nignorance, poor fellow, at last served him; he never mistrusted but\nthat my inheritance was quite safe, with Mr. Jaggers s aid.\n\nAfter three days  delay, during which the crown prosecution stood over\nfor the production of the witness from the prison-ship, the witness\ncame, and completed the easy case. He was committed to take his trial\nat the next Sessions, which would come on in a month.\n\nIt was at this dark time of my life that Herbert returned home one\nevening, a good deal cast down, and said, \n\n My dear Handel, I fear I shall soon have to leave you. \n\nHis partner having prepared me for that, I was less surprised than he\nthought.\n\n We shall lose a fine opportunity if I put off going to Cairo, and I am\nvery much afraid I must go, Handel, when you most need me. \n\n Herbert, I shall always need you, because I shall always love you; but\nmy need is no greater now than at another time. \n\n You will be so lonely. \n\n I have not leisure to think of that,  said I.  You know that I am\nalways with him to the full extent of the time allowed, and that I\nshould be with him all day long, if I could. And when I come away from\nhim, you know that my thoughts are with him. \n\nThe dreadful condition to which he was brought, was so appalling to\nboth of us, that we could not refer to it in plainer words.\n\n My dear fellow,  said Herbert,  let the near prospect of our\nseparation for, it is very near be my justification for troubling you\nabout yourself. Have you thought of your future? \n\n No, for I have been afraid to think of any future. \n\n But yours cannot be dismissed; indeed, my dear dear Handel, it must\nnot be dismissed. I wish you would enter on it now, as far as a few\nfriendly words go, with me. \n\n I will,  said I.\n\n In this branch house of ours, Handel, we must have a \n\nI saw that his delicacy was avoiding the right word, so I said,  A\nclerk. \n\n A clerk. And I hope it is not at all unlikely that he may expand (as a\nclerk of your acquaintance has expanded) into a partner. Now,\nHandel, in short, my dear boy, will you come to me? \n\nThere was something charmingly cordial and engaging in the manner in\nwhich after saying  Now, Handel,  as if it were the grave beginning of\na portentous business exordium, he had suddenly given up that tone,\nstretched out his honest hand, and spoken like a schoolboy.\n\n Clara and I have talked about it again and again,  Herbert pursued,\n and the dear little thing begged me only this evening, with tears in\nher eyes, to say to you that, if you will live with us when we come\ntogether, she will do her best to make you happy, and to convince her\nhusband s friend that he is her friend too. We should get on so well,\nHandel! \n\nI thanked her heartily, and I thanked him heartily, but said I could\nnot yet make sure of joining him as he so kindly offered. Firstly, my\nmind was too preoccupied to be able to take in the subject clearly.\nSecondly, Yes! Secondly, there was a vague something lingering in my\nthoughts that will come out very near the end of this slight narrative.\n\n But if you thought, Herbert, that you could, without doing any injury\nto your business, leave the question open for a little while \n\n For any while,  cried Herbert.  Six months, a year! \n\n Not so long as that,  said I.  Two or three months at most. \n\nHerbert was highly delighted when we shook hands on this arrangement,\nand said he could now take courage to tell me that he believed he must\ngo away at the end of the week.\n\n And Clara?  said I.\n\n The dear little thing,  returned Herbert,  holds dutifully to her\nfather as long as he lasts; but he won t last long. Mrs. Whimple\nconfides to me that he is certainly going. \n\n Not to say an unfeeling thing,  said I,  he cannot do better than go. \n\n I am afraid that must be admitted,  said Herbert;  and then I shall\ncome back for the dear little thing, and the dear little thing and I\nwill walk quietly into the nearest church. Remember! The blessed\ndarling comes of no family, my dear Handel, and never looked into the\nred book, and hasn t a notion about her grandpapa. What a fortune for\nthe son of my mother! \n\nOn the Saturday in that same week, I took my leave of Herbert, full of\nbright hope, but sad and sorry to leave me, as he sat on one of the\nseaport mail coaches. I went into a coffee-house to write a little note\nto Clara, telling her he had gone off, sending his love to her over and\nover again, and then went to my lonely home, if it deserved the name;\nfor it was now no home to me, and I had no home anywhere.\n\nOn the stairs I encountered Wemmick, who was coming down, after an\nunsuccessful application of his knuckles to my door. I had not seen him\nalone since the disastrous issue of the attempted flight; and he had\ncome, in his private and personal capacity, to say a few words of\nexplanation in reference to that failure.\n\n The late Compeyson,  said Wemmick,  had by little and little got at\nthe bottom of half of the regular business now transacted; and it was\nfrom the talk of some of his people in trouble (some of his people\nbeing always in trouble) that I heard what I did. I kept my ears open,\nseeming to have them shut, until I heard that he was absent, and I\nthought that would be the best time for making the attempt. I can only\nsuppose now, that it was a part of his policy, as a very clever man,\nhabitually to deceive his own instruments. You don t blame me, I hope,\nMr. Pip? I am sure I tried to serve you, with all my heart. \n\n I am as sure of that, Wemmick, as you can be, and I thank you most\nearnestly for all your interest and friendship. \n\n Thank you, thank you very much. It s a bad job,  said Wemmick,\nscratching his head,  and I assure you I haven t been so cut up for a\nlong time. What I look at is the sacrifice of so much portable\nproperty. Dear me! \n\n What _I_ think of, Wemmick, is the poor owner of the property. \n\n Yes, to be sure,  said Wemmick.  Of course, there can be no objection\nto your being sorry for him, and I d put down a five-pound note myself\nto get him out of it. But what I look at is this. The late Compeyson\nhaving been beforehand with him in intelligence of his return, and\nbeing so determined to bring him to book, I do not think he could have\nbeen saved. Whereas, the portable property certainly could have been\nsaved. That s the difference between the property and the owner, don t\nyou see? \n\nI invited Wemmick to come upstairs, and refresh himself with a glass of\ngrog before walking to Walworth. He accepted the invitation. While he\nwas drinking his moderate allowance, he said, with nothing to lead up\nto it, and after having appeared rather fidgety, \n\n What do you think of my meaning to take a holiday on Monday, Mr. Pip? \n\n Why, I suppose you have not done such a thing these twelve months. \n\n These twelve years, more likely,  said Wemmick.  Yes. I m going to\ntake a holiday. More than that; I m going to take a walk. More than\nthat; I m going to ask you to take a walk with me. \n\nI was about to excuse myself, as being but a bad companion just then,\nwhen Wemmick anticipated me.\n\n I know your engagements,  said he,  and I know you are out of sorts,\nMr. Pip. But if you _could_ oblige me, I should take it as a kindness.\nIt ain t a long walk, and it s an early one. Say it might occupy you\n(including breakfast on the walk) from eight to twelve. Couldn t you\nstretch a point and manage it? \n\nHe had done so much for me at various times, that this was very little\nto do for him. I said I could manage it, would manage it, and he was so\nvery much pleased by my acquiescence, that I was pleased too. At his\nparticular request, I appointed to call for him at the Castle at half\npast eight on Monday morning, and so we parted for the time.\n\nPunctual to my appointment, I rang at the Castle gate on the Monday\nmorning, and was received by Wemmick himself, who struck me as looking\ntighter than usual, and having a sleeker hat on. Within, there were two\nglasses of rum and milk prepared, and two biscuits. The Aged must have\nbeen stirring with the lark, for, glancing into the perspective of his\nbedroom, I observed that his bed was empty.\n\nWhen we had fortified ourselves with the rum and milk and biscuits, and\nwere going out for the walk with that training preparation on us, I was\nconsiderably surprised to see Wemmick take up a fishing-rod, and put it\nover his shoulder.  Why, we are not going fishing!  said I.  No, \nreturned Wemmick,  but I like to walk with one. \n\nI thought this odd; however, I said nothing, and we set off. We went\ntowards Camberwell Green, and when we were thereabouts, Wemmick said\nsuddenly, \n\n Halloa! Here s a church! \n\nThere was nothing very surprising in that; but again, I was rather\nsurprised, when he said, as if he were animated by a brilliant idea, \n\n Let s go in! \n\nWe went in, Wemmick leaving his fishing-rod in the porch, and looked\nall round. In the mean time, Wemmick was diving into his coat-pockets,\nand getting something out of paper there.\n\n Halloa!  said he.  Here s a couple of pair of gloves! Let s put  em\non! \n\nAs the gloves were white kid gloves, and as the post-office was widened\nto its utmost extent, I now began to have my strong suspicions. They\nwere strengthened into certainty when I beheld the Aged enter at a side\ndoor, escorting a lady.\n\n Halloa!  said Wemmick.  Here s Miss Skiffins! Let s have a wedding. \n\nThat discreet damsel was attired as usual, except that she was now\nengaged in substituting for her green kid gloves a pair of white. The\nAged was likewise occupied in preparing a similar sacrifice for the\naltar of Hymen. The old gentleman, however, experienced so much\ndifficulty in getting his gloves on, that Wemmick found it necessary to\nput him with his back against a pillar, and then to get behind the\npillar himself and pull away at them, while I for my part held the old\ngentleman round the waist, that he might present an equal and safe\nresistance. By dint of this ingenious scheme, his gloves were got on to\nperfection.\n\nThe clerk and clergyman then appearing, we were ranged in order at\nthose fatal rails. True to his notion of seeming to do it all without\npreparation, I heard Wemmick say to himself, as he took something out\nof his waistcoat-pocket before the service began,  Halloa! Here s a\nring! \n\nI acted in the capacity of backer, or best-man, to the bridegroom;\nwhile a little limp pew-opener in a soft bonnet like a baby s, made a\nfeint of being the bosom friend of Miss Skiffins. The responsibility of\ngiving the lady away devolved upon the Aged, which led to the\nclergyman s being unintentionally scandalised, and it happened thus.\nWhen he said,  Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?  the\nold gentleman, not in the least knowing what point of the ceremony we\nhad arrived at, stood most amiably beaming at the ten commandments.\nUpon which, the clergyman said again,  WHO giveth this woman to be\nmarried to this man?  The old gentleman being still in a state of most\nestimable unconsciousness, the bridegroom cried out in his accustomed\nvoice,  Now Aged P. you know; who giveth?  To which the Aged replied\nwith great briskness, before saying that _he_ gave,  All right, John,\nall right, my boy!  And the clergyman came to so gloomy a pause upon\nit, that I had doubts for the moment whether we should get completely\nmarried that day.\n\nIt was completely done, however, and when we were going out of church\nWemmick took the cover off the font, and put his white gloves in it,\nand put the cover on again. Mrs. Wemmick, more heedful of the future,\nput her white gloves in her pocket and assumed her green.  _Now_, Mr.\nPip,  said Wemmick, triumphantly shouldering the fishing-rod as we came\nout,  let me ask you whether anybody would suppose this to be a\nwedding-party! \n\nBreakfast had been ordered at a pleasant little tavern, a mile or so\naway upon the rising ground beyond the green; and there was a bagatelle\nboard in the room, in case we should desire to unbend our minds after\nthe solemnity. It was pleasant to observe that Mrs. Wemmick no longer\nunwound Wemmick s arm when it adapted itself to her figure, but sat in\na high-backed chair against the wall, like a violoncello in its case,\nand submitted to be embraced as that melodious instrument might have\ndone.\n\nWe had an excellent breakfast, and when any one declined anything on\ntable, Wemmick said,  Provided by contract, you know; don t be afraid\nof it!  I drank to the new couple, drank to the Aged, drank to the\nCastle, saluted the bride at parting, and made myself as agreeable as I\ncould.\n\nWemmick came down to the door with me, and I again shook hands with\nhim, and wished him joy.\n\n Thankee!  said Wemmick, rubbing his hands.  She s such a manager of\nfowls, you have no idea. You shall have some eggs, and judge for\nyourself. I say, Mr. Pip!  calling me back, and speaking low.  This is\naltogether a Walworth sentiment, please. \n\n I understand. Not to be mentioned in Little Britain,  said I.\n\nWemmick nodded.  After what you let out the other day, Mr. Jaggers may\nas well not know of it. He might think my brain was softening, or\nsomething of the kind. \n\n\n\n\nChapter LVI.\n\n\nHe lay in prison very ill, during the whole interval between his\ncommittal for trial and the coming round of the Sessions. He had broken\ntwo ribs, they had wounded one of his lungs, and he breathed with great\npain and difficulty, which increased daily. It was a consequence of his\nhurt that he spoke so low as to be scarcely audible; therefore he spoke\nvery little. But he was ever ready to listen to me; and it became the\nfirst duty of my life to say to him, and read to him, what I knew he\nought to hear.\n\nBeing far too ill to remain in the common prison, he was removed, after\nthe first day or so, into the infirmary. This gave me opportunities of\nbeing with him that I could not otherwise have had. And but for his\nillness he would have been put in irons, for he was regarded as a\ndetermined prison-breaker, and I know not what else.\n\nAlthough I saw him every day, it was for only a short time; hence, the\nregularly recurring spaces of our separation were long enough to record\non his face any slight changes that occurred in his physical state. I\ndo not recollect that I once saw any change in it for the better; he\nwasted, and became slowly weaker and worse, day by day, from the day\nwhen the prison door closed upon him.\n\nThe kind of submission or resignation that he showed was that of a man\nwho was tired out. I sometimes derived an impression, from his manner\nor from a whispered word or two which escaped him, that he pondered\nover the question whether he might have been a better man under better\ncircumstances. But he never justified himself by a hint tending that\nway, or tried to bend the past out of its eternal shape.\n\nIt happened on two or three occasions in my presence, that his\ndesperate reputation was alluded to by one or other of the people in\nattendance on him. A smile crossed his face then, and he turned his\neyes on me with a trustful look, as if he were confident that I had\nseen some small redeeming touch in him, even so long ago as when I was\na little child. As to all the rest, he was humble and contrite, and I\nnever knew him complain.\n\nWhen the Sessions came round, Mr. Jaggers caused an application to be\nmade for the postponement of his trial until the following Sessions. It\nwas obviously made with the assurance that he could not live so long,\nand was refused. The trial came on at once, and, when he was put to the\nbar, he was seated in a chair. No objection was made to my getting\nclose to the dock, on the outside of it, and holding the hand that he\nstretched forth to me.\n\nThe trial was very short and very clear. Such things as could be said\nfor him were said, how he had taken to industrious habits, and had\nthriven lawfully and reputably. But nothing could unsay the fact that\nhe had returned, and was there in presence of the Judge and Jury. It\nwas impossible to try him for that, and do otherwise than find him\nguilty.\n\nAt that time, it was the custom (as I learnt from my terrible\nexperience of that Sessions) to devote a concluding day to the passing\nof Sentences, and to make a finishing effect with the Sentence of\nDeath. But for the indelible picture that my remembrance now holds\nbefore me, I could scarcely believe, even as I write these words, that\nI saw two-and-thirty men and women put before the Judge to receive that\nsentence together. Foremost among the two-and-thirty was he; seated,\nthat he might get breath enough to keep life in him.\n\nThe whole scene starts out again in the vivid colours of the moment,\ndown to the drops of April rain on the windows of the court, glittering\nin the rays of April sun. Penned in the dock, as I again stood outside\nit at the corner with his hand in mine, were the two-and-thirty men and\nwomen; some defiant, some stricken with terror, some sobbing and\nweeping, some covering their faces, some staring gloomily about. There\nhad been shrieks from among the women convicts; but they had been\nstilled, and a hush had succeeded. The sheriffs with their great chains\nand nosegays, other civic gewgaws and monsters, criers, ushers, a great\ngallery full of people, a large theatrical audience, looked on, as the\ntwo-and-thirty and the Judge were solemnly confronted. Then the Judge\naddressed them. Among the wretched creatures before him whom he must\nsingle out for special address was one who almost from his infancy had\nbeen an offender against the laws; who, after repeated imprisonments\nand punishments, had been at length sentenced to exile for a term of\nyears; and who, under circumstances of great violence and daring, had\nmade his escape and been re-sentenced to exile for life. That miserable\nman would seem for a time to have become convinced of his errors, when\nfar removed from the scenes of his old offences, and to have lived a\npeaceable and honest life. But in a fatal moment, yielding to those\npropensities and passions, the indulgence of which had so long rendered\nhim a scourge to society, he had quitted his haven of rest and\nrepentance, and had come back to the country where he was proscribed.\nBeing here presently denounced, he had for a time succeeded in evading\nthe officers of Justice, but being at length seized while in the act of\nflight, he had resisted them, and had he best knew whether by express\ndesign, or in the blindness of his hardihood caused the death of his\ndenouncer, to whom his whole career was known. The appointed punishment\nfor his return to the land that had cast him out, being Death, and his\ncase being this aggravated case, he must prepare himself to Die.\n\nThe sun was striking in at the great windows of the court, through the\nglittering drops of rain upon the glass, and it made a broad shaft of\nlight between the two-and-thirty and the Judge, linking both together,\nand perhaps reminding some among the audience how both were passing on,\nwith absolute equality, to the greater Judgment that knoweth all\nthings, and cannot err. Rising for a moment, a distinct speck of face\nin this way of light, the prisoner said,  My Lord, I have received my\nsentence of Death from the Almighty, but I bow to yours,  and sat down\nagain. There was some hushing, and the Judge went on with what he had\nto say to the rest. Then they were all formally doomed, and some of\nthem were supported out, and some of them sauntered out with a haggard\nlook of bravery, and a few nodded to the gallery, and two or three\nshook hands, and others went out chewing the fragments of herb they had\ntaken from the sweet herbs lying about. He went last of all, because of\nhaving to be helped from his chair, and to go very slowly; and he held\nmy hand while all the others were removed, and while the audience got\nup (putting their dresses right, as they might at church or elsewhere),\nand pointed down at this criminal or at that, and most of all at him\nand me.\n\nI earnestly hoped and prayed that he might die before the Recorder s\nReport was made; but, in the dread of his lingering on, I began that\nnight to write out a petition to the Home Secretary of State, setting\nforth my knowledge of him, and how it was that he had come back for my\nsake. I wrote it as fervently and pathetically as I could; and when I\nhad finished it and sent it in, I wrote out other petitions to such men\nin authority as I hoped were the most merciful, and drew up one to the\nCrown itself. For several days and nights after he was sentenced I took\nno rest except when I fell asleep in my chair, but was wholly absorbed\nin these appeals. And after I had sent them in, I could not keep away\nfrom the places where they were, but felt as if they were more hopeful\nand less desperate when I was near them. In this unreasonable\nrestlessness and pain of mind I would roam the streets of an evening,\nwandering by those offices and houses where I had left the petitions.\nTo the present hour, the weary western streets of London on a cold,\ndusty spring night, with their ranges of stern, shut-up mansions, and\ntheir long rows of lamps, are melancholy to me from this association.\n\nThe daily visits I could make him were shortened now, and he was more\nstrictly kept. Seeing, or fancying, that I was suspected of an\nintention of carrying poison to him, I asked to be searched before I\nsat down at his bedside, and told the officer who was always there,\nthat I was willing to do anything that would assure him of the\nsingleness of my designs. Nobody was hard with him or with me. There\nwas duty to be done, and it was done, but not harshly. The officer\nalways gave me the assurance that he was worse, and some other sick\nprisoners in the room, and some other prisoners who attended on them as\nsick nurses, (malefactors, but not incapable of kindness, God be\nthanked!) always joined in the same report.\n\nAs the days went on, I noticed more and more that he would lie placidly\nlooking at the white ceiling, with an absence of light in his face\nuntil some word of mine brightened it for an instant, and then it would\nsubside again. Sometimes he was almost or quite unable to speak, then\nhe would answer me with slight pressures on my hand, and I grew to\nunderstand his meaning very well.\n\nThe number of the days had risen to ten, when I saw a greater change in\nhim than I had seen yet. His eyes were turned towards the door, and\nlighted up as I entered.\n\n Dear boy,  he said, as I sat down by his bed:  I thought you was late.\nBut I knowed you couldn t be that. \n\n It is just the time,  said I.  I waited for it at the gate. \n\n You always waits at the gate; don t you, dear boy? \n\n Yes. Not to lose a moment of the time. \n\n Thank ee dear boy, thank ee. God bless you! You ve never deserted me,\ndear boy. \n\nI pressed his hand in silence, for I could not forget that I had once\nmeant to desert him.\n\n And what s the best of all,  he said,  you ve been more comfortable\nalonger me, since I was under a dark cloud, than when the sun shone.\nThat s best of all. \n\nHe lay on his back, breathing with great difficulty. Do what he would,\nand love me though he did, the light left his face ever and again, and\na film came over the placid look at the white ceiling.\n\n Are you in much pain to-day? \n\n I don t complain of none, dear boy. \n\n You never do complain. \n\nHe had spoken his last words. He smiled, and I understood his touch to\nmean that he wished to lift my hand, and lay it on his breast. I laid\nit there, and he smiled again, and put both his hands upon it.\n\nThe allotted time ran out, while we were thus; but, looking round, I\nfound the governor of the prison standing near me, and he whispered,\n You needn t go yet.  I thanked him gratefully, and asked,  Might I\nspeak to him, if he can hear me? \n\nThe governor stepped aside, and beckoned the officer away. The change,\nthough it was made without noise, drew back the film from the placid\nlook at the white ceiling, and he looked most affectionately at me.\n\n Dear Magwitch, I must tell you now, at last. You understand what I\nsay? \n\nA gentle pressure on my hand.\n\n You had a child once, whom you loved and lost. \n\nA stronger pressure on my hand.\n\n She lived, and found powerful friends. She is living now. She is a\nlady and very beautiful. And I love her! \n\nWith a last faint effort, which would have been powerless but for my\nyielding to it and assisting it, he raised my hand to his lips. Then,\nhe gently let it sink upon his breast again, with his own hands lying\non it. The placid look at the white ceiling came back, and passed away,\nand his head dropped quietly on his breast.\n\nMindful, then, of what we had read together, I thought of the two men\nwho went up into the Temple to pray, and I knew there were no better\nwords that I could say beside his bed, than  O Lord, be merciful to him\na sinner! \n\n\n\n\nChapter LVII.\n\n\nNow that I was left wholly to myself, I gave notice of my intention to\nquit the chambers in the Temple as soon as my tenancy could legally\ndetermine, and in the meanwhile to underlet them. At once I put bills\nup in the windows; for, I was in debt, and had scarcely any money, and\nbegan to be seriously alarmed by the state of my affairs. I ought\nrather to write that I should have been alarmed if I had had energy and\nconcentration enough to help me to the clear perception of any truth\nbeyond the fact that I was falling very ill. The late stress upon me\nhad enabled me to put off illness, but not to put it away; I knew that\nit was coming on me now, and I knew very little else, and was even\ncareless as to that.\n\nFor a day or two, I lay on the sofa, or on the floor, anywhere,\naccording as I happened to sink down, with a heavy head and aching\nlimbs, and no purpose, and no power. Then there came, one night which\nappeared of great duration, and which teemed with anxiety and horror;\nand when in the morning I tried to sit up in my bed and think of it, I\nfound I could not do so.\n\nWhether I really had been down in Garden Court in the dead of the\nnight, groping about for the boat that I supposed to be there; whether\nI had two or three times come to myself on the staircase with great\nterror, not knowing how I had got out of bed; whether I had found\nmyself lighting the lamp, possessed by the idea that he was coming up\nthe stairs, and that the lights were blown out; whether I had been\ninexpressibly harassed by the distracted talking, laughing, and\ngroaning of some one, and had half suspected those sounds to be of my\nown making; whether there had been a closed iron furnace in a dark\ncorner of the room, and a voice had called out, over and over again,\nthat Miss Havisham was consuming within it, these were things that I\ntried to settle with myself and get into some order, as I lay that\nmorning on my bed. But the vapour of a limekiln would come between me\nand them, disordering them all, and it was through the vapour at last\nthat I saw two men looking at me.\n\n What do you want?  I asked, starting;  I don t know you. \n\n Well, sir,  returned one of them, bending down and touching me on the\nshoulder,  this is a matter that you ll soon arrange, I dare say, but\nyou re arrested. \n\n What is the debt? \n\n Hundred and twenty-three pound, fifteen, six. Jeweller s account, I\nthink. \n\n What is to be done? \n\n You had better come to my house,  said the man.  I keep a very nice\nhouse. \n\nI made some attempt to get up and dress myself. When I next attended to\nthem, they were standing a little off from the bed, looking at me. I\nstill lay there.\n\n You see my state,  said I.  I would come with you if I could; but\nindeed I am quite unable. If you take me from here, I think I shall die\nby the way. \n\nPerhaps they replied, or argued the point, or tried to encourage me to\nbelieve that I was better than I thought. Forasmuch as they hang in my\nmemory by only this one slender thread, I don t know what they did,\nexcept that they forbore to remove me.\n\nThat I had a fever and was avoided, that I suffered greatly, that I\noften lost my reason, that the time seemed interminable, that I\nconfounded impossible existences with my own identity; that I was a\nbrick in the house-wall, and yet entreating to be released from the\ngiddy place where the builders had set me; that I was a steel beam of a\nvast engine, clashing and whirling over a gulf, and yet that I implored\nin my own person to have the engine stopped, and my part in it hammered\noff; that I passed through these phases of disease, I know of my own\nremembrance, and did in some sort know at the time. That I sometimes\nstruggled with real people, in the belief that they were murderers, and\nthat I would all at once comprehend that they meant to do me good, and\nwould then sink exhausted in their arms, and suffer them to lay me\ndown, I also knew at the time. But, above all, I knew that there was a\nconstant tendency in all these people, who, when I was very ill, would\npresent all kinds of extraordinary transformations of the human face,\nand would be much dilated in size, above all, I say, I knew that there\nwas an extraordinary tendency in all these people, sooner or later, to\nsettle down into the likeness of Joe.\n\nAfter I had turned the worst point of my illness, I began to notice\nthat while all its other features changed, this one consistent feature\ndid not change. Whoever came about me, still settled down into Joe. I\nopened my eyes in the night, and I saw, in the great chair at the\nbedside, Joe. I opened my eyes in the day, and, sitting on the\nwindow-seat, smoking his pipe in the shaded open window, still I saw\nJoe. I asked for cooling drink, and the dear hand that gave it me was\nJoe s. I sank back on my pillow after drinking, and the face that\nlooked so hopefully and tenderly upon me was the face of Joe.\n\nAt last, one day, I took courage, and said,  _Is_ it Joe? \n\nAnd the dear old home-voice answered,  Which it air, old chap. \n\n O Joe, you break my heart! Look angry at me, Joe. Strike me, Joe. Tell\nme of my ingratitude. Don t be so good to me! \n\nFor Joe had actually laid his head down on the pillow at my side, and\nput his arm round my neck, in his joy that I knew him.\n\n Which dear old Pip, old chap,  said Joe,  you and me was ever friends.\nAnd when you re well enough to go out for a ride what larks! \n\nAfter which, Joe withdrew to the window, and stood with his back\ntowards me, wiping his eyes. And as my extreme weakness prevented me\nfrom getting up and going to him, I lay there, penitently whispering,\n O God bless him! O God bless this gentle Christian man! \n\nJoe s eyes were red when I next found him beside me; but I was holding\nhis hand, and we both felt happy.\n\n How long, dear Joe? \n\n Which you meantersay, Pip, how long have your illness lasted, dear old\nchap? \n\n Yes, Joe. \n\n It s the end of May, Pip. To-morrow is the first of June. \n\n And have you been here all that time, dear Joe? \n\n Pretty nigh, old chap. For, as I says to Biddy when the news of your\nbeing ill were brought by letter, which it were brought by the post,\nand being formerly single he is now married though underpaid for a deal\nof walking and shoe-leather, but wealth were not a object on his part,\nand marriage were the great wish of his hart \n\n It is so delightful to hear you, Joe! But I interrupt you in what you\nsaid to Biddy. \n\n Which it were,  said Joe,  that how you might be amongst strangers,\nand that how you and me having been ever friends, a wisit at such a\nmoment might not prove unacceptabobble. And Biddy, her word were,  Go\nto him, without loss of time.  That,  said Joe, summing up with his\njudicial air,  were the word of Biddy.  Go to him,  Biddy say,  without\nloss of time.  In short, I shouldn t greatly deceive you,  Joe added,\nafter a little grave reflection,  if I represented to you that the word\nof that young woman were,  without a minute s loss of time. \n\nThere Joe cut himself short, and informed me that I was to be talked to\nin great moderation, and that I was to take a little nourishment at\nstated frequent times, whether I felt inclined for it or not, and that\nI was to submit myself to all his orders. So I kissed his hand, and lay\nquiet, while he proceeded to indite a note to Biddy, with my love in\nit.\n\nEvidently Biddy had taught Joe to write. As I lay in bed looking at\nhim, it made me, in my weak state, cry again with pleasure to see the\npride with which he set about his letter. My bedstead, divested of its\ncurtains, had been removed, with me upon it, into the sitting-room, as\nthe airiest and largest, and the carpet had been taken away, and the\nroom kept always fresh and wholesome night and day. At my own\nwriting-table, pushed into a corner and cumbered with little bottles,\nJoe now sat down to his great work, first choosing a pen from the\npen-tray as if it were a chest of large tools, and tucking up his\nsleeves as if he were going to wield a crow-bar or sledgehammer. It was\nnecessary for Joe to hold on heavily to the table with his left elbow,\nand to get his right leg well out behind him, before he could begin;\nand when he did begin he made every downstroke so slowly that it might\nhave been six feet long, while at every upstroke I could hear his pen\nspluttering extensively. He had a curious idea that the inkstand was on\nthe side of him where it was not, and constantly dipped his pen into\nspace, and seemed quite satisfied with the result. Occasionally, he was\ntripped up by some orthographical stumbling-block; but on the whole he\ngot on very well indeed; and when he had signed his name, and had\nremoved a finishing blot from the paper to the crown of his head with\nhis two forefingers, he got up and hovered about the table, trying the\neffect of his performance from various points of view, as it lay there,\nwith unbounded satisfaction.\n\nNot to make Joe uneasy by talking too much, even if I had been able to\ntalk much, I deferred asking him about Miss Havisham until next day. He\nshook his head when I then asked him if she had recovered.\n\n Is she dead, Joe? \n\n Why you see, old chap,  said Joe, in a tone of remonstrance, and by\nway of getting at it by degrees,  I wouldn t go so far as to say that,\nfor that s a deal to say; but she ain t \n\n Living, Joe? \n\n That s nigher where it is,  said Joe;  she ain t living. \n\n Did she linger long, Joe? \n\n Arter you was took ill, pretty much about what you might call (if you\nwas put to it) a week,  said Joe; still determined, on my account, to\ncome at everything by degrees.\n\n Dear Joe, have you heard what becomes of her property? \n\n Well, old chap,  said Joe,  it do appear that she had settled the most\nof it, which I meantersay tied it up, on Miss Estella. But she had\nwrote out a little coddleshell in her own hand a day or two afore the\naccident, leaving a cool four thousand to Mr. Matthew Pocket. And why,\ndo you suppose, above all things, Pip, she left that cool four thousand\nunto him?  Because of Pip s account of him, the said Matthew.  I am\ntold by Biddy, that air the writing,  said Joe, repeating the legal\nturn as if it did him infinite good,  account of him the said\nMatthew.  And a cool four thousand, Pip! \n\nI never discovered from whom Joe derived the conventional temperature\nof the four thousand pounds; but it appeared to make the sum of money\nmore to him, and he had a manifest relish in insisting on its being\ncool.\n\nThis account gave me great joy, as it perfected the only good thing I\nhad done. I asked Joe whether he had heard if any of the other\nrelations had any legacies?\n\n Miss Sarah,  said Joe,  she have twenty-five pound perannium fur to\nbuy pills, on account of being bilious. Miss Georgiana, she have twenty\npound down. Mrs. what s the name of them wild beasts with humps, old\nchap? \n\n Camels?  said I, wondering why he could possibly want to know.\n\nJoe nodded.  Mrs. Camels,  by which I presently understood he meant\nCamilla,  she have five pound fur to buy rushlights to put her in\nspirits when she wake up in the night. \n\nThe accuracy of these recitals was sufficiently obvious to me, to give\nme great confidence in Joe s information.  And now,  said Joe,  you\nain t that strong yet, old chap, that you can take in more nor one\nadditional shovelful to-day. Old Orlick he s been a bustin  open a\ndwelling-ouse. \n\n Whose?  said I.\n\n Not, I grant you, but what his manners is given to blusterous,  said\nJoe, apologetically;  still, a Englishman s ouse is his Castle, and\ncastles must not be busted  cept when done in war time. And wotsume er\nthe failings on his part, he were a corn and seedsman in his hart. \n\n Is it Pumblechook s house that has been broken into, then? \n\n That s it, Pip,  said Joe;  and they took his till, and they took his\ncash-box, and they drinked his wine, and they partook of his wittles,\nand they slapped his face, and they pulled his nose, and they tied him\nup to his bedpust, and they giv  him a dozen, and they stuffed his\nmouth full of flowering annuals to prewent his crying out. But he\nknowed Orlick, and Orlick s in the county jail. \n\nBy these approaches we arrived at unrestricted conversation. I was slow\nto gain strength, but I did slowly and surely become less weak, and Joe\nstayed with me, and I fancied I was little Pip again.\n\nFor the tenderness of Joe was so beautifully proportioned to my need,\nthat I was like a child in his hands. He would sit and talk to me in\nthe old confidence, and with the old simplicity, and in the old\nunassertive protecting way, so that I would half believe that all my\nlife since the days of the old kitchen was one of the mental troubles\nof the fever that was gone. He did everything for me except the\nhousehold work, for which he had engaged a very decent woman, after\npaying off the laundress on his first arrival.  Which I do assure you,\nPip,  he would often say, in explanation of that liberty;  I found her\na tapping the spare bed, like a cask of beer, and drawing off the\nfeathers in a bucket, for sale. Which she would have tapped yourn next,\nand draw d it off with you a laying on it, and was then a carrying away\nthe coals gradiwally in the soup-tureen and wegetable-dishes, and the\nwine and spirits in your Wellington boots. \n\nWe looked forward to the day when I should go out for a ride, as we had\nonce looked forward to the day of my apprenticeship. And when the day\ncame, and an open carriage was got into the Lane, Joe wrapped me up,\ntook me in his arms, carried me down to it, and put me in, as if I were\nstill the small helpless creature to whom he had so abundantly given of\nthe wealth of his great nature.\n\nAnd Joe got in beside me, and we drove away together into the country,\nwhere the rich summer growth was already on the trees and on the grass,\nand sweet summer scents filled all the air. The day happened to be\nSunday, and when I looked on the loveliness around me, and thought how\nit had grown and changed, and how the little wild-flowers had been\nforming, and the voices of the birds had been strengthening, by day and\nby night, under the sun and under the stars, while poor I lay burning\nand tossing on my bed, the mere remembrance of having burned and tossed\nthere came like a check upon my peace. But when I heard the Sunday\nbells, and looked around a little more upon the outspread beauty, I\nfelt that I was not nearly thankful enough, that I was too weak yet to\nbe even that, and I laid my head on Joe s shoulder, as I had laid it\nlong ago when he had taken me to the Fair or where not, and it was too\nmuch for my young senses.\n\nMore composure came to me after a while, and we talked as we used to\ntalk, lying on the grass at the old Battery. There was no change\nwhatever in Joe. Exactly what he had been in my eyes then, he was in my\neyes still; just as simply faithful, and as simply right.\n\nWhen we got back again, and he lifted me out, and carried me so\neasily! across the court and up the stairs, I thought of that eventful\nChristmas Day when he had carried me over the marshes. We had not yet\nmade any allusion to my change of fortune, nor did I know how much of\nmy late history he was acquainted with. I was so doubtful of myself\nnow, and put so much trust in him, that I could not satisfy myself\nwhether I ought to refer to it when he did not.\n\n Have you heard, Joe,  I asked him that evening, upon further\nconsideration, as he smoked his pipe at the window,  who my patron\nwas? \n\n I heerd,  returned Joe,  as it were not Miss Havisham, old chap. \n\n Did you hear who it was, Joe? \n\n Well! I heerd as it were a person what sent the person what giv  you\nthe bank-notes at the Jolly Bargemen, Pip. \n\n So it was. \n\n Astonishing!  said Joe, in the placidest way.\n\n Did you hear that he was dead, Joe?  I presently asked, with\nincreasing diffidence.\n\n Which? Him as sent the bank-notes, Pip? \n\n Yes. \n\n I think,  said Joe, after meditating a long time, and looking rather\nevasively at the window-seat,  as I _did_ hear tell that how he were\nsomething or another in a general way in that direction. \n\n Did you hear anything of his circumstances, Joe? \n\n Not partickler, Pip. \n\n If you would like to hear, Joe  I was beginning, when Joe got up and\ncame to my sofa.\n\n Lookee here, old chap,  said Joe, bending over me.  Ever the best of\nfriends; ain t us, Pip? \n\nI was ashamed to answer him.\n\n Wery good, then,  said Joe, as if I _had_ answered;  that s all right;\nthat s agreed upon. Then why go into subjects, old chap, which as\nbetwixt two sech must be for ever onnecessary? There s subjects enough\nas betwixt two sech, without onnecessary ones. Lord! To think of your\npoor sister and her Rampages! And don t you remember Tickler? \n\n I do indeed, Joe. \n\n Lookee here, old chap,  said Joe.  I done what I could to keep you and\nTickler in sunders, but my power were not always fully equal to my\ninclinations. For when your poor sister had a mind to drop into you, it\nwere not so much,  said Joe, in his favourite argumentative way,  that\nshe dropped into me too, if I put myself in opposition to her, but that\nshe dropped into you always heavier for it. I noticed that. It ain t a\ngrab at a man s whisker, not yet a shake or two of a man (to which your\nsister was quite welcome), that  ud put a man off from getting a little\nchild out of punishment. But when that little child is dropped into\nheavier for that grab of whisker or shaking, then that man naterally up\nand says to himself,  Where is the good as you are a-doing? I grant you\nI see the  arm,  says the man,  but I don t see the good. I call upon\nyou, sir, therefore, to pint out the good. \n\n The man says?  I observed, as Joe waited for me to speak.\n\n The man says,  Joe assented.  Is he right, that man? \n\n Dear Joe, he is always right. \n\n Well, old chap,  said Joe,  then abide by your words. If he s always\nright (which in general he s more likely wrong), he s right when he\nsays this: Supposing ever you kep any little matter to yourself, when\nyou was a little child, you kep it mostly because you know d as J.\nGargery s power to part you and Tickler in sunders were not fully equal\nto his inclinations. Theerfore, think no more of it as betwixt two\nsech, and do not let us pass remarks upon onnecessary subjects. Biddy\ngiv  herself a deal o  trouble with me afore I left (for I am almost\nawful dull), as I should view it in this light, and, viewing it in this\nlight, as I should so put it. Both of which,  said Joe, quite charmed\nwith his logical arrangement,  being done, now this to you a true\nfriend, say. Namely. You mustn t go a overdoing on it, but you must\nhave your supper and your wine and water, and you must be put betwixt\nthe sheets. \n\nThe delicacy with which Joe dismissed this theme, and the sweet tact\nand kindness with which Biddy who with her woman s wit had found me out\nso soon had prepared him for it, made a deep impression on my mind. But\nwhether Joe knew how poor I was, and how my great expectations had all\ndissolved, like our own marsh mists before the sun, I could not\nunderstand.\n\nAnother thing in Joe that I could not understand when it first began to\ndevelop itself, but which I soon arrived at a sorrowful comprehension\nof, was this: As I became stronger and better, Joe became a little less\neasy with me. In my weakness and entire dependence on him, the dear\nfellow had fallen into the old tone, and called me by the old names,\nthe dear  old Pip, old chap,  that now were music in my ears. I too had\nfallen into the old ways, only happy and thankful that he let me. But,\nimperceptibly, though I held by them fast, Joe s hold upon them began\nto slacken; and whereas I wondered at this, at first, I soon began to\nunderstand that the cause of it was in me, and that the fault of it was\nall mine.\n\nAh! Had I given Joe no reason to doubt my constancy, and to think that\nin prosperity I should grow cold to him and cast him off? Had I given\nJoe s innocent heart no cause to feel instinctively that as I got\nstronger, his hold upon me would be weaker, and that he had better\nloosen it in time and let me go, before I plucked myself away?\n\nIt was on the third or fourth occasion of my going out walking in the\nTemple Gardens leaning on Joe s arm, that I saw this change in him very\nplainly. We had been sitting in the bright warm sunlight, looking at\nthe river, and I chanced to say as we got up, \n\n See, Joe! I can walk quite strongly. Now, you shall see me walk back\nby myself. \n\n Which do not overdo it, Pip,  said Joe;  but I shall be happy fur to\nsee you able, sir. \n\nThe last word grated on me; but how could I remonstrate! I walked no\nfurther than the gate of the gardens, and then pretended to be weaker\nthan I was, and asked Joe for his arm. Joe gave it me, but was\nthoughtful.\n\nI, for my part, was thoughtful too; for, how best to check this growing\nchange in Joe was a great perplexity to my remorseful thoughts. That I\nwas ashamed to tell him exactly how I was placed, and what I had come\ndown to, I do not seek to conceal; but I hope my reluctance was not\nquite an unworthy one. He would want to help me out of his little\nsavings, I knew, and I knew that he ought not to help me, and that I\nmust not suffer him to do it.\n\nIt was a thoughtful evening with both of us. But, before we went to\nbed, I had resolved that I would wait over to-morrow, to-morrow being\nSunday, and would begin my new course with the new week. On Monday\nmorning I would speak to Joe about this change, I would lay aside this\nlast vestige of reserve, I would tell him what I had in my thoughts\n(that Secondly, not yet arrived at), and why I had not decided to go\nout to Herbert, and then the change would be conquered for ever. As I\ncleared, Joe cleared, and it seemed as though he had sympathetically\narrived at a resolution too.\n\nWe had a quiet day on the Sunday, and we rode out into the country, and\nthen walked in the fields.\n\n I feel thankful that I have been ill, Joe,  I said.\n\n Dear old Pip, old chap, you re a most come round, sir. \n\n It has been a memorable time for me, Joe. \n\n Likeways for myself, sir,  Joe returned.\n\n We have had a time together, Joe, that I can never forget. There were\ndays once, I know, that I did for a while forget; but I never shall\nforget these. \n\n Pip,  said Joe, appearing a little hurried and troubled,  there has\nbeen larks. And, dear sir, what have been betwixt us have been. \n\nAt night, when I had gone to bed, Joe came into my room, as he had done\nall through my recovery. He asked me if I felt sure that I was as well\nas in the morning?\n\n Yes, dear Joe, quite. \n\n And are always a getting stronger, old chap? \n\n Yes, dear Joe, steadily. \n\nJoe patted the coverlet on my shoulder with his great good hand, and\nsaid, in what I thought a husky voice,  Good night! \n\nWhen I got up in the morning, refreshed and stronger yet, I was full of\nmy resolution to tell Joe all, without delay. I would tell him before\nbreakfast. I would dress at once and go to his room and surprise him;\nfor, it was the first day I had been up early. I went to his room, and\nhe was not there. Not only was he not there, but his box was gone.\n\nI hurried then to the breakfast-table, and on it found a letter. These\nwere its brief contents: \n\n Not wishful to intrude I have departured fur you are well again dear\nPip and will do better without\n\n\nJO.\n\n\n P.S. Ever the best of friends. \n\n\nEnclosed in the letter was a receipt for the debt and costs on which I\nhad been arrested. Down to that moment, I had vainly supposed that my\ncreditor had withdrawn, or suspended proceedings until I should be\nquite recovered. I had never dreamed of Joe s having paid the money;\nbut Joe had paid it, and the receipt was in his name.\n\nWhat remained for me now, but to follow him to the dear old forge, and\nthere to have out my disclosure to him, and my penitent remonstrance\nwith him, and there to relieve my mind and heart of that reserved\nSecondly, which had begun as a vague something lingering in my\nthoughts, and had formed into a settled purpose?\n\nThe purpose was, that I would go to Biddy, that I would show her how\nhumbled and repentant I came back, that I would tell her how I had lost\nall I once hoped for, that I would remind her of our old confidences in\nmy first unhappy time. Then I would say to her,  Biddy, I think you\nonce liked me very well, when my errant heart, even while it strayed\naway from you, was quieter and better with you than it ever has been\nsince. If you can like me only half as well once more, if you can take\nme with all my faults and disappointments on my head, if you can\nreceive me like a forgiven child (and indeed I am as sorry, Biddy, and\nhave as much need of a hushing voice and a soothing hand), I hope I am\na little worthier of you that I was, not much, but a little. And,\nBiddy, it shall rest with you to say whether I shall work at the forge\nwith Joe, or whether I shall try for any different occupation down in\nthis country, or whether we shall go away to a distant place where an\nopportunity awaits me which I set aside, when it was offered, until I\nknew your answer. And now, dear Biddy, if you can tell me that you will\ngo through the world with me, you will surely make it a better world\nfor me, and me a better man for it, and I will try hard to make it a\nbetter world for you. \n\nSuch was my purpose. After three days more of recovery, I went down to\nthe old place to put it in execution. And how I sped in it is all I\nhave left to tell.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LVIII.\n\n\nThe tidings of my high fortunes having had a heavy fall had got down to\nmy native place and its neighbourhood before I got there. I found the\nBlue Boar in possession of the intelligence, and I found that it made a\ngreat change in the Boar s demeanour. Whereas the Boar had cultivated\nmy good opinion with warm assiduity when I was coming into property,\nthe Boar was exceedingly cool on the subject now that I was going out\nof property.\n\nIt was evening when I arrived, much fatigued by the journey I had so\noften made so easily. The Boar could not put me into my usual bedroom,\nwhich was engaged (probably by some one who had expectations), and\ncould only assign me a very indifferent chamber among the pigeons and\npost-chaises up the yard. But I had as sound a sleep in that lodging as\nin the most superior accommodation the Boar could have given me, and\nthe quality of my dreams was about the same as in the best bedroom.\n\nEarly in the morning, while my breakfast was getting ready, I strolled\nround by Satis House. There were printed bills on the gate and on bits\nof carpet hanging out of the windows, announcing a sale by auction of\nthe Household Furniture and Effects, next week. The House itself was to\nbe sold as old building materials, and pulled down. LOT 1 was marked in\nwhitewashed knock-knee letters on the brew house; LOT 2 on that part of\nthe main building which had been so long shut up. Other lots were\nmarked off on other parts of the structure, and the ivy had been torn\ndown to make room for the inscriptions, and much of it trailed low in\nthe dust and was withered already. Stepping in for a moment at the open\ngate, and looking around me with the uncomfortable air of a stranger\nwho had no business there, I saw the auctioneer s clerk walking on the\ncasks and telling them off for the information of a catalogue-compiler,\npen in hand, who made a temporary desk of the wheeled chair I had so\noften pushed along to the tune of Old Clem.\n\nWhen I got back to my breakfast in the Boar s coffee-room, I found Mr.\nPumblechook conversing with the landlord. Mr. Pumblechook (not improved\nin appearance by his late nocturnal adventure) was waiting for me, and\naddressed me in the following terms: \n\n Young man, I am sorry to see you brought low. But what else could be\nexpected! what else could be expected! \n\nAs he extended his hand with a magnificently forgiving air, and as I\nwas broken by illness and unfit to quarrel, I took it.\n\n William,  said Mr. Pumblechook to the waiter,  put a muffin on table.\nAnd has it come to this! Has it come to this! \n\nI frowningly sat down to my breakfast. Mr. Pumblechook stood over me\nand poured out my tea before I could touch the teapot with the air of a\nbenefactor who was resolved to be true to the last.\n\n William,  said Mr. Pumblechook, mournfully,  put the salt on. In\nhappier times,  addressing me,  I think you took sugar? And did you\ntake milk? You did. Sugar and milk. William, bring a watercress. \n\n Thank you,  said I, shortly,  but I don t eat watercresses. \n\n You don t eat  em,  returned Mr. Pumblechook, sighing and nodding his\nhead several times, as if he might have expected that, and as if\nabstinence from watercresses were consistent with my downfall.  True.\nThe simple fruits of the earth. No. You needn t bring any, William. \n\nI went on with my breakfast, and Mr. Pumblechook continued to stand\nover me, staring fishily and breathing noisily, as he always did.\n\n Little more than skin and bone!  mused Mr. Pumblechook, aloud.  And\nyet when he went from here (I may say with my blessing), and I spread\nafore him my humble store, like the Bee, he was as plump as a Peach! \n\nThis reminded me of the wonderful difference between the servile manner\nin which he had offered his hand in my new prosperity, saying,  May I? \nand the ostentatious clemency with which he had just now exhibited the\nsame fat five fingers.\n\n Hah!  he went on, handing me the bread and butter.  And air you\na-going to Joseph? \n\n In heaven s name,  said I, firing in spite of myself,  what does it\nmatter to you where I am going? Leave that teapot alone. \n\nIt was the worst course I could have taken, because it gave Pumblechook\nthe opportunity he wanted.\n\n Yes, young man,  said he, releasing the handle of the article in\nquestion, retiring a step or two from my table, and speaking for the\nbehoof of the landlord and waiter at the door,  I _will_ leave that\nteapot alone. You are right, young man. For once you are right. I\nforgit myself when I take such an interest in your breakfast, as to\nwish your frame, exhausted by the debilitating effects of\nprodigygality, to be stimilated by the  olesome nourishment of your\nforefathers. And yet,  said Pumblechook, turning to the landlord and\nwaiter, and pointing me out at arm s length,  this is him as I ever\nsported with in his days of happy infancy! Tell me not it cannot be; I\ntell you this is him! \n\nA low murmur from the two replied. The waiter appeared to be\nparticularly affected.\n\n This is him,  said Pumblechook,  as I have rode in my shay-cart. This\nis him as I have seen brought up by hand. This is him untoe the sister\nof which I was uncle by marriage, as her name was Georgiana M ria from\nher own mother, let him deny it if he can! \n\nThe waiter seemed convinced that I could not deny it, and that it gave\nthe case a black look.\n\n Young man,  said Pumblechook, screwing his head at me in the old\nfashion,  you air a-going to Joseph. What does it matter to me, you ask\nme, where you air a-going? I say to you, Sir, you air a-going to\nJoseph. \n\nThe waiter coughed, as if he modestly invited me to get over that.\n\n Now,  said Pumblechook, and all this with a most exasperating air of\nsaying in the cause of virtue what was perfectly convincing and\nconclusive,  I will tell you what to say to Joseph. Here is Squires of\nthe Boar present, known and respected in this town, and here is\nWilliam, which his father s name was Potkins if I do not deceive\nmyself. \n\n You do not, sir,  said William.\n\n In their presence,  pursued Pumblechook,  I will tell you, young man,\nwhat to say to Joseph. Says you,  Joseph, I have this day seen my\nearliest benefactor and the founder of my fortun s. I will name no\nnames, Joseph, but so they are pleased to call him up town, and I have\nseen that man. \n\n I swear I don t see him here,  said I.\n\n Say that likewise,  retorted Pumblechook.  Say you said that, and even\nJoseph will probably betray surprise. \n\n There you quite mistake him,  said I.  I know better. \n\n Says you,  Pumblechook went on,  Joseph, I have seen that man, and\nthat man bears you no malice and bears me no malice. He knows your\ncharacter, Joseph, and is well acquainted with your pig-headedness and\nignorance; and he knows my character, Joseph, and he knows my want of\ngratitoode. Yes, Joseph,  says you,  here Pumblechook shook his head\nand hand at me,  he knows my total deficiency of common human\ngratitoode. _He_ knows it, Joseph, as none can. _You_ do not know it,\nJoseph, having no call to know it, but that man do. \n\nWindy donkey as he was, it really amazed me that he could have the face\nto talk thus to mine.\n\n Says you,  Joseph, he gave me a little message, which I will now\nrepeat. It was that, in my being brought low, he saw the finger of\nProvidence. He knowed that finger when he saw Joseph, and he saw it\nplain. It pinted out this writing, Joseph. _Reward of ingratitoode to\nhis earliest benefactor, and founder of fortun s_. But that man said he\ndid not repent of what he had done, Joseph. Not at all. It was right to\ndo it, it was kind to do it, it was benevolent to do it, and he would\ndo it again. \n\n It s pity,  said I, scornfully, as I finished my interrupted\nbreakfast,  that the man did not say what he had done and would do\nagain. \n\n Squires of the Boar!  Pumblechook was now addressing the landlord,\n and William! I have no objections to your mentioning, either up town\nor down town, if such should be your wishes, that it was right to do\nit, kind to do it, benevolent to do it, and that I would do it again. \n\nWith those words the Impostor shook them both by the hand, with an air,\nand left the house; leaving me much more astonished than delighted by\nthe virtues of that same indefinite  it.  I was not long after him in\nleaving the house too, and when I went down the High Street I saw him\nholding forth (no doubt to the same effect) at his shop door to a\nselect group, who honoured me with very unfavourable glances as I\npassed on the opposite side of the way.\n\nBut, it was only the pleasanter to turn to Biddy and to Joe, whose\ngreat forbearance shone more brightly than before, if that could be,\ncontrasted with this brazen pretender. I went towards them slowly, for\nmy limbs were weak, but with a sense of increasing relief as I drew\nnearer to them, and a sense of leaving arrogance and untruthfulness\nfurther and further behind.\n\nThe June weather was delicious. The sky was blue, the larks were\nsoaring high over the green corn, I thought all that countryside more\nbeautiful and peaceful by far than I had ever known it to be yet. Many\npleasant pictures of the life that I would lead there, and of the\nchange for the better that would come over my character when I had a\nguiding spirit at my side whose simple faith and clear home wisdom I\nhad proved, beguiled my way. They awakened a tender emotion in me; for\nmy heart was softened by my return, and such a change had come to pass,\nthat I felt like one who was toiling home barefoot from distant travel,\nand whose wanderings had lasted many years.\n\nThe schoolhouse where Biddy was mistress I had never seen; but, the\nlittle roundabout lane by which I entered the village, for quietness \nsake, took me past it. I was disappointed to find that the day was a\nholiday; no children were there, and Biddy s house was closed. Some\nhopeful notion of seeing her, busily engaged in her daily duties,\nbefore she saw me, had been in my mind and was defeated.\n\nBut the forge was a very short distance off, and I went towards it\nunder the sweet green limes, listening for the clink of Joe s hammer.\nLong after I ought to have heard it, and long after I had fancied I\nheard it and found it but a fancy, all was still. The limes were there,\nand the white thorns were there, and the chestnut-trees were there, and\ntheir leaves rustled harmoniously when I stopped to listen; but, the\nclink of Joe s hammer was not in the midsummer wind.\n\nAlmost fearing, without knowing why, to come in view of the forge, I\nsaw it at last, and saw that it was closed. No gleam of fire, no\nglittering shower of sparks, no roar of bellows; all shut up, and\nstill.\n\nBut the house was not deserted, and the best parlour seemed to be in\nuse, for there were white curtains fluttering in its window, and the\nwindow was open and gay with flowers. I went softly towards it, meaning\nto peep over the flowers, when Joe and Biddy stood before me, arm in\narm.\n\nAt first Biddy gave a cry, as if she thought it was my apparition, but\nin another moment she was in my embrace. I wept to see her, and she\nwept to see me; I, because she looked so fresh and pleasant; she,\nbecause I looked so worn and white.\n\n But dear Biddy, how smart you are! \n\n Yes, dear Pip. \n\n And Joe, how smart _you_ are! \n\n Yes, dear old Pip, old chap. \n\nI looked at both of them, from one to the other, and then \n\n It s my wedding-day!  cried Biddy, in a burst of happiness,  and I am\nmarried to Joe! \n\nThey had taken me into the kitchen, and I had laid my head down on the\nold deal table. Biddy held one of my hands to her lips, and Joe s\nrestoring touch was on my shoulder.  Which he warn t strong enough, my\ndear, fur to be surprised,  said Joe. And Biddy said,  I ought to have\nthought of it, dear Joe, but I was too happy.  They were both so\noverjoyed to see me, so proud to see me, so touched by my coming to\nthem, so delighted that I should have come by accident to make their\nday complete!\n\nMy first thought was one of great thankfulness that I had never\nbreathed this last baffled hope to Joe. How often, while he was with me\nin my illness, had it risen to my lips! How irrevocable would have been\nhis knowledge of it, if he had remained with me but another hour!\n\n Dear Biddy,  said I,  you have the best husband in the whole world,\nand if you could have seen him by my bed you would have But no, you\ncouldn t love him better than you do. \n\n No, I couldn t indeed,  said Biddy.\n\n And, dear Joe, you have the best wife in the whole world, and she will\nmake you as happy as even you deserve to be, you dear, good, noble\nJoe! \n\nJoe looked at me with a quivering lip, and fairly put his sleeve before\nhis eyes.\n\n And Joe and Biddy both, as you have been to church to-day, and are in\ncharity and love with all mankind, receive my humble thanks for all you\nhave done for me, and all I have so ill repaid! And when I say that I\nam going away within the hour, for I am soon going abroad, and that I\nshall never rest until I have worked for the money with which you have\nkept me out of prison, and have sent it to you, don t think, dear Joe\nand Biddy, that if I could repay it a thousand times over, I suppose I\ncould cancel a farthing of the debt I owe you, or that I would do so if\nI could! \n\nThey were both melted by these words, and both entreated me to say no\nmore.\n\n But I must say more. Dear Joe, I hope you will have children to love,\nand that some little fellow will sit in this chimney-corner of a winter\nnight, who may remind you of another little fellow gone out of it for\never. Don t tell him, Joe, that I was thankless; don t tell him, Biddy,\nthat I was ungenerous and unjust; only tell him that I honoured you\nboth, because you were both so good and true, and that, as your child,\nI said it would be natural to him to grow up a much better man than I\ndid. \n\n I ain t a-going,  said Joe, from behind his sleeve,  to tell him\nnothink o  that natur, Pip. Nor Biddy ain t. Nor yet no one ain t. \n\n And now, though I know you have already done it in your own kind\nhearts, pray tell me, both, that you forgive me! Pray let me hear you\nsay the words, that I may carry the sound of them away with me, and\nthen I shall be able to believe that you can trust me, and think better\nof me, in the time to come! \n\n O dear old Pip, old chap,  said Joe.  God knows as I forgive you, if I\nhave anythink to forgive! \n\n Amen! And God knows I do!  echoed Biddy.\n\n Now let me go up and look at my old little room, and rest there a few\nminutes by myself. And then, when I have eaten and drunk with you, go\nwith me as far as the finger-post, dear Joe and Biddy, before we say\ngood-bye! \n\n\n\n\nI sold all I had, and put aside as much as I could, for a composition\nwith my creditors, who gave me ample time to pay them in full, and I\nwent out and joined Herbert. Within a month, I had quitted England, and\nwithin two months I was clerk to Clarriker and Co., and within four\nmonths I assumed my first undivided responsibility. For the beam across\nthe parlour ceiling at Mill Pond Bank had then ceased to tremble under\nold Bill Barley s growls and was at peace, and Herbert had gone away to\nmarry Clara, and I was left in sole charge of the Eastern Branch until\nhe brought her back.\n\nMany a year went round before I was a partner in the House; but I lived\nhappily with Herbert and his wife, and lived frugally, and paid my\ndebts, and maintained a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe. It\nwas not until I became third in the Firm, that Clarriker betrayed me to\nHerbert; but he then declared that the secret of Herbert s partnership\nhad been long enough upon his conscience, and he must tell it. So he\ntold it, and Herbert was as much moved as amazed, and the dear fellow\nand I were not the worse friends for the long concealment. I must not\nleave it to be supposed that we were ever a great House, or that we\nmade mints of money. We were not in a grand way of business, but we had\na good name, and worked for our profits, and did very well. We owed so\nmuch to Herbert s ever cheerful industry and readiness, that I often\nwondered how I had conceived that old idea of his inaptitude, until I\nwas one day enlightened by the reflection, that perhaps the inaptitude\nhad never been in him at all, but had been in me.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LIX.\n\n\nFor eleven years, I had not seen Joe nor Biddy with my bodily\neyes, though they had both been often before my fancy in the\nEast, when, upon an evening in December, an hour or two after dark, I\nlaid my hand softly on the latch of the old kitchen door. I touched it\nso softly that I was not heard, and looked in unseen. There, smoking\nhis pipe in the old place by the kitchen firelight, as hale and as\nstrong as ever, though a little grey, sat Joe; and there, fenced into\nthe corner with Joe s leg, and sitting on my own little stool looking\nat the fire, was I again!\n\n We giv  him the name of Pip for your sake, dear old chap,  said Joe,\ndelighted, when I took another stool by the child s side (but I did\n_not_ rumple his hair),  and we hoped he might grow a little bit like\nyou, and we think he do. \n\nI thought so too, and I took him out for a walk next morning, and we\ntalked immensely, understanding one another to perfection. And I took\nhim down to the churchyard, and set him on a certain tombstone there,\nand he showed me from that elevation which stone was sacred to the\nmemory of Philip Pirrip, late of this Parish, and Also Georgiana, Wife\nof the Above.\n\n Biddy,  said I, when I talked with her after dinner, as her little\ngirl lay sleeping in her lap,  you must give Pip to me one of these\ndays; or lend him, at all events. \n\n No, no,  said Biddy, gently.  You must marry. \n\n So Herbert and Clara say, but I don t think I shall, Biddy. I have so\nsettled down in their home, that it s not at all likely. I am already\nquite an old bachelor. \n\nBiddy looked down at her child, and put its little hand to her lips,\nand then put the good matronly hand with which she had touched it into\nmine. There was something in the action, and in the light pressure of\nBiddy s wedding-ring, that had a very pretty eloquence in it.\n\n Dear Pip,  said Biddy,  you are sure you don t fret for her? \n\n O no, I think not, Biddy. \n\n Tell me as an old, old friend. Have you quite forgotten her?\n\n My dear Biddy, I have forgotten nothing in my life that ever had a\nforemost place there, and little that ever had any place there. But\nthat poor dream, as I once used to call it, has all gone by, Biddy, all\ngone by! \n\nNevertheless, I knew, while I said those words, that I secretly\nintended to revisit the site of the old house that evening, alone, for\nher sake. Yes, even so. For Estella s sake.\n\nI had heard of her as leading a most unhappy life, and as being\nseparated from her husband, who had used her with great cruelty, and\nwho had become quite renowned as a compound of pride, avarice,\nbrutality, and meanness. And I had heard of the death of her husband,\nfrom an accident consequent on his ill-treatment of a horse. This\nrelease had befallen her some two years before; for anything I knew,\nshe was married again.\n\nThe early dinner hour at Joe s, left me abundance of time, without\nhurrying my talk with Biddy, to walk over to the old spot before dark.\nBut, what with loitering on the way to look at old objects and to think\nof old times, the day had quite declined when I came to the place.\n\nThere was no house now, no brewery, no building whatever left, but the\nwall of the old garden. The cleared space had been enclosed with a\nrough fence, and looking over it, I saw that some of the old ivy had\nstruck root anew, and was growing green on low quiet mounds of ruin. A\ngate in the fence standing ajar, I pushed it open, and went in.\n\nA cold silvery mist had veiled the afternoon, and the moon was not yet\nup to scatter it. But, the stars were shining beyond the mist, and the\nmoon was coming, and the evening was not dark. I could trace out where\nevery part of the old house had been, and where the brewery had been,\nand where the gates, and where the casks. I had done so, and was\nlooking along the desolate garden walk, when I beheld a solitary figure\nin it.\n\nThe figure showed itself aware of me, as I advanced. It had been moving\ntowards me, but it stood still. As I drew nearer, I saw it to be the\nfigure of a woman. As I drew nearer yet, it was about to turn away,\nwhen it stopped, and let me come up with it. Then, it faltered, as if\nmuch surprised, and uttered my name, and I cried out, \n\n Estella! \n\n I am greatly changed. I wonder you know me. \n\nThe freshness of her beauty was indeed gone, but its indescribable\nmajesty and its indescribable charm remained. Those attractions in it,\nI had seen before; what I had never seen before, was the saddened,\nsoftened light of the once proud eyes; what I had never felt before was\nthe friendly touch of the once insensible hand.\n\nWe sat down on a bench that was near, and I said,  After so many years,\nit is strange that we should thus meet again, Estella, here where our\nfirst meeting was! Do you often come back? \n\n I have never been here since. \n\n Nor I. \n\nThe moon began to rise, and I thought of the placid look at the white\nceiling, which had passed away. The moon began to rise, and I thought\nof the pressure on my hand when I had spoken the last words he had\nheard on earth.\n\nEstella was the next to break the silence that ensued between us.\n\n I have very often hoped and intended to come back, but have been\nprevented by many circumstances. Poor, poor old place! \n\nThe silvery mist was touched with the first rays of the moonlight, and\nthe same rays touched the tears that dropped from her eyes. Not knowing\nthat I saw them, and setting herself to get the better of them, she\nsaid quietly, \n\n Were you wondering, as you walked along, how it came to be left in\nthis condition? \n\n Yes, Estella. \n\n The ground belongs to me. It is the only possession I have not\nrelinquished. Everything else has gone from me, little by little, but I\nhave kept this. It was the subject of the only determined resistance I\nmade in all the wretched years. \n\n Is it to be built on? \n\n At last, it is. I came here to take leave of it before its change. And\nyou,  she said, in a voice of touching interest to a wanderer, you\nlive abroad still? \n\n Still. \n\n And do well, I am sure? \n\n I work pretty hard for a sufficient living, and therefore yes, I do\nwell. \n\n I have often thought of you,  said Estella.\n\n Have you? \n\n Of late, very often. There was a long hard time when I kept far from\nme the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant\nof its worth. But since my duty has not been incompatible with the\nadmission of that remembrance, I have given it a place in my heart. \n\n You have always held your place in my heart,  I answered.\n\nAnd we were silent again until she spoke.\n\n I little thought,  said Estella,  that I should take leave of you in\ntaking leave of this spot. I am very glad to do so. \n\n Glad to part again, Estella? To me, parting is a painful thing. To me,\nthe remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and\npainful. \n\n But you said to me,  returned Estella, very earnestly,  God bless\nyou, God forgive you!  And if you could say that to me then, you will\nnot hesitate to say that to me now, now, when suffering has been\nstronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what\nyour heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but I hope into a\nbetter shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me\nwe are friends. \n\n We are friends,  said I, rising and bending over her, as she rose from\nthe bench.\n\n And will continue friends apart,  said Estella.\n\nI took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as\nthe morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so\nthe evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of\ntranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting\nfrom her."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Woman in White",
        "author": "Wilkie Collins",
        "category": "Mystery",
        "EN": "INTRODUCTION.\n\nStory-telling, like letter-writing, is going out of fashion. There are\nno modern Scheherezades, and the Sultans nowadays have to be amused in\na different fashion. But, for that matter, a hundred poetic pastimes\nof leisure have fled before the relentless Hurry Demon who governs this\nprosaic nineteenth century. The Wandering Minstrel is gone, and the\nTroubadour, and the Court of Love, and the King's Fool, and the Round\nTable, and with them the Story-Teller.\n\n Come, tell us a story!  It is the familiar plea of childhood. Unhappy\nhe who has not been assailed with it again and again. Thrice miserable\nshe who can be consigned to worse than oblivion by the scathing\ncriticism,  She doesn't know any stories!  and thrice blessed she who\nis recognized at a glance as a person likely to be full to the brim of\nthem.\n\nThere are few preliminaries and no formalities when the Person with a\nStory is found. The motherly little sister stands by the side of her\nchair, two or three of the smaller fry perch on the arms, and the baby\nclimbs up into her lap (such a person always has a capacious lap), and\nfolds his fat hands placidly. Then there is a deep sigh of blissful\nexpectation and an expressive silence, which means,  Now we are ready,\nplease; and if you would be kind enough to begin it with 'Once upon a\ntime,' we should be much obliged; though of course we understand that\nall the stories in the world can't commence that way, delightful as it\nwould be. \n\nThe Person with a Story smiles obligingly (at least it is to be hoped\nthat she does), and retires into a little corner of her brain, to\nrummage there for something just fitted to the occasion. That same\nlittle corner is densely populated, if she is a lover of children. In\nit are all sorts of heroic dogs, wonderful monkeys, intelligent cats,\nnaughty kittens; virtues masquerading seductively as fairies, and vices\nhiding in imps; birds agreeing and disagreeing in their little nests,\nand inevitable small boys in the act of robbing them; busy bees laying\nup their winter stores, and idle butterflies disgracefully neglecting\nto do the same; and then a troop of lost children, disobedient children,\nand lazy, industrious, generous, or heedless ones, waiting to furnish\nthe thrilling climaxes. The Story-Teller selects a hero or heroine\nout of this motley crowd,--all longing to be introduced to Bright-Eye,\nFine-Ear, Kind-Heart, and Sweet-Lips,--and speedily the drama opens.\n\nDid Rachel ever have such an audience? I trow not. Rachel never had tiny\nhands snuggling into hers in  the very best part of the story,  nor was\nshe near enough her hearers to mark the thousand shades of expression\nthat chased each other across their faces,--supposing they had any\nexpression, which is doubtful. Rachel never saw dimples lurking in the\nambush of rosy cheeks, and popping in and out in such a distracting\nmanner that she felt like punctuating her discourse with kisses! Her\ndull, conventional, grown-up hearers bent a little forward in their\nseats, perhaps, and compelled by her magic power laughed and cried in\nthe right places; but their eyes never shone with that starry lustre\nthat we see in the eyes of happy children,--a lustre that is dimmed,\nalas, in after years. Their eyes still see visions, but the  shadows\nof the prison house  have fallen about us, and the things which we have\nseen we  now can see no more! \n\nIf you chance to be the Person with a Story, you sit like a queen on her\nthrone surrounded by her loyal subjects; or like an unworthy sun with a\ngroup of flowers turning their faces towards you. Inspired by breathless\nattention, you try ardently to do your very best. It seems to you that\nyou could never endure a total failure, and you hardly see how you could\nbear, with any sort of equanimity, even the vacant gaze or restless\nmovement that would bespeak a vagrant interest. If you are a novice,\nperhaps the frightful idea crosses your mind,  What if one of\nthese children should slip out of the room?  Or, still more tragic\npossibility, suppose they should look you in the eye and remark with the\nterrible candor of infancy,  We do not like this story!  But no; you\nare more fortunate. The tale is told, and you are greeted with sighs of\nsatisfaction and with the instantaneous request,  Tell it again!  That\nis the encore of the Story-Teller,-- Tell it again! No, not another\nstory; the same one over again, please!  for  what novelty is worth\nthat sweet monotony where everything is known, and loved because it is\nknown?  No royal accolade could be received with greater gratitude. You\nendeavor to let humility wait upon self-respect; but when you discover\nthat the children can scarcely be dragged from your fascinating\npresence, crying like Romeo for death rather than banishment, and that\nthe next time you appear they make a wild dash from the upper regions,\nand precipitate themselves upon you with the full impact of their\nseveral weights  multiplied into their velocity,  you cannot help\nhugging yourself to think the good God has endowed you sufficiently to\nwin the love and admiration of such keen observers and merciless little\ncritics.\n\nNow this charming little drama takes place in somebody's nursery corner\nat twilight, when you are waiting for  that cheerful tocsin of the\nsoul, the dinner-bell,  or around somebody's fireside just before the\nchildren's bedtime; but the same scene is enacted every few days in the\npresence of the fresh-hearted, childlike kindergartner, of all women the\nlikeliest to find the secret of eternal youth. She chooses the story as\none of the vessels in which she shall carry the truth to her circle\nof little listeners, and you will never hear her say, like the needy\nknife-grinder,  Story? God bless you, I have none to tell, sir! \n\nIf the group chances to be one of bright, well-born, well-bred\nyoungsters, the opportunity to inspire and instruct is one of the most\neffective and valuable that can come to any teacher. On the other hand,\nif the circle happens to be one of little ragamuffins, Arabs, scrips and\nscraps of vagrant humanity (sometimes scalawags and sometimes\nangels), born in basements and bred on curbstones, then believe me, my\ncountrymen, there is a sight worth seeing, a scene fit for a painter. It\nmight be a pleasant satire upon our national hospitality if the artist\nwere to call such a picture  Young America,  for comparatively few\ndistinctively American faces would be found in his group of portraits.\n\nMake a mental picture, dear reader, of the ring of listening children in\na San Francisco free kindergarten, for it would be difficult to gather\nso cosmopolitan a company anywhere else: curly yellow hair and rosy\ncheeks ... sleek blonde braids and calm blue eyes ... swarthy faces and\nblue-black curls ... woolly little pows and thick lips ... long, arched\nnoses and broad, flat ones. There you will see the fire and passion\nof the Southern races and the self-poise, serenity, and sturdiness of\nNorthern nations. Pat is there, with a gleam of humor in his eye ...\nTopsy, all smiles and teeth ... Abraham, trading tops with little\nIsaac, next in line ... Hans and Gretchen, phlegmatic and dependable\n... Francois, never still for an instant ... Christina, rosy, calm, and\nconscientious, and Duncan, canny and prudent as any of his clan.\n\nWhat an opportunity for amalgamation of races and for laying the\nfoundation of American citizenship! for the purely social atmosphere of\nthe kindergarten makes it a school of life and experience. Imagine such\na group hanging breathless upon your words, as you recount the landing\nof the Pilgrims, or try to paint the character of George Washington\nin colors that shall appeal to children whose ancestors have known\nNapoleon, Cromwell, and Bismarck, Peter the Great, Garibaldi, Bruce, and\nRobert Emmett.\n\nTo such an audience were the stories in his little book told; and the\nlines that will perhaps seem commonplace to you glow for us with a\n light that never was on sea or land;  for  the secret of our emotions\nnever lies in the bare object, but in its subtle relations to our own\npast. \n\nAs we turn the pages, radiant faces peep between the words; the echo of\nchildish laughter rings in our ears and curves our lips with its happy\nmemory; there isn't a single round O in all the chapters but serves as\na tiny picture-frame for an eager child's face! The commas say,  Isn't\nthere any more?  the interrogation points ask,  What did the boy do\nthen?  the exclamation points cry in ecstasy,  What a beautiful story! \n and the periods sigh,  This is all for to-day. \n\nAt this point--where the dog Moufflou returns to his little master--we\nremember that Carlotty Griggs clapped her ebony hands, and shrieked in\ntransport,  I KNOWED HE'D come! _I_ KNOWED he'd come! \n\nHere is the place where we remarked impressively,  A lie, children, is\nthe very worst thing in the world!  whereupon Billy interrogated, with\nwide eyes and awed voice,  IS IT WORSE THAN A RAILROAD CROSSING?  And\nthere is a sentence in the story of the  Bird's Nest  sacred to the\nmemory of Tommy's tear!--Tommy of the callous conscience and the marble\nheart. Tommy's dull eye washed for one brief moment by the salutary\ntear! Truly the humble Story-Teller has not lived in vain. Sing, ye\nmorning stars, together, for this is the spot where Tommy cried!\n\nIf you would be the Person with a Story, you must not only have one to\ntell, but you must be willing to learn how to tell it, if you wish to\nmake it a  rememberable thing  to children. The Story-Teller, unlike the\npoet, is made as well as born, but he is not made of all stuffs nor in\nthe twinkling of an eye. In this respect he is very like the Ichneumon\nin the nonsense rhyme:&&\n\n   There once was an idle Ichneumon\n   Who thought he could learn to play Schumann;\n   But he found, to his pains,\n   It took talent and brains,\n   And neither possessed this Ichneumon. \n\nTo be effective, the story in the kindergarten should always be told,\nnever read; for little children need the magnetism of eye and smile as\nwell as the gesture which illuminates the strange word and endows it\nwith meaning. The story that is told is always a thousand times more\nattractive, real, and personal than anything read from a book.\n\nWell-chosen, graphically told stories can be made of distinct educative\nvalue in the nursery or kindergarten. They give the child a love\nof reading, develop in him the germ, at least, of a taste for good\nliterature, and teach him the art of speech. If they are told in simple,\ngraceful, expressive English, they are a direct and valuable object\nlesson in this last direction.\n\nThe ear of the child becomes used to refined intonations, and slovenly\nlanguage will grow more and more disagreeable to him. The kindergartner\ncannot be too careful in this matter. By the sweetness of her tone and\nthe perfection of her enunciation she not only makes herself a worthy\nmodel for the children, but she constantly reveals the possibilities of\nlanguage and its inner meaning.\n\n The very brooding of a voice on a word,  says George Macdonald,  seems\nto hatch something of what is in it. \n\nStories help a child to form a standard by which he can live and grow,\nfor they are his first introduction into the grand world of the ideal in\ncharacter.\n\n We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love; And even as these are well and\nwisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend. \n\nThe child understands his own life better, when he is enabled to compare\nit with other lives; he sees himself and his own possibilities reflected\nin them as in a mirror.\n\nThey also aid in the growth of the imaginative faculty, which is\nvery early developed in the child, and requires its natural food.\n Imagination,  says Dr. Seguin,  is more than a decorative attribute\nof leisure; it is a power in the sense that from images perceived and\nstored it sublimes ideals.   If I were to choose between two great\ncalamities for my children,  he goes on to say,  I would rather have\nthem unalphabetic than unimaginative. \n\nThere is a great difference of opinion concerning the value of fairy\nstories. The Gradgrinds will not accept them on any basis whatever, but\nthey are invariably so fascinating to children that it is certain they\nmust serve some good purpose and appeal to some inherent craving in\nchild-nature. But here comes in the necessity of discrimination.\nThe true meaning of the word  faerie  is spiritual, but many stories\nmasquerade under that title which have no claim to it. Some universal\nspiritual truth underlies the really fine old fairy tale; but there\ncan be no educative influence in the so-called fairy stories which\nare merely jumbles of impossible incidents, and which not unfrequently\npresent dishonesty, deceit, and cruelty in attractive or amusing guise.\n\nWhen the fairy tale carries us into an exquisite ideal world, where the\nfancy may roam at will, creating new images and seeing truth ever in new\nforms, then it has a pure and lovely influence over children, who are\nnatural poets, and live more in the spirit and less in the body than\nwe. The fairy tale offers us a broad canvas on which to paint our\nword-pictures. There are no restrictions of time or space; the world\nis ours, and we can roam in it at will; for spirit, there, is ever\nvictorious over matter.\n\n Once upon a time,  saith the Story-Teller,  there was a beautiful\nlocust tree, that bent its delicate fans and waved its creamy blossoms\nin the sunshine, and laughed because its flowers were so lovely and\nfragrant and the world was so fresh and green in its summer dress. \n\n It's queer for a tree to laugh,  said Bright-Eye.\n\n But queerer if it didn't laugh, with such lovely blossoms hanging all\nover it,  replied Fine-Ear.\n\nEverything is real to the happy child. Life is a sort of fairy garden,\nwhere he wanders as in a dream.  He can make abstraction of whatever\ndoes not fit into his fable; and he puts his eyes into his pocket just\nas we hold our noses in an unsavory lane. \n\nStories offer a valuable field for instruction, and for introducing in\nsimple and attractive form much information concerning the laws of plant\nand flower and animal life.\n\nA story of this kind, however, must be made as well as told by an\nartist; for in the hands of a bungler it is quite as likely to be a\nfailure as a success. It must be compounded with the greatest care,\nand the scientific facts must be generously diluted and mixed in small\nproportions with other and more attractive elements, or it will be\nrejected by the mental stomach; or, if received in one ear, will be\nunceremoniously ushered from the other with an  Avaunt! cold fact! What\nhave thou and I in common! \n\nDid you ever tell a story of this kind and watch its effect upon\nchildren? Did you ever note that fatal moment when it BEGAN to BEGIN to\ndawn upon the intelligence of the dullest member of your flock that your\nnarrative was a  whited sepulchre,  and that he was being instructed\nwithin an inch of his life?\n\n Treat me at least with honesty, my good woman!  he cries in his spirit.\n Read me lessons if you will, but do not make a pretense of amusing me\nat the same moment! \n\nThis obvious attitude of criticism is very disagreeable to you, but\nnever mind, it will be a salutary lesson. Did you think, O clumsy\nvisitor in childhood land, that simply because you called your stuffed\ndolls  Prince  and  Princess  you could conduct them straight through\nthe mineral kingdom, and allow them to converse with all the metals with\nimpunity? Nest time make your scientific fact an integral part of the\nstory, and do not try to introduce too much knowledge in one dose. All\nchildren love Nature and sympathize with her (or if they do not,  then\ndespair of them, O Philanthropy! ), and all stories that bring them\nnearer to the dear mother's heart bring them at the same time nearer to\nGod; therefore lead them gently to a loving observation of\n\n                           The hills\n Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales\n Stretching in pensive quietness between;\n The venerable woods; rivers that move\n In majesty, and the complaining brooks\n That make the meadows green. \n\nStories bring the force of example to bear upon children in the very\nbest possible way. Here we can speak to the newly awakened soul and\ntouch it to nobler issues. This can be done with very little of that\nabstract moralizing which is generally so ineffective. A moral  lugged\nin  by the heels, so to speak, without any sense of perspective on the\npart of the Story-Teller, can no more incline a child to nobler living\nthan cold victuals can serve as a fillip to the appetite. The facts\nthemselves should suffice to exert the moral influence; the deeds should\nspeak louder than the words, and in clearer, fuller tones. At the end of\nsuch a story,  Go thou and do likewise  sounds in the child's heart, and\na new throb of tenderness and aspiration, of desire to do, to grow, and\nto be, stirs gently there and wakes the soul to higher ideals. In such a\nstory the canting, vapid, or didactic little moral, tacked like a tag on\nthe end, for fear we shall not read the lesson aright, is nothing short\nof an insult to the better feelings. It used to be very much in vogue,\nbut we have learned better nowadays, and we recognize (to paraphrase\nMrs. Whitney's bright speech) that we have often vaccinated children\nwith morality for fear of their taking it the natural way.\n\nIt is a curious fact that children sympathize with the imaginary woes\nof birds and butterflies and plants much more readily than with the\nsufferings of human beings; and they are melted to tears much more\nquickly by simple incidents from the manifold life of nature, than by\nthe tragedies of human experience which surround them on every side.\nRobert Louis Stevenson says in his essay on  Child's Play,   Once, when\nI was groaning aloud with physical pain, a young gentleman came into the\nroom and nonchalantly inquired if I had seen his bow and arrow. He made\nno account of my groans, which he accepted, as he had to accept so\nmuch else, as a piece of the inexplicable conduct of his elders. Those\nelders, who care so little for rational enjoyment, and are even the\nenemies of rational enjoyment for others, he had accepted without\nunderstanding and without complaint, as the rest of us accept the scheme\nof the universe.  Miss Anna Buckland quotes in this connection a story\nof a little boy to whom his mother showed a picture of Daniel in the\nlions' den. The child sighed and looked much distressed, whereupon his\nmother hastened to assure him that Daniel was such a good man that God\ndid not let the lions hurt him.  Oh,  replied the little fellow,  I was\nnot thinking of that; but I was afraid that those big lions were going\nto eat all of him themselves, and that they would not give the poor\nlittle lion down in the corner any of him! \n\nIt is well to remember the details with which you surrounded your\nstory when first you told it, and hold to them strictly on all other\noccasions. The children allow you no latitude in this matter; they\ndraw the line absolutely upon all change. Woe unto you, scribes and\nPharisees, if you speak of Jimmy when  his name was Johnny;  or if, when\nyou are depicting the fearful results of disobedience, you lose Jane in\na cranberry bog instead of the heart of a forest! Personally you do not\ncare much for little Jane, and it is a matter of no moment to you where\nyou lost her; but an error such as this undermines the very foundations\nof the universe in the children's minds.  Can Jane be lost in two\nplaces?  they exclaim mentally,  or are there two Janes, and are they\nboth lost? because if so, it must be a fatality to be named Jane. \n\nPerez relates the following incident:  A certain child was fond of a\nstory about a young bird, which, having left its nest, although its\nmother had forbidden it to do so, flew to the top of a chimney, fell\ndown the flue into the fire, and died a victim to his disobedience. The\nperson who told the story thought it necessary to embellish it from his\nown imagination. 'That's not right,' said the child at the first change\nwhich was made, 'the mother said this and did that.' His cousin, not\nremembering the story word for word, was obliged to have recourse to\ninvention to fill up gaps. But the child could not stand it. He slid\ndown from his cousin's knees, and with tears in his eyes, and indignant\ngestures, exclaimed, 'It's not true! The little bird said, coui, coui,\ncoui, coui, before he fell into the fire, to make his mother hear; but\nthe mother did not hear him, and he burnt his wings, his claws, and his\nbeak, and he died, poor little bird.' And the child ran away, crying\nas if he had been beaten. He had been worse than beaten; he had been\ndeceived, or at least he thought so; his story had been spoiled by being\naltered.  So seriously do children for a long time take fiction for\nreality.\n\nIf you find the attention of the children wandering, you can frequently\nwin it gently back by showing some object illustrative of your story, by\ndrawing a hasty sketch on a blackboard, or by questions to the children.\nYou sometimes receive more answers than you bargained for; sometimes\nthese answers will be confounded with the real facts; and sometimes they\nwill fall very wide of the mark.\n\nI was once telling the exciting tale of the Shepherd's Child lost in\nthe mountains, and of the sagacious dog who finally found him. When I\nreached the thrilling episode of the search, I followed the dog as he\nstarted from the shepherd's hut with the bit of breakfast for his little\nmaster. The shepherd sees the faithful creature, and seized by a sudden\ninspiration follows in his path. Up, up the mountain sides they climb,\nthe father full of hope, the mother trembling with fear. The dog rushes\nahead, quite out of sight; the anxious villagers press forward in hot\npursuit. The situation grows more and more intense; they round a little\npoint of rocks, and there, under the shadow of a great gray crag, they\nfind&&\n\n What do you suppose they found? \n\n FI' CENTS!!  shouted Benny in a transport of excitement.  BET YER THEY\nFOUND FI' CENTS!! \n\nYou would imagine that such a preposterous idea could not find favor in\nany sane community; but so altogether seductive a guess did this appear\nto be, that a chorus of  Fi' cents!   Fi' cents!  sounded on every side;\nand when the tumult was hushed, the discovery of an ordinary flesh and\nblood child fell like an anti-climax on a public thoroughly in love\nwith its own incongruities. Let the psychologist explain Benny's mental\nprocesses; we prefer to leave them undisturbed and unclassified.\n\nIf you have no children of your own, dear Person with a Story, go into\nthe highways and by-ways and gather together the little ones whose\nmothers' lips are dumb; sealed by dull poverty, hard work, and constant\nlife in atmospheres where graceful fancies are blighted as soon as they\nare born. There is no fireside, and no chimney corner in those crowded\ntenements. There is no silver-haired grandsire full of years and wisdom,\nwith memory that runs back to the good old times that are no more. There\nis no cheerful grandame with pocket full of goodies and a store of dear\nold reminiscences all beginning with that enchanting phrase,  When I was\na little girl. \n\nBrighten these sordid lives a little with your pretty thoughts, your\nlovely imaginations, your tender pictures. Speak to them simply, for\ntheir minds grope feebly in the dim twilight of their restricted lives.\nThe old, old stories will do; stories of love and heroism and sacrifice;\nof faith and courage and fidelity. Kindle in tired hearts a gentler\nthought of life; open the eyes that see not and the ears that hear not;\ninterpret to them something of the beauty that has been revealed to you.\nYou do not need talent, only sympathy,  the one poor word that includes\nall our best insight and our best love. \n\n                        KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe fourteen little stories in this book are not offered as a collection\nample enough to satisfy all needs of the kindergartner.\n\nSuch a collection should embrace representative stories of all\nclasses--narrative, realistic, imaginative, scientific, and historical,\nas well as brief and simple tales for the babies.\n\nAn experience of twelve years among kindergartners, however, has shown\nus that there is room for a number of books like this modest example;\ncontaining stories which need no adaptation or arrangement; which are\nready for the occasion, and which have been thoroughly tried before\naudience after audience of children.\n\nThe three adaptations,  Benjy in Beast-Land,   Moufflou,  and the\n Porcelain Stove,  have been made as sympathetically as possible. Their\nintroduction needs no apology, for they are exquisite stories, and in\ntheir original form much too advanced for children of the kindergarten\nage.\n\nKATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN.\n\nNORA A. SMITH.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ORIOLE'S NEST.\n\n See how each boy, excited by the actual event, is all ear. --Froebel.\n\n\nThere it hangs, on a corner of the picture frame, very much as it hung\nin the old willow-tree out in the garden.\n\nIt was spring time, and I used to move my rocking-chair up to the\nwindow, where I could lean out and touch the green branches, and watch\nthere for the wonderful beautiful things to tell my little children in\nthe kindergarten. There I saw the busy little ants hard at work on\nthe ground below; the patient, dull, brown toads snapping flies in the\nsunshine; the striped caterpillars lazily crawling up the trunk of the\ntree; and dozens of merry birds getting ready for housekeeping.\n\nDid you know the birdies  kept house ? Oh, yes; they never  board  like\nmen and women; indeed, I don't think they even like to RENT a house\nwithout fixing it over to suit themselves, but they 'd much rather go to\nwork and build one,\n\n     So snug and so warm, so cosy and neat,\n     To start at their housekeeping all complete. \n\nNow there hung just inside my window a box of strings, and for two or\nthree days, no matter how many I put into it, when I went to look the\nnext time none could be found. I had talked to the little girls and\nscolded the little boys in the house, but no one knew anything about\nthe matter, when one afternoon, as I was sitting there, a beautiful bird\nwith a yellow breast fluttered down from the willow-tree, perched on the\nwindow-sill, cocked his saucy head, winked his bright eye, and without\nsaying  If you please,  clipped his naughty little beak into the string\nbox and flew off with a piece of pink twine.\n\nI sat as still as a mouse to see if the little scamp would dare to come\nback; he didn't, but he sent his wife, who gave a hop, skip, and a jump,\nlooked me squarely in the eye, and took her string without being a bit\nafraid.\n\nNow do you call that stealing?  No,  you answer. Neither do I; to be\nsure they took what belonged to me, but the window was wide open, and I\nthink they must have known I loved the birds and would like to give them\nsomething for their new house. Perhaps they knew, too, that bits of old\ntwine could not be worth much.\n\nThen how busily they began their work! They had already chosen the place\nfor their nest, springing up and down in the boughs till they found a\nbranch far out of sight of snakes and hawks and cruel tabby cats, high\nout of reach of naughty small boys with their sling-shots, and now\neverything was ready for these small carpenters to begin their building.\nNo hammer and nails were needed, claw and bill were all the tools they\nused, and yet what beautiful carpenter work was theirs!\n\nDo you see how strongly the nest is tied on to those three slender\ntwigs, and how carefully and closely it is woven, so that you can\nscarcely pull it apart? Those wiry black hairs holding all the rest\ntogether were dropped from Prince Charming's tail (Prince Charming is\nthe pretty saddle-horse who crops his grass, under the willow-tree).\nThose sleek brown hairs belonged to Dame Margery, the gentle mooly cow,\nwho lives with her little calf Pet in the stable with Prince Charming;\nand there is a shining yellow spot on one side. Ah, you roguish birds,\nyou must have been outside the kitchen window when baby Johnny's curls\nwere cut! We could only spare two from his precious head, and we hunted\neverywhere for this one to send to grandmamma!\n\nNow just look at this door in the side of the nest, and tell me how a\nbird could make such a perfect one; and yet I've heard you say,  It's\nonly a bird; he doesn't know anything.  To be sure he cannot do as many\nthings as you, but after all you are not wise enough to do many of the\nthings that he does. What would one of my little boys do, I wonder, if\nhe were carried miles away from home and dropped in a place he had never\nseen? Why, he would be too frightened to do anything but cry; and yet\nthere are many birds, who, when taken away a long distance, will perch\non top of the weather-vane, perhaps, make up their little bits of minds\nwhich way to go, and then with a whir-r-r-r fly off over house-tops and\nchurch-steeples, towns and cities, rivers and meadows, until they reach\nthe place from which they started.\n\nLook at the nest for the last time now, and see the soft, lovely lining\nof ducks' feathers and lambs' wool.\n\nWhy do you suppose it was made so velvet soft and fleecy? Why, for the\nlittle birds that were coming, of course; and sure enough, one morning\nafter the tiny house was all finished, I leaned far out of the window\nand saw five little eggs cuddled close together; but I did not get much\nchance to look at those precious eggs, I can tell you; for the mamma\nbird could scarcely spare a minute to go and get a drink of water, so\nafraid was she that they would miss the warmth of her downy wings.\n\nThere she sat in the long May days and warm, still nights: who but a\nmamma would be so sweet and kind and patient?--but SHE didn't mind the\ntrouble--not a bit. Bless her dear little bird-heart, they were not eggs\nto her: she could see them even now as they were going to be, her five\ncunning, downy, feathery birdlings, chirping and fluttering under her\nwings; so she never minded the ache in her back or the cramp in her\nlegs, but sat quite still at home, though there were splendid picnics\nin the strawberry patches and concerts on the fence rails, and all the\nfather birds, and all the mother birds that were not hatching eggs, were\nhaving a great deal of fun this beautiful weather. At last all was over,\nand I was waked up one morning by such a chirping and singing--such a\nfluttering and flying--I knew in a minute that where the night before\nthere had been two birds and five eggs, now there were seven birds and\nnothing but egg-shells in the green willow-tree!\n\nThe papa oriole would hardly wait for me to dress, but flew on and off\nthe window-sill, seeming to say,  Why don't you get up? why don't you\nget up? I have five little birds; they came out of the shells this very\nmorning, so hungry that I can't get enough for them to eat! Why don't\nyou get up, I say? I have five little birds, and I am taking care of\nthem while my wife is off taking a rest! \n\nThey were five scrawny, skinny little things, I must say; for you know\nbirds don't begin by being pretty like kittens and chickens, but look\nvery bare and naked, and don't seem to have anything to show but a big,\nbig mouth which is always opening and crying  Yip, yip, yip! \n\nNow I think you are wondering why I happen to have this nest, and how\nI could have taken away the beautiful house from the birds. Ah, that is\nthe sad part of the story, and I wish I need not tell it to you.\n\nWhen the baby birds were two days old, I went out on a long ride\ninto the country, leaving everything safe and happy in the old green\nwillow-tree; but when I came back, what do you think I found on the\nground under the branches?----A wonderful hang-bird's nest cut from the\ntree, and five poor still birdies lying by its side. Five slender necks\nall limp and lifeless,--five pairs of bright eyes shut forever! and\noverhead the poor mamma and papa twittering and crying in the way little\nbirds have when they are frightened and sorry--flying here and there,\nfirst down to the ground and then up in the tree, to see if it was\nreally true.\n\nWhile I was gone two naughty boys had come into the garden to dig for\nangle-worms, and all at once they spied the oriole's nest.\n\n O Tommy, here's a hang-bird's nest, such a funny one! there's nobody\nhere, let's get it,  cried Jack.\n\nUp against the tree they put the step-ladder; and although it was almost\nout of reach, a sharp jack-knife cut the twigs that held it up, and down\nit fell from the high tree with a heavy thud on the hard earth, and the\nfive little orioles never breathed again! Of course the boys didn't know\nthere were any birdies in the nest, or they wouldn't have done it for\nthe world; but that didn't make it any easier for the papa and mamma\nbird.\n\nNow, dear children, never let me hear you say,  It's no matter, they're\nonly birds, they don't care. \n\nThink about this nest: how the mother and father worked at it, weaving\nhair and string and wool together, day by day! Think how the patient\nmamma sat on the eggs, dreaming of the time when she should have five\nlittle singing, flying birds to care for, to feed and to teach! and then\nto have them live only two short days! Was it not dreadful to lose her\nbeautiful house and dear little children both at once?\n\nNever forget that just as your own father and mother love their dear\nlittle girls and boys, so God has made the birds love their little\nfeathery children that are born in the wonderful nests he teaches them\nto build.\n\n\n\n\nDICKY SMILEY'S BIRTHDAY.\n\n In order to be especially beneficial and effective, story-telling\nshould be connected with the events and occurrences of life. --Froebel.\n\n\nDicky Smiley was eight years old when all these things happened that I\nam going to tell you; eight years old, and as bright as a steel button.\nIt was very funny that his name should be Smiley, for his face was just\nlike a sunbeam, and if he ever cried at all it was only for a minute,\nand then the smiles would creep out and chase the tear-drops away from\nthe blue sky of his eyes.\n\nDicky's mother tried to call him Richard, because it was his papa's\nname, but it never would say itself somehow, and even when she did\nremember, and called him  Richard,  his baby sister Dot would cry,\n Mamma, don't scold Dicky. \n\nHe had once a good, loving papa like yours, when he was a tiny baby in\nlong white clothes; but the dear papa marched away with the blue-coated\nsoldiers one day, and never came back any more to his little children;\nfor he died far, far away from home, on a green battlefield, with many\nother soldiers. You can think how sad and lonely Dicky's mamma was, and\nhow she hugged her three babies close in her arms, and said:&&\n\n Darlings, you haven't any father now, but the dear God will help your\nmother to take care of you! \n\nAnd now she was working hard, so very hard, from morning till night\nevery day to get money to buy bread and milk and clothes for Bess and\nDot and Dicky.\n\nBut Dicky was a good little fellow and helped his mamma ever so much,\npulling out bastings from her needlework, bringing in the kindling\nand shavings from the shed, and going to the store for her butter and\npotatoes and eggs. So one morning she said:&&\n\n Dicky, you have been such a help to me this summer, I'd like to give\nyou something to make you very happy. Let us count the money in your\nbank--you earned it all yourself--and see what we could buy with it. To\nbe sure, Bess wants a waterproof and Dot needs rubbers, but we do want\nour little boy to have a birthday present. \n\n Oh, mamma,  cried he, clapping his hands,  what a happy day it will\nbe! I shall buy that tool-box at the store round the corner! It's such a\nbeauty, with a little saw, a claw-hammer, a chisel, a screw-driver, and\neverything a carpenter needs. It costs just a dollar, exactly! \n\nThen they unscrewed the bank and found ninety-five cents, so that it\nwould take only five cents more to make the dollar. Dicky earned that\nbefore he went to bed, by piling up wood for a neighbor; and his\nmamma changed all the little five and ten cent pieces into two bright\nhalf-dollars that chinked together joyfully in his trousers pocket.\n\nThe next morning he was up almost at the same time the robins and\nchimney-swallows flew out of their nests; jumped down the stairs, two at\na time, and could scarcely eat his breakfast, such a hurry as he was in\nto buy the precious tool-box. He opened the front door, danced down the\nwooden steps, and there on the curb in front of the house stood a little\ngirl, with a torn gingham apron, no shoes, no hat, and her nut-brown\ncurls flying in the wind; worse than all, she was crying as if her heart\nwould break.\n\n Why, little girl, what's the matter?  asked Dicky, for he was a\nkind-hearted boy, and didn't like to see people cry.\n\nShe took down her apron and sobbed:&&\n\n Oh, I've lost my darling little brown dog, and I can never get him\nback! \n\n Why, has somebody poisoned him--is he dead?  said Dicky.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n No, oh no! The pound-man took him away in his cart--my sweet little bit\nof a dog; he has such a cunning little curly tail, and long, silky ears;\nhe does all kinds of tricks, and they'll never let me in at home without\nBruno. \n\nAnd then she began to cry harder than ever, so that Dicky hardly knew\nwhat to say to her.\n\nNow the pound, children, is a very large place somewhere near the city,\nwith a high fence all around it, and inside are kept colts and horses,\nthe little calves and mother cows, and the sheep and goats that run away\nfrom home, or are picked up by the roadside. The pound-man rides along\nthe street in a big cart, which has a framework of slats built over\nit, so that it looks something like a chicken-coop on wheels, and in\nit--some of you have seen him do it--he puts the poor dogs that haven't\ncollars on, and whose masters haven't paid for them. Then he rides away\nand locks them up in the great place inside the high fence, and they\nhave to stay awhile. The dogs are killed if nobody comes for them.\n\n Well,  said Dicky,  let us go and see the pound-man. Do you know where\nhe lives? \n\n Yes, indeed,  answered the little girl, whose name was Lola.  I ran\nbehind the cart all the way to the pound. I cried after Bruno, and Bruno\nwhined for me, and poked his nose between the bars and tried to jump\nout, but he couldn't. It's a pretty long way there, and the man is as\ncross as two sticks. \n\nBut they started off, and on and on they walked together, Dicky having\ntight hold of Lola's hand, while she told him about the wonderful things\nBruno could do; how he could go up and down a ladder, play the fife\nand beat the drum, make believe go to sleep, and dance a jig. It was by\nthese tricks of his that Lola earned money for her uncle, with whom she\nlived; for her father and mother were both dead, and there was no one in\nthe whole world who loved the little girl. The dear mother had died in a\nbeautiful mountain country far across the ocean, and Lola and Bruno\nhad been sent in a ship over to America. Now this dear, pretty mamma of\nLola's used to sing to her when she rocked her to sleep, and as she grew\nfrom a baby to a tiny girl she learned the little songs to sing to Bruno\nwhen he was a little puppy. Would you like to hear one of them? She used\nto sing it on the street corners, and at the end of the last verse that\nknowing, cunning, darling Bruno would yawn as if he could not keep awake\nanother minute, tuck his silky head between his two fore paws, shut his\nbright eyes, give a tired little sigh, and stay fast asleep until Lola\nwaked him. This is the song:&&\n\nWake, lit-tle Bru-no! Wake, lit-tle Bru-no,\n\nWake, lit-tle Bru-no quick-ly!\n\nWhen the two children came to the pound and saw the little house at the\ngate where the pound-man lived, Dicky was rather frightened and hardly\ndared walk up the steps; but after a moment he thought to himself,  I\nwon't be a coward; I haven't done anything wrong.  So he gave the door\na rousing knock, for an eight-year-old boy, and brought the man out at\nonce.\n\n What do you want?  said he, in a gruff voice, for he did seem rather\ncross.\n\n Please, sir, I want Lola's little brown dog. He's all the dog she has,\nand she earns money with him. He does funny tricks for ten cents. \n\n How do you think I know whether I've got a brown dog in there or not? \n growled he.  You'd better run home to your mothers, both of you. \n\nAt this Lola began to cry again, and Dicky said quickly:&&\n\n Oh, you 'd know him soon as anything,--he has such a cunning curly tail\nand long silky ears. His name is Bruno. \n\n Well,  snapped the man,  where's your money? Hurry up! I want my\nbreakfast. \n\n Money!  cried Dicky, looking at Lola.\n\n Money!  whispered little Lola, looking back at Dicky.\n\n Yes,  said he,  of course! Give me a dollar and I will give you the\ndog. \n\n But,  answered Lola,  I haven't a bit of money; I never have any. \n\n Neither have --began Dicky; and then his fingers crept into his\ntrousers pocket and felt the two silver half-dollars that were to buy\nhis tool-box. He had forgotten all about that tool-box for an hour, but\nhow could he--how could he ever give away that precious money which\nhe had been so long in getting together, five cents at a time? He\nremembered the sharp little saw, the stout hammer, the cunning plane,\nbright chisel, and shining screw-driver, and his fingers closed round\nthe money tightly; but just then he looked at pretty little Lola, with\nher sad face, her swollen eyes and the brave red lips she was trying to\nkeep from quivering with tears. That was enough; he quickly drew out the\nsilver dollar, and said to the pound-man:&&\n\n Here's your dollar--give us the dog! \n\nThe man looked much surprised. Not many little eight-year-old boys have\na dollar in their trousers pocket.\n\n Where did you get it?  he asked.\n\n I earned every cent of it,  answered poor Dicky with a lump in his\nthroat and a choking voice.  I brought in coal and cut kindlings for\nmost six months before I got enough, and there ain't another tool-box in\nthe world so good as that one for a dollar--but I want Bruno! \n\n{Illustration:  Here's your dollar--give us the dog' }\n\nThen the pound-man showed them a little flight of steps that led up to\na square hole in the wall of the pound, and told them to go up and look\nthrough it and see if the dog was there. They climbed up and put their\ntwo rosy eager faces at the rough little window.  Bruno! Bruno!  called\nlittle Lola, and no Bruno came; but every frightened homesick little\ndoggy in that prison poked up his nose, wagged his tail, and started\nfor the voice. It didn't matter whether they were Fidos, or Carlos, or\nRovers, or Pontos; they knew that they were lonesome little dogs, and\nperhaps somebody had remembered them. Lola's tender heart ached at the\nsight of so many fatherless and motherless dogs, and she cried,&&\n\n No, no, you poor darlings! I haven't come for you; I want my own\nBruno. \n\n Sing for him, and may be he will come,  said Dicky; and Lola leaned her\nelbow on the window sill and sang:&&\n\n   Lit-tle shoes are sold at the gate-way of Heaven,\n   And to all the tattered lit-tle an-gels are giv-en;\n   Slum-ber my dar-ling, Slum-ber my dar-ling,\n   Slum-ber my dar-ling sweet-ly.\n\nNow Bruno was so tired with running from the pound-man, so hungry, so\nfrightened, and so hoarse with barking that he had gone to sleep; but\nwhen he heard Lola's voice singing the song he knew so well, he started\nup, and out he bounded half awake--the dearest, loveliest little brown\ndog in the world, with a cunning curly tail sticking up in a round bob\nbehind, two long silky ears that almost touched the ground, and four\nsoft white feet.\n\nThen they were two such glad children, and such a glad little brown\ndog was Bruno! Why, he kissed Lola's bare feet and hands and face,\nand nearly chewed her apron into rags, he was so delighted to see his\nmistress again. Even the cross pound-man smiled and said he was the\nprettiest puppy, and the smartest, he had ever had in the pound, and\nthat when he had shut him up the night before he had gone through all\nhis funny tricks in hopes that he would be let out.\n\nThen Dicky and Lola walked back home over the dusty road, Bruno running\nalong beside them, barking at the birds, sniffing at the squirrels, and\nchasing all the chickens and kittens he met on the way, till at last\nthey reached the street corner, where Lola turned to go to her home,\nafter kissing her new friend and thanking him for being so good and kind\nto her.\n\nBut what about Master Dicky himself, who had lost his tool-box? He\ndidn't feel much like a smiling boy just then. He crept in at the back\ndoor, and when he saw his dear mother's face in the kitchen he couldn't\nstand it a minute longer, but burst out crying, and told her all about\nit.\n\n Well, my little son,  said she,  I'm very, very sorry. I wish I could\ngive you another dollar, but I haven't any money to spare. You did just\nright to help Lola find Bruno, and buy him back for her, and I'm\nvery proud of my boy; but you can't give away the dollar and have the\ntool-box too. So wipe your eyes, and try to be happy. You didn't eat any\nbreakfast, dear, take a piece of nice bread and sugar. \n\nSo Dicky dried his tears and began to eat.\n\nAfter a while he wanted to wipe his sticky, sugary little mouth, and as\nhe took his clean handkerchief out of his pocket, two shining, chinking,\nclinking round things tumbled out on the floor and rolled under\nthe kitchen table! What could they have been! Why, his two silver\nhalf-dollars, to be sure. And where in the world did they come from, do\nyou suppose? Why, it was the nicest, funniest thing! The pound-man was\nnot so cross after all, for he thought Lola and Dicky were two such kind\nchildren, and Bruno such a cunning dog, that he could not bear to take\nDicky's dollar away from him; so while the little boy was looking the\nother way the pound-man just slipped the money back into Dick's bit of a\npocket without saying a word. Wasn't that a beautiful surprise?\n\nSo Dicky ran to the corner store as fast as his feet could carry him,\nand bought the tool-box.\n\nEvery Saturday afternoon he has such a pleasant time playing with it!\nAnd who do you suppose sits on the white kitchen floor with Dot and\nBess, watching him make dolls' tables and chairs with his carpenter's\ntools? Why, Lola, to be sure, and a little brown dog too, with a cunning\ncurly tail turned up in a round bob behind, and two long silky ears\ntouching the floor. For Dick's mamma had such a big heart that I do\nbelieve it would have held all the children in the world, and as Lola's\nuncle didn't care for her the least little bit, he gave her to this\nmamma of Dicky's, who grew to love this little girl almost as well as\nshe loved her own Dicky and Dot and Bess.\n\n\n\n\nAQUA; OR, THE WATER BABAY.\n\n\n{Footnote: The plan of this story was suggested to me many years ago; so\nmany, indeed, that I cannot now remember whether it was my friend's own,\nor whether he had read something like it in German.--K. D. W.}\n\n\n This standing above life, and yet grasping life, and being stirred by\nlife, is what makes the genuine educator. --Froebel.\n\n\nIt was a clear, sunshiny day, and out on the great, wide, open sea there\nsparkled thousands and thousands of water-drops. One of these was a\nmerry little fellow who danced on the silver backs of the fishes as they\nplunged up and down in the waves, and, no matter how high he sprung,\nalways came down again plump into his mother's lap.\n\nHis mother, you know, was the Ocean, and very beautiful she looked that\nsummer day in her dark blue dress and white ruffles.\n\nBy and by the happy water-drop tired of his play, and looking up to the\nclear sky above him thought he would like to have a sail on one of\nthe white floating clouds; so, giving a jump from the Ocean's arms, he\nbegged the Sun to catch him up and let him go on a journey to see the\nearth.\n\nThe Sun said  Yes,  and took ever so many other drops, too, so that Aqua\nmight not be lonesome on the way. He did not know this, however, for\nthey all had been changed into fine mist or vapor. Do you know what\nvapor is? If you breathe into the air, when it is cold enough, you will\nsee it coming out of your mouth like steam, and you may also see very\nhot steam coming from the nose of a kettle of boiling water. When it\nis quite near to the earth, where we can see it, we call it  fog.  The\nwater-drops had been changed into vapor because in their own shape they\nwere too heavy for sunbeams to carry.\n\nHigher and higher they sailed, so fast that they grew quite dizzy; why,\nin an hour they had gone over a hundred miles! and how grand it was,\nto be looking down on the world below, and sailing faster than fish can\nswim or birds can fly!\n\nBut after a while it grew nearly time for the Sun to go to bed; he\nbecame very red in the face, and began to sink lower and lower, until\nsuddenly he went clear out of sight!\n\nPoor little Aqua could not help being frightened, for every minute it\ngrew darker and colder. At last he thought he would try to get back to\nthe earth again, so he slipped away, and as he fell lower and lower\nhe grew heavier, until he was a little round, bright drop again, and\nalighted on a rosebush. A lovely velvet bud opened its leaves, and in\nhe slipped among the crimson cushions, to sleep until morning. Then the\nleaves opened, and rolling over in his bed he called out,  Please, dear\nSun, take me with you again.  So the sunbeams caught him up a second\ntime, and they flew through the air till the noon-time, when it grew\nwarmer and warmer, and there was no red rose to hide him, not even a\nblade of grass to shade his tired head; but just as he was crying out,\n Please, King Sun, let me go back to the dear mother Ocean,  the wind\ntook pity on him, and came with its cool breath and fanned him, with all\nhis brothers, into a heavy gray cloud, after which he blew them apart\nand told them to join hands and hurry away to the earth. Helter-skelter\ndown they went, rolling over each other pell-mell, till with a patter\nand clatter and spatter they touched the ground, and all the people\ncried,  It rains. \n\nSome of the drops fell on a mountain side, Aqua among them, and down\nthe rocky cliff he ran, leading the way for his brothers. Soon, together\nthey plunged into a mountain brook, which came foaming and dashing\nalong, leaping over rocks and rushing down the hillside, till in the\nvalley below they heard the strangest clattering noise.\n\nOn the bank stood a flour-mill, and at the door a man whose hat and\nclothes were gray with dust.\n\nInside the mill were two great stones, which kept whizzing round and\nround, faster than a boy's top could spin, worked by the big wheel\noutside; and these stones ground the wheat into flour and the corn into\ngolden meal.\n\nBut what giant do you suppose it was who could turn and swing that\ntremendous wheel, together with those heavy stones? No giant at all.\nNo one but our tiny little water-drops themselves, who sprang on it by\nhundreds and thousands, and whirled it over and over.\n\nThe brook emptied into a quiet pond where ducks and geese were swimming.\nSuch a still, beautiful place it was, with the fuzzy, brown cat-tails\nlifting their heads above the water, and the yellow cow lilies, with\ntheir leaves like green platters, floating on the top. On the edge lived\nthe fat green bullfrogs, and in the water were spotted trout, silver\nshiners, cunning minnows, and other fish.\n\nAqua liked this place so much that he stayed a good while, sailing up\nand down, taking the ducks' backs for ships and the frogs for horses;\nbut after a time he tired of the dull life, and he and his brothers\nfloated out over a waterfall and under a bridge for a long, long\ndistance, until they saw another brook tumbling down a hillside.\n\n Come, let's join hands!  cried Aqua; and so they all dashed on together\ntill they came to a broad river which opened its arms to them.\n\nBy the help of Aqua and his brothers the beautiful river was able to\nfloat heavy ships, though not so long ago it was only a little rill,\nthrough which a child could wade or over which he could step. Here a\nvessel loaded with lumber was carried just as easily as if it had been\na paper boat; there a steamer, piled with boxes and barrels, and crowded\nwith people, passed by, its great wheel crashing through the water and\nleaving a long trail, as of foamy soapsuds, behind it. On and ever on\nthe river went, seeking the ocean, and whether it hurried round a corner\nor glided smoothly on its way to the sea, there was always something\nnew and strange to be seen--busy cities, quiet little towns, buzzing\nsawmills, stone bridges, and harbors full of all sorts of vessels, large\nand small, with flags of all colors floating from the masts and sailors\nof all countries working on the decks. But Aqua did not stay long in any\nplace, for as the river grew wider and wider, and nearer and nearer\nits end, he could almost see the mother Ocean into whose arms he was\njoyfully running. She reached out to gather all her children, the\nwater-drops, into her heart, and closer than all the others nestled our\nlittle Aqua.\n\nHis travels were over, his pleasures and dangers past; and he was folded\nagain to the dear mother heart, the safest, sweetest place in all the\nwhole wide world. In warm, still summer evenings, if you will take a\nwalk on the sea-beach, you will hear the gentle rippling swash of the\nwaves; and some very wise people think it must be the gurgling voices\nof Aqua and his brother water-drops telling each other about their\nwonderful journey round the world.\n\n\n\n\nMOUFFLOU.\n\nAdapted from Ouida.\n\n We tell too few stories to children, and those we tell are stories\nwhose heroes are automata and stuffed dolls, --Froebel.\n\n\nLolo and Moufflou lived far away from here, in a sunny country called\nItaly.\n\nLolo was not as strong as you are, and could never run about and play,\nfor he was lame, poor fellow, and always had to hop along on a little\ncrutch. He was never well enough to go to school, but as his fingers\nwere active and quick he could plait straw matting and make baskets at\nhome. He had four or five rosy, bright little brothers and sisters, but\nthey were all so strong and could play all day so easily that Lolo was\nnot with them much; so Moufflou was his very best friend, and they were\ntogether all day long.\n\nMoufflou was a snow-white poodle, with such soft, curly wool that he\nlooked just like a lamb; and the man who gave him to the children, when\nhe was a little puppy, had called him  Moufflon,  which meant sheep in\nhis country.\n\nLolo's father had died four years before; but he had a mother, who had\nto work very hard to keep the children clean and get them enough to eat.\nHe had, too, a big brother Tasso, who worked for a gardener, and every\nSaturday night brought his wages home to help feed and clothe the little\nchildren. Tasso was almost a man now, and in that country as soon as you\ngrow to be a man you have to go away and be a soldier; so Lolo's mother\nwas troubled all the time for fear that her Tasso would be taken away.\nIf you have money enough, you can always pay some one to go in your\nplace; but Tasso had no money, and neither had the poor mother, so every\nday she was anxious lest her boy might have to go to the wars.\n\nBut Lolo and Moufflon knew nothing of all this, and every day, when\nLolo was well enough, they were happy together. They would walk up the\nstreets, or sit on the church, steps, or, if the day was fair, would\nperhaps go into the country and bring home great bundles of yellow and\nblue and crimson flowers.\n\nThe tumble-down old house in which the family lived was near a tall,\ngray church. It was a beautiful old church, and all the children loved\nit, but Lolo most of all. He loved it in the morning, when the people\nbrought in great bunches of white lilies to trim it; and at noon, when\nit was cool and shady; and at sunset, when the long rays shone through\nthe painted windows and made blue and golden and violet lights on the\nfloor.\n\nOne morning Lolo and Moufflou were sitting on the church steps and\nwatching the people, when a gentleman who was passing by stopped to look\nat the dog.\n\n That's a very fine poodle,  he said.\n\n Indeed he is,  cried Lolo.  But you should see him on Sundays when he\nis just washed; then he is as white as snow. \n\n Can he do any tricks?  asked the gentleman.\n\n I should say so,  said Lolo, for he had taught the dog all he knew.  He\ncan stand on his hind legs, he can dance, he can speak, he can make a\nwheelbarrow of himself, and when I put a biscuit on his nose and count\none, two, three, he will snap and catch the biscuit. \n\nThe gentleman said he should like to see some of the tricks, and\nMoufflou was very glad to do them, for no one had ever whipped him or\nhurt him, and he loved to do what his little master wished. Then the\ngentleman told Lolo that he had a little boy at home, so weak and so\nsick that he could not get up from the sofa, and that he would like to\nhave Lolo bring the poodle to show him the next day, so he gave Lolo\nsome money, and told him the name of the hotel where he was staying.\n\nLolo went hopping home as fast as his little crutch could carry him, and\nwent quickly upstairs to his mother.\n\n Oh, mamma!  he said.  See the money a gentleman gave me, and all\nbecause dear Moufflou did his pretty tricks so nicely. Now you can have\nyour coffee every morning, and Tasso can have his new suit for Sunday. \n Then he told his mother about the gentleman, and that he had promised to\ntake Moufflou to see him the next day.\n\n{Illustration: He will snap and catch the biscuit}\n\nSo when the morning came, Moufflou was washed as white as snow, and his\npretty curls were tied up with blue ribbon, and they both trotted off.\nMoufflou was so proud of his curls and his ribbon that he hardly liked\nto put his feet on the ground at all. They were shown to the little\nboy's room, where he lay on the sofa very pale and unhappy. A bright\nlittle look came into his eyes when he saw the dog, and he laughed when\nMoufflou did his tricks. How he clapped his hands when he saw him make\na wheelbarrow, and he tossed them both handfuls of cakes and candies!\nNeither the boy nor the dog ever had quite enough to eat, so they\nnibbled the little cakes with their sharp, white teeth, and were very\nglad.\n\nWhen Lolo got up to go, the little boy began to cry, and said,  Oh, I\nwant the dog. Let me have the dog! \n\n Oh, indeed I can't,  said Lolo,  he is my own Moufflou, and I cannot\nlet you have him. \n\nThe little boy was so unhappy and cried so bitterly that Lolo was very\nsorry to see him, and he went quickly down the stairs with Moufflou. The\ngentleman gave him more money this time, and he was so excited and so\nglad that he went very fast all the way home, swinging himself over the\nstones on his little crutch. But when he opened the door, there was his\nmother crying as if her heart would break, and all the children were\ncrying in a corner, and even Tasso was home from his work, looking very\nunhappy.\n\n Oh! what is the matter?  cried Lolo. But no one answered him, and\nMoufflon, seeing them all so sad, sat down and threw up his nose in the\nair and howled a long, sad howl. By and by one of the children told Lolo\nthat at last Tasso had been chosen to be a soldier, and that he must\nsoon go away to the war. The poor mother said, crying, that she did not\nknow what would become of her little children through the long, cold\nwinter.\n\nLolo showed her his money, but she was too unhappy even to care for\nthat, and so by and by he went to his bed with Moufflou. The dog had\nalways slept at Lolo's feet, but this night he crept close up by the\nside of his little master, and licked his hand now and then to show that\nhe was sorry.\n\nThe next morning Lolo and Moufflon went with Tasso to the gardens where\nhe worked, and all the way along the bright river and among the green\ntrees they talked together of what they should do when Tasso had gone.\nTasso said that if they could only get some money he would not have to\ngo away to the wars, but he shook his head sadly and knew that no one\nwould lend it to them. At noon Lolo went home with Moufflon to his\ndinner. When they had finished (it was only bean soup and soon eaten),\nthe mother told Lolo that his aunt wanted him to go and see her that\nafternoon, and take care of the children while she went out. So Lolo put\non his hat, called Moufflou, and was limping toward the door, when his\nmother said:&&\n\n No, don't take the dog to-day, your aunt doesn't like him; leave him\nhere with me. \n\n Leave Moufflou?  said Lolo,  why, I never leave him; he wouldn't know\nwhat to do without me all the afternoon. \n\n Yes, leave him,  said his mother.  I don't want you to take him with\nyou. Don't let me tell you again.  So Lolo turned around and went down\nthe stairs, feeling very sad at leaving his dear Moufflou even for a\nshort time. But the hours went by, and when night-time came he hurried\nback to the little old home. He stood at the bottom of the long, dark\nstairway and called  Moufflou! Moufflou!  but no doggie came; then he\nclimbed half-way up to the landing and called again,  Moufflou!  but no\nlittle white feet came pattering down. Up to the top of the stairs went\npoor tired Lolo and opened the door.\n\n Why, where is my Moufflou?  he said.\n\nThe mother had been crying, and she looked very sad and did not answer\nhim for a moment.\n\n Where is my Moufflou?  asked Lolo again,  what have you done with my\ndear Moufflou? \n\n He is sold,  the mother said at last,  sold to the gentleman who has\nthe little lame boy. He came here to-day, and he likes the dog so much\nand his little boy was so pleased at the pretty tricks he does, that he\ntold me he would give a great deal of money if I would sell him the dog.\nJust think, Lolo, he gave me so much money that we can pay somebody now\nto go to the war for Tasso. \n\nBut before she had finished talking, Lolo began to grow white and cold\nand to waver to and fro, so that his little crutch could hardly support\nhim. When she had done he called out,  My Moufflou--my Moufflou sold! \n and he threw his hands up over his head and fell all in a heap on the\nfloor, his poor little crutch clattering down beside him. His mother\ntook him up and laid him on his bed, but all night long he tossed to and\nfro, calling for his dog. When the morning came, his little hands and\nhis head were very, very hot, and by and by the doctor came and said he\nhad a fever. He asked the mother what it was the little boy was calling\nfor, and she told him that it was his dog, and that he had been sold.\nThe doctor shook his head, and then went away.\n\nDay after day poor Lolo lay on his bed. His hair had been cut short, he\ndid not know his brothers and sisters, nor his mother, and his little\naching head went to and fro, to and fro, on the pillow from morning till\nnight. Once Tasso went to the hotel to find the gentleman. He was\ngoing to tell him to take the money and give him back the dog; but the\ngentleman had gone many miles away on the cars and taken Moufflou with\nhim. So every day Lolo grew weaker, until the doctor said that he must\ndie very soon.\n\nOne afternoon they were all in the room with him. The windows were wide\nopen. His mother sat by his bed and the children on the floor beside\nher; even Tasso was at home helping to take care of his little\nbrother. All was so still that you could hear poor Lolo's faint breath,\nwhen--suddenly--there was a scampering and a pattering of little feet\non the stairs, and a white poodle dashed into the room and jumped on the\nbed. It was Moufflou! but you would never have known him, for he was\nso thin that you could count all his bones. His curls were dirty and\nmatted, and full of sticks and straws and burrs; his feet were dusty and\nbleeding, and you could tell in a moment that he had traveled a great\nmany miles. When he jumped on the bed, Lolo opened his eyes a little.\nHe saw it was Moufflou, and laid one little thin hand on the dog's\nhead; then he turned on his pillow, closed his eyes, and went quietly to\nsleep. Moufflou would not get off the bed, and would eat nothing unless\nthey brought it to him there. He only lay close by his little master,\nwith his brown eyes wide open, looking straight into his face. By and by\nthe doctor came, and said that Lolo was really a little better, and\nthat perhaps he might get well now. The mother and Tasso were very glad\nindeed, but they knew that the gentleman would come back for his dog,\nand they scarcely knew what to do, nor what to say to him. Lolo grew a\nlittle stronger every day, and at the end of a week a man came upstairs\nasking if Moufflou was there. They had taken him a long way off, but\nhe had run away from them one day, and they had never been able to find\nhim. Tasso asked the messenger to let Moufflou stay until he had seen\nthe gentleman, and he took the money and put on his hat and went with\nhim to the hotel. The sick boy was in the room with his father, and\nTasso went straight to them and told them all about it: that Lolo nearly\ndied without his dear Moufflon, that day after day he lay in his bed\ncalling for the dog, and that at last one afternoon Moufflon came back\nto them, thin and hungry and dirty, but so glad to see his little master\nagain. Nobody knew, said Tasso, how he could have found his way so many\nmiles alone, but there he was, and now he begged the gentleman to be\nso kind as to take back the money. He would go and be a soldier, if he\nmust; but Lolo and his dog must never be parted again.\n\nThe gentleman told Tasso that he seemed to be a kind brother, and that\nhe might keep the money and the dog too, if only he would find them\nanother poodle and teach him to be as wise and faithful as Moufflou was.\nTasso was so glad that he thanked them again and again, and hurried home\nto tell Lolo and his mother the good news. He soon found a poodle almost\nas pretty as Moufflou, and every day Lolo, who has grown strong now,\nhelps Tasso to teach him all of Moufflon's tricks.\n\nSometimes Lolo turns and puts his arms around Moufflon's neck and\nsays,&&\n\n Tell me, my Moufflou, how you ever came back to me, over all the\nrivers, and all the bridges, and all the miles of road? \n\nMoufflou can never answer him, but I think he must have found his way\nhome because he loved his master so much; and the grown people always\nsay,  Love will find out the way. \n\n\n\n\nBENJY IN BEASTLAND.\n\nADAPTED FROM MRS. EWING.\n\n With the genuine story-teller the inner life of the genuine listener\nis roused; he is carried out of himself, and he thereby measures\nhimself. --FROEBEL.\n\n\nBenjy was a very naughty, disagreeable boy! It is sad to say it, but it\nis truth. He always had a cloudy, smudgy, slovenly look, like a slate\nhalf-washed, that made one feel how nice it would be if he could be\nscrubbed inside and out with hot water and soap.\n\nBenjy was the only boy in the family, but he had two little sisters who\nwere younger than he. They were dear, merry little things, and many boys\nwould have found them pleasant little playmates; but Benjy had shown how\nmuch he disliked to play with them, and it made them feel very badly.\nOne of them said one day,  Benjy does not care for us because we are\nonly girls, so we have taken Nox for our brother.  Nox was a big curly\ndog, something like a Newfoundland.\n\nNow Benjy was not at all handsome, and he hated tubs and brushes and\nsoap and water. He liked to lie abed late in the mornings, and when he\ngot up he had only time enough to half wash himself. But Nox rose early,\nliked cold water, had snow-white teeth and glossy hair, and when you\nspoke to him he looked straight up at you with his clear honest brown\neyes. Benjy's jacket and shirt-front were always spotted with dirt,\nwhile the covering of Nox's chest was glossy and well kept. Benjy came\ninto the parlor with muddy boots and dirty hands; but Nox, if he had\nbeen out in the mud, would lie down when he came home, and lick his\nbrown paws till they were quite clean. Benjy liked to kill all kinds of\nanimals, but Nox saved lives, though he often came near losing his own.\n\nNear their home was a deep river, where many a dog and cat was drowned.\nThere was one place on the bank of this river where there was an old\nwillow-tree, which spread its branches wide and stretched its long arms\ntill they touched the water. Here Nox used to bring everything that he\nfound in the river.\n\nI must tell you that Benjy did not like Nox, and with very good\nreason. Benjy had had something to do with the death of several animals\nbelonging to the people in the neighborhood, and he had tied stones or\ntin cans around their necks and dropped them into the river. But Nox\nused to wander round quite early in the morning, and very often found in\nthe river and brought out what Benjy had thrown in, and this is why he\ndid not like the brave dog.\n\nThere was another dog in the family, named Mr. Rough. His eyes had\nbeen almost scratched out by cats, his little body bore marks of many\nbeatings, and he had a hoarse bark which sounded as if he had a bad\ncold.\n\nIf Benjy cared for any animal, it was for Mr. Rough, although he treated\nhim worse than he did Nox, because he was small.\n\nOne day Benjy felt very mischievous; he even played a cruel trick on Nox\nwhile he was asleep. As he sat near to him he kept lightly pricking the\ndog's lips with a fine needle. The dog would half wake up, shake his\nhead, rub his lips with his paws, and then drop off to sleep again.\n\nAt last this cruel boy stuck the needle in too far and hurt poor Nox,\nwho jumped up with a start, and as he did so the needle broke off, part\nof it staying in the flesh, where, after a great deal of work which hurt\nthe poor dog dreadfully, the little sisters found it. How they cried\nfor their pet! The braver one held Nox's lips and pulled out the needle,\nwhile the other wiped the tears from her sister's eyes, that she might\nsee what she was doing. Nox sat still and moaned and wagged his tail\nvery feebly, but when it was over he fairly knocked the little sisters\ndown in his eagerness to show his gratitude. But Benjy went out and\nfound Mr. Rough, and as he did not feel like being kind to any one, he\nkicked him, and Mr. Rough for the first time ran away. Benjy could not\nfind him, but he found a boy as naughty as himself, who was chasing\nanother little dog and pelting it with stones. This would have been very\ngood fun, but one of the stones struck the dog and killed him. So the\nboys tied something around his neck and threw him into the river.\n\nBenjy went to bed early that night, but he could not sleep, because he\nwas thinking of that little white dog, and wishing he had not thrown\nhim into the river; so at last he got up and went to the willow-tree. He\nlooked up through the branches and saw the moon shining down at him, and\nit seemed so large and so close that he thought if he were only on the\nhighest part of the tree he could touch it with his hand. While he was\nlooking he thought of a book his mother had, which told him that all\nanimals went up into the moon after they left the earth.\n\n I wonder,  said Benjy,  if that dog we killed last night is really up\nthere. \n\nThe Man in the Moon looked down on him just then, and, to his surprise,\nsaid:&&\n\n This is Beastland. Won't you come up and see if the dog is here? Can\nyou climb? \n\n I guess I can,  said Benjy, and he climbed up first on one branch, then\nup higher on to another, till he stood on the very top, and all he could\nsee about him was a shining white light.\n\n Walk right in,  said the Man in the Moon.  Put out your feet,--don't be\nafraid!  So Benjy stepped into the moon and found himself in Beastland.\n\nOh! it was such a funny place, and yet it was very beautiful. There were\nmany more beasts there than in a menagerie, and they were so polite to\neach other, too, and so merry and kind to Benjy, that it made him feel\nquite at home.\n\nA nice old spider was anxious to teach him how to make a web. So he said\nto Benjy:&&\n\n When you are ready, look around and find a spot where you can tie your\nfirst line; then you have a ball of thread inside of you, of course. \n\n I can't say that I have,  said Benjy,  but I have a good deal of string\nin my pocket. \n\n Oh, well!  said the spider,  that is all right; whether it's in your\npocket or your stomach it is all the same. \n\nJust as the spider was giving Benjy his lesson, one animal whispered to\nanother, and that one to another, who and what Benjy was. Dear me! in a\nminute the beasts all changed their way of treating him. They called him\nBOY! and up there that meant something not at all nice. Then they took\nhim to the Lion, the king of all the beasts, and asked him what should\nbe done with the Boy.\n\nThe Lion said:  If you want me to have anything to do with this trouble,\nyou must mind me. First, however, we will hear what Benjy has to say for\nhimself. \n\nThey all placed themselves in a circle, the Lion on a high chair,\n(because, you know, he was going to be judge, and all judges sit in big\nchairs,) and Benjy sat in the middle of the circle.\n\n Now, what has the Boy done?  asked the Lion.\n\n He stones and drowns dogs, and he hurts and kills cats,  shouted the\nbeasts all together.\n\n Mr. Rough kills the cats,  said Benjy, because he was frightened.\n\n Very well,  said the Lion,  we will send some one down for Mr. Rough. \n\nSo they all waited, and in a little while they heard the jingling of Mr.\nRough's collar, and he walked into the circle with his little short tail\nstanding right up.\n\n Mr. Rough,  said the Lion,  Benjy says it is you, and not he, who tease\nand kill the cats. \n\n Well,  said Mr. Rough, jumping about in an angry way,  am I to blame?\nBOUF, BOUF, who taught me to do it? BOUF, BOUF, it was that Boy over\nthere. BOUF-BOUF! \n\nThen Mr. Rough told them that Benjy had made him tease and worry the\ncats and dogs so often that he had quite learned to like it. All the\nbeasts were very angry at this, and said that Benjy must be punished.\n\nThe Lion said that he did not know just then what was best to be done\nwith Benjy, so he asked the beasts if they would wait till he had walked\naround and thought about it. They said yes, so he walked around the\ncircle seven times, lashing his tail in the grandest way; then he took\nhis seat again and said:&&\n\n Gentle beasts, birds and fishes, you have all heard what this Boy has\ndone, and you would like him to be treated as he has treated you. We\nwill not abuse Benjy, but I do not think he is good enough to stay with\nus. We will tie a tin-kettle to him and chase him from Beastland, and\nMr. Rough shall be our leader. \n\nThis was no sooner said than done. The Lion gave one dreadful roar as a\nsignal for the animals to begin the chase.\n\nWith the tin-kettle fastened to him and hurting him at every step, and\nwith Mr. Rough at his very heels, Benjy was run out of Beastland. When\nhe got to the edge of the moon he jumped off, Mr. Rough after him.\n\nDown, down, they went, oh! so fast and so far! Benjy screaming all the\nway and Mr. Rough's collar jingling. They came to the river, and making\nall the noise they could, in they fell. As Benjy sank he thought of all\nthe unkind things he had done. He came to the top, but sank again, and\nsinking, thought of his papa and mamma and his little sisters, and of\nhis nice little bed, and of the prayers his dear mamma used to hear him\nsay. He rose for the last time, and saw Nox standing on the bank, and\nthought,  Now he has come to do something to me because I have so often\nhurt him.  Down, down he went, as a lark flew up in the summer sky. The\nbird was almost out of sight when a soft black nose and great brown eyes\ncame close to his face, and a kind, gentle mouth took hold of him, and\npaddling and swimming as hard as he could, Nox carried Benjy to the\nshore and laid him under the willow-tree. There Benjy's papa found him,\nand took him home, where he was sick for a long, long time. When he got\na little better he used to tell people of his visit to Beastland, but\nthey always said it was only a dream he had during the fever.\n\nIn the long weeks of his sickness he grew much kinder and sweeter. But\nsomething happened when he was getting well which softened his little\nheart once and forever.\n\nWhile he was sick, Mr. Rough was given to one of the servants to be\ncared for and fed well, but he did not treat him kindly, and besides,\nthe dog wanted his little master; he wanted to see him, but no one would\nlet him; so poor faithful Mr. Rough got thinner and weaker every day,\ntill at last he would not eat anything nor even go out for a little\nwalk.\n\nOne day the barn door was open and Mr. Rough thought of Benjy and crept\ninto the house. When he got into the front hall he smelled Benjy and ran\ninto the parlor; and when he got into the parlor he saw Benjy, who had\nheard the jingle of his collar and who stood up and held out his arms\nfor him. Mr. Rough jumped into them, and then fell dead at his master's\nfeet.\n\nYes, dear children, Mr. Rough died of joy at seeing Benjy again. Benjy\nfelt very sorry for him, and it kept him from growing well for a long\ntime, but it did him good in other ways, for as the tears rolled down\nhis cheeks on to Mr. Bough's poor little scratched face, he felt as if\nhe never could hurt or be unkind to any animal again.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PORCELAIN STOVE.\n\nAdapted From Ouida.\n\n The story-teller must take life into himself in its wholeness, must let\nit live and work whole and free within him. He must give it out free\nand unabbreviated, and yet STAND ABOVE THE LIFE which actually\nis. --Froebel.\n\n\nIn a little brown house, far, far away in Germany, there lived a father\nand his children. There were ever so many of them,--let me see,--Hilda,\nthe dear eldest sister, and Hans, the big, strong brother; then Karl and\nAugust, and the baby Marta. Just enough for the fingers of one hand. How\nmany is that? But it is Karl that I am going to tell you about. He was\nnine years old, a rosy little fellow, with big bright eyes and a curly\nhead as brown as a ripe nut. The dear mother was dead, and the father\nwas very poor, so that Karl and his brothers and sisters sometimes knew\nwhat it was to be hungry; but they were happy, for they loved each other\nvery dearly, and ate their brown bread and milk without wishing it were\nsomething nicer. One afternoon Karl had been sent on a long journey. It\nwas winter time, and he had to run fast over the frozen fields of white\nsnow. The night was coming on, and he was hurrying home with a great jug\nof milk, feeling cold and tired. The mountains looked high and white\nand still in the cold moonlight, and the stars seemed to say, when\nthey twinkled,  Hurry, Karl! the children are hungry.  At last he saw\na little brown cottage, with a snow-laden roof and a shining window,\nthrough which he could see the bright firelight dancing merrily,--for\nHilda never closed the shutters till all the boys were safely inside the\nhouse. When he saw the dear home-light he ran as fast as his feet could\ncarry him, burst in at the low front door, kissed Hilda, and shouted:&&\n\n Oh! dear, dear Hirschvogel! I am so glad to get back to you again; you\nare every bit as good as the summer time. \n\nNow, Hirschvogel was not one of the family, as you might think, nor\neven a splendid dog, nor a pony, but it was a large, beautiful porcelain\nstove, so tall that it quite touched the ceiling. It stood at the end of\nthe room, shining with all the hues of a peacock's tail, bright and warm\nand beautiful; its great golden feet were shaped like the claws of a\nlion, and there was a golden crown on the very top of all. You never\nhave seen a stove like it, for it was white where our stoves are black,\nand it had flowers and birds and beautiful ladies and grand gentlemen\npainted all over it, and everywhere it was brilliant with gold and\nbright colors. It was a very old stove, for sixty years before, Karl's\ngrandfather had dug it up out of some broken-down buildings where he was\nworking, and, finding it strong and whole, had taken it home; and ever\nsince then it had stood in the big room, warming the children, who\ntumbled like little flowers around its shining feet. The grandfather\ndid not know it, but it was a wonderful stove, for it had been made by a\ngreat potter named Hirschvogel.\n\nA potter, you know, children, is a man who makes all sorts of things,\ndishes and tiles and vases, out of china and porcelain and clay. So the\nfamily had always called the stove Hirschvogel, after the potter, just\nas if it were alive.\n\nTo the children the stove was very dear indeed. In summer they laid a\nmat of fresh moss all around it, and dressed it up with green boughs and\nbeautiful wild flowers. In winter, scampering home from school over the\nice and snow, they were always happy, knowing that they would soon be\ncracking nuts or roasting chestnuts in the heat and light of the dear\nold stove. All the children loved it, but Karl even more than the rest,\nand he used to say to himself,  When I grow up I will make just such\nthings too, and then I will set Hirschvogel up in a beautiful room that\nI will build myself. That's what I will do when I'm a man. \n\nAfter Karl had eaten his supper, this cold night, he lay down on the\nfloor by the stove, the children all around him, on the big wolf-skin\nrug. With some sticks of charcoal he was drawing pictures for them of\nwhat he had seen all day. When the children had looked enough at one\npicture, he would sweep it out with his elbow and make another--faces,\nand dogs' heads, and men on sleds, and old women in their furs, and\npine-trees, and all sorts of animals. When they had been playing in this\nway for some time, Hilda, the eldest sister, said:&&\n\n It is time for you all to go to bed, children. Father is very late\nto-night; you must not sit up for him. \n\n Oh, just five minutes more, dear Hilda,  they begged.  Hirschvogel is\nso warm; the beds are never so warm as he is. \n\nIn the midst of their chatter and laughter the door opened, and in blew\nthe cold wind and snow from outside. Their father had come home. He\nseemed very tired, and came slowly to his chair. At last he said,  Take\nthe children to bed, daughter. \n\nKarl stayed, curled up before the stove. When Hilda came back, the\nfather said sadly:\n\n Hilda, I have sold Hirschvogel! I have sold it to a traveling peddler,\nfor I need money very much; the winter is so cold and the children are\nso hungry. The man will take it away to-morrow. \n\nHilda gave a cry.  Oh, father! the children, in the middle of winter! \n and she turned as white as the snow outside.\n\nKarl lay half blind with sleep, staring at his father.  It can't be\ntrue, it can't be true!  he cried.  You are making fun, father.  It\nseemed to him that the skies must fall if Hirschvogel were taken away.\n\n Yes,  said the father,  you will find it true enough. The peddler has\npaid half the money to-night, and will pay me the other half to-morrow\nwhen he packs up the stove and takes it away. \n\n Oh, father! dear father!  cried poor little Karl,  you cannot mean what\nyou say. Send our stove away? We shall all die in the dark and cold.\nListen! I will go and try to get work to-morrow. I will ask them to let\nme cut ice or make the paths through the snow. There must be something I\ncan do, and I will beg the people we owe money to, to wait. They are all\nneighbors; they will be patient. But sell Hirschvogel! Oh, never, never,\nnever! Give the money back to the man. \n\nThe father was so sorry for his little boy that he could not speak. He\nlooked sadly at him; then took the lamp that stood on the table, and\nleft the room.\n\nHilda knelt down and tried to comfort Karl, but he was too unhappy to\nlisten.  I shall stay here,  was all he said, and he lay there all the\nnight long. The lamp went out; the rats came and ran across the room;\nthe room grew colder and colder. Karl did not move, but lay with his\nface down on the floor by the lovely rainbow-colored stove. When it grew\nlight, his sister came down with a lamp in her hand to begin her morning\nwork. She crept up to him, and laid her cheek on his softly, and said:&&\n\n Dear Karl, you must be frozen. Karl! do look up; do speak. \n\n Ah!  said poor Karl,  it will never be warm again. \n\nSoon after some one knocked at the door. A strange voice called through\nthe keyhole,&&\n\n Let me in! quick! there is no time to lose. More snow like this and the\nroads will all be blocked. Let me in! Do you hear? I am come to take the\ngreat stove. \n\nHilda unfastened the door. The man came in at once, and began to wrap\nthe stove in a great many wrappings, and carried it out into the snow,\nwhere an ox-cart stood in waiting. In another moment it was gone; gone\nforever!\n\nKarl leaned against the wall, his tears falling like rain down his pale\ncheeks.\n\nAn old neighbor came by just then, and, seeing the boy, said to him:\n Child, is it true your father is selling that big painted stove? \n\nKarl nodded his head, and began to sob again.  I love it! I love it!  he\nsaid.\n\n Well, if I were you I would do better than cry. I would go after it\nwhen I grew bigger,  said the neighbor, trying to cheer him up a little.\n Don't cry so loud; you will see your stove again some day,  and the old\nman went away, leaving a new idea in Karl's head.\n\n Go after it,  the old man had said. Karl thought,  Why not go with it? \n He loved it better than anything else in the world, even better than\nHilda. He ran off quickly after the cart which was carrying the dear\nHirschvogel to the station. How he managed it he never knew very well\nhimself, but it was certain that when the freight train moved away from\nthe station Karl was hidden behind the stove. It was very dark, but he\nwasn't frightened. He was close beside Hirschvogel, but he wanted to be\ncloser still; he meant to get inside the stove. He set to work like a\nlittle mouse to make a hole in the straw and hay. He gnawed and nibbled,\nand pushed and pulled, making a hole where he guessed that the door\nmight be. At last he found it; he slipped through it, as he had so often\ndone at home for fun, and curled himself up. He drew the hay and straw\ntogether carefully, and fixed the ropes, so that no one could have\ndreamed that a little mouse had been at them. Safe inside his dear\nHirschvogel, he went as fast asleep as if he were in his own little bed\nat home. The train rumbled on in its heavy, slow way, and Karl slept\nsoundly for a long time. When he awoke the darkness frightened him, but\nhe felt the cold sides of Hirschvogel, and said softly,  Take care of\nme, dear Hirschvogel, oh, please take care of me! \n\nEvery time the train stopped, and he heard the banging, stamping, and\nshouting, his heart seemed to jump up into his mouth. When the people\ncame to lift the stove out, would they find him? and if they did find\nhim, would they kill him? The thought, too, of Hilda, kept tugging\nat his heart now and then, but he said to himself,  If I can take\nHirschvogel back to her, how pleased she will be, and how she will clap\nher hands!  He was not at all selfish in his love for Hirschvogel; he\nwanted it for them at home quite as much as for himself. That was what\nhe kept thinking of all the way in the darkness and stillness which\nlasted so long. At last the train stopped, and awoke him from a half\nsleep. Karl felt the stove lifted by some men, who carried it to a cart,\nand then they started again on the journey, up hill and down, for what\nseemed miles and miles. Where they were going Karl had no idea. Finally\nthe cart stopped; then it seemed as though they were carrying the stove\nup some stairs. The men rested sometimes, and then moved on again,\nand their feet went so softly he thought they must be walking on thick\ncarpets. By and by the stove was set down again, happily for Karl, for\nhe felt as though he should scream, or do something to make known that\nhe was there. Then the wrappings were taken off, and he heard a voice\nsay,  What a beautiful, beautiful stove! \n\n{Illustration:  Oh let me stay please let me stay }\n\nNext some one turned the round handle of the brass door, and poor little\nKarl's heart stood still.\n\n What is this?  said the man.  A live child! \n\nThen Karl sprang out of the stove and fell at the feet of the man who\nhad spoken.\n\n Oh, let me stay, please let me stay!  he said.  I have come all the way\nwith my darling Hirschvogel! \n\nThe man answered kindly,  Poor little child! tell me how you came to\nhide in the stove. Do not be afraid. I am the king. \n\nKarl was too much in earnest to be afraid; he was so glad, so glad it\nwas the king, for kings must be always kind, he thought.\n\n Oh, dear king!  he said with a trembling voice,  Hirschvogel was ours,\nand we have loved it all our lives, and father sold it, and when I saw\nthat it really did go from us I said to myself that I would go with it;\nand I do beg you to let me live with it, and I will go out every morning\nand cut wood for it and for all your other stoves, if only you will let\nme stay beside it. No one has ever fed it with wood but me since I grew\nbig enough, and it loves me; it does indeed!  And then he lifted up\nhis little pale face to the young king, who saw that great tears were\nrunning down his cheeks.\n\n Can't I stay with Hirschvogel?  he pleaded.\n\n Wait a little,  said the king.  What do you want to be when you are a\nman? Do you want to be a wood-chopper? \n\n I want to be a painter,  cried Karl.  I want to be what Hirschvogel\nwas. I mean the potter that made my Hirschvogel. \n\n I understand,  answered the king, and he looked down at the child, and\nsmiled.  Get up, my little man,  he said in a kind voice;  I will let\nyou stay with your Hirschvogel. You shall stay here, and you shall be\ntaught to be a painter, but you must grow up very good, and when you are\ntwenty-one years old, if you have done well, then I will give you back\nyour beautiful stove.  Then he smiled again and stretched out his hand.\nKarl threw his two arms about the king's knees and kissed his feet, and\nthen all at once he was so tired and so glad and hungry and happy, that\nhe fainted quite away on the floor.\n\nThen the king had a letter written to Karl's father, telling him that\nKarl had drawn him some beautiful charcoal pictures, and that he liked\nthem so much he was going to take care of him until he was old enough to\npaint wonderful stoves like Hirschvogel. And he did take care of him for\na long time, and when Karl grew older, he often went for a few days to\nhis old home, where his father still lives.\n\nIn the little brown house stands Hirschvogel, tall and splendid, with\nits peacock colors as beautiful as ever,--the king's present to Hilda;\nand Karl never goes home without going into the great church and giving\nhis thanks to God, who blessed his strange winter's journey in the great\nporcelain stove.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BABES IN THE WOOD\n\n Nature and life speak very early to man. --FROEBEL.\n\n\nA great many years ago three little girls lived in an old-fashioned\nhouse in the East. They had a very lovely home, and a kind father and\nmother, who tried to make them happy. All through the summer they used\nto roam over the hills and fields, catching butterflies, watching\nthe birds and bees at work, and studying the flowers and trees in the\nbeautiful meadows and woods. Then when winter came, and the days grew\ncold, they went to school; and in the evening, when the fire was burning\nbrightly, they read and studied in books about all they had seen in the\nsummer.\n\nBesides all these lovely things, and perhaps best of all, they had a\nvery large yard to play in, so large that it took up a whole block, and\nseemed like a little farm in the middle of the town. There was a lovely\nlawn and flower beds; a vegetable garden, barnyard and stable; and an\norchard where all kinds of fruit trees grew, apple, peach, pear, and\nmany others. A cow lived down in the meadows of clover, and old Bob,\nthe horse, was sometimes turned out to pasture there. But nicest of\nall, there was the wood yard. You must remember that every winter, where\nthese little girls lived, the snow fell, and lay so deep on the roads\nthat no one could bring in wood from the forest, and without it all the\npeople would have frozen in their cold homes.\n\nSo every September the gates were thrown wide open, and into the yard\nload after load of wood was drawn and piled up under the shed. Then,\nwhen it was too cold to play out on the hills, the little girls used to\nhave a fine time in the yard, piling up the wood, making beds, tables,\nchairs, and stoves of the sticks that had once been the waving branches\nand strong, sturdy trunks of trees.\n\nToward spring they often found a strange yellow powder on the ground\nunder the wood. At first they played with it, calling it flour, and made\npies and cakes out of it. But at last they began to wonder where the\nflour came from, and after watching and studying a long time this is\nwhat they found out.\n\nBut first I must tell you that all the time the three little girls were\nhappy and busy in this beautiful place, they were not the only family\nthere. There were the robins' children, whose mammas were trying to make\nthem good and happy too. There were the beetles' children, the ants'\nchildren, and families of toads, butterflies, and spiders. And while\nthe three little girls were playing with the sticks of wood, there lay,\ntucked snugly away inside of them, many families of children, warm and\nsafe in their wooden home.\n\nNow I want the smallest of you little children to hold up her hand. How\nsmall it is compared with your body! Now let us see the little finger\non that hand,--it is smaller still; and now look at the nail on\nthat finger: the brothers and sisters of one of these families were\naltogether about as large as that tiny nail. Their mamma was a wasp,\nwith light, gauzy wings and a strong body with a long sting on the end\nof it, about the length of a needle. With this little sting or saw, as\nit really was, she had bored many holes in the wood when it was still\na green tree, and at the bottom of each hole she had laid a tiny egg.\nThere it lay for a long time, all white and still, until one day it\ncracked open, and out came a funny little white grub, with six short\nwhite feet, and black jaws very strong and large for such a tiny thing.\nThis little creature had never had anything to eat, and as it was very\nhungry indeed, it fell to eating--what do you think? Wood--its own\nhouse! You wouldn't like a stick of wood for your breakfast, I know, but\nthe wasp-mamma knew what her little grub-children would want, so she\nput them in just the right place; for they couldn't have eaten anything\nelse. And the hungry little grubs ate and ate and ate as long as they\ncould, pushing away from the hole the part they did not want, and this\nfell upon the ground as the strange yellow powder the children found in\nthe wood-yard, every spring.\n\nAnd so, while the little girls were placing away in the sunshine the\nlittle grubs were eating away in the wood, until at last, one day, they\ngrew satisfied, and one after another went to sleep. There they lay in\ntheir dark homes, fast asleep, through long weeks, while the snow was\nmelting and the grass coming up, and the birds and bees beginning their\nsummer work again; until one day these lazy little creatures, that had\nnever done anything in their lives but eat and sleep, woke up and began\nto stretch themselves. But what had happened to them? Instead of the\nsoft white bodies they had gone to sleep with, they now had black ones\nand four gauzy wings; while six slender legs had taken the place of the\nsix short ones. There were still the strong black jaws to do all needful\nwork with, and in addition, delicate mouth-parts, for their food was now\nto be the honey from flowers. In fact, they looked and were just like\ntheir mamma, the gauzy wasp. One after another they crept to the end of\nthe passage that led from their dark homes to the bright world without.\nThey stood one minute at the little dark hole, and then, spreading their\nwings, flitted out into the beautiful world of sunshine and flowers.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF CHRISTMAS,\n\n A great spiritual efficiency lies in story-telling. --FROEBEL.\n\n\nChristmas Day, you knew, dear children, is Christ's day, Christ's\nbirthday, and I want to tell you why we love it so much, and why we try\nto make every one happy when it comes each year.\n\nA long, long time ago--more than eighteen hundred years--the baby Christ\nwas born on Christmas Day: a baby so wonderful and so beautiful, who\ngrew up to be a man so wise, so good, so patient and sweet, that, every\nyear, the people who know about him love him better and better, and are\nmore and more glad when his birthday comes again. You see that he must\nhave been very good and wonderful; for people have always remembered his\nbirthday, and kept it lovingly for eighteen hundred years.\n\nHe was born, long years ago, in a land far, far away across the seas.\n\nBefore the baby Christ was born, Mary, his mother, had to make a long\njourney with her husband, Joseph. They made this journey to be taxed\nor counted; for in those days this could not be done in the town where\npeople happened to live, but they must be numbered in the place where\nthey were born.\n\nIn that far-off time, the only way of traveling was on a horse, or a\ncamel, or a good, patient donkey. Camels and horses cost a great deal\nof money, and Mary was very poor; so she rode on a quiet, safe donkey,\nwhile Joseph walked by her side, leading him and leaning on his stick.\nMary was very young, and beautiful, I think, but Joseph was a great deal\nolder than she.\n\nPeople dress nowadays, in those distant countries, just as they did so\nmany years ago, so we know that Mary must have worn a long, thick dress,\nfalling all about her in heavy folds, and that she had a soft white veil\nover her head and neck, and across her face. Mary lived in Nazareth, and\nthe journey they were making was to Bethlehem, many miles away.\n\nThey were a long time traveling, I am sure; for donkeys are slow, though\nthey are so careful, and Mary must have been very tired before they came\nto the end of their journey.\n\nThey had traveled all day, and it was almost dark when they came near to\nBethlehem, to the town where the baby Christ was to be born. There was\nthe place they were to stay,--a kind of inn, or lodging-house, but not\nat all like those you know about.\n\nThey have them to-day in that far-off country, just as they built them\nso many years ago.\n\nIt was a low, flat-roofed, stone building, with no window and only one\nlarge door. There were no nicely furnished bedrooms inside, and no soft\nwhite beds for the tired travelers; there were only little places built\ninto the stones of the wall, something like the berths on steamboats\nnowadays, and each traveler brought his own bedding. No pretty garden\nwas in front of the inn, for the road ran close to the very door, so\nthat its dust lay upon the doorsill. All around the house, to a high,\nrocky hill at the back, a heavy stone fence was built, so that the\npeople and the animals inside might be kept safe.\n\nMary and Joseph could not get very near the inn; for the whole road in\nfront was filled with camels and donkeys and sheep and cows, while a\ngreat many men were going to and fro, taking care of the animals. Some\nof these people had come to Bethlehem to pay their taxes, as Mary and\nJoseph had done, and others were staying for the night, on their way to\nJerusalem, a large city a little further on.\n\nThe yard was filled, too, with camels and sheep; and men were lying on\nthe ground beside them, resting, and watching, and keeping them safe.\nThe inn was so full and the yard was so full of people, that there was\nno room for anybody else, and the keeper had to take Joseph and Mary\nthrough the house and back to the high hill, where they found another\nplace that was used for a stable. This had only a door and a front, and\ndeep caves were behind, stretching far into the rocks.\n\nThis was the spot where Christ was born. Think how poor a place!--but\nMary was glad to be there, after all; and when the Christ-child came,\nhe was like other babies, and had so lately come from heaven that he was\nhappy everywhere.\n\nThere were mangers all around the cave, where the cattle and sheep were\nfed, and great heaps of hay and straw were lying on the floor. Then,\nI think, there were brown-eyed cows and oxen there, and quiet, woolly\nsheep, and perhaps even some dogs that had come in to take care of the\nsheep.\n\nAnd there in the cave, by and by, the wonderful baby came, and they\nwrapped him up and laid him in a manger.\n\nAll the stars in the sky shone brightly that night, for they knew the\nChrist-child was born, and the angels in heaven sang together for joy.\nThe angels knew about the lovely child, and were glad that he had come\nto help the people on earth to be good.\n\nThere lay the beautiful baby, with a manger for his bed, and oxen and\nsheep all sleeping quietly round him. His mother watched him and loved\nhim, and by and by many people came to see him, for they had heard that\na wonderful child was to be born in Bethlehem. All the people in the inn\nvisited him, and even the shepherds left their flocks in the fields and\nsought the child and his mother.\n\nBut the baby was very tiny, and could not talk any more than any other\ntiny child, so he lay in his mother's lap, or in the manger, and only\nlooked at the people. So after they had seen him and loved him, they\nwent away again.\n\nAfter a time, when the baby had grown larger, Mary took him back to\nNazareth, and there he lived and grew up.\n\nAnd he grew to be such a sweet, wise, loving boy, such a tender, helpful\nman, and he said so many good and beautiful things, that every one loved\nhim who knew him. Many of the things he said are in the Bible, you know,\nand a great many beautiful stories of the things he used to do while he\nwas on earth.\n\nHe loved little children like you very much, and often used to take them\nup in his arms and talk to them.\n\nAnd this is the reason we love Christmas Day so much, and try to make\neverybody happy when it comes around each year. This is the reason:\nbecause Christ, who was born on Christmas Day, has helped us all to be\ngood so many, many times, and because he was the best Christmas present\nthe great world ever had!\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY.\n\n The story brings forward other people, other relations, other times and\nplaces, other and even quite different forms; notwithstanding this fact,\nthe auditor seeks his image there. --FROEBEL.\n\n\nNearly three hundred years ago, a great many of the people in England\nwere very unhappy because their king would not let them pray to God as\nthey liked. The king said they must use the same prayers that he did;\nand if they would not do this, they were often thrown into prison, or\nperhaps driven away from home.\n\n Let us go away from this country,  said the unhappy Englishmen to\neach other; and so they left their homes, and went far off to a\ncountry called Holland. It was about this time that they began to call\nthemselves  Pilgrims.  Pilgrims, you know, are people who are always\ntraveling to find something they love, or to find a land where they can\nbe happier; and these English men and women were journeying, they said,\n from place to place, toward heaven, their dearest country. \n\nIn Holland, the Pilgrims were quiet and happy for a while, but they were\nvery poor; and when the children began to grow up, they were not like\nEnglish children, but talked Dutch, like the little ones of Holland, and\nsome grew naughty and did not want to go to church any more.\n\n This will never do,  said the Pilgrim fathers and mothers; so after\nmuch talking and thinking and writing they made up their minds to come\nhere to America. They hired two vessels, called the Mayflower and the\nSpeedwell, to take them across the sea; but the Speedwell was not a\nstrong ship, and the captain had to take her home again before she had\ngone very far.\n\nThe Mayflower went back, too. Part of the Speedwell's passengers were\ngiven to her, and then she started alone across the great ocean.\n\nThere were one hundred people on board,--mothers and fathers, brothers\nand sisters and little children. They were very crowded; it was cold and\nuncomfortable; the sea was rough, and pitched the Mayflower about, and\nthey were two months sailing over the water.\n\nThe children cried many times on the journey, and wished they had never\ncome on the tiresome ship that rocked them so hard, and would not let\nthem keep still a minute.\n\nBut they had one pretty plaything to amuse them, for in the middle of\nthe great ocean a Pilgrim baby was born, and they called him  Oceanus, \n for his birthplace. When the children grew so tired that they were cross\nand fretful, Oceanus' mother let them come and play with him, and that\nalways brought smiles and happy faces back again.\n\nAt last the Mayflower came in sight of land; but if the children had\nbeen thinking of grass and flowers and birds, they must have been\nvery much disappointed, for the month was cold November, and there was\nnothing to be seen but rocks and sand and hard bare ground.\n\nSome of the Pilgrim fathers, with brave Captain Myles Standish at\ntheir head, went on shore to see if they could find any houses or white\npeople. But they only saw some wild Indians, who ran away from them, and\nfound some Indian huts and some corn buried in holes in the ground. They\nwent to and fro from the ship three times, till by and by they found\na pretty place to live, where there were  fields and little running\nbrooks. \n\nThen at last all the tired Pilgrims landed from the ship on a spot now\ncalled Plymouth Rock, and the first house was begun on Christmas Day.\nBut when I tell you how sick they were and how much they suffered that\nfirst winter, you will be very sad and sorry for them. The weather was\ncold, the snow fell fast and thick, the wind was icy, and the Pilgrim\nfathers had no one to help them cut down the trees and build their\nchurch and their houses.\n\nThe Pilgrim mothers helped all they could; but they were tired with the\nlong journey, and cold, and hungry too, for no one had the right kind of\nfood to eat, nor even enough of it.\n\nSo first one was taken sick, and then another, till half of them were in\nbed at the same time, Brave Myles Standish and the other soldiers nursed\nthem as well as they knew how; but before spring came half of the people\ndied and had gone at last to  heaven, their dearest country. \n\nBut by and by the sun shone more brightly, the snow melted, the leaves\nbegan to grow, and sweet spring had come again.\n\nSome friendly Indians had visited the Pilgrims during the winter, and\nCaptain Myles Standish, with several of his men, had returned the visit.\n\nOne of the kind Indians was called Squanto, and he came to stay with the\nPilgrims, and showed them how to plant their corn, and their pease and\nwheat and barley.\n\nWhen the summer came and the days were long and bright, the Pilgrim\nchildren were very happy, and they thought Plymouth a lovely place\nindeed. All kinds of beautiful wild flowers grew at their doors, there\nwere hundreds of birds and butterflies, and the great pine woods were\nalways cool and shady when the sun was too bright.\n\nWhen it was autumn the fathers gathered the barley and wheat and corn\nthat they had planted, and found that it had grown so well that they\nwould have quite enough for the long winter that was coming.\n\n Let us thank God for it all,  they said.  It is He who has made the sun\nshine and the rain fall and the corn grow.  So they thanked God in their\nhomes and in their little church; the fathers and the mothers and the\nchildren thanked Him.\n\n Then,  said the Pilgrim mothers,  let us have a great Thanksgiving\nparty, and invite the friendly Indians, and all rejoice together. \n\nSo they had the first Thanksgiving party, and a grand one it was! Four\nmen went out shooting one whole day, and brought back so many wild ducks\nand geese and great wild turkeys that there was enough for almost a\nweek. There was deer meat also, of course, for there were plenty of fine\ndeer in the forest. Then the Pilgrim mothers made the corn and wheat\ninto bread and cakes, and they had fish and clams from the sea besides.\n\nThe friendly Indians all came with their chief Massasoit. Every one came\nthat was invited, and more, I dare say, for there were ninety of them\naltogether.\n\nThey brought five deer with them, that they gave to the Pilgrims; and\nthey must have liked the party very much, for they stayed three days.\n\nKind as the Indians were, you would have been very much frightened if\nyou had seen them; and the baby Oceanus, who was a year old then, began\nto cry at first whenever they came near him.\n\nThey were dressed in deerskins, and some of them had the furry coat of\na wild cat hanging on their arms. Their long black hair fell loose on\ntheir shoulders, and was trimmed with feathers or fox-tails. They\nhad their faces painted in all kinds of strange ways, some with black\nstripes as broad as your finger all up and down them. But whatever\nthey wore, it was their very best, and they had put it on for the\nThanksgiving party.\n\nEach meal, before they ate anything, the Pilgrims and the Indians\nthanked God together for all his goodness. The Indians sang and danced\nin the evenings, and every day they ran races and played all kinds of\ngames with the children.\n\nThen sometimes the Pilgrims with their guns, and the Indians with their\nbows and arrows, would see who could shoot farthest and best. So they\nwere glad and merry and thankful for three whole days.\n\nThe Pilgrim mothers and fathers had been sick and sad many times since\nthey landed from the Mayflower; they had worked very hard, often had not\nhad enough to eat, and were mournful indeed when their friends died and\nleft them. But now they tried to forget all this, and think only of how\ngood God had been to them; and so they all were happy together at the\nfirst Thanksgiving party.\n\nAll this happened nearly three hundred years ago, and ever since that\ntime Thanksgiving has been kept in our country.\n\nEvery year our fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers have\n rejoiced together  like the Pilgrims, and have had something to be\nthankful for each time.\n\nEvery year some father has told the story of the brave Pilgrims to his\nlittle sons and daughters, and has taught them to be very glad and proud\nthat the Mayflower came sailing to our country so many years ago.\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE GEORGE WASHINGTON, PART I.\n\n\n The child takes each story as a conquest, grasps each as a treasure,\nand inserts into his own life, for his own advancement and instruction,\nwhat each story teaches and shows. --Froebel.\n\n\nEvery one of my little children has seen a picture of George Washington,\nI am sure.\n\nPerhaps you may remember his likeness on a prancing white horse, holding\nhis cocked hat in his hand, and bowing low to the people, or his picture\nas a general at the head of his armies, with a sword by his side and\nhigh boots reaching to the knee; sometimes you have seen him in a boat\ncrossing the Delaware River, wrapped in his heavy soldier's cloak; and\nagain as a President, with powdered hair, lace ruffles, and velvet coat.\n\nOf course all these are pictures of a strong, handsome, grown-up man,\nand I suppose you never happened to think that George Washington was\nonce a little boy.\n\nBut ever so long ago he was as small as you are now, and I am going to\ntell you about his father and mother, his home and his little-boy days.\n\nHe was born one hundred and sixty years ago in Virginia, near a great\nriver called the Potomac. His father's name was Augustine, his mother's\nMary, and he had several brothers and a little sister.\n\nThey all lived in the country on a farm, or a plantation, as they\ncall it in Virginia. The Washington house stood in the middle of green\ntobacco fields and flowery meadows, and there were so many barns and\nstorehouses and sheds round about it that they made quite a village\nof themselves. The nearest neighbors lived miles away; there were no\nrailroads nor stages, and if you wanted to travel, you must ride on\nhorseback through the thick woods, or you might sail in little boats up\nand down the rivers.\n\nCity boys and girls might think, perhaps, that little George Washington\nwas very lonely on the great plantation, with no neighbor-boys to play\nwith; but you must remember that the horses and cattle and sheep and\ndogs on a farm make the dearest of playmates, and that there are all\nkinds of pleasant things to do in the country that city boys know\nnothing about.\n\nLittle George played out of doors all the time and grew very strong. He\nwent fishing and swimming in the great river, he ran races and jumped\nfences with his brothers and the dogs, he threw stones across the\nbrooks, and when he grew a larger boy he even learned to shoot.\n\nHe had a pretty pony, too, named  Hero,  that he loved very much, and\nthat he used to ride all about the plantation.\n\nSome of the letters have been kept that he wrote when he was a little\nboy, and he talks in them about his pony, and his books with pictures of\nelephants, and the new top he is going to have soon.\n\nThink of that great General Washington on a white horse once playing\nwith a little humming top like yours!\n\nMany things are told about Washington when he was little; but he lived\nso long ago that we cannot tell very well whether they ever happened\nor not. One story is that his father took him out into the garden on a\nspring morning, and drew the letters of his name with a cane in the soft\nearth. Then he filled the letters with seed, and told little George to\nwait a week or two and see what would happen. You can all guess what did\nhappen, and can think how pleased the little boy was when he found his\nname all growing in fresh green leaves.\n\nThen another story, I'm sure you've all heard, is about the cherry-tree\nand the hatchet.\n\nLittle George's father gave him one day, so they say, a nice, bright,\nsharp little hatchet. Of course he went around the barns and the sheds,\ntrying everything and seeing how well he could cut, and at last he went\ninto the orchard. There he saw a young cherry-tree, as straight as\na soldier, with the most beautiful, smooth, shining bark, waving its\nboughs in a very provoking way, as if to say,  You can't cut me down,\nand you needn't try. \n\nLittle George did try and he did cut it down, and then was very sorry,\nfor he found it was not so easy to set it up again.\n\n{Illustration: The letters of his name . . . the soft earth}\n\nHis father was angry, of course, for he lived in a new country, and\nthree thousand miles from any place where he could get good fruit trees;\nbut when the little boy told the truth about it, his father said he\nwould rather lose a thousand cherry-trees than have his son tell a lie.\n\nNow perhaps this never happened; but if George Washington ever did cut\ndown a cherry-tree, you may be sure he told the truth about it.\n\nI think, though he grew to be such a wise, wonderful man, that he must\nhave been just a bright, happy boy like you, when he was little.\n\nBut everybody knows three things about him,--that he always told the\ntruth, that he never was afraid of anything, and that he always loved\nand minded his mother.\n\nWhen little George was eleven years old, his good father died, and\nhis poor mother was left alone to take care of her boys and her great\nplantation. What a busy mother she was! She mended and sewed, she taught\nsome of her children, she took care of the sick people, she spun wool\nand knitted stockings and gloves; but every day she found time to gather\nher children around her and read good books to them, and talk to them\nabout being good children.\n\nSo riding his pony, and helping his mother, and learning his lessons,\nGeorge grew to be a tall boy.\n\nWhen he was fourteen years old, he made up his mind that he would like\nto be a sailor, and travel far away over the blue water in a great ship.\nHis elder brother said that he might do so. The right ship was found;\nhis clothes were packed and carried on board, when all at once his\nmother said he must not go. She had thought about it; he was too young\nto go away, and she wanted her boy to stay with her.\n\nOf course George was greatly disappointed, but he stayed at home, and\nworked and studied hard. He wanted very much to learn how to earn money\nand help his mother, and so he studied to be a surveyor.\n\nSurveyors measure the land, you know. They measure people's gardens and\nhouse-lots and farms, and can tell just where to put the fences, and\nhow much land belongs to you and how much to me, so that we need never\nquarrel about it.\n\nTo be a good surveyor you have to be very careful indeed, and make no\nmistakes; and George Washington was careful and always tried to do his\nbest, so that his surveys were the finest that could be made.\n\nWhen he was only sixteen, he went off into the great forest, where no\none lived but the Indians, to measure some land for a friend of his.\nThe weather was cold; he slept in a tent at night, or out of doors, on a\nbearskin by the fire, and he had to work very hard. He met a great many\nIndians, and learned to know their ways in fighting and how to manage\nthem.\n\nThree years he worked hard at surveying, and at last he was a grown-up\nman!\n\nHe was tall and splendid then, over six feet high, and as straight as\nan Indian, with a rosy face and bright blue eyes. He had large hands\nand fingers, and was wonderfully strong. People say that his great tent,\nwhich it took three men to carry, Washington could lift with one hand\nand throw into the wagon.\n\nHe was very brave, too, you remember. He could shoot well, and almost\nnever missed his aim; he was used to walking many miles when he was\nsurveying, and he could ride any horse he liked, no matter how wild and\nfierce.\n\nSo you see, when a man is strong, when he can shoot well, and walk and\nride great distances, when he is never afraid of anything, that is just\nthe man for a soldier; and I will tell you soon how George Washington\ncame to be a great soldier.\n\n\n\n\nGREAT GEORGE WASHINGTON, PART II.\n\n\n The good story-teller effects much; he has an ennobling effect upon\nchildren,--so much the more ennobling that he does not appear to intend\nit, --FROEBEL.\n\n\nAll this time while George Washington had been growing up,--first a\nlittle boy, then a larger boy, and then a young surveyor,--all this time\nthe French and English and Indians were unhappy and uncomfortable in the\ncountry north of Virginia. The French wanted all the land, so did the\nEnglish, and the Indians saw that there would be no room for them,\nwhichever had it, so they all began to trouble each other and to quarrel\nand fight.\n\nThese troubles grew so bad at last that the Virginians began to be\nafraid of the French and Indians, and thought they must have some\nsoldiers of their own ready to fight.\n\nGeorge Washington was only nineteen then, but everybody knew he was wise\nand brave, so they chose him to teach the soldiers near his home how to\nmarch and to fight.\n\nThen the king and the people of England grew very uneasy at all this\nquarreling, and they sent over soldiers and cannon and powder, and\ncommenced to get ready to fight in earnest. Washington was made a major,\nand he had to go a thousand miles, in the middle of winter, into the\nIndian and French country, to see the chiefs and the soldiers, and find\nout about the troubles.\n\nWhen he came back again, all the people were so pleased with his courage\nand with the wise way in which he had behaved, that they made him\nlieutenant-colonel.\n\nThen began a long war between the French and the English, which lasted\nseven years. Washington fought through all of it, and was made a\ncolonel, and by and by commander of all the soldiers in Virginia. He\nbuilt forts and roads, he gained and lost battles, he fought the Indians\nand the French; and by all this trouble and hard work he learned to be a\ngreat soldier.\n\nIn many of the battles of this war, Washington and the Virginians did\nnot wear a uniform like the English soldiers, but a buckskin shirt and\nfringed leggings like the Indians.\n\nFrom beginning to end of some of the battles, Washington rode about\namong the men, telling them where to go and how to fight; the bullets\nwere whistling around him all the time, but he said he liked the music.\n\nBy and by the war was over; the French were driven back to their own\npart of the country, and Washington went home to Mt. Vernon to rest, and\ntook with him his wife, lovely Martha Washington, whom he had met and\nmarried while he was fighting the French and Indians.\n\nWhile he was at Mt. Vernon he saw all his horses again,-- Valiant  and\n Magnolia  and  Chinkling  and  Ajax, --and had grand gallops over the\ncountry.\n\nHe had some fine dogs, too, to run by his side, and help him hunt the\nbushy-tailed foxes.  Vulcan  and  Bingwood  and  Music  and  Sweetlips \n were the names of some of them. You may be sure the dogs were glad when\nthey had their master home again.\n\nBut Washington did not have long to rest, for another war was coming,\nthe great war of the Revolution.\n\nLittle children cannot understand all the reasons for this war, but I\ncan tell you some of them.\n\nYou remember in the story of Thanksgiving I told you about the Pilgrim\nfathers, who came from England to this country because their king would\nnot let them pray to God as they liked. That king was dead now, and\nthere was another in his place, a king with the name of George, like our\nWashington.\n\nNow our great-grandfathers had always loved England and Englishmen,\nbecause many of their friends were still living there, and because it\nwas their old home.\n\nThe king gave them governors to help take care of their people, and\nsoldiers to fight for them, and they sent to England for many things to\nwear and to eat.\n\nBut just before this Revolutionary War, the king and the great men who\nhelped him began to say that things should be done in this country\nthat our people did not think right at all. The king said they must\nbuy expensive stamps to put on all their newspapers and almanacs and\nlawyer's papers, and that they must pay very high taxes on their tea and\npaper and glass, and he sent soldiers to see that this was done.\n\nThis made our great-grandfathers very angry. They refused to pay the\ntaxes, they would not buy anything from England any more, and some men\neven went on board the ships, as they came into Boston Harbor, and threw\nthe tea over into the water.\n\nSo fifty-one men were chosen from all over the country, and they met\nat Philadelphia, to see what could be done. Washington was sent from\nVirginia. And after they had talked very solemnly, they all thought\nthere would be great trouble soon, and Washington went home to drill the\nsoldiers.\n\nThen the war began with the battle of Lexington, in New England, and\nsoon Washington was made commander in chief of the armies.\n\nHe rode the whole distance from Philadelphia to Boston on horseback,\nwith a troop of officers; and all the people on the way came to see him,\nbringing bands of music and cheering him as he went by. He rode into\ncamp in the morning. The soldiers were drawn up in the road, and men and\nwomen and children who had come to look at Washington were crowded all\nabout. They saw a tall, splendid, handsome man in a blue coat with buff\nfacings, and epaulets on his shoulders. As he took off his hat, drew his\nshining sword and raised it in sight of all the people, the cannon began\nto thunder, and all the people hurrahed and tossed their hats in the\nair.\n\nOf course he looked very splendid, and they all knew how brave he was,\nand thought he would soon put an end to the war.\n\nBut it did not happen as they expected, for this was only the beginning,\nand the war lasted seven long years.\n\nFighting is always hard, even if you have plenty of soldiers and plenty\nfor them to eat; but Washington had very few soldiers, and very little\npowder for the guns, and little food for the men to eat.\n\nThe soldiers were not in uniform, as ours are to-day; but each was\ndressed just as he happened to come from his shop or his farm.\n\nWashington ordered hunting shirts for them, such as he wore when he went\nto fight the Indians, for he knew they would look more like soldiers if\nall were dressed alike.\n\nOf course many people thought that our men would be beaten, as the war\nwent on; but Washington never thought so, for he was sure our side was\nright.\n\nI hardly know what he would have done, at last, if the French people had\nnot promised to come over and help us, and to send us money and men and\nships. All the people in the army thanked God when they heard it, and\nfired their guns for joy.\n\nA brave young man named Lafayette came with the French soldiers, and he\ngrew to be Washington's great friend, and fought for us all through the\nRevolution.\n\nMany battles were fought in this war, and Washington lost some of them,\nand a great many of his men were killed.\n\nYou could hardly understand how much trouble he had. In the winter, when\nthe snow was deep on the ground, he had no houses or huts for his men to\nsleep in; his soldiers were ragged and cold by day, and had not blankets\nenough to keep them warm by night; their shoes were old and worn, and\nthey had to wrap cloths around their feet to keep them from freezing.\n\nWhen they marched to the Delaware River, one cold Christmas night, a\nsoldier who was sent after them, with a message for Washington, traced\nthem by their footprints on the snow, all reddened with the blood from\ntheir poor cut feet.\n\nThey must have been very brave and patient to have fought at all, when\nthey were so cold and ragged and hungry.\n\nWashington suffered a great deal in seeing his soldiers so wretched, and\nI am sure that, with all his strength and courage, he would sometimes\nhave given up hope, if he had not talked and prayed to God a great deal,\nand asked Him to help him.\n\nIn one of the hardest times of the whole war, Washington was staying\nat a farmer's house. One morning, he rode out very early to visit the\nsoldiers. The farmer went into the fields soon after, and as he was\npassing a brook where a great many bushes were growing, he heard a deep\nvoice from the thicket. He looked through the leaves, and saw Washington\non his knees, on the ground, praying to God for his soldiers. He had\nfastened his horse to a tree, and come away by himself to ask God to\nhelp them.\n\nAt last the war came to an end; the English were beaten, and our armies\nsent up praise and thanks to God.\n\nThen the soldiers went quietly back to their homes, and Washington bade\nall his officers good-by, and thanked them for their help and their\ncourage.\n\nThe little room in New York where he said farewell is kept to show to\nvisitors now, and you can see it some day yourselves.\n\nThen Washington went home to Mt. Vernon to rest; but before he had been\nthere long, the people found out that they must have some one to help\ntake care of them, as they had nothing to do with the king of England\nany more; and they asked Washington to come and be the first President\nof the United States.\n\nSo he did as they wished, and was as wise and good, and as careful and\nfine a President as he had been surveyor, soldier, and general.\n\nYou know we always call Washington the Father of his Country, because he\ndid so much for us and helped to make the United States so great.\n\nAfter he died, there were parks and mountains and villages and towns and\ncities named for him all over the land, because people loved him so and\nprized so highly what he had done for them.\n\nIn the city of Washington there is a building where you can see many\nof the things that belonged to the first President, when he was alive.\nThere is his soldier's coat, his sword, and in an old camp chest are the\nplates and knives and forks that he used in the Revolution.\n\nThere is a tall, splendid monument of shining gray stone in that city,\nthat towers far, far above all the highest roofs and spires. It was\nbuilt in memory of George Washington, by the people of the United\nStates, to show that they loved and would always remember the Father of\nhis Country.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAPLE-LEAF AND THE VIOLET.\n\n Story-telling must please children, so that it will influence,\nstrengthen, and elevate their lives. --FROEBEL\n\n\nThe Maple-tree lived on the edge of the wood. Beside and behind her\nthe trees grew so thick and tall that there was plenty of shade at her\nroots; but as no one stood in front, she could always look across the\nmeadows to the brown house where Bessie lived, and could see what went\non in the world.\n\nAfter the cold winter had gone by, and the spring had come again,\nthe Maple-tree sent out thousands of tiny leaf-buds, that stretched\nthemselves, and grew larger day by day in the warm sunshine. One little\nBud, on the end of a tall branch, worked so hard to grow that by and by\nhe finished opening all his folds, and found himself a tiny pale green\nleaf.\n\nHe was curious, as little folks generally are, and as soon as he opened\nhis eyes wanted to see everything about him. First he looked up at the\nblue sky overhead, but the sky only looked quietly back at him. Then\nhe looked across the meadows to where Bessie lived, but Bessie was at\nschool and the house was still.\n\nThen he gazed far down below him on the ground; and there, just beneath,\nwas a little Violet, She had uncurled her purple petals a few days\nbefore, and was waiting to welcome the first leaf-bud that came out.\n\nSo when the Maple-leaf looked down, she smiled up at him and said,\n Good-morning.  He answered her politely, but he was very little, and\ndid not know quite what to say, so he didn't talk any more that day.\n\nThe next morning they greeted each other again, and soon they grew to be\ngood friends, and talked together very happily all day. The Maple-leaf\nlived so high up in the tree that he could easily see across the fields,\nand he watched every day for Bessie as she started for school. When she\ncame out of her door, he told the Violet, and the Violet always said\nevery morning,  Dear Bessie! I should like to see her, too! \n\nSometimes, when the day was chilly and it was almost too damp in the\nshade, the Violet used to wish she might be high up on the branch above\nher, waving about in the sunshine like the Maple-leaf; but she was a\ncontented little thing, and never fretted long for what she could not\nhave.\n\nIt was generally pleasant on the ground, and the bugs and caterpillars\nand worms, as they crawled about at her roots, often told her very\ninteresting things about their families and their troubles.\n\nOne day it was very dry and warm. The Maple-leaf was not at all\ncomfortable, high in the hot air, and he said to his mother,\n Mother-tree, won't you let me go down by the Violet and be cool? \n\nThen the Maple-tree answered,  No, no, little leaf, not now; if I once\nlet you go, you can never come back again. Stay quietly here; the time\nwill soon come for you to leave me. \n\nThe Maple-leaf told this to the Violet, and then they began to fear that\nwhen the mother-tree let him go, by and by, he might not be able to fall\nclose beside the Violet.\n\nSo the next day, when the wind came whistling along, the Violet asked\nhim if he would kindly take care of the leaf, and send him to her when\nthe mother-tree let him go. The wind was rough and careless, and said he\nreally didn't know. He couldn't be sure how he'd feel then. They would\nhave to wait and see.\n\nThe two little friends were rather unhappy about this, but they waited\nquietly. By and by the weather grew cold. The air was so chill that the\nMaple-leaf shivered in the night, and in the morning, when the sun rose,\nand he could see himself, he found he was all red, just as your hands\nand cheeks are on a frosty morning. When the mother-tree saw him, she\ntold him he would soon leave her now, and she bade him good-by. He\nwas sorry to go, but then he thought of his dear Violet, and was happy\nagain.\n\nBy and by a gust of cold wind came blowing by, and twisted the little\nleaf about, and fluttered him so that he could not hold to the tree any\nlonger. So at last he blew off, and the wind took him up and danced with\nhim and played with him until he was very tired and dizzy. But at last,\nfor he was a kind wind after all, he blew the leaf back, straight to the\nside of the Violet. How close they cuddled to each other, and how happy\nthey were! You would have been very glad if you had seen them together.\n\nIn the morning, when the sun rose yellow and bright, Bessie came into\nthe woods with a basket and a trowel. It was nearly winter, and she knew\nthat soon the snow would fall and cover all the pretty growing things.\nSo she dug up, very carefully, roots of plumy fern and partridge berries\nwith their leaves, and wintergreen and boxberry plants, to grow in her\nwindow-garden in the winter. She took the Violet too, bringing away so\nmuch of the earth around her roots that the little thing scarcely felt\nthat she had been moved. As Bessie put her plants in the basket, she\nsaw the little Maple-leaf resting close by the violet, but he looked so\npretty, lying there, that she did not move him.\n\nIn the sunny window of the little brown house the Violet grew still\nmore fresh and green. But each day, as the plants were watered, the\nMaple-leaf curled up a little more at the edges, and sank down farther\ninto the earth, until soon he was almost out of sight, and by and by\ncrumbled quite away. Still he was close beside his Violet, and all the\nstrength he had he gave to her roots.\n\nShe always loved him just the same, though she could not see him any\nlonger, and by and by, when she had lived her life, and her leaves\nwithered away, each one, as it fell from the stem, sank into the earth\nwhere the Maple-leaf lay.\n\n\n\n\nMRS. CHINCHILLA.\n\nTHE TALE OF A CAT.\n\n See what joyous faces, what shining eyes, and what glad jubilee welcome\nthe story-teller, and what a blooming circle of glad children press\naround him! --FROEBEL.\n\n\nMrs. Chinchilla was not a lovely lady, with a dress of soft gray cloth\nand a great chinchilla muff and boa. Not at all. Mrs. Chinchilla was\na beautiful cat, with sleek fur like silver-gray satin, and a very\nhandsome tail to match, quite long enough to brush the ground when she\nwalked. She didn't live in a house, but she had a very comfortable home\nin a fine drug-store, with one large bay-window almost to herself and\nher kittens. She had three pretty fat dumplings of kittens, all in soft\nshades of gray like their mother. She didn't like any other color in\nkittens so well as a quiet ladylike gray. None of her children ever were\nblack, or white, or yellow, but sometimes they had four snow-white socks\non their gray paws. Mrs. Chinchilla didn't mind that, for white socks\nwere really a handsome finish to a gray kitten, though, of course, it\nwas a deal of trouble to keep them clean.\n\nAt the time my story begins the kits were all tiny catkins, whose eyes\nhad been open only a day or two, so Mrs. Chinchilla had to wash them\nevery morning herself. She had the most wonderful tongue! I'll tell\nyou what that tongue had in it: a hair-brush, a comb, a tooth-brush,\na nail-brush, a sponge, a towel, and a cake of soap! And when Mrs.\nChinchilla had finished those three little catkins, they were as fresh\nand sweet, and shiny and clean, and kissable and huggable, as any baby\njust out of a bath-tub.\n\nOne morning, just after the little kits had had their scrub in the sunny\nbay-window, they felt, all at once, old enough to play; and so they\nbegan to scramble over each other, and run about between the great\ncolored glass jars, and even to chase and bite the ends of their own\ntails. They had not known that they had any tails before that morning,\nand of course it was a charming surprise. Mrs. Chinchilla looked on\nlazily and gravely. It had been a good while since she had had time or\nhad felt young and gay enough to chase her tail, but she was very glad\nto see the kittens enjoy themselves harmlessly.\n\nNow, while this was going on, some one came up to the window and looked\nin. It was the Boy who lived across the street. Mrs. Chinchilla disliked\nnearly all boys, but she was afraid of this one. He had golden curls and\na Fauntleroy collar, and the sweetest lips that ever said prayers, and\nclean dimpled hands that looked as if they had been made to stroke cats\nand make them purr. But instead of stroking them he rubbed their fur the\nwrong way, and hung tin kettles to their tails, and tied handkerchiefs\nover their heads. When Mrs. Chinchilla saw the Boy she humped her back,\nso that it looked like a gray mountain, and said,  Sftt!  three times.\nWhen the Boy found that she was looking at him, and lashing her tail,\nand yawning so as to show him her sharp white teeth, he suddenly\ndisappeared from sight. So Mrs. Chinchilla gave the kittens their\nbreakfast, and they cuddled themselves into a round ball, and went fast\nasleep. They were first rolled so tightly, and then so tied up with\ntheir tails, that you couldn't have told whether they were three or six\nlittle catkins. When their soft purr-r-r-r, purr-r-r-r had first\nchanged into sleepy little snores, and then died away altogether, Mrs.\nChinchilla jumped down out of the window, and went for her morning\nairing in the back yard. At the same time the druggist passed behind a\ntall desk to mix some medicine, and the shop was left alone.\n\nJust then the Boy (for he hadn't gone away at all; he had just stooped\nout of sight) rushed in the door quickly, snatched one of the kittens\nout of the round ball, and ran away with it as fast as he could run.\nPretty soon Mrs. Chinchilla came back, and of course she counted the\nkittens the very first thing. She always did it. To her surprise and\nfright she found only two instead of three. She knew she couldn't be\nmistaken. There were five kittens in her last family, and two less in\nthis family; and five kittens less two kittens is three kittens. One\nchinchilla catkin gone! What should she do?\n\nShe had once heard a lady say that there were too many cats in the\nworld already, but she had no patience with people who made such wicked\nspeeches. Her kittens had always been so beautiful that they sometimes\nsold for fifty cents apiece, and none of them had ever been drowned.\n\nMrs. Chinchilla knew in a second just where that kitten had gone. It\nmakes a pussy-cat very quick and bright and wise to take care of and\ntrain large families of frisky kittens, with very little help from their\nfather in bringing them up. She knew that that Boy had carried off the\nkitten, and she intended to have it back, and scratch the Boy with some\nlong scratches, if she could only get the chance. Looking at her claws,\nshe found them nice and sharp, and as the druggist opened the door for a\ncustomer Mrs. Chinchilla slipped out, with just one backward glance, as\nmuch as to say,  Gone out; will be back soon.  Then she dashed across\nthe street, and waited on the steps of the Boy's house. Very soon a\nman came with a bundle, and when the house-maid opened the door Mrs.\nChinchilla walked in. She hadn't any visiting-card with her; but then\nthe Boy hadn't left any card when he called for the kitten, so she\ndidn't care for that.\n\nThe housemaid didn't see her when she slipped in. It was a very nice\nhouse to hold such a heartless boy, she thought. The parlor door was\nopen, but she knew the kitten wouldn't be there, so she ran upstairs.\nWhen she reached the upper hall she stood perfectly still, with her\nears up and her whiskers trembling. Suddenly she heard a faint mew, then\nanother, and then a laugh; that was the Boy. She pushed open a door that\nwas ajar, and walked into the nursery. The Boy was seated in the middle\nof the floor, tying the kitten to a tin cart, and the poor little thing\nwas mewing piteously. Mrs. Chinchilla dashed up to the Boy, scratched\nhim as many long scratches as she had time for at that moment, took the\nfrightened kitten in her kind, gentle mouth, the way all mother-cats\ndo (because if they carried them in their forepaws they wouldn't\nhave enough left to walk on), and was downstairs and out on the front\ndoorstep before the housemaid had finished paying the man for the\nbundle. And when she got that chinchilla catkin home in the safe, sunny\nbay-window, she washed it over and over and over so many times that it\nnever forgot, so long as it lived, the day it was stolen by the Boy.\n\nWhen the Boy's mother hurried upstairs to see why he was crying so loud,\nshe told him that he must expect to be scratched by mother-cats if he\nstole their kittens.  I shall take your pretty Fauntleroy collar off, \n she said;  it doesn't match your disposition. \n\nThe Boy cried bitterly until luncheon time, but when he came to think\nover the matter, he knew that his mother was right, and Mrs. Chinchilla\nwas right, too; so he treated all mother-cats and their kittens more\nkindly after that.\n\n\n\n\nA STORY OF THE FOREST\n\n It is not the gay forms he meets in the fairy-tale which charm the\nchild, but a spiritual, invisible truth lying far deeper. --Froebel.\n\n\nFar away, in the depths of a great green rustling wood, there lived a\nFir-tree. She was tall and dark and fragrant; so tall that her topmost\nplumes seemed waving about in the clouds, and her branches were so thick\nand strong and close set that down below them on the ground it was dark\nalmost as night.\n\nThere were many other trees in the forest, as tall and grand as she,\nand when they bent and bowed to each other, as the wind played in their\nbranches, you could hear a wonderful lovely sound, like the great organ\nwhen it plays softly in the church.\n\nDown below, under the trees, the ground was covered with a glossy brown\ncarpet of the sharp, needle-like leaves the fir-trees had let fall, and\non this carpet there were pointed brown fir cones lying, looking dry and\nwithered, and yet bearing under their scales many little seeds, hidden\naway like very precious letters in their dainty envelopes.\n\nEven on bright summer days this wood was cool and dark, and, as you\nwalked about on the soft brown carpet, you could hear the wonderful song\nthe pine needles made as they rubbed against each other; and perhaps far\naway in the top of some tall tree you could hear the wood-thrush sing\nout gladly.\n\nAll around the great Fir-tree, where her cones had dropped, a family\nof young firs was growing up,--very tiny yet, so tiny you might have\ncrushed them as you walked, and not felt them under your foot.\n\nThe Fir-tree spread her thick branches over them, and kept off the\nfierce wind and the bitter cold, and under her shelter they were growing\nstrong.\n\nThey were all fine little trees, but one of them, that stood quite apart\nfrom the rest, was the finest of all, very straight and well shaped\nand handsome. Every day he looked up at the mother-tree, and saw how\nstraight and strong she grew,--how the wind bent and waved her branches,\nbut did not stir her great trunk; and as he looked, he sent his own\nrootlets farther down into the dark earth, and held his tiny head up\nmore proudly.\n\nThe other trees did not all try to grow strong and tall. Indeed, one of\nthem said,  Why should I try to grow? Who can see me here in this dark\nwood? What good will it do for me to try? I can never be as fine and\nstrong as the mother-tree. \n\nSo he was unhappy and hung his head, and let the wind blow him further\nand further over toward the ground; and as he did not care for his\nrootlets, they lost their hold in the earth, and by and by he withered\nquite away.\n\nBut our brave little Fir-tree grew on; and when a long time had gone by,\nhis head was on a level with his mother's lowest branches, and he could\nlisten and hear all the whispering and talking that went on among the\ngreat trees. So he learned many things, for the trees were old and\nwise; and the birds, who are such great travelers, had told them many\nwonderful things that had happened in far-off lands.\n\nAnd the Fir-tree asked his mother many, many questions.  Dear\nmother-tree,  he said,  shall we always live here? Shall I keep on\ngrowing until I am a grand tall tree like you? And will you always be\nwith me? \n\n Who knows!  said the mother-tree, rustling in all her branches.  If we\nare stout-hearted, and grow strong in trunk and perfect in shape,\nthen perhaps we shall be taken away from the forest and made useful\nsomewhere,--and we want to be useful, little son. \n\nIt was about this time that the young Fir-tree made himself some music\nthat he used to whisper when the winds blew and rocked his branches.\nThis is the little song, but I cannot sing it as he did.\n\n\nSONG OF THE FIR-TREE.\n\n   Root grow thou long-er heart be thou strong-er;\n   Let the sun bless me, soft-ly ca-\n   ress me; Let rain-drops pat-ter,\n   wind, my leaves scat-ter. My root must grow\n   long-er, my heart must grow stronger.\n\n   Root, grow thou longer,\n   Heart, be thou stronger;\n   Let the sun bless me,\n   Softly caress me;\n   Let raindrops patter,\n   Wind, my leaves scatter.\n   My root must grow longer,\n   My heart must grow stronger. \n\nAnd one day, when he was singing this song to himself, some birds\nfluttered near, pleased with the music, and as he seemed kind they began\nto build their nest in his branches,\n\nThen what a proud Fir-tree, that the birds should choose him to take\ncare of them! He would not play now with the wind as it came frolicking\nby, but stood straight, that he might not shake the pretty soft nest.\nAnd when the eggs were laid at last, all his leaves stroked each other\nfor joy, and the noise they made was so sweet that the mother-tree bent\nover to see why he was so happy.\n\nThe mother-bird sat patiently on the nest all day, and when, now and\nthen, she flew away to rest her tired little legs, the father-bird came\nto keep the eggs warm.\n\nSo the Fir-tree was never alone; and now he asked the birds some of the\nmany questions he had once asked his mother,  Tell me, dear birdies, \n he said,  what does the mother-tree mean? She says if I grow strong, I\nshall be taken away to be useful somewhere. How can a Fir-tree be useful\nif he is taken away from the forest where he was born? \n\nSo the birds told him how he could be useful: how perhaps men might\ntake him for the mast of a ship, and fasten to him, strong and firm, the\ngreat white sails that send the ship like a bird over the water; or that\nhe might be used to hold a bright flag, as it waved in the wind. Then\nthe mother-bird thought of the happy Christmas time, for the birds\nand flowers and trees know all about it; and she told the Fir of the\nChristmas greens that were cut in the forest; of the branches and boughs\nthat were used to make the houses fresh and bright; and of the Christmas\ntrees, on which gifts were hung for the children.\n\nNow the Fir-tree had seen some children one day, and he knew about their\nbright eyes, and their rosy cheeks, and their dear soft little hands.\nThe day they came into the woods, they had made a ring and danced about\nhim, and one little girl had held up her finger, and asked the others to\nhush and hear the song he was singing.\n\nSo of all the thing's the birds had told him, the sweetest to him was\nabout the Christmas tree. If only he might be a Christmas tree, and have\nthe children dance about him again, and feel their presents among his\ngreen branches!\n\nSo he did all that a little tree could do to grow strong in every part,\nand each day he sang his song:&&\n\n   Root, grow thou longer,\n   Heart, grow thou stronger;\n   Sweet sunshine, bless me,\n   Softly caress me;\n   Cold raindrops, patter,\n   Wind, my leaves scatter,\n   My roots must grow longer,\n   My heart must grow stronger, \n\nSoon the days began to grow cold. The birdlings who had been born in\nthe Fir-tree's branches had gone far away to the South. The father and\nmother bird had gone too, and on the way had stopped to say good-by to\nthe brave little tree.\n\nThe white snow had fallen in gentle flakes, and covered the cones and\nthe glossy carpet of pine needles. All was still and shining and cold in\nthe forest, and the great trees seemed taller and darker than ever.\n\nOne day some men came into the wood with saws and ropes and axes, and\ncut down many of the great trees, and among these was the mother-fir.\nThey fastened oxen to all the trees, and dragged them away, rustling and\nwaving, over the smooth snow.\n\nThe mother-tree had gone,-- gone to be useful,  said the little Fir; and\nthough he missed her very much, and the world seemed very empty when he\nlooked up and no longer saw her thick branches and her strong trunk, yet\nhe was not unhappy, for he was a brave little Fir.\n\nStill the days grew colder, and often the Fir-tree wondered if the\nchildren who had made a ring and danced about him would remember him\nwhen Christmas time came.\n\nHe could not grow, for the weather was too cold, and so he had the more\ntime for thinking. He thought of the birds, of the mother-tree, and,\nmost of all, of the little girl who had lifted her finger, and said,\n Hush! hear the Fir-tree sing. \n\nSometimes the days seemed long, and he sighed in all his branches, and\nalmost thought he would never be a Christmas tree.\n\nBut suddenly, one day, he heard something far away that sounded like the\nringing of Christmas bells. It was the children laughing and singing, as\nthey ran over the snow.\n\nNearer they came, and stood beside the Fir.  Yes,  said the little girl,\n it is my very tree, my very singing tree! \n\n Indeed,  said the father,  it will be a good Christmas tree. See how\nstraight and well shaped it is. \n\nThen the tree was glad; not proud, for he was a good little Fir, but\nglad that they saw he had tried his best.\n\n{Illustration: Not all firs can be Christmas trees.}\n\nSo they cut him down and carried him away on a great sled; away from the\ntall dark trees, from the white shining snow-carpet at their feet, and\nfrom all the murmuring and whispering that go on within the forest.\n\nThe little trees stood on tiptoe and waved their green branches for\n Good-by,  and the great trees bent their heads to watch him go.\n\n Not all firs can be Christmas trees,  said they;  only those who grow\ntheir best. \n\nThe good Fir-tree stood in the children's own room. Round about his feet\nwere flowers and mosses and green boughs. From his branches hung toys\nand books and candies, and at the end of each glossy twig was a bright\nglittering Christmas candle.\n\nThe doors were slowly opened; the children came running in; and when\nthey saw the shining lights, and the Christmas tree proudly holding\ntheir presents, they made a ring, and danced about him, singing.\n\nAnd the Fir-tree was very happy!\n\n\n\n\nPICCOLA.\n\nSuggested by One of Mrs. Celia Thaxter's Poems.\n\n Story-telling is a real strengthening spirit-bath. --Froebel.\n\n\nPiccola lived in Italy, where the oranges grow, and where all the year\nthe sun shines warm and bright. I suppose you think Piccola a very\nstrange name for a little girl; but in her country it was not strange at\nall, and her mother thought it the sweetest name a little girl ever had.\n\nPiccola had no kind father, no big brother or sister, and no sweet baby\nto play with and to love. She and her mother lived all alone in an old\nstone house that looked on a dark, narrow street. They were very poor,\nand the mother was away from home almost every day, washing clothes and\nscrubbing floors, and working hard to earn money for her little girl and\nherself. So you see Piccola was alone a great deal of the time; and if\nshe had not been a very happy, contented little child, I hardly know\nwhat she would have done. She had no playthings except a heap of stones\nin the back yard that she used for building houses, and a very old, very\nragged doll that her mother had found in the street one day.\n\nBut there was a small round hole in the stone wall at the back of\nher yard, and her greatest pleasure was to look through that into her\nneighbor's garden. When she stood on a stone, and put her eyes close to\nthe hole, she could see the green grass in the garden, smell the sweet\nflowers, and even hear the water plashing into the fountain. She had\nnever seen any one walking in the garden, for it belonged to an old\ngentleman who did not care about grass and flowers.\n\nOne day in the autumn her mother told her that the old gentleman had\ngone away, and had rented his house to a family of little American\nchildren, who had come with their sick mother to spend the winter\nin Italy. After this, Piccola was never lonely, for all day long the\nchildren ran and played and danced and sang in the garden. It was\nseveral weeks before they saw her at all, and I am not sure they would\never have done so but that one day the kitten ran away, and in chasing\nher they came close to the wall, and saw Piccola's black eyes looking\nthrough the hole in the stones. They were a little frightened at first,\nand did not speak to her; but the next day she was there again, and\nRose, the oldest girl, went up to the wall and talked to her a little\nwhile. When the children found that she had no one to play with and was\nvery lonely, they talked to her every day, and often brought her fruits\nand candies, and passed them through the hole in the wall.\n\nOne day they even pushed the kitten through; but the hole was hardly\nlarge enough for her, and she mewed and scratched, and was very much\nfrightened. After that the little boy said he should ask his father if\nthe hole might not be made larger, and then Piccola could come in and\nplay with them. The father had found out that Piccola's mother was a\ngood woman, and that the little girl herself was sweet and kind, so that\nhe was very glad to have some of the stones broken away, and an opening\nmade for Piccola to come in.\n\nHow excited she was, and how glad the children were when she first\nstepped into the garden! She wore her best dress, a long bright-colored\nwoolen skirt and a white waist. Round her neck was a string of beads,\nand on her feet were little wooden shoes. It would seem very strange to\nus--would it not?--to wear wooden shoes; but Piccola and her mother\nhad never worn anything else, and never had any money to buy stockings.\nPiccola almost always ran about barefooted, like the kittens and the\nchickens and the little ducks. What a good time they had that day, and\nhow glad Piccola's mother was that her little girl could have such a\npleasant, safe place to play in, while she was away at work!\n\nBy and by December came, and the little Americans began to talk about\nChristmas. One day, when Piccola's curly head and bright eyes came\npeeping through the hole in the wall, they ran to her and helped her\nin; and as they did so, they all asked her at once what she thought she\nwould have for a Christmas present.  A Christmas present!  said Piccola.\n Why, what is that? \n\nAll the children looked surprised at this, and Rose said, rather\ngravely,  Dear Piccola, don't you know what Christmas is? \n\nOh, yes, Piccola knew it was the happy day when the baby Christ was\nborn, and she had been to church on that day, and heard the beautiful\nsinging, and had seen a picture of the Babe lying in the manger, with\ncattle and sheep sleeping round about. Oh, yes, she knew all that very\nwell, but what was a Christmas present?\n\nThen the children began to laugh, and to answer her all together. There\nwas such a clatter of tongues that she could hear only a few words now\nand then, such as  chimney,   Santa Claus,   stockings,   reindeer, \n  Christmas Eve,   candies and toys.  Piccola put her hands over her\nears, and said,  Oh, I can't understand one word. You tell me, Rose. \n Then Rose told her all about jolly old Santa Claus, with his red cheeks\nand white beard and fur coat, and about his reindeer and sleigh full of\ntoys.  Every Christmas Eve,  said Rose,  he comes down the chimney, and\nfills the stockings of all the good children; so, Piccola, you hang up\nyour stocking, and who knows what a beautiful Christmas present you\nwill find when morning comes!  Of course Piccola thought this was a\ndelightful plan, and was very pleased to hear about it. Then all the\nchildren told her of every Christmas Eve they could remember, and of\nthe presents they had had; so that she went home thinking of nothing but\ndolls, and hoops, and balls, and ribbons, and marbles, and wagons, and\nkites. She told her mother about Santa Claus, and her mother seemed to\nthink that perhaps he did not know there was any little girl in that\nhouse, and very likely he would not come at all. But Piccola felt very\nsure Santa Claus would remember her, for her little friends had promised\nto send a letter up the chimney to remind him.\n\nChristmas Eve came at last. Piccola's mother hurried home from her\nwork; they had their little supper of soup and bread, and soon it was\nbedtime,--time to get ready for Santa Claus. But oh! Piccola remembered\nthen for the first time that the children had told her she must hang up\nher stocking, and she hadn't any, and neither had her mother.\n\nHow sad, how sad it was! Now Santa Claus would come, and perhaps be\nangry because he couldn't find any place to put the present. The poor\nlittle girl stood by the fireplace; and the big tears began to run down\nher cheeks. Just then her mother called to her,  Hurry, Piccola; come\nto bed.  What should she do? But she stopped crying, and tried to think;\nand in a moment she remembered her wooden shoes, and ran off to get one\nof them. She put it close to the chimney, and said to herself,  Surely\nSanta Claus will know what it's there for. He will know I haven't any\nstockings, so I gave him the shoe instead. \n\nThen she went off happily to her bed, and was asleep almost as soon as\nshe had nestled close to her mother's side.\n\nThe sun had only just begun to shine, next morning, when Piccola awoke.\nWith one jump she was out on the floor and running toward the chimney.\nThe wooden shoe was lying where she had left it, but you could never,\nnever guess what was in it.\n\n{Illustration: See the present Santa Claus brought me}\n\nPiccola had not meant to wake her mother, but this surprise was more\nthan any little girl could bear and yet be quiet; so she danced to the\nbed with the shoe in her hand, calling,  Mother, mother! look, look! see\nthe present Santa Claus brought me! \n\nHer mother raised her head and looked into the shoe.  Why, Piccola,  she\nsaid,  a little chimney swallow nestling in your shoe? What a good Santa\nClaus to bring you a bird! \n\n Good Santa Claus, dear Santa Claus!  cried Piccola; and she kissed her\nmother and kissed the bird and kissed the shoe, and even threw kisses up\nthe chimney, she was so happy.\n\nWhen the birdling was taken out of the shoe, they found that he did not\ntry to fly, only to hop about the room; and as they looked closer, they\ncould see that one of his wings was hurt a little. But the mother bound\nit up carefully, so that it did not seem to pain him, and he was so\ngentle that he took a drink of water from a cup, and even ate crumbs and\nseeds from Piccola's hand. She was a proud little girl when she took\nher Christmas present to show the children in the garden. They had had\na great many gifts,--dolls that could say  mamma,  bright picture-books,\ntrains of cars, toy pianos; but not one of their playthings was alive,\nlike Piccola's birdling. They were as pleased as she, and Rose hunted\nabout the house till she found a large wicker cage that belonged to a\nblackbird she once had. She gave the cage to Piccola, and the swallow\nseemed to make himself quite at home in it at once, and sat on the perch\nwinking his bright eyes at the children. Rose had saved a bag of candies\nfor Piccola, and when she went home at last, with the cage and her dear\nswallow safely inside it, I am sure there was not a happier little girl\nin the whole country of Italy.\n\n\n\nTHE CHILD AND THE WORLD.\n\n     I see a nest in a green elm-tree\n     With little brown sparrows,--one, two, three!\n     The elm-tree stretches its branches wide,\n     And the nest is soft and warm inside.\n     At morn, the sun, so golden bright,\n     Climbs up to fill the world with light;\n     It opens the flowers, it wakens me,\n     And wakens the birdies,--one, two, three.\n     And leaning out of my window high,\n     I look far up at the blue, blue sky,\n     And then far out at the earth so green,\n     And think it the loveliest ever seen,--\n     The loveliest world that ever was seen!\n\n     But by and by, when the sun is low,\n     And birds and babies sleepy grow,\n     I peep again from my window high,\n     And look at the earth and clouds and sky.\n     The night dew comes in silent showers,\n     To cool the hearts of thirsty flowers;\n     The moon comes out,--the slender thing,\n     A crescent yet, but soon a ring,--\n     And brings with her one yellow star;\n     How small it looks, away so far!\n     But soon, in the heaven's shining blue,\n     A thousand twinkle and blink at you,\n     Like a thousand lamps in the sky so blue.\n\n     And hush! a light breeze stirs the tree,\n     And rocks, the birdies,--one, two, three.\n     What a beautiful cradle, that soft, warm nest!\n     What a dear little coverlid, mamma-bird's breast!\n     She's hugging them close to her,--tight, so tight\n     That each downy head is hid from sight;\n     But out from under her sheltering wings\n     Their bright eyes glisten,--the darling things!\n     I lean far out from my window's height\n     And say,  Dear, lovely world, good-night!\n\n      Good-night, dear, pretty baby moon!\n     Your cradle you'll outgrow quite soon,\n     And then, perhaps, all night you'll shine,\n     A grown-up lady moon!--so fine\n     And bright that all the stars\n     Will want to light their lamps from yours.\n     Sleep sweetly, birdies, never fear,\n     For God is always watching near!\n     And you, dear, friendly world above,\n     The same One holds us in His love:\n     Both you so great, and I so small,\n     Are safe,--He sees the sparrow's fall,--\n     The dear God watcheth over all! \n\n\n\n\nWHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL.\n\nOUR FROGGERY.\n\n Turn back observantly into your own youth, and awaken, warm, and vivify\nthe eternal youth of your mind. --FROEBEL.\n\n\nWhen I was a little girl my sister and I lived in the country. She was\nyounger than I, and the dearest, fattest little toddlekins of a sister\nyou ever knew. She always wanted to do exactly as I did, so that I had\nto be very careful and do the right things; for if I had been naughty\nshe would surely have been naughty too, and that would have made me very\nsad.\n\nAs we lived in the country we had none of the things to amuse us that\ncity children have. We couldn't walk in crowded streets and see people\nand look in at beautiful shop-windows, or hear the street-organs play\nand see the monkeys do tricks; we couldn't go to dancing school, nor to\nchildren's parties, nor to the circus to see the animals.\n\nBut we had lovely plays, after all.\n\nIn the spring we hunted for mayflowers, and sailed boats in the brooks,\nand gathered fluffy pussy-willows. We watched the yellow dandelions\ncome, one by one, in the short green grass, and we stood under the\nmaple-trees and watched the sap trickle from their trunks into the great\nwooden buckets; for that maple sap was to be boiled into maple sugar\nand syrup, and we liked to think about it. In the summer we went\nstrawberrying and blueberrying, and played  hide and coop  behind the\ntall yellow haycocks, and rode on the top of the full haycarts. In the\nfall we went nutting, and pressed red and yellow autumn leaves between\nthe pages of our great Webster's Dictionary; we gathered apples, and\nwatched the men at work at the cider-presses, and the farmers as they\nthreshed their wheat and husked their corn. And in the winter we made\nsnow men, and slid downhill from morning till night when there was any\nsnow to slide upon, and went sleighing behind our dear old horse Jack,\nand roasted apples in the ashes of the great open fire.\n\nBut one of the things we cared for most was our froggery, and we used to\nplay there for hours together in the long summer days.\n\nPerhaps you don't know what a froggery is; but you do know what a frog\nis, and so you can guess that a froggery is a place where frogs live.\nMy little sister and I used at first to catch the frogs and keep them in\ntin cans filled with water; but when we thought about it we saw that the\npoor froggies couldn't enjoy this, and that it was cruel to take them\naway from their homes and make them live in unfurnished tin houses. So\none day I asked my father if he would give us a part of the garden brook\nfor our very own. He laughed, and said,  Yes,  if we wouldn't carry it\naway.\n\nOur garden was as large as four or five city blocks, and a beautiful\nsilver-clear brook flowed through it, turning here and there, and here\nand there breaking into tinkling little waterfalls, and dropping gently\ninto clear, still pools.\n\nIt was one of these deep, quiet pools that we chose for our froggery. It\nwas almost hidden on two sides by thick green alder-bushes, so that it\nwas always cool and pleasant there, even on the hottest days.\n\nMy father put pieces of fine wire netting into the water on each of the\nfour sides of the pool, and so arranged them that we could slip those\non the banks up and down as we pleased. Whenever we went there we always\ntook away the side fences, and sat flat down upon the smooth stones at\nthe edges of the brook and played with the frogs.\n\nHere we used to watch our gay young polliwogs grow into frogs, one leg\nat a time coming out at each  corner  of their fat wriggling bodies. We\nkept two great bull-frogs,--splendid bass singers both of them,--that\nhad been stoned by naughty small boys, and left for dead by the\nroadside. We found them there, bound up their broken legs and bruised\nbacks, and nursed them quite well again in one corner of the froggery\nthat we called the hospital. In another corner was the nursery, and here\nwe kept all the tiniest frogs; though we always let them out once a\nday to play with the older ones, for fear that they never would learn\nanything if they were kept entirely to themselves. One of our great\nbull-frogs grew so strong and well, after being in the hospital for a\nwhile, that he jumped over the highest of the wire fences, which was\ntwo feet higher than any frog ever was known to jump, so our hired man\nsaid,--jumped over and ran away. We called him the  General,  because he\nwas the largest of our frogs and the oldest, we thought. (He hadn't any\ngray hairs, but he was very much wrinkled.) We were sorry to lose the\nGeneral, and couldn't think why he should run away, when we gave him\nsuch good things to eat and tried to make him so happy. My father said\nthat perhaps his home was in a large pond, some distance off, where\nthere were so many hundred frogs that it was quite a gay city life for\nthem, while the froggery was in a quiet brook in our quiet old garden.\n(If I were a frog, it seems to me I should like such a home better than\na great noisy stagnant pond near the road, where I should be frightened\nto death half a dozen times a day; but there is no accounting for\ntastes!)\n\n{Illustration:  We were sorry to lose the General. }\n\nBut what do you think? After staying away for three days and nights\nthe General came back safe and sound! We knew it was our own beloved\nGeneral, and not any common stranger-frog, because there was the scar\non his back where the boys had stoned him. My little sister thought that\nperhaps the General was born in Lily Pad Pond, on the other side of the\nvillage, and only went back to get a sight of the pond lilies, which\nwere just in full bloom. If that was so, I cannot blame the General; for\nsnow-white pond lilies, with their golden hearts and the green frills\nround their necks, are the loveliest things in the world, as they float\namong their shiny pads on the surface of the pond. Did you ever see\nthem?\n\nAll our frogs had names of their own, of course, and we knew them all\napart, although they looked just alike to other people. There was Prince\nPouter, Brownie, and Goldilegs; Bright-Eye, Chirp, and Gray Friar;\nHop-o'-my-Thumb, Croaker, Baby Mine, Nimblefoot, Tiny Tim, and many\nothers.\n\nWe were so afraid that our frogs wouldn't like the froggery better than\nany other place in the brook that we gave them all the pleasures we\ncould think of. They always had plenty of fat juicy flies and water-bugs\nfor their dinners, and after a while we put some silver shiners and tiny\nminnows into the pool, so that they would have fishes to play with as\nwell as other frogs. You know you do not always like to play with other\nchildren; sometimes you like kittens and dogs and birds better.\n\nThen we gave our frogs little vacations once in a while. We tied a long\nsoft woolen string very gently round one of their hind legs, fastened it\nto a twig of one of the alderbushes, and let them take a long swim and\nmake calls on all their friends.\n\nWe had a singing-school for them once a week. It was very troublesome,\nfor they didn't like to stand in line a bit, and it is quite useless to\ntry and teach a class in singing unless the scholars will stand in a row\nor keep in some sort of order. We used to put a nice little board across\nthe pool, and then try to get the frogs to sit quietly in line during\ntheir lesson. The General behaved quite nicely, and really got into the\nspirit of the thing, so that he was a splendid example for the head of\nthe class. Then we used to put Myron W. Whitney next in line, on account\nof his beautiful bass voice. We named him after a gentleman who had once\nsung in our church, and I hope if he ever heard of it he didn't mind,\nfor the frog was really a credit to him. Myron W. Whitney behaved nearly\nas well as the General, but we could never get him to sing unless we\nheld the class just before bedtime, and then the little frogs were so\nsleepy that they kept tumbling out of the singing-school into the pool.\nThat was the trouble with them all; they never could quite see the\ndifference between school and pool. It seems to me they must have known\nit was very slight after all.\n\nTowards the end of the summer we had trained them so well that once in a\nlong while we could actually get them all still at once, and all facing\nthe right way as they sat upon that board. Oh! it was a beautiful sight,\nand worth any amount of trouble and work! Twenty-one frogs in a row, all\nin fresh green suits, with clean white shirt fronts, washed every day.\nThe General and Myron W. Whitney always looked as if they were bursting\nwith pride, and as they were too fat and lazy to move, we could\ngenerally count upon their good behavior.\n\nWe thought that if we could only get them to look down into the pool,\nwhich made such a lovely looking-glass, and just see for once what a\nbeautiful picture they made,--sitting so straight and still, and all so\nnicely graded as to size,--they would like it better and do it a little\nmore willingly.\n\nWe thought, too, the baby frogs would be ashamed, when they looked in\nthe glass, to see that while the big frogs stayed still of their own\nfree will, THEY had to be held down with forked sticks. But we could\nnever discover that they were ashamed.\n\nSo when everything was complete my little sister used to  let go  of\nthe baby frogs (for, as I said, she had to hold them down while we were\nforming the line), and I would begin the lesson. Sometimes they would\nlisten a minute, and then they would begin their pranks. They would\ninsist on playing leap-frog, which is a very nice game, but not\nappropriate for school. Tiny Tim would jump from the foot of the class\nstraight over all the others on to Myron W. Whitney's back. Baby Mine\nwould try to get between Croaker and Goldilegs, where there wasn't any\nroom. Nimblefoot would twist round on the board and turn his back to me,\nwhich was very impolite, as I was the teacher. Finally, Hop-o'-my-Thumb\nwould go splash into the pool, and all the rest, save the good old\nGeneral, would follow him, and the lesson would end. I suppose you have\nheard frogs singing just after sunset, when you were going to bed? Some\npeople think the big bull-frogs say,  JUGO'RUM! JUGO'RUM! JUGO'RUM!  But\nI don't think this is at all likely, as the frogs never drink anything\nbut water in their whole lives.\n\nWe used to think that some of the frogs said,  KERCHUG! KERCHUG!  and\nthat the largest one said,  GOTACRUMB! GOTACRUMB! GOTACRUMB!  Perhaps\nyou can't make it sound right, but if you listen to the frogs you can\nvery soon do it.\n\nWe thought the frogs in our froggery the very best singers in all the\ncountry round. After our mother had tucked us in our little beds and\nkissed us good-night, she used to open the window, that we might hear\nthe chirping and humming and kerchugging of our frogs down in the dear\nold garden.\n\nAs we wandered dreamily off into Sandman's Land, the very last sound we\nheard was the cheerful chorus of our baby frogs, and the deep bass notes\nof Myron W. Whitney and the old General.\n\n\n\n\nFROEBEL'S BIRTHDAY.\n\n The whole future efficiency of man is seen in the child as a germ. --\nFROEBEL.\n\n\nOn this day, children, the twenty-first of April, we always remember our\ndear Froebel; for it was his birthday.\n\nWe bring flowers and vines to hang about his picture, we sing the songs\nand play the games he loved the best, and we remember the story of his\nlife. We thank him all day long; for he made the kindergarten for us, he\ninvented these pretty things that children love to do, he thought about\nall the pleasant work and pleasant play that make the kindergarten such\na happy place.\n\nOn this very day, more than a hundred years ago, the baby Froebel came\nto his happy father and mother. He was a little German baby, like Elsa's\nbrother and Fritz's little sister, and when he began to talk his first\nwords were German ones.\n\nBut the dear mother did not stay long with her little Friedrich, for she\ndied when he was not a year old, and he was left a very sad and lonely\nbaby. His father was a busy minister, who had sermons to write, and sick\npeople to see, and unhappy people to comfort, from one end of the\nweek to the other, and he had no time to attend to his little son; so\nFriedrich was left to the housemaid, who was too busy herself to care\nfor him properly. She was often so hurried that she was obliged to shut\nhim up in a room alone, to keep him out of her way, and then it was very\nhard work for the child to amuse himself.\n\nThe only window in this room looked out on a church that workmen were\nrepairing, and Friedrich often watched these men, and tried to do just\nas they did. He took all the small pieces of furniture, and piled one\non top of the other to make a big, big church, like the one outside;\nbut the chairs and stools did not fit each other very well, and soon\nthe church would come tumbling about his head. When Froebel grew to be a\nman, he remembered this, and made the building blocks for us, so that we\nmight make fine, tall churches and houses as often as we liked.\n\nRebel's home was surrounded by other buildings, and was close to the\ngreat church I told you about. There were fences and hedges all around\nthe house, and at the back there were sloping fields, stretching up a\nhigh hill.\n\nWhen the little boy grew old enough to walk, he played in the garden\nalone, a great deal of the time; but he was not allowed to go outside\nat all, and never could get even a glimpse of the world beyond. He could\nonly see the blue sky overhead, and feel the fresh wind blowing from the\nhills.\n\nHis father had no time for him, his mother was dead, and I think perhaps\nhe would have died himself, for very sadness and lonesomeness, if it had\nnot been for his older brothers. Now and then, when they were at home,\nthey played and talked with him, and he grew to love them very dearly\nindeed.\n\nWhen Friedrich was four years old, his father brought the children a\nnew mother, and for a time the little boy was very happy. The mother was\nquite kind at first; and now Froebel had some one to walk with in the\ngarden, some one to talk with in the daytime and to tuck him in his\nlittle bed at night. But by and by, when a baby boy came to the new\nmother, she had no more room in her heart for poor Friedrich, and he was\nmore miserable than ever. He tried to be a good boy, but no one seemed\nto understand him, and he was often blamed for naughty things he had not\ndone, and was never praised or loved.\n\nWhen he had learned to read he was sent to school, though not with other\nboys, for his father thought it better for him to be with girls. The\nschool was pleasant and quiet, and Friedrich liked the teacher very\nmuch. Every morning the children read from the Bible, and learned sweet\nsongs and hymns which the little boy remembered all his days.\n\nThe life at home grew no happier, as Friedrich grew older; indeed, he\nseemed to be more in the way and to get into trouble more often.\n\nWhen he was ten years old his uncle came to visit them, and seeing\nFriedrich so unhappy, and fearing he would not grow up a good boy unless\nsome one cared for him, the good uncle asked to be allowed to take the\nchild home with him to live.\n\nNow, at last, Friedrich had five happy years!\n\nHis uncle lived in a pretty town on the banks of a sparkling little\nriver. Everything was pleasant in the house, and Friedrich went to\nschool with forty boys of his own age. He jumped and ran with them in\nthe playgrounds, he learned to play all kinds of games, and he was happy\neverywhere,--at school, at home, at church, playing or working.\n\nWhen these five pleasant years had gone by, Froebel had finished school,\nand now he must decide what he would do to earn his living. He had\nalways loved flowers, since the days when he played all alone in his\nfather's garden, and he liked to be out-of-doors and to see things\ngrowing; so he made up his mind to be a surveyor, like our George\nWashington, you know, and to learn, besides, how to take care of trees\nand forests.\n\nHe studied and worked very hard at these things, and gained a great deal\nof knowledge about flowers and plants and trees and rocks.\n\nBy and by he left this work and went to college, where he studied a long\ntime and grew to be very wise indeed. There were numbers of things he\nhad learned to do: he could measure land, take care of woods, and draw\nmaps; he could make plans of houses, and show men how to build them;\nhe knew all about fine stones and minerals, and could sort and arrange\nthem; but he found, at last, that there was nothing in the world he\nliked so well as teaching, for he loved children very much, and he liked\nto be with them. When Froebel was a grown man, thirty years old, a great\nwar broke out in Germany, and he went away to fight for his country;\nlike our George Washington again, you see. He marched away with the\nsoldiers, and fought bravely for a year; and then the war was over, and\nhe went back to his quiet work again.\n\nFor the rest of his life Froebel went on teaching all kinds of\npeople,--boys and men, and young girls and grown-up women; but he never\nwas quite happy or satisfied till he thought of teaching tiny children,\njust like you.\n\nHe remembered very well how sad and miserable he was when a little boy,\nwith no one to love him, nobody to play with, and nothing to do; so he\nthought of the kindergarten, where there are pleasant playmates, pretty\nwork, happy play for everybody, and teachers who love little children.\n\nHe was an old man when he thought of the kindergarten; but he was never\ntoo old to play with children, and people who went to his country home\nused to see him, with the little ones about him, playing the Pigeon\nHouse, or the Wheel, or the Farmer, or some of the games he made for us.\n\nHe was often very poor, and he worked very hard all his life; but he\ndid not care for this at all, if he could help other people and make\nchildren happy. And when, at last, it was time for him to die, and to go\nback to God, who sent him to us, he was quiet and happy through all his\nsickness, and almost the last words he said were about the flowers he\nloved so well, and about God who had been so good to him.\n\nSo this is the reason, little ones, that we keep Rebel's birthday every\nyear,--because we want you to remember all he did for little children,\nand to learn to love him just as he loved you.\n\n Come, let us live with our children; so shall their lives bring peace\nand joy to us; so shall we begin to be, and to become wise. -- FROEBEL."
    },
    {
        "title": "Emma",
        "author": "Jane Austen",
        "category": "Romance",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I\n\n\nEmma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and\nhappy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of\nexistence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very\nlittle to distress or vex her.\n\nShe was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,\nindulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister s marriage,\nbeen mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had\ndied too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance\nof her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman\nas governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.\n\nSixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse s family, less as a\ngoverness than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly\nof Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even\nbefore Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess,\nthe mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any\nrestraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they\nhad been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,\nand Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor s\njudgment, but directed chiefly by her own.\n\nThe real evils, indeed, of Emma s situation were the power of having\nrather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too\nwell of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to\nher many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so\nunperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with\nher.\n\nSorrow came a gentle sorrow but not at all in the shape of any\ndisagreeable consciousness. Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor s\nloss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this\nbeloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any\ncontinuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father\nand herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to\ncheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after\ndinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she\nhad lost.\n\nThe event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was\na man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and\npleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with\nwhat self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and\npromoted the match; but it was a black morning s work for her. The want\nof Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her\npast kindness the kindness, the affection of sixteen years how she had\ntaught and how she had played with her from five years old how she had\ndevoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health and how nursed\nher through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of\ngratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years,\nthe equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed\nIsabella s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a\ndearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such\nas few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing\nall the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and\npeculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of\nhers one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had\nsuch an affection for her as could never find fault.\n\nHow was she to bear the change? It was true that her friend was going\nonly half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the\ndifference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a\nMiss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and\ndomestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual\nsolitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.\nHe could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.\n\nThe evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had\nnot married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;\nfor having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind\nor body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though\neverywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable\ntemper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.\n\nHer sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being\nsettled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily\nreach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled\nthrough at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from\nIsabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,\nand give her pleasant society again.\n\nHighbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,\nto which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and\nname, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were\nfirst in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many\nacquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but\nnot one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for\neven half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but\nsigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke,\nand made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He\nwas a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was\nused to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.\nMatrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was\nby no means yet reconciled to his own daughter s marrying, nor could\never speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a\nmatch of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor\ntoo; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able\nto suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he\nwas very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for\nherself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she\nhad spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and\nchatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but\nwhen tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had\nsaid at dinner,\n\n Poor Miss Taylor! I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that\nMr. Weston ever thought of her! \n\n I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a\ngood-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a\ngood wife; and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for\never, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her\nown? \n\n A house of her own! But where is the advantage of a house of her own?\nThis is three times as large. And you have never any odd humours, my\ndear. \n\n How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us! We\nshall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay wedding\nvisit very soon. \n\n My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could\nnot walk half so far. \n\n No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage,\nto be sure. \n\n The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a\nlittle way; and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our\nvisit? \n\n They are to be put into Mr. Weston s stable, papa. You know we have\nsettled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last\nnight. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going\nto Randalls, because of his daughter s being housemaid there. I only\ndoubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing,\npapa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you\nmentioned her James is so obliged to you! \n\n I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not\nhave had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am\nsure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken\ngirl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always\ncurtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you\nhave had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock\nof the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an\nexcellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor\nto have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes\nover to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will\nbe able to tell her how we all are. \n\nEmma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and\nhoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through\nthe evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The\nbackgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards\nwalked in and made it unnecessary.\n\nMr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not\nonly a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly\nconnected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella s husband. He lived\nabout a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,\nand at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their\nmutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after\nsome days  absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were\nwell in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr.\nWoodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which\nalways did him good; and his many inquiries after  poor Isabella  and\nher children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr.\nWoodhouse gratefully observed,  It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley,\nto come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must\nhave had a shocking walk. \n\n Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I\nmust draw back from your great fire. \n\n But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not\ncatch cold. \n\n Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them. \n\n Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain\nhere. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at\nbreakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding. \n\n By the bye I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what\nsort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my\ncongratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you\nall behave? Who cried most? \n\n Ah! poor Miss Taylor!  Tis a sad business. \n\n Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say\n poor Miss Taylor.  I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it\ncomes to the question of dependence or independence! At any rate, it\nmust be better to have only one to please than two. \n\n Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome\ncreature!  said Emma playfully.  That is what you have in your head, I\nknow and what you would certainly say if my father were not by. \n\n I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,  said Mr. Woodhouse, with\na sigh.  I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome. \n\n My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.\nKnightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only\nmyself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know in a\njoke it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another. \n\nMr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults\nin Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and\nthough this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it\nwould be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him\nreally suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by\nevery body.\n\n Emma knows I never flatter her,  said Mr. Knightley,  but I meant no\nreflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons\nto please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be\na gainer. \n\n Well,  said Emma, willing to let it pass you want to hear about the\nwedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved\ncharmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks:\nnot a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that\nwe were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting\nevery day. \n\n Dear Emma bears every thing so well,  said her father.  But, Mr.\nKnightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am\nsure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for. \n\nEmma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles.  It is\nimpossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,  said Mr.\nKnightley.  We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could\nsuppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor s\nadvantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor s\ntime of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to\nher to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow\nherself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor\nmust be glad to have her so happily married. \n\n And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,  said Emma,  and a\nvery considerable one that I made the match myself. I made the match,\nyou know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in\nthe right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again,\nmay comfort me for any thing. \n\nMr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied,  Ah! my\ndear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for\nwhatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more\nmatches. \n\n I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for\nother people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such\nsuccess, you know! Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry\nagain. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who\nseemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied\neither in his business in town or among his friends here, always\nacceptable wherever he went, always cheerful Mr. Weston need not spend\na single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.\nWeston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a\npromise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the\nuncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the\nsubject, but I believed none of it.\n\n Ever since the day about four years ago that Miss Taylor and I met\nwith him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted\naway with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from\nFarmer Mitchell s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the\nmatch from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this\ninstance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off\nmatch-making. \n\n I do not understand what you mean by  success,  said Mr. Knightley.\n Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately\nspent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring\nabout this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady s mind! But\nif, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it,\nmeans only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day,  I\nthink it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were\nto marry her,  and saying it again to yourself every now and then\nafterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are\nyou proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be\nsaid. \n\n And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess? I\npity you. I thought you cleverer for, depend upon it a lucky guess is\nnever merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor\nword  success,  which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so\nentirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures;\nbut I think there may be a third a something between the do-nothing and\nthe do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston s visits here, and given\nmany little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might\nnot have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield\nenough to comprehend that. \n\n A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,\nunaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their\nown concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than\ngood to them, by interference. \n\n Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,  rejoined\nMr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part.  But, my dear, pray do not\nmake any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one s family\ncircle grievously. \n\n Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.\nElton, papa, I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in\nHighbury who deserves him and he has been here a whole year, and has\nfitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have\nhim single any longer and I thought when he was joining their hands\nto-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same\nkind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is\nthe only way I have of doing him a service. \n\n Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good\nyoung man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew\nhim any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day.\nThat will be a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so\nkind as to meet him. \n\n With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,  said Mr. Knightley,\nlaughing,  and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better\nthing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish\nand the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a\nman of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nMr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,\nwhich for the last two or three generations had been rising into\ngentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on\nsucceeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed\nfor any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,\nand had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by\nentering into the militia of his county, then embodied.\n\nCaptain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his\nmilitary life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great\nYorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was\nsurprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and\nwho were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would\noffend.\n\nMiss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her\nfortune though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate was\nnot to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the\ninfinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off\nwith due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce\nmuch happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had\na husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing\ndue to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him;\nbut though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had\nresolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but\nnot enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother s\nunreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.\nThey lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison\nof Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at\nonce to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.\n\nCaptain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,\nas making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of\nthe bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years  marriage, he\nwas rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.\nFrom the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy\nhad, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his\nmother s, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.\nChurchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young\ncreature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge\nof the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some\nreluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they\nwere overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the\ncare and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort\nto seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.\n\nA complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and\nengaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in\nLondon, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which\nbrought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,\nwhere most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful\noccupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty\nyears of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time,\nrealised an easy competence enough to secure the purchase of a little\nestate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for enough to\nmarry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according\nto the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.\n\nIt was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his\nschemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it\nhad not shaken his determination of never settling till he could\npurchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;\nbut he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were\naccomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained\nhis wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every\nprobability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had\nnever been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that,\neven in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful\na well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the\npleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be\nchosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.\n\nHe had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;\nfor as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his\nuncle s heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume\nthe name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely,\ntherefore, that he should ever want his father s assistance. His father\nhad no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and\ngoverned her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston s nature to\nimagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear,\nand, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in\nLondon, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine\nyoung man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was\nlooked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and\nprospects a kind of common concern.\n\nMr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively\ncuriosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little\nreturned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit\nhis father had been often talked of but never achieved.\n\nNow, upon his father s marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a\nmost proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not\na dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea\nwith Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the\nvisit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and\nthe hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his\nnew mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in\nHighbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had\nreceived.  I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank\nChurchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very\nhandsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw\nthe letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his\nlife. \n\nIt was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,\nformed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing\nattention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most\nwelcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation\nwhich her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most\nfortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate\nshe might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial\nseparation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and\nwho could ill bear to part with her.\n\nShe knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without\npain, of Emma s losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour s ennui,\nfrom the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble\ncharacter; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would\nhave been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped\nwould bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and\nprivations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance\nof Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female\nwalking, and in Mr. Weston s disposition and circumstances, which would\nmake the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the\nevenings in the week together.\n\nHer situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.\nWeston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction her more\nthan satisfaction her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,\nthat Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize\nat his being still able to pity  poor Miss Taylor,  when they left her\nat Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away\nin the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her\nown. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse s giving a gentle sigh,\nand saying,  Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay. \n\nThere was no recovering Miss Taylor nor much likelihood of ceasing to\npity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.\nThe compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by\nbeing wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which\nhad been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could\nbear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be\ndifferent from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as\nunfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade\nthem from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as\nearnestly tried to prevent any body s eating it. He had been at the\npains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr.\nPerry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were\none of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse s life; and upon being applied to,\nhe could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias\nof inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with\nmany perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an\nopinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence\nevery visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;\nand there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.\n\nThere was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being\nseen with a slice of Mrs. Weston s wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.\nWoodhouse would never believe it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nMr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to\nhave his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from\nhis long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune,\nhis house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own\nlittle circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much\nintercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late\nhours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance\nbut such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him,\nHighbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in\nthe parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many\nsuch. Not unfrequently, through Emma s persuasion, he had some of the\nchosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he\npreferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to\ncompany, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could\nnot make up a card-table for him.\n\nReal, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and\nby Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege\nof exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the\nelegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse s drawing-room, and the smiles\nof his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.\n\nAfter these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were\nMrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at\nthe service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and\ncarried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for\neither James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it\nwould have been a grievance.\n\nMrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old\nlady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her\nsingle daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the\nregard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward\ncircumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree\nof popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.\nMiss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having\nmuch of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to\nmake atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into\noutward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her\nyouth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was\ndevoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a\nsmall income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and\na woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal\ngood-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved\nevery body, was interested in every body s happiness, quicksighted to\nevery body s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and\nsurrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good\nneighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The\nsimplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful\nspirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to\nherself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly\nsuited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless\ngossip.\n\nMrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School not of a seminary, or an\nestablishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of\nrefined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant\nmorality, upon new principles and new systems and where young ladies\nfor enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity but a\nreal, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable\nquantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where\ngirls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into\na little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs.\nGoddard s school was in high repute and very deservedly; for Highbury\nwas reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and\ngarden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about\na great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with\nher own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now\nwalked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman,\nwho had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to\nthe occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to\nMr. Woodhouse s kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her\nneat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win\nor lose a few sixpences by his fireside.\n\nThese were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to\ncollect; and happy was she, for her father s sake, in the power;\nthough, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the\nabsence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look\ncomfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things\nso well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that\nevery evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had\nfearfully anticipated.\n\nAs she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the\npresent day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most\nrespectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most\nwelcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew\nvery well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her\nbeauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no\nlonger dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.\n\nHarriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed\nher, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard s school, and somebody had\nlately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of\nparlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history.\nShe had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and\nwas now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young\nladies who had been at school there with her.\n\nShe was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort\nwhich Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a\nfine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of\ngreat sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much\npleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to\ncontinue the acquaintance.\n\nShe was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith s\nconversation, but she found her altogether very engaging not\ninconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk and yet so far from pushing,\nshewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly\ngrateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by\nthe appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had\nbeen used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.\nEncouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those\nnatural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of\nHighbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed\nwere unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though\nvery good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of\nthe name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a\nlarge farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell very\ncreditably, she believed she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of\nthem but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the\nintimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and\nelegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve\nher; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her\ninto good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It\nwould be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly\nbecoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.\n\nShe was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and\nlistening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the\nevening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which\nalways closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and\nwatch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to\nthe fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common\nimpulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of\ndoing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a\nmind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of\nthe meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped\noysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the\nearly hours and civil scruples of their guests.\n\nUpon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse s feelings were in sad warfare.\nHe loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his\nyouth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him\nrather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality\nwould have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their\nhealth made him grieve that they would eat.\n\nSuch another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he\ncould, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might\nconstrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer\nthings, to say:\n\n Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg\nboiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg\nbetter than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body\nelse; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see one of\nour small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a\n_little_ bit of tart a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You\nneed not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the\ncustard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A\n_small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it\ncould disagree with you. \n\nEmma allowed her father to talk but supplied her visitors in a much\nmore satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular\npleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was\nquite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage\nin Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much\npanic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with\nhighly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which\nMiss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken\nhands with her at last!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nHarriet Smith s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick\nand decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging,\nand telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance\nincreased, so did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking\ncompanion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her.\nIn that respect Mrs. Weston s loss had been important. Her father never\nwent beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed\nhim for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs.\nWeston s marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She had\nventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet\nSmith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk,\nwould be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every respect,\nas she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her\nkind designs.\n\nHarriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful\ndisposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be\nguided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was\nvery amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of\nappreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want\nof taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.\nAltogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith s being exactly the\nyoung friend she wanted exactly the something which her home required.\nSuch a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could\nnever be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different\nsort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was\nthe object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.\nHarriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs.\nWeston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.\n\nHer first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who\nwere the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell\nevery thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma\nwas obliged to fancy what she liked but she could never believe that in\nthe same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet\nhad no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just\nwhat Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.\n\nMrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the\nschool in general, formed naturally a great part of the\nconversation and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of\nAbbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied\nher thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with\nthem, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe\nthe many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her\ntalkativeness amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and\nenjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much\nexultation of Mrs. Martin s having  _two_ parlours, two very good\nparlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard s\ndrawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived\nfive-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of\nthem Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch\ncow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin s saying as she was so fond of it, it\nshould be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome\nsummer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to\ndrink tea: a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen\npeople. \n\nFor some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate\ncause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings\narose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and\ndaughter, a son and son s wife, who all lived together; but when it\nappeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was\nalways mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing\nsomething or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs.\nMartin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little\nfriend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were\nnot taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.\n\nWith this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and\nmeaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,\nand there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to\nspeak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry\nevening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very\ngood-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in\norder to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was\nof them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his\nshepherd s son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her.\nShe was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She\nbelieved he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very\nfine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his\nwool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well\nof him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had\ntold her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was\nimpossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure,\nwhenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she\n_wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.\n\n Well done, Mrs. Martin!  thought Emma.  You know what you are about. \n\n And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send\nMrs. Goddard a beautiful goose the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever\nseen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three\nteachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with\nher. \n\n Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of\nhis own business? He does not read? \n\n Oh yes! that is, no I do not know but I believe he has read a good\ndeal but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the\nAgricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the\nwindow seats but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an\nevening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of\nthe Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the\nVicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The\nChildren of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I\nmentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he\ncan. \n\nThe next question was \n\n What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin? \n\n Oh! not handsome not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at\nfirst, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know,\nafter a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now\nand then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to\nKingston. He has passed you very often. \n\n That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having\nany idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot,\nis the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are\nprecisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to\ndo. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest\nme; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other.\nBut a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense,\nas much above my notice as in every other he is below it. \n\n To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed\nhim; but he knows you very well indeed I mean by sight. \n\n I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,\nindeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine\nhis age to be? \n\n He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the\n23rd just a fortnight and a day s difference which is very odd. \n\n Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is\nperfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as\nthey are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would\nprobably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort\nof young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it\nmight be very desirable. \n\n Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old! \n\n Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are\nnot born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune\nentirely to make cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever\nmoney he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of\nthe family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his\nstock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may\nbe rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised\nany thing yet. \n\n To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no\nindoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks\nof taking a boy another year. \n\n I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does\nmarry; I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife for though his\nsisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected\nto, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you\nto notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly\ncareful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a\ngentleman s daughter, and you must support your claim to that station\nby every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people\nwho would take pleasure in degrading you. \n\n Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield,\nand you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any\nbody can do. \n\n You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I\nwould have you so firmly established in good society, as to be\nindependent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you\npermanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to\nhave as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if\nyou should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you\nmay not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted\nwith the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer s daughter,\nwithout education. \n\n To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body\nbut what had had some education and been very well brought up. However,\nI do not mean to set up my opinion against yours and I am sure I shall\nnot wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great\nregard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very\nsorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But\nif he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not\nvisit her, if I can help it. \n\nEmma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no\nalarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer,\nbut she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no\nserious difficulty, on Harriet s side, to oppose any friendly\narrangement of her own.\n\nThey met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the\nDonwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at\nher, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was\nnot sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few\nyards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye\nsufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very\nneat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no\nother advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she\nthought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet s\ninclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily\nnoticed her father s gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr.\nMartin looked as if he did not know what manner was.\n\nThey remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be\nkept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face,\nand in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to\ncompose.\n\n Only think of our happening to meet him! How very odd! It was quite a\nchance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not\nthink we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls\nmost days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.\nHe was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot\nit, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet!\nWell, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think\nof him? Do you think him so very plain? \n\n He is very plain, undoubtedly remarkably plain: but that is nothing\ncompared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect\nmuch, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so\nvery clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a\ndegree or two nearer gentility. \n\n To be sure,  said Harriet, in a mortified voice,  he is not so genteel\nas real gentlemen. \n\n I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been\nrepeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you\nmust yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At\nHartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred\nmen. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in\ncompany with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very\ninferior creature and rather wondering at yourself for having ever\nthought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now?\nWere not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward\nlook and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to\nbe wholly unmodulated as I stood here. \n\n Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air\nand way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough.\nBut Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man! \n\n Mr. Knightley s air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to\ncompare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with\n_gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the\nonly gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston\nand Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their\nmanner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being\nsilent. You must see the difference. \n\n Oh yes! there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old\nman. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty. \n\n Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person\ngrows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not\nbe bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or\nawkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later\nage. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr.\nWeston s time of life? \n\n There is no saying, indeed,  replied Harriet rather solemnly.\n\n But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross,\nvulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of\nnothing but profit and loss. \n\n Will he, indeed? That will be very bad. \n\n How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the\ncircumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended.\nHe was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing\nelse which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to\ndo with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very\nrich man in time and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb\n_us_. \n\n I wonder he did not remember the book was all Harriet s answer, and\nspoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be\nsafely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her\nnext beginning was,\n\n In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton s manners are superior to Mr.\nKnightley s or Mr. Weston s. They have more gentleness. They might be\nmore safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness,\nalmost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_,\nbecause there is so much good-humour with it but that would not do to\nbe copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley s downright, decided, commanding\nsort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look,\nand situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to\nset about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I\nthink a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as\na model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He\nseems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know\nwhether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us,\nHarriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are\nsofter than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to\nplease you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day? \n\nShe then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from\nMr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled,\nand said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.\n\nMr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young\nfarmer out of Harriet s head. She thought it would be an excellent\nmatch; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her\nto have much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body\nelse must think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any\nbody should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had\nentered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet s coming to\nHartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of\nits expediency. Mr. Elton s situation was most suitable, quite the\ngentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of\nany family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.\nHe had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient\nincome; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known\nto have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him\nas a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any\ndeficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.\n\nShe had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful\ngirl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was\nfoundation enough on his side; and on Harriet s there could be little\ndoubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual\nweight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a\nyoung man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned\nvery handsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her,\nthere being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense\nwith: but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin s riding\nabout the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered\nby Mr. Elton s admiration.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,  said Mr.\nKnightley,  of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but\nI think it a bad thing. \n\n A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing? why so? \n\n I think they will neither of them do the other any good. \n\n You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with\na new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have\nbeen seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very\ndifferently we feel! Not think they will do each other any good! This\nwill certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.\nKnightley. \n\n Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing\nWeston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle. \n\n Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he\nthinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only\nyesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there\nshould be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr.\nKnightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You\nare so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a\ncompanion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a\nwoman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to\nit all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is\nnot the superior young woman which Emma s friend ought to be. But on\nthe other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an\ninducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She\nmeans it, I know. \n\n Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years\nold. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times\nof books that she meant to read regularly through and very good lists\nthey were very well chosen, and very neatly arranged sometimes\nalphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up\nwhen only fourteen I remember thinking it did her judgment so much\ncredit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made\nout a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of\nsteady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring\nindustry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the\nunderstanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely\naffirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing. You never could persuade her\nto read half so much as you wished. You know you could not. \n\n I dare say,  replied Mrs. Weston, smiling,  that I thought so\n_then_; but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma s omitting\nto do any thing I wished. \n\n There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_, said\nMr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done.  But I, \nhe soon added,  who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must\nstill see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest\nof her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able\nto answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was\nalways quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since\nshe was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In\nher mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits\nher mother s talents, and must have been under subjection to her. \n\n I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_\nrecommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse s family and wanted another\nsituation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to\nany body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held. \n\n Yes,  said he, smiling.  You are better placed _here_; very fit for a\nwife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself\nto be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might\nnot give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to\npromise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on\nthe very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and\ndoing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a\nwife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor. \n\n Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to\nsuch a man as Mr. Weston. \n\n Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and\nthat with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne.\nWe will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness\nof comfort, or his son may plague him. \n\n I hope not _that_. It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not\nforetell vexation from that quarter. \n\n Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma s\ngenius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the\nyoung man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune. But\nHarriet Smith I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the\nvery worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows\nnothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a\nflatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.\nHer ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any\nthing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful\ninferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_\ncannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of\nconceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just\nrefined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and\ncircumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma s\ndoctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl\nadapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in\nlife. They only give a little polish. \n\n I either depend more upon Emma s good sense than you do, or am more\nanxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.\nHow well she looked last night! \n\n Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very\nwell; I shall not attempt to deny Emma s being pretty. \n\n Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect\nbeauty than Emma altogether face and figure? \n\n I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom\nseen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial\nold friend. \n\n Such an eye! the true hazle eye and so brilliant! regular features,\nopen countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,\nand such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!\nThere is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her\nglance. One hears sometimes of a child being  the picture of health; \nnow, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of\ngrown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she? \n\n I have not a fault to find with her person,  he replied.  I think her\nall you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,\nthat I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome\nshe is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies\nanother way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of\nHarriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm. \n\n And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not\ndoing them any harm. With all dear Emma s little faults, she is an\nexcellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder\nsister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be\ntrusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no\nlasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred\ntimes. \n\n Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and\nI will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and\nIsabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind\naffection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not\nquite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their\nopinions with me. \n\n I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind;\nbut excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself,\nyou know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma s\nmother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any\npossible good can arise from Harriet Smith s intimacy being made a\nmatter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any\nlittle inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be\nexpected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly\napproves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a\nsource of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to\ngive advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this\nlittle remains of office. \n\n Not at all,  cried he;  I am much obliged to you for it. It is very\ngood advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often\nfound; for it shall be attended to. \n\n Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about\nher sister. \n\n Be satisfied,  said he,  I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my\nill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella\ndoes not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest;\nperhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one\nfeels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her! \n\n So do I,  said Mrs. Weston gently,  very much. \n\n She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just\nnothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she\ncared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love\nwith a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some\ndoubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts\nto attach her; and she goes so seldom from home. \n\n There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her\nresolution at present,  said Mrs. Weston,  as can well be; and while\nshe is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any\nattachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr.\nWoodhouse s account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma,\nthough I mean no slight to the state, I assure you. \n\nPart of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own\nand Mr. Weston s on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes\nat Randalls respecting Emma s destiny, but it was not desirable to have\nthem suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon\nafterwards made to  What does Weston think of the weather; shall we\nhave rain?  convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise\nabout Hartfield.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nEmma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet s fancy a proper\ndirection and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good\npurpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr.\nElton s being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;\nand as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his\nadmiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of\ncreating as much liking on Harriet s side, as there could be any\noccasion for. She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton s being in the\nfairest way of falling in love, if not in love already. She had no\nscruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so\nwarmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little\ntime would not add. His perception of the striking improvement of\nHarriet s manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of\nthe least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.\n\n You have given Miss Smith all that she required,  said he;  you have\nmade her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she came\nto you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are\ninfinitely superior to what she received from nature. \n\n I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted\ndrawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the\nnatural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have\ndone very little. \n\n If it were admissible to contradict a lady,  said the gallant Mr.\nElton \n\n I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have\ntaught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before. \n\n Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded\ndecision of character! Skilful has been the hand! \n\n Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition\nmore truly amiable. \n\n I have no doubt of it.  And it was spoken with a sort of sighing\nanimation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased\nanother day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers,\nto have Harriet s picture.\n\n Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?  said she:  did you\never sit for your picture? \n\nHarriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,\nwith a very interesting na vet ,\n\n Oh! dear, no, never. \n\nNo sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,\n\n What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would\ngive any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.\nYou do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great\npassion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and\nwas thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or\nanother, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture,\nif Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her\npicture! \n\n Let me entreat you,  cried Mr. Elton;  it would indeed be a delight!\nLet me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in\nfavour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you\nsuppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your\nlandscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable\nfigure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls? \n\nYes, good man! thought Emma but what has all that to do with taking\nlikenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don t pretend to be in\nraptures about mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet s face.  Well, if\nyou give me such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try\nwhat I can do. Harriet s features are very delicate, which makes a\nlikeness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the\neye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch. \n\n Exactly so The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth I have\nnot a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it,\nit will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession. \n\n But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks\nso little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of\nanswering me? How completely it meant,  why should my picture be\ndrawn? \n\n Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still\nI cannot imagine she would not be persuaded. \n\nHarriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made;\nand she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the\nearnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work\ndirectly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various\nattempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that\nthey might decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many\nbeginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths,\npencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had\nalways wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in\ndrawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as\nshe would ever submit to. She played and sang; and drew in almost every\nstyle; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she\napproached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to\ncommand, and ought not to have failed of. She was not much deceived as\nto her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not\nunwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for\naccomplishment often higher than it deserved.\n\nThere was merit in every drawing in the least finished, perhaps the\nmost; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had\nthere been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two\ncompanions would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A\nlikeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse s performances must be\ncapital.\n\n No great variety of faces for you,  said Emma.  I had only my own\nfamily to study from. There is my father another of my father but the\nidea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only\ntake him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston\nagain, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my\nkindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her.\nThere is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure! and\nthe face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she\nwould have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her\nfour children that she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my\nattempts at three of those four children; there they are, Henry and\nJohn and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of\nthem might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them\ndrawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three\nor four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take\nany likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are\ncoarser featured than any of mama s children ever were. Here is my\nsketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on\nthe sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would\nwish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That s\nvery like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa\nis very good. Then here is my last, unclosing a pretty sketch of a\ngentleman in small size, whole-length my last and my best my brother,\nMr. John Knightley. This did not want much of being finished, when I\nput it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I\ncould not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had\nreally made a very good likeness of it (Mrs. Weston and I were quite\nagreed in thinking it _very_ like) only too handsome too flattering but\nthat was a fault on the right side after all this, came poor dear\nIsabella s cold approbation of Yes, it was a little like but to be\nsure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble in\npersuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and\naltogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish\nit, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every\nmorning visitor in Brunswick Square; and, as I said, I did then\nforswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet s sake, or rather\nfor my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_\n_present_, I will break my resolution now. \n\nMr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and\nwas repeating,  No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as\nyou observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,  with so interesting a\nconsciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better\nleave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the\ndeclaration must wait a little longer.\n\nShe had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a\nwhole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley s, and was\ndestined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable\nstation over the mantelpiece.\n\nThe sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not\nkeeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of\nyouthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no\ndoing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every\ntouch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze\nand gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to\nit, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her\nto employ him in reading.\n\n If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness\nindeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen\nthe irksomeness of Miss Smith s. \n\nMr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.\nShe must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing\nless would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready\nat the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the\nprogress, and be charmed. There was no being displeased with such an\nencourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost\nbefore it was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and\nhis complaisance were unexceptionable.\n\nThe sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough\npleased with the first day s sketch to wish to go on. There was no want\nof likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant\nto throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more\nheight, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its\nbeing in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its\ndestined place with credit to them both a standing memorial of the\nbeauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with\nas many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton s very promising\nattachment was likely to add.\n\nHarriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,\nentreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.\n\n By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the\nparty. \n\nThe same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,\ntook place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the\npicture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased,\nbut Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every\ncriticism.\n\n Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she\nwanted, observed Mrs. Weston to him not in the least suspecting that\nshe was addressing a lover. The expression of the eye is most correct,\nbut Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of\nher face that she has them not. \n\n Do you think so?  replied he.  I cannot agree with you. It appears to\nme a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a\nlikeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know. \n\n You have made her too tall, Emma,  said Mr. Knightley.\n\nEmma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly\nadded,\n\n Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider,\nshe is sitting down which naturally presents a different which in short\ngives exactly the idea and the proportions must be preserved, you know.\nProportions, fore-shortening. Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of\nsuch a height as Miss Smith s. Exactly so indeed! \n\n It is very pretty,  said Mr. Woodhouse.  So prettily done! Just as\nyour drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so\nwell as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she\nseems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her\nshoulders and it makes one think she must catch cold. \n\n But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.\nLook at the tree. \n\n But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear. \n\n You, sir, may say any thing,  cried Mr. Elton,  but I must confess\nthat I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out\nof doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any\nother situation would have been much less in character. The na vet  of\nMiss Smith s manners and altogether Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot\nkeep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness. \n\nThe next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a\nfew difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London;\nthe order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose\ntaste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all\ncommissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr.\nWoodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in\nthe fogs of December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr.\nElton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert.\n Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should\nhe have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time. It was\nimpossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on\nsuch an errand. \n\n He was too good! she could not endure the thought! she would not give\nhim such a troublesome office for the world, brought on the desired\nrepetition of entreaties and assurances, and a very few minutes settled\nthe business.\n\nMr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give\nthe directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its\nsafety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of\nnot being incommoded enough.\n\n What a precious deposit!  said he with a tender sigh, as he received\nit.\n\n This man is almost too gallant to be in love,  thought Emma.  I should\nsay so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of\nbeing in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet\nexactly; it will be an  Exactly so,  as he says himself; but he does\nsigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could\nendure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.\nBut it is his gratitude on Harriet s account. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThe very day of Mr. Elton s going to London produced a fresh occasion\nfor Emma s services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield,\nas usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to\nreturn again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked\nof, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something\nextraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a\nminute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to\nMrs. Goddard s, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and\nfinding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a\nlittle parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on\nopening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs\nwhich she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this\nletter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal\nof marriage.  Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did\nnot know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good\nletter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her\nvery much but she did not know and so, she was come as fast as she\ncould to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.  Emma was half-ashamed\nof her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.\n\n Upon my word,  she cried,  the young man is determined not to lose any\nthing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can. \n\n Will you read the letter?  cried Harriet.  Pray do. II d rather you\nwould. \n\nEmma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The\nstyle of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not\nmerely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have\ndisgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and\nunaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of\nthe writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment,\nliberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it,\nwhile Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a  Well,\nwell,  and was at last forced to add,  Is it a good letter? or is it\ntoo short? \n\n Yes, indeed, a very good letter,  replied Emma rather slowly so good\na letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his\nsisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I\nsaw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if\nleft quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman;\nno, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a\nwoman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural\ntalent for thinks strongly and clearly and when he takes a pen in hand,\nhis thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes,\nI understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a\ncertain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning\nit,) than I had expected. \n\n Well,  said the still waiting Harriet; well and and what shall I do? \n\n What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this\nletter? \n\n Yes. \n\n But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course and\nspeedily. \n\n Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me. \n\n Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will\nexpress yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your\nnot being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be\nunequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and\nconcern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will\npresent themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need\nnot be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his\ndisappointment. \n\n You think I ought to refuse him then,  said Harriet, looking down.\n\n Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any\ndoubt as to that? I thought but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been\nunder a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you\nfeel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you\nwere consulting me only as to the wording of it. \n\nHarriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:\n\n You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect. \n\n No, I do not; that is, I do not mean What shall I do? What would you\nadvise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to\ndo. \n\n I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do\nwith it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings. \n\n I had no notion that he liked me so very much,  said Harriet,\ncontemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her\nsilence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that\nletter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,\n\n I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as\nto whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to\nrefuse him. If she can hesitate as to  Yes,  she ought to say  No \ndirectly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful\nfeelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and\nolder than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I\nwant to influence you. \n\n Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to but if you would\njust advise me what I had best do No, no, I do not mean that As you\nsay, one s mind ought to be quite made up One should not be\nhesitating It is a very serious thing. It will be safer to say  No, \nperhaps. Do you think I had better say  No? \n\n Not for the world,  said Emma, smiling graciously,  would I advise you\neither way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you\nprefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most\nagreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you\nhesitate? You blush, Harriet. Does any body else occur to you at this\nmoment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive\nyourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this\nmoment whom are you thinking of? \n\nThe symptoms were favourable. Instead of answering, Harriet turned away\nconfused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was\nstill in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without\nregard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong\nhopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said \n\n Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as\nwell as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really\nalmost made up my mind to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right? \n\n Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just\nwhat you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to\nmyself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation\nin approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have\ngrieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the\nconsequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest\ndegree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not\ninfluence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could\nnot have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am\nsecure of you for ever. \n\nHarriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her\nforcibly.\n\n You could not have visited me!  she cried, looking aghast.  No, to be\nsure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have\nbeen too dreadful! What an escape! Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not\ngive up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any\nthing in the world. \n\n Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it\nmust have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.\nI must have given you up. \n\n Dear me! How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me\nnever to come to Hartfield any more! \n\n Dear affectionate creature! _You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm! _You_\nconfined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I\nwonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must\nhave a pretty good opinion of himself. \n\n I do not think he is conceited either, in general,  said Harriet, her\nconscience opposing such censure;  at least, he is very good natured,\nand I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard\nfor but that is quite a different thing from and you know, though he\nmay like me, it does not follow that I should and certainly I must\nconfess that since my visiting here I have seen people and if one comes\nto compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all,\n_one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr.\nMartin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and\nhis being so much attached to me and his writing such a letter but as\nto leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration. \n\n Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be\nparted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or\nbecause he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter. \n\n Oh no; and it is but a short letter too. \n\nEmma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a  very\ntrue; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish\nmanner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that\nher husband could write a good letter. \n\n Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always\nhappy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him.\nBut how shall I do? What shall I say? \n\nEmma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and\nadvised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of\nher assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any\nassistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every\nsentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had\nsuch a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace\nher up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much\nconcerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of\nwhat his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious\nthat they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the\nyoung man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been\naccepted after all.\n\nThis letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business\nwas finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but\nEmma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them\nby speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the\nidea of Mr. Elton.\n\n I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,  was said in rather a\nsorrowful tone.\n\n Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You\nare a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to\nAbbey-Mill. \n\n And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy\nbut at Hartfield. \n\nSome time afterwards it was,  I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much\nsurprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would for\nMiss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a\nlinen-draper. \n\n One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher\nof a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an\nopportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear\nvaluable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she\nis quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be\namong the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are\nthe only people to whom his looks and manners have explained\nthemselves. \n\nHarriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that\npeople should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly\ncheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards\nthe rejected Mr. Martin.\n\n Now he has got my letter,  said she softly.  I wonder what they are\nall doing whether his sisters know if he is unhappy, they will be\nunhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much. \n\n Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully\nemployed,  cried Emma.  At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing\nyour picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful\nis the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,\nallowing them to hear your name, your own dear name. \n\n My picture! But he has left my picture in Bond-street. \n\n Has he so! Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest\nHarriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till\njust before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this\nevening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family,\nit introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those\npleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm\nprepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy\ntheir imaginations all are! \n\nHarriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nHarriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been\nspending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a\nbed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every\nrespect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible\njust at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or\ntwo to Mrs. Goddard s, but it was then to be settled that she should\nreturn to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.\n\nWhile she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr.\nWoodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his\nmind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and\nwas induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of\nhis own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr.\nKnightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his\nshort, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies\nand civil hesitations of the other.\n\n Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not\nconsider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma s advice and\ngo out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had\nbetter take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony,\nMr. Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people. \n\n My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me. \n\n I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to\nentertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my\nthree turns my winter walk. \n\n You cannot do better, sir. \n\n I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am\na very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides,\nyou have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey. \n\n Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think\nthe sooner _you_ go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open\nthe garden door for you. \n\nMr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being\nimmediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more\nchat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more\nvoluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.\n\n I cannot rate her beauty as you do,  said he;  but she is a pretty\nlittle creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her\ndisposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good\nhands she will turn out a valuable woman. \n\n I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be\nwanting. \n\n Come,  said he,  you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you\nthat you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl s\ngiggle; she really does you credit. \n\n Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had\nbeen of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where\nthey may. _You_ do not often overpower me with it. \n\n You are expecting her again, you say, this morning? \n\n Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she\nintended. \n\n Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps. \n\n Highbury gossips! Tiresome wretches! \n\n Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would. \n\nEmma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said\nnothing. He presently added, with a smile,\n\n I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I\nhave good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of\nsomething to her advantage. \n\n Indeed! how so? of what sort? \n\n A very serious sort, I assure you;  still smiling.\n\n Very serious! I can think of but one thing Who is in love with her?\nWho makes you their confidant? \n\nEmma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton s having dropt a hint.\nMr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew\nMr. Elton looked up to him.\n\n I have reason to think,  he replied,  that Harriet Smith will soon\nhave an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable\nquarter: Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this\nsummer, seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and\nmeans to marry her. \n\n He is very obliging,  said Emma;  but is he sure that Harriet means to\nmarry him? \n\n Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to\nthe Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows\nI have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe,\nconsiders me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I\nthought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I\nthought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice\naltogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered\n(especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line of society\nabove him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear\nbetter sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the\npurpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every\nthing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in\nthe event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son\nand brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to\nme that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he\ncould not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent\nhim away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he\nwould have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house\nthinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened\nthe night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not\nallow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not\nappear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be\nat Mrs. Goddard s to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without\nthinking him at all a tiresome wretch. \n\n Pray, Mr. Knightley,  said Emma, who had been smiling to herself\nthrough a great part of this speech,  how do you know that Mr. Martin\ndid not speak yesterday? \n\n Certainly,  replied he, surprized,  I do not absolutely know it; but\nit may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you? \n\n Come,  said she,  I will tell you something, in return for what you\nhave told me. He did speak yesterday that is, he wrote, and was\nrefused. \n\nThis was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr.\nKnightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he\nstood up, in tall indignation, and said,\n\n Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the\nfoolish girl about? \n\n Oh! to be sure,  cried Emma,  it is always incomprehensible to a man\nthat a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always\nimagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her. \n\n Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the\nmeaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is\nso; but I hope you are mistaken. \n\n I saw her answer! nothing could be clearer. \n\n You saw her answer! you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your\ndoing. You persuaded her to refuse him. \n\n And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not\nfeel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man,\nbut I cannot admit him to be Harriet s equal; and am rather surprized\nindeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he\ndoes seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever\ngot over. \n\n Not Harriet s equal!  exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and\nwith calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards,  No, he is not\nher equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in\nsituation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are\nHarriet Smith s claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any\nconnexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of\nnobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and\ncertainly no respectable relations. She is known only as\nparlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a\ngirl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too\nyoung and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she\ncan have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely\never to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good\ntempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on\nhis account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him.\nI felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better;\nand that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do\nworse. But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to\ntrust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of\ndisposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright\nand turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to be all on\nher side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there\nwould be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even _your_\nsatisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you\nwould not regret your friend s leaving Highbury, for the sake of her\nbeing settled so well. I remember saying to myself,  Even Emma, with\nall her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match. \n\n I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say\nany such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all\nhis merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate\nfriend! Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man\nwhom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you\nshould think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you\nmine are very different. I must think your statement by no means fair.\nYou are not just to Harriet s claims. They would be estimated very\ndifferently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest\nof the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in\nsociety. The sphere in which she moves is much above his. It would be a\ndegradation. \n\n A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a\nrespectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer! \n\n As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may\nbe called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay\nfor the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with\nwhom she is brought up. There can scarcely be a doubt that her father\nis a gentleman and a gentleman of fortune. Her allowance is very\nliberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or\ncomfort. That she is a gentleman s daughter, is indubitable to me; that\nshe associates with gentlemen s daughters, no one, I apprehend, will\ndeny. She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin. \n\n Whoever might be her parents,  said Mr. Knightley,  whoever may have\nhad the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of\ntheir plan to introduce her into what you would call good society.\nAfter receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs.\nGoddard s hands to shift as she can; to move, in short, in Mrs.\nGoddard s line, to have Mrs. Goddard s acquaintance. Her friends\nevidently thought this good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough.\nShe desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a\nfriend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition\nbeyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer.\nShe had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you have given\nit. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would\nnever have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not\nbeing disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling\nto address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to\nconceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it\nhe had encouragement. \n\nIt was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this\nassertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject\nagain.\n\n You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are\nunjust to Harriet. Harriet s claims to marry well are not so\ncontemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she\nhas better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have\nher understanding spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point,\nhowever, and supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and\ngood-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them,\nthey are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she\nis, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine\npeople out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more\nphilosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed;\ntill they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome\nfaces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of\nbeing admired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from\namong many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is\nnot so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough\nsweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a\ngreat readiness to be pleased with other people. I am very much\nmistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such\ntemper, the highest claims a woman could possess. \n\n Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost\nenough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply\nit as you do. \n\n To be sure!  cried she playfully.  I know _that_ is the feeling of you\nall. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man\ndelights in what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his\njudgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to\nmarry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just\nentering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at\nbecause she does not accept the first offer she receives? No pray let\nher have time to look about her. \n\n I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,  said Mr. Knightley\npresently,  though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now\nperceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will\npuff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a\nclaim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good\nenough for her. Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of\nmischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations\ntoo high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so\nfast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may\nchuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very\nfond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity and most\nprudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they\nmight be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be\nrevealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable,\nand happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry\ngreatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of\nconsequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs.\nGoddard s all the rest of her life or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is\na girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and\nis glad to catch at the old writing-master s son. \n\n We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there\ncan be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more\nangry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is\nimpossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must\nprevent any second application. She must abide by the evil of having\nrefused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will\nnot pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I\nassure you there was very little for me or for any body to do. His\nappearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she\never were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that\nbefore she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him. He was\nthe brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her; and\naltogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great\nassistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him\ndisagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen\nare; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance\nwith Harriet. \n\n Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!  cried Mr.\nKnightley. Robert Martin s manners have sense, sincerity, and\ngood-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility\nthan Harriet Smith could understand. \n\nEmma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was\nreally feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She\ndid not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better\njudge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be;\nbut yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general,\nwhich made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him\nsitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable.\nSome minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt\non Emma s side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was\nthinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.\n\n Robert Martin has no great loss if he can but think so; and I hope it\nwill not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known\nto yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it\nis fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have; and as\na friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it\nwill be all labour in vain. \n\nEmma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,\n\n Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man,\nand a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make\nan imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any\nbody. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is\nas well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet s.\nHe knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite\nwherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved\nmoments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does\nnot mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great\nanimation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are\nintimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece. \n\n I am very much obliged to you,  said Emma, laughing again.  If I had\nset my heart on Mr. Elton s marrying Harriet, it would have been very\nkind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to\nmyself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to\nequal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well. \n\n Good morning to you, said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was\nvery much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was\nmortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he\nhad given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the\naffair, was provoking him exceedingly.\n\nEmma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more\nindistinctness in the causes of her s, than in his. She did not always\nfeel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that\nher opinions were right and her adversary s wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He\nwalked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She\nwas not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and\nthe return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet s\nstaying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility\nof the young man s coming to Mrs. Goddard s that morning, and meeting\nwith Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread\nof such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when\nHarriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any such\nreason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which\nsettled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr.\nKnightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which\nwoman s friendship and woman s feelings would not justify.\n\nHe had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered\nthat Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither\nwith the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite\nof Mr. Knightley s pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on\nsuch a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger,\nshe was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished\nresentfully to be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly\nmight have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever\ndone, and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate\ndisposition as to money matters; he might naturally be rather attentive\nthan otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due\nallowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all\ninterested motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course\nthought nothing of its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a\ndoubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable prudence\nmight originally suggest; and more than a reasonable, becoming degree\nof prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton.\n\nHarriet s cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not\nto think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been\ntelling her something, which she repeated immediately with great\ndelight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard s to attend a sick child,\nand Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was\ncoming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and\nfound to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to\nLondon, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the\nwhist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr.\nPerry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it\nwas in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much\nto persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not\ndo; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_\n_particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would\nnot put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very\nenviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly\nprecious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very\nsure there must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr.\nElton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great\nspirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal\nmore about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her,\n that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but\nshe only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should\nthink the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton\nhad not his equal for beauty or agreeableness. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nMr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with\nherself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual\nbefore he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave\nlooks shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not\nrepent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more\njustified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next\nfew days.\n\nThe Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.\nElton s return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common\nsitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half\nsentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet s\nfeelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and\nsteady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was\nsoon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin s being no otherwise remembered,\nthan as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage\nto the latter.\n\nHer views of improving her little friend s mind, by a great deal of\nuseful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few\nfirst chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much\neasier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination\nrange and work at Harriet s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge\nher comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary\npursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she\nwas making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing\nall the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin\nquarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with\nciphers and trophies.\n\nIn this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are\nnot uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard s, had written\nout at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint\nof it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse s help, to get a great many\nmore. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as\nHarriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of\nthe first order, in form as well as quantity.\n\nMr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the\ngirls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting\nin.  So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young he\nwondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time. \nAnd it always ended in  Kitty, a fair but frozen maid. \n\nHis good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did\nnot at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had\ndesired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,\nsomething, he thought, might come from that quarter.\n\nIt was by no means his daughter s wish that the intellects of Highbury\nin general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one\nwhose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really\ngood enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she\nhad the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his\nrecollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most\nearnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe\na compliment to the sex should pass his lips. They owed to him their\ntwo or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at\nlast he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known\ncharade,\n\nMy first doth affliction denote,\n    Which my second is destin d to feel\nAnd my whole is the best antidote\n    That affliction to soften and heal. \n\n\nmade her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some\npages ago already.\n\n Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?  said she;\n that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be\neasier to you. \n\n Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his\nlife. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse he\nstopt a moment or Miss Smith could inspire him. \n\nThe very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He called\nfor a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table\ncontaining, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed\nto a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his\nmanner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.\n\n I do not offer it for Miss Smith s collection,  said he.  Being my\nfriend s, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,\nbut perhaps you may not dislike looking at it. \n\nThe speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could\nunderstand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it\neasier to meet her eye than her friend s. He was gone the next\nmoment: after another moment s pause,\n\n Take it,  said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards\nHarriet it is for you. Take your own. \n\nBut Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never\nloth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.\n\nTo Miss \n\n\nCHARADE.\n\n\nMy first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,\n    Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.\nAnother view of man, my second brings,\n    Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\nBut ah! united, what reverse we have!\n    Man s boasted power and freedom, all are flown;\nLord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,\n    And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\n    Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,\n    May its approval beam in that soft eye!\n\n\nShe cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through\nagain to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then\npassing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself,\nwhile Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope\nand dulness,  Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse\ncharades. _Courtship_ a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This\nis feeling your way. This is saying very plainly Pray, Miss Smith,\ngive me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my\nintentions in the same glance. \n\nMay its approval beam in that soft eye!\n\n\nHarriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye of all epithets, the\njustest that could be given.\n\nThy ready wit the word will soon supply.\n\n\nHumph Harriet s ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in\nlove, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the\nbenefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life\nyou would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade\nindeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon\nnow. \n\nShe was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,\nwhich were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the\neagerness of Harriet s wondering questions.\n\n What can it be, Miss Woodhouse? what can it be? I have not an idea I\ncannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find\nit out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is\nit kingdom? I wonder who the friend was and who could be the young\nlady. Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?\n\nAnd woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\n\nCan it be Neptune?\n\nBehold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\n\nOr a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one\nsyllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh!\nMiss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out? \n\n Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking\nof? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a\nfriend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.\n\nFor Miss  , read Miss Smith.\n\nMy first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,\n    Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.\n\n\nThat is _court_.\n\nAnother view of man, my second brings;\n    Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!\n\n\nThat is _ship_; plain as it can be. Now for the cream.\n\nBut ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!\n    Man s boasted power and freedom, all are flown.\nLord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,\n    And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.\n\n\nA very proper compliment! and then follows the application, which I\nthink, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in\ncomprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of\nits being written for you and to you. \n\nHarriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the\nconcluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not\nspeak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel.\nEmma spoke for her.\n\n There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment, \nsaid she,  that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton s intentions. You\nare his object and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I\nthought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now,\nit is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my\nwishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet,\njust so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that\nhas happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and\nMr. Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its\neligibility have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I\ncongratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an\nattachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a\nconnexion which offers nothing but good. It will give you every thing\nthat you want consideration, independence, a proper home it will fix\nyou in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to\nme, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance\nwhich can never raise a blush in either of us. \n\n Dear Miss Woodhouse! and  Dear Miss Woodhouse,  was all that Harriet,\nwith many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did\narrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear\nto her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as\nshe ought. Mr. Elton s superiority had very ample acknowledgment.\n\n Whatever you say is always right,  cried Harriet,  and therefore I\nsuppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not\nhave imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,\nwho might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He\nis so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses To Miss  . \nDear me, how clever! Could it really be meant for me? \n\n I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a\ncertainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the\nplay, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by\nmatter-of-fact prose. \n\n It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure, a\nmonth ago, I had no more idea myself! The strangest things do take\nplace! \n\n When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted they do indeed and\nreally it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so\nevidently, so palpably desirable what courts the pre-arrangement of\nother people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.\nYou and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one\nanother by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying\nwill be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a\nsomething in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right\ndirection, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.\n\nThe course of true love never did run smooth \n\n\nA Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that\npassage. \n\n That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me, me, of all people,\nwho did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very\nhandsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,\nquite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body\nsays he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;\nthat he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so\nexcellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has\never preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back\nto the first time I saw him! How little did I think! The two Abbots and\nI ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he\nwas going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look\nthrough herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look\ntoo, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he\nlooked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole. \n\n This is an alliance which, whoever whatever your friends may be, must\nbe agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we\nare not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to\nsee you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives\nevery assurance of it; if they wish to have you settled in the same\ncountry and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will\nbe accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the\ncommon phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the\nrespectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy\nthem. \n\n Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You\nunderstand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the\nother. This charade! If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have\nmade any thing like it. \n\n I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it\nyesterday. \n\n I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read. \n\n I never read one more to the purpose, certainly. \n\n It is as long again as almost all we have had before. \n\n I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such\nthings in general cannot be too short. \n\nHarriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory\ncomparisons were rising in her mind.\n\n It is one thing,  said she, presently her cheeks in a glow to have\nvery good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is\nany thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you\nmust, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like\nthis. \n\nEmma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin s\nprose.\n\n Such sweet lines!  continued Harriet these two last! But how shall I\never be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out? Oh! Miss\nWoodhouse, what can we do about that? \n\n Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare\nsay, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will\npass between us, and you shall not be committed. Your soft eyes shall\nchuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me. \n\n Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful\ncharade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good. \n\n Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should\nnot write it into your book. \n\n Oh! but those two lines are \n\n The best of all. Granted; for private enjoyment; and for private\nenjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,\nbecause you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its\nmeaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a\nvery pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend\nupon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better\nthan his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities,\nor neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can\nbe no possible reflection on you. \n\nHarriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so\nas to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a\ndeclaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree\nof publicity.\n\n I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,  said she.\n\n Very well,  replied Emma;  a most natural feeling; and the longer it\nlasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you\nwill not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him\nso much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any\nthing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of\ngallantry towards us all! You must let me read it to him. \n\nHarriet looked grave.\n\n My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade. You\nwill betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too\nquick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning\nwhich may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little\ntribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not\nhave left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me\nthan towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has\nencouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over\nthis charade. \n\n Oh! no I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please. \n\nMr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the\nrecurrence of his very frequent inquiry of  Well, my dears, how does\nyour book go on? Have you got any thing fresh? \n\n Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A\npiece of paper was found on the table this morning (dropt, we suppose,\nby a fairy) containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied\nit in. \n\nShe read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and\ndistinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every\npart as she proceeded and he was very much pleased, and, as she had\nforeseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.\n\n Aye, that s very just, indeed, that s very properly said. Very true.\n Woman, lovely woman.  It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can\neasily guess what fairy brought it. Nobody could have written so\nprettily, but you, Emma. \n\nEmma only nodded, and smiled. After a little thinking, and a very\ntender sigh, he added,\n\n Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother\nwas so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can\nremember nothing; not even that particular riddle which you have heard\nme mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are\nseveral.\n\nKitty, a fair but frozen maid,\n    Kindled a flame I yet deplore,\nThe hood-wink d boy I called to aid,\nThough of his near approach afraid,\n    So fatal to my suit before.\n\n\nAnd that is all that I can recollect of it but it is very clever all\nthe way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it. \n\n Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the\nElegant Extracts. It was Garrick s, you know. \n\n Aye, very true. I wish I could recollect more of it.\n\nKitty, a fair but frozen maid.\n\n\nThe name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being\nchristened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here\nnext week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her and what\nroom there will be for the children? \n\n Oh! yes she will have her own room, of course; the room she always\nhas; and there is the nursery for the children, just as usual, you\nknow. Why should there be any change? \n\n I do not know, my dear but it is so long since she was here! not since\nlast Easter, and then only for a few days. Mr. John Knightley s being a\nlawyer is very inconvenient. Poor Isabella! she is sadly taken away\nfrom us all! and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss\nTaylor here! \n\n She will not be surprized, papa, at least. \n\n I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I\nfirst heard she was going to be married. \n\n We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is\nhere. \n\n Yes, my dear, if there is time. But (in a very depressed tone) she is\ncoming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing. \n\n It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer but it seems a case of\nnecessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we\nought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time\nthey can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be\ntaken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim\nthis Christmas though you know it is longer since they were with him,\nthan with us. \n\n It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be\nanywhere but at Hartfield. \n\nMr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley s claims on his\nbrother, or any body s claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat\nmusing a little while, and then said,\n\n But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so\nsoon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to\nstay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well. \n\n Ah! papa that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I do\nnot think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her\nhusband. \n\nThis was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse\ncould only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected\nby the idea of his daughter s attachment to her husband, she\nimmediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.\n\n Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my\nbrother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the\nchildren. We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder\nwhich she will think the handsomest, Henry or John? \n\n Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be\nto come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet. \n\n I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not. \n\n Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the\neldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,\nis named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that\nthe eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I\nthought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They\nare all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will\ncome and stand by my chair, and say,  Grandpapa, can you give me a bit\nof string?  and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives\nwere only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with\nthem very often. \n\n He appears rough to you,  said Emma,  because you are so very gentle\nyourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not\nthink him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they\nmisbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an\naffectionate father certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate\nfather. The children are all fond of him. \n\n And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a\nvery frightful way! \n\n But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such\nenjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of\ntheir taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other. \n\n Well, I cannot understand it. \n\n That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot\nunderstand the pleasures of the other. \n\nLater in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in\npreparation for the regular four o clock dinner, the hero of this\ninimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could\nreceive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in\nhis the consciousness of having made a push of having thrown a die; and\nshe imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible\nreason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse s party could be made\nup in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest\ndegree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give\nway; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his\ndining with him had made such a point of it, that he had promised him\nconditionally to come.\n\nEmma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend\non their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged she\nre-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the\npaper from the table, she returned it \n\n Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us;\nthank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have\nventured to write it into Miss Smith s collection. Your friend will not\ntake it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first\neight lines. \n\nMr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked\nrather doubtingly rather confused; said something about\n honour, glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open\non the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the\nview of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,\n\n You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must\nnot be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman s\napprobation while he writes with such gallantry. \n\n I have no hesitation in saying,  replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating\na good deal while he spoke;  I have no hesitation in saying at least if\nmy friend feels at all as _I_ do I have not the smallest doubt that,\ncould he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at\nthe book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as\nthe proudest moment of his life. \n\nAfter this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think\nit too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a\nsort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to\nlaugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and\nthe sublime of pleasure to Harriet s share.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThough now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to\nprevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the\nmorrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who\nlived a little way out of Highbury.\n\nTheir road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane\nleading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street\nof the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of\nMr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then,\nabout a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and\nnot very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had\nno advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the\npresent proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility\nof the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing\neyes. Emma s remark was \n\n There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these\ndays. Harriet s was \n\n Oh, what a sweet house! How very beautiful! There are the yellow\ncurtains that Miss Nash admires so much. \n\n I do not often walk this way _now_,  said Emma, as they proceeded,\n but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get\nintimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of\nthis part of Highbury. \n\nHarriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and\nher curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and\nprobabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr.\nElton s seeing ready wit in her.\n\n I wish we could contrive it,  said she;  but I cannot think of any\ntolerable pretence for going in; no servant that I want to inquire\nabout of his housekeeper no message from my father. \n\nShe pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of\nsome minutes, Harriet thus began again \n\n I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or\ngoing to be married! so charming as you are! \n\nEmma laughed, and replied,\n\n My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;\nI must find other people charming one other person at least. And I am\nnot only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little\nintention of ever marrying at all. \n\n Ah! so you say; but I cannot believe it. \n\n I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be\ntempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the\nquestion: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather\nnot be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to\nmarry, I must expect to repent it. \n\n Dear me! it is so odd to hear a woman talk so! \n\n I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall\nin love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been\nin love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever\nshall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a\nsituation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;\nconsequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much\nmistress of their husband s house as I am of Hartfield; and never,\nnever could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always\nfirst and always right in any man s eyes as I am in my father s. \n\n But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates! \n\n That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I\nthought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly so satisfied so\nsmiling so prosing so undistinguishing and unfastidious and so apt to\ntell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry\nto-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any\nlikeness, except in being unmarried. \n\n But still, you will be an old maid! and that s so dreadful! \n\n Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty\nonly which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single\nwoman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable\nold maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of\ngood fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and\npleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much\nagainst the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first;\nfor a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour\nthe temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very\nsmall, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and\ncross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too\ngood natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very\nmuch to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty\ncertainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had\nonly a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away\nsixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm. \n\n Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you\ngrow old? \n\n If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great\nmany independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more\nin want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman s\nusual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they\nare now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read\nmore; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for\nobjects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the\ngreat point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil\nto be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the\nchildren of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be\nenough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation\nthat declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and\nevery fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a\nparent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and\nblinder. My nephews and nieces! I shall often have a niece with me. \n\n Do you know Miss Bates s niece? That is, I know you must have seen her\na hundred times but are you acquainted? \n\n Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to\nHighbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit\nwith a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people\nhalf so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane\nFairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter\nfrom her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go\nround and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of\na stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears\nof nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she\ntires me to death. \n\nThey were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were\nsuperseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor\nwere as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her\ncounsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways,\ncould allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic\nexpectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had\ndone so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and\nalways gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In\nthe present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she\ncame to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give\ncomfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of\nthe scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,\n\n These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make\nevery thing else appear! I feel now as if I could think of nothing but\nthese poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how\nsoon it may all vanish from my mind? \n\n Very true,  said Harriet.  Poor creatures! one can think of nothing\nelse. \n\n And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,  said\nEmma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended\nthe narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them\ninto the lane again.  I do not think it will,  stopping to look once\nmore at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still\ngreater within.\n\n Oh! dear, no,  said her companion.\n\nThey walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was\npassed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma\ntime only to say farther,\n\n Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good\nthoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion\nhas produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that\nis truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we\ncan for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to\nourselves. \n\nHarriet could just answer,  Oh! dear, yes,  before the gentleman joined\nthem. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the\nfirst subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit\nhe would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what\ncould be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to\naccompany them.\n\n To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,  thought Emma;\n to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of\nlove on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the\ndeclaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else. \n\nAnxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon\nafterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one\nside of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had\nnot been there two minutes when she found that Harriet s habits of\ndependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short,\nthey would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately\nstopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing\nof her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the\nfootpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would\nfollow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time\nshe judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the\ncomfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from\nthe cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to\nfetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk\nto and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would\nhave been the most natural, had she been acting just then without\ndesign; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead,\nwithout any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however,\ninvoluntarily: the child s pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and\nshe was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a\nconversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with\nanimation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,\nhaving sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw\nback a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged\nto join them.\n\nMr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;\nand Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was\nonly giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday s party at\nhis friend Cole s, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton\ncheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and\nall the dessert.\n\n This would soon have led to something better, of course,  was her\nconsoling reflection;  any thing interests between those who love; and\nany thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I\ncould but have kept longer away! \n\nThey now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage\npales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the\nhouse, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot,\nand fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off\nshort, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged\nto entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself\nto rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.\n\n Part of my lace is gone,  said she,  and I do not know how I am to\ncontrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I\nhope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to\nstop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or\nstring, or any thing just to keep my boot on. \n\nMr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could\nexceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house\nand endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they\nwere taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards;\nbehind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door\nbetween them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to\nreceive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged\nto leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr.\nElton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained\najar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she\nhoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the\nadjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It\ncould be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and\nmake her appearance.\n\nThe lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most\nfavourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of\nhaving schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to\nthe point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told\nHarriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them;\nother little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing\nserious.\n\n Cautious, very cautious,  thought Emma;  he advances inch by inch, and\nwill hazard nothing till he believes himself secure. \n\nStill, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her\ningenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been\nthe occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading\nthem forward to the great event.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nMr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma s power\nto superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her\nsister s family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation,\nand then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest;\nand during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be\nexpected she did not herself expect that any thing beyond occasional,\nfortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They\nmight advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow\nor other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more\nleisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the\nless they will do for themselves.\n\nMr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent\nfrom Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual\ninterest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had\nbeen divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays\nof this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it\nwas therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by\ntheir Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not\nbe induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella s sake; and\nwho consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in\nforestalling this too short visit.\n\nHe thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little\nof the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some\nof the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless;\nthe sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John\nKnightley, their five children, and a competent number of\nnursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of\nsuch an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and\nvariously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion\nwhich his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have\nendured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the\nfeelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that\nin spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her\nlittle ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and\nattendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing,\nwhich they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the\nchildren were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in\nthemselves or in any restless attendance on them.\n\nMrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle,\nquiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate;\nwrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so\ntenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher\nties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a\nfault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or\nany quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited\nalso much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health,\nover-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves,\nand was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be\nof Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper,\nand a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.\n\nMr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;\nrising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private\ncharacter; but with reserved manners which prevented his being\ngenerally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He\nwas not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to\ndeserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection;\nand, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that\nany natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme\nsweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and\nquickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an\nungracious, or say a severe thing.\n\nHe was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong\nin him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to\nIsabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have\npassed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella s sister,\nbut they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without\npraise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal\ncompliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all\nin her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful\nforbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience\nthat could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse s peculiarities and\nfidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or\nsharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr.\nJohn Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and\ngenerally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often\nfor Emma s charity, especially as there was all the pain of\napprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The\nbeginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest\nfeelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass\naway in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and\ncomposed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a\nsigh, called his daughter s attention to the sad change at Hartfield\nsince she had been there last.\n\n Ah, my dear,  said he,  poor Miss Taylor It is a grievous business. \n\n Oh yes, sir,  cried she with ready sympathy,  how you must miss her!\nAnd dear Emma, too! What a dreadful loss to you both! I have been so\ngrieved for you. I could not imagine how you could possibly do without\nher. It is a sad change indeed. But I hope she is pretty well, sir. \n\n Pretty well, my dear I hope pretty well. I do not know but that the\nplace agrees with her tolerably. \n\nMr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any\ndoubts of the air of Randalls.\n\n Oh! no none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my\nlife never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret. \n\n Very much to the honour of both,  was the handsome reply.\n\n And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?  asked Isabella in the\nplaintive tone which just suited her father.\n\nMr. Woodhouse hesitated. Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish. \n\n Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they\nmarried. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,\nhave we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,\neither at Randalls or here and as you may suppose, Isabella, most\nfrequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston\nis really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy\nway, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body\nmust be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought\nalso to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our\nmissing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated which\nis the exact truth. \n\n Just as it should be,  said Mr. John Knightley,  and just as I hoped\nit was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not\nbe doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all\neasy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of\nthe change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and\nnow you have Emma s account, I hope you will be satisfied. \n\n Why, to be sure,  said Mr. Woodhouse yes, certainly I cannot deny\nthat Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty\noften but then she is always obliged to go away again. \n\n It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa. You quite\nforget poor Mr. Weston. \n\n I think, indeed,  said John Knightley pleasantly,  that Mr. Weston has\nsome little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of\nthe poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the\nclaims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for\nIsabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of\nputting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can. \n\n Me, my love,  cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part. \n Are you talking about me? I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a\ngreater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for\nthe misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of\nMiss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to\nslighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is\nnothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very\nbest-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your\nbrother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his\nflying Henry s kite for him that very windy day last Easter and ever\nsince his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing\nthat note, at twelve o clock at night, on purpose to assure me that\nthere was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could\nnot be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence. If any body\ncan deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor. \n\n Where is the young man?  said John Knightley.  Has he been here on\nthis occasion or has he not? \n\n He has not been here yet,  replied Emma.  There was a strong\nexpectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in\nnothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately. \n\n But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,  said her father.  He\nwrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very\nproper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very\nwell done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one\ncannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps \n\n My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes. \n\n Three-and-twenty! is he indeed? Well, I could not have thought it and\nhe was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does\nfly indeed! and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding\ngood, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of\npleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.\n28th and began,  My dear Madam,  but I forget how it went on; and it\nwas signed  F. C. Weston Churchill. I remember that perfectly. \n\n How very pleasing and proper of him!  cried the good-hearted Mrs. John\nKnightley.  I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But\nhow sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is\nsomething so shocking in a child s being taken away from his parents\nand natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part\nwith him. To give up one s child! I really never could think well of\nany body who proposed such a thing to any body else. \n\n Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,  observed Mr.\nJohn Knightley coolly.  But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have\nfelt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is\nrather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings;\nhe takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow\nor other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society\nfor his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and\nplaying whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family\naffection, or any thing that home affords. \n\nEmma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and\nhad half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She\nwould keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable\nand valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home\nto himself, whence resulted her brother s disposition to look down on\nthe common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was\nimportant. It had a high claim to forbearance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nMr. Knightley was to dine with them rather against the inclination of\nMr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in\nIsabella s first day. Emma s sense of right however had decided it; and\nbesides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had\nparticular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement\nbetween Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper\ninvitation.\n\nShe hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time\nto make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly had not been\nin the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had. Concession must be\nout of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had\never quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration\nof friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the\nchildren with her the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months\nold, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to\nbe danced about in her aunt s arms. It did assist; for though he began\nwith grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of\nthem all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with\nall the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends\nagain; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and\nthen a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring\nthe baby,\n\n What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and\nnieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different;\nbut with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree. \n\n If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and\nwomen, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings\nwith them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might\nalways think alike. \n\n To be sure our discordancies must always arise from my being in the\nwrong. \n\n Yes,  said he, smiling and reason good. I was sixteen years old when\nyou were born. \n\n A material difference then,  she replied and no doubt you were much\nmy superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the\nlapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal\nnearer? \n\n Yes a good deal _nearer_. \n\n But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we\nthink differently. \n\n I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years  experience, and by\nnot being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,\nlet us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little\nEmma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing\nold grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now. \n\n That s true,  she cried very true. Little Emma, grow up a better\nwoman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.\nNow, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good\nintentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects\non my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know\nthat Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed. \n\n A man cannot be more so,  was his short, full answer.\n\n Ah! Indeed I am very sorry. Come, shake hands with me. \n\nThis had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John\nKnightley made his appearance, and  How d ye do, George?  and  John,\nhow are you?  succeeded in the true English style, burying under a\ncalmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which\nwould have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the\ngood of the other.\n\nThe evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards\nentirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and\nthe little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his\ndaughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally\ndistinct, or very rarely mixing and Emma only occasionally joining in\none or the other.\n\nThe brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally\nof those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,\nand who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had\ngenerally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some\ncurious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the\nhome-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next\nyear, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being\ninteresting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest\npart of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a\ndrain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the\ndestination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was\nentered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler\nmanners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any\nthing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of\neagerness.\n\nWhile they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a\nfull flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.\n\n My poor dear Isabella,  said he, fondly taking her hand, and\ninterrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her\nfive children How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!\nAnd how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early,\nmy dear and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go. You and I\nwill have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all\nhave a little gruel. \n\nEmma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both\nthe Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as\nherself; and two basins only were ordered. After a little more\ndiscourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being\ntaken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of\ngrave reflection,\n\n It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South\nEnd instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air. \n\n Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir or we should not\nhave gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for\nthe weakness in little Bella s throat, both sea air and bathing. \n\n Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any\ngood; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though\nperhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use\nto any body. I am sure it almost killed me once. \n\n Come, come,  cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject,  I must\nbeg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable; I\nwho have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear\nIsabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet;\nand he never forgets you. \n\n Oh! good Mr. Perry how is he, sir? \n\n Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he\nhas not time to take care of himself he tells me he has not time to\ntake care of himself which is very sad but he is always wanted all\nround the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice\nanywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where. \n\n And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I\nhave a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He\nwill be so pleased to see my little ones. \n\n I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask\nhim about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,\nyou had better let him look at little Bella s throat. \n\n Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any\nuneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to\nher, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr.\nWingfield s, which we have been applying at times ever since August. \n\n It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use\nto her and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have\nspoken to \n\n You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,  said Emma,  I\nhave not heard one inquiry after them. \n\n Oh! the good Bateses I am quite ashamed of myself but you mention them\nin most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.\nBates I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children. They are\nalways so pleased to see my children. And that excellent Miss\nBates! such thorough worthy people! How are they, sir? \n\n Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a\nbad cold about a month ago. \n\n How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been\nthis autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more\ngeneral or heavy except when it has been quite an influenza. \n\n That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you\nmention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy\nas he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it\naltogether a sickly season. \n\n No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly\nexcept \n\n Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a\nsickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a\ndreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off! and the\nair so bad! \n\n No, indeed _we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is\nvery superior to most others! You must not confound us with London in\ngeneral, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very\ndifferent from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be\nunwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town; there is\nhardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but\n_we_ are so remarkably airy! Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of\nBrunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air. \n\n Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it but\nafter you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different\ncreatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I\nthink you are any of you looking well at present. \n\n I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those\nlittle nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely\nfree from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were\nrather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a\nlittle more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of\ncoming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I\nassure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever\nsent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you\ndo not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,  turning her eyes with\naffectionate anxiety towards her husband.\n\n Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley\nvery far from looking well. \n\n What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?  cried Mr. John\nKnightley, hearing his own name.\n\n I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking\nwell but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have\nwished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before\nyou left home. \n\n My dear Isabella, exclaimed he hastily pray do not concern yourself\nabout my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and\nthe children, and let me look as I chuse. \n\n I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother, \ncried Emma,  about your friend Mr. Graham s intending to have a bailiff\nfrom Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will\nnot the old prejudice be too strong? \n\nAnd she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced\nto give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing\nworse to hear than Isabella s kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane\nFairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that\nmoment very happy to assist in praising.\n\n That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!  said Mrs. John Knightley. It is so\nlong since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment\naccidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old\ngrandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always\nregret excessively on dear Emma s account that she cannot be more at\nHighbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.\nCampbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a\ndelightful companion for Emma. \n\nMr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,\n\n Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty\nkind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a\nbetter companion than Harriet. \n\n I am most happy to hear it but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so\nvery accomplished and superior! and exactly Emma s age. \n\nThis topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar\nmoment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not\nclose without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied\na great deal to be said much praise and many comments undoubting\ndecision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe\nPhilippics upon the many houses where it was never met with\ntolerably; but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter\nhad to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in\nher own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never\nhad been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth\ngruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered\nit, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a\ndangerous opening.\n\n Ah!  said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her\nwith tender concern. The ejaculation in Emma s ear expressed,  Ah!\nthere is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It\ndoes not bear talking of.  And for a little while she hoped he would\nnot talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore\nhim to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some\nminutes, however, he began with,\n\n I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,\ninstead of coming here. \n\n But why should you be sorry, sir? I assure you, it did the children a\ngreat deal of good. \n\n And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been\nto South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to\nhear you had fixed upon South End. \n\n I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite\na mistake, sir. We all had our health perfectly well there, never found\nthe least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is\nentirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may\nbe depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air,\nand his own brother and family have been there repeatedly. \n\n You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere. Perry\nwas a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the\nsea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And,\nby what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from\nthe sea a quarter of a mile off very comfortable. You should have\nconsulted Perry. \n\n But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey; only consider how\ngreat it would have been. An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty. \n\n Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else\nshould be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to\nchuse between forty miles and an hundred. Better not move at all,\nbetter stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a\nworse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very\nill-judged measure. \n\nEmma s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had\nreached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her\nbrother-in-law s breaking out.\n\n Mr. Perry,  said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure,  would do\nas well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it\nany business of his, to wonder at what I do? at my taking my family to\none part of the coast or another? I may be allowed, I hope, the use of\nmy judgment as well as Mr. Perry. I want his directions no more than\nhis drugs.  He paused and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only\nsarcastic dryness,  If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and\nfive children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater\nexpense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as\nwilling to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself. \n\n True, true,  cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition very\ntrue. That s a consideration indeed. But John, as to what I was telling\nyou of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the\nright that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive\nany difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of\ninconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly\nthe present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however,\nwill be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow\nmorning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me\nyour opinion. \n\nMr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his\nfriend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been\nattributing many of his own feelings and expressions; but the soothing\nattentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the\nimmediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the\nother, prevented any renewal of it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nThere could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John\nKnightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning\namong her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over\nwhat she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had\nnothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly.\nIt was a delightful visit; perfect, in being much too short.\n\nIn general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their\nmornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,\nthere was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no\ndenial; they must all dine at Randalls one day; even Mr. Woodhouse was\npersuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of\nthe party.\n\nHow they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he\ncould, but as his son and daughter s carriage and horses were actually\nat Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on\nthat head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long\nto convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for\nHarriet also.\n\nHarriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the\nonly persons invited to meet them; the hours were to be early, as well\nas the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse s habits and inclination being\nconsulted in every thing.\n\nThe evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that\nMr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent\nby Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with\na cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.\nGoddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma\ncalled on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with\nregard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat:\nMrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of,\nand Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which\nexcluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not\nspeak of her loss without many tears.\n\nEmma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard s\nunavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much\nMr. Elton s would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at\nlast tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a\nmost comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had\nnot advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard s door, when she was met by\nMr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on\nslowly together in conversation about the invalid of whom he, on the\nrumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he\nmight carry some report of her to Hartfield they were overtaken by Mr.\nJohn Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two\neldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a\ncountry run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton\nand rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and\nproceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend s\ncomplaint; a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat\nabout her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.\nGoddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often\nalarmed her with them.  Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as\nhe exclaimed,\n\n A sore-throat! I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid\ninfectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of\nyourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks.\nWhy does not Perry see her? \n\nEmma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this\nexcess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard s experience and\ncare; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she\ncould not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist\nthan not, she added soon afterwards as if quite another subject,\n\n It is so cold, so very cold and looks and feels so very much like\nsnow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I\nshould really try not to go out to-day and dissuade my father from\nventuring; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel\nthe cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so\ngreat a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr.\nElton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me\na little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and\nwhat fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than\ncommon prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night. \n\nMr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;\nwhich was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind\ncare of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her s,\nhe had not really the least inclination to give up the visit; but Emma,\ntoo eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear\nhim impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied\nwith his muttering acknowledgment of its being  very cold, certainly\nvery cold,  and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from\nRandalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet\nevery hour of the evening.\n\n You do quite right,  said she; we will make your apologies to Mr. and\nMrs. Weston. \n\nBut hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly\noffering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton s only\nobjection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt\nsatisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had\nhis broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;\nnever had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when\nhe next looked at her.\n\n Well,  said she to herself,  this is most strange! After I had got him\noff so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill\nbehind! Most strange indeed! But there is, I believe, in many men,\nespecially single men, such an inclination such a passion for dining\nout a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,\ntheir employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing\ngives way to it and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most\nvaluable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in\nlove with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must\ndine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see\nready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her. \n\nSoon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him\nthe justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his\nmanner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while\nassuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard s for news of her fair\nfriend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting\nher again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he\nsighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of\napprobation much in his favour.\n\nAfter a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley\nbegan with \n\n I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.\nElton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With\nmen he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to\nplease, every feature works. \n\n Mr. Elton s manners are not perfect,  replied Emma;  but where there\nis a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a\ngreat deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he\nwill have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such\nperfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but\nvalue. \n\n Yes,  said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness,  he seems\nto have a great deal of good-will towards you. \n\n Me!  she replied with a smile of astonishment,  are you imagining me\nto be Mr. Elton s object? \n\n Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never\noccurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration\nnow. \n\n Mr. Elton in love with me! What an idea! \n\n I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is\nso or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your\nmanners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better\nlook about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do. \n\n I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I\nare very good friends, and nothing more;  and she walked on, amusing\nherself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a\npartial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of\nhigh pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very\nwell pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and\nin want of counsel. He said no more.\n\nMr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in\nspite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of\nshrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his\neldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness\nof the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his\nown going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it\nwas cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was\nsevere; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes\nof snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of\nbeing so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very\nwhite world in a very short time.\n\nEmma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The\npreparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of\nhis children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,\nwhich Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated\nnothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the\nwhole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his\ndiscontent.\n\n A man,  said he,  must have a very good opinion of himself when he\nasks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as\nthis, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most\nagreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest\nabsurdity Actually snowing at this moment! The folly of not allowing\npeople to be comfortable at home and the folly of people s not staying\ncomfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an\nevening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we\nshould deem it; and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing\nthan usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of\nthe voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view\nor his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter\nthat he can; here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in\nanother man s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said\nand heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.\nGoing in dismal weather, to return probably in worse; four horses and\nfour servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering\ncreatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had\nat home. \n\nEmma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no\ndoubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the  Very true, my\nlove,  which must have been usually administered by his travelling\ncompanion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any\nanswer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being\nquarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to\ntalk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening\nher lips.\n\nThey arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr.\nElton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma\nthought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all\nobligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities\nindeed, that she began to think he must have received a different\naccount of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while\ndressing, and the answer had been,  Much the same not better. \n\n _My_ report from Mrs. Goddard s,  said she presently,  was not so\npleasant as I had hoped Not better  was _my_ answer. \n\nHis face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of\nsentiment as he answered.\n\n Oh! no I am grieved to find I was on the point of telling you that\nwhen I called at Mrs. Goddard s door, which I did the very last thing\nbefore I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,\nby no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned I had\nflattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew\nhad been given her in the morning. \n\nEmma smiled and answered My visit was of use to the nervous part of\nher complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it\nis a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you\nprobably heard. \n\n Yes I imagined that is I did not \n\n He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow\nmorning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is\nimpossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party\nto-day! \n\n Dreadful! Exactly so, indeed. She will be missed every moment. \n\nThis was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really\nestimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay\nwhen only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,\nand in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.\n\n What an excellent device,  said he,  the use of a sheepskin for\ncarriages. How very comfortable they make it; impossible to feel cold\nwith such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have\nrendered a gentleman s carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced\nand guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way\nunpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very\ncold afternoon but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter. Ha!\nsnows a little I see. \n\n Yes,  said John Knightley,  and I think we shall have a good deal of\nit. \n\n Christmas weather,  observed Mr. Elton.  Quite seasonable; and\nextremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin\nyesterday, and prevent this day s party, which it might very possibly\nhave done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been\nmuch snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite\nthe season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body\ninvites their friends about them, and people think little of even the\nworst weather. I was snowed up at a friend s house once for a week.\nNothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not\nget away till that very day se nnight. \n\nMr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but\nsaid only, coolly,\n\n I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls. \n\nAt another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much\nastonished now at Mr. Elton s spirits for other feelings. Harriet\nseemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.\n\n We are sure of excellent fires,  continued he,  and every thing in the\ngreatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston; Mrs. Weston\nindeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so\nhospitable, and so fond of society; it will be a small party, but where\nsmall parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.\nMr. Weston s dining-room does not accommodate more than ten\ncomfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances,\nfall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me,\n(turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your\napprobation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large\nparties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings. \n\n I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir I never dine with\nany body. \n\n Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had\nbeen so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be\npaid for all this, when you will have little labour and great\nenjoyment. \n\n My first enjoyment,  replied John Knightley, as they passed through\nthe sweep-gate,  will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nSome change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they\nwalked into Mrs. Weston s drawing-room; Mr. Elton must compose his\njoyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton\nmust smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the\nplace. Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as\nhappy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.\nMr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the\nworld to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any\none, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and\nunderstood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the\nlittle affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father\nand herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston\nhad not a lively concern; and half an hour s uninterrupted\ncommunication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness\nof private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.\n\nThis was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day s visit might not\nafford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but\nthe very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was\ngrateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of\nMr. Elton s oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all\nthat was enjoyable to the utmost.\n\nThe misfortune of Harriet s cold had been pretty well gone through\nbefore her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to\ngive the history of it, besides all the history of his own and\nIsabella s coming, and of Emma s being to follow, and had indeed just\ngot to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his\ndaughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been\nalmost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away\nand welcome her dear Emma.\n\nEmma s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather\nsorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close\nto her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility\ntowards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but\nwas continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and\nsolicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting\nhim, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal\nsuggestion of  Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be\npossible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from\nHarriet to me? Absurd and insufferable! Yet he would be so anxious for\nher being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and\nso delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her\ndrawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly\nlike a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her\ngood manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for\nHarriet s, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even\npositively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was\ngoing on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr.\nElton s nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard\nenough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his\nson; she heard the words  my son,  and  Frank,  and  my son,  repeated\nseveral times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much\nsuspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but\nbefore she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past\nthat any reviving question from her would have been awkward.\n\nNow, it so happened that in spite of Emma s resolution of never\nmarrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank\nChurchill, which always interested her. She had frequently\nthought especially since his father s marriage with Miss Taylor that if\nshe _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,\ncharacter and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the\nfamilies, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a\nmatch that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not\nmeaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a\nsituation which she believed more replete with good than any she could\nchange it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided\nintention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain\ndegree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in\ntheir friends  imaginations.\n\nWith such sensations, Mr. Elton s civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;\nbut she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very\ncross and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly\npass without bringing forward the same information again, or the\nsubstance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston. So it proved; for\nwhen happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at\ndinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of\nhospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say\nto her,\n\n We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to\nsee two more here, your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my\nson and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not\nhear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting\nFrank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us\nwithin a fortnight. \n\nEmma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to\nhis proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their\nparty quite complete.\n\n He has been wanting to come to us,  continued Mr. Weston,  ever since\nSeptember: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his\nown time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between\nourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.\nBut now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in\nJanuary. \n\n What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so\nanxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as\nyourself. \n\n Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.\nShe does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not\nknow the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is (but this is\nquite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the\nother room. There are secrets in all families, you know) The case is,\nthat a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in\nJanuary; and that Frank s coming depends upon their being put off. If\nthey are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it\nis a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has\na particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite\nthem once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes\nto the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as\nconfident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of\nbeing here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the\nupper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so\nlittle used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their\neffects, as I have been long in the practice of doing. \n\n I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case,  replied\nEmma;  but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he\nwill come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe. \n\n Yes I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at\nthe place in my life. She is an odd woman! But I never allow myself to\nspeak ill of her, on Frank s account; for I do believe her to be very\nfond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any\nbody, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her\nway allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing\nto be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,\nthat he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it\nto any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in\ngeneral; and the devil of a temper. \n\nEmma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,\nvery soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy yet\nobserving, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming. \nMrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be\nsecure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked\nof:  for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as\nMr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.\nWeston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter\nstands? \n\n Yes it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.\nChurchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world. \n\n My Emma!  replied Mrs. Weston, smiling,  what is the certainty of\ncaprice?  Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending\nbefore You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means\nso sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father\nthinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt s spirits and pleasure; in\nshort, upon her temper. To you to my two daughters I may venture on the\ntruth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered\nwoman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare\nhim. \n\n Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,  replied\nIsabella:  and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without\nthe greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered\nperson, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any\nthing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she\nnever had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would\nhave made them! \n\nEmma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have\nheard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve\nwhich she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,\nwould scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from\nher, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own\nimagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at\npresent there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon\nfollowed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner,\nwas a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor\nconversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with\nwhom he was always comfortable.\n\nWhile he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of\nsaying,\n\n And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means\ncertain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant,\nwhenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better. \n\n Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even\nif this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that\nsome excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine\nany reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the\nChurchills  to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are\njealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no\ndependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine. \n\n He ought to come,  said Emma.  If he could stay only a couple of days,\nhe ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man s not having\nit in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall\ninto bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she\nwants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_ s being under\nsuch restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if\nhe likes it. \n\n One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before\none decides upon what he can do,  replied Mrs. Weston.  One ought to\nuse the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one\nindividual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must\nnot be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and\nevery thing gives way to her. \n\n But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite.\nNow, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural,\nthat while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to\nwhom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice\ntowards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom\nshe owes nothing at all. \n\n My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand\na bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way.\nI have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it\nmay be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will\nbe. \n\nEmma listened, and then coolly said,  I shall not be satisfied, unless\nhe comes. \n\n He may have a great deal of influence on some points,  continued Mrs.\nWeston,  and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is\nbeyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance\nof his coming away from them to visit us. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nMr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea\nhe was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three\ncompanions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of\nthe hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty\nand convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at\nlast the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in\nvery good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and\nEmma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and,\nwith scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.\n\nEmma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the\nexpectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late\nimproprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his\nmaking Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most\nfriendly smiles.\n\nHe professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend her fair,\nlovely, amiable friend.  Did she know? had she heard any thing about\nher, since their being at Randalls? he felt much anxiety he must\nconfess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.  And\nin this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much\nattending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the\nterror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.\n\nBut at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if\nhe were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than\non Harriet s more anxious that she should escape the infection, than\nthat there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great\nearnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber\nagain, for the present to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture\ninto such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and\nthough she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its\nproper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude\nabout her. She was vexed. It did appear there was no concealing\nit exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of\nHarriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!\nand she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs.\nWeston to implore her assistance,  Would not she give him her\nsupport? would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss\nWoodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard s till it were certain that Miss\nSmith s disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a\npromise would not she give him her influence in procuring it? \n\n So scrupulous for others,  he continued,  and yet so careless for\nherself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and\nyet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore\nthroat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston? Judge between us. Have not I\nsome right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid. \n\nEmma saw Mrs. Weston s surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an\naddress which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right\nof first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked\nand offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the\npurpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she\nthought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa,\nremoving to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.\n\nShe had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did\nanother subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room\nfrom examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information\nof the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast,\nwith a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.\nWoodhouse:\n\n This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir.\nSomething new for your coachman and horses to be making their way\nthrough a storm of snow. \n\nPoor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else\nhad something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,\nand had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and\nEmma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his\nson-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.\n\n I admired your resolution very much, sir,  said he,  in venturing out\nin such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.\nEvery body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit;\nand I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two s snow\ncan hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one\nis blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the\nother at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before\nmidnight. \n\nMr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he\nhad known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it\nshould make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his\nhurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely\nto fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid\nthey would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable,\nthat he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost\ngood-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body,\ncalling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,\nevery body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the\nconsciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.\n\n What is to be done, my dear Emma? what is to be done?  was Mr.\nWoodhouse s first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time.\nTo her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her\nrepresentation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of\ntheir having so many friends about them, revived him a little.\n\nHis eldest daughter s alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being\nblocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full\nin her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for\nadventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was\neager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at\nRandalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all\nthe possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.\n\n You had better order the carriage directly, my love,  said she;  I\ndare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if\nwe do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at\nall afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my\nshoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing\nthat gives me cold. \n\n Indeed!  replied he.  Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most\nextraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing\ndoes give you cold. Walk home! you are prettily shod for walking home,\nI dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses. \n\nIsabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.\nWeston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could\nnot so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away;\nand they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had\nleft the room immediately after his brother s first report of the snow,\ncame back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to\nexamine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty\nin their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour\nhence. He had gone beyond the sweep some way along the Highbury\nroad the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep in many places hardly\nenough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present,\nbut the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its\nbeing soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with\nhim in there being nothing to apprehend.\n\nTo Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were\nscarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father s account, who was\nimmediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous\nconstitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be\nappeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at\nRandalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in\nreturning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe\nto stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending,\nMr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus \n\n Your father will not be easy; why do not you go? \n\n I am ready, if the others are. \n\n Shall I ring the bell? \n\n Yes, do. \n\nAnd the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes\nmore, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his\nown house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and\nhappiness when this visit of hardship were over.\n\nThe carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such\noccasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.\nWeston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of\nalarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the\ndiscovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for.  He was\nafraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella\nwould not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.\nHe did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together\nas they could;  and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very\nslow and wait for the other carriage.\n\nIsabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he\ndid not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;\nso that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second\ncarriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,\nand that they were to have a t te- -t te drive. It would not have been\nthe awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,\nprevious to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to\nhim of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but\none. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had\nbeen drinking too much of Mr. Weston s good wine, and felt sure that he\nwould want to be talking nonsense.\n\nTo restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was\nimmediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of\nthe weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had\nthey passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she\nfound her subject cut up her hand seized her attention demanded, and\nMr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the\nprecious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well\nknown, hoping fearing adoring ready to die if she refused him; but\nflattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and\nunexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short,\nvery much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It\nreally was so. Without scruple without apology without much apparent\ndiffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself\n_her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say\nit all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to\nrestrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must\nbe drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to\nthe passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the\nplayful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she\nreplied,\n\n I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget\nyourself you take me for my friend any message to Miss Smith I shall be\nhappy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please. \n\n Miss Smith! message to Miss Smith! What could she possibly mean! And\nhe repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful\npretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness,\n\n Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account\nfor it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak\neither to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough\nto say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it. \n\nBut Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at\nall to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and\nhaving warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and\nslightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend, but\nacknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all, he\nresumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a\nfavourable answer.\n\nAs she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his\ninconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness,\nreplied,\n\n It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself\ntoo clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can\nexpress. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last\nmonth, to Miss Smith such attentions as I have been in the daily habit\nof observing to be addressing me in this manner this is an unsteadiness\nof character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me,\nsir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such\nprofessions. \n\n Good Heaven!  cried Mr. Elton,  what can be the meaning of this? Miss\nSmith! I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my\nexistence never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never\ncared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has\nfancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very\nsorry extremely sorry But, Miss Smith, indeed! Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who\ncan think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my\nhonour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of\nyou. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one\nelse. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has\nbeen with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot\nreally, seriously, doubt it. No! (in an accent meant to be\ninsinuating) I am sure you have seen and understood me. \n\nIt would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this which of\nall her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely\noverpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence\nbeing ample encouragement for Mr. Elton s sanguine state of mind, he\ntried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed \n\n Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting\nsilence. It confesses that you have long understood me. \n\n No, sir,  cried Emma,  it confesses no such thing. So far from having\nlong understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect\nto your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you\nshould have been giving way to any feelings Nothing could be farther\nfrom my wishes your attachment to my friend Harriet your pursuit of\nher, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been\nvery earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were\nnot your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you\njudged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you\nhave never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss\nSmith? that you have never thought seriously of her? \n\n Never, madam,  cried he, affronted in his turn:  never, I assure you.\n_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith! Miss Smith is a very good sort of\ngirl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her\nextremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object\nto Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,\nquite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal\nalliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith! No, madam, my\nvisits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement\nI received \n\n Encouragement! I give you encouragement! Sir, you have been entirely\nmistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my\nfriend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common\nacquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake\nends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might\nhave been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware,\nprobably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you\nare so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I\ntrust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at\npresent. \n\nHe was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite\nsupplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually\ndeep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer,\nfor the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If\nthere had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate\nawkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the\nlittle zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage\nturned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves,\nall at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another\nsyllable passed. Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good\nnight. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under\nindescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to\nHartfield.\n\nThere she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had\nbeen trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage\nLane turning a corner which he could never bear to think of and in\nstrange hands a mere common coachman no James; and there it seemed as\nif her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.\nJohn Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and\nattention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her\nfather, as to seem if not quite ready to join him in a basin of\ngruel perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the\nday was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,\nexcept herself. But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and\nit needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till\nthe usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet\nreflection.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nThe hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think\nand be miserable. It was a wretched business indeed! Such an overthrow\nof every thing she had been wishing for! Such a development of every\nthing most unwelcome! Such a blow for Harriet! that was the worst of\nall. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or\nother; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she\nwould gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken more in\nerror more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the\neffects of her blunders have been confined to herself.\n\n If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne\nany thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me but poor\nHarriet! \n\nHow she could have been so deceived! He protested that he had never\nthought seriously of Harriet never! She looked back as well as she\ncould; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she\nsupposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must\nhave been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so\nmisled.\n\nThe picture! How eager he had been about the picture! and the\ncharade! and an hundred other circumstances; how clearly they had\nseemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its  ready\nwit but then the  soft eyes in fact it suited neither; it was a\njumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such\nthick-headed nonsense?\n\nCertainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to\nherself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere\nerror of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others\nthat he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the\ngentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but,\ntill this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean\nany thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet s friend.\n\nTo Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the\nsubject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying\nthat those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley\nhad once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the\nconviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry\nindiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his\ncharacter had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was\ndreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many\nrespects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;\nproud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little\nconcerned about the feelings of others.\n\nContrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton s wanting to pay his\naddresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his\nproposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment,\nand was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the\narrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she\nwas perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need\nbe cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language\nor manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she\ncould hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice,\nless allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him.\nHe only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse\nof Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so\neasily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody\nelse with twenty, or with ten.\n\nBut that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware\nof his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry\nhim! should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind! look down\nupon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below\nhim, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no\npresumption in addressing her! It was most provoking.\n\nPerhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her\ninferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of\nsuch equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that\nin fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know\nthat the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at\nHartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family and that the\nEltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was\ninconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate,\nto which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from\nother sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell\nAbbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses\nhad long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood\nwhich Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as\nhe could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend\nhim to notice but his situation and his civility. But he had fancied\nher in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and\nafter raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners\nand a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and\nadmit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and\nobliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real\nmotive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and\ndelicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.\nIf _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to\nwonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken\nhers.\n\nThe first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was\nwrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It\nwas adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought\nto be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite\nconcerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.\n\n Here have I,  said she,  actually talked poor Harriet into being very\nmuch attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for\nme; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had\nnot assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I\nused to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her\nnot to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done\nof me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and\nchance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the\nopportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have\nattempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.\nI have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel\nthis disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any\nbody else who would be at all desirable for her; William Coxe Oh! no, I\ncould not endure William Coxe a pert young lawyer. \n\nShe stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a\nmore serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might\nbe, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to\nHarriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the\nawkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or\ndiscontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing\nresentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most\nunmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last\nwith nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most\ndreadfully.\n\nTo youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma s, though under temporary\ngloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of\nspirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy,\nand of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough\nto keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of\nsoftened pain and brighter hope.\n\nEmma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone\nto bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to\ndepend on getting tolerably out of it.\n\nIt was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love\nwith her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to\ndisappoint him that Harriet s nature should not be of that superior\nsort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive and that there\ncould be no necessity for any body s knowing what had passed except the\nthree principals, and especially for her father s being given a\nmoment s uneasiness about it.\n\nThese were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of\nsnow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome\nthat might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.\n\nThe weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she\ncould not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his\ndaughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting\nor receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered\nwith snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and\nthaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every\nmorning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to\nfreeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No\nintercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on\nSunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for\nMr. Elton s absenting himself.\n\nIt was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and\nthough she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some\nsociety or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well\nsatisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir\nout; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep\nentirely from them, \n\n Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton? \n\nThese days of confinement would have been, but for her private\nperplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited\nher brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his\ncompanions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his\nill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during\nthe rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and\nobliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes\nof cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still\nsuch an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet,\nas made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nMr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The\nweather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr.\nWoodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay\nbehind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set\noff, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor\nIsabella; which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated\non, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently\nbusy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.\n\nThe evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr.\nElton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with\nMr. Elton s best compliments,  that he was proposing to leave Highbury\nthe following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the\npressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few\nweeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from\nvarious circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal\nleave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever\nretain a grateful sense and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be\nhappy to attend to them. \n\nEmma was most agreeably surprized. Mr. Elton s absence just at this\ntime was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving\nit, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it\nwas announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than\nin a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.\nShe had not even a share in his opening compliments. Her name was not\nmentioned; and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an\nill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments,\nas she thought, at first, could not escape her father s suspicion.\n\nIt did, however. Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so\nsudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely\nto the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was\na very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought\nand conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse\ntalked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away\nwith all her usual promptitude.\n\nShe now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason\nto believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable\nthat she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of\nher other complaint before the gentleman s return. She went to Mrs.\nGoddard s accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary\npenance of communication; and a severe one it was. She had to destroy\nall the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding to appear in\nthe ungracious character of the one preferred and acknowledge herself\ngrossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all\nher observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last\nsix weeks.\n\nThe confession completely renewed her first shame and the sight of\nHarriet s tears made her think that she should never be in charity with\nherself again.\n\nHarriet bore the intelligence very well blaming nobody and in every\nthing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion\nof herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to\nher friend.\n\nEmma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost;\nand all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on\nHarriet s side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having\nany thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton\nwould have been too great a distinction. She never could have deserved\nhim and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would\nhave thought it possible.\n\nHer tears fell abundantly but her grief was so truly artless, that no\ndignity could have made it more respectable in Emma s eyes and she\nlistened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and\nunderstanding really for the time convinced that Harriet was the\nsuperior creature of the two and that to resemble her would be more for\nher own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence\ncould do.\n\nIt was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and\nignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of\nbeing humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of\nher life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father s claims,\nwas to promote Harriet s comfort, and endeavour to prove her own\naffection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to\nHartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to\noccupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton\nfrom her thoughts.\n\nTime, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she\ncould suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in\ngeneral, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr.\nElton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet s\nage, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might\nbe made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton s return,\nas to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of\nacquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing\nthem.\n\nHarriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence\nof any body equal to him in person or goodness and did, in truth, prove\nherself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it\nappeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an\ninclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend\nits continuing very long in equal force.\n\nIf Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and\nindubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not\nimagine Harriet s persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the\nrecollection of him.\n\nTheir being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for\neach, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of\neffecting any material change of society. They must encounter each\nother, and make the best of it.\n\nHarriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs.\nGoddard s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great\ngirls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could\nhave any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or\nrepellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be\nfound if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of\ncure, there could be no true peace for herself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nMr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near,\nMrs. Weston s fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of\nexcuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his  very great\nmortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of\ncoming to Randalls at no distant period. \n\nMrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed much more disappointed, in\nfact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man\nhad been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever\nexpecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by\nany proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure,\nand begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and\nsorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank s coming two or three\nmonths later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better\nweather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay\nconsiderably longer with them than if he had come sooner.\n\nThese feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a\nmore apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of\nexcuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was\nto suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.\n\nEmma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about\nMr. Frank Churchill s not coming, except as a disappointment at\nRandalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted,\nrather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was\ndesirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she\ntook care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as\nwarmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston s disappointment, as might naturally\nbelong to their friendship.\n\nShe was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite\nas much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather\nmore,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then\nproceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of\nsuch an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of\nlooking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the\nsight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the\nChurchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement\nwith Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was\ntaking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making\nuse of Mrs. Weston s arguments against herself.\n\n The Churchills are very likely in fault,  said Mr. Knightley, coolly;\n but I dare say he might come if he would. \n\n I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come;\nbut his uncle and aunt will not spare him. \n\n I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a\npoint of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof. \n\n How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you\nsuppose him such an unnatural creature? \n\n I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting\nthat he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very\nlittle for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who\nhave always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural\nthan one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are\nproud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish\ntoo. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have\ncontrived it between September and January. A man at his age what is\nhe? three or four-and-twenty cannot be without the means of doing as\nmuch as that. It is impossible. \n\n That s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your\nown master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the\ndifficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers\nto manage. \n\n It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty\nshould not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want\nmoney he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so\nmuch of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts\nin the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or\nother. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can\nleave the Churchills. \n\n Yes, sometimes he can. \n\n And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever\nthere is any temptation of pleasure. \n\n It is very unfair to judge of any body s conduct, without an intimate\nknowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior\nof a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that\nfamily may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs.\nChurchill s temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew\ncan do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can\nat others. \n\n There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and\nthat is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and\nresolution. It is Frank Churchill s duty to pay this attention to his\nfather. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he\nwished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at\nonce, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill Every sacrifice of mere\npleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but\nI must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my\nfailing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I\nshall, therefore, set off to-morrow. If he would say so to her at\nonce, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no\nopposition made to his going. \n\n No,  said Emma, laughing;  but perhaps there might be some made to his\ncoming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to\nuse! Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you\nhave not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite\nto your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to\nthe uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for\nhim! Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as\nloud as he could! How can you imagine such conduct practicable? \n\n Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it.\nHe would feel himself in the right; and the declaration made, of\ncourse, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner would do\nhim more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the\npeople he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients\ncan ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that\nthey could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his\nfather, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as\nwell as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his\nfather; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their\nhearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims.\nRespect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in\nthis sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their\nlittle minds would bend to his. \n\n I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but\nwhere little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they\nhave a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as\ngreat ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were\nto be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill s\nsituation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been\nrecommending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The\nChurchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would\nhave no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through.\nTo him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into\nperfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and\nregard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what would be right,\nas you can have, without being so equal, under particular\ncircumstances, to act up to it. \n\n Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal\nexertion, it could not be an equal conviction. \n\n Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to\nunderstand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly\nopposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his\nlife. \n\n Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first\noccasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the\nwill of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of\nfollowing his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for\nthe fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he\nought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in\ntheir authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their\nside to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there\nwould have been no difficulty now. \n\n We shall never agree about him,  cried Emma;  but that is nothing\nextraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man:\nI feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly,\nthough in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding,\ncomplying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man s\nperfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some\nadvantages, it will secure him many others. \n\n Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of\nleading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely\nexpert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine\nflourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade\nhimself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of\npreserving peace at home and preventing his father s having any right\nto complain. His letters disgust me. \n\n Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else. \n\n I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a\nwoman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother s\nplace, but without a mother s affection to blind her. It is on her\naccount that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly\nfeel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he\nwould have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he\ndid or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of\nconsiderations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to\nherself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in\nFrench, not in English. He may be very  amiable,  have very good\nmanners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy\ntowards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about\nhim. \n\n You seem determined to think ill of him. \n\n Me! not at all,  replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased;  I do not\nwant to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his\nmerits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely\npersonal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth,\nplausible manners. \n\n Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure\nat Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and\nagreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the\nbargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his\ncoming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the\nparishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest one object of\ncuriosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak\nof nobody else. \n\n You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him\nconversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a\nchattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts. \n\n My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of\nevery body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally\nagreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music;\nand so on to every body, having that general information on all\nsubjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead,\njust as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each;\nthat is my idea of him. \n\n And mine,  said Mr. Knightley warmly,  is, that if he turn out any\nthing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What!\nat three-and-twenty to be the king of his company the great man the\npractised politician, who is to read every body s character, and make\nevery body s talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to\nbe dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like\nfools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could\nnot endure such a puppy when it came to the point. \n\n I will say no more about him,  cried Emma,  you turn every thing to\nevil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no\nchance of agreeing till he is really here. \n\n Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced. \n\n But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love\nfor Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour. \n\n He is a person I never think of from one month s end to another,  said\nMr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately\ntalk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should\nbe angry.\n\nTo take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a\ndifferent disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of\nmind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the\nhigh opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she\nhad never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the\nmerit of another.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME II\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nEmma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma s\nopinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could\nnot think that Harriet s solace or her own sins required more; and she\nwas therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they\nreturned; but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded,\nand after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter,\nand receiving no other answer than a very plaintive Mr. Elton is so\ngood to the poor!  she found something else must be done.\n\nThey were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.\nShe determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was\nalways sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates\nloved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few\nwho presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in\nthat respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of\ntheir scanty comforts.\n\nShe had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart,\nas to her deficiency but none were equal to counteract the persuasion\nof its being very disagreeable, a waste of time tiresome women and all\nthe horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and\nthird-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and\ntherefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden\nresolution of not passing their door without going in observing, as she\nproposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were\njust now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.\n\nThe house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied\nthe drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized\napartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most\ncordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who\nwith her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to\ngive up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking\ndaughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks\nfor their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after\nMr. Woodhouse s health, cheerful communications about her mother s, and\nsweet-cake from the beaufet Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called\nin for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them,\nand _she_ had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she\nliked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss\nSmith would do them the favour to eat a piece too. \n\nThe mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.\nThere was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton\nsince his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the\nletter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much\nhe was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he\nwent, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies  ball had been; and she\nwent through it very well, with all the interest and all the\ncommendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to\nprevent Harriet s being obliged to say a word.\n\nThis she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant,\nhaving once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by\nany troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the\nMistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not\nbeen prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was\nactually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last\nabruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.\n\n Oh! yes Mr. Elton, I understand certainly as to dancing Mrs. Cole was\ntelling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was Mrs. Cole was so kind\nas to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came\nin, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite\nthere. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her\nkindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any\nbody can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying,  I\nknow you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time\nfor writing;  and when I immediately said,  But indeed we have, we had\na letter this very morning,  I do not know that I ever saw any body\nmore surprized.  Have you, upon your honour?  said she;  well, that is\nquite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says. \n\nEmma s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest \n\n Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I\nhope she is well? \n\n Thank you. You are so kind!  replied the happily deceived aunt, while\neagerly hunting for the letter. Oh! here it is. I was sure it could\nnot be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without\nbeing aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very\nlately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it\nto Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my\nmother, for it is such a pleasure to her a letter from Jane that she\ncan never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and\nhere it is, only just under my huswife and since you are so kind as to\nwish to hear what she says; but, first of all, I really must, in\njustice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter only two\npages you see hardly two and in general she fills the whole paper and\ncrosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.\nShe often says, when the letter is first opened,  Well, Hetty, now I\nthink you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work don t\nyou, ma am? And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make\nit out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her every word of it I\nam sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And,\nindeed, though my mother s eyes are not so good as they were, she can\nsee amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is\nsuch a blessing! My mother s are really very good indeed. Jane often\nsays, when she is here,  I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very\nstrong eyes to see as you do and so much fine work as you have done\ntoo! I only wish my eyes may last me as well. \n\nAll this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;\nand Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss\nFairfax s handwriting.\n\n You are extremely kind,  replied Miss Bates, highly gratified;  you\nwho are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure\nthere is nobody s praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss\nWoodhouse s. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know.\nMa am,  addressing her,  do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging\nto say about Jane s handwriting? \n\nAnd Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated\ntwice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was\npondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very\nrude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax s letter, and had almost\nresolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss\nBates turned to her again and seized her attention.\n\n My mother s deafness is very trifling you see just nothing at all. By\nonly raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,\nshe is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very\nremarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.\nJane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at\nall deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at\nmy mother s time of life and it really is full two years, you know,\nsince she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before,\nand as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough\nof her now. \n\n Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon? \n\n Oh yes; next week. \n\n Indeed! that must be a very great pleasure. \n\n Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so\nsurprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she\nwill be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see\nher. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel\nCampbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So\nvery good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you\nknow. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about.\nThat is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in\nthe common course, we should not have heard from her before next\nTuesday or Wednesday. \n\n Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my\nhearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day. \n\n So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been\nfor this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My\nmother is so delighted! for she is to be three months with us at least.\nThree months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the\npleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells\nare going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to\ncome over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till\nthe summer, but she is so impatient to see them again for till she\nmarried, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week,\nwhich must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was\ngoing to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very\nurgent letter to her mother or her father, I declare I do not know\nwhich it was, but we shall see presently in Jane s letter wrote in Mr.\nDixon s name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly,\nand they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to\ntheir country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has\nheard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean I do not know\nthat she ever heard about it from any body else; but it was very\nnatural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while\nhe was paying his addresses and as Jane used to be very often walking\nout with them for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about\ntheir daughter s not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I\ndo not at all blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be\ntelling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she\nwrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views\nthat he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I\nbelieve. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of\nthings. \n\nAt this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma s\nbrain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not\ngoing to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther\ndiscovery,\n\n You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to\ncome to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship\nbetween her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be\nexcused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell. \n\n Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been\nrather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a\ndistance from us, for months together not able to come if any thing was\nto happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want\nher (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs.\nCampbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing\nthan their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently;\nMr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a\nmost charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at\nWeymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by\nthe sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would\nhave been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone,\nif he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her\nhabit  (I can never think of it without trembling!) But ever since we\nhad the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon! \n\n But, in spite of all her friends  urgency, and her own wish of seeing\nIreland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates? \n\n Yes entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and\nMrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should\nrecommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native\nair, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately. \n\n I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs.\nDixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no\nremarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be\ncompared with Miss Fairfax. \n\n Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things but certainly not.\nThere is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was\nabsolutely plain but extremely elegant and amiable. \n\n Yes, that of course. \n\n Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of\nNovember, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well\nsince. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never\nmentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so\nconsiderate! But however, she is so far from well, that her kind\nfriends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air\nthat always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four\nmonths at Highbury will entirely cure her and it is certainly a great\ndeal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is\nunwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do. \n\n It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world. \n\n And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells\nleave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following as you will\nfind from Jane s letter. So sudden! You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse,\nwhat a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of\nher illness but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and\nlooking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to\nme, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane s letters through\nto myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for\nfear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me\nto do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution;\nbut no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I\nburst out, quite frightened, with  Bless me! poor Jane is ill! which\nmy mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed\nat. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had\nfancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does\nnot think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my\nguard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The\nexpense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so\nfond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for\nattendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife\nand family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well,\nnow I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will\nturn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal\nbetter than I can tell it for her. \n\n I am afraid we must be running away,  said Emma, glancing at Harriet,\nand beginning to rise My father will be expecting us. I had no\nintention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes,\nwhen I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not\npass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so\npleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good\nmorning. \n\nAnd not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained\nthe street happy in this, that though much had been forced on her\nagainst her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of\nJane Fairfax s letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nJane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates s youngest\ndaughter.\n\nThe marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the  regiment of infantry, and Miss\nJane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest;\nbut nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him\ndying in action abroad of his widow sinking under consumption and grief\nsoon afterwards and this girl.\n\nBy birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on\nlosing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the\nconsolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had\nseemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her\nbeing taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up\nwith no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what\nnature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and\nwarm-hearted, well-meaning relations.\n\nBut the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change\nto her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded\nFairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and\nfarther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe\ncamp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which\nhe did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the\ndeath of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing\nin his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took\nnotice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a\ngirl, about Jane s age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long\nvisits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years\nold, his daughter s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a\nreal friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of\nundertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and\nfrom that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell s family, and\nhad lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time\nto time.\n\nThe plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the\nvery few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making\nindependence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of\nColonel Campbell s power; for though his income, by pay and\nappointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all\nhis daughter s; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be\nsupplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.\n\nSuch was Jane Fairfax s history. She had fallen into good hands, known\nnothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent\neducation. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed\npeople, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of\ndiscipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell s residence being in\nLondon, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the\nattendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were\nequally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or\nnineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the\ncare of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself;\nbut she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor\nmother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil\nday was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young;\nand Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the\nrational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of\nhome and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering\nsuggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this\nmight soon be over.\n\nThe affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell\nin particular, was the more honourable to each party from the\ncircumstance of Jane s decided superiority both in beauty and\nacquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen\nby the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by\nthe parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till\nthe marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so\noften defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to\nwhat is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the\naffections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as\nsoon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled,\nwhile Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.\n\nThis event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be\nyet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path\nof duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had\nfixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty\nshould be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she\nhad resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire\nfrom all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society,\npeace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.\n\nThe good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a\nresolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no\nexertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and\nfor their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this\nwould be selfishness: what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps\nthey began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted\nthe temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such\nenjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still,\nhowever, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not\nhurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since\nthe time of their daughter s marriage; and till she should have\ncompletely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging\nin duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame\nand varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances,\nto require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be\ndischarged with tolerable comfort.\n\nWith regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her\naunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not\ntold. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to\nHighbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with\nthose kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,\nwhatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double,\nor treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that\nthey depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the\nrecovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she\nwas to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect\nnovelty which had been so long promised it Mr. Frank Churchill must put\nup for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the\nfreshness of a two years  absence.\n\nEmma was sorry; to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like\nthrough three long months! to be always doing more than she wished, and\nless than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a\ndifficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was\nbecause she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she\nwanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been\neagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in\nwhich her conscience could not quite acquit her. But  she could never\nget acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was\nsuch coldness and reserve such apparent indifference whether she\npleased or not and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker! and she\nwas made such a fuss with by every body! and it had been always\nimagined that they were to be so intimate because their ages were the\nsame, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other. \nThese were her reasons she had no better.\n\nIt was a dislike so little just every imputed fault was so magnified by\nfancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any\nconsiderable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and\nnow, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years \ninterval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and\nmanners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating.\nJane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself\nthe highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as\nalmost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall;\nher figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium,\nbetween fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed\nto point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all\nthis; and then, her face her features there was more beauty in them\naltogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very\npleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and\neyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she\nhad been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and\ndelicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty,\nof which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in\nhonour, by all her principles, admire it: elegance, which, whether of\nperson or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be\nvulgar, was distinction, and merit.\n\nIn short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with\ntwofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering\njustice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When\nshe took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;\nwhen she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she\nwas going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible\nto feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every\nwell-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly\nprobable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so\nnaturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more\npitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.\nEmma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon s\naffections from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her\nimagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be\nsimple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been\nunconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his\nconversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives,\nmight now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to\ndivide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon\nbeginning her career of laborious duty.\n\nUpon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,\nas made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury\nafforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that\nshe could wish to scheme about for her.\n\nThese were charming feelings but not lasting. Before she had committed\nherself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane\nFairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and\nerrors, than saying to Mr. Knightley,  She certainly is handsome; she\nis better than handsome!  Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with\nher grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its\nusual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome\nas ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to\nadmiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of\nexactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how\nsmall a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of\nnew caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane s\noffences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the\nthanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an\naffectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off\nin higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides,\nwhich was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting\nat her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed\ndetermined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously\nreserved.\n\nIf any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved\non the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed\nbent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon s character, or her own\nvalue for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It\nwas all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or\ndistinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown\naway. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There\nprobably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr.\nDixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other,\nor been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve\nthousand pounds.\n\nThe like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill\nhad been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a\nlittle acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma\nprocure as to what he truly was.  Was he handsome? She believed he\nwas reckoned a very fine young man.   Was he agreeable? He was\ngenerally thought so.   Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man\nof information? At a watering-place, or in a common London\nacquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were\nall that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than\nthey had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his\nmanners pleasing.  Emma could not forgive her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nEmma could not forgive her; but as neither provocation nor resentment\nwere discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had\nseen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was\nexpressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with\nMr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might\nhave done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain\nenough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her\nunjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.\n\n A very pleasant evening,  he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been\ntalked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers\nswept away; particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some\nvery good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than\nsitting at one s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such\nyoung women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am\nsure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left\nnothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no\ninstrument at her grandmother s, it must have been a real indulgence. \n\n I am happy you approved,  said Emma, smiling;  but I hope I am not\noften deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield. \n\n No, my dear,  said her father instantly;  _that_ I am sure you are\nnot. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any\nthing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night if it had been\nhanded round once, I think it would have been enough. \n\n No,  said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time;  you are not often\ndeficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I\nthink you understand me, therefore. \n\nAn arch look expressed I understand you well enough;  but she said\nonly,  Miss Fairfax is reserved. \n\n I always told you she was a little; but you will soon overcome all\nthat part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its\nfoundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be\nhonoured. \n\n You think her diffident. I do not see it. \n\n My dear Emma,  said he, moving from his chair into one close by her,\n you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant\nevening. \n\n Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions;\nand amused to think how little information I obtained. \n\n I am disappointed,  was his only answer.\n\n I hope every body had a pleasant evening,  said Mr. Woodhouse, in his\nquiet way.  I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I\nmoved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.\nMiss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though\nshe speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs.\nBates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane\nFairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very\nwell-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening\nagreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma. \n\n True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax. \n\nEmma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the\npresent, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question \n\n She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one s eyes\nfrom. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my\nheart. \n\nMr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to\nexpress; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose\nthoughts were on the Bates s, said \n\n It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a\ngreat pity indeed! and I have often wished but it is so little one can\nventure to do small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon Now we\nhave killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg;\nit is very small and delicate Hartfield pork is not like any other\npork but still it is pork and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure\nof their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried,\nwithout the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear\nroast pork I think we had better send the leg do not you think so, my\ndear? \n\n My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.\nThere will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice,\nand the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like. \n\n That s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but\nthat is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it\nis not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle\nboils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a\nlittle carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome. \n\n Emma,  said Mr. Knightley presently,  I have a piece of news for you.\nYou like news and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will\ninterest you. \n\n News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it? why do you smile\nso? where did you hear it? at Randalls? \n\nHe had time only to say,\n\n No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,  when the door was\nthrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full\nof thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give\nquickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that\nnot another syllable of communication could rest with him.\n\n Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse I\ncome quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are\ntoo bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be\nmarried. \n\nEmma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so\ncompletely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a\nlittle blush, at the sound.\n\n There is my news: I thought it would interest you,  said Mr.\nKnightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what\nhad passed between them.\n\n But where could _you_ hear it?  cried Miss Bates.  Where could you\npossibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I\nreceived Mrs. Cole s note no, it cannot be more than five or at least\nten for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out I\nwas only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork Jane was\nstanding in the passage were not you, Jane? for my mother was so afraid\nthat we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would go down\nand see, and Jane said,  Shall I go down instead? for I think you have\na little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen. Oh! my dear, \nsaid I well, and just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins that s all I\nknow. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you\npossibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of\nit, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins \n\n I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just\nread Elton s letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly. \n\n Well! that is quite I suppose there never was a piece of news more\ngenerally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My\nmother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand\nthanks, and says you really quite oppress her. \n\n We consider our Hartfield pork,  replied Mr. Woodhouse indeed it\ncertainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I\ncannot have a greater pleasure than \n\n Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to\nus. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth\nthemselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We\nmay well say that  our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.  Well, Mr.\nKnightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well \n\n It was short merely to announce but cheerful, exulting, of course. \nHere was a sly glance at Emma.  He had been so fortunate as to I forget\nthe precise words one has no business to remember them. The information\nwas, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins.\nBy his style, I should imagine it just settled. \n\n Mr. Elton going to be married!  said Emma, as soon as she could speak.\n He will have every body s wishes for his happiness. \n\n He is very young to settle,  was Mr. Woodhouse s observation.  He had\nbetter not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We\nwere always glad to see him at Hartfield. \n\n A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!  said Miss Bates,\njoyfully;  my mother is so pleased! she says she cannot bear to have\nthe poor old Vicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed.\nJane, you have never seen Mr. Elton! no wonder that you have such a\ncuriosity to see him. \n\nJane s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to\noccupy her.\n\n No I have never seen Mr. Elton,  she replied, starting on this appeal;\n is he is he a tall man? \n\n Who shall answer that question?  cried Emma.  My father would say\n yes,  Mr. Knightley  no;  and Miss Bates and I that he is just the\nhappy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax,\nyou will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in\nHighbury, both in person and mind. \n\n Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young\nman But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was\nprecisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins, I dare say, an\nexcellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother wanting her\nto sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my\nmother is a little deaf, you know it is not much, but she does not hear\nquite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He\nfancied bathing might be good for it the warm bath but she says it did\nhim no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel.\nAnd Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It\nis such a happiness when good people get together and they always do.\nNow, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles,\nsuch very good people; and the Perrys I suppose there never was a\nhappier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir, \nturning to Mr. Woodhouse,  I think there are few places with such\nsociety as Highbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our\nneighbours. My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better\nthan another, it is pork a roast loin of pork \n\n As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted\nwith her,  said Emma,  nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that\nit cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four\nweeks. \n\nNobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,\nEmma said,\n\n You are silent, Miss Fairfax but I hope you mean to take an interest\nin this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on\nthese subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss\nCampbell s account we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr.\nElton and Miss Hawkins. \n\n When I have seen Mr. Elton,  replied Jane,  I dare say I shall be\ninterested but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some\nmonths since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn\noff. \n\n Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss\nWoodhouse,  said Miss Bates,  four weeks yesterday. A Miss\nHawkins! Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady\nhereabouts; not that I ever Mrs. Cole once whispered to me but I\nimmediately said,  No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man but In\nshort, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of\ndiscoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the\nsame time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired Miss\nWoodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not\noffend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered\nnow. Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear\nlittle children. Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr.\nJohn Knightley. I mean in person tall, and with that sort of look and\nnot very talkative. \n\n Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all. \n\n Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.\nOne takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is\nnot, strictly speaking, handsome? \n\n Handsome! Oh! no far from it certainly plain. I told you he was\nplain. \n\n My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,\nand that you yourself \n\n Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I\nalways think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the\ngeneral opinion, when I called him plain. \n\n Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather\ndoes not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging,\nmy dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a\nmost agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs.\nCole s; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better\ngo home directly I would not have you out in a shower! We think she is\nthe better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not\nattempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares\nfor any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be\nanother thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is\ncoming too. Well, that is so very! I am sure if Jane is tired, you will\nbe so kind as to give her your arm. Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins! Good\nmorning to you. \n\nEmma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while\nhe lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry and to\nmarry strangers too and the other half she could give to her own view\nof the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece\nof news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but\nshe was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it and all that she could\nhope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from\nhearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was\nlikely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way! and upon its\nbeginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be\ndetaining her at Mrs. Goddard s, and that the intelligence would\nundoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.\n\nThe shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes,\nwhen in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which\nhurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the  Oh!\nMiss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!  which instantly burst\nforth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow\nwas given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than\nin listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had\nto tell.  She had set out from Mrs. Goddard s half an hour ago she had\nbeen afraid it would rain she had been afraid it would pour down every\nmoment but she thought she might get to Hartfield first she had hurried\non as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where\na young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just\nstep in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay\nhalf a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she\ndid not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could,\nand took shelter at Ford s. Ford s was the principal woollen-draper,\nlinen-draper, and haberdasher s shop united; the shop first in size and\nfashion in the place. And so, there she had set, without an idea of\nany thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps when, all of a\nsudden, who should come in to be sure it was so very odd! but they\nalways dealt at Ford s who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her\nbrother! Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have\nfainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the\ndoor Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the\numbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took\nno notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and\nI kept sitting near the door! Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I\nmust have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know,\nbecause of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but\nthere. Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse well, at last, I fancy, he looked round\nand saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began\nwhispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I\ncould not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me (do\nyou think he was, Miss Woodhouse?) for presently she came forward came\nquite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake\nhands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she\nused; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to\nbe very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but\nI know no more what I said I was in such a tremble! I remember she said\nshe was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear,\nMiss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was\nbeginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me\nfrom getting away and then only think! I found he was coming up towards\nme too slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and\nso he came and spoke, and I answered and I stood for a minute, feeling\ndreadfully, you know, one can t tell how; and then I took courage, and\nsaid it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not\ngot three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I\nwas going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr.\nCole s stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this\nrain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I\nsaid, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and\nthen he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables I\nbelieve I did but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh!\nMiss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and\nyet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so\npleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do\ntalk to me and make me comfortable again. \n\nVery sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in\nher power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly\ncomfortable herself. The young man s conduct, and his sister s, seemed\nthe result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet\ndescribed it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded\naffection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed\nthem to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did\nthis make in the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed\nby it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose her they must be all sorry.\nAmbition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all\nhave hoped to rise by Harriet s acquaintance: and besides, what was the\nvalue of Harriet s description? So easily pleased so little\ndiscerning; what signified her praise?\n\nShe exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by\nconsidering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of\nbeing dwelt on,\n\n It might be distressing, for the moment,  said she;  but you seem to\nhave behaved extremely well; and it is over and may never can never, as\na first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about\nit. \n\nHarriet said,  very true,  and she  would not think about it;  but\nstill she talked of it still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma,\nat last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to\nhurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender\ncaution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed\nor only amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet such a\nconclusion of Mr. Elton s importance with her!\n\nMr. Elton s rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel\nthe first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an\nhour before, its interest soon increased; and before their first\nconversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations\nof curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this\nfortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under\nproper subordination in her fancy.\n\nEmma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It\nhad been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining\nany influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get\nat her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the\ncourage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the\nbrother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard s; and a\ntwelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again, with\nany necessity, or even any power of speech.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nHuman nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting\nsituations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of\nbeing kindly spoken of.\n\nA week had not passed since Miss Hawkins s name was first mentioned in\nHighbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have\nevery recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant,\nhighly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself\narrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of\nher merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her\nChristian name, and say whose music she principally played.\n\nMr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and\nmortified disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what\nappeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right\nlady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He\nhad gone away deeply offended he came back engaged to another and to\nanother as superior, of course, to the first, as under such\ncircumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back\ngay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss\nWoodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.\n\nThe charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages\nof perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent\nfortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of\nsome dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had\nnot thrown himself away he had gained a woman of 10,000 _l_. or\nthereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity the\nfirst hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by\ndistinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of\nthe rise and progress of the affair was so glorious the steps so quick,\nfrom the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green s, and the\nparty at Mrs. Brown s smiles and blushes rising in importance with\nconsciousness and agitation richly scattered the lady had been so\neasily impressed so sweetly disposed had in short, to use a most\nintelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and\nprudence were equally contented.\n\nHe had caught both substance and shadow both fortune and affection, and\nwas just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his\nown concerns expecting to be congratulated ready to be laughed at and,\nwith cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of\nthe place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously\ngallant.\n\nThe wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to\nplease, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and\nwhen he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which\na certain glance of Mrs. Cole s did not seem to contradict, that when\nhe next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.\n\nDuring his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just\nenough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the\nimpression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and\npretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very\nmuch to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his\nsight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable\nfeelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a\nsource of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been\nthankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very\nwell; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would\nadminister most satisfaction.\n\nThe pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must\ncertainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be\nprevented many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be\nan excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink\nwithout remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility\nagain.\n\nOf the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good\nenough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for\nHighbury handsome enough to look plain, probably, by Harriet s side. As\nto connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all\nhis own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On\nthat article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be\nuncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the\n10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet s superior.\nShe brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the\nyoungest of the two daughters of a Bristol merchant, of course, he must\nbe called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life\nappeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of\nhis line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she\nhad been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very\nheart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years\nago, an uncle remained in the law line nothing more distinctly\nhonourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and\nwith him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of\nsome attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the\nconnexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_\n_married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept\ntwo carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory\nof Miss Hawkins.\n\nCould she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had\ntalked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out\nof it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet s\nmind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he\ncertainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin\nwould have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure\nher. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always\nin love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this\nreappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him\nsomewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times\nevery day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss\nhim, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have\nsomething occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring\nwarmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually\nhearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always\namong those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so\ninteresting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report,\ntherefore, every guess all that had already occurred, all that might\noccur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income,\nservants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her\nregard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her\nregrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of\nMiss Hawkins s happiness, and continual observation of, how much he\nseemed attached! his air as he walked by the house the very sitting of\nhis hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!\n\nHad it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her\nfriend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet s mind,\nEmma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton\npredominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful\nas a check to the other. Mr. Elton s engagement had been the cure of\nthe agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the\nknowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth\nMartin s calling at Mrs. Goddard s a few days afterwards. Harriet had\nnot been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her,\nwritten in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a\ngreat deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had\nbeen much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done\nin return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr.\nElton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the\nMartins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for\nBath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned,\njudged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin s visit.\n\nHow that visit was to be acknowledged what would be necessary and what\nmight be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.\nAbsolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would\nbe ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the\nacquaintance !\n\nAfter much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than\nHarriet s returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had\nunderstanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal\nacquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the\nAbbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so\nsoon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous\nrecurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree\nof intimacy was chosen for the future.\n\nShe could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it\nwhich her own heart could not approve something of ingratitude, merely\nglossed over it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nSmall heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her\nfriend called for her at Mrs. Goddard s, her evil stars had led her to\nthe very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev.\nPhilip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of\nbeing lifted into the butcher s cart, which was to convey it to where\nthe coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk\nand the direction, was consequently a blank.\n\nShe went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be\nput down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between\nespalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which\nhad given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to\nrevive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed\nher to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which\ndetermined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of\nan hour. She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old\nservant who was married, and settled in Donwell.\n\nThe quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;\nand Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and\nunattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the\ngravel walk a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with\nher seemingly with ceremonious civility.\n\nHarriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was\nfeeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to\nunderstand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.\nShe had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her\ndoubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace\nhad been talked almost all the time till just at last, when Mrs.\nMartin s saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was\ngrown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner.\nIn that very room she had been measured last September, with her two\nfriends. There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot\nby the window. _He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day,\nthe hour, the party, the occasion to feel the same consciousness, the\nsame regrets to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and\nthey were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must\nsuspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when\nthe carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and\nthe shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to\nbe given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six\nmonths ago! Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they\nmight resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business.\nShe would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had\nthe Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a\n_little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she\nhave done otherwise? Impossible! She could not repent. They must be\nseparated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process so much to\nherself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little\nconsolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure\nit. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The\nrefreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.\n\nIt was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that\nneither  master nor mistress was at home;  they had both been out some\ntime; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.\n\n This is too bad,  cried Emma, as they turned away.  And now we shall\njust miss them; too provoking! I do not know when I have been so\ndisappointed.  And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her\nmurmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both such being\nthe commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the\ncarriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who\nwere standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight\nof them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound for Mr.\nWeston immediately accosted her with,\n\n How d ye do? how d ye do? We have been sitting with your father glad\nto see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow I had a letter this\nmorning we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty he is at\nOxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be\nso. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I\nwas always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have\njust the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall\nenjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could\nwish. \n\nThere was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the\ninfluence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston s, confirmed as it all was\nby the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but\nnot less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain\nwas enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice\nin their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted\nspirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was\ncoming; and in the rapidity of half a moment s thought, she hoped Mr.\nElton would now be talked of no more.\n\nMr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which\nallowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his\ncommand, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she\nlistened, and smiled, and congratulated.\n\n I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,  said he, at the conclusion.\n\nEmma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his\nwife.\n\n We had better move on, Mr. Weston,  said she,  we are detaining the\ngirls. \n\n Well, well, I am ready; and turning again to Emma,  but you must not\nbe expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_\naccount you know; I dare say he is really nothing\nextraordinary: though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were\nspeaking a very different conviction.\n\nEmma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a\nmanner that appropriated nothing.\n\n Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o clock,  was Mrs.\nWeston s parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only\nfor her.\n\n Four o clock! depend upon it he will be here by three,  was Mr.\nWeston s quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.\nEmma s spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a\ndifferent air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as\nbefore. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least\nmust soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw\nsomething like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.\n\n Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford? was a\nquestion, however, which did not augur much.\n\nBut neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma\nwas now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.\n\nThe morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston s faithful\npupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o clock, that\nshe was to think of her at four.\n\n My dear, dear anxious friend, said she, in mental soliloquy, while\nwalking downstairs from her own room,  always overcareful for every\nbody s comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets,\ngoing again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.  The\nclock struck twelve as she passed through the hall.  Tis twelve; I\nshall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time\nto-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the\npossibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him\nsoon. \n\nShe opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her\nfather Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few\nminutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of\nFrank s being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the\nmidst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared,\nto have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.\n\nThe Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was\nactually before her he was presented to her, and she did not think too\nmuch had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young\nman; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his\ncountenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his\nfather s; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she\nshould like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a\nreadiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be\nacquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.\n\nHe had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the\neagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel\nearlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.\n\n I told you yesterday,  cried Mr. Weston with exultation,  I told you\nall that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I\nused to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help\ngetting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in\nupon one s friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal\nmore than any little exertion it needs. \n\n It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,  said the young\nman,  though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;\nbut in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing. \n\nThe word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.\nEmma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the\nconviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased\nwith Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly\nallow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to\nHighbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself\nto have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but\none s _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That\nhe should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before,\npassed suspiciously through Emma s brain; but still, if it were a\nfalsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner\nhad no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if\nin a state of no common enjoyment.\n\nTheir subjects in general were such as belong to an opening\nacquaintance. On his side were the inquiries, Was she a\nhorsewoman? Pleasant rides? Pleasant walks? Had they a large\nneighbourhood? Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough? There were\nseveral very pretty houses in and about it. Balls had they balls? Was\nit a musical society? \n\nBut when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance\nproportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while\ntheir two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his\nmother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so\nmuch warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured\nto his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an\nadditional proof of his knowing how to please and of his certainly\nthinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word\nof praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs.\nWeston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He\nunderstood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else.  His\nfather s marriage,  he said,  had been the wisest measure, every friend\nmust rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a\nblessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest\nobligation on him. \n\nHe got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor s merits,\nwithout seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it\nwas to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse s\ncharacter, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor s. And at last, as if\nresolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its\nobject, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of\nher person.\n\n Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,  said he;  but I\nconfess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a\nvery tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that\nI was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston. \n\n You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings, \nsaid Emma;  were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen\nwith pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using\nsuch words. Don t let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a\npretty young woman. \n\n I hope I should know better,  he replied;  no, depend upon it, (with a\ngallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I\nmight praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my\nterms. \n\nEmma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from\ntheir knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her\nmind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be\nconsidered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must\nsee more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they\nwere agreeable.\n\nShe had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick\neye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy\nexpression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she\nwas confident that he was often listening.\n\nHer own father s perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the\nentire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion,\nwas a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from\napproving matrimony than from foreseeing it. Though always objecting to\nevery marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the\napprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any\ntwo persons  understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it\nwere proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could\nnow, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a\nglance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all\nhis natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr.\nFrank Churchill s accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils\nof sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed\nanxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold which,\nhowever, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till\nafter another night.\n\nA reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move. He must be going.\nHe had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands\nfor Mrs. Weston at Ford s, but he need not hurry any body else.  His\nson, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,\n\n As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity\nof paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore\nmay as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a\nneighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near\nHighbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty,\nI suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the\nproper name I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any\nfamily of that name? \n\n To be sure we do,  cried his father;  Mrs. Bates we passed her house I\nsaw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss\nFairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is.\nCall upon her, by all means. \n\n There is no necessity for my calling this morning,  said the young\nman;  another day would do as well; but there was that degree of\nacquaintance at Weymouth which \n\n Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done\ncannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;\nany want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You\nsaw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she\nmixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely\nenough to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight. \n\nThe son looked convinced.\n\n I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,  said Emma;  she is a very\nelegant young woman. \n\nHe agreed to it, but with so quiet a  Yes,  as inclined her almost to\ndoubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort\nof elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought\nonly ordinarily gifted with it.\n\n If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,  said\nshe,  I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her\nand hear her no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has\nan aunt who never holds her tongue. \n\n You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?  said Mr.\nWoodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation;  then give\nme leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young\nlady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very\nworthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely\nglad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to\nshew you the way. \n\n My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me. \n\n But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,\nquite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many\nhouses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,\nunless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you\nhad best cross the street. \n\nMr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,\nand his father gave his hearty support by calling out,  My good friend,\nthis is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees\nit, and as to Mrs. Bates s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,\nstep, and jump. \n\nThey were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a\ngraceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma\nremained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and\ncould now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day,\nwith full confidence in their comfort.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nThe next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.\nWeston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He\nhad been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home,\ntill her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their\nwalk, immediately fixed on Highbury. He did not doubt there being very\npleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always\nchuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,\nwould be his constant attraction. Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood\nfor Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction\nwith him. They walked thither directly.\n\nEmma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for\nhalf a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew\nnothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,\ntherefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in\narm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in\ncompany with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him\nwas to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends\nfor it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It\nwas not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid\nhis duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole\nmanner to her nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of\nconsidering her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was\ntime enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit\nincluded all the rest of the morning. They were all three walking about\ntogether for an hour or two first round the shrubberies of Hartfield,\nand afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired\nHartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse s ear; and when their going\nfarther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with\nthe whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much\noftener than Emma could have supposed.\n\nSome of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He\nbegged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and\nwhich had been the home of his father s father; and on recollecting\nthat an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest\nof her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in\nsome points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they\nshewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must\nbe very like a merit to those he was with.\n\nEmma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it\ncould not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily\nabsenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a\nparade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had\nnot done him justice.\n\nTheir first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though\nthe principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses\nwere kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any\nrun on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by\nany interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of\nthe large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a\nball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly\npopulous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such; but such\nbrilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for\nwhich it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established\namong the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately\ninterested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of\npassing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed\nwindows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities,\nand lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no\nfault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No,\nit was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the\nvery number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every\nfortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the\nformer good old days of the room? She who could do any thing in\nHighbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction\nthat none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted\nto attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be\npersuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could\nnot furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when\nparticulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling\nto admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing,\nor that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body s\nreturning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a\nyoung man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to\nsee the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the\nhabits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit,\ncheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing\nof the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was,\nperhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank,\nbordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however,\nof the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively\nspirits.\n\nAt last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and\nbeing now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma\nrecollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had\npaid it.\n\n Yes, oh! yes he replied;  I was just going to mention it. A very\nsuccessful visit: I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much\nobliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken\nme quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I\nwas only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes\nwould have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper;\nand I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him but\nthere was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I\nfound, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that\nI had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an\nhour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before. \n\n And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking? \n\n Ill, very ill that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look\nill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it?\nLadies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so\npale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health. A most\ndeplorable want of complexion. \n\nEmma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss\nFairfax s complexion.  It was certainly never brilliant, but she would\nnot allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness\nand delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character\nof her face.  He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he\nhad heard many people say the same but yet he must confess, that to him\nnothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health.\nWhere features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them\nall; and where they were good, the effect was fortunately he need not\nattempt to describe what the effect was.\n\n Well,  said Emma,  there is no disputing about taste. At least you\nadmire her except her complexion. \n\nHe shook his head and laughed. I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her\ncomplexion. \n\n Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same\nsociety? \n\nAt this moment they were approaching Ford s, and he hastily exclaimed,\n Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of\ntheir lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he\nsays, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford s. If\nit be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove\nmyself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must\nbuy something at Ford s. It will be taking out my freedom. I dare say\nthey sell gloves. \n\n Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will\nbe adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because\nyou were Mr. Weston s son but lay out half a guinea at Ford s, and your\npopularity will stand upon your own virtues. \n\nThey went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of  Men s Beavers \nand  York Tan  were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he\nsaid But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,\nyou were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_\n_patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of\npublic fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in\nprivate life. \n\n I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her\nparty at Weymouth. \n\n And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a\nvery unfair one. It is always the lady s right to decide on the degree\nof acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account. I\nshall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow. \n\n Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But\nher account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very\nreserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any\nbody, that I really think you may say what you like of your\nacquaintance with her. \n\n May I, indeed? Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so\nwell. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a\nlittle in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.\nColonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,\nwarm-hearted woman. I like them all. \n\n You know Miss Fairfax s situation in life, I conclude; what she is\ndestined to be? \n\n Yes (rather hesitatingly) I believe I do. \n\n You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,  said Mrs. Weston smiling;\n remember that I am here. Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say\nwhen you speak of Miss Fairfax s situation in life. I will move a\nlittle farther off. \n\n I certainly do forget to think of _her_,  said Emma,  as having ever\nbeen any thing but my friend and my dearest friend. \n\nHe looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.\n\nWhen the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again,  Did\nyou ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?  said Frank\nChurchill.\n\n Ever hear her!  repeated Emma.  You forget how much she belongs to\nHighbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.\nShe plays charmingly. \n\n You think so, do you? I wanted the opinion of some one who could\nreally judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with\nconsiderable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself. I am\nexcessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of\njudging of any body s performance. I have been used to hear her s\nadmired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well: a\nman, a very musical man, and in love with another woman engaged to\nher on the point of marriage would yet never ask that other woman to\nsit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down\ninstead never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.\nThat, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof. \n\n Proof indeed!  said Emma, highly amused. Mr. Dixon is very musical,\nis he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,\nthan Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year. \n\n Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a\nvery strong proof. \n\n Certainly very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger\nthan, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable\nto me. I could not excuse a man s having more music than love more ear\nthan eye a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.\nHow did Miss Campbell appear to like it? \n\n It was her very particular friend, you know. \n\n Poor comfort!  said Emma, laughing.  One would rather have a stranger\npreferred than one s very particular friend with a stranger it might\nnot recur again but the misery of having a very particular friend\nalways at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself! Poor\nMrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland. \n\n You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she\nreally did not seem to feel it. \n\n So much the better or so much the worse: I do not know which. But be\nit sweetness or be it stupidity in her quickness of friendship, or\ndulness of feeling there was one person, I think, who must have felt\nit: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous\ndistinction. \n\n As to that I do not \n\n Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax s\nsensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human\nbeing, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she\nwas asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses. \n\n There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all  he\nbegan rather quickly, but checking himself, added,  however, it is\nimpossible for me to say on what terms they really were how it might\nall be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness\noutwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a\nbetter judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct\nherself in critical situations, than I can be. \n\n I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and\nwomen together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be\nintimate, that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited\nher friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a\nlittle, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to\ntake disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always\nwas, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her\nreserve I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved. \n\n It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,  said he.  Oftentimes very\nconvenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve,\nbut no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person. \n\n Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction\nmay be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an\nagreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of\nconquering any body s reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss\nFairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think\nill of her not the least except that such extreme and perpetual\ncautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea\nabout any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something\nto conceal. \n\nHe perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and\nthinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,\nthat she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He\nwas not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in\nsome of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore\nbetter than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate his\nfeelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of\nconsidering Mr. Elton s house, which, as well as the church, he would\ngo and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with. No,\nhe could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to\nbe pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved,\nhe could not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There\nmust be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a\nblockhead who wanted more.\n\nMrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking\nabout. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking\nhow many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he\ncould be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small\none. But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he\nwas talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to\nsettle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not\nbe aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no\nhousekeeper s room, or a bad butler s pantry, but no doubt he did\nperfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that\nwhenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to\nbe allowed an early establishment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nEmma s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the\nfollowing day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to\nhave his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at\nbreakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to\nreturn to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than\nhaving his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling\nsixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of\nfoppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not\naccord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even\nthe unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to\ndiscern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change,\nrestlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad;\nheedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston,\nindifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became\nliable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and\nthought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was\nclear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making\nno other comment than that  all young people would have their little\nwhims. \n\nWith the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit\nhitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was\nvery ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made\nhimself how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He\nappeared to have a very open temper certainly a very cheerful and\nlively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great\ndeal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond\nof talking of him said he would be the best man in the world if he were\nleft to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he\nacknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to\nspeak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for\nsuch an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to\ndenote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination\nhad given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of\nbeing at least very near it, and saved only by her own\nindifference (for still her resolution held of never marrying) the\nhonour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint\nacquaintance.\n\nMr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have\nsome weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her\nextremely thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so\nmuch to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him\nharshly. As Mrs. Weston observed,  all young people would have their\nlittle whims. \n\nThere was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so\nleniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes\nof Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were\nmade for the little excesses of such a handsome young man one who\nsmiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them\nnot to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles Mr.\nKnightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment,\nhe was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to\nhimself, over a newspaper he held in his hand,  Hum! just the trifling,\nsilly fellow I took him for.  She had half a mind to resent; but an\ninstant s observation convinced her that it was really said only to\nrelieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she\nlet it pass.\n\nAlthough in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston s visit this morning was in another respect particularly\nopportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make\nEmma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted\nexactly the advice they gave.\n\nThis was the occurrence: The Coles had been settled some years in\nHighbury, and were very good sort of people friendly, liberal, and\nunpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in\ntrade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the\ncountry, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping\nlittle company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two\nhad brought them a considerable increase of means the house in town had\nyielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them.\nWith their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house,\ntheir inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their\nnumber of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time\nwere, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at\nHartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared\nevery body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly\namong the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best\nfamilies Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite neither\nDonwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go,\nif they did; and she regretted that her father s known habits would be\ngiving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were\nvery respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was\nnot for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would\nvisit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only\nfrom herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.\n\nBut she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks\nbefore it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her\nvery differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their\ninvitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs.\nWeston s accounting for it with  I suppose they will not take the\nliberty with you; they know you do not dine out,  was not quite\nsufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of\nrefusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled\nthere, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her,\noccurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been\ntempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the\nBateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the\nday before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her\nabsence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of\nhis. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her\nspirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the\nomission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.\n\nIt was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at\nHartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her\nfirst remark, on reading it, was that  of course it must be declined, \nshe so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do,\nthat their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.\n\nShe owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without\ninclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so\nproperly there was so much real attention in the manner of it so much\nconsideration for her father.  They would have solicited the honour\nearlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from\nLondon, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of\nair, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour\nof his company.  Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being\nbriefly settled among themselves how it might be done without\nneglecting his comfort how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates,\nmight be depended on for bearing him company Mr. Woodhouse was to be\ntalked into an acquiescence of his daughter s going out to dinner on a\nday now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As\nfor _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours\nwould be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well\nresigned.\n\n I am not fond of dinner-visiting,  said he I never was. No more is\nEmma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole\nshould have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come\nin one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us take us in\ntheir afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so\nreasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the\nevening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any\nbody to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine\nwith them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to\ntake care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be\nwhat it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.  Then turning to Mrs.\nWeston, with a look of gentle reproach Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not\nmarried, you would have staid at home with me. \n\n Well, sir,  cried Mr. Weston,  as I took Miss Taylor away, it is\nincumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.\nGoddard in a moment, if you wish it. \n\nBut the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not\nlessening, Mr. Woodhouse s agitation. The ladies knew better how to\nallay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately\narranged.\n\nWith this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking\nas usual.  He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great\nregard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.\nJames could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer\nwritten to Mrs. Cole. \n\n You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will\nsay that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must\ndecline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of\ncourse. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is\nto be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will\nbe wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have\nnever been there above once since the new approach was made; but still\nI have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get\nthere, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you\nagain; and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying\nlate. You will get very tired when tea is over. \n\n But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa? \n\n Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great\nmany people talking at once. You will not like the noise. \n\n But, my dear sir,  cried Mr. Weston,  if Emma comes away early, it\nwill be breaking up the party. \n\n And no great harm if it does,  said Mr. Woodhouse.  The sooner every\nparty breaks up, the better. \n\n But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma s going\naway directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured\npeople, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel\nthat any body s hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss\nWoodhouse s doing it would be more thought of than any other person s\nin the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I\nam sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have\nbeen your neighbours these _ten_ years. \n\n No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you\nfor reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any\npain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole\nnever touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but\nhe is bilious Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of\ngiving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure,\nrather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a\nlittle longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You\nwill be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends. \n\n Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no\nscruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am\nonly afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not\nbeing exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you\nknow; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by\nyourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time and the idea of\nthat would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit\nup. \n\nHe did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if\nshe came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if\nhungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should\nsit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every\nthing were safe in the house, as usual.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nFrank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father s dinner\nwaiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious\nfor his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any\nimperfection which could be concealed.\n\nHe came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very\ngood grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had\ndone. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any\nconfusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his\nspirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after\nseeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself: \n\n I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do\ncease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent\nway. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly. It\ndepends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is\n_not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this\ndifferently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been\nashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a\ncoxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own\nvanities. No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly. \n\nWith Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a\nlonger time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by\ninference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing\nhow soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;\nand of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were\nnow seeing them together for the first time.\n\nShe meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.\nCole s; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.\nElton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than\nhis propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.\n\nHer father s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.\nGoddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left\nthe house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after\ndinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her\ndress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping\nthem to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever\nunwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged\nthem to practise during the meal. She had provided a plentiful dinner\nfor them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat\nit.\n\nShe followed another carriage to Mr. Cole s door; and was pleased to\nsee that it was Mr. Knightley s; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses,\nhaving little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and\nindependence, was too apt, in Emma s opinion, to get about as he could,\nand not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.\nShe had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from\nher heart, for he stopped to hand her out.\n\n This is coming as you should do,  said she;  like a gentleman. I am\nquite glad to see you. \n\nHe thanked her, observing,  How lucky that we should arrive at the same\nmoment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether\nyou would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual. You\nmight not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner. \n\n Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of\nconsciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be\nbeneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but\nwith you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I\nalways observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_\nyou have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed\nashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_\nI shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you. \n\n Nonsensical girl!  was his reply, but not at all in anger.\n\nEmma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as\nwith Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could\nnot but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When\nthe Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of\nadmiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached\nher with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object,\nand at dinner she found him seated by her and, as she firmly believed,\nnot without some dexterity on his side.\n\nThe party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper\nunobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of\nnaming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox s family,\nthe lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the\nevening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at\ndinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be\ngeneral; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could\nfairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her\nneighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to\nattend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating\nsomething of her that was expected to be very interesting. She\nlistened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of\nEmma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that\nshe had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room\nhad been struck by the sight of a pianoforte a very elegant looking\ninstrument not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the\nsubstance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of\nsurprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and\nexplanations on Miss Bates s, was, that this pianoforte had arrived\nfrom Broadwood s the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt\nand niece entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates s account,\nJane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could\npossibly have ordered it but now, they were both perfectly satisfied\nthat it could be from only one quarter; of course it must be from\nColonel Campbell.\n\n One can suppose nothing else,  added Mrs. Cole,  and I was only\nsurprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems,\nhad a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.\nShe knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as\nany reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse\nto surprize her. \n\nMrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the\nsubject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,\nand equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were\nenough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still\nlisten to Mrs. Cole.\n\n I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me\nmore satisfaction! It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who\nplays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a\nshame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine\ninstruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a\nslap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I\nreally was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the\ndrawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little\ngirls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of\nit; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not\nany thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old\nspinet in the world, to amuse herself with. I was saying this to Mr.\nCole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so\nparticularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in\nthe purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so\nobliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that\nreally is the reason why the instrument was bought or else I am sure we\nought to be ashamed of it. We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse\nmay be prevailed with to try it this evening. \n\nMiss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing\nmore was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole s, turned\nto Frank Churchill.\n\n Why do you smile?  said she.\n\n Nay, why do you? \n\n Me! I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell s being so rich\nand so liberal. It is a handsome present. \n\n Very. \n\n I rather wonder that it was never made before. \n\n Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before. \n\n Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument which must\nnow be shut up in London, untouched by any body. \n\n That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.\nBates s house. \n\n You may _say_ what you chuse but your countenance testifies that your\n_thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine. \n\n I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for\nacuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably\nsuspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what\nthere is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can\nbe? \n\n What do you say to Mrs. Dixon? \n\n Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She\nmust know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be;\nand perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a\nyoung woman s scheme than an elderly man s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare\nsay. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine. \n\n If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in\nthem. \n\n Mr. Dixon. Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the\njoint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day,\nyou know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance. \n\n Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had\nentertained before. I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions\nof either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting\neither that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the\nmisfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a\nlittle attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without\nguessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular\ncause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the\nCampbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and\npenance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of\ntrying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse. In the summer\nit might have passed; but what can any body s native air do for them in\nthe months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages\nwould be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and\nI dare say in her s. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions,\nthough you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell\nyou what they are. \n\n And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon s\npreference of her music to her friend s, I can answer for being very\ndecided. \n\n And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that? A water party;\nand by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her. \n\n He did. I was there one of the party. \n\n Were you really? Well! But you observed nothing of course, for it\nseems to be a new idea to you. If I had been there, I think I should\nhave made some discoveries. \n\n I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that\nMiss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon\ncaught her. It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent\nshock and alarm was very great and much more durable indeed I believe\nit was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again yet that\nwas too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be\nobservable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made\ndiscoveries. \n\nThe conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in\nthe awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and\nobliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the\ntable was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed\nexactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma\nsaid,\n\n The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a\nlittle more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall\nsoon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. \n\n And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must\nconclude it to come from the Campbells. \n\n No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is\nnot from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She\nwould not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have\nconvinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.\nDixon is a principal in the business. \n\n Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings\ncarry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed\nyou satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as\npaternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.\nBut when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that\nit should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see\nit in no other light than as an offering of love. \n\nThere was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction\nseemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other\nsubjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the\ndessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired\namid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few\ndownright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor\nthe other nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old\nnews, and heavy jokes.\n\nThe ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other\nladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree\nof her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her\ndignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and\nthe artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light,\ncheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many\nalleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed\naffection. There she sat and who would have guessed how many tears she\nhad been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and\nseeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say\nnothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax\ndid look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad\nto change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the\nmortification of having loved yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in\nvain by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself\nbeloved by the husband of her friend.\n\nIn so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.\nShe did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the\nsecret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair,\nand therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the\nsubject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of\nconsciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of\nguilt which accompanied the name of  my excellent friend Colonel\nCampbell. \n\nMrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by\nthe circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her\nperseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and\nto say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish\nof saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the\nfair heroine s countenance.\n\nThey were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of\nthe early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the\nhandsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates\nand her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the\ncircle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her,\nwould not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be\nthinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She\nintroduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments\nafterwards, heard what each thought of the other.  He had never seen so\nlovely a face, and was delighted with her na vet .  And she,  Only to\nbe sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think\nthere were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.  Emma restrained her\nindignation, and only turned from her in silence.\n\nSmiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first\nglancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.\nHe told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room hated\nsitting long was always the first to move when he could that his\nfather, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over\nparish business that as long as he had staid, however, it had been\npleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of\ngentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury\naltogether thought it so abundant in agreeable families that Emma began\nto feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much. She\nquestioned him as to the society in Yorkshire the extent of the\nneighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his\nanswers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little\ngoing on, that their visitings were among a range of great families,\nnone very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations\naccepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health\nand spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh\nperson; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not\nwithout difficulty, without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he\ncould get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.\n\nShe saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at\nits best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement\nat home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He\ndid not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded\nhis aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and\nnoticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he\ncould _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on\nwhich his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much\nto go abroad had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel but she\nwould not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he\nsaid, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.\n\nThe unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be\ngood behaviour to his father.\n\n I have made a most wretched discovery,  said he, after a short pause. \n I have been here a week to-morrow half my time. I never knew days fly\nso fast. A week to-morrow! And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But\njust got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others! I hate the\nrecollection. \n\n Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out\nof so few, in having your hair cut. \n\n No,  said he, smiling,  that is no subject of regret at all. I have no\npleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be\nseen. \n\nThe rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself\nobliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.\nWhen Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as\nbefore, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at\nMiss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.\n\n What is the matter?  said she.\n\nHe started.  Thank you for rousing me,  he replied.  I believe I have\nbeen very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a\nway so very odd a way that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw\nany thing so outr e! Those curls! This must be a fancy of her own. I\nsee nobody else looking like her! I must go and ask her whether it is\nan Irish fashion. Shall I? Yes, I will I declare I will and you shall\nsee how she takes it; whether she colours. \n\nHe was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss\nFairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as\nhe had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in\nfront of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.\n\nBefore he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.\n\n This is the luxury of a large party,  said she: one can get near\nevery body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to\nyou. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like\nyourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how\nMiss Bates and her niece came here? \n\n How? They were invited, were not they? \n\n Oh! yes but how they were conveyed hither? the manner of their\ncoming? \n\n They walked, I conclude. How else could they come? \n\n Very true. Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it\nwould be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and\ncold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw\nher appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and\nwould therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could\nnot bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room,\nand I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may\nguess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I\nmade my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage\nwould be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would\nbe making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as\npossible, you may be sure.  Nobody was ever so fortunate as\nherself! but with many, many thanks there was no occasion to trouble\nus, for Mr. Knightley s carriage had brought, and was to take them home\nagain.  I was quite surprized; very glad, I am sure; but really quite\nsurprized. Such a very kind attention and so thoughtful an\nattention! the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in\nshort, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think\nthat it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do\nsuspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it\nwas only as an excuse for assisting them. \n\n Very likely,  said Emma nothing more likely. I know no man more\nlikely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing to do any thing\nreally good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a\ngallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane\nFairfax s ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him; and for\nan act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on\nmore than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day for we arrived\ntogether; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that\ncould betray. \n\n Well,  said Mrs. Weston, smiling,  you give him credit for more\nsimple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while\nMiss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have\nnever been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more\nprobable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr.\nKnightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you\ncompany! What do you say to it? \n\n Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!  exclaimed Emma.  Dear Mrs. Weston,\nhow could you think of such a thing? Mr. Knightley! Mr. Knightley must\nnot marry! You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell? Oh!\nno, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr.\nKnightley s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am\namazed that you should think of such a thing. \n\n My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not\nwant the match I do not want to injure dear little Henry but the idea\nhas been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished\nto marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry s account, a boy of\nsix years old, who knows nothing of the matter? \n\n Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted. Mr. Knightley\nmarry! No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now.\nAnd Jane Fairfax, too, of all women! \n\n Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well\nknow. \n\n But the imprudence of such a match! \n\n I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability. \n\n I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than\nwhat you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would\nbe quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for\nthe Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax and is always glad\nto shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to\nmatch-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the\nAbbey! Oh! no, no; every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not\nhave him do so mad a thing. \n\n Imprudent, if you please but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,\nand perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable. \n\n But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the\nleast idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry? He\nis as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and\nhis library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of\nhis brother s children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up\nhis time or his heart. \n\n My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really\nloves Jane Fairfax \n\n Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I\nam sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but \n\n Well,  said Mrs. Weston, laughing,  perhaps the greatest good he could\ndo them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home. \n\n If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a\nvery shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss\nBates belonging to him? To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking\nhim all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane? So very kind\nand obliging! But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!  And\nthen fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother s old petticoat.\n Not that it was such a very old petticoat either for still it would\nlast a great while and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their\npetticoats were all very strong. \n\n For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my\nconscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be\nmuch disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She\nmight talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only\ntalk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it\nwould be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think\nhe does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of\nJane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her his anxiety about her\nhealth his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I have\nheard him express himself so warmly on those points! Such an admirer of\nher performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him\nsay that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost\nforgotten one idea that occurred to me this pianoforte that has been\nsent here by somebody though we have all been so well satisfied to\nconsider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr.\nKnightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person\nto do it, even without being in love. \n\n Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not\nthink it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does\nnothing mysteriously. \n\n I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly;\noftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common\ncourse of things, occur to him. \n\n Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told\nher so. \n\n There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very\nstrong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly\nsilent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner. \n\n You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have\nmany a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment I\nbelieve nothing of the pianoforte and proof only shall convince me that\nMr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax. \n\nThey combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather\ngaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the\nmost used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed\nthem that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation; and at the\nsame moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do\nthem the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the\neagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing\nnothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr.\nCole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it\nsuited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.\n\nShe knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more\nthan she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit\nin the little things which are generally acceptable, and could\naccompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her\nagreeably by surprize a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank\nChurchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and\nevery thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful\nvoice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and\nthat he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly\nasserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her\nplace to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental,\nshe never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely\nsuperior to her own.\n\nWith mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the\nnumbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again.\nThey had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the\nsight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half\nEmma s mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of\nMrs. Weston s suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united\nvoices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr.\nKnightley s marrying did not in the least subside. She could see\nnothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John\nKnightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children a\nmost mortifying change, and material loss to them all; a very great\ndeduction from her father s daily comfort and, as to herself, she could\nnot at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs.\nKnightley for them all to give way to! No Mr. Knightley must never\nmarry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.\n\nPresently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They\ntalked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly\nvery warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have\nstruck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his\nkindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in\nthe spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate\nonly his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.\n\n I often feel concern,  said she,  that I dare not make our carriage\nmore useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish;\nbut you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should\nput-to for such a purpose. \n\n Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,  he\nreplied; but you must often wish it, I am sure.  And he smiled with\nsuch seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another\nstep.\n\n This present from the Campbells,  said she this pianoforte is very\nkindly given. \n\n Yes,  he replied, and without the smallest apparent\nembarrassment. But they would have done better had they given her\nnotice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not\nenhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have\nexpected better judgment in Colonel Campbell. \n\nFrom that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had\nhad no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely\nfree from peculiar attachment whether there were no actual\npreference remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane s\nsecond song, her voice grew thick.\n\n That will do,  said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud you have\nsung quite enough for one evening now be quiet. \n\nAnother song, however, was soon begged for.  One more; they would not\nfatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more. \nAnd Frank Churchill was heard to say,  I think you could manage this\nwithout effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the\nsong falls on the second. \n\nMr. Knightley grew angry.\n\n That fellow,  said he, indignantly,  thinks of nothing but shewing off\nhis own voice. This must not be.  And touching Miss Bates, who at that\nmoment passed near Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing\nherself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on\nher. \n\nMiss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be\ngrateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther\nsinging. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss\nWoodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but\nsoon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing originating nobody\nexactly knew where was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole,\nthat every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs.\nWeston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an\nirresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming\ngallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.\n\nWhile waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,\nEmma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her\nvoice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr.\nKnightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he\nwere to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur\nsomething. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to\nMrs. Cole he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody\nelse, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.\n\nEmma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and\nshe led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than\nfive couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it\nmade it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a\npartner. They were a couple worth looking at.\n\nTwo dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was\ngrowing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her\nmother s account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to\nbegin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful,\nand have done.\n\n Perhaps it is as well,  said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to\nher carriage.  I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing\nwould not have agreed with me, after yours. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nEmma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit\nafforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she\nmight be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must\nbe amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted\nthe Coles worthy people, who deserved to be made happy! And left a name\nbehind her that would not soon die away.\n\nPerfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two\npoints on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not\ntransgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of\nJane Fairfax s feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it\nhad been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his\nsubmission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration,\nwhich made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to\nhave held her tongue.\n\nThe other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and\nthere she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret\nthe inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily\ngrieve over the idleness of her childhood and sat down and practised\nvigorously an hour and a half.\n\nShe was then interrupted by Harriet s coming in; and if Harriet s\npraise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.\n\n Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax! \n\n Don t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her s,\nthan a lamp is like sunshine. \n\n Oh! dear I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite\nas well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body\nlast night said how well you played. \n\n Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The\ntruth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,\nbut Jane Fairfax s is much beyond it. \n\n Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or\nthat if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole\nsaid how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great\ndeal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than\nexecution. \n\n Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet. \n\n Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any\ntaste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing. There is no\nunderstanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you\nknow, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to\nteach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into\nany great family. How did you think the Coxes looked? \n\n Just as they always do very vulgar. \n\n They told me something,  said Harriet rather hesitatingly;  but it is\nnothing of any consequence. \n\nEmma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its\nproducing Mr. Elton.\n\n They told me that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday. \n\n Oh! \n\n He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay\nto dinner. \n\n Oh! \n\n They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know\nwhat she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay\nthere again next summer. \n\n She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should\nbe. \n\n She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her\nat dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to\nmarry him. \n\n Very likely. I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar\ngirls in Highbury. \n\nHarriet had business at Ford s. Emma thought it most prudent to go with\nher. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in\nher present state, would be dangerous.\n\nHarriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always\nvery long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins\nand changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement. Much could\nnot be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury; Mr.\nPerry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the\noffice-door, Mr. Cole s carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a\nstray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she\ncould presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher\nwith his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her\nfull basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of\ndawdling children round the baker s little bow-window eyeing the\ngingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused\nenough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at\nease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not\nanswer.\n\nShe looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons\nappeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into\nHighbury; to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the\nfirst place at Mrs. Bates s; whose house was a little nearer Randalls\nthan Ford s; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their\neye. Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the\nagreeableness of yesterday s engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure\nto the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to\ncall on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.\n\n For my companion tells me,  said she,  that I absolutely promised Miss\nBates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it\nmyself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I\nam going now. \n\n And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope,  said\nFrank Churchill,  to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield if\nyou are going home. \n\nMrs. Weston was disappointed.\n\n I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased. \n\n Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps I may be equally in the\nway here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt\nalways sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to\ndeath; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same.\nWhat am I to do? \n\n I am here on no business of my own,  said Emma;  I am only waiting for\nmy friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.\nBut you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument. \n\n Well if you advise it. But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should\nhave employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an\nindifferent tone what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs.\nWeston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would\nbe palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the\nworld at a civil falsehood. \n\n I do not believe any such thing,  replied Emma. I am persuaded that\nyou can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but\nthere is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite\notherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax s opinion last night. \n\n Do come with me,  said Mrs. Weston,  if it be not very disagreeable to\nyou. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We\nwill follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It\nwill be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it. \n\nHe could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,\nreturned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates s door. Emma watched them in,\nand then joined Harriet at the interesting counter, trying, with all\nthe force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain\nmuslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be\nit ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At\nlast it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.\n\n Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard s, ma am?  asked Mrs.\nFord. Yes no yes, to Mrs. Goddard s. Only my pattern gown is at\nHartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then,\nMrs. Goddard will want to see it. And I could take the pattern gown\nhome any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly so it had better go\nto Hartfield at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels,\nMrs. Ford, could not you? \n\n It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two\nparcels. \n\n No more it is. \n\n No trouble in the world, ma am,  said the obliging Mrs. Ford.\n\n Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you\nplease, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard s I do not know No, I\nthink, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield,\nand take it home with me at night. What do you advise? \n\n That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield,\nif you please, Mrs. Ford. \n\n Aye, that will be much best,  said Harriet, quite satisfied,  I should\nnot at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard s. \n\nVoices approached the shop or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.\nWeston and Miss Bates met them at the door.\n\n My dear Miss Woodhouse,  said the latter,  I am just run across to\nentreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,\nand give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How\ndo you do, Miss Smith? Very well I thank you. And I begged Mrs. Weston\nto come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding. \n\n I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are \n\n Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;\nand Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse? I am so glad\nto hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here. Oh!\nthen, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me\njust to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so\nvery happy to see her and now we are such a nice party, she cannot\nrefuse. Aye, pray do,  said Mr. Frank Churchill,  Miss Woodhouse s\nopinion of the instrument will be worth having. But, said I, I shall\nbe more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me. Oh,  said\nhe,  wait half a minute, till I have finished my job; For, would you\nbelieve it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in\nthe world, fastening in the rivet of my mother s spectacles. The rivet\ncame out, you know, this morning. So very obliging! For my mother had\nno use of her spectacles could not put them on. And, by the bye, every\nbody ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane\nsaid so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I\ndid, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one\nthing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time\nPatty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh,\nsaid I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet\nof your mistress s spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home,\nMrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging\nto us, the Wallises, always I have heard some people say that Mrs.\nWallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never\nknown any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be\nfor the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread,\nyou know? Only three of us. besides dear Jane at present and she really\neats nothing makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite\nfrightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she\neats so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But\nabout the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she\nlikes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome,\nfor I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I\nhappened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before I\nhave so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it\nis the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly\nwholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an\nexcellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I\nhope, and these ladies will oblige us. \n\nEmma would be  very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,  and they did at\nlast move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,\n\n How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before.\nI hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane\ncame back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well only a\nlittle too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in. \n\n What was I talking of?  said she, beginning again when they were all\nin the street.\n\nEmma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.\n\n I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of. Oh! my mother s\nspectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill!  Oh!  said he,  I\ndo think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind\nexcessively. Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must\nsay that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected,\nhe very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston,\nmost warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could....  Oh! \nsaid he,  I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort\nexcessively.  I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out\nthe baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so\nvery obliging as to take some,  Oh!  said he directly,  there is\nnothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the\nfinest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.  That, you\nknow, was so very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no\ncompliment. Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis\ndoes them full justice only we do not have them baked more than twice,\nand Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times but\nMiss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it. The apples\nthemselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all\nfrom Donwell some of Mr. Knightley s most liberal supply. He sends us a\nsack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple\nanywhere as one of his trees I believe there is two of them. My mother\nsays the orchard was always famous in her younger days. But I was\nreally quite shocked the other day for Mr. Knightley called one\nmorning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them and\nsaid how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to\nthe end of our stock.  I am sure you must be,  said he,  and I will\nsend you another supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever\nuse. William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this\nyear. I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.  So\nI begged he would not for really as to ours being gone, I could not\nabsolutely say that we had a great many left it was but half a dozen\nindeed; but they should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all\nbear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been\nalready; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone, she almost\nquarrelled with me No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had a\nquarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned the\napples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a\ngreat many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could.\nHowever, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large\nbasket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was\nvery much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said\nevery thing, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old\nacquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, however, I found\nafterwards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of\n_that_ sort his master had; he had brought them all and now his master\nhad not one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it\nhimself, he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for\nWilliam, you know, thinks more of his master s profit than any thing;\nbut Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent\naway. She could not bear that her master should not be able to have\nanother apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid her not\nmind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs.\nHodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were\nsold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told me,\nand I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley\nknow any thing about it for the world! He would be so very.... I wanted\nto keep it from Jane s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it\nbefore I was aware. \n\nMiss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors\nwalked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,\npursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.\n\n Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take\ncare, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase rather darker and\nnarrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss\nWoodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss\nSmith, the step at the turning. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was\ntranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,\nslumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near\nher, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,\nstanding with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.\n\nBusy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most\nhappy countenance on seeing Emma again.\n\n This is a pleasure,  said he, in rather a low voice,  coming at least\nten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be\nuseful; tell me if you think I shall succeed. \n\n What!  said Mrs. Weston,  have not you finished it yet? you would not\nearn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate. \n\n I have not been working uninterruptedly,  he replied,  I have been\nassisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,\nit was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see\nwe have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to\nbe persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home. \n\nHe contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently\nemployed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to\nmake her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite\nready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately\nready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had\nnot yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without\nemotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and\nEmma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could\nnot but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again.\n\nAt last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the\npowers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs.\nWeston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined\nher in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper\ndiscrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.\n\n Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,  said Frank Churchill, with a\nsmile at Emma,  the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of\nColonel Campbell s taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper\nnotes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would\nparticularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his\nfriend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not\nyou think so? \n\nJane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had\nbeen speaking to her at the same moment.\n\n It is not fair,  said Emma, in a whisper;  mine was a random guess. Do\nnot distress her. \n\nHe shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little\ndoubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,\n\n How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on\nthis occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and\nwonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument s\ncoming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to\nbe going forward just at this time? Do you imagine it to be the\nconsequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have\nsent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to\ndepend upon contingencies and conveniences? \n\nHe paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,\n\n Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,  said she, in a voice of\nforced calmness,  I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be\nall conjecture. \n\n Conjecture aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one\nconjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this\nrivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at\nwork, if one talks at all; your real workmen, I suppose, hold their\ntongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word Miss\nFairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have\nthe pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles,\nhealed for the present. \n\nHe was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a\nlittle from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss\nFairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.\n\n If you are very kind,  said he,  it will be one of the waltzes we\ndanced last night; let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them\nas I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we\ndanced no longer; but I would have given worlds all the worlds one ever\nhas to give for another half-hour. \n\nShe played.\n\n What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one\nhappy! If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth. \n\nShe looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played\nsomething else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte,\nand turning to Emma, said,\n\n Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it? Cramer. And here\nare a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might\nexpect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of\nColonel Campbell, was not it? He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music\nhere. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to\nhave been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing\nincomplete. True affection only could have prompted it. \n\nEmma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;\nand when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the\nremains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of\nconsciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less\nscruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to\nher. This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently\ncherishing very reprehensible feelings.\n\nHe brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together. Emma\ntook the opportunity of whispering,\n\n You speak too plain. She must understand you. \n\n I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least\nashamed of my meaning. \n\n But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the\nidea. \n\n I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now\na key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does\nwrong, she ought to feel it. \n\n She is not entirely without it, I think. \n\n I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this\nmoment _his_ favourite. \n\nShortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.\nKnightley on horse-back not far off.\n\n Mr. Knightley I declare! I must speak to him if possible, just to\nthank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold;\nbut I can go into my mother s room you know. I dare say he will come in\nwhen he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet\nso! Our little room so honoured! \n\nShe was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the\ncasement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley s attention, and every\nsyllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others,\nas if it had passed within the same apartment.\n\n How d  ye do? how d ye do? Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you\nfor the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready\nfor us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here. \n\nSo began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in\nhis turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,\n\n How is your niece, Miss Bates? I want to inquire after you all, but\nparticularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax? I hope she caught no cold\nlast night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is. \n\nAnd Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear\nher in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave\nEmma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in\nsteady scepticism.\n\n So obliged to you! so very much obliged to you for the carriage, \nresumed Miss Bates.\n\nHe cut her short with,\n\n I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you? \n\n Oh! dear, Kingston are you? Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she\nwanted something from Kingston. \n\n Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_? \n\n No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here? Miss\nWoodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new\npianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in. \n\n Well,  said he, in a deliberating manner,  for five minutes, perhaps. \n\n And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too! Quite delightful;\nso many friends! \n\n No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on\nto Kingston as fast as I can. \n\n Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you. \n\n No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear\nthe pianoforte. \n\n Well, I am so sorry! Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last\nnight; how extremely pleasant. Did you ever see such dancing? Was not\nit delightful? Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any\nthing equal to it. \n\n Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss\nWoodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.\nAnd (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should\nnot be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.\nWeston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in\nEngland. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say\nsomething pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to\nhear it. \n\n Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence so\nshocked! Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples! \n\n What is the matter now? \n\n To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a\ngreat many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!\nMrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You\nshould not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never\ncan bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it\nwould have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to\nthe room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop.\nHe is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing.... \n\n Yes,  said Jane,  we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing. \n\n Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was\nopen, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must\nhave heard every thing to be sure.  Can I do any thing for you at\nKingston?  said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must\nyou be going? You seem but just come so very obliging of you. \n\nEmma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted\nlong; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to\nbe gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could\nallow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield\ngates, before they set off for Randalls.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nIt may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been\nknown of young people passing many, many months successively, without\nbeing at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue\neither to body or mind; but when a beginning is made when the\nfelicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt it\nmust be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.\n\nFrank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;\nand the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded\nto spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young\npeople in schemes on the subject. Frank s was the first idea; and his\nthe greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of\nthe difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and\nappearance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing people\nagain how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse\ndanced for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself\nwith Jane Fairfax and even for simple dancing itself, without any of\nthe wicked aids of vanity to assist him first in pacing out the room\nthey were in to see what it could be made to hold and then in taking\nthe dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in\nspite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size,\nthat it was a little the largest.\n\nHis first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole s\nshould be finished there that the same party should be collected, and\nthe same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr.\nWeston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston\nmost willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;\nand the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly\nwho there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of\nspace to every couple.\n\n You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss\nCoxes five,  had been repeated many times over.  And there will be the\ntwo Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.\nYes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and\nMiss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five\ncouple there will be plenty of room. \n\nBut soon it came to be on one side,\n\n But will there be good room for five couple? I really do not think\nthere will. \n\nOn another,\n\n And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to\nstand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.\nIt will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the\nthought of the moment. \n\nSomebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother s, and\nmust be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert\nwould have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was\nput in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one\nfamily of cousins who must be included, and another of very old\nacquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the\nfive couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation\nin what possible manner they could be disposed of.\n\nThe doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other.  Might not\nthey use both rooms, and dance across the passage?  It seemed the best\nscheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a\nbetter. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress\nabout the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score\nof health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be\npersevered in.\n\n Oh! no,  said he;  it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not\nbear it for Emma! Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold.\nSo would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would\nbe quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do\nnot let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very\nthoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite\nthe thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and\nkeeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the\ndraught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not\nquite the thing! \n\nMrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it,\nand said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now\nclosed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only\nin the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on\nFrank Churchill s part, that the space which a quarter of an hour\nbefore had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now\nendeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.\n\n We were too magnificent,  said he.  We allowed unnecessary room. Ten\ncouple may stand here very well. \n\nEmma demurred.  It would be a crowd a sad crowd; and what could be\nworse than dancing without space to turn in? \n\n Very true,  he gravely replied;  it was very bad.  But still he went\non measuring, and still he ended with,\n\n I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple. \n\n No, no,  said she,  you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful\nto be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to\nbe dancing in a crowd and a crowd in a little room! \n\n There is no denying it,  he replied.  I agree with you exactly. A\ncrowd in a little room Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving\npictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite! Still, however,\nhaving proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It\nwould be a disappointment to my father and altogether I do not know\nthat I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very\nwell. \n\nEmma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little\nself-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of\ndancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.\nHad she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to\npause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference,\nand the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their\nacquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.\n\nBefore the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered\nthe room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of\nthe scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.\n\n Well, Miss Woodhouse,  he almost immediately began,  your inclination\nfor dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors\nof my father s little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject: a\nthought of my father s, which waits only your approbation to be acted\nupon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances\nof this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the\nCrown Inn? \n\n The Crown! \n\n Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you\ncannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him\nthere. Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less\ngrateful welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees\nno objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all\nfeel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the\nRandalls rooms, would have been insufferable! Dreadful! I felt how\nright you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_\n_thing_ to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange? You consent I hope\nyou consent? \n\n It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for\nmyself, shall be most happy It seems the only improvement that could\nbe. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement? \n\nShe was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully\ncomprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were\nnecessary to make it acceptable.\n\n No; he thought it very far from an improvement a very bad plan much\nworse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous;\nnever properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they\nhad better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the\nCrown in his life did not know the people who kept it by sight. Oh!\nno a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than\nanywhere. \n\n I was going to observe, sir,  said Frank Churchill,  that one of the\ngreat recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of\nany body s catching cold so much less danger at the Crown than at\nRandalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but\nnobody else could. \n\n Sir,  said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly,  you are very much mistaken\nif you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is\nextremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how\nthe room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father s house. \n\n From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no\noccasion to open the windows at all not once the whole evening; and it\nis that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon\nheated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief. \n\n Open the windows! but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of\nopening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never\nheard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows! I am sure, neither\nyour father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer\nit. \n\n Ah! sir but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a\nwindow-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I\nhave often known it done myself. \n\n Have you indeed, sir? Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I\nlive out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,\nthis does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it\nover but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One\ncannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so\nobliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what\ncan be done. \n\n But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited \n\n Oh!  interrupted Emma,  there will be plenty of time for talking every\nthing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at\nthe Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will\nbe so near their own stable. \n\n So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever\ncomplains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could\nbe sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired but is Mrs. Stokes to be\ntrusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight. \n\n I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be\nunder Mrs. Weston s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole. \n\n There, papa! Now you must be satisfied Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who\nis carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many\nyears ago, when I had the measles?  If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to\nwrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.  How often have I\nheard you speak of it as such a compliment to her! \n\n Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor\nlittle Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would\nhave been very bad, but for Perry s great attention. He came four times\na day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good\nsort which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful\ncomplaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella s little ones have the\nmeasles, she will send for Perry. \n\n My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,  said Frank\nChurchill,  examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there\nand came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you\nmight be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was\ndesired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them,\nif you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing\nsatisfactorily without you. \n\nEmma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,\nengaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people\nset off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs.\nWeston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and\nvery happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and\nhe, finding every thing perfect.\n\n Emma,  said she,  this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places\nyou see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and\nforlorn than any thing I could have imagined. \n\n My dear, you are too particular,  said her husband.  What does all\nthat signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as\nclean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our\nclub-nights. \n\nThe ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant,  Men never know\nwhen things are dirty or not;  and the gentlemen perhaps thought each\nto himself,  Women will have their little nonsenses and needless\ncares. \n\nOne perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It\nregarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom s being built,\nsuppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was\nthe only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted\nas a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by\ntheir four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable\nsupper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the\npurpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward\npassage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs.\nWeston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and\nneither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being\nmiserably crowded at supper.\n\nMrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c.,\nset out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched\nsuggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was\npronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs.\nWeston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of\nexpediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,\n\n I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know. \n\nAnd Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps\nthrough the passage, was calling out,\n\n You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a\nmere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs. \n\n I wish,  said Mrs. Weston,  one could know which arrangement our\nguests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally\npleasing must be our object if one could but tell what that would be. \n\n Yes, very true,  cried Frank,  very true. You want your neighbours \nopinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief\nof them the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call\nupon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer. And I do not know\nwhether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of\nthe rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger\ncouncil. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us? \n\n Well if you please,  said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating,  if you think\nshe will be of any use. \n\n You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,  said Emma.  She\nwill be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She\nwill not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in\nconsulting Miss Bates. \n\n But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing\nMiss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know. \n\nHere Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it\nhis decided approbation.\n\n Aye, do, Frank. Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at\nonce. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a\nproperer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss\nBates. We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of\nhow to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both. \n\n Both sir! Can the old lady? ...\n\n The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a\ngreat blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece. \n\n Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect.\nUndoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both. \nAnd away he ran.\n\nLong before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving\naunt, and her elegant niece, Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman\nand a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of\nit much less than she had supposed before indeed very trifling; and\nhere ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation\nat least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and\nchair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left\nas mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.\nStokes. Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already\nwritten to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,\nwhich could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to\nbe.\n\nMost cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must. As\na counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer\ncharacter,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general and\nminute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another\nhalf-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different\nrooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of\nthe future. The party did not break up without Emma s being positively\nsecured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor\nwithout her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife,  He has asked\nher, my dear. That s right. I knew he would! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nOne thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely\nsatisfactory to Emma its being fixed for a day within the granted term\nof Frank Churchill s stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston s\nconfidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the\nChurchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his\nfortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take\ntheir time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were\nentered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and\nhoping in uncertainty at the risk in her opinion, the great risk, of\nits being all in vain.\n\nEnscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His\nwish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not\nopposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one\nsolicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of\nher ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley s provoking\nindifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or\nbecause the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed\nresolved that it should not interest him, determined against its\nexciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.\nTo her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,\nthan,\n\n Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this\ntrouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say\nagainst it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me. Oh! yes, I\nmust be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I\ncan; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins s\nweek s account; much rather, I confess. Pleasure in seeing dancing! not\nI, indeed I never look at it I do not know who does. Fine dancing, I\nbelieve, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by\nare usually thinking of something very different. \n\nThis Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was\nnot in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent,\nor so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the\nball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree.\nIt made her animated open hearted she voluntarily said; \n\n Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.\nWhat a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with\n_very_ great pleasure. \n\nIt was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have\npreferred the society of William Larkins. No! she was more and more\nconvinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There\nwas a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his\nside but no love.\n\nAlas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two\ndays of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of\nevery thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew s\ninstant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell far too unwell to do without\nhim; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when\nwriting to her nephew two days before, though from her usual\nunwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of\nherself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle,\nand must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.\n\nThe substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.\nWeston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone\nwithin a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt,\nto lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred\nbut for her own convenience.\n\nMrs. Weston added,  that he could only allow himself time to hurry to\nHighbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom\nhe could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be\nexpected at Hartfield very soon. \n\nThis wretched note was the finale of Emma s breakfast. When once it had\nbeen read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The\nloss of the ball the loss of the young man and all that the young man\nmight be feeling! It was too wretched! Such a delightful evening as it\nwould have been! Every body so happy! and she and her partner the\nhappiest! I said it would be so,  was the only consolation.\n\nHer father s feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of\nMrs. Churchill s illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and\nas for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but\nthey would all be safer at home.\n\nEmma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if\nthis reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total\nwant of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going\naway almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He\nsat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing\nhimself, it was only to say,\n\n Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst. \n\n But you will come again,  said Emma.  This will not be your only visit\nto Randalls. \n\n Ah! (shaking his head) the uncertainty of when I may be able to\nreturn! I shall try for it with a zeal! It will be the object of all my\nthoughts and cares! and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring but\nI am afraid they did not stir last spring I am afraid it is a custom\ngone for ever. \n\n Our poor ball must be quite given up. \n\n Ah! that ball! why did we wait for any thing? why not seize the\npleasure at once? How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,\nfoolish preparation! You told us it would be so. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,\nwhy are you always so right? \n\n Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much\nrather have been merry than wise. \n\n If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends\non it. Do not forget your engagement. \n\nEmma looked graciously.\n\n Such a fortnight as it has been!  he continued;  every day more\nprecious and more delightful than the day before! every day making me\nless fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at\nHighbury! \n\n As you do us such ample justice now,  said Emma, laughing,  I will\nventure to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?\nDo not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure\nyou did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in\ncoming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury. \n\nHe laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma\nwas convinced that it had been so.\n\n And you must be off this very morning? \n\n Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I\nmust be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will\nbring him. \n\n Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss\nBates? How unlucky! Miss Bates s powerful, argumentative mind might\nhave strengthened yours. \n\n Yes I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It\nwas a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained\nby Miss Bates s being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not\nto wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_\nlaugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay\nmy visit, then \n\nHe hesitated, got up, walked to a window.\n\n In short,  said he,  perhaps, Miss Woodhouse I think you can hardly be\nquite without suspicion \n\nHe looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew\nwhat to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely\nserious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore,\nin the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,\n\n You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,\nthen \n\nHe was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting\non what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard\nhim sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.\nHe could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments\npassed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,\n\n It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given\nto Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm \n\nHe stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed. He was more\nin love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might\nhave ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse\nsoon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.\n\nA very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.\nWeston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of\nprocrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that\nwas doubtful, said,  It was time to go;  and the young man, though he\nmight and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.\n\n I shall hear about you all,  said he;  that is my chief consolation. I\nshall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged\nMrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise\nit. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really\ninterested in the absent! she will tell me every thing. In her letters\nI shall be at dear Highbury again. \n\nA very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest  Good-bye,  closed\nthe speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had\nbeen the notice short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so\nsorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from\nhis absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it\ntoo much.\n\nIt was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his\narrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the\nlast two weeks indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of\nseeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his\nattentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy\nfortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common\ncourse of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he\nhad _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what\nconstancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but\nat present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration,\na conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all\nthe rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him,\nin spite of every previous determination against it.\n\n I certainly must,  said she.  This sensation of listlessness,\nweariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ\nmyself, this feeling of every thing s being dull and insipid about the\nhouse!  I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world\nif I were not for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always\ngood to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not\nfor Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the\nevening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes. \n\nMr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not\nsay that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would\nhave contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that\nhe was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with\nconsiderable kindness added,\n\n You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really\nout of luck; you are very much out of luck! \n\nIt was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest\nregret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was\nodious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from\nheadache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball\ntaken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was\ncharity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of\nill-health.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nEmma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas\nonly varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good\ndeal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing\nFrank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than\never in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him,\nand quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how\nwere his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his\ncoming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could\nnot admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be\nless disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and\ncheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have\nfaults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat\ndrawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress\nand close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and\ninventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary\ndeclaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection\nwas always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming\nwas to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became\nsensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in\nlove; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to\nquit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must\nproduce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.\n\n I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_,  said\nshe. In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is\nthere any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not\nreally necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will\nnot persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love.\nI should be sorry to be more. \n\nUpon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his\nfeelings.\n\n _He_ is undoubtedly very much in love every thing denotes it very much\nin love indeed! and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I\nmust be on my guard not to encourage it. It would be most inexcusable\nto do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he\ncan think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed\nme at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched.\nCould he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at\nparting would have been different. Still, however, I must be on my\nguard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it\nnow is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him\nto be quite the sort of man I do not altogether build upon his\nsteadiness or constancy. His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them\nrather changeable. Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes\nme thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved. I shall do\nvery well again after a little while and then, it will be a good thing\nover; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I\nshall have been let off easily. \n\nWhen his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and\nshe read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at\nfirst shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had\nundervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving\nthe particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the\naffection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and\ndescribing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed\nattractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of\napology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.\nWeston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast\nbetween the places in some of the first blessings of social life was\njust enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much\nmore might have been said but for the restraints of propriety. The\ncharm of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more\nthan once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either\na compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and\nin the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by\nany such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of\nher influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all\nconveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these\nwords I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss\nWoodhouse s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to\nher.  This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was\nremembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects\nas to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;\nMrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own\nimagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.\n\nGratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material\npart, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned\nto Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she\ncould still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without\nher. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew\nmore interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent\nconsolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words\nwhich clothed it, the  beautiful little friend,  suggested to her the\nidea of Harriet s succeeding her in his affections. Was it\nimpossible? No. Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in\nunderstanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of\nher face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the\nprobabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour. For\nHarriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.\n\n I must not dwell upon it,  said she. I must not think of it. I know\nthe danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have\nhappened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it\nwill be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested\nfriendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure. \n\nIt was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet s behalf, though it\nmight be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that\nquarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill s arrival had succeeded Mr.\nElton s engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest\ninterest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank\nChurchill s disappearance, Mr. Elton s concerns were assuming the most\nirresistible form. His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among\nthem again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over\nthe first letter from Enscombe before  Mr. Elton and his bride  was in\nevery body s mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick\nat the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr.\nElton; and Harriet s mind, she had been willing to hope, had been\nlately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston s ball in view at least, there\nhad been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now\ntoo evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as\ncould stand against the actual approach new carriage, bell-ringing, and\nall.\n\nPoor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the\nreasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could\ngive. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet\nhad a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy\nwork to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever\nagreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet\nlistened submissively, and said  it was very true it was just as Miss\nWoodhouse described it was not worth while to think about them and she\nwould not think about them any longer  but no change of subject could\navail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the\nEltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.\n\n Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.\nElton s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.\nYou could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It\nwas all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure\nyou. Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you and it will be a\npainful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of\nforgetting it. \n\nHarriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager\nexclamation. Emma continued,\n\n I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk\nless of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I\nwould wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than\nmy comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is\nyour duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the\nsuspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your\ntranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you.\nThey are very important and sorry I am that you cannot feel them\nsufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very\nsecondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain.\nPerhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what\nwas due or rather what would be kind by me. \n\nThis appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of\nwanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really\nloved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence\nof grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt\nto what was right and support her in it very tolerably.\n\n You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life Want\ngratitude to you! Nobody is equal to you! I care for nobody as I do for\nyou! Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been! \n\nSuch expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and\nmanner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so\nwell, nor valued her affection so highly before.\n\n There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,  said she afterwards\nto herself.  There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and\ntenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all\nthe clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will.\nIt is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally\nbeloved which gives Isabella all her popularity. I have it not but I\nknow how to prize and respect it. Harriet is my superior in all the\ncharm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet! I would not change\nyou for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female\nbreathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax! Harriet is worth a\nhundred such And for a wife a sensible man s wife it is invaluable. I\nmention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nMrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be\ninterrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and\nit must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to\nsettle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or\nnot pretty at all.\n\nEmma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to\nmake her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she\nmade a point of Harriet s going with her, that the worst of the\nbusiness might be gone through as soon as possible.\n\nShe could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to\nwhich she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to\nlace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts\nwould recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was\nnot to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too;\nbut she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The\nvisit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and\noccupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself\nentirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one,\nbeyond the nothing-meaning terms of being  elegantly dressed, and very\npleasing. \n\nShe did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,\nbut she suspected that there was no elegance; ease, but not elegance. \nShe was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there\nwas too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;\nbut neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma\nthought at least it would turn out so.\n\nAs for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear but no, she would not\npermit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was\nan awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a\nman had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman\nwas better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the\nprivilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to\ndepend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.\nElton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just\nmarried, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had\nbeen expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as\nlittle wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as\ncould be.\n\n Well, Miss Woodhouse,  said Harriet, when they had quitted the house,\nand after waiting in vain for her friend to begin;  Well, Miss\nWoodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her? Is not she\nvery charming? \n\nThere was a little hesitation in Emma s answer.\n\n Oh! yes very a very pleasing young woman. \n\n I think her beautiful, quite beautiful. \n\n Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown. \n\n I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love. \n\n Oh! no there is nothing to surprize one at all. A pretty fortune; and\nshe came in his way. \n\n I dare say,  returned Harriet, sighing again,  I dare say she was very\nmuch attached to him. \n\n Perhaps she might; but it is not every man s fate to marry the woman\nwho loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought\nthis the best offer she was likely to have. \n\n Yes,  said Harriet earnestly,  and well she might, nobody could ever\nhave a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss\nWoodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as\nsuperior as ever; but being married, you know, it is quite a different\nthing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit\nand admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not\nthrown himself away, is such a comfort! She does seem a charming young\nwoman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her  Augusta. \nHow delightful! \n\nWhen the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see\nmore and judge better. From Harriet s happening not to be at Hartfield,\nand her father s being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter\nof an hour of the lady s conversation to herself, and could composedly\nattend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs.\nElton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and\nthinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be\nvery superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school,\npert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of\npeople, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant,\nand that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.\n\nHarriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,\nshe would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it\nmight be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of\nher own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the\nalliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.\n\nThe very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove,  My brother\nMr. Suckling s seat; a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The\ngrounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was\nmodern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by\nthe size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or\nimagine.  Very like Maple Grove indeed! She was quite struck by the\nlikeness! That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at\nMaple Grove; her sister s favourite room. Mr. Elton was appealed\nto. Was not it astonishingly like? She could really almost fancy\nherself at Maple Grove. \n\n And the staircase You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the\nstaircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really\ncould not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very\ndelightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial\nto as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a\nlittle sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body\nwho sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a\nhome. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will\nunderstand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like\nwhat one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils\nof matrimony. \n\nEmma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient\nfor Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.\n\n So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house the\ngrounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.\nThe laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand\nvery much in the same way just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of\na fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in\nmind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People\nwho have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing\nin the same style. \n\nEmma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that\npeople who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the\nextensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to\nattack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,\n\n When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think\nyou have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties. \n\n Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you\nknow. Surry is the garden of England. \n\n Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many\ncounties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as\nSurry. \n\n No, I fancy not,  replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile.  I\nnever heard any county but Surry called so. \n\nEmma was silenced.\n\n My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or\nsummer at farthest,  continued Mrs. Elton;  and that will be our time\nfor exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I\ndare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds\nfour perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_\ncarriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely\nwell. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season\nof the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly\nrecommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much\npreferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you\nknow, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as\npossible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored\nto King s-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully,\njust after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many\nparties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer? \n\n No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very\nstriking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and\nwe are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at\nhome than engage in schemes of pleasure. \n\n Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can\nbe more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at\nMaple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to\nBristol,  I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I\nabsolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the\nbarouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her\nown good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.  Many a time\nhas she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I\nthink, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from\nsociety, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to\nmix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too\nmuch or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however,\nMiss Woodhouse (looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father s state of\nhealth must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath? Indeed he\nshould. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of\nits doing Mr. Woodhouse good. \n\n My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any\nbenefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,\ndoes not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now. \n\n Ah! that s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the\nwaters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath\nlife, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place,\nthat it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse s spirits,\nwhich, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its\nrecommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell\non them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally\nunderstood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived\nso secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best\nsociety in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of\nacquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have\nalways resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any\nattentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public\nwith. \n\nIt was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of\nher being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an\n_introduction_ of her going into public under the auspices of a friend\nof Mrs. Elton s probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help\nof a boarder, just made a shift to live! The dignity of Miss Woodhouse,\nof Hartfield, was sunk indeed!\n\nShe restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could\nhave given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly;  but their going to\nBath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced\nthat the place might suit her better than her father.  And then, to\nprevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.\n\n I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these\noccasions, a lady s character generally precedes her; and Highbury has\nlong known that you are a superior performer. \n\n Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior\nperformer! very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a\nquarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of\nmusic passionately fond; and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of\ntaste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is\n_mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play\ndelightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,\ncomfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got\ninto. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life\nto me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at\nMaple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I\nhonestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home,\nand expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be\ndisagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too knowing what I had\nbeen accustomed to of course he was not wholly without apprehension.\nWhen he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_\n_world_ I could give up parties, balls, plays for I had no fear of\nretirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was\nnot necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who\nhad no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me\nquite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used\nto, I really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal\nto any sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed\nto every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages\nwere not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments.\n But,  said I,  to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without\nsomething of a musical society. I condition for nothing else; but\nwithout music, life would be a blank to me. \n\n We cannot suppose,  said Emma, smiling,  that Mr. Elton would hesitate\nto assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and\nI hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be\npardoned, in consideration of the motive. \n\n No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to\nfind myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little\nconcerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a\nmusical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.\nWill not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall\nnot be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be\nparticularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in\npractice; for married women, you know there is a sad story against\nthem, in general. They are but too apt to give up music. \n\n But you, who are so extremely fond of it there can be no danger,\nsurely? \n\n I should hope not; but really when I look around among my\nacquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music never\ntouches the instrument though she played sweetly. And the same may be\nsaid of Mrs. Jeffereys Clara Partridge, that was and of the two\nMilmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can\nenumerate. Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to\nbe quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a\nmarried woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I was\nhalf an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper. \n\n But every thing of that kind,  said Emma,  will soon be in so regular\na train \n\n Well,  said Mrs. Elton, laughing,  we shall see. \n\nEmma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing\nmore to say; and, after a moment s pause, Mrs. Elton chose another\nsubject.\n\n We have been calling at Randalls,  said she,  and found them both at\nhome; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.\nMr. Weston seems an excellent creature quite a first-rate favourite\nwith me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good there is\nsomething so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one\ndirectly. She was your governess, I think? \n\nEmma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly\nwaited for the affirmative before she went on.\n\n Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very\nlady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman. \n\n Mrs. Weston s manners,  said Emma,  were always particularly good.\nTheir propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest\nmodel for any young woman. \n\n And who do you think came in while we were there? \n\nEmma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance and\nhow could she possibly guess?\n\n Knightley!  continued Mrs. Elton;  Knightley himself! Was not it\nlucky? for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never\nseen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E. s,\nI had a great curiosity.  My friend Knightley  had been so often\nmentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my\ncaro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his\nfriend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much.\nDecidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man. \n\nHappily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could\nbreathe.\n\n Insufferable woman!  was her immediate exclamation.  Worse than I had\nsupposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley! I could not have believed\nit. Knightley! never seen him in her life before, and call him\nKnightley! and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart,\nvulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her\nresources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.\nActually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether\nhe will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could\nnot have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to\nform a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs.\nWeston! Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a\ngentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond\nmy hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank\nChurchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he\nwould be! Ah! there I am thinking of him directly. Always the first\nperson to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes\nas regularly into my mind! \n\nAll this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her\nfather had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons  departure,\nand was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.\n\n Well, my dear,  he deliberately began,  considering we never saw her\nbefore, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she\nwas very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little\nquickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I\nam nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and\npoor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved\nyoung lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think\nhe had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not\nhaving been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion;\nI said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought\nto have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it\nshews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into\nVicarage Lane. \n\n I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you. \n\n Yes: but a young lady a bride I ought to have paid my respects to her\nif possible. It was being very deficient. \n\n But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why\nshould you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to\nbe no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you\nmake so much of them. \n\n No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always\nwish to pay every proper attention to a lady and a bride, especially,\nis never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you\nknow, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who\nthey may. \n\n Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what\nis. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to\nsuch vanity-baits for poor young ladies. \n\n My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common\npoliteness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any\nencouragement to people to marry. \n\nEmma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand\n_her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton s offences, and long, very long,\ndid they occupy her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nEmma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill\nopinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as\nMrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared\nwhenever they met again, self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant,\nand ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but\nso little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior\nknowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood;\nand conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs.\nElton s consequence only could surpass.\n\nThere was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently\nfrom his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had\nthe air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to\nHighbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part\nof her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of\njudging, following the lead of Miss Bates s good-will, or taking it for\ngranted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she\nprofessed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton s\npraise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by\nMiss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked\nwith a good grace of her being  very pleasant and very elegantly\ndressed. \n\nIn one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at\nfirst. Her feelings altered towards Emma. Offended, probably, by the\nlittle encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew\nback in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and\nthough the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was\nnecessarily increasing Emma s dislike. Her manners, too and Mr.\nElton s, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and\nnegligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet s cure; but the\nsensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very\nmuch. It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet s attachment had been\nan offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story,\nunder a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to\nhim, had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the\nobject of their joint dislike. When they had nothing else to say, it\nmust be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity\nwhich they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader\nvent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.\n\nMrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not\nmerely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to\nrecommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied\nwith expressing a natural and reasonable admiration but without\nsolicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and\nbefriend her. Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the\nthird time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton s knight-errantry\non the subject. \n\n Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse. I quite rave\nabout Jane Fairfax. A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and\nladylike and with such talents! I assure you I think she has very\nextraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely\nwell. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she\nis absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth but, upon my word,\nI talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax. And her situation is so calculated\nto affect one! Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour to\ndo something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers\nmust not be suffered to remain unknown. I dare say you have heard those\ncharming lines of the poet,\n\n Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,\n     And waste its fragrance on the desert air. \n\n\nWe must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax. \n\n I cannot think there is any danger of it,  was Emma s calm answer and\nwhen you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax s situation and\nunderstand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I\nhave no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown. \n\n Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such\nobscurity, so thrown away. Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed\nwith the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it.\nI am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she\nfeels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I must\nconfess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for\ntimidity and I am sure one does not often meet with it. But in those\nwho are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure\nyou, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more\nthan I can express. \n\n You appear to feel a great deal but I am not aware how you or any of\nMiss Fairfax s acquaintance here, any of those who have known her\nlonger than yourself, can shew her any other attention than \n\n My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to\nact. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will\nfollow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_\nhave carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style\nwhich could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the\nleast inconvenient. I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to\nsend us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_\nthan Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of\nthing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been\nused to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the\nother way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple\nGrove will probably be my model more than it ought to be for we do not\nat all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income. However, my\nresolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax. I shall certainly have\nher very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall\nhave musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly\non the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very\nextensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her\nshortly. I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my\nbrother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her\nextremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears\nwill completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of\neither but what is highly conciliating. I shall have her very often\nindeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a\nseat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties. \n\n Poor Jane Fairfax! thought Emma. You have not deserved this. You may\nhave done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment\nbeyond what you can have merited! The kindness and protection of Mrs.\nElton! Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.  Heavens! Let me not suppose\nthat she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me! But upon my honour,\nthere seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman s tongue! \n\nEmma had not to listen to such paradings again to any so exclusively\naddressed to herself so disgustingly decorated with a  dear Miss\nWoodhouse.  The change on Mrs. Elton s side soon afterwards appeared,\nand she was left in peace neither forced to be the very particular\nfriend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton s guidance, the very active\npatroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general\nway, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.\n\nShe looked on with some amusement. Miss Bates s gratitude for Mrs.\nElton s attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless\nsimplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies the most\namiable, affable, delightful woman just as accomplished and\ncondescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma s only\nsurprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and\ntolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with\nthe Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons!\nThis was astonishing! She could not have believed it possible that the\ntaste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and\nfriendship as the Vicarage had to offer.\n\n She is a riddle, quite a riddle!  said she. To chuse to remain here\nmonth after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the\nmortification of Mrs. Elton s notice and the penury of her\nconversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have\nalways loved her with such real, generous affection. \n\nJane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells\nwere gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had\npromised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh\ninvitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss\nBates it all came from her Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.\nWould Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends\ncontrived no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had\ndeclined it!\n\n She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing\nthis invitation,  was Emma s conclusion.  She must be under some sort\nof penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is\ngreat fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere. She is _not_ to\nbe with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must\nshe consent to be with the Eltons? Here is quite a separate puzzle. \n\nUpon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before\nthe few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this\napology for Jane.\n\n We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my\ndear Emma but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a\ngood creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We\nmust consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for\nwhat she goes to. \n\n You are right, Mrs. Weston,  said Mr. Knightley warmly,  Miss Fairfax\nis as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.\nCould she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen\nher. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions\nfrom Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her. \n\nEmma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she\nwas herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently\nreplied,\n\n Such attentions as Mrs. Elton s, I should have imagined, would rather\ndisgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton s invitations I should\nhave imagined any thing but inviting. \n\n I should not wonder,  said Mrs. Weston,  if Miss Fairfax were to have\nbeen drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt s eagerness in\naccepting Mrs. Elton s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very\nlikely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater\nappearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in\nspite of the very natural wish of a little change. \n\nBoth felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few\nminutes silence, he said,\n\n Another thing must be taken into consideration too Mrs. Elton does not\ntalk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the\ndifference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken\namongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common\ncivility in our personal intercourse with each other a something more\nearly implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we\nmay have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently.\nAnd besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be\nsure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind\nand manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the\nrespect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably\nnever fell in Mrs. Elton s way before and no degree of vanity can\nprevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if\nnot in consciousness. \n\n I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,  said Emma. Little Henry\nwas in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her\nirresolute what else to say.\n\n Yes,  he replied,  any body may know how highly I think of her. \n\n And yet,  said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon\nstopping it was better, however, to know the worst at once she hurried\non And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it\nis. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or\nother. \n\nMr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick\nleather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or\nsome other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,\n\n Oh! are you there? But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me\na hint of it six weeks ago. \n\nHe stopped. Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not\nherself know what to think. In a moment he went on \n\n That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare\nsay, would not have me if I were to ask her and I am very sure I shall\nnever ask her. \n\nEmma returned her friend s pressure with interest; and was pleased\nenough to exclaim,\n\n You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you. \n\nHe seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful and in a manner which\nshewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,\n\n So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax? \n\n No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making,\nfor me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just\nnow, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without\nany idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the\nsmallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You\nwould not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were\nmarried. \n\nMr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was,  No,\nEmma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take\nme by surprize. I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure\nyou.  And soon afterwards,  Jane Fairfax is a very charming young\nwoman but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has\nnot the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife. \n\nEmma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault.  Well,  said\nshe,  and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose? \n\n Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;\nhe asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or\nwittier than his neighbours. \n\n In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and\nwittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles what\nshe calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough\nin familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley what can she do for Mr.\nCole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her\ncivilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument\nweighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation\nof getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of\nMiss Fairfax s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton s\nacknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her\nbeing under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.\nI cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor\nwith praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be\ncontinually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring\nher a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful\nexploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau. \n\n Jane Fairfax has feeling,  said Mr. Knightley I do not accuse her of\nwant of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong and her\ntemper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;\nbut it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than\nshe used to be And I love an open temper. No till Cole alluded to my\nsupposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax\nand conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always but with no\nthought beyond. \n\n Well, Mrs. Weston,  said Emma triumphantly when he left them,  what do\nyou say now to Mr. Knightley s marrying Jane Fairfax? \n\n Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the\nidea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it\nwere to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nEvery body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was\ndisposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and\nevening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed\nin so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were\nnever to have a disengaged day.\n\n I see how it is,  said she.  I see what a life I am to lead among you.\nUpon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite\nthe fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very\nformidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a\ndisengaged day! A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have\nbeen at a loss. \n\nNo invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties\nperfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for\ndinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at\nthe poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury\ncard-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a\ngood deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon\nshew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the\nspring she must return their civilities by one very superior party in\nwhich her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and\nunbroken packs in the true style and more waiters engaged for the\nevening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the\nrefreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.\n\nEmma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at\nHartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she\nshould be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful\nresentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for\nten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the\nusual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself,\nwith the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.\n\nThe persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons,\nit must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of\ncourse and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must\nbe asked to make the eighth: but this invitation was not given with\nequal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased\nby Harriet s begging to be allowed to decline it.  She would rather not\nbe in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able\nto see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling\nuncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would\nrather stay at home.  It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had\nshe deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the\nfortitude of her little friend for fortitude she knew it was in her to\ngive up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the\nvery person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax. \nSince her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was\nmore conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often\nbeen. Mr. Knightley s words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane\nFairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.\n\n This is very true,  said she,  at least as far as relates to me, which\nwas all that was meant and it is very shameful. Of the same age and\nalways knowing her I ought to have been more her friend. She will never\nlike me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater\nattention than I have done. \n\nEvery invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all\nhappy. The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet\nover. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little\nKnightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some\nweeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and\nstaying one whole day at Hartfield which one day would be the very day\nof this party. His professional engagements did not allow of his being\nput off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening\nso. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the\nutmost that his nerves could bear and here would be a ninth and Emma\napprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not\nbeing able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without\nfalling in with a dinner-party.\n\nShe comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by\nrepresenting that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he\nalways said so little, that the increase of noise would be very\nimmaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to\nhave him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her\ninstead of his brother.\n\nThe event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John\nKnightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and\nmust be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the\nevening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease;\nand the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the\nphilosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the\nchief of even Emma s vexation.\n\nThe day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John\nKnightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being\nagreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they\nwaited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as\nelegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in\nsilence wanting only to observe enough for Isabella s information but\nMiss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could\ntalk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a\nwalk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It\nwas natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,\n\n I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am\nsure you must have been wet. We scarcely got home in time. I hope you\nturned directly. \n\n I went only to the post-office,  said she,  and reached home before\nthe rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters\nwhen I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A\nwalk before breakfast does me good. \n\n Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine. \n\n No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out. \n\nMr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,\n\n That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six\nyards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and\nHenry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before.\nThe post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you\nhave lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth\ngoing through the rain for. \n\nThere was a little blush, and then this answer,\n\n I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every\ndearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing\nolder should make me indifferent about letters. \n\n Indifferent! Oh! no I never conceived you could become indifferent.\nLetters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very\npositive curse. \n\n You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of\nfriendship. \n\n I have often thought them the worst of the two,  replied he coolly.\n Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does. \n\n Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well I am\nvery sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I\ncan easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than\nto me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes\nthe difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body\ndearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and\ntherefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I\nthink, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than\nto-day. \n\n When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of\nyears,  said John Knightley,  I meant to imply the change of situation\nwhich time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time\nwill generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the\ndaily circle but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an\nold friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years\nhence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have. \n\nIt was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant  thank\nyou  seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear\nin the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was\nnow claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on\nsuch occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his\nparticular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her and with all\nhis mildest urbanity, said,\n\n I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning\nin the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves. Young ladies\nare delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their\ncomplexion. My dear, did you change your stockings? \n\n Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind\nsolicitude about me. \n\n My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for. I\nhope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very\nold friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You\ndo us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are\nboth highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest\nsatisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield. \n\nThe kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he\nhad done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.\n\nBy this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her\nremonstrances now opened upon Jane.\n\n My dear Jane, what is this I hear? Going to the post-office in the\nrain! This must not be, I assure you. You sad girl, how could you do\nsuch a thing? It is a sign I was not there to take care of you. \n\nJane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.\n\n Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know\nhow to take care of yourself. To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston,\ndid you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our\nauthority. \n\n My advice,  said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively,  I certainly do\nfeel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks. Liable\nas you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly\ncareful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think\nrequires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even\nhalf a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your\ncough again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are\nmuch too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing\nagain. \n\n Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again,  eagerly rejoined Mrs.\nElton.  We will not allow her to do such a thing again: and nodding\nsignificantly there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed.\nI shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning\n(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and\nbring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and\nfrom _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to\naccept such an accommodation. \n\n You are extremely kind,  said Jane;  but I cannot give up my early\nwalk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk\nsomewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have\nscarcely ever had a bad morning before. \n\n My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is\n(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing\nwithout the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston,\nyou and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter\nmyself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I\nmeet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as\nsettled. \n\n Excuse me,  said Jane earnestly,  I cannot by any means consent to\nsuch an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the\nerrand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is\nwhen I am not here, by my grandmama s. \n\n Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do! And it is a kindness to\nemploy our men. \n\nJane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of\nanswering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.\n\n The post-office is a wonderful establishment!  said she. The\nregularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do,\nand all that it does so well, it is really astonishing! \n\n It is certainly very well regulated. \n\n So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a\nletter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the\nkingdom, is even carried wrong and not one in a million, I suppose,\nactually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad\nhands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder. \n\n The clerks grow expert from habit. They must begin with some quickness\nof sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther\nexplanation,  continued he, smiling,  they are paid for it. That is the\nkey to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served\nwell. \n\nThe varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual\nobservations made.\n\n I have heard it asserted,  said John Knightley,  that the same sort of\nhandwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master\nteaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine\nthe likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have\nvery little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand\nthey can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I\nhave not always known their writing apart. \n\n Yes,  said his brother hesitatingly,  there is a likeness. I know what\nyou mean but Emma s hand is the strongest. \n\n Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,  said Mr. Woodhouse;  and\nalways did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston with half a sigh and half a\nsmile at her.\n\n I never saw any gentleman s handwriting Emma began, looking also at\nMrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending\nto some one else and the pause gave her time to reflect,  Now, how am I\ngoing to introduce him? Am I unequal to speaking his name at once\nbefore all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout\nphrase? Your Yorkshire friend your correspondent in Yorkshire; that\nwould be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad. No, I can pronounce\nhis name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and\nbetter. Now for it. \n\nMrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again Mr. Frank Churchill\nwrites one of the best gentleman s hands I ever saw. \n\n I do not admire it,  said Mr. Knightley.  It is too small wants\nstrength. It is like a woman s writing. \n\nThis was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against\nthe base aspersion.  No, it by no means wanted strength it was not a\nlarge hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston\nany letter about her to produce?  No, she had heard from him very\nlately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.\n\n If we were in the other room,  said Emma,  if I had my writing-desk, I\nam sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his. Do not you\nremember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day? \n\n He chose to say he was employed \n\n Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince\nMr. Knightley. \n\n Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,  said Mr.\nKnightley dryly,  writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will,\nof course, put forth his best. \n\nDinner was on table. Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was\nready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be\nallowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying \n\n Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way. \n\nJane s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.\nShe had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether\nthe wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it\n_had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in\nfull expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had\nnot been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness\nthan usual a glow both of complexion and spirits.\n\nShe could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the\nexpense of the Irish mails; it was at her tongue s end but she\nabstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should\nhurt Jane Fairfax s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of\nthe room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming\nto the beauty and grace of each.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nWhen the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found\nit hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties; with\nso much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross\nJane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be\nalmost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton\nleft them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon\nbegan again; and though much that passed between them was in a\nhalf-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton s side, there was no avoiding a\nknowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office catching\ncold fetching letters and friendship, were long under discussion; and\nto them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to\nJane inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to\nsuit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton s meditated activity.\n\n Here is April come!  said she,  I get quite anxious about you. June\nwill soon be here. \n\n But I have never fixed on June or any other month merely looked\nforward to the summer in general. \n\n But have you really heard of nothing? \n\n I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet. \n\n Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the\ndifficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing. \n\n I not aware!  said Jane, shaking her head;  dear Mrs. Elton, who can\nhave thought of it as I have done? \n\n But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know\nhow many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw\na vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of\nMr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every\nbody was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first\ncircle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable!\nOf all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge s is the one I would most wish\nto see you in. \n\n Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,  said\nJane.  I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want\nit; afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would\nnot wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present. \n\n Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me\ntrouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be\nmore interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in\na day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out\nfor any thing eligible. \n\n Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her;\ntill the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body\ntrouble. \n\n But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,\nor say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before\nus. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you\ndeserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday\noccurrence, is not obtained at a moment s notice; indeed, indeed, we\nmust begin inquiring directly. \n\n Excuse me, ma am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no\ninquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends.\nWhen I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of\nbeing long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry\nwould soon produce something Offices for the sale not quite of human\nflesh but of human intellect. \n\n Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at\nthe slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend\nto the abolition. \n\n I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,  replied Jane;\n governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely\ndifferent certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to\nthe greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I\nonly mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by\napplying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with\nsomething that would do. \n\n Something that would do!  repeated Mrs. Elton.  Aye, _that_ may suit\nyour humble ideas of yourself; I know what a modest creature you are;\nbut it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any\nthing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family\nnot moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of\nlife. \n\n You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it\nwould be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I\nthink, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.\nA gentleman s family is all that I should condition for. \n\n I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall\nbe a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite\non my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the\nfirst circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name\nyour own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family\nas much as you chose; that is I do not know if you knew the harp, you\nmight do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play; yes, I\nreally believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you\nchose; and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and\ncomfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest. \n\n You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a\nsituation together,  said Jane,  they are pretty sure to be equal;\nhowever, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at\npresent for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am\nobliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing\nnothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I\nshall remain where I am, and as I am. \n\n And I am quite serious too, I assure you,  replied Mrs. Elton gaily,\n in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to\nwatch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us. \n\nIn this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till\nMr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of\nobject, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,\n\n Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest! Only think of his\ngallantry in coming away before the other men! what a dear creature he\nis; I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,\nold-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;\nmodern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish\nyou had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I\nbegan to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am\nrather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like\nit? Selina s choice handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is\nnot over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being\nover-trimmed quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments\nnow, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like\na bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of\ndress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the\nminority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress, show\nand finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a\ntrimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will\nlook well? \n\nThe whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr.\nWeston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late\ndinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too\nmuch expected by the best judges, for surprize but there was great joy.\nMr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been\nsorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute\nastonishment. That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at\nhome after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk\nhalf a mile to another man s house, for the sake of being in mixed\ncompany till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility\nand the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A\nman who had been in motion since eight o clock in the morning, and\nmight now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have\nbeen silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been\nalone! Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own\nfireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again\ninto the world! Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken\nback his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would\nprobably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked\nat him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said,  I could\nnot have believed it even of _him_. \n\nMr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was\nexciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being\nprincipal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was\nmaking himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the\ninquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all\nher careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread\nabroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family\ncommunication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he\nhad not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in\nthe room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he\nhad met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.\n\n Read it, read it,  said he,  it will give you pleasure; only a few\nlines will not take you long; read it to Emma. \n\nThe two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking\nto them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible\nto every body.\n\n Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say\nto it? I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I? Anne,\nmy dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me? In\ntown next week, you see at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as\nimpatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most\nlikely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all\nnothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us\nagain, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,\nand he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted.\nWell, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read\nit all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some\nother time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the\ncircumstance to the others in a common way. \n\nMrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and\nwords had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was\nhappy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm\nand open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little\noccupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the\ndegree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.\n\nMr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative\nto want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,\nand soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial\ncommunication of what the whole room must have overheard already.\n\nIt was well that he took every body s joy for granted, or he might not\nhave thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly\ndelighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to\nbe made happy; from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but\nshe was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have\nbeen too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs.\nElton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the\nsubject with her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\n I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you, \nsaid Mr. Weston.\n\nMrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended\nher by such a hope, smiled most graciously.\n\n You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,  he\ncontinued and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name. \n\n Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.\nElton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great\npleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage. \n\n You are very obliging. Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.  He\nis to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a\nletter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my\nson s hand, presumed to open it though it was not directed to me it was\nto Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I\nhardly ever get a letter. \n\n And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.\nWeston (laughing affectedly) I must protest against that. A most\ndangerous precedent indeed! I beg you will not let your neighbours\nfollow your example. Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we\nmarried women must begin to exert ourselves! Oh! Mr. Weston, I could\nnot have believed it of you! \n\n Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.\nElton. This letter tells us it is a short letter written in a hurry,\nmerely to give us notice it tells us that they are all coming up to\ntown directly, on Mrs. Churchill s account she has not been well the\nwhole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her so they are all to\nmove southward without loss of time. \n\n Indeed! from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire? \n\n Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a\nconsiderable journey. \n\n Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than\nfrom Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people\nof large fortune? You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr.\nSuckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me but twice\nin one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four\nhorses. \n\n The evil of the distance from Enscombe,  said Mr. Weston,  is, that\nMrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the\nsofa for a week together. In Frank s last letter she complained, he\nsaid, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having\nboth his arm and his uncle s! This, you know, speaks a great degree of\nweakness but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to\nsleep only two nights on the road. So Frank writes word. Certainly,\ndelicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You\nmust grant me that. \n\n No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my\nown sex. I do indeed. I give you notice You will find me a formidable\nantagonist on that point. I always stand up for women and I assure you,\nif you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you\nwould not wonder at Mrs. Churchill s making incredible exertions to\navoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her and I believe I have\ncaught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets;\nan excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same? \n\n Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine\nlady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the\nland for \n\nMrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,\n\n Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure\nyou. Do not run away with such an idea. \n\n Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough\na fine lady as any body ever beheld. \n\nMrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.\nIt was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was\n_not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of\nit; and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.\nWeston went on.\n\n Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect but\nthis is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and\ntherefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health\nnow; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I\nwould not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith\nin Mrs. Churchill s illness. \n\n If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston? To Bath, or to\nClifton?   She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for\nher. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now\nbeen a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she\nbegins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very\nretired. \n\n Aye like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from\nthe road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You\nseem shut out from every thing in the most complete retirement. And\nMrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy\nthat sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough\nin herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman\ncannot have too many resources and I feel very thankful that I have so\nmany myself as to be quite independent of society. \n\n Frank was here in February for a fortnight. \n\n So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society\nof Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call\nmyself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being\nsuch a creature in the world. \n\nThis was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr.\nWeston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,\n\n My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing\npossible. Not heard of you! I believe Mrs. Weston s letters lately have\nbeen full of very little else than Mrs. Elton. \n\nHe had done his duty and could return to his son.\n\n When Frank left us,  continued he,  it was quite uncertain when we\nmight see him again, which makes this day s news doubly welcome. It has\nbeen completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion\nhe would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn\nup but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully\ndesponding.  How could he contrive to come? And how could it be\nsupposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?  and so forth I\nalways felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has,\nyou see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if\nthings are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next. \n\n Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say\nto a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when,\nbecause things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the\nrapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and\nexclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen s\nsaffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to\ndispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The\ncarriage we had disappointments about the carriage; one morning, I\nremember, he came to me quite in despair. \n\nShe was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly\nseized the opportunity of going on.\n\n You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill is\nordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than\nEnscombe in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable\nprospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring precisely the\nseason of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at\nthe longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and\nnever too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best\nof it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there\nalways is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we\nintended. Now will be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I\ndo not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the\nsort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or\nto-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than\nhaving him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the\nstate of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be\npleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally\nthought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston s\npartiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most\ngratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him. \n\n And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion\nwill be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr.\nFrank Churchill. At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one\nof those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means\nimplicitly guided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son,\nso I shall judge of him. I am no flatterer. \n\nMr. Weston was musing.\n\n I hope,  said he presently,  I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.\nChurchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but\nthere are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me\nto speak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be\nignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the\ntreatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of\nit is to be laid to her. She was the instigator. Frank s mother would\nnever have been slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has\npride; but his pride is nothing to his wife s: his is a quiet,\nindolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only\nmake himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance\nand insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair\npretence of family or blood. She was nobody when he married her, barely\nthe daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a\nChurchill she has out-Churchill d them all in high and mighty claims:\nbut in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart. \n\n Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite a\nhorror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to\npeople of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who\nare such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give\nthemselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them\ndirectly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and\nencumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense\nairs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established\nfamilies. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived\nat West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came\nfrom Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr.\nWeston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is\nsomething direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of\nthe Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and\nyet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my\nbrother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest\nneighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven\nyears a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him I\nbelieve, at least I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed\nthe purchase before his death. \n\nThey were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having\nsaid all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.\n\nAfter tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.\nWoodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers,\nand Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed\nlittle disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which\nnobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of\nspirits which would have made her prefer being silent.\n\nMr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to\nleave them early the next day; and he soon began with \n\n Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the\nboys; but you have your sister s letter, and every thing is down at\nfull length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise\nthan her s, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have\nto recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic\nthem. \n\n I rather hope to satisfy you both,  said Emma,  for I shall do all in\nmy power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and\nhappiness must preclude false indulgence and physic. \n\n And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again. \n\n That is very likely. You think so, do not you? \n\n I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father or even\nmay be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue\nto increase as much as they have done lately. \n\n Increase! \n\n Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a\ngreat difference in your way of life. \n\n Difference! No indeed I am not. \n\n There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company\nthan you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for\nonly one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party! When did it\nhappen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing,\nand you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella\nbrought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole s, or balls\nat the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in\nyour goings-on, is very great. \n\n Yes,  said his brother quickly,  it is Randalls that does it all. \n\n Very well and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less\ninfluence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma,\nthat Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I\nonly beg you to send them home. \n\n No,  cried Mr. Knightley,  that need not be the consequence. Let them\nbe sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure. \n\n Upon my word,  exclaimed Emma,  you amuse me! I should like to know\nhow many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being\nof the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure\nto attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine what\nhave they been? Dining once with the Coles and having a ball talked of,\nwhich never took place. I can understand you (nodding at Mr. John\nKnightley) your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at\nonce here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning\nto Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours\nfrom Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for\nme, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that\nif Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much\nbetter with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours\nwhere she is absent one and who, when he is at home, is either reading\nto himself or settling his accounts. \n\nMr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without\ndifficulty, upon Mrs. Elton s beginning to talk to him.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME III\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nA very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the\nnature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She\nwas soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all\napprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had\nreally subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of; but\nif he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the\ntwo, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he\nhad taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two\nmonths should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before\nher: caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not\nmean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be\nincumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.\n\nShe wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.\nThat would be so very painful a conclusion of their present\nacquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something\ndecisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a\ncrisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and\ntranquil state.\n\nIt was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had\nforeseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank\nChurchill s feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so\nsoon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards.\nHe rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he\ncame from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise\nall her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was\ninfluenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost\nfriendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing\nher. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he\nhad done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She\nwatched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had\nbeen. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had\nproduced this very natural and very desirable effect.\n\nHe was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed\ndelighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and\nhe was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read\nhis comparative indifference. He was not calm; his spirits were\nevidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he\nwas, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what\ndecided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an\nhour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury.  He had seen a\ngroup of old acquaintance in the street as he passed he had not\nstopped, he would not stop for more than a word but he had the vanity\nto think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he\nwished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off.  She had no\ndoubt as to his being less in love but neither his agitated spirits,\nnor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather\ninclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a\ndiscreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.\n\nThis was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.\nHe was often hoping, intending to come but was always prevented. His\naunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at\nRandall s. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was\nto be inferred that Mrs. Churchill s removal to London had been of no\nservice to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was\nreally ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it,\nat Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he\nlooked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been\nhalf a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that\ncare and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have\nmany years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on,\nby all his father s doubts, to say that her complaints were merely\nimaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.\n\nIt soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not\nendure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and\nsuffering; and by the ten days  end, her nephew s letter to Randalls\ncommunicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to\nRichmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of\nan eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A\nready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit\nexpected from the change.\n\nEmma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,\nand seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months\nbefore him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends for the\nhouse was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with\nthe greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he\ncould even wish.\n\nEmma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was\nconsidering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She\nhoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.\n\nMr. Weston s own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It\nwas the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be\nreally having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a\nyoung man? An hour s ride. He would be always coming over. The\ndifference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make\nthe whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen\nmiles nay, eighteen it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street was a\nserious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent\nin coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London;\nhe might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for\neasy intercourse. Better than nearer!\n\nOne good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this\nremoval, the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but\nit had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now,\nhowever, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and\nvery soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines\nfrom Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the\nchange, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for\ntwenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a\nday as possible.\n\nMr. Weston s ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood\nbetween the young people of Highbury and happiness.\n\nMr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him.\nMay was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to\nspend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely\nhoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have\nany thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nNo misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached,\nthe day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank\nChurchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls\nbefore dinner, and every thing was safe.\n\nNo second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room at\nthe Crown was to witness it; but it would be better than a common\nmeeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his\nentreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,\nfor the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort\nof the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse\nhim, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man s\ncompany. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good\ntime, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.\n\nFrank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not\nsay much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.\nThey all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it\nshould be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of\nanother carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first,\nwithout great surprize.  So unreasonably early!  she was going to\nexclaim; but she presently found that it was a family of old friends,\nwho were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr.\nWeston s judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another\ncarriage of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same\ndistinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if\nhalf the company might soon be collected together for the purpose of\npreparatory inspection.\n\nEmma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr.\nWeston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a\nman who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first\ndistinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a\nlittle less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher\ncharacter. General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man\nwhat he ought to be. She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked\nabout, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to\ndo, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their\nvarious modes, till other subjects were started, that, though _May_, a\nfire in the evening was still very pleasant.\n\nEmma found that it was not Mr. Weston s fault that the number of privy\ncouncillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates s door\nto offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be\nbrought by the Eltons.\n\nFrank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,\nwhich shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to\nthe door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages, impatient\nto begin, or afraid of being always near her.\n\nMrs. Elton was spoken of.  I think she must be here soon,  said he.  I\nhave a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.\nIt cannot be long, I think, before she comes. \n\nA carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back,\nsaid,\n\n I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen\neither Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward. \n\nMr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties\npassed.\n\n But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!  said Mr. Weston, looking about.  We\nthought you were to bring them. \n\nThe mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma\nlonged to know what Frank s first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how\nhe was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of\ngraciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion,\nby giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.\n\nIn a few minutes the carriage returned. Somebody talked of rain. I\nwill see that there are umbrellas, sir,  said Frank to his father:\n Miss Bates must not be forgotten:  and away he went. Mr. Weston was\nfollowing; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion\nof his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,\nthough by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.\n\n A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you\nI should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely\npleased with him. You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a\nvery handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and\napprove so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.\nYou must know I have a vast dislike to puppies quite a horror of them.\nThey were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me\nhad ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very\ncutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them\nmuch better. \n\nWhile she talked of his son, Mr. Weston s attention was chained; but\nwhen she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies\njust arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.\n\nMrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston.  I have no doubt of its being our\ncarriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so\nextremely expeditious! I believe we drive faster than any body. What a\npleasure it is to send one s carriage for a friend! I understand you\nwere so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite\nunnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_. \n\nMiss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into\nthe room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.\nWeston s to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be\nunderstood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every\nbody s words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates,\nwho came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes\nafter her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door\nopened she was heard,\n\n So very obliging of you! No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not\ncare for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares Well! (as soon as\nshe was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed! This is\nadmirable! Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could\nnot have imagined it. So well lighted up! Jane, Jane, look! did you\never see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin s\nlamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as\nI came in; she was standing in the entrance.  Oh! Mrs. Stokes,  said\nI but I had not time for more.  She was now met by Mrs. Weston. Very\nwell, I thank you, ma am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear\nit. So afraid you might have a headache! seeing you pass by so often,\nand knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it\nindeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the\ncarriage! excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the\nhorses a moment. Most comfortable carriage. Oh! and I am sure our\nthanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most\nkindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been. But two such offers in\none day! Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother,  Upon my\nword, ma am .  Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr.\nWoodhouse s. I made her take her shawl for the evenings are not\nwarm her large new shawl  Mrs. Dixon s wedding-present. So kind of her\nto think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know Mr. Dixon s choice.\nThere were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some\ntime. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you\nsure you did not wet your feet? It was but a drop or two, but I am so\nafraid: but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely and there was a mat to\nstep upon I shall never forget his extreme politeness. Oh! Mr. Frank\nChurchill, I must tell you my mother s spectacles have never been in\nfault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of\nyour good-nature. Does not she, Jane? Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank\nChurchill? Ah! here s Miss Woodhouse. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you\ndo? Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in\nfairy-land! Such a transformation! Must not compliment, I know (eyeing\nEmma most complacently) that would be rude but upon my word, Miss\nWoodhouse, you do look how do you like Jane s hair? You are a\njudge. She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her\nhair! No hairdresser from London I think could. Ah! Dr. Hughes I\ndeclare and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a\nmoment. How do you do? How do you do? Very well, I thank you. This is\ndelightful, is not it? Where s dear Mr. Richard? Oh! there he is. Don t\ndisturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How do\nyou do, Mr. Richard? I saw you the other day as you rode through the\ntown Mrs. Otway, I protest! and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss\nCaroline. Such a host of friends! and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur! How do\nyou do? How do you all do? Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never\nbetter. Don t I hear another carriage? Who can this be? very likely the\nworthy Coles. Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among\nsuch friends! And such a noble fire! I am quite roasted. No coffee, I\nthank you, for me never take coffee. A little tea if you please, sir,\nby and bye, no hurry Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good! \n\nFrank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss\nBates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the\ndiscourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little\nway behind her. He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she\ncould not determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress\nand look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was\nevidently wanting to be complimented herself and it was,  How do you\nlike my gown? How do you like my trimming? How has Wright done my\nhair? with many other relative questions, all answered with patient\npoliteness. Mrs. Elton then said,  Nobody can think less of dress in\ngeneral than I do but upon such an occasion as this, when every body s\neyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons who I have\nno doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour I would not wish\nto be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except\nmine. So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand. We shall\nsee if our styles suit. A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.\nI like him very well. \n\nAt this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not\nbut imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear\nmore; and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till\nanother suspension brought Mrs. Elton s tones again distinctly\nforward. Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,\n\n Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion? I was\nthis moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for\ntidings of us. \n\n Jane! repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and\ndispleasure. That is easy but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I\nsuppose. \n\n How do you like Mrs. Elton?  said Emma in a whisper.\n\n Not at all. \n\n You are ungrateful. \n\n Ungrateful! What do you mean?  Then changing from a frown to a\nsmile No, do not tell me I do not want to know what you mean. Where is\nmy father? When are we to begin dancing? \n\nEmma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked\noff to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and\nMrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be\nlaid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton\nmust be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which\ninterfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction. Emma\nheard the sad truth with fortitude.\n\n And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?  said Mr. Weston.\n She will think Frank ought to ask her. \n\nFrank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and\nboasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most\nperfect approbation of and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was\nwanting _him_ to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business\nwas to help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon. Mr.\nWeston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss\nWoodhouse followed. Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton,\nthough she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was\nalmost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly\nthe advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for though\nshe had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by\nthe change. Mr. Weston might be his son s superior. In spite of this\nlittle rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see\nthe respectable length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that\nshe had so many hours of unusual festivity before her. She was more\ndisturbed by Mr. Knightley s not dancing than by any thing else. There\nhe was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be\ndancing, not classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and\nwhist-players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance\ntill their rubbers were made up, so young as he looked! He could not\nhave appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had\nplaced himself. His tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms\nand stooping shoulders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must\ndraw every body s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not\none among the whole row of young men who could be compared with him. He\nmoved a few steps nearer, and those few steps were enough to prove in\nhow gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he must have\ndanced, would he but take the trouble. Whenever she caught his eye, she\nforced him to smile; but in general he was looking grave. She wished he\ncould love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better. He\nseemed often observing her. She must not flatter herself that he\nthought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she\ndid not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and\nher partner. They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers.\nThat Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was\nindubitable.\n\nThe ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant\nattentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed\nhappy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom\nbestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in\nthe very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very\nrecordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings\nusually are. There was one, however, which Emma thought something\nof. The two last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no\npartner; the only young lady sitting down; and so equal had been\nhitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be any one\ndisengaged was the wonder! But Emma s wonder lessened soon afterwards,\non seeing Mr. Elton sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance\nif it were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not and she\nwas expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.\n\nEscape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room\nwhere the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in\nfront of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of\nmaintaining it. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss\nSmith, or speaking to those who were close to her. Emma saw it. She was\nnot yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had\ntherefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little\nshe saw it all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were\nexactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch;\nbut Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue\nwhich just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she\nperceived that his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was\nnot only listening also, but even encouraging him by significant\nglances. The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join\nhim and say,  Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?  to which his prompt reply\nwas,  Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me. \n\n Me! oh! no I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no\ndancer. \n\n If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,  said he,  I shall have great\npleasure, I am sure for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old\nmarried man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very\ngreat pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.\nGilbert. \n\n Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady\ndisengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing Miss Smith.   Miss\nSmith! oh! I had not observed. You are extremely obliging and if I were\nnot an old married man. But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You\nwill excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your\ncommand but my dancing days are over. \n\nMrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and\nmortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton!\nthe amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton. She looked round for a moment;\nhe had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging\nhimself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed\nbetween him and his wife.\n\nShe would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her\nface might be as hot.\n\nIn another moment a happier sight caught her; Mr. Knightley leading\nHarriet to the set! Never had she been more surprized, seldom more\ndelighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,\nboth for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though\ntoo distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could\ncatch his eye again.\n\nHis dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;\nand Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for\nthe cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment\nand very high sense of the distinction which her happy features\nannounced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,\nflew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.\n\nMr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very\nfoolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though\ngrowing very like her; _she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing\naudibly to her partner,\n\n Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith! Very good-natured,\nI declare. \n\nSupper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard\nfrom that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table\nand taking up her spoon.\n\n Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you? Here is your tippet. Mrs.\nWeston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there\nwill be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done One\ndoor nailed up Quantities of matting My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr.\nChurchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on! so\ngratified! Excellent dancing indeed! Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I\nsaid I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody\nmissed me. I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.\nGrandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a\nvast deal of chat, and backgammon. Tea was made downstairs, biscuits\nand baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of\nher throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were\namused, and who were your partners.  Oh!  said I,  I shall not\nforestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love\nto tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr.\nElton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox. \nMy dear sir, you are too obliging. Is there nobody you would not\nrather? I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane\non one arm, and me on the other! Stop, stop, let us stand a little\nback, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she\nlooks! Beautiful lace! Now we all follow in her train. Quite the queen\nof the evening! Well, here we are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take\ncare of the two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded\nthere were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and there\nis but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and\nstyle Candles everywhere. I was telling you of your grandmama,\nJane, There was a little disappointment. The baked apples and biscuits,\nexcellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of\nsweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr.\nWoodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all\nout again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread\nand asparagus so she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would\nnot speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss\nWoodhouse, who would be so very much concerned! Well, this is\nbrilliant! I am all amazement! could not have supposed any thing! Such\nelegance and profusion! I have seen nothing like it since Well, where\nshall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a\ndraught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this\nside? Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill only it seems too good but just as\nyou please. What you direct in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane,\nhow shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too!\nBless me! I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent,\nand I cannot help beginning. \n\nEmma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;\nbut, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him\nirresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his\nreprobation of Mr. Elton s conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;\nand Mrs. Elton s looks also received the due share of censure.\n\n They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,  said he.  Emma, why is it\nthat they are your enemies? \n\nHe looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,\n _She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may\nbe. To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,\nthat you did want him to marry Harriet. \n\n I did,  replied Emma,  and they cannot forgive me. \n\nHe shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he\nonly said,\n\n I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections. \n\n Can you trust me with such flatterers? Does my vain spirit ever tell\nme I am wrong? \n\n Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit. If one leads you wrong,\nI am sure the other tells you of it. \n\n I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There\nis a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not:\nand I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was\nthrough a series of strange blunders! \n\n And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the\njustice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has\nchosen for himself. Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which\nMrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless\ngirl infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a\nwoman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected. \n\nEmma was extremely gratified. They were interrupted by the bustle of\nMr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.\n\n Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all\ndoing? Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!\nEvery body is asleep! \n\n I am ready,  said Emma,  whenever I am wanted. \n\n Whom are you going to dance with?  asked Mr. Knightley.\n\nShe hesitated a moment, and then replied,  With you, if you will ask\nme. \n\n Will you?  said he, offering his hand.\n\n Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are\nnot really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper. \n\n Brother and sister! no, indeed. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nThis little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable\npleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which\nshe walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy. She was extremely\nglad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the\nEltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much\nalike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was\npeculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few\nminutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the\noccasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward\nto another happy result the cure of Harriet s infatuation. From\nHarriet s manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted\nthe ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were\nsuddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the\nsuperior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma\ncould harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by\ninjurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for\nsupplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther\nrequisite. Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and\nMr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer\nmust be before her!\n\nShe was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that\nhe could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he\nwas to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.\n\nHaving arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them\nall to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened\nup for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their\ngrandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons\nentered whom she had never less expected to see together Frank\nChurchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm actually Harriet! A moment\nsufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened.\nHarriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer\nher. The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards\nasunder; they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately\nsinking into a chair fainted away.\n\nA young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,\nand surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the\nsuspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted\nwith the whole.\n\nMiss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.\nGoddard s, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and\ntaken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough\nfor safety, had led them into alarm. About half a mile beyond Highbury,\nmaking a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became\nfor a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had\nadvanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small\ndistance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a\nparty of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and\nMiss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and\ncalling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight\nhedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to\nHighbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much\nfrom cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank\nbrought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless and in\nthis state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.\n\nHow the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more\ncourageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could\nnot be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen\nchildren, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and\nimpertinent in look, though not absolutely in word. More and more\nfrightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her\npurse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to\nuse her ill. She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was\nmoving away but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was\nfollowed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.\n\nIn this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and\nconditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his\nleaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance\nat this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced\nhim to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,\na mile or two beyond Highbury and happening to have borrowed a pair of\nscissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to\nrestore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a\nfew minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on\nfoot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The\nterror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then\ntheir own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet\neagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength\nenough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It\nwas his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other\nplace.\n\nThis was the amount of the whole story, of his communication and of\nHarriet s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech. He dared\nnot stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not\nanother minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her\nsafety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people\nin the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the\ngrateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.\n\nSuch an adventure as this, a fine young man and a lovely young woman\nthrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain\nideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at\nleast. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician\nhave seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and\nheard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been\nat work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other? How much\nmore must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and\nforesight! especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her\nmind had already made.\n\nIt was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever\noccurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no\nrencontre, no alarm of the kind; and now it had happened to the very\nperson, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing\nto pass by to rescue her! It certainly was very extraordinary! And\nknowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this\nperiod, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his\nattachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr.\nElton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most\ninteresting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence\nshould not be strongly recommending each to the other.\n\nIn the few minutes  conversation which she had yet had with him, while\nHarriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her\nna vet , her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a\nsensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet s own\naccount had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the\nabominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing\nwas to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.\nShe would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of\ninterference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive\nscheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account\nproceed.\n\nEmma s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of\nwhat had passed, aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but\nshe soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour\nit was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those\nwho talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in\nthe place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last\nnight s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as\nhe sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without\ntheir promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some\ncomfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse\n(for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well\nas Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had\nthe pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very\nindifferent which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,\nand Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had\nan unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for\nshe hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent\nillnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.\n\nThe gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took\nthemselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have\nwalked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history\ndwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her\nnephews: in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and\nJohn were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the\ngipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the\nslightest particular from the original recital.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nA very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one\nmorning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down\nand hesitating, thus began:\n\n Miss Woodhouse if you are at leisure I have something that I should\nlike to tell you a sort of confession to make and then, you know, it\nwill be over. \n\nEmma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a\nseriousness in Harriet s manner which prepared her, quite as much as\nher words, for something more than ordinary.\n\n It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,  she continued,  to have\nno reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered\ncreature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the\nsatisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is\nnecessary I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and\nI dare say you understand me. \n\n Yes,  said Emma,  I hope I do. \n\n How I could so long a time be fancying myself!...  cried Harriet,\nwarmly.  It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary\nin him now. I do not care whether I meet him or not except that of the\ntwo I had rather not see him and indeed I would go any distance round\nto avoid him but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire\nher nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and\nall that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable I shall\nnever forget her look the other night! However, I assure you, Miss\nWoodhouse, I wish her no evil. No, let them be ever so happy together,\nit will not give me another moment s pang: and to convince you that I\nhave been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy what I ought to\nhave destroyed long ago what I ought never to have kept I know that\nvery well (blushing as she spoke). However, now I will destroy it\nall and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you\nmay see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel\nholds?  said she, with a conscious look.\n\n Not the least in the world. Did he ever give you any thing? \n\n No I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued\nvery much. \n\nShe held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_\n_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.\nHarriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within\nabundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which\nHarriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,\nexcepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.\n\n Now,  said Harriet,  you _must_ recollect. \n\n No, indeed I do not. \n\n Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what\npassed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last\ntimes we ever met in it! It was but a very few days before I had my\nsore throat just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came I think the\nvery evening. Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new\npenknife, and your recommending court-plaister? But, as you had none\nabout you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took\nmine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he\ncut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before\nhe gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help\nmaking a treasure of it so I put it by never to be used, and looked at\nit now and then as a great treat. \n\n My dearest Harriet!  cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and\njumping up,  you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.\nRemember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this\nrelic I knew nothing of that till this moment but the cutting the\nfinger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about\nme! Oh! my sins, my sins! And I had plenty all the while in my\npocket! One of my senseless tricks! I deserve to be under a continual\nblush all the rest of my life. Well (sitting down again) go on what\nelse? \n\n And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected\nit, you did it so naturally. \n\n And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake! \nsaid Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided\nbetween wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself,  Lord\nbless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a\npiece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I\nnever was equal to this. \n\n Here,  resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,  here is something\nstill more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because\nthis is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister\nnever did. \n\nEmma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of\nan old pencil, the part without any lead.\n\n This was really his,  said Harriet. Do not you remember one\nmorning? no, I dare say you do not. But one morning I forget exactly\nthe day but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_\n_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was\nabout spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about\nbrewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out\nhis pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and\nit would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the\ntable as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I\ndared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment. \n\n I do remember it,  cried Emma;  I perfectly remember it. Talking about\nspruce-beer. Oh! yes Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and\nMr. Elton s seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly\nremember it. Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I\nhave an idea he was standing just here. \n\n Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect. It is very odd, but I cannot\nrecollect. Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I\nam now. \n\n Well, go on. \n\n Oh! that s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say except that\nI am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to\nsee me do it. \n\n My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in\ntreasuring up these things? \n\n Yes, simpleton as I was! but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I\ncould forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you\nknow, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was but\nhad not resolution enough to part with them. \n\n But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister? I have not a\nword to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be\nuseful. \n\n I shall be happier to burn it,  replied Harriet.  It has a\ndisagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing. There it goes,\nand there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton. \n\n And when,  thought Emma,  will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill? \n\nShe had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was\nalready made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had\n_told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet s. About a\nfortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and\nquite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which\nmade the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in\nthe course of some trivial chat,  Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I\nwould advise you to do so and so and thought no more of it, till after\na minute s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone,  I\nshall never marry. \n\nEmma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a\nmoment s debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not,\nreplied,\n\n Never marry! This is a new resolution. \n\n It is one that I shall never change, however. \n\nAfter another short hesitation,  I hope it does not proceed from I hope\nit is not in compliment to Mr. Elton? \n\n Mr. Elton indeed!  cried Harriet indignantly. Oh! no and Emma could\njust catch the words,  so superior to Mr. Elton! \n\nShe then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no\nfarther? should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing? Perhaps\nHarriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she\nwere totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to\nhear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had\nbeen, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she\nwas perfectly resolved. She believed it would be wiser for her to say\nand know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was\nalways best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed,\non any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have\nthe judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed. She was\ndecided, and thus spoke \n\n Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your\nresolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from\nan idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly\nyour superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so? \n\n Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose \nIndeed I am not so mad. But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a\ndistance and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of\nthe world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so\nproper, in me especially. \n\n I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you\nwas enough to warm your heart. \n\n Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation! The very\nrecollection of it, and all that I felt at the time when I saw him\ncoming his noble look and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one\nmoment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness! \n\n It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable. Yes,\nhonourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully. But that it\nwill be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not\nadvise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for\nits being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be\nwisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not\nlet them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be\nobservant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I\ngive you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on\nthe subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I\nknow nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were\nvery wrong before; we will be cautious now. He is your superior, no\ndoubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious\nnature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there\nhave been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I\nwould not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured\nyour raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I\nshall always know how to value. \n\nHarriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was\nvery decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her\nfriend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind and it must\nbe saving her from the danger of degradation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nIn this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon\nHartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The\nEltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use\nto be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her\ngrandmother s; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was\nagain delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was\nlikely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she\nwere able to defeat Mrs. Elton s activity in her service, and save\nherself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her\nwill.\n\nMr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had\ncertainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing\nto dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in\nhis pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.\nEvery thing declared it; his own attentions, his father s hints, his\nmother-in-law s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct,\ndiscretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many\nwere devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet,\nMr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with\nJane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of\nintelligence between them he thought so at least symptoms of admiration\non his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself\nto think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any\nof Emma s errors of imagination. _She_ was not present when the\nsuspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and\nJane, at the Eltons ; and he had seen a look, more than a single look,\nat Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed\nsomewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not\nhelp remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations\nwhich, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,\n\n Myself creating what I saw, \n\n\nbrought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of\nprivate liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill\nand Jane.\n\nHe had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend\nhis evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he\njoined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who,\nlike themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the\nweather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates\nand her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on\nreaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of\nvisiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in\nand drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately;\nand after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons\nlistened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse s\nmost obliging invitation.\n\nAs they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on\nhorseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.\n\n By the bye,  said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently,  what\nbecame of Mr. Perry s plan of setting up his carriage? \n\nMrs. Weston looked surprized, and said,  I did not know that he ever\nhad any such plan. \n\n Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago. \n\n Me! impossible! \n\n Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was\ncertainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was\nextremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she\nthought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You\nmust remember it now? \n\n Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment. \n\n Never! really, never! Bless me! how could it be? Then I must have\ndreamt it but I was completely persuaded Miss Smith, you walk as if you\nwere tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home. \n\n What is this? What is this?  cried Mr. Weston,  about Perry and a\ncarriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he\ncan afford it. You had it from himself, had you? \n\n No, sir,  replied his son, laughing,  I seem to have had it from\nnobody. Very odd! I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston s having\nmentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with\nall these particulars but as she declares she never heard a syllable of\nit before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I\ndream of every body at Highbury when I am away and when I have gone\nthrough my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.\nPerry. \n\n It is odd though,  observed his father,  that you should have had such\na regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you\nshould be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry s setting up his carriage! and\nhis wife s persuading him to it, out of care for his health just what\nwill happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little\npremature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!\nAnd at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your\ndream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are\nabsent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think? \n\nEmma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to\nprepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of\nMr. Weston s hint.\n\n Why, to own the truth,  cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain\nto be heard the last two minutes,  if I must speak on this subject,\nthere is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have I do not mean\nto say that he did not dream it I am sure I have sometimes the oddest\ndreams in the world but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge\nthat there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself\nmentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as\nourselves but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only\nthought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should\nhave a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning\nbecause she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don t you remember\ngrandmama s telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had\nbeen walking to very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to\nRandalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother indeed I\ndo not know who is not and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;\nshe had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go\nbeyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that\nI know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having\nnever dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing\nbefore I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and\nnow and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not\nlike Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the\nleast thing in the world. Where is she? Oh! just behind. Perfectly\nremember Mrs. Perry s coming. Extraordinary dream, indeed! \n\nThey were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley s eyes had preceded Miss\nBates s in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill s face, where he\nthought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had\ninvoluntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy\nwith her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen\nwaited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank\nChurchill the determination of catching her eye he seemed watching her\nintently in vain, however, if it were so Jane passed between them into\nthe hall, and looked at neither.\n\nThere was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be\nborne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round\nthe large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield,\nand which none but Emma could have had power to place there and\npersuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on\nwhich two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea\npassed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.\n\n Miss Woodhouse,  said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind\nhim, which he could reach as he sat,  have your nephews taken away\ntheir alphabets their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is\nit? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated\nrather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters\none morning. I want to puzzle you again. \n\nEmma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was\nquickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much\ndisposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words\nfor each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The\nquietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse,\nwho had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr.\nWeston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in\nlamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the  poor\nlittle boys,  or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter\nnear him, how beautifully Emma had written it.\n\nFrank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight\nglance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to\nEmma, Jane opposite to them and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them\nall; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little\napparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile\npushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and\nburied from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of\nlooking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after\nevery fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell\nto work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help.\nThe word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there\nwas a blush on Jane s cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise\nostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could\nall be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion\nof his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must\nbe some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed\nto meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for\ngallantry and trick. It was a child s play, chosen to conceal a deeper\ngame on Frank Churchill s part.\n\nWith great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm\nand distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a\nshort word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and\ndemure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly\nentertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to\nappear to censure; for she said,  Nonsense! for shame!  He heard Frank\nChurchill next say, with a glance towards Jane,  I will give it to\nher shall I? and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing\nwarmth.  No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed. \n\nIt was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without\nfeeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed\nover the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate\ncivility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley s excessive curiosity\nto know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment\nfor darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to\nbe _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax s perception seemed to accompany his; her\ncomprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the\nsuperior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was\nevidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed\nmore deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only,  I did not\nknow that proper names were allowed,  pushed away the letters with even\nan angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word\nthat could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the\nattack, and turned towards her aunt.\n\n Aye, very true, my dear,  cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken\na word I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be\ngoing indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking\nfor us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good\nnight. \n\nJane s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had\npreconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table;\nbut so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr.\nKnightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed\ntowards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was\nafterwards looking for her shawl Frank Churchill was looking also it\nwas growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted,\nMr. Knightley could not tell.\n\nHe remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what\nhe had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his\nobservations, he must yes, he certainly must, as a friend an anxious\nfriend give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her\nin a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was\nhis duty.\n\n Pray, Emma,  said he,  may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the\npoignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw\nthe word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining\nto the one, and so very distressing to the other. \n\nEmma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true\nexplanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she\nwas really ashamed of having ever imparted them.\n\n Oh!  she cried in evident embarrassment,  it all meant nothing; a mere\njoke among ourselves. \n\n The joke,  he replied gravely,  seemed confined to you and Mr.\nChurchill. \n\nHe had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather\nbusy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in\ndoubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference fruitless\ninterference. Emma s confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed\nto declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to\nher, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome\ninterference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather\nthan the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.\n\n My dear Emma,  said he at last, with earnest kindness,  do you think\nyou perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the\ngentleman and lady we have been speaking of? \n\n Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly. Why\ndo you make a doubt of it? \n\n Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or\nthat she admired him? \n\n Never, never!  she cried with a most open eagerness Never, for the\ntwentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could\nit possibly come into your head? \n\n I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between\nthem certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be\npublic. \n\n Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can\nvouchsafe to let your imagination wander but it will not do very sorry\nto check you in your first essay but indeed it will not do. There is no\nadmiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which\nhave caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances feelings\nrather of a totally different nature it is impossible exactly to\nexplain: there is a good deal of nonsense in it but the part which is\ncapable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far\nfrom any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in\nthe world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I\ncan _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman s\nindifference. \n\nShe spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which\nsilenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have\nprolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his\nsuspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a\ncircumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet\nhers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much\nirritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute\nfever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse s tender habits required almost\nevery evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty\nleave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nAfter being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.\nSuckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification\nof hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such\nimportation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at\npresent. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again\nrestricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings \ncoming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,\nwhose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the\nsituation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might\neventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of\nall her neighbours was by the approach of it.\n\nMrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal\nof pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all\nwait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought\nat first; but a little consideration convinced her that every thing\nneed not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the\nSucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the\nautumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was\nto be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the\nidea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see\nwhat every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had\nagreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more\nof the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be\ndone in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the\nbustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic\nparade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.\n\nThis was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but\nfeel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr.\nWeston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and\nsister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go\ntogether; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it\nwas to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing\nbut her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must\nalready be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again: it\ncould not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain\nto his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an\narrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an\narrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of\nbeing said to be of Mrs. Elton s party! Every feeling was offended; and\nthe forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of\nsecret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr.\nWeston s temper.\n\n I am glad you approve of what I have done,  said he very comfortably.\n But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without\nnumbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its\nown amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not\nleave her out. \n\nEmma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.\n\nIt was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was\ngrowing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to\npigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing\ninto sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,\nbefore the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured\non, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton s resources were\ninadequate to such an attack.\n\n Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?  she cried. And such weather\nfor exploring! These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What\nare we to do? The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.\nBefore this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful\nexploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston. \n\n You had better explore to Donwell,  replied Mr. Knightley.  That may\nbe done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are\nripening fast. \n\nIf Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,\nfor his proposal was caught at with delight; and the  Oh! I should like\nit of all things,  was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was\nfamous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:\nbut no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt\nthe lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again\nand again to come much oftener than he doubted and was extremely\ngratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment\nas she chose to consider it.\n\n You may depend upon me,  said she.  I certainly will come. Name your\nday, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax? \n\n I cannot name a day,  said he,  till I have spoken to some others whom\nI would wish to meet you. \n\n Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche. I am Lady\nPatroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me. \n\n I hope you will bring Elton,  said he:  but I will not trouble you to\ngive any other invitations. \n\n Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider you need not be afraid\nof delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.\nMarried women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party.\nLeave it all to me. I will invite your guests. \n\n No, he calmly replied, there is but one married woman in the world\nwhom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and\nthat one is \n\n Mrs. Weston, I suppose,  interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.\n\n No Mrs. Knightley; and till she is in being, I will manage such\nmatters myself. \n\n Ah! you are an odd creature!  she cried, satisfied to have no one\npreferred to herself. You are a humourist, and may say what you like.\nQuite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me Jane and her\naunt. The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting\nthe Hartfield family. Don t scruple. I know you are attached to them. \n\n You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on\nMiss Bates in my way home. \n\n That s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day: but as you like. It is\nto be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I\nshall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging\non my arm. Here, probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be\nmore simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be\nno form or parade a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your\ngardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under\ntrees; and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out\nof doors a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural\nand simple as possible. Is not that your idea? \n\n Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the\ntable spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of\ngentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is\nbest observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating\nstrawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house. \n\n Well as you please; only don t have a great set out. And, by the bye,\ncan I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion? Pray be\nsincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to\ninspect anything \n\n I have not the least wish for it, I thank you. \n\n Well but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely\nclever. \n\n I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and\nwould spurn any body s assistance. \n\n I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on\ndonkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me and my caro sposo walking by. I\nreally must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I\nconceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so\nmany resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at\nhome; and very long walks, you know in summer there is dust, and in\nwinter there is dirt. \n\n You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane\nis never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however,\nif you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole s. I would wish every thing\nto be as much to your taste as possible. \n\n That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.\nUnder that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the\nwarmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist. Yes,\nbelieve me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in\nthe whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please\nme. \n\nMr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He\nwished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;\nand he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat\nwould inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the\nspecious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at\nDonwell, be tempted away to his misery.\n\nHe was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him\nfor his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for\ntwo years.  Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go\nvery well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear\ngirls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp\nnow, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house\nagain exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton,\nand any other of his neighbours. He could not see any objection at all\nto his, and Emma s, and Harriet s going there some very fine morning.\nHe thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them very kind\nand sensible much cleverer than dining out. He was not fond of dining\nout. \n\nMr. Knightley was fortunate in every body s most ready concurrence. The\ninvitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like\nMrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment\nto themselves. Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of\npleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over\nto join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which\ncould have been dispensed with. Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say\nthat he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no\ntime in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.\n\nIn the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to\nBox Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was\nsettled for one day, and Box Hill for the next, the weather appearing\nexactly right.\n\nUnder a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was\nsafely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of\nthis al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the\nAbbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was\nhappily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what\nhad been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not\nto heat themselves. Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on\npurpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all\nthe others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and\nsympathiser.\n\nIt was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she\nwas satisfied of her father s comfort, she was glad to leave him, and\nlook around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more\nparticular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds\nwhich must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.\n\nShe felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with\nthe present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed\nthe respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,\ncharacteristic situation, low and sheltered its ample gardens\nstretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with\nall the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight and its abundance\nof timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance\nhad rooted up. The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike\nit, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many\ncomfortable, and one or two handsome rooms. It was just what it ought\nto be, and it looked what it was and Emma felt an increasing respect\nfor it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted\nin blood and understanding. Some faults of temper John Knightley had;\nbut Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them\nneither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These\nwere pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it\nwas necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the\nstrawberry-beds. The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank\nChurchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,\nin all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was\nvery ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or\ntalking strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or\nspoken of. The best fruit in England every body s favourite always\nwholesome. These the finest beds and finest sorts. Delightful to gather\nfor one s self the only way of really enjoying them. Morning decidedly\nthe best time never tired every sort good hautboy infinitely\nsuperior no comparison the others hardly eatable hautboys very\nscarce Chili preferred white wood finest flavour of all price of\nstrawberries in London abundance about Bristol Maple\nGrove cultivation beds when to be renewed gardeners thinking exactly\ndifferent no general rule gardeners never to be put out of their\nway delicious fruit only too rich to be eaten much of inferior to\ncherries currants more refreshing only objection to gathering\nstrawberries the stooping glaring sun tired to death could bear it no\nlonger must go and sit in the shade. \n\nSuch, for half an hour, was the conversation interrupted only once by\nMrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to\ninquire if he were come and she was a little uneasy. She had some fears\nof his horse.\n\nSeats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to\noverhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of. A situation,\na most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received\nnotice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs.\nSuckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it\nfell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an\nacquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful,\ncharming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every\nthing and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with\nimmediately. On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph and she\npositively refused to take her friend s negative, though Miss Fairfax\ncontinued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any\nthing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge\nbefore. Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an\nacquiescence by the morrow s post. How Jane could bear it at all, was\nastonishing to Emma. She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly and at\nlast, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a\nremoval. Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the\ngardens all the gardens? She wished to see the whole extent. The\npertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.\n\nIt was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a\nscattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly\nfollowed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of\nlimes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the\nriver, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds. It led to nothing;\nnothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars,\nwhich seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an\napproach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however,\nas might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a\ncharming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty. The\nconsiderable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood,\ngradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a\nmile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well\nclothed with wood; and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed\nand sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the\nriver making a close and handsome curve around it.\n\nIt was a sweet view sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,\nEnglish culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without\nbeing oppressive.\n\nIn this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and\ntowards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet\ndistinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and\nHarriet! It was an odd t te- -t te; but she was glad to see it. There\nhad been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and\nturned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant\nconversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been\nsorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm;\nbut now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its\nappendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading\nflocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending. She\njoined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in\nlooking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of\nagriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say,  These\nare my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without\nbeing suspected of introducing Robert Martin. She did not suspect him.\nIt was too old a story. Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of\nHarriet. They took a few turns together along the walk. The shade was\nmost refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.\n\nThe next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat; and they\nwere all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.\nWeston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself\nuneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing\nthat he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to\ncoming, with more than common certainty.  His aunt was so much better,\nthat he had not a doubt of getting over to them. Mrs. Churchill s\nstate, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such\nsudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable\ndependence and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,\nthat it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented\ncoming. Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration;\nshe behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.\n\nThe cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see\nwhat had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as\nfar as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at\nany rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again. Mr.\nWoodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part\nof the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by\nhim, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him,\nthat Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise\nand variety which her spirits seemed to need.\n\nMr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse s\nentertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,\nshells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been\nprepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the\nkindness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly\nwell amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he\nwould shew them all to Emma; fortunate in having no other resemblance\nto a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was\nslow, constant, and methodical. Before this second looking over was\nbegun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few\nmoments  free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the\nhouse and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly\nin from the garden, and with a look of escape. Little expecting to meet\nMiss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse\nwas the very person she was in quest of.\n\n Will you be so kind,  said she,  when I am missed, as to say that I am\ngone home? I am going this moment. My aunt is not aware how late it is,\nnor how long we have been absent but I am sure we shall be wanted, and\nI am determined to go directly. I have said nothing about it to any\nbody. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to\nthe ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not\nbe missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I\nam gone? \n\n Certainly, if you wish it; but you are not going to walk to Highbury\nalone? \n\n Yes what should hurt me? I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty\nminutes. \n\n But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my\nfather s servant go with you. Let me order the carriage. It can be\nround in five minutes. \n\n Thank you, thank you but on no account. I would rather walk. And for\n_me_ to be afraid of walking alone! I, who may so soon have to guard\nothers! \n\nShe spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied,  That\ncan be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the\ncarriage. The heat even would be danger. You are fatigued already. \n\n I am, she answered I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of\nfatigue quick walking will refresh me. Miss Woodhouse, we all know at\ntimes what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are\nexhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me\nhave my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary. \n\nEmma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into\nher feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched\nher safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was\ngrateful and her parting words,  Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of\nbeing sometimes alone! seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and\nto describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,\neven towards some of those who loved her best.\n\n Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!  said Emma, as she turned back into\nthe hall again.  I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of\ntheir just horrors, the more I shall like you. \n\nJane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only\naccomplished some views of St. Mark s Place, Venice, when Frank\nChurchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had\nforgotten to think of him but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston\nwould be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right who\nhad named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a\ntemporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had\nlasted some hours and he had quite given up every thought of coming,\ntill very late; and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how\nlate, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have\ncome at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing\nlike it almost wished he had staid at home nothing killed him like\nheat he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was\nintolerable and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the\nslight remains of Mr. Woodhouse s fire, looking very deplorable.\n\n You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,  said Emma.\n\n As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be\nspared but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be\ngoing soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I\ncame Madness in such weather! absolute madness! \n\nEmma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill s\nstate might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of\nhumour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be\nhis constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often\nthe cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some\nrefreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the\ndining-room and she humanely pointed out the door.\n\n No he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him\nhotter.  In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and\nmuttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all\nher attention to her father, saying in secret \n\n I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man\nwho is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet s sweet easy\ntemper will not mind it. \n\nHe was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came\nback all the better grown quite cool and, with good manners, like\nhimself able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their\nemployment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.\nHe was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,\nat last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking\nover views in Swisserland.\n\n As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,  said he.  I shall\nnever be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my\nsketches, some time or other, to look at or my tour to read or my poem.\nI shall do something to expose myself. \n\n That may be but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to\nSwisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave\nEngland. \n\n They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for\nher. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I\nassure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I\nshall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I\nwant a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating\neyes may fancy I am sick of England and would leave it to-morrow, if I\ncould. \n\n You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few\nhardships for yourself, and be contented to stay? \n\n _I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do\nnot look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in\nevery thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate\nperson. \n\n You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and\neat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice\nof cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you\nnearly on a par with the rest of us. \n\n No I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure. \n\n We are going to Box Hill to-morrow; you will join us. It is not\nSwisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want\nof a change. You will stay, and go with us? \n\n No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening. \n\n But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning. \n\n No It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross. \n\n Then pray stay at Richmond. \n\n But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of\nyou all there without me. \n\n These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your\nown degree of crossness. I shall press you no more. \n\nThe rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.\nWith some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others\ntook it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and\ndisturbance on Miss Fairfax s disappearance being explained. That it\nwas time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short\nfinal arrangement for the next day s scheme, they parted. Frank\nChurchill s little inclination to exclude himself increased so much,\nthat his last words to Emma were,\n\n Well; if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will. \n\nShe smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from\nRichmond was to take him back before the following evening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nThey had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward\ncircumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in\nfavour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating\nsafely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good\ntime. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with\nthe Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.\nWoodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.\nSeven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body\nhad a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount\nof the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of\nspirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated\ntoo much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took\ncharge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank\nChurchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise\nbetter. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never\nmaterially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness\nto mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole\nhours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of\nseparation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine\nprospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to\nremove.\n\nAt first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank\nChurchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing looked\nwithout seeing admired without intelligence listened without knowing\nwhat she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet\nshould be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.\n\nWhen they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,\nfor Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first\nobject. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to\nher. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he\ncared for and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered,\nwas gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the\nadmission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most\nanimating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own\nestimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people\nlooking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but\nflirtation could very well describe.  Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss\nWoodhouse flirted together excessively.  They were laying themselves\nopen to that very phrase and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple\nGrove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and\nthoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less\nhappy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed;\nand though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all,\nwhether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious,\nthey were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her\nfriend.\n\n How much I am obliged to you,  said he,  for telling me to come\nto-day! If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all\nthe happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again. \n\n Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that\nyou were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than\nyou deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to\ncome. \n\n Don t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me. \n\n It is hotter to-day. \n\n Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day. \n\n You are comfortable because you are under command. \n\n Your command? Yes. \n\n Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,\nsomehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own\nmanagement; but to-day you are got back again and as I cannot be always\nwith you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command\nrather than mine. \n\n It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a\nmotive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always\nwith me. You are always with me. \n\n Dating from three o clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not\nbegin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour\nbefore. \n\n Three o clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you\nfirst in February. \n\n Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice) nobody\nspeaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking\nnonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people. \n\n I say nothing of which I am ashamed,  replied he, with lively\nimpudence.  I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill\nhear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and\nDorking on the other. I saw you first in February.  And then\nwhispering Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to\nrouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies and\ngentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,\npresides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking\nof? \n\nSome laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great\ndeal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse s presiding; Mr.\nKnightley s answer was the most distinct.\n\n Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all\nthinking of? \n\n Oh! no, no cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could Upon no\naccount in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt\nof just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all\nthinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps,\n(glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be\nafraid of knowing. \n\n It is a sort of thing,  cried Mrs. Elton emphatically,  which _I_\nshould not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,\nperhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party _I_ never was in any\ncircle exploring parties young ladies married women \n\nHer mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,\n\n Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed quite unheard of but\nsome ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body\nknows what is due to _you_. \n\n It will not do,  whispered Frank to Emma;  they are most of them\naffronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen I\nam ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of\nknowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires\nsomething very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here\nare seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very\nentertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one\nthing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated or two\nthings moderately clever or three things very dull indeed, and she\nengages to laugh heartily at them all. \n\n Oh! very well,  exclaimed Miss Bates,  then I need not be uneasy.\n Three things very dull indeed.  That will just do for me, you know. I\nshall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,\nshan t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on\nevery body s assent) Do not you all think I shall? \n\nEmma could not resist.\n\n Ah! ma am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me but you will be\nlimited as to number only three at once. \n\nMiss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not\nimmediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not\nanger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.\n\n Ah! well to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.\nKnightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very\ndisagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old\nfriend. \n\n I like your plan,  cried Mr. Weston.  Agreed, agreed. I will do my\nbest. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon? \n\n Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,  answered his son; but we shall be\nindulgent especially to any one who leads the way. \n\n No, no,  said Emma,  it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.\nWeston s shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me\nhear it. \n\n I doubt its being very clever myself,  said Mr. Weston.  It is too\nmuch a matter of fact, but here it is. What two letters of the alphabet\nare there, that express perfection? \n\n What two letters! express perfection! I am sure I do not know. \n\n Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never\nguess. I will tell you. M. and A. Em-ma. Do you understand? \n\nUnderstanding and gratification came together. It might be a very\nindifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and\nenjoy in it and so did Frank and Harriet. It did not seem to touch the\nrest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.\nKnightley gravely said,\n\n This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston\nhas done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body\nelse. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon. \n\n Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,  said Mrs. Elton;  _I_\nreally cannot attempt I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had\nan acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all\npleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy! You know\nwho I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well\nat Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of\nplace, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in\nsummer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have\nwitty things at every body s service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I\nhave a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be\nallowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if\nyou please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We\nhave nothing clever to say not one of us.\n\n Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,  added her husband, with a sort of sneering\nconsciousness;  _I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss\nWoodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man quite good for\nnothing. Shall we walk, Augusta? \n\n With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.\nCome, Jane, take my other arm. \n\nJane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.  Happy\ncouple!  said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of\nhearing: How well they suit one another! Very lucky marrying as they\ndid, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place! They only knew\neach other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky! for as to\nany real knowledge of a person s disposition that Bath, or any public\nplace, can give it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is\nonly by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as\nthey always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it\nis all guess and luck and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man\nhas committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest\nof his life! \n\nMiss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own\nconfederates, spoke now.\n\n Such things do occur, undoubtedly. She was stopped by a cough. Frank\nChurchill turned towards her to listen.\n\n You were speaking,  said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.\n\n I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate\ncircumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot\nimagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may\narise but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I\nwould be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute\ncharacters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)\nwho will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an\noppression for ever. \n\nHe made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon\nafterwards said, in a lively tone,\n\n Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I\nmarry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning\nto Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me? I am sure I should like any\nbody fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a\nsmile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt\nher, educate her. \n\n And make her like myself. \n\n By all means, if you can. \n\n Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming\nwife. \n\n She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.\nI shall go abroad for a couple of years and when I return, I shall come\nto you for my wife. Remember. \n\nEmma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every\nfavourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?\nHazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.\nHe might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could\nsay? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.\n\n Now, ma am,  said Jane to her aunt,  shall we join Mrs. Elton? \n\n If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was\nready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall\nsoon overtake her. There she is no, that s somebody else. That s one of\nthe ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her. Well, I\ndeclare \n\nThey walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr.\nWeston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man s\nspirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at\nlast of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking\nquietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and\nquite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views\nbeneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to\ngive notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of\ncollecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to\nhave _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the\nquiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of\nthis day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many\nill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.\n\nWhile waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He\nlooked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,\n\n Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a\nprivilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use\nit. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could\nyou be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your\nwit to a woman of her character, age, and situation? Emma, I had not\nthought it possible. \n\nEmma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.\n\n Nay, how could I help saying what I did? Nobody could have helped it.\nIt was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me. \n\n I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it\nsince. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it with what\ncandour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your\nforbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for\never receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be\nso irksome. \n\n Oh!  cried Emma,  I know there is not a better creature in the world:\nbut you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most\nunfortunately blended in her. \n\n They are blended,  said he,  I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,\nI could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over\nthe good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless\nabsurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any\nliberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation but, Emma,\nconsider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk\nfrom the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must\nprobably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was\nbadly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she\nhad seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have\nyou now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at\nher, humble her and before her niece, too and before others, many of\nwhom (certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment\nof her. This is not pleasant to you, Emma and it is very far from\npleasant to me; but I must, I will, I will tell you truths while I can;\nsatisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and\ntrusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than\nyou can do now. \n\nWhile they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was\nready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had\nmisinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her\ntongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,\nmortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and,\non entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome then\nreproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no\nacknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with\nvoice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He\nhad turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look\nback, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they\nwere half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was\nvexed beyond what could have been expressed almost beyond what she\ncould conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at\nany circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth\nof this representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart.\nHow could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could\nshe have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And\nhow suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of\nconcurrence, of common kindness!\n\nTime did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel\nit more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary\nto speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,\nfagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running\ndown her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble\nto check them, extraordinary as they were.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nThe wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma s thoughts all the\nevening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could\nnot tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways,\nmight be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was a\nmorning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational\nsatisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than\nany she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her\nfather, was felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for\nthere she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his\ncomfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond\naffection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct,\nbe open to any severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not\nwithout a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her,  How could\nyou be so unfeeling to your father? I must, I will tell you truths\nwhile I can.  Miss Bates should never again no, never! If attention, in\nfuture, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had\nbeen often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in\nthought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more.\nIn the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next\nmorning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular,\nequal, kindly intercourse.\n\nShe was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that\nnothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she\nmight see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while\nshe were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be\nashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.\nHer eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.\n\n The ladies were all at home.  She had never rejoiced at the sound\nbefore, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,\nwith any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of\nderiving it, except in subsequent ridicule.\n\nThere was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.\nShe heard Miss Bates s voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the\nmaid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait\na moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed\nboth escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse\nof, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she\nheard Miss Bates saying,  Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid\ndown upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough. \n\nPoor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did\nnot quite understand what was going on.\n\n I am afraid Jane is not very well,  said she,  but I do not know; they\n_tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently,\nMiss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I\nam very little able Have you a chair, ma am? Do you sit where you like?\nI am sure she will be here presently. \n\nEmma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment s fear of Miss Bates\nkeeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came Very happy and\nobliged but Emma s conscience told her that there was not the same\ncheerful volubility as before less ease of look and manner. A very\nfriendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a\nreturn of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.\n\n Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are! I suppose you have heard and are\ncome to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in\nme (twinkling away a tear or two) but it will be very trying for us to\npart with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful\nheadache just now, writing all the morning: such long letters, you\nknow, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon.  My dear, \nsaid I,  you will blind yourself for tears were in her eyes\nperpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great\nchange; and though she is amazingly fortunate such a situation, I\nsuppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out do\nnot think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good\nfortune (again dispersing her tears) but, poor dear soul! if you were\nto see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one\ncannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as\npossible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy\nshe is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming\nto you she is not able she is gone into her own room I want her to lie\ndown upon the bed.  My dear,  said I,  I shall say you are laid down\nupon the bed:  but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room.\nBut, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be\nwell. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,\nbut your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door I\nwas quite ashamed but somehow there was a little bustle for it so\nhappened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the\nstairs, we did not know any body was coming.  It is only Mrs. Cole, \nsaid I,  depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.   Well,  said\nshe,  it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now. \nBut then Patty came in, and said it was you.  Oh!  said I,  it is Miss\nWoodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her. I can see nobody, \nsaid she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us\nkeep you waiting and extremely sorry and ashamed we were.  If you must\ngo, my dear,  said I,  you must, and I will say you are laid down upon\nthe bed. \n\nEmma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing\nkinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted\nas a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing\nbut pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle\nsensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very\nnaturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when\nshe might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest\nregret and solicitude sincerely wishing that the circumstances which\nshe collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might\nbe as much for Miss Fairfax s advantage and comfort as possible.  It\nmust be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be\ndelayed till Colonel Campbell s return. \n\n So very kind!  replied Miss Bates.  But you are always kind. \n\nThere was no bearing such an  always;  and to break through her\ndreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of \n\n Where may I ask? is Miss Fairfax going? \n\n To a Mrs. Smallridge charming woman most superior to have the charge\nof her three little girls delightful children. Impossible that any\nsituation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps,\nMrs. Suckling s own family, and Mrs. Bragge s; but Mrs. Smallridge is\nintimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood: lives only four\nmiles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove. \n\n Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes \n\n Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She\nwould not take a denial. She would not let Jane say,  No;  for when\nJane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very\nmorning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite\ndecided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention;\nexactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till\nColonel Campbell s return, and nothing should induce her to enter into\nany engagement at present and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over\nagain and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her\nmind! but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw\nfarther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in\nsuch a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane s answer; but she\npositively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as\nJane wished her; she would wait and, sure enough, yesterday evening it\nwas all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not\nthe least idea! Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that\nupon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge s situation, she\nhad come to the resolution of accepting it. I did not know a word of it\ntill it was all settled. \n\n You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton? \n\n Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon\nthe hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley.  You _must_\n_all_ spend your evening with us,  said she I positively must have you\n_all_ come. \n\n Mr. Knightley was there too, was he? \n\n No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I\nthought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let\nhim off, he did not; but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there,\nand a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss\nWoodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed\nrather fagged after the morning s party. Even pleasure, you know, is\nfatiguing and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have\nenjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party,\nand feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it. \n\n Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been\nmaking up her mind the whole day? \n\n I dare say she had. \n\n Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her\nfriends but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is\npossible I mean, as to the character and manners of the family. \n\n Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in\nthe world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and\nBragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal\nand elegant, in all Mrs. Elton s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most\ndelightful woman! A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove and as\nto the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there\nare not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with\nsuch regard and kindness! It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of\npleasure. And her salary! I really cannot venture to name her salary to\nyou, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would\nhardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like\nJane. \n\n Ah! madam,  cried Emma,  if other children are at all like what I\nremember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of\nwhat I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly\nearned. \n\n You are so noble in your ideas! \n\n And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you? \n\n Very soon, very soon, indeed; that s the worst of it. Within a\nfortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not\nknow how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and\nsay, Come ma am, do not let us think about it any more. \n\n Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and\nMrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before\ntheir return? \n\n Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a\nsituation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so\nastonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs.\nElton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me\nupon it! It was before tea stay no, it could not be before tea, because\nwe were just going to cards and yet it was before tea, because I\nremember thinking Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something\nhappened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room\nbefore tea, old John Abdy s son wanted to speak with him. Poor old\nJohn, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father\ntwenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very\npoorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints I must go and see him\nto-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor\nJohn s son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he\nis very well to do himself, you know, being head man at the Crown,\nostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his\nfather without some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us\nwhat John ostler had been telling him, and then it came out about the\nchaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to\nRichmond. That was what happened before tea. It was after tea that Jane\nspoke to Mrs. Elton. \n\nMiss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this\ncircumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she\ncould be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill s\ngoing, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.\n\nWhat Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the\naccumulation of the ostler s own knowledge, and the knowledge of the\nservants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond\nsoon after the return of the party from Box Hill which messenger,\nhowever, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had\nsent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable\naccount of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming\nback beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having\nresolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse\nseeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the\nCrown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy\ngoing a good pace, and driving very steady.\n\nThere was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it\ncaught Emma s attention only as it united with the subject which\nalready engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill s\nimportance in the world, and Jane Fairfax s, struck her; one was every\nthing, the other nothing and she sat musing on the difference of\nwoman s destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed,\ntill roused by Miss Bates s saying,\n\n Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become\nof that? Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now. You\nmust go,  said she.  You and I must part. You will have no business\nhere. Let it stay, however,  said she;  give it houseroom till Colonel\nCampbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for\nme; he will help me out of all my difficulties. And to this day, I do\nbelieve, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter s. \n\nNow Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of\nall her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,\nthat she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long\nenough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to\nsay of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nEmma s pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;\nbut on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr.\nKnightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting\nwith her father. Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner\ndecidedly graver than usual, said,\n\n I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,\nand therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend\na few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,\nbesides the  love,  which nobody carries? \n\n Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme? \n\n Yes rather I have been thinking of it some little time. \n\nEmma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time,\nhowever, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends\nagain. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going her father\nbegan his inquiries.\n\n Well, my dear, and did you get there safely? And how did you find my\nworthy old friend and her daughter? I dare say they must have been very\nmuch obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and\nMiss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so\nattentive to them! \n\nEmma s colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile,\nand shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.\nKnightley. It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in\nher favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that\nhad passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured. \nHe looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified and in\nanother moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common\nfriendliness on his part. He took her hand; whether she had not herself\nmade the first motion, she could not say she might, perhaps, have\nrather offered it but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was\non the point of carrying it to his lips when, from some fancy or other,\nhe suddenly let it go. Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should\nchange his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive. He\nwould have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped. The\nintention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his\nmanners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it\nhappened, but she thought nothing became him more. It was with him, of\nso simple, yet so dignified a nature. She could not but recall the\nattempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity. He left\nthem immediately afterwards gone in a moment. He always moved with the\nalertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but\nnow he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.\n\nEmma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she\nhad left her ten minutes earlier; it would have been a great pleasure\nto talk over Jane Fairfax s situation with Mr. Knightley. Neither would\nshe regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew\nhow much his visit would be enjoyed but it might have happened at a\nbetter time and to have had longer notice of it, would have been\npleasanter. They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be\ndeceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished\ngallantry; it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered\nhis good opinion. He had been sitting with them half an hour, she\nfound. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!\n\nIn the hope of diverting her father s thoughts from the\ndisagreeableness of Mr. Knightley s going to London; and going so\nsuddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad;\nEmma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the\neffect was justified; it supplied a very useful check, interested,\nwithout disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax s\ngoing out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr.\nKnightley s going to London had been an unexpected blow.\n\n I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably\nsettled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say\nher acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry\nsituation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to\nbe a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor s always was with me.\nYou know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor\nwas to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be\ninduced to go away after it has been her home so long. \n\nThe following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else\ninto the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the\ndeath of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason\nto hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty\nhours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any\nthing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short\nstruggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.\n\nIt was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of\ngravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the\nsurviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where\nshe would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops\nto folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be\ndisagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.\nMrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was\nnow spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully\njustified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The\nevent acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of\nimaginary complaints.\n\n Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:\nmore than any body had ever supposed and continual pain would try the\ntemper. It was a sad event a great shock with all her faults, what\nwould Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill s loss would be\ndreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it. Even Mr.\nWeston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said,  Ah! poor woman,\nwho would have thought it!  and resolved, that his mourning should be\nas handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over\nher broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady.\nHow it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It\nwas also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs.\nChurchill, the grief of her husband her mind glanced over them both\nwith awe and compassion and then rested with lightened feelings on how\nFrank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw\nin a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith\nwould have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his\nwife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into\nany thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the\nnephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the\ncause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.\n\nHarriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great\nself-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed\nnothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of\nstrengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might\nendanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill s\ndeath with mutual forbearance.\n\nShort letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all\nthat was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill\nwas better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the\ndeparture of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a\nvery old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a\nvisit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for\nHarriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible\non Emma s side.\n\nIt was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose\nprospects were closing, while Harriet s opened, and whose engagements\nnow allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her\nkindness and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely\na stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she\nhad been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she\nwould have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted\nto be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and\ntestify respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to\nspend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation\nwas refused, and by a verbal message.  Miss Fairfax was not well enough\nto write;  and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it\nappeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited,\nthough against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering\nunder severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him\ndoubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge s at the time\nproposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged appetite\nquite gone and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms,\nnothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing\napprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought\nshe had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so\nherself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her\npresent home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous\ndisorder: confined always to one room; he could have wished it\notherwise and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must\nacknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that\ndescription. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were,\nin fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived\nmore evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern;\ngrieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some\nway of being useful. To take her be it only an hour or two from her\naunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational\nconversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the\nfollowing morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language\nshe could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any\nhour that Jane would name mentioning that she had Mr. Perry s decided\nopinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was\nonly in this short note:\n\n Miss Fairfax s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any\nexercise. \n\nEmma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was\nimpossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed\nindisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best\ncounteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the\nanswer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates s,\nin the hope that Jane would be induced to join her but it would not\ndo; Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing\nwith her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest\nservice and every thing that message could do was tried but all in\nvain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite\nunpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her\nworse. Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;\nbut, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear\nthat she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.\n Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any\nbody any body at all Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied and Mrs.\nCole had made such a point and Mrs. Perry had said so much but, except\nthem, Jane would really see nobody. \n\nEmma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,\nand the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could\nshe feel any right of preference herself she submitted, therefore, and\nonly questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece s appetite and diet,\nwhich she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates\nwas very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any\nthing: Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they\ncould command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was\ndistasteful.\n\nEmma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an\nexamination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality\nwas speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In\nhalf an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from\nMiss Bates, but  dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being\nsent back; it was a thing she could not take and, moreover, she\ninsisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing. \n\nWhen Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering\nabout the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of\nthe very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any\nexercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,\nshe could have no doubt putting every thing together that Jane was\nresolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry.\nHer heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable\nfrom this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and\ninequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little\ncredit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend:\nbut she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good,\nand of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been\nprivy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have\nseen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any\nthing to reprove.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nOne morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill s decease, Emma was\ncalled downstairs to Mr. Weston, who  could not stay five minutes, and\nwanted particularly to speak with her. He met her at the parlour-door,\nand hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice,\nsunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,\n\n Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning? Do, if it be\npossible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you. \n\n Is she unwell? \n\n No, no, not at all only a little agitated. She would have ordered the\ncarriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you\nknow (nodding towards her father) Humph! Can you come? \n\n Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what\nyou ask in such a way. But what can be the matter? Is she really not\nill? \n\n Depend upon me but ask no more questions. You will know it all in\ntime. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush! \n\nTo guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something\nreally important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was\nwell, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her\nfather, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon\nout of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for\nRandalls.\n\n Now, said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates, now\nMr. Weston, do let me know what has happened. \n\n No, no, he gravely replied. Don t ask me. I promised my wife to\nleave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not\nbe impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon. \n\n Break it to me,  cried Emma, standing still with terror. Good\nGod! Mr. Weston, tell me at once. Something has happened in Brunswick\nSquare. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what\nit is. \n\n No, indeed you are mistaken. \n\n Mr. Weston do not trifle with me. Consider how many of my dearest\nfriends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it? I charge you\nby all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment. \n\n Upon my word, Emma. \n\n Your word! why not your honour! why not say upon your honour, that it\nhas nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens! What can be to be\n_broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family? \n\n Upon my honour,  said he very seriously,  it does not. It is not in\nthe smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of\nKnightley. \n\nEmma s courage returned, and she walked on.\n\n I was wrong,  he continued,  in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I\nshould not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern\nyou it concerns only myself, that is, we hope. Humph! In short, my dear\nEmma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don t say that\nit is not a disagreeable business but things might be much worse. If we\nwalk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls. \n\nEmma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She\nasked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and\nthat soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money\nconcern something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the\ncircumstances of the family, something which the late event at Richmond\nhad brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural\nchildren, perhaps and poor Frank cut off! This, though very\nundesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little\nmore than an animating curiosity.\n\n Who is that gentleman on horseback?  said she, as they\nproceeded speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,\nthan with any other view.\n\n I do not know. One of the Otways. Not Frank; it is not Frank, I assure\nyou. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time. \n\n Has your son been with you, then? \n\n Oh! yes did not you know? Well, well, never mind. \n\nFor a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded\nand demure,\n\n Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did. \n\nThey hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls. Well, my dear,  said\nhe, as they entered the room I have brought her, and now I hope you\nwill soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in\ndelay. I shall not be far off, if you want me. And Emma distinctly\nheard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room, I have\nbeen as good as my word. She has not the least idea. \n\nMrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,\nthat Emma s uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she\neagerly said,\n\n What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I\nfind, has occurred; do let me know directly what it is. I have been\nwalking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do\nnot let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your\ndistress, whatever it may be. \n\n Have you indeed no idea?  said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.\n Cannot you, my dear Emma cannot you form a guess as to what you are to\nhear? \n\n So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess. \n\n You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly; \n(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.)  He has\nbeen here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is\nimpossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a\nsubject, to announce an attachment \n\nShe stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of\nHarriet.\n\n More than an attachment, indeed,  resumed Mrs. Weston;  an\nengagement a positive engagement. What will you say, Emma what will any\nbody say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are\nengaged; nay, that they have been long engaged! \n\nEmma even jumped with surprize; and, horror-struck, exclaimed,\n\n Jane Fairfax! Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it? \n\n You may well be amazed,  returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her\neyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to\nrecover   You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a\nsolemn engagement between them ever since October formed at Weymouth,\nand kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but\nthemselves neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his. It is so\nwonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet\nalmost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it. I thought I knew\nhim. \n\nEmma scarcely heard what was said. Her mind was divided between two\nideas her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and\npoor Harriet; and for some time she could only exclaim, and require\nconfirmation, repeated confirmation.\n\n Well,  said she at last, trying to recover herself;  this is a\ncircumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at\nall comprehend it. What! engaged to her all the winter before either of\nthem came to Highbury? \n\n Engaged since October, secretly engaged. It has hurt me, Emma, very\nmuch. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we\ncannot excuse. \n\nEmma pondered a moment, and then replied,  I will not pretend _not_ to\nunderstand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured\nthat no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are\napprehensive of. \n\nMrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma s countenance was as\nsteady as her words.\n\n That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my\npresent perfect indifference,  she continued,  I will farther tell you,\nthat there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I\ndid like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him nay,\nwas attached and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.\nFortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,\nfor at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may\nbelieve me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth. \n\nMrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find\nutterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good\nthan any thing else in the world could do.\n\n Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,  said she.  On\nthis point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you\nmight be attached to each other and we were persuaded that it was so. \nImagine what we have been feeling on your account. \n\n I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful\nwonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;\nand I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to\ncome among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so\n_very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he\ncertainly did to distinguish any one young woman with persevering\nattention, as he certainly did while he really belonged to another? How\ncould he tell what mischief he might be doing? How could he tell that\nhe might not be making me in love with him? very wrong, very wrong\nindeed. \n\n From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine \n\n And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to\nlook on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,\nbefore her face, and not resent it. That is a degree of placidity,\nwhich I can neither comprehend nor respect. \n\n There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.\nHe had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a\nquarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the\nfull use even of the time he could stay but that there had been\nmisunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed\nto be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very\npossibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct. \n\n Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston it is too calm a censure. Much, much\nbeyond impropriety! It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him\nin my opinion. So unlike what a man should be! None of that upright\nintegrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain\nof trick and littleness, which a man should display in every\ntransaction of his life. \n\n Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong\nin this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having\nmany, very many, good qualities; and \n\n Good God!  cried Emma, not attending to her. Mrs. Smallridge, too!\nJane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by\nsuch horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself to suffer her\neven to think of such a measure! \n\n He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit\nhim. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him or at\nleast not communicated in a way to carry conviction. Till yesterday, I\nknow he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I\ndo not know how, but by some letter or message and it was the discovery\nof what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined\nhim to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on\nhis kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of\nconcealment that had been carrying on so long. \n\nEmma began to listen better.\n\n I am to hear from him soon,  continued Mrs. Weston.  He told me at\nparting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which\nseemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let\nus wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It\nmay make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be\nunderstood. Don t let us be severe, don t let us be in a hurry to\ncondemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am\nsatisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious\nfor its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must\nboth have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and\nconcealment. \n\n _His_ sufferings,  replied Emma dryly,  do not appear to have done him\nmuch harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it? \n\n Most favourably for his nephew gave his consent with scarcely a\ndifficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that\nfamily! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have\nbeen a hope, a chance, a possibility; but scarcely are her remains at\nrest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly\nopposite to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when\nundue influence does not survive the grave! He gave his consent with\nvery little persuasion. \n\n Ah!  thought Emma,  he would have done as much for Harriet. \n\n This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this\nmorning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates s, I fancy, some time and\nthen came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle,\nto whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you,\nhe could stay with us but a quarter of an hour. He was very much\nagitated very much, indeed to a degree that made him appear quite a\ndifferent creature from any thing I had ever seen him before. In\naddition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so\nvery unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of and there was\nevery appearance of his having been feeling a great deal. \n\n And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with\nsuch perfect secresy? The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know\nof the engagement? \n\nEmma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.\n\n None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being\nin the world but their two selves. \n\n Well,  said Emma,  I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the\nidea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very\nabominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of\nhypocrisy and deceit, espionage, and treachery? To come among us with\nprofessions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to\njudge us all! Here have we been, the whole winter and spring,\ncompletely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth\nand honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been\ncarrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and\nwords that were never meant for both to hear. They must take the\nconsequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not\nperfectly agreeable! \n\n I am quite easy on that head,  replied Mrs. Weston.  I am very sure\nthat I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might\nnot have heard. \n\n You are in luck. Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you\nimagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady. \n\n True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss\nFairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and\nas to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe. \n\nAt this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the\nwindow, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited\nhim in; and, while he was coming round, added,  Now, dearest Emma, let\nme intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at\nease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the\nbest of it and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her\nfavour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not\nfeel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance\nfor him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a\ngirl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always\ngiven her credit for and still am disposed to give her credit for, in\nspite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And\nhow much may be said in her situation for even that error! \n\n Much, indeed!  cried Emma feelingly.  If a woman can ever be excused\nfor thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane\nFairfax s. Of such, one may almost say, that  the world is not their s,\nnor the world s law. \n\nShe met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,\nexclaiming,\n\n A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a\ndevice, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent\nof guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half\nyour property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of\ncondolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation. I congratulate\nyou, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of\nthe most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your\ndaughter. \n\nA glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as\nright as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits\nwas immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he\nshook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the\nsubject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and\npersuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions\nsuggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections;\nand by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked\nit all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was\nbecome perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best\nthing that Frank could possibly have done.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n Harriet, poor Harriet! Those were the words; in them lay the\ntormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted\nthe real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved\nvery ill by herself very ill in many ways, but it was not so much _his_\nbehaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the\nscrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet s account, that gave the\ndeepest hue to his offence. Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe\nof her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken\nprophetically, when he once said,  Emma, you have been no friend to\nHarriet Smith. She was afraid she had done her nothing but\ndisservice. It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this\ninstance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of\nthe mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise\nnever have entered Harriet s imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged\nher admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever\ngiven her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of\nhaving encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have\nprevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence\nwould have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought\nto have prevented them. She felt that she had been risking her friend s\nhappiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have\ndirected her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think\nof him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his\never caring for her. But, with common sense,  she added,  I am afraid\nI have had little to do. \n\nShe was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry\nwith Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful. As for Jane\nFairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present\nsolicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no\nlonger be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health\nhaving, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure. Her\ndays of insignificance and evil were over. She would soon be well, and\nhappy, and prosperous. Emma could now imagine why her own attentions\nhad been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No\ndoubt it had been from jealousy. In Jane s eyes she had been a rival;\nand well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be\nrepulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,\nand arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She\nunderstood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from\nthe injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that\nJane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her\ndesert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was\nlittle sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful\nthat this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.\nConsidering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and\njudging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet s mind, producing\nreserve and self-command, it would. She must communicate the painful\ntruth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had\nbeen among Mr. Weston s parting words.  For the present, the whole\naffair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of\nit, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and\nevery body admitted it to be no more than due decorum. Emma had\npromised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.\n\nIn spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost\nridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate\noffice to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through\nby herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to\nher, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat\nquick on hearing Harriet s footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had\npoor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the\nevent of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance! But of that,\nunfortunately, there could be no chance.\n\n Well, Miss Woodhouse!  cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room is\nnot this the oddest news that ever was? \n\n What news do you mean?  replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or\nvoice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.\n\n About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh! you\nneed not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me\nhimself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret;\nand, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but\nyou, but he said you knew it. \n\n What did Mr. Weston tell you? said Emma, still perplexed.\n\n Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill\nare to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one\nanother this long while. How very odd! \n\nIt was, indeed, so odd; Harriet s behaviour was so extremely odd, that\nEmma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared\nabsolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or\ndisappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at\nher, quite unable to speak.\n\n Had you any idea,  cried Harriet,  of his being in love with her? You,\nperhaps, might. You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every\nbody s heart; but nobody else \n\n Upon my word,  said Emma,  I begin to doubt my having any such talent.\nCan you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to\nanother woman at the very time that I was tacitly, if not\nopenly encouraging you to give way to your own feelings? I never had\nthe slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank\nChurchill s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very\nsure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly. \n\n Me!  cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished.  Why should you caution\nme? You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill. \n\n I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,  replied\nEmma, smiling;  but you do not mean to deny that there was a time and\nnot very distant either when you gave me reason to understand that you\ndid care about him? \n\n Him! never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me? \nturning away distressed.\n\n Harriet!  cried Emma, after a moment s pause What do you mean? Good\nHeaven! what do you mean? Mistake you! Am I to suppose then? \n\nShe could not speak another word. Her voice was lost; and she sat down,\nwaiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.\n\nHarriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from\nher, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was\nin a voice nearly as agitated as Emma s.\n\n I should not have thought it possible,  she began,  that you could\nhave misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him but\nconsidering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should\nnot have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other\nperson. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look\nat him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than\nto think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And\nthat you should have been so mistaken, is amazing! I am sure, but for\nbelieving that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my\nattachment, I should have considered it at first too great a\npresumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not\ntold me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been\nmatches of greater disparity (those were your very words); I should not\nhave dared to give way to I should not have thought it possible But if\n_you_, who had been always acquainted with him \n\n Harriet!  cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely Let us understand\neach other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you\nspeaking of Mr. Knightley? \n\n To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else and so I\nthought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as\npossible. \n\n Not quite,  returned Emma, with forced calmness,  for all that you\nthen said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could\nalmost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the\nservice Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from\nthe gipsies, was spoken of. \n\n Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget! \n\n My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on\nthe occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that\nconsidering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely\nnatural: and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to\nyour sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations\nhad been in seeing him come forward to your rescue. The impression of\nit is strong on my memory. \n\n Oh, dear,  cried Harriet,  now I recollect what you mean; but I was\nthinking of something very different at the time. It was not the\ngipsies it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some\nelevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance of Mr.\nKnightley s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not\nstand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That\nwas the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity;\nthat was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to\nevery other being upon earth. \n\n Good God!  cried Emma,  this has been a most unfortunate most\ndeplorable mistake! What is to be done? \n\n You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At\nleast, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the\nother had been the person; and now it _is_ possible \n\nShe paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.\n\n I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,  she resumed,  that you should feel a\ngreat difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must\nthink one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But\nI hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing that if strange as it may\nappear . But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful\nthings had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place\nthan between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if\nsuch a thing even as this, may have occurred before and if I should be\nso fortunate, beyond expression, as to if Mr. Knightley should\nreally if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss\nWoodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put\ndifficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure. \n\nHarriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look\nat her in consternation, and hastily said,\n\n Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley s returning your affection? \n\n Yes,  replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully I must say that I\nhave. \n\nEmma s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,\nin a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient\nfor making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once\nopening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched she admitted she\nacknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet\nshould be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why\nwas the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet s having some hope of a\nreturn? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr.\nKnightley must marry no one but herself!\n\nHer own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same\nfew minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed\nher before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How\ninconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been\nher conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck\nher with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in\nthe world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of\nall these demerits some concern for her own appearance, and a strong\nsense of justice by Harriet (there would be no need of _compassion_ to\nthe girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley but justice\nrequired that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave\nEmma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even\napparent kindness. For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the\nutmost extent of Harriet s hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet\nhad done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so\nvoluntarily formed and maintained or to deserve to be slighted by the\nperson, whose counsels had never led her right. Rousing from\nreflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet\nagain, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as\nto the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of\nJane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost. Neither of them thought but\nof Mr. Knightley and themselves.\n\nHarriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad\nto be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge,\nand such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to\ngive the history of her hopes with great, though trembling\ndelight. Emma s tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were\nbetter concealed than Harriet s, but they were not less. Her voice was\nnot unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a\ndevelopment of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion\nof sudden and perplexing emotions, must create. She listened with much\ninward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet s\ndetail. Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could\nnot be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the\nfeebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her\nspirit especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own\nmemory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley s most improved opinion of\nHarriet.\n\nHarriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since\nthose two decisive dances. Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,\nfound her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at\nleast from the time of Miss Woodhouse s encouraging her to think of\nhim, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more\nthan he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different\nmanner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness! Latterly she\nhad been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking\ntogether, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very\ndelightfully! He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it\nto have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to\nalmost the same extent. Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and\npraise from him and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with\nwhat she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being\nwithout art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,\nfeelings. She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had\ndwelt on them to her more than once. Much that lived in Harriet s\nmemory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from\nhim, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a\ncompliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because\nunsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour s\nrelation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had\npassed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest\noccurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet,\nwere not without some degree of witness from Emma herself. The first,\nwas his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at\nDonwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he\nhad taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to\nhimself and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way\nthan he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed! (Harriet\ncould not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking\nher, whether her affections were engaged. But as soon as she (Miss\nWoodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and\nbegan talking about farming: The second, was his having sat talking\nwith her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the\nvery last morning of his being at Hartfield though, when he first came\nin, he had said that he could not stay five minutes and his having told\nher, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it\nwas very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which\nwas much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The\nsuperior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article\nmarked, gave her severe pain.\n\nOn the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a\nlittle reflection, venture the following question.  Might he not? Is\nnot it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of\nyour affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin he might have Mr.\nMartin s interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with\nspirit.\n\n Mr. Martin! No indeed! There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I\nknow better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of\nit. \n\nWhen Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss\nWoodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.\n\n I never should have presumed to think of it at first,  said she,  but\nfor you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be\nthe rule of mine and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may\ndeserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so\nvery wonderful. \n\nThe bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter\nfeelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma s side, to enable\nher to say on reply,\n\n Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the\nlast man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea\nof his feeling for her more than he really does. \n\nHarriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so\nsatisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which\nat that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her\nfather s footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too\nmuch agitated to encounter him.  She could not compose herself  Mr.\nWoodhouse would be alarmed she had better go; with most ready\nencouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through\nanother door and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous\nburst of Emma s feelings:  Oh God! that I had never seen her! \n\nThe rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her\nthoughts. She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had\nrushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a\nfresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to\nher. How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had\nbeen thus practising on herself, and living under! The blunders, the\nblindness of her own head and heart! she sat still, she walked about,\nshe tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery in every place, every\nposture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had\nbeen imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had\nbeen imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was\nwretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of\nwretchedness.\n\nTo understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first\nendeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father s\nclaims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.\n\nHow long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling\ndeclared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun? \nWhen had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank\nChurchill had once, for a short period, occupied? She looked back; she\ncompared the two compared them, as they had always stood in her\nestimation, from the time of the latter s becoming known to her and as\nthey must at any time have been compared by her, had it oh! had it, by\nany blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison. She\nsaw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr.\nKnightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had\nnot been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself,\nin fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a\ndelusion, totally ignorant of her own heart and, in short, that she had\nnever really cared for Frank Churchill at all!\n\nThis was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the\nknowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she\nreached; and without being long in reaching it. She was most\nsorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed\nto her her affection for Mr. Knightley. Every other part of her mind\nwas disgusting.\n\nWith insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of\nevery body s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange\nevery body s destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken;\nand she had not quite done nothing for she had done mischief. She had\nbrought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.\nKnightley. Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on\nher must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his\nattachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of\nHarriet s; and even were this not the case, he would never have known\nHarriet at all but for her folly.\n\nMr. Knightley and Harriet Smith! It was a union to distance every\nwonder of the kind. The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax\nbecame commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no\nsurprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or\nthought. Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith! Such an elevation on her\nside! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it\nmust sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the\nsneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification\nand disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to\nhimself. Could it be? No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very\nfar, from impossible. Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate\nabilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one,\nperhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek\nhim? Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal,\ninconsistent, incongruous or for chance and circumstance (as second\ncauses) to direct the human fate?\n\nOh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she\nought, and where he had told her she ought! Had she not, with a folly\nwhich no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the\nunexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable\nin the line of life to which she ought to belong all would have been\nsafe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.\n\nHow Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts\nto Mr. Knightley! How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of\nsuch a man till actually assured of it! But Harriet was less humble,\nhad fewer scruples than formerly. Her inferiority, whether of mind or\nsituation, seemed little felt. She had seemed more sensible of Mr.\nElton s being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.\nKnightley s. Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at\npains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself? Who but\nherself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,\nand that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment? If\nHarriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\nTill now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known\nhow much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley,\nfirst in interest and affection. Satisfied that it was so, and feeling\nit her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the\ndread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had\nbeen. Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no\nfemale connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims\ncould be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far\nhe loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for\nmany years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent\nor perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,\ninsensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he\nwould not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own but\nstill, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of\nmind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an\nendeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no\nother creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew\nshe was dear to him; might she not say, very dear? When the suggestions\nof hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she\ncould not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself\nnot unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by\nMr. Knightley. _She_ could not. She could not flatter herself with any\nidea of blindness in his attachment to _her_. She had received a very\nrecent proof of its impartiality. How shocked had he been by her\nbehaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed\nhimself to her on the subject! Not too strongly for the offence but\nfar, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright\njustice and clear-sighted goodwill. She had no hope, nothing to deserve\nthe name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself\nwhich was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one,\nat times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and\nbe overrating his regard for _her_. Wish it she must, for his sake be\nthe consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his\nlife. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at\nall, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied. Let him but\ncontinue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr.\nKnightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of\ntheir precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace\nwould be fully secured. Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It\nwould be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what\nshe felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She\nwould not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.\n\nIt must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she\nhoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be\nable to ascertain what the chances for it were. She should see them\nhenceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had\nhitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know\nhow to admit that she could be blinded here. He was expected back every\nday. The power of observation would be soon given frightfully soon it\nappeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she\nresolved against seeing Harriet. It would do neither of them good, it\nwould do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther. She was\nresolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had\nno authority for opposing Harriet s confidence. To talk would be only\nto irritate. She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to\nbeg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it\nto be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_\ntopic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were\nallowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of\nothers she objected only to a t te- -t te they might be able to act as\nif they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday. Harriet submitted,\nand approved, and was grateful.\n\nThis point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma s\nthoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,\nsleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours Mrs. Weston, who had\nbeen calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her\nway home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to\nrelate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.\n\nMr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates s, and gone through his\nshare of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then\ninduced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with\nmuch more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a\nquarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates s parlour, with all the\nencumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.\n\nA little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her\nfriend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal\nof agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at\nall at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead,\nand to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and\nMr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement s becoming known;\nas, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid\nwithout leading to reports: but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he\nwas extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her\nfamily, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it;\nor if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for  such things, \nhe observed,  always got about.  Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston\nhad very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short and very\ngreat had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had\nhardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn\nhow deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt\nsatisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her\ndaughter who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a\ngratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly\nrespectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation;\nthought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of\nthemselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss\nFairfax s recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to\ninvite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but,\non being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs.\nWeston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her\nembarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject.\nApologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first\nreception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always\nfeeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the\ncause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good\ndeal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs.\nWeston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief\nto her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so\nlong been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the\nsubject.\n\n On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so\nmany months,  continued Mrs. Weston,  she was energetic. This was one\nof her expressions.  I will not say, that since I entered into the\nengagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I\nhave never known the blessing of one tranquil hour: and the quivering\nlip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my\nheart. \n\n Poor girl!  said Emma.  She thinks herself wrong, then, for having\nconsented to a private engagement? \n\n Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to\nblame herself.  The consequence,  said she,  has been a state of\nperpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the\npunishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.\nPain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting\ncontrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every\nthing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my\nconscience tells me ought not to be.   Do not imagine, madam,  she\ncontinued,  that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on\nthe principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error\nhas been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that\npresent circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the\nstory known to Colonel Campbell. \n\n Poor girl!  said Emma again.  She loves him then excessively, I\nsuppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led\nto form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her\njudgment. \n\n Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him. \n\n I am afraid,  returned Emma, sighing,  that I must often have\ncontributed to make her unhappy. \n\n On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably\nhad something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the\nmisunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural\nconsequence of the evil she had involved herself in,  she said,  was\nthat of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done\namiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious\nand irritable to a degree that must have been that had been hard for\nhim to bear.  I did not make the allowances,  said she,  which I ought\nto have done, for his temper and spirits his delightful spirits, and\nthat gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other\ncircumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to\nme, as they were at first.  She then began to speak of you, and of the\ngreat kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush\nwhich shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an\nopportunity, to thank you I could not thank you too much for every wish\nand every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never\nreceived any proper acknowledgment from herself. \n\n If I did not know her to be happy now,  said Emma, seriously,  which,\nin spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she\nmust be, I could not bear these thanks; for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there\nwere an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss\nFairfax! Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is\nall to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting\nparticulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is\nvery good I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune\nshould be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers. \n\nSuch a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought\nwell of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved\nhim very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with\na great deal of reason, and at least equal affection but she had too\nmuch to urge for Emma s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square\nor to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston\nended with,  We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you\nknow, but I hope it will soon come,  she was obliged to pause before\nshe answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could\nat all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.\n\n Are you well, my Emma?  was Mrs. Weston s parting question.\n\n Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me\nintelligence of the letter as soon as possible. \n\nMrs. Weston s communications furnished Emma with more food for\nunpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her\nsense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted\nnot having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the\nenvious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.\nHad she followed Mr. Knightley s known wishes, in paying that attention\nto Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her\nbetter; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to\nfind a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all\nprobability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her\nnow. Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as\nan associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other what\nwas she? Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends;\nthat she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax s confidence on this\nimportant matter which was most probable still, in knowing her as she\nought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the\nabominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she\nhad not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so\nunpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a\nsubject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane s feelings, by the\nlevity or carelessness of Frank Churchill s. Of all the sources of evil\nsurrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded\nthat she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a\nperpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without\nher having stabbed Jane Fairfax s peace in a thousand instances; and on\nBox Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no\nmore.\n\nThe evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.\nThe weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in,\nand nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the\nwind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such\ncruel sights the longer visible.\n\nThe weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably\ncomfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter s side, and\nby exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded\nher of their first forlorn t te- -t te, on the evening of Mrs. Weston s\nwedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and\ndissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of\nHartfield s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly\nbe over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the\napproaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them,\nno pleasures had been lost. But her present forebodings she feared\nwould experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now,\nwas threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled that\nmight not be even partially brightened. If all took place that might\ntake place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be\ncomparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the\nspirits only of ruined happiness.\n\nThe child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than\nherself; and Mrs. Weston s heart and time would be occupied by it. They\nshould lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband\nalso. Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss\nFairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to\nHighbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near\nEnscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these\nlosses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of\ncheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be\nno longer coming there for his evening comfort! No longer walking in at\nall hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their s! How\nwas it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet s\nsake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet s\nsociety all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the\nfirst, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the\nbest blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma s\nwretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind, that\nit had been all her own work?\n\nWhen it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from\na start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few\nseconds and the only source whence any thing like consolation or\ncomposure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better\nconduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might\nbe the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it\nwould yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and\nleave her less to regret when it were gone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nThe weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the\nsame loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at\nHartfield but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a\nsofter quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was\nsummer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives,\nEmma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the\nexquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and\nbrilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for\nthe serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry s coming\nin soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she\nlost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery. There, with spirits\nfreshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns,\nwhen she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming\ntowards her. It was the first intimation of his being returned from\nLondon. She had been thinking of him the moment before, as\nunquestionably sixteen miles distant. There was time only for the\nquickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a\nminute they were together. The  How d ye do s  were quiet and\nconstrained on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they\nwere all well. When had he left them? Only that morning. He must have\nhad a wet ride. Yes. He meant to walk with her, she found.  He had just\nlooked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred\nbeing out of doors. She thought he neither looked nor spoke\ncheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her\nfears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his\nbrother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.\n\nThey walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking\nat her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to\ngive. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to\nspeak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for\nencouragement to begin. She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the\nway to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not\nbear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She\nconsidered resolved and, trying to smile, began \n\n You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather\nsurprize you. \n\n Have I?  said he quietly, and looking at her;  of what nature? \n\n Oh! the best nature in the world a wedding. \n\nAfter waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more,\nhe replied,\n\n If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that\nalready. \n\n How is it possible?  cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards\nhim; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called\nat Mrs. Goddard s in his way.\n\n I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and\nat the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened. \n\nEmma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more\ncomposure,\n\n _You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have\nhad your suspicions. I have not forgotten that you once tried to give\nme a caution. I wish I had attended to it but (with a sinking voice and\na heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness. \n\nFor a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of\nhaving excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn\nwithin his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying,\nin a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,\n\n Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound. Your own excellent\nsense your exertions for your father s sake I know you will not allow\nyourself .  Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken\nand subdued accent,  The feelings of the warmest\nfriendship Indignation Abominable scoundrel! And in a louder, steadier\ntone, he concluded with,  He will soon be gone. They will soon be in\nYorkshire. I am sorry for _her_. She deserves a better fate. \n\nEmma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter\nof pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,\n\n You are very kind but you are mistaken and I must set you right.  I am\nnot in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going\non, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,\nand I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may\nwell lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason\nto regret that I was not in the secret earlier. \n\n Emma!  cried he, looking eagerly at her,  are you, indeed? but\nchecking himself No, no, I understand you forgive me I am pleased that\nyou can say even so much. He is no object of regret, indeed! and it\nwill not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment\nof more than your reason. Fortunate that your affections were not\nfarther entangled! I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure\nmyself as to the degree of what you felt I could only be certain that\nthere was a preference and a preference which I never believed him to\ndeserve. He is a disgrace to the name of man. And is he to be rewarded\nwith that sweet young woman? Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable\ncreature. \n\n Mr. Knightley,  said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused I\nam in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your\nerror; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I\nhave as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been\nat all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be\nnatural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse. But I\nnever have. \n\nHe listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would\nnot. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his\nclemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself\nin his opinion. She went on, however.\n\n I have very little to say for my own conduct. I was tempted by his\nattentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased. An old story,\nprobably a common case and no more than has happened to hundreds of my\nsex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up\nas I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation.\nHe was the son of Mr. Weston he was continually here I always found him\nvery pleasant and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the\ncauses ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last my vanity\nwas flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however for some\ntime, indeed I have had no idea of their meaning any thing. I thought\nthem a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.\nHe has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been\nattached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He\nnever wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real\nsituation with another. It was his object to blind all about him; and\nno one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself except\nthat I was _not_ blinded that it was my good fortune that, in short, I\nwas somehow or other safe from him. \n\nShe had hoped for an answer here for a few words to say that her\nconduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as\nshe could judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual\ntone, he said,\n\n I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill. I can suppose,\nhowever, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has\nbeen but trifling. And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he\nmay yet turn out well. With such a woman he has a chance. I have no\nmotive for wishing him ill and for her sake, whose happiness will be\ninvolved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him\nwell. \n\n I have no doubt of their being happy together,  said Emma;  I believe\nthem to be very mutually and very sincerely attached. \n\n He is a most fortunate man!  returned Mr. Knightley, with energy.  So\nearly in life at three-and-twenty a period when, if a man chuses a\nwife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a\nprize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has\nbefore him! Assured of the love of such a woman the disinterested love,\nfor Jane Fairfax s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every\nthing in his favour, equality of situation I mean, as far as regards\nsociety, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in\nevery point but one and that one, since the purity of her heart is not\nto be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his\nto bestow the only advantages she wants. A man would always wish to\ngive a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who\ncan do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard, must, I think, be\nthe happiest of mortals. Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of\nfortune. Every thing turns out for his good. He meets with a young\nwoman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her\nby negligent treatment and had he and all his family sought round the\nworld for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her\nsuperior. His aunt is in the way. His aunt dies. He has only to\nspeak. His friends are eager to promote his happiness. He had used\nevery body ill and they are all delighted to forgive him. He is a\nfortunate man indeed! \n\n You speak as if you envied him. \n\n And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy. \n\nEmma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of\nHarriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if\npossible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally\ndifferent the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for\nbreath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,\n\n You will not ask me what is the point of envy. You are determined, I\nsee, to have no curiosity. You are wise but _I_ cannot be wise. Emma, I\nmust tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the\nnext moment. \n\n Oh! then, don t speak it, don t speak it,  she eagerly cried.  Take a\nlittle time, consider, do not commit yourself. \n\n Thank you,  said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not\nanother syllable followed.\n\nEmma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in\nher perhaps to consult her; cost her what it would, she would listen.\nShe might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give\njust praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own\nindependence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be\nmore intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his. They had\nreached the house.\n\n You are going in, I suppose?  said he.\n\n No, replied Emma quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he\nstill spoke I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not\ngone.  And, after proceeding a few steps, she added I stopped you\nungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you\npain. But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to\nask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation as a\nfriend, indeed, you may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I\nwill tell you exactly what I think. \n\n As a friend! repeated Mr. Knightley. Emma, that I fear is a word No,\nI have no wish Stay, yes, why should I hesitate? I have gone too far\nalready for concealment. Emma, I accept your offer Extraordinary as it\nmay seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend. Tell me,\nthen, have I no chance of ever succeeding? \n\nHe stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression\nof his eyes overpowered her.\n\n My dearest Emma,  said he,  for dearest you will always be, whatever\nthe event of this hour s conversation, my dearest, most beloved\nEmma tell me at once. Say  No,  if it is to be said. She could really\nsay nothing. You are silent,  he cried, with great animation;\n absolutely silent! at present I ask no more. \n\nEmma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The\ndread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most\nprominent feeling.\n\n I cannot make speeches, Emma:  he soon resumed; and in a tone of such\nsincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably\nconvincing. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it\nmore. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I\nhave blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other\nwoman in England would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell\nyou now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner,\nperhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a\nvery indifferent lover. But you understand me. Yes, you see, you\nunderstand my feelings and will return them if you can. At present, I\nask only to hear, once to hear your voice. \n\nWhile he spoke, Emma s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful\nvelocity of thought, had been able and yet without losing a word to\ncatch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that\nHarriet s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as\ncomplete a delusion as any of her own that Harriet was nothing; that\nshe was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to\nHarriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and\nthat her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had\nbeen all received as discouragement from herself. And not only was\nthere time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant\nhappiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet s secret had not\nescaped her, and to resolve that it need not, and should not. It was\nall the service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of\nthat heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him\nto transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the\nmost worthy of the two or even the more simple sublimity of resolving\nto refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive,\nbecause he could not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for\nHarriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run\nmad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her\nbrain. She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her\nfor ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong\nas it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him,\nas most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite\nsmooth. She spoke then, on being so entreated. What did she say? Just\nwhat she ought, of course. A lady always does. She said enough to shew\nthere need not be despair and to invite him to say more himself. He\n_had_ despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to\ncaution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope; she had begun\nby refusing to hear him. The change had perhaps been somewhat\nsudden; her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the\nconversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little\nextraordinary! She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so\nobliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.\n\nSeldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human\ndisclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little\ndisguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the\nconduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very\nmaterial. Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart\nthan she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.\n\nHe had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had\nfollowed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come,\nin his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill s engagement, with\nno selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed\nhim an opening, to soothe or to counsel her. The rest had been the work\nof the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings.\nThe delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank\nChurchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had\ngiven birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection\nhimself; but it had been no present hope he had only, in the momentary\nconquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did\nnot forbid his attempt to attach her. The superior hopes which\ngradually opened were so much the more enchanting. The affection, which\nhe had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already\nhis! Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed\nstate of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could\nbear no other name.\n\n_Her_ change was equal. This one half-hour had given to each the same\nprecious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same\ndegree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust. On his side, there had been\na long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation,\nof Frank Churchill. He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank\nChurchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably\nenlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill\nthat had taken him from the country. The Box Hill party had decided him\non going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such\npermitted, encouraged attentions. He had gone to learn to be\nindifferent. But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much\ndomestic happiness in his brother s house; woman wore too amiable a\nform in it; Isabella was too much like Emma differing only in those\nstriking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy\nbefore him, for much to have been done, even had his time been\nlonger. He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day till this\nvery morning s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax. Then,\nwith the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to\nfeel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving\nEmma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her,\nthat he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and\nhad walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best\nof all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the\ndiscovery.\n\nHe had found her agitated and low. Frank Churchill was a villain.  He\nheard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill s\ncharacter was not desperate. She was his own Emma, by hand and word,\nwhen they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of\nFrank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of\nfellow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nWhat totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from\nwhat she had brought out! she had then been only daring to hope for a\nlittle respite of suffering; she was now in an exquisite flutter of\nhappiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be\ngreater when the flutter should have passed away.\n\nThey sat down to tea the same party round the same table how often it\nhad been collected! and how often had her eyes fallen on the same\nshrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the\nwestern sun! But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing\nlike it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her\nusual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive\ndaughter.\n\nPoor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in\nthe breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so\nanxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride. Could he have\nseen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but\nwithout the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the\nslightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of\neither, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news\nhe had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much\nself-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him\nin return.\n\nAs long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma s fever continued;\nbut when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and\nsubdued and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for\nsuch an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to\nconsider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some\nalloy. Her father and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling\nthe full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort\nof both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father, it\nwas a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley\nwould ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most\nsolemn resolution of never quitting her father. She even wept over the\nidea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an\nengagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger\nof drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him. How\nto do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision; how to spare\nher from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement;\nhow to appear least her enemy? On these subjects, her perplexity and\ndistress were very great and her mind had to pass again and again\nthrough every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever\nsurrounded it. She could only resolve at last, that she would still\navoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by\nletter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed\njust now for a time from Highbury, and indulging in one scheme\nmore nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation\nfor her to Brunswick Square. Isabella had been pleased with Harriet;\nand a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement. She did\nnot think it in Harriet s nature to escape being benefited by novelty\nand variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children. At any rate,\nit would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom\nevery thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the\nevil day, when they must all be together again.\n\nShe rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which\nleft her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking\nup to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half\nan hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him,\nliterally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a\nproper share of the happiness of the evening before.\n\nHe had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the\nslightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was\nbrought her from Randalls a very thick letter; she guessed what it must\ncontain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it. She was now in\nperfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she\nwanted only to have her thoughts to herself and as for understanding\nany thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it. It must be\nwaded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so; a\nnote from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to\nMrs. Weston.\n\n I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the\nenclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have\nscarcely a doubt of its happy effect. I think we shall never materially\ndisagree about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long\npreface. We are quite well. This letter has been the cure of all the\nlittle nervousness I have been feeling lately. I did not quite like\nyour looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you\nwill never own being affected by weather, I think every body feels a\nnorth-east wind. I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of\nTuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing\nlast night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.\n\n Yours ever,\n A. W. \n\n\n[_To Mrs. Weston_.]\n\n\nWindsor July.\n\n\nMY DEAR MADAM,\n\n\n If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected;\nbut expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and\nindulgence. You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of\neven all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct. But\nI have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage\nrises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be\nhumble. I have already met with such success in two applications for\npardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours,\nand of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence. You\nmust all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when\nI first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret\nwhich was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to\nplace myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another\nquestion. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to _think_ it\na right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below,\nand casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my\ndifficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to\nrequire definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we\nparted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the\ncreation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement. Had she refused, I\nshould have gone mad. But you will be ready to say, what was your hope\nin doing this? What did you look forward to? To any thing, every\nthing to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,\nperseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of\ngood was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining\nher promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther\nexplanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband s\nson, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good,\nwhich no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value\nof. See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit\nto Randalls; and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might\nhave been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come\ntill Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as _you_ were the person\nslighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father s\ncompassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from\nhis house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour,\nduring the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I\nhope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I\ncome to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while\nbelonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very\nsolicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest\nfriendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I\nought to add, with the deepest humiliation. A few words which dropped\nfrom him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge\nmyself liable to. My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe,\nmore than it ought. In order to assist a concealment so essential to\nme, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of\nintimacy into which we were immediately thrown. I cannot deny that Miss\nWoodhouse was my ostensible object but I am sure you will believe the\ndeclaration, that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would\nnot have been induced by any selfish views to go on. Amiable and\ndelightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young\nwoman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any\ntendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my\nwish. She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured\nplayfulness, which exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each\nother. From our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and\nwere felt to be so. Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to understand\nme before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say; when I called\nto take leave of her, I remember that I was within a moment of\nconfessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion;\nbut I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some\ndegree. She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must\nhave penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the\nsubject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take\nher wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember\nher telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her\nattentions to Miss Fairfax. I hope this history of my conduct towards\nher will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what\nyou saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against Emma\nWoodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and\nprocure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of\nthat said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly\naffection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as\nmyself. Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight,\nyou have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to\nget my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.\nIf you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account. Of\nthe pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that\nits being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F , who would never\nhave allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her. The delicacy\nof her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam, is much\nbeyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly hope,\nknow her thoroughly yourself. No description can describe her. She must\ntell you herself what she is yet not by word, for never was there a\nhuman creature who would so designedly suppress her own merit. Since I\nbegan this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard\nfrom her. She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never\ncomplains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks.\nI know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit.\nPerhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am\nimpatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at\nRandalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not much\nbetter yet; still insane either from happiness or misery. When I think\nof the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and\npatience, and my uncle s generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I\nrecollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve\nto be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again! But\nI must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to\nencroach. I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard all\nthat you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail\nyesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness\nwith which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the\nevent of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me\nthe happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early\nmeasures, but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not\nan hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty,\nand she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength\nand refinement. But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had\nentered into with that woman Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to\nleave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself. I have been\nwalking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make\nthe rest of my letter what it ought to be. It is, in fact, a most\nmortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can\nadmit, that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were\nhighly blameable. _She_ disapproved them, which ought to have been\nenough. My plea of concealing the truth she did not think\nsufficient. She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought\nher, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I\nthought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her\njudgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed\nproper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever\nknown. We quarrelled.  Do you remember the morning spent at\nDonwell? _There_ every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before\ncame to a crisis. I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and\nwanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely\nrefused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now,\nhowever, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree\nof discretion. While I, to blind the world to our engagement, was\nbehaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman,\nwas she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made\nevery previous caution useless? Had we been met walking together\nbetween Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected. I was\nmad enough, however, to resent. I doubted her affection. I doubted it\nmore the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my\nside, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent\ndevotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of\nsense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly\nintelligible to me. In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless\non her side, abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to\nRichmond, though I might have staid with you till the next morning,\nmerely because I would be as angry with her as possible. Even then, I\nwas not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was\nthe injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined\nthat she should make the first advances. I shall always congratulate\nmyself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my\nbehaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well\nof me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it\nproduced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she\nclosed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of\nwhose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation\nand hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has\nbeen so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly\nprotest against the share of it which that woman has known. Jane, \nindeed! You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling\nher by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in\nhearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of\nneedless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority.\nHave patience with me, I shall soon have done. She closed with this\noffer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to\ntell me that we never were to meet again. _She_ _felt_ _the_\n_engagement_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _source_ _of_ _repentance_ _and_ _misery_\n_to_ _each_: _she_ _dissolved_ _it_. This letter reached me on the very\nmorning of my poor aunt s death. I answered it within an hour; but from\nthe confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on\nme at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other\nletters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting\nthat I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her,\nremained without any uneasiness. I was rather disappointed that I did\nnot hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was\ntoo busy, and may I add? too cheerful in my views to be captious. We\nremoved to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from\nher, my own letters all returned! and a few lines at the same time by\nthe post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest\nreply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could\nnot be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to\nhave every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she\nnow sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that\nif I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury\nwithin a week, I would forward them after that period to her at : in\nshort, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge s, near Bristol, stared me\nin the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and\ninstantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with\nthat resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the\nsecrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter,\nwas equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would\nnot she have seemed to threaten me. Imagine the shock; imagine how,\ntill I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of\nthe post. What was to be done? One thing only. I must speak to my\nuncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again. I\nspoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened\naway his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated,\nwholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with\na deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the\nmarriage state as he had done. I felt that it would be of a different\nsort. Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in\nopening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake? No;\ndo not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her.\nDo not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks. I reached Highbury at\nthe time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I\nwas certain of a good chance of finding her alone. I was not\ndisappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object\nof my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I\nhad to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much\ndearer, than ever, and no moment s uneasiness can ever occur between us\nagain. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude\nbefore. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have\never shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will\ndictate towards her. If you think me in a way to be happier than I\ndeserve, I am quite of your opinion. Miss W. calls me the child of good\nfortune. I hope she is right. In one respect, my good fortune is\nundoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,\n\nYour obliged and affectionate Son,\n\nF. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nThis letter must make its way to Emma s feelings. She was obliged, in\nspite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the\njustice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name,\nit was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting,\nand almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the\nsubject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her\nformer regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any\npicture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till\nshe had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to\nfeel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had\nsupposed and he had suffered, and was very sorry and he was so grateful\nto Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so\nhappy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have\nentered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as\never.\n\nShe thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,\nshe desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston s wishing it to\nbe communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen\nso much to blame in his conduct.\n\n I shall be very glad to look it over,  said he;  but it seems long. I\nwill take it home with me at night. \n\nBut that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she\nmust return it by him.\n\n I would rather be talking to you,  he replied;  but as it seems a\nmatter of justice, it shall be done. \n\nHe began stopping, however, almost directly to say,  Had I been offered\nthe sight of one of this gentleman s letters to his mother-in-law a few\nmonths ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference. \n\nHe proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a\nsmile, observed,  Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his\nway. One man s style must not be the rule of another s. We will not be\nsevere. \n\n It will be natural for me,  he added shortly afterwards,  to speak my\nopinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.\nIt will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it \n\n Not at all. I should wish it. \n\nMr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.\n\n He trifles here,  said he,  as to the temptation. He knows he is\nwrong, and has nothing rational to urge. Bad. He ought not to have\nformed the engagement. His father s disposition: he is unjust,\nhowever, to his father. Mr. Weston s sanguine temper was a blessing on\nall his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every\npresent comfort before he endeavoured to gain it. Very true; he did not\ncome till Miss Fairfax was here. \n\n And I have not forgotten,  said Emma,  how sure you were that he might\nhave come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely but you\nwere perfectly right. \n\n I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma: but yet, I think had\n_you_ not been in the case I should still have distrusted him. \n\nWhen he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it\naloud all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the\nhead; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as\nthe subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady\nreflection, thus \n\n Very bad though it might have been worse. Playing a most dangerous\ngame. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal. No judge of his\nown manners by you. Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and\nregardless of little besides his own convenience. Fancying you to have\nfathomed his secret. Natural enough! his own mind full of intrigue,\nthat he should suspect it in others. Mystery; Finesse how they pervert\nthe understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more\nand more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with\neach other? \n\nEmma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet s\naccount, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.\n\n You had better go on,  said she.\n\nHe did so, but very soon stopt again to say,  the pianoforte! Ah! That\nwas the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider\nwhether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the\npleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed! I cannot comprehend a man s wishing\nto give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather\ndispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the\ninstrument s coming if she could. \n\nAfter this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill s\nconfession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for\nmore than a word in passing.\n\n I perfectly agree with you, sir, was then his remark.  You did behave\nvery shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.  And having gone through\nwhat immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his\npersisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax s sense of\nright, he made a fuller pause to say,  This is very bad. He had induced\nher to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme\ndifficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to\nprevent her from suffering unnecessarily. She must have had much more\nto contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He\nshould have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such;\nbut hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and\nremember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the\nengagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of\npunishment. \n\nEmma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew\nuncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was\ndeeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read,\nhowever, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,\nexcepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear\nof giving pain no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.\n\n There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the\nEltons,  was his next observation. His feelings are natural. What!\nactually resolve to break with him entirely! She felt the engagement to\nbe a source of repentance and misery to each she dissolved it. What a\nview this gives of her sense of his behaviour! Well, he must be a most\nextraordinary \n\n Nay, nay, read on. You will find how very much he suffers. \n\n I hope he does,  replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the\nletter.  Smallridge! What does this mean? What is all this? \n\n She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge s children a\ndear friend of Mrs. Elton s a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the\nbye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment? \n\n Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read not even of\nMrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter\nthe man writes! \n\n I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him. \n\n Well, there _is_ feeling here. He does seem to have suffered in\nfinding her ill. Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of\nher.  Dearer, much dearer than ever.  I hope he may long continue to\nfeel all the value of such a reconciliation. He is a very liberal\nthanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands. Happier than I\ndeserve.  Come, he knows himself there.  Miss Woodhouse calls me the\nchild of good fortune. Those were Miss Woodhouse s words, were they? \nAnd a fine ending and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!\nThat was your name for him, was it? \n\n You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still\nyou must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I\nhope it does him some service with you. \n\n Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of\ninconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion\nin thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he\nis, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it\nmay be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am\nvery ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers\nthe steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me\ntalk to you of something else. I have another person s interest at\npresent so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank\nChurchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been\nhard at work on one subject. \n\nThe subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike\nEnglish, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love\nwith, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the\nhappiness of her father. Emma s answer was ready at the first word.\n While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be\nimpossible for her. She could never quit him.  Part only of this\nanswer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her\nfather, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the\ninadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been\nthinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to\ninduce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to\nbelieve it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not\nsuffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his\npersuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father s\ncomfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr.\nWoodhouse taken from Hartfield! No, he felt that it ought not to be\nattempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he\ntrusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable;\nit was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her\nfather s happiness in other words, his life required Hartfield to\ncontinue her home, it should be his likewise.\n\nOf their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing\nthoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such\nan alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all\nthe affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must\nbe sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that\nin living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there\nwould be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of\nit, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced,\nthat no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the\nsubject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm\nconsideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole\nmorning, to have his thoughts to himself.\n\n Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,  cried Emma.  I am sure\nWilliam Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you\nask mine. \n\nShe promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,\nmoreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good\nscheme.\n\nIt is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in\nwhich she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck\nwith any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as\nheir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she\nmust of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she\nonly gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement\nin detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley s\nmarrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had\nwholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.\n\nThis proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at\nHartfield the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.\nHis evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their\nmutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in\nthe periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her! Such a partner in\nall those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of\nmelancholy!\n\nShe would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing\nof her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend,\nwho must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family\nparty which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere\ncharitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in\nevery way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction\nfrom her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead\nweight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a\npeculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state\nof unmerited punishment.\n\nIn time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is,\nsupplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr.\nKnightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure; not like\nMr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly\nconsiderate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped\nthan now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she\ncould be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\nIt was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as\nherself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by\nletter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!\n\nHarriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without\nreproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there\nwas a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her\nstyle, which increased the desirableness of their being separate. It\nmight be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only\ncould have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.\n\nShe had no difficulty in procuring Isabella s invitation; and she was\nfortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without\nresorting to invention. There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished,\nand had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was\ndelighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to\nher and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was\nquite eager to have Harriet under her care. When it was thus settled on\nher sister s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very\npersuadable. Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a\nfortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse s carriage. It was\nall arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick\nSquare.\n\nNow Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley s visits; now she could\ntalk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense\nof injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted\nher when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much\nmight at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the\nfeelings which she had led astray herself.\n\nThe difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard s, or in London, made perhaps\nan unreasonable difference in Emma s sensations; but she could not\nthink of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment,\nwhich must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.\n\nShe would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place\nin her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication\nbefore her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make the\nconfession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing\nto do with it at present. She had resolved to defer the disclosure till\nMrs. Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be\nthrown at this period among those she loved and the evil should not act\non herself by anticipation before the appointed time. A fortnight, at\nleast, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more\nagitating, delight, should be hers.\n\nShe soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an\nhour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax. She ought\nto go and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present\nsituations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a\n_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of\nprospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should\nattend to any thing Jane might communicate.\n\nShe went she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not\nbeen into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane\nhad been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all\nthe worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected. The fear of being\nstill unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home,\nto wait in the passage, and send up her name. She heard Patty\nannouncing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had\nbefore made so happily intelligible. No; she heard nothing but the\ninstant reply of,  Beg her to walk up; and a moment afterwards she was\nmet on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no\nother reception of her were felt sufficient. Emma had never seen her\nlook so well, so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness,\nanimation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or\nmanner could ever have wanted.  She came forward with an offered hand;\nand said, in a low, but very feeling tone,\n\n This is most kind, indeed! Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to\nexpress I hope you will believe Excuse me for being so entirely without\nwords. \n\nEmma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the\nsound of Mrs. Elton s voice from the sitting-room had not checked her,\nand made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her\ncongratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.\n\nMrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which\naccounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.\nElton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every\nbody; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped\nthe rencontre would do them no harm.\n\nShe soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton s thoughts, and\nunderstand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in\nMiss Fairfax s confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what\nwas still a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately\nin the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to\nMrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady s replies, she\nsaw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which\nshe had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it\ninto the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant\nnods,\n\n We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want\nopportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already.\nI only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is\nnot offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet\ncreature! You would have doated on her, had you gone. But not a word\nmore. Let us be discreet quite on our good behaviour. Hush! You\nremember those lines I forget the poem at this moment:\n\n For when a lady s in the case,\n You know all other things give place. \n\n\nNow I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read mum! a word to the\nwise. I am in a fine flow of spirits, an t I? But I want to set your\nheart at ease as to Mrs. S. _My_ representation, you see, has quite\nappeased her. \n\nAnd again, on Emma s merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates s\nknitting, she added, in a half whisper,\n\n I mentioned no _names_, you will observe. Oh! no; cautious as a\nminister of state. I managed it extremely well. \n\nEmma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every\npossible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony\nof the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed\nwith,\n\n Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is\ncharmingly recovered? Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest\ncredit? (here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my\nword, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time! Oh! if you had\nseen her, as I did, when she was at the worst! And when Mrs. Bates was\nsaying something to Emma, whispered farther,  We do not say a word of\nany _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young\nphysician from Windsor. Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit. \n\n I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,  she\nshortly afterwards began,  since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant\nparty. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not\nseem that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some. So\nit appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think\nit answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to\nour collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while\nthe fine weather lasts? It must be the same party, you know, quite the\nsame party, not _one_ exception. \n\nSoon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being\ndiverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,\nshe supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say\nevery thing.\n\n Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness. It is impossible\nto say Yes, indeed, I quite understand dearest Jane s prospects that\nis, I do not mean. But she is charmingly recovered. How is Mr.\nWoodhouse? I am so glad. Quite out of my power. Such a happy little\ncircle as you find us here. Yes, indeed. Charming young man! that is so\nvery friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry! such attention to Jane! And from\nher great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton\nfor being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little show of\nresentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now\ngraciously overcome. After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it\nbeyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,\n\n Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that\nanywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth\nis, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me\nhere, and pay his respects to you. \n\n What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton? That will\nbe a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits,\nand Mr. Elton s time is so engaged. \n\n Upon my word it is, Miss Bates. He really is engaged from morning to\nnight. There is no end of people s coming to him, on some pretence or\nother. The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always\nwanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without\nhim. Upon my word, Mr. E.,  I often say,  rather you than I. I do not\nknow what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half\nso many applicants. Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them\nboth to an unpardonable degree. I believe I have not played a bar this\nfortnight. However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose\nto wait on you all.  And putting up her hand to screen her words from\nEmma A congratulatory visit, you know. Oh! yes, quite indispensable. \n\nMiss Bates looked about her, so happily !\n\n He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from\nKnightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep\nconsultation. Mr. E. is Knightley s right hand. \n\nEmma would not have smiled for the world, and only said,  Is Mr. Elton\ngone on foot to Donwell? He will have a hot walk. \n\n Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and\nCole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who\nlead. I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way. \n\n Have not you mistaken the day?  said Emma.  I am almost certain that\nthe meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow. Mr. Knightley was at\nHartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday. \n\n Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,  was the abrupt answer, which\ndenoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton s side. I do\nbelieve,  she continued,  this is the most troublesome parish that ever\nwas. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove. \n\n Your parish there was small,  said Jane.\n\n Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject\ntalked of. \n\n But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard\nyou speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge;\nthe only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children. \n\n Ah! you clever creature, that s very true. What a thinking brain you\nhave! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if\nwe could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would\nproduce perfection. Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that\n_some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already. But hush! not a\nword, if you please. \n\nIt seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,\nnot to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.\nThe wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very\nevident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.\n\nMr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her\nsparkling vivacity.\n\n Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an\nencumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come! But\nyou knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I\nshould not stir till my lord and master appeared. Here have I been\nsitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal\nobedience for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted? \n\nMr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.\nHis civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent\nobject was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and\nthe walk he had had for nothing.\n\n When I got to Donwell,  said he,  Knightley could not be found. Very\nodd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and\nthe message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one. \n\n Donwell!  cried his wife. My dear Mr. E., you have not been to\nDonwell! You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown. \n\n No, no, that s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley\nto-day on that very account. Such a dreadful broiling morning! I went\nover the fields too (speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made\nit so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I\nam not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The\nhousekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected. Very\nextraordinary! And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to\nHartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods. Miss\nWoodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley! Can you explain it? \n\nEmma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,\nindeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.\n\n I cannot imagine,  said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife\nought to do,)  I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of\nall people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to\nbe forgotten! My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am\nsure he must. Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric; and his\nservants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely\nto happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often\nobserved, extremely awkward and remiss. I am sure I would not have such\na creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration.\nAnd as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed. She\npromised Wright a receipt, and never sent it. \n\n I met William Larkins,  continued Mr. Elton,  as I got near the house,\nand he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not\nbelieve him. William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what\nwas come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get\nthe speech of him. I have nothing to do with William s wants, but it\nreally is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley\nto-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious\ninconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose. \n\nEmma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all\nprobability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.\nKnightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards\nMr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.\n\nShe was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to\nattend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her\nan opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,\n\n It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you\nnot been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to\nintroduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might\nhave been strictly correct. I feel that I should certainly have been\nimpertinent. \n\n Oh!  cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought\ninfinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual\ncomposure there would have been no danger. The danger would have been\nof my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by\nexpressing an interest . Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more\ncollectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very\ngreat misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those\nof my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not\ndisgusted to such a degree as to I have not time for half that I could\nwish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for\nmyself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately in short, if your\ncompassion does not stand my friend \n\n Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,  cried Emma warmly, and\ntaking her hand.  You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you\nmight be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted\neven \n\n You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you. So cold and\nartificial! I had always a part to act. It was a life of deceit! I know\nthat I must have disgusted you. \n\n Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.\nLet us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done\nquickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you\nhave pleasant accounts from Windsor? \n\n Very. \n\n And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you just as\nI begin to know you. \n\n Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here\ntill claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell. \n\n Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,  replied Emma,\nsmiling but, excuse me, it must be thought of. \n\nThe smile was returned as Jane answered,\n\n You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I\nam sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill\nat Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of\ndeep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing\nmore to wait for. \n\n Thank you, thank you. This is just what I wanted to be assured of. Oh!\nif you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and\nopen! Good-bye, good-bye. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\nMrs. Weston s friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the\nsatisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by\nknowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in\nwishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with\nany view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of\nIsabella s sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both\nfather and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as\nhe grew older and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years\nhence to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense,\nthe freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and\nMrs. Weston no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her;\nand it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to\nteach, should not have their powers in exercise again.\n\n She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,  she\ncontinued like La Baronne d Almane on La Comtesse d Ostalis, in Madame\nde Genlis  Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little\nAdelaide educated on a more perfect plan. \n\n That is,  replied Mr. Knightley,  she will indulge her even more than\nshe did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will\nbe the only difference. \n\n Poor child!  cried Emma;  at that rate, what will become of her? \n\n Nothing very bad. The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable in\ninfancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my\nbitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing\nall my happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me\nto be severe on them? \n\nEmma laughed, and replied:  But I had the assistance of all your\nendeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt\nwhether my own sense would have corrected me without it. \n\n Do you? I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding: Miss Taylor\ngave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite\nas likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what\nright has he to lecture me? and I am afraid very natural for you to\nfeel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did\nyou any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of\nthe tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much\nwithout doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many\nerrors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at\nleast. \n\n I am sure you were of use to me,  cried Emma.  I was very often\ninfluenced rightly by you oftener than I would own at the time. I am\nvery sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be\nspoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her\nas you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is\nthirteen. \n\n How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your\nsaucy looks Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I\nmay, or I have Miss Taylor s leave something which, you knew, I did\nnot approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad\nfeelings instead of one. \n\n What an amiable creature I was! No wonder you should hold my speeches\nin such affectionate remembrance. \n\n Mr. Knightley. You always called me,  Mr. Knightley;  and, from\nhabit, it has not so very formal a sound. And yet it is formal. I want\nyou to call me something else, but I do not know what. \n\n I remember once calling you  George,  in one of my amiable fits, about\nten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as\nyou made no objection, I never did it again. \n\n And cannot you call me  George  now? \n\n Impossible! I never can call you any thing but  Mr. Knightley.  I will\nnot promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by\ncalling you Mr. K. But I will promise,  she added presently, laughing\nand blushing I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I\ndo not say when, but perhaps you may guess where; in the building in\nwhich N. takes M. for better, for worse. \n\nEmma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important\nservice which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice\nwhich would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly\nfollies her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a\nsubject. She could not enter on it. Harriet was very seldom mentioned\nbetween them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not\nbeing thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to\ndelicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship\nwere declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other\ncircumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that\nher intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on\nIsabella s letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being\nobliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior\nto the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.\n\nIsabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be\nexpected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits,\nwhich appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be\nconsulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear\nto find Harriet different from what she had known her before. Isabella,\nto be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been\nequal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her.\nEmma s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet s\nbeing to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least.\nMr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was\ninvited to remain till they could bring her back.\n\n John does not even mention your friend,  said Mr. Knightley.  Here is\nhis answer, if you like to see it. \n\nIt was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma\naccepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to\nknow what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that\nher friend was unmentioned.\n\n John enters like a brother into my happiness,  continued Mr.\nKnightley,  but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to\nhave, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from\nmaking flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather\ncool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes. \n\n He writes like a sensible man,  replied Emma, when she had read the\nletter.  I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the\ngood fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not\nwithout hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as\nyou think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different\nconstruction, I should not have believed him. \n\n My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means \n\n He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two, \ninterrupted she, with a sort of serious smile much less, perhaps, than\nhe is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the\nsubject. \n\n Emma, my dear Emma \n\n Oh!  she cried with more thorough gaiety,  if you fancy your brother\ndoes not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,\nand hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from\ndoing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the\nadvantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish\nI may not sink into  poor Emma  with him at once. His tender compassion\ntowards oppressed worth can go no farther. \n\n Ah!  he cried,  I wish your father might be half as easily convinced\nas John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give,\nto be happy together. I am amused by one part of John s letter did you\nnotice it? where he says, that my information did not take him wholly\nby surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of\nthe kind. \n\n If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some\nthoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly\nunprepared for that. \n\n Yes, yes but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my\nfeelings. What has he been judging by? I am not conscious of any\ndifference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this\ntime for my marrying any more than at another. But it was so, I\nsuppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them\nthe other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much\nas usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying,  Uncle seems\nalways tired now. \n\nThe time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other\npersons  reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently\nrecovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse s visits, Emma having it in view that\nher gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first\nto announce it at home, and then at Randalls. But how to break it to\nher father at last! She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of\nMr. Knightley s absence, or when it came to the point her heart would\nhave failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to\ncome at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make. She\nwas forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it\na more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.\nShe must not appear to think it a misfortune. With all the spirits she\ncould command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then,\nin a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be\nobtained which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty,\nsince it was a plan to promote the happiness of all she and Mr.\nKnightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the\nconstant addition of that person s company whom she knew he loved, next\nto his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.\n\nPoor man! it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried\nearnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of\nhaving always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be\na great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor\nIsabella, and poor Miss Taylor. But it would not do. Emma hung about\nhim affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he\nmust not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages\ntaking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but\nshe was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was\nintroducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the\nbetter; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier\nfor having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to\nthe idea. Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much? He would not deny\nthat he did, she was sure. Whom did he ever want to consult on business\nbut Mr. Knightley? Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his\nletters, who so glad to assist him? Who so cheerful, so attentive, so\nattached to him? Would not he like to have him always on the spot? Yes.\nThat was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he\nshould be glad to see him every day; but they did see him every day as\nit was. Why could not they go on as they had done?\n\nMr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,\nthe idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest. To\nEmma s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley s, whose fond\npraise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon\nused to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion. They had all the\nassistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest\napprobation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to\nconsider the subject in the most serviceable light first, as a settled,\nand, secondly, as a good one well aware of the nearly equal importance\nof the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse s mind. It was agreed upon,\nas what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided\nassuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some\nfeelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some\ntime or other in another year or two, perhaps it might not be so very\nbad if the marriage did take place.\n\nMrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she\nsaid to him in favour of the event. She had been extremely surprized,\nnever more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she\nsaw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in\nurging him to the utmost. She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as\nto think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect\nso proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one\nrespect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible,\nso singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely\nhave attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself\nbeen the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it\nlong ago. How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma\nwould have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr.\nKnightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an\narrangement desirable! The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.\nWoodhouse had been always felt in her husband s plans and her own, for\na marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe\nand Hartfield had been a continual impediment less acknowledged by Mr.\nWeston than by herself but even he had never been able to finish the\nsubject better than by saying Those matters will take care of\nthemselves; the young people will find a way.  But here there was\nnothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was\nall right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the\nname. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and\nwithout one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.\n\nMrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections\nas these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing\ncould increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon\nhave outgrown its first set of caps.\n\nThe news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston\nhad his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to\nfamiliarise the idea to his quickness of mind. He saw the advantages of\nthe match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but\nthe wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he\nwas not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.\n\n It is to be a secret, I conclude,  said he.  These matters are always\na secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me\nbe told when I may speak out. I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion. \n\nHe went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that\npoint. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest\ndaughter? he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of\ncourse, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately\nafterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they\nhad calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon\nit would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the\nevening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.\n\nIn general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him,\nand others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend\ntheir all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John\nKnightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their\nservants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection\nraised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage. There, the surprize was\nnot softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it,\ncompared with his wife; he only hoped  the young lady s pride would now\nbe contented;  and supposed  she had always meant to catch Knightley if\nshe could;  and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly\nexclaim,  Rather he than I! But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed\nindeed. Poor Knightley! poor fellow! sad business for him. She was\nextremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good\nqualities. How could he be so taken in? Did not think him at all in\nlove not in the least. Poor Knightley! There would be an end of all\npleasant intercourse with him. How happy he had been to come and dine\nwith them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now. Poor\nfellow! No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no;\nthere would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every\nthing. Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she\nhad abused the housekeeper the other day. Shocking plan, living\ntogether. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had\ntried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first\nquarter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nTime passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would\nbe arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one\nmorning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her,\nwhen Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After\nthe first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone,\nbegan with,\n\n I have something to tell you, Emma; some news. \n\n Good or bad?  said she, quickly, looking up in his face.\n\n I do not know which it ought to be called. \n\n Oh! good I am sure. I see it in your countenance. You are trying not\nto smile. \n\n I am afraid,  said he, composing his features,  I am very much afraid,\nmy dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it. \n\n Indeed! but why so? I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases\nor amuses you, should not please and amuse me too. \n\n There is one subject,  he replied,  I hope but one, on which we do not\nthink alike.  He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on\nher face.  Does nothing occur to you? Do not you recollect? Harriet\nSmith. \n\nHer cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something,\nthough she knew not what.\n\n Have you heard from her yourself this morning?  cried he.  You have, I\nbelieve, and know the whole. \n\n No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me. \n\n You are prepared for the worst, I see and very bad it is. Harriet\nSmith marries Robert Martin. \n\nEmma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared and her eyes,\nin eager gaze, said,  No, this is impossible!  but her lips were\nclosed.\n\n It is so, indeed,  continued Mr. Knightley;  I have it from Robert\nMartin himself. He left me not half an hour ago. \n\nShe was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.\n\n You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared. I wish our opinions were\nthe same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one\nor the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need\nnot talk much on the subject. \n\n You mistake me, you quite mistake me,  she replied, exerting herself.\n It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I\ncannot believe it. It seems an impossibility! You cannot mean to say,\nthat Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he\nhas even proposed to her again yet. You only mean, that he intends it. \n\n I mean that he has done it,  answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but\ndetermined decision,  and been accepted. \n\n Good God!  she cried. Well! Then having recourse to her workbasket,\nin excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite\nfeelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be\nexpressing, she added,  Well, now tell me every thing; make this\nintelligible to me. How, where, when? Let me know it all. I never was\nmore surprized but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you. How how\nhas it been possible? \n\n It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago,\nand I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send\nto John. He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was\nasked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley s. They\nwere going to take the two eldest boys to Astley s. The party was to be\nour brother and sister, Henry, John and Miss Smith. My friend Robert\ncould not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely\namused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day which\nhe did and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an\nopportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in\nvain. She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is\ndeserving. He came down by yesterday s coach, and was with me this\nmorning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first\non my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of\nthe how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer\nhistory when you see her. She will give you all the minute particulars,\nwhich only woman s language can make interesting. In our communications\nwe deal only in the great. However, I must say, that Robert Martin s\nheart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did\nmention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their\nbox at Astley s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and\nlittle John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one\ntime they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy. \n\nHe stopped. Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she\nwas sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.\nShe must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence\ndisturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,\n\n Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you\nunhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His\nsituation is an evil but you must consider it as what satisfies your\nfriend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as\nyou know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight\nyou. As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in\nbetter hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is\nsaying a great deal I assure you, Emma. You laugh at me about William\nLarkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin. \n\nHe wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not\nto smile too broadly she did cheerfully answering,\n\n You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think\nHarriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than\n_his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they\nare. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You\ncannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly\nunprepared I was! for I had reason to believe her very lately more\ndetermined against him, much more, than she was before. \n\n You ought to know your friend best,  replied Mr. Knightley;  but I\nshould say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be\nvery, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her. \n\nEmma could not help laughing as she answered,  Upon my word, I believe\nyou know her quite as well as I do. But, Mr. Knightley, are you\nperfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I\ncould suppose she might in time but can she already? Did not you\nmisunderstand him? You were both talking of other things; of business,\nshows of cattle, or new drills and might not you, in the confusion of\nso many subjects, mistake him? It was not Harriet s hand that he was\ncertain of it was the dimensions of some famous ox. \n\nThe contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and\nRobert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma s feelings, and so\nstrong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on\nHarriet s side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such\nemphasis,  No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin, \nthat she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some\nmeasure, premature. It could not be otherwise.\n\n Do you dare say this?  cried Mr. Knightley.  Do you dare to suppose me\nso great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of? What do\nyou deserve? \n\n Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with\nany other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are\nyou quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and\nHarriet now are? \n\n I am quite sure,  he replied, speaking very distinctly,  that he told\nme she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing\ndoubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that\nit must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew\nof no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of\nher relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be\ndone, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then,\nhe said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day. \n\n I am perfectly satisfied,  replied Emma, with the brightest smiles,\n and most sincerely wish them happy. \n\n You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before. \n\n I hope so for at that time I was a fool. \n\n And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all\nHarriet s good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and\nfor Robert Martin s sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as\nmuch in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have\noften talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did.\nSometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of\npleading poor Martin s cause, which was never the case; but, from all\nmy observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl,\nwith very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her\nhappiness in the affections and utility of domestic life. Much of this,\nI have no doubt, she may thank you for. \n\n Me!  cried Emma, shaking her head. Ah! poor Harriet! \n\nShe checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more\npraise than she deserved.\n\nTheir conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her\nfather. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a\nstate of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be\ncollected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till\nshe had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected,\nshe could be fit for nothing rational.\n\nHer father s business was to announce James s being gone out to put the\nhorses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she\nhad, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.\n\nThe joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be\nimagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of\nHarriet s welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for\nsecurity. What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of\nhim, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her\nown. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her\nhumility and circumspection in future.\n\nSerious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her\nresolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the\nvery midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the\ndoleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart such a Harriet!\n\nNow there would be pleasure in her returning Every thing would be a\npleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.\n\nHigh in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the\nreflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would\nsoon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to\npractise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him\nthat full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready\nto welcome as a duty.\n\nIn the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not\nalways listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in\nspeech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being\nobliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be\ndisappointed.\n\nThey arrived. Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room: but hardly had\nthey been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for\ncoming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the\nblind, of two figures passing near the window.\n\n It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,  said Mrs. Weston.  I was just going to\ntell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning.\nHe stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend\nthe day with us. They are coming in, I hope. \n\nIn half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see\nhim but there was a degree of confusion a number of embarrassing\nrecollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a\nconsciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all\nsat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle,\nthat Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had\nlong felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with\nJane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined\nthe party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer\na want of subject or animation or of courage and opportunity for Frank\nChurchill to draw near her and say,\n\n I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message\nin one of Mrs. Weston s letters. I hope time has not made you less\nwilling to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said. \n\n No, indeed,  cried Emma, most happy to begin,  not in the least. I am\nparticularly glad to see and shake hands with you and to give you joy\nin person. \n\nHe thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak\nwith serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.\n\n Is not she looking well?  said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.\n Better than she ever used to do? You see how my father and Mrs. Weston\ndoat upon her. \n\nBut his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after\nmentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of\nDixon. Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.\n\n I can never think of it,  she cried,  without extreme shame. \n\n The shame,  he answered,  is all mine, or ought to be. But is it\npossible that you had no suspicion? I mean of late. Early, I know, you\nhad none. \n\n I never had the smallest, I assure you. \n\n That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near and I wish I had it\nwould have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things,\nthey were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service. It\nwould have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of\nsecrecy and told you every thing. \n\n It is not now worth a regret,  said Emma.\n\n I have some hope,  resumed he,  of my uncle s being persuaded to pay a\nvisit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells\nare returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I\ntrust, till we may carry her northward. But now, I am at such a\ndistance from her is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse? Till this morning, we\nhave not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me? \n\nEmma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay\nthought, he cried,\n\n Ah! by the bye,  then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the\nmoment I hope Mr. Knightley is well?  He paused. She coloured and\nlaughed. I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish\nin your favour. Let me return your congratulations. I assure you that I\nhave heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction. He is a\nman whom I cannot presume to praise. \n\nEmma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but\nhis mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane,\nand his next words were,\n\n Did you ever see such a skin? such smoothness! such delicacy! and yet\nwithout being actually fair. One cannot call her fair. It is a most\nuncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair a most\ndistinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it. Just colour\nenough for beauty. \n\n I have always admired her complexion,  replied Emma, archly;  but do\nnot I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so\npale? When we first began to talk of her. Have you quite forgotten? \n\n Oh! no what an impudent dog I was! How could I dare \n\nBut he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not\nhelp saying,\n\n I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you\nhad very great amusement in tricking us all. I am sure you had. I am\nsure it was a consolation to you. \n\n Oh! no, no, no how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most\nmiserable wretch! \n\n Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was\na source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us\nall in. Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the\ntruth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same\nsituation. I think there is a little likeness between us. \n\nHe bowed.\n\n If not in our dispositions,  she presently added, with a look of true\nsensibility,  there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which\nbids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our\nown. \n\n True, true,  he answered, warmly.  No, not true on your side. You can\nhave no superior, but most true on mine. She is a complete angel. Look\nat her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her\nthroat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father. You will\nbe glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my\nuncle means to give her all my aunt s jewels. They are to be new set. I\nam resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be\nbeautiful in her dark hair? \n\n Very beautiful, indeed,  replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that\nhe gratefully burst out,\n\n How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent\nlooks! I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should\ncertainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come. \n\nThe others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account\nof a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the\ninfant s appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish,\nbut it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of\nsending for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston\nhad been almost as uneasy as herself. In ten minutes, however, the\nchild had been perfectly well again. This was her history; and\nparticularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her\nvery much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that\nshe had not done it.  She should always send for Perry, if the child\nappeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment.\nShe could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was\na pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child\nseemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been\nbetter if Perry had seen it. \n\nFrank Churchill caught the name.\n\n Perry!  said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss\nFairfax s eye.  My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr.\nPerry? Has he been here this morning? And how does he travel now? Has\nhe set up his carriage? \n\nEmma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the\nlaugh, it was evident from Jane s countenance that she too was really\nhearing him, though trying to seem deaf.\n\n Such an extraordinary dream of mine!  he cried.  I can never think of\nit without laughing. She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see\nit in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do\nnot you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,\nwhich sent me the report, is passing under her eye that the whole\nblunder is spread before her that she can attend to nothing else,\nthough pretending to listen to the others? \n\nJane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly\nremained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet\nsteady voice,\n\n How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me! They _will_\nsometimes obtrude but how you can court them! \n\nHe had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but\nEmma s feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving\nRandalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she\nfelt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really\nregarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more\nsensible of Mr. Knightley s high superiority of character. The\nhappiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the\nanimated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nIf Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a\nmomentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her\nattachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from\nunbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the\nrecurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party\nfrom London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour\nalone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied unaccountable\nas it was! that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley,\nand was now forming all her views of happiness.\n\nHarriet was a little distressed did look a little foolish at first: but\nhaving once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and\nself-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with\nthe words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the\nfullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend s\napprobation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by\nmeeting her with the most unqualified congratulations. Harriet was most\nhappy to give every particular of the evening at Astley s, and the\ndinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.\nBut what did such particulars explain? The fact was, as Emma could now\nacknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his\ncontinuing to love her had been irresistible. Beyond this, it must ever\nbe unintelligible to Emma.\n\nThe event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh\nreason for thinking so. Harriet s parentage became known. She proved to\nbe the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the\ncomfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to\nhave always wished for concealment. Such was the blood of gentility\nwhich Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for! It was likely to be\nas untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a\nconnexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley or for the\nChurchills or even for Mr. Elton! The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached\nby nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.\n\nNo objection was raised on the father s side; the young man was treated\nliberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted\nwith Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully\nacknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could\nbid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet s\nhappiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he\noffered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and\nimprovement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her,\nand who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and\noccupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into\ntemptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable\nand happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the\nworld, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a\nman; or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.\n\nHarriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins,\nwas less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted. The\nintimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change\ninto a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and\nmust be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural\nmanner.\n\nBefore the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw\nher hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as\nno remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them,\ncould impair. Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton,\nbut as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on\nherself. Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of\nthe three, were the first to be married.\n\nJane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the\ncomforts of her beloved home with the Campbells. The Mr. Churchills\nwere also in town; and they were only waiting for November.\n\nThe intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by\nEmma and Mr. Knightley. They had determined that their marriage ought\nto be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to\nallow them the fortnight s absence in a tour to the seaside, which was\nthe plan. John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in\napproving it. But Mr. Woodhouse how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to\nconsent? he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a\ndistant event.\n\nWhen first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were\nalmost hopeless. A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain. He began to\nthink it was to be, and that he could not prevent it a very promising\nstep of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not\nhappy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter s courage\nfailed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying\nhimself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in\nthe assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were\nover, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated she could not\nproceed.\n\nIn this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden\nillumination of Mr. Woodhouse s mind, or any wonderful change of his\nnervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another\nway. Mrs. Weston s poultry-house was robbed one night of all her\nturkeys evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the\nneighbourhood also suffered. Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr.\nWoodhouse s fears. He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his\nson-in-law s protection, would have been under wretched alarm every\nnight of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of\nthe Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of\nthem protected him and his, Hartfield was safe. But Mr. John Knightley\nmust be in London again by the end of the first week in November.\n\nThe result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,\ncheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the\nmoment, she was able to fix her wedding-day and Mr. Elton was called\non, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to\njoin the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.\n\nThe wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have\nno taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars\ndetailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very\ninferior to her own. Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a\nmost pitiful business! Selina would stare when she heard of it. But,\nin spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,\nthe predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the\nceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.\n\nFINISH"
    },
    {
        "title": "Lady Susan",
        "author": "Jane Austen",
        "category": "Romance",
        "EN": "Chapter I. A Triangular Alliance.\n\n\n     'Edina, Scotia's Darling seat!\n      All hail thy palaces and towers!'\n\n\nEdinburgh, April 189-.\n\n22 Breadalbane Terrace.\n\nWe have travelled together before, Salemina, Francesca, and I, and we\nknow the very worst there is to know about one another. After this point\nhas been reached, it is as if a triangular marriage had taken place,\nand, with the honeymoon comfortably over, we slip along in thoroughly\nfriendly fashion. I use no warmer word than'friendly' because, in the\nfirst place, the highest tides of feeling do not visit the coasts of\ntriangular alliances; and because, in the second place, 'friendly' is\na word capable of putting to the blush many a more passionate and\nendearing one.\n\nEvery one knows of our experiences in England, for we wrote volumes\nof letters concerning them, the which were widely circulated among\nour friends at the time, and read aloud under the evening lamps in the\nseveral cities of our residence.\n\nSince then few striking changes have taken place in our history.\n\nSalemina returned to Boston for the winter, to find, to her amazement,\nthat for forty odd years she had been rather overestimating it.\n\nOn arriving in New York, Francesca discovered that the young lawyer whom\nfor six months she had been advising to marry somebody more worthy than\nherself was at last about to do it. This was somewhat in the nature of\na shock, for Francesca had been in the habit, ever since she was\nseventeen, of giving her lovers similar advice, and up to this time no\none of them has ever taken it. She therefore has had the not unnatural\nhope, I think, of organising at one time or another all these\ndisappointed and faithful swains into a celibate brotherhood; and\nperhaps of driving by the interesting monastery with her husband and\ncalling his attention modestly to the fact that these poor monks were\nfilling their barren lives with deeds of piety, trying to remember their\nCreator with such assiduity that they might, in time, forget Her.\n\nHer chagrin was all the keener at losing this last aspirant to her hand\nin that she had almost persuaded herself that she was as fond of him as\nshe was likely to be of anybody, and that on the whole she had better\nmarry him and save his life and reason.\n\nFortunately she had not communicated this gleam of hope by letter,\nfeeling, I suppose, that she would like to see for herself the light\nof joy breaking over his pale cheek. The scene would have been rather\npretty and touching, but meantime the Worm had turned and despatched a\nletter to the Majestic at the quarantine station, telling her that he\nhad found a less reluctant bride in the person of her intimate friend\nMiss Rosa Van Brunt; and so Francesca's dream of duty and sacrifice was\nover.\n\nSalemina says she was somewhat constrained for a week and a trifle\ncynical for a fortnight, but that afterwards her spirits mounted on ever\nascending spirals to impossible heights, where they have since remained.\nIt appears from all this that although she was piqued at being taken at\nher word, her heart was not in the least damaged. It never was one of\nthose fragile things which have to be wrapped in cotton, and preserved\nfrom the slightest blow--Francesca's heart. It is made of excellent\nstout, durable material, and I often tell her with the care she takes of\nit, and the moderate strain to which it is subjected, it ought to be as\ngood as new a hundred years hence.\n\nAs for me, the scene of my own love-story is laid in America and\nEngland, and has nought to do with Edinburgh. It is far from finished;\nindeed, I hope it will be the longest serial on record, one of those\ncharming tales that grow in interest as chapter after chapter unfolds,\nuntil at the end we feel as if we could never part with the delightful\npeople.\n\nI should be, at this very moment, Mrs. William Beresford, a highly\nrespectable young matron who painted rather good pictures in her\nspinster days, when she was Penelope Hamilton of the great American\nworking-class, Unlimited; but first Mrs. Beresford's dangerous illness\nand then her death, have kept my dear boy a willing prisoner in Cannes,\nhis heart sadly torn betwixt his love and duty to his mother and his\ndesire to be with me. The separation is virtually over now, and we two,\nalas! have ne'er a mother or a father between us, so we shall not wait\nmany months before beginning to comfort each other in good earnest.\n\nMeantime Salemina and Francesca have persuaded me to join their forces,\nand Mr. Beresford will follow us to Scotland in a few short weeks, when\nwe shall have established ourselves in the country.\n\nWe are overjoyed at being together again, we three women folk. As I said\nbefore, we know the worst of one another, and the future has no terrors.\nWe have learned, for example, that--\n\nFrancesca does not like an early morning start. Salemina refuses to\narrive late anywhere. Penelope prefers to stay behind and follow next\nday.\n\nFrancesca scorns to travel third class. So does Salemina, but she will\nif urged.\n\nPenelope hates a four-wheeler. Salemina is nervous in a hansom.\nFrancesca prefers a barouche or a landau.\n\nSalemina likes a steady fire in the grate. Penelope opens a window and\nfans herself.\n\nSalemina inclines to instructive and profitable expeditions. Francesca\nloves processions and sightseeing. Penelope abhors all of these equally.\n\nSalemina likes history. Francesca loves fiction. Penelope adores poetry\nand detests facts.\n\nPenelope likes substantial breakfasts. Francesca dislikes the sight of\nfood in the morning.\n\nIn the matter of breakfasts, when we have leisure to assert our\nindividual tastes, Salemina prefers tea, Francesca cocoa, and I, coffee.\nWe can never, therefore, be served with a large comfortable pot of\nanything, but are confronted instead with a caravan of silver jugs,\nchina jugs, bowls of hard and soft sugar, hot milk, cold milk, hot\nwater, and cream, while each in her secret heart wishes that the other\ntwo were less exigeante in the matter of diet and beverages.\n\nThis does not sound promising, but it works perfectly well in practice\nby the exercise of a little flexibility.\n\nAs we left dear old Dovermarle Street and Smith's Private Hotel behind,\nand drove to the station to take the Flying Scotsman, we indulged in\nfloods of reminiscence over the joys of travel we had tasted together\nin the past, and talked with lively anticipation of the new experiences\nawaiting us in the land of heather.\n\nWhile Salemina went to purchase the three first-class tickets, I\nsuperintended the porters as they disposed our luggage in the van, and\nin so doing my eye lighted upon a third-class carriage which was, for\na wonder, clean, comfortable, and vacant. Comparing it hastily with\nthe first-class compartment being held by Francesca, I found that it\ndiffered only in having no carpet on the floor, and a smaller number\nof buttons in the upholstering. This was really heartrending when the\ndifference in fare for three persons would be at least twenty dollars.\nWhat a delightful sum to put aside for a rainy day!--that is, be it\nunderstood, what a delightful sum to put aside and spend on the first\nrainy day! for that is the way we always interpret the expression.\n\nWhen Salemina returned with the tickets, she found me, as usual,\nbewailing our extravagance.\n\nFrancesca descended suddenly from her post, and, wresting the tickets\nfrom her duenna, exclaimed,  'I know that I can save the country, and I\nknow no other man can!' as William Pitt said to the Duke of Devonshire.\nI have had enough of this argument. For six months of last year we\ndiscussed travelling third class and continued to travel first. Get\ninto that clean hard-seated, ill-upholstered third-class carriage\nimmediately, both of you; save room enough for a mother with two babies,\nand man carrying a basket of fish, and an old woman with five pieces of\nhand-luggage and a dog; meanwhile I will exchange the tickets. \n\nSo saying, she disappeared rapidly among the throng of passengers,\nguards, porters, newspaper boys, golfers with bags of clubs, young\nladies with bicycles, and old ladies with tin hat-boxes.\n\n What decision, what swiftness of judgment, what courage and energy! \n murmured Salemina.  Isn't she wonderfully improved since that unexpected\nturning of the Worm? \n\nFrancesca rejoined us just as the guard was about to lock us in, and\nflung herself down, quite breathless from her unusual exertion.\n\n Well, we are travelling third for once, and the money is saved, or\nat least it is ready to spend again at the first opportunity. The man\ndidn't wish to exchange the tickets at all. He says it is never done. I\ntold him they were bought by a very inexperienced American lady (that is\nyou, Salemina) who knew almost nothing of the distinctions between first\nand third class, and naturally took the best, believing it to be none\ntoo good for a citizen of the greatest republic on the face of the\nearth. He said the tickets had been stamped on. I said so should I be\nif I returned without exchanging them. He was a very dense person, and\ndidn't see my joke at all, but then, it is true, there were thirteen men\nin line behind me, with the train starting in three minutes, and there\nis nothing so debilitating to a naturally weak sense of humour as\nselling tickets behind a grating, so I am not really vexed with him.\nThere! we are quite comfortable, pending the arrival of the babies, the\ndog, and the fish, and certainly no vendor of periodic literature will\ndare approach us while we keep these books in evidence. \n\nShe had Laurence Hutton's Literary Landmarks and Royal Edinburgh, by\nMrs. Oliphant; I had Lord Cockburn's Memorials of his Time; and\nsomebody had given Salemina, at the moment of leaving London, a work on\n'Scotias's darling seat,' in three huge volumes. When all this printed\nmatter was heaped on the top of Salemina's hold-all on the platform, the\nguard had asked,  Do you belong to these books, ma'am? \n\n We may consider ourselves injured in going from London to Edinburgh in\na third-class carriage in eight or ten hours, but listen to this,  said\nSalemina, who had opened one of her large volumes at random when the\ntrain started.\n\n 'The Edinburgh and London Stage-coach begins on Monday, 13th October\n1712. All that desire... let them repair to the Coach and Horses at the\nhead of the Canongate every Saturday, or the Black Swan in Holborn every\nother Monday, at both of which places they may be received in a coach\nwhich performs the whole journey in thirteen days without any stoppage\n(if God permits) having eighty able horses. Each passenger paying 4\npounds, 10 shillings for the whole journey, allowing each 20 lbs. weight\nand all above to pay 6 pence per lb. The coach sets off at six in the\nmorning' (you could never have caught it, Francesca!), 'and is performed\nby Henry Harrison.' And here is a 'modern improvement,' forty-two years\nlater. In July 1754, the Edinburgh Courant advertises the stage-coach\ndrawn by six horses, with a postilion on one of the leaders, as a 'new,\ngenteel, two-end glass machine, hung on steel springs, exceedingly light\nand easy, to go in ten days in summer and twelve in winter. Passengers\nto pay as usual. Performed (if God permits) by your dutiful servant,\nHosea Eastgate. CARE IS TAKEN OF SMALL PARCELS ACCORDING TO THEIR\nVALUE.' \n\n It would have been a long, wearisome journey,  said I contemplatively;\n but, nevertheless, I wish we were making it in 1712 instead of a\ncentury and three-quarters later. \n\n What would have been happening, Salemina?  asked Francesca politely,\nbut with no real desire to know.\n\n The Union had been already established five years,  began Salemina\nintelligently.\n\n Which Union? \n\n Whose Union? \n\nSalemina is used to these interruptions and eruptions of illiteracy on\nour part. I think she rather enjoys them, as in the presence of such\ncomplete ignorance as ours her lamp of knowledge burns all the brighter.\n\n Anne was on the throne,  she went on, with serene dignity.\n\n What Anne? \n\n I know all about Anne!  exclaimed Francesca.  She came from the\nMidnight Sun country, or up that way. She was very extravagant, and had\nsomething to do with Jingling Geordie in The Fortunes of Nigel. It is\nmarvellous how one's history comes back to one! \n\n Quite marvellous,  said Salemina dryly;  or at least the state in which\nit comes back is marvellous. I am not a stickler for dates, as you\nknow, but if you could only contrive to fix a few periods in your minds,\ngirls, just in a general way, you would not be so shamefully befogged.\nYour Anne of Denmark, Francesca, was the wife of James VI. of Scotland,\nwho was James I. of England, and she died a hundred years before the\nAnne I mean,--the last of the Stuarts, you know. My Anne came after\nWilliam and Mary, and before the Georges. \n\n Which William and Mary? \n\n What Georges? \n\nBut this was too much even for Salemina's equanimity, and she retired\nbehind her book in dignified displeasure, while Francesca and I meekly\nlooked up the Annes in a genealogical table, and tried to decide whether\n'b.1665' meant born or beheaded.\n\n\n\nChapter II. Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat.\n\n\n\nThe weather that greeted us on our unheralded arrival in Scotland was of\nthe precise sort offered by Edinburgh to her unfortunate queen, when,\n\n  'After a youth by woes o'ercast,\n   After a thousand sorrows past,\n   The lovely Mary once again\n   Set foot upon her native plain.'\n\nJohn Knox records of those memorable days: 'The very face of heaven did\nmanifestlie speak what comfort was brought to this country with hir--to\nwit, sorrow, dolour, darkness and all impiety--for in the memorie of man\nnever was seen a more dolorous face of the heavens than was seen at\nher arryvall... the myst was so thick that skairse micht onie man espy\nanother; and the sun was not seyn to shyne two days befoir nor two days\nafter.'\n\nWe could not see Edina's famous palaces and towers because of the haar,\nthat damp, chilling, drizzling, dripping fog or mist which the east wind\nsummons from the sea; but we knew that they were there, shrouded in the\nheart of that opaque, mysterious greyness, and that before many hours\nour eyes would feast upon their beauty.\n\nPerhaps it was the weather, but I could think of nothing but poor Queen\nMary! She had drifted into my imagination with the haar, so that I could\nfancy her homesick gaze across the water as she murmured, 'Adieu, ma\nchere France! Je ne vous verray jamais plus!'--could fancy her saying as\nin Allan Cunningham's verse:--\n\n  'The sun rises bright in France,\n      And fair sets he;\n   But he hath tint the blithe blink he had\n      In my ain countree.'\n\nAnd then I recalled Mary's first good-night in Edinburgh: that 'serenade\nof 500 rascals with vile fiddles and rebecks'; that singing, 'in bad\naccord,' of Protestant psalms by the wet crowd beneath the palace\nwindows, while the fires on Arthur's Seat shot flickering gleams of\nwelcome through the dreary fog. What a lullaby for poor Mary, half\nFrenchwoman and all Papist!\n\nIt is but just to remember the 'indefatigable and undissuadable' John\nKnox's statement, 'the melody lyked her weill, and she willed the same\nto be continewed some nightis after.' For my part, however, I distrust\nJohn Knox's musical feeling, and incline sympathetically to the Sieur\nde Brantome's account, with its 'vile fiddles' and 'discordant psalms,'\nalthough his judgment was doubtless a good deal depressed by what he\ncalled the si grand brouillard that so dampened the spirits of Mary's\nFrench retinue.\n\nAh well, I was obliged to remember, in order to be reasonably happy\nmyself, that Mary had a gay heart, after all; that she was but nineteen;\nthat, though already a widow, she did not mourn her young husband as one\nwho could not be comforted; and that she must soon have been furnished\nwith merrier music than the psalms, for another of the sour comments\nof the time is, 'Our Queen weareth the dule [weeds], but she can dance\ndaily, dule and all!'\n\nThese were my thoughts as we drove through invisible streets in the\nEdinburgh haar, turned into what proved next day to be a Crescent, and\ndrew up to an invisible house with a visible number 22 gleaming over\na door which gaslight transformed into a probability. We alighted, and\nthough we could scarcely see the driver's outstretched hand, he was\nquite able to discern a half-crown, and demanded three shillings.\n\nThe noise of our cab had brought Mrs. M'Collop to the door,--good (or\nat least pretty good) Mrs. M'Collop, to whose apartments we had been\ncommended by English friends who had never occupied them.\n\nDreary as it was without, all was comfortable within-doors, and a cheery\n(one-and-sixpenny) fire crackled in the grate. Our private drawing-room\nwas charmingly furnished, and so large that, notwithstanding the\npresence of a piano, two sofas, five small tables, cabinets, desks, and\nchairs,--not forgetting a dainty five-o'clock tea equipage,--we might\nhave given a party in the remaining space.\n\n If this is a typical Scotch lodging, I like it; and if it is Scotch\nhospitality to lay the cloth and make the fire before it is asked for,\nthen I call it simply Arabian in character!  and Salemina drew off her\ndamp gloves, and extended her hands to the blaze.\n\n And isn't it delightful that the bill doesn't come in for a whole\nweek?  asked Francesca.  We have only our English experiences on which\nto found our knowledge, and all is delicious mystery. The tea may be a\npresent from Mrs. M'Collop, and the sugar may not be an extra; the fire\nmay be included in the rent of the apartment, and the piano may not\nbe taken away to-morrow to enhance the attractions of the dining-room\nfloor.  (It was Francesca, you remember, who had 'warstled' with the\nitemised accounts at Smith's Private Hotel in London, and she who was\nalways obliged to turn pounds, shillings, and pence into dollars and\ncents before she could add or subtract.)\n\n Come and look at the flowers in my bedroom,  I called,  four great\nboxes full! Mr. Beresford must have ordered the carnations, because he\nalways does; but where did the roses come from, I wonder? \n\nI rang the bell, and a neat white-aproned maid appeared.\n\n Who brought these flowers, please? \n\n I cudna say, mam. \n\n Thank you; will you be good enough to ask Mrs. M'Collop? \n\nIn a moment she returned with the message,  There will be a letter in\nthe box, mam. \n\n It seems to me the letter should be in the box now, if it is ever to\nbe,  I thought, and I presently drew this card from among the fragrant\nbuds:--\n\n'Lady Baird sends these Scotch roses as a small return for the pleasure\nshe has received from Miss Hamilton's pictures. Lady Baird will give\nherself the pleasure of calling to-morrow; meantime she hopes that Miss\nHamilton and her party will dine with her some evening this week.'\n\n How nice!  exclaimed Salemina.\n\n The celebrated Miss Hamilton's undistinguished party presents its\nhumble compliments to Lady Baird,  chanted Francesca,  and having no\nengagements whatever, and small hope of any, will dine with her on any\nand every evening she may name. Miss Hamilton's party will wear its best\nclothes, polish its mental jewels, and endeavour in every possible way\nnot to injure the gifted Miss Hamilton's reputation among the Scottish\nnobility. \n\nI wrote a hasty note of thanks to Lady Baird, and rang the bell.\n\n Can I send a message, please?  I asked the maid.\n\n I cudna say, mam. \n\n Will you be good enough to ask Mrs. M'Collop, please? \n\nInterval; then:--\n\n The Boots will tak' it at seeven o'clock, mam. \n\n Thank you; is Fotheringay Crescent near here? \n\n I cudna say, mam. \n\n Thank you; what is your name, please? \n\nI waited in well-grounded anxiety, for I had no idea that she knew her\nname, or that if she had ever heard it, she could say it; but, to my\nsurprise, she answered almost immediately,  Susanna Crum, mam! \n\nWhat a joy it is in a vexatious world, where things 'gang aft agley,' to\nfind something absolutely right.\n\nIf I had devoted years to the subject, having the body of Susanna Crum\nbefore my eyes every minute of the time for inspiration, Susanna Crum\nis what I should have named that maid. Not a vowel could be added, not a\nconsonant omitted. I said so when first I saw her, and weeks of intimate\nacquaintance only deepened my reverence for the parental genius that had\nso described her to the world.\n\n\n\nChapter III. A vision in Princes Street.\n\n\n\nWhen we awoke next morning the sun had forgotten itself and was shining\nin at Mrs. M'Collop's back windows.\n\nWe should have arisen at once to burn sacrifices and offer oblations,\nbut we had seen the sun frequently in America, and had no idea (poor\nfools!) that it was anything to be grateful for, so we accepted it,\nalmost without comment, as one of the perennial providences of life.\n\nWhen I speak of Edinburgh sunshine I do not mean, of course, any such\nburning, whole-souled, ardent warmth of beam as one finds in countries\nwhere they make a specialty of climate. It is, generally speaking, a\nhalf-hearted, uncertain ray, as pale and transitory as a martyr's smile;\nbut its faintest gleam, or its most puerile attempt to gleam, is admired\nand recorded by its well-disciplined constituency. Not only that, but at\nthe first timid blink of the sun the true Scotsman remarks smilingly,\n'I think now we shall be having settled weather!' It is a pathetic\noptimism, beautiful but quite groundless, and leads one to believe in\nthe story that when Father Noah refused to take Sandy into the ark, he\nsat down philosophically outside, saying, with a glance at the clouds,\n'Aweel! the day's just aboot the ord'nar', an' I wouldna won'er if we\nsaw the sun afore nicht!'\n\nBut what loyal son of Edina cares for these transatlantic gibes, and\nwhere is the dweller within her royal gates who fails to succumb to the\nsombre beauty of that old grey town of the North? 'Grey! why, it is grey\nor grey and gold, or grey and gold and blue, or grey and gold and blue\nand green, or grey and gold and blue and green and purple, according as\nthe heaven pleases and you choose your ground! But take it when it is\nmost sombrely grey, where is another such grey city?'\n\nSo says one of her lovers, and so the great army of lovers would say,\nhad they the same gift of language; for\n\n  'Even thus, methinks, a city reared should be,...\n   Yea, an imperial city that might hold\n   Five time a hundred noble towns in fee....\n   Thus should her towers be raised; with vicinage\n   Of clear bold hills, that curve her very streets,\n   As if to indicate, 'mid choicest seats\n   Of Art, abiding Nature's majesty.'\n\nWe ate a hasty breakfast that first morning, and prepared to go out for\na walk into the great unknown, perhaps the most pleasurable sensation\nin the world. Francesca was ready first, and, having mentioned the fact\nseveral times ostentatiously, she went into the drawing-room to wait\nand read the Scotsman. When we went thither a few minutes later we found\nthat she had disappeared.\n\n She is below, of course,  said Salemina.  She fancies that we shall\nfeel more ashamed at our tardiness if we find her sitting on the hall\nbench in silent martyrdom. \n\nThere was no one in the hall, however, save Susanna, who inquired if we\nwould see the cook before going out.\n\n We have no time now, Susanna,  I remarked.  We are anxious to have a\nwalk before the weather changes, if possible, but we shall be out for\nluncheon and in for dinner, and Mrs. M'Collop may give us anything she\npleases. Do you know where Miss Francesca is? \n\n I cudna s--- \n\n Certainly, of course you couldn't; but I wonder if Mrs. M'Collop saw\nher? \n\nMrs. M'Collop appeared from the basement, and vouchsafed the information\nthat she had seen 'the young leddy rinnin' after the regiment.'\n\n Running after the regiment!  repeated Salemina automatically.  What\na reversal of the laws of nature? Why, in Berlin, it was always the\nregiment that used to run after her! \n\nWe learned in what direction the soldiers had gone, and pursuing the\nsame path found the young lady on the corner of a street near by. She\nwas quite unabashed.  You don't know what you have missed!  she said\nexcitedly.  Let us get into this tram, and possibly we can head them off\nsomewhere. They may be going into battle, and if so, my heart's blood is\nat their service. It is one of those experiences that come only once\nin a lifetime. There were pipes and there were kilts! (I didn't suppose\nthey ever really wore them outside of the theatre!) When you have\nseen the kilts swinging, Salemina, you will never be the same woman\nafterwards! You never expected to see the Olympian gods walking, did\nyou? Perhaps you thought they always sat on practicable rocks and made\nstiff gestures, from the elbow, as they do in the Wagner operas? Well,\nthese gods walked, if you can call the inspired gait a walk! If there\nis a single spinster left in Scotland, it is because none of these ever\nasked her to marry him. Ah, how grateful I ought to be that I am free\nto say 'yes', if a kilt ever asks me to be his! Poor Penelope, yoked to\nyour commonplace trousered Beresford! (I wish the tram would go faster!)\nYou must capture one of them, by fair means or foul, Penelope, and\nSalemina and I will hold him down while you paint him,--there they are,\nthey are there somewhere, don't you hear them? \n\nThere they were indeed, filing down the grassy slopes of the Gardens,\nswinging across one of the stone bridges, and winding up the Castlehill\nto the Esplanade like a long glittering snake; the streamers of their\nHighland bonnets waving, their arms glistening in the sun, and the\nbagpipes playing 'The March of the Cameron Men.' The pipers themselves\nwere mercifully hidden from us on that first occasion, and it was well,\nfor we could never have borne another feather's weight of ecstasy.\n\nIt was in Princes Street that we had alighted,--named thus for the\nprince who afterwards became George IV.--and I hope he was, and is,\nproperly grateful. It ought never to be called a street, this most\nmagnificent of terraces, and the world has cause to bless that interdict\nof the Court of Session in 1774 which prevented the Gradgrinds of the\nday from erecting buildings along its south side,--a sordid scheme that\nwould have been the very superfluity of naughtiness.\n\nIt was an envious Glasgow body who said grudgingly, as he came out of\nWaverley Station, and gazed along its splendid length for the\nfirst time,  Weel, wi' a' their haverin', it's but half a street\nonyway! --which always reminded me of the Western farmer who came from\nhis native plains to the beautiful Berkshire hills.  I've always heard\no' this scenery,  he said.  Blamed if I can find any scenery; but if\nthere was, nobody could see it, there's so much high ground in the way! \n\nTo think that not so much more than a hundred years ago Princes Street\nwas nought but a straight country road, the 'Lang Dykes' and the 'Lang\nGait,' as it was called.\n\nWe looked down over the grassy chasm that separates the New from the\nOld Town; looked our first on Arthur's Seat, that crouching lion of a\nmountain; saw the Corstorphine Hill, and Calton heights, and Salisbury\nCrags, and finally that stupendous bluff of rock that culminates so\nmajestically in Edinburgh Castle. There is something else which, like\nSusanna Crum's name, is absolutely and ideally right! Stevenson calls it\none of the most satisfactory crags in nature--a Bass rock upon dry\nland, rooted in a garden, shaken by passing trains, carrying a crown\nof battlements and turrets, and describing its warlike shadow over the\nliveliest and brightest thoroughfare of the new town. It dominates\nthe whole countryside from water and land. The men who would have the\ncourage to build such a castle in such a spot are all dead; all dead,\nand the world is infinitely more comfortable without them. They are all\ngone, and no more like unto them will ever be born, and we can most\nof us count upon dying safely in our beds, of diseases bred of modern\ncivilisation. But I am glad that those old barbarians, those rudimentary\ncreatures working their way up into the divine likeness, when they\nwere not hanging, drawing, quartering, torturing, and chopping their\nneighbours, and using their heads in conventional patterns on the tops\nof gate-posts, did devote their leisure intervals to rearing fortresses\nlike this. Edinburgh Castle could not be conceived, much less built,\nnowadays, when all our energy is consumed in bettering the condition\nof the 'submerged tenth'! What did they care about the 'masses,' that\n'regal race that is now no more,' when they were hewing those blocks\nof rugged rock and piling them against the sky-line on the top of that\ngreat stone mountain! It amuses me to think how much more picturesque\nthey left the world, and how much better we shall leave it; though if\nan artist were requested to distribute individual awards to different\ngenerations, you could never persuade him to give first prizes to the\ncenturies that produced steam laundries, trolleys, X rays, and sanitary\nplumbing.\n\nWhat did they reck of Peace Congresses and bloodless arbitrations when\nthey lighted the beacon-fires, flaming out to the gudeman and his sons\nploughing or sowing in the Lang Dykes the news that their 'ancient\nenemies of England had crossed the Tweed'!\n\nI am the most peaceful person in the world, but the Castle was too much\nfor my imagination. I was mounted and off and away from the first moment\nI gazed upon its embattled towers, heard the pipers in the distance, and\nsaw the Black Watch swinging up the green steps where the huge fortress\n'holds its state.' The modern world had vanished, and my\nsteed was galloping, galloping, galloping back into the\nplace-of-the-things-that-are-past, traversing centuries at every leap.\n\n'To arms! Let every banner in Scotland float defiance to the breeze!'\n(So I heard my new-born imaginary spirit say to my real one.) 'Yes,\nand let the Deacon Convener unfurl the sacred Blue Blanket, under which\nevery liege burgher of the kingdom is bound to answer summons! The\nbale-fires are gleaming, giving alarm to Hume, Haddington, Dunbar,\nDalkeith, and Eggerhope. Rise, Stirling, Fife, and the North! All\nScotland will be under arms in two hours. One bale-fire: the English\nare in motion! Two: they are advancing! Four in a row: they are of great\nstrength! All men in arms west of Edinburgh muster there! All eastward,\nat Haddington! And every Englishman caught in Scotland is lawfully the\nprisoner of whoever takes him!' (What am I saying? I love Englishmen,\nbut the spell is upon me!) 'Come on, Macduff!' (The only suitable and\nfamiliar challenge my warlike tenant can summon at the moment.) 'I am\nthe son of a Gael! My dagger is in my belt, and with the guid broadsword\nat my side I can with one blow cut a man in twain! My bow is cut\nfrom the wood of the yews of Glenure; the shaft is from the wood of\nLochetive, the feathers from the great golden eagles of Locktreigside!\nMy arrowhead was made by the smiths of the race of Macphedran! Come on,\nMacduff!'\n\nAnd now a shopkeeper has filled his window with royal Stuart tartans,\nand I am instantly a Jacobite.\n\n  'The Highland clans wi' sword in hand,\n     Frae John o' Groat's to Airly,\n   Hae to a man declar'd to stand\n     Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie.\n\n  'Come through the heather, around him gather,\n   Come Ronald, come Donald, come a'thegither,\n   And crown your rightfu' lawfu' king,\n     For wha'll be king but Charlie?'\n\nIt is the eve of the battle of Prestonpans. Is it not under the Rock\nof Dunsappie on yonder Arthur's Seat that our Highland army will encamp\nto-night? At dusk the prince will hold a council of his chiefs and\nnobles (I am a chief and a noble), and at daybreak we shall march\nthrough the old hedgerows and woods of Duddingston, pipes playing and\ncolours flying, bonnie Charlie at the head, his claymore drawn and the\nscabbard flung away! (I mean awa'!)--\n\n  'Then here's a health to Charlie's cause,\n     And be't complete an' early;\n   His very name my heart's blood warms\n     To arms for Royal Charlie!\n\n  'Come through the heather, around him gather,\n   Come Ronald, come Donald, come a'thegither,\n   And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king,\n     For wha'll be king but Charlie?'\n\nI hope that those in authority will never attempt to convene a Peace\nCongress in Edinburgh, lest the influence of the Castle be too strong\nfor the delegates. They could not resist it nor turn their backs upon\nit, since, unlike other ancient fortresses, it is but a stone's-throw\nfrom the front windows of all the hotels. They might mean never so well,\nbut they would end by buying dirk hat-pins and claymore brooches for\ntheir wives, their daughters would all run after the kilted regiment and\nmarry as many of the pipers as asked them, and before night they would\nall be shouting with the noble FitzEustace--\n\n  'Where's the coward who would not dare\n     To fight for such a land?'\n\nWhile I was rhapsodising, Salemina and Francesca were shopping in the\nArcade, buying some of the cairngorms, and Tam O'Shanter purses, and\nmodels of Burns's cottage, and copies of Marmion in plaided covers, and\nthistle belt-buckles, and bluebell penwipers, with which we afterwards\ninundated our native land. When my warlike mood had passed, I sat down\nupon the steps of the Scott monument and watched the passers-by in\na sort of waking dream. I suppose they were the usual professors and\ndoctors and ministers who are wont to walk up and down the Edinburgh\nstreets, with a sprinkling of lairds and leddies of high degree and a\nfew Americans looking at the shop windows to choose their clan tartans;\nbut for me they did not exist. In their places stalked the ghosts of\nkings and queens and knights and nobles; Columba, Abbot of Iona; Queen\nMargaret and Malcolm--she the sweetest saint in all the throng; King\nDavid riding towards Drumsheugh forest on Holy Rood day, with his horns\nand hounds and huntsmen following close behind; Anne of Denmark and\nJingling Geordie; Mary Stuart in all her girlish beauty, with the four\nMaries in her train; and lurking behind, Bothwell, 'that ower sune\nstepfaither,' and the murdered Rizzio and Darnley; John Knox, in his\nblack Geneva cloak; Bonnie Prince Charlie and Flora Macdonald; lovely\nAnnabella Drummond; Robert the Bruce; George Heriot with a banner\nbearing on it the words 'I distribute chearfully'; James I. carrying\nThe King's Quair; Oliver Cromwell; and a long line of heroes, martyrs,\nhumble saints, and princely knaves.\n\nBehind them, regardless of precedence, came the Ploughman Poet and\nthe Ettrick Shepherd, Boswell and Dr. Johnson, Dr. John Brown and Thomas\nCarlyle, Lady Nairne and Drummond of Hawthornden, Allan Ramsay and Sir\nWalter; and is it not a proof of the Wizard's magic art, that side by\nside with the wraiths of these real people walked, or seemed to walk,\nthe Fair Maid of Perth, Jeanie Deans, Meg Merrilies, Guy Mannering,\nEllen, Marmion, and a host of others so sweetly familiar and so humanly\ndear that the very street-laddies could have named and greeted them as\nthey passed by?\n\n\n\nChapter IV. Susanna Crum cudna say.\n\n\n\nLife at Mrs. M'Collop's apartments in 22 Breadalbane Terrace is about as\nsimple, comfortable, dignified, and delightful as it well can be.\n\nMrs. M'Collop herself is neat, thrifty, precise, tolerably genial, and\n'verra releegious.'\n\nHer partner, who is also the cook, is a person introduced to us as Miss\nDiggity. We afterwards learned that this is spelled Dalgety, but it is\nnot considered good form, in Scotland, to pronounce the names of persons\nand places as they are written. When, therefore, I allude to the cook,\nwhich will be as seldom as possible, I shall speak of her as Miss\nDiggity-Dalgety, so that I shall be presenting her correctly both to the\neye and to the ear, and giving her at the same time a hyphenated name, a\nthing which is a secret object of aspiration in Great Britain.\n\nIn selecting our own letters and parcels from the common stock on the\nhall table, I perceive that most of our fellow-lodgers are hyphenated\nladies, whose visiting-cards diffuse the intelligence that in their\nsingle persons two ancient families and fortunes are united. On\nthe ground floor are the Misses Hepburn-Sciennes (pronounced\nHebburn-Sheens); on the floor above us are Miss Colquhoun (Cohoon)\nand her cousin Miss Cockburn-Sinclair (Coburn-Sinkler). As soon as\nthe Hepburn-Sciennes depart, Mrs. M'Collop expects Mrs. Menzies of\nKilconquhar, of whom we shall speak as Mrs. Mingess of Kinyuchar.\nThere is not a man in the house; even the Boots is a girl, so that\n22 Breadalbane Terrace is as truly a castra puellarum as was ever the\nCastle of Edinburgh with its maiden princesses in the olden time.\n\nWe talked with Miss Diggity-Dalgety on the evening of our first day at\nMrs. M'Collop's, when she came up to know our commands. As Francesca\nand Salemina were both in the room, I determined to be as Scotch as\npossible, for it is Salemina's proud boast that she is taken for a\nnative of every country she visits.\n\n We shall not be entertaining at present, Miss Diggity,  I said,  so you\ncan give us just the ordinary dishes,--no doubt you are accustomed to\nthem: scones, baps or bannocks with marmalade, finnan-haddie or kippered\nherring for breakfast; tea,--of course we never touch coffee in the\nmorning  (here Francesca started with surprise);  porridge, and we like\nthem well boiled, please  (I hope she noted the plural pronoun; Salemina\ndid, and blanched with envy);  minced collops for luncheon, or a nice\nlittle black-faced chop; Scotch broth, pease brose or cockyleekie soup\nat dinner, and haggis now and then, with a cold shape for dessert. That\nis about the sort of thing we are accustomed to,--just plain Scotch\nliving. \n\nI was impressing Miss Diggity-Dalgety,--I could see that clearly; but\nFrancesca spoiled the effect by inquiring, maliciously, if we could\nsometimes have a howtowdy wi' drappit eggs, or her favourite dish, wee\ngrumphie wi' neeps.\n\nHere Salemina was obliged to poke the fire in order to conceal her\nsmiles, and the cook probably suspected that Francesca found howtowdy\nin the Scotch glossary; but we amused each other vastly, and that is our\nprincipal object in life.\n\nMiss Diggity-Dalgety's forebears must have been exposed to foreign\ninfluences, for she interlards her culinary conversation with French\nterms, and we have discovered that this is quite common. A 'jigget' of\nmutton is of course a gigot, and we have identified an 'ashet' as\nan assiette. The 'petticoat tails' she requested me to buy at the\nconfectioner's were somewhat more puzzling, but when they were finally\npurchased by Susanna Crum they appeared to be ordinary little cakes;\nperhaps, therefore, petits gastels, since gastel is an old form of\ngateau, as was bel for beau. Susanna, on her part, speaks of the\nwardrobe in my bedroom as an 'awmry.' It certainly contains no weapons,\nso cannot be an armoury, and we conjecture that her word must be a\ncorruption of armoire.\n\n That was a remarkable touch about the black-faced chop,  laughed\nSalemina, when Miss Diggity-Dalgety had retired;  not that I believe\nthey ever say it. \n\n I am sure they must,  I asserted stoutly,  for I passed a flesher's on\nmy way home, and saw a sign with 'Prime Black-Faced Mutton' printed on\nit. I also saw 'Fed Veal,' but I forgot to ask the cook for it. \n\n We ought really to have kept house in Edinburgh,  observed Francesca,\nlooking up from the Scotsman.  One can get a 'self-contained residential\nflat' for twenty pounds a month. We are such an enthusiastic trio that a\nself-contained flat would be everything to us; and if it were not fully\nfurnished, here is a firm that wishes to sell a 'composite bed' for six\npounds, and a 'gent's stuffed easy' for five. Added to these inducements\nthere is somebody who advertises that parties who intend 'displenishing'\nat the Whit Term would do well to consult him, as he makes a specialty\nof second-handed furniture and 'cyclealities.' What are 'cyclealities,'\nSusanna?  (She had just come in with coals.)\n\n I cudna say, mam. \n\n Thank you; no, you need not ask Mrs. M'Collop; it is of no\nconsequence. \n\nSusanna Crum is a most estimable young woman, clean, respectful,\nwilling, capable, and methodical, but as a Bureau of Information she is\npainfully inadequate. Barring this single limitation she seems to be a\ntreasure-house of all good practical qualities; and being thus clad and\npanoplied in virtue, why should she be so timid and self-distrustful?\n\nShe wears an expression which can mean only one of two things: either\nshe has heard of the national tomahawk and is afraid of violence on\nour part, or else her mother was frightened before she was born. This\napplies in general to her walk and voice and manner, but is it fear that\nprompts her eternal 'I cudna say,' or is it perchance Scotch caution\nand prudence? Is she afraid of projecting her personality too indecently\nfar? Is it the indirect effect of heresy trials on her imagination? Does\nshe remember the thumbscrew of former generations? At all events, she\nwill neither affirm nor deny, and I am putting her to all sorts of\ntests, hoping to discover finally whether she is an accident, an\nexaggeration, or a type.\n\nSalemina thinks that our American accent may confuse her. Of course she\nmeans Francesca's and mine, for she has none; although we have\ntempered ours so much for the sake of the natives, that we can scarcely\nunderstand each other any more. As for Susanna's own accent, she comes\nfrom the heart of Aberdeenshire, and her intonation is beyond my power\nto reproduce.\n\nWe naturally wish to identify all the national dishes; so,  Is this\ncockle soup, Susanna?  I ask her, as she passes me the plate at dinner.\n\n I cudna say. \n\n This vegetable is new to me, Susanna; is it perhaps sea-kale? \n\n I canna say, mam. \n\nThen finally, in despair, as she handed me a boiled potato one day,\nI fixed my searching Yankee brown eyes on her blue-Presbyterian,\nnon-committal ones, and asked,  What is this vegetable, Susanna? \n\nIn an instant she withdrew herself, her soul, her ego, so utterly that\nI felt myself gazing at an inscrutable stone image, as she replied,  I\ncudna say, mam. \n\nThis was too much! Her mother may have been frightened, very badly\nfrightened, but this was more that I could endure without protest. The\nplain boiled potato is practically universal. It is not only common to\nall temperate climates, but it has permeated all classes of society.\nI am confident that the plain boiled potato has been one of the chief\nconstituents in the building up of that frame in which Susanna Crum\nconceals her opinions and emotions. I remarked, therefore, as an,\napparent afterthought,  Why, it is a potato, is it not, Susanna? \n\nWhat do you think she replied, when thus hunted into a corner, pushed\nagainst a wall, driven to the very confines of her personal and national\nliberty? She subjected the potato to a second careful scrutiny, and\nanswered,  I wudna say it's no'! \n\nNow there is no inherited physical terror in this. It is the\nconcentrated essence of intelligent reserve, caution, and obstinacy;\nit is a conscious intellectual hedging; it is a dogged and determined\nattempt to build up barriers of defence between the questioner and the\nquestionee: it must be, therefore, the offspring of the catechism and\nthe heresy trial.\n\nOnce again, after establishing an equally obvious fact, I succeeded in\nwringing from her the reluctant admission,  It depends,  but she was so\nshattered by the bulk and force of this outgo, so fearful that in some\nway she had imperilled her life or reputation, so anxious concerning the\neffect that her unwilling testimony might have upon unborn generations,\nthat she was of no real service the rest of the day.\n\nI wish that the Lord Advocate, or some modern counterpart of Braxfield,\nthe hanging judge, would summon Susanna Crum as a witness in an\nimportant case. He would need his longest plummet to sound the depths of\nher consciousness.\n\nI have had no legal experience, but I can imagine the scene.\n\n Is the prisoner your father, Susanna Crum? \n\n I cudna say, my lord. \n\n You have not understood the question, Susanna. Is the prisoner your\nfather? \n\n I cudna say, my lord. \n\n Come, come, my girl! you must answer the questions put you by the\ncourt. You have been an inmate of the prisoner's household since your\nearliest consciousness. He provided you with food, lodging, and clothing\nduring your infancy and early youth. You have seen him on annual\nvisits to your home, and watched him as he performed the usual parental\nfunctions for your younger brothers and sisters. I therefore repeat, is\nthe prisoner your father, Susanna Crum? \n\n I wudna say he's no', my lord. \n\n This is really beyond credence! What do you conceive to be the idea\ninvolved in the word 'father,' Susanna Crum? \n\n It depends, my lord. \n\nAnd this, a few hundred years earlier, would have been the natural and\neffective moment for the thumbscrews.\n\nI do not wish to be understood as defending these uncomfortable\nappliances. They would never have been needed to elicit information from\nme, for I should have spent my nights inventing matter to confess in\nthe daytime. I feel sure that I should have poured out such floods\nof confessions and retractations that if all Scotland had been one\nlistening ear it could not have heard my tale. I am only wondering if,\nin the extracting of testimony from the common mind, the thumbscrew\nmight not have been more necessary with some nations than with others.\n\n\n\nChapter V. We emulate the Jackdaw.\n\n\n\nInvitations had been pouring in upon us since the delivery of our\nletters of introduction, and it was now the evening of our debut in\nEdinburgh society. Francesca had volunteered to perform the task of\nleaving cards, ordering a private victoria for the purpose, and arraying\nherself in purple and fine linen.\n\n Much depends upon the first impression,  she had said.  Miss Hamilton's\n'party' may not be gifted, but it is well-dressed. My hope is that\nsome of our future hostesses will be looking from the second-story\nfront-windows. If they are, I can assure them in advance that I shall be\na national advertisement. \n\nIt is needless to remark that as it began to rain heavily as she was\nleaving the house, she was obliged to send back the open carriage,\nand order, to save time, one of the public cabs from the stand in the\nTerrace.\n\n Would you mind having the lamiter, being first in line?  asked Susanna\nof Salemina, who had transmitted the command.\n\nWhen Salemina fails to understand anything, the world is kept in\ncomplete ignorance.--Least of all would she stoop to ask a humble\nmaidservant to translate the vernacular of the country; so she replied\naffably,  Certainly, Susanna, that is the kind we always prefer. I\nsuppose it is covered? \n\nFrancesca did not notice, until her coachman alighted to deliver the\nfirst letter and cards, that he had one club foot and one wooden leg;\nit was then that the full significance of 'lamiter' came to her. He was\ncovered, however, as Salemina had supposed, and the occurrence gave us\na precious opportunity of chaffing that dungeon of learning. He was\ntolerably alert and vigorous, too, although he certainly did not impart\nelegance to a vehicle, and he knew every street in the court end of\nEdinburgh, and every close and wynd in the Old Town. On this our first\nmeeting with him, he faltered only when Francesca asked him last of all\nto drive to 'Kildonan House, Helmsdale'; supposing, not unnaturally,\nthat it was as well known an address as Morningside House, Tipperlinn,\nwhence she had just come. The lamiter had never heard of Kildonan House\nnor of Helmsdale, and he had driven in the streets of Auld Reekie for\nthirty years. None of the drivers whom he consulted could supply any\ninformation; Susanna Crum cudna say that she had ever heard of it, nor\ncould Mrs. M'Collop, nor could Miss Diggity-Dalgety. It was reserved for\nLady Baird to explain that Helmsdale was two hundred and eighty miles\nnorth, and that Kildonan House was ten miles from the Helmsdale railway\nstation, so that the poor lamiter would have had a weary drive even had\nhe known the way. The friends who had given us letters to Mr. and Mrs.\nJameson-Inglis (Jimmyson-Ingals) must have expected us either to visit\nJohn o' Groats on the northern border, and drop in on Kildonan House\nen route, or to send our note of introduction by post and await an\ninvitation to pass the summer. At all events, the anecdote proved very\npleasing to our Edinburgh acquaintances. I hardly know whether, if they\nshould visit America, they would enjoy tales of their own stupidity\nas hugely as they did the tales of ours, but they really were very\nappreciative in this particular, and it is but justice to ourselves to\nsay that we gave them every opportunity for enjoyment.\n\nBut I must go back to our first grand dinner in Scotland. We were\ndressed at quarter-past seven, when, in looking at the invitation again,\nwe discovered that the dinner-hour was eight o'clock, not seven-thirty.\nSusanna did not happen to know the exact approximate distance to\nFotheringay Crescent, but the maiden Boots affirmed that it was only two\nminutes' drive, so we sat down in front of the fire to chat.\n\nIt was Lady Baird's birthday feast to which we had been bidden, and\nwe had done our best to honour the occasion. We had prepared a large\nbouquet tied with the Maclean tartan (Lady Baird is a Maclean), and had\nprinted in gold letters on one of the ribbons, 'Another for Hector,' the\nbattle-cry of the clan. We each wore a sprig of holly, because it is the\nbadge of the family, while I added a girdle and shoulder-knot of\ntartan velvet to my pale green gown, and borrowed Francesca's emerald\nnecklace,--persuading her that she was too young to wear such jewels in\nthe old country.\n\nFrancesca was miserably envious that she had not thought of tartans\nfirst.  You may consider yourself 'geyan fine,' all covered over with\nScotch plaid, but I wouldn't be so 'kenspeckle' for worlds!  she said,\nusing expressions borrowed from Mrs. M'Collop;  and as for disguising\nyour nationality, do not flatter yourself that you look like anything\nbut an American. I forgot to tell you the conversation I overheard in\nthe tram this morning, between a mother and daughter, who were talking\nabout us, I dare say. 'Have they any proper frocks for so large a party,\nBella?' asked the mother.\n\n 'I thought I explained in the beginning, mamma, that they are\nAmericans.'\n\n 'Still, you know they are only travelling,--just passing through, as\nit were; they may not be familiar with our customs, and we do want our\nparty to be a smart one.'\n\n 'Wait until you see them, mamma, and you will probably feel like hiding\nyour diminished head! It is my belief that if an American lady takes a\nhalf-hour journey in a tram she carries full evening dress and a diamond\nnecklace, in case anything should happen on the way. I am not in the\nleast nervous about their appearance. I only hope that they will not be\ntoo exuberant; American girls are so frightfully vivacious and informal,\nI always feel as if I were being taken by the throat!' \n\n A picturesque, though rather vigorous expression; however, it does\nno harm to be perfectly dressed,  said Salemina consciously, putting a\nsteel embroidered slipper on the fender and settling the holly in the\nsilver folds of her gown;  then when they discover that we are all well\nbred, and that one of us is intelligent, it will be the more credit to\nthe country that gave us birth. \n\n Of course it is impossible to tell what country did give YOU birth, \n retorted Francesca,  but that will only be to your advantage--away from\nhome! \n\nFrancesca is inflexibly, almost aggressively American, but Salemina is a\ncitizen of the world. If the United States should be involved in a war,\nI am confident that Salemina would be in front with the other Gatling\nguns, for in that case a principle would be at stake; but in all lesser\nmatters she is extremely unprejudiced. She prefers German music, Italian\nclimate, French dressmakers, English tailors, Japanese manners, and\nAmerican--American something--I have forgotten just what; it is either\nthe ice-cream soda or the form of government,--I can't remember which.\n\n I wonder why they named it 'Fotheringay' Crescent,  mused Francesca.\n Some association with Mary Stuart, of course. Poor, poor, pretty lady!\nA free queen only six years, and think of the number of beds she slept\nin, and the number of trees she planted; we have already seen, I am\nafraid to say how many. When did she govern, when did she scheme,\nabove all when did she flirt, with all this racing and chasing over the\ncountry? Mrs. M'Collop calls Anne of Denmark a 'sad scattercash' and\nMary an 'awfu' gadabout,' and I am inclined to agree with her. By the\nway, when she was making my bed this morning, she told me that her\nmother claimed descent from the Stewarts of Appin, whoever they may be.\nShe apologised for Queen Mary's defects as if she were a distant family\nconnection. If so, then the famous Stuart charm has been lost somewhere,\nfor Mrs M'Collop certainly possesses no alluring curves of temperament. \n\n I am going to select some distinguished ancestors this very minute,\nbefore I go to my first Edinburgh dinner,  said I decidedly.  It seems\nhard that ancestors should have everything to do with settling our\nnationality and our position in life, and we not have a word to say. How\nnice it would be to select one's own after one had arrived at years\nof discretion, or to adopt different ones according to the country one\nchanced to be visiting! I am going to do it; it is unusual, but there\nmust be a pioneer in every good movement. Let me think: do help me,\nSalemina! I am a Hamilton to begin with; I might be descended from the\nlogical Sir William himself, and thus become the idol of the university\nset! \n\n He died only about thirty years ago, and you would have to be his\ndaughter: that would never do,  said Salemina.  Why don't you take\nThomas Hamilton, Earl of Melrose and Haddington? He was Secretary of\nState, King's Advocate, Lord President of the Court of Session, and all\nsorts of fine things. He was the one King James used to call 'Tam o' the\nCowgate'! \n\n Perfectly delightful! I don't care so much about his other titles, but\n'Tam o' the Cowgate' is irresistible. I will take him. He was my--what\nwas he? \n\n He was at least your great-great-great-great-grandfather; that is a\nsafe distance. Then there's that famous Jenny Geddes, who flung her\nfauld-stule at the Dean in St. Giles',--she was a Hamilton too, if you\nfancy her! \n\n Yes, I'll take her with pleasure,  I responded thankfully.  Of course\nI don't know why she flung the stool,--it may have been very\nreprehensible; but there is always good stuff in stool-flingers; it's\nthe sort of spirit one likes to inherit in diluted form. Now, whom will\nyou take? \n\n I haven't even a peg on which to hang a Scottish ancestor,  said\nSalemina disconsolately.\n\n Oh, nonsense! think harder. Anybody will do as a starting-point; only\nyou must be honourable and really show relationship, as I did with Jenny\nand Tam. \n\n My aunt Mary-Emma married a Lindsay,  ventured Salemina hesitatingly.\n\n That will do,  I answered delightedly.\n\n   'The Gordons gay in English blude\n     They wat their hose and shoon;\n    The Lindsays flew like fire aboot\n     Till a' the fray was dune.'\n\n You can play that you are one of the famous 'licht Lindsays,' and you\ncan look up the particular ancestor in your big book. Now, Francesca,\nit's your turn! \n\n I am American to the backbone,  she declared, with insufferable\ndignity.  I do not desire any foreign ancestors. \n\n Francesca!  I expostulated.  Do you mean to tell me that you can dine\nwith a lineal descendant of Sir Fitzroy Donald Maclean, Baronet, of\nDuart and Morven, and not make any effort to trace your genealogy back\nfurther than your parents? \n\n If you goad me to desperation,  she answered,  I will wear an\nAmerican flag in my hair, declare that my father is a Red Indian, or a\npork-packer, and talk about the superiority of our checking system and\nhotels all the evening. I don't want to go, any way. It is sure to\nbe stiff and ceremonious, and the man who takes me in will ask me the\npopulation of Chicago and the amount of wheat we exported last year,--he\nalways does. \n\n I can't see why he should,  said I.  I am sure you don't look as if you\nknew. \n\n My looks have thus far proved no protection,  she replied sadly.\n Salemina is so flexible, and you are so dramatic, that you enter into\nall these experiences with zest. You already more than half believe\nin that Tam o' the Cowgate story. But there'll be nothing for me in\nEdinburgh society; it will be all clergymen-- \n\n Ministers  interjected Salemina,-- all ministers and professors. My\nRedfern gowns will be unappreciated, and my Worth evening frocks worse\nthan wasted! \n\n There are a few thousand medical students,  I said encouragingly,  and\nall the young advocates, and a sprinkling of military men--they know\nWorth frocks. \n\n And,  continued Salemina bitingly,  there will always be, even in an\nintellectual city like Edinburgh, a few men who continue to escape\nall the developing influences about them, and remain commonplace,\nconventional manikins, devoted to dancing and flirting. Never fear, they\nwill find you! \n\nThis sounds harsh, but nobody minds Salemina, least of all Francesca,\nwho well knows that she is the apple of that spinster's eye. But at\nthis moment Susanna opens the door (timorously, as if there might be a\npanther behind it) and announces the cab (in the same tone in which she\nwould announce the beast); we pick up our draperies, and are whirled off\nby the lamiter to dine with the Scottish nobility.\n\n\n\nChapter VI. Edinburgh society, past and present.\n\n\n\n  'Wha last beside his chair shall fa'\n   He is the king amang us three!'\n\nIt was the Princess Dashkoff who said, in the latter part of the\neighteenth century, that of all the societies of men of talent she\nhad met with in her travels, Edinburgh's was the first in point of\nabilities.\n\nOne might make the same remark to-day, perhaps, and not depart widely\nfrom the truth. One does not find, however, as many noted names as are\nassociated with the annals of the Cape and Poker Clubs or the Crochallan\nFencibles, those famous groups of famous men who met for relaxation (and\nintoxication, I should think) at the old Isle of Man Arms or in Dawney's\nTavern in the Anchor Close. These groups included such shining lights\nas Robert Fergusson the poet, and Adam Ferguson the historian and\nphilosopher, Gavin Wilson, Sir Henry Raeburn, David Hume, Erskine,\nLords Newton, Gillies, Monboddo, Hailes, Kames, Henry Mackenzie, and the\nPloughman Poet himself, who has kept alive the memory of the Crochallans\nin many a jovial verse like that in which he describes Smellie, the\neccentric philosopher and printer:--\n\n  'Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,\n   The old cocked hat, the grey surtout the same,\n   His bristling beard just rising in its might;\n    'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night';\n\nor in the characteristic picture of William Dunbar, a wit of the time,\nand the merriest of the Fencibles:--\n\n   'As I cam by Crochallan\n     I cannily keekit ben;\n   Rattlin', roarin' Willie\n     Was sitting at yon boord en';\n   Sitting at yon boord en',\n     And amang guid companie!\n   Rattlin', roarin' Willie,\n     Ye're welcome hame to me!'\n\nor in the verses on Creech, Burns's publisher, who left Edinburgh for a\ntime in 1789. The 'Willies,' by the way, seem to be especially inspiring\nto the Scottish balladists.\n\n  'Oh, Willie was a witty wight,\n   And had o' things an unco slight!\n   Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight\n     And trig and braw;\n   But now they'll busk her like a fright--\n     Willie's awa'!'\n\nI think perhaps the gatherings of the present time are neither quite as\ngay nor quite as brilliant as those of Burns's day, when\n\n  'Willie brewed a peck o' maut,\n   An' Rob an' Allan cam to pree';\n\nbut the ideal standard of those meetings seems to be voiced in the\nlines:--\n\n  'Wha last beside his chair shall fa',\n   He is the king amang us three!'\n\nAs they sit in their chairs nowadays to the very end of the feast, there\nis doubtless joined with modern sobriety a soupcon of modern dulness and\ndiscretion.\n\nTo an American the great charm of Edinburgh is its leisurely atmosphere:\n'not the leisure of a village arising from the deficiency of ideas and\nmotives, but the leisure of a city reposing grandly on tradition and\nhistory; which has done its work, and does not require to weave its own\nclothing, to dig its own coals, or smelt its own iron.'\n\nWe were reminded of this more than once, and it never failed to depress\nus properly. If one had ever lived in Pittsburg, Fall River, or\nKansas City, I should think it would be almost impossible to maintain\nself-respect in a place like Edinburgh, where the citizens 'are released\nfrom the vulgarising dominion of the hour.' Whenever one of Auld\nReekie's great men took this tone with me, I always felt as though I\nwere the germ in a half-hatched egg, and he were an aged and lordly cock\ngazing at me pityingly through my shell. He, lucky creature, had lived\nthrough all the struggles which I was to undergo; he, indeed, was\nreleased from 'the vulgarising dominion of the hour'; but I, poor thing,\nmust grow and grow, and keep pecking at my shell, in order to achieve\nexistence.\n\nSydney Smith says in one of his letters, 'Never shall I forget the\nhappy days passed there [in Edinburgh], amidst odious smells, barbarous\nsounds, bad suppers, excellent hearts, and the most enlightened and\ncultivated understandings.' His only criticism of the conversation of\nthat day (1797-1802) concerned itself with the prevalence of that form\nof Scotch humour which was called wut; and with the disputations and\ndialectics. We were more fortunate than Sydney Smith, because Edinburgh\nhas outgrown its odious smells, barbarous sounds, and bad suppers and,\nwonderful to relate, has kept its excellent hearts and its enlightened\nand cultivated understandings. As for mingled wut and dialectics, where\ncan one find a better foundation for dinner-table conversation?\n\nThe hospitable board itself presents no striking differences from\nour own, save the customs of serving sweets in soup-plates with\ndessert-spoons, of a smaller number of forks on parade, of the\ninvariable fish-knife at each plate, of the prevalent 'savoury' and\n'cold shape,' and the unusual grace and skill with which the hostess\ncarves. Even at very large dinners one occasionally sees a lady of high\ndegree severing the joints of chickens and birds most daintily, while\nher lord looks on in happy idleness, thinking, perhaps, how greatly\ntimes have changed for the better since the ages of strife and\nbloodshed, when Scottish nobles\n\n  'Carved at the meal with gloves of steel,\n   And drank their wine through helmets barred.'\n\nThe Scotch butler is not in the least like an English one. No man could\nbe as respectable as he looks, not even an elder of the kirk, whom he\nresembles closely. He hands your plate as if it were a contribution-box,\nand in his moments of ease, when he stands behind the 'maister,' I am\nalways expecting him to pronounce a benediction. The English butler,\nwhen he wishes to avoid the appearance of listening to the conversation,\ngazes with level eye into vacancy; the Scotch butler looks distinctly\nheavenward, as if he were brooding on the principle of co-ordinate\njurisdiction with mutual subordination. It would be impossible for me to\ndeny the key of the wine-cellar to a being so steeped in sanctity, but\nit has been done, I am told, in certain rare and isolated cases.\n\nAs for toilets, the men dress like all other men (alas, and alas, that\nwe should say it, for we were continually hoping for a kilt!) though\nthere seems to be no survival of the finical Lord Napier's spirit.\nPerhaps you remember that Lord and Lady Napier arrived at Castlemilk\nin Lanarkshire with the intention of staying a week, but announced next\nmorning that a circumstance had occurred which rendered it indispensable\nto return without delay to their seat in Selkirkshire. This was the only\nexplanation given, but it was afterwards discovered that Lord Napier's\nvalet had committed the grievous mistake of packing up a set of\nneckcloths which did not correspond IN POINT OF DATE with the shirts\nthey accompanied!\n\nThe ladies of the 'smart set' in Edinburgh wear French fripperies\nand chiffons, as do their sisters every where, but the other women of\nsociety dress a trifle more staidly than their cousins in London,\nParis, or New York. The sobriety of taste and severity of style that\ncharacterise Scotswomen may be due, like Susanna Crum's dubieties, to\nthe haar, to the shorter catechism, or perhaps in some degree to the\npresence of three branches of the Presbyterian Church among them; the\nsociety that bears in its bosom three separate and antagonistic kinds of\nPresbyterianism at the same time must have its chilly moments.\n\nIn Lord Cockburn's time the 'dames of high and aristocratic breed'\nmust have been sufficiently awake to feminine frivolities to be both\ngorgeously and extravagantly arrayed. I do not know in all literature\na more delicious and lifelike word-portrait than Lord Cockburn gives\nof Mrs. Rochead, the Lady of Inverleith, in the Memorials. It is quite\nworthy to hang beside a Raeburn canvas; one can scarce say more.\n\n'Except Mrs. Siddons in some of her displays of magnificent royalty,\nnobody could sit down like the Lady of Inverleith. She would sail like a\nship from Tarshish, gorgeous in velvet or rustling silk, done up in\nall the accompaniments of fans, ear-rings, and finger-rings, falling\nsleeves, scent-bottle, embroidered bag, hoop, and train; managing all\nthis seemingly heavy rigging with as much ease as a full-blown swan does\nits plumage. She would take possession of the centre of a large sofa,\nand at the same moment, without the slightest visible exertion, cover\nthe whole of it with her bravery, the graceful folds seeming to lay\nthemselves over it, like summer waves. The descent from her carriage,\ntoo, where she sat like a nautilus in its shell, was a display which no\none in these days could accomplish or even fancy. The mulberry-coloured\ncoach, apparently not too large for what it contained, though she alone\nwas in it; the handsome, jolly coachman and his splendid hammer-cloth\nloaded with lace; the two respectful liveried footmen, one on each side\nof the richly carpeted step,--these were lost sight of amidst the slow\nmajesty with which the Lady of Inverleith came down and touched the\nearth.'\n\nMy right-hand neighbour at Lady Baird's dinner was surprised at\nmy quoting Lord Cockburn. One's attendant squires here always seem\nsurprised when one knows anything; but they are always delighted, too,\nso that the amazement is less trying. True, I had read the Memorials\nonly the week before, and had never heard of them previous to that time;\nbut that detail, according to my theories, makes no real difference. The\nwoman who knows how and when to 'read up,' who reads because she wants\nto be in sympathy with a new environment; the woman who has wit and\nperspective enough to be stimulated by novel conditions and kindled by\nfresh influences, who is susceptible to the vibrations of other people's\nhistory, is safe to be fairly intelligent and extremely agreeable,\nif only she is sufficiently modest. I think my neighbour found me\nthoroughly delightful after he discovered my point of view. He was an\nearl; and it always takes an earl a certain length of time to understand\nme. I scarcely know why, for I certainly should not think it courteous\nto interpose any real barriers between the nobility and that portion of\nthe 'masses' represented in my humble person.\n\nIt seemed to me at first that the earl did not apply himself to the\nstudy of my national peculiarities with much assiduity, but wasted\nconsiderable time in gazing at Francesca, who was opposite. She is\ncertainly very handsome, and I never saw her lovelier than at that\ndinner; her eyes were like stars, and her cheeks and lips a splendid\ncrimson, for she was quarrelling with her attendant cavalier about the\nrelative merits of Scotland and America, and they apparently ceased to\nspeak to each other after the salad.\n\nWhen the earl had sufficiently piqued me by his devotion to his dinner\nand his glances at Francesca, I began a systematic attempt to achieve\nhis (transient) subjugation. Of course I am ardently attached to Willie\nBeresford and prefer him to any earl in Britain, but one's self-respect\ndemands something in the way of food. I could see Salemina at the far\nend of the table radiant with success, the W.S. at her side bending ever\nand anon to catch the (artificial) pearls of thought that dropped from\nher lips.  Miss Hamilton appears simple  (I thought I heard her say);\n but in reality she is as deep as the Currie Brig!  Now where did she\nget that allusion? And again, when the W.S. asked her whither she was\ngoing when she left Edinburgh,  I hardly know,  she replied pensively.\n I am waiting for the shade of Montrose to direct me, as the Viscount\nDundee said to your Duke of Gordon.  The entranced Scotsman little knew\nthat she had perfected this style of conversation by long experience\nwith the Q.C.'s of England. Talk about my being as deep as the Currie\nBrig (whatever it may be); Salemina is deeper than the Atlantic Ocean! I\nshall take pains to inform her Writer to the Signet, after dinner, that\nshe eats sugar on her porridge every morning; that will show him her\nnationality conclusively.\n\nThe earl took the greatest interest in my new ancestors, and approved\nthoroughly of my choice. He thinks I must have been named for Lady\nPenelope Belhaven, who lived in Leven Lodge, one of the country villas\nof the Earls of Leven, from whom he himself is descended.  Does that\nmake us relatives?  I asked.  Relatives, most assuredly,  he replied,\n but not too near to destroy the charm of friendship. \n\nHe thought it a great deal nicer to select one's own forebears than to\nallow them all the responsibility, and said it would save a world of\ntrouble if the method could be universally adopted. He added that he\nshould be glad to part with a good many of his, but doubted whether I\nwould accept them, as they were 'rather a scratch lot.' (I use his own\nlanguage, which I thought delightfully easy for a belted earl.) He was\ncharmed with the story of Francesca and the lamiter, and offered to\ndrive me to Kildonan House, Helmsdale, on the first fine day. I told him\nhe was quite safe in making the proposition, for we had already had the\nfine day, and we understood that the climate had exhausted itself and\nretired for the season.\n\nThe gentleman on my left, a distinguished Dean of the Thistle, gave me a\nfew moments' discomfort by telling me that the old custom of 'rounds'\nof toasts still prevailed at Lady Baird's on formal occasions, and that\nbefore the ladies retired every one would be called upon for appropriate\n'sentiments.'\n\n What sort of sentiments?  I inquired, quite overcome with terror.\n\n Oh, epigrammatic sentences expressive of moral feelings or virtues, \n replied my neighbour easily.  They are not quite as formal and hackneyed\nnow as they were in the olden time, when some of the favourite toasts\nwere 'May the pleasure of the evening bear the reflections of the\nmorning!' 'May the friends of our youth be the companions of our old\nage!' 'May the honest heart never feel distress!' 'May the hand of\ncharity wipe the eye of sorrow!' \n\n I can never do it in the world!  I ejaculated.  Oh, one ought never,\nnever to leave one's own country! A light-minded and cynical English\ngentleman told me that I should frequently be called upon to read hymns\nand recite verses of Scripture at family dinners in Edinburgh, and I\nhope I am always prepared to do that; but nobody warned me that I should\nhave to evolve epigrammatic sentiments on the spur of the moment. \n\nMy confusion was so evident that the good dean relented and confessed\nthat he was imposing upon my ignorance. He made me laugh heartily at the\nstory of a poor dominie at Arndilly. He was called upon in his turn, at\na large party, and having nothing to aid him in an exercise to which\nhe was new save the example of his predecessors, lifted his glass after\nmuch writhing and groaning and gave,  The reflection of the moon in the\ncawm bosom of the lake! \n\nAt this moment Lady Baird glanced at me, and we all rose to go into the\ndrawing-room; but on the way from my chair to the door, whither the earl\nescorted me, he said gallantly,  I suppose the men in your country\ndo not take champagne at dinner? I cannot fancy their craving it when\ndining beside an American woman! \n\nThat was charming, though he did pay my country a compliment at my\nexpense. One likes, of course, to have the type recognised as fine; at\nthe same time his remark would have been more flattering if it had been\nless sweeping.\n\nWhen I remember that he offered me his ancestors, asked me to drive two\nhundred and eighty miles, and likened me to champagne, I feel that,\nwith my heart already occupied and my hand promised, I could hardly have\naccomplished more in the course of a single dinner-hour.\n\n\n\nChapter VII. Francesca meets th' unconquer'd Scot.\n\n\n\nFrancesca's experiences were not so fortunate; indeed, I have never seen\nher more out of sorts than she was during our long chat over the fire,\nafter our return to Breadalbane Terrace.\n\n How did you get on with your delightful minister?  inquired Salemina\nof the young lady, as she flung her unoffending wrap over the back of a\nchair.  He was quite the handsomest man in the room; who is he? \n\n He is the Reverend Ronald Macdonald, and the most disagreeable,\ncondescending, ill-tempered prig I ever met! \n\n Why, Francesca!  I exclaimed.  Lady Baird speaks of him as her\nfavourite nephew, and says he is full of charm. \n\n He is just as full of charm as he was when I met him,  returned the\ngirl nonchalantly;  that is, he parted with none of it this evening.\nHe was incorrigibly stiff and rude, and oh! so Scotch! I believe if one\npunctured him with a hat-pin, oatmeal would fly into the air! \n\n Doubtless you acquainted him, early in the evening, with the\nimmeasurable advantages of our sleeping-car system, the superiority of\nour fast-running elevators, and the height of our buildings?  observed\nSalemina.\n\n I mentioned them,  Francesca answered evasively.\n\n You naturally inveighed against the Scotch climate? \n\n Oh, I alluded to it; but only when he said that our hot summers must be\ninsufferable. \n\n I suppose you repeated the remark you made at luncheon, that the ladies\nyou had seen in Princes Street were excessively plain? \n\n Yes, I did!  she replied hotly;  but that was because he said that\nAmerican girls generally looked bloodless and frail. He asked if it\nwere really true that they ate chalk and slate pencils. Wasn't that\nunendurable? I answered that those were the chief solid article of food,\nbut that after their complexions were established, so to speak, their\nparents often allowed them pickles and native claret to vary the diet. \n\n What did he say to that?  I asked.\n\n Oh, he said, 'Quite so, quite so'; that was his invariable response to\nall my witticisms. Then when I told him casually that the shops looked\nvery small and dark and stuffy here, and that there were not as many\ntartans and plaids in the windows as we had expected, he remarked\nthat as to the latter point, the American season had not opened yet!\nPresently he asserted that no royal city in Europe could boast ten\ncenturies of such glorious and stirring history as Edinburgh. I said it\ndid not appear to be stirring much at present, and that everything in\nScotland seemed a little slow to an American; that he could have no idea\nof push or enterprise until he visited a city like Chicago. He retorted\nthat, happily, Edinburgh was peculiarly free from the taint of the\nledger and the counting-house; that it was Weimar without a Goethe,\nBoston without its twang! \n\n Incredible!  cried Salemina, deeply wounded in her local pride.  He\nnever could have said 'twang' unless you had tried him beyond measure! \n\n I dare say I did; he is easily tried,  returned Francesca.  I asked\nhim, sarcastically, if he had ever been in Boston. 'No,' he said, 'it is\nnot necessary to GO there! And while we are discussing these matters,'\nhe went on, 'how is your American dyspepsia these days,--have you\ndecided what is the cause of it?'\n\n 'Yes, we have,' said I, as quick as a flash; 'we have always taken in\nmore foreigners than we could assimilate!' I wanted to tell him that one\nScotsman of his type would upset the national digestion anywhere, but I\nrestrained myself. \n\n I am glad you did restrain yourself--once,  exclaimed Salemina.  What\na tactful person the Reverend Ronald must be, if you have reported\nhim faithfully! Why didn't you give him up, and turn to your other\nneighbour? \n\n I did, as soon as I could with courtesy; but the man on my left was the\ntype that always haunts me at dinners; if the hostess hasn't one on her\nvisiting-list she imports one for the occasion. He asked me at once of\nwhat material the Brooklyn Bridge is made. I told him I really didn't\nknow. Why should I? I seldom go over it. Then he asked me whether it was\na suspension bridge or a cantilever. Of course I didn't know; I am not\nan engineer. \n\n You are so tactlessly, needlessly candid,  I expostulated.  Why didn't\nyou say boldly that the Brooklyn Bridge is a wooden cantilever, with\ngutta-percha braces? He didn't know, or he wouldn't have asked you. He\ncouldn't find out until he reached home, and you would never have\nseen him again; and if you had, and he had taunted you, you could have\nlaughed vivaciously and said you were chaffing. That is my method, and\nit is the only way to preserve life in a foreign country. Even my\nearl, who did not thirst for information (fortunately), asked me the\npopulation of the Yellowstone Park, and I simply told him three hundred\nthousand, at a venture. \n\n That would never have satisfied my neighbour,  said Francesca.  Finding\nme in such a lamentable state of ignorance, he explained the principle\nof his own stupid Forth Bridge to me. When I said I understood\nperfectly, just to get into shallower water, where we wouldn't need any\nbridge, the Reverend Ronald joined in the conversation, and asked me to\nrepeat the explanation to him. Naturally I couldn't, and he knew that I\ncouldn't when he asked me, so the bridge man (I don't know his name,\nand don't care to know it) drew a diagram of the national idol on his\ndinner-card and gave a dull and elaborate lecture upon it. Here is the\ncard, and now that three hours have intervened I cannot tell which way\nto turn the drawing so as to make the bridge right side up; if there\nis anything puzzling in the world, it is these architectural plans and\ndiagrams. I am going to pin it to the wall and ask the Reverend Ronald\nwhich way it goes. \n\n Do you mean that he will call upon us?  we cried in concert.\n\n He asked if he might come and continue our 'stimulating' conversation,\nand as Lady Baird was standing by I could hardly say no. I am sure of\none thing: that before I finish with him I will widen his horizon so\nthat he will be able to see something beside Scotland and his little\ninsignificant Fifeshire parish! I told him our country parishes in\nAmerica were ten times as large as his. He said he had heard that they\ncovered a good deal of territory, and that the ministers' salaries were\nsometimes paid in pork and potatoes. That shows you the style of his\nretorts! \n\n I really cannot decide which of you was the more disagreeable,  said\nSalemina;  if he calls, I shall not remain in the room. \n\n I wouldn't gratify him by staying out,  retorted Francesca.  He is\nextremely good for the circulation; I think I was never so warm in my\nlife as when I talked with him; as physical exercise he is equal to\nbicycling. The bridge man is coming to call, too. I made him a diagram\nof Breadalbane Terrace, and a plan of the hall and staircase, on my\ndinner-card. He was distinctly ungrateful; in fact, he remarked that he\nhad been born in this very house, but would not trust himself to find\nhis way upstairs with my plan as a guide. He also said the American\nvocabulary was vastly amusing, so picturesque, unstudied, and fresh. \n\n That was nice, surely,  I interpolated.\n\n You know perfectly well that it was an insult. \n\n Francesca is very like that young man,  laughed Salemina,  who,\nwhenever he engaged in controversy, seemed to take off his flesh and sit\nin his nerves. \n\n I'm not supersensitive,  replied Francesca,  but when one's vocabulary\nis called picturesque by a Britisher, one always knows he is thinking of\ncowboys and broncos. However, I shifted the weight into the other scale\nby answering 'Thank you. And your phraseology is just as unusual to\nus.' 'Indeed?' he said with some surprise. 'I supposed our method of\nexpression very sedate and uneventful.' 'Not at all,' I returned, 'when\nyou say, as you did a moment ago, that you never eat potato to your\nfish.' 'But I do not,' he urged obtusely. 'Very likely,' I argued, 'but\nthe fact is not of so much importance as the preposition. Now I eat\npotato WITH my fish.' 'You make a mistake,' he said, and we both laughed\nin spite of ourselves, while he murmured, 'eating potato WITH fish--how\nextraordinary.' Well, the bridge man may not add perceptibly to the\ngaiety of the nations, but he is better than the Reverend Ronald. I\nforgot to say that when I chanced to be speaking of doughnuts, that\n'unconquer'd Scot' asked me if a doughnut resembled a peanut? Can you\nconceive such ignorance? \n\n I think you were not only aggressively American, but painfully\nprovincial,  said Salemina, with some warmth.  Why in the world should\nyou drag doughnuts into a dinner-table conversation in Edinburgh? Why\nnot select topics of universal interest? \n\n Like the Currie Brig or the shade of Montrose,  I murmured slyly.\n\n To one who has ever eaten a doughnut, the subject is of transcendent\ninterest; and as for one who has not--well, he should be made to feel\nhis limitations,  replied Francesca, with a yawn.  Come, let us forget\nour troubles in sleep; it is after midnight. \n\nAbout half an hour later she came to my bedside, her dark hair hanging\nover her white gown, her eyes still bright.\n\n Penelope,  she said softly,  I did not dare tell Salemina, and I should\nnot confess it to you save that I am afraid Lady Baird will complain of\nme; but I was dreadfully rude to the Reverend Ronald! I couldn't help\nit; he roused my worst passions. It all began with his saying he\nthought international marriages presented even more difficulties to the\nimagination than the other kind. I hadn't said anything about marriages\nnor thought anything about marriages of any sort, but I told him\nINSTANTLY I considered that every international marriage involved\ntwo national suicides. He said that he shouldn't have put it quite so\nforcibly, but that he hadn't given much thought to the subject. I said\nthat I had, and I thought we had gone on long enough filling the coffers\nof the British nobility with American gold. \n\n FRANCES!  I interrupted.  Don't tell me that you made that vulgar,\ncheap newspaper assertion! \n\n I did,  she replied stoutly,  and at the moment I only wished I could\nmake it stronger. If there had been anything cheaper or more vulgar, I\nshould have said it, but of course there isn't. Then he remarked that\nthe British nobility merited and needed all the support it could get in\nthese hard times, and asked if we had not cherished some intention in\nthe States, lately, of bestowing it in greenbacks instead of gold! I\nthrew all manners to the winds after that and told him that there were\nno husbands in the world like American men, and that foreigners never\nseemed to have any proper consideration for women. Now, were my remarks\nany worse than his, after all, and what shall I do about it anyway? \n\n You should go to bed first,  I murmured sleepily;  and if you ever have\nan opportunity to make amends, which I doubt, you should devote yourself\nto showing the Reverend Ronald the breadth of your own horizon instead\nof trying so hard to broaden his. As you are extremely pretty, you may\npossibly succeed; man is human, and I dare say in a month you will\nbe advising him to love somebody more worthy than yourself. (He could\neasily do it!) Now don't kiss me again, for I am displeased with you; I\nhate international bickering! \n\n So do I,  agreed Francesca virtuously, as she plaited her hair,  and\nthere is no spectacle so abhorrent to every sense as a narrow-minded man\nwho cannot see anything outside of his own country. But he is awfully\ngood-looking,--I will say that for him: and if you don't explain me to\nLady Baird, I will write to Mr. Beresford about the earl. There was\nno bickering there; it was looking at you two that made us think of\ninternational marriages. \n\n It must have suggested to you that speech about filling the coffers of\nthe British nobility,  I replied sarcastically,  inasmuch as the earl\nhas twenty thousand pounds a year, probably, and I could barely buy two\ngold hairpins to pin on the coronet. There, do go away and leave me in\npeace! \n\n Good night again, then,  she said, as she rose reluctantly from the\nfoot of the bed.  I doubt if I can sleep for thinking what a pity it\nis that such an egotistic, bumptious, pugnacious, prejudiced, insular,\nbigoted person should be so handsome! And who wants to marry him any\nway, that he should be so distressed about international alliances?\nOne would think that all female America was sighing to lead him to the\naltar! \n\n\n\nChapter VIII. 'What made th' Assembly shine?'\n\n\n\nTwo or three days ago we noted an unusual though subdued air of\nexcitement at 22 Breadalbane Terrace, where for a week we had been\nthe sole lodgers. Mrs. Menzies, whom we call Mingess, has returned\nto Kilconquhar, which she calls Kinyuchar; Miss Cockburn-Sinclair has\npurchased her wedding outfit and gone back to Inverness, where she\nwill be greeted as Coburn-Sinkler; the Hepburn-Sciennes will be leaving\nto-morrow, just as we have learned to pronounce their names; and the\nsound of the scrubbing-brush is heard in the land. In corners where all\nwas clean and spotless before, Mrs. M'Collop is digging with the broom,\nand the maiden Boots is following her with a damp cloth. The stair\ncarpets are hanging on lines in the back garden, and Susanna, with her\ncap rakishly on one side, is always to be seen polishing the stair-rods.\nWhenever we traverse the halls we are obliged to leap over pails of\nsuds, and Miss Diggity-Dalgety has given us two dinners which bore a\ncurious resemblance to washing-day repasts in suburban America.\n\n Is it spring house-cleaning?  I ask Mistress M'Collop.\n\n Na, na,  she replies hurriedly;  it's the meenisters. \n\nOn the 19th of May we are a maiden castle no longer. Black coats and\nhats ring at the bell, and pass in and out of the different apartments.\nThe hall table is sprinkled with letters, visiting-cards, and programmes\nwhich seem to have had the alphabet shaken out upon them, for they bear\nthe names of professors, doctors, reverends, and very reverends, and\nfairly bristle with A.M.'s, M.A.'s, A.B.'s, D.D.'s, and LL.D.'s. The\nvoice of family prayer is lifted up from the dining-room floor, and\nparaphrases and hymns float down the stairs from above. Their Graces the\nLord High Commissioner and the Marchioness of Heatherdale will arrive\nto-day at Holyrood Palace, there to reside during the sittings of the\nGeneral Assembly of the Church of Scotland, and to-morrow the Royal\nStandard will be hoisted at Edinburgh Castle from reveille to retreat.\nHis Grace will hold a levee at eleven. Directly His Grace leaves\nthe palace after the levee, the guard of honour will proceed by the\nCanongate to receive him on his arrival at St. Giles' Church, and will\nthen proceed to Assembly Hall to receive him on his arrival there. The\nSixth Inniskilling Dragoons and the First Battalion Royal Scots will\nbe in attendance, and there will be Unicorns, Carricks, pursuivants,\nheralds, mace-bearers, ushers, and pages, together with the\nPurse-bearer, and the Lyon King-of-Arms, and the national anthem, and\nthe royal salute; for the palace has awakened and is 'mimicking its\npast.'\n\n'Should the weather be wet, the troops will be cloaked at the discretion\nof the commanding officer.' They print this instruction as a matter of\nform, and of course every man has his macintosh ready. The only hope\nlies in the fact that this is a national function, and 'Queen's weather'\nis a possibility. The one personage for whom the Scottish climate will\noccasionally relax is Her Majesty Queen Victoria, who for sixty years\nhas exerted a benign influence on British skies and at least secured\nsunshine on great parade days. Such women are all too few!\n\nIn this wise enters His Grace the Lord High Commissioner to open the\nGeneral Assembly of the Church of Scotland; and on the same day there\narrives by the railway (but travelling first class) the Moderator of\nthe Church of Scotland Free, to convene its separate supreme Courts\nin Edinburgh. He will have no Union Jacks, Royal Standards, Dragoons,\nbands, or pipers; he will bear his own purse and stay at an hotel; but\nwhen the final procession of all comes, he will probably march beside\nHis Grace the Lord High Commissioner, and they will talk together, not\nof dead-and-gone kingdoms, but of the one at hand, where there are\nno more divisions in the ranks, and where all the soldiers are simply\n'king's men,' marching to victory under the inspiration of a common\nwatchword.\n\nIt is a matter of regret to us that the U.P.'s, the third branch of\nScottish Presbyterianism, could not be holding an Assembly during this\nsame week, so that we might the more easily decide in which flock we\nreally belong. 22 Breadalbane Terrace now represents all shades of\nreligious opinion within the bounds of Presbyterianism. We have an\nElder, a Professor of Biblical Criticism, a Majesty's Chaplain, and even\nan ex-Moderator under our roof, and they are equally divided between the\nFree and the Established bodies.\n\nMrs. M'Collop herself is a pillar of the Free Kirk, but she has no\nprejudice in lodgers, and says so long as she 'mak's her rent she doesna\ncare aboot their releegious principles.' Miss Diggity-Dalgety is the\nsole representative of United Presbyterianism in the household, and she\nis somewhat gloomy in Assembly time. To belong to a dissenting body, and\nyet to cook early and late for the purpose of fattening one's religious\nrivals, is doubtless trying to the temper; and then she asserts that\n'meenisters are aye tume [empty].'\n\n You must put away your Scottish ballads and histories now, Salemina,\nand keep your Concordance and your umbrella constantly at hand. \n\nThis I said as we stood on George IV. Bridge and saw the ministers\nglooming down from the Mound in a dense Assembly fog. As the presence\nof any considerable number of priests on an ocean steamer is supposed\nto bring rough weather, so the addition of a few hundred parsons to the\npopulation of Edinburgh is believed to induce rain,--or perhaps I should\nsay, more rain.\n\nOf course, when one is in perfect bodily health one can more readily\nresist the infection of disease. Similarly if Scottish skies were not\nready and longing to pour out rain, were not ignobly weak in holding it\nback, they would not be so susceptible to the depressing influences of\nvisiting ministers. This is Francesca's theory as stated to the Reverend\nRonald, who was holding an umbrella over her ungrateful head at the\ntime; and she went on to boast of a convention she once attended in\nCalifornia, where twenty-six thousand Christian Endeavourers were unable\nto dim the American sunshine, though they stayed ten days.\n\n Our first duty, both to ourselves and to the community,  I continued to\nSalemina,  is to learn how there can be three distinct kinds of proper\nPresbyterianism. Perhaps it would be a graceful act on our part if we\nshould each espouse a different kind; then there would be no feeling\namong our Edinburgh friends. And again what is this 'union' of which we\nhear murmurs? Is it religious or political? Is it an echo of the\n1707 Union you explained to us last week, or is it a new one? What is\nDisestablishment? What is Disruption? Are they the same thing? What is\nthe Sustentation Fund? What was the Non-Intrusion party? What was the\nDundas Despotism? What is the argument at present going on about taking\nthe Shorter Catechism out of the schools? What is the Shorter Catechism,\nany way,--or at least what have they left out of the Longer Catechism to\nmake it shorter,--and is the length of the Catechism one of the points\nof difference? then when we have looked up Chalmers and Candlish, we\ncan ask the ex-Moderator and the Professor of Biblical Criticism to tea;\nseparately, of course, lest there should be ecclesiastical quarrels. \n\nSalemina and Francesca both incline to the Established church, I lean\ninstinctively toward the Free; but that does not mean that we have\nany knowledge of the differences that separate them. Salemina is a\nconservative in all things; she loves law, order, historic associations,\nold customs; and so when there is a regularly established national\nchurch,--or, for that matter, a regularly established anything,\nshe gravitates to it by the law of her being. Francesca's religious\nconvictions, when she is away from her own minister and native land, are\ninclined to be flexible. The church that enters Edinburgh with a marquis\nand a marchioness representing the Crown, the church that opens its\nAssembly with splendid processions and dignified pageants, the church\nthat dispenses generous hospitality from Holyrood Palace,--above all,\nthe church that escorts its Lord High Commissioner from place to place\nwith bands and pipers,--that is the church to which she pledges her\nconstant presence and enthusiastic support.\n\nAs for me, I believe I am a born protestant, or 'come-outer,' as they\nused to call dissenters in the early days of New England. I have not yet\nhad time to study the question, but as I lack all knowledge of the other\ntwo branches of Presbyterianism, I am enabled to say unhesitatingly that\nI belong to the Free Kirk. To begin with, the very word 'free' has\na fascination for the citizen of a republic; and then my theological\ntraining was begun this morning by a gifted young minister of Edinburgh\nwhom we call the Friar, because the first time we saw him in his gown\nand bands (the little spot of sheer whiteness beneath the chin, that\nlends such added spirituality to a spiritual face) we fancied that\nhe looked like some pale brother of the Church in the olden time. His\npallor, in a land of rosy redness and milky whiteness; his smooth, fair\nhair, which in the light from the stained-glass window above the pulpit\nlooked reddish gold; the Southern heat of passionate conviction that\ncoloured his slow Northern speech; the remoteness of his personality;\nthe weariness of his deep-set eyes, that bespoke such fastings and\nvigils as he probably never practised,--all this led to our choice of\nthe name.\n\nAs we walked toward St. Andrew's Church and Tanfield Hall, where he\ninsisted on taking me to get the 'proper historical background,' he told\nme about the great Disruption movement. He was extremely eloquent,--so\neloquent that the image of Willie Beresford tottered continually on its\nthrone, and I found not the slightest difficulty in giving an unswerving\nallegiance to the principles presented by such an orator.\n\nWe went first to St. Andrew's, where the General Assembly met in\n1843, and where the famous exodus of the Free Protesting Church took\nplace,--one of the most important events in the modern history of the\nUnited Kingdom.\n\nThe movement was promoted by the great Dr. Chalmers and his party,\nmainly to abolish the patronage of livings, then in the hands of certain\nheritors or patrons, who might appoint any minister they wished, without\nconsulting the congregation. Needless to say, as a free-born American\ncitizen, and never having had a heritor in the family, my blood easily\nboiled at the recital of such tyranny. In 1834 the Church had passed a\nlaw of its own, it seems, ordaining that no presentee to a parish should\nbe admitted, if opposed by the majority of the male communicants. That\nwould have been well enough could the State have been made to agree,\nthough I should have gone further, personally, and allowed the female\ncommunicants to have some voice in the matter.\n\nThe Friar took me into a particularly chilly historic corner, and,\nleaning against a damp stone pillar, painted the scene in St. Andrew's\nwhen the Assembly met in the presence of a great body of spectators,\nwhile a vast throng gathered without, breathlessly awaiting the result.\nNo one believed that any large number of ministers would relinquish\nlivings and stipends and cast their bread upon the waters for what many\nthought a 'fantastic principle.' Yet when the Moderator left his\nplace, after reading a formal protest signed by one hundred and twenty\nministers and seventy-two elders, he was followed first by Dr. Chalmers,\nand then by four hundred and seventy men, who marched in a body to\nTanfield Hall, where they formed themselves into the General Assembly\nof the Free Church of Scotland. When Lord Jeffrey was told of it an\nhour later, he exclaimed, 'Thank God for Scotland! there is not another\ncountry on earth where such a deed could be done!' And the Friar\nreminded me proudly of Macaulay's saying that the Scots had made\nsacrifices for the sake of religious opinion for which there was no\nparallel in the annals of England. On the next Sunday after these\nremarkable scenes in Edinburgh there were heart-breaking farewells,\nso the Friar said, in many village parishes, when the minister, in\ndismissing his congregation, told them that he had ceased to belong to\nthe Established Church and would neither preach nor pray in that pulpit\nagain; that he had joined the Free Protesting Church of Scotland, and,\nGod willing, would speak the next Sabbath morning at the manse door to\nas many as cared to follow him.  What affecting leave-takings there must\nhave been!  the Friar exclaimed.  When my grandfather left his church\nthat May morning, only fifteen members remained behind, and he could\nhear the more courageous say to the timid ones, 'Tak' your Bible and\ncome awa', mon!' Was not all this a splendid testimony to the power\nof principle and the sacred demands of conscience?  I said  Yea  most\nheartily, for the spirit of Jenny Geddes stirred within me that morning,\nand under the spell of the Friar's kindling eye and eloquent voice I\npositively gloried in the valiant achievements of the Free Church.\nIt would always be easier for a woman to say,  Yea  than  Nay  to the\nFriar. When he left me in Breadalbane Terrace I was at heart a member of\nhis congregation in good (and irregular) standing, ready to teach in\nhis Sunday-school, sing in his choir, visit his aged and sick poor,\nand especially to stand between him and a too admiring feminine\nconstituency.\n\nWhen I entered the drawing-room, I found that Salemina had just enjoyed\nan hour's conversation with the ex-Moderator of the opposite church\nwing.\n\n Oh, my dear,  she sighed,  you have missed such a treat! You have\nno conception of these Scottish ministers of the Establishment,--such\nculture, such courtliness of manner, such scholarship, such\nspirituality, such wise benignity of opinion! I asked the doctor to\nexplain the Disruption movement to me, and he was most interesting and\nlucid, and most affecting, too, when he described the misunderstandings\nand misconceptions that the Church suffered in those terrible days of\n1843, when its very life-blood, as well as its integrity and unity, were\nthreatened by the foes in its own household; when breaches of faith and\ntrust occurred on all sides, and dissents and disloyalties shook it to\nits very foundation! You see, Penelope, I have never fully understood\nthe disagreements about heritors and livings and state control before,\nbut here is the whole matter in a nut-sh-- \n\n My dear Salemina,  I interposed, with dignity,  you will pardon me,\nI am sure, when I tell you that any discussion on this point would be\nintensely painful to me, as I now belong to the Free Kirk. \n\n Where have you been this morning?  she asked, with a piercing glance.\n\n To St. Andrew's and Tanfield Hall. \n\n With whom? \n\n With the Friar. \n\n I see! Happy the missionary to whom you incline your ear,\nFIRST! --which I thought rather inconsistent of Salemina, as she had\nbeen converted by precisely the same methods and in precisely the same\nlength of time as had I, the only difference being in the ages of our\nrespective missionaries, one being about five-and-thirty, and other\nfive-and-sixty. Even this is to my credit after all, for if one can\nbe persuaded so quickly and fully by a young and comparatively\ninexperienced man, it shows that one must be extremely susceptible to\nspiritual influences or--something.\n\n\n\nChapter IX. Omnia presbyteria est divisa in partes tres.\n\n\n\nReligion in Edinburgh is a theory, a convention, a fashion (both humble\nand aristocratic), a sensation, an intellectual conviction, an emotion,\na dissipation, a sweet habit of the blood; in fact, it is, it seems to\nme, every sort of thing it can be to the human spirit.\n\nWhen we had finished our church toilettes, and came into the\ndrawing-room, on the first Sunday morning, I remember that we found\nFrancesca at the window.\n\n There is a battle, murder, or sudden death going on in the square\nbelow,  she said.  I am going to ask Susanna to ask Mrs. M'Collop what\nit means. Never have I seen such a crowd moving peacefully, with no\nexcitement or confusion, in one direction. Where can the people be\ngoing? Do you suppose it is a fire? Why, I believe... it cannot be\npossible... yes, they certainly are disappearing in that big church on\nthe corner; and millions, simply millions and trillions, are coming in\nthe other direction,--toward St. Knox's. \n\nImpressive as was this morning church-going, a still greater surprise\nawaited us at seven o'clock in the evening, when the crowd blocked the\nstreets on two sides of a church near Breadalbane Terrace; and though\nit was quite ten minutes before service when we entered, Salemina and I\nonly secured the last two seats in the aisle, and Francesca was obliged\nto sit on the steps of the pulpit or seek a sermon elsewhere.\n\nIt amused me greatly to see Francesca sitting on pulpit steps, her Paris\ngown and smart toque in close juxtaposition to the rusty bonnet and\nbombazine dress of a respectable elderly tradeswoman. The church\nofficer entered first, bearing the great Bible and hymn-book, which he\nreverently placed on the pulpit cushions; and close behind him, to\nour entire astonishment, came the Reverend Ronald Macdonald, evidently\nexchanging with the regular minister of the parish, whom we had come\nespecially to hear. I pitied Francesca's confusion and embarrassment,\nbut I was too far from her to offer an exchange of seats, and through\nthe long service she sat there at the feet of her foe, so near that\nshe could have touched the hem of his gown as he knelt devoutly for his\nfirst silent prayer.\n\nPerhaps she was thinking of her last interview with him, when she\ndescanted at length on that superfluity of naughtiness and Biblical\npedantry which, she asserted, made Scottish ministers preach from\nout-of-the-way texts.\n\n I have never been able to find my place in the Bible since I arrived, \n she complained to Salemina, when she was quite sure that Mr. Macdonald\nwas listening to her; and this he generally was, in my opinion, no\nmatter who chanced to be talking.  What with their skipping and hopping\nabout from Haggai to Philemon, Habakkuk to Jude, and Micah to Titus, in\ntheir readings, and then settling on seventh Nahum, sixth Zephaniah,\nor second Calathumpians for the sermon, I do nothing but search the\nScriptures in the Edinburgh churches,--search, search, search, until\nsome Christian by my side or in the pew behind me notices my hapless\nplight, and hands me a Bible opened at the text. Last Sunday it was\nObadiah first, fifteenth, 'For the day of the Lord is near upon all the\nheathen.' It chanced to be a returned missionary who was preaching on\nthat occasion; but the Bible is full of heathen, and why need he have\nchosen a text from Obadiah, poor little Obadiah one page long, slipped\nin between Amos and Jonah, where nobody but an elder could find him? \n If Francesca had not seen with wicked delight the Reverend Ronald's\nexpression of anxiety, she would never have spoken of second\nCalathumpians; but of course he has no means of knowing how unlike\nherself she is when in his company.\n\n\nTo go back to our first Sunday worship in Edinburgh. The church officer\nclosed the door of the pulpit on the Reverend Ronald, and I thought I\nheard the clicking of a lock; at all events, he returned at the close of\nthe services to liberate him and escort him back to the vestry; for the\nentrances and exits of this beadle, or 'minister's man,' as the church\nofficer is called in the country districts, form an impressive part\nof the ceremonies. If he did lock the minister into the pulpit, it is\nprobably only another national custom, like the occasional locking in\nof the passengers in a railway train, and may be positively necessary in\nthe case of such magnetic and popular preachers as Mr. Macdonald, or the\nFriar.\n\nI have never seen such attention, such concentration, as in these great\ncongregations of the Edinburgh churches. As nearly as I can judge, it\nis intellectual rather than emotional; but it is not a tribute paid to\neloquence alone, it is habitual and universal, and is yielded loyally to\ninsufferable dulness when occasion demands.\n\nWhen the text is announced, there is an indescribable rhythmic movement\nforward, followed by a concerted rustle of Bible leaves; not the rustle\nof a few Bibles in a few pious pews, but the rustle of all of them in\nall the pews,--and there are more Bibles in an Edinburgh Presbyterian\nchurch than one ever sees anywhere else, unless it be in the warehouses\nof the Bible Societies.\n\nThe text is read twice clearly, and another rhythmic movement follows\nwhen the books are replaced on the shelves. Then there is a delightful\nsettling back of the entire congregation, a snuggling comfortably into\ncorners and a fitting of shoulders to the pews.--not to sleep, however;\nan older generation may have done that under the strain of a two-hour\n'wearifu' dreich' sermon, but these church-goers are not to be caught\nnapping. They wear, on the contrary, a keen, expectant, critical look,\nwhich must be inexpressibly encouraging to the minister, if he has\nanything to say. If he has not (and this is a possibility in Edinburgh,\nas it is everywhere else), then I am sure it is wisdom for the beadle to\nlock him in, lest he flee when he meets those searching eyes.\n\nThe Edinburgh sermon, though doubtless softened in outline in these\nlater years, is still a more carefully built discourse than one\nordinarily hears out of Scotland, being constructed on conventional\nlines of doctrine, exposition, logical inference, and practical\napplication. Though modern preachers do not announce the division of\ntheir subject into heads and sub-heads, firstlies and secondlies and\nfinallies, my brethren, there seems to be the old framework underneath\nthe sermon, and every one recognises it as moving silently below the\nsurface; at least, I always fancy that as the minister finishes one\npoint and attacks another the younger folk fix their eagle eyes on him\nafresh, and the whole congregation sits up straighter and listens more\nintently, as if making mental notes. They do not listen so much as if\nthey were enthralled, though they often are, and have good reason to be,\nbut as if they were to pass an examination on the subject afterwards;\nand I have no doubt that this is the fact.\n\nThe prayers are many, and are divided, apparently, like those of the\nliturgies, into petitions, confessions, and aspirations; not forgetting\nthe all-embracing one with which we are perfectly familiar in our native\nland, in which the preacher commends to the Fatherly care every\nanimate and inanimate thing not mentioned specifically in the foregoing\nsupplications. It was in the middle of this compendious petition, 'the\nlang prayer,' that rheumatic old Scottish dames used to make a practice\nof 'cheengin' the fit,' as they stood devoutly through it.  When the\nmeenister comes to the 'ingetherin' o' the Gentiles,' I ken weel it's\ntime to cheenge legs, for then the prayer is jist half dune,  said a\ngood sermon-taster of Fife.\n\nThe organ is finding its way rapidly into the Scottish kirks (how can\nthe shade of John Knox endure a 'kist o' whistles' in good St. Giles'?),\nbut it is not used yet in some of those we attend most frequently.\nThere is a certain quaint solemnity, a beautiful austerity, in the\nunaccompanied singing of hymns that touches me profoundly. I am often\ncarried very high on the waves of splendid church music, when the\norgan's thunder rolls 'through vaulted aisles' and the angelic voices\nof a trained choir chant the aspirations of my soul for me; and when\nan Edinburgh congregation stands, and the precentor leads in that noble\nparaphrase,\n\n  'God of our fathers, be the God\n   Of their succeeding race,'\n\nthere is a certain ascetic fervour in it that seems to me the perfection\nof worship. It may be that my Puritan ancestors are mainly responsible\nfor this feeling, or perhaps my recently adopted Jenny Geddes is\na factor in it; of course, if she were in the habit of flinging\nfauldstules at Deans, she was probably the friend of truth and the foe\nof beauty, so far as it was in her power to separate them.\n\nThere is no music during the offertory in these churches, and this, too,\npleases my sense of the fitness of things. It cannot soften the woe\nof the people who are disinclined to the giving away of money, and the\ncheerful givers need no encouragement. For my part, I like to sit, quite\nundistracted by soprano solos, and listen to the refined tinkle of\nthe sixpences and shillings, and the vulgar chink of the pennies and\nha'pennies, in the contribution-boxes. Country ministers, I am told,\ndevelop such an acute sense of hearing that they can estimate the amount\nof the collection before it is counted. There is often a huge pewter\nplate just within the church door, in which the offerings are placed as\nthe worshippers enter or leave; and one always notes the preponderance\nof silver at the morning, and of copper at the evening services. It is\nperhaps needless to say that before Francesca had been in Edinburgh\na fortnight she asked Mr. Macdonald if it were true that the Scots\ncontinued coining the farthing for years and years, merely to have a\npiece of money serviceable for church offerings!\n\nAs to social differences in the congregations we are somewhat at sea.\nWe tried to arrive at a conclusion by the hats and bonnets, than\nwhich there is usually no more infallible test. On our first Sunday\nwe attended the Free Kirk in the morning, and the Established in the\nevening. The bonnets of the Free Kirk were so much the more elegant that\nwe said to one another,  This is evidently the church of society, though\nthe adjective 'Free' should by rights attract the masses.  On the\nsecond Sunday we reversed the order of things, and found the Established\nbonnets much finer than the Free bonnets, which was a source of\nmystification to us, until we discovered that it was a question of\nmorning or evening service, not of the form of Presbyterianism. We\nthink, on the whole, that, taking town and country congregations\ntogether, millinery has not flourished under Presbyterianism,--it seems\nto thrive better in the Romish atmosphere of France; but the Disruption\nat least, has had nothing to answer for in the matter, as it appears\nsimply to have parted the bonnets of Scotland in twain, as Moses divided\nthe Red Sea, and left good and evil on both sides.\n\nI can never forget our first military service at St. Giles'. We left\nBreadalbane Terrace before nine in the morning and walked along the\nbeautiful curve of street that sweeps around the base of the Castle\nRock,--walked on through the poverty and squalor of the High Street,\nkeeping in view the beautiful lantern tower as a guiding-star, till we\nheard\n\n  'The murmur of the city crowd;\n   And, from his steeple, jingling loud,\n     St. Giles's mingling din.'\n\nWe joined the throng outside the venerable church, and awaited the\napproach of the soldiers from the Castle parade-ground; for it is\nfrom there they march in detachments to the church of their choice. A\nreligion they must have, and if, when called up and questioned about it,\nthey have forgotten to provide themselves, or have no preference as to\nform of worship, they are assigned to one by the person in authority.\nWhen the regiments are assembled on the parade-ground of a Sunday\nmorning, the first command is, 'Church of Scotland, right about face,\nquick march!'--the bodies of men belonging to other denominations\nstanding fast until their turn comes to move. It is said that a new\nofficer once gave the command, 'Church of Scotland, right about face,\nquick march! Fancy releegions, stay where ye are!'\n\nJust as we were being told this story by an attendant squire, there was\na burst of scarlet and a blare of music, and down Castlehill and the\nLawnmarket into Parliament Square marched hundreds of redcoats, the\nHighland pipers (otherwise the Olympian gods) swinging in front, leaving\nthe American female heart prostrate beneath their victorious tread. The\nstrains of music that in the distance sounded so martial and triumphant\nwe recognised in a moment as 'Abide with me,' and never did the fine\nold tune seem more majestic than when it marked a measure for the steady\ntramp, tramp, tramp, of those soldierly feet. As 'The March of the\nCameron Men,' piped from the green steeps of Castlehill, had aroused in\nus thoughts of splendid victories on the battlefield, so did this simple\nhymn awake the spirit of the church militant; a no less stern but more\nspiritual soldiership, in which 'the fruit of righteousness is sown in\npeace of them that make peace.'\n\nAs I fell asleep on that first Sunday night in Edinburgh, after the\nsomewhat unusual experience of three church services in a single day,\nthree separate notes of memory floated in and out of the fabric of my\ndreams; the sound of the soldiers' feet marching into old St. Giles' to\nthe strains of 'Abide with me'; the voice of the Reverend Ronald\nringing out with manly insistence: 'It is aspiration that counts, not\nrealisation; pursuit, not achievement; quest, not conquest!'--and the\nclosing phrases of the Friar's prayer; 'When Christ has forgiven us,\nhelp us to forgive ourselves! Help us to forgive ourselves so fully\nthat we can even forget ourselves, remembering only Him! And so let His\nkingdom come; we ask it for the King's sake, Amen.'\n\n\n\nChapter X. Mrs. M'Collop as a sermon-taster.\n\n\n\nEven at this time of Assemblies, when the atmosphere is almost\nexclusively clerical and ecclesiastical, the two great church armies\nrepresented here certainly conceal from the casual observer all\nrivalries and jealousies, if indeed they cherish any. As for the two\ndissenting bodies, the Church of the Disruption and the Church of the\nSecession have been keeping company, so to speak, for some years, with\na distant eye to an eventual union. In the light of all this pleasant\ntoleration, it seems difficult to realise that earlier Edinburgh, where,\nwe learned from old parochial records of 1605, Margaret Sinclair was\ncited by the Session of the Kirk for being at the 'Burne' for water on\nthe Sabbath; that Janet Merling was ordered to make public repentance\nfor concealing a bairn unbaptized in her house for the space of twenty\nweeks and calling said bairn Janet; that Pat Richardson had to crave\nmercy for being found in his boat in time of afternoon service; and that\nJanet Walker, accused of having visitors in her house in sermon-time,\nhad to confess her offence and on her knees crave mercy of God AND the\nKirk Session (which no doubt was much worse) under penalty of a hundred\npounds Scots. Possibly there are people yet who would prefer to pay a\nhundred pounds rather than hear a sermon, but they are few.\n\nIt was in the early seventeen hundred and thirties when Allan Ramsay,\n'in fear and trembling of legal and clerical censure,' lent out the\nplays of Congreve and Farquhar from his famous High Street library. In\n1756 it was, that the Presbytery of Edinburgh suspended all clergymen\nwho had witnessed the representation of Douglas, that virtuous tragedy\nwritten, to the dismay of all Scotland, by a minister of the Kirk. That\nthe world, even the theological world, moves with tolerable rapidity\nwhen once set in motion, is evinced by the fact that on Mrs. Siddons'\nsecond engagement in Edinburgh, in the summer of 1785, vast crowds\ngathered about the doors of the theatre, not at night alone, but in the\nday, to secure places. It became necessary to admit them first at three\nin the afternoon and then at noon, and eventually 'the General Assembly\nof the Church then in session was compelled to arrange its meetings with\nreference to the appearance of the great actress.' How one would have\nenjoyed hearing that Scotsman say, after one of her most splendid\nflights of tragic passion, 'That's no bad!' We have read of her dismay\nat this ludicrous parsimony of praise, but her self-respect must have\nbeen restored when the Edinburgh ladies fainted by dozens during her\nimpersonation of Isabella in The Fatal Marriage.\n\nSince Scottish hospitality is well-nigh inexhaustible, it is not\nstrange that from the moment Edinburgh streets began to be crowded\nwith ministers, our drawing-room table began to bear shoals of engraved\ninvitations of every conceivable sort, all equally unfamiliar to our\nAmerican eyes.\n\n'The Purse-Bearer is commanded by the Lord High Commissioner and the\nMarchioness of Heatherdale to invite Miss Hamilton to a Garden Party at\nthe Palace of Holyrood House, on the 27th of May. WEATHER PERMITTING.'\n\n'The General Assembly of the Free Church of Scotland admits Miss\nHamilton to any gallery on any day.'\n\n'The Marchioness of Heatherdale is At Home on the 26th of May from a\nquarter-past nine in the evening. Palace of Holyrood House.'\n\n'The Moderator of the General Assembly of the Free Church of Scotland is\nAt Home in the Library of the New College on Saturday, the 22nd of May,\nfrom eight to ten in the evening.'\n\n'The Moderator asks the pleasure of Miss Hamilton's presence at a\nBreakfast to be given on the morning of the 25th May at Dunedin Hotel.'\n\nWe determined to go to all these functions impartially, tracking thus\nthe Presbyterian lion to his very lair, and observing his home as well\nas his company manners. In everything that related to the distinctively\nreligious side of the proceedings we sought advice from Mrs. M'Collop,\nwhile we went to Lady Baird for definite information on secular matters.\nWe also found an unexpected ally in the person of our own ex-Moderator's\nniece, Miss Jean Dalziel (Deeyell). She has been educated in Paris,\nbut she must always have been a delightfully breezy person, quite too\nirrepressible to be affected by Scottish haar or theology.  Go to the\nAssemblies, by all means,  she said,  and be sure and get places for the\nheresy case. These are no longer what they once were,--we are getting\nlamentably weak and gelatinous in our beliefs,--but there is an\nunusually nice one this year; the heretic is very young and handsome,\nand quite wicked, as ministers go. Don't fail to be presented at the\nMarchioness's court at Holyrood, for it is a capital preparation for the\nordeal of Her Majesty and Buckingham Palace. 'Nothing fit to wear'?\nYou have never seen the people who go or you wouldn't say that! I even\nadvise you to attend one of the breakfasts; it can't do you any serious\nor permanent injury so long as you eat something before you go. Oh no,\nit doesn't matter,--whichever one you choose, you will cheerfully omit\nthe other; for I avow, as a Scottish spinster, and the niece of an\nex-Moderator, that to a stranger and a foreigner the breakfasts are\nworse than Arctic explorations. If you do not chance to be at the table\nof honour-- \n\n The gifted Miss Hamilton is always at the table of honour; unless she\nis placed there she refuses to eat, and then the universe rocks to its\ncentre,  interpolated Francesca impertinently.\n\n It is true,  continued Miss Dalziel,  you will often sit beside a\nminister or a minister's wife, who will make you scorn the sordid\nappetites of flesh, but if you do not, then eat as little as may be, and\nflee up the Mound to whichever Assembly is the Mecca of your soul! \n\n My niece's tongue is an unruly member,  said the ex-Moderator, who was\npresent at this diatribe,  and the principal mistakes she makes in\nher judgment of these clerical feasts is that she criticises them as\nconventional repasts, whereas they are intended to be informal meetings\ntogether of people who wish to be better acquainted. \n\n Hot bacon and eggs would be no harm to friendship,  answered Miss\nDalziel, with an affectionate moue.\n\n Cold bacon and eggs is better than cold piety,  said the ex-Moderator,\n and it may be a good discipline for fastidious young ladies who have\nbeen spoiled by Parisian breakfasts. \n\nIt is to Mrs. M'Collop that we owe our chief insight into technical\nchurch matters, although we seldom agree with her 'opeenions' after\nwe gain our own experience. She never misses hearing one sermon on\na Sabbath, and oftener she listens to two or three. Neither does she\nconfine herself to the ministrations of a single preacher, but roves\nfrom one sanctuary to another, seeking the bread of life,--often,\nhowever, according to her own account, getting a particularly\nindigestible 'stane.'\n\nShe is thus a complete guide to the Edinburgh pulpit, and when she is\nmaking a bed in the morning she dispenses criticism in so large and\nimpartial a manner that it would make the flesh of the 'meenistry'\ncreep were it overheard. I used to think Ian Maclaren's sermon-taster\na possible exaggeration of an existent type, but I now see that she is\ntruth itself.\n\n Ye'll be tryin' anither kirk the morn?  suggests Mrs. M'Collop,\nspreading the clean Sunday sheet over the mattress.  Wha did ye hear the\nSawbath that's bye? Dr. A? Ay, I ken him ower weel; he's been there\nfor fifteen years an' mair. Ay, he's a gifted mon--AFF AN' ON!  with an\nemphasis showing clearly that, in her estimation, the times when he is\n'aff' outnumber those when he is 'on'...  Ye havena heard auld Dr. B\nyet?  (Here she tucks in the upper sheet tidily at the foot.)  He's\na graund strachtforrit mon, is Dr. B, forbye he's growin' maist awfu'\ndreich in his sermons, though when he's that wearisome a body canna\nheed him wi'oot takin' peppermints to the kirk, he's nane the less, at\nseeventy-sax, a better mon than the new asseestant. Div ye ken the new\nasseestant? He's a wee-bit, finger-fed mannie, ower sma' maist to wear\na goon! I canna thole him, wi' his lang-nebbit words, explainin' an'\nexpoundin' the gude Book as if it had jist come oot! The auld doctor's\nnae kirk-filler, but he gies us fu' meesure, pressed doun an' rinnin'\nower, nae bit-pickin's like the haverin' asseestant; it's my opeenion\nhe's no soond, wi' his parleyvoos an' his clishmaclavers!... Mr. C? \n (Now comes the shaking and straightening and smoothing of the first\nblanket.)  Ay, he's weel eneuch! I mind aince he prayed for oor Free\nAssembly, an' then he turned roon' an' prayed for the Estaiblished,\nmaist in the same breath,--he's a broad, leeberal mon is Mr. C!... Mr.\nD? Ay, I ken him fine; he micht be waur, though he's ower fond o' the\nkittle pairts o' the Old Testament; but he reads his sermon frae the\npaper, an' it's an auld sayin', 'If a meenister canna mind [remember]\nhis ain discoorse, nae mair can the congregation be expectit to mind\nit.'... Mr. E? He's my ain meenister.  (She has a pillow in her mouth\nnow, but though she is shaking it as a terrier would a rat, and drawing\non the linen slip at the same time, she is still intelligible between\nthe jerks).  Susanna says his sermon is like claith made o' soond 'oo\n[wool] wi' a guid twined thread, an' wairpit an' weftit wi' doctrine.\nSusanna kens her Bible weel, but she's never gaed forrit.  (To 'gang\nforrit' is to take the communion).  Dr. F? I ca' him the greetin'\ndoctor! He's aye dingin' the dust oot o' the poopit cushions, an'\ngreetin' ower the sins o' the human race, an' eespecially o' his ain\ncongregation. He's waur sin his last wife sickened an' slippit awa'.\n'Twas a chastenin' he'd put up wi' twice afore, but he grat nane the\nless. She was a bonnie bit body, was the thurd Mistress F! E'nboro could\n'a' better spared the greetin' doctor than her, I'm thinkin'. \n\n The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, according to His good will\nand pleasure,  I ventured piously, as Mrs. M'Collop beat the bolster and\nlaid it in place.\n\n Ou ay,  responded that good woman, as she spread the counterpane over\nthe pillows in the way I particularly dislike,-- ou ay, but whiles I\nthink it's a peety he couldna be guidit! \n\n\n\nChapter XI. Holyrood awakens.\n\n\n\nWe were to make our bow to the Lord High Commissioner and the\nMarchioness of Heatherdale in the evening, and we were in a state of\nrepublican excitement at 22 Breadalbane Terrace.\n\nFrancesca had surprised us by refusing to be presented at this\nsemi-royal Scottish court.  Not I,  she said.  The Marchioness\nrepresents the Queen; we may discover, when we arrive, that she has\nraised the standards of admission, and requires us to 'back out' of\nthe throne-room. I don't propose to do that without London training.\nBesides, I detest crowds, and I never go to my own President's\nreceptions; and I have a headache, anyway, and I don't feel like coping\nwith the Reverend Ronald to-night!  (Lady Baird was to take us under her\nwing, and her nephew was to escort us, Sir Robert being in Inveraray).\n\n Sally, my dear,  I said, as Francesca left the room with a bottle of\nsmelling-salts somewhat ostentatiously in evidence,  methinks the damsel\ndoth protest too much. In other words, she devotes a good deal of time\nand discussion to a gentleman whom she heartily dislikes. As she is\nunder your care, I will direct your attention to the following points:--\n\n Ronald Macdonald is a Scotsman; Francesca disapproves of international\nalliances.\n\n He is a Presbyterian; she is a Swedenborgian.\n\n His father was a famous old-school doctor; Francesca is a\nhomoeopathist.\n\n He is serious; Francesca is gay.\n\n I think, under all the circumstances, their acquaintance will bear\nwatching. Two persons so utterly dissimilar, and, so far as superficial\nobservation goes, so entirely unsuited to each other, are quite likely\nto drift into marriage unless diverted by watchful philanthropists. \n\n Nonsense!  returned Salemina brusquely.  You think because you are\nunder the spell of the tender passion yourself that other people are in\nconstant danger. Francesca detests him. \n\n Who told you so? \n\n She herself,  triumphantly.\n\n Salemina,  I said pityingly,  I have always believed you a spinster\nfrom choice; don't lead me to think that you have never had any\nexperience in these matters! The Reverend Ronald has also intimated to\nme as plainly as he dared that he cannot bear the sight of Francesca.\nWhat do I gather from this statement? The general conclusion that if it\nbe true, it is curious that he looks at her incessantly. \n\n Francesca would never live in Scotland,  remarked Salemina feebly.\n\n Not unless she were asked, of course,  I replied.\n\n He would never ask her. \n\n Not unless he thought he had a chance of an affirmative answer. \n\n Her father would never allow it. \n\n Her father allows what she permits him to allow. You know that\nperfectly well. \n\n What shall I do about it, then? \n\n Consult me. \n\n What shall WE do about it? \n\n Let Nature have her own way. \n\n I don't believe in Nature. \n\n Don't be profane, Salemina, and don't be unromantic, which is worse;\nbut if you insist, trust in Providence. \n\n I would rather trust Francesca's hard heart. \n\n The hardest hearts melt if sufficient heat be applied. Did I take you\nto Newhaven and read you Christie Johnstone on the beach for nought?\nDon't you remember Charles Reade said that the Scotch are icebergs, with\nvolcanoes underneath; thaw the Scotch ice, which is very cold, and you\nshall get to the Scotch fire, warmer than any sun of Italy or Spain. I\nthink Mr. Macdonald is a volcano. \n\n I wish he were extinct,  said Salemina petulantly;  and I wish you\nwouldn't make me nervous. \n\n If you had any faculty of premonition, you wouldn't have waited for me\nto make you nervous. \n\n Some people are singularly omniscient. \n\n Others are singularly deficient--  And at this moment Susanna Crum came\nin to announce Miss Jean Dalziel, who had come to see sights with us.\n\nIt was our almost daily practice to walk through the Old Town, and we\nwere now familiar with every street and close in that densely-crowded\nquarter. Our quest for the sites of ancient landmarks never grew\nmonotonous, and we were always reconstructing, in imagination, the\nCowgate, the Canongate, the Lawnmarket, and the High Street, until we\ncould see Auld Reekie as it was in bygone centuries. In those days of\ncontinual war with England, people crowded their dwellings as near the\nCastle as possible, so floor was piled upon floor, and flat upon flat,\nfamilies ensconcing themselves above other families, the tendency\nbeing ever skyward. Those who dwelt on top had no desire to spend\ntheir strength in carrying down the corkscrew stairs matter which would\ndescend by the force of gravity if pitched from the window or door; so\nthe wayfarer, especially after dusk, would be greeted with cries of\n'Get oot o' the gait!' or 'Gardy loo!' which was in the French 'Gardez\nl'eau,' and which would have been understood in any language, I fancy,\nafter a little experience. The streets then were filled with the debris\nflung from a hundred upper windows, while certain ground-floor tenants,\nsuch as butchers and candlemakers, contributed their full share to the\nfragrant heaps. As for these too seldom used narrow turnpike stairs,\nimagine the dames of fashion tilting their vast hoops and silken\nshow-petticoats up and down in them!\n\nThat swine roamed at will in these Elysian fields is to be presumed,\nsince we have this amusing picture of three High Street belles and\nbeauties in the Traditions of Edinburgh:--\n\n'So easy were the manners of the great, fabled to be so stiff and\ndecorous,' says the author, 'that Lady Maxwell's daughter Jane, who\nafterward became the Duchess of Gordon, was seen riding a sow up the\nHigh Street, while her sister Eglantine (afterwards Lady Wallace of\nCraigie) thumped lustily behind with a stick.'\n\nNo wonder, in view of all this, that King James VI., when about to bring\nhome his 'darrest spous,' Anne of Denmark, wrote to the Provost, 'For\nGod's sake see a' things are richt at our hame-coming; a king with a\nnew-married wife doesna come hame ilka day.'\n\nHad it not been for these royal home-comings and visits of distinguished\nforeigners, now and again aided by something still more salutary, an\noccasional outbreak of the plague, the easy-going authorities would\nnever have issued any 'cleaning edicts,' and the still easier-going\ninhabitants would never have obeyed them. It was these dark, tortuous\nwynds and closes, nevertheless, that made up the Court End of Old\nEdinbro'; for some one writes in 1530, 'Via vaccarum in qua habitant\npatricii et senatores urbis' (The nobility and chief senators of the\ncity dwell in the Cowgate). And as for the Canongate, this Saxon gaet\nor way of the Holy rood canons, it still sheltered in 1753 'two dukes,\nsixteen earls, two dowager countesses, seven lords, seven lords of\nsession, thirteen baronets, four commanders of the forces in Scotland,\nand five eminent men,'--fine game indeed for Mally Lee!\n\n  'A' doun alang the Canongate\n     Were beaux o' ilk degree;\n   And mony ane turned round to look\n     At bonny Mally Lee.\n   And we're a' gaun east an' west,\n     We're a' gaun agee,\n   We're a' gaun east an' west\n     Courtin' Mally Lee!'\n\nEvery corner bristles with memories. Here is the Stamp Office Close,\nfrom which the lovely Susanna, Countess of Eglinton, was wont to issue\non assembly nights; she, six feet in height, with a brilliantly fair\ncomplexion, and a 'face of the maist bewitching loveliness.' Her seven\ndaughters and stepdaughters were all conspicuously handsome, and it\nwas deemed a goodly sight to watch the long procession of eight gilded\nsedan-chairs pass from the Stamp Office Close, bearing her and her\nstately brood to the Assembly Room, amid a crowd that was 'hushed with\nrespect and admiration to behold their lofty and graceful figures step\nfrom the chairs on the pavement.'\n\nHere itself is the site of those old assemblies, presided over at one\ntime by the famous Miss Nicky Murray, a directress of society affairs,\nwho seems to have been a feminine premonition of Count d'Orsay and our\nown M'Allister. Rather dull they must have been, those old Scotch\nballs, where Goldsmith saw the ladies and gentlemen in two dismal groups\ndivided by the length of the room.\n\n  'The Assembly Close received the fair--\n   Order and elegance presided there--\n   Each gay Right Honourable had her place,\n   To walk a minuet with becoming grace.\n   No racing to the dance with rival hurry,\n   Such was thy sway, O famed Miss Nicky Murray!'\n\nIt was half-past nine in the evening when Salemina and I drove to\nHolyrood, our humble cab-horse jogging faithfully behind Lady Baird's\nbrougham, and it was the new experience of seeing Auld Reekie by\nlamplight that called up these gay visions of other days,--visions and\ndays so thoroughly our mental property that we could not help resenting\nthe fact that women were hanging washing from the Countess of Eglinton's\nformer windows, and popping their unkempt heads out of the Duchess of\nGordon's old doorway.\n\nThe Reverend Ronald is so kind! He enters so fully into our spirit of\ninquiry, and takes such pleasure in our enthusiasms! He even sprang\nlightly out of Lady Baird's carriage and called to our 'lamiter' to halt\nwhile he showed us the site of the Black Turnpike, from whose windows\nQueen Mary saw the last of her kingdom's capital.\n\n Here was the Black Turnpike, Miss Hamilton!  he cried;  and from\nhere Mary went to Loch Leven, where you Hamiltons and the Setons came\ngallantly to her help. Don't you remember the 'far ride to the Solway\nsands?' \n\nI looked with interest, though I was in such a state of delicious\nexcitement that I could scarce keep my seat.\n\n Only a few minutes more, Salemina,  I sighed,  and we shall be in the\npalace courtyard; then a probable half-hour in crowded dressing-rooms,\nwith another half-hour in line, and then, then we shall be making\nour best republican bow in the Gallery of the Kings! How I wish Mr.\nBeresford and Francesca were with us! What do you suppose was her\nreal reason for staying away? Some petty disagreement with our young\nminister, I am sure. Do you think the dampness is taking the curl out\nof our hair? Do you suppose our gowns will be torn to ribbons before the\nMarchioness sees them? Do you believe we shall look as well as anybody?\nPrivately, I think we must look better than anybody; but I always think\nthat on my way to a party, never after I arrive. \n\nMrs. M'Collop had asserted that I was 'bonnie eneuch for ony court,' and\nI could not help wishing that 'mine ain dear Somebody' might see me\nin my French frock embroidered with silver thistles, and my 'shower\nbouquet' of Scottish bluebells tied loosely together. Salemina wore\npinky-purple velvet; a real heather colour it was, though the Lord High\nCommissioner would probably never note the fact.\n\nWhen we had presented our cards of invitation at the palace doors, we\njoined the throng and patiently made our way up the splendid staircases,\npast powdered lackeys without number, and, divested of our wraps, joined\nanother throng on our way to the throne-room, Salemina and I pressing\nthose cards with our names 'legibly written on them' close to our\npalpitating breasts.\n\nAt last the moment came when, Lady Baird having preceded me, I handed\nmy bit of pasteboard to the usher; and hearing 'Miss Hamilton' called in\nstentorian accents, I went forward in my turn, and executed a graceful\nand elegant, but not too profound curtsy, carefully arranged to suit the\nsemi-royal, semi-ecclesiastical occasion. I had not divulged that fact\neven to Salemina, but I had worn Mrs. M'Collop's carpet quite threadbare\nin front of the long mirror, and had curtsied to myself so many times in\nits crystal surface that I had developed a sort of fictitious reverence\nfor my reflected image. I had only begun my well-practised\nobeisance when Her Grace the Marchioness, to my mingled surprise and\nembarrassment, extended a gracious hand and murmured my name in a\nparticularly kind voice. She is fond of Lady Baird, and perhaps chose\nthis method of showing her friendship; or it may be that she noticed my\nsilver thistles and Salemina's heather-coloured velvet,--they certainly\ndeserved special recognition; or it may be that I was too beautiful to\npass over in silence,--in my state of exaltation I was quite equal to\nthe belief.\n\nThe presentation over, we wandered through the spacious apartments,\nleaning from the open windows to hear the music of the band playing in\nthe courtyard below, looking at the royal portraits, and chatting with\ngroups of friends who appeared and reappeared in the throng. Finally\nLady Baird sent for us to join her in a knot of personages more or less\ndistinguished, who had dined at the palace, and who were standing behind\nthe receiving party in a sort of sacred group. This indeed was a ground\nof vantage, and one could have stood there for hours, watching all sorts\nand conditions of men and women bowing before the Lord High Commissioner\nand the Marchioness, who, with her Cleopatra-like beauty and scarlet\ngown, looked like a gorgeous cardinal-flower.\n\nSalemina and I watched the curtsying narrowly, with the view at first of\nimproving our own obeisances for Buckingham Palace; but truth to say\nwe got no added light, and plainly most of the people had not worn\nthreadbare the carpets in front of their dressing-mirrors.\n\nSuddenly we heard a familiar name announced, 'Lord Colquhoun,' a\ndistinguished judge who had lately been raised to the peerage, and whom\nwe often met at dinners; then 'Miss Rowena Colquhoun'; and then in\nthe midst, we fancied, of an unusual stir at the entrance door--'Miss\nFrancesca Van Buren Monroe.' I involuntarily touched the Reverend\nRonald's shoulder in my astonishment, while Salemina lifted her\ntortoise-shell lorgnette, and we gazed silently at our recreant charge.\n\nAfter presentation, each person has fifteen or twenty feet of awful\nspace to traverse in solitary and defenceless majesty; scanned meanwhile\nby the maids of honour (who if they were truly honourable, would turn\ntheir eyes another way), ladies-in-waiting, the sacred group in the\nrear, and the Purse-Bearer himself. I had supposed that this functionary\nwould keep the purse in his upper bureau drawer at home, when he was not\npaying bills, but it seems that when on processional duty he carries\na bag of red velvet quite a yard long over his arm, where it looks not\nunlike a lady's opera-cloak. It would hold the sum-total of all moneys\ndisbursed, even if they were reduced to the standard of vulgar copper.\n\nUnder this appalling fire of inspection, some of the victims waddle,\nsome hurry; some look up and down nervously, others glance over the\nshoulder as if dreading to be apprehended; some turn red, others pale,\naccording to complexion and temperament; some swing their arms, other\ntrip on their gowns; some twitch the buttons of a glove, or tweak a\nflower or a jewel. Francesca rose superior to all these weaknesses,\nand I doubt if the Gallery of the Kings ever served as a background for\nanything lovelier or more high-bred than that untitled slip of a girl\nfrom 'the States.' Her trailing gown of pearl-white satin fell in\nunbroken lustrous folds behind her. Her beautiful throat and shoulders\nrose in statuesque whiteness from the mist of chiffon that encircled\nthem. Her dark hair showed a moonbeam parting that rested the eye,\nwearied by the contemplation of waves and frizzes fresh from the\ncurling-tongs. Her mother's pearls hung in ropes from neck to waist, and\nthe one spot of colour about her was the single American Beauty rose\nshe carried. There is a patriotic florist in Paris who grows these\nlong-stemmed empresses of the rose-garden, and Mr. Beresford sends some\nto me every week. Francesca had taken the flower without permission, and\nI must say she was as worthy of it as it of her.\n\nShe curtsied deeply, with no exaggerated ceremony, but with a sort\nof innocent and childlike gravity, while the satin of her gown spread\nitself like a great blossom over the floor. Her head was bowed until the\ndark lashes swept her crimson cheeks; then she rose again from the heart\nof the shimmering lily, with the one splendid rose glowing against all\nher dazzling whiteness, and floated slowly across the dreaded space\nto the door of exit as if she were preceded by invisible heralds and\nfollowed by invisible train-bearers.\n\n Who is she?  we heard whispered here and there.  Look at the rose! \n  Look at the pearls! Is she a princess or only an American? \n\nI glanced at the Reverend Ronald. I imagined he looked pale; at any rate\nhe was biting his under lip nervously, and I believe he was in fancy\nlaying his serious, Scottish, allopathic, Presbyterian heart at\nFrancesca's gay, American, homoeopathic, Swedenborgian feet.\n\n It is a pity Miss Monroe is such an ardent republican,  he said, with\nunconcealed bitterness;  otherwise she ought to be a duchess. I never\nsaw a head that better suited a coronet, nor, if you will pardon me, one\nthat contained more caprices. \n\n It is true she flatly refused to accompany us here,  I allowed,  but\nperhaps she has some explanation more or less silly and serviceable;\nmeantime, I defy you to tell me she isn't a beauty, and I implore you\nto say nothing about its being only skin-deep. Give me a beautiful\nexterior, say I, and I will spend my life in making the hidden things of\nmind and soul conform to it; but deliver me from all forlorn attempts to\nmake my beauty of character speak through a large mouth, breathe through\na fat nose, and look at my neighbour through crossed eyes! \n\nMr. Macdonald agreed with me, with some few ministerial reservations. He\nalways agrees with me, and why he is not tortured at the thought of\nmy being the promised bride of another, but continues to squander his\naffections upon a quarrelsome and unappreciative girl is more than I can\ncomprehend.\n\nFrancesca, escorted by Lord Colquhoun, appeared presently in our group,\nbut Salemina did not even attempt to scold her. One cannot scold an\nimperious young beauty in white satin and pearls, particularly if she is\nleaning nonchalantly on the arm of a peer of the realm.\n\nIt seems that shortly after our departure (we had dined with Lady\nBaird), Lord Colquhoun had sent a note to me, requiring an answer.\nFrancesca had opened it, and found that he offered an extra card of\ninvitation to one of us, and said that he and his sister would gladly\nserve as escort to Holyrood, if desired. She had had an hour or two of\nsolitude by this time, and was well weary of it, while the last vestige\nof headache disappeared under the temptation of appearing at court with\nall the eclat of unexpectedness. She despatched a note of acceptance to\nLord Colquhoun, summoned Mrs. M'Collop, Susanna, and the maiden Boots to\nher assistance, spread the trays of her Saratoga trunks about our three\nbedrooms, grouped all our candles on her dressing-table, and borrowed\nany trinket or bit of frippery which we chanced to have left behind.\nHer own store of adornments is much greater than ours, but we possess\ncertain articles for which she has a childlike admiration: my white\nsatin slippers embroidered with seed pearls, Salemina's pearl-topped\ncomb, Salemina's Valenciennes handkerchief and diamond belt-clasp, my\npearl frog with ruby eyes. We identified our property on her impertinent\nyoung person, and the list of her borrowings so amused the Reverend\nRonald that he forgot his injuries.\n\n It is really an ordeal, that presentation, no matter how strong one's\nsense of humour may be, nor how well rooted one's democracy,  chattered\nFrancesca to a serried rank of officers who surrounded her to the\ntotal routing of the ministry.  It is especially trying if one has come\nunexpectedly and has no idea of what is to happen. I was agitated at the\nsupreme moment, because, at the entrance of the throne-room, I had\njust shaken hands reverently with a splendid person who proved to be a\nfootman. Of course I took him for the Commander of the Queen's Guards,\nor the Keeper of the Dungeon Keys, or the Most Noble Custodian of the\nRoyal Moats, Drawbridges, and Portcullises. When he put out his hand I\nhad no idea it was simply to waft me onward, and so naturally I shook\nit,--it's a mercy that I didn't kiss it! Then I curtsied to the Royal\nUsher, and overlooked the Lord High Commissioner altogether, having no\neyes for any one but the beautiful scarlet Marchioness. I only hope they\nwere too busy to notice my mistakes, otherwise I shall be banished\nfrom Court at the very moment of my presentation.--Do you still\nbanish nowadays?  turning the battery of her eyes upon a particularly\ninsignificant officer who was far too dazed to answer.  And did you\nsee the child of ten who was next to me in line? She is Mrs.\nMacstronachlacher; at least that was the name on the card she carried,\nand she was thus announced. As they tell us the Purse-Bearer is most\nrigorous in arranging these functions and issuing the invitations, I\npresume she must be Mrs. Macstronachlacher; but if so, they marry very\nyoung in Scotland, and her skirts should really have been longer! \n\n\n\nChapter XII. Farewell to Edinburgh.\n\n\n\nIt is our last day in 'Scotia's darling seat,' our last day in\nBreadalbane Terrace, our last day with Mrs. M'Collop; and though every\none says that we shall love the life in the country, we are loath to\nleave Auld Reekie.\n\nSalemina and I have spent two days in search of an abiding-place, and\nhave visited eight well-recommended villages with that end in view; but\nshe disliked four of them, and I couldn't endure the other four, though\nI considered some of those that fell under her disapproval as quite\ndelightful in every respect.\n\nWe never take Francesca on these pilgrimages of disagreement, as three\nconflicting opinions on the same subject would make insupportable what\nis otherwise rather exhilarating. She starts from Edinburgh to-morrow\nfor a brief visit to the Highlands with the Dalziels, and will join us\nwhen we have settled ourselves.\n\nMr. Beresford leaves Paris as soon after our decision as he is\npermitted, so Salemina and I have agreed to agree upon one ideal spot\nwithin thirty-six hours of our quitting Edinburgh, knowing privately\nthat after a last battle-royal we shall enthusiastically support the\njoint decision for the rest of our lives.\n\nWe have been bidding good-bye to people and places and things, and\nwishing the sun would not shine and thus make our task the harder.\nWe have looked our last on the old grey town from Calton Hill, of all\nplaces the best, perhaps, for a view; since, as Stevenson says, from\nCalton Hill you can see the Castle, which you lose from the Castle, and\nArthur's Seat, which you cannot see from Arthur's Seat. We have taken a\nfarewell walk to the Dean Bridge, to gaze wistfully eastward and marvel\nfor the hundredth time to find so beautiful a spot in the heart of\na city. The soft-flowing Water of Leith winding over pebbles between\ngrassy banks and groups of splendid trees, the roof of the little temple\nto Hygeia rising picturesquely among green branches, the slopes of\nemerald velvet leading up to the grey stone of the houses,--where, in\nall the world of cities, can one find a view to equal it in peaceful\nloveliness? Francesca's 'bridge-man,' who, by the way, proved to be a\ndistinguished young professor of medicine in the University, says\nthat the beautiful cities of the world should be ranked\nthus,--Constantinople, Prague, Genoa, Edinburgh; but having seen only\none of these, and that the last, I refuse to credit any sliding scale of\ncomparison which leaves Edina at the foot.\n\nIt was nearing tea-time, an hour when we never fail to have visitors,\nand we were all in the drawing-room together. I was at the piano,\nsinging Jacobite melodies for Salemina's delectation. When I came to\nthe last verse of Lady Nairne's 'Hundred Pipers,' the spirited words had\ntaken my fancy captive, and I am sure I could not have sung with more\nvigour and passion had my people been 'out with the Chevalier.'\n\n  'The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,\n   But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;\n   Twa thousand swam owre to fell English ground,\n   An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.\n   Dumfounder'd the English saw, they saw,\n   Dumfounder'd they heard the blaw, the blaw,\n   Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',\n   Frae the hundred pipers an' a', an' a'!'\n\nBy the time I came to 'Dumfounder'd the English saw,' Francesca left\nher book and joined in the next four lines, and when we broke into the\nchorus Salemina rushed to the piano, and although she cannot sing, she\nlifted her voice both high and loud in the refrain, beating time the\nwhile with a dirk paper-knife.\n\n  'Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',\n   Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',\n   We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,\n   Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'!'\n\nSusanna ushered in Mr. Macdonald and Dr. Moncrieffe as the last 'blaw'\nfaded into silence, and Jean Dalziel came upstairs to say that they\ncould seldom get a quiet moment for family prayers, because we\nwere always at the piano, hurling incendiary sentiments into the\nair,--sentiments set to such stirring melodies that no one could resist\nthem.\n\n We are very sorry, Miss Dalziel,  I said penitently.  We reserve an\nhour in the morning and another at bedtime for your uncle's prayers,\nbut we had no idea you had them at afternoon tea, even in Scotland. I\nbelieve that you are chaffing, and came up only to swell the chorus.\nCome, let us all sing together from 'Dumfounder'd the English saw.' \n\nMr. Macdonald and Dr. Moncrieffe gave such splendid body to the music,\nand Jean such warlike energy, that Salemina waved her paper-knife in a\nmanner more than ever sanguinary, and Susanna, hesitating outside the\ndoor for sheer delight, had to be coaxed in with the tea-things. On the\nheels of the tea-things came the Dominie, another dear old friend of six\nweeks' standing; and while the doctor sang 'Jock o' Hazeldean' with\nsuch irresistible charm that we all longed to elope with somebody on the\ninstant, Salemina dispensed buttered toast, marmalade sandwiches,\nand the fragrant cup. By this time we were thoroughly cosy, and Mr.\nMacdonald made himself and us very much at home by stirring the fire;\nwhereupon Francesca embarrassed him by begging him not to touch it\nunless he could do it properly, which, she added, seemed quite unlikely,\nfrom the way in which he handled the poker.\n\n What will Edinburgh do without you?  he asked, turning towards us with\nflattering sadness in his tone.  Who will hear our Scotch stories, never\nsuspecting their hoary old age? Who will ask us questions to which we\nsomehow always know the answers? Who will make us study and reverence\nanew our own landmarks? Who will keep warm our national and local pride\nby judicious enthusiasm? \n\n I think the national and local pride may be counted on to exist without\nany artificial stimulants,  dryly observed Francesca, whose spirit is\nnot in the least quenched by approaching departure.\n\n Perhaps,  answered the Reverend Ronald;  but at any rate, you,\nMiss Monroe, will always be able to reflect that you have never been\nresponsible even for its momentary inflation! \n\n Isn't it strange that she cannot get on better with that charming\nfellow?  murmured Salemina, as she passed me the sugar for my second\ncup.\n\n If your present symptoms of blindness continue, Salemina,  I said,\nsearching for a small lump so as to gain time,  I shall write you a\nplaintive ballad, buy you a dog, and stand you on a street corner! If\nyou had ever permitted yourself to 'get on' with any man as Francesca is\ngetting on with Mr. Macdonald, you would now be Mrs.--Somebody. \n\n Do you know, doctor,  asked the Dominie,  that Miss Hamilton shed\nreal tears at Holyrood the other night, when the band played 'Bonnie\nCharlie's noo awa'?' \n\n They were real,  I confessed,  in the sense that they certainly were\nnot crocodile tears; but I am somewhat at a loss to explain them from\na sensible, American standpoint. Of course my Jacobitism is purely\nimpersonal, though scarcely more so than yours, at this late day; at\nleast it is merely a poetic sentiment, for which Caroline, Baroness\nNairne, is mainly responsible. My romantic tears came from a vision of\nthe Bonnie Prince as he entered Holyrood, dressed in his short tartan\ncoat, his scarlet breeches and military boots, the star of St. Andrew on\nhis breast, a blue ribbon over his shoulder, and the famous blue velvet\nbonnet and white cockade. He must have looked so brave and handsome and\nhopeful at that moment, and the moment was so sadly brief, that when the\nband played the plaintive air I kept hearing the words--\n\n  'Mony a heart will break in twa,\n   Should he no come back again.'\n\nHe did come back again to me that evening, and held a phantom levee\nbehind the Marchioness of Heatherdale's shoulder. His 'ghaist' looked\nbonnie and rosy and confident, yet all the time the band was playing the\nrequiem for his lost cause and buried hopes. \n\nI looked towards the fire to hide the moisture that crept again into my\neyes, and my glance fell upon Francesca sitting dreamily on a hassock in\nfront of the cheerful blaze, her chin in the hollow of her palm, and the\nReverend Ronald standing on the hearth-rug gazing at her, the poker in\nhis hand, and his heart, I regret to say, in such an exposed position on\nhis sleeve that even Salemina could have seen it had she turned her eyes\nthat way.\n\nJean Dalziel broke the momentary silence:  I am sure I never hear the\nlast two lines--\n\n  'Better lo'ed ye canna be,\n   Will ye no' come back again?'\n\nwithout a lump in my throat,  and she hummed the lovely melody.  It\nis all as you say, purely impersonal and poetic. My mother is an\nEnglishwoman, but she sings 'Dumfounder'd the English saw, they saw'\nwith the greatest fire and fury. \n\n\n\nChapter XIII. The spell of Scotland.\n\n\n\n I think I was never so completely under the spell of a country as I\nam of Scotland.  I made this acknowledgment freely, but I knew that it\nwould provoke comment from my compatriots.\n\n Oh yes, my dear, you have been just as spellbound before, only you\ndon't remember it,  replied Salemina promptly.  I have never seen a\nperson more perilously appreciative or receptive than you. \n\n 'Perilously' is just the word,  chimed in Francesca delightedly;  when\nyou care for a place you grow porous, as it were, until after a time you\nare precisely like blotting-paper. Now, there was Italy, for example.\nAfter eight weeks in Venice, you were completely Venetian, from your fan\nto the ridiculous little crepe shawl you wore because an Italian prince\nhad told you that centuries were usually needed to teach a woman how\nto wear a shawl, but that you had been born with the art, and\nthe shoulders! Anything but a watery street was repulsive to you.\nCobblestones? 'Ordinario, duro, brutto! A gondola? Ah, bellissima! Let\nme float for ever thus!' You bathed your spirit in sunshine and\ncolour; I can hear you murmur now, 'O Venezia benedetta! non ti voglio\nlasciar!' \n\n It was just the same when she spent a month in France with the Baroness\nde Hautenoblesse,  continued Salemina.  When she returned to America, it\nis no flattery to say that in dress, attitude, inflection, manner, she\nwas a thorough Parisienne. There was an elegant superficiality and a\nsuperficial elegance about her that I can never forget, nor yet her\nextraordinary volubility in a foreign language,--the fluency with which\nshe expressed her inmost soul on all topics without the aid of a single\nirregular verb, for these she was never able to acquire; oh, it was\nwonderful, but there was no affectation about it; she had simply been\na kind of blotting-paper, as Miss Monroe says, and France had written\nitself all over her. \n\n I don't wish to interfere with anybody's diagnosis,  I interposed at\nthe first possible moment,  but perhaps after you've both finished your\npsychologic investigation the subject may be allowed to explain herself\nfrom the inside, so to speak. I won't deny the spell of Italy, but I\nthink the spell that Scotland casts over one is quite a different thing,\nmore spiritual, more difficult to break. Italy's charm has something\nphysical in it; it is born of blue sky, sunlit waves, soft atmosphere,\norange sails, and yellow moons, and appeals more to the senses. In\nScotland the climate certainly has nought to do with it, but the\nimagination is somehow made captive. I am not enthralled by the past of\nItaly or France, for instance. \n\n Of course you are not at the present moment,  said Francesca,  because\nyou are enthralled by the past of Scotland, and even you cannot be the\nslave of two pasts at the same time. \n\n I never was particularly enthralled by Italy's past,  I argued with\nexemplary patience,  but the romance of Scotland has a flavour all its\nown. I do not quite know the secret of it. \n\n It's the kilts and the pipes,  said Francesca.\n\n No, the history.  (This from Salemina.)\n\n Or Sir Walter and the literature,  suggested Mr. Macdonald.\n\n  Or the songs and ballads,  ventured Jean Dalziel.\n\n There!  I exclaimed triumphantly,  you see for yourselves you have\nnamed avenue after avenue along which one's mind is led in charmed\nsubjection. Where can you find battles that kindle your fancy like\nFalkirk and Flodden and Culloden and Bannockburn? Where a sovereign\nthat attracts, baffles, repels, allures, like Mary Queen of Scots,--and\nwhere, tell me where, is there a Pretender like Bonnie Prince Charlie?\nThink of the spirit in those old Scottish matrons who could sing--\n\n  'I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,\n   My rippling-kame and spinning-wheel,\n   To buy my lad a tartan plaid,\n   A braidsword, durk and white cockade.' \n\n Yes,  chimed in Salemina when I had finished quoting,  or that other\nverse that goes--\n\n  'I ance had sons, I now hae nane,\n     I bare them toiling sairlie;\n   But I would bear them a' again\n     To lose them a' for Charlie!'\n\nIsn't the enthusiasm almost beyond belief at this distance of time?  she\nwent on;  and isn't it a curious fact, as Mr. Macdonald told me a moment\nago, that though the whole country was vocal with songs for the lost\ncause and the fallen race, not one in favour of the victors ever became\npopular? \n\n Sympathy for the under dog, as Miss Monroe's countrywomen would say\npicturesquely,  remarked Mr. Macdonald.\n\n I don't see why all the vulgarisms in the dictionary should be foisted\non the American girl,  retorted Francesca loftily,  unless, indeed, it\nis a determined attempt to find spots upon the sun for fear we shall\nworship it! \n\n Quite so, quite so!  returned the Reverend Ronald, who has had reason\nto know that this phrase reduces Miss Monroe to voiceless rage.\n\n The Stuart charm and personal magnetism must have been a powerful\nfactor in all that movement,  said Salemina, plunging hastily back into\nthe topic to avert any further recrimination.  I suppose we feel it even\nnow, and if I had been alive in 1745 I should probably have made myself\nridiculous. 'Old maiden ladies,' I read this morning, 'were the last\nleal Jacobites in Edinburgh; spinsterhood in its loneliness remained\never true to Prince Charlie and the vanished dreams of youth.' \n\n Yes,  continued the Dominie,  the story is told of the last of those\nJacobite ladies who never failed to close her Prayer-Book and stand\nerect in silent protest when the prayer for 'King George III. and the\nreigning family' was read by the congregation. \n\n Do you remember the prayer of the Reverend Neil M'Vicar in St.\nCuthbert's?  asked Mr. Macdonald.  It was in 1745, after the victory at\nPrestonpans, when a message was sent to the Edinburgh ministers, in the\nname of 'Charles, Prince Regent' desiring them to open their churches\nnext day as usual. M'Vicar preached to a large congregation, many of\nwhom were armed Highlanders, and prayed for George II., and also for\nCharles Edward, in the following fashion: 'Bless the king! Thou knowest\nwhat king I mean. May the crown sit long upon his head! As for that\nyoung man who has come among us to seek an earthly crown, we beseech\nThee to take him to Thyself, and give him a crown of glory!' \n\n Ah, what a pity the Bonnie Prince had not died after his meteor victory\nat Falkirk!  exclaimed Jean Dalziel, when we had finished laughing at\nMr. Macdonald's story.\n\n Or at Culloden, 'where, quenched in blood on the Muir of Drummossie,\nthe star of the Stuarts sank forever,'  quoted the Dominie.  There is\nwhere his better self died; would that the young Chevalier had died with\nit! By the way, doctor, we must not sit here eating goodies and sipping\ntea until the dinner-hour, for these ladies have doubtless much to do\nfor their flitting  (a pretty Scots word for 'moving').\n\n We are quite ready for our flitting so far as packing is concerned, \n Salemina assured him.  Would that we were as ready in spirit! Miss\nHamilton has even written her farewell poem, which I am sure she will\nread for the asking. \n\n She will read it without that formality,  murmured Francesca.  She has\nlived and toiled only for this moment, and the poem is in her pocket. \n\n Delightful!  said the doctor flatteringly.  Has she favoured you\nalready? Have you heard it, Miss Monroe? \n\n Have we heard it!  ejaculated that young person.  We have heard nothing\nelse all the morning! What you will take for local colour is nothing\nbut our mental life-blood, which she has mercilessly drawn to stain her\nverses. We each tried to write a Scottish poem, and as Miss Hamilton's\nwas better, or perhaps I might say less bad, than ours, we encouraged\nher to develop and finish it. I wanted to do an imitation of Lindsay's\n\n  'Adieu, Edinburgh! thou heich triumphant town,\n   Within whose bounds richt blithefull have I been!\n\nbut it proved too difficult. Miss Hamilton's general idea was that we\nshould write some verses in good plain English. Then we were to take\nout all the final g's, and indeed the final letters from all the words\nwherever it was possible, so that full, awful, call, ball, hall, and\naway should be fu', awfu', ca', ba', ha', an' awa'. This alone gives\ngreat charm and character to a poem; but we were also to change all\nwords ending in ow into aw. This doesn't injure the verse, you see, as\nblaw and snaw rhyme just as well as blow and snow, beside bringing tears\nto the common eye with their poetic associations. Similarly, if we had\ndaughter and slaughter, we were to write them dochter and slauchter,\nsubstituting in all cases doon, froon, goon, and toon, for down, frown\ngown, and town. Then we made a list of Scottish idols,--pet words,\nnational institutions, stock phrases, beloved objects,--convinced if\nwe could weave them in we should attain 'atmosphere.' Here is the first\nlist; it lengthened speedily: thistle, tartan, haar, haggis, kirk,\nclaymore, parritch, broom, whin, sporran, whaup, plaid, scone, collops,\nwhisky, mutch, cairngorm, oatmeal, brae, kilt, brose, heather. Salemina\nand I were too devoted to common-sense to succeed in this weaving\nprocess, so Penelope triumphed and won the first prize, both for that\nand also because she brought in a saying given us by Miss Dalziel, about\nthe social classification of all Scotland into 'the gentlemen of the\nNorth, men of the South, people of the West, fowk o' Fife, and the\nPaisley bodies.' We think that her success came chiefly from her writing\nthe verses with a Scotch plaid lead-pencil. What effect the absorption\nof so much red, blue, and green paint will have I cannot fancy, but she\nate off--and up--all the tartan glaze before finishing the poem; it had\na wonderfully stimulating effect, but the end is not yet! \n\nOf course there was a chorus of laughter when the young wretch exhibited\nmy battered pencil, bought in Princes Street yesterday, its gay Gordon\ntints sadly disfigured by the destroying tooth, not of Time, but of a\nbard in the throes of composition.\n\n We bestowed a consolation prize on Salemina,  continued Francesca,\n because she succeeded in getting hoots, losh, havers, and blethers into\none line, but naturally she could not maintain such an ideal standard.\nRead your verses, Pen, though there is little hope that our friends will\nenjoy them as much as you do. Whenever Miss Hamilton writes anything of\nthis kind, she emulates her distinguished ancestor Sir William Hamilton,\nwho always fell off his own chair in fits of laughter when he was\ncomposing verses. \n\nWith this inspiring introduction I read my lines as follows:--\n\n  AN AMERICAN GIRL'S FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH\n\n  The muse being somewhat under the influence of the Scottish ballad\n\n   I canna thole my ain toun,\n     Sin' I hae dwelt i' this;\n   To bide in Edinboro' reek\n     Wad be the tap o' bliss.\n   Yon bonnie plaid aboot me hap,\n     The skirlin' pipes gae bring,\n   With thistles fair tie up my hair,\n     While I of Scotia sing.\n\n   The collops an' the cairngorms,\n     The haggis an' the whin,\n   The 'Staiblished, Free, an' U.P. kirks,\n     The hairt convinced o' sin,--\n   The parritch an' the heather-bell,\n     The snawdrap on the shaw,\n   The bit lam's bleatin' on the braes,--\n     How can I leave them a'?\n\n   How can I leave the marmalade\n     An' bonnets o' Dundee?\n   The haar, the haddies, an' the brose,\n     The East win' blawin' free?\n   How can I lay my sporran by,\n     An' sit me doun at hame,\n   Wi'oot a Hieland philabeg\n     Or hyphenated name?\n\n   I lo'e the gentry o' the North,\n     The Southern men I lo'e,\n   The canty people o' the West,\n     The Paisley bodies too.\n   The pawky folk o' Fife are dear,--\n     Sae dear are ane an' a',\n   That e'en to think that we maun pairt\n     Maist braks my hairt in twa.\n\n   So fetch me tartans, heather, scones,\n     An' dye my tresses red;\n   I'd deck me like th' unconquer'd Scots,\n     Wha hae wi' Wallace bled.\n   Then bind my claymore to my side,\n     My kilt an' mutch gae bring;\n   While Scottish lays soun' i' my lugs\n     M'Kinley's no my king,--\n\n   For Charlie, bonnie Stuart Prince,\n     Has turned me Jacobite;\n   I'd wear displayed the white cockade.\n     An' (whiles) for him I'll fight!\n   An' (whiles) I'd fight for a' that's Scotch,\n     Save whusky an' oatmeal,\n   For wi' their ballads i' my bluid,\n     Nae Scot could be mair leal!\n\nI fancied that I had pitched my verses in so high a key that no one\ncould mistake their burlesque intention. What was my confusion, however,\nto have one of the company remark when I finished, 'Extremely pretty;\nbut a mutch, you know, is an article of WOMAN'S apparel, and would never\nbe worn with a kilt!'\n\nMr. Macdonald flung himself gallantly into the breach. He is such a dear\nfellow! So quick, so discriminating, so warm-hearted!\n\n Don't pick flaws in Miss Hamilton's finest line! That picture of a fair\nAmerican, clad in a kilt and mutch, decked in heather and scones, and\nbrandishing a claymore, will live for ever in my memory. Don't clip the\nwings of her imagination! You will be telling her soon that one doesn't\ntie one's hair with thistles, nor couple collops with cairngorms. \n\nSomebody sent Francesca a great bunch of yellow broom, late that\nafternoon. There was no name in the box, she said, but at night she wore\nthe odorous tips in the bosom of her black dinner-gown, and standing\nerect in her dark hair like golden aigrettes.\n\nWhen she came into my room to say good night, she laid the pretty frock\nin one of my trunks, which was to be filled with garments of fashionable\nsociety and left behind in Edinburgh. The next moment I chanced to look\non the floor, and discovered a little card, a bent card with two lines\nwritten on it:--\n\n  'Better lo'ed ye canna be,\n   Will ye no' come back again?'\n\nWe have received many invitations in that handwriting. I know it well,\nand so does Francesca, though it is blurred; and the reason for this,\naccording to my way of thinking, is that it has been lying next\nthe moist stems of flowers, and unless I do her wrong, very near to\nsomebody's warm heart as well.\n\nI will not betray her to Salemina, even to gain a victory over that\nblind and deaf but much beloved woman. How could I, with my heart\nbeating high at the thought of seeing my ain dear laddie before many\ndays?\n\n   Oh, love, love, lassie,\n     Love is like a dizziness:\n   It winna lat a puir body\n     Gang aboot his business.'\n\n\n\nChapter XIV. The wee theekit hoosie in the loaning.\n\n\n\n  'Now she's cast aff her bonny shoon\n     Made o' gilded leather,\n   And she's put on her Hieland brogues\n     To skip amang the heather.\n   And she's cast aff her bonny goon\n     Made o' the silk and satin,\n   And she's put on a tartan plaid\n     To row amang the braken.'\n\nLizzie Baillie.\n\n\n\nWe are in the East Neuk o' Fife; we are in Pettybaw; we are neither\nboarders nor lodgers; we are residents, inhabitants, householders, and\nwe live (live, mind you) in a wee theekit hoosie in the old loaning.\nWords fail to tell you how absolutely Scotch we are and how blissfully\nhappy. It is a happiness, I assure you, achieved through great\ntribulation. Salemina and I travelled many miles in railway trains, and\nmany in various other sorts of wheeled vehicles, while the ideal\never beckoned us onward. I was determined to find a romantic lodging,\nSalemina a comfortable one, and this special combination of virtues\nis next to impossible, as every one knows. Linghurst was too much of a\ntown; Bonnie Craig had no respectable inn; Winnybrae was struggling to\nbe a watering-place; Broomlea had no golf-course within ten miles, and\nwe intended to go back to our native land and win silver goblets in\nmixed foursomes; the 'new toun o' Fairlock' (which looked centuries old)\nwas delightful, but we could not find apartments there; Pinkie Leith was\nnice, but they were tearing up the 'fore street' and laying drain-pipes\nin it. Strathdee had been highly recommended, but it rained when we were\nin Strathdee, and nobody can deliberately settle in a place where it\nrains during the process of deliberation. No train left this moist and\ndripping hamlet for three hours, so we took a covered trap and drove\nonward in melancholy mood. Suddenly the clouds lifted and the rain\nceased; the driver thought we should be having settled weather now, and\nput back the top of the carriage, saying meanwhile that it was a verra\ndry simmer this year, and that the crops sairly needed shoo'rs.\n\n Of course, if there is any district in Scotland where for any reason\ndroughts are possible, that is where we wish to settle,  I whispered to\nSalemina;  though, so far as I can see, the Strathdee crops are up to\ntheir knees in mud. Here is another wee village. What is this place,\ndriver? \n\n Pettybaw, mam; a fine toun! \n\n Will there be apartments to let there? \n\n I cudna say, mam. \n\n Susanna Crum's father! How curious that he should live here!  I\nmurmured; and at this moment the sun came out, and shone full, or at\nleast almost full, on our future home.\n\n Pettybaw! Petit bois, I suppose,  said Salemina;  and there, to be\nsure, it is,--the 'little wood' yonder. \n\nWe drove to the Pettybaw Inn and Posting Establishment, and, alighting,\ndismissed the driver. We had still three good hours of daylight,\nalthough it was five o'clock, and we refreshed ourselves with a\ndelicious cup of tea before looking for lodgings. We consulted the\ngreengrocer, the baker, and the flesher, about furnished apartments, and\nstarted on our quest, not regarding the little posting establishment as\na possibility. Apartments we found to be very scarce, and in one or two\nplaces that were quite suitable the landlady refused to do any cooking.\nWe wandered from house to house, the sun shining brighter and brighter,\nand Pettybaw looking lovelier and lovelier; and as we were refused\nshelter again and again, we grew more and more enamoured, as is the\nmanner of human kind. The blue sea sparkled, and Pettybaw Sands gleamed\nwhite a mile or two in the distance, the pretty stone church raised its\ncurved spire from the green trees, the manse next door was hidden in\nvines, the sheep lay close to the grey stone walls and the young lambs\nnestled beside them, while the song of the burn, tinkling merrily down\nthe glade on the edge of which we stood, and the cawing of the rooks in\nthe little wood, were the only sounds to be heard.\n\nSalemina, under the influence of this sylvan solitude, nobly declared\nthat she could and would do without a set bath-tub, and proposed\nbuilding a cabin and living near to nature's heart.\n\n I think, on the whole, we should be more comfortable living near to\nthe innkeeper's heart,  I answered.  Let us go back there and pass the\nnight, trying thus the bed and breakfast, with a view to seeing what\nthey are like--although they did say in Edinburgh that nobody thinks of\nliving in these wayside hostelries. \n\nBack we went, accordingly, and after ordering dinner came out and\nstrolled idly up the main street. A small sign in the draper's window,\nheretofore overlooked, caught our eye. 'House and Garden To Let Inquire\nWithin.' Inquiring within with all possible speed, we found the draper\nselling winceys, the draper's assistant tidying the ribbon-box, the\ndraper's wife sewing in one corner, and the draper's baby playing on the\nclean floor. We were impressed favourably, and entered into negotiations\nwithout delay.\n\n The house will be in the loaning; do you mind, ma'am?  asked the\ndraper. (We have long since discovered that this use of the verb is a\nbequest from the Gaelic, in which there is no present tense. Man never\nis, but always to be blessed, in that language, which in this particular\nis not unlike old-fashioned Calvinism.)\n\nWe went out of the back door and down the green loaning, until we came\nto the wee stone cottage in which the draper himself lives most of the\nyear, retiring for the warmer months to the back of his shop, and eking\nout a comfortable income by renting his hearth-stone to the summer\nvisitor.\n\nThe thatched roof on the wing that formed the kitchen attracted my\nartist's eye, and we went in to examine the interior, which we found\nsurprisingly attractive. There was a tiny sitting-room, with a fireplace\nand a microscopic piano; a dining-room adorned with portraits of\nrelatives who looked nervous when they met my eye, for they knew that\nthey would be turned face to the wall on the morrow; four bedrooms, a\nkitchen, and a back garden so filled with vegetables and flowers that we\nexclaimed with astonishment and admiration.\n\n But we cannot keep house in Scotland,  objected Salemina.  Think of the\ncare! And what about the servants? \n\n Why not eat at the inn?  I suggested.  Think of living in a real\nloaning, Salemina! Look at the stone floor in the kitchen, and the\nadorable stuffy box-bed in the wall! Look at the bust of Sir Walter\nin the hall, and the chromo of Melrose Abbey by moonlight! Look at the\nlintel over the front door, with a ship, moon, stars, and 1602 carved in\nthe stone! What is food to all this? \n\nSalemina agreed that it was hardly worth considering; and in truth so\nmany landladies had refused to receive her as a tenant that day that her\nspirits were rather low, and she was uncommonly flexible.\n\n It is the lintel and the back garden that rents the hoose,  remarked\nthe draper complacently in broad Scotch that I cannot reproduce. He is a\nhouse-agent as well as a draper, and went on to tell us that when he had\na cottage he could rent in no other way he planted plenty of creepers\nin front of it.  The baker's hoose is no sae bonnie,  he said,  and the\nlinen and cutlery verra scanty, but there is a yellow laburnum growin'\nby the door: the leddies see that, and forget to ask aboot the linen. It\ndepends a good bit on the weather, too; it is easy to let a hoose when\nthe sun shines upon it. \n\n We hardly dare undertake regular housekeeping,  I said;  do your\ntenants ever take meals at the inn? \n\n I cudna say, mam.  (Dear, dear, the Crums are a large family!)\n\n If we did that, we should still need a servant to keep the house tidy, \n said Salemina, as we walked away.  Perhaps housemaids are to be had,\nthough not nearer than Edinburgh, I fancy. \n\nThis gave me an idea, and I slipped over to the post-office while\nSalemina was preparing for dinner, and despatched a telegram to Mrs.\nM'Collop at Breadalbane Terrace, asking her if she could send a reliable\ngeneral servant to us, capable of cooking simple breakfasts and caring\nfor a house.\n\nWe had scarcely finished our Scotch broth, fried haddies, mutton-chops,\nand rhubarb tart when I received an answer from Mrs. M'Collop to the\neffect that her sister's husband's niece, Jane Grieve, could join us\non the morrow if we desired. The relationship was an interesting fact,\nthough we scarcely thought the information worth the additional pennies\nwe paid for it in the telegram; however, Mrs. M'Collop's comfortable\nassurance, together with the quality of the rhubarb tart and\nmutton-chops, brought us to a decision. Before going to sleep we rented\nthe draper's house, named it Bide-a-Wee Cottage, engaged daily\nluncheons and dinners for three persons at the Pettybaw Inn and Posting\nEstablishment, telegraphed to Edinburgh for Jane Grieve, to Callander\nfor Francesca, and despatched a letter to Paris for Mr. Beresford,\ntelling him we had taken a 'wee theekit hoosie,' and that the 'yett was\najee' whenever he chose to come.\n\n Possibly it would have been wiser not send for them until we were\nsettled,  I said reflectively.  Jane Grieve may not prove a suitable\nperson. \n\n The name somehow sounds too young and inexperienced,  observed\nSalemina,  and what association have I with the phrase 'sister's\nhusband's niece'? \n\n You have heard me quote Lewis Carroll's verse, perhaps:--\n\n  'He thought he saw a buffalo\n     Upon the chimney-piece;\n   He looked again and found it was\n     His sister's husband's niece:\n   Unless you leave the house,  he said,\n     I'll send for the police! '\n\nThe only thing that troubles me,  I went on,  is the question of Willie\nBeresford's place of residence. He expects to be somewhere within easy\nwalking or cycling distance,--four or five miles at most. \n\n He won't be desolate even if he doesn't have a thatched roof, a\npansy garden, and a blossoming shrub,  said Salemina sleepily, for our\nbusiness arrangements and discussions had lasted well into the evening.\n What he will want is a lodging where he can have frequent sight and\nspeech of you. How I dread him! How I resent his sharing of you with us!\nI don't know why I use the word 'sharing,' forsooth! There is nothing\nhalf so fair and just in his majesty's greedy mind. Well, it's the way\nof the world; only it is odd, with the universe of women to choose from,\nthat he must needs take you. Strathdee seems the most desirable place\nfor him, if he has a macintosh and rubber boots. Inchcaldy is another\ntown near here that we didn't see at all--that might do; the draper's\nwife says that we can send fine linen to the laundry there. \n\n Inchcaldy? Oh yes, I think we heard of it in Edinburgh--at least I have\nsome association with the name: it has a fine golf-course, I believe,\nand very likely we ought to have looked at it, although for my part I\nhave no regrets. Nothing can equal Pettybaw; and I am so pleased to be a\nScottish householder! Aren't we just like Bessie Bell and Mary Gray?\n\n  'They were twa bonnie lassies;\n   They biggit a bower on yon burnbrae,\n   An' theekit it ower wi' rashes.'\n\nThink of our stone-floored kitchen, Salemina! Think of the real box-bed\nin the wall for little Jane Grieve! She will have red-gold hair, blue\neyes, and a pink cotton gown. Think of our own cat! Think how Francesca\nwill admire the 1602 lintel! Think of our back garden, with our own\n'neeps' and vegetable marrows growing in it! Think how they will envy\nus at home when they learn that we have settled down into Scottish\nyeowomen!\n\n  'It's oh, for a patch of land!\n   It's oh, for a patch of land!\n   Of all the blessings tongue can name,\n   There's nane like a patch of land!'\n\nThink of Willie coming to step on the floor and look at the bed and\nstroke the cat and covet the lintel and walk in the garden and weed the\nturnips and pluck the marrows that grow by our ain wee theekit hoosie! \n\n Penelope, you appear slightly intoxicated! Do close the window and come\nto bed. \n\n I am intoxicated with the caller air of Pettybaw,  I rejoined, leaning\non the window-sill and looking at the stars, while I thought:  Edinburgh\nwas beautiful; it is the most beautiful grey city in the world; it\nlacked one thing only to make it perfect, and Pettybaw will have that\nbefore many moons:--\n\n  'Oh, Willie's rare an' Willie's fair\n     An' Willie's wondrous bonny;\n   An' Willie's hecht to marry me\n     Gin e'er he marries ony.\n\n   'O gentle wind that bloweth south,\n     From where my love repaireth,\n   Convey a word from his dear mouth,\n     An' tell me how he fareth.' \n\n\n\nChapter XV. Jane Grieve and her grievances.\n\n\n\n  'Gae tak' awa' the china plates,\n     Gae tak' them far frae me;\n   And bring to me a wooden dish,\n     It's that I'm best used wi'.\n   And tak' awa' thae siller spoons,\n     The like I ne'er did see,\n   And bring to me the horn cutties,\n     They're good eneugh for me.'\n\nEarl Richard's Wedding.\n\n\n\nThe next day was one of the most cheerful and one of the most fatiguing\nthat I ever spent. Salemina and I moved every article of furniture\nin our wee theekit hoosie from the place where it originally stood to\nanother and a better place: arguing, of course, over the precise spot\nit should occupy, which was generally upstairs if the thing were already\ndown, or downstairs if it were already up. We hid all the more hideous\nornaments of the draper's wife, and folded away her most objectionable\ntidies and table-covers, replacing them with our own pretty draperies.\nThere were only two pictures in the sitting-room, and as an artist I\nwould not have parted with them for worlds. The first was The Life of\na Fireman, which could only remind one of the explosion of a mammoth\ntomato, and the other was The Spirit of Poetry calling Burns from the\nPlough. Burns wore white knee-breeches, military boots, a splendid\nwaistcoat with lace ruffles, and carried a cocked hat. To have been\nso dressed he must have known the Spirit was intending to come. The\nplough-horse was a magnificent Arabian, whose tail swept the freshly\nfurrowed earth, while the Spirit of Poetry was issuing from a\npracticable wigwam on the left, and was a lady of such ample dimensions\nthat no poet would have dared say 'no' when she called him.\n\nThe dining-room was blighted by framed photographs of the draper's\nrelations and the draper's wife's relations; all uniformly ugly. It\nseems strange that married couples having the least beauty to bequeath\nto their offspring should persist in having the largest families. These\nladies and gentlemen were too numerous to remove, so we obscured them\nwith trailing branches; reflecting that we only breakfasted in the room,\nand the morning meal is easily digested when one lives in the open air.\nWe arranged flowers everywhere, and bought potted plants at a little\nnursery hard by. We apportioned the bedrooms, giving Francesca the\nhardest bed,--as she is the youngest, and wasn't here to choose,--me the\nnext hardest, and Salemina the best; Francesca the largest looking-glass\nand wardrobe, me the best view, and Salemina the largest bath. We bought\nhousekeeping stores, distributing our patronage equally between the two\ngrocers; we purchased aprons and dust-cloths from the rival drapers,\nengaged bread and rolls from the baker, milk and cream from the plumber\n(who keeps three cows), interviewed the flesher about chops; in fact, no\nyoung couple facing love in a cottage ever had a busier or happier time\nthan we; and at sundown, when Francesca arrived, we were in the pink of\norder, standing under our own lintel, ready to welcome her to Pettybaw.\nAs to being strangers in a strange land, we had a bowing acquaintance\nwith everybody on the main street of the tiny village, and were on terms\nof considerable intimacy with half a dozen families, including dogs and\nbabies.\n\nFrancesca was delighted with everything, from the station (Pettybaw\nSands, two miles away) to Jane Grieve's name, which she thought\nas perfect, in its way, as Susanna Crum's. She had purchased a\n'tirling-pin,' that old-time precursor of knockers and bells, at an\nantique shop in Oban, and we fastened it on the front door at once,\ntaking turns at risping it until our own nerves were shattered, and\nthe draper's wife ran down the loaning to see if we were in need of\nanything. The twisted bar of iron stands out from the door and the ring\nis drawn up and down over a series of nicks, making a rasping noise. The\nlovers and ghaists in the old ballads always 'tirled at the pin,' you\nremember; that is, touched it gently.\n\nFrancesca brought us letters from Edinburgh, and what was my joy,\nin opening Willie's, to learn that he begged us to find a place in\nFifeshire, and as near St. Rules or Strathdee as convenient; for in that\ncase he could accept an invitation he had just received to visit his\nfriend Robin Anstruther, at Rowardennan Castle.\n\n It is not the visit at the castle I wish so much, you may be sure,  he\nwrote,  as the fact that Lady Ardmore will make everything pleasant for\nyou. You will like my friend Robin Anstruther, who is Lady Ardmore's\nyoungest brother, and who is going to her to be nursed and coddled after\na baddish accident in the hunting-field. He is very sweet-tempered, and\nwill get on well with Francesca-- \n\n I don't see the connection,  rudely interrupted that spirited young\nperson.\n\n I suppose she has more room on her list in the country than she had in\nEdinburgh; but if my remembrance serves me, she always enrolls a goodly\nnumber of victims, whether she has any immediate use for them or not. \n\n Mr. Beresford's manners have not been improved by his residence in\nParis,  observed Francesca, with resentment in her tone and delight in\nher eye.\n\n Mr. Beresford's manners are always perfect,  said Salemina loyally,\n and I have no doubt that this visit to Lady Ardmore will be extremely\npleasant for him, though very embarrassing to us. If we are thrown into\nforced intimacy with a castle  (Salemina spoke of it as if it had fangs\nand a lashing tail),  what shall we do in this draper's hut? \n\n Salemina!  I expostulated,  bears will devour you as they did the\nungrateful child in the fairy-tale. I wonder at your daring to use the\nword 'hut' in connection with our wee theekit hoosie! \n\n They will never understand that we are doing all this for the novelty\nof it,  she objected.  The Scottish nobility and gentry probably never\nthink of renting a house for a joke. Imagine Lord and Lady Ardmore, the\nyoung Ardmores, Robin Anstruther, and Willie Beresford calling upon us\nin this sitting-room! We ourselves would have to sit in the hall and\ntalk in through the doorway. \n\n All will be well,  Francesca assured her soothingly.  We shall be\npardoned much because we are Americans, and will not be expected to know\nany better. Besides, the gifted Miss Hamilton is an artist, and that\ncovers a multitude of sins against conventionality. When the castle\npeople 'tirl at the pin,' I will appear as the maid, if you like,\nfollowing your example at Mrs Bobby's cottage in Belvern, Pen. \n\n And it isn't as if there were many houses to choose from, Salemina, nor\nas if Bide-a-Wee cottage were cheap,  I continued.  Think of the rent we\npay and keep your head high. Remember that the draper's wife says there\nis nothing half so comfortable in Inchcaldy, although that is twice as\nlarge a town. \n\n INCHCALDY!  ejaculated Francesca, sitting down heavily upon the sofa\nand staring at me.\n\n Inchcaldy, my dear,--spelled CALDY, but pronounced CAWDY; the\ntown where you are to take your nonsensical little fripperies to be\nlaundered. \n\n Where is Inchcaldy? How far away? \n\n About five miles, I believe, but a lovely road. \n\n Well,  she exclaimed bitterly,  of course Scotland is a small,\ninsignificant country; but, tiny as it is, it presents some liberty\nof choice, and why you need have pitched upon Pettybaw, and brought\nme here, when it is only five miles from Inchcaldy, and a lovely road\nbesides, is more than I can understand! \n\n In what way has Inchcaldy been so unhappy as to offend you?  I asked.\n\n It has not offended me, save that it chances to be Ronald Macdonald's\nparish--that is all. \n\n Ronald Macdonald's parish!  we repeated automatically.\n\n Certainly--you must have heard him mention Inchcaldy; and how queer\nhe will think it that I have come to Pettybaw, under all the\ncircumstances! \n\n We do not know 'all the circumstances,'  quoted Salemina somewhat\nhaughtily;  and you must remember, my dear, that our opportunities for\nspeech with Mr. Macdonald have been very rare when you were present. For\nmy part, I was always in such a tremor of anxiety during his visits lest\none or both of you should descend to blows that I remember no details of\nhis conversation. Besides, we did not choose Pettybaw; we discovered it\nby chance as we were driving from Strathdee to St. Rules. How were we\nto know that it was near this fatal Inchcaldy? If you think it best, we\nwill hold no communication with the place, and Mr. Macdonald need never\nknow you are here. \n\nI thought Francesca looked rather startled at this proposition. At all\nevents she said hastily,  Oh, well, let it go; we could not avoid each\nother long, anyway, although it is very awkward, of course; you see, we\ndid not part friends. \n\n I thought I had never seen you on more cordial terms,  remarked\nSalemina.\n\n But you weren't there,  answered Francesca unguardedly.\n\n Weren't where? \n\n Weren't there. \n\n Where? \n\n At the station. \n\n What station? \n\n The station in Edinburgh from which I started for the Highlands. \n\n You never said that he came to see you off. \n\n The matter was too unimportant for notice; and the more I think of his\nbeing here, the less I mind it after all; and so, dull care, begone!\nWhen I first meet him on the sands or in the loaning, I shall say, 'Dear\nme, is it Mr. Macdonald! What brought you to our quiet hamlet?' (I shall\nput the responsibility on him, you know.) 'That is the worst of these\nsmall countries,--fowk are aye i' the gait! When we part for ever in\nAmerica, we are able to stay parted, if we wish.' Then he will say,\n'Quite so, quite so; but I suppose even you, Miss Monroe, will allow\nthat a minister may not move his church to please a lady.' 'Certainly\nnot,' I shall reply, 'especially when it is Estaiblished!' Then he will\nlaugh, and we shall be better friends for a few moments; and then I\nshall tell him my latest story about the Scotchman who prayed, 'Lord, I\ndo not ask that Thou shouldst give me wealth; only show me where it is,\nand I will attend to the rest.' \n\nSalemina moaned at the delightful prospect opening before us, while I\nwent to the piano and carolled impersonally--\n\n   Oh, wherefore did I cross the Forth,\n     And leave my love behind me?\n   Why did I venture to the north\n     With one that did not mind me?\n   I'm sure I've seen a better limb\n     And twenty better faces;\n   But still my mind it runs on him\n     When I am at the races! \n\nFrancesca left the room at this, and closed the door behind her with\nsuch energy that the bust of Sir Walter rocked on the hall shelf.\nRunning upstairs she locked herself in her bedroom, and came down again\nonly to help us receive Jane Grieve, who arrived at eight o'clock.\n\nIn times of joy Salemina, Francesca, and I occasionally have our\ntrifling differences of opinion, but in hours of affliction we are as\none flesh. An all-wise Providence sent us Jane Grieve for fear that we\nshould be too happy in Pettybaw. Plans made in heaven for the discipline\nof sinful human flesh are always successful, and this was no exception.\n\nWe had sent a 'machine' from the inn to meet her, and when it drew up at\nthe door we went forward to greet the rosy little Jane of our fancy. An\naged person, wearing a rusty black bonnet and shawl, and carrying\nwhat appeared to be a tin cake-box and a baby's bath-tub, descended\nrheumatically from the vehicle and announced herself as Miss Grieve. She\nwas too old to call by her Christian name, too sensitive to call by her\nsurname, so Miss Grieve she remained, as announced, to the end of the\nchapter, and our rosy little Jane died before she was actually born. The\nman took her grotesque luggage into the kitchen, and Salemina escorted\nher thither, while Francesca and I fell into each other's arms and\nlaughed hysterically.\n\n Nobody need tell me that she is Mrs. M'Collop's sister's husband's\nniece,  she whispered,  although she may possibly be somebody's\ngrand-aunt. Doesn't she remind you of Mrs. Gummidge? \n\nSalemina returned in a quarter of an hour, and sank dejectedly on the\nsofa.\n\n Run over to the inn, Francesca  she said,  and order bacon and eggs\nat eight-thirty to-morrow morning. Miss Grieve thinks we had better not\nbreakfast at home until she becomes accustomed to the surroundings. \n\n Shall we allow her to become accustomed to them?  I questioned.\n\n She came up from Glasgow to Edinburgh for the day, and went to see Mrs.\nM'Collop just as our telegram arrived. She was living with an 'extremely\nnice family' in Glasgow, and only broke her engagement in order to try\nFifeshire air for the summer; so she will remain with us as long as she\nis benefited by the climate. \n\n Can't you pay her for a month and send her away? \n\n How can we? She is Mrs. M'Collop's sister's husband's niece, and we\nintend returning to Mrs. M'Collop. She has a nice ladylike appearance,\nbut when she takes her bonnet off she looks seventy years old. \n\n She ought always to keep it off, then,  returned Francesca,  for she\nlooked eighty with it on. We shall have to soothe her last moments, of\ncourse, and pay her funeral expenses. Did you offer her a cup of tea and\nshow her the box-bed? \n\n Yes; she said she was muckle obleeged to me, but the coals were so poor\nand hard she couldna batter them up to start a fire the nicht, and she\nwould try the box-bed to see if she could sleep in it. I am glad to\nremember that it was you who telegraphed for her, Penelope. \n\n Let there be no recriminations,  I responded;  let us stand shoulder to\nshoulder in this calamity,--isn't there a story called Calamity Jane? We\nmight live at the inn, and give her the cottage for a summer residence,\nbut I utterly refuse to be parted from our cat and the 1602 lintel. \n\nAfter I have once described Miss Grieve I shall not suffer her to\nbegloom these pages as she did our young lives. She is so exactly\nlike her kind in America she cannot be looked upon as a national type.\nEverywhere we go we see fresh, fair-haired, sonsie lasses; why should\nwe have been visited by this affliction, we who have no courage in a\nforeign land to rid ourselves of it?\n\nShe appears at the door of the kitchen with some complaint, and stands\nthere talking to herself in a depressing murmur until she arrives at the\nnext grievance. Whenever we hear this, which is whenever we are in the\nsitting-room, we amuse ourselves by chanting lines of melancholy poetry\nwhich correspond to the sentiments she seems to be uttering. It is the\nonly way the infliction can be endured, for the sitting-room is so small\nthat we cannot keep the door closed habitually. The effect of this plan\nis something like the following:--\n\nShe.  The range has sic a bad draft I canna mak' the fire draw! \n\n  We.  'But I'm ower auld for the tears to start,\n        An' sae the sighs maun blaw!'\n\nShe.  The clock i' the hall doesna strike. I have to get oot o' my bed\nto see the time. \n\n  We.  'The broken hairt it kens\n        Nae second spring again!'\n\nShe.  There's no' eneuch jugs i' the hoose. \n\n  We.  'I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought--\n       In troth I'm like to greet!'\n\nShe.  The sink drain isna recht. \n\n  We.  'An' it's oh! to win awa', awa',\n        An' it's oh! to win awa'!'\n\nShe.  I canna thole a box-bed! \n\n  We.  'Ay waukin O\n        Waukin O an' weary.\n        Sleep I can get nane,\n        Ay waukin O!'\n\nShe.  It's fair insultin' to rent a hoose wi' so few convenience. \n\n  We.  'An' I'm ower auld to fish ony mair,\n        An' I hinna the chance to droon.'\n\nShe.  The work is fair sickenin' i' this hoose, an' a' for ane puir body\nto do by her lane. \n\n  We.  'How can ye chant, ye little birds,\n        An' I sae weary, fu' o' care?'\n\nShe.  Ah, but that was a fine family I lived wi' in Glasgy; an' it's a\nwearifu' day's work I've had the day. \n\n  We.  'Oh why was I spared to cry, Wae's me!'\n\nShe.  Why dinna they leave floo'rs i' the garden makin' a mess i' the\nhoose wi' 'em? It's not for the knowin' what they will be after next! \n\n  We.  'Oh, waly waly up the bank,\n        And waly waly doon the brae!'\n\nMiss Grieve's plaints never grow less, though we are sometimes at a loss\nfor appropriate quotations to match them. The poetic interpolations are\nintroduced merely to show the general spirit of her conversation. They\ntake the place of her sighs, which are by their nature unprintable. Many\ntimes each day she is wont to sink into one low chair, and, extending\nher feet in another, close her eyes and murmur undistinguishable plaints\nwhich come to us in a kind of rhythmic way. She has such a shaking right\nhand we have been obliged to give up coffee and have tea, as the former\nbeverage became too unsettled on its journey from the kitchen to\nthe breakfast-table. She says she kens she is a guid cook, though\nsalf-praise is sma' racommendation (sma' as it is she will get nae\nither!); but we have little opportunity to test her skill, as she\nprepares only our breakfasts of eggs and porridge. Visions of home-made\ngoodies had danced before our eyes, but as the hall clock doesna strike\nshe is unable to rise at any exact hour, and as the range draft is bad,\nand the coals too hard to batter up wi' a hatchet, we naturally have to\ncontent ourselves with the baker's loaf.\n\nAnd this is a truthful portrait of 'Calamity Jane,' our one Pettybaw\ngrievance.\n\n\n\nChapter XVI. The path that led to Crummylowe.\n\n\n\n  'Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's Howe,\n   Where a' the sweets o' spring an' simmer grow:\n   Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin,\n   The water fa's an' mak's a singan din;\n   A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass,\n   Kisses, wi' easy whirls, the bord'ring grass.'\n\nThe Gentle Shepherd.\n\n\n\nThat is what Peggy says to Jenny in Allan Ramsay's poem, and if you\nsubstitute 'Crummylowe' for 'Habbie's Howe' in the first line, you will\nhave a lovely picture of the farm-steadin'.\n\nYou come to it by turning the corner from the inn, first passing the\ncottage where the lady wishes to rent two rooms for fifteen shillings a\nweek, but will not give much attendance, as she is slightly asthmatic,\nand the house is always as clean as it is this minute, and the view from\nthe window looking out on Pettybaw Bay canna be surpassed at ony money.\nThen comes the little house where Will'am Beattie's sister Mary died in\nMay, and there wasna a bonnier woman in Fife. Next is the cottage with\nthe pansy-garden, where the lady in the widow's cap takes five-o'clock\ntea in the bay-window, and a snug little supper at eight. She has for\nthe first, scones and marmalade, and her tea is in a small black teapot\nunder a red cosy with a white muslin cover drawn over it. At eight she\nhas more tea, and generally a kippered herring, or a bit of cold mutton\nleft from the noon dinner. We note the changes in her bill of fare as we\npass hastily by, and feel admitted quite into the family secrets. Beyond\nthis bay-window, which is so redolent of simple peace and comfort that\nwe long to go in and sit down, is the cottage with the double white\ntulips, the cottage with the collie on the front steps, the doctor's\nhouse with the yellow laburnum tree, and then the house where the\nDisagreeable Woman lives. She has a lovely baby, which, to begin with,\nis somewhat remarkable, as disagreeable women rarely have babies; or\nelse, having had them, rapidly lose their disagreeableness--so rapidly\nthat one has not time to notice it. The Disagreeable Woman's house is at\nthe end of the row, and across the road is a wicket-gate leading--Where\ndid it lead?--that was the very point. Along the left, as you lean\nwistfully over the gate, there runs a stone wall topped by a green\nhedge; and on the right, first furrows of pale fawn, then below, furrows\nof deeper brown, and mulberry, and red ploughed earth stretching down to\nwaving fields of green, and thence to the sea, grey, misty, opalescent,\nmelting into the pearly white clouds, so that one cannot tell where sea\nends and sky begins.\n\nThere is a path between the green hedge and the ploughed field, and it\nleads seductively to the farm-steadin'; or we felt that it might thus\nlead, if we dared unlatch the wicket gate. Seeing no sign 'Private Way,'\n'Trespassers Not Allowed,' or other printed defiance to the stranger,\nwe were considering the opening of the gate, when we observed two female\nfigures coming toward us along the path, and paused until they should\ncome through. It was the Disagreeable Woman (although we knew it not)\nand an elderly friend. We accosted the friend, feeling instinctively\nthat she was framed of softer stuff, and asked her if the path were a\nprivate one. It was a question that had never met her ear before, and\nshe was too dull or too discreet to deal with it on the instant. To our\namazement, she did not even manage to falter, 'I couldna say.'\n\n Is the path private?  I repeated.\n\n It is certainly the idea to keep it a little private,  said the\nDisagreeable Woman, coming into the conversation without being\naddressed.  Where do you wish to go? \n\n Nowhere in particular. The walk looks so inviting we should like to see\nthe end. \n\n It goes only to the Farm, and you can reach that by the highroad; it is\nonly a half-mile further. Do you wish to call at the Farm? \n\n No, oh no; the path is so very pretty that-- \n\n Yes, I see; well, I should call it rather private.  And with this she\ndeparted, leaving us to stand on the outskirts of paradise, while she\nwent into her house and stared at us from the window as she played with\nthe lovely undeserved baby. But that was not the end of the matter.\n\nWe found ourselves there next day, Francesca and I--Salemina was too\nproud--drawn by an insatiable longing to view the beloved and forbidden\nscene. We did not dare to glance at the Disagreeable Woman's windows,\nlest our courage should ooze away, so we opened the gate and stole\nthrough into the rather private path.\n\nIt was a most lovely path; even if it had not been in a sense\nprohibited, it would still have been lovely, simply on its own merits.\nThere were little gaps in the hedge and the wall, through which we\npeered into a daisy-starred pasture, where a white bossy and a herd of\nflaxen-haired cows fed on the sweet green grass. The mellow ploughed\nearth on the right hand stretched down to the shore-line, and a\nplough-boy walked up and down the long, straight furrows whistling 'My\nNannie's awa'.' Pettybaw is so far removed from the music-halls that\ntheir cheap songs and strident echoes never reach its sylvan shades, and\nthe herd-laddies and plough-boys still sweeten their labours with the\nold classic melodies.\n\nWe walked on and on, determined to come every day; and we settled\nthat if we were accosted by any one, or if our innocent business were\ndemanded, Francesca should ask, 'Does Mrs. Macstronachlacher live here,\nand has she any new-laid eggs?'\n\nSoon the gates of the Farm appeared in sight. There was a cluster of\nbuildings, with doves huddling and cooing on the red-tiled roofs,--dairy\nhouses, workmen's cottages, comely rows of haystacks (towering yellow\nthings with peaked tops); a little pond with ducks and geese chattering\ntogether as they paddled about, and for additional music the trickling\nof two tiny burns making 'a singan din,' as they wimpled through the\nbushes. A speckle-breasted thrush perched on a corner of the grey wall\nand poured his heart out. Overhead there was a chorus of rooks in the\ntall trees, but there was no sound of human voice save that of the\nplough-laddie whistling 'My Nannie's awa'.'\n\nWe turned our backs on this darling solitude, and retraced our steps\nlingeringly. As we neared the wicket gate again we stood upon a bit of\njutting rock and peered over the wall, sniffing the hawthorn buds with\necstasy. The white bossy drew closer, treading softly on its daisy\ncarpet; the wondering cows looked up at us as they peacefully chewed\ntheir cuds; a man in corduroy breeches came from a corner of the\npasture, and with a sharp, narrow hoe rooted out a thistle or two that\nhad found their way into this sweet feeding-ground. Suddenly we heard\nthe swish of a dress behind, and turned, conscience-stricken, though we\nhad in nothing sinned.\n\n Does Mrs. Macstronachlacher live here?  stammered Francesca like a\nparrot.\n\nIt was an idiotic time and place for the question. We had certainly\narranged that she should ask it, but something must be left to the\njudgment in such cases. Francesca was hanging over a stone wall\nregarding a herd of cows in a pasture, and there was no possible shelter\nfor a Mrs. Macstronachlacher within a quarter of a mile. What made\nthe remark more unfortunate was the fact that, although she had on a\ndifferent dress and bonnet, the person interrogated was the Disagreeable\nWoman; but Francesca is particularly slow in discerning resemblances.\nShe would have gone on mechanically asking for new-laid eggs, had I not\ncaught her eye and held it sternly. The foe looked at us suspiciously\nfor a moment (Francesca's hats are not easily forgotten), and then\nvanished up the path, to tell the people at Crummylowe, I suppose, that\ntheir grounds were invested by marauding strangers whose curiosity was\nmanifestly the outgrowth of a republican government.\n\nAs she disappeared in one direction, we walked slowly in the other; and\njust as we reached the corner of the pasture where two stone walls meet,\nand where a group of oaks gives grateful shade, we heard children's\nvoices.\n\n No, no!  cried somebody;  it must be still higher at this end, for the\ntower--this is where the king will sit. Help me with this heavy one,\nRafe. Dandie, mind your foot. Why don't you be making the flag for the\nship?--and do keep the Wrig away from us till we finish building! \n\n\n\nChapter XVII. Playing Sir Patrick Spens.\n\n\n\n  'O lang, lang may the ladyes sit\n     Wi' their face into their hand,\n   Before they see Sir Patrick Spens\n     Come sailing to the strand.'\n\nSir Patrick Spens.\n\n\n\nWe forced our toes into the crevices of the wall and peeped stealthily\nover the top. Two boys of eight or ten years, with two younger children,\nwere busily engaged in building a castle. A great pile of stones had\nbeen hauled to the spot, evidently for the purpose of mending the wall,\nand these were serving as rich material for sport. The oldest of the\ncompany, a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked boy in an Eton jacket and broad\nwhite collar, was obviously commander-in-chief; and the next in size,\nwhom he called Rafe, was a laddie of eight, in kilts. These two looked\nas if they might be scions of the aristocracy, while Dandie and the Wrig\nwere fat little yokels of another sort. The miniature castle must have\nbeen the work of several mornings, and was worthy of the respectful but\nsilent admiration with which we gazed upon it; but as the last stone\nwas placed in the tower, the master builder looked up and spied our\ninterested eyes peering at him over the wall. We were properly abashed,\nand ducked our heads discreetly at once, but were reassured by hearing\nhim run rapidly towards us, calling,  Stop, if you please! Have you\nanything on just now--are you busy? \n\nWe answered that we were quite at leisure.\n\n Then would you mind coming in to help us play 'Sir Patrick Spens'?\nThere aren't enough of us to do it nicely. \n\nThis confidence was touching, and luckily it was not in the least\nmisplaced. Playing 'Sir Patrick Spens' was exactly in our line, little\nas he suspected it.\n\n Come and help?  I said.  Simply delighted! Do come, Fanny dear. How can\nwe get over the wall? \n\n I'll show you the good broken place!  cried Sir Apple-Cheek; and\nfollowing his directions we scrambled through, while Rafe took off his\nHighland bonnet ceremoniously and handed us down to earth.\n\n Hurrah! now it will be something like fun! Do you know 'Sir Patrick\nSpens'? \n\n\n Every word of it. Don't you want us to pass an examination before you\nallow us in the game? \n\n No,  he answered gravely;  it's a great help, of course, to know it,\nbut it isn't necessary. I keep the words in my pocket to prompt Dandie,\nand the Wrig can only say two lines, she's so little.  (Here he produced\nsome tattered leaves torn from a book of ballads.)  We've done it many\na time, but this is a new Dunfermline Castle, and we are trying the\nplay in a different way. Rafe is the king, and Dandie is the 'eldern\nknight,'--you remember him? \n\n Certainly; he sat at the king's right knee. \n\n Yes, yes, that's the one! Then Rafe is Sir Patrick part of the time,\nand I the other part, because everybody likes to be him; but there's\nnobody left for the 'lords o' Noroway' or the sailors, and the Wrig is\nthe only maiden to sit on the shore, and she always forgets to comb her\nhair and weep at the right time. \n\nThe forgetful and placid Wrig (I afterwards learned that this is a Scots\nword for the youngest bird in the nest) was seated on the grass, with\nher fat hands full of pink thyme and white wild woodruff. The sun shone\non her curly flaxen head. She wore a dark blue cotton frock with white\ndots, and a short-sleeved pinafore; and though she was utterly useless\nfrom a dramatic point of view, she was the sweetest little Scotch\ndumpling I ever looked upon. She had been tried and found wanting in\nmost of the principal parts of the ballad, but when left out of the\nperformance altogether she was wont to scream so lustily that all\nCrummylowe rushed to her assistance.\n\n Now let us practise a bit to see if we know what we are going to do, \n said Sir Apple-Cheek.  Rafe, you can be Sir Patrick this time. The\nreason why we all like to be Sir Patrick,  he explained, turning to me,\n is that the lords o' Noroway say to him--\n\n  'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's gowd,\n     And a' our Queenis fee';\n\nand then he answers,--\n\n  ' Ye lee! ye lee! ye leers loud,\n     Fu' loudly do ye lee! '\n\nand a lot of splendid things like that. Well, I'll be the king,  and\naccordingly he began:--\n\n  'The King sits in Dunfermline tower,\n     Drinking the bluid-red wine.\n   O whaur will I get a skeely skipper\n     To sail this new ship o' mine? '\n\nA dead silence ensued, whereupon the king said testily,  Now, Dandie,\nyou never remember you're the eldern knight; go on! \n\nThus reminded, Dandie recited:--\n\n  'O up and spake an eldern knight,\n     Sat at the King's right knee:\n   Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor\n     That ever sailed the sea. '\n\n Now I'll write my letter,  said the king, who was endeavouring to make\nhimself comfortable in his somewhat contracted tower.\n\n  'The King has written a braid letter\n     And sealed it with his hand;\n   And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,\n     Was walking on the strand.'\n\n Read the letter out loud, Rafe, and then you'll remember what to do. \n\n  ' To Noroway! to Noroway!\n     To Noroway o'er the faem!\n    The King's daughter of Noroway,\n     'Tis thou maun bring her hame, '\n\nread Rafe.\n\n Now do the next part! \n\n I can't; I'm going to chuck up that next part. I wish you'd do Sir\nPatrick until it comes to 'Ye lee! 'ye lee!' \n\n No, that won't do, Rafe. We have to mix up everybody else, but it's too\nbad to spoil Sir Patrick. \n\n Well, I'll give him to you, then, and be the king. I don't mind so much\nnow that we've got such a good tower; and why can't I stop up there even\nafter the ship sets sail and look out over the sea with a telescope?\nThat's the way Elizabeth did the time she was king. \n\n You can stay till you have to come down and be a dead Scots lord. I'm\nnot going to lie there as I did last time, with nobody but the Wrig for\na Scots lord, and her forgetting to be dead! \n\nSir Apple-Cheek then essayed the hard part 'chucked up' by Rafe. It was\nrather difficult, I confess, as the first four lines were in pantomime,\nand required great versatility:--\n\n  'The first word that Sir Patrick read,\n     Fu' loud, loud laughed he:\n   The neist word that Sir Patrick read,\n     The tear blinded his e'e.'\n\nThese conflicting emotions successfully simulated, Sir Patrick\nresumed:--\n\n  ' O wha is he has done this deed,\n     And tauld the King o' me,--\n   To send us out, at this time o' the year,\n     To sail upon the sea? '\n\nThen the king stood up in the unstable tower and shouted his own\norders:--\n\n  ' Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,\n     Our ship maun sail the faem;\n    The King's daughter o' Noroway,\n     'Tis we maun fetch her hame. '\n\n Can't we rig the ship a little better?  demanded our stage-manager at\nthis juncture.  It isn't half as good as the tower. \n\nTen minutes' hard work, in which we assisted, produced something a\ntrifle more nautical and seaworthy than the first craft. The ground with\na few boards spread upon it was the deck. Tarpaulin sheets were arranged\non sticks to represent sails, and we located the vessel so cleverly that\ntwo slender trees shot out of the middle of it and served as the tall\ntopmasts.\n\n Now let us make believe that we've hoisted our sails on 'Mononday morn'\nand been in Noroway 'weeks but only twae,'  said our leading man;  and\nyour time has come now, --turning to us.\n\nWe felt indeed that it had; but plucking up sufficient courage for the\nlords o' Noroway, we cried accusingly,--\n\n  ' Ye Scottishmen spend a' our King's gowd,\n     And a' our Queenis fee! '\n\nOh but Sir Apple-Cheek was glorious as he roared virtuously:--\n\n  ' Ye lee! ye lee! ye leers loud,\n     Fu' loudly do you lee!\n\n    For I brocht as much white monie\n     As gane my men and me,\n    An' I brocht a half-fou o' gude red gowd\n     Out ower the sea wi' me.\n\n    But betide me well, betide me wae,\n     This day I'se leave the shore;\n    And never spend my King's monie\n     'Mong Noroway dogs no more.\n\n    Make ready, make ready, my merry men a',\n     Our gude ship sails the morn. '\n\n Now you be the sailors, please! \n\nGlad to be anything but Noroway dogs, we recited obediently--\n\n  ' Now, ever alake, my master dear,\n     I fear a deadly storm?\n     . . . . . . .\n    And if ye gang to sea, master,\n     I fear we'll come to harm. '\n\nWe added much to the effect of this stanza by flinging ourselves on the\nturf and embracing Sir Patrick's knees, with which touch of melodrama he\nwas enchanted.\n\nThen came a storm so terrible that I can hardly trust myself to describe\nits fury. The entire corps dramatique personated the elements, and tore\nthe gallant ship in twain, while Sir Patrick shouted in the teeth of the\ngale--\n\n  ' O whaur will I get a gude sailor\n     To tak' my helm in hand,\n    Till I get up to the tall topmast\n     To see if I can spy land? '\n\nI knew the words a trifle better than Francesca, and thus succeeded in\nforestalling her as the fortunate hero--\n\n  ' O here I am, a sailor gude,\n     To tak' the helm in hand,\n    Till you go up to the tall topmast;\n     But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land. '\n\nAnd the heroic sailor was right, for\n\n   'He hadna gone a step, a step,\n     A step but only ane,\n    When a bout flew out o' our goodly ship,\n     And the saut sea it came in.'\n\nThen we fetched a web o' the silken claith, and anither o' the twine, as\nour captain bade us; we wapped them into our ship's side and letna the\nsea come in; but in vain, in vain. Laith were the gude Scots lords to\nweet their cork-heeled shune, but they did, and wat their hats abune;\nfor the ship sank in spite of their despairing efforts,\n\n   'And mony was the gude lord's son\n     That never mair cam' hame.'\n\nFrancesca and I were now obliged to creep from under the tarpaulins and\npersonate the dishevelled ladies on the strand.\n\n Will your hair come down?  asked the manager gravely.\n\n It will and shall,  we rejoined; and it did.\n\n   'The ladies wrang their fingers white,\n     The maidens tore their hair.'\n\n Do tear your hair, Jessie! It's the only thing you have to do, and you\nnever do it on time! \n\nThe Wrig made ready to howl with offended pride, but we soothed her, and\nshe tore her yellow curls with her chubby hands.\n\n   'And lang, lang may the maidens sit\n     Wi' there gowd kaims i' the hair,\n    A' waitin' for their ain dear luves,\n     For them they'll see nae mair.'\n\nI did a bit of sobbing here that would have been a credit to Sarah\nSiddons.\n\n Splendid! Grand!  cried Sir Patrick, as he stretched himself fifty\nfathoms below the imaginary surface of the water, and gave explicit\nante-mortem directions to the other Scots lords to spread themselves out\nin like manner.\n\n   'Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,\n     'Tis fifty fathoms deep,\n    And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,\n     Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.'\n\n Oh, it is grand!  he repeated jubilantly.  If I could only be the king\nand see it all from Dunfermline tower! Could you be Sir Patrick once, do\nyou think, now that I have shown you how?  he asked Francesca.\n\n Indeed I could!  she replied, glowing with excitement (and small\nwonder) at being chosen for the principal role.\n\n The only trouble is that you do look awfully like a girl in that white\nfrock. \n\nFrancesca appeared rather ashamed at her natural disqualifications for\nthe part of Sir Patrick.  If I had only worn my long black cloak!  she\nsighed.\n\n Oh, I have an idea!  cried the boy.  Hand her the minister's gown from\nthe hedge, Rafe. You see, Mistress Ogilvie of Crummylowe lent us this\nold gown for a sail; she's doing something to a new one, and this was\nher pattern. \n\nFrancesca slipped it on over her white serge, and the Pettybaw parson\nshould have seen her with the long veil of her dark locks floating over\nhis ministerial garment.\n\n It seems a pity to put up your hair,  said the stage manager\ncritically,  because you look so jolly and wild with it down, but I\nsuppose you must; and will you have Rafe's bonnet? \n\nYes, she would have Rafe's bonnet; and when she perched it on the side\nof her head and paced the deck restlessly, while the black gown floated\nbehind in the breeze, we all cheered with enthusiasm, and, having\nrebuilt the ship, began the play again from the moment of the gale. The\nwreck was more horribly realistic than ever, this time, because of our\nrehearsal; and when I crawled from under the masts and sails to seat\nmyself on the beach with the Wrig, I had scarcely strength enough to\nremove the cooky from her hand and set her a-combing her curly locks.\n\nWhen our new Sir Patrick stretched herself on the ocean bed, she fell\nwith a despairing wail; her gown spread like a pall over the earth, the\nHighland bonnet came off, and her hair floated over a haphazard pillow\nof Jessie's wildflowers.\n\n Oh, it is fine, that part; but from here is where it always goes\nwrong!  cried the king from the castle tower.  It's too bad to take\nthe maidens away from the strand where they look so bonnie, and Rafe\nis splendid as the gude sailor, but Dandie looks so silly as one little\ndead Scots lord; if we only had one more person, young or old, if he was\never so stupid! \n\n WOULD I DO? \n\nThis unexpected offer came from behind one of the trees that served as\ntopmasts, and at the same moment there issued from that delightfully\nsecluded retreat Ronald Macdonald, in knickerbockers and a golf-cap.\n\nSuddenly as this apparition came, there was no lack of welcome on the\nchildren's part. They shouted his name in glee, embraced his legs, and\npulled him about like affectionate young bears. Confusion reigned for\na moment, while Sir Patrick rose from her sea grave all in a mist of\nfloating hair, from which hung impromptu garlands of pink thyme and\ngreen grasses.\n\n Allow me to do the honours, please, Jamie,  said Mr. Macdonald, when\nhe could escape from the children's clutches.  Have you been properly\npresented? I suppose not. Ladies, the young Master of Rowardennan.\nJamie, Miss Hamilton and Miss Monroe from the United States of America. \n Sir Apple-Cheek bowed respectfully.  Let me present the Honourable Ralph\nArdmore, also from the castle, together with Dandie Dinmont and the Wrig\nfrom Crummylowe. Sir Patrick, it is indeed a pleasure to see you again.\nMust you take off my gown? I had thought it was past use, but it never\nlooked so well before. \n\n YOUR gown? \n\nThe counterfeit presentment of Sir Patrick vanished as the long drapery\nflew to the hedge whence it came, and there remained only an offended\nyoung goddess, who swung her dark mane tempestuously to one side,\nplaited it in a thick braid, tossed it back again over her white serge\nshoulder, and crowded on her sailor hat with unnecessary vehemence.\n\n Yes, MY gown; whose else could you more appropriately borrow, pray?\nMistress Ogilvie of Crummylowe presses, sponges, and darns my bachelor\nwardrobe, but I confess I never suspected that she rented it out for\ntheatrical purposes. I have been calling upon you in Pettybaw; Lady\nArdmore was there at the same time. Finding but one of the three\nAmerican Graces at home, I stayed a few moments only, and am now\nreturning to Inchcaldy by way of Crummylowe.  Here he plucked the gown\noff the hedge and folded it carefully.\n\n Can't we keep it for a sail, Mr. Macdonald?  pleaded Jamie.  Mistress\nOgilvie said it wasn't any more good. \n\n When Mistress Ogilvie made that remark,  replied the Reverend Ronald,\n she had no idea that it would ever touch the shoulders of the martyred\nSir Patrick Spens. Now, I happen to love-- \n\nFrancesca hung out a scarlet flag in each cheek, and I was about to say,\n'Don't mind me!' when he continued--\n\n As I was saying, I happen to love 'Sir Patrick Spens,'--it is my\nfavourite ballad; so, with your permission, I will take the gown, and\nyou can find something less valuable for a sail! \n\nI could never understand just why Francesca was so annoyed at being\ndiscovered in our innocent game. Of course she was prone on Mother Earth\nand her tresses were much dishevelled, but she looked lovely after all,\nin comparison with me, the humble 'supe' and lightning-change artist;\nyet I kept my temper,--at least I kept it until the Reverend Ronald\nobserved, after escorting us through the gap in the wall,  By the way,\nMiss Hamilton, there was a gentleman from Paris at your cottage, and he\nis walking down the road to meet you. \n\nWalking down the road to meet me, forsooth! Have ministers no brains?\nThe Reverend Mr. Macdonald had wasted five good minutes with his\nobservations, introductions, explanations, felicitations, and\nadorations, and meantime, regardez-moi, messieurs et mesdames, s'il\nvous plait! I have been a Noroway dog, a shipbuilder, and a gallant\nsailorman; I have been a gurly sea and a towering gale; I have crawled\nfrom beneath broken anchors, topsails, and mizzenmasts to a strand where\nI have been a suffering lady plying a gowd kaim. My skirt of blue drill\nhas been twisted about my person until it trails in front; my collar is\nwilted, my cravat untied; I have lost a stud and a sleeve-link; my hair\nis in a tangled mass, my face is scarlet and dusty--and a gentleman from\nParis is walking down the road to meet me!\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII. Paris comes to Pettybaw.\n\n\n\n  'There were three ladies in a hall--\n     With a heigh-ho! and a lily gay,\n   There came a lord among them all--\n     As the primrose spreads so sweetly.'\n\n    --The Cruel Brother.\n\n\n\nWillie Beresford has come to Pettybaw, and that Arcadian village has\nreceived the last touch that makes it Paradise.\n\nWe are exploring the neighbourhood together, and whichever path we\ntake we think it lovelier than the one before. This morning we drove\nto Pettybaw Sands, Francesca and Salemina following by the footpath and\nmeeting us on the shore. It is all so enchantingly fresh and green on\none of these rare bright days: the trig lass bleaching her 'claes' on\nthe grass by the burn near the little stone bridge; the wild partridges\nwhirring about in pairs; the farm-boy seated on the clean straw in the\nbottom of his cart, and cracking his whip in mere wanton joy at the\nsunshine; the pretty cottages; and the gardens with rows of currant and\ngooseberry bushes hanging thick with fruit that suggests jam and tart\nin every delicious globule. It is a love-coloured landscape, we know it\nfull well; and nothing in the fair world about us is half as beautiful\nas what we see in each other's eyes. Ah, the memories of these first\ngolden mornings together after our long separation. I shall sprinkle\nthem with lavender and lay them away in that dim chamber of the heart\nwhere we keep precious things. We all know the chamber. It is fragrant\nwith other hidden treasures, for all of them are sweet, though some are\nsad. That is the reason why we put a finger on the lip and say 'Hush,'\nif we open the door and allow any one to peep in.\n\nWe tied the pony by the wayside and alighted: Willie to gather some\nsprays of the pink veronica and blue speedwell, I to sit on an old bench\nand watch him in happy idleness. The 'white-blossomed slaes' sweetened\nthe air, and the distant hills were gay with golden whin and broom, or\nflushed with the purply-red of the bell heather.\n\nWe heard the note of the cushats from a neighbouring bush. They used\nto build their nests on the ground, so the story goes, but the cows\ntrampled them. Now they are wiser and build higher, and their cry is\nsupposed to be a derisive one, directed to their ancient enemies. 'Come\nnoo, Coo, Coo! Come noo!'\n\nA hedgehog crept stealthily along the ground, and at a sudden sound\ncurled himself up like a wee brown bear. There were women working in\nthe fields near by,--a strange sight to our eyes at first, but nothing\nunusual here, where many of them are employed on the farms all the year\nround, sowing weeding, planting, even ploughing in the spring, and in\nwinter working at threshing or in the granary.\n\nAn old man, leaning on his staff, came tottering feebly along, and sank\ndown on the bench beside me. He was dirty, ragged, unkempt, and feeble,\nbut quite sober, and pathetically anxious for human sympathy.\n\n I'm achty-sax year auld,' he maundered, apropos of nothing,  achty-sax\nyear auld. I've seen five lairds o' Pettybaw, sax placed meenisters, an'\nseeven doctors. I was a mason, an' a stoot mon i' thae days, but it's a\nmeeserable life noo. Wife deid, bairns deid! I sit by my lane, an' smoke\nmy pipe, wi' naebody to gi'e me a sup o' water. Achty-sax is ower auld\nfor a mon,--ower auld. \n\nThese are the sharp contrasts of life one cannot bear to face when one\nis young and happy. Willie gave him a half-crown and some tobacco\nfor his pipe, and when the pony trotted off briskly, and we left the\nshrunken figure alone on his bench as he was lonely in his life, we\nkissed each other and pledged ourselves to look after him as long as\nwe remain in Pettybaw; for what is love worth if it does not kindle\nthe flames of spirit, open the gates of feeling, and widen the heart to\nshelter all the little loves and great loves that crave admittance?\n\nAs we neared the tiny fishing-village on the sands we met a fishwife\nbrave in her short skirt and eight petticoats, the basket with its two\nhundred pound weight on her head, and the auld wife herself knitting\nplacidly as she walked along. They look superbly strong, these women;\nbut, to be sure, the 'weak anes dee,' as one of them told me.\n\nThere was an air of bustle about the little quay,--\n\n  'That joyfu' din when the boats come in,\n     When the boats come in sae early;\n   When the lift is blue an' the herring-nets fu',\n     And the sun glints in a' things rarely.'\n\nThe silvery shoals of fish no longer come so near the shore as they used\nin the olden time, for then the kirk bell of St. Monan's had its tongue\ntied when the 'draive' was off the coast, lest its knell should frighten\naway the shining myriads of the deep.\n\nWe climbed the shoulder of a great green cliff until we could sit on the\nrugged rocks at the top and overlook the sea. The bluff is well named\nNirly Scaur, and a wild desolate spot it is, with grey lichen-clad\nboulders and stunted heather on its summit. In a storm here, the wind\nbuffets and slashes and scourges one like invisible whips, and below the\nsea churns itself into foaming waves, driving its 'infinite squadrons\nof wild white horses' eternally toward the shore. It was calm and blue\nto-day, and no sound disturbed the quiet save the incessant shriek\nand scream of the rock birds, the kittiwakes, black-headed gulls, and\nguillemots that live on the sides of these high sheer craigs. Here the\nmother guillemot lays her single egg, and here, on these narrow shelves\nof precipitous rock, she holds it in place with her foot until the\nwarmth of her leg and overhanging body hatches it into life, when\nshe takes it on her back and flies down to the sea. Motherhood under\ndifficulties, it would seem, and the education of the baby guillemot is\ncarried forward on Spartan principles; for the moment he is out of the\nshell he is swept downward hundreds of feet and plunged into a cold\nocean, where he can sink or swim as instinct serves him. In a life so\nfraught with anxieties, exposures, and dangers, it is not strange that\nthe guillemots keeps up a ceaseless clang of excited conversation,\na very riot and wrangle of altercation and argument which the\ncircumstances seem to warrant. The prospective father is obliged to take\nturns with the prospective mother, and hold the one precious egg on the\nrock while she goes for a fly, a swim, a bite, and a sup. As there are\nfive hundred other parents on the same rock, and the eggs look to be\nonly a couple of inches apart, the scene must be distracting, and I have\nno doubt we should find, if statistics were gathered, that thousands of\nguillemots die of nervous prostration.\n\nWillie and I interpreted the clamour somewhat as follows:--\n\n[Between parent birds.]\n\n I am going to take my foot off. Are you ready to put yours on? Don't be\nclumsy! Wait a minute, I'm not ready. I'M NOT READY, I TELL YOU! NOW!! \n\n[Between rival mothers.]\n\n Your egg is so close to mine that I can't breathe--- \n\n Move your egg, then, I can't move mine! \n\n You're sitting so close, I can't stretch my wings. \n\n Neither can I. You've got as much room as I have. \n\n I shall tumble if you crowd me. \n\n Go ahead and tumble, then! There is plenty of room in the sea. \n\n[From one father to another ceremoniously.]\n\n Pardon me, but I'm afraid I shoved your wife off the rock last night. \n\n Don't mention it. I remember I shoved off your wife's mother last\nyear. \n\nWe walked among the tiny whitewashed low-roofed cots, each with its\nsilver-skinned fishes tacked invitingly against the door-frame to dry,\nuntil we came to my favourite, the corner cottage in the row. It has\nbeautiful narrow garden strips in front,--solid patches of colour in\nsweet gillyflower bushes, from which the kindly housewife plucked a\nnosegay for us. Her white columbines she calls 'granny's mutches'; and\nindeed they are not unlike those fresh white caps. Dear Robbie Burns,\nten inches high in plaster, stands in the sunny window in a tiny box of\nblossoming plants surrounded by a miniature green picket fence. Outside,\nlooming white among the gillyflowers, is Sir Walter, and near him is\nstill another and a larger bust on a cracked pedestal a foot high,\nperhaps. We did not recognise the head at once, and asked the little\nwoman who it was.\n\n Homer, the graund Greek poet,  she answered cheerily;  an' I'm to have\nanither o' Burns, as tall as Homer, when my daughter comes hame frae\nE'nbro'. \n\nIf the shade of Homer keeps account of his earthly triumphs, I think he\nis proud of his place in that humble Scotchwoman's gillyflower garden,\nwith his head under the drooping petals of granny's white mutches.\n\nWhat do you think her 'mon' is called in the village! John o' Mary! But\nhe is not alone in his meekness, for there are Jock o' Meg, Willie\no' Janet, Jem o' Tibby, and a dozen others. These primitive\nfishing-villages are the places where all the advanced women ought\nto congregate, for the wife is head of the house; the accountant, the\ntreasurer, the auditor, the chancellor of the exchequer; and though\nher husband does catch the fish for her to sell, that is accounted\napparently as a detail too trivial for notice.\n\nWhen we passed Mary's cottage on our way to the sands next day, Burns's\nhead had been accidentally broken off by the children, and we felt as\nthough we had lost a friend; but Scotch thrift, and loyalty to the\ndear Ploughman Poet, came to the rescue, and when we returned, Robert's\nplaster head had been glued to his body. He smiled at us again from\nbetween the two scarlet geraniums, and a tendril of ivy had been gently\ncurled about his neck to hide the cruel wound.\n\nAfter such long, lovely mornings as this, there is a late luncheon under\nthe shadow of a rock with Salemina and Francesca, an idle chat, or the\nchapter of a book, and presently Lady Ardmore and her daughter Elizabeth\ndrive down to the sands. They are followed by Robin Anstruther, Jamie,\nand Ralph on bicycles, and before long the stalwart figure of Ronald\nMacdonald appears in the distance, just in time for a cup of tea, which\nwe brew in Lady Ardmore's bath-house on the beach.\n\n\n\nChapter XIX. Fowk o' Fife.\n\n\n\n  'To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,\n   The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;\n   The native feelings strong, the guileless ways.'\n\nThe Cotter's Saturday Night.\n\n\n\nWe have lived in Pettybaw a very short time, but I see that we have\nalready made an impression upon all grades of society. This was not our\nintention. We gave Edinburgh as our last place of residence, with the\nview of concealing our nationality, until such time as we should choose\nto declare it; that is, when public excitement with regard to our\nrental of the house in the loaning should have lapsed into a state of\nindifference. And yet, modest, economical, and commonplace as has been\nthe administration of our affairs, our method of life has evidently\nbeen thought unusual, and our conduct not precisely the conduct of other\nsummer visitors. Even our daily purchases, in manner, in number, and in\ncharacter, seem to be looked upon as eccentric, for whenever we leave a\nshop, the relatives of the greengrocer, flesher, draper, whoever it may\nbe, bound downstairs, surround him in an eager circle, and inquire the\nlatest news.\n\nIn an unwise moment we begged the draper's wife to honour us with\na visit and explain the obliquities of the kitchen range and the\ntortuosities of the sink-spout to Miss Grieve. While our landlady was\non the premises, I took occasion to invite her up to my own room, with a\nview of seeing whether my mattress of pebbles and iron-filings could\nbe supplemented by another of shavings or straw, or some material less\nprovocative of bodily injuries. She was most sympathetic, persuasive,\nlogical and after the manner of her kind proved to me conclusively that\nthe trouble lay with the too-saft occupant of the bed, not with the\nbed itself, and gave me statistics with regard to the latter which\nestablished its reputation and at the same moment destroyed my own.\n\nShe looked in at the various doors casually as she passed up and down\nthe stairs,--all save that of the dining-room, which Francesca had\nprudently locked to conceal the fact that we had covered the family\nportraits,--and I noticed at the time that her face wore an expression\nof mingled grief and astonishment. It seemed to us afterward that there\nwas a good deal more passing up and down the loaning than when we first\narrived. At dusk especially, small processions of children and young\npeople walked by our cottage and gave shy glances at the windows.\n\nFinding Miss Grieve in an unusually amiable mood, I inquired the\nprobable cause of this phenomenon. She would not go so far as to give\nany judicial opinion, but offered a few conjectures.\n\nIt might be the tirling-pin; it might be the white satin ribbons on the\ncurtains; it might be the guitars and banjos; it might be the bicycle\ncrate; it might be the profusion of plants; it might be the continual\nfeasting and revelry; it might be the blazing fires in a Pettybaw\nsummer. She thought a much more likely reason, however, was because\nit had become known in the village that we had moved every stick\nof furniture in the house out of its accustomed place and taken the\ndressing-tables away from the windows,--'the windys,' she called them.\n\nI discussed this matter fully with Mr. Macdonald later on. He laughed\nheartily, but confessed, with an amused relish of his national\nconservatism, that to his mind there certainly was something radical,\nadvanced, and courageous in taking a dressing-table away from its place,\nback to the window, and putting it anywhere else in a room. He would be\nfrank, he said, and acknowledge that it suggested an undisciplined and\nlawless habit of thought, a disregard for authority, a lack of reverence\nfor tradition, and a riotous and unbridled imagination.\n\nThis view of the matter gave us exquisite enjoyment.\n\n But why?  I asked laughingly.  The dressing-table is not a sacred\nobject, even to a woman. Why treat it with such veneration? Where there\nis but one good light, and that immediately in front of the window,\nthere is every excuse for the British custom, but when the light is well\ndiffused, why not place the table where-ever it looks well? \n\n Ah, but it doesn't look well anywhere but back to the window,  said Mr.\nMacdonald artlessly.  It belongs there, you see; it has probably been\nthere since the time of Malcolm Canmore, unless Margaret was too pious\nto look in a mirror. With your national love of change, you cannot\nconceive how soothing it is to know that whenever you enter your gate\nand glance upward, you will always see the curtains parted, and between\nthem, like an idol in a shrine, the ugly wooden back of a little oval\nor oblong looking-glass. It gives one a sense of permanence in a world\nwhere all is fleeting. \n\nThe public interest in our doings seems to be entirely of a friendly\nnature, and if our neighbours find a hundredth part of the charm and\nnovelty in us that we find in them, they are fortunate indeed, and we\ncheerfully sacrifice our privacy on the altar of the public good.\n\nA village in Scotland is the only place I can fancy where housekeeping\nbecomes an enthralling occupation. All drudgery disappears in a rosy\nglow of unexpected, unique, and stimulating conditions. I would rather\nsuperintend Miss Grieve, and cause the light of amazement to gleam\nten times daily in her humid eye, than lead a cotillion with Willie\nBeresford. I would rather do the marketing for our humble breakfasts and\nteas, or talk over the day's luncheons and dinners with Mistress Brodie\nof the Pettybaw Inn and Posting Establishment, than go to the opera.\n\nSalemina and Francesca do not enjoy it all quite as intensely as I, so\nthey considerately give me the lion's share. Every morning, after an\nexhilarating interview with the Niobe of our kitchen (who thinks me\nirresponsible, and prays Heaven in her heart I be no worse), I put on\nmy goloshes, take my umbrella, and trudge up and down the little streets\nand lanes on real and, if need be, imaginary errands. The Duke of\nWellington said, 'When fair in Scotland, always carry an umbrella;\nwhen it rains, please yourself,' and I sometimes agree with Stevenson's\nshivering statement, 'Life does not seem to me to be an amusement\nadapted to this climate.' I quoted this to the doctor yesterday, but he\nremarked with some surprise that he had not missed a day's golfing for\nweeks. The chemist observed as he handed me a cake of soap, 'Won'erful\nblest in weather, we are, mam,' simply because, the rain being\nunaccompanied with high wind, one was enabled to hold up an umbrella\nwithout having it turned inside out. When it ceased dripping for an\nhour at noon, the greengrocer said cheerily, 'Another grand day, mam!'\nI assented, though I could not for the life of me remember when the last\none occurred. However, dreary as the weather may be, one cannot be dull\nwhen doing one's morning round of shopping in Pettybaw or Strathdee. I\nhave only to give you thumb-nail sketches of our favourite tradespeople\nto convince you of that fact.\n\n      .  .    .    .\n\nWe bought our first groceries of Mrs. Robert Phin, of Strathdee, simply\nbecause she is an inimitable conversationalist. She is expansive, too,\nabout family matters, and tells us certain of her 'mon's' faults which\nit would be more seemly to keep in the safe shelter of her own bosom.\n\nRab takes a wee drappie too much, it appears, and takes it so often that\nhe has little time to earn an honest penny for his family. This is bad\nenough; but the fact that Mrs. Phin has been twice wed before, and that\nin each case she innocently chose a ne'er-do-weel for a mate, makes\nher a trifle cynical. She told me that she had laid twa husbands in the\nkirk-yard near which her little shop stands, and added cheerfully, as\nI made some sympathetic response, 'An' I hope it'll no' be lang afore I\nbox Rab!'\n\nSalemina objects to the shop because it is so disorderly. Soap and\nsugar, tea and bloaters, starch and gingham, lead pencils and sausages,\nlie side by side cosily. Boxes of pins are kept on top of kegs of\nherrings. Tins of coffee are distributed impartially anywhere and\neverywhere, and the bacon sometimes reposes in a glass case with\nsmall-wares and findings, out of the reach of Alexander's dogs.\n\nAlexander is one of a brood, or perhaps I should say three broods, of\nchildren which wander among the barrels and boxes and hams and winceys\nseeking what they may devour,--a handful of sugar, a prune, or a\nsweetie.\n\nWe often see the bairns at their luncheon or dinner in a little room\njust off the shop, Alexander the Small always sitting or kneeling on a\n'creepie,' holding his plate down firmly with the left hand and eating\nwith the right, whether the food be fish, porridge, or broth. In the\nPhin family the person who does not hold his plate down runs the risk of\nlosing it to one of the other children or to the dogs, who, with eager\neye and reminding paw, gather round the hospitable board, licking their\nchops hopefully.\n\nI enjoy these scenes very much, but, alas! I can no longer witness them\nas often as formerly.\n\nThis morning Mrs. Phin greeted me with some embarrassment.\n\n Maybe ye'll no' ken me,  she said, her usually clear speech a little\nblurred.  It's the teeth. I've mislaid 'em somewhere. I paid far too\nmuch siller for 'em to wear 'em ilka day. Sometimes I rest 'em in the\nteabox to keep 'em awa' frae the bairns, but I canna find 'em theer.\nI'm thinkin' maybe they'll be in the rice, but I've been ower thrang to\nluik! \n\nThis anecdote was too rich to keep to myself, but its unconscious humour\nmade no impression upon Salemina, who insisted upon the withdrawal of\nour patronage. I have tried to persuade her that, whatever may be said\nof tea and rice, we run no risk in buying eggs; but she is relentless.\n\n      .    .    .    .\n\nThe kirkyard where Rab's two predecessors have been laid, and where Rab\nwill lie when Mrs. Phin has 'boxed' him, is a sleepy little place set on\na gentle slope of ground, softly shaded by willow and yew trees. It is\nenclosed by a stone wall, into which an occasional ancient tombstone\nis built, its name and date almost obliterated by stress of time and\nweather.\n\nWe often walk through its quiet, myrtle-bordered paths on our way to\nthe other end of the village, where Mrs. Bruce, the flesher, keeps an\nunrivalled assortment of beef and mutton. The headstones, many of them\nlaid flat upon the graves, are interesting to us because of their quaint\ninscriptions, in which the occupation of the deceased is often stated\nwith modest pride and candour. One expects to see the achievements of\nthe soldier, the sailor, or the statesman carved in the stone that marks\nhis resting-place, but to our eyes it is strange enough to read that the\nsubject of eulogy was a plumber, tobacconist, maker of golf-balls, or\na golf champion; in which latter case there is a spirited etching\nor bas-relief of the dead hero, with knickerbockers, cap, and clubs\ncomplete.\n\nThere, too, lies Thomas Loughead, Hairdresser, a profession far too\nlittle celebrated in song and story. His stone is a simple one, and\nbears merely the touching tribute:--\n\n   He was lovely and pleasant in his life,\n\nthe inference being, to one who knows a line of Scripture, that in his\ndeath he was not divided.\n\nThese kirkyard personalities almost lead one to believe in the\nauthenticity of the British tradesman's epitaph, wherein his\npractical-minded relict stated that the 'bereaved widow would continue\nto carry on the tripe and trotter business at the old stand.'\n\n      .    .    .    .\n\nOne day when we were walking through the little village of Strathdee\nwe turned the corner of a quiet side street and came suddenly upon\nsomething altogether strange and unexpected.\n\nA stone cottage of the everyday sort stood a trifle back from the road\nand bore over its front door a sign announcing that Mrs. Bruce, Flesher,\ncarried on her business within; and indeed one could look through\nthe windows and see ruddy joints hanging from beams, and piles of\npink-and-white steaks and chops lying neatly on the counter, crying,\n'Come, eat me!' Nevertheless, one's first glance would be arrested\nneither by Mrs Bruce's black-and-gold sign, nor by the enticements of\nher stock-in-trade, because one's attention is rapped squarely between\nthe eyes by an astonishing shape that arises from the patch of lawn\nin front of the cottage, and completely dominates the scene. Imagine\nyourself face to face with the last thing you would expect to see in\na modest front dooryard,--the figurehead of a ship, heroic in size,\ngorgeous in colour, majestic in pose! A female personage it appears to\nbe from the drapery, which is the only key the artist furnishes as to\nsex, and a queenly female withal, for she wears a crown at least a foot\nhigh, and brandishes a forbidding sceptre. All this seen from the front,\nbut the rear view discloses the fact that the lady terminates in the\ntail of a fish which wriggles artistically in mid-air and is of a\nbrittle sort, as it has evidently been thrice broken and glued together.\n\nMrs Bruce did not leave us long in suspense, but obligingly came out,\npartly to comment on the low price of mutton and partly to tell the\ntale of the mammoth mermaid. By rights, of course, Mrs. Bruce's husband\nshould have been the gallant captain of a bark which foundered at sea\nand sent every man to his grave on the ocean-bed. The ship's figurehead\nshould have been discovered by some miracle, brought to the sorrowing\nwidow, and set up in the garden in eternal remembrance of the dear\ndeparted. This was the story in my mind, but as a matter of fact the\nrude effigy was wrought by Mrs. Bruce's father for a ship to be called\nthe Sea Queen, but by some mischance, ship and figurehead never came\ntogether, and the old wood-carver left it to his daughter, in lieu of\nother property. It has not been wholly unproductive, Mrs. Bruce fancies,\nfor the casual passers-by, like those who came to scoff and remained\nto pray, go into the shop to ask questions about the Sea Queen and buy\nchops out of courtesy and gratitude.\n\n      .    .    .    .\n\nOn our way to the bakery, which is a daily walk with us, we always\nglance at a little cot in a grassy lane just off the fore street. In\none half of this humble dwelling Mrs. Davidson keeps a slender stock of\nshop-worn articles,--pins, needles, threads, sealing-wax, pencils, and\nsweeties for the children, all disposed attractively upon a single shelf\nbehind the window.\n\nAcross the passage, close to the other window, sits day after day an old\nwoman of eight-six summers who has lost her kinship with the present and\ngone back to dwell for ever in the past. A small table stands in front\nof her rush-bottomed chair, the old family Bible rests upon it, and in\nfront of the Bible are always four tiny dolls, with which the trembling\nold fingers play from morning till night. They are cheap, common little\npuppets, but she robes and disrobes them with tenderest care. They are\nput to bed upon the Bible, take their walks along its time-worn pages,\nare married on it, buried on it, and the direst punishment they ever\nreceive is to be removed from its sacred covers and temporarily hidden\nbeneath the dear old soul's black alpaca apron. She is quite happy with\nher treasures on week-days; but on Sundays--alas and alas! the poor old\ndame sits in her lonely chair with the furtive tears dropping on her\nwrinkled cheeks, for it is a God-fearing household, and it is neither\nlawful nor seemly to play with dolls on the Sawbath!\n\n      .    .    .    .\n\nMrs. Nicolson is the presiding genius of the bakery, she is more--she\nis the bakery itself. A Mr. Nicolson there is, and he is known to be the\nbaker, but he dwells in the regions below the shop and only issues at\nrare intervals, beneath the friendly shelter of a huge tin tray filled\nwith scones and baps.\n\nIf you saw Mrs. Nicolson's kitchen with the firelight gleaming on its\nbright copper, its polished candlesticks, and its snowy floor, you would\nthink her an admirable housewife, but you would get no clue to those\nshrewd and masterful traits of character which reveal themselves chiefly\nbehind the counter.\n\nMiss Grieve had purchased of Mrs. Nicolson a quarter section of very\nappetising ginger-cake to eat with our afternoon tea, and I stepped in\nto buy more. She showed me a large round loaf for two shillings.\n\n No,  I objected,  I cannot use a whole loaf, thank you. We eat very\nlittle at a time, and like it perfectly fresh. I wish a small piece such\nas my maid bought the other day. \n\nThen ensued a discourse which I cannot render in the vernacular, more's\nthe pity, though I understood it all too well for my comfort. The\nsubstance of it was this: that she couldna and wouldna tak' it in hand\nto give me a quarter section of cake when the other three-quarters might\ngae dry in the bakery; that the reason she sold the small piece on the\nformer occasion was that her daughter, her son-in-law, and their three\nchildren came from Ballahoolish to visit her, and she gave them a\nhigh tea with no expense spared; that at this function they devoured\nthree-fourths of a ginger-cake, and just as she was mournfully regarding\nthe remainder my servant came in and took it off her hands; that she had\nkept a bakery for thirty years and her mother before her, and never had\na two-shilling ginger-cake been sold in pieces before, nor was it likely\never to occur again; that if I, under Providence, so to speak, had been\nthe fortunate gainer by the transaction, why not eat my six penny-worth\nin solemn gratitude once for all, and not expect a like miracle to\nhappen the next week? And finally, that two-shilling ginger-cakes were,\nin the very nature of things, designed for large families; and it\nwas the part of wisdom for small families to fix their affections on\nsomething else, for she couldna and wouldna tak' it in hand to cut a\nrare and expensive article for a small customer.\n\nThe torrent of logic was over, and I said humbly that I would take the\nwhole loaf.\n\n Verra weel, mam,  she responded more affably,  thank you kindly; no, I\ncouldna tak' it in hand to sell six pennyworth of that ginger-cake and\nlet one-and-sixpence worth gae dry in the bakery.--A beautiful day, mam!\nWon'erful blest in weather ye are! Let me open your umbrella for you,\nmam! \n\n      .    .    .    .\n\nDavid Robb is the weaver of Pettybaw. All day long he sits at his\nold-fashioned hand-loom, which, like the fruit of his toil and the dear\nold greybeard himself, belongs to a day that is past and gone.\n\nHe might have work enough to keep an apprentice busy, but where would\nhe find a lad sufficiently behind the times to learn a humble trade now\nbanished to the limbo of superseded, almost forgotten things?\n\nHis home is but a poor place, but the rough room in which he works is\nbig enough to hold a deal of sweet content. It is cheery enough, too,\nto attract the Pettybaw weans, who steal in on wet days and sit on the\nfloor playing with the thrums, or with bits of coloured ravellings.\nSometimes when they have proved themselves wise and prudent little\nvirgins, they are even allowed to touch the hanks of pink and yellow and\nblue yarn that lie in rainbow-hued confusion on the long deal table.\n\nAll this time the 'heddles' go up and down, up and down, with their\nceaseless clatter, and David throws the shuttle back and forth as he\nweaves his old-fashioned winceys.\n\nWe have grown to be good friends, David and I, and I have been permitted\nthe signal honour of painting him at his work.\n\nThe loom stands by an eastern window, and the rare Pettybaw sunshine\nfilters through the branches of a tree, shines upon the dusty\nwindow-panes, and throws a halo round David's head that he well deserves\nand little suspects. In my foreground sit Meg and Jean and Elspeth\nplaying with thrums and wearing the fruit of David's loom in their\ngingham frocks. David himself sits on his wooden bench behind the maze\nof cords that form the 'loom harness.'\n\nThe snows of seventy winters powder his hair and beard. His spectacles\nare often pushed back on his kindly brow, but no glass could wholly\nobscure the clear integrity and steadfast purity of his eyes; and as\nfor his smile, I have not the art to paint that! It holds in solution so\nmany sweet though humble virtues of patience, temperance, self-denial,\nhonest endeavour, that my brush falters in the attempt to fix the\nradiant whole upon the canvas. Fashions come and go, modern improvements\ntransform the arts and trades, manual skill gives way to the cunning of\nthe machine, but old David Robb, after more than fifty years of toil,\nstill sits at his hand-loom and weaves his winceys for the Pettybaw\nbairnies.\n\nDavid has small book-learning, so he tells me; and indeed he had need to\ntell me, for I should never have discovered it myself,--one misses it so\nlittle when the larger things are all present!\n\nA certain summer visitor in Pettybaw (a compatriot of ours, by the way)\nbought a quantity of David's orange-coloured wincey, and finding that it\nwore like iron, wished to order more. She used the word 'reproduce'\nin her telegram, as there was one pattern and one colour she specially\nliked. Perhaps the context was not illuminating, but at any rate the\nword 'reproduce' was not in David's vocabulary, and putting back his\nspectacles he told me his difficulty in deciphering the exact meaning of\nhis fine-lady patron. He called at the Free Kirk manse,--the meenister\nwas no' at hame; then to the library,--it was closed; then to the\nEstaiblished manse,--the meenister was awa'. At last he obtained a\nglance at the schoolmaster's dictionary, and turning to 'reproduce'\nfound that it meant 'nought but mak' ower again';--and with an amused\nsmile at the bedevilments of language he turned once more to his loom\nand I to my canvas.\n\nNotwithstanding his unfamiliarity with 'langnebbit' words, David has\nabsorbed a deal of wisdom in his quiet life; though so far as I can see,\nhis only books have been the green tree outside his window, a glimpse of\nthe distant ocean, and the toil of his hands.\n\nBut I sometimes question if as many scholars are not made as marred in\nthis wise, for--to the seeing eye--the waving leaf and the far sea, the\ndaily task, one's own heart-beats, and one's neighbour's,--these teach\nus in good time to interpret Nature's secrets, and man's, and God's as\nwell.\n\n\n\nChapter XX. A Fifeshire tea-party.\n\n\n\n  'The knights they harpit in their bow'r,\n     The ladyes sew'd and sang;\n   The mirth that was in that chamber\n     Through all the place it rang.'\n\nRose the Red and White Lily.\n\n\n\nTea at Rowardennan Castle is an impressive and a delightful function.\nIt is served by a ministerial-looking butler and a\njust-ready-to-be-ordained footman. They both look as if they had been\nnourished on the Thirty-Nine Articles, but they know their business as\nwell as if they had been trained in heathen lands,--which is saying a\ngood deal, for everybody knows that heathen servants wait upon one\nwith idolatrous solicitude. However, from the quality of the cheering\nbeverage itself down to the thickness of the cream, the thinness of the\nchina, the crispness of the toast, and the plummyness of the cake, tea\nat Rowardennan Castle is perfect in every detail.\n\nThe scones are of unusual lightness, also. I should think they would\nscarcely weigh more than four, perhaps even five, to a pound; but I am\naware that the casual traveller, who eats only at hotels, and never has\nthe privilege of entering feudal castles, will be slow to believe this\nestimate, particularly just after breakfast.\n\nSalemina always describes a Scotch scone as an aspiring but unsuccessful\nsoda-biscuit of the New England sort. Stevenson, in writing of that\ndense black substance, inimical to life, called Scotch bun, says that\nthe patriotism that leads a Scotsman to eat it will hardly desert him in\nany emergency. Salemina thinks that the scone should be bracketed with\nthe bun (in description, of course, never in the human stomach), and\nsays that, as a matter of fact, 'th' unconquer'd Scot' of old was not\nonly clad in a shirt of mail, but well fortified within when he went\nforth to warfare after a meal of oatmeal and scones. She insists that\nthe spear which would pierce the shirt of mail would be turned aside\nand blunted by the ordinary scone of commerce; but what signifies the\nopinion of a woman who eats sugar on her porridge?\n\nConsidering the air of liberal hospitality that hangs about the castle\ntea-table, I wonder that our friends do not oftener avail themselves\nof its privileges and allow us to do so; but on all dark, foggy, or\ninclement days, or whenever they tire of the sands, everybody persists\nin taking tea at Bide-a-Wee Cottage.\n\nWe buy our tea of the Pettybaw grocer, some of our cups are cracked,\nthe teapot is of earthenware, Miss Grieve disapproves of all social\ntea-fuddles, and shows it plainly when she brings in the tray, and the\nroom is so small that some of us overflow into the hall or the garden;\nit matters not; there is some fatal charm in our humble hospitality.\nAt four o'clock one of us is obliged to be, like Sister Anne, on the\nhousetop; and if company approaches, she must descend and speed to\nthe plumber's for six pennyworth extra of cream. In most well-ordered\nBritish households Miss Grieve would be requested to do this speeding,\nbut both her mind and her body move too slowly for such domestic crises;\nand then, too, her temper has to be kept as unruffled as possible, so\nthat she will cut the bread and butter thin. This she generally does if\nshe has not been 'fair doun-hadden wi' wark'; but the washing of her\nown spinster cup and plate, together with the incident sighs and groans,\noccupies her till so late an hour that she is not always dressed for\ncallers.\n\nWillie and I were reading The Lady of the Lake the other day, in the\nback garden, surrounded by the verdant leafage of our own kale-yard.\nIt is a pretty spot when the sun shines, a trifle domestic in its air,\nperhaps, but restful: Miss Grieve's dish-towels and aprons drying on the\ncurrant bushes, the cat playing with a mutton-bone or a fish-tail on the\ngrass, and the little birds perching on the rims of our wash-boiler\nand water-buckets. It can be reached only by way of the kitchen, which\nsomewhat lessens its value as a pleasure-ground or a rustic retreat, but\nWillie and I retire there now and then for a quiet chat.\n\nOn this particular occasion Willie was declaiming the exciting verses\nwhere Fitz-James and Murdoch are crossing the stream\n\n  'That joins Loch Katrine to Achray,'\n\nwhere the crazed Blanche of Devan first appears:--\n\n  'All in the Trosachs' glen was still,\n   Noontide was sleeping on the hill:\n   Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high--\n    Murdoch! was that a signal cry? '\n\n It was indeed,  said Francesca, appearing suddenly at an upper window\noverhanging the garden.  Pardon this intrusion, but the Castle people\nare here,  she continued in what is known as a stage whisper,--that is,\none that can be easily heard by a thousand persons,-- the Castle people\nand the ladies from Pettybaw House; and Mr. Macdonald is coming down the\nloaning; but Calamity Jane is making her toilet in the kitchen, and you\ncannot take Mr. Beresford through into the sitting-room at present. She\nsays this hoose has so few conveniences that it's 'fair sickenin'.' \n\n How long will she be?  queried Mr. Beresford anxiously, putting The\nLady of the Lake in his pocket, and pacing up and down between the rows\nof cabbages.\n\n She has just begun. Whatever you do, don't unsettle her temper, for\nshe will have to prepare for eight to-day. I will send Mr. Macdonald and\nMiss Macrae to the bakery for gingerbread, to gain time, and possibly\nI can think of a way to rescue you. If I can't, are you tolerably\ncomfortable? Perhaps Miss Grieve won't mind Penelope, and she can come\nthrough the kitchen any time and join us; but naturally you don't want\nto be separated, that's the worst of being engaged. Of course I can\nlower your tea in a tin bucket, and if it should rain I can throw out\numbrellas. Would you like your golf-caps, Pen? 'Won'erful blest in\nweather ye are, mam!' The situation is not so bad as it might be,  she\nadded consolingly,  because in case Miss Grieve's toilet should last\nlonger than usual, your wedding need not be indefinitely postponed, for\nMr. Macdonald can marry you from this window. \n\nHere she disappeared, and we had scarcely time to take in the full\nhumour of the affair before Robin Anstruther's laughing eyes appeared\nover the top of the high brick wall that protects our garden on three\nsides.\n\n Do not shoot,  said he.  I am not come to steal the fruit, but to\nsuccour humanity in distress. Miss Monroe insisted that I should borrow\nthe inn ladder. She thought a rescue would be much more romantic than\nwaiting for Miss Grieve. Everybody is coming out to witness it, at least\nall your guests,--there are no strangers present,--and Miss Monroe is\nalready collecting sixpence a head for the entertainment, to be given,\nshe says, for your dear Friar's sustenation fund. \n\nHe was now astride of the wall, and speedily lifted the ladder to our\nside, where it leaned comfortably against the stout branches of the\ndraper's peach vine. Willie ran nimbly up the ladder and bestrode the\nwall. I followed, first standing, and then decorously sitting down on\nthe top of it. Mr. Anstruther pulled up the ladder, and replaced it on\nthe side of liberty; then he descended, then Willie, and I last of all,\namidst the acclamations of the onlookers, a select company of six or\neight persons.\n\nWhen Miss Grieve formally entered the sitting-room bearing the tea-tray,\nshe was buskit braw in black stuff gown, clean apron, and fresh cap\ntrimmed with purple ribbons, under which her white locks were neatly\ndressed.\n\nShe deplored the coolness of the tea, but accounted for it to me in\nan aside by the sickening quality of Mrs. Sinkler's coals and Mr.\nMacbrose's kindling-wood, to say nothing of the insulting draft in the\ndraper's range. When she left the room, I suppose she was unable to\nexplain the peals of laughter that rang through our circumscribed halls.\n\nLady Ardmore insists that the rescue was the most unique episode she\never witnessed, and says that she never understood America until\nshe made our acquaintance. I persuaded her that this was fallacious\nreasoning; that while she might understand us by knowing America, she\ncould not possibly reverse this mental operation and be sure of the\nresult. The ladies of Pettybaw House said that the occurrence was as\nFifish as anything that ever happened in Fife. The kingdom of Fife is\nnoted, it seems, for its 'doocots [dovecots] and its daft lairds,'\nand to be eccentric and Fifish are one and the same thing. Thereupon\nFrancesca told Mr. Macdonald a story she heard in Edinburgh, to the\neffect that when a certain committee or council was quarrelling as\nto which of certain Fifeshire towns should be the seat of a projected\nlunatic asylum, a new resident arose and suggested that the building of\na wall round the kingdom of Fife would solve the difficulty, settle\nall disputes, and give sufficient room for the lunatics to exercise\nproperly.\n\nThis is the sort of tale that a native can tell with a genial chuckle,\nbut it comes with poor grace from an American lady sojourning in Fife.\nFrancesca does not mind this, however, as she is at present avenging\nfresh insults to her own beloved country.\n\n\n\nChapter XXI. International bickering.\n\n\n\n  With mimic din of stroke and ward\n  The broadsword upon target jarr'd.\n\nThe Lady of the Lake.\n\n\n\nRobin Anstruther was telling stories at the tea-table.\n\n I got acquainted with an American girl in rather a queer sort of\nway,  he said, between cups.  It was in London, on the Duke of York's\nwedding-day. I'm rather a tall chap, you see, and in the crowd somebody\ntouched me on the shoulder, and a plaintive voice behind me said,\n'You're such a big man, and I am so little, will you please help me to\nsave my life? My mother was separated from me in the crowd somewhere as\nwe were trying to reach the Berkeley, and I don't know what to do.'\nI was a trifle nonplussed, but I did the best I could. She was a tiny\nthing, in a marvellous frock and a flowery hat and a silver girdle and\nchatelaine. In another minute she spied a second man, an officer, a full\nhead taller than I am, broad shoulders, splendidly put up altogether.\nBless me! if she didn't turn to him and say, 'Oh, you're so nice and\nbig, you're even bigger than this other gentleman, and I need you both\nin this dreadful crush. If you'll be good enough to stand on either\nside of me, I shall be awfully obliged.' We exchanged amused glances\nof embarrassment over her blonde head, but there was no resisting the\nirresistible. She was a small person, but she had the soul of a general,\nand we obeyed orders. We stood guard over her little ladyship for nearly\nan hour, and I must say she entertained us thoroughly, for she was as\nclever as she was pretty. Then I got her a seat in one of the windows of\nmy club, while the other man, armed with a full description, went out to\nhunt up the mother; and, by Jove! he found her, too. She would have her\nmother, and her mother she had. They were awfully jolly people; they\ncame to luncheon in my chambers at the Albany afterwards, and we grew to\nbe great friends. \n\n I dare say she was an English girl masquerading,  I remarked\nfacetiously.  What made you think her an American? \n\n Oh, her general appearance and accent, I suppose. \n\n Probably she didn't say Barkley,  observed Francesca cuttingly;  she\nwould have been sure to commit that sort of solecism. \n\n Why, don't you say Barkley in the States? \n\n Certainly not; we never call them the States, and with us c-l-e-r-k\nspells clerk, and B-e-r-k Berk. \n\n How very odd!  remarked Mr. Anstruther.\n\n No odder than you saying Bark, and not half as odd as your calling it\nAlbany,  I interpolated, to help Francesca.\n\n Quite so,  said Mr. Anstruther;  but how do you say Albany in America? \n\n Penelope and I always call it Allbany,  responded Francesca\nnonsensically,  but Salemina, who has been much in England, always calls\nit Albany. \n\nThis anecdote was the signal for Miss Ardmore to remark (apropos of her\nown discrimination and the American accent) that hearing a lady ask for\na certain med'cine in a chemist's shop, she noted the intonation, and\ninquired of the chemist, when the fair stranger had retired, if she\nwere not an American.  And she was!  exclaimed the Honourable Elizabeth\ntriumphantly.  And what makes it the more curious, she had been over\nhere twenty years, and of course, spoke English quite properly. \n\nIn avenging fancied insults, it is certainly more just to heap\npunishment on the head of the real offender than upon his neighbour,\nand it is a trifle difficult to decide why Francesca should chastise Mr.\nMacdonald for the good-humoured sins of Mr. Anstruther and Miss Ardmore;\nyet she does so, nevertheless.\n\nThe history of these chastisements she recounts in the nightly half-hour\nwhich she spends with me when I am endeavouring to compose myself for\nsleep. Francesca is fluent at all times, but once seated on the foot of\nmy bed she becomes eloquent!\n\n It all began with his saying-- \n\nThis is her perennial introduction, and I respond as invariably,  What\nbegan? \n\n Oh, to-day's argument with Mr. Macdonald. It was a literary quarrel\nthis afternoon. \n\n 'Fools rush in--'  I quoted.\n\n There is a good deal of nonsense in that old saw,  she interrupted;  at\nall events, the most foolish fools I have ever known stayed still and\ndidn't do anything. Rushing shows a certain movement of the mind,\neven if it is in the wrong direction. However, Mr. Macdonald is both\nopinionated and dogmatic, but his worst enemy could never call him a\nfool. \n\n I didn't allude to Mr. Macdonald. \n\n Don't you suppose I know to whom you alluded, dear? Is not your style\nso simple, frank, and direct that a wayfaring girl can read it and not\nerr therein? No, I am not sitting on your feet, and it is not time to go\nto sleep; I wonder you do not tire of making those futile protests. As a\nmatter of fact, we began this literary discussion yesterday morning,\nbut were interrupted; and knowing that it was sure to come up again,\nI prepared for it with Salemina. She furnished the ammunition, so to\nspeak, and I fired the guns. \n\n You always make so much noise with blank cartridges I wonder you ever\nbother about real shot,  I remarked.\n\n Penelope, how can you abuse me when I am in trouble? Well, Mr.\nMacdonald was prating, as usual, about the antiquity of Scotland and its\naeons of stirring history. I am so weary of the venerableness of this\ncountry. How old will it have to be, I wonder, before it gets used\nto it? If it's the province of art to conceal art, it ought to be the\nprovince of age to conceal age, and it generally is. 'Everything doesn't\nimprove with years,' I observed sententiously.\n\n 'For instance?' he inquired.\n\n Of course you know how that question affected me! How I do dislike\nan appetite for specific details! It is simply paralysing to a good\nconversation. Do you remember that silly game in which some one points\na stick at you and says, 'Beast, bird, or fish,--BEAST!' and you have\nto name one while he counts ten? If a beast has been requested, you can\nthink of one fish and two birds, but no beast. If he says 'FISH,' all\nthe beasts in the universe stalk through your memory, but not one finny,\nsealy, swimming thing! Well, that is the effect of 'For instance?' on my\nfaculties. So I stumbled a bit, and succeeded in recalling, as objects\nwhich do not improve with age, mushrooms, women, and chickens, and he\nwas obliged to agree with me, which nearly killed him. Then I said that\nalthough America is so fresh and blooming that people persist in calling\nit young, it is much older than it appears to the superficial eye. There\nis no real propriety in dating us as a nation from the Declaration of\nIndependence in 1776, I said, nor even from the landing of the Pilgrims\nin 1620; nor, for that matter, from Columbus's discovery in 1492. It's\nmy opinion, I asserted, that some of us had been there thousands of\nyears before, but nobody had had the sense to discover us. We couldn't\ndiscover ourselves,--though if we could have foreseen how the sere and\nyellow nations of the earth would taunt us with youth and inexperience,\nwe should have had to do something desperate! \n\n That theory must have been very convincing to the philosophic Scots\nmind,  I interjected.\n\n It was; even Mr. Macdonald thought it ingenious. 'And so,' I went on,\n'we were alive and awake and beginning to make history when you Scots\nwere only bare-legged savages roaming over the hills and stealing\ncattle. It was a very bad habit of yours, that cattle-stealing, and one\nwhich you kept up too long.'\n\n 'No worse a sin than your stealing land from the Indians,' he said.\n\n 'Oh yes,' I answered, 'because it was a smaller one! Yours was a vice,\nand ours a sin; or I mean it would have been a sin had we done it; but\nin reality we didn't steal land; we just TOOK it, reserving plenty for\nthe Indians to play about on; and for every hunting-ground we took away\nwe gave them in exchange a serviceable plough, or a school, or a nice\nIndian agent, or something. That was land-grabbing, if you like, but\nit is a habit you Britishers have still, while we gave it up when we\nreached years of discretion.' \n\n This is very illuminating,  I interrupted, now thoroughly wide awake,\n but it isn't my idea of a literary discussion. \n\n I am coming to that,  she responded.  It was just at this point that,\ngoaded into secret fury by my innocent speech about cattle-stealing, he\nbegan to belittle American literature, the poetry especially. Of course\nhe waxed eloquent about the royal line of poet-kings that had made his\ncountry famous, and said the people who could claim Shakespeare had\nreason to be the proudest nation on earth. 'Doubtless,' I said. 'But do\nyou mean to say that Scotland has any nearer claim upon Shakespeare than\nwe have? I do not now allude to the fact that in the large sense he is\nthe common property of the English-speaking world' (Salemina told me to\nsay that), 'but Shakespeare died in 1616, and the union of Scotland with\nEngland didn't come about till 1707, nearly a century afterwards. You\nreally haven't anything to do with him! But as for us, we didn't leave\nEngland until 1620, when Shakespeare had been perfectly dead four years.\nWe took very good care not to come away too soon. Chaucer and Spenser\nwere dead too, and we had nothing to stay for!' \n\nI was obliged to relax here and give vent to a burst of merriment at\nFrancesca's absurdities.\n\n I could see that he had never regarded the matter in that light\nbefore,  she went on gaily, encouraged by my laughter,  but he braced\nhimself for the conflict, and said 'I wonder that you didn't stay a\nlittle longer while you were about it. Milton and Ben Jonson were still\nalive; Bacon's Novum Organum was just coming out; and in thirty or forty\nyears you could have had L'Allegro, Il Penseroso and Paradise Lost;\nNewton's Principia, too, in 1687. Perhaps these were all too serious and\nheavy for your national taste; still one sometimes likes to claim things\none cannot fully appreciate. And then, too, if you had once begun to\nstay, waiting for the great things to happen and the great books to\nbe written, you would never have gone, for there would still have been\nBrowning, Tennyson, and Swinburne to delay you.'\n\n 'If we couldn't stay to see out your great bards, we certainly couldn't\nafford to remain and welcome your minor ones,' I answered frigidly; 'but\nwe wanted to be well out of the way before England united with Scotland,\nknowing that if we were uncomfortable as things were, it would be a good\ndeal worse after the Union; and we had to come home anyway, and start\nour own poets. Emerson, Whittier, Longfellow, Holmes, and Lowell had to\nbe born.'\n\n 'I suppose they had to be if you had set your mind on it,' he said,\n'though personally I could have spared one or two on that roll of\nhonour.'\n\n 'Very probably,' I remarked, as thoroughly angry now as he intended I\nshould be. 'We cannot expect you to appreciate all the American poets;\nindeed, you cannot appreciate all of your own, for the same nation\ndoesn't always furnish the writers and the readers. Take your precious\nBrowning, for example! There are hundreds of Browning Clubs in America,\nand I never heard of a single one in Scotland.'\n\n 'No,' he retorted, 'I dare say; but there is a good deal in belonging\nto a people who can understand him without clubs!' \n\n O Francesca!  I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright among my pillows.  How\ncould you give him that chance! How COULD you! What did you say? \n\n I said nothing,  she replied mysteriously.  I did something much more\nto the point,--I cried! \n\n CRIED? \n\n Yes, cried; not rivers and freshets of woe, but small brooks and\nstreamlets of helpless mortification. \n\n What did he do then? \n\n Why do you say 'do'? \n\n Oh, I mean 'say,' of course. Don't trifle; go on. What did he say\nthen? \n\n There are some things too dreadful to describe,  she answered, and\nwrapping her Italian blanket majestically about her she retired to her\nown apartment, shooting one enigmatical glance at me as she closed the\ndoor.\n\nThat glance puzzled me for some time after she left the room. It was as\nexpressive and interesting a beam as ever darted from a woman's eye.\nThe combination of elements involved in it, if an abstract thing may be\nconceived as existing in component parts, was something like this:--\n\nOne-half, mystery. One-eighth, triumph. One-eighth, amusement.\nOne-sixteenth, pride. One-sixteenth, shame. One-sixteenth, desire to\nconfess. One-sixteenth, determination to conceal.\n\nAnd all these delicate, complex emotions played together in a circle\nof arching eyebrow, curving lip, and tremulous chin,--played together,\nmingling and melting into one another like fire and snow; bewildering,\nmystifying, enchanting the beholder!\n\nIf Ronald Macdonald did--I am a woman, but, for one, I can hardly blame\nhim!\n\n\n\nChapter XXII. Francesca entertains the green-eyed monster.\n\n\n\n  ' O has he chosen a bonny bride,\n      An' has he clean forgotten me? \n     An' sighing said that gay ladye,\n      I would I were in my ain countrie! '\n\nLord Beichan.\n\n\n\nIt rained in torrents; Salemina was darning stockings in the inglenook\nat Bide-a-Wee Cottage, and I was reading her a Scotch letter which\nFrancesca and I had concocted the evening before. I proposed sending the\ndocument to certain chosen spirits in our own country, who were pleased\nto be facetious concerning our devotion to Scotland. It contained, in\nsooth, little that was new, and still less that was true, for we were\nconfined to a very small vocabulary which we were obliged to supplement\nnow and then by a dip into Burns and Allan Ramsay.\n\nHere is the letter:--\n\nBide-a-Wee Cottage,   Pettybaw,\nEast Neuk o' Fife.\n\n\nTo my trusty fieres,\n\nMony's the time I hae ettled to send ye a screed, but there was aye\nsomething that cam' i' the gait. It wisna that I couldna be fashed, for\naften hae I thocht o' ye and my hairt has been wi' ye mony's the day.\nThere's no' muckle fowk frae Ameriky hereawa; they're a' jist Fife\nbodies, and a lass canna get her tongue roun' their thrapple-taxin'\nwords ava', so it's like I may een drap a' the sweetness o' my good\nmither-tongue.\n\n'Tis a dulefu' nicht, and an awfu' blash is ragin' wi'oot. Fanny's awa'\nat the gowff rinnin' aboot wi' a bag o' sticks after a wee bit ba', and\nSally and I are hame by oor lane. Laith will the lassie be to weet her\nbonny shoon, but lang ere the play'll be ower she'll wat her hat aboon.\nA gust o' win' is skirlin' the noo, and as we luik ower the faem, the\nhaar is risin', weetin' the green swaird wi' misty shoo'rs.\n\nYestreen was a calm simmer gloamin', sae sweet an' bonnie that when the\nsun was sinkin' doon ower Pettybaw Sands we daundered ower the muir.\nAs we cam' through the scented birks, we saw a trottin' burnie wimplin'\n'neath the white-blossomed slaes and hirplin' doon the hillside;\nan' while a herd-laddie lilted ower the fernie brae, a cushat cooed\nleesomely doon i' the dale. We pit aff oor shoon, sae blithe were we,\nkilted oor coats a little aboon the knee, and paidilt i' the burn,\ngettin' geyan weet the while. Then Sally pu'd the gowans wat wi' dew an'\ntwined her bree wi' tasselled broom, while I had a wee crackie wi' Tibby\nBuchan, the flesher's dochter frae Auld Reekie. Tibby's nae giglet gawky\nlike the lave, ye ken,--she's a sonsie maid, as sweet as ony hinny pear,\nwi' her twa pawky een an' her cockernony snooded up fu' sleek.\n\nWe were unco gleg to win hame when a' this was dune, an' after steekin'\nthe door, to sit an' birsle oor taes at the bit blaze. Mickle thocht we\no' the gentles ayont the sea, an' sair grat we for a' frien's we kent\nlang syne in oor ain countree.\n\nLate at nicht, Fanny, the bonny gypsy, cam' ben the hoose an' tirled at\nthe pin of oor bigly bower door, speirin' for baps and bannocks.\n\n Hoots, lassie!  cried oot Sally,  th' auld carline i' the kitchen is i'\nher box-bed, an' weel aneuch ye ken is lang syne cuddled doon. \n\n Oo ay!  said Fanny, strikin' her curly pow,  then fetch me parritch,\nan' dinna be lang wi' them, for I've lickit a Pettybaw lad at the gowff,\nan' I could eat twa guid jints o' beef gin I had them! \n\n Losh girl,  said I,  gie ower makin' sic a mickle din. Ye ken verra\nweel ye'll get nae parritch the nicht. I'll rin and fetch ye a 'piece'\nto stap awee the soun'. \n\n Blethers an' havers!  cried Fanny, but she blinkit bonnily the while,\nan' when the tea was weel maskit, she smoored her wrath an' stappit her\nmooth wi' a bit o' oaten cake. We aye keep that i' the hoose, for th'\nauld servant-body is geyan bad at the cookin', an' she's sae dour an'\ndowie that to speak but till her we daur hardly mint.\n\nIn sic divairsions pass the lang simmer days in braid Scotland, but I\ncanna write mair the nicht, for 'tis the wee sma' hours ayont the twal'.\n\nLike th' auld wife's parrot, 'we dinna speak muckle, but we're deevils\nto think,' an' we're aye thinkin' aboot ye. An' noo I maun leave ye to\nmak' what ye can oot o' this, for I jalouse it'll pass ye to untaukle\nthe whole hypothec.\n\nFair fa' ye a'! Lang may yer lum reek, an' may prosperity attend oor\nclan!\n\nAye your gude frien',\n\nPenelope Hamilton.\n\n\n It may be very fine,  remarked Salemina judicially,  though I cannot\nunderstand more than half of it. \n\n That would also be true of Browning,  I replied.  Don't you love to see\ngreat ideas looming through a mist of words? \n\n The words are misty enough in this case,  she said,  and I do wish you\nwould not tell the world that I paddle in the burn, or 'twine my bree\nwi' tasselled broom.' I'm too old to be made ridiculous. \n\n Nobody will believe it,  said Francesca, appearing in the doorway.\n They will know it is only Penelope's havering,  and with this\nundeserved scoff, she took her mashie and went golfing--not on the\nlinks, on this occasion, but in our microscopic sitting-room. It is\ntwelve feet square, and holds a tiny piano, desk, centre-table, sofa,\nand chairs, but the spot between the fire-place and the table is\nFrancesca's favourite 'putting-green.' She wishes to become more deadly\nin the matter of approaches, and thinks her tee-shots weak; so these two\ndeficiencies she is trying to make good by home practice in inclement\nweather. She turns a tumbler on its side on the floor, and 'putts' the\nball into it, or at it, as the case may be, from the opposite side\nof the room. It is excellent discipline, and as the tumblers are\ninexpensive the breakage really does not matter. Whenever Miss Grieve\nhears the shivering of glass, she murmurs, not without reason, 'It is\nnot for the knowing what they will be doing next.'\n\n Penelope, has it ever occurred to you that Elizabeth Ardmore is\nseriously interested in Mr. Macdonald? \n\nSalemina propounded this question to me with the same innocence that a\nbabe would display in placing a lighted fuse beside a dynamite bomb.\n\nFrancesca naturally heard the remark,--although it was addressed to\nme,--pricked up her ears, and missed the tumbler by several feet.\n\nIt was a simple inquiry, but as I look back upon it from the safe ground\nof subsequent knowledge I perceive that it had a certain amount of\ninfluence upon Francesca's history. The suggestion would have carried\nno weight with me for two reasons. In the first place, Salemina is\nfar-sighted. If objects are located at some distance from her, she sees\nthem clearly; but if they are under her very nose she overlooks them\naltogether, unless they are sufficiently fragrant or audible to address\nother senses. This physical peculiarity she carries over into her mental\nprocesses. Her impression of the Disruption movement, for example, would\nbe lively and distinct, but her perception of a contemporary lover's\nquarrel (particularly if it were fought at her own apron-strings) would\nbe singularly vague. If she suggested, therefore, that Elizabeth Ardmore\nwas interested in Mr. Beresford, who is the rightful captive of my bow\nand spear, I should be perfectly calm.\n\nMy second reason for comfortable indifference is that frequently in\nnovels, and always in plays, the heroine is instigated to violent\njealousy by insinuations of this sort, usually conveyed by the villain\nof the piece, male or female. I have seen this happen so often in the\nmodern drama that it has long since ceased to be convincing; but though\nFrancesca has witnessed scores of plays and read hundreds of novels,\nit did not apparently strike her as a theatrical or literary suggestion\nthat Lady Ardmore's daughter should be in love with Mr. Macdonald. The\neffect of the new point of view was most salutary, on the whole. She had\ncome to think herself the only prominent figure in the Reverend Ronald's\nlandscape, and anything more impertinent than her tone with him (unless\nit is his with her) I certainly never heard. This criticism, however,\nrelates only to their public performances, and I have long suspected\nthat their private conversations are of a kindlier character. When it\noccurred to her that he might simply be sharpening his mental sword on\nher steel, but that his heart had at last wandered into a more genial\nclimate than she had ever provided for it, she softened unconsciously;\nthe Scotsman and the American receded into a truer perspective, and the\nman and the woman approached each other with dangerous nearness.\n\n What shall we do if Francesca and Mr. Macdonald really fall in love\nwith each other?  asked Salemina, when Francesca had gone into the hall\nto try long drives. (There is a good deal of excitement in this, as\nMiss Grieve has to cross the passage on her way from the kitchen to\nthe china-closet, and thus often serves as a reluctant 'hazard' or\n'bunker.')\n\n Do you mean what should we have done?  I queried.\n\n Nonsense, don't be captious! It can't be too late yet. They have known\neach other only a little over two months; when would you have had me\ninterfere, pray? \n\n It depends upon what you expect to accomplish. If you wish to stop\nthe marriage, interfere in a fortnight or so; if you wish to prevent\nan engagement, speak--well, say to-morrow; if, however, you didn't wish\nthem to fall in love with each other, you should have kept one of them\naway from Lady Baird's dinner. \n\n I could have waited a trifle longer than that,  argued Salemina,  for\nyou remember how badly they got on at first. \n\n I remember you thought so,  I responded dryly;  but I believe Mr.\nMacdonald has been interested in Francesca from the outset, partly\nbecause her beauty and vivacity attracted him, partly because he could\nkeep her in order only by putting his whole mind upon her. On his side,\nhe has succeeded in piquing her into thinking of him continually, though\nsolely, as she fancies, for the purpose of crossing swords with him.\nIf they ever drop their weapons for an instant, and allow the din of\nwarfare to subside so that they can listen to their own heart-beats,\nthey will discover that they love each other to distraction. \n\n Ye ken mair than's in the catecheesm,  remarked Salemina, yawning a\nlittle as she put away her darning-ball.  It is pathetic to see you\nwaste your time painting mediocre pictures, when as a lecturer upon love\nyou could instruct your thousands. \n\n The thousands would never satisfy me,  I retorted,  so long as you\nremained uninstructed, for in your single person you would so swell the\nsum of human ignorance on that subject that my teaching would be for\never in vain. \n\n Very clever indeed! Well, what will Mr. Monroe say to me when I return\nto New York without his daughter, or with his son-in-law? \n\n He has never denied Francesca anything in her life; why should he draw\nthe line at a Scotsman? I am much more concerned about Mr. Macdonald's\ncongregation. \n\n I am not anxious about that,  said Salemina loyally.  Francesca would\nbe the life of an Inchcaldy parish. \n\n I dare say,  I observed,  but she might be the death of the pastor. \n\n I am ashamed of you, Penelope; or I should be if you meant what you\nsay. She can make the people love her if she tries; when did she ever\nfail at that? But with Mr. Macdonald's talent, to say nothing of his\nfamily connections, he is sure to get a church in Edinburgh in a few\nyears if he wishes. Undoubtedly, it would not be a great match in a\nmoney sense. I suppose he has a manse and three or four hundred pounds a\nyear. \n\n That sum would do nicely for cabs. \n\n Penelope, you are flippant! \n\n I don't mean it, dear; it's only for fun; and it would be so absurd\nif we should leave Francesca over here as the presiding genius of an\nInchcaldy parsonage--I mean a manse! \n\n It isn't as if she were penniless,  continued Salemina;  she has\nfortune enough to assure her own independence, and not enough to\nthreaten his--the ideal amount. I hardly think the good Lord's first\nintention was to make her a minister's wife, but He knows very well that\nLove is a master architect. Francesca is full of beautiful possibilities\nif Mr. Macdonald is the man to bring them out, and I am inclined to\nthink he is. \n\n He has brought out impishness so far,  I objected.\n\n The impishness is transitory,  she returned,  and I am speaking of\npermanent qualities. His is the stronger and more serious nature,\nFrancesca's the sweeter and more flexible. He will be the oak-tree, and\nshe will be the sunshine playing in the branches. \n\n Salemina, dear,  I said penitently, kissing her grey hair,  I\napologise: you are not absolutely ignorant about Love, after all, when\nyou call him the master architect; and that is very lovely and very true\nabout the oak-tree and the sunshine. \n\n\n\nChapter XXIII. Ballad revels at Rowardennan.\n\n\n\n  ' Love, I maun gang to Edinbrugh,\n      Love, I maun gang an' leave thee! \n     She sighed right sair, an' said nae mair\n      But  O gin I were wi' ye! '\n\nAndrew Lammie.\n\n\n\nJean Dalziel came to visit us a week ago, and has put new life into our\nlittle circle. I suppose it was playing 'Sir Patrick Spens' that set us\nthinking about it, for one warm, idle day when we were all in the\nGlen we began a series of ballad-revels, in which each of us assumed\na favourite character. The choice induced so much argument and\ndisagreement that Mr. Beresford was at last appointed head of the clan;\nand having announced himself formally as The Mackintosh, he was placed\non the summit of a hastily arranged pyramidal cairn. He was given an ash\nwand and a rowan-tree sword; and then, according to ancient custom, his\npedigree and the exploits of his ancestors were recounted, and he was\nexhorted to emulate their example. Now it seems that a Highland chief\nof the olden time, being as absolute in his patriarchal authority as any\nprince, had a corresponding number of officers attached to his person.\nHe had a bodyguard, who fought around him in battle, and independent of\nthis he had a staff of officers who accompanied him wherever he went.\nThese our chief proceeded to appoint as follows:--\n\nHenchman, Ronald Macdonald; bard, Penelope Hamilton; spokesman or fool,\nRobin Anstruther; sword-bearer, Francesca Monroe; piper, Salemina;\npiper's attendant, Elizabeth Ardmore; baggage gillie, Jean Dalziel;\nrunning footman, Ralph; bridle gillie, Jamie; ford gillie, Miss Grieve.\nThe ford gillie carries the chief across fords only, and there are no\nfords in the vicinity; so Mr. Beresford, not liking to leave a member\nof our household out of office, thought this the best post for Calamity\nJane.\n\nWith The Mackintosh on his pyramidal cairn matters went very much\nbetter, and at Jamie's instigation we began to hold rehearsals for\ncertain festivities at Rowardennan; for as Jamie's birthday fell on the\neve of the Queen's Jubilee, there was to be a gay party at the Castle.\n\nAll this occurred days ago, and yesterday evening the ballad-revels came\noff, and Rowardennan was a scene of great pageant and splendour. Lady\nArdmore, dressed as the Lady of Inverleith, received the guests,\nand there were all manner of tableaux, and ballads in costume, and\npantomimes, and a grand march by the clan, in which we appeared in our\nchosen roles.\n\nSalemina was Lady Maisry--she whom all the lords of the north countrie\ncame wooing.\n\n  'But a' that they could say to her,\n     Her answer still was  Na. '\n\nAnd again:--\n\n  ' O haud your tongues, young men,  she said,\n       And think nae mair on me! '\n\nMr. Beresford was Lord Beichan, and I was Shusy Pye\n\n  'Lord Beichan was a Christian born,\n     And such resolved to live and dee,\n   So he was ta'en by a savage Moor,\n     Who treated him right cruellie.\n\n   The Moor he had an only daughter,\n     The damsel's name was Shusy Pye;\n   And ilka day as she took the air\n     Lord Beichan's prison she pass'd by.'\n\nElizabeth Ardmore was Leezie Lindsay, who kilted her coats o' green\nsatin to the knee and was aff to the Hielands so expeditiously when her\nlover declared himself to be 'Lord Ronald Macdonald, a chieftain of high\ndegree.'\n\nFrancesca was Mary Ambree.\n\n  'When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte,\n   Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,\n   They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,\n   And the foremost in battle was Mary Ambree.\n\n   When the brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight\n   Who was her true lover, her joy and delight,\n   Because he was slaine most treacherouslie,\n   Then vow'd to avenge him Mary Ambree.'\n\nBrenda Macrae from Pettybaw House was Fairly Fair; Jamie, Sir Patrick\nSpens; Ralph, King Alexander of Dunfermline; Mr. Anstruther, Bonnie\nGlenlogie, 'the flower o' them a';' Mr. Macdonald and Miss Dalziel,\nYoung Hynde Horn and the king's daughter Jean respectively.\n\n  ' Oh, it's Hynde Horn fair, and it's Hynde Horn free;\n    Oh, where were you born, and in what countrie? \n     In a far distant countrie I was born;\n    But of home and friends I am quite forlorn. \n\n    Oh, it's seven long years he served the king,\n    But wages from him he ne'er got a thing;\n    Oh, it's seven long years he served, I ween,\n    And all for love of the king's daughter Jean.'\n\nIt is not to be supposed that all this went off without any of the\ndifficulties and heart-burnings that are incident to things dramatic.\nWhen Elizabeth Ardmore chose to be Leezie Lindsay, she asked me to sing\nthe ballad behind the scenes. Mr. Beresford naturally thought that Mr.\nMacdonald would take the opposite part in the tableau, inasmuch as the\nhero bears his name; but he positively declined to play Lord Ronald\nMacdonald, and said it was altogether too personal.\n\nMr. Anstruther was rather disagreeable at the beginning, and upbraided\nMiss Dalziel for offering to be the king's daughter Jean to Mr.\nMacdonald's Hynde Horn, when she knew very well he wanted her for Ladye\nJeanie in Glenlogie. (She had meantime confided to me that nothing could\ninduce her to appear in Glenlogie; it was far too personal.)\n\nMr. Macdonald offended Francesca by sending her his cast-off gown and\nbegging her to be Sir Patrick Spens; and she was still more gloomy (so I\nimagined) because he had not proffered his six feet of manly beauty for\nthe part of the captain in Mary Ambree, when the only other person to\ntake it was Jamie's tutor. He is an Oxford man and a delightful person,\nbut very bow-legged; added to that, by the time the rehearsals had\nended she had been obliged to beg him to love some one more worthy\nthan herself, and did not wish to appear in the same tableau with him,\nfeeling that it was much too personal.\n\nWhen the eventful hour came, yesterday, Willie and I were the only\nactors really willing to take lovers' parts, save Jamie and Ralph, who\nwere but too anxious to play all the characters, whatever their age,\nsex, colour, or relations. But the guests knew nothing of these\ntrivial disagreements, and at ten o'clock last night it would have been\ndifficult to match Rowardennan Castle for a scene of beauty and revelry.\nEverything went merrily till we came to Hynde Horn, the concluding\ntableau, and the most effective and elaborate one on the programme.\nAt the very last moment, when the opening scene was nearly ready, Jean\nDalziel fell down a secret staircase that led from the tapestry chamber\ninto Lady Ardmore's boudoir, where the rest of us were dressing. It was\na short flight of steps, but as she held a candle, and was carrying her\ncostume, she fell awkwardly, spraining her wrist and ankle. Finding\nthat she was not maimed for life, Lady Ardmore turned with comical and\nunsympathetic haste to Francesca, so completely do amateur theatricals\ndry the milk of kindness in the human breast.\n\n Put on these clothes at once,  she said imperiously, knowing nothing of\nthe volcanoes beneath the surface.  Hynde Horn is already on the stage,\nand somebody must be Jean. Take care of Miss Dalziel, girls, and ring\nfor more maids. Helene, come and dress Miss Monroe; put on her slippers\nwhile I lace her gown; run and fetch more jewels,--more still,--she can\ncarry off any number; not any rouge, Helene--she has too much colour\nnow; pull the frock more off the shoulders--it's a pity to cover an\ninch of them; pile her hair higher--here, take my diamond tiara, child;\nhurry, Helene, fetch the silver cup and the cake--no, they are on the\nstage; take her train, Helene. Miss Hamilton, run and open the doors\nahead of them, please. I won't go down for this tableau. I'll put Miss\nDalziel right, and then I'll slip into the drawing-room, to be ready for\nthe guests when they come in. \n\nWe hurried breathlessly through an interminable series of rooms and\ncorridors. I gave the signal to Mr. Beresford, who was nervously waiting\nfor it in the wings, and the curtain went up on Hynde Horn disguised as\nthe auld beggar man at the king's gate. Mr. Beresford was reading the\nballad, and we took up the tableaux at the point where Hynde Horn has\ncome from a far countrie to see why the diamonds in the ring given him\nby his own true love have grown pale and wan. He hears that the king's\ndaughter Jean has been married to a knight these nine days past.\n\n  'But unto him a wife the bride winna be,\n   For love of Hynde Horn, far over the sea.'\n\nHe therefore borrows the old beggar's garments and hobbles to the king's\npalace, where he petitions the porter for a cup of wine and a bit of\ncake to be handed him by the fair bride herself.\n\n  ' Good porter, I pray, for Saints Peter and Paul,\n    And for sake of the Saviour who died for us all,\n    For one cup of wine and one bit of bread,\n    To an auld man with travel and hunger bestead.\n\n    And ask the fair bride, for the sake of Hynde Horn,\n    To hand them to me so sadly forlorn. \n     Then the porter for pity the message convey'd,\n    And told the fair bride all the beggar man said.'\n\nThe curtain went up again. The porter, moved to pity, has gone to give\nthe message to his lady. Hynde Horn is watching the staircase at the\nrear of the stage, his heart in his eyes. The tapestries that hide it\nare drawn, and there stands the king's daughter, who tripped down the\nstair--\n\n  'And in her fair hands did lovingly bear\n   A cup of red wine, and a farle of cake,\n   To give the old man for loved Hynde Horn's sake.'\n\nThe hero of the ballad, who had not seen his true love for seven long\nyears, could not have been more amazed at the change in her than was\nRonald Macdonald at the sight of the flushed, excited, almost tearful\nking's daughter on the staircase, Lady Ardmore's diamonds flashing from\nher crimson satin gown, Lady Ardmore's rubies glowing on her white\narms and throat; not Miss Dalziel, as had been arranged, but Francesca,\nrebellious, reluctant, embarrassed, angrily beautiful and beautifully\nangry!\n\nIn the next scene Hynde Horn has drained the cup and dropped the ring\ninto it.\n\n  ' Oh, found you that ring by sea or on land,\n    Or got you that ring off a dead man's hand? \n     Oh, I found not that ring by sea or on land,\n    But I got that ring from a fair lady's hand.\n\n    As a pledge of true love she gave it to me,\n    Full seven years ago as I sail'd o'er the sea;\n    But now that the diamonds are changed in their hue,\n    I know that my love has to me proved untrue. '\n\nI never saw a prettier picture of sweet, tremulous womanhood, a more\nenchanting, breathing image of fidelity, than Francesca looked as Mr.\nBeresford read:--\n\n  ' Oh, I will cast off my gay costly gown,\n    And follow thee on from town unto town;\n    And I will take the gold kaims from my hair,\n    And follow my true love for evermair. '\n\nWhereupon Hynde Horn lets his beggar weeds fall, and shines there the\nforemost and noblest of all the king's companie as he says:--\n\n  ' You need not cast off your gay costly gown,\n    To follow me on from town unto town;\n    You need not take the gold kaims from your hair,\n    For Hynde Horn has gold enough and to spare. \n\n    Then the bridegrooms were changed, and the lady re-wed\n    To Hynde Horn thus come back, like one from the dead.'\n\nThere is no doubt that this tableau gained the success of the evening,\nand the participants in it should have modestly and gratefully received\nthe choruses of congratulation that were ready to be offered during\nthe supper and dance that followed. Instead of that, what happened?\nFrancesca drove home with Miss Dalziel before the quadrille d'honneur,\nand when Willie bade me good night at the gate in the loaning, he said,\n I shall not be early to-morrow, dear. I am going to see Macdonald off. \n\n Off!  I exclaimed.  Where is he going? \n\n Only to Edinburgh and London, to stay till the last of next week. \n\n But we may have left Pettybaw by that time. \n\n Of course; that is probably what he has in mind. But let me tell you\nthis, Penelope: Macdonald is fathoms deep in love with Francesca, and if\nshe trifles with him she shall know what I think of her! \n\n And let me tell you this, sir: Francesca is fathoms deep in love with\nRonald Macdonald, little as you suspect it, and if he trifles with her\nhe shall know what I think of him! \n\n\n\nChapter XXIV. Old songs and modern instances.\n\n\n\n  'He set her on a coal-black steed,\n     Himself lap on behind her,\n   An' he's awa' to the Hieland hills\n     Whare her frien's they canna find her.'\n\nRob Roy.\n\n\n\nThe occupants of Bide-a-Wee Cottage awoke in anything but a Jubilee\nhumour, next day. Willie had intended to come at nine, but of course\ndid not appear. Francesca took her breakfast in bed, and came listlessly\ninto the sitting-room at ten o'clock, looking like a ghost. Jean's ankle\nwas much better--the sprain proved to be not even a strain--but her\nwrist was painful. It was drizzling, too, and we had promised Miss\nArdmore and Miss Macrae to aid with the last Jubilee decorations, the\ndistribution of medals at the church, and the children's games and tea\non the links in the afternoon.\n\nWe have determined not to desert our beloved Pettybaw for the metropolis\non this great day, but to celebrate it with the dear fowk o' Fife who\nhad grown to be a part of our lives.\n\nBide-a-Wee Cottage does not occupy an imposing position in the\nlandscape, and the choice of art fabrics at the Pettybaw draper's is\nsmall, but the moment it should stop raining we were intending to carry\nout a dazzling scheme of decoration that would proclaim our affectionate\nrespect for the 'little lady in black' on her Diamond Jubilee. But would\nit stop raining?--that was the question. The draper wasna certain that\nso licht a shoo'r could richtly be called rain. The village weans\nwere yearning for the hour to arrive when they might sit on the wet\ngolf-course and have tea; manifestly, therefore, it could not be a bad\nday for Scotland; but if it should grow worse, what would become of our\nmammoth subscription bonfire on Pettybaw Law--the bonfire that Brenda\nMacrae was to light, as the lady of the manor?\n\nThere were no deputations to request the honour of Miss Macrae's\ndistinguished services on this occasion; that is not the way the\nself-respecting villager comports himself in Fifeshire. The chairman of\nthe local committee, a respectable gardener, called upon Miss Macrae\nat Pettybaw House, and said,  I'm sent to tell ye ye're to have the\npleasure an' the honour of lichtin' the bonfire the nicht! Ay, it's a\ngrand chance ye're havin', miss, ye'll remember it as long as ye live,\nI'm thinkin'! \n\nWhen I complimented this rugged soul on his decoration of the triumphal\narch under which the school-children were to pass, I said,  I think if\nher Majesty could see it, she would be pleased with our village to-day,\nJames. \n\n Ay, ye're richt, miss,  he replied complacently.  She'd see that\nInchcawdy canna compeer wi' us; we've patronised her weel in Pettybaw! \n\nTruly, as Stevenson says, 'he who goes fishing among the Scots peasantry\nwith condescension for a bait will have an empty basket by evening.'\n\nAt eleven o'clock a boy arrived at Bide-a-Wee with an\ninteresting-looking package, which I promptly opened. That dear foolish\nlover of mine (whose foolishness is one of the most adorable things\nabout him) makes me only two visits a day, and is therefore constrained\nto send me some reminder of himself in the intervening hours, or\nminutes--a book, a flower, or a note. Uncovering the pretty box, I found\na long, slender--something--of sparkling silver.\n\n What is it?  I exclaimed, holding it up.  It is too long and not\nwide enough for a paper-knife, although it would be famous for cutting\nmagazines. Is it a baton? Where did Willie find it, and what can it be?\nThere is something engraved on one side, something that looks like birds\non a twig,--yes, three little birds; and see the lovely cairngorm set\nin the end! Oh, it has words cut in it: 'To Jean: From Hynde\nHorn'--Goodness me! I've opened Miss Dalziel's package! \n\nFrancesca made a sudden swooping motion, and caught box, cover, and\ncontents in her arms.\n\n It is mine! I know it is mine!  she cried.  You really ought not to\nclaim everything that is sent to the house, Penelope--as if nobody\nhad any friends or presents but you!  and she rushed upstairs like a\nwhirlwind.\n\nI examined the outside wrapper, lying on the floor, and found, to my\nchagrin, that it did bear Miss Monroe's name, somewhat blotted by the\nrain; but if the box were addressed to her, why was the silver thing\ninscribed to Miss Dalziel? Well, Francesca would explain the mystery\nwithin the hour, unless she had become a changed being.\n\nFifteen minutes passed. Salemina was making Jubilee sandwiches at\nPettybaw House, Miss Dalziel was asleep in her room, I was being\ndevoured slowly by curiosity, when Francesca came down without a word,\nwalked out of the front door, went up to the main street, and entered\nthe village post-office without so much as a backward glance. She was\na changed being, then! I might as well be living in a Gaboriau novel, I\nthought, and went up into my little painting and writing room to address\na programme of the Pettybaw celebration to Lady Baird, watch for the\nglimpse of Willie coming down the loaning, and see if I could discover\nwhere Francesca went from the post-office.\n\nSitting down by my desk, I could find neither my wax nor my silver\ncandlestick, my scissors nor my ball of twine. Plainly Francesca had\nbeen on one of her borrowing tours; and she had left an additional trace\nof herself--if one were needed--in a book of old Scottish ballads, open\nat 'Hynde Horn.' I glanced at it idly while I was waiting for her to\nreturn. I was not familiar with the opening verses, and these were the\nfirst lines that met my eye:--\n\n  'Oh, he gave to his love a silver wand,\n   Her sceptre of rule over fair Scotland;\n   With three singing laverocks set thereon\n   For to mind her of him when he was gone.\n\n   And his love gave to him a gay gold ring\n   With three shining diamonds set therein;\n   Oh, his love gave to him this gay gold ring,\n   Of virtue and value above all thing.'\n\nA light dawned upon me! The silver mystery, then, was intended for a\nwand--and a very pretty way of making love to an American girl, too, to\ncall it a 'sceptre of rule over fair Scotland'; and the three birds were\nthree singing laverocks 'to mind her of him when he was gone'!\n\nBut the real Hynde Horn in the dear old ballad had a truelove who was\nnot captious and capricious and cold like Francesca. His love gave him a\ngay gold ring--\n\n  'Of virtue and value above all thing.'\n\nYet stay: behind the ballad book flung heedlessly on my desk was--what\nshould it be but the little morocco case, empty now, in which our\nFrancesca keeps her dead mother's engagement ring--the mother who died\nwhen she was a wee child. Truly a very pretty modern ballad to be sung\nin these unromantic, degenerate days!\n\nFrancesca came in at the door behind me, saw her secret reflected in my\ntell-tale face, saw the sympathetic moisture in my eyes, and, flinging\nherself into my willing arms, burst into tears.\n\n O Pen, dear, dear Pen, I am so miserable and so happy; so afraid that\nhe won't come back, so frightened for fear that he will! I sent him away\nbecause there were so many lions in the path, and I didn't know how\nto slay them. I thought of my f-father; I thought of my c-c-country. I\ndidn't want to live with him in Scotland, I knew that I couldn't live\nwithout him in America, and there I was! I didn't think I was s-suited\nto a minister, and I am not; but oh! this p-particular minister is so\ns-suited to me!  and she threw herself on the sofa and buried her head\nin the cushions.\n\nShe was so absurd even in her grief that I had hard work to keep from\nsmiling.\n\n Let us talk about the lions,  I said soothingly.  But when did the\ntrouble begin? When did he speak to you? \n\n After the tableau last night; but of course there had been\nother--other--times--and things. \n\n Of course. Well? \n\n He had told me a week before that he should go away for a while, that\nit made him too wretched to stay here just now; and I suppose that was\nwhen he got the silver wand ready for me. It was meant for the Jean of\nthe poem, you know. Of course he would not put my own name on a gift\nlike that. \n\n You don't think he had it made for Jean Dalziel in the first place? --I\nasked this, thinking she needed some sort of tonic in her relaxed\ncondition.\n\n You know him better than that, Penelope! I am ashamed of you! We had\nread Hynde Horn together ages before Jean Dalziel came; but I imagine,\nwhen we came to acting the lines, he thought it would be better to have\nsome other king's daughter; that is, that it would be less personal.\nAnd I never, never would have been in the tableau, if I had dared refuse\nLady Ardmore, or could have explained; but I had no time to think. And\nthen, naturally, he thought by me being there as the king's daughter\nthat--that--the lions were slain, you know; instead of which they were\nroaring so that I could hardly hear the orchestra. \n\n Francesca, look me in the eye! Do--you--love him? \n\n Love him? I adore him!  she exclaimed in good clear decisive English,\nas she rose impetuously and paced up and down in front of the sofa.  But\nin the first place there is the difference in nationality. \n\n I have no patience with you. One would think he was a Turk, an\nEsquimau, or a cannibal. He is white, he speaks English, and he believes\nin the Christian religion. The idea of calling such a man a foreigner! \n\n Oh, it didn't prevent me from loving him,  she confessed,  but I\nthought at first it would be unpatriotic to marry him. \n\n Did you think Columbia could not spare you even as a rare specimen to\nbe used for exhibition purposes?  I asked wickedly.\n\n You know I am not so conceited as that! No,  she continued ingenuously,\n I feared that if I accepted him it would look, over here, as if the\nhome-supply of husbands were of inferior quality; and then we had such\ndisagreeable discussions at the beginning, I simply could not bear\nto leave my nice new free country, and ally myself with his aeons of\ntiresome history. But it came to me in the night, a week ago, that\nafter all I should hate a man who didn't love his Fatherland; and in\nthe illumination of that new idea Ronald's character assumed a different\noutline in my mind. How could he love America when he had never seen it?\nHow could I convince him that American women are the most charming in\nthe world in any better way than by letting him live under the same roof\nwith a good example? How could I expect him to let me love my country\nbest unless I permitted him to love his best? \n\n You needn't offer so many apologies for your infatuation, my dear,  I\nanswered dryly.\n\n I am not apologising for it!  she exclaimed impulsively.  Oh, if you\ncould only keep it to yourself, I should like to tell you how I trust\nand admire and reverence Ronald Macdonald, but of course you will repeat\neverything to Willie Beresford within the hour! You think he has gone on\nand on loving me against his better judgment. You believe he has fought\nagainst it because of my unfitness, but that I, poor, weak, trivial\nthing, am not capable of deep feeling and that I shall never appreciate\nthe sacrifices he makes in choosing me! Very well, then, I tell you\nplainly that if I had to live in a damp manse the rest of my life, drink\ntea and eat scones for breakfast, and--and buy my hats of the Inchcaldy\nmilliner, I should still glory in the possibility of being Ronald\nMacdonald's wife--a possibility hourly growing more uncertain, I am\nsorry to say! \n\n And the extreme aversion with which you began,  I asked-- what\nhas become of that, and when did it begin to turn in the opposite\ndirection? \n\n Aversion!  she cried, with convincing and unblushing candour.  That\naversion was a cover, clapped on to keep my self-respect warm. I abused\nhim a good deal, it is true, because it was so delightful to hear you\nand Salemina take his part. Sometimes I trembled for fear you would\nagree with me, but you never did. The more I criticised him, the louder\nyou sang his praises--it was lovely! The fact is--we might as well throw\nlight upon the whole matter, and then never allude to it again; and if\nyou tell Willie Beresford, you shall never visit my manse, nor see me\npreside at my mothers' meetings, nor hear me address the infant class in\nthe Sunday-school--the fact is, I liked him from the beginning at Lady\nBaird's dinner. I liked the bow he made when he offered me his arm (I\nwish it had been his hand); I liked the top of his head when it was\nbowed; I liked his arm when I took it; I liked the height of his\nshoulder when I stood beside it; I liked the way he put me in my chair\n(that showed chivalry), and unfolded his napkin (that was neat and\nbusiness-like), and pushed aside all his wine-glasses but one (that was\ntemperate); I liked the side view of his nose, the shape of his collar,\nthe cleanness of his shave, the manliness of his tone--oh, I liked him\naltogether, you must know how it is, Penelope--the goodness and strength\nand simplicity that radiated from him. And when he said, within the\nfirst half-hour, that international alliances presented even more\ndifficulties to the imagination than others, I felt, to my confusion, a\ndistinct sense of disappointment. Even while I was quarrelling with him,\nI said to myself, 'Poor darling, you cannot have him even if you should\nwant him, so don't look at him much!'--But I did look at him; and what\nis worse, he looked at me; and what is worse yet, he curled himself so\ntightly round my heart that if he takes himself away, I shall be cold\nthe rest of my life! \n\n Then you are really sure of your love this time, and you have never\nadvised him to wed somebody more worthy than yourself?  I asked.\n\n Not I!  she replied.  I wouldn't put such an idea into his head for\nworlds! He might adopt it! \n\n\n\nChapter XXV. A treaty between nations.\n\n\n\n  'Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie gaed ben,\n   But red rosy grew she whene'er he sat doun.\n\nGlenlogie.\n\n\n\nJust here the front door banged, and a manly step sounded on the stair.\nFrancesca sat up straight in a big chair, and dried her eyes hastily\nwith her poor little wet ball of a handkerchief; for she knows that\nWillie is a privileged visitor in my studio. The door opened (it was\najar) and Ronald Macdonald strode into the room. I hope I may never have\nthe same sense of nothingness again! To be young, pleasing, gifted,\nand to be regarded no more than a fly upon the wall, is death to one's\nself-respect.\n\nHe dropped on one knee beside Francesca, and took her two hands in his\nwithout removing his gaze from her speaking face. She burned, but did\nnot flinch under the ordeal. The colour leaped into her cheeks. Love\nswam in her tears, but was not drowned there; it was too strong.\n\n Did you mean it?  he asked.\n\nShe looked at him, trembling, as she said,  I meant every word, and far,\nfar more. I meant all that a girl can say to a man when she loves him,\nand wants to be everything she is capable of being to him, to his work,\nto his people, and to his--country. \n\nEven this brief colloquy had been embarrassing, but I knew that worse\nwas still to come and could not be delayed much longer, so I left the\nroom hastily and with no attempt at apology--not that they minded my\npresence in the least, or observed my exit, though I was obliged to leap\nover Mr. Macdonald's feet in passing.\n\nI found Mr. Beresford sitting on the stairs, in the lower hall.\n\n Willie, you angel, you idol, where did you find him?  I exclaimed.\n\n When I went into the post-office, an hour ago,  he replied,  I met\nFrancesca. She asked me for Macdonald's Edinburgh address, saying she\nhad something that belonged to him and wished to send it after him.\nI offered to address the package and see that it reached him as\nexpeditiously as possible. 'That is what I wish,  she said, with\nelaborate formality. 'This is something I have just discovered,\nsomething he needs very much, something he does not know he has\nleft behind.' I did not think it best to tell her at the moment that\nMacdonald had not yet deserted Inchcaldy. \n\n Willie, you have the quickest intelligence and the most exquisite\ninsight of any man I ever met! \n\n But the fact was that I had been to see him off, and found him detained\nby the sudden illness of one of his elders. I rode over again to take\nhim the little parcel. Of course I don't know what it contained; by its\nsize and shape I should judge it might be a thimble, or a collar-button,\nor a sixpence; but, at all events, he must have needed the thing, for\nhe certainly did not let the grass grow under his feet after he received\nit! Let us go into the sitting-room until they come down,--as they will\nhave to, poor wretches, sooner or later; I know that I am always being\nbrought down against my will. Salemina wants your advice about the\nnumber of her Majesty's portraits to be hung on the front of the\ncottage, and the number of candles to be placed in each window. \n\nIt was a half-hour later when Mr. Macdonald came into the room, and,\nwalking directly up to Salemina, kissed her hand respectfully.\n\n Miss Salemina,  he said, with evident emotion,  I want to borrow one of\nyour national jewels for my Queen's crown. \n\n And what will our President say to lose a jewel from his crown? \n\n Good republican rulers do not wear coronets, as a matter of principle, \n he argued;  but in truth I fear I am not thinking of her Majesty--God\nbless her! This gem is not entirely for state occasions.\n\n  ' I would wear it in my bosom,\n    Lest my jewel I should tine. '\n\nIt is the crowning of my own life rather than that of the British\nEmpire that engages my present thought. Will you intercede for me with\nFrancesca's father? \n\n And this is the end of all your international bickering?  Salemina\nasked teasingly.\n\n Yes,  he answered;  we have buried the hatchet, signed articles of\nagreement, made treaties of international comity. Francesca stays over\nhere as a kind of missionary to Scotland, so she says, or as a feminine\ndiplomat; she wishes to be on hand to enforce the Monroe Doctrine\nproperly, in case her government's accredited ambassadors relax in the\nperformance of their duty. \n\n Salemina!  called a laughing voice outside the door.  I am\nwon'erful lifted up. You will be a prood woman the day, for I am now\nEstaiblished!  and Francesca, clad in Miss Grieve's Sunday bonnet,\nshawl, and black cotton gloves, entered, and curtsied demurely to the\nfloor. She held, as corroborative detail, a life of John Knox in her\nhand, and anything more incongruous than her sparkling eyes and mutinous\nmouth under the melancholy head-gear can hardly be imagined.\n\n I am now Estaiblished,  she repeated.  Div ye ken the new asseestant\nfrae Inchcawdy pairish? I'm the mon' (a second deep curtsy here).\n I trust, leddies, that ye'll mak' the maist o' your releegious\npreevileges, an' that ye'll be constant at the kurruk.--Have you given\npapa's consent, Salemina? And isn't it dreadful that he is Scotch? \n\n Isn't it dreadful that she is not?  asked Mr. Macdonald.  Yet to my\nmind no woman in Scotland is half as lovable as she! \n\n And no man in America begins to compare with him,  Francesca\nconfessed sadly.  Isn't it pitiful that out of the millions of our own\ncountrypeople we couldn't have found somebody that would do? What do\nyou think now, Lord Ronald Macdonald, of these dangerous international\nalliances? \n\n You never understood that speech of mine,  he replied, with prompt\nmendacity.  When I said that international marriages presented more\ndifficulties to the imagination than others, I was thinking of your\nmarriage and mine, and that, I knew from the first moment I saw you,\nwould be extremely difficult to arrange! \n\n\n\nChapter XXVI. 'Scotland's burning! Look out!'\n\n\n\n  'And soon a score of fires, I ween,\n   From height, and hill, and cliff were seen;\n      . . . . . . .\n   Each after each they glanced to sight,\n   As stars arise upon the night,\n   They gleamed on many a dusky tarn,\n   Haunted by the lonely earn;\n   On many a cairn's grey pyramid,\n   Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid.'\n\nThe Lay of the Last Minstrel.\n\n\n\nThe rain continued at intervals throughout the day, but as the afternoon\nwore on the skies looked a trifle more hopeful. It would be 'saft,' no\ndoubt, climbing the Law, but the bonfire must be lighted. Would Pettybaw\nbe behind London? Would Pettybaw desert the Queen in her hour of need?\nNot though the rain were bursting the well-heads on Cawda; not though\nthe swollen mountain burns drowned us to the knee! So off we started as\nthe short midsummer night descended.\n\nWe were to climb the Law, wait for the signal from Cawda's lonely\nheight, and then fire Pettybaw's torch of loyalty to the little lady\nin black; not a blaze flaming out war and rumours of war, as was the\nbeacon-fire on the old grey battlements of Edinburgh Castle in the days\nof yore, but a message of peace and good-will. Pausing at a hut on\nthe side of the great green mountain, we looked north toward Helva,\nwhite-crested with a wreath of vapour. (You need not look on your map of\nScotland for Cawda and Helva, for you will not find them any more\nthan you will find Pettybaw and Inchcaldy.) One by one the tops of the\ndistant hills began to clear, and with the glass we could discern the\nbonfire cairns up-built here and there for Scotland's evening sacrifice\nof love and fealty. Cawda was still veiled, and Cawda was to give the\nsignal for all the smaller fires. Pettybaw's, I suppose, was counted\nas a flash in the pan, but not one of the hundred patriots climbing the\nmountain-side would have acknowledged it; to us the good name of the\nkingdom of Fife and the glory of the British Empire depended on Pettybaw\nfire. Some of us had misgivings, too,--misgivings founded upon Miss\nGrieve's dismal prophecies. She had agreed to put nine lighted candles\nin each of our cottage windows at ten o'clock, but had declined to\ngo out of her kitchen to see a procession, hear a band, or look at\na bonfire. She had had a fair sickenin' day, an amount of work too\nwearifu' for one person by her lane. She hoped that the bonfire wasna\nbuilt o' Mrs. Sinkler's coals nor Mr. Macbrose's kindlings, nor soaked\nwith Mr. Cameron's paraffin; and she finished with the customary, but\nirrelative and exasperating, allusion to the exceedingly nice family\nwith whom she had live in Glasgy.\n\nAnd still we toiled upward, keeping our doubts to ourselves. Jean was\nlimping bravely, supported by Robin Anstruther's arm. Mr. Macdonald\nwas ardently helping Francesca, who can climb like a chamois, but would\ndoubtless rather be assisted. Her gypsy face shone radiant out of her\nblack cloth hood, and Ronald's was no less luminous. I have never seen\ntwo beings more love-daft. They comport themselves as if they had\nread the manuscript of the tender passion, and were moving in exalted\nsuperiority through a less favoured world,--a world waiting impatiently\nfor the first number of the story to come out.\n\nStill we climbed, and as we approached the Grey Lady (a curious rock\nvery near the summit) somebody proposed three cheers for the Queen.\n\nHow the children hurrahed,--for the infant heart is easily\ninflamed,--and how their shrill Jubilee slogan pierced the mystery of\nthe night, and went rolling on from glen to glen to the Firth of Forth\nitself! Then there was a shout from the rocketmen far out on the open\nmoor,--'Cawda's clear! Cawda's clear!' Back against a silver sky stood\nthe signal pile, and signal rockets flashed upward, to be answered from\nall the surrounding hills.\n\nNow to light our own fire. One of the village committee solemnly took\noff his hat and poured on oil. The great moment had come. Brenda Macrae\napproached the sacred pile, and, tremulous from the effect of much\ncontradictory advice, applied the torch. Silence, thou Grieve and\nothers, false prophets of disaster! Who now could say that Pettybaw\nbonfire had been badly built, or that its fifteen tons of coal and\ntwenty cords of wood had been unphilosophically heaped together?\n\nThe flames rushed toward the sky with ruddy blaze, shining with weird\neffect against the black fir-trees and the blacker night. Three cheers\nmore! God save the Queen! May she reign over us, happy and glorious! And\nwe cheered lustily, too, you may be sure! It was more for the woman\nthan the monarch; it was for the blameless life, not for the splendid\nmonarchy; but there was everything hearty, and nothing alien in our\ntone, when we sang 'God save the Queen' with the rest of the Pettybaw\nvillagers.\n\nThe land darkened; the wind blew chill. Willie, Mr. Macdonald, and Mr.\nAnstruther brought rugs, and found a sheltered nook for us where we\nmight still watch the scene. There we sat, looking at the plains below,\nwith all the village streets sparkling with light, with rockets shooting\ninto the air and falling to earth in golden rain, with red lights\nflickering on the grey lakes, and with one beacon-fire after another\ngleaming from the hilltops, till we could count more than fifty\nanswering one another from the wooded crests along the shore, some\nof them piercing the rifts of low-lying clouds till they seemed to be\nburning in mid-heaven.\n\nThen one by one the distant fires faded, and as some of us still sat\nthere silently, far, far away in the grey east there was a faint flush\nof carmine where the new dawn was kindling in secret. Underneath\nthat violet bank of cloud the sun was forging his beams of light. The\npole-star paled. The breath of the new morrow stole up out of the rosy\ngrey. The wings of the morning stirred and trembled; and in the darkness\nand chill and mysterious awakening eyes looked into other eyes, hand\nsought hand, and cheeks touched each other in mute caress.\n\n\n\nChapter XXVII. Three magpies and a marriage.\n\n\n\n  'Sun, gallop down the westlin skies,\n     Gang soon to bed, an' quickly rise;\n   O lash your steeds, post time away,\n     And haste about our bridal day!'\n\nThe Gentle Shepherd.\n\n\n\nEvery noon, during this last week, as we have wended our way up the\nloaning to the Pettybaw inn for our luncheon, we have passed three\nmagpies sitting together on the topmost rail of the fence. I am not\nprepared to state that they were always the same magpies; I only know\nthere were always three of them. We have just discovered what they were\nabout, and great is the excitement in our little circle. I am to be\nmarried to-morrow, and married in Pettybaw, and Miss Grieve says that\nin Scotland the number of magpies one sees is of infinite significance:\nthat one means sorrow; two, mirth; three, a marriage; four, a birth, and\nwe now recall as corroborative detail that we saw one magpie, our first,\non the afternoon of her arrival.\n\nMr. Beresford has been cabled for, and must return to America at once on\nimportant business. He persuaded me that the Atlantic is an ower large\nbody of water to roll between two lovers, and I agreed with all my\nheart.\n\nA wedding was arranged, mostly by telegraph, in six hours. The Reverend\nRonald and the Friar are to perform the ceremony; a dear old painter\nfriend of mine, a London R.A., will come to give me away; Francesca\nwill be my maid of honour; Elizabeth Ardmore and Jean Dalziel, my\nbridemaidens; Robin Anstruther, the best man; while Jamie and Ralph will\nbe kilted pages-in-waiting, and Lady Ardmore will give the breakfast at\nthe Castle.\n\nNever was there such generosity, such hospitality, such wealth of\nfriendship! True, I have no wedding finery; but as I am perforce a\nScottish bride, I can be married in the white gown with the silver\nthistles in which I went to Holyrood.\n\nMr. Anstruther took a night train to and from London to choose the\nbouquets and bridal souvenirs. Lady Baird has sent the veil, and a\nwonderful diamond thistle to pin it on,--a jewel fit for a princess!\nWith the dear Dominie's note promising to be an usher came an antique\nsilver casket filled with white heather. And as for the bride-cake,\nit is one of Salemina's gifts, chosen as much in a spirit of fun\nas affection. It is surely appropriate for this American wedding\ntransplanted to Scottish soil, and what should it be but a model, in\nfairy icing, of Sir Walter's beautiful monument in Princes Street! Of\ncourse Francesca is full of nonsensical quips about it, and says that\nthe Edinburgh jail would have been just as fine architecturally (it is,\nin truth, a building beautiful enough to tempt an aesthete to crime),\nand a much more fitting symbol for a wedding-cake, unless, indeed, she\nadds, Salemina intends her gift to be a monument to my folly.\n\nPettybaw kirk is trimmed with yellow broom from these dear Scottish\nbanks and braes; and waving their green fans and plumes up and down\nthe aisle where I shall walk a bride, are tall ferns and bracken from\nCrummylowe Glen, where we played ballads.\n\nAs I look back upon it, the life here has been all a ballad from first\nto last. Like the elfin Tam Lin,\n\n  'The queen o' fairies she caught me\n     In this green hill to dwell,'\n\nand these hasty nuptials are a fittingly romantic ending to the\nsummer's poetry. I am in a mood, were it necessary, to be 'ta'en by\nthe milk-white hand,' lifted to a pillion on a coal-black charger,\nand spirited 'o'er the border an' awa'' by my dear Jock o' Hazeldean.\nUnhappily, all is quite regular and aboveboard; no 'lord o' Langley\ndale' contests the prize with the bridegroom, but the marriage is\nat least unique and unconventional; no one can rob me of that sweet\nconsolation.\n\nSo 'gallop down the westlin skies,' dear Sun, but, prythee, gallop back\nto-morrow! 'Gang soon to bed,' an you will, but rise again betimes! Give\nme Queen's weather, dear Sun, and shine a benison upon my wedding-morn!"
    },
    {
        "title": "North and South",
        "author": "Elizabeth Gaskell",
        "category": "Romance",
        "EN": "I\n\nA green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept\nrepeating over and over:\n\n _Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_ That s all right! \n\nHe could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody\nunderstood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side\nof the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with\nmaddening persistence.\n\nMr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of\ncomfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust.\n\nHe walked down the gallery and across the narrow  bridges  which\nconnected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated\nbefore the door of the main house. The parrot and the mocking-bird were\nthe property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the\nnoise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their\nsociety when they ceased to be entertaining.\n\nHe stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one\nfrom the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a\nwicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task\nof reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old.\nThe Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already\nacquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the\neditorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before\nquitting New Orleans the day before.\n\nMr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium\nheight and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was\nbrown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and\nclosely trimmed.\n\nOnce in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked\nabout him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main\nbuilding was called  the house,  to distinguish it from the cottages.\nThe chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls,\nthe Farival twins, were playing a duet from  Zampa  upon the piano.\nMadame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a\nyard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an\nequally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside.\nShe was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves.\nHer starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before\none of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down,\ntelling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over\nto the _Ch ni re Caminada_ in Beaudelet s lugger to hear mass. Some\nyoung people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr.\nPontellier s two children were there sturdy little fellows of four and\nfive. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative\nair.\n\nMr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the\npaper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade\nthat was advancing at snail s pace from the beach. He could see it\nplainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the\nstretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily\ninto the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach\nslowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier,\nand young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated\nthemselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the\nporch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post.\n\n What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!  exclaimed Mr.\nPontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the\nmorning seemed long to him.\n\n You are burnt beyond recognition,  he added, looking at his wife as\none looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered\nsome damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed\nthem critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking\nat them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband\nbefore leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he,\nunderstanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them\ninto her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping\nher knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings\nsparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.\n\n What is it?  asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to\nthe other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the\nwater, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half\nso amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He\nyawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind\nto go over to Klein s hotel and play a game of billiards.\n\n Come go along, Lebrun,  he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted\nquite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs.\nPontellier.\n\n Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna,  instructed\nher husband as he prepared to leave.\n\n Here, take the umbrella,  she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He\naccepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps\nand walked away.\n\n Coming back to dinner?  his wife called after him. He halted a moment\nand shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a\nten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the\nearly dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company\nwhich he found over at Klein s and the size of  the game.  He did not\nsay this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him.\n\nBoth children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting\nout. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and\npeanuts.\n\nII\n\nMrs. Pontellier s eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish\nbrown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them\nswiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward\nmaze of contemplation or thought.\n\nHer eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and\nalmost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather\nhandsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a\ncertain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of\nfeatures. Her manner was engaging.\n\nRobert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not\nafford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr.\nPontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his\nafter-dinner smoke.\n\nThis seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was\nnot unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more\npronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of\ncare upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the\nlight and languor of the summer day.\n\nMrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch\nand began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light\npuffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things\naround them; their amusing adventure out in the water it had again\nassumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people\nwho had gone to the _Ch ni re;_ about the children playing croquet\nunder the oaks, and the Farival twins, who were now performing the\noverture to  The Poet and the Peasant. \n\nRobert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not\nknow any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the\nsame reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke\nof his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited\nhim. He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got\nthere. Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile\nhouse in New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French\nand Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent.\n\nHe was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother\nat Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember,  the\nhouse  had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its\ndozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive\nvisitors from the  _Quartier Fran ais_,  it enabled Madame Lebrun to\nmaintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her\nbirthright.\n\nMrs. Pontellier talked about her father s Mississippi plantation and\nher girlhood home in the old Kentucky blue-grass country. She was an\nAmerican woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have\nbeen lost in dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away\nin the East, and who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was\ninterested, and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were,\nwhat the father was like, and how long the mother had been dead.\n\nWhen Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for\nthe early dinner.\n\n I see L once isn t coming back,  she said, with a glance in the\ndirection whence her husband had disappeared. Robert supposed he was\nnot, as there were a good many New Orleans club men over at Klein s.\n\nWhen Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man\ndescended the steps and strolled over toward the croquet players,\nwhere, during the half-hour before dinner, he amused himself with the\nlittle Pontellier children, who were very fond of him.\n\nIII\n\nIt was eleven o clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from\nKlein s hotel. He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and very\ntalkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep\nwhen he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her\nanecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had gathered during the\nday. From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes\nand a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on the bureau\nindiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever else\nhappened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and\nanswered him with little half utterances.\n\nHe thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object\nof his existence, evinced so little interest in things which concerned\nhim, and valued so little his conversation.\n\nMr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys.\nNotwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining\nroom where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they\nwere resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from\nsatisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of\nthem began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.\n\nMr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had\na high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went and\nsat near the open door to smoke it.\n\nMrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed\nperfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr.\nPontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken.\nHe assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room.\n\nHe reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of\nthe children. If it was not a mother s place to look after children,\nwhose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage\nbusiness. He could not be in two places at once; making a living for\nhis family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm\nbefell them. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way.\n\nMrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon\ncame back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the\npillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he\nquestioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in\nhalf a minute he was fast asleep.\n\nMrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a\nlittle, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her _peignoir_. Blowing out\nthe candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare\nfeet into a pair of satin _mules_ at the foot of the bed and went out\non the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock\ngently to and fro.\n\nIt was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint\nlight gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound\nabroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and\nthe everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft\nhour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.\n\nThe tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier s eyes that the damp sleeve\nof her _peignoir_ no longer served to dry them. She was holding the\nback of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to\nthe shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face,\nsteaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying\nthere, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She\ncould not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the\nforegoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never\nbefore to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband s\nkindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and\nself-understood.\n\nAn indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some\nunfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a\nvague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her\nsoul s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She\ndid not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate,\nwhich had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She\nwas just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry\nover her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps.\n\nThe little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which\nmight have held her there in the darkness half a night longer.\n\nThe following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the\nrockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was\nreturning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again\nat the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure,\nwhich seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was\neager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet\nStreet.\n\nMr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought\naway from Klein s hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as\nmost women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction.\n\n It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!  she\nexclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.\n\n Oh! we ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,  he laughed,\nas he prepared to kiss her good-by.\n\nThe boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that\nnumerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great\nfavorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand\nto say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys\nshouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road.\n\nA few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It\nwas from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious\nand toothsome bits the finest of fruits, _pat s_, a rare bottle or two,\ndelicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance.\n\nMrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a\nbox; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The\n_pat s_ and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were\npassed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating\nfingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the\nbest husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she\nknew of none better.\n\nIV\n\nIt would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to\nhis own satisfaction or any one else s wherein his wife failed in her\nduty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than\nperceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret\nand ample atonement.\n\nIf one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he\nwas not apt to rush crying to his mother s arms for comfort; he would\nmore likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the\nsand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they\npulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled\nfists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other\nmother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance,\nonly good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair;\nsince it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and\nbrushed.\n\nIn short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women\nseemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them,\nfluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or\nimaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who\nidolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a\nholy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as\nministering angels.\n\nMany of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment\nof every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he\nwas a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Ad le\nRatignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that\nhave served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the\nfair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her\ncharms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold\nhair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that\nwere like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red\none could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit\nin looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem\nto detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One\nwould not have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful\narms more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it\nwas a joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her\ngold thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little\nnight-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib.\n\nMadame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took\nher sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was\nsitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New\nOrleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged\nin sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers.\n\nShe had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut\nout a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby s body so\neffectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment,\nlike an Eskimo s. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous\ndrafts came down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold found\ntheir way through key-holes.\n\nMrs. Pontellier s mind was quite at rest concerning the present\nmaterial needs of her children, and she could not see the use of\nanticipating and making winter night garments the subject of her summer\nmeditations. But she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested,\nso she had brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of\nthe gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle s directions she had cut a\npattern of the impervious garment.\n\nRobert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs.\nPontellier also occupied her former position on the upper step, leaning\nlistlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she\nheld out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle.\n\nThat lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled\nupon a stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich; whether it\ncould possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been married seven\nyears. About every two years she had a baby. At that time she had three\nbabies, and was beginning to think of a fourth one. She was always\ntalking about her  condition.  Her  condition  was in no way apparent,\nand no one would have known a thing about it but for her persistence in\nmaking it the subject of conversation.\n\nRobert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who\nhad subsisted upon nougat during the entire but seeing the color mount\ninto Mrs. Pontellier s face he checked himself and changed the subject.\n\nMrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not thoroughly at\nhome in the society of Creoles; never before had she been thrown so\nintimately among them. There were only Creoles that summer at Lebrun s.\nThey all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among whom\nexisted the most amicable relations. A characteristic which\ndistinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly\nwas their entire absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was at\nfirst incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty in\nreconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems to\nbe inborn and unmistakable.\n\nNever would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard\nMadame Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing story\nof one of her _accouchements_, withholding no intimate detail. She was\ngrowing accustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting\ncolor back from her cheeks. Oftener than once her coming had\ninterrupted the droll story with which Robert was entertaining some\namused group of married women.\n\nA book had gone the rounds of the _pension_. When it came her turn to\nread it, she did so with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read\nthe book in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done\nso, to hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was\nopenly criticised and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave\nover being astonished, and concluded that wonders would never cease.\n\nV\n\nThey formed a congenial group sitting there that summer\nafternoon Madame Ratignolle sewing away, often stopping to relate a\nstory or incident with much expressive gesture of her perfect hands;\nRobert and Mrs. Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words,\nglances or smiles which indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy\nand _camaraderie_.\n\nHe had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought\nanything of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote himself to\nMrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which was\neleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had constituted\nhimself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimes it\nwas a young girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was some\ninteresting married woman.\n\nFor two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle\nDuvigne s presence. But she died between summers; then Robert posed as\nan inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame Ratignolle\nfor whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to\nvouchsafe.\n\nMrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she\nmight look upon a faultless Madonna.\n\n Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?  murmured\nRobert.  She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It\nwas  Robert, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the\nbaby sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and\nread Daudet to me while I sew. \n\n _Par exemple!_ I never had to ask. You were always there under my\nfeet, like a troublesome cat. \n\n You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared\non the scene, then it _was_ like a dog.  _Passez! Adieu! Allez\nvous-en!_ \n\n Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,  she interjoined, with\nexcessive na vet . That made them all laugh. The right hand jealous of\nthe left! The heart jealous of the soul! But for that matter, the\nCreole husband is never jealous; with him the gangrene passion is one\nwhich has become dwarfed by disuse.\n\nMeanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell of his\none time hopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle; of sleepless nights,\nof consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily\nplunge. While the lady at the needle kept up a little running,\ncontemptuous comment:\n\n _Blagueur farceur gros b te, va!_ \n\nHe never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier.\nShe never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment it was\nimpossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion\nwas earnest. It was understood that he had often spoken words of love\nto Madame Ratignolle, without any thought of being taken seriously.\nMrs. Pontellier was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward\nherself. It would have been unacceptable and annoying.\n\nMrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she\nsometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the\ndabbling. She felt in it satisfaction of a kind which no other\nemployment afforded her.\n\nShe had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had that\nlady seemed a more tempting subject than at that moment, seated there\nlike some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enriching\nher splendid color.\n\nRobert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs.\nPontellier, that he might watch her work. She handled her brushes with\na certain ease and freedom which came, not from long and close\nacquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed\nher work with close attention, giving forth little ejaculatory\nexpressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame\nRatignolle.\n\n _Mais ce n est pas mal! Elle s y connait, elle a de la force, oui._ \n\nDuring his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head against\nMrs. Pontellier s arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once again he\nrepeated the offense. She could not but believe it to be\nthoughtlessness on his part; yet that was no reason she should submit\nto it. She did not remonstrate, except again to repulse him quietly but\nfirmly. He offered no apology. The picture completed bore no\nresemblance to Madame Ratignolle. She was greatly disappointed to find\nthat it did not look like her. But it was a fair enough piece of work,\nand in many respects satisfying.\n\nMrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketch\ncritically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its surface, and\ncrumpled the paper between her hands.\n\nThe youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at\nthe respectful distance which they required her to observe. Mrs.\nPontellier made them carry her paints and things into the house. She\nsought to detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they\nwere greatly in earnest. They had only come to investigate the contents\nof the bonbon box. They accepted without murmuring what she chose to\ngive them, each holding out two chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain\nhope that they might be filled; and then away they went.\n\nThe sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and languorous that\ncame up from the south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea.\nChildren freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for their games under the\noaks. Their voices were high and penetrating.\n\nMadame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and\nthread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She\ncomplained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and\na fan. She bathed Madame Ratignolle s face with cologne, while Robert\nplied the fan with unnecessary vigor.\n\nThe spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering\nif there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for\nthe rose tint had never faded from her friend s face.\n\nShe stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries\nwith the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to\npossess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about her\nwhite skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with a thousand\nendearments bore it along in her own fond, encircling arms. Though, as\neverybody well knew, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a\npin!\n\n Are you going bathing?  asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was not so\nmuch a question as a reminder.\n\n Oh, no,  she answered, with a tone of indecision.  I m tired; I think\nnot.  Her glance wandered from his face away toward the Gulf, whose\nsonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty.\n\n Oh, come!  he insisted.  You mustn t miss your bath. Come on. The\nwater must be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come. \n\nHe reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside\nthe door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked\naway together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and the\nbreeze was soft and warm.\n\nVI\n\nEdna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach\nwith Robert, she should in the first place have declined, and in the\nsecond place have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory\nimpulses which impelled her.\n\nA certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her, the light\nwhich, showing the way, forbids it.\n\nAt that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to\ndreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome\nher the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears.\n\nIn short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the\nuniverse as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an\nindividual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a\nponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of\ntwenty-eight perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased\nto vouchsafe to any woman.\n\nBut the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily\nvague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever\nemerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!\n\nThe voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering,\nclamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in\nabysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.\n\nThe voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is\nsensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.\n\nVII\n\nMrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic\nhitherto contrary to her nature. Even as a child she had lived her own\nsmall life all within herself. At a very early period she had\napprehended instinctively the dual life that outward existence which\nconforms, the inward life which questions.\n\nThat summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle of\nreserve that had always enveloped her. There may have been there must\nhave been influences, both subtle and apparent, working in their\nseveral ways to induce her to do this; but the most obvious was the\ninfluence of Ad le Ratignolle. The excessive physical charm of the\nCreole had first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuous susceptibility\nto beauty. Then the candor of the woman s whole existence, which every\none might read, and which formed so striking a contrast to her own\nhabitual reserve this might have furnished a link. Who can tell what\nmetals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy,\nwhich we might as well call love.\n\nThe two women went away one morning to the beach together, arm in arm,\nunder the huge white sunshade. Edna had prevailed upon Madame\nRatignolle to leave the children behind, though she could not induce\nher to relinquish a diminutive roll of needlework, which Ad le begged\nto be allowed to slip into the depths of her pocket. In some\nunaccountable way they had escaped from Robert.\n\nThe walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did\nof a long, sandy path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that\nbordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There\nwere acres of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand. Further away\nstill, vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations of\norange or lemon trees intervening. The dark green clusters glistened\nfrom afar in the sun.\n\nThe women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessing the\nmore feminine and matronly figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier s\nphysique stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long,\nclean and symmetrical; it was a body which occasionally fell into\nsplendid poses; there was no suggestion of the trim, stereotyped\nfashion-plate about it. A casual and indiscriminating observer, in\npassing, might not cast a second glance upon the figure. But with more\nfeeling and discernment he would have recognized the noble beauty of\nits modeling, and the graceful severity of poise and movement, which\nmade Edna Pontellier different from the crowd.\n\nShe wore a cool muslin that morning white, with a waving vertical line\nof brown running through it; also a white linen collar and the big\nstraw hat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat\nrested any way on her yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, was\nheavy, and clung close to her head.\n\nMadame Ratignolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze\nveil about her head. She wore dogskin gloves, with gauntlets that\nprotected her wrists. She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffiness\nof ruffles that became her. The draperies and fluttering things which\nshe wore suited her rich, luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of\nline could not have done.\n\nThere were a number of bath-houses along the beach, of rough but solid\nconstruction, built with small, protecting galleries facing the water.\nEach house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Lebrun s\npossessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential\nparaphernalia of the bath and whatever other conveniences the owners\nmight desire. The two women had no intention of bathing; they had just\nstrolled down to the beach for a walk and to be alone and near the\nwater. The Pontellier and Ratignolle compartments adjoined one another\nunder the same roof.\n\nMrs. Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit.\nUnlocking the door of her bath-room she went inside, and soon emerged,\nbringing a rug, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and two\nhuge hair pillows covered with crash, which she placed against the\nfront of the building.\n\nThe two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch, side by\nside, with their backs against the pillows and their feet extended.\nMadame Ratignolle removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather\ndelicate handkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always\ncarried suspended somewhere about her person by a long, narrow ribbon.\nEdna removed her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took\nthe fan from Madame Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her\ncompanion. It was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but\nexchange remarks about the heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a\nbreeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth.\nIt fluttered the skirts of the two women and kept them for a while\nengaged in adjusting, readjusting, tucking in, securing hair-pins and\nhat-pins. A few persons were sporting some distance away in the water.\nThe beach was very still of human sound at that hour. The lady in black\nwas reading her morning devotions on the porch of a neighboring\nbath-house. Two young lovers were exchanging their hearts  yearnings\nbeneath the children s tent, which they had found unoccupied.\n\nEdna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at rest\nupon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as the\nblue sky went; there were a few white clouds suspended idly over the\nhorizon. A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and\nothers to the south seemed almost motionless in the far distance.\n\n Of whom of what are you thinking?  asked Ad le of her companion, whose\ncountenance she had been watching with a little amused attention,\narrested by the absorbed expression which seemed to have seized and\nfixed every feature into a statuesque repose.\n\n Nothing,  returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once:  How\nstupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to\nsuch a question. Let me see,  she went on, throwing back her head and\nnarrowing her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light.\n Let me see. I was really not conscious of thinking of anything; but\nperhaps I can retrace my thoughts. \n\n Oh! never mind!  laughed Madame Ratignolle.  I am not quite so\nexacting. I will let you off this time. It is really too hot to think,\nespecially to think about thinking. \n\n But for the fun of it,  persisted Edna.  First of all, the sight of\nthe water stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the\nblue sky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look\nat. The hot wind beating in my face made me think without any\nconnection that I can trace of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow\nthat seemed as big as the ocean to the very little girl walking through\nthe grass, which was higher than her waist. She threw out her arms as\nif swimming when she walked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out\nin the water. Oh, I see the connection now! \n\n Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the grass? \n\n I don t remember now. I was just walking diagonally across a big\nfield. My sun-bonnet obstructed the view. I could see only the stretch\nof green before me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever, without\ncoming to the end of it. I don t remember whether I was frightened or\npleased. I must have been entertained.\n\n Likely as not it was Sunday,  she laughed;  and I was running away\nfrom prayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom\nby my father that chills me yet to think of. \n\n And have you been running away from prayers ever since, _ma ch re?_ \nasked Madame Ratignolle, amused.\n\n No! oh, no!  Edna hastened to say.  I was a little unthinking child in\nthose days, just following a misleading impulse without question. On\nthe contrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold\nupon me; after I was twelve and until until why, I suppose until now,\nthough I never thought much about it just driven along by habit. But do\nyou know,  she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle\nand leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to\nthat of her companion,  sometimes I feel this summer as if I were\nwalking through the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and\nunguided. \n\nMadame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which was\nnear her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it firmly\nand warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other hand,\nmurmuring in an undertone,  _Pauvre ch rie_. \n\nThe action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent\nherself readily to the Creole s gentle caress. She was not accustomed\nto an outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or\nin others. She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good deal\nthrough force of unfortunate habit. Her older sister, Margaret, was\nmatronly and dignified, probably from having assumed matronly and\nhousewifely responsibilities too early in life, their mother having\ndied when they were quite young. Margaret was not effusive; she was\npractical. Edna had had an occasional girl friend, but whether\naccidentally or not, they seemed to have been all of one type the\nself-contained. She never realized that the reserve of her own\ncharacter had much, perhaps everything, to do with this. Her most\nintimate friend at school had been one of rather exceptional\nintellectual gifts, who wrote fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired\nand strove to imitate; and with her she talked and glowed over the\nEnglish classics, and sometimes held religious and political\ncontroversies.\n\nEdna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly\ndisturbed her without causing any outward show or manifestation on her\npart. At a very early age perhaps it was when she traversed the ocean\nof waving grass she remembered that she had been passionately enamored\nof a dignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her father in\nKentucky. She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor\nremove her eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon s,\nwith a lock of black hair failing across the forehead. But the cavalry\nofficer melted imperceptibly out of her existence.\n\nAt another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman\nwho visited a lady on a neighboring plantation. It was after they went\nto Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be married to the\nyoung lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over of\nafternoons in a buggy. Edna was a little miss, just merging into her\nteens; and the realization that she herself was nothing, nothing,\nnothing to the engaged young man was a bitter affliction to her. But\nhe, too, went the way of dreams.\n\nShe was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed\nto be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a\ngreat tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The\npersistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The\nhopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion.\n\nThe picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any one may\npossess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or\ncomment. (This was a sinister reflection which she cherished.) In the\npresence of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as\nshe handed the photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the\nlikeness. When alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold\nglass passionately.\n\nHer marriage to L once Pontellier was purely an accident, in this\nrespect resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees\nof Fate. It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met\nhim. He fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his\nsuit with an earnestness and an ardor which left nothing to be desired.\nHe pleased her; his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there\nwas a sympathy of thought and taste between them, in which fancy she\nwas mistaken. Add to this the violent opposition of her father and her\nsister Margaret to her marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no\nfurther for the motives which led her to accept Monsieur Pontellier for\nher husband.\n\nThe acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian,\nwas not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who\nworshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity\nin the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon\nthe realm of romance and dreams.\n\nBut it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry\nofficer and the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna found\nherself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband,\nrealizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion\nor excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby\nthreatening its dissolution.\n\nShe was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would\nsometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimes\nforget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with\ntheir grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding\ntheir happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except with an\noccasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though\nshe did not admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a\nresponsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which Fate had not\nfitted her.\n\nEdna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that\nsummer day when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part\nof it escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle s\nshoulder. She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her\nown voice and the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like\nwine, or like a first breath of freedom.\n\nThere was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by\na troop of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers\nwere with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle s little girl in his\narms. There were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed,\nlooking disagreeable and resigned.\n\nThe women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax\ntheir muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug into the\nbath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they\nstood there in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still\nexchanging their vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only a silent\nprotest, and walked slowly away somewhere else.\n\nThe children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went\nover to join them.\n\nMadame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she\ncomplained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She\nleaned draggingly upon his arm as they walked.\n\nVIII\n\n Do me a favor, Robert,  spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as\nsoon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way. She looked\nup in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the\numbrella which he had lifted.\n\n Granted; as many as you like,  he returned, glancing down into her\neyes that were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation.\n\n I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone. \n\n _Tiens!_  he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh.  _Voil  que\nMadame Ratignolle est jalouse!_ \n\n Nonsense! I m in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontellier\nalone. \n\n Why?  he asked; himself growing serious at his companion s\nsolicitation.\n\n She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the\nunfortunate blunder of taking you seriously. \n\nHis face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began\nto beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked.  Why shouldn t she\ntake me seriously?  he demanded sharply.  Am I a comedian, a clown, a\njack-in-the-box? Why shouldn t she? You Creoles! I have no patience\nwith you! Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing\nprogramme? I hope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she\nhas discernment enough to find in me something besides the _blagueur_.\nIf I thought there was any doubt \n\n Oh, enough, Robert!  she broke into his heated outburst.  You are not\nthinking of what you are saying. You speak with about as little\nreflection as we might expect from one of those children down there\nplaying in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here were\never offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be\nthe gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to\nassociate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you. \n\nMadame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the\ngospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.\n\n Oh! well! That isn t it,  slamming his hat down vehemently upon his\nhead.  You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to\na fellow. \n\n Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments?\n_Ma foi!_ \n\n It isn t pleasant to have a woman tell you  he went on, unheedingly,\nbut breaking off suddenly:  Now if I were like Arobin you remember\nAlc e Arobin and that story of the consul s wife at Biloxi?  And he\nrelated the story of Alc e Arobin and the consul s wife; and another\nabout the tenor of the French Opera, who received letters which should\nnever have been written; and still other stories, grave and gay, till\nMrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men\nseriously was apparently forgotten.\n\nMadame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take\nthe hour s rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her,\nRobert begged her pardon for the impatience he called it rudeness with\nwhich he had received her well-meant caution.\n\n You made one mistake, Ad le,  he said, with a light smile;  there is\nno earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You\nshould have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice\nmight then have carried some weight and given me subject for some\nreflection. _Au revoir_. But you look tired,  he added, solicitously.\n Would you like a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix\nyou a toddy with a drop of Angostura. \n\nShe acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and\nacceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart\nfrom the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself\nbrought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty S vres cup, with a\nflaky cracker or two on the saucer.\n\nShe thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open\ndoor, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon\ngar on_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward\n the house. \n\nThe lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were\nleaning toward each other as the water-oaks bent from the sea. There\nwas not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have\nbeen turned upside-down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether.\nThe lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more\njaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the\nchildren. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They\nwould doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man\nascended to his mother s room. It was situated at the top of the house,\nmade up of odd angles and a queer, sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer\nwindows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man s eye\nmight reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and\npractical.\n\nMadame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black\ngirl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the\nmachine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be\navoided of imperiling her health.\n\nRobert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the\ndormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically\nto read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned\nthe leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room;\nit was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his\nmother exchanged bits of desultory conversation.\n\n Where is Mrs. Pontellier? \n\n Down at the beach with the children. \n\n I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don t forget to take it down when\nyou go; it s there on the bookshelf over the small table.  Clatter,\nclatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes.\n\n Where is Victor going with the rockaway? \n\n The rockaway? Victor? \n\n Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away\nsomewhere. \n\n Call him.  Clatter, clatter!\n\nRobert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard\nback at the wharf.\n\n He won t look up. \n\nMadame Lebrun flew to the window. She called  Victor!  She waved a\nhandkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the\nvehicle and started the horse off at a gallop.\n\nMadame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor\nwas the younger son and brother a _t te mont e_, with a temper which\ninvited violence and a will which no ax could break.\n\n Whenever you say the word I m ready to thrash any amount of reason\ninto him that he s able to hold. \n\n If your father had only lived!  Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter,\nbang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the\nuniverse and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly\nof a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been\nremoved to other spheres during the early years of their married life.\n\n What do you hear from Montel?  Montel was a middle-aged gentleman\nwhose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to\nfill the void which Monsieur Lebrun s taking off had left in the Lebrun\nhousehold. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter!\n\n I have a letter somewhere,  looking in the machine drawer and finding\nthe letter in the bottom of the workbasket.  He says to tell you he\nwill be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month, clatter,\nclatter! and if you still have the intention of joining him bang!\nclatter, clatter, bang!\n\n Why didn t you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted  Clatter,\nclatter, clatter!\n\n Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will\nbe in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for\nluncheon till the last minute.  Clatter, clatter!  Where are you\ngoing? \n\n Where did you say the Goncourt was? \n\nIX\n\nEvery light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it\ncould be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The\nlamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole\nroom. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these\nfashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches\nstood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped\nthe windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious\nwill of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf.\n\nIt was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held\nbetween Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An\nunusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay\nover Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their\nfamilies, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables\nhad all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged\nabout in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say\nand exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now\nan apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences\nand give a more general tone to the conversation.\n\nMany of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual\nbedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor\nlooking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier\nhad brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do\nso, and making their authority felt.\n\nMusic, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments\nfurnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about\nthe programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation.\n\nAt an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon\nto play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the\nVirgin s colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed\nVirgin at their baptism. They played a duet from  Zampa,  and at the\nearnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture\nto  The Poet and the Peasant. \n\n _Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_  shrieked the parrot outside the door. He\nwas the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit\nthat he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first\ntime that summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew\nindignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird\nremoved and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected;\nand his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot\nfortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the\nwhole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and\nhurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst.\n\nLater a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one\npresent had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the\ncity.\n\nA little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The\nmother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her\ndaughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have\nhad no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had\nbeen properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk\ntights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially\ncrimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses\nwere full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they\nshot out and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were\nbewildering.\n\nBut there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame\nRatignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the\nothers. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing\nan expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was\nkeeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because she\nand her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and\nmaking it attractive.\n\nAlmost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to\nseparate during the brief period when one or the other should be\nwhirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced\ntogether, but they did not think of it.\n\nThe children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others with\nshrieks and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permitted\nto sit up till after the ice-cream, which naturally marked the limit of\nhuman indulgence.\n\nThe ice-cream was passed around with cake gold and silver cake arranged\non platters in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen during the\nafternoon back of the kitchen by two black women, under the supervision\nof Victor. It was pronounced a great success excellent if it had only\ncontained a little less vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had been\nfrozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept out of\nportions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about\nrecommending it and urging every one to partake of it to excess.\n\nAfter Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with\nRobert, and once with Monsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall and\nswayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the\ngallery and seated herself on the low window-sill, where she commanded\na view of all that went on in the hall and could look out toward the\nGulf. There was a soft effulgence in the east. The moon was coming up,\nand its mystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant,\nrestless water.\n\n Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?  asked Robert, coming\nout on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hear\nMademoiselle Reisz play; but she feared it would be useless to entreat\nher.\n\n I ll ask her,  he said.  I ll tell her that you want to hear her. She\nlikes you. She will come.  He turned and hurried away to one of the far\ncottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was shuffling away. She was dragging\na chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the\ncrying of a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was\nendeavoring to put to sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no\nlonger young, who had quarreled with almost every one, owing to a\ntemper which was self-assertive and a disposition to trample upon the\nrights of others. Robert prevailed upon her without any too great\ndifficulty.\n\nShe entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made an\nawkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman,\nwith a small weazened face and body and eyes that glowed. She had\nabsolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with\na bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair.\n\n Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play,  she\nrequested of Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not\ntouching the keys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the\nwindow. A general air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon\nevery one as they saw the pianist enter. There was a settling down, and\na prevailing air of expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle\nembarrassed at being thus signaled out for the imperious little woman s\nfavor. She would not dare to choose, and begged that Mademoiselle Reisz\nwould please herself in her selections.\n\nEdna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains,\nwell rendered, had a way of evoking pictures in her mind. She sometimes\nliked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle played or\npracticed. One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled\n Solitude.  It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the\npiece was something else, but she called it  Solitude.  When she heard\nit there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing\nbeside a desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked. His attitude was\none of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging\nits flight away from him.\n\nAnother piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empire\ngown, taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue\nbetween tall hedges. Again, another reminded her of children at play,\nand still another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat.\n\nThe very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the piano\nsent a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier s spinal column. It was not the\nfirst time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the\nfirst time she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was tempered\nto take an impress of the abiding truth.\n\nShe waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and\nblaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures\nof solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions\nthemselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the\nwaves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking,\nand the tears blinded her.\n\nMademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow,\nshe went away, stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed\nalong the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder.\n\n Well, how did you like my music?  she asked. The young woman was\nunable to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively.\nMademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. She\npatted her again upon the shoulder as she said:\n\n You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!  and she\nwent shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room.\n\nBut she was mistaken about  those others.  Her playing had aroused a\nfever of enthusiasm.  What passion!   What an artist!   I have always\nsaid no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!   That last\nprelude! Bon Dieu! It shakes a man! \n\nIt was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband.\nBut some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic\nhour and under that mystic moon.\n\nX\n\nAt all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice.\nThere was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did\nnot lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered\nbehind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and\nhold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious\nor mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself.\n\nThe Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon\nthe arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert s voice behind them,\nand could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join\nthem. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from\nher for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the\nnext, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him\nthe days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as\none misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about\nthe sun when it was shining.\n\nThe people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and\nlaughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein s\nhotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance.\nThere were strange, rare odors abroad a tangle of the sea smell and of\nweeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a\nfield of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon\nthe sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no\nshadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the\nmystery and the softness of sleep.\n\nMost of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The\nsea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into\none another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy\ncrests that coiled back like slow, white serpents.\n\nEdna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received\ninstructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the\nchildren. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he\nwas nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of\nhis efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the\nwater, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and\nreassure her.\n\nBut that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching\nchild, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first\ntime alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for\njoy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted\nher body to the surface of the water.\n\nA feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant\nimport had been given her to control the working of her body and her\nsoul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She\nwanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before.\n\nHer unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and\nadmiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings\nhad accomplished this desired end.\n\n How easy it is!  she thought.  It is nothing,  she said aloud;  why\ndid I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have\nlost splashing about like a baby!  She would not join the groups in\ntheir sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power,\nshe swam out alone.\n\nShe turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and\nsolitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the\nmoonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to\nbe reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself.\n\nOnce she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had\nleft there. She had not gone any great distance that is, what would\nhave been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her\nunaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect\nof a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to\novercome.\n\nA quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time\nappalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her\nstaggering faculties and managed to regain the land.\n\nShe made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of\nterror, except to say to her husband,  I thought I should have perished\nout there alone. \n\n You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you,  he told her.\n\nEdna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes\nand was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She\nstarted to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her.\nShe waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to\ntheir renewed cries which sought to detain her.\n\n Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious, \nsaid Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that\nEdna s abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure.\n\n I know she is,  assented Mr. Pontellier;  sometimes, not often. \n\nEdna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before\nshe was overtaken by Robert.\n\n Did you think I was afraid?  she asked him, without a shade of\nannoyance.\n\n No; I knew you weren t afraid. \n\n Then why did you come? Why didn t you stay out there with the others? \n\n I never thought of it. \n\n Thought of what? \n\n Of anything. What difference does it make? \n\n I m very tired,  she uttered, complainingly.\n\n I know you are. \n\n You don t know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so\nexhausted in my life. But it isn t unpleasant. A thousand emotions have\nswept through me to-night. I don t comprehend half of them. Don t mind\nwhat I m saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be\nstirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz s playing moved me to-night. I\nwonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is\nlike a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny,\nhalf-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night. \n\n There are,  whispered Robert,  Didn t you know this was the\ntwenty-eighth of August? \n\n The twenty-eighth of August? \n\n Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if\nthe moon is shining the moon must be shining a spirit that has haunted\nthese shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating\nvision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company,\nworthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the\nsemi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he\nhas sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs.\nPontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell.\nPerhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk\nin the shadow of her divine presence. \n\n Don t banter me,  she said, wounded at what appeared to be his\nflippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate\nnote of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not\ntell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said\nnothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was\nexhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp,\nletting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm,\nbut she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as\nthough her thoughts were elsewhere somewhere in advance of her body,\nand she was striving to overtake them.\n\nRobert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before\nher door out to the trunk of a tree.\n\n Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?  he asked.\n\n I ll stay out here. Good-night. \n\n Shall I get you a pillow? \n\n There s one here,  she said, feeling about, for they were in the\nshadow.\n\n It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about. \n\n No matter.  And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath\nher head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of\nrelief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not\nmuch given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with\nno cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose\nwhich seemed to invade her whole body.\n\n Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?  asked Robert,\nseating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold\nof the hammock rope which was fastened to the post.\n\n If you wish. Don t swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl\nwhich I left on the window-sill over at the house? \n\n Are you chilly? \n\n No; but I shall be presently. \n\n Presently?  he laughed.  Do you know what time it is? How long are you\ngoing to stay out here? \n\n I don t know. Will you get the shawl? \n\n Of course I will,  he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking\nalong the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips\nof moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet.\n\nWhen he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand.\nShe did not put it around her.\n\n Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back? \n\n I said you might if you wished to. \n\nHe seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in\nsilence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could\nhave been more significant than those moments of silence, or more\npregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire.\n\nWhen the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said\ngood-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again\nshe watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he\nwalked away.\n\nXI\n\n What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in\nbed,  said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had\nwalked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did\nnot reply.\n\n Are you asleep?  he asked, bending down close to look at her.\n\n No.  Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as\nthey looked into his.\n\n Do you know it is past one o clock? Come on,  and he mounted the steps\nand went into their room.\n\n Edna!  called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone\nby.\n\n Don t wait for me,  she answered. He thrust his head through the door.\n\n You will take cold out there,  he said, irritably.  What folly is\nthis? Why don t you come in? \n\n It isn t cold; I have my shawl. \n\n The mosquitoes will devour you. \n\n There are no mosquitoes. \n\nShe heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience\nand irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She\nwould, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of\nsubmission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as\nwe walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life\nwhich has been portioned out to us.\n\n Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?  he asked again, this time\nfondly, with a note of entreaty.\n\n No; I am going to stay out here. \n\n This is more than folly,  he blurted out.  I can t permit you to stay\nout there all night. You must come in the house instantly. \n\nWith a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the\nhammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and\nresistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and\nresisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that\nbefore, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she\nremembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she\nshould have yielded, feeling as she then did.\n\n L once, go to bed,  she said,  I mean to stay out here. I don t wish\nto go in, and I don t intend to. Don t speak to me like that again; I\nshall not answer you. \n\nMr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra\ngarment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and\nselect supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and\nwent out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not\nwish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the\nrail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he\nwent inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again\ndeclined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier\nonce more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable\ninterval of time smoked some more cigars.\n\nEdna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a\ndelicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities\npressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake\nher; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her\nhelpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in.\n\nThe stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the\nworld seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from\nsilver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and\nthe water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads.\n\nEdna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She\ntottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into\nthe house.\n\n Are you coming in, L once?  she asked, turning her face toward her\nhusband.\n\n Yes, dear,  he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of\nsmoke.  Just as soon as I have finished my cigar. \n\nXII\n\nShe slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours,\ndisturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving\nonly an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something\nunattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning.\nThe air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However,\nshe was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either\nexternal or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse\nmoved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction,\nand freed her soul of responsibility.\n\nMost of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A\nfew, who intended to go over to the _Ch ni re_ for mass, were moving\nabout. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were\nalready strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday\nprayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was\nfollowing them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and\nwas more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He\nput on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the\nhall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her.\n\nThe little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun s sewing-machine was\nsweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom.\nEdna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert.\n\n Tell him I am going to the _Ch ni re_. The boat is ready; tell him to\nhurry. \n\nHe had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had\nnever asked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did\nnot appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding\nhis presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything\nextraordinary in the situation. But his face was suffused with a quiet\nglow when he met her.\n\nThey went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no\ntime to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window\nand the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and\nate from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good.\n\nShe had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often\nnoticed that she lacked forethought.\n\n Wasn t it enough to think of going to the _Ch ni re_ and waking you\nup?  she laughed.  Do I have to think of everything? as L once says\nwhen he s in a bad humor. I don t blame him; he d never be in a bad\nhumor if it weren t for me. \n\nThey took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see\nthe curious procession moving toward the wharf the lovers, shoulder to\nshoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old\nMonsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted\nSpanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm,\nbringing up the rear.\n\nRobert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one\npresent understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had a\nround, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small,\nand she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were\nbroad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her\nfeet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes.\n\nBeaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much\nroom. In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who\nconsidered himself the better sailor of the two. But he would not\nquarrel with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with\nMariequita. The girl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to\nRobert. She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making\n eyes  at Robert and making  mouths  at Beaudelet.\n\nThe lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The\nlady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur\nFarival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and\nof what Beaudelet did not know on the same subject.\n\nEdna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly\nbrown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again.\n\n Why does she look at me like that?  inquired the girl of Robert.\n\n Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her? \n\n No. Is she your sweetheart? \n\n She s a married lady, and has two children. \n\n Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano s wife, who had four\nchildren. They took all his money and one of the children and stole his\nboat. \n\n Shut up! \n\n Does she understand? \n\n Oh, hush! \n\n Are those two married over there leaning on each other? \n\n Of course not,  laughed Robert.\n\n Of course not,  echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of\nthe head.\n\nThe sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to\nEdna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands.\nRobert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise\nthrough the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and\noverflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at\nsomething as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man\nunder his breath.\n\nSailing across the bay to the _Ch ni re Caminada_, Edna felt as if she\nwere being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast,\nwhose chains had been loosening had snapped the night before when the\nmystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she\nchose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer\nnoticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They\nwere covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and\nmuttered to herself sullenly.\n\n Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?  said Robert in a low voice.\n\n What shall we do there? \n\n Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling\ngold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves. \n\nShe gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be\nalone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean s roar and\nwatching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old\nfort.\n\n And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow,  he went\non.\n\n What shall we do there? \n\n Anything cast bait for fish. \n\n No; we ll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone. \n\n We ll go wherever you like,  he said.  I ll have Tonie come over and\nhelp me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any\none. Are you afraid of the pirogue? \n\n Oh, no. \n\n Then I ll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines.\nMaybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands\nthe treasures are hidden direct you to the very spot, perhaps. \n\n And in a day we should be rich!  she laughed.  I d give it all to you,\nthe pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you\nwould know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn t a thing to be hoarded or\nutilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for\nthe fun of seeing the golden specks fly. \n\n We d share it, and scatter it together,  he said. His face flushed.\n\nThey all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our\nLady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun s\nglare.\n\nOnly Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita\nwalked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill\nhumor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye.\n\nXIII\n\nA feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the\nservice. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed\nbefore her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain\nher composure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere\nof the church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert s\nfeet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious,\nstood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he\nsank back into his seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in\nblack, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon\nthe pages of her velvet prayer-book.\n\n I felt giddy and almost overcome,  Edna said, lifting her hands\ninstinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her\nforehead.  I couldn t have stayed through the service.  They were\noutside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude.\n\n It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone\nstaying. Come over to Madame Antoine s; you can rest there.  He took\nher arm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into\nher face.\n\nHow still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the\nreeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray,\nweather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It\nmust always have been God s day on that low, drowsy island, Edna\nthought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift,\nto ask for water. A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from\nthe cistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening\non one side, sunk in the ground. The water which the youth handed to\nthem in a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated\nface, and it greatly revived and refreshed her.\n\nMadame Antoine s cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed\nthem with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door\nto let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily\nacross the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her\nunderstand that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to\nrest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of\nher comfortably.\n\nThe whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed,\nsnow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which\nlooked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was\na disabled boat lying keel upward.\n\nMadame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she\nsupposed he would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and\nwait for him. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame\nAntoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She\nwas boiling mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace.\n\nEdna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes,\nremoving the greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and\narms in the basin that stood between the windows. She took off her\nshoes and stockings and stretched herself in the very center of the\nhigh, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange,\nquaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel lingering about the\nsheets and mattress! She stretched her strong limbs that ached a\nlittle. She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She\nlooked at her round arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them\none after the other, observing closely, as if it were something she saw\nfor the first time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh.\nShe clasped her hands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell\nasleep.\n\nShe slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the\nthings about her. She could hear Madame Antoine s heavy, scraping tread\nas she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were\nclucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the\ngrass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking\nunder the shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and\nheavily over her sleepy eyes. The voices went on Tonie s slow, Acadian\ndrawl, Robert s quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French\nimperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of\nthe other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses.\n\nWhen Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and\nsoundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine s step\nwas no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had\ngone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over\nher; the old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar.\nEdna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of\nthe window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon\nwas far advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the\nshade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading\nfrom a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become\nof the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as\nshe stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows.\n\nMadame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had\nplaced a box of _poudre de riz_ within easy reach. Edna dabbed the\npowder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the\nlittle distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her\neyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed.\n\nWhen she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room.\nShe was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread\nupon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for\none, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate.\nEdna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white\nteeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down.\nThen she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the\nlow-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she\nwas awake and up.\n\nAn illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined\nher under the orange tree.\n\n How many years have I slept?  she inquired.  The whole island seems\nchanged. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and\nme as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die?\nand when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth? \n\nHe familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder.\n\n You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard\nyour slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed\nreading a book. The only evil I couldn t prevent was to keep a broiled\nfowl from drying up. \n\n If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,  said Edna, moving\nwith him into the house.  But really, what has become of Monsieur\nFarival and the others? \n\n Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it\nbest not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn t have let them. What was I\nhere for? \n\n I wonder if L once will be uneasy!  she speculated, as she seated\nherself at table.\n\n Of course not; he knows you are with me,  Robert replied, as he busied\nhimself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left\nstanding on the hearth.\n\n Where are Madame Antoine and her son?  asked Edna.\n\n Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take\nyou back in Tonie s boat whenever you are ready to go. \n\nHe stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle\nafresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and\nsharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the\nmullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was\nchildishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish\nwith which she ate the food which he had procured for her.\n\n Shall we go right away?  she asked, after draining her glass and\nbrushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf.\n\n The sun isn t as low as it will be in two hours,  he answered.\n\n The sun will be gone in two hours. \n\n Well, let it go; who cares! \n\nThey waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine\ncame back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her\nabsence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not\nwillingly face any woman except his mother.\n\nIt was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the\nsun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper\nand gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque\nmonsters across the grass.\n\nEdna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the\nground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown.\n\nMadame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench\nbeside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound\nherself up to the storytelling pitch.\n\nAnd what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the\n_Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she\nhad squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of\nthe Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to\nlighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the\nclick of muffled gold.\n\nWhen she and Robert stepped into Tonie s boat, with the red lateen\nsail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the\nreeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover.\n\nXIV\n\nThe youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle\nsaid, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been\nunwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken\ncharge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in\nbed and asleep for two hours.\n\nThe youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him\nup as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other\nchubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill\nhumor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker,\nbegan to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names,\nsoothing him to sleep.\n\nIt was not more than nine o clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the\nchildren.\n\nL once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had\nwanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had\nassured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue,\nthat Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had\nthus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein s,\nlooking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to\nsecurities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame\nRatignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away\nlate. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She\ncarried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to\nremain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested\nabove all things to be left alone.\n\nWhen Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and\nRobert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child\ncomfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged\nfrom the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.\n\n Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert since\nearly this morning?  she said at parting.\n\n All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night. \n\nHe pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did\nnot join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf.\n\nEdna stayed outside, awaiting her husband s return. She had no desire\nto sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the\nRatignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices\nreached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her\nmind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover\nwherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer\nof her life. She could only realize that she herself her present\nself was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing\nwith different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in\nherself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet\nsuspect.\n\nShe wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to\nher to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong\nday. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted\nthat he had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he\nwas not absolutely required to leave her.\n\nAs Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert\nhad sung as they crossed the bay. It began with  Ah! _si tu savais_, \nand every verse ended with  _si tu savais_. \n\nRobert s voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice,\nthe notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory.\n\nXV\n\nWhen Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her\nhabit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on.\nSeveral persons were talking at once, and Victor s voice was\npredominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late\nfrom her bath, had dressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her\nhead, set off by her dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom.\nShe took her seat at table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame\nRatignolle.\n\nAs she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had\nbeen served when she entered the room, several persons informed her\nsimultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon down\nand looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her\nall the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico.\nShe had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say\nhe was at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought\nnothing of, though she was surprised when he did not join her later in\nthe afternoon, when she went down to the beach.\n\nShe looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who\npresided. Edna s face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she\nnever thought of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext of\na smile as he returned her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy.\n When is he going?  she asked of everybody in general, as if Robert\nwere not there to answer for himself.\n\n To-night!   This very evening!   Did you ever!   What possesses him! \nwere some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French\nand English.\n\n Impossible!  she exclaimed.  How can a person start off from Grand\nIsle to Mexico at a moment s notice, as if he were going over to\nKlein s or to the wharf or down to the beach? \n\n I said all along I was going to Mexico; I ve been saying so for\nyears!  cried Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of\na man defending himself against a swarm of stinging insects.\n\nMadame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle.\n\n Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going\nto-night,  she called out.  Really, this table is getting to be more\nand more like Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once.\nSometimes I hope God will forgive me but positively, sometimes I wish\nVictor would lose the power of speech. \n\nVictor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish,\nof which he failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might\nafford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself.\n\nMonsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in\nmid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there would\nbe more logic in thus disposing of old people with an established claim\nfor making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a\ntrifle hysterical; Robert called his brother some sharp, hard names.\n\n There s nothing much to explain, mother,  he said; though he\nexplained, nevertheless looking chiefly at Edna that he could only meet\nthe gentleman whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such and\nsuch a steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet\nwas going out with his lugger-load of vegetables that night, which gave\nhim an opportunity of reaching the city and making his vessel in time.\n\n But when did you make up your mind to all this?  demanded Monsieur\nFarival.\n\n This afternoon,  returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance.\n\n At what time this afternoon?  persisted the old gentleman, with\nnagging determination, as if he were cross-questioning a criminal in a\ncourt of justice.\n\n At four o clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival,  Robert replied, in\na high voice and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some\ngentleman on the stage.\n\nShe had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking\nthe flaky bits of a _court bouillon_ with her fork.\n\nThe lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to\nspeak in whispers of matters which they rightly considered were\ninteresting to no one but themselves. The lady in black had once\nreceived a pair of prayer-beads of curious workmanship from Mexico,\nwith very special indulgence attached to them, but she had never been\nable to ascertain whether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican\nborder. Father Fochel of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but\nhe had not done so to her satisfaction. And she begged that Robert\nwould interest himself, and discover, if possible, whether she was\nentitled to the indulgence accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican\nprayer-beads.\n\nMadame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution in\ndealing with the Mexicans, who, she considered, were a treacherous\npeople, unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them no\ninjustice in thus condemning them as a race. She had known personally\nbut one Mexican, who made and sold excellent tamales, and whom she\nwould have trusted implicitly, so soft-spoken was he. One day he was\narrested for stabbing his wife. She never knew whether he had been\nhanged or not.\n\nVictor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote\nabout a Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant in\nDauphine Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival,\nwho went into convulsions over the droll story.\n\nEdna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring at\nthat rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or\nthe Mexicans.\n\n At what time do you leave?  she asked Robert.\n\n At ten,  he told her.  Beaudelet wants to wait for the moon. \n\n Are you all ready to go? \n\n Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall pack my trunk in\nthe city. \n\nHe turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna,\nhaving finished her black coffee, left the table.\n\nShe went directly to her room. The little cottage was close and stuffy\nafter leaving the outer air. But she did not mind; there appeared to be\na hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She began\nto set the toilet-stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the\nquadroon, who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed.\nShe gathered together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of\nchairs, and put each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. She\nchanged her gown for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper. She\nrearranged her hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Then\nshe went in and assisted the quadroon in getting the boys to bed.\n\nThey were very playful and inclined to talk to do anything but lie\nquiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper and\ntold her she need not return. Then she sat and told the children a\nstory. Instead of soothing it excited them, and added to their\nwakefulness. She left them in heated argument, speculating about the\nconclusion of the tale which their mother promised to finish the\nfollowing night.\n\nThe little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to\nhave Mrs. Pontellier go and sit with them over at the house till Mr.\nRobert went away. Edna returned answer that she had already undressed,\nthat she did not feel quite well, but perhaps she would go over to the\nhouse later. She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as to\nremove her _peignoir_. But changing her mind once more she resumed the\n_peignoir_, and went outside and sat down before her door. She was\noverheated and irritable, and fanned herself energetically for a while.\nMadame Ratignolle came down to discover what was the matter.\n\n All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me,  replied\nEdna,  and moreover, I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robert\nstarting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way! As if it\nwere a matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it all\nmorning when he was with me. \n\n Yes,  agreed Madame Ratignolle.  I think it was showing us all you\nespecially very little consideration. It wouldn t have surprised me in\nany of the others; those Lebruns are all given to heroics. But I must\nsay I should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you not\ncoming down? Come on, dear; it doesn t look friendly. \n\n No,  said Edna, a little sullenly.  I can t go to the trouble of\ndressing again; I don t feel like it. \n\n You needn t dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your\nwaist. Just look at me! \n\n No,  persisted Edna;  but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended\nif we both stayed away. \n\nMadame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night, and went away, being in truth\nrather desirous of joining in the general and animated conversation\nwhich was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans.\n\nSomewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag.\n\n Aren t you feeling well?  he asked.\n\n Oh, well enough. Are you going right away? \n\nHe lit a match and looked at his watch.  In twenty minutes,  he said.\nThe sudden and brief flare of the match emphasized the darkness for a\nwhile. He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the\nporch.\n\n Get a chair,  said Edna.\n\n This will do,  he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took\nit off again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of\nthe heat.\n\n Take the fan,  said Edna, offering it to him.\n\n Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; you have to stop fanning some\ntime, and feel all the more uncomfortable afterward. \n\n That s one of the ridiculous things which men always say. I have never\nknown one to speak otherwise of fanning. How long will you be gone? \n\n Forever, perhaps. I don t know. It depends upon a good many things. \n\n Well, in case it shouldn t be forever, how long will it be? \n\n I don t know. \n\n This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for. I don t like\nit. I don t understand your motive for silence and mystery, never\nsaying a word to me about it this morning.  He remained silent, not\noffering to defend himself. He only said, after a moment:\n\n Don t part from me in any ill humor. I never knew you to be out of\npatience with me before. \n\n I don t want to part in any ill humor,  she said.  But can t you\nunderstand? I ve grown used to seeing you, to having you with me all\nthe time, and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don t even\noffer an excuse for it. Why, I was planning to be together, thinking of\nhow pleasant it would be to see you in the city next winter. \n\n So was I,  he blurted.  Perhaps that s the  He stood up suddenly and\nheld out his hand.  Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by. You\nwon t I hope you won t completely forget me.  She clung to his hand,\nstriving to detain him.\n\n Write to me when you get there, won t you, Robert?  she entreated.\n\n I will, thank you. Good-by. \n\nHow unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said something\nmore emphatic than  I will, thank you; good-by,  to such a request.\n\nHe had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house,\nfor he descended the steps and went to join Beaudelet, who was out\nthere with an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked\naway in the darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet s voice; Robert had\napparently not even spoken a word of greeting to his companion.\n\nEdna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to\nhide, even from herself as she would have hidden from another, the\nemotion which was troubling tearing her. Her eyes were brimming with\ntears.\n\nFor the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation which she\nhad felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliest teens, and\nlater as a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, the\npoignancy of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of\ninstability. The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she\nwas willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted\nto penetrate. The present alone was significant; was hers, to torture\nher as it was doing then with the biting conviction that she had lost\nthat which she had held, that she had been denied that which her\nimpassioned, newly awakened being demanded.\n\nXVI\n\n Do you miss your friend greatly?  asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning\nas she came creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage on\nher way to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water since she\nhad acquired finally the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Isle\ndrew near its close, she felt that she could not give too much time to\na diversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that\nshe knew. When Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the\nshoulder and spoke to her, the woman seemed to echo the thought which\nwas ever in Edna s mind; or, better, the feeling which constantly\npossessed her.\n\nRobert s going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the\nmeaning out of everything. The conditions of her life were in no way\nchanged, but her whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which\nseems to be no longer worth wearing. She sought him everywhere in\nothers whom she induced to talk about him. She went up in the mornings\nto Madame Lebrun s room, braving the clatter of the old sewing-machine.\nShe sat there and chatted at intervals as Robert had done. She gazed\naround the room at the pictures and photographs hanging upon the wall,\nand discovered in some corner an old family album, which she examined\nwith the keenest interest, appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenment\nconcerning the many figures and faces which she discovered between its\npages.\n\nThere was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in\nher lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. The eyes alone\nin the baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts, at the\nage of five, wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made\nEdna laugh, and she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long\ntrousers; while another interested her, taken when he left for college,\nlooking thin, long-faced, with eyes full of fire, ambition and great\nintentions. But there was no recent picture, none which suggested the\nRobert who had gone away five days ago, leaving a void and wilderness\nbehind him.\n\n Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for\nthem himself! He found wiser use for his money, he says,  explained\nMadame Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left New\nOrleans. Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to\nlook for it either on the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on\nthe mantelpiece.\n\nThe letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest and\nattraction for Edna; the envelope, its size and shape, the post-mark,\nthe handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before\nopening it. There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would\nleave the city that afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good\nshape, that he was well, and sent her his love and begged to be\naffectionately remembered to all. There was no special message to Edna\nexcept a postscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish\nthe book which he had been reading to her, his mother would find it in\nhis room, among other books there on the table. Edna experienced a pang\nof jealousy because he had written to his mother rather than to her.\n\nEvery one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her\nhusband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert s departure,\nexpressed regret that he had gone.\n\n How do you get on without him, Edna?  he asked.\n\n It s very dull without him,  she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen\nRobert in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Where\nhad they met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone  in \nand had a drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about?\nChiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought\nwere promising. How did he look? How did he seem grave, or gay, or how?\nQuite cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which\nMr. Pontellier found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek\nfortune and adventure in a strange, queer country.\n\nEdna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children\npersisted in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. She\nwent down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not\nbeing more attentive.\n\nIt did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be\nmaking of Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband to\nspeak of him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way\nresembled that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or\never expected to feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to\nharbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had\nnever taken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her\nown, and she entertained the conviction that she had a right to them\nand that they concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame\nRatignolle that she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or\nfor any one. Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women\ndid not appear to understand each other or to be talking the same\nlanguage. Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain.\n\n I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give\nmy life for my children; but I wouldn t give myself. I can t make it\nmore clear; it s only something which I am beginning to comprehend,\nwhich is revealing itself to me. \n\n I don t know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by\nthe unessential,  said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully;  but a woman who\nwould give her life for her children could do no more than that your\nBible tells you so. I m sure I couldn t do more than that. \n\n Oh, yes you could!  laughed Edna.\n\nShe was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz s question the morning that\nlady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked\nif she did not greatly miss her young friend.\n\n Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss\nRobert. Are you going down to bathe? \n\n Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I\nhaven t been in the surf all summer,  replied the woman, disagreeably.\n\n I beg your pardon,  offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she\nshould have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz s avoidance of the water\nhad furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it\nwas on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets\nwet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water\nsometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle\noffered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her\npocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually\nate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much\nnutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation,\nas Madame Lebrun s table was utterly impossible; and no one save so\nimpertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food\nto people and requiring them to pay for it.\n\n She must feel very lonely without her son,  said Edna, desiring to\nchange the subject.  Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite\nhard to let him go. \n\nMademoiselle laughed maliciously.\n\n Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale\nupon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has\nspoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the\nground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the\nmoney he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for\nhimself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear.\nI liked to see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who\nis worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like\nto play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It s a\nwonder Robert hasn t beaten him to death long ago. \n\n I thought he had great patience with his brother,  offered Edna, glad\nto be talking about Robert, no matter what was said.\n\n Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago,  said Mademoiselle.\n It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some\nsort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or\nwalking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket I don t\nremember what; and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave\nhim a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order\nfor a good while. It s about time he was getting another. \n\n Was her name Mariequita?  asked Edna.\n\n Mariequita yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she s a\nsly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita! \n\nEdna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have\nlistened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed,\nalmost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she\ndonned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the\nshade of the children s tent. The water was growing cooler as the\nseason advanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that\nthrilled and invigorated her. She remained a long time in the water,\nhalf hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not wait for her.\n\nBut Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and\nraved much over Edna s appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about\nmusic. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote\nher address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she\nfound in her pocket.\n\n When do you leave?  asked Edna.\n\n Next Monday; and you? \n\n The following week,  answered Edna, adding,  It has been a pleasant\nsummer, hasn t it, Mademoiselle? \n\n Well,  agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug,  rather pleasant, if\nit hadn t been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins. \n\nXVII\n\nThe Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in\nNew Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front\nveranda, whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The\nhouse was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies,\nwere green. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers\nand plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana.\nWithin doors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type.\nThe softest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful\ndraperies hung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected\nwith judgment and discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the\nsilver, the heavy damask which daily appeared upon the table were the\nenvy of many women whose husbands were less generous than Mr.\nPontellier.\n\nMr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its\nvarious appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He\ngreatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and\nderived genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a\nrare lace curtain no matter what after he had bought it and placed it\namong his household gods.\n\nOn Tuesday afternoons Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier s reception\nday there was a constant stream of callers women who came in carriages\nor in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance\npermitted. A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a\ndiminutive silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A\nmaid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or\nchocolate, as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome\nreception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire afternoon\nreceiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with their\nwives.\n\nThis had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously\nfollowed since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings during\nthe week she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play.\n\nMr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten\no clock, and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the\nevening dinner being served at half-past seven.\n\nHe and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few\nweeks after their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together. The\nboys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping feet\ncould be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the\nquadroon, lifted in mild protest and entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not\nwear her usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress.\nMr. Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he\nserved the soup and handed it to the boy in waiting.\n\n Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?  he asked. He tasted\nhis soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar,\nmustard everything within reach.\n\n There were a good many,  replied Edna, who was eating her soup with\nevident satisfaction.  I found their cards when I got home; I was out. \n\n Out!  exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation\nin his voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her\nthrough his glasses.  Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday?\nWhat did you have to do? \n\n Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out. \n\n Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,  said her husband,\nsomewhat appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup.\n\n No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all. \n\n Why, my dear, I should think you d understand by this time that people\ndon t do such things; we ve got to observe _les convenances_ if we ever\nexpect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you\nhad to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable\nexplanation for your absence.\n\n This soup is really impossible; it s strange that woman hasn t learned\nyet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a better\none. Was Mrs. Belthrop here? \n\n Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don t remember who was here. \n\nThe boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver\ntray, which was covered with ladies  visiting cards. He handed it to\nMrs. Pontellier.\n\n Give it to Mr. Pontellier,  she said.\n\nJoe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup.\n\nMr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife s callers, reading some of\nthem aloud, with comments as he read.\n\n The Misses Delasidas.  I worked a big deal in futures for their\nfather this morning; nice girls; it s time they were getting married.\n Mrs. Belthrop.  I tell you what it is, Edna; you can t afford to snub\nMrs. Belthrop. Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His\nbusiness is worth a good, round sum to me. You d better write her a\nnote.  Mrs. James Highcamp.  Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs.\nHighcamp, the better.  Madame Laforc .  Came all the way from\nCarrolton, too, poor old soul.  Miss Wiggs,   Mrs. Eleanor Boltons. \nHe pushed the cards aside.\n\n Mercy!  exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming.  Why are you taking the\nthing so seriously and making such a fuss over it? \n\n I m not making any fuss over it. But it s just such seeming trifles\nthat we ve got to take seriously; such things count. \n\nThe fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she\ndid not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to\nhis fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were\nserved.\n\n It seems to me,  he said,  we spend money enough in this house to\nprocure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his\nself-respect. \n\n You used to think the cook was a treasure,  returned Edna,\nindifferently.\n\n Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They\nneed looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ.\nSuppose I didn t look after the clerks in my office, just let them run\nthings their own way; they d soon make a nice mess of me and my\nbusiness. \n\n Where are you going?  asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from\ntable without having eaten a morsel except a taste of the\nhighly-seasoned soup.\n\n I m going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.  He went into the\nhall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house.\n\nShe was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her\nvery unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely\ndeprived of any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone\ninto the kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she\nwent to her room and studied the cookbook during an entire evening,\nfinally writing out a menu for the week, which left her harassed with a\nfeeling that, after all, she had accomplished no good that was worth\nthe name.\n\nBut that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced\ndeliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward\nfire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her\nroom, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she was\nindisposed.\n\nIt was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim\nlight which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open\nwindow and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the\nmystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid\nthe perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and\nfoliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such\nsweet, half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not\nsoothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the\nstars. They jeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid\neven of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and\nfro down its whole length without stopping, without resting. She\ncarried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons,\nrolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking\noff her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying\nthere, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her\nsmall boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the little\nglittering circlet.\n\nIn a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung\nit upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The\ncrash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.\n\nA maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to\ndiscover what was the matter.\n\n A vase fell upon the hearth,  said Edna.  Never mind; leave it till\nmorning. \n\n Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma am,  insisted the\nyoung woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered\nupon the carpet.  And here s your ring, ma am, under the chair. \n\nEdna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her\nfinger.\n\nXVIII\n\nThe following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office,\nasked Edna if she would not meet him in town in order to look at some\nnew fixtures for the library.\n\n I hardly think we need new fixtures, L once. Don t let us get anything\nnew; you are too extravagant. I don t believe you ever think of saving\nor putting by. \n\n The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save\nit,  he said. He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with\nhim and select new fixtures. He kissed her good-by, and told her she\nwas not looking well and must take care of herself. She was unusually\npale and very quiet.\n\nShe stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absently\npicked a few sprays of jessamine that grew upon a trellis near by. She\ninhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of her\nwhite morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small\n express wagon,  which they had filled with blocks and sticks. The\nquadroon was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a\nfictitious animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender was\ncrying his wares in the street.\n\nEdna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon\nher face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the\nchildren, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes,\nwere all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become\nantagonistic.\n\nShe went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cook\nconcerning her blunders of the previous night; but Mr. Pontellier had\nsaved her that disagreeable mission, for which she was so poorly\nfitted. Mr. Pontellier s arguments were usually convincing with those\nwhom he employed. He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna\nwould sit down that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to\na dinner deserving of the name.\n\nEdna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches. She\ncould see their shortcomings and defects, which were glaring in her\neyes. She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor.\nFinally she gathered together a few of the sketches those which she\nconsidered the least discreditable; and she carried them with her when,\na little later, she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome and\ndistinguished in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had left her\nface, and her forehead was smooth, white, and polished beneath her\nheavy, yellow-brown hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and a\nsmall, dark mole near the under lip and one on the temple, half-hidden\nin her hair.\n\nAs Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was\nstill under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him,\nrealizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like\nan obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt\nupon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or\npeculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which\ndominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the\nmist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled\nher with an incomprehensible longing.\n\nEdna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle s. Their intimacy, begun at\nGrand Isle, had not declined, and they had seen each other with some\nfrequency since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at no\ngreat distance from Edna s home, on the corner of a side street, where\nMonsieur Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug store which enjoyed a\nsteady and prosperous trade. His father had been in the business before\nhim, and Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community and bore an\nenviable reputation for integrity and clearheadedness. His family lived\nin commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the side\nwithin the _porte coch re_. There was something which Edna thought very\nFrench, very foreign, about their whole manner of living. In the large\nand pleasant salon which extended across the width of the house, the\nRatignolles entertained their friends once a fortnight with a _soir e\nmusicale_, sometimes diversified by card-playing. There was a friend\nwho played upon the cello. One brought his flute and another his\nviolin, while there were some who sang and a number who performed upon\nthe piano with various degrees of taste and agility. The Ratignolles \n_soir es musicales_ were widely known, and it was considered a\nprivilege to be invited to them.\n\nEdna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which had\nreturned that morning from the laundry. She at once abandoned her\noccupation upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony into\nher presence.\n\n Cit  can do it as well as I; it is really her business,  she\nexplained to Edna, who apologized for interrupting her. And she\nsummoned a young black woman, whom she instructed, in French, to be\nvery careful in checking off the list which she handed her. She told\nher to notice particularly if a fine linen handkerchief of Monsieur\nRatignolle s, which was missing last week, had been returned; and to be\nsure to set to one side such pieces as required mending and darning.\n\nThen placing an arm around Edna s waist, she led her to the front of\nthe house, to the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odor of\ngreat roses that stood upon the hearth in jars.\n\nMadame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in a\nneglig  which left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich,\nmelting curves of her white throat.\n\n Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day,  said Edna\nwith a smile when they were seated. She produced the roll of sketches\nand started to unfold them.  I believe I ought to work again. I feel as\nif I wanted to be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you\nthink it worth while to take it up again and study some more? I might\nstudy for a while with Laidpore. \n\nShe knew that Madame Ratignolle s opinion in such a matter would be\nnext to valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but\ndetermined; but she sought the words of praise and encouragement that\nwould help her to put heart into her venture.\n\n Your talent is immense, dear! \n\n Nonsense!  protested Edna, well pleased.\n\n Immense, I tell you,  persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the\nsketches one by one, at close range, then holding them at arm s length,\nnarrowing her eyes, and dropping her head on one side.  Surely, this\nBavarian peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! never\nhave I seen anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to\nreach out a hand and take one. \n\nEdna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency at her\nfriend s praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth. She\nretained a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame\nRatignolle, who appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudly\nexhibited the pictures to her husband when he came up from the store a\nlittle later for his midday dinner.\n\nMr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of the\nearth. His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by his\ngoodness of heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wife\nspoke English with an accent which was only discernible through its\nun-English emphasis and a certain carefulness and deliberation. Edna s\nhusband spoke English with no accent whatever. The Ratignolles\nunderstood each other perfectly. If ever the fusion of two human beings\ninto one has been accomplished on this sphere it was surely in their\nunion.\n\nAs Edna seated herself at table with them she thought,  Better a dinner\nof herbs,  though it did not take her long to discover that it was no\ndinner of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every\nway satisfying.\n\nMonsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her\nlooking not so well as at Grand Isle, and he advised a tonic. He talked\na good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news and\nneighborhood gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness that\ngave an exaggerated importance to every syllable he uttered. His wife\nwas keenly interested in everything he said, laying down her fork the\nbetter to listen, chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth.\n\nEdna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little\nglimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no\nregret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her,\nand she could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was\nmoved by a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle, a pity for that\ncolorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the\nregion of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited\nher soul, in which she would never have the taste of life s delirium.\nEdna vaguely wondered what she meant by  life s delirium.  It had\ncrossed her thought like some unsought, extraneous impression.\n\nXIX\n\nEdna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish,\nto have stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase upon\nthe tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such\nfutile expedients. She began to do as she liked and to feel as she\nliked. She completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not\nreturn the visits of those who had called upon her. She made no\nineffectual efforts to conduct her household _en bonne m nag re_, going\nand coming as it suited her fancy, and, so far as she was able, lending\nherself to any passing caprice.\n\nMr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a\ncertain tacit submissiveness in his wife. But her new and unexpected\nline of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then her\nabsolute disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr.\nPontellier became rude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolved never to\ntake another step backward.\n\n It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a\nhousehold, and the mother of children, to spend in an atelier days\nwhich would be better employed contriving for the comfort of her\nfamily. \n\n I feel like painting,  answered Edna.  Perhaps I shan t always feel\nlike it. \n\n Then in God s name paint! but don t let the family go to the devil.\nThere s Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music, she doesn t\nlet everything else go to chaos. And she s more of a musician than you\nare a painter. \n\n She isn t a musician, and I m not a painter. It isn t on account of\npainting that I let things go. \n\n On account of what, then? \n\n Oh! I don t know. Let me alone; you bother me. \n\nIt sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier s mind to wonder if his wife were\nnot growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she\nwas not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming\nherself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume\nlike a garment with which to appear before the world.\n\nHer husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his\noffice. Edna went up to her atelier a bright room in the top of the\nhouse. She was working with great energy and interest, without\naccomplishing anything, however, which satisfied her even in the\nsmallest degree. For a time she had the whole household enrolled in the\nservice of art. The boys posed for her. They thought it amusing at\nfirst, but the occupation soon lost its attractiveness when they\ndiscovered that it was not a game arranged especially for their\nentertainment. The quadroon sat for hours before Edna s palette,\npatient as a savage, while the house-maid took charge of the children,\nand the drawing-room went undusted. But the house-maid, too, served her\nterm as model when Edna perceived that the young woman s back and\nshoulders were molded on classic lines, and that her hair, loosened\nfrom its confining cap, became an inspiration. While Edna worked she\nsometimes sang low the little air,  _Ah! si tu savais!_ \n\nIt moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the\nwater, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the\nbay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A\nsubtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold\nupon the brushes and making her eyes burn.\n\nThere were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was\nhappy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one\nwith the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some\nperfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and\nunfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner,\nfashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone\nand unmolested.\n\nThere were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why, when it did\nnot seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when\nlife appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like\nworms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not\nwork on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her\nblood.\n\nXX\n\nIt was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz. She\nhad not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her by\ntheir last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see\nher above all, to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite early\nin the afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist.\nUnfortunately she had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz s card, and\nlooking up her address in the city directory, she found that the woman\nlived on Bienville Street, some distance away. The directory which fell\ninto her hands was a year or more old, however, and upon reaching the\nnumber indicated, Edna discovered that the house was occupied by a\nrespectable family of mulattoes who had _chambres garnies_ to let. They\nhad been living there for six months, and knew absolutely nothing of a\nMademoiselle Reisz. In fact, they knew nothing of any of their\nneighbors; their lodgers were all people of the highest distinction,\nthey assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss class distinctions\nwith Madame Pouponne, but hastened to a neighboring grocery store,\nfeeling sure that Mademoiselle would have left her address with the\nproprietor.\n\nHe knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to know\nher, he informed his questioner. In truth, he did not want to know her\nat all, or anything concerning her the most disagreeable and unpopular\nwoman who ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she had\nleft the neighborhood, and was equally thankful that he did not know\nwhere she had gone.\n\nEdna s desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold since\nthese unlooked-for obstacles had arisen to thwart it. She was wondering\nwho could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly\noccurred to her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do\nso. She knew it was useless to ask Madame Ratignolle, who was on the\nmost distant terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothing\nconcerning her. She had once been almost as emphatic in expressing\nherself upon the subject as the corner grocer.\n\nEdna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it was the\nmiddle of November. And she also knew where the Lebruns lived, on\nChartres Street.\n\nTheir home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before\nthe door and lower windows. The iron bars were a relic of the old\n_r gime_, and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the side\nwas a high fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon the\nstreet was locked. Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, and\nstood upon the banquette, waiting to be admitted.\n\nIt was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her\nhands upon her apron, was close at his heels. Before she saw them Edna\ncould hear them in altercation, the woman plainly an anomaly claiming\nthe right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to\nanswer the bell.\n\nVictor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made\nno attempt to conceal either his astonishment or his delight. He was a\ndark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling his\nmother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed the black\nwoman to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellier\ndesired to see her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty\nwhen she had not been permitted to do it all, and started back to her\ninterrupted task of weeding the garden. Whereupon Victor administered a\nrebuke in the form of a volley of abuse, which, owing to its rapidity\nand incoherence, was all but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it was,\nthe rebuke was convincing, for the woman dropped her hoe and went\nmumbling into the house.\n\nEdna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the side\nporch, where there were chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table. She\nseated herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began to\nrock gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drew\nup his chair beside her. He at once explained that the black woman s\noffensive conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not\nthere to take her in hand. He had only come up from the island the\nmorning before, and expected to return next day. He stayed all winter\nat the island; he lived there, and kept the place in order and got\nthings ready for the summer visitors.\n\nBut a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier,\nand every now and again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the\ncity. My! but he had had a time of it the evening before! He wouldn t\nwant his mother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was\nscintillant with recollections. Of course, he couldn t think of telling\nMrs. Pontellier all about it, she being a woman and not comprehending\nsuch things. But it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him\nthrough the shutters as he passed by. Oh! but she was a beauty!\nCertainly he smiled back, and went up and talked to her. Mrs.\nPontellier did not know him if she supposed he was one to let an\nopportunity like that escape him. Despite herself, the youngster amused\nher. She must have betrayed in her look some degree of interest or\nentertainment. The boy grew more daring, and Mrs. Pontellier might have\nfound herself, in a little while, listening to a highly colored story\nbut for the timely appearance of Madame Lebrun.\n\nThat lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the\nsummer. Her eyes beamed an effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier\ngo inside? Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not been\nthere before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how were those sweet\nchildren? Had Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm November?\n\nVictor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother s\nchair, where he commanded a view of Edna s face. He had taken her\nparasol from her hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it and\ntwirled it above him as he lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun\ncomplained that it was _so_ dull coming back to the city; that she saw\n_so_ few people now; that even Victor, when he came up from the island\nfor a day or two, had _so_ much to occupy him and engage his time; then\nit was that the youth went into contortions on the lounge and winked\nmischievously at Edna. She somehow felt like a confederate in crime,\nand tried to look severe and disapproving.\n\nThere had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, they\ntold her. Victor said it was really not worth while to go inside for\nthe letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. He\nremembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when\nput to the test.\n\nOne letter was written from Vera Cruz and the other from the City of\nMexico. He had met Montel, who was doing everything toward his\nadvancement. So far, the financial situation was no improvement over\nthe one he had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were\nvastly better. He wrote of the City of Mexico, the buildings, the\npeople and their habits, the conditions of life which he found there.\nHe sent his love to the family. He inclosed a check to his mother, and\nhoped she would affectionately remember him to all his friends. That\nwas about the substance of the two letters. Edna felt that if there had\nbeen a message for her, she would have received it. The despondent\nframe of mind in which she had left home began again to overtake her,\nand she remembered that she wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz.\n\nMadame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna the\naddress, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the\nremainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some\nother day. The afternoon was already well advanced.\n\nVictor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and\nheld it over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her\nto bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly\nconfidential. She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too\nlate that she should have been dignified and reserved.\n\n How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!  said Madame Lebrun to her son.\n\n Ravishing!  he admitted.  The city atmosphere has improved her. Some\nway she doesn t seem like the same woman. \n\nXXI\n\nSome people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose\napartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars,\npeddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front\nroom. They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always\nopen it did not make so much difference. They often admitted into the\nroom a good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the light\nand air that there was came through them. From her windows could be\nseen the crescent of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys\nof the Mississippi steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment.\nIn the next room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a\ngasoline stove on which she cooked her meals when disinclined to\ndescend to the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that she ate,\nkeeping her belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a\nhundred years of use.\n\nWhen Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz s front room door and entered,\nshe discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in\nmending or patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughed\nall over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the\nface and all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely,\nstanding there in the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace\nand the artificial bunch of violets on the side of her head.\n\n So you remembered me at last,  said Mademoiselle.  I had said to\nmyself,  Ah, bah! she will never come. \n\n Did you want me to come?  asked Edna with a smile.\n\n I had not thought much about it,  answered Mademoiselle. The two had\nseated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall.\n I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back\nthere, and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup\nwith me. And how is _la belle dame?_ Always handsome! always healthy!\nalways contented!  She took Edna s hand between her strong wiry\nfingers, holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of\ndouble theme upon the back and palm.\n\n Yes,  she went on;  I sometimes thought:  She will never come. She\npromised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She\nwill not come.  For I really don t believe you like me, Mrs.\nPontellier. \n\n I don t know whether I like you or not,  replied Edna, gazing down at\nthe little woman with a quizzical look.\n\nThe candor of Mrs. Pontellier s admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle\nReisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the\nregion of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised\ncup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very\nacceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun s and\nwas now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she\nbrought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once\nagain on the lumpy sofa.\n\n I have had a letter from your friend,  she remarked, as she poured a\nlittle cream into Edna s cup and handed it to her.\n\n My friend? \n\n Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico. \n\n Wrote to _you_?  repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee\nabsently.\n\n Yes, to me. Why not? Don t stir all the warmth out of your coffee;\ndrink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was\nnothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end. \n\n Let me see it,  requested the young woman, entreatingly.\n\n No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one\nto whom it is written. \n\n Haven t you just said it concerned me from beginning to end? \n\n It was written about you, not to you.  Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier?\nHow is she looking?  he asks.  As Mrs. Pontellier says,  or  as Mrs.\nPontellier once said.   If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play\nfor her that Impromptu of Chopin s, my favorite. I heard it here a day\nor two ago, but not as you play it. I should like to know how it\naffects her,  and so on, as if he supposed we were constantly in each\nother s society. \n\n Let me see the letter. \n\n Oh, no. \n\n Have you answered it? \n\n No. \n\n Let me see the letter. \n\n No, and again, no. \n\n Then play the Impromptu for me. \n\n It is growing late; what time do you have to be home? \n\n Time doesn t concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the\nImpromptu. \n\n But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing? \n\n Painting!  laughed Edna.  I am becoming an artist. Think of it! \n\n Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame. \n\n Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist? \n\n I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or\nyour temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many\ngifts absolute gifts which have not been acquired by one s own effort.\nAnd, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous\nsoul. \n\n What do you mean by the courageous soul? \n\n Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies. \n\n Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have\npersistence. Does that quality count for anything in art? \n\n It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,  replied\nMademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh.\n\nThe letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table\nupon which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the\ndrawer and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in\nEdna s hands, and without further comment arose and went to the piano.\n\nMademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat\nlow at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into\nungraceful curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity.\nGradually and imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening\nminor chords of the Chopin Impromptu.\n\nEdna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the\nsofa corner reading Robert s letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle\nhad glided from the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde s\nsong, and back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant\nlonging.\n\nThe shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and\nfantastic turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The\nshadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the\nnight, over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in\nthe silence of the upper air.\n\nEdna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when\nstrange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take\nher departure.  May I come again, Mademoiselle?  she asked at the\nthreshold.\n\n Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings\nare dark; don t stumble. \n\nMademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert s letter was on the\nfloor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with\ntears. Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the\nenvelope, and replaced it in the table drawer.\n\nXXII\n\nOne morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of\nhis old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a\nsemi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He\nbore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill leaving the active\npractice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries and\nwas much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united\nto him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the\nservices of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these.\n\nMr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his\nstudy. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center\nof a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old\ngentleman s study window. He was a great reader. He stared up\ndisapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered,\nwondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the\nmorning.\n\n Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do\nyou bring this morning?  He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray\nhair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their\nbrightness but none of their penetration.\n\n Oh! I m never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber of\nthat old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away.\nI came to consult no, not precisely to consult to talk to you about\nEdna. I don t know what ails her. \n\n Madame Pontellier not well,  marveled the Doctor.  Why, I saw her I\nthink it was a week ago walking along Canal Street, the picture of\nhealth, it seemed to me. \n\n Yes, yes; she seems quite well,  said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward\nand whirling his stick between his two hands;  but she doesn t act\nwell. She s odd, she s not like herself. I can t make her out, and I\nthought perhaps you d help me. \n\n How does she act?  inquired the Doctor.\n\n Well, it isn t easy to explain,  said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself\nback in his chair.  She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens. \n\n Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We ve got to\nconsider \n\n I know that; I told you I couldn t explain. Her whole attitude toward\nme and everybody and everything has changed. You know I have a quick\ntemper, but I don t want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially\nmy wife; yet I m driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after\nI ve made a fool of myself. She s making it devilishly uncomfortable\nfor me,  he went on nervously.  She s got some sort of notion in her\nhead concerning the eternal rights of women; and you understand we meet\nin the morning at the breakfast table. \n\nThe old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick\nnether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned\nfingertips.\n\n What have you been doing to her, Pontellier? \n\n Doing! _Parbleu!_ \n\n Has she,  asked the Doctor, with a smile,  has she been associating of\nlate with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women super-spiritual\nsuperior beings? My wife has been telling me about them. \n\n That s the trouble,  broke in Mr. Pontellier,  she hasn t been\nassociating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has\nthrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself,\nmoping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she s\npeculiar. I don t like it; I feel a little worried over it. \n\nThis was a new aspect for the Doctor.  Nothing hereditary?  he asked,\nseriously.  Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there? \n\n Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock.\nThe old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his\nweekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his\nrace horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky\nfarming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret you know Margaret she has\nall the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a\nvixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now. \n\n Send your wife up to the wedding,  exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a\nhappy solution.  Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will\ndo her good. \n\n That s what I want her to do. She won t go to the marriage. She says a\nwedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing\nfor a woman to say to her husband!  exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming\nanew at the recollection.\n\n Pontellier,  said the Doctor, after a moment s reflection,  let your\nwife alone for a while. Don t bother her, and don t let her bother you.\nWoman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism a\nsensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to\nbe, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist\nto deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and\nme attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling.\nMost women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your\nwife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn t try to\nfathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone.\nSend her around to see me. \n\n Oh! I couldn t do that; there d be no reason for it,  objected Mr.\nPontellier.\n\n Then I ll go around and see her,  said the Doctor.  I ll drop in to\ndinner some evening _en bon ami_. \n\n Do! by all means,  urged Mr. Pontellier.  What evening will you come?\nSay Thursday. Will you come Thursday?  he asked, rising to take his\nleave.\n\n Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me\nThursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may\nexpect me. \n\nMr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:\n\n I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on\nhand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle\nthe ribbons. We ll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor,  he\nlaughed.\n\n No, I thank you, my dear sir,  returned the Doctor.  I leave such\nventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your\nblood. \n\n What I wanted to say,  continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the\nknob;  I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to\ntake Edna along? \n\n By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don t\ncontradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month,\ntwo, three months possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience. \n\n Well, good-by, _  jeudi_,  said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out.\n\nThe Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask,\n Is there any man in the case?  but he knew his Creole too well to make\nsuch a blunder as that.\n\nHe did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while\nmeditatively looking out into the garden.\n\nXXIII\n\nEdna s father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She\nwas not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain\ntastes in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming\nwas in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new\ndirection for her emotions.\n\nHe had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an\noutfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at\nher marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one\nimmediately connected with him always deferred to his taste in such\nmatters. And his suggestions on the question of dress which too often\nassumes the nature of a problem were of inestimable value to his\nfather-in-law. But for the past few days the old gentleman had been\nupon Edna s hands, and in his society she was becoming acquainted with\na new set of sensations. He had been a colonel in the Confederate army,\nand still maintained, with the title, the military bearing which had\nalways accompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and silky,\nemphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and\nwore his coats padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his\nshoulders and chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished\ntogether, and excited a good deal of notice during their\nperambulations. Upon his arrival she began by introducing him to her\natelier and making a sketch of him. He took the whole matter very\nseriously. If her talent had been ten-fold greater than it was, it\nwould not have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had\nbequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful capability,\nwhich only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward\nsuccessful achievement.\n\nBefore her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the\ncannon s mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the\nchildren, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up\nthere in their mother s bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned\nthem away with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the\nfixed lines of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders.\n\nEdna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet him,\nhaving promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselle\ndeclined the invitation. So together they attended a _soir e musicale_\nat the Ratignolles . Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the\nColonel, installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him at once\nto dine with them the following Sunday, or any day which he might\nselect. Madame coquetted with him in the most captivating and naive\nmanner, with eyes, gestures, and a profusion of compliments, till the\nColonel s old head felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders.\nEdna marveled, not comprehending. She herself was almost devoid of\ncoquetry.\n\nThere were one or two men whom she observed at the _soir e musicale;_\nbut she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract\ntheir notice to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward\nthem. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy\nselected them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave them an\nopportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street the\nglance of strange eyes had lingered in her memory, and sometimes had\ndisturbed her.\n\nMr. Pontellier did not attend these _soir es musicales_. He considered\nthem _bourgeois_, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame\nRatignolle he said the music dispensed at her _soir es_ was too\n heavy,  too far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse\nflattered her. But she disapproved of Mr. Pontellier s club, and she\nwas frank enough to tell Edna so.\n\n It s a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn t stay home more in the evenings. I\nthink you would be more well, if you don t mind my saying it more\nunited, if he did. \n\n Oh! dear no!  said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes.  What should I\ndo if he stayed home? We wouldn t have anything to say to each other. \n\nShe had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; but\nhe did not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her,\nthough she realized that he might not interest her long; and for the\nfirst time in her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted\nwith him. He kept her busy serving him and ministering to his wants. It\namused her to do so. She would not permit a servant or one of the\nchildren to do anything for him which she might do herself. Her husband\nnoticed, and thought it was the expression of a deep filial attachment\nwhich he had never suspected.\n\nThe Colonel drank numerous  toddies  during the course of the day,\nwhich left him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting\nstrong drinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given\nfantastic names, and for whose manufacture he required diverse\ningredients that it devolved upon Edna to procure for him.\n\nWhen Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he could\ndiscern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which her\nhusband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant.\nShe and her father had been to the race course, and their thoughts when\nthey seated themselves at table were still occupied with the events of\nthe afternoon, and their talk was still of the track. The Doctor had\nnot kept pace with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racing\nin what he called  the good old times  when the Lecompte stables\nflourished, and he drew upon this fund of memories so that he might not\nbe left out and seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed\nto impose upon the Colonel, and was even far from impressing him with\nthis trumped-up knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father on\nhis last venture, with the most gratifying results to both of them.\nBesides, they had met some very charming people, according to the\nColonel s impressions. Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp,\nwho were there with Alc e Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened the\nhours in a fashion that warmed him to think of.\n\nMr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing,\nand was even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime, especially\nwhen he considered the fate of that blue-grass farm in Kentucky. He\nendeavored, in a general way, to express a particular disapproval, and\nonly succeeded in arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law.\nA pretty dispute followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father s\ncause and the Doctor remained neutral.\n\nHe observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, and\nnoted a subtle change which had transformed her from the listless woman\nhe had known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant with\nthe forces of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no\nrepression in her glance or gesture. She reminded him of some\nbeautiful, sleek animal waking up in the sun.\n\nThe dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was\ncold, and under their beneficent influence the threatened\nunpleasantness melted and vanished with the fumes of the wine.\n\nMr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing\nplantation experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth,\nwhen he hunted  possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashed\nthe pecan trees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields in\nmischievous idleness.\n\nThe Colonel, with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things,\nrelated a somber episode of those dark and bitter days, in which he had\nacted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was\nthe Doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever new and\ncurious story of the waning of a woman s love, seeking strange, new\nchannels, only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce\nunrest. It was one of the many little human documents which had been\nunfolded to him during his long career as a physician. The story did\nnot seem especially to impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of\na woman who paddled away with her lover one night in a pirogue and\nnever came back. They were lost amid the Baratarian Islands, and no one\never heard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was\na pure invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her.\nThat, also, was an invention. Perhaps it was a dream she had had. But\nevery glowing word seemed real to those who listened. They could feel\nthe hot breath of the Southern night; they could hear the long sweep of\nthe pirogue through the glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds \nwings, rising startled from among the reeds in the salt-water pools;\nthey could see the faces of the lovers, pale, close together, rapt in\noblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown.\n\nThe champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks\nwith Edna s memory that night.\n\nOutside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the\nnight was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak\nacross his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his\nfellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so\nseldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted\nPontellier s invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest\nand an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives\nthrust upon him.\n\n I hope it isn t Arobin,  he muttered to himself as he walked.  I hope\nto heaven it isn t Alc e Arobin. \n\nXXIV\n\nEdna and her father had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon the\nsubject of her refusal to attend her sister s wedding. Mr. Pontellier\ndeclined to interfere, to interpose either his influence or his\nauthority. He was following Doctor Mandelet s advice, and letting her\ndo as she liked. The Colonel reproached his daughter for her lack of\nfilial kindness and respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanly\nconsideration. His arguments were labored and unconvincing. He doubted\nif Janet would accept any excuse forgetting that Edna had offered none.\nHe doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sure\nMargaret would not.\n\nEdna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off\nwith his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded\nshoulders, his Bible reading, his  toddies  and ponderous oaths.\n\nMr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding on\nhis way to New York and endeavor by every means which money and love\ncould devise to atone somewhat for Edna s incomprehensible action.\n\n You are too lenient, too lenient by far, L once,  asserted the\nColonel.  Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down\ngood and hard; the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it. \n\nThe Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into\nher grave. Mr. Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which he thought\nit needless to mention at that late day.\n\nEdna was not so consciously gratified at her husband s leaving home as\nshe had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached\nwhen he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew\nmelting and affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration\nand his repeated expressions of an ardent attachment. She was\nsolicitous about his health and his welfare. She bustled around,\nlooking after his clothing, thinking about heavy underwear, quite as\nMadame Ratignolle would have done under similar circumstances. She\ncried when he went away, calling him her dear, good friend, and she was\nquite certain she would grow lonely before very long and go to join him\nin New York.\n\nBut after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found\nherself alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pontellier had\ncome herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The\nold madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be\nneglected during L once s absence; she hardly ventured to think so. She\nwas hungry for them even a little fierce in her attachment. She did not\nwant them to be wholly  children of the pavement,  she always said when\nbegging to have them for a space. She wished them to know the country,\nwith its streams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to\nthe young. She wished them to taste something of the life their father\nhad lived and known and loved when he, too, was a little child.\n\nWhen Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of\nrelief. A feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her.\nShe walked all through the house, from one room to another, as if\ninspecting it for the first time. She tried the various chairs and\nlounges, as if she had never sat and reclined upon them before. And she\nperambulated around the outside of the house, investigating, looking to\nsee if windows and shutters were secure and in order. The flowers were\nlike new acquaintances; she approached them in a familiar spirit, and\nmade herself at home among them. The garden walks were damp, and Edna\ncalled to the maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there she\nstayed, and stooped, digging around the plants, trimming, picking dead,\ndry leaves. The children s little dog came out, interfering, getting in\nher way. She scolded him, laughed at him, played with him. The garden\nsmelled so good and looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Edna\nplucked all the bright flowers she could find, and went into the house\nwith them, she and the little dog.\n\nEven the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had\nnever before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook, to\nsay that the butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they\nwould require only half their usual quantity of bread, of milk and\ngroceries. She told the cook that she herself would be greatly occupied\nduring Mr. Pontellier s absence, and she begged her to take all thought\nand responsibility of the larder upon her own shoulders.\n\nThat night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candles in the\ncenter of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circle\nof light in which she sat, the large dining-room looked solemn and\nshadowy. The cook, placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repast a\nluscious tenderloin broiled _  point_. The wine tasted good; the\n_marron glac _ seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant,\ntoo, to dine in a comfortable _peignoir_.\n\nShe thought a little sentimentally about L once and the children, and\nwondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the\ndoggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was\nbeside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable\nadvances, and showed his appreciation by his little quick, snappy barks\nand a lively agitation.\n\nThen Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she\ngrew sleepy. She realized that she had neglected her reading, and\ndetermined to start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that\nher time was completely her own to do with as she liked.\n\nAfter a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled\ncomfortably beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her,\nsuch as she had not known before.\n\nXXV\n\nWhen the weather was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. She needed\nthe sun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had\nreached a stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way,\nworking, when in the humor, with sureness and ease. And being devoid of\nambition, and striving not toward accomplishment, she drew satisfaction\nfrom the work in itself.\n\nOn rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of the\nfriends she had made at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoors and\nnursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own\ncomfort and peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her as\nif life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled.\nYet there were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by\nfresh promises which her youth held out to her.\n\nShe went again to the races, and again. Alc e Arobin and Mrs. Highcamp\ncalled for her one bright afternoon in Arobin s drag. Mrs. Highcamp was\na worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in the\nforties, with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had\na daughter who served her as a pretext for cultivating the society of\nyoung men of fashion. Alc e Arobin was one of them. He was a familiar\nfigure at the race course, the opera, the fashionable clubs. There was\na perpetual smile in his eyes, which seldom failed to awaken a\ncorresponding cheerfulness in any one who looked into them and listened\nto his good-humored voice. His manner was quiet, and at times a little\ninsolent. He possessed a good figure, a pleasing face, not overburdened\nwith depth of thought or feeling; and his dress was that of the\nconventional man of fashion.\n\nHe admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the races with her\nfather. He had met her before on other occasions, but she had seemed to\nhim unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs.\nHighcamp called to ask her to go with them to the Jockey Club to\nwitness the turf event of the season.\n\nThere were possibly a few track men out there who knew the race horse\nas well as Edna, but there was certainly none who knew it better. She\nsat between her two companions as one having authority to speak. She\nlaughed at Arobin s pretensions, and deplored Mrs. Highcamp s\nignorance. The race horse was a friend and intimate associate of her\nchildhood. The atmosphere of the stables and the breath of the blue\ngrass paddock revived in her memory and lingered in her nostrils. She\ndid not perceive that she was talking like her father as the sleek\ngeldings ambled in review before them. She played for very high stakes,\nand fortune favored her. The fever of the game flamed in her cheeks and\neyes, and it got into her blood and into her brain like an intoxicant.\nPeople turned their heads to look at her, and more than one lent an\nattentive ear to her utterances, hoping thereby to secure the elusive\nbut ever-desired  tip.  Arobin caught the contagion of excitement which\ndrew him to Edna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp remained, as usual,\nunmoved, with her indifferent stare and uplifted eyebrows.\n\nEdna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do so.\nArobin also remained and sent away his drag.\n\nThe dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts\nof Arobin to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absence of her\ndaughter from the races, and tried to convey to her what she had missed\nby going to the  Dante reading  instead of joining them. The girl held\na geranium leaf up to her nose and said nothing, but looked knowing and\nnoncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain, bald-headed man, who only\ntalked under compulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full of\ndelicate courtesy and consideration toward her husband. She addressed\nmost of her conversation to him at table. They sat in the library after\ndinner and read the evening papers together under the droplight; while\nthe younger people went into the drawing-room near by and talked. Miss\nHighcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the piano. She seemed\nto have apprehended all of the composer s coldness and none of his\npoetry. While Edna listened she could not help wondering if she had\nlost her taste for music.\n\nWhen the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted a lame\noffer to escort her, looking down at his slippered feet with tactless\nconcern. It was Arobin who took her home. The car ride was long, and it\nwas late when they reached Esplanade Street. Arobin asked permission to\nenter for a second to light his cigarette his match safe was empty. He\nfilled his match safe, but did not light his cigarette until he left\nher, after she had expressed her willingness to go to the races with\nhim again.\n\nEdna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, for the\nHighcamp dinner, though of excellent quality, had lacked abundance. She\nrummaged in the larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and some\ncrackers. She opened a bottle of beer which she found in the icebox.\nEdna felt extremely restless and excited. She vacantly hummed a\nfantastic tune as she poked at the wood embers on the hearth and\nmunched a cracker.\n\nShe wanted something to happen something, anything; she did not know\nwhat. She regretted that she had not made Arobin stay a half hour to\ntalk over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. But\nthere was nothing else to do, so she went to bed, and tossed there for\nhours in a sort of monotonous agitation.\n\nIn the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to\nwrite her regular letter to her husband; and she decided to do so next\nday and tell him about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wide\nawake composing a letter which was nothing like the one which she wrote\nnext day. When the maid awoke her in the morning Edna was dreaming of\nMr. Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on\nCanal Street, while his wife was saying to Alc e Arobin, as they\nboarded an Esplanade Street car:\n\n What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go. \n\nWhen, a few days later, Alc e Arobin again called for Edna in his drag,\nMrs. Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pick her up. But as\nthat lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, she\nwas not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend the\nmeeting of a branch Folk Lore Society, and regretted that she could not\naccompany them. Arobin appeared nonplused, and asked Edna if there were\nany one else she cared to ask.\n\nShe did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of the\nfashionable acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. She\nthought of Madame Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did not\nleave the house, except to take a languid walk around the block with\nher husband after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at\nsuch a request from Edna. Madame Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing,\nbut for some reason Edna did not want her. So they went alone, she and\nArobin.\n\nThe afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came\nback upon her like a remittent fever. Her talk grew familiar and\nconfidential. It was no labor to become intimate with Arobin. His\nmanner invited easy confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming\nacquainted was one which he always endeavored to ignore when a pretty\nand engaging woman was concerned.\n\nHe stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire.\nThey laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was telling\nher how different life might have been if he had known her years\nbefore. With ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked,\nill-disciplined boy he had been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to\nexhibit upon his wrist the scar from a saber cut which he had received\nin a duel outside of Paris when he was nineteen. She touched his hand\nas she scanned the red cicatrice on the inside of his white wrist. A\nquick impulse that was somewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to close\nin a sort of clutch upon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed\nnails in the flesh of his palm.\n\nShe arose hastily and walked toward the mantel.\n\n The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,  she\nsaid.  I shouldn t have looked at it. \n\n I beg your pardon,  he entreated, following her;  it never occurred to\nme that it might be repulsive. \n\nHe stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old,\nvanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw\nenough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he\nsaid his lingering good night.\n\n Will you go to the races again?  he asked.\n\n No,  she said.  I ve had enough of the races. I don t want to lose all\nthe money I ve won, and I ve got to work when the weather is bright,\ninstead of \n\n Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning\nmay I come up to your atelier? To-morrow? \n\n No! \n\n Day after? \n\n No, no. \n\n Oh, please don t refuse me! I know something of such things. I might\nhelp you with a stray suggestion or two. \n\n No. Good night. Why don t you go after you have said good night? I\ndon t like you,  she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting to\ndraw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and\nsincerity, and she knew that he felt it.\n\n I m sorry you don t like me. I m sorry I offended you. How have I\noffended you? What have I done? Can t you forgive me?  And he bent and\npressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw\nthem.\n\n Mr. Arobin,  she complained,  I m greatly upset by the excitement of\nthe afternoon; I m not myself. My manner must have misled you in some\nway. I wish you to go, please.  She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone.\nHe took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her,\nlooking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive\nsilence.\n\n Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier,  he said finally.  My\nown emotions have done that. I couldn t help it. When I m near you, how\ncould I help it? Don t think anything of it, don t bother, please. You\nsee, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do\nso. If you let me come back, I oh! you will let me come back? \n\nHe cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response.\nAlc e Arobin s manner was so genuine that it often deceived even\nhimself.\n\nEdna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she was\nalone she looked mechanically at the back of her hand which he had\nkissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She\nfelt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into\nan act of infidelity, and realizes the significance of the act without\nbeing wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely\nthrough her mind,  What would he think? \n\nShe did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her\nhusband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without\nlove as an excuse.\n\nShe lit a candle and went up to her room. Alc e Arobin was absolutely\nnothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his\nglances, and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted\nlike a narcotic upon her.\n\nShe slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams.\n\nXXVI\n\nAlc e Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with\nsincerity. It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it\nappeared to her absurd that she should have taken his action so\nseriously, so dramatically. She felt sure that the significance of the\nwhole occurrence had lain in her own self-consciousness. If she ignored\nhis note it would give undue importance to a trivial affair. If she\nreplied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind the\nimpression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his\ninfluence. After all, it was no great matter to have one s hand kissed.\nShe was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in as\nlight and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said she\nwould be glad to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the\ninclination and his business gave him the opportunity.\n\nHe responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his\ndisarming na vet . And then there was scarcely a day which followed\nthat she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in\npretexts. His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and\ntacit adoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods,\nwhich were as often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him.\nThey became intimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by\nleaps. He sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and\nbrought the crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last,\nappealing to the animalism that stirred impatiently within her.\n\nThere was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna s senses as a\nvisit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that\npersonality which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine\nart, seemed to reach Edna s spirit and set it free.\n\nIt was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna\nclimbed the stairs to the pianist s apartments under the roof. Her\nclothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as\nshe entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that\nsmoked a little and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring\nto heat a pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and\ndingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood\nof dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece.\n\n Ah! here comes the sunlight!  exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from her\nknees before the stove.  Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can\nlet the fire alone. \n\nShe closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in\nremoving Edna s dripping mackintosh.\n\n You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But\nwould you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the\nbottle which you brought me for my cold.  A piece of red flannel was\nwrapped around Mademoiselle s throat; a stiff neck compelled her to\nhold her head on one side.\n\n I will take some brandy,  said Edna, shivering as she removed her\ngloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man\nwould have done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she\nsaid,  Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade\nStreet. \n\n Ah!  ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially\ninterested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was\nendeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from\nits fastening in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking\na pin from her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their\naccustomed place.\n\n Aren t you astonished? \n\n Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your\nfather in Mississippi? where? \n\n Just two steps away,  laughed Edna,  in a little four-room house\naround the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever\nI pass by; and it s for rent. I m tired looking after that big house.\nIt never seemed like mine, anyway like home. It s too much trouble. I\nhave to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them. \n\n That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. There is no use in telling\nme lies. I don t know your reason, but you have not told me the truth. \nEdna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself.\n\n The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn t that\nenough reason? \n\n They are your husband s,  returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a\nmalicious elevation of the eyebrows.\n\n Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a\ncaprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother s estate, which\nmy father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the\nraces, and I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and\nmore pleased with my work; he says it grows in force and individuality.\nI cannot judge of that myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease\nand confidence. However, as I said, I have sold a good many through\nLaidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or nothing, with one\nservant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says she will\ncome stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the\nfeeling of freedom and independence. \n\n What does your husband say? \n\n I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will\nthink I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so. \n\nMademoiselle shook her head slowly.  Your reason is not yet clear to\nme,  she said.\n\nNeither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as\nshe sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away\nher husband s bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know\nhow it would be when he returned. There would have to be an\nunderstanding, an explanation. Conditions would some way adjust\nthemselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again\nto belong to another than herself.\n\n I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!  Edna\nexclaimed.  You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you\neverything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh\nand be merry for once.  And she uttered a sigh that came from the very\ndepths of her being.\n\nIf Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during\nthe interval of Edna s visits, she would give her the letter\nunsolicited. And she would seat herself at the piano and play as her\nhumor prompted her while the young woman read the letter.\n\nThe little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the\ntin sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door,\nand Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven\nand handed it to Edna.\n\n Another! so soon!  she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight.  Tell\nme, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters? \n\n Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me\nagain if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he\nsend you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor\nfool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to\nhim or to belong to him. \n\n Why do you show me his letters, then? \n\n Haven t you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you cannot\ndeceive me,  and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument and\nbegan to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it\nin her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an\neffulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It\nprepared her for joy and exultation.\n\n Oh!  she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor.  Why did you\nnot tell me?  She went and grasped Mademoiselle s hands up from the\nkeys.  Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me? \n\n That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not\ncome long ago. \n\n But when, when?  cried Edna, impatiently.  He does not say when. \n\n He says  very soon.  You know as much about it as I do; it is all in\nthe letter. \n\n But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought  and she snatched the\nletter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way,\nlooking for the reason, which was left untold.\n\n If I were young and in love with a man,  said Mademoiselle, turning on\nthe stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked\ndown at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter,  it seems to me\nhe would have to be some _grand esprit;_ a man with lofty aims and\nability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice\nof his fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should\nnever deem a man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion. \n\n Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me,\nMademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing\nabout it. Why,  went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into\nMademoiselle s twisted face,  do you suppose a woman knows why she\nloves? Does she select? Does she say to herself:  Go to! Here is a\ndistinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall\nproceed to fall in love with him.  Or,  I shall set my heart upon this\nmusician, whose fame is on every tongue?  Or,  This financier, who\ncontrols the world s money markets? \n\n You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love\nwith Robert? \n\n Yes,  said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow\noverspread her face, blotching it with red spots.\n\n Why?  asked her companion.  Why do you love him when you ought not\nto? \n\nEdna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before\nMademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands.\n\n Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples;\nbecause he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of\ndrawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger\nwhich he can t straighten from having played baseball too energetically\nin his youth. Because \n\n Because you do, in short,  laughed Mademoiselle.  What will you do\nwhen he comes back?  she asked.\n\n Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive. \n\nShe was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his\nreturn. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours\nbefore, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the\nstreets on her way home.\n\nShe stopped at a confectioner s and ordered a huge box of bonbons for\nthe children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she\nscribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses.\n\nBefore dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her\nhusband, telling him of her intention to move for a while into the\nlittle house around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before\nleaving, regretting that he was not there to share it, to help out with\nthe menu and assist her in entertaining the guests. Her letter was\nbrilliant and brimming with cheerfulness.\n\nXXVII\n\n What is the matter with you?  asked Arobin that evening.  I never\nfound you in such a happy mood.  Edna was tired by that time, and was\nreclining on the lounge before the fire.\n\n Don t you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun\npretty soon? \n\n Well, that ought to be reason enough,  he acquiesced.  You wouldn t\ngive me another if I sat here all night imploring you.  He sat close to\nher on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the\nhair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his\nfingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively.\n\n One of these days,  she said,  I m going to pull myself together for a\nwhile and think try to determine what character of a woman I am; for,\ncandidly, I don t know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I\nam a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can t\nconvince myself that I am. I must think about it. \n\n Don t. What s the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when I\ncan tell you what manner of woman you are.  His fingers strayed\noccasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was\ngrowing a little full and double.\n\n Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is\ncaptivating. Spare yourself the effort. \n\n No; I shan t tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn t be\nlying if I did. \n\n Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?  she asked irrelevantly.\n\n The pianist? I know her by sight. I ve heard her play. \n\n She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don t\nnotice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward. \n\n For instance? \n\n Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me\nand felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said.\n The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and\nprejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the\nweaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth. \n\n Whither would you soar? \n\n I m not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend\nher. \n\n I ve heard she s partially demented,  said Arobin.\n\n She seems to me wonderfully sane,  Edna replied.\n\n I m told she s extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you\nintroduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you? \n\n Oh! talk of me if you like,  cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath\nher head;  but let me think of something else while you do. \n\n I m jealous of your thoughts to-night. They re making you a little\nkinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if\nthey were not here with me.  She only looked at him and smiled. His\neyes were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended\nacross her, while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They\ncontinued silently to look into each other s eyes. When he leaned\nforward and kissed her, she clasped his head, holding his lips to hers.\n\nIt was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really\nresponded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire.\n\nXXVIII\n\nEdna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one\nphase of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was\nwith her an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the\nshock of the unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband s\nreproach looking at her from the external things around her which he\nhad provided for her external existence. There was Robert s reproach\nmaking itself felt by a quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which\nhad awakened within her toward him. Above all, there was understanding.\nShe felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to\nlook upon and comprehend the significance of life, that monster made up\nof beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting sensations which\nassailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a dull\npang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed\nher, because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her\nlips.\n\nXXIX\n\nWithout even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his\nopinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for\nquitting her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house\naround the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that\ndirection. There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose\nbetween the thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning\nfollowing those hours passed in Arobin s society, Edna set about\nsecuring her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for occupying it.\nWithin the precincts of her home she felt like one who has entered and\nlingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a\nthousand muffled voices bade her begone.\n\nWhatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired\naside from her husband s bounty, she caused to be transported to the\nother house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own\nresources.\n\nArobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the\nhouse-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and\nrobust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown,\nwith a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to\nprotect her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder,\nunhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the\nfront door open, and had followed his ring by walking in\nunceremoniously.\n\n Come down!  he said.  Do you want to kill yourself?  She greeted him\nwith affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation.\n\nIf he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging\nin sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised.\n\nHe was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the\nforegoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to\nthe situation which confronted him.\n\n Please come down,  he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at\nher.\n\n No,  she answered;  Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is\nworking over at the  pigeon house that s the name Ellen gives it,\nbecause it s so small and looks like a pigeon house and some one has to\ndo this. \n\nArobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to\ntempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and\nwent into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to\ncontrol, when she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as\nhe could. Edna herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened\nit at his request. So it was he who in turn mounted the ladder,\nunhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging ornaments as Edna\ndirected. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and went out to\nwash his hands.\n\nEdna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather\nduster along the carpet when he came in again.\n\n Is there anything more you will let me do?  he asked.\n\n That is all,  she answered.  Ellen can manage the rest.  She kept the\nyoung woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone\nwith Arobin.\n\n What about the dinner?  he asked;  the grand event, the _coup\nd tat?_ \n\n It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the  _coup\nd tat?_  Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything crystal,\nsilver and gold, S vres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I ll\nlet L once pay the bills. I wonder what he ll say when he sees the\nbills. \n\n And you ask me why I call it a _coup d tat?_  Arobin had put on his\ncoat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She\ntold him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar.\n\n When do you go to the  pigeon house? with all due acknowledgment to\nEllen. \n\n Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there. \n\n Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?  asked Arobin.\n The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a\nthing, has parched my throat to a crisp. \n\n While Ellen gets the water,  said Edna, rising,  I will say good-by\nand let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million\nthings to do and think of. \n\n When shall I see you?  asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid\nhaving left the room.\n\n At the dinner, of course. You are invited. \n\n Not before? not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or\nnight? or the day after morning or noon? Can t you see yourself,\nwithout my telling you, what an eternity it is? \n\nHe had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway,\nlooking up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him.\n\n Not an instant sooner,  she said. But she laughed and looked at him\nwith eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to\nwait.\n\nXXX\n\nThough Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in\ntruth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests\ninvited were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted\nupon an even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board,\nforgetting for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree\n_souffrante_ and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun\nwould send a thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only\nten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable number.\n\nThere were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in\nthe thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a\nshallow-pate, who laughed a good deal at other people s witticisms, and\nhad thereby made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had\naccompanied them. Of course, there was Alc e Arobin; and Mademoiselle\nReisz had consented to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets\nwith black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought\nhimself and his wife s excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in\nthe city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. There was a\nMiss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world through\nlorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that\nshe was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a\n_nom de guerre_. She had come with a gentleman by the name of\nGouvernail, connected with one of the daily papers, of whom nothing\nspecial could be said, except that he was observant and seemed quiet\nand inoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, and at half-past eight\nthey seated themselves at table, Arobin and Monsieur Ratignolle on\neither side of their hostess.\n\nMrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs.\nMerriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle\nReisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle.\n\nThere was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the\ntable, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin\nunder strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass\ncandelabra, burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant\nroses, yellow and red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she had\nsaid there would be, and crystal which glittered like the gems which\nthe women wore.\n\nThe ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion\nand replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be\ncollected throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly\ndiminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes\nhoisted at table upon bulky volumes.\n\n Something new, Edna?  exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed\ntoward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost\nsputtered, in Edna s hair, just over the center of her forehead.\n\n Quite new;  brand  new, in fact; a present from my husband. It arrived\nthis morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is my\nbirthday, and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drink\nmy health. Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail,\ncomposed would you say  composed?  with an appeal to Miss\nMayblunt composed by my father in honor of Sister Janet s wedding. \n\nBefore each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a\ngarnet gem.\n\n Then, all things considered,  spoke Arobin,  it might not be amiss to\nstart out by drinking the Colonel s health in the cocktail which he\ncomposed, on the birthday of the most charming of women the daughter\nwhom he invented. \n\nMr. Merriman s laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and so\ncontagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that\nnever slackened.\n\nMiss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched\nbefore her, just to look at. The color was marvelous! She could compare\nit to nothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted\nwere unspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck\nto it.\n\nMonsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the _mets_,\nthe _entre-mets_, the service, the decorations, even the people. He\nlooked up from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to\nthe gentleman of that name who formed one of the firm of Laitner and\nArobin, lawyers. The young man admitted that Laitner was a warm\npersonal friend, who permitted Arobin s name to decorate the firm s\nletterheads and to appear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street.\n\n There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding,  said\nArobin,  that one is really forced as a matter of convenience these\ndays to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not.  Monsieur\nRatignolle stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle Reisz if she\nconsidered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been set\nthe previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur Ratignolle in\nFrench, which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, but\ncharacteristic. Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to say of the\nsymphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the musicians\nof New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interest seemed to be\ncentered upon the delicacies placed before her.\n\nMr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin s remark about inquisitive people\nreminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. Charles\nHotel but as Mr. Merriman s stories were always lame and lacking point,\nhis wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to\nask if he remembered the name of the author whose book she had bought\nthe week before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking  books \nwith Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon\ncurrent literary topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man\nprivately to Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused and to\nthink it extremely clever.\n\nMrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm\nand impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun. Her\nattention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating\nherself at table; and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier\nand more vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited with easy\nindifference for an opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the\noccasional sound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an\nagreeable accompaniment rather than an interruption to the\nconversation. Outside the soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could\nbe heard; the sound penetrated into the room with the heavy odor of\njessamine that came through the open windows.\n\nThe golden shimmer of Edna s satin gown spread in rich folds on either\nside of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It\nwas the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints\nthat one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something\nin her attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head\nagainst the high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the\nregal woman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone.\n\nBut as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking\nher; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her\nlike an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition.\nIt was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to\nissue from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over\nher the acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision\nthe presence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense\nof the unattainable.\n\nThe moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around\nthe circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people\ntogether with jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to\nbreak the pleasant charm. At ten o clock he excused himself. Madame\nRatignolle was waiting for him at home. She was _bien souffrante_, and\nshe was filled with vague dread, which only her husband s presence\ncould allay.\n\nMademoiselle Reisz arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to\nescort her to the car. She had eaten well; she had tasted the good,\nrich wines, and they must have turned her head, for she bowed\npleasantly to all as she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the\nshoulder, and whispered:  _Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage_.  She had\nbeen a little bewildered upon rising, or rather, descending from her\ncushions, and Monsieur Ratignolle gallantly took her arm and led her\naway.\n\nMrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When she\nhad finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor s black\ncurls. He was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a\nglass of champagne to the light.\n\nAs if a magician s wand had touched him, the garland of roses\ntransformed him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the\ncolor of crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing\nfire.\n\n _Sapristi!_  exclaimed Arobin.\n\nBut Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took\nfrom the back of her chair a white silken scarf, with which she had\ncovered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it\nacross the boy in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black,\nconventional evening dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to\nhim, only smiled, showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while he\ncontinued to gaze with narrowing eyes at the light through his glass of\nchampagne.\n\n Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!  exclaimed Miss\nMayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him.\n\n     There was a graven image of Desire\n    Painted with red blood on a ground of gold. \n\nmurmured Gouvernail, under his breath.\n\nThe effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed\nvolubility into silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to a\nreverie, and to be seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead.\n\n Sing,  entreated Mrs. Highcamp.  Won t you sing to us? \n\n Let him alone,  said Arobin.\n\n He s posing,  offered Mr. Merriman;  let him have it out. \n\n I believe he s paralyzed,  laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over the\nyouth s chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his\nlips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she\nlaid it upon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy\nhandkerchief.\n\n Yes, I ll sing for you,  he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs.\nHighcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at the\nceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning\nan instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing:\n\n     Ah! si tu savais! \n\n Stop!  she cried,  don t sing that. I don t want you to sing it,  and\nshe laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon the table as to\nshatter it against a carafe. The wine spilled over Arobin s legs and\nsome of it trickled down upon Mrs. Highcamp s black gauze gown. Victor\nhad lost all idea of courtesy, or else he thought his hostess was not\nin earnest, for he laughed and went on:\n\n     Ah! si tu savais\n    Ce que tes yeux me disent \n\n Oh! you mustn t! you mustn t,  exclaimed Edna, and pushing back her\nchair she got up, and going behind him placed her hand over his mouth.\nHe kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips.\n\n No, no, I won t, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn t know you meant it,  looking\nup at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was like a\npleasing sting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his\nhead and flung it across the room.\n\n Come, Victor; you ve posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf. \n\nMrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands.\nMiss Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it\nwas time to say good night. And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how it\ncould be so late.\n\nBefore parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her\ndaughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and\nsing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention\nto call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented\nitself. He asked if Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not.\n\nThe mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness\nhad fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna s\ndisbanding guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony\nof the night.\n\nXXXI\n\n Well?  questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the others\nhad departed.\n\n Well,  she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feeling\nthe need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated.\n\n What next?  he asked.\n\n The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I have\ndismissed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trot\naround to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the\nmorning to straighten things up. \n\nHe looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights.\n\n What about upstairs?  he inquired.\n\n I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched.\nWe had better look; you might take a candle and see. And bring me my\nwrap and hat on the foot of the bed in the middle room. \n\nHe went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows.\nShe hated to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin found\nher cape and hat, which he brought down and helped her to put on.\n\nWhen everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through\nthe front door, Arobin locking it and taking the key, which he carried\nfor Edna. He helped her down the steps.\n\n Will you have a spray of jessamine?  he asked, breaking off a few\nblossoms as he passed.\n\n No; I don t want anything. \n\nShe seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm,\nwhich he offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the\nother hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving\nin and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown.\nThere was the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and\nthe midnight bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk.\n\nThe  pigeon house  stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow _parterre_\nthat had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon\nwhich a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly\ninto the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room\nfor servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced.\n\nEdna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in\nmaking the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on\nthe table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting,\ncovered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful\npictures. But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise\nto her. Arobin had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them\nduring Edna s absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small\npassage were the dining-room and kitchen.\n\nEdna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort.\n\n Are you tired?  he asked.\n\n Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a\ncertain pitch too tight and something inside of me had snapped.  She\nrested her head against the table upon her bare arm.\n\n You want to rest,  he said,  and to be quiet. I ll go; I ll leave you\nand let you rest. \n\n Yes,  she replied.\n\nHe stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic\nhand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could\nhave fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand\nover her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck.\n\n I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning,  he said.  You\nhave tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last\nstraw; you might have dispensed with it. \n\n Yes,  she admitted;  it was stupid. \n\n No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out.  His hand had strayed\nto her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh\nto his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon\nthe shoulder.\n\n I thought you were going away,  she said, in an uneven voice.\n\n I am, after I have said good night. \n\n Good night,  she murmured.\n\nHe did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say\ngood night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive\nentreaties.\n\nXXXII\n\nWhen Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife s intention to abandon her home\nand take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter\nof unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons\nwhich he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not\nacted upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first,\nforemost, and above all else, what people would say. He was not\ndreaming of scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing\nwhich would never have entered into his mind to consider in connection\nwith his wife s name or his own. He was simply thinking of his\nfinancial integrity. It might get noised about that the Pontelliers had\nmet with reverses, and were forced to conduct their _m nage_ on a\nhumbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his\nbusiness prospects.\n\nBut remembering Edna s whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing\nthat she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he\ngrasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his\nwell-known business tact and cleverness.\n\nThe same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried\ninstructions the most minute instructions to a well-known architect\nconcerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long\ncontemplated, and which he desired carried forward during his temporary\nabsence.\n\nExpert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the\nfurniture, carpets, pictures everything movable, in short to places of\nsecurity. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was\nturned over to the artisans. There was to be an addition a small\nsnuggery; there was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be\nput into such rooms as had not yet been subjected to this improvement.\n\nFurthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the\neffect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn\nabroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was\nundergoing sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy\nuntil their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances!\n\nEdna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to\nbalk his intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier\nwas accepted and taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that\nit should be so.\n\nThe pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character\nof a home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it\nreflected like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having\ndescended in the social scale, with a corresponding sense of having\nrisen in the spiritual. Every step which she took toward relieving\nherself from obligations added to her strength and expansion as an\nindividual. She began to look with her own eyes; to see and to\napprehend the deeper undercurrents of life. No longer was she content\nto  feed upon opinion  when her own soul had invited her.\n\nAfter a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a\nweek with her children in Iberville. They were delicious February days,\nwith all the summer s promise hovering in the air.\n\nHow glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure when\nshe felt their little arms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheeks\npressed against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces\nwith hungry eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what\nstories they had to tell their mother! About the pigs, the cows, the\nmules! About riding to the mill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake\nwith their Uncle Jasper; picking pecans with Lidie s little black\nbrood, and hauling chips in their express wagon. It was a thousand\ntimes more fun to haul real chips for old lame Susie s real fire than\nto drag painted blocks along the banquette on Esplanade Street!\n\nShe went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the\ndarkies laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fish in\nthe back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all\nof herself, and gathering and filling herself with their young\nexistence. They listened, breathless, when she told them the house in\nEsplanade Street was crowded with workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing,\nand filling the place with clatter. They wanted to know where their bed\nwas; what had been done with their rocking-horse; and where did Joe\nsleep, and where had Ellen gone, and the cook? But, above all, they\nwere fired with a desire to see the little house around the block. Was\nthere any place to play? Were there any boys next door? Raoul, with\npessimistic foreboding, was convinced that there were only girls next\ndoor. Where would they sleep, and where would papa sleep? She told them\nthe fairies would fix it all right.\n\nThe old Madame was charmed with Edna s visit, and showered all manner\nof delicate attentions upon her. She was delighted to know that the\nEsplanade Street house was in a dismantled condition. It gave her the\npromise and pretext to keep the children indefinitely.\n\nIt was with a wrench and a pang that Edna left her children. She\ncarried away with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their\ncheeks. All along the journey homeward their presence lingered with her\nlike the memory of a delicious song. But by the time she had regained\nthe city the song no longer echoed in her soul. She was again alone.\n\nXXXIII\n\nIt happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Reisz that the\nlittle musician was absent, giving a lesson or making some small\nnecessary household purchase. The key was always left in a secret\nhiding-place in the entry, which Edna knew. If Mademoiselle happened to\nbe away, Edna would usually enter and wait for her return.\n\nWhen she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz s door one afternoon there was\nno response; so unlocking the door, as usual, she entered and found the\napartment deserted, as she had expected. Her day had been quite filled\nup, and it was for a rest, for a refuge, and to talk about Robert, that\nshe sought out her friend.\n\nShe had worked at her canvas a young Italian character study all the\nmorning, completing the work without the model; but there had been many\ninterruptions, some incident to her modest housekeeping, and others of\na social nature.\n\nMadame Ratignolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the too public\nthoroughfares, she said. She complained that Edna had neglected her\nmuch of late. Besides, she was consumed with curiosity to see the\nlittle house and the manner in which it was conducted. She wanted to\nhear all about the dinner party; Monsieur Ratignolle had left _so_\nearly. What had happened after he left? The champagne and grapes which\nEdna sent over were _too_ delicious. She had so little appetite; they\nhad refreshed and toned her stomach. Where on earth was she going to\nput Mr. Pontellier in that little house, and the boys? And then she\nmade Edna promise to go to her when her hour of trial overtook her.\n\n At any time any time of the day or night, dear,  Edna assured her.\n\nBefore leaving Madame Ratignolle said:\n\n In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to act without\na certain amount of reflection which is necessary in this life. That is\nthe reason I want to say you mustn t mind if I advise you to be a\nlittle careful while you are living here alone. Why don t you have some\none come and stay with you? Wouldn t Mademoiselle Reisz come? \n\n No; she wouldn t wish to come, and I shouldn t want her always with\nme. \n\n Well, the reason you know how evil-minded the world is some one was\ntalking of Alc e Arobin visiting you. Of course, it wouldn t matter if\nMr. Arobin had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Ratignolle was\ntelling me that his attentions alone are considered enough to ruin a\nwoman s name. \n\n Does he boast of his successes?  asked Edna, indifferently, squinting\nat her picture.\n\n No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellow as far as that goes.\nBut his character is so well known among the men. I shan t be able to\ncome back and see you; it was very, very imprudent to-day. \n\n Mind the step!  cried Edna.\n\n Don t neglect me,  entreated Madame Ratignolle;  and don t mind what I\nsaid about Arobin, or having some one to stay with you. \n\n Of course not,  Edna laughed.  You may say anything you like to me. \nThey kissed each other good-by. Madame Ratignolle had not far to go,\nand Edna stood on the porch a while watching her walk down the street.\n\nThen in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp had made their\n party call.  Edna felt that they might have dispensed with the\nformality. They had also come to invite her to play _vingt-et-un_ one\nevening at Mrs. Merriman s. She was asked to go early, to dinner, and\nMr. Merriman or Mr. Arobin would take her home. Edna accepted in a\nhalf-hearted way. She sometimes felt very tired of Mrs. Highcamp and\nMrs. Merriman.\n\nLate in the afternoon she sought refuge with Mademoiselle Reisz, and\nstayed there alone, waiting for her, feeling a kind of repose invade\nher with the very atmosphere of the shabby, unpretentious little room.\n\nEdna sat at the window, which looked out over the house-tops and across\nthe river. The window frame was filled with pots of flowers, and she\nsat and picked the dry leaves from a rose geranium. The day was warm,\nand the breeze which blew from the river was very pleasant. She removed\nher hat and laid it on the piano. She went on picking the leaves and\ndigging around the plants with her hat pin. Once she thought she heard\nMademoiselle Reisz approaching. But it was a young black girl, who came\nin, bringing a small bundle of laundry, which she deposited in the\nadjoining room, and went away.\n\nEdna seated herself at the piano, and softly picked out with one hand\nthe bars of a piece of music which lay open before her. A half-hour\nwent by. There was the occasional sound of people going and coming in\nthe lower hall. She was growing interested in her occupation of picking\nout the aria, when there was a second rap at the door. She vaguely\nwondered what these people did when they found Mademoiselle s door\nlocked.\n\n Come in,  she called, turning her face toward the door. And this time\nit was Robert Lebrun who presented himself. She attempted to rise; she\ncould not have done so without betraying the agitation which mastered\nher at sight of him, so she fell back upon the stool, only exclaiming,\n Why, Robert! \n\nHe came and clasped her hand, seemingly without knowing what he was\nsaying or doing.\n\n Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen oh! how well you look! Is\nMademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you. \n\n When did you come back?  asked Edna in an unsteady voice, wiping her\nface with her handkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on the piano stool,\nand he begged her to take the chair by the window.\n\nShe did so, mechanically, while he seated himself on the stool.\n\n I returned day before yesterday,  he answered, while he leaned his arm\non the keys, bringing forth a crash of discordant sound.\n\n Day before yesterday!  she repeated, aloud; and went on thinking to\nherself,  day before yesterday,  in a sort of an uncomprehending way.\nShe had pictured him seeking her at the very first hour, and he had\nlived under the same sky since day before yesterday; while only by\naccident had he stumbled upon her. Mademoiselle must have lied when she\nsaid,  Poor fool, he loves you. \n\n Day before yesterday,  she repeated, breaking off a spray of\nMademoiselle s geranium;  then if you had not met me here to-day you\nwouldn t when that is, didn t you mean to come and see me? \n\n Of course, I should have gone to see you. There have been so many\nthings  he turned the leaves of Mademoiselle s music nervously.  I\nstarted in at once yesterday with the old firm. After all there is as\nmuch chance for me here as there was there that is, I might find it\nprofitable some day. The Mexicans were not very congenial. \n\nSo he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial; because\nbusiness was as profitable here as there; because of any reason, and\nnot because he cared to be near her. She remembered the day she sat on\nthe floor, turning the pages of his letter, seeking the reason which\nwas left untold.\n\nShe had not noticed how he looked only feeling his presence; but she\nturned deliberately and observed him. After all, he had been absent but\na few months, and was not changed. His hair the color of hers waved\nback from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more\nburned than it had been at Grand Isle. She found in his eyes, when he\nlooked at her for one silent moment, the same tender caress, with an\nadded warmth and entreaty which had not been there before the same\nglance which had penetrated to the sleeping places of her soul and\nawakened them.\n\nA hundred times Edna had pictured Robert s return, and imagined their\nfirst meeting. It was usually at her home, whither he had sought her\nout at once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way\nhis love for her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet\napart, she at the window, crushing geranium leaves in her hand and\nsmelling them, he twirling around on the piano stool, saying:\n\n I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier s absence; it s a\nwonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your moving mother told\nme yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with him,\nor to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here with\nhousekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan t have you\nat Grand Isle next summer; it won t seem do you see much of\nMademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters she\nwrote. \n\n Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away? \nA flush overspread his whole face.\n\n I couldn t believe that my letters would be of any interest to you. \n\n That is an excuse; it isn t the truth.  Edna reached for her hat on\nthe piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil\nof hair with some deliberation.\n\n Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?  asked Robert.\n\n No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to\ncome back till late.  She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his\nhat.\n\n Won t you wait for her?  asked Edna.\n\n Not if you think she will not be back till late,  adding, as if\nsuddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech,  and I should miss\nthe pleasure of walking home with you.  Edna locked the door and put\nthe key back in its hiding-place.\n\nThey went together, picking their way across muddy streets and\nsidewalks encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of\nthe distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the\nPontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert\nhad never known the house, and looked at it with interest.\n\n I never knew you in your home,  he remarked.\n\n I am glad you did not. \n\n Why?  She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it\nseemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed\nher into the little house.\n\n You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it\nis so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you. \n\nShe took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some\nexcuse about his mother who expected him; he even muttered something\nabout an engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table;\nit was growing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking\npained, with all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside\nand seated himself.\n\n Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!  he exclaimed. All the\nsoftness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on his\nshoulder.\n\n This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I ll go\ntell Celestine.  She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra\nplace. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which she\nhad not thought of for herself. And she recommended great care in\ndripping the coffee and having the omelet done to a proper turn.\n\nWhen she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and\nthings that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a\nphotograph, and exclaimed:\n\n Alc e Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here? \n\n I tried to make a sketch of his head one day,  answered Edna,  and he\nthought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I\nthought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my\ndrawing materials. \n\n I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with\nit. \n\n Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning\nthem. They don t amount to anything.  Robert kept on looking at the\npicture.\n\n It seems to me do you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend of\nMr. Pontellier s? You never said you knew him. \n\n He isn t a friend of Mr. Pontellier s; he s a friend of mine. I always\nknew him that is, it is only of late that I know him pretty well. But\nI d rather talk about you, and know what you have been seeing and doing\nand feeling out there in Mexico.  Robert threw aside the picture.\n\n I ve been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the\nquiet, grassy street of the _Ch ni re;_ the old fort at Grande Terre.\nI ve been working like a machine, and feeling like a lost soul. There\nwas nothing interesting. \n\nShe leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes from the light.\n\n And what have you been seeing and doing and feeling all these days? \nhe asked.\n\n I ve been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the\nquiet, grassy street of the _Ch ni re Caminada;_ the old sunny fort at\nGrande Terre. I ve been working with a little more comprehension than a\nmachine, and still feeling like a lost soul. There was nothing\ninteresting. \n\n Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel,  he said, with feeling, closing his\neyes and resting his head back in his chair. They remained in silence\ntill old Celestine announced dinner.\n\nXXXIV\n\nThe dining-room was very small. Edna s round mahogany would have almost\nfilled it. As it was there was but a step or two from the little table\nto the kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet, and the side door that\nopened out on the narrow brick-paved yard.\n\nA certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement of\ndinner. There was no return to personalities. Robert related incidents\nof his sojourn in Mexico, and Edna talked of events likely to interest\nhim, which had occurred during his absence. The dinner was of ordinary\nquality, except for the few delicacies which she had sent out to\npurchase. Old Celestine, with a bandana _tignon_ twisted about her\nhead, hobbled in and out, taking a personal interest in everything; and\nshe lingered occasionally to talk patois with Robert, whom she had\nknown as a boy.\n\nHe went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers,\nand when he came back he found that Celestine had served the black\ncoffee in the parlor.\n\n Perhaps I shouldn t have come back,  he said.  When you are tired of\nme, tell me to go. \n\n You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours and hours at\nGrand Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other and used to being\ntogether. \n\n I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle,  he said, not looking at her,\nbut rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch, which he laid upon the\ntable, was a fantastic embroidered silk affair, evidently the handiwork\nof a woman.\n\n You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch,  said Edna, picking\nup the pouch and examining the needlework.\n\n Yes; it was lost. \n\n Where did you buy this one? In Mexico? \n\n It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; they are very generous,  he\nreplied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette.\n\n They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; very\npicturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs. \n\n Some are; others are hideous, just as you find women everywhere. \n\n What was she like the one who gave you the pouch? You must have known\nher very well. \n\n She was very ordinary. She wasn t of the slightest importance. I knew\nher well enough. \n\n Did you visit at her house? Was it interesting? I should like to know\nand hear about the people you met, and the impressions they made on\nyou. \n\n There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the\nimprint of an oar upon the water. \n\n Was she such a one? \n\n It would be ungenerous for me to admit that she was of that order and\nkind.  He thrust the pouch back in his pocket, as if to put away the\nsubject with the trifle which had brought it up.\n\nArobin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman, to say that the\ncard party was postponed on account of the illness of one of her\nchildren.\n\n How do you do, Arobin?  said Robert, rising from the obscurity.\n\n Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterday you were back. How did they\ntreat you down in Mexique? \n\n Fairly well. \n\n But not well enough to keep you there. Stunning girls, though, in\nMexico. I thought I should never get away from Vera Cruz when I was\ndown there a couple of years ago. \n\n Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat-bands and\nthings for you?  asked Edna.\n\n Oh! my! no! I didn t get so deep in their regard. I fear they made\nmore impression on me than I made on them. \n\n You were less fortunate than Robert, then. \n\n I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he been imparting tender\nconfidences? \n\n I ve been imposing myself long enough,  said Robert, rising, and\nshaking hands with Edna.  Please convey my regards to Mr. Pontellier\nwhen you write. \n\nHe shook hands with Arobin and went away.\n\n Fine fellow, that Lebrun,  said Arobin when Robert had gone.  I never\nheard you speak of him. \n\n I knew him last summer at Grand Isle,  she replied.  Here is that\nphotograph of yours. Don t you want it? \n\n What do I want with it? Throw it away.  She threw it back on the\ntable.\n\n I m not going to Mrs. Merriman s,  she said.  If you see her, tell her\nso. But perhaps I had better write. I think I shall write now, and say\nthat I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her not to count on me. \n\n It would be a good scheme,  acquiesced Arobin.  I don t blame you;\nstupid lot! \n\nEdna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to\nwrite the note. Arobin lit a cigar and read the evening paper, which he\nhad in his pocket.\n\n What is the date?  she asked. He told her.\n\n Will you mail this for me when you go out? \n\n Certainly.  He read to her little bits out of the newspaper, while she\nstraightened things on the table.\n\n What do you want to do?  he asked, throwing aside the paper.  Do you\nwant to go out for a walk or a drive or anything? It would be a fine\nnight to drive. \n\n No; I don t want to do anything but just be quiet. You go away and\namuse yourself. Don t stay. \n\n I ll go away if I must; but I shan t amuse myself. You know that I\nonly live when I am near you. \n\nHe stood up to bid her good night.\n\n Is that one of the things you always say to women? \n\n I have said it before, but I don t think I ever came so near meaning\nit,  he answered with a smile. There were no warm lights in her eyes;\nonly a dreamy, absent look.\n\n Good night. I adore you. Sleep well,  he said, and he kissed her hand\nand went away.\n\nShe stayed alone in a kind of reverie a sort of stupor. Step by step\nshe lived over every instant of the time she had been with Robert after\nhe had entered Mademoiselle Reisz s door. She recalled his words, his\nlooks. How few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! A\nvision a transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose before\nher. She writhed with a jealous pang. She wondered when he would come\nback. He had not said he would come back. She had been with him, had\nheard his voice and touched his hand. But some way he had seemed nearer\nto her off there in Mexico.\n\nXXXV\n\nThe morning was full of sunlight and hope. Edna could see before her no\ndenial only the promise of excessive joy. She lay in bed awake, with\nbright eyes full of speculation.  He loves you, poor fool.  If she\ncould but get that conviction firmly fixed in her mind, what mattered\nabout the rest? She felt she had been childish and unwise the night\nbefore in giving herself over to despondency. She recapitulated the\nmotives which no doubt explained Robert s reserve. They were not\ninsurmountable; they would not hold if he really loved her; they could\nnot hold against her own passion, which he must come to realize in\ntime. She pictured him going to his business that morning. She even saw\nhow he was dressed; how he walked down one street, and turned the\ncorner of another; saw him bending over his desk, talking to people who\nentered the office, going to his lunch, and perhaps watching for her on\nthe street. He would come to her in the afternoon or evening, sit and\nroll his cigarette, talk a little, and go away as he had done the night\nbefore. But how delicious it would be to have him there with her! She\nwould have no regrets, nor seek to penetrate his reserve if he still\nchose to wear it.\n\nEdna ate her breakfast only half dressed. The maid brought her a\ndelicious printed scrawl from Raoul, expressing his love, asking her to\nsend him some bonbons, and telling her they had found that morning ten\ntiny white pigs all lying in a row beside Lidie s big white pig.\n\nA letter also came from her husband, saying he hoped to be back early\nin March, and then they would get ready for that journey abroad which\nhe had promised her so long, which he felt now fully able to afford; he\nfelt able to travel as people should, without any thought of small\neconomies thanks to his recent speculations in Wall Street.\n\nMuch to her surprise she received a note from Arobin, written at\nmidnight from the club. It was to say good morning to her, to hope she\nhad slept well, to assure her of his devotion, which he trusted she in\nsome faintest manner returned.\n\nAll these letters were pleasing to her. She answered the children in a\ncheerful frame of mind, promising them bonbons, and congratulating them\nupon their happy find of the little pigs.\n\nShe answered her husband with friendly evasiveness, not with any fixed\ndesign to mislead him, only because all sense of reality had gone out\nof her life; she had abandoned herself to Fate, and awaited the\nconsequences with indifference.\n\nTo Arobin s note she made no reply. She put it under Celestine s\nstove-lid.\n\nEdna worked several hours with much spirit. She saw no one but a\npicture dealer, who asked her if it were true that she was going abroad\nto study in Paris.\n\nShe said possibly she might, and he negotiated with her for some\nParisian studies to reach him in time for the holiday trade in\nDecember.\n\nRobert did not come that day. She was keenly disappointed. He did not\ncome the following day, nor the next. Each morning she awoke with hope,\nand each night she was a prey to despondency. She was tempted to seek\nhim out. But far from yielding to the impulse, she avoided any occasion\nwhich might throw her in his way. She did not go to Mademoiselle\nReisz s nor pass by Madame Lebrun s, as she might have done if he had\nstill been in Mexico.\n\nWhen Arobin, one night, urged her to drive with him, she went out to\nthe lake, on the Shell Road. His horses were full of mettle, and even a\nlittle unmanageable. She liked the rapid gait at which they spun along,\nand the quick, sharp sound of the horses  hoofs on the hard road. They\ndid not stop anywhere to eat or to drink. Arobin was not needlessly\nimprudent. But they ate and they drank when they regained Edna s little\ndining-room which was comparatively early in the evening.\n\nIt was late when he left her. It was getting to be more than a passing\nwhim with Arobin to see her and be with her. He had detected the latent\nsensuality, which unfolded under his delicate sense of her nature s\nrequirements like a torpid, torrid, sensitive blossom.\n\nThere was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was there\nhope when she awoke in the morning.\n\nXXXVI\n\nThere was a garden out in the suburbs; a small, leafy corner, with a\nfew green tables under the orange trees. An old cat slept all day on\nthe stone step in the sun, and an old _mulatresse_ slept her idle hours\naway in her chair at the open window, till some one happened to knock\non one of the green tables. She had milk and cream cheese to sell, and\nbread and butter. There was no one who could make such excellent coffee\nor fry a chicken so golden brown as she.\n\nThe place was too modest to attract the attention of people of fashion,\nand so quiet as to have escaped the notice of those in search of\npleasure and dissipation. Edna had discovered it accidentally one day\nwhen the high-board gate stood ajar. She caught sight of a little green\ntable, blotched with the checkered sunlight that filtered through the\nquivering leaves overhead. Within she had found the slumbering\n_mulatresse_, the drowsy cat, and a glass of milk which reminded her of\nthe milk she had tasted in Iberville.\n\nShe often stopped there during her perambulations; sometimes taking a\nbook with her, and sitting an hour or two under the trees when she\nfound the place deserted. Once or twice she took a quiet dinner there\nalone, having instructed Celestine beforehand to prepare no dinner at\nhome. It was the last place in the city where she would have expected\nto meet any one she knew.\n\nStill she was not astonished when, as she was partaking of a modest\ndinner late in the afternoon, looking into an open book, stroking the\ncat, which had made friends with her she was not greatly astonished to\nsee Robert come in at the tall garden gate.\n\n I am destined to see you only by accident,  she said, shoving the cat\noff the chair beside her. He was surprised, ill at ease, almost\nembarrassed at meeting her thus so unexpectedly.\n\n Do you come here often?  he asked.\n\n I almost live here,  she said.\n\n I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche s good coffee. This\nis the first time since I came back. \n\n She ll bring you a plate, and you will share my dinner. There s always\nenough for two even three.  Edna had intended to be indifferent and as\nreserved as he when she met him; she had reached the determination by a\nlaborious train of reasoning, incident to one of her despondent moods.\nBut her resolve melted when she saw him before designing Providence had\nled him into her path.\n\n Why have you kept away from me, Robert?  she asked, closing the book\nthat lay open upon the table.\n\n Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier? Why do you force me to\nidiotic subterfuges?  he exclaimed with sudden warmth.  I suppose\nthere s no use telling you I ve been very busy, or that I ve been sick,\nor that I ve been to see you and not found you at home. Please let me\noff with any one of these excuses. \n\n You are the embodiment of selfishness,  she said.  You save yourself\nsomething I don t know what but there is some selfish motive, and in\nsparing yourself you never consider for a moment what I think, or how I\nfeel your neglect and indifference. I suppose this is what you would\ncall unwomanly; but I have got into a habit of expressing myself. It\ndoesn t matter to me, and you may think me unwomanly if you like. \n\n No; I only think you cruel, as I said the other day. Maybe not\nintentionally cruel; but you seem to be forcing me into disclosures\nwhich can result in nothing; as if you would have me bare a wound for\nthe pleasure of looking at it, without the intention or power of\nhealing it. \n\n I m spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mind what I say. You haven t\neaten a morsel. \n\n I only came in for a cup of coffee.  His sensitive face was all\ndisfigured with excitement.\n\n Isn t this a delightful place?  she remarked.  I am so glad it has\nnever actually been discovered. It is so quiet, so sweet, here. Do you\nnotice there is scarcely a sound to be heard? It s so out of the way;\nand a good walk from the car. However, I don t mind walking. I always\nfeel so sorry for women who don t like to walk; they miss so much so\nmany rare little glimpses of life; and we women learn so little of life\non the whole.\n\n Catiche s coffee is always hot. I don t know how she manages it, here\nin the open air. Celestine s coffee gets cold bringing it from the\nkitchen to the dining-room. Three lumps! How can you drink it so sweet?\nTake some of the cress with your chop; it s so biting and crisp. Then\nthere s the advantage of being able to smoke with your coffee out here.\nNow, in the city aren t you going to smoke? \n\n After a while,  he said, laying a cigar on the table.\n\n Who gave it to you?  she laughed.\n\n I bought it. I suppose I m getting reckless; I bought a whole box. \nShe was determined not to be personal again and make him uncomfortable.\n\nThe cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when he smoked\nhis cigar. He stroked her silky fur, and talked a little about her. He\nlooked at Edna s book, which he had read; and he told her the end, to\nsave her the trouble of wading through it, he said.\n\nAgain he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after dusk when\nthey reached the little  pigeon-house.  She did not ask him to remain,\nwhich he was grateful for, as it permitted him to stay without the\ndiscomfort of blundering through an excuse which he had no intention of\nconsidering. He helped her to light the lamp; then she went into her\nroom to take off her hat and to bathe her face and hands.\n\nWhen she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and magazines\nas before; he sat off in the shadow, leaning his head back on the chair\nas if in a reverie. Edna lingered a moment beside the table, arranging\nthe books there. Then she went across the room to where he sat. She\nbent over the arm of his chair and called his name.\n\n Robert,  she said,  are you asleep? \n\n No,  he answered, looking up at her.\n\nShe leaned over and kissed him a soft, cool, delicate kiss, whose\nvoluptuous sting penetrated his whole being then she moved away from\nhim. He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding her close to\nhim. She put her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek against her\nown. The action was full of love and tenderness. He sought her lips\nagain. Then he drew her down upon the sofa beside him and held her hand\nin both of his.\n\n Now you know,  he said,  now you know what I have been fighting\nagainst since last summer at Grand Isle; what drove me away and drove\nme back again. \n\n Why have you been fighting against it?  she asked. Her face glowed\nwith soft lights.\n\n Why? Because you were not free; you were L once Pontellier s wife. I\ncouldn t help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long as\nI went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so.  She\nput her free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek,\nrubbing it softly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed.\n\n There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for\nyou. \n\n But not writing to me,  she interrupted.\n\n Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my\nsenses. I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming\nmy wife. \n\n Your wife! \n\n Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared. \n\n Then you must have forgotten that I was L once Pontellier s wife. \n\n Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men\nwho had set their wives free, we have heard of such things. \n\n Yes, we have heard of such things. \n\n I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here \n\n When you got here you never came near me!  She was still caressing his\ncheek.\n\n I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had\nbeen willing. \n\nShe took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would\nnever withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes,\nthe cheeks, and the lips.\n\n You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of\nimpossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I\nam no longer one of Mr. Pontellier s possessions to dispose of or not.\nI give myself where I choose. If he were to say,  Here, Robert, take\nher and be happy; she is yours,  I should laugh at you both. \n\nHis face grew a little white.  What do you mean?  he asked.\n\nThere was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame\nRatignolle s servant had come around the back way with a message that\nMadame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her\nimmediately.\n\n Yes, yes,  said Edna, rising;  I promised. Tell her yes to wait for\nme. I ll go back with her. \n\n Let me walk over with you,  offered Robert.\n\n No,  she said;  I will go with the servant.  She went into her room to\nput on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more upon the\nsofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck.\n\n Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by.  He kissed her with a\ndegree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and\nstrained her to him.\n\n I love you,  she whispered,  only you; no one but you. It was you who\nawoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have\nmade me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered,\nsuffered! Now you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We\nshall be everything to each other. Nothing else in the world is of any\nconsequence. I must go to my friend; but you will wait for me? No\nmatter how late; you will wait for me, Robert? \n\n Don t go; don t go! Oh! Edna, stay with me,  he pleaded.  Why should\nyou go? Stay with me, stay with me. \n\n I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here.  She buried\nher face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice,\ntogether with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had\ndeprived him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her.\n\nXXXVII\n\nEdna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a\nmixture himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny\nglass. He was grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a\ncomfort to his wife. Madame Ratignolle s sister, who had always been\nwith her at such trying times, had not been able to come up from the\nplantation, and Ad le had been inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so\nkindly promised to come to her. The nurse had been with them at night\nfor the past week, as she lived a great distance away. And Dr. Mandelet\nhad been coming and going all the afternoon. They were then looking for\nhim any moment.\n\nEdna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of\nthe store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in a\nback room. Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed\nin her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample\nwhite _peignoir_, holding a handkerchief tight in her hand with a\nnervous clutch. Her face was drawn and pinched, her sweet blue eyes\nhaggard and unnatural. All her beautiful hair had been drawn back and\nplaited. It lay in a long braid on the sofa pillow, coiled like a\ngolden serpent. The nurse, a comfortable looking Griffe woman in white\napron and cap, was urging her to return to her bedroom.\n\n There is no use, there is no use,  she said at once to Edna.  We must\nget rid of Mandelet; he is getting too old and careless. He said he\nwould be here at half-past seven; now it must be eight. See what time\nit is, Jos phine. \n\nThe woman was possessed of a cheerful nature, and refused to take any\nsituation too seriously, especially a situation with which she was so\nfamiliar. She urged Madame to have courage and patience. But Madame\nonly set her teeth hard into her under lip, and Edna saw the sweat\ngather in beads on her white forehead. After a moment or two she\nuttered a profound sigh and wiped her face with the handkerchief rolled\nin a ball. She appeared exhausted. The nurse gave her a fresh\nhandkerchief, sprinkled with cologne water.\n\n This is too much!  she cried.  Mandelet ought to be killed! Where is\nAlphonse? Is it possible I am to be abandoned like this neglected by\nevery one? \n\n Neglected, indeed!  exclaimed the nurse. Wasn t she there? And here\nwas Mrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at home to\ndevote to her? And wasn t Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant\nthrough the hall? And Jos phine was quite sure she had heard Doctor\nMandelet s coup . Yes, there it was, down at the door.\n\nAd le consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little\nlow couch next to her bed.\n\nDoctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle s upbraidings.\nHe was accustomed to them at such times, and was too well convinced of\nher loyalty to doubt it.\n\nHe was glad to see Edna, and wanted her to go with him into the salon\nand entertain him. But Madame Ratignolle would not consent that Edna\nshould leave her for an instant. Between agonizing moments, she chatted\na little, and said it took her mind off her sufferings.\n\nEdna began to feel uneasy. She was seized with a vague dread. Her own\nlike experiences seemed far away, unreal, and only half remembered. She\nrecalled faintly an ecstasy of pain, the heavy odor of chloroform, a\nstupor which had deadened sensation, and an awakening to find a little\nnew life to which she had given being, added to the great unnumbered\nmultitude of souls that come and go.\n\nShe began to wish she had not come; her presence was not necessary. She\nmight have invented a pretext for staying away; she might even invent a\npretext now for going. But Edna did not go. With an inward agony, with\na flaming, outspoken revolt against the ways of Nature, she witnessed\nthe scene of torture.\n\nShe was still stunned and speechless with emotion when later she leaned\nover her friend to kiss her and softly say good-by. Ad le, pressing her\ncheek, whispered in an exhausted voice:  Think of the children, Edna.\nOh think of the children! Remember them! \n\nXXXVIII\n\nEdna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. The\nDoctor s coup  had returned for him and stood before the _porte\ncoch re_. She did not wish to enter the coup , and told Doctor Mandelet\nshe would walk; she was not afraid, and would go alone. He directed his\ncarriage to meet him at Mrs. Pontellier s, and he started to walk home\nwith her.\n\nUp away up, over the narrow street between the tall houses, the stars\nwere blazing. The air was mild and caressing, but cool with the breath\nof spring and the night. They walked slowly, the Doctor with a heavy,\nmeasured tread and his hands behind him; Edna, in an absent-minded way,\nas she had walked one night at Grand Isle, as if her thoughts had gone\nahead of her and she was striving to overtake them.\n\n You shouldn t have been there, Mrs. Pontellier,  he said.  That was no\nplace for you. Ad le is full of whims at such times. There were a dozen\nwomen she might have had with her, unimpressionable women. I felt that\nit was cruel, cruel. You shouldn t have gone. \n\n Oh, well!  she answered, indifferently.  I don t know that it matters\nafter all. One has to think of the children some time or other; the\nsooner the better. \n\n When is L once coming back? \n\n Quite soon. Some time in March. \n\n And you are going abroad? \n\n Perhaps no, I am not going. I m not going to be forced into doing\nthings. I don t want to go abroad. I want to be let alone. Nobody has\nany right except children, perhaps and even then, it seems to me or it\ndid seem  She felt that her speech was voicing the incoherency of her\nthoughts, and stopped abruptly.\n\n The trouble is,  sighed the Doctor, grasping her meaning intuitively,\n that youth is given up to illusions. It seems to be a provision of\nNature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race. And Nature takes no\naccount of moral consequences, of arbitrary conditions which we create,\nand which we feel obliged to maintain at any cost. \n\n Yes,  she said.  The years that are gone seem like dreams if one might\ngo on sleeping and dreaming but to wake up and find oh! well! perhaps\nit is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to\nremain a dupe to illusions all one s life. \n\n It seems to me, my dear child,  said the Doctor at parting, holding\nher hand,  you seem to me to be in trouble. I am not going to ask for\nyour confidence. I will only say that if ever you feel moved to give it\nto me, perhaps I might help you. I know I would understand. And I tell\nyou there are not many who would not many, my dear. \n\n Some way I don t feel moved to speak of things that trouble me. Don t\nthink I am ungrateful or that I don t appreciate your sympathy. There\nare periods of despondency and suffering which take possession of me.\nBut I don t want anything but my own way. That is wanting a good deal,\nof course, when you have to trample upon the lives, the hearts, the\nprejudices of others but no matter still, I shouldn t want to trample\nupon the little lives. Oh! I don t know what I m saying, Doctor. Good\nnight. Don t blame me for anything. \n\n Yes, I will blame you if you don t come and see me soon. We will talk\nof things you never have dreamt of talking about before. It will do us\nboth good. I don t want you to blame yourself, whatever comes. Good\nnight, my child. \n\nShe let herself in at the gate, but instead of entering she sat upon\nthe step of the porch. The night was quiet and soothing. All the\ntearing emotion of the last few hours seemed to fall away from her like\na somber, uncomfortable garment, which she had but to loosen to be rid\nof. She went back to that hour before Ad le had sent for her; and her\nsenses kindled afresh in thinking of Robert s words, the pressure of\nhis arms, and the feeling of his lips upon her own. She could picture\nat that moment no greater bliss on earth than possession of the beloved\none. His expression of love had already given him to her in part. When\nshe thought that he was there at hand, waiting for her, she grew numb\nwith the intoxication of expectancy. It was so late; he would be asleep\nperhaps. She would awaken him with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleep\nthat she might arouse him with her caresses.\n\nStill, she remembered Ad le s voice whispering,  Think of the children;\nthink of them.  She meant to think of them; that determination had\ndriven into her soul like a death wound but not to-night. To-morrow\nwould be time to think of everything.\n\nRobert was not waiting for her in the little parlor. He was nowhere at\nhand. The house was empty. But he had scrawled on a piece of paper that\nlay in the lamplight:\n\n I love you. Good-by because I love you. \n\nEdna grew faint when she read the words. She went and sat on the sofa.\nThen she stretched herself out there, never uttering a sound. She did\nnot sleep. She did not go to bed. The lamp sputtered and went out. She\nwas still awake in the morning, when Celestine unlocked the kitchen\ndoor and came in to light the fire.\n\nXXXIX\n\nVictor, with hammer and nails and scraps of scantling, was patching a\ncorner of one of the galleries. Mariequita sat near by, dangling her\nlegs, watching him work, and handing him nails from the tool-box. The\nsun was beating down upon them. The girl had covered her head with her\napron folded into a square pad. They had been talking for an hour or\nmore. She was never tired of hearing Victor describe the dinner at Mrs.\nPontellier s. He exaggerated every detail, making it appear a veritable\nLucullean feast. The flowers were in tubs, he said. The champagne was\nquaffed from huge golden goblets. Venus rising from the foam could have\npresented no more entrancing a spectacle than Mrs. Pontellier, blazing\nwith beauty and diamonds at the head of the board, while the other\nwomen were all of them youthful houris, possessed of incomparable\ncharms. She got it into her head that Victor was in love with Mrs.\nPontellier, and he gave her evasive answers, framed so as to confirm\nher belief. She grew sullen and cried a little, threatening to go off\nand leave him to his fine ladies. There were a dozen men crazy about\nher at the _Ch ni re;_ and since it was the fashion to be in love with\nmarried people, why, she could run away any time she liked to New\nOrleans with C lina s husband.\n\nC lina s husband was a fool, a coward, and a pig, and to prove it to\nher, Victor intended to hammer his head into a jelly the next time he\nencountered him. This assurance was very consoling to Mariequita. She\ndried her eyes, and grew cheerful at the prospect.\n\nThey were still talking of the dinner and the allurements of city life\nwhen Mrs. Pontellier herself slipped around the corner of the house.\nThe two youngsters stayed dumb with amazement before what they\nconsidered to be an apparition. But it was really she in flesh and\nblood, looking tired and a little travel-stained.\n\n I walked up from the wharf,  she said,  and heard the hammering. I\nsupposed it was you, mending the porch. It s a good thing. I was always\ntripping over those loose planks last summer. How dreary and deserted\neverything looks! \n\nIt took Victor some little time to comprehend that she had come in\nBeaudelet s lugger, that she had come alone, and for no purpose but to\nrest.\n\n There s nothing fixed up yet, you see. I ll give you my room; it s the\nonly place. \n\n Any corner will do,  she assured him.\n\n And if you can stand Philomel s cooking,  he went on,  though I might\ntry to get her mother while you are here. Do you think she would come? \nturning to Mariequita.\n\nMariequita thought that perhaps Philomel s mother might come for a few\ndays, and money enough.\n\nBeholding Mrs. Pontellier make her appearance, the girl had at once\nsuspected a lovers  rendezvous. But Victor s astonishment was so\ngenuine, and Mrs. Pontellier s indifference so apparent, that the\ndisturbing notion did not lodge long in her brain. She contemplated\nwith the greatest interest this woman who gave the most sumptuous\ndinners in America, and who had all the men in New Orleans at her feet.\n\n What time will you have dinner?  asked Edna.  I m very hungry; but\ndon t get anything extra. \n\n I ll have it ready in little or no time,  he said, bustling and\npacking away his tools.  You may go to my room to brush up and rest\nyourself. Mariequita will show you. \n\n Thank you,  said Edna.  But, do you know, I have a notion to go down\nto the beach and take a good wash and even a little swim, before\ndinner? \n\n The water is too cold!  they both exclaimed.  Don t think of it. \n\n Well, I might go down and try dip my toes in. Why, it seems to me the\nsun is hot enough to have warmed the very depths of the ocean. Could\nyou get me a couple of towels? I d better go right away, so as to be\nback in time. It would be a little too chilly if I waited till this\nafternoon. \n\nMariequita ran over to Victor s room, and returned with some towels,\nwhich she gave to Edna.\n\n I hope you have fish for dinner,  said Edna, as she started to walk\naway;  but don t do anything extra if you haven t. \n\n Run and find Philomel s mother,  Victor instructed the girl.  I ll go\nto the kitchen and see what I can do. By Gimminy! Women have no\nconsideration! She might have sent me word. \n\nEdna walked on down to the beach rather mechanically, not noticing\nanything special except that the sun was hot. She was not dwelling upon\nany particular train of thought. She had done all the thinking which\nwas necessary after Robert went away, when she lay awake upon the sofa\ntill morning.\n\nShe had said over and over to herself:  To-day it is Arobin; to-morrow\nit will be some one else. It makes no difference to me, it doesn t\nmatter about L once Pontellier but Raoul and Etienne!  She understood\nnow clearly what she had meant long ago when she said to Ad le\nRatignolle that she would give up the unessential, but she would never\nsacrifice herself for her children.\n\nDespondency had come upon her there in the wakeful night, and had never\nlifted. There was no one thing in the world that she desired. There was\nno human being whom she wanted near her except Robert; and she even\nrealized that the day would come when he, too, and the thought of him\nwould melt out of her existence, leaving her alone. The children\nappeared before her like antagonists who had overcome her; who had\noverpowered and sought to drag her into the soul s slavery for the rest\nof her days. But she knew a way to elude them. She was not thinking of\nthese things when she walked down to the beach.\n\nThe water of the Gulf stretched out before her, gleaming with the\nmillion lights of the sun. The voice of the sea is seductive, never\nceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander\nin abysses of solitude. All along the white beach, up and down, there\nwas no living thing in sight. A bird with a broken wing was beating the\nair above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the\nwater.\n\nEdna had found her old bathing suit still hanging, faded, upon its\naccustomed peg.\n\nShe put it on, leaving her clothing in the bath-house. But when she was\nthere beside the sea, absolutely alone, she cast the unpleasant,\npricking garments from her, and for the first time in her life she\nstood naked in the open air, at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that\nbeat upon her, and the waves that invited her.\n\nHow strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky! how\ndelicious! She felt like some new-born creature, opening its eyes in a\nfamiliar world that it had never known.\n\nThe foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like\nserpents about her ankles. She walked out. The water was chill, but she\nwalked on. The water was deep, but she lifted her white body and\nreached out with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch of the sea is\nsensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.\n\nShe went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far out, and\nrecalled the terror that seized her at the fear of being unable to\nregain the shore. She did not look back now, but went on and on,\nthinking of the blue-grass meadow that she had traversed when a little\nchild, believing that it had no beginning and no end.\n\nHer arms and legs were growing tired.\n\nShe thought of L once and the children. They were a part of her life.\nBut they need not have thought that they could possess her, body and\nsoul. How Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed, perhaps sneered, if\nshe knew!  And you call yourself an artist! What pretensions, Madame!\nThe artist must possess the courageous soul that dares and defies. \n\nExhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her.\n\n Good-by because I love you.  He did not know; he did not understand.\nHe would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet would have\nunderstood if she had seen him but it was too late; the shore was far\nbehind her, and her strength was gone.\n\nShe looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an\ninstant, then sank again. Edna heard her father s voice and her sister\nMargaret s. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the\nsycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked\nacross the porch. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of\npinks filled the air.\n\n\n\n\nBEYOND THE BAYOU\n\n\nThe bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on which La\nFolle s cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay a big abandoned\nfield, where cattle were pastured when the bayou supplied them with\nwater enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regions\nthe woman had drawn an imaginary line, and past this circle she never\nstepped. This was the form of her only mania.\n\nShe was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her real name\nwas Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called her La Folle,\nbecause in childhood she had been frightened literally  out of her\nsenses,  and had never wholly regained them.\n\nIt was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in the\nwoods. Evening was near when P tit Ma tre, black with powder and\ncrimson with blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline s\nmother, his pursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her\nchildish reason.\n\nShe dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters had\nlong since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had more\nphysical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn\nand tobacco like the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou\nshe had long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived.\n\nPeople at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they\nthought nothing of it. Even when  Old Mis  died, they did not wonder\nthat La Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of\nit, wailing and lamenting.\n\nP tit Ma tre was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged man,\nwith a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son whom\nLa Folle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Ch ri, and so\ndid every one else because she did.\n\nNone of the girls had ever been to her what Ch ri was. They had each\nand all loved to be with her, and to listen to her wondrous stories of\nthings that always happened  yonda, beyon  de bayou. \n\nBut none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Ch ri did, nor\nrested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor fallen asleep\nin her arms as he used to do. For Ch ri hardly did such things now,\nsince he had become the proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black\ncurls cut off.\n\nThat summer the summer Ch ri gave La Folle two black curls tied with a\nknot of red ribbon the water ran so low in the bayou that even the\nlittle children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the\ncattle were sent to pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry when\nthey were gone, for she loved these dumb companions well, and liked to\nfeel that they were there, and to hear them browsing by night up to her\nown enclosure.\n\nIt was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men had\nflocked to a neighboring village to do their week s trading, and the\nwomen were occupied with household affairs, La Folle as well as the\nothers. It was then she mended and washed her handful of clothes,\nscoured her house, and did her baking.\n\nIn this last employment she never forgot Ch ri. To-day she had\nfashioned croquignoles of the most fantastic and alluring shapes for\nhim. So when she saw the boy come trudging across the old field with\nhis gleaming little new rifle on his shoulder, she called out gayly to\nhim,  Ch ri! Ch ri! \n\nBut Ch ri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight to her.\nHis pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an orange that\nhe had secured for her from the very fine dinner which had been given\nthat day up at his father s house.\n\nHe was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied his pockets,\nLa Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled hands on her\napron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him as, with his cakes\nin his hand, he crossed her strip of cotton back of the cabin, and\ndisappeared into the wood.\n\nHe had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun out there.\n\n You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?  he had\ninquired, with the calculating air of an experienced hunter.\n\n _Non, non!_  the woman laughed.  Don t you look fo  no deer, Ch ri.\nDat s too big. But you bring La Folle one good fat squirrel fo  her\ndinner to-morrow, an  she goin  be satisfi . \n\n One squirrel ain t a bite. I ll bring you mo   an one, La Folle,  he\nhad boasted pompously as he went away.\n\nWhen the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy s rifle\nclose to the wood s edge, she would have thought nothing of it if a\nsharp cry of distress had not followed the sound.\n\nShe withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had been\nplunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her trembling\nlimbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report had\ncome.\n\nIt was as she feared. There she found Ch ri stretched upon the ground,\nwith his rifle beside him. He moaned piteously: \n\n I m dead, La Folle! I m dead! I m gone! \n\n _Non, non!_  she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside him.  Put\nyou  arm  roun  La Folle s nake, Ch ri. Dat s nuttin ; dat goin  be\nnuttin .  She lifted him in her powerful arms.\n\nCh ri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had stumbled, he did not\nknow how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged somewhere in his leg,\nand he thought that his end was at hand. Now, with his head upon the\nwoman s shoulder, he moaned and wept with pain and fright.\n\n Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can  stan  it, La Folle! \n\n Don t cry, _mon b b , mon b b , mon Ch ri!_  the woman spoke\nsoothingly as she covered the ground with long strides.  La Folle goin \nmine you; Doctor Bonfils goin  come make _mon Ch ri_ well agin. \n\nShe had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with her\nprecious burden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side to\nside. A terrible fear was upon her, the fear of the world beyond the\nbayou, the morbid and insane dread she had been under since childhood.\n\nWhen she was at the bayou s edge she stood there, and shouted for help\nas if a life depended upon it: \n\n Oh, P tit Ma tre! P tit Ma tre! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours! \n\nNo voice responded. Ch ri s hot tears were scalding her neck. She\ncalled for each and every one upon the place, and still no answer came.\n\nShe shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained unheard or\nunheeded, no reply came to her frenzied cries. And all the while Ch ri\nmoaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to his mother.\n\nLa Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme terror was\nupon her. She clasped the child close against her breast, where he\ncould feel her heart beat like a muffled hammer. Then shutting her\neyes, she ran suddenly down the shallow bank of the bayou, and never\nstopped till she had climbed the opposite shore.\n\nShe stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then she\nplunged into the footpath through the trees.\n\nShe spoke no more to Ch ri, but muttered constantly,  Bon Dieu, ayez\npiti  La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez piti  moi! \n\nInstinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear and smooth\nenough before her, she again closed her eyes tightly against the sight\nof that unknown and terrifying world.\n\nA child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared the\nquarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay.\n\n La Folle!  she screamed, in her piercing treble.  La Folle done cross\nde bayer! \n\nQuickly the cry passed down the line of cabins.\n\n Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou! \n\nChildren, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their arms,\nflocked to doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring spectacle. Most\nof them shuddered with superstitious dread of what it might portend.\n She totin  Ch ri!  some of them shouted.\n\nSome of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels,\nonly to fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted face\nupon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a\nwhite foam on her black lips.\n\nSome one had run ahead of her to where P tit Ma tre sat with his family\nand guests upon the gallery.\n\n P tit Ma tre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda\ntotin  Ch ri!  This startling intimation was the first which they had\nof the woman s approach.\n\nShe was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes were\nfixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily, as a tired ox.\n\nAt the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laid\nthe boy in his father s arms. Then the world that had looked red to La\nFolle suddenly turned black, like that day she had seen powder and\nblood.\n\nShe reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she\nfell heavily to the ground.\n\nWhen La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her own\ncabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in through the\nopen door and windows, gave what light was needed to the old black\nmammy who stood at the table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It\nwas very late.\n\nOthers who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had gone\nagain. P tit Ma tre had been there, and with him Doctor Bonfils, who\nsaid that La Folle might die.\n\nBut death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady with\nwhich she spoke to Tante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in a corner.\n\n Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b lieve\nI m goin  sleep, me. \n\nAnd she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without\ncompunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fields\nto her own cabin in the new quarters.\n\nThe first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose,\ncalmly, as if no tempest had shaken and threatened her existence but\nyesterday.\n\nShe donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she remembered\nthat this was Sunday. When she had made for herself a cup of strong\nblack coffee, and drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and\nwalked across the old familiar field to the bayou s edge again.\n\nShe did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with\na long, steady stride as if she had done this all her life.\n\nWhen she had made her way through the brush and scrub cottonwood-trees\nthat lined the opposite bank, she found herself upon the border of a\nfield where the white, bursting cotton, with the dew upon it, gleamed\nfor acres and acres like frosted silver in the early dawn.\n\nLa Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across the country. She\nwalked slowly and uncertainly, like one who hardly knows how, looking\nabout her as she went.\n\nThe cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamor of voices to pursue her,\nwere quiet now. No one was yet astir at Bellissime. Only the birds that\ndarted here and there from hedges were awake, and singing their matins.\n\nWhen La Folle came to the broad stretch of velvety lawn that surrounded\nthe house, she moved slowly and with delight over the springy turf,\nthat was delicious beneath her tread.\n\nShe stopped to find whence came those perfumes that were assailing her\nsenses with memories from a time far gone.\n\nThere they were, stealing up to her from the thousand blue violets that\npeeped out from green, luxuriant beds. There they were, showering down\nfrom the big waxen bells of the magnolias far above her head, and from\nthe jessamine clumps around her.\n\nThere were roses, too, without number. To right and left palms spread\nin broad and graceful curves. It all looked like enchantment beneath\nthe sparkling sheen of dew.\n\nWhen La Folle had slowly and cautiously mounted the many steps that led\nup to the veranda, she turned to look back at the perilous ascent she\nhad made. Then she caught sight of the river, bending like a silver bow\nat the foot of Bellissime. Exultation possessed her soul.\n\nLa Folle rapped softly upon a door near at hand. Ch ri s mother soon\ncautiously opened it. Quickly and cleverly she dissembled the\nastonishment she felt at seeing La Folle.\n\n Ah, La Folle! Is it you, so early? \n\n _Oui_, madame. I come ax how my po  li le Ch ri do,  s mo nin . \n\n He is feeling easier, thank you, La Folle. Dr. Bonfils says it will be\nnothing serious. He s sleeping now. Will you come back when he awakes? \n\n _Non_, madame. I m goin  wait yair tell Ch ri wake up.  La Folle\nseated herself upon the topmost step of the veranda.\n\nA look of wonder and deep content crept into her face as she watched\nfor the first time the sun rise upon the new, the beautiful world\nbeyond the bayou.\n\n\n\n\nMA AME P LAGIE\n\nI\n\nWhen the war began, there stood on C te Joyeuse an imposing mansion of\nred brick, shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oaks\nsurrounded it.\n\nThirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull\nred brick showing here and there through a matted growth of clinging\nvines. The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the\nstone flagging of hall and portico. There had been no home so stately\nalong the whole stretch of C te Joyeuse. Every one knew that, as they\nknew it had cost Philippe Valm t sixty thousand dollars to build, away\nback in 1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as\nhis daughter P lagie survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman of\nfifty.  Ma ame P lagie,  they called her, though she was unmarried, as\nwas her sister Pauline, a child in Ma ame P lagie s eyes; a child of\nthirty-five.\n\nThe two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow\nof the ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma ame P lagie s dream, which\nwas to rebuild the old home.\n\nIt would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish\nthis end; how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the\npicayunes hoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma ame\nP lagie felt sure of twenty years of life before her, and counted upon\nas many more for her sister. And what could not come to pass in\ntwenty in forty years?\n\nOften, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee,\nseated upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of\nLouisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other\nand the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old times\nand planning for the new; while light breezes stirred the tattered\nvines high up among the columns, where owls nested.\n\n We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline,  Ma ame P lagie\nwould say;  perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to be\nreplaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should\nyou be willing, Pauline? \n\n Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing.  It was always,  Yes, Sesoeur, \nor  No, Sesoeur,   Just as you please, Sesoeur,  with poor little\nMam selle Pauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that\nold spendor? Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness\nof a young, uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant\nthe nearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and\nflame through which she was borne safely in the strong arms of P lagie,\nand carried to the log cabin which was still their home. Their brother,\nL andre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much as\nP lagie. He had left the management of the big plantation with all its\nmemories and traditions to his older sister, and had gone away to dwell\nin cities. That was many years ago. Now, L andre s business called him\nfrequently and upon long journeys from home, and his motherless\ndaughter was coming to stay with her aunts at C te Joyeuse.\n\nThey talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico.\nMam selle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into\nher pale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in\nand out incessantly.\n\n But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her?\nHow shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur! \n\n She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours,  responded Ma ame\nP lagie,  and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live;\nher father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it\nif we chose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true\nValm t. \n\nThen Ma ame P lagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle\nher horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the\nfields; and Mam selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled\ngrasses toward the cabin.\n\nThe coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent\natmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these\ntwo, living their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt\nP lagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the\nlight of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink cr pe\nmyrtle. Mam selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma ame P lagie\nlooked into her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a\nlikeness of the past in the living present.\n\nAnd they made room between them for this young life.\n\nII\n\nLa Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange,\nnarrow existence which she knew awaited her at C te Joyeuse. It went\nwell enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma ame P lagie into the\nfields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count\nthe ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her\naunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief\npast, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing\nmoss of the giant oaks.\n\nMam selle Pauline s steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes\nwere sometimes as bright as a bird s, unless La Petite were away from\nher side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy\nexpectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her\nendearingly Tan tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very\nquiet, not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then\nher cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes\nof the white cr pe myrtle that grew in the ruin.\n\nOne day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a\nhand of each, she said:  Tante P lagie, I must tell you something, you\nand Tan tante.  She spoke low, but clearly and firmly.  I love you\nboth, please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from\nyou. I can t live any longer here at C te Joyeuse. \n\nA spasm passed through Mam selle Pauline s delicate frame. La Petite\ncould feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined\nwith her own. Ma ame P lagie remained unchanged and motionless. No\nhuman eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her\nsoul felt. She said:  What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent\nyou to us, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain. \n\n My father loves me, tante P lagie, and such will not be his wish when\nhe knows. Oh!  she continued with a restless movement,  it is as though\na weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the\nlife I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day\nto day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music, my\nbooks, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of\nprivation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life,\nI should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante\nP lagie, you do not need to. It seems to me,  she added in a whisper,\n that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan tante! what is the matter\nwith Tan tante? \n\nIt was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon\npass. She entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her some\nwater and fanned her with a palmetto leaf.\n\nBut that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam selle Pauline sobbed\nand would not be comforted. Ma ame P lagie took her in her arms.\n\n Pauline, my little sister Pauline,  she entreated,  I never have seen\nyou like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happy\ntogether, you and I? \n\n Oh, yes, Sesoeur. \n\n Is it because La Petite is going away? \n\n Yes, Sesoeur. \n\n Then she is dearer to you than I!  spoke Ma ame P lagie with sharp\nresentment.  Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day you\nwere born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could\ncherish you. Pauline, don t tell me that. \n\nMam selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs.\n\n I can t explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don t understand it myself. I\nlove you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes\naway I shall die. I can t understand, help me, Sesoeur. She seems she\nseems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the hand\nand was leading me somewhere somewhere I want to go. \n\nMa ame P lagie had been sitting beside the bed in her _peignoir_ and\nslippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smoothed\ndown the woman s soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silence\nwas broken only by Mam selle Pauline s continued sobs. Once Ma ame\nP lagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which she gave to\nher sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child.\nAlmost an hour passed before Ma ame P lagie spoke again. Then she\nsaid: \n\n Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make\nyourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do you\nunderstand? She will stay, I promise you. \n\nMam selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith\nin the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch of\nMa ame P lagie s strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep.\n\nIII\n\nMa ame P lagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly\nand stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not\nlinger there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she\ncrossed the distance that divided her cabin from the ruin.\n\nThe night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon\nresplendent. But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma ame\nP lagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at\nnight-time, when the whole plantation slept; but she never before had\nbeen there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going there for the\nlast time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto had\ncrowded her days and nights, and to bid them farewell.\n\nThere was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a\nrobust old white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late.\nThere are guests to be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from\nthe city and from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She\nhad been abroad with F lix, and they did not notice how the time was\nspeeding. F lix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside\nher, but she does not want to hear what he will tell her father.\n\nMa ame P lagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so\noften came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm of\nthe window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with\nthe moonlight, for that is faint beside the other one the sparkle from\nthe crystal candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly and\nrespectfully about, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of\nthem reflects and glances from the polished marble pillars!\n\nThe room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien\nSantien, leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something\nwhich Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake.\nHis son Jules is with him Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs.\nShe wonders if F lix has told her father yet. There is young J r me\nLafirme playing at checkers upon the sofa with L andre. Little Pauline\nstands annoying them and disturbing the game. L andre reproves her. She\nbegins to cry, and old black Clementine, her nurse, who is not far off,\nlimps across the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive\nthe little one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself better\nthan she did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor\nand raised a great  bo-bo  on her forehead. P lagie was hurt and angry\nenough about it; and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought\nand laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one s steps were surer.\n\n Il ne faut pas faire mal   Pauline.  She was saying it aloud faire\nmal a Pauline. \n\nBut she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, where\nthe white cr pe myrtle grows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It has\nstruck Ma ame P lagie full on the breast. She does not know it. She is\nbeyond there in the dining hall, where her father sits with a group of\nfriends over their wine. As usual they are talking politics. How\ntiresome! She has heard them say  la guerre  oftener than once. La\nguerre. Bah! She and F lix have something pleasanter to talk about, out\nunder the oaks, or back in the shadow of the oleanders.\n\nBut they were right! The sound of a cannon, shot at Sumter, has rolled\nacross the Southern States, and its echo is heard along the whole\nstretch of C te Joyeuse.\n\nYet P lagie does not believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands before\nher with bare, black arms akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuse and\nof brazen impudence. P lagie wants to kill her. But yet she will not\nbelieve. Not till F lix comes to her in the chamber above the dining\nhall there where that trumpet vine hangs comes to say good-by to her.\nThe hurt which the big brass buttons of his new gray uniform pressed\ninto the tender flesh of her bosom has never left it. She sits upon the\nsofa, and he beside her, both speechless with pain. That room would not\nhave been altered. Even the sofa would have been there in the same\nspot, and Ma ame P lagie had meant all along, for thirty years, all\nalong, to lie there upon it some day when the time came to die.\n\nBut there is no time to weep, with the enemy at the door. The door has\nbeen no barrier. They are clattering through the halls now, drinking\nthe wines, shattering the crystal and glass, slashing the portraits.\n\nOne of them stands before her and tells her to leave the house. She\nslaps his face. How the stigma stands out red as blood upon his\nblanched cheek!\n\nNow there is a roar of fire and the flames are bearing down upon her\nmotionless figure. She wants to show them how a daughter of Louisiana\ncan perish before her conquerors. But little Pauline clings to her\nknees in an agony of terror. Little Pauline must be saved.\n\n Il ne faut pas faire mal   Pauline.  Again she is saying it\naloud faire mal   Pauline. \n\nThe night was nearly spent; Ma ame P lagie had glided from the bench\nupon which she had rested, and for hours lay prone upon the stone\nflagging, motionless. When she dragged herself to her feet it was to\nwalk like one in a dream. About the great, solemn pillars, one after\nthe other, she reached her arms, and pressed her cheek and her lips\nupon the senseless brick.\n\n Adieu, adieu!  whispered Ma ame P lagie.\n\nThere was no longer the moon to guide her steps across the familiar\npathway to the cabin. The brightest light in the sky was Venus, that\nswung low in the east. The bats had ceased to beat their wings about\nthe ruin. Even the mocking-bird that had warbled for hours in the old\nmulberry-tree had sung himself asleep. That darkest hour before the day\nwas mantling the earth. Ma ame P lagie hurried through the wet,\nclinging grass, beating aside the heavy moss that swept across her\nface, walking on toward the cabin toward Pauline. Not once did she look\nback upon the ruin that brooded like a huge monster a black spot in the\ndarkness that enveloped it.\n\nIV\n\nLittle more than a year later the transformation which the old Valm t\nplace had undergone was the talk and wonder of C te Joyeuse. One would\nhave looked in vain for the ruin; it was no longer there; neither was\nthe log cabin. But out in the open, where the sun shone upon it, and\nthe breezes blew about it, was a shapely structure fashioned from woods\nthat the forests of the State had furnished. It rested upon a solid\nfoundation of brick.\n\nUpon a corner of the pleasant gallery sat L andre smoking his afternoon\ncigar, and chatting with neighbors who had called. This was to be his\n_pied   terre_ now; the home where his sisters and his daughter dwelt.\nThe laughter of young people was heard out under the trees, and within\nthe house where La Petite was playing upon the piano. With the\nenthusiasm of a young artist she drew from the keys strains that seemed\nmarvelously beautiful to Mam selle Pauline, who stood enraptured near\nher. Mam selle Pauline had been touched by the re-creation of Valm t.\nHer cheek was as full and almost as flushed as La Petite s. The years\nwere falling away from her.\n\nMa ame P lagie had been conversing with her brother and his friends.\nThen she turned and walked away; stopping to listen awhile to the music\nwhich La Petite was making. But it was only for a moment. She went on\naround the curve of the veranda, where she found herself alone. She\nstayed there, erect, holding to the banister rail and looking out\ncalmly in the distance across the fields.\n\nShe was dressed in black, with the white kerchief she always wore\nfolded across her bosom. Her thick, glossy hair rose like a silver\ndiadem from her brow. In her deep, dark eyes smouldered the light of\nfires that would never flame. She had grown very old. Years instead of\nmonths seemed to have passed over her since the night she bade farewell\nto her visions.\n\nPoor Ma ame P lagie! How could it be different! While the outward\npressure of a young and joyous existence had forced her footsteps into\nthe light, her soul had stayed in the shadow of the ruin.\n\n\n\n\nD SIR E S BABY\n\n\nAs the day was pleasant, Madame Valmond  drove over to L Abri to see\nD sir e and the baby.\n\nIt made her laugh to think of D sir e with a baby. Why, it seemed but\nyesterday that D sir e was little more than a baby herself; when\nMonsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmond  had found her lying\nasleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar.\n\nThe little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for  Dada.  That was\nas much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have\nstrayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The\nprevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of\nTexans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the\nferry that Coton Ma s kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame\nValmond  abandoned every speculation but the one that D sir e had been\nsent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her\naffection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl\ngrew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere, the idol of\nValmond .\n\nIt was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in\nwhose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand\nAubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her.\nThat was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a\npistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he\nhad known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of\neight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that\nday, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or\nlike a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all\nobstacles.\n\nMonsieur Valmond  grew practical and wanted things well considered:\nthat is, the girl s obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did\nnot care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter\nabout a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in\nLouisiana? He ordered the _corbeille_ from Paris, and contained himself\nwith what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.\n\nMadame Valmond  had not seen D sir e and the baby for four weeks. When\nshe reached L Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she\nalways did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not\nknown the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having\nmarried and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own\nland too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like\na cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the\nyellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their\nthick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young\nAubigny s rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had\nforgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master s\neasy-going and indulgent lifetime.\n\nThe young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her\nsoft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her,\nupon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow\nnurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself.\n\nMadame Valmond  bent her portly figure over D sir e and kissed her,\nholding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the\nchild.\n\n This is not the baby!  she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was\nthe language spoken at Valmond  in those days.\n\n I knew you would be astonished,  laughed D sir e,  at the way he has\ngrown. The little _cochon de lait!_ Look at his legs, mamma, and his\nhands and finger-nails, real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them\nthis morning. Isn t it true, Zandrine? \n\nThe woman bowed her turbaned head majestically,  Mais si, Madame. \n\n And the way he cries,  went on D sir e,  is deafening. Armand heard\nhim the other day as far away as La Blanche s cabin. \n\nMadame Valmond  had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted\nit and walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned\nthe baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face\nwas turned to gaze across the fields.\n\n Yes, the child has grown, has changed,  said Madame Valmond , slowly,\nas she replaced it beside its mother.  What does Armand say? \n\nD sir e s face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself.\n\n Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly\nbecause it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not, that he\nwould have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn t true. I know he\nsays that to please me. And mamma,  she added, drawing Madame\nValmond s head down to her, and speaking in a whisper,  he hasn t\npunished one of them not one of them since baby is born. Even\nN grillon, who pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from\nwork he only laughed, and said N grillon was a great scamp. Oh, mamma,\nI m so happy; it frightens me. \n\nWhat D sir e said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son\nhad softened Armand Aubigny s imperious and exacting nature greatly.\nThis was what made the gentle D sir e so happy, for she loved him\ndesperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he\nsmiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand s dark,\nhandsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he\nfell in love with her.\n\nWhen the baby was about three months old, D sir e awoke one day to the\nconviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It\nwas at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting\nsuggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from\nfar-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a\nstrange, an awful change in her husband s manner, which she dared not\nask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes,\nfrom which the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented\nhimself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her\nchild, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to\ntake hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. D sir e was miserable\nenough to die.\n\nShe sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her _peignoir_, listlessly\ndrawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair\nthat hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon\nher own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its\nsatin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche s little quadroon boys half\nnaked too stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock\nfeathers. D sir e s eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the\nbaby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she\nfelt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood\nbeside him, and back again; over and over.  Ah!  It was a cry that she\ncould not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The\nblood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon\nher face.\n\nShe tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come,\nat first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his\nmistress was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan,\nand obediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare\ntiptoes.\n\nShe stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face\nthe picture of fright.\n\nPresently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went\nto a table and began to search among some papers which covered it.\n\n Armand,  she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if\nhe was human. But he did not notice.  Armand,  she said again. Then she\nrose and tottered towards him.  Armand,  she panted once more,\nclutching his arm,  look at our child. What does it mean? tell me. \n\nHe coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust\nthe hand away from him.  Tell me what it means!  she cried\ndespairingly.\n\n It means,  he answered lightly,  that the child is not white; it means\nthat you are not white. \n\nA quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her\nwith unwonted courage to deny it.  It is a lie; it is not true, I am\nwhite! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you\nknow they are gray. And my skin is fair,  seizing his wrist.  Look at\nmy hand; whiter than yours, Armand,  she laughed hysterically.\n\n As white as La Blanche s,  he returned cruelly; and went away leaving\nher alone with their child.\n\nWhen she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to\nMadame Valmond .\n\n My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not\nwhite. For God s sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not\ntrue. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live. \n\nThe answer that came was brief:\n\n My own D sir e: Come home to Valmond ; back to your mother who loves\nyou. Come with your child. \n\nWhen the letter reached D sir e she went with it to her husband s\nstudy, and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like\na stone image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there.\n\nIn silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words.\n\nHe said nothing.  Shall I go, Armand?  she asked in tones sharp with\nagonized suspense.\n\n Yes, go. \n\n Do you want me to go? \n\n Yes, I want you to go. \n\nHe thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and\nfelt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus\ninto his wife s soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the\nunconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name.\n\nShe turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards\nthe door, hoping he would call her back.\n\n Good-by, Armand,  she moaned.\n\nHe did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate.\n\nD sir e went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre\ngallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse s arms with no\nword of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the\nlive-oak branches.\n\nIt was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still\nfields the negroes were picking cotton.\n\nD sir e had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which\nshe wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun s rays brought a golden\ngleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road\nwhich led to the far-off plantation of Valmond . She walked across a\ndeserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so\ndelicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds.\n\nShe disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the\nbanks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again.\n\nSome weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L Abri. In the\ncentre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand\nAubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle;\nand it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which\nkept this fire ablaze.\n\nA graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid\nupon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a\npriceless _layette_. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin\nones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves;\nfor the _corbeille_ had been of rare quality.\n\nThe last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little\nscribblings that D sir e had sent to him during the days of their\nespousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he\ntook them. But it was not D sir e s; it was part of an old letter from\nhis mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the\nblessing of her husband s love: \n\n But above all,  she wrote,  night and day, I thank the good God for\nhaving so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that\nhis mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the\nbrand of slavery. \n\n\n\n\nA RESPECTABLE WOMAN\n\n\nMrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected\nhis friend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation.\n\nThey had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time\nhad also been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild\ndissipation. She was looking forward to a period of unbroken rest, now,\nand undisturbed t te- -t te with her husband, when he informed her that\nGouvernail was coming up to stay a week or two.\n\nThis was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her\nhusband s college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense a\nsociety man or  a man about town,  which were, perhaps, some of the\nreasons she had never met him. But she had unconsciously formed an\nimage of him in her mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical; with\neye-glasses, and his hands in his pockets; and she did not like him.\nGouvernail was slim enough, but he wasn t very tall nor very cynical;\nneither did he wear eyeglasses nor carry his hands in his pockets. And\nshe rather liked him when he first presented himself.\n\nBut why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself\nwhen she partly attempted to do so. She could discover in him none of\nthose brilliant and promising traits which Gaston, her husband, had\noften assured her that he possessed. On the contrary, he sat rather\nmute and receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him feel at home\nand in face of Gaston s frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was as\ncourteous toward her as the most exacting woman could require; but he\nmade no direct appeal to her approval or even esteem.\n\nOnce settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide\nportico in the shade of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his\ncigar lazily and listening attentively to Gaston s experience as a\nsugar planter.\n\n This is what I call living,  he would utter with deep satisfaction, as\nthe air that swept across the sugar field caressed him with its warm\nand scented velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on familiar terms\nwith the big dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves sociably\nagainst his legs. He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness\nto go out and kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so.\n\nGouvernail s personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him.\nIndeed, he was a lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when\nshe could understand him no better than at first, she gave over being\npuzzled and remained piqued. In this mood she left her husband and her\nguest, for the most part, alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail\ntook no manner of exception to her action, she imposed her society upon\nhim, accompanying him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks along\nthe batture. She persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in which\nhe had unconsciously enveloped himself.\n\n When is he going your friend?  she one day asked her husband.  For my\npart, he tires me frightfully. \n\n Not for a week yet, dear. I can t understand; he gives you no\ntrouble. \n\n No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others,\nand I had to plan somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment. \n\nGaston took his wife s pretty face between his hands and looked\ntenderly and laughingly into her troubled eyes.\n\nThey were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda s\ndressing-room.\n\n You are full of surprises, ma belle,  he said to her.  Even I can\nnever count upon how you are going to act under given conditions.  He\nkissed her and turned to fasten his cravat before the mirror.\n\n Here you are,  he went on,  taking poor Gouvernail seriously and\nmaking a commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or expect. \n\n Commotion!  she hotly resented.  Nonsense! How can you say such a\nthing? Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever. \n\n So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That s why\nI asked him here to take a rest. \n\n You used to say he was a man of ideas,  she retorted, unconciliated.\n I expected him to be interesting, at least. I m going to the city in\nthe morning to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me know when Mr.\nGouvernail is gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie s. \n\nThat night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a\nlive oak tree at the edge of the gravel walk.\n\nShe had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused.\nShe could gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct\nnecessity to quit her home in the morning.\n\nMrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern in\nthe darkness only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She\nknew it was Gouvernail, for her husband did not smoke. She hoped to\nremain unnoticed, but her white gown revealed her to him. He threw away\nhis cigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her; without a\nsuspicion that she might object to his presence.\n\n Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda,  he said,\nhanding her a filmy, white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her\nhead and shoulders. She accepted the scarf from him with a murmur of\nthanks, and let it lie in her lap.\n\nHe made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of the\nnight air at the season. Then as his gaze reached out into the\ndarkness, he murmured, half to himself:\n\n     Night of south winds night of the large few stars!\n    Still nodding night \n\nShe made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, was\nnot addressed to her.\n\nGouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not a\nself-conscious one. His periods of reserve were not constitutional, but\nthe result of moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda, his silence\nmelted for the time.\n\nHe talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was not\nunpleasant to hear. He talked of the old college days when he and\nGaston had been a good deal to each other; of the days of keen and\nblind ambitions and large intentions. Now there was left with him, at\nleast, a philosophic acquiescence to the existing order only a desire\nto be permitted to exist, with now and then a little whiff of genuine\nlife, such as he was breathing now.\n\nHer mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical being\nwas for the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his words, only\ndrinking in the tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand in\nthe darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her fingers upon\nthe face or the lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisper\nagainst his cheek she did not care what as she might have done if she\nhad not been a respectable woman.\n\nThe stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further,\nin fact, did she draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without\nan appearance of too great rudeness, she rose and left him there alone.\n\nBefore she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and\nended his apostrophe to the night.\n\nMrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband who was\nalso her friend of this folly that had seized her. But she did not\nyield to the temptation. Beside being a respectable woman she was a\nvery sensible one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a\nhuman being must fight alone.\n\nWhen Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. She\nhad taken an early morning train to the city. She did not return till\nGouvernail was gone from under her roof.\n\nThere was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed.\nThat is, Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his\nwife s strenuous opposition.\n\nHowever, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself, to\nhave Gouvernail visit them again. Her husband was surprised and\ndelighted with the suggestion coming from her.\n\n I am glad, ch re amie, to know that you have finally overcome your\ndislike for him; truly he did not deserve it. \n\n Oh,  she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss upon\nhis lips,  I have overcome everything! you will see. This time I shall\nbe very nice to him. \n\n\n\n\nTHE KISS\n\n\nIt was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtains\ndrawn and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the\nroom was full of deep shadows.\n\nBrantain sat in one of these shadows; it had overtaken him and he did\nnot mind. The obscurity lent him courage to keep his eyes fastened as\nardently as he liked upon the girl who sat in the firelight.\n\nShe was very handsome, with a certain fine, rich coloring that belongs\nto the healthy brune type. She was quite composed, as she idly stroked\nthe satiny coat of the cat that lay curled in her lap, and she\noccasionally sent a slow glance into the shadow where her companion\nsat. They were talking low, of indifferent things which plainly were\nnot the things that occupied their thoughts. She knew that he loved\nher a frank, blustering fellow without guile enough to conceal his\nfeelings, and no desire to do so. For two weeks past he had sought her\nsociety eagerly and persistently. She was confidently waiting for him\nto declare himself and she meant to accept him. The rather\ninsignificant and unattractive Brantain was enormously rich; and she\nliked and required the entourage which wealth could give her.\n\nDuring one of the pauses between their talk of the last tea and the\nnext reception the door opened and a young man entered whom Brantain\nknew quite well. The girl turned her face toward him. A stride or two\nbrought him to her side, and bending over her chair before she could\nsuspect his intention, for she did not realize that he had not seen her\nvisitor he pressed an ardent, lingering kiss upon her lips.\n\nBrantain slowly arose; so did the girl arise, but quickly, and the\nnewcomer stood between them, a little amusement and some defiance\nstruggling with the confusion in his face.\n\n I believe,  stammered Brantain,  I see that I have stayed too long.\nI I had no idea that is, I must wish you good-by.  He was clutching his\nhat with both hands, and probably did not perceive that she was\nextending her hand to him, her presence of mind had not completely\ndeserted her; but she could not have trusted herself to speak.\n\n Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Nattie! I know it s deuced awkward\nfor you. But I hope you ll forgive me this once this very first break.\nWhy, what s the matter? \n\n Don t touch me; don t come near me,  she returned angrily.  What do\nyou mean by entering the house without ringing? \n\n I came in with your brother, as I often do,  he answered coldly, in\nself-justification.  We came in the side way. He went upstairs and I\ncame in here hoping to find you. The explanation is simple enough and\nought to satisfy you that the misadventure was unavoidable. But do say\nthat you forgive me, Nathalie,  he entreated, softening.\n\n Forgive you! You don t know what you are talking about. Let me pass.\nIt depends upon a good deal whether I ever forgive you. \n\nAt that next reception which she and Brantain had been talking about\nshe approached the young man with a delicious frankness of manner when\nshe saw him there.\n\n Will you let me speak to you a moment or two, Mr. Brantain?  she asked\nwith an engaging but perturbed smile. He seemed extremely unhappy; but\nwhen she took his arm and walked away with him, seeking a retired\ncorner, a ray of hope mingled with the almost comical misery of his\nexpression. She was apparently very outspoken.\n\n Perhaps I should not have sought this interview, Mr. Brantain;\nbut but, oh, I have been very uncomfortable, almost miserable since\nthat little encounter the other afternoon. When I thought how you might\nhave misinterpreted it, and believed things hope was plainly gaining\nthe ascendancy over misery in Brantain s round, guileless face Of\ncourse, I know it is nothing to you, but for my own sake I do want you\nto understand that Mr. Harvy is an intimate friend of long standing.\nWhy, we have always been like cousins like brother and sister, I may\nsay. He is my brother s most intimate associate and often fancies that\nhe is entitled to the same privileges as the family. Oh, I know it is\nabsurd, uncalled for, to tell you this; undignified even,  she was\nalmost weeping,  but it makes so much difference to me what you think\nof of me.  Her voice had grown very low and agitated. The misery had\nall disappeared from Brantain s face.\n\n Then you do really care what I think, Miss Nathalie? May I call you\nMiss Nathalie?  They turned into a long, dim corridor that was lined on\neither side with tall, graceful plants. They walked slowly to the very\nend of it. When they turned to retrace their steps Brantain s face was\nradiant and hers was triumphant.\n\nHarvy was among the guests at the wedding; and he sought her out in a\nrare moment when she stood alone.\n\n Your husband,  he said, smiling,  has sent me over to kiss you. \n\nA quick blush suffused her face and round polished throat.  I suppose\nit s natural for a man to feel and act generously on an occasion of\nthis kind. He tells me he doesn t want his marriage to interrupt wholly\nthat pleasant intimacy which has existed between you and me. I don t\nknow what you ve been telling him,  with an insolent smile,  but he has\nsent me here to kiss you. \n\nShe felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces,\nsees the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright and\ntender with a smile as they glanced up into his; and her lips looked\nhungry for the kiss which they invited.\n\n But, you know,  he went on quietly,  I didn t tell him so, it would\nhave seemed ungrateful, but I can tell you. I ve stopped kissing women;\nit s dangerous. \n\nWell, she had Brantain and his million left. A person can t have\neverything in this world; and it was a little unreasonable of her to\nexpect it.\n\n\n\n\nA PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS\n\n\nLittle Mrs. Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of\nfifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the\nway in which it stuffed and bulged her worn old _porte-monnaie_ gave\nher a feeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years.\n\nThe question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a day\nor two she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really\nabsorbed in speculation and calculation. She did not wish to act\nhastily, to do anything she might afterward regret. But it was during\nthe still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving plans in her\nmind that she seemed to see her way clearly toward a proper and\njudicious use of the money.\n\nA dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie s\nshoes, which would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer than\nthey usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new\nshirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to make\nthe old ones do by skilful patching. Mag should have another gown. She\nhad seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shop\nwindows. And still there would be left enough for new stockings two\npairs apiece and what darning that would save for a while! She would\nget caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the girls. The vision of her\nlittle brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives\nexcited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation.\n\nThe neighbors sometimes talked of certain  better days  that little\nMrs. Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs.\nSommers. She herself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had\nno time no second of time to devote to the past. The needs of the\npresent absorbed her every faculty. A vision of the future like some\ndim, gaunt monster sometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never\ncomes.\n\nMrs. Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could stand\nfor hours making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that\nwas selling below cost. She could elbow her way if need be; she had\nlearned to clutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick to it with\npersistence and determination till her turn came to be served, no\nmatter when it came.\n\nBut that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a\nlight luncheon no! when she came to think of it, between getting the\nchildren fed and the place righted, and preparing herself for the\nshopping bout, she had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all!\n\nShe sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was\ncomparatively deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge\nthrough an eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirting\nand figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling had come over her and she\nrested her hand aimlessly upon the counter. She wore no gloves. By\ndegrees she grew aware that her hand had encountered something very\nsoothing, very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand\nlay upon a pile of silk stockings. A placard near by announced that\nthey had been reduced in price from two dollars and fifty cents to one\ndollar and ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who stood behind the\ncounter asked her if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery.\nShe smiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of\ndiamonds with the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on\nfeeling the soft, sheeny luxurious things with both hands now, holding\nthem up to see them glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like\nthrough her fingers.\n\nTwo hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up\nat the girl.\n\n Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these? \n\nThere were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more of\nthat size than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some\nlavender, some all black and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs.\nSommers selected a black pair and looked at them very long and closely.\nShe pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk assured\nher was excellent.\n\n A dollar and ninety-eight cents,  she mused aloud.  Well, I ll take\nthis pair.  She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her\nchange and for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was! It seemed\nlost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag.\n\nMrs. Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain\ncounter. She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor\ninto the region of the ladies  waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired\ncorner, she exchanged her cotton stockings for the new silk ones which\nshe had just bought. She was not going through any acute mental process\nor reasoning with herself, nor was she striving to explain to her\nsatisfaction the motive of her action. She was not thinking at all. She\nseemed for the time to be taking a rest from that laborious and\nfatiguing function and to have abandoned herself to some mechanical\nimpulse that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility.\n\nHow good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like\nlying back in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the\nluxury of it. She did for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes,\nrolled the cotton stockings together and thrust them into her bag.\nAfter doing this she crossed straight over to the shoe department and\ntook her seat to be fitted.\n\nShe was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not\nreconcile her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily\npleased. She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her\nhead another way as she glanced down at the polished, pointed-tipped\nboots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize\nthat they belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an\nexcellent and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her,\nand she did not mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the\nprice so long as she got what she desired.\n\nIt was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On\nrare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always  bargains, \nso cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have\nexpected them to be fitted to the hand.\n\nNow she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a\npretty, pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a\nlong-wristed  kid  over Mrs. Sommers s hand. She smoothed it down over\nthe wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a second\nor two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand.\nBut there were other places where money might be spent.\n\nThere were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few\npaces down the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazines\nsuch as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had been\naccustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping.\nAs well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her\nstockings and boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in her\nbearing had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to\nthe well-dressed multitude.\n\nShe was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings\nfor food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed\nherself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available.\nBut the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertain\nany such thought.\n\nThere was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors;\nfrom the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask\nand shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of\nfashion.\n\nWhen she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation,\nas she had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table\nalone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order.\nShe did not want a profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite a half\ndozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet a\ncr me-frapp e, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a\nsmall cup of black coffee.\n\nWhile waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and\nlaid them beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through\nit, cutting the pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very\nagreeable. The damask was even more spotless than it had seemed through\nthe window, and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet ladies and\ngentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like\nher own. A soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentle\nbreeze was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read\na word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes in\nthe silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted the\nmoney out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon\nhe bowed before her as before a princess of royal blood.\n\nThere was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented\nitself in the shape of a matinee poster.\n\nIt was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun\nand the house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats\nhere and there, and into one of them she was ushered, between\nbrilliantly dressed women who had gone there to kill time and eat candy\nand display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were there\nsolely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no one\npresent who bore quite the attitude which Mrs. Sommers did to her\nsurroundings. She gathered in the whole stage and players and people in\none wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed at the\ncomedy and wept she and the gaudy woman next to her wept over the\ntragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy woman\nwiped her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace\nand passed little Mrs. Sommers her box of candy.\n\nThe play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like a\ndream ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Sommers went to\nthe corner and waited for the cable car.\n\nA man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the study\nof her small, pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there.\nIn truth, he saw nothing unless he were wizard enough to detect a\npoignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stop\nanywhere, but go on and on with her forever.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOCKET\n\n\nI\n\nOne night in autumn a few men were gathered about a fire on the slope\nof a hill. They belonged to a small detachment of Confederate forces\nand were awaiting orders to march. Their gray uniforms were worn beyond\nthe point of shabbiness. One of the men was heating something in a tin\ncup over the embers. Two were lying at full length a little distance\naway, while a fourth was trying to decipher a letter and had drawn\nclose to the light. He had unfastened his collar and a good bit of his\nflannel shirt front.\n\n What s that you got around your neck, Ned?  asked one of the men lying\nin the obscurity.\n\nNed or Edmond mechanically fastened another button of his shirt and did\nnot reply. He went on reading his letter.\n\n Is it your sweet heart s picture? \n\n Taint no gal s picture,  offered the man at the fire. He had removed\nhis tin cup and was engaged in stirring its grimy contents with a small\nstick.  That s a charm; some kind of hoodoo business that one o  them\npriests gave him to keep him out o  trouble. I know them Cath lics.\nThat s how come Frenchy got permoted an never got a scratch sence he s\nbeen in the ranks. Hey, French! aint I right?  Edmond looked up\nabsently from his letter.\n\n What is it?  he asked.\n\n Aint that a charm you got round your neck? \n\n It must be, Nick,  returned Edmond with a smile.  I don t know how I\ncould have gone through this year and a half without it. \n\nThe letter had made Edmond heart sick and home sick. He stretched\nhimself on his back and looked straight up at the blinking stars. But\nhe was not thinking of them nor of anything but a certain spring day\nwhen the bees were humming in the clematis; when a girl was saying good\nbye to him. He could see her as she unclasped from her neck the locket\nwhich she fastened about his own. It was an old fashioned golden locket\nbearing miniatures of her father and mother with their names and the\ndate of their marriage. It was her most precious earthly possession.\nEdmond could feel again the folds of the girl s soft white gown, and\nsee the droop of the angel-sleeves as she circled her fair arms about\nhis neck. Her sweet face, appealing, pathetic, tormented by the pain of\nparting, appeared before him as vividly as life. He turned over,\nburying his face in his arm and there he lay, still and motionless.\n\nThe profound and treacherous night with its silence and semblance of\npeace settled upon the camp. He dreamed that the fair Octavie brought\nhim a letter. He had no chair to offer her and was pained and\nembarrassed at the condition of his garments. He was ashamed of the\npoor food which comprised the dinner at which he begged her to join\nthem.\n\nHe dreamt of a serpent coiling around his throat, and when he strove to\ngrasp it the slimy thing glided away from his clutch. Then his dream\nwas clamor.\n\n Git your duds! you! Frenchy!  Nick was bellowing in his face. There\nwas what appeared to be a scramble and a rush rather than any regulated\nmovement. The hill side was alive with clatter and motion; with sudden\nup-springing lights among the pines. In the east the dawn was unfolding\nout of the darkness. Its glimmer was yet dim in the plain below.\n\n What s it all about?  wondered a big black bird perched in the top of\nthe tallest tree. He was an old solitary and a wise one, yet he was not\nwise enough to guess what it was all about. So all day long he kept\nblinking and wondering.\n\nThe noise reached far out over the plain and across the hills and awoke\nthe little babes that were sleeping in their cradles. The smoke curled\nup toward the sun and shadowed the plain so that the stupid birds\nthought it was going to rain; but the wise one knew better.\n\n They are children playing a game,  thought he.  I shall know more\nabout it if I watch long enough. \n\nAt the approach of night they had all vanished away with their din and\nsmoke. Then the old bird plumed his feathers. At last he had\nunderstood! With a flap of his great, black wings he shot downward,\ncircling toward the plain.\n\nA man was picking his way across the plain. He was dressed in the garb\nof a clergyman. His mission was to administer the consolations of\nreligion to any of the prostrate figures in whom there might yet linger\na spark of life. A negro accompanied him, bearing a bucket of water and\na flask of wine.\n\nThere were no wounded here; they had been borne away. But the retreat\nhad been hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would have to\nlook to the dead.\n\nThere was a soldier a mere boy lying with his face to the sky. His\nhands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nails were\nstuffed with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in his\ndespairing grasp upon life. His musket was gone; he was hatless and his\nface and clothing were begrimed. Around his neck hung a gold chain and\nlocket. The priest, bending over him, unclasped the chain and removed\nit from the dead soldier s neck. He had grown used to the terrors of\nwar and could face them unflinchingly; but its pathos, someway, always\nbrought the tears to his old, dim eyes.\n\nThe angelus was ringing half a mile away. The priest and the negro\nknelt and murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for\nthe dead.\n\nII\n\nThe peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth like\na benediction. Along the leafy road which skirted a narrow, tortuous\nstream in central Louisiana, rumbled an old fashioned cabriolet, much\nthe worse for hard and rough usage over country roads and lanes. The\nfat, black horses went in a slow, measured trot, notwithstanding\nconstant urging on the part of the fat, black coachman. Within the\nvehicle were seated the fair Octavie and her old friend and neighbor,\nJudge Pillier, who had come to take her for a morning drive.\n\nOctavie wore a plain black dress, severe in its simplicity. A narrow\nbelt held it at the waist and the sleeves were gathered into close\nfitting wristbands. She had discarded her hoopskirt and appeared not\nunlike a nun. Beneath the folds of her bodice nestled the old locket.\nShe never displayed it now. It had returned to her sanctified in her\neyes; made precious as material things sometimes are by being forever\nidentified with a significant moment of one s existence.\n\nA hundred times she had read over the letter with which the locket had\ncome back to her. No later than that morning she had again pored over\nit. As she sat beside the window, smoothing the letter out upon her\nknee, heavy and spiced odors stole in to her with the songs of birds\nand the humming of insects in the air.\n\nShe was so young and the world was so beautiful that there came over\nher a sense of unreality as she read again and again the priest s\nletter. He told of that autumn day drawing to its close, with the gold\nand the red fading out of the west, and the night gathering its shadows\nto cover the faces of the dead. Oh! She could not believe that one of\nthose dead was her own! with visage uplifted to the gray sky in an\nagony of supplication. A spasm of resistance and rebellion seized and\nswept over her. Why was the spring here with its flowers and its\nseductive breath if he was dead! Why was she here! What further had she\nto do with life and the living!\n\nOctavie had experienced many such moments of despair, but a blessed\nresignation had never failed to follow, and it fell then upon her like\na mantle and enveloped her.\n\n I shall grow old and quiet and sad like poor Aunt Tavie,  she murmured\nto herself as she folded the letter and replaced it in the secretary.\nAlready she gave herself a little demure air like her Aunt Tavie. She\nwalked with a slow glide in unconscious imitation of Mademoiselle Tavie\nwhom some youthful affliction had robbed of earthly compensation while\nleaving her in possession of youth s illusions.\n\nAs she sat in the old cabriolet beside the father of her dead lover,\nagain there came to Octavie the terrible sense of loss which had\nassailed her so often before. The soul of her youth clamored for its\nrights; for a share in the world s glory and exultation. She leaned\nback and drew her veil a little closer about her face. It was an old\nblack veil of her Aunt Tavie s. A whiff of dust from the road had blown\nin and she wiped her cheeks and her eyes with her soft, white\nhandkerchief, a homemade handkerchief, fabricated from one of her old\nfine muslin petticoats.\n\n Will you do me the favor, Octavie,  requested the judge in the\ncourteous tone which he never abandoned,  to remove that veil which you\nwear. It seems out of harmony, someway, with the beauty and promise of\nthe day. \n\nThe young girl obediently yielded to her old companion s wish and\nunpinning the cumbersome, sombre drapery from her bonnet, folded it\nneatly and laid it upon the seat in front of her.\n\n Ah! that is better; far better!  he said in a tone expressing\nunbounded relief.  Never put it on again, dear.  Octavie felt a little\nhurt; as if he wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden\nof affliction which had been placed upon all of them. Again she drew\nforth the old muslin handkerchief.\n\nThey had left the big road and turned into a level plain which had\nformerly been an old meadow. There were clumps of thorn trees here and\nthere, gorgeous in their spring radiance. Some cattle were grazing off\nin the distance in spots where the grass was tall and luscious. At the\nfar end of the meadow was the towering lilac hedge, skirting the lane\nthat led to Judge Pillier s house, and the scent of its heavy blossoms\nmet them like a soft and tender embrace of welcome.\n\nAs they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around the\ngirl s shoulders and turning her face up to him he said:  Do you not\nthink that on a day like this, miracles might happen? When the whole\nearth is vibrant with life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, that\nheaven might for once relent and give us back our dead?  He spoke very\nlow, advisedly, and impressively. In his voice was an old quaver which\nwas not habitual and there was agitation in every line of his visage.\nShe gazed at him with eyes that were full of supplication and a certain\nterror of joy.\n\nThey had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on one\nside and the open meadow on the other. The horses had somewhat\nquickened their lazy pace. As they turned into the avenue leading to\nthe house, a whole choir of feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent\nof melodious greeting from their leafy hiding places.\n\nOctavie felt as if she had passed into a stage of existence which was\nlike a dream, more poignant and real than life. There was the old gray\nhouse with its sloping eaves. Amid the blur of green, and dimly, she\nsaw familiar faces and heard voices as if they came from far across the\nfields, and Edmond was holding her. Her dead Edmond; her living Edmond,\nand she felt the beating of his heart against her and the agonizing\nrapture of his kisses striving to awake her. It was as if the spirit of\nlife and the awakening spring had given back the soul to her youth and\nbade her rejoice.\n\nIt was many hours later that Octavie drew the locket from her bosom and\nlooked at Edmond with a questioning appeal in her glance.\n\n It was the night before an engagement,  he said.  In the hurry of the\nencounter, and the retreat next day, I never missed it till the fight\nwas over. I thought of course I had lost it in the heat of the\nstruggle, but it was stolen. \n\n Stolen,  she shuddered, and thought of the dead soldier with his face\nuplifted to the sky in an agony of supplication.\n\nEdmond said nothing; but he thought of his messmate; the one who had\nlain far back in the shadow; the one who had said nothing.\n\n\n\n\nA REFLECTION\n\n\nSome people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not only\nenables them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnish\nin their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad\npace. They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend the\nsignificance of things. They do not grow weary nor miss step, nor do\nthey fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplating\nthe moving procession.\n\nAh! that moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Its\nfantastic colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the\nundulating waters. What matter if souls and bodies are falling beneath\nthe feet of the ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majestic\nrhythm of the spheres. Its discordant clashes sweep upward in one\nharmonious tone that blends with the music of other worlds to complete\nGod s orchestra.\n\nIt is greater than the stars that moving procession of human energy;\ngreater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh!\nI could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the\nclouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of\nthese symbols of life s immutability. In the procession I should feel\nthe crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and\nstifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march.\n\n_Salve!_ ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside."
    },
    {
        "title": "Persuasion",
        "author": "Jane Austen",
        "category": "Romance",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I.\n\n\nSir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who,\nfor his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage; there\nhe found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed\none; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by\ncontemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any\nunwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally\ninto pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations\nof the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he\ncould read his own history with an interest which never failed. This\nwas the page at which the favourite volume always opened:\n\n ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL.\n\n\n Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15, 1784, Elizabeth,\ndaughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county of\nGloucester, by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born\nJune 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5,\n1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791. \n\nPrecisely such had the paragraph originally stood from the printer s\nhands; but Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information of\nhimself and his family, these words, after the date of Mary s\nbirth Married, December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles\nMusgrove, Esq. of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset,  and by\ninserting most accurately the day of the month on which he had lost his\nwife.\n\nThen followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable\nfamily, in the usual terms; how it had been first settled in Cheshire;\nhow mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff,\nrepresenting a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of\nloyalty, and dignity of baronet, in the first year of Charles II, with\nall the Marys and Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether two\nhandsome duodecimo pages, and concluding with the arms and\nmotto: Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the county of Somerset,  and\nSir Walter s handwriting again in this finale: \n\n Heir presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq., great grandson of the\nsecond Sir Walter. \n\nVanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter Elliot s character;\nvanity of person and of situation. He had been remarkably handsome in\nhis youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man. Few women\ncould think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could\nthe valet of any new made lord be more delighted with the place he held\nin society. He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to\nthe blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united\nthese gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and\ndevotion.\n\nHis good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment; since\nto them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to any\nthing deserved by his own. Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman,\nsensible and amiable; whose judgement and conduct, if they might be\npardoned the youthful infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, had never\nrequired indulgence afterwards. She had humoured, or softened, or\nconcealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for\nseventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world\nherself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children,\nto attach her to life, and make it no matter of indifference to her\nwhen she was called on to quit them. Three girls, the two eldest\nsixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an\nawful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a\nconceited, silly father. She had, however, one very intimate friend, a\nsensible, deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment\nto herself, to settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch; and on\nher kindness and advice, Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best help\nand maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had\nbeen anxiously giving her daughters.\n\nThis friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been\nanticipated on that head by their acquaintance. Thirteen years had\npassed away since Lady Elliot s death, and they were still near\nneighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other\na widow.\n\nThat Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well\nprovided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no\napology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably\ndiscontented when a woman _does_ marry again, than when she does _not;_\nbut Sir Walter s continuing in singleness requires explanation. Be it\nknown then, that Sir Walter, like a good father, (having met with one\nor two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications),\nprided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters  sake. For\none daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing,\nwhich he had not been very much tempted to do. Elizabeth had succeeded,\nat sixteen, to all that was possible, of her mother s rights and\nconsequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, her\ninfluence had always been great, and they had gone on together most\nhappily. His two other children were of very inferior value. Mary had\nacquired a little artificial importance, by becoming Mrs Charles\nMusgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of\ncharacter, which must have placed her high with any people of real\nunderstanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no\nweight, her convenience was always to give way she was only Anne.\n\nTo Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued\ngod-daughter, favourite, and friend. Lady Russell loved them all; but\nit was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.\n\nA few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her\nbloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had\nfound little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate\nfeatures and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in\nthem, now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. He had\nnever indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in\nany other page of his favourite work. All equality of alliance must\nrest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old\ncountry family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore\n_given_ all the honour and received none: Elizabeth would, one day or\nother, marry suitably.\n\nIt sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she\nwas ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been\nneither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely\nany charm is lost. It was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome\nMiss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter\nmight be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be\ndeemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming\nas ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for he\ncould plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance\nwere growing. Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in the\nneighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow s foot about\nLady Russell s temples had long been a distress to him.\n\nElizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment.\nThirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and\ndirecting with a self-possession and decision which could never have\ngiven the idea of her being younger than she was. For thirteen years\nhad she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at\nhome, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking\nimmediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and\ndining-rooms in the country. Thirteen winters  revolving frosts had\nseen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighbourhood\nafforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelled\nup to London with her father, for a few weeks  annual enjoyment of the\ngreat world. She had the remembrance of all this, she had the\nconsciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and\nsome apprehensions; she was fully satisfied of being still quite as\nhandsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and\nwould have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by\nbaronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two. Then might she again\ntake up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth,\nbut now she liked it not. Always to be presented with the date of her\nown birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister,\nmade the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it\nopen on the table near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, and\npushed it away.\n\nShe had had a disappointment, moreover, which that book, and especially\nthe history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of.\nThe heir presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot, Esq., whose\nrights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed\nher.\n\nShe had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be,\nin the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to\nmarry him, and her father had always meant that she should. He had not\nbeen known to them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot s death, Sir\nWalter had sought the acquaintance, and though his overtures had not\nbeen met with any warmth, he had persevered in seeking it, making\nallowance for the modest drawing-back of youth; and, in one of their\nspring excursions to London, when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr\nElliot had been forced into the introduction.\n\nHe was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the\nlaw; and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his\nfavour was confirmed. He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked of\nand expected all the rest of the year; but he never came. The following\nspring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable, again\nencouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and the\nnext tidings were that he was married. Instead of pushing his fortune\nin the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he had\npurchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of inferior\nbirth.\n\nSir Walter had resented it. As the head of the house, he felt that he\nought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so\npublicly by the hand;  For they must have been seen together,  he\nobserved,  once at Tattersall s, and twice in the lobby of the House of\nCommons.  His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little\nregarded. Mr Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as\nunsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter\nconsidered him unworthy of it: all acquaintance between them had\nceased.\n\nThis very awkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an interval of\nseveral years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man for\nhimself, and still more for being her father s heir, and whose strong\nfamily pride could see only in _him_ a proper match for Sir Walter\nElliot s eldest daughter. There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her\nfeelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal. Yet so\nmiserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present\ntime (the summer of 1814) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could\nnot admit him to be worth thinking of again. The disgrace of his first\nmarriage might, perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it\nperpetuated by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse;\nbut he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind friends, they\nhad been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them all, most\nslightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he belonged to, and\nthe honours which were hereafter to be his own. This could not be\npardoned.\n\nSuch were Elizabeth Elliot s sentiments and sensations; such the cares\nto alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the\nprosperity and the nothingness of her scene of life; such the feelings\nto give interest to a long, uneventful residence in one country circle,\nto fill the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad, no\ntalents or accomplishments for home, to occupy.\n\nBut now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be\nadded to these. Her father was growing distressed for money. She knew,\nthat when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the heavy\nbills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr Shepherd, his\nagent, from his thoughts. The Kellynch property was good, but not equal\nto Sir Walter s apprehension of the state required in its possessor.\nWhile Lady Elliot lived, there had been method, moderation, and\neconomy, which had just kept him within his income; but with her had\ndied all such right-mindedness, and from that period he had been\nconstantly exceeding it. It had not been possible for him to spend\nless; he had done nothing but what Sir Walter Elliot was imperiously\ncalled on to do; but blameless as he was, he was not only growing\ndreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that it became vain\nto attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his daughter. He\nhad given her some hints of it the last spring in town; he had gone so\nfar even as to say,  Can we retrench? Does it occur to you that there\nis any one article in which we can retrench?  and Elizabeth, to do her\njustice, had, in the first ardour of female alarm, set seriously to\nthink what could be done, and had finally proposed these two branches\nof economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities, and to refrain from\nnew furnishing the drawing-room; to which expedients she afterwards\nadded the happy thought of their taking no present down to Anne, as had\nbeen the usual yearly custom. But these measures, however good in\nthemselves, were insufficient for the real extent of the evil, the\nwhole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged to confess to her soon\nafterwards. Elizabeth had nothing to propose of deeper efficacy. She\nfelt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her father; and they were\nneither of them able to devise any means of lessening their expenses\nwithout compromising their dignity, or relinquishing their comforts in\na way not to be borne.\n\nThere was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose\nof; but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no\ndifference. He had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the power,\nbut he would never condescend to sell. No; he would never disgrace his\nname so far. The Kellynch estate should be transmitted whole and\nentire, as he had received it.\n\nTheir two confidential friends, Mr Shepherd, who lived in the\nneighbouring market town, and Lady Russell, were called on to advise them;\nand both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be\nstruck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and\nreduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence\nof taste or pride.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nMr Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold\nor his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the _disagreeable_\nprompted by anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest\nhint, and only begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the\nexcellent judgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he\nfully expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant\nto see finally adopted.\n\nLady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it\nmuch serious consideration. She was a woman rather of sound than of\nquick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this\ninstance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles. She\nwas of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour; but\nshe was as desirous of saving Sir Walter s feelings, as solicitous for\nthe credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was due\nto them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be. She was a\nbenevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments,\nmost correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with\nmanners that were held a standard of good-breeding. She had a\ncultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and\nconsistent but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a\nvalue for rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the\nfaults of those who possessed them. Herself the widow of only a knight,\nshe gave the dignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter,\nindependent of his claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive\nneighbour, an obliging landlord, the husband of her very dear friend,\nthe father of Anne and her sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in her\napprehension, entitled to a great deal of compassion and consideration\nunder his present difficulties.\n\nThey must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt. But she was very\nanxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and\nElizabeth. She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations,\nand she did what nobody else thought of doing: she consulted Anne, who\nnever seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the\nquestion. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in\nmarking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to\nSir Walter. Every emendation of Anne s had been on the side of honesty\nagainst importance. She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete\nreformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of\nindifference for everything but justice and equity.\n\n If we can persuade your father to all this,  said Lady Russell,\nlooking over her paper,  much may be done. If he will adopt these\nregulations, in seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able\nto convince him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability\nin itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the\ntrue dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened in the\neyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle. What will\nhe be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have\ndone, or ought to do? There will be nothing singular in his case; and\nit is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as\nit always does of our conduct. I have great hope of prevailing. We must\nbe serious and decided; for after all, the person who has contracted\ndebts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the feelings of\nthe gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father, there is\nstill more due to the character of an honest man. \n\nThis was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be\nproceeding, his friends to be urging him. She considered it as an act\nof indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all\nthe expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure,\nand saw no dignity in anything short of it. She wanted it to be\nprescribed, and felt as a duty. She rated Lady Russell s influence\nhighly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own\nconscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty\nin persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation. Her\nknowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the\nsacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of\nboth, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell s too gentle\nreductions.\n\nHow Anne s more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little\nconsequence. Lady Russell s had no success at all: could not be put up\nwith, were not to be borne.  What! every comfort of life knocked off!\nJourneys, London, servants, horses, table contractions and restrictions\nevery where! To live no longer with the decencies even of a private\ngentleman! No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once, than remain\nin it on such disgraceful terms. \n\n Quit Kellynch Hall.  The hint was immediately taken up by Mr Shepherd,\nwhose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter s retrenching,\nand who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done without a\nchange of abode.  Since the idea had been started in the very quarter\nwhich ought to dictate, he had no scruple,  he said,  in confessing his\njudgement to be entirely on that side. It did not appear to him that\nSir Walter could materially alter his style of living in a house which\nhad such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity to support. In\nany other place Sir Walter might judge for himself; and would be looked\nup to, as regulating the modes of life in whatever way he might choose\nto model his household. \n\nSir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of\ndoubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was\nsettled, and the first outline of this important change made out.\n\nThere had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in\nthe country. All Anne s wishes had been for the latter. A small house\nin their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell s\nsociety, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes\nseeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her\nambition. But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something\nvery opposite from her inclination fixed on. She disliked Bath, and did\nnot think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home.\n\nSir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt\nthat he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to\ndissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred. It was a much safer\nplace for a gentleman in his predicament: he might there be important\nat comparatively little expense. Two material advantages of Bath over\nLondon had of course been given all their weight: its more convenient\ndistance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell s spending\nsome part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of\nLady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for\nBath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should\nlose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there.\n\nLady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne s known wishes. It\nwould be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in\nhis own neighbourhood. Anne herself would have found the mortifications\nof it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter s feelings they must\nhave been dreadful. And with regard to Anne s dislike of Bath, she\nconsidered it as a prejudice and mistake arising, first, from the\ncircumstance of her having been three years at school there, after her\nmother s death; and secondly, from her happening to be not in perfectly\ngood spirits the only winter which she had afterwards spent there with\nherself.\n\nLady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must\nsuit them all; and as to her young friend s health, by passing all the\nwarm months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided;\nand it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits\ngood. Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits\nwere not high. A larger society would improve them. She wanted her to\nbe more known.\n\nThe undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for\nSir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very\nmaterial part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the\nbeginning. He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands\nof others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir Walter s\nhave found too much. Kellynch Hall was to be let. This, however, was a\nprofound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own circle.\n\nSir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to\ndesign letting his house. Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word\n advertise,  but never dared approach it again. Sir Walter spurned the\nidea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint\nbeing dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the\nsupposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most\nunexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour,\nthat he would let it at all.\n\nHow quick come the reasons for approving what we like! Lady Russell had\nanother excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir Walter\nand his family were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had been\nlately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted. It was\nwith the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an\nunprosperous marriage, to her father s house, with the additional\nburden of two children. She was a clever young woman, who understood\nthe art of pleasing the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall;\nand who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been\nalready staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady\nRussell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of\ncaution and reserve.\n\nLady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and\nseemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because\nElizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than\noutward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had\nnever succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against\nprevious inclination. She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying to\nget Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the\ninjustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut\nher out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth\nthe advantage of her own better judgement and experience; but always in\nvain: Elizabeth would go her own way; and never had she pursued it in\nmore decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs\nClay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her\naffection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her\nbut the object of distant civility.\n\nFrom situation, Mrs Clay was, in Lady Russell s estimate, a very\nunequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion;\nand a removal that would leave Mrs Clay behind, and bring a choice of\nmore suitable intimates within Miss Elliot s reach, was therefore an\nobject of first-rate importance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\n I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter,  said Mr Shepherd one\nmorning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspaper,  that the\npresent juncture is much in our favour. This peace will be turning all\nour rich naval officers ashore. They will be all wanting a home. Could\nnot be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants, very\nresponsible tenants. Many a noble fortune has been made during the war.\nIf a rich admiral were to come in our way, Sir Walter \n\n He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd,  replied Sir Walter;  that s\nall I have to remark. A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him;\nrather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many\nbefore; hey, Shepherd? \n\nMr Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added \n\n I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that, in the way of business,\ngentlemen of the navy are well to deal with. I have had a little\nknowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess\nthat they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make\ndesirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with. Therefore,\nSir Walter, what I would take leave to suggest is, that if in\nconsequence of any rumours getting abroad of your intention; which must\nbe contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult it\nis to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world from the\nnotice and curiosity of the other; consequence has its tax; I, John\nShepherd, might conceal any family-matters that I chose, for nobody\nwould think it worth their while to observe me; but Sir Walter Elliot\nhas eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude; and\ntherefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise\nme if, with all our caution, some rumour of the truth should get\nabroad; in the supposition of which, as I was going to observe, since\napplications will unquestionably follow, I should think any from our\nwealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to; and beg leave\nto add, that two hours will bring me over at any time, to save you the\ntrouble of replying. \n\nSir Walter only nodded. But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the\nroom, he observed sarcastically \n\n There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would\nnot be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description. \n\n They would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune, \nsaid Mrs Clay, for Mrs Clay was present: her father had driven her\nover, nothing being of so much use to Mrs Clay s health as a drive to\nKellynch:  but I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might\nbe a very desirable tenant. I have known a good deal of the profession;\nand besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful in all their\nways! These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if you chose to\nleave them, would be perfectly safe. Everything in and about the house\nwould be taken such excellent care of! The gardens and shrubberies\nwould be kept in almost as high order as they are now. You need not be\nafraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being neglected. \n\n As to all that,  rejoined Sir Walter coolly,  supposing I were induced\nto let my house, I have by no means made up my mind as to the\nprivileges to be annexed to it. I am not particularly disposed to\nfavour a tenant. The park would be open to him of course, and few navy\nofficers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range;\nbut what restrictions I might impose on the use of the\npleasure-grounds, is another thing. I am not fond of the idea of my\nshrubberies being always approachable; and I should recommend Miss\nElliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden. I am very\nlittle disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary\nfavour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier. \n\nAfter a short pause, Mr Shepherd presumed to say \n\n In all these cases, there are established usages which make everything\nplain and easy between landlord and tenant. Your interest, Sir Walter,\nis in pretty safe hands. Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant\nhas more than his just rights. I venture to hint, that Sir Walter\nElliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be\nfor him. \n\nHere Anne spoke \n\n The navy, I think, who have done so much for us, have at least an\nequal claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the\nprivileges which any home can give. Sailors work hard enough for their\ncomforts, we must all allow. \n\n Very true, very true. What Miss Anne says, is very true,  was Mr\nShepherd s rejoinder, and  Oh! certainly,  was his daughter s; but Sir\nWalter s remark was, soon afterwards \n\n The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see any\nfriend of mine belonging to it. \n\n Indeed!  was the reply, and with a look of surprise.\n\n Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two strong grounds of\nobjection to it. First, as being the means of bringing persons of\nobscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which\ntheir fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it\ncuts up a man s youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old\nsooner than any other man. I have observed it all my life. A man is in\ngreater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one whose\nfather, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming\nprematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other line. One\nday last spring, in town, I was in company with two men, striking\ninstances of what I am talking of; Lord St Ives, whose father we all\nknow to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was to give\nplace to Lord St Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most\ndeplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of\nmahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles,\nnine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top.  In\nthe name of heaven, who is that old fellow?  said I to a friend of mine\nwho was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley).  Old fellow!  cried Sir\nBasil,  it is Admiral Baldwin. What do you take his age to be? \n Sixty,  said I,  or perhaps sixty-two.   Forty,  replied Sir Basil,\n forty, and no more.  Picture to yourselves my amazement; I shall not\neasily forget Admiral Baldwin. I never saw quite so wretched an example\nof what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is the\nsame with them all: they are all knocked about, and exposed to every\nclimate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen. It is a\npity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach\nAdmiral Baldwin s age. \n\n Nay, Sir Walter,  cried Mrs Clay,  this is being severe indeed. Have a\nlittle mercy on the poor men. We are not all born to be handsome. The\nsea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I have\nobserved it; they soon lose the look of youth. But then, is not it the\nsame with many other professions, perhaps most other? Soldiers, in\nactive service, are not at all better off: and even in the quieter\nprofessions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the\nbody, which seldom leaves a man s looks to the natural effect of time.\nThe lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is up at all hours,\nand travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman  she stopt a\nmoment to consider what might do for the clergyman; and even the\nclergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose\nhis health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere. In\nfact, as I have long been convinced, though every profession is\nnecessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who\nare not obliged to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the\ncountry, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and\nliving on their own property, without the torment of trying for more;\nit is only _their_ lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a\ngood appearance to the utmost: I know no other set of men but what lose\nsomething of their personableness when they cease to be quite young. \n\nIt seemed as if Mr Shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak Sir Walter s\ngood will towards a naval officer as tenant, had been gifted with\nforesight; for the very first application for the house was from an\nAdmiral Croft, with whom he shortly afterwards fell into company in\nattending the quarter sessions at Taunton; and indeed, he had received\na hint of the Admiral from a London correspondent. By the report which\nhe hastened over to Kellynch to make, Admiral Croft was a native of\nSomersetshire, who having acquired a very handsome fortune, was wishing\nto settle in his own country, and had come down to Taunton in order to\nlook at some advertised places in that immediate neighbourhood, which,\nhowever, had not suited him; that accidentally hearing (it was just as\nhe had foretold, Mr Shepherd observed, Sir Walter s concerns could not\nbe kept a secret,) accidentally hearing of the possibility of Kellynch\nHall being to let, and understanding his (Mr Shepherd s) connection\nwith the owner, he had introduced himself to him in order to make\nparticular inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long\nconference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man\nwho knew it only by description could feel; and given Mr Shepherd, in\nhis explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most\nresponsible, eligible tenant.\n\n And who is Admiral Croft?  was Sir Walter s cold suspicious inquiry.\n\nMr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman s family, and\nmentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed,\nadded \n\n He is a rear admiral of the white. He was in the Trafalgar action, and\nhas been in the East Indies since; he was stationed there, I believe,\nseveral years. \n\n Then I take it for granted,  observed Sir Walter,  that his face is\nabout as orange as the cuffs and capes of my livery. \n\nMr Shepherd hastened to assure him, that Admiral Croft was a very hale,\nhearty, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not\nmuch, and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour; not\nlikely to make the smallest difficulty about terms, only wanted a\ncomfortable home, and to get into it as soon as possible; knew he must\npay for his convenience; knew what rent a ready-furnished house of that\nconsequence might fetch; should not have been surprised if Sir Walter\nhad asked more; had inquired about the manor; would be glad of the\ndeputation, certainly, but made no great point of it; said he sometimes\ntook out a gun, but never killed; quite the gentleman.\n\nMr Shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the\ncircumstances of the Admiral s family, which made him peculiarly\ndesirable as a tenant. He was a married man, and without children; the\nvery state to be wished for. A house was never taken good care of, Mr\nShepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture\nmight not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as\nwhere there were many children. A lady, without a family, was the very\nbest preserver of furniture in the world. He had seen Mrs Croft, too;\nshe was at Taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all\nthe time they were talking the matter over.\n\n And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she seemed to be, \ncontinued he;  asked more questions about the house, and terms, and\ntaxes, than the Admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with\nbusiness; and moreover, Sir Walter, I found she was not quite\nunconnected in this country, any more than her husband; that is to say,\nshe is sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once; she told me\nso herself: sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at\nMonkford. Bless me! what was his name? At this moment I cannot\nrecollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelope, my\ndear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at\nMonkford: Mrs Croft s brother? \n\nBut Mrs Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot, that she did not\nhear the appeal.\n\n I have no conception whom you can mean, Shepherd; I remember no\ngentleman resident at Monkford since the time of old Governor Trent. \n\n Bless me! how very odd! I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose. A\nname that I am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so well\nby sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, I\nremember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer s man\nbreaking into his orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the\nfact; and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an\namicable compromise. Very odd indeed! \n\nAfter waiting another moment \n\n You mean Mr Wentworth, I suppose?  said Anne.\n\nMr Shepherd was all gratitude.\n\n Wentworth was the very name! Mr Wentworth was the very man. He had the\ncuracy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or\nthree years. Came there about the year  5, I take it. You remember\nhim, I am sure. \n\n Wentworth? Oh! ay, Mr Wentworth, the curate of Monkford. You misled me\nby the term _gentleman_. I thought you were speaking of some man of\nproperty: Mr Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected;\nnothing to do with the Strafford family. One wonders how the names of\nmany of our nobility become so common. \n\nAs Mr Shepherd perceived that this connexion of the Crofts did them no\nservice with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all\nhis zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their\nfavour; their age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had\nformed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of\nrenting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the\nhappiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Elliot: an extraordinary\ntaste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of Sir\nWalter s estimate of the dues of a tenant.\n\nIt succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an\nevil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them\ninfinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest\nterms, he was talked into allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the\ntreaty, and authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still\nremained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen.\n\nSir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the\nworld to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials,\nthan Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer. So far went his\nunderstanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in\nthe Admiral s situation in life, which was just high enough, and not\ntoo high.  I have let my house to Admiral Croft,  would sound extremely\nwell; very much better than to any mere _Mr._ ; a _Mr._ (save,\nperhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of\nexplanation. An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same\ntime, can never make a baronet look small. In all their dealings and\nintercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence.\n\nNothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her\ninclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to\nhave it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to\nsuspend decision was uttered by her.\n\nMr Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such an\nend been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to\nthe whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her\nflushed cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a\ngentle sigh,  A few months more, and _he_, perhaps, may be walking\nhere. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\n_He_ was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however\nsuspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his\nbrother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St\nDomingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in\nthe summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half\na year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man,\nwith a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an\nextremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling.\nHalf the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for\nhe had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the\nencounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were\ngradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love.\nIt would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the\nother, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his\ndeclarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.\n\nA short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one.\nTroubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually\nwithholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the\nnegative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a\nprofessed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought it a\nvery degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered\nand pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one.\n\nAnne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw\nherself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement\nwith a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no\nhopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain\nprofession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the\nprofession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to\nthink of! Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by\na stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a\nstate of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence! It must not\nbe, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from\none who had almost a mother s love, and mother s rights, it would be\nprevented.\n\nCaptain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession;\nbut spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing. But he\nwas confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour, he\nknew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that\nwould lead to everything he wanted. He had always been lucky; he knew\nhe should be so still. Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and\nbewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough\nfor Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine\ntemper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on her. She\nsaw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a dangerous\ncharacter to himself. He was brilliant, he was headstrong. Lady Russell\nhad little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to imprudence a\nhorror. She deprecated the connexion in every light.\n\nSuch opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could\ncombat. Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible to\nwithstand her father s ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word or\nlook on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had always\nloved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion, and\nsuch tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain. She was\npersuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing: indiscreet,\nimproper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it. But it was\nnot a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end\nto it. Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than\nher own, she could hardly have given him up. The belief of being\nprudent, and self-denying, principally for _his_ advantage, was her\nchief consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and\nevery consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the\nadditional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and\nunbending, and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a\nrelinquishment. He had left the country in consequence.\n\nA few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance;\nbut not with a few months ended Anne s share of suffering from it. Her\nattachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of\nyouth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting\neffect.\n\nMore than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful\ninterest had reached its close; and time had softened down much,\nperhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too\ndependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place\n(except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty\nor enlargement of society. No one had ever come within the Kellynch\ncircle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he\nstood in her memory. No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural,\nhappy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to\nthe nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, in the\nsmall limits of the society around them. She had been solicited, when\nabout two-and-twenty, to change her name, by the young man, who not\nlong afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger sister; and\nLady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles Musgrove was the\neldest son of a man, whose landed property and general importance were\nsecond in that country, only to Sir Walter s, and of good character and\nappearance; and however Lady Russell might have asked yet for something\nmore, while Anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to see her at\ntwenty-two so respectably removed from the partialities and injustice\nof her father s house, and settled so permanently near herself. But in\nthis case, Anne had left nothing for advice to do; and though Lady\nRussell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the\npast undone, she began now to have the anxiety which borders on\nhopelessness for Anne s being tempted, by some man of talents and\nindependence, to enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly\nfitted by her warm affections and domestic habits.\n\nThey knew not each other s opinion, either its constancy or its change,\non the one leading point of Anne s conduct, for the subject was never\nalluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently\nfrom what she had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame\nLady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her;\nbut she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to\napply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain\nimmediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good. She was persuaded\nthat under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every\nanxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and\ndisappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in\nmaintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it;\nand this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than\nthe usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs,\nwithout reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it\nhappened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be\nreasonably calculated on. All his sanguine expectations, all his\nconfidence had been justified. His genius and ardour had seemed to\nforesee and to command his prosperous path. He had, very soon after\ntheir engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would\nfollow, had taken place. He had distinguished himself, and early gained\nthe other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures, have made\na handsome fortune. She had only navy lists and newspapers for her\nauthority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in favour of\nhis constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.\n\nHow eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were\nher wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful\nconfidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems\nto insult exertion and distrust Providence! She had been forced into\nprudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the\nnatural sequel of an unnatural beginning.\n\nWith all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not\nhear that Captain Wentworth s sister was likely to live at Kellynch\nwithout a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh,\nwere necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. She often told\nherself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently\nto feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no\nevil. She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and\napparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in\nthe secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of\nit. She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell s motives\nin this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all\nthe better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion\namong them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the\nevent of Admiral Croft s really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew\nover the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the\npast being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no\nsyllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that\namong his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had\nreceived any information of their short-lived engagement. That brother\nhad been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and,\nmoreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no\nhuman creature s having heard of it from him.\n\nThe sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her\nhusband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at\nschool while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some,\nand the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards.\n\nWith these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself\nand the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch,\nand Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not\ninvolve any particular awkwardness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nOn the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft s seeing Kellynch\nHall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady\nRussell s, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it\nmost natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing\nthem.\n\nThis meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided\nthe whole business at once. Each lady was previously well disposed for\nan agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the\nother; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good\nhumour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral s side, as\ncould not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into\nhis very best and most polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd s assurances\nof his being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of good\nbreeding.\n\nThe house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were\napproved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr\nShepherd s clerks were set to work, without there having been a single\npreliminary difference to modify of all that  This indenture sheweth. \n\nSir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the\nbest-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say,\nthat if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should\nnot be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with\nsympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through\nthe park,  I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite\nof what they told us at Taunton. The Baronet will never set the Thames\non fire, but there seems to be no harm in him. reciprocal compliments,\nwhich would have been esteemed about equal.\n\nThe Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter\nproposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there\nwas no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement.\n\nLady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any\nuse, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were\ngoing to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon,\nand wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might\nconvey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of\nher own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was\nunable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading\nthe possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and\ngrieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the\nautumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything\nconsidered, she wished to remain. It would be most right, and most\nwise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the\nothers.\n\nSomething occurred, however, to give her a different duty. Mary, often\na little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own\ncomplaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was\nthe matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a\nday s health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it\nwas hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her\ncompany as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath.\n\n I cannot possibly do without Anne,  was Mary s reasoning; and\nElizabeth s reply was,  Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody\nwill want her in Bath. \n\nTo be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least\nbetter than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be\nthought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and\ncertainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own\ndear country, readily agreed to stay.\n\nThis invitation of Mary s removed all Lady Russell s difficulties, and\nit was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till\nLady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be\ndivided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.\n\nSo far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by\nthe wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her,\nwhich was, Mrs Clay s being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and\nElizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in\nall the business before her. Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such\na measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and\nfeared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay s being of so\nmuch use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore aggravation.\n\nAnne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the\nimprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell. With a\ngreat deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often\nwished less, of her father s character, she was sensible that results\nthe most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than\npossible. She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of\nthe kind. Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy\nwrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in her\nabsence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking, and\npossessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely\nmore dangerous attractions than any merely personal might have been.\nAnne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that she could not\nexcuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her sister. She\nhad little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the event of such a\nreverse would be so much more to be pitied than herself, should never,\nshe thought, have reason to reproach her for giving no warning.\n\nShe spoke, and seemed only to offend. Elizabeth could not conceive how\nsuch an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered\nfor each party s perfectly knowing their situation.\n\n Mrs Clay,  said she, warmly,  never forgets who she is; and as I am\nrather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can\nassure you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly\nnice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more\nstrongly than most people. And as to my father, I really should not\nhave thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our\nsakes, need be suspected now. If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman,\nI grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that\nanything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a\ndegrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy. But poor Mrs Clay\nwho, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably\npretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect\nsafety. One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her\npersonal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times. That tooth of\nhers and those freckles. Freckles do not disgust me so very much as\nthey do him. I have known a face not materially disfigured by a few,\nbut he abominates them. You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay s\nfreckles. \n\n There is hardly any personal defect,  replied Anne,  which an\nagreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to. \n\n I think very differently,  answered Elizabeth, shortly;  an agreeable\nmanner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones.\nHowever, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this\npoint than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you\nto be advising me. \n\nAnne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of\ndoing good. Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be\nmade observant by it.\n\nThe last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter,\nMiss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good\nspirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the\nafflicted tenantry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show\nthemselves, and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate\ntranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the first week.\n\nHer friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt\nthis break-up of the family exceedingly. Their respectability was as\ndear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by\nhabit. It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still\nworse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape\nthe solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out\nof the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined\nto make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne.\nAccordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at\nUppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell s journey.\n\nUppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had\nbeen completely in the old English style, containing only two houses\nsuperior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the\nmansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees,\nsubstantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage,\nenclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained\nround its casements; but upon the marriage of the young  squire, it had\nreceived the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for\nhis residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French\nwindows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the\ntraveller s eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and\npremises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on.\n\nHere Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as\nwell as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually\nmeeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other s\nhouse at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary\nalone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost\na matter of course. Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary\nhad not Anne s understanding nor temper. While well, and happy, and\nproperly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits;\nbut any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for\nsolitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot\nself-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of\nfancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person, she was inferior to\nboth sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of\nbeing  a fine girl.  She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty\nlittle drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been\ngradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two\nchildren; and, on Anne s appearing, greeted her with \n\n So, you are come at last! I began to think I should never see you. I\nam so ill I can hardly speak. I have not seen a creature the whole\nmorning! \n\n I am sorry to find you unwell,  replied Anne.  You sent me such a good\naccount of yourself on Thursday! \n\n Yes, I made the best of it; I always do: but I was very far from well\nat the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have\nbeen all this morning: very unfit to be left alone, I am sure. Suppose\nI were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able to\nring the bell! So, Lady Russell would not get out. I do not think she\nhas been in this house three times this summer. \n\nAnne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband.  Oh! Charles\nis out shooting. I have not seen him since seven o clock. He would go,\nthough I told him how ill I was. He said he should not stay out long;\nbut he has never come back, and now it is almost one. I assure you, I\nhave not seen a soul this whole long morning. \n\n You have had your little boys with you? \n\n Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable\nthat they do me more harm than good. Little Charles does not mind a\nword I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad. \n\n Well, you will soon be better now,  replied Anne, cheerfully.  You\nknow I always cure you when I come. How are your neighbours at the\nGreat House? \n\n I can give you no account of them. I have not seen one of them to-day,\nexcept Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but\nwithout getting off his horse; and though I told him how ill I was, not\none of them have been near me. It did not happen to suit the Miss\nMusgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way. \n\n You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone. It is\nearly. \n\n I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh a great deal too\nmuch for me. Oh! Anne, I am so very unwell! It was quite unkind of you\nnot to come on Thursday. \n\n My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of\nyourself! You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were\nperfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you\nmust be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the\nlast: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so\nbusy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have\nleft Kellynch sooner. \n\n Dear me! what can _you_ possibly have to do? \n\n A great many things, I assure you. More than I can recollect in a\nmoment; but I can tell you some. I have been making a duplicate of the\ncatalogue of my father s books and pictures. I have been several times\nin the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him\nunderstand, which of Elizabeth s plants are for Lady Russell. I have\nhad all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide,\nand all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what\nwas intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary,\nof a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as\na sort of take-leave. I was told that they wished it. But all these\nthings took up a great deal of time. \n\n Oh! well!  and after a moment s pause,  but you have never asked me\none word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday. \n\n Did you go then? I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you\nmust have been obliged to give up the party. \n\n Oh yes! I went. I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter\nwith me till this morning. It would have been strange if I had not\ngone. \n\n I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant\nparty. \n\n Nothing remarkable. One always knows beforehand what the dinner will\nbe, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a\ncarriage of one s own. Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so\ncrowded! They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr\nMusgrove always sits forward. So, there was I, crowded into the back\nseat with Henrietta and Louisa; and I think it very likely that my\nillness to-day may be owing to it. \n\nA little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on\nAnne s side produced nearly a cure on Mary s. She could soon sit\nupright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by\ndinner-time. Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end\nof the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and\nthen she was well enough to propose a little walk.\n\n Where shall we go?  said she, when they were ready.  I suppose you\nwill not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see\nyou? \n\n I have not the smallest objection on that account,  replied Anne.  I\nshould never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so\nwell as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves. \n\n Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible. They ought to\nfeel what is due to you as _my_ sister. However, we may as well go and\nsit with them a little while, and when we have that over, we can enjoy\nour walk. \n\nAnne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent;\nbut she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that,\nthough there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither\nfamily could now do without it. To the Great House accordingly they\nwent, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour,\nwith a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters\nof the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a\ngrand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in\nevery direction. Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the\nwainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue\nsatin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an\noverthrow of all order and neatness! The portraits themselves seemed to\nbe staring in astonishment.\n\nThe Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration,\nperhaps of improvement. The father and mother were in the old English\nstyle, and the young people in the new. Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a very\ngood sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and\nnot at all elegant. Their children had more modern minds and manners.\nThere was a numerous family; but the only two grown up, excepting\nCharles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen and\ntwenty, who had brought from school at Exeter all the usual stock of\naccomplishments, and were now like thousands of other young ladies,\nliving to be fashionable, happy, and merry. Their dress had every\nadvantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely\ngood, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence\nat home, and favourites abroad. Anne always contemplated them as some\nof the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we\nall are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for\nthe possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more\nelegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them\nnothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement\ntogether, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known\nso little herself with either of her sisters.\n\nThey were received with great cordiality. Nothing seemed amiss on the\nside of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well\nknew, the least to blame. The half hour was chatted away pleasantly\nenough; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have\ntheir walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary s\nparticular invitation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nAnne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal\nfrom one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three\nmiles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and\nidea. She had never been staying there before, without being struck by\nit, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in\nseeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at\nKellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading\ninterest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now\nsubmit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own\nnothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for\ncertainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which\nhad been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks,\nshe had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in\nthe separate but very similar remark of Mr and Mrs Musgrove:  So, Miss\nAnne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and what part of Bath do you\nthink they will settle in?  and this, without much waiting for an\nanswer; or in the young ladies  addition of,  I hope _we_ shall be in\nBath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a\ngood situation: none of your Queen Squares for us!  or in the anxious\nsupplement from Mary, of Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off,\nwhen you are all gone away to be happy at Bath! \n\nShe could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think\nwith heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one\nsuch truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell.\n\nThe Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own\nhorses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully\noccupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours,\ndress, dancing, and music. She acknowledged it to be very fitting, that\nevery little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of\ndiscourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the\none she was now transplanted into. With the prospect of spending at\nleast two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to\nclothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of\nUppercross as possible.\n\nShe had no dread of these two months. Mary was not so repulsive and\nunsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers;\nneither was there anything among the other component parts of the\ncottage inimical to comfort. She was always on friendly terms with her\nbrother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and\nrespected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of\ninterest, amusement, and wholesome exertion.\n\nCharles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was\nundoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation,\nor grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a\ndangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe,\nwith Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved\nhim; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more\nconsequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and\nelegance to his habits and pursuits. As it was, he did nothing with\nmuch zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without\nbenefit from books or anything else. He had very good spirits, which\nnever seemed much affected by his wife s occasional lowness, bore with\nher unreasonableness sometimes to Anne s admiration, and upon the\nwhole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she\nhad sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both\nparties), they might pass for a happy couple. They were always\nperfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination\nfor a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he\nhad the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such\na present was not made, he always contended for his father s having\nmany other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked.\n\nAs to the management of their children, his theory was much better than\nhis wife s, and his practice not so bad.  I could manage them very\nwell, if it were not for Mary s interference,  was what Anne often\nheard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in\nturn to Mary s reproach of  Charles spoils the children so that I\ncannot get them into any order,  she never had the smallest temptation\nto say,  Very true. \n\nOne of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her\nbeing treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too\nmuch in the secret of the complaints of each house. Known to have some\ninfluence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least\nreceiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable.  I wish you\ncould persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill,  was\nCharles s language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary:  I do\nbelieve if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was\nanything the matter with me. I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might\npersuade him that I really am very ill a great deal worse than I ever\nown. \n\nMary s declaration was,  I hate sending the children to the Great\nHouse, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she\nhumours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much\ntrash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross\nfor the rest of the day.  And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity\nof being alone with Anne, to say,  Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing\nMrs Charles had a little of your method with those children. They are\nquite different creatures with you! But to be sure, in general they are\nso spoilt! It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of\nmanaging them. They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen,\npoor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more\nhow they should be treated ! Bless me! how troublesome they are\nsometimes. I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them\nat our house so often as I otherwise should. I believe Mrs Charles is\nnot quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is\nvery bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking\nevery moment;  don t do this,  and  don t do that;  or that one can\nonly keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them. \n\nShe had this communication, moreover, from Mary.  Mrs Musgrove thinks\nall her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in\nquestion; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper\nhouse-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are\ngadding about the village, all day long. I meet them wherever I go; and\nI declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing something of\nthem. If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the\nworld, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells me, they are\nalways tempting her to take a walk with them.  And on Mrs Musgrove s\nside, it was,  I make a rule of never interfering in any of my\ndaughter-in-law s concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall\ntell _you_, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to rights,\nthat I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles s nursery-maid: I hear\nstrange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own\nknowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is\nenough to ruin any servants she comes near. Mrs Charles quite swears by\nher, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the\nwatch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of\nmentioning it. \n\nAgain, it was Mary s complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to\ngive her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great\nHouse with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was\nto be considered so much at home as to lose her place. And one day when\nAnne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after talking of\nrank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said,  I have no scruple of\nobserving to _you_, how nonsensical some persons are about their place,\nbecause all the world knows how easy and indifferent you are about it;\nbut I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would be a great deal\nbetter if she were not so very tenacious, especially if she would not\nbe always putting herself forward to take place of mamma. Nobody doubts\nher right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be more becoming in\nher not to be always insisting on it. It is not that mamma cares about\nit the least in the world, but I know it is taken notice of by many\npersons. \n\nHow was Anne to set all these matters to rights? She could do little\nmore than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to\nthe other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between\nsuch near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant\nfor her sister s benefit.\n\nIn all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well. Her own\nspirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed three\nmiles from Kellynch; Mary s ailments lessened by having a constant\ncompanion, and their daily intercourse with the other family, since\nthere was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment in the\ncottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage. It was\ncertainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every\nmorning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed\nthey should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs\nMusgrove s respectable forms in the usual places, or without the\ntalking, laughing, and singing of their daughters.\n\nShe played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but\nhaving no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit\nby and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought\nof, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well\naware. She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to\nherself; but this was no new sensation. Excepting one short period of\nher life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the\nloss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or\nencouraged by any just appreciation or real taste. In music she had\nbeen always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove s\nfond partiality for their own daughters  performance, and total\nindifference to any other person s, gave her much more pleasure for\ntheir sakes, than mortification for her own.\n\nThe party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company.\nThe neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by\neverybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors\nby invitation and by chance, than any other family. They were more\ncompletely popular.\n\nThe girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally,\nin an unpremeditated little ball. There was a family of cousins within\na walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on\nthe Musgroves for all their pleasures: they would come at any time, and\nhelp play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much\npreferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country\ndances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always\nrecommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove\nmore than anything else, and often drew this compliment; Well done,\nMiss Anne! very well done indeed! Lord bless me! how those little\nfingers of yours fly about! \n\nSo passed the first three weeks. Michaelmas came; and now Anne s heart\nmust be in Kellynch again. A beloved home made over to others; all the\nprecious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own\nother eyes and other limbs! She could not think of much else on the\n29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening\nfrom Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month,\nexclaimed,  Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to\nKellynch? I am glad I did not think of it before. How low it makes me! \n\nThe Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be\nvisited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself.  Nobody knew how much\nshe should suffer. She should put it off as long as she could;  but was\nnot easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on an early\nday, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary\nagitation, when she came back. Anne had very sincerely rejoiced in\nthere being no means of her going. She wished, however, to see the\nCrofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned. They\ncame: the master of the house was not at home, but the two sisters were\ntogether; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the share of Anne,\nwhile the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very agreeable by his\ngood-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well able to watch for\na likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to catch it in the\nvoice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression.\n\nMrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness,\nand vigour of form, which gave importance to her person. She had bright\ndark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though her\nreddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her having\nbeen almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have lived\nsome years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty. Her\nmanners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust of\nherself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to\ncoarseness, however, or any want of good humour. Anne gave her credit,\nindeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all\nthat related to Kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had\nsatisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of\nintroduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge\nor suspicion on Mrs Croft s side, to give a bias of any sort. She was\nquite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage,\ntill for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft s suddenly saying, \n\n It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the\npleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country. \n\nAnne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion\nshe certainly had not.\n\n Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?  added Mrs Croft.\n\nShe could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs\nCroft s next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke,\nthat she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She\nimmediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be\nthinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame\nat her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their\nformer neighbour s present state with proper interest.\n\nThe rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she\nheard the Admiral say to Mary \n\n We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft s here soon; I dare say you\nknow him by name. \n\nHe was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to\nhim like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too\nmuch engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets,\n&c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had\nbegun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that\nthe same brother must still be in question. She could not, however,\nreach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether\nanything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the\nCrofts had previously been calling.\n\nThe folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at\nthe Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to\nbe made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the\nyoungest Miss Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to apologize, and\nthat they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the first\nblack idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa made\nall right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more room for\nthe harp, which was bringing in the carriage.\n\n And I will tell you our reason,  she added,  and all about it. I am\ncome on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this\nevening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard! And\nwe agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse her\nmore than the piano-forte. I will tell you why she is out of spirits.\nWhen the Crofts called this morning, (they called here afterwards, did\nnot they?), they happened to say, that her brother, Captain Wentworth,\nis just returned to England, or paid off, or something, and is coming\nto see them almost directly; and most unluckily it came into mamma s\nhead, when they were gone, that Wentworth, or something very like it,\nwas the name of poor Richard s captain at one time; I do not know when\nor where, but a great while before he died, poor fellow! And upon\nlooking over his letters and things, she found it was so, and is\nperfectly sure that this must be the very man, and her head is quite\nfull of it, and of poor Richard! So we must be as merry as we can, that\nshe may not be dwelling upon such gloomy things. \n\nThe real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were,\nthat the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome,\nhopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his\ntwentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and\nunmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any\ntime by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard\nof, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death\nabroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.\n\nHe had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for\nhim, by calling him  poor Richard,  been nothing better than a\nthick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done\nanything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name,\nliving or dead.\n\nHe had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those\nremovals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such\nmidshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on\nboard Captain Frederick Wentworth s frigate, the Laconia; and from the\nLaconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only\ntwo letters which his father and mother had ever received from him\nduring the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two\ndisinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for\nmoney.\n\nIn each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little\nwere they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and\nincurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made\nscarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have\nbeen suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of\nWentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary\nbursts of mind which do sometimes occur.\n\nShe had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the\nre-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son\ngone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had\naffected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for\nhim than she had known on first hearing of his death. Mr Musgrove was,\nin a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the\ncottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew\non this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful\ncompanions could give them.\n\nTo hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name\nso often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it\n_might_, that it probably _would_, turn out to be the very same Captain\nWentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their\ncoming back from Clifton a very fine young man but they could not say\nwhether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to\nAnne s nerves. She found, however, that it was one to which she must\ninure herself. Since he actually was expected in the country, she must\nteach herself to be insensible on such points. And not only did it\nappear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their\nwarm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high\nrespect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick s having been\nsix months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not\nperfectly well-spelt praise, as  a fine dashing felow, only two\nperticular about the schoolmaster,  were bent on introducing\nthemselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of\nhis arrival.\n\nThe resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nA very few days more, and Captain Wentworth was known to be at\nKellynch, and Mr Musgrove had called on him, and come back warm in his\npraise, and he was engaged with the Crofts to dine at Uppercross, by\nthe end of another week. It had been a great disappointment to Mr\nMusgrove to find that no earlier day could be fixed, so impatient was\nhe to shew his gratitude, by seeing Captain Wentworth under his own\nroof, and welcoming him to all that was strongest and best in his\ncellars. But a week must pass; only a week, in Anne s reckoning, and\nthen, she supposed, they must meet; and soon she began to wish that she\ncould feel secure even for a week.\n\nCaptain Wentworth made a very early return to Mr Musgrove s civility,\nand she was all but calling there in the same half hour. She and Mary\nwere actually setting forward for the Great House, where, as she\nafterwards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were\nstopped by the eldest boy s being at that moment brought home in\nconsequence of a bad fall. The child s situation put the visit entirely\naside; but she could not hear of her escape with indifference, even in\nthe midst of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on his\naccount.\n\nHis collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in\nthe back, as roused the most alarming ideas. It was an afternoon of\ndistress, and Anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to\nsend for, the father to have pursued and informed, the mother to\nsupport and keep from hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest\nchild to banish, and the poor suffering one to attend and soothe;\nbesides sending, as soon as she recollected it, proper notice to the\nother house, which brought her an accession rather of frightened,\nenquiring companions, than of very useful assistants.\n\nHer brother s return was the first comfort; he could take best care of\nhis wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary.\nTill he came and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the\nworse for being vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where;\nbut now the collar-bone was soon replaced, and though Mr Robinson felt\nand felt, and rubbed, and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the\nfather and the aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be\nable to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind; and then\nit was, just before they parted, that the two young aunts were able so\nfar to digress from their nephew s state, as to give the information of\nCaptain Wentworth s visit; staying five minutes behind their father and\nmother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted they were with\nhim, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they thought him\nthan any individual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all\na favourite before. How glad they had been to hear papa invite him to\nstay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his power, and\nhow glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and mamma s\nfarther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the\nmorrow actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a\nmanner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he\nought. And in short, he had looked and said everything with such\nexquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both\nturned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and\napparently more full of Captain Wentworth than of little Charles.\n\nThe same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls\ncame with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make\nenquiries; and Mr Musgrove, no longer under the first uneasiness about\nhis heir, could add his confirmation and praise, and hope there would\nbe now no occasion for putting Captain Wentworth off, and only be sorry\nto think that the cottage party, probably, would not like to leave the\nlittle boy, to give him the meeting.  Oh no; as to leaving the little\nboy,  both father and mother were in much too strong and recent alarm\nto bear the thought; and Anne, in the joy of the escape, could not help\nadding her warm protestations to theirs.\n\nCharles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards, shewed more of inclination;  the\nchild was going on so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to\nCaptain Wentworth, that, perhaps, he might join them in the evening; he\nwould not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour.  But\nin this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with  Oh! no, indeed,\nCharles, I cannot bear to have you go away. Only think if anything\nshould happen? \n\nThe child had a good night, and was going on well the next day. It must\nbe a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the\nspine; but Mr Robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles\nMusgrove began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer\nconfinement. The child was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as\npossible; but what was there for a father to do? This was quite a\nfemale case, and it would be highly absurd in him, who could be of no\nuse at home, to shut himself up. His father very much wished him to\nmeet Captain Wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason against\nit, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a bold, public\ndeclaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to dress\ndirectly, and dine at the other house.\n\n Nothing can be going on better than the child,  said he;  so I told my\nfather, just now, that I would come, and he thought me quite right.\nYour sister being with you, my love, I have no scruple at all. You\nwould not like to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use.\nAnne will send for me if anything is the matter. \n\nHusbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain.\nMary knew, from Charles s manner of speaking, that he was quite\ndetermined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him. She\nsaid nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as\nthere was only Anne to hear \n\n So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick\nchild; and not a creature coming near us all the evening! I knew how it\nwould be. This is always my luck. If there is anything disagreeable\ngoing on men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles is as bad as\nany of them. Very unfeeling! I must say it is very unfeeling of him to\nbe running away from his poor little boy. Talks of his being going on\nso well! How does he know that he is going on well, or that there may\nnot be a sudden change half an hour hence? I did not think Charles\nwould have been so unfeeling. So here he is to go away and enjoy\nhimself, and because I am the poor mother, I am not to be allowed to\nstir; and yet, I am sure, I am more unfit than anybody else to be about\nthe child. My being the mother is the very reason why my feelings\nshould not be tried. I am not at all equal to it. You saw how\nhysterical I was yesterday. \n\n But that was only the effect of the suddenness of your alarm of the\nshock. You will not be hysterical again. I dare say we shall have\nnothing to distress us. I perfectly understand Mr Robinson s\ndirections, and have no fears; and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at\nyour husband. Nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his province.\nA sick child is always the mother s property: her own feelings\ngenerally make it so. \n\n I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother, but I do not know that\nI am of any more use in the sick-room than Charles, for I cannot be\nalways scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw,\nthis morning, that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin\nkicking about. I have not nerves for the sort of thing. \n\n But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole\nevening away from the poor boy? \n\n Yes; you see his papa can, and why should not I? Jemima is so careful;\nand she could send us word every hour how he was. I really think\nCharles might as well have told his father we would all come. I am not\nmore alarmed about little Charles now than he is. I was dreadfully\nalarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-day. \n\n Well, if you do not think it too late to give notice for yourself,\nsuppose you were to go, as well as your husband. Leave little Charles\nto my care. Mr and Mrs Musgrove cannot think it wrong while I remain\nwith him. \n\n Are you serious?  cried Mary, her eyes brightening.  Dear me! that s a\nvery good thought, very good, indeed. To be sure, I may just as well go\nas not, for I am of no use at home am I? and it only harasses me. You,\nwho have not a mother s feelings, are a great deal the properest\nperson. You can make little Charles do anything; he always minds you at\na word. It will be a great deal better than leaving him only with\nJemima. Oh! I shall certainly go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as\nmuch as Charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with\nCaptain Wentworth, and I know you do not mind being left alone. An\nexcellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne. I will go and tell Charles,\nand get ready directly. You can send for us, you know, at a moment s\nnotice, if anything is the matter; but I dare say there will be nothing\nto alarm you. I should not go, you may be sure, if I did not feel quite\nat ease about my dear child. \n\nThe next moment she was tapping at her husband s dressing-room door,\nand as Anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole\nconversation, which began with Mary s saying, in a tone of great\nexultation \n\n I mean to go with you, Charles, for I am of no more use at home than\nyou are. If I were to shut myself up for ever with the child, I should\nnot be able to persuade him to do anything he did not like. Anne will\nstay; Anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him. It is\nAnne s own proposal, and so I shall go with you, which will be a great\ndeal better, for I have not dined at the other house since Tuesday. \n\n This is very kind of Anne,  was her husband s answer,  and I should be\nvery glad to have you go; but it seems rather hard that she should be\nleft at home by herself, to nurse our sick child. \n\nAnne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her\nmanner being soon sufficient to convince him, where conviction was at\nleast very agreeable, he had no farther scruples as to her being left\nto dine alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the evening,\nwhen the child might be at rest for the night, and kindly urged her to\nlet him come and fetch her, but she was quite unpersuadable; and this\nbeing the case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off\ntogether in high spirits. They were gone, she hoped, to be happy,\nhowever oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself,\nshe was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever\nlikely to be hers. She knew herself to be of the first utility to the\nchild; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth were only half a\nmile distant, making himself agreeable to others?\n\nShe would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting. Perhaps\nindifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances. He\nmust be either indifferent or unwilling. Had he wished ever to see her\nagain, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what\nshe could not but believe that in his place she should have done long\nago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone\nhad been wanting.\n\nHer brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance,\nand their visit in general. There had been music, singing, talking,\nlaughing, all that was most agreeable; charming manners in Captain\nWentworth, no shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other\nperfectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot with\nCharles. He was to come to breakfast, but not at the Cottage, though\nthat had been proposed at first; but then he had been pressed to come\nto the Great House instead, and he seemed afraid of being in Mrs\nCharles Musgrove s way, on account of the child, and therefore,\nsomehow, they hardly knew how, it ended in Charles s being to meet him\nto breakfast at his father s.\n\nAnne understood it. He wished to avoid seeing her. He had inquired\nafter her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight\nacquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged,\nactuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they\nwere to meet.\n\nThe morning hours of the Cottage were always later than those of the\nother house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that Mary\nand Anne were not more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to\nsay that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs,\nthat his sisters were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters\nmeaning to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Wentworth proposing\nalso to wait on her for a few minutes if not inconvenient; and though\nCharles had answered for the child s being in no such state as could\nmake it inconvenient, Captain Wentworth would not be satisfied without\nhis running on to give notice.\n\nMary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive\nhim, while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the\nmost consoling, that it would soon be over. And it was soon over. In\ntwo minutes after Charles s preparation, the others appeared; they were\nin the drawing-room. Her eye half met Captain Wentworth s, a bow, a\ncurtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that\nwas right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy\nfooting; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few\nminutes ended it. Charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready,\ntheir visitor had bowed and was gone, the Miss Musgroves were gone too,\nsuddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village with the\nsportsmen: the room was cleared, and Anne might finish her breakfast as\nshe could.\n\n It is over! it is over!  she repeated to herself again and again, in\nnervous gratitude.  The worst is over! \n\nMary talked, but she could not attend. She had seen him. They had met.\nThey had been once more in the same room.\n\nSoon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling\nless. Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been\ngiven up. How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an\ninterval had banished into distance and indistinctness! What might not\neight years do? Events of every description, changes, alienations,\nremovals all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past \nhow natural, how certain too! It included nearly a third part of her\nown life.\n\nAlas! with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings\neight years may be little more than nothing.\n\nNow, how were his sentiments to be read? Was this like wishing to avoid\nher? And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly which\nasked the question.\n\nOn one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have\nprevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the Miss\nMusgroves had returned and finished their visit at the Cottage she had\nthis spontaneous information from Mary: \n\n Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so\nattentive to me. Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they\nwent away, and he said,  You were so altered he should not have known\nyou again. \n\nMary had no feelings to make her respect her sister s in a common way,\nbut she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar\nwound.\n\n Altered beyond his knowledge.  Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep\nmortification. Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for\nhe was not altered, or not for the worse. She had already acknowledged\nit to herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of\nher as he would. No: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom\nhad only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no respect\nlessening his personal advantages. She had seen the same Frederick\nWentworth.\n\n So altered that he should not have known her again!  These were words\nwhich could not but dwell with her. Yet she soon began to rejoice that\nshe had heard them. They were of sobering tendency; they allayed\nagitation; they composed, and consequently must make her happier.\n\nFrederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but\nwithout an idea that they would be carried round to her. He had thought\nher wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had spoken\nas he felt. He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. She had used him ill,\ndeserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a feebleness of\ncharacter in doing so, which his own decided, confident temper could\nnot endure. She had given him up to oblige others. It had been the\neffect of over-persuasion. It had been weakness and timidity.\n\nHe had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman\nsince whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural\nsensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again. Her\npower with him was gone for ever.\n\nIt was now his object to marry. He was rich, and being turned on shore,\nfully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly tempted;\nactually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the speed which\na clear head and a quick taste could allow. He had a heart for either\nof the Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in short, for\nany pleasing young woman who came in his way, excepting Anne Elliot.\nThis was his only secret exception, when he said to his sister, in\nanswer to her suppositions: \n\n Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a foolish match. Anybody\nbetween fifteen and thirty may have me for asking. A little beauty, and\na few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost man.\nShould not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society among\nwomen to make him nice? \n\nHe said it, she knew, to be contradicted. His bright proud eye spoke\nthe conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot was not out of his\nthoughts, when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to\nmeet with.  A strong mind, with sweetness of manner,  made the first\nand the last of the description.\n\n That is the woman I want,  said he.  Something a little inferior I\nshall of course put up with, but it must not be much. If I am a fool, I\nshall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than\nmost men. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nFrom this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the\nsame circle. They were soon dining in company together at Mr\nMusgrove s, for the little boy s state could no longer supply his aunt\nwith a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning\nof other dinings and other meetings.\n\nWhether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the\nproof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of\neach; _they_ could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement\ncould not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions\nwhich conversation called forth. His profession qualified him, his\ndisposition lead him, to talk; and  _That_ was in the year six; \n _That_ happened before I went to sea in the year six,  occurred in the\ncourse of the first evening they spent together: and though his voice\ndid not falter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye\nwandering towards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter\nimpossibility, from her knowledge of his mind, that he could be\nunvisited by remembrance any more than herself. There must be the same\nimmediate association of thought, though she was very far from\nconceiving it to be of equal pain.\n\nThey had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the\ncommonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing!\nThere _had_ been a time, when of all the large party now filling the\ndrawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to\ncease to speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral\nand Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could\nallow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could\nhave been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so\nin unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay,\nworse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a\nperpetual estrangement.\n\nWhen he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind.\nThere was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the\nparty; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two Miss\nMusgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the\nmanner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, &c., and\ntheir surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation\nand arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant\nridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been\nignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be\nliving on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if\nthere were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use.\n\nFrom thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs\nMusgrove s who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying \n\n Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare\nsay he would have been just such another by this time. \n\nAnne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove\nrelieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore,\ncould not keep pace with the conversation of the others.\n\nWhen she could let her attention take its natural course again, she\nfound the Miss Musgroves just fetching the Navy List (their own navy\nlist, the first that had ever been at Uppercross), and sitting down\ntogether to pore over it, with the professed view of finding out the\nships that Captain Wentworth had commanded.\n\n Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp. \n\n You will not find her there. Quite worn out and broken up. I was the\nlast man who commanded her. Hardly fit for service then. Reported fit\nfor home service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West\nIndies. \n\nThe girls looked all amazement.\n\n The Admiralty,  he continued,  entertain themselves now and then, with\nsending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed. But\nthey have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that may\njust as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to\ndistinguish the very set who may be least missed. \n\n Phoo! phoo!  cried the Admiral,  what stuff these young fellows talk!\nNever was a better sloop than the Asp in her day. For an old built\nsloop, you would not see her equal. Lucky fellow to get her! He knows\nthere must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at\nthe same time. Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more\ninterest than his. \n\n I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;  replied Captain Wentworth,\nseriously.  I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can\ndesire. It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very\ngreat object, I wanted to be doing something. \n\n To be sure you did. What should a young fellow like you do ashore for\nhalf a year together? If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be\nafloat again. \n\n But, Captain Wentworth,  cried Louisa,  how vexed you must have been\nwhen you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given you. \n\n I knew pretty well what she was before that day;  said he, smiling.  I\nhad no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the fashion\nand strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among\nhalf your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which at\nlast, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself. Ah! she was a dear old\nAsp to me. She did all that I wanted. I knew she would. I knew that we\nshould either go to the bottom together, or that she would be the\nmaking of me; and I never had two days of foul weather all the time I\nwas at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very\nentertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn,\nto fall in with the very French frigate I wanted. I brought her into\nPlymouth; and here another instance of luck. We had not been six hours\nin the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights,\nand which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch\nwith the Great Nation not having much improved our condition.\nFour-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant\nCaptain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the\nnewspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought\nabout me.  Anne s shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss\nMusgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations\nof pity and horror.\n\n And so then, I suppose,  said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if\nthinking aloud,  so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met\nwith our poor boy. Charles, my dear,  (beckoning him to her),  do ask\nCaptain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I\nalways forgot. \n\n It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at\nGibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain\nWentworth. \n\n Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of\nmentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to\nhear him talked of by such a good friend. \n\nCharles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case,\nonly nodded in reply, and walked away.\n\nThe girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could\nnot deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his\nown hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little\nstatement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class,\nobserving over it that she too had been one of the best friends man\never had.\n\n Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia! How fast I made\nmoney in her. A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together\noff the Western Islands. Poor Harville, sister! You know how much he\nwanted money: worse than myself. He had a wife. Excellent fellow. I\nshall never forget his happiness. He felt it all, so much for her sake.\nI wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the same luck\nin the Mediterranean. \n\n And I am sure, Sir,  said Mrs Musgrove,  it was a lucky day for _us_,\nwhen you were put captain into that ship. _We_ shall never forget what\nyou did. \n\nHer feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in\npart, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts,\nlooked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more.\n\n My brother,  whispered one of the girls;  mamma is thinking of poor\nRichard. \n\n Poor dear fellow!  continued Mrs Musgrove;  he was grown so steady,\nand such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! Ah!\nit would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you. I assure\nyou, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you. \n\nThere was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth s face at this\nspeech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome\nmouth, which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove s\nkind wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get\nrid of him; but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to\nbe detected by any who understood him less than herself; in another\nmoment he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly\nafterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were\nsitting, took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with\nher, in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and\nnatural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all that was\nreal and unabsurd in the parent s feelings.\n\nThey were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily\nmade room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove. It was no\ninsignificant barrier, indeed. Mrs Musgrove was of a comfortable,\nsubstantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good\ncheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the\nagitations of Anne s slender form, and pensive face, may be considered\nas very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some\ncredit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat\nsighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.\n\nPersonal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary\nproportions. A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep\naffliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world. But, fair\nor not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will\npatronize in vain which taste cannot tolerate which ridicule will\nseize.\n\nThe Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room\nwith his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came\nup to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation of what he might\nbe interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with \n\n If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Frederick, you\nwould have been asked to give a passage to Lady Mary Grierson and her\ndaughters. \n\n Should I? I am glad I was not a week later then. \n\nThe Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry. He defended himself;\nthough professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on\nboard a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few\nhours might comprehend.\n\n But, if I know myself,  said he,  this is from no want of gallantry\ntowards them. It is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all\none s efforts, and all one s sacrifices, to make the accommodations on\nboard such as women ought to have. There can be no want of gallantry,\nAdmiral, in rating the claims of women to every personal comfort\n_high_, and this is what I do. I hate to hear of women on board, or to\nsee them on board; and no ship under my command shall ever convey a\nfamily of ladies anywhere, if I can help it. \n\nThis brought his sister upon him.\n\n Oh! Frederick! But I cannot believe it of you. All idle\nrefinement! Women may be as comfortable on board, as in the best house\nin England. I believe I have lived as much on board as most women, and\nI know nothing superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war. I\ndeclare I have not a comfort or an indulgence about me, even at\nKellynch Hall,  (with a kind bow to Anne),  beyond what I always had in\nmost of the ships I have lived in; and they have been five altogether. \n\n Nothing to the purpose,  replied her brother.  You were living with\nyour husband, and were the only woman on board. \n\n But you, yourself, brought Mrs Harville, her sister, her cousin, and\nthree children, round from Portsmouth to Plymouth. Where was this\nsuperfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then? \n\n All merged in my friendship, Sophia. I would assist any brother\nofficer s wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville s\nfrom the world s end, if he wanted it. But do not imagine that I did\nnot feel it an evil in itself. \n\n Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable. \n\n I might not like them the better for that perhaps. Such a number of\nwomen and children have no _right_ to be comfortable on board. \n\n My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly. Pray, what would become\nof us poor sailors  wives, who often want to be conveyed to one port or\nanother, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings? \n\n My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs Harville and all\nher family to Plymouth. \n\n But I hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if\nwomen were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures. We none of\nus expect to be in smooth water all our days. \n\n Ah! my dear,  said the Admiral,  when he has got a wife, he will sing\na different tune. When he is married, if we have the good luck to live\nto another war, we shall see him do as you and I, and a great many\nothers, have done. We shall have him very thankful to anybody that will\nbring him his wife. \n\n Ay, that we shall. \n\n Now I have done,  cried Captain Wentworth.  When once married people\nbegin to attack me with, Oh! you will think very differently, when you\nare married.  I can only say,  No, I shall not;  and then they say\nagain,  Yes, you will,  and there is an end of it. \n\nHe got up and moved away.\n\n What a great traveller you must have been, ma am!  said Mrs Musgrove\nto Mrs Croft.\n\n Pretty well, ma am, in the fifteen years of my marriage; though many\nwomen have done more. I have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have\nbeen once to the East Indies, and back again, and only once; besides\nbeing in different places about home: Cork, and Lisbon, and Gibraltar.\nBut I never went beyond the Streights, and never was in the West\nIndies. We do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies. \n\nMrs Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse\nherself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her\nlife.\n\n And I do assure you, ma am,  pursued Mrs Croft,  that nothing can\nexceed the accommodations of a man-of-war; I speak, you know, of the\nhigher rates. When you come to a frigate, of course, you are more\nconfined; though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy in one of\nthem; and I can safely say, that the happiest part of my life has been\nspent on board a ship. While we were together, you know, there was\nnothing to be feared. Thank God! I have always been blessed with\nexcellent health, and no climate disagrees with me. A little disordered\nalways the first twenty-four hours of going to sea, but never knew what\nsickness was afterwards. The only time I ever really suffered in body\nor mind, the only time that I ever fancied myself unwell, or had any\nideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by myself at Deal, when\nthe Admiral (_Captain_ Croft then) was in the North Seas. I lived in\nperpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of imaginary\ncomplaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I should\nhear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing ever\nailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience. \n\n Aye, to be sure. Yes, indeed, oh yes! I am quite of your opinion, Mrs\nCroft,  was Mrs Musgrove s hearty answer.  There is nothing so bad as a\nseparation. I am quite of your opinion. _I_ know what it is, for Mr\nMusgrove always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are\nover, and he is safe back again. \n\nThe evening ended with dancing. On its being proposed, Anne offered her\nservices, as usual; and though her eyes would sometimes fill with tears\nas she sat at the instrument, she was extremely glad to be employed,\nand desired nothing in return but to be unobserved.\n\nIt was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than\nCaptain Wentworth. She felt that he had every thing to elevate him\nwhich general attention and deference, and especially the attention of\nall the young women, could do. The Miss Hayters, the females of the\nfamily of cousins already mentioned, were apparently admitted to the\nhonour of being in love with him; and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they\nboth seemed so entirely occupied by him, that nothing but the continued\nappearance of the most perfect good-will between themselves could have\nmade it credible that they were not decided rivals. If he were a little\nspoilt by such universal, such eager admiration, who could wonder?\n\nThese were some of the thoughts which occupied Anne, while her fingers\nwere mechanically at work, proceeding for half an hour together,\nequally without error, and without consciousness. _Once_ she felt that\nhe was looking at herself, observing her altered features, perhaps,\ntrying to trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed\nhim; and _once_ she knew that he must have spoken of her; she was\nhardly aware of it, till she heard the answer; but then she was sure of\nhis having asked his partner whether Miss Elliot never danced? The\nanswer was,  Oh, no; never; she has quite given up dancing. She had\nrather play. She is never tired of playing.  Once, too, he spoke to\nher. She had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and he had\nsat down to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss\nMusgroves an idea of. Unintentionally she returned to that part of the\nroom; he saw her, and, instantly rising, said, with studied politeness \n\n I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;  and though she\nimmediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced\nto sit down again.\n\nAnne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches. His cold\npoliteness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nCaptain Wentworth was come to Kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as\nhe liked, being as thoroughly the object of the Admiral s fraternal\nkindness as of his wife s. He had intended, on first arriving, to\nproceed very soon into Shropshire, and visit the brother settled in\nthat country, but the attractions of Uppercross induced him to put this\noff. There was so much of friendliness, and of flattery, and of\neverything most bewitching in his reception there; the old were so\nhospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve to\nremain where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of\nEdward s wife upon credit a little longer.\n\nIt was soon Uppercross with him almost every day. The Musgroves could\nhardly be more ready to invite than he to come, particularly in the\nmorning, when he had no companion at home, for the Admiral and Mrs\nCroft were generally out of doors together, interesting themselves in\ntheir new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling about\nin a way not endurable to a third person, or driving out in a gig,\nlately added to their establishment.\n\nHitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain Wentworth among the\nMusgroves and their dependencies. It was unvarying, warm admiration\neverywhere; but this intimate footing was not more than established,\nwhen a certain Charles Hayter returned among them, to be a good deal\ndisturbed by it, and to think Captain Wentworth very much in the way.\n\nCharles Hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and a very amiable,\npleasing young man, between whom and Henrietta there had been a\nconsiderable appearance of attachment previous to Captain Wentworth s\nintroduction. He was in orders; and having a curacy in the\nneighbourhood, where residence was not required, lived at his father s\nhouse, only two miles from Uppercross. A short absence from home had\nleft his fair one unguarded by his attentions at this critical period,\nand when he came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners,\nand of seeing Captain Wentworth.\n\nMrs Musgrove and Mrs Hayter were sisters. They had each had money, but\ntheir marriages had made a material difference in their degree of\nconsequence. Mr Hayter had some property of his own, but it was\ninsignificant compared with Mr Musgrove s; and while the Musgroves were\nin the first class of society in the country, the young Hayters would,\nfrom their parents  inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living,\nand their own defective education, have been hardly in any class at\nall, but for their connexion with Uppercross, this eldest son of course\nexcepted, who had chosen to be a scholar and a gentleman, and who was\nvery superior in cultivation and manners to all the rest.\n\nThe two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no\npride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a\nconsciousness of superiority in the Miss Musgroves, as made them\npleased to improve their cousins. Charles s attentions to Henrietta had\nbeen observed by her father and mother without any disapprobation.  It\nwould not be a great match for her; but if Henrietta liked him, and\nHenrietta _did_ seem to like him.\n\nHenrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain Wentworth came; but\nfrom that time Cousin Charles had been very much forgotten.\n\nWhich of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Wentworth was as yet\nquite doubtful, as far as Anne s observation reached. Henrietta was\nperhaps the prettiest, Louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not\n_now_, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were most\nlikely to attract him.\n\nMr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire\nconfidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the\nyoung men who came near them, seemed to leave everything to take its\nchance. There was not the smallest appearance of solicitude or remark\nabout them in the Mansion-house; but it was different at the Cottage:\nthe young couple there were more disposed to speculate and wonder; and\nCaptain Wentworth had not been above four or five times in the Miss\nMusgroves  company, and Charles Hayter had but just reappeared, when\nAnne had to listen to the opinions of her brother and sister, as to\n_which_ was the one liked best. Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for\nHenrietta, but quite agreeing that to have him marry either could be\nextremely delightful.\n\nCharles  had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he\nhad once heard Captain Wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had\nnot made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war. Here was a\nfortune at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might\nbe done in any future war; and he was sure Captain Wentworth was as\nlikely a man to distinguish himself as any officer in the navy. Oh! it\nwould be a capital match for either of his sisters. \n\n Upon my word it would,  replied Mary.  Dear me! If he should rise to\nany very great honours! If he should ever be made a baronet!  Lady\nWentworth  sounds very well. That would be a noble thing, indeed, for\nHenrietta! She would take place of me then, and Henrietta would not\ndislike that. Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth! It would be but a new\ncreation, however, and I never think much of your new creations. \n\nIt suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very\naccount of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an\nend to. She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought it\nwould be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between the\nfamilies renewed very sad for herself and her children.\n\n You know,  said she,  I cannot think him at all a fit match for\nHenrietta; and considering the alliances which the Musgroves have made,\nshe has no right to throw herself away. I do not think any young woman\nhas a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient\nto the _principal_ part of her family, and be giving bad connections to\nthose who have not been used to them. And, pray, who is Charles Hayter?\nNothing but a country curate. A most improper match for Miss Musgrove\nof Uppercross. \n\nHer husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having\na regard for his cousin, Charles Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw\nthings as an eldest son himself.\n\n Now you are talking nonsense, Mary,  was therefore his answer.  It\nwould not be a _great_ match for Henrietta, but Charles has a very fair\nchance, through the Spicers, of getting something from the Bishop in\nthe course of a year or two; and you will please to remember, that he\nis the eldest son; whenever my uncle dies, he steps into very pretty\nproperty. The estate at Winthrop is not less than two hundred and fifty\nacres, besides the farm near Taunton, which is some of the best land in\nthe country. I grant you, that any of them but Charles would be a very\nshocking match for Henrietta, and indeed it could not be; he is the\nonly one that could be possible; but he is a very good-natured, good\nsort of a fellow; and whenever Winthrop comes into his hands, he will\nmake a different sort of place of it, and live in a very different sort\nof way; and with that property, he will never be a contemptible\nman good, freehold property. No, no; Henrietta might do worse than\nmarry Charles Hayter; and if she has him, and Louisa can get Captain\nWentworth, I shall be very well satisfied. \n\n Charles may say what he pleases,  cried Mary to Anne, as soon as he\nwas out of the room,  but it would be shocking to have Henrietta marry\nCharles Hayter; a very bad thing for _her_, and still worse for _me;_\nand therefore it is very much to be wished that Captain Wentworth may\nsoon put him quite out of her head, and I have very little doubt that\nhe has. She took hardly any notice of Charles Hayter yesterday. I wish\nyou had been there to see her behaviour. And as to Captain Wentworth s\nliking Louisa as well as Henrietta, it is nonsense to say so; for he\ncertainly _does_ like Henrietta a great deal the best. But Charles is\nso positive! I wish you had been with us yesterday, for then you might\nhave decided between us; and I am sure you would have thought as I did,\nunless you had been determined to give it against me. \n\nA dinner at Mr Musgrove s had been the occasion when all these things\nshould have been seen by Anne; but she had staid at home, under the\nmixed plea of a headache of her own, and some return of indisposition\nin little Charles. She had thought only of avoiding Captain Wentworth;\nbut an escape from being appealed to as umpire was now added to the\nadvantages of a quiet evening.\n\nAs to Captain Wentworth s views, she deemed it of more consequence that\nhe should know his own mind early enough not to be endangering the\nhappiness of either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that he\nshould prefer Henrietta to Louisa, or Louisa to Henrietta. Either of\nthem would, in all probability, make him an affectionate, good-humoured\nwife. With regard to Charles Hayter, she had delicacy which must be\npained by any lightness of conduct in a well-meaning young woman, and a\nheart to sympathize in any of the sufferings it occasioned; but if\nHenrietta found herself mistaken in the nature of her feelings, the\nalteration could not be understood too soon.\n\nCharles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his\ncousin s behaviour. She had too old a regard for him to be so wholly\nestranged as might in two meetings extinguish every past hope, and\nleave him nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross: but there was\nsuch a change as became very alarming, when such a man as Captain\nWentworth was to be regarded as the probable cause. He had been absent\nonly two Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even\nto the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his\npresent curacy, and obtaining that of Uppercross instead. It had then\nseemed the object nearest her heart, that Dr Shirley, the rector, who\nfor more than forty years had been zealously discharging all the duties\nof his office, but was now growing too infirm for many of them, should\nbe quite fixed on engaging a curate; should make his curacy quite as\ngood as he could afford, and should give Charles Hayter the promise of\nit. The advantage of his having to come only to Uppercross, instead of\ngoing six miles another way; of his having, in every respect, a better\ncuracy; of his belonging to their dear Dr Shirley, and of dear, good Dr\nShirley s being relieved from the duty which he could no longer get\nthrough without most injurious fatigue, had been a great deal, even to\nLouisa, but had been almost everything to Henrietta. When he came back,\nalas! the zeal of the business was gone by. Louisa could not listen at\nall to his account of a conversation which he had just held with Dr\nShirley: she was at a window, looking out for Captain Wentworth; and\neven Henrietta had at best only a divided attention to give, and seemed\nto have forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude of the\nnegotiation.\n\n Well, I am very glad indeed: but I always thought you would have it; I\nalways thought you sure. It did not appear to me that in short, you\nknow, Dr Shirley _must_ have a curate, and you had secured his promise.\nIs he coming, Louisa? \n\nOne morning, very soon after the dinner at the Musgroves, at which Anne\nhad not been present, Captain Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at\nthe Cottage, where were only herself and the little invalid Charles,\nwho was lying on the sofa.\n\nThe surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne Elliot, deprived\nhis manners of their usual composure: he started, and could only say,\n I thought the Miss Musgroves had been here: Mrs Musgrove told me I\nshould find them here,  before he walked to the window to recollect\nhimself, and feel how he ought to behave.\n\n They are up stairs with my sister: they will be down in a few moments,\nI dare say,  had been Anne s reply, in all the confusion that was\nnatural; and if the child had not called her to come and do something\nfor him, she would have been out of the room the next moment, and\nreleased Captain Wentworth as well as herself.\n\nHe continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying,  I\nhope the little boy is better,  was silent.\n\nShe was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy\nher patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very\ngreat satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little\nvestibule. She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the\nhouse; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters\neasy Charles Hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight of\nCaptain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of Anne.\n\nShe only attempted to say,  How do you do? Will you not sit down? The\nothers will be here presently. \n\nCaptain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not\nill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to\nhis attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the\nnewspaper; and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.\n\nAnother minute brought another addition. The younger boy, a remarkable\nstout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for\nhim by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and\nwent straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his\nclaim to anything good that might be giving away.\n\nThere being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his\naunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten\nhimself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was\nabout Charles, she could not shake him off. She spoke to him, ordered,\nentreated, and insisted in vain. Once she did contrive to push him\naway, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back\nagain directly.\n\n Walter,  said she,  get down this moment. You are extremely\ntroublesome. I am very angry with you. \n\n Walter,  cried Charles Hayter,  why do you not do as you are bid? Do\nnot you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter, come to cousin\nCharles. \n\nBut not a bit did Walter stir.\n\nIn another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being\nreleased from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent\ndown her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened\nfrom around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew\nthat Captain Wentworth had done it.\n\nHer sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless. She\ncould not even thank him. She could only hang over little Charles, with\nmost disordered feelings. His kindness in stepping forward to her\nrelief, the manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little\nparticulars of the circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her\nby the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to\navoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her\nconversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of\nvarying, but very painful agitation, as she could not recover from,\ntill enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss Musgroves to make\nover her little patient to their cares, and leave the room. She could\nnot stay. It might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and\njealousies of the four they were now altogether; but she could stay for\nnone of it. It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well inclined\ntowards Captain Wentworth. She had a strong impression of his having\nsaid, in a vext tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth s interference,\n You ought to have minded _me_, Walter; I told you not to teaze your\naunt;  and could comprehend his regretting that Captain Wentworth\nshould do what he ought to have done himself. But neither Charles\nHayter s feelings, nor anybody s feelings, could interest her, till she\nhad a little better arranged her own. She was ashamed of herself, quite\nashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a trifle; but so it\nwas, and it required a long application of solitude and reflection to\nrecover her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nOther opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur.\nAnne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough\nto have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home,\nwhere she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for\nwhile she considered Louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not\nbut think, as far as she might dare to judge from memory and\nexperience, that Captain Wentworth was not in love with either. They\nwere more in love with him; yet there it was not love. It was a little\nfever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with\nsome. Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta\nhad sometimes the air of being divided between them. Anne longed for\nthe power of representing to them all what they were about, and of\npointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to. She\ndid not attribute guile to any. It was the highest satisfaction to her\nto believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was\noccasioning. There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner. He\nhad, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of Charles\nHayter. He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for accepting\nmust be the word) of two young women at once.\n\nAfter a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the\nfield. Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a\nmost decided change. He had even refused one regular invitation to\ndinner; and having been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove with some\nlarge books before him, Mr and Mrs Musgrove were sure all could not be\nright, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death.\nIt was Mary s hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal\nfrom Henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant dependence of\nseeing him to-morrow. Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was\nwise.\n\nOne morning, about this time Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth\nbeing gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the Cottage were\nsitting quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters\nfrom the Mansion-house.\n\nIt was a very fine November day, and the Miss Musgroves came through\nthe little grounds, and stopped for no other purpose than to say, that\nthey were going to take a _long_ walk, and, therefore, concluded Mary\ncould not like to go with them; and when Mary immediately replied, with\nsome jealousy at not being supposed a good walker,  Oh, yes, I should\nlike to join you very much, I am very fond of a long walk;  Anne felt\npersuaded, by the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what\nthey did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity which the\nfamily habits seemed to produce, of everything being to be\ncommunicated, and everything being to be done together, however\nundesired and inconvenient. She tried to dissuade Mary from going, but\nin vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept the Miss\nMusgroves  much more cordial invitation to herself to go likewise, as\nshe might be useful in turning back with her sister, and lessening the\ninterference in any plan of their own.\n\n I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should not like a long\nwalk,  said Mary, as she went up stairs.  Everybody is always supposing\nthat I am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been pleased,\nif we had refused to join them. When people come in this manner on\npurpose to ask us, how can one say no? \n\nJust as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned. They had taken\nout a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early.\nTheir time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready\nfor this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure. Could Anne have\nforeseen such a junction, she would have staid at home; but, from some\nfeelings of interest and curiosity, she fancied now that it was too\nlate to retract, and the whole six set forward together in the\ndirection chosen by the Miss Musgroves, who evidently considered the\nwalk as under their guidance.\n\nAnne s object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the\nnarrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep\nwith her brother and sister. Her _pleasure_ in the walk must arise from\nthe exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year\nupon the tawny leaves, and withered hedges, and from repeating to\nherself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of\nautumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind\nof taste and tenderness, that season which had drawn from every poet,\nworthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of\nfeeling. She occupied her mind as much as possible in such like musings\nand quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach of\nCaptain Wentworth s conversation with either of the Miss Musgroves, she\nshould not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable. It\nwas mere lively chat, such as any young persons, on an intimate\nfooting, might fall into. He was more engaged with Louisa than with\nHenrietta. Louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than her\nsister. This distinction appeared to increase, and there was one speech\nof Louisa s which struck her. After one of the many praises of the day,\nwhich were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth added: \n\n What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister! They meant to\ntake a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of\nthese hills. They talked of coming into this side of the country. I\nwonder whereabouts they will upset to-day. Oh! it does happen very\noften, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as\nlieve be tossed out as not. \n\n Ah! You make the most of it, I know,  cried Louisa,  but if it were\nreally so, I should do just the same in her place. If I loved a man, as\nshe loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should ever\nseparate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven\nsafely by anybody else. \n\nIt was spoken with enthusiasm.\n\n Had you?  cried he, catching the same tone;  I honour you!  And there\nwas silence between them for a little while.\n\nAnne could not immediately fall into a quotation again. The sweet\nscenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet,\nfraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining\nhappiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone\ntogether, blessed her memory. She roused herself to say, as they struck\nby order into another path,  Is not this one of the ways to Winthrop? \nBut nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her.\n\nWinthrop, however, or its environs for young men are, sometimes to be\nmet with, strolling about near home was their destination; and after\nanother half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the\nploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting\nthe sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again,\nthey gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted\nUppercross and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter,\nat the foot of the hill on the other side.\n\nWinthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before\nthem; an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns\nand buildings of a farm-yard.\n\nMary exclaimed,  Bless me! here is Winthrop. I declare I had no idea!\nWell now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired. \n\nHenrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking\nalong any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary\nwished; but  No!  said Charles Musgrove, and  No, no!  cried Louisa\nmore eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the\nmatter warmly.\n\nCharles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution\nof calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently,\nthough more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too. But this\nwas one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when\nhe recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at\nWinthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered,  Oh! no,\nindeed! walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any\nsitting down could do her good;  and, in short, her look and manner\ndeclared, that go she would not.\n\nAfter a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations,\nit was settled between Charles and his two sisters, that he and\nHenrietta should just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and\ncousins, while the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the\nhill. Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she\nwent a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to Henrietta,\nMary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying\nto Captain Wentworth \n\n It is very unpleasant, having such connexions! But, I assure you, I\nhave never been in the house above twice in my life. \n\nShe received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile,\nfollowed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne\nperfectly knew the meaning of.\n\nThe brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful spot: Louisa\nreturned; and Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step\nof a stile, was very well satisfied so long as the others all stood\nabout her; but when Louisa drew Captain Wentworth away, to try for a\ngleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedge-row, and they were gone by\ndegrees quite out of sight and sound, Mary was happy no longer; she\nquarrelled with her own seat, was sure Louisa had got a much better\nsomewhere, and nothing could prevent her from going to look for a\nbetter also. She turned through the same gate, but could not see them.\nAnne found a nice seat for her, on a dry sunny bank, under the\nhedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still being, in some spot\nor other. Mary sat down for a moment, but it would not do; she was sure\nLouisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she would go on till\nshe overtook her.\n\nAnne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon\nheard Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if\nmaking their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the\ncentre. They were speaking as they drew near. Louisa s voice was the\nfirst distinguished. She seemed to be in the middle of some eager\nspeech. What Anne first heard was \n\n And so, I made her go. I could not bear that she should be frightened\nfrom the visit by such nonsense. What! would I be turned back from\ndoing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right,\nby the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person I may\nsay? No, I have no idea of being so easily persuaded. When I have made\nup my mind, I have made it; and Henrietta seemed entirely to have made\nup hers to call at Winthrop to-day; and yet, she was as near giving it\nup, out of nonsensical complaisance! \n\n She would have turned back then, but for you? \n\n She would indeed. I am almost ashamed to say it. \n\n Happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand! After the hints\nyou gave just now, which did but confirm my own observations, the last\ntime I was in company with him, I need not affect to have no\ncomprehension of what is going on. I see that more than a mere dutiful\nmorning visit to your aunt was in question; and woe betide him, and her\ntoo, when it comes to things of consequence, when they are placed in\ncircumstances requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not\nresolution enough to resist idle interference in such a trifle as this.\nYour sister is an amiable creature; but _yours_ is the character of\ndecision and firmness, I see. If you value her conduct or happiness,\ninfuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can. But this, no\ndoubt, you have been always doing. It is the worst evil of too yielding\nand indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended\non. You are never sure of a good impression being durable; everybody\nmay sway it. Let those who would be happy be firm. Here is a nut,  said\nhe, catching one down from an upper bough,  to exemplify: a beautiful\nglossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has outlived all the\nstorms of autumn. Not a puncture, not a weak spot anywhere. This nut, \nhe continued, with playful solemnity,  while so many of his brethren\nhave fallen and been trodden under foot, is still in possession of all\nthe happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed capable of.  Then\nreturning to his former earnest tone My first wish for all whom I am\ninterested in, is that they should be firm. If Louisa Musgrove would be\nbeautiful and happy in her November of life, she will cherish all her\npresent powers of mind. \n\nHe had done, and was unanswered. It would have surprised Anne if Louisa\ncould have readily answered such a speech: words of such interest,\nspoken with such serious warmth! She could imagine what Louisa was\nfeeling. For herself, she feared to move, lest she should be seen.\nWhile she remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected her, and\nthey were moving on. Before they were beyond her hearing, however,\nLouisa spoke again.\n\n Mary is good-natured enough in many respects,  said she;  but she does\nsometimes provoke me excessively, by her nonsense and pride the Elliot\npride. She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride. We do so wish\nthat Charles had married Anne instead. I suppose you know he wanted to\nmarry Anne? \n\nAfter a moment s pause, Captain Wentworth said \n\n Do you mean that she refused him? \n\n Oh! yes; certainly. \n\n When did that happen? \n\n I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time;\nbut I believe about a year before he married Mary. I wish she had\naccepted him. We should all have liked her a great deal better; and\npapa and mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell s\ndoing, that she did not. They think Charles might not be learned and\nbookish enough to please Lady Russell, and that therefore, she\npersuaded Anne to refuse him. \n\nThe sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more. Her own\nemotions still kept her fixed. She had much to recover from, before she\ncould move. The listener s proverbial fate was not absolutely hers; she\nhad heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal of very\npainful import. She saw how her own character was considered by Captain\nWentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity\nabout her in his manner which must give her extreme agitation.\n\nAs soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having found, and walked\nback with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort\nin their whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once\nmore in motion together. Her spirits wanted the solitude and silence\nwhich only numbers could give.\n\nCharles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured,\nCharles Hayter with them. The minutiae of the business Anne could not\nattempt to understand; even Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to\nperfect confidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the\ngentleman s side, and a relenting on the lady s, and that they were now\nvery glad to be together again, did not admit a doubt. Henrietta looked\na little ashamed, but very well pleased; Charles Hayter exceedingly\nhappy: and they were devoted to each other almost from the first\ninstant of their all setting forward for Uppercross.\n\nEverything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could\nbe plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they\nwere not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two. In\na long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they\nwere thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of\nthe three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne\nnecessarily belonged. She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired enough\nto be very glad of Charles s other arm; but Charles, though in very\ngood humour with her, was out of temper with his wife. Mary had shewn\nherself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence, which\nconsequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut off the\nheads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began\nto complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according to custom,\nin being on the hedge side, while Anne was never incommoded on the\nother, he dropped the arms of both to hunt after a weasel which he had\na momentary glance of, and they could hardly get him along at all.\n\nThis long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of\nit was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit,\nthe carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time\nheard, was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft s gig. He and\nhis wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home. Upon\nhearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they kindly\noffered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it would\nsave her a full mile, and they were going through Uppercross. The\ninvitation was general, and generally declined. The Miss Musgroves were\nnot at all tired, and Mary was either offended, by not being asked\nbefore any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could\nnot endure to make a third in a one horse chaise.\n\nThe walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an\nopposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again,\nwhen Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something\nto his sister. The something might be guessed by its effects.\n\n Miss Elliot, I am sure _you_ are tired,  cried Mrs Croft.  Do let us\nhave the pleasure of taking you home. Here is excellent room for three,\nI assure you. If we were all like you, I believe we might sit four. You\nmust, indeed, you must. \n\nAnne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to\ndecline, she was not allowed to proceed. The Admiral s kind urgency\ncame in support of his wife s; they would not be refused; they\ncompressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a\ncorner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her,\nand quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage.\n\nYes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had\nplaced her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she\nowed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give\nher rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition\ntowards her, which all these things made apparent. This little\ncircumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She\nunderstood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be\nunfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with\nhigh and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and\nthough becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer,\nwithout the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former\nsentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship;\nit was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not\ncontemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that\nshe knew not which prevailed.\n\nHer answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at\nfirst unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the\nrough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then\nfound them talking of  Frederick. \n\n He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy, \nsaid the Admiral;  but there is no saying which. He has been running\nafter them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay,\nthis comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it\nlong ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long\ncourtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the\nfirst time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our\nlodgings at North Yarmouth? \n\n We had better not talk about it, my dear,  replied Mrs Croft,\npleasantly;  for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an\nunderstanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy\ntogether. I had known you by character, however, long before. \n\n Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we\nto wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand.\nI wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home\none of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there would always be\ncompany for them. And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly\nknow one from the other. \n\n Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed,  said Mrs Croft, in a\ntone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers\nmight not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother;  and\na very respectable family. One could not be connected with better\npeople. My dear Admiral, that post! we shall certainly take that post. \n\nBut by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily\npassed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her\nhand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and\nAnne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined\nno bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found\nherself safely deposited by them at the Cottage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nThe time now approached for Lady Russell s return: the day was even\nfixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was\nresettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and\nbeginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it.\n\nIt would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within\nhalf a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and\nthere must be intercourse between the two families. This was against\nher; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross,\nthat in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him\nbehind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed\nshe must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as\ncertainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary\nfor Lady Russell.\n\nShe wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain\nWentworth at the Hall: those rooms had witnessed former meetings which\nwould be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious\nfor the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting\nanywhere. They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance\nnow could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she\nmight think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little.\n\nThese points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal\nfrom Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long\nenough. Her usefulness to little Charles would always give some\nsweetness to the memory of her two months  visit there, but he was\ngaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for.\n\nThe conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which\nshe had not at all imagined. Captain Wentworth, after being unseen and\nunheard of at Uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them\nto justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away.\n\nA letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found him out at\nlast, had brought intelligence of Captain Harville s being settled with\nhis family at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite\nunknowingly, within twenty miles of each other. Captain Harville had\nnever been in good health since a severe wound which he received two\nyears before, and Captain Wentworth s anxiety to see him had determined\nhim to go immediately to Lyme. He had been there for four-and-twenty\nhours. His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a\nlively interest excited for his friend, and his description of the fine\ncountry about Lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an\nearnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and a project for going thither\nwas the consequence.\n\nThe young people were all wild to see Lyme. Captain Wentworth talked of\ngoing there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from Uppercross;\nthough November, the weather was by no means bad; and, in short,\nLouisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the\nresolution to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being\nnow armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down\nall the wishes of her father and mother for putting it off till summer;\nand to Lyme they were to go Charles, Mary, Anne, Henrietta, Louisa, and\nCaptain Wentworth.\n\nThe first heedless scheme had been to go in the morning and return at\nnight; but to this Mr Musgrove, for the sake of his horses, would not\nconsent; and when it came to be rationally considered, a day in the\nmiddle of November would not leave much time for seeing a new place,\nafter deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country required, for\ngoing and returning. They were, consequently, to stay the night there,\nand not to be expected back till the next day s dinner. This was felt\nto be a considerable amendment; and though they all met at the Great\nHouse at rather an early breakfast hour, and set off very punctually,\nit was so much past noon before the two carriages, Mr Musgrove s coach\ncontaining the four ladies, and Charles s curricle, in which he drove\nCaptain Wentworth, were descending the long hill into Lyme, and\nentering upon the still steeper street of the town itself, that it was\nvery evident they would not have more than time for looking about them,\nbefore the light and warmth of the day were gone.\n\nAfter securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the\ninns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly\ndown to the sea. They were come too late in the year for any amusement\nor variety which Lyme, as a public place, might offer. The rooms were\nshut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the\nresidents left; and, as there is nothing to admire in the buildings\nthemselves, the remarkable situation of the town, the principal street\nalmost hurrying into the water, the walk to the Cobb, skirting round\nthe pleasant little bay, which, in the season, is animated with bathing\nmachines and company; the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new\nimprovements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to\nthe east of the town, are what the stranger s eye will seek; and a very\nstrange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate\nenvirons of Lyme, to make him wish to know it better. The scenes in its\nneighbourhood, Charmouth, with its high grounds and extensive sweeps of\ncountry, and still more, its sweet, retired bay, backed by dark cliffs,\nwhere fragments of low rock among the sands, make it the happiest spot\nfor watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in unwearied\ncontemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of Up Lyme;\nand, above all, Pinny, with its green chasms between romantic rocks,\nwhere the scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant growth,\ndeclare that many a generation must have passed away since the first\npartial falling of the cliff prepared the ground for such a state,\nwhere a scene so wonderful and so lovely is exhibited, as may more than\nequal any of the resembling scenes of the far-famed Isle of Wight:\nthese places must be visited, and visited again, to make the worth of\nLyme understood.\n\nThe party from Uppercross passing down by the now deserted and\nmelancholy looking rooms, and still descending, soon found themselves\non the sea-shore; and lingering only, as all must linger and gaze on a\nfirst return to the sea, who ever deserved to look on it at all,\nproceeded towards the Cobb, equally their object in itself and on\nCaptain Wentworth s account: for in a small house, near the foot of an\nold pier of unknown date, were the Harvilles settled. Captain Wentworth\nturned in to call on his friend; the others walked on, and he was to\njoin them on the Cobb.\n\nThey were by no means tired of wondering and admiring; and not even\nLouisa seemed to feel that they had parted with Captain Wentworth long,\nwhen they saw him coming after them, with three companions, all well\nknown already, by description, to be Captain and Mrs Harville, and a\nCaptain Benwick, who was staying with them.\n\nCaptain Benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant of the Laconia;\nand the account which Captain Wentworth had given of him, on his return\nfrom Lyme before, his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and\nan officer, whom he had always valued highly, which must have stamped\nhim well in the esteem of every listener, had been followed by a little\nhistory of his private life, which rendered him perfectly interesting\nin the eyes of all the ladies. He had been engaged to Captain\nHarville s sister, and was now mourning her loss. They had been a year\nor two waiting for fortune and promotion. Fortune came, his prize-money\nas lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at _last;_ but Fanny\nHarville did not live to know it. She had died the preceding summer\nwhile he was at sea. Captain Wentworth believed it impossible for man\nto be more attached to woman than poor Benwick had been to Fanny\nHarville, or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful change. He\nconsidered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer heavily,\nuniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring manners,\nand a decided taste for reading, and sedentary pursuits. To finish the\ninterest of the story, the friendship between him and the Harvilles\nseemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all their\nviews of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living with them\nentirely. Captain Harville had taken his present house for half a year;\nhis taste, and his health, and his fortune, all directing him to a\nresidence inexpensive, and by the sea; and the grandeur of the country,\nand the retirement of Lyme in the winter, appeared exactly adapted to\nCaptain Benwick s state of mind. The sympathy and good-will excited\ntowards Captain Benwick was very great.\n\n And yet,  said Anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the\nparty,  he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have. I\ncannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever. He is younger than I\nam; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man. He will rally\nagain, and be happy with another. \n\nThey all met, and were introduced. Captain Harville was a tall, dark\nman, with a sensible, benevolent countenance; a little lame; and from\nstrong features and want of health, looking much older than Captain\nWentworth. Captain Benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three,\nand, compared with either of them, a little man. He had a pleasing face\nand a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from\nconversation.\n\nCaptain Harville, though not equalling Captain Wentworth in manners,\nwas a perfect gentleman, unaffected, warm, and obliging. Mrs Harville,\na degree less polished than her husband, seemed, however, to have the\nsame good feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their\ndesire of considering the whole party as friends of their own, because\nthe friends of Captain Wentworth, or more kindly hospitable than their\nentreaties for their all promising to dine with them. The dinner,\nalready ordered at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted\nas a excuse; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain Wentworth should\nhave brought any such party to Lyme, without considering it as a thing\nof course that they should dine with them.\n\nThere was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth in all this, and such\na bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike\nthe usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality\nand display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be benefited by\nan increasing acquaintance among his brother-officers.  These would\nhave been all my friends,  was her thought; and she had to struggle\nagainst a great tendency to lowness.\n\nOn quitting the Cobb, they all went in-doors with their new friends,\nand found rooms so small as none but those who invite from the heart\ncould think capable of accommodating so many. Anne had a moment s\nastonishment on the subject herself; but it was soon lost in the\npleasanter feelings which sprang from the sight of all the ingenious\ncontrivances and nice arrangements of Captain Harville, to turn the\nactual space to the best account, to supply the deficiencies of\nlodging-house furniture, and defend the windows and doors against the\nwinter storms to be expected. The varieties in the fitting-up of the\nrooms, where the common necessaries provided by the owner, in the\ncommon indifferent plight, were contrasted with some few articles of a\nrare species of wood, excellently worked up, and with something curious\nand valuable from all the distant countries Captain Harville had\nvisited, were more than amusing to Anne; connected as it all was with\nhis profession, the fruit of its labours, the effect of its influence\non his habits, the picture of repose and domestic happiness it\npresented, made it to her a something more, or less, than\ngratification.\n\nCaptain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent\naccommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable\ncollection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Benwick. His\nlameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of\nusefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment\nwithin. He drew, he varnished, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys\nfor the children; he fashioned new netting-needles and pins with\nimprovements; and if everything else was done, sat down to his large\nfishing-net at one corner of the room.\n\nAnne thought she left great happiness behind her when they quitted the\nhouse; and Louisa, by whom she found herself walking, burst forth into\nraptures of admiration and delight on the character of the navy; their\nfriendliness, their brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness;\nprotesting that she was convinced of sailors having more worth and\nwarmth than any other set of men in England; that they only knew how to\nlive, and they only deserved to be respected and loved.\n\nThey went back to dress and dine; and so well had the scheme answered\nalready, that nothing was found amiss; though its being  so entirely\nout of season,  and the  no thoroughfare of Lyme,  and the  no\nexpectation of company,  had brought many apologies from the heads of\nthe inn.\n\nAnne found herself by this time growing so much more hardened to being\nin Captain Wentworth s company than she had at first imagined could\never be, that the sitting down to the same table with him now, and the\ninterchange of the common civilities attending on it (they never got\nbeyond), was become a mere nothing.\n\nThe nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again till the morrow,\nbut Captain Harville had promised them a visit in the evening; and he\ncame, bringing his friend also, which was more than had been expected,\nit having been agreed that Captain Benwick had all the appearance of\nbeing oppressed by the presence of so many strangers. He ventured among\nthem again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem fit for\nthe mirth of the party in general.\n\nWhile Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk on one side of the\nroom, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance\nto occupy and entertain the others, it fell to Anne s lot to be placed\nrather apart with Captain Benwick; and a very good impulse of her\nnature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him. He was shy, and\ndisposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance,\nand gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well\nrepaid the first trouble of exertion. He was evidently a young man of\nconsiderable taste in reading, though principally in poetry; and\nbesides the persuasion of having given him at least an evening s\nindulgence in the discussion of subjects, which his usual companions\nhad probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of real use to\nhim in some suggestions as to the duty and benefit of struggling\nagainst affliction, which had naturally grown out of their\nconversation. For, though shy, he did not seem reserved; it had rather\nthe appearance of feelings glad to burst their usual restraints; and\nhaving talked of poetry, the richness of the present age, and gone\nthrough a brief comparison of opinion as to the first-rate poets,\ntrying to ascertain whether _Marmion_ or _The Lady of the Lake_ were to\nbe preferred, and how ranked the _Giaour_ and _The Bride of Abydos;_\nand moreover, how the _Giaour_ was to be pronounced, he showed himself\nso intimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of the one poet,\nand all the impassioned descriptions of hopeless agony of the other; he\nrepeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a\nbroken heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked so\nentirely as if he meant to be understood, that she ventured to hope he\ndid not always read only poetry, and to say, that she thought it was\nthe misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who\nenjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could\nestimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but\nsparingly.\n\nHis looks shewing him not pained, but pleased with this allusion to his\nsituation, she was emboldened to go on; and feeling in herself the\nright of seniority of mind, she ventured to recommend a larger\nallowance of prose in his daily study; and on being requested to\nparticularize, mentioned such works of our best moralists, such\ncollections of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters of worth\nand suffering, as occurred to her at the moment as calculated to rouse\nand fortify the mind by the highest precepts, and the strongest\nexamples of moral and religious endurances.\n\nCaptain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the\ninterest implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which\ndeclared his little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like\nhis, noted down the names of those she recommended, and promised to\nprocure and read them.\n\nWhen the evening was over, Anne could not but be amused at the idea of\nher coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man\nwhom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more\nserious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and\npreachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct\nwould ill bear examination.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nAnne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the\nnext morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast. They\nwent to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine\nsouth-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so\nflat a shore admitted. They praised the morning; gloried in the sea;\nsympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze and were silent;\ntill Henrietta suddenly began again with \n\n Oh! yes, I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the\nsea-air always does good. There can be no doubt of its having been of\nthe greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring\ntwelvemonth. He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month, did\nhim more good than all the medicine he took; and that being by the\nsea always makes him feel young again. Now, I cannot help thinking it\na pity that he does not live entirely by the sea. I do think he had\nbetter leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme. Do not you, Anne? Do\nnot you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both for\nhimself and Mrs Shirley? She has cousins here, you know, and many\nacquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and I am sure she\nwould be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance\nat hand, in case of his having another seizure. Indeed I think it quite\nmelancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs Shirley, who\nhave been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days in a\nplace like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut out\nfrom all the world. I wish his friends would propose it to him. I\nreally think they ought. And, as to procuring a dispensation, there\ncould be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character. My\nonly doubt is, whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish.\nHe is so very strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous I\nmust say. Do not you think, Anne, it is being over-scrupulous? Do not\nyou think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman\nsacrifices his health for the sake of duties, which may be just as well\nperformed by another person? And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles off,\nhe would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was anything\nto complain of. \n\nAnne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered\ninto the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of\na young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower\nstandard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence? She said\nall that was reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of\nDr Shirley to repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that\nhe should have some active, respectable young man as a resident\ncurate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such\nresident curate s being married.\n\n I wish,  said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion,  I wish\nLady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley. I\nhave always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence\nwith everybody! I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to\nanything! I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid\nof her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and\nwish we had such a neighbour at Uppercross. \n\nAnne was amused by Henrietta s manner of being grateful, and amused\nalso that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta s\nviews should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the\nMusgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and\na wish that such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects\nsuddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards\nthem. They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be\nready; but Louisa recollecting immediately afterwards that she had\nsomething to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her\ninto the town. They were all at her disposal.\n\nWhen they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a\ngentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew\nback, and stopped to give them way. They ascended and passed him; and\nas they passed, Anne s face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a\ndegree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of. She\nwas looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features,\nhaving the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which\nhad been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which\nit had also produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a\ngentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked\nround at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He\ngave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to\nsay,  That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see\nsomething like Anne Elliot again. \n\nAfter attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a\nlittle longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing\nafterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had\nnearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an\nadjoining apartment. She had before conjectured him to be a stranger\nlike themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was\nstrolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his\nservant. Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea. It\nwas now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this\nsecond meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman s\nlooks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and\npropriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good\nmanners. He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an\nagreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know who he was.\n\nThey had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost\nthe first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to\nthe window. It was a gentleman s carriage, a curricle, but only coming\nround from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going\naway. It was driven by a servant in mourning.\n\nThe word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare\nit with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne s curiosity, and\nthe whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the\ncurricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and\ncivilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off.\n\n Ah!  cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at\nAnne,  it is the very man we passed. \n\nThe Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as\nfar up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table.\nThe waiter came into the room soon afterwards.\n\n Pray,  said Captain Wentworth, immediately,  can you tell us the name\nof the gentleman who is just gone away? \n\n Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last\nnight from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you\nwere at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and\nLondon. \n\n Elliot!  Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the\nname, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity\nof a waiter.\n\n Bless me!  cried Mary;  it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr\nElliot, it must, indeed! Charles, Anne, must not it? In mourning, you\nsee, just as our Mr Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the very\nsame inn with us! Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot? my father s next\nheir? Pray sir,  turning to the waiter,  did not you hear, did not his\nservant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch family? \n\n No, ma am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his\nmaster was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day. \n\n There! you see!  cried Mary in an ecstasy,  just as I said! Heir to\nSir Walter Elliot! I was sure that would come out, if it was so. Depend\nupon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to\npublish, wherever he goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary!\nI wish I had looked at him more. I wish we had been aware in time, who\nit was, that he might have been introduced to us. What a pity that we\nshould not have been introduced to each other! Do you think he had the\nElliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the\nhorses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I\nwonder the arms did not strike me! Oh! the great-coat was hanging over\nthe panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should\nhave observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in\nmourning, one should have known him by the livery. \n\n Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,  said\nCaptain Wentworth,  we must consider it to be the arrangement of\nProvidence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin. \n\nWhen she could command Mary s attention, Anne quietly tried to convince\nher that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on\nsuch terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all\ndesirable.\n\nAt the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to\nhave seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was\nundoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense. She would not,\nupon any account, mention her having met with him the second time;\nluckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in\ntheir earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by Anne s\nhaving actually run against him in the passage, and received his very\npolite excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that\ncousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret.\n\n Of course,  said Mary,  you will mention our seeing Mr Elliot, the\nnext time you write to Bath. I think my father certainly ought to hear\nof it; do mention all about him. \n\nAnne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she\nconsidered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what\nought to be suppressed. The offence which had been given her father,\nmany years back, she knew; Elizabeth s particular share in it she\nsuspected; and that Mr Elliot s idea always produced irritation in both\nwas beyond a doubt. Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of\nkeeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell\non Anne.\n\nBreakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and\nMrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take\ntheir last walk about Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross\nby one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and out of doors\nas long as they could.\n\nAnne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all\nfairly in the street. Their conversation the preceding evening did not\ndisincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time,\ntalking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as\nbefore, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike\nof the merits of either, till something occasioned an almost general\nchange amongst their party, and instead of Captain Benwick, she had\nCaptain Harville by her side.\n\n Miss Elliot,  said he, speaking rather low,  you have done a good deed\nin making that poor fellow talk so much. I wish he could have such\ncompany oftener. It is bad for him, I know, to be shut up as he is; but\nwhat can we do? We cannot part. \n\n No,  said Anne,  that I can easily believe to be impossible; but in\ntime, perhaps we know what time does in every case of affliction, and\nyou must remember, Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called\na young mourner only last summer, I understand. \n\n Ay, true enough,  (with a deep sigh)  only June. \n\n And not known to him, perhaps, so soon. \n\n Not till the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape,\njust made into the Grappler. I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of him;\nhe sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for Portsmouth.\nThere the news must follow him, but who was to tell it? not I. I would\nas soon have been run up to the yard-arm. Nobody could do it, but that\ngood fellow  (pointing to Captain Wentworth).  The Laconia had come\ninto Plymouth the week before; no danger of her being sent to sea\nagain. He stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for leave of absence,\nbut without waiting the return, travelled night and day till he got to\nPortsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler that instant, and never left the\npoor fellow for a week. That s what he did, and nobody else could have\nsaved poor James. You may think, Miss Elliot, whether he is dear to\nus! \n\nAnne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much\nin reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to\nbear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he\nspoke again, it was of something totally different.\n\nMrs Harville s giving it as her opinion that her husband would have\nquite walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the\ndirection of all the party in what was to be their last walk; they\nwould accompany them to their door, and then return and set off\nthemselves. By all their calculations there was just time for this; but\nas they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk along\nit once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so determined,\nthat the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no\ndifference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and all the kind\ninterchange of invitations and promises which may be imagined, they\nparted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door, and still\naccompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them to the\nlast, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb.\n\nAnne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her. Lord Byron s  dark\nblue seas  could not fail of being brought forward by their present\nview, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention\nwas possible. It was soon drawn, perforce another way.\n\nThere was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant\nfor the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and\nall were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight,\nexcepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth. In\nall their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation\nwas delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made\nhim less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. She was\nsafely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to\nbe jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too\ngreat; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said,  I\nam determined I will:  he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by\nhalf a second, she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was\ntaken up lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but\nher eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death. The\nhorror of the moment to all who stood around!\n\nCaptain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms,\nlooking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of\nsilence.  She is dead! she is dead!  screamed Mary, catching hold of\nher husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him\nimmoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the\nconviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps,\nbut for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between\nthem.\n\n Is there no one to help me?  were the first words which burst from\nCaptain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength\nwere gone.\n\n Go to him, go to him,  cried Anne,  for heaven s sake go to him. I can\nsupport her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her\ntemples; here are salts; take them, take them. \n\nCaptain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging\nhimself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised\nup and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that\nAnne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering\nagainst the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony \n\n Oh God! her father and mother! \n\n A surgeon!  said Anne.\n\nHe caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying\nonly True, true, a surgeon this instant,  was darting away, when Anne\neagerly suggested \n\n Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows\nwhere a surgeon is to be found. \n\nEvery one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a\nmoment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned\nthe poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother s care, and was off\nfor the town with the utmost rapidity.\n\nAs to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which\nof the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain\nWentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother,\nhung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from\none sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness\nthe hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he\ncould not give.\n\nAnne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which\ninstinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest\ncomfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to\nassuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her\nfor directions.\n\n Anne, Anne,  cried Charles,  What is to be done next? What, in\nheaven s name, is to be done next? \n\nCaptain Wentworth s eyes were also turned towards her.\n\n Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her\ngently to the inn. \n\n Yes, yes, to the inn,  repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively\ncollected, and eager to be doing something.  I will carry her myself.\nMusgrove, take care of the others. \n\nBy this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen\nand boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be\nuseful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady,\nnay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first\nreport. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was\nconsigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and\nin this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his\nwife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the\nground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they\nhad passed along.\n\nThey were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain\nBenwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which\nshowed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately,\ninformed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as\nCaptain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be\ninstantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was\nto be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their\nhouse; and await the surgeon s arrival there. They would not listen to\nscruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while\nLouisa, under Mrs Harville s direction, was conveyed up stairs, and\ngiven possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives\nwere supplied by her husband to all who needed them.\n\nLouisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without\napparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of\nservice to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of\nbeing in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope\nand fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was\ngrowing calmer.\n\nThe surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They\nwere sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The\nhead had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries\nrecovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.\n\nThat he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a\nfew hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and\nthe ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a\nfew fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may\nbe conceived.\n\nThe tone, the look, with which  Thank God!  was uttered by Captain\nWentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight\nof him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded\narms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of\nhis soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them.\n\nLouisa s limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head.\n\nIt now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be\ndone, as to their general situation. They were now able to speak to\neach other and consult. That Louisa must remain where she was, however\ndistressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such\ntrouble, did not admit a doubt. Her removal was impossible. The\nHarvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all\ngratitude. They had looked forward and arranged everything before the\nothers began to reflect. Captain Benwick must give up his room to them,\nand get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled. They were\nonly concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet\nperhaps, by  putting the children away in the maid s room, or swinging\na cot somewhere,  they could hardly bear to think of not finding room\nfor two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though,\nwith regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove, there need not be the\nleast uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville s care entirely. Mrs\nHarville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had\nlived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such\nanother. Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by\nday or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of\nfeeling irresistible.\n\nCharles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in\nconsultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of\nperplexity and terror.  Uppercross, the necessity of some one s going\nto Uppercross; the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to Mr\nand Mrs Musgrove; the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone\nsince they ought to have been off; the impossibility of being in\ntolerable time.  At first, they were capable of nothing more to the\npurpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, Captain Wentworth,\nexerting himself, said \n\n We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every\nminute is valuable. Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross\ninstantly. Musgrove, either you or I must go. \n\nCharles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away. He would\nbe as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville; but\nas to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor would.\nSo far it was decided; and Henrietta at first declared the same. She,\nhowever, was soon persuaded to think differently. The usefulness of her\nstaying! She who had not been able to remain in Louisa s room, or to\nlook at her, without sufferings which made her worse than helpless! She\nwas forced to acknowledge that she could do no good, yet was still\nunwilling to be away, till, touched by the thought of her father and\nmother, she gave it up; she consented, she was anxious to be at home.\n\nThe plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming quietly down from\nLouisa s room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door\nwas open.\n\n Then it is settled, Musgrove,  cried Captain Wentworth,  that you\nstay, and that I take care of your sister home. But as to the rest, as\nto the others, if one stays to assist Mrs Harville, I think it need be\nonly one. Mrs Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to her\nchildren; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne. \n\nShe paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so\nspoken of. The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then\nappeared.\n\n You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her;  cried he,\nturning to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which\nseemed almost restoring the past. She coloured deeply, and he\nrecollected himself and moved away. She expressed herself most willing,\nready, happy to remain.  It was what she had been thinking of, and\nwishing to be allowed to do. A bed on the floor in Louisa s room would\nbe sufficient for her, if Mrs Harville would but think so. \n\nOne thing more, and all seemed arranged. Though it was rather desirable\nthat Mr and Mrs Musgrove should be previously alarmed by some share of\ndelay; yet the time required by the Uppercross horses to take them\nback, would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and Captain Wentworth\nproposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that it would be much better for\nhim to take a chaise from the inn, and leave Mr Musgrove s carriage and\nhorses to be sent home the next morning early, when there would be the\nfarther advantage of sending an account of Louisa s night.\n\nCaptain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part,\nand to be soon followed by the two ladies. When the plan was made known\nto Mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it. She was so\nwretched and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being\nexpected to go away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Louisa,\nwhile she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in Henrietta s\nstead! Why was not she to be as useful as Anne? And to go home without\nCharles, too, without her husband! No, it was too unkind. And in short,\nshe said more than her husband could long withstand, and as none of the\nothers could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for it; the\nchange of Mary for Anne was inevitable.\n\nAnne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and\nill-judging claims of Mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the\ntown, Charles taking care of his sister, and Captain Benwick attending\nto her. She gave a moment s recollection, as they hurried along, to the\nlittle circumstances which the same spots had witnessed earlier in the\nmorning. There she had listened to Henrietta s schemes for Dr Shirley s\nleaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr Elliot; a moment\nseemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa, or those who\nwere wrapped up in her welfare.\n\nCaptain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as\nthey all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing\ndegree of good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that\nit might, perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance.\n\nCaptain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in\nwaiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the\nstreet; but his evident surprise and vexation at the substitution of\none sister for the other, the change in his countenance, the\nastonishment, the expressions begun and suppressed, with which Charles\nwas listened to, made but a mortifying reception of Anne; or must at\nleast convince her that she was valued only as she could be useful to\nLouisa.\n\nShe endeavoured to be composed, and to be just. Without emulating the\nfeelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on\nLouisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and\nshe hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink\nunnecessarily from the office of a friend.\n\nIn the meanwhile she was in the carriage. He had handed them both in,\nand placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these\ncircumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted\nLyme. How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their\nmanners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not\nforesee. It was all quite natural, however. He was devoted to\nHenrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always\nwith the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits. In\ngeneral, his voice and manner were studiously calm. To spare Henrietta\nfrom agitation seemed the governing principle. Once only, when she had\nbeen grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb,\nbitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as\nif wholly overcome \n\n Don t talk of it, don t talk of it,  he cried.  Oh God! that I had not\ngiven way to her at the fatal moment! Had I done as I ought! But so\neager and so resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa! \n\nAnne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the\njustness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and\nadvantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him\nthat, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its\nproportions and limits. She thought it could scarcely escape him to\nfeel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of\nhappiness as a very resolute character.\n\nThey got on fast. Anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and\nthe same objects so soon. Their actual speed, heightened by some dread\nof the conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day\nbefore. It was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in the\nneighbourhood of Uppercross, and there had been total silence among\nthem for some time, Henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl\nover her face, giving the hope of her having cried herself to sleep;\nwhen, as they were going up their last hill, Anne found herself all at\nonce addressed by Captain Wentworth. In a low, cautious voice, he\nsaid: \n\n I have been considering what we had best do. She must not appear at\nfirst. She could not stand it. I have been thinking whether you had not\nbetter remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break it to\nMr and Mrs Musgrove. Do you think this is a good plan? \n\nShe did: he was satisfied, and said no more. But the remembrance of the\nappeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of\ndeference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a\nsort of parting proof, its value did not lessen.\n\nWhen the distressing communication at Uppercross was over, and he had\nseen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the\ndaughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention\nof returning in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were\nbaited, he was off.\n\n(End of volume one.)\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nThe remainder of Anne s time at Uppercross, comprehending only two\ndays, was spent entirely at the Mansion House; and she had the\nsatisfaction of knowing herself extremely useful there, both as an\nimmediate companion, and as assisting in all those arrangements for the\nfuture, which, in Mr and Mrs Musgrove s distressed state of spirits,\nwould have been difficulties.\n\nThey had an early account from Lyme the next morning. Louisa was much\nthe same. No symptoms worse than before had appeared. Charles came a\nfew hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account. He\nwas tolerably cheerful. A speedy cure must not be hoped, but everything\nwas going on as well as the nature of the case admitted. In speaking of\nthe Harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of their\nkindness, especially of Mrs Harville s exertions as a nurse.  She\nreally left nothing for Mary to do. He and Mary had been persuaded to\ngo early to their inn last night. Mary had been hysterical again this\nmorning. When he came away, she was going to walk out with Captain\nBenwick, which, he hoped, would do her good. He almost wished she had\nbeen prevailed on to come home the day before; but the truth was, that\nMrs Harville left nothing for anybody to do. \n\nCharles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at\nfirst half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent. It\nwould be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his\nown distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon. A\nchaise was sent for from Crewkherne, and Charles conveyed back a far\nmore useful person in the old nursery-maid of the family, one who\nhaving brought up all the children, and seen the very last, the\nlingering and long-petted Master Harry, sent to school after his\nbrothers, was now living in her deserted nursery to mend stockings and\ndress all the blains and bruises she could get near her, and who,\nconsequently, was only too happy in being allowed to go and help nurse\ndear Miss Louisa. Vague wishes of getting Sarah thither, had occurred\nbefore to Mrs Musgrove and Henrietta; but without Anne, it would hardly\nhave been resolved on, and found practicable so soon.\n\nThey were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter, for all the minute\nknowledge of Louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every\ntwenty-four hours. He made it his business to go to Lyme, and his\naccount was still encouraging. The intervals of sense and consciousness\nwere believed to be stronger. Every report agreed in Captain\nWentworth s appearing fixed in Lyme.\n\nAnne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded.\n What should they do without her? They were wretched comforters for one\nanother.  And so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she could\nnot do better than impart among them the general inclination to which\nshe was privy, and persuaded them all to go to Lyme at once. She had\nlittle difficulty; it was soon determined that they would go; go\nto-morrow, fix themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it\nsuited, and there remain till dear Louisa could be moved. They must be\ntaking off some trouble from the good people she was with; they might\nat least relieve Mrs Harville from the care of her own children; and in\nshort, they were so happy in the decision, that Anne was delighted with\nwhat she had done, and felt that she could not spend her last morning\nat Uppercross better than in assisting their preparations, and sending\nthem off at an early hour, though her being left to the solitary range\nof the house was the consequence.\n\nShe was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage, she was the\nvery last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated\nboth houses, of all that had given Uppercross its cheerful character. A\nfew days had made a change indeed!\n\nIf Louisa recovered, it would all be well again. More than former\nhappiness would be restored. There could not be a doubt, to her mind\nthere was none, of what would follow her recovery. A few months hence,\nand the room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self,\nmight be filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was\nglowing and bright in prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne\nElliot!\n\nAn hour s complete leisure for such reflections as these, on a dark\nNovember day, a small thick rain almost blotting out the very few\nobjects ever to be discerned from the windows, was enough to make the\nsound of Lady Russell s carriage exceedingly welcome; and yet, though\ndesirous to be gone, she could not quit the Mansion House, or look an\nadieu to the Cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda,\nor even notice through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of\nthe village, without a saddened heart. Scenes had passed in Uppercross\nwhich made it precious. It stood the record of many sensations of pain,\nonce severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting\nfeeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could\nnever be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear. She\nleft it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had\nbeen.\n\nAnne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting Lady Russell s house\nin September. It had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its\nbeing possible for her to go to the Hall she had contrived to evade and\nescape from. Her first return was to resume her place in the modern and\nelegant apartments of the Lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its\nmistress.\n\nThere was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell s joy in meeting her.\nShe knew who had been frequenting Uppercross. But happily, either Anne\nwas improved in plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so;\nand Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the\namusement of connecting them with the silent admiration of her cousin,\nand of hoping that she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth\nand beauty.\n\nWhen they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental\nchange. The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving\nKellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to\nsmother among the Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest.\nShe had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and Bath. Their\nconcerns had been sunk under those of Uppercross; and when Lady Russell\nreverted to their former hopes and fears, and spoke her satisfaction in\nthe house in Camden Place, which had been taken, and her regret that\nMrs Clay should still be with them, Anne would have been ashamed to\nhave it known how much more she was thinking of Lyme and Louisa\nMusgrove, and all her acquaintance there; how much more interesting to\nher was the home and the friendship of the Harvilles and Captain\nBenwick, than her own father s house in Camden Place, or her own\nsister s intimacy with Mrs Clay. She was actually forced to exert\nherself to meet Lady Russell with anything like the appearance of equal\nsolicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her.\n\nThere was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another\nsubject. They must speak of the accident at Lyme. Lady Russell had not\nbeen arrived five minutes the day before, when a full account of the\nwhole had burst on her; but still it must be talked of, she must make\nenquiries, she must regret the imprudence, lament the result, and\nCaptain Wentworth s name must be mentioned by both. Anne was conscious\nof not doing it so well as Lady Russell. She could not speak the name,\nand look straight forward to Lady Russell s eye, till she had adopted\nthe expedient of telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment\nbetween him and Louisa. When this was told, his name distressed her no\nlonger.\n\nLady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but\ninternally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt,\nthat the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of\nthe value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed\nby a Louisa Musgrove.\n\nThe first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance\nto mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from Lyme, which\nfound their way to Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather\nimproving account of Louisa. At the end of that period, Lady Russell s\npoliteness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of\nthe past became in a decided tone,  I must call on Mrs Croft; I really\nmust call upon her soon. Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay\na visit in that house? It will be some trial to us both. \n\nAnne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she\nsaid, in observing \n\n I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your\nfeelings are less reconciled to the change than mine. By remaining in\nthe neighbourhood, I am become inured to it. \n\nShe could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an\nopinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in\nhis tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the\npoor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed\nfor the necessity of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel\nthat they were gone who deserved not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall\nhad passed into better hands than its owners . These convictions must\nunquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they\nprecluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in entering the\nhouse again, and returning through the well-known apartments.\n\nIn such moments Anne had no power of saying to herself,  These rooms\nought to belong only to us. Oh, how fallen in their destination! How\nunworthily occupied! An ancient family to be so driven away! Strangers\nfilling their place!  No, except when she thought of her mother, and\nremembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she had no sigh\nof that description to heave.\n\nMrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of\nfancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving\nher in that house, there was particular attention.\n\nThe sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on\ncomparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each\nlady dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; that\nCaptain Wentworth had been in Kellynch yesterday (the first time since\nthe accident), had brought Anne the last note, which she had not been\nable to trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then\nreturned again to Lyme, and without any present intention of quitting\nit any more. He had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had\nexpressed his hope of Miss Elliot s not being the worse for her\nexertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great. This was\nhandsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could\nhave done.\n\nAs to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one\nstyle by a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to\nwork on ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had\nbeen the consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that\nits effects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how\nlong Miss Musgrove s recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she\nwould still remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter! The Admiral\nwound it up summarily by exclaiming \n\n Ay, a very bad business indeed. A new sort of way this, for a young\nfellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress s head, is not it,\nMiss Elliot? This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly! \n\nAdmiral Croft s manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady\nRussell, but they delighted Anne. His goodness of heart and simplicity\nof character were irresistible.\n\n Now, this must be very bad for you,  said he, suddenly rousing from a\nlittle reverie,  to be coming and finding us here. I had not\nrecollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad. But now, do\nnot stand upon ceremony. Get up and go over all the rooms in the house\nif you like it. \n\n Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now. \n\n Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any\ntime; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that\ndoor. A good place is not it? But,  (checking himself),  you will not\nthink it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler s room.\nAy, so it always is, I believe. One man s ways may be as good as\nanother s, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for\nyourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or\nnot. \n\nAnne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.\n\n We have made very few changes either,  continued the Admiral, after\nthinking a moment.  Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at\nUppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how\nany family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening\nas it did, so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and\nthat Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had.\nIndeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few\nalterations we have made have been all very much for the better. My\nwife should have the credit of them, however. I have done very little\nbesides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my\ndressing-room, which was your father s. A very good man, and very much\nthe gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot,  (looking\nwith serious reflection),  I should think he must be rather a dressy\nman for his time of life. Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord!\nthere was no getting away from one s self. So I got Sophy to lend me a\nhand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with\nmy little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I\nnever go near. \n\nAnne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer,\nand the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up\nthe subject again, to say \n\n The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give\nhim my compliments and Mrs Croft s, and say that we are settled here\nquite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place.\nThe breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only\nwhen the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three\ntimes a winter. And take it altogether, now that we have been into most\nof the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we like\nbetter than this. Pray say so, with my compliments. He will be glad to\nhear it. \n\nLady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other: but\nthe acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at\npresent; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to\nbe going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north\nof the county, and probably might not be at home again before Lady\nRussell would be removing to Bath.\n\nSo ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch\nHall, or of seeing him in company with her friend. Everything was safe\nenough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on\nthe subject.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nThough Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much longer after Mr and\nMrs Musgrove s going than Anne conceived they could have been at all\nwanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and\nas soon as possible after their return to Uppercross they drove over to\nthe Lodge. They had left Louisa beginning to sit up; but her head,\nthough clear, was exceedingly weak, and her nerves susceptible to the\nhighest extreme of tenderness; and though she might be pronounced to be\naltogether doing very well, it was still impossible to say when she\nmight be able to bear the removal home; and her father and mother, who\nmust return in time to receive their younger children for the Christmas\nholidays, had hardly a hope of being allowed to bring her with them.\n\nThey had been all in lodgings together. Mrs Musgrove had got Mrs\nHarville s children away as much as she could, every possible supply\nfrom Uppercross had been furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the\nHarvilles, while the Harvilles had been wanting them to come to dinner\nevery day; and in short, it seemed to have been only a struggle on each\nside as to which should be most disinterested and hospitable.\n\nMary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her\nstaying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer. Charles\nHayter had been at Lyme oftener than suited her; and when they dined\nwith the Harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait, and at\nfirst Mrs Harville had always given Mrs Musgrove precedence; but then,\nshe had received so very handsome an apology from her on finding out\nwhose daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day,\nthere had been so many walks between their lodgings and the Harvilles,\nand she had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that\nthe balance had certainly been much in favour of Lyme. She had been\ntaken to Charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church,\nand there were a great many more people to look at in the church at\nLyme than at Uppercross; and all this, joined to the sense of being so\nvery useful, had made really an agreeable fortnight.\n\nAnne enquired after Captain Benwick. Mary s face was clouded directly.\nCharles laughed.\n\n Oh! Captain Benwick is very well, I believe, but he is a very odd\nyoung man. I do not know what he would be at. We asked him to come home\nwith us for a day or two: Charles undertook to give him some shooting,\nand he seemed quite delighted, and, for my part, I thought it was all\nsettled; when behold! on Tuesday night, he made a very awkward sort of\nexcuse;  he never shot  and he had  been quite misunderstood,  and he\nhad promised this and he had promised that, and the end of it was, I\nfound, that he did not mean to come. I suppose he was afraid of finding\nit dull; but upon my word I should have thought we were lively enough\nat the Cottage for such a heart-broken man as Captain Benwick. \n\nCharles laughed again and said,  Now Mary, you know very well how it\nreally was. It was all your doing,  (turning to Anne).  He fancied that\nif he went with us, he should find you close by: he fancied everybody\nto be living in Uppercross; and when he discovered that Lady Russell\nlived three miles off, his heart failed him, and he had not courage to\ncome. That is the fact, upon my honour. Mary knows it is. \n\nBut Mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not\nconsidering Captain Benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in\nlove with an Elliot, or from not wanting to believe Anne a greater\nattraction to Uppercross than herself, must be left to be guessed.\nAnne s good-will, however, was not to be lessened by what she heard.\nShe boldly acknowledged herself flattered, and continued her enquiries.\n\n Oh! he talks of you,  cried Charles,  in such terms  Mary interrupted\nhim.  I declare, Charles, I never heard him mention Anne twice all the\ntime I was there. I declare, Anne, he never talks of you at all. \n\n No,  admitted Charles,  I do not know that he ever does, in a general\nway; but however, it is a very clear thing that he admires you\nexceedingly. His head is full of some books that he is reading upon\nyour recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about them; he has\nfound out something or other in one of them which he thinks oh! I\ncannot pretend to remember it, but it was something very fine I\noverheard him telling Henrietta all about it; and then  Miss Elliot \nwas spoken of in the highest terms! Now Mary, I declare it was so, I\nheard it myself, and you were in the other room.  Elegance, sweetness,\nbeauty.  Oh! there was no end of Miss Elliot s charms. \n\n And I am sure,  cried Mary, warmly,  it was a very little to his\ncredit, if he did. Miss Harville only died last June. Such a heart is\nvery little worth having; is it, Lady Russell? I am sure you will agree\nwith me. \n\n I must see Captain Benwick before I decide,  said Lady Russell,\nsmiling.\n\n And that you are very likely to do very soon, I can tell you, ma am, \nsaid Charles.  Though he had not nerves for coming away with us, and\nsetting off again afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make\nhis way over to Kellynch one day by himself, you may depend on it. I\ntold him the distance and the road, and I told him of the church s\nbeing so very well worth seeing; for as he has a taste for those sort\nof things, I thought that would be a good excuse, and he listened with\nall his understanding and soul; and I am sure from his manner that you\nwill have him calling here soon. So, I give you notice, Lady Russell. \n\n Any acquaintance of Anne s will always be welcome to me,  was Lady\nRussell s kind answer.\n\n Oh! as to being Anne s acquaintance,  said Mary,  I think he is rather\nmy acquaintance, for I have been seeing him every day this last\nfortnight. \n\n Well, as your joint acquaintance, then, I shall be very happy to see\nCaptain Benwick. \n\n You will not find anything very agreeable in him, I assure you, ma am.\nHe is one of the dullest young men that ever lived. He has walked with\nme, sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a\nword. He is not at all a well-bred young man. I am sure you will not\nlike him. \n\n There we differ, Mary,  said Anne.  I think Lady Russell would like\nhim. I think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she would\nvery soon see no deficiency in his manner. \n\n So do I, Anne,  said Charles.  I am sure Lady Russell would like him.\nHe is just Lady Russell s sort. Give him a book, and he will read all\nday long. \n\n Yes, that he will!  exclaimed Mary, tauntingly.  He will sit poring\nover his book, and not know when a person speaks to him, or when one\ndrops one s scissors, or anything that happens. Do you think Lady\nRussell would like that? \n\nLady Russell could not help laughing.  Upon my word,  said she,  I\nshould not have supposed that my opinion of any one could have admitted\nof such difference of conjecture, steady and matter of fact as I may\ncall myself. I have really a curiosity to see the person who can give\noccasion to such directly opposite notions. I wish he may be induced to\ncall here. And when he does, Mary, you may depend upon hearing my\nopinion; but I am determined not to judge him beforehand. \n\n You will not like him, I will answer for it. \n\nLady Russell began talking of something else. Mary spoke with animation\nof their meeting with, or rather missing, Mr Elliot so extraordinarily.\n\n He is a man,  said Lady Russell,  whom I have no wish to see. His\ndeclining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left\na very strong impression in his disfavour with me. \n\nThis decision checked Mary s eagerness, and stopped her short in the\nmidst of the Elliot countenance.\n\nWith regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne hazarded no enquiries,\nthere was voluntary communication sufficient. His spirits had been\ngreatly recovering lately as might be expected. As Louisa improved, he\nhad improved, and he was now quite a different creature from what he\nhad been the first week. He had not seen Louisa; and was so extremely\nfearful of any ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did\nnot press for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of\ngoing away for a week or ten days, till her head was stronger. He had\ntalked of going down to Plymouth for a week, and wanted to persuade\nCaptain Benwick to go with him; but, as Charles maintained to the last,\nCaptain Benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to Kellynch.\n\nThere can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne were both occasionally\nthinking of Captain Benwick, from this time. Lady Russell could not\nhear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor\ncould Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her\nfather s grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without\nwondering whether she might see him or hear of him. Captain Benwick\ncame not, however. He was either less disposed for it than Charles had\nimagined, or he was too shy; and after giving him a week s indulgence,\nLady Russell determined him to be unworthy of the interest which he had\nbeen beginning to excite.\n\nThe Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from\nschool, bringing with them Mrs Harville s little children, to improve\nthe noise of Uppercross, and lessen that of Lyme. Henrietta remained\nwith Louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual\nquarters.\n\nLady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them once, when Anne\ncould not but feel that Uppercross was already quite alive again.\nThough neither Henrietta, nor Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain\nWentworth were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could\nbe wished to the last state she had seen it in.\n\nImmediately surrounding Mrs Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom\nshe was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from\nthe Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them. On one side was a table\noccupied by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper; and\non the other were tressels and trays, bending under the weight of brawn\nand cold pies, where riotous boys were holding high revel; the whole\ncompleted by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be\nheard, in spite of all the noise of the others. Charles and Mary also\ncame in, of course, during their visit, and Mr Musgrove made a point of\npaying his respects to Lady Russell, and sat down close to her for ten\nminutes, talking with a very raised voice, but from the clamour of the\nchildren on his knees, generally in vain. It was a fine family-piece.\n\nAnne, judging from her own temperament, would have deemed such a\ndomestic hurricane a bad restorative of the nerves, which Louisa s\nillness must have so greatly shaken. But Mrs Musgrove, who got Anne\nnear her on purpose to thank her most cordially, again and again, for\nall her attentions to them, concluded a short recapitulation of what\nshe had suffered herself by observing, with a happy glance round the\nroom, that after all she had gone through, nothing was so likely to do\nher good as a little quiet cheerfulness at home.\n\nLouisa was now recovering apace. Her mother could even think of her\nbeing able to join their party at home, before her brothers and sisters\nwent to school again. The Harvilles had promised to come with her and\nstay at Uppercross, whenever she returned. Captain Wentworth was gone,\nfor the present, to see his brother in Shropshire.\n\n I hope I shall remember, in future,  said Lady Russell, as soon as\nthey were reseated in the carriage,  not to call at Uppercross in the\nChristmas holidays. \n\nEverybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and\nsounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, by their sort rather\nthan their quantity. When Lady Russell not long afterwards, was\nentering Bath on a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course\nof streets from the Old Bridge to Camden Place, amidst the dash of\nother carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of\nnewspapermen, muffin-men and milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of\npattens, she made no complaint. No, these were noises which belonged to\nthe winter pleasures; her spirits rose under their influence; and like\nMrs Musgrove, she was feeling, though not saying, that after being long\nin the country, nothing could be so good for her as a little quiet\ncheerfulness.\n\nAnne did not share these feelings. She persisted in a very determined,\nthough very silent disinclination for Bath; caught the first dim view\nof the extensive buildings, smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing\nthem better; felt their progress through the streets to be, however\ndisagreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she\narrived? And looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of\nUppercross and the seclusion of Kellynch.\n\nElizabeth s last letter had communicated a piece of news of some\ninterest. Mr Elliot was in Bath. He had called in Camden Place; had\ncalled a second time, a third; had been pointedly attentive. If\nElizabeth and her father did not deceive themselves, had been taking\nmuch pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the\nconnection, as he had formerly taken pains to shew neglect. This was\nvery wonderful if it were true; and Lady Russell was in a state of very\nagreeable curiosity and perplexity about Mr Elliot, already recanting\nthe sentiment she had so lately expressed to Mary, of his being  a man\nwhom she had no wish to see.  She had a great wish to see him. If he\nreally sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be\nforgiven for having dismembered himself from the paternal tree.\n\nAnne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she\nfelt that she would rather see Mr Elliot again than not, which was more\nthan she could say for many other persons in Bath.\n\nShe was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her\nown lodgings, in Rivers Street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nSir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a lofty\ndignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he\nand Elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction.\n\nAnne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of\nmany months, and anxiously saying to herself,  Oh! when shall I leave\nyou again?  A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome\nshe received, did her good. Her father and sister were glad to see her,\nfor the sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her with\nkindness. Her making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was\nnoticed as an advantage.\n\nMrs Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and\nsmiles were more a matter of course. Anne had always felt that she\nwould pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of\nthe others was unlooked for. They were evidently in excellent spirits,\nand she was soon to listen to the causes. They had no inclination to\nlisten to her. After laying out for some compliments of being deeply\nregretted in their old neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they\nhad only a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be all\ntheir own. Uppercross excited no interest, Kellynch very little: it was\nall Bath.\n\nThey had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered\ntheir expectations in every respect. Their house was undoubtedly the\nbest in Camden Place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages\nover all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the\nsuperiority was not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste\nof the furniture. Their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after.\nEverybody was wanting to visit them. They had drawn back from many\nintroductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people\nof whom they knew nothing.\n\nHere were funds of enjoyment. Could Anne wonder that her father and\nsister were happy? She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her\nfather should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to\nregret in the duties and dignity of the resident landholder, should\nfind so much to be vain of in the littlenesses of a town; and she must\nsigh, and smile, and wonder too, as Elizabeth threw open the\nfolding-doors and walked with exultation from one drawing-room to the\nother, boasting of their space; at the possibility of that woman, who\nhad been mistress of Kellynch Hall, finding extent to be proud of\nbetween two walls, perhaps thirty feet asunder.\n\nBut this was not all which they had to make them happy. They had Mr\nElliot too. Anne had a great deal to hear of Mr Elliot. He was not only\npardoned, they were delighted with him. He had been in Bath about a\nfortnight; (he had passed through Bath in November, in his way to\nLondon, when the intelligence of Sir Walter s being settled there had\nof course reached him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but\nhe had not been able to avail himself of it;) but he had now been a\nfortnight in Bath, and his first object on arriving, had been to leave\nhis card in Camden Place, following it up by such assiduous endeavours\nto meet, and when they did meet, by such great openness of conduct,\nsuch readiness to apologize for the past, such solicitude to be\nreceived as a relation again, that their former good understanding was\ncompletely re-established.\n\nThey had not a fault to find in him. He had explained away all the\nappearance of neglect on his own side. It had originated in\nmisapprehension entirely. He had never had an idea of throwing himself\noff; he had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and\ndelicacy had kept him silent. Upon the hint of having spoken\ndisrespectfully or carelessly of the family and the family honours, he\nwas quite indignant. He, who had ever boasted of being an Elliot, and\nwhose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict to suit the\nunfeudal tone of the present day. He was astonished, indeed, but his\ncharacter and general conduct must refute it. He could refer Sir Walter\nto all who knew him; and certainly, the pains he had been taking on\nthis, the first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the\nfooting of a relation and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of his\nopinions on the subject.\n\nThe circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much\nextenuation. This was an article not to be entered on by himself; but a\nvery intimate friend of his, a Colonel Wallis, a highly respectable\nman, perfectly the gentleman, (and not an ill-looking man, Sir Walter\nadded), who was living in very good style in Marlborough Buildings, and\nhad, at his own particular request, been admitted to their acquaintance\nthrough Mr Elliot, had mentioned one or two things relative to the\nmarriage, which made a material difference in the discredit of it.\n\nColonel Wallis had known Mr Elliot long, had been well acquainted also\nwith his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story. She was\ncertainly not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich,\nand excessively in love with his friend. There had been the charm. She\nhad sought him. Without that attraction, not all her money would have\ntempted Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover, assured of her having\nbeen a very fine woman. Here was a great deal to soften the business. A\nvery fine woman with a large fortune, in love with him! Sir Walter\nseemed to admit it as complete apology; and though Elizabeth could not\nsee the circumstance in quite so favourable a light, she allowed it be\na great extenuation.\n\nMr Elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them once, evidently\ndelighted by the distinction of being asked, for they gave no dinners\nin general; delighted, in short, by every proof of cousinly notice, and\nplacing his whole happiness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place.\n\nAnne listened, but without quite understanding it. Allowances, large\nallowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke.\nShe heard it all under embellishment. All that sounded extravagant or\nirrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin\nbut in the language of the relators. Still, however, she had the\nsensation of there being something more than immediately appeared, in\nMr Elliot s wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well\nreceived by them. In a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being on\nterms with Sir Walter; nothing to risk by a state of variance. In all\nprobability he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch\nestate would as surely be his hereafter as the title. A sensible man,\nand he had looked like a very sensible man, why should it be an object\nto him? She could only offer one solution; it was, perhaps, for\nElizabeth s sake. There might really have been a liking formerly,\nthough convenience and accident had drawn him a different way; and now\nthat he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his\naddresses to her. Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with\nwell-bred, elegant manners, and her character might never have been\npenetrated by Mr Elliot, knowing her but in public, and when very young\nhimself. How her temper and understanding might bear the investigation\nof his present keener time of life was another concern and rather a\nfearful one. Most earnestly did she wish that he might not be too nice,\nor too observant if Elizabeth were his object; and that Elizabeth was\ndisposed to believe herself so, and that her friend Mrs Clay was\nencouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two between them,\nwhile Mr Elliot s frequent visits were talked of.\n\nAnne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without\nbeing much attended to.  Oh! yes, perhaps, it had been Mr Elliot. They\ndid not know. It might be him, perhaps.  They could not listen to her\ndescription of him. They were describing him themselves; Sir Walter\nespecially. He did justice to his very gentlemanlike appearance, his\nair of elegance and fashion, his good shaped face, his sensible eye;\nbut, at the same time,  must lament his being very much under-hung, a\ndefect which time seemed to have increased; nor could he pretend to say\nthat ten years had not altered almost every feature for the worse. Mr\nElliot appeared to think that he (Sir Walter) was looking exactly as he\nhad done when they last parted;  but Sir Walter had  not been able to\nreturn the compliment entirely, which had embarrassed him. He did not\nmean to complain, however. Mr Elliot was better to look at than most\nmen, and he had no objection to being seen with him anywhere. \n\nMr Elliot, and his friends in Marlborough Buildings, were talked of the\nwhole evening.  Colonel Wallis had been so impatient to be introduced\nto them! and Mr Elliot so anxious that he should!  and there was a Mrs\nWallis, at present known only to them by description, as she was in\ndaily expectation of her confinement; but Mr Elliot spoke of her as  a\nmost charming woman, quite worthy of being known in Camden Place,  and\nas soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted. Sir Walter thought\nmuch of Mrs Wallis; she was said to be an excessively pretty woman,\nbeautiful.  He longed to see her. He hoped she might make some amends\nfor the many very plain faces he was continually passing in the\nstreets. The worst of Bath was the number of its plain women. He did\nnot mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the\nplain was out of all proportion. He had frequently observed, as he\nwalked, that one handsome face would be followed by thirty, or\nfive-and-thirty frights; and once, as he had stood in a shop on Bond\nStreet, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another,\nwithout there being a tolerable face among them. It had been a frosty\nmorning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a\nthousand could stand the test of. But still, there certainly were a\ndreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men! they were\ninfinitely worse. Such scarecrows as the streets were full of! It was\nevident how little the women were used to the sight of anything\ntolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced. He\nhad never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis (who was a\nfine military figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every\nwoman s eye was upon him; every woman s eye was sure to be upon Colonel\nWallis.  Modest Sir Walter! He was not allowed to escape, however. His\ndaughter and Mrs Clay united in hinting that Colonel Wallis s companion\nmight have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly was not\nsandy-haired.\n\n How is Mary looking?  said Sir Walter, in the height of his good\nhumour.  The last time I saw her she had a red nose, but I hope that\nmay not happen every day. \n\n Oh! no, that must have been quite accidental. In general she has been\nin very good health and very good looks since Michaelmas. \n\n If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds, and grow\ncoarse, I would send her a new hat and pelisse. \n\nAnne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown,\nor a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the\ndoor suspended everything.  A knock at the door! and so late! It was\nten o clock. Could it be Mr Elliot? They knew he was to dine in\nLansdown Crescent. It was possible that he might stop in his way home\nto ask them how they did. They could think of no one else. Mrs Clay\ndecidedly thought it Mr Elliot s knock.  Mrs Clay was right. With all\nthe state which a butler and foot-boy could give, Mr Elliot was ushered\ninto the room.\n\nIt was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress.\nAnne drew a little back, while the others received his compliments, and\nher sister his apologies for calling at so unusual an hour, but  he\ncould not be so near without wishing to know that neither she nor her\nfriend had taken cold the day before,  &c. &c.; which was all as\npolitely done, and as politely taken, as possible, but her part must\nfollow then. Sir Walter talked of his youngest daughter;  Mr Elliot\nmust give him leave to present him to his youngest daughter  (there was\nno occasion for remembering Mary); and Anne, smiling and blushing, very\nbecomingly shewed to Mr Elliot the pretty features which he had by no\nmeans forgotten, and instantly saw, with amusement at his little start\nof surprise, that he had not been at all aware of who she was. He\nlooked completely astonished, but not more astonished than pleased; his\neyes brightened! and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the\nrelationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an\nacquaintance already. He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared\nat Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so\nexactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly\nagreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one\nperson s manners. They were not the same, but they were, perhaps,\nequally good.\n\nHe sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much. There\ncould be no doubt of his being a sensible man. Ten minutes were enough\nto certify that. His tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his\nknowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a sensible,\ndiscerning mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk to her of Lyme,\nwanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but especially\nwanting to speak of the circumstance of their happening to be guests in\nthe same inn at the same time; to give his own route, understand\nsomething of hers, and regret that he should have lost such an\nopportunity of paying his respects to her. She gave him a short account\nof her party and business at Lyme. His regret increased as he listened.\nHe had spent his whole solitary evening in the room adjoining theirs;\nhad heard voices, mirth continually; thought they must be a most\ndelightful set of people, longed to be with them, but certainly without\nthe smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow of a right to\nintroduce himself. If he had but asked who the party were! The name of\nMusgrove would have told him enough.  Well, it would serve to cure him\nof an absurd practice of never asking a question at an inn, which he\nhad adopted, when quite a young man, on the principle of its being very\nungenteel to be curious. \n\n The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty,  said he,  as to\nwhat is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more\nabsurd, I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world.\nThe folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the\nfolly of what they have in view. \n\nBut he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone: he knew\nit; he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at\nintervals that he could return to Lyme.\n\nHis enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she\nhad been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place. Having\nalluded to  an accident,  he must hear the whole. When he questioned,\nSir Walter and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in\ntheir manner of doing it could not be unfelt. She could only compare Mr\nElliot to Lady Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had\npassed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in\nwitnessing it.\n\nHe staid an hour with them. The elegant little clock on the\nmantel-piece had struck  eleven with its silver sounds,  and the\nwatchman was beginning to be heard at a distance telling the same tale,\nbefore Mr Elliot or any of them seemed to feel that he had been there\nlong.\n\nAnne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in\nCamden Place could have passed so well!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nThere was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have\nbeen more thankful to ascertain even than Mr Elliot s being in love\nwith Elizabeth, which was, her father s not being in love with Mrs\nClay; and she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at\nhome a few hours. On going down to breakfast the next morning, she\nfound there had just been a decent pretence on the lady s side of\nmeaning to leave them. She could imagine Mrs Clay to have said, that\n now Miss Anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted; \nfor Elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper,  That must not be any\nreason, indeed. I assure you I feel it none. She is nothing to me,\ncompared with you;  and she was in full time to hear her father say,\n My dear madam, this must not be. As yet, you have seen nothing of\nBath. You have been here only to be useful. You must not run away from\nus now. You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs Wallis, the beautiful\nMrs Wallis. To your fine mind, I well know the sight of beauty is a\nreal gratification. \n\nHe spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to\nsee Mrs Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself. Her\ncountenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise\nof the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister. The\nlady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay.\n\nIn the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be\nalone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he\nthought her  less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her\ncomplexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher. Had she been using any\nthing in particular?   No, nothing.   Merely Gowland,  he supposed.\n No, nothing at all.   Ha! he was surprised at that;  and added,\n certainly you cannot do better than to continue as you are; you cannot\nbe better than well; or I should recommend Gowland, the constant use of\nGowland, during the spring months. Mrs Clay has been using it at my\nrecommendation, and you see what it has done for her. You see how it\nhas carried away her freckles. \n\nIf Elizabeth could but have heard this! Such personal praise might have\nstruck her, especially as it did not appear to Anne that the freckles\nwere at all lessened. But everything must take its chance. The evil of\na marriage would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also to marry.\nAs for herself, she might always command a home with Lady Russell.\n\nLady Russell s composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial\non this point, in her intercourse in Camden Place. The sight of Mrs\nClay in such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual\nprovocation to her there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a\nperson in Bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and\nhas a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed.\n\nAs Mr Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more\nindifferent, towards the others. His manners were an immediate\nrecommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully\nsupporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne,\nalmost ready to exclaim,  Can this be Mr Elliot?  and could not\nseriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man.\nEverything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions,\nknowledge of the world, and a warm heart. He had strong feelings of\nfamily attachment and family honour, without pride or weakness; he\nlived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display; he\njudged for himself in everything essential, without defying public\nopinion in any point of worldly decorum. He was steady, observant,\nmoderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness,\nwhich fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility to\nwhat was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of\ndomestic life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent\nagitation seldom really possess. She was sure that he had not been\nhappy in marriage. Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it; but\nit had been no unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty soon\nto suspect) to prevent his thinking of a second choice. Her\nsatisfaction in Mr Elliot outweighed all the plague of Mrs Clay.\n\nIt was now some years since Anne had begun to learn that she and her\nexcellent friend could sometimes think differently; and it did not\nsurprise her, therefore, that Lady Russell should see nothing\nsuspicious or inconsistent, nothing to require more motives than\nappeared, in Mr Elliot s great desire of a reconciliation. In Lady\nRussell s view, it was perfectly natural that Mr Elliot, at a mature\ntime of life, should feel it a most desirable object, and what would\nvery generally recommend him among all sensible people, to be on good\nterms with the head of his family; the simplest process in the world of\ntime upon a head naturally clear, and only erring in the heyday of\nyouth. Anne presumed, however, still to smile about it, and at last to\nmention  Elizabeth.  Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only\nthis cautious reply: Elizabeth! very well; time will explain. \n\nIt was a reference to the future, which Anne, after a little\nobservation, felt she must submit to. She could determine nothing at\npresent. In that house Elizabeth must be first; and she was in the\nhabit of such general observance as  Miss Elliot,  that any\nparticularity of attention seemed almost impossible. Mr Elliot, too, it\nmust be remembered, had not been a widower seven months. A little delay\non his side might be very excusable. In fact, Anne could never see the\ncrape round his hat, without fearing that she was the inexcusable one,\nin attributing to him such imaginations; for though his marriage had\nnot been very happy, still it had existed so many years that she could\nnot comprehend a very rapid recovery from the awful impression of its\nbeing dissolved.\n\nHowever it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest\nacquaintance in Bath: she saw nobody equal to him; and it was a great\nindulgence now and then to talk to him about Lyme, which he seemed to\nhave as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself.\nThey went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many\ntimes. He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some\nearnestness. She knew it well; and she remembered another person s look\nalso.\n\nThey did not always think alike. His value for rank and connexion she\nperceived was greater than hers. It was not merely complaisance, it\nmust be a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her\nfather and sister s solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy\nto excite them. The Bath paper one morning announced the arrival of the\nDowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and her daughter, the Honourable Miss\nCarteret; and all the comfort of No.  , Camden Place, was swept away\nfor many days; for the Dalrymples (in Anne s opinion, most\nunfortunately) were cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was how to\nintroduce themselves properly.\n\nAnne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with\nnobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed. She had hoped\nbetter things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and\nwas reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen; a wish that\nthey had more pride; for  our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss\nCarteret;   our cousins, the Dalrymples,  sounded in her ears all day\nlong.\n\nSir Walter had once been in company with the late viscount, but had\nnever seen any of the rest of the family; and the difficulties of the\ncase arose from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by\nletters of ceremony, ever since the death of that said late viscount,\nwhen, in consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter s at the same\ntime, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch. No letter of\ncondolence had been sent to Ireland. The neglect had been visited on\nthe head of the sinner; for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no\nletter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and, consequently, there\nwas but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the\nrelationship as closed. How to have this anxious business set to\nrights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question: and it was\na question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor\nMr Elliot thought unimportant.  Family connexions were always worth\npreserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had taken\na house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would be living in\nstyle. She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had heard\nher spoken of as a charming woman. It was very desirable that the\nconnexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any\ncompromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots. \n\nSir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a\nvery fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his\nright honourable cousin. Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot could\nadmire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three\nlines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess.  She was very much\nhonoured, and should be happy in their acquaintance.  The toils of the\nbusiness were over, the sweets began. They visited in Laura Place, they\nhad the cards of Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and the Honourable Miss\nCarteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible: and  Our\ncousins in Laura Place, Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss\nCarteret,  were talked of to everybody.\n\nAnne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very\nagreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they\ncreated, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner,\naccomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name\nof  a charming woman,  because she had a smile and a civil answer for\neverybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so\nawkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but\nfor her birth.\n\nLady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet  it\nwas an acquaintance worth having;  and when Anne ventured to speak her\nopinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in\nthemselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good\ncompany, as those who would collect good company around them, they had\ntheir value. Anne smiled and said,\n\n My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever,\nwell-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is\nwhat I call good company. \n\n You are mistaken,  said he gently,  that is not good company; that is\nthe best. Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and\nwith regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are\nessential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in\ngood company; on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne\nshakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear\ncousin  (sitting down by her),  you have a better right to be\nfastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will\nit make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those\ngood ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the\nconnexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will\nmove in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your\nbeing known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your\nfamily (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we\nmust all wish for. \n\n Yes,  sighed Anne,  we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them! \nthen recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added,\n I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to\nprocure the acquaintance. I suppose  (smiling)  I have more pride than\nany of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so\nsolicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very\nsure is a matter of perfect indifference to them. \n\n Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London,\nperhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say:\nbut in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth\nknowing: always acceptable as acquaintance. \n\n Well,  said Anne,  I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome\nwhich depends so entirely upon place. \n\n I love your indignation,  said he;  it is very natural. But here you\nare in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the\ncredit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk\nof being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to\nbelieve myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have\nthe same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little\ndifferent. In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin,  (he continued,\nspeaking lower, though there was no one else in the room)  in one\npoint, I am sure, we must feel alike. We must feel that every addition\nto your father s society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use\nin diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him. \n\nHe looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately\noccupying: a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and\nthough Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride,\nshe was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience\nadmitted that his wishing to promote her father s getting great\nacquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\nWhile Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good\nfortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very\ndifferent description.\n\nShe had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there\nbeing an old schoolfellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on\nher attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton,\nnow Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her\nlife when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to school,\ngrieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling\nher separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of\nstrong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time;\nand Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the\nwant of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at\nschool, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably\nlessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference.\n\nMiss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was\nsaid to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had\nknown of her, till now that their governess s account brought her\nsituation forward in a more decided but very different form.\n\nShe was a widow and poor. Her husband had been extravagant; and at his\ndeath, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully\ninvolved. She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and\nin addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe\nrheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for\nthe present a cripple. She had come to Bath on that account, and was\nnow in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable\neven to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost\nexcluded from society.\n\nTheir mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from\nMiss Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in\ngoing. She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she\nintended, at home. It would excite no proper interest there. She only\nconsulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and\nwas most happy to convey her as near to Mrs Smith s lodgings in\nWestgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be taken.\n\nThe visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest\nin each other more than re-kindled. The first ten minutes had its\nawkwardness and its emotion. Twelve years were gone since they had\nparted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the\nother had imagined. Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming,\nsilent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of\nseven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as\nconsciously right as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had\ntransformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow\nof health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless\nwidow, receiving the visit of her former protegee as a favour; but all\nthat was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left\nonly the interesting charm of remembering former partialities and\ntalking over old times.\n\nAnne found in Mrs Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she\nhad almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be\ncheerful beyond her expectation. Neither the dissipations of the\npast and she had lived very much in the world nor the restrictions of\nthe present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her\nheart or ruined her spirits.\n\nIn the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and\nAnne s astonishment increased. She could scarcely imagine a more\ncheerless situation in itself than Mrs Smith s. She had been very fond\nof her husband: she had buried him. She had been used to affluence: it\nwas gone. She had no child to connect her with life and happiness\nagain, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs,\nno health to make all the rest supportable. Her accommodations were\nlimited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind, with no\npossibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which\nthere was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never\nquitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath. Yet, in spite\nof all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of\nlanguor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment. How could\nit be? She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined that\nthis was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only. A submissive\nspirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply\nresolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of\nmind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily\nfrom evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of\nherself, which was from nature alone. It was the choicest gift of\nHeaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which,\nby a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost\nevery other want.\n\nThere had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly\nfailed. She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her\nstate on first reaching Bath. Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable\nobject; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken\npossession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and\nsuffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers,\nwith the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at\nthat moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense. She\nhad weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her\ngood. It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be in\ngood hands. She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or\ndisinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her\nthat her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her\nill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister\nof her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in\nthat house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to\nattend her.  And she,  said Mrs Smith,  besides nursing me most\nadmirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I\ncould use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great\namusement; and she put me in the way of making these little\nthread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so\nbusy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good\nto one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood. She had a large\nacquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can afford to\nbuy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes the right\ntime for applying. Everybody s heart is open, you know, when they have\nrecently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of\nhealth, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to speak. She is a\nshrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human\nnature; and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a\ncompanion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who\nhaving only received  the best education in the world,  know nothing\nworth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke\nhas half an hour s leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have\nsomething to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that\nmakes one know one s species better. One likes to hear what is going\non, to be _au fait_ as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly.\nTo me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a\ntreat. \n\nAnne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied,  I can easily\nbelieve it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they\nare intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human\nnature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in\nits follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally\nunder every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting.\nWhat instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested,\nself-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation:\nof all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A\nsick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes. \n\n Yes,  said Mrs Smith more doubtingly,  sometimes it may, though I fear\nits lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and\nthere, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally\nspeaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a\nsick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity\nand fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in\nthe world! and unfortunately  (speaking low and tremulously)  there are\nso many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late. \n\nAnne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he\nought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made\nher think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a\npassing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon\nadded in a different tone \n\n I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present,\nwill furnish much either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing\nMrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive,\nfashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report\nbut of lace and finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis,\nhowever. She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the\nhigh-priced things I have in hand now. \n\nAnne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of\nsuch a person was known in Camden Place. At last, it became necessary\nto speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one\nmorning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple\nfor the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that\nevening in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse. They\nwere only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at\nhome by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had\nbeen so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great\nalacrity She was engaged to spend the evening with an old\nschoolfellow.  They were not much interested in anything relative to\nAnne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it\nunderstood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was\ndisdainful, and Sir Walter severe.\n\n Westgate Buildings!  said he,  and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be\nvisiting in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs Smith. A widow Mrs Smith; and who\nwas her husband? One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to be\nmet with everywhere. And what is her attraction? That she is old and\nsickly. Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary\ntaste! Everything that revolts other people, low company, paltry rooms,\nfoul air, disgusting associations are inviting to you. But surely you\nmay put off this old lady till to-morrow: she is not so near her end, I\npresume, but that she may hope to see another day. What is her age?\nForty? \n\n No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off\nmy engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will\nat once suit her and myself. She goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and\nfor the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged. \n\n But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?  asked\nElizabeth.\n\n She sees nothing to blame in it,  replied Anne;  on the contrary, she\napproves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs\nSmith. \n\n Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance\nof a carriage drawn up near its pavement,  observed Sir Walter.  Sir\nHenry Russell s widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms,\nbut still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to\nconvey a Miss Elliot. A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings!\nA poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs\nSmith, an every-day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the\nworld, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred\nby her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and\nIreland! Mrs Smith! Such a name! \n\nMrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it\nadvisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did\nlong to say a little in defence of _her_ friend s not very dissimilar\nclaims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father\nprevented her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to recollect,\nthat Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty,\nwith little to live on, and no surname of dignity.\n\nAnne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she\nheard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had\nbeen the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had\nnot only been quite at her ladyship s service themselves, but had\nactually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had\nbeen at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr\nElliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady\nRussell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait\non her. Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could\nsupply from Lady Russell. To her, its greatest interest must be, in\nhaving been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in\nhaving been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for\nstaying away in such a cause. Her kind, compassionate visits to this\nold schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr\nElliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her temper,\nmanners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet even Lady\nRussell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be given to\nunderstand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so\nhighly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable\nsensations which her friend meant to create.\n\nLady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot. She\nwas as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his\ndeserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which\nwould free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and\nleave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She\nwould not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the\nsubject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be\nhereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness\nof the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned.\nAnne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled,\nblushed, and gently shook her head.\n\n I am no match-maker, as you well know,  said Lady Russell,  being much\ntoo well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations.\nI only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses\nto you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there\nwould be every possibility of your being happy together. A most\nsuitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be\na very happy one. \n\n Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I\nthink highly of him,  said Anne;  but we should not suit. \n\nLady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder,  I own that to\nbe able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future\nLady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother s\nplace, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as\nto all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me.\nYou are your mother s self in countenance and disposition; and if I\nmight be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name,\nand home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to\nher in being more highly valued! My dearest Anne, it would give me more\ndelight than is often felt at my time of life! \n\nAnne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table,\nand, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings\nthis picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart\nwere bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of\nhaving the precious name of  Lady Elliot  first revived in herself; of\nbeing restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for\never, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell\nsaid not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own\noperation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with\npropriety have spoken for himself! she believed, in short, what Anne\ndid not believe. The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself\nbrought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and of  Lady\nElliot  all faded away. She never could accept him. And it was not only\nthat her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her\njudgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a\ncase, was against Mr Elliot.\n\nThough they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied\nthat she really knew his character. That he was a sensible man, an\nagreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to\njudge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough. He\ncertainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article of\nmoral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been afraid\nto answer for his conduct. She distrusted the past, if not the present.\nThe names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the allusions\nto former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable\nof what he had been. She saw that there had been bad habits; that\nSunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had been a period\nof his life (and probably not a short one) when he had been, at least,\ncareless in all serious matters; and, though he might now think very\ndifferently, who could answer for the true sentiments of a clever,\ncautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair character? How\ncould it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly cleansed?\n\nMr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. There\nwas never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight,\nat the evil or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided\nimperfection. Her early impressions were incurable. She prized the\nfrank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. Warmth\nand enthusiasm did captivate her still. She felt that she could so much\nmore depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a\ncareless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never\nvaried, whose tongue never slipped.\n\nMr Elliot was too generally agreeable. Various as were the tempers in\nher father s house, he pleased them all. He endured too well, stood too\nwell with every body. He had spoken to her with some degree of openness\nof Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was about,\nand to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as agreeable as\nany body.\n\nLady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw\nnothing to excite distrust. She could not imagine a man more exactly\nwhat he ought to be than Mr Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter\nfeeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved\nAnne in Kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nIt was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been a month in\nBath, was growing very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme. She\nwanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated. It was three weeks\nsince she had heard at all. She only knew that Henrietta was at home\nagain; and that Louisa, though considered to be recovering fast, was\nstill in Lyme; and she was thinking of them all very intently one\nevening, when a thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to\nher; and, to quicken the pleasure and surprise, with Admiral and Mrs\nCroft s compliments.\n\nThe Crofts must be in Bath! A circumstance to interest her. They were\npeople whom her heart turned to very naturally.\n\n What is this?  cried Sir Walter.  The Crofts have arrived in Bath? The\nCrofts who rent Kellynch? What have they brought you? \n\n A letter from Uppercross Cottage, Sir. \n\n Oh! those letters are convenient passports. They secure an\nintroduction. I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any\nrate. I know what is due to my tenant. \n\nAnne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor\nAdmiral s complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her. It had been\nbegun several days back.\n\n February 1st.\n\n\n MY DEAR ANNE,\n\nI make no apology for my silence, because I know how little people\nthink of letters in such a place as Bath. You must be a great deal too\nhappy to care for Uppercross, which, as you well know, affords little\nto write about. We have had a very dull Christmas; Mr and Mrs Musgrove\nhave not had one dinner party all the holidays. I do not reckon the\nHayters as anybody. The holidays, however, are over at last: I believe\nno children ever had such long ones. I am sure I had not. The house was\ncleared yesterday, except of the little Harvilles; but you will be\nsurprised to hear they have never gone home. Mrs Harville must be an\nodd mother to part with them so long. I do not understand it. They are\nnot at all nice children, in my opinion; but Mrs Musgrove seems to like\nthem quite as well, if not better, than her grandchildren. What\ndreadful weather we have had! It may not be felt in Bath, with your\nnice pavements; but in the country it is of some consequence. I have\nnot had a creature call on me since the second week in January, except\nCharles Hayter, who had been calling much oftener than was welcome.\nBetween ourselves, I think it a great pity Henrietta did not remain at\nLyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept her a little out of his way.\nThe carriage is gone to-day, to bring Louisa and the Harvilles\nto-morrow. We are not asked to dine with them, however, till the day\nafter, Mrs Musgrove is so afraid of her being fatigued by the journey,\nwhich is not very likely, considering the care that will be taken of\nher; and it would be much more convenient to me to dine there\nto-morrow. I am glad you find Mr Elliot so agreeable, and wish I could\nbe acquainted with him too; but I have my usual luck: I am always out\nof the way when any thing desirable is going on; always the last of my\nfamily to be noticed. What an immense time Mrs Clay has been staying\nwith Elizabeth! Does she never mean to go away? But perhaps if she were\nto leave the room vacant, we might not be invited. Let me know what you\nthink of this. I do not expect my children to be asked, you know. I can\nleave them at the Great House very well, for a month or six weeks. I\nhave this moment heard that the Crofts are going to Bath almost\nimmediately; they think the Admiral gouty. Charles heard it quite by\nchance; they have not had the civility to give me any notice, or of\noffering to take anything. I do not think they improve at all as\nneighbours. We see nothing of them, and this is really an instance of\ngross inattention. Charles joins me in love, and everything proper.\nYours affectionately,\n\n MARY M .\n\n I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and Jemima has just\ntold me that the butcher says there is a bad sore-throat very much\nabout. I dare say I shall catch it; and my sore-throats, you know, are\nalways worse than anybody s. \n\n\nSo ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an\nenvelope, containing nearly as much more.\n\n I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how Louisa bore her\njourney, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add.\nIn the first place, I had a note from Mrs Croft yesterday, offering to\nconvey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to\nme, just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as\nlong as I like. The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely\nhope Bath will do him all the good he wants. I shall be truly glad to\nhave them back again. Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant\nfamily. But now for Louisa. I have something to communicate that will\nastonish you not a little. She and the Harvilles came on Tuesday very\nsafely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were\nrather surprised not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had\nbeen invited as well as the Harvilles; and what do you think was the\nreason? Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa, and\nnot choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had an answer from Mr\nMusgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before she came\naway, and he had written to her father by Captain Harville. True, upon\nmy honour! Are not you astonished? I shall be surprised at least if you\never received a hint of it, for I never did. Mrs Musgrove protests\nsolemnly that she knew nothing of the matter. We are all very well\npleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain\nWentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr Musgrove\nhas written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day. Mrs\nHarville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister s\naccount; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both. Indeed,\nMrs Harville and I quite agree that we love her the better for having\nnursed her. Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if you\nremember, I never thought him attached to Louisa; I never could see\nanything of it. And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick s\nbeing supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could take such a\nthing into his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope he will\nbe more agreeable now. Certainly not a great match for Louisa Musgrove,\nbut a million times better than marrying among the Hayters. \n\nMary need not have feared her sister s being in any degree prepared for\nthe news. She had never in her life been more astonished. Captain\nBenwick and Louisa Musgrove! It was almost too wonderful for belief,\nand it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room,\npreserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the\nmoment. Happily for her, they were not many. Sir Walter wanted to know\nwhether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they were\nlikely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss\nElliot and himself to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond.\n\n How is Mary?  said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer,  And\npray what brings the Crofts to Bath? \n\n They come on the Admiral s account. He is thought to be gouty. \n\n Gout and decrepitude!  said Sir Walter.  Poor old gentleman. \n\n Have they any acquaintance here?  asked Elizabeth.\n\n I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Admiral Croft s time\nof life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in\nsuch a place as this. \n\n I suspect,  said Sir Walter coolly,  that Admiral Croft will be best\nknown in Bath as the renter of Kellynch Hall. Elizabeth, may we venture\nto present him and his wife in Laura Place? \n\n Oh, no! I think not. Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins,\nwe ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she\nmight not approve. If we were not related, it would not signify; but as\ncousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours. We had\nbetter leave the Crofts to find their own level. There are several\nodd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors. The\nCrofts will associate with them. \n\nThis was Sir Walter and Elizabeth s share of interest in the letter;\nwhen Mrs Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an\nenquiry after Mrs Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was\nat liberty.\n\nIn her own room, she tried to comprehend it. Well might Charles wonder\nhow Captain Wentworth would feel! Perhaps he had quitted the field, had\ngiven Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her. She\ncould not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin to\nill usage between him and his friend. She could not endure that such a\nfriendship as theirs should be severed unfairly.\n\nCaptain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The high-spirited, joyous-talking\nLouisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading, Captain\nBenwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other.\nTheir minds most dissimilar! Where could have been the attraction? The\nanswer soon presented itself. It had been in situation. They had been\nthrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same small\nfamily party: since Henrietta s coming away, they must have been\ndepending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering\nfrom illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was\nnot inconsolable. That was a point which Anne had not been able to\navoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as\nMary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm\nthe idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself.\nShe did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her\nvanity, than Mary might have allowed. She was persuaded that any\ntolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for\nhim would have received the same compliment. He had an affectionate\nheart. He must love somebody.\n\nShe saw no reason against their being happy. Louisa had fine naval\nfervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike. He would\ngain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott\nand Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they\nhad fallen in love over poetry. The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned into\na person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was amusing, but\nshe had no doubt of its being so. The day at Lyme, the fall from the\nCobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her courage, her\ncharacter to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it appeared to have\ninfluenced her fate.\n\nThe conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman who had been\nsensible of Captain Wentworth s merits could be allowed to prefer\nanother man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting\nwonder; and if Captain Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly\nnothing to be regretted. No, it was not regret which made Anne s heart\nbeat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when\nshe thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free. She had some\nfeelings which she was ashamed to investigate. They were too much like\njoy, senseless joy!\n\nShe longed to see the Crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was\nevident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them. The visit of\nceremony was paid and returned; and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and\nCaptain Benwick, too, without even half a smile.\n\nThe Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly\nto Sir Walter s satisfaction. He was not at all ashamed of the\nacquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about\nthe Admiral, than the Admiral ever thought or talked about him.\n\nThe Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and\nconsidered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form,\nand not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure. They brought\nwith them their country habit of being almost always together. He was\nordered to walk to keep off the gout, and Mrs Croft seemed to go shares\nwith him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good. Anne\nsaw them wherever she went. Lady Russell took her out in her carriage\nalmost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never\nfailed to see them. Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most\nattractive picture of happiness to her. She always watched them as long\nas she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be\ntalking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally\ndelighted to see the Admiral s hearty shake of the hand when he\nencountered an old friend, and observe their eagerness of conversation\nwhen occasionally forming into a little knot of the navy, Mrs Croft\nlooking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around her.\n\nAnne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be often walking\nherself; but it so happened that one morning, about a week or ten days\nafter the Croft s arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or\nher friend s carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone\nto Camden Place, and in walking up Milsom Street she had the good\nfortune to meet with the Admiral. He was standing by himself at a\nprintshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation\nof some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was\nobliged to touch as well as address him before she could catch his\nnotice. When he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was done\nwith all his usual frankness and good humour.  Ha! is it you? Thank\nyou, thank you. This is treating me like a friend. Here I am, you see,\nstaring at a picture. I can never get by this shop without stopping.\nBut what a thing here is, by way of a boat! Do look at it. Did you ever\nsee the like? What queer fellows your fine painters must be, to think\nthat anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless old\ncockleshell as that? And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it\nmightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and\nmountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they\ncertainly must be. I wonder where that boat was built!  (laughing\nheartily);  I would not venture over a horsepond in it. Well,  (turning\naway),  now, where are you bound? Can I go anywhere for you, or with\nyou? Can I be of any use? \n\n None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your\ncompany the little way our road lies together. I am going home. \n\n That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too. Yes, yes we will\nhave a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go\nalong. There, take my arm; that s right; I do not feel comfortable if I\nhave not a woman there. Lord! what a boat it is!  taking a last look at\nthe picture, as they began to be in motion.\n\n Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir? \n\n Yes, I have, presently. But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I\nshall only say,  How d ye do?  as we pass, however. I shall not stop.\n How d ye do?  Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife. She,\npoor soul, is tied by the leg. She has a blister on one of her heels,\nas large as a three-shilling piece. If you look across the street, you\nwill see Admiral Brand coming down and his brother. Shabby fellows,\nboth of them! I am glad they are not on this side of the way. Sophy\ncannot bear them. They played me a pitiful trick once: got away with\nsome of my best men. I will tell you the whole story another time.\nThere comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson. Look, he sees us;\nhe kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife. Ah! the peace has\ncome too soon for that younker. Poor old Sir Archibald! How do you like\nBath, Miss Elliot? It suits us very well. We are always meeting with\nsome old friend or other; the streets full of them every morning; sure\nto have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them all, and shut\nourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and are as snug as\nif we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at North Yarmouth\nand Deal. We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you,\nfor putting us in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth. The\nwind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way. \n\nWhen they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for\nwhat he had to communicate. She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to\nhave her curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for\nthe Admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the\ngreater space and quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs\nCroft, she must let him have his own way. As soon as they were fairly\nascending Belmont, he began \n\n Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you. But first\nof all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk\nabout. That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned\nfor. The Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to. Her\nChristian name: I always forget her Christian name. \n\nAnne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really\ndid; but now she could safely suggest the name of  Louisa. \n\n Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name. I wish young ladies\nhad not such a number of fine Christian names. I should never be out if\nthey were all Sophys, or something of that sort. Well, this Miss\nLouisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick. He was\ncourting her week after week. The only wonder was, what they could be\nwaiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear\nenough that they must wait till her brain was set to right. But even\nthen there was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of\nstaying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see\nEdward. When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward s,\nand there he has been ever since. We have seen nothing of him since\nNovember. Even Sophy could not understand it. But now, the matter has\ntaken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss\nMusgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James\nBenwick. You know James Benwick. \n\n A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick. \n\n Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already,\nfor I do not know what they should wait for. \n\n I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man,  said Anne,  and\nI understand that he bears an excellent character. \n\n Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick. He\nis only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad\ntimes for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An\nexcellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous\nofficer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that\nsoft sort of manner does not do him justice. \n\n Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of\nspirit from Captain Benwick s manners. I thought them particularly\npleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please. \n\n Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather\ntoo piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality,\nSophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick s manners better than his.\nThere is something about Frederick more to our taste. \n\nAnne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of\nspirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to\nrepresent Captain Benwick s manners as the very best that could\npossibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say,\n I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends,  but the\nAdmiral interrupted her with \n\n And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We\nhave it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him\nyesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a\nletter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy\nthey are all at Uppercross. \n\nThis was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said,\ntherefore,  I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of\nCaptain Wentworth s letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly\nuneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment\nbetween him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to\nhave worn out on each side equally, and without violence. I hope his\nletter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man. \n\n Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from\nbeginning to end. \n\nAnne looked down to hide her smile.\n\n No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much\nspirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit\nshe should have him. \n\n Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain\nWentworth s manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself\nill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being\nabsolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has\nsubsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or even\nwounded, by a circumstance of this sort. \n\n Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all of that nature\nin the letter. He does not give the least fling at Benwick; does not so\nmuch as say,  I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for wondering\nat it.  No, you would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had\never thought of this Miss (what s her name?) for himself. He very\nhandsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is nothing very\nunforgiving in that, I think. \n\nAnne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to\nconvey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther.\nShe therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet\nattention, and the Admiral had it all his own way.\n\n Poor Frederick!  said he at last.  Now he must begin all over again\nwith somebody else. I think we must get him to Bath. Sophy must write,\nand beg him to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure.\nIt would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other Miss\nMusgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson. Do not\nyou think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath? \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\nWhile Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his\nwish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was\nalready on his way thither. Before Mrs Croft had written, he was\narrived, and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him.\n\nMr Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs Clay. They were in\nMilsom Street. It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter\ndesirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for\nMiss Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady\nDalrymple s carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance; she,\nAnne, and Mrs Clay, therefore, turned into Molland s, while Mr Elliot\nstepped to Lady Dalrymple, to request her assistance. He soon joined\nthem again, successful, of course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy\nto take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes.\n\nHer ladyship s carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four\nwith any comfort. Miss Carteret was with her mother; consequently it\nwas not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden\nPlace ladies. There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot. Whoever\nsuffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little\ntime to settle the point of civility between the other two. The rain\nwas a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with\nMr Elliot. But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would\nhardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much\nthicker than Miss Anne s; and, in short, her civility rendered her\nquite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as Anne could be,\nand it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so\ndetermined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; Miss\nElliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr\nElliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne s boots were rather the\nthickest.\n\nIt was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the\ncarriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat\nnear the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain\nWentworth walking down the street.\n\nHer start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that\nshe was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and\nabsurd! For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all\nconfusion. She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she\nfound the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always\nobliging) just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs\nClay s.\n\nShe now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to\nsee if it rained. Why was she to suspect herself of another motive?\nCaptain Wentworth must be out of sight. She left her seat, she would\ngo; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other\nhalf, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was. She\nwould see if it rained. She was sent back, however, in a moment by the\nentrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and\nladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a\nlittle below Milsom Street. He was more obviously struck and confused\nby the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite\nred. For the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt\nthat she was betraying the least sensibility of the two. She had the\nadvantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments. All the\noverpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise\nwere over with her. Still, however, she had enough to feel! It was\nagitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.\n\nHe spoke to her, and then turned away. The character of his manner was\nembarrassment. She could not have called it either cold or friendly, or\nanything so certainly as embarrassed.\n\nAfter a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again.\nMutual enquiries on common subjects passed: neither of them, probably,\nmuch the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible\nof his being less at ease than formerly. They had by dint of being so\nvery much together, got to speak to each other with a considerable\nportion of apparent indifference and calmness; but he could not do it\nnow. Time had changed him, or Louisa had changed him. There was\nconsciousness of some sort or other. He looked very well, not as if he\nhad been suffering in health or spirits, and he talked of Uppercross,\nof the Musgroves, nay, even of Louisa, and had even a momentary look of\nhis own arch significance as he named her; but yet it was Captain\nWentworth not comfortable, not easy, not able to feign that he was.\n\nIt did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth\nwould not know him. She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw\nhim, that there was complete internal recognition on each side; she was\nconvinced that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance,\nexpecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with\nunalterable coldness.\n\nLady Dalrymple s carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very\nimpatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it. It was\nbeginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a\nbustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop\nunderstand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot. At\nlast Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for\nthere was no cousin returned), were walking off; and Captain Wentworth,\nwatching them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than words,\nwas offering his services to her.\n\n I am much obliged to you,  was her answer,  but I am not going with\nthem. The carriage would not accommodate so many. I walk: I prefer\nwalking. \n\n But it rains. \n\n Oh! very little. Nothing that I regard. \n\nAfter a moment s pause he said:  Though I came only yesterday, I have\nequipped myself properly for Bath already, you see,  (pointing to a new\numbrella);  I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to\nwalk; though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a\nchair. \n\nShe was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her\nconviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present, and adding,\n I am only waiting for Mr Elliot. He will be here in a moment, I am\nsure. \n\nShe had hardly spoken the words when Mr Elliot walked in. Captain\nWentworth recollected him perfectly. There was no difference between\nhim and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as\nshe passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged\nrelation and friend. He came in with eagerness, appeared to see and\nthink only of her, apologised for his stay, was grieved to have kept\nher waiting, and anxious to get her away without further loss of time\nand before the rain increased; and in another moment they walked off\ntogether, her arm under his, a gentle and embarrassed glance, and a\n Good morning to you!  being all that she had time for, as she passed\naway.\n\nAs soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Wentworth s\nparty began talking of them.\n\n Mr Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy? \n\n Oh! no, that is clear enough. One can guess what will happen there. He\nis always with them; half lives in the family, I believe. What a very\ngood-looking man! \n\n Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says\nhe is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with. \n\n She is pretty, I think; Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to\nlook at her. It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire\nher more than her sister. \n\n Oh! so do I. \n\n And so do I. No comparison. But the men are all wild after Miss\nElliot. Anne is too delicate for them. \n\nAnne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would\nhave walked by her side all the way to Camden Place, without saying a\nword. She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though\nnothing could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects\nwere principally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise,\nwarm, just, and discriminating, of Lady Russell, and insinuations\nhighly rational against Mrs Clay. But just now she could think only of\nCaptain Wentworth. She could not understand his present feelings,\nwhether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not; and\ntill that point were settled, she could not be quite herself.\n\nShe hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas! she must\nconfess to herself that she was not wise yet.\n\nAnother circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he\nmeant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not\nrecollect it. He might be only passing through. But it was more\nprobable that he should be come to stay. In that case, so liable as\nevery body was to meet every body in Bath, Lady Russell would in all\nlikelihood see him somewhere. Would she recollect him? How would it all\nbe?\n\nShe had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove\nwas to marry Captain Benwick. It had cost her something to encounter\nLady Russell s surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be\nthrown into company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of\nthe matter might add another shade of prejudice against him.\n\nThe following morning Anne was out with her friend, and for the first\nhour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch for him in vain; but at\nlast, in returning down Pulteney Street, she distinguished him on the\nright hand pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the\ngreater part of the street. There were many other men about him, many\ngroups walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him. She looked\ninstinctively at Lady Russell; but not from any mad idea of her\nrecognising him so soon as she did herself. No, it was not to be\nsupposed that Lady Russell would perceive him till they were nearly\nopposite. She looked at her however, from time to time, anxiously; and\nwhen the moment approached which must point him out, though not daring\nto look again (for her own countenance she knew was unfit to be seen),\nshe was yet perfectly conscious of Lady Russell s eyes being turned\nexactly in the direction for him of her being, in short, intently\nobserving him. She could thoroughly comprehend the sort of fascination\nhe must possess over Lady Russell s mind, the difficulty it must be for\nher to withdraw her eyes, the astonishment she must be feeling that\neight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes\nand in active service too, without robbing him of one personal grace!\n\nAt last, Lady Russell drew back her head.  Now, how would she speak of\nhim? \n\n You will wonder,  said she,  what has been fixing my eye so long; but\nI was looking after some window-curtains, which Lady Alicia and Mrs\nFrankland were telling me of last night. They described the\ndrawing-room window-curtains of one of the houses on this side of the\nway, and this part of the street, as being the handsomest and best hung\nof any in Bath, but could not recollect the exact number, and I have\nbeen trying to find out which it could be; but I confess I can see no\ncurtains hereabouts that answer their description. \n\nAnne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her\nfriend or herself. The part which provoked her most, was that in all\nthis waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right\nmoment for seeing whether he saw them.\n\nA day or two passed without producing anything. The theatre or the\nrooms, where he was most likely to be, were not fashionable enough for\nthe Elliots, whose evening amusements were solely in the elegant\nstupidity of private parties, in which they were getting more and more\nengaged; and Anne, wearied of such a state of stagnation, sick of\nknowing nothing, and fancying herself stronger because her strength was\nnot tried, was quite impatient for the concert evening. It was a\nconcert for the benefit of a person patronised by Lady Dalrymple. Of\ncourse they must attend. It was really expected to be a good one, and\nCaptain Wentworth was very fond of music. If she could only have a few\nminutes conversation with him again, she fancied she should be\nsatisfied; and as to the power of addressing him, she felt all over\ncourage if the opportunity occurred. Elizabeth had turned from him,\nLady Russell overlooked him; her nerves were strengthened by these\ncircumstances; she felt that she owed him attention.\n\nShe had once partly promised Mrs Smith to spend the evening with her;\nbut in a short hurried call she excused herself and put it off, with\nthe more decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow. Mrs Smith\ngave a most good-humoured acquiescence.\n\n By all means,  said she;  only tell me all about it, when you do come.\nWho is your party? \n\nAnne named them all. Mrs Smith made no reply; but when she was leaving\nher said, and with an expression half serious, half arch,  Well, I\nheartily wish your concert may answer; and do not fail me to-morrow if\nyou can come; for I begin to have a foreboding that I may not have many\nmore visits from you. \n\nAnne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment s\nsuspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\nSir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs Clay, were the earliest of all\ntheir party at the rooms in the evening; and as Lady Dalrymple must be\nwaited for, they took their station by one of the fires in the Octagon\nRoom. But hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again, and\nCaptain Wentworth walked in alone. Anne was the nearest to him, and\nmaking yet a little advance, she instantly spoke. He was preparing only\nto bow and pass on, but her gentle  How do you do?  brought him out of\nthe straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in return, in\nspite of the formidable father and sister in the back ground. Their\nbeing in the back ground was a support to Anne; she knew nothing of\ntheir looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed right to\nbe done.\n\nWhile they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth\ncaught her ear. She could not distinguish, but she must guess the\nsubject; and on Captain Wentworth s making a distant bow, she\ncomprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that\nsimple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a\nside glance to see a slight curtsey from Elizabeth herself. This,\nthough late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than\nnothing, and her spirits improved.\n\nAfter talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the concert,\ntheir conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that\nshe was expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in\nno hurry to leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little\nsmile, a little glow, he said \n\n I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme. I am afraid you must\nhave suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering\nyou at the time. \n\nShe assured him that she had not.\n\n It was a frightful hour,  said he,  a frightful day!  and he passed\nhis hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful,\nbut in a moment, half smiling again, added,  The day has produced some\neffects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as\nthe very reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to\nsuggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon,\nyou could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most\nconcerned in her recovery. \n\n Certainly I could have none. But it appears I should hope it would be\na very happy match. There are on both sides good principles and good\ntemper. \n\n Yes,  said he, looking not exactly forward;  but there, I think, ends\nthe resemblance. With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over\nevery circumstance in favour of it. They have no difficulties to\ncontend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. The\nMusgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly,\nonly anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter s\ncomfort. All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness; more\nthan perhaps \n\nHe stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some\ntaste of that emotion which was reddening Anne s cheeks and fixing her\neyes on the ground. After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded\nthus \n\n I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity,\nand in a point no less essential than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as\na very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in\nunderstanding, but Benwick is something more. He is a clever man, a\nreading man; and I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to\nher with some surprise. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he\nlearnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it\nwould have been another thing. But I have no reason to suppose it so.\nIt seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous,\nuntaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. A man like him, in\nhis situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! Fanny\nHarville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was\nindeed attachment. A man does not recover from such a devotion of the\nheart to such a woman. He ought not; he does not. \n\nEither from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered,\nor from other consciousness, he went no farther; and Anne who, in spite\nof the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in\nspite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam\nof the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had\ndistinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and\nbeginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a\nmoment. It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet,\nafter a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the\nsmallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say \n\n You were a good while at Lyme, I think? \n\n About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louisa s doing well was\nquite ascertained. I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to\nbe soon at peace. It had been my doing, solely mine. She would not have\nbeen obstinate if I had not been weak. The country round Lyme is very\nfine. I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the more I\nfound to admire. \n\n I should very much like to see Lyme again,  said Anne.\n\n Indeed! I should not have supposed that you could have found anything\nin Lyme to inspire such a feeling. The horror and distress you were\ninvolved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits! I should have\nthought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust. \n\n The last hours were certainly very painful,  replied Anne;  but when\npain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does\nnot love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been\nall suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at\nLyme. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours,\nand previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. So much\nnovelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place\nwould be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in\nshort  (with a faint blush at some recollections),  altogether my\nimpressions of the place are very agreeable. \n\nAs she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party\nappeared for whom they were waiting.  Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple, \nwas the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with\nanxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet\nher. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and\nColonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant,\nadvanced into the room. The others joined them, and it was a group in\nwhich Anne found herself also necessarily included. She was divided\nfrom Captain Wentworth. Their interesting, almost too interesting\nconversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance\ncompared with the happiness which brought it on! She had learnt, in the\nlast ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his\nfeelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the\ndemands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with\nexquisite, though agitated sensations. She was in good humour with all.\nShe had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to\nall, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.\n\nThe delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back\nfrom the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that\nhe was gone. She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert\nRoom. He was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment s regret. But\n they should meet again. He would look for her, he would find her out\nbefore the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well\nto be asunder. She was in need of a little interval for recollection. \n\nUpon Lady Russell s appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was\ncollected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed\ninto the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power,\ndraw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people\nas they could.\n\nVery, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in.\nElizabeth arm in arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back\nof the dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish\nfor which did not seem within her reach; and Anne but it would be an\ninsult to the nature of Anne s felicity, to draw any comparison between\nit and her sister s; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other\nall generous attachment.\n\nAnne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room. Her\nhappiness was from within. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed;\nbut she knew nothing about it. She was thinking only of the last half\nhour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range\nover it. His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his\nmanner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light. His\nopinion of Louisa Musgrove s inferiority, an opinion which he had\nseemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings\nas to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not\nfinish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance,\nall, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that\nanger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they were\nsucceeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness\nof the past. Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past. She could\nnot contemplate the change as implying less. He must love her.\n\nThese were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and\nflurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she\npassed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even\ntrying to discern him. When their places were determined on, and they\nwere all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen\nto be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not\nreach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a\ntime to be happy in a humbler way.\n\nThe party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne\nwas among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had man uvred so well,\nwith the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by\nher. Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object\nof Colonel Wallis s gallantry, was quite contented.\n\nAnne s mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the\nevening; it was just occupation enough: she had feelings for the\ntender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience\nfor the wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least\nduring the first act. Towards the close of it, in the interval\nsucceeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr\nElliot. They had a concert bill between them.\n\n This,  said she,  is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the\nwords, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be\ntalked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not\npretend to understand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar. \n\n Yes, yes, I see you are. I see you know nothing of the matter. You\nhave only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these\ninverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear,\ncomprehensible, elegant English. You need not say anything more of your\nignorance. Here is complete proof. \n\n I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be\nexamined by a real proficient. \n\n I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long, \nreplied he,  without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do\nregard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be\naware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for\nmodesty to be natural in any other woman. \n\n For shame! for shame! this is too much flattery. I forget what we are\nto have next,  turning to the bill.\n\n Perhaps,  said Mr Elliot, speaking low,  I have had a longer\nacquaintance with your character than you are aware of. \n\n Indeed! How so? You can have been acquainted with it only since I came\nto Bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my own\nfamily. \n\n I knew you by report long before you came to Bath. I had heard you\ndescribed by those who knew you intimately. I have been acquainted with\nyou by character many years. Your person, your disposition,\naccomplishments, manner; they were all present to me. \n\nMr Elliot was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise. No\none can withstand the charm of such a mystery. To have been described\nlong ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible;\nand Anne was all curiosity. She wondered, and questioned him eagerly;\nbut in vain. He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell.\n\n No, no, some time or other, perhaps, but not now. He would mention no\nnames now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact. He had\nmany years ago received such a description of Miss Anne Elliot as had\ninspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the\nwarmest curiosity to know her. \n\nAnne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of\nher many years ago as the Mr Wentworth of Monkford, Captain Wentworth s\nbrother. He might have been in Mr Elliot s company, but she had not\ncourage to ask the question.\n\n The name of Anne Elliot,  said he,  has long had an interesting sound\nto me. Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if I\ndared, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change. \n\nSuch, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their\nsound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind\nher, which rendered every thing else trivial. Her father and Lady\nDalrymple were speaking.\n\n A well-looking man,  said Sir Walter,  a very well-looking man. \n\n A very fine young man indeed!  said Lady Dalrymple.  More air than one\noften sees in Bath. Irish, I dare say. \n\n No, I just know his name. A bowing acquaintance. Wentworth; Captain\nWentworth of the navy. His sister married my tenant in Somersetshire,\nthe Croft, who rents Kellynch. \n\nBefore Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne s eyes had caught the\nright direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a\ncluster of men at a little distance. As her eyes fell on him, his\nseemed to be withdrawn from her. It had that appearance. It seemed as\nif she had been one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe,\nhe did not look again: but the performance was recommencing, and she\nwas forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra and look\nstraight forward.\n\nWhen she could give another glance, he had moved away. He could not\nhave come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in:\nbut she would rather have caught his eye.\n\nMr Elliot s speech, too, distressed her. She had no longer any\ninclination to talk to him. She wished him not so near her.\n\nThe first act was over. Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and,\nafter a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did\ndecide on going in quest of tea. Anne was one of the few who did not\nchoose to move. She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but\nshe had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr Elliot; and she did not mean,\nwhatever she might feel on Lady Russell s account, to shrink from\nconversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity.\nShe was persuaded by Lady Russell s countenance that she had seen him.\n\nHe did not come however. Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a\ndistance, but he never came. The anxious interval wore away\nunproductively. The others returned, the room filled again, benches\nwere reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of\npenance was to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or\nthe gapes, as real or affected taste for it prevailed. To Anne, it\nchiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation. She could not quit\nthat room in peace without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without\nthe interchange of one friendly look.\n\nIn re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of\nwhich was favourable for her. Colonel Wallis declined sitting down\nagain, and Mr Elliot was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a\nmanner not to be refused, to sit between them; and by some other\nremovals, and a little scheming of her own, Anne was enabled to place\nherself much nearer the end of the bench than she had been before, much\nmore within reach of a passer-by. She could not do so, without\ncomparing herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but\nstill she did it, and not with much happier effect; though by what\nseemed prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next\nneighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the\nconcert closed.\n\nSuch was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain\nWentworth was again in sight. She saw him not far off. He saw her too;\nyet he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow\ndegrees came at last near enough to speak to her. She felt that\nsomething must be the matter. The change was indubitable. The\ndifference between his present air and what it had been in the Octagon\nRoom was strikingly great. Why was it? She thought of her father, of\nLady Russell. Could there have been any unpleasant glances? He began by\nspeaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain Wentworth of\nUppercross; owned himself disappointed, had expected singing; and in\nshort, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over. Anne\nreplied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in\nallowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance\nimproved, and he replied again with almost a smile. They talked for a\nfew minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down towards the\nbench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at that\nmoment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round. It came from\nMr Elliot. He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to explain\nItalian again. Miss Carteret was very anxious to have a general idea of\nwhat was next to be sung. Anne could not refuse; but never had she\nsacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.\n\nA few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and\nwhen her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done\nbefore, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved\nyet hurried sort of farewell.  He must wish her good night; he was\ngoing; he should get home as fast as he could. \n\n Is not this song worth staying for?  said Anne, suddenly struck by an\nidea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging.\n\n No!  he replied impressively,  there is nothing worth my staying for; \nand he was gone directly.\n\nJealousy of Mr Elliot! It was the only intelligible motive. Captain\nWentworth jealous of her affection! Could she have believed it a week\nago; three hours ago! For a moment the gratification was exquisite.\nBut, alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed. How was such\njealousy to be quieted? How was the truth to reach him? How, in all the\npeculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever\nlearn of her real sentiments? It was misery to think of Mr Elliot s\nattentions. Their evil was incalculable.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n\nAnne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to\nMrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when\nMr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was\nalmost a first object.\n\nShe felt a great deal of good-will towards him. In spite of the\nmischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps\ncompassion. She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary\ncircumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he\nseemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own\nsentiments, by his early prepossession. It was altogether very\nextraordinary; flattering, but painful. There was much to regret. How\nshe might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case,\nwas not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the\nconclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be\nhis for ever. Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from\nother men, than their final separation.\n\nPrettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could\nnever have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting\nwith from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to\nspread purification and perfume all the way.\n\nShe was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this\nmorning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have\nexpected her, though it had been an appointment.\n\nAn account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne s\nrecollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her\nfeatures and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell\nshe told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been\nthere, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had\nalready heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter,\nrather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne\ncould relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the\ncompany. Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well\nknow by name to Mrs Smith.\n\n The little Durands were there, I conclude,  said she,  with their\nmouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be\nfed. They never miss a concert. \n\n Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in\nthe room. \n\n The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the\ntall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them. \n\n I do not know. I do not think they were. \n\n Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I\nknow; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own\ncircle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of\ngrandeur, round the orchestra, of course. \n\n No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me\nin every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be\nfarther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing;\nI must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little. \n\n Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is\na sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you\nhad. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing\nbeyond. \n\n But I ought to have looked about me more,  said Anne, conscious while\nshe spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that\nthe object only had been deficient.\n\n No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a\npleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours\npassed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the\nintervals of the concert it was conversation. \n\nAnne half smiled and said,  Do you see that in my eye? \n\n Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in\ncompany last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in\nthe world, the person who interests you at this present time more than\nall the rest of the world put together. \n\nA blush overspread Anne s cheeks. She could say nothing.\n\n And such being the case,  continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause,  I\nhope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to\nme this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me,\nwhen you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time. \n\nAnne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and\nconfusion excited by her friend s penetration, unable to imagine how\nany report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another\nshort silence \n\n Pray,  said Mrs Smith,  is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with\nme? Does he know that I am in Bath? \n\n Mr Elliot!  repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment s reflection\nshewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it\ninstantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety,\nsoon added, more composedly,  Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot? \n\n I have been a good deal acquainted with him,  replied Mrs Smith,\ngravely,  but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met. \n\n I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I\nknown it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you. \n\n To confess the truth,  said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of\ncheerfulness,  that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want\nyou to talk about me to Mr Elliot. I want your interest with him. He\ncan be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness,\nmy dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is\ndone. \n\n I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to\nbe of even the slightest use to you,  replied Anne;  but I suspect that\nyou are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater\nright to influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have,\nsomehow or other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only as\nMr Elliot s relation. If in that light there is anything which you\nsuppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not\nhesitate to employ me. \n\nMrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said \n\n I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon. I ought\nto have waited for official information. But now, my dear Miss Elliot,\nas an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak. Next week?\nTo be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and\nbuild my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot s good fortune. \n\n No,  replied Anne,  nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you\nthat nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week.\nI am not going to marry Mr Elliot. I should like to know why you\nimagine I am? \n\nMrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her\nhead, and exclaimed \n\n Now, how I do wish I understood you! How I do wish I knew what you\nwere at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when\nthe right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never\nmean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man\nis refused, till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead\nfor my present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend.\nWhere can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a\nmore gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr Elliot. I am\nsure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can\nknow him better than Colonel Wallis? \n\n My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot s wife has not been dead much above half\na year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any\none. \n\n Oh! if these are your only objections,  cried Mrs Smith, archly,  Mr\nElliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do\nnot forget me when you are married, that s all. Let him know me to be a\nfriend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required,\nwhich it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and\nengagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very\nnatural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of\ncourse, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss\nElliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to\nunderstand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be\nshipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and\nsafe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled\nby others to his ruin. \n\n No,  said Anne,  I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems\nto have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous\nimpressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from\nany thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I\nhave not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known\nintimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith,\nconvince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough.\nAnd, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me\n(which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of\ndoing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you,\nMr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever\npleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is\nnot Mr Elliot that \n\nShe stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much;\nbut less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have\nbelieved so soon in Mr Elliot s failure, but from the perception of\nthere being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and\nwith all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to\nescape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have\nfancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the\nidea, or from whom she could have heard it.\n\n Do tell me how it first came into your head. \n\n It first came into my head,  replied Mrs Smith,  upon finding how much\nyou were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the\nworld to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you\nmay depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in\nthe same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago. \n\n And has it indeed been spoken of? \n\n Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called\nyesterday? \n\n No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in\nparticular. \n\n It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great\ncuriosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in.\nShe came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was\nwho told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis\nherself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on\nMonday evening, and gave me the whole history.   The whole history, \nrepeated Anne, laughing.  She could not make a very long history, I\nthink, of one such little article of unfounded news. \n\nMrs Smith said nothing.\n\n But,  continued Anne, presently,  though there is no truth in my\nhaving this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of\nuse to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being\nin Bath? Shall I take any message? \n\n No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and\nunder a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to\ninterest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I\nhave nothing to trouble you with. \n\n I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years? \n\n I did. \n\n Not before he was married, I suppose? \n\n Yes; he was not married when I knew him first. \n\n And were you much acquainted? \n\n Intimately. \n\n Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a\ngreat curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he\nat all such as he appears now? \n\n I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years,  was Mrs Smith s answer,\ngiven so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther;\nand Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity.\nThey were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last \n\n I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot,  she cried, in her natural\ntone of cordiality,  I beg your pardon for the short answers I have\nbeen giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have\nbeen doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There\nwere many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be\nofficious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the\nsmooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may\nbe nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am\nright; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot s real\ncharacter. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the\nsmallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may\nhappen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards\nhim. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr\nElliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary,\ncold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own\ninterest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery,\nthat could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has\nno feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of\nleading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest\ncompunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice\nor compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black! \n\nAnne s astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and\nin a calmer manner, she added,\n\n My expressions startle you. You must allow for an injured, angry\nwoman. But I will try to command myself. I will not abuse him. I will\nonly tell you what I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the\nintimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and\nthought him as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our\nmarriage. I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became\nexcessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion\nof him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but\nMr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more\nagreeable than most others, and we were almost always together. We were\nprincipally in town, living in very good style. He was then the\ninferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in\nthe Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance\nof a gentleman. He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he\nwas always welcome; he was like a brother. My poor Charles, who had the\nfinest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last\nfarthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I know\nthat he often assisted him. \n\n This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot s life,  said\nAnne,  which has always excited my particular curiosity. It must have\nbeen about the same time that he became known to my father and sister.\nI never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something\nin his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and\nafterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could\nquite reconcile with present times. It seemed to announce a different\nsort of man. \n\n I know it all, I know it all,  cried Mrs Smith.  He had been\nintroduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with\nhim, but I heard him speak of them for ever. I know he was invited and\nencouraged, and I know he did not choose to go. I can satisfy you,\nperhaps, on points which you would little expect; and as to his\nmarriage, I knew all about it at the time. I was privy to all the fors\nand againsts; I was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans;\nand though I did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation\nin society, indeed, rendered that impossible, yet I knew her all her\nlife afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her\nlife, and can answer any question you may wish to put. \n\n Nay,  said Anne,  I have no particular enquiry to make about her. I\nhave always understood they were not a happy couple. But I should like\nto know why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father s\nacquaintance as he did. My father was certainly disposed to take very\nkind and proper notice of him. Why did Mr Elliot draw back? \n\n Mr Elliot,  replied Mrs Smith,  at that period of his life, had one\nobject in view: to make his fortune, and by a rather quicker process\nthan the law. He was determined to make it by marriage. He was\ndetermined, at least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage; and I\nknow it was his belief (whether justly or not, of course I cannot\ndecide), that your father and sister, in their civilities and\ninvitations, were designing a match between the heir and the young\nlady, and it was impossible that such a match should have answered his\nideas of wealth and independence. That was his motive for drawing back,\nI can assure you. He told me the whole story. He had no concealments\nwith me. It was curious, that having just left you behind me in Bath,\nmy first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be your cousin;\nand that, through him, I should be continually hearing of your father\nand sister. He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought very\naffectionately of the other. \n\n Perhaps,  cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea,  you sometimes spoke of\nme to Mr Elliot? \n\n To be sure I did; very often. I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot,\nand vouch for your being a very different creature from \n\nShe checked herself just in time.\n\n This accounts for something which Mr Elliot said last night,  cried\nAnne.  This explains it. I found he had been used to hear of me. I\ncould not comprehend how. What wild imaginations one forms where dear\nself is concerned! How sure to be mistaken! But I beg your pardon; I\nhave interrupted you. Mr Elliot married then completely for money? The\ncircumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his\ncharacter. \n\nMrs Smith hesitated a little here.  Oh! those things are too common.\nWhen one lives in the world, a man or woman s marrying for money is too\ncommon to strike one as it ought. I was very young, and associated only\nwith the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any strict\nrules of conduct. We lived for enjoyment. I think differently now; time\nand sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at that period\nI must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr Elliot was doing.  To\ndo the best for himself,  passed as a duty. \n\n But was not she a very low woman? \n\n Yes; which I objected to, but he would not regard. Money, money, was\nall that he wanted. Her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been\na butcher, but that was all nothing. She was a fine woman, had had a\ndecent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance\ninto Mr Elliot s company, and fell in love with him; and not a\ndifficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her\nbirth. All his caution was spent in being secured of the real amount of\nher fortune, before he committed himself. Depend upon it, whatever\nesteem Mr Elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young\nman he had not the smallest value for it. His chance for the Kellynch\nestate was something, but all the honour of the family he held as cheap\nas dirt. I have often heard him declare, that if baronetcies were\nsaleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto,\nname and livery included; but I will not pretend to repeat half that I\nused to hear him say on that subject. It would not be fair; and yet you\nought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you shall\nhave proof. \n\n Indeed, my dear Mrs Smith, I want none,  cried Anne.  You have\nasserted nothing contradictory to what Mr Elliot appeared to be some\nyears ago. This is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to hear\nand believe. I am more curious to know why he should be so different\nnow. \n\n But for my satisfaction, if you will have the goodness to ring for\nMary; stay: I am sure you will have the still greater goodness of going\nyourself into my bedroom, and bringing me the small inlaid box which\nyou will find on the upper shelf of the closet. \n\nAnne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was\ndesired. The box was brought and placed before her, and Mrs Smith,\nsighing over it as she unlocked it, said \n\n This is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband; a small\nportion only of what I had to look over when I lost him. The letter I\nam looking for was one written by Mr Elliot to him before our marriage,\nand happened to be saved; why, one can hardly imagine. But he was\ncareless and immethodical, like other men, about those things; and when\nI came to examine his papers, I found it with others still more\ntrivial, from different people scattered here and there, while many\nletters and memorandums of real importance had been destroyed. Here it\nis; I would not burn it, because being even then very little satisfied\nwith Mr Elliot, I was determined to preserve every document of former\nintimacy. I have now another motive for being glad that I can produce\nit. \n\nThis was the letter, directed to  Charles Smith, Esq. Tunbridge Wells, \nand dated from London, as far back as July, 1803: \n\n\n Dear Smith,\n\n I have received yours. Your kindness almost overpowers me. I wish\nnature had made such hearts as yours more common, but I have lived\nthree-and-twenty years in the world, and have seen none like it. At\npresent, believe me, I have no need of your services, being in cash\nagain. Give me joy: I have got rid of Sir Walter and Miss. They are\ngone back to Kellynch, and almost made me swear to visit them this\nsummer; but my first visit to Kellynch will be with a surveyor, to tell\nme how to bring it with best advantage to the hammer. The baronet,\nnevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again; he is quite fool enough.\nIf he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent\nequivalent for the reversion. He is worse than last year.\n\n I wish I had any name but Elliot. I am sick of it. The name of Walter\nI can drop, thank God! and I desire you will never insult me with my\nsecond W. again, meaning, for the rest of my life, to be only yours\ntruly,\n\n WM. ELLIOT. \n\n\nSuch a letter could not be read without putting Anne in a glow; and Mrs\nSmith, observing the high colour in her face, said \n\n The language, I know, is highly disrespectful. Though I have forgot\nthe exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning.\nBut it shows you the man. Mark his professions to my poor husband. Can\nany thing be stronger? \n\nAnne could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of\nfinding such words applied to her father. She was obliged to recollect\nthat her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that\nno one ought to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no\nprivate correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could\nrecover calmness enough to return the letter which she had been\nmeditating over, and say \n\n Thank you. This is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you\nwere saying. But why be acquainted with us now? \n\n I can explain this too,  cried Mrs Smith, smiling.\n\n Can you really? \n\n Yes. I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I\nwill shew him as he is now. I cannot produce written proof again, but I\ncan give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is\nnow wanting, and what he is now doing. He is no hypocrite now. He truly\nwants to marry you. His present attentions to your family are very\nsincere: quite from the heart. I will give you my authority: his friend\nColonel Wallis. \n\n Colonel Wallis! you are acquainted with him? \n\n No. It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it takes\na bend or two, but nothing of consequence. The stream is as good as at\nfirst; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily moved\naway. Mr Elliot talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his views on\nyou, which said Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a\nsensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has\na very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better\nnot, and he repeats it all to her. She in the overflowing spirits of\nher recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse knowing my\nacquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me. On Monday\nevening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of\nMarlborough Buildings. When I talked of a whole history, therefore, you\nsee I was not romancing so much as you supposed. \n\n My dear Mrs Smith, your authority is deficient. This will not do. Mr\nElliot s having any views on me will not in the least account for the\nefforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father. That was all\nprior to my coming to Bath. I found them on the most friendly terms\nwhen I arrived. \n\n I know you did; I know it all perfectly, but \n\n Indeed, Mrs Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such\na line. Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so\nmany, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can\nhardly have much truth left. \n\n Only give me a hearing. You will soon be able to judge of the general\ncredit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself\nimmediately contradict or confirm. Nobody supposes that you were his\nfirst inducement. He had seen you indeed, before he came to Bath, and\nadmired you, but without knowing it to be you. So says my historian, at\nleast. Is this true? Did he see you last summer or autumn,  somewhere\ndown in the west,  to use her own words, without knowing it to be you? \n\n He certainly did. So far it is very true. At Lyme. I happened to be at\nLyme. \n\n Well,  continued Mrs Smith, triumphantly,  grant my friend the credit\ndue to the establishment of the first point asserted. He saw you then\nat Lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet\nwith you again in Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that\nmoment, I have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there. But\nthere was another, and an earlier, which I will now explain. If there\nis anything in my story which you know to be either false or\nimprobable, stop me. My account states, that your sister s friend, the\nlady now staying with you, whom I have heard you mention, came to Bath\nwith Miss Elliot and Sir Walter as long ago as September (in short when\nthey first came themselves), and has been staying there ever since;\nthat she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible,\nand altogether such in situation and manner, as to give a general idea,\namong Sir Walter s acquaintance, of her meaning to be Lady Elliot, and\nas general a surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently, blind to\nthe danger. \n\nHere Mrs Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a word to say, and she\ncontinued \n\n This was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family,\nlong before you returned to it; and Colonel Wallis had his eye upon\nyour father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit\nin Camden Place; but his regard for Mr Elliot gave him an interest in\nwatching all that was going on there, and when Mr Elliot came to Bath\nfor a day or two, as he happened to do a little before Christmas,\nColonel Wallis made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and\nthe reports beginning to prevail. Now you are to understand, that time\nhad worked a very material change in Mr Elliot s opinions as to the\nvalue of a baronetcy. Upon all points of blood and connexion he is a\ncompletely altered man. Having long had as much money as he could\nspend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has\nbeen gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is\nheir to. I thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it\nis now a confirmed feeling. He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir\nWilliam. You may guess, therefore, that the news he heard from his\nfriend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what it produced;\nthe resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of\nfixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former\nacquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give\nhim the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of\ncircumventing the lady if he found it material. This was agreed upon\nbetween the two friends as the only thing to be done; and Colonel\nWallis was to assist in every way that he could. He was to be\nintroduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to\nbe introduced. Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was\nforgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it\nwas his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added\nanother motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He omitted no\nopportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at\nall hours; but I need not be particular on this subject. You can\nimagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may\nrecollect what you have seen him do. \n\n Yes,  said Anne,  you tell me nothing which does not accord with what\nI have known, or could imagine. There is always something offensive in\nthe details of cunning. The man uvres of selfishness and duplicity must\never be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me.\nI know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr\nElliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never\nbeen satisfied. I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct\nthan appeared. I should like to know his present opinion, as to the\nprobability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers\nthe danger to be lessening or not. \n\n Lessening, I understand,  replied Mrs Smith.  He thinks Mrs Clay\nafraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to\nproceed as she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent\nsome time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while\nshe holds her present influence. Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as\nnurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when\nyou and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay. A\nscheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis s understanding, by all accounts; but my\nsensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it.  Why, to be sure,\nma am,  said she,  it would not prevent his marrying anybody else. \nAnd, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a\nvery strenuous opposer of Sir Walter s making a second match. She must\nbe allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self\nwill intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of\nattending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis s recommendation? \n\n I am very glad to know all this,  said Anne, after a little\nthoughtfulness.  It will be more painful to me in some respects to be\nin company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of\nconduct will be more direct. Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous,\nartificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to\nguide him than selfishness. \n\nBut Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been carried away from\nher first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own\nfamily concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but\nher attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints,\nand she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify\nthe unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very\nunfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice\nand compassion.\n\nShe learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr\nElliot s marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr\nElliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs\nSmith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of\nthrowing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income\nhad never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first\nthere had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance. From his\nwife s account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man of\nwarm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong\nunderstanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him,\nled by him, and probably despised by him. Mr Elliot, raised by his\nmarriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of\npleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself,\n(for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and\nbeginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to\nbe poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend s\nprobable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and\nencouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths\naccordingly had been ruined.\n\nThe husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of\nit. They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the\nfriendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot s had better\nnot be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of\nhis affairs was fully known. With a confidence in Mr Elliot s regard,\nmore creditable to his feelings than his judgement, Mr Smith had\nappointed him the executor of his will; but Mr Elliot would not act,\nand the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her,\nin addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been\nsuch as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to\nwithout corresponding indignation.\n\nAnne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent\napplications from Mrs Smith, which all breathed the same stern\nresolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold\ncivility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it\nmight bring on her. It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and\ninhumanity; and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime\ncould have been worse. She had a great deal to listen to; all the\nparticulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon\ndistress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were\ndwelt on now with a natural indulgence. Anne could perfectly comprehend\nthe exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to wonder at the\ncomposure of her friend s usual state of mind.\n\nThere was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of\nparticular irritation. She had good reason to believe that some\nproperty of her husband in the West Indies, which had been for many\nyears under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own\nincumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures; and this\nproperty, though not large, would be enough to make her comparatively\nrich. But there was nobody to stir in it. Mr Elliot would do nothing,\nand she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal\nexertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by\nher want of money. She had no natural connexions to assist her even\nwith their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance\nof the law. This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened means.\nTo feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little\ntrouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be\neven weakening her claims, was hard to bear.\n\nIt was on this point that she had hoped to engage Anne s good offices\nwith Mr Elliot. She had previously, in the anticipation of their\nmarriage, been very apprehensive of losing her friend by it; but on\nbeing assured that he could have made no attempt of that nature, since\nhe did not even know her to be in Bath, it immediately occurred, that\nsomething might be done in her favour by the influence of the woman he\nloved, and she had been hastily preparing to interest Anne s feelings,\nas far as the observances due to Mr Elliot s character would allow,\nwhen Anne s refutation of the supposed engagement changed the face of\neverything; and while it took from her the new-formed hope of\nsucceeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at least the\ncomfort of telling the whole story her own way.\n\nAfter listening to this full description of Mr Elliot, Anne could not\nbut express some surprise at Mrs Smith s having spoken of him so\nfavourably in the beginning of their conversation.  She had seemed to\nrecommend and praise him! \n\n My dear,  was Mrs Smith s reply,  there was nothing else to be done. I\nconsidered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have\nmade the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he\nhad been your husband. My heart bled for you, as I talked of happiness;\nand yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as you,\nit was not absolutely hopeless. He was very unkind to his first wife.\nThey were wretched together. But she was too ignorant and giddy for\nrespect, and he had never loved her. I was willing to hope that you\nmust fare better. \n\nAnne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having\nbeen induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the\nmisery which must have followed. It was just possible that she might\nhave been persuaded by Lady Russell! And under such a supposition,\nwhich would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too\nlate?\n\nIt was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no longer deceived;\nand one of the concluding arrangements of this important conference,\nwhich carried them through the greater part of the morning, was, that\nAnne had full liberty to communicate to her friend everything relative\nto Mrs Smith, in which his conduct was involved.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n\nAnne went home to think over all that she had heard. In one point, her\nfeelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr Elliot. There was no\nlonger anything of tenderness due to him. He stood as opposed to\nCaptain Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil\nof his attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have\ndone, was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed. Pity for\nhim was all over. But this was the only point of relief. In every other\nrespect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw more to\ndistrust and to apprehend. She was concerned for the disappointment and\npain Lady Russell would be feeling; for the mortifications which must\nbe hanging over her father and sister, and had all the distress of\nforeseeing many evils, without knowing how to avert any one of them.\nShe was most thankful for her own knowledge of him. She had never\nconsidered herself as entitled to reward for not slighting an old\nfriend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward indeed springing from it!\nMrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done.\nCould the knowledge have been extended through her family? But this was\na vain idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her, consult with her,\nand having done her best, wait the event with as much composure as\npossible; and after all, her greatest want of composure would be in\nthat quarter of the mind which could not be opened to Lady Russell; in\nthat flow of anxieties and fears which must be all to herself.\n\nShe found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped\nseeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning\nvisit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when\nshe heard that he was coming again in the evening.\n\n I had not the smallest intention of asking him,  said Elizabeth, with\naffected carelessness,  but he gave so many hints; so Mrs Clay says, at\nleast. \n\n Indeed, I do say it. I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for\nan invitation. Poor man! I was really in pain for him; for your\nhard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty. \n\n Oh!  cried Elizabeth,  I have been rather too much used to the game to\nbe soon overcome by a gentleman s hints. However, when I found how\nexcessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this\nmorning, I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an\nopportunity of bringing him and Sir Walter together. They appear to so\nmuch advantage in company with each other. Each behaving so pleasantly.\nMr Elliot looking up with so much respect. \n\n Quite delightful!  cried Mrs Clay, not daring, however, to turn her\neyes towards Anne.  Exactly like father and son! Dear Miss Elliot, may\nI not say father and son? \n\n Oh! I lay no embargo on any body s words. If you will have such ideas!\nBut, upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions being\nbeyond those of other men. \n\n My dear Miss Elliot!  exclaimed Mrs Clay, lifting her hands and eyes,\nand sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence.\n\n Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him. I did\ninvite him, you know. I sent him away with smiles. When I found he was\nreally going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day\nto-morrow, I had compassion on him. \n\nAnne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such\npleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of\nthe very person whose presence must really be interfering with her\nprime object. It was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight\nof Mr Elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look,\nand appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting\nherself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done\notherwise.\n\nTo Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the\nroom; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her. She had\nbeen used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but\nnow she saw insincerity in everything. His attentive deference to her\nfather, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she\nthought of his cruel conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear\nthe sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his\nartificial good sentiments.\n\nShe meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a\nremonstrance on his side. It was a great object to her to escape all\nenquiry or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to\nhim as might be compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as\nquietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had\nbeen gradually led along. She was accordingly more guarded, and more\ncool, than she had been the night before.\n\nHe wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could\nhave heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by\nmore solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and\nanimation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin s\nvanity; he found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of\nthose attempts which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of\nthe others. He little surmised that it was a subject acting now exactly\nagainst his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all those\nparts of his conduct which were least excusable.\n\nShe had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of\nBath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the\ngreater part of two days. He was invited again to Camden Place the very\nevening of his return; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his\nabsence was certain. It was bad enough that a Mrs Clay should be always\nbefore her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their party,\nseemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort. It was so\nhumiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on her\nfather and Elizabeth; to consider the various sources of mortification\npreparing for them! Mrs Clay s selfishness was not so complicate nor so\nrevolting as his; and Anne would have compounded for the marriage at\nonce, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr Elliot s subtleties in\nendeavouring to prevent it.\n\nOn Friday morning she meant to go very early to Lady Russell, and\naccomplish the necessary communication; and she would have gone\ndirectly after breakfast, but that Mrs Clay was also going out on some\nobliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to\nwait till she might be safe from such a companion. She saw Mrs Clay\nfairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning\nin Rivers Street.\n\n Very well,  said Elizabeth,  I have nothing to send but my love. Oh!\nyou may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and\npretend I have read it through. I really cannot be plaguing myself for\never with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out.\nLady Russell quite bores one with her new publications. You need not\ntell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night. I used to\nthink she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the\nconcert. Something so formal and _arrang _ in her air! and she sits so\nupright! My best love, of course. \n\n And mine,  added Sir Walter.  Kindest regards. And you may say, that I\nmean to call upon her soon. Make a civil message; but I shall only\nleave my card. Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of\nlife, who make themselves up so little. If she would only wear rouge\nshe would not be afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I\nobserved the blinds were let down immediately. \n\nWhile her father spoke, there was a knock at the door. Who could it be?\nAnne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of Mr Elliot,\nwould have expected him, but for his known engagement seven miles off.\nAfter the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of approach were\nheard, and  Mr and Mrs Charles Musgrove  were ushered into the room.\n\nSurprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance; but Anne\nwas really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that\nthey could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became\nclear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any\nviews of accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were\nable to rise in cordiality, and do the honours of it very well. They\nwere come to Bath for a few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the\nWhite Hart. So much was pretty soon understood; but till Sir Walter and\nElizabeth were walking Mary into the other drawing-room, and regaling\nthemselves with her admiration, Anne could not draw upon Charles s\nbrain for a regular history of their coming, or an explanation of some\nsmiling hints of particular business, which had been ostentatiously\ndropped by Mary, as well as of some apparent confusion as to whom their\nparty consisted of.\n\nShe then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and\nCaptain Harville, beside their two selves. He gave her a very plain,\nintelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great\ndeal of most characteristic proceeding. The scheme had received its\nfirst impulse by Captain Harville s wanting to come to Bath on\nbusiness. He had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing\nsomething, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him,\nand Mrs Harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an\nadvantage to her husband; but Mary could not bear to be left, and had\nmade herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything\nseemed to be in suspense, or at an end. But then, it had been taken up\nby his father and mother. His mother had some old friends in Bath whom\nshe wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for Henrietta to\ncome and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short,\nit ended in being his mother s party, that everything might be\ncomfortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were included\nin it by way of general convenience. They had arrived late the night\nbefore. Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with\nMr Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross.\n\nAnne s only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough\nfor Henrietta s wedding-clothes to be talked of. She had imagined such\ndifficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage\nfrom being near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very\nrecently, (since Mary s last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had\nbeen applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not\npossibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his\npresent income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent\nlong before the term in question, the two families had consented to the\nyoung people s wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place\nin a few months, quite as soon as Louisa s.  And a very good living it\nwas,  Charles added:  only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, and\nin a very fine country: fine part of Dorsetshire. In the centre of some\nof the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great\nproprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two\nof the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special\nrecommendation. Not that he will value it as he ought,  he observed,\n Charles is too cool about sporting. That s the worst of him. \n\n I am extremely glad, indeed,  cried Anne,  particularly glad that this\nshould happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well,\nand who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of\none should not be dimming those of the other that they should be so\nequal in their prosperity and comfort. I hope your father and mother\nare quite happy with regard to both. \n\n Oh! yes. My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were richer,\nbut he has no other fault to find. Money, you know, coming down with\nmoney two daughters at once it cannot be a very agreeable operation,\nand it streightens him as to many things. However, I do not mean to say\nthey have not a right to it. It is very fit they should have daughters \nshares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to\nme. Mary does not above half like Henrietta s match. She never did, you\nknow. But she does not do him justice, nor think enough about Winthrop.\nI cannot make her attend to the value of the property. It is a very\nfair match, as times go; and I have liked Charles Hayter all my life,\nand I shall not leave off now. \n\n Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove,  exclaimed Anne,\n should be happy in their children s marriages. They do everything to\nconfer happiness, I am sure. What a blessing to young people to be in\nsuch hands! Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those\nambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery,\nboth in young and old. I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered\nnow? \n\nHe answered rather hesitatingly,  Yes, I believe I do; very much\nrecovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no\nlaughing or dancing; it is quite different. If one happens only to shut\nthe door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab-chick\nin the water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses, or\nwhispering to her, all day long. \n\nAnne could not help laughing.  That cannot be much to your taste, I\nknow,  said she;  but I do believe him to be an excellent young man. \n\n To be sure he is. Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am\nso illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and\npleasures as myself. I have a great value for Benwick; and when one can\nbut get him to talk, he has plenty to say. His reading has done him no\nharm, for he has fought as well as read. He is a brave fellow. I got\nmore acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before. We had a\nfamous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father s great\nbarns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better\never since. \n\nHere they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles s\nfollowing the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard\nenough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in\nits happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none\nof the ill-will of envy in it. She would certainly have risen to their\nblessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.\n\nThe visit passed off altogether in high good humour. Mary was in\nexcellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well\nsatisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law s carriage with four\nhorses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that\nshe was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and\nenter most readily into all the superiorities of the house, as they\nwere detailed to her. She had no demands on her father or sister, and\nher consequence was just enough increased by their handsome\ndrawing-rooms.\n\nElizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal. She felt that\nMrs Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but\nshe could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of\nservants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been\nalways so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch. It was a struggle\nbetween propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then\nElizabeth was happy again. These were her internal persuasions:  Old\nfashioned notions; country hospitality; we do not profess to give\ndinners; few people in Bath do; Lady Alicia never does; did not even\nask her own sister s family, though they were here a month: and I dare\nsay it would be very inconvenient to Mrs Musgrove; put her quite out of\nher way. I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy with\nus. I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better; that\nwill be a novelty and a treat. They have not seen two such drawing\nrooms before. They will be delighted to come to-morrow evening. It\nshall be a regular party, small, but most elegant.  And this satisfied\nElizabeth: and when the invitation was given to the two present, and\npromised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied. She was\nparticularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady\nDalrymple and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to\ncome; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention. Miss\nElliot was to have the honour of calling on Mrs Musgrove in the course\nof the morning; and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go and\nsee her and Henrietta directly.\n\nHer plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present.\nThey all three called in Rivers Street for a couple of minutes; but\nAnne convinced herself that a day s delay of the intended communication\ncould be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to\nsee again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an\neagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form.\n\nThey found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and\nAnne had the kindest welcome from each. Henrietta was exactly in that\nstate of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made\nher full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before\nat all; and Mrs Musgrove s real affection had been won by her\nusefulness when they were in distress. It was a heartiness, and a\nwarmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad\nwant of such blessings at home. She was entreated to give them as much\nof her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or\nrather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally\nfell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on\nCharles s leaving them together, was listening to Mrs Musgrove s\nhistory of Louisa, and to Henrietta s of herself, giving opinions on\nbusiness, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help\nwhich Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts;\nfrom finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to\nconvince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well\namused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the\nentrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.\n\nA morning of thorough confusion was to be expected. A large party in an\nhotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene. One five minutes\nbrought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an\nhour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half\nfilled: a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove,\nand Charles came back with Captains Harville and Wentworth. The\nappearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the\nmoment. It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this\narrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together\nagain. Their last meeting had been most important in opening his\nfeelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she\nfeared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had\nhastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed. He did not\nseem to want to be near enough for conversation.\n\nShe tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried\nto dwell much on this argument of rational dependence: Surely, if\nthere be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand\neach other ere long. We are not boy and girl, to be captiously\nirritable, misled by every moment s inadvertence, and wantonly playing\nwith our own happiness.  And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as\nif their being in company with each other, under their present\ncircumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and\nmisconstructions of the most mischievous kind.\n\n Anne,  cried Mary, still at her window,  there is Mrs Clay, I am sure,\nstanding under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her. I saw them turn\nthe corner from Bath Street just now. They seemed deep in talk. Who is\nit? Come, and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect. It is Mr Elliot\nhimself. \n\n No,  cried Anne, quickly,  it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you. He\nwas to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till\nto-morrow. \n\nAs she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the\nconsciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret\nthat she had said so much, simple as it was.\n\nMary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin,\nbegan talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting\nstill more positively that it was Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to\ncome and look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to\nbe cool and unconcerned. Her distress returned, however, on perceiving\nsmiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady\nvisitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret. It was\nevident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause\nsucceeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther.\n\n Do come, Anne,  cried Mary,  come and look yourself. You will be too\nlate if you do not make haste. They are parting; they are shaking\nhands. He is turning away. Not know Mr Elliot, indeed! You seem to have\nforgot all about Lyme. \n\nTo pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did move\nquietly to the window. She was just in time to ascertain that it really\nwas Mr Elliot, which she had never believed, before he disappeared on\none side, as Mrs Clay walked quickly off on the other; and checking the\nsurprise which she could not but feel at such an appearance of friendly\nconference between two persons of totally opposite interest, she calmly\nsaid,  Yes, it is Mr Elliot, certainly. He has changed his hour of\ngoing, I suppose, that is all, or I may be mistaken, I might not\nattend;  and walked back to her chair, recomposed, and with the\ncomfortable hope of having acquitted herself well.\n\nThe visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them\noff, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began\nwith \n\n Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like. I have\nbeen to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night. A n t I a\ngood boy? I know you love a play; and there is room for us all. It\nholds nine. I have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will not be sorry to\njoin us, I am sure. We all like a play. Have not I done well, mother? \n\nMrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect\nreadiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when\nMary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming \n\n Good heavens, Charles! how can you think of such a thing? Take a box\nfor to-morrow night! Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden\nPlace to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet\nLady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal\nfamily connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them? How can you be\nso forgetful? \n\n Phoo! phoo!  replied Charles,  what s an evening party? Never worth\nremembering. Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he\nhad wanted to see us. You may do as you like, but I shall go to the\nplay. \n\n Oh! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you\npromised to go. \n\n No, I did not promise. I only smirked and bowed, and said the word\n happy.  There was no promise. \n\n But you must go, Charles. It would be unpardonable to fail. We were\nasked on purpose to be introduced. There was always such a great\nconnexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves. Nothing ever happened\non either side that was not announced immediately. We are quite near\nrelations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly\nto be acquainted with! Every attention is due to Mr Elliot. Consider,\nmy father s heir: the future representative of the family. \n\n Don t talk to me about heirs and representatives,  cried Charles.  I\nam not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising\nsun. If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it\nscandalous to go for the sake of his heir. What is Mr Elliot to me? \nThe careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain\nWentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul;\nand that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to\nherself.\n\nCharles and Mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious\nand half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she,\ninvariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make\nit known that, however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she\nshould not think herself very well used, if they went to the play\nwithout her. Mrs Musgrove interposed.\n\n We had better put it off. Charles, you had much better go back and\nchange the box for Tuesday. It would be a pity to be divided, and we\nshould be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father s;\nand I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play,\nif Miss Anne could not be with us. \n\nAnne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so\nfor the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying \n\n If it depended only on my inclination, ma am, the party at home\n(excepting on Mary s account) would not be the smallest impediment. I\nhave no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to\nchange it for a play, and with you. But, it had better not be\nattempted, perhaps.  She had spoken it; but she trembled when it was\ndone, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to\ntry to observe their effect.\n\nIt was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles\nonly reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting\nthat he would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would.\n\nCaptain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably\nfor the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a\nstation, with less bare-faced design, by Anne.\n\n You have not been long enough in Bath,  said he,  to enjoy the evening\nparties of the place. \n\n Oh! no. The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no\ncard-player. \n\n You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time\nmakes many changes. \n\n I am not yet so much changed,  cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she\nhardly knew what misconstruction. After waiting a few moments he said,\nand as if it were the result of immediate feeling,  It is a period,\nindeed! Eight years and a half is a period. \n\nWhether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne s imagination\nto ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he\nhad uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to\nmake use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her\ncompanions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in.\n\nThey were obliged to move. Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and\ntried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta have known the\nregret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing\nto quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for\nher cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity\nher.\n\nTheir preparations, however, were stopped short. Alarming sounds were\nheard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir\nWalter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill.\nAnne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms\nof the same. The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over,\nhushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to\nmeet the heartless elegance of her father and sister. How mortifying to\nfeel that it was so!\n\nHer jealous eye was satisfied in one particular. Captain Wentworth was\nacknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before.\nShe even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once.\nElizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure. The sequel explained\nit. After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper nothings, she\nbegan to give the invitation which was to comprise all the remaining\ndues of the Musgroves.  To-morrow evening, to meet a few friends: no\nformal party.  It was all said very gracefully, and the cards with\nwhich she had provided herself, the  Miss Elliot at home,  were laid on\nthe table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all, and one smile\nand one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth. The truth was, that\nElizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand the importance of\na man of such an air and appearance as his. The past was nothing. The\npresent was that Captain Wentworth would move about well in her\ndrawing-room. The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter and\nElizabeth arose and disappeared.\n\nThe interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation\nreturned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not\nto Anne. She could think only of the invitation she had with such\nastonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been\nreceived; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than\ngratification, of polite acknowledgement rather than acceptance. She\nknew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe\nthat he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for\nall the insolence of the past. Her spirits sank. He held the card in\nhis hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it.\n\n Only think of Elizabeth s including everybody!  whispered Mary very\naudibly.  I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted! You see he\ncannot put the card out of his hand. \n\nAnne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself\ninto a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she\nmight neither see nor hear more to vex her.\n\nThe party separated. The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies\nproceeded on their own business, and they met no more while Anne\nbelonged to them. She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and give\nthem all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long exerted\nthat at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for home, where\nshe might be sure of being as silent as she chose.\n\nPromising to be with them the whole of the following morning,\ntherefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to\nCamden Place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the\nbusy arrangements of Elizabeth and Mrs Clay for the morrow s party, the\nfrequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually\nimproving detail of all the embellishments which were to make it the\nmost completely elegant of its kind in Bath, while harassing herself\nwith the never-ending question, of whether Captain Wentworth would come\nor not? They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a\ngnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together. She\ngenerally thought he would come, because she generally thought he\nought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive\nact of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of\nvery opposite feelings.\n\nShe only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation,\nto let Mrs Clay know that she had been seen with Mr Elliot three hours\nafter his being supposed to be out of Bath, for having watched in vain\nfor some intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she\ndetermined to mention it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in Mrs\nClay s face as she listened. It was transient: cleared away in an\ninstant; but Anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of\nhaving, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing\nauthority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half an hour) to\nhis lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter. She\nexclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature: \n\n Oh! dear! very true. Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I\nmet with Mr Elliot in Bath Street. I was never more astonished. He\nturned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard. He had been prevented\nsetting off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a\nhurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being\ndetermined not to be delayed in his return. He wanted to know how early\nhe might be admitted to-morrow. He was full of  to-morrow,  and it is\nvery evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I entered the\nhouse, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that had happened,\nor my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of my head. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n\nOne day only had passed since Anne s conversation with Mrs Smith; but a\nkeener interest had succeeded, and she was now so little touched by Mr\nElliot s conduct, except by its effects in one quarter, that it became\na matter of course the next morning, still to defer her explanatory\nvisit in Rivers Street. She had promised to be with the Musgroves from\nbreakfast to dinner. Her faith was plighted, and Mr Elliot s character,\nlike the Sultaness Scheherazade s head, must live another day.\n\nShe could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was\nunfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends \naccount, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to\nattempt the walk. When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to\nthe proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time,\nnor the first to arrive. The party before her were, Mrs Musgrove,\ntalking to Mrs Croft, and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth; and\nshe immediately heard that Mary and Henrietta, too impatient to wait,\nhad gone out the moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon,\nand that the strictest injunctions had been left with Mrs Musgrove to\nkeep her there till they returned. She had only to submit, sit down, be\noutwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the\nagitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little\nbefore the morning closed. There was no delay, no waste of time. She\nwas deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such\nhappiness, instantly. Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain\nWentworth said \n\n We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you\nwill give me materials. \n\nMaterials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly\nturning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing.\n\nMrs Musgrove was giving Mrs Croft the history of her eldest daughter s\nengagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was\nperfectly audible while it pretended to be a whisper. Anne felt that\nshe did not belong to the conversation, and yet, as Captain Harville\nseemed thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing\nmany undesirable particulars; such as,  how Mr Musgrove and my brother\nHayter had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter\nhad said one day, and what Mr Musgrove had proposed the next, and what\nhad occurred to my sister Hayter, and what the young people had wished,\nand what I said at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards\npersuaded to think might do very well,  and a great deal in the same\nstyle of open-hearted communication: minutiae which, even with every\nadvantage of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not\ngive, could be properly interesting only to the principals. Mrs Croft\nwas attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it\nwas very sensibly. Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much\nself-occupied to hear.\n\n And so, ma am, all these thing considered,  said Mrs Musgrove, in her\npowerful whisper,  though we could have wished it different, yet,\naltogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for\nCharles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near\nas bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the\nbest of it, as many others have done before them. At any rate, said I,\nit will be better than a long engagement. \n\n That is precisely what I was going to observe,  cried Mrs Croft.  I\nwould rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and\nhave to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in\na long engagement. I always think that no mutual \n\n Oh! dear Mrs Croft,  cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her\nspeech,  there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long\nengagement. It is what I always protested against for my children. It\nis all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if\nthere is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or\neven in twelve; but a long engagement \n\n Yes, dear ma am,  said Mrs Croft,  or an uncertain engagement, an\nengagement which may be long. To begin without knowing that at such a\ntime there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and\nunwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they\ncan. \n\nAnne found an unexpected interest here. She felt its application to\nherself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same\nmoment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table,\nCaptain Wentworth s pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing,\nlistening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one\nquick, conscious look at her.\n\nThe two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths,\nand enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary\npractice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing\ndistinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in\nconfusion.\n\nCaptain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left\nhis seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though\nit was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he\nwas inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a\nsmile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed,  Come to me, I\nhave something to say;  and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner\nwhich denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was,\nstrongly enforced the invitation. She roused herself and went to him.\nThe window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from\nwhere the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain\nWentworth s table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain Harville s\ncountenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed\nits natural character.\n\n Look here,  said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a\nsmall miniature painting,  do you know who that is? \n\n Certainly: Captain Benwick. \n\n Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But,  (in a deep tone),  it was\nnot done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at\nLyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then but no matter. This\nwas drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the\nCape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him,\nand was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting\nit properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else\nwas there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry,\nindeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;  (looking towards\nCaptain Wentworth,)  he is writing about it now.  And with a quivering\nlip he wound up the whole by adding,  Poor Fanny! she would not have\nforgotten him so soon! \n\n No,  replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice.  That I can easily\nbelieve. \n\n It was not in her nature. She doted on him. \n\n It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved. \n\nCaptain Harville smiled, as much as to say,  Do you claim that for your\nsex?  and she answered the question, smiling also,  Yes. We certainly\ndo not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate\nrather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home,\nquiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on\nexertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort\nor other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual\noccupation and change soon weaken impressions. \n\n Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men\n(which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to\nBenwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him\non shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our\nlittle family circle, ever since. \n\n True,  said Anne,  very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we\nsay now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward\ncircumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man s nature,\nwhich has done the business for Captain Benwick. \n\n No, no, it is not man s nature. I will not allow it to be more man s\nnature than woman s to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or\nhave loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between\nour bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the\nstrongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage,\nand riding out the heaviest weather. \n\n Your feelings may be the strongest,  replied Anne,  but the same\nspirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most\ntender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived;\nwhich exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay,\nit would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. You have\ndifficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You\nare always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship.\nYour home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor\nlife, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed  (with a\nfaltering voice),  if woman s feelings were to be added to all this. \n\n We shall never agree upon this question,  Captain Harville was\nbeginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain\nWentworth s hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room. It was\nnothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled\nat finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to\nsuspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by\nthem, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could\nhave caught.\n\n Have you finished your letter?  said Captain Harville.\n\n Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes. \n\n There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready whenever you are. I am\nin very good anchorage here,  (smiling at Anne),  well supplied, and\nwant for nothing. No hurry for a signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot, \n(lowering his voice),  as I was saying, we shall never agree, I suppose,\nupon this point. No man and woman would, probably. But let me observe\nthat all histories are against you all stories, prose and verse. If I\nhad such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a\nmoment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book\nin my life which had not something to say upon woman s inconstancy.\nSongs and proverbs, all talk of woman s fickleness. But perhaps you\nwill say, these were all written by men. \n\n Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in\nbooks. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story.\nEducation has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been\nin their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything. \n\n But how shall we prove anything? \n\n We never shall. We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a\npoint. It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof. We\neach begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon\nthat bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred\nwithin our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very\ncases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be\nbrought forward without betraying a confidence, or in some respect\nsaying what should not be said. \n\n Ah!  cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling,  if I could\nbut make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at\nhis wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off\nin, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says,  God knows\nwhether we ever meet again!  And then, if I could convey to you the\nglow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a\ntwelvemonth s absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port,\nhe calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to\ndeceive himself, and saying,  They cannot be here till such a day,  but\nall the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them\narrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner\nstill! If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear\nand do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his\nexistence! I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts! \npressing his own with emotion.\n\n Oh!  cried Anne eagerly,  I hope I do justice to all that is felt by\nyou, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue\nthe warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should\ndeserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and\nconstancy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of\neverything great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to\nevery important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long\nas if I may be allowed the expression so long as you have an object. I\nmean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the\nprivilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you\nneed not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when\nhope is gone. \n\nShe could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was\ntoo full, her breath too much oppressed.\n\n You are a good soul,  cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her\narm, quite affectionately.  There is no quarrelling with you. And when\nI think of Benwick, my tongue is tied. \n\nTheir attention was called towards the others. Mrs Croft was taking\nleave.\n\n Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe,  said she.  I am\ngoing home, and you have an engagement with your friend. To-night we\nmay have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party,  (turning to\nAnne).  We had your sister s card yesterday, and I understood Frederick\nhad a card too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged,\nFrederick, are you not, as well as ourselves? \n\nCaptain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either\ncould not or would not answer fully.\n\n Yes,  said he,  very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall\nsoon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a\nminute. I know you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your\nservice in half a minute. \n\nMrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter\nwith great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated\nair, which shewed impatience to be gone. Anne knew not how to\nunderstand it. She had the kindest  Good morning, God bless you!  from\nCaptain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look! He had passed\nout of the room without a look!\n\nShe had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had\nbeen writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it\nwas himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves,\nand instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a\nletter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes\nof glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his\ngloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs Musgrove was aware\nof his being in it: the work of an instant!\n\nThe revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond\nexpression. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to  Miss A.\nE. ,  was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While\nsupposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also\naddressing her! On the contents of that letter depended all which this\nworld could do for her. Anything was possible, anything might be defied\nrather than suspense. Mrs Musgrove had little arrangements of her own\nat her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into\nthe chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he\nhad leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words:\n\n I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means\nas are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.\nTell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone\nfor ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own\nthan when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say\nthat man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death.\nI have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I\nhave been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For\nyou alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to\nhave understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could\nI have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I\ncan hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers\nme. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice\nwhen they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature!\nYou do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment\nand constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most\nundeviating, in\n\n\nF. W.\n\n\n I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow\nyour party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to\ndecide whether I enter your father s house this evening or never. \n\n\nSuch a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour s\nsolitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten\nminutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the\nrestraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity.\nEvery moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was overpowering\nhappiness. And before she was beyond the first stage of full sensation,\nCharles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.\n\nThe absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an\nimmediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more. She began\nnot to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead\nindisposition and excuse herself. They could then see that she looked\nvery ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her\nfor the world. This was dreadful. Would they only have gone away, and\nleft her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her\ncure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was\ndistracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home.\n\n By all means, my dear,  cried Mrs Musgrove,  go home directly, and\ntake care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. I wish\nSarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself. Charles, ring\nand order a chair. She must not walk. \n\nBut the chair would never do. Worse than all! To lose the possibility\nof speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet,\nsolitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting\nhim) could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested against, and\nMrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured\nherself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the case;\nthat Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow on\nher head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could\npart with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night.\n\nAnxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said \n\n I am afraid, ma am, that it is not perfectly understood. Pray be so\ngood as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your\nwhole party this evening. I am afraid there had been some mistake; and\nI wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain\nWentworth, that we hope to see them both. \n\n Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain\nHarville has no thought but of going. \n\n Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will\nyou promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see\nthem both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me. \n\n To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain\nHarville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne s message. But indeed, my\ndear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite\nengaged, I ll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare\nsay. \n\nAnne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp\nthe perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however.\nEven if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her\npower to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another\nmomentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good\nnature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was\nalmost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing\nan engagement at a gunsmith s, to be of use to her; and she set off\nwith him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent.\n\nThey were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of\nfamiliar sound, gave her two moments  preparation for the sight of\nCaptain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to\njoin or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command\nherself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks\nwhich had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated\nwere decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden\nthought, Charles said \n\n Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or\nfarther up the town? \n\n I hardly know,  replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.\n\n Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place?\nBecause, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my\nplace, and give Anne your arm to her father s door. She is rather done\nfor this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to\nbe at that fellow s in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a\ncapital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it\nunpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do\nnot turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal\nlike the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day\nround Winthrop. \n\nThere could not be an objection. There could be only the most proper\nalacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined\nin and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was\nat the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding\ntogether: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their\ndirection towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk,\nwhere the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing\nindeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest\nrecollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they\nexchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before\nseemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many,\nmany years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into\nthe past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when\nit had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a\nknowledge of each other s character, truth, and attachment; more equal\nto act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly paced the\ngradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, seeing neither\nsauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, nor\nnursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections\nand acknowledgements, and especially in those explanations of what had\ndirectly preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so\nceaseless in interest. All the little variations of the last week were\ngone through; and of yesterday and to-day there could scarcely be an\nend.\n\nShe had not mistaken him. Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding\nweight, the doubt, the torment. That had begun to operate in the very\nhour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short\nsuspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in\neverything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last\nfour-and-twenty hours. It had been gradually yielding to the better\nhopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it\nhad been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which\nhad reached him while she talked with Captain Harville; and under the\nirresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and\npoured out his feelings.\n\nOf what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified.\nHe persisted in having loved none but her. She had never been\nsupplanted. He never even believed himself to see her equal. Thus much\nindeed he was obliged to acknowledge: that he had been constant\nunconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her,\nand believed it to be done. He had imagined himself indifferent, when\nhe had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because\nhe had been a sufferer from them. Her character was now fixed on his\nmind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of\nfortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only\nat Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he\nbegun to understand himself. At Lyme, he had received lessons of more\nthan one sort. The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at least roused\nhim, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville s had fixed her\nsuperiority.\n\nIn his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the\nattempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to\nbe impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for Louisa;\nthough till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed\nit, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which\nLouisa s could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold\nit possessed over his own. There, he had learnt to distinguish between\nthe steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the\ndarings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind. There\nhe had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had\nlost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of\nresentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in\nhis way.\n\nFrom that period his penance had become severe. He had no sooner been\nfree from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of\nLouisa s accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he\nhad begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.\n\n I found,  said he,  that I was considered by Harville an engaged man!\nThat neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual\nattachment. I was startled and shocked. To a degree, I could contradict\nthis instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others might have\nfelt the same her own family, nay, perhaps herself I was no longer at\nmy own disposal. I was hers in honour if she wished it. I had been\nunguarded. I had not thought seriously on this subject before. I had\nnot considered that my excessive intimacy must have its danger of ill\nconsequence in many ways; and that I had no right to be trying whether\nI could attach myself to either of the girls, at the risk of raising\neven an unpleasant report, were there no other ill effects. I had been\ngrossly wrong, and must abide the consequences. \n\nHe found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that\nprecisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at\nall, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him\nwere what the Harvilles supposed. It determined him to leave Lyme, and\nawait her complete recovery elsewhere. He would gladly weaken, by any\nfair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might\nexist; and he went, therefore, to his brother s, meaning after a while\nto return to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require.\n\n I was six weeks with Edward,  said he,  and saw him happy. I could\nhave no other pleasure. I deserved none. He enquired after you very\nparticularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little\nsuspecting that to my eye you could never alter. \n\nAnne smiled, and let it pass. It was too pleasing a blunder for a\nreproach. It is something for a woman to be assured, in her\neight-and-twentieth year, that she has not lost one charm of earlier\nyouth; but the value of such homage was inexpressibly increased to\nAnne, by comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the\nresult, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment.\n\nHe had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own\npride, and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released\nfrom Louisa by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her\nengagement with Benwick.\n\n Here,  said he,  ended the worst of my state; for now I could at least\nput myself in the way of happiness; I could exert myself; I could do\nsomething. But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for\nevil, had been dreadful. Within the first five minutes I said,  I will\nbe at Bath on Wednesday,  and I was. Was it unpardonable to think it\nworth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope? You\nwere single. It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the\npast, as I did; and one encouragement happened to be mine. I could\nnever doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to\na certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better\npretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying,  Was this\nfor me? \n\nTheir first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be said, but the\nconcert still more. That evening seemed to be made up of exquisite\nmoments. The moment of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to\nspeak to him: the moment of Mr Elliot s appearing and tearing her away,\nand one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or\nincreasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy.\n\n To see you,  cried he,  in the midst of those who could not be my\nwell-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling,\nand feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match!\nTo consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to\ninfluence you! Even if your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent,\nto consider what powerful supports would be his! Was it not enough to\nmake the fool of me which I appeared? How could I look on without\nagony? Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind you, was not\nthe recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the\nindelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had once done was\nit not all against me? \n\n You should have distinguished,  replied Anne.  You should not have\nsuspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different.\nIf I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to\npersuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded,\nI thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. In\nmarrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred,\nand all duty violated. \n\n Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus,  he replied,  but I could not.\nI could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of\nyour character. I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed,\nburied, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under\nyear after year. I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who\nhad given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me.\nI saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of\nmisery. I had no reason to believe her of less authority now. The force\nof habit was to be added. \n\n I should have thought,  said Anne,  that my manner to yourself might\nhave spared you much or all of this. \n\n No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to\nanother man would give. I left you in this belief; and yet, I was\ndetermined to see you again. My spirits rallied with the morning, and I\nfelt that I had still a motive for remaining here. \n\nAt last Anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house\ncould have conceived. All the surprise and suspense, and every other\npainful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she\nre-entered the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some\nmomentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last. An interval of\nmeditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of everything\ndangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her room, and\ngrew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her enjoyment.\n\nThe evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company\nassembled. It was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who\nhad never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace\nbusiness, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne\nhad never found an evening shorter. Glowing and lovely in sensibility\nand happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or\ncared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature\naround her. Mr Elliot was there; she avoided, but she could pity him.\nThe Wallises, she had amusement in understanding them. Lady Dalrymple\nand Miss Carteret they would soon be innoxious cousins to her. She\ncared not for Mrs Clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public\nmanners of her father and sister. With the Musgroves, there was the\nhappy chat of perfect ease; with Captain Harville, the kind-hearted\nintercourse of brother and sister; with Lady Russell, attempts at\nconversation, which a delicious consciousness cut short; with Admiral\nand Mrs Croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest,\nwhich the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with Captain\nWentworth, some moments of communications continually occurring, and\nalways the hope of more, and always the knowledge of his being there.\n\nIt was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in\nadmiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said \n\n I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of\nthe right and wrong, I mean with regard to myself; and I must believe\nthat I was right, much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly\nright in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you\ndo now. To me, she was in the place of a parent. Do not mistake me,\nhowever. I am not saying that she did not err in her advice. It was,\nperhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the\nevent decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any\ncircumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice. But I mean,\nthat I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done\notherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement\nthan I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my\nconscience. I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in\nhuman nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a\nstrong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman s portion. \n\nHe looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her,\nreplied, as if in cool deliberation \n\n Not yet. But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time. I trust to\nbeing in charity with her soon. But I too have been thinking over the\npast, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have\nbeen one person more my enemy even than that lady? My own self. Tell me\nif, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand\npounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you,\nwould you have answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed\nthe engagement then? \n\n Would I!  was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.\n\n Good God!  he cried,  you would! It is not that I did not think of it,\nor desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I was\nproud, too proud to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my\neyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice. This is a\nrecollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than\nmyself. Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared.\nIt is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me. I have been used to the\ngratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I\nenjoyed. I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards.\nLike other great men under reverses,  he added, with a smile.  I must\nendeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being\nhappier than I deserve. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\n\nWho can be in doubt of what followed? When any two young people take it\ninto their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to\ncarry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever\nso little likely to be necessary to each other s ultimate comfort. This\nmay be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be truth; and\nif such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and an Anne\nElliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness of right,\nand one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing down every\nopposition? They might in fact, have borne down a great deal more than\nthey met with, for there was little to distress them beyond the want of\ngraciousness and warmth. Sir Walter made no objection, and Elizabeth\ndid nothing worse than look cold and unconcerned. Captain Wentworth,\nwith five-and-twenty thousand pounds, and as high in his profession as\nmerit and activity could place him, was no longer nobody. He was now\nesteemed quite worthy to address the daughter of a foolish, spendthrift\nbaronet, who had not had principle or sense enough to maintain himself\nin the situation in which Providence had placed him, and who could give\nhis daughter at present but a small part of the share of ten thousand\npounds which must be hers hereafter.\n\nSir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne, and no vanity\nflattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from\nthinking it a bad match for her. On the contrary, when he saw more of\nCaptain Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well,\nhe was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his\nsuperiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her\nsuperiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name,\nenabled Sir Walter at last to prepare his pen, with a very good grace,\nfor the insertion of the marriage in the volume of honour.\n\nThe only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any\nserious anxiety was Lady Russell. Anne knew that Lady Russell must be\nsuffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing Mr Elliot, and\nbe making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do\njustice to Captain Wentworth. This however was what Lady Russell had\nnow to do. She must learn to feel that she had been mistaken with\nregard to both; that she had been unfairly influenced by appearances in\neach; that because Captain Wentworth s manners had not suited her own\nideas, she had been too quick in suspecting them to indicate a\ncharacter of dangerous impetuosity; and that because Mr Elliot s\nmanners had precisely pleased her in their propriety and correctness,\ntheir general politeness and suavity, she had been too quick in\nreceiving them as the certain result of the most correct opinions and\nwell-regulated mind. There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do,\nthan to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up\na new set of opinions and of hopes.\n\nThere is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment\nof character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in\nothers can equal, and Lady Russell had been less gifted in this part of\nunderstanding than her young friend. But she was a very good woman, and\nif her second object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first was\nto see Anne happy. She loved Anne better than she loved her own\nabilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, found\nlittle hardship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was\nsecuring the happiness of her other child.\n\nOf all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified\nby the circumstance. It was creditable to have a sister married, and\nshe might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the\nconnexion, by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own\nsister must be better than her husband s sisters, it was very agreeable\nthat Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain\nBenwick or Charles Hayter. She had something to suffer, perhaps, when\nthey came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of\nseniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a\nfuture to look forward to, of powerful consolation. Anne had no\nUppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family;\nand if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet,\nshe would not change situations with Anne.\n\nIt would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied\nwith her situation, for a change is not very probable there. She had\nsoon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of\nproper condition has since presented himself to raise even the\nunfounded hopes which sunk with him.\n\nThe news of his cousin Anne s engagement burst on Mr Elliot most\nunexpectedly. It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his best\nhope of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a\nson-in-law s rights would have given. But, though discomfited and\ndisappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and his\nown enjoyment. He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs Clay s quitting it soon\nafterwards, and being next heard of as established under his protection\nin London, it was evident how double a game he had been playing, and\nhow determined he was to save himself from being cut out by one artful\nwoman, at least.\n\nMrs Clay s affections had overpowered her interest, and she had\nsacrificed, for the young man s sake, the possibility of scheming\nlonger for Sir Walter. She has abilities, however, as well as\naffections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or\nhers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from\nbeing the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at\nlast into making her the wife of Sir William.\n\nIt cannot be doubted that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and\nmortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their\ndeception in her. They had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort\nto for comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow\nothers, without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of\nhalf enjoyment.\n\nAnne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell s meaning to\nlove Captain Wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the\nhappiness of her prospects than what arose from the consciousness of\nhaving no relations to bestow on him which a man of sense could value.\nThere she felt her own inferiority very keenly. The disproportion in\ntheir fortune was nothing; it did not give her a moment s regret; but\nto have no family to receive and estimate him properly, nothing of\nrespectability, of harmony, of good will to offer in return for all the\nworth and all the prompt welcome which met her in his brothers and\nsisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind could well be\nsensible of under circumstances of otherwise strong felicity. She had\nbut two friends in the world to add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs\nSmith. To those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself.\nLady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now\nvalue from his heart. While he was not obliged to say that he believed\nher to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say\nalmost everything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had\nclaims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently.\n\nHer recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and\ntheir marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her\ntwo. She was their earliest visitor in their settled life; and Captain\nWentworth, by putting her in the way of recovering her husband s\nproperty in the West Indies, by writing for her, acting for her, and\nseeing her through all the petty difficulties of the case with the\nactivity and exertion of a fearless man and a determined friend, fully\nrequited the services which she had rendered, or ever meant to render,\nto his wife.\n\nMrs Smith s enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of income,\nwith some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to\nbe often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail\nher; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have\nbid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity. She\nmight have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be\nhappy. Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her\nfriend Anne s was in the warmth of her heart. Anne was tenderness\nitself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth s\naffection. His profession was all that could ever make her friends wish\nthat tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim her\nsunshine. She gloried in being a sailor s wife, but she must pay the\ntax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if\npossible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its\nnational importance.\n\nFinish"
    },
    {
        "title": "20000 Leagues Under the Sea",
        "author": "Jules Verne",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "PART ONE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\nA SHIFTING REEF\n\n\nThe year 1866 was signalised by a remarkable incident, a mysterious and\npuzzling phenomenon, which doubtless no one has yet forgotten. Not to\nmention rumours which agitated the maritime population and excited the\npublic mind, even in the interior of continents, seafaring men were\nparticularly excited. Merchants, common sailors, captains of vessels,\nskippers, both of Europe and America, naval officers of all countries,\nand the Governments of several states on the two continents, were\ndeeply interested in the matter.\n\nFor some time past, vessels had been met by  an enormous thing,  a long\nobject, spindle-shaped, occasionally phosphorescent, and infinitely\nlarger and more rapid in its movements than a whale.\n\nThe facts relating to this apparition (entered in various log-books)\nagreed in most respects as to the shape of the object or creature in\nquestion, the untiring rapidity of its movements, its surprising power\nof locomotion, and the peculiar life with which it seemed endowed. If\nit was a cetacean, it surpassed in size all those hitherto classified\nin science. Taking into consideration the mean of observations made at\ndivers times, rejecting the timid estimate of those who assigned to\nthis object a length of two hundred feet, equally with the exaggerated\nopinions which set it down as a mile in width and three in length, we\nmight fairly conclude that this mysterious being surpassed greatly all\ndimensions admitted by the ichthyologists of the day, if it existed at\nall. And that it _did_ exist was an undeniable fact; and, with that\ntendency which disposes the human mind in favour of the marvellous, we\ncan understand the excitement produced in the entire world by this\nsupernatural apparition. As to classing it in the list of fables, the\nidea was out of the question.\n\nOn the 20th of July, 1866, the steamer _Governor Higginson_, of the\nCalcutta and Burnach Steam Navigation Company, had met this moving mass\nfive miles off the east coast of Australia. Captain Baker thought at\nfirst that he was in the presence of an unknown sandbank; he even\nprepared to determine its exact position, when two columns of water,\nprojected by the inexplicable object, shot with a hissing noise a\nhundred and fifty feet up into the air. Now, unless the sandbank had\nbeen submitted to the intermittent eruption of a geyser, the _Governor\nHigginson_ had to do neither more nor less than with an aquatic mammal,\nunknown till then, which threw up from its blow-holes columns of water\nmixed with air and vapour.\n\nSimilar facts were observed on the 23rd of July in the same year, in\nthe Pacific Ocean, by the _Columbus_, of the West India and Pacific\nSteam Navigation Company. But this extraordinary cetaceous creature\ncould transport itself from one place to another with surprising\nvelocity; as, in an interval of three days, the _Governor Higginson_\nand the _Columbus_ had observed it at two different points of the\nchart, separated by a distance of more than seven hundred nautical\nleagues.\n\nFifteen days later, two thousand miles farther off, the _Helvetia_, of\nthe Compagnie-Nationale, and the _Shannon_, of the Royal Mail Steamship\nCompany, sailing to windward in that portion of the Atlantic lying\nbetween the United States and Europe, respectively signalled the\nmonster to each other in 42  15  N. lat. and 60  35  W. long. In these\nsimultaneous observations they thought themselves justified in\nestimating the minimum length of the mammal at more than three hundred\nand fifty feet, as the _Shannon_ and _Helvetia_ were of smaller\ndimensions than it, though they measured three hundred feet over all.\n\nNow the largest whales, those which frequent those parts of the sea\nround the Aleutian, Kulammak, and Umgullich islands, have never\nexceeded the length of sixty yards, if they attain that.\n\nThese reports arriving one after the other, with fresh observations\nmade on board the transatlantic ship _Pereire_, a collision which\noccurred between the _Etna_ of the Inman line and the monster, a\n_proc s verbal_ directed by the officers of the French frigate\n_Normandie_, a very accurate survey made by the staff of Commodore\nFitz-James on board the _Lord Clyde_, greatly influenced public\nopinion. Light-thinking people jested upon the phenomenon, but grave\npractical countries, such as England, America, and Germany, treated the\nmatter more seriously.\n\nIn every place of great resort the monster was the fashion. They sang\nof it in the caf s, ridiculed it in the papers, and represented it on\nthe stage. All kinds of stories were circulated regarding it. There\nappeared in the papers caricatures of every gigantic and imaginary\ncreature, from the white whale, the terrible  Moby Dick  of hyperborean\nregions, to the immense kraken whose tentacles could entangle a ship of\nfive hundred tons, and hurry it into the abyss of the ocean. The\nlegends of ancient times were even resuscitated, and the opinions of\nAristotle and Pliny revived, who admitted the existence of these\nmonsters, as well as the Norwegian tales of Bishop Pontoppidan, the\naccounts of Paul Heggede, and, last of all, the reports of Mr.\nHarrington (whose good faith no one could suspect), who affirmed that,\nbeing on board the _Castillan_, in 1857, he had seen this enormous\nserpent, which had never until that time frequented any other seas but\nthose of the ancient  _Constitutionnel_. \n\nThen burst forth the interminable controversy between the credulous and\nthe incredulous in the societies of savants and the scientific\njournals.  The question of the monster  inflamed all minds. Editors of\nscientific journals, quarrelling with believers in the supernatural,\nspilled seas of ink during this memorable campaign, some even drawing\nblood; for, from the sea-serpent they came to direct personalities.\n\nFor six months war was waged with various fortune in the leading\narticles of the Geographical Institution of Brazil, the Royal Academy\nof Science of Berlin, the British Association, the Smithsonian\nInstitution of Washington, in the discussions of the  Indian\nArchipelago,  of the Cosmos of the Abb  Moigno, in the Mittheilungen of\nPetermann, in the scientific chronicles of the great journals of France\nand other countries. The cheaper journals replied keenly and with\ninexhaustible zest. These satirical writers parodied a remark of\nLinn us, quoted by the adversaries of the monster, maintaining  that\nnature did not make fools,  and adjured their contemporaries not to\ngive the lie to nature, by admitting the existence of krakens,\nsea-serpents,  Moby Dicks,  and other lucubrations of delirious\nsailors. At length an article in a well-known satirical journal by a\nfavourite contributor, the chief of the staff, settled the monster,\nlike Hippolytus, giving it the death-blow amidst an universal burst of\nlaughter. Wit had conquered science.\n\nDuring the first months of the year 1867 the question seemed buried,\nnever to revive, when new facts were brought before the public. It was\nthen no longer a scientific problem to be solved, but a real danger\nseriously to be avoided. The question took quite another shape. The\nmonster became a small island, a rock, a reef, but a reef of indefinite\nand shifting proportions.\n\nOn the 5th of March, 1867, the _Moravian_, of the Montreal Ocean\nCompany, finding herself during the night in 27  30  lat. and 72  15 \nlong., struck on her starboard quarter a rock, marked in no chart for\nthat part of the sea. Under the combined efforts of the wind and its\nfour hundred horse-power, it was going at the rate of thirteen knots.\nHad it not been for the superior strength of the hull of the\n_Moravian_, she would have been broken by the shock and gone down with\nthe 237 passengers she was bringing home from Canada.\n\nThe accident happened about five o clock in the morning, as the day was\nbreaking. The officers of the quarter-deck hurried to the after-part of\nthe vessel. They examined the sea with the most scrupulous attention.\nThey saw nothing but a strong eddy about three cables  length distant,\nas if the surface had been violently agitated. The bearings of the\nplace were taken exactly, and the _Moravian_ continued its route\nwithout apparent damage. Had it struck on a submerged rock, or on an\nenormous wreck? they could not tell; but on examination of the ship s\nbottom when undergoing repairs, it was found that part of her keel was\nbroken.\n\nThis fact, so grave in itself, might perhaps have been forgotten like\nmany others if, three weeks after, it had not been re-enacted under\nsimilar circumstances. But, thanks to the nationality of the victim of\nthe shock, thanks to the reputation of the company to which the vessel\nbelonged, the circumstance became extensively circulated.\n\nThe 13th of April, 1867, the sea being beautiful, the breeze\nfavourable, the _Scotia_, of the Cunard Company s line, found herself\nin 15  12  long. and 45  37  lat. She was going at the speed of\nthirteen knots and a half.\n\nAt seventeen minutes past four in the afternoon, whilst the passengers\nwere assembled at lunch in the great saloon, a slight shock was felt on\nthe hull of the _Scotia_, on her quarter, a little aft of the\nport-paddle.\n\nThe _Scotia_ had not struck, but she had been struck, and seemingly by\nsomething rather sharp and penetrating than blunt. The shock had been\nso slight that no one had been alarmed, had it not been for the shouts\nof the carpenter s watch, who rushed on to the bridge, exclaiming,  We\nare sinking! we are sinking!  At first the passengers were much\nfrightened, but Captain Anderson hastened to reassure them. The danger\ncould not be imminent. The _Scotia_, divided into seven compartments by\nstrong partitions, could brave with impunity any leak. Captain Anderson\nwent down immediately into the hold. He found that the sea was pouring\ninto the fifth compartment; and the rapidity of the influx proved that\nthe force of the water was considerable. Fortunately this compartment\ndid not hold the boilers, or the fires would have been immediately\nextinguished. Captain Anderson ordered the engines to be stopped at\nonce, and one of the men went down to ascertain the extent of the\ninjury. Some minutes afterwards they discovered the existence of a\nlarge hole, of two yards in diameter, in the ship s bottom. Such a leak\ncould not be stopped; and the _Scotia_, her paddles half submerged, was\nobliged to continue her course. She was then three hundred miles from\nCape Clear, and after three days  delay, which caused great uneasiness\nin Liverpool, she entered the basin of the company.\n\nThe engineers visited the _Scotia_, which was put in dry dock. They\ncould scarcely believe it possible; at two yards and a half below\nwater-mark was a regular rent, in the form of an isosceles triangle.\nThe broken place in the iron plates was so perfectly defined that it\ncould not have been more neatly done by a punch. It was clear, then,\nthat the instrument producing the perforation was not of a common\nstamp; and after having been driven with prodigious strength, and\npiercing an iron plate 1-3/8 inches thick, had withdrawn itself by a\nretrograde motion truly inexplicable.\n\nSuch was the last fact, which resulted in exciting once more the\ntorrent of public opinion. From this moment all unlucky casualties\nwhich could not be otherwise accounted for were put down to the\nmonster. Upon this imaginary creature rested the responsibility of all\nthese shipwrecks, which unfortunately were considerable; for of three\nthousand ships whose loss was annually recorded at Lloyd s, the number\nof sailing and steam ships supposed to be totally lost, from the\nabsence of all news, amounted to not less than two hundred!\n\nNow, it was the  monster  who, justly or unjustly, was accused of their\ndisappearance, and, thanks to it, communication between the different\ncontinents became more and more dangerous. The public demanded\nperemptorily that the seas should at any price be relieved from this\nformidable cetacean.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\nPRO AND CON\n\n\nAt the period when these events took place, I had just returned from a\nscientific research in the disagreeable territory of Nebraska, in the\nUnited States. In virtue of my office as Assistant Professor in the\nMuseum of Natural History in Paris, the French Government had attached\nme to that expedition. After six months in Nebraska, I arrived in New\nYork towards the end of March, laden with a precious collection. My\ndeparture for France was fixed for the first days in May. Meanwhile, I\nwas occupying myself in classifying my mineralogical, botanical, and\nzoological riches, when the accident happened to the _Scotia_.\n\nI was perfectly up in the subject which was the question of the day.\nHow could I be otherwise? I had read and re-read all the American and\nEuropean papers without being any nearer a conclusion. This mystery\npuzzled me. Under the impossibility of forming an opinion, I jumped\nfrom one extreme to the other. That there really was something could\nnot be doubted, and the incredulous were invited to put their finger on\nthe wound of the _Scotia_.\n\nOn my arrival at New York the question was at its height. The\nhypothesis of the floating island, and the unapproachable sandbank,\nsupported by minds little competent to form a judgment, was abandoned.\nAnd, indeed, unless this shoal had a machine in its stomach, how could\nit change its position with such astonishing rapidity?\n\nFrom the same cause, the idea of a floating hull of an enormous wreck\nwas given up.\n\nThere remained then only two possible solutions of the question, which\ncreated two distinct parties: on one side, those who were for a monster\nof colossal strength; on the other, those who were for a submarine\nvessel of enormous motive power.\n\nBut this last hypothesis, plausible as it was, could not stand against\ninquiries made in both worlds. That a private gentleman should have\nsuch a machine at his command was not likely. Where, when, and how was\nit built? and how could its construction have been kept secret?\nCertainly a Government might possess such a destructive machine. And in\nthese disastrous times, when the ingenuity of man has multiplied the\npower of weapons of war, it was possible that, without the knowledge of\nothers, a state might try to work such a formidable engine. After the\nchassepots came the torpedoes, after the torpedoes the submarine rams,\nthen the reaction. At least, I hope so.\n\nBut the hypothesis of a war machine fell before the declaration of\nGovernments. As public interest was in question, and transatlantic\ncommunications suffered, their veracity could not be doubted. But, how\nadmit that the construction of this submarine boat had escaped the\npublic eye? For a private gentleman to keep the secret under such\ncircumstances would be very difficult, and for a state whose every act\nis persistently watched by powerful rivals, certainly impossible.\n\nAfter inquiries made in England, France, Russia, Prussia, Spain, Italy,\nand America, even in Turkey, the hypothesis of a submarine monitor was\ndefinitely rejected.\n\nUpon my arrival in New York several persons did me the honour of\nconsulting me on the phenomenon in question. I had published in France\na work in quarto, in two volumes, entitled  Mysteries of the Great\nSubmarine Grounds.  This book, highly approved of in the learned world,\ngained for me a special reputation in this rather obscure branch of\nNatural History. My advice was asked. As long as I could deny the\nreality of the fact, I confined myself to a decided negative. But soon,\nfinding myself driven into a corner, I was obliged to explain myself\ncategorically. And even  the Honourable Pierre Aronnax, Professor in\nthe Museum of Paris,  was called upon by the _New York Herald_ to\nexpress a definite opinion of some sort. I did something. I spoke, for\nwant of power to hold my tongue. I discussed the question in all its\nforms, politically and scientifically; and I give here an extract from\na carefully-studied article which I published in the number of the 30th\nof April. It ran as follows: \n\n After examining one by one the different hypotheses, rejecting all\nother suggestions, it becomes necessary to admit the existence of a\nmarine animal of enormous power.\n\n The great depths of the ocean are entirely unknown to us. Soundings\ncannot reach them. What passes in those remote depths what beings live,\nor can live, twelve or fifteen miles beneath the surface of the\nwaters what is the organisation of these animals, we can scarcely\nconjecture. However, the solution of the problem submitted to me may\nmodify the form of the dilemma. Either we do know all the varieties of\nbeings which people our planet, or we do not. If we do _not_ know them\nall if Nature has still secrets in ichthyology for us, nothing is more\nconformable to reason than to admit the existence of fishes, or\ncetaceans of other kinds, or even of new species, of an organisation\nformed to inhabit the strata inaccessible to soundings, and which an\naccident of some sort, either fatastical or capricious, has brought at\nlong intervals to the upper level of the ocean.\n\n If, on the contrary, we _do_ know all living kinds, we must\nnecessarily seek for the animal in question amongst those marine beings\nalready classed; and, in that case, I should be disposed to admit the\nexistence of a gigantic narwhal.\n\n The common narwhal, or unicorn of the sea, often attains a length of\nsixty feet. Increase its size fivefold or tenfold, give it strength\nproportionate to its size, lengthen its destructive weapons, and you\nobtain the animal required. It will have the proportions determined by\nthe officers of the _Shannon_, the instrument required by the\nperforation of the _Scotia_, and the power necessary to pierce the hull\nof the steamer.\n\n Indeed, the narwhal is armed with a sort of ivory sword, a halberd,\naccording to the expression of certain naturalists. The principal tusk\nhas the hardness of steel. Some of these tusks have been found buried\nin the bodies of whales, which the unicorn always attacks with success.\nOthers have been drawn out, not without trouble, from the bottoms of\nships, which they had pierced through and through, as a gimlet pierces\na barrel. The Museum of the Faculty of Medicine of Paris possesses one\nof these defensive weapons, two yards and a quarter in length, and\nfifteen inches in diameter at the base.\n\n Very well! suppose this weapon to be six times stronger and the animal\nten times more powerful; launch it at the rate of twenty miles an hour,\nand you obtain a shock capable of producing the catastrophe required.\nUntil further information, therefore, I shall maintain it to be a\nsea-unicorn of colossal dimensions, armed not with a halberd, but with\na real spur, as the armoured frigates, or the  rams  of war, whose\nmassiveness and motive power it would possess at the same time. Thus\nmay this puzzling phenomenon be explained, unless there be something\nover and above all that one has ever conjectured, seen, perceived, or\nexperienced; which is just within the bounds of possibility. \n\nThese last words were cowardly on my part; but, up to a certain point,\nI wished to shelter my dignity as Professor, and not give too much\ncause for laughter to the Americans, who laugh well when they do laugh.\n\nI reserved for myself a way of escape. In effect, however, I admitted\nthe existence of the  monster.  My article was warmly discussed, which\nprocured it a high reputation. It rallied round it a certain number of\npartisans. The solution it proposed gave, at least, full liberty to the\nimagination. The human mind delights in grand conceptions of\nsupernatural beings. And the sea is precisely their best vehicle, the\nonly medium through which these giants (against which terrestrial\nanimals, such as elephants or rhinoceroses, are as nothing) can be\nproduced or developed.\n\nThe industrial and commercial papers treated the question chiefly from\nthis point of view. The _Shipping and Mercantile Gazette_, the _Lloyd s\nList_, the _Packet-Boat_, and the _Maritime and Colonial Review_, all\npapers devoted to insurance companies which threatened to raise their\nrates of premium, were unanimous on this point. Public opinion had been\npronounced. The United States were the first in the field; and in New\nYork they made preparations for an expedition destined to pursue this\nnarwhal. A frigate of great speed, the _Abraham Lincoln_, was put in\ncommission as soon as possible. The arsenals were opened to Commander\nFarragut, who hastened the arming of his frigate; but, as it always\nhappens, the moment it was decided to pursue the monster, the monster\ndid not appear. For two months no one heard it spoken of. No ship met\nwith it. It seemed as if this unicorn knew of the plots weaving around\nit. It had been so much talked of, even through the Atlantic cable,\nthat jesters pretended that this slender fly had stopped a telegram on\nits passage and was making the most of it.\n\nSo when the frigate had been armed for a long campaign, and provided\nwith formidable fishing apparatus, no one could tell what course to\npursue. Impatience grew apace, when, on the 2nd of July, they learned\nthat a steamer of the line of San Francisco, from California to\nShanghai, had seen the animal three weeks before in the North Pacific\nOcean. The excitement caused by this news was extreme. The ship was\nrevictualled and well stocked with coal.\n\nThree hours before the _Abraham Lincoln_ left Brooklyn pier, I received\na letter worded as follows: \n\n\n To M. ARONNAX, Professor in the Museum of Paris, Fifth Avenue Hotel,\nNew York.\n\n SIR, If you will consent to join the _Abraham Lincoln_ in this\nexpedition, the Government of the United States will with pleasure see\nFrance represented in the enterprise. Commander Farragut has a cabin at\nyour disposal.\n\n\n Very cordially yours,\n J.B. HOBSON,\n Secretary of Marine. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\nI FORM MY RESOLUTION\n\n\nThree seconds before the arrival of J. B. Hobson s letter, I no more\nthought of pursuing the unicorn than of attempting the passage of the\nNorth Sea. Three seconds after reading the letter of the honourable\nSecretary of Marine, I felt that my true vocation, the sole end of my\nlife, was to chase this disturbing monster, and purge it from the\nworld.\n\nBut I had just returned from a fatiguing journey, weary and longing for\nrepose. I aspired to nothing more than again seeing my country, my\nfriends, my little lodging by the Jardin des Plantes, my dear and\nprecious collections. But nothing could keep me back! I forgot\nall fatigue, friends and collections and accepted without hesitation\nthe offer of the American Government.\n\n Besides,  thought I,  all roads lead back to Europe (for my particular\nbenefit), and I will not hurry me towards the coast of France. This\nworthy animal may allow itself to be caught in the seas of Europe (for\nmy particular benefit), and I will not bring back less than half a yard\nof his ivory halberd to the Museum of Natural History.  But in the\nmeanwhile I must seek this narwhal in the North Pacific Ocean, which,\nto return to France, was taking the road to the antipodes.\n\n Conseil,  I called in an impatient voice.\n\nConseil was my servant, a true, devoted Flemish boy, who had\naccompanied me in all my travels. I liked him, and he returned the\nliking well. He was phlegmatic by nature, regular from principle,\nzealous from habit, evincing little disturbance at the different\nsurprises of life, very quick with his hands, and apt at any service\nrequired of him; and, despite his name, never giving advice even when\nasked for it.\n\nConseil had followed me for the last ten years wherever science led.\nNever once did he complain of the length or fatigue of a journey, never\nmake an objection to pack his portmanteau for whatever country it might\nbe, or however far away, whether China or Congo. Besides all this, he\nhad good health, which defied all sickness, and solid muscles, but no\nnerves; good morals are understood. This boy was thirty years old, and\nhis age to that of his master as fifteen to twenty. May I be excused\nfor saying that I was forty years old?\n\nBut Conseil had one fault: he was ceremonious to a degree, and would\nnever speak to me but in the third person, which was sometimes\nprovoking.\n\n Conseil,  said I again, beginning with feverish hands to make\npreparations for my departure.\n\nCertainly I was sure of this devoted boy. As a rule, I never asked him\nif it were convenient for him or not to follow me in my travels; but\nthis time the expedition in question might be prolonged, and the\nenterprise might be hazardous in pursuit of an animal capable of\nsinking a frigate as easily as a nutshell. Here there was matter for\nreflection even to the most impassive man in the world. What would\nConseil say?\n\n Conseil,  I called a third time.\n\nConseil appeared.\n\n Did you call, sir?  said he, entering.\n\n Yes, my boy; make preparations for me and yourself too. We leave in\ntwo hours. \n\n As you please, sir,  replied Conseil, quietly.\n\n Not an instant to lose; lock in my trunk all travelling utensils,\ncoats, shirts, and stockings without counting, as many as you can, and\nmake haste. \n\n And your collections, sir?  observed Conseil.\n\n We will think of them by and by. \n\n What! the archiotherium, the hyracotherium, the oreodons, the\ncheropotamus, and the other skins? \n\n They will keep them at the hotel. \n\n And your live Babiroussa, sir? \n\n They will feed it during our absence; besides, I will give orders to\nforward our menagerie to France. \n\n We are not returning to Paris, then?  said Conseil.\n\n Oh! certainly,  I answered, evasively,  by making a curve. \n\n Will the curve please you, sir? \n\n Oh! it will be nothing; not quite so direct a road, that is all. We\ntake our passage in the _Abraham Lincoln_. \n\n As you think proper, sir,  coolly replied Conseil.\n\n You see, my friend, it has to do with the monster the famous narwhal.\nWe are going to purge it from the seas. The author of a work in quarto\nin two volumes, on the  Mysteries of the Great Submarine Grounds \ncannot forbear embarking with Commander Farragut. A glorious mission,\nbut a dangerous one! We cannot tell where we may go; these animals can\nbe very capricious. But we will go whether or no; we have got a captain\nwho is pretty wide-awake. \n\nI opened a credit account for Babiroussa, and, Conseil following, I\njumped into a cab. Our luggage was transported to the deck of the\nfrigate immediately. I hastened on board and asked for Commander\nFarragut. One of the sailors conducted me to the poop, where I found\nmyself in the presence of a good-looking officer, who held out his hand\nto me.\n\n Monsieur Pierre Aronnax?  said he.\n\n Himself,  replied I;  Commander Farragut? \n\n You are welcome, Professor; your cabin is ready for you. \n\nI bowed, and desired to be conducted to the cabin destined for me.\n\nThe _Abraham Lincoln_ had been well chosen and equipped for her new\ndestination. She was a frigate of great speed, fitted with\nhigh-pressure engines which admitted a pressure of seven atmospheres.\nUnder this the _Abraham Lincoln_ attained the mean speed of nearly\neighteen knots and a third an hour a considerable speed, but,\nnevertheless, insufficient to grapple with this gigantic cetacean.\n\nThe interior arrangements of the frigate corresponded to its nautical\nqualities. I was well satisfied with my cabin, which was in the after\npart, opening upon the gunroom.\n\n We shall be well off here,  said I to Conseil.\n\n As well, by your honour s leave, as a hermit-crab in the shell of a\nwhelk,  said Conseil.\n\nI left Conseil to stow our trunks conveniently away, and remounted the\npoop in order to survey the preparations for departure.\n\nAt that moment Commander Farragut was ordering the last moorings to be\ncast loose which held the _Abraham Lincoln_ to the pier of Brooklyn. So\nin a quarter of an hour, perhaps less, the frigate would have sailed\nwithout me. I should have missed this extraordinary, supernatural, and\nincredible expedition, the recital of which may well meet with some\nscepticism.\n\nBut Commander Farragut would not lose a day nor an hour in scouring the\nseas in which the animal had been sighted. He sent for the engineer.\n\n Is the steam full on?  asked he.\n\n Yes, sir,  replied the engineer.\n\n Go ahead,  cried Commander Farragut.\n\nThe quay of Brooklyn, and all that part of New York bordering on the\nEast River, was crowded with spectators. Three cheers burst\nsuccessively from five hundred thousand throats; thousands of\nhandkerchiefs were waved above the heads of the compact mass, saluting\nthe _Abraham Lincoln_, until she reached the waters of the Hudson, at\nthe point of that elongated peninsula which forms the town of New York.\nThen the frigate, following the coast of New Jersey along the right\nbank of the beautiful river, covered with villas, passed between the\nforts, which saluted her with their heaviest guns. The _Abraham\nLincoln_ answered by hoisting the American colours three times, whose\nthirty-nine stars shone resplendent from the mizzen-peak; then\nmodifying its speed to take the narrow channel marked by buoys placed\nin the inner bay formed by Sandy Hook Point, it coasted the long sandy\nbeach, where some thousands of spectators gave it one final cheer. The\nescort of boats and tenders still followed the frigate, and did not\nleave her until they came abreast of the lightship, whose two lights\nmarked the entrance of New York Channel.\n\nSix bells struck, the pilot got into his boat, and rejoined the little\nschooner which was waiting under our lee, the fires were made up, the\nscrew beat the waves more rapidly, the frigate skirted the low yellow\ncoast of Long Island; and at eight bells, after having lost sight in\nthe north-west of the lights of Fire Island, she ran at full steam on\nto the dark waters of the Atlantic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\nNED LAND\n\n\nCaptain Farragut was a good seaman, worthy of the frigate he commanded.\nHis vessel and he were one. He was the soul of it. On the question of\nthe cetacean there was no doubt in his mind, and he would not allow the\nexistence of the animal to be disputed on board. He believed in it, as\ncertain good women believe in the leviathan by faith, not by reason.\nThe monster did exist, and he had sworn to rid the seas of it. He was a\nkind of Knight of Rhodes, a second Dieudonn  de Gozon, going to meet\nthe serpent which desolated the island. Either Captain Farragut would\nkill the narwhal, or the narwhal would kill the captain. There was no\nthird course.\n\nThe officers on board shared the opinion of their chief. They were ever\nchatting, discussing, and calculating the various chances of a meeting,\nwatching narrowly the vast surface of the ocean. More than one took up\nhis quarters voluntarily in the cross-trees, who would have cursed such\na berth under any other circumstances. As long as the sun described its\ndaily course, the rigging was crowded with sailors, whose feet were\nburnt to such an extent by the heat of the deck as to render it\nunbearable; still the _Abraham Lincoln_ had not yet breasted the\nsuspected waters of the Pacific. As to the ship s company, they desired\nnothing better than to meet the unicorn, to harpoon it, hoist it on\nboard, and despatch it. They watched the sea with eager attention.\n\nBesides, Captain Farragut had spoken of a certain sum of two thousand\ndollars, set apart for whoever should first sight the monster, were he\ncabin-boy, common seaman, or officer.\n\nI leave you to judge how eyes were used on board the _Abraham Lincoln_.\n\nFor my own part I was not behind the others, and left to no one my\nshare of daily observations. The frigate might have been called the\n_Argus_, for a hundred reasons. Only one amongst us, Conseil, seemed to\nprotest by his indifference against the question which so interested us\nall, and seemed to be out of keeping with the general enthusiasm on\nboard.\n\nI have said that Captain Farragut had carefully provided his ship with\nevery apparatus for catching the gigantic cetacean. No whaler had ever\nbeen better armed. We possessed every known engine, from the harpoon\nthrown by the hand to the barbed arrows of the blunderbuss, and the\nexplosive balls of the duck-gun. On the forecastle lay the perfection\nof a breech-loading gun, very thick at the breech, and very narrow in\nthe bore, the model of which had been in the Exhibition of 1867. This\nprecious weapon of American origin could throw with ease a conical\nprojectile of nine pounds to a mean distance of ten miles.\n\nThus the _Abraham Lincoln_ wanted for no means of destruction; and,\nwhat was better still, she had on board Ned Land, the prince of\nharpooners.\n\nNed Land was a Canadian, with an uncommon quickness of hand, and who\nknew no equal in his dangerous occupation. Skill, coolness, audacity,\nand cunning he possessed in a superior degree, and it must be a cunning\nwhale or a singularly  cute  cachalot to escape the stroke of his\nharpoon.\n\nNed Land was about forty years of age; he was a tall man (more than six\nfeet high), strongly built, grave and taciturn, occasionally violent,\nand very passionate when contradicted. His person attracted attention,\nbut above all the boldness of his look, which gave a singular\nexpression to his face.\n\nWho calls himself Canadian calls himself French; and, little\ncommunicative as Ned Land was, I must admit that he took a certain\nliking for me. My nationality drew him to me, no doubt. It was an\nopportunity for him to talk, and for me to hear, that old language of\nRabelais, which is still in use in some Canadian provinces. The\nharpooner s family was originally from Quebec, and was already a tribe\nof hardy fishermen when this town belonged to France.\n\nLittle by little, Ned Land acquired a taste for chatting, and I loved\nto hear the recital of his adventures in the polar seas. He related his\nfishing, and his combats, with natural poetry of expression; his\nrecital took the form of an epic poem, and I seemed to be listening to\na Canadian Homer singing the Iliad of the regions of the North.\n\nI am portraying this hardy companion as I really knew him. We are old\nfriends now, united in that unchangeable friendship which is born and\ncemented amidst extreme dangers. Ah, brave Ned! I ask no more than to\nlive a hundred years longer, that I may have more time to dwell the\nlonger on your memory.\n\nNow, what was Ned Land s opinion upon the question of the marine\nmonster? I must admit that he did not believe in the unicorn, and was\nthe only one on board who did not share that universal conviction. He\neven avoided the subject, which I one day thought it my duty to press\nupon him. One magnificent evening, the 30th of July that is to say,\nthree weeks after our departure the frigate was abreast of Cape Blanc,\nthirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed the\ntropic of Capricorn, and the Straits of Magellan opened less than seven\nhundred miles to the south. Before eight days were over the _Abraham\nLincoln_ would be ploughing the waters of the Pacific.\n\nSeated on the poop, Ned Land and I were chatting of one thing and\nanother as we looked at this mysterious sea, whose great depths had up\nto this time been inaccessible to the eye of man. I naturally led up\nthe conversation to the giant unicorn, and examined the various chances\nof success or failure of the expedition. But, seeing that Ned Land let\nme speak without saying too much himself, I pressed him more closely.\n\n Well, Ned,  said I,  is it possible that you are not convinced of the\nexistence of this cetacean that we are following? Have you any\nparticular reason for being so incredulous? \n\nThe harpooner looked at me fixedly for some moments before answering,\nstruck his broad forehead with his hand (a habit of his), as if to\ncollect himself, and said at last,  Perhaps I have, Mr. Aronnax. \n\n But, Ned, you, a whaler by profession, familiarised with all the great\nmarine mammalia you, whose imagination might easily accept the\nhypothesis of enormous cetaceans, _you_ ought to be the last to doubt\nunder such circumstances! \n\n That is just what deceives you, Professor,  replied Ned.  That the\nvulgar should believe in extraordinary comets traversing space, and in\nthe existence of antediluvian monsters in the heart of the globe, may\nwell be; but neither astronomer nor geologist believes in such\nchimeras. As a whaler I have followed many a cetacean, harpooned a\ngreat number, and killed several; but, however strong or well-armed\nthey may have been, neither their tails nor their weapons would have\nbeen able even to scratch the iron plates of a steamer. \n\n But, Ned, they tell of ships which the teeth of the narwhal have\npierced through and through. \n\n Wooden ships that is possible,  replied the Canadian,  but I have\nnever seen it done; and, until further proof, I deny that whales,\ncetaceans, or sea-unicorns could ever produce the effect you describe. \n\n Well, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction resting on the logic of\nfacts. I believe in the existence of a mammal power fully organised,\nbelonging to the branch of vertebrata, like the whales, the cachalots,\nor the dolphins, and furnished with a horn of defence of great\npenetrating power. \n\n Hum!  said the harpooner, shaking his head with the air of a man who\nwould not be convinced.\n\n Notice one thing, my worthy Canadian,  I resumed.  If such an animal\nis in existence, if it inhabits the depths of the ocean, if it\nfrequents the strata lying miles below the surface of the water, it\nmust necessarily possess an organisation the strength of which would\ndefy all comparison. \n\n And why this powerful organisation?  demanded Ned.\n\n Because it requires incalculable strength to keep one s self in these\nstrata and resist their pressure. Listen to me. Let us admit that the\npressure of the atmosphere is represented by the weight of a column of\nwater thirty-two feet high. In reality the column of water would be\nshorter, as we are speaking of sea water, the density of which is\ngreater than that of fresh water. Very well, when you dive, Ned, as\nmany times thirty-two feet of water as there are above you, so many\ntimes does your body bear a pressure equal to that of the atmosphere,\nthat is to say, 15 lbs. for each square inch of its surface. It\nfollows, then, that at 320 feet this pressure = that of 10 atmospheres,\nof 100 atmospheres at 3200 feet, and of 1000 atmospheres at 32,000\nfeet, that is, about 6 miles; which is equivalent to saying that if you\ncould attain this depth in the ocean, each square three-eighths of an\ninch of the surface of your body would bear a pressure of 5600 lbs. Ah!\nmy brave Ned, do you know how many square inches you carry on the\nsurface of your body? \n\n I have no idea, Mr. Aronnax. \n\n About 6500; and, as in reality the atmospheric pressure is about 15\nlbs. to the square inch, your 6500 square inches bear at this moment a\npressure of 97,500 lbs. \n\n Without my perceiving it? \n\n Without your perceiving it. And if you are not crushed by such a\npressure, it is because the air penetrates the interior of your body\nwith equal pressure. Hence perfect equilibrium between the interior and\nexterior pressure, which thus neutralise each other, and which allows\nyou to bear it without inconvenience. But in the water it is another\nthing. \n\n Yes, I understand,  replied Ned, becoming more attentive;  because the\nwater surrounds me, but does not penetrate. \n\n Precisely, Ned: so that at 32 feet beneath the surface of the sea you\nwould undergo a pressure of 97,500 lbs.; at 320 feet, ten times that\npressure; at 3200 feet, a hundred times that pressure; lastly, at\n32,000 feet, a thousand times that pressure would be 97,500,000\nlbs. that is to say, that you would be flattened as if you had been\ndrawn from the plates of a hydraulic machine! \n\n The devil!  exclaimed Ned.\n\n Very well, my worthy harpooner, if some vertebrate, several hundred\nyards long, and large in proportion, can maintain itself in such\ndepths of those whose surface is represented by millions of square\ninches, that is by tens of millions of pounds, we must estimate the\npressure they undergo. Consider, then, what must be the resistance of\ntheir bony structure, and the strength of their organisation to\nwithstand such pressure! \n\n Why!  exclaimed Ned Land,  they must be made of iron plates eight\ninches thick, like the armoured frigates. \n\n As you say, Ned. And think what destruction such a mass would cause,\nif hurled with the speed of an express train against the hull of a\nvessel. \n\n Yes certainly perhaps,  replied the Canadian, shaken by these figures,\nbut not yet willing to give in.\n\n Well, have I convinced you? \n\n You have convinced me of one thing, sir, which is that, if such\nanimals do exist at the bottom of the seas, they must necessarily be as\nstrong as you say. \n\n But if they do not exist, mine obstinate harpooner, how explain the\naccident to the _Scotia?_ \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\nAT A VENTURE\n\n\nThe voyage of the _Abraham Lincoln_ was for a long time marked by no\nspecial incident. But one circumstance happened which showed the\nwonderful dexterity of Ned Land, and proved what confidence we might\nplace in him.\n\nThe 30th of June, the frigate spoke some American whalers, from whom we\nlearned that they knew nothing about the narwhal. But one of them, the\ncaptain of the _Monroe_, knowing that Ned Land had shipped on board the\n_Abraham Lincoln_, begged for his help in chasing a whale they had in\nsight. Commander Farragut, desirous of seeing Ned Land at work, gave\nhim permission to go on board the _Monroe_. And fate served our\nCanadian so well that, instead of one whale, he harpooned two with a\ndouble blow, striking one straight to the heart, and catching the other\nafter some minutes  pursuit.\n\nDecidedly, if the monster ever had to do with Ned Land s harpoon, I\nwould not bet in its favour.\n\nThe frigate skirted the south-east coast of America with great\nrapidity. The 3rd of July we were at the opening of the Straits of\nMagellan, level with Cape Vierges. But Commander Farragut would not\ntake a tortuous passage, but doubled Cape Horn.\n\nThe ship s crew agreed with him. And certainly it was possible that\nthey might meet the narwhal in this narrow pass. Many of the sailors\naffirmed that the monster could not pass there,  that he was too big\nfor that! \n\nThe 6th of July, about three o clock in the afternoon, the _Abraham\nLincoln_, at fifteen miles to the south, doubled the solitary island,\nthis lost rock at the extremity of the American continent, to which\nsome Dutch sailors gave the name of their native town, Cape Horn. The\ncourse was taken towards the north-west, and the next day the screw of\nthe frigate was at last beating the waters of the Pacific.\n\n Keep your eyes open!  called out the sailors.\n\nAnd they were opened widely. Both eyes and glasses, a little dazzled,\nit is true, by the prospect of two thousand dollars, had not an\ninstant s repose. Day and night they watched the surface of the ocean,\nand even nyctalopes, whose faculty of seeing in the darkness multiplies\ntheir chances a hundredfold, would have had enough to do to gain the\nprize.\n\nI myself, for whom money had no charms, was not the least attentive on\nboard. Giving but few minutes to my meals, but a few hours to sleep,\nindifferent to either rain or sunshine, I did not leave the poop of the\nvessel. Now leaning on the netting of the forecastle, now on the\ntaffrail, I devoured with eagerness the soft foam which whitened the\nsea as far as the eye could reach; and how often have I shared the\nemotion of the majority of the crew, when some capricious whale raised\nits black back above the waves! The poop of the vessel was crowded in a\nmoment. The cabins poured forth a torrent of sailors and officers, each\nwith heaving breast and troubled eye watching the course of the\ncetacean. I looked and looked, till I was nearly blind, whilst Conseil,\nalways phlegmatic, kept repeating in a calm voice:\n\n If, sir, you would not squint so much, you would see better! \n\nBut vain excitement! The _Abraham Lincoln_ checked its speed and made\nfor the animal signalled, a simple whale, or common cachalot, which\nsoon disappeared amidst a storm of execration.\n\nBut the weather was good. The voyage was being accomplished under the\nmost favourable auspices. It was then the bad season in Australia, the\nJuly of that zone corresponding to our January in Europe, but the sea\nwas beautiful and easily scanned round a vast circumference.\n\nThe 20th of July, the tropic of Capricorn was cut by 105  of longitude,\nand the 27th of the same month we crossed the equator on the 110th\nmeridian. This passed, the frigate took a more decided westerly\ndirection, and scoured the central waters of the Pacific. Commander\nFarragut thought, and with reason, that it was better to remain in deep\nwater, and keep clear of continents or islands, which the beast itself\nseemed to shun (perhaps because there was not enough water for him!\nsuggested the greater part of the crew). The frigate passed at some\ndistance from the Marquesas and the Sandwich Islands, crossed the\ntropic of Cancer, and made for the China Seas. We were on the theatre\nof the last diversions of the monster: and, to say truth, we no longer\n_lived_ on board. Hearts palpitated, fearfully preparing themselves for\nfuture incurable aneurism. The entire ship s crew were undergoing a\nnervous excitement, of which I can give no idea: they could not eat,\nthey could not sleep twenty times a day, a misconception or an optical\nillusion of some sailor seated on the taffrail, would cause dreadful\nperspirations, and these emotions, twenty times repeated, kept us in a\nstate of excitement so violent that a reaction was unavoidable.\n\nAnd truly, reaction soon showed itself. For three months, during which\na day seemed an age, the _Abraham Lincoln_ furrowed all the waters of\nthe Northern Pacific, running at whales, making sharp deviations from\nher course, veering suddenly from one tack to another, stopping\nsuddenly, putting on steam, and backing ever and anon at the risk of\nderanging her machinery, and not one point of the Japanese or American\ncoast was left unexplored.\n\nThe warmest partisans of the enterprise now became its most ardent\ndetractors. Reaction mounted from the crew to the captain himself, and\ncertainly, had it not been for resolute determination on the part of\nCaptain Farragut, the frigate would have headed due southward. This\nuseless search could not last much longer. The _Abraham Lincoln_ had\nnothing to reproach herself with, she had done her best to succeed.\nNever had an American ship s crew shown more zeal or patience; its\nfailure could not be placed to their charge there remained nothing but\nto return.\n\nThis was represented to the commander. The sailors could not hide their\ndiscontent, and the service suffered. I will not say there was a mutiny\non board, but after a reasonable period of obstinacy, Captain Farragut\n(as Columbus did) asked for three days  patience. If in three days the\nmonster did not appear, the man at the helm should give three turns of\nthe wheel, and the _Abraham Lincoln_ would make for the European seas.\n\nThis promise was made on the 2nd of November. It had the effect of\nrallying the ship s crew. The ocean was watched with renewed attention.\nEach one wished for a last glance in which to sum up his remembrance.\nGlasses were used with feverish activity. It was a grand defiance given\nto the giant narwhal, and he could scarcely fail to answer the summons\nand  appear. \n\nTwo days passed, the steam was at half pressure; a thousand schemes\nwere tried to attract the attention and stimulate the apathy of the\nanimal in case it should be met in those parts. Large quantities of\nbacon were trailed in the wake of the ship, to the great satisfaction\n(I must say) of the sharks. Small craft radiated in all directions\nround the _Abraham Lincoln_ as she lay to, and did not leave a spot of\nthe sea unexplored. But the night of the 4th of November arrived\nwithout the unveiling of this submarine mystery.\n\nThe next day, the 5th of November, at twelve, the delay would (morally\nspeaking) expire; after that time, Commander Farragut, faithful to his\npromise, was to turn the course to the south-east and abandon for ever\nthe northern regions of the Pacific.\n\nThe frigate was then in 31  15  north latitude and 136  42  east\nlongitude. The coast of Japan still remained less than two hundred\nmiles to leeward. Night was approaching. They had just struck eight\nbells; large clouds veiled the face of the moon, then in its first\nquarter. The sea undulated peaceably under the stern of the vessel.\n\nAt that moment I was leaning forward on the starboard netting. Conseil,\nstanding near me, was looking straight before him. The crew, perched in\nthe ratlines, examined the horizon, which contracted and darkened by\ndegrees. Officers with their night glasses scoured the growing\ndarkness; sometimes the ocean sparkled under the rays of the moon,\nwhich darted between two clouds, then all trace of light was lost in\nthe darkness.\n\nIn looking at Conseil, I could see he was undergoing a little of the\ngeneral influence. At least I thought so. Perhaps for the first time\nhis nerves vibrated to a sentiment of curiosity.\n\n Come, Conseil,  said I,  this is the last chance of pocketing the two\nthousand dollars. \n\n May I be permitted to say, sir,  replied Conseil,  that I never\nreckoned on getting the prize; and, had the government of the Union\noffered a hundred thousand dollars, it would have been none the\npoorer. \n\n You are right, Conseil. It is a foolish affair after all, and one upon\nwhich we entered too lightly. What time lost, what useless emotions! We\nshould have been back in France six months ago. \n\n In your little room, sir,  replied Conseil,  and in your museum, sir,\nand I should have already classed all your fossils, sir. And the\nBabiroussa would have been installed in its cage in the Jardin des\nPlantes, and have drawn all the curious people of the capital! \n\n As you say, Conseil. I fancy we shall run a fair chance of being\nlaughed at for our pains. \n\n That s tolerably certain,  replied Conseil, quietly;  I think they\nwill make fun of you, sir. And, must I say it? \n\n Go on, my good friend. \n\n Well, sir, you will only get your deserts. \n\n Indeed! \n\n When one has the honour of being a savant as you are, sir, one should\nnot expose one s self to \n\nConseil had not time to finish his compliment. In the midst of general\nsilence a voice had just been heard. It was the voice of Ned Land\nshouting \n\n Look out there! The very thing we are looking for on our weather\nbeam! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\nAT FULL STEAM\n\n\nAt this cry the whole ship s crew hurried towards the\nharpooner, commander, officers, masters, sailors, cabin boys; even the\nengineers left their engines, and the stokers their furnaces.\n\nThe order to stop her had been given, and the frigate now simply went\non by her own momentum. The darkness was then profound, and however\ngood the Canadian s eyes were, I asked myself how he had managed to\nsee, and what he had been able to see. My heart beat as if it would\nbreak. But Ned Land was not mistaken, and we all perceived the object\nhe pointed to. At two cables  length from the _Abraham Lincoln_, on the\nstarboard quarter, the sea seemed to be illuminated all over. It was\nnot a mere phosphoric phenomenon. The monster emerged some fathoms from\nthe water, and then threw out that very intense but inexplicable light\nmentioned in the report of several captains. This magnificent\nirradiation must have been produced by an agent of great _shining_\npower. The luminous part traced on the sea an immense oval, much\nelongated, the centre of which condensed a burning heat, whose\noverpowering brilliancy died out by successive gradations.\n\n It is only an agglomeration of phosphoric particles,  cried one of the\nofficers.\n\n No, sir, certainly not,  I replied.  Never did pholades or salp \nproduce such a powerful light. That brightness is of an essentially\nelectrical nature. Besides, see, see! it moves; it is moving forwards,\nbackwards; it is darting towards us! \n\nA general cry rose from the frigate.\n\n Silence!  said the Captain;  up with the helm, reverse the engines. \n\nThe steam was shut off, and the _Abraham Lincoln_, beating to port,\ndescribed a semicircle.\n\n Right the helm, go ahead,  cried the Captain.\n\nThese orders were executed, and the frigate moved rapidly from the\nburning light.\n\nI was mistaken. She tried to sheer off, but the supernatural animal\napproached with a velocity double her own.\n\nWe gasped for breath. Stupefaction more than fear made us dumb and\nmotionless. The animal gained on us, sporting with the waves. It made\nthe round of the frigate, which was then making fourteen knots, and\nenveloped it with its electric rings like luminous dust. Then it moved\naway two or three miles, leaving a phosphorescent track, like those\nvolumes of steam that the express trains leave behind. All at once from\nthe dark line of the horizon whither it retired to gain its momentum,\nthe monster rushed suddenly towards the _Abraham Lincoln_ with alarming\nrapidity, stopped suddenly about twenty feet from the hull, and died\nout, not diving under the water, for its brilliancy did not abate, but\nsuddenly, and as if the source of this brilliant emanation was\nexhausted. Then it reappeared on the other side of the vessel, as if it\nhad turned and slid under the hull. Any moment a collision might have\noccurred which would have been fatal to us. However, I was astonished\nat the man uvres of the frigate. She fled and did not attack.\n\nOn the captain s face, generally so impassive, was an expression of\nunaccountable astonishment.\n\n Mr. Aronnax,  he said,  I do not know with what formidable being I\nhave to deal, and I will not imprudently risk my frigate in the midst\nof this darkness. Besides, how attack this unknown thing, how defend\none s self from it? Wait for daylight, and the scene will change. \n\n You have no further doubt, captain, of the nature of the animal? \n\n No, sir; it is evidently a gigantic narwhal, and an electric one. \n\n Perhaps,  added I,  one can only approach it with a gymnotus or a\ntorpedo. \n\n Undoubtedly,  replied the captain,  if it possesses such dreadful\npower, it is the most terrible animal that ever was created. That is\nwhy, sir, I must be on my guard. \n\nThe crew were on their feet all night. No one thought of sleep. The\n_Abraham Lincoln_, not being able to struggle with such velocity, had\nmoderated its pace, and sailed at half speed. For its part, the\nnarwhal, imitating the frigate, let the waves rock it at will, and\nseemed decided not to leave the scene of the struggle. Towards\nmidnight, however, it disappeared, or, to use a more appropriate term,\nit  died out  like a large glow-worm. Had it fled? One could only fear,\nnot hope. But at seven minutes to one o clock in the morning a\ndeafening whistling was heard, like that produced by a body of water\nrushing with great violence.\n\nThe captain, Ned Land, and I, were then on the poop, eagerly peering\nthrough the profound darkness.\n\n Ned Land,  asked the commander,  you have often heard the roaring of\nwhales? \n\n Often, sir; but never such whales the sight of which brought me in two\nthousand dollars. If I can only approach within four harpoon lengths of\nit! \n\n But to approach it,  said the commander,  I ought to put a whaler at\nyour disposal? \n\n Certainly, sir. \n\n That will be trifling with the lives of my men. \n\n And mine too,  simply said the harpooner.\n\nTowards two o clock in the morning, the burning light reappeared, not\nless intense, about five miles to windward of the _Abraham Lincoln_.\nNotwithstanding the distance, and the noise of the wind and sea, one\nheard distinctly the loud strokes of the animal s tail, and even its\npanting breath. It seemed that, at the moment that the enormous narwhal\nhad come to take breath at the surface of the water, the air was\nengulfed in its lungs, like the steam in the vast cylinders of a\nmachine of two thousand horse-power.\n\n Hum!  thought I,  a whale with the strength of a cavalry regiment\nwould be a pretty whale! \n\nWe were on the _qui vive_ till daylight, and prepared for the combat.\nThe fishing implements were laid along the hammock nettings. The second\nlieutenant loaded the blunderbusses, which could throw harpoons to the\ndistance of a mile, and long duck-guns, with explosive bullets, which\ninflicted mortal wounds even to the most terrible animals. Ned Land\ncontented himself with sharpening his harpoon a terrible weapon in his\nhands.\n\nAt six o clock day began to break; and, with the first glimmer of\nlight, the electric light of the narwhal disappeared. At seven o clock\nthe day was sufficiently advanced, but a very thick sea fog obscured\nour view, and the best spy-glasses could not pierce it. That caused\ndisappointment and anger.\n\nI climbed the mizzen-mast. Some officers were already perched on the\nmast heads. At eight o clock the fog lay heavily on the waves, and its\nthick scrolls rose little by little. The horizon grew wider and clearer\nat the same time. Suddenly, just as on the day before, Ned Land s voice\nwas heard:\n\n The thing itself on the port quarter!  cried the harpooner.\n\nEvery eye was turned towards the point indicated. There, a mile and a\nhalf from the frigate, a long blackish body emerged a yard above the\nwaves. Its tail, violently agitated, produced a considerable eddy.\nNever did a caudal appendage beat the sea with such violence. An\nimmense track, of dazzling whiteness, marked the passage of the animal,\nand described a long curve.\n\nThe frigate approached the cetacean. I examined it thoroughly.\n\nThe reports of the _Shannon_ and of the _Helvetia_ had rather\nexaggerated its size, and I estimated its length at only two hundred\nand fifty feet. As to its dimensions, I could only conjecture them to\nbe admirably proportioned. While I watched this phenomenon, two jets of\nsteam and water were ejected from its vents, and rose to the height of\n120 feet; thus I ascertained its way of breathing. I concluded\ndefinitely that it belonged to the vertebrate branch, class mammalia.\n\nThe crew waited impatiently for their chief s orders. The latter, after\nhaving observed the animal attentively, called the engineer. The\nengineer ran to him.\n\n Sir,  said the commander,  you have steam up? \n\n Yes, sir,  answered the engineer.\n\n Well, make up your fires and put on all steam. \n\nThree hurrahs greeted this order. The time for the struggle had\narrived. Some moments after, the two funnels of the frigate vomited\ntorrents of black smoke, and the bridge quaked under the trembling of\nthe boilers.\n\nThe _Abraham Lincoln_, propelled by her wonderful screw, went straight\nat the animal. The latter allowed it to come within half a cable s\nlength; then, as if disdaining to dive, it took a little turn, and\nstopped a short distance off.\n\nThis pursuit lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour, without the\nfrigate gaining two yards on the cetacean. It was quite evident that at\nthat rate we should never come up with it.\n\n Well, Mr. Land,  asked the captain,  do you advise me to put the boats\nout to sea? \n\n No, sir,  replied Ned Land;  because we shall not take that beast\neasily. \n\n What shall we do then? \n\n Put on more steam if you can, sir. With your leave, I mean to post\nmyself under the bowsprit, and if we get within harpooning distance, I\nshall throw my harpoon. \n\n Go, Ned,  said the captain.  Engineer, put on more pressure. \n\nNed Land went to his post. The fires were increased, the screw revolved\nforty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the valves. We\nheaved the log, and calculated that the _Abraham Lincoln_ was going at\nthe rate of 18  miles an hour.\n\nBut the accursed animal swam too at the rate of 18  miles an hour.\n\nFor a whole hour, the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining six\nfeet. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest sailers in the\nAmerican navy. A stubborn anger seized the crew; the sailors abused the\nmonster, who, as before, disdained to answer them; the captain no\nlonger contented himself with twisting his beard he gnawed it.\n\nThe engineer was again called.\n\n You have turned full steam in? \n\n Yes, sir,  replied the engineer.\n\nThe speed of the _Abraham Lincoln_ increased. Its masts trembled down\nto their stepping holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly find way\nout of the narrow funnels.\n\nThey heaved the log a second time.\n\n Well?  asked the captain of the man at the wheel.\n\n Nineteen miles and three-tenths, sir. \n\n Clap on more steam. \n\nThe engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten degrees. But the cetacean\ngrew warm itself, no doubt; for without straining itself, it made\n19-3/10 miles.\n\nWhat a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the emotion that vibrated through\nme. Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal\nlet us gain upon it. We shall catch it! we shall catch it!  cried the\nCanadian. But just as he was going to strike, the cetacean stole away\nwith a rapidity that could not be estimated at less than thirty miles\nan hour, and even during our maximum of speed, it bullied the frigate,\ngoing round and round it. A cry of fury broke from everyone!\n\nAt noon we were no further advanced than at eight o clock in the\nmorning.\n\nThe captain then decided to take more direct means.\n\n Ah!  said he,  that animal goes quicker than the _Abraham Lincoln_.\nVery well! we will see whether it will escape these conical bullets.\nSend your men to the forecastle, sir. \n\nThe forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round. But the\nshot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half a mile off.\n\n Another, more to the right,  cried the commander,  and five dollars to\nwhoever will hit that infernal beast. \n\nAn old gunner with a grey beard that I can see now with steady eye and\ngrave face, went up to the gun and took a long aim. A loud report was\nheard, with which were mingled the cheers of the crew.\n\n\n[Illustration] An old grey-bearded gunner . . . .\n\n\nThe bullet did its work; it hit the animal, but not fatally, and\nsliding off the rounded surface, was lost in two miles depth of sea.\n\nThe chase began again, and the captain, leaning towards me, said \n\n I will pursue that beast till my frigate bursts up. \n\n Yes,  answered I;  and you will be quite right to do it. \n\nI wished the beast would exhaust itself, and not be insensible to\nfatigue like a steam engine! But it was of no use. Hours passed,\nwithout its showing any signs of exhaustion.\n\nHowever, it must be said in praise of the _Abraham Lincoln_, that she\nstruggled on indefatigably. I cannot reckon the distance she made under\nthree hundred miles during this unlucky day, November the 6th. But\nnight came on, and overshadowed the rough ocean.\n\nNow I thought our expedition was at an end, and that we should never\nagain see the extraordinary animal. I was mistaken. At ten minutes to\neleven in the evening, the electric light reappeared three miles to\nwindward of the frigate, as pure, as intense as during the preceding\nnight.\n\nThe narwhal seemed motionless; perhaps, tired with its day s work, it\nslept, letting itself float with the undulation of the waves. Now was a\nchance of which the captain resolved to take advantage.\n\nHe gave his orders. The _Abraham Lincoln_ kept up half steam, and\nadvanced cautiously so as not to awake its adversary. It is no rare\nthing to meet in the middle of the ocean whales so sound asleep that\nthey can be successfully attacked, and Ned Land had harpooned more than\none during its sleep. The Canadian went to take his place again under\nthe bowsprit.\n\nThe frigate approached noiselessly, stopped at two cables  lengths from\nthe animal, and following its track. No one breathed; a deep silence\nreigned on the bridge. We were not a hundred feet from the burning\nfocus, the light of which increased and dazzled our eyes.\n\nAt this moment, leaning on the forecastle bulwark, I saw below me Ned\nLand grappling the martingale in one hand, brandishing his terrible\nharpoon in the other, scarcely twenty feet from the motionless animal.\nSuddenly his arm straightened, and the harpoon was thrown; I heard the\nsonorous stroke of the weapon, which seemed to have struck a hard body.\nThe electric light went out suddenly, and two enormous waterspouts\nbroke over the bridge of the frigate, rushing like a torrent from stem\nto stern, overthrowing men, and breaking the lashings of the spars. A\nfearful shock followed, and, thrown over the rail without having time\nto stop myself, I fell into the sea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\nAN UNKNOWN SPECIES OF WHALE\n\n\nThis unexpected fall so stunned me that I have no clear recollection of\nmy sensations at the time. I was at first drawn down to a depth of\nabout twenty feet. I am a good swimmer (though without pretending to\nrival Byron or Edgar Poe, who were masters of the art), and in that\nplunge I did not lose my presence of mind. Two vigorous strokes brought\nme to the surface of the water. My first care was to look for the\nfrigate. Had the crew seen me disappear? Had the _Abraham Lincoln_\nveered round? Would the captain put out a boat? Might I hope to be\nsaved?\n\nThe darkness was intense. I caught a glimpse of a black mass\ndisappearing in the east, its beacon lights dying out in the distance.\nIt was the frigate! I was lost.\n\n Help, help!  I shouted, swimming towards the _Abraham Lincoln_ in\ndesperation.\n\nMy clothes encumbered me; they seemed glued to my body, and paralysed\nmy movements.\n\nI was sinking! I was suffocating!\n\n Help! \n\nThis was my last cry. My mouth filled with water; I struggled against\nbeing drawn down the abyss. Suddenly my clothes were seized by a strong\nhand, and I felt myself quickly drawn up to the surface of the sea; and\nI heard, yes, I heard these words pronounced in my ear \n\n If master would be so good as to lean on my shoulder, master would\nswim with much greater ease. \n\nI seized with one hand my faithful Conseil s arm.\n\n Is it you?  said I,  you? \n\n Myself,  answered Conseil;  and waiting master s orders. \n\n That shock threw you as well as me into the sea? \n\n No; but being in my master s service, I followed him. \n\nThe worthy fellow thought that was but natural.\n\n And the frigate?  I asked.\n\n The frigate?  replied Conseil, turning on his back;  I think that\nmaster had better not count too much on her. \n\n You think so? \n\n I say that, at the time I threw myself into the sea, I heard the men\nat the wheel say,  The screw and the rudder are broken. \n\n Broken? \n\n Yes, broken by the monster s teeth. It is the only injury the _Abraham\nLincoln_ has sustained. But it is a bad look out for us she no longer\nanswers her helm. \n\n Then we are lost! \n\n Perhaps so,  calmly answered Conseil.  However, we have still several\nhours before us, and one can do a good deal in some hours. \n\nConseil s imperturbable coolness set me up again. I swam more\nvigorously; but, cramped by my clothes, which stuck to me like a leaden\nweight, I felt great difficulty in bearing up. Conseil saw this.\n\n Will master let me make a slit?  said he; and, slipping an open knife\nunder my clothes, he ripped them up from top to bottom very rapidly.\nThen he cleverly slipped them off me, while I swam for both of us.\n\nThen I did the same for Conseil, and we continued to swim near to each\nother.\n\nNevertheless, our situation was no less terrible. Perhaps our\ndisappearance had not been noticed; and if it had been, the frigate\ncould not tack, being without its helm. Conseil argued on this\nsupposition, and laid his plans accordingly. This phlegmatic boy was\nperfectly self-possessed. We then decided that, as our only chance of\nsafety was being picked up by the _Abraham Lincoln s_ boats, we ought\nto manage so as to wait for them as long as possible. I resolved then\nto husband our strength, so that both should not be exhausted at the\nsame time; and this is how we managed: while one of us lay on our back,\nquite still, with arms crossed, and legs stretched out, the other would\nswim and push the other on in front. This towing business did not last\nmore than ten minutes each; and relieving each other thus, we could\nswim on for some hours, perhaps till daybreak. Poor chance! but hope is\nso firmly rooted in the heart of man! Moreover, there were two of us.\nIndeed I declare (though it may seem improbable) if I sought to destroy\nall hope, if I wished to despair, I could not.\n\nThe collision of the frigate with the cetacean had occurred about\neleven o clock the evening before. I reckoned then we should have eight\nhours to swim before sunrise, an operation quite practicable if we\nrelieved each other. The sea, very calm, was in our favour. Sometimes I\ntried to pierce the intense darkness that was only dispelled by the\nphosphorescence caused by our movements. I watched the luminous waves\nthat broke over my hand, whose mirror-like surface was spotted with\nsilvery rings. One might have said that we were in a bath of\nquicksilver.\n\nNear one o clock in the morning, I was seized with dreadful fatigue. My\nlimbs stiffened under the strain of violent cramp. Conseil was obliged\nto keep me up, and our preservation devolved on him alone. I heard the\npoor boy pant; his breathing became short and hurried. I found that he\ncould not keep up much longer.\n\n Leave me! leave me!  I said to him.\n\n Leave my master? Never!  replied he.  I would drown first. \n\nJust then the moon appeared through the fringes of a thick cloud that\nthe wind was driving to the east. The surface of the sea glittered with\nits rays. This kindly light reanimated us. My head got better again. I\nlooked at all points of the horizon. I saw the frigate! She was five\nmiles from us, and looked like a dark mass, hardly discernible. But no\nboats!\n\nI would have cried out. But what good would it have been at such a\ndistance! My swollen lips could utter no sounds. Conseil could\narticulate some words, and I heard him repeat at intervals,  Help!\nhelp! \n\nOur movements were suspended for an instant; we listened. It might be\nonly a singing in the ear, but it seemed to me as if a cry answered the\ncry from Conseil.\n\n Did you hear?  I murmured.\n\n Yes! Yes! \n\nAnd Conseil gave one more despairing call.\n\nThis time there was no mistake! A human voice responded to ours! Was it\nthe voice of another unfortunate creature, abandoned in the middle of\nthe ocean, some other victim of the shock sustained by the vessel? Or\nrather was it a boat from the frigate, that was hailing us in the\ndarkness?\n\nConseil made a last effort, and, leaning on my shoulder, while I struck\nout in a despairing effort, he raised himself half out of the water,\nthen fell back exhausted.\n\n What did you see? \n\n I saw murmured he;  I saw but do not talk reserve all your strength! \n\nWhat had he seen? Then, I know not why, the thought of the monster came\ninto my head for the first time! But that voice! The time is past for\nJonahs to take refuge in whales  bellies! However, Conseil was towing\nme again. He raised his head sometimes, looked before us, and uttered a\ncry of recognition, which was responded to by a voice that came nearer\nand nearer. I scarcely heard it. My strength was exhausted; my fingers\nstiffened; my hand afforded me support no longer; my mouth,\nconvulsively opening, filled with salt water. Cold crept over me. I\nraised my head for the last time, then I sank.\n\nAt this moment a hard body struck me. I clung to it: then I felt that I\nwas being drawn up, that I was brought to the surface of the water,\nthat my chest collapsed: I fainted.\n\nIt is certain that I soon came to, thanks to the vigorous rubbings that\nI received. I half opened my eyes.\n\n Conseil!  I murmured.\n\n Does master call me?  asked Conseil.\n\nJust then, by the waning light of the moon which was sinking down to\nthe horizon, I saw a face which was not Conseil s and which I\nimmediately recognised.\n\n Ned!  I cried.\n\n The same, sir, who is seeking his prize!  replied the Canadian.\n\n Were you thrown into the sea by the shock to the frigate? \n\n Yes, Professor; but more fortunate than you, I was able to find a\nfooting almost directly upon a floating island. \n\n An island? \n\n Or, more correctly speaking, on our gigantic narwhal. \n\n Explain yourself, Ned! \n\n Only I soon found out why my harpoon had not entered its skin and was\nblunted. \n\n Why, Ned, why? \n\n Because, Professor, that beast is made of sheet iron. \n\nThe Canadian s last words produced a sudden revolution in my brain. I\nwriggled myself quickly to the top of the being, or object, half out of\nthe water, which served us for a refuge. I kicked it. It was evidently\na hard impenetrable body, and not the soft substance that forms the\nbodies of the great marine mammalia. But this hard body might be a bony\ncarapace, like that of the antediluvian animals; and I should be free\nto class this monster among amphibious reptiles, such as tortoises or\nalligators.\n\nWell, no! the blackish back that supported me was smooth, polished,\nwithout scales. The blow produced a metallic sound; and incredible\nthough it may be, it seemed, I might say, as if it was made of riveted\nplates.\n\nThere was no doubt about it! This monster, this natural phenomenon that\nhad puzzled the learned world, and overthrown and misled the\nimagination of seamen of both hemispheres, it must be owned, a still\nmore astonishing phenomenon, inasmuch as it was a simply human\nconstruction.\n\nWe had no time to lose, however. We were lying upon the back of a sort\nof submarine boat, which appeared (as far as I could judge) like a huge\nfish of steel. Ned Land s mind was made up on this point. Conseil and I\ncould only agree with him.\n\nJust then a bubbling began at the back of this strange thing (which was\nevidently propelled by a screw), and it began to move. We had only just\ntime to seize hold of the upper part, which rose about seven feet out\nof the water, and happily its speed was not great.\n\n As long as it sails horizontally,  muttered Ned Land,  I do not mind;\nbut if it takes a fancy to dive, I would not give two straws for my\nlife. \n\nThe Canadian might have said still less. It became really necessary to\ncommunicate with the beings, whatever they were, shut up inside the\nmachine. I searched all over the outside for an aperture, a panel, or a\nman-hole, to use a technical expression; but the lines of the iron\nrivets, solidly driven into the joints of the iron plates, were clear\nand uniform. Besides, the moon disappeared then, and left us in total\ndarkness.\n\nAt last this long night passed. My indistinct remembrance prevents my\ndescribing all the impressions it made. I can only recall one\ncircumstance. During some lulls of the wind and sea, I fancied I heard\nseveral times vague sounds, a sort of fugitive harmony produced by\nwords of command. What was then the mystery of this submarine craft, of\nwhich the whole world vainly sought an explanation? What kind of beings\nexisted in this strange boat? What mechanical agent caused its\nprodigious speed?\n\nDaybreak appeared. The morning mists surrounded us, but they soon\ncleared off. I was about to examine the hull, which formed on deck a\nkind of horizontal platform, when I felt it gradually sinking.\n\n Oh! confound it!  cried Ned Land, kicking the resounding plate.  Open,\nyou inhospitable rascals! \n\nHappily the sinking movement ceased. Suddenly a noise, like iron works\nviolently pushed aside, came from the interior of the boat. One iron\nplate was moved, a man appeared, uttered an odd cry, and disappeared\nimmediately.\n\nSome moments after, eight strong men, with masked faces, appeared\nnoiselessly, and drew us down into their formidable machine.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\nMOBILIS IN MOBILI\n\n\nThis forcible abduction, so roughly carried out, was accomplished with\nthe rapidity of lightning. I shivered all over. Whom had we to deal\nwith? No doubt some new sort of pirates, who explored the sea in their\nown way.\n\nHardly had the narrow panel closed upon me, when I was enveloped in\ndarkness. My eyes, dazzled with the outer light, could distinguish\nnothing. I felt my naked feet cling to the rungs of an iron ladder. Ned\nLand and Conseil, firmly seized, followed me. At the bottom of the\nladder, a door opened, and shut after us immediately with a bang.\n\nWe were alone. Where, I could not say, hardly imagine. All was black,\nand such a dense black that, after some minutes, my eyes had not been\nable to discern even the faintest glimmer.\n\nMeanwhile, Ned Land, furious at these proceedings, gave free vent to\nhis indignation.\n\n Confound it!  cried he,  here are people who come up to the Scotch for\nhospitality. They only just miss being cannibals. I should not be\nsurprised at it, but I declare that they shall not eat me without my\nprotesting. \n\n Calm yourself, friend Ned, calm yourself,  replied Conseil, quietly.\n Do not cry out before you are hurt. We are not quite done for yet. \n\n Not quite,  sharply replied the Canadian,  but pretty near, at all\nevents. Things look black. Happily, my bowie knife I have still, and I\ncan always see well enough to use it. The first of these pirates who\nlays a hand on me \n\n Do not excite yourself, Ned,  I said to the harpooner,  and do not\ncompromise us by useless violence. Who knows that they will not listen\nto us? Let us rather try to find out where we are. \n\nI groped about. In five steps I came to an iron wall, made of plates\nbolted together. Then turning back I struck against a wooden table,\nnear which were ranged several stools. The boards of this prison were\nconcealed under a thick mat of phormium, which deadened the noise of\nthe feet. The bare walls revealed no trace of window or door. Conseil,\ngoing round the reverse way, met me, and we went back to the middle of\nthe cabin, which measured about twenty feet by ten. As to its height,\nNed Land, in spite of his own great height, could not measure it.\n\nHalf an hour had already passed without our situation being bettered,\nwhen the dense darkness suddenly gave way to extreme light. Our prison\nwas suddenly lighted that is to say, it became filled with a luminous\nmatter, so strong that I could not bear it at first. In its whiteness\nand intensity I recognised that electric light which played round the\nsubmarine boat like a magnificent phenomenon of phosphorescence. After\nshutting my eyes involuntarily, I opened them, and saw that this\nluminous agent came from a half globe, unpolished, placed in the roof\nof the cabin.\n\n At last one can see,  cried Ned Land, who, knife in hand, stood on the\ndefensive.\n\n Yes,  said I;  but we are still in the dark about ourselves. \n\n Let master have patience,  said the imperturbable Conseil.\n\nThe sudden lighting of the cabin enabled me to examine it minutely. It\nonly contained a table and five stools. The invisible door might be\nhermetically sealed. No noise was heard. All seemed dead in the\ninterior of this boat. Did it move, did it float on the surface of the\nocean, or did it dive into its depths? I could not guess.\n\nA noise of bolts was now heard, the door opened, and two men appeared.\n\nOne was short, very muscular, broad-shouldered, with robust limbs,\nstrong head, an abundance of black hair, thick moustache, a quick\npenetrating look, and the vivacity which characterises the population\nof Southern France.\n\nThe second stranger merits a more detailed description. A disciple of\nGratiolet or Engel would have read his face like an open book. I made\nout his prevailing qualities directly: self-confidence, because his\nhead was well set on his shoulders, and his black eyes looked around\nwith cold assurance; calmness, for his skin, rather pale, showed his\ncoolness of blood; energy, evinced by the rapid contraction of his\nlofty brows; and courage, because his deep breathing denoted great\npower of lungs.\n\nWhether this person was thirty-five or fifty years of age, I could not\nsay. He was tall, had a large forehead, straight nose, a clearly cut\nmouth, beautiful teeth, with fine taper hands, indicative of a highly\nnervous temperament. This man was certainly the most admirable specimen\nI had ever met. One particular feature was his eyes, rather far from\neach other, and which could take in nearly a quarter of the horizon at\nonce.\n\nThis faculty (I verified it later) gave him a range of vision far\nsuperior to Ned Land s. When this stranger fixed upon an object, his\neyebrows met, his large eyelids closed around so as to contract the\nrange of his vision, and he looked as if he magnified the objects\nlessened by distance, as if he pierced those sheets of water so opaque\nto our eyes, and as if he read the very depths of the seas.\n\nThe two strangers, with caps made from the fur of the sea otter, and\nshod with sea boots of seal s skin, were dressed in clothes of a\nparticular texture, which allowed free movement of the limbs. The\ntaller of the two, evidently the chief on board, examined us with great\nattention, without saying a word; then turning to his companion, talked\nwith him in an unknown tongue. It was a sonorous, harmonious, and\nflexible dialect, the vowels seeming to admit of very varied\naccentuation.\n\nThe other replied by a shake of the head, and added two or three\nperfectly incomprehensible words. Then he seemed to question me by a\nlook.\n\nI replied in good French that I did not know his language; but he\nseemed not to understand me, and my situation became more embarrassing.\n\n If master were to tell our story,  said Conseil,  perhaps these\ngentlemen may understand some words. \n\nI began to tell our adventures, articulating each syllable clearly, and\nwithout omitting one single detail. I announced our names and rank,\nintroducing in person Professor Aronnax, his servant Conseil, and\nmaster Ned Land, the harpooner.\n\nThe man with the soft calm eyes listened to me quietly, even politely,\nand with extreme attention; but nothing in his countenance indicated\nthat he had understood my story. When I finished, he said not a word.\nThere remained one resource, to speak English. Perhaps they would know\nthis almost universal language. I knew it, as well as the German\nlanguage, well enough to read it fluently, but not to speak it\ncorrectly. But, anyhow, we must make ourselves understood.\n\n Go on in your turn,  I said to the harpooner;  speak your best\nAnglo-Saxon, and try to do better than I. \n\nNed did not beg off, and recommenced our story.\n\nTo his great disgust, the harpooner did not seem to have made himself\nmore intelligible than I had. Our visitors did not stir. They evidently\nunderstood neither the language of Arago nor of Faraday.\n\nVery much embarrassed, after having vainly exhausted our speaking\nresources, I knew not what part to take, when Conseil said \n\n If master will permit me, I will relate it in German. \n\nBut in spite of the elegant terms and good accent of the narrator, the\nGerman language had no success. At last, nonplussed, I tried to\nremember my first lessons, and to narrate our adventures in Latin, but\nwith no better success. This last attempt being of no avail, the two\nstrangers exchanged some words in their unknown language, and retired.\n\nThe door shut.\n\n It is an infamous shame,  cried Ned Land, who broke out for the\ntwentieth time.  We speak to those rogues in French, English, German,\nand Latin, and not one of them has the politeness to answer! \n\n Calm yourself,  I said to the impetuous Ned,  anger will do no good. \n\n But do you see, Professor,  replied our irascible companion,  that we\nshall absolutely die of hunger in this iron cage? \n\n Bah!  said Conseil, philosophically;  we can hold out some time yet. \n\n My friends,  I said,  we must not despair. We have been worse off than\nthis. Do me the favour to wait a little before forming an opinion upon\nthe commander and crew of this boat. \n\n My opinion is formed,  replied Ned Land, sharply.  They are rascals. \n\n Good! and from what country? \n\n From the land of rogues! \n\n My brave Ned, that country is not clearly indicated on the map of the\nworld; but I admit that the nationality of the two strangers is hard to\ndetermine. Neither English, French, nor German, that is quite certain.\nHowever, I am inclined to think that the commander and his companion\nwere born in low latitudes. There is southern blood in them. But I\ncannot decide by their appearance whether they are Spaniards, Turks,\nArabians, or Indians. As to their language, it is quite\nincomprehensible. \n\n There is the disadvantage of not knowing all languages,  said Conseil,\n or the disadvantage of not having one universal language. \n\nAs he said these words, the door opened. A steward entered. He brought\nus clothes, coats and trousers, made of a stuff I did not know. I\nhastened to dress myself, and my companions followed my example. During\nthat time, the steward dumb, perhaps deaf had arranged the table, and\nlaid three plates.\n\n This is something like,  said Conseil.\n\n Bah!  said the rancorous harpooner,  what do you suppose they eat\nhere? Tortoise liver, filleted shark, and beefsteaks from sea-dogs. \n\n We shall see,  said Conseil.\n\nThe dishes, of bell metal, were placed on the table, and we took our\nplaces. Undoubtedly we had to do with civilised people, and, had it not\nbeen for the electric light which flooded us, I could have fancied I\nwas in the dining-room of the Adelphi Hotel at Liverpool, or at the\nGrand Hotel in Paris. I must say, however, that there was neither bread\nnor wine. The water was fresh and clear, but it was water, and did not\nsuit Ned Land s taste. Amongst the dishes which were brought to us, I\nrecognised several fish delicately dressed; but of some, although\nexcellent, I could give no opinion, neither could I tell to what\nkingdom they belonged, whether animal or vegetable. As to the dinner\nservice, it was elegant, and in perfect taste. Each utensil, spoon,\nfork, knife, plate, had a letter engraved on it, with a motto above it,\nof which this is an exact facsimile: \n\nMOBILIS IN MOBILI\nN.\n\n\nThe letter N was no doubt the initial of the name of the enigmatical\nperson, who commanded at the bottom of the sea.\n\nNed and Conseil did not reflect much. They devoured the food, and I did\nlikewise. I was, besides, reassured as to our fate; and it seemed\nevident that our hosts would not let us die of want.\n\nHowever, everything has an end, everything passes away, even the hunger\nof people who have not eaten for fifteen hours. Our appetites\nsatisfied, we felt overcome with sleep.\n\n Faith! I shall sleep well,  said Conseil.\n\n So shall I,  replied Ned Land.\n\nMy two companions stretched themselves on the cabin carpet, and were\nsoon sound asleep. For my own part, too many thoughts crowded my brain,\ntoo many insoluble questions pressed upon me, too many fancies kept my\neyes half open. Where were we? What strange power carried us on? I\nfelt or rather fancied I felt the machine sinking down to the lowest\nbeds of the sea. Dreadful nightmares beset me; I saw in these\nmysterious asylums a world of unknown animals, amongst which this\nsubmarine boat seemed to be of the same kind, living, moving, and\nformidable as they. Then my brain grew calmer, my imagination wandered\ninto vague unconsciousness, and I soon fell into a deep sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\nNED LAND S TEMPERS\n\n\nHow long we slept I do not know; but our sleep must have lasted long,\nfor it rested us completely from our fatigues. I woke first. My\ncompanions had not moved, and were still stretched in their corner.\n\nHardly roused from my somewhat hard couch, I felt my brain freed, my\nmind clear. I then began an attentive examination of our cell. Nothing\nwas changed inside. The prison was still a prison, the prisoners,\nprisoners. However, the steward, during our sleep, had cleared the\ntable. I breathed with difficulty. The heavy air seemed to oppress my\nlungs. Although the cell was large, we had evidently consumed a great\npart of the oxygen that it contained. Indeed, each man consumes, in one\nhour, the oxygen contained in more than 176 pints of air, and this air,\ncharged (as then) with a nearly equal quantity of carbonic acid,\nbecomes unbreathable.\n\nIt became necessary to renew the atmosphere of our prison, and no doubt\nthe whole in the submarine boat. That gave rise to a question in my\nmind. How would the commander of this floating dwelling-place proceed?\nWould he obtain air by chemical means, in getting by heat the oxygen\ncontained in chlorate of potash, and in absorbing carbonic acid by\ncaustic potash? Or, a more convenient, economical, and consequently\nmore probable alternative, would he be satisfied to rise and take\nbreath at the surface of the water, like a cetacean, and so renew for\ntwenty-four hours the atmospheric provision?\n\nIn fact, I was already obliged to increase my respirations to eke out\nof this cell the little oxygen it contained, when suddenly I was\nrefreshed by a current of pure air, and perfumed with saline\nemanations. It was an invigorating sea breeze, charged with iodine. I\nopened my mouth wide, and my lungs saturated themselves with fresh\nparticles.\n\nAt the same time I felt the boat rolling. The iron-plated monster had\nevidently just risen to the surface of the ocean to breathe, after the\nfashion of whales. I found out from that the mode of ventilating the\nboat.\n\nWhen I had inhaled this air freely, I sought the conduit-pipe, which\nconveyed to us the beneficial whiff, and I was not long in finding it.\nAbove the door was a ventilator, through which volumes of fresh air\nrenewed the impoverished atmosphere of the cell.\n\nI was making my observations, when Ned and Conseil awoke almost at the\nsame time, under the influence of this reviving air. They rubbed their\neyes, stretched themselves, and were on their feet in an instant.\n\n Did master sleep well?  asked Conseil, with his usual politeness.\n\n Very well, my brave boy. And you, Mr. Land? \n\n Soundly, Professor. But I don t know if I am right or not; there seems\nto be a sea breeze! \n\nA seaman could not be mistaken, and I told the Canadian all that had\npassed during his sleep.\n\n Good!  said he;  that accounts for those roarings we heard, when the\nsupposed narwhal sighted the _Abraham Lincoln_. \n\n Quite so, Master Land; it was taking breath. \n\n Only, Mr. Aronnax, I have no idea what o clock it is, unless it is\ndinner-time. \n\n Dinner-time! my good fellow? Say rather breakfast-time, for we\ncertainly have begun another day. \n\n So,  said Conseil,  we have slept twenty-four hours? \n\n That is my opinion. \n\n I will not contradict you,  replied Ned Land.  But dinner or\nbreakfast, the steward will be welcome, whichever he brings. \n\n Master Land, we must conform to the rules on board, and I suppose our\nappetites are in advance of the dinner hour. \n\n That is just like you, friend Conseil,  said Ned, impatiently.  You\nare never out of temper, always calm; you would return thanks before\ngrace, and die of hunger rather than complain! \n\nTime was getting on, and we were fearfully hungry; and this time the\nsteward did not appear. It was rather too long to leave us, if they\nreally had good intentions towards us. Ned Land, tormented by the\ncravings of hunger, got still more angry; and, notwithstanding his\npromise, I dreaded an explosion when he found himself with one of the\ncrew.\n\nFor two hours more Ned Land s temper increased; he cried, he shouted,\nbut in vain. The walls were deaf. There was no sound to be heard in the\nboat: all was still as death. It did not move, for I should have felt\nthe trembling motion of the hull under the influence of the screw.\nPlunged in the depths of the waters, it belonged no longer to\nearth: this silence was dreadful.\n\nI felt terrified, Conseil was calm, Ned Land roared.\n\nJust then a noise was heard outside. Steps sounded on the metal flags.\nThe locks were turned, the door opened, and the steward appeared.\n\nBefore I could rush forward to stop him, the Canadian had thrown him\ndown, and held him by the throat. The steward was choking under the\ngrip of his powerful hand.\n\nConseil was already trying to unclasp the harpooner s hand from his\nhalf-suffocated victim, and I was going to fly to the rescue, when\nsuddenly I was nailed to the spot by hearing these words in French \n\n Be quiet, Master Land; and you, Professor, will you be so good as to\nlisten to me? \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\nTHE MAN OF THE SEAS\n\n\nIt was the commander of the vessel who thus spoke.\n\nAt these words, Ned Land rose suddenly. The steward, nearly strangled,\ntottered out on a sign from his master; but such was the power of the\ncommander on board, that not a gesture betrayed the resentment which\nthis man must have felt towards the Canadian. Conseil, interested in\nspite of himself, I stupefied, awaited in silence the result of this\nscene.\n\nThe commander, leaning against the corner of a table with his arms\nfolded, scanned us with profound attention. Did he hesitate to speak?\nDid he regret the words which he had just spoken in French? One might\nalmost think so.\n\nAfter some moments of silence, which not one of us dreamed of breaking,\n Gentlemen,  said he, in a calm and penetrating voice,  I speak French,\nEnglish, German, and Latin equally well. I could, therefore, have\nanswered you at our first interview, but I wished to know you first,\nthen to reflect. The story told by each one, entirely agreeing in the\nmain points, convinced me of your identity. I know now that chance has\nbrought before me M. Pierre Aronnax, Professor of Natural History at\nthe Museum of Paris, entrusted with a scientific mission abroad,\nConseil, his servant, and Ned Land, of Canadian origin, harpooner on\nboard the frigate _Abraham Lincoln_ of the navy of the United States of\nAmerica. \n\nI bowed assent. It was not a question that the commander put to me.\nTherefore there was no answer to be made. This man expressed himself\nwith perfect ease, without any accent. His sentences were well turned,\nhis words clear, and his fluency of speech remarkable. Yet, I did not\nrecognise in him a fellow-countryman.\n\nHe continued the conversation in these terms:\n\n You have doubtless thought, sir, that I have delayed long in paying\nyou this second visit. The reason is that, your identity recognised, I\nwished to weigh maturely what part to act towards you. I have hesitated\nmuch. Most annoying circumstances have brought you into the presence of\na man who has broken all the ties of humanity. You have come to trouble\nmy existence. \n\n Unintentionally!  said I.\n\n Unintentionally?  replied the stranger, raising his voice a little;\n was it unintentionally that the _Abraham Lincoln_ pursued me all over\nthe seas? Was it unintentionally that you took passage in this frigate?\nWas it unintentionally that your cannon balls rebounded off the plating\nof my vessel? Was it unintentionally that Mr. Ned Land struck me with\nhis harpoon? \n\nI detected a restrained irritation in these words. But to these\nrecriminations I had a very natural answer to make and I made it.\n\n Sir,  said I,  no doubt you are ignorant of the discussions which have\ntaken place concerning you in America and Europe. You do not know that\ndivers accidents, caused by collisions with your submarine machine,\nhave excited public feeling in the two continents. I omit the\nhypotheses without number by which it was sought to explain the\ninexplicable phenomenon of which you alone possess the secret. But you\nmust understand that, in pursuing you over the high seas of the\nPacific, the _Abraham Lincoln_ believed itself to be chasing some\npowerful sea-monster, of which it was necessary to rid the ocean at any\nprice. \n\nA half-smile curled the lips of the commander: then, in a calmer tone \n\n M. Aronnax,  he replied,  dare you affirm that your frigate would not\nas soon have pursued and cannonaded a submarine boat as a monster? \n\nThis question embarrassed me, for certainly Captain Farragut might not\nhave hesitated. He might have thought it his duty to destroy a\ncontrivance of this kind, as he would a gigantic narwhal.\n\n You understand then, sir,  continued the stranger,  that I have the\nright to treat you as enemies? \n\nI answered nothing, purposely. For what good would it be to discuss\nsuch a proposition, when force could destroy the best arguments?\n\n I have hesitated some time,  continued the commander;  nothing obliged\nme to show you hospitality. If I chose to separate myself from you, I\nshould have no interest in seeing you again; I could place you upon the\ndeck of this vessel which has served you as a refuge, I could sink\nbeneath the waters, and forget that you had ever existed. Would not\nthat be my right? \n\n It might be the right of a savage,  I answered,  but not that of a\ncivilised man. \n\n Professor,  replied the commander, quickly,  I am not what you call a\ncivilised man! I have done with society entirely, for reasons which I\nalone have the right of appreciating. I do not therefore obey its laws,\nand I desire you never to allude to them before me again! \n\nThis was said plainly. A flash of anger and disdain kindled in the eyes\nof the Unknown, and I had a glimpse of a terrible past in the life of\nthis man. Not only had he put himself beyond the pale of human laws,\nbut he had made himself independent of them, free in the strictest\nacceptation of the word, quite beyond their reach! Who then would dare\nto pursue him at the bottom of the sea, when, on its surface, he defied\nall attempts made against him? What vessel could resist the shock of\nhis submarine monitor? What cuirass, however thick, could withstand the\nblows of his spur? No man could demand from him an account of his\nactions; God, if he believed in one his conscience, if he had one were\nthe sole judges to whom he was answerable.\n\nThese reflections crossed my mind rapidly, whilst the stranger\npersonage was silent, absorbed, and as if wrapped up in himself. I\nregarded him with fear mingled with interest, as doubtless,  dipus\nregarded the Sphinx.\n\nAfter rather a long silence, the commander resumed the conversation.\n\n I have hesitated,  said he,  but I have thought that my interest might\nbe reconciled with that pity to which every human being has a right.\nYou will remain on board my vessel, since fate has cast you there. You\nwill be free; and, in exchange for this liberty, I shall only impose\none single condition. Your word of honour to submit to it will\nsuffice. \n\n Speak, sir,  I answered.  I suppose this condition is one which a man\nof honour may accept? \n\n Yes, sir; it is this. It is possible that certain events, unforeseen,\nmay oblige me to consign you to your cabins for some hours or some\ndays, as the case may be. As I desire never to use violence, I expect\nfrom you, more than all the others, a passive obedience. In thus\nacting, I take all the responsibility: I acquit you entirely, for I\nmake it an impossibility for you to see what ought not to be seen. Do\nyou accept this condition? \n\nThen things took place on board which, to say the least, were singular,\nand which ought not to be seen by people who were not placed beyond the\npale of social laws. Amongst the surprises which the future was\npreparing for me, this might not be the least.\n\n We accept,  I answered;  only I will ask your permission, sir, to\naddress one question to you one only. \n\n Speak, sir. \n\n You said that we should be free on board. \n\n Entirely. \n\n I ask you, then, what you mean by this liberty? \n\n Just the liberty to go, to come, to see, to observe even all that\npasses here, save under rare circumstances, the liberty, in short,\nwhich we enjoy ourselves, my companions and I. \n\nIt was evident that we did not understand one another.\n\n Pardon me, sir,  I resumed,  but this liberty is only what every\nprisoner has of pacing his prison. It cannot suffice us. \n\n It must suffice you, however. \n\n What! we must renounce for ever seeing our country, our friends, our\nrelations again? \n\n Yes, sir. But to renounce that unendurable worldly yoke which men\nbelieve to be liberty, is not perhaps so painful as you think. \n\n Well,  exclaimed Ned Land,  never will I give my word of honour not to\ntry to escape. \n\n I did not ask you for your word of honour, Master Land,  answered the\ncommander, coldly.\n\n Sir,  I replied, beginning to get angry in spite of myself,  you abuse\nyour situation towards us; it is cruelty. \n\n No, sir, it is clemency. You are my prisoners of war. I keep you, when\nI could, by a word, plunge you into the depths of the ocean. You\nattacked me. You came to surprise a secret which no man in the world\nmust penetrate, the secret of my whole existence. And you think that I\nam going to send you back to that world which must know me no more?\nNever! In retaining you, it is not you whom I guard it is myself. \n\nThese words indicated a resolution taken on the part of the commander,\nagainst which no arguments would prevail.\n\n So, sir,  I rejoined,  you give us simply the choice between life and\ndeath? \n\n Simply. \n\n My friends,  said I,  to a question thus put, there is nothing to\nanswer. But no word of honour binds us to the master of this vessel. \n\n None, sir,  answered the Unknown.\n\nThen, in a gentler tone, he continued \n\n Now, permit me to finish what I have to say to you. I know you, M.\nAronnax. You and your companions will not, perhaps, have so much to\ncomplain of in the chance which has bound you to my fate. You will find\namongst the books which are my favourite study the work which you have\npublished on  the depths of the sea.  I have often read it. You have\ncarried out your work as far as terrestrial science permitted you. But\nyou do not know all you have not seen all. Let me tell you then,\nProfessor, that you will not regret the time passed on board my vessel.\nYou are going to visit the land of marvels. \n\nThese words of the commander had a great effect upon me. I cannot deny\nit. My weak point was touched; and I forgot, for a moment, that the\ncontemplation of these sublime subjects was not worth the loss of\nliberty. Besides, I trusted to the future to decide this grave\nquestion. So I contented myself with saying \n\n By what name ought I to address you? \n\n Sir,  replied the commander,  I am nothing to you but Captain Nemo;\nand you and your companions are nothing to me but the passengers of the\n_Nautilus_. \n\nCaptain Nemo called. A steward appeared. The captain gave him his\norders in that strange language which I did not understand. Then,\nturning towards the Canadian and Conseil \n\n A repast awaits you in your cabin,  said he.  Be so good as to follow\nthis man.\n\n And now, M. Aronnax, our breakfast is ready. Permit me to lead the\nway. \n\n I am at your service, Captain. \n\nI followed Captain Nemo; and as soon as I had passed through the door,\nI found myself in a kind of passage lighted by electricity, similar to\nthe waist of a ship. After we had proceeded a dozen yards, a second\ndoor opened before me.\n\nI then entered a dining-room, decorated and furnished in severe taste.\nHigh oaken sideboards, inlaid with ebony, stood at the two extremities\nof the room, and upon their shelves glittered china, porcelain, and\nglass of inestimable value. The plate on the table sparkled in the rays\nwhich the luminous ceiling shed around, while the light was tempered\nand softened by exquisite paintings.\n\nIn the centre of the room was a table richly laid out. Captain Nemo\nindicated the place I was to occupy.\n\nThe breakfast consisted of a certain number of dishes, the contents of\nwhich were furnished by the sea alone; and I was ignorant of the nature\nand mode of preparation of some of them. I acknowledged that they were\ngood, but they had a peculiar flavour, which I easily became accustomed\nto. These different aliments appeared to me to be rich in phosphorus,\nand I thought they must have a marine origin.\n\nCaptain Nemo looked at me. I asked him no questions, but he guessed my\nthoughts, and answered of his own accord the questions which I was\nburning to address to him.\n\n The greater part of these dishes are unknown to you,  he said to me.\n However, you may partake of them without fear. They are wholesome and\nnourishing. For a long time I have renounced the food of the earth, and\nam never ill now. My crew, who are healthy, are fed on the same food. \n\n So,  said I,  all these eatables are the produce of the sea? \n\n Yes, Professor, the sea supplies all my wants. Sometimes I cast my\nnets in tow, and I draw them in ready to break. Sometimes I hunt in the\nmidst of this element, which appears to be inaccessible to man, and\nquarry the game which dwells in my submarine forests. My flocks, like\nthose of Neptune s old shepherds, graze fearlessly in the immense\nprairies of the ocean. I have a vast property there, which I cultivate\nmyself, and which is always sown by the hand of the Creator of all\nthings. \n\n I can understand perfectly, sir, that your nets furnish excellent fish\nfor your table; I can understand also that you hunt aquatic game in\nyour submarine forests; but I cannot understand at all how a particle\nof meat, no matter how small, can figure in your bill of fare. \n\n This, which you believe to be meat, Professor, is nothing else than\nfillet of turtle. Here are also some dolphins  livers, which you take\nto be ragout of pork. My cook is a clever fellow, who excels in\ndressing these various products of the ocean. Taste all these dishes.\nHere is a preserve of holothuria, which a Malay would declare to be\nunrivalled in the world; here is a cream, of which the milk has been\nfurnished by the cetacea, and the sugar by the great fucus of the North\nSea; and lastly, permit me to offer you some preserve of anemones,\nwhich is equal to that of the most delicious fruits. \n\nI tasted, more from curiosity than as a connoisseur, whilst Captain\nNemo enchanted me with his extraordinary stories.\n\n You like the sea, Captain? \n\n Yes; I love it! The sea is everything. It covers seven-tenths of the\nterrestrial globe. Its breath is pure and healthy. It is an immense\ndesert, where man is never lonely, for he feels life stirring on all\nsides. The sea is only the embodiment of a supernatural and wonderful\nexistence. It is nothing but love and emotion; it is the  Living\nInfinite,  as one of your poets has said. In fact, Professor, Nature\nmanifests herself in it by her three kingdoms, mineral, vegetable, and\nanimal. The sea is the vast reservoir of Nature. The globe began with\nsea, so to speak; and who knows if it will not end with it? In it is\nsupreme tranquillity. The sea does not belong to despots. Upon its\nsurface men can still exercise unjust laws, fight, tear one another to\npieces, and be carried away with terrestrial horrors. But at thirty\nfeet below its level, their reign ceases, their influence is quenched,\nand their power disappears. Ah! sir, live live in the bosom of the\nwaters! There only is independence! There I recognise no masters! There\nI am free! \n\nCaptain Nemo suddenly became silent in the midst of this enthusiasm, by\nwhich he was quite carried away. For a few moments he paced up and\ndown, much agitated. Then he became more calm, regained his accustomed\ncoldness of expression, and turning towards me \n\n Now, Professor,  said he,  if you wish to go over the _Nautilus_, I am\nat your service. \n\nCaptain Nemo rose. I followed him. A double door, contrived at the back\nof the dining-room, opened, and I entered a room equal in dimensions to\nthat which I had just quitted.\n\nIt was a library. High pieces of furniture, of black violet ebony\ninlaid with brass, supported upon their wide shelves a great number of\nbooks uniformly bound. They followed the shape of the room, terminating\nat the lower part in huge divans, covered with brown leather, which\nwere curved, to afford the greatest comfort. Light movable desks, made\nto slide in and out at will, allowed one to rest one s book while\nreading. In the centre stood an immense table, covered with pamphlets,\namongst which were some newspapers, already of old date. The electric\nlight flooded everything; it was shed from four unpolished globes half\nsunk in the volutes of the ceiling. I looked with real admiration at\nthis room, so ingeniously fitted up, and I could scarcely believe my\neyes.\n\n Captain Nemo,  said I to my host, who had just thrown himself on one\nof the divans,  this is a library which would do honour to more than\none of the continental palaces, and I am absolutely astounded when I\nconsider that it can follow you to the bottom of the seas. \n\n Where could one find greater solitude or silence, Professor?  replied\nCaptain Nemo.  Did your study in the Museum afford you such perfect\nquiet? \n\n No, sir; and I must confess that it is a very poor one after yours.\nYou must have six or seven thousand volumes here. \n\n Twelve thousand, M. Aronnax. These are the only ties which bind me to\nthe earth. But I had done with the world on the day when my _Nautilus_\nplunged for the first time beneath the waters. That day I bought my\nlast volumes, my last pamphlets, my last papers, and from that time I\nwish to think that men no longer think or write. These books,\nProfessor, are at your service besides, and you can make use of them\nfreely. \n\nI thanked Captain Nemo, and went up to the shelves of the library.\nWorks on science, morals, and literature abounded in every language;\nbut I did not see one single work on political economy; that subject\nappeared to be strictly proscribed. Strange to say, all these books\nwere irregularly arranged, in whatever language they were written; and\nthis medley proved that the Captain of the _Nautilus_ must have read\nindiscriminately the books which he took up by chance.\n\n Sir,  said I to the Captain,  I thank you for having placed this\nlibrary at my disposal. It contains treasures of science, and I shall\nprofit by them. \n\n This room is not only a library,  said Captain Nemo,  it is also a\nsmoking-room. \n\n A smoking-room!  I cried.  Then one may smoke on board? \n\n Certainly. \n\n Then, sir, I am forced to believe that you have kept up a\ncommunication with Havannah. \n\n Not any,  answered the Captain.  Accept this cigar, M. Aronnax; and,\nthough it does not come from Havannah, you will be pleased with it, if\nyou are a connoisseur. \n\nI took the cigar which was offered me; its shape recalled the London\nones, but it seemed to be made of leaves of gold. I lighted it at a\nlittle brazier, which was supported upon an elegant bronze stem, and\ndrew the first whiffs with the delight of a lover of smoking who has\nnot smoked for two days.\n\n It is excellent, but it is not tobacco. \n\n No!  answered the Captain,  this tobacco comes neither from Havannah\nnor from the East. It is a kind of sea-weed, rich in nicotine, with\nwhich the sea provides me, but somewhat sparingly. \n\nAt that moment Captain Nemo opened a door which stood opposite to that\nby which I had entered the library, and I passed into an immense\ndrawing-room splendidly lighted.\n\nIt was a vast four-sided room, thirty feet long, eighteen wide, and\nfifteen high. A luminous ceiling, decorated with light arabesques, shed\na soft clear light over all the marvels accumulated in this museum. For\nit was in fact a museum, in which an intelligent and prodigal hand had\ngathered all the treasures of nature and art, with the artistic\nconfusion which distinguishes a painter s studio.\n\nThirty first-rate pictures, uniformly framed, separated by bright\ndrapery, ornamented the walls, which were hung with tapestry of severe\ndesign. I saw works of great value, the greater part of which I had\nadmired in the special collections of Europe, and in the exhibitions of\npaintings. The several schools of the old masters were represented by a\nMadonna of Raphael, a Virgin of Leonardo da Vinci, a nymph of Corregio,\na woman of Titan, an Adoration of Veronese, an Assumption of Murillo, a\nportrait of Holbein, a monk of Velasquez, a martyr of Ribera, a fair of\nRubens, two Flemish landscapes of Teniers, three little  genre \npictures of Gerard Dow, Metsu, and Paul Potter, two specimens of\nG ricault and Prudhon, and some sea-pieces of Backhuysen and Vernet.\nAmongst the works of modern painters were pictures with the signatures\nof Delacroix, Ingres, Decamps, Troyon, Meissonier, Daubigny, etc.; and\nsome admirable statues in marble and bronze, after the finest antique\nmodels, stood upon pedestals in the corners of this magnificent museum.\nAmazement, as the Captain of the _Nautilus_ had predicted, had already\nbegun to take possession of me.\n\n Professor,  said this strange man,  you must excuse the unceremonious\nway in which I receive you, and the disorder of this room. \n\n Sir,  I answered,  without seeking to know who you are, I recognise in\nyou an artist. \n\n An amateur, nothing more, sir. Formerly I loved to collect these\nbeautiful works created by the hand of man. I sought them greedily, and\nferreted them out indefatigably, and I have been able to bring together\nsome objects of great value. These are my last souvenirs of that world\nwhich is dead to me. In my eyes, your modern artists are already old;\nthey have two or three thousand years of existence; I confound them in\nmy own mind. Masters have no age. \n\n And these musicians?  said I, pointing out some works of Weber,\nRossini, Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, Meyerbeer, H rold, Wagner, Auber,\nGounod, and a number of others, scattered over a large model\npiano-organ which occupied one of the panels of the drawing-room.\n\n These musicians,  replied Captain Nemo,  are the contemporaries of\nOrpheus; for in the memory of the dead all chronological differences\nare effaced; and I am dead, Professor; as much dead as those of your\nfriends who are sleeping six feet under the earth! \n\nCaptain Nemo was silent, and seemed lost in a profound reverie. I\ncontemplated him with deep interest, analysing in silence the strange\nexpression of his countenance. Leaning on his elbow against an angle of\na costly mosaic table, he no longer saw me, he had forgotten my\npresence.\n\nI did not disturb this reverie, and continued my observation of the\ncuriosities which enriched this drawing-room.\n\nUnder elegant glass cases, fixed by copper rivets, were classed and\nlabelled the most precious productions of the sea which had ever been\npresented to the eye of a naturalist. My delight as a professor may be\nconceived.\n\nThe division containing the zoophytes presented the most curious\nspecimens of the two groups of polypi and echinodermes. In the first\ngroup, the tubipores, were gorgones arranged like a fan, soft sponges\nof Syria, ises of the Moluccas, pennatules, an admirable virgularia of\nthe Norwegian seas, variegated unbellulair , alcyonari , a whole series\nof madrepores, which my master Milne Edwards has so cleverly\nclassified, amongst which I remarked some wonderful flabellin  oculin \nof the Island of Bourbon, the  Neptune s car  of the Antilles, superb\nvarieties of corals in short, every species of those curious polypi of\nwhich entire islands are formed, which will one day become continents.\nOf the echinodermes, remarkable for their coating of spines, asteri,\nsea-stars, pantacrin , comatules, ast rophons, echini, holothuri, etc.,\nrepresented individually a complete collection of this group.\n\nA somewhat nervous conchyliologist would certainly have fainted before\nother more numerous cases, in which were classified the specimens of\nmolluscs. It was a collection of inestimable value, which time fails me\nto describe minutely. Amongst these specimens I will quote from memory\nonly the elegant royal hammer-fish of the Indian Ocean, whose regular\nwhite spots stood out brightly on a red and brown ground, an imperial\nspondyle, bright-coloured, bristling with spines, a rare specimen in\nthe European museums (I estimated its value at not less than  1000); a\ncommon hammer-fish of the seas of New Holland, which is only procured\nwith difficulty; exotic buccardia of Senegal; fragile white bivalve\nshells, which a breath might shatter like a soap-bubble; several\nvarieties of the aspirgillum of Java, a kind of calcareous tube, edged\nwith leafy folds, and much debated by amateurs; a whole series of\ntrochi, some a greenish-yellow, found in the American seas, others a\nreddish-brown, natives of Australian waters; others from the Gulf of\nMexico, remarkable for their imbricated shell; stellari found in the\nSouthern Seas; and last, the rarest of all, the magnificent spur of New\nZealand; and every description of delicate and fragile shells to which\nscience has given appropriate names.\n\nApart, in separate compartments, were spread out chaplets of pearls of\nthe greatest beauty, which reflected the electric light in little\nsparks of fire; pink pearls, torn from the pinna-marina of the Red Sea;\ngreen pearls of the haliotyde iris; yellow, blue and black pearls, the\ncurious productions of the divers molluscs of every ocean, and certain\nmussels of the water-courses of the North; lastly, several specimens of\ninestimable value which had been gathered from the rarest pintadines.\nSome of these pearls were larger than a pigeon s egg, and were worth as\nmuch, and more than that which the traveller Tavernier sold to the Shah\nof Persia for three millions, and surpassed the one in the possession\nof the Imaum of Muscat, which I had believed to be unrivalled in the\nworld.\n\nTherefore, to estimate the value of this collection was simply\nimpossible. Captain Nemo must have expended millions in the acquirement\nof these various specimens, and I was thinking what source he could\nhave drawn from, to have been able thus to gratify his fancy for\ncollecting, when I was interrupted by these words \n\n You are examining my shells, Professor? Unquestionably they must be\ninteresting to a naturalist; but for me they have a far greater charm,\nfor I have collected them all with my own hand, and there is not a sea\non the face of the globe which has escaped my researches. \n\n I can understand, Captain, the delight of wandering about in the midst\nof such riches. You are one of those who have collected their treasures\nthemselves. No museum in Europe possesses such a collection of the\nproduce of the ocean. But if I exhaust all my admiration upon it, I\nshall have none left for the vessel which carries it. I do not wish to\npry into your secrets; but I must confess that this _Nautilus_, with\nthe motive power which is confined in it, the contrivances which enable\nit to be worked, the powerful agent which propels it, all excite my\ncuriosity to the highest pitch. I see suspended on the walls of this\nroom instruments of whose use I am ignorant. \n\n You will find these same instruments in my own room, Professor, where\nI shall have much pleasure in explaining their use to you. But first\ncome and inspect the cabin which is set apart for your own use. You\nmust see how you will be accommodated on board the _Nautilus_. \n\nI followed Captain Nemo, who, by one of the doors opening from each\npanel of the drawing-room, regained the waist. He conducted me towards\nthe bow, and there I found, not a cabin, but an elegant room, with a\nbed, dressing-table, and several other pieces of furniture.\n\nI could only thank my host.\n\n Your room adjoins mine,  said he, opening a door,  and mine opens into\nthe drawing-room that we have just quitted. \n\nI entered the Captain s room: it had a severe, almost a monkish,\naspect. A small iron bedstead, a table, some articles for the toilet;\nthe whole lighted by a skylight. No comforts, the strictest necessaries\nonly.\n\nCaptain Nemo pointed to a seat.\n\n Be so good as to sit down,  he said. I seated myself, and he began\nthus:\n\n\n[Illustration] Captain Nemo s state-room\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\nALL BY ELECTRICITY\n\n\n Sir,  said Captain Nemo, showing me the instruments hanging on the\nwalls of his room,  here are the contrivances required for the\nnavigation of the _Nautilus_. Here, as in the drawing-room, I have them\nalways under my eyes, and they indicate my position and exact direction\nin the middle of the ocean. Some are known to you, such as the\nthermometer, which gives the internal temperature of the _Nautilus;_\nthe barometer, which indicates the weight of the air and foretells the\nchanges of the weather; the hygrometer, which marks the dryness of the\natmosphere; the storm-glass, the contents of which, by decomposing,\nannounce the approach of tempests; the compass, which guides my course;\nthe sextant, which shows the latitude by the altitude of the sun;\nchronometers, by which I calculate the longitude; and glasses for day\nand night, which I use to examine the points of the horizon, when the\n_Nautilus_ rises to the surface of the waves. \n\n These are the usual nautical instruments,  I replied,  and I know the\nuse of them. But these others, no doubt, answer to the particular\nrequirements of the _Nautilus_. This dial with the movable needle is a\nmanometer, is it not? \n\n It is actually a manometer. But by communication with the water, whose\nexternal pressure it indicates, it gives our depth at the same time. \n\n And these other instruments, the use of which I cannot guess? \n\n Here, Professor, I ought to give you some explanations. Will you be\nkind enough to listen to me? \n\nHe was silent for a few moments, then he said \n\n There is a powerful agent, obedient, rapid, easy, which conforms to\nevery use, and reigns supreme on board my vessel. Everything is done by\nmeans of it. It lights it, warms it, and is the soul of my mechanical\napparatus. This agent is electricity. \n\n Electricity?  I cried in surprise.\n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Nevertheless, Captain, you possess an extreme rapidity of movement,\nwhich does not agree with the power of electricity. Until now, its\ndynamic force has remained under restraint, and has only been able to\nproduce a small amount of power. \n\n Professor,  said Captain Nemo,  my electricity is not everybody s. You\nknow what sea-water is composed of. In a thousand grammes are found 96 \nper cent. of water, and about 2-2/3 per cent. of chloride of sodium;\nthen, in a smaller quantity, chlorides of magnesium and of potassium,\nbromide of magnesium, sulphate of magnesia, sulphate and carbonate of\nlime. You see, then, that chloride of sodium forms a large part of it.\nSo it is this sodium that I extract from sea-water, and of which I\ncompose my ingredients. I owe all to the ocean; it produces\nelectricity, and electricity gives heat, light, motion, and, in a word,\nlife to the _Nautilus_. \n\n But not the air you breathe? \n\n Oh! I could manufacture the air necessary for my consumption, but it\nis useless, because I go up to the surface of the water when I please.\nHowever, if electricity does not furnish me with air to breathe, it\nworks at least the powerful pumps that are stored in spacious\nreservoirs, and which enable me to prolong at need, and as long as I\nwill, my stay in the depths of the sea. It gives a uniform and\nunintermittent light, which the sun does not. Now look at this clock;\nit is electrical, and goes with a regularity that defies the best\nchronometers. I have divided it into twenty-four hours, like the\nItalian clocks, because for me there is neither night nor day, sun nor\nmoon, but only that factitious light that I take with me to the bottom\nof the sea. Look! just now, it is ten o clock in the morning. \n\n Exactly. \n\n Another application of electricity. This dial hanging in front of us\nindicates the speed of the _Nautilus_. An electric thread puts it in\ncommunication with the screw, and the needle indicates the real speed.\nLook! now we are spinning along with a uniform speed of fifteen miles\nan hour. \n\n It is marvelous! And I see, Captain, you were right to make use of\nthis agent that takes the place of wind, water, and steam. \n\n We have not finished, M. Aronnax,  said Captain Nemo, rising.  If you\nwill follow me, we will examine the stern of the _Nautilus_. \n\nReally, I knew already the anterior part of this submarine boat, of\nwhich this is the exact division, starting from the ship s head: the\ndining-room, five yards long, separated from the library by a\nwater-tight partition; the library, five yards long; the large\ndrawing-room, ten yards long, separated from the Captain s room by a\nsecond water-tight partition; the said room, five yards in length;\nmine, two and a half yards; and, lastly a reservoir of air, seven and a\nhalf yards, that extended to the bows. Total length thirty five yards,\nor one hundred and five feet. The partitions had doors that were shut\nhermetically by means of india-rubber instruments, and they ensured the\nsafety of the _Nautilus_ in case of a leak.\n\nI followed Captain Nemo through the waist, and arrived at the centre of\nthe boat. There was a sort of well that opened between two partitions.\nAn iron ladder, fastened with an iron hook to the partition, led to the\nupper end. I asked the Captain what the ladder was used for.\n\n It leads to the small boat,  he said.\n\n What! have you a boat?  I exclaimed, in surprise.\n\n Of course; an excellent vessel, light and insubmersible, that serves\neither as a fishing or as a pleasure boat. \n\n But then, when you wish to embark, you are obliged to come to the\nsurface of the water? \n\n Not at all. This boat is attached to the upper part of the hull of the\n_Nautilus_, and occupies a cavity made for it. It is decked, quite\nwater-tight, and held together by solid bolts. This ladder leads to a\nman-hole made in the hull of the _Nautilus_, that corresponds with a\nsimilar hole made in the side of the boat. By this double opening I get\ninto the small vessel. They shut the one belonging to the _Nautilus;_ I\nshut the other by means of screw pressure. I undo the bolts, and the\nlittle boat goes up to the surface of the sea with prodigious rapidity.\nI then open the panel of the bridge, carefully shut till then; I mast\nit, hoist my sail, take my oars, and I m off. \n\n But how do you get back on board? \n\n I do not come back, M. Aronnax; the _Nautilus_ comes to me. \n\n By your orders? \n\n By my orders. An electric thread connects us. I telegraph to it, and\nthat is enough. \n\n Really,  I said, astonished at these marvels,  nothing can be more\nsimple. \n\nAfter having passed by the cage of the staircase that led to the\nplatform, I saw a cabin six feet long, in which Conseil and Ned Land,\nenchanted with their repast, were devouring it with avidity. Then a\ndoor opened into a kitchen nine feet long, situated between the large\nstorerooms. There electricity, better than gas itself, did all the\ncooking. The streams under the furnaces gave out to the sponges of\nplatina a heat which was regularly kept up and distributed. They also\nheated a distilling apparatus, which, by evaporation, furnished\nexcellent drinkable water. Near this kitchen was a bathroom comfortably\nfurnished, with hot and cold water taps.\n\nNext to the kitchen was the berthroom of the vessel, sixteen feet long.\nBut the door was shut, and I could not see the management of it, which\nmight have given me an idea of the number of men employed on board the\n_Nautilus_.\n\nAt the bottom was a fourth partition that separated this office from\nthe engine-room. A door opened, and I found myself in the compartment\nwhere Captain Nemo certainly an engineer of a very high order had\narranged his locomotive machinery. This engine-room, clearly lighted,\ndid not measure less than sixty-five feet in length. It was divided\ninto two parts; the first contained the materials for producing\nelectricity, and the second the machinery that connected it with the\nscrew. I examined it with great interest, in order to understand the\nmachinery of the _Nautilus_.\n\n You see,  said the Captain,  I use Bunsen s contrivances, not\nRuhmkorff s. Those would not have been powerful enough. Bunsen s are\nfewer in number, but strong and large, which experience proves to be\nthe best. The electricity produced passes forward, where it works, by\nelectro-magnets of great size, on a system of levers and cog-wheels\nthat transmit the movement to the axle of the screw. This one, the\ndiameter of which is nineteen feet, and the thread twenty-three feet,\nperforms about a hundred and twenty revolutions in a second. \n\n And you get then? \n\n A speed of fifty miles an hour. \n\n I have seen the _Nautilus_ man uvre before the _Abraham Lincoln_, and\nI have my own ideas as to its speed. But this is not enough. We must\nsee where we go. We must be able to direct it to the right, to the\nleft, above, below. How do you get to the great depths, where you find\nan increasing resistance, which is rated by hundreds of atmospheres?\nHow do you return to the surface of the ocean? And how do you maintain\nyourselves in the requisite medium? Am I asking too much? \n\n Not at all, Professor,  replied the Captain, with some hesitation;\n since you may never leave this submarine boat. Come into the saloon,\nit is our usual study, and there you will learn all you want to know\nabout the _Nautilus_. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\nSOME FIGURES\n\n\nA moment after we were seated on a divan in the saloon smoking. The\nCaptain showed me a sketch that gave the plan, section, and elevation\nof the _Nautilus_. Then he began his description in these words: \n\n Here, M. Aronnax, are the several dimensions of the boat you are in.\nIt is an elongated cylinder with conical ends. It is very like a cigar\nin shape, a shape already adopted in London in several constructions of\nthe same sort. The length of this cylinder, from stem to stern, is\nexactly 232 feet, and its maximum breadth is twenty-six feet. It is not\nbuilt quite like your long-voyage steamers, but its lines are\nsufficiently long, and its curves prolonged enough, to allow the water\nto slide off easily, and oppose no obstacle to its passage. These two\ndimensions enable you to obtain by a simple calculation the surface and\ncubic contents of the _Nautilus_. Its area measures 6032 feet; and its\ncontents about 1500 cubic yards that is to say, when completely\nimmersed it displaces 50,000 feet of water, or weighs 1500 tons.\n\n When I made the plans for this submarine vessel, I meant that\nnine-tenths should be submerged: consequently, it ought only to\ndisplace nine-tenths of its bulk that is to say, only to weigh that\nnumber of tons. I ought not, therefore, to have exceeded that weight,\nconstructing it on the aforesaid dimensions.\n\n The _Nautilus_ is composed of two hulls, one inside, the other\noutside, joined by T-shaped irons, which render it very strong. Indeed,\nowing to this cellular arrangement it resists like a block, as if it\nwere solid. Its sides cannot yield; it coheres spontaneously, and not\nby the closeness of its rivets; and the homogenity of its construction,\ndue to the perfect union of the materials, enables it to defy the\nroughest seas.\n\n These two hulls are composed of steel plates, whose density is from .7\nto .8 that of water. The first is not less than two inches and a half\nthick and weighs 394 tons. The second envelope, the keel, twenty inches\nhigh and ten thick, weighs alone sixty-two tons. The engine, the\nballast, the several accessories and apparatus appendages, the\npartitions and bulkheads, weigh 961.62 tons. Do you follow all this? \n\n I do. \n\n Then, when the _Nautilus_ is afloat under these circumstances,\none-tenth is out of the water. Now, if I have made reservoirs of a size\nequal to this tenth, or capable of holding 150 tons, and if I fill them\nwith water, the boat, weighing then 1507 tons, will be completely\nimmersed. That would happen, Professor. These reservoirs are in the\nlower parts of the _Nautilus_. I turn on taps and they fill, and the\nvessel sinks that had just been level with the surface. \n\n Well, Captain, but now we come to the real difficulty. I can\nunderstand your rising to the surface; but diving below the surface,\ndoes not your submarine contrivance encounter a pressure, and\nconsequently undergo an upward thrust of one atmosphere for every\nthirty feet of water, just about fifteen pounds per square inch? \n\n Just so, sir. \n\n Then, unless you quite fill the _Nautilus_, I do not see how you can\ndraw it down to those depths. \n\n Professor, you must not confound statics with dynamics or you will be\nexposed to grave errors. There is very little labour spent in attaining\nthe lower regions of the ocean, for all bodies have a tendency to sink.\nWhen I wanted to find out the necessary increase of weight required to\nsink the _Nautilus_, I had only to calculate the reduction of volume\nthat sea-water acquires according to the depth. \n\n That is evident. \n\n Now, if water is not absolutely incompressible, it is at least capable\nof very slight compression. Indeed, after the most recent calculations\nthis reduction is only .000436 of an atmosphere for each thirty feet of\ndepth. If we want to sink 3000 feet, I should keep account of the\nreduction of bulk under a pressure equal to that of a column of water\nof a thousand feet. The calculation is easily verified. Now, I have\nsupplementary reservoirs capable of holding a hundred tons. Therefore I\ncan sink to a considerable depth. When I wish to rise to the level of\nthe sea, I only let off the water, and empty all the reservoirs if I\nwant the _Nautilus_ to emerge from the tenth part of her total\ncapacity. \n\nI had nothing to object to these reasonings.\n\n I admit your calculations, Captain,  I replied;  I should be wrong to\ndispute them since daily experience confirms them; but I foresee a real\ndifficulty in the way. \n\n What, sir? \n\n When you are about 1000 feet deep, the walls of the _Nautilus_ bear a\npressure of 100 atmospheres. If, then, just now you were to empty the\nsupplementary reservoirs, to lighten the vessel, and to go up to the\nsurface, the pumps must overcome the pressure of 100 atmospheres, which\nis 1500 pounds per square inch. From that a power \n\n That electricity alone can give,  said the Captain, hastily.  I\nrepeat, sir, that the dynamic power of my engines is almost infinite.\nThe pumps of the _Nautilus_ have an enormous power, as you must have\nobserved when their jets of water burst like a torrent upon the\n_Abraham Lincoln_. Besides I use subsidiary reservoirs only to attain a\nmean depth of 750 to 1000 fathoms, and that with a view of managing my\nmachines. Also, when I have a mind to visit the depths of the ocean\nfive or six miles below the surface, I make use of slower but not less\ninfallible means. \n\n What are they, Captain? \n\n That involves my telling you how the _Nautilus_ is worked. \n\n I am impatient to learn. \n\n To steer this boat to starboard or port, to turn in a word, following\na horizontal plan, I use an ordinary rudder fixed on the back of the\nstern-post, and with one wheel and some tackle to steer by. But I can\nalso make the _Nautilus_ rise and sink, and sink and rise, by a\nvertical movement by means of two inclined planes fastened to its\nsides, opposite the centre of flotation, planes that move in every\ndirection, and that are worked by powerful levers from the interior. If\nthe planes are kept parallel with the boat, it moves horizontally. If\nslanted, the _Nautilus_, according to this inclination, and under the\ninfluence of the screw, either sinks diagonally or rises diagonally as\nit suits me. And even if I wish to rise more quickly to the surface, I\nship the screw, and the pressure of the water causes the _Nautilus_ to\nrise vertically like a balloon filled with hydrogen. \n\n Bravo, Captain! But how can the steersman follow the route in the\nmiddle of the waters? \n\n The steersman is placed in a glazed box, that is raised about the hull\nof the _Nautilus_, and furnished with lenses. \n\n Are these lenses capable of resisting such pressure? \n\n Perfectly. Glass, which breaks at a blow, is, nevertheless, capable of\noffering considerable resistance. During some experiments of fishing by\nelectric light in 1864 in the Northern Seas, we saw plates less than a\nthird of an inch thick resist a pressure of sixteen atmospheres. Now,\nthe glass that I use is not less than thirty times thicker. \n\n Granted. But, after all, in order to see, the light must exceed the\ndarkness, and in the midst of the darkness in the water, how can you\nsee? \n\n Behind the steersman s cage is placed a powerful electric reflector,\nthe rays from which light up the sea for half a mile in front. \n\n Ah! bravo, bravo, Captain! Now I can account for this phosphorescence\nin the supposed narwhal that puzzled us so. I now ask you if the\nboarding of the _Nautilus_ and of the _Scotia_, that has made such a\nnoise, has been the result of a chance rencontre? \n\n Quite accidental, sir. I was sailing only one fathom below the surface\nof the water, when the shock came. It had no bad result. \n\n None, sir. But now, about your rencontre with the _Abraham Lincoln?_ \n\n Professor, I am sorry for one of the best vessels in the American\nnavy; but they attacked me, and I was bound to defend myself. I\ncontented myself, however, with putting the frigate _hors de combat;_\nshe will not have any difficulty in getting repaired at the next port. \n\n Ah, Commander! your _Nautilus_ is certainly a marvellous boat. \n\n Yes, Professor; and I love it as if it were part of myself. If danger\nthreatens one of your vessels on the ocean, the first impression is the\nfeeling of an abyss above and below. On the _Nautilus_ men s hearts\nnever fail them. No defects to be afraid of, for the double shell is as\nfirm as iron; no rigging to attend to; no sails for the wind to carry\naway; no boilers to burst; no fire to fear, for the vessel is made of\niron, not of wood; no coal to run short, for electricity is the only\nmechanical agent; no collision to fear, for it alone swims in deep\nwater; no tempest to brave, for when it dives below the water, it\nreaches absolute tranquillity. There, sir! that is the perfection of\nvessels! And if it is true that the engineer has more confidence in the\nvessel than the builder, and the builder than the captain himself, you\nunderstand the trust I repose in my _Nautilus;_ for I am at once\ncaptain, builder, and engineer. \n\n But how could you construct this wonderful _Nautilus_ in secret? \n\n Each separate portion, M. Aronnax, was brought from different parts of\nthe globe. The keel was forged at Creusot, the shaft of the screw at\nPenn & Co. s, London, the iron plates of the hull at Laird s of\nLiverpool, the screw itself at Scott s at Glasgow. The reservoirs were\nmade by Cail & Co. at Paris, the engine by Krupp in Prussia, its beak\nin Motala s workshop in Sweden, its mathematical instruments by Hart\nBrothers, of New York, etc.; and each of these people had my orders\nunder different names. \n\n But these parts had to be put together and arranged? \n\n Professor, I had set up my workshops upon a desert island in the\nocean. There my workmen, that is to say, the brave men that I\ninstructed and educated, and myself have put together our _Nautilus_.\nThen when the work was finished, fire destroyed all trace of our\nproceedings on this island, that I could have jumped over if I had\nliked. \n\n Then the cost of this vessel is great? \n\n M. Aronnax, an iron vessel costs  145 per ton. Now the _Nautilus_\nweighed 1500. It came therefore to  67,500, and  80,000 more for\nfitting it up, and about  200,000 with the works of art and the\ncollections it contains. \n\n One last question, Captain Nemo. \n\n Ask it, Professor. \n\n You are rich? \n\n Immensely rich, sir; and I could, without missing it, pay the national\ndebt of France. \n\nI stared at the singular person who spoke thus. Was he playing upon my\ncredulity? The future would decide that.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\nTHE BLACK RIVER\n\n\nThe portion of the terrestrial globe which is covered by water is\nestimated at upwards of eighty millions of acres. This fluid mass\ncomprises two billions two hundred and fifty millions of cubic miles,\nforming a spherical body of a diameter of sixty leagues, the weight of\nwhich would be three quintillions of tons. To comprehend the meaning of\nthese figures, it is necessary to observe that a quintillion is to a\nbillion as a billion is to unity; in other words, there are as many\nbillions in a quintillion as there are units in a billion. This mass of\nfluid is equal to about the quantity of water which would be discharged\nby all the rivers of the earth in forty thousand years.\n\nDuring the geological epochs, the igneous period succeeded to the\naqeous. The ocean originally prevailed everywhere. Then by degrees, in\nthe silurian period, the tops of the mountains began to appear, the\nislands emerged, then disappeared in partial deluges, reappeared,\nbecame settled, formed continents, till at length the earth became\ngeographically arranged, as we see in the present day. The solid had\nwrested from the liquid thirty-seven million six hundred and\nfifty-seven square miles, equal to twelve billion nine hundred and\nsixty millions of acres.\n\nThe shape of continents allows us to divide the waters into five great\nportions: the Arctic or Frozen Ocean, the Antarctic or Frozen Ocean,\nthe Indian, the Atlantic, and the Pacific Oceans.\n\nThe Pacific Ocean extends from north to south between the two polar\ncircles, and from east to west between Asia and America, over an extent\nof 145 degrees of longitude. It is the quietest of seas; its currents\nare broad and slow, it has medium tides, and abundant rain. Such was\nthe ocean that my fate destined me first to travel over under these\nstrange conditions.\n\n Sir,  said Captain Nemo,  we will, if you please, take our bearings\nand fix the starting-point of this voyage. It is a quarter to twelve; I\nwill go up again to the surface. \n\nThe Captain pressed an electric clock three times. The pumps began to\ndrive the water from the tanks; the needle of the manometer marked by a\ndifferent pressure the ascent of the _Nautilus_, then it stopped.\n\n We have arrived,  said the Captain.\n\nI went to the central staircase which opened on to the platform,\nclambered up the iron steps, and found myself on the upper part of the\n_Nautilus_.\n\nThe platform was only three feet out of water. The front and back of\nthe _Nautilus_ was of that spindle-shape which caused it justly to be\ncompared to a cigar. I noticed that its iron plates, slightly\noverlaying each other, resembled the shell which clothes the bodies of\nour large terrestrial reptiles. It explained to me how natural it was,\nin spite of all glasses, that this boat should have been taken for a\nmarine animal.\n\nToward the middle of the platform the long-boat, half buried in the\nhull of the vessel, formed a slight excrescence. Fore and aft rose two\ncages of medium height with inclined sides, and partly closed by thick\nlenticular glasses; one destined for the steersman who directed the\n_Nautilus_, the other containing a brilliant lantern to give light on\nthe road.\n\nThe sea was beautiful, the sky pure. Scarcely could the long vehicle\nfeel the broad undulations of the ocean. A light breeze from the east\nrippled the surface of the waters. The horizon, free from fog, made\nobservation easy. Nothing was in sight. Not a quicksand, not an island.\nA vast desert.\n\nCaptain Nemo, by the help of his sextant, took the altitude of the sun,\nwhich ought also to give the latitude. He waited for some moments till\nits disc touched the horizon. Whilst taking observations not a muscle\nmoved, the instrument could not have been more motionless in a hand of\nmarble.\n\n\n[Illustration] Captain Nemo took the Sun s altitude\n\n\n Twelve o clock, sir,  said he.  When you like \n\nI cast a last look upon the sea, slightly yellowed by the Japanese\ncoast, and descended to the saloon.\n\n And now, sir, I leave you to your studies,  added the Captain;  our\ncourse is E.N.E., our depth is twenty-six fathoms. Here are maps on a\nlarge scale by which you may follow it. The saloon is at your disposal,\nand with your permission, I will retire.  Captain Nemo bowed, and I\nremained alone, lost in thoughts all bearing on the commander of the\n_Nautilus_.\n\nFor a whole hour was I deep in these reflections, seeking to pierce\nthis mystery so interesting to me. Then my eyes fell upon the vast\nplanisphere spread upon the table, and I placed my finger on the very\nspot where the given latitude and longitude crossed.\n\nThe sea has its large rivers like the continents. They are special\ncurrents known by their temperature and their colour. The most\nremarkable of these is known by the name of the Gulf Stream. Science\nhas decided on the globe the direction of five principal currents: one\nin the North Atlantic, a second in the South, a third in the North\nPacific, a fourth in the South, and a fifth in the Southern Indian\nOcean. It is even probable that a sixth current existed at one time or\nanother in the Northern Indian Ocean, when the Caspian and Aral Seas\nformed but one vast sheet of water.\n\nAt this point indicated on the planisphere one of these currents was\nrolling, the Kuro-Scivo of the Japanese, the Black River, which,\nleaving the Gulf of Bengal, where it is warmed by the perpendicular\nrays of a tropical sun, crosses the Straits of Malacca along the coast\nof Asia, turns into the North Pacific to the Aleutian Islands, carrying\nwith it trunks of camphor-trees and other indigenous productions, and\nedging the waves of the ocean with the pure indigo of its warm water.\nIt was this current that the _Nautilus_ was to follow. I followed it\nwith my eye; saw it lose itself in the vastness of the Pacific, and\nfelt myself drawn with it, when Ned Land and Conseil appeared at the\ndoor of the saloon.\n\nMy two brave companions remained petrified at the sight of the wonders\nspread before them.\n\n Where are we, where are we?  exclaimed the Canadian.  In the museum at\nQuebec? \n\n My friends,  I answered, making a sign for them to enter,  you are not\nin Canada, but on board the _Nautilus_, fifty yards below the level of\nthe sea. \n\n But, M. Aronnax,  said Ned Land,  can you tell me how many men there\nare on board? Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred? \n\n I cannot answer you, Mr. Land; it is better to abandon for a time all\nidea of seizing the _Nautilus_ or escaping from it. This ship is a\nmasterpiece of modern industry, and I should be sorry not to have seen\nit. Many people would accept the situation forced upon us, if only to\nmove amongst such wonders. So be quiet and let us try and see what\npasses around us. \n\n See!  exclaimed the harpooner,  but we can see nothing in this iron\nprison! We are walking we are sailing blindly. \n\nNed Land had scarcely pronounced these words when all was suddenly\ndarkness. The luminous ceiling was gone, and so rapidly that my eyes\nreceived a painful impression.\n\nWe remained mute, not stirring, and not knowing what surprise awaited\nus, whether agreeable or disagreeable. A sliding noise was heard: one\nwould have said that panels were working at the sides of the\n_Nautilus_.\n\n It is the end of the end!  said Ned Land.\n\nSuddenly light broke at each side of the saloon, through two oblong\nopenings. The liquid mass appeared vividly lit up by the electric\ngleam. Two crystal plates separated us from the sea. At first I\ntrembled at the thought that this frail partition might break, but\nstrong bands of copper bound them, giving an almost infinite power of\nresistance.\n\nThe sea was distinctly visible for a mile all round the _Nautilus_.\nWhat a spectacle! What pen can describe it? Who could paint the effects\nof the light through those transparent sheets of water, and the\nsoftness of the successive gradations from the lower to the superior\nstrata of the ocean?\n\nWe know the transparency of the sea and that its clearness is far\nbeyond that of rock-water. The mineral and organic substances which it\nholds in suspension heightens its transparency. In certain parts of the\nocean at the Antilles, under seventy-five fathoms of water, can be seen\nwith surprising clearness a bed of sand. The penetrating power of the\nsolar rays does not seem to cease for a depth of one hundred and fifty\nfathoms. But in this middle fluid travelled over by the _Nautilus_, the\nelectric brightness was produced even in the bosom of the waves. It was\nno longer luminous water, but liquid light.\n\nOn each side a window opened into this unexplored abyss. The obscurity\nof the saloon showed to advantage the brightness outside, and we looked\nout as if this pure crystal had been the glass of an immense aquarium.\n\n You wished to see, friend Ned; well, you see now. \n\n Curious! curious!  muttered the Canadian, who, forgetting his\nill-temper, seemed to submit to some irresistible attraction;  and one\nwould come further than this to admire such a sight! \n\n Ah!  thought I to myself,  I understand the life of this man; he has\nmade a world apart for himself, in which he treasures all his greatest\nwonders. \n\nFor two whole hours an aquatic army escorted the _Nautilus_. During\ntheir games, their bounds, while rivalling each other in beauty,\nbrightness, and velocity, I distinguished the green labre; the banded\nmullet, marked by a double line of black; the round-tailed goby, of a\nwhite colour, with violet spots on the back; the Japanese scombrus, a\nbeautiful mackerel of those seas, with a blue body and silvery head;\nthe brilliant azurors, whose name alone defies description; some banded\nspares, with variegated fins of blue and yellow; the woodcocks of the\nseas, some specimens of which attain a yard in length; Japanese\nsalamanders, spider lampreys, serpents six feet long, with eyes small\nand lively, and a huge mouth bristling with teeth; with many other\nspecies.\n\nOur imagination was kept at its height, interjections followed quickly\non each other. Ned named the fish, and Conseil classed them. I was in\necstasies with the vivacity of their movements and the beauty of their\nforms. Never had it been given to me to surprise these animals, alive\nand at liberty, in their natural element. I will not mention all the\nvarieties which passed before my dazzled eyes, all the collection of\nthe seas of China and Japan. These fish, more numerous than the birds\nof the air, came, attracted, no doubt, by the brilliant focus of the\nelectric light.\n\nSuddenly there was daylight in the saloon, the iron panels closed\nagain, and the enchanting vision disappeared. But for a long time I\ndreamt on till my eyes fell on the instruments hanging on the\npartition. The compass still showed the course to be E.N.E., the\nmanometer indicated a pressure of five atmospheres, equivalent to a\ndepth of twenty-five fathoms, and the electric log gave a speed of\nfifteen miles an hour. I expected Captain Nemo, but he did not appear.\nThe clock marked the hour of five.\n\nNed Land and Conseil returned to their cabin, and I retired to my\nchamber. My dinner was ready. It was composed of turtle soup made of\nthe most delicate hawksbills, of a surmullet served with puff paste\n(the liver of which, prepared by itself, was most delicious), and\nfillets of the emperor-holocanthus, the savour of which seemed to me\nsuperior even to salmon.\n\nI passed the evening reading, writing, and thinking. Then sleep\noverpowered me, and I stretched myself on my couch of zostera, and\nslept profoundly, whilst the _Nautilus_ was gliding rapidly through the\ncurrent of the Black River.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\nA NOTE OF INVITATION\n\n\nThe next day was the 9th of November. I awoke after a long sleep of\ntwelve hours. Conseil came, according to custom, to know  how I had\npassed the night,  and to offer his services. He had left his friend\nthe Canadian sleeping like a man who had never done anything else all\nhis life. I let the worthy fellow chatter as he pleased, without caring\nto answer him. I was pre-occupied by the absence of the Captain during\nour sitting of the day before, and hoping to see him to-day.\n\nAs soon as I was dressed I went into the saloon. It was deserted.\n\nI plunged into the study of the shell treasures hidden behind the\nglasses. I revelled also in great herbals filled with the rarest marine\nplants, which, although dried up, retained their lovely colours.\nAmongst these precious hydrophytes I remarked some vorticell ,\npavonari , delicate ceramies with scarlet tints, some fan-shaped agari,\nand some natabuli like flat mushrooms, which at one time used to be\nclassed as zoophytes; in short, a perfect series of alg .\n\nThe whole day passed without my being honoured by a visit from Captain\nNemo. The panels of the saloon did not open. Perhaps they did not wish\nus to tire of these beautiful things.\n\nThe course of the _Nautilus_ was E.N.E., her speed twelve knots, the\ndepth below the surface between twenty-five and thirty fathoms.\n\nThe next day, 10th of November, the same desertion, the same solitude.\nI did not see one of the ship s crew: Ned and Conseil spent the greater\npart of the day with me. They were astonished at the inexplicable\nabsence of the Captain. Was this singular man ill? had he altered his\nintentions with regard to us?\n\nAfter all, as Conseil said, we enjoyed perfect liberty, we were\ndelicately and abundantly fed. Our host kept to his terms of the\ntreaty. We could not complain, and, indeed, the singularity of our fate\nreserved such wonderful compensation for us, that we had no right to\naccuse it as yet.\n\nThat day I commenced the journal of these adventures which has enabled\nme to relate them with more scrupulous exactitude and minute detail. I\nwrote it on paper made from the zostera marina.\n\n11th November, early in the morning. The fresh air spreading over the\ninterior of the _Nautilus_ told me that we had come to the surface of\nthe ocean to renew our supply of oxygen. I directed my steps to the\ncentral staircase, and mounted the platform.\n\nIt was six o clock, the weather was cloudy, the sea grey but calm.\nScarcely a billow. Captain Nemo, whom I hoped to meet, would he be\nthere? I saw no one but the steersman imprisoned in his glass cage.\nSeated upon the projection formed by the hull of the pinnace, I inhaled\nthe salt breeze with delight.\n\nBy degrees the fog disappeared under the action of the sun s rays, the\nradiant orb rose from behind the eastern horizon. The sea flamed under\nits glance like a train of gunpowder. The clouds scattered in the\nheights were coloured with lively tints of beautiful shades, and\nnumerous  mare s tails,  which betokened wind for that day. But what\nwas wind to this _Nautilus_ which tempests could not frighten!\n\nI was admiring this joyous rising of the sun, so gay, and so\nlifegiving, when I heard steps approaching the platform. I was prepared\nto salute Captain Nemo, but it was his second (whom I had already seen\non the Captain s first visit) who appeared. He advanced on the\nplatform, not seeming to see me. With his powerful glass to his eye he\nscanned every point of the horizon with great attention. This\nexamination over, he approached the panel and pronounced a sentence in\nexactly these terms. I have remembered it, for every morning it was\nrepeated under exactly the same conditions. It was thus worded \n\n Nautron respoc lorni virch. \n\nWhat it meant I could not say.\n\nThese words pronounced, the second descended. I thought that the\n_Nautilus_ was about to return to its submarine navigation. I regained\nthe panel and returned to my chamber.\n\nFive days sped thus, without any change in our situation. Every morning\nI mounted the platform. The same phrase was pronounced by the same\nindividual. But Captain Nemo did not appear.\n\nI had made up my mind that I should never see him again, when, on the\n16th November, on returning to my room with Ned and Conseil, I found\nupon my table a note addressed to me. I opened it impatiently. It was\nwritten in a bold, clear hand, the characters rather pointed, recalling\nthe German type. The note was worded as follows \n\n16th of _November_, 1867.\n\n\nTO PROFESSOR ARONNAX, On board the _Nautilus_.\n\nCaptain Nemo invites Professor Aronnax to a hunting-party, which will\ntake place to-morrow morning in the forests of the island of Crespo. He\nhopes that nothing will prevent the Professor from being present, and\nhe will with pleasure see him joined by his companions.\n\n\nCAPTAIN NEMO, Commander of the _Nautilus_.\n\n\n A hunt!  exclaimed Ned.\n\n And in the forests of the island of Crespo!  added Conseil.\n\n Oh! then the gentleman is going on _terra firma?_  replied Ned Land.\n\n That seems to me to be clearly indicated,  said I, reading the letter\nonce more.\n\n Well, we must accept,  said the Canadian.  But once more on dry\nground, we shall know what to do. Indeed, I shall not be sorry to eat a\npiece of fresh venison. \n\nWithout seeking to reconcile what was contradictory between Captain\nNemo s manifest aversion to islands and continents, and his invitation\nto hunt in a forest, I contented myself with replying \n\n Let us first see where the island of Crespo is. \n\nI consulted the planisphere, and in 32  40  north lat. and 157  50 \nwest long., I found a small island, recognised in 1801 by Captain\nCrespo, and marked in the ancient Spanish maps as Rocca de la Plata,\nthe meaning of which is  The Silver Rock.  We were then about eighteen\nhundred miles from our starting-point, and the course of the\n_Nautilus_, a little changed, was bringing it back towards the\nsouth-east.\n\nI showed this little rock lost in the midst of the North Pacific to my\ncompanions.\n\n If Captain Nemo does sometimes go on dry ground,  said I,  he at least\nchooses desert islands. \n\nNed Land shrugged his shoulders without speaking, and Conseil and he\nleft me.\n\nAfter supper, which was served by the steward mute and impassive, I\nwent to bed, not without some anxiety.\n\nThe next morning, the 17th of November, on awakening, I felt that the\n_Nautilus_ was perfectly still. I dressed quickly and entered the\nsaloon.\n\nCaptain Nemo was there, waiting for me. He rose, bowed, and asked me if\nit was convenient for me to accompany him. As he made no allusion to\nhis absence during the last eight days, I did not mention it, and\nsimply answered that my companions and myself were ready to follow him.\n\nWe entered the dining-room, where breakfast was served.\n\n M. Aronnax,  said the Captain,  pray, share my breakfast without\nceremony; we will chat as we eat. For though I promised you a walk in\nthe forest, I did not undertake to find hotels there. So breakfast as a\nman who will most likely not have his dinner till very late. \n\nI did honour to the repast. It was composed of several kinds of fish,\nand slices of holothurid  (excellent zoophytes), and different sorts of\nsea-weed. Our drink consisted of pure water, to which the Captain added\nsome drops of a fermented liquor, extracted by the Kamschatcha method\nfrom a sea-weed known under the name of _Rhodomenia palmata_. Captain\nNemo ate at first without saying a word. Then he began \n\n Sir, when I proposed to you to hunt in my submarine forest of Crespo,\nyou evidently thought me mad. Sir, you should never judge lightly of\nany man. \n\n But Captain, believe me \n\n Be kind enough to listen, and you will then see whether you have any\ncause to accuse me of folly and contradiction. \n\n I listen. \n\n You know as well as I do, Professor, that man can live under water,\nproviding he carries with him a sufficient supply of breathable air. In\nsubmarine works, the workman, clad in an impervious dress, with his\nhead in a metal helmet, receives air from above by means of forcing\npumps and regulators. \n\n That is a diving apparatus,  said I.\n\n Just so, but under these conditions the man is not at liberty; he is\nattached to the pump which sends him air through an india-rubber tube,\nand if we were obliged to be thus held to the _Nautilus_, we could not\ngo far. \n\n And the means of getting free?  I asked.\n\n It is to use the Rouquayrol apparatus, invented by two of your own\ncountrymen, which I have brought to perfection for my own use, and\nwhich will allow you to risk yourself under these new physiological\nconditions without any organ whatever suffering. It consists of a\nreservoir of thick iron plates, in which I store the air under a\npressure of fifty atmospheres. This reservoir is fixed on the back by\nmeans of braces, like a soldier s knapsack. Its upper part forms a box\nin which the air is kept by means of a bellows, and therefore cannot\nescape unless at its normal tension. In the Rouquayrol apparatus such\nas we use, two india-rubber pipes leave this box and join a sort of\ntent which holds the nose and mouth; one is to introduce fresh air, the\nother to let out the foul, and the tongue closes one or the other\naccording to the wants of the respirator. But I, in encountering great\npressures at the bottom of the sea, was obliged to shut my head, like\nthat of a diver in a ball of copper; and it is to this ball of copper\nthat the two pipes, the inspirator and the expirator, open. \n\n Perfectly, Captain Nemo; but the air that you carry with you must soon\nbe used; when it only contains fifteen per cent. of oxygen it is no\nlonger fit to breathe. \n\n Right! But I told you, M. Aronnax, that the pumps of the _Nautilus_\nallow me to store the air under considerable pressure, and on those\nconditions the reservoir of the apparatus can furnish breathable air\nfor nine or ten hours. \n\n I have no further objections to make,  I answered;  I will only ask\nyou one thing, Captain how can you light your road at the bottom of the\nsea? \n\n With the Ruhmkorff apparatus, M. Aronnax; one is carried on the back,\nthe other is fastened to the waist. It is composed of a Bunsen pile,\nwhich I do not work with bichromate of potash, but with sodium. A wire\nis introduced which collects the electricity produced, and directs it\ntowards a particularly made lantern. In this lantern is a spiral glass\nwhich contains a small quantity of carbonic gas. When the apparatus is\nat work this gas becomes luminous, giving out a white and continuous\nlight. Thus provided, I can breathe and I can see. \n\n Captain Nemo, to all my objections you make such crushing answers,\nthat I dare no longer doubt. But if I am forced to admit the Rouquayrol\nand Ruhmkorff apparatus, I must be allowed some reservations with\nregard to the gun I am to carry. \n\n But it is not a gun for powder,  answered the Captain.\n\n Then it is an air-gun. \n\n Doubtless! How would you have me manufacture gunpowder on board,\nwithout either saltpetre, sulphur, or charcoal? \n\n Besides,  I added,  to fire under water in a medium eight hundred and\nfifty-five times denser than the air, we must conquer very considerable\nresistance. \n\n That would be no difficulty. There exist guns, according to Fulton,\nperfected in England by Philip Coles and Burley, in France by Furcy,\nand in Italy by Landi, which are furnished with a peculiar system of\nclosing, which can fire under these conditions. But I repeat, having no\npowder, I use air under great pressure, which the pumps of the\n_Nautilus_ furnish abundantly. \n\n But this air must be rapidly used? \n\n Well, have I not my Rouquayrol reservoir, which can furnish it at\nneed? A tap is all that is required. Besides, M. Aronnax, you must see\nyourself that, during our submarine hunt, we can spend but little air\nand but few balls. \n\n But it seems to me that in this twilight, and in the midst of this\nfluid, which is very dense compared with the atmosphere, shots could\nnot go far, nor easily prove mortal. \n\n Sir, on the contrary, with this gun every blow is mortal; and however\nlightly the animal is touched, it falls as if struck by a thunderbolt. \n\n Why? \n\n Because the balls sent by this gun are not ordinary balls, but little\ncases of glass (invented by Leniebroek, an Austrian chemist), of which\nI have a large supply. These glass cases are covered with a case of\nsteel, and weighted with a pellet of lead; they are real Leyden\nbottles, into which the electricity is forced to a very high tension.\nWith the slightest shock they are discharged, and the animal, however\nstrong it may be, falls dead. I must tell you that these cases are size\nnumber four, and that the charge for an ordinary gun would be ten. \n\n I will argue no longer,  I replied, rising from the table;  I have\nnothing left me but to take my gun. At all events, I will go where you\ngo. \n\nCaptain Nemo then led me aft; and in passing before Ned s and Conseil s\ncabin, I called my two companions, who followed immediately. We then\ncame to a kind of cell near the machinery-room, in which we were to put\non our walking-dress.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\nA WALK ON THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA\n\n\nThis cell was, to speak correctly, the arsenal and wardrobe of the\n_Nautilus_. A dozen diving apparatuses hung from the partition, waiting\nour use.\n\nNed Land, on seeing them, showed evident repugnance to dress himself in\none.\n\n But, my worthy Ned, the forests of the Island of Crespo are nothing\nbut submarine forests. \n\n Good!  said the disappointed harpooner, who saw his dreams of fresh\nmeat fade away.  And you, M. Aronnax, are you going to dress yourself\nin those clothes? \n\n There is no alternative, Master Ned. \n\n As you please, sir,  replied the harpooner, shrugging his shoulders;\n but as for me, unless I am forced, I will never get into one. \n\n No one will force you, Master Ned,  said Captain Nemo.\n\n Is Conseil going to risk it?  asked Ned.\n\n I follow my master wherever he goes,  replied Conseil.\n\nAt the Captain s call two of the ship s crew came to help us to dress\nin these heavy and impervious clothes, made of india-rubber without\nseam, and constructed expressly to resist considerable pressure. One\nwould have thought it a suit of armour, both supple and resisting. This\nsuit formed trousers and waistcoat. The trousers were finished off with\nthick boots, weighted with heavy leaden soles. The texture of the\nwaistcoat was held together by bands of copper, which crossed the\nchest, protecting it from the great pressure of the water, and leaving\nthe lungs free to act; the sleeves ended in gloves, which in no way\nrestrained the movement of the hands. There was a vast difference\nnoticeable between these consummate apparatuses and the old cork\nbreastplates, jackets, and other contrivances in vogue during the\neighteenth century.\n\nCaptain Nemo and one of his companions (a sort of Hercules, who must\nhave possessed great strength), Conseil, and myself, were soon\nenveloped in the dresses. There remained nothing more to be done but to\nenclose our heads in the metal box. But before proceeding to this\noperation, I asked the Captain s permission to examine the guns we were\nto carry.\n\nOne of the _Nautilus_ men gave me a simple gun, the butt end of which,\nmade of steel, hollow in the centre, was rather large. It served as a\nreservoir for compressed air, which a valve, worked by a spring,\nallowed to escape into a metal tube. A box of projectiles, in a groove\nin the thickness of the butt end, contained about twenty of these\nelectric balls, which, by means of a spring, were forced into the\nbarrel of the gun. As soon as one shot was fired, another was ready.\n\n Captain Nemo,  said I,  this arm is perfect, and easily handled: I\nonly ask to be allowed to try it. But how shall we gain the bottom of\nthe sea? \n\n At this moment, Professor, the _Nautilus_ is stranded in five fathoms,\nand we have nothing to do but to start. \n\n But how shall we get off? \n\n You shall see. \n\nCaptain Nemo thrust his head into the helmet, Conseil and I did the\nsame, not without hearing an ironical  Good sport!  from the Canadian.\nThe upper part of our dress terminated in a copper collar upon which\nwas screwed the metal helmet. Three holes, protected by thick glass,\nallowed us to see in all directions, by simply turning our head in the\ninterior of the head-dress. As soon as it was in position, the\nRouquayrol apparatus on our backs began to act; and, for my part, I\ncould breathe with ease.\n\nWith the Ruhmkorff lamp hanging from my belt, and the gun in my hand, I\nwas ready to set out. But to speak the truth, imprisoned in these heavy\ngarments, and glued to the deck by my leaden soles, it was impossible\nfor me to take a step.\n\n\n[Illustration] I was ready to set out\n\n\nBut this state of things was provided for. I felt myself being pushed\ninto a little room contiguous to the wardrobe-room. My companions\nfollowed, towed along in the same way. I heard a water-tight door,\nfurnished with stopper-plates, close upon us, and we were wrapped in\nprofound darkness.\n\nAfter some minutes, a loud hissing was heard. I felt the cold mount\nfrom my feet to my chest. Evidently from some part of the vessel they\nhad, by means of a tap, given entrance to the water, which was invading\nus, and with which the room was soon filled. A second door cut in the\nside of the _Nautilus_ then opened. We saw a faint light. In another\ninstant our feet trod the bottom of the sea.\n\nAnd now, how can I retrace the impression left upon me by that walk\nunder the waters? Words are impotent to relate such wonders! Captain\nNemo walked in front, his companion followed some steps behind. Conseil\nand I remained near each other, as if an exchange of words had been\npossible through our metallic cases. I no longer felt the weight of my\nclothing, or of my shoes, of my reservoir of air, or my thick helmet,\nin the midst of which my head rattled like an almond in its shell.\n\nThe light, which lit the soil thirty feet below the surface of the\nocean, astonished me by its power. The solar rays shone through the\nwatery mass easily, and dissipated all colour, and I clearly\ndistinguished objects at a distance of a hundred and fifty yards.\nBeyond that the tints darkened into fine gradations of ultramarine, and\nfaded into vague obscurity. Truly this water which surrounded me was\nbut another air denser than the terrestrial atmosphere, but almost as\ntransparent. Above me was the calm surface of the sea.\n\nWe were walking on fine, even sand, not wrinkled, as on a flat shore,\nwhich retains the impression of the billows. This dazzling carpet,\nreally a reflector, repelled the rays of the sun with wonderful\nintensity, which accounted for the vibration which penetrated every\natom of liquid. Shall I be believed when I say that, at the depth of\nthirty feet, I could see as if I was in broad daylight?\n\nFor a quarter of an hour I trod on this sand, sown with the impalpable\ndust of shells. The hull of the _Nautilus_, resembling a long shoal,\ndisappeared by degrees; but its lantern, when darkness should overtake\nus in the waters, would help to guide us on board by its distinct rays.\n\nSoon forms of objects outlined in the distance were discernible. I\nrecognised magnificent rocks, hung with a tapestry of zoophytes of the\nmost beautiful kind, and I was at first struck by the peculiar effect\nof this medium.\n\nIt was then ten in the morning; the rays of the sun struck the surface\nof the waves at rather an oblique angle, and at the touch of their\nlight, decomposed by refraction as through a prism, flowers, rocks,\nplants, shells, and polypi were shaded at the edges by the seven solar\ncolours. It was marvellous, a feast for the eyes, this complication of\ncoloured tints, a perfect kaleidoscope of green, yellow, orange,\nviolet, indigo, and blue; in one word, the whole palette of an\nenthusiastic colourist! Why could I not communicate to Conseil the\nlively sensations which were mounting to my brain, and rival him in\nexpressions of admiration? For aught I knew, Captain Nemo and his\ncompanion might be able to exchange thoughts by means of signs\npreviously agreed upon. So, for want of better, I talked to myself; I\ndeclaimed in the copper box which covered my head, thereby expending\nmore air in vain words than was perhaps expedient.\n\nVarious kinds of isis, clusters of pure tuft-coral, prickly fungi, and\nanemones formed a brilliant garden of flowers, enamelled with porphit ,\ndecked with their collarettes of blue tentacles, sea-stars studding the\nsandy bottom, together with asterophytons like fine lace embroidered by\nthe hands of na ads, whose festoons were waved by the gentle\nundulations caused by our walk. It was a real grief to me to crush\nunder my feet the brilliant specimens of molluscs which strewed the\nground by thousands, of hammer-heads, donaciae (veritable bounding\nshells), of staircases, and red helmet-shells, angel-wings, and many\nothers produced by this inexhaustible ocean. But we were bound to walk,\nso we went on, whilst above our heads waved shoals of physalides\nleaving their tentacles to float in their train, medus  whose umbrellas\nof opal or rose-pink, escalloped with a band of blue, sheltered us from\nthe rays of the sun and fiery pelagi , which, in the darkness, would\nhave strewn our path with phosphorescent light.\n\nAll these wonders I saw in the space of a quarter of a mile, scarcely\nstopping, and following Captain Nemo, who beckoned me on by signs. Soon\nthe nature of the soil changed; to the sandy plain succeeded an extent\nof slimy mud, which the Americans call  ooze,  composed of equal parts\nof silicious and calcareous shells. We then travelled over a plain of\nsea-weed of wild and luxuriant vegetation. This sward was of close\ntexture, and soft to the feet, and rivalled the softest carpet woven by\nthe hand of man. But whilst verdure was spread at our feet, it did not\nabandon our heads. A light network of marine plants, of that\ninexhaustible family of sea-weeds of which more than two thousand kinds\nare known, grew on the surface of the water. I saw long ribbons of\nfucus floating, some globular, others tuberous; laurenci  and\ncladostephi of most delicate foliage, and some rhodomeni  palmat ,\nresembling the fan of a cactus. I noticed that the green plants kept\nnearer the top of the sea, whilst the red were at a greater depth,\nleaving to the black or brown hydrophytes the care of forming gardens\nand parterres in the remote beds of the ocean.\n\nWe had quitted the _Nautilus_ about an hour and a half. It was near\nnoon; I knew by the perpendicularity of the sun s rays, which were no\nlonger refracted. The magical colours disappeared by degrees, and the\nshades of emerald and sapphire were effaced. We walked with a regular\nstep, which rang upon the ground with astonishing intensity; the\nslightest noise was transmitted with a quickness to which the ear is\nunaccustomed on the earth; indeed, water is a better conductor of sound\nthan air, in the ratio of four to one. At this period the earth sloped\ndownwards; the light took a uniform tint. We were at a depth of a\nhundred and five yards and twenty inches, undergoing a pressure of six\natmospheres.\n\nAt this depth I could still see the rays of the sun, though feebly; to\ntheir intense brilliancy had succeeded a reddish twilight, the lowest\nstate between day and night; but we could still see well enough; it was\nnot necessary to resort to the Ruhmkorff apparatus as yet. At this\nmoment Captain Nemo stopped; he waited till I joined him, and then\npointed to an obscure mass, looming in the shadow, at a short distance.\n\n It is the forest of the Island of Crespo,  thought I; and I was not\nmistaken.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\nA SUBMARINE FOREST\n\n\nWe had at last arrived on the borders of this forest, doubtless one of\nthe finest of Captain Nemo s immense domains. He looked upon it as his\nown, and considered he had the same right over it that the first men\nhad in the first days of the world. And, indeed, who would have\ndisputed with him the possession of this submarine property? What other\nhardier pioneer would come, hatchet in hand, to cut down the dark\ncopses?\n\nThis forest was composed of large tree-plants; and the moment we\npenetrated under its vast arcades, I was struck by the singular\nposition of their branches a position I had not yet observed.\n\nNot a herb which carpeted the ground, not a branch which clothed the\ntrees, was either broken or bent, nor did they extend horizontally; all\nstretched up to the surface of the ocean. Not a filament, not a ribbon,\nhowever thin they might be, but kept as straight as a rod of iron. The\nfuci and llianas grew in rigid perpendicular lines, due to the density\nof the element which had produced them. Motionless, yet when bent to\none side by the hand, they directly resumed their former position.\nTruly it was the region of perpendicularity!\n\nI soon accustomed myself to this fantastic position, as well as to the\ncomparative darkness which surrounded us. The soil of the forest seemed\ncovered with sharp blocks, difficult to avoid. The submarine flora\nstruck me as being very perfect, and richer even than it would have\nbeen in the arctic or tropical zones, where these productions are not\nso plentiful. But for some minutes I involuntarily confounded the\ngenera, taking zoophytes for hydrophytes, animals for plants; and who\nwould not have been mistaken? The fauna and the flora are too closely\nallied in this submarine world.\n\nThese plants are self-propagated, and the principle of their existence\nis in the water, which upholds and nourishes them. The greater number,\ninstead of leaves, shot forth blades of capricious shapes, comprised\nwithin a scale of colours, pink, carmine, green, olive, fawn, and\nbrown. I saw there (but not dried up, as our specimens of the\n_Nautilus_ are) pavonari spread like a fan, as if to catch the breeze;\nscarlet ceramies, whose laminaries extended their edible shoots of\nfern-shaped nereocysti, which grow to a height of fifteen feet;\nclusters of acetabuli, whose stems increase in size upwards; and\nnumbers of other marine plants, all devoid of flowers!\n\n Curious anomaly, fantastic element!  said an ingenious naturalist,  in\nwhich the animal kingdom blossoms, and the vegetable does not! \n\nUnder these numerous shrubs (as large as trees of the temperate zone),\nand under their damp shadow, were massed together real bushes of living\nflowers, hedges of zoophytes, on which blossomed some zebrameandrines,\nwith crooked grooves, some yellow caryophylli ; and, to complete the\nallusion, the fish-flies flew from branch to branch like a swarm of\nhumming-birds, whilst yellow lepisacomthi, with bristling jaws,\ndactylopteri, and monocentrides rose at our feet like a flight of\nsnipes.\n\nIn about an hour Captain Nemo gave the signal to halt. I, for my part,\nwas not sorry, and we stretched ourselves under an arbour of alari ,\nthe long thin blades of which stood up like arrows.\n\nThis short rest seemed delicious to me; there was nothing wanting but\nthe charm of conversation; but, impossible to speak, impossible to\nanswer, I only put my great copper head to Conseil s. I saw the worthy\nfellow s eyes glistening with delight, and to show his satisfaction, he\nshook himself in his breastplate of air in the most comical way in the\nworld.\n\nAfter four hours of this walking I was surprised not to find myself\ndreadfully hungry. How to account for this state of the stomach I could\nnot tell. But instead I felt an insurmountable desire to sleep, which\nhappens to all divers. And my eyes soon closed behind the thick\nglasses, and I fell into a heavy slumber, which the movement alone had\nprevented before. Captain Nemo and his robust companion, stretched in\nthe clear crystal, set us the example.\n\nHow long I remained buried in this drowsiness I cannot judge; but, when\nI woke, the sun seemed sinking towards the horizon. Captain Nemo had\nalready risen, and I was beginning to stretch my limbs, when an\nunexpected apparition brought me briskly to my feet.\n\nA few steps off, a monstrous sea-spider, about thirty-eight inches\nhigh, was watching me with squinting eyes, ready to spring upon me.\nThough my diver s dress was thick enough to defend me from the bite of\nthis animal, I could not help shuddering with horror. Conseil and the\nsailor of the _Nautilus_ awoke at this moment. Captain Nemo pointed out\nthe hideous crustacean, which a blow from the butt end of the gun\nknocked over, and I saw the horrible claws of the monster writhe in\nterrible convulsions. This accident reminded me that other animals more\nto be feared might haunt these obscure depths, against whose attacks my\ndiving-dress would not protect me. I had never thought of it before,\nbut I now resolved to be upon my guard. Indeed, I thought that this\nhalt would mark the termination of our walk; but I was mistaken, for,\ninstead of returning to the _Nautilus_, Captain Nemo continued his bold\nexcursion. The ground was still on the incline, its declivity seemed to\nbe getting greater, and to be leading us to greater depths. It must\nhave been about three o clock when we reached a narrow valley, between\nhigh perpendicular walls, situated about seventy-five fathoms deep.\nThanks to the perfection of our apparatus, we were forty-five fathoms\nbelow the limit which nature seems to have imposed on man as to his\nsubmarine excursions.\n\nI say seventy-five fathoms, though I had no instrument by which to\njudge the distance. But I knew that even in the clearest waters the\nsolar rays could not penetrate further. And accordingly the darkness\ndeepened. At ten paces not an object was visible. I was groping my way,\nwhen I suddenly saw a brilliant white light. Captain Nemo had just put\nhis electric apparatus into use; his companion did the same, and\nConseil and I followed their example. By turning a screw I established\na communication between the wire and the spiral glass, and the sea, lit\nby our four lanterns, was illuminated for a circle of thirty-six yards.\n\nCaptain Nemo was still plunging into the dark depths of the forest,\nwhose trees were getting scarcer at every step. I noticed that\nvegetable life disappeared sooner than animal life. The medus  had\nalready abandoned the arid soil, from which a great number of animals,\nzoophytes, articulata, molluscs, and fishes, still obtained sustenance.\n\nAs we walked I, thought the light of our Ruhmkorff apparatus could not\nfail to draw some inhabitant from its dark couch. But if they did\napproach us, they at least kept at a respectful distance from the\nhunters. Several times I saw Captain Nemo stop, put his gun to his\nshoulder, and after some moments drop it and walk on. At last, after\nabout four hours, this marvellous excursion came to an end. A wall of\nsuperb rocks, in an imposing mass, rose before us, a heap of gigantic\nblocks, an enormous, steep granite shore, forming dark grottos, but\nwhich presented no practicable slope; it was the prop of the Island of\nCrespo. It was the earth! Captain Nemo stopped suddenly. A gesture of\nhis brought us all to a halt, and, however desirous I might be to scale\nthe wall, I was obliged to stop. Here ended Captain Nemo s domains. And\nhe would not go beyond them. Further on was a portion of the globe he\nmight not trample upon.\n\nThe return began. Captain Nemo had returned to the head of his little\nband, directing their course without hesitation. I thought we were not\nfollowing the same road to return to the _Nautilus_. The new road was\nvery steep, and consequently very painful. We approached the surface of\nthe sea rapidly. But this return to the upper strata was not so sudden\nas to cause relief from the pressure too rapidly, which might have\nproduced serious disorder in our organisation, and brought on internal\nlesions, so fatal to divers. Very soon light reappeared and grew, and\nthe sun being low on the horizon, the refraction edged the different\nobjects with a spectral ring. At ten yards and a half deep, we walked\namidst a shoal of little fishes of all kinds, more numerous than the\nbirds of the air, and also more agile; but no aquatic game worthy of a\nshot had as yet met our gaze, when at that moment I saw the Captain\nshoulder his gun quickly, and follow a moving object into the shrubs.\nHe fired; I heard a slight hissing, and a creature fell stunned at some\ndistance from us. It was a magnificent sea-otter, an enhydrus, the only\nexclusively marine quadruped. This otter was five feet long, and must\nhave been very valuable. Its skin, chestnut-brown above and silvery\nunderneath, would have made one of those beautiful furs so sought after\nin the Russian and Chinese markets; the fineness and the lustre of its\ncoat would certainly fetch  80. I admired this curious mammal, with its\nrounded head ornamented with short ears, its round eyes, and white\nwhiskers like those of a cat, with webbed feet and nails, and tufted\ntail. This precious animal, hunted and tracked by fishermen, has now\nbecome very rare, and taken refuge chiefly in the northern parts of the\nPacific, or probably its race would soon become extinct.\n\nCaptain Nemo s companion took the beast, threw it over his shoulder,\nand we continued our journey. For one hour a plain of sand lay\nstretched before us. Sometimes it rose to within two yards and some\ninches of the surface of the water. I then saw our image clearly\nreflected, drawn inversely, and above us appeared an identical group\nreflecting our movements and our actions; in a word, like us in every\npoint, except that they walked with their heads downward and their feet\nin the air.\n\nAnother effect I noticed, which was the passage of thick clouds which\nformed and vanished rapidly; but on reflection I understood that these\nseeming clouds were due to the varying thickness of the reeds at the\nbottom, and I could even see the fleecy foam which their broken tops\nmultiplied on the water, and the shadows of large birds passing above\nour heads, whose rapid flight I could discern on the surface of the\nsea.\n\nOn this occasion, I was witness to one of the finest gun-shots which\never made the nerves of a hunter thrill. A large bird of great breadth\nof wing, clearly visible, approached, hovering over us. Captain Nemo s\ncompanion shouldered his gun and fired, when it was only a few yards\nabove the waves. The creature fell stunned, and the force of its fall\nbrought it within the reach of dexterous hunter s grasp. It was an\nalbatross of the finest kind.\n\nOur march had not been interrupted by this incident. For two hours we\nfollowed these sandy plains, then fields of alg  very disagreeable to\ncross. Candidly, I could do no more when I saw a glimmer of light,\nwhich, for a half mile, broke the darkness of the waters. It was the\nlantern of the _Nautilus_. Before twenty minutes were over we should be\non board, and I should be able to breathe with ease, for it seemed that\nmy reservoir supplied air very deficient in oxygen. But I did not\nreckon on an accidental meeting, which delayed our arrival for some\ntime.\n\nI had remained some steps behind, when I presently saw Captain Nemo\ncoming hurriedly towards me. With his strong hand he bent me to the\nground, his companion doing the same to Conseil. At first I knew not\nwhat to think of this sudden attack, but I was soon reassured by seeing\nthe Captain lie down beside me, and remain immovable.\n\nI was stretched on the ground, just under the shelter of a bush of\nalg , when, raising my head, I saw some enormous mass, casting\nphosphorescent gleams, pass blusteringly by.\n\nMy blood froze in my veins as I recognised two formidable sharks which\nthreatened us. It was a couple of tintoreas, terrible creatures, with\nenormous tails and a dull glassy stare, the phosphorescent matter\nejected from holes pierced around the muzzle. Monstrous brutes! which\nwould crush a whole man in their iron jaws. I did not know whether\nConseil stopped to classify them; for my part, I noticed their silver\nbellies, and their huge mouths bristling with teeth, from a very\nunscientific point of view, and more as a possible victim than as a\nnaturalist.\n\nHappily the voracious creatures do not see well. They passed without\nseeing us, brushing us with their brownish fins, and we escaped by a\nmiracle from a danger certainly greater than meeting a tiger full-face\nin the forest. Half an hour after, guided by the electric light, we\nreached the _Nautilus_. The outside door had been left open, and\nCaptain Nemo closed it as soon as we had entered the first cell. He\nthen pressed a knob. I heard the pumps working in the midst of the\nvessel, I felt the water sinking from around me, and in a few moments\nthe cell was entirely empty. The inside door then opened, and we\nentered the vestry.\n\nThere our diving-dress was taken off, not without some trouble; and,\nfairly worn out from want of food and sleep. I returned to my room, in\ngreat wonder at this surprising excursion at the bottom of the sea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\nFOUR THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE PACIFIC\n\n\nThe next morning, the 18th of November, I had quite recovered from my\nfatigues of the day before, and I went up on to the platform, just as\nthe second lieutenant was uttering his daily phrase.\n\nI was admiring the magnificent aspect of the ocean when Captain Nemo\nappeared. He did not seem to be aware of my presence, and began a\nseries of astronomical observations. Then, when he had finished, he\nwent and leant on the cage of the watch-light, and gazed abstractedly\non the ocean. In the meantime, a number of the sailors of the\n_Nautilus_, all strong and healthy men, had come up onto the platform.\nThey came to draw up the nets that had been laid all night. These\nsailors were evidently of different nations, although the European type\nwas visible in all of them. I recognised some unmistakable Irishmen,\nFrenchmen, some Sclaves, and a Greek, or a Candiote. They were civil,\nand only used that odd language among themselves, the origin of which I\ncould not guess, neither could I question them.\n\nThe nets were hauled in. They were a large kind of  chaluts,  like\nthose on the Normandy coasts, great pockets that the waves and a chain\nfixed in the smaller meshes kept open. These pockets, drawn by iron\npoles, swept through the water, and gathered in everything in their\nway. That day they brought up curious specimens from those productive\ncoasts.\n\nI reckoned that the haul had brought in more than nine hundredweight of\nfish. It was a fine haul, but not to be wondered at. Indeed, the nets\nare let down for several hours, and enclose in their meshes an infinite\nvariety. We had no lack of excellent food, and the rapidity of the\n_Nautilus_ and the attraction of the electric light could always renew\nour supply. These several productions of the sea were immediately\nlowered through the panel to the steward s room, some to be eaten\nfresh, and others pickled.\n\nThe fishing ended, the provision of air renewed, I thought that the\n_Nautilus_ was about to continue its submarine excursion, and was\npreparing to return to my room, when, without further preamble, the\nCaptain turned to me, saying:\n\n Professor, is not this ocean gifted with real life? It has its tempers\nand its gentle moods. Yesterday it slept as we did, and now it has woke\nafter a quiet night. Look!  he continued,  it wakes under the caresses\nof the sun. It is going to renew its diurnal existence. It is an\ninteresting study to watch the play of its organisation. It has a\npulse, arteries, spasms; and I agree with the learned Maury, who\ndiscovered in it a circulation as real as the circulation of blood in\nanimals.\n\n Yes, the ocean has indeed circulation, and to promote it, the Creator\nhas caused things to multiply in it caloric, salt, and animalculae. \n\nWhen Captain Nemo spoke thus, he seemed altogether changed, and aroused\nan extraordinary emotion in me.\n\n Also,  he added,  true existence is there; and I can imagine the\nfoundations of nautical towns, clusters of submarine houses, which,\nlike the _Nautilus_, would ascend every morning to breathe at the\nsurface of the water, free towns, independent cities. Yet who knows\nwhether some despot \n\nCaptain Nemo finished his sentence with a violent gesture. Then,\naddressing me as if to chase away some sorrowful thought:\n\n M. Aronnax,  he asked,  do you know the depth of the ocean? \n\n I only know, Captain, what the principal soundings have taught us. \n\n Could you tell me them, so that I can suit them to my purpose? \n\n These are some,  I replied,  that I remember. If I am not mistaken, a\ndepth of 8,000 yards has been found in the North Atlantic, and 2,500\nyards in the Mediterranean. The most remarkable soundings have been\nmade in the South Atlantic, near the thirty-fifth parallel, and they\ngave 12,000 yards, 14,000 yards, and 15,000 yards. To sum up all, it is\nreckoned that if the bottom of the sea were levelled, its mean depth\nwould be about one and three-quarter leagues. \n\n Well, Professor,  replied the Captain,  we shall show you better than\nthat I hope. As to the mean depth of this part of the Pacific, I tell\nyou it is only 4,000 yards. \n\nHaving said this, Captain Nemo went towards the panel, and disappeared\ndown the ladder. I followed him, and went into the large drawing-room.\nThe screw was immediately put in motion, and the log gave twenty miles\nan hour.\n\nDuring the days and weeks that passed, Captain Nemo was very sparing of\nhis visits. I seldom saw him. The lieutenant pricked the ship s course\nregularly on the chart, so I could always tell exactly the route of the\n_Nautilus_.\n\nNearly every day, for some time, the panels of the drawing-room were\nopened, and we were never tired of penetrating the mysteries of the\nsubmarine world.\n\nThe general direction of the _Nautilus_ was south-east, and it kept\nbetween 100 and 150 yards of depth. One day, however, I do not know\nwhy, being drawn diagonally by means of the inclined planes, it touched\nthe bed of the sea. The thermometer indicated a temperature of 4.25\n(cent.): a temperature that at this depth seemed common to all\nlatitudes.\n\nAt three o clock in the morning of the 26th of November the _Nautilus_\ncrossed the tropic of Cancer at 172  long. On 27th instant it sighted\nthe Sandwich Islands, where Cook died, February 14, 1779. We had then\ngone 4,860 leagues from our starting-point. In the morning, when I went\non the platform, I saw two miles to windward, Hawaii, the largest of\nthe seven islands that form the group. I saw clearly the cultivated\nranges, and the several mountain-chains that run parallel with the\nside, and the volcanoes that overtop Mouna-Rea, which rise 5,000 yards\nabove the level of the sea. Besides other things the nets brought up,\nwere several flabellariae and graceful polypi, that are peculiar to\nthat part of the ocean. The direction of the _Nautilus_ was still to\nthe south-east. It crossed the equator December 1, in 142  long.; and\non the 4th of the same month, after crossing rapidly and without\nanything in particular occurring, we sighted the Marquesas group. I\nsaw, three miles off, Martin s peak in Nouka-Hiva, the largest of the\ngroup that belongs to France. I only saw the woody mountains against\nthe horizon, because Captain Nemo did not wish to bring the ship to the\nwind. There the nets brought up beautiful specimens of fish: some with\nazure fins and tails like gold, the flesh of which is unrivalled; some\nnearly destitute of scales, but of exquisite flavour; others, with bony\njaws, and yellow-tinged gills, as good as bonitos; all fish that would\nbe of use to us. After leaving these charming islands protected by the\nFrench flag, from the 4th to the 11th of December the _Nautilus_ sailed\nover about 2,000 miles.\n\nDuring the daytime of the 11th of December I was busy reading in the\nlarge drawing-room. Ned Land and Conseil watched the luminous water\nthrough the half-open panels. The _Nautilus_ was immovable. While its\nreservoirs were filled, it kept at a depth of 1,000 yards, a region\nrarely visited in the ocean, and in which large fish were seldom seen.\n\nI was then reading a charming book by Jean Mace, The Slaves of the\nStomach, and I was learning some valuable lessons from it, when Conseil\ninterrupted me.\n\n Will master come here a moment?  he said, in a curious voice.\n\n What is the matter, Conseil? \n\n I want master to look. \n\nI rose, went, and leaned on my elbows before the panes and watched.\n\nIn a full electric light, an enormous black mass, quite immovable, was\nsuspended in the midst of the waters. I watched it attentively, seeking\nto find out the nature of this gigantic cetacean. But a sudden thought\ncrossed my mind.  A vessel!  I said, half aloud.\n\n Yes,  replied the Canadian,  a disabled ship that has sunk\nperpendicularly. \n\nNed Land was right; we were close to a vessel of which the tattered\nshrouds still hung from their chains. The keel seemed to be in good\norder, and it had been wrecked at most some few hours. Three stumps of\nmasts, broken off about two feet above the bridge, showed that the\nvessel had had to sacrifice its masts. But, lying on its side, it had\nfilled, and it was heeling over to port. This skeleton of what it had\nonce been was a sad spectacle as it lay lost under the waves, but\nsadder still was the sight of the bridge, where some corpses, bound\nwith ropes, were still lying. I counted five four men, one of whom was\nstanding at the helm, and a woman standing by the poop, holding an\ninfant in her arms. She was quite young. I could distinguish her\nfeatures, which the water had not decomposed, by the brilliant light\nfrom the _Nautilus_. In one despairing effort, she had raised her\ninfant above her head poor little thing! whose arms encircled its\nmother s neck. The attitude of the four sailors was frightful,\ndistorted as they were by their convulsive movements, whilst making a\nlast effort to free themselves from the cords that bound them to the\nvessel. The steersman alone, calm, with a grave, clear face, his grey\nhair glued to his forehead, and his hand clutching the wheel of the\nhelm, seemed even then to be guiding the three broken masts through the\ndepths of the ocean.\n\nWhat a scene! We were dumb; our hearts beat fast before this shipwreck,\ntaken as it were from life and photographed in its last moments. And I\nsaw already, coming towards it with hungry eyes, enormous sharks,\nattracted by the human flesh.\n\nHowever, the _Nautilus_, turning, went round the submerged vessel, and\nin one instant I read on the stern The Florida, Sunderland. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\nVANIKORO\n\n\nThis terrible spectacle was the forerunner of the series of maritime\ncatastrophes that the _Nautilus_ was destined to meet with in its\nroute. As long as it went through more frequented waters, we often saw\nthe hulls of shipwrecked vessels that were rotting in the depths, and\ndeeper down cannons, bullets, anchors, chains, and a thousand other\niron materials eaten up by rust. However, on the 11th of December we\nsighted the Pomotou Islands, the old  dangerous group  of Bougainville,\nthat extend over a space of 500 leagues at E.S.E. to W.N.W., from the\nIsland Ducie to that of Lazareff. This group covers an area of 370\nsquare leagues, and it is formed of sixty groups of islands, among\nwhich the Gambier group is remarkable, over which France exercises\nsway. These are coral islands, slowly raised, but continuous, created\nby the daily work of polypi. Then this new island will be joined later\non to the neighboring groups, and a fifth continent will stretch from\nNew Zealand and New Caledonia, and from thence to the Marquesas.\n\nOne day, when I was suggesting this theory to Captain Nemo, he replied\ncoldly:\n\n The earth does not want new continents, but new men. \n\nChance had conducted the _Nautilus_ towards the Island of\nClermont-Tonnere, one of the most curious of the group, that was\ndiscovered in 1822 by Captain Bell of the Minerva. I could study now\nthe madreporal system, to which are due the islands in this ocean.\n\nMadrepores (which must not be mistaken for corals) have a tissue lined\nwith a calcareous crust, and the modifications of its structure have\ninduced M. Milne Edwards, my worthy master, to class them into five\nsections. The animalcule that the marine polypus secretes live by\nmillions at the bottom of their cells. Their calcareous deposits become\nrocks, reefs, and large and small islands. Here they form a ring,\nsurrounding a little inland lake, that communicates with the sea by\nmeans of gaps. There they make barriers of reefs like those on the\ncoasts of New Caledonia and the various Pomoton islands. In other\nplaces, like those at Reunion and at Maurice, they raise fringed reefs,\nhigh, straight walls, near which the depth of the ocean is\nconsiderable.\n\nSome cable-lengths off the shores of the Island of Clermont I admired\nthe gigantic work accomplished by these microscopical workers. These\nwalls are specially the work of those madrepores known as milleporas,\nporites, madrepores, and astraeas. These polypi are found particularly\nin the rough beds of the sea, near the surface; and consequently it is\nfrom the upper part that they begin their operations, in which they\nbury themselves by degrees with the debris of the secretions that\nsupport them. Such is, at least, Darwin s theory, who thus explains the\nformation of the _atolls_, a superior theory (to my mind) to that given\nof the foundation of the madreporical works, summits of mountains or\nvolcanoes, that are submerged some feet below the level of the sea.\n\nI could observe closely these curious walls, for perpendicularly they\nwere more than 300 yards deep, and our electric sheets lighted up this\ncalcareous matter brilliantly. Replying to a question Conseil asked me\nas to the time these colossal barriers took to be raised, I astonished\nhim much by telling him that learned men reckoned it about the eighth\nof an inch in a hundred years.\n\nTowards evening Clermont-Tonnerre was lost in the distance, and the\nroute of the _Nautilus_ was sensibly changed. After having crossed the\ntropic of Capricorn in 135  longitude, it sailed W.N.W., making again\nfor the tropical zone. Although the summer sun was very strong, we did\nnot suffer from heat, for at fifteen or twenty fathoms below the\nsurface, the temperature did not rise above from ten to twelve degrees.\n\nOn 15th of December, we left to the east the bewitching group of the\nSocieties and the graceful Tahiti, queen of the Pacific. I saw in the\nmorning, some miles to the windward, the elevated summits of the\nisland. These waters furnished our table with excellent fish, mackerel,\nbonitos, and some varieties of a sea-serpent.\n\nOn the 25th of December the _Nautilus_ sailed into the midst of the New\nHebrides, discovered by Quiros in 1606, and that Bougainville explored\nin 1768, and to which Cook gave its present name in 1773. This group is\ncomposed principally of nine large islands, that form a band of 120\nleagues N.N.S. to S.S.W., between 15  and 2  S. lat., and 164 deg. and\n168  long. We passed tolerably near to the Island of Aurou, that at\nnoon looked like a mass of green woods, surmounted by a peak of great\nheight.\n\nThat day being Christmas Day, Ned Land seemed to regret sorely the\nnon-celebration of  Christmas,  the family fete of which Protestants\nare so fond. I had not seen Captain Nemo for a week, when, on the\nmorning of the 27th, he came into the large drawing-room, always\nseeming as if he had seen you five minutes before. I was busily tracing\nthe route of the _Nautilus_ on the planisphere. The Captain came up to\nme, put his finger on one spot on the chart, and said this single word.\n\n Vanikoro. \n\nThe effect was magical! It was the name of the islands on which La\nPerouse had been lost! I rose suddenly.\n\n The _Nautilus_ has brought us to Vanikoro?  I asked.\n\n Yes, Professor,  said the Captain.\n\n And I can visit the celebrated islands where the Boussole and the\nAstrolabe struck? \n\n If you like, Professor. \n\n When shall we be there? \n\n We are there now. \n\nFollowed by Captain Nemo, I went up on to the platform, and greedily\nscanned the horizon.\n\nTo the N.E. two volcanic islands emerged of unequal size, surrounded by\na coral reef that measured forty miles in circumference. We were close\nto Vanikoro, really the one to which Dumont d Urville gave the name of\nIsle de la Recherche, and exactly facing the little harbour of Vanou,\nsituated in 16  4  S. lat., and 164  32  E. long. The earth seemed\ncovered with verdure from the shore to the summits in the interior,\nthat were crowned by Mount Kapogo, 476 feet high. The _Nautilus_,\nhaving passed the outer belt of rocks by a narrow strait, found itself\namong breakers where the sea was from thirty to forty fathoms deep.\nUnder the verdant shade of some mangroves I perceived some savages, who\nappeared greatly surprised at our approach. In the long black body,\nmoving between wind and water, did they not see some formidable\ncetacean that they regarded with suspicion?\n\nJust then Captain Nemo asked me what I knew about the wreck of La\nPerouse.\n\n Only what everyone knows, Captain,  I replied.\n\n And could you tell me what everyone knows about it?  he inquired,\nironically.\n\n Easily. \n\nI related to him all that the last works of Dumont d Urville had made\nknown works from which the following is a brief account.\n\nLa Perouse, and his second, Captain de Langle, were sent by Louis XVI,\nin 1785, on a voyage of circumnavigation. They embarked in the\ncorvettes Boussole and the Astrolabe, neither of which were again heard\nof. In 1791, the French Government, justly uneasy as to the fate of\nthese two sloops, manned two large merchantmen, the Recherche and the\nEsperance, which left Brest the 28th of September under the command of\nBruni d Entrecasteaux.\n\nTwo months after, they learned from Bowen, commander of the Albemarle,\nthat the debris of shipwrecked vessels had been seen on the coasts of\nNew Georgia. But D Entrecasteaux, ignoring this communication rather\nuncertain, besides directed his course towards the Admiralty Islands,\nmentioned in a report of Captain Hunter s as being the place where La\nPerouse was wrecked.\n\nThey sought in vain. The Esperance and the Recherche passed before\nVanikoro without stopping there, and, in fact, this voyage was most\ndisastrous, as it cost D Entrecasteaux his life, and those of two of\nhis lieutenants, besides several of his crew.\n\nCaptain Dillon, a shrewd old Pacific sailor, was the first to find\nunmistakable traces of the wrecks. On the 15th of May, 1824, his\nvessel, the St. Patrick, passed close to Tikopia, one of the New\nHebrides. There a Lascar came alongside in a canoe, sold him the handle\nof a sword in silver that bore the print of characters engraved on the\nhilt. The Lascar pretended that six years before, during a stay at\nVanikoro, he had seen two Europeans that belonged to some vessels that\nhad run aground on the reefs some years ago.\n\nDillon guessed that he meant La Perouse, whose disappearance had\ntroubled the whole world. He tried to get on to Vanikoro, where,\naccording to the Lascar, he would find numerous debris of the wreck,\nbut winds and tides prevented him.\n\nDillon returned to Calcutta. There he interested the Asiatic Society\nand the Indian Company in his discovery. A vessel, to which was given\nthe name of the Recherche, was put at his disposal, and he set out,\n23rd January, 1827, accompanied by a French agent.\n\nThe Recherche, after touching at several points in the Pacific, cast\nanchor before Vanikoro, 7th July, 1827, in that same harbour of Vanou\nwhere the _Nautilus_ was at this time.\n\nThere it collected numerous relics of the wreck iron utensils, anchors,\npulley-strops, swivel-guns, an 18 lbs. shot, fragments of astronomical\ninstruments, a piece of crown work, and a bronze clock, bearing this\ninscription Bazin m a fait,  the mark of the foundry of the arsenal at\nBrest about 1785. There could be no further doubt.\n\nDillon, having made all inquiries, stayed in the unlucky place till\nOctober. Then he quitted Vanikoro, and directed his course towards New\nZealand; put into Calcutta, 7th April, 1828, and returned to France,\nwhere he was warmly welcomed by Charles X.\n\nBut at the same time, without knowing Dillon s movements, Dumont\nd Urville had already set out to find the scene of the wreck. And they\nhad learned from a whaler that some medals and a cross of St. Louis had\nbeen found in the hands of some savages of Louisiade and New Caledonia.\nDumont d Urville, commander of the Astrolabe, had then sailed, and two\nmonths after Dillon had left Vanikoro he put into Hobart Town. There he\nlearned the results of Dillon s inquiries, and found that a certain\nJames Hobbs, second lieutenant of the Union of Calcutta, after landing\non an island situated 8  18  S. lat., and 156  30  E. long., had seen\nsome iron bars and red stuffs used by the natives of these parts.\nDumont d Urville, much perplexed, and not knowing how to credit the\nreports of low-class journals, decided to follow Dillon s track.\n\nOn the 10th of February, 1828, the Astrolabe appeared off Tikopia, and\ntook as guide and interpreter a deserter found on the island; made his\nway to Vanikoro, sighted it on the 12th inst., lay among the reefs\nuntil the 14th, and not until the 20th did he cast anchor within the\nbarrier in the harbour of Vanou.\n\nOn the 23rd, several officers went round the island and brought back\nsome unimportant trifles. The natives, adopting a system of denials and\nevasions, refused to take them to the unlucky place. This ambiguous\nconduct led them to believe that the natives had ill-treated the\ncastaways, and indeed they seemed to fear that Dumont d Urville had\ncome to avenge La Perouse and his unfortunate crew.\n\nHowever, on the 26th, appeased by some presents, and understanding that\nthey had no reprisals to fear, they led M. Jacquireot to the scene of\nthe wreck.\n\nThere, in three or four fathoms of water, between the reefs of Pacou\nand Vanou, lay anchors, cannons, pigs of lead and iron, embedded in the\nlimy concretions. The large boat and the whaler belonging to the\nAstrolabe were sent to this place, and, not without some difficulty,\ntheir crews hauled up an anchor weighing 1,800 lbs., a brass gun, some\npigs of iron, and two copper swivel-guns.\n\nDumont d Urville, questioning the natives, learned too that La Perouse,\nafter losing both his vessels on the reefs of this island, had\nconstructed a smaller boat, only to be lost a second time. Where, no\none knew.\n\nBut the French Government, fearing that Dumont d Urville was not\nacquainted with Dillon s movements, had sent the sloop Bayonnaise,\ncommanded by Legoarant de Tromelin, to Vanikoro, which had been\nstationed on the west coast of America. The Bayonnaise cast her anchor\nbefore Vanikoro some months after the departure of the Astrolabe, but\nfound no new document; but stated that the savages had respected the\nmonument to La Perouse. That is the substance of what I told Captain\nNemo.\n\n So,  he said,  no one knows now where the third vessel perished that\nwas constructed by the castaways on the island of Vanikoro? \n\n No one knows. \n\nCaptain Nemo said nothing, but signed to me to follow him into the\nlarge saloon. The _Nautilus_ sank several yards below the waves, and\nthe panels were opened.\n\nI hastened to the aperture, and under the crustations of coral, covered\nwith fungi, syphonules, alcyons, madrepores, through myriads of\ncharming fish girelles, glyphisidri, pompherides, diacopes, and\nholocentres I recognised certain debris that the drags had not been\nable to tear up iron stirrups, anchors, cannons, bullets, capstan\nfittings, the stem of a ship, all objects clearly proving the wreck of\nsome vessel, and now carpeted with living flowers. While I was looking\non this desolate scene, Captain Nemo said, in a sad voice:\n\n Commander La Perouse set out 7th December, 1785, with his vessels La\nBoussole and the Astrolabe. He first cast anchor at Botany Bay, visited\nthe Friendly Isles, New Caledonia, then directed his course towards\nSanta Cruz, and put into Namouka, one of the Hapai group. Then his\nvessels struck on the unknown reefs of Vanikoro. The Boussole, which\nwent first, ran aground on the southerly coast. The Astrolabe went to\nits help, and ran aground too. The first vessel was destroyed almost\nimmediately. The second, stranded under the wind, resisted some days.\nThe natives made the castaways welcome. They installed themselves in\nthe island, and constructed a smaller boat with the debris of the two\nlarge ones. Some sailors stayed willingly at Vanikoro; the others, weak\nand ill, set out with La Perouse. They directed their course towards\nthe Solomon Islands, and there perished, with everything, on the\nwesterly coast of the chief island of the group, between Capes\nDeception and Satisfaction. \n\n How do you know that? \n\n By this, that I found on the spot where was the last wreck. \n\nCaptain Nemo showed me a tin-plate box, stamped with the French arms,\nand corroded by the salt water. He opened it, and I saw a bundle of\npapers, yellow but still readable.\n\nThey were the instructions of the naval minister to Commander La\nPerouse, annotated in the margin in Louis XVI s handwriting.\n\n Ah! it is a fine death for a sailor!  said Captain Nemo, at last.  A\ncoral tomb makes a quiet grave; and I trust that I and my comrades will\nfind no other. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\nTORRES STRAITS\n\n\nDuring the night of the 27th or 28th of December, the _Nautilus_ left\nthe shores of Vanikoro with great speed. Her course was south-westerly,\nand in three days she had gone over the 750 leagues that separated it\nfrom La Perouse s group and the south-east point of Papua.\n\nEarly on the 1st of January, 1863, Conseil joined me on the platform.\n\n Master, will you permit me to wish you a happy New Year? \n\n What! Conseil; exactly as if I was at Paris in my study at the Jardin\ndes Plantes? Well, I accept your good wishes, and thank you for them.\nOnly, I will ask you what you mean by a  Happy New Year  under our\ncircumstances? Do you mean the year that will bring us to the end of\nour imprisonment, or the year that sees us continue this strange\nvoyage? \n\n Really, I do not know how to answer, master. We are sure to see\ncurious things, and for the last two months we have not had time for\ndullness. The last marvel is always the most astonishing; and, if we\ncontinue this progression, I do not know how it will end. It is my\nopinion that we shall never again see the like. I think then, with no\noffence to master, that a happy year would be one in which we could see\neverything. \n\nOn 2nd January we had made 11,340 miles, or 5,250 French leagues, since\nour starting-point in the Japan Seas. Before the ship s head stretched\nthe dangerous shores of the coral sea, on the north-east coast of\nAustralia. Our boat lay along some miles from the redoubtable bank on\nwhich Cook s vessel was lost, 10th June, 1770. The boat in which Cook\nwas struck on a rock, and, if it did not sink, it was owing to a piece\nof coral that was broken by the shock, and fixed itself in the broken\nkeel.\n\nI had wished to visit the reef, 360 leagues long, against which the\nsea, always rough, broke with great violence, with a noise like\nthunder. But just then the inclined planes drew the _Nautilus_ down to\na great depth, and I could see nothing of the high coral walls. I had\nto content myself with the different specimens of fish brought up by\nthe nets. I remarked, among others, some germons, a species of mackerel\nas large as a tunny, with bluish sides, and striped with transverse\nbands, that disappear with the animal s life.\n\nThese fish followed us in shoals, and furnished us with very delicate\nfood. We took also a large number of gilt-heads, about one and a half\ninches long, tasting like dorys; and flying pyrapeds like submarine\nswallows, which, in dark nights, light alternately the air and water\nwith their phosphorescent light. Among the molluscs and zoophytes, I\nfound in the meshes of the net several species of alcyonarians, echini,\nhammers, spurs, dials, cerites, and hyalleae. The flora was represented\nby beautiful floating seaweeds, laminariae, and macrocystes,\nimpregnated with the mucilage that transudes through their pores; and\namong which I gathered an admirable Nemastoma Geliniarois, that was\nclassed among the natural curiosities of the museum.\n\nTwo days after crossing the coral sea, 4th January, we sighted the\nPapuan coasts. On this occasion, Captain Nemo informed me that his\nintention was to get into the Indian Ocean by the Strait of Torres. His\ncommunication ended there.\n\nThe Torres Straits are nearly thirty-four leagues wide; but they are\nobstructed by an innumerable quantity of islands, islets, breakers, and\nrocks, that make its navigation almost impracticable; so that Captain\nNemo took all needful precautions to cross them. The _Nautilus_,\nfloating betwixt wind and water, went at a moderate pace. Her screw,\nlike a cetacean s tail, beat the waves slowly.\n\nProfiting by this, I and my two companions went up on to the deserted\nplatform. Before us was the steersman s cage, and I expected that\nCaptain Nemo was there directing the course of the _Nautilus_. I had\nbefore me the excellent charts of the Straits of Torres, and I\nconsulted them attentively. Round the _Nautilus_ the sea dashed\nfuriously. The course of the waves, that went from south-east to\nnorth-west at the rate of two and a half miles, broke on the coral that\nshowed itself here and there.\n\n This is a bad sea!  remarked Ned Land.\n\n Detestable indeed, and one that does not suit a boat like the\n_Nautilus_. \n\n The Captain must be very sure of his route, for I see there pieces of\ncoral that would do for its keel if it only touched them slightly. \n\nIndeed the situation was dangerous, but the _Nautilus_ seemed to slide\nlike magic off these rocks. It did not follow the routes of the\nAstrolabe and the Zelee exactly, for they proved fatal to Dumont\nd Urville. It bore more northwards, coasted the Islands of Murray, and\ncame back to the south-west towards Cumberland Passage. I thought it\nwas going to pass it by, when, going back to north-west, it went\nthrough a large quantity of islands and islets little known, towards\nthe Island Sound and Canal Mauvais.\n\nI wondered if Captain Nemo, foolishly imprudent, would steer his vessel\ninto that pass where Dumont d Urville s two corvettes touched; when,\nswerving again, and cutting straight through to the west, he steered\nfor the Island of Gilboa.\n\nIt was then three in the afternoon. The tide began to recede, being\nquite full. The _Nautilus_ approached the island, that I still saw,\nwith its remarkable border of screw-pines. He stood off it at about two\nmiles distant. Suddenly a shock overthrew me. The _Nautilus_ just\ntouched a rock, and stayed immovable, laying lightly to port side.\n\nWhen I rose, I perceived Captain Nemo and his lieutenant on the\nplatform. They were examining the situation of the vessel, and\nexchanging words in their incomprehensible dialect.\n\nShe was situated thus: Two miles, on the starboard side, appeared\nGilboa, stretching from north to west like an immense arm. Towards the\nsouth and east some coral showed itself, left by the ebb. We had run\naground, and in one of those seas where the tides are middling a sorry\nmatter for the floating of the _Nautilus_. However, the vessel had not\nsuffered, for her keel was solidly joined. But, if she could neither\nglide off nor move, she ran the risk of being for ever fastened to\nthese rocks, and then Captain Nemo s submarine vessel would be done\nfor.\n\nI was reflecting thus, when the Captain, cool and calm, always master\nof himself, approached me.\n\n An accident?  I asked.\n\n No; an incident. \n\n But an incident that will oblige you perhaps to become an inhabitant\nof this land from which you flee? \n\nCaptain Nemo looked at me curiously, and made a negative gesture, as\nmuch as to say that nothing would force him to set foot on terra firma\nagain. Then he said:\n\n Besides, M. Aronnax, the _Nautilus_ is not lost; it will carry you yet\ninto the midst of the marvels of the ocean. Our voyage is only begun,\nand I do not wish to be deprived so soon of the honour of your\ncompany. \n\n However, Captain Nemo,  I replied, without noticing the ironical turn\nof his phrase,  the _Nautilus_ ran aground in open sea. Now the tides\nare not strong in the Pacific; and, if you cannot lighten the\n_Nautilus_, I do not see how it will be reinflated. \n\n The tides are not strong in the Pacific: you are right there,\nProfessor; but in Torres Straits one finds still a difference of a yard\nand a half between the level of high and low seas. To-day is 4th\nJanuary, and in five days the moon will be full. Now, I shall be very\nmuch astonished if that satellite does not raise these masses of water\nsufficiently, and render me a service that I should be indebted to her\nfor. \n\nHaving said this, Captain Nemo, followed by his lieutenant, redescended\nto the interior of the _Nautilus_. As to the vessel, it moved not, and\nwas immovable, as if the coralline polypi had already walled it up with\ntheir in destructible cement.\n\n Well, sir?  said Ned Land, who came up to me after the departure of\nthe Captain.\n\n Well, friend Ned, we will wait patiently for the tide on the 9th\ninstant; for it appears that the moon will have the goodness to put it\noff again. \n\n Really? \n\n Really. \n\n And this Captain is not going to cast anchor at all since the tide\nwill suffice?  said Conseil, simply.\n\nThe Canadian looked at Conseil, then shrugged his shoulders.\n\n Sir, you may believe me when I tell you that this piece of iron will\nnavigate neither on nor under the sea again; it is only fit to be sold\nfor its weight. I think, therefore, that the time has come to part\ncompany with Captain Nemo. \n\n Friend Ned, I do not despair of this stout _Nautilus_, as you do; and\nin four days we shall know what to hold to on the Pacific tides.\nBesides, flight might be possible if we were in sight of the English or\nProvencal coast; but on the Papuan shores, it is another thing; and it\nwill be time enough to come to that extremity if the _Nautilus_ does\nnot recover itself again, which I look upon as a grave event. \n\n But do they know, at least, how to act circumspectly? There is an\nisland; on that island there are trees; under those trees, terrestrial\nanimals, bearers of cutlets and roast beef, to which I would willingly\ngive a trial. \n\n In this, friend Ned is right,  said Conseil,  and I agree with him.\nCould not master obtain permission from his friend Captain Nemo to put\nus on land, if only so as not to lose the habit of treading on the\nsolid parts of our planet? \n\n I can ask him, but he will refuse. \n\n Will master risk it?  asked Conseil,  and we shall know how to rely\nupon the Captain s amiability. \n\nTo my great surprise, Captain Nemo gave me the permission I asked for,\nand he gave it very agreeably, without even exacting from me a promise\nto return to the vessel; but flight across New Guinea might be very\nperilous, and I should not have counselled Ned Land to attempt it.\nBetter to be a prisoner on board the _Nautilus_ than to fall into the\nhands of the natives.\n\nAt eight o clock, armed with guns and hatchets, we got off the\n_Nautilus_. The sea was pretty calm; a slight breeze blew on land.\nConseil and I rowing, we sped along quickly, and Ned steered in the\nstraight passage that the breakers left between them. The boat was well\nhandled, and moved rapidly.\n\nNed Land could not restrain his joy. He was like a prisoner that had\nescaped from prison, and knew not that it was necessary to re-enter it.\n\n Meat! We are going to eat some meat; and what meat!  he replied.  Real\ngame! no, bread, indeed. \n\n I do not say that fish is not good; we must not abuse it; but a piece\nof fresh venison, grilled on live coals, will agreeably vary our\nordinary course. \n\n Glutton!  said Conseil,  he makes my mouth water. \n\n It remains to be seen,  I said,  if these forests are full of game,\nand if the game is not such as will hunt the hunter himself. \n\n Well said, M. Aronnax,  replied the Canadian, whose teeth seemed\nsharpened like the edge of a hatchet;  but I will eat tiger loin of\ntiger if there is no other quadruped on this island. \n\n Friend Ned is uneasy about it,  said Conseil.\n\n Whatever it may be,  continued Ned Land,  every animal with four paws\nwithout feathers, or with two paws without feathers, will be saluted by\nmy first shot. \n\n Very well! Master Land s imprudences are beginning. \n\n Never fear, M. Aronnax,  replied the Canadian;  I do not want\ntwenty-five minutes to offer you a dish, of my sort. \n\nAt half-past eight the _Nautilus_ boat ran softly aground on a heavy\nsand, after having happily passed the coral reef that surrounds the\nIsland of Gilboa.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\nA FEW DAYS ON LAND\n\n\nI was much impressed on touching land. Ned Land tried the soil with his\nfeet, as if to take possession of it. However, it was only two months\nbefore that we had become, according to Captain Nemo,  passengers on\nboard the _Nautilus_,  but, in reality, prisoners of its commander.\n\nIn a few minutes we were within musket-shot of the coast. The whole\nhorizon was hidden behind a beautiful curtain of forests. Enormous\ntrees, the trunks of which attained a height of 200 feet, were tied to\neach other by garlands of bindweed, real natural hammocks, which a\nlight breeze rocked. They were mimosas, figs, hibisci, and palm trees,\nmingled together in profusion; and under the shelter of their verdant\nvault grew orchids, leguminous plants, and ferns.\n\nBut, without noticing all these beautiful specimens of Papuan flora,\nthe Canadian abandoned the agreeable for the useful. He discovered a\ncoco-tree, beat down some of the fruit, broke them, and we drunk the\nmilk and ate the nut with a satisfaction that protested against the\nordinary food on the _Nautilus_.\n\n Excellent!  said Ned Land.\n\n Exquisite!  replied Conseil.\n\n And I do not think,  said the Canadian,  that he would object to our\nintroducing a cargo of coco-nuts on board. \n\n I do not think he would, but he would not taste them. \n\n So much the worse for him,  said Conseil.\n\n And so much the better for us,  replied Ned Land.  There will be more\nfor us. \n\n One word only, Master Land,  I said to the harpooner, who was\nbeginning to ravage another coco-nut tree.  Coco-nuts are good things,\nbut before filling the canoe with them it would be wise to reconnoitre\nand see if the island does not produce some substance not less useful.\nFresh vegetables would be welcome on board the _Nautilus_. \n\n Master is right,  replied Conseil;  and I propose to reserve three\nplaces in our vessel, one for fruits, the other for vegetables, and the\nthird for the venison, of which I have not yet seen the smallest\nspecimen. \n\n Conseil, we must not despair,  said the Canadian.\n\n Let us continue,  I returned,  and lie in wait. Although the island\nseems uninhabited, it might still contain some individuals that would\nbe less hard than we on the nature of game. \n\n Ho! ho!  said Ned Land, moving his jaws significantly.\n\n Well, Ned!  said Conseil.\n\n My word!  returned the Canadian,  I begin to understand the charms of\nanthropophagy. \n\n Ned! Ned! what are you saying? You, a man-eater? I should not feel\nsafe with you, especially as I share your cabin. I might perhaps wake\none day to find myself half devoured. \n\n Friend Conseil, I like you much, but not enough to eat you\nunnecessarily. \n\n I would not trust you,  replied Conseil.  But enough. We must\nabsolutely bring down some game to satisfy this cannibal, or else one\nof these fine mornings, master will find only pieces of his servant to\nserve him. \n\nWhile we were talking thus, we were penetrating the sombre arches of\nthe forest, and for two hours we surveyed it in all directions.\n\nChance rewarded our search for eatable vegetables, and one of the most\nuseful products of the tropical zones furnished us with precious food\nthat we missed on board. I would speak of the bread-fruit tree, very\nabundant in the island of Gilboa; and I remarked chiefly the variety\ndestitute of seeds, which bears in Malaya the name of  rima. \n\nNed Land knew these fruits well. He had already eaten many during his\nnumerous voyages, and he knew how to prepare the eatable substance.\nMoreover, the sight of them excited him, and he could contain himself\nno longer.\n\n Master,  he said,  I shall die if I do not taste a little of this\nbread-fruit pie. \n\n Taste it, friend Ned taste it as you want. We are here to make\nexperiments make them. \n\n It won t take long,  said the Canadian.\n\nAnd, provided with a lentil, he lighted a fire of dead wood that\ncrackled joyously. During this time, Conseil and I chose the best\nfruits of the bread-fruit. Some had not then attained a sufficient\ndegree of maturity; and their thick skin covered a white but rather\nfibrous pulp. Others, the greater number yellow and gelatinous, waited\nonly to be picked.\n\nThese fruits enclosed no kernel. Conseil brought a dozen to Ned Land,\nwho placed them on a coal fire, after having cut them in thick slices,\nand while doing this repeating:\n\n You will see, master, how good this bread is. More so when one has\nbeen deprived of it so long. It is not even bread,  added he,  but a\ndelicate pastry. You have eaten none, master? \n\n No, Ned. \n\n Very well, prepare yourself for a juicy thing. If you do not come for\nmore, I am no longer the king of harpooners. \n\nAfter some minutes, the part of the fruits that was exposed to the fire\nwas completely roasted. The interior looked like a white pasty, a sort\nof soft crumb, the flavour of which was like that of an artichoke.\n\nIt must be confessed this bread was excellent, and I ate of it with\ngreat relish.\n\n What time is it now?  asked the Canadian.\n\n Two o clock at least,  replied Conseil.\n\n How time flies on firm ground!  sighed Ned Land.\n\n Let us be off,  replied Conseil.\n\nWe returned through the forest, and completed our collection by a raid\nupon the cabbage-palms, that we gathered from the tops of the trees,\nlittle beans that I recognised as the  abrou  of the Malays, and yams\nof a superior quality.\n\nWe were loaded when we reached the boat. But Ned Land did not find his\nprovisions sufficient. Fate, however, favoured us. Just as we were\npushing off, he perceived several trees, from twenty-five to thirty\nfeet high, a species of palm-tree.\n\nAt last, at five o clock in the evening, loaded with our riches, we\nquitted the shore, and half an hour after we hailed the _Nautilus_. No\none appeared on our arrival. The enormous iron-plated cylinder seemed\ndeserted. The provisions embarked, I descended to my chamber, and after\nsupper slept soundly.\n\nThe next day, 6th January, nothing new on board. Not a sound inside,\nnot a sign of life. The boat rested along the edge, in the same place\nin which we had left it. We resolved to return to the island. Ned Land\nhoped to be more fortunate than on the day before with regard to the\nhunt, and wished to visit another part of the forest.\n\nAt dawn we set off. The boat, carried on by the waves that flowed to\nshore, reached the island in a few minutes.\n\nWe landed, and, thinking that it was better to give in to the Canadian,\nwe followed Ned Land, whose long limbs threatened to distance us. He\nwound up the coast towards the west: then, fording some torrents, he\ngained the high plain that was bordered with admirable forests. Some\nkingfishers were rambling along the water-courses, but they would not\nlet themselves be approached. Their circumspection proved to me that\nthese birds knew what to expect from bipeds of our species, and I\nconcluded that, if the island was not inhabited, at least human beings\noccasionally frequented it.\n\nAfter crossing a rather large prairie, we arrived at the skirts of a\nlittle wood that was enlivened by the songs and flight of a large\nnumber of birds.\n\n There are only birds,  said Conseil.\n\n But they are eatable,  replied the harpooner.\n\n I do not agree with you, friend Ned, for I see only parrots there. \n\n Friend Conseil,  said Ned, gravely,  the parrot is like pheasant to\nthose who have nothing else. \n\n And,  I added,  this bird, suitably prepared, is worth knife and\nfork. \n\nIndeed, under the thick foliage of this wood, a world of parrots were\nflying from branch to branch, only needing a careful education to speak\nthe human language. For the moment, they were chattering with parrots\nof all colours, and grave cockatoos, who seemed to meditate upon some\nphilosophical problem, whilst brilliant red lories passed like a piece\nof bunting carried away by the breeze, papuans, with the finest azure\ncolours, and in all a variety of winged things most charming to behold,\nbut few eatable.\n\nHowever, a bird peculiar to these lands, and which has never passed the\nlimits of the Arrow and Papuan islands, was wanting in this collection.\nBut fortune reserved it for me before long.\n\nAfter passing through a moderately thick copse, we found a plain\nobstructed with bushes. I saw then those magnificent birds, the\ndisposition of whose long feathers obliges them to fly against the\nwind. Their undulating flight, graceful aerial curves, and the shading\nof their colours, attracted and charmed one s looks. I had no trouble\nin recognising them.\n\n Birds of paradise!  I exclaimed.\n\nThe Malays, who carry on a great trade in these birds with the Chinese,\nhave several means that we could not employ for taking them. Sometimes\nthey put snares on the top of high trees that the birds of paradise\nprefer to frequent. Sometimes they catch them with a viscous birdlime\nthat paralyses their movements. They even go so far as to poison the\nfountains that the birds generally drink from. But we were obliged to\nfire at them during flight, which gave us few chances to bring them\ndown; and, indeed, we vainly exhausted one half our ammunition.\n\nAbout eleven o clock in the morning, the first range of mountains that\nform the centre of the island was traversed, and we had killed nothing.\nHunger drove us on. The hunters had relied on the products of the\nchase, and they were wrong. Happily Conseil, to his great surprise,\nmade a double shot and secured breakfast. He brought down a white\npigeon and a wood-pigeon, which, cleverly plucked and suspended from a\nskewer, was roasted before a red fire of dead wood. While these\ninteresting birds were cooking, Ned prepared the fruit of the\nbread-tree. Then the wood-pigeons were devoured to the bones, and\ndeclared excellent. The nutmeg, with which they are in the habit of\nstuffing their crops, flavours their flesh and renders it delicious\neating.\n\n Now, Ned, what do you miss now? \n\n Some four-footed game, M. Aronnax. All these pigeons are only\nside-dishes and trifles; and until I have killed an animal with cutlets\nI shall not be content. \n\n Nor I, Ned, if I do not catch a bird of paradise. \n\n Let us continue hunting,  replied Conseil.  Let us go towards the sea.\nWe have arrived at the first declivities of the mountains, and I think\nwe had better regain the region of forests. \n\nThat was sensible advice, and was followed out. After walking for one\nhour we had attained a forest of sago-trees. Some inoffensive serpents\nglided away from us. The birds of paradise fled at our approach, and\ntruly I despaired of getting near one when Conseil, who was walking in\nfront, suddenly bent down, uttered a triumphal cry, and came back to me\nbringing a magnificent specimen.\n\n Ah! bravo, Conseil! \n\n Master is very good. \n\n No, my boy; you have made an excellent stroke. Take one of these\nliving birds, and carry it in your hand. \n\n If master will examine it, he will see that I have not deserved great\nmerit. \n\n Why, Conseil? \n\n Because this bird is as drunk as a quail. \n\n Drunk! \n\n Yes, sir; drunk with the nutmegs that it devoured under the\nnutmeg-tree, under which I found it. See, friend Ned, see the monstrous\neffects of intemperance! \n\n By Jove!  exclaimed the Canadian,  because I have drunk gin for two\nmonths, you must needs reproach me! \n\nHowever, I examined the curious bird. Conseil was right. The bird,\ndrunk with the juice, was quite powerless. It could not fly; it could\nhardly walk.\n\nThis bird belonged to the most beautiful of the eight species that are\nfound in Papua and in the neighbouring islands. It was the  large\nemerald bird, the most rare kind.  It measured three feet in length.\nIts head was comparatively small, its eyes placed near the opening of\nthe beak, and also small. But the shades of colour were beautiful,\nhaving a yellow beak, brown feet and claws, nut-coloured wings with\npurple tips, pale yellow at the back of the neck and head, and emerald\ncolour at the throat, chestnut on the breast and belly. Two horned,\ndowny nets rose from below the tail, that prolonged the long light\nfeathers of admirable fineness, and they completed the whole of this\nmarvellous bird, that the natives have poetically named the  bird of\nthe sun. \n\nBut if my wishes were satisfied by the possession of the bird of\nparadise, the Canadian s were not yet. Happily, about two o clock, Ned\nLand brought down a magnificent hog; from the brood of those the\nnatives call  bari-outang.  The animal came in time for us to procure\nreal quadruped meat, and he was well received. Ned Land was very proud\nof his shot. The hog, hit by the electric ball, fell stone dead. The\nCanadian skinned and cleaned it properly, after having taken half a\ndozen cutlets, destined to furnish us with a grilled repast in the\nevening. Then the hunt was resumed, which was still more marked by Ned\nand Conseil s exploits.\n\nIndeed, the two friends, beating the bushes, roused a herd of kangaroos\nthat fled and bounded along on their elastic paws. But these animals\ndid not take to flight so rapidly but what the electric capsule could\nstop their course.\n\n Ah, Professor!  cried Ned Land, who was carried away by the delights\nof the chase,  what excellent game, and stewed, too! What a supply for\nthe _Nautilus!_ Two! three! five down! And to think that we shall eat\nthat flesh, and that the idiots on board shall not have a crumb! \n\nI think that, in the excess of his joy, the Canadian, if he had not\ntalked so much, would have killed them all. But he contented himself\nwith a single dozen of these interesting marsupians. These animals were\nsmall. They were a species of those  kangaroo rabbitss  that live\nhabitually in the hollows of trees, and whose speed is extreme; but\nthey are moderately fat, and furnish, at least, estimable food. We were\nvery satisfied with the results of the hunt. Happy Ned proposed to\nreturn to this enchanting island the next day, for he wished to\ndepopulate it of all the eatable quadrupeds. But he had reckoned\nwithout his host.\n\nAt six o clock in the evening we had regained the shore; our boat was\nmoored to the usual place. The _Nautilus_, like a long rock, emerged\nfrom the waves two miles from the beach. Ned Land, without waiting,\noccupied himself about the important dinner business. He understood all\nabout cooking well. The  bari-outang,  grilled on the coals, soon\nscented the air with a delicious odour.\n\nIndeed, the dinner was excellent. Two wood-pigeons completed this\nextraordinary menu. The sago pasty, the artocarpus bread, some mangoes,\nhalf a dozen pineapples, and the liquor fermented from some coco-nuts,\noverjoyed us. I even think that my worthy companions  ideas had not all\nthe plainness desirable.\n\n Suppose we do not return to the _Nautilus_ this evening?  said\nConseil.\n\n Suppose we never return?  added Ned Land.\n\nJust then a stone fell at our feet and cut short the harpooner s\nproposition.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\nCAPTAIN NEMO S THUNDERBOLT\n\n\nWe looked at the edge of the forest without rising, my hand stopping in\nthe action of putting it to my mouth, Ned Land s completing its office.\n\n Stones do not fall from the sky,  remarked Conseil,  or they would\nmerit the name aerolites. \n\nA second stone, carefully aimed, that made a savoury pigeon s leg fall\nfrom Conseil s hand, gave still more weight to his observation. We all\nthree arose, shouldered our guns, and were ready to reply to any\nattack.\n\n Are they apes?  cried Ned Land.\n\n Very nearly they are savages. \n\n To the boat!  I said, hurrying to the sea.\n\nIt was indeed necessary to beat a retreat, for about twenty natives\narmed with bows and slings appeared on the skirts of a copse that\nmasked the horizon to the right, hardly a hundred steps from us.\n\nOur boat was moored about sixty feet from us. The savages approached\nus, not running, but making hostile demonstrations. Stones and arrows\nfell thickly.\n\nNed Land had not wished to leave his provisions; and, in spite of his\nimminent danger, his pig on one side and kangaroos on the other, he\nwent tolerably fast. In two minutes we were on the shore. To load the\nboat with provisions and arms, to push it out to sea, and ship the\noars, was the work of an instant. We had not gone two cable-lengths,\nwhen a hundred savages, howling and gesticulating, entered the water up\nto their waists. I watched to see if their apparition would attract\nsome men from the _Nautilus_ on to the platform. But no. The enormous\nmachine, lying off, was absolutely deserted.\n\nTwenty minutes later we were on board. The panels were open. After\nmaking the boat fast, we entered into the interior of the _Nautilus_.\n\nI descended to the drawing-room, from whence I heard some chords.\nCaptain Nemo was there, bending over his organ, and plunged in a\nmusical ecstasy.\n\n Captain! \n\nHe did not hear me.\n\n Captain!  I said, touching his hand.\n\nHe shuddered, and, turning round, said,  Ah! it is you, Professor?\nWell, have you had a good hunt, have you botanised successfully? \n\n Yes Captain; but we have unfortunately brought a troop of bipeds,\nwhose vicinity troubles me. \n\n What bipeds? \n\n Savages. \n\n Savages!  he echoed, ironically.  So you are astonished, Professor, at\nhaving set foot on a strange land and finding savages? Savages! where\nare there not any? Besides, are they worse than others, these whom you\ncall savages? \n\n But Captain \n\n How many have you counted? \n\n A hundred at least. \n\n M. Aronnax,  replied Captain Nemo, placing his fingers on the organ\nstops,  when all the natives of Papua are assembled on this shore, the\n_Nautilus_ will have nothing to fear from their attacks. \n\nThe Captain s fingers were then running over the keys of the\ninstrument, and I remarked that he touched only the black keys, which\ngave his melodies an essentially Scotch character. Soon he had\nforgotten my presence, and had plunged into a reverie that I did not\ndisturb. I went up again on to the platform: night had already fallen;\nfor, in this low latitude, the sun sets rapidly and without twilight. I\ncould only see the island indistinctly; but the numerous fires, lighted\non the beach, showed that the natives did not think of leaving it. I\nwas alone for several hours, sometimes thinking of the natives but\nwithout any dread of them, for the imperturbable confidence of the\nCaptain was catching sometimes forgetting them to admire the splendours\nof the night in the tropics. My remembrances went to France in the\ntrain of those zodiacal stars that would shine in some hours  time. The\nmoon shone in the midst of the constellations of the zenith.\n\nThe night slipped away without any mischance, the islanders frightened\nno doubt at the sight of a monster aground in the bay. The panels were\nopen, and would have offered an easy access to the interior of the\n_Nautilus_.\n\nAt six o clock in the morning of the 8th January I went up on to the\nplatform. The dawn was breaking. The island soon showed itself through\nthe dissipating fogs, first the shore, then the summits.\n\nThe natives were there, more numerous than on the day before five or\nsix hundred perhaps some of them, profiting by the low water, had come\non to the coral, at less than two cable-lengths from the _Nautilus_. I\ndistinguished them easily; they were true Papuans, with athletic\nfigures, men of good race, large high foreheads, large, but not broad\nand flat, and white teeth. Their woolly hair, with a reddish tinge,\nshowed off on their black shining bodies like those of the Nubians.\nFrom the lobes of their ears, cut and distended, hung chaplets of\nbones. Most of these savages were naked. Amongst them, I remarked some\nwomen, dressed from the hips to knees in quite a crinoline of herbs,\nthat sustained a vegetable waistband. Some chiefs had ornamented their\nnecks with a crescent and collars of glass beads, red and white; nearly\nall were armed with bows, arrows, and shields and carried on their\nshoulders a sort of net containing those round stones which they cast\nfrom their slings with great skill. One of these chiefs, rather near to\nthe _Nautilus_, examined it attentively. He was, perhaps, a  mado  of\nhigh rank, for he was draped in a mat of banana-leaves, notched round\nthe edges, and set off with brilliant colours.\n\nI could easily have knocked down this native, who was within a short\nlength; but I thought that it was better to wait for real hostile\ndemonstrations. Between Europeans and savages, it is proper for the\nEuropeans to parry sharply, not to attack.\n\nDuring low water the natives roamed about near the _Nautilus_, but were\nnot troublesome; I heard them frequently repeat the word  Assai,  and\nby their gestures I understood that they invited me to go on land, an\ninvitation that I declined.\n\nSo that, on that day, the boat did not push off, to the great\ndispleasure of Master Land, who could not complete his provisions.\n\nThis adroit Canadian employed his time in preparing the viands and meat\nthat he had brought off the island. As for the savages, they returned\nto the shore about eleven o clock in the morning, as soon as the coral\ntops began to disappear under the rising tide; but I saw their numbers\nhad increased considerably on the shore. Probably they came from the\nneighbouring islands, or very likely from Papua. However, I had not\nseen a single native canoe. Having nothing better to do, I thought of\ndragging these beautiful limpid waters, under which I saw a profusion\nof shells, zoophytes, and marine plants. Moreover, it was the last day\nthat the _Nautilus_ would pass in these parts, if it float in open sea\nthe next day, according to Captain Nemo s promise.\n\nI therefore called Conseil, who brought me a little light drag, very\nlike those for the oyster fishery. Now to work! For two hours we fished\nunceasingly, but without bringing up any rarities. The drag was filled\nwith midas-ears, harps, melames, and particularly the most beautiful\nhammers I have ever seen. We also brought up some sea-slugs,\npearl-oysters, and a dozen little turtles that were reserved for the\npantry on board.\n\nBut just when I expected it least, I put my hand on a wonder, I might\nsay a natural deformity, very rarely met with. Conseil was just\ndragging, and his net came up filled with divers ordinary shells, when,\nall at once, he saw me plunge my arm quickly into the net, to draw out\na shell, and heard me utter a cry.\n\n What is the matter, sir?  he asked in surprise.  Has master been\nbitten? \n\n No, my boy; but I would willingly have given a finger for my\ndiscovery. \n\n What discovery? \n\n This shell,  I said, holding up the object of my triumph.\n\n It is simply an olive porphyry, genus olive, order of the\npectinibranchid , class of gasteropods, sub-class mollusca. \n\n Yes, Conseil; but, instead of being rolled from right to left, this\nolive turns from left to right. \n\n Is it possible? \n\n Yes, my boy; it is a left shell. \n\nShells are all right-handed, with rare exceptions; and, when by chance\ntheir spiral is left, amateurs are ready to pay their weight in gold.\n\nConseil and I were absorbed in the contemplation of our treasure, and I\nwas promising myself to enrich the museum with it, when a stone\nunfortunately thrown by a native struck against, and broke, the\nprecious object in Conseil s hand. I uttered a cry of despair! Conseil\ntook up his gun, and aimed at a savage who was poising his sling at ten\nyards from him. I would have stopped him, but his blow took effect and\nbroke the bracelet of amulets which encircled the arm of the savage.\n\n\n[Illustration] Conseil seized his gun\n\n\n Conseil!  cried I.  Conseil! \n\n Well, sir! do you not see that the cannibal has commenced the attack? \n\n A shell is not worth the life of a man,  said I.\n\n Ah! the scoundrel!  cried Conseil;  I would rather he had broken my\nshoulder! \n\nConseil was in earnest, but I was not of his opinion. However, the\nsituation had changed some minutes before, and we had not perceived. A\nscore of canoes surrounded the _Nautilus_. These canoes, scooped out of\nthe trunk of a tree, long, narrow, well adapted for speed, were\nbalanced by means of a long bamboo pole, which floated on the water.\nThey were managed by skilful, half-naked paddlers, and I watched their\nadvance with some uneasiness. It was evident that these Papuans had\nalready had dealings with the Europeans and knew their ships. But this\nlong iron cylinder anchored in the bay, without masts or chimneys, what\ncould they think of it? Nothing good, for at first they kept at a\nrespectful distance. However, seeing it motionless, by degrees they\ntook courage, and sought to familiarise themselves with it. Now this\nfamiliarity was precisely what it was necessary to avoid. Our arms,\nwhich were noiseless, could only produce a moderate effect on the\nsavages, who have little respect for aught but blustering things. The\nthunderbolt without the reverberations of thunder would frighten man\nbut little, though the danger lies in the lightning, not in the noise.\n\nAt this moment the canoes approached the _Nautilus_, and a shower of\narrows alighted on her.\n\nI went down to the saloon, but found no one there. I ventured to knock\nat the door that opened into the Captain s room.  Come in,  was the\nanswer.\n\nI entered, and found Captain Nemo deep in algebraical calculations of\n_x_ and other quantities.\n\n I am disturbing you,  said I, for courtesy s sake.\n\n That is true, M. Aronnax,  replied the Captain;  but I think you have\nserious reasons for wishing to see me? \n\n Very grave ones; the natives are surrounding us in their canoes, and\nin a few minutes we shall certainly be attacked by many hundreds of\nsavages. \n\n Ah!  said Captain Nemo quietly,  they are come with their canoes? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Well, sir, we must close the hatches. \n\n Exactly, and I came to say to you \n\n Nothing can be more simple,  said Captain Nemo. And, pressing an\nelectric button, he transmitted an order to the ship s crew.\n\n It is all done, sir,  said he, after some moments.  The pinnace is\nready, and the hatches are closed. You do not fear, I imagine, that\nthese gentlemen could stave in walls on which the balls of your frigate\nhave had no effect? \n\n No, Captain; but a danger still exists. \n\n What is that, sir? \n\n It is that to-morrow, at about this hour, we must open the hatches to\nrenew the air of the _Nautilus_. Now, if, at this moment, the Papuans\nshould occupy the platform, I do not see how you could prevent them\nfrom entering. \n\n Then, sir, you suppose that they will board us? \n\n I am certain of it. \n\n Well, sir, let them come. I see no reason for hindering them. After\nall, these Papuans are poor creatures, and I am unwilling that my visit\nto the island should cost the life of a single one of these wretches. \n\nUpon that I was going away; But Captain Nemo detained me, and asked me\nto sit down by him. He questioned me with interest about our excursions\non shore, and our hunting; and seemed not to understand the craving for\nmeat that possessed the Canadian. Then the conversation turned on\nvarious subjects, and, without being more communicative, Captain Nemo\nshowed himself more amiable.\n\nAmongst other things, we happened to speak of the situation of the\n_Nautilus_, run aground in exactly the same spot in this strait where\nDumont d Urville was nearly lost. Apropos of this:\n\n This D Urville was one of your great sailors,  said the Captain to me,\n one of your most intelligent navigators. He is the Captain Cook of you\nFrenchmen. Unfortunate man of science, after having braved the icebergs\nof the South Pole, the coral reefs of Oceania, the cannibals of the\nPacific, to perish miserably in a railway train! If this energetic man\ncould have reflected during the last moments of his life, what must\nhave been uppermost in his last thoughts, do you suppose? \n\nSo speaking, Captain Nemo seemed moved, and his emotion gave me a\nbetter opinion of him. Then, chart in hand, we reviewed the travels of\nthe French navigator, his voyages of circumnavigation, his double\ndetention at the South Pole, which led to the discovery of Adelaide and\nLouis Philippe, and fixing the hydrographical bearings of the principal\nislands of Oceania.\n\n That which your D Urville has done on the surface of the seas,  said\nCaptain Nemo,  that have I done under them, and more easily, more\ncompletely than he. The Astrolabe and the Zelee, incessantly tossed\nabout by the hurricane, could not be worth the _Nautilus_, quiet\nrepository of labour that she is, truly motionless in the midst of the\nwaters.\n\n To-morrow,  added the Captain, rising,  to-morrow, at twenty minutes\nto three p.m., the _Nautilus_ shall float, and leave the Strait of\nTorres uninjured. \n\nHaving curtly pronounced these words, Captain Nemo bowed slightly. This\nwas to dismiss me, and I went back to my room.\n\nThere I found Conseil, who wished to know the result of my interview\nwith the Captain.\n\n My boy,  said I,  when I feigned to believe that his _Nautilus_ was\nthreatened by the natives of Papua, the Captain answered me very\nsarcastically. I have but one thing to say to you: Have confidence in\nhim, and go to sleep in peace. \n\n Have you no need of my services, sir? \n\n No, my friend. What is Ned Land doing? \n\n If you will excuse me, sir,  answered Conseil,  friend Ned is busy\nmaking a kangaroo-pie which will be a marvel. \n\nI remained alone and went to bed, but slept indifferently. I heard the\nnoise of the savages, who stamped on the platform, uttering deafening\ncries. The night passed thus, without disturbing the ordinary repose of\nthe crew. The presence of these cannibals affected them no more than\nthe soldiers of a masked battery care for the ants that crawl over its\nfront.\n\nAt six in the morning I rose. The hatches had not been opened. The\ninner air was not renewed, but the reservoirs, filled ready for any\nemergency, were now resorted to, and discharged several cubic feet of\noxygen into the exhausted atmosphere of the _Nautilus_.\n\nI worked in my room till noon, without having seen Captain Nemo, even\nfor an instant. On board no preparations for departure were visible.\n\nI waited still some time, then went into the large saloon. The clock\nmarked half-past two. In ten minutes it would be high-tide: and, if\nCaptain Nemo had not made a rash promise, the _Nautilus_ would be\nimmediately detached. If not, many months would pass ere she could\nleave her bed of coral.\n\nHowever, some warning vibrations began to be felt in the vessel. I\nheard the keel grating against the rough calcareous bottom of the coral\nreef.\n\nAt five-and-twenty minutes to three, Captain Nemo appeared in the\nsaloon.\n\n We are going to start,  said he.\n\n Ah!  replied I.\n\n I have given the order to open the hatches. \n\n And the Papuans? \n\n The Papuans?  answered Captain Nemo, slightly shrugging his shoulders.\n\n Will they not come inside the _Nautilus?_ \n\n How? \n\n Only by leaping over the hatches you have opened. \n\n M. Aronnax,  quietly answered Captain Nemo,  they will not enter the\nhatches of the _Nautilus_ in that way, even if they were open. \n\nI looked at the Captain.\n\n You do not understand?  said he.\n\n Hardly. \n\n Well, come and you will see. \n\nI directed my steps towards the central staircase. There Ned Land and\nConseil were slyly watching some of the ship s crew, who were opening\nthe hatches, while cries of rage and fearful vociferations resounded\noutside.\n\nThe port lids were pulled down outside. Twenty horrible faces appeared.\nBut the first native who placed his hand on the stair-rail, struck from\nbehind by some invisible force, I know not what, fled, uttering the\nmost fearful cries and making the wildest contortions.\n\nTen of his companions followed him. They met with the same fate.\n\nConseil was in ecstasy. Ned Land, carried away by his violent\ninstincts, rushed on to the staircase. But the moment he seized the\nrail with both hands, he, in his turn, was overthrown.\n\n I am struck by a thunderbolt,  cried he, with an oath.\n\nThis explained all. It was no rail; but a metallic cable charged with\nelectricity from the deck communicating with the platform. Whoever\ntouched it felt a powerful shock and this shock would have been mortal\nif Captain Nemo had discharged into the conductor the whole force of\nthe current. It might truly be said that between his assailants and\nhimself he had stretched a network of electricity which none could pass\nwith impunity.\n\nMeanwhile, the exasperated Papuans had beaten a retreat paralysed with\nterror. As for us, half laughing, we consoled and rubbed the\nunfortunate Ned Land, who swore like one possessed.\n\nBut at this moment the _Nautilus_, raised by the last waves of the\ntide, quitted her coral bed exactly at the fortieth minute fixed by the\nCaptain. Her screw swept the waters slowly and majestically. Her speed\nincreased gradually, and, sailing on the surface of the ocean, she\nquitted safe and sound the dangerous passes of the Straits of Torres.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n GRI SOMNIA \n\n\nThe following day 10th January, the _Nautilus_ continued her course\nbetween two seas, but with such remarkable speed that I could not\nestimate it at less than thirty-five miles an hour. The rapidity of her\nscrew was such that I could neither follow nor count its revolutions.\nWhen I reflected that this marvellous electric agent, after having\nafforded motion, heat, and light to the _Nautilus_, still protected her\nfrom outward attack, and transformed her into an ark of safety which no\nprofane hand might touch without being thunderstricken, my admiration\nwas unbounded, and from the structure it extended to the engineer who\nhad called it into existence.\n\nOur course was directed to the west, and on the 11th of January we\ndoubled Cape Wessel, situation in 135  long. and 10  S. lat., which\nforms the east point of the Gulf of Carpentaria. The reefs were still\nnumerous, but more equalised, and marked on the chart with extreme\nprecision. The _Nautilus_ easily avoided the breakers of Money to port\nand the Victoria reefs to starboard, placed at 130  long. and on the\n10th parallel, which we strictly followed.\n\nOn the 13th of January, Captain Nemo arrived in the Sea of Timor, and\nrecognised the island of that name in 122  long.\n\nFrom this point the direction of the _Nautilus_ inclined towards the\nsouth-west. Her head was set for the Indian Ocean. Where would the\nfancy of Captain Nemo carry us next? Would he return to the coast of\nAsia or would he approach again the shores of Europe? Improbable\nconjectures both, to a man who fled from inhabited continents. Then\nwould he descend to the south? Was he going to double the Cape of Good\nHope, then Cape Horn, and finally go as far as the Antarctic pole?\nWould he come back at last to the Pacific, where his _Nautilus_ could\nsail free and independently? Time would show.\n\nAfter having skirted the sands of Cartier, of Hibernia, Seringapatam,\nand Scott, last efforts of the solid against the liquid element, on the\n14th of January we lost sight of land altogether. The speed of the\n_Nautilus_ was considerably abated, and with irregular course she\nsometimes swam in the bosom of the waters, sometimes floated on their\nsurface.\n\nDuring this period of the voyage, Captain Nemo made some interesting\nexperiments on the varied temperature of the sea, in different beds.\nUnder ordinary conditions these observations are made by means of\nrather complicated instruments, and with somewhat doubtful results, by\nmeans of thermometrical sounding-leads, the glasses often breaking\nunder the pressure of the water, or an apparatus grounded on the\nvariations of the resistance of metals to the electric currents.\nResults so obtained could not be correctly calculated. On the contrary,\nCaptain Nemo went himself to test the temperature in the depths of the\nsea, and his thermometer, placed in communication with the different\nsheets of water, gave him the required degree immediately and\naccurately.\n\nIt was thus that, either by overloading her reservoirs or by descending\nobliquely by means of her inclined planes, the _Nautilus_ successively\nattained the depth of three, four, five, seven, nine, and ten thousand\nyards, and the definite result of this experience was that the sea\npreserved an average temperature of four degrees and a half at a depth\nof five thousand fathoms under all latitudes.\n\nOn the 16th of January, the _Nautilus_ seemed becalmed only a few yards\nbeneath the surface of the waves. Her electric apparatus remained\ninactive and her motionless screw left her to drift at the mercy of the\ncurrents. I supposed that the crew was occupied with interior repairs,\nrendered necessary by the violence of the mechanical movements of the\nmachine.\n\nMy companions and I then witnessed a curious spectacle. The hatches of\nthe saloon were open, and, as the beacon light of the _Nautilus_ was\nnot in action, a dim obscurity reigned in the midst of the waters. I\nobserved the state of the sea, under these conditions, and the largest\nfish appeared to me no more than scarcely defined shadows, when the\n_Nautilus_ found herself suddenly transported into full light. I\nthought at first that the beacon had been lighted, and was casting its\nelectric radiance into the liquid mass. I was mistaken, and after a\nrapid survey perceived my error.\n\nThe _Nautilus_ floated in the midst of a phosphorescent bed which, in\nthis obscurity, became quite dazzling. It was produced by myriads of\nluminous animalculae, whose brilliancy was increased as they glided\nover the metallic hull of the vessel. I was surprised by lightning in\nthe midst of these luminous sheets, as though they had been rivulets of\nlead melted in an ardent furnace or metallic masses brought to a white\nheat, so that, by force of contrast, certain portions of light appeared\nto cast a shade in the midst of the general ignition, from which all\nshade seemed banished. No; this was not the calm irradiation of our\nordinary lightning. There was unusual life and vigour: this was truly\nliving light!\n\nIn reality, it was an infinite agglomeration of coloured infusoria, of\nveritable globules of jelly, provided with a threadlike tentacle, and\nof which as many as twenty-five thousand have been counted in less than\ntwo cubic half-inches of water.\n\nDuring several hours the _Nautilus_ floated in these brilliant waves,\nand our admiration increased as we watched the marine monsters\ndisporting themselves like salamanders. I saw there in the midst of\nthis fire that burns not the swift and elegant porpoise (the\nindefatigable clown of the ocean), and some swordfish ten feet long,\nthose prophetic heralds of the hurricane whose formidable sword would\nnow and then strike the glass of the saloon. Then appeared the smaller\nfish, the balista, the leaping mackerel, wolf-thorn-tails, and a\nhundred others which striped the luminous atmosphere as they swam. This\ndazzling spectacle was enchanting! Perhaps some atmospheric condition\nincreased the intensity of this phenomenon. Perhaps some storm agitated\nthe surface of the waves. But at this depth of some yards, the\n_Nautilus_ was unmoved by its fury and reposed peacefully in still\nwater.\n\nSo we progressed, incessantly charmed by some new marvel. The days\npassed rapidly away, and I took no account of them. Ned, according to\nhabit, tried to vary the diet on board. Like snails, we were fixed to\nour shells, and I declare it is easy to lead a snail s life.\n\nThus this life seemed easy and natural, and we thought no longer of the\nlife we led on land; but something happened to recall us to the\nstrangeness of our situation.\n\nOn the 18th of January, the _Nautilus_ was in 105  long. and 15  S.\nlat. The weather was threatening, the sea rough and rolling. There was\na strong east wind. The barometer, which had been going down for some\ndays, foreboded a coming storm. I went up on to the platform just as\nthe second lieutenant was taking the measure of the horary angles, and\nwaited, according to habit till the daily phrase was said. But on this\nday it was exchanged for another phrase not less incomprehensible.\nAlmost directly, I saw Captain Nemo appear with a glass, looking\ntowards the horizon.\n\nFor some minutes he was immovable, without taking his eye off the point\nof observation. Then he lowered his glass and exchanged a few words\nwith his lieutenant. The latter seemed to be a victim to some emotion\nthat he tried in vain to repress. Captain Nemo, having more command\nover himself, was cool. He seemed, too, to be making some objections to\nwhich the lieutenant replied by formal assurances. At least I concluded\nso by the difference of their tones and gestures. For myself, I had\nlooked carefully in the direction indicated without seeing anything.\nThe sky and water were lost in the clear line of the horizon.\n\nHowever, Captain Nemo walked from one end of the platform to the other,\nwithout looking at me, perhaps without seeing me. His step was firm,\nbut less regular than usual. He stopped sometimes, crossed his arms,\nand observed the sea. What could he be looking for on that immense\nexpanse?\n\nThe _Nautilus_ was then some hundreds of miles from the nearest coast.\n\nThe lieutenant had taken up the glass and examined the horizon\nsteadfastly, going and coming, stamping his foot and showing more\nnervous agitation than his superior officer. Besides, this mystery must\nnecessarily be solved, and before long; for, upon an order from Captain\nNemo, the engine, increasing its propelling power, made the screw turn\nmore rapidly.\n\nJust then the lieutenant drew the Captain s attention again. The latter\nstopped walking and directed his glass towards the place indicated. He\nlooked long. I felt very much puzzled, and descended to the\ndrawing-room, and took out an excellent telescope that I generally\nused. Then, leaning on the cage of the watch-light that jutted out from\nthe front of the platform, set myself to look over all the line of the\nsky and sea.\n\nBut my eye was no sooner applied to the glass than it was quickly\nsnatched out of my hands.\n\nI turned round. Captain Nemo was before me, but I did not know him. His\nface was transfigured. His eyes flashed sullenly; his teeth were set;\nhis stiff body, clenched fists, and head shrunk between his shoulders,\nbetrayed the violent agitation that pervaded his whole frame. He did\nnot move. My glass, fallen from his hands, had rolled at his feet.\n\nHad I unwittingly provoked this fit of anger? Did this incomprehensible\nperson imagine that I had discovered some forbidden secret? No; I was\nnot the object of this hatred, for he was not looking at me; his eye\nwas steadily fixed upon the impenetrable point of the horizon. At last\nCaptain Nemo recovered himself. His agitation subsided. He addressed\nsome words in a foreign language to his lieutenant, then turned to me.\n M. Aronnax,  he said, in rather an imperious tone,  I require you to\nkeep one of the conditions that bind you to me. \n\n What is it, Captain? \n\n You must be confined, with your companions, until I think fit to\nrelease you. \n\n You are the master,  I replied, looking steadily at him.  But may I\nask you one question? \n\n None, sir. \n\nThere was no resisting this imperious command, it would have been\nuseless. I went down to the cabin occupied by Ned Land and Conseil, and\ntold them the Captain s determination. You may judge how this\ncommunication was received by the Canadian.\n\nBut there was not time for altercation. Four of the crew waited at the\ndoor, and conducted us to that cell where we had passed our first night\non board the _Nautilus_.\n\nNed Land would have remonstrated, but the door was shut upon him.\n\n Will master tell me what this means?  asked Conseil.\n\nI told my companions what had passed. They were as much astonished as\nI, and equally at a loss how to account for it.\n\nMeanwhile, I was absorbed in my own reflections, and could think of\nnothing but the strange fear depicted in the Captain s countenance. I\nwas utterly at a loss to account for it, when my cogitations were\ndisturbed by these words from Ned Land:\n\n Hallo! breakfast is ready. \n\nAnd indeed the table was laid. Evidently Captain Nemo had given this\norder at the same time that he had hastened the speed of the\n_Nautilus_.\n\n Will master permit me to make a recommendation?  asked Conseil.\n\n Yes, my boy. \n\n Well, it is that master breakfasts. It is prudent, for we do not know\nwhat may happen. \n\n You are right, Conseil. \n\n Unfortunately,  said Ned Land,  they have only given us the ship s\nfare. \n\n Friend Ned,  asked Conseil,  what would you have said if the breakfast\nhad been entirely forgotten? \n\nThis argument cut short the harpooner s recriminations.\n\nWe sat down to table. The meal was eaten in silence.\n\nJust then the luminous globe that lighted the cell went out, and left\nus in total darkness. Ned Land was soon asleep, and what astonished me\nwas that Conseil went off into a heavy slumber. I was thinking what\ncould have caused his irresistible drowsiness, when I felt my brain\nbecoming stupefied. In spite of my efforts to keep my eyes open, they\nwould close. A painful suspicion seized me. Evidently soporific\nsubstances had been mixed with the food we had just taken. Imprisonment\nwas not enough to conceal Captain Nemo s projects from us, sleep was\nmore necessary. I then heard the panels shut. The undulations of the\nsea, which caused a slight rolling motion, ceased. Had the _Nautilus_\nquitted the surface of the ocean? Had it gone back to the motionless\nbed of water? I tried to resist sleep. It was impossible. My breathing\ngrew weak. I felt a mortal cold freeze my stiffened and half-paralysed\nlimbs. My eye lids, like leaden caps, fell over my eyes. I could not\nraise them; a morbid sleep, full of hallucinations, bereft me of my\nbeing. Then the visions disappeared, and left me in complete\ninsensibility.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\nTHE CORAL KINGDOM\n\n\nThe next day I woke with my head singularly clear. To my great\nsurprise, I was in my own room. My companions, no doubt, had been\nreinstated in their cabin, without having perceived it any more than I.\nOf what had passed during the night they were as ignorant as I was, and\nto penetrate this mystery I only reckoned upon the chances of the\nfuture.\n\nI then thought of quitting my room. Was I free again or a prisoner?\nQuite free. I opened the door, went to the half-deck, went up the\ncentral stairs. The panels, shut the evening before, were open. I went\non to the platform.\n\nNed Land and Conseil waited there for me. I questioned them; they knew\nnothing. Lost in a heavy sleep in which they had been totally\nunconscious, they had been astonished at finding themselves in their\ncabin.\n\nAs for the _Nautilus_, it seemed quiet and mysterious as ever. It\nfloated on the surface of the waves at a moderate pace. Nothing seemed\nchanged on board.\n\nThe second lieutenant then came on to the platform, and gave the usual\norder below.\n\nAs for Captain Nemo, he did not appear.\n\nOf the people on board, I only saw the impassive steward, who served me\nwith his usual dumb regularity.\n\nAbout two o clock, I was in the drawing-room, busied in arranging my\nnotes, when the Captain opened the door and appeared. I bowed. He made\na slight inclination in return, without speaking. I resumed my work,\nhoping that he would perhaps give me some explanation of the events of\nthe preceding night. He made none. I looked at him. He seemed fatigued;\nhis heavy eyes had not been refreshed by sleep; his face looked very\nsorrowful. He walked to and fro, sat down and got up again, took a\nchance book, put it down, consulted his instruments without taking his\nhabitual notes, and seemed restless and uneasy. At last, he came up to\nme, and said:\n\n Are you a doctor, M. Aronnax? \n\nI so little expected such a question that I stared some time at him\nwithout answering.\n\n Are you a doctor?  he repeated.  Several of your colleagues have\nstudied medicine. \n\n Well,  said I,  I am a doctor and resident surgeon to the hospital. I\npractised several years before entering the museum. \n\n Very well, sir. \n\nMy answer had evidently satisfied the Captain. But, not knowing what he\nwould say next, I waited for other questions, reserving my answers\naccording to circumstances.\n\n M. Aronnax, will you consent to prescribe for one of my men?  he\nasked.\n\n Is he ill? \n\n Yes. \n\n I am ready to follow you. \n\n Come, then. \n\nI own my heart beat, I do not know why. I saw certain connection\nbetween the illness of one of the crew and the events of the day\nbefore; and this mystery interested me at least as much as the sick\nman.\n\nCaptain Nemo conducted me to the poop of the _Nautilus_, and took me\ninto a cabin situated near the sailors  quarters.\n\nThere, on a bed, lay a man about forty years of age, with a resolute\nexpression of countenance, a true type of an Anglo-Saxon.\n\nI leant over him. He was not only ill, he was wounded. His head,\nswathed in bandages covered with blood, lay on a pillow. I undid the\nbandages, and the wounded man looked at me with his large eyes and gave\nno sign of pain as I did it. It was a horrible wound. The skull,\nshattered by some deadly weapon, left the brain exposed, which was much\ninjured. Clots of blood had formed in the bruised and broken mass, in\ncolour like the dregs of wine.\n\nThere was both contusion and suffusion of the brain. His breathing was\nslow, and some spasmodic movements of the muscles agitated his face. I\nfelt his pulse. It was intermittent. The extremities of the body were\ngrowing cold already, and I saw death must inevitably ensue. After\ndressing the unfortunate man s wounds, I readjusted the bandages on his\nhead, and turned to Captain Nemo.\n\n What caused this wound?  I asked.\n\n What does it signify?  he replied, evasively.  A shock has broken one\nof the levers of the engine, which struck myself. But your opinion as\nto his state? \n\nI hesitated before giving it.\n\n You may speak,  said the Captain.  This man does not understand\nFrench. \n\nI gave a last look at the wounded man.\n\n He will be dead in two hours. \n\n Can nothing save him? \n\n Nothing. \n\nCaptain Nemo s hand contracted, and some tears glistened in his eyes,\nwhich I thought incapable of shedding any.\n\nFor some moments I still watched the dying man, whose life ebbed\nslowly. His pallor increased under the electric light that was shed\nover his death-bed. I looked at his intelligent forehead, furrowed with\npremature wrinkles, produced probably by misfortune and sorrow. I tried\nto learn the secret of his life from the last words that escaped his\nlips.\n\n You can go now, M. Aronnax,  said the Captain.\n\nI left him in the dying man s cabin, and returned to my room much\naffected by this scene. During the whole day, I was haunted by\nuncomfortable suspicions, and at night I slept badly, and between my\nbroken dreams I fancied I heard distant sighs like the notes of a\nfuneral psalm. Were they the prayers of the dead, murmured in that\nlanguage that I could not understand?\n\nThe next morning I went on to the bridge. Captain Nemo was there before\nme. As soon as he perceived me he came to me.\n\n Professor, will it be convenient to you to make a submarine excursion\nto-day? \n\n With my companions?  I asked.\n\n If they like. \n\n We obey your orders, Captain. \n\n Will you be so good then as to put on your cork jackets? \n\nIt was not a question of dead or dying. I rejoined Ned Land and\nConseil, and told them of Captain Nemo s proposition. Conseil hastened\nto accept it, and this time the Canadian seemed quite willing to follow\nour example.\n\nIt was eight o clock in the morning. At half-past eight we were\nequipped for this new excursion, and provided with two contrivances for\nlight and breathing. The double door was open; and, accompanied by\nCaptain Nemo, who was followed by a dozen of the crew, we set foot, at\na depth of about thirty feet, on the solid bottom on which the\n_Nautilus_ rested.\n\nA slight declivity ended in an uneven bottom, at fifteen fathoms depth.\nThis bottom differed entirely from the one I had visited on my first\nexcursion under the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Here, there was no\nfine sand, no submarine prairies, no sea-forest. I immediately\nrecognised that marvellous region in which, on that day, the Captain\ndid the honours to us. It was the coral kingdom.\n\nThe light produced a thousand charming varieties, playing in the midst\nof the branches that were so vividly coloured. I seemed to see the\nmembraneous and cylindrical tubes tremble beneath the undulation of the\nwaters. I was tempted to gather their fresh petals, ornamented with\ndelicate tentacles, some just blown, the others budding, while a small\nfish, swimming swiftly, touched them slightly, like flights of birds.\nBut if my hand approached these living flowers, these animated,\nsensitive plants, the whole colony took alarm. The white petals\nre-entered their red cases, the flowers faded as I looked, and the bush\nchanged into a block of stony knobs.\n\nChance had thrown me just by the most precious specimens of the\nzoophyte. This coral was more valuable than that found in the\nMediterranean, on the coasts of France, Italy and Barbary. Its tints\njustified the poetical names of  Flower of Blood,  and  Froth of\nBlood,  that trade has given to its most beautiful productions. Coral\nis sold for  20 per ounce; and in this place the watery beds would make\nthe fortunes of a company of coral-divers. This precious matter, often\nconfused with other polypi, formed then the inextricable plots called\n macciota,  and on which I noticed several beautiful specimens of pink\ncoral.\n\nBut soon the bushes contract, and the arborisations increase. Real\npetrified thickets, long joints of fantastic architecture, were\ndisclosed before us. Captain Nemo placed himself under a dark gallery,\nwhere by a slight declivity we reached a depth of a hundred yards. The\nlight from our lamps produced sometimes magical effects, following the\nrough outlines of the natural arches and pendants disposed like\nlustres, that were tipped with points of fire.\n\nAt last, after walking two hours, we had attained a depth of about\nthree hundred yards, that is to say, the extreme limit on which coral\nbegins to form. But there was no isolated bush, nor modest brushwood,\nat the bottom of lofty trees. It was an immense forest of large mineral\nvegetations, enormous petrified trees, united by garlands of elegant\nsea-bindweed, all adorned with clouds and reflections. We passed freely\nunder their high branches, lost in the shade of the waves.\n\nCaptain Nemo had stopped. I and my companions halted, and, turning\nround, I saw his men were forming a semi-circle round their chief.\nWatching attentively, I observed that four of them carried on their\nshoulders an object of an oblong shape.\n\nWe occupied, in this place, the centre of a vast glade surrounded by\nthe lofty foliage of the submarine forest. Our lamps threw over this\nplace a sort of clear twilight that singularly elongated the shadows on\nthe ground. At the end of the glade the darkness increased, and was\nonly relieved by little sparks reflected by the points of coral.\n\nNed Land and Conseil were near me. We watched, and I thought I was\ngoing to witness a strange scene. On observing the ground, I saw that\nit was raised in certain places by slight excrescences encrusted with\nlimy deposits, and disposed with a regularity that betrayed the hand of\nman.\n\nIn the midst of the glade, on a pedestal of rocks roughly piled up,\nstood a cross of coral that extended its long arms that one might have\nthought were made of petrified blood. Upon a sign from Captain Nemo one\nof the men advanced; and at some feet from the cross he began to dig a\nhole with a pickaxe that he took from his belt. I understood all! This\nglade was a cemetery, this hole a tomb, this oblong object the body of\nthe man who had died in the night! The Captain and his men had come to\nbury their companion in this general resting-place, at the bottom of\nthis inaccessible ocean!\n\nThe grave was being dug slowly; the fish fled on all sides while their\nretreat was being thus disturbed; I heard the strokes of the pickaxe,\nwhich sparkled when it hit upon some flint lost at the bottom of the\nwaters. The hole was soon large and deep enough to receive the body.\nThen the bearers approached; the body, enveloped in a tissue of white\nlinen, was lowered into the damp grave. Captain Nemo, with his arms\ncrossed on his breast, and all the friends of him who had loved them,\nknelt in prayer.\n\n\n[Illustration] All fell on their knees in an attitude of prayer\n\n\nThe grave was then filled in with the rubbish taken from the ground,\nwhich formed a slight mound. When this was done, Captain Nemo and his\nmen rose; then, approaching the grave, they knelt again, and all\nextended their hands in sign of a last adieu. Then the funeral\nprocession returned to the _Nautilus_, passing under the arches of the\nforest, in the midst of thickets, along the coral bushes, and still on\nthe ascent. At last the light of the ship appeared, and its luminous\ntrack guided us to the _Nautilus_. At one o clock we had returned.\n\nAs soon as I had changed my clothes I went up on to the platform, and,\na prey to conflicting emotions, I sat down near the binnacle. Captain\nNemo joined me. I rose and said to him:\n\n So, as I said he would, this man died in the night? \n\n Yes, M. Aronnax. \n\n And he rests now, near his companions, in the coral cemetery? \n\n Yes, forgotten by all else, but not by us. We dug the grave, and the\npolypi undertake to seal our dead for eternity.  And, burying his face\nquickly in his hands, he tried in vain to suppress a sob. Then he\nadded:  Our peaceful cemetery is there, some hundred feet below the\nsurface of the waves. \n\n Your dead sleep quietly, at least, Captain, out of the reach of\nsharks. \n\n Yes, sir, of sharks and men,  gravely replied the Captain.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\nTHE INDIAN OCEAN\n\n\nWe now come to the second part of our journey under the sea. The first\nended with the moving scene in the coral cemetery which left such a\ndeep impression on my mind. Thus, in the midst of this great sea,\nCaptain Nemo s life was passing, even to his grave, which he had\nprepared in one of its deepest abysses. There, not one of the ocean s\nmonsters could trouble the last sleep of the crew of the _Nautilus_, of\nthose friends riveted to each other in death as in life.  Nor any man,\neither,  had added the Captain. Still the same fierce, implacable\ndefiance towards human society!\n\nI could no longer content myself with the theory which satisfied\nConseil.\n\nThat worthy fellow persisted in seeing in the Commander of the\n_Nautilus_ one of those unknown _savants_ who return mankind contempt\nfor indifference. For him, he was a misunderstood genius who, tired of\nearth s deceptions, had taken refuge in this inaccessible medium, where\nhe might follow his instincts freely. To my mind, this explains but one\nside of Captain Nemo s character. Indeed, the mystery of that last\nnight during which we had been chained in prison, the sleep, and the\nprecaution so violently taken by the Captain of snatching from my eyes\nthe glass I had raised to sweep the horizon, the mortal wound of the\nman, due to an unaccountable shock of the _Nautilus_, all put me on a\nnew track. No; Captain Nemo was not satisfied with shunning man. His\nformidable apparatus not only suited his instinct of freedom, but\nperhaps also the design of some terrible retaliation.\n\nAt this moment nothing is clear to me; I catch but a glimpse of light\namidst all the darkness, and I must confine myself to writing as events\nshall dictate.\n\nThat day, the 24th of January, 1868, at noon, the second officer came\nto take the altitude of the sun. I mounted the platform, lit a cigar,\nand watched the operation. It seemed to me that the man did not\nunderstand French; for several times I made remarks in a loud voice,\nwhich must have drawn from him some involuntary sign of attention, if\nhe had understood them; but he remained undisturbed and dumb.\n\nAs he was taking observations with the sextant, one of the sailors of\nthe _Nautilus_ (the strong man who had accompanied us on our first\nsubmarine excursion to the Island of Crespo) came to clean the glasses\nof the lantern. I examined the fittings of the apparatus, the strength\nof which was increased a hundredfold by lenticular rings, placed\nsimilar to those in a lighthouse, and which projected their brilliance\nin a horizontal plane. The electric lamp was combined in such a way as\nto give its most powerful light. Indeed, it was produced in vacuo,\nwhich insured both its steadiness and its intensity. This vacuum\neconomised the graphite points between which the luminous arc was\ndeveloped an important point of economy for Captain Nemo, who could not\neasily have replaced them; and under these conditions their waste was\nimperceptible. When the _Nautilus_ was ready to continue its submarine\njourney, I went down to the saloon. The panel was closed, and the\ncourse marked direct west.\n\nWe were furrowing the waters of the Indian Ocean, a vast liquid plain,\nwith a surface of 1,200,000,000 of acres, and whose waters are so clear\nand transparent that any one leaning over them would turn giddy. The\n_Nautilus_ usually floated between fifty and a hundred fathoms deep. We\nwent on so for some days. To anyone but myself, who had a great love\nfor the sea, the hours would have seemed long and monotonous; but the\ndaily walks on the platform, when I steeped myself in the reviving air\nof the ocean, the sight of the rich waters through the windows of the\nsaloon, the books in the library, the compiling of my memoirs, took up\nall my time, and left me not a moment of ennui or weariness.\n\nFor some days we saw a great number of aquatic birds, sea-mews or\ngulls. Some were cleverly killed and, prepared in a certain way, made\nvery acceptable water-game. Amongst large-winged birds, carried a long\ndistance from all lands and resting upon the waves from the fatigue of\ntheir flight, I saw some magnificent albatrosses, uttering discordant\ncries like the braying of an ass, and birds belonging to the family of\nthe long-wings.\n\nAs to the fish, they always provoked our admiration when we surprised\nthe secrets of their aquatic life through the open panels. I saw many\nkinds which I never before had a chance of observing.\n\nI shall notice chiefly ostracions peculiar to the Red Sea, the Indian\nOcean, and that part which washes the coast of tropical America. These\nfishes, like the tortoise, the armadillo, the sea-hedgehog, and the\nCrustacea, are protected by a breastplate which is neither chalky nor\nstony, but real bone. In some it takes the form of a solid triangle, in\nothers of a solid quadrangle. Amongst the triangular I saw some an inch\nand a half in length, with wholesome flesh and a delicious flavour;\nthey are brown at the tail, and yellow at the fins, and I recommend\ntheir introduction into fresh water, to which a certain number of\nsea-fish easily accustom themselves. I would also mention quadrangular\nostracions, having on the back four large tubercles; some dotted over\nwith white spots on the lower part of the body, and which may be tamed\nlike birds; trigons provided with spikes formed by the lengthening of\ntheir bony shell, and which, from their strange gruntings, are called\n seapigs ; also dromedaries with large humps in the shape of a cone,\nwhose flesh is very tough and leathery.\n\nI now borrow from the daily notes of Master Conseil.  Certain fish of\nthe genus petrodon peculiar to those seas, with red backs and white\nchests, which are distinguished by three rows of longitudinal\nfilaments; and some electrical, seven inches long, decked in the\nliveliest colours. Then, as specimens of other kinds, some ovoides,\nresembling an egg of a dark brown colour, marked with white bands, and\nwithout tails; diodons, real sea-porcupines, furnished with spikes, and\ncapable of swelling in such a way as to look like cushions bristling\nwith darts; hippocampi, common to every ocean; some pegasi with\nlengthened snouts, which their pectoral fins, being much elongated and\nformed in the shape of wings, allow, if not to fly, at least to shoot\ninto the air; pigeon spatulae, with tails covered with many rings of\nshell; macrognathi with long jaws, an excellent fish, nine inches long,\nand bright with most agreeable colours; pale-coloured calliomores, with\nrugged heads; and plenty of chaetpdons, with long and tubular muzzles,\nwhich kill insects by shooting them, as from an air-gun, with a single\ndrop of water. These we may call the flycatchers of the seas.\n\n In the eighty-ninth genus of fishes, classed by Lacepede, belonging to\nthe second lower class of bony, characterised by opercules and\nbronchial membranes, I remarked the scorpaena, the head of which is\nfurnished with spikes, and which has but one dorsal fin; these\ncreatures are covered, or not, with little shells, according to the\nsub-class to which they belong. The second sub-class gives us specimens\nof didactyles fourteen or fifteen inches in length, with yellow rays,\nand heads of a most fantastic appearance. As to the first sub-class, it\ngives several specimens of that singular looking fish appropriately\ncalled a  seafrog,  with large head, sometimes pierced with holes,\nsometimes swollen with protuberances, bristling with spikes, and\ncovered with tubercles; it has irregular and hideous horns; its body\nand tail are covered with callosities; its sting makes a dangerous\nwound; it is both repugnant and horrible to look at. \n\nFrom the 21st to the 23rd of January the _Nautilus_ went at the rate of\ntwo hundred and fifty leagues in twenty-four hours, being five hundred\nand forty miles, or twenty-two miles an hour. If we recognised so many\ndifferent varieties of fish, it was because, attracted by the electric\nlight, they tried to follow us; the greater part, however, were soon\ndistanced by our speed, though some kept their place in the waters of\nthe _Nautilus_ for a time. The morning of the 24th, in 12  5  S. lat.,\nand 94  33  long., we observed Keeling Island, a coral formation,\nplanted with magnificent cocos, and which had been visited by Mr.\nDarwin and Captain Fitzroy. The _Nautilus_ skirted the shores of this\ndesert island for a little distance. Its nets brought up numerous\nspecimens of polypi and curious shells of mollusca. Some precious\nproductions of the species of delphinulae enriched the treasures of\nCaptain Nemo, to which I added an astraea punctifera, a kind of\nparasite polypus often found fixed to a shell.\n\nSoon Keeling Island disappeared from the horizon, and our course was\ndirected to the north-west in the direction of the Indian Peninsula.\n\nFrom Keeling Island our course was slower and more variable, often\ntaking us into great depths. Several times they made use of the\ninclined planes, which certain internal levers placed obliquely to the\nwaterline. In that way we went about two miles, but without ever\nobtaining the greatest depths of the Indian Sea, which soundings of\nseven thousand fathoms have never reached. As to the temperature of the\nlower strata, the thermometer invariably indicated 4  above zero. I\nonly observed that in the upper regions the water was always colder in\nthe high levels than at the surface of the sea.\n\nOn the 25th of January the ocean was entirely deserted; the _Nautilus_\npassed the day on the surface, beating the waves with its powerful\nscrew and making them rebound to a great height. Who under such\ncircumstances would not have taken it for a gigantic cetacean? Three\nparts of this day I spent on the platform. I watched the sea. Nothing\non the horizon, till about four o clock a steamer running west on our\ncounter. Her masts were visible for an instant, but she could not see\nthe _Nautilus_, being too low in the water. I fancied this steamboat\nbelonged to the P.O. Company, which runs from Ceylon to Sydney,\ntouching at King George s Point and Melbourne.\n\nAt five o clock in the evening, before that fleeting twilight which\nbinds night to day in tropical zones, Conseil and I were astonished by\na curious spectacle.\n\nIt was a shoal of argonauts travelling along on the surface of the\nocean. We could count several hundreds. They belonged to the tubercle\nkind which are peculiar to the Indian seas.\n\nThese graceful molluscs moved backwards by means of their locomotive\ntube, through which they propelled the water already drawn in. Of their\neight tentacles, six were elongated, and stretched out floating on the\nwater, whilst the other two, rolled up flat, were spread to the wing\nlike a light sail. I saw their spiral-shaped and fluted shells, which\nCuvier justly compares to an elegant skiff. A boat indeed! It bears the\ncreature which secretes it without its adhering to it.\n\nFor nearly an hour the _Nautilus_ floated in the midst of this shoal of\nmolluscs. Then I know not what sudden fright they took. But as if at a\nsignal every sail was furled, the arms folded, the body drawn in, the\nshells turned over, changing their centre of gravity, and the whole\nfleet disappeared under the waves. Never did the ships of a squadron\nman uvre with more unity.\n\nAt that moment night fell suddenly, and the reeds, scarcely raised by\nthe breeze, lay peaceably under the sides of the _Nautilus_.\n\nThe next day, 26th of January, we cut the equator at the eighty-second\nmeridian and entered the northern hemisphere. During the day a\nformidable troop of sharks accompanied us, terrible creatures, which\nmultiply in these seas and make them very dangerous. They were\n cestracio philippi  sharks, with brown backs and whitish bellies,\narmed with eleven rows of teeth eyed sharks their throat being marked\nwith a large black spot surrounded with white like an eye. There were\nalso some Isabella sharks, with rounded snouts marked with dark spots.\nThese powerful creatures often hurled themselves at the windows of the\nsaloon with such violence as to make us feel very insecure. At such\ntimes Ned Land was no longer master of himself. He wanted to go to the\nsurface and harpoon the monsters, particularly certain smooth-hound\nsharks, whose mouth is studded with teeth like a mosaic; and large\ntiger-sharks nearly six yards long, the last named of which seemed to\nexcite him more particularly. But the _Nautilus_, accelerating her\nspeed, easily left the most rapid of them behind.\n\nThe 27th of January, at the entrance of the vast Bay of Bengal, we met\nrepeatedly a forbidding spectacle, dead bodies floating on the surface\nof the water. They were the dead of the Indian villages, carried by the\nGanges to the level of the sea, and which the vultures, the only\nundertakers of the country, had not been able to devour. But the sharks\ndid not fail to help them at their funeral work.\n\nAbout seven o clock in the evening, the _Nautilus_, half-immersed, was\nsailing in a sea of milk. At first sight the ocean seemed lactified.\nWas it the effect of the lunar rays? No; for the moon, scarcely two\ndays old, was still lying hidden under the horizon in the rays of the\nsun. The whole sky, though lit by the sidereal rays, seemed black by\ncontrast with the whiteness of the waters.\n\nConseil could not believe his eyes, and questioned me as to the cause\nof this strange phenomenon. Happily I was able to answer him.\n\n It is called a milk sea,  I explained.  A large extent of white\nwavelets often to be seen on the coasts of Amboyna, and in these parts\nof the sea. \n\n But, sir,  said Conseil,  can you tell me what causes such an effect?\nfor I suppose the water is not really turned into milk. \n\n No, my boy; and the whiteness which surprises you is caused only by\nthe presence of myriads of infusoria, a sort of luminous little worm,\ngelatinous and without colour, of the thickness of a hair, and whose\nlength is not more than seven-thousandths of an inch. These insects\nadhere to one another sometimes for several leagues. \n\n Several leagues!  exclaimed Conseil.\n\n Yes, my boy; and you need not try to compute the number of these\ninfusoria. You will not be able, for, if I am not mistaken, ships have\nfloated on these milk seas for more than forty miles. \n\nTowards midnight the sea suddenly resumed its usual colour; but behind\nus, even to the limits of the horizon, the sky reflected the whitened\nwaves, and for a long time seemed impregnated with the vague\nglimmerings of an aurora borealis.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\nA NOVEL PROPOSAL OF CAPTAIN NEMO S\n\n\nOn the 28th of February, when at noon the _Nautilus_ came to the\nsurface of the sea, in 9  4  N. lat., there was land in sight about\neight miles to westward. The first thing I noticed was a range of\nmountains about two thousand feet high, the shapes of which were most\ncapricious. On taking the bearings, I knew that we were nearing the\nisland of Ceylon, the pearl which hangs from the lobe of the Indian\nPeninsula.\n\nCaptain Nemo and his second appeared at this moment. The Captain\nglanced at the map. Then turning to me, said:\n\n The Island of Ceylon, noted for its pearl-fisheries. Would you like to\nvisit one of them, M. Aronnax? \n\n Certainly, Captain. \n\n Well, the thing is easy. Though, if we see the fisheries, we shall not\nsee the fishermen. The annual exportation has not yet begun. Never\nmind, I will give orders to make for the Gulf of Manaar, where we shall\narrive in the night. \n\nThe Captain said something to his second, who immediately went out.\nSoon the _Nautilus_ returned to her native element, and the manometer\nshowed that she was about thirty feet deep.\n\n Well, sir,  said Captain Nemo,  you and your companions shall visit\nthe Bank of Manaar, and if by chance some fisherman should be there, we\nshall see him at work. \n\n Agreed, Captain! \n\n By the bye, M. Aronnax you are not afraid of sharks? \n\n Sharks!  exclaimed I.\n\nThis question seemed a very hard one.\n\n Well?  continued Captain Nemo.\n\n I admit, Captain, that I am not yet very familiar with that kind of\nfish. \n\n We are accustomed to them,  replied Captain Nemo,  and in time you\nwill be too. However, we shall be armed, and on the road we may be able\nto hunt some of the tribe. It is interesting. So, till to-morrow, sir,\nand early. \n\nThis said in a careless tone, Captain Nemo left the saloon. Now, if you\nwere invited to hunt the bear in the mountains of Switzerland, what\nwould you say?\n\n Very well! to-morrow we will go and hunt the bear.  If you were asked\nto hunt the lion in the plains of Atlas, or the tiger in the Indian\njungles, what would you say?\n\n Ha! ha! it seems we are going to hunt the tiger or the lion!  But when\nyou are invited to hunt the shark in its natural element, you would\nperhaps reflect before accepting the invitation. As for myself, I\npassed my hand over my forehead, on which stood large drops of cold\nperspiration.  Let us reflect,  said I,  and take our time. Hunting\notters in submarine forests, as we did in the Island of Crespo, will\npass; but going up and down at the bottom of the sea, where one is\nalmost certain to meet sharks, is quite another thing! I know well that\nin certain countries, particularly in the Andaman Islands, the negroes\nnever hesitate to attack them with a dagger in one hand and a running\nnoose in the other; but I also know that few who affront those\ncreatures ever return alive. However, I am not a negro, and if I were I\nthink a little hesitation in this case would not be ill-timed. \n\nAt this moment Conseil and the Canadian entered, quite composed, and\neven joyous. They knew not what awaited them.\n\n Faith, sir,  said Ned Land,  your Captain Nemo the devil take him! has\njust made us a very pleasant offer. \n\n Ah!  said I,  you know? \n\n If agreeable to you, sir,  interrupted Conseil,  the commander of the\n_Nautilus_ has invited us to visit the magnificent Ceylon fisheries\nto-morrow, in your company; he did it kindly, and behaved like a real\ngentleman. \n\n He said nothing more? \n\n Nothing more, sir, except that he had already spoken to you of this\nlittle walk. \n\n Sir,  said Conseil,  would you give us some details of the pearl\nfishery? \n\n As to the fishing itself,  I asked,  or the incidents, which? \n\n On the fishing,  replied the Canadian;  before entering upon the\nground, it is as well to know something about it. \n\n Very well; sit down, my friends, and I will teach you. \n\nNed and Conseil seated themselves on an ottoman, and the first thing\nthe Canadian asked was:\n\n Sir, what is a pearl? \n\n My worthy Ned,  I answered,  to the poet, a pearl is a tear of the\nsea; to the Orientals, it is a drop of dew solidified; to the ladies,\nit is a jewel of an oblong shape, of a brilliancy of mother-of-pearl\nsubstance, which they wear on their fingers, their necks, or their\nears; for the chemist it is a mixture of phosphate and carbonate of\nlime, with a little gelatine; and lastly, for naturalists, it is simply\na morbid secretion of the organ that produces the mother-of-pearl\namongst certain bivalves. \n\n Branch of molluscs,  said Conseil.\n\n Precisely so, my learned Conseil; and, amongst these testacea the\nearshell, the tridacnae, the turbots, in a word, all those which\nsecrete mother-of-pearl, that is, the blue, bluish, violet, or white\nsubstance which lines the interior of their shells, are capable of\nproducing pearls. \n\n Mussels too?  asked the Canadian.\n\n Yes, mussels of certain waters in Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Saxony,\nBohemia, and France. \n\n Good! For the future I shall pay attention,  replied the Canadian.\n\n But,  I continued,  the particular mollusc which secretes the pearl is\nthe pearl-oyster, the meleagrina margaritiferct, that precious\npintadine. The pearl is nothing but a nacreous formation, deposited in\na globular form, either adhering to the oyster shell, or buried in the\nfolds of the creature. On the shell it is fast; in the flesh it is\nloose; but always has for a kernel a small hard substance, may be a\nbarren egg, may be a grain of sand, around which the pearly matter\ndeposits itself year after year successively, and by thin concentric\nlayers. \n\n Are many pearls found in the same oyster?  asked Conseil.\n\n Yes, my boy. Some are a perfect casket. One oyster has been mentioned,\nthough I allow myself to doubt it, as having contained no less than a\nhundred and fifty sharks. \n\n A hundred and fifty sharks!  exclaimed Ned Land.\n\n Did I say sharks?  said I hurriedly.  I meant to say a hundred and\nfifty pearls. Sharks would not be sense. \n\n Certainly not,  said Conseil;  but will you tell us now by what means\nthey extract these pearls? \n\n They proceed in various ways. When they adhere to the shell, the\nfishermen often pull them off with pincers; but the most common way is\nto lay the oysters on mats of the seaweed which covers the banks. Thus\nthey die in the open air; and at the end of ten days they are in a\nforward state of decomposition. They are then plunged into large\nreservoirs of sea-water; then they are opened and washed. \n\n The price of these pearls varies according to their size?  asked\nConseil.\n\n Not only according to their size,  I answered,  but also according to\ntheir shape, their water (that is, their colour), and their lustre:\nthat is, that bright and diapered sparkle which makes them so charming\nto the eye. The most beautiful are called virgin pearls, or paragons.\nThey are formed alone in the tissue of the mollusc, are white, often\nopaque, and sometimes have the transparency of an opal; they are\ngenerally round or oval. The round are made into bracelets, the oval\ninto pendants, and, being more precious, are sold singly. Those\nadhering to the shell of the oyster are more irregular in shape, and\nare sold by weight. Lastly, in a lower order are classed those small\npearls known under the name of seed-pearls; they are sold by measure,\nand are especially used in embroidery for church ornaments. \n\n But,  said Conseil,  is this pearl-fishery dangerous? \n\n No,  I answered, quickly;  particularly if certain precautions are\ntaken. \n\n What does one risk in such a calling?  said Ned Land,  the swallowing\nof some mouthfuls of sea-water? \n\n As you say, Ned. By the bye,  said I, trying to take Captain Nemo s\ncareless tone,  are you afraid of sharks, brave Ned? \n\n I!  replied the Canadian;  a harpooner by profession? It is my trade\nto make light of them. \n\n But,  said I,  it is not a question of fishing for them with an\niron-swivel, hoisting them into the vessel, cutting off their tails\nwith a blow of a chopper, ripping them up, and throwing their heart\ninto the sea! \n\n Then, it is a question of \n\n Precisely. \n\n In the water? \n\n In the water. \n\n Faith, with a good harpoon! You know, sir, these sharks are\nill-fashioned beasts. They turn on their bellies to seize you, and in\nthat time \n\nNed Land had a way of saying  seize  which made my blood run cold.\n\n Well, and you, Conseil, what do you think of sharks? \n\n Me!  said Conseil.  I will be frank, sir. \n\n So much the better,  thought I.\n\n If you, sir, mean to face the sharks, I do not see why your faithful\nservant should not face them with you. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\nA PEARL OF TEN MILLIONS\n\n\nThe next morning at four o clock I was awakened by the steward whom\nCaptain Nemo had placed at my service. I rose hurriedly, dressed, and\nwent into the saloon.\n\nCaptain Nemo was awaiting me.\n\n M. Aronnax,  said he,  are you ready to start? \n\n I am ready. \n\n Then please to follow me. \n\n And my companions, Captain? \n\n They have been told and are waiting. \n\n Are we not to put on our diver s dresses?  asked I.\n\n Not yet. I have not allowed the _Nautilus_ to come too near this\ncoast, and we are some distance from the Manaar Bank; but the boat is\nready, and will take us to the exact point of disembarking, which will\nsave us a long way. It carries our diving apparatus, which we will put\non when we begin our submarine journey. \n\nCaptain Nemo conducted me to the central staircase, which led on the\nplatform. Ned and Conseil were already there, delighted at the idea of\nthe  pleasure party  which was preparing. Five sailors from the\n_Nautilus_, with their oars, waited in the boat, which had been made\nfast against the side.\n\nThe night was still dark. Layers of clouds covered the sky, allowing\nbut few stars to be seen. I looked on the side where the land lay, and\nsaw nothing but a dark line enclosing three parts of the horizon, from\nsouth-west to north west. The _Nautilus_, having returned during the\nnight up the western coast of Ceylon, was now west of the bay, or\nrather gulf, formed by the mainland and the Island of Manaar. There,\nunder the dark waters, stretched the pintadine bank, an inexhaustible\nfield of pearls, the length of which is more than twenty miles.\n\nCaptain Nemo, Ned Land, Conseil, and I took our places in the stern of\nthe boat. The master went to the tiller; his four companions leaned on\ntheir oars, the painter was cast off, and we sheered off.\n\nThe boat went towards the south; the oarsmen did not hurry. I noticed\nthat their strokes, strong in the water, only followed each other every\nten seconds, according to the method generally adopted in the navy.\nWhilst the craft was running by its own velocity, the liquid drops\nstruck the dark depths of the waves crisply like spats of melted lead.\nA little billow, spreading wide, gave a slight roll to the boat, and\nsome samphire reeds flapped before it.\n\nWe were silent. What was Captain Nemo thinking of? Perhaps of the land\nhe was approaching, and which he found too near to him, contrary to the\nCanadian s opinion, who thought it too far off. As to Conseil, he was\nmerely there from curiosity.\n\nAbout half-past five the first tints on the horizon showed the upper\nline of coast more distinctly. Flat enough in the east, it rose a\nlittle to the south. Five miles still lay between us, and it was\nindistinct owing to the mist on the water. At six o clock it became\nsuddenly daylight, with that rapidity peculiar to tropical regions,\nwhich know neither dawn nor twilight. The solar rays pierced the\ncurtain of clouds, piled up on the eastern horizon, and the radiant orb\nrose rapidly. I saw land distinctly, with a few trees scattered here\nand there. The boat neared Manaar Island, which was rounded to the\nsouth. Captain Nemo rose from his seat and watched the sea.\n\nAt a sign from him the anchor was dropped, but the chain scarcely ran,\nfor it was little more than a yard deep, and this spot was one of the\nhighest points of the bank of pintadines.\n\n Here we are, M. Aronnax,  said Captain Nemo.  You see that enclosed\nbay? Here, in a month will be assembled the numerous fishing boats of\nthe exporters, and these are the waters their divers will ransack so\nboldly. Happily, this bay is well situated for that kind of fishing. It\nis sheltered from the strongest winds; the sea is never very rough\nhere, which makes it favourable for the diver s work. We will now put\non our dresses, and begin our walk. \n\nI did not answer, and, while watching the suspected waves, began with\nthe help of the sailors to put on my heavy sea-dress. Captain Nemo and\nmy companions were also dressing. None of the _Nautilus_ men were to\naccompany us on this new excursion.\n\nSoon we were enveloped to the throat in india-rubber clothing; the air\napparatus fixed to our backs by braces. As to the Ruhmkorff apparatus,\nthere was no necessity for it. Before putting my head into the copper\ncap, I had asked the question of the Captain.\n\n They would be useless,  he replied.  We are going to no great depth,\nand the solar rays will be enough to light our walk. Besides, it would\nnot be prudent to carry the electric light in these waters; its\nbrilliancy might attract some of the dangerous inhabitants of the coast\nmost inopportunely. \n\nAs Captain Nemo pronounced these words, I turned to Conseil and Ned\nLand. But my two friends had already encased their heads in the metal\ncap, and they could neither hear nor answer.\n\nOne last question remained to ask of Captain Nemo.\n\n And our arms?  asked I;  our guns? \n\n Guns! What for? Do not mountaineers attack the bear with a dagger in\ntheir hand, and is not steel surer than lead? Here is a strong blade;\nput it in your belt, and we start. \n\nI looked at my companions; they were armed like us, and, more than\nthat, Ned Land was brandishing an enormous harpoon, which he had placed\nin the boat before leaving the _Nautilus_.\n\nThen, following the Captain s example, I allowed myself to be dressed\nin the heavy copper helmet, and our reservoirs of air were at once in\nactivity. An instant after we were landed, one after the other, in\nabout two yards of water upon an even sand. Captain Nemo made a sign\nwith his hand, and we followed him by a gentle declivity till we\ndisappeared under the waves.\n\nOver our feet, like coveys of snipe in a bog, rose shoals of fish, of\nthe genus monoptera, which have no other fins but their tail. I\nrecognized the Javanese, a real serpent two and a half feet long, of a\nlivid colour underneath, and which might easily be mistaken for a\nconger eel if it were not for the golden stripes on its side. In the\ngenus stromateus, whose bodies are very flat and oval, I saw some of\nthe most brilliant colours, carrying their dorsal fin like a scythe; an\nexcellent eating fish, which, dried and pickled, is known by the name\nof Karawade; then some tranquebars, belonging to the genus\napsiphoroides, whose body is covered with a shell cuirass of eight\nlongitudinal plates.\n\nThe heightening sun lit the mass of waters more and more. The soil\nchanged by degrees. To the fine sand succeeded a perfect causeway of\nboulders, covered with a carpet of molluscs and zoophytes. Amongst the\nspecimens of these branches I noticed some placenae, with thin unequal\nshells, a kind of ostracion peculiar to the Red Sea and the Indian\nOcean; some orange lucinae with rounded shells; rockfish three feet and\na half long, which raised themselves under the waves like hands ready\nto seize one. There were also some panopyres, slightly luminous; and\nlastly, some oculines, like magnificent fans, forming one of the\nrichest vegetations of these seas.\n\nIn the midst of these living plants, and under the arbours of the\nhydrophytes, were layers of clumsy articulates, particularly some\nraninae, whose carapace formed a slightly rounded triangle; and some\nhorrible looking parthenopes.\n\nAt about seven o clock we found ourselves at last surveying the\noyster-banks on which the pearl-oysters are reproduced by millions.\n\nCaptain Nemo pointed with his hand to the enormous heap of oysters; and\nI could well understand that this mine was inexhaustible, for Nature s\ncreative power is far beyond man s instinct of destruction. Ned Land,\nfaithful to his instinct, hastened to fill a net which he carried by\nhis side with some of the finest specimens. But we could not stop. We\nmust follow the Captain, who seemed to guide him self by paths known\nonly to himself. The ground was sensibly rising, and sometimes, on\nholding up my arm, it was above the surface of the sea. Then the level\nof the bank would sink capriciously. Often we rounded high rocks\nscarped into pyramids. In their dark fractures huge crustacea, perched\nupon their high claws like some war-machine, watched us with fixed\neyes, and under our feet crawled various kinds of annelides.\n\nAt this moment there opened before us a large grotto dug in a\npicturesque heap of rocks and carpeted with all the thick warp of the\nsubmarine flora. At first it seemed very dark to me. The solar rays\nseemed to be extinguished by successive gradations, until its vague\ntransparency became nothing more than drowned light. Captain Nemo\nentered; we followed. My eyes soon accustomed themselves to this\nrelative state of darkness. I could distinguish the arches springing\ncapriciously from natural pillars, standing broad upon their granite\nbase, like the heavy columns of Tuscan architecture. Why had our\nincomprehensible guide led us to the bottom of this submarine crypt? I\nwas soon to know. After descending a rather sharp declivity, our feet\ntrod the bottom of a kind of circular pit. There Captain Nemo stopped,\nand with his hand indicated an object I had not yet perceived. It was\nan oyster of extraordinary dimensions, a gigantic tridacne, a goblet\nwhich could have contained a whole lake of holy-water, a basin the\nbreadth of which was more than two yards and a half, and consequently\nlarger than that ornamenting the saloon of the _Nautilus_. I approached\nthis extraordinary mollusc. It adhered by its filaments to a table of\ngranite, and there, isolated, it developed itself in the calm waters of\nthe grotto. I estimated the weight of this tridacne at 600 lbs. Such an\noyster would contain 30 lbs. of meat; and one must have the stomach of\na Gargantua to demolish some dozens of them.\n\nCaptain Nemo was evidently acquainted with the existence of this\nbivalve, and seemed to have a particular motive in verifying the actual\nstate of this tridacne. The shells were a little open; the Captain came\nnear and put his dagger between to prevent them from closing; then with\nhis hand he raised the membrane with its fringed edges, which formed a\ncloak for the creature. There, between the folded plaits, I saw a loose\npearl, whose size equalled that of a coco-nut. Its globular shape,\nperfect clearness, and admirable lustre made it altogether a jewel of\ninestimable value. Carried away by my curiosity, I stretched out my\nhand to seize it, weigh it, and touch it; but the Captain stopped me,\nmade a sign of refusal, and quickly withdrew his dagger, and the two\nshells closed suddenly. I then understood Captain Nemo s intention. In\nleaving this pearl hidden in the mantle of the tridacne he was allowing\nit to grow slowly. Each year the secretions of the mollusc would add\nnew concentric circles. I estimated its value at  500,000 at least.\n\nAfter ten minutes Captain Nemo stopped suddenly. I thought he had\nhalted previously to returning. No; by a gesture he bade us crouch\nbeside him in a deep fracture of the rock, his hand pointed to one part\nof the liquid mass, which I watched attentively.\n\nAbout five yards from me a shadow appeared, and sank to the ground. The\ndisquieting idea of sharks shot through my mind, but I was mistaken;\nand once again it was not a monster of the ocean that we had anything\nto do with.\n\nIt was a man, a living man, an Indian, a fisherman, a poor devil who, I\nsuppose, had come to glean before the harvest. I could see the bottom\nof his canoe anchored some feet above his head. He dived and went up\nsuccessively. A stone held between his feet, cut in the shape of a\nsugar loaf, whilst a rope fastened him to his boat, helped him to\ndescend more rapidly. This was all his apparatus. Reaching the bottom,\nabout five yards deep, he went on his knees and filled his bag with\noysters picked up at random. Then he went up, emptied it, pulled up his\nstone, and began the operation once more, which lasted thirty seconds.\n\nThe diver did not see us. The shadow of the rock hid us from sight. And\nhow should this poor Indian ever dream that men, beings like himself,\nshould be there under the water watching his movements and losing no\ndetail of the fishing? Several times he went up in this way, and dived\nagain. He did not carry away more than ten at each plunge, for he was\nobliged to pull them from the bank to which they adhered by means of\ntheir strong byssus. And how many of those oysters for which he risked\nhis life had no pearl in them! I watched him closely; his man uvres\nwere regular; and for the space of half an hour no danger appeared to\nthreaten him.\n\nI was beginning to accustom myself to the sight of this interesting\nfishing, when suddenly, as the Indian was on the ground, I saw him make\na gesture of terror, rise, and make a spring to return to the surface\nof the sea.\n\nI understood his dread. A gigantic shadow appeared just above the\nunfortunate diver. It was a shark of enormous size advancing\ndiagonally, his eyes on fire, and his jaws open. I was mute with horror\nand unable to move.\n\nThe voracious creature shot towards the Indian, who threw himself on\none side to avoid the shark s fins; but not its tail, for it struck his\nchest and stretched him on the ground.\n\nThis scene lasted but a few seconds: the shark returned, and, turning\non his back, prepared himself for cutting the Indian in two, when I saw\nCaptain Nemo rise suddenly, and then, dagger in hand, walk straight to\nthe monster, ready to fight face to face with him. The very moment the\nshark was going to snap the unhappy fisherman in two, he perceived his\nnew adversary, and, turning over, made straight towards him.\n\nI can still see Captain Nemo s position. Holding himself well together,\nhe waited for the shark with admirable coolness; and, when it rushed at\nhim, threw himself on one side with wonderful quickness, avoiding the\nshock, and burying his dagger deep into its side. But it was not all\nover. A terrible combat ensued.\n\n\n[Illustration] A terrible combat began\n\n\nThe shark had seemed to roar, if I might say so. The blood rushed in\ntorrents from its wound. The sea was dyed red, and through the opaque\nliquid I could distinguish nothing more. Nothing more until the moment\nwhen, like lightning, I saw the undaunted Captain hanging on to one of\nthe creature s fins, struggling, as it were, hand to hand with the\nmonster, and dealing successive blows at his enemy, yet still unable to\ngive a decisive one.\n\nThe shark s struggles agitated the water with such fury that the\nrocking threatened to upset me.\n\nI wanted to go to the Captain s assistance, but, nailed to the spot\nwith horror, I could not stir.\n\nI saw the haggard eye; I saw the different phases of the fight. The\nCaptain fell to the earth, upset by the enormous mass which leant upon\nhim. The shark s jaws opened wide, like a pair of factory shears, and\nit would have been all over with the Captain; but, quick as thought,\nharpoon in hand, Ned Land rushed towards the shark and struck it with\nits sharp point.\n\nThe waves were impregnated with a mass of blood. They rocked under the\nshark s movements, which beat them with indescribable fury. Ned Land\nhad not missed his aim. It was the monster s death-rattle. Struck to\nthe heart, it struggled in dreadful convulsions, the shock of which\noverthrew Conseil.\n\nBut Ned Land had disentangled the Captain, who, getting up without any\nwound, went straight to the Indian, quickly cut the cord which held him\nto his stone, took him in his arms, and, with a sharp blow of his heel,\nmounted to the surface.\n\nWe all three followed in a few seconds, saved by a miracle, and reached\nthe fisherman s boat.\n\nCaptain Nemo s first care was to recall the unfortunate man to life\nagain. I did not think he could succeed. I hoped so, for the poor\ncreature s immersion was not long; but the blow from the shark s tail\nmight have been his death-blow.\n\nHappily, with the Captain s and Conseil s sharp friction, I saw\nconsciousness return by degrees. He opened his eyes. What was his\nsurprise, his terror even, at seeing four great copper heads leaning\nover him! And, above all, what must he have thought when Captain Nemo,\ndrawing from the pocket of his dress a bag of pearls, placed it in his\nhand! This munificent charity from the man of the waters to the poor\nCingalese was accepted with a trembling hand. His wondering eyes showed\nthat he knew not to what super-human beings he owed both fortune and\nlife.\n\nAt a sign from the Captain we regained the bank, and, following the\nroad already traversed, came in about half an hour to the anchor which\nheld the canoe of the _Nautilus_ to the earth.\n\nOnce on board, we each, with the help of the sailors, got rid of the\nheavy copper helmet.\n\nCaptain Nemo s first word was to the Canadian.\n\n Thank you, Master Land,  said he.\n\n It was in revenge, Captain,  replied Ned Land.  I owed you that. \n\nA ghastly smile passed across the Captain s lips, and that was all.\n\n To the _Nautilus_,  said he.\n\nThe boat flew over the waves. Some minutes after we met the shark s\ndead body floating. By the black marking of the extremity of its fins,\nI recognised the terrible melanopteron of the Indian Seas, of the\nspecies of shark so properly called. It was more than twenty-five feet\nlong; its enormous mouth occupied one-third of its body. It was an\nadult, as was known by its six rows of teeth placed in an isosceles\ntriangle in the upper jaw.\n\nWhilst I was contemplating this inert mass, a dozen of these voracious\nbeasts appeared round the boat; and, without noticing us, threw\nthemselves upon the dead body and fought with one another for the\npieces.\n\nAt half-past eight we were again on board the _Nautilus_. There I\nreflected on the incidents which had taken place in our excursion to\nthe Manaar Bank.\n\nTwo conclusions I must inevitably draw from it one bearing upon the\nunparalleled courage of Captain Nemo, the other upon his devotion to a\nhuman being, a representative of that race from which he fled beneath\nthe sea. Whatever he might say, this strange man had not yet succeeded\nin entirely crushing his heart.\n\nWhen I made this observation to him, he answered in a slightly moved\ntone:\n\n That Indian, sir, is an inhabitant of an oppressed country; and I am\nstill, and shall be, to my last breath, one of them! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\nTHE RED SEA\n\n\nIn the course of the day of the 29th of January, the island of Ceylon\ndisappeared under the horizon, and the _Nautilus_, at a speed of twenty\nmiles an hour, slid into the labyrinth of canals which separate the\nMaldives from the Laccadives. It coasted even the Island of Kiltan, a\nland originally coraline, discovered by Vasco da Gama in 1499, and one\nof the nineteen principal islands of the Laccadive Archipelago,\nsituated between 10  and 14  30  N. lat., and 69  50  72  E. long.\n\nWe had made 16,220 miles, or 7,500 (French) leagues from our\nstarting-point in the Japanese Seas.\n\nThe next day (30th January), when the _Nautilus_ went to the surface of\nthe ocean there was no land in sight. Its course was N.N.E., in the\ndirection of the Sea of Oman, between Arabia and the Indian Peninsula,\nwhich serves as an outlet to the Persian Gulf. It was evidently a block\nwithout any possible egress. Where was Captain Nemo taking us to? I\ncould not say. This, however, did not satisfy the Canadian, who that\nday came to me asking where we were going.\n\n We are going where our Captain s fancy takes us, Master Ned. \n\n His fancy cannot take us far, then,  said the Canadian.  The Persian\nGulf has no outlet: and, if we do go in, it will not be long before we\nare out again. \n\n Very well, then, we will come out again, Master Land; and if, after\nthe Persian Gulf, the _Nautilus_ would like to visit the Red Sea, the\nStraits of Bab-el-mandeb are there to give us entrance. \n\n I need not tell you, sir,  said Ned Land,  that the Red Sea is as much\nclosed as the Gulf, as the Isthmus of Suez is not yet cut; and, if it\nwas, a boat as mysterious as ours would not risk itself in a canal cut\nwith sluices. And again, the Red Sea is not the road to take us back to\nEurope. \n\n But I never said we were going back to Europe. \n\n What do you suppose, then? \n\n I suppose that, after visiting the curious coasts of Arabia and Egypt,\nthe _Nautilus_ will go down the Indian Ocean again, perhaps cross the\nChannel of Mozambique, perhaps off the Mascarenhas, so as to gain the\nCape of Good Hope. \n\n And once at the Cape of Good Hope?  asked the Canadian, with peculiar\nemphasis.\n\n Well, we shall penetrate into that Atlantic which we do not yet know.\nAh! friend Ned, you are getting tired of this journey under the sea;\nyou are surfeited with the incessantly varying spectacle of submarine\nwonders. For my part, I shall be sorry to see the end of a voyage which\nit is given to so few men to make. \n\nFor four days, till the 3rd of February, the _Nautilus_ scoured the Sea\nof Oman, at various speeds and at various depths. It seemed to go at\nrandom, as if hesitating as to which road it should follow, but we\nnever passed the Tropic of Cancer.\n\nIn quitting this sea we sighted Muscat for an instant, one of the most\nimportant towns of the country of Oman. I admired its strange aspect,\nsurrounded by black rocks upon which its white houses and forts stood\nin relief. I saw the rounded domes of its mosques, the elegant points\nof its minarets, its fresh and verdant terraces. But it was only a\nvision! The _Nautilus_ soon sank under the waves of that part of the\nsea.\n\nWe passed along the Arabian coast of Mahrah and Hadramaut, for a\ndistance of six miles, its undulating line of mountains being\noccasionally relieved by some ancient ruin. The 5th of February we at\nlast entered the Gulf of Aden, a perfect funnel introduced into the\nneck of Bab-el-mandeb, through which the Indian waters entered the Red\nSea.\n\nThe 6th of February, the _Nautilus_ floated in sight of Aden, perched\nupon a promontory which a narrow isthmus joins to the mainland, a kind\nof inaccessible Gibraltar, the fortifications of which were rebuilt by\nthe English after taking possession in 1839. I caught a glimpse of the\noctagon minarets of this town, which was at one time the richest\ncommercial magazine on the coast.\n\nI certainly thought that Captain Nemo, arrived at this point, would\nback out again; but I was mistaken, for he did no such thing, much to\nmy surprise.\n\nThe next day, the 7th of February, we entered the Straits of\nBab-el-mandeb, the name of which, in the Arab tongue, means The Gate of\nTears.\n\nTo twenty miles in breadth, it is only thirty-two in length. And for\nthe _Nautilus_, starting at full speed, the crossing was scarcely the\nwork of an hour. But I saw nothing, not even the Island of Perim, with\nwhich the British Government has fortified the position of Aden. There\nwere too many English or French steamers of the line of Suez to Bombay,\nCalcutta to Melbourne, and from Bourbon to the Mauritius, furrowing\nthis narrow passage, for the _Nautilus_ to venture to show itself. So\nit remained prudently below. At last about noon, we were in the waters\nof the Red Sea.\n\nI would not even seek to understand the caprice which had decided\nCaptain Nemo upon entering the gulf. But I quite approved of the\n_Nautilus_ entering it. Its speed was lessened: sometimes it kept on\nthe surface, sometimes it dived to avoid a vessel, and thus I was able\nto observe the upper and lower parts of this curious sea.\n\nThe 8th of February, from the first dawn of day, Mocha came in sight,\nnow a ruined town, whose walls would fall at a gunshot, yet which\nshelters here and there some verdant date-trees; once an important\ncity, containing six public markets, and twenty-six mosques, and whose\nwalls, defended by fourteen forts, formed a girdle of two miles in\ncircumference.\n\nThe _Nautilus_ then approached the African shore, where the depth of\nthe sea was greater. There, between two waters clear as crystal,\nthrough the open panels we were allowed to contemplate the beautiful\nbushes of brilliant coral and large blocks of rock clothed with a\nsplendid fur of green variety of sites and landscapes along these\nsandbanks and alg  and fuci. What an indescribable spectacle, and what\nvariety of sites and landscapes along these sandbanks and volcanic\nislands which bound the Libyan coast! But where these shrubs appeared\nin all their beauty was on the eastern coast, which the _Nautilus_ soon\ngained. It was on the coast of Tehama, for there not only did this\ndisplay of zoophytes flourish beneath the level of the sea, but they\nalso formed picturesque interlacings which unfolded themselves about\nsixty feet above the surface, more capricious but less highly coloured\nthan those whose freshness was kept up by the vital power of the\nwaters.\n\nWhat charming hours I passed thus at the window of the saloon! What new\nspecimens of submarine flora and fauna did I admire under the\nbrightness of our electric lantern!\n\nThe 9th of February the _Nautilus_ floated in the broadest part of the\nRed Sea, which is comprised between Souakin, on the west coast, and\nKomfidah, on the east coast, with a diameter of ninety miles.\n\nThat day at noon, after the bearings were taken, Captain Nemo mounted\nthe platform, where I happened to be, and I was determined not to let\nhim go down again without at least pressing him regarding his ulterior\nprojects. As soon as he saw me he approached and graciously offered me\na cigar.\n\n Well, sir, does this Red Sea please you? Have you sufficiently\nobserved the wonders it covers, its fishes, its zoophytes, its\nparterres of sponges, and its forests of coral? Did you catch a glimpse\nof the towns on its borders? \n\n Yes, Captain Nemo,  I replied;  and the _Nautilus_ is wonderfully\nfitted for such a study. Ah! it is an intelligent boat! \n\n Yes, sir, intelligent and invulnerable. It fears neither the terrible\ntempests of the Red Sea, nor its currents, nor its sandbanks. \n\n Certainly,  said I,  this sea is quoted as one of the worst, and in\nthe time of the ancients, if I am not mistaken, its reputation was\ndetestable. \n\n Detestable, M. Aronnax. The Greek and Latin historians do not speak\nfavourably of it, and Strabo says it is very dangerous during the\nEtesian winds and in the rainy season. The Arabian Edrisi portrays it\nunder the name of the Gulf of Colzoum, and relates that vessels\nperished there in great numbers on the sandbanks and that no one would\nrisk sailing in the night. It is, he pretends, a sea subject to fearful\nhurricanes, strewn with inhospitable islands, and  which offers nothing\ngood either on its surface or in its depths. \n\n One may see,  I replied,  that these historians never sailed on board\nthe _Nautilus_. \n\n Just so,  replied the Captain, smiling;  and in that respect moderns\nare not more advanced than the ancients. It required many ages to find\nout the mechanical power of steam. Who knows if, in another hundred\nyears, we may not see a second _Nautilus?_ Progress is slow, M.\nAronnax. \n\n It is true,  I answered;  your boat is at least a century before its\ntime, perhaps an era. What a misfortune that the secret of such an\ninvention should die with its inventor! \n\nCaptain Nemo did not reply. After some minutes  silence he continued:\n\n You were speaking of the opinions of ancient historians upon the\ndangerous navigation of the Red Sea. \n\n It is true,  said I;  but were not their fears exaggerated? \n\n Yes and no, M. Aronnax,  replied Captain Nemo, who seemed to know the\nRed Sea by heart.  That which is no longer dangerous for a modern\nvessel, well rigged, strongly built, and master of its own course,\nthanks to obedient steam, offered all sorts of perils to the ships of\nthe ancients. Picture to yourself those first navigators venturing in\nships made of planks sewn with the cords of the palmtree, saturated\nwith the grease of the seadog, and covered with powdered resin! They\nhad not even instruments wherewith to take their bearings, and they\nwent by guess amongst currents of which they scarcely knew anything.\nUnder such conditions shipwrecks were, and must have been, numerous.\nBut in our time, steamers running between Suez and the South Seas have\nnothing more to fear from the fury of this gulf, in spite of contrary\ntrade-winds. The captain and passengers do not prepare for their\ndeparture by offering propitiatory sacrifices; and, on their return,\nthey no longer go ornamented with wreaths and gilt fillets to thank the\ngods in the neighbouring temple. \n\n I agree with you,  said I;  and steam seems to have killed all\ngratitude in the hearts of sailors. But, Captain, since you seem to\nhave especially studied this sea, can you tell me the origin of its\nname? \n\n There exist several explanations on the subject, M. Aronnax. Would you\nlike to know the opinion of a chronicler of the fourteenth century? \n\n Willingly. \n\n This fanciful writer pretends that its name was given to it after the\npassage of the Israelites, when Pharaoh perished in the waves which\nclosed at the voice of Moses. \n\n A poet s explanation, Captain Nemo,  I replied;  but I cannot content\nmyself with that. I ask you for your personal opinion. \n\n Here it is, M. Aronnax. According to my idea, we must see in this\nappellation of the Red Sea a translation of the Hebrew word  Edom ; and\nif the ancients gave it that name, it was on account of the particular\ncolour of its waters. \n\n But up to this time I have seen nothing but transparent waves and\nwithout any particular colour. \n\n Very likely; but as we advance to the bottom of the gulf, you will see\nthis singular appearance. I remember seeing the Bay of Tor entirely\nred, like a sea of blood. \n\n And you attribute this colour to the presence of a microscopic\nseaweed? \n\n Yes. \n\n So, Captain Nemo, it is not the first time you have overrun the Red\nSea on board the _Nautilus?_ \n\n No, sir. \n\n As you spoke a while ago of the passage of the Israelites and of the\ncatastrophe to the Egyptians, I will ask whether you have met with the\ntraces under the water of this great historical fact? \n\n No, sir; and for a good reason. \n\n What is it? \n\n It is that the spot where Moses and his people passed is now so\nblocked up with sand that the camels can barely bathe their legs there.\nYou can well understand that there would not be water enough for my\n_Nautilus_. \n\n And the spot?  I asked.\n\n The spot is situated a little above the Isthmus of Suez, in the arm\nwhich formerly made a deep estuary, when the Red Sea extended to the\nSalt Lakes. Now, whether this passage were miraculous or not, the\nIsraelites, nevertheless, crossed there to reach the Promised Land, and\nPharaoh s army perished precisely on that spot; and I think that\nexcavations made in the middle of the sand would bring to light a large\nnumber of arms and instruments of Egyptian origin. \n\n That is evident,  I replied;  and for the sake of archaeologists let\nus hope that these excavations will be made sooner or later, when new\ntowns are established on the isthmus, after the construction of the\nSuez Canal; a canal, however, very useless to a vessel like the\n_Nautilus_. \n\n Very likely; but useful to the whole world,  said Captain Nemo.  The\nancients well understood the utility of a communication between the Red\nSea and the Mediterranean for their commercial affairs: but they did\nnot think of digging a canal direct, and took the Nile as an\nintermediate. Very probably the canal which united the Nile to the Red\nSea was begun by Sesostris, if we may believe tradition. One thing is\ncertain, that in the year 615 before Jesus Christ, Necos undertook the\nworks of an alimentary canal to the waters of the Nile across the plain\nof Egypt, looking towards Arabia. It took four days to go up this\ncanal, and it was so wide that two triremes could go abreast. It was\ncarried on by Darius, the son of Hystaspes, and probably finished by\nPtolemy II. Strabo saw it navigated: but its decline from the point of\ndeparture, near Bubastes, to the Red Sea was so slight that it was only\nnavigable for a few months in the year. This canal answered all\ncommercial purposes to the age of Antonius, when it was abandoned and\nblocked up with sand. Restored by order of the Caliph Omar, it was\ndefinitely destroyed in 761 or 762 by Caliph Al-Mansor, who wished to\nprevent the arrival of provisions to Mohammed-ben-Abdallah, who had\nrevolted against him. During the expedition into Egypt, your General\nBonaparte discovered traces of the works in the Desert of Suez; and,\nsurprised by the tide, he nearly perished before regaining Hadjaroth,\nat the very place where Moses had encamped three thousand years before\nhim. \n\n Well, Captain, what the ancients dared not undertake, this junction\nbetween the two seas, which will shorten the road from Cadiz to India,\nM. Lesseps has succeeded in doing; and before long he will have changed\nAfrica into an immense island. \n\n Yes, M. Aronnax; you have the right to be proud of your countryman.\nSuch a man brings more honour to a nation than great captains. He\nbegan, like so many others, with disgust and rebuffs; but he has\ntriumphed, for he has the genius of will. And it is sad to think that a\nwork like that, which ought to have been an international work and\nwhich would have sufficed to make a reign illustrious, should have\nsucceeded by the energy of one man. All honour to M. Lesseps! \n\n Yes! honour to the great citizen,  I replied, surprised by the manner\nin which Captain Nemo had just spoken.\n\n Unfortunately,  he continued,  I cannot take you through the Suez\nCanal; but you will be able to see the long jetty of Port Said after\nto-morrow, when we shall be in the Mediterranean. \n\n The Mediterranean!  I exclaimed.\n\n Yes, sir; does that astonish you? \n\n What astonishes me is to think that we shall be there the day after\nto-morrow. \n\n Indeed? \n\n Yes, Captain, although by this time I ought to have accustomed myself\nto be surprised at nothing since I have been on board your boat. \n\n But the cause of this surprise? \n\n Well! it is the fearful speed you will have to put on the _Nautilus_,\nif the day after to-morrow she is to be in the Mediterranean, having\nmade the round of Africa, and doubled the Cape of Good Hope! \n\n Who told you that she would make the round of Africa and double the\nCape of Good Hope, sir? \n\n Well, unless the _Nautilus_ sails on dry land, and passes above the\nisthmus \n\n Or beneath it, M. Aronnax. \n\n Beneath it? \n\n Certainly,  replied Captain Nemo quietly.  A long time ago Nature made\nunder this tongue of land what man has this day made on its surface. \n\n What! such a passage exists? \n\n Yes; a subterranean passage, which I have named the Arabian Tunnel. It\ntakes us beneath Suez and opens into the Gulf of Pelusium. \n\n But this isthmus is composed of nothing but quick sands? \n\n To a certain depth. But at fifty-five yards only there is a solid\nlayer of rock. \n\n Did you discover this passage by chance?  I asked more and more\nsurprised.\n\n Chance and reasoning, sir; and by reasoning even more than by chance.\nNot only does this passage exist, but I have profited by it several\ntimes. Without that I should not have ventured this day into the\nimpassable Red Sea. I noticed that in the Red Sea and in the\nMediterranean there existed a certain number of fishes of a kind\nperfectly identical. Certain of the fact, I asked myself was it\npossible that there was no communication between the two seas? If there\nwas, the subterranean current must necessarily run from the Red Sea to\nthe Mediterranean, from the sole cause of difference of level. I caught\na large number of fishes in the neighbourhood of Suez. I passed a\ncopper ring through their tails, and threw them back into the sea. Some\nmonths later, on the coast of Syria, I caught some of my fish\nornamented with the ring. Thus the communication between the two was\nproved. I then sought for it with my _Nautilus;_ I discovered it,\nventured into it, and before long, sir, you too will have passed\nthrough my Arabian tunnel! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\nTHE ARABIAN TUNNEL\n\n\nThat same evening, in 21  30  N. lat., the _Nautilus_ floated on the\nsurface of the sea, approaching the Arabian coast. I saw Djeddah, the\nmost important counting-house of Egypt, Syria, Turkey, and India. I\ndistinguished clearly enough its buildings, the vessels anchored at the\nquays, and those whose draught of water obliged them to anchor in the\nroads. The sun, rather low on the horizon, struck full on the houses of\nthe town, bringing out their whiteness. Outside, some wooden cabins,\nand some made of reeds, showed the quarter inhabited by the Bedouins.\nSoon Djeddah was shut out from view by the shadows of night, and the\n_Nautilus_ found herself under water slightly phosphorescent.\n\nThe next day, the 10th of February, we sighted several ships running to\nwindward. The _Nautilus_ returned to its submarine navigation; but at\nnoon, when her bearings were taken, the sea being deserted, she rose\nagain to her waterline.\n\nAccompanied by Ned and Conseil, I seated myself on the platform. The\ncoast on the eastern side looked like a mass faintly printed upon a\ndamp fog.\n\nWe were leaning on the sides of the pinnace, talking of one thing and\nanother, when Ned Land, stretching out his hand towards a spot on the\nsea, said:\n\n Do you see anything there, sir? \n\n No, Ned,  I replied;  but I have not your eyes, you know. \n\n Look well,  said Ned,  there, on the starboard beam, about the height\nof the lantern! Do you not see a mass which seems to move? \n\n Certainly,  said I, after close attention;  I see something like a\nlong black body on the top of the water. \n\nAnd certainly before long the black object was not more than a mile\nfrom us. It looked like a great sandbank deposited in the open sea. It\nwas a gigantic dugong!\n\nNed Land looked eagerly. His eyes shone with covetousness at the sight\nof the animal. His hand seemed ready to harpoon it. One would have\nthought he was awaiting the moment to throw himself into the sea and\nattack it in its element.\n\nAt this instant Captain Nemo appeared on the platform. He saw the\ndugong, understood the Canadian s attitude, and, addressing him, said:\n\n If you held a harpoon just now, Master Land, would it not burn your\nhand? \n\n Just so, sir. \n\n And you would not be sorry to go back, for one day, to your trade of a\nfisherman and to add this cetacean to the list of those you have\nalready killed? \n\n I should not, sir. \n\n Well, you can try. \n\n Thank you, sir,  said Ned Land, his eyes flaming.\n\n Only,  continued the Captain,  I advise you for your own sake not to\nmiss the creature. \n\n Is the dugong dangerous to attack?  I asked, in spite of the\nCanadian s shrug of the shoulders.\n\n Yes,  replied the Captain;  sometimes the animal turns upon its\nassailants and overturns their boat. But for Master Land this danger is\nnot to be feared. His eye is prompt, his arm sure. \n\nAt this moment seven men of the crew, mute and immovable as ever,\nmounted the platform. One carried a harpoon and a line similar to those\nemployed in catching whales. The pinnace was lifted from the bridge,\npulled from its socket, and let down into the sea. Six oarsmen took\ntheir seats, and the coxswain went to the tiller. Ned, Conseil, and I\nwent to the back of the boat.\n\n You are not coming, Captain?  I asked.\n\n No, sir; but I wish you good sport. \n\nThe boat put off, and, lifted by the six rowers, drew rapidly towards\nthe dugong, which floated about two miles from the _Nautilus_.\n\nArrived some cables-length from the cetacean, the speed slackened, and\nthe oars dipped noiselessly into the quiet waters. Ned Land, harpoon in\nhand, stood in the fore part of the boat. The harpoon used for striking\nthe whale is generally attached to a very long cord which runs out\nrapidly as the wounded creature draws it after him. But here the cord\nwas not more than ten fathoms long, and the extremity was attached to a\nsmall barrel which, by floating, was to show the course the dugong took\nunder the water.\n\nI stood and carefully watched the Canadian s adversary. This dugong,\nwhich also bears the name of the halicore, closely resembles the\nmanatee; its oblong body terminated in a lengthened tail, and its\nlateral fins in perfect fingers. Its difference from the manatee\nconsisted in its upper jaw, which was armed with two long and pointed\nteeth which formed on each side diverging tusks.\n\nThis dugong which Ned Land was preparing to attack was of colossal\ndimensions; it was more than seven yards long. It did not move, and\nseemed to be sleeping on the waves, which circumstance made it easier\nto capture.\n\nThe boat approached within six yards of the animal. The oars rested on\nthe rowlocks. I half rose. Ned Land, his body thrown a little back,\nbrandished the harpoon in his experienced hand.\n\nSuddenly a hissing noise was heard, and the dugong disappeared. The\nharpoon, although thrown with great force; had apparently only struck\nthe water.\n\n Curse it!  exclaimed the Canadian furiously;  I have missed it! \n\n No,  said I;  the creature is wounded look at the blood; but your\nweapon has not stuck in his body. \n\n My harpoon! my harpoon!  cried Ned Land.\n\nThe sailors rowed on, and the coxswain made for the floating barrel.\nThe harpoon regained, we followed in pursuit of the animal.\n\nThe latter came now and then to the surface to breathe. Its wound had\nnot weakened it, for it shot onwards with great rapidity.\n\nThe boat, rowed by strong arms, flew on its track. Several times it\napproached within some few yards, and the Canadian was ready to strike,\nbut the dugong made off with a sudden plunge, and it was impossible to\nreach it.\n\nImagine the passion which excited impatient Ned Land! He hurled at the\nunfortunate creature the most energetic expletives in the English\ntongue. For my part, I was only vexed to see the dugong escape all our\nattacks.\n\nWe pursued it without relaxation for an hour, and I began to think it\nwould prove difficult to capture, when the animal, possessed with the\nperverse idea of vengeance of which he had cause to repent, turned upon\nthe pinnace and assailed us in its turn.\n\nThis man uvre did not escape the Canadian.\n\n Look out!  he cried.\n\nThe coxswain said some words in his outlandish tongue, doubtless\nwarning the men to keep on their guard.\n\nThe dugong came within twenty feet of the boat, stopped, sniffed the\nair briskly with its large nostrils (not pierced at the extremity, but\nin the upper part of its muzzle). Then, taking a spring, he threw\nhimself upon us.\n\nThe pinnace could not avoid the shock, and half upset, shipped at least\ntwo tons of water, which had to be emptied; but, thanks to the\ncoxswain, we caught it sideways, not full front, so we were not quite\noverturned. While Ned Land, clinging to the bows, belaboured the\ngigantic animal with blows from his harpoon, the creature s teeth were\nburied in the gunwale, and it lifted the whole thing out of the water,\nas a lion does a roebuck. We were upset over one another, and I know\nnot how the adventure would have ended, if the Canadian, still enraged\nwith the beast, had not struck it to the heart.\n\nI heard its teeth grind on the iron plate, and the dugong disappeared,\ncarrying the harpoon with him. But the barrel soon returned to the\nsurface, and shortly after the body of the animal, turned on its back.\nThe boat came up with it, took it in tow, and made straight for the\n_Nautilus_.\n\nIt required tackle of enormous strength to hoist the dugong on to the\nplatform. It weighed 10,000 lbs.\n\nThe next day, 11th February, the larder of the _Nautilus_ was enriched\nby some more delicate game. A flight of sea-swallows rested on the\n_Nautilus_. It was a species of the Sterna nilotica, peculiar to Egypt;\nits beak is black, head grey and pointed, the eye surrounded by white\nspots, the back, wings, and tail of a greyish colour, the belly and\nthroat white, and claws red. They also took some dozen of Nile ducks, a\nwild bird of high flavour, its throat and upper part of the head white\nwith black spots.\n\nAbout five o clock in the evening we sighted to the north the Cape of\nRas-Mohammed. This cape forms the extremity of Arabia Petraea,\ncomprised between the Gulf of Suez and the Gulf of Acabah.\n\nThe _Nautilus_ penetrated into the Straits of Jubal, which leads to the\nGulf of Suez. I distinctly saw a high mountain, towering between the\ntwo gulfs of Ras-Mohammed. It was Mount Horeb, that Sinai at the top of\nwhich Moses saw God face to face.\n\nAt six o clock the _Nautilus_, sometimes floating, sometimes immersed,\npassed some distance from Tor, situated at the end of the bay, the\nwaters of which seemed tinted with red, an observation already made by\nCaptain Nemo. Then night fell in the midst of a heavy silence,\nsometimes broken by the cries of the pelican and other night-birds, and\nthe noise of the waves breaking upon the shore, chafing against the\nrocks, or the panting of some far-off steamer beating the waters of the\nGulf with its noisy paddles.\n\nFrom eight to nine o clock the _Nautilus_ remained some fathoms under\nthe water. According to my calculation we must have been very near\nSuez. Through the panel of the saloon I saw the bottom of the rocks\nbrilliantly lit up by our electric lamp. We seemed to be leaving the\nStraits behind us more and more.\n\nAt a quarter-past nine, the vessel having returned to the surface, I\nmounted the platform. Most impatient to pass through Captain Nemo s\ntunnel, I could not stay in one place, so came to breathe the fresh\nnight air.\n\nSoon in the shadow I saw a pale light, half discoloured by the fog,\nshining about a mile from us.\n\n A floating lighthouse!  said someone near me.\n\nI turned, and saw the Captain.\n\n It is the floating light of Suez,  he continued.  It will not be long\nbefore we gain the entrance of the tunnel. \n\n The entrance cannot be easy? \n\n No, sir; for that reason I am accustomed to go into the steersman s\ncage and myself direct our course. And now, if you will go down, M.\nAronnax, the _Nautilus_ is going under the waves, and will not return\nto the surface until we have passed through the Arabian Tunnel. \n\nCaptain Nemo led me towards the central staircase; half way down he\nopened a door, traversed the upper deck, and landed in the pilot s\ncage, which it may be remembered rose at the extremity of the platform.\nIt was a cabin measuring six feet square, very much like that occupied\nby the pilot on the steamboats of the Mississippi or Hudson. In the\nmidst worked a wheel, placed vertically, and caught to the tiller-rope,\nwhich ran to the back of the _Nautilus_. Four light-ports with\nlenticular glasses, let in a groove in the partition of the cabin,\nallowed the man at the wheel to see in all directions.\n\nThis cabin was dark; but soon my eyes accustomed themselves to the\nobscurity, and I perceived the pilot, a strong man, with his hands\nresting on the spokes of the wheel. Outside, the sea appeared vividly\nlit up by the lantern, which shed its rays from the back of the cabin\nto the other extremity of the platform.\n\n Now,  said Captain Nemo,  let us try to make our passage. \n\nElectric wires connected the pilot s cage with the machinery room, and\nfrom there the Captain could communicate simultaneously to his\n_Nautilus_ the direction and the speed. He pressed a metal knob, and at\nonce the speed of the screw diminished.\n\nI looked in silence at the high straight wall we were running by at\nthis moment, the immovable base of a massive sandy coast. We followed\nit thus for an hour only some few yards off.\n\nCaptain Nemo did not take his eye from the knob, suspended by its two\nconcentric circles in the cabin. At a simple gesture, the pilot\nmodified the course of the _Nautilus_ every instant.\n\nI had placed myself at the port-scuttle, and saw some magnificent\nsubstructures of coral, zoophytes, seaweed, and fucus, agitating their\nenormous claws, which stretched out from the fissures of the rock.\n\nAt a quarter-past ten, the Captain himself took the helm. A large\ngallery, black and deep, opened before us. The _Nautilus_ went boldly\ninto it. A strange roaring was heard round its sides. It was the waters\nof the Red Sea, which the incline of the tunnel precipitated violently\ntowards the Mediterranean. The _Nautilus_ went with the torrent, rapid\nas an arrow, in spite of the efforts of the machinery, which, in order\nto offer more effective resistance, beat the waves with reversed screw.\n\nOn the walls of the narrow passage I could see nothing but brilliant\nrays, straight lines, furrows of fire, traced by the great speed, under\nthe brilliant electric light. My heart beat fast.\n\nAt thirty-five minutes past ten, Captain Nemo quitted the helm, and,\nturning to me, said:\n\n The Mediterranean! \n\nIn less than twenty minutes, the _Nautilus_, carried along by the\ntorrent, had passed through the Isthmus of Suez.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\nTHE GRECIAN ARCHIPELAGO\n\n\nThe next day, the 12th of February, at the dawn of day, the _Nautilus_\nrose to the surface. I hastened on to the platform. Three miles to the\nsouth the dim outline of Pelusium was to be seen. A torrent had carried\nus from one sea to another. About seven o clock Ned and Conseil joined\nme.\n\n Well, Sir Naturalist,  said the Canadian, in a slightly jovial tone,\n and the Mediterranean? \n\n We are floating on its surface, friend Ned. \n\n What!  said Conseil,  this very night. \n\n Yes, this very night; in a few minutes we have passed this impassable\nisthmus. \n\n I do not believe it,  replied the Canadian.\n\n Then you are wrong, Master Land,  I continued;  this low coast which\nrounds off to the south is the Egyptian coast. And you who have such\ngood eyes, Ned, you can see the jetty of Port Said stretching into the\nsea. \n\nThe Canadian looked attentively.\n\n Certainly you are right, sir, and your Captain is a first-rate man. We\nare in the Mediterranean. Good! Now, if you please, let us talk of our\nown little affair, but so that no one hears us. \n\nI saw what the Canadian wanted, and, in any case, I thought it better\nto let him talk, as he wished it; so we all three went and sat down\nnear the lantern, where we were less exposed to the spray of the\nblades.\n\n Now, Ned, we listen; what have you to tell us? \n\n What I have to tell you is very simple. We are in Europe; and before\nCaptain Nemo s caprices drag us once more to the bottom of the Polar\nSeas, or lead us into Oceania, I ask to leave the _Nautilus_. \n\nI wished in no way to shackle the liberty of my companions, but I\ncertainly felt no desire to leave Captain Nemo.\n\nThanks to him, and thanks to his apparatus, I was each day nearer the\ncompletion of my submarine studies; and I was rewriting my book of\nsubmarine depths in its very element. Should I ever again have such an\nopportunity of observing the wonders of the ocean? No, certainly not!\nAnd I could not bring myself to the idea of abandoning the _Nautilus_\nbefore the cycle of investigation was accomplished.\n\n Friend Ned, answer me frankly, are you tired of being on board? Are\nyou sorry that destiny has thrown us into Captain Nemo s hands? \n\nThe Canadian remained some moments without answering. Then, crossing\nhis arms, he said:\n\n Frankly, I do not regret this journey under the seas. I shall be glad\nto have made it; but, now that it is made, let us have done with it.\nThat is my idea. \n\n It will come to an end, Ned. \n\n Where and when? \n\n Where I do not know when I cannot say; or, rather, I suppose it will\nend when these seas have nothing more to teach us. \n\n Then what do you hope for?  demanded the Canadian.\n\n That circumstances may occur as well six months hence as now by which\nwe may and ought to profit. \n\n Oh!  said Ned Land,  and where shall we be in six months, if you\nplease, Sir Naturalist? \n\n Perhaps in China; you know the _Nautilus_ is a rapid traveller. It\ngoes through water as swallows through the air, or as an express on the\nland. It does not fear frequented seas; who can say that it may not\nbeat the coasts of France, England, or America, on which flight may be\nattempted as advantageously as here. \n\n M. Aronnax,  replied the Canadian,  your arguments are rotten at the\nfoundation. You speak in the future,  We shall be there! we shall be\nhere!  I speak in the present,  We are here, and we must profit by\nit. \n\nNed Land s logic pressed me hard, and I felt myself beaten on that\nground. I knew not what argument would now tell in my favour.\n\n Sir,  continued Ned,  let us suppose an impossibility: if Captain Nemo\nshould this day offer you your liberty; would you accept it? \n\n I do not know,  I answered.\n\n And if,  he added,  the offer made you this day was never to be\nrenewed, would you accept it? \n\n Friend Ned, this is my answer. Your reasoning is against me. We must\nnot rely on Captain Nemo s good-will. Common prudence forbids him to\nset us at liberty. On the other side, prudence bids us profit by the\nfirst opportunity to leave the _Nautilus_. \n\n Well, M. Aronnax, that is wisely said. \n\n Only one observation just one. The occasion must be serious, and our\nfirst attempt must succeed; if it fails, we shall never find another,\nand Captain Nemo will never forgive us. \n\n All that is true,  replied the Canadian.  But your observation applies\nequally to all attempts at flight, whether in two years  time, or in\ntwo days . But the question is still this: If a favourable opportunity\npresents itself, it must be seized. \n\n Agreed! And now, Ned, will you tell me what you mean by a favourable\nopportunity? \n\n It will be that which, on a dark night, will bring the _Nautilus_ a\nshort distance from some European coast. \n\n And you will try and save yourself by swimming? \n\n Yes, if we were near enough to the bank, and if the vessel was\nfloating at the time. Not if the bank was far away, and the boat was\nunder the water. \n\n And in that case? \n\n In that case, I should seek to make myself master of the pinnace. I\nknow how it is worked. We must get inside, and the bolts once drawn, we\nshall come to the surface of the water, without even the pilot, who is\nin the bows, perceiving our flight. \n\n Well, Ned, watch for the opportunity; but do not forget that a hitch\nwill ruin us. \n\n I will not forget, sir. \n\n And now, Ned, would you like to know what I think of your project? \n\n Certainly, M. Aronnax. \n\n Well, I think I do not say I hope I think that this favourable\nopportunity will never present itself. \n\n Why not? \n\n Because Captain Nemo cannot hide from himself that we have not given\nup all hope of regaining our liberty, and he will be on his guard,\nabove all, in the seas and in the sight of European coasts. \n\n We shall see,  replied Ned Land, shaking his head determinedly.\n\n And now, Ned Land,  I added,  let us stop here. Not another word on\nthe subject. The day that you are ready, come and let us know, and we\nwill follow you. I rely entirely upon you. \n\nThus ended a conversation which, at no very distant time, led to such\ngrave results. I must say here that facts seemed to confirm my\nforesight, to the Canadian s great despair. Did Captain Nemo distrust\nus in these frequented seas? or did he only wish to hide himself from\nthe numerous vessels, of all nations, which ploughed the Mediterranean?\nI could not tell; but we were oftener between waters and far from the\ncoast. Or, if the _Nautilus_ did emerge, nothing was to be seen but the\npilot s cage; and sometimes it went to great depths, for, between the\nGrecian Archipelago and Asia Minor we could not touch the bottom by\nmore than a thousand fathoms.\n\nThus I only knew we were near the Island of Carpathos, one of the\nSporades, by Captain Nemo reciting these lines from Virgil:\n\n Est Carpathio Neptuni gurgite vates,\nCaeruleus Proteus, \n\n\nas he pointed to a spot on the planisphere.\n\nIt was indeed the ancient abode of Proteus, the old shepherd of\nNeptune s flocks, now the Island of Scarpanto, situated between Rhodes\nand Crete. I saw nothing but the granite base through the glass panels\nof the saloon.\n\nThe next day, the 14th of February, I resolved to employ some hours in\nstudying the fishes of the Archipelago; but for some reason or other\nthe panels remained hermetically sealed. Upon taking the course of the\n_Nautilus_, I found that we were going towards Candia, the ancient Isle\nof Crete. At the time I embarked on the _Abraham Lincoln_, the whole of\nthis island had risen in insurrection against the despotism of the\nTurks. But how the insurgents had fared since that time I was\nabsolutely ignorant, and it was not Captain Nemo, deprived of all land\ncommunications, who could tell me.\n\nI made no allusion to this event when that night I found myself alone\nwith him in the saloon. Besides, he seemed to be taciturn and\npreoccupied. Then, contrary to his custom, he ordered both panels to be\nopened, and, going from one to the other, observed the mass of waters\nattentively. To what end I could not guess; so, on my side, I employed\nmy time in studying the fish passing before my eyes.\n\nIn the midst of the waters a man appeared, a diver, carrying at his\nbelt a leathern purse. It was not a body abandoned to the waves; it was\na living man, swimming with a strong hand, disappearing occasionally to\ntake breath at the surface.\n\nI turned towards Captain Nemo, and in an agitated voice exclaimed:\n\n A man shipwrecked! He must be saved at any price! \n\n\n[Illustration]  A man! A shipwrecked sailor!  I cried\n\n\nThe Captain did not answer me, but came and leaned against the panel.\n\nThe man had approached, and, with his face flattened against the glass,\nwas looking at us.\n\nTo my great amazement, Captain Nemo signed to him. The diver answered\nwith his hand, mounted immediately to the surface of the water, and did\nnot appear again.\n\n Do not be uncomfortable,  said Captain Nemo.  It is Nicholas of Cape\nMatapan, surnamed Pesca. He is well known in all the Cyclades. A bold\ndiver! water is his element, and he lives more in it than on land,\ngoing continually from one island to another, even as far as Crete. \n\n You know him, Captain? \n\n Why not, M. Aronnax? \n\nSaying which, Captain Nemo went towards a piece of furniture standing\nnear the left panel of the saloon. Near this piece of furniture, I saw\na chest bound with iron, on the cover of which was a copper plate,\nbearing the cypher of the _Nautilus_ with its device.\n\nAt that moment, the Captain, without noticing my presence, opened the\npiece of furniture, a sort of strong box, which held a great many\ningots.\n\nThey were ingots of gold. From whence came this precious metal, which\nrepresented an enormous sum? Where did the Captain gather this gold\nfrom? and what was he going to do with it?\n\nI did not say one word. I looked. Captain Nemo took the ingots one by\none, and arranged them methodically in the chest, which he filled\nentirely. I estimated the contents at more than 4,000 lbs. weight of\ngold, that is to say, nearly  200,000.\n\nThe chest was securely fastened, and the Captain wrote an address on\nthe lid, in characters which must have belonged to Modern Greece.\n\nThis done, Captain Nemo pressed a knob, the wire of which communicated\nwith the quarters of the crew. Four men appeared, and, not without some\ntrouble, pushed the chest out of the saloon. Then I heard them hoisting\nit up the iron staircase by means of pulleys.\n\nAt that moment, Captain Nemo turned to me.\n\n And you were saying, sir?  said he.\n\n I was saying nothing, Captain. \n\n Then, sir, if you will allow me, I will wish you good night. \n\nWhereupon he turned and left the saloon.\n\nI returned to my room much troubled, as one may believe. I vainly tried\nto sleep I sought the connecting link between the apparition of the\ndiver and the chest filled with gold. Soon, I felt by certain movements\nof pitching and tossing that the _Nautilus_ was leaving the depths and\nreturning to the surface.\n\nThen I heard steps upon the platform; and I knew they were unfastening\nthe pinnace and launching it upon the waves. For one instant it struck\nthe side of the _Nautilus_, then all noise ceased.\n\nTwo hours after, the same noise, the same going and coming was renewed;\nthe boat was hoisted on board, replaced in its socket, and the\n_Nautilus_ again plunged under the waves.\n\nSo these millions had been transported to their address. To what point\nof the continent? Who was Captain Nemo s correspondent?\n\nThe next day I related to Conseil and the Canadian the events of the\nnight, which had excited my curiosity to the highest degree. My\ncompanions were not less surprised than myself.\n\n But where does he take his millions to?  asked Ned Land.\n\nTo that there was no possible answer. I returned to the saloon after\nhaving breakfast and set to work. Till five o clock in the evening I\nemployed myself in arranging my notes. At that moment (ought I to\nattribute it to some peculiar idiosyncrasy) I felt so great a heat that\nI was obliged to take off my coat. It was strange, for we were under\nlow latitudes; and even then the _Nautilus_, submerged as it was, ought\nto experience no change of temperature. I looked at the manometer; it\nshowed a depth of sixty feet, to which atmospheric heat could never\nattain.\n\nI continued my work, but the temperature rose to such a pitch as to be\nintolerable.\n\n Could there be fire on board?  I asked myself.\n\nI was leaving the saloon, when Captain Nemo entered; he approached the\nthermometer, consulted it, and, turning to me, said:\n\n Forty-two degrees. \n\n I have noticed it, Captain,  I replied;  and if it gets much hotter we\ncannot bear it. \n\n Oh, sir, it will not get better if we do not wish it. \n\n You can reduce it as you please, then? \n\n No; but I can go farther from the stove which produces it. \n\n It is outward, then! \n\n Certainly; we are floating in a current of boiling water. \n\n Is it possible!  I exclaimed.\n\n Look. \n\nThe panels opened, and I saw the sea entirely white all round. A\nsulphurous smoke was curling amid the waves, which boiled like water in\na copper. I placed my hand on one of the panes of glass, but the heat\nwas so great that I quickly took it off again.\n\n Where are we?  I asked.\n\n Near the Island of Santorin, sir,  replied the Captain.  I wished to\ngive you a sight of the curious spectacle of a submarine eruption. \n\n I thought,  said I,  that the formation of these new islands was\nended. \n\n Nothing is ever ended in the volcanic parts of the sea,  replied\nCaptain Nemo;  and the globe is always being worked by subterranean\nfires. Already, in the nineteenth year of our era, according to\nCassiodorus and Pliny, a new island, Theia (the divine), appeared in\nthe very place where these islets have recently been formed. Then they\nsank under the waves, to rise again in the year 69, when they again\nsubsided. Since that time to our days the Plutonian work has been\nsuspended. But on the 3rd of February, 1866, a new island, which they\nnamed George Island, emerged from the midst of the sulphurous vapour\nnear Nea Kamenni, and settled again the 6th of the same month. Seven\ndays after, the 13th of February, the Island of Aphroessa appeared,\nleaving between Nea Kamenni and itself a canal ten yards broad. I was\nin these seas when the phenomenon occurred, and I was able therefore to\nobserve all the different phases. The Island of Aphroessa, of round\nform, measured 300 feet in diameter, and 30 feet in height. It was\ncomposed of black and vitreous lava, mixed with fragments of felspar.\nAnd lastly, on the 10th of March, a smaller island, called Reka, showed\nitself near Nea Kamenni, and since then these three have joined\ntogether, forming but one and the same island. \n\n And the canal in which we are at this moment?  I asked.\n\n Here it is,  replied Captain Nemo, showing me a map of the\nArchipelago.  You see, I have marked the new islands. \n\nI returned to the glass. The _Nautilus_ was no longer moving, the heat\nwas becoming unbearable. The sea, which till now had been white, was\nred, owing to the presence of salts of iron. In spite of the ship s\nbeing hermetically sealed, an insupportable smell of sulphur filled the\nsaloon, and the brilliancy of the electricity was entirely extinguished\nby bright scarlet flames. I was in a bath, I was choking, I was\nbroiled.\n\n We can remain no longer in this boiling water,  said I to the Captain.\n\n It would not be prudent,  replied the impassive Captain Nemo.\n\nAn order was given; the _Nautilus_ tacked about and left the furnace it\ncould not brave with impunity. A quarter of an hour after we were\nbreathing fresh air on the surface. The thought then struck me that, if\nNed Land had chosen this part of the sea for our flight, we should\nnever have come alive out of this sea of fire.\n\nThe next day, the 16th of February, we left the basin which, between\nRhodes and Alexandria, is reckoned about 1,500 fathoms in depth, and\nthe _Nautilus_, passing some distance from Cerigo, quitted the Grecian\nArchipelago after having doubled Cape Matapan.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\nTHE MEDITERRANEAN IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS\n\n\nThe Mediterranean, the blue sea par excellence,  the great sea  of the\nHebrews,  the sea  of the Greeks, the  mare nostrum  of the Romans,\nbordered by orange-trees, aloes, cacti, and sea-pines; embalmed with\nthe perfume of the myrtle, surrounded by rude mountains, saturated with\npure and transparent air, but incessantly worked by underground fires;\na perfect battlefield in which Neptune and Pluto still dispute the\nempire of the world!\n\nIt is upon these banks, and on these waters, says Michelet, that man is\nrenewed in one of the most powerful climates of the globe. But,\nbeautiful as it was, I could only take a rapid glance at the basin\nwhose superficial area is two million of square yards. Even Captain\nNemo s knowledge was lost to me, for this puzzling person did not\nappear once during our passage at full speed. I estimated the course\nwhich the _Nautilus_ took under the waves of the sea at about six\nhundred leagues, and it was accomplished in forty-eight hours. Starting\non the morning of the 16th of February from the shores of Greece, we\nhad crossed the Straits of Gibraltar by sunrise on the 18th.\n\nIt was plain to me that this Mediterranean, enclosed in the midst of\nthose countries which he wished to avoid, was distasteful to Captain\nNemo. Those waves and those breezes brought back too many remembrances,\nif not too many regrets. Here he had no longer that independence and\nthat liberty of gait which he had when in the open seas, and his\n_Nautilus_ felt itself cramped between the close shores of Africa and\nEurope.\n\nOur speed was now twenty-five miles an hour. It may be well understood\nthat Ned Land, to his great disgust, was obliged to renounce his\nintended flight. He could not launch the pinnace, going at the rate of\ntwelve or thirteen yards every second. To quit the _Nautilus_ under\nsuch conditions would be as bad as jumping from a train going at full\nspeed an imprudent thing, to say the least of it. Besides, our vessel\nonly mounted to the surface of the waves at night to renew its stock of\nair; it was steered entirely by the compass and the log.\n\nI saw no more of the interior of this Mediterranean than a traveller by\nexpress train perceives of the landscape which flies before his eyes;\nthat is to say, the distant horizon, and not the nearer objects which\npass like a flash of lightning.\n\nWe were then passing between Sicily and the coast of Tunis. In the\nnarrow space between Cape Bon and the Straits of Messina the bottom of\nthe sea rose almost suddenly. There was a perfect bank, on which there\nwas not more than nine fathoms of water, whilst on either side the\ndepth was ninety fathoms.\n\nThe _Nautilus_ had to man uvre very carefully so as not to strike\nagainst this submarine barrier.\n\nI showed Conseil, on the map of the Mediterranean, the spot occupied by\nthis reef.\n\n But if you please, sir,  observed Conseil,  it is like a real isthmus\njoining Europe to Africa. \n\n Yes, my boy, it forms a perfect bar to the Straits of Lybia, and the\nsoundings of Smith have proved that in former times the continents\nbetween Cape Boco and Cape Furina were joined. \n\n I can well believe it,  said Conseil.\n\n I will add,  I continued,  that a similar barrier exists between\nGibraltar and Ceuta, which in geological times formed the entire\nMediterranean. \n\n What if some volcanic burst should one day raise these two barriers\nabove the waves? \n\n It is not probable, Conseil. \n\n Well, but allow me to finish, please, sir; if this phenomenon should\ntake place, it will be troublesome for M. Lesseps, who has taken so\nmuch pains to pierce the isthmus. \n\n I agree with you; but I repeat, Conseil, this phenomenon will never\nhappen. The violence of subterranean force is ever diminishing.\nVolcanoes, so plentiful in the first days of the world, are being\nextinguished by degrees; the internal heat is weakened, the temperature\nof the lower strata of the globe is lowered by a perceptible quantity\nevery century to the detriment of our globe, for its heat is its life. \n\n But the sun? \n\n The sun is not sufficient, Conseil. Can it give heat to a dead body? \n\n Not that I know of. \n\n Well, my friend, this earth will one day be that cold corpse; it will\nbecome uninhabitable and uninhabited like the moon, which has long\nsince lost all its vital heat. \n\n In how many centuries? \n\n In some hundreds of thousands of years, my boy. \n\n Then,  said Conseil,  we shall have time to finish our journey that\nis, if Ned Land does not interfere with it. \n\nAnd Conseil, reassured, returned to the study of the bank, which the\n_Nautilus_ was skirting at a moderate speed.\n\nDuring the night of the 16th and 17th February we had entered the\nsecond Mediterranean basin, the greatest depth of which was 1,450\nfathoms. The _Nautilus_, by the action of its crew, slid down the\ninclined planes and buried itself in the lowest depths of the sea.\n\nOn the 18th of February, about three o clock in the morning, we were at\nthe entrance of the Straits of Gibraltar. There once existed two\ncurrents: an upper one, long since recognised, which conveys the waters\nof the ocean into the basin of the Mediterranean; and a lower\ncounter-current, which reasoning has now shown to exist. Indeed, the\nvolume of water in the Mediterranean, incessantly added to by the waves\nof the Atlantic and by rivers falling into it, would each year raise\nthe level of this sea, for its evaporation is not sufficient to restore\nthe equilibrium. As it is not so, we must necessarily admit the\nexistence of an under-current, which empties into the basin of the\nAtlantic through the Straits of Gibraltar the surplus waters of the\nMediterranean. A fact indeed; and it was this counter-current by which\nthe _Nautilus_ profited. It advanced rapidly by the narrow pass. For\none instant I caught a glimpse of the beautiful ruins of the temple of\nHercules, buried in the ground, according to Pliny, and with the low\nisland which supports it; and a few minutes later we were floating on\nthe Atlantic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\nVIGO BAY\n\n\nThe Atlantic! a vast sheet of water whose superficial area covers\ntwenty-five millions of square miles, the length of which is nine\nthousand miles, with a mean breadth of two thousand seven hundred an\nocean whose parallel winding shores embrace an immense circumference,\nwatered by the largest rivers of the world, the St. Lawrence, the\nMississippi, the Amazon, the Plata, the Orinoco, the Niger, the\nSenegal, the Elbe, the Loire, and the Rhine, which carry water from the\nmost civilised, as well as from the most savage, countries! Magnificent\nfield of water, incessantly ploughed by vessels of every nation,\nsheltered by the flags of every nation, and which terminates in those\ntwo terrible points so dreaded by mariners, Cape Horn and the Cape of\nTempests.\n\nThe _Nautilus_ was piercing the water with its sharp spur, after having\naccomplished nearly ten thousand leagues in three months and a half, a\ndistance greater than the great circle of the earth. Where were we\ngoing now, and what was reserved for the future? The _Nautilus_,\nleaving the Straits of Gibraltar, had gone far out. It returned to the\nsurface of the waves, and our daily walks on the platform were restored\nto us.\n\nI mounted at once, accompanied by Ned Land and Conseil. At a distance\nof about twelve miles, Cape St. Vincent was dimly to be seen, forming\nthe south-western point of the Spanish peninsula. A strong southerly\ngale was blowing. The sea was swollen and billowy; it made the\n_Nautilus_ rock violently. It was almost impossible to keep one s foot\non the platform, which the heavy rolls of the sea beat over every\ninstant. So we descended after inhaling some mouthfuls of fresh air.\n\nI returned to my room, Conseil to his cabin; but the Canadian, with a\npreoccupied air, followed me. Our rapid passage across the\nMediterranean had not allowed him to put his project into execution,\nand he could not help showing his disappointment. When the door of my\nroom was shut, he sat down and looked at me silently.\n\n Friend Ned,  said I,  I understand you; but you cannot reproach\nyourself. To have attempted to leave the _Nautilus_ under the\ncircumstances would have been folly. \n\nNed Land did not answer; his compressed lips and frowning brow showed\nwith him the violent possession this fixed idea had taken of his mind.\n\n Let us see,  I continued;  we need not despair yet. We are going up\nthe coast of Portugal again; France and England are not far off, where\nwe can easily find refuge. Now if the _Nautilus_, on leaving the\nStraits of Gibraltar, had gone to the south, if it had carried us\ntowards regions where there were no continents, I should share your\nuneasiness. But we know now that Captain Nemo does not fly from\ncivilised seas, and in some days I think you can act with security. \n\nNed Land still looked at me fixedly; at length his fixed lips parted,\nand he said,  It is for to-night. \n\nI drew myself up suddenly. I was, I admit, little prepared for this\ncommunication. I wanted to answer the Canadian, but words would not\ncome.\n\n We agreed to wait for an opportunity,  continued Ned Land,  and the\nopportunity has arrived. This night we shall be but a few miles from\nthe Spanish coast. It is cloudy. The wind blows freely. I have your\nword, M. Aronnax, and I rely upon you. \n\nAs I was silent, the Canadian approached me.\n\n To-night, at nine o clock,  said he.  I have warned Conseil. At that\nmoment Captain Nemo will be shut up in his room, probably in bed.\nNeither the engineers nor the ship s crew can see us. Conseil and I\nwill gain the central staircase, and you, M. Aronnax, will remain in\nthe library, two steps from us, waiting my signal. The oars, the mast,\nand the sail are in the canoe. I have even succeeded in getting some\nprovisions. I have procured an English wrench, to unfasten the bolts\nwhich attach it to the shell of the _Nautilus_. So all is ready, till\nto-night. \n\n The sea is bad. \n\n That I allow,  replied the Canadian;  but we must risk that. Liberty\nis worth paying for; besides, the boat is strong, and a few miles with\na fair wind to carry us is no great thing. Who knows but by to-morrow\nwe may be a hundred leagues away? Let circumstances only favour us, and\nby ten or eleven o clock we shall have landed on some spot of terra\nfirma, alive or dead. But adieu now till to-night. \n\nWith these words the Canadian withdrew, leaving me almost dumb. I had\nimagined that, the chance gone, I should have time to reflect and\ndiscuss the matter. My obstinate companion had given me no time; and,\nafter all, what could I have said to him? Ned Land was perfectly right.\nThere was almost the opportunity to profit by. Could I retract my word,\nand take upon myself the responsibility of compromising the future of\nmy companions? To-morrow Captain Nemo might take us far from all land.\n\nAt that moment a rather loud hissing noise told me that the reservoirs\nwere filling, and that the _Nautilus_ was sinking under the waves of\nthe Atlantic.\n\nA sad day I passed, between the desire of regaining my liberty of\naction and of abandoning the wonderful _Nautilus_, and leaving my\nsubmarine studies incomplete.\n\nWhat dreadful hours I passed thus! Sometimes seeing myself and\ncompanions safely landed, sometimes wishing, in spite of my reason,\nthat some unforeseen circumstance, would prevent the realisation of Ned\nLand s project.\n\nTwice I went to the saloon. I wished to consult the compass. I wished\nto see if the direction the _Nautilus_ was taking was bringing us\nnearer or taking us farther from the coast. But no; the _Nautilus_ kept\nin Portuguese waters.\n\nI must therefore take my part and prepare for flight. My luggage was\nnot heavy; my notes, nothing more.\n\nAs to Captain Nemo, I asked myself what he would think of our escape;\nwhat trouble, what wrong it might cause him and what he might do in\ncase of its discovery or failure. Certainly I had no cause to complain\nof him; on the contrary, never was hospitality freer than his. In\nleaving him I could not be taxed with ingratitude. No oath bound us to\nhim. It was on the strength of circumstances he relied, and not upon\nour word, to fix us for ever.\n\nI had not seen the Captain since our visit to the Island of Santorin.\nWould chance bring me to his presence before our departure? I wished\nit, and I feared it at the same time. I listened if I could hear him\nwalking the room contiguous to mine. No sound reached my ear. I felt an\nunbearable uneasiness. This day of waiting seemed eternal. Hours struck\ntoo slowly to keep pace with my impatience.\n\nMy dinner was served in my room as usual. I ate but little; I was too\npreoccupied. I left the table at seven o clock. A hundred and twenty\nminutes (I counted them) still separated me from the moment in which I\nwas to join Ned Land. My agitation redoubled. My pulse beat violently.\nI could not remain quiet. I went and came, hoping to calm my troubled\nspirit by constant movement. The idea of failure in our bold enterprise\nwas the least painful of my anxieties; but the thought of seeing our\nproject discovered before leaving the _Nautilus_, of being brought\nbefore Captain Nemo, irritated, or (what was worse) saddened, at my\ndesertion, made my heart beat.\n\nI wanted to see the saloon for the last time. I descended the stairs\nand arrived in the museum, where I had passed so many useful and\nagreeable hours. I looked at all its riches, all its treasures, like a\nman on the eve of an eternal exile, who was leaving never to return.\n\nThese wonders of Nature, these masterpieces of art, amongst which for\nso many days my life had been concentrated, I was going to abandon them\nfor ever! I should like to have taken a last look through the windows\nof the saloon into the waters of the Atlantic: but the panels were\nhermetically closed, and a cloak of steel separated me from that ocean\nwhich I had not yet explored.\n\nIn passing through the saloon, I came near the door let into the angle\nwhich opened into the Captain s room. To my great surprise, this door\nwas ajar. I drew back involuntarily. If Captain Nemo should be in his\nroom, he could see me. But, hearing no sound, I drew nearer. The room\nwas deserted. I pushed open the door and took some steps forward. Still\nthe same monklike severity of aspect.\n\nSuddenly the clock struck eight. The first beat of the hammer on the\nbell awoke me from my dreams. I trembled as if an invisible eye had\nplunged into my most secret thoughts, and I hurried from the room.\n\nThere my eye fell upon the compass. Our course was still north. The log\nindicated moderate speed, the manometer a depth of about sixty feet.\n\nI returned to my room, clothed myself warmly sea boots, an otterskin\ncap, a great coat of byssus, lined with sealskin; I was ready, I was\nwaiting. The vibration of the screw alone broke the deep silence which\nreigned on board. I listened attentively. Would no loud voice suddenly\ninform me that Ned Land had been surprised in his projected flight. A\nmortal dread hung over me, and I vainly tried to regain my accustomed\ncoolness.\n\nAt a few minutes to nine, I put my ear to the Captain s door. No noise.\nI left my room and returned to the saloon, which was half in obscurity,\nbut deserted.\n\nI opened the door communicating with the library. The same insufficient\nlight, the same solitude. I placed myself near the door leading to the\ncentral staircase, and there waited for Ned Land s signal.\n\nAt that moment the trembling of the screw sensibly diminished, then it\nstopped entirely. The silence was now only disturbed by the beatings of\nmy own heart. Suddenly a slight shock was felt; and I knew that the\n_Nautilus_ had stopped at the bottom of the ocean. My uneasiness\nincreased. The Canadian s signal did not come. I felt inclined to join\nNed Land and beg of him to put off his attempt. I felt that we were not\nsailing under our usual conditions.\n\nAt this moment the door of the large saloon opened, and Captain Nemo\nappeared. He saw me, and without further preamble began in an amiable\ntone of voice:\n\n Ah, sir! I have been looking for you. Do you know the history of\nSpain? \n\nNow, one might know the history of one s own country by heart; but in\nthe condition I was at the time, with troubled mind and head quite\nlost, I could not have said a word of it.\n\n Well,  continued Captain Nemo,  you heard my question! Do you know the\nhistory of Spain? \n\n Very slightly,  I answered.\n\n Well, here are learned men having to learn,  said the Captain.  Come,\nsit down, and I will tell you a curious episode in this history. Sir,\nlisten well,  said he;  this history will interest you on one side, for\nit will answer a question which doubtless you have not been able to\nsolve. \n\n I listen, Captain,  said I, not knowing what my interlocutor was\ndriving at, and asking myself if this incident was bearing on our\nprojected flight.\n\n Sir, if you have no objection, we will go back to 1702. You cannot be\nignorant that your king, Louis XIV, thinking that the gesture of a\npotentate was sufficient to bring the Pyrenees under his yoke, had\nimposed the Duke of Anjou, his grandson, on the Spaniards. This prince\nreigned more or less badly under the name of Philip V, and had a strong\nparty against him abroad. Indeed, the preceding year, the royal houses\nof Holland, Austria, and England had concluded a treaty of alliance at\nthe Hague, with the intention of plucking the crown of Spain from the\nhead of Philip V, and placing it on that of an archduke to whom they\nprematurely gave the title of Charles III.\n\n Spain must resist this coalition; but she was almost entirely\nunprovided with either soldiers or sailors. However, money would not\nfail them, provided that their galleons, laden with gold and silver\nfrom America, once entered their ports. And about the end of 1702 they\nexpected a rich convoy which France was escorting with a fleet of\ntwenty-three vessels, commanded by Admiral Chateau-Renaud, for the\nships of the coalition were already beating the Atlantic. This convoy\nwas to go to Cadiz, but the Admiral, hearing that an English fleet was\ncruising in those waters, resolved to make for a French port.\n\n The Spanish commanders of the convoy objected to this decision. They\nwanted to be taken to a Spanish port, and, if not to Cadiz, into Vigo\nBay, situated on the northwest coast of Spain, and which was not\nblocked.\n\n Admiral Chateau-Renaud had the rashness to obey this injunction, and\nthe galleons entered Vigo Bay.\n\n Unfortunately, it formed an open road which could not be defended in\nany way. They must therefore hasten to unload the galleons before the\narrival of the combined fleet; and time would not have failed them had\nnot a miserable question of rivalry suddenly arisen.\n\n You are following the chain of events?  asked Captain Nemo.\n\n Perfectly,  said I, not knowing the end proposed by this historical\nlesson.\n\n I will continue. This is what passed. The merchants of Cadiz had a\nprivilege by which they had the right of receiving all merchandise\ncoming from the West Indies. Now, to disembark these ingots at the port\nof Vigo was depriving them of their rights. They complained at Madrid,\nand obtained the consent of the weak-minded Philip that the convoy,\nwithout discharging its cargo, should remain sequestered in the roads\nof Vigo until the enemy had disappeared.\n\n But whilst coming to this decision, on the 22nd of October, 1702, the\nEnglish vessels arrived in Vigo Bay, when Admiral Chateau-Renaud, in\nspite of inferior forces, fought bravely. But, seeing that the treasure\nmust fall into the enemy s hands, he burnt and scuttled every galleon,\nwhich went to the bottom with their immense riches. \n\nCaptain Nemo stopped. I admit I could not see yet why this history\nshould interest me.\n\n Well?  I asked.\n\n Well, M. Aronnax,  replied Captain Nemo,  we are in that Vigo Bay; and\nit rests with yourself whether you will penetrate its mysteries. \n\nThe Captain rose, telling me to follow him. I had had time to recover.\nI obeyed. The saloon was dark, but through the transparent glass the\nwaves were sparkling. I looked.\n\nFor half a mile around the _Nautilus_, the waters seemed bathed in\nelectric light. The sandy bottom was clean and bright. Some of the\nship s crew in their diving-dresses were clearing away half-rotten\nbarrels and empty cases from the midst of the blackened wrecks. From\nthese cases and from these barrels escaped ingots of gold and silver,\ncascades of piastres and jewels. The sand was heaped up with them.\nLaden with their precious booty, the men returned to the _Nautilus_,\ndisposed of their burden, and went back to this inexhaustible fishery\nof gold and silver.\n\nI understood now. This was the scene of the battle of the 22nd of\nOctober, 1702. Here on this very spot the galleons laden for the\nSpanish Government had sunk. Here Captain Nemo came, according to his\nwants, to pack up those millions with which he burdened the _Nautilus_.\nIt was for him and him alone America had given up her precious metals.\nHe was heir direct, without anyone to share, in those treasures torn\nfrom the Incas and from the conquered of Ferdinand Cortez.\n\n Did you know, sir,  he asked, smiling,  that the sea contained such\nriches? \n\n I knew,  I answered,  that they value money held in suspension in\nthese waters at two millions. \n\n Doubtless; but to extract this money the expense would be greater than\nthe profit. Here, on the contrary, I have but to pick up what man has\nlost and not only in Vigo Bay, but in a thousand other ports where\nshipwrecks have happened, and which are marked on my submarine map. Can\nyou understand now the source of the millions I am worth? \n\n I understand, Captain. But allow me to tell you that in exploring Vigo\nBay you have only been beforehand with a rival society. \n\n And which? \n\n A society which has received from the Spanish Government the privilege\nof seeking those buried galleons. The shareholders are led on by the\nallurement of an enormous bounty, for they value these rich shipwrecks\nat five hundred millions. \n\n Five hundred millions they were,  answered Captain Nemo,  but they are\nso no longer. \n\n Just so,  said I;  and a warning to those shareholders would be an act\nof charity. But who knows if it would be well received? What gamblers\nusually regret above all is less the loss of their money than of their\nfoolish hopes. After all, I pity them less than the thousands of\nunfortunates to whom so much riches well-distributed would have been\nprofitable, whilst for them they will be for ever barren. \n\nI had no sooner expressed this regret than I felt that it must have\nwounded Captain Nemo.\n\n Barren!  he exclaimed, with animation.  Do you think then, sir, that\nthese riches are lost because I gather them? Is it for myself alone,\naccording to your idea, that I take the trouble to collect these\ntreasures? Who told you that I did not make a good use of it? Do you\nthink I am ignorant that there are suffering beings and oppressed races\non this earth, miserable creatures to console, victims to avenge? Do\nyou not understand? \n\nCaptain Nemo stopped at these last words, regretting perhaps that he\nhad spoken so much. But I had guessed that, whatever the motive which\nhad forced him to seek independence under the sea, it had left him\nstill a man, that his heart still beat for the sufferings of humanity,\nand that his immense charity was for oppressed races as well as\nindividuals. And I then understood for whom those millions were\ndestined which were forwarded by Captain Nemo when the _Nautilus_ was\ncruising in the waters of Crete.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\nA VANISHED CONTINENT\n\n\nThe next morning, the 19th of February, I saw the Canadian enter my\nroom. I expected this visit. He looked very disappointed.\n\n Well, sir?  said he.\n\n Well, Ned, fortune was against us yesterday. \n\n Yes; that Captain must needs stop exactly at the hour we intended\nleaving his vessel. \n\n Yes, Ned, he had business at his bankers. \n\n His bankers! \n\n Or rather his banking-house; by that I mean the ocean, where his\nriches are safer than in the chests of the State. \n\nI then related to the Canadian the incidents of the preceding night,\nhoping to bring him back to the idea of not abandoning the Captain; but\nmy recital had no other result than an energetically expressed regret\nfrom Ned that he had not been able to take a walk on the battlefield of\nVigo on his own account.\n\n However,  said he,  all is not ended. It is only a blow of the harpoon\nlost. Another time we must succeed; and to-night, if necessary \n\n In what direction is the _Nautilus_ going?  I asked.\n\n I do not know,  replied Ned.\n\n Well, at noon we shall see the point. \n\nThe Canadian returned to Conseil. As soon as I was dressed, I went into\nthe saloon. The compass was not reassuring. The course of the\n_Nautilus_ was S.S.W. We were turning our backs on Europe.\n\nI waited with some impatience till the ship s place was pricked on the\nchart. At about half-past eleven the reservoirs were emptied, and our\nvessel rose to the surface of the ocean. I rushed towards the platform.\nNed Land had preceded me. No more land in sight. Nothing but an immense\nsea. Some sails on the horizon, doubtless those going to San Roque in\nsearch of favourable winds for doubling the Cape of Good Hope. The\nweather was cloudy. A gale of wind was preparing. Ned raved, and tried\nto pierce the cloudy horizon. He still hoped that behind all that fog\nstretched the land he so longed for.\n\nAt noon the sun showed itself for an instant. The second profited by\nthis brightness to take its height. Then, the sea becoming more\nbillowy, we descended, and the panel closed.\n\nAn hour after, upon consulting the chart, I saw the position of the\n_Nautilus_ was marked at 16  17  long., and 33  22  lat., at 150\nleagues from the nearest coast. There was no means of flight, and I\nleave you to imagine the rage of the Canadian when I informed him of\nour situation.\n\nFor myself, I was not particularly sorry. I felt lightened of the load\nwhich had oppressed me, and was able to return with some degree of\ncalmness to my accustomed work.\n\nThat night, about eleven o clock, I received a most unexpected visit\nfrom Captain Nemo. He asked me very graciously if I felt fatigued from\nmy watch of the preceding night. I answered in the negative.\n\n Then, M. Aronnax, I propose a curious excursion. \n\n Propose, Captain? \n\n You have hitherto only visited the submarine depths by daylight, under\nthe brightness of the sun. Would it suit you to see them in the\ndarkness of the night? \n\n Most willingly. \n\n I warn you, the way will be tiring. We shall have far to walk, and\nmust climb a mountain. The roads are not well kept. \n\n What you say, Captain, only heightens my curiosity; I am ready to\nfollow you. \n\n Come then, sir, we will put on our diving-dresses. \n\nArrived at the robing-room, I saw that neither of my companions nor any\nof the ship s crew were to follow us on this excursion. Captain Nemo\nhad not even proposed my taking with me either Ned or Conseil.\n\nIn a few moments we had put on our diving-dresses; they placed on our\nbacks the reservoirs, abundantly filled with air, but no electric lamps\nwere prepared. I called the Captain s attention to the fact.\n\n They will be useless,  he replied.\n\nI thought I had not heard aright, but I could not repeat my\nobservation, for the Captain s head had already disappeared in its\nmetal case. I finished harnessing myself. I felt them put an\niron-pointed stick into my hand, and some minutes later, after going\nthrough the usual form, we set foot on the bottom of the Atlantic at a\ndepth of 150 fathoms. Midnight was near. The waters were profoundly\ndark, but Captain Nemo pointed out in the distance a reddish spot, a\nsort of large light shining brilliantly about two miles from the\n_Nautilus_. What this fire might be, what could feed it, why and how it\nlit up the liquid mass, I could not say. In any case, it did light our\nway, vaguely, it is true, but I soon accustomed myself to the peculiar\ndarkness, and I understood, under such circumstances, the uselessness\nof the Ruhmkorff apparatus.\n\nAs we advanced, I heard a kind of pattering above my head. The noise\nredoubling, sometimes producing a continual shower, I soon understood\nthe cause. It was rain falling violently, and crisping the surface of\nthe waves. Instinctively the thought flashed across my mind that I\nshould be wet through! By the water! in the midst of the water! I could\nnot help laughing at the odd idea. But, indeed, in the thick\ndiving-dress, the liquid element is no longer felt, and one only seems\nto be in an atmosphere somewhat denser than the terrestrial atmosphere.\nNothing more.\n\nAfter half an hour s walk the soil became stony. Medusae, microscopic\ncrustacea, and pennatules lit it slightly with their phosphorescent\ngleam. I caught a glimpse of pieces of stone covered with millions of\nzoophytes and masses of sea weed. My feet often slipped upon this\nsticky carpet of sea weed, and without my iron-tipped stick I should\nhave fallen more than once. In turning round, I could still see the\nwhitish lantern of the _Nautilus_ beginning to pale in the distance.\n\nBut the rosy light which guided us increased and lit up the horizon.\nThe presence of this fire under water puzzled me in the highest degree.\nWas I going towards a natural phenomenon as yet unknown to the\n_savants_ of the earth? Or even (for this thought crossed my brain) had\nthe hand of man aught to do with this conflagration? Had he fanned this\nflame? Was I to meet in these depths companions and friends of Captain\nNemo whom he was going to visit, and who, like him, led this strange\nexistence? Should I find down there a whole colony of exiles who, weary\nof the miseries of this earth, had sought and found independence in the\ndeep ocean? All these foolish and unreasonable ideas pursued me. And in\nthis condition of mind, over-excited by the succession of wonders\ncontinually passing before my eyes, I should not have been surprised to\nmeet at the bottom of the sea one of those submarine towns of which\nCaptain Nemo dreamed.\n\nOur road grew lighter and lighter. The white glimmer came in rays from\nthe summit of a mountain about 800 feet high. But what I saw was simply\na reflection, developed by the clearness of the waters. The source of\nthis inexplicable light was a fire on the opposite side of the\nmountain.\n\nIn the midst of this stony maze furrowing the bottom of the Atlantic,\nCaptain Nemo advanced without hesitation. He knew this dreary road.\nDoubtless he had often travelled over it, and could not lose himself. I\nfollowed him with unshaken confidence. He seemed to me like a genie of\nthe sea; and, as he walked before me, I could not help admiring his\nstature, which was outlined in black on the luminous horizon.\n\nIt was one in the morning when we arrived at the first slopes of the\nmountain; but to gain access to them we must venture through the\ndifficult paths of a vast copse.\n\nYes; a copse of dead trees, without leaves, without sap, trees\npetrified by the action of the water and here and there overtopped by\ngigantic pines. It was like a coal-pit still standing, holding by the\nroots to the broken soil, and whose branches, like fine black paper\ncuttings, showed distinctly on the watery ceiling. Picture to yourself\na forest in the Hartz hanging on to the sides of the mountain, but a\nforest swallowed up. The paths were encumbered with seaweed and fucus,\nbetween which grovelled a whole world of crustacea. I went along,\nclimbing the rocks, striding over extended trunks, breaking the sea\nbind-weed which hung from one tree to the other; and frightening the\nfishes, which flew from branch to branch. Pressing onward, I felt no\nfatigue. I followed my guide, who was never tired. What a spectacle!\nHow can I express it? how paint the aspect of those woods and rocks in\nthis medium their under parts dark and wild, the upper coloured with\nred tints, by that light which the reflecting powers of the waters\ndoubled? We climbed rocks which fell directly after with gigantic\nbounds and the low growling of an avalanche. To right and left ran\nlong, dark galleries, where sight was lost. Here opened vast glades\nwhich the hand of man seemed to have worked; and I sometimes asked\nmyself if some inhabitant of these submarine regions would not suddenly\nappear to me.\n\nBut Captain Nemo was still mounting. I could not stay behind. I\nfollowed boldly. My stick gave me good help. A false step would have\nbeen dangerous on the narrow passes sloping down to the sides of the\ngulfs; but I walked with firm step, without feeling any giddiness. Now\nI jumped a crevice, the depth of which would have made me hesitate had\nit been among the glaciers on the land; now I ventured on the unsteady\ntrunk of a tree thrown across from one abyss to the other, without\nlooking under my feet, having only eyes to admire the wild sites of\nthis region.\n\nThere, monumental rocks, leaning on their regularly-cut bases, seemed\nto defy all laws of equilibrium. From between their stony knees trees\nsprang, like a jet under heavy pressure, and upheld others which upheld\nthem. Natural towers, large scarps, cut perpendicularly, like a\n curtain,  inclined at an angle which the laws of gravitation could\nnever have tolerated in terrestrial regions.\n\nTwo hours after quitting the _Nautilus_ we had crossed the line of\ntrees, and a hundred feet above our heads rose the top of the mountain,\nwhich cast a shadow on the brilliant irradiation of the opposite slope.\nSome petrified shrubs ran fantastically here and there. Fishes got up\nunder our feet like birds in the long grass. The massive rocks were\nrent with impenetrable fractures, deep grottos, and unfathomable holes,\nat the bottom of which formidable creatures might be heard moving. My\nblood curdled when I saw enormous antennae blocking my road, or some\nfrightful claw closing with a noise in the shadow of some cavity.\nMillions of luminous spots shone brightly in the midst of the darkness.\nThey were the eyes of giant crustacea crouched in their holes; giant\nlobsters setting themselves up like halberdiers, and moving their claws\nwith the clicking sound of pincers; titanic crabs, pointed like a gun\non its carriage; and frightful-looking poulps, interweaving their\ntentacles like a living nest of serpents.\n\nWe had now arrived on the first platform, where other surprises awaited\nme. Before us lay some picturesque ruins, which betrayed the hand of\nman and not that of the Creator. There were vast heaps of stone,\namongst which might be traced the vague and shadowy forms of castles\nand temples, clothed with a world of blossoming zoophytes, and over\nwhich, instead of ivy, sea-weed and fucus threw a thick vegetable\nmantle. But what was this portion of the globe which had been swallowed\nby cataclysms? Who had placed those rocks and stones like cromlechs of\nprehistoric times? Where was I? Whither had Captain Nemo s fancy\nhurried me?\n\nI would fain have asked him; not being able to, I stopped him I seized\nhis arm. But, shaking his head, and pointing to the highest point of\nthe mountain, he seemed to say:\n\n Come, come along; come higher! \n\nI followed, and in a few minutes I had climbed to the top, which for a\ncircle of ten yards commanded the whole mass of rock.\n\nI looked down the side we had just climbed. The mountain did not rise\nmore than seven or eight hundred feet above the level of the plain; but\non the opposite side it commanded from twice that height the depths of\nthis part of the Atlantic. My eyes ranged far over a large space lit by\na violent fulguration. In fact, the mountain was a volcano.\n\nAt fifty feet above the peak, in the midst of a rain of stones and\nscoriae, a large crater was vomiting forth torrents of lava which fell\nin a cascade of fire into the bosom of the liquid mass. Thus situated,\nthis volcano lit the lower plain like an immense torch, even to the\nextreme limits of the horizon. I said that the submarine crater threw\nup lava, but no flames. Flames require the oxygen of the air to feed\nupon and cannot be developed under water; but streams of lava, having\nin themselves the principles of their incandescence, can attain a white\nheat, fight vigorously against the liquid element, and turn it to\nvapour by contact.\n\nRapid currents bearing all these gases in diffusion and torrents of\nlava slid to the bottom of the mountain like an eruption of Vesuvius on\nanother Terra del Greco.\n\nThere indeed under my eyes, ruined, destroyed, lay a town its roofs\nopen to the sky, its temples fallen, its arches dislocated, its columns\nlying on the ground, from which one would still recognise the massive\ncharacter of Tuscan architecture. Further on, some remains of a\ngigantic aqueduct; here the high base of an Acropolis, with the\nfloating outline of a Parthenon; there traces of a quay, as if an\nancient port had formerly abutted on the borders of the ocean, and\ndisappeared with its merchant vessels and its war-galleys. Farther on\nagain, long lines of sunken walls and broad, deserted streets a perfect\nPompeii escaped beneath the waters. Such was the sight that Captain\nNemo brought before my eyes!\n\nWhere was I? Where was I? I must know at any cost. I tried to speak,\nbut Captain Nemo stopped me by a gesture, and, picking up a piece of\nchalk-stone, advanced to a rock of black basalt, and traced the one\nword:\n\nATLANTIS\n\nWhat a light shot through my mind! Atlantis! the Atlantis of Plato,\nthat continent denied by Origen and Humbolt, who placed its\ndisappearance amongst the legendary tales. I had it there now before my\neyes, bearing upon it the unexceptionable testimony of its catastrophe.\nThe region thus engulfed was beyond Europe, Asia, and Lybia, beyond the\ncolumns of Hercules, where those powerful people, the Atlantides,\nlived, against whom the first wars of ancient Greeks were waged.\n\nThus, led by the strangest destiny, I was treading under foot the\nmountains of this continent, touching with my hand those ruins a\nthousand generations old and contemporary with the geological epochs. I\nwas walking on the very spot where the contemporaries of the first man\nhad walked.\n\nWhilst I was trying to fix in my mind every detail of this grand\nlandscape, Captain Nemo remained motionless, as if petrified in mute\necstasy, leaning on a mossy stone. Was he dreaming of those generations\nlong since disappeared? Was he asking them the secret of human destiny?\nWas it here this strange man came to steep himself in historical\nrecollections, and live again this ancient life he who wanted no modern\none? What would I not have given to know his thoughts, to share them,\nto understand them! We remained for an hour at this place,\ncontemplating the vast plains under the brightness of the lava, which\nwas some times wonderfully intense. Rapid tremblings ran along the\nmountain caused by internal bubblings, deep noise, distinctly\ntransmitted through the liquid medium were echoed with majestic\ngrandeur. At this moment the moon appeared through the mass of waters\nand threw her pale rays on the buried continent. It was but a gleam,\nbut what an indescribable effect! The Captain rose, cast one last look\non the immense plain, and then bade me follow him.\n\nWe descended the mountain rapidly, and, the mineral forest once passed,\nI saw the lantern of the _Nautilus_ shining like a star. The Captain\nwalked straight to it, and we got on board as the first rays of light\nwhitened the surface of the ocean.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\nTHE SUBMARINE COAL-MINES\n\n\nThe next day, the 20th of February, I awoke very late: the fatigues of\nthe previous night had prolonged my sleep until eleven o clock. I\ndressed quickly, and hastened to find the course the _Nautilus_ was\ntaking. The instruments showed it to be still toward the south, with a\nspeed of twenty miles an hour and a depth of fifty fathoms.\n\nThe species of fishes here did not differ much from those already\nnoticed. There were rays of giant size, five yards long, and endowed\nwith great muscular strength, which enabled them to shoot above the\nwaves; sharks of many kinds; amongst others, one fifteen feet long,\nwith triangular sharp teeth, and whose transparency rendered it almost\ninvisible in the water.\n\nAmongst bony fish Conseil noticed some about three yards long, armed at\nthe upper jaw with a piercing sword; other bright-coloured creatures,\nknown in the time of Aristotle by the name of the sea-dragon, which are\ndangerous to capture on account of the spikes on their back.\n\nAbout four o clock, the soil, generally composed of a thick mud mixed\nwith petrified wood, changed by degrees, and it became more stony, and\nseemed strewn with conglomerate and pieces of basalt, with a sprinkling\nof lava. I thought that a mountainous region was succeeding the long\nplains; and accordingly, after a few evolutions of the _Nautilus_, I\nsaw the southerly horizon blocked by a high wall which seemed to close\nall exit. Its summit evidently passed the level of the ocean. It must\nbe a continent, or at least an island one of the Canaries, or of the\nCape Verde Islands. The bearings not being yet taken, perhaps\ndesignedly, I was ignorant of our exact position. In any case, such a\nwall seemed to me to mark the limits of that Atlantis, of which we had\nin reality passed over only the smallest part.\n\nMuch longer should I have remained at the window admiring the beauties\nof sea and sky, but the panels closed. At this moment the _Nautilus_\narrived at the side of this high, perpendicular wall. What it would do,\nI could not guess. I returned to my room; it no longer moved. I laid\nmyself down with the full intention of waking after a few hours  sleep;\nbut it was eight o clock the next day when I entered the saloon. I\nlooked at the manometer. It told me that the _Nautilus_ was floating on\nthe surface of the ocean. Besides, I heard steps on the platform. I\nwent to the panel. It was open; but, instead of broad daylight, as I\nexpected, I was surrounded by profound darkness. Where were we? Was I\nmistaken? Was it still night? No; not a star was shining and night has\nnot that utter darkness.\n\n\n[Illustration] The _Nautilus_ was floating near a mountain\n\n\nI knew not what to think, when a voice near me said:\n\n Is that you, Professor? \n\n Ah! Captain,  I answered,  where are we? \n\n Underground, sir. \n\n Underground!  I exclaimed.  And the _Nautilus_ floating still? \n\n It always floats. \n\n But I do not understand. \n\n Wait a few minutes, our lantern will be lit, and, if you like light\nplaces, you will be satisfied. \n\nI stood on the platform and waited. The darkness was so complete that I\ncould not even see Captain Nemo; but, looking to the zenith, exactly\nabove my head, I seemed to catch an undecided gleam, a kind of twilight\nfilling a circular hole. At this instant the lantern was lit, and its\nvividness dispelled the faint light. I closed my dazzled eyes for an\ninstant, and then looked again. The _Nautilus_ was stationary, floating\nnear a mountain which formed a sort of quay. The lake, then, supporting\nit was a lake imprisoned by a circle of walls, measuring two miles in\ndiameter and six in circumference. Its level (the manometer showed)\ncould only be the same as the outside level, for there must necessarily\nbe a communication between the lake and the sea. The high partitions,\nleaning forward on their base, grew into a vaulted roof bearing the\nshape of an immense funnel turned upside down, the height being about\nfive or six hundred yards. At the summit was a circular orifice, by\nwhich I had caught the slight gleam of light, evidently daylight.\n\n Where are we?  I asked.\n\n In the very heart of an extinct volcano, the interior of which has\nbeen invaded by the sea, after some great convulsion of the earth.\nWhilst you were sleeping, Professor, the _Nautilus_ penetrated to this\nlagoon by a natural canal, which opens about ten yards beneath the\nsurface of the ocean. This is its harbour of refuge, a sure,\ncommodious, and mysterious one, sheltered from all gales. Show me, if\nyou can, on the coasts of any of your continents or islands, a road\nwhich can give such perfect refuge from all storms. \n\n Certainly,  I replied,  you are in safety here, Captain Nemo. Who\ncould reach you in the heart of a volcano? But did I not see an opening\nat its summit? \n\n Yes; its crater, formerly filled with lava, vapour, and flames, and\nwhich now gives entrance to the life-giving air we breathe. \n\n But what is this volcanic mountain? \n\n It belongs to one of the numerous islands with which this sea is\nstrewn to vessels a simple sandbank to us an immense cavern. Chance led\nme to discover it, and chance served me well. \n\n But of what use is this refuge, Captain? The _Nautilus_ wants no\nport. \n\n No, sir; but it wants electricity to make it move, and the wherewithal\nto make the electricity sodium to feed the elements, coal from which to\nget the sodium, and a coal-mine to supply the coal. And exactly on this\nspot the sea covers entire forests embedded during the geological\nperiods, now mineralised and transformed into coal; for me they are an\ninexhaustible mine. \n\n Your men follow the trade of miners here, then, Captain? \n\n Exactly so. These mines extend under the waves like the mines of\nNewcastle. Here, in their diving-dresses, pick axe and shovel in hand,\nmy men extract the coal, which I do not even ask from the mines of the\nearth. When I burn this combustible for the manufacture of sodium, the\nsmoke, escaping from the crater of the mountain, gives it the\nappearance of a still-active volcano. \n\n And we shall see your companions at work? \n\n No; not this time at least; for I am in a hurry to continue our\nsubmarine tour of the earth. So I shall content myself with drawing\nfrom the reserve of sodium I already possess. The time for loading is\none day only, and we continue our voyage. So, if you wish to go over\nthe cavern and make the round of the lagoon, you must take advantage of\nto-day, M. Aronnax. \n\nI thanked the Captain and went to look for my companions, who had not\nyet left their cabin. I invited them to follow me without saying where\nwe were. They mounted the platform. Conseil, who was astonished at\nnothing, seemed to look upon it as quite natural that he should wake\nunder a mountain, after having fallen asleep under the waves. But Ned\nLand thought of nothing but finding whether the cavern had any exit.\nAfter breakfast, about ten o clock, we went down on to the mountain.\n\n Here we are, once more on land,  said Conseil.\n\n I do not call this land,  said the Canadian.  And besides, we are not\non it, but beneath it. \n\nBetween the walls of the mountains and the waters of the lake lay a\nsandy shore which, at its greatest breadth, measured five hundred feet.\nOn this soil one might easily make the tour of the lake. But the base\nof the high partitions was stony ground, with volcanic locks and\nenormous pumice-stones lying in picturesque heaps. All these detached\nmasses, covered with enamel, polished by the action of the\nsubterraneous fires, shone resplendent by the light of our electric\nlantern. The mica dust from the shore, rising under our feet, flew like\na cloud of sparks. The bottom now rose sensibly, and we soon arrived at\nlong circuitous slopes, or inclined planes, which took us higher by\ndegrees; but we were obliged to walk carefully among these\nconglomerates, bound by no cement, the feet slipping on the glassy\ncrystal, felspar, and quartz.\n\nThe volcanic nature of this enormous excavation was confirmed on all\nsides, and I pointed it out to my companions.\n\n Picture to yourselves,  said I,  what this crater must have been when\nfilled with boiling lava, and when the level of the incandescent liquid\nrose to the orifice of the mountain, as though melted on the top of a\nhot plate. \n\n I can picture it perfectly,  said Conseil.  But, sir, will you tell me\nwhy the Great Architect has suspended operations, and how it is that\nthe furnace is replaced by the quiet waters of the lake? \n\n Most probably, Conseil, because some convulsion beneath the ocean\nproduced that very opening which has served as a passage for the\n_Nautilus_. Then the waters of the Atlantic rushed into the interior of\nthe mountain. There must have been a terrible struggle between the two\nelements, a struggle which ended in the victory of Neptune. But many\nages have run out since then, and the submerged volcano is now a\npeaceable grotto. \n\n Very well,  replied Ned Land;  I accept the explanation, sir; but, in\nour own interests, I regret that the opening of which you speak was not\nmade above the level of the sea. \n\n But, friend Ned,  said Conseil,  if the passage had not been under the\nsea, the _Nautilus_ could not have gone through it. \n\nWe continued ascending. The steps became more and more perpendicular\nand narrow. Deep excavations, which we were obliged to cross, cut them\nhere and there; sloping masses had to be turned. We slid upon our knees\nand crawled along. But Conseil s dexterity and the Canadian s strength\nsurmounted all obstacles. At a height of about 31 feet the nature of\nthe ground changed without becoming more practicable. To the\nconglomerate and trachyte succeeded black basalt, the first dispread in\nlayers full of bubbles, the latter forming regular prisms, placed like\na colonnade supporting the spring of the immense vault, an admirable\nspecimen of natural architecture. Between the blocks of basalt wound\nlong streams of lava, long since grown cold, encrusted with bituminous\nrays; and in some places there were spread large carpets of sulphur. A\nmore powerful light shone through the upper crater, shedding a vague\nglimmer over these volcanic depressions for ever buried in the bosom of\nthis extinguished mountain. But our upward march was soon stopped at a\nheight of about two hundred and fifty feet by impassable obstacles.\nThere was a complete vaulted arch overhanging us, and our ascent was\nchanged to a circular walk. At the last change vegetable life began to\nstruggle with the mineral. Some shrubs, and even some trees, grew from\nthe fractures of the walls. I recognised some euphorbias, with the\ncaustic sugar coming from them; heliotropes, quite incapable of\njustifying their name, sadly drooped their clusters of flowers, both\ntheir colour and perfume half gone. Here and there some chrysanthemums\ngrew timidly at the foot of an aloe with long, sickly-looking leaves.\nBut between the streams of lava, I saw some little violets still\nslightly perfumed, and I admit that I smelt them with delight. Perfume\nis the soul of the flower, and sea-flowers have no soul.\n\nWe had arrived at the foot of some sturdy dragon-trees, which had\npushed aside the rocks with their strong roots, when Ned Land\nexclaimed:\n\n Ah! sir, a hive! a hive! \n\n A hive!  I replied, with a gesture of incredulity.\n\n Yes, a hive,  repeated the Canadian,  and bees humming round it. \n\nI approached, and was bound to believe my own eyes. There at a hole\nbored in one of the dragon-trees were some thousands of these ingenious\ninsects, so common in all the Canaries, and whose produce is so much\nesteemed. Naturally enough, the Canadian wished to gather the honey,\nand I could not well oppose his wish. A quantity of dry leaves, mixed\nwith sulphur, he lit with a spark from his flint, and he began to smoke\nout the bees. The humming ceased by degrees, and the hive eventually\nyielded several pounds of the sweetest honey, with which Ned Land\nfilled his haversack.\n\n When I have mixed this honey with the paste of the bread-fruit,  said\nhe,  I shall be able to offer you a succulent cake. \n\n[Transcriber s Note:  bread-fruit  has been substituted for\n artocarpus  in this ed.]\n\n\n Pon my word,  said Conseil,  it will be gingerbread. \n\n Never mind the gingerbread,  said I;  let us continue our interesting\nwalk. \n\nAt every turn of the path we were following, the lake appeared in all\nits length and breadth. The lantern lit up the whole of its peaceable\nsurface, which knew neither ripple nor wave. The _Nautilus_ remained\nperfectly immovable. On the platform, and on the mountain, the ship s\ncrew were working like black shadows clearly carved against the\nluminous atmosphere. We were now going round the highest crest of the\nfirst layers of rock which upheld the roof. I then saw that bees were\nnot the only representatives of the animal kingdom in the interior of\nthis volcano. Birds of prey hovered here and there in the shadows, or\nfled from their nests on the top of the rocks. There were sparrow\nhawks, with white breasts, and kestrels, and down the slopes scampered,\nwith their long legs, several fine fat bustards. I leave anyone to\nimagine the covetousness of the Canadian at the sight of this savoury\ngame, and whether he did not regret having no gun. But he did his best\nto replace the lead by stones, and, after several fruitless attempts,\nhe succeeded in wounding a magnificent bird. To say that he risked his\nlife twenty times before reaching it is but the truth; but he managed\nso well that the creature joined the honey-cakes in his bag. We were\nnow obliged to descend toward the shore, the crest becoming\nimpracticable. Above us the crater seemed to gape like the mouth of a\nwell. From this place the sky could be clearly seen, and clouds,\ndissipated by the west wind, leaving behind them, even on the summit of\nthe mountain, their misty remnants certain proof that they were only\nmoderately high, for the volcano did not rise more than eight hundred\nfeet above the level of the ocean. Half an hour after the Canadian s\nlast exploit we had regained the inner shore. Here the flora was\nrepresented by large carpets of marine crystal, a little umbelliferous\nplant very good to pickle, which also bears the name of pierce-stone\nand sea-fennel. Conseil gathered some bundles of it. As to the fauna,\nit might be counted by thousands of crustacea of all sorts, lobsters,\ncrabs, spider-crabs, chameleon shrimps, and a large number of shells,\nrockfish, and limpets. Three-quarters of an hour later we had finished\nour circuitous walk and were on board. The crew had just finished\nloading the sodium, and the _Nautilus_ could have left that instant.\nBut Captain Nemo gave no order. Did he wish to wait until night, and\nleave the submarine passage secretly? Perhaps so. Whatever it might be,\nthe next day, the _Nautilus_, having left its port, steered clear of\nall land at a few yards beneath the waves of the Atlantic.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\nTHE SARGASSO SEA\n\n\nThat day the _Nautilus_ crossed a singular part of the Atlantic Ocean.\nNo one can be ignorant of the existence of a current of warm water\nknown by the name of the Gulf Stream. After leaving the Gulf of\nFlorida, we went in the direction of Spitzbergen. But before entering\nthe Gulf of Mexico, about 45  of N. lat., this current divides into two\narms, the principal one going towards the coast of Ireland and Norway,\nwhilst the second bends to the south about the height of the Azores;\nthen, touching the African shore, and describing a lengthened oval,\nreturns to the Antilles. This second arm it is rather a collar than an\narm surrounds with its circles of warm water that portion of the cold,\nquiet, immovable ocean called the Sargasso Sea, a perfect lake in the\nopen Atlantic: it takes no less than three years for the great current\nto pass round it. Such was the region the _Nautilus_ was now visiting,\na perfect meadow, a close carpet of seaweed, fucus, and tropical\nberries, so thick and so compact that the stem of a vessel could hardly\ntear its way through it. And Captain Nemo, not wishing to entangle his\nscrew in this herbaceous mass, kept some yards beneath the surface of\nthe waves. The name Sargasso comes from the Spanish word  sargazzo \nwhich signifies kelp. This kelp, or berry-plant, is the principal\nformation of this immense bank. And this is the reason why these plants\nunite in the peaceful basin of the Atlantic. The only explanation which\ncan be given, he says, seems to me to result from the experience known\nto all the world. Place in a vase some fragments of cork or other\nfloating body, and give to the water in the vase a circular movement,\nthe scattered fragments will unite in a group in the centre of the\nliquid surface, that is to say, in the part least agitated. In the\nphenomenon we are considering, the Atlantic is the vase, the Gulf\nStream the circular current, and the Sargasso Sea the central point at\nwhich the floating bodies unite.\n\nI share Maury s opinion, and I was able to study the phenomenon in the\nvery midst, where vessels rarely penetrate. Above us floated products\nof all kinds, heaped up among these brownish plants; trunks of trees\ntorn from the Andes or the Rocky Mountains, and floated by the Amazon\nor the Mississippi; numerous wrecks, remains of keels, or ships \nbottoms, side-planks stove in, and so weighted with shells and\nbarnacles that they could not again rise to the surface. And time will\none day justify Maury s other opinion, that these substances thus\naccumulated for ages will become petrified by the action of the water\nand will then form inexhaustible coal-mines a precious reserve prepared\nby far-seeing Nature for the moment when men shall have exhausted the\nmines of continents.\n\nIn the midst of this inextricable mass of plants and sea weed, I\nnoticed some charming pink halcyons and actiniae, with their long\ntentacles trailing after them, and medus , green, red, and blue.\n\nAll the day of the 22nd of February we passed in the Sargasso Sea,\nwhere such fish as are partial to marine plants find abundant\nnourishment. The next, the ocean had returned to its accustomed aspect.\nFrom this time for nineteen days, from the 23rd of February to the 12th\nof March, the _Nautilus_ kept in the middle of the Atlantic, carrying\nus at a constant speed of a hundred leagues in twenty-four hours.\nCaptain Nemo evidently intended accomplishing his submarine programme,\nand I imagined that he intended, after doubling Cape Horn, to return to\nthe Australian seas of the Pacific. Ned Land had cause for fear. In\nthese large seas, void of islands, we could not attempt to leave the\nboat. Nor had we any means of opposing Captain Nemo s will. Our only\ncourse was to submit; but what we could neither gain by force nor\ncunning, I liked to think might be obtained by persuasion. This voyage\nended, would he not consent to restore our liberty, under an oath never\nto reveal his existence? an oath of honour which we should have\nreligiously kept. But we must consider that delicate question with the\nCaptain. But was I free to claim this liberty? Had he not himself said\nfrom the beginning, in the firmest manner, that the secret of his life\nexacted from him our lasting imprisonment on board the _Nautilus?_ And\nwould not my four months  silence appear to him a tacit acceptance of\nour situation? And would not a return to the subject result in raising\nsuspicions which might be hurtful to our projects, if at some future\ntime a favourable opportunity offered to return to them?\n\nDuring the nineteen days mentioned above, no incident of any kind\nhappened to signalise our voyage. I saw little of the Captain; he was\nat work. In the library I often found his books left open, especially\nthose on natural history. My work on submarine depths, conned over by\nhim, was covered with marginal notes, often contradicting my theories\nand systems; but the Captain contented himself with thus purging my\nwork; it was very rare for him to discuss it with me. Sometimes I heard\nthe melancholy tones of his organ; but only at night, in the midst of\nthe deepest obscurity, when the _Nautilus_ slept upon the deserted\nocean. During this part of our voyage we sailed whole days on the\nsurface of the waves. The sea seemed abandoned. A few sailing-vessels,\non the road to India, were making for the Cape of Good Hope. One day we\nwere followed by the boats of a whaler, who, no doubt, took us for some\nenormous whale of great price; but Captain Nemo did not wish the worthy\nfellows to lose their time and trouble, so ended the chase by plunging\nunder the water. Our navigation continued until the 13th of March; that\nday the _Nautilus_ was employed in taking soundings, which greatly\ninterested me. We had then made about 13,000 leagues since our\ndeparture from the high seas of the Pacific. The bearings gave us 45 \n37  S. lat., and 37  53  W. long. It was the same water in which\nCaptain Denham of the Herald sounded 7,000 fathoms without finding the\nbottom. There, too, Lieutenant Parker, of the American frigate\nCongress, could not touch the bottom with 15,140 fathoms. Captain Nemo\nintended seeking the bottom of the ocean by a diagonal sufficiently\nlengthened by means of lateral planes placed at an angle of 45  with\nthe water-line of the _Nautilus_. Then the screw set to work at its\nmaximum speed, its four blades beating the waves with in describable\nforce. Under this powerful pressure, the hull of the _Nautilus_\nquivered like a sonorous chord and sank regularly under the water.\n\nAt 7,000 fathoms I saw some blackish tops rising from the midst of the\nwaters; but these summits might belong to high mountains like the\nHimalayas or Mont Blanc, even higher; and the depth of the abyss\nremained incalculable. The _Nautilus_ descended still lower, in spite\nof the great pressure. I felt the steel plates tremble at the\nfastenings of the bolts; its bars bent, its partitions groaned; the\nwindows of the saloon seemed to curve under the pressure of the waters.\nAnd this firm structure would doubtless have yielded, if, as its\nCaptain had said, it had not been capable of resistance like a solid\nblock. We had attained a depth of 16,000 yards (four leagues), and the\nsides of the _Nautilus_ then bore a pressure of 1,600 atmospheres, that\nis to say, 3,200 lbs. to each square two-fifths of an inch of its\nsurface.\n\n What a situation to be in!  I exclaimed.  To overrun these deep\nregions where man has never trod! Look, Captain, look at these\nmagnificent rocks, these uninhabited grottoes, these lowest receptacles\nof the globe, where life is no longer possible! What unknown sights are\nhere! Why should we be unable to preserve a remembrance of them? \n\n Would you like to carry away more than the remembrance?  said Captain\nNemo.\n\n What do you mean by those words? \n\n I mean to say that nothing is easier than to make a photographic view\nof this submarine region. \n\nI had not time to express my surprise at this new proposition, when, at\nCaptain Nemo s call, an objective was brought into the saloon. Through\nthe widely-opened panel, the liquid mass was bright with electricity,\nwhich was distributed with such uniformity that not a shadow, not a\ngradation, was to be seen in our manufactured light. The _Nautilus_\nremained motionless, the force of its screw subdued by the inclination\nof its planes: the instrument was propped on the bottom of the oceanic\nsite, and in a few seconds we had obtained a perfect negative.\n\nBut, the operation being over, Captain Nemo said,  Let us go up; we\nmust not abuse our position, nor expose the _Nautilus_ too long to such\ngreat pressure. \n\n Go up again!  I exclaimed.\n\n Hold well on. \n\nI had not time to understand why the Captain cautioned me thus, when I\nwas thrown forward on to the carpet. At a signal from the Captain, its\nscrew was shipped, and its blades raised vertically; the _Nautilus_\nshot into the air like a balloon, rising with stunning rapidity, and\ncutting the mass of waters with a sonorous agitation. Nothing was\nvisible; and in four minutes it had shot through the four leagues which\nseparated it from the ocean, and, after emerging like a flying-fish,\nfell, making the waves rebound to an enormous height.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\nCACHALOTS AND WHALES\n\n\nDuring the nights of the 13th and 14th of March, the _Nautilus_\nreturned to its southerly course. I fancied that, when on a level with\nCape Horn, he would turn the helm westward, in order to beat the\nPacific seas, and so complete the tour of the world. He did nothing of\nthe kind, but continued on his way to the southern regions. Where was\nhe going to? To the pole? It was madness! I began to think that the\nCaptain s temerity justified Ned Land s fears. For some time past the\nCanadian had not spoken to me of his projects of flight; he was less\ncommunicative, almost silent. I could see that this lengthened\nimprisonment was weighing upon him, and I felt that rage was burning\nwithin him. When he met the Captain, his eyes lit up with suppressed\nanger; and I feared that his natural violence would lead him into some\nextreme. That day, the 14th of March, Conseil and he came to me in my\nroom. I inquired the cause of their visit.\n\n A simple question to ask you, sir,  replied the Canadian.\n\n Speak, Ned. \n\n How many men are there on board the _Nautilus_, do you think? \n\n I cannot tell, my friend. \n\n I should say that its working does not require a large crew. \n\n Certainly, under existing conditions, ten men, at the most, ought to\nbe enough. \n\n Well, why should there be any more? \n\n Why?  I replied, looking fixedly at Ned Land, whose meaning was easy\nto guess.  Because,  I added,  if my surmises are correct, and if I\nhave well understood the Captain s existence, the _Nautilus_ is not\nonly a vessel: it is also a place of refuge for those who, like its\ncommander, have broken every tie upon earth. \n\n Perhaps so,  said Conseil;  but, in any case, the _Nautilus_ can only\ncontain a certain number of men. Could not you, sir, estimate their\nmaximum? \n\n How, Conseil? \n\n By calculation; given the size of the vessel, which you know, sir, and\nconsequently the quantity of air it contains, knowing also how much\neach man expends at a breath, and comparing these results with the fact\nthat the _Nautilus_ is obliged to go to the surface every twenty-four\nhours. \n\nConseil had not finished the sentence before I saw what he was driving\nat.\n\n I understand,  said I;  but that calculation, though simple enough,\ncan give but a very uncertain result. \n\n Never mind,  said Ned Land urgently.\n\n Here it is, then,  said I.  In one hour each man consumes the oxygen\ncontained in twenty gallons of air; and in twenty-four, that contained\nin 480 gallons. We must, therefore find how many times 480 gallons of\nair the _Nautilus_ contains. \n\n Just so,  said Conseil.\n\n Or,  I continued,  the size of the _Nautilus_ being 1,500 tons; and\none ton holding 200 gallons, it contains 300,000 gallons of air, which,\ndivided by 480, gives a quotient of 625. Which means to say, strictly\nspeaking, that the air contained in the _Nautilus_ would suffice for\n625 men for twenty-four hours. \n\n Six hundred and twenty-five!  repeated Ned.\n\n But remember that all of us, passengers, sailors, and officers\nincluded, would not form a tenth part of that number. \n\n Still too many for three men,  murmured Conseil.\n\nThe Canadian shook his head, passed his hand across his forehead, and\nleft the room without answering.\n\n Will you allow me to make one observation, sir?  said Conseil.  Poor\nNed is longing for everything that he can not have. His past life is\nalways present to him; everything that we are forbidden he regrets. His\nhead is full of old recollections. And we must understand him. What has\nhe to do here? Nothing; he is not learned like you, sir; and has not\nthe same taste for the beauties of the sea that we have. He would risk\neverything to be able to go once more into a tavern in his own\ncountry. \n\nCertainly the monotony on board must seem intolerable to the Canadian,\naccustomed as he was to a life of liberty and activity. Events were\nrare which could rouse him to any show of spirit; but that day an event\ndid happen which recalled the bright days of the harpooner. About\neleven in the morning, being on the surface of the ocean, the\n_Nautilus_ fell in with a troop of whales an encounter which did not\nastonish me, knowing that these creatures, hunted to death, had taken\nrefuge in high latitudes.\n\nWe were seated on the platform, with a quiet sea. The month of October\nin those latitudes gave us some lovely autumnal days. It was the\nCanadian he could not be mistaken who signalled a whale on the eastern\nhorizon. Looking attentively, one might see its black back rise and\nfall with the waves five miles from the _Nautilus_.\n\n Ah!  exclaimed Ned Land,  if I was on board a whaler, now such a\nmeeting would give me pleasure. It is one of large size. See with what\nstrength its blow-holes throw up columns of air an steam! Confound it,\nwhy am I bound to these steel plates? \n\n What, Ned,  said I,  you have not forgotten your old ideas of\nfishing? \n\n Can a whale-fisher ever forget his old trade, sir? Can he ever tire of\nthe emotions caused by such a chase? \n\n You have never fished in these seas, Ned? \n\n Never, sir; in the northern only, and as much in Behring as in Davis\nStraits. \n\n Then the southern whale is still unknown to you. It is the Greenland\nwhale you have hunted up to this time, and that would not risk passing\nthrough the warm waters of the equator. Whales are localised, according\nto their kinds, in certain seas which they never leave. And if one of\nthese creatures went from Behring to Davis Straits, it must be simply\nbecause there is a passage from one sea to the other, either on the\nAmerican or the Asiatic side. \n\n In that case, as I have never fished in these seas, I do not know the\nkind of whale frequenting them! \n\n I have told you, Ned. \n\n A greater reason for making their acquaintance,  said Conseil.\n\n Look! look!  exclaimed the Canadian,  they approach: they aggravate\nme; they know that I cannot get at them! \n\nNed stamped his feet. His hand trembled, as he grasped an imaginary\nharpoon.\n\n Are these cetaceans as large as those of the northern seas?  asked he.\n\n Very nearly, Ned. \n\n Because I have seen large whales, sir, whales measuring a hundred\nfeet. I have even been told that those of Hullamoch and Umgallick, of\nthe Aleutian Islands, are sometimes a hundred and fifty feet long. \n\n That seems to me exaggeration. These creatures are only\nbalaeaopterons, provided with dorsal fins; and, like the cachalots, are\ngenerally much smaller than the Greenland whale. \n\n Ah!  exclaimed the Canadian, whose eyes had never left the ocean,\n they are coming nearer; they are in the same water as the _Nautilus_. \n\nThen, returning to the conversation, he said:\n\n You spoke of the cachalot as a small creature. I have heard of\ngigantic ones. They are intelligent cetacea. It is said of some that\nthey cover themselves with seaweed and fucus, and then are taken for\nislands. People encamp upon them, and settle there; lights a fire \n\n And build houses,  said Conseil.\n\n Yes, joker,  said Ned Land.  And one fine day the creature plunges,\ncarrying with it all the inhabitants to the bottom of the sea. \n\n Something like the travels of Sinbad the Sailor,  I replied, laughing.\n\n Ah!  suddenly exclaimed Ned Land,  it is not one whale; there are\nten there are twenty it is a whole troop! And I not able to do\nanything! hands and feet tied! \n\n But, friend Ned,  said Conseil,  why do you not ask Captain Nemo s\npermission to chase them? \n\nConseil had not finished his sentence when Ned Land had lowered himself\nthrough the panel to seek the Captain. A few minutes afterwards the two\nappeared together on the platform.\n\nCaptain Nemo watched the troop of cetacea playing on the waters about a\nmile from the _Nautilus_.\n\n They are southern whales,  said he;  there goes the fortune of a whole\nfleet of whalers. \n\n Well, sir,  asked the Canadian,  can I not chase them, if only to\nremind me of my old trade of harpooner? \n\n And to what purpose?  replied Captain Nemo;  only to destroy! We have\nnothing to do with the whale-oil on board. \n\n But, sir,  continued the Canadian,  in the Red Sea you allowed us to\nfollow the dugong. \n\n Then it was to procure fresh meat for my crew. Here it would be\nkilling for killing s sake. I know that is a privilege reserved for\nman, but I do not approve of such murderous pastime. In destroying the\nsouthern whale (like the Greenland whale, an inoffensive creature),\nyour traders do a culpable action, Master Land. They have already\ndepopulated the whole of Baffin s Bay, and are annihilating a class of\nuseful animals. Leave the unfortunate cetacea alone. They have plenty\nof natural enemies cachalots, swordfish, and sawfish without you\ntroubling them. \n\nThe Captain was right. The barbarous and inconsiderate greed of these\nfishermen will one day cause the disappearance of the last whale in the\nocean. Ned Land whistled  Yankee-doodle  between his teeth, thrust his\nhands into his pockets, and turned his back upon us. But Captain Nemo\nwatched the troop of cetacea, and, addressing me, said:\n\n I was right in saying that whales had natural enemies enough, without\ncounting man. These will have plenty to do before long. Do you see, M.\nAronnax, about eight miles to leeward, those blackish moving points? \n\n Yes, Captain,  I replied.\n\n Those are cachalots terrible animals, which I have met in troops of\ntwo or three hundred. As to those, they are cruel, mischievous\ncreatures; they would be right in exterminating them. \n\nThe Canadian turned quickly at the last words.\n\n Well, Captain,  said he,  it is still time, in the interest of the\nwhales. \n\n It is useless to expose one s self, Professor. The _Nautilus_ will\ndisperse them. It is armed with a steel spur as good as Master Land s\nharpoon, I imagine. \n\nThe Canadian did not put himself out enough to shrug his shoulders.\nAttack cetacea with blows of a spur! Who had ever heard of such a\nthing?\n\n Wait, M. Aronnax,  said Captain Nemo.  We will show you something you\nhave never yet seen. We have no pity for these ferocious creatures.\nThey are nothing but mouth and teeth. \n\nMouth and teeth! No one could better describe the macrocephalous\ncachalot, which is sometimes more than seventy-five feet long. Its\nenormous head occupies one-third of its entire body. Better armed than\nthe whale, whose upper jaw is furnished only with whalebone, it is\nsupplied with twenty-five large tusks, about eight inches long,\ncylindrical and conical at the top, each weighing two pounds. It is in\nthe upper part of this enormous head, in great cavities divided by\ncartilages, that is to be found from six to eight hundred pounds of\nthat precious oil called spermaceti. The cachalot is a disagreeable\ncreature, more tadpole than fish, according to Fredol s description. It\nis badly formed, the whole of its left side being (if we may say it), a\n failure,  and being only able to see with its right eye. But the\nformidable troop was nearing us. They had seen the whales and were\npreparing to attack them. One could judge beforehand that the cachalots\nwould be victorious, not only because they were better built for attack\nthan their inoffensive adversaries, but also because they could remain\nlonger under water without coming to the surface. There was only just\ntime to go to the help of the whales. The _Nautilus_ went under water.\nConseil, Ned Land, and I took our places before the window in the\nsaloon, and Captain Nemo joined the pilot in his cage to work his\napparatus as an engine of destruction. Soon I felt the beatings of the\nscrew quicken, and our speed increased. The battle between the\ncachalots and the whales had already begun when the _Nautilus_ arrived.\nThey did not at first show any fear at the sight of this new monster\njoining in the conflict. But they soon had to guard against its blows.\nWhat a battle! The _Nautilus_ was nothing but a formidable harpoon,\nbrandished by the hand of its Captain. It hurled itself against the\nfleshy mass, passing through from one part to the other, leaving behind\nit two quivering halves of the animal. It could not feel the formidable\nblows from their tails upon its sides, nor the shock which it produced\nitself, much more. One cachalot killed, it ran at the next, tacked on\nthe spot that it might not miss its prey, going forwards and backwards,\nanswering to its helm, plunging when the cetacean dived into the deep\nwaters, coming up with it when it returned to the surface, striking it\nfront or sideways, cutting or tearing in all directions and at any\npace, piercing it with its terrible spur. What carnage! What a noise on\nthe surface of the waves! What sharp hissing, and what snorting\npeculiar to these enraged animals! In the midst of these waters,\ngenerally so peaceful, their tails made perfect billows. For one hour\nthis wholesale massacre continued, from which the cachalots could not\nescape. Several times ten or twelve united tried to crush the\n_Nautilus_ by their weight. From the window we could see their enormous\nmouths, studded with tusks, and their formidable eyes. Ned Land could\nnot contain himself; he threatened and swore at them. We could feel\nthem clinging to our vessel like dogs worrying a wild boar in a copse.\nBut the _Nautilus_, working its screw, carried them here and there, or\nto the upper levels of the ocean, without caring for their enormous\nweight, nor the powerful strain on the vessel. At length the mass of\ncachalots broke up, the waves became quiet, and I felt that we were\nrising to the surface. The panel opened, and we hurried on to the\nplatform. The sea was covered with mutilated bodies. A formidable\nexplosion could not have divided and torn this fleshy mass with more\nviolence. We were floating amid gigantic bodies, bluish on the back and\nwhite underneath, covered with enormous protuberances. Some terrified\ncachalots were flying towards the horizon. The waves were dyed red for\nseveral miles, and the _Nautilus_ floated in a sea of blood: Captain\nNemo joined us.\n\n Well, Master Land?  said he.\n\n Well, sir,  replied the Canadian, whose enthusiasm had somewhat\ncalmed;  it is a terrible spectacle, certainly. But I am not a butcher.\nI am a hunter, and I call this a butchery. \n\n It is a massacre of mischievous creatures,  replied the Captain;  and\nthe _Nautilus_ is not a butcher s knife. \n\n I like my harpoon better,  said the Canadian.\n\n Every one to his own,  answered the Captain, looking fixedly at Ned\nLand.\n\nI feared he would commit some act of violence, which would end in sad\nconsequences. But his anger was turned by the sight of a whale which\nthe _Nautilus_ had just come up with. The creature had not quite\nescaped from the cachalot s teeth. I recognised the southern whale by\nits flat head, which is entirely black. Anatomically, it is\ndistinguished from the white whale and the North Cape whale by the\nseven cervical vertebrae, and it has two more ribs than its congeners.\nThe unfortunate cetacean was lying on its side, riddled with holes from\nthe bites, and quite dead. From its mutilated fin still hung a young\nwhale which it could not save from the massacre. Its open mouth let the\nwater flow in and out, murmuring like the waves breaking on the shore.\nCaptain Nemo steered close to the corpse of the creature. Two of his\nmen mounted its side, and I saw, not without surprise, that they were\ndrawing from its breasts all the milk which they contained, that is to\nsay, about two or three tons. The Captain offered me a cup of the milk,\nwhich was still warm. I could not help showing my repugnance to the\ndrink; but he assured me that it was excellent, and not to be\ndistinguished from cow s milk. I tasted it, and was of his opinion. It\nwas a useful reserve to us, for in the shape of salt butter or cheese\nit would form an agreeable variety from our ordinary food. From that\nday I noticed with uneasiness that Ned Land s ill-will towards Captain\nNemo increased, and I resolved to watch the Canadian s gestures\nclosely.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\nTHE ICEBERG\n\n\nThe _Nautilus_ was steadily pursuing its southerly course, following\nthe fiftieth meridian with considerable speed. Did he wish to reach the\npole? I did not think so, for every attempt to reach that point had\nhitherto failed. Again, the season was far advanced, for in the\nAntarctic regions the 13th of March corresponds with the 13th of\nSeptember of northern regions, which begin at the equinoctial season.\nOn the 14th of March I saw floating ice in latitude 55 , merely pale\nbits of debris from twenty to twenty-five feet long, forming banks over\nwhich the sea curled. The _Nautilus_ remained on the surface of the\nocean. Ned Land, who had fished in the Arctic Seas, was familiar with\nits icebergs; but Conseil and I admired them for the first time. In the\natmosphere towards the southern horizon stretched a white dazzling\nband. English whalers have given it the name of  ice blink.  However\nthick the clouds may be, it is always visible, and announces the\npresence of an ice pack or bank. Accordingly, larger blocks soon\nappeared, whose brilliancy changed with the caprices of the fog. Some\nof these masses showed green veins, as if long undulating lines had\nbeen traced with sulphate of copper; others resembled enormous\namethysts with the light shining through them. Some reflected the light\nof day upon a thousand crystal facets. Others shaded with vivid\ncalcareous reflections resembled a perfect town of marble. The more we\nneared the south the more these floating islands increased both in\nnumber and importance.\n\nAt 60  lat. every pass had disappeared. But, seeking carefully, Captain\nNemo soon found a narrow opening, through which he boldly slipped,\nknowing, however, that it would close behind him. Thus, guided by this\nclever hand, the _Nautilus_ passed through all the ice with a precision\nwhich quite charmed Conseil; icebergs or mountains, ice-fields or\nsmooth plains, seeming to have no limits, drift-ice or floating\nice-packs, plains broken up, called palchs when they are circular, and\nstreams when they are made up of long strips. The temperature was very\nlow; the thermometer exposed to the air marked 2 deg. or 3  below zero,\nbut we were warmly clad with fur, at the expense of the sea-bear and\nseal. The interior of the _Nautilus_, warmed regularly by its electric\napparatus, defied the most intense cold. Besides, it would only have\nbeen necessary to go some yards beneath the waves to find a more\nbearable temperature. Two months earlier we should have had perpetual\ndaylight in these latitudes; but already we had had three or four hours\nof night, and by and by there would be six months of darkness in these\ncircumpolar regions. On the 15th of March we were in the latitude of\nNew Shetland and South Orkney. The Captain told me that formerly\nnumerous tribes of seals inhabited them; but that English and American\nwhalers, in their rage for destruction, massacred both old and young;\nthus, where there was once life and animation, they had left silence\nand death.\n\nAbout eight o clock on the morning of the 16th of March the _Nautilus_,\nfollowing the fifty-fifth meridian, cut the Antarctic polar circle. Ice\nsurrounded us on all sides, and closed the horizon. But Captain Nemo\nwent from one opening to another, still going higher. I cannot express\nmy astonishment at the beauties of these new regions. The ice took most\nsurprising forms. Here the grouping formed an oriental town, with\ninnumerable mosques and minarets; there a fallen city thrown to the\nearth, as it were, by some convulsion of nature. The whole aspect was\nconstantly changed by the oblique rays of the sun, or lost in the\ngreyish fog amidst hurricanes of snow. Detonations and falls were heard\non all sides, great overthrows of icebergs, which altered the whole\nlandscape like a diorama. Often seeing no exit, I thought we were\ndefinitely prisoners; but, instinct guiding him at the slightest\nindication, Captain Nemo would discover a new pass. He was never\nmistaken when he saw the thin threads of bluish water trickling along\nthe ice-fields; and I had no doubt that he had already ventured into\nthe midst of these Antarctic seas before. On the 16th of March,\nhowever, the ice-fields absolutely blocked our road. It was not the\niceberg itself, as yet, but vast fields cemented by the cold. But this\nobstacle could not stop Captain Nemo: he hurled himself against it with\nfrightful violence. The _Nautilus_ entered the brittle mass like a\nwedge, and split it with frightful crackings. It was the battering ram\nof the ancients hurled by infinite strength. The ice, thrown high in\nthe air, fell like hail around us. By its own power of impulsion our\napparatus made a canal for itself; some times carried away by its own\nimpetus, it lodged on the ice-field, crushing it with its weight, and\nsometimes buried beneath it, dividing it by a simple pitching movement,\nproducing large rents in it. Violent gales assailed us at this time,\naccompanied by thick fogs, through which, from one end of the platform\nto the other, we could see nothing. The wind blew sharply from all\nparts of the compass, and the snow lay in such hard heaps that we had\nto break it with blows of a pickaxe. The temperature was always at 5\ndeg. below zero; every outward part of the _Nautilus_ was covered with\nice. A rigged vessel would have been entangled in the blocked up\ngorges. A vessel without sails, with electricity for its motive power,\nand wanting no coal, could alone brave such high latitudes. At length,\non the 18th of March, after many useless assaults, the _Nautilus_ was\npositively blocked. It was no longer either streams, packs, or\nice-fields, but an interminable and immovable barrier, formed by\nmountains soldered together.\n\n An iceberg!  said the Canadian to me.\n\nI knew that to Ned Land, as well as to all other navigators who had\npreceded us, this was an inevitable obstacle. The sun appearing for an\ninstant at noon, Captain Nemo took an observation as near as possible,\nwhich gave our situation at 51  30  long. and 67  39  of S. lat. We had\nadvanced one degree more in this Antarctic region. Of the liquid\nsurface of the sea there was no longer a glimpse. Under the spur of the\n_Nautilus_ lay stretched a vast plain, entangled with confused blocks.\nHere and there sharp points and slender needles rising to a height of\n200 feet; further on a steep shore, hewn as it were with an axe and\nclothed with greyish tints; huge mirrors, reflecting a few rays of\nsunshine, half drowned in the fog. And over this desolate face of\nnature a stern silence reigned, scarcely broken by the flapping of the\nwings of petrels and puffins. Everything was frozen even the noise. The\n_Nautilus_ was then obliged to stop in its adventurous course amid\nthese fields of ice. In spite of our efforts, in spite of the powerful\nmeans employed to break up the ice, the _Nautilus_ remained immovable.\nGenerally, when we can proceed no further, we have return still open to\nus; but here return was as impossible as advance, for every pass had\nclosed behind us; and for the few moments when we were stationary, we\nwere likely to be entirely blocked, which did indeed happen about two\no clock in the afternoon, the fresh ice forming around its sides with\nastonishing rapidity. I was obliged to admit that Captain Nemo was more\nthan imprudent. I was on the platform at that moment. The Captain had\nbeen observing our situation for some time past, when he said to me:\n\n Well, sir, what do you think of this? \n\n I think that we are caught, Captain. \n\n\n[Illustration] The _Nautilus_ was blocked up\n\n\n So, M. Aronnax, you really think that the _Nautilus_ cannot disengage\nitself? \n\n With difficulty, Captain; for the season is already too far advanced\nfor you to reckon on the breaking of the ice. \n\n Ah! sir,  said Captain Nemo, in an ironical tone,  you will always be\nthe same. You see nothing but difficulties and obstacles. I affirm that\nnot only can the _Nautilus_ disengage itself, but also that it can go\nfurther still. \n\n Further to the South?  I asked, looking at the Captain.\n\n Yes, sir; it shall go to the pole. \n\n To the pole!  I exclaimed, unable to repress a gesture of incredulity.\n\n Yes,  replied the Captain, coldly,  to the Antarctic pole to that\nunknown point from whence springs every meridian of the globe. You know\nwhether I can do as I please with the _Nautilus!_ \n\nYes, I knew that. I knew that this man was bold, even to rashness. But\nto conquer those obstacles which bristled round the South Pole,\nrendering it more inaccessible than the North, which had not yet been\nreached by the boldest navigators was it not a mad enterprise, one\nwhich only a maniac would have conceived? It then came into my head to\nask Captain Nemo if he had ever discovered that pole which had never\nyet been trodden by a human creature?\n\n No, sir,  he replied;  but we will discover it together. Where others\nhave failed, I will not fail. I have never yet led my _Nautilus_ so far\ninto southern seas; but, I repeat, it shall go further yet. \n\n I can well believe you, Captain,  said I, in a slightly ironical tone.\n I believe you! Let us go ahead! There are no obstacles for us! Let us\nsmash this iceberg! Let us blow it up; and, if it resists, let us give\nthe _Nautilus_ wings to fly over it! \n\n Over it, sir!  said Captain Nemo, quietly;  no, not over it, but under\nit! \n\n Under it!  I exclaimed, a sudden idea of the Captain s projects\nflashing upon my mind. I understood; the wonderful qualities of the\n_Nautilus_ were going to serve us in this superhuman enterprise.\n\n I see we are beginning to understand one another, sir,  said the\nCaptain, half smiling.  You begin to see the possibility I should say\nthe success of this attempt. That which is impossible for an ordinary\nvessel is easy to the _Nautilus_. If a continent lies before the pole,\nit must stop before the continent; but if, on the contrary, the pole is\nwashed by open sea, it will go even to the pole. \n\n Certainly,  said I, carried away by the Captain s reasoning;  if the\nsurface of the sea is solidified by the ice, the lower depths are free\nby the Providential law which has placed the maximum of density of the\nwaters of the ocean one degree higher than freezing-point; and, if I am\nnot mistaken, the portion of this iceberg which is above the water is\nas one to four to that which is below. \n\n Very nearly, sir; for one foot of iceberg above the sea there are\nthree below it. If these ice mountains are not more than 300 feet above\nthe surface, they are not more than 900 beneath. And what are 900 feet\nto the _Nautilus?_ \n\n Nothing, sir. \n\n It could even seek at greater depths that uniform temperature of\nsea-water, and there brave with impunity the thirty or forty degrees of\nsurface cold. \n\n Just so, sir just so,  I replied, getting animated.\n\n The only difficulty,  continued Captain Nemo,  is that of remaining\nseveral days without renewing our provision of air. \n\n Is that all? The _Nautilus_ has vast reservoirs; we can fill them, and\nthey will supply us with all the oxygen we want. \n\n Well thought of, M. Aronnax,  replied the Captain, smiling.  But, not\nwishing you to accuse me of rashness, I will first give you all my\nobjections. \n\n Have you any more to make? \n\n Only one. It is possible, if the sea exists at the South Pole, that it\nmay be covered; and, consequently, we shall be unable to come to the\nsurface. \n\n Good, sir! but do you forget that the _Nautilus_ is armed with a\npowerful spur, and could we not send it diagonally against these fields\nof ice, which would open at the shocks. \n\n Ah! sir, you are full of ideas to-day. \n\n Besides, Captain,  I added, enthusiastically,  why should we not find\nthe sea open at the South Pole as well as at the North? The frozen\npoles of the earth do not coincide, either in the southern or in the\nnorthern regions; and, until it is proved to the contrary, we may\nsuppose either a continent or an ocean free from ice at these two\npoints of the globe. \n\n I think so too, M. Aronnax,  replied Captain Nemo.  I only wish you to\nobserve that, after having made so many objections to my project, you\nare now crushing me with arguments in its favour! \n\nThe preparations for this audacious attempt now began. The powerful\npumps of the _Nautilus_ were working air into the reservoirs and\nstoring it at high pressure. About four o clock, Captain Nemo announced\nthe closing of the panels on the platform. I threw one last look at the\nmassive iceberg which we were going to cross. The weather was clear,\nthe atmosphere pure enough, the cold very great, being 12  below zero;\nbut, the wind having gone down, this temperature was not so unbearable.\nAbout ten men mounted the sides of the _Nautilus_, armed with pickaxes\nto break the ice around the vessel, which was soon free. The operation\nwas quickly performed, for the fresh ice was still very thin. We all\nwent below. The usual reservoirs were filled with the newly-liberated\nwater, and the _Nautilus_ soon descended. I had taken my place with\nConseil in the saloon; through the open window we could see the lower\nbeds of the Southern Ocean. The thermometer went up, the needle of the\ncompass deviated on the dial. At about 900 feet, as Captain Nemo had\nforeseen, we were floating beneath the undulating bottom of the\niceberg. But the _Nautilus_ went lower still it went to the depth of\nfour hundred fathoms. The temperature of the water at the surface\nshowed twelve degrees, it was now only ten; we had gained two. I need\nnot say the temperature of the _Nautilus_ was raised by its heating\napparatus to a much higher degree; every man uvre was accomplished with\nwonderful precision.\n\n We shall pass it, if you please, sir,  said Conseil.\n\n I believe we shall,  I said, in a tone of firm conviction.\n\nIn this open sea, the _Nautilus_ had taken its course direct to the\npole, without leaving the fifty-second meridian. From 67  30  to 90\ndeg., twenty-two degrees and a half of latitude remained to travel;\nthat is, about five hundred leagues. The _Nautilus_ kept up a mean\nspeed of twenty-six miles an hour the speed of an express train. If\nthat was kept up, in forty hours we should reach the pole.\n\nFor a part of the night the novelty of the situation kept us at the\nwindow. The sea was lit with the electric lantern; but it was deserted;\nfishes did not sojourn in these imprisoned waters; they only found\nthere a passage to take them from the Antarctic Ocean to the open polar\nsea. Our pace was rapid; we could feel it by the quivering of the long\nsteel body. About two in the morning I took some hours  repose, and\nConseil did the same. In crossing the waist I did not meet Captain\nNemo: I supposed him to be in the pilot s cage. The next morning, the\n19th of March, I took my post once more in the saloon. The electric log\ntold me that the speed of the _Nautilus_ had been slackened. It was\nthen going towards the surface; but prudently emptying its reservoirs\nvery slowly. My heart beat fast. Were we going to emerge and regain the\nopen polar atmosphere? No! A shock told me that the _Nautilus_ had\nstruck the bottom of the iceberg, still very thick, judging from the\ndeadened sound. We had in deed  struck,  to use a sea expression, but\nin an inverse sense, and at a thousand feet deep. This would give three\nthousand feet of ice above us; one thousand being above the water-mark.\nThe iceberg was then higher than at its borders not a very reassuring\nfact. Several times that day the _Nautilus_ tried again, and every time\nit struck the wall which lay like a ceiling above it. Sometimes it met\nwith but 900 yards, only 200 of which rose above the surface. It was\ntwice the height it was when the _Nautilus_ had gone under the waves. I\ncarefully noted the different depths, and thus obtained a submarine\nprofile of the chain as it was developed under the water. That night no\nchange had taken place in our situation. Still ice between four and\nfive hundred yards in depth! It was evidently diminishing, but, still,\nwhat a thickness between us and the surface of the ocean! It was then\neight. According to the daily custom on board the _Nautilus_, its air\nshould have been renewed four hours ago; but I did not suffer much,\nalthough Captain Nemo had not yet made any demand upon his reserve of\noxygen. My sleep was painful that night; hope and fear besieged me by\nturns: I rose several times. The groping of the _Nautilus_ continued.\nAbout three in the morning, I noticed that the lower surface of the\niceberg was only about fifty feet deep. One hundred and fifty feet now\nseparated us from the surface of the waters. The iceberg was by degrees\nbecoming an ice-field, the mountain a plain. My eyes never left the\nmanometer. We were still rising diagonally to the surface, which\nsparkled under the electric rays. The iceberg was stretching both above\nand beneath into lengthening slopes; mile after mile it was getting\nthinner. At length, at six in the morning of that memorable day, the\n19th of March, the door of the saloon opened, and Captain Nemo\nappeared.\n\n The sea is open!!  was all he said.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\nTHE SOUTH POLE\n\n\nI rushed on to the platform. Yes! the open sea, with but a few\nscattered pieces of ice and moving icebergs a long stretch of sea; a\nworld of birds in the air, and myriads of fishes under those waters,\nwhich varied from intense blue to olive green, according to the bottom.\nThe thermometer marked 3  C. above zero. It was comparatively spring,\nshut up as we were behind this iceberg, whose lengthened mass was dimly\nseen on our northern horizon.\n\n Are we at the pole?  I asked the Captain, with a beating heart.\n\n I do not know,  he replied.  At noon I will take our bearings. \n\n But will the sun show himself through this fog?  said I, looking at\nthe leaden sky.\n\n However little it shows, it will be enough,  replied the Captain.\n\nAbout ten miles south a solitary island rose to a height of one hundred\nand four yards. We made for it, but carefully, for the sea might be\nstrewn with banks. One hour afterwards we had reached it, two hours\nlater we had made the round of it. It measured four or five miles in\ncircumference. A narrow canal separated it from a considerable stretch\nof land, perhaps a continent, for we could not see its limits. The\nexistence of this land seemed to give some colour to Maury s theory.\nThe ingenious American has remarked that, between the South Pole and\nthe sixtieth parallel, the sea is covered with floating ice of enormous\nsize, which is never met with in the North Atlantic. From this fact he\nhas drawn the conclusion that the Antarctic Circle encloses\nconsiderable continents, as icebergs cannot form in open sea, but only\non the coasts. According to these calculations, the mass of ice\nsurrounding the southern pole forms a vast cap, the circumference of\nwhich must be, at least, 2,500 miles. But the _Nautilus_, for fear of\nrunning aground, had stopped about three cable-lengths from a strand\nover which reared a superb heap of rocks. The boat was launched; the\nCaptain, two of his men, bearing instruments, Conseil, and myself were\nin it. It was ten in the morning. I had not seen Ned Land. Doubtless\nthe Canadian did not wish to admit the presence of the South Pole. A\nfew strokes of the oar brought us to the sand, where we ran ashore.\nConseil was going to jump on to the land, when I held him back.\n\n Sir,  said I to Captain Nemo,  to you belongs the honour of first\nsetting foot on this land. \n\n Yes, sir,  said the Captain,  and if I do not hesitate to tread this\nSouth Pole, it is because, up to this time, no human being has left a\ntrace there. \n\nSaying this, he jumped lightly on to the sand. His heart beat with\nemotion. He climbed a rock, sloping to a little promontory, and there,\nwith his arms crossed, mute and motionless, and with an eager look, he\nseemed to take possession of these southern regions. After five minutes\npassed in this ecstasy, he turned to us.\n\n When you like, sir. \n\nI landed, followed by Conseil, leaving the two men in the boat. For a\nlong way the soil was composed of a reddish sandy stone, something like\ncrushed brick, scoriae, streams of lava, and pumice-stones. One could\nnot mistake its volcanic origin. In some parts, slight curls of smoke\nemitted a sulphurous smell, proving that the internal fires had lost\nnothing of their expansive powers, though, having climbed a high\nacclivity, I could see no volcano for a radius of several miles. We\nknow that in those Antarctic countries, James Ross found two craters,\nthe Erebus and Terror, in full activity, on the 167th meridian,\nlatitude 77  32 . The vegetation of this desolate continent seemed to\nme much restricted. Some lichens lay upon the black rocks; some\nmicroscopic plants, rudimentary diatomas, a kind of cells placed\nbetween two quartz shells; long purple and scarlet weed, supported on\nlittle swimming bladders, which the breaking of the waves brought to\nthe shore. These constituted the meagre flora of this region. The shore\nwas strewn with molluscs, little mussels, and limpets. I also saw\nmyriads of northern clios, one-and-a-quarter inches long, of which a\nwhale would swallow a whole world at a mouthful; and some perfect\nsea-butterflies, animating the waters on the skirts of the shore.\n\nThere appeared on the high bottoms some coral shrubs, of the kind\nwhich, according to James Ross, live in the Antarctic seas to the depth\nof more than 1,000 yards. Then there were little kingfishers and\nstarfish studding the soil. But where life abounded most was in the\nair. There thousands of birds fluttered and flew of all kinds,\ndeafening us with their cries; others crowded the rock, looking at us\nas we passed by without fear, and pressing familiarly close by our\nfeet. There were penguins, so agile in the water, heavy and awkward as\nthey are on the ground; they were uttering harsh cries, a large\nassembly, sober in gesture, but extravagant in clamour. Albatrosses\npassed in the air, the expanse of their wings being at least four yards\nand a half, and justly called the vultures of the ocean; some gigantic\npetrels, and some damiers, a kind of small duck, the underpart of whose\nbody is black and white; then there were a whole series of petrels,\nsome whitish, with brown-bordered wings, others blue, peculiar to the\nAntarctic seas, and so oily, as I told Conseil, that the inhabitants of\nthe Ferroe Islands had nothing to do before lighting them but to put a\nwick in.\n\n A little more,  said Conseil,  and they would be perfect lamps! After\nthat, we cannot expect Nature to have previously furnished them with\nwicks! \n\nAbout half a mile farther on the soil was riddled with ruffs  nests, a\nsort of laying-ground, out of which many birds were issuing. Captain\nNemo had some hundreds hunted. They uttered a cry like the braying of\nan ass, were about the size of a goose, slate-colour on the body, white\nbeneath, with a yellow line round their throats; they allowed\nthemselves to be killed with a stone, never trying to escape. But the\nfog did not lift, and at eleven the sun had not yet shown itself. Its\nabsence made me uneasy. Without it no observations were possible. How,\nthen, could we decide whether we had reached the pole? When I rejoined\nCaptain Nemo, I found him leaning on a piece of rock, silently watching\nthe sky. He seemed impatient and vexed. But what was to be done? This\nrash and powerful man could not command the sun as he did the sea. Noon\narrived without the orb of day showing itself for an instant. We could\nnot even tell its position behind the curtain of fog; and soon the fog\nturned to snow.\n\n Till to-morrow,  said the Captain, quietly, and we returned to the\n_Nautilus_ amid these atmospheric disturbances.\n\nThe tempest of snow continued till the next day. It was impossible to\nremain on the platform. From the saloon, where I was taking notes of\nincidents happening during this excursion to the polar continent, I\ncould hear the cries of petrels and albatrosses sporting in the midst\nof this violent storm. The _Nautilus_ did not remain motionless, but\nskirted the coast, advancing ten miles more to the south in the\nhalf-light left by the sun as it skirted the edge of the horizon. The\nnext day, the 20th of March, the snow had ceased. The cold was a little\ngreater, the thermometer showing 2  below zero. The fog was rising, and\nI hoped that that day our observations might be taken. Captain Nemo not\nhaving yet appeared, the boat took Conseil and myself to land. The soil\nwas still of the same volcanic nature; everywhere were traces of lava,\nscoriae, and basalt; but the crater which had vomited them I could not\nsee. Here, as lower down, this continent was alive with myriads of\nbirds. But their rule was now divided with large troops of sea-mammals,\nlooking at us with their soft eyes. There were several kinds of seals,\nsome stretched on the earth, some on flakes of ice, many going in and\nout of the sea. They did not flee at our approach, never having had\nanything to do with man; and I reckoned that there were provisions\nthere for hundreds of vessels.\n\n Sir,  said Conseil,  will you tell me the names of these creatures? \n\n They are seals and morses. \n\nIt was now eight in the morning. Four hours remained to us before the\nsun could be observed with advantage. I directed our steps towards a\nvast bay cut in the steep granite shore. There, I can aver that earth\nand ice were lost to sight by the numbers of sea-mammals covering them,\nand I involuntarily sought for old Proteus, the mythological shepherd\nwho watched these immense flocks of Neptune. There were more seals than\nanything else, forming distinct groups, male and female, the father\nwatching over his family, the mother suckling her little ones, some\nalready strong enough to go a few steps. When they wished to change\ntheir place, they took little jumps, made by the contraction of their\nbodies, and helped awkwardly enough by their imperfect fin, which, as\nwith the lamantin, their cousins, forms a perfect forearm. I should say\nthat, in the water, which is their element the spine of these creatures\nis flexible; with smooth and close skin and webbed feet they swim\nadmirably. In resting on the earth they take the most graceful\nattitudes. Thus the ancients, observing their soft and expressive\nlooks, which cannot be surpassed by the most beautiful look a woman can\ngive, their clear voluptuous eyes, their charming positions, and the\npoetry of their manners, metamorphosed them, the male into a triton and\nthe female into a mermaid. I made Conseil notice the considerable\ndevelopment of the lobes of the brain in these interesting cetaceans.\nNo mammal, except man, has such a quantity of brain matter; they are\nalso capable of receiving a certain amount of education, are easily\ndomesticated, and I think, with other naturalists, that if properly\ntaught they would be of great service as fishing-dogs. The greater part\nof them slept on the rocks or on the sand. Amongst these seals,\nproperly so called, which have no external ears (in which they differ\nfrom the otter, whose ears are prominent), I noticed several varieties\nof seals about three yards long, with a white coat, bulldog heads,\narmed with teeth in both jaws, four incisors at the top and four at the\nbottom, and two large canine teeth in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.\nAmongst them glided sea-elephants, a kind of seal, with short, flexible\ntrunks. The giants of this species measured twenty feet round and ten\nyards and a half in length; but they did not move as we approached.\n\n These creatures are not dangerous?  asked Conseil.\n\n No; not unless you attack them. When they have to defend their young\ntheir rage is terrible, and it is not uncommon for them to break the\nfishing-boats to pieces. \n\n They are quite right,  said Conseil.\n\n I do not say they are not. \n\nTwo miles farther on we were stopped by the promontory which shelters\nthe bay from the southerly winds. Beyond it we heard loud bellowings\nsuch as a troop of ruminants would produce.\n\n Good!  said Conseil;  a concert of bulls! \n\n No; a concert of morses. \n\n They are fighting! \n\n They are either fighting or playing. \n\nWe now began to climb the blackish rocks, amid unforeseen stumbles, and\nover stones which the ice made slippery. More than once I rolled over\nat the expense of my loins. Conseil, more prudent or more steady, did\nnot stumble, and helped me up, saying:\n\n If, sir, you would have the kindness to take wider steps, you would\npreserve your equilibrium better. \n\nArrived at the upper ridge of the promontory, I saw a vast white plain\ncovered with morses. They were playing amongst themselves, and what we\nheard were bellowings of pleasure, not of anger.\n\nAs I passed these curious animals I could examine them leisurely, for\nthey did not move. Their skins were thick and rugged, of a yellowish\ntint, approaching to red; their hair was short and scant. Some of them\nwere four yards and a quarter long. Quieter and less timid than their\ncousins of the north, they did not, like them, place sentinels round\nthe outskirts of their encampment. After examining this city of morses,\nI began to think of returning. It was eleven o clock, and, if Captain\nNemo found the conditions favourable for observations, I wished to be\npresent at the operation. We followed a narrow pathway running along\nthe summit of the steep shore. At half-past eleven we had reached the\nplace where we landed. The boat had run aground, bringing the Captain.\nI saw him standing on a block of basalt, his instruments near him, his\neyes fixed on the northern horizon, near which the sun was then\ndescribing a lengthened curve. I took my place beside him, and waited\nwithout speaking. Noon arrived, and, as before, the sun did not appear.\nIt was a fatality. Observations were still wanting. If not accomplished\nto-morrow, we must give up all idea of taking any. We were indeed\nexactly at the 20th of March. To-morrow, the 21st, would be the\nequinox; the sun would disappear behind the horizon for six months, and\nwith its disappearance the long polar night would begin. Since the\nSeptember equinox it had emerged from the northern horizon, rising by\nlengthened spirals up to the 21st of December. At this period, the\nsummer solstice of the northern regions, it had begun to descend; and\nto-morrow was to shed its last rays upon them. I communicated my fears\nand observations to Captain Nemo.\n\n You are right, M. Aronnax,  said he;  if to-morrow I cannot take the\naltitude of the sun, I shall not be able to do it for six months. But\nprecisely because chance has led me into these seas on the 21st of\nMarch, my bearings will be easy to take, if at twelve we can see the\nsun. \n\n Why, Captain? \n\n Because then the orb of day described such lengthened curves that it\nis difficult to measure exactly its height above the horizon, and grave\nerrors may be made with instruments. \n\n What will you do then? \n\n I shall only use my chronometer,  replied Captain Nemo.  If to-morrow,\nthe 21st of March, the disc of the sun, allowing for refraction, is\nexactly cut by the northern horizon, it will show that I am at the\nSouth Pole. \n\n Just so,  said I.  But this statement is not mathematically correct,\nbecause the equinox does not necessarily begin at noon. \n\n Very likely, sir; but the error will not be a hundred yards and we do\nnot want more. Till to-morrow, then! \n\nCaptain Nemo returned on board. Conseil and I remained to survey the\nshore, observing and studying until five o clock. Then I went to bed,\nnot, however, without invoking, like the Indian, the favour of the\nradiant orb. The next day, the 21st of March, at five in the morning, I\nmounted the platform. I found Captain Nemo there.\n\n The weather is lightening a little,  said he.  I have some hope. After\nbreakfast we will go on shore and choose a post for observation. \n\nThat point settled, I sought Ned Land. I wanted to take him with me.\nBut the obstinate Canadian refused, and I saw that his taciturnity and\nhis bad humour grew day by day. After all, I was not sorry for his\nobstinacy under the circumstances. Indeed, there were too many seals on\nshore, and we ought not to lay such temptation in this unreflecting\nfisherman s way. Breakfast over, we went on shore. The _Nautilus_ had\ngone some miles further up in the night. It was a whole league from the\ncoast, above which reared a sharp peak about five hundred yards high.\nThe boat took with me Captain Nemo, two men of the crew, and the\ninstruments, which consisted of a chronometer, a telescope, and a\nbarometer. While crossing, I saw numerous whales belonging to the three\nkinds peculiar to the southern seas; the whale, or the English  right\nwhale,  which has no dorsal fin; the  humpback,  with reeved chest and\nlarge, whitish fins, which, in spite of its name, do not form wings;\nand the fin-back, of a yellowish brown, the liveliest of all the\ncetacea. This powerful creature is heard a long way off when he throws\nto a great height columns of air and vapour, which look like whirlwinds\nof smoke. These different mammals were disporting themselves in troops\nin the quiet waters; and I could see that this basin of the Antarctic\nPole serves as a place of refuge to the cetacea too closely tracked by\nthe hunters. I also noticed large medus  floating between the reeds.\n\nAt nine we landed; the sky was brightening, the clouds were flying to\nthe south, and the fog seemed to be leaving the cold surface of the\nwaters. Captain Nemo went towards the peak, which he doubtless meant to\nbe his observatory. It was a painful ascent over the sharp lava and the\npumice-stones, in an atmosphere often impregnated with a sulphurous\nsmell from the smoking cracks. For a man unaccustomed to walk on land,\nthe Captain climbed the steep slopes with an agility I never saw\nequalled and which a hunter would have envied. We were two hours\ngetting to the summit of this peak, which was half porphyry and half\nbasalt. From thence we looked upon a vast sea which, towards the north,\ndistinctly traced its boundary line upon the sky. At our feet lay\nfields of dazzling whiteness. Over our heads a pale azure, free from\nfog. To the north the disc of the sun seemed like a ball of fire,\nalready horned by the cutting of the horizon. From the bosom of the\nwater rose sheaves of liquid jets by hundreds. In the distance lay the\n_Nautilus_ like a cetacean asleep on the water. Behind us, to the south\nand east, an immense country and a chaotic heap of rocks and ice, the\nlimits of which were not visible. On arriving at the summit Captain\nNemo carefully took the mean height of the barometer, for he would have\nto consider that in taking his observations. At a quarter to twelve the\nsun, then seen only by refraction, looked like a golden disc shedding\nits last rays upon this deserted continent and seas which never man had\nyet ploughed. Captain Nemo, furnished with a lenticular glass which, by\nmeans of a mirror, corrected the refraction, watched the orb sinking\nbelow the horizon by degrees, following a lengthened diagonal. I held\nthe chronometer. My heart beat fast. If the disappearance of the\nhalf-disc of the sun coincided with twelve o clock on the chronometer,\nwe were at the pole itself.\n\n Twelve!  I exclaimed.\n\n The South Pole!  replied Captain Nemo, in a grave voice, handing me\nthe glass, which showed the orb cut in exactly equal parts by the\nhorizon.\n\nI looked at the last rays crowning the peak, and the shadows mounting\nby degrees up its slopes. At that moment Captain Nemo, resting with his\nhand on my shoulder, said:\n\n I, Captain Nemo, on this 21st day of March, 1868, have reached the\nSouth Pole on the ninetieth degree; and I take possession of this part\nof the globe, equal to one-sixth of the known continents. \n\n In whose name, Captain? \n\n In my own, sir! \n\nSaying which, Captain Nemo unfurled a black banner, bearing an  N  in\ngold quartered on its bunting. Then, turning towards the orb of day,\nwhose last rays lapped the horizon of the sea, he exclaimed:\n\n Adieu, sun! Disappear, thou radiant orb! rest beneath this open sea,\nand let a night of six months spread its shadows over my new domains! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\nACCIDENT OR INCIDENT?\n\n\nThe next day, the 22nd of March, at six in the morning, preparations\nfor departure were begun. The last gleams of twilight were melting into\nnight. The cold was great, the constellations shone with wonderful\nintensity. In the zenith glittered that wondrous Southern Cross the\npolar bear of Antarctic regions. The thermometer showed 120 below zero,\nand when the wind freshened it was most biting. Flakes of ice increased\non the open water. The sea seemed everywhere alike. Numerous blackish\npatches spread on the surface, showing the formation of fresh ice.\nEvidently the southern basin, frozen during the six winter months, was\nabsolutely inaccessible. What became of the whales in that time?\nDoubtless they went beneath the icebergs, seeking more practicable\nseas. As to the seals and morses, accustomed to live in a hard climate,\nthey remained on these icy shores. These creatures have the instinct to\nbreak holes in the ice-field and to keep them open. To these holes they\ncome for breath; when the birds, driven away by the cold, have\nemigrated to the north, these sea mammals remain sole masters of the\npolar continent. But the reservoirs were filling with water, and the\n_Nautilus_ was slowly descending. At 1,000 feet deep it stopped; its\nscrew beat the waves, and it advanced straight towards the north at a\nspeed of fifteen miles an hour. Towards night it was already floating\nunder the immense body of the iceberg. At three in the morning I was\nawakened by a violent shock. I sat up in my bed and listened in the\ndarkness, when I was thrown into the middle of the room. The\n_Nautilus_, after having struck, had rebounded violently. I groped\nalong the partition, and by the staircase to the saloon, which was lit\nby the luminous ceiling. The furniture was upset. Fortunately the\nwindows were firmly set, and had held fast. The pictures on the\nstarboard side, from being no longer vertical, were clinging to the\npaper, whilst those of the port side were hanging at least a foot from\nthe wall. The _Nautilus_ was lying on its starboard side perfectly\nmotionless. I heard footsteps, and a confusion of voices; but Captain\nNemo did not appear. As I was leaving the saloon, Ned Land and Conseil\nentered.\n\n What is the matter?  said I, at once.\n\n I came to ask you, sir,  replied Conseil.\n\n Confound it!  exclaimed the Canadian,  I know well enough! The\n_Nautilus_ has struck; and, judging by the way she lies, I do not think\nshe will right herself as she did the first time in Torres Straits. \n\n But,  I asked,  has she at least come to the surface of the sea? \n\n We do not know,  said Conseil.\n\n It is easy to decide,  I answered. I consulted the manometer. To my\ngreat surprise, it showed a depth of more than 180 fathoms.  What does\nthat mean?  I exclaimed.\n\n We must ask Captain Nemo,  said Conseil.\n\n But where shall we find him?  said Ned Land.\n\n Follow me,  said I, to my companions.\n\nWe left the saloon. There was no one in the library. At the centre\nstaircase, by the berths of the ship s crew, there was no one. I\nthought that Captain Nemo must be in the pilot s cage. It was best to\nwait. We all returned to the saloon. For twenty minutes we remained\nthus, trying to hear the slightest noise which might be made on board\nthe _Nautilus_, when Captain Nemo entered. He seemed not to see us; his\nface, generally so impassive, showed signs of uneasiness. He watched\nthe compass silently, then the manometer; and, going to the\nplanisphere, placed his finger on a spot representing the southern\nseas. I would not interrupt him; but, some minutes later, when he\nturned towards me, I said, using one of his own expressions in the\nTorres Straits:\n\n An incident, Captain? \n\n No, sir; an accident this time. \n\n Serious? \n\n Perhaps. \n\n Is the danger immediate? \n\n No. \n\n The _Nautilus_ has stranded? \n\n Yes. \n\n And this has happened how? \n\n From a caprice of nature, not from the ignorance of man. Not a mistake\nhas been made in the working. But we cannot prevent equilibrium from\nproducing its effects. We may brave human laws, but we cannot resist\nnatural ones. \n\nCaptain Nemo had chosen a strange moment for uttering this\nphilosophical reflection. On the whole, his answer helped me little.\n\n May I ask, sir, the cause of this accident? \n\n An enormous block of ice, a whole mountain, has turned over,  he\nreplied.  When icebergs are undermined at their base by warmer water or\nreiterated shocks their centre of gravity rises, and the whole thing\nturns over. This is what has happened; one of these blocks, as it fell,\nstruck the _Nautilus_, then, gliding under its hull, raised it with\nirresistible force, bringing it into beds which are not so thick, where\nit is lying on its side. \n\n But can we not get the _Nautilus_ off by emptying its reservoirs, that\nit might regain its equilibrium? \n\n That, sir, is being done at this moment. You can hear the pump\nworking. Look at the needle of the manometer; it shows that the\n_Nautilus_ is rising, but the block of ice is floating with it; and,\nuntil some obstacle stops its ascending motion, our position cannot be\naltered. \n\nIndeed, the _Nautilus_ still held the same position to starboard;\ndoubtless it would right itself when the block stopped. But at this\nmoment who knows if we may not be frightfully crushed between the two\nglassy surfaces? I reflected on all the consequences of our position.\nCaptain Nemo never took his eyes off the manometer. Since the fall of\nthe iceberg, the _Nautilus_ had risen about a hundred and fifty feet,\nbut it still made the same angle with the perpendicular. Suddenly a\nslight movement was felt in the hold. Evidently it was righting a\nlittle. Things hanging in the saloon were sensibly returning to their\nnormal position. The partitions were nearing the upright. No one spoke.\nWith beating hearts we watched and felt the straightening. The boards\nbecame horizontal under our feet. Ten minutes passed.\n\n At last we have righted!  I exclaimed.\n\n Yes,  said Captain Nemo, going to the door of the saloon.\n\n But are we floating?  I asked.\n\n Certainly,  he replied;  since the reservoirs are not empty; and, when\nempty, the _Nautilus_ must rise to the surface of the sea. \n\nWe were in open sea; but at a distance of about ten yards, on either\nside of the _Nautilus_, rose a dazzling wall of ice. Above and beneath\nthe same wall. Above, because the lower surface of the iceberg\nstretched over us like an immense ceiling. Beneath, because the\noverturned block, having slid by degrees, had found a resting-place on\nthe lateral walls, which kept it in that position. The _Nautilus_ was\nreally imprisoned in a perfect tunnel of ice more than twenty yards in\nbreadth, filled with quiet water. It was easy to get out of it by going\neither forward or backward, and then make a free passage under the\niceberg, some hundreds of yards deeper. The luminous ceiling had been\nextinguished, but the saloon was still resplendent with intense light.\nIt was the powerful reflection from the glass partition sent violently\nback to the sheets of the lantern. I cannot describe the effect of the\nvoltaic rays upon the great blocks so capriciously cut; upon every\nangle, every ridge, every facet was thrown a different light, according\nto the nature of the veins running through the ice; a dazzling mine of\ngems, particularly of sapphires, their blue rays crossing with the\ngreen of the emerald. Here and there were opal shades of wonderful\nsoftness, running through bright spots like diamonds of fire, the\nbrilliancy of which the eye could not bear. The power of the lantern\nseemed increased a hundredfold, like a lamp through the lenticular\nplates of a first-class lighthouse.\n\n How beautiful! how beautiful!  cried Conseil.\n\n Yes,  I said,  it is a wonderful sight. Is it not, Ned? \n\n Yes, confound it! Yes,  answered Ned Land,  it is superb! I am mad at\nbeing obliged to admit it. No one has ever seen anything like it; but\nthe sight may cost us dear. And, if I must say all, I think we are\nseeing here things which God never intended man to see. \n\nNed was right, it was too beautiful. Suddenly a cry from Conseil made\nme turn.\n\n What is it?  I asked.\n\n Shut your eyes, sir! Do not look, sir!  Saying which, Conseil clapped\nhis hands over his eyes.\n\n But what is the matter, my boy? \n\n I am dazzled, blinded. \n\nMy eyes turned involuntarily towards the glass, but I could not stand\nthe fire which seemed to devour them. I understood what had happened.\nThe _Nautilus_ had put on full speed. All the quiet lustre of the\nice-walls was at once changed into flashes of lightning. The fire from\nthese myriads of diamonds was blinding. It required some time to calm\nour troubled looks. At last the hands were taken down.\n\n Faith, I should never have believed it,  said Conseil.\n\nIt was then five in the morning; and at that moment a shock was felt at\nthe bows of the _Nautilus_. I knew that its spur had struck a block of\nice. It must have been a false man uvre, for this submarine tunnel,\nobstructed by blocks, was not very easy navigation. I thought that\nCaptain Nemo, by changing his course, would either turn these obstacles\nor else follow the windings of the tunnel. In any case, the road before\nus could not be entirely blocked. But, contrary to my expectations, the\n_Nautilus_ took a decided retrograde motion.\n\n We are going backwards?  said Conseil.\n\n Yes,  I replied.  This end of the tunnel can have no egress. \n\n And then? \n\n Then,  said I,  the working is easy. We must go back again, and go out\nat the southern opening. That is all. \n\nIn speaking thus, I wished to appear more confident than I really was.\nBut the retrograde motion of the _Nautilus_ was increasing; and,\nreversing the screw, it carried us at great speed.\n\n It will be a hindrance,  said Ned.\n\n What does it matter, some hours more or less, provided we get out at\nlast? \n\n Yes,  repeated Ned Land,  provided we do get out at last! \n\nFor a short time I walked from the saloon to the library. My companions\nwere silent. I soon threw myself on an ottoman, and took a book, which\nmy eyes overran mechanically. A quarter of an hour after, Conseil,\napproaching me, said,  Is what you are reading very interesting, sir? \n\n Very interesting!  I replied.\n\n I should think so, sir. It is your own book you are reading. \n\n My book? \n\nAnd indeed I was holding in my hand the work on the Great Submarine\nDepths. I did not even dream of it. I closed the book and returned to\nmy walk. Ned and Conseil rose to go.\n\n Stay here, my friends,  said I, detaining them.  Let us remain\ntogether until we are out of this block. \n\n As you please, sir,  Conseil replied.\n\nSome hours passed. I often looked at the instruments hanging from the\npartition. The manometer showed that the _Nautilus_ kept at a constant\ndepth of more than three hundred yards; the compass still pointed to\nsouth; the log indicated a speed of twenty miles an hour, which, in\nsuch a cramped space, was very great. But Captain Nemo knew that he\ncould not hasten too much, and that minutes were worth ages to us. At\ntwenty-five minutes past eight a second shock took place, this time\nfrom behind. I turned pale. My companions were close by my side. I\nseized Conseil s hand. Our looks expressed our feelings better than\nwords. At this moment the Captain entered the saloon. I went up to him.\n\n Our course is barred southward?  I asked.\n\n Yes, sir. The iceberg has shifted and closed every outlet. \n\n We are blocked up then? \n\n Yes. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\nWANT OF AIR\n\n\nThus around the _Nautilus_, above and below, was an impenetrable wall\nof ice. We were prisoners to the iceberg. I watched the Captain. His\ncountenance had resumed its habitual imperturbability.\n\n Gentlemen,  he said calmly,  there are two ways of dying in the\ncircumstances in which we are placed.  (This puzzling person had the\nair of a mathematical professor lecturing to his pupils.)  The first is\nto be crushed; the second is to die of suffocation. I do not speak of\nthe possibility of dying of hunger, for the supply of provisions in the\n_Nautilus_ will certainly last longer than we shall. Let us, then,\ncalculate our chances. \n\n As to suffocation, Captain,  I replied,  that is not to be feared,\nbecause our reservoirs are full. \n\n Just so; but they will only yield two days  supply of air. Now, for\nthirty-six hours we have been hidden under the water, and already the\nheavy atmosphere of the _Nautilus_ requires renewal. In forty-eight\nhours our reserve will be exhausted. \n\n Well, Captain, can we be delivered before forty-eight hours? \n\n We will attempt it, at least, by piercing the wall that surrounds us. \n\n On which side? \n\n Sound will tell us. I am going to run the _Nautilus_ aground on the\nlower bank, and my men will attack the iceberg on the side that is\nleast thick. \n\nCaptain Nemo went out. Soon I discovered by a hissing noise that the\nwater was entering the reservoirs. The _Nautilus_ sank slowly, and\nrested on the ice at a depth of 350 yards, the depth at which the lower\nbank was immersed.\n\n My friends,  I said,  our situation is serious, but I rely on your\ncourage and energy. \n\n Sir,  replied the Canadian,  I am ready to do anything for the general\nsafety. \n\n Good! Ned,  and I held out my hand to the Canadian.\n\n I will add,  he continued,  that, being as handy with the pickaxe as\nwith the harpoon, if I can be useful to the Captain, he can command my\nservices. \n\n He will not refuse your help. Come, Ned! \n\nI led him to the room where the crew of the _Nautilus_ were putting on\ntheir cork-jackets. I told the Captain of Ned s proposal, which he\naccepted. The Canadian put on his sea-costume, and was ready as soon as\nhis companions. When Ned was dressed, I re-entered the drawing-room,\nwhere the panes of glass were open, and, posted near Conseil, I\nexamined the ambient beds that supported the _Nautilus_. Some instants\nafter, we saw a dozen of the crew set foot on the bank of ice, and\namong them Ned Land, easily known by his stature. Captain Nemo was with\nthem. Before proceeding to dig the walls, he took the soundings, to be\nsure of working in the right direction. Long sounding lines were sunk\nin the side walls, but after fifteen yards they were again stopped by\nthe thick wall. It was useless to attack it on the ceiling-like\nsurface, since the iceberg itself measured more than 400 yards in\nheight. Captain Nemo then sounded the lower surface. There ten yards of\nwall separated us from the water, so great was the thickness of the\nice-field. It was necessary, therefore, to cut from it a piece equal in\nextent to the waterline of the _Nautilus_. There were about 6,000 cubic\nyards to detach, so as to dig a hole by which we could descend to the\nice-field. The work had begun immediately and carried on with\nindefatigable energy. Instead of digging round the _Nautilus_ which\nwould have involved greater difficulty, Captain Nemo had an immense\ntrench made at eight yards from the port-quarter. Then the men set to\nwork simultaneously with their screws on several points of its\ncircumference. Presently the pickaxe attacked this compact matter\nvigorously, and large blocks were detached from the mass. By a curious\neffect of specific gravity, these blocks, lighter than water, fled, so\nto speak, to the vault of the tunnel, that increased in thickness at\nthe top in proportion as it diminished at the base. But that mattered\nlittle, so long as the lower part grew thinner. After two hours  hard\nwork, Ned Land came in exhausted. He and his comrades were replaced by\nnew workers, whom Conseil and I joined. The second lieutenant of the\n_Nautilus_ superintended us. The water seemed singularly cold, but I\nsoon got warm handling the pickaxe. My movements were free enough,\nalthough they were made under a pressure of thirty atmospheres. When I\nre-entered, after working two hours, to take some food and rest, I\nfound a perceptible difference between the pure fluid with which the\nRouquayrol engine supplied me and the atmosphere of the _Nautilus_,\nalready charged with carbonic acid. The air had not been renewed for\nforty-eight hours, and its vivifying qualities were considerably\nenfeebled. However, after a lapse of twelve hours, we had only raised a\nblock of ice one yard thick, on the marked surface, which was about 600\ncubic yards! Reckoning that it took twelve hours to accomplish this\nmuch it would take five nights and four days to bring this enterprise\nto a satisfactory conclusion. Five nights and four days! And we have\nonly air enough for two days in the reservoirs!  Without taking into\naccount,  said Ned,  that, even if we get out of this infernal prison,\nwe shall also be imprisoned under the iceberg, shut out from all\npossible communication with the atmosphere.  True enough! Who could\nthen foresee the minimum of time necessary for our deliverance? We\nmight be suffocated before the _Nautilus_ could regain the surface of\nthe waves? Was it destined to perish in this ice-tomb, with all those\nit enclosed? The situation was terrible. But everyone had looked the\ndanger in the face, and each was determined to do his duty to the last.\n\nAs I expected, during the night a new block a yard square was carried\naway, and still further sank the immense hollow. But in the morning\nwhen, dressed in my cork-jacket, I traversed the slushy mass at a\ntemperature of six or seven degrees below zero, I remarked that the\nside walls were gradually closing in. The beds of water farthest from\nthe trench, that were not warmed by the men s work, showed a tendency\nto solidification. In presence of this new and imminent danger, what\nwould become of our chances of safety, and how hinder the\nsolidification of this liquid medium, that would burst the partitions\nof the _Nautilus_ like glass?\n\nI did not tell my companions of this new danger. What was the good of\ndamping the energy they displayed in the painful work of escape? But\nwhen I went on board again, I told Captain Nemo of this grave\ncomplication.\n\n I know it,  he said, in that calm tone which could counteract the most\nterrible apprehensions.  It is one danger more; but I see no way of\nescaping it; the only chance of safety is to go quicker than\nsolidification. We must be beforehand with it, that is all. \n\nOn this day for several hours I used my pickaxe vigorously. The work\nkept me up. Besides, to work was to quit the _Nautilus_, and breathe\ndirectly the pure air drawn from the reservoirs, and supplied by our\napparatus, and to quit the impoverished and vitiated atmosphere.\nTowards evening the trench was dug one yard deeper. When I returned on\nboard, I was nearly suffocated by the carbonic acid with which the air\nwas filled ah! if we had only the chemical means to drive away this\ndeleterious gas. We had plenty of oxygen; all this water contained a\nconsiderable quantity, and by dissolving it with our powerful piles, it\nwould restore the vivifying fluid. I had thought well over it; but of\nwhat good was that, since the carbonic acid produced by our respiration\nhad invaded every part of the vessel? To absorb it, it was necessary to\nfill some jars with caustic potash, and to shake them incessantly. Now\nthis substance was wanting on board, and nothing could replace it. On\nthat evening, Captain Nemo ought to open the taps of his reservoirs,\nand let some pure air into the interior of the _Nautilus;_ without this\nprecaution we could not get rid of the sense of suffocation. The next\nday, March 26th, I resumed my miner s work in beginning the fifth yard.\nThe side walls and the lower surface of the iceberg thickened visibly.\nIt was evident that they would meet before the _Nautilus_ was able to\ndisengage itself. Despair seized me for an instant; my pickaxe nearly\nfell from my hands. What was the good of digging if I must be\nsuffocated, crushed by the water that was turning into stone? a\npunishment that the ferocity of the savages even would not have\ninvented! Just then Captain Nemo passed near me. I touched his hand and\nshowed him the walls of our prison. The wall to port had advanced to at\nleast four yards from the hull of the _Nautilus_. The Captain\nunderstood me, and signed me to follow him. We went on board. I took\noff my cork-jacket and accompanied him into the drawing-room.\n\n M. Aronnax, we must attempt some desperate means, or we shall be\nsealed up in this solidified water as in cement. \n\n Yes; but what is to be done? \n\n Ah! if my _Nautilus_ were strong enough to bear this pressure without\nbeing crushed! \n\n Well?  I asked, not catching the Captain s idea.\n\n Do you not understand,  he replied,  that this congelation of water\nwill help us? Do you not see that by its solidification, it would burst\nthrough this field of ice that imprisons us, as, when it freezes, it\nbursts the hardest stones? Do you not perceive that it would be an\nagent of safety instead of destruction? \n\n Yes, Captain, perhaps. But, whatever resistance to crushing the\n_Nautilus_ possesses, it could not support this terrible pressure, and\nwould be flattened like an iron plate. \n\n I know it, sir. Therefore we must not reckon on the aid of nature, but\non our own exertions. We must stop this solidification. Not only will\nthe side walls be pressed together; but there is not ten feet of water\nbefore or behind the _Nautilus_. The congelation gains on us on all\nsides. \n\n How long will the air in the reservoirs last for us to breathe on\nboard? \n\nThe Captain looked in my face.  After to-morrow they will be empty! \n\nA cold sweat came over me. However, ought I to have been astonished at\nthe answer? On March 22, the _Nautilus_ was in the open polar seas. We\nwere at 26 . For five days we had lived on the reserve on board. And\nwhat was left of the respirable air must be kept for the workers. Even\nnow, as I write, my recollection is still so vivid that an involuntary\nterror seizes me and my lungs seem to be without air. Meanwhile,\nCaptain Nemo reflected silently, and evidently an idea had struck him;\nbut he seemed to reject it. At last, these words escaped his lips:\n\n Boiling water!  he muttered.\n\n Boiling water?  I cried.\n\n Yes, sir. We are enclosed in a space that is relatively confined.\nWould not jets of boiling water, constantly injected by the pumps,\nraise the temperature in this part and stay the congelation? \n\n Let us try it,  I said resolutely.\n\n Let us try it, Professor. \n\nThe thermometer then stood at 7  outside. Captain Nemo took me to the\ngalleys, where the vast distillatory machines stood that furnished the\ndrinkable water by evaporation. They filled these with water, and all\nthe electric heat from the piles was thrown through the worms bathed in\nthe liquid. In a few minutes this water reached 100 . It was directed\ntowards the pumps, while fresh water replaced it in proportion. The\nheat developed by the troughs was such that cold water, drawn up from\nthe sea after only having gone through the machines, came boiling into\nthe body of the pump. The injection was begun, and three hours after\nthe thermometer marked 6  below zero outside. One degree was gained.\nTwo hours later the thermometer only marked 4 .\n\n We shall succeed,  I said to the Captain, after having anxiously\nwatched the result of the operation.\n\n I think,  he answered,  that we shall not be crushed. We have no more\nsuffocation to fear. \n\nDuring the night the temperature of the water rose to 1  below zero.\nThe injections could not carry it to a higher point. But, as the\ncongelation of the sea-water produces at least 2 , I was at least\nreassured against the dangers of solidification.\n\nThe next day, March 27th, six yards of ice had been cleared, twelve\nfeet only remaining to be cleared away. There was yet forty-eight\nhours  work. The air could not be renewed in the interior of the\n_Nautilus_. And this day would make it worse. An intolerable weight\noppressed me. Towards three o clock in the evening this feeling rose to\na violent degree. Yawns dislocated my jaws. My lungs panted as they\ninhaled this burning fluid, which became rarefied more and more. A\nmoral torpor took hold of me. I was powerless, almost unconscious. My\nbrave Conseil, though exhibiting the same symptoms and suffering in the\nsame manner, never left me. He took my hand and encouraged me, and I\nheard him murmur,  Oh! if I could only not breathe, so as to leave more\nair for my master! \n\nTears came into my eyes on hearing him speak thus. If our situation to\nall was intolerable in the interior, with what haste and gladness would\nwe put on our cork-jackets to work in our turn! Pickaxes sounded on the\nfrozen ice-beds. Our arms ached, the skin was torn off our hands. But\nwhat were these fatigues, what did the wounds matter? Vital air came to\nthe lungs! We breathed! we breathed!\n\nAll this time no one prolonged his voluntary task beyond the prescribed\ntime. His task accomplished, each one handed in turn to his panting\ncompanions the apparatus that supplied him with life. Captain Nemo set\nthe example, and submitted first to this severe discipline. When the\ntime came, he gave up his apparatus to another and returned to the\nvitiated air on board, calm, unflinching, unmurmuring.\n\nOn that day the ordinary work was accomplished with unusual vigour.\nOnly two yards remained to be raised from the surface. Two yards only\nseparated us from the open sea. But the reservoirs were nearly emptied\nof air. The little that remained ought to be kept for the workers; not\na particle for the _Nautilus_. When I went back on board, I was half\nsuffocated. What a night! I know not how to describe it. The next day\nmy breathing was oppressed. Dizziness accompanied the pain in my head\nand made me like a drunken man. My companions showed the same symptoms.\nSome of the crew had rattling in the throat.\n\nOn that day, the sixth of our imprisonment, Captain Nemo, finding the\npickaxes work too slowly, resolved to crush the ice-bed that still\nseparated us from the liquid sheet. This man s coolness and energy\nnever forsook him. He subdued his physical pains by moral force.\n\nBy his orders the vessel was lightened, that is to say, raised from the\nice-bed by a change of specific gravity. When it floated they towed it\nso as to bring it above the immense trench made on the level of the\nwater-line. Then, filling his reservoirs of water, he descended and\nshut himself up in the hole.\n\nJust then all the crew came on board, and the double door of\ncommunication was shut. The _Nautilus_ then rested on the bed of ice,\nwhich was not one yard thick, and which the sounding leads had\nperforated in a thousand places. The taps of the reservoirs were then\nopened, and a hundred cubic yards of water was let in, increasing the\nweight of the _Nautilus_ to 1,800 tons. We waited, we listened,\nforgetting our sufferings in hope. Our safety depended on this last\nchance. Notwithstanding the buzzing in my head, I soon heard the\nhumming sound under the hull of the _Nautilus_. The ice cracked with a\nsingular noise, like tearing paper, and the _Nautilus_ sank.\n\n We are off!  murmured Conseil in my ear.\n\nI could not answer him. I seized his hand, and pressed it convulsively.\nAll at once, carried away by its frightful overcharge, the _Nautilus_\nsank like a bullet under the waters, that is to say, it fell as if it\nwas in a vacuum. Then all the electric force was put on the pumps, that\nsoon began to let the water out of the reservoirs. After some minutes,\nour fall was stopped. Soon, too, the manometer indicated an ascending\nmovement. The screw, going at full speed, made the iron hull tremble to\nits very bolts and drew us towards the north. But if this floating\nunder the iceberg is to last another day before we reach the open sea,\nI shall be dead first.\n\nHalf stretched upon a divan in the library, I was suffocating. My face\nwas purple, my lips blue, my faculties suspended. I neither saw nor\nheard. All notion of time had gone from my mind. My muscles could not\ncontract. I do not know how many hours passed thus, but I was conscious\nof the agony that was coming over me. I felt as if I was going to die.\nSuddenly I came to. Some breaths of air penetrated my lungs. Had we\nrisen to the surface of the waves? Were we free of the iceberg? No! Ned\nand Conseil, my two brave friends, were sacrificing themselves to save\nme. Some particles of air still remained at the bottom of one\napparatus. Instead of using it, they had kept it for me, and, while\nthey were being suffocated, they gave me life, drop by drop. I wanted\nto push back the thing; they held my hands, and for some moments I\nbreathed freely. I looked at the clock; it was eleven in the morning.\nIt ought to be the 28th of March. The _Nautilus_ went at a frightful\npace, forty miles an hour. It literally tore through the water. Where\nwas Captain Nemo? Had he succumbed? Were his companions dead with him?\nAt the moment the manometer indicated that we were not more than twenty\nfeet from the surface. A mere plate of ice separated us from the\natmosphere. Could we not break it? Perhaps. In any case the _Nautilus_\nwas going to attempt it. I felt that it was in an oblique position,\nlowering the stern, and raising the bows. The introduction of water had\nbeen the means of disturbing its equilibrium. Then, impelled by its\npowerful screw, it attacked the ice-field from beneath like a\nformidable battering-ram. It broke it by backing and then rushing\nforward against the field, which gradually gave way; and at last,\ndashing suddenly against it, shot forwards on the ice-field, that\ncrushed beneath its weight. The panel was opened one might say torn\noff and the pure air came in in abundance to all parts of the\n_Nautilus_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\nFROM CAPE HORN TO THE AMAZON\n\n\nHow I got on to the platform, I have no idea; perhaps the Canadian had\ncarried me there. But I breathed, I inhaled the vivifying sea-air. My\ntwo companions were getting drunk with the fresh particles. The other\nunhappy men had been so long without food, that they could not with\nimpunity indulge in the simplest aliments that were given them. We, on\nthe contrary, had no end to restrain ourselves; we could draw this air\nfreely into our lungs, and it was the breeze, the breeze alone, that\nfilled us with this keen enjoyment.\n\n Ah!  said Conseil,  how delightful this oxygen is! Master need not\nfear to breathe it. There is enough for everybody. \n\nNed Land did not speak, but he opened his jaws wide enough to frighten\na shark. Our strength soon returned, and, when I looked round me, I saw\nwe were alone on the platform. The foreign seamen in the _Nautilus_\nwere contented with the air that circulated in the interior; none of\nthem had come to drink in the open air.\n\nThe first words I spoke were words of gratitude and thankfulness to my\ntwo companions. Ned and Conseil had prolonged my life during the last\nhours of this long agony. All my gratitude could not repay such\ndevotion.\n\n My friends,  said I,  we are bound one to the other for ever, and I am\nunder infinite obligations to you. \n\n Which I shall take advantage of,  exclaimed the Canadian.\n\n What do you mean?  said Conseil.\n\n I mean that I shall take you with me when I leave this infernal\n_Nautilus_. \n\n Well,  said Conseil,  after all this, are we going right? \n\n Yes,  I replied,  for we are going the way of the sun, and here the\nsun is in the north. \n\n No doubt,  said Ned Land;  but it remains to be seen whether he will\nbring the ship into the Pacific or the Atlantic Ocean, that is, into\nfrequented or deserted seas. \n\nI could not answer that question, and I feared that Captain Nemo would\nrather take us to the vast ocean that touches the coasts of Asia and\nAmerica at the same time. He would thus complete the tour round the\nsubmarine world, and return to those waters in which the _Nautilus_\ncould sail freely. We ought, before long, to settle this important\npoint. The _Nautilus_ went at a rapid pace. The polar circle was soon\npassed, and the course shaped for Cape Horn. We were off the American\npoint, March 31st, at seven o clock in the evening. Then all our past\nsufferings were forgotten. The remembrance of that imprisonment in the\nice was effaced from our minds. We only thought of the future. Captain\nNemo did not appear again either in the drawing-room or on the\nplatform. The point shown each day on the planisphere, and, marked by\nthe lieutenant, showed me the exact direction of the _Nautilus_. Now,\non that evening, it was evident, to, my great satisfaction, that we\nwere going back to the North by the Atlantic. The next day, April 1st,\nwhen the _Nautilus_ ascended to the surface some minutes before noon,\nwe sighted land to the west. It was Terra del Fuego, which the first\nnavigators named thus from seeing the quantity of smoke that rose from\nthe natives  huts. The coast seemed low to me, but in the distance rose\nhigh mountains. I even thought I had a glimpse of Mount Sarmiento, that\nrises 2,070 yards above the level of the sea, with a very pointed\nsummit, which, according as it is misty or clear, is a sign of fine or\nof wet weather. At this moment the peak was clearly defined against the\nsky. The _Nautilus_, diving again under the water, approached the\ncoast, which was only some few miles off. From the glass windows in the\ndrawing-room, I saw long seaweeds and gigantic fuci and varech, of\nwhich the open polar sea contains so many specimens, with their sharp\npolished filaments; they measured about 300 yards in length real\ncables, thicker than one s thumb; and, having great tenacity, they are\noften used as ropes for vessels. Another weed known as velp, with\nleaves four feet long, buried in the coral concretions, hung at the\nbottom. It served as nest and food for myriads of crustacea and\nmolluscs, crabs, and cuttlefish. There seals and otters had splendid\nrepasts, eating the flesh of fish with sea-vegetables, according to the\nEnglish fashion. Over this fertile and luxuriant ground the _Nautilus_\npassed with great rapidity. Towards evening it approached the Falkland\ngroup, the rough summits of which I recognised the following day. The\ndepth of the sea was moderate. On the shores our nets brought in\nbeautiful specimens of sea weed, and particularly a certain fucus, the\nroots of which were filled with the best mussels in the world. Geese\nand ducks fell by dozens on the platform, and soon took their places in\nthe pantry on board.\n\nWhen the last heights of the Falklands had disappeared from the\nhorizon, the _Nautilus_ sank to between twenty and twenty-five yards,\nand followed the American coast. Captain Nemo did not show himself.\nUntil the 3rd of April we did not quit the shores of Patagonia,\nsometimes under the ocean, sometimes at the surface. The _Nautilus_\npassed beyond the large estuary formed by the Uraguay. Its direction\nwas northwards, and followed the long windings of the coast of South\nAmerica. We had then made 1,600 miles since our embarkation in the seas\nof Japan. About eleven o clock in the morning the Tropic of Capricorn\nwas crossed on the thirty-seventh meridian, and we passed Cape Frio\nstanding out to sea. Captain Nemo, to Ned Land s great displeasure, did\nnot like the neighbourhood of the inhabited coasts of Brazil, for we\nwent at a giddy speed. Not a fish, not a bird of the swiftest kind\ncould follow us, and the natural curiosities of these seas escaped all\nobservation.\n\nThis speed was kept up for several days, and in the evening of the 9th\nof April we sighted the most westerly point of South America that forms\nCape San Roque. But then the _Nautilus_ swerved again, and sought the\nlowest depth of a submarine valley which is between this Cape and\nSierra Leone on the African coast. This valley bifurcates to the\nparallel of the Antilles, and terminates at the mouth by the enormous\ndepression of 9,000 yards. In this place, the geological basin of the\nocean forms, as far as the Lesser Antilles, a cliff to three and a half\nmiles perpendicular in height, and, at the parallel of the Cape Verde\nIslands, an other wall not less considerable, that encloses thus all\nthe sunk continent of the Atlantic. The bottom of this immense valley\nis dotted with some mountains, that give to these submarine places a\npicturesque aspect. I speak, moreover, from the manuscript charts that\nwere in the library of the _Nautilus_ charts evidently due to Captain\nNemo s hand, and made after his personal observations. For two days the\ndesert and deep waters were visited by means of the inclined planes.\nThe _Nautilus_ was furnished with long diagonal broadsides which\ncarried it to all elevations. But on the 11th of April it rose\nsuddenly, and land appeared at the mouth of the Amazon River, a vast\nestuary, the embouchure of which is so considerable that it freshens\nthe sea-water for the distance of several leagues.\n\nThe equator was crossed. Twenty miles to the west were the Guianas, a\nFrench territory, on which we could have found an easy refuge; but a\nstiff breeze was blowing, and the furious waves would not have allowed\na single boat to face them. Ned Land understood that, no doubt, for he\nspoke not a word about it. For my part, I made no allusion to his\nschemes of flight, for I would not urge him to make an attempt that\nmust inevitably fail. I made the time pass pleasantly by interesting\nstudies. During the days of April 11th and 12th, the _Nautilus_ did not\nleave the surface of the sea, and the net brought in a marvellous haul\nof Zoophytes, fish and reptiles. Some zoophytes had been fished up by\nthe chain of the nets; they were for the most part beautiful\nphyctallines, belonging to the actinidian family, and among other\nspecies the phyctalis protexta, peculiar to that part of the ocean,\nwith a little cylindrical trunk, ornamented With vertical lines,\nspeckled with red dots, crowning a marvellous blossoming of tentacles.\nAs to the molluscs, they consisted of some I had already\nobserved turritellas, olive porphyras, with regular lines intercrossed,\nwith red spots standing out plainly against the flesh; odd pteroceras,\nlike petrified scorpions; translucid hyaleas, argonauts, cuttle-fish\n(excellent eating), and certain species of calmars that naturalists of\nantiquity have classed amongst the flying-fish, and that serve\nprincipally for bait for cod-fishing. I had now an opportunity of\nstudying several species of fish on these shores. Amongst the\ncartilaginous ones, petromyzons-pricka, a sort of eel, fifteen inches\nlong, with a greenish head, violet fins, grey-blue back, brown belly,\nsilvered and sown with bright spots, the pupil of the eye encircled\nwith gold a curious animal, that the current of the Amazon had drawn to\nthe sea, for they inhabit fresh waters tuberculated streaks, with\npointed snouts, and a long loose tail, armed with a long jagged sting;\nlittle sharks, a yard long, grey and whitish skin, and several rows of\nteeth, bent back, that are generally known by the name of pantouffles;\nvespertilios, a kind of red isosceles triangle, half a yard long, to\nwhich pectorals are attached by fleshy prolongations that make them\nlook like bats, but that their horny appendage, situated near the\nnostrils, has given them the name of sea-unicorns; lastly, some species\nof balistae, the curassavian, whose spots were of a brilliant gold\ncolour, and the capriscus of clear violet, and with varying shades like\na pigeon s throat.\n\nI end here this catalogue, which is somewhat dry perhaps, but very\nexact, with a series of bony fish that I observed in passing belonging\nto the apteronotes, and whose snout is white as snow, the body of a\nbeautiful black, marked with a very long loose fleshy strip;\nodontognathes, armed with spikes; sardines nine inches long, glittering\nwith a bright silver light; a species of mackerel provided with two\nanal fins; centronotes of a blackish tint, that are fished for with\ntorches, long fish, two yards in length, with fat flesh, white and\nfirm, which, when they arc fresh, taste like eel, and when dry, like\nsmoked salmon; labres, half red, covered with scales only at the bottom\nof the dorsal and anal fins; chrysoptera, on which gold and silver\nblend their brightness with that of the ruby and topaz; golden-tailed\nspares, the flesh of which is extremely delicate, and whose\nphosphorescent properties betray them in the midst of the waters;\norange-coloured spares with long tongues; maigres, with gold caudal\nfins, dark thorn-tails, anableps of Surinam, etc.\n\nNotwithstanding this  et cetera,  I must not omit to mention fish that\nConseil will long remember, and with good reason. One of our nets had\nhauled up a sort of very flat ray fish, which, with the tail cut off,\nformed a perfect disc, and weighed twenty ounces. It was white\nunderneath, red above, with large round spots of dark blue encircled\nwith black, very glossy skin, terminating in a bilobed fin. Laid out on\nthe platform, it struggled, tried to turn itself by convulsive\nmovements, and made so many efforts, that one last turn had nearly sent\nit into the sea. But Conseil, not wishing to let the fish go, rushed to\nit, and, before I could prevent him, had seized it with both hands. In\na moment he was overthrown, his legs in the air, and half his body\nparalysed, crying \n\n Oh! master, master! help me! \n\nIt was the first time the poor boy had spoken to me so familiarly. The\nCanadian and I took him up, and rubbed his contracted arms till he\nbecame sensible. The unfortunate Conseil had attacked a cramp-fish of\nthe most dangerous kind, the cumana. This odd animal, in a medium\nconductor like water, strikes fish at several yards  distance, so great\nis the power of its electric organ, the two principal surfaces of which\ndo not measure less than twenty-seven square feet. The next day, April\n12th, the _Nautilus_ approached the Dutch coast, near the mouth of the\nMaroni. There several groups of sea-cows herded together; they were\nmanatees, that, like the dugong and the stellera, belong to the skenian\norder. These beautiful animals, peaceable and inoffensive, from\neighteen to twenty-one feet in length, weigh at least sixteen\nhundredweight. I told Ned Land and Conseil that provident nature had\nassigned an important role to these mammalia. Indeed, they, like the\nseals, are designed to graze on the submarine prairies, and thus\ndestroy the accumulation of weed that obstructs the tropical rivers.\n\n And do you know,  I added,  what has been the result since men have\nalmost entirely annihilated this useful race? That the putrefied weeds\nhave poisoned the air, and the poisoned air causes the yellow fever,\nthat desolates these beautiful countries. Enormous vegetations are\nmultiplied under the torrid seas, and the evil is irresistibly\ndeveloped from the mouth of the Rio de la Plata to Florida. If we are\nto believe Toussenel, this plague is nothing to what it would be if the\nseas were cleaned of whales and seals. Then, infested with poulps,\nmedus , and cuttle-fish, they would become immense centres of\ninfection, since their waves would not possess  these vast stomachs\nthat God had charged to infest the surface of the seas. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\nTHE POULPS\n\n\nFor several days the _Nautilus_ kept off from the American coast.\nEvidently it did not wish to risk the tides of the Gulf of Mexico or of\nthe sea of the Antilles. April 16th, we sighted Martinique and\nGuadaloupe from a distance of about thirty miles. I saw their tall\npeaks for an instant. The Canadian, who counted on carrying out his\nprojects in the Gulf, by either landing or hailing one of the numerous\nboats that coast from one island to another, was quite disheartened.\nFlight would have been quite practicable, if Ned Land had been able to\ntake possession of the boat without the Captain s knowledge. But in the\nopen sea it could not be thought of. The Canadian, Conseil, and I had a\nlong conversation on this subject. For six months we had been prisoners\non board the _Nautilus_. We had travelled 17,000 leagues; and, as Ned\nLand said, there was no reason why it should come to an end. We could\nhope nothing from the Captain of the _Nautilus_, but only from\nourselves. Besides, for some time past he had become graver, more\nretired, less sociable. He seemed to shun me. I met him rarely.\nFormerly he was pleased to explain the submarine marvels to me; now he\nleft me to my studies, and came no more to the saloon. What change had\ncome over him? For what cause? For my part, I did not wish to bury with\nme my curious and novel studies. I had now the power to write the true\nbook of the sea; and this book, sooner or later, I wished to see\ndaylight. The land nearest us was the archipelago of the Bahamas. There\nrose high submarine cliffs covered with large weeds. It was about\neleven o clock when Ned Land drew my attention to a formidable\npricking, like the sting of an ant, which was produced by means of\nlarge seaweeds.\n\n Well,  I said,  these are proper caverns for poulps, and I should not\nbe astonished to see some of these monsters. \n\n What!  said Conseil;  cuttlefish, real cuttlefish of the cephalopod\nclass? \n\n No,  I said,  poulps of huge dimensions. \n\n I will never believe that such animals exist,  said Ned.\n\n Well,  said Conseil, with the most serious air in the world,  I\nremember perfectly to have seen a large vessel drawn under the waves by\nan octopus s arm. \n\n You saw that?  said the Canadian.\n\n Yes, Ned. \n\n With your own eyes? \n\n With my own eyes. \n\n Where, pray, might that be? \n\n At St. Malo,  answered Conseil.\n\n In the port?  said Ned, ironically.\n\n No; in a church,  replied Conseil.\n\n In a church!  cried the Canadian.\n\n Yes; friend Ned. In a picture representing the poulp in question. \n\n Good!  said Ned Land, bursting out laughing.\n\n He is quite right,  I said.  I have heard of this picture; but the\nsubject represented is taken from a legend, and you know what to think\nof legends in the matter of natural history. Besides, when it is a\nquestion of monsters, the imagination is apt to run wild. Not only is\nit supposed that these poulps can draw down vessels, but a certain\nOlaus Magnus speaks of an octopus a mile long that is more like an\nisland than an animal. It is also said that the Bishop of Nidros was\nbuilding an altar on an immense rock. Mass finished, the rock began to\nwalk, and returned to the sea. The rock was a poulp. Another Bishop,\nPontoppidan, speaks also of a poulp on which a regiment of cavalry\ncould man uvre. Lastly, the ancient naturalists speak of monsters whose\nmouths were like gulfs, and which were too large to pass through the\nStraits of Gibraltar. \n\n But how much is true of these stories?  asked Conseil.\n\n Nothing, my friends; at least of that which passes the limit of truth\nto get to fable or legend. Nevertheless, there must be some ground for\nthe imagination of the story-tellers. One cannot deny that poulps and\ncuttlefish exist of a large species, inferior, however, to the\ncetaceans. Aristotle has stated the dimensions of a cuttlefish as five\ncubits, or nine feet two inches. Our fishermen frequently see some that\nare more than four feet long. Some skeletons of poulps are preserved in\nthe museums of Trieste and Montpelier, that measure two yards in\nlength. Besides, according to the calculations of some naturalists, one\nof these animals only six feet long would have tentacles twenty-seven\nfeet long. That would suffice to make a formidable monster. \n\n Do they fish for them in these days?  asked Ned.\n\n If they do not fish for them, sailors see them at least. One of my\nfriends, Captain Paul Bos of Havre, has often affirmed that he met one\nof these monsters of colossal dimensions in the Indian seas. But the\nmost astonishing fact, and which does not permit of the denial of the\nexistence of these gigantic animals, happened some years ago, in 1861. \n\n What is the fact?  asked Ned Land.\n\n This is it. In 1861, to the north-east of Teneriffe, very nearly in\nthe same latitude we are in now, the crew of the despatch-boat Alector\nperceived a monstrous cuttlefish swimming in the waters. Captain\nBouguer went near to the animal, and attacked it with harpoon and guns,\nwithout much success, for balls and harpoons glided over the soft\nflesh. After several fruitless attempts the crew tried to pass a\nslip-knot round the body of the mollusc. The noose slipped as far as\nthe tail fins and there stopped. They tried then to haul it on board,\nbut its weight was so considerable that the tightness of the cord\nseparated the tail from the body, and, deprived of this ornament, he\ndisappeared under the water. \n\n Indeed! is that a fact? \n\n An indisputable fact, my good Ned. They proposed to name this poulp\n Bouguer s cuttlefish. \n\n What length was it?  asked the Canadian.\n\n Did it not measure about six yards?  said Conseil, who, posted at the\nwindow, was examining again the irregular windings of the cliff.\n\n Precisely,  I replied.\n\n Its head,  rejoined Conseil,  was it not crowned with eight tentacles,\nthat beat the water like a nest of serpents? \n\n Precisely. \n\n Had not its eyes, placed at the back of its head, considerable\ndevelopment? \n\n Yes, Conseil. \n\n And was not its mouth like a parrot s beak? \n\n Exactly, Conseil. \n\n Very well! no offence to master,  he replied, quietly;  if this is not\nBouguer s cuttlefish, it is, at least, one of its brothers. \n\nI looked at Conseil. Ned Land hurried to the window.\n\n What a horrible beast!  he cried.\n\nI looked in my turn, and could not repress a gesture of disgust. Before\nmy eyes was a horrible monster worthy to figure in the legends of the\nmarvellous. It was an immense cuttlefish, being eight yards long. It\nswam crossways in the direction of the _Nautilus_ with great speed,\nwatching us with its enormous staring green eyes. Its eight arms, or\nrather feet, fixed to its head, that have given the name of cephalopod\nto these animals, were twice as long as its body, and were twisted like\nthe furies  hair. One could see the 250 air holes on the inner side of\nthe tentacles. The monster s mouth, a horned beak like a parrot s,\nopened and shut vertically. Its tongue, a horned substance, furnished\nwith several rows of pointed teeth, came out quivering from this\nveritable pair of shears. What a freak of nature, a bird s beak on a\nmollusc! Its spindle-like body formed a fleshy mass that might weigh\n4,000 to 5,000 lbs.; the, varying colour changing with great rapidity,\naccording to the irritation of the animal, passed successively from\nlivid grey to reddish brown. What irritated this mollusc? No doubt the\npresence of the _Nautilus_, more formidable than itself, and on which\nits suckers or its jaws had no hold. Yet, what monsters these poulps\nare! what vitality the Creator has given them! what vigour in their\nmovements! and they possess three hearts! Chance had brought us in\npresence of this cuttlefish, and I did not wish to lose the opportunity\nof carefully studying this specimen of cephalopods. I overcame the\nhorror that inspired me, and, taking a pencil, began to draw it.\n\n Perhaps this is the same which the Alector saw,  said Conseil.\n\n No,  replied the Canadian;  for this is whole, and the other had lost\nits tail. \n\n That is no reason,  I replied.  The arms and tails of these animals\nare re-formed by renewal; and in seven years the tail of Bouguer s\ncuttlefish has no doubt had time to grow. \n\nBy this time other poulps appeared at the port light. I counted seven.\nThey formed a procession after the _Nautilus_, and I heard their beaks\ngnashing against the iron hull. I continued my work. These monsters\nkept in the water with such precision that they seemed immovable.\nSuddenly the _Nautilus_ stopped. A shock made it tremble in every\nplate.\n\n Have we struck anything?  I asked.\n\n In any case,  replied the Canadian,  we shall be free, for we are\nfloating. \n\nThe _Nautilus_ was floating, no doubt, but it did not move. A minute\npassed. Captain Nemo, followed by his lieutenant, entered the\ndrawing-room. I had not seen him for some time. He seemed dull. Without\nnoticing or speaking to us, he went to the panel, looked at the poulps,\nand said something to his lieutenant. The latter went out. Soon the\npanels were shut. The ceiling was lighted. I went towards the Captain.\n\n A curious collection of poulps?  I said.\n\n Yes, indeed, Mr. Naturalist,  he replied;  and we are going to fight\nthem, man to beast. \n\nI looked at him. I thought I had not heard aright.\n\n Man to beast?  I repeated.\n\n Yes, sir. The screw is stopped. I think that the horny jaws of one of\nthe cuttlefish is entangled in the blades. That is what prevents our\nmoving. \n\n What are you going to do? \n\n Rise to the surface, and slaughter this vermin. \n\n A difficult enterprise. \n\n Yes, indeed. The electric bullets are powerless against the soft\nflesh, where they do not find resistance enough to go off. But we shall\nattack them with the hatchet. \n\n And the harpoon, sir,  said the Canadian,  if you do not refuse my\nhelp. \n\n I will accept it, Master Land. \n\n We will follow you,  I said, and, following Captain Nemo, we went\ntowards the central staircase.\n\nThere, about ten men with boarding-hatchets were ready for the attack.\nConseil and I took two hatchets; Ned Land seized a harpoon. The\n_Nautilus_ had then risen to the surface. One of the sailors, posted on\nthe top ladderstep, unscrewed the bolts of the panels. But hardly were\nthe screws loosed, when the panel rose with great violence, evidently\ndrawn by the suckers of a poulp s arm. Immediately one of these arms\nslid like a serpent down the opening and twenty others were above. With\none blow of the axe, Captain Nemo cut this formidable tentacle, that\nslid wriggling down the ladder. Just as we were pressing one on the\nother to reach the platform, two other arms, lashing the air, came down\non the seaman placed before Captain Nemo, and lifted him up with\nirresistible power. Captain Nemo uttered a cry, and rushed out. We\nhurried after him.\n\n\n[Illustration] One of these long arms glided through the opening\n\n\nWhat a scene! The unhappy man, seized by the tentacle and fixed to the\nsuckers, was balanced in the air at the caprice of this enormous trunk.\nHe rattled in his throat, he was stifled, he cried,  Help! help!  These\nwords, spoken in French, startled me! I had a fellow-countryman on\nboard, perhaps several! That heart-rending cry! I shall hear it all my\nlife. The unfortunate man was lost. Who could rescue him from that\npowerful pressure? However, Captain Nemo had rushed to the poulp, and\nwith one blow of the axe had cut through one arm. His lieutenant\nstruggled furiously against other monsters that crept on the flanks of\nthe _Nautilus_. The crew fought with their axes. The Canadian, Conseil,\nand I buried our weapons in the fleshy masses; a strong smell of musk\npenetrated the atmosphere. It was horrible!\n\nFor one instant, I thought the unhappy man, entangled with the poulp,\nwould be torn from its powerful suction. Seven of the eight arms had\nbeen cut off. One only wriggled in the air, brandishing the victim like\na feather. But just as Captain Nemo and his lieutenant threw themselves\non it, the animal ejected a stream of black liquid. We were blinded\nwith it. When the cloud dispersed, the cuttlefish had disappeared, and\nmy unfortunate countryman with it. Ten or twelve poulps now invaded the\nplatform and sides of the _Nautilus_. We rolled pell-mell into the\nmidst of this nest of serpents, that wriggled on the platform in the\nwaves of blood and ink. It seemed as though these slimy tentacles\nsprang up like the hydra s heads. Ned Land s harpoon, at each stroke,\nwas plunged into the staring eyes of the cuttle fish. But my bold\ncompanion was suddenly overturned by the tentacles of a monster he had\nnot been able to avoid.\n\nAh! how my heart beat with emotion and horror! The formidable beak of a\ncuttlefish was open over Ned Land. The unhappy man would be cut in two.\nI rushed to his succour. But Captain Nemo was before me; his axe\ndisappeared between the two enormous jaws, and, miraculously saved, the\nCanadian, rising, plunged his harpoon deep into the triple heart of the\npoulp.\n\n I owed myself this revenge!  said the Captain to the Canadian.\n\nNed bowed without replying. The combat had lasted a quarter of an hour.\nThe monsters, vanquished and mutilated, left us at last, and\ndisappeared under the waves. Captain Nemo, covered with blood, nearly\nexhausted, gazed upon the sea that had swallowed up one of his\ncompanions, and great tears gathered in his eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\nTHE GULF STREAM\n\n\nThis terrible scene of the 20th of April none of us can ever forget. I\nhave written it under the influence of violent emotion. Since then I\nhave revised the recital; I have read it to Conseil and to the\nCanadian. They found it exact as to facts, but insufficient as to\neffect. To paint such pictures, one must have the pen of the most\nillustrious of our poets, the author of The Toilers of the Deep.\n\nI have said that Captain Nemo wept while watching the waves; his grief\nwas great. It was the second companion he had lost since our arrival on\nboard, and what a death! That friend, crushed, stifled, bruised by the\ndreadful arms of a poulp, pounded by his iron jaws, would not rest with\nhis comrades in the peaceful coral cemetery! In the midst of the\nstruggle, it was the despairing cry uttered by the unfortunate man that\nhad torn my heart. The poor Frenchman, forgetting his conventional\nlanguage, had taken to his own mother tongue, to utter a last appeal!\nAmongst the crew of the _Nautilus_, associated with the body and soul\nof the Captain, recoiling like him from all contact with men, I had a\nfellow-countryman. Did he alone represent France in this mysterious\nassociation, evidently composed of individuals of divers nationalities?\nIt was one of these insoluble problems that rose up unceasingly before\nmy mind!\n\nCaptain Nemo entered his room, and I saw him no more for some time. But\nthat he was sad and irresolute I could see by the vessel, of which he\nwas the soul, and which received all his impressions. The _Nautilus_\ndid not keep on in its settled course; it floated about like a corpse\nat the will of the waves. It went at random. He could not tear himself\naway from the scene of the last struggle, from this sea that had\ndevoured one of his men. Ten days passed thus. It was not till the 1st\nof May that the _Nautilus_ resumed its northerly course, after having\nsighted the Bahamas at the mouth of the Bahama Canal. We were then\nfollowing the current from the largest river to the sea, that has its\nbanks, its fish, and its proper temperatures. I mean the Gulf Stream.\nIt is really a river, that flows freely to the middle of the Atlantic,\nand whose waters do not mix with the ocean waters. It is a salt river,\nsalter than the surrounding sea. Its mean depth is 1,500 fathoms, its\nmean breadth ten miles. In certain places the current flows with the\nspeed of two miles and a half an hour. The body of its waters is more\nconsiderable than that of all the rivers in the globe. It was on this\nocean river that the _Nautilus_ then sailed.\n\nI must add that, during the night, the phosphorescent waters of the\nGulf Stream rivalled the electric power of our watch-light, especially\nin the stormy weather that threatened us so frequently. May 8th, we\nwere still crossing Cape Hatteras, at the height of the North Caroline.\nThe width of the Gulf Stream there is seventy-five miles, and its depth\n210 yards. The _Nautilus_ still went at random; all supervision seemed\nabandoned. I thought that, under these circumstances, escape would be\npossible. Indeed, the inhabited shores offered anywhere an easy refuge.\nThe sea was incessantly ploughed by the steamers that ply between New\nYork or Boston and the Gulf of Mexico, and overrun day and night by the\nlittle schooners coasting about the several parts of the American\ncoast. We could hope to be picked up. It was a favourable opportunity,\nnotwithstanding the thirty miles that separated the _Nautilus_ from the\ncoasts of the Union. One unfortunate circumstance thwarted the\nCanadian s plans. The weather was very bad. We were nearing those\nshores where tempests are so frequent, that country of waterspouts and\ncyclones actually engendered by the current of the Gulf Stream. To\ntempt the sea in a frail boat was certain destruction. Ned Land owned\nthis himself. He fretted, seized with nostalgia that flight only could\ncure.\n\n Master,  he said that day to me,  this must come to an end. I must\nmake a clean breast of it. This Nemo is leaving land and going up to\nthe north. But I declare to you that I have had enough of the South\nPole, and I will not follow him to the North. \n\n What is to be done, Ned, since flight is impracticable just now? \n\n We must speak to the Captain,  said he;  you said nothing when we were\nin your native seas. I will speak, now we are in mine. When I think\nthat before long the _Nautilus_ will be by Nova Scotia, and that there\nnear New foundland is a large bay, and into that bay the St. Lawrence\nempties itself, and that the St. Lawrence is my river, the river by\nQuebec, my native town when I think of this, I feel furious, it makes\nmy hair stand on end. Sir, I would rather throw myself into the sea! I\nwill not stay here! I am stifled! \n\nThe Canadian was evidently losing all patience. His vigorous nature\ncould not stand this prolonged imprisonment. His face altered daily;\nhis temper became more surly. I knew what he must suffer, for I was\nseized with home-sickness myself. Nearly seven months had passed\nwithout our having had any news from land; Captain Nemo s isolation,\nhis altered spirits, especially since the fight with the poulps, his\ntaciturnity, all made me view things in a different light.\n\n Well, sir?  said Ned, seeing I did not reply.\n\n Well, Ned, do you wish me to ask Captain Nemo his intentions\nconcerning us? \n\n Yes, sir. \n\n Although he has already made them known? \n\n Yes; I wish it settled finally. Speak for me, in my name only, if you\nlike. \n\n But I so seldom meet him. He avoids me. \n\n That is all the more reason for you to go to see him. \n\nI went to my room. From thence I meant to go to Captain Nemo s. It\nwould not do to let this opportunity of meeting him slip. I knocked at\nthe door. No answer. I knocked again, then turned the handle. The door\nopened, I went in. The Captain was there. Bending over his work-table,\nhe had not heard me. Resolved not to go without having spoken, I\napproached him. He raised his head quickly, frowned, and said roughly,\n You here! What do you want? \n\n To speak to you, Captain. \n\n But I am busy, sir; I am working. I leave you at liberty to shut\nyourself up; cannot I be allowed the same? \n\nThis reception was not encouraging; but I was determined to hear and\nanswer everything.\n\n Sir,  I said coldly,  I have to speak to you on a matter that admits\nof no delay. \n\n What is that, sir?  he replied, ironically.  Have you discovered\nsomething that has escaped me, or has the sea delivered up any new\nsecrets? \n\nWe were at cross-purposes. But, before I could reply, he showed me an\nopen manuscript on his table, and said, in a more serious tone,  Here,\nM. Aronnax, is a manuscript written in several languages. It contains\nthe sum of my studies of the sea; and, if it please God, it shall not\nperish with me. This manuscript, signed with my name, complete with the\nhistory of my life, will be shut up in a little floating case. The last\nsurvivor of all of us on board the _Nautilus_ will throw this case into\nthe sea, and it will go whither it is borne by the waves. \n\nThis man s name! his history written by himself! His mystery would then\nbe revealed some day.\n\n Captain,  I said,  I can but approve of the idea that makes you act\nthus. The result of your studies must not be lost. But the means you\nemploy seem to me to be primitive. Who knows where the winds will carry\nthis case, and in whose hands it will fall? Could you not use some\nother means? Could not you, or one of yours \n\n Never, sir!  he said, hastily interrupting me.\n\n But I and my companions are ready to keep this manuscript in store;\nand, if you will put us at liberty \n\n At liberty?  said the Captain, rising.\n\n Yes, sir; that is the subject on which I wish to question you. For\nseven months we have been here on board, and I ask you to-day, in the\nname of my companions and in my own, if your intention is to keep us\nhere always? \n\n M. Aronnax, I will answer you to-day as I did seven months ago:\nWhoever enters the _Nautilus_, must never quit it. \n\n You impose actual slavery upon us! \n\n Give it what name you please. \n\n But everywhere the slave has the right to regain his liberty. \n\n Who denies you this right? Have I ever tried to chain you with an\noath? \n\nHe looked at me with his arms crossed.\n\n Sir,  I said,  to return a second time to this subject will be neither\nto your nor to my taste; but, as we have entered upon it, let us go\nthrough with it. I repeat, it is not only myself whom it concerns.\nStudy is to me a relief, a diversion, a passion that could make me\nforget everything. Like you, I am willing to live obscure, in the frail\nhope of bequeathing one day, to future time, the result of my labours.\nBut it is otherwise with Ned Land. Every man, worthy of the name,\ndeserves some consideration. Have you thought that love of liberty,\nhatred of slavery, can give rise to schemes of revenge in a nature like\nthe Canadian s; that he could think, attempt, and try \n\nI was silenced; Captain Nemo rose.\n\n Whatever Ned Land thinks of, attempts, or tries, what does it matter\nto me? I did not seek him! It is not for my pleasure that I keep him on\nboard! As for you, M. Aronnax, you are one of those who can understand\neverything, even silence. I have nothing more to say to you. Let this\nfirst time you have come to treat of this subject be the last, for a\nsecond time I will not listen to you. \n\nI retired. Our situation was critical. I related my conversation to my\ntwo companions.\n\n We know now,  said Ned,  that we can expect nothing from this man. The\n_Nautilus_ is nearing Long Island. We will escape, whatever the weather\nmay be. \n\nBut the sky became more and more threatening. Symptoms of a hurricane\nbecame manifest. The atmosphere was becoming white and misty. On the\nhorizon fine streaks of cirrhous clouds were succeeded by masses of\ncumuli. Other low clouds passed swiftly by. The swollen sea rose in\nhuge billows. The birds disappeared with the exception of the petrels,\nthose friends of the storm. The barometer fell sensibly, and indicated\nan extreme extension of the vapours. The mixture of the storm glass was\ndecomposed under the influence of the electricity that pervaded the\natmosphere. The tempest burst on the 18th of May, just as the\n_Nautilus_ was floating off Long Island, some miles from the port of\nNew York. I can describe this strife of the elements! for, instead of\nfleeing to the depths of the sea, Captain Nemo, by an unaccountable\ncaprice, would brave it at the surface. The wind blew from the\nsouth-west at first. Captain Nemo, during the squalls, had taken his\nplace on the platform. He had made himself fast, to prevent being\nwashed overboard by the monstrous waves. I had hoisted myself up, and\nmade myself fast also, dividing my admiration between the tempest and\nthis extraordinary man who was coping with it. The raging sea was swept\nby huge cloud-drifts, which were actually saturated with the waves. The\n_Nautilus_, sometimes lying on its side, sometimes standing up like a\nmast, rolled and pitched terribly. About five o clock a torrent of rain\nfell, that lulled neither sea nor wind. The hurri cane blew nearly\nforty leagues an hour. It is under these conditions that it overturns\nhouses, breaks iron gates, displaces twenty-four pounders. However, the\n_Nautilus_, in the midst of the tempest, confirmed the words of a\nclever engineer,  There is no well-constructed hull that cannot defy\nthe sea.  This was not a resisting rock; it was a steel spindle,\nobedient and movable, without rigging or masts, that braved its fury\nwith impunity. However, I watched these raging waves attentively. They\nmeasured fifteen feet in height, and 150 to 175 yards long, and their\nspeed of propagation was thirty feet per second. Their bulk and power\nincreased with the depth of the water. Such waves as these, at the\nHebrides, have displaced a mass weighing 8,400 lbs. They are they\nwhich, in the tempest of December 23rd, 1864, after destroying the town\nof Yeddo, in Japan, broke the same day on the shores of America. The\nintensity of the tempest increased with the night. The barometer, as in\n1860 at Reunion during a cyclone, fell seven-tenths at the close of\nday. I saw a large vessel pass the horizon struggling painfully. She\nwas trying to lie to under half steam, to keep up above the waves. It\nwas probably one of the steamers of the line from New York to\nLiverpool, or Havre. It soon disappeared in the gloom. At ten o clock\nin the evening the sky was on fire. The atmosphere was streaked with\nvivid lightning. I could not bear the brightness of it; while the\ncaptain, looking at it, seemed to envy the spirit of the tempest. A\nterrible noise filled the air, a complex noise, made up of the howls of\nthe crushed waves, the roaring of the wind, and the claps of thunder.\nThe wind veered suddenly to all points of the horizon; and the cyclone,\nrising in the east, returned after passing by the north, west, and\nsouth, in the inverse course pursued by the circular storm of the\nsouthern hemisphere. Ah, that Gulf Stream! It deserves its name of the\nKing of Tempests. It is that which causes those formidable cyclones, by\nthe difference of temperature between its air and its currents. A\nshower of fire had succeeded the rain. The drops of water were changed\nto sharp spikes. One would have thought that Captain Nemo was courting\na death worthy of himself, a death by lightning. As the _Nautilus_,\npitching dreadfully, raised its steel spur in the air, it seemed to act\nas a conductor, and I saw long sparks burst from it. Crushed and\nwithout strength I crawled to the panel, opened it, and descended to\nthe saloon. The storm was then at its height. It was impossible to\nstand upright in the interior of the _Nautilus_. Captain Nemo came down\nabout twelve. I heard the reservoirs filling by degrees, and the\n_Nautilus_ sank slowly beneath the waves. Through the open windows in\nthe saloon I saw large fish terrified, passing like phantoms in the\nwater. Some were struck before my eyes. The _Nautilus_ was still\ndescending. I thought that at about eight fathoms deep we should find a\ncalm. But no! the upper beds were too violently agitated for that. We\nhad to seek repose at more than twenty-five fathoms in the bowels of\nthe deep. But there, what quiet, what silence, what peace! Who could\nhave told that such a hurricane had been let loose on the surface of\nthat ocean?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\nFROM LATITUDE 47  24  TO LONGITUDE 17  28 \n\n\nIn consequence of the storm, we had been thrown eastward once more. All\nhope of escape on the shores of New York or St. Lawrence had faded\naway; and poor Ned, in despair, had isolated himself like Captain Nemo.\nConseil and I, however, never left each other. I said that the\n_Nautilus_ had gone aside to the east. I should have said (to be more\nexact) the north-east. For some days, it wandered first on the surface,\nand then beneath it, amid those fogs so dreaded by sailors. What\naccidents are due to these thick fogs! What shocks upon these reefs\nwhen the wind drowns the breaking of the waves! What collisions between\nvessels, in spite of their warning lights, whistles, and alarm bells!\nAnd the bottoms of these seas look like a field of battle, where still\nlie all the conquered of the ocean; some old and already encrusted,\nothers fresh and reflecting from their iron bands and copper plates the\nbrilliancy of our lantern.\n\nOn the 15th of May we were at the extreme south of the Bank of\nNewfoundland. This bank consists of alluvia, or large heaps of organic\nmatter, brought either from the Equator by the Gulf Stream, or from the\nNorth Pole by the counter-current of cold water which skirts the\nAmerican coast. There also are heaped up those erratic blocks which are\ncarried along by the broken ice; and close by, a vast charnel-house of\nmolluscs, which perish here by millions. The depth of the sea is not\ngreat at Newfoundland not more than some hundreds of fathoms; but\ntowards the south is a depression of 1,500 fathoms. There the Gulf\nStream widens. It loses some of its speed and some of its temperature,\nbut it becomes a sea.\n\nIt was on the 17th of May, about 500 miles from Heart s Content, at a\ndepth of more than 1,400 fathoms, that I saw the electric cable lying\non the bottom. Conseil, to whom I had not mentioned it, thought at\nfirst that it was a gigantic sea-serpent. But I undeceived the worthy\nfellow, and by way of consolation related several particulars in the\nlaying of this cable. The first one was laid in the years 1857 and\n1858; but, after transmitting about 400 telegrams, would not act any\nlonger. In 1863 the engineers constructed an other one, measuring 2,000\nmiles in length, and weighing 4,500 tons, which was embarked on the\nGreat Eastern. This attempt also failed.\n\nOn the 25th of May the _Nautilus_, being at a depth of more than 1,918\nfathoms, was on the precise spot where the rupture occurred which\nruined the enterprise. It was within 638 miles of the coast of Ireland;\nand at half-past two in the afternoon they discovered that\ncommunication with Europe had ceased. The electricians on board\nresolved to cut the cable before fishing it up, and at eleven o clock\nat night they had recovered the damaged part. They made another point\nand spliced it, and it was once more submerged. But some days after it\nbroke again, and in the depths of the ocean could not be recaptured.\nThe Americans, however, were not discouraged. Cyrus Field, the bold\npromoter of the enterprise, as he had sunk all his own fortune, set a\nnew subscription on foot, which was at once answered, and another cable\nwas constructed on better principles. The bundles of conducting wires\nwere each enveloped in gutta-percha, and protected by a wadding of\nhemp, contained in a metallic covering. The Great Eastern sailed on the\n13th of July, 1866. The operation worked well. But one incident\noccurred. Several times in unrolling the cable they observed that nails\nhad recently been forced into it, evidently with the motive of\ndestroying it. Captain Anderson, the officers, and engineers consulted\ntogether, and had it posted up that, if the offender was surprised on\nboard, he would be thrown without further trial into the sea. From that\ntime the criminal attempt was never repeated.\n\nOn the 23rd of July the Great Eastern was not more than 500 miles from\nNewfoundland, when they telegraphed from Ireland the news of the\narmistice concluded between Prussia and Austria after Sadowa. On the\n27th, in the midst of heavy fogs, they reached the port of Heart s\nContent. The enterprise was successfully terminated; and for its first\ndespatch, young America addressed old Europe in these words of wisdom,\nso rarely understood:  Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace,\ngoodwill towards men. \n\nI did not expect to find the electric cable in its primitive state,\nsuch as it was on leaving the manufactory. The long serpent, covered\nwith the remains of shells, bristling with foraminiferae, was encrusted\nwith a strong coating which served as a protection against all boring\nmolluscs. It lay quietly sheltered from the motions of the sea, and\nunder a favourable pressure for the transmission of the electric spark\nwhich passes from Europe to America in .32 of a second. Doubtless this\ncable will last for a great length of time, for they find that the\ngutta-percha covering is improved by the sea-water. Besides, on this\nlevel, so well chosen, the cable is never so deeply submerged as to\ncause it to break. The _Nautilus_ followed it to the lowest depth,\nwhich was more than 2,212 fathoms, and there it lay without any\nanchorage; and then we reached the spot where the accident had taken\nplace in 1863. The bottom of the ocean then formed a valley about 100\nmiles broad, in which Mont Blanc might have been placed without its\nsummit appearing above the waves. This valley is closed at the east by\na perpendicular wall more than 2,000 yards high. We arrived there on\nthe 28th of May, and the _Nautilus_ was then not more than 120 miles\nfrom Ireland.\n\nWas Captain Nemo going to land on the British Isles? No. To my great\nsurprise he made for the south, once more coming back towards European\nseas. In rounding the Emerald Isle, for one instant I caught sight of\nCape Clear, and the light which guides the thousands of vessels leaving\nGlasgow or Liverpool. An important question then arose in my mind. Did\nthe _Nautilus_ dare entangle itself in the Manche? Ned Land, who had\nre-appeared since we had been nearing land, did not cease to question\nme. How could I answer? Captain Nemo remained invisible. After having\nshown the Canadian a glimpse of American shores, was he going to show\nme the coast of France?\n\nBut the _Nautilus_ was still going southward. On the 30th of May, it\npassed in sight of Land s End, between the extreme point of England and\nthe Scilly Isles, which were left to starboard. If we wished to enter\nthe Manche, he must go straight to the east. He did not do so.\n\nDuring the whole of the 31st of May, the _Nautilus_ described a series\nof circles on the water, which greatly interested me. It seemed to be\nseeking a spot it had some trouble in finding. At noon, Captain Nemo\nhimself came to work the ship s log. He spoke no word to me, but seemed\ngloomier than ever. What could sadden him thus? Was it his proxim ity\nto European shores? Had he some recollections of his abandoned country?\nIf not, what did he feel? Remorse or regret? For a long while this\nthought haunted my mind, and I had a kind of presentiment that before\nlong chance would betray the captain s secrets.\n\nThe next day, the 1st of June, the _Nautilus_ continued the same\nprocess. It was evidently seeking some particular spot in the ocean.\nCaptain Nemo took the sun s altitude as he had done the day before. The\nsea was beautiful, the sky clear. About eight miles to the east, a\nlarge steam vessel could be discerned on the horizon. No flag fluttered\nfrom its mast, and I could not discover its nationality. Some minutes\nbefore the sun passed the meridian, Captain Nemo took his sextant, and\nwatched with great attention. The perfect rest of the water greatly\nhelped the operation. The _Nautilus_ was motionless; it neither rolled\nnor pitched.\n\nI was on the platform when the altitude was taken, and the Captain\npronounced these words:  It is here. \n\nHe turned and went below. Had he seen the vessel which was changing its\ncourse and seemed to be nearing us? I could not tell. I returned to the\nsaloon. The panels closed, I heard the hissing of the water in the\nreservoirs. The _Nautilus_ began to sink, following a vertical line,\nfor its screw communicated no motion to it. Some minutes later it\nstopped at a depth of more than 420 fathoms, resting on the ground. The\nluminous ceiling was darkened, then the panels were opened, and through\nthe glass I saw the sea brilliantly illuminated by the rays of our\nlantern for at least half a mile round us.\n\nI looked to the port side, and saw nothing but an immensity of quiet\nwaters. But to starboard, on the bottom appeared a large protuberance,\nwhich at once attracted my attention. One would have thought it a ruin\nburied under a coating of white shells, much resembling a covering of\nsnow. Upon examining the mass attentively, I could recognise the\never-thickening form of a vessel bare of its masts, which must have\nsunk. It certainly belonged to past times. This wreck, to be thus\nencrusted with the lime of the water, must already be able to count\nmany years passed at the bottom of the ocean.\n\nWhat was this vessel? Why did the _Nautilus_ visit its tomb? Could it\nhave been aught but a shipwreck which had drawn it under the water? I\nknew not what to think, when near me in a slow voice I heard Captain\nNemo say:\n\n At one time this ship was called the Marseillais. It carried\nseventy-four guns, and was launched in 1762. In 1778, the 13th of\nAugust, commanded by La Poype-Ver trieux, it fought boldly against the\nPreston. In 1779, on the 4th of July, it was at the taking of Grenada,\nwith the squadron of Admiral Estaing. In 1781, on the 5th of September,\nit took part in the battle of Comte de Grasse, in Chesapeake Bay. In\n1794, the French Republic changed its name. On the 16th of April, in\nthe same year, it joined the squadron of Villaret Joyeuse, at Brest,\nbeing entrusted with the escort of a cargo of corn coming from America,\nunder the command of Admiral Van Stebel. On the 11th and 12th Prairal\nof the second year, this squadron fell in with an English vessel. Sir,\nto-day is the 13th Prairal, the first of June, 1868. It is now\nseventy-four years ago, day for day on this very spot, in latitude 47 \n24 , longitude 17  28 , that this vessel, after fighting heroically,\nlosing its three masts, with the water in its hold, and the third of\nits crew disabled, preferred sinking with its 356 sailors to\nsurrendering; and, nailing its colours to the poop, disappeared under\nthe waves to the cry of  Long live the Republic! \n\n The Avenger!  I exclaimed.\n\n Yes, sir, the Avenger! A good name!  muttered Captain Nemo, crossing\nhis arms.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\nA HECATOMB\n\n\nThe way of describing this unlooked-for scene, the history of the\npatriot ship, told at first so coldly, and the emotion with which this\nstrange man pronounced the last words, the name of the Avenger, the\nsignificance of which could not escape me, all impressed itself deeply\non my mind. My eyes did not leave the Captain, who, with his hand\nstretched out to sea, was watching with a glowing eye the glorious\nwreck. Perhaps I was never to know who he was, from whence he came, or\nwhere he was going to, but I saw the man move, and apart from the\n_savant_. It was no common misanthropy which had shut Captain Nemo and\nhis companions within the _Nautilus_, but a hatred, either monstrous or\nsublime, which time could never weaken. Did this hatred still seek for\nvengeance? The future would soon teach me that. But the _Nautilus_ was\nrising slowly to the surface of the sea, and the form of the Avenger\ndisappeared by degrees from my sight. Soon a slight rolling told me\nthat we were in the open air. At that moment a dull boom was heard. I\nlooked at the Captain. He did not move.\n\n Captain?  said I.\n\nHe did not answer. I left him and mounted the platform. Conseil and the\nCanadian were already there.\n\n Where did that sound come from?  I asked.\n\n It was a gunshot,  replied Ned Land.\n\nI looked in the direction of the vessel I had already seen. It was\nnearing the _Nautilus_, and we could see that it was putting on steam.\nIt was within six miles of us.\n\n What is that ship, Ned? \n\n By its rigging, and the height of its lower masts,  said the Canadian,\n I bet she is a ship-of-war. May it reach us; and, if necessary, sink\nthis cursed _Nautilus_. \n\n Friend Ned,  replied Conseil,  what harm can it do to the _Nautilus?_\nCan it attack it beneath the waves? Can its cannonade us at the bottom\nof the sea? \n\n Tell me, Ned,  said I,  can you recognise what country she belongs\nto? \n\nThe Canadian knitted his eyebrows, dropped his eyelids, and screwed up\nthe corners of his eyes, and for a few moments fixed a piercing look\nupon the vessel.\n\n No, sir,  he replied;  I cannot tell what nation she belongs to, for\nshe shows no colours. But I can declare she is a man-of-war, for a long\npennant flutters from her main mast. \n\nFor a quarter of an hour we watched the ship which was steaming towards\nus. I could not, however, believe that she could see the _Nautilus_\nfrom that distance; and still less that she could know what this\nsubmarine engine was. Soon the Canadian informed me that she was a\nlarge, armoured, two-decker ram. A thick black smoke was pouring from\nher two funnels. Her closely-furled sails were stopped to her yards.\nShe hoisted no flag at her mizzen-peak. The distance prevented us from\ndistinguishing the colours of her pennant, which floated like a thin\nribbon. She advanced rapidly. If Captain Nemo allowed her to approach,\nthere was a chance of salvation for us.\n\n Sir,  said Ned Land,  if that vessel passes within a mile of us I\nshall throw myself into the sea, and I should advise you to do the\nsame. \n\nI did not reply to the Canadian s suggestion, but continued watching\nthe ship. Whether English, French, American, or Russian, she would be\nsure to take us in if we could only reach her. Presently a white smoke\nburst from the fore part of the vessel; some seconds after, the water,\nagitated by the fall of a heavy body, splashed the stern of the\n_Nautilus_, and shortly afterwards a loud explosion struck my ear.\n\n What! they are firing at us!  I exclaimed.\n\n So please you, sir,  said Ned,  they have recognised the unicorn, and\nthey are firing at us. \n\n But,  I exclaimed,  surely they can see that there are men in the\ncase? \n\n It is, perhaps, because of that,  replied Ned Land, looking at me.\n\nA whole flood of light burst upon my mind. Doubtless they knew now how\nto believe the stories of the pretended monster. No doubt, on board the\n_Abraham Lincoln_, when the Canadian struck it with the harpoon,\nCommander Farragut had recognised in the supposed narwhal a submarine\nvessel, more dangerous than a supernatural cetacean. Yes, it must have\nbeen so; and on every sea they were now seeking this engine of\ndestruction. Terrible indeed! if, as we supposed, Captain Nemo employed\nthe _Nautilus_ in works of vengeance. On the night when we were\nimprisoned in that cell, in the midst of the Indian Ocean, had he not\nattacked some vessel? The man buried in the coral cemetery, had he not\nbeen a victim to the shock caused by the _Nautilus?_ Yes, I repeat it,\nit must be so. One part of the mysterious existence of Captain Nemo had\nbeen unveiled; and, if his identity had not been recognised, at least,\nthe nations united against him were no longer hunting a chimerical\ncreature, but a man who had vowed a deadly hatred against them. All the\nformidable past rose before me. Instead of meeting friends on board the\napproaching ship, we could only expect pitiless enemies. But the shot\nrattled about us. Some of them struck the sea and ricochetted, losing\nthemselves in the distance. But none touched the _Nautilus_. The vessel\nwas not more than three miles from us. In spite of the serious\ncannonade, Captain Nemo did not appear on the platform; but, if one of\nthe conical projectiles had struck the shell of the _Nautilus_, it\nwould have been fatal. The Canadian then said,  Sir, we must do all we\ncan to get out of this dilemma. Let us signal them. They will then,\nperhaps, understand that we are honest folks. \n\nNed Land took his handkerchief to wave in the air; but he had scarcely\ndisplayed it, when he was struck down by an iron hand, and fell, in\nspite of his great strength, upon the deck.\n\n Fool!  exclaimed the Captain,  do you wish to be pierced by the spur\nof the _Nautilus_ before it is hurled at this vessel? \n\nCaptain Nemo was terrible to hear; he was still more terrible to see.\nHis face was deadly pale, with a spasm at his heart. For an instant it\nmust have ceased to beat. His pupils were fearfully contracted. He did\nnot speak, he roared, as, with his body thrown forward, he wrung the\nCanadian s shoulders. Then, leaving him, and turning to the ship of\nwar, whose shot was still raining around him, he exclaimed, with a\npowerful voice,  Ah, ship of an accursed nation, you know who I am! I\ndo not want your colours to know you by! Look! and I will show you\nmine! \n\nAnd on the fore part of the platform Captain Nemo unfurled a black\nflag, similar to the one he had placed at the South Pole. At that\nmoment a shot struck the shell of the _Nautilus_ obliquely, without\npiercing it; and, rebounding near the Captain, was lost in the sea. He\nshrugged his shoulders; and, addressing me, said shortly,  Go down, you\nand your companions, go down! \n\n Sir,  I cried,  are you going to attack this vessel? \n\n Sir, I am going to sink it. \n\n You will not do that? \n\n I shall do it,  he replied coldly.  And I advise you not to judge me,\nsir. Fate has shown you what you ought not to have seen. The attack has\nbegun; go down. \n\n What is this vessel? \n\n You do not know? Very well! so much the better! Its nationality to\nyou, at least, will be a secret. Go down! \n\nWe could but obey. About fifteen of the sailors surrounded the Captain,\nlooking with implacable hatred at the vessel nearing them. One could\nfeel that the same desire of vengeance animated every soul. I went down\nat the moment another projectile struck the _Nautilus_, and I heard the\nCaptain exclaim:\n\n Strike, mad vessel! Shower your useless shot! And then, you will not\nescape the spur of the _Nautilus_. But it is not here that you shall\nperish! I would not have your ruins mingle with those of the Avenger! \n\nI reached my room. The Captain and his second had remained on the\nplatform. The screw was set in motion, and the _Nautilus_, moving with\nspeed, was soon beyond the reach of the ship s guns. But the pursuit\ncontinued, and Captain Nemo contented himself with keeping his\ndistance.\n\nAbout four in the afternoon, being no longer able to contain my\nimpatience, I went to the central staircase. The panel was open, and I\nventured on to the platform. The Captain was still walking up and down\nwith an agitated step. He was looking at the ship, which was five or\nsix miles to leeward.\n\nHe was going round it like a wild beast, and, drawing it eastward, he\nallowed them to pursue. But he did not attack. Perhaps he still\nhesitated? I wished to mediate once more. But I had scarcely spoken,\nwhen Captain Nemo imposed silence, saying:\n\n I am the law, and I am the judge! I am the oppressed, and there is the\noppressor! Through him I have lost all that I loved, cherished, and\nvenerated country, wife, children, father, and mother. I saw all\nperish! All that I hate is there! Say no more! \n\nI cast a last look at the man-of-war, which was putting on steam, and\nrejoined Ned and Conseil.\n\n We will fly!  I exclaimed.\n\n Good!  said Ned.  What is this vessel? \n\n I do not know; but, whatever it is, it will be sunk before night. In\nany case, it is better to perish with it, than be made accomplices in a\nretaliation the justice of which we cannot judge. \n\n That is my opinion too,  said Ned Land, coolly.  Let us wait for\nnight. \n\nNight arrived. Deep silence reigned on board. The compass showed that\nthe _Nautilus_ had not altered its course. It was on the surface,\nrolling slightly. My companions and I resolved to fly when the vessel\nshould be near enough either to hear us or to see us; for the moon,\nwhich would be full in two or three days, shone brightly. Once on board\nthe ship, if we could not prevent the blow which threatened it, we\ncould, at least we would, do all that circumstances would allow.\nSeveral times I thought the _Nautilus_ was preparing for attack; but\nCaptain Nemo contented himself with allowing his adversary to approach,\nand then fled once more before it.\n\nPart of the night passed without any incident. We watched the\nopportunity for action. We spoke little, for we were too much moved.\nNed Land would have thrown himself into the sea, but I forced him to\nwait. According to my idea, the _Nautilus_ would attack the ship at her\nwaterline, and then it would not only be possible, but easy to fly.\n\nAt three in the morning, full of uneasiness, I mounted the platform.\nCaptain Nemo had not left it. He was standing at the fore part near his\nflag, which a slight breeze displayed above his head. He did not take\nhis eyes from the vessel. The intensity of his look seemed to attract,\nand fascinate, and draw it onward more surely than if he had been\ntowing it. The moon was then passing the meridian. Jupiter was rising\nin the east. Amid this peaceful scene of nature, sky and ocean rivalled\neach other in tranquillity, the sea offering to the orbs of night the\nfinest mirror they could ever have in which to reflect their image. As\nI thought of the deep calm of these elements, compared with all those\npassions brooding imperceptibly within the _Nautilus_, I shuddered.\n\nThe vessel was within two miles of us. It was ever nearing that\nphosphorescent light which showed the presence of the _Nautilus_. I\ncould see its green and red lights, and its white lantern hanging from\nthe large foremast. An indistinct vibration quivered through its\nrigging, showing that the furnaces were heated to the uttermost.\nSheaves of sparks and red ashes flew from the funnels, shining in the\natmosphere like stars.\n\nI remained thus until six in the morning, without Captain Nemo noticing\nme. The ship stood about a mile and a half from us, and with the first\ndawn of day the firing began afresh. The moment could not be far off\nwhen, the _Nautilus_ attacking its adversary, my companions and myself\nshould for ever leave this man. I was preparing to go down to remind\nthem, when the second mounted the platform, accompanied by several\nsailors. Captain Nemo either did not or would not see them. Some steps\nwere taken which might be called the signal for action. They were very\nsimple. The iron balustrade around the platform was lowered, and the\nlantern and pilot cages were pushed within the shell until they were\nflush with the deck. The long surface of the steel cigar no longer\noffered a single point to check its man uvres. I returned to the\nsaloon. The _Nautilus_ still floated; some streaks of light were\nfiltering through the liquid beds. With the undulations of the waves\nthe windows were brightened by the red streaks of the rising sun, and\nthis dreadful day of the 2nd of June had dawned.\n\nAt five o clock, the log showed that the speed of the _Nautilus_ was\nslackening, and I knew that it was allowing them to draw nearer.\nBesides, the reports were heard more distinctly, and the projectiles,\nlabouring through the ambient water, were extinguished with a strange\nhissing noise.\n\n My friends,  said I,  the moment is come. One grasp of the hand, and\nmay God protect us! \n\nNed Land was resolute, Conseil calm, myself so nervous that I knew not\nhow to contain myself. We all passed into the library; but the moment I\npushed the door opening on to the central staircase, I heard the upper\npanel close sharply. The Canadian rushed on to the stairs, but I\nstopped him. A well-known hissing noise told me that the water was\nrunning into the reservoirs, and in a few minutes the _Nautilus_ was\nsome yards beneath the surface of the waves. I understood the man uvre.\nIt was too late to act. The _Nautilus_ did not wish to strike at the\nimpenetrable cuirass, but below the water-line, where the metallic\ncovering no longer protected it.\n\nWe were again imprisoned, unwilling witnesses of the dreadful drama\nthat was preparing. We had scarcely time to reflect; taking refuge in\nmy room, we looked at each other without speaking. A deep stupor had\ntaken hold of my mind: thought seemed to stand still. I was in that\npainful state of expectation preceding a dreadful report. I waited, I\nlistened, every sense was merged in that of hearing! The speed of the\n_Nautilus_ was accelerated. It was preparing to rush. The whole ship\ntrembled. Suddenly I screamed. I felt the shock, but comparatively\nlight. I felt the penetrating power of the steel spur. I heard\nrattlings and scrapings. But the _Nautilus_, carried along by its\npropelling power, passed through the mass of the vessel like a needle\nthrough sailcloth!\n\nI could stand it no longer. Mad, out of my mind, I rushed from my room\ninto the saloon. Captain Nemo was there, mute, gloomy, implacable; he\nwas looking through the port panel. A large mass cast a shadow on the\nwater; and, that it might lose nothing of her agony, the _Nautilus_ was\ngoing down into the abyss with her. Ten yards from me I saw the open\nshell, through which the water was rushing with the noise of thunder,\nthen the double line of guns and the netting. The bridge was covered\nwith black, agitated shadows.\n\nThe water was rising. The poor creatures were crowding the ratlines,\nclinging to the masts, struggling under the water. It was a human\nant-heap overtaken by the sea. Paralysed, stiffened with anguish, my\nhair standing on end, with eyes wide open, panting, without breath, and\nwithout voice, I too was watching! An irresistible attraction glued me\nto the glass! Suddenly an explosion took place. The compressed air blew\nup her decks, as if the magazines had caught fire. Then the unfortunate\nvessel sank more rapidly. Her topmast, laden with victims, now\nappeared; then her spars, bending under the weight of men; and, last of\nall, the top of her mainmast. Then the dark mass disappeared, and with\nit the dead crew, drawn down by the strong eddy.\n\n\n[Illustration] The unfortunate vessel sank more rapidly\n\n\nI turned to Captain Nemo. That terrible avenger, a perfect archangel of\nhatred, was still looking. When all was over, he turned to his room,\nopened the door, and entered. I followed him with my eyes. On the end\nwall beneath his heroes, I saw the portrait of a woman, still young,\nand two little children. Captain Nemo looked at them for some moments,\nstretched his arms towards them, and, kneeling down, burst into deep\nsobs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\nTHE LAST WORDS OF CAPTAIN NEMO\n\n\nThe panels had closed on this dreadful vision, but light had not\nreturned to the saloon: all was silence and darkness within the\n_Nautilus_. At wonderful speed, a hundred feet beneath the water, it\nwas leaving this desolate spot. Whither was it going? To the north or\nsouth? Where was the man flying to after such dreadful retaliation? I\nhad returned to my room, where Ned and Conseil had remained silent\nenough. I felt an insurmountable horror for Captain Nemo. Whatever he\nhad suffered at the hands of these men, he had no right to punish thus.\nHe had made me, if not an accomplice, at least a witness of his\nvengeance. At eleven the electric light reappeared. I passed into the\nsaloon. It was deserted. I consulted the different instruments. The\n_Nautilus_ was flying northward at the rate of twenty-five miles an\nhour, now on the surface, and now thirty feet below it. On taking the\nbearings by the chart, I saw that we were passing the mouth of the\nManche, and that our course was hurrying us towards the northern seas\nat a frightful speed. That night we had crossed two hundred leagues of\nthe Atlantic. The shadows fell, and the sea was covered with darkness\nuntil the rising of the moon. I went to my room, but could not sleep. I\nwas troubled with dreadful nightmare. The horrible scene of destruction\nwas continually before my eyes. From that day, who could tell into what\npart of the North Atlantic basin the _Nautilus_ would take us? Still\nwith unaccountable speed. Still in the midst of these northern fogs.\nWould it touch at Spitzbergen, or on the shores of Nova Zembla? Should\nwe explore those unknown seas, the White Sea, the Sea of Kara, the Gulf\nof Obi, the Archipelago of Liarrov, and the unknown coast of Asia? I\ncould not say. I could no longer judge of the time that was passing.\nThe clocks had been stopped on board. It seemed, as in polar countries,\nthat night and day no longer followed their regular course. I felt\nmyself being drawn into that strange region where the foundered\nimagination of Edgar Poe roamed at will. Like the fabulous Gordon Pym,\nat every moment I expected to see  that veiled human figure, of larger\nproportions than those of any inhabitant of the earth, thrown across\nthe cataract which defends the approach to the pole.  I estimated\n(though, perhaps, I may be mistaken) I estimated this adventurous\ncourse of the _Nautilus_ to have lasted fifteen or twenty days. And I\nknow not how much longer it might have lasted, had it not been for the\ncatastrophe which ended this voyage. Of Captain Nemo I saw nothing\nwhatever now, nor of his second. Not a man of the crew was visible for\nan instant. The _Nautilus_ was almost incessantly under water. When we\ncame to the surface to renew the air, the panels opened and shut\nmechanically. There were no more marks on the planisphere. I knew not\nwhere we were. And the Canadian, too, his strength and patience at an\nend, appeared no more. Conseil could not draw a word from him; and,\nfearing that, in a dreadful fit of madness, he might kill himself,\nwatched him with constant devotion. One morning (what date it was I\ncould not say) I had fallen into a heavy sleep towards the early hours,\na sleep both painful and unhealthy, when I suddenly awoke. Ned Land was\nleaning over me, saying, in a low voice,  We are going to fly.  I sat\nup.\n\n When shall we go?  I asked.\n\n To-night. All inspection on board the _Nautilus_ seems to have ceased.\nAll appear to be stupefied. You will be ready, sir? \n\n Yes; where are we? \n\n In sight of land. I took the reckoning this morning in the fog twenty\nmiles to the east. \n\n What country is it? \n\n I do not know; but, whatever it is, we will take refuge there. \n\n Yes, Ned, yes. We will fly to-night, even if the sea should swallow us\nup. \n\n The sea is bad, the wind violent, but twenty miles in that light boat\nof the _Nautilus_ does not frighten me. Unknown to the crew, I have\nbeen able to procure food and some bottles of water. \n\n I will follow you. \n\n But,  continued the Canadian,  if I am surprised, I will defend\nmyself; I will force them to kill me. \n\n We will die together, friend Ned. \n\nI had made up my mind to all. The Canadian left me. I reached the\nplatform, on which I could with difficulty support myself against the\nshock of the waves. The sky was threatening; but, as land was in those\nthick brown shadows, we must fly. I returned to the saloon, fearing and\nyet hoping to see Captain Nemo, wishing and yet not wishing to see him.\nWhat could I have said to him? Could I hide the involuntary horror with\nwhich he inspired me? No. It was better that I should not meet him face\nto face; better to forget him. And yet  How long seemed that day, the\nlast that I should pass in the _Nautilus_. I remained alone. Ned Land\nand Conseil avoided speaking, for fear of betraying themselves. At six\nI dined, but I was not hungry; I forced myself to eat in spite of my\ndisgust, that I might not weaken myself. At half-past six Ned Land came\nto my room, saying,  We shall not see each other again before our\ndeparture. At ten the moon will not be risen. We will profit by the\ndarkness. Come to the boat; Conseil and I will wait for you. \n\nThe Canadian went out without giving me time to answer. Wishing to\nverify the course of the _Nautilus_, I went to the saloon. We were\nrunning N.N.E. at frightful speed, and more than fifty yards deep. I\ncast a last look on these wonders of nature, on the riches of art\nheaped up in this museum, upon the unrivalled collection destined to\nperish at the bottom of the sea, with him who had formed it. I wished\nto fix an indelible impression of it in my mind. I remained an hour\nthus, bathed in the light of that luminous ceiling, and passing in\nreview those treasures shining under their glasses. Then I returned to\nmy room.\n\nI dressed myself in strong sea clothing. I collected my notes, placing\nthem carefully about me. My heart beat loudly. I could not check its\npulsations. Certainly my trouble and agitation would have betrayed me\nto Captain Nemo s eyes. What was he doing at this moment? I listened at\nthe door of his room. I heard steps. Captain Nemo was there. He had not\ngone to rest. At every moment I expected to see him appear, and ask me\nwhy I wished to fly. I was constantly on the alert. My imagination\nmagnified everything. The impression became at last so poignant that I\nasked myself if it would not be better to go to the Captain s room, see\nhim face to face, and brave him with look and gesture.\n\nIt was the inspiration of a madman; fortunately I resisted the desire,\nand stretched myself on my bed to quiet my bodily agitation. My nerves\nwere somewhat calmer, but in my excited brain I saw over again all my\nexistence on board the _Nautilus;_ every incident, either happy or\nunfortunate, which had happened since my disappearance from the\n_Abraham Lincoln_ the submarine hunt, the Torres Straits, the savages\nof Papua, the running ashore, the coral cemetery, the passage of Suez,\nthe Island of Santorin, the Cretan diver, Vigo Bay, Atlantis, the\niceberg, the South Pole, the imprisonment in the ice, the fight among\nthe poulps, the storm in the Gulf Stream, the Avenger, and the horrible\nscene of the vessel sunk with all her crew. All these events passed\nbefore my eyes like scenes in a drama. Then Captain Nemo seemed to grow\nenormously, his features to assume superhuman proportions. He was no\nlonger my equal, but a man of the waters, the genie of the sea.\n\nIt was then half-past nine. I held my head between my hands to keep it\nfrom bursting. I closed my eyes; I would not think any longer. There\nwas another half-hour to wait, another half-hour of a nightmare, which\nmight drive me mad.\n\nAt that moment I heard the distant strains of the organ, a sad harmony\nto an undefinable chant, the wail of a soul longing to break these\nearthly bonds. I listened with every sense, scarcely breathing;\nplunged, like Captain Nemo, in that musical ecstasy, which was drawing\nhim in spirit to the end of life.\n\nThen a sudden thought terrified me. Captain Nemo had left his room. He\nwas in the saloon, which I must cross to fly. There I should meet him\nfor the last time. He would see me, perhaps speak to me. A gesture of\nhis might destroy me, a single word chain me on board.\n\nBut ten was about to strike. The moment had come for me to leave my\nroom, and join my companions.\n\nI must not hesitate, even if Captain Nemo himself should rise before\nme. I opened my door carefully; and even then, as it turned on its\nhinges, it seemed to me to make a dreadful noise. Perhaps it only\nexisted in my own imagination.\n\nI crept along the dark stairs of the _Nautilus_, stopping at each step\nto check the beating of my heart. I reached the door of the saloon, and\nopened it gently. It was plunged in profound darkness. The strains of\nthe organ sounded faintly. Captain Nemo was there. He did not see me.\nIn the full light I do not think he would have noticed me, so entirely\nwas he absorbed in the ecstasy.\n\nI crept along the carpet, avoiding the slightest sound which might\nbetray my presence. I was at least five minutes reaching the door, at\nthe opposite side, opening into the library.\n\nI was going to open it, when a sigh from Captain Nemo nailed me to the\nspot. I knew that he was rising. I could even see him, for the light\nfrom the library came through to the saloon. He came towards me\nsilently, with his arms crossed, gliding like a spectre rather than\nwalking. His breast was swelling with sobs; and I heard him murmur\nthese words (the last which ever struck my ear):\n\n Almighty God! enough! enough! \n\nWas it a confession of remorse which thus escaped from this man s\nconscience?\n\nIn desperation, I rushed through the library, mounted the central\nstaircase, and, following the upper flight, reached the boat. I crept\nthrough the opening, which had already admitted my two companions.\n\n Let us go! let us go!  I exclaimed.\n\n Directly!  replied the Canadian.\n\nThe orifice in the plates of the _Nautilus_ was first closed, and\nfastened down by means of a false key, with which Ned Land had provided\nhimself; the opening in the boat was also closed. The Canadian began to\nloosen the bolts which still held us to the submarine boat.\n\nSuddenly a noise was heard. Voices were answering each other loudly.\nWhat was the matter? Had they discovered our flight? I felt Ned Land\nslipping a dagger into my hand.\n\n Yes,  I murmured,  we know how to die! \n\nThe Canadian had stopped in his work. But one word many times repeated,\na dreadful word, revealed the cause of the agitation spreading on board\nthe _Nautilus_. It was not we the crew were looking after!\n\n The maelstrom! the maelstrom!  Could a more dreadful word in a more\ndreadful situation have sounded in our ears! We were then upon the\ndangerous coast of Norway. Was the _Nautilus_ being drawn into this\ngulf at the moment our boat was going to leave its sides? We knew that\nat the tide the pent-up waters between the islands of Ferroe and\nLoffoden rush with irresistible violence, forming a whirlpool from\nwhich no vessel ever escapes. From every point of the horizon enormous\nwaves were meeting, forming a gulf justly called the  Navel of the\nOcean,  whose power of attraction extends to a distance of twelve\nmiles. There, not only vessels, but whales are sacrificed, as well as\nwhite bears from the northern regions.\n\nIt is thither that the _Nautilus_, voluntarily or involuntarily, had\nbeen run by the Captain.\n\nIt was describing a spiral, the circumference of which was lessening by\ndegrees, and the boat, which was still fastened to its side, was\ncarried along with giddy speed. I felt that sickly giddiness which\narises from long-continued whirling round.\n\nWe were in dread. Our horror was at its height, circulation had\nstopped, all nervous influence was annihilated, and we were covered\nwith cold sweat, like a sweat of agony! And what noise around our frail\nbark! What roarings repeated by the echo miles away! What an uproar was\nthat of the waters broken on the sharp rocks at the bottom, where the\nhardest bodies are crushed, and trees worn away,  with all the fur\nrubbed off,  according to the Norwegian phrase!\n\nWhat a situation to be in! We rocked frightfully. The _Nautilus_\ndefended itself like a human being. Its steel muscles cracked.\nSometimes it seemed to stand upright, and we with it!\n\n We must hold on,  said Ned,  and look after the bolts. We may still be\nsaved if we stick to the _Nautilus_. \n\nHe had not finished the words, when we heard a crashing noise, the\nbolts gave way, and the boat, torn from its groove, was hurled like a\nstone from a sling into the midst of the whirlpool.\n\nMy head struck on a piece of iron, and with the violent shock I lost\nall consciousness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\nCONCLUSION\n\n\nThus ends the voyage under the seas. What passed during that night how\nthe boat escaped from the eddies of the maelstrom how Ned Land,\nConseil, and myself ever came out of the gulf, I cannot tell.\n\nBut when I returned to consciousness, I was lying in a fisherman s hut,\non the Loffoden Isles. My two companions, safe and sound, were near me\nholding my hands. We embraced each other heartily.\n\nAt that moment we could not think of returning to France. The means of\ncommunication between the north of Norway and the south are rare. And I\nam therefore obliged to wait for the steamboat running monthly from\nCape North.\n\nAnd, among the worthy people who have so kindly received us, I revise\nmy record of these adventures once more. Not a fact has been omitted,\nnot a detail exaggerated. It is a faithful narrative of this incredible\nexpedition in an element inaccessible to man, but to which Progress\nwill one day open a road.\n\nShall I be believed? I do not know. And it matters little, after all.\nWhat I now affirm is, that I have a right to speak of these seas, under\nwhich, in less than ten months, I have crossed 20,000 leagues in that\nsubmarine tour of the world, which has revealed so many wonders.\n\nBut what has become of the _Nautilus?_ Did it resist the pressure of\nthe maelstrom? Does Captain Nemo still live? And does he still follow\nunder the ocean those frightful retaliations? Or, did he stop after the\nlast hecatomb?\n\nWill the waves one day carry to him this manuscript containing the\nhistory of his life? Shall I ever know the name of this man? Will the\nmissing vessel tell us by its nationality that of Captain Nemo?\n\nI hope so. And I also hope that his powerful vessel has conquered the\nsea at its most terrible gulf, and that the _Nautilus_ has survived\nwhere so many other vessels have been lost! If it be so if Captain Nemo\nstill inhabits the ocean, his adopted country, may hatred be appeased\nin that savage heart! May the contemplation of so many wonders\nextinguish for ever the spirit of vengeance! May the judge disappear,\nand the philosopher continue the peaceful exploration of the sea! If\nhis destiny be strange, it is also sublime. Have I not understood it\nmyself? Have I not lived ten months of this unnatural life? And to the\nquestion asked by Ecclesiastes three thousand years ago,  That which is\nfar off and exceeding deep, who can find it out?  two men alone of all\nnow living have the right to give an answer \n\nCAPTAIN NEMO AND MYSELF."
    },
    {
        "title": "A Princess of Mars",
        "author": "Edgar Rice Burroughs",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "FOREWORD\n\n\nTo the Reader of this Work:\n\n\nIn submitting Captain Carter s strange manuscript to you in book form,\nI believe that a few words relative to this remarkable personality will\nbe of interest.\n\nMy first recollection of Captain Carter is of the few months he spent\nat my father s home in Virginia, just prior to the opening of the civil\nwar. I was then a child of but five years, yet I well remember the\ntall, dark, smooth-faced, athletic man whom I called Uncle Jack.\n\nHe seemed always to be laughing; and he entered into the sports of the\nchildren with the same hearty good fellowship he displayed toward those\npastimes in which the men and women of his own age indulged; or he\nwould sit for an hour at a time entertaining my old grandmother with\nstories of his strange, wild life in all parts of the world. We all\nloved him, and our slaves fairly worshipped the ground he trod.\n\nHe was a splendid specimen of manhood, standing a good two inches over\nsix feet, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, with the carriage of the\ntrained fighting man. His features were regular and clear cut, his hair\nblack and closely cropped, while his eyes were of a steel gray,\nreflecting a strong and loyal character, filled with fire and\ninitiative. His manners were perfect, and his courtliness was that of a\ntypical southern gentleman of the highest type.\n\nHis horsemanship, especially after hounds, was a marvel and delight\neven in that country of magnificent horsemen. I have often heard my\nfather caution him against his wild recklessness, but he would only\nlaugh, and say that the tumble that killed him would be from the back\nof a horse yet unfoaled.\n\nWhen the war broke out he left us, nor did I see him again for some\nfifteen or sixteen years. When he returned it was without warning, and\nI was much surprised to note that he had not aged apparently a moment,\nnor had he changed in any other outward way. He was, when others were\nwith him, the same genial, happy fellow we had known of old, but when\nhe thought himself alone I have seen him sit for hours gazing off into\nspace, his face set in a look of wistful longing and hopeless misery;\nand at night he would sit thus looking up into the heavens, at what I\ndid not know until I read his manuscript years afterward.\n\nHe told us that he had been prospecting and mining in Arizona part of\nthe time since the war; and that he had been very successful was\nevidenced by the unlimited amount of money with which he was supplied.\nAs to the details of his life during these years he was very reticent,\nin fact he would not talk of them at all.\n\nHe remained with us for about a year and then went to New York, where\nhe purchased a little place on the Hudson, where I visited him once a\nyear on the occasions of my trips to the New York market my father and\nI owning and operating a string of general stores throughout Virginia\nat that time. Captain Carter had a small but beautiful cottage,\nsituated on a bluff overlooking the river, and during one of my last\nvisits, in the winter of 1885, I observed he was much occupied in\nwriting, I presume now, upon this manuscript.\n\nHe told me at this time that if anything should happen to him he wished\nme to take charge of his estate, and he gave me a key to a compartment\nin the safe which stood in his study, telling me I would find his will\nthere and some personal instructions which he had me pledge myself to\ncarry out with absolute fidelity.\n\nAfter I had retired for the night I have seen him from my window\nstanding in the moonlight on the brink of the bluff overlooking the\nHudson with his arms stretched out to the heavens as though in appeal.\nI thought at the time that he was praying, although I never understood\nthat he was in the strict sense of the term a religious man.\n\nSeveral months after I had returned home from my last visit, the first\nof March, 1886, I think, I received a telegram from him asking me to\ncome to him at once. I had always been his favorite among the younger\ngeneration of Carters and so I hastened to comply with his demand.\n\nI arrived at the little station, about a mile from his grounds, on the\nmorning of March 4, 1886, and when I asked the livery man to drive me\nout to Captain Carter s he replied that if I was a friend of the\nCaptain s he had some very bad news for me; the Captain had been found\ndead shortly after daylight that very morning by the watchman attached\nto an adjoining property.\n\nFor some reason this news did not surprise me, but I hurried out to his\nplace as quickly as possible, so that I could take charge of the body\nand of his affairs.\n\nI found the watchman who had discovered him, together with the local\npolice chief and several townspeople, assembled in his little study.\nThe watchman related the few details connected with the finding of the\nbody, which he said had been still warm when he came upon it. It lay,\nhe said, stretched full length in the snow with the arms outstretched\nabove the head toward the edge of the bluff, and when he showed me the\nspot it flashed upon me that it was the identical one where I had seen\nhim on those other nights, with his arms raised in supplication to the\nskies.\n\nThere were no marks of violence on the body, and with the aid of a\nlocal physician the coroner s jury quickly reached a decision of death\nfrom heart failure. Left alone in the study, I opened the safe and\nwithdrew the contents of the drawer in which he had told me I would\nfind my instructions. They were in part peculiar indeed, but I have\nfollowed them to each last detail as faithfully as I was able.\n\nHe directed that I remove his body to Virginia without embalming, and\nthat he be laid in an open coffin within a tomb which he previously had\nhad constructed and which, as I later learned, was well ventilated. The\ninstructions impressed upon me that I must personally see that this was\ncarried out just as he directed, even in secrecy if necessary.\n\nHis property was left in such a way that I was to receive the entire\nincome for twenty-five years, when the principal was to become mine.\nHis further instructions related to this manuscript which I was to\nretain sealed and unread, just as I found it, for eleven years; nor was\nI to divulge its contents until twenty-one years after his death.\n\nA strange feature about the tomb, where his body still lies, is that\nthe massive door is equipped with a single, huge gold-plated spring\nlock which can be opened _only from the inside_.\n\nYours very sincerely,\nEdgar Rice Burroughs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\nON THE ARIZONA HILLS\n\n\nI am a very old man; how old I do not know. Possibly I am a hundred,\npossibly more; but I cannot tell because I have never aged as other\nmen, nor do I remember any childhood. So far as I can recollect I have\nalways been a man, a man of about thirty. I appear today as I did forty\nyears and more ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on living forever;\nthat some day I shall die the real death from which there is no\nresurrection. I do not know why I should fear death, I who have died\ntwice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you\nwho have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I\nbelieve, that I am so convinced of my mortality.\n\nAnd because of this conviction I have determined to write down the\nstory of the interesting periods of my life and of my death. I cannot\nexplain the phenomena; I can only set down here in the words of an\nordinary soldier of fortune a chronicle of the strange events that\nbefell me during the ten years that my dead body lay undiscovered in an\nArizona cave.\n\nI have never told this story, nor shall mortal man see this manuscript\nuntil after I have passed over for eternity. I know that the average\nhuman mind will not believe what it cannot grasp, and so I do not\npurpose being pilloried by the public, the pulpit, and the press, and\nheld up as a colossal liar when I am but telling the simple truths\nwhich some day science will substantiate. Possibly the suggestions\nwhich I gained upon Mars, and the knowledge which I can set down in\nthis chronicle, will aid in an earlier understanding of the mysteries\nof our sister planet; mysteries to you, but no longer mysteries to me.\n\nMy name is John Carter; I am better known as Captain Jack Carter of\nVirginia. At the close of the Civil War I found myself possessed of\nseveral hundred thousand dollars (Confederate) and a captain s\ncommission in the cavalry arm of an army which no longer existed; the\nservant of a state which had vanished with the hopes of the South.\nMasterless, penniless, and with my only means of livelihood, fighting,\ngone, I determined to work my way to the southwest and attempt to\nretrieve my fallen fortunes in a search for gold.\n\nI spent nearly a year prospecting in company with another Confederate\nofficer, Captain James K. Powell of Richmond. We were extremely\nfortunate, for late in the winter of 1865, after many hardships and\nprivations, we located the most remarkable gold-bearing quartz vein\nthat our wildest dreams had ever pictured. Powell, who was a mining\nengineer by education, stated that we had uncovered over a million\ndollars worth of ore in a trifle over three months.\n\nAs our equipment was crude in the extreme we decided that one of us\nmust return to civilization, purchase the necessary machinery and\nreturn with a sufficient force of men properly to work the mine.\n\nAs Powell was familiar with the country, as well as with the mechanical\nrequirements of mining we determined that it would be best for him to\nmake the trip. It was agreed that I was to hold down our claim against\nthe remote possibility of its being jumped by some wandering\nprospector.\n\nOn March 3, 1866, Powell and I packed his provisions on two of our\nburros, and bidding me good-bye he mounted his horse, and started down\nthe mountainside toward the valley, across which led the first stage of\nhis journey.\n\nThe morning of Powell s departure was, like nearly all Arizona\nmornings, clear and beautiful; I could see him and his little pack\nanimals picking their way down the mountainside toward the valley, and\nall during the morning I would catch occasional glimpses of them as\nthey topped a hog back or came out upon a level plateau. My last sight\nof Powell was about three in the afternoon as he entered the shadows of\nthe range on the opposite side of the valley.\n\nSome half hour later I happened to glance casually across the valley\nand was much surprised to note three little dots in about the same\nplace I had last seen my friend and his two pack animals. I am not\ngiven to needless worrying, but the more I tried to convince myself\nthat all was well with Powell, and that the dots I had seen on his\ntrail were antelope or wild horses, the less I was able to assure\nmyself.\n\nSince we had entered the territory we had not seen a hostile Indian,\nand we had, therefore, become careless in the extreme, and were wont to\nridicule the stories we had heard of the great numbers of these vicious\nmarauders that were supposed to haunt the trails, taking their toll in\nlives and torture of every white party which fell into their merciless\nclutches.\n\nPowell, I knew, was well armed and, further, an experienced Indian\nfighter; but I too had lived and fought for years among the Sioux in\nthe North, and I knew that his chances were small against a party of\ncunning trailing Apaches. Finally I could endure the suspense no\nlonger, and, arming myself with my two Colt revolvers and a carbine, I\nstrapped two belts of cartridges about me and catching my saddle horse,\nstarted down the trail taken by Powell in the morning.\n\nAs soon as I reached comparatively level ground I urged my mount into a\ncanter and continued this, where the going permitted, until, close upon\ndusk, I discovered the point where other tracks joined those of Powell.\nThey were the tracks of unshod ponies, three of them, and the ponies\nhad been galloping.\n\nI followed rapidly until, darkness shutting down, I was forced to await\nthe rising of the moon, and given an opportunity to speculate on the\nquestion of the wisdom of my chase. Possibly I had conjured up\nimpossible dangers, like some nervous old housewife, and when I should\ncatch up with Powell would get a good laugh for my pains. However, I am\nnot prone to sensitiveness, and the following of a sense of duty,\nwherever it may lead, has always been a kind of fetich with me\nthroughout my life; which may account for the honors bestowed upon me\nby three republics and the decorations and friendships of an old and\npowerful emperor and several lesser kings, in whose service my sword\nhas been red many a time.\n\nAbout nine o clock the moon was sufficiently bright for me to proceed\non my way and I had no difficulty in following the trail at a fast\nwalk, and in some places at a brisk trot until, about midnight, I\nreached the water hole where Powell had expected to camp. I came upon\nthe spot unexpectedly, finding it entirely deserted, with no signs of\nhaving been recently occupied as a camp.\n\nI was interested to note that the tracks of the pursuing horsemen, for\nsuch I was now convinced they must be, continued after Powell with only\na brief stop at the hole for water; and always at the same rate of\nspeed as his.\n\nI was positive now that the trailers were Apaches and that they wished\nto capture Powell alive for the fiendish pleasure of the torture, so I\nurged my horse onward at a most dangerous pace, hoping against hope\nthat I would catch up with the red rascals before they attacked him.\n\nFurther speculation was suddenly cut short by the faint report of two\nshots far ahead of me. I knew that Powell would need me now if ever,\nand I instantly urged my horse to his topmost speed up the narrow and\ndifficult mountain trail.\n\nI had forged ahead for perhaps a mile or more without hearing further\nsounds, when the trail suddenly debouched onto a small, open plateau\nnear the summit of the pass. I had passed through a narrow, overhanging\ngorge just before entering suddenly upon this table land, and the sight\nwhich met my eyes filled me with consternation and dismay.\n\nThe little stretch of level land was white with Indian tepees, and\nthere were probably half a thousand red warriors clustered around some\nobject near the center of the camp. Their attention was so wholly\nriveted to this point of interest that they did not notice me, and I\neasily could have turned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and\nmade my escape with perfect safety. The fact, however, that this\nthought did not occur to me until the following day removes any\npossible right to a claim to heroism to which the narration of this\nepisode might possibly otherwise entitle me.\n\nI do not believe that I am made of the stuff which constitutes heroes,\nbecause, in all of the hundreds of instances that my voluntary acts\nhave placed me face to face with death, I cannot recall a single one\nwhere any alternative step to that I took occurred to me until many\nhours later. My mind is evidently so constituted that I am\nsubconsciously forced into the path of duty without recourse to\ntiresome mental processes. However that may be, I have never regretted\nthat cowardice is not optional with me.\n\nIn this instance I was, of course, positive that Powell was the center\nof attraction, but whether I thought or acted first I do not know, but\nwithin an instant from the moment the scene broke upon my view I had\nwhipped out my revolvers and was charging down upon the entire army of\nwarriors, shooting rapidly, and whooping at the top of my lungs.\nSinglehanded, I could not have pursued better tactics, for the red men,\nconvinced by sudden surprise that not less than a regiment of regulars\nwas upon them, turned and fled in every direction for their bows,\narrows, and rifles.\n\nThe view which their hurried routing disclosed filled me with\napprehension and with rage. Under the clear rays of the Arizona moon\nlay Powell, his body fairly bristling with the hostile arrows of the\nbraves. That he was already dead I could not but be convinced, and yet\nI would have saved his body from mutilation at the hands of the Apaches\nas quickly as I would have saved the man himself from death.\n\nRiding close to him I reached down from the saddle, and grasping his\ncartridge belt drew him up across the withers of my mount. A backward\nglance convinced me that to return by the way I had come would be more\nhazardous than to continue across the plateau, so, putting spurs to my\npoor beast, I made a dash for the opening to the pass which I could\ndistinguish on the far side of the table land.\n\nThe Indians had by this time discovered that I was alone and I was\npursued with imprecations, arrows, and rifle balls. The fact that it is\ndifficult to aim anything but imprecations accurately by moonlight,\nthat they were upset by the sudden and unexpected manner of my advent,\nand that I was a rather rapidly moving target saved me from the various\ndeadly projectiles of the enemy and permitted me to reach the shadows\nof the surrounding peaks before an orderly pursuit could be organized.\n\nMy horse was traveling practically unguided as I knew that I had\nprobably less knowledge of the exact location of the trail to the pass\nthan he, and thus it happened that he entered a defile which led to the\nsummit of the range and not to the pass which I had hoped would carry\nme to the valley and to safety. It is probable, however, that to this\nfact I owe my life and the remarkable experiences and adventures which\nbefell me during the following ten years.\n\nMy first knowledge that I was on the wrong trail came when I heard the\nyells of the pursuing savages suddenly grow fainter and fainter far off\nto my left.\n\nI knew then that they had passed to the left of the jagged rock\nformation at the edge of the plateau, to the right of which my horse\nhad borne me and the body of Powell.\n\nI drew rein on a little level promontory overlooking the trail below\nand to my left, and saw the party of pursuing savages disappearing\naround the point of a neighboring peak.\n\nI knew the Indians would soon discover that they were on the wrong\ntrail and that the search for me would be renewed in the right\ndirection as soon as they located my tracks.\n\nI had gone but a short distance further when what seemed to be an\nexcellent trail opened up around the face of a high cliff. The trail\nwas level and quite broad and led upward and in the general direction I\nwished to go. The cliff arose for several hundred feet on my right, and\non my left was an equal and nearly perpendicular drop to the bottom of\na rocky ravine.\n\nI had followed this trail for perhaps a hundred yards when a sharp turn\nto the right brought me to the mouth of a large cave. The opening was\nabout four feet in height and three to four feet wide, and at this\nopening the trail ended.\n\nIt was now morning, and, with the customary lack of dawn which is a\nstartling characteristic of Arizona, it had become daylight almost\nwithout warning.\n\nDismounting, I laid Powell upon the ground, but the most painstaking\nexamination failed to reveal the faintest spark of life. I forced water\nfrom my canteen between his dead lips, bathed his face and rubbed his\nhands, working over him continuously for the better part of an hour in\nthe face of the fact that I knew him to be dead.\n\nI was very fond of Powell; he was thoroughly a man in every respect; a\npolished southern gentleman; a staunch and true friend; and it was with\na feeling of the deepest grief that I finally gave up my crude\nendeavors at resuscitation.\n\nLeaving Powell s body where it lay on the ledge I crept into the cave\nto reconnoiter. I found a large chamber, possibly a hundred feet in\ndiameter and thirty or forty feet in height; a smooth and well-worn\nfloor, and many other evidences that the cave had, at some remote\nperiod, been inhabited. The back of the cave was so lost in dense\nshadow that I could not distinguish whether there were openings into\nother apartments or not.\n\nAs I was continuing my examination I commenced to feel a pleasant\ndrowsiness creeping over me which I attributed to the fatigue of my\nlong and strenuous ride, and the reaction from the excitement of the\nfight and the pursuit. I felt comparatively safe in my present location\nas I knew that one man could defend the trail to the cave against an\narmy.\n\nI soon became so drowsy that I could scarcely resist the strong desire\nto throw myself on the floor of the cave for a few moments  rest, but I\nknew that this would never do, as it would mean certain death at the\nhands of my red friends, who might be upon me at any moment. With an\neffort I started toward the opening of the cave only to reel drunkenly\nagainst a side wall, and from there slip prone upon the floor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\nTHE ESCAPE OF THE DEAD\n\n\nA sense of delicious dreaminess overcame me, my muscles relaxed, and I\nwas on the point of giving way to my desire to sleep when the sound of\napproaching horses reached my ears. I attempted to spring to my feet\nbut was horrified to discover that my muscles refused to respond to my\nwill. I was now thoroughly awake, but as unable to move a muscle as\nthough turned to stone. It was then, for the first time, that I noticed\na slight vapor filling the cave. It was extremely tenuous and only\nnoticeable against the opening which led to daylight. There also came\nto my nostrils a faintly pungent odor, and I could only assume that I\nhad been overcome by some poisonous gas, but why I should retain my\nmental faculties and yet be unable to move I could not fathom.\n\nI lay facing the opening of the cave and where I could see the short\nstretch of trail which lay between the cave and the turn of the cliff\naround which the trail led. The noise of the approaching horses had\nceased, and I judged the Indians were creeping stealthily upon me along\nthe little ledge which led to my living tomb. I remember that I hoped\nthey would make short work of me as I did not particularly relish the\nthought of the innumerable things they might do to me if the spirit\nprompted them.\n\nI had not long to wait before a stealthy sound apprised me of their\nnearness, and then a war-bonneted, paint-streaked face was thrust\ncautiously around the shoulder of the cliff, and savage eyes looked\ninto mine. That he could see me in the dim light of the cave I was sure\nfor the early morning sun was falling full upon me through the opening.\n\nThe fellow, instead of approaching, merely stood and stared; his eyes\nbulging and his jaw dropped. And then another savage face appeared, and\na third and fourth and fifth, craning their necks over the shoulders of\ntheir fellows whom they could not pass upon the narrow ledge. Each face\nwas the picture of awe and fear, but for what reason I did not know,\nnor did I learn until ten years later. That there were still other\nbraves behind those who regarded me was apparent from the fact that the\nleaders passed back whispered word to those behind them.\n\nSuddenly a low but distinct moaning sound issued from the recesses of\nthe cave behind me, and, as it reached the ears of the Indians, they\nturned and fled in terror, panic-stricken. So frantic were their\nefforts to escape from the unseen thing behind me that one of the\nbraves was hurled headlong from the cliff to the rocks below. Their\nwild cries echoed in the canyon for a short time, and then all was\nstill once more.\n\nThe sound which had frightened them was not repeated, but it had been\nsufficient as it was to start me speculating on the possible horror\nwhich lurked in the shadows at my back. Fear is a relative term and so\nI can only measure my feelings at that time by what I had experienced\nin previous positions of danger and by those that I have passed through\nsince; but I can say without shame that if the sensations I endured\nduring the next few minutes were fear, then may God help the coward,\nfor cowardice is of a surety its own punishment.\n\nTo be held paralyzed, with one s back toward some horrible and unknown\ndanger from the very sound of which the ferocious Apache warriors turn\nin wild stampede, as a flock of sheep would madly flee from a pack of\nwolves, seems to me the last word in fearsome predicaments for a man\nwho had ever been used to fighting for his life with all the energy of\na powerful physique.\n\nSeveral times I thought I heard faint sounds behind me as of somebody\nmoving cautiously, but eventually even these ceased, and I was left to\nthe contemplation of my position without interruption. I could but\nvaguely conjecture the cause of my paralysis, and my only hope lay in\nthat it might pass off as suddenly as it had fallen upon me.\n\nLate in the afternoon my horse, which had been standing with dragging\nrein before the cave, started slowly down the trail, evidently in\nsearch of food and water, and I was left alone with my mysterious\nunknown companion and the dead body of my friend, which lay just within\nmy range of vision upon the ledge where I had placed it in the early\nmorning.\n\nFrom then until possibly midnight all was silence, the silence of the\ndead; then, suddenly, the awful moan of the morning broke upon my\nstartled ears, and there came again from the black shadows the sound of\na moving thing, and a faint rustling as of dead leaves. The shock to my\nalready overstrained nervous system was terrible in the extreme, and\nwith a superhuman effort I strove to break my awful bonds. It was an\neffort of the mind, of the will, of the nerves; not muscular, for I\ncould not move even so much as my little finger, but none the less\nmighty for all that. And then something gave, there was a momentary\nfeeling of nausea, a sharp click as of the snapping of a steel wire,\nand I stood with my back against the wall of the cave facing my unknown\nfoe.\n\nAnd then the moonlight flooded the cave, and there before me lay my own\nbody as it had been lying all these hours, with the eyes staring toward\nthe open ledge and the hands resting limply upon the ground. I looked\nfirst at my lifeless clay there upon the floor of the cave and then\ndown at myself in utter bewilderment; for there I lay clothed, and yet\nhere I stood but naked as at the minute of my birth.\n\nThe transition had been so sudden and so unexpected that it left me for\na moment forgetful of aught else than my strange metamorphosis. My\nfirst thought was, is this then death! Have I indeed passed over\nforever into that other life! But I could not well believe this, as I\ncould feel my heart pounding against my ribs from the exertion of my\nefforts to release myself from the anaesthesis which had held me. My\nbreath was coming in quick, short gasps, cold sweat stood out from\nevery pore of my body, and the ancient experiment of pinching revealed\nthe fact that I was anything other than a wraith.\n\nAgain was I suddenly recalled to my immediate surroundings by a\nrepetition of the weird moan from the depths of the cave. Naked and\nunarmed as I was, I had no desire to face the unseen thing which\nmenaced me.\n\nMy revolvers were strapped to my lifeless body which, for some\nunfathomable reason, I could not bring myself to touch. My carbine was\nin its boot, strapped to my saddle, and as my horse had wandered off I\nwas left without means of defense. My only alternative seemed to lie in\nflight and my decision was crystallized by a recurrence of the rustling\nsound from the thing which now seemed, in the darkness of the cave and\nto my distorted imagination, to be creeping stealthily upon me.\n\nUnable longer to resist the temptation to escape this horrible place I\nleaped quickly through the opening into the starlight of a clear\nArizona night. The crisp, fresh mountain air outside the cave acted as\nan immediate tonic and I felt new life and new courage coursing through\nme. Pausing upon the brink of the ledge I upbraided myself for what now\nseemed to me wholly unwarranted apprehension. I reasoned with myself\nthat I had lain helpless for many hours within the cave, yet nothing\nhad molested me, and my better judgment, when permitted the direction\nof clear and logical reasoning, convinced me that the noises I had\nheard must have resulted from purely natural and harmless causes;\nprobably the conformation of the cave was such that a slight breeze had\ncaused the sounds I heard.\n\nI decided to investigate, but first I lifted my head to fill my lungs\nwith the pure, invigorating night air of the mountains. As I did so I\nsaw stretching far below me the beautiful vista of rocky gorge, and\nlevel, cacti-studded flat, wrought by the moonlight into a miracle of\nsoft splendor and wondrous enchantment.\n\nFew western wonders are more inspiring than the beauties of an Arizona\nmoonlit landscape; the silvered mountains in the distance, the strange\nlights and shadows upon hog back and arroyo, and the grotesque details\nof the stiff, yet beautiful cacti form a picture at once enchanting and\ninspiring; as though one were catching for the first time a glimpse of\nsome dead and forgotten world, so different is it from the aspect of\nany other spot upon our earth.\n\nAs I stood thus meditating, I turned my gaze from the landscape to the\nheavens where the myriad stars formed a gorgeous and fitting canopy for\nthe wonders of the earthly scene. My attention was quickly riveted by a\nlarge red star close to the distant horizon. As I gazed upon it I felt\na spell of overpowering fascination it was Mars, the god of war, and\nfor me, the fighting man, it had always held the power of irresistible\nenchantment. As I gazed at it on that far-gone night it seemed to call\nacross the unthinkable void, to lure me to it, to draw me as the\nlodestone attracts a particle of iron.\n\nMy longing was beyond the power of opposition; I closed my eyes,\nstretched out my arms toward the god of my vocation and felt myself\ndrawn with the suddenness of thought through the trackless immensity of\nspace. There was an instant of extreme cold and utter darkness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\nMY ADVENT ON MARS\n\n\nI opened my eyes upon a strange and weird landscape. I knew that I was\non Mars; not once did I question either my sanity or my wakefulness. I\nwas not asleep, no need for pinching here; my inner consciousness told\nme as plainly that I was upon Mars as your conscious mind tells you\nthat you are upon Earth. You do not question the fact; neither did I.\n\nI found myself lying prone upon a bed of yellowish, mosslike vegetation\nwhich stretched around me in all directions for interminable miles. I\nseemed to be lying in a deep, circular basin, along the outer verge of\nwhich I could distinguish the irregularities of low hills.\n\nIt was midday, the sun was shining full upon me and the heat of it was\nrather intense upon my naked body, yet no greater than would have been\ntrue under similar conditions on an Arizona desert. Here and there were\nslight outcroppings of quartz-bearing rock which glistened in the\nsunlight; and a little to my left, perhaps a hundred yards, appeared a\nlow, walled enclosure about four feet in height. No water, and no other\nvegetation than the moss was in evidence, and as I was somewhat thirsty\nI determined to do a little exploring.\n\nSpringing to my feet I received my first Martian surprise, for the\neffort, which on Earth would have brought me standing upright, carried\nme into the Martian air to the height of about three yards. I alighted\nsoftly upon the ground, however, without appreciable shock or jar. Now\ncommenced a series of evolutions which even then seemed ludicrous in\nthe extreme. I found that I must learn to walk all over again, as the\nmuscular exertion which carried me easily and safely upon Earth played\nstrange antics with me upon Mars.\n\nInstead of progressing in a sane and dignified manner, my attempts to\nwalk resulted in a variety of hops which took me clear of the ground a\ncouple of feet at each step and landed me sprawling upon my face or\nback at the end of each second or third hop. My muscles, perfectly\nattuned and accustomed to the force of gravity on Earth, played the\nmischief with me in attempting for the first time to cope with the\nlesser gravitation and lower air pressure on Mars.\n\nI was determined, however, to explore the low structure which was the\nonly evidence of habitation in sight, and so I hit upon the unique plan\nof reverting to first principles in locomotion, creeping. I did fairly\nwell at this and in a few moments had reached the low, encircling wall\nof the enclosure.\n\nThere appeared to be no doors or windows upon the side nearest me, but\nas the wall was but about four feet high I cautiously gained my feet\nand peered over the top upon the strangest sight it had ever been given\nme to see.\n\nThe roof of the enclosure was of solid glass about four or five inches\nin thickness, and beneath this were several hundred large eggs,\nperfectly round and snowy white. The eggs were nearly uniform in size\nbeing about two and one-half feet in diameter.\n\nFive or six had already hatched and the grotesque caricatures which sat\nblinking in the sunlight were enough to cause me to doubt my sanity.\nThey seemed mostly head, with little scrawny bodies, long necks and six\nlegs, or, as I afterward learned, two legs and two arms, with an\nintermediary pair of limbs which could be used at will either as arms\nor legs. Their eyes were set at the extreme sides of their heads a\ntrifle above the center and protruded in such a manner that they could\nbe directed either forward or back and also independently of each\nother, thus permitting this queer animal to look in any direction, or\nin two directions at once, without the necessity of turning the head.\n\nThe ears, which were slightly above the eyes and closer together, were\nsmall, cup-shaped antennae, protruding not more than an inch on these\nyoung specimens. Their noses were but longitudinal slits in the center\nof their faces, midway between their mouths and ears.\n\nThere was no hair on their bodies, which were of a very light\nyellowish-green color. In the adults, as I was to learn quite soon,\nthis color deepens to an olive green and is darker in the male than in\nthe female. Further, the heads of the adults are not so out of\nproportion to their bodies as in the case of the young.\n\nThe iris of the eyes is blood red, as in Albinos, while the pupil is\ndark. The eyeball itself is very white, as are the teeth. These latter\nadd a most ferocious appearance to an otherwise fearsome and terrible\ncountenance, as the lower tusks curve upward to sharp points which end\nabout where the eyes of earthly human beings are located. The whiteness\nof the teeth is not that of ivory, but of the snowiest and most\ngleaming of china. Against the dark background of their olive skins\ntheir tusks stand out in a most striking manner, making these weapons\npresent a singularly formidable appearance.\n\nMost of these details I noted later, for I was given but little time to\nspeculate on the wonders of my new discovery. I had seen that the eggs\nwere in the process of hatching, and as I stood watching the hideous\nlittle monsters break from their shells I failed to note the approach\nof a score of full-grown Martians from behind me.\n\nComing, as they did, over the soft and soundless moss, which covers\npractically the entire surface of Mars with the exception of the frozen\nareas at the poles and the scattered cultivated districts, they might\nhave captured me easily, but their intentions were far more sinister.\nIt was the rattling of the accouterments of the foremost warrior which\nwarned me.\n\nOn such a little thing my life hung that I often marvel that I escaped\nso easily. Had not the rifle of the leader of the party swung from its\nfastenings beside his saddle in such a way as to strike against the\nbutt of his great metal-shod spear I should have snuffed out without\never knowing that death was near me. But the little sound caused me to\nturn, and there upon me, not ten feet from my breast, was the point of\nthat huge spear, a spear forty feet long, tipped with gleaming metal,\nand held low at the side of a mounted replica of the little devils I\nhad been watching.\n\nBut how puny and harmless they now looked beside this huge and terrific\nincarnation of hate, of vengeance and of death. The man himself, for\nsuch I may call him, was fully fifteen feet in height and, on Earth,\nwould have weighed some four hundred pounds. He sat his mount as we sit\na horse, grasping the animal s barrel with his lower limbs, while the\nhands of his two right arms held his immense spear low at the side of\nhis mount; his two left arms were outstretched laterally to help\npreserve his balance, the thing he rode having neither bridle or reins\nof any description for guidance.\n\nAnd his mount! How can earthly words describe it! It towered ten feet\nat the shoulder; had four legs on either side; a broad flat tail,\nlarger at the tip than at the root, and which it held straight out\nbehind while running; a gaping mouth which split its head from its\nsnout to its long, massive neck.\n\nLike its master, it was entirely devoid of hair, but was of a dark\nslate color and exceeding smooth and glossy. Its belly was white, and\nits legs shaded from the slate of its shoulders and hips to a vivid\nyellow at the feet. The feet themselves were heavily padded and\nnailless, which fact had also contributed to the noiselessness of their\napproach, and, in common with a multiplicity of legs, is a\ncharacteristic feature of the fauna of Mars. The highest type of man\nand one other animal, the only mammal existing on Mars, alone have\nwell-formed nails, and there are absolutely no hoofed animals in\nexistence there.\n\nBehind this first charging demon trailed nineteen others, similar in\nall respects, but, as I learned later, bearing individual\ncharacteristics peculiar to themselves; precisely as no two of us are\nidentical although we are all cast in a similar mold. This picture, or\nrather materialized nightmare, which I have described at length, made\nbut one terrible and swift impression on me as I turned to meet it.\n\nUnarmed and naked as I was, the first law of nature manifested itself\nin the only possible solution of my immediate problem, and that was to\nget out of the vicinity of the point of the charging spear.\nConsequently I gave a very earthly and at the same time superhuman leap\nto reach the top of the Martian incubator, for such I had determined it\nmust be.\n\nMy effort was crowned with a success which appalled me no less than it\nseemed to surprise the Martian warriors, for it carried me fully thirty\nfeet into the air and landed me a hundred feet from my pursuers and on\nthe opposite side of the enclosure.\n\nI alighted upon the soft moss easily and without mishap, and turning\nsaw my enemies lined up along the further wall. Some were surveying me\nwith expressions which I afterward discovered marked extreme\nastonishment, and the others were evidently satisfying themselves that\nI had not molested their young.\n\nThey were conversing together in low tones, and gesticulating and\npointing toward me. Their discovery that I had not harmed the little\nMartians, and that I was unarmed, must have caused them to look upon me\nwith less ferocity; but, as I was to learn later, the thing which\nweighed most in my favor was my exhibition of hurdling.\n\nWhile the Martians are immense, their bones are very large and they are\nmuscled only in proportion to the gravitation which they must overcome.\nThe result is that they are infinitely less agile and less powerful, in\nproportion to their weight, than an Earth man, and I doubt that were\none of them suddenly to be transported to Earth he could lift his own\nweight from the ground; in fact, I am convinced that he could not do\nso.\n\nMy feat then was as marvelous upon Mars as it would have been upon\nEarth, and from desiring to annihilate me they suddenly looked upon me\nas a wonderful discovery to be captured and exhibited among their\nfellows.\n\nThe respite my unexpected agility had given me permitted me to\nformulate plans for the immediate future and to note more closely the\nappearance of the warriors, for I could not disassociate these people\nin my mind from those other warriors who, only the day before, had been\npursuing me.\n\nI noted that each was armed with several other weapons in addition to\nthe huge spear which I have described. The weapon which caused me to\ndecide against an attempt at escape by flight was what was evidently a\nrifle of some description, and which I felt, for some reason, they were\npeculiarly efficient in handling.\n\nThese rifles were of a white metal stocked with wood, which I learned\nlater was a very light and intensely hard growth much prized on Mars,\nand entirely unknown to us denizens of Earth. The metal of the barrel\nis an alloy composed principally of aluminum and steel which they have\nlearned to temper to a hardness far exceeding that of the steel with\nwhich we are familiar. The weight of these rifles is comparatively\nlittle, and with the small caliber, explosive, radium projectiles which\nthey use, and the great length of the barrel, they are deadly in the\nextreme and at ranges which would be unthinkable on Earth. The\ntheoretic effective radius of this rifle is three hundred miles, but\nthe best they can do in actual service when equipped with their\nwireless finders and sighters is but a trifle over two hundred miles.\n\nThis is quite far enough to imbue me with great respect for the Martian\nfirearm, and some telepathic force must have warned me against an\nattempt to escape in broad daylight from under the muzzles of twenty of\nthese death-dealing machines.\n\nThe Martians, after conversing for a short time, turned and rode away\nin the direction from which they had come, leaving one of their number\nalone by the enclosure. When they had covered perhaps two hundred yards\nthey halted, and turning their mounts toward us sat watching the\nwarrior by the enclosure.\n\nHe was the one whose spear had so nearly transfixed me, and was\nevidently the leader of the band, as I had noted that they seemed to\nhave moved to their present position at his direction. When his force\nhad come to a halt he dismounted, threw down his spear and small arms,\nand came around the end of the incubator toward me, entirely unarmed\nand as naked as I, except for the ornaments strapped upon his head,\nlimbs, and breast.\n\nWhen he was within about fifty feet of me he unclasped an enormous\nmetal armlet, and holding it toward me in the open palm of his hand,\naddressed me in a clear, resonant voice, but in a language, it is\nneedless to say, I could not understand. He then stopped as though\nwaiting for my reply, pricking up his antennae-like ears and cocking\nhis strange-looking eyes still further toward me.\n\nAs the silence became painful I concluded to hazard a little\nconversation on my own part, as I had guessed that he was making\novertures of peace. The throwing down of his weapons and the\nwithdrawing of his troop before his advance toward me would have\nsignified a peaceful mission anywhere on Earth, so why not, then, on\nMars!\n\nPlacing my hand over my heart I bowed low to the Martian and explained\nto him that while I did not understand his language, his actions spoke\nfor the peace and friendship that at the present moment were most dear\nto my heart. Of course I might have been a babbling brook for all the\nintelligence my speech carried to him, but he understood the action\nwith which I immediately followed my words.\n\nStretching my hand toward him, I advanced and took the armlet from his\nopen palm, clasping it about my arm above the elbow; smiled at him and\nstood waiting. His wide mouth spread into an answering smile, and\nlocking one of his intermediary arms in mine we turned and walked back\ntoward his mount. At the same time he motioned his followers to\nadvance. They started toward us on a wild run, but were checked by a\nsignal from him. Evidently he feared that were I to be really\nfrightened again I might jump entirely out of the landscape.\n\nHe exchanged a few words with his men, motioned to me that I would ride\nbehind one of them, and then mounted his own animal. The fellow\ndesignated reached down two or three hands and lifted me up behind him\non the glossy back of his mount, where I hung on as best I could by the\nbelts and straps which held the Martian s weapons and ornaments.\n\nThe entire cavalcade then turned and galloped away toward the range of\nhills in the distance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\nA PRISONER\n\n\nWe had gone perhaps ten miles when the ground began to rise very\nrapidly. We were, as I was later to learn, nearing the edge of one of\nMars  long-dead seas, in the bottom of which my encounter with the\nMartians had taken place.\n\nIn a short time we gained the foot of the mountains, and after\ntraversing a narrow gorge came to an open valley, at the far extremity\nof which was a low table land upon which I beheld an enormous city.\nToward this we galloped, entering it by what appeared to be a ruined\nroadway leading out from the city, but only to the edge of the table\nland, where it ended abruptly in a flight of broad steps.\n\nUpon closer observation I saw as we passed them that the buildings were\ndeserted, and while not greatly decayed had the appearance of not\nhaving been tenanted for years, possibly for ages. Toward the center of\nthe city was a large plaza, and upon this and in the buildings\nimmediately surrounding it were camped some nine or ten hundred\ncreatures of the same breed as my captors, for such I now considered\nthem despite the suave manner in which I had been trapped.\n\nWith the exception of their ornaments all were naked. The women varied\nin appearance but little from the men, except that their tusks were\nmuch larger in proportion to their height, in some instances curving\nnearly to their high-set ears. Their bodies were smaller and lighter in\ncolor, and their fingers and toes bore the rudiments of nails, which\nwere entirely lacking among the males. The adult females ranged in\nheight from ten to twelve feet.\n\nThe children were light in color, even lighter than the women, and all\nlooked precisely alike to me, except that some were taller than others;\nolder, I presumed.\n\nI saw no signs of extreme age among them, nor is there any appreciable\ndifference in their appearance from the age of maturity, about forty,\nuntil, at about the age of one thousand years, they go voluntarily upon\ntheir last strange pilgrimage down the river Iss, which leads no living\nMartian knows whither and from whose bosom no Martian has ever\nreturned, or would be allowed to live did he return after once\nembarking upon its cold, dark waters.\n\nOnly about one Martian in a thousand dies of sickness or disease, and\npossibly about twenty take the voluntary pilgrimage. The other nine\nhundred and seventy-nine die violent deaths in duels, in hunting, in\naviation and in war; but perhaps by far the greatest death loss comes\nduring the age of childhood, when vast numbers of the little Martians\nfall victims to the great white apes of Mars.\n\nThe average life expectancy of a Martian after the age of maturity is\nabout three hundred years, but would be nearer the one-thousand mark\nwere it not for the various means leading to violent death. Owing to\nthe waning resources of the planet it evidently became necessary to\ncounteract the increasing longevity which their remarkable skill in\ntherapeutics and surgery produced, and so human life has come to be\nconsidered but lightly on Mars, as is evidenced by their dangerous\nsports and the almost continual warfare between the various\ncommunities.\n\nThere are other and natural causes tending toward a diminution of\npopulation, but nothing contributes so greatly to this end as the fact\nthat no male or female Martian is ever voluntarily without a weapon of\ndestruction.\n\nAs we neared the plaza and my presence was discovered we were\nimmediately surrounded by hundreds of the creatures who seemed anxious\nto pluck me from my seat behind my guard. A word from the leader of the\nparty stilled their clamor, and we proceeded at a trot across the plaza\nto the entrance of as magnificent an edifice as mortal eye has rested\nupon.\n\nThe building was low, but covered an enormous area. It was constructed\nof gleaming white marble inlaid with gold and brilliant stones which\nsparkled and scintillated in the sunlight. The main entrance was some\nhundred feet in width and projected from the building proper to form a\nhuge canopy above the entrance hall. There was no stairway, but a\ngentle incline to the first floor of the building opened into an\nenormous chamber encircled by galleries.\n\nOn the floor of this chamber, which was dotted with highly carved\nwooden desks and chairs, were assembled about forty or fifty male\nMartians around the steps of a rostrum. On the platform proper squatted\nan enormous warrior heavily loaded with metal ornaments, gay-colored\nfeathers and beautifully wrought leather trappings ingeniously set with\nprecious stones. From his shoulders depended a short cape of white fur\nlined with brilliant scarlet silk.\n\nWhat struck me as most remarkable about this assemblage and the hall in\nwhich they were congregated was the fact that the creatures were\nentirely out of proportion to the desks, chairs, and other furnishings;\nthese being of a size adapted to human beings such as I, whereas the\ngreat bulks of the Martians could scarcely have squeezed into the\nchairs, nor was there room beneath the desks for their long legs.\nEvidently, then, there were other denizens on Mars than the wild and\ngrotesque creatures into whose hands I had fallen, but the evidences of\nextreme antiquity which showed all around me indicated that these\nbuildings might have belonged to some long-extinct and forgotten race\nin the dim antiquity of Mars.\n\nOur party had halted at the entrance to the building, and at a sign\nfrom the leader I had been lowered to the ground. Again locking his arm\nin mine, we had proceeded into the audience chamber. There were few\nformalities observed in approaching the Martian chieftain. My captor\nmerely strode up to the rostrum, the others making way for him as he\nadvanced. The chieftain rose to his feet and uttered the name of my\nescort who, in turn, halted and repeated the name of the ruler followed\nby his title.\n\nAt the time, this ceremony and the words they uttered meant nothing to\nme, but later I came to know that this was the customary greeting\nbetween green Martians. Had the men been strangers, and therefore\nunable to exchange names, they would have silently exchanged ornaments,\nhad their missions been peaceful otherwise they would have exchanged\nshots, or have fought out their introduction with some other of their\nvarious weapons.\n\nMy captor, whose name was Tars Tarkas, was virtually the vice-chieftain\nof the community, and a man of great ability as a statesman and\nwarrior. He evidently explained briefly the incidents connected with\nhis expedition, including my capture, and when he had concluded the\nchieftain addressed me at some length.\n\nI replied in our good old English tongue merely to convince him that\nneither of us could understand the other; but I noticed that when I\nsmiled slightly on concluding, he did likewise. This fact, and the\nsimilar occurrence during my first talk with Tars Tarkas, convinced me\nthat we had at least something in common; the ability to smile,\ntherefore to laugh; denoting a sense of humor. But I was to learn that\nthe Martian smile is merely perfunctory, and that the Martian laugh is\na thing to cause strong men to blanch in horror.\n\nThe ideas of humor among the green men of Mars are widely at variance\nwith our conceptions of incitants to merriment. The death agonies of a\nfellow being are, to these strange creatures, provocative of the\nwildest hilarity, while their chief form of commonest amusement is to\ninflict death on their prisoners of war in various ingenious and\nhorrible ways.\n\nThe assembled warriors and chieftains examined me closely, feeling my\nmuscles and the texture of my skin. The principal chieftain then\nevidently signified a desire to see me perform, and, motioning me to\nfollow, he started with Tars Tarkas for the open plaza.\n\nNow, I had made no attempt to walk, since my first signal failure,\nexcept while tightly grasping Tars Tarkas  arm, and so now I went\nskipping and flitting about among the desks and chairs like some\nmonstrous grasshopper. After bruising myself severely, much to the\namusement of the Martians, I again had recourse to creeping, but this\ndid not suit them and I was roughly jerked to my feet by a towering\nfellow who had laughed most heartily at my misfortunes.\n\nAs he banged me down upon my feet his face was bent close to mine and I\ndid the only thing a gentleman might do under the circumstances of\nbrutality, boorishness, and lack of consideration for a stranger s\nrights; I swung my fist squarely to his jaw and he went down like a\nfelled ox. As he sunk to the floor I wheeled around with my back toward\nthe nearest desk, expecting to be overwhelmed by the vengeance of his\nfellows, but determined to give them as good a battle as the unequal\nodds would permit before I gave up my life.\n\nMy fears were groundless, however, as the other Martians, at first\nstruck dumb with wonderment, finally broke into wild peals of laughter\nand applause. I did not recognize the applause as such, but later, when\nI had become acquainted with their customs, I learned that I had won\nwhat they seldom accord, a manifestation of approbation.\n\nThe fellow whom I had struck lay where he had fallen, nor did any of\nhis mates approach him. Tars Tarkas advanced toward me, holding out one\nof his arms, and we thus proceeded to the plaza without further mishap.\nI did not, of course, know the reason for which we had come to the\nopen, but I was not long in being enlightened. They first repeated the\nword  sak  a number of times, and then Tars Tarkas made several jumps,\nrepeating the same word before each leap; then, turning to me, he said,\n sak!  I saw what they were after, and gathering myself together I\n sakked  with such marvelous success that I cleared a good hundred and\nfifty feet; nor did I, this time, lose my equilibrium, but landed\nsquarely upon my feet without falling. I then returned by easy jumps of\ntwenty-five or thirty feet to the little group of warriors.\n\nMy exhibition had been witnessed by several hundred lesser Martians,\nand they immediately broke into demands for a repetition, which the\nchieftain then ordered me to make; but I was both hungry and thirsty,\nand determined on the spot that my only method of salvation was to\ndemand the consideration from these creatures which they evidently\nwould not voluntarily accord. I therefore ignored the repeated commands\nto  sak,  and each time they were made I motioned to my mouth and\nrubbed my stomach.\n\nTars Tarkas and the chief exchanged a few words, and the former,\ncalling to a young female among the throng, gave her some instructions\nand motioned me to accompany her. I grasped her proffered arm and\ntogether we crossed the plaza toward a large building on the far side.\n\nMy fair companion was about eight feet tall, having just arrived at\nmaturity, but not yet to her full height. She was of a light\nolive-green color, with a smooth, glossy hide. Her name, as I afterward\nlearned, was Sola, and she belonged to the retinue of Tars Tarkas. She\nconducted me to a spacious chamber in one of the buildings fronting on\nthe plaza, and which, from the litter of silks and furs upon the floor,\nI took to be the sleeping quarters of several of the natives.\n\nThe room was well lighted by a number of large windows and was\nbeautifully decorated with mural paintings and mosaics, but upon all\nthere seemed to rest that indefinable touch of the finger of antiquity\nwhich convinced me that the architects and builders of these wondrous\ncreations had nothing in common with the crude half-brutes which now\noccupied them.\n\nSola motioned me to be seated upon a pile of silks near the center of\nthe room, and, turning, made a peculiar hissing sound, as though\nsignaling to someone in an adjoining room. In response to her call I\nobtained my first sight of a new Martian wonder. It waddled in on its\nten short legs, and squatted down before the girl like an obedient\npuppy. The thing was about the size of a Shetland pony, but its head\nbore a slight resemblance to that of a frog, except that the jaws were\nequipped with three rows of long, sharp tusks.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\nI ELUDE MY WATCH DOG\n\n\nSola stared into the brute s wicked-looking eyes, muttered a word or\ntwo of command, pointed to me, and left the chamber. I could not but\nwonder what this ferocious-looking monstrosity might do when left alone\nin such close proximity to such a relatively tender morsel of meat; but\nmy fears were groundless, as the beast, after surveying me intently for\na moment, crossed the room to the only exit which led to the street,\nand lay down full length across the threshold.\n\nThis was my first experience with a Martian watch dog, but it was\ndestined not to be my last, for this fellow guarded me carefully during\nthe time I remained a captive among these green men; twice saving my\nlife, and never voluntarily being away from me a moment.\n\nWhile Sola was away I took occasion to examine more minutely the room\nin which I found myself captive. The mural painting depicted scenes of\nrare and wonderful beauty; mountains, rivers, lake, ocean, meadow,\ntrees and flowers, winding roadways, sun-kissed gardens scenes which\nmight have portrayed earthly views but for the different colorings of\nthe vegetation. The work had evidently been wrought by a master hand,\nso subtle the atmosphere, so perfect the technique; yet nowhere was\nthere a representation of a living animal, either human or brute, by\nwhich I could guess at the likeness of these other and perhaps extinct\ndenizens of Mars.\n\nWhile I was allowing my fancy to run riot in wild conjecture on the\npossible explanation of the strange anomalies which I had so far met\nwith on Mars, Sola returned bearing both food and drink. These she\nplaced on the floor beside me, and seating herself a short ways off\nregarded me intently. The food consisted of about a pound of some solid\nsubstance of the consistency of cheese and almost tasteless, while the\nliquid was apparently milk from some animal. It was not unpleasant to\nthe taste, though slightly acid, and I learned in a short time to prize\nit very highly. It came, as I later discovered, not from an animal, as\nthere is only one mammal on Mars and that one very rare indeed, but\nfrom a large plant which grows practically without water, but seems to\ndistill its plentiful supply of milk from the products of the soil, the\nmoisture of the air, and the rays of the sun. A single plant of this\nspecies will give eight or ten quarts of milk per day.\n\nAfter I had eaten I was greatly invigorated, but feeling the need of\nrest I stretched out upon the silks and was soon asleep. I must have\nslept several hours, as it was dark when I awoke, and I was very cold.\nI noticed that someone had thrown a fur over me, but it had become\npartially dislodged and in the darkness I could not see to replace it.\nSuddenly a hand reached out and pulled the fur over me, shortly\nafterwards adding another to my covering.\n\nI presumed that my watchful guardian was Sola, nor was I wrong. This\ngirl alone, among all the green Martians with whom I came in contact,\ndisclosed characteristics of sympathy, kindliness, and affection; her\nministrations to my bodily wants were unfailing, and her solicitous\ncare saved me from much suffering and many hardships.\n\nAs I was to learn, the Martian nights are extremely cold, and as there\nis practically no twilight or dawn, the changes in temperature are\nsudden and most uncomfortable, as are the transitions from brilliant\ndaylight to darkness. The nights are either brilliantly illumined or\nvery dark, for if neither of the two moons of Mars happen to be in the\nsky almost total darkness results, since the lack of atmosphere, or,\nrather, the very thin atmosphere, fails to diffuse the starlight to any\ngreat extent; on the other hand, if both of the moons are in the\nheavens at night the surface of the ground is brightly illuminated.\n\nBoth of Mars  moons are vastly nearer her than is our moon to Earth;\nthe nearer moon being but about five thousand miles distant, while the\nfurther is but little more than fourteen thousand miles away, against\nthe nearly one-quarter million miles which separate us from our moon.\nThe nearer moon of Mars makes a complete revolution around the planet\nin a little over seven and one-half hours, so that she may be seen\nhurtling through the sky like some huge meteor two or three times each\nnight, revealing all her phases during each transit of the heavens.\n\nThe further moon revolves about Mars in something over thirty and\none-quarter hours, and with her sister satellite makes a nocturnal\nMartian scene one of splendid and weird grandeur. And it is well that\nnature has so graciously and abundantly lighted the Martian night, for\nthe green men of Mars, being a nomadic race without high intellectual\ndevelopment, have but crude means for artificial lighting; depending\nprincipally upon torches, a kind of candle, and a peculiar oil lamp\nwhich generates a gas and burns without a wick.\n\nThis last device produces an intensely brilliant far-reaching white\nlight, but as the natural oil which it requires can only be obtained by\nmining in one of several widely separated and remote localities it is\nseldom used by these creatures whose only thought is for today, and\nwhose hatred for manual labor has kept them in a semi-barbaric state\nfor countless ages.\n\nAfter Sola had replenished my coverings I again slept, nor did I awaken\nuntil daylight. The other occupants of the room, five in number, were\nall females, and they were still sleeping, piled high with a motley\narray of silks and furs. Across the threshold lay stretched the\nsleepless guardian brute, just as I had last seen him on the preceding\nday; apparently he had not moved a muscle; his eyes were fairly glued\nupon me, and I fell to wondering just what might befall me should I\nendeavor to escape.\n\nI have ever been prone to seek adventure and to investigate and\nexperiment where wiser men would have left well enough alone. It\ntherefore now occurred to me that the surest way of learning the exact\nattitude of this beast toward me would be to attempt to leave the room.\nI felt fairly secure in my belief that I could escape him should he\npursue me once I was outside the building, for I had begun to take\ngreat pride in my ability as a jumper. Furthermore, I could see from\nthe shortness of his legs that the brute himself was no jumper and\nprobably no runner.\n\nSlowly and carefully, therefore, I gained my feet, only to see that my\nwatcher did the same; cautiously I advanced toward him, finding that by\nmoving with a shuffling gait I could retain my balance as well as make\nreasonably rapid progress. As I neared the brute he backed cautiously\naway from me, and when I had reached the open he moved to one side to\nlet me pass. He then fell in behind me and followed about ten paces in\nmy rear as I made my way along the deserted street.\n\nEvidently his mission was to protect me only, I thought, but when we\nreached the edge of the city he suddenly sprang before me, uttering\nstrange sounds and baring his ugly and ferocious tusks. Thinking to\nhave some amusement at his expense, I rushed toward him, and when\nalmost upon him sprang into the air, alighting far beyond him and away\nfrom the city. He wheeled instantly and charged me with the most\nappalling speed I had ever beheld. I had thought his short legs a bar\nto swiftness, but had he been coursing with greyhounds the latter would\nhave appeared as though asleep on a door mat. As I was to learn, this\nis the fleetest animal on Mars, and owing to its intelligence, loyalty,\nand ferocity is used in hunting, in war, and as the protector of the\nMartian man.\n\nI quickly saw that I would have difficulty in escaping the fangs of the\nbeast on a straightaway course, and so I met his charge by doubling in\nmy tracks and leaping over him as he was almost upon me. This maneuver\ngave me a considerable advantage, and I was able to reach the city\nquite a bit ahead of him, and as he came tearing after me I jumped for\na window about thirty feet from the ground in the face of one of the\nbuildings overlooking the valley.\n\nGrasping the sill I pulled myself up to a sitting posture without\nlooking into the building, and gazed down at the baffled animal beneath\nme. My exultation was short-lived, however, for scarcely had I gained a\nsecure seat upon the sill than a huge hand grasped me by the neck from\nbehind and dragged me violently into the room. Here I was thrown upon\nmy back, and beheld standing over me a colossal ape-like creature,\nwhite and hairless except for an enormous shock of bristly hair upon\nits head.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\nA FIGHT THAT WON FRIENDS\n\n\nThe thing, which more nearly resembled our earthly men than it did the\nMartians I had seen, held me pinioned to the ground with one huge foot,\nwhile it jabbered and gesticulated at some answering creature behind\nme. This other, which was evidently its mate, soon came toward us,\nbearing a mighty stone cudgel with which it evidently intended to brain\nme.\n\nThe creatures were about ten or fifteen feet tall, standing erect, and\nhad, like the green Martians, an intermediary set of arms or legs,\nmidway between their upper and lower limbs. Their eyes were close\ntogether and non-protruding; their ears were high set, but more\nlaterally located than those of the Martians, while their snouts and\nteeth were strikingly like those of our African gorilla. Altogether\nthey were not unlovely when viewed in comparison with the green\nMartians.\n\nThe cudgel was swinging in the arc which ended upon my upturned face\nwhen a bolt of myriad-legged horror hurled itself through the doorway\nfull upon the breast of my executioner. With a shriek of fear the ape\nwhich held me leaped through the open window, but its mate closed in a\nterrific death struggle with my preserver, which was nothing less than\nmy faithful watch-thing; I cannot bring myself to call so hideous a\ncreature a dog.\n\nAs quickly as possible I gained my feet and backing against the wall I\nwitnessed such a battle as it is vouchsafed few beings to see. The\nstrength, agility, and blind ferocity of these two creatures is\napproached by nothing known to earthly man. My beast had an advantage\nin his first hold, having sunk his mighty fangs far into the breast of\nhis adversary; but the great arms and paws of the ape, backed by\nmuscles far transcending those of the Martian men I had seen, had\nlocked the throat of my guardian and slowly were choking out his life,\nand bending back his head and neck upon his body, where I momentarily\nexpected the former to fall limp at the end of a broken neck.\n\nIn accomplishing this the ape was tearing away the entire front of its\nbreast, which was held in the vise-like grip of the powerful jaws. Back\nand forth upon the floor they rolled, neither one emitting a sound of\nfear or pain. Presently I saw the great eyes of my beast bulging\ncompletely from their sockets and blood flowing from its nostrils. That\nhe was weakening perceptibly was evident, but so also was the ape,\nwhose struggles were growing momentarily less.\n\nSuddenly I came to myself and, with that strange instinct which seems\never to prompt me to my duty, I seized the cudgel, which had fallen to\nthe floor at the commencement of the battle, and swinging it with all\nthe power of my earthly arms I crashed it full upon the head of the\nape, crushing his skull as though it had been an eggshell.\n\nScarcely had the blow descended when I was confronted with a new\ndanger. The ape s mate, recovered from its first shock of terror, had\nreturned to the scene of the encounter by way of the interior of the\nbuilding. I glimpsed him just before he reached the doorway and the\nsight of him, now roaring as he perceived his lifeless fellow stretched\nupon the floor, and frothing at the mouth, in the extremity of his\nrage, filled me, I must confess, with dire forebodings.\n\nI am ever willing to stand and fight when the odds are not too\noverwhelmingly against me, but in this instance I perceived neither\nglory nor profit in pitting my relatively puny strength against the\niron muscles and brutal ferocity of this enraged denizen of an unknown\nworld; in fact, the only outcome of such an encounter, so far as I\nmight be concerned, seemed sudden death.\n\nI was standing near the window and I knew that once in the street I\nmight gain the plaza and safety before the creature could overtake me;\nat least there was a chance for safety in flight, against almost\ncertain death should I remain and fight however desperately.\n\nIt is true I held the cudgel, but what could I do with it against his\nfour great arms? Even should I break one of them with my first blow,\nfor I figured that he would attempt to ward off the cudgel, he could\nreach out and annihilate me with the others before I could recover for\na second attack.\n\nIn the instant that these thoughts passed through my mind I had turned\nto make for the window, but my eyes alighting on the form of my\nerstwhile guardian threw all thoughts of flight to the four winds. He\nlay gasping upon the floor of the chamber, his great eyes fastened upon\nme in what seemed a pitiful appeal for protection. I could not\nwithstand that look, nor could I, on second thought, have deserted my\nrescuer without giving as good an account of myself in his behalf as he\nhad in mine.\n\nWithout more ado, therefore, I turned to meet the charge of the\ninfuriated bull ape. He was now too close upon me for the cudgel to\nprove of any effective assistance, so I merely threw it as heavily as I\ncould at his advancing bulk. It struck him just below the knees,\neliciting a howl of pain and rage, and so throwing him off his balance\nthat he lunged full upon me with arms wide stretched to ease his fall.\n\nAgain, as on the preceding day, I had recourse to earthly tactics, and\nswinging my right fist full upon the point of his chin I followed it\nwith a smashing left to the pit of his stomach. The effect was\nmarvelous, for, as I lightly sidestepped, after delivering the second\nblow, he reeled and fell upon the floor doubled up with pain and\ngasping for wind. Leaping over his prostrate body, I seized the cudgel\nand finished the monster before he could regain his feet.\n\nAs I delivered the blow a low laugh rang out behind me, and, turning, I\nbeheld Tars Tarkas, Sola, and three or four warriors standing in the\ndoorway of the chamber. As my eyes met theirs I was, for the second\ntime, the recipient of their zealously guarded applause.\n\nMy absence had been noted by Sola on her awakening, and she had quickly\ninformed Tars Tarkas, who had set out immediately with a handful of\nwarriors to search for me. As they had approached the limits of the\ncity they had witnessed the actions of the bull ape as he bolted into\nthe building, frothing with rage.\n\nThey had followed immediately behind him, thinking it barely possible\nthat his actions might prove a clew to my whereabouts and had witnessed\nmy short but decisive battle with him. This encounter, together with my\nset-to with the Martian warrior on the previous day and my feats of\njumping placed me upon a high pinnacle in their regard. Evidently\ndevoid of all the finer sentiments of friendship, love, or affection,\nthese people fairly worship physical prowess and bravery, and nothing\nis too good for the object of their adoration as long as he maintains\nhis position by repeated examples of his skill, strength, and courage.\n\nSola, who had accompanied the searching party of her own volition, was\nthe only one of the Martians whose face had not been twisted in\nlaughter as I battled for my life. She, on the contrary, was sober with\napparent solicitude and, as soon as I had finished the monster, rushed\nto me and carefully examined my body for possible wounds or injuries.\nSatisfying herself that I had come off unscathed she smiled quietly,\nand, taking my hand, started toward the door of the chamber.\n\nTars Tarkas and the other warriors had entered and were standing over\nthe now rapidly reviving brute which had saved my life, and whose life\nI, in turn, had rescued. They seemed to be deep in argument, and\nfinally one of them addressed me, but remembering my ignorance of his\nlanguage turned back to Tars Tarkas, who, with a word and gesture, gave\nsome command to the fellow and turned to follow us from the room.\n\nThere seemed something menacing in their attitude toward my beast, and\nI hesitated to leave until I had learned the outcome. It was well I did\nso, for the warrior drew an evil looking pistol from its holster and\nwas on the point of putting an end to the creature when I sprang\nforward and struck up his arm. The bullet striking the wooden casing of\nthe window exploded, blowing a hole completely through the wood and\nmasonry.\n\nI then knelt down beside the fearsome-looking thing, and raising it to\nits feet motioned for it to follow me. The looks of surprise which my\nactions elicited from the Martians were ludicrous; they could not\nunderstand, except in a feeble and childish way, such attributes as\ngratitude and compassion. The warrior whose gun I had struck up looked\nenquiringly at Tars Tarkas, but the latter signed that I be left to my\nown devices, and so we returned to the plaza with my great beast\nfollowing close at heel, and Sola grasping me tightly by the arm.\n\nI had at least two friends on Mars; a young woman who watched over me\nwith motherly solicitude, and a dumb brute which, as I later came to\nknow, held in its poor ugly carcass more love, more loyalty, more\ngratitude than could have been found in the entire five million green\nMartians who rove the deserted cities and dead sea bottoms of Mars.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\nCHILD-RAISING ON MARS\n\n\nAfter a breakfast, which was an exact replica of the meal of the\npreceding day and an index of practically every meal which followed\nwhile I was with the green men of Mars, Sola escorted me to the plaza,\nwhere I found the entire community engaged in watching or helping at\nthe harnessing of huge mastodonian animals to great three-wheeled\nchariots. There were about two hundred and fifty of these vehicles,\neach drawn by a single animal, any one of which, from their appearance,\nmight easily have drawn the entire wagon train when fully loaded.\n\nThe chariots themselves were large, commodious, and gorgeously\ndecorated. In each was seated a female Martian loaded with ornaments of\nmetal, with jewels and silks and furs, and upon the back of each of the\nbeasts which drew the chariots was perched a young Martian driver. Like\nthe animals upon which the warriors were mounted, the heavier draft\nanimals wore neither bit nor bridle, but were guided entirely by\ntelepathic means.\n\nThis power is wonderfully developed in all Martians, and accounts\nlargely for the simplicity of their language and the relatively few\nspoken words exchanged even in long conversations. It is the universal\nlanguage of Mars, through the medium of which the higher and lower\nanimals of this world of paradoxes are able to communicate to a greater\nor less extent, depending upon the intellectual sphere of the species\nand the development of the individual.\n\nAs the cavalcade took up the line of march in single file, Sola dragged\nme into an empty chariot and we proceeded with the procession toward\nthe point by which I had entered the city the day before. At the head\nof the caravan rode some two hundred warriors, five abreast, and a like\nnumber brought up the rear, while twenty-five or thirty outriders\nflanked us on either side.\n\nEvery one but myself men, women, and children were heavily armed, and\nat the tail of each chariot trotted a Martian hound, my own beast\nfollowing closely behind ours; in fact, the faithful creature never\nleft me voluntarily during the entire ten years I spent on Mars. Our\nway led out across the little valley before the city, through the\nhills, and down into the dead sea bottom which I had traversed on my\njourney from the incubator to the plaza. The incubator, as it proved,\nwas the terminal point of our journey this day, and, as the entire\ncavalcade broke into a mad gallop as soon as we reached the level\nexpanse of sea bottom, we were soon within sight of our goal.\n\nOn reaching it the chariots were parked with military precision on the\nfour sides of the enclosure, and half a score of warriors, headed by\nthe enormous chieftain, and including Tars Tarkas and several other\nlesser chiefs, dismounted and advanced toward it. I could see Tars\nTarkas explaining something to the principal chieftain, whose name, by\nthe way, was, as nearly as I can translate it into English, Lorquas\nPtomel, Jed; jed being his title.\n\nI was soon appraised of the subject of their conversation, as, calling\nto Sola, Tars Tarkas signed for her to send me to him. I had by this\ntime mastered the intricacies of walking under Martian conditions, and\nquickly responding to his command I advanced to the side of the\nincubator where the warriors stood.\n\nAs I reached their side a glance showed me that all but a very few eggs\nhad hatched, the incubator being fairly alive with the hideous little\ndevils. They ranged in height from three to four feet, and were moving\nrestlessly about the enclosure as though searching for food.\n\nAs I came to a halt before him, Tars Tarkas pointed over the incubator\nand said,  Sak.  I saw that he wanted me to repeat my performance of\nyesterday for the edification of Lorquas Ptomel, and, as I must confess\nthat my prowess gave me no little satisfaction, I responded quickly,\nleaping entirely over the parked chariots on the far side of the\nincubator. As I returned, Lorquas Ptomel grunted something at me, and\nturning to his warriors gave a few words of command relative to the\nincubator. They paid no further attention to me and I was thus\npermitted to remain close and watch their operations, which consisted\nin breaking an opening in the wall of the incubator large enough to\npermit of the exit of the young Martians.\n\nOn either side of this opening the women and the younger Martians, both\nmale and female, formed two solid walls leading out through the\nchariots and quite away into the plain beyond. Between these walls the\nlittle Martians scampered, wild as deer; being permitted to run the\nfull length of the aisle, where they were captured one at a time by the\nwomen and older children; the last in the line capturing the first\nlittle one to reach the end of the gauntlet, her opposite in the line\ncapturing the second, and so on until all the little fellows had left\nthe enclosure and been appropriated by some youth or female. As the\nwomen caught the young they fell out of line and returned to their\nrespective chariots, while those who fell into the hands of the young\nmen were later turned over to some of the women.\n\nI saw that the ceremony, if it could be dignified by such a name, was\nover, and seeking out Sola I found her in our chariot with a hideous\nlittle creature held tightly in her arms.\n\nThe work of rearing young, green Martians consists solely in teaching\nthem to talk, and to use the weapons of warfare with which they are\nloaded down from the very first year of their lives. Coming from eggs\nin which they have lain for five years, the period of incubation, they\nstep forth into the world perfectly developed except in size. Entirely\nunknown to their mothers, who, in turn, would have difficulty in\npointing out the fathers with any degree of accuracy, they are the\ncommon children of the community, and their education devolves upon the\nfemales who chance to capture them as they leave the incubator.\n\nTheir foster mothers may not even have had an egg in the incubator, as\nwas the case with Sola, who had not commenced to lay, until less than a\nyear before she became the mother of another woman s offspring. But\nthis counts for little among the green Martians, as parental and filial\nlove is as unknown to them as it is common among us. I believe this\nhorrible system which has been carried on for ages is the direct cause\nof the loss of all the finer feelings and higher humanitarian instincts\namong these poor creatures. From birth they know no father or mother\nlove, they know not the meaning of the word home; they are taught that\nthey are only suffered to live until they can demonstrate by their\nphysique and ferocity that they are fit to live. Should they prove\ndeformed or defective in any way they are promptly shot; nor do they\nsee a tear shed for a single one of the many cruel hardships they pass\nthrough from earliest infancy.\n\nI do not mean that the adult Martians are unnecessarily or\nintentionally cruel to the young, but theirs is a hard and pitiless\nstruggle for existence upon a dying planet, the natural resources of\nwhich have dwindled to a point where the support of each additional\nlife means an added tax upon the community into which it is thrown.\n\nBy careful selection they rear only the hardiest specimens of each\nspecies, and with almost supernatural foresight they regulate the birth\nrate to merely offset the loss by death.\n\nEach adult Martian female brings forth about thirteen eggs each year,\nand those which meet the size, weight, and specific gravity tests are\nhidden in the recesses of some subterranean vault where the temperature\nis too low for incubation. Every year these eggs are carefully examined\nby a council of twenty chieftains, and all but about one hundred of the\nmost perfect are destroyed out of each yearly supply. At the end of\nfive years about five hundred almost perfect eggs have been chosen from\nthe thousands brought forth. These are then placed in the almost\nair-tight incubators to be hatched by the sun s rays after a period of\nanother five years. The hatching which we had witnessed today was a\nfairly representative event of its kind, all but about one per cent of\nthe eggs hatching in two days. If the remaining eggs ever hatched we\nknew nothing of the fate of the little Martians. They were not wanted,\nas their offspring might inherit and transmit the tendency to prolonged\nincubation, and thus upset the system which has maintained for ages and\nwhich permits the adult Martians to figure the proper time for return\nto the incubators, almost to an hour.\n\nThe incubators are built in remote fastnesses, where there is little or\nno likelihood of their being discovered by other tribes. The result of\nsuch a catastrophe would mean no children in the community for another\nfive years. I was later to witness the results of the discovery of an\nalien incubator.\n\nThe community of which the green Martians with whom my lot was cast\nformed a part was composed of some thirty thousand souls. They roamed\nan enormous tract of arid and semi-arid land between forty and eighty\ndegrees south latitude, and bounded on the east and west by two large\nfertile tracts. Their headquarters lay in the southwest corner of this\ndistrict, near the crossing of two of the so-called Martian canals.\n\nAs the incubator had been placed far north of their own territory in a\nsupposedly uninhabited and unfrequented area, we had before us a\ntremendous journey, concerning which I, of course, knew nothing.\n\nAfter our return to the dead city I passed several days in comparative\nidleness. On the day following our return all the warriors had ridden\nforth early in the morning and had not returned until just before\ndarkness fell. As I later learned, they had been to the subterranean\nvaults in which the eggs were kept and had transported them to the\nincubator, which they had then walled up for another five years, and\nwhich, in all probability, would not be visited again during that\nperiod.\n\nThe vaults which hid the eggs until they were ready for the incubator\nwere located many miles south of the incubator, and would be visited\nyearly by the council of twenty chieftains. Why they did not arrange to\nbuild their vaults and incubators nearer home has always been a mystery\nto me, and, like many other Martian mysteries, unsolved and unsolvable\nby earthly reasoning and customs.\n\nSola s duties were now doubled, as she was compelled to care for the\nyoung Martian as well as for me, but neither one of us required much\nattention, and as we were both about equally advanced in Martian\neducation, Sola took it upon herself to train us together.\n\nHer prize consisted in a male about four feet tall, very strong and\nphysically perfect; also, he learned quickly, and we had considerable\namusement, at least I did, over the keen rivalry we displayed. The\nMartian language, as I have said, is extremely simple, and in a week I\ncould make all my wants known and understand nearly everything that was\nsaid to me. Likewise, under Sola s tutelage, I developed my telepathic\npowers so that I shortly could sense practically everything that went\non around me.\n\nWhat surprised Sola most in me was that while I could catch telepathic\nmessages easily from others, and often when they were not intended for\nme, no one could read a jot from my mind under any circumstances. At\nfirst this vexed me, but later I was very glad of it, as it gave me an\nundoubted advantage over the Martians.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\nA FAIR CAPTIVE FROM THE SKY\n\n\nThe third day after the incubator ceremony we set forth toward home,\nbut scarcely had the head of the procession debouched into the open\nground before the city than orders were given for an immediate and\nhasty return. As though trained for years in this particular evolution,\nthe green Martians melted like mist into the spacious doorways of the\nnearby buildings, until, in less than three minutes, the entire\ncavalcade of chariots, mastodons and mounted warriors was nowhere to be\nseen.\n\nSola and I had entered a building upon the front of the city, in fact,\nthe same one in which I had had my encounter with the apes, and,\nwishing to see what had caused the sudden retreat, I mounted to an\nupper floor and peered from the window out over the valley and the\nhills beyond; and there I saw the cause of their sudden scurrying to\ncover. A huge craft, long, low, and gray-painted, swung slowly over the\ncrest of the nearest hill. Following it came another, and another, and\nanother, until twenty of them, swinging low above the ground, sailed\nslowly and majestically toward us.\n\nEach carried a strange banner swung from stem to stern above the upper\nworks, and upon the prow of each was painted some odd device that\ngleamed in the sunlight and showed plainly even at the distance at\nwhich we were from the vessels. I could see figures crowding the\nforward decks and upper works of the air craft. Whether they had\ndiscovered us or simply were looking at the deserted city I could not\nsay, but in any event they received a rude reception, for suddenly and\nwithout warning the green Martian warriors fired a terrific volley from\nthe windows of the buildings facing the little valley across which the\ngreat ships were so peacefully advancing.\n\nInstantly the scene changed as by magic; the foremost vessel swung\nbroadside toward us, and bringing her guns into play returned our fire,\nat the same time moving parallel to our front for a short distance and\nthen turning back with the evident intention of completing a great\ncircle which would bring her up to position once more opposite our\nfiring line; the other vessels followed in her wake, each one opening\nupon us as she swung into position. Our own fire never diminished, and\nI doubt if twenty-five per cent of our shots went wild. It had never\nbeen given me to see such deadly accuracy of aim, and it seemed as\nthough a little figure on one of the craft dropped at the explosion of\neach bullet, while the banners and upper works dissolved in spurts of\nflame as the irresistible projectiles of our warriors mowed through\nthem.\n\nThe fire from the vessels was most ineffectual, owing, as I afterward\nlearned, to the unexpected suddenness of the first volley, which caught\nthe ship s crews entirely unprepared and the sighting apparatus of the\nguns unprotected from the deadly aim of our warriors.\n\nIt seems that each green warrior has certain objective points for his\nfire under relatively identical circumstances of warfare. For example,\na proportion of them, always the best marksmen, direct their fire\nentirely upon the wireless finding and sighting apparatus of the big\nguns of an attacking naval force; another detail attends to the smaller\nguns in the same way; others pick off the gunners; still others the\nofficers; while certain other quotas concentrate their attention upon\nthe other members of the crew, upon the upper works, and upon the\nsteering gear and propellers.\n\nTwenty minutes after the first volley the great fleet swung trailing\noff in the direction from which it had first appeared. Several of the\ncraft were limping perceptibly, and seemed but barely under the control\nof their depleted crews. Their fire had ceased entirely and all their\nenergies seemed focused upon escape. Our warriors then rushed up to the\nroofs of the buildings which we occupied and followed the retreating\narmada with a continuous fusillade of deadly fire.\n\nOne by one, however, the ships managed to dip below the crests of the\noutlying hills until only one barely moving craft was in sight. This\nhad received the brunt of our fire and seemed to be entirely unmanned,\nas not a moving figure was visible upon her decks. Slowly she swung\nfrom her course, circling back toward us in an erratic and pitiful\nmanner. Instantly the warriors ceased firing, for it was quite apparent\nthat the vessel was entirely helpless, and, far from being in a\nposition to inflict harm upon us, she could not even control herself\nsufficiently to escape.\n\nAs she neared the city the warriors rushed out upon the plain to meet\nher, but it was evident that she still was too high for them to hope to\nreach her decks. From my vantage point in the window I could see the\nbodies of her crew strewn about, although I could not make out what\nmanner of creatures they might be. Not a sign of life was manifest upon\nher as she drifted slowly with the light breeze in a southeasterly\ndirection.\n\nShe was drifting some fifty feet above the ground, followed by all but\nsome hundred of the warriors who had been ordered back to the roofs to\ncover the possibility of a return of the fleet, or of reinforcements.\nIt soon became evident that she would strike the face of the buildings\nabout a mile south of our position, and as I watched the progress of\nthe chase I saw a number of warriors gallop ahead, dismount and enter\nthe building she seemed destined to touch.\n\nAs the craft neared the building, and just before she struck, the\nMartian warriors swarmed upon her from the windows, and with their\ngreat spears eased the shock of the collision, and in a few moments\nthey had thrown out grappling hooks and the big boat was being hauled\nto ground by their fellows below.\n\nAfter making her fast, they swarmed the sides and searched the vessel\nfrom stem to stern. I could see them examining the dead sailors,\nevidently for signs of life, and presently a party of them appeared\nfrom below dragging a little figure among them. The creature was\nconsiderably less than half as tall as the green Martian warriors, and\nfrom my balcony I could see that it walked erect upon two legs and\nsurmised that it was some new and strange Martian monstrosity with\nwhich I had not as yet become acquainted.\n\nThey removed their prisoner to the ground and then commenced a\nsystematic rifling of the vessel. This operation required several\nhours, during which time a number of the chariots were requisitioned to\ntransport the loot, which consisted in arms, ammunition, silks, furs,\njewels, strangely carved stone vessels, and a quantity of solid foods\nand liquids, including many casks of water, the first I had seen since\nmy advent upon Mars.\n\nAfter the last load had been removed the warriors made lines fast to\nthe craft and towed her far out into the valley in a southwesterly\ndirection. A few of them then boarded her and were busily engaged in\nwhat appeared, from my distant position, as the emptying of the\ncontents of various carboys upon the dead bodies of the sailors and\nover the decks and works of the vessel.\n\nThis operation concluded, they hastily clambered over her sides,\nsliding down the guy ropes to the ground. The last warrior to leave the\ndeck turned and threw something back upon the vessel, waiting an\ninstant to note the outcome of his act. As a faint spurt of flame rose\nfrom the point where the missile struck he swung over the side and was\nquickly upon the ground. Scarcely had he alighted than the guy ropes\nwere simultaneously released, and the great warship, lightened by the\nremoval of the loot, soared majestically into the air, her decks and\nupper works a mass of roaring flames.\n\nSlowly she drifted to the southeast, rising higher and higher as the\nflames ate away her wooden parts and diminished the weight upon her.\nAscending to the roof of the building I watched her for hours, until\nfinally she was lost in the dim vistas of the distance. The sight was\nawe-inspiring in the extreme as one contemplated this mighty floating\nfuneral pyre, drifting unguided and unmanned through the lonely wastes\nof the Martian heavens; a derelict of death and destruction, typifying\nthe life story of these strange and ferocious creatures into whose\nunfriendly hands fate had carried it.\n\nMuch depressed, and, to me, unaccountably so, I slowly descended to the\nstreet. The scene I had witnessed seemed to mark the defeat and\nannihilation of the forces of a kindred people, rather than the routing\nby our green warriors of a horde of similar, though unfriendly,\ncreatures. I could not fathom the seeming hallucination, nor could I\nfree myself from it; but somewhere in the innermost recesses of my soul\nI felt a strange yearning toward these unknown foemen, and a mighty\nhope surged through me that the fleet would return and demand a\nreckoning from the green warriors who had so ruthlessly and wantonly\nattacked it.\n\nClose at my heel, in his now accustomed place, followed Woola, the\nhound, and as I emerged upon the street Sola rushed up to me as though\nI had been the object of some search on her part. The cavalcade was\nreturning to the plaza, the homeward march having been given up for\nthat day; nor, in fact, was it recommenced for more than a week, owing\nto the fear of a return attack by the air craft.\n\nLorquas Ptomel was too astute an old warrior to be caught upon the open\nplains with a caravan of chariots and children, and so we remained at\nthe deserted city until the danger seemed passed.\n\nAs Sola and I entered the plaza a sight met my eyes which filled my\nwhole being with a great surge of mingled hope, fear, exultation, and\ndepression, and yet most dominant was a subtle sense of relief and\nhappiness; for just as we neared the throng of Martians I caught a\nglimpse of the prisoner from the battle craft who was being roughly\ndragged into a nearby building by a couple of green Martian females.\n\nAnd the sight which met my eyes was that of a slender, girlish figure,\nsimilar in every detail to the earthly women of my past life. She did\nnot see me at first, but just as she was disappearing through the\nportal of the building which was to be her prison she turned, and her\neyes met mine. Her face was oval and beautiful in the extreme, her\nevery feature was finely chiseled and exquisite, her eyes large and\nlustrous and her head surmounted by a mass of coal black, waving hair,\ncaught loosely into a strange yet becoming coiffure. Her skin was of a\nlight reddish copper color, against which the crimson glow of her\ncheeks and the ruby of her beautifully molded lips shone with a\nstrangely enhancing effect.\n\nShe was as destitute of clothes as the green Martians who accompanied\nher; indeed, save for her highly wrought ornaments she was entirely\nnaked, nor could any apparel have enhanced the beauty of her perfect\nand symmetrical figure.\n\nAs her gaze rested on me her eyes opened wide in astonishment, and she\nmade a little sign with her free hand; a sign which I did not, of\ncourse, understand. Just a moment we gazed upon each other, and then\nthe look of hope and renewed courage which had glorified her face as\nshe discovered me, faded into one of utter dejection, mingled with\nloathing and contempt. I realized I had not answered her signal, and\nignorant as I was of Martian customs, I intuitively felt that she had\nmade an appeal for succor and protection which my unfortunate ignorance\nhad prevented me from answering. And then she was dragged out of my\nsight into the depths of the deserted edifice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\nI LEARN THE LANGUAGE\n\n\nAs I came back to myself I glanced at Sola, who had witnessed this\nencounter and I was surprised to note a strange expression upon her\nusually expressionless countenance. What her thoughts were I did not\nknow, for as yet I had learned but little of the Martian tongue; enough\nonly to suffice for my daily needs.\n\nAs I reached the doorway of our building a strange surprise awaited me.\nA warrior approached bearing the arms, ornaments, and full\naccouterments of his kind. These he presented to me with a few\nunintelligible words, and a bearing at once respectful and menacing.\n\nLater, Sola, with the aid of several of the other women, remodeled the\ntrappings to fit my lesser proportions, and after they completed the\nwork I went about garbed in all the panoply of war.\n\nFrom then on Sola instructed me in the mysteries of the various\nweapons, and with the Martian young I spent several hours each day\npracticing upon the plaza. I was not yet proficient with all the\nweapons, but my great familiarity with similar earthly weapons made me\nan unusually apt pupil, and I progressed in a very satisfactory manner.\n\nThe training of myself and the young Martians was conducted solely by\nthe women, who not only attend to the education of the young in the\narts of individual defense and offense, but are also the artisans who\nproduce every manufactured article wrought by the green Martians. They\nmake the powder, the cartridges, the firearms; in fact everything of\nvalue is produced by the females. In time of actual warfare they form a\npart of the reserves, and when the necessity arises fight with even\ngreater intelligence and ferocity than the men.\n\nThe men are trained in the higher branches of the art of war; in\nstrategy and the maneuvering of large bodies of troops. They make the\nlaws as they are needed; a new law for each emergency. They are\nunfettered by precedent in the administration of justice. Customs have\nbeen handed down by ages of repetition, but the punishment for ignoring\na custom is a matter for individual treatment by a jury of the\nculprit s peers, and I may say that justice seldom misses fire, but\nseems rather to rule in inverse ratio to the ascendency of law. In one\nrespect at least the Martians are a happy people; they have no lawyers.\n\nI did not see the prisoner again for several days subsequent to our\nfirst encounter, and then only to catch a fleeting glimpse of her as\nshe was being conducted to the great audience chamber where I had had\nmy first meeting with Lorquas Ptomel. I could not but note the\nunnecessary harshness and brutality with which her guards treated her;\nso different from the almost maternal kindliness which Sola manifested\ntoward me, and the respectful attitude of the few green Martians who\ntook the trouble to notice me at all.\n\nI had observed on the two occasions when I had seen her that the\nprisoner exchanged words with her guards, and this convinced me that\nthey spoke, or at least could make themselves understood by a common\nlanguage. With this added incentive I nearly drove Sola distracted by\nmy importunities to hasten on my education and within a few more days I\nhad mastered the Martian tongue sufficiently well to enable me to carry\non a passable conversation and to fully understand practically all that\nI heard.\n\nAt this time our sleeping quarters were occupied by three or four\nfemales and a couple of the recently hatched young, beside Sola and her\nyouthful ward, myself, and Woola the hound. After they had retired for\nthe night it was customary for the adults to carry on a desultory\nconversation for a short time before lapsing into sleep, and now that I\ncould understand their language I was always a keen listener, although\nI never proffered any remarks myself.\n\nOn the night following the prisoner s visit to the audience chamber the\nconversation finally fell upon this subject, and I was all ears on the\ninstant. I had feared to question Sola relative to the beautiful\ncaptive, as I could not but recall the strange expression I had noted\nupon her face after my first encounter with the prisoner. That it\ndenoted jealousy I could not say, and yet, judging all things by\nmundane standards as I still did, I felt it safer to affect\nindifference in the matter until I learned more surely Sola s attitude\ntoward the object of my solicitude.\n\nSarkoja, one of the older women who shared our domicile, had been\npresent at the audience as one of the captive s guards, and it was\ntoward her the question turned.\n\n When,  asked one of the women,  will we enjoy the death throes of the\nred one? or does Lorquas Ptomel, Jed, intend holding her for ransom? \n\n They have decided to carry her with us back to Thark, and exhibit her\nlast agonies at the great games before Tal Hajus,  replied Sarkoja.\n\n What will be the manner of her going out?  inquired Sola.  She is very\nsmall and very beautiful; I had hoped that they would hold her for\nransom. \n\nSarkoja and the other women grunted angrily at this evidence of\nweakness on the part of Sola.\n\n It is sad, Sola, that you were not born a million years ago,  snapped\nSarkoja,  when all the hollows of the land were filled with water, and\nthe peoples were as soft as the stuff they sailed upon. In our day we\nhave progressed to a point where such sentiments mark weakness and\natavism. It will not be well for you to permit Tars Tarkas to learn\nthat you hold such degenerate sentiments, as I doubt that he would care\nto entrust such as you with the grave responsibilities of maternity. \n\n I see nothing wrong with my expression of interest in this red woman, \nretorted Sola.  She has never harmed us, nor would she should we have\nfallen into her hands. It is only the men of her kind who war upon us,\nand I have ever thought that their attitude toward us is but the\nreflection of ours toward them. They live at peace with all their\nfellows, except when duty calls upon them to make war, while we are at\npeace with none; forever warring among our own kind as well as upon the\nred men, and even in our own communities the individuals fight amongst\nthemselves. Oh, it is one continual, awful period of bloodshed from the\ntime we break the shell until we gladly embrace the bosom of the river\nof mystery, the dark and ancient Iss which carries us to an unknown,\nbut at least no more frightful and terrible existence! Fortunate indeed\nis he who meets his end in an early death. Say what you please to Tars\nTarkas, he can mete out no worse fate to me than a continuation of the\nhorrible existence we are forced to lead in this life. \n\nThis wild outbreak on the part of Sola so greatly surprised and shocked\nthe other women, that, after a few words of general reprimand, they all\nlapsed into silence and were soon asleep. One thing the episode had\naccomplished was to assure me of Sola s friendliness toward the poor\ngirl, and also to convince me that I had been extremely fortunate in\nfalling into her hands rather than those of some of the other females.\nI knew that she was fond of me, and now that I had discovered that she\nhated cruelty and barbarity I was confident that I could depend upon\nher to aid me and the girl captive to escape, provided of course that\nsuch a thing was within the range of possibilities.\n\nI did not even know that there were any better conditions to escape to,\nbut I was more than willing to take my chances among people fashioned\nafter my own mold rather than to remain longer among the hideous and\nbloodthirsty green men of Mars. But where to go, and how, was as much\nof a puzzle to me as the age-old search for the spring of eternal life\nhas been to earthly men since the beginning of time.\n\nI decided that at the first opportunity I would take Sola into my\nconfidence and openly ask her to aid me, and with this resolution\nstrong upon me I turned among my silks and furs and slept the dreamless\nand refreshing sleep of Mars.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\nCHAMPION AND CHIEF\n\n\nEarly the next morning I was astir. Considerable freedom was allowed\nme, as Sola had informed me that so long as I did not attempt to leave\nthe city I was free to go and come as I pleased. She had warned me,\nhowever, against venturing forth unarmed, as this city, like all other\ndeserted metropolises of an ancient Martian civilization, was peopled\nby the great white apes of my second day s adventure.\n\nIn advising me that I must not leave the boundaries of the city Sola\nhad explained that Woola would prevent this anyway should I attempt it,\nand she warned me most urgently not to arouse his fierce nature by\nignoring his warnings should I venture too close to the forbidden\nterritory. His nature was such, she said, that he would bring me back\ninto the city dead or alive should I persist in opposing him;\n preferably dead,  she added.\n\nOn this morning I had chosen a new street to explore when suddenly I\nfound myself at the limits of the city. Before me were low hills\npierced by narrow and inviting ravines. I longed to explore the country\nbefore me, and, like the pioneer stock from which I sprang, to view\nwhat the landscape beyond the encircling hills might disclose from the\nsummits which shut out my view.\n\nIt also occurred to me that this would prove an excellent opportunity\nto test the qualities of Woola. I was convinced that the brute loved\nme; I had seen more evidences of affection in him than in any other\nMartian animal, man or beast, and I was sure that gratitude for the\nacts that had twice saved his life would more than outweigh his loyalty\nto the duty imposed upon him by cruel and loveless masters.\n\nAs I approached the boundary line Woola ran anxiously before me, and\nthrust his body against my legs. His expression was pleading rather\nthan ferocious, nor did he bare his great tusks or utter his fearful\nguttural warnings. Denied the friendship and companionship of my kind,\nI had developed considerable affection for Woola and Sola, for the\nnormal earthly man must have some outlet for his natural affections,\nand so I decided upon an appeal to a like instinct in this great brute,\nsure that I would not be disappointed.\n\nI had never petted nor fondled him, but now I sat upon the ground and\nputting my arms around his heavy neck I stroked and coaxed him, talking\nin my newly acquired Martian tongue as I would have to my hound at\nhome, as I would have talked to any other friend among the lower\nanimals. His response to my manifestation of affection was remarkable\nto a degree; he stretched his great mouth to its full width, baring the\nentire expanse of his upper rows of tusks and wrinkling his snout until\nhis great eyes were almost hidden by the folds of flesh. If you have\never seen a collie smile you may have some idea of Woola s facial\ndistortion.\n\nHe threw himself upon his back and fairly wallowed at my feet; jumped\nup and sprang upon me, rolling me upon the ground by his great weight;\nthen wriggling and squirming around me like a playful puppy presenting\nits back for the petting it craves. I could not resist the\nludicrousness of the spectacle, and holding my sides I rocked back and\nforth in the first laughter which had passed my lips in many days; the\nfirst, in fact, since the morning Powell had left camp when his horse,\nlong unused, had precipitately and unexpectedly bucked him off\nheadforemost into a pot of frijoles.\n\nMy laughter frightened Woola, his antics ceased and he crawled\npitifully toward me, poking his ugly head far into my lap; and then I\nremembered what laughter signified on Mars torture, suffering, death.\nQuieting myself, I rubbed the poor old fellow s head and back, talked\nto him for a few minutes, and then in an authoritative tone commanded\nhim to follow me, and arising started for the hills.\n\nThere was no further question of authority between us; Woola was my\ndevoted slave from that moment hence, and I his only and undisputed\nmaster. My walk to the hills occupied but a few minutes, and I found\nnothing of particular interest to reward me. Numerous brilliantly\ncolored and strangely formed wild flowers dotted the ravines and from\nthe summit of the first hill I saw still other hills stretching off\ntoward the north, and rising, one range above another, until lost in\nmountains of quite respectable dimensions; though I afterward found\nthat only a few peaks on all Mars exceed four thousand feet in height;\nthe suggestion of magnitude was merely relative.\n\nMy morning s walk had been large with importance to me for it had\nresulted in a perfect understanding with Woola, upon whom Tars Tarkas\nrelied for my safe keeping. I now knew that while theoretically a\nprisoner I was virtually free, and I hastened to regain the city limits\nbefore the defection of Woola could be discovered by his erstwhile\nmasters. The adventure decided me never again to leave the limits of my\nprescribed stamping grounds until I was ready to venture forth for good\nand all, as it would certainly result in a curtailment of my liberties,\nas well as the probable death of Woola, were we to be discovered.\n\nOn regaining the plaza I had my third glimpse of the captive girl. She\nwas standing with her guards before the entrance to the audience\nchamber, and as I approached she gave me one haughty glance and turned\nher back full upon me. The act was so womanly, so earthly womanly, that\nthough it stung my pride it also warmed my heart with a feeling of\ncompanionship; it was good to know that someone else on Mars beside\nmyself had human instincts of a civilized order, even though the\nmanifestation of them was so painful and mortifying.\n\nHad a green Martian woman desired to show dislike or contempt she\nwould, in all likelihood, have done it with a sword thrust or a\nmovement of her trigger finger; but as their sentiments are mostly\natrophied it would have required a serious injury to have aroused such\npassions in them. Sola, let me add, was an exception; I never saw her\nperform a cruel or uncouth act, or fail in uniform kindliness and good\nnature. She was indeed, as her fellow Martian had said of her, an\natavism; a dear and precious reversion to a former type of loved and\nloving ancestor.\n\nSeeing that the prisoner seemed the center of attraction I halted to\nview the proceedings. I had not long to wait for presently Lorquas\nPtomel and his retinue of chieftains approached the building and,\nsigning the guards to follow with the prisoner entered the audience\nchamber. Realizing that I was a somewhat favored character, and also\nconvinced that the warriors did not know of my proficiency in their\nlanguage, as I had plead with Sola to keep this a secret on the grounds\nthat I did not wish to be forced to talk with the men until I had\nperfectly mastered the Martian tongue, I chanced an attempt to enter\nthe audience chamber and listen to the proceedings.\n\nThe council squatted upon the steps of the rostrum, while below them\nstood the prisoner and her two guards. I saw that one of the women was\nSarkoja, and thus understood how she had been present at the hearing of\nthe preceding day, the results of which she had reported to the\noccupants of our dormitory last night. Her attitude toward the captive\nwas most harsh and brutal. When she held her, she sunk her rudimentary\nnails into the poor girl s flesh, or twisted her arm in a most painful\nmanner. When it was necessary to move from one spot to another she\neither jerked her roughly, or pushed her headlong before her. She\nseemed to be venting upon this poor defenseless creature all the\nhatred, cruelty, ferocity, and spite of her nine hundred years, backed\nby unguessable ages of fierce and brutal ancestors.\n\nThe other woman was less cruel because she was entirely indifferent; if\nthe prisoner had been left to her alone, and fortunately she was at\nnight, she would have received no harsh treatment, nor, by the same\ntoken would she have received any attention at all.\n\nAs Lorquas Ptomel raised his eyes to address the prisoner they fell on\nme and he turned to Tars Tarkas with a word, and gesture of impatience.\nTars Tarkas made some reply which I could not catch, but which caused\nLorquas Ptomel to smile; after which they paid no further attention to\nme.\n\n What is your name?  asked Lorquas Ptomel, addressing the prisoner.\n\n Dejah Thoris, daughter of Mors Kajak of Helium. \n\n And the nature of your expedition?  he continued.\n\n It was a purely scientific research party sent out by my father s\nfather, the Jeddak of Helium, to rechart the air currents, and to take\natmospheric density tests,  replied the fair prisoner, in a low,\nwell-modulated voice.\n\n We were unprepared for battle,  she continued,  as we were on a\npeaceful mission, as our banners and the colors of our craft denoted.\nThe work we were doing was as much in your interests as in ours, for\nyou know full well that were it not for our labors and the fruits of\nour scientific operations there would not be enough air or water on\nMars to support a single human life. For ages we have maintained the\nair and water supply at practically the same point without an\nappreciable loss, and we have done this in the face of the brutal and\nignorant interference of you green men.\n\n Why, oh, why will you not learn to live in amity with your fellows.\nMust you ever go on down the ages to your final extinction but little\nabove the plane of the dumb brutes that serve you! A people without\nwritten language, without art, without homes, without love; the victims\nof eons of the horrible community idea. Owning everything in common,\neven to your women and children, has resulted in your owning nothing in\ncommon. You hate each other as you hate all else except yourselves.\nCome back to the ways of our common ancestors, come back to the light\nof kindliness and fellowship. The way is open to you, you will find the\nhands of the red men stretched out to aid you. Together we may do still\nmore to regenerate our dying planet. The granddaughter of the greatest\nand mightiest of the red jeddaks has asked you. Will you come? \n\nLorquas Ptomel and the warriors sat looking silently and intently at\nthe young woman for several moments after she had ceased speaking. What\nwas passing in their minds no man may know, but that they were moved I\ntruly believe, and if one man high among them had been strong enough to\nrise above custom, that moment would have marked a new and mighty era\nfor Mars.\n\nI saw Tars Tarkas rise to speak, and on his face was such an expression\nas I had never seen upon the countenance of a green Martian warrior. It\nbespoke an inward and mighty battle with self, with heredity, with\nage-old custom, and as he opened his mouth to speak, a look almost of\nbenignity, of kindliness, momentarily lighted up his fierce and\nterrible countenance.\n\nWhat words of moment were to have fallen from his lips were never\nspoken, as just then a young warrior, evidently sensing the trend of\nthought among the older men, leaped down from the steps of the rostrum,\nand striking the frail captive a powerful blow across the face, which\nfelled her to the floor, placed his foot upon her prostrate form and\nturning toward the assembled council broke into peals of horrid,\nmirthless laughter.\n\nFor an instant I thought Tars Tarkas would strike him dead, nor did the\naspect of Lorquas Ptomel augur any too favorably for the brute, but the\nmood passed, their old selves reasserted their ascendency, and they\nsmiled. It was portentous however that they did not laugh aloud, for\nthe brute s act constituted a side-splitting witticism according to the\nethics which rule green Martian humor.\n\nThat I have taken moments to write down a part of what occurred as that\nblow fell does not signify that I remained inactive for any such length\nof time. I think I must have sensed something of what was coming, for I\nrealize now that I was crouched as for a spring as I saw the blow aimed\nat her beautiful, upturned, pleading face, and ere the hand descended I\nwas halfway across the hall.\n\nScarcely had his hideous laugh rang out but once, when I was upon him.\nThe brute was twelve feet in height and armed to the teeth, but I\nbelieve that I could have accounted for the whole roomful in the\nterrific intensity of my rage. Springing upward, I struck him full in\nthe face as he turned at my warning cry and then as he drew his\nshort-sword I drew mine and sprang up again upon his breast, hooking\none leg over the butt of his pistol and grasping one of his huge tusks\nwith my left hand while I delivered blow after blow upon his enormous\nchest.\n\nHe could not use his short-sword to advantage because I was too close\nto him, nor could he draw his pistol, which he attempted to do in\ndirect opposition to Martian custom which says that you may not fight a\nfellow warrior in private combat with any other than the weapon with\nwhich you are attacked. In fact he could do nothing but make a wild and\nfutile attempt to dislodge me. With all his immense bulk he was little\nif any stronger than I, and it was but the matter of a moment or two\nbefore he sank, bleeding and lifeless, to the floor.\n\nDejah Thoris had raised herself upon one elbow and was watching the\nbattle with wide, staring eyes. When I had regained my feet I raised\nher in my arms and bore her to one of the benches at the side of the\nroom.\n\nAgain no Martian interfered with me, and tearing a piece of silk from\nmy cape I endeavored to staunch the flow of blood from her nostrils. I\nwas soon successful as her injuries amounted to little more than an\nordinary nosebleed, and when she could speak she placed her hand upon\nmy arm and looking up into my eyes, said:\n\n Why did you do it? You who refused me even friendly recognition in the\nfirst hour of my peril! And now you risk your life and kill one of your\ncompanions for my sake. I cannot understand. What strange manner of man\nare you, that you consort with the green men, though your form is that\nof my race, while your color is little darker than that of the white\nape? Tell me, are you human, or are you more than human? \n\n It is a strange tale,  I replied,  too long to attempt to tell you\nnow, and one which I so much doubt the credibility of myself that I\nfear to hope that others will believe it. Suffice it, for the present,\nthat I am your friend, and, so far as our captors will permit, your\nprotector and your servant. \n\n Then you too are a prisoner? But why, then, those arms and the regalia\nof a Tharkian chieftain? What is your name? Where your country? \n\n Yes, Dejah Thoris, I too am a prisoner; my name is John Carter, and I\nclaim Virginia, one of the United States of America, Earth, as my home;\nbut why I am permitted to wear arms I do not know, nor was I aware that\nmy regalia was that of a chieftain. \n\nWe were interrupted at this juncture by the approach of one of the\nwarriors, bearing arms, accoutrements and ornaments, and in a flash one\nof her questions was answered and a puzzle cleared up for me. I saw\nthat the body of my dead antagonist had been stripped, and I read in\nthe menacing yet respectful attitude of the warrior who had brought me\nthese trophies of the kill the same demeanor as that evinced by the\nother who had brought me my original equipment, and now for the first\ntime I realized that my blow, on the occasion of my first battle in the\naudience chamber had resulted in the death of my adversary.\n\nThe reason for the whole attitude displayed toward me was now apparent;\nI had won my spurs, so to speak, and in the crude justice, which always\nmarks Martian dealings, and which, among other things, has caused me to\ncall her the planet of paradoxes, I was accorded the honors due a\nconqueror; the trappings and the position of the man I killed. In\ntruth, I was a Martian chieftain, and this I learned later was the\ncause of my great freedom and my toleration in the audience chamber.\n\nAs I had turned to receive the dead warrior s chattels I had noticed\nthat Tars Tarkas and several others had pushed forward toward us, and\nthe eyes of the former rested upon me in a most quizzical manner.\nFinally he addressed me:\n\n You speak the tongue of Barsoom quite readily for one who was deaf and\ndumb to us a few short days ago. Where did you learn it, John Carter? \n\n You, yourself, are responsible, Tars Tarkas,  I replied,  in that you\nfurnished me with an instructress of remarkable ability; I have to\nthank Sola for my learning. \n\n She has done well,  he answered,  but your education in other respects\nneeds considerable polish. Do you know what your unprecedented temerity\nwould have cost you had you failed to kill either of the two chieftains\nwhose metal you now wear? \n\n I presume that that one whom I had failed to kill, would have killed\nme,  I answered, smiling.\n\n No, you are wrong. Only in the last extremity of self-defense would a\nMartian warrior kill a prisoner; we like to save them for other\npurposes,  and his face bespoke possibilities that were not pleasant to\ndwell upon.\n\n But one thing can save you now,  he continued.  Should you, in\nrecognition of your remarkable valor, ferocity, and prowess, be\nconsidered by Tal Hajus as worthy of his service you may be taken into\nthe community and become a full-fledged Tharkian. Until we reach the\nheadquarters of Tal Hajus it is the will of Lorquas Ptomel that you be\naccorded the respect your acts have earned you. You will be treated by\nus as a Tharkian chieftain, but you must not forget that every chief\nwho ranks you is responsible for your safe delivery to our mighty and\nmost ferocious ruler. I am done. \n\n I hear you, Tars Tarkas,  I answered.  As you know I am not of\nBarsoom; your ways are not my ways, and I can only act in the future as\nI have in the past, in accordance with the dictates of my conscience\nand guided by the standards of mine own people. If you will leave me\nalone I will go in peace, but if not, let the individual Barsoomians\nwith whom I must deal either respect my rights as a stranger among you,\nor take whatever consequences may befall. Of one thing let us be sure,\nwhatever may be your ultimate intentions toward this unfortunate young\nwoman, whoever would offer her injury or insult in the future must\nfigure on making a full accounting to me. I understand that you\nbelittle all sentiments of generosity and kindliness, but I do not, and\nI can convince your most doughty warrior that these characteristics are\nnot incompatible with an ability to fight. \n\nOrdinarily I am not given to long speeches, nor ever before had I\ndescended to bombast, but I had guessed at the keynote which would\nstrike an answering chord in the breasts of the green Martians, nor was\nI wrong, for my harangue evidently deeply impressed them, and their\nattitude toward me thereafter was still further respectful.\n\nTars Tarkas himself seemed pleased with my reply, but his only comment\nwas more or less enigmatical And I think I know Tal Hajus, Jeddak of\nThark. \n\nI now turned my attention to Dejah Thoris, and assisting her to her\nfeet I turned with her toward the exit, ignoring her hovering guardian\nharpies as well as the inquiring glances of the chieftains. Was I not\nnow a chieftain also! Well, then, I would assume the responsibilities\nof one. They did not molest us, and so Dejah Thoris, Princess of\nHelium, and John Carter, gentleman of Virginia, followed by the\nfaithful Woola, passed through utter silence from the audience chamber\nof Lorquas Ptomel, Jed among the Tharks of Barsoom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\nWITH DEJAH THORIS\n\n\nAs we reached the open the two female guards who had been detailed to\nwatch over Dejah Thoris hurried up and made as though to assume custody\nof her once more. The poor child shrank against me and I felt her two\nlittle hands fold tightly over my arm. Waving the women away, I\ninformed them that Sola would attend the captive hereafter, and I\nfurther warned Sarkoja that any more of her cruel attentions bestowed\nupon Dejah Thoris would result in Sarkoja s sudden and painful demise.\n\nMy threat was unfortunate and resulted in more harm than good to Dejah\nThoris, for, as I learned later, men do not kill women upon Mars, nor\nwomen, men. So Sarkoja merely gave us an ugly look and departed to\nhatch up deviltries against us.\n\nI soon found Sola and explained to her that I wished her to guard Dejah\nThoris as she had guarded me; that I wished her to find other quarters\nwhere they would not be molested by Sarkoja, and I finally informed her\nthat I myself would take up my quarters among the men.\n\nSola glanced at the accouterments which were carried in my hand and\nslung across my shoulder.\n\n You are a great chieftain now, John Carter,  she said,  and I must do\nyour bidding, though indeed I am glad to do it under any circumstances.\nThe man whose metal you carry was young, but he was a great warrior,\nand had by his promotions and kills won his way close to the rank of\nTars Tarkas, who, as you know, is second to Lorquas Ptomel only. You\nare eleventh, there are but ten chieftains in this community who rank\nyou in prowess. \n\n And if I should kill Lorquas Ptomel?  I asked.\n\n You would be first, John Carter; but you may only win that honor by\nthe will of the entire council that Lorquas Ptomel meet you in combat,\nor should he attack you, you may kill him in self-defense, and thus win\nfirst place. \n\nI laughed, and changed the subject. I had no particular desire to kill\nLorquas Ptomel, and less to be a jed among the Tharks.\n\nI accompanied Sola and Dejah Thoris in a search for new quarters, which\nwe found in a building nearer the audience chamber and of far more\npretentious architecture than our former habitation. We also found in\nthis building real sleeping apartments with ancient beds of highly\nwrought metal swinging from enormous gold chains depending from the\nmarble ceilings. The decoration of the walls was most elaborate, and,\nunlike the frescoes in the other buildings I had examined, portrayed\nmany human figures in the compositions. These were of people like\nmyself, and of a much lighter color than Dejah Thoris. They were clad\nin graceful, flowing robes, highly ornamented with metal and jewels,\nand their luxuriant hair was of a beautiful golden and reddish bronze.\nThe men were beardless and only a few wore arms. The scenes depicted\nfor the most part, a fair-skinned, fair-haired people at play.\n\nDejah Thoris clasped her hands with an exclamation of rapture as she\ngazed upon these magnificent works of art, wrought by a people long\nextinct; while Sola, on the other hand, apparently did not see them.\n\nWe decided to use this room, on the second floor and overlooking the\nplaza, for Dejah Thoris and Sola, and another room adjoining and in the\nrear for the cooking and supplies. I then dispatched Sola to bring the\nbedding and such food and utensils as she might need, telling her that\nI would guard Dejah Thoris until her return.\n\nAs Sola departed Dejah Thoris turned to me with a faint smile.\n\n And whereto, then, would your prisoner escape should you leave her,\nunless it was to follow you and crave your protection, and ask your\npardon for the cruel thoughts she has harbored against you these past\nfew days? \n\n You are right,  I answered,  there is no escape for either of us\nunless we go together. \n\n I heard your challenge to the creature you call Tars Tarkas, and I\nthink I understand your position among these people, but what I cannot\nfathom is your statement that you are not of Barsoom. \n\n In the name of my first ancestor, then,  she continued,  where may you\nbe from? You are like unto my people, and yet so unlike. You speak my\nlanguage, and yet I heard you tell Tars Tarkas that you had but learned\nit recently. All Barsoomians speak the same tongue from the ice-clad\nsouth to the ice-clad north, though their written languages differ.\nOnly in the valley Dor, where the river Iss empties into the lost sea\nof Korus, is there supposed to be a different language spoken, and,\nexcept in the legends of our ancestors, there is no record of a\nBarsoomian returning up the river Iss, from the shores of Korus in the\nvalley of Dor. Do not tell me that you have thus returned! They would\nkill you horribly anywhere upon the surface of Barsoom if that were\ntrue; tell me it is not! \n\nHer eyes were filled with a strange, weird light; her voice was\npleading, and her little hands, reached up upon my breast, were pressed\nagainst me as though to wring a denial from my very heart.\n\n I do not know your customs, Dejah Thoris, but in my own Virginia a\ngentleman does not lie to save himself; I am not of Dor; I have never\nseen the mysterious Iss; the lost sea of Korus is still lost, so far as\nI am concerned. Do you believe me? \n\nAnd then it struck me suddenly that I was very anxious that she should\nbelieve me. It was not that I feared the results which would follow a\ngeneral belief that I had returned from the Barsoomian heaven or hell,\nor whatever it was. Why was it, then! Why should I care what she\nthought? I looked down at her; her beautiful face upturned, and her\nwonderful eyes opening up the very depth of her soul; and as my eyes\nmet hers I knew why, and I shuddered.\n\nA similar wave of feeling seemed to stir her; she drew away from me\nwith a sigh, and with her earnest, beautiful face turned up to mine,\nshe whispered:  I believe you, John Carter; I do not know what a\n gentleman  is, nor have I ever heard before of Virginia; but on\nBarsoom no man lies; if he does not wish to speak the truth he is\nsilent. Where is this Virginia, your country, John Carter?  she asked,\nand it seemed that this fair name of my fair land had never sounded\nmore beautiful than as it fell from those perfect lips on that far-gone\nday.\n\n I am of another world,  I answered,  the great planet Earth, which\nrevolves about our common sun and next within the orbit of your\nBarsoom, which we know as Mars. How I came here I cannot tell you, for\nI do not know; but here I am, and since my presence has permitted me to\nserve Dejah Thoris I am glad that I am here. \n\nShe gazed at me with troubled eyes, long and questioningly. That it was\ndifficult to believe my statement I well knew, nor could I hope that\nshe would do so however much I craved her confidence and respect. I\nwould much rather not have told her anything of my antecedents, but no\nman could look into the depth of those eyes and refuse her slightest\nbehest.\n\nFinally she smiled, and, rising, said:  I shall have to believe even\nthough I cannot understand. I can readily perceive that you are not of\nthe Barsoom of today; you are like us, yet different but why should I\ntrouble my poor head with such a problem, when my heart tells me that I\nbelieve because I wish to believe! \n\nIt was good logic, good, earthly, feminine logic, and if it satisfied\nher I certainly could pick no flaws in it. As a matter of fact it was\nabout the only kind of logic that could be brought to bear upon my\nproblem. We fell into a general conversation then, asking and answering\nmany questions on each side. She was curious to learn of the customs of\nmy people and displayed a remarkable knowledge of events on Earth. When\nI questioned her closely on this seeming familiarity with earthly\nthings she laughed, and cried out:\n\n Why, every school boy on Barsoom knows the geography, and much\nconcerning the fauna and flora, as well as the history of your planet\nfully as well as of his own. Can we not see everything which takes\nplace upon Earth, as you call it; is it not hanging there in the\nheavens in plain sight? \n\nThis baffled me, I must confess, fully as much as my statements had\nconfounded her; and I told her so. She then explained in general the\ninstruments her people had used and been perfecting for ages, which\npermit them to throw upon a screen a perfect image of what is\ntranspiring upon any planet and upon many of the stars. These pictures\nare so perfect in detail that, when photographed and enlarged, objects\nno greater than a blade of grass may be distinctly recognized. I\nafterward, in Helium, saw many of these pictures, as well as the\ninstruments which produced them.\n\n If, then, you are so familiar with earthly things,  I asked,  why is\nit that you do not recognize me as identical with the inhabitants of\nthat planet? \n\nShe smiled again as one might in bored indulgence of a questioning\nchild.\n\n Because, John Carter,  she replied,  nearly every planet and star\nhaving atmospheric conditions at all approaching those of Barsoom,\nshows forms of animal life almost identical with you and me; and,\nfurther, Earth men, almost without exception, cover their bodies with\nstrange, unsightly pieces of cloth, and their heads with hideous\ncontraptions the purpose of which we have been unable to conceive;\nwhile you, when found by the Tharkian warriors, were entirely\nundisfigured and unadorned.\n\n The fact that you wore no ornaments is a strong proof of your\nun-Barsoomian origin, while the absence of grotesque coverings might\ncause a doubt as to your earthliness. \n\nI then narrated the details of my departure from the Earth, explaining\nthat my body there lay fully clothed in all the, to her, strange\ngarments of mundane dwellers. At this point Sola returned with our\nmeager belongings and her young Martian protege, who, of course, would\nhave to share the quarters with them.\n\nSola asked us if we had had a visitor during her absence, and seemed\nmuch surprised when we answered in the negative. It seemed that as she\nhad mounted the approach to the upper floors where our quarters were\nlocated, she had met Sarkoja descending. We decided that she must have\nbeen eavesdropping, but as we could recall nothing of importance that\nhad passed between us we dismissed the matter as of little consequence,\nmerely promising ourselves to be warned to the utmost caution in the\nfuture.\n\nDejah Thoris and I then fell to examining the architecture and\ndecorations of the beautiful chambers of the building we were\noccupying. She told me that these people had presumably flourished over\na hundred thousand years before. They were the early progenitors of her\nrace, but had mixed with the other great race of early Martians, who\nwere very dark, almost black, and also with the reddish yellow race\nwhich had flourished at the same time.\n\nThese three great divisions of the higher Martians had been forced into\na mighty alliance as the drying up of the Martian seas had compelled\nthem to seek the comparatively few and always diminishing fertile\nareas, and to defend themselves, under new conditions of life, against\nthe wild hordes of green men.\n\nAges of close relationship and intermarrying had resulted in the race\nof red men, of which Dejah Thoris was a fair and beautiful daughter.\nDuring the ages of hardships and incessant warring between their own\nvarious races, as well as with the green men, and before they had\nfitted themselves to the changed conditions, much of the high\ncivilization and many of the arts of the fair-haired Martians had\nbecome lost; but the red race of today has reached a point where it\nfeels that it has made up in new discoveries and in a more practical\ncivilization for all that lies irretrievably buried with the ancient\nBarsoomians, beneath the countless intervening ages.\n\nThese ancient Martians had been a highly cultivated and literary race,\nbut during the vicissitudes of those trying centuries of readjustment\nto new conditions, not only did their advancement and production cease\nentirely, but practically all their archives, records, and literature\nwere lost.\n\nDejah Thoris related many interesting facts and legends concerning this\nlost race of noble and kindly people. She said that the city in which\nwe were camping was supposed to have been a center of commerce and\nculture known as Korad. It had been built upon a beautiful, natural\nharbor, landlocked by magnificent hills. The little valley on the west\nfront of the city, she explained, was all that remained of the harbor,\nwhile the pass through the hills to the old sea bottom had been the\nchannel through which the shipping passed up to the city s gates.\n\nThe shores of the ancient seas were dotted with just such cities, and\nlesser ones, in diminishing numbers, were to be found converging toward\nthe center of the oceans, as the people had found it necessary to\nfollow the receding waters until necessity had forced upon them their\nultimate salvation, the so-called Martian canals.\n\nWe had been so engrossed in exploration of the building and in our\nconversation that it was late in the afternoon before we realized it.\nWe were brought back to a realization of our present conditions by a\nmessenger bearing a summons from Lorquas Ptomel directing me to appear\nbefore him forthwith. Bidding Dejah Thoris and Sola farewell, and\ncommanding Woola to remain on guard, I hastened to the audience\nchamber, where I found Lorquas Ptomel and Tars Tarkas seated upon the\nrostrum.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\nA PRISONER WITH POWER\n\n\nAs I entered and saluted, Lorquas Ptomel signaled me to advance, and,\nfixing his great, hideous eyes upon me, addressed me thus:\n\n You have been with us a few days, yet during that time you have by\nyour prowess won a high position among us. Be that as it may, you are\nnot one of us; you owe us no allegiance.\n\n Your position is a peculiar one,  he continued;  you are a prisoner\nand yet you give commands which must be obeyed; you are an alien and\nyet you are a Tharkian chieftain; you are a midget and yet you can kill\na mighty warrior with one blow of your fist. And now you are reported\nto have been plotting to escape with another prisoner of another race;\na prisoner who, from her own admission, half believes you are returned\nfrom the valley of Dor. Either one of these accusations, if proved,\nwould be sufficient grounds for your execution, but we are a just\npeople and you shall have a trial on our return to Thark, if Tal Hajus\nso commands.\n\n But,  he continued, in his fierce guttural tones,  if you run off with\nthe red girl it is I who shall have to account to Tal Hajus; it is I\nwho shall have to face Tars Tarkas, and either demonstrate my right to\ncommand, or the metal from my dead carcass will go to a better man, for\nsuch is the custom of the Tharks.\n\n I have no quarrel with Tars Tarkas; together we rule supreme the\ngreatest of the lesser communities among the green men; we do not wish\nto fight between ourselves; and so if you were dead, John Carter, I\nshould be glad. Under two conditions only, however, may you be killed\nby us without orders from Tal Hajus; in personal combat in\nself-defense, should you attack one of us, or were you apprehended in\nan attempt to escape.\n\n As a matter of justice I must warn you that we only await one of these\ntwo excuses for ridding ourselves of so great a responsibility. The\nsafe delivery of the red girl to Tal Hajus is of the greatest\nimportance. Not in a thousand years have the Tharks made such a\ncapture; she is the granddaughter of the greatest of the red jeddaks,\nwho is also our bitterest enemy. I have spoken. The red girl told us\nthat we were without the softer sentiments of humanity, but we are a\njust and truthful race. You may go. \n\nTurning, I left the audience chamber. So this was the beginning of\nSarkoja s persecution! I knew that none other could be responsible for\nthis report which had reached the ears of Lorquas Ptomel so quickly,\nand now I recalled those portions of our conversation which had touched\nupon escape and upon my origin.\n\nSarkoja was at this time Tars Tarkas  oldest and most trusted female.\nAs such she was a mighty power behind the throne, for no warrior had\nthe confidence of Lorquas Ptomel to such an extent as did his ablest\nlieutenant, Tars Tarkas.\n\nHowever, instead of putting thoughts of possible escape from my mind,\nmy audience with Lorquas Ptomel only served to center my every faculty\non this subject. Now, more than before, the absolute necessity for\nescape, in so far as Dejah Thoris was concerned, was impressed upon me,\nfor I was convinced that some horrible fate awaited her at the\nheadquarters of Tal Hajus.\n\nAs described by Sola, this monster was the exaggerated personification\nof all the ages of cruelty, ferocity, and brutality from which he had\ndescended. Cold, cunning, calculating; he was, also, in marked contrast\nto most of his fellows, a slave to that brute passion which the waning\ndemands for procreation upon their dying planet has almost stilled in\nthe Martian breast.\n\nThe thought that the divine Dejah Thoris might fall into the clutches\nof such an abysmal atavism started the cold sweat upon me. Far better\nthat we save friendly bullets for ourselves at the last moment, as did\nthose brave frontier women of my lost land, who took their own lives\nrather than fall into the hands of the Indian braves.\n\nAs I wandered about the plaza lost in my gloomy forebodings Tars Tarkas\napproached me on his way from the audience chamber. His demeanor toward\nme was unchanged, and he greeted me as though we had not just parted a\nfew moments before.\n\n Where are your quarters, John Carter?  he asked.\n\n I have selected none,  I replied.  It seemed best that I quartered\neither by myself or among the other warriors, and I was awaiting an\nopportunity to ask your advice. As you know,  and I smiled,  I am not\nyet familiar with all the customs of the Tharks. \n\n Come with me,  he directed, and together we moved off across the plaza\nto a building which I was glad to see adjoined that occupied by Sola\nand her charges.\n\n My quarters are on the first floor of this building,  he said,  and\nthe second floor also is fully occupied by warriors, but the third\nfloor and the floors above are vacant; you may take your choice of\nthese.\n\n I understand,  he continued,  that you have given up your woman to the\nred prisoner. Well, as you have said, your ways are not our ways, but\nyou can fight well enough to do about as you please, and so, if you\nwish to give your woman to a captive, it is your own affair; but as a\nchieftain you should have those to serve you, and in accordance with\nour customs you may select any or all the females from the retinues of\nthe chieftains whose metal you now wear. \n\nI thanked him, but assured him that I could get along very nicely\nwithout assistance except in the matter of preparing food, and so he\npromised to send women to me for this purpose and also for the care of\nmy arms and the manufacture of my ammunition, which he said would be\nnecessary. I suggested that they might also bring some of the sleeping\nsilks and furs which belonged to me as spoils of combat, for the nights\nwere cold and I had none of my own.\n\nHe promised to do so, and departed. Left alone, I ascended the winding\ncorridor to the upper floors in search of suitable quarters. The\nbeauties of the other buildings were repeated in this, and, as usual, I\nwas soon lost in a tour of investigation and discovery.\n\nI finally chose a front room on the third floor, because this brought\nme nearer to Dejah Thoris, whose apartment was on the second floor of\nthe adjoining building, and it flashed upon me that I could rig up some\nmeans of communication whereby she might signal me in case she needed\neither my services or my protection.\n\nAdjoining my sleeping apartment were baths, dressing rooms, and other\nsleeping and living apartments, in all some ten rooms on this floor.\nThe windows of the back rooms overlooked an enormous court, which\nformed the center of the square made by the buildings which faced the\nfour contiguous streets, and which was now given over to the quartering\nof the various animals belonging to the warriors occupying the\nadjoining buildings.\n\nWhile the court was entirely overgrown with the yellow, moss-like\nvegetation which blankets practically the entire surface of Mars, yet\nnumerous fountains, statuary, benches, and pergola-like contraptions\nbore witness to the beauty which the court must have presented in\nbygone times, when graced by the fair-haired, laughing people whom\nstern and unalterable cosmic laws had driven not only from their homes,\nbut from all except the vague legends of their descendants.\n\nOne could easily picture the gorgeous foliage of the luxuriant Martian\nvegetation which once filled this scene with life and color; the\ngraceful figures of the beautiful women, the straight and handsome men;\nthe happy frolicking children all sunlight, happiness and peace. It was\ndifficult to realize that they had gone; down through ages of darkness,\ncruelty, and ignorance, until their hereditary instincts of culture and\nhumanitarianism had risen ascendant once more in the final composite\nrace which now is dominant upon Mars.\n\nMy thoughts were cut short by the advent of several young females\nbearing loads of weapons, silks, furs, jewels, cooking utensils, and\ncasks of food and drink, including considerable loot from the air\ncraft. All this, it seemed, had been the property of the two chieftains\nI had slain, and now, by the customs of the Tharks, it had become mine.\nAt my direction they placed the stuff in one of the back rooms, and\nthen departed, only to return with a second load, which they advised me\nconstituted the balance of my goods. On the second trip they were\naccompanied by ten or fifteen other women and youths, who, it seemed,\nformed the retinues of the two chieftains.\n\nThey were not their families, nor their wives, nor their servants; the\nrelationship was peculiar, and so unlike anything known to us that it\nis most difficult to describe. All property among the green Martians is\nowned in common by the community, except the personal weapons,\nornaments and sleeping silks and furs of the individuals. These alone\ncan one claim undisputed right to, nor may he accumulate more of these\nthan are required for his actual needs. The surplus he holds merely as\ncustodian, and it is passed on to the younger members of the community\nas necessity demands.\n\nThe women and children of a man s retinue may be likened to a military\nunit for which he is responsible in various ways, as in matters of\ninstruction, discipline, sustenance, and the exigencies of their\ncontinual roamings and their unending strife with other communities and\nwith the red Martians. His women are in no sense wives. The green\nMartians use no word corresponding in meaning with this earthly word.\nTheir mating is a matter of community interest solely, and is directed\nwithout reference to natural selection. The council of chieftains of\neach community control the matter as surely as the owner of a Kentucky\nracing stud directs the scientific breeding of his stock for the\nimprovement of the whole.\n\nIn theory it may sound well, as is often the case with theories, but\nthe results of ages of this unnatural practice, coupled with the\ncommunity interest in the offspring being held paramount to that of the\nmother, is shown in the cold, cruel creatures, and their gloomy,\nloveless, mirthless existence.\n\nIt is true that the green Martians are absolutely virtuous, both men\nand women, with the exception of such degenerates as Tal Hajus; but\nbetter far a finer balance of human characteristics even at the expense\nof a slight and occasional loss of chastity.\n\nFinding that I must assume responsibility for these creatures, whether\nI would or not, I made the best of it and directed them to find\nquarters on the upper floors, leaving the third floor to me. One of the\ngirls I charged with the duties of my simple cuisine, and directed the\nothers to take up the various activities which had formerly constituted\ntheir vocations. Thereafter I saw little of them, nor did I care to.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\nLOVE-MAKING ON MARS\n\n\nFollowing the battle with the air ships, the community remained within\nthe city for several days, abandoning the homeward march until they\ncould feel reasonably assured that the ships would not return; for to\nbe caught on the open plains with a cavalcade of chariots and children\nwas far from the desire of even so warlike a people as the green\nMartians.\n\nDuring our period of inactivity, Tars Tarkas had instructed me in many\nof the customs and arts of war familiar to the Tharks, including\nlessons in riding and guiding the great beasts which bore the warriors.\nThese creatures, which are known as thoats, are as dangerous and\nvicious as their masters, but when once subdued are sufficiently\ntractable for the purposes of the green Martians.\n\nTwo of these animals had fallen to me from the warriors whose metal I\nwore, and in a short time I could handle them quite as well as the\nnative warriors. The method was not at all complicated. If the thoats\ndid not respond with sufficient celerity to the telepathic instructions\nof their riders they were dealt a terrific blow between the ears with\nthe butt of a pistol, and if they showed fight this treatment was\ncontinued until the brutes either were subdued, or had unseated their\nriders.\n\nIn the latter case it became a life and death struggle between the man\nand the beast. If the former were quick enough with his pistol he might\nlive to ride again, though upon some other beast; if not, his torn and\nmangled body was gathered up by his women and burned in accordance with\nTharkian custom.\n\nMy experience with Woola determined me to attempt the experiment of\nkindness in my treatment of my thoats. First I taught them that they\ncould not unseat me, and even rapped them sharply between the ears to\nimpress upon them my authority and mastery. Then, by degrees, I won\ntheir confidence in much the same manner as I had adopted countless\ntimes with my many mundane mounts. I was ever a good hand with animals,\nand by inclination, as well as because it brought more lasting and\nsatisfactory results, I was always kind and humane in my dealings with\nthe lower orders. I could take a human life, if necessary, with far\nless compunction than that of a poor, unreasoning, irresponsible brute.\n\nIn the course of a few days my thoats were the wonder of the entire\ncommunity. They would follow me like dogs, rubbing their great snouts\nagainst my body in awkward evidence of affection, and respond to my\nevery command with an alacrity and docility which caused the Martian\nwarriors to ascribe to me the possession of some earthly power unknown\non Mars.\n\n How have you bewitched them?  asked Tars Tarkas one afternoon, when he\nhad seen me run my arm far between the great jaws of one of my thoats\nwhich had wedged a piece of stone between two of his teeth while\nfeeding upon the moss-like vegetation within our court yard.\n\n By kindness,  I replied.  You see, Tars Tarkas, the softer sentiments\nhave their value, even to a warrior. In the height of battle as well as\nupon the march I know that my thoats will obey my every command, and\ntherefore my fighting efficiency is enhanced, and I am a better warrior\nfor the reason that I am a kind master. Your other warriors would find\nit to the advantage of themselves as well as of the community to adopt\nmy methods in this respect. Only a few days since you, yourself, told\nme that these great brutes, by the uncertainty of their tempers, often\nwere the means of turning victory into defeat, since, at a crucial\nmoment, they might elect to unseat and rend their riders. \n\n Show me how you accomplish these results,  was Tars Tarkas  only\nrejoinder.\n\nAnd so I explained as carefully as I could the entire method of\ntraining I had adopted with my beasts, and later he had me repeat it\nbefore Lorquas Ptomel and the assembled warriors. That moment marked\nthe beginning of a new existence for the poor thoats, and before I left\nthe community of Lorquas Ptomel I had the satisfaction of observing a\nregiment of as tractable and docile mounts as one might care to see.\nThe effect on the precision and celerity of the military movements was\nso remarkable that Lorquas Ptomel presented me with a massive anklet of\ngold from his own leg, as a sign of his appreciation of my service to\nthe horde.\n\nOn the seventh day following the battle with the air craft we again\ntook up the march toward Thark, all probability of another attack being\ndeemed remote by Lorquas Ptomel.\n\nDuring the days just preceding our departure I had seen but little of\nDejah Thoris, as I had been kept very busy by Tars Tarkas with my\nlessons in the art of Martian warfare, as well as in the training of my\nthoats. The few times I had visited her quarters she had been absent,\nwalking upon the streets with Sola, or investigating the buildings in\nthe near vicinity of the plaza. I had warned them against venturing far\nfrom the plaza for fear of the great white apes, whose ferocity I was\nonly too well acquainted with. However, since Woola accompanied them on\nall their excursions, and as Sola was well armed, there was\ncomparatively little cause for fear.\n\nOn the evening before our departure I saw them approaching along one of\nthe great avenues which lead into the plaza from the east. I advanced\nto meet them, and telling Sola that I would take the responsibility for\nDejah Thoris  safekeeping, I directed her to return to her quarters on\nsome trivial errand. I liked and trusted Sola, but for some reason I\ndesired to be alone with Dejah Thoris, who represented to me all that I\nhad left behind upon Earth in agreeable and congenial companionship.\nThere seemed bonds of mutual interest between us as powerful as though\nwe had been born under the same roof rather than upon different\nplanets, hurtling through space some forty-eight million miles apart.\n\nThat she shared my sentiments in this respect I was positive, for on my\napproach the look of pitiful hopelessness left her sweet countenance to\nbe replaced by a smile of joyful welcome, as she placed her little\nright hand upon my left shoulder in true red Martian salute.\n\n Sarkoja told Sola that you had become a true Thark,  she said,  and\nthat I would now see no more of you than of any of the other warriors. \n\n Sarkoja is a liar of the first magnitude,  I replied,  notwithstanding\nthe proud claim of the Tharks to absolute verity. \n\nDejah Thoris laughed.\n\n I knew that even though you became a member of the community you would\nnot cease to be my friend;  A warrior may change his metal, but not his\nheart,  as the saying is upon Barsoom. \n\n I think they have been trying to keep us apart,  she continued,  for\nwhenever you have been off duty one of the older women of Tars Tarkas \nretinue has always arranged to trump up some excuse to get Sola and me\nout of sight. They have had me down in the pits below the buildings\nhelping them mix their awful radium powder, and make their terrible\nprojectiles. You know that these have to be manufactured by artificial\nlight, as exposure to sunlight always results in an explosion. You have\nnoticed that their bullets explode when they strike an object? Well,\nthe opaque, outer coating is broken by the impact, exposing a glass\ncylinder, almost solid, in the forward end of which is a minute\nparticle of radium powder. The moment the sunlight, even though\ndiffused, strikes this powder it explodes with a violence which nothing\ncan withstand. If you ever witness a night battle you will note the\nabsence of these explosions, while the morning following the battle\nwill be filled at sunrise with the sharp detonations of exploding\nmissiles fired the preceding night. As a rule, however, non-exploding\nprojectiles are used at night. [1]\n\n [1] I have used the word radium in describing this powder because in\n the light of recent discoveries on Earth I believe it to be a mixture\n of which radium is the base. In Captain Carter s manuscript it is\n mentioned always by the name used in the written language of Helium\n and is spelled in hieroglyphics which it would be difficult and\n useless to reproduce.\n\n\nWhile I was much interested in Dejah Thoris  explanation of this\nwonderful adjunct to Martian warfare, I was more concerned by the\nimmediate problem of their treatment of her. That they were keeping her\naway from me was not a matter for surprise, but that they should\nsubject her to dangerous and arduous labor filled me with rage.\n\n Have they ever subjected you to cruelty and ignominy, Dejah Thoris?  I\nasked, feeling the hot blood of my fighting ancestors leap in my veins\nas I awaited her reply.\n\n Only in little ways, John Carter,  she answered.  Nothing that can\nharm me outside my pride. They know that I am the daughter of ten\nthousand jeddaks, that I trace my ancestry straight back without a\nbreak to the builder of the first great waterway, and they, who do not\neven know their own mothers, are jealous of me. At heart they hate\ntheir horrid fates, and so wreak their poor spite on me who stand for\neverything they have not, and for all they most crave and never can\nattain. Let us pity them, my chieftain, for even though we die at their\nhands we can afford them pity, since we are greater than they and they\nknow it. \n\nHad I known the significance of those words  my chieftain,  as applied\nby a red Martian woman to a man, I should have had the surprise of my\nlife, but I did not know at that time, nor for many months thereafter.\nYes, I still had much to learn upon Barsoom.\n\n I presume it is the better part of wisdom that we bow to our fate with\nas good grace as possible, Dejah Thoris; but I hope, nevertheless, that\nI may be present the next time that any Martian, green, red, pink, or\nviolet, has the temerity to even so much as frown on you, my princess. \n\nDejah Thoris caught her breath at my last words, and gazed upon me with\ndilated eyes and quickening breath, and then, with an odd little laugh,\nwhich brought roguish dimples to the corners of her mouth, she shook\nher head and cried:\n\n What a child! A great warrior and yet a stumbling little child. \n\n What have I done now?  I asked, in sore perplexity.\n\n Some day you shall know, John Carter, if we live; but I may not tell\nyou. And I, the daughter of Mors Kajak, son of Tardos Mors, have\nlistened without anger,  she soliloquized in conclusion.\n\nThen she broke out again into one of her gay, happy, laughing moods;\njoking with me on my prowess as a Thark warrior as contrasted with my\nsoft heart and natural kindliness.\n\n I presume that should you accidentally wound an enemy you would take\nhim home and nurse him back to health,  she laughed.\n\n That is precisely what we do on Earth,  I answered.  At least among\ncivilized men. \n\nThis made her laugh again. She could not understand it, for, with all\nher tenderness and womanly sweetness, she was still a Martian, and to a\nMartian the only good enemy is a dead enemy; for every dead foeman\nmeans so much more to divide between those who live.\n\nI was very curious to know what I had said or done to cause her so much\nperturbation a moment before and so I continued to importune her to\nenlighten me.\n\n No,  she exclaimed,  it is enough that you have said it and that I\nhave listened. And when you learn, John Carter, and if I be dead, as\nlikely I shall be ere the further moon has circled Barsoom another\ntwelve times, remember that I listened and that I smiled. \n\nIt was all Greek to me, but the more I begged her to explain the more\npositive became her denials of my request, and, so, in very\nhopelessness, I desisted.\n\nDay had now given away to night and as we wandered along the great\navenue lighted by the two moons of Barsoom, and with Earth looking down\nupon us out of her luminous green eye, it seemed that we were alone in\nthe universe, and I, at least, was content that it should be so.\n\nThe chill of the Martian night was upon us, and removing my silks I\nthrew them across the shoulders of Dejah Thoris. As my arm rested for\nan instant upon her I felt a thrill pass through every fiber of my\nbeing such as contact with no other mortal had even produced; and it\nseemed to me that she had leaned slightly toward me, but of that I was\nnot sure. Only I knew that as my arm rested there across her shoulders\nlonger than the act of adjusting the silk required she did not draw\naway, nor did she speak. And so, in silence, we walked the surface of a\ndying world, but in the breast of one of us at least had been born that\nwhich is ever oldest, yet ever new.\n\nI loved Dejah Thoris. The touch of my arm upon her naked shoulder had\nspoken to me in words I would not mistake, and I knew that I had loved\nher since the first moment that my eyes had met hers that first time in\nthe plaza of the dead city of Korad.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\nA DUEL TO THE DEATH\n\n\nMy first impulse was to tell her of my love, and then I thought of the\nhelplessness of her position wherein I alone could lighten the burdens\nof her captivity, and protect her in my poor way against the thousands\nof hereditary enemies she must face upon our arrival at Thark. I could\nnot chance causing her additional pain or sorrow by declaring a love\nwhich, in all probability she did not return. Should I be so\nindiscreet, her position would be even more unbearable than now, and\nthe thought that she might feel that I was taking advantage of her\nhelplessness, to influence her decision was the final argument which\nsealed my lips.\n\n Why are you so quiet, Dejah Thoris?  I asked.  Possibly you would\nrather return to Sola and your quarters. \n\n No,  she murmured,  I am happy here. I do not know why it is that I\nshould always be happy and contented when you, John Carter, a stranger,\nare with me; yet at such times it seems that I am safe and that, with\nyou, I shall soon return to my father s court and feel his strong arms\nabout me and my mother s tears and kisses on my cheek. \n\n Do people kiss, then, upon Barsoom?  I asked, when she had explained\nthe word she used, in answer to my inquiry as to its meaning.\n\n Parents, brothers, and sisters, yes; and,  she added in a low,\nthoughtful tone,  lovers. \n\n And you, Dejah Thoris, have parents and brothers and sisters? \n\n Yes. \n\n And a lover? \n\nShe was silent, nor could I venture to repeat the question.\n\n The man of Barsoom,  she finally ventured,  does not ask personal\nquestions of women, except his mother, and the woman he has fought for\nand won. \n\n But I have fought  I started, and then I wished my tongue had been\ncut from my mouth; for she turned even as I caught myself and ceased,\nand drawing my silks from her shoulder she held them out to me, and\nwithout a word, and with head held high, she moved with the carriage of\nthe queen she was toward the plaza and the doorway of her quarters.\n\nI did not attempt to follow her, other than to see that she reached the\nbuilding in safety, but, directing Woola to accompany her, I turned\ndisconsolately and entered my own house. I sat for hours cross-legged,\nand cross-tempered, upon my silks meditating upon the queer freaks\nchance plays upon us poor devils of mortals.\n\nSo this was love! I had escaped it for all the years I had roamed the\nfive continents and their encircling seas; in spite of beautiful women\nand urging opportunity; in spite of a half-desire for love and a\nconstant search for my ideal, it had remained for me to fall furiously\nand hopelessly in love with a creature from another world, of a species\nsimilar possibly, yet not identical with mine. A woman who was hatched\nfrom an egg, and whose span of life might cover a thousand years; whose\npeople had strange customs and ideas; a woman whose hopes, whose\npleasures, whose standards of virtue and of right and wrong might vary\nas greatly from mine as did those of the green Martians.\n\nYes, I was a fool, but I was in love, and though I was suffering the\ngreatest misery I had ever known I would not have had it otherwise for\nall the riches of Barsoom. Such is love, and such are lovers wherever\nlove is known.\n\nTo me, Dejah Thoris was all that was perfect; all that was virtuous and\nbeautiful and noble and good. I believed that from the bottom of my\nheart, from the depth of my soul on that night in Korad as I sat\ncross-legged upon my silks while the nearer moon of Barsoom raced\nthrough the western sky toward the horizon, and lighted up the gold and\nmarble, and jeweled mosaics of my world-old chamber, and I believe it\ntoday as I sit at my desk in the little study overlooking the Hudson.\nTwenty years have intervened; for ten of them I lived and fought for\nDejah Thoris and her people, and for ten I have lived upon her memory.\n\nThe morning of our departure for Thark dawned clear and hot, as do all\nMartian mornings except for the six weeks when the snow melts at the\npoles.\n\nI sought out Dejah Thoris in the throng of departing chariots, but she\nturned her shoulder to me, and I could see the red blood mount to her\ncheek. With the foolish inconsistency of love I held my peace when I\nmight have pled ignorance of the nature of my offense, or at least the\ngravity of it, and so have effected, at worst, a half conciliation.\n\n\n[Illustration: I sought out Dejah Thoris in the throng of departing\nchariots.]\n\n\nMy duty dictated that I must see that she was comfortable, and so I\nglanced into her chariot and rearranged her silks and furs. In doing so\nI noted with horror that she was heavily chained by one ankle to the\nside of the vehicle.\n\n What does this mean?  I cried, turning to Sola.\n\n Sarkoja thought it best,  she answered, her face betokening her\ndisapproval of the procedure.\n\nExamining the manacles I saw that they fastened with a massive spring\nlock.\n\n Where is the key, Sola? Let me have it. \n\n Sarkoja wears it, John Carter,  she answered.\n\nI turned without further word and sought out Tars Tarkas, to whom I\nvehemently objected to the unnecessary humiliations and cruelties, as\nthey seemed to my lover s eyes, that were being heaped upon Dejah\nThoris.\n\n John Carter,  he answered,  if ever you and Dejah Thoris escape the\nTharks it will be upon this journey. We know that you will not go\nwithout her. You have shown yourself a mighty fighter, and we do not\nwish to manacle you, so we hold you both in the easiest way that will\nyet ensure security. I have spoken. \n\nI saw the strength of his reasoning at a flash, and knew that it was\nfutile to appeal from his decision, but I asked that the key be taken\nfrom Sarkoja and that she be directed to leave the prisoner alone in\nfuture.\n\n This much, Tars Tarkas, you may do for me in return for the friendship\nthat, I must confess, I feel for you. \n\n Friendship?  he replied.  There is no such thing, John Carter; but\nhave your will. I shall direct that Sarkoja cease to annoy the girl,\nand I myself will take the custody of the key. \n\n Unless you wish me to assume the responsibility,  I said, smiling.\n\nHe looked at me long and earnestly before he spoke.\n\n Were you to give me your word that neither you nor Dejah Thoris would\nattempt to escape until after we have safely reached the court of Tal\nHajus you might have the key and throw the chains into the river Iss. \n\n It were better that you held the key, Tars Tarkas,  I replied\n\nHe smiled, and said no more, but that night as we were making camp I\nsaw him unfasten Dejah Thoris  fetters himself.\n\nWith all his cruel ferocity and coldness there was an undercurrent of\nsomething in Tars Tarkas which he seemed ever battling to subdue. Could\nit be a vestige of some human instinct come back from an ancient\nforbear to haunt him with the horror of his people s ways!\n\nAs I was approaching Dejah Thoris  chariot I passed Sarkoja, and the\nblack, venomous look she accorded me was the sweetest balm I had felt\nfor many hours. Lord, how she hated me! It bristled from her so\npalpably that one might almost have cut it with a sword.\n\nA few moments later I saw her deep in conversation with a warrior named\nZad; a big, hulking, powerful brute, but one who had never made a kill\namong his own chieftains, and so was still an _o mad_, or man with one\nname; he could win a second name only with the metal of some chieftain.\nIt was this custom which entitled me to the names of either of the\nchieftains I had killed; in fact, some of the warriors addressed me as\nDotar Sojat, a combination of the surnames of the two warrior\nchieftains whose metal I had taken, or, in other words, whom I had\nslain in fair fight.\n\nAs Sarkoja talked with Zad he cast occasional glances in my direction,\nwhile she seemed to be urging him very strongly to some action. I paid\nlittle attention to it at the time, but the next day I had good reason\nto recall the circumstances, and at the same time gain a slight insight\ninto the depths of Sarkoja s hatred and the lengths to which she was\ncapable of going to wreak her horrid vengeance on me.\n\nDejah Thoris would have none of me again on this evening, and though I\nspoke her name she neither replied, nor conceded by so much as the\nflutter of an eyelid that she realized my existence. In my extremity I\ndid what most other lovers would have done; I sought word from her\nthrough an intimate. In this instance it was Sola whom I intercepted in\nanother part of camp.\n\n What is the matter with Dejah Thoris?  I blurted out at her.  Why will\nshe not speak to me? \n\nSola seemed puzzled herself, as though such strange actions on the part\nof two humans were quite beyond her, as indeed they were, poor child.\n\n She says you have angered her, and that is all she will say, except\nthat she is the daughter of a jed and the granddaughter of a jeddak and\nshe has been humiliated by a creature who could not polish the teeth of\nher grandmother s sorak. \n\nI pondered over this report for some time, finally asking,  What might\na sorak be, Sola? \n\n A little animal about as big as my hand, which the red Martian women\nkeep to play with,  explained Sola.\n\nNot fit to polish the teeth of her grandmother s cat! I must rank\npretty low in the consideration of Dejah Thoris, I thought; but I could\nnot help laughing at the strange figure of speech, so homely and in\nthis respect so earthly. It made me homesick, for it sounded very much\nlike  not fit to polish her shoes.  And then commenced a train of\nthought quite new to me. I began to wonder what my people at home were\ndoing. I had not seen them for years. There was a family of Carters in\nVirginia who claimed close relationship with me; I was supposed to be a\ngreat uncle, or something of the kind equally foolish. I could pass\nanywhere for twenty-five to thirty years of age, and to be a great\nuncle always seemed the height of incongruity, for my thoughts and\nfeelings were those of a boy. There were two little kiddies in the\nCarter family whom I had loved and who had thought there was no one on\nEarth like Uncle Jack; I could see them just as plainly, as I stood\nthere under the moonlit skies of Barsoom, and I longed for them as I\nhad never longed for any mortals before. By nature a wanderer, I had\nnever known the true meaning of the word home, but the great hall of\nthe Carters had always stood for all that the word did mean to me, and\nnow my heart turned toward it from the cold and unfriendly peoples I\nhad been thrown amongst. For did not even Dejah Thoris despise me! I\nwas a low creature, so low in fact that I was not even fit to polish\nthe teeth of her grandmother s cat; and then my saving sense of humor\ncame to my rescue, and laughing I turned into my silks and furs and\nslept upon the moon-haunted ground the sleep of a tired and healthy\nfighting man.\n\nWe broke camp the next day at an early hour and marched with only a\nsingle halt until just before dark. Two incidents broke the tediousness\nof the march. About noon we espied far to our right what was evidently\nan incubator, and Lorquas Ptomel directed Tars Tarkas to investigate\nit. The latter took a dozen warriors, including myself, and we raced\nacross the velvety carpeting of moss to the little enclosure.\n\nIt was indeed an incubator, but the eggs were very small in comparison\nwith those I had seen hatching in ours at the time of my arrival on\nMars.\n\nTars Tarkas dismounted and examined the enclosure minutely, finally\nannouncing that it belonged to the green men of Warhoon and that the\ncement was scarcely dry where it had been walled up.\n\n They cannot be a day s march ahead of us,  he exclaimed, the light of\nbattle leaping to his fierce face.\n\nThe work at the incubator was short indeed. The warriors tore open the\nentrance and a couple of them, crawling in, soon demolished all the\neggs with their short-swords. Then remounting we dashed back to join\nthe cavalcade. During the ride I took occasion to ask Tars Tarkas if\nthese Warhoons whose eggs we had destroyed were a smaller people than\nhis Tharks.\n\n I noticed that their eggs were so much smaller than those I saw\nhatching in your incubator,  I added.\n\nHe explained that the eggs had just been placed there; but, like all\ngreen Martian eggs, they would grow during the five-year period of\nincubation until they obtained the size of those I had seen hatching on\nthe day of my arrival on Barsoom. This was indeed an interesting piece\nof information, for it had always seemed remarkable to me that the\ngreen Martian women, large as they were, could bring forth such\nenormous eggs as I had seen the four-foot infants emerging from. As a\nmatter of fact, the new-laid egg is but little larger than an ordinary\ngoose egg, and as it does not commence to grow until subjected to the\nlight of the sun the chieftains have little difficulty in transporting\nseveral hundreds of them at one time from the storage vaults to the\nincubators.\n\nShortly after the incident of the Warhoon eggs we halted to rest the\nanimals, and it was during this halt that the second of the day s\ninteresting episodes occurred. I was engaged in changing my riding\ncloths from one of my thoats to the other, for I divided the day s work\nbetween them, when Zad approached me, and without a word struck my\nanimal a terrific blow with his long-sword.\n\nI did not need a manual of green Martian etiquette to know what reply\nto make, for, in fact, I was so wild with anger that I could scarcely\nrefrain from drawing my pistol and shooting him down for the brute he\nwas; but he stood waiting with drawn long-sword, and my only choice was\nto draw my own and meet him in fair fight with his choice of weapons or\na lesser one.\n\nThis latter alternative is always permissible, therefore I could have\nused my short-sword, my dagger, my hatchet, or my fists had I wished,\nand been entirely within my rights, but I could not use firearms or a\nspear while he held only his long-sword.\n\nI chose the same weapon he had drawn because I knew he prided himself\nupon his ability with it, and I wished, if I worsted him at all, to do\nit with his own weapon. The fight that followed was a long one and\ndelayed the resumption of the march for an hour. The entire community\nsurrounded us, leaving a clear space about one hundred feet in diameter\nfor our battle.\n\nZad first attempted to rush me down as a bull might a wolf, but I was\nmuch too quick for him, and each time I side-stepped his rushes he\nwould go lunging past me, only to receive a nick from my sword upon his\narm or back. He was soon streaming blood from a half dozen minor\nwounds, but I could not obtain an opening to deliver an effective\nthrust. Then he changed his tactics, and fighting warily and with\nextreme dexterity, he tried to do by science what he was unable to do\nby brute strength. I must admit that he was a magnificent swordsman,\nand had it not been for my greater endurance and the remarkable agility\nthe lesser gravitation of Mars lent me I might not have been able to\nput up the creditable fight I did against him.\n\nWe circled for some time without doing much damage on either side; the\nlong, straight, needle-like swords flashing in the sunlight, and\nringing out upon the stillness as they crashed together with each\neffective parry. Finally Zad, realizing that he was tiring more than I,\nevidently decided to close in and end the battle in a final blaze of\nglory for himself; just as he rushed me a blinding flash of light\nstruck full in my eyes, so that I could not see his approach and could\nonly leap blindly to one side in an effort to escape the mighty blade\nthat it seemed I could already feel in my vitals. I was only partially\nsuccessful, as a sharp pain in my left shoulder attested, but in the\nsweep of my glance as I sought to again locate my adversary, a sight\nmet my astonished gaze which paid me well for the wound the temporary\nblindness had caused me. There, upon Dejah Thoris  chariot stood three\nfigures, for the purpose evidently of witnessing the encounter above\nthe heads of the intervening Tharks. There were Dejah Thoris, Sola, and\nSarkoja, and as my fleeting glance swept over them a little tableau was\npresented which will stand graven in my memory to the day of my death.\n\nAs I looked, Dejah Thoris turned upon Sarkoja with the fury of a young\ntigress and struck something from her upraised hand; something which\nflashed in the sunlight as it spun to the ground. Then I knew what had\nblinded me at that crucial moment of the fight, and how Sarkoja had\nfound a way to kill me without herself delivering the final thrust.\nAnother thing I saw, too, which almost lost my life for me then and\nthere, for it took my mind for the fraction of an instant entirely from\nmy antagonist; for, as Dejah Thoris struck the tiny mirror from her\nhand, Sarkoja, her face livid with hatred and baffled rage, whipped out\nher dagger and aimed a terrific blow at Dejah Thoris; and then Sola,\nour dear and faithful Sola, sprang between them; the last I saw was the\ngreat knife descending upon her shielding breast.\n\nMy enemy had recovered from his thrust and was making it extremely\ninteresting for me, so I reluctantly gave my attention to the work in\nhand, but my mind was not upon the battle.\n\nWe rushed each other furiously time after time,  til suddenly, feeling\nthe sharp point of his sword at my breast in a thrust I could neither\nparry nor escape, I threw myself upon him with outstretched sword and\nwith all the weight of my body, determined that I would not die alone\nif I could prevent it. I felt the steel tear into my chest, all went\nblack before me, my head whirled in dizziness, and I felt my knees\ngiving beneath me.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\nSOLA TELLS ME HER STORY\n\n\nWhen consciousness returned, and, as I soon learned, I was down but a\nmoment, I sprang quickly to my feet searching for my sword, and there I\nfound it, buried to the hilt in the green breast of Zad, who lay stone\ndead upon the ochre moss of the ancient sea bottom. As I regained my\nfull senses I found his weapon piercing my left breast, but only\nthrough the flesh and muscles which cover my ribs, entering near the\ncenter of my chest and coming out below the shoulder. As I had lunged I\nhad turned so that his sword merely passed beneath the muscles,\ninflicting a painful but not dangerous wound.\n\nRemoving the blade from my body I also regained my own, and turning my\nback upon his ugly carcass, I moved, sick, sore, and disgusted, toward\nthe chariots which bore my retinue and my belongings. A murmur of\nMartian applause greeted me, but I cared not for it.\n\nBleeding and weak I reached my women, who, accustomed to such\nhappenings, dressed my wounds, applying the wonderful healing and\nremedial agents which make only the most instantaneous of death blows\nfatal. Give a Martian woman a chance and death must take a back seat.\nThey soon had me patched up so that, except for weakness from loss of\nblood and a little soreness around the wound, I suffered no great\ndistress from this thrust which, under earthly treatment, undoubtedly\nwould have put me flat on my back for days.\n\nAs soon as they were through with me I hastened to the chariot of Dejah\nThoris, where I found my poor Sola with her chest swathed in bandages,\nbut apparently little the worse for her encounter with Sarkoja, whose\ndagger it seemed had struck the edge of one of Sola s metal breast\nornaments and, thus deflected, had inflicted but a slight flesh wound.\n\nAs I approached I found Dejah Thoris lying prone upon her silks and\nfurs, her lithe form wracked with sobs. She did not notice my presence,\nnor did she hear me speaking with Sola, who was standing a short\ndistance from the vehicle.\n\n Is she injured?  I asked of Sola, indicating Dejah Thoris by an\ninclination of my head.\n\n No,  she answered,  she thinks that you are dead. \n\n And that her grandmother s cat may now have no one to polish its\nteeth?  I queried, smiling.\n\n I think you wrong her, John Carter,  said Sola.  I do not understand\neither her ways or yours, but I am sure the granddaughter of ten\nthousand jeddaks would never grieve like this over any who held but the\nhighest claim upon her affections. They are a proud race, but they are\njust, as are all Barsoomians, and you must have hurt or wronged her\ngrievously that she will not admit your existence living, though she\nmourns you dead.\n\n Tears are a strange sight upon Barsoom,  she continued,  and so it is\ndifficult for me to interpret them. I have seen but two people weep in\nall my life, other than Dejah Thoris; one wept from sorrow, the other\nfrom baffled rage. The first was my mother, years ago before they\nkilled her; the other was Sarkoja, when they dragged her from me\ntoday. \n\n Your mother!  I exclaimed,  but, Sola, you could not have known your\nmother, child. \n\n But I did. And my father also,  she added.  If you would like to hear\nthe strange and un-Barsoomian story come to the chariot tonight, John\nCarter, and I will tell you that of which I have never spoken in all my\nlife before. And now the signal has been given to resume the march, you\nmust go. \n\n I will come tonight, Sola,  I promised.  Be sure to tell Dejah Thoris\nI am alive and well. I shall not force myself upon her, and be sure\nthat you do not let her know I saw her tears. If she would speak with\nme I but await her command. \n\nSola mounted the chariot, which was swinging into its place in line,\nand I hastened to my waiting thoat and galloped to my station beside\nTars Tarkas at the rear of the column.\n\nWe made a most imposing and awe-inspiring spectacle as we strung out\nacross the yellow landscape; the two hundred and fifty ornate and\nbrightly colored chariots, preceded by an advance guard of some two\nhundred mounted warriors and chieftains riding five abreast and one\nhundred yards apart, and followed by a like number in the same\nformation, with a score or more of flankers on either side; the fifty\nextra mastodons, or heavy draught animals, known as zitidars, and the\nfive or six hundred extra thoats of the warriors running loose within\nthe hollow square formed by the surrounding warriors. The gleaming\nmetal and jewels of the gorgeous ornaments of the men and women,\nduplicated in the trappings of the zitidars and thoats, and\ninterspersed with the flashing colors of magnificent silks and furs and\nfeathers, lent a barbaric splendor to the caravan which would have\nturned an East Indian potentate green with envy.\n\nThe enormous broad tires of the chariots and the padded feet of the\nanimals brought forth no sound from the moss-covered sea bottom; and so\nwe moved in utter silence, like some huge phantasmagoria, except when\nthe stillness was broken by the guttural growling of a goaded zitidar,\nor the squealing of fighting thoats. The green Martians converse but\nlittle, and then usually in monosyllables, low and like the faint\nrumbling of distant thunder.\n\nWe traversed a trackless waste of moss which, bending to the pressure\nof broad tire or padded foot, rose up again behind us, leaving no sign\nthat we had passed. We might indeed have been the wraiths of the\ndeparted dead upon the dead sea of that dying planet for all the sound\nor sign we made in passing. It was the first march of a large body of\nmen and animals I had ever witnessed which raised no dust and left no\nspoor; for there is no dust upon Mars except in the cultivated\ndistricts during the winter months, and even then the absence of high\nwinds renders it almost unnoticeable.\n\nWe camped that night at the foot of the hills we had been approaching\nfor two days and which marked the southern boundary of this particular\nsea. Our animals had been two days without drink, nor had they had\nwater for nearly two months, not since shortly after leaving Thark;\nbut, as Tars Tarkas explained to me, they require but little and can\nlive almost indefinitely upon the moss which covers Barsoom, and which,\nhe told me, holds in its tiny stems sufficient moisture to meet the\nlimited demands of the animals.\n\nAfter partaking of my evening meal of cheese-like food and vegetable\nmilk I sought out Sola, whom I found working by the light of a torch\nupon some of Tars Tarkas  trappings. She looked up at my approach, her\nface lighting with pleasure and with welcome.\n\n I am glad you came,  she said;  Dejah Thoris sleeps and I am lonely.\nMine own people do not care for me, John Carter; I am too unlike them.\nIt is a sad fate, since I must live my life amongst them, and I often\nwish that I were a true green Martian woman, without love and without\nhope; but I have known love and so I am lost.\n\n I promised to tell you my story, or rather the story of my parents.\nFrom what I have learned of you and the ways of your people I am sure\nthat the tale will not seem strange to you, but among green Martians it\nhas no parallel within the memory of the oldest living Thark, nor do\nour legends hold many similar tales.\n\n My mother was rather small, in fact too small to be allowed the\nresponsibilities of maternity, as our chieftains breed principally for\nsize. She was also less cold and cruel than most green Martian women,\nand caring little for their society, she often roamed the deserted\navenues of Thark alone, or went and sat among the wild flowers that\ndeck the nearby hills, thinking thoughts and wishing wishes which I\nbelieve I alone among Tharkian women today may understand, for am I not\nthe child of my mother?\n\n And there among the hills she met a young warrior, whose duty it was\nto guard the feeding zitidars and thoats and see that they roamed not\nbeyond the hills. They spoke at first only of such things as interest a\ncommunity of Tharks, but gradually, as they came to meet more often,\nand, as was now quite evident to both, no longer by chance, they talked\nabout themselves, their likes, their ambitions and their hopes. She\ntrusted him and told him of the awful repugnance she felt for the\ncruelties of their kind, for the hideous, loveless lives they must ever\nlead, and then she waited for the storm of denunciation to break from\nhis cold, hard lips; but instead he took her in his arms and kissed\nher.\n\n They kept their love a secret for six long years. She, my mother, was\nof the retinue of the great Tal Hajus, while her lover was a simple\nwarrior, wearing only his own metal. Had their defection from the\ntraditions of the Tharks been discovered both would have paid the\npenalty in the great arena before Tal Hajus and the assembled hordes.\n\n The egg from which I came was hidden beneath a great glass vessel upon\nthe highest and most inaccessible of the partially ruined towers of\nancient Thark. Once each year my mother visited it for the five long\nyears it lay there in the process of incubation. She dared not come\noftener, for in the mighty guilt of her conscience she feared that her\nevery move was watched. During this period my father gained great\ndistinction as a warrior and had taken the metal from several\nchieftains. His love for my mother had never diminished, and his own\nambition in life was to reach a point where he might wrest the metal\nfrom Tal Hajus himself, and thus, as ruler of the Tharks, be free to\nclaim her as his own, as well as, by the might of his power, protect\nthe child which otherwise would be quickly dispatched should the truth\nbecome known.\n\n It was a wild dream, that of wresting the metal from Tal Hajus in five\nshort years, but his advance was rapid, and he soon stood high in the\ncouncils of Thark. But one day the chance was lost forever, in so far\nas it could come in time to save his loved ones, for he was ordered\naway upon a long expedition to the ice-clad south, to make war upon the\nnatives there and despoil them of their furs, for such is the manner of\nthe green Barsoomian; he does not labor for what he can wrest in battle\nfrom others.\n\n He was gone for four years, and when he returned all had been over for\nthree; for about a year after his departure, and shortly before the\ntime for the return of an expedition which had gone forth to fetch the\nfruits of a community incubator, the egg had hatched. Thereafter my\nmother continued to keep me in the old tower, visiting me nightly and\nlavishing upon me the love the community life would have robbed us both\nof. She hoped, upon the return of the expedition from the incubator, to\nmix me with the other young assigned to the quarters of Tal Hajus, and\nthus escape the fate which would surely follow discovery of her sin\nagainst the ancient traditions of the green men.\n\n She taught me rapidly the language and customs of my kind, and one\nnight she told me the story I have told to you up to this point,\nimpressing upon me the necessity for absolute secrecy and the great\ncaution I must exercise after she had placed me with the other young\nTharks to permit no one to guess that I was further advanced in\neducation than they, nor by any sign to divulge in the presence of\nothers my affection for her, or my knowledge of my parentage; and then\ndrawing me close to her she whispered in my ear the name of my father.\n\n And then a light flashed out upon the darkness of the tower chamber,\nand there stood Sarkoja, her gleaming, baleful eyes fixed in a frenzy\nof loathing and contempt upon my mother. The torrent of hatred and\nabuse she poured out upon her turned my young heart cold in terror.\nThat she had heard the entire story was apparent, and that she had\nsuspected something wrong from my mother s long nightly absences from\nher quarters accounted for her presence there on that fateful night.\n\n One thing she had not heard, nor did she know, the whispered name of\nmy father. This was apparent from her repeated demands upon my mother\nto disclose the name of her partner in sin, but no amount of abuse or\nthreats could wring this from her, and to save me from needless torture\nshe lied, for she told Sarkoja that she alone knew nor would she ever\ntell her child.\n\n With final imprecations, Sarkoja hastened away to Tal Hajus to report\nher discovery, and while she was gone my mother, wrapping me in the\nsilks and furs of her night coverings, so that I was scarcely\nnoticeable, descended to the streets and ran wildly away toward the\noutskirts of the city, in the direction which led to the far south, out\ntoward the man whose protection she might not claim, but on whose face\nshe wished to look once more before she died.\n\n As we neared the city s southern extremity a sound came to us from\nacross the mossy flat, from the direction of the only pass through the\nhills which led to the gates, the pass by which caravans from either\nnorth or south or east or west would enter the city. The sounds we\nheard were the squealing of thoats and the grumbling of zitidars, with\nthe occasional clank of arms which announced the approach of a body of\nwarriors. The thought uppermost in her mind was that it was my father\nreturned from his expedition, but the cunning of the Thark held her\nfrom headlong and precipitate flight to greet him.\n\n Retreating into the shadows of a doorway she awaited the coming of the\ncavalcade which shortly entered the avenue, breaking its formation and\nthronging the thoroughfare from wall to wall. As the head of the\nprocession passed us the lesser moon swung clear of the overhanging\nroofs and lit up the scene with all the brilliancy of her wondrous\nlight. My mother shrank further back into the friendly shadows, and\nfrom her hiding place saw that the expedition was not that of my\nfather, but the returning caravan bearing the young Tharks. Instantly\nher plan was formed, and as a great chariot swung close to our hiding\nplace she slipped stealthily in upon the trailing tailboard, crouching\nlow in the shadow of the high side, straining me to her bosom in a\nfrenzy of love.\n\n She knew, what I did not, that never again after that night would she\nhold me to her breast, nor was it likely we would ever look upon each\nother s face again. In the confusion of the plaza she mixed me with the\nother children, whose guardians during the journey were now free to\nrelinquish their responsibility. We were herded together into a great\nroom, fed by women who had not accompanied the expedition, and the next\nday we were parceled out among the retinues of the chieftains.\n\n I never saw my mother after that night. She was imprisoned by Tal\nHajus, and every effort, including the most horrible and shameful\ntorture, was brought to bear upon her to wring from her lips the name\nof my father; but she remained steadfast and loyal, dying at last\namidst the laughter of Tal Hajus and his chieftains during some awful\ntorture she was undergoing.\n\n I learned afterwards that she told them that she had killed me to save\nme from a like fate at their hands, and that she had thrown my body to\nthe white apes. Sarkoja alone disbelieved her, and I feel to this day\nthat she suspects my true origin, but does not dare expose me, at the\npresent, at all events, because she also guesses, I am sure, the\nidentity of my father.\n\n When he returned from his expedition and learned the story of my\nmother s fate I was present as Tal Hajus told him; but never by the\nquiver of a muscle did he betray the slightest emotion; only he did not\nlaugh as Tal Hajus gleefully described her death struggles. From that\nmoment on he was the cruelest of the cruel, and I am awaiting the day\nwhen he shall win the goal of his ambition, and feel the carcass of Tal\nHajus beneath his foot, for I am as sure that he but waits the\nopportunity to wreak a terrible vengeance, and that his great love is\nas strong in his breast as when it first transfigured him nearly forty\nyears ago, as I am that we sit here upon the edge of a world-old ocean\nwhile sensible people sleep, John Carter. \n\n And your father, Sola, is he with us now?  I asked.\n\n Yes,  she replied,  but he does not know me for what I am, nor does he\nknow who betrayed my mother to Tal Hajus. I alone know my father s\nname, and only I and Tal Hajus and Sarkoja know that it was she who\ncarried the tale that brought death and torture upon her he loved. \n\nWe sat silent for a few moments, she wrapped in the gloomy thoughts of\nher terrible past, and I in pity for the poor creatures whom the\nheartless, senseless customs of their race had doomed to loveless lives\nof cruelty and of hate. Presently she spoke.\n\n John Carter, if ever a real man walked the cold, dead bosom of Barsoom\nyou are one. I know that I can trust you, and because the knowledge may\nsomeday help you or him or Dejah Thoris or myself, I am going to tell\nyou the name of my father, nor place any restrictions or conditions\nupon your tongue. When the time comes, speak the truth if it seems best\nto you. I trust you because I know that you are not cursed with the\nterrible trait of absolute and unswerving truthfulness, that you could\nlie like one of your own Virginia gentlemen if a lie would save others\nfrom sorrow or suffering. My father s name is Tars Tarkas. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\nWE PLAN ESCAPE\n\n\nThe remainder of our journey to Thark was uneventful. We were twenty\ndays upon the road, crossing two sea bottoms and passing through or\naround a number of ruined cities, mostly smaller than Korad. Twice we\ncrossed the famous Martian waterways, or canals, so-called by our\nearthly astronomers. When we approached these points a warrior would be\nsent far ahead with a powerful field glass, and if no great body of red\nMartian troops was in sight we would advance as close as possible\nwithout chance of being seen and then camp until dark, when we would\nslowly approach the cultivated tract, and, locating one of the\nnumerous, broad highways which cross these areas at regular intervals,\ncreep silently and stealthily across to the arid lands upon the other\nside. It required five hours to make one of these crossings without a\nsingle halt, and the other consumed the entire night, so that we were\njust leaving the confines of the high-walled fields when the sun broke\nout upon us.\n\nCrossing in the darkness, as we did, I was unable to see but little,\nexcept as the nearer moon, in her wild and ceaseless hurtling through\nthe Barsoomian heavens, lit up little patches of the landscape from\ntime to time, disclosing walled fields and low, rambling buildings,\npresenting much the appearance of earthly farms. There were many trees,\nmethodically arranged, and some of them were of enormous height; there\nwere animals in some of the enclosures, and they announced their\npresence by terrified squealings and snortings as they scented our\nqueer, wild beasts and wilder human beings.\n\nOnly once did I perceive a human being, and that was at the\nintersection of our crossroad with the wide, white turnpike which cuts\neach cultivated district longitudinally at its exact center. The fellow\nmust have been sleeping beside the road, for, as I came abreast of him,\nhe raised upon one elbow and after a single glance at the approaching\ncaravan leaped shrieking to his feet and fled madly down the road,\nscaling a nearby wall with the agility of a scared cat. The Tharks paid\nhim not the slightest attention; they were not out upon the warpath,\nand the only sign that I had that they had seen him was a quickening of\nthe pace of the caravan as we hastened toward the bordering desert\nwhich marked our entrance into the realm of Tal Hajus.\n\nNot once did I have speech with Dejah Thoris, as she sent no word to me\nthat I would be welcome at her chariot, and my foolish pride kept me\nfrom making any advances. I verily believe that a man s way with women\nis in inverse ratio to his prowess among men. The weakling and the\nsaphead have often great ability to charm the fair sex, while the\nfighting man who can face a thousand real dangers unafraid, sits hiding\nin the shadows like some frightened child.\n\nJust thirty days after my advent upon Barsoom we entered the ancient\ncity of Thark, from whose long-forgotten people this horde of green men\nhave stolen even their name. The hordes of Thark number some thirty\nthousand souls, and are divided into twenty-five communities. Each\ncommunity has its own jed and lesser chieftains, but all are under the\nrule of Tal Hajus, Jeddak of Thark. Five communities make their\nheadquarters at the city of Thark, and the balance are scattered among\nother deserted cities of ancient Mars throughout the district claimed\nby Tal Hajus.\n\nWe made our entry into the great central plaza early in the afternoon.\nThere were no enthusiastic friendly greetings for the returned\nexpedition. Those who chanced to be in sight spoke the names of\nwarriors or women with whom they came in direct contact, in the formal\ngreeting of their kind, but when it was discovered that they brought\ntwo captives a greater interest was aroused, and Dejah Thoris and I\nwere the centers of inquiring groups.\n\nWe were soon assigned to new quarters, and the balance of the day was\ndevoted to settling ourselves to the changed conditions. My home now\nwas upon an avenue leading into the plaza from the south, the main\nartery down which we had marched from the gates of the city. I was at\nthe far end of the square and had an entire building to myself. The\nsame grandeur of architecture which was so noticeable a characteristic\nof Korad was in evidence here, only, if that were possible, on a larger\nand richer scale. My quarters would have been suitable for housing the\ngreatest of earthly emperors, but to these queer creatures nothing\nabout a building appealed to them but its size and the enormity of its\nchambers; the larger the building, the more desirable; and so Tal Hajus\noccupied what must have been an enormous public building, the largest\nin the city, but entirely unfitted for residence purposes; the next\nlargest was reserved for Lorquas Ptomel, the next for the jed of a\nlesser rank, and so on to the bottom of the list of five jeds. The\nwarriors occupied the buildings with the chieftains to whose retinues\nthey belonged; or, if they preferred, sought shelter among any of the\nthousands of untenanted buildings in their own quarter of town; each\ncommunity being assigned a certain section of the city. The selection\nof building had to be made in accordance with these divisions, except\nin so far as the jeds were concerned, they all occupying edifices which\nfronted upon the plaza.\n\nWhen I had finally put my house in order, or rather seen that it had\nbeen done, it was nearing sunset, and I hastened out with the intention\nof locating Sola and her charges, as I had determined upon having\nspeech with Dejah Thoris and trying to impress on her the necessity of\nour at least patching up a truce until I could find some way of aiding\nher to escape. I searched in vain until the upper rim of the great red\nsun was just disappearing behind the horizon and then I spied the ugly\nhead of Woola peering from a second-story window on the opposite side\nof the very street where I was quartered, but nearer the plaza.\n\nWithout waiting for a further invitation I bolted up the winding runway\nwhich led to the second floor, and entering a great chamber at the\nfront of the building was greeted by the frenzied Woola, who threw his\ngreat carcass upon me, nearly hurling me to the floor; the poor old\nfellow was so glad to see me that I thought he would devour me, his\nhead split from ear to ear, showing his three rows of tusks in his\nhobgoblin smile.\n\nQuieting him with a word of command and a caress, I looked hurriedly\nthrough the approaching gloom for a sign of Dejah Thoris, and then, not\nseeing her, I called her name. There was an answering murmur from the\nfar corner of the apartment, and with a couple of quick strides I was\nstanding beside her where she crouched among the furs and silks upon an\nancient carved wooden seat. As I waited she rose to her full height and\nlooking me straight in the eye said:\n\n What would Dotar Sojat, Thark, of Dejah Thoris his captive? \n\n Dejah Thoris, I do not know how I have angered you. It was furtherest\nfrom my desire to hurt or offend you, whom I had hoped to protect and\ncomfort. Have none of me if it is your will, but that you must aid me\nin effecting your escape, if such a thing be possible, is not my\nrequest, but my command. When you are safe once more at your father s\ncourt you may do with me as you please, but from now on until that day\nI am your master, and you must obey and aid me. \n\nShe looked at me long and earnestly and I thought that she was\nsoftening toward me.\n\n I understand your words, Dotar Sojat,  she replied,  but you I do not\nunderstand. You are a queer mixture of child and man, of brute and\nnoble. I only wish that I might read your heart. \n\n Look down at your feet, Dejah Thoris; it lies there now where it has\nlain since that other night at Korad, and where it will ever lie\nbeating alone for you until death stills it forever. \n\nShe took a little step toward me, her beautiful hands outstretched in a\nstrange, groping gesture.\n\n What do you mean, John Carter?  she whispered.  What are you saying to\nme? \n\n I am saying what I had promised myself that I would not say to you, at\nleast until you were no longer a captive among the green men; what from\nyour attitude toward me for the past twenty days I had thought never to\nsay to you; I am saying, Dejah Thoris, that I am yours, body and soul,\nto serve you, to fight for you, and to die for you. Only one thing I\nask of you in return, and that is that you make no sign, either of\ncondemnation or of approbation of my words until you are safe among\nyour own people, and that whatever sentiments you harbor toward me they\nbe not influenced or colored by gratitude; whatever I may do to serve\nyou will be prompted solely from selfish motives, since it gives me\nmore pleasure to serve you than not. \n\n I will respect your wishes, John Carter, because I understand the\nmotives which prompt them, and I accept your service no more willingly\nthan I bow to your authority; your word shall be my law. I have twice\nwronged you in my thoughts and again I ask your forgiveness. \n\nFurther conversation of a personal nature was prevented by the entrance\nof Sola, who was much agitated and wholly unlike her usual calm and\npossessed self.\n\n That horrible Sarkoja has been before Tal Hajus,  she cried,  and from\nwhat I heard upon the plaza there is little hope for either of you. \n\n What do they say?  inquired Dejah Thoris.\n\n That you will be thrown to the wild calots [dogs] in the great arena\nas soon as the hordes have assembled for the yearly games. \n\n Sola,  I said,  you are a Thark, but you hate and loathe the customs\nof your people as much as we do. Will you not accompany us in one\nsupreme effort to escape? I am sure that Dejah Thoris can offer you a\nhome and protection among her people, and your fate can be no worse\namong them than it must ever be here. \n\n Yes,  cried Dejah Thoris,  come with us, Sola, you will be better off\namong the red men of Helium than you are here, and I can promise you\nnot only a home with us, but the love and affection your nature craves\nand which must always be denied you by the customs of your own race.\nCome with us, Sola; we might go without you, but your fate would be\nterrible if they thought you had connived to aid us. I know that even\nthat fear would not tempt you to interfere in our escape, but we want\nyou with us, we want you to come to a land of sunshine and happiness,\namongst a people who know the meaning of love, of sympathy, and of\ngratitude. Say that you will, Sola; tell me that you will. \n\n The great waterway which leads to Helium is but fifty miles to the\nsouth,  murmured Sola, half to herself;  a swift thoat might make it in\nthree hours; and then to Helium it is five hundred miles, most of the\nway through thinly settled districts. They would know and they would\nfollow us. We might hide among the great trees for a time, but the\nchances are small indeed for escape. They would follow us to the very\ngates of Helium, and they would take toll of life at every step; you do\nnot know them. \n\n Is there no other way we might reach Helium?  I asked.  Can you not\ndraw me a rough map of the country we must traverse, Dejah Thoris? \n\n Yes,  she replied, and taking a great diamond from her hair she drew\nupon the marble floor the first map of Barsoomian territory I had ever\nseen. It was crisscrossed in every direction with long straight lines,\nsometimes running parallel and sometimes converging toward some great\ncircle. The lines, she said, were waterways; the circles, cities; and\none far to the northwest of us she pointed out as Helium. There were\nother cities closer, but she said she feared to enter many of them, as\nthey were not all friendly toward Helium.\n\n\n[Illustration: She drew upon the marble floor the first map of\nBarsoomian territory I had ever seen.]\n\n\nFinally, after studying the map carefully in the moonlight which now\nflooded the room, I pointed out a waterway far to the north of us which\nalso seemed to lead to Helium.\n\n Does not this pierce your grandfather s territory?  I asked.\n\n Yes,  she answered,  but it is two hundred miles north of us; it is\none of the waterways we crossed on the trip to Thark. \n\n They would never suspect that we would try for that distant waterway, \nI answered,  and that is why I think that it is the best route for our\nescape. \n\nSola agreed with me, and it was decided that we should leave Thark this\nsame night; just as quickly, in fact, as I could find and saddle my\nthoats. Sola was to ride one and Dejah Thoris and I the other; each of\nus carrying sufficient food and drink to last us for two days, since\nthe animals could not be urged too rapidly for so long a distance.\n\nI directed Sola to proceed with Dejah Thoris along one of the less\nfrequented avenues to the southern boundary of the city, where I would\novertake them with the thoats as quickly as possible; then, leaving\nthem to gather what food, silks, and furs we were to need, I slipped\nquietly to the rear of the first floor, and entered the courtyard,\nwhere our animals were moving restlessly about, as was their habit,\nbefore settling down for the night.\n\nIn the shadows of the buildings and out beneath the radiance of the\nMartian moons moved the great herd of thoats and zitidars, the latter\ngrunting their low gutturals and the former occasionally emitting the\nsharp squeal which denotes the almost habitual state of rage in which\nthese creatures passed their existence. They were quieter now, owing to\nthe absence of man, but as they scented me they became more restless\nand their hideous noise increased. It was risky business, this entering\na paddock of thoats alone and at night; first, because their increasing\nnoisiness might warn the nearby warriors that something was amiss, and\nalso because for the slightest cause, or for no cause at all some great\nbull thoat might take it upon himself to lead a charge upon me.\n\nHaving no desire to awaken their nasty tempers upon such a night as\nthis, where so much depended upon secrecy and dispatch, I hugged the\nshadows of the buildings, ready at an instant s warning to leap into\nthe safety of a nearby door or window. Thus I moved silently to the\ngreat gates which opened upon the street at the back of the court, and\nas I neared the exit I called softly to my two animals. How I thanked\nthe kind providence which had given me the foresight to win the love\nand confidence of these wild dumb brutes, for presently from the far\nside of the court I saw two huge bulks forcing their way toward me\nthrough the surging mountains of flesh.\n\nThey came quite close to me, rubbing their muzzles against my body and\nnosing for the bits of food it was always my practice to reward them\nwith. Opening the gates I ordered the two great beasts to pass out, and\nthen slipping quietly after them I closed the portals behind me.\n\nI did not saddle or mount the animals there, but instead walked quietly\nin the shadows of the buildings toward an unfrequented avenue which led\ntoward the point I had arranged to meet Dejah Thoris and Sola. With the\nnoiselessness of disembodied spirits we moved stealthily along the\ndeserted streets, but not until we were within sight of the plain\nbeyond the city did I commence to breathe freely. I was sure that Sola\nand Dejah Thoris would find no difficulty in reaching our rendezvous\nundetected, but with my great thoats I was not so sure for myself, as\nit was quite unusual for warriors to leave the city after dark; in fact\nthere was no place for them to go within any but a long ride.\n\nI reached the appointed meeting place safely, but as Dejah Thoris and\nSola were not there I led my animals into the entrance hall of one of\nthe large buildings. Presuming that one of the other women of the same\nhousehold may have come in to speak to Sola, and so delayed their\ndeparture, I did not feel any undue apprehension until nearly an hour\nhad passed without a sign of them, and by the time another half hour\nhad crawled away I was becoming filled with grave anxiety. Then there\nbroke upon the stillness of the night the sound of an approaching\nparty, which, from the noise, I knew could be no fugitives creeping\nstealthily toward liberty. Soon the party was near me, and from the\nblack shadows of my entranceway I perceived a score of mounted\nwarriors, who, in passing, dropped a dozen words that fetched my heart\nclean into the top of my head.\n\n He would likely have arranged to meet them just without the city, and\nso  I heard no more, they had passed on; but it was enough. Our plan\nhad been discovered, and the chances for escape from now on to the\nfearful end would be small indeed. My one hope now was to return\nundetected to the quarters of Dejah Thoris and learn what fate had\novertaken her, but how to do it with these great monstrous thoats upon\nmy hands, now that the city probably was aroused by the knowledge of my\nescape was a problem of no mean proportions.\n\nSuddenly an idea occurred to me, and acting on my knowledge of the\nconstruction of the buildings of these ancient Martian cities with a\nhollow court within the center of each square, I groped my way blindly\nthrough the dark chambers, calling the great thoats after me. They had\ndifficulty in negotiating some of the doorways, but as the buildings\nfronting the city s principal exposures were all designed upon a\nmagnificent scale, they were able to wriggle through without sticking\nfast; and thus we finally made the inner court where I found, as I had\nexpected, the usual carpet of moss-like vegetation which would provide\ntheir food and drink until I could return them to their own enclosure.\nThat they would be as quiet and contented here as elsewhere I was\nconfident, nor was there but the remotest possibility that they would\nbe discovered, as the green men had no great desire to enter these\noutlying buildings, which were frequented by the only thing, I believe,\nwhich caused them the sensation of fear the great white apes of\nBarsoom.\n\nRemoving the saddle trappings, I hid them just within the rear doorway\nof the building through which we had entered the court, and, turning\nthe beasts loose, quickly made my way across the court to the rear of\nthe buildings upon the further side, and thence to the avenue beyond.\nWaiting in the doorway of the building until I was assured that no one\nwas approaching, I hurried across to the opposite side and through the\nfirst doorway to the court beyond; thus, crossing through court after\ncourt with only the slight chance of detection which the necessary\ncrossing of the avenues entailed, I made my way in safety to the\ncourtyard in the rear of Dejah Thoris  quarters.\n\nHere, of course, I found the beasts of the warriors who quartered in\nthe adjacent buildings, and the warriors themselves I might expect to\nmeet within if I entered; but, fortunately for me, I had another and\nsafer method of reaching the upper story where Dejah Thoris should be\nfound, and, after first determining as nearly as possible which of the\nbuildings she occupied, for I had never observed them before from the\ncourt side, I took advantage of my relatively great strength and\nagility and sprang upward until I grasped the sill of a second-story\nwindow which I thought to be in the rear of her apartment. Drawing\nmyself inside the room I moved stealthily toward the front of the\nbuilding, and not until I had quite reached the doorway of her room was\nI made aware by voices that it was occupied.\n\nI did not rush headlong in, but listened without to assure myself that\nit was Dejah Thoris and that it was safe to venture within. It was well\nindeed that I took this precaution, for the conversation I heard was in\nthe low gutturals of men, and the words which finally came to me proved\na most timely warning. The speaker was a chieftain and he was giving\norders to four of his warriors.\n\n And when he returns to this chamber,  he was saying,  as he surely\nwill when he finds she does not meet him at the city s edge, you four\nare to spring upon him and disarm him. It will require the combined\nstrength of all of you to do it if the reports they bring back from\nKorad are correct. When you have him fast bound bear him to the vaults\nbeneath the jeddak s quarters and chain him securely where he may be\nfound when Tal Hajus wishes him. Allow him to speak with none, nor\npermit any other to enter this apartment before he comes. There will be\nno danger of the girl returning, for by this time she is safe in the\narms of Tal Hajus, and may all her ancestors have pity upon her, for\nTal Hajus will have none; the great Sarkoja has done a noble night s\nwork. I go, and if you fail to capture him when he comes, I commend\nyour carcasses to the cold bosom of Iss. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\nA COSTLY RECAPTURE\n\n\nAs the speaker ceased he turned to leave the apartment by the door\nwhere I was standing, but I needed to wait no longer; I had heard\nenough to fill my soul with dread, and stealing quietly away I returned\nto the courtyard by the way I had come. My plan of action was formed\nupon the instant, and crossing the square and the bordering avenue upon\nthe opposite side I soon stood within the courtyard of Tal Hajus.\n\nThe brilliantly lighted apartments of the first floor told me where\nfirst to seek, and advancing to the windows I peered within. I soon\ndiscovered that my approach was not to be the easy thing I had hoped,\nfor the rear rooms bordering the court were filled with warriors and\nwomen. I then glanced up at the stories above, discovering that the\nthird was apparently unlighted, and so decided to make my entrance to\nthe building from that point. It was the work of but a moment for me to\nreach the windows above, and soon I had drawn myself within the\nsheltering shadows of the unlighted third floor.\n\nFortunately the room I had selected was untenanted, and creeping\nnoiselessly to the corridor beyond I discovered a light in the\napartments ahead of me. Reaching what appeared to be a doorway I\ndiscovered that it was but an opening upon an immense inner chamber\nwhich towered from the first floor, two stories below me, to the\ndome-like roof of the building, high above my head. The floor of this\ngreat circular hall was thronged with chieftains, warriors and women,\nand at one end was a great raised platform upon which squatted the most\nhideous beast I had ever put my eyes upon. He had all the cold, hard,\ncruel, terrible features of the green warriors, but accentuated and\ndebased by the animal passions to which he had given himself over for\nmany years. There was not a mark of dignity or pride upon his bestial\ncountenance, while his enormous bulk spread itself out upon the\nplatform where he squatted like some huge devil fish, his six limbs\naccentuating the similarity in a horrible and startling manner.\n\nBut the sight that froze me with apprehension was that of Dejah Thoris\nand Sola standing there before him, and the fiendish leer of him as he\nlet his great protruding eyes gloat upon the lines of her beautiful\nfigure. She was speaking, but I could not hear what she said, nor could\nI make out the low grumbling of his reply. She stood there erect before\nhim, her head high held, and even at the distance I was from them I\ncould read the scorn and disgust upon her face as she let her haughty\nglance rest without sign of fear upon him. She was indeed the proud\ndaughter of a thousand jeddaks, every inch of her dear, precious little\nbody; so small, so frail beside the towering warriors around her, but\nin her majesty dwarfing them into insignificance; she was the mightiest\nfigure among them and I verily believe that they felt it.\n\nPresently Tal Hajus made a sign that the chamber be cleared, and that\nthe prisoners be left alone before him. Slowly the chieftains, the\nwarriors and the women melted away into the shadows of the surrounding\nchambers, and Dejah Thoris and Sola stood alone before the jeddak of\nthe Tharks.\n\nOne chieftain alone had hesitated before departing; I saw him standing\nin the shadows of a mighty column, his fingers nervously toying with\nthe hilt of his great-sword and his cruel eyes bent in implacable\nhatred upon Tal Hajus. It was Tars Tarkas, and I could read his\nthoughts as they were an open book for the undisguised loathing upon\nhis face. He was thinking of that other woman who, forty years ago, had\nstood before this beast, and could I have spoken a word into his ear at\nthat moment the reign of Tal Hajus would have been over; but finally he\nalso strode from the room, not knowing that he left his own daughter at\nthe mercy of the creature he most loathed.\n\nTal Hajus arose, and I, half fearing, half anticipating his intentions,\nhurried to the winding runway which led to the floors below. No one was\nnear to intercept me, and I reached the main floor of the chamber\nunobserved, taking my station in the shadow of the same column that\nTars Tarkas had but just deserted. As I reached the floor Tal Hajus was\nspeaking.\n\n Princess of Helium, I might wring a mighty ransom from your people\nwould I but return you to them unharmed, but a thousand times rather\nwould I watch that beautiful face writhe in the agony of torture; it\nshall be long drawn out, that I promise you; ten days of pleasure were\nall too short to show the love I harbor for your race. The terrors of\nyour death shall haunt the slumbers of the red men through all the ages\nto come; they will shudder in the shadows of the night as their fathers\ntell them of the awful vengeance of the green men; of the power and\nmight and hate and cruelty of Tal Hajus. But before the torture you\nshall be mine for one short hour, and word of that too shall go forth\nto Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium, your grandfather, that he may grovel\nupon the ground in the agony of his sorrow. Tomorrow the torture will\ncommence; tonight thou art Tal Hajus ; come! \n\nHe sprang down from the platform and grasped her roughly by the arm,\nbut scarcely had he touched her than I leaped between them. My\nshort-sword, sharp and gleaming was in my right hand; I could have\nplunged it into his putrid heart before he realized that I was upon\nhim; but as I raised my arm to strike I thought of Tars Tarkas, and,\nwith all my rage, with all my hatred, I could not rob him of that sweet\nmoment for which he had lived and hoped all these long, weary years,\nand so, instead, I swung my good right fist full upon the point of his\njaw. Without a sound he slipped to the floor as one dead.\n\nIn the same deathly silence I grasped Dejah Thoris by the hand, and\nmotioning Sola to follow we sped noiselessly from the chamber and to\nthe floor above. Unseen we reached a rear window and with the straps\nand leather of my trappings I lowered, first Sola and then Dejah Thoris\nto the ground below. Dropping lightly after them I drew them rapidly\naround the court in the shadows of the buildings, and thus we returned\nover the same course I had so recently followed from the distant\nboundary of the city.\n\nWe finally came upon my thoats in the courtyard where I had left them,\nand placing the trappings upon them we hastened through the building to\nthe avenue beyond. Mounting, Sola upon one beast, and Dejah Thoris\nbehind me upon the other, we rode from the city of Thark through the\nhills to the south.\n\nInstead of circling back around the city to the northwest and toward\nthe nearest waterway which lay so short a distance from us, we turned\nto the northeast and struck out upon the mossy waste across which, for\ntwo hundred dangerous and weary miles, lay another main artery leading\nto Helium.\n\nNo word was spoken until we had left the city far behind, but I could\nhear the quiet sobbing of Dejah Thoris as she clung to me with her dear\nhead resting against my shoulder.\n\n If we make it, my chieftain, the debt of Helium will be a mighty one;\ngreater than she can ever pay you; and should we not make it,  she\ncontinued,  the debt is no less, though Helium will never know, for you\nhave saved the last of our line from worse than death. \n\nI did not answer, but instead reached to my side and pressed the little\nfingers of her I loved where they clung to me for support, and then, in\nunbroken silence, we sped over the yellow, moonlit moss; each of us\noccupied with his own thoughts. For my part I could not be other than\njoyful had I tried, with Dejah Thoris  warm body pressed close to mine,\nand with all our unpassed danger my heart was singing as gaily as\nthough we were already entering the gates of Helium.\n\nOur earlier plans had been so sadly upset that we now found ourselves\nwithout food or drink, and I alone was armed. We therefore urged our\nbeasts to a speed that must tell on them sorely before we could hope to\nsight the ending of the first stage of our journey.\n\nWe rode all night and all the following day with only a few short\nrests. On the second night both we and our animals were completely\nfagged, and so we lay down upon the moss and slept for some five or six\nhours, taking up the journey once more before daylight. All the\nfollowing day we rode, and when, late in the afternoon we had sighted\nno distant trees, the mark of the great waterways throughout all\nBarsoom, the terrible truth flashed upon us we were lost.\n\nEvidently we had circled, but which way it was difficult to say, nor\ndid it seem possible with the sun to guide us by day and the moons and\nstars by night. At any rate no waterway was in sight, and the entire\nparty was almost ready to drop from hunger, thirst and fatigue. Far\nahead of us and a trifle to the right we could distinguish the outlines\nof low mountains. These we decided to attempt to reach in the hope that\nfrom some ridge we might discern the missing waterway. Night fell upon\nus before we reached our goal, and, almost fainting from weariness and\nweakness, we lay down and slept.\n\nI was awakened early in the morning by some huge body pressing close to\nmine, and opening my eyes with a start I beheld my blessed old Woola\nsnuggling close to me; the faithful brute had followed us across that\ntrackless waste to share our fate, whatever it might be. Putting my\narms about his neck I pressed my cheek close to his, nor am I ashamed\nthat I did it, nor of the tears that came to my eyes as I thought of\nhis love for me. Shortly after this Dejah Thoris and Sola awakened, and\nit was decided that we push on at once in an effort to gain the hills.\n\nWe had gone scarcely a mile when I noticed that my thoat was commencing\nto stumble and stagger in a most pitiful manner, although we had not\nattempted to force them out of a walk since about noon of the preceding\nday. Suddenly he lurched wildly to one side and pitched violently to\nthe ground. Dejah Thoris and I were thrown clear of him and fell upon\nthe soft moss with scarcely a jar; but the poor beast was in a pitiable\ncondition, not even being able to rise, although relieved of our\nweight. Sola told me that the coolness of the night, when it fell,\ntogether with the rest would doubtless revive him, and so I decided not\nto kill him, as was my first intention, as I had thought it cruel to\nleave him alone there to die of hunger and thirst. Relieving him of his\ntrappings, which I flung down beside him, we left the poor fellow to\nhis fate, and pushed on with the one thoat as best we could. Sola and I\nwalked, making Dejah Thoris ride, much against her will. In this way we\nhad progressed to within about a mile of the hills we were endeavoring\nto reach when Dejah Thoris, from her point of vantage upon the thoat,\ncried out that she saw a great party of mounted men filing down from a\npass in the hills several miles away. Sola and I both looked in the\ndirection she indicated, and there, plainly discernible, were several\nhundred mounted warriors. They seemed to be headed in a southwesterly\ndirection, which would take them away from us.\n\nThey doubtless were Thark warriors who had been sent out to capture us,\nand we breathed a great sigh of relief that they were traveling in the\nopposite direction. Quickly lifting Dejah Thoris from the thoat, I\ncommanded the animal to lie down and we three did the same, presenting\nas small an object as possible for fear of attracting the attention of\nthe warriors toward us.\n\nWe could see them as they filed out of the pass, just for an instant,\nbefore they were lost to view behind a friendly ridge; to us a most\nprovidential ridge; since, had they been in view for any great length\nof time, they scarcely could have failed to discover us. As what proved\nto be the last warrior came into view from the pass, he halted and, to\nour consternation, threw his small but powerful fieldglass to his eye\nand scanned the sea bottom in all directions. Evidently he was a\nchieftain, for in certain marching formations among the green men a\nchieftain brings up the extreme rear of the column. As his glass swung\ntoward us our hearts stopped in our breasts, and I could feel the cold\nsweat start from every pore in my body.\n\nPresently it swung full upon us and stopped. The tension on our nerves\nwas near the breaking point, and I doubt if any of us breathed for the\nfew moments he held us covered by his glass; and then he lowered it and\nwe could see him shout a command to the warriors who had passed from\nour sight behind the ridge. He did not wait for them to join him,\nhowever, instead he wheeled his thoat and came tearing madly in our\ndirection.\n\nThere was but one slight chance and that we must take quickly. Raising\nmy strange Martian rifle to my shoulder I sighted and touched the\nbutton which controlled the trigger; there was a sharp explosion as the\nmissile reached its goal, and the charging chieftain pitched backward\nfrom his flying mount.\n\nSpringing to my feet I urged the thoat to rise, and directed Sola to\ntake Dejah Thoris with her upon him and make a mighty effort to reach\nthe hills before the green warriors were upon us. I knew that in the\nravines and gullies they might find a temporary hiding place, and even\nthough they died there of hunger and thirst it would be better so than\nthat they fell into the hands of the Tharks. Forcing my two revolvers\nupon them as a slight means of protection, and, as a last resort, as an\nescape for themselves from the horrid death which recapture would\nsurely mean, I lifted Dejah Thoris in my arms and placed her upon the\nthoat behind Sola, who had already mounted at my command.\n\n Good-bye, my princess,  I whispered,  we may meet in Helium yet. I\nhave escaped from worse plights than this,  and I tried to smile as I\nlied.\n\n What,  she cried,  are you not coming with us? \n\n How may I, Dejah Thoris? Someone must hold these fellows off for a\nwhile, and I can better escape them alone than could the three of us\ntogether. \n\nShe sprang quickly from the thoat and, throwing her dear arms about my\nneck, turned to Sola, saying with quiet dignity:  Fly, Sola! Dejah\nThoris remains to die with the man she loves. \n\nThose words are engraved upon my heart. Ah, gladly would I give up my\nlife a thousand times could I only hear them once again; but I could\nnot then give even a second to the rapture of her sweet embrace, and\npressing my lips to hers for the first time, I picked her up bodily and\ntossed her to her seat behind Sola again, commanding the latter in\nperemptory tones to hold her there by force, and then, slapping the\nthoat upon the flank, I saw them borne away; Dejah Thoris struggling to\nthe last to free herself from Sola s grasp.\n\nTurning, I beheld the green warriors mounting the ridge and looking for\ntheir chieftain. In a moment they saw him, and then me; but scarcely\nhad they discovered me than I commenced firing, lying flat upon my\nbelly in the moss. I had an even hundred rounds in the magazine of my\nrifle, and another hundred in the belt at my back, and I kept up a\ncontinuous stream of fire until I saw all of the warriors who had been\nfirst to return from behind the ridge either dead or scurrying to\ncover.\n\nMy respite was short-lived however, for soon the entire party,\nnumbering some thousand men, came charging into view, racing madly\ntoward me. I fired until my rifle was empty and they were almost upon\nme, and then a glance showing me that Dejah Thoris and Sola had\ndisappeared among the hills, I sprang up, throwing down my useless gun,\nand started away in the direction opposite to that taken by Sola and\nher charge.\n\nIf ever Martians had an exhibition of jumping, it was granted those\nastonished warriors on that day long years ago, but while it led them\naway from Dejah Thoris it did not distract their attention from\nendeavoring to capture me.\n\nThey raced wildly after me until, finally, my foot struck a projecting\npiece of quartz, and down I went sprawling upon the moss. As I looked\nup they were upon me, and although I drew my long-sword in an attempt\nto sell my life as dearly as possible, it was soon over. I reeled\nbeneath their blows which fell upon me in perfect torrents; my head\nswam; all was black, and I went down beneath them to oblivion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\nCHAINED IN WARHOON\n\n\nIt must have been several hours before I regained consciousness and I\nwell remember the feeling of surprise which swept over me as I realized\nthat I was not dead.\n\nI was lying among a pile of sleeping silks and furs in the corner of a\nsmall room in which were several green warriors, and bending over me\nwas an ancient and ugly female.\n\nAs I opened my eyes she turned to one of the warriors, saying,\n\n He will live, O Jed. \n\n Tis well,  replied the one so addressed, rising and approaching my\ncouch,  he should render rare sport for the great games. \n\nAnd now as my eyes fell upon him, I saw that he was no Thark, for his\nornaments and metal were not of that horde. He was a huge fellow,\nterribly scarred about the face and chest, and with one broken tusk and\na missing ear. Strapped on either breast were human skulls and\ndepending from these a number of dried human hands.\n\nHis reference to the great games of which I had heard so much while\namong the Tharks convinced me that I had but jumped from purgatory into\ngehenna.\n\nAfter a few more words with the female, during which she assured him\nthat I was now fully fit to travel, the jed ordered that we mount and\nride after the main column.\n\nI was strapped securely to as wild and unmanageable a thoat as I had\never seen, and, with a mounted warrior on either side to prevent the\nbeast from bolting, we rode forth at a furious pace in pursuit of the\ncolumn. My wounds gave me but little pain, so wonderfully and rapidly\nhad the applications and injections of the female exercised their\ntherapeutic powers, and so deftly had she bound and plastered the\ninjuries.\n\nJust before dark we reached the main body of troops shortly after they\nhad made camp for the night. I was immediately taken before the leader,\nwho proved to be the jeddak of the hordes of Warhoon.\n\nLike the jed who had brought me, he was frightfully scarred, and also\ndecorated with the breastplate of human skulls and dried dead hands\nwhich seemed to mark all the greater warriors among the Warhoons, as\nwell as to indicate their awful ferocity, which greatly transcends even\nthat of the Tharks.\n\nThe jeddak, Bar Comas, who was comparatively young, was the object of\nthe fierce and jealous hatred of his old lieutenant, Dak Kova, the jed\nwho had captured me, and I could not but note the almost studied\nefforts which the latter made to affront his superior.\n\nHe entirely omitted the usual formal salutation as we entered the\npresence of the jeddak, and as he pushed me roughly before the ruler he\nexclaimed in a loud and menacing voice.\n\n I have brought a strange creature wearing the metal of a Thark whom it\nis my pleasure to have battle with a wild thoat at the great games. \n\n He will die as Bar Comas, your jeddak, sees fit, if at all,  replied\nthe young ruler, with emphasis and dignity.\n\n If at all?  roared Dak Kova.  By the dead hands at my throat but he\nshall die, Bar Comas. No maudlin weakness on your part shall save him.\nO, would that Warhoon were ruled by a real jeddak rather than by a\nwater-hearted weakling from whom even old Dak Kova could tear the metal\nwith his bare hands! \n\nBar Comas eyed the defiant and insubordinate chieftain for an instant,\nhis expression one of haughty, fearless contempt and hate, and then\nwithout drawing a weapon and without uttering a word he hurled himself\nat the throat of his defamer.\n\nI never before had seen two green Martian warriors battle with nature s\nweapons and the exhibition of animal ferocity which ensued was as\nfearful a thing as the most disordered imagination could picture. They\ntore at each others  eyes and ears with their hands and with their\ngleaming tusks repeatedly slashed and gored until both were cut fairly\nto ribbons from head to foot.\n\nBar Comas had much the better of the battle as he was stronger, quicker\nand more intelligent. It soon seemed that the encounter was done saving\nonly the final death thrust when Bar Comas slipped in breaking away\nfrom a clinch. It was the one little opening that Dak Kova needed, and\nhurling himself at the body of his adversary he buried his single\nmighty tusk in Bar Comas  groin and with a last powerful effort ripped\nthe young jeddak wide open the full length of his body, the great tusk\nfinally wedging in the bones of Bar Comas  jaw. Victor and vanquished\nrolled limp and lifeless upon the moss, a huge mass of torn and bloody\nflesh.\n\nBar Comas was stone dead, and only the most herculean efforts on the\npart of Dak Kova s females saved him from the fate he deserved. Three\ndays later he walked without assistance to the body of Bar Comas which,\nby custom, had not been moved from where it fell, and placing his foot\nupon the neck of his erstwhile ruler he assumed the title of Jeddak of\nWarhoon.\n\nThe dead jeddak s hands and head were removed to be added to the\nornaments of his conqueror, and then his women cremated what remained,\namid wild and terrible laughter.\n\nThe injuries to Dak Kova had delayed the march so greatly that it was\ndecided to give up the expedition, which was a raid upon a small Thark\ncommunity in retaliation for the destruction of the incubator, until\nafter the great games, and the entire body of warriors, ten thousand in\nnumber, turned back toward Warhoon.\n\nMy introduction to these cruel and bloodthirsty people was but an index\nto the scenes I witnessed almost daily while with them. They are a\nsmaller horde than the Tharks but much more ferocious. Not a day passed\nbut that some members of the various Warhoon communities met in deadly\ncombat. I have seen as high as eight mortal duels within a single day.\n\nWe reached the city of Warhoon after some three days march and I was\nimmediately cast into a dungeon and heavily chained to the floor and\nwalls. Food was brought me at intervals but owing to the utter darkness\nof the place I do not know whether I lay there days, or weeks, or\nmonths. It was the most horrible experience of all my life and that my\nmind did not give way to the terrors of that inky blackness has been a\nwonder to me ever since. The place was filled with creeping, crawling\nthings; cold, sinuous bodies passed over me when I lay down, and in the\ndarkness I occasionally caught glimpses of gleaming, fiery eyes, fixed\nin horrible intentness upon me. No sound reached me from the world\nabove and no word would my jailer vouchsafe when my food was brought to\nme, although I at first bombarded him with questions.\n\nFinally all the hatred and maniacal loathing for these awful creatures\nwho had placed me in this horrible place was centered by my tottering\nreason upon this single emissary who represented to me the entire horde\nof Warhoons.\n\nI had noticed that he always advanced with his dim torch to where he\ncould place the food within my reach and as he stooped to place it upon\nthe floor his head was about on a level with my breast. So, with the\ncunning of a madman, I backed into the far corner of my cell when next\nI heard him approaching and gathering a little slack of the great chain\nwhich held me in my hand I waited his coming, crouching like some beast\nof prey. As he stooped to place my food upon the ground I swung the\nchain above my head and crashed the links with all my strength upon his\nskull. Without a sound he slipped to the floor, stone dead.\n\nLaughing and chattering like the idiot I was fast becoming I fell upon\nhis prostrate form my fingers feeling for his dead throat. Presently\nthey came in contact with a small chain at the end of which dangled a\nnumber of keys. The touch of my fingers on these keys brought back my\nreason with the suddenness of thought. No longer was I a jibbering\nidiot, but a sane, reasoning man with the means of escape within my\nvery hands.\n\nAs I was groping to remove the chain from about my victim s neck I\nglanced up into the darkness to see six pairs of gleaming eyes fixed,\nunwinking, upon me. Slowly they approached and slowly I shrank back\nfrom the awful horror of them. Back into my corner I crouched holding\nmy hands palms out, before me, and stealthily on came the awful eyes\nuntil they reached the dead body at my feet. Then slowly they retreated\nbut this time with a strange grating sound and finally they disappeared\nin some black and distant recess of my dungeon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\nBATTLING IN THE ARENA\n\n\nSlowly I regained my composure and finally essayed again to attempt to\nremove the keys from the dead body of my former jailer. But as I\nreached out into the darkness to locate it I found to my horror that it\nwas gone. Then the truth flashed on me; the owners of those gleaming\neyes had dragged my prize away from me to be devoured in their\nneighboring lair; as they had been waiting for days, for weeks, for\nmonths, through all this awful eternity of my imprisonment to drag my\ndead carcass to their feast.\n\nFor two days no food was brought me, but then a new messenger appeared\nand my incarceration went on as before, but not again did I allow my\nreason to be submerged by the horror of my position.\n\nShortly after this episode another prisoner was brought in and chained\nnear me. By the dim torch light I saw that he was a red Martian and I\ncould scarcely await the departure of his guards to address him. As\ntheir retreating footsteps died away in the distance, I called out\nsoftly the Martian word of greeting, kaor.\n\n Who are you who speaks out of the darkness?  he answered\n\n John Carter, a friend of the red men of Helium. \n\n I am of Helium,  he said,  but I do not recall your name. \n\nAnd then I told him my story as I have written it here, omitting only\nany reference to my love for Dejah Thoris. He was much excited by the\nnews of Helium s princess and seemed quite positive that she and Sola\ncould easily have reached a point of safety from where they left me. He\nsaid that he knew the place well because the defile through which the\nWarhoon warriors had passed when they discovered us was the only one\never used by them when marching to the south.\n\n Dejah Thoris and Sola entered the hills not five miles from a great\nwaterway and are now probably quite safe,  he assured me.\n\nMy fellow prisoner was Kantos Kan, a padwar (lieutenant) in the navy of\nHelium. He had been a member of the ill-fated expedition which had\nfallen into the hands of the Tharks at the time of Dejah Thoris \ncapture, and he briefly related the events which followed the defeat of\nthe battleships.\n\nBadly injured and only partially manned they had limped slowly toward\nHelium, but while passing near the city of Zodanga, the capital of\nHelium s hereditary enemies among the red men of Barsoom, they had been\nattacked by a great body of war vessels and all but the craft to which\nKantos Kan belonged were either destroyed or captured. His vessel was\nchased for days by three of the Zodangan war ships but finally escaped\nduring the darkness of a moonless night.\n\nThirty days after the capture of Dejah Thoris, or about the time of our\ncoming to Thark, his vessel had reached Helium with about ten survivors\nof the original crew of seven hundred officers and men. Immediately\nseven great fleets, each of one hundred mighty war ships, had been\ndispatched to search for Dejah Thoris, and from these vessels two\nthousand smaller craft had been kept out continuously in futile search\nfor the missing princess.\n\nTwo green Martian communities had been wiped off the face of Barsoom by\nthe avenging fleets, but no trace of Dejah Thoris had been found. They\nhad been searching among the northern hordes, and only within the past\nfew days had they extended their quest to the south.\n\nKantos Kan had been detailed to one of the small one-man fliers and had\nhad the misfortune to be discovered by the Warhoons while exploring\ntheir city. The bravery and daring of the man won my greatest respect\nand admiration. Alone he had landed at the city s boundary and on foot\nhad penetrated to the buildings surrounding the plaza. For two days and\nnights he had explored their quarters and their dungeons in search of\nhis beloved princess only to fall into the hands of a party of Warhoons\nas he was about to leave, after assuring himself that Dejah Thoris was\nnot a captive there.\n\nDuring the period of our incarceration Kantos Kan and I became well\nacquainted, and formed a warm personal friendship. A few days only\nelapsed, however, before we were dragged forth from our dungeon for the\ngreat games. We were conducted early one morning to an enormous\namphitheater, which instead of having been built upon the surface of\nthe ground was excavated below the surface. It had partially filled\nwith debris so that how large it had originally been was difficult to\nsay. In its present condition it held the entire twenty thousand\nWarhoons of the assembled hordes.\n\nThe arena was immense but extremely uneven and unkempt. Around it the\nWarhoons had piled building stone from some of the ruined edifices of\nthe ancient city to prevent the animals and the captives from escaping\ninto the audience, and at each end had been constructed cages to hold\nthem until their turns came to meet some horrible death upon the arena.\n\nKantos Kan and I were confined together in one of the cages. In the\nothers were wild calots, thoats, mad zitidars, green warriors, and\nwomen of other hordes, and many strange and ferocious wild beasts of\nBarsoom which I had never before seen. The din of their roaring,\ngrowling and squealing was deafening and the formidable appearance of\nany one of them was enough to make the stoutest heart feel grave\nforebodings.\n\nKantos Kan explained to me that at the end of the day one of these\nprisoners would gain freedom and the others would lie dead about the\narena. The winners in the various contests of the day would be pitted\nagainst each other until only two remained alive; the victor in the\nlast encounter being set free, whether animal or man. The following\nmorning the cages would be filled with a new consignment of victims,\nand so on throughout the ten days of the games.\n\nShortly after we had been caged the amphitheater began to fill and\nwithin an hour every available part of the seating space was occupied.\nDak Kova, with his jeds and chieftains, sat at the center of one side\nof the arena upon a large raised platform.\n\nAt a signal from Dak Kova the doors of two cages were thrown open and a\ndozen green Martian females were driven to the center of the arena.\nEach was given a dagger and then, at the far end, a pack of twelve\ncalots, or wild dogs were loosed upon them.\n\nAs the brutes, growling and foaming, rushed upon the almost defenseless\nwomen I turned my head that I might not see the horrid sight. The yells\nand laughter of the green horde bore witness to the excellent quality\nof the sport and when I turned back to the arena, as Kantos Kan told me\nit was over, I saw three victorious calots, snarling and growling over\nthe bodies of their prey. The women had given a good account of\nthemselves.\n\nNext a mad zitidar was loosed among the remaining dogs, and so it went\nthroughout the long, hot, horrible day.\n\nDuring the day I was pitted against first men and then beasts, but as I\nwas armed with a long-sword and always outclassed my adversary in\nagility and generally in strength as well, it proved but child s play\nto me. Time and time again I won the applause of the bloodthirsty\nmultitude, and toward the end there were cries that I be taken from the\narena and be made a member of the hordes of Warhoon.\n\nFinally there were but three of us left, a great green warrior of some\nfar northern horde, Kantos Kan, and myself.\n\nThe other two were to battle and then I to fight the conqueror for the\nliberty which was accorded the final winner.\n\nKantos Kan had fought several times during the day and like myself had\nalways proven victorious, but occasionally by the smallest of margins,\nespecially when pitted against the green warriors. I had little hope\nthat he could best his giant adversary who had mowed down all before\nhim during the day. The fellow towered nearly sixteen feet in height,\nwhile Kantos Kan was some inches under six feet. As they advanced to\nmeet one another I saw for the first time a trick of Martian\nswordsmanship which centered Kantos Kan s every hope of victory and\nlife on one cast of the dice, for, as he came to within about twenty\nfeet of the huge fellow he threw his sword arm far behind him over his\nshoulder and with a mighty sweep hurled his weapon point foremost at\nthe green warrior. It flew true as an arrow and piercing the poor\ndevil s heart laid him dead upon the arena.\n\nKantos Kan and I were now pitted against each other but as we\napproached to the encounter I whispered to him to prolong the battle\nuntil nearly dark in the hope that we might find some means of escape.\nThe horde evidently guessed that we had no hearts to fight each other\nand so they howled in rage as neither of us placed a fatal thrust. Just\nas I saw the sudden coming of dark I whispered to Kantos Kan to thrust\nhis sword between my left arm and my body. As he did so I staggered\nback clasping the sword tightly with my arm and thus fell to the ground\nwith his weapon apparently protruding from my chest. Kantos Kan\nperceived my coup and stepping quickly to my side he placed his foot\nupon my neck and withdrawing his sword from my body gave me the final\ndeath blow through the neck which is supposed to sever the jugular\nvein, but in this instance the cold blade slipped harmlessly into the\nsand of the arena. In the darkness which had now fallen none could tell\nbut that he had really finished me. I whispered to him to go and claim\nhis freedom and then look for me in the hills east of the city, and so\nhe left me.\n\nWhen the amphitheater had cleared I crept stealthily to the top and as\nthe great excavation lay far from the plaza and in an untenanted\nportion of the great dead city I had little trouble in reaching the\nhills beyond.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\nIN THE ATMOSPHERE FACTORY\n\n\nFor two days I waited there for Kantos Kan, but as he did not come I\nstarted off on foot in a northwesterly direction toward a point where\nhe had told me lay the nearest waterway. My only food consisted of\nvegetable milk from the plants which gave so bounteously of this\npriceless fluid.\n\nThrough two long weeks I wandered, stumbling through the nights guided\nonly by the stars and hiding during the days behind some protruding\nrock or among the occasional hills I traversed. Several times I was\nattacked by wild beasts; strange, uncouth monstrosities that leaped\nupon me in the dark, so that I had ever to grasp my long-sword in my\nhand that I might be ready for them. Usually my strange, newly acquired\ntelepathic power warned me in ample time, but once I was down with\nvicious fangs at my jugular and a hairy face pressed close to mine\nbefore I knew that I was even threatened.\n\nWhat manner of thing was upon me I did not know, but that it was large\nand heavy and many-legged I could feel. My hands were at its throat\nbefore the fangs had a chance to bury themselves in my neck, and slowly\nI forced the hairy face from me and closed my fingers, vise-like, upon\nits windpipe.\n\nWithout sound we lay there, the beast exerting every effort to reach me\nwith those awful fangs, and I straining to maintain my grip and choke\nthe life from it as I kept it from my throat. Slowly my arms gave to\nthe unequal struggle, and inch by inch the burning eyes and gleaming\ntusks of my antagonist crept toward me, until, as the hairy face\ntouched mine again, I realized that all was over. And then a living\nmass of destruction sprang from the surrounding darkness full upon the\ncreature that held me pinioned to the ground. The two rolled growling\nupon the moss, tearing and rending one another in a frightful manner,\nbut it was soon over and my preserver stood with lowered head above the\nthroat of the dead thing which would have killed me.\n\nThe nearer moon, hurtling suddenly above the horizon and lighting up\nthe Barsoomian scene, showed me that my preserver was Woola, but from\nwhence he had come, or how found me, I was at a loss to know. That I\nwas glad of his companionship it is needless to say, but my pleasure at\nseeing him was tempered by anxiety as to the reason of his leaving\nDejah Thoris. Only her death I felt sure, could account for his absence\nfrom her, so faithful I knew him to be to my commands.\n\nBy the light of the now brilliant moons I saw that he was but a shadow\nof his former self, and as he turned from my caress and commenced\ngreedily to devour the dead carcass at my feet I realized that the poor\nfellow was more than half starved. I, myself, was in but little better\nplight but I could not bring myself to eat the uncooked flesh and I had\nno means of making a fire. When Woola had finished his meal I again\ntook up my weary and seemingly endless wandering in quest of the\nelusive waterway.\n\nAt daybreak of the fifteenth day of my search I was overjoyed to see\nthe high trees that denoted the object of my search. About noon I\ndragged myself wearily to the portals of a huge building which covered\nperhaps four square miles and towered two hundred feet in the air. It\nshowed no aperture in the mighty walls other than the tiny door at\nwhich I sank exhausted, nor was there any sign of life about it.\n\nI could find no bell or other method of making my presence known to the\ninmates of the place, unless a small round hole in the wall near the\ndoor was for that purpose. It was of about the bigness of a lead pencil\nand thinking that it might be in the nature of a speaking tube I put my\nmouth to it and was about to call into it when a voice issued from it\nasking me whom I might be, where from, and the nature of my errand.\n\nI explained that I had escaped from the Warhoons and was dying of\nstarvation and exhaustion.\n\n You wear the metal of a green warrior and are followed by a calot, yet\nyou are of the figure of a red man. In color you are neither green nor\nred. In the name of the ninth ray, what manner of creature are you? \n\n I am a friend of the red men of Barsoom and I am starving. In the name\nof humanity open to us,  I replied.\n\nPresently the door commenced to recede before me until it had sunk into\nthe wall fifty feet, then it stopped and slid easily to the left,\nexposing a short, narrow corridor of concrete, at the further end of\nwhich was another door, similar in every respect to the one I had just\npassed. No one was in sight, yet immediately we passed the first door\nit slid gently into place behind us and receded rapidly to its original\nposition in the front wall of the building. As the door had slipped\naside I had noted its great thickness, fully twenty feet, and as it\nreached its place once more after closing behind us, great cylinders of\nsteel had dropped from the ceiling behind it and fitted their lower\nends into apertures countersunk in the floor.\n\nA second and third door receded before me and slipped to one side as\nthe first, before I reached a large inner chamber where I found food\nand drink set out upon a great stone table. A voice directed me to\nsatisfy my hunger and to feed my calot, and while I was thus engaged my\ninvisible host put me through a severe and searching cross-examination.\n\n Your statements are most remarkable,  said the voice, on concluding\nits questioning,  but you are evidently speaking the truth, and it is\nequally evident that you are not of Barsoom. I can tell that by the\nconformation of your brain and the strange location of your internal\norgans and the shape and size of your heart. \n\n Can you see through me?  I exclaimed.\n\n Yes, I can see all but your thoughts, and were you a Barsoomian I\ncould read those. \n\nThen a door opened at the far side of the chamber and a strange, dried\nup, little mummy of a man came toward me. He wore but a single article\nof clothing or adornment, a small collar of gold from which depended\nupon his chest a great ornament as large as a dinner plate set solid\nwith huge diamonds, except for the exact center which was occupied by a\nstrange stone, an inch in diameter, that scintillated nine different\nand distinct rays; the seven colors of our earthly prism and two\nbeautiful rays which, to me, were new and nameless. I cannot describe\nthem any more than you could describe red to a blind man. I only know\nthat they were beautiful in the extreme.\n\nThe old man sat and talked with me for hours, and the strangest part of\nour intercourse was that I could read his every thought while he could\nnot fathom an iota from my mind unless I spoke.\n\n\n[Illustration: The old man sat and talked with me for hours.]\n\n\nI did not apprise him of my ability to sense his mental operations, and\nthus I learned a great deal which proved of immense value to me later\nand which I would never have known had he suspected my strange power,\nfor the Martians have such perfect control of their mental machinery\nthat they are able to direct their thoughts with absolute precision.\n\nThe building in which I found myself contained the machinery which\nproduces that artificial atmosphere which sustains life on Mars. The\nsecret of the entire process hinges on the use of the ninth ray, one of\nthe beautiful scintillations which I had noted emanating from the great\nstone in my host s diadem.\n\nThis ray is separated from the other rays of the sun by means of finely\nadjusted instruments placed upon the roof of the huge building,\nthree-quarters of which is used for reservoirs in which the ninth ray\nis stored. This product is then treated electrically, or rather certain\nproportions of refined electric vibrations are incorporated with it,\nand the result is then pumped to the five principal air centers of the\nplanet where, as it is released, contact with the ether of space\ntransforms it into atmosphere.\n\nThere is always sufficient reserve of the ninth ray stored in the great\nbuilding to maintain the present Martian atmosphere for a thousand\nyears, and the only fear, as my new friend told me, was that some\naccident might befall the pumping apparatus.\n\nHe led me to an inner chamber where I beheld a battery of twenty radium\npumps any one of which was equal to the task of furnishing all Mars\nwith the atmosphere compound. For eight hundred years, he told me, he\nhad watched these pumps which are used alternately a day each at a\nstretch, or a little over twenty-four and one-half Earth hours. He has\none assistant who divides the watch with him. Half a Martian year,\nabout three hundred and forty-four of our days, each of these men spend\nalone in this huge, isolated plant.\n\nEvery red Martian is taught during earliest childhood the principles of\nthe manufacture of atmosphere, but only two at one time ever hold the\nsecret of ingress to the great building, which, built as it is with\nwalls a hundred and fifty feet thick, is absolutely unassailable, even\nthe roof being guarded from assault by air craft by a glass covering\nfive feet thick.\n\nThe only fear they entertain of attack is from the green Martians or\nsome demented red man, as all Barsoomians realize that the very\nexistence of every form of life of Mars is dependent upon the\nuninterrupted working of this plant.\n\nOne curious fact I discovered as I watched his thoughts was that the\nouter doors are manipulated by telepathic means. The locks are so\nfinely adjusted that the doors are released by the action of a certain\ncombination of thought waves. To experiment with my new-found toy I\nthought to surprise him into revealing this combination and so I asked\nhim in a casual manner how he had managed to unlock the massive doors\nfor me from the inner chambers of the building. As quick as a flash\nthere leaped to his mind nine Martian sounds, but as quickly faded as\nhe answered that this was a secret he must not divulge.\n\nFrom then on his manner toward me changed as though he feared that he\nhad been surprised into divulging his great secret, and I read\nsuspicion and fear in his looks and thoughts, though his words were\nstill fair.\n\nBefore I retired for the night he promised to give me a letter to a\nnearby agricultural officer who would help me on my way to Zodanga,\nwhich he said, was the nearest Martian city.\n\n But be sure that you do not let them know you are bound for Helium as\nthey are at war with that country. My assistant and I are of no\ncountry, we belong to all Barsoom and this talisman which we wear\nprotects us in all lands, even among the green men though we do not\ntrust ourselves to their hands if we can avoid it,  he added.\n\n And so good-night, my friend,  he continued,  may you have a long and\nrestful sleep yes, a long sleep. \n\nAnd though he smiled pleasantly I saw in his thoughts the wish that he\nhad never admitted me, and then a picture of him standing over me in\nthe night, and the swift thrust of a long dagger and the half formed\nwords,  I am sorry, but it is for the best good of Barsoom. \n\nAs he closed the door of my chamber behind him his thoughts were cut\noff from me as was the sight of him, which seemed strange to me in my\nlittle knowledge of thought transference.\n\nWhat was I to do? How could I escape through these mighty walls? Easily\ncould I kill him now that I was warned, but once he was dead I could no\nmore escape, and with the stopping of the machinery of the great plant\nI should die with all the other inhabitants of the planet all, even\nDejah Thoris were she not already dead. For the others I did not give\nthe snap of my finger, but the thought of Dejah Thoris drove from my\nmind all desire to kill my mistaken host.\n\nCautiously I opened the door of my apartment and, followed by Woola,\nsought the inner of the great doors. A wild scheme had come to me; I\nwould attempt to force the great locks by the nine thought waves I had\nread in my host s mind.\n\nCreeping stealthily through corridor after corridor and down winding\nrunways which turned hither and thither I finally reached the great\nhall in which I had broken my long fast that morning. Nowhere had I\nseen my host, nor did I know where he kept himself by night.\n\nI was on the point of stepping boldly out into the room when a slight\nnoise behind me warned me back into the shadows of a recess in the\ncorridor. Dragging Woola after me I crouched low in the darkness.\n\nPresently the old man passed close by me, and as he entered the dimly\nlighted chamber which I had been about to pass through I saw that he\nheld a long thin dagger in his hand and that he was sharpening it upon\na stone. In his mind was the decision to inspect the radium pumps,\nwhich would take about thirty minutes, and then return to my bed\nchamber and finish me.\n\nAs he passed through the great hall and disappeared down the runway\nwhich led to the pump-room, I stole stealthily from my hiding place and\ncrossed to the great door, the inner of the three which stood between\nme and liberty.\n\nConcentrating my mind upon the massive lock I hurled the nine thought\nwaves against it. In breathless expectancy I waited, when finally the\ngreat door moved softly toward me and slid quietly to one side. One\nafter the other the remaining mighty portals opened at my command and\nWoola and I stepped forth into the darkness, free, but little better\noff than we had been before, other than that we had full stomachs.\n\nHastening away from the shadows of the formidable pile I made for the\nfirst crossroad, intending to strike the central turnpike as quickly as\npossible. This I reached about morning and entering the first enclosure\nI came to I searched for some evidences of a habitation.\n\nThere were low rambling buildings of concrete barred with heavy\nimpassable doors, and no amount of hammering and hallooing brought any\nresponse. Weary and exhausted from sleeplessness I threw myself upon\nthe ground commanding Woola to stand guard.\n\nSome time later I was awakened by his frightful growlings and opened my\neyes to see three red Martians standing a short distance from us and\ncovering me with their rifles.\n\n I am unarmed and no enemy,  I hastened to explain.  I have been a\nprisoner among the green men and am on my way to Zodanga. All I ask is\nfood and rest for myself and my calot and the proper directions for\nreaching my destination. \n\nThey lowered their rifles and advanced pleasantly toward me placing\ntheir right hands upon my left shoulder, after the manner of their\ncustom of salute, and asking me many questions about myself and my\nwanderings. They then took me to the house of one of them which was\nonly a short distance away.\n\nThe buildings I had been hammering at in the early morning were\noccupied only by stock and farm produce, the house proper standing\namong a grove of enormous trees, and, like all red-Martian homes, had\nbeen raised at night some forty or fifty feet from the ground on a\nlarge round metal shaft which slid up or down within a sleeve sunk in\nthe ground, and was operated by a tiny radium engine in the entrance\nhall of the building. Instead of bothering with bolts and bars for\ntheir dwellings, the red Martians simply run them up out of harm s way\nduring the night. They also have private means for lowering or raising\nthem from the ground without if they wish to go away and leave them.\n\nThese brothers, with their wives and children, occupied three similar\nhouses on this farm. They did no work themselves, being government\nofficers in charge. The labor was performed by convicts, prisoners of\nwar, delinquent debtors and confirmed bachelors who were too poor to\npay the high celibate tax which all red-Martian governments impose.\n\nThey were the personification of cordiality and hospitality and I spent\nseveral days with them, resting and recuperating from my long and\narduous experiences.\n\nWhen they had heard my story I omitted all reference to Dejah Thoris\nand the old man of the atmosphere plant they advised me to color my\nbody to more nearly resemble their own race and then attempt to find\nemployment in Zodanga, either in the army or the navy.\n\n The chances are small that your tale will be believed until after you\nhave proven your trustworthiness and won friends among the higher\nnobles of the court. This you can most easily do through military\nservice, as we are a warlike people on Barsoom,  explained one of them,\n and save our richest favors for the fighting man. \n\nWhen I was ready to depart they furnished me with a small domestic bull\nthoat, such as is used for saddle purposes by all red Martians. The\nanimal is about the size of a horse and quite gentle, but in color and\nshape an exact replica of his huge and fierce cousin of the wilds.\n\nThe brothers had supplied me with a reddish oil with which I anointed\nmy entire body and one of them cut my hair, which had grown quite long,\nin the prevailing fashion of the time, square at the back and banged in\nfront, so that I could have passed anywhere upon Barsoom as a\nfull-fledged red Martian. My metal and ornaments were also renewed in\nthe style of a Zodangan gentleman, attached to the house of Ptor, which\nwas the family name of my benefactors.\n\nThey filled a little sack at my side with Zodangan money. The medium of\nexchange upon Mars is not dissimilar from our own except that the coins\nare oval. Paper money is issued by individuals as they require it and\nredeemed twice yearly. If a man issues more than he can redeem, the\ngovernment pays his creditors in full and the debtor works out the\namount upon the farms or in mines, which are all owned by the\ngovernment. This suits everybody except the debtor as it has been a\ndifficult thing to obtain sufficient voluntary labor to work the great\nisolated farm lands of Mars, stretching as they do like narrow ribbons\nfrom pole to pole, through wild stretches peopled by wild animals and\nwilder men.\n\nWhen I mentioned my inability to repay them for their kindness to me\nthey assured me that I would have ample opportunity if I lived long\nupon Barsoom, and bidding me farewell they watched me until I was out\nof sight upon the broad white turnpike.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\nAN AIR SCOUT FOR ZODANGA\n\n\nAs I proceeded on my journey toward Zodanga many strange and\ninteresting sights arrested my attention, and at the several farm\nhouses where I stopped I learned a number of new and instructive things\nconcerning the methods and manners of Barsoom.\n\nThe water which supplies the farms of Mars is collected in immense\nunderground reservoirs at either pole from the melting ice caps, and\npumped through long conduits to the various populated centers. Along\neither side of these conduits, and extending their entire length, lie\nthe cultivated districts. These are divided into tracts of about the\nsame size, each tract being under the supervision of one or more\ngovernment officers.\n\nInstead of flooding the surface of the fields, and thus wasting immense\nquantities of water by evaporation, the precious liquid is carried\nunderground through a vast network of small pipes directly to the roots\nof the vegetation. The crops upon Mars are always uniform, for there\nare no droughts, no rains, no high winds, and no insects, or destroying\nbirds.\n\nOn this trip I tasted the first meat I had eaten since leaving\nEarth large, juicy steaks and chops from the well-fed domestic animals\nof the farms. Also I enjoyed luscious fruits and vegetables, but not a\nsingle article of food which was exactly similar to anything on Earth.\nEvery plant and flower and vegetable and animal has been so refined by\nages of careful, scientific cultivation and breeding that the like of\nthem on Earth dwindled into pale, gray, characterless nothingness by\ncomparison.\n\nAt a second stop I met some highly cultivated people of the noble class\nand while in conversation we chanced to speak of Helium. One of the\nolder men had been there on a diplomatic mission several years before\nand spoke with regret of the conditions which seemed destined ever to\nkeep these two countries at war.\n\n Helium,  he said,  rightly boasts the most beautiful women of Barsoom,\nand of all her treasures the wondrous daughter of Mors Kajak, Dejah\nThoris, is the most exquisite flower.\n\n Why,  he added,  the people really worship the ground she walks upon\nand since her loss on that ill-starred expedition all Helium has been\ndraped in mourning.\n\n That our ruler should have attacked the disabled fleet as it was\nreturning to Helium was but another of his awful blunders which I fear\nwill sooner or later compel Zodanga to elevate a wiser man to his\nplace. \n\n Even now, though our victorious armies are surrounding Helium, the\npeople of Zodanga are voicing their displeasure, for the war is not a\npopular one, since it is not based on right or justice. Our forces took\nadvantage of the absence of the principal fleet of Helium on their\nsearch for the princess, and so we have been able easily to reduce the\ncity to a sorry plight. It is said she will fall within the next few\npassages of the further moon. \n\n And what, think you, may have been the fate of the princess, Dejah\nThoris?  I asked as casually as possible.\n\n She is dead,  he answered.  This much was learned from a green warrior\nrecently captured by our forces in the south. She escaped from the\nhordes of Thark with a strange creature of another world, only to fall\ninto the hands of the Warhoons. Their thoats were found wandering upon\nthe sea bottom and evidences of a bloody conflict were discovered\nnearby. \n\nWhile this information was in no way reassuring, neither was it at all\nconclusive proof of the death of Dejah Thoris, and so I determined to\nmake every effort possible to reach Helium as quickly as I could and\ncarry to Tardos Mors such news of his granddaughter s possible\nwhereabouts as lay in my power.\n\nTen days after leaving the three Ptor brothers I arrived at Zodanga.\nFrom the moment that I had come in contact with the red inhabitants of\nMars I had noticed that Woola drew a great amount of unwelcome\nattention to me, since the huge brute belonged to a species which is\nnever domesticated by the red men. Were one to stroll down Broadway\nwith a Numidian lion at his heels the effect would be somewhat similar\nto that which I should have produced had I entered Zodanga with Woola.\n\nThe very thought of parting with the faithful fellow caused me so great\nregret and genuine sorrow that I put it off until just before we\narrived at the city s gates; but then, finally, it became imperative\nthat we separate. Had nothing further than my own safety or pleasure\nbeen at stake no argument could have prevailed upon me to turn away the\none creature upon Barsoom that had never failed in a demonstration of\naffection and loyalty; but as I would willingly have offered my life in\nthe service of her in search of whom I was about to challenge the\nunknown dangers of this, to me, mysterious city, I could not permit\neven Woola s life to threaten the success of my venture, much less his\nmomentary happiness, for I doubted not he soon would forget me. And so\nI bade the poor beast an affectionate farewell, promising him, however,\nthat if I came through my adventure in safety that in some way I should\nfind the means to search him out.\n\nHe seemed to understand me fully, and when I pointed back in the\ndirection of Thark he turned sorrowfully away, nor could I bear to\nwatch him go; but resolutely set my face toward Zodanga and with a\ntouch of heartsickness approached her frowning walls.\n\nThe letter I bore from them gained me immediate entrance to the vast,\nwalled city. It was still very early in the morning and the streets\nwere practically deserted. The residences, raised high upon their metal\ncolumns, resembled huge rookeries, while the uprights themselves\npresented the appearance of steel tree trunks. The shops as a rule were\nnot raised from the ground nor were their doors bolted or barred, since\nthievery is practically unknown upon Barsoom. Assassination is the\never-present fear of all Barsoomians, and for this reason alone their\nhomes are raised high above the ground at night, or in times of danger.\n\nThe Ptor brothers had given me explicit directions for reaching the\npoint of the city where I could find living accommodations and be near\nthe offices of the government agents to whom they had given me letters.\nMy way led to the central square or plaza, which is a characteristic of\nall Martian cities.\n\nThe plaza of Zodanga covers a square mile and is bounded by the palaces\nof the jeddak, the jeds, and other members of the royalty and nobility\nof Zodanga, as well as by the principal public buildings, cafes, and\nshops.\n\nAs I was crossing the great square lost in wonder and admiration of the\nmagnificent architecture and the gorgeous scarlet vegetation which\ncarpeted the broad lawns I discovered a red Martian walking briskly\ntoward me from one of the avenues. He paid not the slightest attention\nto me, but as he came abreast I recognized him, and turning I placed my\nhand upon his shoulder, calling out:\n\n Kaor, Kantos Kan! \n\nLike lightning he wheeled and before I could so much as lower my hand\nthe point of his long-sword was at my breast.\n\n Who are you?  he growled, and then as a backward leap carried me fifty\nfeet from his sword he dropped the point to the ground and exclaimed,\nlaughing,\n\n I do not need a better reply, there is but one man upon all Barsoom\nwho can bounce about like a rubber ball. By the mother of the further\nmoon, John Carter, how came you here, and have you become a Darseen\nthat you can change your color at will? \n\n You gave me a bad half minute my friend,  he continued, after I had\nbriefly outlined my adventures since parting with him in the arena at\nWarhoon.  Were my name and city known to the Zodangans I would shortly\nbe sitting on the banks of the lost sea of Korus with my revered and\ndeparted ancestors. I am here in the interest of Tardos Mors, Jeddak of\nHelium, to discover the whereabouts of Dejah Thoris, our princess. Sab\nThan, prince of Zodanga, has her hidden in the city and has fallen\nmadly in love with her. His father, Than Kosis, Jeddak of Zodanga, has\nmade her voluntary marriage to his son the price of peace between our\ncountries, but Tardos Mors will not accede to the demands and has sent\nword that he and his people would rather look upon the dead face of\ntheir princess than see her wed to any than her own choice, and that\npersonally he would prefer being engulfed in the ashes of a lost and\nburning Helium to joining the metal of his house with that of Than\nKosis. His reply was the deadliest affront he could have put upon Than\nKosis and the Zodangans, but his people love him the more for it and\nhis strength in Helium is greater today than ever.\n\n I have been here three days,  continued Kantos Kan,  but I have not\nyet found where Dejah Thoris is imprisoned. Today I join the Zodangan\nnavy as an air scout and I hope in this way to win the confidence of\nSab Than, the prince, who is commander of this division of the navy,\nand thus learn the whereabouts of Dejah Thoris. I am glad that you are\nhere, John Carter, for I know your loyalty to my princess and two of us\nworking together should be able to accomplish much. \n\nThe plaza was now commencing to fill with people going and coming upon\nthe daily activities of their duties. The shops were opening and the\ncafes filling with early morning patrons. Kantos Kan led me to one of\nthese gorgeous eating places where we were served entirely by\nmechanical apparatus. No hand touched the food from the time it entered\nthe building in its raw state until it emerged hot and delicious upon\nthe tables before the guests, in response to the touching of tiny\nbuttons to indicate their desires.\n\nAfter our meal, Kantos Kan took me with him to the headquarters of the\nair-scout squadron and introducing me to his superior asked that I be\nenrolled as a member of the corps. In accordance with custom an\nexamination was necessary, but Kantos Kan had told me to have no fear\non this score as he would attend to that part of the matter. He\naccomplished this by taking my order for examination to the examining\nofficer and representing himself as John Carter.\n\n This ruse will be discovered later,  he cheerfully explained,  when\nthey check up my weights, measurements, and other personal\nidentification data, but it will be several months before this is done\nand our mission should be accomplished or have failed long before that\ntime. \n\nThe next few days were spent by Kantos Kan in teaching me the\nintricacies of flying and of repairing the dainty little contrivances\nwhich the Martians use for this purpose. The body of the one-man air\ncraft is about sixteen feet long, two feet wide and three inches thick,\ntapering to a point at each end. The driver sits on top of this plane\nupon a seat constructed over the small, noiseless radium engine which\npropels it. The medium of buoyancy is contained within the thin metal\nwalls of the body and consists of the eighth Barsoomian ray, or ray of\npropulsion, as it may be termed in view of its properties.\n\nThis ray, like the ninth ray, is unknown on Earth, but the Martians\nhave discovered that it is an inherent property of all light no matter\nfrom what source it emanates. They have learned that it is the solar\neighth ray which propels the light of the sun to the various planets,\nand that it is the individual eighth ray of each planet which\n reflects,  or propels the light thus obtained out into space once\nmore. The solar eighth ray would be absorbed by the surface of Barsoom,\nbut the Barsoomian eighth ray, which tends to propel light from Mars\ninto space, is constantly streaming out from the planet constituting a\nforce of repulsion of gravity which when confined is able to lift\nenormous weights from the surface of the ground.\n\nIt is this ray which has enabled them to so perfect aviation that\nbattle ships far outweighing anything known upon Earth sail as\ngracefully and lightly through the thin air of Barsoom as a toy balloon\nin the heavy atmosphere of Earth.\n\nDuring the early years of the discovery of this ray many strange\naccidents occurred before the Martians learned to measure and control\nthe wonderful power they had found. In one instance, some nine hundred\nyears before, the first great battle ship to be built with eighth ray\nreservoirs was stored with too great a quantity of the rays and she had\nsailed up from Helium with five hundred officers and men, never to\nreturn.\n\nHer power of repulsion for the planet was so great that it had carried\nher far into space, where she can be seen today, by the aid of powerful\ntelescopes, hurtling through the heavens ten thousand miles from Mars;\na tiny satellite that will thus encircle Barsoom to the end of time.\n\nThe fourth day after my arrival at Zodanga I made my first flight, and\nas a result of it I won a promotion which included quarters in the\npalace of Than Kosis.\n\nAs I rose above the city I circled several times, as I had seen Kantos\nKan do, and then throwing my engine into top speed I raced at terrific\nvelocity toward the south, following one of the great waterways which\nenter Zodanga from that direction.\n\nI had traversed perhaps two hundred miles in a little less than an hour\nwhen I descried far below me a party of three green warriors racing\nmadly toward a small figure on foot which seemed to be trying to reach\nthe confines of one of the walled fields.\n\nDropping my machine rapidly toward them, and circling to the rear of\nthe warriors, I soon saw that the object of their pursuit was a red\nMartian wearing the metal of the scout squadron to which I was\nattached. A short distance away lay his tiny flier, surrounded by the\ntools with which he had evidently been occupied in repairing some\ndamage when surprised by the green warriors.\n\nThey were now almost upon him; their flying mounts charging down on the\nrelatively puny figure at terrific speed, while the warriors leaned low\nto the right, with their great metal-shod spears. Each seemed striving\nto be the first to impale the poor Zodangan and in another moment his\nfate would have been sealed had it not been for my timely arrival.\n\nDriving my fleet air craft at high speed directly behind the warriors I\nsoon overtook them and without diminishing my speed I rammed the prow\nof my little flier between the shoulders of the nearest. The impact\nsufficient to have torn through inches of solid steel, hurled the\nfellow s headless body into the air over the head of his thoat, where\nit fell sprawling upon the moss. The mounts of the other two warriors\nturned squealing in terror, and bolted in opposite directions.\n\nReducing my speed I circled and came to the ground at the feet of the\nastonished Zodangan. He was warm in his thanks for my timely aid and\npromised that my day s work would bring the reward it merited, for it\nwas none other than a cousin of the jeddak of Zodanga whose life I had\nsaved.\n\nWe wasted no time in talk as we knew that the warriors would surely\nreturn as soon as they had gained control of their mounts. Hastening to\nhis damaged machine we were bending every effort to finish the needed\nrepairs and had almost completed them when we saw the two green\nmonsters returning at top speed from opposite sides of us. When they\nhad approached within a hundred yards their thoats again became\nunmanageable and absolutely refused to advance further toward the air\ncraft which had frightened them.\n\nThe warriors finally dismounted and hobbling their animals advanced\ntoward us on foot with drawn long-swords.\n\nI advanced to meet the larger, telling the Zodangan to do the best he\ncould with the other. Finishing my man with almost no effort, as had\nnow from much practice become habitual with me, I hastened to return to\nmy new acquaintance whom I found indeed in desperate straits.\n\nHe was wounded and down with the huge foot of his antagonist upon his\nthroat and the great long-sword raised to deal the final thrust. With a\nbound I cleared the fifty feet intervening between us, and with\noutstretched point drove my sword completely through the body of the\ngreen warrior. His sword fell, harmless, to the ground and he sank\nlimply upon the prostrate form of the Zodangan.\n\nA cursory examination of the latter revealed no mortal injuries and\nafter a brief rest he asserted that he felt fit to attempt the return\nvoyage. He would have to pilot his own craft, however, as these frail\nvessels are not intended to convey but a single person.\n\nQuickly completing the repairs we rose together into the still,\ncloudless Martian sky, and at great speed and without further mishap\nreturned to Zodanga.\n\nAs we neared the city we discovered a mighty concourse of civilians and\ntroops assembled upon the plain before the city. The sky was black with\nnaval vessels and private and public pleasure craft, flying long\nstreamers of gay-colored silks, and banners and flags of odd and\npicturesque design.\n\nMy companion signaled that I slow down, and running his machine close\nbeside mine suggested that we approach and watch the ceremony, which,\nhe said, was for the purpose of conferring honors on individual\nofficers and men for bravery and other distinguished service. He then\nunfurled a little ensign which denoted that his craft bore a member of\nthe royal family of Zodanga, and together we made our way through the\nmaze of low-lying air vessels until we hung directly over the jeddak of\nZodanga and his staff. All were mounted upon the small domestic bull\nthoats of the red Martians, and their trappings and ornamentation bore\nsuch a quantity of gorgeously colored feathers that I could not but be\nstruck with the startling resemblance the concourse bore to a band of\nthe red Indians of my own Earth.\n\nOne of the staff called the attention of Than Kosis to the presence of\nmy companion above them and the ruler motioned for him to descend. As\nthey waited for the troops to move into position facing the jeddak the\ntwo talked earnestly together, the jeddak and his staff occasionally\nglancing up at me. I could not hear their conversation and presently it\nceased and all dismounted, as the last body of troops had wheeled into\nposition before their emperor. A member of the staff advanced toward\nthe troops, and calling the name of a soldier commanded him to advance.\nThe officer then recited the nature of the heroic act which had won the\napproval of the jeddak, and the latter advanced and placed a metal\nornament upon the left arm of the lucky man.\n\nTen men had been so decorated when the aide called out,\n\n John Carter, air scout! \n\nNever in my life had I been so surprised, but the habit of military\ndiscipline is strong within me, and I dropped my little machine lightly\nto the ground and advanced on foot as I had seen the others do. As I\nhalted before the officer, he addressed me in a voice audible to the\nentire assemblage of troops and spectators.\n\n In recognition, John Carter,  he said,  of your remarkable courage and\nskill in defending the person of the cousin of the jeddak Than Kosis\nand, singlehanded, vanquishing three green warriors, it is the pleasure\nof our jeddak to confer on you the mark of his esteem. \n\nThan Kosis then advanced toward me and placing an ornament upon me,\nsaid:\n\n My cousin has narrated the details of your wonderful achievement,\nwhich seems little short of miraculous, and if you can so well defend a\ncousin of the jeddak how much better could you defend the person of the\njeddak himself. You are therefore appointed a padwar of The Guards and\nwill be quartered in my palace hereafter. \n\nI thanked him, and at his direction joined the members of his staff.\nAfter the ceremony I returned my machine to its quarters on the roof of\nthe barracks of the air-scout squadron, and with an orderly from the\npalace to guide me I reported to the officer in charge of the palace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\nI FIND DEJAH\n\n\nThe major-domo to whom I reported had been given instructions to\nstation me near the person of the jeddak, who, in time of war, is\nalways in great danger of assassination, as the rule that all is fair\nin war seems to constitute the entire ethics of Martian conflict.\n\nHe therefore escorted me immediately to the apartment in which Than\nKosis then was. The ruler was engaged in conversation with his son, Sab\nThan, and several courtiers of his household, and did not perceive my\nentrance.\n\nThe walls of the apartment were completely hung with splendid\ntapestries which hid any windows or doors which may have pierced them.\nThe room was lighted by imprisoned rays of sunshine held between the\nceiling proper and what appeared to be a ground-glass false ceiling a\nfew inches below.\n\nMy guide drew aside one of the tapestries, disclosing a passage which\nencircled the room, between the hangings and the walls of the chamber.\nWithin this passage I was to remain, he said, so long as Than Kosis was\nin the apartment. When he left I was to follow. My only duty was to\nguard the ruler and keep out of sight as much as possible. I would be\nrelieved after a period of four hours. The major-domo then left me.\n\nThe tapestries were of a strange weaving which gave the appearance of\nheavy solidity from one side, but from my hiding place I could perceive\nall that took place within the room as readily as though there had been\nno curtain intervening.\n\nScarcely had I gained my post than the tapestry at the opposite end of\nthe chamber separated and four soldiers of The Guard entered,\nsurrounding a female figure. As they approached Than Kosis the soldiers\nfell to either side and there standing before the jeddak and not ten\nfeet from me, her beautiful face radiant with smiles, was Dejah Thoris.\n\nSab Than, Prince of Zodanga, advanced to meet her, and hand in hand\nthey approached close to the jeddak. Than Kosis looked up in surprise,\nand, rising, saluted her.\n\n To what strange freak do I owe this visit from the Princess of Helium,\nwho, two days ago, with rare consideration for my pride, assured me\nthat she would prefer Tal Hajus, the green Thark, to my son? \n\nDejah Thoris only smiled the more and with the roguish dimples playing\nat the corners of her mouth she made answer:\n\n From the beginning of time upon Barsoom it has been the prerogative of\nwoman to change her mind as she listed and to dissemble in matters\nconcerning her heart. That you will forgive, Than Kosis, as has your\nson. Two days ago I was not sure of his love for me, but now I am, and\nI have come to beg of you to forget my rash words and to accept the\nassurance of the Princess of Helium that when the time comes she will\nwed Sab Than, Prince of Zodanga. \n\n I am glad that you have so decided,  replied Than Kosis.  It is far\nfrom my desire to push war further against the people of Helium, and,\nyour promise shall be recorded and a proclamation to my people issued\nforthwith. \n\n It were better, Than Kosis,  interrupted Dejah Thoris,  that the\nproclamation wait the ending of this war. It would look strange indeed\nto my people and to yours were the Princess of Helium to give herself\nto her country s enemy in the midst of hostilities. \n\n Cannot the war be ended at once?  spoke Sab Than.  It requires but the\nword of Than Kosis to bring peace. Say it, my father, say the word that\nwill hasten my happiness, and end this unpopular strife. \n\n We shall see,  replied Than Kosis,  how the people of Helium take to\npeace. I shall at least offer it to them. \n\nDejah Thoris, after a few words, turned and left the apartment, still\nfollowed by her guards.\n\nThus was the edifice of my brief dream of happiness dashed, broken, to\nthe ground of reality. The woman for whom I had offered my life, and\nfrom whose lips I had so recently heard a declaration of love for me,\nhad lightly forgotten my very existence and smilingly given herself to\nthe son of her people s most hated enemy.\n\nAlthough I had heard it with my own ears I could not believe it. I must\nsearch out her apartments and force her to repeat the cruel truth to me\nalone before I would be convinced, and so I deserted my post and\nhastened through the passage behind the tapestries toward the door by\nwhich she had left the chamber. Slipping quietly through this opening I\ndiscovered a maze of winding corridors, branching and turning in every\ndirection.\n\nRunning rapidly down first one and then another of them I soon became\nhopelessly lost and was standing panting against a side wall when I\nheard voices near me. Apparently they were coming from the opposite\nside of the partition against which I leaned and presently I made out\nthe tones of Dejah Thoris. I could not hear the words but I knew that I\ncould not possibly be mistaken in the voice.\n\nMoving on a few steps I discovered another passageway at the end of\nwhich lay a door. Walking boldly forward I pushed into the room only to\nfind myself in a small antechamber in which were the four guards who\nhad accompanied her. One of them instantly arose and accosted me,\nasking the nature of my business.\n\n I am from Than Kosis,  I replied,  and wish to speak privately with\nDejah Thoris, Princess of Helium. \n\n And your order?  asked the fellow.\n\nI did not know what he meant, but replied that I was a member of The\nGuard, and without waiting for a reply from him I strode toward the\nopposite door of the antechamber, behind which I could hear Dejah\nThoris conversing.\n\nBut my entrance was not to be so easily accomplished. The guardsman\nstepped before me, saying,\n\n No one comes from Than Kosis without carrying an order or the\npassword. You must give me one or the other before you may pass. \n\n The only order I require, my friend, to enter where I will, hangs at\nmy side,  I answered, tapping my long-sword;  will you let me pass in\npeace or no? \n\nFor reply he whipped out his own sword, calling to the others to join\nhim, and thus the four stood, with drawn weapons, barring my further\nprogress.\n\n You are not here by the order of Than Kosis,  cried the one who had\nfirst addressed me,  and not only shall you not enter the apartments of\nthe Princess of Helium but you shall go back to Than Kosis under guard\nto explain this unwarranted temerity. Throw down your sword; you cannot\nhope to overcome four of us,  he added with a grim smile.\n\nMy reply was a quick thrust which left me but three antagonists and I\ncan assure you that they were worthy of my metal. They had me backed\nagainst the wall in no time, fighting for my life. Slowly I worked my\nway to a corner of the room where I could force them to come at me only\none at a time, and thus we fought upward of twenty minutes; the\nclanging of steel on steel producing a veritable bedlam in the little\nroom.\n\nThe noise had brought Dejah Thoris to the door of her apartment, and\nthere she stood throughout the conflict with Sola at her back peering\nover her shoulder. Her face was set and emotionless and I knew that she\ndid not recognize me, nor did Sola.\n\nFinally a lucky cut brought down a second guardsman and then, with only\ntwo opposing me, I changed my tactics and rushed them down after the\nfashion of my fighting that had won me many a victory. The third fell\nwithin ten seconds after the second, and the last lay dead upon the\nbloody floor a few moments later. They were brave men and noble\nfighters, and it grieved me that I had been forced to kill them, but I\nwould have willingly depopulated all Barsoom could I have reached the\nside of my Dejah Thoris in no other way.\n\nSheathing my bloody blade I advanced toward my Martian Princess, who\nstill stood mutely gazing at me without sign of recognition.\n\n Who are you, Zodangan?  she whispered.  Another enemy to harass me in\nmy misery? \n\n I am a friend,  I answered,  a once cherished friend. \n\n No friend of Helium s princess wears that metal,  she replied,  and\nyet the voice! I have heard it before; it is not it cannot be no, for\nhe is dead. \n\n It is, though, my Princess, none other than John Carter,  I said.  Do\nyou not recognize, even through paint and strange metal, the heart of\nyour chieftain? \n\nAs I came close to her she swayed toward me with outstretched hands,\nbut as I reached to take her in my arms she drew back with a shudder\nand a little moan of misery.\n\n Too late, too late,  she grieved.  O my chieftain that was, and whom I\nthought dead, had you but returned one little hour before but now it is\ntoo late, too late. \n\n What do you mean, Dejah Thoris?  I cried.  That you would not have\npromised yourself to the Zodangan prince had you known that I lived? \n\n Think you, John Carter, that I would give my heart to you yesterday\nand today to another? I thought that it lay buried with your ashes in\nthe pits of Warhoon, and so today I have promised my body to another to\nsave my people from the curse of a victorious Zodangan army. \n\n But I am not dead, my princess. I have come to claim you, and all\nZodanga cannot prevent it. \n\n It is too late, John Carter, my promise is given, and on Barsoom that\nis final. The ceremonies which follow later are but meaningless\nformalities. They make the fact of marriage no more certain than does\nthe funeral cortege of a jeddak again place the seal of death upon him.\nI am as good as married, John Carter. No longer may you call me your\nprincess. No longer are you my chieftain. \n\n I know but little of your customs here upon Barsoom, Dejah Thoris, but\nI do know that I love you, and if you meant the last words you spoke to\nme that day as the hordes of Warhoon were charging down upon us, no\nother man shall ever claim you as his bride. You meant them then, my\nprincess, and you mean them still! Say that it is true. \n\n I meant them, John Carter,  she whispered.  I cannot repeat them now\nfor I have given myself to another. Ah, if you had only known our ways,\nmy friend,  she continued, half to herself,  the promise would have\nbeen yours long months ago, and you could have claimed me before all\nothers. It might have meant the fall of Helium, but I would have given\nmy empire for my Tharkian chief. \n\nThen aloud she said:  Do you remember the night when you offended me?\nYou called me your princess without having asked my hand of me, and\nthen you boasted that you had fought for me. You did not know, and I\nshould not have been offended; I see that now. But there was no one to\ntell you what I could not, that upon Barsoom there are two kinds of\nwomen in the cities of the red men. The one they fight for that they\nmay ask them in marriage; the other kind they fight for also, but never\nask their hands. When a man has won a woman he may address her as his\nprincess, or in any of the several terms which signify possession. You\nhad fought for me, but had never asked me in marriage, and so when you\ncalled me your princess, you see,  she faltered,  I was hurt, but even\nthen, John Carter, I did not repulse you, as I should have done, until\nyou made it doubly worse by taunting me with having won me through\ncombat. \n\n I do not need ask your forgiveness now, Dejah Thoris,  I cried.  You\nmust know that my fault was of ignorance of your Barsoomian customs.\nWhat I failed to do, through implicit belief that my petition would be\npresumptuous and unwelcome, I do now, Dejah Thoris; I ask you to be my\nwife, and by all the Virginian fighting blood that flows in my veins\nyou shall be. \n\n No, John Carter, it is useless,  she cried, hopelessly,  I may never\nbe yours while Sab Than lives. \n\n You have sealed his death warrant, my princess Sab Than dies. \n\n Nor that either,  she hastened to explain.  I may not wed the man who\nslays my husband, even in self-defense. It is custom. We are ruled by\ncustom upon Barsoom. It is useless, my friend. You must bear the sorrow\nwith me. That at least we may share in common. That, and the memory of\nthe brief days among the Tharks. You must go now, nor ever see me\nagain. Good-bye, my chieftain that was. \n\nDisheartened and dejected, I withdrew from the room, but I was not\nentirely discouraged, nor would I admit that Dejah Thoris was lost to\nme until the ceremony had actually been performed.\n\nAs I wandered along the corridors, I was as absolutely lost in the\nmazes of winding passageways as I had been before I discovered Dejah\nThoris  apartments.\n\nI knew that my only hope lay in escape from the city of Zodanga, for\nthe matter of the four dead guardsmen would have to be explained, and\nas I could never reach my original post without a guide, suspicion\nwould surely rest on me so soon as I was discovered wandering aimlessly\nthrough the palace.\n\nPresently I came upon a spiral runway leading to a lower floor, and\nthis I followed downward for several stories until I reached the\ndoorway of a large apartment in which were a number of guardsmen. The\nwalls of this room were hung with transparent tapestries behind which I\nsecreted myself without being apprehended.\n\nThe conversation of the guardsmen was general, and awakened no interest\nin me until an officer entered the room and ordered four of the men to\nrelieve the detail who were guarding the Princess of Helium. Now, I\nknew, my troubles would commence in earnest and indeed they were upon\nme all too soon, for it seemed that the squad had scarcely left the\nguardroom before one of their number burst in again breathlessly,\ncrying that they had found their four comrades butchered in the\nantechamber.\n\nIn a moment the entire palace was alive with people. Guardsmen,\nofficers, courtiers, servants, and slaves ran helter-skelter through\nthe corridors and apartments carrying messages and orders, and\nsearching for signs of the assassin.\n\nThis was my opportunity and slim as it appeared I grasped it, for as a\nnumber of soldiers came hurrying past my hiding place I fell in behind\nthem and followed through the mazes of the palace until, in passing\nthrough a great hall, I saw the blessed light of day coming in through\na series of larger windows.\n\nHere I left my guides, and, slipping to the nearest window, sought for\nan avenue of escape. The windows opened upon a great balcony which\noverlooked one of the broad avenues of Zodanga. The ground was about\nthirty feet below, and at a like distance from the building was a wall\nfully twenty feet high, constructed of polished glass about a foot in\nthickness. To a red Martian escape by this path would have appeared\nimpossible, but to me, with my earthly strength and agility, it seemed\nalready accomplished. My only fear was in being detected before\ndarkness fell, for I could not make the leap in broad daylight while\nthe court below and the avenue beyond were crowded with Zodangans.\n\nAccordingly I searched for a hiding place and finally found one by\naccident, inside a huge hanging ornament which swung from the ceiling\nof the hall, and about ten feet from the floor. Into the capacious\nbowl-like vase I sprang with ease, and scarcely had I settled down\nwithin it than I heard a number of people enter the apartment. The\ngroup stopped beneath my hiding place and I could plainly overhear\ntheir every word.\n\n It is the work of Heliumites,  said one of the men.\n\n Yes, O Jeddak, but how had they access to the palace? I could believe\nthat even with the diligent care of your guardsmen a single enemy might\nreach the inner chambers, but how a force of six or eight fighting men\ncould have done so unobserved is beyond me. We shall soon know,\nhowever, for here comes the royal psychologist. \n\nAnother man now joined the group, and, after making his formal\ngreetings to his ruler, said:\n\n O mighty Jeddak, it is a strange tale I read in the dead minds of your\nfaithful guardsmen. They were felled not by a number of fighting men,\nbut by a single opponent. \n\nHe paused to let the full weight of this announcement impress his\nhearers, and that his statement was scarcely credited was evidenced by\nthe impatient exclamation of incredulity which escaped the lips of Than\nKosis.\n\n What manner of weird tale are you bringing me, Notan?  he cried.\n\n It is the truth, my Jeddak,  replied the psychologist.  In fact the\nimpressions were strongly marked on the brain of each of the four\nguardsmen. Their antagonist was a very tall man, wearing the metal of\none of your own guardsmen, and his fighting ability was little short of\nmarvelous for he fought fair against the entire four and vanquished\nthem by his surpassing skill and superhuman strength and endurance.\nThough he wore the metal of Zodanga, my Jeddak, such a man was never\nseen before in this or any other country upon Barsoom.\n\n The mind of the Princess of Helium whom I have examined and questioned\nwas a blank to me, she has perfect control, and I could not read one\niota of it. She said that she witnessed a portion of the encounter, and\nthat when she looked there was but one man engaged with the guardsmen;\na man whom she did not recognize as ever having seen. \n\n Where is my erstwhile savior?  spoke another of the party, and I\nrecognized the voice of the cousin of Than Kosis, whom I had rescued\nfrom the green warriors.  By the metal of my first ancestor,  he went\non,  but the description fits him to perfection, especially as to his\nfighting ability. \n\n Where is this man?  cried Than Kosis.  Have him brought to me at once.\nWhat know you of him, cousin? It seemed strange to me now that I think\nupon it that there should have been such a fighting man in Zodanga, of\nwhose name, even, we were ignorant before today. And his name too, John\nCarter, who ever heard of such a name upon Barsoom! \n\nWord was soon brought that I was nowhere to be found, either in the\npalace or at my former quarters in the barracks of the air-scout\nsquadron. Kantos Kan, they had found and questioned, but he knew\nnothing of my whereabouts, and as to my past, he had told them he knew\nas little, since he had but recently met me during our captivity among\nthe Warhoons.\n\n Keep your eyes on this other one,  commanded Than Kosis.  He also is a\nstranger and likely as not they both hail from Helium, and where one is\nwe shall sooner or later find the other. Quadruple the air patrol, and\nlet every man who leaves the city by air or ground be subjected to the\nclosest scrutiny. \n\nAnother messenger now entered with word that I was still within the\npalace walls.\n\n The likeness of every person who has entered or left the palace\ngrounds today has been carefully examined,  concluded the fellow,  and\nnot one approaches the likeness of this new padwar of the guards, other\nthan that which was recorded of him at the time he entered. \n\n Then we will have him shortly,  commented Than Kosis contentedly,  and\nin the meanwhile we will repair to the apartments of the Princess of\nHelium and question her in regard to the affair. She may know more than\nshe cared to divulge to you, Notan. Come. \n\nThey left the hall, and, as darkness had fallen without, I slipped\nlightly from my hiding place and hastened to the balcony. Few were in\nsight, and choosing a moment when none seemed near I sprang quickly to\nthe top of the glass wall and from there to the avenue beyond the\npalace grounds.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\nLOST IN THE SKY\n\n\nWithout effort at concealment I hastened to the vicinity of our\nquarters, where I felt sure I should find Kantos Kan. As I neared the\nbuilding I became more careful, as I judged, and rightly, that the\nplace would be guarded. Several men in civilian metal loitered near the\nfront entrance and in the rear were others. My only means of reaching,\nunseen, the upper story where our apartments were situated was through\nan adjoining building, and after considerable maneuvering I managed to\nattain the roof of a shop several doors away.\n\nLeaping from roof to roof, I soon reached an open window in the\nbuilding where I hoped to find the Heliumite, and in another moment I\nstood in the room before him. He was alone and showed no surprise at my\ncoming, saying he had expected me much earlier, as my tour of duty must\nhave ended some time since.\n\nI saw that he knew nothing of the events of the day at the palace, and\nwhen I had enlightened him he was all excitement. The news that Dejah\nThoris had promised her hand to Sab Than filled him with dismay.\n\n It cannot be,  he exclaimed.  It is impossible! Why no man in all\nHelium but would prefer death to the selling of our loved princess to\nthe ruling house of Zodanga. She must have lost her mind to have\nassented to such an atrocious bargain. You, who do not know how we of\nHelium love the members of our ruling house, cannot appreciate the\nhorror with which I contemplate such an unholy alliance. \n\n What can be done, John Carter?  he continued.  You are a resourceful\nman. Can you not think of some way to save Helium from this disgrace? \n\n If I can come within sword s reach of Sab Than,  I answered,  I can\nsolve the difficulty in so far as Helium is concerned, but for personal\nreasons I would prefer that another struck the blow that frees Dejah\nThoris. \n\nKantos Kan eyed me narrowly before he spoke.\n\n You love her!  he said.  Does she know it? \n\n She knows it, Kantos Kan, and repulses me only because she is promised\nto Sab Than. \n\nThe splendid fellow sprang to his feet, and grasping me by the shoulder\nraised his sword on high, exclaiming:\n\n And had the choice been left to me I could not have chosen a more\nfitting mate for the first princess of Barsoom. Here is my hand upon\nyour shoulder, John Carter, and my word that Sab Than shall go out at\nthe point of my sword for the sake of my love for Helium, for Dejah\nThoris, and for you. This very night I shall try to reach his quarters\nin the palace. \n\n How?  I asked.  You are strongly guarded and a quadruple force patrols\nthe sky. \n\nHe bent his head in thought a moment, then raised it with an air of\nconfidence.\n\n I only need to pass these guards and I can do it,  he said at last.  I\nknow a secret entrance to the palace through the pinnacle of the\nhighest tower. I fell upon it by chance one day as I was passing above\nthe palace on patrol duty. In this work it is required that we\ninvestigate any unusual occurrence we may witness, and a face peering\nfrom the pinnacle of the high tower of the palace was, to me, most\nunusual. I therefore drew near and discovered that the possessor of the\npeering face was none other than Sab Than. He was slightly put out at\nbeing detected and commanded me to keep the matter to myself,\nexplaining that the passage from the tower led directly to his\napartments, and was known only to him. If I can reach the roof of the\nbarracks and get my machine I can be in Sab Than s quarters in five\nminutes; but how am I to escape from this building, guarded as you say\nit is? \n\n How well are the machine sheds at the barracks guarded?  I asked.\n\n There is usually but one man on duty there at night upon the roof. \n\n Go to the roof of this building, Kantos Kan, and wait me there. \n\nWithout stopping to explain my plans I retraced my way to the street\nand hastened to the barracks. I did not dare to enter the building,\nfilled as it was with members of the air-scout squadron, who, in common\nwith all Zodanga, were on the lookout for me.\n\nThe building was an enormous one, rearing its lofty head fully a\nthousand feet into the air. But few buildings in Zodanga were higher\nthan these barracks, though several topped it by a few hundred feet;\nthe docks of the great battleships of the line standing some fifteen\nhundred feet from the ground, while the freight and passenger stations\nof the merchant squadrons rose nearly as high.\n\nIt was a long climb up the face of the building, and one fraught with\nmuch danger, but there was no other way, and so I essayed the task. The\nfact that Barsoomian architecture is extremely ornate made the feat\nmuch simpler than I had anticipated, since I found ornamental ledges\nand projections which fairly formed a perfect ladder for me all the way\nto the eaves of the building. Here I met my first real obstacle. The\neaves projected nearly twenty feet from the wall to which I clung, and\nthough I encircled the great building I could find no opening through\nthem.\n\nThe top floor was alight, and filled with soldiers engaged in the\npastimes of their kind; I could not, therefore, reach the roof through\nthe building.\n\nThere was one slight, desperate chance, and that I decided I must\ntake it was for Dejah Thoris, and no man has lived who would not risk a\nthousand deaths for such as she.\n\nClinging to the wall with my feet and one hand, I unloosened one of the\nlong leather straps of my trappings at the end of which dangled a great\nhook by which air sailors are hung to the sides and bottoms of their\ncraft for various purposes of repair, and by means of which landing\nparties are lowered to the ground from the battleships.\n\nI swung this hook cautiously to the roof several times before it\nfinally found lodgment; gently I pulled on it to strengthen its hold,\nbut whether it would bear the weight of my body I did not know. It\nmight be barely caught upon the very outer verge of the roof, so that\nas my body swung out at the end of the strap it would slip off and\nlaunch me to the pavement a thousand feet below.\n\nAn instant I hesitated, and then, releasing my grasp upon the\nsupporting ornament, I swung out into space at the end of the strap.\nFar below me lay the brilliantly lighted streets, the hard pavements,\nand death. There was a little jerk at the top of the supporting eaves,\nand a nasty slipping, grating sound which turned me cold with\napprehension; then the hook caught and I was safe.\n\nClambering quickly aloft I grasped the edge of the eaves and drew\nmyself to the surface of the roof above. As I gained my feet I was\nconfronted by the sentry on duty, into the muzzle of whose revolver I\nfound myself looking.\n\n Who are you and whence came you?  he cried.\n\n I am an air scout, friend, and very near a dead one, for just by the\nmerest chance I escaped falling to the avenue below,  I replied.\n\n But how came you upon the roof, man? No one has landed or come up from\nthe building for the past hour. Quick, explain yourself, or I call the\nguard. \n\n Look you here, sentry, and you shall see how I came and how close a\nshave I had to not coming at all,  I answered, turning toward the edge\nof the roof, where, twenty feet below, at the end of my strap, hung all\nmy weapons.\n\nThe fellow, acting on impulse of curiosity, stepped to my side and to\nhis undoing, for as he leaned to peer over the eaves I grasped him by\nhis throat and his pistol arm and threw him heavily to the roof. The\nweapon dropped from his grasp, and my fingers choked off his attempted\ncry for assistance. I gagged and bound him and then hung him over the\nedge of the roof as I myself had hung a few moments before. I knew it\nwould be morning before he would be discovered, and I needed all the\ntime that I could gain.\n\nDonning my trappings and weapons I hastened to the sheds, and soon had\nout both my machine and Kantos Kan s. Making his fast behind mine I\nstarted my engine, and skimming over the edge of the roof I dove down\ninto the streets of the city far below the plane usually occupied by\nthe air patrol. In less than a minute I was settling safely upon the\nroof of our apartment beside the astonished Kantos Kan.\n\nI lost no time in explanation, but plunged immediately into a\ndiscussion of our plans for the immediate future. It was decided that I\nwas to try to make Helium while Kantos Kan was to enter the palace and\ndispatch Sab Than. If successful he was then to follow me. He set my\ncompass for me, a clever little device which will remain steadfastly\nfixed upon any given point on the surface of Barsoom, and bidding each\nother farewell we rose together and sped in the direction of the palace\nwhich lay in the route which I must take to reach Helium.\n\nAs we neared the high tower a patrol shot down from above, throwing its\npiercing searchlight full upon my craft, and a voice roared out a\ncommand to halt, following with a shot as I paid no attention to his\nhail. Kantos Kan dropped quickly into the darkness, while I rose\nsteadily and at terrific speed raced through the Martian sky followed\nby a dozen of the air-scout craft which had joined the pursuit, and\nlater by a swift cruiser carrying a hundred men and a battery of\nrapid-fire guns. By twisting and turning my little machine, now rising\nand now falling, I managed to elude their search-lights most of the\ntime, but I was also losing ground by these tactics, and so I decided\nto hazard everything on a straight-away course and leave the result to\nfate and the speed of my machine.\n\nKantos Kan had shown me a trick of gearing, which is known only to the\nnavy of Helium, that greatly increased the speed of our machines, so\nthat I felt sure I could distance my pursuers if I could dodge their\nprojectiles for a few moments.\n\nAs I sped through the air the screeching of the bullets around me\nconvinced me that only by a miracle could I escape, but the die was\ncast, and throwing on full speed I raced a straight course toward\nHelium. Gradually I left my pursuers further and further behind, and I\nwas just congratulating myself on my lucky escape, when a well-directed\nshot from the cruiser exploded at the prow of my little craft. The\nconcussion nearly capsized her, and with a sickening plunge she hurtled\ndownward through the dark night.\n\nHow far I fell before I regained control of the plane I do not know,\nbut I must have been very close to the ground when I started to rise\nagain, as I plainly heard the squealing of animals below me. Rising\nagain I scanned the heavens for my pursuers, and finally making out\ntheir lights far behind me, saw that they were landing, evidently in\nsearch of me.\n\nNot until their lights were no longer discernible did I venture to\nflash my little lamp upon my compass, and then I found to my\nconsternation that a fragment of the projectile had utterly destroyed\nmy only guide, as well as my speedometer. It was true I could follow\nthe stars in the general direction of Helium, but without knowing the\nexact location of the city or the speed at which I was traveling my\nchances for finding it were slim.\n\nHelium lies a thousand miles southwest of Zodanga, and with my compass\nintact I should have made the trip, barring accidents, in between four\nand five hours. As it turned out, however, morning found me speeding\nover a vast expanse of dead sea bottom after nearly six hours of\ncontinuous flight at high speed. Presently a great city showed below\nme, but it was not Helium, as that alone of all Barsoomian metropolises\nconsists in two immense circular walled cities about seventy-five miles\napart and would have been easily distinguishable from the altitude at\nwhich I was flying.\n\nBelieving that I had come too far to the north and west, I turned back\nin a southeasterly direction, passing during the forenoon several other\nlarge cities, but none resembling the description which Kantos Kan had\ngiven me of Helium. In addition to the twin-city formation of Helium,\nanother distinguishing feature is the two immense towers, one of vivid\nscarlet rising nearly a mile into the air from the center of one of the\ncities, while the other, of bright yellow and of the same height, marks\nher sister.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\nTARS TARKAS FINDS A FRIEND\n\n\nAbout noon I passed low over a great dead city of ancient Mars, and as\nI skimmed out across the plain beyond I came full upon several thousand\ngreen warriors engaged in a terrific battle. Scarcely had I seen them\nthan a volley of shots was directed at me, and with the almost\nunfailing accuracy of their aim my little craft was instantly a ruined\nwreck, sinking erratically to the ground.\n\nI fell almost directly in the center of the fierce combat, among\nwarriors who had not seen my approach so busily were they engaged in\nlife and death struggles. The men were fighting on foot with\nlong-swords, while an occasional shot from a sharpshooter on the\noutskirts of the conflict would bring down a warrior who might for an\ninstant separate himself from the entangled mass.\n\nAs my machine sank among them I realized that it was fight or die, with\ngood chances of dying in any event, and so I struck the ground with\ndrawn long-sword ready to defend myself as I could.\n\nI fell beside a huge monster who was engaged with three antagonists,\nand as I glanced at his fierce face, filled with the light of battle, I\nrecognized Tars Tarkas the Thark. He did not see me, as I was a trifle\nbehind him, and just then the three warriors opposing him, and whom I\nrecognized as Warhoons, charged simultaneously. The mighty fellow made\nquick work of one of them, but in stepping back for another thrust he\nfell over a dead body behind him and was down and at the mercy of his\nfoes in an instant. Quick as lightning they were upon him, and Tars\nTarkas would have been gathered to his fathers in short order had I not\nsprung before his prostrate form and engaged his adversaries. I had\naccounted for one of them when the mighty Thark regained his feet and\nquickly settled the other.\n\nHe gave me one look, and a slight smile touched his grim lip as,\ntouching my shoulder, he said,\n\n I would scarcely recognize you, John Carter, but there is no other\nmortal upon Barsoom who would have done what you have for me. I think I\nhave learned that there is such a thing as friendship, my friend. \n\nHe said no more, nor was there opportunity, for the Warhoons were\nclosing in about us, and together we fought, shoulder to shoulder,\nduring all that long, hot afternoon, until the tide of battle turned\nand the remnant of the fierce Warhoon horde fell back upon their\nthoats, and fled into the gathering darkness.\n\nTen thousand men had been engaged in that titanic struggle, and upon\nthe field of battle lay three thousand dead. Neither side asked or gave\nquarter, nor did they attempt to take prisoners.\n\nOn our return to the city after the battle we had gone directly to Tars\nTarkas  quarters, where I was left alone while the chieftain attended\nthe customary council which immediately follows an engagement.\n\nAs I sat awaiting the return of the green warrior I heard something\nmove in an adjoining apartment, and as I glanced up there rushed\nsuddenly upon me a huge and hideous creature which bore me backward\nupon the pile of silks and furs upon which I had been reclining. It was\nWoola faithful, loving Woola. He had found his way back to Thark and,\nas Tars Tarkas later told me, had gone immediately to my former\nquarters where he had taken up his pathetic and seemingly hopeless\nwatch for my return.\n\n Tal Hajus knows that you are here, John Carter,  said Tars Tarkas, on\nhis return from the jeddak s quarters;  Sarkoja saw and recognized you\nas we were returning. Tal Hajus has ordered me to bring you before him\ntonight. I have ten thoats, John Carter; you may take your choice from\namong them, and I will accompany you to the nearest waterway that leads\nto Helium. Tars Tarkas may be a cruel green warrior, but he can be a\nfriend as well. Come, we must start. \n\n And when you return, Tars Tarkas?  I asked.\n\n The wild calots, possibly, or worse,  he replied.  Unless I should\nchance to have the opportunity I have so long waited of battling with\nTal Hajus. \n\n We will stay, Tars Tarkas, and see Tal Hajus tonight. You shall not\nsacrifice yourself, and it may be that tonight you can have the chance\nyou wait. \n\nHe objected strenuously, saying that Tal Hajus often flew into wild\nfits of passion at the mere thought of the blow I had dealt him, and\nthat if ever he laid his hands upon me I would be subjected to the most\nhorrible tortures.\n\nWhile we were eating I repeated to Tars Tarkas the story which Sola had\ntold me that night upon the sea bottom during the march to Thark.\n\nHe said but little, but the great muscles of his face worked in passion\nand in agony at recollection of the horrors which had been heaped upon\nthe only thing he had ever loved in all his cold, cruel, terrible\nexistence.\n\nHe no longer demurred when I suggested that we go before Tal Hajus,\nonly saying that he would like to speak to Sarkoja first. At his\nrequest I accompanied him to her quarters, and the look of venomous\nhatred she cast upon me was almost adequate recompense for any future\nmisfortunes this accidental return to Thark might bring me.\n\n Sarkoja,  said Tars Tarkas,  forty years ago you were instrumental in\nbringing about the torture and death of a woman named Gozava. I have\njust discovered that the warrior who loved that woman has learned of\nyour part in the transaction. He may not kill you, Sarkoja, it is not\nour custom, but there is nothing to prevent him tying one end of a\nstrap about your neck and the other end to a wild thoat, merely to test\nyour fitness to survive and help perpetuate our race. Having heard that\nhe would do this on the morrow, I thought it only right to warn you,\nfor I am a just man. The river Iss is but a short pilgrimage, Sarkoja.\nCome, John Carter. \n\nThe next morning Sarkoja was gone, nor was she ever seen after.\n\nIn silence we hastened to the jeddak s palace, where we were\nimmediately admitted to his presence; in fact, he could scarcely wait\nto see me and was standing erect upon his platform glowering at the\nentrance as I came in.\n\n Strap him to that pillar,  he shrieked.  We shall see who it is dares\nstrike the mighty Tal Hajus. Heat the irons; with my own hands I shall\nburn the eyes from his head that he may not pollute my person with his\nvile gaze. \n\n Chieftains of Thark,  I cried, turning to the assembled council and\nignoring Tal Hajus,  I have been a chief among you, and today I have\nfought for Thark shoulder to shoulder with her greatest warrior. You\nowe me, at least, a hearing. I have won that much today. You claim to\nbe a just people \n\n Silence,  roared Tal Hajus.  Gag the creature and bind him as I\ncommand. \n\n Justice, Tal Hajus,  exclaimed Lorquas Ptomel.  Who are you to set\naside the customs of ages among the Tharks. \n\n Yes, justice!  echoed a dozen voices, and so, while Tal Hajus fumed\nand frothed, I continued.\n\n You are a brave people and you love bravery, but where was your mighty\njeddak during the fighting today? I did not see him in the thick of\nbattle; he was not there. He rends defenseless women and little\nchildren in his lair, but how recently has one of you seen him fight\nwith men? Why, even I, a midget beside him, felled him with a single\nblow of my fist. Is it of such that the Tharks fashion their jeddaks?\nThere stands beside me now a great Thark, a mighty warrior and a noble\nman. Chieftains, how sounds, Tars Tarkas, Jeddak of Thark? \n\nA roar of deep-toned applause greeted this suggestion.\n\n It but remains for this council to command, and Tal Hajus must prove\nhis fitness to rule. Were he a brave man he would invite Tars Tarkas to\ncombat, for he does not love him, but Tal Hajus is afraid; Tal Hajus,\nyour jeddak, is a coward. With my bare hands I could kill him, and he\nknows it. \n\nAfter I ceased there was tense silence, as all eyes were riveted upon\nTal Hajus. He did not speak or move, but the blotchy green of his\ncountenance turned livid, and the froth froze upon his lips.\n\n Tal Hajus,  said Lorquas Ptomel in a cold, hard voice,  never in my\nlong life have I seen a jeddak of the Tharks so humiliated. There could\nbe but one answer to this arraignment. We wait it.  And still Tal Hajus\nstood as though petrified.\n\n Chieftains,  continued Lorquas Ptomel,  shall the jeddak, Tal Hajus,\nprove his fitness to rule over Tars Tarkas? \n\nThere were twenty chieftains about the rostrum, and twenty swords\nflashed high in assent.\n\nThere was no alternative. That decree was final, and so Tal Hajus drew\nhis long-sword and advanced to meet Tars Tarkas.\n\nThe combat was soon over, and, with his foot upon the neck of the dead\nmonster, Tars Tarkas became jeddak among the Tharks.\n\nHis first act was to make me a full-fledged chieftain with the rank I\nhad won by my combats the first few weeks of my captivity among them.\n\nSeeing the favorable disposition of the warriors toward Tars Tarkas, as\nwell as toward me, I grasped the opportunity to enlist them in my cause\nagainst Zodanga. I told Tars Tarkas the story of my adventures, and in\na few words had explained to him the thought I had in mind.\n\n John Carter has made a proposal,  he said, addressing the council,\n which meets with my sanction. I shall put it to you briefly. Dejah\nThoris, the Princess of Helium, who was our prisoner, is now held by\nthe jeddak of Zodanga, whose son she must wed to save her country from\ndevastation at the hands of the Zodangan forces.\n\n John Carter suggests that we rescue her and return her to Helium. The\nloot of Zodanga would be magnificent, and I have often thought that had\nwe an alliance with the people of Helium we could obtain sufficient\nassurance of sustenance to permit us to increase the size and frequency\nof our hatchings, and thus become unquestionably supreme among the\ngreen men of all Barsoom. What say you? \n\nIt was a chance to fight, an opportunity to loot, and they rose to the\nbait as a speckled trout to a fly.\n\nFor Tharks they were wildly enthusiastic, and before another half hour\nhad passed twenty mounted messengers were speeding across dead sea\nbottoms to call the hordes together for the expedition.\n\nIn three days we were on the march toward Zodanga, one hundred thousand\nstrong, as Tars Tarkas had been able to enlist the services of three\nsmaller hordes on the promise of the great loot of Zodanga.\n\nAt the head of the column I rode beside the great Thark while at the\nheels of my mount trotted my beloved Woola.\n\nWe traveled entirely by night, timing our marches so that we camped\nduring the day at deserted cities where, even to the beasts, we were\nall kept indoors during the daylight hours. On the march Tars Tarkas,\nthrough his remarkable ability and statesmanship, enlisted fifty\nthousand more warriors from various hordes, so that, ten days after we\nset out we halted at midnight outside the great walled city of Zodanga,\none hundred and fifty thousand strong.\n\nThe fighting strength and efficiency of this horde of ferocious green\nmonsters was equivalent to ten times their number of red men. Never in\nthe history of Barsoom, Tars Tarkas told me, had such a force of green\nwarriors marched to battle together. It was a monstrous task to keep\neven a semblance of harmony among them, and it was a marvel to me that\nhe got them to the city without a mighty battle among themselves.\n\nBut as we neared Zodanga their personal quarrels were submerged by\ntheir greater hatred for the red men, and especially for the Zodangans,\nwho had for years waged a ruthless campaign of extermination against\nthe green men, directing special attention toward despoiling their\nincubators.\n\nNow that we were before Zodanga the task of obtaining entry to the city\ndevolved upon me, and directing Tars Tarkas to hold his forces in two\ndivisions out of earshot of the city, with each division opposite a\nlarge gateway, I took twenty dismounted warriors and approached one of\nthe small gates that pierced the walls at short intervals. These gates\nhave no regular guard, but are covered by sentries, who patrol the\navenue that encircles the city just within the walls as our\nmetropolitan police patrol their beats.\n\nThe walls of Zodanga are seventy-five feet in height and fifty feet\nthick. They are built of enormous blocks of carborundum, and the task\nof entering the city seemed, to my escort of green warriors, an\nimpossibility. The fellows who had been detailed to accompany me were\nof one of the smaller hordes, and therefore did not know me.\n\nPlacing three of them with their faces to the wall and arms locked, I\ncommanded two more to mount to their shoulders, and a sixth I ordered\nto climb upon the shoulders of the upper two. The head of the topmost\nwarrior towered over forty feet from the ground.\n\nIn this way, with ten warriors, I built a series of three steps from\nthe ground to the shoulders of the topmost man. Then starting from a\nshort distance behind them I ran swiftly up from one tier to the next,\nand with a final bound from the broad shoulders of the highest I\nclutched the top of the great wall and quietly drew myself to its broad\nexpanse. After me I dragged six lengths of leather from an equal number\nof my warriors. These lengths we had previously fastened together, and\npassing one end to the topmost warrior I lowered the other end\ncautiously over the opposite side of the wall toward the avenue below.\nNo one was in sight, so, lowering myself to the end of my leather\nstrap, I dropped the remaining thirty feet to the pavement below.\n\nI had learned from Kantos Kan the secret of opening these gates, and in\nanother moment my twenty great fighting men stood within the doomed\ncity of Zodanga.\n\nI found to my delight that I had entered at the lower boundary of the\nenormous palace grounds. The building itself showed in the distance a\nblaze of glorious light, and on the instant I determined to lead a\ndetachment of warriors directly within the palace itself, while the\nbalance of the great horde was attacking the barracks of the soldiery.\n\nDispatching one of my men to Tars Tarkas for a detail of fifty Tharks,\nwith word of my intentions, I ordered ten warriors to capture and open\none of the great gates while with the nine remaining I took the other.\nWe were to do our work quietly, no shots were to be fired and no\ngeneral advance made until I had reached the palace with my fifty\nTharks. Our plans worked to perfection. The two sentries we met were\ndispatched to their fathers upon the banks of the lost sea of Korus,\nand the guards at both gates followed them in silence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\nTHE LOOTING OF ZODANGA\n\n\nAs the great gate where I stood swung open my fifty Tharks, headed by\nTars Tarkas himself, rode in upon their mighty thoats. I led them to\nthe palace walls, which I negotiated easily without assistance. Once\ninside, however, the gate gave me considerable trouble, but I finally\nwas rewarded by seeing it swing upon its huge hinges, and soon my\nfierce escort was riding across the gardens of the jeddak of Zodanga.\n\nAs we approached the palace I could see through the great windows of\nthe first floor into the brilliantly illuminated audience chamber of\nThan Kosis. The immense hall was crowded with nobles and their women,\nas though some important function was in progress. There was not a\nguard in sight without the palace, due, I presume, to the fact that the\ncity and palace walls were considered impregnable, and so I came close\nand peered within.\n\nAt one end of the chamber, upon massive golden thrones encrusted with\ndiamonds, sat Than Kosis and his consort, surrounded by officers and\ndignitaries of state. Before them stretched a broad aisle lined on\neither side with soldiery, and as I looked there entered this aisle at\nthe far end of the hall, the head of a procession which advanced to the\nfoot of the throne.\n\nFirst there marched four officers of the jeddak s Guard bearing a huge\nsalver on which reposed, upon a cushion of scarlet silk, a great golden\nchain with a collar and padlock at each end. Directly behind these\nofficers came four others carrying a similar salver which supported the\nmagnificent ornaments of a prince and princess of the reigning house of\nZodanga.\n\nAt the foot of the throne these two parties separated and halted,\nfacing each other at opposite sides of the aisle. Then came more\ndignitaries, and the officers of the palace and of the army, and\nfinally two figures entirely muffled in scarlet silk, so that not a\nfeature of either was discernible. These two stopped at the foot of the\nthrone, facing Than Kosis. When the balance of the procession had\nentered and assumed their stations Than Kosis addressed the couple\nstanding before him. I could not hear his words, but presently two\nofficers advanced and removed the scarlet robe from one of the figures,\nand I saw that Kantos Kan had failed in his mission, for it was Sab\nThan, Prince of Zodanga, who stood revealed before me.\n\nThan Kosis now took a set of the ornaments from one of the salvers and\nplaced one of the collars of gold about his son s neck, springing the\npadlock fast. After a few more words addressed to Sab Than he turned to\nthe other figure, from which the officers now removed the enshrouding\nsilks, disclosing to my now comprehending view Dejah Thoris, Princess\nof Helium.\n\nThe object of the ceremony was clear to me; in another moment Dejah\nThoris would be joined forever to the Prince of Zodanga. It was an\nimpressive and beautiful ceremony, I presume, but to me it seemed the\nmost fiendish sight I had ever witnessed, and as the ornaments were\nadjusted upon her beautiful figure and her collar of gold swung open in\nthe hands of Than Kosis I raised my long-sword above my head, and, with\nthe heavy hilt, I shattered the glass of the great window and sprang\ninto the midst of the astonished assemblage. With a bound I was on the\nsteps of the platform beside Than Kosis, and as he stood riveted with\nsurprise I brought my long-sword down upon the golden chain that would\nhave bound Dejah Thoris to another.\n\nIn an instant all was confusion; a thousand drawn swords menaced me\nfrom every quarter, and Sab Than sprang upon me with a jeweled dagger\nhe had drawn from his nuptial ornaments. I could have killed him as\neasily as I might a fly, but the age-old custom of Barsoom stayed my\nhand, and grasping his wrist as the dagger flew toward my heart I held\nhim as though in a vise and with my long-sword pointed to the far end\nof the hall.\n\n Zodanga has fallen,  I cried.  Look! \n\nAll eyes turned in the direction I had indicated, and there, forging\nthrough the portals of the entranceway rode Tars Tarkas and his fifty\nwarriors on their great thoats.\n\nA cry of alarm and amazement broke from the assemblage, but no word of\nfear, and in a moment the soldiers and nobles of Zodanga were hurling\nthemselves upon the advancing Tharks.\n\nThrusting Sab Than headlong from the platform, I drew Dejah Thoris to\nmy side. Behind the throne was a narrow doorway and in this Than Kosis\nnow stood facing me, with drawn long-sword. In an instant we were\nengaged, and I found no mean antagonist.\n\nAs we circled upon the broad platform I saw Sab Than rushing up the\nsteps to aid his father, but, as he raised his hand to strike, Dejah\nThoris sprang before him and then my sword found the spot that made Sab\nThan jeddak of Zodanga. As his father rolled dead upon the floor the\nnew jeddak tore himself free from Dejah Thoris  grasp, and again we\nfaced each other. He was soon joined by a quartet of officers, and,\nwith my back against a golden throne, I fought once again for Dejah\nThoris. I was hard pressed to defend myself and yet not strike down Sab\nThan and, with him, my last chance to win the woman I loved. My blade\nwas swinging with the rapidity of lightning as I sought to parry the\nthrusts and cuts of my opponents. Two I had disarmed, and one was down,\nwhen several more rushed to the aid of their new ruler, and to avenge\nthe death of the old.\n\n\n[Illustration: With my back against a golden throne, I fought once\nagain for Dejah Thoris.]\n\n\nAs they advanced there were cries of  The woman! The woman! Strike her\ndown; it is her plot. Kill her! Kill her! \n\nCalling to Dejah Thoris to get behind me I worked my way toward the\nlittle doorway back of the throne, but the officers realized my\nintentions, and three of them sprang in behind me and blocked my\nchances for gaining a position where I could have defended Dejah Thoris\nagainst an army of swordsmen.\n\nThe Tharks were having their hands full in the center of the room, and\nI began to realize that nothing short of a miracle could save Dejah\nThoris and myself, when I saw Tars Tarkas surging through the crowd of\npygmies that swarmed about him. With one swing of his mighty longsword\nhe laid a dozen corpses at his feet, and so he hewed a pathway before\nhim until in another moment he stood upon the platform beside me,\ndealing death and destruction right and left.\n\nThe bravery of the Zodangans was awe-inspiring, not one attempted to\nescape, and when the fighting ceased it was because only Tharks\nremained alive in the great hall, other than Dejah Thoris and myself.\n\nSab Than lay dead beside his father, and the corpses of the flower of\nZodangan nobility and chivalry covered the floor of the bloody\nshambles.\n\nMy first thought when the battle was over was for Kantos Kan, and\nleaving Dejah Thoris in charge of Tars Tarkas I took a dozen warriors\nand hastened to the dungeons beneath the palace. The jailers had all\nleft to join the fighters in the throne room, so we searched the\nlabyrinthine prison without opposition.\n\nI called Kantos Kan s name aloud in each new corridor and compartment,\nand finally I was rewarded by hearing a faint response. Guided by the\nsound, we soon found him helpless in a dark recess.\n\nHe was overjoyed at seeing me, and to know the meaning of the fight,\nfaint echoes of which had reached his prison cell. He told me that the\nair patrol had captured him before he reached the high tower of the\npalace, so that he had not even seen Sab Than.\n\nWe discovered that it would be futile to attempt to cut away the bars\nand chains which held him prisoner, so, at his suggestion I returned to\nsearch the bodies on the floor above for keys to open the padlocks of\nhis cell and of his chains.\n\nFortunately among the first I examined I found his jailer, and soon we\nhad Kantos Kan with us in the throne room.\n\nThe sounds of heavy firing, mingled with shouts and cries, came to us\nfrom the city s streets, and Tars Tarkas hastened away to direct the\nfighting without. Kantos Kan accompanied him to act as guide, the green\nwarriors commencing a thorough search of the palace for other Zodangans\nand for loot, and Dejah Thoris and I were left alone.\n\nShe had sunk into one of the golden thrones, and as I turned to her she\ngreeted me with a wan smile.\n\n Was there ever such a man!  she exclaimed.  I know that Barsoom has\nnever before seen your like. Can it be that all Earth men are as you?\nAlone, a stranger, hunted, threatened, persecuted, you have done in a\nfew short months what in all the past ages of Barsoom no man has ever\ndone: joined together the wild hordes of the sea bottoms and brought\nthem to fight as allies of a red Martian people. \n\n The answer is easy, Dejah Thoris,  I replied smiling.  It was not I\nwho did it, it was love, love for Dejah Thoris, a power that would work\ngreater miracles than this you have seen. \n\nA pretty flush overspread her face and she answered,\n\n You may say that now, John Carter, and I may listen, for I am free. \n\n And more still I have to say, ere it is again too late,  I returned.\n I have done many strange things in my life, many things that wiser men\nwould not have dared, but never in my wildest fancies have I dreamed of\nwinning a Dejah Thoris for myself for never had I dreamed that in all\nthe universe dwelt such a woman as the Princess of Helium. That you are\na princess does not abash me, but that you are you is enough to make me\ndoubt my sanity as I ask you, my princess, to be mine. \n\n He does not need to be abashed who so well knew the answer to his plea\nbefore the plea were made,  she replied, rising and placing her dear\nhands upon my shoulders, and so I took her in my arms and kissed her.\n\nAnd thus in the midst of a city of wild conflict, filled with the\nalarms of war; with death and destruction reaping their terrible\nharvest around her, did Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium, true daughter\nof Mars, the God of War, promise herself in marriage to John Carter,\nGentleman of Virginia.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\nTHROUGH CARNAGE TO JOY\n\n\nSometime later Tars Tarkas and Kantos Kan returned to report that\nZodanga had been completely reduced. Her forces were entirely destroyed\nor captured, and no further resistance was to be expected from within.\nSeveral battleships had escaped, but there were thousands of war and\nmerchant vessels under guard of Thark warriors.\n\nThe lesser hordes had commenced looting and quarreling among\nthemselves, so it was decided that we collect what warriors we could,\nman as many vessels as possible with Zodangan prisoners and make for\nHelium without further loss of time.\n\nFive hours later we sailed from the roofs of the dock buildings with a\nfleet of two hundred and fifty battleships, carrying nearly one hundred\nthousand green warriors, followed by a fleet of transports with our\nthoats.\n\nBehind us we left the stricken city in the fierce and brutal clutches\nof some forty thousand green warriors of the lesser hordes. They were\nlooting, murdering, and fighting amongst themselves. In a hundred\nplaces they had applied the torch, and columns of dense smoke were\nrising above the city as though to blot out from the eye of heaven the\nhorrid sights beneath.\n\nIn the middle of the afternoon we sighted the scarlet and yellow towers\nof Helium, and a short time later a great fleet of Zodangan battleships\nrose from the camps of the besiegers without the city, and advanced to\nmeet us.\n\nThe banners of Helium had been strung from stem to stern of each of our\nmighty craft, but the Zodangans did not need this sign to realize that\nwe were enemies, for our green Martian warriors had opened fire upon\nthem almost as they left the ground. With their uncanny marksmanship\nthey raked the on-coming fleet with volley after volley.\n\nThe twin cities of Helium, perceiving that we were friends, sent out\nhundreds of vessels to aid us, and then began the first real air battle\nI had ever witnessed.\n\nThe vessels carrying our green warriors were kept circling above the\ncontending fleets of Helium and Zodanga, since their batteries were\nuseless in the hands of the Tharks who, having no navy, have no skill\nin naval gunnery. Their small-arm fire, however, was most effective,\nand the final outcome of the engagement was strongly influenced, if not\nwholly determined, by their presence.\n\nAt first the two forces circled at the same altitude, pouring broadside\nafter broadside into each other. Presently a great hole was torn in the\nhull of one of the immense battle craft from the Zodangan camp; with a\nlurch she turned completely over, the little figures of her crew\nplunging, turning and twisting toward the ground a thousand feet below;\nthen with sickening velocity she tore after them, almost completely\nburying herself in the soft loam of the ancient sea bottom.\n\nA wild cry of exultation arose from the Heliumite squadron, and with\nredoubled ferocity they fell upon the Zodangan fleet. By a pretty\nmaneuver two of the vessels of Helium gained a position above their\nadversaries, from which they poured upon them from their keel bomb\nbatteries a perfect torrent of exploding bombs.\n\nThen, one by one, the battleships of Helium succeeded in rising above\nthe Zodangans, and in a short time a number of the beleaguering\nbattleships were drifting hopeless wrecks toward the high scarlet tower\nof greater Helium. Several others attempted to escape, but they were\nsoon surrounded by thousands of tiny individual fliers, and above each\nhung a monster battleship of Helium ready to drop boarding parties upon\ntheir decks.\n\nWithin but little more than an hour from the moment the victorious\nZodangan squadron had risen to meet us from the camp of the besiegers\nthe battle was over, and the remaining vessels of the conquered\nZodangans were headed toward the cities of Helium under prize crews.\n\nThere was an extremely pathetic side to the surrender of these mighty\nfliers, the result of an age-old custom which demanded that surrender\nshould be signalized by the voluntary plunging to earth of the\ncommander of the vanquished vessel. One after another the brave\nfellows, holding their colors high above their heads, leaped from the\ntowering bows of their mighty craft to an awful death.\n\nNot until the commander of the entire fleet took the fearful plunge,\nthus indicating the surrender of the remaining vessels, did the\nfighting cease, and the useless sacrifice of brave men come to an end.\n\nWe now signaled the flagship of Helium s navy to approach, and when she\nwas within hailing distance I called out that we had the Princess Dejah\nThoris on board, and that we wished to transfer her to the flagship\nthat she might be taken immediately to the city.\n\nAs the full import of my announcement bore in upon them a great cry\narose from the decks of the flagship, and a moment later the colors of\nthe Princess of Helium broke from a hundred points upon her upper\nworks. When the other vessels of the squadron caught the meaning of the\nsignals flashed them they took up the wild acclaim and unfurled her\ncolors in the gleaming sunlight.\n\nThe flagship bore down upon us, and as she swung gracefully to and\ntouched our side a dozen officers sprang upon our decks. As their\nastonished gaze fell upon the hundreds of green warriors, who now came\nforth from the fighting shelters, they stopped aghast, but at sight of\nKantos Kan, who advanced to meet them, they came forward, crowding\nabout him.\n\nDejah Thoris and I then advanced, and they had no eyes for other than\nher. She received them gracefully, calling each by name, for they were\nmen high in the esteem and service of her grandfather, and she knew\nthem well.\n\n Lay your hands upon the shoulder of John Carter,  she said to them,\nturning toward me,  the man to whom Helium owes her princess as well as\nher victory today. \n\nThey were very courteous to me and said many kind and complimentary\nthings, but what seemed to impress them most was that I had won the aid\nof the fierce Tharks in my campaign for the liberation of Dejah Thoris,\nand the relief of Helium.\n\n You owe your thanks more to another man than to me,  I said,  and here\nhe is; meet one of Barsoom s greatest soldiers and statesmen, Tars\nTarkas, Jeddak of Thark. \n\nWith the same polished courtesy that had marked their manner toward me\nthey extended their greetings to the great Thark, nor, to my surprise,\nwas he much behind them in ease of bearing or in courtly speech. Though\nnot a garrulous race, the Tharks are extremely formal, and their ways\nlend themselves amazingly to dignified and courtly manners.\n\nDejah Thoris went aboard the flagship, and was much put out that I\nwould not follow, but, as I explained to her, the battle was but partly\nwon; we still had the land forces of the besieging Zodangans to account\nfor, and I would not leave Tars Tarkas until that had been\naccomplished.\n\nThe commander of the naval forces of Helium promised to arrange to have\nthe armies of Helium attack from the city in conjunction with our land\nattack, and so the vessels separated and Dejah Thoris was borne in\ntriumph back to the court of her grandfather, Tardos Mors, Jeddak of\nHelium.\n\nIn the distance lay our fleet of transports, with the thoats of the\ngreen warriors, where they had remained during the battle. Without\nlanding stages it was to be a difficult matter to unload these beasts\nupon the open plain, but there was nothing else for it, and so we put\nout for a point about ten miles from the city and began the task.\n\nIt was necessary to lower the animals to the ground in slings and this\nwork occupied the remainder of the day and half the night. Twice we\nwere attacked by parties of Zodangan cavalry, but with little loss,\nhowever, and after darkness shut down they withdrew.\n\nAs soon as the last thoat was unloaded Tars Tarkas gave the command to\nadvance, and in three parties we crept upon the Zodangan camp from the\nnorth, the south and the east.\n\nAbout a mile from the main camp we encountered their outposts and, as\nhad been prearranged, accepted this as the signal to charge. With wild,\nferocious cries and amidst the nasty squealing of battle-enraged thoats\nwe bore down upon the Zodangans.\n\nWe did not catch them napping, but found a well-entrenched battle line\nconfronting us. Time after time we were repulsed until, toward noon, I\nbegan to fear for the result of the battle.\n\nThe Zodangans numbered nearly a million fighting men, gathered from\npole to pole, wherever stretched their ribbon-like waterways, while\npitted against them were less than a hundred thousand green warriors.\nThe forces from Helium had not arrived, nor could we receive any word\nfrom them.\n\nJust at noon we heard heavy firing all along the line between the\nZodangans and the cities, and we knew then that our much-needed\nreinforcements had come.\n\nAgain Tars Tarkas ordered the charge, and once more the mighty thoats\nbore their terrible riders against the ramparts of the enemy. At the\nsame moment the battle line of Helium surged over the opposite\nbreastworks of the Zodangans and in another moment they were being\ncrushed as between two millstones. Nobly they fought, but in vain.\n\nThe plain before the city became a veritable shambles ere the last\nZodangan surrendered, but finally the carnage ceased, the prisoners\nwere marched back to Helium, and we entered the greater city s gates, a\nhuge triumphal procession of conquering heroes.\n\nThe broad avenues were lined with women and children, among which were\nthe few men whose duties necessitated that they remain within the city\nduring the battle. We were greeted with an endless round of applause\nand showered with ornaments of gold, platinum, silver, and precious\njewels. The city had gone mad with joy.\n\nMy fierce Tharks caused the wildest excitement and enthusiasm. Never\nbefore had an armed body of green warriors entered the gates of Helium,\nand that they came now as friends and allies filled the red men with\nrejoicing.\n\nThat my poor services to Dejah Thoris had become known to the\nHeliumites was evidenced by the loud crying of my name, and by the\nloads of ornaments that were fastened upon me and my huge thoat as we\npassed up the avenues to the palace, for even in the face of the\nferocious appearance of Woola the populace pressed close about me.\n\nAs we approached this magnificent pile we were met by a party of\nofficers who greeted us warmly and requested that Tars Tarkas and his\njeds with the jeddaks and jeds of his wild allies, together with\nmyself, dismount and accompany them to receive from Tardos Mors an\nexpression of his gratitude for our services.\n\nAt the top of the great steps leading up to the main portals of the\npalace stood the royal party, and as we reached the lower steps one of\ntheir number descended to meet us.\n\nHe was an almost perfect specimen of manhood; tall, straight as an\narrow, superbly muscled and with the carriage and bearing of a ruler of\nmen. I did not need to be told that he was Tardos Mors, Jeddak of\nHelium.\n\nThe first member of our party he met was Tars Tarkas and his first\nwords sealed forever the new friendship between the races.\n\n That Tardos Mors,  he said, earnestly,  may meet the greatest living\nwarrior of Barsoom is a priceless honor, but that he may lay his hand\non the shoulder of a friend and ally is a far greater boon. \n\n Jeddak of Helium,  returned Tars Tarkas,  it has remained for a man of\nanother world to teach the green warriors of Barsoom the meaning of\nfriendship; to him we owe the fact that the hordes of Thark can\nunderstand you; that they can appreciate and reciprocate the sentiments\nso graciously expressed. \n\nTardos Mors then greeted each of the green jeddaks and jeds, and to\neach spoke words of friendship and appreciation.\n\nAs he approached me he laid both hands upon my shoulders.\n\n Welcome, my son,  he said;  that you are granted, gladly, and without\none word of opposition, the most precious jewel in all Helium, yes, on\nall Barsoom, is sufficient earnest of my esteem. \n\nWe were then presented to Mors Kajak, Jed of lesser Helium, and father\nof Dejah Thoris. He had followed close behind Tardos Mors and seemed\neven more affected by the meeting than had his father.\n\nHe tried a dozen times to express his gratitude to me, but his voice\nchoked with emotion and he could not speak, and yet he had, as I was to\nlater learn, a reputation for ferocity and fearlessness as a fighter\nthat was remarkable even upon warlike Barsoom. In common with all\nHelium he worshiped his daughter, nor could he think of what she had\nescaped without deep emotion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\nFROM JOY TO DEATH\n\n\nFor ten days the hordes of Thark and their wild allies were feasted and\nentertained, and, then, loaded with costly presents and escorted by ten\nthousand soldiers of Helium commanded by Mors Kajak, they started on\nthe return journey to their own lands. The jed of lesser Helium with a\nsmall party of nobles accompanied them all the way to Thark to cement\nmore closely the new bonds of peace and friendship.\n\nSola also accompanied Tars Tarkas, her father, who before all his\nchieftains had acknowledged her as his daughter.\n\nThree weeks later, Mors Kajak and his officers, accompanied by Tars\nTarkas and Sola, returned upon a battleship that had been dispatched to\nThark to fetch them in time for the ceremony which made Dejah Thoris\nand John Carter one.\n\nFor nine years I served in the councils and fought in the armies of\nHelium as a prince of the house of Tardos Mors. The people seemed never\nto tire of heaping honors upon me, and no day passed that did not bring\nsome new proof of their love for my princess, the incomparable Dejah\nThoris.\n\nIn a golden incubator upon the roof of our palace lay a snow-white egg.\nFor nearly five years ten soldiers of the jeddak s Guard had constantly\nstood over it, and not a day passed when I was in the city that Dejah\nThoris and I did not stand hand in hand before our little shrine\nplanning for the future, when the delicate shell should break.\n\nVivid in my memory is the picture of the last night as we sat there\ntalking in low tones of the strange romance which had woven our lives\ntogether and of this wonder which was coming to augment our happiness\nand fulfill our hopes.\n\nIn the distance we saw the bright-white light of an approaching\nairship, but we attached no special significance to so common a sight.\nLike a bolt of lightning it raced toward Helium until its very speed\nbespoke the unusual.\n\nFlashing the signals which proclaimed it a dispatch bearer for the\njeddak, it circled impatiently awaiting the tardy patrol boat which\nmust convoy it to the palace docks.\n\nTen minutes after it touched at the palace a message called me to the\ncouncil chamber, which I found filling with the members of that body.\n\nOn the raised platform of the throne was Tardos Mors, pacing back and\nforth with tense-drawn face. When all were in their seats he turned\ntoward us.\n\n This morning,  he said,  word reached the several governments of\nBarsoom that the keeper of the atmosphere plant had made no wireless\nreport for two days, nor had almost ceaseless calls upon him from a\nscore of capitals elicited a sign of response.\n\n The ambassadors of the other nations asked us to take the matter in\nhand and hasten the assistant keeper to the plant. All day a thousand\ncruisers have been searching for him until just now one of them returns\nbearing his dead body, which was found in the pits beneath his house\nhorribly mutilated by some assassin.\n\n I do not need to tell you what this means to Barsoom. It would take\nmonths to penetrate those mighty walls, in fact the work has already\ncommenced, and there would be little to fear were the engine of the\npumping plant to run as it should and as they all have for hundreds of\nyears; but the worst, we fear, has happened. The instruments show a\nrapidly decreasing air pressure on all parts of Barsoom the engine has\nstopped. \n\n My gentlemen,  he concluded,  we have at best three days to live. \n\nThere was absolute silence for several minutes, and then a young noble\narose, and with his drawn sword held high above his head addressed\nTardos Mors.\n\n The men of Helium have prided themselves that they have ever shown\nBarsoom how a nation of red men should live, now is our opportunity to\nshow them how they should die. Let us go about our duties as though a\nthousand useful years still lay before us. \n\nThe chamber rang with applause and as there was nothing better to do\nthan to allay the fears of the people by our example we went our ways\nwith smiles upon our faces and sorrow gnawing at our hearts.\n\nWhen I returned to my palace I found that the rumor already had reached\nDejah Thoris, so I told her all that I had heard.\n\n We have been very happy, John Carter,  she said,  and I thank whatever\nfate overtakes us that it permits us to die together. \n\nThe next two days brought no noticeable change in the supply of air,\nbut on the morning of the third day breathing became difficult at the\nhigher altitudes of the rooftops. The avenues and plazas of Helium were\nfilled with people. All business had ceased. For the most part the\npeople looked bravely into the face of their unalterable doom. Here and\nthere, however, men and women gave way to quiet grief.\n\nToward the middle of the day many of the weaker commenced to succumb\nand within an hour the people of Barsoom were sinking by thousands into\nthe unconsciousness which precedes death by asphyxiation.\n\nDejah Thoris and I with the other members of the royal family had\ncollected in a sunken garden within an inner courtyard of the palace.\nWe conversed in low tones, when we conversed at all, as the awe of the\ngrim shadow of death crept over us. Even Woola seemed to feel the\nweight of the impending calamity, for he pressed close to Dejah Thoris\nand to me, whining pitifully.\n\nThe little incubator had been brought from the roof of our palace at\nrequest of Dejah Thoris and she sat gazing longingly upon the unknown\nlittle life that now she would never know.\n\nAs it was becoming perceptibly difficult to breathe Tardos Mors arose,\nsaying,\n\n Let us bid each other farewell. The days of the greatness of Barsoom\nare over. Tomorrow s sun will look down upon a dead world which through\nall eternity must go swinging through the heavens peopled not even by\nmemories. It is the end. \n\nHe stooped and kissed the women of his family, and laid his strong hand\nupon the shoulders of the men.\n\nAs I turned sadly from him my eyes fell upon Dejah Thoris. Her head was\ndrooping upon her breast, to all appearances she was lifeless. With a\ncry I sprang to her and raised her in my arms.\n\nHer eyes opened and looked into mine.\n\n Kiss me, John Carter,  she murmured.  I love you! I love you! It is\ncruel that we must be torn apart who were just starting upon a life of\nlove and happiness. \n\nAs I pressed her dear lips to mine the old feeling of unconquerable\npower and authority rose in me. The fighting blood of Virginia sprang\nto life in my veins.\n\n It shall not be, my princess,  I cried.  There is, there must be some\nway, and John Carter, who has fought his way through a strange world\nfor love of you, will find it. \n\nAnd with my words there crept above the threshold of my conscious mind\na series of nine long forgotten sounds. Like a flash of lightning in\nthe darkness their full purport dawned upon me the key to the three\ngreat doors of the atmosphere plant!\n\nTurning suddenly toward Tardos Mors as I still clasped my dying love to\nmy breast I cried.\n\n A flier, Jeddak! Quick! Order your swiftest flier to the palace top. I\ncan save Barsoom yet. \n\nHe did not wait to question, but in an instant a guard was racing to\nthe nearest dock and though the air was thin and almost gone at the\nrooftop they managed to launch the fastest one-man, air-scout machine\nthat the skill of Barsoom had ever produced.\n\nKissing Dejah Thoris a dozen times and commanding Woola, who would have\nfollowed me, to remain and guard her, I bounded with my old agility and\nstrength to the high ramparts of the palace, and in another moment I\nwas headed toward the goal of the hopes of all Barsoom.\n\nI had to fly low to get sufficient air to breathe, but I took a\nstraight course across an old sea bottom and so had to rise only a few\nfeet above the ground.\n\nI traveled with awful velocity for my errand was a race against time\nwith death. The face of Dejah Thoris hung always before me. As I turned\nfor a last look as I left the palace garden I had seen her stagger and\nsink upon the ground beside the little incubator. That she had dropped\ninto the last coma which would end in death, if the air supply remained\nunreplenished, I well knew, and so, throwing caution to the winds, I\nflung overboard everything but the engine and compass, even to my\nornaments, and lying on my belly along the deck with one hand on the\nsteering wheel and the other pushing the speed lever to its last notch\nI split the thin air of dying Mars with the speed of a meteor.\n\nAn hour before dark the great walls of the atmosphere plant loomed\nsuddenly before me, and with a sickening thud I plunged to the ground\nbefore the small door which was withholding the spark of life from the\ninhabitants of an entire planet.\n\nBeside the door a great crew of men had been laboring to pierce the\nwall, but they had scarcely scratched the flint-like surface, and now\nmost of them lay in the last sleep from which not even air would awaken\nthem.\n\nConditions seemed much worse here than at Helium, and it was with\ndifficulty that I breathed at all. There were a few men still\nconscious, and to one of these I spoke.\n\n If I can open these doors is there a man who can start the engines?  I\nasked.\n\n I can,  he replied,  if you open quickly. I can last but a few moments\nmore. But it is useless, they are both dead and no one else upon\nBarsoom knew the secret of these awful locks. For three days men crazed\nwith fear have surged about this portal in vain attempts to solve its\nmystery. \n\nI had no time to talk, I was becoming very weak and it was with\ndifficulty that I controlled my mind at all.\n\nBut, with a final effort, as I sank weakly to my knees I hurled the\nnine thought waves at that awful thing before me. The Martian had\ncrawled to my side and with staring eyes fixed on the single panel\nbefore us we waited in the silence of death.\n\nSlowly the mighty door receded before us. I attempted to rise and\nfollow it but I was too weak.\n\n After it,  I cried to my companion,  and if you reach the pump room\nturn loose all the pumps. It is the only chance Barsoom has to exist\ntomorrow! \n\nFrom where I lay I opened the second door, and then the third, and as I\nsaw the hope of Barsoom crawling weakly on hands and knees through the\nlast doorway I sank unconscious upon the ground.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\nAT THE ARIZONA CAVE\n\n\nIt was dark when I opened my eyes again. Strange, stiff garments were\nupon my body; garments that cracked and powdered away from me as I rose\nto a sitting posture.\n\nI felt myself over from head to foot and from head to foot I was\nclothed, though when I fell unconscious at the little doorway I had\nbeen naked. Before me was a small patch of moonlit sky which showed\nthrough a ragged aperture.\n\nAs my hands passed over my body they came in contact with pockets and\nin one of these a small parcel of matches wrapped in oiled paper. One\nof these matches I struck, and its dim flame lighted up what appeared\nto be a huge cave, toward the back of which I discovered a strange,\nstill figure huddled over a tiny bench. As I approached it I saw that\nit was the dead and mummified remains of a little old woman with long\nblack hair, and the thing it leaned over was a small charcoal burner\nupon which rested a round copper vessel containing a small quantity of\ngreenish powder.\n\nBehind her, depending from the roof upon rawhide thongs, and stretching\nentirely across the cave, was a row of human skeletons. From the thong\nwhich held them stretched another to the dead hand of the little old\nwoman; as I touched the cord the skeletons swung to the motion with a\nnoise as of the rustling of dry leaves.\n\nIt was a most grotesque and horrid tableau and I hastened out into the\nfresh air; glad to escape from so gruesome a place.\n\nThe sight that met my eyes as I stepped out upon a small ledge which\nran before the entrance of the cave filled me with consternation.\n\nA new heaven and a new landscape met my gaze. The silvered mountains in\nthe distance, the almost stationary moon hanging in the sky, the\ncacti-studded valley below me were not of Mars. I could scarce believe\nmy eyes, but the truth slowly forced itself upon me I was looking upon\nArizona from the same ledge from which ten years before I had gazed\nwith longing upon Mars.\n\nBurying my head in my arms I turned, broken, and sorrowful, down the\ntrail from the cave.\n\nAbove me shone the red eye of Mars holding her awful secret,\nforty-eight million miles away.\n\nDid the Martian reach the pump room? Did the vitalizing air reach the\npeople of that distant planet in time to save them? Was my Dejah Thoris\nalive, or did her beautiful body lie cold in death beside the tiny\ngolden incubator in the sunken garden of the inner courtyard of the\npalace of Tardos Mors, the jeddak of Helium?\n\nFor ten years I have waited and prayed for an answer to my questions.\nFor ten years I have waited and prayed to be taken back to the world of\nmy lost love. I would rather lie dead beside her there than live on\nEarth all those millions of terrible miles from her.\n\nThe old mine, which I found untouched, has made me fabulously wealthy;\nbut what care I for wealth!\n\nAs I sit here tonight in my little study overlooking the Hudson, just\ntwenty years have elapsed since I first opened my eyes upon Mars.\n\nI can see her shining in the sky through the little window by my desk,\nand tonight she seems calling to me again as she has not called before\nsince that long dead night, and I think I can see, across that awful\nabyss of space, a beautiful black-haired woman standing in the garden\nof a palace, and at her side is a little boy who puts his arm around\nher as she points into the sky toward the planet Earth, while at their\nfeet is a huge and hideous creature with a heart of gold.\n\nI believe that they are waiting there for me, and something tells me\nthat I shall soon know."
    },
    {
        "title": "Frankenstein",
        "author": "Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "Letter 1\n\n_To Mrs. Saville, England._\n\n\nSt. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17 .\n\n\nYou will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the\ncommencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil\nforebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure\nmy dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success\nof my undertaking.\n\nI am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of\nPetersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which\nbraces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this\nfeeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards\nwhich I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.\nInspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent\nand vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of\nfrost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the\nregion of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever\nvisible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a\nperpetual splendour. There for with your leave, my sister, I will put\nsome trust in preceding navigators there snow and frost are banished;\nand, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in\nwonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable\nglobe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the\nphenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered\nsolitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I\nmay there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may\nregulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this\nvoyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I\nshall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world\nnever before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by\nthe foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to\nconquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this\nlaborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little\nboat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his\nnative river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you\ncannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all\nmankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole\nto those countries, to reach which at present so many months are\nrequisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at\nall possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.\n\nThese reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my\nletter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me\nto heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as\na steady purpose a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual\neye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I\nhave read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have\nbeen made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean\nthrough the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a\nhistory of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the\nwhole of our good Uncle Thomas  library. My education was neglected,\nyet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study\nday and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which\nI had felt, as a child, on learning that my father s dying injunction\nhad forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.\n\nThese visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets\nwhose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also\nbecame a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation;\nI imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the\nnames of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well\nacquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment.\nBut just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my\nthoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.\n\nSix years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I\ncan, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this\ngreat enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I\naccompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea;\nI voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often\nworked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my\nnights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those\nbranches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive\nthe greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an\nunder-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I\nmust own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second\ndignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest\nearnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.\n\nAnd now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose?\nMy life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to\nevery enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging\nvoice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is\nfirm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am\nabout to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which\nwill demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits\nof others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.\n\nThis is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly\nquickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in\nmy opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The\ncold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs a dress which I have\nalready adopted, for there is a great difference between walking the\ndeck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise\nprevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no\nambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and\nArchangel.\n\nI shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my\nintention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the\ninsurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary\namong those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to\nsail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how\ncan I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years,\nwill pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon,\nor never.\n\nFarewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you,\nand save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your\nlove and kindness.\n\nYour affectionate brother,\n\nR. Walton\n\n\n\n\nLetter 2\n\n_To Mrs. Saville, England._\n\nArchangel, 28th March, 17 .\n\n\nHow slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!\nYet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a\nvessel and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have\nalready engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly\npossessed of dauntless courage.\n\nBut I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the\nabsence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no\nfriend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there\nwill be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no\none will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts\nto paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of\nfeeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me, whose\neyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I\nbitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet\ncourageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose\ntastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a\nfriend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution\nand too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me\nthat I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild\non a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas  books of voyages.\nAt that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own\ncountry; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its\nmost important benefits from such a conviction that I perceived the\nnecessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native\ncountry. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many\nschoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my\ndaydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters\ncall it) _keeping;_ and I greatly need a friend who would have sense\nenough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to\nendeavour to regulate my mind.\n\nWell, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the\nwide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet\nsome feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these\nrugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage\nand enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word my phrase\nmore characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an\nEnglishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices,\nunsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of\nhumanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel;\nfinding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist\nin my enterprise.\n\nThe master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the\nship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This\ncircumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made\nme very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years\nspent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the\ngroundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to\nthe usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be\nnecessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness\nof heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt\nmyself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard\nof him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the\nhappiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved\na young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable\nsum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw\nhis mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in\ntears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her,\nconfessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor,\nand that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend\nreassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover,\ninstantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his\nmoney, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he\nbestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his\nprize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young\nwoman s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old\nman decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who,\nwhen he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned\nuntil he heard that his former mistress was married according to her\ninclinations.  What a noble fellow!  you will exclaim. He is\nso; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind\nof ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct\nthe more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which\notherwise he would command.\n\nYet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can\nconceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am\nwavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage\nis only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The\nwinter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well, and it\nis considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps I may sail\nsooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me\nsufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the\nsafety of others is committed to my care.\n\nI cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my\nundertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of\nthe trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which\nI am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to  the\nland of mist and snow,  but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not\nbe alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and\nwoeful as the  Ancient Mariner.  You will smile at my allusion, but I\nwill disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my\npassionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that\nproduction of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something\nat work in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically\nindustrious painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and\nlabour but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief\nin the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out\nof the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited\nregions I am about to explore.\n\nBut to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after\nhaving traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of\nAfrica or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to\nlook on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to\nme by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when\nI need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. \nRemember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.\n\nYour affectionate brother,\n Robert Walton\n\n\n\n\nLetter 3\n\n_To Mrs. Saville, England._\n\nJuly 7th, 17 .\n\n\nMy dear Sister,\n\nI write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe and well advanced\non my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on\nits homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not\nsee my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good\nspirits: my men are bold and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the\nfloating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers\nof the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We\nhave already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of\nsummer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales,\nwhich blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire\nto attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not\nexpected.\n\nNo incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a\nletter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are\naccidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and\nI shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.\n\nAdieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as\nyours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool,\npersevering, and prudent.\n\nBut success _shall_ crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I\nhave gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars\nthemselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not\nstill proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the\ndetermined heart and resolved will of man?\n\nMy swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must\nfinish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!\n\nR.W.\n\n\n\n\nLetter 4\n\n\n_To Mrs. Saville, England._\n\nAugust 5th, 17 .\n\nSo strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear\nrecording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before\nthese papers can come into your possession.\n\nLast Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed\nin the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which\nshe floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we\nwere compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to,\nhoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.\n\nAbout two o clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out\nin every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to\nhave no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to\ngrow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly\nattracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from our own\nsituation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by\ndogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a\nbeing which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature,\nsat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress\nof the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the\ndistant inequalities of the ice.\n\nThis appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,\nmany hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that\nit was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by\nice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the\ngreatest attention.\n\nAbout two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before\nnight the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the\nmorning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which\nfloat about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to\nrest for a few hours.\n\nIn the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and\nfound all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently\ntalking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we\nhad seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large\nfragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human\nbeing within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel.\nHe was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of\nsome undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck the\nmaster said,  Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish\non the open sea. \n\nOn perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a\nforeign accent.  Before I come on board your vessel,  said he,\n will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound? \n\nYou may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed\nto me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have\nsupposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not\nhave exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I\nreplied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the\nnorthern pole.\n\nUpon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.\nGood God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for\nhis safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were\nnearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and\nsuffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted\nto carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh\nair he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck and\nrestored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to\nswallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we\nwrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the\nkitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup,\nwhich restored him wonderfully.\n\nTwo days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often\nfeared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he\nhad in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and\nattended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more\ninteresting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of\nwildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone\nperforms an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most\ntrifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with\na beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he\nis generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his\nteeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.\n\nWhen my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off\nthe men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not\nallow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body\nand mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose.\nOnce, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice\nin so strange a vehicle.\n\nHis countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and\nhe replied,  To seek one who fled from me. \n\n And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we\nsaw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice. \n\nThis aroused the stranger s attention, and he asked a multitude of\nquestions concerning the route which the d mon, as he called him, had\npursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said,  I have,\ndoubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good\npeople; but you are too considerate to make inquiries. \n\n Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to\ntrouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine. \n\n And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have\nbenevolently restored me to life. \n\nSoon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the\nice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not answer\nwith any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near\nmidnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety\nbefore that time; but of this I could not judge.\n\nFrom this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the\nstranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for\nthe sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in\nthe cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere.\nI have promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant\nnotice if any new object should appear in sight.\n\nSuch is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the\npresent day. The stranger has gradually improved in health but is very\nsilent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters his cabin.\nYet his manners are so conciliating and gentle that the sailors are all\ninterested in him, although they have had very little communication\nwith him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother, and his\nconstant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must\nhave been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck\nso attractive and amiable.\n\nI said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend\non the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been\nbroken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother\nof my heart.\n\nI shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals,\nshould I have any fresh incidents to record.\n\n\n\n\nAugust 13th, 17 .\n\n\nMy affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my\nadmiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so\nnoble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant\ngrief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and\nwhen he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art,\nyet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.\n\nHe is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck,\napparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although\nunhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he\ninterests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently\nconversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without\ndisguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my\neventual success and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken\nto secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to use the\nlanguage of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul\nand to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would\nsacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my\nenterprise. One man s life or death were but a small price to pay for\nthe acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should\nacquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a\ndark gloom spread over my listener s countenance. At first I\nperceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before\nhis eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle\nfast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I\npaused; at length he spoke, in broken accents:  Unhappy man! Do you\nshare my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me;\nlet me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips! \n\nSuch words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the\nparoxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened\npowers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were\nnecessary to restore his composure.\n\nHaving conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise\nhimself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of\ndespair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked\nme the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it\nawakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a\nfriend, of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than\nhad ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could\nboast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.\n\n I agree with you,  replied the stranger;  we are\nunfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than\nourselves such a friend ought to be do not lend his aid to\nperfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most\nnoble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting\nfriendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for\ndespair. But I I have lost everything and cannot begin life\nanew. \n\nAs he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled\ngrief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent and presently\nretired to his cabin.\n\nEven broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he\ndoes the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight\nafforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power of\nelevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he\nmay suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he\nhas retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a\nhalo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.\n\nWill you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine\nwanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and\nrefined by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore\nsomewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to\nappreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I\nhave endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that\nelevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I\nbelieve it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing\npower of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled\nfor clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression and a\nvoice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.\n\n\n\n\nAugust 19th, 17 .\n\n\nYesterday the stranger said to me,  You may easily perceive, Captain\nWalton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had\ndetermined at one time that the memory of these evils should die with\nme, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for\nknowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the\ngratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine\nhas been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be\nuseful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same\ncourse, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me\nwhat I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one\nthat may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you\nin case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually\ndeemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might\nfear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things\nwill appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would\nprovoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers\nof nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series\ninternal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed. \n\nYou may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered\ncommunication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by\na recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear\nthe promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong\ndesire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed\nthese feelings in my answer.\n\n I thank you,  he replied,  for your sympathy, but it is\nuseless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I\nshall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,  continued he,\nperceiving that I wished to interrupt him;  but you are mistaken, my\nfriend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my\ndestiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is\ndetermined. \n\nHe then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I\nshould be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have\nresolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to\nrecord, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during\nthe day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This\nmanuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who\nknow him, and who hear it from his own lips with what interest and\nsympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my\ntask, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me\nwith all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in\nanimation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul\nwithin. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which\nembraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it thus!\n\n\n\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nI am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most\ndistinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years\ncounsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public\nsituations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who\nknew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public\nbusiness. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the\naffairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his\nmarrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a\nhusband and the father of a family.\n\nAs the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot\nrefrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a\nmerchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous\nmischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a\nproud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty\nand oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been\ndistinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,\ntherefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his\ndaughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in\nwretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and\nwas deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances.\nHe bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct\nso little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in\nendeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin\nthe world again through his credit and assistance.\n\nBeaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten\nmonths before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery,\nhe hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the\nReuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort\nhad saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but\nit was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in\nthe meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a\nmerchant s house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction;\nhis grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for\nreflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end\nof three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.\n\nHis daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw\nwith despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that\nthere was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort\npossessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support\nher in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw and\nby various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to\nsupport life.\n\nSeveral months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time\nwas more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence\ndecreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving\nher an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt\nby Beaufort s coffin weeping bitterly, when my father entered the\nchamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who\ncommitted herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he\nconducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a\nrelation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.\n\nThere was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but\nthis circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted\naffection. There was a sense of justice in my father s upright mind\nwhich rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love\nstrongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the\nlate-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set\na greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and\nworship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the\ndoting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her\nvirtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing\nher for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace\nto his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes\nand her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is\nsheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her\nwith all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and\nbenevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto\nconstant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During\nthe two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had\ngradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after\ntheir union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change\nof scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders,\nas a restorative for her weakened frame.\n\nFrom Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born\nat Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained\nfor several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each\nother, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very\nmine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother s tender caresses and\nmy father s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my\nfirst recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something\nbetter their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on\nthem by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in\ntheir hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled\ntheir duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed\ntowards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit\nof tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during\nevery hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity,\nand of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but\none train of enjoyment to me.\n\nFor a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a\ndaughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five\nyears old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they\npassed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent\ndisposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my\nmother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a\npassion remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been\nrelieved for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the\nafflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale\nattracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number\nof half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst\nshape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother,\naccompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife,\nhard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to\nfive hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far\nabove all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were\ndark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her\nhair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her\nclothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was\nclear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of\nher face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold\nher without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent,\nand bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.\n\nThe peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and\nadmiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was\nnot her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a\nGerman and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with\nthese good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been\nlong married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their\ncharge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory\nof Italy one among the _schiavi ognor frementi,_ who exerted\nhimself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its\nweakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria\nwas not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and\na beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude\nabode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.\n\nWhen my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of\nour villa a child fairer than pictured cherub a creature who seemed\nto shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter\nthan the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his\npermission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their\ncharge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed\na blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty\nand want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They\nconsulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza\nbecame the inmate of my parents  house my more than\nsister the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and\nmy pleasures.\n\nEveryone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential\nattachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my\npride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to\nmy home, my mother had said playfully,  I have a pretty present for my\nVictor tomorrow he shall have it.  And when, on the morrow, she\npresented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish\nseriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth\nas mine mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on\nher I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other\nfamiliarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body\nforth the kind of relation in which she stood to me my more than\nsister, since till death she was to be mine only.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 2\n\n\nWe were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in\nour ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of\ndisunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and\nthe diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us\nnearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated\ndisposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense\napplication and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge.\nShe busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets;\nand in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss\nhome  the sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons,\ntempest and calm, the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of\nour Alpine summers she found ample scope for admiration and delight.\nWhile my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the\nmagnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their\ncauses. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine.\nCuriosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature,\ngladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the\nearliest sensations I can remember.\n\nOn the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave\nup entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native\ncountry. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a _campagne_ on Belrive,\nthe eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a\nleague from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the\nlives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my\ntemper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was\nindifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I united\nmyself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry\nClerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular\ntalent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for\nits own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He\ncomposed heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and\nknightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into\nmasquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of\nRoncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous\ntrain who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands\nof the infidels.\n\nNo human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My\nparents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence.\nWe felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to\ntheir caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights\nwhich we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families I distinctly\ndiscerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted\nthe development of filial love.\n\nMy temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some\nlaw in my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits\nbut to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things\nindiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages,\nnor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states\npossessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth\nthat I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of\nthings or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man\nthat occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical,\nor in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.\n\nMeanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral\nrelations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes,\nand the actions of men were his theme; and his hope and his dream was\nto become one among those whose names are recorded in story as the\ngallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul\nof Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home.\nHer sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of\nher celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was\nthe living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become\nsullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that\nshe was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And\nClerval could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet\nhe might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his\ngenerosity, so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for\nadventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of\nbeneficence and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring\nambition.\n\nI feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,\nbefore misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of\nextensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides,\nin drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which\nled, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would\naccount to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my\ndestiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost\nforgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent\nwhich, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.\n\nNatural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire,\ntherefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my\npredilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went\non a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the\nweather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I\nchanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it\nwith apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful\nfacts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new\nlight seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my\ndiscovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my\nbook and said,  Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste\nyour time upon this; it is sad trash. \n\nIf, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me\nthat the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern\nsystem of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers\nthan the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while\nthose of the former were real and practical, under such circumstances I\nshould certainly have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my\nimagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my\nformer studies. It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never\nhave received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance\nmy father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was\nacquainted with its contents, and I continued to read with the greatest\navidity.\n\nWhen I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this\nauthor, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and\nstudied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me\ntreasures known to few besides myself. I have described myself as always\nhaving been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of\nnature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern\nphilosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied.\nSir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking\nup shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his\nsuccessors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted\nappeared even to my boy s apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same\npursuit.\n\nThe untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted\nwith their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little\nmore. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal\nlineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect,\nanatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes\nin their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I\nhad gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep\nhuman beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and\nignorantly I had repined.\n\nBut here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew\nmore. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their\ndisciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth\ncentury; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of\nGeneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite\nstudies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a\nchild s blindness, added to a student s thirst for knowledge.\nUnder the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest\ndiligence into the search of the philosopher s stone and the elixir\nof life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an\ninferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I could\nbanish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but\na violent death!\n\nNor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a\npromise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which\nI most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I\nattributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a\nwant of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was\noccupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand\ncontradictory theories and floundering desperately in a very slough of\nmultifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish\nreasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas.\n\nWhen I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near\nBelrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It\nadvanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once\nwith frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained,\nwhile the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight.\nAs I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an\nold and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so\nsoon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing\nremained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found\nthe tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the\nshock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld\nanything so utterly destroyed.\n\nBefore this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of\nelectricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural\nphilosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe, he entered on\nthe explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of\nelectricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me.\nAll that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa,\nAlbertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by\nsome fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my\naccustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever\nbe known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew\ndespicable. By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps\nmost subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former\noccupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed\nand abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a\nwould-be science which could never even step within the threshold of\nreal knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the\nmathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as\nbeing built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.\n\nThus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments\nare we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me\nas if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the\nimmediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life the last effort\nmade by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even\nthen hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me. Her victory was\nannounced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which\nfollowed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting\nstudies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with\ntheir prosecution, happiness with their disregard.\n\nIt was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual.\nDestiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and\nterrible destruction.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n\nWhen I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I\nshould become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had\nhitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father thought it\nnecessary for the completion of my education that I should be made\nacquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My\ndeparture was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the day\nresolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life\noccurred an omen, as it were, of my future misery.\n\nElizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was\nin the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been urged to\npersuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had at first\nyielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that the life of her\nfavourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She\nattended her sickbed; her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity\nof the distemper Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this\nimprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother\nsickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and the\nlooks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her\ndeathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert\nher. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself.  My\nchildren,  she said,  my firmest hopes of future happiness were\nplaced on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the\nconsolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to\nmy younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy\nand beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are\nnot thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to\ndeath and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world. \n\nShe died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death.\nI need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent\nby that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the\nsoul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so\nlong before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day\nand whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed\nfor ever that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been\nextinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear\ncan be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of\nthe first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the\nevil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has\nnot that rude hand rent away some dear connection? And why should I\ndescribe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at\nlength arrives when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and\nthe smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a\nsacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still\nduties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the\nrest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains whom the\nspoiler has not seized.\n\nMy departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events,\nwas now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of\nsome weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose,\nakin to death, of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of\nlife. I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was\nunwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me, and above\nall, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.\n\nShe indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter to us all.\nShe looked steadily on life and assumed its duties with courage and\nzeal. She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call\nher uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time,\nwhen she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us.\nShe forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.\n\nThe day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last\nevening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit\nhim to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain. His\nfather was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin in the\naspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune\nof being debarred from a liberal education. He said little, but when\nhe spoke I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a\nrestrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable details\nof commerce.\n\nWe sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other nor\npersuade ourselves to say the word  Farewell!  It was said, and we\nretired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the\nother was deceived; but when at morning s dawn I descended to the\ncarriage which was to convey me away, they were all there my father\nagain to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to\nrenew her entreaties that I would write often and to bestow the last\nfeminine attentions on her playmate and friend.\n\nI threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and indulged in\nthe most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by\namiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual\npleasure I was now alone. In the university whither I was going I\nmust form my own friends and be my own protector. My life had hitherto\nbeen remarkably secluded and domestic, and this had given me invincible\nrepugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and\nClerval; these were  old familiar faces,  but I believed myself\ntotally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections as\nI commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I\nardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at home,\nthought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had\nlonged to enter the world and take my station among other human beings. \nNow my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to\nrepent.\n\nI had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my\njourney to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the\nhigh white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted and was\nconducted to my solitary apartment to spend the evening as I pleased.\n\nThe next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit to\nsome of the principal professors. Chance or rather the evil\ninfluence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me\nfrom the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father s\ndoor led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He\nwas an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He\nasked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches\nof science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly, and\npartly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal\nauthors I had studied. The professor stared.  Have you,  he\nsaid,  really spent your time in studying such nonsense? \n\nI replied in the affirmative.  Every minute,  continued M. Krempe with\nwarmth,  every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly\nand entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems\nand useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived,\nwhere no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you\nhave so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they\nare ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific\nage, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear\nsir, you must begin your studies entirely anew. \n\nSo saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books\ntreating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and\ndismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the following\nweek he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural\nphilosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow\nprofessor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he\nomitted.\n\nI returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long\nconsidered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I\nreturned not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any\nshape. M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a\nrepulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in\nfavour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a\nstrain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come\nto concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been\ncontent with the results promised by the modern professors of natural\nscience. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my\nextreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the\nsteps of knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the\ndiscoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists.\nBesides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy.\nIt was very different when the masters of the science sought\nimmortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now\nthe scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit\nitself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in\nscience was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of\nboundless grandeur for realities of little worth.\n\nSuch were my reflections during the first two or three days of my\nresidence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming\nacquainted with the localities and the principal residents in my new\nabode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information\nwhich M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I\ncould not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver\nsentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M.\nWaldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.\n\nPartly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing\nroom, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very\nunlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an\naspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his\ntemples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person\nwas short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard.\nHe began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and\nthe various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing\nwith fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took\na cursory view of the present state of the science and explained many of\nits elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he\nconcluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I\nshall never forget:\n\n The ancient teachers of this science,  said he,\n promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters\npromise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that\nthe elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem\nonly made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or\ncrucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses\nof nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the\nheavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of\nthe air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers;\nthey can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even\nmock the invisible world with its own shadows. \n\nSuch were the professor s words rather let me say such the words of\nthe fate enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt as if my soul\nwere grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were\ntouched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was\nsounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception,\none purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of\nFrankenstein more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps\nalready marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and\nunfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.\n\nI closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of\ninsurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I\nhad no power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning s dawn,\nsleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight s thoughts were as a dream.\nThere only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies and to\ndevote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a\nnatural talent. On the same day I paid M. Waldman a visit. His\nmanners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public,\nfor there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture which in\nhis own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I\ngave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had\ngiven to his fellow professor. He heard with attention the little\nnarration concerning my studies and smiled at the names of Cornelius\nAgrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had\nexhibited. He said that  These were men to whose indefatigable zeal\nmodern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their\nknowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names\nand arrange in connected classifications the facts which they in a\ngreat degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The\nlabours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever\nfail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.  I\nlistened to his statement, which was delivered without any presumption\nor affectation, and then added that his lecture had removed my\nprejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured\nterms, with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his\ninstructor, without letting escape (inexperience in life would have\nmade me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended\nlabours. I requested his advice concerning the books I ought to\nprocure.\n\n I am happy,  said M. Waldman,  to have gained a\ndisciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of\nyour success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the\ngreatest improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account that\nI have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time, I have not\nneglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry\nchemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your\nwish is to become really a man of science and not merely a petty\nexperimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural\nphilosophy, including mathematics. \n\nHe then took me into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his\nvarious machines, instructing me as to what I ought to procure and\npromising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in\nthe science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of\nbooks which I had requested, and I took my leave.\n\nThus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\n\nFrom this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the\nmost comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation.\nI read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination,\nwhich modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the\nlectures and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science of the\nuniversity, and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense\nand real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive\nphysiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In\nM. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by\ndogmatism, and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and\ngood nature that banished every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways\nhe smoothed for me the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse\ninquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at\nfirst fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and\nsoon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the\nlight of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.\n\nAs I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress\nwas rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and\nmy proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me,\nwith a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst M. Waldman\nexpressed the most heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years\npassed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was\nengaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries which I\nhoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can conceive\nof the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as\nothers have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in\na scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder.\nA mind of moderate capacity which closely pursues one study must\ninfallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who\ncontinually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit and was\nsolely wrapped up in this, improved so rapidly that at the end of two\nyears I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical\ninstruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the\nuniversity. When I had arrived at this point and had become as well\nacquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as\ndepended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my\nresidence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought\nof returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident\nhappened that protracted my stay.\n\nOne of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was\nthe structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with\nlife. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed?\nIt was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a\nmystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming\nacquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our\ninquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined\nthenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of\nnatural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been\nanimated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this\nstudy would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the\ncauses of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became\nacquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I\nmust also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.\nIn my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my\nmind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever\nremember to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared\nthe apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and\na churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of\nlife, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become\nfood for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of\nthis decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and\ncharnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most\ninsupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the\nfine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of\ndeath succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm\ninherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and\nanalysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change\nfrom life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this\ndarkness a sudden light broke in upon me a light so brilliant and\nwondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity\nof the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so\nmany men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same\nscience, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a\nsecret.\n\nRemember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not\nmore certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is\ntrue. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the\ndiscovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of\nincredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of\ngeneration and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing\nanimation upon lifeless matter.\n\nThe astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery\nsoon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in\npainful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires was the\nmost gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so\ngreat and overwhelming that all the steps by which I had been\nprogressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result.\nWhat had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation\nof the world was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it\nall opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a\nnature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them\ntowards the object of my search than to exhibit that object already\naccomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead\nand found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering and seemingly\nineffectual light.\n\nI see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes\nexpress, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with\nwhich I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end\nof my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that\nsubject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was,\nto your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my\nprecepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of\nknowledge and how much happier that man is who believes his native town\nto be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature\nwill allow.\n\nWhen I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated\na long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.\nAlthough I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to\nprepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of\nfibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable\ndifficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should attempt the\ncreation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organization; but my\nimagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to\ndoubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and wonderful\nas man. The materials at present within my command hardly appeared\nadequate to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should\nultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my\noperations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be\nimperfect, yet when I considered the improvement which every day takes\nplace in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present\nattempts would at least lay the foundations of future success. Nor\ncould I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any\nargument of its impracticability. It was with these feelings that I\nbegan the creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts\nformed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first\nintention, to make the being of a gigantic stature, that is to say,\nabout eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having\nformed this determination and having spent some months in successfully\ncollecting and arranging my materials, I began.\n\nNo one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like\na hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death\nappeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and\npour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless\nme as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would\nowe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his\nchild so completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these\nreflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless\nmatter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible)\nrenew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.\n\nThese thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking\nwith unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my\nperson had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very\nbrink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the\nnext day or the next hour might realise. One secret which I alone\npossessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon\ngazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless\neagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive\nthe horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps\nof the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless\nclay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but\nthen a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed\nto have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was\nindeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed\nacuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had\nreturned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel-houses and\ndisturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human\nframe. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house,\nand separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,\nI kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from\ntheir sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The\ndissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials;\nand often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation,\nwhilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I\nbrought my work near to a conclusion.\n\nThe summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in\none pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields\nbestow a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more luxuriant\nvintage, but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the\nsame feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also\nto forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had\nnot seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them, and I\nwell remembered the words of my father:  I know that while you are\npleased with yourself you will think of us with affection, and we shall\nhear regularly from you. You must pardon me if I regard any\ninterruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties\nare equally neglected. \n\nI knew well therefore what would be my father s feelings, but I could\nnot tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which\nhad taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it\nwere, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection\nuntil the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature,\nshould be completed.\n\nI then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect\nto vice or faultiness on my part, but I am now convinced that he was\njustified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from\nblame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and\npeaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to\ndisturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge\nis an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself\nhas a tendency to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste for\nthose simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that\nstudy is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human\nmind. If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit\nwhatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic\naffections, Greece had not been enslaved, C sar would have spared his\ncountry, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the\nempires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.\n\nBut I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my\ntale, and your looks remind me to proceed.\n\nMy father made no reproach in his letters and only took notice of my\nsilence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.\nWinter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not\nwatch the blossom or the expanding leaves sights which before always\nyielded me supreme delight so deeply was I engrossed in my\noccupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near\nto a close, and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had\nsucceeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared\nrather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other\nunwholesome trade than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.\nEvery night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most\npainful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow\ncreatures as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at\nthe wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone\nsustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed that exercise and\namusement would then drive away incipient disease; and I promised myself\nboth of these when my creation should be complete.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n\nIt was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment\nof my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I\ncollected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a\nspark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was\nalready one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the\npanes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the\nhalf-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature\nopen; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.\n\nHow can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate\nthe wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to\nform? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as\nbeautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered\nthe work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous\nblack, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these\nluxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes,\nthat seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which\nthey were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.\n\nThe different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings\nof human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole\npurpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had\ndeprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour\nthat far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty\nof the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my\nheart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I\nrushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my\nbed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude\nsucceeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the\nbed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness.\nBut it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest\ndreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in\nthe streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her,\nbut as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with\nthe hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I\nheld the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her\nform, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel.\nI started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my\nteeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and\nyellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window\nshutters, I beheld the wretch the miserable monster whom I had\ncreated. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they\nmay be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some\ninarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have\nspoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to\ndetain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the\ncourtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained\nduring the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest\nagitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if\nit were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I\nhad so miserably given life.\n\nOh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy\nagain endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I\nhad gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those\nmuscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing\nsuch as even Dante could not have conceived.\n\nI passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and\nhardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly\nsank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with\nthis horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had\nbeen my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a\nhell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!\n\nMorning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my\nsleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple\nand clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates\nof the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into\nthe streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the\nwretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my\nview. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but\nfelt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured\nfrom a black and comfortless sky.\n\nI continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring by\nbodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I\ntraversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or\nwhat I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I\nhurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:\n \n Like one who, on a lonely road,\n Doth walk in fear and dread,\n And, having once turned round, walks on,\n And turns no more his head;\n Because he knows a frightful fiend\n Doth close behind him tread.\n \n [Coleridge s  Ancient Mariner. ]\n\n\n\nContinuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various\ndiligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why;\nbut I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming\ntowards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer I observed\nthat it was the Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing, and\non the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me,\ninstantly sprung out.  My dear Frankenstein,  exclaimed he,\n how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be here at\nthe very moment of my alighting! \n\nNothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back\nto my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear\nto my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror\nand misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months,\ncalm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial\nmanner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for\nsome time about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being\npermitted to come to Ingolstadt.  You may easily believe,  said\nhe,  how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all\nnecessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping;\nand, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant\nanswer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch\nschoolmaster in The Vicar of Wakefield:  I have ten thousand florins\na year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.  But his\naffection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has\npermitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of\nknowledge. \n\n It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left\nmy father, brothers, and Elizabeth. \n\n Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from\nyou so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their\naccount myself. But, my dear Frankenstein,  continued he, stopping\nshort and gazing full in my face,  I did not before remark how very ill\nyou appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for\nseveral nights. \n\n You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one\noccupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see;\nbut I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an\nend and that I am at length free. \n\nI trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to\nallude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a\nquick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and\nthe thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my\napartment might still be there, alive and walking about. I dreaded to\nbehold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry should see him.\nEntreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the\nstairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the\nlock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused, and a\ncold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as\nchildren are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in\nwaiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped\nfearfully in: the apartment was empty, and my bedroom was also freed\nfrom its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good\nfortune could have befallen me, but when I became assured that my enemy\nhad indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.\n\nWe ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;\nbut I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed\nme; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse\nbeat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same\nplace; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.\nClerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival,\nbut when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes\nfor which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained, heartless\nlaughter frightened and astonished him.\n\n My dear Victor,  cried he,  what, for God s sake,\nis the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the\ncause of all this? \n\n Do not ask me,  cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I\nthought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room;  _he_ can\ntell. Oh, save me! Save me!  I imagined that the monster seized me;\nI struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.\n\nPoor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he\nanticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I\nwas not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless and did not\nrecover my senses for a long, long time.\n\nThis was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me for\nseveral months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I\nafterwards learned that, knowing my father s advanced age and unfitness\nfor so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make\nElizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my\ndisorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive\nnurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he\ndid not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest\naction that he could towards them.\n\nBut I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and\nunremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life.\nThe form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever\nbefore my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my\nwords surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be the wanderings\nof my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity with which I\ncontinually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder\nindeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.\n\nBy very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed and\ngrieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became\ncapable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I\nperceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young\nbuds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was\na divine spring, and the season contributed greatly to my\nconvalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in\nmy bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as\ncheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.\n\n Dearest Clerval,  exclaimed I,  how kind, how very good\nyou are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you\npromised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever\nrepay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I\nhave been the occasion, but you will forgive me. \n\n You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself, but get\nwell as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I\nmay speak to you on one subject, may I not? \n\nI trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on\nwhom I dared not even think?\n\n Compose yourself,  said Clerval, who observed my change of\ncolour,  I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your father\nand cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your\nown handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been and are uneasy at\nyour long silence. \n\n Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first\nthought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love and\nwho are so deserving of my love? \n\n If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad\nto see a letter that has been lying here some days for you; it is from\nyour cousin, I believe. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 6\n\n\nClerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my\nown Elizabeth:\n\n My dearest Cousin,\n\n You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear\nkind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are\nforbidden to write to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor,\nis necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought\nthat each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have\nrestrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have\nprevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so\nlong a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to\nperform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on\nyour sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never\nguess your wishes nor minister to them with the care and affection of\nyour poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed\nyou are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this\nintelligence soon in your own handwriting.\n\n Get well and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and\nfriends who love you dearly. Your father s health is vigorous, and he\nasks but to see you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a\ncare will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would\nbe to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen and full\nof activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss and to enter\ninto foreign service, but we cannot part with him, at least until his\nelder brother returns to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of\na military career in a distant country, but Ernest never had your\npowers of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter; his\ntime is spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the\nlake. I fear that he will become an idler unless we yield the point\nand permit him to enter on the profession which he has selected.\n\n Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken\nplace since you left us. The blue lake and snow-clad mountains they\nnever change; and I think our placid home and our contented hearts are\nregulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up\nmy time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing\nnone but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one\nchange has taken place in our little household. Do you remember on\nwhat occasion Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not;\nI will relate her history, therefore in a few words. Madame Moritz,\nher mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the\nthird. This girl had always been the favourite of her father, but\nthrough a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and\nafter the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed\nthis, and when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother\nto allow her to live at our house. The republican institutions of our\ncountry have produced simpler and happier manners than those which\nprevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less\ndistinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the\nlower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are\nmore refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same\nthing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in\nour family, learned the duties of a servant, a condition which, in our\nfortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance and a\nsacrifice of the dignity of a human being.\n\n Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I\nrecollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humour, one\nglance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that\nAriosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica she looked so\nfrank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her,\nby which she was induced to give her an education superior to that\nwhich she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid;\nJustine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not\nmean that she made any professions I never heard one pass her lips, but\nyou could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress.\nAlthough her disposition was gay and in many respects inconsiderate,\nyet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She\nthought her the model of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her\nphraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.\n\n When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied in their own\ngrief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness\nwith the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other\ntrials were reserved for her.\n\n One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the\nexception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The\nconscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the\ndeaths of her favourites was a judgement from heaven to chastise her\npartiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor\nconfirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months\nafter your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her\nrepentant mother. Poor girl! She wept when she quitted our house; she\nwas much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness\nand a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable\nfor vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother s house of a nature\nto restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her\nrepentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness,\nbut much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her\nbrothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz\ninto a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is\nnow at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather,\nat the beginning of this last winter. Justine has just returned to us;\nand I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle,\nand extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her\nexpression continually remind me of my dear aunt.\n\n I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling\nWilliam. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with\nsweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he\nsmiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with\nhealth. He has already had one or two little _wives,_ but Louisa Biron\nis his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.\n\n Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little\ngossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield\nhas already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching\nmarriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly\nsister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your\nfavourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes\nsince the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already\nrecovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a\nlively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much\nolder than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with\neverybody.\n\n I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety\nreturns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor, one line one\nword will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his\nkindness, his affection, and his many letters; we are sincerely\ngrateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat\nyou, write!\n\n Elizabeth Lavenza.\n\n\n Geneva, March 18th, 17 . \n\n\n\n Dear, dear Elizabeth!  I exclaimed, when I had read her\nletter:  I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety\nthey must feel.  I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but\nmy convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another\nfortnight I was able to leave my chamber.\n\nOne of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the\nseveral professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a\nkind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had\nsustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the\nbeginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even\nto the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored\nto health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony\nof my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my\napparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he\nperceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had\npreviously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of\nno avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture\nwhen he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I\nhad made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the\nsubject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to\nmodesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science\nitself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What\ncould I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he\nhad placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which\nwere to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I\nwrithed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.\nClerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the\nsensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his\ntotal ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I\nthanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly\nthat he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from\nme; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence\nthat knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide in\nhim that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which\nI feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply.\n\nM. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of\nalmost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even\nmore pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman.  D n\nthe fellow!  cried he;  why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has\noutstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A\nyoungster who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly\nas in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if\nhe is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance. Ay,\nay,  continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering,\n M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man.\nYoung men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was\nmyself when young; but that wears out in a very short time. \n\nM. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned\nthe conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.\n\nClerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his\nliterary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He\ncame to the university with the design of making himself complete\nmaster of the oriental languages, and thus he should open a field for\nthe plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no\ninglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording\nscope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit\nlanguages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on\nthe same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I\nwished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt\ngreat relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not\nonly instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I\ndid not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for\nI did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary\namusement. I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well\nrepaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy\nelevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of\nany other country. When you read their writings, life appears to\nconsist in a warm sun and a garden of roses, in the smiles and frowns\nof a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How\ndifferent from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!\n\nSummer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was\nfixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several\naccidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,\nand my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this\ndelay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved\nfriends. My return had only been delayed so long, from an\nunwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become\nacquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent\ncheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came\nits beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.\n\nThe month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily\nwhich was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a\npedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a\npersonal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded\nwith pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval\nhad always been my favourite companion in the ramble of this nature\nthat I had taken among the scenes of my native country.\n\nWe passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits\nhad long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the\nsalubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and\nthe conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the\nintercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but\nClerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught\nme to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.\nExcellent friend! how sincerely you did love me, and endeavour to\nelevate my mind until it was on a level with your own. A selfish\npursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and\naffection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature\nwho, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care.\nWhen happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most\ndelightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with\necstasy. The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring\nbloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I\nwas undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed\nupon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an\ninvincible burden.\n\nHenry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings: he\nexerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled\nhis soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly\nastonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in\nimitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful\nfancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew\nme out into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity.\n\nWe returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were\ndancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were\nhigh, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 7\n\n\nOn my return, I found the following letter from my father: \n\n My dear Victor,\n\n You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of\nyour return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few\nlines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But\nthat would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be\nyour surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to\nbehold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can\nI relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to\nour joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent\nson? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is\nimpossible; even now your eye skims over the page to seek the words\nwhich are to convey to you the horrible tidings.\n\n William is dead! that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed\nmy heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!\n\n I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the\ncircumstances of the transaction.\n\n Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to\nwalk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged\nour walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of\nreturning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone\non before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until\nthey should return. Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen\nhis brother; he said, that he had been playing with him, that William\nhad run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and\nafterwards waited for a long time, but that he did not return.\n\n This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him\nuntil night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have\nreturned to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with\ntorches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had\nlost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night;\nElizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning I\ndiscovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and\nactive in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the\nprint of the murder s finger was on his neck.\n\n He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my\ncountenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to\nsee the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her but she persisted,\nand entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the\nvictim, and clasping her hands exclaimed,  O God! I have murdered my\ndarling child! \n\n She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again\nlived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same\nevening William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable\nminiature that she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and\nwas doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We\nhave no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him\nare unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William!\n\n Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps\ncontinually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death;\nher words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an\nadditional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter?\nYour dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live\nto witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!\n\n Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin,\nbut with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of\nfestering, the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my\nfriend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not\nwith hatred for your enemies.\n\n Your affectionate and afflicted father,\n\n Alphonse Frankenstein.\n\n\n\n Geneva, May 12th, 17 . \n\n\n\nClerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was\nsurprised to observe the despair that succeeded the joy I at first\nexpressed on receiving new from my friends. I threw the letter on the\ntable, and covered my face with my hands.\n\n My dear Frankenstein,  exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me\nweep with bitterness,  are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend,\nwhat has happened? \n\nI motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the\nroom in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of\nClerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.\n\n I can offer you no consolation, my friend,  said he;\n your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do? \n\n To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses. \n\nDuring our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation;\nhe could only express his heartfelt sympathy.  Poor William!  said he,\n dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had\nseen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his\nuntimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer s grasp! How\nmuch more a murdered that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little\nfellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but\nhe is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever.\nA sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer\nbe a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable\nsurvivors. \n\nClerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words\nimpressed themselves on my mind and I remembered them afterwards in\nsolitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a\ncabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.\n\nMy journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed\nto console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I\ndrew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain\nthe multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through\nscenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years.\nHow altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden and\ndesolating change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances\nmight have by degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were\ndone more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I\ndared no advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble,\nalthough I was unable to define them.\n\nI remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I\ncontemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; and the\nsnowy mountains,  the palaces of nature,  were not changed. By\ndegrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey\ntowards Geneva.\n\nThe road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I\napproached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black\nsides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a\nchild.  Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your\nwanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and\nplacid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness? \n\nI fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on\nthese preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative\nhappiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved\ncountry! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again\nbeholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely\nlake!\n\nYet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also\nclosed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still\nmore gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I\nforesaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human\nbeings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single\ncircumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not\nconceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.\n\nIt was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates\nof the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at\nSecheron, a village at the distance of half a league from the city. The sky\nwas serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot\nwhere my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the\ntown, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais.\nDuring this short voyage I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont\nBlanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach\nrapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its\nprogress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain\ncoming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.\n\nI quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm\nincreased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash\nover my head. It was echoed from Sal ve, the Juras, and the Alps of\nSavoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the\nlake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant\nevery thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself\nfrom the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in\nSwitzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The\nmost violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over the part of the\nlake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of\nCop t. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another\ndarkened and sometimes disclosed the M le, a peaked mountain to the\neast of the lake.\n\nWhile I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with\na hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my\nhands, and exclaimed aloud,  William, dear angel! this is thy\nfuneral, this thy dirge!  As I said these words, I perceived in the\ngloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood\nfixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning\nilluminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its\ngigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous than belongs\nto humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy\nd mon, to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I\nshuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that\nidea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth\nchattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure\npassed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could\nhave destroyed the fair child. _He_ was the murderer! I could not\ndoubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the\nfact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain, for\nanother flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly\nperpendicular ascent of Mont Sal ve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the\nsouth. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared.\n\nI remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still\ncontinued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I\nrevolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget:\nthe whole train of my progress toward the creation; the appearance of\nthe works of my own hands at my bedside; its departure. Two years had\nnow nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and\nwas this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a\ndepraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not\nmurdered my brother?\n\nNo one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the\nnight, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not\nfeel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in\nscenes of evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast\namong mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes\nof horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light\nof my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced\nto destroy all that was dear to me.\n\nDay dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were\nopen, and I hastened to my father s house. My first thought was to\ndiscover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be\nmade. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A\nbeing whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at\nmidnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I\nremembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at\nthe time that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of\ndelirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that\nif any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have\nlooked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature\nof the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited\nas to persuade my relatives to commence it. And then of what use would\nbe pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the\noverhanging sides of Mont Sal ve? These reflections determined me, and\nI resolved to remain silent.\n\nIt was about five in the morning when I entered my father s house. I\ntold the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library\nto attend their usual hour of rising.\n\nSix years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I\nstood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my\ndeparture for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained\nto me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the\nmantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father s\ndesire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling\nby the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale;\nbut there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the\nsentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my\ntears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest\nentered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me:\n Welcome, my dearest Victor,  said he.  Ah! I wish you\nhad come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and\ndelighted. You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can\nalleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems\nsinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor\nElizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations. Poor\nWilliam! he was our darling and our pride! \n\nTears, unrestrained, fell from my brother s eyes; a sense of mortal\nagony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the\nwretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and\na not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more\nminutely concerning my father, and here I named my cousin.\n\n She most of all,  said Ernest,  requires consolation; she accused\nherself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her\nvery wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered \n\n The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt\nto pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the\nwinds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he\nwas free last night! \n\n I do not know what you mean,  replied my brother, in accents of\nwonder,  but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No\none would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be\nconvinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit\nthat Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family,\ncould suddenly become so capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime? \n\n Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is\nwrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest? \n\n No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have\nalmost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so\nconfused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,\nleaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried today, and you will\nthen hear all. \n\nHe then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William\nhad been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her\nbed for several days. During this interval, one of the servants,\nhappening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the\nmurder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which\nhad been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant\ninstantly showed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to\nany of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition,\nJustine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor girl\nconfirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of\nmanner.\n\nThis was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied\nearnestly,  You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor,\ngood Justine, is innocent. \n\nAt that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed\non his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and,\nafter we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced\nsome other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed,\n Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of\npoor William. \n\n We do also, unfortunately,  replied my father,  for indeed I had\nrather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much\ndepravity and ungratitude in one I valued so highly. \n\n My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent. \n\n If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be\ntried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted. \n\nThis speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that\nJustine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I\nhad no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be\nbrought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale was not one to\nannounce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as\nmadness by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist, except I, the\ncreator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the\nexistence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance\nwhich I had let loose upon the world?\n\nWe were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last\nbeheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of\nher childish years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but\nit was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect.\nShe welcomed me with the greatest affection.  Your arrival, my dear\ncousin,  said she,  fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some\nmeans to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she\nbe convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do\nupon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only\nlost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely\nlove, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I\nnever shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not;\nand then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little\nWilliam. \n\n She is innocent, my Elizabeth,  said I,  and that shall\nbe proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance\nof her acquittal. \n\n How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt,\nand that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to\nsee every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me\nhopeless and despairing.  She wept.\n\n Dearest niece,  said my father,  dry your tears. If she\nis, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the\nactivity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of\npartiality. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 8\n\n\nWe passed a few sad hours until eleven o clock, when the trial was to\ncommence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend\nas witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of\nthis wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture. It was to\nbe decided whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would\ncause the death of two of my fellow beings: one a smiling babe full of\ninnocence and joy, the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every\naggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.\nJustine also was a girl of merit and possessed qualities which promised\nto render her life happy; now all was to be obliterated in an\nignominious grave, and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I\nhave confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine, but I\nwas absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have\nbeen considered as the ravings of a madman and would not have\nexculpated her who suffered through me.\n\nThe appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning, and\nher countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her\nfeelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in\ninnocence and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by\nthousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have\nexcited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the\nimagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She\nwas tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as\nher confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she\nworked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the\ncourt she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where we were\nseated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly\nrecovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest\nher utter guiltlessness.\n\nThe trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the\ncharge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined\nagainst her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof\nof her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on\nwhich the murder had been committed and towards morning had been\nperceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the\nmurdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she\ndid there, but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused\nand unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight\no clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she\nreplied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly\nif anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she\nfell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days. The\npicture was then produced which the servant had found in her pocket;\nand when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same\nwhich, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round\nhis neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.\n\nJustine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her\ncountenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly\nexpressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but when she was\ndesired to plead, she collected her powers and spoke in an audible\nalthough variable voice.\n\n God knows,  she said,  how entirely I am innocent. But I\ndo not pretend that my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence\non a plain and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced\nagainst me, and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my\njudges to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance appears\ndoubtful or suspicious. \n\nShe then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed\nthe evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the\nhouse of an aunt at Ch ne, a village situated at about a league from\nGeneva. On her return, at about nine o clock, she met a man who asked\nher if she had seen anything of the child who was lost. She was\nalarmed by this account and passed several hours in looking for him,\nwhen the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain\nseveral hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being\nunwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Most\nof the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed that\nshe slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke.\nIt was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour\nto find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay,\nit was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when\nquestioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed\na sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.\nConcerning the picture she could give no account.\n\n I know,  continued the unhappy victim,  how heavily and\nfatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of\nexplaining it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left\nto conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been\nplaced in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no\nenemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to destroy me\nwantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity\nafforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have stolen the\njewel, to part with it again so soon?\n\n I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for\nhope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my\ncharacter, and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed\nguilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my\ninnocence. \n\nSeveral witnesses were called who had known her for many years, and\nthey spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime of which they\nsupposed her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling to come\nforward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent\ndispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,\nwhen, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address\nthe court.\n\n I am,  said she,  the cousin of the unhappy child who\nwas murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived\nwith his parents ever since and even long before his birth. It may\ntherefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but\nwhen I see a fellow creature about to perish through the cowardice of her\npretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I\nknow of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived\nin the same house with her, at one time for five and at another for nearly\ntwo years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable and\nbenevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in\nher last illness, with the greatest affection and care and afterwards\nattended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that excited\nthe admiration of all who knew her, after which she again lived in my\nuncle s house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was\nwarmly attached to the child who is now dead and acted towards him like a\nmost affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say that,\nnotwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely\non her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an action; as to\nthe bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it,\nI should have willingly given it to her, so much do I esteem and value\nher. \n\nA murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth s simple and powerful\nappeal, but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in\nfavour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with\nrenewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She\nherself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own\nagitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I believed\nin her innocence; I knew it. Could the d mon who had (I did not for a\nminute doubt) murdered my brother also in his hellish sport have\nbetrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not sustain the\nhorror of my situation, and when I perceived that the popular voice and\nthe countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy victim,\nI rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did\nnot equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of\nremorse tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.\n\nI passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to\nthe court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal\nquestion, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my\nvisit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine\nwas condemned.\n\nI cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before\nexperienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured to bestow upon\nthem adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the\nheart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I\naddressed myself added that Justine had already confessed her guilt.\n That evidence,  he observed,  was hardly required in so glaring a\ncase, but I am glad of it, and, indeed, none of our judges like to\ncondemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so\ndecisive. \n\nThis was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had\nmy eyes deceived me? And was I really as mad as the whole world would\nbelieve me to be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I\nhastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.\n\n My cousin,  replied I,  it is decided as you may have expected; all\njudges had rather that ten innocent should suffer than that one guilty\nshould escape. But she has confessed. \n\nThis was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon\nJustine s innocence.  Alas!  said she.  How shall I\never again believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as\nmy sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray?\nHer mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has\ncommitted a murder. \n\nSoon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my\ncousin. My father wished her not to go but said that he left it to her own\njudgment and feelings to decide.  Yes,  said Elizabeth,\n I will go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany\nme; I cannot go alone.  The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet\nI could not refuse.\n\nWe entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine sitting on some\nstraw at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested on\nher knees. She rose on seeing us enter, and when we were left alone with\nher, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My\ncousin wept also.\n\n Oh, Justine!  said she.  Why did you rob me of my last consolation?\nI relied on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched, I\nwas not so miserable as I am now. \n\n And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also\njoin with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?  Her\nvoice was suffocated with sobs.\n\n Rise, my poor girl,  said Elizabeth;  why do you kneel,\nif you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies, I believed you\nguiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had\nyourself declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be\nassured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a\nmoment, but your own confession. \n\n I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might\nobtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than\nall my other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was\ncondemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced,\nuntil I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I\nwas. He threatened excommunication and hell fire in my last moments if\nI continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked\non me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do?\nIn an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly\nmiserable. \n\nShe paused, weeping, and then continued,  I thought with horror, my\nsweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed\naunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable\nof a crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated.\nDear William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in\nheaven, where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I\nam to suffer ignominy and death. \n\n Oh, Justine! Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you.\nWhy did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I\nwill proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I will melt the stony\nhearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers. You shall not die!\nYou, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold!\nNo! No! I never could survive so horrible a misfortune. \n\nJustine shook her head mournfully.  I do not fear to die,  she said;\n that pang is past. God raises my weakness and gives me courage to\nendure the worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember\nme and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the\nfate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to\nthe will of heaven! \n\nDuring this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room,\nwhere I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair!\nWho dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass\nthe awful boundary between life and death, felt not, as I did, such\ndeep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth and ground them together,\nuttering a groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When\nshe saw who it was, she approached me and said,  Dear sir, you are very\nkind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty? \n\nI could not answer.  No, Justine,  said Elizabeth;  he is more\nconvinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard that you\nhad confessed, he did not credit it. \n\n I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest\ngratitude towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is\nthe affection of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than\nhalf my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now that my\ninnocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin. \n\nThus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed\ngained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the\nnever-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or\nconsolation. Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy, but hers also was\nthe misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair\nmoon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and\ndespair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within\nme which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with\nJustine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear\nherself away.  I wish,  cried she,  that I were to die with you; I\ncannot live in this world of misery. \n\nJustine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty\nrepressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth and said in a voice\nof half-suppressed emotion,  Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth,\nmy beloved and only friend; may heaven, in its bounty, bless and\npreserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever\nsuffer! Live, and be happy, and make others so. \n\nAnd on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth s heart-rending eloquence\nfailed to move the judges from their settled conviction in the\ncriminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant\nappeals were lost upon them. And when I received their cold answers\nand heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed\navowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a madman,\nbut not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She\nperished on the scaffold as a murderess!\n\nFrom the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and\nvoiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my\nfather s woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was\nthe work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these\nare not your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and\nthe sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard!\nFrankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he\nwho would spend each vital drop of blood for your sakes, who has no\nthought nor sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear\ncountenances, who would fill the air with blessings and spend his life\nin serving you he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond\nhis hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction\npause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!\n\nThus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair,\nI beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and\nJustine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 9\n\n\nNothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have\nbeen worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of\ninaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope\nand fear. Justine died, she rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed\nfreely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my\nheart which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered\nlike an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond\ndescription horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet\nbehind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue.\nI had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment\nwhen I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow\nbeings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience\nwhich allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and\nfrom thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and\nthe sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures\nsuch as no language can describe.\n\nThis state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never\nentirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned\nthe face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me;\nsolitude was my only consolation deep, dark, deathlike solitude.\n\nMy father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition\nand habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his\nserene conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and\nawaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me.\n Do you think, Victor,  said he,  that I do not suffer\nalso? No one could love a child more than I loved your\nbrother tears came into his eyes as he spoke but\nis it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting\ntheir unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty\nowed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment,\nor even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for\nsociety. \n\nThis advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I\nshould have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if\nremorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my\nother sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of\ndespair and endeavour to hide myself from his view.\n\nAbout this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was\nparticularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at\nten o clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that\nhour had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome\nto me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had\nretired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the\nwater. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and\nsometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to\npursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I\nwas often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only\nunquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and\nheavenly if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and\ninterrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shore often,\nI say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters\nmight close over me and my calamities for ever. But I was restrained,\nwhen I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly\nloved, and whose existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my\nfather and surviving brother; should I by my base desertion leave them\nexposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose\namong them?\n\nAt these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my\nmind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that\ncould not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of\nunalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had\ncreated should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling\nthat all was not over and that he would still commit some signal crime,\nwhich by its enormity should almost efface the recollection of the past.\nThere was always scope for fear so long as anything I loved remained\nbehind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of\nhim I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to\nextinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I\nreflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds\nof moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak of the\nAndes, could I, when there, have precipitated him to their base. I wished\nto see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his\nhead and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.\n\nOur house was the house of mourning. My father s health was deeply\nshaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and\ndesponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all\npleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she\nthen thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted\nand destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature who in earlier youth\nwandered with me on the banks of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our\nfuture prospects. The first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from\nthe earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest\nsmiles.\n\n When I reflect, my dear cousin,  said she,  on the miserable death of\nJustine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before\nappeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and\ninjustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient\ndays or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to\nreason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men\nappear to me as monsters thirsting for each other s blood. Yet I am\ncertainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and\nif she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly\nshe would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake\nof a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend,\na child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if\nit had been her own! I could not consent to the death of any human\nbeing, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to\nremain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel\nshe was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me.\nAlas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can\nassure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on\nthe edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and\nendeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were\nassassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free,\nand perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the\nscaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a\nwretch. \n\nI listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,\nbut in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my\ncountenance, and kindly taking my hand, said,  My dearest friend, you\nmust calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how\ndeeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of\ndespair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me\ntremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the\nfriends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost\nthe power of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are\ntrue to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native\ncountry, we may reap every tranquil blessing what can disturb our\npeace? \n\nAnd could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every\nother gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my\nheart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at\nthat very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.\n\nThus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of\nheaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were\nineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial\ninfluence could penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its fainting\nlimbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had\npierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.\n\nSometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but\nsometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily\nexercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable\nsensations. It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left\nmy home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought\nin the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and\nmy ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed\ntowards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my\nboyhood. Six years had passed since then: _I_ was a wreck, but nought\nhad changed in those savage and enduring scenes.\n\nI performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards\nhired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive\ninjury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine; it was about the\nmiddle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of\nJustine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The\nweight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in\nthe ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung\nme on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and\nthe dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as\nOmnipotence and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less\nalmighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here\ndisplayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher,\nthe valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.\nRuined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the\nimpetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from\namong the trees formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was\naugmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and\nshining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another\nearth, the habitations of another race of beings.\n\nI passed the bridge of P lissier, where the ravine, which the river\nforms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that\noverhangs it. Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This\nvalley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and\npicturesque as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The\nhigh and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no\nmore ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached\nthe road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and\nmarked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and\nmagnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_,\nand its tremendous _d me_ overlooked the valley.\n\nA tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this\njourney. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and\nrecognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the\nlighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing\naccents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the\nkindly influence ceased to act I found myself fettered again to grief\nand indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my\nanimal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all,\nmyself or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on\nthe grass, weighed down by horror and despair.\n\nAt length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded\nto the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured.\nFor a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid\nlightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of\nthe Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds\nacted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head\nupon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed\nthe giver of oblivion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 10\n\n\nI spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside\nthe sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that\nwith slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills to\nbarricade the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before\nme; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were\nscattered around; and the solemn silence of this glorious\npresence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling\nwaves or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the\navalanche or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains, of the\naccumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws,\nwas ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in\ntheir hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the\ngreatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me\nfrom all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my\ngrief, they subdued and tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they\ndiverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the\nlast month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were,\nwaited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I\nhad contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the\nunstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,\nand ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds they all\ngathered round me and bade me be at peace.\n\nWhere had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of\nsoul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every\nthought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the\nsummits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those\nmighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them\nin their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was\nbrought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of\nMontanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous\nand ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.\nIt had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the\nsoul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.\nThe sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the\neffect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing\ncares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well\nacquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the\nsolitary grandeur of the scene.\n\nThe ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short\nwindings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the\nmountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots\nthe traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie\nbroken and strewed on the ground, some entirely destroyed, others bent,\nleaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain or transversely upon\nother trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines\nof snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is\nparticularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking\nin a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw\ndestruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or\nluxuriant, but they are sombre and add an air of severity to the scene.\nI looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers\nwhich ran through it and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite\nmountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain\npoured from the dark sky and added to the melancholy impression I\nreceived from the objects around me. Alas! Why does man boast of\nsensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders\nthem more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,\nthirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by\nevery wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may\nconvey to us.\n\n  We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.\n     We rise; one wand ring thought pollutes the day.\n  We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,\n     Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;\n  It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,\n     The path of its departure still is free.\n  Man s yesterday may ne er be like his morrow;\n     Nought may endure but mutability!\n\n\nIt was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some\ntime I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered\nboth that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated\nthe cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very\nuneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and\ninterspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a\nleague in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The\nopposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I\nnow stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;\nand above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess\nof the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea,\nor rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains,\nwhose aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering\npeaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was\nbefore sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed,\n Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow\nbeds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion,\naway from the joys of life. \n\nAs I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,\nadvancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the\ncrevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his\nstature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was\ntroubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me,\nbut I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I\nperceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!)\nthat it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage and\nhorror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him in\nmortal combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish,\ncombined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness\nrendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely\nobserved this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance,\nand I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious\ndetestation and contempt.\n\n Devil,  I exclaimed,  do you dare approach me? And do\nnot you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head?\nBegone, vile insect! Or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! And,\noh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore\nthose victims whom you have so diabolically murdered! \n\n I expected this reception,  said the d mon.  All men hate the\nwretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all\nliving things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature,\nto whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of\none of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life?\nDo your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of\nmankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and\nyou at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it\nbe satiated with the blood of your remaining friends. \n\n Abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! The tortures of hell are too\nmild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! You reproach me with\nyour creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I\nso negligently bestowed. \n\nMy rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the\nfeelings which can arm one being against the existence of another.\n\nHe easily eluded me and said,\n\n Be calm! I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred\non my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to\nincrease my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of\nanguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made\nme more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my\njoints more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in\nopposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and\ndocile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part,\nthe which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every\nother and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy\nclemency and affection, is most due. Remember that I am thy creature;\nI ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou\ndrivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I\nalone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made\nme a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous. \n\n Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you\nand me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight,\nin which one must fall. \n\n How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a\nfavourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and\ncompassion? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed\nwith love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my\ncreator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures,\nwho owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and\ndreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the\ncaves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the\nonly one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they\nare kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the multitude of mankind\nknew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for\nmy destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep\nno terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my\nwretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver\nthem from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that\nnot only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be\nswallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be\nmoved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale; when you have heard\nthat, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve.\nBut hear me. The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they\nare, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. Listen\nto me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with\na satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the\neternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me,\nand then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands. \n\n Why do you call to my remembrance,  I rejoined,  circumstances of\nwhich I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and\nauthor? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw\nlight! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you!\nYou have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power\nto consider whether I am just to you or not. Begone! Relieve me from\nthe sight of your detested form. \n\n Thus I relieve thee, my creator,  he said, and placed his hated hands\nbefore my eyes, which I flung from me with violence;  thus I take from\nthee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me and grant\nme thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this\nfrom you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of\nthis place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon\nthe mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends\nto hide itself behind your snowy precipices and illuminate another\nworld, you will have heard my story and can decide. On you it rests,\nwhether I quit for ever the neighbourhood of man and lead a harmless\nlife, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures and the author of\nyour own speedy ruin. \n\nAs he said this he led the way across the ice; I followed. My heart\nwas full, and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded, I weighed the\nvarious arguments that he had used and determined at least to listen to\nhis tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my\nresolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my\nbrother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion.\nFor the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards\nhis creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I\ncomplained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with\nhis demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite\nrock. The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend; we\nentered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy\nheart and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen, and seating\nmyself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began\nhis tale.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 11\n\n\n It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of\nmy being; all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct.\nA strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,\nand smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I\nlearned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses. By\ndegrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I\nwas obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me and troubled\nme, but hardly had I felt this when, by opening my eyes, as I now\nsuppose, the light poured in upon me again. I walked and, I believe,\ndescended, but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations.\nBefore, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my\ntouch or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with\nno obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light\nbecame more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying me as I\nwalked, I sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the\nforest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting\nfrom my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This\nroused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I\nfound hanging on the trees or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst\nat the brook, and then lying down, was overcome by sleep.\n\n It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half frightened, as it\nwere, instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted\nyour apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some\nclothes, but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of\nnight. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could\ndistinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat\ndown and wept.\n\n Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens and gave me a sensation of\npleasure. I started up and beheld a radiant form rise from among the\ntrees. [The moon] I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly,\nbut it enlightened my path, and I again went out in search of berries.\nI was still cold when under one of the trees I found a huge cloak, with\nwhich I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground. No distinct\nideas occupied my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger,\nand thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rang in my ears, and on\nall sides various scents saluted me; the only object that I could\ndistinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with\npleasure.\n\n Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had\ngreatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each\nother. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with\ndrink and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted\nwhen I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my\nears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had\noften intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe,\nwith greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me and to perceive the\nboundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I\ntried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds but was unable.\nSometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the\nuncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into\nsilence again.\n\n The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened\nform, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My\nsensations had by this time become distinct, and my mind received every\nday additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light and to\nperceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from\nthe herb, and by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the\nsparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and\nthrush were sweet and enticing.\n\n One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been\nleft by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the\nwarmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live\nembers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange,\nI thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects! I\nexamined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be\ncomposed of wood. I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet\nand would not burn. I was pained at this and sat still watching the\noperation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat\ndried and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this, and by touching\nthe various branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself in\ncollecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a\nplentiful supply of fire. When night came on and brought sleep with\nit, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I\ncovered it carefully with dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches\nupon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sank\ninto sleep.\n\n It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire.\nI uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I\nobserved this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the\nembers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again I\nfound, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat and that\nthe discovery of this element was useful to me in my food, for I found\nsome of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and\ntasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I\ntried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on\nthe live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this\noperation, and the nuts and roots much improved.\n\n Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day\nsearching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When\nI found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto\ninhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be\nmore easily satisfied. In this emigration I exceedingly lamented the\nloss of the fire which I had obtained through accident and knew not how\nto reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of\nthis difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply\nit, and wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood\ntowards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles and at\nlength discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken\nplace the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the\nappearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold\ndamp substance that covered the ground.\n\n It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and\nshelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which\nhad doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This\nwas a new sight to me, and I examined the structure with great\ncuriosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it,\nnear a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on\nhearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting the\nhut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form\nhardly appeared capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever\nbefore seen, and his flight somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted\nby the appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain could not\npenetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite\nand divine a retreat as Pand monium appeared to the d mons of hell\nafter their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the\nremnants of the shepherd s breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese,\nmilk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like. Then, overcome by\nfatigue, I lay down among some straw and fell asleep.\n\n It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun, which\nshone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my\ntravels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant s breakfast in a\nwallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until\nat sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! The\nhuts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration by\nturns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw\nplaced at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One\nof the best of these I entered, but I had hardly placed my foot within\nthe door before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted.\nThe whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until,\ngrievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I\nescaped to the open country and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel,\nquite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had\nbeheld in the village. This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat\nand pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience, I\ndared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so\nlow that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however,\nwas placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and\nalthough the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an\nagreeable asylum from the snow and rain.\n\n Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter,\nhowever miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more\nfrom the barbarity of man. As soon as morning dawned I crept from my\nkennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover if I could\nremain in the habitation I had found. It was situated against the back\nof the cottage and surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig\nsty and a clear pool of water. One part was open, and by that I had\ncrept in; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived\nwith stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on\noccasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and\nthat was sufficient for me.\n\n Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw, I\nretired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered\ntoo well my treatment the night before to trust myself in his power. I\nhad first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day by a loaf\nof coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink\nmore conveniently than from my hand of the pure water which flowed by\nmy retreat. The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept\nperfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was\ntolerably warm.\n\n Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel until\nsomething should occur which might alter my determination. It was\nindeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my former residence,\nthe rain-dropping branches, and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with\npleasure and was about to remove a plank to procure myself a little\nwater when I heard a step, and looking through a small chink, I beheld\na young creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The\ngirl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found\ncottagers and farmhouse servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a\ncoarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair\nhair was plaited but not adorned: she looked patient yet sad. I lost\nsight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned bearing\nthe pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along,\nseemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose\ncountenance expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with\nan air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head and bore it to the\ncottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw\nthe young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field\nbehind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the\nhouse and sometimes in the yard.\n\n On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the\ncottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been\nfilled up with wood. In one of these was a small and almost\nimperceptible chink through which the eye could just penetrate.\nThrough this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean\nbut very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an\nold man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The\nyoung girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she\ntook something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat\ndown beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play\nand to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the\nnightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch who had\nnever beheld aught beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent\ncountenance of the aged cottager won my reverence, while the gentle\nmanners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air\nwhich I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of\nwhich the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then\npronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt\nat his feet. He raised her and smiled with such kindness and affection\nthat I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature; they were\na mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced,\neither from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the\nwindow, unable to bear these emotions.\n\n Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a\nload of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of\nhis burden, and taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on\nthe fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage,\nand he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed\npleased and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she\nplaced in water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her\nwork, whilst the young man went into the garden and appeared busily\nemployed in digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed\nthus about an hour, the young woman joined him and they entered the\ncottage together.\n\n The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance\nof his companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to\neat. The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again\noccupied in arranging the cottage, the old man walked before the\ncottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth.\nNothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent\ncreatures. One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming\nwith benevolence and love; the younger was slight and graceful in his\nfigure, and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his\neyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The\nold man returned to the cottage, and the youth, with tools different\nfrom those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the\nfields.\n\n Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found that the\ncottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was\ndelighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the\npleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening\nthe young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations\nwhich I did not understand; and the old man again took up the\ninstrument which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in\nthe morning. So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play,\nbut to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the\nharmony of the old man s instrument nor the songs of the birds; I since\nfound that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the\nscience of words or letters.\n\n The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,\nextinguished their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 12\n\n\n I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the\noccurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners\nof these people, and I longed to join them, but dared not. I\nremembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night before from\nthe barbarous villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I\nmight hereafter think it right to pursue, that for the present I would\nremain quietly in my hovel, watching and endeavouring to discover the\nmotives which influenced their actions.\n\n The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman\narranged the cottage and prepared the food, and the youth departed\nafter the first meal.\n\n This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it.\nThe young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in\nvarious laborious occupations within. The old man, whom I soon\nperceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument or\nin contemplation. Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the\nyounger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They\nperformed towards him every little office of affection and duty with\ngentleness, and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.\n\n They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often\nwent apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness,\nbut I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were\nmiserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being,\nshould be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They\npossessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every\nluxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill and delicious viands\nwhen hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,\nthey enjoyed one another s company and speech, interchanging each day\nlooks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they\nreally express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions,\nbut perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which\nwere at first enigmatic.\n\n A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of\nthe uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty, and they\nsuffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment\nconsisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden and the milk of\none cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its masters\ncould scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe,\nsuffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two\nyounger cottagers, for several times they placed food before the old\nman when they reserved none for themselves.\n\n This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed,\nduring the night, to steal a part of their store for my own\nconsumption, but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on\nthe cottagers, I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and\nroots which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.\n\n I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist\ntheir labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day\nin collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night I often\ntook his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home\nfiring sufficient for the consumption of several days.\n\n I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she\nopened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great\npile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the\nyouth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure,\nthat he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the\ncottage and cultivating the garden.\n\n By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that\nthese people possessed a method of communicating their experience and\nfeelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words\nthey spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the\nminds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science,\nand I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in\nevery attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and\nthe words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible\nobjects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the\nmystery of their reference. By great application, however, and after having\nremained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I\ndiscovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of\ndiscourse; I learned and applied the words, _fire, milk, bread,_ and\n_wood._ I learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth\nand his companion had each of them several names, but the old man had only\none, which was _father._ The girl was called _sister_ or\n_Agatha,_ and the youth _Felix, brother,_ or _son_. I cannot\ndescribe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of\nthese sounds and was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several other\nwords without being able as yet to understand or apply them, such as _good,\ndearest, unhappy._\n\n I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of\nthe cottagers greatly endeared them to me; when they were unhappy, I\nfelt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised in their joys. I saw\nfew human beings besides them, and if any other happened to enter the\ncottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the\nsuperior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive,\noften endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that\nhe called them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a\ncheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure\neven upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled\nwith tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I\ngenerally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after\nhaving listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus\nwith Felix. He was always the saddest of the group, and even to my\nunpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his\nfriends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more\ncheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old\nman.\n\n I could mention innumerable instances which, although slight, marked\nthe dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty\nand want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little\nwhite flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in\nthe morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that\nobstructed her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and\nbrought the wood from the outhouse, where, to his perpetual\nastonishment, he found his store always replenished by an invisible\nhand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring\nfarmer, because he often went forth and did not return until dinner,\nyet brought no wood with him. At other times he worked in the garden,\nbut as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old\nman and Agatha.\n\n This reading had puzzled me extremely at first, but by degrees I\ndiscovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as when\nhe talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs\nfor speech which he understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend\nthese also; but how was that possible when I did not even understand\nthe sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, however,\nsensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of\nconversation, although I applied my whole mind to the endeavour, for I\neasily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to\nthe cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become\nmaster of their language, which knowledge might enable me to make them\noverlook the deformity of my figure, for with this also the contrast\nperpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.\n\n I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers their grace, beauty,\nand delicate complexions; but how was I terrified when I viewed myself\nin a transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe that\nit was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became\nfully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was\nfilled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.\nAlas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable\ndeformity.\n\n As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the snow\nvanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this\ntime Felix was more employed, and the heart-moving indications of\nimpending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found, was\ncoarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it.\nSeveral new kinds of plants sprang up in the garden, which they\ndressed; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season\nadvanced.\n\n The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did\nnot rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its\nwaters. This frequently took place, but a high wind quickly dried the\nearth, and the season became far more pleasant than it had been.\n\n My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning I\nattended the motions of the cottagers, and when they were dispersed in\nvarious occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day was spent in\nobserving my friends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any\nmoon or the night was star-light, I went into the woods and collected\nmy own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it\nwas necessary, I cleared their path from the snow and performed those\noffices that I had seen done by Felix. I afterwards found that these\nlabours, performed by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and\nonce or twice I heard them, on these occasions, utter the words _good\nspirit, wonderful_; but I did not then understand the signification\nof these terms.\n\n My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the\nmotives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to\nknow why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad. I thought\n(foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to\nthese deserving people. When I slept or was absent, the forms of the\nvenerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix\nflitted before me. I looked upon them as superior beings who would be\nthe arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my imagination a\nthousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of\nme. I imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle\ndemeanour and conciliating words, I should first win their favour and\nafterwards their love.\n\n These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour to\nthe acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but\nsupple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their\ntones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease.\nIt was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass whose\nintentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved\nbetter treatment than blows and execration.\n\n The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the\naspect of the earth. Men who before this change seemed to have been\nhid in caves dispersed themselves and were employed in various arts of\ncultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves\nbegan to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! Fit habitation\nfor gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and\nunwholesome. My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of\nnature; the past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil,\nand the future gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 13\n\n\n I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate\nevents that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been,\nhave made me what I am.\n\n Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine and the skies\ncloudless. It surprised me that what before was desert and gloomy\nshould now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My\nsenses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight and\na thousand sights of beauty.\n\n It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested\nfrom labour the old man played on his guitar, and the children\nlistened to him that I observed the countenance of Felix was\nmelancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once his father\npaused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired\nthe cause of his son s sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and\nthe old man was recommencing his music when someone tapped at the door.\n\n It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide.\nThe lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black\nveil. Agatha asked a question, to which the stranger only replied by\npronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was\nmusical but unlike that of either of my friends. On hearing this word,\nFelix came up hastily to the lady, who, when she saw him, threw up her\nveil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression. Her\nhair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were\ndark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular\nproportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with\na lovely pink.\n\n Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of\nsorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of\necstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his\neyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I\nthought him as beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by\ndifferent feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held\nout her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously and called her, as\nwell as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear to\nunderstand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount, and\ndismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some\nconversation took place between him and his father, and the young\nstranger knelt at the old man s feet and would have kissed his hand,\nbut he raised her and embraced her affectionately.\n\n I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds\nand appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood\nby nor herself understood the cottagers. They made many signs which I\ndid not comprehend, but I saw that her presence diffused gladness\nthrough the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the\nmorning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy and with smiles of\ndelight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed\nthe hands of the lovely stranger, and pointing to her brother, made\nsigns which appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she\ncame. Some hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances,\nexpressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I\nfound, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which the stranger\nrepeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their language;\nand the idea instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the\nsame instructions to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty\nwords at the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which I had\nbefore understood, but I profited by the others.\n\n As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they\nseparated Felix kissed the hand of the stranger and said,  Good night\nsweet Safie.  He sat up much longer, conversing with his father, and\nby the frequent repetition of her name I conjectured that their lovely\nguest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to\nunderstand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found\nit utterly impossible.\n\n The next morning Felix went out to his work, and after the usual\noccupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the\nold man, and taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly\nbeautiful that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my\neyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or\ndying away like a nightingale of the woods.\n\n When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first\ndeclined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in\nsweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old\nman appeared enraptured and said some words which Agatha endeavoured to\nexplain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that she\nbestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.\n\n The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration\nthat joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.\nSafie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the\nknowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most\nof the words uttered by my protectors.\n\n In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and\nthe green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the\nscent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods;\nthe sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal\nrambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably\nshortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun, for I never\nventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same\ntreatment I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered.\n\n My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily\nmaster the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than\nthe Arabian, who understood very little and conversed in broken\naccents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that\nwas spoken.\n\n While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters as\nit was taught to the stranger, and this opened before me a wide field\nfor wonder and delight.\n\n The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney s _Ruins\nof Empires_. I should not have understood the purport of this book had not\nFelix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this\nwork, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of the\nEastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of history\nand a view of the several empires at present existing in the world; it gave\nme an insight into the manners, governments, and religions of the different\nnations of the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics, of the stupendous\ngenius and mental activity of the Grecians, of the wars and wonderful virtue\nof the early Romans of their subsequent degenerating of the\ndecline of that mighty empire, of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard\nof the discovery of the American hemisphere and wept with Safie over the\nhapless fate of its original inhabitants.\n\n These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was\nman, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent, yet so\nvicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil\nprinciple and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and\ngodlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour\nthat can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on\nrecord have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more\nabject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I\ncould not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or\neven why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of\nvice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased and I turned away with disgust and\nloathing.\n\n Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me.\nWhile I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the\nArabian, the strange system of human society was explained to me. I\nheard of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid\npoverty, of rank, descent, and noble blood.\n\n The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the\npossessions most esteemed by your fellow creatures were high and\nunsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected with\nonly one of these advantages, but without either he was considered,\nexcept in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to\nwaste his powers for the profits of the chosen few! And what was I? Of\nmy creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I\npossessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides,\nendued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even\nof the same nature as man. I was more agile than they and could\nsubsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with\nless injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked\naround I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot\nupon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?\n\n I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted\nupon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with\nknowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor\nknown nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!\n\n Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it\nhas once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to\nshake off all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was but one\nmeans to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death a state\nwhich I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good\nfeelings and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my\ncottagers, but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except\nthrough means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and\nunknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of\nbecoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha and the\nanimated smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me. The mild\nexhortations of the old man and the lively conversation of the loved\nFelix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!\n\n Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the\ndifference of sexes, and the birth and growth of children, how the\nfather doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the\nolder child, how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up\nin the precious charge, how the mind of youth expanded and gained\nknowledge, of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which\nbind one human being to another in mutual bonds.\n\n But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my\ninfant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if\nthey had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I\ndistinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I\nthen was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being\nresembling me or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The\nquestion again recurred, to be answered only with groans.\n\n I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but allow me now to\nreturn to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various\nfeelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated\nin additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in\nan innocent, half-painful self-deceit, to call them). \n\n\n\n\nChapter 14\n\n\n Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was\none which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding\nas it did a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to\none so utterly inexperienced as I was.\n\n The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good\nfamily in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence,\nrespected by his superiors and beloved by his equals. His son was bred\nin the service of his country, and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the\nhighest distinction. A few months before my arrival they had lived in\na large and luxurious city called Paris, surrounded by friends and\npossessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or\ntaste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford.\n\n The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a\nTurkish merchant and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some\nreason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government.\nHe was seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from\nConstantinople to join him. He was tried and condemned to death. The\ninjustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant;\nand it was judged that his religion and wealth rather than the crime\nalleged against him had been the cause of his condemnation.\n\n Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror and\nindignation were uncontrollable when he heard the decision of the\ncourt. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him and then\nlooked around for the means. After many fruitless attempts to gain\nadmittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window in an\nunguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon of the\nunfortunate Muhammadan, who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the\nexecution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at night\nand made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour. The Turk,\namazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer\nby promises of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with\ncontempt, yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit\nher father and who by her gestures expressed her lively gratitude, the\nyouth could not help owning to his own mind that the captive possessed\na treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.\n\n The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made\non the heart of Felix and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in\nhis interests by the promise of her hand in marriage so soon as he\nshould be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate to\naccept this offer, yet he looked forward to the probability of the\nevent as to the consummation of his happiness.\n\n During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for\nthe escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several\nletters that he received from this lovely girl, who found means to\nexpress her thoughts in the language of her lover by the aid of an old\nman, a servant of her father who understood French. She thanked him in\nthe most ardent terms for his intended services towards her parent, and\nat the same time she gently deplored her own fate.\n\n I have copies of these letters, for I found means, during my residence\nin the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters\nwere often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart I will\ngive them to you; they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present,\nas the sun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat\nthe substance of them to you.\n\n Safie related that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a\nslave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of\nthe father of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and\nenthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in freedom, spurned the\nbondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her daughter in\nthe tenets of her religion and taught her to aspire to higher powers of\nintellect and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female\nfollowers of Muhammad. This lady died, but her lessons were indelibly\nimpressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again\nreturning to Asia and being immured within the walls of a harem,\nallowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements, ill-suited to\nthe temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble\nemulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian and\nremaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in\nsociety was enchanting to her.\n\n The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed, but on the night\nprevious to it he quitted his prison and before morning was distant\nmany leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of\nhis father, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated his\nplan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under\nthe pretence of a journey and concealed himself, with his daughter, in\nan obscure part of Paris.\n\n Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons and across Mont\nCenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable\nopportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.\n\n Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his\ndeparture, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she\nshould be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in\nexpectation of that event; and in the meantime he enjoyed the society\nof the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest\naffection. They conversed with one another through the means of an\ninterpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and Safie\nsang to him the divine airs of her native country.\n\n The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes\nof the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other\nplans. He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a\nChristian, but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear\nlukewarm, for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer\nif he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they\ninhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled\nto prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and\nsecretly to take his daughter with him when he departed. His plans\nwere facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.\n\n The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their\nvictim and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The\nplot of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were\nthrown into prison. The news reached Felix and roused him from his\ndream of pleasure. His blind and aged father and his gentle sister lay\nin a noisome dungeon while he enjoyed the free air and the society of\nher whom he loved. This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged\nwith the Turk that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity\nfor escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a\nboarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,\nhe hastened to Paris and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the\nlaw, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.\n\n He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the\ntrial took place, the result of which deprived them of their fortune\nand condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country.\n\n They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I\ndiscovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for\nwhom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on\ndiscovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin,\nbecame a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy with\nhis daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him,\nas he said, in some plan of future maintenance.\n\n Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered\nhim, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could\nhave endured poverty, and while this distress had been the meed of his\nvirtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude of the Turk and the loss\nof his beloved Safie were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The\narrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul.\n\n When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived of his wealth\nand rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her\nlover, but to prepare to return to her native country. The generous\nnature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to\nexpostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his\ntyrannical mandate.\n\n A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter s apartment and told\nher hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn\nhad been divulged and that he should speedily be delivered up to the\nFrench government; he had consequently hired a vessel to convey him to\nConstantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He\nintended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential\nservant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his\nproperty, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn.\n\n When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it\nwould become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey\nwas abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike averse\nto it. By some papers of her father which fell into her hands she\nheard of the exile of her lover and learnt the name of the spot where\nhe then resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her\ndetermination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a\nsum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn,\nbut who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for\nGermany.\n\n She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage\nof De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her\nwith the most devoted affection, but the poor girl died, and the\nArabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country\nand utterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell, however,\ninto good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for\nwhich they were bound, and after her death the woman of the house in\nwhich they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at\nthe cottage of her lover. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 15\n\n\n Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply.\nI learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire\ntheir virtues and to deprecate the vices of mankind.\n\n As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil, benevolence and\ngenerosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to\nbecome an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities\nwere called forth and displayed. But in giving an account of the\nprogress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred\nin the beginning of the month of August of the same year.\n\n One night during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood where I\ncollected my own food and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on\nthe ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles of dress and\nsome books. I eagerly seized the prize and returned with it to my hovel. \nFortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I\nhad acquired at the cottage; they consisted of _Paradise Lost_, a volume\nof _Plutarch s Lives_, and the _Sorrows of Werter_. The\npossession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually\nstudied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were\nemployed in their ordinary occupations.\n\n I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced\nin me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me\nto ecstasy, but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In\nthe _Sorrows of Werter_, besides the interest of its simple and affecting\nstory, so many opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon\nwhat had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found in it a\nnever-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle and\ndomestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and\nfeelings, which had for their object something out of self, accorded\nwell with my experience among my protectors and with the wants which\nwere for ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a\nmore divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character\ncontained no pretension, but it sank deep. The disquisitions upon\ndeath and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not\npretend to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards\nthe opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely\nunderstanding it.\n\n As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and\ncondition. I found myself similar yet at the same time strangely\nunlike to the beings concerning whom I read and to whose conversation I\nwas a listener. I sympathised with and partly understood them, but I\nwas unformed in mind; I was dependent on none and related to none.\n The path of my departure was free,  and there was none to lament my\nannihilation. My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did\nthis mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my\ndestination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to\nsolve them.\n\n The volume of _Plutarch s Lives_ which I possessed contained the\nhistories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book\nhad a far different effect upon me from the _Sorrows of Werter_. I\nlearned from Werter s imaginations despondency and gloom, but Plutarch\ntaught me high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my\nown reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many\nthings I read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very\nconfused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers,\nand boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns and\nlarge assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the\nonly school in which I had studied human nature, but this book\ndeveloped new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned\nin public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the\ngreatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as\nfar as I understood the signification of those terms, relative as they\nwere, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these\nfeelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa,\nSolon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The\npatriarchal lives of my protectors caused these impressions to take a\nfirm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had\nbeen made by a young soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should\nhave been imbued with different sensations.\n\n But _Paradise Lost_ excited different and far deeper emotions. I read\nit, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as\na true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe that the\npicture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of\nexciting. I often referred the several situations, as their similarity\nstruck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to\nany other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine\nin every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a\nperfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of\nhis Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge from\nbeings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.\nMany times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition, for\noften, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter\ngall of envy rose within me.\n\n Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon\nafter my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers in the pocket of\nthe dress which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had\nneglected them, but now that I was able to decipher the characters in\nwhich they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was\nyour journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You\nminutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress\nof your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic\noccurrences. You doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are.\nEverything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed\norigin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances\nwhich produced it is set in view; the minutest description of my odious\nand loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own\nhorrors and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read.  Hateful\nday when I received life!  I exclaimed in agony.  Accursed creator!\nWhy did you form a monster so hideous that even _you_ turned from me in\ndisgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own\nimage; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the\nvery resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire\nand encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred. \n\n These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude;\nbut when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and\nbenevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should\nbecome acquainted with my admiration of their virtues they would\ncompassionate me and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn\nfrom their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion\nand friendship? I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way\nto fit myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate. I\npostponed this attempt for some months longer, for the importance\nattached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail.\nBesides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every\nday s experience that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking\nuntil a few more months should have added to my sagacity.\n\n Several changes, in the meantime, took place in the cottage. The\npresence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants, and I also\nfound that a greater degree of plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha\nspent more time in amusement and conversation, and were assisted in\ntheir labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were\ncontented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while\nmine became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only\ndiscovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I\ncherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my person\nreflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail\nimage and that inconstant shade.\n\n I endeavoured to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial\nwhich in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my\nthoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and\ndared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my\nfeelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed\nsmiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my\nsorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam s\nsupplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me,\nand in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.\n\n Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay\nand fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it\nhad worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did\nnot heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my\nconformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief\ndelights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay\napparel of summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention\ntowards the cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the\nabsence of summer. They loved and sympathised with one another; and\ntheir joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the\ncasualties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the\ngreater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my\nheart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see\ntheir sweet looks directed towards me with affection was the utmost\nlimit of my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn them from\nme with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were\nnever driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a\nlittle food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not\nbelieve myself utterly unworthy of it.\n\n The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken\nplace since I awoke into life. My attention at this time was solely\ndirected towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my\nprotectors. I revolved many projects, but that on which I finally\nfixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone.\nI had sagacity enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my\nperson was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly\nbeheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I\nthought, therefore, that if in the absence of his children I could gain\nthe good will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might by his means\nbe tolerated by my younger protectors.\n\n One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground\nand diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha,\nand Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own\ndesire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed,\nhe took up his guitar and played several mournful but sweet airs, more\nsweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his\ncountenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued,\nthoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the\ninstrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.\n\n My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which\nwould decide my hopes or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a\nneighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage; it was an\nexcellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my\nlimbs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exerting\nall the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had\nplaced before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived\nme, and with renewed determination I approached the door of their\ncottage.\n\n I knocked.  Who is there?  said the old man.  Come in. \n\n I entered.  Pardon this intrusion,  said I;  I am\na traveller in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me if you\nwould allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire. \n\n Enter,  said De Lacey,  and I will try in what\nmanner I can to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are\nfrom home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to\nprocure food for you. \n\n Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is\nwarmth and rest only that I need. \n\n I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was\nprecious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence\nthe interview, when the old man addressed me.\n\n By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; are you\nFrench? \n\n No; but I was educated by a French family and understand that\nlanguage only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends,\nwhom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes. \n\n Are they Germans? \n\n No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an\nunfortunate and deserted creature, I look around and I have no relation\nor friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go have never\nseen me and know little of me. I am full of fears, for if I fail\nthere, I am an outcast in the world for ever. \n\n Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but\nthe hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are\nfull of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes;\nand if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair. \n\n They are kind they are the most excellent creatures in the world;\nbut, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good\ndispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless and in some degree\nbeneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they\nought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable\nmonster. \n\n That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot\nyou undeceive them? \n\n I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I\nfeel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I\nhave, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily\nkindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and\nit is that prejudice which I wish to overcome. \n\n Where do these friends reside? \n\n Near this spot. \n\n The old man paused and then continued,  If you will unreservedly\nconfide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in\nundeceiving them. I am blind and cannot judge of your countenance, but\nthere is something in your words which persuades me that you are\nsincere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me true pleasure\nto be in any way serviceable to a human creature. \n\n Excellent man! I thank you and accept your generous offer. You\nraise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid,\nI shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow\ncreatures. \n\n Heaven forbid! Even if you were really criminal, for that can only\ndrive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am\nunfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent;\njudge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes. \n\n How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips\nfirst have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall\nbe for ever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success\nwith those friends whom I am on the point of meeting. \n\n May I know the names and residence of those friends? \n\n I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to\nrob me of or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for\nfirmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my\nremaining strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud. At that\nmoment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment\nto lose, but seizing the hand of the old man, I cried,  Now is the\ntime! Save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I\nseek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial! \n\n Great God!  exclaimed the old man.  Who are you? \n\n At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and\nAgatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on\nbeholding me? Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to attend to her\nfriend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with\nsupernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung, in\na transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me violently\nwith a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends\nthe antelope. But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and\nI refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when,\novercome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general\ntumult escaped unperceived to my hovel. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 16\n\n\n Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I\nnot extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly\nbestowed? I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my\nfeelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have\ndestroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself with\ntheir shrieks and misery.\n\n When night came I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood; and\nnow, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my\nanguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast that had broken\nthe toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me and ranging\nthrough the wood with a stag-like swiftness. Oh! What a miserable\nnight I passed! The cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees\nwaved their branches above me; now and then the sweet voice of a bird\nburst forth amidst the universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest\nor in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me, and\nfinding myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the trees, spread\nhavoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed\nthe ruin.\n\n But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became\nfatigued with excess of bodily exertion and sank on the damp grass in\nthe sick impotence of despair. There was none among the myriads of men\nthat existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness\ntowards my enemies? No; from that moment I declared everlasting war\nagainst the species, and more than all, against him who had formed me\nand sent me forth to this insupportable misery.\n\n The sun rose; I heard the voices of men and knew that it was\nimpossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid\nmyself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours\nto reflection on my situation.\n\n The pleasant sunshine and the pure air of day restored me to some\ndegree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the\ncottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my\nconclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that\nmy conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was a\nfool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I\nought to have familiarised the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to\nhave discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they should have\nbeen prepared for my approach. But I did not believe my errors to be\nirretrievable, and after much consideration I resolved to return to the\ncottage, seek the old man, and by my representations win him to my\nparty.\n\n These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a profound\nsleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by\npeaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the preceding day was for ever\nacting before my eyes; the females were flying and the enraged Felix\ntearing me from his father s feet. I awoke exhausted, and finding that\nit was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in\nsearch of food.\n\n When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the\nwell-known path that conducted to the cottage. All there was at peace.\nI crept into my hovel and remained in silent expectation of the\naccustomed hour when the family arose. That hour passed, the sun\nmounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear. I\ntrembled violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune. The inside\nof the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the\nagony of this suspense.\n\n Presently two countrymen passed by, but pausing near the cottage, they\nentered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not\nunderstand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country,\nwhich differed from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix\napproached with another man; I was surprised, as I knew that he had not\nquitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover from\nhis discourse the meaning of these unusual appearances.\n\n Do you consider,  said his companion to him,\n that you will be obliged to pay three months  rent and to lose\nthe produce of your garden? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and\nI beg therefore that you will take some days to consider of your\ndetermination. \n\n It is utterly useless,  replied Felix;  we can\nnever again inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest\ndanger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and\nmy sister will never recover from their horror. I entreat you not to reason\nwith me any more. Take possession of your tenement and let me fly from this\nplace. \n\n Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion\nentered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then\ndeparted. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more.\n\n I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of\nutter and stupid despair. My protectors had departed and had broken\nthe only link that held me to the world. For the first time the\nfeelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to\ncontrol them, but allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I\nbent my mind towards injury and death. When I thought of my friends,\nof the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the\nexquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished and a gush of\ntears somewhat soothed me. But again when I reflected that they had\nspurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to\ninjure anything human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As\nnight advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage,\nand after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden,\nI waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my\noperations.\n\n As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods and quickly\ndispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens; the blast tore\nalong like a mighty avalanche and produced a kind of insanity in my\nspirits that burst all bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the\ndry branch of a tree and danced with fury around the devoted cottage,\nmy eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon\nnearly touched. A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my\nbrand; it sank, and with a loud scream I fired the straw, and heath,\nand bushes, which I had collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the\ncottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it and\nlicked it with their forked and destroying tongues.\n\n As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part of\nthe habitation, I quitted the scene and sought for refuge in the woods.\n\n And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps? I\nresolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but to me, hated\nand despised, every country must be equally horrible. At length the\nthought of you crossed my mind. I learned from your papers that you\nwere my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness\nthan to him who had given me life? Among the lessons that Felix had\nbestowed upon Safie, geography had not been omitted; I had learned from\nthese the relative situations of the different countries of the earth.\nYou had mentioned Geneva as the name of your native town, and towards\nthis place I resolved to proceed.\n\n But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel in a\nsouthwesterly direction to reach my destination, but the sun was my\nonly guide. I did not know the names of the towns that I was to pass\nthrough, nor could I ask information from a single human being; but I\ndid not despair. From you only could I hope for succour, although\ntowards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling,\nheartless creator! You had endowed me with perceptions and passions\nand then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind.\nBut on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I\ndetermined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from\nany other being that wore the human form.\n\n My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense. It was\nlate in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided.\nI travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a\nhuman being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun became heatless;\nrain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface\nof the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh,\nearth! How often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being! The\nmildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall\nand bitterness. The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more\ndeeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow\nfell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not. A few incidents\nnow and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but I\noften wandered wide from my path. The agony of my feelings allowed me\nno respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could\nnot extract its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived\non the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth\nand the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial\nmanner the bitterness and horror of my feelings.\n\n I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was\nsecured by night from the view of man. One morning, however, finding\nthat my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey\nafter the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring,\ncheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of\nthe air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long\nappeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of\nthese sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and\nforgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears\nagain bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with\nthankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me.\n\n I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its\nboundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many\nof the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring.\nHere I paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard\nthe sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade\nof a cypress. I was scarcely hid when a young girl came running\ntowards the spot where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from\nsomeone in sport. She continued her course along the precipitous sides\nof the river, when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the\nrapid stream. I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour,\nfrom the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore. She\nwas senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power to restore\nanimation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic,\nwho was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled. On\nseeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms,\nhastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I\nhardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun,\nwhich he carried, at my body and fired. I sank to the ground, and my\ninjurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.\n\n This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being\nfrom destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed under the miserable\npain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of\nkindness and gentleness which I had entertained but a few moments\nbefore gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. Inflamed by\npain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind. But the\nagony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.\n\n For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to\ncure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder,\nand I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through; at any\nrate I had no means of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented\nalso by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their\ninfliction. My daily vows rose for revenge a deep and deadly revenge,\nsuch as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I had\nendured.\n\n After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The\nlabours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or\ngentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery which insulted my\ndesolate state and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for\nthe enjoyment of pleasure.\n\n But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this time I\nreached the environs of Geneva.\n\n It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among\nthe fields that surround it to meditate in what manner I should apply\nto you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger and far too unhappy to\nenjoy the gentle breezes of evening or the prospect of the sun setting\nbehind the stupendous mountains of Jura.\n\n At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection,\nwhich was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came\nrunning into the recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of\ninfancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized me that this\nlittle creature was unprejudiced and had lived too short a time to have\nimbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him and\neducate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in\nthis peopled earth.\n\n Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed and drew him\ntowards me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before\nhis eyes and uttered a shrill scream; I drew his hand forcibly from his\nface and said,  Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to\nhurt you; listen to me. \n\n He struggled violently.  Let me go,  he cried;\n monster! Ugly wretch! You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces. You\nare an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa. \n\n Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me. \n\n Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic he is M.\nFrankenstein he will punish you. You dare not keep me. \n\n Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy to him towards whom I have\nsworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim. \n\n The child still struggled and loaded me with epithets which carried\ndespair to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a\nmoment he lay dead at my feet.\n\n I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellish\ntriumph; clapping my hands, I exclaimed,  I too can create desolation;\nmy enemy is not invulnerable; this death will carry despair to him, and\na thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy him. \n\n As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his\nbreast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite\nof my malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few moments I\ngazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her\nlovely lips; but presently my rage returned; I remembered that I was\nfor ever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could\nbestow and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in\nregarding me, have changed that air of divine benignity to one\nexpressive of disgust and affright.\n\n Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage? I only\nwonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in\nexclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish in the\nattempt to destroy them.\n\n While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had\ncommitted the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I\nentered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty. A woman was\nsleeping on some straw; she was young, not indeed so beautiful as her\nwhose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect and blooming in the\nloveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose\njoy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me. And then I bent over\nher and whispered,  Awake, fairest, thy lover is near he who would\ngive his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes; my\nbeloved, awake! \n\n The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me. Should she\nindeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus\nwould she assuredly act if her darkened eyes opened and she beheld me.\nThe thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me not I, but\nshe, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I am for ever\nrobbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime had\nits source in her; be hers the punishment! Thanks to the lessons of\nFelix and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work\nmischief. I bent over her and placed the portrait securely in one of\nthe folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled.\n\n For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place,\nsometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and\nits miseries for ever. At length I wandered towards these mountains,\nand have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning\npassion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have\npromised to comply with my requisition. I am alone and miserable; man\nwill not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself\nwould not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species\nand have the same defects. This being you must create. \n\n\n\n\nChapter 17\n\n\nThe being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the\nexpectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to\narrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his\nproposition. He continued,\n\n You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the\ninterchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone\ncan do, and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to\nconcede. \n\nThe latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had\ndied away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and\nas he said this I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within\nme.\n\n I do refuse it,  I replied;  and no torture shall ever extort a\nconsent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you\nshall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like\nyourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I\nhave answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent. \n\n You are in the wrong,  replied the fiend;  and instead\nof threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I\nam miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator,\nwould tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I\nshould pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder if you\ncould precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my frame, the\nwork of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let him\nlive with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I would\nbestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance.\nBut that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our\nunion. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will\nrevenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and\nchiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear\ninextinguishable hatred. Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor\nfinish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of\nyour birth. \n\nA fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled\ninto contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently\nhe calmed himself and proceeded \n\n I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me, for you do\nnot reflect that _you_ are the cause of its excess. If any being felt\nemotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and a\nhundredfold; for that one creature s sake I would make peace with the\nwhole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised.\nWhat I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of\nanother sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it\nis all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be\nmonsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more\nattached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be\nharmless and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me\nhappy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I\nexcite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my\nrequest! \n\nI was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences\nof my consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument.\nHis tale and the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature\nof fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion\nof happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of\nfeeling and continued,\n\n If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see\nus again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not\nthat of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite;\nacorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will\nbe of the same nature as myself and will be content with the same fare.\nWe shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on\nman and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful\nand human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the\nwantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me,\nI now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment\nand persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire. \n\n You propose,  replied I,  to fly from the habitations of\nman, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your\nonly companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man,\npersevere in this exile? You will return and again seek their kindness, and\nyou will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed,\nand you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruction.\nThis may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent. \n\n How inconstant are your feelings! But a moment ago you were moved by\nmy representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints?\nI swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that\nwith the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of man and\ndwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions\nwill have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly\naway, and in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker. \n\nHis words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him and\nsometimes felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him, when\nI saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened and my\nfeelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle\nthese sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathise with him, I\nhad no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which\nwas yet in my power to bestow.\n\n You swear,  I said,  to be harmless; but have you not\nalready shown a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust\nyou? May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by\naffording a wider scope for your revenge? \n\n How is this? I must not be trifled with, and I demand an answer. If\nI have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion;\nthe love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall\nbecome a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant. My vices\nare the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will\nnecessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel\nthe affections of a sensitive being and become linked to the chain of\nexistence and events from which I am now excluded. \n\nI paused some time to reflect on all he had related and the various\narguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues which\nhe had displayed on the opening of his existence and the subsequent blight\nof all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had\nmanifested towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my\ncalculations; a creature who could exist in the ice-caves of the glaciers\nand hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices\nwas a being possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a\nlong pause of reflection I concluded that the justice due both to him and\nmy fellow creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request.\nTurning to him, therefore, I said,\n\n I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever,\nand every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall\ndeliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile. \n\n I swear,  he cried,  by the sun, and by the blue sky of\nheaven, and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my\nprayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your\nhome and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress with\nunutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall\nappear. \n\nSaying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in\nmy sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than\nthe flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the\nsea of ice.\n\nHis tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of\nthe horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent\ntowards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my\nheart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the\nlittle paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced\nperplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences\nof the day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the\nhalfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars\nshone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines\nrose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the\nground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange\nthoughts within me. I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I\nexclaimed,  Oh! stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock\nme; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as\nnought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness. \n\nThese were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you\nhow the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I\nlistened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its\nway to consume me.\n\nMorning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no\nrest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could\ngive no expression to my sensations they weighed on me with a\nmountain s weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them.\nThus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the\nfamily. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I\nanswered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed\nunder a ban as if I had no right to claim their sympathies as if\nnever more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I\nloved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate\nmyself to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation\nmade every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream,\nand that thought only had to me the reality of life.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 18\n\n\nDay after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and\nI could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared the\nvengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my\nrepugnance to the task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not\ncompose a female without again devoting several months to profound\nstudy and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries\nhaving been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was\nmaterial to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my\nfather s consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to\nevery pretence of delay and shrank from taking the first step in an\nundertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less absolute to\nme. A change indeed had taken place in me; my health, which had\nhitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when\nunchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My\nfather saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts\ntowards the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,\nwhich every now and then would return by fits, and with a devouring\nblackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At these moments I took\nrefuge in the most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on the lake\nalone in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the\nrippling of the waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and\nbright sun seldom failed to restore me to some degree of composure, and\non my return I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile\nand a more cheerful heart.\n\nIt was after my return from one of these rambles that my father,\ncalling me aside, thus addressed me,\n\n I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former\npleasures and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you are still\nunhappy and still avoid our society. For some time I was lost in\nconjecture as to the cause of this, but yesterday an idea struck me,\nand if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a\npoint would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all. \n\nI trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued \n\n I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your\nmarriage with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort and the\nstay of my declining years. You were attached to each other from your\nearliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions and\ntastes, entirely suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of\nman that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan may have\nentirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any\nwish that she might become your wife. Nay, you may have met with another\nwhom you may love; and considering yourself as bound in honour to\nElizabeth, this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you appear\nto feel. \n\n My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly and\nsincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my\nwarmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and prospects are\nentirely bound up in the expectation of our union. \n\n The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor,\ngives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you\nfeel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast\na gloom over us. But it is this gloom which appears to have taken so\nstrong a hold of your mind that I wish to dissipate. Tell me,\ntherefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnisation of the\nmarriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us\nfrom that everyday tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You\nare younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent\nfortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any future\nplans of honour and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose,\nhowever, that I wish to dictate happiness to you or that a delay on\nyour part would cause me any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words\nwith candour and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and\nsincerity. \n\nI listened to my father in silence and remained for some time incapable\nof offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of\nthoughts and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion. Alas! To me\nthe idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and\ndismay. I was bound by a solemn promise which I had not yet fulfilled\nand dared not break, or if I did, what manifold miseries might not\nimpend over me and my devoted family! Could I enter into a festival\nwith this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck and bowing me to the\nground? I must perform my engagement and let the monster depart with\nhis mate before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of a union from\nwhich I expected peace.\n\nI remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to\nEngland or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers\nof that country whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable\nuse to me in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining\nthe desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory; besides, I\nhad an insurmountable aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my\nloathsome task in my father s house while in habits of familiar\nintercourse with those I loved. I knew that a thousand fearful\naccidents might occur, the slightest of which would disclose a tale to\nthrill all connected with me with horror. I was aware also that I\nshould often lose all self-command, all capacity of hiding the\nharrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of my\nunearthly occupation. I must absent myself from all I loved while thus\nemployed. Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved, and I might be\nrestored to my family in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled,\nthe monster would depart for ever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some\naccident might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my\nslavery for ever.\n\nThese feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish to\nvisit England, but concealing the true reasons of this request, I\nclothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I\nurged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to\ncomply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy that\nresembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find\nthat I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey,\nand he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would, before my\nreturn, have restored me entirely to myself.\n\nThe duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months, or\nat most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal kind\nprecaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion. Without\npreviously communicating with me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth,\narranged that Clerval should join me at Strasburgh. This interfered\nwith the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the\ncommencement of my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be\nan impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many\nhours of lonely, maddening reflection. Nay, Henry might stand between\nme and the intrusion of my foe. If I were alone, would he not at times\nforce his abhorred presence on me to remind me of my task or to\ncontemplate its progress?\n\nTo England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union\nwith Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return. My father s\nage rendered him extremely averse to delay. For myself, there was one\nreward I promised myself from my detested toils one consolation for my\nunparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect of that day when,\nenfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth and\nforget the past in my union with her.\n\nI now made arrangements for my journey, but one feeling haunted me\nwhich filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should\nleave my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy and\nunprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my\ndeparture. But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go, and\nwould he not accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in\nitself, but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends.\nI was agonised with the idea of the possibility that the reverse of\nthis might happen. But through the whole period during which I was the\nslave of my creature I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of\nthe moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend\nwould follow me and exempt my family from the danger of his\nmachinations.\n\nIt was in the latter end of September that I again quitted my native\ncountry. My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth\ntherefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of\nmy suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief. It had\nbeen her care which provided me a companion in Clerval and yet a man\nis blind to a thousand minute circumstances which call forth a woman s\nsedulous attention. She longed to bid me hasten my return; a thousand\nconflicting emotions rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful, silent\nfarewell.\n\nI threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly\nknowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around.\nI remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on\nit, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with\nme. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful\nand majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could\nonly think of the bourne of my travels and the work which was to occupy\nme whilst they endured.\n\nAfter some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed\nmany leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited two days for\nClerval. He came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He\nwas alive to every new scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the\nsetting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise and recommence a new\nday. He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape and\nthe appearances of the sky.  This is what it is to live,  he cried;\n now I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are\nyou desponding and sorrowful!  In truth, I was occupied by gloomy\nthoughts and neither saw the descent of the evening star nor the golden\nsunrise reflected in the Rhine. And you, my friend, would be far more\namused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an\neye of feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections. I, a\nmiserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to\nenjoyment.\n\nWe had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasburgh to\nRotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London. During this\nvoyage we passed many willowy islands and saw several beautiful towns.\nWe stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our departure from\nStrasburgh, arrived at Mainz. The course of the Rhine below Mainz\nbecomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly and winds\nbetween hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw\nmany ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by\nblack woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed,\npresents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you view\nrugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with\nthe dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory,\nflourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river\nand populous towns occupy the scene.\n\nWe travelled at the time of the vintage and heard the song of the labourers\nas we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits\ncontinually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the\nbottom of the boat, and as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to\ndrink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger. And if these\nwere my sensations, who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had\nbeen transported to Fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by\nman.  I have seen,  he said,  the most beautiful scenes\nof my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the\nsnowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black\nand impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance\nwere it not for the most verdant islands that relieve the eye by their gay\nappearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore\nup whirlwinds of water and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be\non the great ocean; and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain,\nwhere the priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche and\nwhere their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the\nnightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud;\nbut this country, Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The\nmountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange, but there is a\ncharm in the banks of this divine river that I never before saw equalled.\nLook at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the\nisland, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now\nthat group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village\nhalf hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that inhabits\nand guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those who\npile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of\nour own country. \n\nClerval! Beloved friend! Even now it delights me to record your words and\nto dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a\nbeing formed in the  very poetry of nature.  His wild and\nenthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His\nsoul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that\ndevoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only\nin the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient to\nsatisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature, which others regard\nonly with admiration, he loved with ardour: \n\n     The sounding cataract\n    Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,\n    The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,\n    Their colours and their forms, were then to him\n    An appetite; a feeling, and a love,\n    That had no need of a remoter charm,\n    By thought supplied, or any interest\n    Unborrow d from the eye.\n\n          [Wordsworth s  Tintern Abbey .]\n\nAnd where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost\nfor ever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful\nand magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the\nlife of its creator; has this mind perished? Does it now only exist\nin my memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and\nbeaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and\nconsoles your unhappy friend.\n\nPardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight\ntribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart,\noverflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will\nproceed with my tale.\n\nBeyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to\npost the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary and the stream of\nthe river was too gentle to aid us.\n\nOur journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we\narrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England.\nIt was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw\nthe white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene;\nthey were flat but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the\nremembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish\nArmada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich places which I had heard\nof even in my country.\n\nAt length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul s towering\nabove all, and the Tower famed in English history.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 19\n\n\nLondon was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several\nmonths in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the\nintercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this\ntime, but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally\noccupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the\ncompletion of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of\nintroduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most\ndistinguished natural philosophers.\n\nIf this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness,\nit would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had\ncome over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of\nthe information they might give me on the subject in which my interest\nwas so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I\ncould fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of\nHenry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory\npeace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to\nmy heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my\nfellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and\nJustine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled\nmy soul with anguish.\n\nBut in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive\nand anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of\nmanners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of\ninstruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long\nhad in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had\nin his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had\ntaken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of\nEuropean colonization and trade. In Britain only could he further the\nexecution of his plan. He was for ever busy, and the only check to his\nenjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this\nas much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures\nnatural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by\nany care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him,\nalleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also\nbegan to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this\nwas to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling\non the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme\nanguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips\nto quiver, and my heart to palpitate.\n\nAfter passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in\nScotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the\nbeauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient\nallurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth,\nwhere he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation, and I,\nalthough I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams and\nall the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.\n\nWe had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now\nFebruary. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the\nnorth at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not\nintend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford,\nMatlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of\nthis tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments and\nthe materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours in some\nobscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.\n\nWe quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at\nWindsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us\nmountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of\nstately deer were all novelties to us.\n\nFrom thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds\nwere filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted\nthere more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles\nI. had collected his forces. This city had remained faithful to him,\nafter the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of\nParliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king and his\ncompanions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and\nson, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city which they\nmight be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a\ndwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these\nfeelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of\nthe city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration.\nThe colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost\nmagnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows\nof exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters,\nwhich reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and\ndomes, embosomed among aged trees.\n\nI enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the\nmemory of the past and the anticipation of the future. I was formed\nfor peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never\nvisited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by _ennui_, the sight of what\nis beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent and sublime in\nthe productions of man could always interest my heart and communicate\nelasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has\nentered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what\nI shall soon cease to be a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity,\npitiable to others and intolerable to myself.\n\nWe passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs\nand endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most\nanimating epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery\nwere often prolonged by the successive objects that presented\nthemselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden and the\nfield on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated\nfrom its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas\nof liberty and self-sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments\nand the remembrancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains\nand look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten\ninto my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my\nmiserable self.\n\nWe left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next\nplace of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village\nresembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but\neverything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of\ndistant white Alps which always attend on the piny mountains of my\nnative country. We visited the wondrous cave and the little cabinets\nof natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same\nmanner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name\nmade me tremble when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit\nMatlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated.\n\nFrom Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months in\nCumberland and Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself among the\nSwiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the\nnorthern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the\nrocky streams were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we\nmade some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into\nhappiness. The delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than\nmine; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found\nin his own nature greater capacities and resources than he could have\nimagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his\ninferiors.  I could pass my life here,  said he to me;  and among\nthese mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine. \n\nBut he found that a traveller s life is one that includes much pain\namidst its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on the stretch; and\nwhen he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit\nthat on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again\nengages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.\n\nWe had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland\nand conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants when the period\nof our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them\nto travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my\npromise for some time, and I feared the effects of the d mon s\ndisappointment. He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance\non my relatives. This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment\nfrom which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited\nfor my letters with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was\nmiserable and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived and I\nsaw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to\nread and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend\nfollowed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion.\nWhen these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment,\nbut followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of\nhis destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the\nconsciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed\ndrawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.\n\nI visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might\nhave interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well\nas Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him.\nBut the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic\ncastle and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur s\nSeat, St. Bernard s Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated him for\nthe change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was\nimpatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.\n\nWe left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew s, and\nalong the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us.\nBut I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into\ntheir feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and\naccordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland\nalone.  Do you,  said I,  enjoy yourself, and let this be our\nrendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with\nmy motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short\ntime; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more\ncongenial to your own temper. \n\nHenry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to\nremonstrate. He entreated me to write often.  I had rather be with\nyou,  he said,  in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch\npeople, whom I do not know; hasten, then, my dear friend, to return,\nthat I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in\nyour absence. \n\nHaving parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of\nScotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the\nmonster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have\nfinished, that he might receive his companion.\n\nWith this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of\nthe remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place\nfitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were\ncontinually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely\naffording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its\ninhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs\ngave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they\nindulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from\nthe mainland, which was about five miles distant.\n\nOn the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of\nthese was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two\nrooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable\npenury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the\ndoor was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some\nfurniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have\noccasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been\nbenumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at\nand unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes\nwhich I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations\nof men.\n\nIn this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening,\nwhen the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to\nlisten to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a\nmonotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was\nfar different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills\nare covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the\nplains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when\ntroubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively\ninfant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.\n\nIn this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but\nas I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and\nirksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my\nlaboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled day and night\nin order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in\nwhich I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of\nenthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my\nmind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes\nwere shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in\ncold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.\n\nThus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in\na solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from\nthe actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I\ngrew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my\npersecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing\nto raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much\ndreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow\ncreatures lest when alone he should come to claim his companion.\n\nIn the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably\nadvanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager\nhope, which I dared not trust myself to question but which was\nintermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken\nin my bosom.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 20\n\n\nI sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was just\nrising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment, and I\nremained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should leave my\nlabour for the night or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention\nto it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me which led me to\nconsider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before, I was\nengaged in the same manner and had created a fiend whose unparalleled\nbarbarity had desolated my heart and filled it for ever with the bitterest\nremorse. I was now about to form another being of whose dispositions I was\nalike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her\nmate and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had\nsworn to quit the neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts, but she\nhad not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and\nreasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her\ncreation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived\nloathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence\nfor it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn\nwith disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him,\nand he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being\ndeserted by one of his own species.\n\nEven if they were to leave Europe and inhabit the deserts of the new world,\nyet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the d mon\nthirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon\nthe earth who might make the very existence of the species of man a\ncondition precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit,\nto inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved\nby the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck senseless by\nhis fiendish threats; but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my\npromise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me\nas their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at\nthe price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race.\n\nI trembled and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by\nthe light of the moon the d mon at the casement. A ghastly grin\nwrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task\nwhich he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he\nhad loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide\nand desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress and claim the\nfulfilment of my promise.\n\nAs I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of\nmalice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my\npromise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion,\ntore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me\ndestroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for\nhappiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.\n\nI left the room, and locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own\nheart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I\nsought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate\nthe gloom and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most\nterrible reveries.\n\nSeveral hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea;\nit was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature\nreposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone\nspecked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound\nof voices as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence,\nalthough I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear\nwas suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a\nperson landed close to my house.\n\nIn a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one\nendeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a\npresentiment of who it was and wished to rouse one of the peasants who\ndwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation\nof helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain\nendeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot.\n\nPresently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door\nopened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he\napproached me and said in a smothered voice,\n\n You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you\nintend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery;\nI left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among\nits willow islands and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many\nmonths in the heaths of England and among the deserts of Scotland. I have\nendured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my\nhopes? \n\n Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like\nyourself, equal in deformity and wickedness. \n\n Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself\nunworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe\nyourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of\nday will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master;\nobey! \n\n The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is\narrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but\nthey confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in\nvice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a d mon whose\ndelight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your\nwords will only exasperate my rage. \n\nThe monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in the\nimpotence of anger.  Shall each man,  cried he,  find a\nwife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had\nfeelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn.\nMan! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery,\nand soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for\never. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my\nwretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge\nremains revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die, but\nfirst you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your\nmisery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with\nthe wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall\nrepent of the injuries you inflict. \n\n Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice.\nI have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend\nbeneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable. \n\n It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your\nwedding-night. \n\nI started forward and exclaimed,  Villain! Before you sign my\ndeath-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe. \n\nI would have seized him, but he eluded me and quitted the house with\nprecipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot\nacross the waters with an arrowy swiftness and was soon lost amidst the\nwaves.\n\nAll was again silent, but his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage to\npursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the ocean. I\nwalked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination\nconjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not\nfollowed him and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him\nto depart, and he had directed his course towards the mainland. I shuddered\nto think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge.\nAnd then I thought again of his words _I will be with you on\nyour wedding-night._  That, then, was the period fixed for the\nfulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die and at once satisfy and\nextinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I\nthought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow, when she\nshould find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, tears, the first I\nhad shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall\nbefore my enemy without a bitter struggle.\n\nThe night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became\ncalmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into\nthe depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last\nnight s contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I\nalmost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow\ncreatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I\ndesired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true,\nbut uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to\nbe sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a\nd mon whom I had myself created.\n\nI walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it\nloved and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the\nsun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered by a deep\nsleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves\nwere agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep\ninto which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as\nif I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to\nreflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the\nwords of the fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell; they appeared\nlike a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.\n\nThe sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my\nappetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a\nfishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet;\nit contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval entreating me to\njoin him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where\nhe was, that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired\nhis return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his\nIndian enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure; but as\nhis journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now\nconjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of\nmy society on him as I could spare. He besought me, therefore, to\nleave my solitary isle and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed\nsouthwards together. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and\nI determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.\n\nYet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered\nto reflect; I must pack up my chemical instruments, and for that purpose I\nmust enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must\nhandle those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me. The next\nmorning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage and unlocked the door\nof my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had\ndestroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had\nmangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself and\nthen entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments\nout of the room, but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my\nwork to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I accordingly\nput them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and laying them\nup, determined to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the\nmeantime I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my\nchemical apparatus.\n\nNothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place\nin my feelings since the night of the appearance of the d mon. I had\nbefore regarded my promise with a gloomy despair as a thing that, with\nwhatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film\nhad been taken from before my eyes and that I for the first time saw\nclearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur\nto me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not\nreflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in\nmy own mind that to create another like the fiend I had first made\nwould be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness, and I\nbanished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different\nconclusion.\n\nBetween two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting my\nbasket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore.\nThe scene was perfectly solitary; a few boats were returning towards land,\nbut I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a\ndreadful crime and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my\nfellow creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was\nsuddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of\ndarkness and cast my basket into the sea; I listened to the gurgling sound\nas it sank and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded, but\nthe air was pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze that was then\nrising. But it refreshed me and filled me with such agreeable sensations\nthat I resolved to prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a\ndirect position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the\nmoon, everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat as its\nkeel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I\nslept soundly.\n\nI do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I\nfound that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and\nthe waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found\nthat the wind was northeast and must have driven me far from the coast from\nwhich I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course but quickly found\nthat if I again made the attempt the boat would be instantly filled with\nwater. Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I\nconfess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me\nand was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the\nworld that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven into the\nwide Atlantic and feel all the tortures of starvation or be swallowed up in\nthe immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already\nbeen out many hours and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to\nmy other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds\nthat flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others; I looked upon the\nsea; it was to be my grave.  Fiend,  I exclaimed,  your\ntask is already fulfilled!  I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and\nof Clerval all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his\nsanguinary and merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie so\ndespairing and frightful that even now, when the scene is on the point of\nclosing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it.\n\nSome hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the\nhorizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze and the sea became\nfree from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick\nand hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high\nland towards the south.\n\nAlmost spent, as I was, by fatigue and the dreadful suspense I endured\nfor several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of\nwarm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.\n\nHow mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have\nof life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail with a\npart of my dress and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a\nwild and rocky appearance, but as I approached nearer I easily perceived\nthe traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore and found myself\nsuddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilised man. I\ncarefully traced the windings of the land and hailed a steeple which I at\nlength saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of\nextreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place\nwhere I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with\nme. As I turned the promontory I perceived a small neat town and a good\nharbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected\nescape.\n\nAs I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several\npeople crowded towards the spot. They seemed much surprised at my\nappearance, but instead of offering me any assistance, whispered\ntogether with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me\na slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they\nspoke English, and I therefore addressed them in that language.  My\ngood friends,  said I,  will you be so kind as to tell me the name of\nthis town and inform me where I am? \n\n You will know that soon enough,  replied a man with a hoarse voice.\n Maybe you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste,\nbut you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you. \n\nI was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a\nstranger, and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and\nangry countenances of his companions.  Why do you answer me so\nroughly?  I replied.  Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to\nreceive strangers so inhospitably. \n\n I do not know,  said the man,  what the custom of the\nEnglish may be, but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains. \n\nWhile this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly\nincrease. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which\nannoyed and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn, but\nno one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the\ncrowd as they followed and surrounded me, when an ill-looking man\napproaching tapped me on the shoulder and said,  Come, sir, you must\nfollow me to Mr. Kirwin s to give an account of yourself. \n\n Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not\nthis a free country? \n\n Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate,\nand you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was\nfound murdered here last night. \n\nThis answer startled me, but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent;\nthat could easily be proved; accordingly I followed my conductor in silence\nand was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from\nfatigue and hunger, but being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic\nto rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into\napprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that\nwas in a few moments to overwhelm me and extinguish in horror and despair\nall fear of ignominy or death.\n\nI must pause here, for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of\nthe frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my\nrecollection.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 21\n\n\nI was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old\nbenevolent man with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however,\nwith some degree of severity, and then, turning towards my conductors,\nhe asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.\n\nAbout half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the\nmagistrate, he deposed that he had been out fishing the night before with\nhis son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o clock,\nthey observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in\nfor port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did\nnot land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about\ntwo miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle,\nand his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding\nalong the sands, he struck his foot against something and fell at his\nlength on the ground. His companions came up to assist him, and by the\nlight of their lantern they found that he had fallen on the body of a man,\nwho was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition was that it was the\ncorpse of some person who had been drowned and was thrown on shore by the\nwaves, but on examination they found that the clothes were not wet and even\nthat the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage\nof an old woman near the spot and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it\nto life. It appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty\nyears of age. He had apparently been strangled, for there was no sign of\nany violence except the black mark of fingers on his neck.\n\nThe first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me, but\nwhen the mark of the fingers was mentioned I remembered the murder of\nmy brother and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a\nmist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for\nsupport. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye and of course drew\nan unfavourable augury from my manner.\n\nThe son confirmed his father s account, but when Daniel Nugent was\ncalled he swore positively that just before the fall of his companion, he\nsaw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore;\nand as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same\nboat in which I had just landed.\n\nA woman deposed that she lived near the beach and was standing at the door\nof her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour\nbefore she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat with\nonly one man in it push off from that part of the shore where the corpse\nwas afterwards found.\n\nAnother woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the\nbody into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed and\nrubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was\nquite gone.\n\nSeveral other men were examined concerning my landing, and they agreed\nthat, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it\nwas very probable that I had beaten about for many hours and had been\nobliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.\nBesides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body\nfrom another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear to know\nthe shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance\nof the town of   from the place where I had deposited the corpse.\n\nMr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into\nthe room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what\neffect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably\nsuggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the\nmurder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate\nand several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the\nstrange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but,\nknowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had\ninhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly\ntranquil as to the consequences of the affair.\n\nI entered the room where the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin. How\ncan I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with\nhorror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and\nagony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses,\npassed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form of Henry\nClerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on\nthe body, I exclaimed,  Have my murderous machinations deprived you\nalso, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other\nvictims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my\nbenefactor \n\nThe human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and\nI was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.\n\nA fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my\nravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the\nmurderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my\nattendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was\ntormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping\nmy neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke\nmy native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and\nbitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses.\n\nWhy did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not\nsink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming\nchildren, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and\nyouthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the\nnext a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I\nmade that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of\nthe wheel, continually renewed the torture?\n\nBut I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from\na dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by\ngaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon.\nIt was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had\nforgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some\ngreat misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around\nand saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I\nwas, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly.\n\nThis sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside\nme. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her\ncountenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterise\nthat class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of\npersons accustomed to see without sympathising in sights of misery. Her\ntone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English,\nand the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings.\n\n Are you better now, sir?  said she.\n\nI replied in the same language, with a feeble voice,  I believe I am;\nbut if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am\nstill alive to feel this misery and horror. \n\n For that matter,  replied the old woman,  if you mean about the\ngentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you\nwere dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that s none\nof my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I do my duty\nwith a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the same. \n\nI turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a\nspeech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt\nlanguid and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series\nof my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it\nwere all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force\nof reality.\n\nAs the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew\nfeverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed\nme with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The\nphysician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared\nthem for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the\nexpression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the\nsecond. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer but the\nhangman who would gain his fee?\n\nThese were my first reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had\nshown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison\nto be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who\nhad provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to\nsee me, for although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of\nevery human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and\nmiserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see\nthat I was not neglected, but his visits were short and with long\nintervals.\n\nOne day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes\nhalf open and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom\nand misery and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to\nremain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I\nconsidered whether I should not declare myself guilty and suffer the\npenalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my\nthoughts when the door of my apartment was opened and Mr. Kirwin entered.\nHis countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to\nmine and addressed me in French,\n\n I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do anything to\nmake you more comfortable? \n\n I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me; on the whole\nearth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving. \n\n I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to\none borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I\nhope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can\neasily be brought to free you from the criminal charge. \n\n That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange events, become\nthe most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and\nhave been, can death be any evil to me? \n\n Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising than the\nstrange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some\nsurprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality,\nseized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was\npresented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so\nunaccountable a manner and placed, as it were, by some fiend across\nyour path. \n\nAs Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on\nthis retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at\nthe knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some\nastonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kirwin hastened\nto say,\n\n Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on\nyour person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some\ntrace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune\nand illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I\ndiscovered from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote\nto Geneva; nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.\nBut you are ill; even now you tremble; you are unfit for agitation of any\nkind. \n\n This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event;\ntell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am\nnow to lament? \n\n Your family is perfectly well,  said Mr. Kirwin with\ngentleness;  and someone, a friend, is come to visit you. \n\nI know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it\ninstantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my\nmisery and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for\nme to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes,\nand cried out in agony,\n\n Oh! Take him away! I cannot see him; for God s sake, do not\nlet him enter! \n\nMr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help\nregarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt and said in\nrather a severe tone,\n\n I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father\nwould have been welcome instead of inspiring such violent repugnance. \n\n My father!  cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed\nfrom anguish to pleasure.  Is my father indeed come? How kind, how\nvery kind! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me? \n\nMy change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he\nthought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,\nand now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose and\nquitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.\n\nNothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the\narrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him and cried,\n\n Are you then safe and Elizabeth and Ernest? \n\nMy father calmed me with assurances of their welfare and endeavoured, by\ndwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my\ndesponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of\ncheerfulness.  What a place is this that you inhabit, my son! \nsaid he, looking mournfully at the barred windows and wretched appearance\nof the room.  You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems\nto pursue you. And poor Clerval \n\nThe name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too\ngreat to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.\n\n Alas! Yes, my father,  replied I;  some destiny of the\nmost horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I\nshould have died on the coffin of Henry. \n\nWe were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the\nprecarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that\ncould ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in and insisted that my\nstrength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the\nappearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I\ngradually recovered my health.\n\nAs my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black\nmelancholy that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was\nfor ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation\ninto which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous\nrelapse. Alas! Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a\nlife? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now\ndrawing to a close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these\nthrobbings and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears\nme to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also\nsink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although the\nwish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours\nmotionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that\nmight bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.\n\nThe season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months\nin prison, and although I was still weak and in continual danger of a\nrelapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the country\ntown where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every\ncare of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence. I was spared\nthe disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not\nbrought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand\njury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney\nIslands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight\nafter my removal I was liberated from prison.\n\nMy father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a\ncriminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh\natmosphere and permitted to return to my native country. I did not\nparticipate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a\npalace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever, and\nalthough the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I\nsaw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by\nno light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes\nthey were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark\norbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes that fringed\nthem; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I\nfirst saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.\n\nMy father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked\nof Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but\nthese words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a\nwish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved\ncousin or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more\nthe blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early\nchildhood; but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a\nprison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and\nthese fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and\ndespair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the\nexistence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance\nto restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.\n\nYet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally\ntriumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should\nreturn without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those\nI so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any\nchance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to\nblast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to\nthe existence of the monstrous image which I had endued with the\nmockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to\ndelay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a\njourney, for I was a shattered wreck the shadow of a human being. My\nstrength was gone. I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day\npreyed upon my wasted frame.\n\nStill, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience,\nmy father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel\nbound for Havre-de-Grace and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores.\nIt was midnight. I lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to\nthe dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my\nsight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should\nsoon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream;\nyet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested\nshore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly\nthat I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my friend and dearest\ncompanion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I\nrepassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing\nwith my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for\nIngolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on\nto the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in\nwhich he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a\nthousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.\n\nEver since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custom of taking\nevery night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was by means of this drug\nonly that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of\nlife. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now\nswallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did\nnot afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a\nthousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind\nof nightmare; I felt the fiend s grasp in my neck and could not free\nmyself from it; groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was\nwatching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves\nwere around, the cloudy sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of\nsecurity, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour\nand the irresistible, disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm\nforgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly\nsusceptible.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 22\n\n\nThe voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon\nfound that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I\ncould continue my journey. My father s care and attentions were\nindefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and\nsought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to\nseek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not\nabhorred! They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt\nattracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an\nangelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right\nto share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them whose\njoy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans. How they\nwould, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world, did they know\nmy unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me!\n\nMy father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by\nvarious arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I\nfelt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of\nmurder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.\n\n Alas! My father,  said I,  how little do you know me. \nHuman beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such\na wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent\nas I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause\nof this I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry they all\ndied by my hands. \n\nMy father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same\nassertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an\nexplanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of\ndelirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented\nitself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my\nconvalescence. I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence\nconcerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be\nsupposed mad, and this in itself would for ever have chained my tongue. But,\nbesides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my\nhearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of\nhis breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was\nsilent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret.\nYet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably\nfrom me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part\nrelieved the burden of my mysterious woe.\n\nUpon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder,\n My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat\nyou never to make such an assertion again. \n\n I am not mad,  I cried energetically;  the sun and the heavens, who\nhave viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the\nassassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations.\nA thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have\nsaved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not\nsacrifice the whole human race. \n\nThe conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were\nderanged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation and\nendeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as\npossible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in\nIreland and never alluded to them or suffered me to speak of my\nmisfortunes.\n\nAs time passed away I became more calm; misery had her dwelling in my\nheart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own\ncrimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost\nself-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which\nsometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners\nwere calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey\nto the sea of ice.\n\nA few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the\nfollowing letter from Elizabeth:\n\n My dear Friend,\n\n It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle\ndated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may\nhope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you\nmust have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than\nwhen you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably,\ntortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in\nyour countenance and to find that your heart is not totally void of\ncomfort and tranquillity.\n\n Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable\na year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at\nthis period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you, but a\nconversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders\nsome explanation necessary before we meet.\n\nExplanation! You may possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If\nyou really say this, my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied.\nBut you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet\nbe pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the\ncase, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I\nhave often wished to express to you but have never had the courage to begin.\n\n You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of\nyour parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and\ntaught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take\nplace. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I\nbelieve, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But\nas brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each\nother without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our\ncase? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual\nhappiness, with simple truth Do you not love another?\n\n You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at\nIngolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last\nautumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society of every\ncreature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our\nconnection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of\nyour parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations.\nBut this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love\nyou and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant\nfriend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my\nown when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally\nmiserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now\nI weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest\nmisfortunes, you may stifle, by the word _honour_, all hope of that\nlove and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who\nhave so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries\ntenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured\nthat your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be\nmade miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you\nobey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth\nwill have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.\n\n Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the\nnext day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle\nwill send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your\nlips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I\nshall need no other happiness.\n\n Elizabeth Lavenza.\n\n\n\n Geneva, May 18th, 17 \n\n\n\nThis letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of\nthe fiend _I will be with you on your\nwedding-night!_  Such was my sentence, and on that night would the\nd mon employ every art to destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of\nhappiness which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he\nhad determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a\ndeadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were\nvictorious I should be at peace and his power over me be at an end. If he\nwere vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! What freedom? Such as the\npeasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his\ncottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless,\npenniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty except that in my\nElizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of\nremorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.\n\nSweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some\nsoftened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal\ndreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the\nangel s arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make\nher happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet,\nagain, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My\ndestruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner, but if my torturer\nshould suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would\nsurely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed\n_to be with me on my wedding-night_, yet he did not consider that\nthreat as binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me that\nhe was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately\nafter the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my\nimmediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my\nfather s happiness, my adversary s designs against my life\nshould not retard it a single hour.\n\nIn this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and\naffectionate.  I fear, my beloved girl,  I said,  little happiness\nremains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in\nyou. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life\nand my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a\ndreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with\nhorror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only\nwonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of\nmisery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place,\nfor, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But\nuntil then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most\nearnestly entreat, and I know you will comply. \n\nIn about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth s letter we returned\nto Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were\nin her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a\nchange in her also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly\nvivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and soft looks of\ncompassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I\nwas.\n\nThe tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness\nwith it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed\nme; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and\ndespondent. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but sat motionless,\nbewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.\n\nElizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice\nwould soothe me when transported by passion and inspire me with human\nfeelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me and for me. When reason\nreturned, she would remonstrate and endeavour to inspire me with\nresignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the\nguilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is\notherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.\n\nSoon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with\nElizabeth. I remained silent.\n\n Have you, then, some other attachment? \n\n None on earth. I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union with\ndelight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate\nmyself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin. \n\n My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen\nus, but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love\nfor those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be\nsmall but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune.\nAnd when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of\ncare will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly\ndeprived. \n\nSuch were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the\nthreat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as the fiend had\nyet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as\ninvincible, and that when he had pronounced the words  _I shall be with\nyou on your wedding-night_,  I should regard the threatened fate as\nunavoidable. But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were\nbalanced with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful\ncountenance, agreed with my father that if my cousin would consent, the\nceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined,\nthe seal to my fate.\n\nGreat God! If for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish\nintention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself\nfor ever from my native country and wandered a friendless outcast over\nthe earth than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if\npossessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real\nintentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I\nhastened that of a far dearer victim.\n\nAs the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or\na prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my\nfeelings by an appearance of hilarity that brought smiles and joy to the\ncountenance of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer\neye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment,\nnot unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed,\nthat what now appeared certain and tangible happiness might soon dissipate\ninto an airy dream and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.\n\nPreparations were made for the event, congratulatory visits were received,\nand all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own\nheart the anxiety that preyed there and entered with seeming earnestness\ninto the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the\ndecorations of my tragedy. Through my father s exertions a part of\nthe inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian\ngovernment. A small possession on the shores of Como belonged to her. It\nwas agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa\nLavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake\nnear which it stood.\n\nIn the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case the\nfiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger\nconstantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice, and\nby these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the\nperiod approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be\nregarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for\nin my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed\nfor its solemnisation drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of\nas an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.\n\nElizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to\ncalm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my\ndestiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her;\nand perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had\npromised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the\nmeantime overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only recognised in\nthe melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.\n\nAfter the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my\nfather s, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our\njourney by water, sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our\nvoyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favourable;\nall smiled on our nuptial embarkation.\n\nThose were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the\nfeeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along; the sun was hot, but we\nwere sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy while we enjoyed the\nbeauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw\nMont Sal ve, the pleasant banks of Montal gre, and at a distance,\nsurmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy\nmountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the\nopposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the\nambition that would quit its native country, and an almost\ninsurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.\n\nI took the hand of Elizabeth.  You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! If\nyou knew what I have suffered and what I may yet endure, you would\nendeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this\none day at least permits me to enjoy. \n\n Be happy, my dear Victor,  replied Elizabeth;  there is, I hope,\nnothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not\npainted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me\nnot to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us, but I\nwill not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move\nalong and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise\nabove the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more\ninteresting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in\nthe clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at\nthe bottom. What a divine day! How happy and serene all nature\nappears! \n\nThus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all\nreflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating;\njoy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place\nto distraction and reverie.\n\nThe sun sank lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance and\nobserved its path through the chasms of the higher and the glens of the\nlower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached\nthe amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The\nspire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it and the range\nof mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.\n\nThe wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity,\nsank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water\nand caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the\nshore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and\nhay. The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched\nthe shore I felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp\nme and cling to me for ever.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 23\n\n\nIt was eight o clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the\nshore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn and\ncontemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured\nin darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines.\n\nThe wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence\nin the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens and was\nbeginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the\nflight of the vulture and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the\nscene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves\nthat were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.\n\nI had been calm during the day, but so soon as night obscured the\nshapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious\nand watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in\nmy bosom; every sound terrified me, but I resolved that I would sell my\nlife dearly and not shrink from the conflict until my own life or that\nof my adversary was extinguished.\n\nElizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence,\nbut there was something in my glance which communicated terror to her, and\ntrembling, she asked,  What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor?\nWhat is it you fear? \n\n Oh! Peace, peace, my love,  replied I;  this night, and\nall will be safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful. \n\nI passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how\nfearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife,\nand I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her\nuntil I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.\n\nShe left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages\nof the house and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to\nmy adversary. But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning to\nconjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the\nexecution of his menaces when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful\nscream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I\nheard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the\nmotion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood\ntrickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This\nstate lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed\ninto the room.\n\nGreat God! Why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the\ndestruction of the best hope and the purest creature on earth? She was\nthere, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down\nand her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Everywhere I\nturn I see the same figure her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung\nby the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and live? Alas!\nLife is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment\nonly did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground.\n\nWhen I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their\ncountenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of others\nappeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I\nescaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my\nwife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the\nposture in which I had first beheld her, and now, as she lay, her head upon\nher arm and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have\nsupposed her asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but\nthe deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held\nin my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished.\nThe murderous mark of the fiend s grasp was on her neck, and the\nbreath had ceased to issue from her lips.\n\nWhile I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up.\nThe windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of\npanic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber.\nThe shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror not to be\ndescribed, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred.\nA grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his\nfiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards\nthe window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me,\nleaped from his station, and running with the swiftness of lightning,\nplunged into the lake.\n\nThe report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to\nthe spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with\nboats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we\nreturned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a\nform conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to\nsearch the country, parties going in different directions among the\nwoods and vines.\n\nI attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance from the\nhouse, but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken\nman, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my\neyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I\nwas carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had\nhappened; my eyes wandered round the room as if to seek something that\nI had lost.\n\nAfter an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room\nwhere the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping around; I\nhung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time no\ndistinct idea presented itself to my mind, but my thoughts rambled to\nvarious subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes and their\ncause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death\nof William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly\nof my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining\nfriends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now\nmight be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his\nfeet. This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action. I started\nup and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.\n\nThere were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the\nwind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was\nhardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men\nto row and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from\nmental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt,\nand the excess of agitation that I endured rendered me incapable of any\nexertion. I threw down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way\nto every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw scenes which were\nfamiliar to me in my happier time and which I had contemplated but the day\nbefore in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection.\nTears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw\nthe fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before; they had\nthen been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as\na great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might lower,\nbut nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had\nsnatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever been\nso miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of\nman.\n\nBut why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last\noverwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their\n_acme_, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know\nthat, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My\nown strength is exhausted, and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of\nmy hideous narration.\n\nI arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived, but the former sunk\nunder the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old\nman! His eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their\ndelight his Elizabeth, his more than daughter, whom he doted on with\nall that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having\nfew affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed\nbe the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste\nin wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated\naround him; the springs of existence suddenly gave way; he was unable to\nrise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms.\n\nWhat then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and\ndarkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes,\nindeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales\nwith the friends of my youth, but I awoke and found myself in a\ndungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear\nconception of my miseries and situation and was then released from my\nprison. For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I\nunderstood, a solitary cell had been my habitation.\n\nLiberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I\nawakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the\nmemory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their\ncause the monster whom I had created, the miserable d mon whom I had\nsent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a\nmaddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed\nthat I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal\nrevenge on his cursed head.\n\nNor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to\nreflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about\na month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town\nand told him that I had an accusation to make, that I knew the\ndestroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole\nauthority for the apprehension of the murderer.\n\nThe magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness.  Be\nassured, sir,  said he,  no pains or exertions on my part shall\nbe spared to discover the villain. \n\n I thank you,  replied I;  listen, therefore, to the\ndeposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I\nshould fear you would not credit it were there not something in truth\nwhich, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to\nbe mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood.  My\nmanner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my\nown heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose\nquieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related\nmy history briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with\naccuracy and never deviating into invective or exclamation.\n\nThe magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued\nhe became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with\nhorror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted\non his countenance.\n\nWhen I had concluded my narration, I said,  This is the being whom I\naccuse and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert your\nwhole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that\nyour feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those\nfunctions on this occasion. \n\nThis address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own\nauditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given\nto a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon\nto act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity\nreturned. He, however, answered mildly,  I would willingly afford you\nevery aid in your pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears to\nhave powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an\nanimal which can traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens where\nno man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since\nthe commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he\nhas wandered or what region he may now inhabit. \n\n I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if\nhe has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois\nand destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts; you do not\ncredit my narrative and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the\npunishment which is his desert. \n\nAs I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated.\n You are mistaken,  said he.  I will exert myself, and if\nit is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer\npunishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have\nyourself described to be his properties, that this will prove\nimpracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should\nmake up your mind to disappointment. \n\n That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My\nrevenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I\nconfess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage\nis unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned\nloose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand; I have\nbut one resource, and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to\nhis destruction. \n\nI trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy\nin my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness\nwhich the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan\nmagistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of\ndevotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of\nmadness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child and\nreverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.\n\n Man,  I cried,  how ignorant art thou in thy pride of\nwisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say. \n\nI broke from the house angry and disturbed and retired to meditate on\nsome other mode of action.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 24\n\n\nMy present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was\nswallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone\nendowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings and\nallowed me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise\ndelirium or death would have been my portion.\n\nMy first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I\nwas happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became\nhateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels\nwhich had belonged to my mother, and departed.\n\nAnd now my wanderings began which are to cease but with life. I have\ntraversed a vast portion of the earth and have endured all the hardships\nwhich travellers in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet. How I\nhave lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon\nthe sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared\nnot die and leave my adversary in being.\n\nWhen I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by which I\nmight trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled,\nand I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain\nwhat path I should pursue. As night approached I found myself at the\nentrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father\nreposed. I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their\ngraves. Everything was silent except the leaves of the trees, which\nwere gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark, and the\nscene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested\nobserver. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around and to\ncast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the\nmourner.\n\nThe deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to\nrage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived,\nand to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass\nand kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed,  By the\nsacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the\ndeep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the\nspirits that preside over thee, to pursue the d mon who caused this misery,\nuntil he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will\npreserve my life; to execute this dear revenge will I again behold the sun\nand tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my\neyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering\nministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed\nand hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now\ntorments me. \n\nI had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured me\nthat the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion, but\nthe furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance.\n\nI was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish\nlaugh. It rang on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed\nit, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter.\nSurely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy and have\ndestroyed my miserable existence but that my vow was heard and that I\nwas reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away, when a well-known\nand abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an\naudible whisper,  I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have\ndetermined to live, and I am satisfied. \n\nI darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded, but the devil\neluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose and shone\nfull upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he fled with more than\nmortal speed.\n\nI pursued him, and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a\nslight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The\nblue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance, I saw the fiend\nenter by night and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I\ntook my passage in the same ship, but he escaped, I know not how.\n\nAmidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I\nhave ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by\nthis horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself,\nwho feared that if I lost all trace of him I should despair and die,\nleft some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw\nthe print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering\non life, to whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand\nwhat I have felt and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue were the\nleast pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil\nand carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good\nfollowed and directed my steps and when I most murmured would suddenly\nextricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes,\nwhen nature, overcome by hunger, sank under the exhaustion, a repast\nwas prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me. The\nfare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but\nI will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had\ninvoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and\nI was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the\nfew drops that revived me, and vanish.\n\nI followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the d mon\ngenerally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the\ncountry chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom\nseen, and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my\npath. I had money with me and gained the friendship of the villagers\nby distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed,\nwhich, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had\nprovided me with fire and utensils for cooking.\n\nMy life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during\nsleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when most\nmiserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The\nspirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of\nhappiness that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of\nthis respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was\nsustained and inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my\nfriends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent\ncountenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth s\nvoice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by\na toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should\ncome and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest\nfriends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them! How did I cling to\ntheir dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and\npersuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that\nburned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the\ndestruction of the d mon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the\nmechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the\nardent desire of my soul.\n\nWhat his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he\nleft marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in stone that guided\nme and instigated my fury.  My reign is not yet\nover these words were legible in one of these\ninscriptions you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I\nseek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of\ncold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if\nyou follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed. Come on, my\nenemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable\nhours must you endure until that period shall arrive. \n\nScoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee,\nmiserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search\nuntil he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my\nElizabeth and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the\nreward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!\n\nAs I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and the\ncold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were\nshut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to\nseize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to\nseek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be\nprocured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance.\n\nThe triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One\ninscription that he left was in these words:  Prepare! Your toils\nonly begin; wrap yourself in furs and provide food, for we shall soon enter\nupon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting\nhatred. \n\nMy courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I\nresolved not to fail in my purpose, and calling on Heaven to support\nme, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts,\nuntil the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary\nof the horizon. Oh! How unlike it was to the blue seasons of the\nsouth! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by\nits superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when\nthey beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with\nrapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep, but I knelt down\nand with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in\nsafety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary s gibe,\nto meet and grapple with him.\n\nSome weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus\ntraversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the\nfiend possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as before I had\ndaily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him, so much so that\nwhen I first saw the ocean he was but one day s journey in advance, and\nI hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new\ncourage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched\nhamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the\nfiend and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said,\nhad arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols,\nputting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear of\nhis terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter\nfood, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a\nnumerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same\nnight, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his\njourney across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they\nconjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the\nice or frozen by the eternal frosts.\n\nOn hearing this information I suffered a temporary access of despair.\nHe had escaped me, and I must commence a destructive and almost endless\njourney across the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst cold that few\nof the inhabitants could long endure and which I, the native of a\ngenial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea\nthat the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance\nreturned, and like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling.\nAfter a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered\nround and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.\n\nI exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of\nthe Frozen Ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I\ndeparted from land.\n\nI cannot guess how many days have passed since then, but I have endured\nmisery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution\nburning within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and\nrugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard\nthe thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But\nagain the frost came and made the paths of the sea secure.\n\nBy the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that\nI had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction\nof hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of\ndespondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured\nher prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after\nthe poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the\nsummit of a sloping ice mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue,\ndied, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye\ncaught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to\ndiscover what it could be and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I\ndistinguished a sledge and the distorted proportions of a well-known\nform within. Oh! With what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart!\nWarm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might\nnot intercept the view I had of the d mon; but still my sight was\ndimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that\noppressed me, I wept aloud.\n\nBut this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their\ndead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food, and after an\nhour s rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly\nirksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still visible, nor\ndid I again lose sight of it except at the moments when for a short\ntime some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed\nperceptibly gained on it, and when, after nearly two days  journey, I\nbeheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within\nme.\n\nBut now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were\nsuddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had\never done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as\nthe waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous\nand terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared;\nand, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked with a\ntremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished; in a few\nminutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left\ndrifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually lessening and\nthus preparing for me a hideous death.\n\nIn this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died, and I\nmyself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress when I saw your\nvessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life.\nI had no conception that vessels ever came so far north and was astounded\nat the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars, and\nby these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice raft in\nthe direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southwards,\nstill to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my\npurpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue\nmy enemy. But your direction was northwards. You took me on board when my\nvigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied\nhardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is unfulfilled.\n\nOh! When will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the d mon, allow\nme the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do,\nswear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him\nand satisfy my vengeance in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to\nundertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone?\nNo; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if\nthe ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he\nshall not live swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated\nwoes and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent\nand persuasive, and once his words had even power over my heart; but\ntrust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery\nand fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call on the names of William,\nJustine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and\nthrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near and direct the\nsteel aright.\n\nWalton, _in continuation._\n\n\nAugust 26th, 17 .\n\n\nYou have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not\nfeel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles\nmine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his\ntale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with\ndifficulty the words so replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes\nwere now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow\nand quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his\ncountenance and tones and related the most horrible incidents with a\ntranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a\nvolcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression\nof the wildest rage as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.\n\nHis tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest truth,\nyet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me,\nand the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a\ngreater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations,\nhowever earnest and connected. Such a monster has, then, really existence!\nI cannot doubt it, yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I\nendeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his\ncreature s formation, but on this point he was impenetrable.\n\n Are you mad, my friend?  said he.  Or whither does your\nsenseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the\nworld a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! Learn my miseries and do not seek\nto increase your own. \n\nFrankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history; he asked\nto see them and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places,\nbut principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held\nwith his enemy.  Since you have preserved my narration,  said\nhe,  I would not that a mutilated one should go down to\nposterity. \n\nThus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest\ntale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my\nsoul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale\nand his own elevated and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe\nhim, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of\nevery hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! The only joy that he can\nnow know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and\ndeath. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and\ndelirium; he believes that when in dreams he holds converse with his\nfriends and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries or\nexcitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his\nfancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a\nremote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render\nthem to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.\n\nOur conversations are not always confined to his own history and\nmisfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays\nunbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing apprehension. His\neloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates\na pathetic incident or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love,\nwithout tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days\nof his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems\nto feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall.\n\n When younger,  said he,  I believed myself destined for\nsome great enterprise. My feelings are profound, but I possessed a coolness\nof judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of\nthe worth of my nature supported me when others would have been oppressed,\nfor I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that\nmight be useful to my fellow creatures. When I reflected on the work I had\ncompleted, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational\nanimal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But\nthis thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now\nserves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes\nare as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am\nchained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of\nanalysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I\nconceived the idea and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot\nrecollect without passion my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod\nheaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea\nof their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty\nambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once\nwas, you would not recognise me in this state of degradation. Despondency\nrarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell,\nnever, never again to rise. \n\nMust I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have\nsought one who would sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these desert\nseas I have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his\nvalue and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.\n\n I thank you, Walton,  he said,  for your kind intentions towards so\nmiserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh\naffections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any\nman be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth? Even\nwhere the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence,\nthe companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our\nminds which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our\ninfantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified,\nare never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more\ncertain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a\nbrother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early,\nsuspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend,\nhowever strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be\ncontemplated with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only\nthrough habit and association, but from their own merits; and wherever\nI am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation of\nClerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead, and but one\nfeeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I\nwere engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive\nutility to my fellow creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But\nsuch is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I\ngave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled and I may die. \n\nMy beloved Sister,\n\nSeptember 2d.\n\n\nI write to you, encompassed by peril and ignorant whether I am ever\ndoomed to see again dear England and the dearer friends that inhabit\nit. I am surrounded by mountains of ice which admit of no escape and\nthreaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows whom I\nhave persuaded to be my companions look towards me for aid, but I have\nnone to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our\nsituation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. Yet it is\nterrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered\nthrough me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.\n\nAnd what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my\ndestruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and\nyou will have visitings of despair and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! My\nbeloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is,\nin prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband\nand lovely children; you may be happy. Heaven bless you and make you so!\n\nMy unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He\nendeavours to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a possession\nwhich he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have\nhappened to other navigators who have attempted this sea, and in spite\nof myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel\nthe power of his eloquence; when he speaks, they no longer despair; he\nrouses their energies, and while they hear his voice they believe these\nvast mountains of ice are mole-hills which will vanish before the\nresolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of\nexpectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny\ncaused by this despair.\n\nSeptember 5th.\n\n\nA scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that, although it is\nhighly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot\nforbear recording it.\n\nWe are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger\nof being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of\nmy unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of\ndesolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health; a feverish fire\nstill glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted, and when suddenly\nroused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent\nlifelessness.\n\nI mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny.\nThis morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend his\neyes half closed and his limbs hanging listlessly I was roused by half\na dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They\nentered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his\ncompanions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation\nto me to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse.\nWe were immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they\nfeared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free\npassage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage and\nlead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted\nthis. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn\npromise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my\ncourse southwards.\n\nThis speech troubled me. I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived\nthe idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in\npossibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered, when\nFrankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed appeared hardly\nto have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,\nand his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men,\nhe said,\n\n What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you, then,\nso easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious\nexpedition?  And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was\nsmooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and\nterror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to be called forth\nand your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded it, and\nthese you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this\nwas it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the\nbenefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men\nwho encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now,\nbehold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first\nmighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away and are content\nto be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and\nperil; and so, poor souls, they were chilly and returned to their warm\nfiresides. Why, that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come\nthus far and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat merely to prove\nyourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your\npurposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your\nhearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it\nshall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace\nmarked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered and\nwho know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe. \n\nHe spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed\nin his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can\nyou wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another and were\nunable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire and consider of what had\nbeen said, that I would not lead them farther north if they strenuously\ndesired the contrary, but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage\nwould return.\n\nThey retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and\nalmost deprived of life.\n\nHow all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than\nreturn shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my\nfate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never\nwillingly continue to endure their present hardships.\n\nSeptember 7th.\n\n\nThe die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed.\nThus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back\nignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess\nto bear this injustice with patience.\n\nSeptember 12th.\n\n\nIt is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility\nand glory; I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these\nbitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and while I am wafted\ntowards England and towards you, I will not despond.\n\nSeptember 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard\nat a distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were\nin the most imminent peril, but as we could only remain passive, my chief\nattention was occupied by my unfortunate guest whose illness increased in\nsuch a degree that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked\nbehind us and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprang from\nthe west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly\nfree. When the sailors saw this and that their return to their native\ncountry was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them,\nloud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and asked the\ncause of the tumult.  They shout,  I said,  because they\nwill soon return to England. \n\n Do you, then, really return? \n\n Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them\nunwillingly to danger, and I must return. \n\n Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but\nmine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak, but\nsurely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with\nsufficient strength.  Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the\nbed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fainted.\n\nIt was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was\nentirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with\ndifficulty and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing\ndraught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he\ntold me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.\n\nHis sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat\nby his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but\npresently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near,\nsaid,  Alas! The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall\nsoon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think\nnot, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning\nhatred and ardent desire of revenge I once expressed; but I feel myself\njustified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I\nhave been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable.\nIn a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature and was\nbound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and\nwell-being. This was my duty, but there was another still paramount to\nthat. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to\nmy attention because they included a greater proportion of happiness or\nmisery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to\ncreate a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity\nand selfishness in evil; he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction\nbeings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I\nknow where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that he may\nrender no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was\nmine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I\nasked you to undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now,\nwhen I am only induced by reason and virtue.\n\n Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to fulfil\nthis task; and now that you are returning to England, you will have\nlittle chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these\npoints, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I\nleave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near\napproach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I\nmay still be misled by passion.\n\n That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in\nother respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the\nonly happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of\nthe beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell,\nWalton! Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it\nbe only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in\nscience and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been\nblasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed. \n\nHis voice became fainter as he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his\neffort, he sank into silence. About half an hour afterwards he\nattempted again to speak but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and\nhis eyes closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed\naway from his lips.\n\nMargaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this\nglorious spirit? What can I say that will enable you to understand the\ndepth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and\nfeeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of\ndisappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find\nconsolation.\n\nI am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the\nbreeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again there\nis a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin\nwhere the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise and examine.\nGood night, my sister.\n\nGreat God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the\nremembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail\nit; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this\nfinal and wonderful catastrophe.\n\nI entered the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable\nfriend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to\ndescribe gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its\nproportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long\nlocks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and\napparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my\napproach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror and sprung\ntowards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of\nsuch loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily and\nendeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer.\nI called on him to stay.\n\nHe paused, looking on me with wonder, and again turning towards the\nlifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and\nevery feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some\nuncontrollable passion.\n\n That is also my victim!  he exclaimed.  In his murder my\ncrimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its\nclose! Oh, Frankenstein! Generous and self-devoted being! What does it\navail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee\nby destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold, he cannot answer\nme. \n\nHis voice seemed suffocated, and my first impulses, which had suggested to\nme the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend in destroying his\nenemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I\napproached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his\nface, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I\nattempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster\ncontinued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I\ngathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his passion.\n\n Your repentance,  I said,  is now superfluous. If you\nhad listened to the voice of conscience and heeded the stings of remorse\nbefore you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity,\nFrankenstein would yet have lived. \n\n And do you dream?  said the d mon.  Do you think that I was then\ndead to agony and remorse? He,  he continued, pointing to the corpse,\n he suffered not in the consummation of the deed. Oh! Not the\nten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the\nlingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me\non, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you that the\ngroans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be\nsusceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice\nand hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without\ntorture such as you cannot even imagine.\n\n After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken\nand overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror; I\nabhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of\nmy existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for\nhappiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me\nhe sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the\nindulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter\nindignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I\nrecollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished. I\nknew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the\nslave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not\ndisobey. Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not miserable. I had\ncast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my\ndespair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no\nchoice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly\nchosen. The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable\npassion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim! \n\nI was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called\nto mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and\npersuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my\nfriend, indignation was rekindled within me.  Wretch!  I said.\n It is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you\nhave made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are\nconsumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend!\nIf he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would\nhe become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you\nfeel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn\nfrom your power. \n\n Oh, it is not thus not thus,  interrupted the being.\n Yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to\nbe the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow feeling in my misery.\nNo sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of\nvirtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being\noverflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue has\nbecome to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into\nbitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am\ncontent to suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am\nwell satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once\nmy fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once\nI falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would\nlove me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was\nnourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has\ndegraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no\nmalignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the\nfrightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same\ncreature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent\nvisions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the\nfallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man\nhad friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.\n\n You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my\ncrimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of them\nhe could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured\nwasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did\nnot satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still\nI desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no\ninjustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all\nhumankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his\nfriend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic\nwho sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous\nand immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an\nabortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my\nblood boils at the recollection of this injustice.\n\n But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and\nthe helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to\ndeath his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have\ndevoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and\nadmiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that\nirremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me, but\nyour abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the\nhands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the\nimagination of it was conceived and long for the moment when these hands\nwill meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.\n\n Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work\nis nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man s death is needed to\nconsummate the series of my being and accomplish that which must be done,\nbut it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this\nsacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice raft which brought me\nthither and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall\ncollect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its\nremains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch who would\ncreate such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the\nagonies which now consume me or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet\nunquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no\nmore, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no\nlonger see the sun or stars or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light,\nfeeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my\nhappiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first\nopened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the\nrustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to\nme, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by\ncrimes and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in\ndeath?\n\n Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of humankind whom these\neyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive\nand yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better\nsatiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou\ndidst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;\nand if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think\nand feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than\nthat which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to\nthine, for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my\nwounds until death shall close them for ever.\n\n But soon,  he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm,  I\nshall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning\nmiseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and\nexult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration\nwill fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit\nwill sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.\nFarewell. \n\nHe sprang from the cabin-window as he said this, upon the ice raft\nwhich lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves and\nlost in darkness and distance."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Invisible Man",
        "author": "H.G. Wells",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I.\nTHE STRANGE MAN S ARRIVAL\n\n\nThe stranger came early in February, one wintry day, through a biting\nwind and a driving snow, the last snowfall of the year, over the down,\nwalking from Bramblehurst railway station, and carrying a little black\nportmanteau in his thickly gloved hand. He was wrapped up from head to\nfoot, and the brim of his soft felt hat hid every inch of his face but\nthe shiny tip of his nose; the snow had piled itself against his\nshoulders and chest, and added a white crest to the burden he carried.\nHe staggered into the  Coach and Horses  more dead than alive, and\nflung his portmanteau down.  A fire,  he cried,  in the name of human\ncharity! A room and a fire!  He stamped and shook the snow from off\nhimself in the bar, and followed Mrs. Hall into her guest parlour to\nstrike his bargain. And with that much introduction, that and a couple\nof sovereigns flung upon the table, he took up his quarters in the inn.\n\nMrs. Hall lit the fire and left him there while she went to prepare him\na meal with her own hands. A guest to stop at Iping in the wintertime\nwas an unheard-of piece of luck, let alone a guest who was no\n haggler,  and she was resolved to show herself worthy of her good\nfortune. As soon as the bacon was well under way, and Millie, her\nlymphatic maid, had been brisked up a bit by a few deftly chosen\nexpressions of contempt, she carried the cloth, plates, and glasses\ninto the parlour and began to lay them with the utmost _ clat_.\nAlthough the fire was burning up briskly, she was surprised to see that\nher visitor still wore his hat and coat, standing with his back to her\nand staring out of the window at the falling snow in the yard. His\ngloved hands were clasped behind him, and he seemed to be lost in\nthought. She noticed that the melting snow that still sprinkled his\nshoulders dripped upon her carpet.  Can I take your hat and coat, sir? \nshe said,  and give them a good dry in the kitchen? \n\n No,  he said without turning.\n\nShe was not sure she had heard him, and was about to repeat her\nquestion.\n\nHe turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder.  I prefer to\nkeep them on,  he said with emphasis, and she noticed that he wore big\nblue spectacles with sidelights, and had a bush side-whisker over his\ncoat-collar that completely hid his cheeks and face.\n\n Very well, sir,  she said.  _As_ you like. In a bit the room will be\nwarmer. \n\nHe made no answer, and had turned his face away from her again, and\nMrs. Hall, feeling that her conversational advances were ill-timed,\nlaid the rest of the table things in a quick staccato and whisked out\nof the room. When she returned he was still standing there, like a man\nof stone, his back hunched, his collar turned up, his dripping hat-brim\nturned down, hiding his face and ears completely. She put down the eggs\nand bacon with considerable emphasis, and called rather than said to\nhim,  Your lunch is served, sir. \n\n Thank you,  he said at the same time, and did not stir until she was\nclosing the door. Then he swung round and approached the table with a\ncertain eager quickness.\n\nAs she went behind the bar to the kitchen she heard a sound repeated at\nregular intervals. Chirk, chirk, chirk, it went, the sound of a spoon\nbeing rapidly whisked round a basin.  That girl!  she said.  There! I\nclean forgot it. It s her being so long!  And while she herself\nfinished mixing the mustard, she gave Millie a few verbal stabs for her\nexcessive slowness. She had cooked the ham and eggs, laid the table,\nand done everything, while Millie (help indeed!) had only succeeded in\ndelaying the mustard. And him a new guest and wanting to stay! Then she\nfilled the mustard pot, and, putting it with a certain stateliness upon\na gold and black tea-tray, carried it into the parlour.\n\nShe rapped and entered promptly. As she did so her visitor moved\nquickly, so that she got but a glimpse of a white object disappearing\nbehind the table. It would seem he was picking something from the\nfloor. She rapped down the mustard pot on the table, and then she\nnoticed the overcoat and hat had been taken off and put over a chair in\nfront of the fire, and a pair of wet boots threatened rust to her steel\nfender. She went to these things resolutely.  I suppose I may have them\nto dry now,  she said in a voice that brooked no denial.\n\n Leave the hat,  said her visitor, in a muffled voice, and turning she\nsaw he had raised his head and was sitting and looking at her.\n\nFor a moment she stood gaping at him, too surprised to speak.\n\nHe held a white cloth it was a serviette he had brought with him over\nthe lower part of his face, so that his mouth and jaws were completely\nhidden, and that was the reason of his muffled voice. But it was not\nthat which startled Mrs. Hall. It was the fact that all his forehead\nabove his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another\ncovered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting\nonly his pink, peaked nose. It was bright, pink, and shiny just as it\nhad been at first. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high,\nblack, linen-lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black\nhair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages,\nprojected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest\nappearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike\nwhat she had anticipated, that for a moment she was rigid.\n\nHe did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw\nnow, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable\nblue glasses.  Leave the hat,  he said, speaking very distinctly\nthrough the white cloth.\n\nHer nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She\nplaced the hat on the chair again by the fire.  I didn t know, sir, \nshe began,  that  and she stopped embarrassed.\n\n Thank you,  he said drily, glancing from her to the door and then at\nher again.\n\n I ll have them nicely dried, sir, at once,  she said, and carried his\nclothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue\ngoggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was\nstill in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the\ndoor behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and\nperplexity.  I _never_,  she whispered.  There!  She went quite softly\nto the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was\nmessing about with _now_, when she got there.\n\nThe visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced\ninquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette, and resumed\nhis meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took\nanother mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand,\nwalked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the\nwhite muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in a\ntwilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and\nhis meal.\n\n The poor soul s had an accident or an op ration or somethin ,  said\nMrs. Hall.  What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure! \n\nShe put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the\ntraveller s coat upon this.  And they goggles! Why, he looked more like\na divin  helmet than a human man!  She hung his muffler on a corner of\nthe horse.  And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time.\nTalkin  through it! ... Perhaps his mouth was hurt too maybe. \n\nShe turned round, as one who suddenly remembers.  Bless my soul alive! \nshe said, going off at a tangent;  ain t you done them taters _yet_,\nMillie? \n\nWhen Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger s lunch, her idea that\nhis mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she\nsupposed him to have suffered, was confirmed, for he was smoking a\npipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the\nsilk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the\nmouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he\nglanced at it as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back\nto the window-blind and spoke now, having eaten and drunk and being\ncomfortably warmed through, with less aggressive brevity than before.\nThe reflection of the fire lent a kind of red animation to his big\nspectacles they had lacked hitherto.\n\n I have some luggage,  he said,  at Bramblehurst station,  and he asked\nher how he could have it sent. He bowed his bandaged head quite\npolitely in acknowledgment of her explanation.  To-morrow?  he said.\n There is no speedier delivery?  and seemed quite disappointed when she\nanswered,  No.  Was she quite sure? No man with a trap who would go\nover?\n\nMrs. Hall, nothing loath, answered his questions and developed a\nconversation.  It s a steep road by the down, sir,  she said in answer\nto the question about a trap; and then, snatching at an opening, said,\n It was there a carriage was upsettled, a year ago and more. A\ngentleman killed, besides his coachman. Accidents, sir, happen in a\nmoment, don t they? \n\nBut the visitor was not to be drawn so easily.  They do,  he said\nthrough his muffler, eyeing her quietly through his impenetrable\nglasses.\n\n But they take long enough to get well, don t they? ... There was my\nsister s son, Tom, jest cut his arm with a scythe, tumbled on it in the\n ayfield, and, bless me! he was three months tied up sir. You d hardly\nbelieve it. It s regular given me a dread of a scythe, sir. \n\n I can quite understand that,  said the visitor.\n\n He was afraid, one time, that he d have to have an op ration he was\nthat bad, sir. \n\nThe visitor laughed abruptly, a bark of a laugh that he seemed to bite\nand kill in his mouth.  _Was_ he?  he said.\n\n He was, sir. And no laughing matter to them as had the doing for him,\nas I had my sister being took up with her little ones so much. There\nwas bandages to do, sir, and bandages to undo. So that if I may make so\nbold as to say it, sir \n\n Will you get me some matches?  said the visitor, quite abruptly.  My\npipe is out. \n\nMrs. Hall was pulled up suddenly. It was certainly rude of him, after\ntelling him all she had done. She gasped at him for a moment, and\nremembered the two sovereigns. She went for the matches.\n\n Thanks,  he said concisely, as she put them down, and turned his\nshoulder upon her and stared out of the window again. It was altogether\ntoo discouraging. Evidently he was sensitive on the topic of operations\nand bandages. She did not  make so bold as to say,  however, after all.\nBut his snubbing way had irritated her, and Millie had a hot time of it\nthat afternoon.\n\nThe visitor remained in the parlour until four o clock, without giving\nthe ghost of an excuse for an intrusion. For the most part he was quite\nstill during that time; it would seem he sat in the growing darkness\nsmoking in the firelight perhaps dozing.\n\nOnce or twice a curious listener might have heard him at the coals, and\nfor the space of five minutes he was audible pacing the room. He seemed\nto be talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked as he sat down\nagain.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nMR. TEDDY HENFREY S FIRST IMPRESSIONS\n\n\nAt four o clock, when it was fairly dark and Mrs. Hall was screwing up\nher courage to go in and ask her visitor if he would take some tea,\nTeddy Henfrey, the clock-jobber, came into the bar.  My sakes! Mrs.\nHall,  said he,  but this is terrible weather for thin boots!  The snow\noutside was falling faster.\n\nMrs. Hall agreed, and then noticed he had his bag with him.  Now you re\nhere, Mr. Teddy,  said she,  I d be glad if you d give th  old clock in\nthe parlour a bit of a look.  Tis going, and it strikes well and\nhearty; but the hour-hand won t do nuthin  but point at six. \n\nAnd leading the way, she went across to the parlour door and rapped and\nentered.\n\nHer visitor, she saw as she opened the door, was seated in the armchair\nbefore the fire, dozing it would seem, with his bandaged head drooping\non one side. The only light in the room was the red glow from the\nfire which lit his eyes like adverse railway signals, but left his\ndowncast face in darkness and the scanty vestiges of the day that came\nin through the open door. Everything was ruddy, shadowy, and indistinct\nto her, the more so since she had just been lighting the bar lamp, and\nher eyes were dazzled. But for a second it seemed to her that the man\nshe looked at had an enormous mouth wide open a vast and incredible\nmouth that swallowed the whole of the lower portion of his face. It was\nthe sensation of a moment: the white-bound head, the monstrous goggle\neyes, and this huge yawn below it. Then he stirred, started up in his\nchair, put up his hand. She opened the door wide, so that the room was\nlighter, and she saw him more clearly, with the muffler held up to his\nface just as she had seen him hold the serviette before. The shadows,\nshe fancied, had tricked her.\n\n Would you mind, sir, this man a-coming to look at the clock, sir?  she\nsaid, recovering from the momentary shock.\n\n Look at the clock?  he said, staring round in a drowsy manner, and\nspeaking over his hand, and then, getting more fully awake,\n certainly. \n\nMrs. Hall went away to get a lamp, and he rose and stretched himself.\nThen came the light, and Mr. Teddy Henfrey, entering, was confronted by\nthis bandaged person. He was, he says,  taken aback. \n\n Good afternoon,  said the stranger, regarding him as Mr. Henfrey says,\nwith a vivid sense of the dark spectacles like a lobster. \n\n I hope,  said Mr. Henfrey,  that it s no intrusion. \n\n None whatever,  said the stranger.  Though, I understand,  he said\nturning to Mrs. Hall,  that this room is really to be mine for my own\nprivate use. \n\n I thought, sir,  said Mrs. Hall,  you d prefer the clock \n\n Certainly,  said the stranger,  certainly but, as a rule, I like to be\nalone and undisturbed.\n\n But I m really glad to have the clock seen to,  he said, seeing a\ncertain hesitation in Mr. Henfrey s manner.  Very glad.  Mr. Henfrey\nhad intended to apologise and withdraw, but this anticipation reassured\nhim. The stranger turned round with his back to the fireplace and put\nhis hands behind his back.  And presently,  he said,  when the\nclock-mending is over, I think I should like to have some tea. But not\ntill the clock-mending is over. \n\nMrs. Hall was about to leave the room she made no conversational\nadvances this time, because she did not want to be snubbed in front of\nMr. Henfrey when her visitor asked her if she had made any arrangements\nabout his boxes at Bramblehurst. She told him she had mentioned the\nmatter to the postman, and that the carrier could bring them over on\nthe morrow.  You are certain that is the earliest?  he said.\n\nShe was certain, with a marked coldness.\n\n I should explain,  he added,  what I was really too cold and fatigued\nto do before, that I am an experimental investigator. \n\n Indeed, sir,  said Mrs. Hall, much impressed.\n\n And my baggage contains apparatus and appliances. \n\n Very useful things indeed they are, sir,  said Mrs. Hall.\n\n And I m very naturally anxious to get on with my inquiries. \n\n Of course, sir. \n\n My reason for coming to Iping,  he proceeded, with a certain\ndeliberation of manner,  was ... a desire for solitude. I do not wish\nto be disturbed in my work. In addition to my work, an accident \n\n I thought as much,  said Mrs. Hall to herself.\n\n necessitates a certain retirement. My eyes are sometimes so weak and\npainful that I have to shut myself up in the dark for hours together.\nLock myself up. Sometimes now and then. Not at present, certainly. At\nsuch times the slightest disturbance, the entry of a stranger into the\nroom, is a source of excruciating annoyance to me it is well these\nthings should be understood. \n\n Certainly, sir,  said Mrs. Hall.  And if I might make so bold as to\nask \n\n That I think, is all,  said the stranger, with that quietly\nirresistible air of finality he could assume at will. Mrs. Hall\nreserved her question and sympathy for a better occasion.\n\nAfter Mrs. Hall had left the room, he remained standing in front of the\nfire, glaring, so Mr. Henfrey puts it, at the clock-mending. Mr.\nHenfrey not only took off the hands of the clock, and the face, but\nextracted the works; and he tried to work in as slow and quiet and\nunassuming a manner as possible. He worked with the lamp close to him,\nand the green shade threw a brilliant light upon his hands, and upon\nthe frame and wheels, and left the rest of the room shadowy. When he\nlooked up, coloured patches swam in his eyes. Being constitutionally of\na curious nature, he had removed the works a quite unnecessary\nproceeding with the idea of delaying his departure and perhaps falling\ninto conversation with the stranger. But the stranger stood there,\nperfectly silent and still. So still, it got on Henfrey s nerves. He\nfelt alone in the room and looked up, and there, grey and dim, was the\nbandaged head and huge blue lenses staring fixedly, with a mist of\ngreen spots drifting in front of them. It was so uncanny to Henfrey\nthat for a minute they remained staring blankly at one another. Then\nHenfrey looked down again. Very uncomfortable position! One would like\nto say something. Should he remark that the weather was very cold for\nthe time of year?\n\nHe looked up as if to take aim with that introductory shot.  The\nweather  he began.\n\n Why don t you finish and go?  said the rigid figure, evidently in a\nstate of painfully suppressed rage.  All you ve got to do is to fix the\nhour-hand on its axle. You re simply humbugging \n\n Certainly, sir one minute more. I overlooked  and Mr. Henfrey\nfinished and went.\n\nBut he went feeling excessively annoyed.  Damn it!  said Mr. Henfrey to\nhimself, trudging down the village through the thawing snow;  a man\nmust do a clock at times, surely. \n\nAnd again,  Can t a man look at you? Ugly! \n\nAnd yet again,  Seemingly not. If the police was wanting you you\ncouldn t be more wropped and bandaged. \n\nAt Gleeson s corner he saw Hall, who had recently married the\nstranger s hostess at the  Coach and Horses,  and who now drove the\nIping conveyance, when occasional people required it, to Sidderbridge\nJunction, coming towards him on his return from that place. Hall had\nevidently been  stopping a bit  at Sidderbridge, to judge by his\ndriving.  Ow do, Teddy?  he said, passing.\n\n You got a rum un up home!  said Teddy.\n\nHall very sociably pulled up.  What s that?  he asked.\n\n Rum-looking customer stopping at the  Coach and Horses,  said Teddy.\n My sakes! \n\nAnd he proceeded to give Hall a vivid description of his grotesque\nguest.  Looks a bit like a disguise, don t it? I d like to see a man s\nface if I had him stopping in _my_ place,  said Henfrey.  But women are\nthat trustful where strangers are concerned. He s took your rooms and\nhe ain t even given a name, Hall. \n\n You don t say so!  said Hall, who was a man of sluggish apprehension.\n\n Yes,  said Teddy.  By the week. Whatever he is, you can t get rid of\nhim under the week. And he s got a lot of luggage coming to-morrow, so\nhe says. Let s hope it won t be stones in boxes, Hall. \n\nHe told Hall how his aunt at Hastings had been swindled by a stranger\nwith empty portmanteaux. Altogether he left Hall vaguely suspicious.\n Get up, old girl,  said Hall.  I s pose I must see  bout this. \n\nTeddy trudged on his way with his mind considerably relieved.\n\nInstead of  seeing  bout it,  however, Hall on his return was severely\nrated by his wife on the length of time he had spent in Sidderbridge,\nand his mild inquiries were answered snappishly and in a manner not to\nthe point. But the seed of suspicion Teddy had sown germinated in the\nmind of Mr. Hall in spite of these discouragements.  You wim  don t\nknow everything,  said Mr. Hall, resolved to ascertain more about the\npersonality of his guest at the earliest possible opportunity. And\nafter the stranger had gone to bed, which he did about half-past nine,\nMr. Hall went very aggressively into the parlour and looked very hard\nat his wife s furniture, just to show that the stranger wasn t master\nthere, and scrutinised closely and a little contemptuously a sheet of\nmathematical computations the stranger had left. When retiring for the\nnight he instructed Mrs. Hall to look very closely at the stranger s\nluggage when it came next day.\n\n You mind your own business, Hall,  said Mrs. Hall,  and I ll mind\nmine. \n\nShe was all the more inclined to snap at Hall because the stranger was\nundoubtedly an unusually strange sort of stranger, and she was by no\nmeans assured about him in her own mind. In the middle of the night she\nwoke up dreaming of huge white heads like turnips, that came trailing\nafter her, at the end of interminable necks, and with vast black eyes.\nBut being a sensible woman, she subdued her terrors and turned over and\nwent to sleep again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nTHE THOUSAND AND ONE BOTTLES\n\n\nSo it was that on the twenty-ninth day of February, at the beginning of\nthe thaw, this singular person fell out of infinity into Iping village.\nNext day his luggage arrived through the slush and very remarkable\nluggage it was. There were a couple of trunks indeed, such as a\nrational man might need, but in addition there were a box of books big,\nfat books, of which some were just in an incomprehensible\nhandwriting and a dozen or more crates, boxes, and cases, containing\nobjects packed in straw, as it seemed to Hall, tugging with a casual\ncuriosity at the straw glass bottles. The stranger, muffled in hat,\ncoat, gloves, and wrapper, came out impatiently to meet Fearenside s\ncart, while Hall was having a word or so of gossip preparatory to\nhelping bring them in. Out he came, not noticing Fearenside s dog, who\nwas sniffing in a _dilettante_ spirit at Hall s legs.  Come along with\nthose boxes,  he said.  I ve been waiting long enough. \n\nAnd he came down the steps towards the tail of the cart as if to lay\nhands on the smaller crate.\n\nNo sooner had Fearenside s dog caught sight of him, however, than it\nbegan to bristle and growl savagely, and when he rushed down the steps\nit gave an undecided hop, and then sprang straight at his hand.  Whup! \ncried Hall, jumping back, for he was no hero with dogs, and Fearenside\nhowled,  Lie down!  and snatched his whip.\n\nThey saw the dog s teeth had slipped the hand, heard a kick, saw the\ndog execute a flanking jump and get home on the stranger s leg, and\nheard the rip of his trousering. Then the finer end of Fearenside s\nwhip reached his property, and the dog, yelping with dismay, retreated\nunder the wheels of the waggon. It was all the business of a swift\nhalf-minute. No one spoke, everyone shouted. The stranger glanced\nswiftly at his torn glove and at his leg, made as if he would stoop to\nthe latter, then turned and rushed swiftly up the steps into the inn.\nThey heard him go headlong across the passage and up the uncarpeted\nstairs to his bedroom.\n\n You brute, you!  said Fearenside, climbing off the waggon with his\nwhip in his hand, while the dog watched him through the wheel.  Come\nhere,  said Fearenside You d better. \n\nHall had stood gaping.  He wuz bit,  said Hall.  I d better go and see\nto en,  and he trotted after the stranger. He met Mrs. Hall in the\npassage.  Carrier s darg,  he said  bit en. \n\nHe went straight upstairs, and the stranger s door being ajar, he\npushed it open and was entering without any ceremony, being of a\nnaturally sympathetic turn of mind.\n\nThe blind was down and the room dim. He caught a glimpse of a most\nsingular thing, what seemed a handless arm waving towards him, and a\nface of three huge indeterminate spots on white, very like the face of\na pale pansy. Then he was struck violently in the chest, hurled back,\nand the door slammed in his face and locked. It was so rapid that it\ngave him no time to observe. A waving of indecipherable shapes, a blow,\nand a concussion. There he stood on the dark little landing, wondering\nwhat it might be that he had seen.\n\nA couple of minutes after, he rejoined the little group that had formed\noutside the  Coach and Horses.  There was Fearenside telling about it\nall over again for the second time; there was Mrs. Hall saying his dog\ndidn t have no business to bite her guests; there was Huxter, the\ngeneral dealer from over the road, interrogative; and Sandy Wadgers\nfrom the forge, judicial; besides women and children, all of them\nsaying fatuities:  Wouldn t let en bite _me_, I knows ;  Tasn t right\n_have_ such dargs ;  Whad  _e_ bite  n for, then?  and so forth.\n\nMr. Hall, staring at them from the steps and listening, found it\nincredible that he had seen anything so very remarkable happen\nupstairs. Besides, his vocabulary was altogether too limited to express\nhis impressions.\n\n He don t want no help, he says,  he said in answer to his wife s\ninquiry.  We d better be a-takin  of his luggage in. \n\n He ought to have it cauterised at once,  said Mr. Huxter;  especially\nif it s at all inflamed. \n\n I d shoot en, that s what I d do,  said a lady in the group.\n\nSuddenly the dog began growling again.\n\n Come along,  cried an angry voice in the doorway, and there stood the\nmuffled stranger with his collar turned up, and his hat-brim bent down.\n The sooner you get those things in the better I ll be pleased.  It is\nstated by an anonymous bystander that his trousers and gloves had been\nchanged.\n\n Was you hurt, sir?  said Fearenside.  I m rare sorry the darg \n\n Not a bit,  said the stranger.  Never broke the skin. Hurry up with\nthose things. \n\nHe then swore to himself, so Mr. Hall asserts.\n\nDirectly the first crate was, in accordance with his directions,\ncarried into the parlour, the stranger flung himself upon it with\nextraordinary eagerness, and began to unpack it, scattering the straw\nwith an utter disregard of Mrs. Hall s carpet. And from it he began to\nproduce bottles little fat bottles containing powders, small and\nslender bottles containing coloured and white fluids, fluted blue\nbottles labeled Poison, bottles with round bodies and slender necks,\nlarge green-glass bottles, large white-glass bottles, bottles with\nglass stoppers and frosted labels, bottles with fine corks, bottles\nwith bungs, bottles with wooden caps, wine bottles, salad-oil\nbottles putting them in rows on the chiffonnier, on the mantel, on the\ntable under the window, round the floor, on the bookshelf everywhere.\nThe chemist s shop in Bramblehurst could not boast half so many. Quite\na sight it was. Crate after crate yielded bottles, until all six were\nempty and the table high with straw; the only things that came out of\nthese crates besides the bottles were a number of test-tubes and a\ncarefully packed balance.\n\nAnd directly the crates were unpacked, the stranger went to the window\nand set to work, not troubling in the least about the litter of straw,\nthe fire which had gone out, the box of books outside, nor for the\ntrunks and other luggage that had gone upstairs.\n\nWhen Mrs. Hall took his dinner in to him, he was already so absorbed in\nhis work, pouring little drops out of the bottles into test-tubes, that\nhe did not hear her until she had swept away the bulk of the straw and\nput the tray on the table, with some little emphasis perhaps, seeing\nthe state that the floor was in. Then he half turned his head and\nimmediately turned it away again. But she saw he had removed his\nglasses; they were beside him on the table, and it seemed to her that\nhis eye sockets were extraordinarily hollow. He put on his spectacles\nagain, and then turned and faced her. She was about to complain of the\nstraw on the floor when he anticipated her.\n\n I wish you wouldn t come in without knocking,  he said in the tone of\nabnormal exasperation that seemed so characteristic of him.\n\n I knocked, but seemingly \n\n Perhaps you did. But in my investigations my really very urgent and\nnecessary investigations the slightest disturbance, the jar of a door I\nmust ask you \n\n Certainly, sir. You can turn the lock if you re like that, you know.\nAny time. \n\n A very good idea,  said the stranger.\n\n This stror, sir, if I might make so bold as to remark \n\n Don t. If the straw makes trouble put it down in the bill.  And he\nmumbled at her words suspiciously like curses.\n\nHe was so odd, standing there, so aggressive and explosive, bottle in\none hand and test-tube in the other, that Mrs. Hall was quite alarmed.\nBut she was a resolute woman.  In which case, I should like to know,\nsir, what you consider \n\n A shilling put down a shilling. Surely a shilling s enough? \n\n So be it,  said Mrs. Hall, taking up the table-cloth and beginning to\nspread it over the table.  If you re satisfied, of course \n\nHe turned and sat down, with his coat-collar toward her.\n\nAll the afternoon he worked with the door locked and, as Mrs. Hall\ntestifies, for the most part in silence. But once there was a\nconcussion and a sound of bottles ringing together as though the table\nhad been hit, and the smash of a bottle flung violently down, and then\na rapid pacing athwart the room. Fearing  something was the matter, \nshe went to the door and listened, not caring to knock.\n\n I can t go on,  he was raving.  I _can t_ go on. Three hundred\nthousand, four hundred thousand! The huge multitude! Cheated! All my\nlife it may take me! ... Patience! Patience indeed! ... Fool! fool! \n\nThere was a noise of hobnails on the bricks in the bar, and Mrs. Hall\nhad very reluctantly to leave the rest of his soliloquy. When she\nreturned the room was silent again, save for the faint crepitation of\nhis chair and the occasional clink of a bottle. It was all over; the\nstranger had resumed work.\n\nWhen she took in his tea she saw broken glass in the corner of the room\nunder the concave mirror, and a golden stain that had been carelessly\nwiped. She called attention to it.\n\n Put it down in the bill,  snapped her visitor.  For God s sake don t\nworry me. If there s damage done, put it down in the bill,  and he went\non ticking a list in the exercise book before him.\n\n I ll tell you something,  said Fearenside, mysteriously. It was late\nin the afternoon, and they were in the little beer-shop of Iping\nHanger.\n\n Well?  said Teddy Henfrey.\n\n This chap you re speaking of, what my dog bit. Well he s black.\nLeastways, his legs are. I seed through the tear of his trousers and\nthe tear of his glove. You d have expected a sort of pinky to show,\nwouldn t you? Well there wasn t none. Just blackness. I tell you, he s\nas black as my hat. \n\n My sakes!  said Henfrey.  It s a rummy case altogether. Why, his nose\nis as pink as paint! \n\n That s true,  said Fearenside.  I knows that. And I tell  ee what I m\nthinking. That marn s a piebald, Teddy. Black here and white there in\npatches. And he s ashamed of it. He s a kind of half-breed, and the\ncolour s come off patchy instead of mixing. I ve heard of such things\nbefore. And it s the common way with horses, as any one can see. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nMR. CUSS INTERVIEWS THE STRANGER\n\n\nI have told the circumstances of the stranger s arrival in Iping with a\ncertain fulness of detail, in order that the curious impression he\ncreated may be understood by the reader. But excepting two odd\nincidents, the circumstances of his stay until the extraordinary day of\nthe club festival may be passed over very cursorily. There were a\nnumber of skirmishes with Mrs. Hall on matters of domestic discipline,\nbut in every case until late April, when the first signs of penury\nbegan, he over-rode her by the easy expedient of an extra payment. Hall\ndid not like him, and whenever he dared he talked of the advisability\nof getting rid of him; but he showed his dislike chiefly by concealing\nit ostentatiously, and avoiding his visitor as much as possible.  Wait\ntill the summer,  said Mrs. Hall sagely,  when the artisks are\nbeginning to come. Then we ll see. He may be a bit overbearing, but\nbills settled punctual is bills settled punctual, whatever you d like\nto say. \n\nThe stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference\nbetween Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as\nMrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early\nand be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room,\nfretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by\nthe fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none.\nHis temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was\nthat of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once\nor twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic\ngusts of violence. He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest\nintensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily\nupon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make\nneither head nor tail of what she heard.\n\nHe rarely went abroad by daylight, but at twilight he would go out\nmuffled up invisibly, whether the weather were cold or not, and he\nchose the loneliest paths and those most overshadowed by trees and\nbanks. His goggling spectacles and ghastly bandaged face under the\npenthouse of his hat, came with a disagreeable suddenness out of the\ndarkness upon one or two home-going labourers, and Teddy Henfrey,\ntumbling out of the  Scarlet Coat  one night, at half-past nine, was\nscared shamefully by the stranger s skull-like head (he was walking hat\nin hand) lit by the sudden light of the opened inn door. Such children\nas saw him at nightfall dreamt of bogies, and it seemed doubtful\nwhether he disliked boys more than they disliked him, or the reverse;\nbut there was certainly a vivid enough dislike on either side.\n\nIt was inevitable that a person of so remarkable an appearance and\nbearing should form a frequent topic in such a village as Iping.\nOpinion was greatly divided about his occupation. Mrs. Hall was\nsensitive on the point. When questioned, she explained very carefully\nthat he was an  experimental investigator,  going gingerly over the\nsyllables as one who dreads pitfalls. When asked what an experimental\ninvestigator was, she would say with a touch of superiority that most\neducated people knew such things as that, and would thus explain that\nhe  discovered things.  Her visitor had had an accident, she said,\nwhich temporarily discoloured his face and hands, and being of a\nsensitive disposition, he was averse to any public notice of the fact.\n\nOut of her hearing there was a view largely entertained that he was a\ncriminal trying to escape from justice by wrapping himself up so as to\nconceal himself altogether from the eye of the police. This idea sprang\nfrom the brain of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. No crime of any magnitude dating\nfrom the middle or end of February was known to have occurred.\nElaborated in the imagination of Mr. Gould, the probationary assistant\nin the National School, this theory took the form that the stranger was\nan Anarchist in disguise, preparing explosives, and he resolved to\nundertake such detective operations as his time permitted. These\nconsisted for the most part in looking very hard at the stranger\nwhenever they met, or in asking people who had never seen the stranger,\nleading questions about him. But he detected nothing.\n\nAnother school of opinion followed Mr. Fearenside, and either accepted\nthe piebald view or some modification of it; as, for instance, Silas\nDurgan, who was heard to assert that  if he chooses to show enself at\nfairs he d make his fortune in no time,  and being a bit of a\ntheologian, compared the stranger to the man with the one talent. Yet\nanother view explained the entire matter by regarding the stranger as a\nharmless lunatic. That had the advantage of accounting for everything\nstraight away.\n\nBetween these main groups there were waverers and compromisers. Sussex\nfolk have few superstitions, and it was only after the events of early\nApril that the thought of the supernatural was first whispered in the\nvillage. Even then it was only credited among the women folk.\n\nBut whatever they thought of him, people in Iping, on the whole, agreed\nin disliking him. His irritability, though it might have been\ncomprehensible to an urban brain-worker, was an amazing thing to these\nquiet Sussex villagers. The frantic gesticulations they surprised now\nand then, the headlong pace after nightfall that swept him upon them\nround quiet corners, the inhuman bludgeoning of all tentative advances\nof curiosity, the taste for twilight that led to the closing of doors,\nthe pulling down of blinds, the extinction of candles and lamps who\ncould agree with such goings on? They drew aside as he passed down the\nvillage, and when he had gone by, young humourists would up with\ncoat-collars and down with hat-brims, and go pacing nervously after him\nin imitation of his occult bearing. There was a song popular at that\ntime called  The Bogey Man . Miss Statchell sang it at the schoolroom\nconcert (in aid of the church lamps), and thereafter whenever one or\ntwo of the villagers were gathered together and the stranger appeared,\na bar or so of this tune, more or less sharp or flat, was whistled in\nthe midst of them. Also belated little children would call  Bogey Man! \nafter him, and make off tremulously elated.\n\nCuss, the general practitioner, was devoured by curiosity. The bandages\nexcited his professional interest, the report of the thousand and one\nbottles aroused his jealous regard. All through April and May he\ncoveted an opportunity of talking to the stranger, and at last, towards\nWhitsuntide, he could stand it no longer, but hit upon the\nsubscription-list for a village nurse as an excuse. He was surprised to\nfind that Mr. Hall did not know his guest s name.  He give a name, \nsaid Mrs. Hall an assertion which was quite unfounded but I didn t\nrightly hear it.  She thought it seemed so silly not to know the man s\nname.\n\nCuss rapped at the parlour door and entered. There was a fairly audible\nimprecation from within.  Pardon my intrusion,  said Cuss, and then the\ndoor closed and cut Mrs. Hall off from the rest of the conversation.\n\nShe could hear the murmur of voices for the next ten minutes, then a\ncry of surprise, a stirring of feet, a chair flung aside, a bark of\nlaughter, quick steps to the door, and Cuss appeared, his face white,\nhis eyes staring over his shoulder. He left the door open behind him,\nand without looking at her strode across the hall and went down the\nsteps, and she heard his feet hurrying along the road. He carried his\nhat in his hand. She stood behind the door, looking at the open door of\nthe parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his\nfootsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she\nstood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again.\n\nCuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar.  Am I mad? \nCuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study.  Do I look\nlike an insane person? \n\n What s happened?  said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose\nsheets of his forth-coming sermon.\n\n That chap at the inn \n\n Well? \n\n Give me something to drink,  said Cuss, and he sat down.\n\nWhen his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only\ndrink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had\njust had.  Went in,  he gasped,  and began to demand a subscription for\nthat Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and\nhe sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took\nan interest in scientific things. He said yes. Sniffed again. Kept on\nsniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No\nwonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the\nwhile kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance,\ntest-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he\nsubscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he\nresearching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross.  A damnable\nlong research,  said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak.  Oh,  said\nI. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my\nquestion boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most\nvaluable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?  Damn\nyou! What are you fishing after?  I apologised. Dignified sniff and\ncough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned\nhis head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle.\nHe was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a\nflicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting\nchimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So!\nJust at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm. \n\n Well? \n\n No hand just an empty sleeve. Lord! I thought, _that s_ a deformity!\nGot a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, I thought,\nthere s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and\nopen, if there s nothing in it? There was nothing in it, I tell you.\nNothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to\nthe elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of\nthe cloth.  Good God!  I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those\nblack goggles of his, and then at his sleeve. \n\n Well? \n\n That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back\nin his pocket quickly.  I was saying,  said he,  that there was the\nprescription burning, wasn t I?  Interrogative cough.  How the devil, \nsaid I,  can you move an empty sleeve like that?   Empty sleeve? \n Yes,  said I,  an empty sleeve. \n\n It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve?  He\nstood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very\nslow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch,\nthough I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers,\naren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you.\n\n You said it was an empty sleeve?  he said.  Certainly,  I said. At\nstaring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts\nscratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket\nagain, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me\nagain. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age.\n Well?  said I, clearing my throat,  there s nothing in it. \n\n Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see\nright down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just\nlike that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to\nsee an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then \n\n Well? \n\n Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose. \n\nBunting began to laugh.\n\n There wasn t anything there!  said Cuss, his voice running up into a\nshriek at the  there.   It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell\nyou I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut\nout of the room I left him \n\nCuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He\nturned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent\nvicar s very inferior sherry.  When I hit his cuff,  said Cuss,  I tell\nyou, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm!\nThere wasn t the ghost of an arm! \n\nMr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss.  It s a\nmost remarkable story,  he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed.\n It s really,  said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis,  a most\nremarkable story. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nTHE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE\n\n\nThe facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through\nthe medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of\nWhit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs.\nBunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before\nthe dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had\nopened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up\nin bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare\nfeet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the\npassage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she\naroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike\na light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown and his bath\nslippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite\ndistinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk down-stairs, and then\na violent sneeze.\n\nAt that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious\nweapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as\npossible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing.\n\nThe hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was\npast. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study\ndoorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still except the\nfaint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting s tread, and the slight\nmovements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer was opened,\nand there was a rustle of papers. Then came an imprecation, and a match\nwas struck and the study was flooded with yellow light. Mr. Bunting was\nnow in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the\ndesk and the open drawer and a candle burning on the desk. But the\nrobber he could not see. He stood there in the hall undecided what to\ndo, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly\ndownstairs after him. One thing kept Mr. Bunting s courage; the\npersuasion that this burglar was a resident in the village.\n\nThey heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had found\nthe housekeeping reserve of gold two pounds ten in half sovereigns\naltogether. At that sound Mr. Bunting was nerved to abrupt action.\nGripping the poker firmly, he rushed into the room, closely followed by\nMrs. Bunting.  Surrender!  cried Mr. Bunting, fiercely, and then\nstooped amazed. Apparently the room was perfectly empty.\n\nYet their conviction that they had, that very moment, heard somebody\nmoving in the room had amounted to a certainty. For half a minute,\nperhaps, they stood gaping, then Mrs. Bunting went across the room and\nlooked behind the screen, while Mr. Bunting, by a kindred impulse,\npeered under the desk. Then Mrs. Bunting turned back the\nwindow-curtains, and Mr. Bunting looked up the chimney and probed it\nwith the poker. Then Mrs. Bunting scrutinised the waste-paper basket\nand Mr. Bunting opened the lid of the coal-scuttle. Then they came to a\nstop and stood with eyes interrogating each other.\n\n I could have sworn  said Mr. Bunting.\n\n The candle!  said Mr. Bunting.  Who lit the candle? \n\n The drawer!  said Mrs. Bunting.  And the money s gone! \n\nShe went hastily to the doorway.\n\n Of all the strange occurrences \n\nThere was a violent sneeze in the passage. They rushed out, and as they\ndid so the kitchen door slammed.  Bring the candle,  said Mr. Bunting,\nand led the way. They both heard a sound of bolts being hastily shot\nback.\n\nAs he opened the kitchen door he saw through the scullery that the back\ndoor was just opening, and the faint light of early dawn displayed the\ndark masses of the garden beyond. He is certain that nothing went out\nof the door. It opened, stood open for a moment, and then closed with a\nslam. As it did so, the candle Mrs. Bunting was carrying from the study\nflickered and flared. It was a minute or more before they entered the\nkitchen.\n\nThe place was empty. They refastened the back door, examined the\nkitchen, pantry, and scullery thoroughly, and at last went down into\nthe cellar. There was not a soul to be found in the house, search as\nthey would.\n\nDaylight found the vicar and his wife, a quaintly-costumed little\ncouple, still marvelling about on their own ground floor by the\nunnecessary light of a guttering candle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nTHE FURNITURE THAT WENT MAD\n\n\nNow it happened that in the early hours of Whit Monday, before Millie\nwas hunted out for the day, Mr. Hall and Mrs. Hall both rose and went\nnoiselessly down into the cellar. Their business there was of a private\nnature, and had something to do with the specific gravity of their\nbeer. They had hardly entered the cellar when Mrs. Hall found she had\nforgotten to bring down a bottle of sarsaparilla from their joint-room.\nAs she was the expert and principal operator in this affair, Hall very\nproperly went upstairs for it.\n\nOn the landing he was surprised to see that the stranger s door was\najar. He went on into his own room and found the bottle as he had been\ndirected.\n\nBut returning with the bottle, he noticed that the bolts of the front\ndoor had been shot back, that the door was in fact simply on the latch.\nAnd with a flash of inspiration he connected this with the stranger s\nroom upstairs and the suggestions of Mr. Teddy Henfrey. He distinctly\nremembered holding the candle while Mrs. Hall shot these bolts\novernight. At the sight he stopped, gaping, then with the bottle still\nin his hand went upstairs again. He rapped at the stranger s door.\nThere was no answer. He rapped again; then pushed the door wide open\nand entered.\n\nIt was as he expected. The bed, the room also, was empty. And what was\nstranger, even to his heavy intelligence, on the bedroom chair and\nalong the rail of the bed were scattered the garments, the only\ngarments so far as he knew, and the bandages of their guest. His big\nslouch hat even was cocked jauntily over the bed-post.\n\nAs Hall stood there he heard his wife s voice coming out of the depth\nof the cellar, with that rapid telescoping of the syllables and\ninterrogative cocking up of the final words to a high note, by which\nthe West Sussex villager is wont to indicate a brisk impatience.\n George! You gart whad a wand? \n\nAt that he turned and hurried down to her.  Janny,  he said, over the\nrail of the cellar steps,  tas the truth what Henfrey sez.  E s not in\nuz room,  e en t. And the front door s onbolted. \n\nAt first Mrs. Hall did not understand, and as soon as she did she\nresolved to see the empty room for herself. Hall, still holding the\nbottle, went first.  If  e en t there,  he said,  is close are. And\nwhat s  e doin   ithout  is close, then?  Tas a most curious business. \n\nAs they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards\nascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but\nseeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other\nabout it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and\nran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall,\nfollowing six steps behind, thought that he heard her sneeze. She,\ngoing on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She\nflung open the door and stood regarding the room.  Of all the curious! \nshe said.\n\nShe heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was\nsurprised to see Hall a dozen feet off on the topmost stair. But in\nanother moment he was beside her. She bent forward and put her hand on\nthe pillow and then under the clothes.\n\n Cold,  she said.  He s been up this hour or more. \n\nAs she did so, a most extraordinary thing happened. The bed-clothes\ngathered themselves together, leapt up suddenly into a sort of peak,\nand then jumped headlong over the bottom rail. It was exactly as if a\nhand had clutched them in the centre and flung them aside. Immediately\nafter, the stranger s hat hopped off the bed-post, described a whirling\nflight in the air through the better part of a circle, and then dashed\nstraight at Mrs. Hall s face. Then as swiftly came the sponge from the\nwashstand; and then the chair, flinging the stranger s coat and\ntrousers carelessly aside, and laughing drily in a voice singularly\nlike the stranger s, turned itself up with its four legs at Mrs. Hall,\nseemed to take aim at her for a moment, and charged at her. She\nscreamed and turned, and then the chair legs came gently but firmly\nagainst her back and impelled her and Hall out of the room. The door\nslammed violently and was locked. The chair and bed seemed to be\nexecuting a dance of triumph for a moment, and then abruptly everything\nwas still.\n\nMrs. Hall was left almost in a fainting condition in Mr. Hall s arms on\nthe landing. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mr. Hall and\nMillie, who had been roused by her scream of alarm, succeeded in\ngetting her downstairs, and applying the restoratives customary in such\ncases.\n\n Tas sperits,  said Mrs. Hall.  I know  tas sperits. I ve read in\npapers of en. Tables and chairs leaping and dancing... \n\n Take a drop more, Janny,  said Hall.  Twill steady ye. \n\n Lock him out,  said Mrs. Hall.  Don t let him come in again. I half\nguessed I might ha  known. With them goggling eyes and bandaged head,\nand never going to church of a Sunday. And all they bottles more n it s\nright for any one to have. He s put the sperits into the furniture....\nMy good old furniture!  Twas in that very chair my poor dear mother\nused to sit when I was a little girl. To think it should rise up\nagainst me now! \n\n Just a drop more, Janny,  said Hall.  Your nerves is all upset. \n\nThey sent Millie across the street through the golden five o clock\nsunshine to rouse up Mr. Sandy Wadgers, the blacksmith. Mr. Hall s\ncompliments and the furniture upstairs was behaving most extraordinary.\nWould Mr. Wadgers come round? He was a knowing man, was Mr. Wadgers,\nand very resourceful. He took quite a grave view of the case.  Arm\ndarmed if thet ent witchcraft,  was the view of Mr. Sandy Wadgers.  You\nwarnt horseshoes for such gentry as he. \n\nHe came round greatly concerned. They wanted him to lead the way\nupstairs to the room, but he didn t seem to be in any hurry. He\npreferred to talk in the passage. Over the way Huxter s apprentice came\nout and began taking down the shutters of the tobacco window. He was\ncalled over to join the discussion. Mr. Huxter naturally followed over\nin the course of a few minutes. The Anglo-Saxon genius for\nparliamentary government asserted itself; there was a great deal of\ntalk and no decisive action.  Let s have the facts first,  insisted Mr.\nSandy Wadgers.  Let s be sure we d be acting perfectly right in bustin \nthat there door open. A door onbust is always open to bustin , but ye\ncan t onbust a door once you ve busted en. \n\nAnd suddenly and most wonderfully the door of the room upstairs opened\nof its own accord, and as they looked up in amazement, they saw\ndescending the stairs the muffled figure of the stranger staring more\nblackly and blankly than ever with those unreasonably large blue glass\neyes of his. He came down stiffly and slowly, staring all the time; he\nwalked across the passage staring, then stopped.\n\n Look there!  he said, and their eyes followed the direction of his\ngloved finger and saw a bottle of sarsaparilla hard by the cellar door.\nThen he entered the parlour, and suddenly, swiftly, viciously, slammed\nthe door in their faces.\n\nNot a word was spoken until the last echoes of the slam had died away.\nThey stared at one another.  Well, if that don t lick everything!  said\nMr. Wadgers, and left the alternative unsaid.\n\n I d go in and ask n  bout it,  said Wadgers, to Mr. Hall.  I d d mand\nan explanation. \n\nIt took some time to bring the landlady s husband up to that pitch. At\nlast he rapped, opened the door, and got as far as,  Excuse me \n\n Go to the devil!  said the stranger in a tremendous voice, and  Shut\nthat door after you.  So that brief interview terminated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nTHE UNVEILING OF THE STRANGER\n\n\nThe stranger went into the little parlour of the  Coach and Horses \nabout half-past five in the morning, and there he remained until near\nmidday, the blinds down, the door shut, and none, after Hall s repulse,\nventuring near him.\n\nAll that time he must have fasted. Thrice he rang his bell, the third\ntime furiously and continuously, but no one answered him.  Him and his\n go to the devil  indeed!  said Mrs. Hall. Presently came an imperfect\nrumour of the burglary at the vicarage, and two and two were put\ntogether. Hall, assisted by Wadgers, went off to find Mr. Shuckleforth,\nthe magistrate, and take his advice. No one ventured upstairs. How the\nstranger occupied himself is unknown. Now and then he would stride\nviolently up and down, and twice came an outburst of curses, a tearing\nof paper, and a violent smashing of bottles.\n\nThe little group of scared but curious people increased. Mrs. Huxter\ncame over; some gay young fellows resplendent in black ready-made\njackets and _piqu _ paper ties for it was Whit Monday joined the group\nwith confused interrogations. Young Archie Harker distinguished himself\nby going up the yard and trying to peep under the window-blinds. He\ncould see nothing, but gave reason for supposing that he did, and\nothers of the Iping youth presently joined him.\n\nIt was the finest of all possible Whit Mondays, and down the village\nstreet stood a row of nearly a dozen booths, a shooting gallery, and on\nthe grass by the forge were three yellow and chocolate waggons and some\npicturesque strangers of both sexes putting up a cocoanut shy. The\ngentlemen wore blue jerseys, the ladies white aprons and quite\nfashionable hats with heavy plumes. Wodger, of the  Purple Fawn,  and\nMr. Jaggers, the cobbler, who also sold old second-hand ordinary\nbicycles, were stretching a string of union-jacks and royal ensigns\n(which had originally celebrated the first Victorian Jubilee) across\nthe road.\n\nAnd inside, in the artificial darkness of the parlour, into which only\none thin jet of sunlight penetrated, the stranger, hungry we must\nsuppose, and fearful, hidden in his uncomfortable hot wrappings, pored\nthrough his dark glasses upon his paper or chinked his dirty little\nbottles, and occasionally swore savagely at the boys, audible if\ninvisible, outside the windows. In the corner by the fireplace lay the\nfragments of half a dozen smashed bottles, and a pungent twang of\nchlorine tainted the air. So much we know from what was heard at the\ntime and from what was subsequently seen in the room.\n\nAbout noon he suddenly opened his parlour door and stood glaring\nfixedly at the three or four people in the bar.  Mrs. Hall,  he said.\nSomebody went sheepishly and called for Mrs. Hall.\n\nMrs. Hall appeared after an interval, a little short of breath, but all\nthe fiercer for that. Hall was still out. She had deliberated over this\nscene, and she came holding a little tray with an unsettled bill upon\nit.  Is it your bill you re wanting, sir?  she said.\n\n Why wasn t my breakfast laid? Why haven t you prepared my meals and\nanswered my bell? Do you think I live without eating? \n\n Why isn t my bill paid?  said Mrs. Hall.  That s what I want to know. \n\n I told you three days ago I was awaiting a remittance \n\n I told you two days ago I wasn t going to await no remittances. You\ncan t grumble if your breakfast waits a bit, if my bill s been waiting\nthese five days, can you? \n\nThe stranger swore briefly but vividly.\n\n Nar, nar!  from the bar.\n\n And I d thank you kindly, sir, if you d keep your swearing to\nyourself, sir,  said Mrs. Hall.\n\nThe stranger stood looking more like an angry diving-helmet than ever.\nIt was universally felt in the bar that Mrs. Hall had the better of\nhim. His next words showed as much.\n\n Look here, my good woman  he began.\n\n Don t  good woman  _me_,  said Mrs. Hall.\n\n I ve told you my remittance hasn t come. \n\n Remittance indeed!  said Mrs. Hall.\n\n Still, I daresay in my pocket \n\n You told me three days ago that you hadn t anything but a sovereign s\nworth of silver upon you. \n\n Well, I ve found some more \n\n Ul-lo!  from the bar.\n\n I wonder where you found it,  said Mrs. Hall.\n\nThat seemed to annoy the stranger very much. He stamped his foot.  What\ndo you mean?  he said.\n\n That I wonder where you found it,  said Mrs. Hall.  And before I take\nany bills or get any breakfasts, or do any such things whatsoever, you\ngot to tell me one or two things I don t understand, and what nobody\ndon t understand, and what everybody is very anxious to understand. I\nwant to know what you been doing t my chair upstairs, and I want to\nknow how  tis your room was empty, and how you got in again. Them as\nstops in this house comes in by the doors that s the rule of the house,\nand that you _didn t_ do, and what I want to know is how you _did_ come\nin. And I want to know \n\nSuddenly the stranger raised his gloved hands clenched, stamped his\nfoot, and said,  Stop!  with such extraordinary violence that he\nsilenced her instantly.\n\n You don t understand,  he said,  who I am or what I am. I ll show you.\nBy Heaven! I ll show you.  Then he put his open palm over his face and\nwithdrew it. The centre of his face became a black cavity.  Here,  he\nsaid. He stepped forward and handed Mrs. Hall something which she,\nstaring at his metamorphosed face, accepted automatically. Then, when\nshe saw what it was, she screamed loudly, dropped it, and staggered\nback. The nose it was the stranger s nose! pink and shining rolled on\nthe floor.\n\nThen he removed his spectacles, and everyone in the bar gasped. He took\noff his hat, and with a violent gesture tore at his whiskers and\nbandages. For a moment they resisted him. A flash of horrible\nanticipation passed through the bar.  Oh, my Gard!  said some one. Then\noff they came.\n\nIt was worse than anything. Mrs. Hall, standing open-mouthed and\nhorror-struck, shrieked at what she saw, and made for the door of the\nhouse. Everyone began to move. They were prepared for scars,\ndisfigurements, tangible horrors, but nothing! The bandages and false\nhair flew across the passage into the bar, making a hobbledehoy jump to\navoid them. Everyone tumbled on everyone else down the steps. For the\nman who stood there shouting some incoherent explanation, was a solid\ngesticulating figure up to the coat-collar of him, and\nthen nothingness, no visible thing at all!\n\nPeople down the village heard shouts and shrieks, and looking up the\nstreet saw the  Coach and Horses  violently firing out its humanity.\nThey saw Mrs. Hall fall down and Mr. Teddy Henfrey jump to avoid\ntumbling over her, and then they heard the frightful screams of Millie,\nwho, emerging suddenly from the kitchen at the noise of the tumult, had\ncome upon the headless stranger from behind. These increased suddenly.\n\nForthwith everyone all down the street, the sweetstuff seller, cocoanut\nshy proprietor and his assistant, the swing man, little boys and girls,\nrustic dandies, smart wenches, smocked elders and aproned gipsies began\nrunning towards the inn, and in a miraculously short space of time a\ncrowd of perhaps forty people, and rapidly increasing, swayed and\nhooted and inquired and exclaimed and suggested, in front of Mrs.\nHall s establishment. Everyone seemed eager to talk at once, and the\nresult was Babel. A small group supported Mrs. Hall, who was picked up\nin a state of collapse. There was a conference, and the incredible\nevidence of a vociferous eye-witness.  O Bogey!   What s he been doin ,\nthen?   Ain t hurt the girl,  as  e?   Run at en with a knife, I\nbelieve.   No  ed, I tell ye. I don t mean no manner of speaking. I\nmean _marn  ithout a  ed_!   Narnsense!  tis some conjuring trick. \n Fetched off  is wrapping,  e did \n\nIn its struggles to see in through the open door, the crowd formed\nitself into a straggling wedge, with the more adventurous apex nearest\nthe inn.  He stood for a moment, I heerd the gal scream, and he turned.\nI saw her skirts whisk, and he went after her. Didn t take ten seconds.\nBack he comes with a knife in uz hand and a loaf; stood just as if he\nwas staring. Not a moment ago. Went in that there door. I tell  e,  e\nain t gart no  ed at all. You just missed en \n\nThere was a disturbance behind, and the speaker stopped to step aside\nfor a little procession that was marching very resolutely towards the\nhouse; first Mr. Hall, very red and determined, then Mr. Bobby Jaffers,\nthe village constable, and then the wary Mr. Wadgers. They had come now\narmed with a warrant.\n\nPeople shouted conflicting information of the recent circumstances.\n Ed or no  ed,  said Jaffers,  I got to  rest en, and  rest en I\n_will_. \n\nMr. Hall marched up the steps, marched straight to the door of the\nparlour and flung it open.  Constable,  he said,  do your duty. \n\nJaffers marched in. Hall next, Wadgers last. They saw in the dim light\nthe headless figure facing them, with a gnawed crust of bread in one\ngloved hand and a chunk of cheese in the other.\n\n That s him!  said Hall.\n\n What the devil s this?  came in a tone of angry expostulation from\nabove the collar of the figure.\n\n You re a damned rum customer, mister,  said Mr. Jaffers.  But  ed or\nno  ed, the warrant says  body,  and duty s duty \n\n Keep off!  said the figure, starting back.\n\nAbruptly he whipped down the bread and cheese, and Mr. Hall just\ngrasped the knife on the table in time to save it. Off came the\nstranger s left glove and was slapped in Jaffers  face. In another\nmoment Jaffers, cutting short some statement concerning a warrant, had\ngripped him by the handless wrist and caught his invisible throat. He\ngot a sounding kick on the shin that made him shout, but he kept his\ngrip. Hall sent the knife sliding along the table to Wadgers, who acted\nas goal-keeper for the offensive, so to speak, and then stepped forward\nas Jaffers and the stranger swayed and staggered towards him, clutching\nand hitting in. A chair stood in the way, and went aside with a crash\nas they came down together.\n\n Get the feet,  said Jaffers between his teeth.\n\nMr. Hall, endeavouring to act on instructions, received a sounding kick\nin the ribs that disposed of him for a moment, and Mr. Wadgers, seeing\nthe decapitated stranger had rolled over and got the upper side of\nJaffers, retreated towards the door, knife in hand, and so collided\nwith Mr. Huxter and the Sidderbridge carter coming to the rescue of law\nand order. At the same moment down came three or four bottles from the\nchiffonnier and shot a web of pungency into the air of the room.\n\n I ll surrender,  cried the stranger, though he had Jaffers down, and\nin another moment he stood up panting, a strange figure, headless and\nhandless for he had pulled off his right glove now as well as his left.\n It s no good,  he said, as if sobbing for breath.\n\nIt was the strangest thing in the world to hear that voice coming as if\nout of empty space, but the Sussex peasants are perhaps the most\nmatter-of-fact people under the sun. Jaffers got up also and produced a\npair of handcuffs. Then he stared.\n\n I say!  said Jaffers, brought up short by a dim realization of the\nincongruity of the whole business,  Darn it! Can t use  em as I can\nsee. \n\nThe stranger ran his arm down his waistcoat, and as if by a miracle the\nbuttons to which his empty sleeve pointed became undone. Then he said\nsomething about his shin, and stooped down. He seemed to be fumbling\nwith his shoes and socks.\n\n Why!  said Huxter, suddenly,  that s not a man at all. It s just empty\nclothes. Look! You can see down his collar and the linings of his\nclothes. I could put my arm \n\nHe extended his hand; it seemed to meet something in mid-air, and he\ndrew it back with a sharp exclamation.  I wish you d keep your fingers\nout of my eye,  said the aerial voice, in a tone of savage\nexpostulation.  The fact is, I m all here head, hands, legs, and all\nthe rest of it, but it happens I m invisible. It s a confounded\nnuisance, but I am. That s no reason why I should be poked to pieces by\nevery stupid bumpkin in Iping, is it? \n\nThe suit of clothes, now all unbuttoned and hanging loosely upon its\nunseen supports, stood up, arms akimbo.\n\nSeveral other of the men folks had now entered the room, so that it was\nclosely crowded.  Invisible, eh?  said Huxter, ignoring the stranger s\nabuse.  Who ever heard the likes of that? \n\n It s strange, perhaps, but it s not a crime. Why am I assaulted by a\npoliceman in this fashion? \n\n Ah! that s a different matter,  said Jaffers.  No doubt you are a bit\ndifficult to see in this light, but I got a warrant and it s all\ncorrect. What I m after ain t no invisibility, it s burglary. There s a\nhouse been broke into and money took. \n\n Well? \n\n And circumstances certainly point \n\n Stuff and nonsense!  said the Invisible Man.\n\n I hope so, sir; but I ve got my instructions. \n\n Well,  said the stranger,  I ll come. I ll _come_. But no handcuffs. \n\n It s the regular thing,  said Jaffers.\n\n No handcuffs,  stipulated the stranger.\n\n Pardon me,  said Jaffers.\n\nAbruptly the figure sat down, and before any one could realise was was\nbeing done, the slippers, socks, and trousers had been kicked off under\nthe table. Then he sprang up again and flung off his coat.\n\n Here, stop that,  said Jaffers, suddenly realising what was happening.\nHe gripped at the waistcoat; it struggled, and the shirt slipped out of\nit and left it limp and empty in his hand.  Hold him!  said Jaffers,\nloudly.  Once he gets the things off \n\n Hold him!  cried everyone, and there was a rush at the fluttering\nwhite shirt which was now all that was visible of the stranger.\n\nThe shirt-sleeve planted a shrewd blow in Hall s face that stopped his\nopen-armed advance, and sent him backward into old Toothsome the\nsexton, and in another moment the garment was lifted up and became\nconvulsed and vacantly flapping about the arms, even as a shirt that is\nbeing thrust over a man s head. Jaffers clutched at it, and only helped\nto pull it off; he was struck in the mouth out of the air, and\nincontinently threw his truncheon and smote Teddy Henfrey savagely upon\nthe crown of his head.\n\n Look out!  said everybody, fencing at random and hitting at nothing.\n Hold him! Shut the door! Don t let him loose! I got something! Here he\nis!  A perfect Babel of noises they made. Everybody, it seemed, was\nbeing hit all at once, and Sandy Wadgers, knowing as ever and his wits\nsharpened by a frightful blow in the nose, reopened the door and led\nthe rout. The others, following incontinently, were jammed for a moment\nin the corner by the doorway. The hitting continued. Phipps, the\nUnitarian, had a front tooth broken, and Henfrey was injured in the\ncartilage of his ear. Jaffers was struck under the jaw, and, turning,\ncaught at something that intervened between him and Huxter in the\nm l e, and prevented their coming together. He felt a muscular chest,\nand in another moment the whole mass of struggling, excited men shot\nout into the crowded hall.\n\n I got him!  shouted Jaffers, choking and reeling through them all, and\nwrestling with purple face and swelling veins against his unseen enemy.\n\nMen staggered right and left as the extraordinary conflict swayed\nswiftly towards the house door, and went spinning down the half-dozen\nsteps of the inn. Jaffers cried in a strangled voice holding tight,\nnevertheless, and making play with his knee spun around, and fell\nheavily undermost with his head on the gravel. Only then did his\nfingers relax.\n\nThere were excited cries of  Hold him!   Invisible!  and so forth, and\na young fellow, a stranger in the place whose name did not come to\nlight, rushed in at once, caught something, missed his hold, and fell\nover the constable s prostrate body. Half-way across the road a woman\nscreamed as something pushed by her; a dog, kicked apparently, yelped\nand ran howling into Huxter s yard, and with that the transit of the\nInvisible Man was accomplished. For a space people stood amazed and\ngesticulating, and then came panic, and scattered them abroad through\nthe village as a gust scatters dead leaves.\n\nBut Jaffers lay quite still, face upward and knees bent, at the foot of\nthe steps of the inn.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nIN TRANSIT\n\n\nThe eighth chapter is exceedingly brief, and relates that Gibbons, the\namateur naturalist of the district, while lying out on the spacious\nopen downs without a soul within a couple of miles of him, as he\nthought, and almost dozing, heard close to him the sound as of a man\ncoughing, sneezing, and then swearing savagely to himself; and looking,\nbeheld nothing. Yet the voice was indisputable. It continued to swear\nwith that breadth and variety that distinguishes the swearing of a\ncultivated man. It grew to a climax, diminished again, and died away in\nthe distance, going as it seemed to him in the direction of Adderdean.\nIt lifted to a spasmodic sneeze and ended. Gibbons had heard nothing of\nthe morning s occurrences, but the phenomenon was so striking and\ndisturbing that his philosophical tranquillity vanished; he got up\nhastily, and hurried down the steepness of the hill towards the\nvillage, as fast as he could go.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nMR. THOMAS MARVEL\n\n\nYou must picture Mr. Thomas Marvel as a person of copious, flexible\nvisage, a nose of cylindrical protrusion, a liquorish, ample,\nfluctuating mouth, and a beard of bristling eccentricity. His figure\ninclined to embonpoint; his short limbs accentuated this inclination.\nHe wore a furry silk hat, and the frequent substitution of twine and\nshoe-laces for buttons, apparent at critical points of his costume,\nmarked a man essentially bachelor.\n\nMr. Thomas Marvel was sitting with his feet in a ditch by the roadside\nover the down towards Adderdean, about a mile and a half out of Iping.\nHis feet, save for socks of irregular open-work, were bare, his big\ntoes were broad, and pricked like the ears of a watchful dog. In a\nleisurely manner he did everything in a leisurely manner he was\ncontemplating trying on a pair of boots. They were the soundest boots\nhe had come across for a long time, but too large for him; whereas the\nones he had were, in dry weather, a very comfortable fit, but too\nthin-soled for damp. Mr. Thomas Marvel hated roomy shoes, but then he\nhated damp. He had never properly thought out which he hated most, and\nit was a pleasant day, and there was nothing better to do. So he put\nthe four shoes in a graceful group on the turf and looked at them. And\nseeing them there among the grass and springing agrimony, it suddenly\noccurred to him that both pairs were exceedingly ugly to see. He was\nnot at all startled by a voice behind him.\n\n They re boots, anyhow,  said the Voice.\n\n They are charity boots,  said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with his head on one\nside regarding them distastefully;  and which is the ugliest pair in\nthe whole blessed universe, I m darned if I know! \n\n H m,  said the Voice.\n\n I ve worn worse in fact, I ve worn none. But none so owdacious ugly if\nyou ll allow the expression. I ve been cadging boots in particular for\ndays. Because I was sick of _them_. They re sound enough, of course.\nBut a gentleman on tramp sees such a thundering lot of his boots. And\nif you ll believe me, I ve raised nothing in the whole blessed country,\ntry as I would, but _them_. Look at  em! And a good country for boots,\ntoo, in a general way. But it s just my promiscuous luck. I ve got my\nboots in this country ten years or more. And then they treat you like\nthis. \n\n It s a beast of a country,  said the Voice.  And pigs for people. \n\n Ain t it?  said Mr. Thomas Marvel.  Lord! But them boots! It beats\nit. \n\nHe turned his head over his shoulder to the right, to look at the boots\nof his interlocutor with a view to comparisons, and lo! where the boots\nof his interlocutor should have been were neither legs nor boots. He\nwas irradiated by the dawn of a great amazement.  Where _are_ yer? \nsaid Mr. Thomas Marvel over his shoulder and coming on all fours. He\nsaw a stretch of empty downs with the wind swaying the remote\ngreen-pointed furze bushes.\n\n Am I drunk?  said Mr. Marvel.  Have I had visions? Was I talking to\nmyself? What the \n\n Don t be alarmed,  said a Voice.\n\n None of your ventriloquising _me_,  said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rising\nsharply to his feet.  Where _are_ yer? Alarmed, indeed! \n\n Don t be alarmed,  repeated the Voice.\n\n _You ll_ be alarmed in a minute, you silly fool,  said Mr. Thomas\nMarvel.  Where _are_ yer? Lemme get my mark on yer...\n\n Are yer _buried_?  said Mr. Thomas Marvel, after an interval.\n\nThere was no answer. Mr. Thomas Marvel stood bootless and amazed, his\njacket nearly thrown off.\n\n Peewit,  said a peewit, very remote.\n\n Peewit, indeed!  said Mr. Thomas Marvel.  This ain t no time for\nfoolery.  The down was desolate, east and west, north and south; the\nroad with its shallow ditches and white bordering stakes, ran smooth\nand empty north and south, and, save for that peewit, the blue sky was\nempty too.  So help me,  said Mr. Thomas Marvel, shuffling his coat on\nto his shoulders again.  It s the drink! I might ha  known. \n\n It s not the drink,  said the Voice.  You keep your nerves steady. \n\n Ow!  said Mr. Marvel, and his face grew white amidst its patches.\n It s the drink!  his lips repeated noiselessly. He remained staring\nabout him, rotating slowly backwards.  I could have _swore_ I heard a\nvoice,  he whispered.\n\n Of course you did. \n\n It s there again,  said Mr. Marvel, closing his eyes and clasping his\nhand on his brow with a tragic gesture. He was suddenly taken by the\ncollar and shaken violently, and left more dazed than ever.  Don t be a\nfool,  said the Voice.\n\n I m off my blooming chump,  said Mr. Marvel.  It s no good. It s\nfretting about them blarsted boots. I m off my blessed blooming chump.\nOr it s spirits. \n\n Neither one thing nor the other,  said the Voice.  Listen! \n\n Chump,  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n One minute,  said the Voice, penetratingly, tremulous with\nself-control.\n\n Well?  said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having been\ndug in the chest by a finger.\n\n You think I m just imagination? Just imagination? \n\n What else _can_ you be?  said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rubbing the back of\nhis neck.\n\n Very well,  said the Voice, in a tone of relief.  Then I m going to\nthrow flints at you till you think differently. \n\n But where _are_ yer? \n\nThe Voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint, apparently out of the\nair, and missed Mr. Marvel s shoulder by a hair s-breadth. Mr. Marvel,\nturning, saw a flint jerk up into the air, trace a complicated path,\nhang for a moment, and then fling at his feet with almost invisible\nrapidity. He was too amazed to dodge. Whizz it came, and ricochetted\nfrom a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel jumped a foot and\nhowled aloud. Then he started to run, tripped over an unseen obstacle,\nand came head over heels into a sitting position.\n\n _Now_,  said the Voice, as a third stone curved upward and hung in the\nair above the tramp.  Am I imagination? \n\nMr. Marvel by way of reply struggled to his feet, and was immediately\nrolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment.  If you struggle any\nmore,  said the Voice,  I shall throw the flint at your head. \n\n It s a fair do,  said Mr. Thomas Marvel, sitting up, taking his\nwounded toe in hand and fixing his eye on the third missile.  I don t\nunderstand it. Stones flinging themselves. Stones talking. Put yourself\ndown. Rot away. I m done. \n\nThe third flint fell.\n\n It s very simple,  said the Voice.  I m an invisible man. \n\n Tell us something I don t know,  said Mr. Marvel, gasping with pain.\n Where you ve hid how you do it I _don t_ know. I m beat. \n\n That s all,  said the Voice.  I m invisible. That s what I want you to\nunderstand. \n\n Anyone could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded\nimpatient, mister. _Now_ then. Give us a notion. How are you hid? \n\n I m invisible. That s the great point. And what I want you to\nunderstand is this \n\n But whereabouts?  interrupted Mr. Marvel.\n\n Here! Six yards in front of you. \n\n Oh, _come_! I ain t blind. You ll be telling me next you re just thin\nair. I m not one of your ignorant tramps \n\n Yes, I am thin air. You re looking through me. \n\n What! Ain t there any stuff to you. _Vox et_ what is it? jabber. Is it\nthat? \n\n I am just a human being solid, needing food and drink, needing\ncovering too But I m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea.\nInvisible. \n\n What, real like? \n\n Yes, real. \n\n Let s have a hand of you,  said Marvel,  if you _are_ real. It won t\nbe so darn out-of-the-way like, then _Lord_!  he said,  how you made me\njump! gripping me like that! \n\nHe felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged\nfingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular\nchest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel s face was astonishment.\n\n I m dashed!  he said.  If this don t beat cock-fighting! Most\nremarkable! And there I can see a rabbit clean through you,  arf a mile\naway! Not a bit of you visible except \n\nHe scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly.  You  aven t been\neatin  bread and cheese?  he asked, holding the invisible arm.\n\n You re quite right, and it s not quite assimilated into the system. \n\n Ah!  said Mr. Marvel.  Sort of ghostly, though. \n\n Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think. \n\n It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants,  said Mr. Thomas\nMarvel.  Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done? \n\n It s too long a story. And besides \n\n I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me,  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to\nthat I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked,\nimpotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you \n\n _Lord_!  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n I came up behind you hesitated went on \n\nMr. Marvel s expression was eloquent.\n\n then stopped.  Here,  I said,  is an outcast like myself. This is the\nman for me.  So I turned back and came to you you. And \n\n _Lord_!  said Mr. Marvel.  But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is\nit? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible! \n\n I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other\nthings. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you\n_will must_. \n\n Look here,  said Mr. Marvel.  I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me\nabout any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve\npretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty\nsky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then\ncomes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord! \n\n Pull yourself together,  said the Voice,  for you have to do the job\nI ve chosen for you. \n\nMr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round.\n\n I ve chosen you,  said the Voice.  You are the only man except some of\nthose fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible\nman. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for\nyou. An invisible man is a man of power.  He stopped for a moment to\nsneeze violently.\n\n But if you betray me,  he said,  if you fail to do as I direct you \nHe paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a\nyelp of terror at the touch.  I don t want to betray you,  said Mr.\nMarvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers.  Don t you go\na-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just\ntell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most\nwilling to do. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nMR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING\n\n\nAfter the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became\nargumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous\nscepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism\nnevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man;\nand those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the\nstrength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And\nof these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired\nimpregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was\nlying stunned in the parlour of the  Coach and Horses.  Great and\nstrange ideas transcending experience often have less effect upon men\nand women than smaller, more tangible considerations. Iping was gay\nwith bunting, and everybody was in gala dress. Whit Monday had been\nlooked forward to for a month or more. By the afternoon even those who\nbelieved in the Unseen were beginning to resume their little amusements\nin a tentative fashion, on the supposition that he had quite gone away,\nand with the sceptics he was already a jest. But people, sceptics and\nbelievers alike, were remarkably sociable all that day.\n\nHaysman s meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and other\nladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday-school children\nran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and\nthe Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was a slight uneasiness in\nthe air, but people for the most part had the sense to conceal whatever\nimaginative qualms they experienced. On the village green an inclined\nstrong [rope?], down which, clinging the while to a pulley-swung\nhandle, one could be hurled violently against a sack at the other end,\ncame in for considerable favour among the adolescents, as also did the\nswings and the cocoanut shies. There was also promenading, and the\nsteam organ attached to a small roundabout filled the air with a\npungent flavour of oil and with equally pungent music. Members of the\nclub, who had attended church in the morning, were splendid in badges\nof pink and green, and some of the gayer-minded had also adorned their\nbowler hats with brilliant-coloured favours of ribbon. Old Fletcher,\nwhose conceptions of holiday-making were severe, was visible through\nthe jasmine about his window or through the open door (whichever way\nyou chose to look), poised delicately on a plank supported on two\nchairs, and whitewashing the ceiling of his front room.\n\nAbout four o clock a stranger entered the village from the direction of\nthe downs. He was a short, stout person in an extraordinarily shabby\ntop hat, and he appeared to be very much out of breath. His cheeks were\nalternately limp and tightly puffed. His mottled face was apprehensive,\nand he moved with a sort of reluctant alacrity. He turned the corner of\nthe church, and directed his way to the  Coach and Horses.  Among\nothers old Fletcher remembers seeing him, and indeed the old gentleman\nwas so struck by his peculiar agitation that he inadvertently allowed a\nquantity of whitewash to run down the brush into the sleeve of his coat\nwhile regarding him.\n\nThis stranger, to the perceptions of the proprietor of the cocoanut\nshy, appeared to be talking to himself, and Mr. Huxter remarked the\nsame thing. He stopped at the foot of the  Coach and Horses  steps,\nand, according to Mr. Huxter, appeared to undergo a severe internal\nstruggle before he could induce himself to enter the house. Finally he\nmarched up the steps, and was seen by Mr. Huxter to turn to the left\nand open the door of the parlour. Mr. Huxter heard voices from within\nthe room and from the bar apprising the man of his error.  That room s\nprivate!  said Hall, and the stranger shut the door clumsily and went\ninto the bar.\n\nIn the course of a few minutes he reappeared, wiping his lips with the\nback of his hand with an air of quiet satisfaction that somehow\nimpressed Mr. Huxter as assumed. He stood looking about him for some\nmoments, and then Mr. Huxter saw him walk in an oddly furtive manner\ntowards the gates of the yard, upon which the parlour window opened.\nThe stranger, after some hesitation, leant against one of the\ngate-posts, produced a short clay pipe, and prepared to fill it. His\nfingers trembled while doing so. He lit it clumsily, and folding his\narms began to smoke in a languid attitude, an attitude which his\noccasional glances up the yard altogether belied.\n\nAll this Mr. Huxter saw over the canisters of the tobacco window, and\nthe singularity of the man s behaviour prompted him to maintain his\nobservation.\n\nPresently the stranger stood up abruptly and put his pipe in his\npocket. Then he vanished into the yard. Forthwith Mr. Huxter,\nconceiving he was witness of some petty larceny, leapt round his\ncounter and ran out into the road to intercept the thief. As he did so,\nMr. Marvel reappeared, his hat askew, a big bundle in a blue\ntable-cloth in one hand, and three books tied together as it proved\nafterwards with the Vicar s braces in the other. Directly he saw Huxter\nhe gave a sort of gasp, and turning sharply to the left, began to run.\n Stop, thief!  cried Huxter, and set off after him. Mr. Huxter s\nsensations were vivid but brief. He saw the man just before him and\nspurting briskly for the church corner and the hill road. He saw the\nvillage flags and festivities beyond, and a face or so turned towards\nhim. He bawled,  Stop!  again. He had hardly gone ten strides before\nhis shin was caught in some mysterious fashion, and he was no longer\nrunning, but flying with inconceivable rapidity through the air. He saw\nthe ground suddenly close to his face. The world seemed to splash into\na million whirling specks of light, and subsequent proceedings\ninterested him no more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nIN THE  COACH AND HORSES \n\n\nNow in order clearly to understand what had happened in the inn, it is\nnecessary to go back to the moment when Mr. Marvel first came into view\nof Mr. Huxter s window.\n\nAt that precise moment Mr. Cuss and Mr. Bunting were in the parlour.\nThey were seriously investigating the strange occurrences of the\nmorning, and were, with Mr. Hall s permission, making a thorough\nexamination of the Invisible Man s belongings. Jaffers had partially\nrecovered from his fall and had gone home in the charge of his\nsympathetic friends. The stranger s scattered garments had been removed\nby Mrs. Hall and the room tidied up. And on the table under the window\nwhere the stranger had been wont to work, Cuss had hit almost at once\non three big books in manuscript labelled  Diary. \n\n Diary!  said Cuss, putting the three books on the table.  Now, at any\nrate, we shall learn something.  The Vicar stood with his hands on the\ntable.\n\n Diary,  repeated Cuss, sitting down, putting two volumes to support\nthe third, and opening it.  H m no name on the fly-leaf.\nBother! cypher. And figures. \n\nThe vicar came round to look over his shoulder.\n\nCuss turned the pages over with a face suddenly disappointed.  I m dear\nme! It s all cypher, Bunting. \n\n There are no diagrams?  asked Mr. Bunting.  No illustrations throwing\nlight \n\n See for yourself,  said Mr. Cuss.  Some of it s mathematical and some\nof it s Russian or some such language (to judge by the letters), and\nsome of it s Greek. Now the Greek I thought _you_ \n\n Of course,  said Mr. Bunting, taking out and wiping his spectacles and\nfeeling suddenly very uncomfortable for he had no Greek left in his\nmind worth talking about;  yes the Greek, of course, may furnish a\nclue. \n\n I ll find you a place. \n\n I d rather glance through the volumes first,  said Mr. Bunting, still\nwiping.  A general impression first, Cuss, and _then_, you know, we can\ngo looking for clues. \n\nHe coughed, put on his glasses, arranged them fastidiously, coughed\nagain, and wished something would happen to avert the seemingly\ninevitable exposure. Then he took the volume Cuss handed him in a\nleisurely manner. And then something did happen.\n\nThe door opened suddenly.\n\nBoth gentlemen started violently, looked round, and were relieved to\nsee a sporadically rosy face beneath a furry silk hat.  Tap?  asked the\nface, and stood staring.\n\n No,  said both gentlemen at once.\n\n Over the other side, my man,  said Mr. Bunting. And  Please shut that\ndoor,  said Mr. Cuss, irritably.\n\n All right,  said the intruder, as it seemed in a low voice curiously\ndifferent from the huskiness of its first inquiry.  Right you are, \nsaid the intruder in the former voice.  Stand clear!  and he vanished\nand closed the door.\n\n A sailor, I should judge,  said Mr. Bunting.  Amusing fellows, they\nare. Stand clear! indeed. A nautical term, referring to his getting\nback out of the room, I suppose. \n\n I daresay so,  said Cuss.  My nerves are all loose to-day. It quite\nmade me jump the door opening like that. \n\nMr. Bunting smiled as if he had not jumped.  And now,  he said with a\nsigh,  these books. \n\nSomeone sniffed as he did so.\n\n One thing is indisputable,  said Bunting, drawing up a chair next to\nthat of Cuss.  There certainly have been very strange things happen in\nIping during the last few days very strange. I cannot of course believe\nin this absurd invisibility story \n\n It s incredible,  said Cuss incredible. But the fact remains that I\nsaw I certainly saw right down his sleeve \n\n But did you are you sure? Suppose a mirror, for instance \nhallucinations are so easily produced. I don t know if you have ever\nseen a really good conjuror \n\n I won t argue again,  said Cuss.  We ve thrashed that out, Bunting.\nAnd just now there s these books Ah! here s some of what I take to be\nGreek! Greek letters certainly. \n\nHe pointed to the middle of the page. Mr. Bunting flushed slightly and\nbrought his face nearer, apparently finding some difficulty with his\nglasses. Suddenly he became aware of a strange feeling at the nape of\nhis neck. He tried to raise his head, and encountered an immovable\nresistance. The feeling was a curious pressure, the grip of a heavy,\nfirm hand, and it bore his chin irresistibly to the table.  Don t move,\nlittle men,  whispered a voice,  or I ll brain you both!  He looked\ninto the face of Cuss, close to his own, and each saw a horrified\nreflection of his own sickly astonishment.\n\n I m sorry to handle you so roughly,  said the Voice,  but it s\nunavoidable. \n\n Since when did you learn to pry into an investigator s private\nmemoranda,  said the Voice; and two chins struck the table\nsimultaneously, and two sets of teeth rattled.\n\n Since when did you learn to invade the private rooms of a man in\nmisfortune?  and the concussion was repeated.\n\n Where have they put my clothes? \n\n Listen,  said the Voice.  The windows are fastened and I ve taken the\nkey out of the door. I am a fairly strong man, and I have the poker\nhandy besides being invisible. There s not the slightest doubt that I\ncould kill you both and get away quite easily if I wanted to do you\nunderstand? Very well. If I let you go will you promise not to try any\nnonsense and do what I tell you? \n\nThe vicar and the doctor looked at one another, and the doctor pulled a\nface.  Yes,  said Mr. Bunting, and the doctor repeated it. Then the\npressure on the necks relaxed, and the doctor and the vicar sat up,\nboth very red in the face and wriggling their heads.\n\n Please keep sitting where you are,  said the Invisible Man.  Here s\nthe poker, you see. \n\n When I came into this room,  continued the Invisible Man, after\npresenting the poker to the tip of the nose of each of his visitors,  I\ndid not expect to find it occupied, and I expected to find, in addition\nto my books of memoranda, an outfit of clothing. Where is it? No don t\nrise. I can see it s gone. Now, just at present, though the days are\nquite warm enough for an invisible man to run about stark, the evenings\nare quite chilly. I want clothing and other accommodation; and I must\nalso have those three books. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\nTHE INVISIBLE MAN LOSES HIS TEMPER\n\n\nIt is unavoidable that at this point the narrative should break off\nagain, for a certain very painful reason that will presently be\napparent. While these things were going on in the parlour, and while\nMr. Huxter was watching Mr. Marvel smoking his pipe against the gate,\nnot a dozen yards away were Mr. Hall and Teddy Henfrey discussing in a\nstate of cloudy puzzlement the one Iping topic.\n\nSuddenly there came a violent thud against the door of the parlour, a\nsharp cry, and then silence.\n\n Hul-lo!  said Teddy Henfrey.\n\n Hul-lo!  from the Tap.\n\nMr. Hall took things in slowly but surely.  That ain t right,  he said,\nand came round from behind the bar towards the parlour door.\n\nHe and Teddy approached the door together, with intent faces. Their\neyes considered.  Summat wrong,  said Hall, and Henfrey nodded\nagreement. Whiffs of an unpleasant chemical odour met them, and there\nwas a muffled sound of conversation, very rapid and subdued.\n\n You all right thur?  asked Hall, rapping.\n\nThe muttered conversation ceased abruptly, for a moment silence, then\nthe conversation was resumed, in hissing whispers, then a sharp cry of\n No! no, you don t!  There came a sudden motion and the oversetting of\na chair, a brief struggle. Silence again.\n\n What the dooce?  exclaimed Henfrey, _sotto voce_.\n\n You all right thur?  asked Mr. Hall, sharply, again.\n\nThe Vicar s voice answered with a curious jerking intonation:  Quite\nri-right. Please don t interrupt. \n\n Odd!  said Mr. Henfrey.\n\n Odd!  said Mr. Hall.\n\n Says,  Don t interrupt,  said Henfrey.\n\n I heerd n,  said Hall.\n\n And a sniff,  said Henfrey.\n\nThey remained listening. The conversation was rapid and subdued.  I\n_can t_,  said Mr. Bunting, his voice rising;  I tell you, sir, I\n_will_ not. \n\n What was that?  asked Henfrey.\n\n Says he wi  nart,  said Hall.  Warn t speaking to us, wuz he? \n\n Disgraceful!  said Mr. Bunting, within.\n\n Disgraceful,  said Mr. Henfrey.  I heard it distinct. \n\n Who s that speaking now?  asked Henfrey.\n\n Mr. Cuss, I s pose,  said Hall.  Can you hear anything? \n\nSilence. The sounds within indistinct and perplexing.\n\n Sounds like throwing the table-cloth about,  said Hall.\n\nMrs. Hall appeared behind the bar. Hall made gestures of silence and\ninvitation. This aroused Mrs. Hall s wifely opposition.  What yer\nlistenin  there for, Hall?  she asked.  Ain t you nothin  better to\ndo busy day like this? \n\nHall tried to convey everything by grimaces and dumb show, but Mrs.\nHall was obdurate. She raised her voice. So Hall and Henfrey, rather\ncrestfallen, tiptoed back to the bar, gesticulating to explain to her.\n\nAt first she refused to see anything in what they had heard at all.\nThen she insisted on Hall keeping silence, while Henfrey told her his\nstory. She was inclined to think the whole business nonsense perhaps\nthey were just moving the furniture about.  I heerd n say\n disgraceful ; _that_ I did,  said Hall.\n\n _I_ heerd that, Mrs. Hall,  said Henfrey.\n\n Like as not  began Mrs. Hall.\n\n Hsh!  said Mr. Teddy Henfrey.  Didn t I hear the window? \n\n What window?  asked Mrs. Hall.\n\n Parlour window,  said Henfrey.\n\nEveryone stood listening intently. Mrs. Hall s eyes, directed straight\nbefore her, saw without seeing the brilliant oblong of the inn door,\nthe road white and vivid, and Huxter s shop-front blistering in the\nJune sun. Abruptly Huxter s door opened and Huxter appeared, eyes\nstaring with excitement, arms gesticulating.  Yap!  cried Huxter.  Stop\nthief!  and he ran obliquely across the oblong towards the yard gates,\nand vanished.\n\nSimultaneously came a tumult from the parlour, and a sound of windows\nbeing closed.\n\nHall, Henfrey, and the human contents of the tap rushed out at once\npell-mell into the street. They saw someone whisk round the corner\ntowards the road, and Mr. Huxter executing a complicated leap in the\nair that ended on his face and shoulder. Down the street people were\nstanding astonished or running towards them.\n\nMr. Huxter was stunned. Henfrey stopped to discover this, but Hall and\nthe two labourers from the Tap rushed at once to the corner, shouting\nincoherent things, and saw Mr. Marvel vanishing by the corner of the\nchurch wall. They appear to have jumped to the impossible conclusion\nthat this was the Invisible Man suddenly become visible, and set off at\nonce along the lane in pursuit. But Hall had hardly run a dozen yards\nbefore he gave a loud shout of astonishment and went flying headlong\nsideways, clutching one of the labourers and bringing him to the\nground. He had been charged just as one charges a man at football. The\nsecond labourer came round in a circle, stared, and conceiving that\nHall had tumbled over of his own accord, turned to resume the pursuit,\nonly to be tripped by the ankle just as Huxter had been. Then, as the\nfirst labourer struggled to his feet, he was kicked sideways by a blow\nthat might have felled an ox.\n\nAs he went down, the rush from the direction of the village green came\nround the corner. The first to appear was the proprietor of the\ncocoanut shy, a burly man in a blue jersey. He was astonished to see\nthe lane empty save for three men sprawling absurdly on the ground. And\nthen something happened to his rear-most foot, and he went headlong and\nrolled sideways just in time to graze the feet of his brother and\npartner, following headlong. The two were then kicked, knelt on, fallen\nover, and cursed by quite a number of over-hasty people.\n\nNow when Hall and Henfrey and the labourers ran out of the house, Mrs.\nHall, who had been disciplined by years of experience, remained in the\nbar next the till. And suddenly the parlour door was opened, and Mr.\nCuss appeared, and without glancing at her rushed at once down the\nsteps toward the corner.  Hold him!  he cried.  Don t let him drop that\nparcel. \n\nHe knew nothing of the existence of Marvel. For the Invisible Man had\nhanded over the books and bundle in the yard. The face of Mr. Cuss was\nangry and resolute, but his costume was defective, a sort of limp white\nkilt that could only have passed muster in Greece.  Hold him!  he\nbawled.  He s got my trousers! And every stitch of the Vicar s\nclothes! \n\n Tend to him in a minute!  he cried to Henfrey as he passed the\nprostrate Huxter, and, coming round the corner to join the tumult, was\npromptly knocked off his feet into an indecorous sprawl. Somebody in\nfull flight trod heavily on his finger. He yelled, struggled to regain\nhis feet, was knocked against and thrown on all fours again, and became\naware that he was involved not in a capture, but a rout. Everyone was\nrunning back to the village. He rose again and was hit severely behind\nthe ear. He staggered and set off back to the  Coach and Horses \nforthwith, leaping over the deserted Huxter, who was now sitting up, on\nhis way.\n\nBehind him as he was halfway up the inn steps he heard a sudden yell of\nrage, rising sharply out of the confusion of cries, and a sounding\nsmack in someone s face. He recognised the voice as that of the\nInvisible Man, and the note was that of a man suddenly infuriated by a\npainful blow.\n\nIn another moment Mr. Cuss was back in the parlour.  He s coming back,\nBunting!  he said, rushing in.  Save yourself! \n\nMr. Bunting was standing in the window engaged in an attempt to clothe\nhimself in the hearth-rug and a _West Surrey Gazette_.  Who s coming? \nhe said, so startled that his costume narrowly escaped disintegration.\n\n Invisible Man,  said Cuss, and rushed on to the window.  We d better\nclear out from here! He s fighting mad! Mad! \n\nIn another moment he was out in the yard.\n\n Good heavens!  said Mr. Bunting, hesitating between two horrible\nalternatives. He heard a frightful struggle in the passage of the inn,\nand his decision was made. He clambered out of the window, adjusted his\ncostume hastily, and fled up the village as fast as his fat little legs\nwould carry him.\n\nFrom the moment when the Invisible Man screamed with rage and Mr.\nBunting made his memorable flight up the village, it became impossible\nto give a consecutive account of affairs in Iping. Possibly the\nInvisible Man s original intention was simply to cover Marvel s retreat\nwith the clothes and books. But his temper, at no time very good, seems\nto have gone completely at some chance blow, and forthwith he set to\nsmiting and overthrowing, for the mere satisfaction of hurting.\n\nYou must figure the street full of running figures, of doors slamming\nand fights for hiding-places. You must figure the tumult suddenly\nstriking on the unstable equilibrium of old Fletcher s planks and two\nchairs with cataclysmic results. You must figure an appalled couple\ncaught dismally in a swing. And then the whole tumultuous rush has\npassed and the Iping street with its gauds and flags is deserted save\nfor the still raging unseen, and littered with cocoanuts, overthrown\ncanvas screens, and the scattered stock in trade of a sweetstuff stall.\nEverywhere there is a sound of closing shutters and shoving bolts, and\nthe only visible humanity is an occasional flitting eye under a raised\neyebrow in the corner of a window pane.\n\nThe Invisible Man amused himself for a little while by breaking all the\nwindows in the  Coach and Horses,  and then he thrust a street lamp\nthrough the parlour window of Mrs. Gribble. He it must have been who\ncut the telegraph wire to Adderdean just beyond Higgins  cottage on the\nAdderdean road. And after that, as his peculiar qualities allowed, he\npassed out of human perceptions altogether, and he was neither heard,\nseen, nor felt in Iping any more. He vanished absolutely.\n\nBut it was the best part of two hours before any human being ventured\nout again into the desolation of Iping street.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\nMR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION\n\n\nWhen the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep\ntimorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday,\na short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully\nthrough the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst.\nHe carried three books bound together by some sort of ornamental\nelastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue table-cloth. His\nrubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue; he appeared to be in\na spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a voice other than his\nown, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands.\n\n If you give me the slip again,  said the Voice,  if you attempt to\ngive me the slip again \n\n Lord!  said Mr. Marvel.  That shoulder s a mass of bruises as it is. \n\n On my honour,  said the Voice,  I will kill you. \n\n I didn t try to give you the slip,  said Marvel, in a voice that was\nnot far remote from tears.  I swear I didn t. I didn t know the blessed\nturning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning?\nAs it is, I ve been knocked about \n\n You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind,  said\nthe Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his\ncheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair.\n\n It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little\nsecret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some\nof them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was\ninvisible! And now what am I to do? \n\n What am _I_ to do?  asked Marvel, _sotto voce_.\n\n It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking\nfor me; everyone on their guard  The Voice broke off into vivid curses\nand ceased.\n\nThe despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened.\n\n Go on!  said the Voice.\n\nMr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches.\n\n Don t drop those books, stupid,  said the Voice, sharply overtaking\nhim.\n\n The fact is,  said the Voice,  I shall have to make use of you....\nYou re a poor tool, but I must. \n\n I m a _miserable_ tool,  said Marvel.\n\n You are,  said the Voice.\n\n I m the worst possible tool you could have,  said Marvel.\n\n I m not strong,  he said after a discouraging silence.\n\n I m not over strong,  he repeated.\n\n No? \n\n And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of\ncourse but bless you! I could have dropped. \n\n Well? \n\n I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want. \n\n _I ll_ stimulate you. \n\n I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know.\nBut I might out of sheer funk and misery. \n\n You d better not,  said the Voice, with quiet emphasis.\n\n I wish I was dead,  said Marvel.\n\n It ain t justice,  he said;  you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a\nperfect right \n\n _Get_ on!  said the Voice.\n\nMr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again.\n\n It s devilish hard,  said Mr. Marvel.\n\nThis was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack.\n\n What do I make by it?  he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong.\n\n Oh! _shut up_!  said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour.  I ll see\nto you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right.\nYou re a fool and all that, but you ll do \n\n I tell you, sir, I m not the man for it. Respectfully but it _is_ so \n\n If you don t shut up I shall twist your wrist again,  said the\nInvisible Man.  I want to think. \n\nPresently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and\nthe square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming.  I shall keep\nmy hand on your shoulder,  said the Voice,  all through the village. Go\nstraight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if\nyou do. \n\n I know that,  sighed Mr. Marvel,  I know all that. \n\nThe unhappy-looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the\nstreet of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the\ngathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\nAT PORT STOWE\n\n\nTen o clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty, and\ntravel-stained, sitting with the books beside him and his hands deep in\nhis pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and\ninflating his cheeks at infrequent intervals, on the bench outside a\nlittle inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books,\nbut now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in\nthe pine-woods beyond Bramblehurst, in accordance with a change in the\nplans of the Invisible Man. Mr. Marvel sat on the bench, and although\nno one took the slightest notice of him, his agitation remained at\nfever heat. His hands would go ever and again to his various pockets\nwith a curious nervous fumbling.\n\nWhen he had been sitting for the best part of an hour, however, an\nelderly mariner, carrying a newspaper, came out of the inn and sat down\nbeside him.  Pleasant day,  said the mariner.\n\nMr. Marvel glanced about him with something very like terror.  Very, \nhe said.\n\n Just seasonable weather for the time of year,  said the mariner,\ntaking no denial.\n\n Quite,  said Mr. Marvel.\n\nThe mariner produced a toothpick, and (saving his regard) was engrossed\nthereby for some minutes. His eyes meanwhile were at liberty to examine\nMr. Marvel s dusty figure, and the books beside him. As he had\napproached Mr. Marvel he had heard a sound like the dropping of coins\ninto a pocket. He was struck by the contrast of Mr. Marvel s appearance\nwith this suggestion of opulence. Thence his mind wandered back again\nto a topic that had taken a curiously firm hold of his imagination.\n\n Books?  he said suddenly, noisily finishing with the toothpick.\n\nMr. Marvel started and looked at them.  Oh, yes,  he said.  Yes,\nthey re books. \n\n There s some extra-ordinary things in books,  said the mariner.\n\n I believe you,  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n And some extra-ordinary things out of  em,  said the mariner.\n\n True likewise,  said Mr. Marvel. He eyed his interlocutor, and then\nglanced about him.\n\n There s some extra-ordinary things in newspapers, for example,  said\nthe mariner.\n\n There are. \n\n In _this_ newspaper,  said the mariner.\n\n Ah!  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n There s a story,  said the mariner, fixing Mr. Marvel with an eye that\nwas firm and deliberate;  there s a story about an Invisible Man, for\ninstance. \n\nMr. Marvel pulled his mouth askew and scratched his cheek and felt his\nears glowing.  What will they be writing next?  he asked faintly.\n Ostria, or America? \n\n Neither,  said the mariner.  _Here_. \n\n Lord!  said Mr. Marvel, starting.\n\n When I say _here_,  said the mariner, to Mr. Marvel s intense relief,\n I don t of course mean here in this place, I mean hereabouts. \n\n An Invisible Man!  said Mr. Marvel.  And what s _he_ been up to? \n\n Everything,  said the mariner, controlling Marvel with his eye, and\nthen amplifying,  every blessed thing. \n\n I ain t seen a paper these four days,  said Marvel.\n\n Iping s the place he started at,  said the mariner.\n\n In-_deed_!  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n He started there. And where he came from, nobody don t seem to know.\nHere it is:  Pe-culiar Story from Iping.  And it says in this paper\nthat the evidence is extra-ordinary strong extra-ordinary. \n\n Lord!  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n But then, it s an extra-ordinary story. There is a clergyman and a\nmedical gent witnesses saw  im all right and proper or leastways didn t\nsee  im. He was staying, it says, at the  Coach an  Horses,  and no one\ndon t seem to have been aware of his misfortune, it says, aware of his\nmisfortune, until in an Altercation in the inn, it says, his bandages\non his head was torn off. It was then ob-served that his head was\ninvisible. Attempts were At Once made to secure him, but casting off\nhis garments, it says, he succeeded in escaping, but not until after a\ndesperate struggle, in which he had inflicted serious injuries, it\nsays, on our worthy and able constable, Mr. J. A. Jaffers. Pretty\nstraight story, eh? Names and everything. \n\n Lord!  said Mr. Marvel, looking nervously about him, trying to count\nthe money in his pockets by his unaided sense of touch, and full of a\nstrange and novel idea.  It sounds most astonishing. \n\n Don t it? Extra-ordinary, _I_ call it. Never heard tell of Invisible\nMen before, I haven t, but nowadays one hears such a lot of\nextra-ordinary things that \n\n That all he did?  asked Marvel, trying to seem at his ease.\n\n It s enough, ain t it?  said the mariner.\n\n Didn t go Back by any chance?  asked Marvel.  Just escaped and that s\nall, eh? \n\n All!  said the mariner.  Why! ain t it enough? \n\n Quite enough,  said Marvel.\n\n I should think it was enough,  said the mariner.  I should think it\nwas enough. \n\n He didn t have any pals it don t say he had any pals, does it?  asked\nMr. Marvel, anxious.\n\n Ain t one of a sort enough for you?  asked the mariner.  No, thank\nHeaven, as one might say, he didn t. \n\nHe nodded his head slowly.  It makes me regular uncomfortable, the bare\nthought of that chap running about the country! He is at present At\nLarge, and from certain evidence it is supposed that he\nhas taken _took_, I suppose they mean the road to Port Stowe. You see\nwe re right _in_ it! None of your American wonders, this time. And just\nthink of the things he might do! Where d you be, if he took a drop over\nand above, and had a fancy to go for you? Suppose he wants to rob who\ncan prevent him? He can trespass, he can burgle, he could walk through\na cordon of policemen as easy as me or you could give the slip to a\nblind man! Easier! For these here blind chaps hear uncommon sharp, I m\ntold. And wherever there was liquor he fancied \n\n He s got a tremenjous advantage, certainly,  said Mr. Marvel.\n And well... \n\n You re right,  said the mariner.  He _has_. \n\nAll this time Mr. Marvel had been glancing about him intently,\nlistening for faint footfalls, trying to detect imperceptible\nmovements. He seemed on the point of some great resolution. He coughed\nbehind his hand.\n\nHe looked about him again, listened, bent towards the mariner, and\nlowered his voice:  The fact of it is I happen to know just a thing or\ntwo about this Invisible Man. From private sources. \n\n Oh!  said the mariner, interested.  _You_? \n\n Yes,  said Mr. Marvel.  Me. \n\n Indeed!  said the mariner.  And may I ask \n\n You ll be astonished,  said Mr. Marvel behind his hand.  It s\ntremenjous. \n\n Indeed!  said the mariner.\n\n The fact is,  began Mr. Marvel eagerly in a confidential undertone.\nSuddenly his expression changed marvellously.  Ow!  he said. He rose\nstiffly in his seat. His face was eloquent of physical suffering.\n Wow!  he said.\n\n What s up?  said the mariner, concerned.\n\n Toothache,  said Mr. Marvel, and put his hand to his ear. He caught\nhold of his books.  I must be getting on, I think,  he said. He edged\nin a curious way along the seat away from his interlocutor.  But you\nwas just a-going to tell me about this here Invisible Man!  protested\nthe mariner. Mr. Marvel seemed to consult with himself.  Hoax,  said a\nVoice.  It s a hoax,  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n But it s in the paper,  said the mariner.\n\n Hoax all the same,  said Marvel.  I know the chap that started the\nlie. There ain t no Invisible Man whatsoever Blimey. \n\n But how  bout this paper? D you mean to say ? \n\n Not a word of it,  said Marvel, stoutly.\n\nThe mariner stared, paper in hand. Mr. Marvel jerkily faced about.\n Wait a bit,  said the mariner, rising and speaking slowly,  D you mean\nto say ? \n\n I do,  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n Then why did you let me go on and tell you all this blarsted stuff,\nthen? What d yer mean by letting a man make a fool of himself like that\nfor? Eh? \n\nMr. Marvel blew out his cheeks. The mariner was suddenly very red\nindeed; he clenched his hands.  I been talking here this ten minutes, \nhe said;  and you, you little pot-bellied, leathery-faced son of an old\nboot, couldn t have the elementary manners \n\n Don t you come bandying words with _me_,  said Mr. Marvel.\n\n Bandying words! I m a jolly good mind \n\n Come up,  said a Voice, and Mr. Marvel was suddenly whirled about and\nstarted marching off in a curious spasmodic manner.  You d better move\non,  said the mariner.  Who s moving on?  said Mr. Marvel. He was\nreceding obliquely with a curious hurrying gait, with occasional\nviolent jerks forward. Some way along the road he began a muttered\nmonologue, protests and recriminations.\n\n Silly devil!  said the mariner, legs wide apart, elbows akimbo,\nwatching the receding figure.  I ll show you, you silly ass hoaxing\n_me_! It s here on the paper! \n\nMr. Marvel retorted incoherently and, receding, was hidden by a bend in\nthe road, but the mariner still stood magnificent in the midst of the\nway, until the approach of a butcher s cart dislodged him. Then he\nturned himself towards Port Stowe.  Full of extra-ordinary asses,  he\nsaid softly to himself.  Just to take me down a bit that was his silly\ngame It s on the paper! \n\nAnd there was another extraordinary thing he was presently to hear,\nthat had happened quite close to him. And that was a vision of a  fist\nfull of money  (no less) travelling without visible agency, along by\nthe wall at the corner of St. Michael s Lane. A brother mariner had\nseen this wonderful sight that very morning. He had snatched at the\nmoney forthwith and had been knocked headlong, and when he had got to\nhis feet the butterfly money had vanished. Our mariner was in the mood\nto believe anything, he declared, but that was a bit _too_ stiff.\nAfterwards, however, he began to think things over.\n\nThe story of the flying money was true. And all about that\nneighbourhood, even from the august London and Country Banking Company,\nfrom the tills of shops and inns doors standing that sunny weather\nentirely open money had been quietly and dexterously making off that\nday in handfuls and rouleaux, floating quietly along by walls and shady\nplaces, dodging quickly from the approaching eyes of men. And it had,\nthough no man had traced it, invariably ended its mysterious flight in\nthe pocket of that agitated gentleman in the obsolete silk hat, sitting\noutside the little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe.\n\nIt was ten days after and indeed only when the Burdock story was\nalready old that the mariner collated these facts and began to\nunderstand how near he had been to the wonderful Invisible Man.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\nTHE MAN WHO WAS RUNNING\n\n\nIn the early evening time Dr. Kemp was sitting in his study in the\nbelvedere on the hill overlooking Burdock. It was a pleasant little\nroom, with three windows north, west, and south and bookshelves covered\nwith books and scientific publications, and a broad writing-table, and,\nunder the north window, a microscope, glass slips, minute instruments,\nsome cultures, and scattered bottles of reagents. Dr. Kemp s solar lamp\nwas lit, albeit the sky was still bright with the sunset light, and his\nblinds were up because there was no offence of peering outsiders to\nrequire them pulled down. Dr. Kemp was a tall and slender young man,\nwith flaxen hair and a moustache almost white, and the work he was upon\nwould earn him, he hoped, the fellowship of the Royal Society, so\nhighly did he think of it.\n\nAnd his eye, presently wandering from his work, caught the sunset\nblazing at the back of the hill that is over against his own. For a\nminute perhaps he sat, pen in mouth, admiring the rich golden colour\nabove the crest, and then his attention was attracted by the little\nfigure of a man, inky black, running over the hill-brow towards him. He\nwas a shortish little man, and he wore a high hat, and he was running\nso fast that his legs verily twinkled.\n\n Another of those fools,  said Dr. Kemp.  Like that ass who ran into me\nthis morning round a corner, with the  Visible Man a-coming, sir!  I\ncan t imagine what possesses people. One might think we were in the\nthirteenth century. \n\nHe got up, went to the window, and stared at the dusky hillside, and\nthe dark little figure tearing down it.  He seems in a confounded\nhurry,  said Dr. Kemp,  but he doesn t seem to be getting on. If his\npockets were full of lead, he couldn t run heavier. \n\n Spurted, sir,  said Dr. Kemp.\n\nIn another moment the higher of the villas that had clambered up the\nhill from Burdock had occulted the running figure. He was visible again\nfor a moment, and again, and then again, three times between the three\ndetached houses that came next, and then the terrace hid him.\n\n Asses!  said Dr. Kemp, swinging round on his heel and walking back to\nhis writing-table.\n\nBut those who saw the fugitive nearer, and perceived the abject terror\non his perspiring face, being themselves in the open roadway, did not\nshare in the doctor s contempt. By the man pounded, and as he ran he\nchinked like a well-filled purse that is tossed to and fro. He looked\nneither to the right nor the left, but his dilated eyes stared straight\ndownhill to where the lamps were being lit, and the people were crowded\nin the street. And his ill-shaped mouth fell apart, and a glairy foam\nlay on his lips, and his breath came hoarse and noisy. All he passed\nstopped and began staring up the road and down, and interrogating one\nanother with an inkling of discomfort for the reason of his haste.\n\nAnd then presently, far up the hill, a dog playing in the road yelped\nand ran under a gate, and as they still wondered something a wind a\npad, pad, pad, a sound like a panting breathing, rushed by.\n\nPeople screamed. People sprang off the pavement: It passed in shouts,\nit passed by instinct down the hill. They were shouting in the street\nbefore Marvel was halfway there. They were bolting into houses and\nslamming the doors behind them, with the news. He heard it and made one\nlast desperate spurt. Fear came striding by, rushed ahead of him, and\nin a moment had seized the town.\n\n The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\nIN THE  JOLLY CRICKETERS \n\n\nThe  Jolly Cricketers  is just at the bottom of the hill, where the\ntram-lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter and\ntalked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-bearded man in\ngrey snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton, and conversed in\nAmerican with a policeman off duty.\n\n What s the shouting about!  said the anaemic cabman, going off at a\ntangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in the\nlow window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside.  Fire, perhaps,  said\nthe barman.\n\nFootsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open\nviolently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the neck\nof his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted\nto shut the door. It was held half open by a strap.\n\n Coming!  he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror.  He s coming. The\n Visible Man! After me! For Gawd s sake!  Elp!  Elp!  Elp! \n\n Shut the doors,  said the policeman.  Who s coming? What s the row? \nHe went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The American\nclosed the other door.\n\n Lemme go inside,  said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still\nclutching the books.  Lemme go inside. Lock me in somewhere. I tell you\nhe s after me. I give him the slip. He said he d kill me and he will. \n\n _You re_ safe,  said the man with the black beard.  The door s shut.\nWhat s it all about? \n\n Lemme go inside,  said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly\nmade the fastened door shiver and was followed by a hurried rapping and\na shouting outside.  Hullo,  cried the policeman,  who s there?  Mr.\nMarvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked like doors.\n He ll kill me he s got a knife or something. For Gawd s sake ! \n\n Here you are,  said the barman.  Come in here.  And he held up the\nflap of the bar.\n\nMr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was repeated.\n Don t open the door,  he screamed.  _Please_ don t open the door.\n_Where_ shall I hide? \n\n This, this Invisible Man, then?  asked the man with the black beard,\nwith one hand behind him.  I guess it s about time we saw him. \n\nThe window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a\nscreaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been\nstanding on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at the door.\nHe got down with raised eyebrows.  It s that,  he said. The barman\nstood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr.\nMarvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other\nmen.\n\nEverything was suddenly quiet.  I wish I had my truncheon,  said the\npoliceman, going irresolutely to the door.  Once we open, in he comes.\nThere s no stopping him. \n\n Don t you be in too much hurry about that door,  said the anaemic\ncabman, anxiously.\n\n Draw the bolts,  said the man with the black beard,  and if he comes \nHe showed a revolver in his hand.\n\n That won t do,  said the policeman;  that s murder. \n\n I know what country I m in,  said the man with the beard.  I m going\nto let off at his legs. Draw the bolts. \n\n Not with that blinking thing going off behind me,  said the barman,\ncraning over the blind.\n\n Very well,  said the man with the black beard, and stooping down,\nrevolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman faced\nabout.\n\n Come in,  said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and\nfacing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came in,\nthe door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a second cabman\npushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and an anxious\nface peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied information.  Are all\nthe doors of the house shut?  asked Marvel.  He s going round prowling\nround. He s as artful as the devil. \n\n Good Lord!  said the burly barman.  There s the back! Just watch them\ndoors! I say !  He looked about him helplessly. The bar-parlour door\nslammed and they heard the key turn.  There s the yard door and the\nprivate door. The yard door \n\nHe rushed out of the bar.\n\nIn a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand.  The yard\ndoor was open!  he said, and his fat underlip dropped.  He may be in\nthe house now!  said the first cabman.\n\n He s not in the kitchen,  said the barman.  There s two women there,\nand I ve stabbed every inch of it with this little beef slicer. And\nthey don t think he s come in. They haven t noticed \n\n Have you fastened it?  asked the first cabman.\n\n I m out of frocks,  said the barman.\n\nThe man with the beard replaced his revolver. And even as he did so the\nflap of the bar was shut down and the bolt clicked, and then with a\ntremendous thud the catch of the door snapped and the bar-parlour door\nburst open. They heard Marvel squeal like a caught leveret, and\nforthwith they were clambering over the bar to his rescue. The bearded\nman s revolver cracked and the looking-glass at the back of the parlour\nstarred and came smashing and tinkling down.\n\nAs the barman entered the room he saw Marvel, curiously crumpled up and\nstruggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen. The door\nflew open while the barman hesitated, and Marvel was dragged into the\nkitchen. There was a scream and a clatter of pans. Marvel, head down,\nand lugging back obstinately, was forced to the kitchen door, and the\nbolts were drawn.\n\nThen the policeman, who had been trying to pass the barman, rushed in,\nfollowed by one of the cabmen, gripped the wrist of the invisible hand\nthat collared Marvel, was hit in the face and went reeling back. The\ndoor opened, and Marvel made a frantic effort to obtain a lodgment\nbehind it. Then the cabman collared something.  I got him,  said the\ncabman. The barman s red hands came clawing at the unseen.  Here he\nis!  said the barman.\n\nMr. Marvel, released, suddenly dropped to the ground and made an\nattempt to crawl behind the legs of the fighting men. The struggle\nblundered round the edge of the door. The voice of the Invisible Man\nwas heard for the first time, yelling out sharply, as the policeman\ntrod on his foot. Then he cried out passionately and his fists flew\nround like flails. The cabman suddenly whooped and doubled up, kicked\nunder the diaphragm. The door into the bar-parlour from the kitchen\nslammed and covered Mr. Marvel s retreat. The men in the kitchen found\nthemselves clutching at and struggling with empty air.\n\n Where s he gone?  cried the man with the beard.  Out? \n\n This way,  said the policeman, stepping into the yard and stopping.\n\nA piece of tile whizzed by his head and smashed among the crockery on\nthe kitchen table.\n\n I ll show him,  shouted the man with the black beard, and suddenly a\nsteel barrel shone over the policeman s shoulder, and five bullets had\nfollowed one another into the twilight whence the missile had come. As\nhe fired, the man with the beard moved his hand in a horizontal curve,\nso that his shots radiated out into the narrow yard like spokes from a\nwheel.\n\nA silence followed.  Five cartridges,  said the man with the black\nbeard.  That s the best of all. Four aces and a joker. Get a lantern,\nsomeone, and come and feel about for his body. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\nDR. KEMP S VISITOR\n\n\nDr. Kemp had continued writing in his study until the shots aroused\nhim. Crack, crack, crack, they came one after the other.\n\n Hullo!  said Dr. Kemp, putting his pen into his mouth again and\nlistening.  Who s letting off revolvers in Burdock? What are the asses\nat now? \n\nHe went to the south window, threw it up, and leaning out stared down\non the network of windows, beaded gas-lamps and shops, with its black\ninterstices of roof and yard that made up the town at night.  Looks\nlike a crowd down the hill,  he said,  by  The Cricketers,  and\nremained watching. Thence his eyes wandered over the town to far away\nwhere the ships  lights shone, and the pier glowed a little\nilluminated, facetted pavilion like a gem of yellow light. The moon in\nits first quarter hung over the westward hill, and the stars were clear\nand almost tropically bright.\n\nAfter five minutes, during which his mind had travelled into a remote\nspeculation of social conditions of the future, and lost itself at last\nover the time dimension, Dr. Kemp roused himself with a sigh, pulled\ndown the window again, and returned to his writing desk.\n\nIt must have been about an hour after this that the front-door bell\nrang. He had been writing slackly, and with intervals of abstraction,\nsince the shots. He sat listening. He heard the servant answer the\ndoor, and waited for her feet on the staircase, but she did not come.\n Wonder what that was,  said Dr. Kemp.\n\nHe tried to resume his work, failed, got up, went downstairs from his\nstudy to the landing, rang, and called over the balustrade to the\nhousemaid as she appeared in the hall below.  Was that a letter?  he\nasked.\n\n Only a runaway ring, sir,  she answered.\n\n I m restless to-night,  he said to himself. He went back to his study,\nand this time attacked his work resolutely. In a little while he was\nhard at work again, and the only sounds in the room were the ticking of\nthe clock and the subdued shrillness of his quill, hurrying in the very\ncentre of the circle of light his lampshade threw on his table.\n\nIt was two o clock before Dr. Kemp had finished his work for the night.\nHe rose, yawned, and went downstairs to bed. He had already removed his\ncoat and vest, when he noticed that he was thirsty. He took a candle\nand went down to the dining-room in search of a syphon and whiskey.\n\nDr. Kemp s scientific pursuits have made him a very observant man, and\nas he recrossed the hall, he noticed a dark spot on the linoleum near\nthe mat at the foot of the stairs. He went on upstairs, and then it\nsuddenly occurred to him to ask himself what the spot on the linoleum\nmight be. Apparently some subconscious element was at work. At any\nrate, he turned with his burden, went back to the hall, put down the\nsyphon and whiskey, and bending down, touched the spot. Without any\ngreat surprise he found it had the stickiness and colour of drying\nblood.\n\nHe took up his burden again, and returned upstairs, looking about him\nand trying to account for the blood-spot. On the landing he saw\nsomething and stopped astonished. The door-handle of his own room was\nblood-stained.\n\nHe looked at his own hand. It was quite clean, and then he remembered\nthat the door of his room had been open when he came down from his\nstudy, and that consequently he had not touched the handle at all. He\nwent straight into his room, his face quite calm perhaps a trifle more\nresolute than usual. His glance, wandering inquisitively, fell on the\nbed. On the counterpane was a mess of blood, and the sheet had been\ntorn. He had not noticed this before because he had walked straight to\nthe dressing-table. On the further side the bedclothes were depressed\nas if someone had been recently sitting there.\n\nThen he had an odd impression that he had heard a low voice say,  Good\nHeavens! Kemp!  But Dr. Kemp was no believer in voices.\n\nHe stood staring at the tumbled sheets. Was that really a voice? He\nlooked about again, but noticed nothing further than the disordered and\nblood-stained bed. Then he distinctly heard a movement across the room,\nnear the wash-hand stand. All men, however highly educated, retain some\nsuperstitious inklings. The feeling that is called  eerie  came upon\nhim. He closed the door of the room, came forward to the\ndressing-table, and put down his burdens. Suddenly, with a start, he\nperceived a coiled and blood-stained bandage of linen rag hanging in\nmid-air, between him and the wash-hand stand.\n\nHe stared at this in amazement. It was an empty bandage, a bandage\nproperly tied but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it, but\na touch arrested him, and a voice speaking quite close to him.\n\n Kemp!  said the Voice.\n\n Eh?  said Kemp, with his mouth open.\n\n Keep your nerve,  said the Voice.  I m an Invisible Man. \n\nKemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage.\n Invisible Man,  he said.\n\n I am an Invisible Man,  repeated the Voice.\n\nThe story he had been active to ridicule only that morning rushed\nthrough Kemp s brain. He does not appear to have been either very much\nfrightened or very greatly surprised at the moment. Realisation came\nlater.\n\n I thought it was all a lie,  he said. The thought uppermost in his\nmind was the reiterated arguments of the morning.  Have you a bandage\non?  he asked.\n\n Yes,  said the Invisible Man.\n\n Oh!  said Kemp, and then roused himself.  I say!  he said.  But this\nis nonsense. It s some trick.  He stepped forward suddenly, and his\nhand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers.\n\nHe recoiled at the touch and his colour changed.\n\n Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop! \n\nThe hand gripped his arm. He struck at it.\n\n Kemp!  cried the Voice.  Kemp! Keep steady!  and the grip tightened.\n\nA frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of\nthe bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and\nflung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the\ncorner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had\nhim down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick\nsavagely.\n\n Listen to reason, will you?  said the Invisible Man, sticking to him\nin spite of a pounding in the ribs.  By Heaven! you ll madden me in a\nminute!\n\n Lie still, you fool!  bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear.\n\nKemp struggled for another moment and then lay still.\n\n If you shout, I ll smash your face,  said the Invisible Man, relieving\nhis mouth.\n\n I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am\nan Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but\nif you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me,\nKemp? Griffin, of University College? \n\n Let me get up,  said Kemp.  I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet\nfor a minute. \n\nHe sat up and felt his neck.\n\n I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible.\nI am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible. \n\n Griffin?  said Kemp.\n\n Griffin,  answered the Voice. A younger student than you were, almost\nan albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red\neyes, who won the medal for chemistry. \n\n I am confused,  said Kemp.  My brain is rioting. What has this to do\nwith Griffin? \n\n I _am_ Griffin. \n\nKemp thought.  It s horrible,  he said.  But what devilry must happen\nto make a man invisible? \n\n It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough \n\n It s horrible!  said Kemp.  How on earth ? \n\n It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great\nGod! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink,\nand let me sit down here. \n\nKemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a\nbasket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It\ncreaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He\nrubbed his eyes and felt his neck again.  This beats ghosts,  he said,\nand laughed stupidly.\n\n That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible! \n\n Or silly,  said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.\n\n Give me some whiskey. I m near dead. \n\n It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you?\n_There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you? \n\nThe chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let\ngo by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest\npoised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He\nstared at it in infinite perplexity.  This is this must be hypnotism.\nYou have suggested you are invisible. \n\n Nonsense,  said the Voice.\n\n It s frantic. \n\n Listen to me. \n\n I demonstrated conclusively this morning,  began Kemp,  that\ninvisibility \n\n Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving,  said the Voice,\n and the night is chilly to a man without clothes. \n\n Food?  said Kemp.\n\nThe tumbler of whiskey tilted itself.  Yes,  said the Invisible Man\nrapping it down.  Have you a dressing-gown? \n\nKemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and\nproduced a robe of dingy scarlet.  This do?  he asked. It was taken\nfrom him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly,\nstood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair.\n Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort,  said the Unseen, curtly.\n And food. \n\n Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life! \n\nHe turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to\nransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread,\npulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest.  Never mind\nknives,  said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound\nof gnawing.\n\n Invisible!  said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair.\n\n I always like to get something about me before I eat,  said the\nInvisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily.  Queer fancy! \n\n I suppose that wrist is all right,  said Kemp.\n\n Trust me,  said the Invisible Man.\n\n Of all the strange and wonderful \n\n Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my\nbandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this\nhouse to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood\nshowing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it\ncoagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only\nfor as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours. \n\n But how s it done?  began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation.  Confound\nit! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end. \n\n Quite reasonable,  said the Invisible Man.  Perfectly reasonable. \n\nHe reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the\ndevouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch\nin the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs.\n What were the shots?  he asked.  How did the shooting begin? \n\n There was a real fool of a man a sort of confederate of mine curse\nhim! who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so. \n\n Is _he_ invisible too? \n\n No. \n\n Well? \n\n Can t I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I m\nhungry in pain. And you want me to tell stories! \n\nKemp got up.  _You_ didn t do any shooting?  he asked.\n\n Not me,  said his visitor.  Some fool I d never seen fired at random.\nA lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse them! I\nsay I want more to eat than this, Kemp. \n\n I ll see what there is to eat downstairs,  said Kemp.  Not much, I m\nafraid. \n\nAfter he had done eating, and he made a heavy meal, the Invisible Man\ndemanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely before Kemp could find a\nknife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened. It was strange to see\nhim smoking; his mouth, and throat, pharynx and nares, became visible\nas a sort of whirling smoke cast.\n\n This blessed gift of smoking!  he said, and puffed vigorously.  I m\nlucky to have fallen upon you, Kemp. You must help me. Fancy tumbling\non you just now! I m in a devilish scrape I ve been mad, I think. The\nthings I have been through! But we will do things yet. Let me tell\nyou \n\nHe helped himself to more whiskey and soda. Kemp got up, looked about\nhim, and fetched a glass from his spare room.  It s wild but I suppose\nI may drink. \n\n You haven t changed much, Kemp, these dozen years. You fair men don t.\nCool and methodical after the first collapse. I must tell you. We will\nwork together! \n\n But how was it all done?  said Kemp,  and how did you get like this? \n\n For God s sake, let me smoke in peace for a little while! And then I\nwill begin to tell you. \n\nBut the story was not told that night. The Invisible Man s wrist was\ngrowing painful; he was feverish, exhausted, and his mind came round to\nbrood upon his chase down the hill and the struggle about the inn. He\nspoke in fragments of Marvel, he smoked faster, his voice grew angry.\nKemp tried to gather what he could.\n\n He was afraid of me, I could see that he was afraid of me,  said the\nInvisible Man many times over.  He meant to give me the slip he was\nalways casting about! What a fool I was!\n\n The cur!\n\n I should have killed him! \n\n Where did you get the money?  asked Kemp, abruptly.\n\nThe Invisible Man was silent for a space.  I can t tell you to-night, \nhe said.\n\nHe groaned suddenly and leant forward, supporting his invisible head on\ninvisible hands.  Kemp,  he said,  I ve had no sleep for near three\ndays, except a couple of dozes of an hour or so. I must sleep soon. \n\n Well, have my room have this room. \n\n But how can I sleep? If I sleep he will get away. Ugh! What does it\nmatter? \n\n What s the shot wound?  asked Kemp, abruptly.\n\n Nothing scratch and blood. Oh, God! How I want sleep! \n\n Why not? \n\nThe Invisible Man appeared to be regarding Kemp.  Because I ve a\nparticular objection to being caught by my fellow-men,  he said slowly.\n\nKemp started.\n\n Fool that I am!  said the Invisible Man, striking the table smartly.\n I ve put the idea into your head. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\nTHE INVISIBLE MAN SLEEPS\n\n\nExhausted and wounded as the Invisible Man was, he refused to accept\nKemp s word that his freedom should be respected. He examined the two\nwindows of the bedroom, drew up the blinds and opened the sashes, to\nconfirm Kemp s statement that a retreat by them would be possible.\nOutside the night was very quiet and still, and the new moon was\nsetting over the down. Then he examined the keys of the bedroom and the\ntwo dressing-room doors, to satisfy himself that these also could be\nmade an assurance of freedom. Finally he expressed himself satisfied.\nHe stood on the hearth rug and Kemp heard the sound of a yawn.\n\n I m sorry,  said the Invisible Man,  if I cannot tell you all that I\nhave done to-night. But I am worn out. It s grotesque, no doubt. It s\nhorrible! But believe me, Kemp, in spite of your arguments of this\nmorning, it is quite a possible thing. I have made a discovery. I meant\nto keep it to myself. I can t. I must have a partner. And you.... We\ncan do such things ... But to-morrow. Now, Kemp, I feel as though I\nmust sleep or perish. \n\nKemp stood in the middle of the room staring at the headless garment.\n I suppose I must leave you,  he said.  It s incredible. Three things\nhappening like this, overturning all my preconceptions would make me\ninsane. But it s real! Is there anything more that I can get you? \n\n Only bid me good-night,  said Griffin.\n\n Good-night,  said Kemp, and shook an invisible hand. He walked\nsideways to the door. Suddenly the dressing-gown walked quickly towards\nhim.  Understand me!  said the dressing-gown.  No attempts to hamper\nme, or capture me! Or \n\nKemp s face changed a little.  I thought I gave you my word,  he said.\n\nKemp closed the door softly behind him, and the key was turned upon him\nforthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on\nhis face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that\ntoo was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand.  Am I dreaming?\nHas the world gone mad or have I? \n\nHe laughed, and put his hand to the locked door.  Barred out of my own\nbedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!  he said.\n\nHe walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the\nlocked doors.  It s fact,  he said. He put his fingers to his slightly\nbruised neck.  Undeniable fact!\n\n But \n\nHe shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs.\n\nHe lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the\nroom, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself.\n\n Invisible!  he said.\n\n Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes.\nThousands millions. All the larvae, all the little nauplii and\ntornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there\nare more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before.\nAnd in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things specks of\ncolourless translucent jelly! But in air? No!\n\n It can t be.\n\n But after all why not?\n\n If a man was made of glass he would still be visible. \n\nHis meditation became profound. The bulk of three cigars had passed\ninto the invisible or diffused as a white ash over the carpet before he\nspoke again. Then it was merely an exclamation. He turned aside, walked\nout of the room, and went into his little consulting-room and lit the\ngas there. It was a little room, because Dr. Kemp did not live by\npractice, and in it were the day s newspapers. The morning s paper lay\ncarelessly opened and thrown aside. He caught it up, turned it over,\nand read the account of a  Strange Story from Iping  that the mariner\nat Port Stowe had spelt over so painfully to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read it\nswiftly.\n\n Wrapped up!  said Kemp.  Disguised! Hiding it!  No one seems to have\nbeen aware of his misfortune.  What the devil _is_ his game? \n\nHe dropped the paper, and his eye went seeking.  Ah!  he said, and\ncaught up the _St. James  Gazette_, lying folded up as it arrived.  Now\nwe shall get at the truth,  said Dr. Kemp. He rent the paper open; a\ncouple of columns confronted him.  An Entire Village in Sussex goes\nMad  was the heading.\n\n Good Heavens!  said Kemp, reading eagerly an incredulous account of\nthe events in Iping, of the previous afternoon, that have already been\ndescribed. Over the leaf the report in the morning paper had been\nreprinted.\n\nHe re-read it.  Ran through the streets striking right and left.\nJaffers insensible. Mr. Huxter in great pain still unable to describe\nwhat he saw. Painful humiliation vicar. Woman ill with terror! Windows\nsmashed. This extraordinary story probably a fabrication. Too good not\nto print _cum grano_! \n\nHe dropped the paper and stared blankly in front of him.  Probably a\nfabrication! \n\nHe caught up the paper again, and re-read the whole business.  But when\ndoes the Tramp come in? Why the deuce was he chasing a tramp? \n\nHe sat down abruptly on the surgical bench.  He s not only invisible, \nhe said,  but he s mad! Homicidal! \n\nWhen dawn came to mingle its pallor with the lamp-light and cigar smoke\nof the dining-room, Kemp was still pacing up and down, trying to grasp\nthe incredible.\n\nHe was altogether too excited to sleep. His servants, descending\nsleepily, discovered him, and were inclined to think that over-study\nhad worked this ill on him. He gave them extraordinary but quite\nexplicit instructions to lay breakfast for two in the belvedere\nstudy and then to confine themselves to the basement and ground-floor.\nThen he continued to pace the dining-room until the morning s paper\ncame. That had much to say and little to tell, beyond the confirmation\nof the evening before, and a very badly written account of another\nremarkable tale from Port Burdock. This gave Kemp the essence of the\nhappenings at the  Jolly Cricketers,  and the name of Marvel.  He has\nmade me keep with him twenty-four hours,  Marvel testified. Certain\nminor facts were added to the Iping story, notably the cutting of the\nvillage telegraph-wire. But there was nothing to throw light on the\nconnexion between the Invisible Man and the Tramp; for Mr. Marvel had\nsupplied no information about the three books, or the money with which\nhe was lined. The incredulous tone had vanished and a shoal of\nreporters and inquirers were already at work elaborating the matter.\n\nKemp read every scrap of the report and sent his housemaid out to get\nevery one of the morning papers she could. These also he devoured.\n\n He is invisible!  he said.  And it reads like rage growing to mania!\nThe things he may do! The things he may do! And he s upstairs free as\nthe air. What on earth ought I to do? \n\n For instance, would it be a breach of faith if ? No. \n\nHe went to a little untidy desk in the corner, and began a note. He\ntore this up half written, and wrote another. He read it over and\nconsidered it. Then he took an envelope and addressed it to  Colonel\nAdye, Port Burdock. \n\nThe Invisible Man awoke even as Kemp was doing this. He awoke in an\nevil temper, and Kemp, alert for every sound, heard his pattering feet\nrush suddenly across the bedroom overhead. Then a chair was flung over\nand the wash-hand stand tumbler smashed. Kemp hurried upstairs and\nrapped eagerly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\nCERTAIN FIRST PRINCIPLES\n\n\n What s the matter?  asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him.\n\n Nothing,  was the answer.\n\n But, confound it! The smash? \n\n Fit of temper,  said the Invisible Man.  Forgot this arm; and it s\nsore. \n\n You re rather liable to that sort of thing. \n\n I am. \n\nKemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken\nglass.  All the facts are out about you,  said Kemp, standing up with\nthe glass in his hand;  all that happened in Iping, and down the hill.\nThe world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows\nyou are here. \n\nThe Invisible Man swore.\n\n The secret s out. I gather it was a secret. I don t know what your\nplans are, but of course I m anxious to help you. \n\nThe Invisible Man sat down on the bed.\n\n There s breakfast upstairs,  said Kemp, speaking as easily as\npossible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose\nwillingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere.\n\n Before we can do anything else,  said Kemp,  I must understand a\nlittle more about this invisibility of yours.  He had sat down, after\none nervous glance out of the window, with the air of a man who has\ntalking to do. His doubts of the sanity of the entire business flashed\nand vanished again as he looked across to where Griffin sat at the\nbreakfast-table a headless, handless dressing-gown, wiping unseen lips\non a miraculously held serviette.\n\n It s simple enough and credible enough,  said Griffin, putting the\nserviette aside and leaning the invisible head on an invisible hand.\n\n No doubt, to you, but  Kemp laughed.\n\n Well, yes; to me it seemed wonderful at first, no doubt. But now,\ngreat God! ... But we will do great things yet! I came on the stuff\nfirst at Chesilstowe. \n\n Chesilstowe? \n\n I went there after I left London. You know I dropped medicine and took\nup physics? No; well, I did. _Light_ fascinated me. \n\n Ah! \n\n Optical density! The whole subject is a network of riddles a network\nwith solutions glimmering elusively through. And being but\ntwo-and-twenty and full of enthusiasm, I said,  I will devote my life\nto this. This is worth while.  You know what fools we are at\ntwo-and-twenty? \n\n Fools then or fools now,  said Kemp.\n\n As though knowing could be any satisfaction to a man!\n\n But I went to work like a slave. And I had hardly worked and thought\nabout the matter six months before light came through one of the meshes\nsuddenly blindingly! I found a general principle of pigments and\nrefraction a formula, a geometrical expression involving four\ndimensions. Fools, common men, even common mathematicians, do not know\nanything of what some general expression may mean to the student of\nmolecular physics. In the books the books that tramp has hidden there\nare marvels, miracles! But this was not a method, it was an idea, that\nmight lead to a method by which it would be possible, without changing\nany other property of matter except, in some instances colours to lower\nthe refractive index of a substance, solid or liquid, to that of air so\nfar as all practical purposes are concerned. \n\n Phew!  said Kemp.  That s odd! But still I don t see quite ... I can\nunderstand that thereby you could spoil a valuable stone, but personal\ninvisibility is a far cry. \n\n Precisely,  said Griffin.  But consider, visibility depends on the\naction of the visible bodies on light. Either a body absorbs light, or\nit reflects or refracts it, or does all these things. If it neither\nreflects nor refracts nor absorbs light, it cannot of itself be\nvisible. You see an opaque red box, for instance, because the colour\nabsorbs some of the light and reflects the rest, all the red part of\nthe light, to you. If it did not absorb any particular part of the\nlight, but reflected it all, then it would be a shining white box.\nSilver! A diamond box would neither absorb much of the light nor\nreflect much from the general surface, but just here and there where\nthe surfaces were favourable the light would be reflected and\nrefracted, so that you would get a brilliant appearance of flashing\nreflections and translucencies a sort of skeleton of light. A glass box\nwould not be so brilliant, nor so clearly visible, as a diamond box,\nbecause there would be less refraction and reflection. See that? From\ncertain points of view you would see quite clearly through it. Some\nkinds of glass would be more visible than others, a box of flint glass\nwould be brighter than a box of ordinary window glass. A box of very\nthin common glass would be hard to see in a bad light, because it would\nabsorb hardly any light and refract and reflect very little. And if you\nput a sheet of common white glass in water, still more if you put it in\nsome denser liquid than water, it would vanish almost altogether,\nbecause light passing from water to glass is only slightly refracted or\nreflected or indeed affected in any way. It is almost as invisible as a\njet of coal gas or hydrogen is in air. And for precisely the same\nreason! \n\n Yes,  said Kemp,  that is pretty plain sailing. \n\n And here is another fact you will know to be true. If a sheet of glass\nis smashed, Kemp, and beaten into a powder, it becomes much more\nvisible while it is in the air; it becomes at last an opaque white\npowder. This is because the powdering multiplies the surfaces of the\nglass at which refraction and reflection occur. In the sheet of glass\nthere are only two surfaces; in the powder the light is reflected or\nrefracted by each grain it passes through, and very little gets right\nthrough the powder. But if the white powdered glass is put into water,\nit forthwith vanishes. The powdered glass and water have much the same\nrefractive index; that is, the light undergoes very little refraction\nor reflection in passing from one to the other.\n\n You make the glass invisible by putting it into a liquid of nearly the\nsame refractive index; a transparent thing becomes invisible if it is\nput in any medium of almost the same refractive index. And if you will\nconsider only a second, you will see also that the powder of glass\nmight be made to vanish in air, if its refractive index could be made\nthe same as that of air; for then there would be no refraction or\nreflection as the light passed from glass to air. \n\n Yes, yes,  said Kemp.  But a man s not powdered glass! \n\n No,  said Griffin.  He s more transparent! \n\n Nonsense! \n\n That from a doctor! How one forgets! Have you already forgotten your\nphysics, in ten years? Just think of all the things that are\ntransparent and seem not to be so. Paper, for instance, is made up of\ntransparent fibres, and it is white and opaque only for the same reason\nthat a powder of glass is white and opaque. Oil white paper, fill up\nthe interstices between the particles with oil so that there is no\nlonger refraction or reflection except at the surfaces, and it becomes\nas transparent as glass. And not only paper, but cotton fibre, linen\nfibre, wool fibre, woody fibre, and _bone_, Kemp, _flesh_, Kemp,\n_hair_, Kemp, _nails_ and _nerves_, Kemp, in fact the whole fabric of a\nman except the red of his blood and the black pigment of hair, are all\nmade up of transparent, colourless tissue. So little suffices to make\nus visible one to the other. For the most part the fibres of a living\ncreature are no more opaque than water. \n\n Great Heavens!  cried Kemp.  Of course, of course! I was thinking only\nlast night of the sea larvae and all jelly-fish! \n\n _Now_ you have me! And all that I knew and had in mind a year after I\nleft London six years ago. But I kept it to myself. I had to do my work\nunder frightful disadvantages. Oliver, my professor, was a scientific\nbounder, a journalist by instinct, a thief of ideas he was always\nprying! And you know the knavish system of the scientific world. I\nsimply would not publish, and let him share my credit. I went on\nworking; I got nearer and nearer making my formula into an experiment,\na reality. I told no living soul, because I meant to flash my work upon\nthe world with crushing effect and become famous at a blow. I took up\nthe question of pigments to fill up certain gaps. And suddenly, not by\ndesign but by accident, I made a discovery in physiology. \n\n Yes? \n\n You know the red colouring matter of blood; it can be made\nwhite colourless and remain with all the functions it has now! \n\nKemp gave a cry of incredulous amazement.\n\nThe Invisible Man rose and began pacing the little study.  You may well\nexclaim. I remember that night. It was late at night in the daytime one\nwas bothered with the gaping, silly students and I worked then\nsometimes till dawn. It came suddenly, splendid and complete in my\nmind. I was alone; the laboratory was still, with the tall lights\nburning brightly and silently. In all my great moments I have been\nalone.  One could make an animal a tissue transparent! One could make\nit invisible! All except the pigments I could be invisible!  I said,\nsuddenly realising what it meant to be an albino with such knowledge.\nIt was overwhelming. I left the filtering I was doing, and went and\nstared out of the great window at the stars.  I could be invisible!  I\nrepeated.\n\n To do such a thing would be to transcend magic. And I beheld,\nunclouded by doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility might\nmean to a man the mystery, the power, the freedom. Drawbacks I saw\nnone. You have only to think! And I, a shabby, poverty-struck,\nhemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might\nsuddenly become this. I ask you, Kemp if _you_ ... Anyone, I tell you,\nwould have flung himself upon that research. And I worked three years,\nand every mountain of difficulty I toiled over showed another from its\nsummit. The infinite details! And the exasperation! A professor, a\nprovincial professor, always prying.  When are you going to publish\nthis work of yours?  was his everlasting question. And the students,\nthe cramped means! Three years I had of it \n\n And after three years of secrecy and exasperation, I found that to\ncomplete it was impossible impossible. \n\n How?  asked Kemp.\n\n Money,  said the Invisible Man, and went again to stare out of the\nwindow.\n\nHe turned around abruptly.  I robbed the old man robbed my father.\n\n The money was not his, and he shot himself. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\nAT THE HOUSE IN GREAT PORTLAND STREET\n\n\nFor a moment Kemp sat in silence, staring at the back of the headless\nfigure at the window. Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took\nthe Invisible Man s arm, and turned him away from the outlook.\n\n You are tired,  he said,  and while I sit, you walk about. Have my\nchair. \n\nHe placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window.\n\nFor a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly:\n\n I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already,  he said,  when that\nhappened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large\nunfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near\nGreat Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had\nbought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully,\ndrawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and\nsuddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind\nwas still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his\ncharacter. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant\nceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend\nof his who read the service over him a shabby, black, bent old man with\na snivelling cold.\n\n I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had\nonce been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry\nbuilders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out\nat last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank\nwet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the\nslippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt\nfrom the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place.\n\n I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the\nvictim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my\nattendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair.\n\n But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a\nspace, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met.\n\n Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very\nordinary person.\n\n It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel\nthen that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a\ndesolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to\nthe general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the\nrecovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There\nstood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now\nthere was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details.\n\n I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes.\nWe need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I\nchose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp\nhas hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But\nthe essential phase was to place the transparent object whose\nrefractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a\nsort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later.\nNo, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine\nhave been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little\ndynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first\nexperiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest\nthing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and\nwhite, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish.\n\n I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the\nemptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it\nawkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it\nagain.\n\n And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and\nturning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside\nthe window. A thought came into my head.  Everything ready for you,  I\nsaid, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came\nin, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All\nmy food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she\nwent smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself\nat home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her\nspit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed.\nAnd I gave her butter to get her to wash. \n\n And you processed her? \n\n I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the\nprocess failed. \n\n Failed! \n\n In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what\nis it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know? \n\n _Tapetum_. \n\n Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach\nthe blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium,\nand put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And\nafter all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little\nghosts of her eyes. \n\n Odd! \n\n I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had\nher safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally,\nand someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who\nsuspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a\nwhite cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform,\napplied it, and answered the door.  Did I hear a cat?  she asked.  My\ncat?   Not here,  said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and\ntried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no\ndoubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine\nvibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly\nstinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and\nwent away again. \n\n How long did it take?  asked Kemp.\n\n Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the\nlast to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back\npart of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn t go at all.\n\n It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing\nwas to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas\nengine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and\nthen, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to\nbed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak aimless stuff,\ngoing over the experiment over and over again, or dreaming feverishly\nof things growing misty and vanishing about me, until everything, the\nground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly falling\nnightmare one gets. About two, the cat began miaowing about the room. I\ntried to hush it by talking to it, and then I decided to turn it out. I\nremember the shock I had when striking a light there were just the\nround eyes shining green and nothing round them. I would have given it\nmilk, but I hadn t any. It wouldn t be quiet, it just sat down and\nmiaowed at the door. I tried to catch it, with an idea of putting it\nout of the window, but it wouldn t be caught, it vanished. Then it\nbegan miaowing in different parts of the room. At last I opened the\nwindow and made a bustle. I suppose it went out at last. I never saw\nany more of it.\n\n Then Heaven knows why I fell thinking of my father s funeral again,\nand the dismal windy hillside, until the day had come. I found sleeping\nwas hopeless, and, locking my door after me, wandered out into the\nmorning streets. \n\n You don t mean to say there s an invisible cat at large!  said Kemp.\n\n If it hasn t been killed,  said the Invisible Man.  Why not? \n\n Why not?  said Kemp.  I didn t mean to interrupt. \n\n It s very probably been killed,  said the Invisible Man.  It was alive\nfour days after, I know, and down a grating in Great Titchfield Street;\nbecause I saw a crowd round the place, trying to see whence the\nmiaowing came. \n\nHe was silent for the best part of a minute. Then he resumed abruptly:\n\n I remember that morning before the change very vividly. I must have\ngone up Great Portland Street. I remember the barracks in Albany\nStreet, and the horse soldiers coming out, and at last I found the\nsummit of Primrose Hill. It was a sunny day in January one of those\nsunny, frosty days that came before the snow this year. My weary brain\ntried to formulate the position, to plot out a plan of action.\n\n I was surprised to find, now that my prize was within my grasp, how\ninconclusive its attainment seemed. As a matter of fact I was worked\nout; the intense stress of nearly four years  continuous work left me\nincapable of any strength of feeling. I was apathetic, and I tried in\nvain to recover the enthusiasm of my first inquiries, the passion of\ndiscovery that had enabled me to compass even the downfall of my\nfather s grey hairs. Nothing seemed to matter. I saw pretty clearly\nthis was a transient mood, due to overwork and want of sleep, and that\neither by drugs or rest it would be possible to recover my energies.\n\n All I could think clearly was that the thing had to be carried\nthrough; the fixed idea still ruled me. And soon, for the money I had\nwas almost exhausted. I looked about me at the hillside, with children\nplaying and girls watching them, and tried to think of all the\nfantastic advantages an invisible man would have in the world. After a\ntime I crawled home, took some food and a strong dose of strychnine,\nand went to sleep in my clothes on my unmade bed. Strychnine is a grand\ntonic, Kemp, to take the flabbiness out of a man. \n\n It s the devil,  said Kemp.  It s the palaeolithic in a bottle. \n\n I awoke vastly invigorated and rather irritable. You know? \n\n I know the stuff. \n\n And there was someone rapping at the door. It was my landlord with\nthreats and inquiries, an old Polish Jew in a long grey coat and greasy\nslippers. I had been tormenting a cat in the night, he was sure the old\nwoman s tongue had been busy. He insisted on knowing all about it. The\nlaws in this country against vivisection were very severe he might be\nliable. I denied the cat. Then the vibration of the little gas engine\ncould be felt all over the house, he said. That was true, certainly. He\nedged round me into the room, peering about over his German-silver\nspectacles, and a sudden dread came into my mind that he might carry\naway something of my secret. I tried to keep between him and the\nconcentrating apparatus I had arranged, and that only made him more\ncurious. What was I doing? Why was I always alone and secretive? Was it\nlegal? Was it dangerous? I paid nothing but the usual rent. His had\nalways been a most respectable house in a disreputable neighbourhood.\nSuddenly my temper gave way. I told him to get out. He began to\nprotest, to jabber of his right of entry. In a moment I had him by the\ncollar; something ripped, and he went spinning out into his own\npassage. I slammed and locked the door and sat down quivering.\n\n He made a fuss outside, which I disregarded, and after a time he went\naway.\n\n But this brought matters to a crisis. I did not know what he would do,\nnor even what he had the power to do. To move to fresh apartments would\nhave meant delay; altogether I had barely twenty pounds left in the\nworld, for the most part in a bank and I could not afford that. Vanish!\nIt was irresistible. Then there would be an inquiry, the sacking of my\nroom.\n\n At the thought of the possibility of my work being exposed or\ninterrupted at its very climax, I became very angry and active. I\nhurried out with my three books of notes, my cheque-book the tramp has\nthem now and directed them from the nearest Post Office to a house of\ncall for letters and parcels in Great Portland Street. I tried to go\nout noiselessly. Coming in, I found my landlord going quietly upstairs;\nhe had heard the door close, I suppose. You would have laughed to see\nhim jump aside on the landing as I came tearing after him. He glared at\nme as I went by him, and I made the house quiver with the slamming of\nmy door. I heard him come shuffling up to my floor, hesitate, and go\ndown. I set to work upon my preparations forthwith.\n\n It was all done that evening and night. While I was still sitting\nunder the sickly, drowsy influence of the drugs that decolourise blood,\nthere came a repeated knocking at the door. It ceased, footsteps went\naway and returned, and the knocking was resumed. There was an attempt\nto push something under the door a blue paper. Then in a fit of\nirritation I rose and went and flung the door wide open.  Now then? \nsaid I.\n\n It was my landlord, with a notice of ejectment or something. He held\nit out to me, saw something odd about my hands, I expect, and lifted\nhis eyes to my face.\n\n For a moment he gaped. Then he gave a sort of inarticulate cry,\ndropped candle and writ together, and went blundering down the dark\npassage to the stairs. I shut the door, locked it, and went to the\nlooking-glass. Then I understood his terror.... My face was white like\nwhite stone.\n\n But it was all horrible. I had not expected the suffering. A night of\nracking anguish, sickness and fainting. I set my teeth, though my skin\nwas presently afire, all my body afire; but I lay there like grim\ndeath. I understood now how it was the cat had howled until I\nchloroformed it. Lucky it was I lived alone and untended in my room.\nThere were times when I sobbed and groaned and talked. But I stuck to\nit.... I became insensible and woke languid in the darkness.\n\n The pain had passed. I thought I was killing myself and I did not\ncare. I shall never forget that dawn, and the strange horror of seeing\nthat my hands had become as clouded glass, and watching them grow\nclearer and thinner as the day went by, until at last I could see the\nsickly disorder of my room through them, though I closed my transparent\neyelids. My limbs became glassy, the bones and arteries faded,\nvanished, and the little white nerves went last. I gritted my teeth and\nstayed there to the end. At last only the dead tips of the fingernails\nremained, pallid and white, and the brown stain of some acid upon my\nfingers.\n\n I struggled up. At first I was as incapable as a swathed\ninfant stepping with limbs I could not see. I was weak and very hungry.\nI went and stared at nothing in my shaving-glass, at nothing save where\nan attenuated pigment still remained behind the retina of my eyes,\nfainter than mist. I had to hang on to the table and press my forehead\nagainst the glass.\n\n It was only by a frantic effort of will that I dragged myself back to\nthe apparatus and completed the process.\n\n I slept during the forenoon, pulling the sheet over my eyes to shut\nout the light, and about midday I was awakened again by a knocking. My\nstrength had returned. I sat up and listened and heard a whispering. I\nsprang to my feet and as noiselessly as possible began to detach the\nconnections of my apparatus, and to distribute it about the room, so as\nto destroy the suggestions of its arrangement. Presently the knocking\nwas renewed and voices called, first my landlord s, and then two\nothers. To gain time I answered them. The invisible rag and pillow came\nto hand and I opened the window and pitched them out on to the cistern\ncover. As the window opened, a heavy crash came at the door. Someone\nhad charged it with the idea of smashing the lock. But the stout bolts\nI had screwed up some days before stopped him. That startled me, made\nme angry. I began to tremble and do things hurriedly.\n\n I tossed together some loose paper, straw, packing paper and so forth,\nin the middle of the room, and turned on the gas. Heavy blows began to\nrain upon the door. I could not find the matches. I beat my hands on\nthe wall with rage. I turned down the gas again, stepped out of the\nwindow on the cistern cover, very softly lowered the sash, and sat\ndown, secure and invisible, but quivering with anger, to watch events.\nThey split a panel, I saw, and in another moment they had broken away\nthe staples of the bolts and stood in the open doorway. It was the\nlandlord and his two step-sons, sturdy young men of three or four and\ntwenty. Behind them fluttered the old hag of a woman from downstairs.\n\n You may imagine their astonishment to find the room empty. One of the\nyounger men rushed to the window at once, flung it up and stared out.\nHis staring eyes and thick-lipped bearded face came a foot from my\nface. I was half minded to hit his silly countenance, but I arrested my\ndoubled fist. He stared right through me. So did the others as they\njoined him. The old man went and peered under the bed, and then they\nall made a rush for the cupboard. They had to argue about it at length\nin Yiddish and Cockney English. They concluded I had not answered them,\nthat their imagination had deceived them. A feeling of extraordinary\nelation took the place of my anger as I sat outside the window and\nwatched these four people for the old lady came in, glancing\nsuspiciously about her like a cat, trying to understand the riddle of\nmy behaviour.\n\n The old man, so far as I could understand his _patois_, agreed with\nthe old lady that I was a vivisectionist. The sons protested in garbled\nEnglish that I was an electrician, and appealed to the dynamos and\nradiators. They were all nervous about my arrival, although I found\nsubsequently that they had bolted the front door. The old lady peered\ninto the cupboard and under the bed, and one of the young men pushed up\nthe register and stared up the chimney. One of my fellow lodgers, a\ncoster-monger who shared the opposite room with a butcher, appeared on\nthe landing, and he was called in and told incoherent things.\n\n It occurred to me that the radiators, if they fell into the hands of\nsome acute well-educated person, would give me away too much, and\nwatching my opportunity, I came into the room and tilted one of the\nlittle dynamos off its fellow on which it was standing, and smashed\nboth apparatus. Then, while they were trying to explain the smash, I\ndodged out of the room and went softly downstairs.\n\n I went into one of the sitting-rooms and waited until they came down,\nstill speculating and argumentative, all a little disappointed at\nfinding no  horrors,  and all a little puzzled how they stood legally\ntowards me. Then I slipped up again with a box of matches, fired my\nheap of paper and rubbish, put the chairs and bedding thereby, led the\ngas to the affair, by means of an india-rubber tube, and waving a\nfarewell to the room left it for the last time. \n\n You fired the house!  exclaimed Kemp.\n\n Fired the house. It was the only way to cover my trail and no doubt it\nwas insured. I slipped the bolts of the front door quietly and went out\ninto the street. I was invisible, and I was only just beginning to\nrealise the extraordinary advantage my invisibility gave me. My head\nwas already teeming with plans of all the wild and wonderful things I\nhad now impunity to do. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\nIN OXFORD STREET\n\n\n In going downstairs the first time I found an unexpected difficulty\nbecause I could not see my feet; indeed I stumbled twice, and there was\nan unaccustomed clumsiness in gripping the bolt. By not looking down,\nhowever, I managed to walk on the level passably well.\n\n My mood, I say, was one of exaltation. I felt as a seeing man might\ndo, with padded feet and noiseless clothes, in a city of the blind. I\nexperienced a wild impulse to jest, to startle people, to clap men on\nthe back, fling people s hats astray, and generally revel in my\nextraordinary advantage.\n\n But hardly had I emerged upon Great Portland Street, however (my\nlodging was close to the big draper s shop there), when I heard a\nclashing concussion and was hit violently behind, and turning saw a man\ncarrying a basket of soda-water syphons, and looking in amazement at\nhis burden. Although the blow had really hurt me, I found something so\nirresistible in his astonishment that I laughed aloud.  The devil s in\nthe basket,  I said, and suddenly twisted it out of his hand. He let go\nincontinently, and I swung the whole weight into the air.\n\n But a fool of a cabman, standing outside a public house, made a sudden\nrush for this, and his extending fingers took me with excruciating\nviolence under the ear. I let the whole down with a smash on the\ncabman, and then, with shouts and the clatter of feet about me, people\ncoming out of shops, vehicles pulling up, I realised what I had done\nfor myself, and cursing my folly, backed against a shop window and\nprepared to dodge out of the confusion. In a moment I should be wedged\ninto a crowd and inevitably discovered. I pushed by a butcher boy, who\nluckily did not turn to see the nothingness that shoved him aside, and\ndodged behind the cab-man s four-wheeler. I do not know how they\nsettled the business. I hurried straight across the road, which was\nhappily clear, and hardly heeding which way I went, in the fright of\ndetection the incident had given me, plunged into the afternoon throng\nof Oxford Street.\n\n I tried to get into the stream of people, but they were too thick for\nme, and in a moment my heels were being trodden upon. I took to the\ngutter, the roughness of which I found painful to my feet, and\nforthwith the shaft of a crawling hansom dug me forcibly under the\nshoulder blade, reminding me that I was already bruised severely. I\nstaggered out of the way of the cab, avoided a perambulator by a\nconvulsive movement, and found myself behind the hansom. A happy\nthought saved me, and as this drove slowly along I followed in its\nimmediate wake, trembling and astonished at the turn of my adventure.\nAnd not only trembling, but shivering. It was a bright day in January\nand I was stark naked and the thin slime of mud that covered the road\nwas freezing. Foolish as it seems to me now, I had not reckoned that,\ntransparent or not, I was still amenable to the weather and all its\nconsequences.\n\n Then suddenly a bright idea came into my head. I ran round and got\ninto the cab. And so, shivering, scared, and sniffing with the first\nintimations of a cold, and with the bruises in the small of my back\ngrowing upon my attention, I drove slowly along Oxford Street and past\nTottenham Court Road. My mood was as different from that in which I had\nsallied forth ten minutes ago as it is possible to imagine. This\ninvisibility indeed! The one thought that possessed me was how was I to\nget out of the scrape I was in.\n\n We crawled past Mudie s, and there a tall woman with five or six\nyellow-labelled books hailed my cab, and I sprang out just in time to\nescape her, shaving a railway van narrowly in my flight. I made off up\nthe roadway to Bloomsbury Square, intending to strike north past the\nMuseum and so get into the quiet district. I was now cruelly chilled,\nand the strangeness of my situation so unnerved me that I whimpered as\nI ran. At the northward corner of the Square a little white dog ran out\nof the Pharmaceutical Society s offices, and incontinently made for me,\nnose down.\n\n I had never realised it before, but the nose is to the mind of a dog\nwhat the eye is to the mind of a seeing man. Dogs perceive the scent of\na man moving as men perceive his vision. This brute began barking and\nleaping, showing, as it seemed to me, only too plainly that he was\naware of me. I crossed Great Russell Street, glancing over my shoulder\nas I did so, and went some way along Montague Street before I realised\nwhat I was running towards.\n\n Then I became aware of a blare of music, and looking along the street\nsaw a number of people advancing out of Russell Square, red shirts, and\nthe banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in\nthe roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to\npenetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and\ndeciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house\nfacing the museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have\npassed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too,\nhesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again.\n\n On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about  When\nshall we see His face?  and it seemed an interminable time to me before\nthe tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud,\nthud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I\ndid not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me.  See  em, \nsaid one.  See what?  said the other.  Why them footmarks bare. Like\nwhat you makes in mud. \n\n I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at\nthe muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps.\nThe passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded\nintelligence was arrested.  Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see,\nthud, his face, thud, thud.   There s a barefoot man gone up them\nsteps, or I don t know nothing,  said one.  And he ain t never come\ndown again. And his foot was a-bleeding. \n\n The thick of the crowd had already passed.  Looky there, Ted,  quoth\nthe younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise in his\nvoice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and saw at once\nthe dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a\nmoment I was paralysed.\n\n Why, that s rum,  said the elder.  Dashed rum! It s just like the\nghost of a foot, ain t it?  He hesitated and advanced with outstretched\nhand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a\ngirl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to\ndo. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a\nrapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house.\nBut the smaller boy was sharp-eyed enough to follow the movement, and\nbefore I was well down the steps and upon the pavement, he had\nrecovered from his momentary astonishment and was shouting out that the\nfeet had gone over the wall.\n\n They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the\nlower step and upon the pavement.  What s up?  asked someone.  Feet!\nLook! Feet running! \n\n Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along\nafter the Salvation Army, and this blow not only impeded me but them.\nThere was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling\nover one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was\nrushing headlong round the circuit of Russell Square, with six or seven\nastonished people following my footmarks. There was no time for\nexplanation, or else the whole host would have been after me.\n\n Twice I doubled round corners, thrice I crossed the road and came back\nupon my tracks, and then, as my feet grew hot and dry, the damp\nimpressions began to fade. At last I had a breathing space and rubbed\nmy feet clean with my hands, and so got away altogether. The last I saw\nof the chase was a little group of a dozen people perhaps, studying\nwith infinite perplexity a slowly drying footprint that had resulted\nfrom a puddle in Tavistock Square, a footprint as isolated and\nincomprehensible to them as Crusoe s solitary discovery.\n\n This running warmed me to a certain extent, and I went on with a\nbetter courage through the maze of less frequented roads that runs\nhereabouts. My back had now become very stiff and sore, my tonsils were\npainful from the cabman s fingers, and the skin of my neck had been\nscratched by his nails; my feet hurt exceedingly and I was lame from a\nlittle cut on one foot. I saw in time a blind man approaching me, and\nfled limping, for I feared his subtle intuitions. Once or twice\naccidental collisions occurred and I left people amazed, with\nunaccountable curses ringing in their ears. Then came something silent\nand quiet against my face, and across the Square fell a thin veil of\nslowly falling flakes of snow. I had caught a cold, and do as I would I\ncould not avoid an occasional sneeze. And every dog that came in sight,\nwith its pointing nose and curious sniffing, was a terror to me.\n\n Then came men and boys running, first one and then others, and\nshouting as they ran. It was a fire. They ran in the direction of my\nlodging, and looking back down a street I saw a mass of black smoke\nstreaming up above the roofs and telephone wires. It was my lodging\nburning; my clothes, my apparatus, all my resources indeed, except my\ncheque-book and the three volumes of memoranda that awaited me in Great\nPortland Street, were there. Burning! I had burnt my boats if ever a\nman did! The place was blazing. \n\nThe Invisible Man paused and thought. Kemp glanced nervously out of the\nwindow.  Yes?  he said.  Go on. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\nIN THE EMPORIUM\n\n\n So last January, with the beginning of a snowstorm in the air about\nme and if it settled on me it would betray me! weary, cold, painful,\ninexpressibly wretched, and still but half convinced of my invisible\nquality, I began this new life to which I am committed. I had no\nrefuge, no appliances, no human being in the world in whom I could\nconfide. To have told my secret would have given me away made a mere\nshow and rarity of me. Nevertheless, I was half-minded to accost some\npasser-by and throw myself upon his mercy. But I knew too clearly the\nterror and brutal cruelty my advances would evoke. I made no plans in\nthe street. My sole object was to get shelter from the snow, to get\nmyself covered and warm; then I might hope to plan. But even to me, an\nInvisible Man, the rows of London houses stood latched, barred, and\nbolted impregnably.\n\n Only one thing could I see clearly before me the cold exposure and\nmisery of the snowstorm and the night.\n\n And then I had a brilliant idea. I turned down one of the roads\nleading from Gower Street to Tottenham Court Road, and found myself\noutside Omniums, the big establishment where everything is to be\nbought you know the place: meat, grocery, linen, furniture, clothing,\noil paintings even a huge meandering collection of shops rather than a\nshop. I had thought I should find the doors open, but they were closed,\nand as I stood in the wide entrance a carriage stopped outside, and a\nman in uniform you know the kind of personage with  Omnium  on his\ncap flung open the door. I contrived to enter, and walking down the\nshop it was a department where they were selling ribbons and gloves and\nstockings and that kind of thing came to a more spacious region devoted\nto picnic baskets and wicker furniture.\n\n I did not feel safe there, however; people were going to and fro, and\nI prowled restlessly about until I came upon a huge section in an upper\nfloor containing multitudes of bedsteads, and over these I clambered,\nand found a resting-place at last among a huge pile of folded flock\nmattresses. The place was already lit up and agreeably warm, and I\ndecided to remain where I was, keeping a cautious eye on the two or\nthree sets of shopmen and customers who were meandering through the\nplace, until closing time came. Then I should be able, I thought, to\nrob the place for food and clothing, and disguised, prowl through it\nand examine its resources, perhaps sleep on some of the bedding. That\nseemed an acceptable plan. My idea was to procure clothing to make\nmyself a muffled but acceptable figure, to get money, and then to\nrecover my books and parcels where they awaited me, take a lodging\nsomewhere and elaborate plans for the complete realisation of the\nadvantages my invisibility gave me (as I still imagined) over my\nfellow-men.\n\n Closing time arrived quickly enough. It could not have been more than\nan hour after I took up my position on the mattresses before I noticed\nthe blinds of the windows being drawn, and customers being marched\ndoorward. And then a number of brisk young men began with remarkable\nalacrity to tidy up the goods that remained disturbed. I left my lair\nas the crowds diminished, and prowled cautiously out into the less\ndesolate parts of the shop. I was really surprised to observe how\nrapidly the young men and women whipped away the goods displayed for\nsale during the day. All the boxes of goods, the hanging fabrics, the\nfestoons of lace, the boxes of sweets in the grocery section, the\ndisplays of this and that, were being whipped down, folded up, slapped\ninto tidy receptacles, and everything that could not be taken down and\nput away had sheets of some coarse stuff like sacking flung over them.\nFinally all the chairs were turned up on to the counters, leaving the\nfloor clear. Directly each of these young people had done, he or she\nmade promptly for the door with such an expression of animation as I\nhave rarely observed in a shop assistant before. Then came a lot of\nyoungsters scattering sawdust and carrying pails and brooms. I had to\ndodge to get out of the way, and as it was, my ankle got stung with the\nsawdust. For some time, wandering through the swathed and darkened\ndepartments, I could hear the brooms at work. And at last a good hour\nor more after the shop had been closed, came a noise of locking doors.\nSilence came upon the place, and I found myself wandering through the\nvast and intricate shops, galleries, show-rooms of the place, alone. It\nwas very still; in one place I remember passing near one of the\nTottenham Court Road entrances and listening to the tapping of\nboot-heels of the passers-by.\n\n My first visit was to the place where I had seen stockings and gloves\nfor sale. It was dark, and I had the devil of a hunt after matches,\nwhich I found at last in the drawer of the little cash desk. Then I had\nto get a candle. I had to tear down wrappings and ransack a number of\nboxes and drawers, but at last I managed to turn out what I sought; the\nbox label called them lambswool pants, and lambswool vests. Then socks,\na thick comforter, and then I went to the clothing place and got\ntrousers, a lounge jacket, an overcoat and a slouch hat a clerical sort\nof hat with the brim turned down. I began to feel a human being again,\nand my next thought was food.\n\n Upstairs was a refreshment department, and there I got cold meat.\nThere was coffee still in the urn, and I lit the gas and warmed it up\nagain, and altogether I did not do badly. Afterwards, prowling through\nthe place in search of blankets I had to put up at last with a heap of\ndown quilts I came upon a grocery section with a lot of chocolate and\ncandied fruits, more than was good for me indeed and some white\nburgundy. And near that was a toy department, and I had a brilliant\nidea. I found some artificial noses dummy noses, you know, and I\nthought of dark spectacles. But Omniums had no optical department. My\nnose had been a difficulty indeed I had thought of paint. But the\ndiscovery set my mind running on wigs and masks and the like. Finally I\nwent to sleep in a heap of down quilts, very warm and comfortable.\n\n My last thoughts before sleeping were the most agreeable I had had\nsince the change. I was in a state of physical serenity, and that was\nreflected in my mind. I thought that I should be able to slip out\nunobserved in the morning with my clothes upon me, muffling my face\nwith a white wrapper I had taken, purchase, with the money I had taken,\nspectacles and so forth, and so complete my disguise. I lapsed into\ndisorderly dreams of all the fantastic things that had happened during\nthe last few days. I saw the ugly little Jew of a landlord vociferating\nin his rooms; I saw his two sons marvelling, and the wrinkled old\nwoman s gnarled face as she asked for her cat. I experienced again the\nstrange sensation of seeing the cloth disappear, and so I came round to\nthe windy hillside and the sniffing old clergyman mumbling  Earth to\nearth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,  at my father s open grave.\n\n You also,  said a voice, and suddenly I was being forced towards the\ngrave. I struggled, shouted, appealed to the mourners, but they\ncontinued stonily following the service; the old clergyman, too, never\nfaltered droning and sniffing through the ritual. I realised I was\ninvisible and inaudible, that overwhelming forces had their grip on me.\nI struggled in vain, I was forced over the brink, the coffin rang\nhollow as I fell upon it, and the gravel came flying after me in\nspadefuls. Nobody heeded me, nobody was aware of me. I made convulsive\nstruggles and awoke.\n\n The pale London dawn had come, the place was full of a chilly grey\nlight that filtered round the edges of the window blinds. I sat up, and\nfor a time I could not think where this ample apartment, with its\ncounters, its piles of rolled stuff, its heap of quilts and cushions,\nits iron pillars, might be. Then, as recollection came back to me, I\nheard voices in conversation.\n\n Then far down the place, in the brighter light of some department\nwhich had already raised its blinds, I saw two men approaching. I\nscrambled to my feet, looking about me for some way of escape, and even\nas I did so the sound of my movement made them aware of me. I suppose\nthey saw merely a figure moving quietly and quickly away.  Who s that? \ncried one, and  Stop there!  shouted the other. I dashed around a\ncorner and came full tilt a faceless figure, mind you! on a lanky lad\nof fifteen. He yelled and I bowled him over, rushed past him, turned\nanother corner, and by a happy inspiration threw myself behind a\ncounter. In another moment feet went running past and I heard voices\nshouting,  All hands to the doors!  asking what was  up,  and giving\none another advice how to catch me.\n\n Lying on the ground, I felt scared out of my wits. But odd as it may\nseem it did not occur to me at the moment to take off my clothes as I\nshould have done. I had made up my mind, I suppose, to get away in\nthem, and that ruled me. And then down the vista of the counters came a\nbawling of  Here he is! \n\n I sprang to my feet, whipped a chair off the counter, and sent it\nwhirling at the fool who had shouted, turned, came into another round a\ncorner, sent him spinning, and rushed up the stairs. He kept his\nfooting, gave a view hallo, and came up the staircase hot after me. Up\nthe staircase were piled a multitude of those bright-coloured pot\nthings what are they? \n\n Art pots,  suggested Kemp.\n\n That s it! Art pots. Well, I turned at the top step and swung round,\nplucked one out of a pile and smashed it on his silly head as he came\nat me. The whole pile of pots went headlong, and I heard shouting and\nfootsteps running from all parts. I made a mad rush for the refreshment\nplace, and there was a man in white like a man cook, who took up the\nchase. I made one last desperate turn and found myself among lamps and\nironmongery. I went behind the counter of this, and waited for my cook,\nand as he bolted in at the head of the chase, I doubled him up with a\nlamp. Down he went, and I crouched down behind the counter and began\nwhipping off my clothes as fast as I could. Coat, jacket, trousers,\nshoes were all right, but a lambswool vest fits a man like a skin. I\nheard more men coming, my cook was lying quiet on the other side of the\ncounter, stunned or scared speechless, and I had to make another dash\nfor it, like a rabbit hunted out of a wood-pile.\n\n This way, policeman!  I heard someone shouting. I found myself in my\nbedstead storeroom again, and at the end of a wilderness of wardrobes.\nI rushed among them, went flat, got rid of my vest after infinite\nwriggling, and stood a free man again, panting and scared, as the\npoliceman and three of the shopmen came round the corner. They made a\nrush for the vest and pants, and collared the trousers.  He s dropping\nhis plunder,  said one of the young men.  He _must_ be somewhere here. \n\n But they did not find me all the same.\n\n I stood watching them hunt for me for a time, and cursing my ill-luck\nin losing the clothes. Then I went into the refreshment-room, drank a\nlittle milk I found there, and sat down by the fire to consider my\nposition.\n\n In a little while two assistants came in and began to talk over the\nbusiness very excitedly and like the fools they were. I heard a\nmagnified account of my depredations, and other speculations as to my\nwhereabouts. Then I fell to scheming again. The insurmountable\ndifficulty of the place, especially now it was alarmed, was to get any\nplunder out of it. I went down into the warehouse to see if there was\nany chance of packing and addressing a parcel, but I could not\nunderstand the system of checking. About eleven o clock, the snow\nhaving thawed as it fell, and the day being finer and a little warmer\nthan the previous one, I decided that the Emporium was hopeless, and\nwent out again, exasperated at my want of success, with only the\nvaguest plans of action in my mind. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\nIN DRURY LANE\n\n\n But you begin now to realise,  said the Invisible Man,  the full\ndisadvantage of my condition. I had no shelter no covering to get\nclothing was to forego all my advantage, to make myself a strange and\nterrible thing. I was fasting; for to eat, to fill myself with\nunassimilated matter, would be to become grotesquely visible again. \n\n I never thought of that,  said Kemp.\n\n Nor had I. And the snow had warned me of other dangers. I could not go\nabroad in snow it would settle on me and expose me. Rain, too, would\nmake me a watery outline, a glistening surface of a man a bubble. And\nfog I should be like a fainter bubble in a fog, a surface, a greasy\nglimmer of humanity. Moreover, as I went abroad in the London air I\ngathered dirt about my ankles, floating smuts and dust upon my skin. I\ndid not know how long it would be before I should become visible from\nthat cause also. But I saw clearly it could not be for long.\n\n Not in London at any rate.\n\n I went into the slums towards Great Portland Street, and found myself\nat the end of the street in which I had lodged. I did not go that way,\nbecause of the crowd halfway down it opposite to the still smoking\nruins of the house I had fired. My most immediate problem was to get\nclothing. What to do with my face puzzled me. Then I saw in one of\nthose little miscellaneous shops news, sweets, toys, stationery,\nbelated Christmas tomfoolery, and so forth an array of masks and noses.\nI realised that problem was solved. In a flash I saw my course. I\nturned about, no longer aimless, and went circuitously in order to\navoid the busy ways, towards the back streets north of the Strand; for\nI remembered, though not very distinctly where, that some theatrical\ncostumiers had shops in that district.\n\n The day was cold, with a nipping wind down the northward running\nstreets. I walked fast to avoid being overtaken. Every crossing was a\ndanger, every passenger a thing to watch alertly. One man as I was\nabout to pass him at the top of Bedford Street, turned upon me abruptly\nand came into me, sending me into the road and almost under the wheel\nof a passing hansom. The verdict of the cab-rank was that he had had\nsome sort of stroke. I was so unnerved by this encounter that I went\ninto Covent Garden Market and sat down for some time in a quiet corner\nby a stall of violets, panting and trembling. I found I had caught a\nfresh cold, and had to turn out after a time lest my sneezes should\nattract attention.\n\n At last I reached the object of my quest, a dirty, fly-blown little\nshop in a by-way near Drury Lane, with a window full of tinsel robes,\nsham jewels, wigs, slippers, dominoes and theatrical photographs. The\nshop was old-fashioned and low and dark, and the house rose above it\nfor four storeys, dark and dismal. I peered through the window and,\nseeing no one within, entered. The opening of the door set a clanking\nbell ringing. I left it open, and walked round a bare costume stand,\ninto a corner behind a cheval glass. For a minute or so no one came.\nThen I heard heavy feet striding across a room, and a man appeared down\nthe shop.\n\n My plans were now perfectly definite. I proposed to make my way into\nthe house, secrete myself upstairs, watch my opportunity, and when\neverything was quiet, rummage out a wig, mask, spectacles, and costume,\nand go into the world, perhaps a grotesque but still a credible figure.\nAnd incidentally of course I could rob the house of any available\nmoney.\n\n The man who had just entered the shop was a short, slight, hunched,\nbeetle-browed man, with long arms and very short bandy legs. Apparently\nI had interrupted a meal. He stared about the shop with an expression\nof expectation. This gave way to surprise, and then to anger, as he saw\nthe shop empty.  Damn the boys!  he said. He went to stare up and down\nthe street. He came in again in a minute, kicked the door to with his\nfoot spitefully, and went muttering back to the house door.\n\n I came forward to follow him, and at the noise of my movement he\nstopped dead. I did so too, startled by his quickness of ear. He\nslammed the house door in my face.\n\n I stood hesitating. Suddenly I heard his quick footsteps returning,\nand the door reopened. He stood looking about the shop like one who was\nstill not satisfied. Then, murmuring to himself, he examined the back\nof the counter and peered behind some fixtures. Then he stood doubtful.\nHe had left the house door open and I slipped into the inner room.\n\n It was a queer little room, poorly furnished and with a number of big\nmasks in the corner. On the table was his belated breakfast, and it was\na confoundedly exasperating thing for me, Kemp, to have to sniff his\ncoffee and stand watching while he came in and resumed his meal. And\nhis table manners were irritating. Three doors opened into the little\nroom, one going upstairs and one down, but they were all shut. I could\nnot get out of the room while he was there; I could scarcely move\nbecause of his alertness, and there was a draught down my back. Twice I\nstrangled a sneeze just in time.\n\n The spectacular quality of my sensations was curious and novel, but\nfor all that I was heartily tired and angry long before he had done his\neating. But at last he made an end and putting his beggarly crockery on\nthe black tin tray upon which he had had his teapot, and gathering all\nthe crumbs up on the mustard stained cloth, he took the whole lot of\nthings after him. His burden prevented his shutting the door behind\nhim as he would have done; I never saw such a man for shutting\ndoors and I followed him into a very dirty underground kitchen and\nscullery. I had the pleasure of seeing him begin to wash up, and then,\nfinding no good in keeping down there, and the brick floor being cold\non my feet, I returned upstairs and sat in his chair by the fire. It\nwas burning low, and scarcely thinking, I put on a little coal. The\nnoise of this brought him up at once, and he stood aglare. He peered\nabout the room and was within an ace of touching me. Even after that\nexamination, he scarcely seemed satisfied. He stopped in the doorway\nand took a final inspection before he went down.\n\n I waited in the little parlour for an age, and at last he came up and\nopened the upstairs door. I just managed to get by him.\n\n On the staircase he stopped suddenly, so that I very nearly blundered\ninto him. He stood looking back right into my face and listening.  I\ncould have sworn,  he said. His long hairy hand pulled at his lower\nlip. His eye went up and down the staircase. Then he grunted and went\non up again.\n\n His hand was on the handle of a door, and then he stopped again with\nthe same puzzled anger on his face. He was becoming aware of the faint\nsounds of my movements about him. The man must have had diabolically\nacute hearing. He suddenly flashed into rage.  If there s anyone in\nthis house  he cried with an oath, and left the threat unfinished. He\nput his hand in his pocket, failed to find what he wanted, and rushing\npast me went blundering noisily and pugnaciously downstairs. But I did\nnot follow him. I sat on the head of the staircase until his return.\n\n Presently he came up again, still muttering. He opened the door of the\nroom, and before I could enter, slammed it in my face.\n\n I resolved to explore the house, and spent some time in doing so as\nnoiselessly as possible. The house was very old and tumble-down, damp\nso that the paper in the attics was peeling from the walls, and rat\ninfested. Some of the door handles were stiff and I was afraid to turn\nthem. Several rooms I did inspect were unfurnished, and others were\nlittered with theatrical lumber, bought second-hand, I judged, from its\nappearance. In one room next to his I found a lot of old clothes. I\nbegan routing among these, and in my eagerness forgot again the evident\nsharpness of his ears. I heard a stealthy footstep and, looking up just\nin time, saw him peering in at the tumbled heap and holding an\nold-fashioned revolver in his hand. I stood perfectly still while he\nstared about open-mouthed and suspicious.  It must have been her,  he\nsaid slowly.  Damn her! \n\n He shut the door quietly, and immediately I heard the key turn in the\nlock. Then his footsteps retreated. I realised abruptly that I was\nlocked in. For a minute I did not know what to do. I walked from door\nto window and back, and stood perplexed. A gust of anger came upon me.\nBut I decided to inspect the clothes before I did anything further, and\nmy first attempt brought down a pile from an upper shelf. This brought\nhim back, more sinister than ever. That time he actually touched me,\njumped back with amazement and stood astonished in the middle of the\nroom.\n\n Presently he calmed a little.  Rats,  he said in an undertone, fingers\non lips. He was evidently a little scared. I edged quietly out of the\nroom, but a plank creaked. Then the infernal little brute started going\nall over the house, revolver in hand and locking door after door and\npocketing the keys. When I realised what he was up to I had a fit of\nrage I could hardly control myself sufficiently to watch my\nopportunity. By this time I knew he was alone in the house, and so I\nmade no more ado, but knocked him on the head. \n\n Knocked him on the head?  exclaimed Kemp.\n\n Yes stunned him as he was going downstairs. Hit him from behind with a\nstool that stood on the landing. He went downstairs like a bag of old\nboots. \n\n But I say! The common conventions of humanity \n\n Are all very well for common people. But the point was, Kemp, that I\nhad to get out of that house in a disguise without his seeing me. I\ncouldn t think of any other way of doing it. And then I gagged him with\na Louis Quatorze vest and tied him up in a sheet. \n\n Tied him up in a sheet! \n\n Made a sort of bag of it. It was rather a good idea to keep the idiot\nscared and quiet, and a devilish hard thing to get out of head away\nfrom the string. My dear Kemp, it s no good your sitting glaring as\nthough I was a murderer. It had to be done. He had his revolver. If\nonce he saw me he would be able to describe me \n\n But still,  said Kemp,  in England to-day. And the man was in his own\nhouse, and you were well, robbing. \n\n Robbing! Confound it! You ll call me a thief next! Surely, Kemp,\nyou re not fool enough to dance on the old strings. Can t you see my\nposition? \n\n And his too,  said Kemp.\n\nThe Invisible Man stood up sharply.  What do you mean to say? \n\nKemp s face grew a trifle hard. He was about to speak and checked\nhimself.  I suppose, after all,  he said with a sudden change of\nmanner,  the thing had to be done. You were in a fix. But still \n\n Of course I was in a fix an infernal fix. And he made me wild\ntoo hunting me about the house, fooling about with his revolver,\nlocking and unlocking doors. He was simply exasperating. You don t\nblame me, do you? You don t blame me? \n\n I never blame anyone,  said Kemp.  It s quite out of fashion. What did\nyou do next? \n\n I was hungry. Downstairs I found a loaf and some rank cheese more than\nsufficient to satisfy my hunger. I took some brandy and water, and then\nwent up past my impromptu bag he was lying quite still to the room\ncontaining the old clothes. This looked out upon the street, two lace\ncurtains brown with dirt guarding the window. I went and peered out\nthrough their interstices. Outside the day was bright by contrast with\nthe brown shadows of the dismal house in which I found myself,\ndazzlingly bright. A brisk traffic was going by, fruit carts, a hansom,\na four-wheeler with a pile of boxes, a fishmonger s cart. I turned with\nspots of colour swimming before my eyes to the shadowy fixtures behind\nme. My excitement was giving place to a clear apprehension of my\nposition again. The room was full of a faint scent of benzoline, used,\nI suppose, in cleaning the garments.\n\n I began a systematic search of the place. I should judge the hunchback\nhad been alone in the house for some time. He was a curious person.\nEverything that could possibly be of service to me I collected in the\nclothes storeroom, and then I made a deliberate selection. I found a\nhandbag I thought a suitable possession, and some powder, rouge, and\nsticking-plaster.\n\n I had thought of painting and powdering my face and all that there was\nto show of me, in order to render myself visible, but the disadvantage\nof this lay in the fact that I should require turpentine and other\nappliances and a considerable amount of time before I could vanish\nagain. Finally I chose a mask of the better type, slightly grotesque\nbut not more so than many human beings, dark glasses, greyish whiskers,\nand a wig. I could find no underclothing, but that I could buy\nsubsequently, and for the time I swathed myself in calico dominoes and\nsome white cashmere scarfs. I could find no socks, but the hunchback s\nboots were rather a loose fit and sufficed. In a desk in the shop were\nthree sovereigns and about thirty shillings  worth of silver, and in a\nlocked cupboard I burst in the inner room were eight pounds in gold. I\ncould go forth into the world again, equipped.\n\n Then came a curious hesitation. Was my appearance really credible? I\ntried myself with a little bedroom looking-glass, inspecting myself\nfrom every point of view to discover any forgotten chink, but it all\nseemed sound. I was grotesque to the theatrical pitch, a stage miser,\nbut I was certainly not a physical impossibility. Gathering confidence,\nI took my looking-glass down into the shop, pulled down the shop\nblinds, and surveyed myself from every point of view with the help of\nthe cheval glass in the corner.\n\n I spent some minutes screwing up my courage and then unlocked the shop\ndoor and marched out into the street, leaving the little man to get out\nof his sheet again when he liked. In five minutes a dozen turnings\nintervened between me and the costumier s shop. No one appeared to\nnotice me very pointedly. My last difficulty seemed overcome. \n\nHe stopped again.\n\n And you troubled no more about the hunchback?  said Kemp.\n\n No,  said the Invisible Man.  Nor have I heard what became of him. I\nsuppose he untied himself or kicked himself out. The knots were pretty\ntight. \n\nHe became silent and went to the window and stared out.\n\n What happened when you went out into the Strand? \n\n Oh! disillusionment again. I thought my troubles were over.\nPractically I thought I had impunity to do whatever I chose,\neverything save to give away my secret. So I thought. Whatever I did,\nwhatever the consequences might be, was nothing to me. I had merely to\nfling aside my garments and vanish. No person could hold me. I could\ntake my money where I found it. I decided to treat myself to a\nsumptuous feast, and then put up at a good hotel, and accumulate a new\noutfit of property. I felt amazingly confident; it s not particularly\npleasant recalling that I was an ass. I went into a place and was\nalready ordering lunch, when it occurred to me that I could not eat\nunless I exposed my invisible face. I finished ordering the lunch, told\nthe man I should be back in ten minutes, and went out exasperated. I\ndon t know if you have ever been disappointed in your appetite. \n\n Not quite so badly,  said Kemp,  but I can imagine it. \n\n I could have smashed the silly devils. At last, faint with the desire\nfor tasteful food, I went into another place and demanded a private\nroom.  I am disfigured,  I said.  Badly.  They looked at me curiously,\nbut of course it was not their affair and so at last I got my lunch. It\nwas not particularly well served, but it sufficed; and when I had had\nit, I sat over a cigar, trying to plan my line of action. And outside a\nsnowstorm was beginning.\n\n The more I thought it over, Kemp, the more I realised what a helpless\nabsurdity an Invisible Man was in a cold and dirty climate and a\ncrowded civilised city. Before I made this mad experiment I had dreamt\nof a thousand advantages. That afternoon it seemed all disappointment.\nI went over the heads of the things a man reckons desirable. No doubt\ninvisibility made it possible to get them, but it made it impossible to\nenjoy them when they are got. Ambition what is the good of pride of\nplace when you cannot appear there? What is the good of the love of\nwoman when her name must needs be Delilah? I have no taste for\npolitics, for the blackguardisms of fame, for philanthropy, for sport.\nWhat was I to do? And for this I had become a wrapped-up mystery, a\nswathed and bandaged caricature of a man! \n\nHe paused, and his attitude suggested a roving glance at the window.\n\n But how did you get to Iping?  said Kemp, anxious to keep his guest\nbusy talking.\n\n I went there to work. I had one hope. It was a half idea! I have it\nstill. It is a full blown idea now. A way of getting back! Of restoring\nwhat I have done. When I choose. When I have done all I mean to do\ninvisibly. And that is what I chiefly want to talk to you about now. \n\n You went straight to Iping? \n\n Yes. I had simply to get my three volumes of memoranda and my\ncheque-book, my luggage and underclothing, order a quantity of\nchemicals to work out this idea of mine I will show you the\ncalculations as soon as I get my books and then I started. Jove! I\nremember the snowstorm now, and the accursed bother it was to keep the\nsnow from damping my pasteboard nose. \n\n At the end,  said Kemp,  the day before yesterday, when they found you\nout, you rather to judge by the papers \n\n I did. Rather. Did I kill that fool of a constable? \n\n No,  said Kemp.  He s expected to recover. \n\n That s his luck, then. I clean lost my temper, the fools! Why couldn t\nthey leave me alone? And that grocer lout? \n\n There are no deaths expected,  said Kemp.\n\n I don t know about that tramp of mine,  said the Invisible Man, with\nan unpleasant laugh.\n\n By Heaven, Kemp, you don t know what rage _is_! ... To have worked for\nyears, to have planned and plotted, and then to get some fumbling\npurblind idiot messing across your course! ... Every conceivable sort\nof silly creature that has ever been created has been sent to cross me.\n\n If I have much more of it, I shall go wild I shall start mowing  em.\n\n As it is, they ve made things a thousand times more difficult. \n\n No doubt it s exasperating,  said Kemp, drily.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\nTHE PLAN THAT FAILED\n\n\n But now,  said Kemp, with a side glance out of the window,  what are\nwe to do? \n\nHe moved nearer his guest as he spoke in such a manner as to prevent\nthe possibility of a sudden glimpse of the three men who were advancing\nup the hill road with an intolerable slowness, as it seemed to Kemp.\n\n What were you planning to do when you were heading for Port Burdock?\n_Had_ you any plan? \n\n I was going to clear out of the country. But I have altered that plan\nrather since seeing you. I thought it would be wise, now the weather is\nhot and invisibility possible, to make for the South. Especially as my\nsecret was known, and everyone would be on the lookout for a masked and\nmuffled man. You have a line of steamers from here to France. My idea\nwas to get aboard one and run the risks of the passage. Thence I could\ngo by train into Spain, or else get to Algiers. It would not be\ndifficult. There a man might always be invisible and yet live. And do\nthings. I was using that tramp as a money box and luggage carrier,\nuntil I decided how to get my books and things sent over to meet me. \n\n That s clear. \n\n And then the filthy brute must needs try and rob me! He _has_ hidden\nmy books, Kemp. Hidden my books! If I can lay my hands on him! \n\n Best plan to get the books out of him first. \n\n But where is he? Do you know? \n\n He s in the town police station, locked up, by his own request, in the\nstrongest cell in the place. \n\n Cur!  said the Invisible Man.\n\n But that hangs up your plans a little. \n\n We must get those books; those books are vital. \n\n Certainly,  said Kemp, a little nervously, wondering if he heard\nfootsteps outside.  Certainly we must get those books. But that won t\nbe difficult, if he doesn t know they re for you. \n\n No,  said the Invisible Man, and thought.\n\nKemp tried to think of something to keep the talk going, but the\nInvisible Man resumed of his own accord.\n\n Blundering into your house, Kemp,  he said,  changes all my plans. For\nyou are a man that can understand. In spite of all that has happened,\nin spite of this publicity, of the loss of my books, of what I have\nsuffered, there still remain great possibilities, huge possibilities \n\n You have told no one I am here?  he asked abruptly.\n\nKemp hesitated.  That was implied,  he said.\n\n No one?  insisted Griffin.\n\n Not a soul. \n\n Ah! Now  The Invisible Man stood up, and sticking his arms akimbo\nbegan to pace the study.\n\n I made a mistake, Kemp, a huge mistake, in carrying this thing through\nalone. I have wasted strength, time, opportunities. Alone it is\nwonderful how little a man can do alone! To rob a little, to hurt a\nlittle, and there is the end.\n\n What I want, Kemp, is a goal-keeper, a helper, and a hiding-place, an\narrangement whereby I can sleep and eat and rest in peace, and\nunsuspected. I must have a confederate. With a confederate, with food\nand rest a thousand things are possible.\n\n Hitherto I have gone on vague lines. We have to consider all that\ninvisibility means, all that it does not mean. It means little\nadvantage for eavesdropping and so forth one makes sounds. It s of\nlittle help a little help perhaps in housebreaking and so forth. Once\nyou ve caught me you could easily imprison me. But on the other hand I\nam hard to catch. This invisibility, in fact, is only good in two\ncases: It s useful in getting away, it s useful in approaching. It s\nparticularly useful, therefore, in killing. I can walk round a man,\nwhatever weapon he has, choose my point, strike as I like. Dodge as I\nlike. Escape as I like. \n\nKemp s hand went to his moustache. Was that a movement downstairs?\n\n And it is killing we must do, Kemp. \n\n It is killing we must do,  repeated Kemp.  I m listening to your plan,\nGriffin, but I m not agreeing, mind. _Why_ killing? \n\n Not wanton killing, but a judicious slaying. The point is, they know\nthere is an Invisible Man as well as we know there is an Invisible Man.\nAnd that Invisible Man, Kemp, must now establish a Reign of Terror.\nYes; no doubt it s startling. But I mean it. A Reign of Terror. He must\ntake some town like your Burdock and terrify and dominate it. He must\nissue his orders. He can do that in a thousand ways scraps of paper\nthrust under doors would suffice. And all who disobey his orders he\nmust kill, and kill all who would defend them. \n\n Humph!  said Kemp, no longer listening to Griffin but to the sound of\nhis front door opening and closing.\n\n It seems to me, Griffin,  he said, to cover his wandering attention,\n that your confederate would be in a difficult position. \n\n No one would know he was a confederate,  said the Invisible Man,\neagerly. And then suddenly,  Hush! What s that downstairs? \n\n Nothing,  said Kemp, and suddenly began to speak loud and fast.  I\ndon t agree to this, Griffin,  he said.  Understand me, I don t agree\nto this. Why dream of playing a game against the race? How can you hope\nto gain happiness? Don t be a lone wolf. Publish your results; take the\nworld take the nation at least into your confidence. Think what you\nmight do with a million helpers \n\nThe Invisible Man interrupted arm extended.  There are footsteps coming\nupstairs,  he said in a low voice.\n\n Nonsense,  said Kemp.\n\n Let me see,  said the Invisible Man, and advanced, arm extended, to\nthe door.\n\nAnd then things happened very swiftly. Kemp hesitated for a second and\nthen moved to intercept him. The Invisible Man started and stood still.\n Traitor!  cried the Voice, and suddenly the dressing-gown opened, and\nsitting down the Unseen began to disrobe. Kemp made three swift steps\nto the door, and forthwith the Invisible Man his legs had\nvanished sprang to his feet with a shout. Kemp flung the door open.\n\nAs it opened, there came a sound of hurrying feet downstairs and\nvoices.\n\nWith a quick movement Kemp thrust the Invisible Man back, sprang aside,\nand slammed the door. The key was outside and ready. In another moment\nGriffin would have been alone in the belvedere study, a prisoner. Save\nfor one little thing. The key had been slipped in hastily that morning.\nAs Kemp slammed the door it fell noisily upon the carpet.\n\nKemp s face became white. He tried to grip the door handle with both\nhands. For a moment he stood lugging. Then the door gave six inches.\nBut he got it closed again. The second time it was jerked a foot wide,\nand the dressing-gown came wedging itself into the opening. His throat\nwas gripped by invisible fingers, and he left his hold on the handle to\ndefend himself. He was forced back, tripped and pitched heavily into\nthe corner of the landing. The empty dressing-gown was flung on the top\nof him.\n\nHalfway up the staircase was Colonel Adye, the recipient of Kemp s\nletter, the chief of the Burdock police. He was staring aghast at the\nsudden appearance of Kemp, followed by the extraordinary sight of\nclothing tossing empty in the air. He saw Kemp felled, and struggling\nto his feet. He saw him rush forward, and go down again, felled like an\nox.\n\nThen suddenly he was struck violently. By nothing! A vast weight, it\nseemed, leapt upon him, and he was hurled headlong down the staircase,\nwith a grip on his throat and a knee in his groin. An invisible foot\ntrod on his back, a ghostly patter passed downstairs, he heard the two\npolice officers in the hall shout and run, and the front door of the\nhouse slammed violently.\n\nHe rolled over and sat up staring. He saw, staggering down the\nstaircase, Kemp, dusty and disheveled, one side of his face white from\na blow, his lip bleeding, and a pink dressing-gown and some\nunderclothing held in his arms.\n\n My God!  cried Kemp,  the game s up! He s gone! \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\nTHE HUNTING OF THE INVISIBLE MAN\n\n\nFor a space Kemp was too inarticulate to make Adye understand the swift\nthings that had just happened. They stood on the landing, Kemp speaking\nswiftly, the grotesque swathings of Griffin still on his arm. But\npresently Adye began to grasp something of the situation.\n\n He is mad,  said Kemp;  inhuman. He is pure selfishness. He thinks of\nnothing but his own advantage, his own safety. I have listened to such\na story this morning of brutal self-seeking.... He has wounded men. He\nwill kill them unless we can prevent him. He will create a panic.\nNothing can stop him. He is going out now furious! \n\n He must be caught,  said Adye.  That is certain. \n\n But how?  cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas.  You must\nbegin at once. You must set every available man to work; you must\nprevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away, he may go through\nthe countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams of a reign\nof terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a watch on\ntrains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You must wire\nfor help. The only thing that may keep him here is the thought of\nrecovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of\nthat! There is a man in your police station Marvel. \n\n I know,  said Adye,  I know. Those books yes. But the tramp.... \n\n Says he hasn t them. But he thinks the tramp has. And you must prevent\nhim from eating or sleeping; day and night the country must be astir\nfor him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so that he will\nhave to break his way to it. The houses everywhere must be barred\nagainst him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The whole\ncountry-side must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you, Adye, he\nis a danger, a disaster; unless he is pinned and secured, it is\nfrightful to think of the things that may happen. \n\n What else can we do?  said Adye.  I must go down at once and begin\norganising. But why not come? Yes you come too! Come, and we must hold\na sort of council of war get Hopps to help and the railway managers. By\nJove! it s urgent. Come along tell me as we go. What else is there we\ncan do? Put that stuff down. \n\nIn another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the\nfront door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty\nair.  He s got away, sir,  said one.\n\n We must go to the central station at once,  said Adye.  One of you go\non down and get a cab to come up and meet us quickly. And now, Kemp,\nwhat else? \n\n Dogs,  said Kemp.  Get dogs. They don t see him, but they wind him.\nGet dogs. \n\n Good,  said Adye.  It s not generally known, but the prison officials\nover at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else? \n\n Bear in mind,  said Kemp,  his food shows. After eating, his food\nshows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You\nmust keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all\nweapons all implements that might be weapons, away. He can t carry such\nthings for long. And what he can snatch up and strike men with must be\nhidden away. \n\n Good again,  said Adye.  We shall have him yet! \n\n And on the roads,  said Kemp, and hesitated.\n\n Yes?  said Adye.\n\n Powdered glass,  said Kemp.  It s cruel, I know. But think of what he\nmay do! \n\nAdye drew the air in sharply between his teeth.  It s unsportsmanlike.\nI don t know. But I ll have powdered glass got ready. If he goes too\nfar.... \n\n The man s become inhuman, I tell you,  said Kemp.  I am as sure he\nwill establish a reign of terror so soon as he has got over the\nemotions of this escape as I am sure I am talking to you. Our only\nchance is to be ahead. He has cut himself off from his kind. His blood\nbe upon his own head. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\nTHE WICKSTEED MURDER\n\n\nThe Invisible Man seems to have rushed out of Kemp s house in a state\nof blind fury. A little child playing near Kemp s gateway was violently\ncaught up and thrown aside, so that its ankle was broken, and\nthereafter for some hours the Invisible Man passed out of human\nperceptions. No one knows where he went nor what he did. But one can\nimagine him hurrying through the hot June forenoon, up the hill and on\nto the open downland behind Port Burdock, raging and despairing at his\nintolerable fate, and sheltering at last, heated and weary, amid the\nthickets of Hintondean, to piece together again his shattered schemes\nagainst his species. That seems the most probable refuge for him, for\nthere it was he re-asserted himself in a grimly tragical manner about\ntwo in the afternoon.\n\nOne wonders what his state of mind may have been during that time, and\nwhat plans he devised. No doubt he was almost ecstatically exasperated\nby Kemp s treachery, and though we may be able to understand the\nmotives that led to that deceit, we may still imagine and even\nsympathise a little with the fury the attempted surprise must have\noccasioned. Perhaps something of the stunned astonishment of his Oxford\nStreet experiences may have returned to him, for he had evidently\ncounted on Kemp s co-operation in his brutal dream of a terrorised\nworld. At any rate he vanished from human ken about midday, and no\nliving witness can tell what he did until about half-past two. It was a\nfortunate thing, perhaps, for humanity, but for him it was a fatal\ninaction.\n\nDuring that time a growing multitude of men scattered over the\ncountryside were busy. In the morning he had still been simply a\nlegend, a terror; in the afternoon, by virtue chiefly of Kemp s drily\nworded proclamation, he was presented as a tangible antagonist, to be\nwounded, captured, or overcome, and the countryside began organising\nitself with inconceivable rapidity. By two o clock even he might still\nhave removed himself out of the district by getting aboard a train, but\nafter two that became impossible. Every passenger train along the lines\non a great parallelogram between Southampton, Manchester, Brighton and\nHorsham, travelled with locked doors, and the goods traffic was almost\nentirely suspended. And in a great circle of twenty miles round Port\nBurdock, men armed with guns and bludgeons were presently setting out\nin groups of three and four, with dogs, to beat the roads and fields.\n\nMounted policemen rode along the country lanes, stopping at every\ncottage and warning the people to lock up their houses, and keep\nindoors unless they were armed, and all the elementary schools had\nbroken up by three o clock, and the children, scared and keeping\ntogether in groups, were hurrying home. Kemp s proclamation signed\nindeed by Adye was posted over almost the whole district by four or\nfive o clock in the afternoon. It gave briefly but clearly all the\nconditions of the struggle, the necessity of keeping the Invisible Man\nfrom food and sleep, the necessity for incessant watchfulness and for a\nprompt attention to any evidence of his movements. And so swift and\ndecided was the action of the authorities, so prompt and universal was\nthe belief in this strange being, that before nightfall an area of\nseveral hundred square miles was in a stringent state of siege. And\nbefore nightfall, too, a thrill of horror went through the whole\nwatching nervous countryside. Going from whispering mouth to mouth,\nswift and certain over the length and breadth of the country, passed\nthe story of the murder of Mr. Wicksteed.\n\nIf our supposition that the Invisible Man s refuge was the Hintondean\nthickets, then we must suppose that in the early afternoon he sallied\nout again bent upon some project that involved the use of a weapon. We\ncannot know what the project was, but the evidence that he had the iron\nrod in hand before he met Wicksteed is to me at least overwhelming.\n\nOf course we can know nothing of the details of that encounter. It\noccurred on the edge of a gravel pit, not two hundred yards from Lord\nBurdock s lodge gate. Everything points to a desperate struggle the\ntrampled ground, the numerous wounds Mr. Wicksteed received, his\nsplintered walking-stick; but why the attack was made, save in a\nmurderous frenzy, it is impossible to imagine. Indeed the theory of\nmadness is almost unavoidable. Mr. Wicksteed was a man of forty-five or\nforty-six, steward to Lord Burdock, of inoffensive habits and\nappearance, the very last person in the world to provoke such a\nterrible antagonist. Against him it would seem the Invisible Man used\nan iron rod dragged from a broken piece of fence. He stopped this quiet\nman, going quietly home to his midday meal, attacked him, beat down his\nfeeble defences, broke his arm, felled him, and smashed his head to a\njelly.\n\nOf course, he must have dragged this rod out of the fencing before he\nmet his victim he must have been carrying it ready in his hand. Only\ntwo details beyond what has already been stated seem to bear on the\nmatter. One is the circumstance that the gravel pit was not in Mr.\nWicksteed s direct path home, but nearly a couple of hundred yards out\nof his way. The other is the assertion of a little girl to the effect\nthat, going to her afternoon school, she saw the murdered man\n trotting  in a peculiar manner across a field towards the gravel pit.\nHer pantomime of his action suggests a man pursuing something on the\nground before him and striking at it ever and again with his\nwalking-stick. She was the last person to see him alive. He passed out\nof her sight to his death, the struggle being hidden from her only by a\nclump of beech trees and a slight depression in the ground.\n\nNow this, to the present writer s mind at least, lifts the murder out\nof the realm of the absolutely wanton. We may imagine that Griffin had\ntaken the rod as a weapon indeed, but without any deliberate intention\nof using it in murder. Wicksteed may then have come by and noticed this\nrod inexplicably moving through the air. Without any thought of the\nInvisible Man for Port Burdock is ten miles away he may have pursued\nit. It is quite conceivable that he may not even have heard of the\nInvisible Man. One can then imagine the Invisible Man making\noff quietly in order to avoid discovering his presence in the\nneighbourhood, and Wicksteed, excited and curious, pursuing this\nunaccountably locomotive object finally striking at it.\n\nNo doubt the Invisible Man could easily have distanced his middle-aged\npursuer under ordinary circumstances, but the position in which\nWicksteed s body was found suggests that he had the ill luck to drive\nhis quarry into a corner between a drift of stinging nettles and the\ngravel pit. To those who appreciate the extraordinary irascibility of\nthe Invisible Man, the rest of the encounter will be easy to imagine.\n\nBut this is pure hypothesis. The only undeniable facts for stories of\nchildren are often unreliable are the discovery of Wicksteed s body,\ndone to death, and of the blood-stained iron rod flung among the\nnettles. The abandonment of the rod by Griffin, suggests that in the\nemotional excitement of the affair, the purpose for which he took it if\nhe had a purpose was abandoned. He was certainly an intensely\negotistical and unfeeling man, but the sight of his victim, his first\nvictim, bloody and pitiful at his feet, may have released some long\npent fountain of remorse which for a time may have flooded whatever\nscheme of action he had contrived.\n\nAfter the murder of Mr. Wicksteed, he would seem to have struck across\nthe country towards the downland. There is a story of a voice heard\nabout sunset by a couple of men in a field near Fern Bottom. It was\nwailing and laughing, sobbing and groaning, and ever and again it\nshouted. It must have been queer hearing. It drove up across the middle\nof a clover field and died away towards the hills.\n\nThat afternoon the Invisible Man must have learnt something of the\nrapid use Kemp had made of his confidences. He must have found houses\nlocked and secured; he may have loitered about railway stations and\nprowled about inns, and no doubt he read the proclamations and realised\nsomething of the nature of the campaign against him. And as the evening\nadvanced, the fields became dotted here and there with groups of three\nor four men, and noisy with the yelping of dogs. These men-hunters had\nparticular instructions in the case of an encounter as to the way they\nshould support one another. But he avoided them all. We may understand\nsomething of his exasperation, and it could have been none the less\nbecause he himself had supplied the information that was being used so\nremorselessly against him. For that day at least he lost heart; for\nnearly twenty-four hours, save when he turned on Wicksteed, he was a\nhunted man. In the night, he must have eaten and slept; for in the\nmorning he was himself again, active, powerful, angry, and malignant,\nprepared for his last great struggle against the world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\nTHE SIEGE OF KEMP S HOUSE\n\n\nKemp read a strange missive, written in pencil on a greasy sheet of\npaper.\n\n You have been amazingly energetic and clever,  this letter ran,\n though what you stand to gain by it I cannot imagine. You are against\nme. For a whole day you have chased me; you have tried to rob me of a\nnight s rest. But I have had food in spite of you, I have slept in\nspite of you, and the game is only beginning. The game is only\nbeginning. There is nothing for it, but to start the Terror. This\nannounces the first day of the Terror. Port Burdock is no longer under\nthe Queen, tell your Colonel of Police, and the rest of them; it is\nunder me the Terror! This is day one of year one of the new epoch the\nEpoch of the Invisible Man. I am Invisible Man the First. To begin with\nthe rule will be easy. The first day there will be one execution for\nthe sake of example a man named Kemp. Death starts for him to-day. He\nmay lock himself away, hide himself away, get guards about him, put on\narmour if he likes Death, the unseen Death, is coming. Let him take\nprecautions; it will impress my people. Death starts from the pillar\nbox by midday. The letter will fall in as the postman comes along, then\noff! The game begins. Death starts. Help him not, my people, lest Death\nfall upon you also. To-day Kemp is to die. \n\nKemp read this letter twice,  It s no hoax,  he said.  That s his\nvoice! And he means it. \n\nHe turned the folded sheet over and saw on the addressed side of it the\npostmark Hintondean, and the prosaic detail  2d. to pay. \n\nHe got up slowly, leaving his lunch unfinished the letter had come by\nthe one o clock post and went into his study. He rang for his\nhousekeeper, and told her to go round the house at once, examine all\nthe fastenings of the windows, and close all the shutters. He closed\nthe shutters of his study himself. From a locked drawer in his bedroom\nhe took a little revolver, examined it carefully, and put it into the\npocket of his lounge jacket. He wrote a number of brief notes, one to\nColonel Adye, gave them to his servant to take, with explicit\ninstructions as to her way of leaving the house.  There is no danger, \nhe said, and added a mental reservation,  to you.  He remained\nmeditative for a space after doing this, and then returned to his\ncooling lunch.\n\nHe ate with gaps of thought. Finally he struck the table sharply.  We\nwill have him!  he said;  and I am the bait. He will come too far. \n\nHe went up to the belvedere, carefully shutting every door after him.\n It s a game,  he said,  an odd game but the chances are all for me,\nMr. Griffin, in spite of your invisibility. Griffin _contra mundum_ ...\nwith a vengeance. \n\nHe stood at the window staring at the hot hillside.  He must get food\nevery day and I don t envy him. Did he really sleep last night? Out in\nthe open somewhere secure from collisions. I wish we could get some\ngood cold wet weather instead of the heat.\n\n He may be watching me now. \n\nHe went close to the window. Something rapped smartly against the\nbrickwork over the frame, and made him start violently back.\n\n I m getting nervous,  said Kemp. But it was five minutes before he\nwent to the window again.  It must have been a sparrow,  he said.\n\nPresently he heard the front-door bell ringing, and hurried downstairs.\nHe unbolted and unlocked the door, examined the chain, put it up, and\nopened cautiously without showing himself. A familiar voice hailed him.\nIt was Adye.\n\n Your servant s been assaulted, Kemp,  he said round the door.\n\n What!  exclaimed Kemp.\n\n Had that note of yours taken away from her. He s close about here. Let\nme in. \n\nKemp released the chain, and Adye entered through as narrow an opening\nas possible. He stood in the hall, looking with infinite relief at Kemp\nrefastening the door.  Note was snatched out of her hand. Scared her\nhorribly. She s down at the station. Hysterics. He s close here. What\nwas it about? \n\nKemp swore.\n\n What a fool I was,  said Kemp.  I might have known. It s not an hour s\nwalk from Hintondean. Already? \n\n What s up?  said Adye.\n\n Look here!  said Kemp, and led the way into his study. He handed Adye\nthe Invisible Man s letter. Adye read it and whistled softly.  And\nyou ?  said Adye.\n\n Proposed a trap like a fool,  said Kemp,  and sent my proposal out by\na maid servant. To him. \n\nAdye followed Kemp s profanity.\n\n He ll clear out,  said Adye.\n\n Not he,  said Kemp.\n\nA resounding smash of glass came from upstairs. Adye had a silvery\nglimpse of a little revolver half out of Kemp s pocket.  It s a window,\nupstairs!  said Kemp, and led the way up. There came a second smash\nwhile they were still on the staircase. When they reached the study\nthey found two of the three windows smashed, half the room littered\nwith splintered glass, and one big flint lying on the writing table.\nThe two men stopped in the doorway, contemplating the wreckage. Kemp\nswore again, and as he did so the third window went with a snap like a\npistol, hung starred for a moment, and collapsed in jagged, shivering\ntriangles into the room.\n\n What s this for?  said Adye.\n\n It s a beginning,  said Kemp.\n\n There s no way of climbing up here? \n\n Not for a cat,  said Kemp.\n\n No shutters? \n\n Not here. All the downstairs rooms Hullo! \n\nSmash, and then whack of boards hit hard came from downstairs.\n Confound him!  said Kemp.  That must be yes it s one of the bedrooms.\nHe s going to do all the house. But he s a fool. The shutters are up,\nand the glass will fall outside. He ll cut his feet. \n\nAnother window proclaimed its destruction. The two men stood on the\nlanding perplexed.  I have it!  said Adye.  Let me have a stick or\nsomething, and I ll go down to the station and get the bloodhounds put\non. That ought to settle him! They re hard by not ten minutes \n\nAnother window went the way of its fellows.\n\n You haven t a revolver?  asked Adye.\n\nKemp s hand went to his pocket. Then he hesitated.  I haven t one at\nleast to spare. \n\n I ll bring it back,  said Adye,  you ll be safe here. \n\nKemp, ashamed of his momentary lapse from truthfulness, handed him the\nweapon.\n\n Now for the door,  said Adye.\n\nAs they stood hesitating in the hall, they heard one of the first-floor\nbedroom windows crack and clash. Kemp went to the door and began to\nslip the bolts as silently as possible. His face was a little paler\nthan usual.  You must step straight out,  said Kemp. In another moment\nAdye was on the doorstep and the bolts were dropping back into the\nstaples. He hesitated for a moment, feeling more comfortable with his\nback against the door. Then he marched, upright and square, down the\nsteps. He crossed the lawn and approached the gate. A little breeze\nseemed to ripple over the grass. Something moved near him.  Stop a\nbit,  said a Voice, and Adye stopped dead and his hand tightened on the\nrevolver.\n\n Well?  said Adye, white and grim, and every nerve tense.\n\n Oblige me by going back to the house,  said the Voice, as tense and\ngrim as Adye s.\n\n Sorry,  said Adye a little hoarsely, and moistened his lips with his\ntongue. The Voice was on his left front, he thought. Suppose he were to\ntake his luck with a shot?\n\n What are you going for?  said the Voice, and there was a quick\nmovement of the two, and a flash of sunlight from the open lip of\nAdye s pocket.\n\nAdye desisted and thought.  Where I go,  he said slowly,  is my own\nbusiness.  The words were still on his lips, when an arm came round his\nneck, his back felt a knee, and he was sprawling backward. He drew\nclumsily and fired absurdly, and in another moment he was struck in the\nmouth and the revolver wrested from his grip. He made a vain clutch at\na slippery limb, tried to struggle up and fell back.  Damn!  said Adye.\nThe Voice laughed.  I d kill you now if it wasn t the waste of a\nbullet,  it said. He saw the revolver in mid-air, six feet off,\ncovering him.\n\n Well?  said Adye, sitting up.\n\n Get up,  said the Voice.\n\nAdye stood up.\n\n Attention,  said the Voice, and then fiercely,  Don t try any games.\nRemember I can see your face if you can t see mine. You ve got to go\nback to the house. \n\n He won t let me in,  said Adye.\n\n That s a pity,  said the Invisible Man.  I ve got no quarrel with\nyou. \n\nAdye moistened his lips again. He glanced away from the barrel of the\nrevolver and saw the sea far off very blue and dark under the midday\nsun, the smooth green down, the white cliff of the Head, and the\nmultitudinous town, and suddenly he knew that life was very sweet. His\neyes came back to this little metal thing hanging between heaven and\nearth, six yards away.  What am I to do?  he said sullenly.\n\n What am _I_ to do?  asked the Invisible Man.  You will get help. The\nonly thing is for you to go back. \n\n I will try. If he lets me in will you promise not to rush the door? \n\n I ve got no quarrel with you,  said the Voice.\n\nKemp had hurried upstairs after letting Adye out, and now crouching\namong the broken glass and peering cautiously over the edge of the\nstudy window sill, he saw Adye stand parleying with the Unseen.  Why\ndoesn t he fire?  whispered Kemp to himself. Then the revolver moved a\nlittle and the glint of the sunlight flashed in Kemp s eyes. He shaded\nhis eyes and tried to see the source of the blinding beam.\n\n Surely!  he said,  Adye has given up the revolver. \n\n Promise not to rush the door,  Adye was saying.  Don t push a winning\ngame too far. Give a man a chance. \n\n You go back to the house. I tell you flatly I will not promise\nanything. \n\nAdye s decision seemed suddenly made. He turned towards the house,\nwalking slowly with his hands behind him. Kemp watched him puzzled. The\nrevolver vanished, flashed again into sight, vanished again, and became\nevident on a closer scrutiny as a little dark object following Adye.\nThen things happened very quickly. Adye leapt backwards, swung around,\nclutched at this little object, missed it, threw up his hands and fell\nforward on his face, leaving a little puff of blue in the air. Kemp did\nnot hear the sound of the shot. Adye writhed, raised himself on one\narm, fell forward, and lay still.\n\nFor a space Kemp remained staring at the quiet carelessness of Adye s\nattitude. The afternoon was very hot and still, nothing seemed stirring\nin all the world save a couple of yellow butterflies chasing each other\nthrough the shrubbery between the house and the road gate. Adye lay on\nthe lawn near the gate. The blinds of all the villas down the hill-road\nwere drawn, but in one little green summer-house was a white figure,\napparently an old man asleep. Kemp scrutinised the surroundings of the\nhouse for a glimpse of the revolver, but it had vanished. His eyes came\nback to Adye. The game was opening well.\n\nThen came a ringing and knocking at the front door, that grew at last\ntumultuous, but pursuant to Kemp s instructions the servants had locked\nthemselves into their rooms. This was followed by a silence. Kemp sat\nlistening and then began peering cautiously out of the three windows,\none after another. He went to the staircase head and stood listening\nuneasily. He armed himself with his bedroom poker, and went to examine\nthe interior fastenings of the ground-floor windows again. Everything\nwas safe and quiet. He returned to the belvedere. Adye lay motionless\nover the edge of the gravel just as he had fallen. Coming along the\nroad by the villas were the housemaid and two policemen.\n\nEverything was deadly still. The three people seemed very slow in\napproaching. He wondered what his antagonist was doing.\n\nHe started. There was a smash from below. He hesitated and went\ndownstairs again. Suddenly the house resounded with heavy blows and the\nsplintering of wood. He heard a smash and the destructive clang of the\niron fastenings of the shutters. He turned the key and opened the\nkitchen door. As he did so, the shutters, split and splintering, came\nflying inward. He stood aghast. The window frame, save for one\ncrossbar, was still intact, but only little teeth of glass remained in\nthe frame. The shutters had been driven in with an axe, and now the axe\nwas descending in sweeping blows upon the window frame and the iron\nbars defending it. Then suddenly it leapt aside and vanished. He saw\nthe revolver lying on the path outside, and then the little weapon\nsprang into the air. He dodged back. The revolver cracked just too\nlate, and a splinter from the edge of the closing door flashed over his\nhead. He slammed and locked the door, and as he stood outside he heard\nGriffin shouting and laughing. Then the blows of the axe with its\nsplitting and smashing consequences, were resumed.\n\nKemp stood in the passage trying to think. In a moment the Invisible\nMan would be in the kitchen. This door would not keep him a moment, and\nthen \n\nA ringing came at the front door again. It would be the policemen. He\nran into the hall, put up the chain, and drew the bolts. He made the\ngirl speak before he dropped the chain, and the three people blundered\ninto the house in a heap, and Kemp slammed the door again.\n\n The Invisible Man!  said Kemp.  He has a revolver, with two\nshots left. He s killed Adye. Shot him anyhow. Didn t you see him on\nthe lawn? He s lying there. \n\n Who?  said one of the policemen.\n\n Adye,  said Kemp.\n\n We came in the back way,  said the girl.\n\n What s that smashing?  asked one of the policemen.\n\n He s in the kitchen or will be. He has found an axe \n\nSuddenly the house was full of the Invisible Man s resounding blows on\nthe kitchen door. The girl stared towards the kitchen, shuddered, and\nretreated into the dining-room. Kemp tried to explain in broken\nsentences. They heard the kitchen door give.\n\n This way,  said Kemp, starting into activity, and bundled the\npolicemen into the dining-room doorway.\n\n Poker,  said Kemp, and rushed to the fender. He handed the poker he\nhad carried to the policeman and the dining-room one to the other. He\nsuddenly flung himself backward.\n\n Whup!  said one policeman, ducked, and caught the axe on his poker.\nThe pistol snapped its penultimate shot and ripped a valuable Sidney\nCooper. The second policeman brought his poker down on the little\nweapon, as one might knock down a wasp, and sent it rattling to the\nfloor.\n\nAt the first clash the girl screamed, stood screaming for a moment by\nthe fireplace, and then ran to open the shutters possibly with an idea\nof escaping by the shattered window.\n\nThe axe receded into the passage, and fell to a position about two feet\nfrom the ground. They could hear the Invisible Man breathing.  Stand\naway, you two,  he said.  I want that man Kemp. \n\n We want you,  said the first policeman, making a quick step forward\nand wiping with his poker at the Voice. The Invisible Man must have\nstarted back, and he blundered into the umbrella stand.\n\nThen, as the policeman staggered with the swing of the blow he had\naimed, the Invisible Man countered with the axe, the helmet crumpled\nlike paper, and the blow sent the man spinning to the floor at the head\nof the kitchen stairs. But the second policeman, aiming behind the axe\nwith his poker, hit something soft that snapped. There was a sharp\nexclamation of pain and then the axe fell to the ground. The policeman\nwiped again at vacancy and hit nothing; he put his foot on the axe, and\nstruck again. Then he stood, poker clubbed, listening intent for the\nslightest movement.\n\nHe heard the dining-room window open, and a quick rush of feet within.\nHis companion rolled over and sat up, with the blood running down\nbetween his eye and ear.  Where is he?  asked the man on the floor.\n\n Don t know. I ve hit him. He s standing somewhere in the hall. Unless\nhe s slipped past you. Doctor Kemp sir. \n\nPause.\n\n Doctor Kemp,  cried the policeman again.\n\nThe second policeman began struggling to his feet. He stood up.\nSuddenly the faint pad of bare feet on the kitchen stairs could be\nheard.  Yap!  cried the first policeman, and incontinently flung his\npoker. It smashed a little gas bracket.\n\nHe made as if he would pursue the Invisible Man downstairs. Then he\nthought better of it and stepped into the dining-room.\n\n Doctor Kemp  he began, and stopped short.\n\n Doctor Kemp s a hero,  he said, as his companion looked over his\nshoulder.\n\nThe dining-room window was wide open, and neither housemaid nor Kemp\nwas to be seen.\n\nThe second policeman s opinion of Kemp was terse and vivid.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\nTHE HUNTER HUNTED\n\n\nMr. Heelas, Mr. Kemp s nearest neighbour among the villa holders, was\nasleep in his summer house when the siege of Kemp s house began. Mr.\nHeelas was one of the sturdy minority who refused to believe  in all\nthis nonsense  about an Invisible Man. His wife, however, as he was\nsubsequently to be reminded, did. He insisted upon walking about his\ngarden just as if nothing was the matter, and he went to sleep in the\nafternoon in accordance with the custom of years. He slept through the\nsmashing of the windows, and then woke up suddenly with a curious\npersuasion of something wrong. He looked across at Kemp s house, rubbed\nhis eyes and looked again. Then he put his feet to the ground, and sat\nlistening. He said he was damned, but still the strange thing was\nvisible. The house looked as though it had been deserted for\nweeks after a violent riot. Every window was broken, and every window,\nsave those of the belvedere study, was blinded by the internal\nshutters.\n\n I could have sworn it was all right he looked at his watch twenty\nminutes ago. \n\nHe became aware of a measured concussion and the clash of glass, far\naway in the distance. And then, as he sat open-mouthed, came a still\nmore wonderful thing. The shutters of the drawing-room window were\nflung open violently, and the housemaid in her outdoor hat and\ngarments, appeared struggling in a frantic manner to throw up the sash.\nSuddenly a man appeared beside her, helping her Dr. Kemp! In another\nmoment the window was open, and the housemaid was struggling out; she\npitched forward and vanished among the shrubs. Mr. Heelas stood up,\nexclaiming vaguely and vehemently at all these wonderful things. He saw\nKemp stand on the sill, spring from the window, and reappear almost\ninstantaneously running along a path in the shrubbery and stooping as\nhe ran, like a man who evades observation. He vanished behind a\nlaburnum, and appeared again clambering over a fence that abutted on\nthe open down. In a second he had tumbled over and was running at a\ntremendous pace down the slope towards Mr. Heelas.\n\n Lord!  cried Mr. Heelas, struck with an idea;  it s that Invisible Man\nbrute! It s right, after all! \n\nWith Mr. Heelas to think things like that was to act, and his cook\nwatching him from the top window was amazed to see him come pelting\ntowards the house at a good nine miles an hour. There was a slamming of\ndoors, a ringing of bells, and the voice of Mr. Heelas bellowing like a\nbull.  Shut the doors, shut the windows, shut everything! the Invisible\nMan is coming!  Instantly the house was full of screams and directions,\nand scurrying feet. He ran himself to shut the French windows that\nopened on the veranda; as he did so Kemp s head and shoulders and knee\nappeared over the edge of the garden fence. In another moment Kemp had\nploughed through the asparagus, and was running across the tennis lawn\nto the house.\n\n You can t come in,  said Mr. Heelas, shutting the bolts.  I m very\nsorry if he s after you, but you can t come in! \n\nKemp appeared with a face of terror close to the glass, rapping and\nthen shaking frantically at the French window. Then, seeing his efforts\nwere useless, he ran along the veranda, vaulted the end, and went to\nhammer at the side door. Then he ran round by the side gate to the\nfront of the house, and so into the hill-road. And Mr. Heelas staring\nfrom his window a face of horror had scarcely witnessed Kemp vanish,\nere the asparagus was being trampled this way and that by feet unseen.\nAt that Mr. Heelas fled precipitately upstairs, and the rest of the\nchase is beyond his purview. But as he passed the staircase window, he\nheard the side gate slam.\n\nEmerging into the hill-road, Kemp naturally took the downward\ndirection, and so it was he came to run in his own person the very race\nhe had watched with such a critical eye from the belvedere study only\nfour days ago. He ran it well, for a man out of training, and though\nhis face was white and wet, his wits were cool to the last. He ran with\nwide strides, and wherever a patch of rough ground intervened, wherever\nthere came a patch of raw flints, or a bit of broken glass shone\ndazzling, he crossed it and left the bare invisible feet that followed\nto take what line they would.\n\nFor the first time in his life Kemp discovered that the hill-road was\nindescribably vast and desolate, and that the beginnings of the town\nfar below at the hill foot were strangely remote. Never had there been\na slower or more painful method of progression than running. All the\ngaunt villas, sleeping in the afternoon sun, looked locked and barred;\nno doubt they were locked and barred by his own orders. But at any rate\nthey might have kept a lookout for an eventuality like this! The town\nwas rising up now, the sea had dropped out of sight behind it, and\npeople down below were stirring. A tram was just arriving at the hill\nfoot. Beyond that was the police station. Was that footsteps he heard\nbehind him? Spurt.\n\nThe people below were staring at him, one or two were running, and his\nbreath was beginning to saw in his throat. The tram was quite near now,\nand the  Jolly Cricketers  was noisily barring its doors. Beyond the\ntram were posts and heaps of gravel the drainage works. He had a\ntransitory idea of jumping into the tram and slamming the doors, and\nthen he resolved to go for the police station. In another moment he had\npassed the door of the  Jolly Cricketers,  and was in the blistering\nfag end of the street, with human beings about him. The tram driver and\nhis helper arrested by the sight of his furious haste stood staring\nwith the tram horses unhitched. Further on the astonished features of\nnavvies appeared above the mounds of gravel.\n\nHis pace broke a little, and then he heard the swift pad of his\npursuer, and leapt forward again.  The Invisible Man!  he cried to the\nnavvies, with a vague indicative gesture, and by an inspiration leapt\nthe excavation and placed a burly group between him and the chase. Then\nabandoning the idea of the police station he turned into a little side\nstreet, rushed by a greengrocer s cart, hesitated for the tenth of a\nsecond at the door of a sweetstuff shop, and then made for the mouth of\nan alley that ran back into the main Hill Street again. Two or three\nlittle children were playing here, and shrieked and scattered at his\napparition, and forthwith doors and windows opened and excited mothers\nrevealed their hearts. Out he shot into Hill Street again, three\nhundred yards from the tram-line end, and immediately he became aware\nof a tumultuous vociferation and running people.\n\nHe glanced up the street towards the hill. Hardly a dozen yards off ran\na huge navvy, cursing in fragments and slashing viciously with a spade,\nand hard behind him came the tram conductor with his fists clenched. Up\nthe street others followed these two, striking and shouting. Down\ntowards the town, men and women were running, and he noticed clearly\none man coming out of a shop-door with a stick in his hand.  Spread\nout! Spread out!  cried some one. Kemp suddenly grasped the altered\ncondition of the chase. He stopped, and looked round, panting.  He s\nclose here!  he cried.  Form a line across \n\nHe was hit hard under the ear, and went reeling, trying to face round\ntowards his unseen antagonist. He just managed to keep his feet, and he\nstruck a vain counter in the air. Then he was hit again under the jaw,\nand sprawled headlong on the ground. In another moment a knee\ncompressed his diaphragm, and a couple of eager hands gripped his\nthroat, but the grip of one was weaker than the other; he grasped the\nwrists, heard a cry of pain from his assailant, and then the spade of\nthe navvy came whirling through the air above him, and struck something\nwith a dull thud. He felt a drop of moisture on his face. The grip at\nhis throat suddenly relaxed, and with a convulsive effort, Kemp loosed\nhimself, grasped a limp shoulder, and rolled uppermost. He gripped the\nunseen elbows near the ground.  I ve got him!  screamed Kemp.  Help!\nHelp hold! He s down! Hold his feet! \n\nIn another second there was a simultaneous rush upon the struggle, and\na stranger coming into the road suddenly might have thought an\nexceptionally savage game of Rugby football was in progress. And there\nwas no shouting after Kemp s cry only a sound of blows and feet and\nheavy breathing.\n\nThen came a mighty effort, and the Invisible Man threw off a couple of\nhis antagonists and rose to his knees. Kemp clung to him in front like\na hound to a stag, and a dozen hands gripped, clutched, and tore at the\nUnseen. The tram conductor suddenly got the neck and shoulders and\nlugged him back.\n\nDown went the heap of struggling men again and rolled over. There was,\nI am afraid, some savage kicking. Then suddenly a wild scream of\n Mercy! Mercy!  that died down swiftly to a sound like choking.\n\n Get back, you fools!  cried the muffled voice of Kemp, and there was a\nvigorous shoving back of stalwart forms.  He s hurt, I tell you. Stand\nback! \n\nThere was a brief struggle to clear a space, and then the circle of\neager faces saw the doctor kneeling, as it seemed, fifteen inches in\nthe air, and holding invisible arms to the ground. Behind him a\nconstable gripped invisible ankles.\n\n Don t you leave go of en,  cried the big navvy, holding a\nblood-stained spade;  he s shamming. \n\n He s not shamming,  said the doctor, cautiously raising his knee;  and\nI ll hold him.  His face was bruised and already going red; he spoke\nthickly because of a bleeding lip. He released one hand and seemed to\nbe feeling at the face.  The mouth s all wet,  he said. And then,  Good\nGod! \n\nHe stood up abruptly and then knelt down on the ground by the side of\nthe thing unseen. There was a pushing and shuffling, a sound of heavy\nfeet as fresh people turned up to increase the pressure of the crowd.\nPeople now were coming out of the houses. The doors of the  Jolly\nCricketers  stood suddenly wide open. Very little was said.\n\nKemp felt about, his hand seeming to pass through empty air.  He s not\nbreathing,  he said, and then,  I can t feel his heart. His side ugh! \n\nSuddenly an old woman, peering under the arm of the big navvy, screamed\nsharply.  Looky there!  she said, and thrust out a wrinkled finger.\n\nAnd looking where she pointed, everyone saw, faint and transparent as\nthough it was made of glass, so that veins and arteries and bones and\nnerves could be distinguished, the outline of a hand, a hand limp and\nprone. It grew clouded and opaque even as they stared.\n\n Hullo!  cried the constable.  Here s his feet a-showing! \n\nAnd so, slowly, beginning at his hands and feet and creeping along his\nlimbs to the vital centres of his body, that strange change continued.\nIt was like the slow spreading of a poison. First came the little white\nnerves, a hazy grey sketch of a limb, then the glassy bones and\nintricate arteries, then the flesh and skin, first a faint fogginess,\nand then growing rapidly dense and opaque. Presently they could see his\ncrushed chest and his shoulders, and the dim outline of his drawn and\nbattered features.\n\nWhen at last the crowd made way for Kemp to stand erect, there lay,\nnaked and pitiful on the ground, the bruised and broken body of a young\nman about thirty. His hair and brow were white not grey with age, but\nwhite with the whiteness of albinism and his eyes were like garnets.\nHis hands were clenched, his eyes wide open, and his expression was one\nof anger and dismay.\n\n Cover his face!  said a man.  For Gawd s sake, cover that face!  and\nthree little children, pushing forward through the crowd, were suddenly\ntwisted round and sent packing off again.\n\nSomeone brought a sheet from the  Jolly Cricketers,  and having covered\nhim, they carried him into that house. And there it was, on a shabby\nbed in a tawdry, ill-lighted bedroom, surrounded by a crowd of ignorant\nand excited people, broken and wounded, betrayed and unpitied, that\nGriffin, the first of all men to make himself invisible, Griffin, the\nmost gifted physicist the world has ever seen, ended in infinite\ndisaster his strange and terrible career.\n\n\n\nTHE EPILOGUE\n\n\nSo ends the story of the strange and evil experiments of the Invisible\nMan. And if you would learn more of him you must go to a little inn\nnear Port Stowe and talk to the landlord. The sign of the inn is an\nempty board save for a hat and boots, and the name is the title of this\nstory. The landlord is a short and corpulent little man with a nose of\ncylindrical proportions, wiry hair, and a sporadic rosiness of visage.\nDrink generously, and he will tell you generously of all the things\nthat happened to him after that time, and of how the lawyers tried to\ndo him out of the treasure found upon him.\n\n When they found they couldn t prove whose money was which, I m\nblessed,  he says,  if they didn t try to make me out a blooming\ntreasure trove! Do I _look_ like a Treasure Trove? And then a gentleman\ngave me a guinea a night to tell the story at the Empire Music\n All just to tell  em in my own words barring one. \n\nAnd if you want to cut off the flow of his reminiscences abruptly, you\ncan always do so by asking if there weren t three manuscript books in\nthe story. He admits there were and proceeds to explain, with\nasseverations that everybody thinks _he_ has  em! But bless you! he\nhasn t.  The Invisible Man it was took  em off to hide  em when I cut\nand ran for Port Stowe. It s that Mr. Kemp put people on with the idea\nof _my_ having  em. \n\nAnd then he subsides into a pensive state, watches you furtively,\nbustles nervously with glasses, and presently leaves the bar.\n\nHe is a bachelor man his tastes were ever bachelor, and there are no\nwomen folk in the house. Outwardly he buttons it is expected of him but\nin his more vital privacies, in the matter of braces for example, he\nstill turns to string. He conducts his house without enterprise, but\nwith eminent decorum. His movements are slow, and he is a great\nthinker. But he has a reputation for wisdom and for a respectable\nparsimony in the village, and his knowledge of the roads of the South\nof England would beat Cobbett.\n\nAnd on Sunday mornings, every Sunday morning, all the year round, while\nhe is closed to the outer world, and every night after ten, he goes\ninto his bar parlour, bearing a glass of gin faintly tinged with water,\nand having placed this down, he locks the door and examines the blinds,\nand even looks under the table. And then, being satisfied of his\nsolitude, he unlocks the cupboard and a box in the cupboard and a\ndrawer in that box, and produces three volumes bound in brown leather,\nand places them solemnly in the middle of the table. The covers are\nweather-worn and tinged with an algal green for once they sojourned in\na ditch and some of the pages have been washed blank by dirty water.\nThe landlord sits down in an armchair, fills a long clay pipe\nslowly gloating over the books the while. Then he pulls one towards him\nand opens it, and begins to study it turning over the leaves backwards\nand forwards.\n\nHis brows are knit and his lips move painfully.  Hex, little two up in\nthe air, cross and a fiddle-de-dee. Lord! what a one he was for\nintellect! \n\nPresently he relaxes and leans back, and blinks through his smoke\nacross the room at things invisible to other eyes.  Full of secrets, \nhe says.  Wonderful secrets! \n\n Once I get the haul of them _Lord_! \n\n I wouldn t do what _he_ did; I d just well!  He pulls at his pipe.\n\nSo he lapses into a dream, the undying wonderful dream of his life. And\nthough Kemp has fished unceasingly, no human being save the landlord\nknows those books are there, with the subtle secret of invisibility and\na dozen other strange secrets written therein. And none other will know\nof them until he dies."
    },
    {
        "title": "The Time Machine",
        "author": "H.G. Wells",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "I.\nIntroduction\n\n\nThe Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was\nexpounding a recondite matter to us. His pale grey eyes shone and\ntwinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed and animated. The fire\nburnt brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescent lights in the\nlilies of silver caught the bubbles that flashed and passed in our\nglasses. Our chairs, being his patents, embraced and caressed us rather\nthan submitted to be sat upon, and there was that luxurious\nafter-dinner atmosphere, when thought runs gracefully free of the\ntrammels of precision. And he put it to us in this way marking the\npoints with a lean forefinger as we sat and lazily admired his\nearnestness over this new paradox (as we thought it) and his fecundity.\n\n You must follow me carefully. I shall have to controvert one or two\nideas that are almost universally accepted. The geometry, for instance,\nthey taught you at school is founded on a misconception. \n\n Is not that rather a large thing to expect us to begin upon?  said\nFilby, an argumentative person with red hair.\n\n I do not mean to ask you to accept anything without reasonable ground\nfor it. You will soon admit as much as I need from you. You know of\ncourse that a mathematical line, a line of thickness _nil_, has no real\nexistence. They taught you that? Neither has a mathematical plane.\nThese things are mere abstractions. \n\n That is all right,  said the Psychologist.\n\n Nor, having only length, breadth, and thickness, can a cube have a\nreal existence. \n\n There I object,  said Filby.  Of course a solid body may exist. All\nreal things \n\n So most people think. But wait a moment. Can an _instantaneous_ cube\nexist? \n\n Don t follow you,  said Filby.\n\n Can a cube that does not last for any time at all, have a real\nexistence? \n\nFilby became pensive.  Clearly,  the Time Traveller proceeded,  any\nreal body must have extension in _four_ directions: it must have\nLength, Breadth, Thickness, and Duration. But through a natural\ninfirmity of the flesh, which I will explain to you in a moment, we\nincline to overlook this fact. There are really four dimensions, three\nwhich we call the three planes of Space, and a fourth, Time. There is,\nhowever, a tendency to draw an unreal distinction between the former\nthree dimensions and the latter, because it happens that our\nconsciousness moves intermittently in one direction along the latter\nfrom the beginning to the end of our lives. \n\n That,  said a very young man, making spasmodic efforts to relight his\ncigar over the lamp;  that . . . very clear indeed. \n\n Now, it is very remarkable that this is so extensively overlooked, \ncontinued the Time Traveller, with a slight accession of cheerfulness.\n Really this is what is meant by the Fourth Dimension, though some\npeople who talk about the Fourth Dimension do not know they mean it. It\nis only another way of looking at Time. _There is no difference between\nTime and any of the three dimensions of Space except that our\nconsciousness moves along it_. But some foolish people have got hold of\nthe wrong side of that idea. You have all heard what they have to say\nabout this Fourth Dimension? \n\n _I_ have not,  said the Provincial Mayor.\n\n It is simply this. That Space, as our mathematicians have it, is\nspoken of as having three dimensions, which one may call Length,\nBreadth, and Thickness, and is always definable by reference to three\nplanes, each at right angles to the others. But some philosophical\npeople have been asking why _three_ dimensions particularly why not\nanother direction at right angles to the other three? and have even\ntried to construct a Four-Dimensional geometry. Professor Simon Newcomb\nwas expounding this to the New York Mathematical Society only a month\nor so ago. You know how on a flat surface, which has only two\ndimensions, we can represent a figure of a three-dimensional solid, and\nsimilarly they think that by models of three dimensions they could\nrepresent one of four if they could master the perspective of the\nthing. See? \n\n I think so,  murmured the Provincial Mayor; and, knitting his brows,\nhe lapsed into an introspective state, his lips moving as one who\nrepeats mystic words.  Yes, I think I see it now,  he said after some\ntime, brightening in a quite transitory manner.\n\n Well, I do not mind telling you I have been at work upon this geometry\nof Four Dimensions for some time. Some of my results are curious. For\ninstance, here is a portrait of a man at eight years old, another at\nfifteen, another at seventeen, another at twenty-three, and so on. All\nthese are evidently sections, as it were, Three-Dimensional\nrepresentations of his Four-Dimensioned being, which is a fixed and\nunalterable thing.\n\n Scientific people,  proceeded the Time Traveller, after the pause\nrequired for the proper assimilation of this,  know very well that Time\nis only a kind of Space. Here is a popular scientific diagram, a\nweather record. This line I trace with my finger shows the movement of\nthe barometer. Yesterday it was so high, yesterday night it fell, then\nthis morning it rose again, and so gently upward to here. Surely the\nmercury did not trace this line in any of the dimensions of Space\ngenerally recognised? But certainly it traced such a line, and that\nline, therefore, we must conclude, was along the Time-Dimension. \n\n But,  said the Medical Man, staring hard at a coal in the fire,  if\nTime is really only a fourth dimension of Space, why is it, and why has\nit always been, regarded as something different? And why cannot we move\nin Time as we move about in the other dimensions of Space? \n\nThe Time Traveller smiled.  Are you so sure we can move freely in\nSpace? Right and left we can go, backward and forward freely enough,\nand men always have done so. I admit we move freely in two dimensions.\nBut how about up and down? Gravitation limits us there. \n\n Not exactly,  said the Medical Man.  There are balloons. \n\n But before the balloons, save for spasmodic jumping and the\ninequalities of the surface, man had no freedom of vertical movement. \n\n Still they could move a little up and down,  said the Medical Man.\n\n Easier, far easier down than up. \n\n And you cannot move at all in Time, you cannot get away from the\npresent moment. \n\n My dear sir, that is just where you are wrong. That is just where the\nwhole world has gone wrong. We are always getting away from the present\nmoment. Our mental existences, which are immaterial and have no\ndimensions, are passing along the Time-Dimension with a uniform\nvelocity from the cradle to the grave. Just as we should travel _down_\nif we began our existence fifty miles above the earth s surface. \n\n But the great difficulty is this,  interrupted the Psychologist.  You\n_can_ move about in all directions of Space, but you cannot move about\nin Time. \n\n That is the germ of my great discovery. But you are wrong to say that\nwe cannot move about in Time. For instance, if I am recalling an\nincident very vividly I go back to the instant of its occurrence: I\nbecome absent-minded, as you say. I jump back for a moment. Of course\nwe have no means of staying back for any length of Time, any more than\na savage or an animal has of staying six feet above the ground. But a\ncivilised man is better off than the savage in this respect. He can go\nup against gravitation in a balloon, and why should he not hope that\nultimately he may be able to stop or accelerate his drift along the\nTime-Dimension, or even turn about and travel the other way? \n\n Oh, _this_,  began Filby,  is all \n\n Why not?  said the Time Traveller.\n\n It s against reason,  said Filby.\n\n What reason?  said the Time Traveller.\n\n You can show black is white by argument,  said Filby,  but you will\nnever convince me. \n\n Possibly not,  said the Time Traveller.  But now you begin to see the\nobject of my investigations into the geometry of Four Dimensions. Long\nago I had a vague inkling of a machine \n\n To travel through Time!  exclaimed the Very Young Man.\n\n That shall travel indifferently in any direction of Space and Time, as\nthe driver determines. \n\nFilby contented himself with laughter.\n\n But I have experimental verification,  said the Time Traveller.\n\n It would be remarkably convenient for the historian,  the Psychologist\nsuggested.  One might travel back and verify the accepted account of\nthe Battle of Hastings, for instance! \n\n Don t you think you would attract attention?  said the Medical Man.\n Our ancestors had no great tolerance for anachronisms. \n\n One might get one s Greek from the very lips of Homer and Plato,  the\nVery Young Man thought.\n\n In which case they would certainly plough you for the Little-go. The\nGerman scholars have improved Greek so much. \n\n Then there is the future,  said the Very Young Man.  Just think! One\nmight invest all one s money, leave it to accumulate at interest, and\nhurry on ahead! \n\n To discover a society,  said I,  erected on a strictly communistic\nbasis. \n\n Of all the wild extravagant theories!  began the Psychologist.\n\n Yes, so it seemed to me, and so I never talked of it until \n\n Experimental verification!  cried I.  You are going to verify _that_? \n\n The experiment!  cried Filby, who was getting brain-weary.\n\n Let s see your experiment anyhow,  said the Psychologist,  though it s\nall humbug, you know. \n\nThe Time Traveller smiled round at us. Then, still smiling faintly, and\nwith his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he walked slowly out of\nthe room, and we heard his slippers shuffling down the long passage to\nhis laboratory.\n\nThe Psychologist looked at us.  I wonder what he s got? \n\n Some sleight-of-hand trick or other,  said the Medical Man, and Filby\ntried to tell us about a conjuror he had seen at Burslem, but before he\nhad finished his preface the Time Traveller came back, and Filby s\nanecdote collapsed.\n\n\n\n\n II.\n The Machine\n\n\nThe thing the Time Traveller held in his hand was a glittering metallic\nframework, scarcely larger than a small clock, and very delicately\nmade. There was ivory in it, and some transparent crystalline\nsubstance. And now I must be explicit, for this that follows unless his\nexplanation is to be accepted is an absolutely unaccountable thing. He\ntook one of the small octagonal tables that were scattered about the\nroom, and set it in front of the fire, with two legs on the hearthrug.\nOn this table he placed the mechanism. Then he drew up a chair, and sat\ndown. The only other object on the table was a small shaded lamp, the\nbright light of which fell upon the model. There were also perhaps a\ndozen candles about, two in brass candlesticks upon the mantel and\nseveral in sconces, so that the room was brilliantly illuminated. I sat\nin a low arm-chair nearest the fire, and I drew this forward so as to\nbe almost between the Time Traveller and the fireplace. Filby sat\nbehind him, looking over his shoulder. The Medical Man and the\nProvincial Mayor watched him in profile from the right, the\nPsychologist from the left. The Very Young Man stood behind the\nPsychologist. We were all on the alert. It appears incredible to me\nthat any kind of trick, however subtly conceived and however adroitly\ndone, could have been played upon us under these conditions.\n\nThe Time Traveller looked at us, and then at the mechanism.  Well? \nsaid the Psychologist.\n\n This little affair,  said the Time Traveller, resting his elbows upon\nthe table and pressing his hands together above the apparatus,  is only\na model. It is my plan for a machine to travel through time. You will\nnotice that it looks singularly askew, and that there is an odd\ntwinkling appearance about this bar, as though it was in some way\nunreal.  He pointed to the part with his finger.  Also, here is one\nlittle white lever, and here is another. \n\nThe Medical Man got up out of his chair and peered into the thing.\n It s beautifully made,  he said.\n\n It took two years to make,  retorted the Time Traveller. Then, when we\nhad all imitated the action of the Medical Man, he said:  Now I want\nyou clearly to understand that this lever, being pressed over, sends\nthe machine gliding into the future, and this other reverses the\nmotion. This saddle represents the seat of a time traveller. Presently\nI am going to press the lever, and off the machine will go. It will\nvanish, pass into future Time, and disappear. Have a good look at the\nthing. Look at the table too, and satisfy yourselves there is no\ntrickery. I don t want to waste this model, and then be told I m a\nquack. \n\nThere was a minute s pause perhaps. The Psychologist seemed about to\nspeak to me, but changed his mind. Then the Time Traveller put forth\nhis finger towards the lever.  No,  he said suddenly.  Lend me your\nhand.  And turning to the Psychologist, he took that individual s hand\nin his own and told him to put out his forefinger. So that it was the\nPsychologist himself who sent forth the model Time Machine on its\ninterminable voyage. We all saw the lever turn. I am absolutely certain\nthere was no trickery. There was a breath of wind, and the lamp flame\njumped. One of the candles on the mantel was blown out, and the little\nmachine suddenly swung round, became indistinct, was seen as a ghost\nfor a second perhaps, as an eddy of faintly glittering brass and ivory;\nand it was gone vanished! Save for the lamp the table was bare.\n\nEveryone was silent for a minute. Then Filby said he was damned.\n\nThe Psychologist recovered from his stupor, and suddenly looked under\nthe table. At that the Time Traveller laughed cheerfully.  Well?  he\nsaid, with a reminiscence of the Psychologist. Then, getting up, he\nwent to the tobacco jar on the mantel, and with his back to us began to\nfill his pipe.\n\nWe stared at each other.  Look here,  said the Medical Man,  are you in\nearnest about this? Do you seriously believe that that machine has\ntravelled into time? \n\n Certainly,  said the Time Traveller, stooping to light a spill at the\nfire. Then he turned, lighting his pipe, to look at the Psychologist s\nface. (The Psychologist, to show that he was not unhinged, helped\nhimself to a cigar and tried to light it uncut.)  What is more, I have\na big machine nearly finished in there he indicated the\nlaboratory and when that is put together I mean to have a journey on\nmy own account. \n\n You mean to say that that machine has travelled into the future?  said\nFilby.\n\n Into the future or the past I don t, for certain, know which. \n\nAfter an interval the Psychologist had an inspiration.  It must have\ngone into the past if it has gone anywhere,  he said.\n\n Why?  said the Time Traveller.\n\n Because I presume that it has not moved in space, and if it travelled\ninto the future it would still be here all this time, since it must\nhave travelled through this time. \n\n But,  said I,  If it travelled into the past it would have been\nvisible when we came first into this room; and last Thursday when we\nwere here; and the Thursday before that; and so forth! \n\n Serious objections,  remarked the Provincial Mayor, with an air of\nimpartiality, turning towards the Time Traveller.\n\n Not a bit,  said the Time Traveller, and, to the Psychologist:  You\nthink. _You_ can explain that. It s presentation below the threshold,\nyou know, diluted presentation. \n\n Of course,  said the Psychologist, and reassured us.  That s a simple\npoint of psychology. I should have thought of it. It s plain enough,\nand helps the paradox delightfully. We cannot see it, nor can we\nappreciate this machine, any more than we can the spoke of a wheel\nspinning, or a bullet flying through the air. If it is travelling\nthrough time fifty times or a hundred times faster than we are, if it\ngets through a minute while we get through a second, the impression it\ncreates will of course be only one-fiftieth or one-hundredth of what it\nwould make if it were not travelling in time. That s plain enough.  He\npassed his hand through the space in which the machine had been.  You\nsee?  he said, laughing.\n\nWe sat and stared at the vacant table for a minute or so. Then the Time\nTraveller asked us what we thought of it all.\n\n It sounds plausible enough tonight,  said the Medical Man;  but wait\nuntil tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning. \n\n Would you like to see the Time Machine itself?  asked the Time\nTraveller. And therewith, taking the lamp in his hand, he led the way\ndown the long, draughty corridor to his laboratory. I remember vividly\nthe flickering light, his queer, broad head in silhouette, the dance of\nthe shadows, how we all followed him, puzzled but incredulous, and how\nthere in the laboratory we beheld a larger edition of the little\nmechanism which we had seen vanish from before our eyes. Parts were of\nnickel, parts of ivory, parts had certainly been filed or sawn out of\nrock crystal. The thing was generally complete, but the twisted\ncrystalline bars lay unfinished upon the bench beside some sheets of\ndrawings, and I took one up for a better look at it. Quartz it seemed\nto be.\n\n Look here,  said the Medical Man,  are you perfectly serious? Or is\nthis a trick like that ghost you showed us last Christmas? \n\n Upon that machine,  said the Time Traveller, holding the lamp aloft,\n I intend to explore time. Is that plain? I was never more serious in\nmy life. \n\nNone of us quite knew how to take it.\n\nI caught Filby s eye over the shoulder of the Medical Man, and he\nwinked at me solemnly.\n\n\n\n\n III.\n The Time Traveller Returns\n\n\nI think that at that time none of us quite believed in the Time\nMachine. The fact is, the Time Traveller was one of those men who are\ntoo clever to be believed: you never felt that you saw all round him;\nyou always suspected some subtle reserve, some ingenuity in ambush,\nbehind his lucid frankness. Had Filby shown the model and explained the\nmatter in the Time Traveller s words, we should have shown _him_ far\nless scepticism. For we should have perceived his motives: a\npork-butcher could understand Filby. But the Time Traveller had more\nthan a touch of whim among his elements, and we distrusted him. Things\nthat would have made the fame of a less clever man seemed tricks in his\nhands. It is a mistake to do things too easily. The serious people who\ntook him seriously never felt quite sure of his deportment; they were\nsomehow aware that trusting their reputations for judgment with him was\nlike furnishing a nursery with eggshell china. So I don t think any of\nus said very much about time travelling in the interval between that\nThursday and the next, though its odd potentialities ran, no doubt, in\nmost of our minds: its plausibility, that is, its practical\nincredibleness, the curious possibilities of anachronism and of utter\nconfusion it suggested. For my own part, I was particularly preoccupied\nwith the trick of the model. That I remember discussing with the\nMedical Man, whom I met on Friday at the Linn an. He said he had seen a\nsimilar thing at T bingen, and laid considerable stress on the\nblowing-out of the candle. But how the trick was done he could not\nexplain.\n\nThe next Thursday I went again to Richmond I suppose I was one of the\nTime Traveller s most constant guests and, arriving late, found four or\nfive men already assembled in his drawing-room. The Medical Man was\nstanding before the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and his\nwatch in the other. I looked round for the Time Traveller, and It s\nhalf-past seven now,  said the Medical Man.  I suppose we d better have\ndinner? \n\n Where s ?  said I, naming our host.\n\n You ve just come? It s rather odd. He s unavoidably detained. He asks\nme in this note to lead off with dinner at seven if he s not back. Says\nhe ll explain when he comes. \n\n It seems a pity to let the dinner spoil,  said the Editor of a\nwell-known daily paper; and thereupon the Doctor rang the bell.\n\nThe Psychologist was the only person besides the Doctor and myself who\nhad attended the previous dinner. The other men were Blank, the Editor\naforementioned, a certain journalist, and another a quiet, shy man with\na beard whom I didn t know, and who, as far as my observation went,\nnever opened his mouth all the evening. There was some speculation at\nthe dinner-table about the Time Traveller s absence, and I suggested\ntime travelling, in a half-jocular spirit. The Editor wanted that\nexplained to him, and the Psychologist volunteered a wooden account of\nthe  ingenious paradox and trick  we had witnessed that day week. He\nwas in the midst of his exposition when the door from the corridor\nopened slowly and without noise. I was facing the door, and saw it\nfirst.  Hallo!  I said.  At last!  And the door opened wider, and the\nTime Traveller stood before us. I gave a cry of surprise.  Good\nheavens! man, what s the matter?  cried the Medical Man, who saw him\nnext. And the whole tableful turned towards the door.\n\nHe was in an amazing plight. His coat was dusty and dirty, and smeared\nwith green down the sleeves; his hair disordered, and as it seemed to\nme greyer either with dust and dirt or because its colour had actually\nfaded. His face was ghastly pale; his chin had a brown cut on it a cut\nhalf-healed; his expression was haggard and drawn, as by intense\nsuffering. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had been\ndazzled by the light. Then he came into the room. He walked with just\nsuch a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps. We stared at him in\nsilence, expecting him to speak.\n\nHe said not a word, but came painfully to the table, and made a motion\ntowards the wine. The Editor filled a glass of champagne, and pushed it\ntowards him. He drained it, and it seemed to do him good: for he looked\nround the table, and the ghost of his old smile flickered across his\nface.  What on earth have you been up to, man?  said the Doctor. The\nTime Traveller did not seem to hear.  Don t let me disturb you,  he\nsaid, with a certain faltering articulation.  I m all right.  He\nstopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught.\n That s good,  he said. His eyes grew brighter, and a faint colour came\ninto his cheeks. His glance flickered over our faces with a certain\ndull approval, and then went round the warm and comfortable room. Then\nhe spoke again, still as it were feeling his way among his words.  I m\ngoing to wash and dress, and then I ll come down and explain things....\nSave me some of that mutton. I m starving for a bit of meat. \n\nHe looked across at the Editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped he\nwas all right. The Editor began a question.  Tell you presently,  said\nthe Time Traveller.  I m funny! Be all right in a minute. \n\nHe put down his glass, and walked towards the staircase door. Again I\nremarked his lameness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, and\nstanding up in my place, I saw his feet as he went out. He had nothing\non them but a pair of tattered, blood-stained socks. Then the door\nclosed upon him. I had half a mind to follow, till I remembered how he\ndetested any fuss about himself. For a minute, perhaps, my mind was\nwool-gathering. Then,  Remarkable Behaviour of an Eminent Scientist,  I\nheard the Editor say, thinking (after his wont) in headlines. And this\nbrought my attention back to the bright dinner-table.\n\n What s the game?  said the Journalist.  Has he been doing the Amateur\nCadger? I don t follow.  I met the eye of the Psychologist, and read my\nown interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time Traveller limping\npainfully upstairs. I don t think anyone else had noticed his lameness.\n\nThe first to recover completely from this surprise was the Medical Man,\nwho rang the bell the Time Traveller hated to have servants waiting at\ndinner for a hot plate. At that the Editor turned to his knife and fork\nwith a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. The dinner was resumed.\nConversation was exclamatory for a little while with gaps of\nwonderment; and then the Editor got fervent in his curiosity.  Does our\nfriend eke out his modest income with a crossing? or has he his\nNebuchadnezzar phases?  he inquired.  I feel assured it s this business\nof the Time Machine,  I said, and took up the Psychologist s account of\nour previous meeting. The new guests were frankly incredulous. The\nEditor raised objections.  What _was_ this time travelling? A man\ncouldn t cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he? \nAnd then, as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature.\nHadn t they any clothes-brushes in the Future? The Journalist too,\nwould not believe at any price, and joined the Editor in the easy work\nof heaping ridicule on the whole thing. They were both the new kind of\njournalist very joyous, irreverent young men.  Our Special\nCorrespondent in the Day after Tomorrow reports,  the Journalist was\nsaying or rather shouting when the Time Traveller came back. He was\ndressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look\nremained of the change that had startled me.\n\n I say,  said the Editor hilariously,  these chaps here say you have\nbeen travelling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little\nRosebery, will you? What will you take for the lot? \n\nThe Time Traveller came to the place reserved for him without a word.\nHe smiled quietly, in his old way.  Where s my mutton?  he said.  What\na treat it is to stick a fork into meat again! \n\n Story!  cried the Editor.\n\n Story be damned!  said the Time Traveller.  I want something to eat. I\nwon t say a word until I get some peptone into my arteries. Thanks. And\nthe salt. \n\n One word,  said I.  Have you been time travelling? \n\n Yes,  said the Time Traveller, with his mouth full, nodding his head.\n\n I d give a shilling a line for a verbatim note,  said the Editor. The\nTime Traveller pushed his glass towards the Silent Man and rang it with\nhis fingernail; at which the Silent Man, who had been staring at his\nface, started convulsively, and poured him wine. The rest of the dinner\nwas uncomfortable. For my own part, sudden questions kept on rising to\nmy lips, and I dare say it was the same with the others. The Journalist\ntried to relieve the tension by telling anecdotes of Hettie Potter. The\nTime Traveller devoted his attention to his dinner, and displayed the\nappetite of a tramp. The Medical Man smoked a cigarette, and watched\nthe Time Traveller through his eyelashes. The Silent Man seemed even\nmore clumsy than usual, and drank champagne with regularity and\ndetermination out of sheer nervousness. At last the Time Traveller\npushed his plate away, and looked round us.  I suppose I must\napologise,  he said.  I was simply starving. I ve had a most amazing\ntime.  He reached out his hand for a cigar, and cut the end.  But come\ninto the smoking-room. It s too long a story to tell over greasy\nplates.  And ringing the bell in passing, he led the way into the\nadjoining room.\n\n You have told Blank, and Dash, and Chose about the machine?  he said\nto me, leaning back in his easy-chair and naming the three new guests.\n\n But the thing s a mere paradox,  said the Editor.\n\n I can t argue tonight. I don t mind telling you the story, but I can t\nargue. I will,  he went on,  tell you the story of what has happened to\nme, if you like, but you must refrain from interruptions. I want to\ntell it. Badly. Most of it will sound like lying. So be it! It s\ntrue every word of it, all the same. I was in my laboratory at four\no clock, and since then   I ve lived eight days   such days as no human\nbeing ever lived before! I m nearly worn out, but I shan t sleep till\nI ve told this thing over to you. Then I shall go to bed. But no\ninterruptions! Is it agreed? \n\n Agreed,  said the Editor, and the rest of us echoed  Agreed.  And with\nthat the Time Traveller began his story as I have set it forth. He sat\nback in his chair at first, and spoke like a weary man. Afterwards he\ngot more animated. In writing it down I feel with only too much\nkeenness the inadequacy of pen and ink and, above all, my own\ninadequacy to express its quality. You read, I will suppose,\nattentively enough; but you cannot see the speaker s white, sincere\nface in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear the intonation\nof his voice. You cannot know how his expression followed the turns of\nhis story! Most of us hearers were in shadow, for the candles in the\nsmoking-room had not been lighted, and only the face of the Journalist\nand the legs of the Silent Man from the knees downward were\nilluminated. At first we glanced now and again at each other. After a\ntime we ceased to do that, and looked only at the Time Traveller s\nface.\n\n\n\n\n IV.\n Time Travelling\n\n\n I told some of you last Thursday of the principles of the Time\nMachine, and showed you the actual thing itself, incomplete in the\nworkshop. There it is now, a little travel-worn, truly; and one of the\nivory bars is cracked, and a brass rail bent; but the rest of it s\nsound enough. I expected to finish it on Friday; but on Friday, when\nthe putting together was nearly done, I found that one of the nickel\nbars was exactly one inch too short, and this I had to get remade; so\nthat the thing was not complete until this morning. It was at ten\no clock today that the first of all Time Machines began its career. I\ngave it a last tap, tried all the screws again, put one more drop of\noil on the quartz rod, and sat myself in the saddle. I suppose a\nsuicide who holds a pistol to his skull feels much the same wonder at\nwhat will come next as I felt then. I took the starting lever in one\nhand and the stopping one in the other, pressed the first, and almost\nimmediately the second. I seemed to reel; I felt a nightmare sensation\nof falling; and, looking round, I saw the laboratory exactly as before.\nHad anything happened? For a moment I suspected that my intellect had\ntricked me. Then I noted the clock. A moment before, as it seemed, it\nhad stood at a minute or so past ten; now it was nearly half-past\nthree!\n\n I drew a breath, set my teeth, gripped the starting lever with both\nhands, and went off with a thud. The laboratory got hazy and went dark.\nMrs. Watchett came in and walked, apparently without seeing me, towards\nthe garden door. I suppose it took her a minute or so to traverse the\nplace, but to me she seemed to shoot across the room like a rocket. I\npressed the lever over to its extreme position. The night came like the\nturning out of a lamp, and in another moment came tomorrow. The\nlaboratory grew faint and hazy, then fainter and ever fainter. Tomorrow\nnight came black, then day again, night again, day again, faster and\nfaster still. An eddying murmur filled my ears, and a strange, dumb\nconfusedness descended on my mind.\n\n I am afraid I cannot convey the peculiar sensations of time\ntravelling. They are excessively unpleasant. There is a feeling exactly\nlike that one has upon a switchback of a helpless headlong motion! I\nfelt the same horrible anticipation, too, of an imminent smash. As I\nput on pace, night followed day like the flapping of a black wing. The\ndim suggestion of the laboratory seemed presently to fall away from me,\nand I saw the sun hopping swiftly across the sky, leaping it every\nminute, and every minute marking a day. I supposed the laboratory had\nbeen destroyed and I had come into the open air. I had a dim impression\nof scaffolding, but I was already going too fast to be conscious of any\nmoving things. The slowest snail that ever crawled dashed by too fast\nfor me. The twinkling succession of darkness and light was excessively\npainful to the eye. Then, in the intermittent darknesses, I saw the\nmoon spinning swiftly through her quarters from new to full, and had a\nfaint glimpse of the circling stars. Presently, as I went on, still\ngaining velocity, the palpitation of night and day merged into one\ncontinuous greyness; the sky took on a wonderful deepness of blue, a\nsplendid luminous colour like that of early twilight; the jerking sun\nbecame a streak of fire, a brilliant arch, in space; the moon a fainter\nfluctuating band; and I could see nothing of the stars, save now and\nthen a brighter circle flickering in the blue.\n\n The landscape was misty and vague. I was still on the hillside upon\nwhich this house now stands, and the shoulder rose above me grey and\ndim. I saw trees growing and changing like puffs of vapour, now brown,\nnow green; they grew, spread, shivered, and passed away. I saw huge\nbuildings rise up faint and fair, and pass like dreams. The whole\nsurface of the earth seemed changed melting and flowing under my eyes.\nThe little hands upon the dials that registered my speed raced round\nfaster and faster. Presently I noted that the sun belt swayed up and\ndown, from solstice to solstice, in a minute or less, and that\nconsequently my pace was over a year a minute; and minute by minute the\nwhite snow flashed across the world, and vanished, and was followed by\nthe bright, brief green of spring.\n\n The unpleasant sensations of the start were less poignant now. They\nmerged at last into a kind of hysterical exhilaration. I remarked,\nindeed, a clumsy swaying of the machine, for which I was unable to\naccount. But my mind was too confused to attend to it, so with a kind\nof madness growing upon me, I flung myself into futurity. At first I\nscarce thought of stopping, scarce thought of anything but these new\nsensations. But presently a fresh series of impressions grew up in my\nmind a certain curiosity and therewith a certain dread until at last\nthey took complete possession of me. What strange developments of\nhumanity, what wonderful advances upon our rudimentary civilisation, I\nthought, might not appear when I came to look nearly into the dim\nelusive world that raced and fluctuated before my eyes! I saw great and\nsplendid architecture rising about me, more massive than any buildings\nof our own time, and yet, as it seemed, built of glimmer and mist. I\nsaw a richer green flow up the hillside, and remain there, without any\nwintry intermission. Even through the veil of my confusion the earth\nseemed very fair. And so my mind came round to the business of\nstopping.\n\n The peculiar risk lay in the possibility of my finding some substance\nin the space which I, or the machine, occupied. So long as I travelled\nat a high velocity through time, this scarcely mattered: I was, so to\nspeak, attenuated was slipping like a vapour through the interstices of\nintervening substances! But to come to a stop involved the jamming of\nmyself, molecule by molecule, into whatever lay in my way; meant\nbringing my atoms into such intimate contact with those of the obstacle\nthat a profound chemical reaction possibly a far-reaching\nexplosion would result, and blow myself and my apparatus out of all\npossible dimensions into the Unknown. This possibility had occurred to\nme again and again while I was making the machine; but then I had\ncheerfully accepted it as an unavoidable risk one of the risks a man\nhas got to take! Now the risk was inevitable, I no longer saw it in the\nsame cheerful light. The fact is that, insensibly, the absolute\nstrangeness of everything, the sickly jarring and swaying of the\nmachine, above all, the feeling of prolonged falling, had absolutely\nupset my nerves. I told myself that I could never stop, and with a gust\nof petulance I resolved to stop forthwith. Like an impatient fool, I\nlugged over the lever, and incontinently the thing went reeling over,\nand I was flung headlong through the air.\n\n There was the sound of a clap of thunder in my ears. I may have been\nstunned for a moment. A pitiless hail was hissing round me, and I was\nsitting on soft turf in front of the overset machine. Everything still\nseemed grey, but presently I remarked that the confusion in my ears was\ngone. I looked round me. I was on what seemed to be a little lawn in a\ngarden, surrounded by rhododendron bushes, and I noticed that their\nmauve and purple blossoms were dropping in a shower under the beating\nof the hailstones. The rebounding, dancing hail hung in a little cloud\nover the machine, and drove along the ground like smoke. In a moment I\nwas wet to the skin.  Fine hospitality,  said I,  to a man who has\ntravelled innumerable years to see you. \n\n Presently I thought what a fool I was to get wet. I stood up and\nlooked round me. A colossal figure, carved apparently in some white\nstone, loomed indistinctly beyond the rhododendrons through the hazy\ndownpour. But all else of the world was invisible.\n\n My sensations would be hard to describe. As the columns of hail grew\nthinner, I saw the white figure more distinctly. It was very large, for\na silver birch-tree touched its shoulder. It was of white marble, in\nshape something like a winged sphinx, but the wings, instead of being\ncarried vertically at the sides, were spread so that it seemed to\nhover. The pedestal, it appeared to me, was of bronze, and was thick\nwith verdigris. It chanced that the face was towards me; the sightless\neyes seemed to watch me; there was the faint shadow of a smile on the\nlips. It was greatly weather-worn, and that imparted an unpleasant\nsuggestion of disease. I stood looking at it for a little space half a\nminute, perhaps, or half an hour. It seemed to advance and to recede as\nthe hail drove before it denser or thinner. At last I tore my eyes from\nit for a moment, and saw that the hail curtain had worn threadbare, and\nthat the sky was lightening with the promise of the sun.\n\n I looked up again at the crouching white shape, and the full temerity\nof my voyage came suddenly upon me. What might appear when that hazy\ncurtain was altogether withdrawn? What might not have happened to men?\nWhat if cruelty had grown into a common passion? What if in this\ninterval the race had lost its manliness, and had developed into\nsomething inhuman, unsympathetic, and overwhelmingly powerful? I might\nseem some old-world savage animal, only the more dreadful and\ndisgusting for our common likeness a foul creature to be incontinently\nslain.\n\n Already I saw other vast shapes huge buildings with intricate parapets\nand tall columns, with a wooded hillside dimly creeping in upon me\nthrough the lessening storm. I was seized with a panic fear. I turned\nfrantically to the Time Machine, and strove hard to readjust it. As I\ndid so the shafts of the sun smote through the thunderstorm. The grey\ndownpour was swept aside and vanished like the trailing garments of a\nghost. Above me, in the intense blue of the summer sky, some faint\nbrown shreds of cloud whirled into nothingness. The great buildings\nabout me stood out clear and distinct, shining with the wet of the\nthunderstorm, and picked out in white by the unmelted hailstones piled\nalong their courses. I felt naked in a strange world. I felt as perhaps\na bird may feel in the clear air, knowing the hawk wings above and will\nswoop. My fear grew to frenzy. I took a breathing space, set my teeth,\nand again grappled fiercely, wrist and knee, with the machine. It gave\nunder my desperate onset and turned over. It struck my chin violently.\nOne hand on the saddle, the other on the lever, I stood panting heavily\nin attitude to mount again.\n\n But with this recovery of a prompt retreat my courage recovered. I\nlooked more curiously and less fearfully at this world of the remote\nfuture. In a circular opening, high up in the wall of the nearer house,\nI saw a group of figures clad in rich soft robes. They had seen me, and\ntheir faces were directed towards me.\n\n Then I heard voices approaching me. Coming through the bushes by the\nWhite Sphinx were the heads and shoulders of men running. One of these\nemerged in a pathway leading straight to the little lawn upon which I\nstood with my machine. He was a slight creature perhaps four feet\nhigh clad in a purple tunic, girdled at the waist with a leather belt.\nSandals or buskins I could not clearly distinguish which were on his\nfeet; his legs were bare to the knees, and his head was bare. Noticing\nthat, I noticed for the first time how warm the air was.\n\n He struck me as being a very beautiful and graceful creature, but\nindescribably frail. His flushed face reminded me of the more beautiful\nkind of consumptive that hectic beauty of which we used to hear so\nmuch. At the sight of him I suddenly regained confidence. I took my\nhands from the machine.\n\n\n\n\n V.\n In the Golden Age\n\n\n In another moment we were standing face to face, I and this fragile\nthing out of futurity. He came straight up to me and laughed into my\neyes. The absence from his bearing of any sign of fear struck me at\nonce. Then he turned to the two others who were following him and spoke\nto them in a strange and very sweet and liquid tongue.\n\n There were others coming, and presently a little group of perhaps\neight or ten of these exquisite creatures were about me. One of them\naddressed me. It came into my head, oddly enough, that my voice was too\nharsh and deep for them. So I shook my head, and, pointing to my ears,\nshook it again. He came a step forward, hesitated, and then touched my\nhand. Then I felt other soft little tentacles upon my back and\nshoulders. They wanted to make sure I was real. There was nothing in\nthis at all alarming. Indeed, there was something in these pretty\nlittle people that inspired confidence a graceful gentleness, a certain\nchildlike ease. And besides, they looked so frail that I could fancy\nmyself flinging the whole dozen of them about like ninepins. But I made\na sudden motion to warn them when I saw their little pink hands feeling\nat the Time Machine. Happily then, when it was not too late, I thought\nof a danger I had hitherto forgotten, and reaching over the bars of the\nmachine I unscrewed the little levers that would set it in motion, and\nput these in my pocket. Then I turned again to see what I could do in\nthe way of communication.\n\n And then, looking more nearly into their features, I saw some further\npeculiarities in their Dresden china type of prettiness. Their hair,\nwhich was uniformly curly, came to a sharp end at the neck and cheek;\nthere was not the faintest suggestion of it on the face, and their ears\nwere singularly minute. The mouths were small, with bright red, rather\nthin lips, and the little chins ran to a point. The eyes were large and\nmild; and this may seem egotism on my part I fancied even that there\nwas a certain lack of the interest I might have expected in them.\n\n As they made no effort to communicate with me, but simply stood round\nme smiling and speaking in soft cooing notes to each other, I began the\nconversation. I pointed to the Time Machine and to myself. Then,\nhesitating for a moment how to express Time, I pointed to the sun. At\nonce a quaintly pretty little figure in chequered purple and white\nfollowed my gesture, and then astonished me by imitating the sound of\nthunder.\n\n For a moment I was staggered, though the import of his gesture was\nplain enough. The question had come into my mind abruptly: were these\ncreatures fools? You may hardly understand how it took me. You see, I\nhad always anticipated that the people of the year Eight Hundred and\nTwo Thousand odd would be incredibly in front of us in knowledge, art,\neverything. Then one of them suddenly asked me a question that showed\nhim to be on the intellectual level of one of our five-year-old\nchildren asked me, in fact, if I had come from the sun in a\nthunderstorm! It let loose the judgment I had suspended upon their\nclothes, their frail light limbs, and fragile features. A flow of\ndisappointment rushed across my mind. For a moment I felt that I had\nbuilt the Time Machine in vain.\n\n I nodded, pointed to the sun, and gave them such a vivid rendering of\na thunderclap as startled them. They all withdrew a pace or so and\nbowed. Then came one laughing towards me, carrying a chain of beautiful\nflowers altogether new to me, and put it about my neck. The idea was\nreceived with melodious applause; and presently they were all running\nto and fro for flowers, and laughingly flinging them upon me until I\nwas almost smothered with blossom. You who have never seen the like can\nscarcely imagine what delicate and wonderful flowers countless years of\nculture had created. Then someone suggested that their plaything should\nbe exhibited in the nearest building, and so I was led past the sphinx\nof white marble, which had seemed to watch me all the while with a\nsmile at my astonishment, towards a vast grey edifice of fretted stone.\nAs I went with them the memory of my confident anticipations of a\nprofoundly grave and intellectual posterity came, with irresistible\nmerriment, to my mind.\n\n The building had a huge entry, and was altogether of colossal\ndimensions. I was naturally most occupied with the growing crowd of\nlittle people, and with the big open portals that yawned before me\nshadowy and mysterious. My general impression of the world I saw over\ntheir heads was a tangled waste of beautiful bushes and flowers, a long\nneglected and yet weedless garden. I saw a number of tall spikes of\nstrange white flowers, measuring a foot perhaps across the spread of\nthe waxen petals. They grew scattered, as if wild, among the variegated\nshrubs, but, as I say, I did not examine them closely at this time. The\nTime Machine was left deserted on the turf among the rhododendrons.\n\n The arch of the doorway was richly carved, but naturally I did not\nobserve the carving very narrowly, though I fancied I saw suggestions\nof old Ph nician decorations as I passed through, and it struck me that\nthey were very badly broken and weather-worn. Several more brightly\nclad people met me in the doorway, and so we entered, I, dressed in\ndingy nineteenth-century garments, looking grotesque enough, garlanded\nwith flowers, and surrounded by an eddying mass of bright,\nsoft-coloured robes and shining white limbs, in a melodious whirl of\nlaughter and laughing speech.\n\n The big doorway opened into a proportionately great hall hung with\nbrown. The roof was in shadow, and the windows, partially glazed with\ncoloured glass and partially unglazed, admitted a tempered light. The\nfloor was made up of huge blocks of some very hard white metal, not\nplates nor slabs blocks, and it was so much worn, as I judged by the\ngoing to and fro of past generations, as to be deeply channelled along\nthe more frequented ways. Transverse to the length were innumerable\ntables made of slabs of polished stone, raised, perhaps, a foot from\nthe floor, and upon these were heaps of fruits. Some I recognised as a\nkind of hypertrophied raspberry and orange, but for the most part they\nwere strange.\n\n Between the tables was scattered a great number of cushions. Upon\nthese my conductors seated themselves, signing for me to do likewise.\nWith a pretty absence of ceremony they began to eat the fruit with\ntheir hands, flinging peel and stalks, and so forth, into the round\nopenings in the sides of the tables. I was not loath to follow their\nexample, for I felt thirsty and hungry. As I did so I surveyed the hall\nat my leisure.\n\n And perhaps the thing that struck me most was its dilapidated look.\nThe stained-glass windows, which displayed only a geometrical pattern,\nwere broken in many places, and the curtains that hung across the lower\nend were thick with dust. And it caught my eye that the corner of the\nmarble table near me was fractured. Nevertheless, the general effect\nwas extremely rich and picturesque. There were, perhaps, a couple of\nhundred people dining in the hall, and most of them, seated as near to\nme as they could come, were watching me with interest, their little\neyes shining over the fruit they were eating. All were clad in the same\nsoft, and yet strong, silky material.\n\n Fruit, by the bye, was all their diet. These people of the remote\nfuture were strict vegetarians, and while I was with them, in spite of\nsome carnal cravings, I had to be frugivorous also. Indeed, I found\nafterwards that horses, cattle, sheep, dogs, had followed the\nIchthyosaurus into extinction. But the fruits were very delightful;\none, in particular, that seemed to be in season all the time I was\nthere a floury thing in a three-sided husk was especially good, and I\nmade it my staple. At first I was puzzled by all these strange fruits,\nand by the strange flowers I saw, but later I began to perceive their\nimport.\n\n However, I am telling you of my fruit dinner in the distant future\nnow. So soon as my appetite was a little checked, I determined to make\na resolute attempt to learn the speech of these new men of mine.\nClearly that was the next thing to do. The fruits seemed a convenient\nthing to begin upon, and holding one of these up I began a series of\ninterrogative sounds and gestures. I had some considerable difficulty\nin conveying my meaning. At first my efforts met with a stare of\nsurprise or inextinguishable laughter, but presently a fair-haired\nlittle creature seemed to grasp my intention and repeated a name. They\nhad to chatter and explain the business at great length to each other,\nand my first attempts to make the exquisite little sounds of their\nlanguage caused an immense amount of genuine, if uncivil, amusement.\nHowever, I felt like a schoolmaster amidst children, and persisted, and\npresently I had a score of noun substantives at least at my command;\nand then I got to demonstrative pronouns, and even the verb  to eat. \nBut it was slow work, and the little people soon tired and wanted to\nget away from my interrogations, so I determined, rather of necessity,\nto let them give their lessons in little doses when they felt inclined.\nAnd very little doses I found they were before long, for I never met\npeople more indolent or more easily fatigued.\n\n\n\n\n VI.\n The Sunset of Mankind\n\n\n A queer thing I soon discovered about my little hosts, and that was\ntheir lack of interest. They would come to me with eager cries of\nastonishment, like children, but, like children they would soon stop\nexamining me, and wander away after some other toy. The dinner and my\nconversational beginnings ended, I noted for the first time that almost\nall those who had surrounded me at first were gone. It is odd, too, how\nspeedily I came to disregard these little people. I went out through\nthe portal into the sunlit world again as soon as my hunger was\nsatisfied. I was continually meeting more of these men of the future,\nwho would follow me a little distance, chatter and laugh about me, and,\nhaving smiled and gesticulated in a friendly way, leave me again to my\nown devices.\n\n The calm of evening was upon the world as I emerged from the great\nhall, and the scene was lit by the warm glow of the setting sun. At\nfirst things were very confusing. Everything was so entirely different\nfrom the world I had known even the flowers. The big building I had\nleft was situated on the slope of a broad river valley, but the Thames\nhad shifted, perhaps, a mile from its present position. I resolved to\nmount to the summit of a crest, perhaps a mile and a half away, from\nwhich I could get a wider view of this our planet in the year Eight\nHundred and Two Thousand Seven Hundred and One, A.D. For that, I should\nexplain, was the date the little dials of my machine recorded.\n\n As I walked I was watching for every impression that could possibly\nhelp to explain the condition of ruinous splendour in which I found the\nworld for ruinous it was. A little way up the hill, for instance, was a\ngreat heap of granite, bound together by masses of aluminium, a vast\nlabyrinth of precipitous walls and crumpled heaps, amidst which were\nthick heaps of very beautiful pagoda-like plants nettles possibly but\nwonderfully tinted with brown about the leaves, and incapable of\nstinging. It was evidently the derelict remains of some vast structure,\nto what end built I could not determine. It was here that I was\ndestined, at a later date, to have a very strange experience the first\nintimation of a still stranger discovery but of that I will speak in\nits proper place.\n\n Looking round, with a sudden thought, from a terrace on which I rested\nfor a while, I realised that there were no small houses to be seen.\nApparently the single house, and possibly even the household, had\nvanished. Here and there among the greenery were palace-like buildings,\nbut the house and the cottage, which form such characteristic features\nof our own English landscape, had disappeared.\n\n Communism,  said I to myself.\n\n And on the heels of that came another thought. I looked at the\nhalf-dozen little figures that were following me. Then, in a flash, I\nperceived that all had the same form of costume, the same soft hairless\nvisage, and the same girlish rotundity of limb. It may seem strange,\nperhaps, that I had not noticed this before. But everything was so\nstrange. Now, I saw the fact plainly enough. In costume, and in all the\ndifferences of texture and bearing that now mark off the sexes from\neach other, these people of the future were alike. And the children\nseemed to my eyes to be but the miniatures of their parents. I judged\nthen that the children of that time were extremely precocious,\nphysically at least, and I found afterwards abundant verification of my\nopinion.\n\n Seeing the ease and security in which these people were living, I felt\nthat this close resemblance of the sexes was after all what one would\nexpect; for the strength of a man and the softness of a woman, the\ninstitution of the family, and the differentiation of occupations are\nmere militant necessities of an age of physical force. Where population\nis balanced and abundant, much childbearing becomes an evil rather than\na blessing to the State; where violence comes but rarely and offspring\nare secure, there is less necessity indeed there is no necessity for an\nefficient family, and the specialisation of the sexes with reference to\ntheir children s needs disappears. We see some beginnings of this even\nin our own time, and in this future age it was complete. This, I must\nremind you, was my speculation at the time. Later, I was to appreciate\nhow far it fell short of the reality.\n\n While I was musing upon these things, my attention was attracted by a\npretty little structure, like a well under a cupola. I thought in a\ntransitory way of the oddness of wells still existing, and then resumed\nthe thread of my speculations. There were no large buildings towards\nthe top of the hill, and as my walking powers were evidently\nmiraculous, I was presently left alone for the first time. With a\nstrange sense of freedom and adventure I pushed on up to the crest.\n\n There I found a seat of some yellow metal that I did not recognise,\ncorroded in places with a kind of pinkish rust and half smothered in\nsoft moss, the arm-rests cast and filed into the resemblance of\ngriffins  heads. I sat down on it, and I surveyed the broad view of our\nold world under the sunset of that long day. It was as sweet and fair a\nview as I have ever seen. The sun had already gone below the horizon\nand the west was flaming gold, touched with some horizontal bars of\npurple and crimson. Below was the valley of the Thames, in which the\nriver lay like a band of burnished steel. I have already spoken of the\ngreat palaces dotted about among the variegated greenery, some in ruins\nand some still occupied. Here and there rose a white or silvery figure\nin the waste garden of the earth, here and there came the sharp\nvertical line of some cupola or obelisk. There were no hedges, no signs\nof proprietary rights, no evidences of agriculture; the whole earth had\nbecome a garden.\n\n So watching, I began to put my interpretation upon the things I had\nseen, and as it shaped itself to me that evening, my interpretation was\nsomething in this way. (Afterwards I found I had got only a half\ntruth or only a glimpse of one facet of the truth.)\n\n It seemed to me that I had happened upon humanity upon the wane. The\nruddy sunset set me thinking of the sunset of mankind. For the first\ntime I began to realise an odd consequence of the social effort in\nwhich we are at present engaged. And yet, come to think, it is a\nlogical consequence enough. Strength is the outcome of need; security\nsets a premium on feebleness. The work of ameliorating the conditions\nof life the true civilising process that makes life more and more\nsecure had gone steadily on to a climax. One triumph of a united\nhumanity over Nature had followed another. Things that are now mere\ndreams had become projects deliberately put in hand and carried\nforward. And the harvest was what I saw!\n\n After all, the sanitation and the agriculture of today are still in\nthe rudimentary stage. The science of our time has attacked but a\nlittle department of the field of human disease, but, even so, it\nspreads its operations very steadily and persistently. Our agriculture\nand horticulture destroy a weed just here and there and cultivate\nperhaps a score or so of wholesome plants, leaving the greater number\nto fight out a balance as they can. We improve our favourite plants and\nanimals and how few they are gradually by selective breeding; now a new\nand better peach, now a seedless grape, now a sweeter and larger\nflower, now a more convenient breed of cattle. We improve them\ngradually, because our ideals are vague and tentative, and our\nknowledge is very limited; because Nature, too, is shy and slow in our\nclumsy hands. Some day all this will be better organised, and still\nbetter. That is the drift of the current in spite of the eddies. The\nwhole world will be intelligent, educated, and co-operating; things\nwill move faster and faster towards the subjugation of Nature. In the\nend, wisely and carefully we shall readjust the balance of animal and\nvegetable life to suit our human needs.\n\n This adjustment, I say, must have been done, and done well; done\nindeed for all Time, in the space of Time across which my machine had\nleapt. The air was free from gnats, the earth from weeds or fungi;\neverywhere were fruits and sweet and delightful flowers; brilliant\nbutterflies flew hither and thither. The ideal of preventive medicine\nwas attained. Diseases had been stamped out. I saw no evidence of any\ncontagious diseases during all my stay. And I shall have to tell you\nlater that even the processes of putrefaction and decay had been\nprofoundly affected by these changes.\n\n Social triumphs, too, had been effected. I saw mankind housed in\nsplendid shelters, gloriously clothed, and as yet I had found them\nengaged in no toil. There were no signs of struggle, neither social nor\neconomical struggle. The shop, the advertisement, traffic, all that\ncommerce which constitutes the body of our world, was gone. It was\nnatural on that golden evening that I should jump at the idea of a\nsocial paradise. The difficulty of increasing population had been met,\nI guessed, and population had ceased to increase.\n\n But with this change in condition comes inevitably adaptations to the\nchange. What, unless biological science is a mass of errors, is the\ncause of human intelligence and vigour? Hardship and freedom:\nconditions under which the active, strong, and subtle survive and the\nweaker go to the wall; conditions that put a premium upon the loyal\nalliance of capable men, upon self-restraint, patience, and decision.\nAnd the institution of the family, and the emotions that arise therein,\nthe fierce jealousy, the tenderness for offspring, parental\nself-devotion, all found their justification and support in the\nimminent dangers of the young. _Now_, where are these imminent dangers?\nThere is a sentiment arising, and it will grow, against connubial\njealousy, against fierce maternity, against passion of all sorts;\nunnecessary things now, and things that make us uncomfortable, savage\nsurvivals, discords in a refined and pleasant life.\n\n I thought of the physical slightness of the people, their lack of\nintelligence, and those big abundant ruins, and it strengthened my\nbelief in a perfect conquest of Nature. For after the battle comes\nQuiet. Humanity had been strong, energetic, and intelligent, and had\nused all its abundant vitality to alter the conditions under which it\nlived. And now came the reaction of the altered conditions.\n\n Under the new conditions of perfect comfort and security, that\nrestless energy, that with us is strength, would become weakness. Even\nin our own time certain tendencies and desires, once necessary to\nsurvival, are a constant source of failure. Physical courage and the\nlove of battle, for instance, are no great help may even be\nhindrances to a civilised man. And in a state of physical balance and\nsecurity, power, intellectual as well as physical, would be out of\nplace. For countless years I judged there had been no danger of war or\nsolitary violence, no danger from wild beasts, no wasting disease to\nrequire strength of constitution, no need of toil. For such a life,\nwhat we should call the weak are as well equipped as the strong, are\nindeed no longer weak. Better equipped indeed they are, for the strong\nwould be fretted by an energy for which there was no outlet. No doubt\nthe exquisite beauty of the buildings I saw was the outcome of the last\nsurgings of the now purposeless energy of mankind before it settled\ndown into perfect harmony with the conditions under which it lived the\nflourish of that triumph which began the last great peace. This has\never been the fate of energy in security; it takes to art and to\neroticism, and then come languor and decay.\n\n Even this artistic impetus would at last die away had almost died in\nthe Time I saw. To adorn themselves with flowers, to dance, to sing in\nthe sunlight: so much was left of the artistic spirit, and no more.\nEven that would fade in the end into a contented inactivity. We are\nkept keen on the grindstone of pain and necessity, and it seemed to me\nthat here was that hateful grindstone broken at last!\n\n As I stood there in the gathering dark I thought that in this simple\nexplanation I had mastered the problem of the world mastered the whole\nsecret of these delicious people. Possibly the checks they had devised\nfor the increase of population had succeeded too well, and their\nnumbers had rather diminished than kept stationary. That would account\nfor the abandoned ruins. Very simple was my explanation, and plausible\nenough as most wrong theories are!\n\n\n\n\n VII.\n A Sudden Shock\n\n\n As I stood there musing over this too perfect triumph of man, the full\nmoon, yellow and gibbous, came up out of an overflow of silver light in\nthe north-east. The bright little figures ceased to move about below, a\nnoiseless owl flitted by, and I shivered with the chill of the night. I\ndetermined to descend and find where I could sleep.\n\n I looked for the building I knew. Then my eye travelled along to the\nfigure of the White Sphinx upon the pedestal of bronze, growing\ndistinct as the light of the rising moon grew brighter. I could see the\nsilver birch against it. There was the tangle of rhododendron bushes,\nblack in the pale light, and there was the little lawn. I looked at the\nlawn again. A queer doubt chilled my complacency.  No,  said I stoutly\nto myself,  that was not the lawn. \n\n But it _was_ the lawn. For the white leprous face of the sphinx was\ntowards it. Can you imagine what I felt as this conviction came home to\nme? But you cannot. The Time Machine was gone!\n\n At once, like a lash across the face, came the possibility of losing\nmy own age, of being left helpless in this strange new world. The bare\nthought of it was an actual physical sensation. I could feel it grip me\nat the throat and stop my breathing. In another moment I was in a\npassion of fear and running with great leaping strides down the slope.\nOnce I fell headlong and cut my face; I lost no time in stanching the\nblood, but jumped up and ran on, with a warm trickle down my cheek and\nchin. All the time I ran I was saying to myself:  They have moved it a\nlittle, pushed it under the bushes out of the way.  Nevertheless, I ran\nwith all my might. All the time, with the certainty that sometimes\ncomes with excessive dread, I knew that such assurance was folly, knew\ninstinctively that the machine was removed out of my reach. My breath\ncame with pain. I suppose I covered the whole distance from the hill\ncrest to the little lawn, two miles perhaps, in ten minutes. And I am\nnot a young man. I cursed aloud, as I ran, at my confident folly in\nleaving the machine, wasting good breath thereby. I cried aloud, and\nnone answered. Not a creature seemed to be stirring in that moonlit\nworld.\n\n When I reached the lawn my worst fears were realised. Not a trace of\nthe thing was to be seen. I felt faint and cold when I faced the empty\nspace among the black tangle of bushes. I ran round it furiously, as if\nthe thing might be hidden in a corner, and then stopped abruptly, with\nmy hands clutching my hair. Above me towered the sphinx, upon the\nbronze pedestal, white, shining, leprous, in the light of the rising\nmoon. It seemed to smile in mockery of my dismay.\n\n I might have consoled myself by imagining the little people had put\nthe mechanism in some shelter for me, had I not felt assured of their\nphysical and intellectual inadequacy. That is what dismayed me: the\nsense of some hitherto unsuspected power, through whose intervention my\ninvention had vanished. Yet, for one thing I felt assured: unless some\nother age had produced its exact duplicate, the machine could not have\nmoved in time. The attachment of the levers I will show you the method\nlater prevented anyone from tampering with it in that way when they\nwere removed. It had moved, and was hid, only in space. But then, where\ncould it be?\n\n I think I must have had a kind of frenzy. I remember running violently\nin and out among the moonlit bushes all round the sphinx, and startling\nsome white animal that, in the dim light, I took for a small deer. I\nremember, too, late that night, beating the bushes with my clenched\nfist until my knuckles were gashed and bleeding from the broken twigs.\nThen, sobbing and raving in my anguish of mind, I went down to the\ngreat building of stone. The big hall was dark, silent, and deserted. I\nslipped on the uneven floor, and fell over one of the malachite tables,\nalmost breaking my shin. I lit a match and went on past the dusty\ncurtains, of which I have told you.\n\n There I found a second great hall covered with cushions, upon which,\nperhaps, a score or so of the little people were sleeping. I have no\ndoubt they found my second appearance strange enough, coming suddenly\nout of the quiet darkness with inarticulate noises and the splutter and\nflare of a match. For they had forgotten about matches.  Where is my\nTime Machine?  I began, bawling like an angry child, laying hands upon\nthem and shaking them up together. It must have been very queer to\nthem. Some laughed, most of them looked sorely frightened. When I saw\nthem standing round me, it came into my head that I was doing as\nfoolish a thing as it was possible for me to do under the\ncircumstances, in trying to revive the sensation of fear. For,\nreasoning from their daylight behaviour, I thought that fear must be\nforgotten.\n\n Abruptly, I dashed down the match, and knocking one of the people over\nin my course, went blundering across the big dining-hall again, out\nunder the moonlight. I heard cries of terror and their little feet\nrunning and stumbling this way and that. I do not remember all I did as\nthe moon crept up the sky. I suppose it was the unexpected nature of my\nloss that maddened me. I felt hopelessly cut off from my own kind a\nstrange animal in an unknown world. I must have raved to and fro,\nscreaming and crying upon God and Fate. I have a memory of horrible\nfatigue, as the long night of despair wore away; of looking in this\nimpossible place and that; of groping among moonlit ruins and touching\nstrange creatures in the black shadows; at last, of lying on the ground\nnear the sphinx and weeping with absolute wretchedness, even anger at\nthe folly of leaving the machine having leaked away with my strength. I\nhad nothing left but misery. Then I slept, and when I woke again it was\nfull day, and a couple of sparrows were hopping round me on the turf\nwithin reach of my arm.\n\n I sat up in the freshness of the morning, trying to remember how I had\ngot there, and why I had such a profound sense of desertion and\ndespair. Then things came clear in my mind. With the plain, reasonable\ndaylight, I could look my circumstances fairly in the face. I saw the\nwild folly of my frenzy overnight, and I could reason with myself.\n Suppose the worst?  I said.  Suppose the machine altogether\nlost perhaps destroyed? It behoves me to be calm and patient, to learn\nthe way of the people, to get a clear idea of the method of my loss,\nand the means of getting materials and tools; so that in the end,\nperhaps, I may make another.  That would be my only hope, a poor hope,\nperhaps, but better than despair. And, after all, it was a beautiful\nand curious world.\n\n But probably the machine had only been taken away. Still, I must be\ncalm and patient, find its hiding-place, and recover it by force or\ncunning. And with that I scrambled to my feet and looked about me,\nwondering where I could bathe. I felt weary, stiff, and travel-soiled.\nThe freshness of the morning made me desire an equal freshness. I had\nexhausted my emotion. Indeed, as I went about my business, I found\nmyself wondering at my intense excitement overnight. I made a careful\nexamination of the ground about the little lawn. I wasted some time in\nfutile questionings, conveyed, as well as I was able, to such of the\nlittle people as came by. They all failed to understand my gestures;\nsome were simply stolid, some thought it was a jest and laughed at me.\nI had the hardest task in the world to keep my hands off their pretty\nlaughing faces. It was a foolish impulse, but the devil begotten of\nfear and blind anger was ill curbed and still eager to take advantage\nof my perplexity. The turf gave better counsel. I found a groove ripped\nin it, about midway between the pedestal of the sphinx and the marks of\nmy feet where, on arrival, I had struggled with the overturned machine.\nThere were other signs of removal about, with queer narrow footprints\nlike those I could imagine made by a sloth. This directed my closer\nattention to the pedestal. It was, as I think I have said, of bronze.\nIt was not a mere block, but highly decorated with deep framed panels\non either side. I went and rapped at these. The pedestal was hollow.\nExamining the panels with care I found them discontinuous with the\nframes. There were no handles or keyholes, but possibly the panels, if\nthey were doors, as I supposed, opened from within. One thing was clear\nenough to my mind. It took no very great mental effort to infer that my\nTime Machine was inside that pedestal. But how it got there was a\ndifferent problem.\n\n I saw the heads of two orange-clad people coming through the bushes\nand under some blossom-covered apple-trees towards me. I turned smiling\nto them, and beckoned them to me. They came, and then, pointing to the\nbronze pedestal, I tried to intimate my wish to open it. But at my\nfirst gesture towards this they behaved very oddly. I don t know how to\nconvey their expression to you. Suppose you were to use a grossly\nimproper gesture to a delicate-minded woman it is how she would look.\nThey went off as if they had received the last possible insult. I tried\na sweet-looking little chap in white next, with exactly the same\nresult. Somehow, his manner made me feel ashamed of myself. But, as you\nknow, I wanted the Time Machine, and I tried him once more. As he\nturned off, like the others, my temper got the better of me. In three\nstrides I was after him, had him by the loose part of his robe round\nthe neck, and began dragging him towards the sphinx. Then I saw the\nhorror and repugnance of his face, and all of a sudden I let him go.\n\n But I was not beaten yet. I banged with my fist at the bronze panels.\nI thought I heard something stir inside to be explicit, I thought I\nheard a sound like a chuckle but I must have been mistaken. Then I got\na big pebble from the river, and came and hammered till I had flattened\na coil in the decorations, and the verdigris came off in powdery\nflakes. The delicate little people must have heard me hammering in\ngusty outbreaks a mile away on either hand, but nothing came of it. I\nsaw a crowd of them upon the slopes, looking furtively at me. At last,\nhot and tired, I sat down to watch the place. But I was too restless to\nwatch long; I am too Occidental for a long vigil. I could work at a\nproblem for years, but to wait inactive for twenty-four hours that is\nanother matter.\n\n I got up after a time, and began walking aimlessly through the bushes\ntowards the hill again.  Patience,  said I to myself.  If you want your\nmachine again you must leave that sphinx alone. If they mean to take\nyour machine away, it s little good your wrecking their bronze panels,\nand if they don t, you will get it back as soon as you can ask for it.\nTo sit among all those unknown things before a puzzle like that is\nhopeless. That way lies monomania. Face this world. Learn its ways,\nwatch it, be careful of too hasty guesses at its meaning. In the end\nyou will find clues to it all.  Then suddenly the humour of the\nsituation came into my mind: the thought of the years I had spent in\nstudy and toil to get into the future age, and now my passion of\nanxiety to get out of it. I had made myself the most complicated and\nthe most hopeless trap that ever a man devised. Although it was at my\nown expense, I could not help myself. I laughed aloud.\n\n Going through the big palace, it seemed to me that the little people\navoided me. It may have been my fancy, or it may have had something to\ndo with my hammering at the gates of bronze. Yet I felt tolerably sure\nof the avoidance. I was careful, however, to show no concern and to\nabstain from any pursuit of them, and in the course of a day or two\nthings got back to the old footing. I made what progress I could in the\nlanguage, and in addition I pushed my explorations here and there.\nEither I missed some subtle point or their language was excessively\nsimple almost exclusively composed of concrete substantives and verbs.\nThere seemed to be few, if any, abstract terms, or little use of\nfigurative language. Their sentences were usually simple and of two\nwords, and I failed to convey or understand any but the simplest\npropositions. I determined to put the thought of my Time Machine and\nthe mystery of the bronze doors under the sphinx, as much as possible\nin a corner of memory, until my growing knowledge would lead me back to\nthem in a natural way. Yet a certain feeling, you may understand,\ntethered me in a circle of a few miles round the point of my arrival.\n\n\n\n\n VIII.\n Explanation\n\n\n So far as I could see, all the world displayed the same exuberant\nrichness as the Thames valley. From every hill I climbed I saw the same\nabundance of splendid buildings, endlessly varied in material and\nstyle, the same clustering thickets of evergreens, the same\nblossom-laden trees and tree ferns. Here and there water shone like\nsilver, and beyond, the land rose into blue undulating hills, and so\nfaded into the serenity of the sky. A peculiar feature, which presently\nattracted my attention, was the presence of certain circular wells,\nseveral, as it seemed to me, of a very great depth. One lay by the path\nup the hill which I had followed during my first walk. Like the others,\nit was rimmed with bronze, curiously wrought, and protected by a little\ncupola from the rain. Sitting by the side of these wells, and peering\ndown into the shafted darkness, I could see no gleam of water, nor\ncould I start any reflection with a lighted match. But in all of them I\nheard a certain sound: a thud thud thud, like the beating of some big\nengine; and I discovered, from the flaring of my matches, that a steady\ncurrent of air set down the shafts. Further, I threw a scrap of paper\ninto the throat of one, and, instead of fluttering slowly down, it was\nat once sucked swiftly out of sight.\n\n After a time, too, I came to connect these wells with tall towers\nstanding here and there upon the slopes; for above them there was often\njust such a flicker in the air as one sees on a hot day above a\nsun-scorched beach. Putting things together, I reached a strong\nsuggestion of an extensive system of subterranean ventilation, whose\ntrue import it was difficult to imagine. I was at first inclined to\nassociate it with the sanitary apparatus of these people. It was an\nobvious conclusion, but it was absolutely wrong.\n\n And here I must admit that I learnt very little of drains and bells\nand modes of conveyance, and the like conveniences, during my time in\nthis real future. In some of these visions of Utopias and coming times\nwhich I have read, there is a vast amount of detail about building, and\nsocial arrangements, and so forth. But while such details are easy\nenough to obtain when the whole world is contained in one s\nimagination, they are altogether inaccessible to a real traveller amid\nsuch realities as I found here. Conceive the tale of London which a\nnegro, fresh from Central Africa, would take back to his tribe! What\nwould he know of railway companies, of social movements, of telephone\nand telegraph wires, of the Parcels Delivery Company, and postal orders\nand the like? Yet we, at least, should be willing enough to explain\nthese things to him! And even of what he knew, how much could he make\nhis untravelled friend either apprehend or believe? Then, think how\nnarrow the gap between a negro and a white man of our own times, and\nhow wide the interval between myself and these of the Golden Age! I was\nsensible of much which was unseen, and which contributed to my comfort;\nbut save for a general impression of automatic organisation, I fear I\ncan convey very little of the difference to your mind.\n\n In the matter of sepulture, for instance, I could see no signs of\ncrematoria nor anything suggestive of tombs. But it occurred to me\nthat, possibly, there might be cemeteries (or crematoria) somewhere\nbeyond the range of my explorings. This, again, was a question I\ndeliberately put to myself, and my curiosity was at first entirely\ndefeated upon the point. The thing puzzled me, and I was led to make a\nfurther remark, which puzzled me still more: that aged and infirm among\nthis people there were none.\n\n I must confess that my satisfaction with my first theories of an\nautomatic civilisation and a decadent humanity did not long endure. Yet\nI could think of no other. Let me put my difficulties. The several big\npalaces I had explored were mere living places, great dining-halls and\nsleeping apartments. I could find no machinery, no appliances of any\nkind. Yet these people were clothed in pleasant fabrics that must at\ntimes need renewal, and their sandals, though undecorated, were fairly\ncomplex specimens of metalwork. Somehow such things must be made. And\nthe little people displayed no vestige of a creative tendency. There\nwere no shops, no workshops, no sign of importations among them. They\nspent all their time in playing gently, in bathing in the river, in\nmaking love in a half-playful fashion, in eating fruit and sleeping. I\ncould not see how things were kept going.\n\n Then, again, about the Time Machine: something, I knew not what, had\ntaken it into the hollow pedestal of the White Sphinx. _Why?_ For the\nlife of me I could not imagine. Those waterless wells, too, those\nflickering pillars. I felt I lacked a clue. I felt how shall I put it?\nSuppose you found an inscription, with sentences here and there in\nexcellent plain English, and interpolated therewith, others made up of\nwords, of letters even, absolutely unknown to you? Well, on the third\nday of my visit, that was how the world of Eight Hundred and Two\nThousand Seven Hundred and One presented itself to me!\n\n That day, too, I made a friend of a sort. It happened that, as I was\nwatching some of the little people bathing in a shallow, one of them\nwas seized with cramp and began drifting downstream. The main current\nran rather swiftly, but not too strongly for even a moderate swimmer.\nIt will give you an idea, therefore, of the strange deficiency in these\ncreatures, when I tell you that none made the slightest attempt to\nrescue the weakly crying little thing which was drowning before their\neyes. When I realised this, I hurriedly slipped off my clothes, and,\nwading in at a point lower down, I caught the poor mite and drew her\nsafe to land. A little rubbing of the limbs soon brought her round, and\nI had the satisfaction of seeing she was all right before I left her. I\nhad got to such a low estimate of her kind that I did not expect any\ngratitude from her. In that, however, I was wrong.\n\n This happened in the morning. In the afternoon I met my little woman,\nas I believe it was, as I was returning towards my centre from an\nexploration, and she received me with cries of delight and presented me\nwith a big garland of flowers evidently made for me and me alone. The\nthing took my imagination. Very possibly I had been feeling desolate.\nAt any rate I did my best to display my appreciation of the gift. We\nwere soon seated together in a little stone arbour, engaged in\nconversation, chiefly of smiles. The creature s friendliness affected\nme exactly as a child s might have done. We passed each other flowers,\nand she kissed my hands. I did the same to hers. Then I tried talk, and\nfound that her name was Weena, which, though I don t know what it\nmeant, somehow seemed appropriate enough. That was the beginning of a\nqueer friendship which lasted a week, and ended as I will tell you!\n\n She was exactly like a child. She wanted to be with me always. She\ntried to follow me everywhere, and on my next journey out and about it\nwent to my heart to tire her down, and leave her at last, exhausted and\ncalling after me rather plaintively. But the problems of the world had\nto be mastered. I had not, I said to myself, come into the future to\ncarry on a miniature flirtation. Yet her distress when I left her was\nvery great, her expostulations at the parting were sometimes frantic,\nand I think, altogether, I had as much trouble as comfort from her\ndevotion. Nevertheless she was, somehow, a very great comfort. I\nthought it was mere childish affection that made her cling to me. Until\nit was too late, I did not clearly know what I had inflicted upon her\nwhen I left her. Nor until it was too late did I clearly understand\nwhat she was to me. For, by merely seeming fond of me, and showing in\nher weak, futile way that she cared for me, the little doll of a\ncreature presently gave my return to the neighbourhood of the White\nSphinx almost the feeling of coming home; and I would watch for her\ntiny figure of white and gold so soon as I came over the hill.\n\n It was from her, too, that I learnt that fear had not yet left the\nworld. She was fearless enough in the daylight, and she had the oddest\nconfidence in me; for once, in a foolish moment, I made threatening\ngrimaces at her, and she simply laughed at them. But she dreaded the\ndark, dreaded shadows, dreaded black things. Darkness to her was the\none thing dreadful. It was a singularly passionate emotion, and it set\nme thinking and observing. I discovered then, among other things, that\nthese little people gathered into the great houses after dark, and\nslept in droves. To enter upon them without a light was to put them\ninto a tumult of apprehension. I never found one out of doors, or one\nsleeping alone within doors, after dark. Yet I was still such a\nblockhead that I missed the lesson of that fear, and in spite of\nWeena s distress, I insisted upon sleeping away from these slumbering\nmultitudes.\n\n It troubled her greatly, but in the end her odd affection for me\ntriumphed, and for five of the nights of our acquaintance, including\nthe last night of all, she slept with her head pillowed on my arm. But\nmy story slips away from me as I speak of her. It must have been the\nnight before her rescue that I was awakened about dawn. I had been\nrestless, dreaming most disagreeably that I was drowned, and that sea\nanemones were feeling over my face with their soft palps. I woke with a\nstart, and with an odd fancy that some greyish animal had just rushed\nout of the chamber. I tried to get to sleep again, but I felt restless\nand uncomfortable. It was that dim grey hour when things are just\ncreeping out of darkness, when everything is colourless and clear cut,\nand yet unreal. I got up, and went down into the great hall, and so out\nupon the flagstones in front of the palace. I thought I would make a\nvirtue of necessity, and see the sunrise.\n\n The moon was setting, and the dying moonlight and the first pallor of\ndawn were mingled in a ghastly half-light. The bushes were inky black,\nthe ground a sombre grey, the sky colourless and cheerless. And up the\nhill I thought I could see ghosts. Three several times, as I scanned\nthe slope, I saw white figures. Twice I fancied I saw a solitary white,\nape-like creature running rather quickly up the hill, and once near the\nruins I saw a leash of them carrying some dark body. They moved\nhastily. I did not see what became of them. It seemed that they\nvanished among the bushes. The dawn was still indistinct, you must\nunderstand. I was feeling that chill, uncertain, early-morning feeling\nyou may have known. I doubted my eyes.\n\n As the eastern sky grew brighter, and the light of the day came on and\nits vivid colouring returned upon the world once more, I scanned the\nview keenly. But I saw no vestige of my white figures. They were mere\ncreatures of the half-light.  They must have been ghosts,  I said;  I\nwonder whence they dated.  For a queer notion of Grant Allen s came\ninto my head, and amused me. If each generation die and leave ghosts,\nhe argued, the world at last will get overcrowded with them. On that\ntheory they would have grown innumerable some Eight Hundred Thousand\nYears hence, and it was no great wonder to see four at once. But the\njest was unsatisfying, and I was thinking of these figures all the\nmorning, until Weena s rescue drove them out of my head. I associated\nthem in some indefinite way with the white animal I had startled in my\nfirst passionate search for the Time Machine. But Weena was a pleasant\nsubstitute. Yet all the same, they were soon destined to take far\ndeadlier possession of my mind.\n\n I think I have said how much hotter than our own was the weather of\nthis Golden Age. I cannot account for it. It may be that the sun was\nhotter, or the earth nearer the sun. It is usual to assume that the sun\nwill go on cooling steadily in the future. But people, unfamiliar with\nsuch speculations as those of the younger Darwin, forget that the\nplanets must ultimately fall back one by one into the parent body. As\nthese catastrophes occur, the sun will blaze with renewed energy; and\nit may be that some inner planet had suffered this fate. Whatever the\nreason, the fact remains that the sun was very much hotter than we know\nit.\n\n Well, one very hot morning my fourth, I think as I was seeking shelter\nfrom the heat and glare in a colossal ruin near the great house where I\nslept and fed, there happened this strange thing. Clambering among\nthese heaps of masonry, I found a narrow gallery, whose end and side\nwindows were blocked by fallen masses of stone. By contrast with the\nbrilliancy outside, it seemed at first impenetrably dark to me. I\nentered it groping, for the change from light to blackness made spots\nof colour swim before me. Suddenly I halted spellbound. A pair of eyes,\nluminous by reflection against the daylight without, was watching me\nout of the darkness.\n\n The old instinctive dread of wild beasts came upon me. I clenched my\nhands and steadfastly looked into the glaring eyeballs. I was afraid to\nturn. Then the thought of the absolute security in which humanity\nappeared to be living came to my mind. And then I remembered that\nstrange terror of the dark. Overcoming my fear to some extent, I\nadvanced a step and spoke. I will admit that my voice was harsh and\nill-controlled. I put out my hand and touched something soft. At once\nthe eyes darted sideways, and something white ran past me. I turned\nwith my heart in my mouth, and saw a queer little ape-like figure, its\nhead held down in a peculiar manner, running across the sunlit space\nbehind me. It blundered against a block of granite, staggered aside,\nand in a moment was hidden in a black shadow beneath another pile of\nruined masonry.\n\n My impression of it is, of course, imperfect; but I know it was a dull\nwhite, and had strange large greyish-red eyes; also that there was\nflaxen hair on its head and down its back. But, as I say, it went too\nfast for me to see distinctly. I cannot even say whether it ran on all\nfours, or only with its forearms held very low. After an instant s\npause I followed it into the second heap of ruins. I could not find it\nat first; but, after a time in the profound obscurity, I came upon one\nof those round well-like openings of which I have told you, half closed\nby a fallen pillar. A sudden thought came to me. Could this Thing have\nvanished down the shaft? I lit a match, and, looking down, I saw a\nsmall, white, moving creature, with large bright eyes which regarded me\nsteadfastly as it retreated. It made me shudder. It was so like a human\nspider! It was clambering down the wall, and now I saw for the first\ntime a number of metal foot and hand rests forming a kind of ladder\ndown the shaft. Then the light burned my fingers and fell out of my\nhand, going out as it dropped, and when I had lit another the little\nmonster had disappeared.\n\n I do not know how long I sat peering down that well. It was not for\nsome time that I could succeed in persuading myself that the thing I\nhad seen was human. But, gradually, the truth dawned on me: that Man\nhad not remained one species, but had differentiated into two distinct\nanimals: that my graceful children of the Upper World were not the sole\ndescendants of our generation, but that this bleached, obscene,\nnocturnal Thing, which had flashed before me, was also heir to all the\nages.\n\n I thought of the flickering pillars and of my theory of an underground\nventilation. I began to suspect their true import. And what, I\nwondered, was this Lemur doing in my scheme of a perfectly balanced\norganisation? How was it related to the indolent serenity of the\nbeautiful Overworlders? And what was hidden down there, at the foot of\nthat shaft? I sat upon the edge of the well telling myself that, at any\nrate, there was nothing to fear, and that there I must descend for the\nsolution of my difficulties. And withal I was absolutely afraid to go!\nAs I hesitated, two of the beautiful upperworld people came running in\ntheir amorous sport across the daylight in the shadow. The male pursued\nthe female, flinging flowers at her as he ran.\n\n They seemed distressed to find me, my arm against the overturned\npillar, peering down the well. Apparently it was considered bad form to\nremark these apertures; for when I pointed to this one, and tried to\nframe a question about it in their tongue, they were still more visibly\ndistressed and turned away. But they were interested by my matches, and\nI struck some to amuse them. I tried them again about the well, and\nagain I failed. So presently I left them, meaning to go back to Weena,\nand see what I could get from her. But my mind was already in\nrevolution; my guesses and impressions were slipping and sliding to a\nnew adjustment. I had now a clue to the import of these wells, to the\nventilating towers, to the mystery of the ghosts; to say nothing of a\nhint at the meaning of the bronze gates and the fate of the Time\nMachine! And very vaguely there came a suggestion towards the solution\nof the economic problem that had puzzled me.\n\n Here was the new view. Plainly, this second species of Man was\nsubterranean. There were three circumstances in particular which made\nme think that its rare emergence above ground was the outcome of a\nlong-continued underground habit. In the first place, there was the\nbleached look common in most animals that live largely in the dark the\nwhite fish of the Kentucky caves, for instance. Then, those large eyes,\nwith that capacity for reflecting light, are common features of\nnocturnal things witness the owl and the cat. And last of all, that\nevident confusion in the sunshine, that hasty yet fumbling awkward\nflight towards dark shadow, and that peculiar carriage of the head\nwhile in the light all reinforced the theory of an extreme\nsensitiveness of the retina.\n\n Beneath my feet, then, the earth must be tunnelled enormously, and\nthese tunnellings were the habitat of the New Race. The presence of\nventilating shafts and wells along the hill slopes everywhere, in fact,\nexcept along the river valley showed how universal were its\nramifications. What so natural, then, as to assume that it was in this\nartificial Underworld that such work as was necessary to the comfort of\nthe daylight race was done? The notion was so plausible that I at once\naccepted it, and went on to assume the _how_ of this splitting of the\nhuman species. I dare say you will anticipate the shape of my theory;\nthough, for myself, I very soon felt that it fell far short of the\ntruth.\n\n At first, proceeding from the problems of our own age, it seemed clear\nas daylight to me that the gradual widening of the present merely\ntemporary and social difference between the Capitalist and the Labourer\nwas the key to the whole position. No doubt it will seem grotesque\nenough to you and wildly incredible! and yet even now there are\nexisting circumstances to point that way. There is a tendency to\nutilise underground space for the less ornamental purposes of\ncivilisation; there is the Metropolitan Railway in London, for\ninstance, there are new electric railways, there are subways, there are\nunderground workrooms and restaurants, and they increase and multiply.\nEvidently, I thought, this tendency had increased till Industry had\ngradually lost its birthright in the sky. I mean that it had gone\ndeeper and deeper into larger and ever larger underground factories,\nspending a still-increasing amount of its time therein, till, in the\nend ! Even now, does not an East-end worker live in such artificial\nconditions as practically to be cut off from the natural surface of the\nearth?\n\n Again, the exclusive tendency of richer people due, no doubt, to the\nincreasing refinement of their education, and the widening gulf between\nthem and the rude violence of the poor is already leading to the\nclosing, in their interest, of considerable portions of the surface of\nthe land. About London, for instance, perhaps half the prettier country\nis shut in against intrusion. And this same widening gulf which is due\nto the length and expense of the higher educational process and the\nincreased facilities for and temptations towards refined habits on the\npart of the rich will make that exchange between class and class, that\npromotion by intermarriage which at present retards the splitting of\nour species along lines of social stratification, less and less\nfrequent. So, in the end, above ground you must have the Haves,\npursuing pleasure and comfort and beauty, and below ground the\nHave-nots, the Workers getting continually adapted to the conditions of\ntheir labour. Once they were there, they would no doubt have to pay\nrent, and not a little of it, for the ventilation of their caverns; and\nif they refused, they would starve or be suffocated for arrears. Such\nof them as were so constituted as to be miserable and rebellious would\ndie; and, in the end, the balance being permanent, the survivors would\nbecome as well adapted to the conditions of underground life, and as\nhappy in their way, as the Overworld people were to theirs. As it\nseemed to me, the refined beauty and the etiolated pallor followed\nnaturally enough.\n\n The great triumph of Humanity I had dreamed of took a different shape\nin my mind. It had been no such triumph of moral education and general\nco-operation as I had imagined. Instead, I saw a real aristocracy,\narmed with a perfected science and working to a logical conclusion the\nindustrial system of today. Its triumph had not been simply a triumph\nover Nature, but a triumph over Nature and the fellow-man. This, I must\nwarn you, was my theory at the time. I had no convenient cicerone in\nthe pattern of the Utopian books. My explanation may be absolutely\nwrong. I still think it is the most plausible one. But even on this\nsupposition the balanced civilisation that was at last attained must\nhave long since passed its zenith, and was now far fallen into decay.\nThe too-perfect security of the Overworlders had led them to a slow\nmovement of degeneration, to a general dwindling in size, strength, and\nintelligence. That I could see clearly enough already. What had\nhappened to the Undergrounders I did not yet suspect; but, from what I\nhad seen of the Morlocks that, by the bye, was the name by which these\ncreatures were called I could imagine that the modification of the\nhuman type was even far more profound than among the  Eloi,  the\nbeautiful race that I already knew.\n\n Then came troublesome doubts. Why had the Morlocks taken my Time\nMachine? For I felt sure it was they who had taken it. Why, too, if the\nEloi were masters, could they not restore the machine to me? And why\nwere they so terribly afraid of the dark? I proceeded, as I have said,\nto question Weena about this Underworld, but here again I was\ndisappointed. At first she would not understand my questions, and\npresently she refused to answer them. She shivered as though the topic\nwas unendurable. And when I pressed her, perhaps a little harshly, she\nburst into tears. They were the only tears, except my own, I ever saw\nin that Golden Age. When I saw them I ceased abruptly to trouble about\nthe Morlocks, and was only concerned in banishing these signs of her\nhuman inheritance from Weena s eyes. And very soon she was smiling and\nclapping her hands, while I solemnly burnt a match.\n\n\n\n\n IX.\n The Morlocks\n\n\n It may seem odd to you, but it was two days before I could follow up\nthe new-found clue in what was manifestly the proper way. I felt a\npeculiar shrinking from those pallid bodies. They were just the\nhalf-bleached colour of the worms and things one sees preserved in\nspirit in a zoological museum. And they were filthily cold to the\ntouch. Probably my shrinking was largely due to the sympathetic\ninfluence of the Eloi, whose disgust of the Morlocks I now began to\nappreciate.\n\n The next night I did not sleep well. Probably my health was a little\ndisordered. I was oppressed with perplexity and doubt. Once or twice I\nhad a feeling of intense fear for which I could perceive no definite\nreason. I remember creeping noiselessly into the great hall where the\nlittle people were sleeping in the moonlight that night Weena was among\nthem and feeling reassured by their presence. It occurred to me even\nthen, that in the course of a few days the moon must pass through its\nlast quarter, and the nights grow dark, when the appearances of these\nunpleasant creatures from below, these whitened Lemurs, this new vermin\nthat had replaced the old, might be more abundant. And on both these\ndays I had the restless feeling of one who shirks an inevitable duty. I\nfelt assured that the Time Machine was only to be recovered by boldly\npenetrating these mysteries of underground. Yet I could not face the\nmystery. If only I had had a companion it would have been different.\nBut I was so horribly alone, and even to clamber down into the darkness\nof the well appalled me. I don t know if you will understand my\nfeeling, but I never felt quite safe at my back.\n\n It was this restlessness, this insecurity, perhaps, that drove me\nfarther and farther afield in my exploring expeditions. Going to the\nsouth-westward towards the rising country that is now called Combe\nWood, I observed far-off, in the direction of nineteenth-century\nBanstead, a vast green structure, different in character from any I had\nhitherto seen. It was larger than the largest of the palaces or ruins I\nknew, and the fa ade had an Oriental look: the face of it having the\nlustre, as well as the pale-green tint, a kind of bluish-green, of a\ncertain type of Chinese porcelain. This difference in aspect suggested\na difference in use, and I was minded to push on and explore. But the\nday was growing late, and I had come upon the sight of the place after\na long and tiring circuit; so I resolved to hold over the adventure for\nthe following day, and I returned to the welcome and the caresses of\nlittle Weena. But next morning I perceived clearly enough that my\ncuriosity regarding the Palace of Green Porcelain was a piece of\nself-deception, to enable me to shirk, by another day, an experience I\ndreaded. I resolved I would make the descent without further waste of\ntime, and started out in the early morning towards a well near the\nruins of granite and aluminium.\n\n Little Weena ran with me. She danced beside me to the well, but when\nshe saw me lean over the mouth and look downward, she seemed strangely\ndisconcerted.  Good-bye, little Weena,  I said, kissing her; and then\nputting her down, I began to feel over the parapet for the climbing\nhooks. Rather hastily, I may as well confess, for I feared my courage\nmight leak away! At first she watched me in amazement. Then she gave a\nmost piteous cry, and running to me, she began to pull at me with her\nlittle hands. I think her opposition nerved me rather to proceed. I\nshook her off, perhaps a little roughly, and in another moment I was in\nthe throat of the well. I saw her agonised face over the parapet, and\nsmiled to reassure her. Then I had to look down at the unstable hooks\nto which I clung.\n\n I had to clamber down a shaft of perhaps two hundred yards. The\ndescent was effected by means of metallic bars projecting from the\nsides of the well, and these being adapted to the needs of a creature\nmuch smaller and lighter than myself, I was speedily cramped and\nfatigued by the descent. And not simply fatigued! One of the bars bent\nsuddenly under my weight, and almost swung me off into the blackness\nbeneath. For a moment I hung by one hand, and after that experience I\ndid not dare to rest again. Though my arms and back were presently\nacutely painful, I went on clambering down the sheer descent with as\nquick a motion as possible. Glancing upward, I saw the aperture, a\nsmall blue disc, in which a star was visible, while little Weena s head\nshowed as a round black projection. The thudding sound of a machine\nbelow grew louder and more oppressive. Everything save that little disc\nabove was profoundly dark, and when I looked up again Weena had\ndisappeared.\n\n I was in an agony of discomfort. I had some thought of trying to go up\nthe shaft again, and leave the Underworld alone. But even while I\nturned this over in my mind I continued to descend. At last, with\nintense relief, I saw dimly coming up, a foot to the right of me, a\nslender loophole in the wall. Swinging myself in, I found it was the\naperture of a narrow horizontal tunnel in which I could lie down and\nrest. It was not too soon. My arms ached, my back was cramped, and I\nwas trembling with the prolonged terror of a fall. Besides this, the\nunbroken darkness had had a distressing effect upon my eyes. The air\nwas full of the throb and hum of machinery pumping air down the shaft.\n\n I do not know how long I lay. I was arroused by a soft hand touching\nmy face. Starting up in the darkness I snatched at my matches and,\nhastily striking one, I saw three stooping white creatures similar to\nthe one I had seen above ground in the ruin, hastily retreating before\nthe light. Living, as they did, in what appeared to me impenetrable\ndarkness, their eyes were abnormally large and sensitive, just as are\nthe pupils of the abysmal fishes, and they reflected the light in the\nsame way. I have no doubt they could see me in that rayless obscurity,\nand they did not seem to have any fear of me apart from the light. But,\nso soon as I struck a match in order to see them, they fled\nincontinently, vanishing into dark gutters and tunnels, from which\ntheir eyes glared at me in the strangest fashion.\n\n I tried to call to them, but the language they had was apparently\ndifferent from that of the Overworld people; so that I was needs left\nto my own unaided efforts, and the thought of flight before exploration\nwas even then in my mind. But I said to myself,  You are in for it\nnow,  and, feeling my way along the tunnel, I found the noise of\nmachinery grow louder. Presently the walls fell away from me, and I\ncame to a large open space, and striking another match, saw that I had\nentered a vast arched cavern, which stretched into utter darkness\nbeyond the range of my light. The view I had of it was as much as one\ncould see in the burning of a match.\n\n Necessarily my memory is vague. Great shapes like big machines rose\nout of the dimness, and cast grotesque black shadows, in which dim\nspectral Morlocks sheltered from the glare. The place, by the bye, was\nvery stuffy and oppressive, and the faint halitus of freshly-shed blood\nwas in the air. Some way down the central vista was a little table of\nwhite metal, laid with what seemed a meal. The Morlocks at any rate\nwere carnivorous! Even at the time, I remember wondering what large\nanimal could have survived to furnish the red joint I saw. It was all\nvery indistinct: the heavy smell, the big unmeaning shapes, the obscene\nfigures lurking in the shadows, and only waiting for the darkness to\ncome at me again! Then the match burnt down, and stung my fingers, and\nfell, a wriggling red spot in the blackness.\n\n I have thought since how particularly ill-equipped I was for such an\nexperience. When I had started with the Time Machine, I had started\nwith the absurd assumption that the men of the Future would certainly\nbe infinitely ahead of ourselves in all their appliances. I had come\nwithout arms, without medicine, without anything to smoke at times I\nmissed tobacco frightfully! even without enough matches. If only I had\nthought of a Kodak! I could have flashed that glimpse of the Underworld\nin a second, and examined it at leisure. But, as it was, I stood there\nwith only the weapons and the powers that Nature had endowed me\nwith hands, feet, and teeth; these, and four safety-matches that still\nremained to me.\n\n I was afraid to push my way in among all this machinery in the dark,\nand it was only with my last glimpse of light I discovered that my\nstore of matches had run low. It had never occurred to me until that\nmoment that there was any need to economise them, and I had wasted\nalmost half the box in astonishing the Overworlders, to whom fire was a\nnovelty. Now, as I say, I had four left, and while I stood in the dark,\na hand touched mine, lank fingers came feeling over my face, and I was\nsensible of a peculiar unpleasant odour. I fancied I heard the\nbreathing of a crowd of those dreadful little beings about me. I felt\nthe box of matches in my hand being gently disengaged, and other hands\nbehind me plucking at my clothing. The sense of these unseen creatures\nexamining me was indescribably unpleasant. The sudden realisation of my\nignorance of their ways of thinking and doing came home to me very\nvividly in the darkness. I shouted at them as loudly as I could. They\nstarted away, and then I could feel them approaching me again. They\nclutched at me more boldly, whispering odd sounds to each other. I\nshivered violently, and shouted again rather discordantly. This time\nthey were not so seriously alarmed, and they made a queer laughing\nnoise as they came back at me. I will confess I was horribly\nfrightened. I determined to strike another match and escape under the\nprotection of its glare. I did so, and eking out the flicker with a\nscrap of paper from my pocket, I made good my retreat to the narrow\ntunnel. But I had scarce entered this when my light was blown out and\nin the blackness I could hear the Morlocks rustling like wind among\nleaves, and pattering like the rain, as they hurried after me.\n\n In a moment I was clutched by several hands, and there was no\nmistaking that they were trying to haul me back. I struck another\nlight, and waved it in their dazzled faces. You can scarce imagine how\nnauseatingly inhuman they looked those pale, chinless faces and great,\nlidless, pinkish-grey eyes! as they stared in their blindness and\nbewilderment. But I did not stay to look, I promise you: I retreated\nagain, and when my second match had ended, I struck my third. It had\nalmost burnt through when I reached the opening into the shaft. I lay\ndown on the edge, for the throb of the great pump below made me giddy.\nThen I felt sideways for the projecting hooks, and, as I did so, my\nfeet were grasped from behind, and I was violently tugged backward. I\nlit my last match   and it incontinently went out. But I had my hand on\nthe climbing bars now, and, kicking violently, I disengaged myself from\nthe clutches of the Morlocks, and was speedily clambering up the shaft,\nwhile they stayed peering and blinking up at me: all but one little\nwretch who followed me for some way, and well-nigh secured my boot as a\ntrophy.\n\n That climb seemed interminable to me. With the last twenty or thirty\nfeet of it a deadly nausea came upon me. I had the greatest difficulty\nin keeping my hold. The last few yards was a frightful struggle against\nthis faintness. Several times my head swam, and I felt all the\nsensations of falling. At last, however, I got over the well-mouth\nsomehow, and staggered out of the ruin into the blinding sunlight. I\nfell upon my face. Even the soil smelt sweet and clean. Then I remember\nWeena kissing my hands and ears, and the voices of others among the\nEloi. Then, for a time, I was insensible.\n\n\n\n\n X.\n When Night Came\n\n\n Now, indeed, I seemed in a worse case than before. Hitherto, except\nduring my night s anguish at the loss of the Time Machine, I had felt a\nsustaining hope of ultimate escape, but that hope was staggered by\nthese new discoveries. Hitherto I had merely thought myself impeded by\nthe childish simplicity of the little people, and by some unknown\nforces which I had only to understand to overcome; but there was an\naltogether new element in the sickening quality of the Morlocks a\nsomething inhuman and malign. Instinctively I loathed them. Before, I\nhad felt as a man might feel who had fallen into a pit: my concern was\nwith the pit and how to get out of it. Now I felt like a beast in a\ntrap, whose enemy would come upon him soon.\n\n The enemy I dreaded may surprise you. It was the darkness of the new\nmoon. Weena had put this into my head by some at first incomprehensible\nremarks about the Dark Nights. It was not now such a very difficult\nproblem to guess what the coming Dark Nights might mean. The moon was\non the wane: each night there was a longer interval of darkness. And I\nnow understood to some slight degree at least the reason of the fear of\nthe little Upperworld people for the dark. I wondered vaguely what foul\nvillainy it might be that the Morlocks did under the new moon. I felt\npretty sure now that my second hypothesis was all wrong. The Upperworld\npeople might once have been the favoured aristocracy, and the Morlocks\ntheir mechanical servants: but that had long since passed away. The two\nspecies that had resulted from the evolution of man were sliding down\ntowards, or had already arrived at, an altogether new relationship. The\nEloi, like the Carlovignan kings, had decayed to a mere beautiful\nfutility. They still possessed the earth on sufferance: since the\nMorlocks, subterranean for innumerable generations, had come at last to\nfind the daylit surface intolerable. And the Morlocks made their\ngarments, I inferred, and maintained them in their habitual needs,\nperhaps through the survival of an old habit of service. They did it as\na standing horse paws with his foot, or as a man enjoys killing animals\nin sport: because ancient and departed necessities had impressed it on\nthe organism. But, clearly, the old order was already in part reversed.\nThe Nemesis of the delicate ones was creeping on apace. Ages ago,\nthousands of generations ago, man had thrust his brother man out of the\nease and the sunshine. And now that brother was coming back changed!\nAlready the Eloi had begun to learn one old lesson anew. They were\nbecoming reacquainted with Fear. And suddenly there came into my head\nthe memory of the meat I had seen in the Underworld. It seemed odd how\nit floated into my mind: not stirred up as it were by the current of my\nmeditations, but coming in almost like a question from outside. I tried\nto recall the form of it. I had a vague sense of something familiar,\nbut I could not tell what it was at the time.\n\n Still, however helpless the little people in the presence of their\nmysterious Fear, I was differently constituted. I came out of this age\nof ours, this ripe prime of the human race, when Fear does not paralyse\nand mystery has lost its terrors. I at least would defend myself.\nWithout further delay I determined to make myself arms and a fastness\nwhere I might sleep. With that refuge as a base, I could face this\nstrange world with some of that confidence I had lost in realising to\nwhat creatures night by night I lay exposed. I felt I could never sleep\nagain until my bed was secure from them. I shuddered with horror to\nthink how they must already have examined me.\n\n I wandered during the afternoon along the valley of the Thames, but\nfound nothing that commended itself to my mind as inaccessible. All the\nbuildings and trees seemed easily practicable to such dexterous\nclimbers as the Morlocks, to judge by their wells, must be. Then the\ntall pinnacles of the Palace of Green Porcelain and the polished gleam\nof its walls came back to my memory; and in the evening, taking Weena\nlike a child upon my shoulder, I went up the hills towards the\nsouth-west. The distance, I had reckoned, was seven or eight miles, but\nit must have been nearer eighteen. I had first seen the place on a\nmoist afternoon when distances are deceptively diminished. In addition,\nthe heel of one of my shoes was loose, and a nail was working through\nthe sole they were comfortable old shoes I wore about indoors so that I\nwas lame. And it was already long past sunset when I came in sight of\nthe palace, silhouetted black against the pale yellow of the sky.\n\n Weena had been hugely delighted when I began to carry her, but after a\nwhile she desired me to let her down, and ran along by the side of me,\noccasionally darting off on either hand to pick flowers to stick in my\npockets. My pockets had always puzzled Weena, but at the last she had\nconcluded that they were an eccentric kind of vases for floral\ndecoration. At least she utilised them for that purpose. And that\nreminds me! In changing my jacket I found \n\n_The Time Traveller paused, put his hand into his pocket, and silently\nplaced two withered flowers, not unlike very large white mallows, upon\nthe little table. Then he resumed his narrative._\n\n As the hush of evening crept over the world and we proceeded over the\nhill crest towards Wimbledon, Weena grew tired and wanted to return to\nthe house of grey stone. But I pointed out the distant pinnacles of the\nPalace of Green Porcelain to her, and contrived to make her understand\nthat we were seeking a refuge there from her Fear. You know that great\npause that comes upon things before the dusk? Even the breeze stops in\nthe trees. To me there is always an air of expectation about that\nevening stillness. The sky was clear, remote, and empty save for a few\nhorizontal bars far down in the sunset. Well, that night the\nexpectation took the colour of my fears. In that darkling calm my\nsenses seemed preternaturally sharpened. I fancied I could even feel\nthe hollowness of the ground beneath my feet: could, indeed, almost see\nthrough it the Morlocks on their ant-hill going hither and thither and\nwaiting for the dark. In my excitement I fancied that they would\nreceive my invasion of their burrows as a declaration of war. And why\nhad they taken my Time Machine?\n\n So we went on in the quiet, and the twilight deepened into night. The\nclear blue of the distance faded, and one star after another came out.\nThe ground grew dim and the trees black. Weena s fears and her fatigue\ngrew upon her. I took her in my arms and talked to her and caressed\nher. Then, as the darkness grew deeper, she put her arms round my neck,\nand, closing her eyes, tightly pressed her face against my shoulder. So\nwe went down a long slope into a valley, and there in the dimness I\nalmost walked into a little river. This I waded, and went up the\nopposite side of the valley, past a number of sleeping houses, and by a\nstatue a Faun, or some such figure, _minus_ the head. Here too were\nacacias. So far I had seen nothing of the Morlocks, but it was yet\nearly in the night, and the darker hours before the old moon rose were\nstill to come.\n\n From the brow of the next hill I saw a thick wood spreading wide and\nblack before me. I hesitated at this. I could see no end to it, either\nto the right or the left. Feeling tired my feet, in particular, were\nvery sore I carefully lowered Weena from my shoulder as I halted, and\nsat down upon the turf. I could no longer see the Palace of Green\nPorcelain, and I was in doubt of my direction. I looked into the\nthickness of the wood and thought of what it might hide. Under that\ndense tangle of branches one would be out of sight of the stars. Even\nwere there no other lurking danger a danger I did not care to let my\nimagination loose upon there would still be all the roots to stumble\nover and the tree-boles to strike against. I was very tired, too, after\nthe excitements of the day; so I decided that I would not face it, but\nwould pass the night upon the open hill.\n\n Weena, I was glad to find, was fast asleep. I carefully wrapped her in\nmy jacket, and sat down beside her to wait for the moonrise. The\nhillside was quiet and deserted, but from the black of the wood there\ncame now and then a stir of living things. Above me shone the stars,\nfor the night was very clear. I felt a certain sense of friendly\ncomfort in their twinkling. All the old constellations had gone from\nthe sky, however: that slow movement which is imperceptible in a\nhundred human lifetimes, had long since rearranged them in unfamiliar\ngroupings. But the Milky Way, it seemed to me, was still the same\ntattered streamer of star-dust as of yore. Southward (as I judged it)\nwas a very bright red star that was new to me; it was even more\nsplendid than our own green Sirius. And amid all these scintillating\npoints of light one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the\nface of an old friend.\n\n Looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the\ngravities of terrestrial life. I thought of their unfathomable\ndistance, and the slow inevitable drift of their movements out of the\nunknown past into the unknown future. I thought of the great\nprecessional cycle that the pole of the earth describes. Only forty\ntimes had that silent revolution occurred during all the years that I\nhad traversed. And during these few revolutions all the activity, all\nthe traditions, the complex organisations, the nations, languages,\nliteratures, aspirations, even the mere memory of Man as I knew him,\nhad been swept out of existence. Instead were these frail creatures who\nhad forgotten their high ancestry, and the white Things of which I went\nin terror. Then I thought of the Great Fear that was between the two\nspecies, and for the first time, with a sudden shiver, came the clear\nknowledge of what the meat I had seen might be. Yet it was too\nhorrible! I looked at little Weena sleeping beside me, her face white\nand starlike under the stars, and forthwith dismissed the thought.\n\n Through that long night I held my mind off the Morlocks as well as I\ncould, and whiled away the time by trying to fancy I could find signs\nof the old constellations in the new confusion. The sky kept very\nclear, except for a hazy cloud or so. No doubt I dozed at times. Then,\nas my vigil wore on, came a faintness in the eastward sky, like the\nreflection of some colourless fire, and the old moon rose, thin and\npeaked and white. And close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing\nit, the dawn came, pale at first, and then growing pink and warm. No\nMorlocks had approached us. Indeed, I had seen none upon the hill that\nnight. And in the confidence of renewed day it almost seemed to me that\nmy fear had been unreasonable. I stood up and found my foot with the\nloose heel swollen at the ankle and painful under the heel; so I sat\ndown again, took off my shoes, and flung them away.\n\n I awakened Weena, and we went down into the wood, now green and\npleasant instead of black and forbidding. We found some fruit wherewith\nto break our fast. We soon met others of the dainty ones, laughing and\ndancing in the sunlight as though there was no such thing in nature as\nthe night. And then I thought once more of the meat that I had seen. I\nfelt assured now of what it was, and from the bottom of my heart I\npitied this last feeble rill from the great flood of humanity. Clearly,\nat some time in the Long-Ago of human decay the Morlocks  food had run\nshort. Possibly they had lived on rats and such-like vermin. Even now\nman is far less discriminating and exclusive in his food than he\nwas far less than any monkey. His prejudice against human flesh is no\ndeep-seated instinct. And so these inhuman sons of men ! I tried to\nlook at the thing in a scientific spirit. After all, they were less\nhuman and more remote than our cannibal ancestors of three or four\nthousand years ago. And the intelligence that would have made this\nstate of things a torment had gone. Why should I trouble myself? These\nEloi were mere fatted cattle, which the ant-like Morlocks preserved and\npreyed upon probably saw to the breeding of. And there was Weena\ndancing at my side!\n\n Then I tried to preserve myself from the horror that was coming upon\nme, by regarding it as a rigorous punishment of human selfishness. Man\nhad been content to live in ease and delight upon the labours of his\nfellow-man, had taken Necessity as his watchword and excuse, and in the\nfullness of time Necessity had come home to him. I even tried a\nCarlyle-like scorn of this wretched aristocracy in decay. But this\nattitude of mind was impossible. However great their intellectual\ndegradation, the Eloi had kept too much of the human form not to claim\nmy sympathy, and to make me perforce a sharer in their degradation and\ntheir Fear.\n\n I had at that time very vague ideas as to the course I should pursue.\nMy first was to secure some safe place of refuge, and to make myself\nsuch arms of metal or stone as I could contrive. That necessity was\nimmediate. In the next place, I hoped to procure some means of fire, so\nthat I should have the weapon of a torch at hand, for nothing, I knew,\nwould be more efficient against these Morlocks. Then I wanted to\narrange some contrivance to break open the doors of bronze under the\nWhite Sphinx. I had in mind a battering ram. I had a persuasion that if\nI could enter those doors and carry a blaze of light before me I should\ndiscover the Time Machine and escape. I could not imagine the Morlocks\nwere strong enough to move it far away. Weena I had resolved to bring\nwith me to our own time. And turning such schemes over in my mind I\npursued our way towards the building which my fancy had chosen as our\ndwelling.\n\n\n\n\n XI.\n The Palace of Green Porcelain\n\n\n I found the Palace of Green Porcelain, when we approached it about\nnoon, deserted and falling into ruin. Only ragged vestiges of glass\nremained in its windows, and great sheets of the green facing had\nfallen away from the corroded metallic framework. It lay very high upon\na turfy down, and looking north-eastward before I entered it, I was\nsurprised to see a large estuary, or even creek, where I judged\nWandsworth and Battersea must once have been. I thought then though I\nnever followed up the thought of what might have happened, or might be\nhappening, to the living things in the sea.\n\n The material of the Palace proved on examination to be indeed\nporcelain, and along the face of it I saw an inscription in some\nunknown character. I thought, rather foolishly, that Weena might help\nme to interpret this, but I only learnt that the bare idea of writing\nhad never entered her head. She always seemed to me, I fancy, more\nhuman than she was, perhaps because her affection was so human.\n\n Within the big valves of the door which were open and broken we found,\ninstead of the customary hall, a long gallery lit by many side windows.\nAt the first glance I was reminded of a museum. The tiled floor was\nthick with dust, and a remarkable array of miscellaneous objects was\nshrouded in the same grey covering. Then I perceived, standing strange\nand gaunt in the centre of the hall, what was clearly the lower part of\na huge skeleton. I recognised by the oblique feet that it was some\nextinct creature after the fashion of the Megatherium. The skull and\nthe upper bones lay beside it in the thick dust, and in one place,\nwhere rain-water had dropped through a leak in the roof, the thing\nitself had been worn away. Further in the gallery was the huge skeleton\nbarrel of a Brontosaurus. My museum hypothesis was confirmed. Going\ntowards the side I found what appeared to be sloping shelves, and\nclearing away the thick dust, I found the old familiar glass cases of\nour own time. But they must have been air-tight to judge from the fair\npreservation of some of their contents.\n\n Clearly we stood among the ruins of some latter-day South Kensington!\nHere, apparently, was the Pal ontological Section, and a very splendid\narray of fossils it must have been, though the inevitable process of\ndecay that had been staved off for a time, and had, through the\nextinction of bacteria and fungi, lost ninety-nine hundredths of its\nforce, was nevertheless, with extreme sureness if with extreme slowness\nat work again upon all its treasures. Here and there I found traces of\nthe little people in the shape of rare fossils broken to pieces or\nthreaded in strings upon reeds. And the cases had in some instances\nbeen bodily removed by the Morlocks, as I judged. The place was very\nsilent. The thick dust deadened our footsteps. Weena, who had been\nrolling a sea urchin down the sloping glass of a case, presently came,\nas I stared about me, and very quietly took my hand and stood beside\nme.\n\n And at first I was so much surprised by this ancient monument of an\nintellectual age that I gave no thought to the possibilities it\npresented. Even my preoccupation about the Time Machine receded a\nlittle from my mind.\n\n To judge from the size of the place, this Palace of Green Porcelain\nhad a great deal more in it than a Gallery of Pal ontology; possibly\nhistorical galleries; it might be, even a library! To me, at least in\nmy present circumstances, these would be vastly more interesting than\nthis spectacle of old-time geology in decay. Exploring, I found another\nshort gallery running transversely to the first. This appeared to be\ndevoted to minerals, and the sight of a block of sulphur set my mind\nrunning on gunpowder. But I could find no saltpetre; indeed, no\nnitrates of any kind. Doubtless they had deliquesced ages ago. Yet the\nsulphur hung in my mind, and set up a train of thinking. As for the\nrest of the contents of that gallery, though on the whole they were the\nbest preserved of all I saw, I had little interest. I am no specialist\nin mineralogy, and I went on down a very ruinous aisle running parallel\nto the first hall I had entered. Apparently this section had been\ndevoted to natural history, but everything had long since passed out of\nrecognition. A few shrivelled and blackened vestiges of what had once\nbeen stuffed animals, desiccated mummies in jars that had once held\nspirit, a brown dust of departed plants: that was all! I was sorry for\nthat, because I should have been glad to trace the patient\nreadjustments by which the conquest of animated nature had been\nattained. Then we came to a gallery of simply colossal proportions, but\nsingularly ill-lit, the floor of it running downward at a slight angle\nfrom the end at which I entered. At intervals white globes hung from\nthe ceiling many of them cracked and smashed which suggested that\noriginally the place had been artificially lit. Here I was more in my\nelement, for rising on either side of me were the huge bulks of big\nmachines, all greatly corroded and many broken down, but some still\nfairly complete. You know I have a certain weakness for mechanism, and\nI was inclined to linger among these; the more so as for the most part\nthey had the interest of puzzles, and I could make only the vaguest\nguesses at what they were for. I fancied that if I could solve their\npuzzles I should find myself in possession of powers that might be of\nuse against the Morlocks.\n\n Suddenly Weena came very close to my side. So suddenly that she\nstartled me. Had it not been for her I do not think I should have\nnoticed that the floor of the gallery sloped at all. [Footnote: It may\nbe, of course, that the floor did not slope, but that the museum was\nbuilt into the side of a hill. ED.] The end I had come in at was quite\nabove ground, and was lit by rare slit-like windows. As you went down\nthe length, the ground came up against these windows, until at last\nthere was a pit like the  area  of a London house before each, and only\na narrow line of daylight at the top. I went slowly along, puzzling\nabout the machines, and had been too intent upon them to notice the\ngradual diminution of the light, until Weena s increasing apprehensions\ndrew my attention. Then I saw that the gallery ran down at last into a\nthick darkness. I hesitated, and then, as I looked round me, I saw that\nthe dust was less abundant and its surface less even. Further away\ntowards the dimness, it appeared to be broken by a number of small\nnarrow footprints. My sense of the immediate presence of the Morlocks\nrevived at that. I felt that I was wasting my time in the academic\nexamination of machinery. I called to mind that it was already far\nadvanced in the afternoon, and that I had still no weapon, no refuge,\nand no means of making a fire. And then down in the remote blackness of\nthe gallery I heard a peculiar pattering, and the same odd noises I had\nheard down the well.\n\n I took Weena s hand. Then, struck with a sudden idea, I left her and\nturned to a machine from which projected a lever not unlike those in a\nsignal-box. Clambering upon the stand, and grasping this lever in my\nhands, I put all my weight upon it sideways. Suddenly Weena, deserted\nin the central aisle, began to whimper. I had judged the strength of\nthe lever pretty correctly, for it snapped after a minute s strain, and\nI rejoined her with a mace in my hand more than sufficient, I judged,\nfor any Morlock skull I might encounter. And I longed very much to kill\na Morlock or so. Very inhuman, you may think, to want to go killing\none s own descendants! But it was impossible, somehow, to feel any\nhumanity in the things. Only my disinclination to leave Weena, and a\npersuasion that if I began to slake my thirst for murder my Time\nMachine might suffer, restrained me from going straight down the\ngallery and killing the brutes I heard.\n\n Well, mace in one hand and Weena in the other, I went out of that\ngallery and into another and still larger one, which at the first\nglance reminded me of a military chapel hung with tattered flags. The\nbrown and charred rags that hung from the sides of it, I presently\nrecognised as the decaying vestiges of books. They had long since\ndropped to pieces, and every semblance of print had left them. But here\nand there were warped boards and cracked metallic clasps that told the\ntale well enough. Had I been a literary man I might, perhaps, have\nmoralised upon the futility of all ambition. But as it was, the thing\nthat struck me with keenest force was the enormous waste of labour to\nwhich this sombre wilderness of rotting paper testified. At the time I\nwill confess that I thought chiefly of the _Philosophical Transactions_\nand my own seventeen papers upon physical optics.\n\n Then, going up a broad staircase, we came to what may once have been a\ngallery of technical chemistry. And here I had not a little hope of\nuseful discoveries. Except at one end where the roof had collapsed,\nthis gallery was well preserved. I went eagerly to every unbroken case.\nAnd at last, in one of the really air-tight cases, I found a box of\nmatches. Very eagerly I tried them. They were perfectly good. They were\nnot even damp. I turned to Weena.  Dance,  I cried to her in her own\ntongue. For now I had a weapon indeed against the horrible creatures we\nfeared. And so, in that derelict museum, upon the thick soft carpeting\nof dust, to Weena s huge delight, I solemnly performed a kind of\ncomposite dance, whistling _The Land of the Leal_ as cheerfully as I\ncould. In part it was a modest _cancan_, in part a step dance, in part\na skirt dance (so far as my tail-coat permitted), and in part original.\nFor I am naturally inventive, as you know.\n\n Now, I still think that for this box of matches to have escaped the\nwear of time for immemorial years was a most strange, as for me it was\na most fortunate, thing. Yet, oddly enough, I found a far unlikelier\nsubstance, and that was camphor. I found it in a sealed jar, that by\nchance, I suppose, had been really hermetically sealed. I fancied at\nfirst that it was paraffin wax, and smashed the glass accordingly. But\nthe odour of camphor was unmistakable. In the universal decay this\nvolatile substance had chanced to survive, perhaps through many\nthousands of centuries. It reminded me of a sepia painting I had once\nseen done from the ink of a fossil Belemnite that must have perished\nand become fossilised millions of years ago. I was about to throw it\naway, but I remembered that it was inflammable and burnt with a good\nbright flame was, in fact, an excellent candle and I put it in my\npocket. I found no explosives, however, nor any means of breaking down\nthe bronze doors. As yet my iron crowbar was the most helpful thing I\nhad chanced upon. Nevertheless I left that gallery greatly elated.\n\n I cannot tell you all the story of that long afternoon. It would\nrequire a great effort of memory to recall my explorations in at all\nthe proper order. I remember a long gallery of rusting stands of arms,\nand how I hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or a sword. I\ncould not carry both, however, and my bar of iron promised best against\nthe bronze gates. There were numbers of guns, pistols, and rifles. The\nmost were masses of rust, but many were of some new metal, and still\nfairly sound. But any cartridges or powder there may once have been had\nrotted into dust. One corner I saw was charred and shattered; perhaps,\nI thought, by an explosion among the specimens. In another place was a\nvast array of idols Polynesian, Mexican, Grecian, Ph nician, every\ncountry on earth, I should think. And here, yielding to an irresistible\nimpulse, I wrote my name upon the nose of a steatite monster from South\nAmerica that particularly took my fancy.\n\n As the evening drew on, my interest waned. I went through gallery\nafter gallery, dusty, silent, often ruinous, the exhibits sometimes\nmere heaps of rust and lignite, sometimes fresher. In one place I\nsuddenly found myself near the model of a tin mine, and then by the\nmerest accident I discovered, in an air-tight case, two dynamite\ncartridges! I shouted  Eureka!  and smashed the case with joy. Then\ncame a doubt. I hesitated. Then, selecting a little side gallery, I\nmade my essay. I never felt such a disappointment as I did in waiting\nfive, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came. Of course\nthe things were dummies, as I might have guessed from their presence. I\nreally believe that had they not been so, I should have rushed off\nincontinently and blown Sphinx, bronze doors, and (as it proved) my\nchances of finding the Time Machine, all together into non-existence.\n\n It was after that, I think, that we came to a little open court within\nthe palace. It was turfed, and had three fruit-trees. So we rested and\nrefreshed ourselves. Towards sunset I began to consider our position.\nNight was creeping upon us, and my inaccessible hiding-place had still\nto be found. But that troubled me very little now. I had in my\npossession a thing that was, perhaps, the best of all defences against\nthe Morlocks I had matches! I had the camphor in my pocket, too, if a\nblaze were needed. It seemed to me that the best thing we could do\nwould be to pass the night in the open, protected by a fire. In the\nmorning there was the getting of the Time Machine. Towards that, as\nyet, I had only my iron mace. But now, with my growing knowledge, I\nfelt very differently towards those bronze doors. Up to this, I had\nrefrained from forcing them, largely because of the mystery on the\nother side. They had never impressed me as being very strong, and I\nhoped to find my bar of iron not altogether inadequate for the work.\n\n\n\n\n XII.\n In the Darkness\n\n\n We emerged from the Palace while the sun was still in part above the\nhorizon. I was determined to reach the White Sphinx early the next\nmorning, and ere the dusk I purposed pushing through the woods that had\nstopped me on the previous journey. My plan was to go as far as\npossible that night, and then, building a fire, to sleep in the\nprotection of its glare. Accordingly, as we went along I gathered any\nsticks or dried grass I saw, and presently had my arms full of such\nlitter. Thus loaded, our progress was slower than I had anticipated,\nand besides Weena was tired. And I, also, began to suffer from\nsleepiness too; so that it was full night before we reached the wood.\nUpon the shrubby hill of its edge Weena would have stopped, fearing the\ndarkness before us; but a singular sense of impending calamity, that\nshould indeed have served me as a warning, drove me onward. I had been\nwithout sleep for a night and two days, and I was feverish and\nirritable. I felt sleep coming upon me, and the Morlocks with it.\n\n While we hesitated, among the black bushes behind us, and dim against\ntheir blackness, I saw three crouching figures. There was scrub and\nlong grass all about us, and I did not feel safe from their insidious\napproach. The forest, I calculated, was rather less than a mile across.\nIf we could get through it to the bare hillside, there, as it seemed to\nme, was an altogether safer resting-place; I thought that with my\nmatches and my camphor I could contrive to keep my path illuminated\nthrough the woods. Yet it was evident that if I was to flourish matches\nwith my hands I should have to abandon my firewood; so, rather\nreluctantly, I put it down. And then it came into my head that I would\namaze our friends behind by lighting it. I was to discover the\natrocious folly of this proceeding, but it came to my mind as an\ningenious move for covering our retreat.\n\n I don t know if you have ever thought what a rare thing flame must be\nin the absence of man and in a temperate climate. The sun s heat is\nrarely strong enough to burn, even when it is focused by dewdrops, as\nis sometimes the case in more tropical districts. Lightning may blast\nand blacken, but it rarely gives rise to widespread fire. Decaying\nvegetation may occasionally smoulder with the heat of its fermentation,\nbut this rarely results in flame. In this decadence, too, the art of\nfire-making had been forgotten on the earth. The red tongues that went\nlicking up my heap of wood were an altogether new and strange thing to\nWeena.\n\n She wanted to run to it and play with it. I believe she would have\ncast herself into it had I not restrained her. But I caught her up, and\nin spite of her struggles, plunged boldly before me into the wood. For\na little way the glare of my fire lit the path. Looking back presently,\nI could see, through the crowded stems, that from my heap of sticks the\nblaze had spread to some bushes adjacent, and a curved line of fire was\ncreeping up the grass of the hill. I laughed at that, and turned again\nto the dark trees before me. It was very black, and Weena clung to me\nconvulsively, but there was still, as my eyes grew accustomed to the\ndarkness, sufficient light for me to avoid the stems. Overhead it was\nsimply black, except where a gap of remote blue sky shone down upon us\nhere and there. I lit none of my matches because I had no hand free.\nUpon my left arm I carried my little one, in my right hand I had my\niron bar.\n\n For some way I heard nothing but the crackling twigs under my feet,\nthe faint rustle of the breeze above, and my own breathing and the\nthrob of the blood-vessels in my ears. Then I seemed to know of a\npattering behind me. I pushed on grimly. The pattering grew more\ndistinct, and then I caught the same queer sound and voices I had heard\nin the Underworld. There were evidently several of the Morlocks, and\nthey were closing in upon me. Indeed, in another minute I felt a tug at\nmy coat, then something at my arm. And Weena shivered violently, and\nbecame quite still.\n\n It was time for a match. But to get one I must put her down. I did so,\nand, as I fumbled with my pocket, a struggle began in the darkness\nabout my knees, perfectly silent on her part and with the same peculiar\ncooing sounds from the Morlocks. Soft little hands, too, were creeping\nover my coat and back, touching even my neck. Then the match scratched\nand fizzed. I held it flaring, and saw the white backs of the Morlocks\nin flight amid the trees. I hastily took a lump of camphor from my\npocket, and prepared to light it as soon as the match should wane. Then\nI looked at Weena. She was lying clutching my feet and quite\nmotionless, with her face to the ground. With a sudden fright I stooped\nto her. She seemed scarcely to breathe. I lit the block of camphor and\nflung it to the ground, and as it split and flared up and drove back\nthe Morlocks and the shadows, I knelt down and lifted her. The wood\nbehind seemed full of the stir and murmur of a great company!\n\n She seemed to have fainted. I put her carefully upon my shoulder and\nrose to push on, and then there came a horrible realisation. In\nman uvring with my matches and Weena, I had turned myself about several\ntimes, and now I had not the faintest idea in what direction lay my\npath. For all I knew, I might be facing back towards the Palace of\nGreen Porcelain. I found myself in a cold sweat. I had to think rapidly\nwhat to do. I determined to build a fire and encamp where we were. I\nput Weena, still motionless, down upon a turfy bole, and very hastily,\nas my first lump of camphor waned, I began collecting sticks and\nleaves. Here and there out of the darkness round me the Morlocks  eyes\nshone like carbuncles.\n\n The camphor flickered and went out. I lit a match, and as I did so,\ntwo white forms that had been approaching Weena dashed hastily away.\nOne was so blinded by the light that he came straight for me, and I\nfelt his bones grind under the blow of my fist. He gave a whoop of\ndismay, staggered a little way, and fell down. I lit another piece of\ncamphor, and went on gathering my bonfire. Presently I noticed how dry\nwas some of the foliage above me, for since my arrival on the Time\nMachine, a matter of a week, no rain had fallen. So, instead of casting\nabout among the trees for fallen twigs, I began leaping up and dragging\ndown branches. Very soon I had a choking smoky fire of green wood and\ndry sticks, and could economise my camphor. Then I turned to where\nWeena lay beside my iron mace. I tried what I could to revive her, but\nshe lay like one dead. I could not even satisfy myself whether or not\nshe breathed.\n\n Now, the smoke of the fire beat over towards me, and it must have made\nme heavy of a sudden. Moreover, the vapour of camphor was in the air.\nMy fire would not need replenishing for an hour or so. I felt very\nweary after my exertion, and sat down. The wood, too, was full of a\nslumbrous murmur that I did not understand. I seemed just to nod and\nopen my eyes. But all was dark, and the Morlocks had their hands upon\nme. Flinging off their clinging fingers I hastily felt in my pocket for\nthe match-box, and it had gone! Then they gripped and closed with me\nagain. In a moment I knew what had happened. I had slept, and my fire\nhad gone out, and the bitterness of death came over my soul. The forest\nseemed full of the smell of burning wood. I was caught by the neck, by\nthe hair, by the arms, and pulled down. It was indescribably horrible\nin the darkness to feel all these soft creatures heaped upon me. I felt\nas if I was in a monstrous spider s web. I was overpowered, and went\ndown. I felt little teeth nipping at my neck. I rolled over, and as I\ndid so my hand came against my iron lever. It gave me strength. I\nstruggled up, shaking the human rats from me, and, holding the bar\nshort, I thrust where I judged their faces might be. I could feel the\nsucculent giving of flesh and bone under my blows, and for a moment I\nwas free.\n\n The strange exultation that so often seems to accompany hard fighting\ncame upon me. I knew that both I and Weena were lost, but I determined\nto make the Morlocks pay for their meat. I stood with my back to a\ntree, swinging the iron bar before me. The whole wood was full of the\nstir and cries of them. A minute passed. Their voices seemed to rise to\na higher pitch of excitement, and their movements grew faster. Yet none\ncame within reach. I stood glaring at the blackness. Then suddenly came\nhope. What if the Morlocks were afraid? And close on the heels of that\ncame a strange thing. The darkness seemed to grow luminous. Very dimly\nI began to see the Morlocks about me three battered at my feet and then\nI recognised, with incredulous surprise, that the others were running,\nin an incessant stream, as it seemed, from behind me, and away through\nthe wood in front. And their backs seemed no longer white, but reddish.\nAs I stood agape, I saw a little red spark go drifting across a gap of\nstarlight between the branches, and vanish. And at that I understood\nthe smell of burning wood, the slumbrous murmur that was growing now\ninto a gusty roar, the red glow, and the Morlocks  flight.\n\n Stepping out from behind my tree and looking back, I saw, through the\nblack pillars of the nearer trees, the flames of the burning forest. It\nwas my first fire coming after me. With that I looked for Weena, but\nshe was gone. The hissing and crackling behind me, the explosive thud\nas each fresh tree burst into flame, left little time for reflection.\nMy iron bar still gripped, I followed in the Morlocks  path. It was a\nclose race. Once the flames crept forward so swiftly on my right as I\nran that I was outflanked and had to strike off to the left. But at\nlast I emerged upon a small open space, and as I did so, a Morlock came\nblundering towards me, and past me, and went on straight into the fire!\n\n And now I was to see the most weird and horrible thing, I think, of\nall that I beheld in that future age. This whole space was as bright as\nday with the reflection of the fire. In the centre was a hillock or\ntumulus, surmounted by a scorched hawthorn. Beyond this was another arm\nof the burning forest, with yellow tongues already writhing from it,\ncompletely encircling the space with a fence of fire. Upon the hillside\nwere some thirty or forty Morlocks, dazzled by the light and heat, and\nblundering hither and thither against each other in their bewilderment.\nAt first I did not realise their blindness, and struck furiously at\nthem with my bar, in a frenzy of fear, as they approached me, killing\none and crippling several more. But when I had watched the gestures of\none of them groping under the hawthorn against the red sky, and heard\ntheir moans, I was assured of their absolute helplessness and misery in\nthe glare, and I struck no more of them.\n\n Yet every now and then one would come straight towards me, setting\nloose a quivering horror that made me quick to elude him. At one time\nthe flames died down somewhat, and I feared the foul creatures would\npresently be able to see me. I was thinking of beginning the fight by\nkilling some of them before this should happen; but the fire burst out\nagain brightly, and I stayed my hand. I walked about the hill among\nthem and avoided them, looking for some trace of Weena. But Weena was\ngone.\n\n At last I sat down on the summit of the hillock, and watched this\nstrange incredible company of blind things groping to and fro, and\nmaking uncanny noises to each other, as the glare of the fire beat on\nthem. The coiling uprush of smoke streamed across the sky, and through\nthe rare tatters of that red canopy, remote as though they belonged to\nanother universe, shone the little stars. Two or three Morlocks came\nblundering into me, and I drove them off with blows of my fists,\ntrembling as I did so.\n\n For the most part of that night I was persuaded it was a nightmare. I\nbit myself and screamed in a passionate desire to awake. I beat the\nground with my hands, and got up and sat down again, and wandered here\nand there, and again sat down. Then I would fall to rubbing my eyes and\ncalling upon God to let me awake. Thrice I saw Morlocks put their heads\ndown in a kind of agony and rush into the flames. But, at last, above\nthe subsiding red of the fire, above the streaming masses of black\nsmoke and the whitening and blackening tree stumps, and the diminishing\nnumbers of these dim creatures, came the white light of the day.\n\n I searched again for traces of Weena, but there were none. It was\nplain that they had left her poor little body in the forest. I cannot\ndescribe how it relieved me to think that it had escaped the awful fate\nto which it seemed destined. As I thought of that, I was almost moved\nto begin a massacre of the helpless abominations about me, but I\ncontained myself. The hillock, as I have said, was a kind of island in\nthe forest. From its summit I could now make out through a haze of\nsmoke the Palace of Green Porcelain, and from that I could get my\nbearings for the White Sphinx. And so, leaving the remnant of these\ndamned souls still going hither and thither and moaning, as the day\ngrew clearer, I tied some grass about my feet and limped on across\nsmoking ashes and among black stems that still pulsated internally with\nfire, towards the hiding-place of the Time Machine. I walked slowly,\nfor I was almost exhausted, as well as lame, and I felt the intensest\nwretchedness for the horrible death of little Weena. It seemed an\noverwhelming calamity. Now, in this old familiar room, it is more like\nthe sorrow of a dream than an actual loss. But that morning it left me\nabsolutely lonely again terribly alone. I began to think of this house\nof mine, of this fireside, of some of you, and with such thoughts came\na longing that was pain.\n\n But, as I walked over the smoking ashes under the bright morning sky,\nI made a discovery. In my trouser pocket were still some loose matches.\nThe box must have leaked before it was lost.\n\n\n\n\n XIII.\n The Trap of the White Sphinx\n\n\n About eight or nine in the morning I came to the same seat of yellow\nmetal from which I had viewed the world upon the evening of my arrival.\nI thought of my hasty conclusions upon that evening and could not\nrefrain from laughing bitterly at my confidence. Here was the same\nbeautiful scene, the same abundant foliage, the same splendid palaces\nand magnificent ruins, the same silver river running between its\nfertile banks. The gay robes of the beautiful people moved hither and\nthither among the trees. Some were bathing in exactly the place where I\nhad saved Weena, and that suddenly gave me a keen stab of pain. And\nlike blots upon the landscape rose the cupolas above the ways to the\nUnderworld. I understood now what all the beauty of the Overworld\npeople covered. Very pleasant was their day, as pleasant as the day of\nthe cattle in the field. Like the cattle, they knew of no enemies and\nprovided against no needs. And their end was the same.\n\n I grieved to think how brief the dream of the human intellect had\nbeen. It had committed suicide. It had set itself steadfastly towards\ncomfort and ease, a balanced society with security and permanency as\nits watchword, it had attained its hopes to come to this at last. Once,\nlife and property must have reached almost absolute safety. The rich\nhad been assured of his wealth and comfort, the toiler assured of his\nlife and work. No doubt in that perfect world there had been no\nunemployed problem, no social question left unsolved. And a great quiet\nhad followed.\n\n It is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is\nthe compensation for change, danger, and trouble. An animal perfectly\nin harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism. Nature never\nappeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is\nno intelligence where there is no change and no need of change. Only\nthose animals partake of intelligence that have to meet a huge variety\nof needs and dangers.\n\n So, as I see it, the Upperworld man had drifted towards his feeble\nprettiness, and the Underworld to mere mechanical industry. But that\nperfect state had lacked one thing even for mechanical\nperfection absolute permanency. Apparently as time went on, the feeding\nof an Underworld, however it was effected, had become disjointed.\nMother Necessity, who had been staved off for a few thousand years,\ncame back again, and she began below. The Underworld being in contact\nwith machinery, which, however perfect, still needs some little thought\noutside habit, had probably retained perforce rather more initiative,\nif less of every other human character, than the Upper. And when other\nmeat failed them, they turned to what old habit had hitherto forbidden.\nSo I say I saw it in my last view of the world of Eight Hundred and Two\nThousand Seven Hundred and One. It may be as wrong an explanation as\nmortal wit could invent. It is how the thing shaped itself to me, and\nas that I give it to you.\n\n After the fatigues, excitements, and terrors of the past days, and in\nspite of my grief, this seat and the tranquil view and the warm\nsunlight were very pleasant. I was very tired and sleepy, and soon my\ntheorising passed into dozing. Catching myself at that, I took my own\nhint, and spreading myself out upon the turf I had a long and\nrefreshing sleep.\n\n I awoke a little before sunsetting. I now felt safe against being\ncaught napping by the Morlocks, and, stretching myself, I came on down\nthe hill towards the White Sphinx. I had my crowbar in one hand, and\nthe other hand played with the matches in my pocket.\n\n And now came a most unexpected thing. As I approached the pedestal of\nthe sphinx I found the bronze valves were open. They had slid down into\ngrooves.\n\n At that I stopped short before them, hesitating to enter.\n\n Within was a small apartment, and on a raised place in the corner of\nthis was the Time Machine. I had the small levers in my pocket. So\nhere, after all my elaborate preparations for the siege of the White\nSphinx, was a meek surrender. I threw my iron bar away, almost sorry\nnot to use it.\n\n A sudden thought came into my head as I stooped towards the portal.\nFor once, at least, I grasped the mental operations of the Morlocks.\nSuppressing a strong inclination to laugh, I stepped through the bronze\nframe and up to the Time Machine. I was surprised to find it had been\ncarefully oiled and cleaned. I have suspected since that the Morlocks\nhad even partially taken it to pieces while trying in their dim way to\ngrasp its purpose.\n\n Now as I stood and examined it, finding a pleasure in the mere touch\nof the contrivance, the thing I had expected happened. The bronze\npanels suddenly slid up and struck the frame with a clang. I was in the\ndark trapped. So the Morlocks thought. At that I chuckled gleefully.\n\n I could already hear their murmuring laughter as they came towards me.\nVery calmly I tried to strike the match. I had only to fix on the\nlevers and depart then like a ghost. But I had overlooked one little\nthing. The matches were of that abominable kind that light only on the\nbox.\n\n You may imagine how all my calm vanished. The little brutes were close\nupon me. One touched me. I made a sweeping blow in the dark at them\nwith the levers, and began to scramble into the saddle of the machine.\nThen came one hand upon me and then another. Then I had simply to fight\nagainst their persistent fingers for my levers, and at the same time\nfeel for the studs over which these fitted. One, indeed, they almost\ngot away from me. As it slipped from my hand, I had to butt in the dark\nwith my head I could hear the Morlock s skull ring to recover it. It\nwas a nearer thing than the fight in the forest, I think, this last\nscramble.\n\n But at last the lever was fixed and pulled over. The clinging hands\nslipped from me. The darkness presently fell from my eyes. I found\nmyself in the same grey light and tumult I have already described.\n\n\n\n\n XIV.\n The Further Vision\n\n\n I have already told you of the sickness and confusion that comes with\ntime travelling. And this time I was not seated properly in the saddle,\nbut sideways and in an unstable fashion. For an indefinite time I clung\nto the machine as it swayed and vibrated, quite unheeding how I went,\nand when I brought myself to look at the dials again I was amazed to\nfind where I had arrived. One dial records days, and another thousands\nof days, another millions of days, and another thousands of millions.\nNow, instead of reversing the levers, I had pulled them over so as to\ngo forward with them, and when I came to look at these indicators I\nfound that the thousands hand was sweeping round as fast as the seconds\nhand of a watch into futurity.\n\n As I drove on, a peculiar change crept over the appearance of things.\nThe palpitating greyness grew darker; then though I was still\ntravelling with prodigious velocity the blinking succession of day and\nnight, which was usually indicative of a slower pace, returned, and\ngrew more and more marked. This puzzled me very much at first. The\nalternations of night and day grew slower and slower, and so did the\npassage of the sun across the sky, until they seemed to stretch through\ncenturies. At last a steady twilight brooded over the earth, a twilight\nonly broken now and then when a comet glared across the darkling sky.\nThe band of light that had indicated the sun had long since\ndisappeared; for the sun had ceased to set it simply rose and fell in\nthe west, and grew ever broader and more red. All trace of the moon had\nvanished. The circling of the stars, growing slower and slower, had\ngiven place to creeping points of light. At last, some time before I\nstopped, the sun, red and very large, halted motionless upon the\nhorizon, a vast dome glowing with a dull heat, and now and then\nsuffering a momentary extinction. At one time it had for a little while\nglowed more brilliantly again, but it speedily reverted to its sullen\nred heat. I perceived by this slowing down of its rising and setting\nthat the work of the tidal drag was done. The earth had come to rest\nwith one face to the sun, even as in our own time the moon faces the\nearth. Very cautiously, for I remembered my former headlong fall, I\nbegan to reverse my motion. Slower and slower went the circling hands\nuntil the thousands one seemed motionless and the daily one was no\nlonger a mere mist upon its scale. Still slower, until the dim outlines\nof a desolate beach grew visible.\n\n I stopped very gently and sat upon the Time Machine, looking round.\nThe sky was no longer blue. North-eastward it was inky black, and out\nof the blackness shone brightly and steadily the pale white stars.\nOverhead it was a deep Indian red and starless, and south-eastward it\ngrew brighter to a glowing scarlet where, cut by the horizon, lay the\nhuge hull of the sun, red and motionless. The rocks about me were of a\nharsh reddish colour, and all the trace of life that I could see at\nfirst was the intensely green vegetation that covered every projecting\npoint on their south-eastern face. It was the same rich green that one\nsees on forest moss or on the lichen in caves: plants which like these\ngrow in a perpetual twilight.\n\n The machine was standing on a sloping beach. The sea stretched away to\nthe south-west, to rise into a sharp bright horizon against the wan\nsky. There were no breakers and no waves, for not a breath of wind was\nstirring. Only a slight oily swell rose and fell like a gentle\nbreathing, and showed that the eternal sea was still moving and living.\nAnd along the margin where the water sometimes broke was a thick\nincrustation of salt pink under the lurid sky. There was a sense of\noppression in my head, and I noticed that I was breathing very fast.\nThe sensation reminded me of my only experience of mountaineering, and\nfrom that I judged the air to be more rarefied than it is now.\n\n Far away up the desolate slope I heard a harsh scream, and saw a thing\nlike a huge white butterfly go slanting and fluttering up into the sky\nand, circling, disappear over some low hillocks beyond. The sound of\nits voice was so dismal that I shivered and seated myself more firmly\nupon the machine. Looking round me again, I saw that, quite near, what\nI had taken to be a reddish mass of rock was moving slowly towards me.\nThen I saw the thing was really a monstrous crab-like creature. Can you\nimagine a crab as large as yonder table, with its many legs moving\nslowly and uncertainly, its big claws swaying, its long antenn , like\ncarters  whips, waving and feeling, and its stalked eyes gleaming at\nyou on either side of its metallic front? Its back was corrugated and\nornamented with ungainly bosses, and a greenish incrustation blotched\nit here and there. I could see the many palps of its complicated mouth\nflickering and feeling as it moved.\n\n As I stared at this sinister apparition crawling towards me, I felt a\ntickling on my cheek as though a fly had lighted there. I tried to\nbrush it away with my hand, but in a moment it returned, and almost\nimmediately came another by my ear. I struck at this, and caught\nsomething threadlike. It was drawn swiftly out of my hand. With a\nfrightful qualm, I turned, and I saw that I had grasped the antenna of\nanother monster crab that stood just behind me. Its evil eyes were\nwriggling on their stalks, its mouth was all alive with appetite, and\nits vast ungainly claws, smeared with an algal slime, were descending\nupon me. In a moment my hand was on the lever, and I had placed a month\nbetween myself and these monsters. But I was still on the same beach,\nand I saw them distinctly now as soon as I stopped. Dozens of them\nseemed to be crawling here and there, in the sombre light, among the\nfoliated sheets of intense green.\n\n I cannot convey the sense of abominable desolation that hung over the\nworld. The red eastern sky, the northward blackness, the salt Dead Sea,\nthe stony beach crawling with these foul, slow-stirring monsters, the\nuniform poisonous-looking green of the lichenous plants, the thin air\nthat hurts one s lungs: all contributed to an appalling effect. I moved\non a hundred years, and there was the same red sun a little larger, a\nlittle duller the same dying sea, the same chill air, and the same\ncrowd of earthy crustacea creeping in and out among the green weed and\nthe red rocks. And in the westward sky, I saw a curved pale line like a\nvast new moon.\n\n So I travelled, stopping ever and again, in great strides of a\nthousand years or more, drawn on by the mystery of the earth s fate,\nwatching with a strange fascination the sun grow larger and duller in\nthe westward sky, and the life of the old earth ebb away. At last, more\nthan thirty million years hence, the huge red-hot dome of the sun had\ncome to obscure nearly a tenth part of the darkling heavens. Then I\nstopped once more, for the crawling multitude of crabs had disappeared,\nand the red beach, save for its livid green liverworts and lichens,\nseemed lifeless. And now it was flecked with white. A bitter cold\nassailed me. Rare white flakes ever and again came eddying down. To the\nnorth-eastward, the glare of snow lay under the starlight of the sable\nsky, and I could see an undulating crest of hillocks pinkish white.\nThere were fringes of ice along the sea margin, with drifting masses\nfarther out; but the main expanse of that salt ocean, all bloody under\nthe eternal sunset, was still unfrozen.\n\n I looked about me to see if any traces of animal life remained. A\ncertain indefinable apprehension still kept me in the saddle of the\nmachine. But I saw nothing moving, in earth or sky or sea. The green\nslime on the rocks alone testified that life was not extinct. A shallow\nsandbank had appeared in the sea and the water had receded from the\nbeach. I fancied I saw some black object flopping about upon this bank,\nbut it became motionless as I looked at it, and I judged that my eye\nhad been deceived, and that the black object was merely a rock. The\nstars in the sky were intensely bright and seemed to me to twinkle very\nlittle.\n\n Suddenly I noticed that the circular westward outline of the sun had\nchanged; that a concavity, a bay, had appeared in the curve. I saw this\ngrow larger. For a minute perhaps I stared aghast at this blackness\nthat was creeping over the day, and then I realised that an eclipse was\nbeginning. Either the moon or the planet Mercury was passing across the\nsun s disk. Naturally, at first I took it to be the moon, but there is\nmuch to incline me to believe that what I really saw was the transit of\nan inner planet passing very near to the earth.\n\n The darkness grew apace; a cold wind began to blow in freshening gusts\nfrom the east, and the showering white flakes in the air increased in\nnumber. From the edge of the sea came a ripple and whisper. Beyond\nthese lifeless sounds the world was silent. Silent? It would be hard to\nconvey the stillness of it. All the sounds of man, the bleating of\nsheep, the cries of birds, the hum of insects, the stir that makes the\nbackground of our lives all that was over. As the darkness thickened,\nthe eddying flakes grew more abundant, dancing before my eyes; and the\ncold of the air more intense. At last, one by one, swiftly, one after\nthe other, the white peaks of the distant hills vanished into\nblackness. The breeze rose to a moaning wind. I saw the black central\nshadow of the eclipse sweeping towards me. In another moment the pale\nstars alone were visible. All else was rayless obscurity. The sky was\nabsolutely black.\n\n A horror of this great darkness came on me. The cold, that smote to my\nmarrow, and the pain I felt in breathing, overcame me. I shivered, and\na deadly nausea seized me. Then like a red-hot bow in the sky appeared\nthe edge of the sun. I got off the machine to recover myself. I felt\ngiddy and incapable of facing the return journey. As I stood sick and\nconfused I saw again the moving thing upon the shoal there was no\nmistake now that it was a moving thing against the red water of the\nsea. It was a round thing, the size of a football perhaps, or, it may\nbe, bigger, and tentacles trailed down from it; it seemed black against\nthe weltering blood-red water, and it was hopping fitfully about. Then\nI felt I was fainting. But a terrible dread of lying helpless in that\nremote and awful twilight sustained me while I clambered upon the\nsaddle.\n\n\n\n\n XV.\n The Time Traveller s Return\n\n\n So I came back. For a long time I must have been insensible upon the\nmachine. The blinking succession of the days and nights was resumed,\nthe sun got golden again, the sky blue. I breathed with greater\nfreedom. The fluctuating contours of the land ebbed and flowed. The\nhands spun backward upon the dials. At last I saw again the dim shadows\nof houses, the evidences of decadent humanity. These, too, changed and\npassed, and others came. Presently, when the million dial was at zero,\nI slackened speed. I began to recognise our own pretty and familiar\narchitecture, the thousands hand ran back to the starting-point, the\nnight and day flapped slower and slower. Then the old walls of the\nlaboratory came round me. Very gently, now, I slowed the mechanism\ndown.\n\n I saw one little thing that seemed odd to me. I think I have told you\nthat when I set out, before my velocity became very high, Mrs. Watchett\nhad walked across the room, travelling, as it seemed to me, like a\nrocket. As I returned, I passed again across that minute when she\ntraversed the laboratory. But now her every motion appeared to be the\nexact inversion of her previous ones. The door at the lower end opened,\nand she glided quietly up the laboratory, back foremost, and\ndisappeared behind the door by which she had previously entered. Just\nbefore that I seemed to see Hillyer for a moment; but he passed like a\nflash.\n\n Then I stopped the machine, and saw about me again the old familiar\nlaboratory, my tools, my appliances just as I had left them. I got off\nthe thing very shakily, and sat down upon my bench. For several minutes\nI trembled violently. Then I became calmer. Around me was my old\nworkshop again, exactly as it had been. I might have slept there, and\nthe whole thing have been a dream.\n\n And yet, not exactly! The thing had started from the south-east corner\nof the laboratory. It had come to rest again in the north-west, against\nthe wall where you saw it. That gives you the exact distance from my\nlittle lawn to the pedestal of the White Sphinx, into which the\nMorlocks had carried my machine.\n\n For a time my brain went stagnant. Presently I got up and came through\nthe passage here, limping, because my heel was still painful, and\nfeeling sorely begrimed. I saw the _Pall Mall Gazette_ on the table by\nthe door. I found the date was indeed today, and looking at the\ntimepiece, saw the hour was almost eight o clock. I heard your voices\nand the clatter of plates. I hesitated I felt so sick and weak. Then I\nsniffed good wholesome meat, and opened the door on you. You know the\nrest. I washed, and dined, and now I am telling you the story.\n\n\n\n\n XVI.\n After the Story\n\n\n I know,  he said, after a pause,  that all this will be absolutely\nincredible to you, but to me the one incredible thing is that I am here\ntonight in this old familiar room looking into your friendly faces and\ntelling you these strange adventures.  He looked at the Medical Man.\n No. I cannot expect you to believe it. Take it as a lie or a prophecy.\nSay I dreamed it in the workshop. Consider I have been speculating upon\nthe destinies of our race, until I have hatched this fiction. Treat my\nassertion of its truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance its interest.\nAnd taking it as a story, what do you think of it? \n\nHe took up his pipe, and began, in his old accustomed manner, to tap\nwith it nervously upon the bars of the grate. There was a momentary\nstillness. Then chairs began to creak and shoes to scrape upon the\ncarpet. I took my eyes off the Time Traveller s face, and looked round\nat his audience. They were in the dark, and little spots of colour swam\nbefore them. The Medical Man seemed absorbed in the contemplation of\nour host. The Editor was looking hard at the end of his cigar the\nsixth. The Journalist fumbled for his watch. The others, as far as I\nremember, were motionless.\n\nThe Editor stood up with a sigh.  What a pity it is you re not a writer\nof stories!  he said, putting his hand on the Time Traveller s\nshoulder.\n\n You don t believe it? \n\n Well \n\n I thought not. \n\nThe Time Traveller turned to us.  Where are the matches?  he said. He\nlit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing.  To tell you the truth... I\nhardly believe it myself..... And yet... \n\nHis eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the withered white flowers upon\nthe little table. Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and I\nsaw he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.\n\nThe Medical Man rose, came to the lamp, and examined the flowers.  The\ngyn ceum s odd,  he said. The Psychologist leant forward to see,\nholding out his hand for a specimen.\n\n I m hanged if it isn t a quarter to one,  said the Journalist.  How\nshall we get home? \n\n Plenty of cabs at the station,  said the Psychologist.\n\n It s a curious thing,  said the Medical Man;  but I certainly don t\nknow the natural order of these flowers. May I have them? \n\nThe Time Traveller hesitated. Then suddenly:  Certainly not. \n\n Where did you really get them?  said the Medical Man.\n\nThe Time Traveller put his hand to his head. He spoke like one who was\ntrying to keep hold of an idea that eluded him.  They were put into my\npocket by Weena, when I travelled into Time.  He stared round the room.\n I m damned if it isn t all going. This room and you and the atmosphere\nof every day is too much for my memory. Did I ever make a Time Machine,\nor a model of a Time Machine? Or is it all only a dream? They say life\nis a dream, a precious poor dream at times but I can t stand another\nthat won t fit. It s madness. And where did the dream come from?   I\nmust look at that machine. If there is one! \n\nHe caught up the lamp swiftly, and carried it, flaring red, through the\ndoor into the corridor. We followed him. There in the flickering light\nof the lamp was the machine sure enough, squat, ugly, and askew, a\nthing of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent glimmering quartz. Solid\nto the touch for I put out my hand and felt the rail of it and with\nbrown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of grass and moss upon\nthe lower parts, and one rail bent awry.\n\nThe Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench, and ran his hand\nalong the damaged rail.  It s all right now,  he said.  The story I\ntold you was true. I m sorry to have brought you out here in the cold. \nHe took up the lamp, and, in an absolute silence, we returned to the\nsmoking-room.\n\nHe came into the hall with us and helped the Editor on with his coat.\nThe Medical Man looked into his face and, with a certain hesitation,\ntold him he was suffering from overwork, at which he laughed hugely. I\nremember him standing in the open doorway, bawling good-night.\n\nI shared a cab with the Editor. He thought the tale a  gaudy lie.  For\nmy own part I was unable to come to a conclusion. The story was so\nfantastic and incredible, the telling so credible and sober. I lay\nawake most of the night thinking about it. I determined to go next day\nand see the Time Traveller again. I was told he was in the laboratory,\nand being on easy terms in the house, I went up to him. The laboratory,\nhowever, was empty. I stared for a minute at the Time Machine and put\nout my hand and touched the lever. At that the squat\nsubstantial-looking mass swayed like a bough shaken by the wind. Its\ninstability startled me extremely, and I had a queer reminiscence of\nthe childish days when I used to be forbidden to meddle. I came back\nthrough the corridor. The Time Traveller met me in the smoking-room. He\nwas coming from the house. He had a small camera under one arm and a\nknapsack under the other. He laughed when he saw me, and gave me an\nelbow to shake.  I m frightfully busy,  said he,  with that thing in\nthere. \n\n But is it not some hoax?  I said.  Do you really travel through time? \n\n Really and truly I do.  And he looked frankly into my eyes. He\nhesitated. His eye wandered about the room.  I only want half an hour, \nhe said.  I know why you came, and it s awfully good of you. There s\nsome magazines here. If you ll stop to lunch I ll prove you this time\ntravelling up to the hilt, specimens and all. If you ll forgive my\nleaving you now? \n\nI consented, hardly comprehending then the full import of his words,\nand he nodded and went on down the corridor. I heard the door of the\nlaboratory slam, seated myself in a chair, and took up a daily paper.\nWhat was he going to do before lunch-time? Then suddenly I was reminded\nby an advertisement that I had promised to meet Richardson, the\npublisher, at two. I looked at my watch, and saw that I could barely\nsave that engagement. I got up and went down the passage to tell the\nTime Traveller.\n\nAs I took hold of the handle of the door I heard an exclamation, oddly\ntruncated at the end, and a click and a thud. A gust of air whirled\nround me as I opened the door, and from within came the sound of broken\nglass falling on the floor. The Time Traveller was not there. I seemed\nto see a ghostly, indistinct figure sitting in a whirling mass of black\nand brass for a moment a figure so transparent that the bench behind\nwith its sheets of drawings was absolutely distinct; but this phantasm\nvanished as I rubbed my eyes. The Time Machine had gone. Save for a\nsubsiding stir of dust, the further end of the laboratory was empty. A\npane of the skylight had, apparently, just been blown in.\n\nI felt an unreasonable amazement. I knew that something strange had\nhappened, and for the moment could not distinguish what the strange\nthing might be. As I stood staring, the door into the garden opened,\nand the man-servant appeared.\n\nWe looked at each other. Then ideas began to come.  Has Mr.   gone out\nthat way?  said I.\n\n No, sir. No one has come out this way. I was expecting to find him\nhere. \n\nAt that I understood. At the risk of disappointing Richardson I stayed\non, waiting for the Time Traveller; waiting for the second, perhaps\nstill stranger story, and the specimens and photographs he would bring\nwith him. But I am beginning now to fear that I must wait a lifetime.\nThe Time Traveller vanished three years ago. And, as everybody knows\nnow, he has never returned.\n\n\n\n\n Epilogue\n\n\nOne cannot choose but wonder. Will he ever return? It may be that he\nswept back into the past, and fell among the blood-drinking, hairy\nsavages of the Age of Unpolished Stone; into the abysses of the\nCretaceous Sea; or among the grotesque saurians, the huge reptilian\nbrutes of the Jurassic times. He may even now if I may use the\nphrase be wandering on some plesiosaurus-haunted Oolitic coral reef, or\nbeside the lonely saline seas of the Triassic Age. Or did he go\nforward, into one of the nearer ages, in which men are still men, but\nwith the riddles of our own time answered and its wearisome problems\nsolved? Into the manhood of the race: for I, for my own part, cannot\nthink that these latter days of weak experiment, fragmentary theory,\nand mutual discord are indeed man s culminating time! I say, for my own\npart. He, I know for the question had been discussed among us long\nbefore the Time Machine was made thought but cheerlessly of the\nAdvancement of Mankind, and saw in the growing pile of civilisation\nonly a foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy\nits makers in the end. If that is so, it remains for us to live as\nthough it were not so. But to me the future is still black and blank is\na vast ignorance, lit at a few casual places by the memory of his\nstory. And I have by me, for my comfort, two strange white\nflowers shrivelled now, and brown and flat and brittle to witness that\neven when mind and strength had gone, gratitude and a mutual tenderness\nstill lived on in the heart of man."
    },
    {
        "title": "The War in the Air",
        "author": "H.G. Wells",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "CHAPTER I HOW MY MOTHER GOT HER SOFT FACE\n\n\nOn the day I was born we bought six hair-bottomed chairs, and in our\nlittle house it was an event, the first great victory in a woman s long\ncampaign; how they had been laboured for, the pound-note and the thirty\nthreepenny-bits they cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, the\nshow they made in possession of the west room, my father s unnatural\ncoolness when he brought them in (but his face was white) I so often\nheard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy and man in so many similar\ntriumphs, that the coming of the chairs seems to be something I remember,\nas if I had jumped out of bed on that first day, and run ben to see how\nthey looked.  I am sure my mother s feet were ettling to be ben long\nbefore they could be trusted, and that the moment after she was left\nalone with me she was discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring a\nscar (which she had been the first to detect) on one of the chairs, or\nsitting on them regally, or withdrawing and re-opening the door suddenly\nto take the six by surprise.  And then, I think, a shawl was flung over\nher (it is strange to me to think it was not I who ran after her with the\nshawl), and she was escorted sternly back to bed and reminded that she\nhad promised not to budge, to which her reply was probably that she had\nbeen gone but an instant, and the implication that therefore she had not\nbeen gone at all.  Thus was one little bit of her revealed to me at once:\nI wonder if I took note of it.  Neighbours came in to see the boy and the\nchairs.  I wonder if she deceived me when she affected to think that\nthere were others like us, or whether I saw through her from the first,\nshe was so easily seen through.  When she seemed to agree with them that\nit would be impossible to give me a college education, was I so easily\ntaken in, or did I know already what ambitions burned behind that dear\nface? when they spoke of the chairs as the goal quickly reached, was I\nsuch a newcomer that her timid lips must say  They are but a beginning \nbefore I heard the words?  And when we were left together, did I laugh at\nthe great things that were in her mind, or had she to whisper them to me\nfirst, and then did I put my arm round her and tell her that I would\nhelp?  Thus it was for such a long time: it is strange to me to feel that\nit was not so from the beginning.\n\nIt is all guess-work for six years, and she whom I see in them is the\nwoman who came suddenly into view when they were at an end.  Her timid\nlips I have said, but they were not timid then, and when I knew her the\ntimid lips had come.  The soft face they say the face was not so soft\nthen.  The shawl that was flung over her we had not begun to hunt her\nwith a shawl, nor to make our bodies a screen between her and the\ndraughts, nor to creep into her room a score of times in the night to\nstand looking at her as she slept.  We did not see her becoming little\nthen, nor sharply turn our heads when she said wonderingly how small her\narms had grown.  In her happiest moments and never was a happier\nwoman her mouth did not of a sudden begin to twitch, and tears to lie on\nthe mute blue eyes in which I have read all I know and would ever care to\nwrite.  For when you looked into my mother s eyes you knew, as if He had\ntold you, why God sent her into the world it was to open the minds of all\nwho looked to beautiful thoughts.  And that is the beginning and end of\nliterature.  Those eyes that I cannot see until I was six years old have\nguided me through life, and I pray God they may remain my only earthly\njudge to the last.  They were never more my guide than when I helped to\nput her to earth, not whimpering because my mother had been taken away\nafter seventy-six glorious years of life, but exulting in her even at the\ngrave.\n\n                                * * * * *\n\nShe had a son who was far away at school.  I remember very little about\nhim, only that he was a merry-faced boy who ran like a squirrel up a tree\nand shook the cherries into my lap.  When he was thirteen and I was half\nhis age the terrible news came, and I have been told the face of my\nmother was awful in its calmness as she set off to get between Death and\nher boy.  We trooped with her down the brae to the wooden station, and I\nthink I was envying her the journey in the mysterious wagons; I know we\nplayed around her, proud of our right to be there, but I do not recall\nit, I only speak from hearsay.  Her ticket was taken, she had bidden us\ngood-bye with that fighting face which I cannot see, and then my father\ncame out of the telegraph-office and said huskily,  He s gone!   Then we\nturned very quietly and went home again up the little brae.  But I speak\nfrom hearsay no longer; I knew my mother for ever now.\n\nThat is how she got her soft face and her pathetic ways and her large\ncharity, and why other mothers ran to her when they had lost a child.\n Dinna greet, poor Janet,  she would say to them; and they would answer,\n Ah, Margaret, but you re greeting yoursel.   Margaret Ogilvy had been\nher maiden name, and after the Scotch custom she was still Margaret\nOgilvy to her old friends.  Margaret Ogilvy I loved to name her.  Often\nwhen I was a boy,  Margaret Ogilvy, are you there?   I would call up the\nstair.\n\nShe was always delicate from that hour, and for many months she was very\nill.  I have heard that the first thing she expressed a wish to see was\nthe christening robe, and she looked long at it and then turned her face\nto the wall.  That was what made me as a boy think of it always as the\nrobe in which he was christened, but I knew later that we had all been\nchristened in it, from the oldest of the family to the youngest, between\nwhom stood twenty years.  Hundreds of other children were christened in\nit also, such robes being then a rare possession, and the lending of ours\namong my mother s glories.  It was carried carefully from house to house,\nas if it were itself a child; my mother made much of it, smoothed it out,\npetted it, smiled to it before putting it into the arms of those to whom\nit was being lent; she was in our pew to see it borne magnificently\n(something inside it now) down the aisle to the pulpit-side, when a stir\nof expectancy went through the church and we kicked each other s feet\nbeneath the book-board but were reverent in the face; and however the\nchild might behave, laughing brazenly or skirling to its mother s shame,\nand whatever the father as he held it up might do, look doited probably\nand bow at the wrong time, the christening robe of long experience helped\nthem through.  And when it was brought back to her she took it in her\narms as softly as if it might be asleep, and unconsciously pressed it to\nher breast: there was never anything in the house that spoke to her quite\nso eloquently as that little white robe; it was the one of her children\nthat always remained a baby.  And she had not made it herself, which was\nthe most wonderful thing about it to me, for she seemed to have made all\nother things.  All the clothes in the house were of her making, and you\ndon t know her in the least if you think they were out of the fashion;\nshe turned them and made them new again, she beat them and made them new\nagain, and then she coaxed them into being new again just for the last\ntime, she let them out and took them in and put on new braid, and added a\npiece up the back, and thus they passed from one member of the family to\nanother until they reached the youngest, and even when we were done with\nthem they reappeared as something else.  In the fashion!  I must come\nback to this.  Never was a woman with such an eye for it.  She had no\nfashion-plates; she did not need them.  The minister s wife (a cloak),\nthe banker s daughters (the new sleeve) they had but to pass our window\nonce, and the scalp, so to speak, was in my mother s hands.  Observe her\nrushing, scissors in hand, thread in mouth, to the drawers where her\ndaughters  Sabbath clothes were kept.  Or go to church next Sunday, and\nwatch a certain family filing in, the boy lifting his legs high to show\noff his new boots, but all the others demure, especially the timid,\nunobservant-looking little woman in the rear of them.  If you were the\nminister s wife that day or the banker s daughters you would have got a\nshock.  But she bought the christening robe, and when I used to ask why,\nshe would beam and look conscious, and say she wanted to be extravagant\nonce.  And she told me, still smiling, that the more a woman was given to\nstitching and making things for herself, the greater was her passionate\ndesire now and again to rush to the shops and  be foolish.   The\nchristening robe with its pathetic frills is over half a century old now,\nand has begun to droop a little, like a daisy whose time is past; but it\nis as fondly kept together as ever: I saw it in use again only the other\nday.\n\nMy mother lay in bed with the christening robe beside her, and I peeped\nin many times at the door and then went to the stair and sat on it and\nsobbed.  I know not if it was that first day, or many days afterwards,\nthat there came to me, my sister, the daughter my mother loved the best;\nyes, more I am sure even than she loved me, whose great glory she has\nbeen since I was six years old.  This sister, who was then passing out of\nher  teens, came to me with a very anxious face and wringing her hands,\nand she told me to go ben to my mother and say to her that she still had\nanother boy.  I went ben excitedly, but the room was dark, and when I\nheard the door shut and no sound come from the bed I was afraid, and I\nstood still.  I suppose I was breathing hard, or perhaps I was crying,\nfor after a time I heard a listless voice that had never been listless\nbefore say,  Is that you?   I think the tone hurt me, for I made no\nanswer, and then the voice said more anxiously  Is that you?  again.  I\nthought it was the dead boy she was speaking to, and I said in a little\nlonely voice,  No, it s no him, it s just me.   Then I heard a cry, and\nmy mother turned in bed, and though it was dark I knew that she was\nholding out her arms.\n\nAfter that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to make her forget him,\nwhich was my crafty way of playing physician, and if I saw any one out of\ndoors do something that made the others laugh I immediately hastened to\nthat dark room and did it before her.  I suppose I was an odd little\nfigure; I have been told that my anxiety to brighten her gave my face a\nstrained look and put a tremor into the joke (I would stand on my head in\nthe bed, my feet against the wall, and then cry excitedly,  Are you\nlaughing, mother? ) and perhaps what made her laugh was something I was\nunconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly now and then, whereupon I\nscreamed exultantly to that dear sister, who was ever in waiting, to come\nand see the sight, but by the time she came the soft face was wet again.\nThus I was deprived of some of my glory, and I remember once only making\nher laugh before witnesses.  I kept a record of her laughs on a piece of\npaper, a stroke for each, and it was my custom to show this proudly to\nthe doctor every morning.  There were five strokes the first time I\nslipped it into his hand, and when their meaning was explained to him he\nlaughed so boisterously, that I cried,  I wish that was one of hers! \nThen he was sympathetic, and asked me if my mother had seen the paper\nyet, and when I shook my head he said that if I showed it to her now and\ntold her that these were her five laughs he thought I might win another.\nI had less confidence, but he was the mysterious man whom you ran for in\nthe dead of night (you flung sand at his window to waken him, and if it\nwas only toothache he extracted the tooth through the open window, but\nwhen it was something sterner he was with you in the dark square at once,\nlike a man who slept in his topcoat), so I did as he bade me, and not\nonly did she laugh then but again when I put the laugh down, so that\nthough it was really one laugh with a tear in the middle I counted it as\ntwo.\n\nIt was doubtless that same sister who told me not to sulk when my mother\nlay thinking of him, but to try instead to get her to talk about him.  I\ndid not see how this could make her the merry mother she used to be, but\nI was told that if I could not do it nobody could, and this made me eager\nto begin.  At first, they say, I was often jealous, stopping her fond\nmemories with the cry,  Do you mind nothing about me?  but that did not\nlast; its place was taken by an intense desire (again, I think, my sister\nmust have breathed it into life) to become so like him that even my\nmother should not see the difference, and many and artful were the\nquestions I put to that end.  Then I practised in secret, but after a\nwhole week had passed I was still rather like myself.  He had such a\ncheery way of whistling, she had told me, it had always brightened her at\nher work to hear him whistling, and when he whistled he stood with his\nlegs apart, and his hands in the pockets of his knickerbockers.  I\ndecided to trust to this, so one day after I had learned his whistle\n(every boy of enterprise invents a whistle of his own) from boys who had\nbeen his comrades, I secretly put on a suit of his clothes, dark grey\nthey were, with little spots, and they fitted me many years afterwards,\nand thus disguised I slipped, unknown to the others, into my mother s\nroom.  Quaking, I doubt not, yet so pleased, I stood still until she saw\nme, and then how it must have hurt her!   Listen!  I cried in a glow of\ntriumph, and I stretched my legs wide apart and plunged my hands into the\npockets of my knickerbockers, and began to whistle.\n\nShe lived twenty-nine years after his death, such active years until\ntoward the end, that you never knew where she was unless you took hold of\nher, and though she was frail henceforth and ever growing frailer, her\nhousekeeping again became famous, so that brides called as a matter of\ncourse to watch her ca ming and sanding and stitching: there are old\npeople still, one or two, to tell with wonder in their eyes how she could\nbake twenty-four bannocks in the hour, and not a chip in one of them.\nAnd how many she gave away, how much she gave away of all she had, and\nwhat pretty ways she had of giving it!  Her face beamed and rippled with\nmirth as before, and her laugh that I had tried so hard to force came\nrunning home again.  I have heard no such laugh as hers save from merry\nchildren; the laughter of most of us ages, and wears out with the body,\nbut hers remained gleeful to the last, as if it were born afresh every\nmorning.  There was always something of the child in her, and her laugh\nwas its voice, as eloquent of the past to me as was the christening robe\nto her.  But I had not made her forget the bit of her that was dead; in\nthose nine-and-twenty years he was not removed one day farther from her.\nMany a time she fell asleep speaking to him, and even while she slept her\nlips moved and she smiled as if he had come back to her, and when she\nwoke he might vanish so suddenly that she started up bewildered and\nlooked about her, and then said slowly,  My David s dead!  or perhaps he\nremained long enough to whisper why he must leave her now, and then she\nlay silent with filmy eyes.  When I became a man and he was still a boy\nof thirteen, I wrote a little paper called  Dead this Twenty Years, \nwhich was about a similar tragedy in another woman s life, and it is the\nonly thing I have written that she never spoke about, not even to that\ndaughter she loved the best.  No one ever spoke of it to her, or asked\nher if she had read it: one does not ask a mother if she knows that there\nis a little coffin in the house.  She read many times the book in which\nit is printed, but when she came to that chapter she would put her hands\nto her heart or even over her ears.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II WHAT SHE HAD BEEN\n\n\nWhat she had been, what I should be, these were the two great subjects\nbetween us in my boyhood, and while we discussed the one we were deciding\nthe other, though neither of us knew it.\n\nBefore I reached my tenth year a giant entered my native place in the\nnight, and we woke to find him in possession.  He transformed it into a\nnew town at a rate with which we boys only could keep up, for as fast as\nhe built dams we made rafts to sail in them; he knocked down houses, and\nthere we were crying  Pilly!  among the ruins; he dug trenches, and we\njumped them; we had to be dragged by the legs from beneath his engines,\nhe sunk wells, and in we went.  But though there were never circumstances\nto which boys could not adapt themselves in half an hour, older folk are\nslower in the uptake, and I am sure they stood and gaped at the changes\nso suddenly being worked in our midst, and scarce knew their way home now\nin the dark.  Where had been formerly but the click of the shuttle was\nsoon the roar of  power,  handlooms were pushed into a corner as a room\nis cleared for a dance; every morning at half-past five the town was\nwakened with a yell, and from a chimney-stack that rose high into our\ncaller air the conqueror waved for evermore his flag of smoke.  Another\nera had dawned, new customs, new fashions sprang into life, all as lusty\nas if they had been born at twenty-one; as quickly as two people may\nexchange seats, the daughter, till now but a knitter of stockings, became\nthe breadwinner, he who had been the breadwinner sat down to the knitting\nof stockings: what had been yesterday a nest of weavers was to-day a town\nof girls.\n\nI am not of those who would fling stones at the change; it is something,\nsurely, that backs are no longer prematurely bent; you may no more look\nthrough dim panes of glass at the aged poor weaving tremulously for their\nlittle bit of ground in the cemetery.  Rather are their working years too\nfew now, not because they will it so but because it is with youth that\nthe power-looms must be fed.  Well, this teaches them to make provision,\nand they have the means as they never had before.  Not in batches are\nboys now sent to college; the half-dozen a year have dwindled to one,\ndoubtless because in these days they can begin to draw wages as they step\nout of their fourteenth year.  Here assuredly there is loss, but all the\nlosses would be but a pebble in a sea of gain were it not for this, that\nwith so many of the family, young mothers among them, working in the\nfactories, home life is not so beautiful as it was.  So much of what is\ngreat in Scotland has sprung from the closeness of the family ties; it is\nthere I sometimes fear that my country is being struck.  That we are all\nbeing reduced to one dead level, that character abounds no more and life\nitself is less interesting, such things I have read, but I do not believe\nthem.  I have even seen them given as my reason for writing of a past\ntime, and in that at least there is no truth.  In our little town, which\nis a sample of many, life is as interesting, as pathetic, as joyous as\never it was; no group of weavers was better to look at or think about\nthan the rivulet of winsome girls that overruns our streets every time\nthe sluice is raised, the comedy of summer evenings and winter firesides\nis played with the old zest and every window-blind is the curtain of a\nromance.  Once the lights of a little town are lit, who could ever hope\nto tell all its story, or the story of a single wynd in it?  And who\nlooking at lighted windows needs to turn to books?  The reason my books\ndeal with the past instead of with the life I myself have known is simply\nthis, that I soon grow tired of writing tales unless I can see a little\ngirl, of whom my mother has told me, wandering confidently through the\npages.  Such a grip has her memory of her girlhood had upon me since I\nwas a boy of six.\n\nThose innumerable talks with her made her youth as vivid to me as my own,\nand so much more quaint, for, to a child, the oddest of things, and the\nmost richly coloured picture-book, is that his mother was once a child\nalso, and the contrast between what she is and what she was is perhaps\nthe source of all humour.  My mother s father, the one hero of her life,\ndied nine years before I was born, and I remember this with bewilderment,\nso familiarly does the weather-beaten mason s figure rise before me from\nthe old chair on which I was nursed and now write my books.  On the\nsurface he is as hard as the stone on which he chiselled, and his face is\ndyed red by its dust, he is rounded in the shoulders and a  hoast  hunts\nhim ever; sooner or later that cough must carry him off, but until then\nit shall not keep him from the quarry, nor shall his chapped hands, as\nlong as they can grasp the mell.  It is a night of rain or snow, and my\nmother, the little girl in a pinafore who is already his housekeeper, has\nbeen many times to the door to look for him.  At last he draws nigh,\nhoasting.  Or I see him setting off to church, for he was a great  stoop \nof the Auld Licht kirk, and his mouth is very firm now as if there were a\ncase of discipline to face, but on his way home he is bowed with pity.\nPerhaps his little daughter who saw him so stern an hour ago does not\nunderstand why he wrestles so long in prayer to-night, or why when he\nrises from his knees he presses her to him with unwonted tenderness.  Or\nhe is in this chair repeating to her his favourite poem,  The\nCameronian s Dream,  and at the first lines so solemnly uttered,\n\n     In a dream of the night I was wafted away, \n\nshe screams with excitement, just as I screamed long afterwards when she\nrepeated them in his voice to me.  Or I watch, as from a window, while\nshe sets off through the long parks to the distant place where he is at\nwork, in her hand a flagon which contains his dinner.  She is singing to\nherself and gleefully swinging the flagon, she jumps the burn and proudly\nmeasures the jump with her eye, but she never dallies unless she meets a\nbaby, for she was so fond of babies that she must hug each one she met,\nbut while she hugged them she also noted how their robes were cut, and\nafterwards made paper patterns, which she concealed jealously, and in the\nfulness of time her first robe for her eldest born was fashioned from one\nof these patterns, made when she was in her twelfth year.\n\nShe was eight when her mother s death made her mistress of the house and\nmother to her little brother, and from that time she scrubbed and mended\nand baked and sewed, and argued with the flesher about the quarter pound\nof beef and penny bone which provided dinner for two days (but if you\nthink that this was poverty you don t know the meaning of the word), and\nshe carried the water from the pump, and had her washing-days and her\nironings and a stocking always on the wire for odd moments, and gossiped\nlike a matron with the other women, and humoured the men with a tolerant\nsmile all these things she did as a matter of course, leaping joyful from\nbed in the morning because there was so much to do, doing it as\nthoroughly and sedately as if the brides were already due for a lesson,\nand then rushing out in a fit of childishness to play dumps or palaulays\nwith others of her age.  I see her frocks lengthening, though they were\nnever very short, and the games given reluctantly up. The horror of my\nboyhood was that I knew a time would come when I also must give up the\ngames, and how it was to be done I saw not (this agony still returns to\nme in dreams, when I catch myself playing marbles, and look on with cold\ndispleasure); I felt that I must continue playing in secret, and I took\nthis shadow to her, when she told me her own experience, which convinced\nus both that we were very like each other inside.  She had discovered\nthat work is the best fun after all, and I learned it in time, but have\nmy lapses, and so had she.\n\nI know what was her favourite costume when she was at the age that they\nmake heroines of: it was a pale blue with a pale blue bonnet, the white\nribbons of which tied aggravatingly beneath the chin, and when questioned\nabout this garb she never admitted that she looked pretty in it, but she\ndid say, with blushes too, that blue was her colour, and then she might\nsmile, as at some memory, and begin to tell us about a man who but it\nended there with another smile which was longer in departing.  She never\nsaid, indeed she denied strenuously, that she had led the men a dance,\nbut again the smile returned, and came between us and full belief.  Yes,\nshe had her little vanities; when she got the Mizpah ring she did carry\nthat finger in such a way that the most reluctant must see.  She was very\nparticular about her gloves, and hid her boots so that no other should\nput them on, and then she forgot their hiding-place, and had suspicions\nof the one who found them.  A good way of enraging her was to say that\nher last year s bonnet would do for this year without alteration, or that\nit would defy the face of clay to count the number of her shawls.  In one\nof my books there is a mother who is setting off with her son for the\ntown to which he had been called as minister, and she pauses on the\nthreshold to ask him anxiously if he thinks her bonnet  sets  her.  A\nreviewer said she acted thus, not because she cared how she looked, but\nfor the sake of her son.  This, I remember, amused my mother very much.\n\nI have seen many weary on-dings of snow, but the one I seem to recollect\nbest occurred nearly twenty years before I was born.  It was at the time\nof my mother s marriage to one who proved a most loving as he was always\na well-loved husband, a man I am very proud to be able to call my father.\nI know not for how many days the snow had been falling, but a day came\nwhen the people lost heart and would make no more gullies through it, and\nby next morning to do so was impossible, they could not fling the snow\nhigh enough.  Its back was against every door when Sunday came, and none\nventured out save a valiant few, who buffeted their way into my mother s\nhome to discuss her predicament, for unless she was  cried  in the church\nthat day she might not be married for another week, and how could she be\ncried with the minister a field away and the church buried to the waist?\nFor hours they talked, and at last some men started for the church, which\nwas several hundred yards distant.  Three of them found a window, and\nforcing a passage through it, cried the pair, and that is how it came\nabout that my father and mother were married on the first of March.\n\nThat would be the end, I suppose, if it were a story, but to my mother it\nwas only another beginning, and not the last.  I see her bending over the\ncradle of her first-born, college for him already in her eye (and my\nfather not less ambitious), and anon it is a girl who is in the cradle,\nand then another girl already a tragic figure to those who know the end.\nI wonder if any instinct told my mother that the great day of her life\nwas when she bore this child; what I am sure of is that from the first\nthe child followed her with the most wistful eyes and saw how she needed\nhelp and longed to rise and give it.  For of physical strength my mother\nhad never very much; it was her spirit that got through the work, and in\nthose days she was often so ill that the sand rained on the doctor s\nwindow, and men ran to and fro with leeches, and  she is in life, we can\nsay no more  was the information for those who came knocking at the door.\n I am sorrow to say,  her father writes in an old letter now before me,\n that Margaret is in a state that she was never so bad before in this\nworld.  Till Wednesday night she was in as poor a condition as you could\nthink of to be alive.  However, after bleeding, leeching, etc., the Dr.\nsays this morning that he is better hoped now, but at present we can say\nno more but only she is alive and in the hands of Him in whose hands all\nour lives are.  I can give you no adequate view of what my feelings are,\nindeed they are a burden too heavy for me and I cannot describe them.  I\nlook on my right and left hand and find no comfort, and if it were not\nfor the rock that is higher than I my spirit would utterly fall, but\nblessed be His name who can comfort those that are cast down.  O for more\nfaith in His supporting grace in this hour of trial. \n\nThen she is  on the mend,  she may  thole thro  if they take great care\nof her,  which we will be forward to do.   The fourth child dies when but\na few weeks old, and the next at two years.  She was her grandfather s\ncompanion, and thus he wrote of her death, this stern, self-educated Auld\nLicht with the chapped hands: \n\n     I hope you received my last in which I spoke of Dear little Lydia\n    being unwell.  Now with deep sorrow I must tell you that yesterday I\n    assisted in laying her dear remains in the lonely grave.  She died at\n    7 o clock on Wednesday evening, I suppose by the time you had got the\n    letter.  The Dr. did not think it was croup till late on Tuesday\n    night, and all that Medical aid could prescribe was done, but the Dr.\n    had no hope after he saw that the croup was confirmed, and hard\n    indeed would the heart have been that would not have melted at seeing\n    what the dear little creature suffered all Wednesday until the feeble\n    frame was quite worn out.  She was quite sensible till within 2 hours\n    of her death, and then she sunk quite low till the vital spark fled,\n    and all medicine that she got she took with the greatest readiness,\n    as if apprehensive they would make her well.  I cannot well describe\n    my feelings on the occasion.  I thought that the fountain-head of my\n    tears had now been dried up, but I have been mistaken, for I must\n    confess that the briny rivulets descended fast on my furrowed cheeks,\n    she was such a winning Child, and had such a regard for me and always\n    came and told me all her little things, and as she was now speaking,\n    some of her little prattle was very taking, and the lively images of\n    these things intrude themselves more into my mind than they should\n    do, but there is allowance for moderate grief on such occasions.  But\n    when I am telling you of my own grief and sorrow, I know not what to\n    say of the bereaved Mother, she hath not met with anything in this\n    world before that hath gone so near the quick with her.  She had no\n    handling of the last one as she was not able at the time, for she\n    only had her once in her arms, and her affections had not time to be\n    so fairly entwined around her.  I am much afraid that she will not\n    soon if ever get over this trial.  Although she was weakly before,\n    yet she was pretty well recovered, but this hath not only affected\n    her mind, but her body is so much affected that she is not well able\n    to sit so long as her bed is making and hath scarcely tasted meat\n    [i.e. food] since Monday night, and till some time is elapsed we\n    cannot say how she may be.  There is none that is not a Parent\n    themselves that can fully sympathise with one in such a state.  David\n    is much affected also, but it is not so well known on him, and the\n    younger branches of the family are affected but it will be only\n    momentary.  But alas in all this vast ado, there is only the sorrow\n    of the world which worketh death.  O how gladdening would it be if we\n    were in as great bitterness for sin as for the loss of a first-born.\n    O how unfitted persons or families is for trials who knows not the\n    divine art of casting all their cares upon the Lord, and what\n    multitudes are there that when earthly comforts is taken away, may\n    well say What have I more? all their delight is placed in some one\n    thing or another in the world, and who can blame them for unwillingly\n    parting with what they esteem their chief good?  O that we were wise\n    to lay up treasure for the time of need, for it is truly a solemn\n    affair to enter the lists with the king of terrors.  It is strange\n    that the living lay the things so little to heart until they have to\n    engage in that war where there is no discharge.  O that my head were\n    waters and mine eyes a fountain of tears that I might weep day and\n    night for my own and others  stupidity in this great matter.  O for\n    grace to do every day work in its proper time and to live above the\n    tempting cheating train of earthly things.  The rest of the family\n    are moderately well.  I have been for some days worse than I have\n    been for 8 months past, but I may soon get better.  I am in the same\n    way I have often been in before, but there is no security for it\n    always being so, for I know that it cannot be far from the time when\n    I will be one of those that once were.  I have no other news to send\n    you, and as little heart for them.  I hope you will take the earliest\n    opportunity of writing that you can, and be particular as regards\n    Margaret, for she requires consolation. \n\nHe died exactly a week after writing this letter, but my mother was to\nlive for another forty-four years.  And joys of a kind never shared in by\nhim were to come to her so abundantly, so long drawn out that, strange as\nit would have seemed to him to know it, her fuller life had scarce yet\nbegun.  And with the joys were to come their sweet, frightened comrades\npain and grief; again she was to be touched to the quick, again and again\nto be so ill that  she is in life, we can say no more,  but still she had\nattendants very  forward  to help her, some of them unborn in her\nfather s time.\n\nShe told me everything, and so my memories of our little red town are\ncoloured by her memories.  I knew it as it had been for generations, and\nsuddenly I saw it change, and the transformation could not fail to strike\na boy, for these first years are the most impressionable (nothing that\nhappens after we are twelve matters very much); they are also the most\nvivid years when we look back, and more vivid the farther we have to\nlook, until, at the end, what lies between bends like a hoop, and the\nextremes meet.  But though the new town is to me a glass through which I\nlook at the old, the people I see passing up and down these wynds,\nsitting, nightcapped, on their barrow-shafts, hobbling in their blacks to\nchurch on Sunday, are less those I saw in my childhood than their fathers\nand mothers who did these things in the same way when my mother was\nyoung.  I cannot picture the place without seeing her, as a little girl,\ncome to the door of a certain house and beat her bass against the\ngav le-end, or there is a wedding to-night, and the carriage with the\nwhite-eared horse is sent for a maiden in pale blue, whose bonnet-strings\ntie beneath the chin.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III WHAT I SHOULD BE\n\n\nMy mother was a great reader, and with ten minutes to spare before the\nstarch was ready would begin the  Decline and Fall and finish it, too,\nthat winter.  Foreign words in the text annoyed her and made her bemoan\nher want of a classical education she had only attended a Dame s school\nduring some easy months but she never passed the foreign words by until\ntheir meaning was explained to her, and when next she and they met it was\nas acquaintances, which I think was clever of her.  One of her delights\nwas to learn from me scraps of Horace, and then bring them into her\nconversation with  colleged men.   I have come upon her in lonely places,\nsuch as the stair-head or the east room, muttering these quotations aloud\nto herself, and I well remember how she would say to the visitors,  Ay,\nay, it s very true, Doctor, but as you know,  Eheu fugaces, Postume,\nPostume, labuntur anni,  or  Sal, Mr. So-and-so, my lassie is thriving\nwell, but would it no  be more to the point to say,  O matra pulchra\nfilia pulchrior ?  which astounded them very much if she managed to reach\nthe end without being flung, but usually she had a fit of laughing in the\nmiddle, and so they found her out.\n\nBiography and exploration were her favourite reading, for choice the\nbiography of men who had been good to their mothers, and she liked the\nexplorers to be alive so that she could shudder at the thought of their\nventuring forth again; but though she expressed a hope that they would\nhave the sense to stay at home henceforth, she gleamed with admiration\nwhen they disappointed her.  In later days I had a friend who was an\nAfrican explorer, and she was in two minds about him; he was one of the\nmost engrossing of mortals to her, she admired him prodigiously, pictured\nhim at the head of his caravan, now attacked by savages, now by wild\nbeasts, and adored him for the uneasy hours he gave her, but she was also\nafraid that he wanted to take me with him, and then she thought he should\nbe put down by law.  Explorers  mothers also interested her very much;\nthe books might tell her nothing about them, but she could create them\nfor herself and wring her hands in sympathy with them when they had got\nno news of him for six months.  Yet there were times when she grudged him\nto them as the day when he returned victorious.  Then what was before her\neyes was not the son coming marching home again but an old woman peering\nfor him round the window curtain and trying not to look uplifted.  The\nnewspaper reports would be about the son, but my mother s comment was\n She s a proud woman this night. \n\nWe read many books together when I was a boy,  Robinson Crusoe  being the\nfirst (and the second), and the  Arabian Nights  should have been the\nnext, for we got it out of the library (a penny for three days), but on\ndiscovering that they were nights when we had paid for knights we sent\nthat volume packing, and I have curled my lips at it ever since.   The\nPilgrim s Progress  we had in the house (it was as common a possession as\na dresser-head), and so enamoured of it was I that I turned our garden\ninto sloughs of Despond, with pea-sticks to represent Christian on his\ntravels and a buffet-stool for his burden, but when I dragged my mother\nout to see my handiwork she was scared, and I felt for days, with a\ncertain elation, that I had been a dark character.  Besides reading every\nbook we could hire or borrow I also bought one now and again, and while\nbuying (it was the occupation of weeks) I read, standing at the counter,\nmost of the other books in the shop, which is perhaps the most exquisite\nway of reading.  And I took in a magazine called  Sunshine,  the most\ndelicious periodical, I am sure, of any day.  It cost a halfpenny or a\npenny a month, and always, as I fondly remember, had a continued tale\nabout the dearest girl, who sold water-cress, which is a dainty not grown\nand I suppose never seen in my native town.  This romantic little\ncreature took such hold of my imagination that I cannot eat water-cress\neven now without emotion.  I lay in bed wondering what she would be up to\nin the next number; I have lost trout because when they nibbled my mind\nwas wandering with her; my early life was embittered by her not arriving\nregularly on the first of the month.  I know not whether it was owing to\nher loitering on the way one month to an extent flesh and blood could not\nbear, or because we had exhausted the penny library, but on a day I\nconceived a glorious idea, or it was put into my head by my mother, then\ndesirous of making progress with her new clouty hearthrug.  The notion\nwas nothing short of this, why should I not write the tales myself?  I\ndid write them in the garret but they by no means helped her to get on\nwith her work, for when I finished a chapter I bounded downstairs to read\nit to her, and so short were the chapters, so ready was the pen, that I\nwas back with new manuscript before another clout had been added to the\nrug.  Authorship seemed, like her bannock-baking, to consist of running\nbetween two points.  They were all tales of adventure (happiest is he who\nwrites of adventure), no characters were allowed within if I knew their\nlike in the flesh, the scene lay in unknown parts, desert islands,\nenchanted gardens, with knights (none of your nights) on black chargers,\nand round the first corner a lady selling water-cress.\n\nAt twelve or thereabout I put the literary calling to bed for a time,\nhaving gone to a school where cricket and football were more esteemed,\nbut during the year before I went to the university, it woke up and I\nwrote great part of a three-volume novel.  The publisher replied that the\nsum for which he would print it was a hundred and however, that was not\nthe important point (I had sixpence): where he stabbed us both was in\nwriting that he considered me a  clever lady.   I replied stiffly that I\nwas a gentleman, and since then I have kept that manuscript concealed.  I\nlooked through it lately, and, oh, but it is dull!  I defy any one to\nread it.\n\nThe malignancy of publishers, however, could not turn me back.  From the\nday on which I first tasted blood in the garret my mind was made up;\nthere could be no hum-dreadful-drum profession for me; literature was my\ngame.  It was not highly thought of by those who wished me well.  I\nremember being asked by two maiden ladies, about the time I left the\nuniversity, what I was to be, and when I replied brazenly,  An author, \nthey flung up their hands, and one exclaimed reproachfully,  And you an\nM.A.!   My mother s views at first were not dissimilar; for long she took\nmine jestingly as something I would grow out of, and afterwards they hurt\nher so that I tried to give them up.  To be a minister that she thought\nwas among the fairest prospects, but she was a very ambitious woman, and\nsometimes she would add, half scared at her appetite, that there were\nministers who had become professors,  but it was not canny to think of\nsuch things. \n\nI had one person only on my side, an old tailor, one of the fullest men I\nhave known, and quite the best talker.  He was a bachelor (he told me all\nthat is to be known about woman), a lean man, pallid of face, his legs\ndrawn up when he walked as if he was ever carrying something in his lap;\nhis walks were of the shortest, from the tea-pot on the hob to the board\non which he stitched, from the board to the hob, and so to bed.  He might\nhave gone out had the idea struck him, but in the years I knew him, the\nlast of his brave life, I think he was only in the open twice, when he\n flitted changed his room for another hard by.  I did not see him make\nthese journeys, but I seem to see him now, and he is somewhat dizzy in\nthe odd atmosphere; in one hand he carries a box-iron, he raises the\nother, wondering what this is on his head, it is a hat; a faint smell of\nsinged cloth goes by with him.  This man had heard of my set of\nphotographs of the poets and asked for a sight of them, which led to our\nfirst meeting.  I remember how he spread them out on his board, and after\nlooking long at them, turned his gaze on me and said solemnly,\n\n    What can I do to be for ever known,\n    And make the age to come my own?\n\nThese lines of Cowley were new to me, but the sentiment was not new, and\nI marvelled how the old tailor could see through me so well.  So it was\nstrange to me to discover presently that he had not been thinking of me\nat all, but of his own young days, when that couplet sang in his head,\nand he, too, had thirsted to set off for Grub Street, but was afraid, and\nwhile he hesitated old age came, and then Death, and found him grasping a\nbox-iron.\n\nI hurried home with the mouthful, but neighbours had dropped in, and this\nwas for her ears only, so I drew her to the stair, and said imperiously,\n\n    What can I do to be for ever known,\n    And make the age to come my own?\n\nIt was an odd request for which to draw her from a tea-table, and she\nmust have been surprised, but I think she did not laugh, and in after\nyears she would repeat the lines fondly, with a flush on her soft face.\n That is the kind you would like to be yourself!  we would say in jest to\nher, and she would reply almost passionately,  No, but I would be windy\nof being his mother.   It is possible that she could have been his mother\nhad that other son lived, he might have managed it from sheer love of\nher, but for my part I can smile at one of those two figures on the stair\nnow, having long given up the dream of being for ever known, and seeing\nmyself more akin to my friend, the tailor, for as he was found at the end\non his board, so I hope shall I be found at my handloom, doing honestly\nthe work that suits me best.  Who should know so well as I that it is but\na handloom compared to the great guns that reverberate through the age to\ncome?  But she who stood with me on the stair that day was a very simple\nwoman, accustomed all her life to making the most of small things, and I\nweaved sufficiently well to please her, which has been my only steadfast\nambition since I was a little boy.\n\nNot less than mine became her desire that I should have my way but, ah,\nthe iron seats in that park of horrible repute, and that bare room at the\ntop of many flights of stairs!  While I was away at college she drained\nall available libraries for books about those who go to London to live by\nthe pen, and they all told the same shuddering tale.  London, which she\nnever saw, was to her a monster that licked up country youths as they\nstepped from the train; there were the garrets in which they sat abject,\nand the park seats where they passed the night.  Those park seats were\nthe monster s glaring eyes to her, and as I go by them now she is nearer\nto me than when I am in any other part of London.  I daresay that when\nnight comes, this Hyde Park which is so gay by day, is haunted by the\nghosts of many mothers, who run, wild-eyed, from seat to seat, looking\nfor their sons.\n\nBut if we could dodge those dreary seats she longed to see me try my\nluck, and I sought to exclude them from the picture by drawing maps of\nLondon with Hyde Park left out.  London was as strange to me as to her,\nbut long before I was shot upon it I knew it by maps, and drew them more\naccurately than I could draw them now.  Many a time she and I took our\njaunt together through the map, and were most gleeful, popping into\ntelegraph offices to wire my father and sister that we should not be home\ntill late, winking to my books in lordly shop-windows, lunching at\nrestaurants (and remembering not to call it dinner), saying,  How do?  to\nMr. Alfred Tennyson when we passed him in Regent Street, calling at\npublishers  offices for cheque, when  Will you take care of it, or shall\nI?  I asked gaily, and she would be certain to reply,  I m thinking we d\nbetter take it to the bank and get the money,  for she always felt surer\nof money than of cheques; so to the bank we went ( Two tens, and the rest\nin gold ), and thence straightway (by cab) to the place where you buy\nsealskin coats for middling old ladies.  But ere the laugh was done the\npark would come through the map like a blot.\n\n If you could only be sure of as much as would keep body and soul\ntogether,  my mother would say with a sigh.\n\n With something over, mother, to send to you. \n\n You couldna expect that at the start. \n\nThe wench I should have been courting now was journalism, that grisette\nof literature who has a smile and a hand for all beginners, welcoming\nthem at the threshold, teaching them so much that is worth knowing,\nintroducing them to the other lady whom they have worshipped from afar,\nshowing them even how to woo her, and then bidding them a bright\nGod-speed he were an ingrate who, having had her joyous companionship, no\nlonger flings her a kiss as they pass.  But though she bears no ill-will\nwhen she is jilted, you must serve faithfully while you are hers, and you\nmust seek her out and make much of her, and, until you can rely on her\ngood-nature (note this), not a word about the other lady.  When at last\nshe took me in I grew so fond of her that I called her by the other s\nname, and even now I think at times that there was more fun in the little\nsister, but I began by wooing her with contributions that were all\nmisfits.  In an old book I find columns of notes about works projected at\nthis time, nearly all to consist of essays on deeply uninteresting\nsubjects; the lightest was to be a volume on the older satirists,\nbeginning with Skelton and Tom Nash the half of that manuscript still\nlies in a dusty chest the only story was about Mary Queen of Scots, who\nwas also the subject of many unwritten papers.  Queen Mary seems to have\nbeen luring me to my undoing ever since I saw Holyrood, and I have a\nhorrid fear that I may write that novel yet.  That anything could be\nwritten about my native place never struck me.  We had read somewhere\nthat a novelist is better equipped than most of his trade if he knows\nhimself and one woman, and my mother said,  You know yourself, for\neverybody must know himself  (there never was a woman who knew less about\nherself than she), and she would add dolefully,  But I doubt I m the only\nwoman you know well. \n\n Then I must make you my heroine,  I said lightly.\n\n A gey auld-farrant-like heroine!  she said, and we both laughed at the\nnotion so little did we read the future.\n\nThus it is obvious what were my qualifications when I was rashly engaged\nas a leader-writer (it was my sister who saw the advertisement) on an\nEnglish provincial paper.  At the moment I was as uplifted as the others,\nfor the chance had come at last, with what we all regarded as a\nprodigious salary, but I was wanted in the beginning of the week, and it\nsuddenly struck me that the leaders were the one thing I had always\nskipped.  Leaders!  How were they written? what were they about?  My\nmother was already sitting triumphant among my socks, and I durst not let\nher see me quaking.  I retired to ponder, and presently she came to me\nwith the daily paper.  Which were the leaders? she wanted to know, so\nevidently I could get no help from her.  Had she any more newspapers?  I\nasked, and after rummaging, she produced a few with which her boxes had\nbeen lined.  Others, very dusty, came from beneath carpets, and lastly a\nsooty bundle was dragged down the chimney.  Surrounded by these I sat\ndown, and studied how to become a journalist.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV AN EDITOR\n\n\nA devout lady, to whom some friend had presented one of my books, used to\nsay when asked how she was getting on with it,  Sal, it s dreary, weary,\nuphill work, but I ve wrastled through with tougher jobs in my time, and,\nplease God, I ll wrastle through with this one.   It was in this spirit,\nI fear, though she never told me so, that my mother wrestled for the next\nyear or more with my leaders, and indeed I was always genuinely sorry for\nthe people I saw reading them.  In my spare hours I was trying journalism\nof another kind and sending it to London, but nearly eighteen months\nelapsed before there came to me, as unlooked for as a telegram, the\nthought that there was something quaint about my native place.  A boy who\nfound that a knife had been put into his pocket in the night could not\nhave been more surprised.  A few days afterwards I sent my mother a\nLondon evening paper with an article entitled  An Auld Licht Community, \nand they told me that when she saw the heading she laughed, because there\nwas something droll to her in the sight of the words Auld Licht in print.\nFor her, as for me, that newspaper was soon to have the face of a friend.\nTo this day I never pass its placards in the street without shaking it by\nthe hand, and she used to sew its pages together as lovingly as though\nthey were a child s frock; but let the truth be told, when she read that\nfirst article she became alarmed, and fearing the talk of the town, hid\nthe paper from all eyes.  For some time afterwards, while I proudly\npictured her showing this and similar articles to all who felt an\ninterest in me, she was really concealing them fearfully in a bandbox on\nthe garret stair.  And she wanted to know by return of post whether I was\npaid for these articles as much as I was paid for real articles; when she\nheard that I was paid better, she laughed again and had them out of the\nbandbox for re-reading, and it cannot be denied that she thought the\nLondon editor a fine fellow but slightly soft.\n\nWhen I sent off that first sketch I thought I had exhausted the subject,\nbut our editor wrote that he would like something more of the same, so I\nsent him a marriage, and he took it, and then I tried him with a funeral,\nand he took it, and really it began to look as if we had him.  Now my\nmother might have been discovered, in answer to certain excited letters,\nflinging the bundle of undarned socks from her lap, and  going in for\nliterature ; she was racking her brains, by request, for memories I might\nconvert into articles, and they came to me in letters which she dictated\nto my sisters.  How well I could hear her sayings between the lines:  But\nthe editor-man will never stand that, it s perfect blethers By this\npost it must go, I tell you; we must take the editor when he s hungry we\ncanna be blamed for it, can we? he prints them of his free will, so the\nwite is his But I m near terrified. If London folk reads them we re\ndone for.   And I was sounded as to the advisability of sending him a\npresent of a lippie of shortbread, which was to be her crafty way of\ngetting round him.  By this time, though my mother and I were hundreds of\nmiles apart, you may picture us waving our hands to each other across\ncountry, and shouting  Hurrah!   You may also picture the editor in his\noffice thinking he was behaving like a shrewd man of business, and\nunconscious that up in the north there was an elderly lady chuckling so\nmuch at him that she could scarcely scrape the potatoes.\n\nI was now able to see my mother again, and the park seats no longer\nloomed so prominent in our map of London.  Still, there they were, and it\nwas with an effort that she summoned up courage to let me go.  She feared\nchanges, and who could tell that the editor would continue to be kind?\nPerhaps when he saw me \n\nShe seemed to be very much afraid of his seeing me, and this, I would\npoint out, was a reflection on my appearance or my manner.\n\nNo, what she meant was that I looked so young, and and that would take\nhim aback, for had I not written as an aged man?\n\n But he knows my age, mother. \n\n I m glad of that, but maybe he wouldna like you when he saw you. \n\n Oh, it is my manner, then! \n\n I dinna say that, but \n\nHere my sister would break in:  The short and the long of it is just\nthis, she thinks nobody has such manners as herself.  Can you deny it,\nyou vain woman?   My mother would deny it vigorously.\n\n You stand there,  my sister would say with affected scorn,  and tell me\nyou don t think you could get the better of that man quicker than any of\nus? \n\n Sal, I m thinking I could manage him,  says my mother, with a chuckle.\n\n How would you set about it? \n\nThen my mother would begin to laugh.   I would find out first if he had a\nfamily, and then I would say they were the finest family in London. \n\n Yes, that is just what you would do, you cunning woman!  But if he has\nno family? \n\n I would say what great men editors are! \n\n He would see through you. \n\n Not he! \n\n You don t understand that what imposes on common folk would never\nhoodwink an editor. \n\n That s where you are wrong.  Gentle or simple, stupid or clever, the men\nare all alike in the hands of a woman that flatters them. \n\n Ah, I m sure there are better ways of getting round an editor than\nthat. \n\n I daresay there are,  my mother would say with conviction,  but if you\ntry that plan you will never need to try another. \n\n How artful you are, mother you with your soft face!  Do you not think\nshame? \n\n Pooh!  says my mother brazenly.\n\n I can see the reason why you are so popular with men. \n\n Ay, you can see it, but they never will. \n\n Well, how would you dress yourself if you were going to that editor s\noffice? \n\n Of course I would wear my silk and my Sabbath bonnet. \n\n It is you who are shortsighted now, mother.  I tell you, you would\nmanage him better if you just put on your old grey shawl and one of your\nbonny white mutches, and went in half smiling and half timid and said,  I\nam the mother of him that writes about the Auld Lichts, and I want you to\npromise that he will never have to sleep in the open air. \n\nBut my mother would shake her head at this, and reply almost hotly,  I\ntell you if I ever go into that man s office, I go in silk. \n\nI wrote and asked the editor if I should come to London, and he said No,\nso I went, laden with charges from my mother to walk in the middle of the\nstreet (they jump out on you as you are turning a corner), never to\nventure forth after sunset, and always to lock up everything (I who could\nnever lock up anything, except my heart in company).  Thanks to this\neditor, for the others would have nothing to say to me though I battered\non all their doors, she was soon able to sleep at nights without the\ndread that I should be waking presently with the iron-work of certain\nseats figured on my person, and what relieved her very much was that I\nhad begun to write as if Auld Lichts were not the only people I knew of.\nSo long as I confined myself to them she had a haunting fear that, even\nthough the editor remained blind to his best interests, something would\none day go crack within me (as the mainspring of a watch breaks) and my\npen refuse to write for evermore.   Ay, I like the article brawly,  she\nwould say timidly,  but I m doubting it s the last I always have a sort\nof terror the new one may be the last,  and if many days elapsed before\nthe arrival of another article her face would say mournfully,  The blow\nhas fallen he can think of nothing more to write about.   If I ever\nshared her fears I never told her so, and the articles that were not\nScotch grew in number until there were hundreds of them, all carefully\npreserved by her: they were the only thing in the house that, having\nserved one purpose, she did not convert into something else, yet they\ncould give her uneasy moments.  This was because I nearly always assumed\na character when I wrote; I must be a country squire, or an\nundergraduate, or a butler, or a member of the House of Lords, or a\ndowager, or a lady called Sweet Seventeen, or an engineer in India, else\nwas my pen clogged, and though this gave my mother certain fearful joys,\ncausing her to laugh unexpectedly (so far as my articles were concerned\nshe nearly always laughed in the wrong place), it also scared her.  Much\nto her amusement the editor continued to prefer the Auld Licht papers,\nhowever, as was proved (to those who knew him) by his way of thinking\nthat the others would pass as they were, while he sent these back and\nasked me to make them better.  Here again she came to my aid.  I had said\nthat the row of stockings were hung on a string by the fire, which was a\nrecollection of my own, but she could tell me whether they were hung\nupside down.  She became quite skilful at sending or giving me (for now I\ncould be with her half the year) the right details, but still she smiled\nat the editor, and in her gay moods she would say,  I was fifteen when I\ngot my first pair of elastic-sided boots.  Tell him my charge for this\nimportant news is two pounds ten. \n\n Ay, but though we re doing well, it s no  the same as if they were a\nbook with your name on it.   So the ambitious woman would say with a\nsigh, and I did my best to turn the Auld Licht sketches into a book with\nmy name on it.  Then perhaps we understood most fully how good a friend\nour editor had been, for just as I had been able to find no well-known\nmagazine and I think I tried all which would print any article or story\nabout the poor of my native land, so now the publishers, Scotch and\nEnglish, refused to accept the book as a gift.  I was willing to present\nit to them, but they would have it in no guise; there seemed to be a\nblight on everything that was Scotch.  I daresay we sighed, but never\nwere collaborators more prepared for rejection, and though my mother\nmight look wistfully at the scorned manuscript at times and murmur,  You\npoor cold little crittur shut away in a drawer, are you dead or just\nsleeping?  she had still her editor to say grace over.  And at last\npublishers, sufficiently daring and far more than sufficiently generous,\nwere found for us by a dear friend, who made one woman very  uplifted. \nHe also was an editor, and had as large a part in making me a writer of\nbooks as the other in determining what the books should be about.\n\nNow that I was an author I must get into a club.  But you should have\nheard my mother on clubs!  She knew of none save those to which you\nsubscribe a pittance weekly in anticipation of rainy days, and the London\nclubs were her scorn.  Often I heard her on them she raised her voice to\nmake me hear, whichever room I might be in, and it was when she was\nsarcastic that I skulked the most:  Thirty pounds is what he will have to\npay the first year, and ten pounds a year after that.  You think it s a\nlot o  siller?  Oh no, you re mista en it s nothing ava.  For the third\npart of thirty pounds you could rent a four-roomed house, but what is a\nfour-roomed house, what is thirty pounds, compared to the glory of being\na member of a club?  Where does the glory come in?  Sal, you needna ask\nme, I m just a doited auld stock that never set foot in a club, so it s\nlittle I ken about glory.  But I may tell you if you bide in London and\ncanna become member of a club, the best you can do is to tie a rope round\nyour neck and slip out of the world.  What use are they?  Oh, they re\nterrible useful.  You see it doesna do for a man in London to eat his\ndinner in his lodgings.  Other men shake their heads at him.  He maun\naway to his club if he is to be respected.  Does he get good dinners at\nthe club?  Oh, they cow!  You get no common beef at clubs; there is a\nmanzy of different things all sauced up to be unlike themsels.  Even the\npotatoes daurna look like potatoes.  If the food in a club looks like\nwhat it is, the members run about, flinging up their hands and crying,\n Woe is me!   Then this is another thing, you get your letters sent to\nthe club instead of to your lodgings.  You see you would get them sooner\nat your lodgings, and you may have to trudge weary miles to the club for\nthem, but that s a great advantage, and cheap at thirty pounds, is it\nno ?  I wonder they can do it at the price. \n\nMy wisest policy was to remain downstairs when these withering blasts\nwere blowing, but probably I went up in self-defence.\n\n I never saw you so pugnacious before, mother. \n\n Oh,  she would reply promptly,  you canna expect me to be sharp in the\nuptake when I am no  a member of a club. \n\n But the difficulty is in becoming a member.  They are very particular\nabout whom they elect, and I daresay I shall not get in. \n\n Well, I m but a poor crittur (not being member of a club), but I think I\ncan tell you to make your mind easy on that head.  You ll get in, I se\nuphaud and your thirty pounds will get in, too. \n\n If I get in it will be because the editor is supporting me. \n\n It s the first ill thing I ever heard of him. \n\n You don t think he is to get any of the thirty pounds, do you? \n\n Deed if I did I should be better pleased, for he has been a good friend\nto us, but what maddens me is that every penny of it should go to those\nbare-faced scoundrels. \n\n What bare-faced scoundrels? \n\n Them that have the club. \n\n But all the members have the club between them. \n\n Havers!  I m no  to be catched with chaff. \n\n But don t you believe me? \n\n I believe they ve filled your head with their stories till you swallow\nwhatever they tell you.  If the place belongs to the members, why do they\nhave to pay thirty pounds? \n\n To keep it going. \n\n They dinna have to pay for their dinners, then? \n\n Oh yes, they have to pay extra for dinner. \n\n And a gey black price, I m thinking. \n\n Well, five or six shillings. \n\n Is that all?  Losh, it s nothing, I wonder they dinna raise the price. \n\nNevertheless my mother was of a sex that scorned prejudice, and, dropping\nsarcasm, she would at times cross-examine me as if her mind was not yet\nmade up.   Tell me this, if you were to fall ill, would you be paid a\nweekly allowance out of the club? \n\nNo, it was not that kind of club.\n\n I see.  Well, I am just trying to find out what kind of club it is.  Do\nyou get anything out of it for accidents? \n\nNot a penny.\n\n Anything at New Year s time? \n\nNot so much as a goose.\n\n Is there any one mortal thing you get free out of that club? \n\nThere was not one mortal thing.\n\n And thirty pounds is what you pay for this? \n\nIf the committee elected me.\n\n How many are in the committee? \n\nAbout a dozen, I thought.\n\n A dozen!  Ay, ay, that makes two pound ten apiece. \n\nWhen I was elected I thought it wisdom to send my sister upstairs with\nthe news.  My mother was ironing, and made no comment, unless with the\niron, which I could hear rattling more violently in its box.  Presently I\nheard her laughing at me undoubtedly, but she had recovered control over\nher face before she came downstairs to congratulate me sarcastically.\nThis was grand news, she said without a twinkle, and I must write and\nthank the committee, the noble critturs.  I saw behind her mask, and\nmaintained a dignified silence, but she would have another shot at me.\n And tell them,  she said from the door,  you were doubtful of being\nelected, but your auld mother had aye a mighty confidence they would\nsnick you in.   I heard her laughing softly as she went up the stair, but\nthough I had provided her with a joke I knew she was burning to tell the\ncommittee what she thought of them.\n\nMoney, you see, meant so much to her, though even at her poorest she was\nthe most cheerful giver.  In the old days, when the article arrived, she\ndid not read it at once, she first counted the lines to discover what we\nshould get for it she and the daughter who was so dear to her had\ncalculated the payment per line, and I remember once overhearing a\ndiscussion between them about whether that sub-title meant another\nsixpence.  Yes, she knew the value of money; she had always in the end\ngot the things she wanted, but now she could get them more easily, and it\nturned her simple life into a fairy tale.  So often in those days she\nwent down suddenly upon her knees; we would come upon her thus, and go\naway noiselessly.  After her death I found that she had preserved in a\nlittle box, with a photograph of me as a child, the envelopes which had\ncontained my first cheques.  There was a little ribbon round them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V A DAY OF HER LIFE\n\n\nI should like to call back a day of her life as it was at this time, when\nher spirit was as bright as ever and her hand as eager, but she was no\nlonger able to do much work.  It should not be difficult, for she\nrepeated herself from day to day and yet did it with a quaint\nunreasonableness that was ever yielding fresh delight.  Our love for her\nwas such that we could easily tell what she would do in given\ncircumstances, but she had always a new way of doing it.\n\nWell, with break of day she wakes and sits up in bed and is standing in\nthe middle of the room.  So nimble was she in the mornings (one of our\ntroubles with her) that these three actions must be considered as one;\nshe is on the floor before you have time to count them.  She has strict\norders not to rise until her fire is lit, and having broken them there is\na demure elation on her face.  The question is what to do before she is\ncaught and hurried to bed again.  Her fingers are tingling to prepare the\nbreakfast; she would dearly love to black-lead the grate, but that might\nrouse her daughter from whose side she has slipped so cunningly.  She\ncatches sight of the screen at the foot of the bed, and immediately her\nsoft face becomes very determined.  To guard her from draughts the screen\nhad been brought here from the lordly east room, where it was of no use\nwhatever.  But in her opinion it was too beautiful for use; it belonged\nto the east room, where she could take pleasant peeps at it; she had\nobjected to its removal, even become low-spirited.  Now is her\nopportunity.  The screen is an unwieldy thing, but still as a mouse she\ncarries it, and they are well under weigh when it strikes against the\ngas-bracket in the passage.  Next moment a reproachful hand arrests her.\nShe is challenged with being out of bed, she denies it standing in the\npassage.  Meekly or stubbornly she returns to bed, and it is no\nsatisfaction to you that you can say,  Well, well, of all the women!  and\nso on, or  Surely you knew that the screen was brought here to protect\nyou,  for she will reply scornfully,  Who was touching the screen? \n\nBy this time I have wakened (I am through the wall) and join them\nanxiously: so often has my mother been taken ill in the night that the\nslightest sound from her room rouses the house.  She is in bed again,\nlooking as if she had never been out of it, but I know her and listen\nsternly to the tale of her misdoings.  She is not contrite.  Yes, maybe\nshe did promise not to venture forth on the cold floors of daybreak, but\nshe had risen for a moment only, and we just t neaded her with our talk\nabout draughts there were no such things as draughts in her young\ndays and it is more than she can do (here she again attempts to rise but\nwe hold her down) to lie there and watch that beautiful screen being\nspoilt.  I reply that the beauty of the screen has ever been its\nmiserable defect: ho, there! for a knife with which to spoil its beauty\nand make the bedroom its fitting home.  As there is no knife handy, my\nfoot will do; I raise my foot, and then she sees that it is bare, she\ncries to me excitedly to go back to bed lest I catch cold.  For though,\never careless of herself, she will wander the house unshod, and tell us\nnot to talk havers when we chide her, the sight of one of us similarly\nnegligent rouses her anxiety at once.  She is willing now to sign any vow\nif only I will take my bare feet back to bed, but probably she is soon\nafter me in hers to make sure that I am nicely covered up.\n\nIt is scarcely six o clock, and we have all promised to sleep for another\nhour, but in ten minutes she is sure that eight has struck (house\ndisgraced), or that if it has not, something is wrong with the clock.\nNext moment she is captured on her way downstairs to wind up the clock.\nSo evidently we must be up and doing, and as we have no servant, my\nsister disappears into the kitchen, having first asked me to see that\n that woman  lies still, and  that woman  calls out that she always does\nlie still, so what are we blethering about?\n\nShe is up now, and dressed in her thick maroon wrapper; over her\nshoulders (lest she should stray despite our watchfulness) is a shawl,\nnot placed there by her own hands, and on her head a delicious mutch.  O\nthat I could sing the p an of the white mutch (and the dirge of the\nelaborate black cap) from the day when she called witchcraft to her aid\nand made it out of snow-flakes, and the dear worn hands that washed it\ntenderly in a basin, and the starching of it, and the finger-iron for its\nexquisite frills that looked like curls of sugar, and the sweet bands\nwith which it tied beneath the chin!  The honoured snowy mutch, how I\nlove to see it smiling to me from the doors and windows of the poor; it\nis always smiling sometimes maybe a wavering wistful smile, as if a\ntear-drop lay hidden among, the frills.  A hundred times I have taken the\ncharacterless cap from my mother s head and put the mutch in its place\nand tied the bands beneath her chin, while she protested but was well\npleased.  For in her heart she knew what suited her best and would admit\nit, beaming, when I put a mirror into her hands and told her to look; but\nnevertheless the cap cost no less than so-and-so, whereas Was that a\nknock at the door?  She is gone, to put on her cap!\n\nShe begins the day by the fireside with the New Testament in her hands,\nan old volume with its loose pages beautifully refixed, and its covers\nsewn and resewn by her, so that you would say it can never fall to\npieces.  It is mine now, and to me the black threads with which she\nstitched it are as part of the contents.  Other books she read in the\nordinary manner, but this one differently, her lips moving with each word\nas if she were reading aloud, and her face very solemn.  The Testament\nlies open on her lap long after she has ceased to read, and the\nexpression of her face has not changed.\n\nI have seen her reading other books early in the day but never without a\nguilty look on her face, for she thought reading was scarce respectable\nuntil night had come.  She spends the forenoon in what she calls doing\nnothing, which may consist in stitching so hard that you would swear she\nwas an over-worked seamstress at it for her life, or you will find her on\na table with nails in her mouth, and anon she has to be chased from the\ngarret (she has suddenly decided to change her curtains), or she is under\nthe bed searching for band-boxes and asking sternly where we have put\nthat bonnet.  On the whole she is behaving in a most exemplary way to-day\n(not once have we caught her trying to go out into the washing-house),\nand we compliment her at dinner-time, partly because she deserves it, and\npartly to make her think herself so good that she will eat something,\njust to maintain her new character.  I question whether one hour of all\nher life was given to thoughts of food; in her great days to eat seemed\nto her to be waste of time, and afterwards she only ate to boast of it,\nas something she had done to please us.  She seldom remembered whether\nshe had dined, but always presumed she had, and while she was telling me\nin all good faith what the meal consisted of, it might be brought in.\nWhen in London I had to hear daily what she was eating, and perhaps she\nhad refused all dishes until they produced the pen and ink.  These were\nflourished before her, and then she would say with a sigh,  Tell him I am\nto eat an egg.   But they were not so easily deceived; they waited, pen\nin hand, until the egg was eaten.\n\nShe never  went for a walk  in her life.  Many long trudges she had as a\ngirl when she carried her father s dinner in a flagon to the country\nplace where he was at work, but to walk with no end save the good of your\nhealth seemed a very droll proceeding to her.  In her young days, she was\npositive, no one had ever gone for a walk, and she never lost the belief\nthat it was an absurdity introduced by a new generation with too much\ntime on their hands.  That they enjoyed it she could not believe; it was\nmerely a form of showing off, and as they passed her window she would\nremark to herself with blasting satire,  Ay, Jeames, are you off for your\nwalk?  and add fervently,  Rather you than me!   I was one of those who\nwalked, and though she smiled, and might drop a sarcastic word when she\nsaw me putting on my boots, it was she who had heated them in preparation\nfor my going.  The arrangement between us was that she should lie down\nuntil my return, and to ensure its being carried out I saw her in bed\nbefore I started, but with the bang of the door she would be at the\nwindow to watch me go: there is one spot on the road where a thousand\ntimes I have turned to wave my stick to her, while she nodded and smiled\nand kissed her hand to me.  That kissing of the hand was the one English\ncustom she had learned.\n\nIn an hour or so I return, and perhaps find her in bed, according to\npromise, but still I am suspicious.  The way to her detection is\ncircuitous.\n\n I ll need to be rising now,  she says, with a yawn that may be genuine.\n\n How long have you been in bed? \n\n You saw me go. \n\n And then I saw you at the window.  Did you go straight back to bed? \n\n Surely I had that much sense. \n\n The truth! \n\n I might have taken a look at the clock first. \n\n It is a terrible thing to have a mother who prevaricates.  Have you been\nlying down ever since I left? \n\n Thereabout. \n\n What does that mean exactly? \n\n Off and on. \n\n Have you been to the garret? \n\n What should I do in the garret? \n\n But have you? \n\n I might just have looked up the garret stair. \n\n You have been redding up the garret again! \n\n Not what you could call a redd up. \n\n O, woman, woman, I believe you have not been in bed at all! \n\n You see me in it. \n\n My opinion is that you jumped into bed when you heard me open the door. \n\n Havers. \n\n Did you? \n\n No. \n\n Well, then, when you heard me at the gate? \n\n It might have been when I heard you at the gate. \n\nAs daylight goes she follows it with her sewing to the window, and gets\nanother needleful out of it, as one may run after a departed visitor for\na last word, but now the gas is lit, and no longer is it shameful to sit\ndown to literature.  If the book be a story by George Eliot or Mrs.\nOliphant, her favourites (and mine) among women novelists, or if it be a\nCarlyle, and we move softly, she will read, entranced, for hours.  Her\ndelight in Carlyle was so well known that various good people would send\nher books that contained a page about him; she could place her finger on\nany passage wanted in the biography as promptly as though she were\nlooking for some article in her own drawer, and given a date she was\noften able to tell you what they were doing in Cheyne Row that day.\nCarlyle, she decided, was not so much an ill man to live with as one who\nneeded a deal of managing, but when I asked if she thought she could have\nmanaged him she only replied with a modest smile that meant  Oh no!  but\nhad the face of  Sal, I would have liked to try. \n\nOne lady lent her some scores of Carlyle letters that have never been\npublished, and crabbed was the writing, but though my mother liked to\nhave our letters read aloud to her, she read every one of these herself,\nand would quote from them in her talk.  Side by side with the Carlyle\nletters, which show him in his most gracious light, were many from his\nwife to a friend, and in one of these a romantic adventure is described I\nquote from memory, and it is a poor memory compared to my mother s, which\nregistered everything by a method of her own:  What might be the age of\nBell Tibbits?  Well, she was born the week I bought the boiler, so she ll\nbe one-and-fifty (no less!) come Martinmas.   Mrs. Carlyle had got into\nthe train at a London station and was feeling very lonely, for the\njourney to Scotland lay before her and no one had come to see her off.\nThen, just as the train was starting, a man jumped into the carriage, to\nher regret until she saw his face, when, behold, they were old friends,\nand the last time they met (I forget how many years before) he had asked\nher to be his wife.  He was very nice, and if I remember aright, saw her\nto her journey s end, though he had intended to alight at some half-way\nplace.  I call this an adventure, and I am sure it seemed to my mother to\nbe the most touching and memorable adventure that can come into a woman s\nlife.   You see he hadna forgot,  she would say proudly, as if this was a\ncompliment in which all her sex could share, and on her old tender face\nshone some of the elation with which Mrs. Carlyle wrote that letter.\n\nBut there were times, she held, when Carlyle must have made his wife a\nglorious woman.   As when?  I might inquire.\n\n When she keeked in at his study door and said to herself,  The whole\nworld is ringing with his fame, and he is my man! \n\n And then,  I might point out,  he would roar to her to shut the door. \n\n Pooh!  said my mother,  a man s roar is neither here nor there.   But\nher verdict as a whole was,  I would rather have been his mother than his\nwife. \n\nSo we have got her into her chair with the Carlyles, and all is well.\nFurthermore,  to mak siccar,  my father has taken the opposite side of\nthe fireplace and is deep in the latest five columns of Gladstone, who is\nhis Carlyle.  He is to see that she does not slip away fired by a\nconviction, which suddenly overrides her pages, that the kitchen is going\nto rack and ruin for want of her, and she is to recall him to himself\nshould he put his foot in the fire and keep it there, forgetful of all\nsave his hero s eloquence.  (We were a family who needed a deal of\nwatching.)  She is not interested in what Mr. Gladstone has to say;\nindeed she could never be brought to look upon politics as of serious\nconcern for grown folk (a class in which she scarcely included man), and\nshe gratefully gave up reading  leaders  the day I ceased to write them.\nBut like want of reasonableness, a love for having the last word, want of\nhumour and the like, politics were in her opinion a mannish attribute to\nbe tolerated, and Gladstone was the name of the something which makes all\nour sex such queer characters.  She had a profound faith in him as an aid\nto conversation, and if there were silent men in the company would give\nhim to them to talk about, precisely as she divided a cake among\nchildren.  And then, with a motherly smile, she would leave them to gorge\non him.  But in the idolising of Gladstone she recognised, nevertheless,\na certain inevitability, and would no more have tried to contend with it\nthan to sweep a shadow off the floor.  Gladstone was, and there was an\nend of it in her practical philosophy.  Nor did she accept him coldly;\nlike a true woman she sympathised with those who suffered severely, and\nthey knew it and took counsel of her in the hour of need.  I remember one\nardent Gladstonian who, as a general election drew near, was in sore\nstraits indeed, for he disbelieved in Home Rule, and yet how could he\nvote against  Gladstone s man ?  His distress was so real that it gave\nhim a hang-dog appearance.  He put his case gloomily before her, and\nuntil the day of the election she riddled him with sarcasm; I think he\nonly went to her because he found a mournful enjoyment in seeing a false\nGladstonian tortured.\n\nIt was all such plain-sailing for him, she pointed out; he did not like\nthis Home Rule, and therefore he must vote against it.\n\nShe put it pitiful clear, he replied with a groan.\n\nBut she was like another woman to him when he appeared before her on his\nway to the polling-booth.\n\n This is a watery Sabbath to you, I m thinking,  she said\nsympathetically, but without dropping her wires for Home Rule or no Home\nRule that stocking-foot must be turned before twelve o clock.\n\nA watery Sabbath means a doleful day, and  A watery Sabbath it is,  he\nreplied with feeling.  A silence followed, broken only by the click of\nthe wires.  Now and again he would mutter,  Ay, well, I ll be going to\nvote little did I think the day would come,  and so on, but if he rose it\nwas only to sit down again, and at last she crossed over to him and said\nsoftly, (no sarcasm in her voice now),  Away with you, and vote for\nGladstone s man!   He jumped up and made off without a word, but from the\neast window we watched him strutting down the brae.  I laughed, but she\nsaid,  I m no sure that it s a laughing matter,  and afterwards,  I would\nhave liked fine to be that Gladstone s mother. \n\nIt is nine o clock now, a quarter-past nine, half-past nine all the same\nmoment to me, for I am at a sentence that will not write.  I know, though\nI can t hear, what my sister has gone upstairs to say to my mother: \n\n I was in at him at nine, and he said,  In five minutes,  so I put the\nsteak on the brander, but I ve been in thrice since then, and every time\nhe says,  In five minutes,  and when I try to take the table-cover off,\nhe presses his elbows hard on it, and growls.  His supper will be\ncompletely spoilt. \n\n Oh, that weary writing! \n\n I can do no more, mother, so you must come down and stop him. \n\n I have no power over him,  my mother says, but she rises smiling, and\npresently she is opening my door.\n\n In five minutes!  I cry, but when I see that it is she I rise and put my\narm round her.   What a full basket!  she says, looking at the\nwaste-paper basket, which contains most of my work of the night and with\na dear gesture she lifts up a torn page and kisses it.   Poor thing,  she\nsays to it,  and you would have liked so fine to be printed!  and she\nputs her hand over my desk to prevent my writing more.\n\n In the last five minutes,  I begin,  one can often do more than in the\nfirst hour. \n\n Many a time I ve said it in my young days,  she says slowly.\n\n And proved it, too!  cries a voice from the door, the voice of one who\nwas prouder of her even than I; it is true, and yet almost unbelievable,\nthat any one could have been prouder of her than I.\n\n But those days are gone,  my mother says solemnly,  gone to come back no\nmore.  You ll put by your work now, man, and have your supper, and then\nyou ll come up and sit beside your mother for a whiley, for soon you ll\nbe putting her away in the kirk-yard. \n\nI hear such a little cry from near the door.\n\nSo my mother and I go up the stair together.   We have changed places, \nshe says;  that was just how I used to help you up, but I m the bairn\nnow. \n\nShe brings out the Testament again; it was always lying within reach; it\nis the lock of hair she left me when she died.  And when she has read for\na long time she  gives me a look,  as we say in the north, and I go out,\nto leave her alone with God.  She had been but a child when her mother\ndied, and so she fell early into the way of saying her prayers with no\nearthly listener.  Often and often I have found her on her knees, but I\nalways went softly away, closing the door.  I never heard her pray, but I\nknow very well how she prayed, and that, when that door was shut, there\nwas not a day in God s sight between the worn woman and the little child.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI HER MAID OF ALL WORK\n\n\nAnd sometimes I was her maid of all work.\n\nIt is early morn, and my mother has come noiselessly into my room.  I\nknow it is she, though my eyes are shut, and I am only half awake.\nPerhaps I was dreaming of her, for I accept her presence without\nsurprise, as if in the awakening I had but seen her go out at one door to\ncome in at another.  But she is speaking to herself.\n\n I m sweer to waken him I doubt he was working late oh, that weary\nwriting no, I maunna waken him. \n\nI start up.  She is wringing her hands.   What is wrong?  I cry, but I\nknow before she answers.  My sister is down with one of the headaches\nagainst which even she cannot fight, and my mother, who bears physical\npain as if it were a comrade, is most woebegone when her daughter is the\nsufferer.   And she winna let me go down the stair to make a cup of tea\nfor her,  she groans.\n\n I will soon make the tea, mother. \n\n Will you?  she says eagerly.  It is what she has come to me for, but  It\nis a pity to rouse you,  she says.\n\n And I will take charge of the house to-day, and light the fires and wash\nthe dishes \n\n Na, oh no; no, I couldna ask that of you, and you an author. \n\n It won t be the first time, mother, since I was an author. \n\n More like the fiftieth!  she says almost gleefully, so I have begun\nwell, for to keep up her spirits is the great thing to-day.\n\nKnock at the door.  It is the baker.  I take in the bread, looking so\nsternly at him that he dare not smile.\n\nKnock at the door.  It is the postman. (I hope he did not see that I had\nthe lid of the kettle in my other hand.)\n\nFurious knocking in a remote part.  This means that the author is in the\ncoal cellar.\n\nAnon I carry two breakfasts upstairs in triumph.  I enter the bedroom\nlike no mere humdrum son, but after the manner of the Glasgow waiter.  I\nmust say more about him.  He had been my mother s one waiter, the only\nmanservant she ever came in contact with, and they had met in a Glasgow\nhotel which she was eager to see, having heard of the monstrous things,\nand conceived them to resemble country inns with another twelve bedrooms.\nI remember how she beamed yet tried to look as if it was quite an\nordinary experience when we alighted at the hotel door, but though she\nsaid nothing I soon read disappointment in her face.  She knew how I was\nexulting in having her there, so would not say a word to damp me, but I\ncraftily drew it out of her.  No, she was very comfortable, and the house\nwas grand beyond speech, but but where was he? he had not been very\nhearty.   He  was the landlord; she had expected him to receive us at the\ndoor and ask if we were in good health and how we had left the others,\nand then she would have asked him if his wife was well and how many\nchildren they had, after which we should all have sat down together to\ndinner.  Two chambermaids came into her room and prepared it without a\nsingle word to her about her journey or on any other subject, and when\nthey had gone,  They are two haughty misses,  said my mother with spirit.\nBut what she most resented was the waiter with his swagger black suit and\nshort quick steps and the  towel  over his arm.  Without so much as a\n Welcome to Glasgow!  he showed us to our seats, not the smallest\nacknowledgment of our kindness in giving such munificent orders did we\ndraw from him, he hovered around the table as if it would be unsafe to\nleave us with his knives and forks (he should have seen her knives and\nforks), when we spoke to each other he affected not to hear, we might\nlaugh but this uppish fellow would not join in.  We retired, crushed, and\nhe had the final impudence to open the door for us.  But though this hurt\nmy mother at the time, the humour of our experiences filled her on\nreflection, and in her own house she would describe them with unction,\nsometimes to those who had been in many hotels, often to others who had\nbeen in none, and whoever were her listeners she made them laugh, though\nnot always at the same thing.\n\nSo now when I enter the bedroom with the tray, on my arm is that badge of\npride, the towel; and I approach with prim steps to inform Madam that\nbreakfast is ready, and she puts on the society manner and addresses me\nas  Sir,  and asks with cruel sarcasm for what purpose (except to boast)\nI carry the towel, and I say  Is there anything more I can do for Madam? \nand Madam replies that there is one more thing I can do, and that is, eat\nher breakfast for her.  But of this I take no notice, for my object is to\nfire her with the spirit of the game, so that she eats unwittingly.\n\nNow that I have washed up the breakfast things I should be at my writing,\nand I am anxious to be at it, as I have an idea in my head, which, if it\nis of any value, has almost certainly been put there by her.  But dare I\nventure?  I know that the house has not been properly set going yet,\nthere are beds to make, the exterior of the teapot is fair, but suppose\nsome one were to look inside?  What a pity I knocked over the\nflour-barrel!  Can I hope that for once my mother will forget to inquire\ninto these matters?  Is my sister willing to let disorder reign until\nto-morrow?  I determine to risk it.  Perhaps I have been at work for half\nan hour when I hear movements overhead.  One or other of them is\nwondering why the house is so quiet.  I rattle the tongs, but even this\ndoes not satisfy them, so back into the desk go my papers, and now what\nyou hear is not the scrape of a pen but the rinsing of pots and pans, or\nI am making beds, and making them thoroughly, because after I am gone my\nmother will come (I know her) and look suspiciously beneath the coverlet.\n\nThe kitchen is now speckless, not an unwashed platter in sight, unless\nyou look beneath the table.  I feel that I have earned time for an hour s\nwriting at last, and at it I go with vigour.  One page, two pages, really\nI am making progress, when was that a door opening?  But I have my\nmother s light step on the brain, so I  yoke  again, and next moment she\nis beside me.  She has not exactly left her room, she gives me to\nunderstand; but suddenly a conviction had come to her that I was writing\nwithout a warm mat at my feet.  She carries one in her hands.  Now that\nshe is here she remains for a time, and though she is in the arm-chair by\nthe fire, where she sits bolt upright (she loved to have cushions on the\nunused chairs, but detested putting her back against them), and I am bent\nlow over my desk, I know that contentment and pity are struggling for\npossession of her face: contentment wins when she surveys her room, pity\nwhen she looks at me.  Every article of furniture, from the chairs that\ncame into the world with me and have worn so much better, though I was\nnew and they were second-hand, to the mantle-border of fashionable design\nwhich she sewed in her seventieth year, having picked up the stitch in\nhalf a lesson, has its story of fight and attainment for her, hence her\nsatisfaction; but she sighs at sight of her son, dipping and tearing, and\nchewing the loathly pen.\n\n Oh, that weary writing! \n\nIn vain do I tell her that writing is as pleasant to me as ever was the\nprospect of a tremendous day s ironing to her; that (to some, though not\nto me) new chapters are as easy to turn out as new bannocks.  No, she\nmaintains, for one bannock is the marrows of another, while chapters and\nthen, perhaps, her eyes twinkle, and says she saucily,  But, sal, you may\nbe right, for sometimes your bannocks are as alike as mine! \n\nOr I may be roused from my writing by her cry that I am making strange\nfaces again.  It is my contemptible weakness that if I say a character\nsmiled vacuously, I must smile vacuously; if he frowns or leers, I frown\nor leer; if he is a coward or given to contortions, I cringe, or twist my\nlegs until I have to stop writing to undo the knot.  I bow with him, eat\nwith him, and gnaw my moustache with him.  If the character be a lady\nwith an exquisite laugh, I suddenly terrify you by laughing exquisitely.\nOne reads of the astounding versatility of an actor who is stout and lean\non the same evening, but what is he to the novelist who is a dozen\npersons within the hour?  Morally, I fear, we must deteriorate but this\nis a subject I may wisely edge away from.\n\nWe always spoke to each other in broad Scotch (I think in it still), but\nnow and again she would use a word that was new to me, or I might hear\none of her contemporaries use it.  Now is my opportunity to angle for its\nmeaning.  If I ask, boldly, what was chat word she used just now,\nsomething like  bilbie  or  silvendy ? she blushes, and says she never\nsaid anything so common, or hoots! it is some auld-farrant word about\nwhich she can tell me nothing.  But if in the course of conversation I\nremark casually,  Did he find bilbie?  or  Was that quite silvendy? \n(though the sense of the question is vague to me) she falls into the\ntrap, and the words explain themselves in her replies.  Or maybe to-day\nshe sees whither I am leading her, and such is her sensitiveness that she\nis quite hurt.  The humour goes out of her face (to find bilbie in some\nmore silvendy spot), and her reproachful eyes but now I am on the arm of\nher chair, and we have made it up.  Nevertheless, I shall get no more\nold-world Scotch out of her this forenoon, she weeds her talk\ndeterminedly, and it is as great a falling away as when the mutch gives\nplace to the cap.\n\nI am off for my afternoon walk, and she has promised to bar the door\nbehind me and open it to none.  When I return, well, the door is still\nbarred, but she is looking both furtive and elated.  I should say that\nshe is burning to tell me something, but cannot tell it without exposing\nherself.  Has she opened the door, and if so, why?  I don t ask, but I\nwatch.  It is she who is sly now.\n\n Have you been in the east room since you came in?  she asks, with\napparent indifference.\n\n No; why do you ask? \n\n Oh, I just thought you might have looked in. \n\n Is there anything new there? \n\n I dinna say there is, but but just go and see. \n\n There can t be anything new if you kept the door barred,  I say\ncleverly.\n\nThis crushes her for a moment; but her eagerness that I should see is\ngreater than her fear.  I set off for the east room, and she follows,\naffecting humility, but with triumph in her eye.  How often those little\nscenes took place!  I was never told of the new purchase, I was lured\ninto its presence, and then she waited timidly for my start of surprise.\n\n Do you see it?  she says anxiously, and I see it, and hear it, for this\ntime it is a bran-new wicker chair, of the kind that whisper to\nthemselves for the first six months.\n\n A going-about body was selling them in a cart,  my mother begins, and\nwhat followed presents itself to my eyes before she can utter another\nword.  Ten minutes at the least did she stand at the door argy-bargying\nwith that man.  But it would be cruelty to scold a woman so uplifted.\n\n Fifteen shillings he wanted,  she cries,  but what do you think I beat\nhim down to? \n\n Seven and sixpence? \n\nShe claps her hands with delight.   Four shillings, as I m a living\nwoman!  she crows: never was a woman fonder of a bargain.\n\nI gaze at the purchase with the amazement expected of me, and the chair\nitself crinkles and shudders to hear what it went for (or is it merely\nchuckling at her?).   And the man said it cost himself five shillings, \nmy mother continues exultantly.  You would have thought her the hardest\nperson had not a knock on the wall summoned us about this time to my\nsister s side.  Though in bed she has been listening, and this is what\nshe has to say, in a voice that makes my mother very indignant,  You\ndrive a bargain!   I m thinking ten shillings was nearer what you paid. \n\n Four shillings to a penny!  says my mother.\n\n I daresay,  says my sister;  but after you paid him the money I heard\nyou in the little bedroom press.  What were you doing there? \n\nMy mother winces.   I may have given him a present of an old topcoat, \nshe falters.   He looked ill-happit.  But that was after I made the\nbargain. \n\n Were there bairns in the cart? \n\n There might have been a bit lassie in the cart. \n\n I thought as much.  What did you give her?  I heard you in the pantry. \n\n Four shillings was what I got that chair for,  replies my mother firmly.\nIf I don t interfere there will be a coldness between them for at least a\nminute.   There is blood on your finger,  I say to my mother.\n\n So there is,  she says, concealing her hand.\n\n Blood!  exclaims my sister anxiously, and then with a cry of triumph,  I\nwarrant it s jelly.  You gave that lassie one of the jelly cans! \n\nThe Glasgow waiter brings up tea, and presently my sister is able to\nrise, and after a sharp fight I am expelled from the kitchen.  The last\nthing I do as maid of all work is to lug upstairs the clothes-basket\nwhich has just arrived with the mangling.  Now there is delicious linen\nfor my mother to finger; there was always rapture on her face when the\nclothes-basket came in; it never failed to make her once more the active\ngenius of the house.  I may leave her now with her sheets and collars and\nnapkins and fronts.  Indeed, she probably orders me to go.  A son is all\nvery well, but suppose he were to tread on that counterpane!\n\nMy sister is but and I am ben I mean she is in the east end and I am in\nthe west tuts, tuts! let us get at the English of this by striving: she\nis in the kitchen and I am at my desk in the parlour.  I hope I may not\nbe disturbed, for to-night I must make my hero say  Darling,  and it\nneeds both privacy and concentration.  In a word, let me admit (though I\nshould like to beat about the bush) that I have sat down to a\nlove-chapter.  Too long has it been avoided, Albert has called Marion\n dear  only as yet (between you and me these are not their real names),\nbut though the public will probably read the word without blinking, it\nwent off in my hands with a bang.  They tell me the Sassenach tell\nme that in time I shall be able without a blush to make Albert say\n darling,  and even gather her up in his arms, but I begin to doubt it;\nthe moment sees me as shy as ever; I still find it advisable to lock the\ndoor, and then no witness save the dog I  do  it dourly with my teeth\nclenched, while the dog retreats into the far corner and moans.  The\nbolder Englishman (I am told) will write a love-chapter and then go out,\nquite coolly, to dinner, but such goings on are contrary to the Scotch\nnature; even the great novelists dared not.  Conceive Mr. Stevenson left\nalone with a hero, a heroine, and a proposal impending (he does not know\nwhere to look).  Sir Walter in the same circumstances gets out of the\nroom by making his love-scenes take place between the end of one chapter\nand the beginning of the next, but he could afford to do anything, and\nthe small fry must e en to their task, moan the dog as he may.  So I have\nyoked to mine when, enter my mother, looking wistful.\n\n I suppose you are terrible thrang,  she says.\n\n Well, I am rather busy, but what is it you want me to do? \n\n It would be a shame to ask you. \n\n Still, ask me. \n\n I am so terrified they may be filed. \n\n You want me to ? \n\n If you would just come up, and help me to fold the sheets! \n\nThe sheets are folded and I return to Albert.  I lock the door, and at\nlast I am bringing my hero forward nicely (my knee in the small of his\nback), when this startling question is shot by my sister through the\nkey-hole \n\n Where did you put the carrot-grater? \n\nIt will all have to be done over again if I let Albert go for a moment,\nso, gripping him hard, I shout indignantly that I have not seen the\ncarrot-grater.\n\n Then what did you grate the carrots on?  asks the voice, and the\ndoor-handle is shaken just as I shake Albert.\n\n On a broken cup,  I reply with surprising readiness, and I get to work\nagain but am less engrossed, for a conviction grows on me that I put the\ncarrot-grater in the drawer of the sewing-machine.\n\nI am wondering whether I should confess or brazen it out, when I hear my\nsister going hurriedly upstairs.  I have a presentiment that she has gone\nto talk about me, and I basely open my door and listen.\n\n Just look at that, mother! \n\n Is it a dish-cloth? \n\n That s what it is now. \n\n Losh behears! it s one of the new table-napkins. \n\n That s what it was.  He has been polishing the kitchen grate with it! \n\n(I remember!)\n\n Woe s me!  That is what comes of his not letting me budge from this\nroom.  O, it is a watery Sabbath when men take to doing women s work! \n\n It defies the face of clay, mother, to fathom what makes him so\nsenseless. \n\n Oh, it s that weary writing. \n\n And the worst of it is he will talk to-morrow as if he had done\nwonders. \n\n That s the way with the whole clanjam-fray of them. \n\n Yes, but as usual you will humour him, mother. \n\n Oh, well, it pleases him, you see,  says my mother,  and we can have our\nlaugh when his door s shut. \n\n He is most terribly handless. \n\n He is all that, but, poor soul, he does his best. \n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII R. L. S.\n\n\nThese familiar initials are, I suppose, the best beloved in recent\nliterature, certainly they are the sweetest to me, but there was a time\nwhen my mother could not abide them.  She said  That Stevenson man  with\na sneer, and, it was never easy to her to sneer.  At thought of him her\nface would become almost hard, which seems incredible, and she would knit\nher lips and fold her arms, and reply with a stiff  oh  if you mentioned\nhis aggravating name.  In the novels we have a way of writing of our\nheroine,  she drew herself up haughtily,  and when mine draw themselves\nup haughtily I see my mother thinking of Robert Louis Stevenson.  He knew\nher opinion of him, and would write,  My ears tingled yesterday; I sair\ndoubt she has been miscalling me again.   But the more she miscalled him\nthe more he delighted in her, and she was informed of this, and at once\nsaid,  The scoundrel!   If you would know what was his unpardonable\ncrime, it was this: he wrote better books than mine.\n\nI remember the day she found it out, which was not, however, the day she\nadmitted it.  That day, when I should have been at my work, she came upon\nme in the kitchen,  The Master of Ballantrae  beside me, but I was not\nreading: my head lay heavy on the table, and to her anxious eyes, I doubt\nnot, I was the picture of woe.   Not writing!  I echoed, no, I was not\nwriting, I saw no use in ever trying to write again.  And down, I\nsuppose, went my head once more.  She misunderstood, and thought the blow\nhad fallen; I had awakened to the discovery, always dreaded by her, that\nI had written myself dry; I was no better than an empty ink-bottle.  She\nwrung her hands, but indignation came to her with my explanation, which\nwas that while R. L. S. was at it we others were only  prentices cutting\nour fingers on his tools.   I could never thole his books,  said my\nmother immediately, and indeed vindictively.\n\n You have not read any of them,  I reminded her.\n\n And never will,  said she with spirit.\n\nAnd I have no doubt that she called him a dark character that very day.\nFor weeks too, if not for months, she adhered to her determination not to\nread him, though I, having come to my senses and seen that there is a\nplace for the  prentice, was taking a pleasure, almost malicious, in\nputting  The Master of Ballantrae  in her way.  I would place it on her\ntable so that it said good-morning to her when she rose.  She would\nfrown, and carrying it downstairs, as if she had it in the tongs, replace\nit on its book-shelf.  I would wrap it up in the cover she had made for\nthe latest Carlyle: she would skin it contemptuously and again bring it\ndown.  I would hide her spectacles in it, and lay it on top of the\nclothes-basket and prop it up invitingly open against her tea-pot.  And\nat last I got her, though I forget by which of many contrivances.  What I\nrecall vividly is a key-hole view, to which another member of the family\ninvited me.  Then I saw my mother wrapped up in  The Master of\nBallantrae  and muttering the music to herself, nodding her head in\napproval, and taking a stealthy glance at the foot of each page before\nshe began at the top.  Nevertheless she had an ear for the door, for when\nI bounced in she had been too clever for me; there was no book to be\nseen, only an apron on her lap and she was gazing out at the window.\nSome such conversation as this followed: \n\n You have been sitting very quietly, mother. \n\n I always sit quietly, I never do anything, I m just a finished\nstocking. \n\n Have you been reading? \n\n Do I ever read at this time of day? \n\n What is that in your lap? \n\n Just my apron. \n\n Is that a book beneath the apron? \n\n It might be a book. \n\n Let me see. \n\n Go away with you to your work. \n\nBut I lifted the apron.   Why, it s  The Master of Ballantrae!   I\nexclaimed, shocked.\n\n So it is!  said my mother, equally surprised.  But I looked sternly at\nher, and perhaps she blushed.\n\n Well what do you think: not nearly equal to mine?  said I with humour.\n\n Nothing like them,  she said determinedly.\n\n Not a bit,  said I, though whether with a smile or a groan is\nimmaterial; they would have meant the same thing.  Should I put the book\nback on its shelf?  I asked, and she replied that I could put it wherever\nI liked for all she cared, so long as I took it out of her sight (the\nimplication was that it had stolen on to her lap while she was looking\nout at the window).  My behaviour may seem small, but I gave her a last\nchance, for I said that some people found it a book there was no putting\ndown until they reached the last page.\n\n I m no that kind,  replied my mother.\n\nNevertheless our old game with the haver of a thing, as she called it,\nwas continued, with this difference, that it was now she who carried the\nbook covertly upstairs, and I who replaced it on the shelf, and several\ntimes we caught each other in the act, but not a word said either of us;\nwe were grown self-conscious.  Much of the play no doubt I forget, but\none incident I remember clearly.  She had come down to sit beside me\nwhile I wrote, and sometimes, when I looked up, her eye was not on me,\nbut on the shelf where  The Master of Ballantrae  stood inviting her.\nMr. Stevenson s books are not for the shelf, they are for the hand; even\nwhen you lay them down, let it be on the table for the next comer.  Being\nthe most sociable that man has penned in our time, they feel very lonely\nup there in a stately row.  I think their eye is on you the moment you\nenter the room, and so you are drawn to look at them, and you take a\nvolume down with the impulse that induces one to unchain the dog.  And\nthe result is not dissimilar, for in another moment you two are at play.\nIs there any other modern writer who gets round you in this way?  Well,\nhe had given my mother the look which in the ball-room means,  Ask me for\nthis waltz,  and she ettled to do it, but felt that her more dutiful\ncourse was to sit out the dance with this other less entertaining\npartner.  I wrote on doggedly, but could hear the whispering.\n\n Am I to be a wall-flower?  asked James Durie reproachfully.  (It must\nhave been leap-year.)\n\n Speak lower,  replied my mother, with an uneasy look at me.\n\n Pooh!  said James contemptuously,  that kail-runtle! \n\n I winna have him miscalled,  said my mother, frowning.\n\n I am done with him,  said James (wiping his cane with his cambric\nhandkerchief), and his sword clattered deliciously (I cannot think this\nwas accidental), which made my mother sigh.  Like the man he was, he\nfollowed up his advantage with a comparison that made me dip viciously.\n\n A prettier sound that,  said he, clanking his sword again,  than the\nclack-clack of your young friend s shuttle. \n\n Whist!  cried my mother, who had seen me dip.\n\n Then give me your arm,  said James, lowering his voice.\n\n I dare not,  answered my mother.   He s so touchy about you. \n\n Come, come,  he pressed her,  you are certain to do it sooner or later,\nso why not now? \n\n Wait till he has gone for his walk,  said my mother;  and, forbye that,\nI m ower old to dance with you. \n\n How old are you?  he inquired.\n\n You re gey an  pert!  cried my mother.\n\n Are you seventy? \n\n Off and on,  she admitted.\n\n Pooh,  he said,  a mere girl! \n\nShe replied instantly,  I m no  to be catched with chaff ; but she smiled\nand rose as if he had stretched out his hand and got her by the\nfinger-tip.\n\nAfter that they whispered so low (which they could do as they were now\nmuch nearer each other) that I could catch only one remark.  It came from\nJames, and seems to show the tenor of their whisperings, for his words\nwere,  Easily enough, if you slip me beneath your shawl. \n\nThat is what she did, and furthermore she left the room guiltily,\nmuttering something about redding up the drawers.  I suppose I smiled\nwanly to myself, or conscience must have been nibbling at my mother, for\nin less than five minutes she was back, carrying her accomplice openly,\nand she thrust him with positive viciousness into the place where my\nStevenson had lost a tooth (as the writer whom he most resembled would\nhave said).  And then like a good mother she took up one of her son s\nbooks and read it most determinedly.  It had become a touching incident\nto me, and I remember how we there and then agreed upon a compromise she\nwas to read the enticing thing just to convince herself of its\ninferiority.\n\n The Master of Ballantrae  is not the best.  Conceive the glory, which\nwas my mother s, of knowing from a trustworthy source that there are at\nleast three better awaiting you on the same shelf.  She did not know Alan\nBreck yet, and he was as anxious to step down as Mr. Bally himself.  John\nSilver was there, getting into his leg, so that she should not have to\nwait a moment, and roaring,  I ll lay to that!  when she told me\nconsolingly that she could not thole pirate stories.  Not to know these\ngentlemen, what is it like?  It is like never having been in love.  But\nthey are in the house!  That is like knowing that you will fall in love\nto-morrow morning.  With one word, by drawing one mournful face, I could\nhave got my mother to abjure the jam-shelf nay, I might have managed it\nby merely saying that she had enjoyed  The Master of Ballantrae.   For\nyou must remember that she only read it to persuade herself (and me) of\nits unworthiness, and that the reason she wanted to read the others was\nto get further proof.  All this she made plain to me, eyeing me a little\nanxiously the while, and of course I accepted the explanation.  Alan is\nthe biggest child of them all, and I doubt not that she thought so, but\ncuriously enough her views of him are among the things I have forgotten.\nBut how enamoured she was of  Treasure Island,  and how faithful she\ntried to be to me all the time she was reading it!  I had to put my hands\nover her eyes to let her know that I had entered the room, and even then\nshe might try to read between my fingers, coming to herself presently,\nhowever, to say  It s a haver of a book. \n\n Those pirate stories are so uninteresting,  I would reply without fear,\nfor she was too engrossed to see through me.   Do you think you will\nfinish this one? \n\n I may as well go on with it since I have begun it,  my mother says, so\nslyly that my sister and I shake our heads at each other to imply,  Was\nthere ever such a woman! \n\n There are none of those one-legged scoundrels in my books,  I say.\n\n Better without them,  she replies promptly.\n\n I wonder, mother, what it is about the man that so infatuates the\npublic? \n\n He takes no hold of me,  she insists.   I would a hantle rather read\nyour books. \n\nI offer obligingly to bring one of them to her, and now she looks at me\nsuspiciously.   You surely believe I like yours best,  she says with\ninstant anxiety, and I soothe her by assurances, and retire advising her\nto read on, just to see if she can find out how he misleads the public.\n Oh, I may take a look at it again by-and-by,  she says indifferently,\nbut nevertheless the probability is that as the door shuts the book\nopens, as if by some mechanical contrivance.  I remember how she read\n Treasure Island,  holding it close to the ribs of the fire (because she\ncould not spare a moment to rise and light the gas), and how, when\nbed-time came, and we coaxed, remonstrated, scolded, she said quite\nfiercely, clinging to the book,  I dinna lay my head on a pillow this\nnight till I see how that laddie got out of the barrel. \n\nAfter this, I think, he was as bewitching as the laddie in the barrel to\nher Was he not always a laddie in the barrel himself, climbing in for\napples while we all stood around, like gamins, waiting for a bite?  He\nwas the spirit of boyhood tugging at the skirts of this old world of ours\nand compelling it to come back and play.  And I suppose my mother felt\nthis, as so many have felt it: like others she was a little scared at\nfirst to find herself skipping again, with this masterful child at the\nrope, but soon she gave him her hand and set off with him for the meadow,\nnot an apology between the two of them for the author left behind.  But\nnear to the end did she admit (in words) that he had a way with him which\nwas beyond her son.   Silk and sacking, that is what we are,  she was\ninformed, to which she would reply obstinately,  Well, then, I prefer\nsacking. \n\n But if he had been your son? \n\n But he is not. \n\n You wish he were? \n\n I dinna deny but what I could have found room for him. \n\nAnd still at times she would smear him with the name of black (to his\ndelight when he learned the reason).  That was when some podgy red-sealed\nblue-crossed letter arrived from Vailima, inviting me to journey thither.\n(His directions were,  You take the boat at San Francisco, and then my\nplace is the second to the left. )  Even London seemed to her to carry me\nso far away that I often took a week to the journey (the first six days\nin getting her used to the idea), and these letters terrified her.  It\nwas not the finger of Jim Hawkins she now saw beckoning me across the\nseas, it was John Silver, waving a crutch.  Seldom, I believe, did I read\nstraight through one of these Vailima letters; when in the middle I\nsuddenly remembered who was upstairs and what she was probably doing, and\nI ran to her, three steps at a jump, to find her, lips pursed, hands\nfolded, a picture of gloom.\n\n I have a letter from \n\n So I have heard. \n\n Would you like to hear it? \n\n No. \n\n Can you not abide him? \n\n I cauna thole him. \n\n Is he a black? \n\n He is all that. \n\nWell, Vailima was the one spot on earth I had any great craving to visit,\nbut I think she always knew I would never leave her.  Sometime, she said,\nshe should like me to go, but not until she was laid away.   And how\nsmall I have grown this last winter.  Look at my wrists.  It canna be\nlong now.   No, I never thought of going, was never absent for a day from\nher without reluctance, and never walked so quickly as when I was going\nback.  In the meantime that happened which put an end for ever to my\nscheme of travel.  I shall never go up the Road of Loving Hearts now, on\n a wonderful clear night of stars,  to meet the man coming toward me on a\nhorse.  It is still a wonderful clear night of stars, but the road is\nempty.  So I never saw the dear king of us all.  But before he had\nwritten books he was in my part of the country with a fishing-wand in his\nhand, and I like to think that I was the boy who met him that day by\nQueen Margaret s burn, where the rowans are, and busked a fly for him,\nand stood watching, while his lithe figure rose and fell as he cast and\nhinted back from the crystal waters of Noran-side.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII A PANIC IN THE HOUSE\n\n\nI was sitting at my desk in London when a telegram came announcing that\nmy mother was again dangerously ill, and I seized my hat and hurried to\nthe station.  It is not a memory of one night only.  A score of times, I\nam sure, I was called north thus suddenly, and reached our little town\ntrembling, head out at railway-carriage window for a glance at a known\nface which would answer the question on mine.  These illnesses came as\nregularly as the backend of the year, but were less regular in going, and\nthrough them all, by night and by day, I see my sister moving so\nunwearyingly, so lovingly, though with failing strength, that I bow my\nhead in reverence for her.  She was wearing herself done.  The doctor\nadvised us to engage a nurse, but the mere word frightened my mother, and\nwe got between her and the door as if the woman was already on the stair.\nTo have a strange woman in my mother s room you who are used to them\ncannot conceive what it meant to us.\n\nThen we must have a servant.  This seemed only less horrible.  My father\nturned up his sleeves and clutched the besom.  I tossed aside my papers,\nand was ready to run the errands.  He answered the door, I kept the fires\ngoing, he gave me a lesson in cooking, I showed him how to make beds, one\nof us wore an apron.  It was not for long.  I was led to my desk, the\nnewspaper was put into my father s hand.   But a servant!  we cried, and\nwould have fallen to again.   No servant, comes into this house,  said my\nsister quite fiercely, and, oh, but my mother was relieved to hear her!\nThere were many such scenes, a year of them, I daresay, before we\nyielded.\n\nI cannot say which of us felt it most.  In London I was used to servants,\nand in moments of irritation would ring for them furiously, though\ndoubtless my manner changed as they opened the door.  I have even held my\nown with gentlemen in plush, giving one my hat, another my stick, and a\nthird my coat, and all done with little more trouble than I should have\nexpended in putting the three articles on the chair myself.  But this\nbold deed, and other big things of the kind, I did that I might tell my\nmother of them afterwards, while I sat on the end of her bed, and her\nface beamed with astonishment and mirth.\n\nFrom my earliest days I had seen servants.  The manse had a servant, the\nbank had another; one of their uses was to pounce upon, and carry away in\nstately manner, certain naughty boys who played with me.  The banker did\nnot seem really great to me, but his servant oh yes.  Her boots cheeped\nall the way down the church aisle; it was common report that she had\nflesh every day for her dinner; instead of meeting her lover at the pump\nshe walked him into the country, and he returned with wild roses in his\nbuttonhole, his hand up to hide them, and on his face the troubled look\nof those who know that if they take this lady they must give up drinking\nfrom the saucer for evermore.  For the lovers were really common men,\nuntil she gave them that glance over the shoulder which, I have noticed,\nis the fatal gift of servants.\n\nAccording to legend we once had a servant in my childhood I could show\nthe mark of it on my forehead, and even point her out to other boys,\nthough she was now merely a wife with a house of her own.  But even while\nI boasted I doubted.  Reduced to life-size she may have been but a woman\nwho came in to help.  I shall say no more about her, lest some one comes\nforward to prove that she went home at night.\n\nNever shall I forget my first servant.  I was eight or nine, in\nvelveteen, diamond socks ( Cross your legs when they look at you,  my\nmother had said,  and put your thumb in your pocket and leave the top of\nyour handkerchief showing ), and I had travelled by rail to visit a\nrelative.  He had a servant, and as I was to be his guest she must be my\nservant also for the time being you may be sure I had got my mother to\nput this plainly before me ere I set off.  My relative met me at the\nstation, but I wasted no time in hoping I found him well.  I did not even\ncross my legs for him, so eager was I to hear whether she was still\nthere.  A sister greeted me at the door, but I chafed at having to be\nkissed; at once I made for the kitchen, where, I knew, they reside, and\nthere she was, and I crossed my legs and put one thumb in my pocket, and\nthe handkerchief was showing.  Afterwards I stopped strangers on the\nhighway with an offer to show her to them through the kitchen window, and\nI doubt not the first letter I ever wrote told my mother what they are\nlike when they are so near that you can put your fingers into them.\n\nBut now when we could have servants for ourselves I shrank from the\nthought.  It would not be the same house; we should have to dissemble; I\nsaw myself speaking English the long day through.  You only know the\nshell of a Scot until you have entered his home circle; in his office, in\nclubs, at social gatherings where you and he seem to be getting on so\nwell he is really a house with all the shutters closed and the door\nlocked.  He is not opaque of set purpose, often it is against his will it\nis certainly against mine, I try to keep my shutters open and my foot in\nthe door but they will bang to.  In many ways my mother was as reticent\nas myself, though her manners were as gracious as mine were rough (in\nvain, alas! all the honest oiling of them), and my sister was the most\nreserved of us all; you might at times see a light through one of my\nchinks: she was double-shuttered.  Now, it seems to be a law of nature\nthat we must show our true selves at some time, and as the Scot must do\nit at home, and squeeze a day into an hour, what follows is that there he\nis self-revealing in the superlative degree, the feelings so long dammed\nup overflow, and thus a Scotch family are probably better acquainted with\neach other, and more ignorant of the life outside their circle, than any\nother family in the world.  And as knowledge is sympathy, the affection\nexisting between them is almost painful in its intensity; they have not\nmore to give than their neighbours, but it is bestowed upon a few instead\nof being distributed among many; they are reputed niggardly, but for\nfamily affection at least they pay in gold.  In this, I believe, we shall\nfind the true explanation why Scotch literature, since long before the\ndays of Burns, has been so often inspired by the domestic hearth, and has\ntreated it with a passionate understanding.\n\nMust a woman come into our house and discover that I was not such a\ndreary dog as I had the reputation of being?  Was I to be seen at last\nwith the veil of dourness lifted?  My company voice is so low and\nunimpressive that my first remark is merely an intimation that I am about\nto speak (like the whir of the clock before it strikes): must it be\nrevealed that I had another voice, that there was one door I never opened\nwithout leaving my reserve on the mat?  Ah, that room, must its secrets\nbe disclosed?  So joyous they were when my mother was well, no wonder we\nwere merry.  Again and again she had been given back to us; it was for\nthe glorious to-day we thanked God; in our hearts we knew and in our\nprayers confessed that the fill of delight had been given us, whatever\nmight befall.  We had not to wait till all was over to know its value; my\nmother used to say,  We never understand how little we need in this world\nuntil we know the loss of it,  and there can be few truer sayings, but\nduring her last years we exulted daily in the possession of her as much\nas we can exult in her memory.  No wonder, I say, that we were merry, but\nwe liked to show it to God alone, and to Him only our agony during those\nmany night-alarms, when lights flickered in the house and white faces\nwere round my mother s bedside.  Not for other eyes those long vigils\nwhen, night about, we sat watching, nor the awful nights when we stood\ntogether, teeth clenched waiting it must be now.  And it was not then;\nher hand became cooler, her breathing more easy; she smiled to us.  Once\nmore I could work by snatches, and was glad, but what was the result to\nme compared to the joy of hearing that voice from the other room?  There\nlay all the work I was ever proud of, the rest is but honest\ncraftsmanship done to give her coal and food and softer pillows.  My\nthousand letters that she so carefully preserved, always sleeping with\nthe last beneath the sheet, where one was found when she died they are\nthe only writing of mine of which I shall ever boast.  I would not there\nhad been one less though I could have written an immortal book for it.\n\nHow my sister toiled to prevent a stranger s getting any footing in the\nhouse!  And how, with the same object, my mother strove to  do for\nherself  once more.  She pretended that she was always well now, and\nconcealed her ailments so craftily that we had to probe for them: \n\n I think you are not feeling well to-day? \n\n I am perfectly well. \n\n Where is the pain? \n\n I have no pain to speak of. \n\n Is it at your heart? \n\n No. \n\n Is your breathing hurting you? \n\n Not it. \n\n Do you feel those stounds in your head again? \n\n No, no, I tell you there is nothing the matter with me. \n\n Have you a pain in your side? \n\n Really, it s most provoking I canna put my hand to my side without your\nthinking I have a pain there. \n\n You have a pain in your side! \n\n I might have a pain in my side. \n\n And you were trying to hide it!  Is it very painful? \n\n It s it s no so bad but what I can bear it. \n\nWhich of these two gave in first I cannot tell, though to me fell the\nduty of persuading them, for whichever she was she rebelled as soon as\nthe other showed signs of yielding, so that sometimes I had two converts\nin the week but never both on the same day.  I would take them\nseparately, and press the one to yield for the sake of the other, but\nthey saw so easily through my artifice.  My mother might go bravely to my\nsister and say,  I have been thinking it over, and I believe I would like\na servant fine once we got used to her. \n\n Did he tell you to say that?  asks my sister sharply.\n\n I say it of my own free will. \n\n He put you up to it, I am sure, and he told you not to let on that you\ndid it to lighten my work. \n\n Maybe he did, but I think we should get one. \n\n Not for my sake,  says my sister obstinately, and then my mother comes\nben to me to say delightedly,  She winna listen to reason! \n\nBut at last a servant was engaged; we might be said to be at the window,\ngloomily waiting for her now, and it was with such words as these that we\nsought to comfort each other and ourselves: \n\n She will go early to her bed. \n\n She needna often be seen upstairs. \n\n We ll set her to the walking every day. \n\n There will be a many errands for her to run.  We ll tell her to take her\ntime over them. \n\n Three times she shall go to the kirk every Sabbath, and we ll egg her on\nto attending the lectures in the hall. \n\n She is sure to have friends in the town.  We ll let her visit them\noften. \n\n If she dares to come into your room, mother! \n\n Mind this, every one of you, servant or no servant, I fold all the linen\nmysel. \n\n She shall not get cleaning out the east room. \n\n Nor putting my chest of drawers in order. \n\n Nor tidying up my manuscripts. \n\n I hope she s a reader, though.  You could set her down with a book, and\nthen close the door canny on her. \n\nAnd so on.  Was ever servant awaited so apprehensively?  And then she\ncame at an anxious time, too, when her worth could be put to the proof at\nonce and from first to last she was a treasure.  I know not what we\nshould have done without her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX MY HEROINE.\n\n\nWhen it was known that I had begun another story my mother might ask what\nit was to be about this time.\n\n Fine we can guess who it is about,  my sister would say pointedly.\n\n Maybe you can guess, but it is beyond me,  says my mother, with the\nmeekness of one who knows that she is a dull person.\n\nMy sister scorned her at such times.   What woman is in all his books? \nshe would demand.\n\n I m sure I canna say,  replies my mother determinedly.   I thought the\nwomen were different every time. \n\n Mother, I wonder you can be so audacious!  Fine you know what woman I\nmean. \n\n How can I know?  What woman is it?  You should bear in mind that I hinna\nyour cleverness  (they were constantly giving each other little knocks).\n\n I won t give you the satisfaction of saying her name.  But this I will\nsay, it is high time he was keeping her out of his books. \n\nAnd then as usual my mother would give herself away unconsciously.   That\nis what I tell him,  she says chuckling,  and he tries to keep me out,\nbut he canna; it s more than he can do! \n\nOn an evening after my mother had gone to bed, the first chapter would be\nbrought upstairs, and I read, sitting at the foot of the bed, while my\nsister watched to make my mother behave herself, and my father cried\nH sh! when there were interruptions.  All would go well at the start, the\nreflections were accepted with a little nod of the head, the descriptions\nof scenery as ruts on the road that must be got over at a walking pace\n(my mother did not care for scenery, and that is why there is so little\nof it in my books).  But now I am reading too quickly, a little\napprehensively, because I know that the next paragraph begins with let us\nsay with,  Along this path came a woman : I had intended to rush on here\nin a loud bullying voice, but  Along this path came a woman  I read, and\nstop.  Did I hear a faint sound from the other end of the bed?  Perhaps I\ndid not; I may only have been listening for it, but I falter and look up.\nMy sister and I look sternly at my mother.  She bites her under-lip and\nclutches the bed with both hands, really she is doing her best for me,\nbut first comes a smothered gurgling sound, then her hold on herself\nrelaxes and she shakes with mirth.\n\n That s a way to behave!  cries my sister.\n\n I cannot help it,  my mother gasps.\n\n And there s nothing to laugh at. \n\n It s that woman,  my mother explains unnecessarily.\n\n Maybe she s not the woman you think her,  I say, crushed.\n\n Maybe not,  says my mother doubtfully.   What was her name? \n\n Her name,  I answer with triumph,  was not Margaret ; but this makes her\nripple again.   I have so many names nowadays,  she mutters.\n\n H sh!  says my father, and the reading is resumed.\n\nPerhaps the woman who came along the path was of tall and majestic\nfigure, which should have shown my mother that I had contrived to start\nmy train without her this time.  But it did not.\n\n What are you laughing at now?  says my sister severely.   Do you not\nhear that she was a tall, majestic woman? \n\n It s the first time I ever heard it said of her,  replies my mother.\n\n But she is. \n\n Ke fy, havers! \n\n The book says it. \n\n There will be a many queer things in the book.  What was she wearing? \n\nI have not described her clothes.   That s a mistake,  says my mother.\n When I come upon a woman in a book, the first thing I want to know about\nher is whether she was good-looking, and the second, how she was put on. \n\nThe woman on the path was eighteen years of age, and of remarkable\nbeauty.\n\n That settles you,  says my sister.\n\n I was no beauty at eighteen,  my mother admits, but here my father\ninterferes unexpectedly.   There wasna your like in this countryside at\neighteen,  says he stoutly.\n\n Pooh!  says she, well pleased.\n\n Were you plain, then?  we ask.\n\n Sal,  she replies briskly,  I was far from plain. \n\n H sh! \n\nPerhaps in the next chapter this lady (or another) appears in a carriage.\n\n I assure you we re mounting in the world,  I hear my mother murmur, but\nI hurry on without looking up.  The lady lives in a house where there are\nfootmen but the footmen have come on the scene too hurriedly.   This is\nmore than I can stand,  gasps my mother, and just as she is getting the\nbetter of a fit of laughter,  Footman, give me a drink of water,  she\ncries, and this sets her off again.  Often the readings had to end\nabruptly because her mirth brought on violent fits of coughing.\n\nSometimes I read to my sister alone, and she assured me that she could\nnot see my mother among the women this time.  This she said to humour me.\nPresently she would slip upstairs to announce triumphantly,  You are in\nagain! \n\nOr in the small hours I might make a confidant of my father, and when I\nhad finished reading he would say thoughtfully,  That lassie is very\nnatural.  Some of the ways you say she had your mother had them just the\nsame.  Did you ever notice what an extraordinary woman your mother is? \n\nThen would I seek my mother for comfort.  She was the more ready to give\nit because of her profound conviction that if I was found out that is, if\nreaders discovered how frequently and in how many guises she appeared in\nmy books the affair would become a public scandal.\n\n You see Jess is not really you,  I begin inquiringly.\n\n Oh no, she is another kind of woman altogether,  my mother says, and\nthen spoils the compliment by adding na vely,  She had but two rooms and\nI have six. \n\nI sigh.   Without counting the pantry, and it s a great big pantry,  she\nmutters.\n\nThis was not the sort of difference I could greatly plume myself upon,\nand honesty would force me to say,  As far as that goes, there was a time\nwhen you had but two rooms yourself \n\n That s long since,  she breaks in.   I began with an up-the-stair, but I\nalways had it in my mind I never mentioned it, but there it was to have\nthe down-the-stair as well.  Ay, and I ve had it this many a year. \n\n Still, there is no denying that Jess had the same ambition. \n\n She had, but to her two-roomed house she had to stick all her born days.\nWas that like me? \n\n No, but she wanted \n\n She wanted, and I wanted, but I got and she didna.  That s the\ndifference betwixt her and me. \n\n If that is all the difference, it is little credit I can claim for\nhaving created her. \n\nMy mother sees that I need soothing.   That is far from being all the\ndifference,  she would say eagerly.   There s my silk, for instance.\nThough I say it mysel, there s not a better silk in the valley of\nStrathmore.  Had Jess a silk of any kind not to speak of a silk like\nthat? \n\n Well, she had no silk, but you remember how she got that cloak with\nbeads. \n\n An eleven and a bit!  Hoots, what was that to boast of!  I tell you,\nevery single yard of my silk cost \n\n Mother, that is the very way Jess spoke about her cloak! \n\nShe lets this pass, perhaps without hearing it, for solicitude about her\nsilk has hurried her to the wardrobe where it hangs.\n\n Ah, mother, I am afraid that was very like Jess! \n\n How could it be like her when she didna even have a wardrobe?  I tell\nyou what, if there had been a real Jess and she had boasted to me about\nher cloak with beads, I would have said to her in a careless sort of\nvoice,  Step across with me, Jess and I ll let you see something that is\nhanging in my wardrobe.   That would have lowered her pride! \n\n I don t believe that is what you would have done, mother. \n\nThen a sweeter expression would come into her face.   No,  she would say\nreflectively,  it s not. \n\n What would you have done?  I think I know. \n\n You canna know.  But I m thinking I would have called to mind that she\nwas a poor woman, and ailing, and terrible windy about her cloak, and I\nwould just have said it was a beauty and that I wished I had one like\nit. \n\n Yes, I am certain that is what you would have done.  But oh, mother,\nthat is just how Jess would have acted if some poorer woman than she had\nshown her a new shawl. \n\n Maybe, but though I hadna boasted about my silk I would have wanted to\ndo it. \n\n Just as Jess would have been fidgeting to show off her eleven and a\nbit! \n\nIt seems advisable to jump to another book; not to my first,\nbecause well, as it was my first there would naturally be something of my\nmother in it, and not to the second, as it was my first novel and not\nmuch esteemed even in our family.  (But the little touches of my mother\nin it are not so bad.)  Let us try the story about the minister.\n\nMy mother s first remark is decidedly damping.   Many a time in my young\ndays,  she says,  I played about the Auld Licht manse, but I little\nthought I should live to be the mistress of it! \n\n But Margaret is not you. \n\n N-no, oh no.  She had a very different life from mine.  I never let on\nto a soul that she is me! \n\n She was not meant to be you when I began.  Mother, what a way you have\nof coming creeping in! \n\n You should keep better watch on yourself. \n\n Perhaps if I had called Margaret by some other name \n\n I should have seen through her just the same.  As soon as I heard she\nwas the mother I began to laugh.  In some ways, though, she s no  so very\nlike me.  She was long in finding out about Babbie.  I se uphaud I should\nhave been quicker. \n\n Babbie, you see, kept close to the garden-wall. \n\n It s not the wall up at the manse that would have hidden her from me. \n\n She came out in the dark. \n\n I m thinking she would have found me looking for her with a candle. \n\n And Gavin was secretive. \n\n That would have put me on my mettle. \n\n She never suspected anything. \n\n I wonder at her. \n\nBut my new heroine is to be a child.  What has madam to say to that?\n\nA child!  Yes, she has something to say even to that.   This beats all! \nare the words.\n\n Come, come, mother, I see what you are thinking, but I assure you that\nthis time \n\n Of course not,  she says soothingly,  oh no, she canna be me ; but anon\nher real thoughts are revealed by the artless remark,  I doubt, though,\nthis is a tough job you have on hand it is so long since I was a bairn. \n\nWe came very close to each other in those talks.   It is a queer thing, \nshe would say softly,  that near everything you write is about this bit\nplace.  You little expected that when you began.  I mind well the time\nwhen it never entered your head, any more than mine, that you could write\na page about our squares and wynds.  I wonder how it has come about? \n\nThere was a time when I could not have answered that question, but that\ntime had long passed.   I suppose, mother, it was because you were most\nat home in your own town, and there was never much pleasure to me in\nwriting of people who could not have known you, nor of squares and wynds\nyou never passed through, nor of a country-side where you never carried\nyour father s dinner in a flagon.  There is scarce a house in all my\nbooks where I have not seemed to see you a thousand times, bending over\nthe fireplace or winding up the clock. \n\n And yet you used to be in such a quandary because you knew nobody you\ncould make your women-folk out of!  Do you mind that, and how we both\nlaughed at the notion of your having to make them out of me? \n\n I remember. \n\n And now you ve gone back to my father s time.  It s more than sixty\nyears since I carried his dinner in a flagon through the long parks of\nKinnordy. \n\n I often go into the long parks, mother, and sit on the stile at the edge\nof the wood till I fancy I see a little girl coming toward me with a\nflagon in her hand. \n\n Jumping the burn (I was once so proud of my jumps!) and swinging the\nflagon round so quick that what was inside hadna time to fall out.  I\nused to wear a magenta frock and a white pinafore.  Did I ever tell you\nthat? \n\n Mother, the little girl in my story wears a magenta frock and a white\npinafore. \n\n You minded that!  But I m thinking it wasna a lassie in a pinafore you\nsaw in the long parks of Kinnordy, it was just a gey done auld woman. \n\n It was a lassie in a pinafore, mother, when she was far away, but when\nshe came near it was a gey done auld woman. \n\n And a fell ugly one! \n\n The most beautiful one I shall ever see. \n\n I wonder to hear you say it.  Look at my wrinkled auld face. \n\n It is the sweetest face in all the world. \n\n See how the rings drop off my poor wasted finger. \n\n There will always be someone nigh, mother, to put them on again. \n\n Ay, will there!  Well I know it.  Do you mind how when you were but a\nbairn you used to say,  Wait till I m a man, and you ll never have a\nreason for greeting again? \n\nI remembered.\n\n You used to come running into the house to say,  There s a proud dame\ngoing down the Marywellbrae in a cloak that is black on one side and\nwhite on the other; wait till I m a man, and you ll have one the very\nsame.   And when I lay on gey hard beds you said,  When I m a man you ll\nlie on feathers.   You saw nothing bonny, you never heard of my setting\nmy heart on anything, but what you flung up your head and cried,  Wait\ntill I m a man.   You fair shamed me before the neighbours, and yet I was\nwindy, too.  And now it has all come true like a dream.  I can call to\nmind not one little thing I ettled for in my lusty days that hasna been\nput into my hands in my auld age; I sit here useless, surrounded by the\ngratification of all my wishes and all my ambitions, and at times I m\nnear terrified, for it s as if God had mista en me for some other woman. \n\n Your hopes and ambitions were so simple,  I would say, but she did not\nlike that.   They werena that simple,  she would answer, flushing.\n\nI am reluctant to leave those happy days, but the end must be faced, and\nas I write I seem to see my mother growing smaller and her face more\nwistful, and still she lingers with us, as if God had said,  Child of\nmine, your time has come, be not afraid.   And she was not afraid, but\nstill she lingered, and He waited, smiling.  I never read any of that\nlast book to her; when it was finished she was too heavy with years to\nfollow a story.  To me this was as if my book must go out cold into the\nworld (like all that may come after it from me), and my sister, who took\nmore thought for others and less for herself than any other human being I\nhave known, saw this, and by some means unfathomable to a man coaxed my\nmother into being once again the woman she had been.  On a day but three\nweeks before she died my father and I were called softly upstairs.  My\nmother was sitting bolt upright, as she loved to sit, in her old chair by\nthe window, with a manuscript in her hands.  But she was looking about\nher without much understanding.   Just to please him,  my sister\nwhispered, and then in a low, trembling voice my mother began to read.  I\nlooked at my sister.  Tears of woe were stealing down her face.  Soon the\nreading became very slow and stopped.  After a pause,  There was\nsomething you were to say to him,  my sister reminded her.   Luck, \nmuttered a voice as from the dead,  luck.   And then the old smile came\nrunning to her face like a lamp-lighter, and she said to me,  I am ower\nfar gone to read, but I m thinking I am in it again!   My father put her\nTestament in her hands, and it fell open as it always does at the\nFourteenth of John.  She made an effort to read but could not.  Suddenly\nshe stooped and kissed the broad page.   Will that do instead?  she\nasked.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X ART THOU AFRAID HIS POWER SHALL FAIL?\n\n\nFor years I had been trying to prepare myself for my mother s death,\ntrying to foresee how she would die, seeing myself when she was dead.\nEven then I knew it was a vain thing I did, but I am sure there was no\nmorbidness in it.  I hoped I should be with her at the end, not as the\none she looked at last but as him from whom she would turn only to look\nupon her best-beloved, not my arm but my sister s should be round her\nwhen she died, not my hand but my sister s should close her eyes.  I knew\nthat I might reach her too late; I saw myself open a door where there was\nnone to greet me, and go up the old stair into the old room.  But what I\ndid not foresee was that which happened.  I little thought it could come\nabout that I should climb the old stair, and pass the door beyond which\nmy mother lay dead, and enter another room first, and go on my knees\nthere.\n\nMy mother s favourite paraphrase is one known in our house as David s\nbecause it was the last he learned to repeat.  It was also the last thing\nshe read \n\n    Art thou afraid his power shall fail\n    When comes thy evil day?\n    And can an all-creating arm\n    Grow weary or decay?\n\nI heard her voice gain strength as she read it, I saw her timid face take\ncourage, but when came my evil day, then at the dawning, alas for me, I\nwas afraid.\n\nIn those last weeks, though we did not know it, my sister was dying on\nher feet.  For many years she had been giving her life, a little bit at a\ntime, for another year, another month, latterly for another day, of her\nmother, and now she was worn out.   I ll never leave you, mother. Fine\nI know you ll never leave me.   I thought that cry so pathetic at the\ntime, but I was not to know its full significance until it was only the\necho of a cry.  Looking at these two then it was to me as if my mother\nhad set out for the new country, and my sister held her back.  But I see\nwith a clearer vision now.  It is no longer the mother but the daughter\nwho is in front, and she cries,  Mother, you are lingering so long at the\nend, I have ill waiting for you. \n\nBut she knew no more than we how it was to be; if she seemed weary when\nwe met her on the stair, she was still the brightest, the most active\nfigure in my mother s room; she never complained, save when she had to\ndepart on that walk which separated them for half an hour.  How\nreluctantly she put on her bonnet, how we had to press her to it, and how\noften, having gone as far as the door, she came back to stand by my\nmother s side.  Sometimes as we watched from the window, I could not but\nlaugh, and yet with a pain at my heart, to see her hasting doggedly\nonward, not an eye for right or left, nothing in her head but the return.\nThere was always my father in the house, than whom never was a more\ndevoted husband, and often there were others, one daughter in particular,\nbut they scarce dared tend my mother this one snatched the cup jealously\nfrom their hands.  My mother liked it best from her.  We all knew this.\n I like them fine, but I canna do without you.   My sister, so unselfish\nin all other things, had an unwearying passion for parading it before us.\nIt was the rich reward of her life.\n\nThe others spoke among themselves of what must come soon, and they had\ntears to help them, but this daughter would not speak of it, and her\ntears were ever slow to come.  I knew that night and day she was trying\nto get ready for a world without her mother in it, but she must remain\ndumb; none of us was so Scotch as she, she must bear her agony alone, a\ntragic solitary Scotchwoman.  Even my mother, who spoke so calmly to us\nof the coming time, could not mention it to her.  These two, the one in\nbed, and the other bending over her, could only look long at each other,\nuntil slowly the tears came to my sister s eyes, and then my mother would\nturn away her wet face.  And still neither said a word, each knew so well\nwhat was in the other s thoughts, so eloquently they spoke in silence,\n Mother, I am loath to let you go,  and  Oh my daughter, now that my time\nis near, I wish you werena quite so fond of me.   But when the daughter\nhad slipped away my mother would grip my hand and cry,  I leave her to\nyou; you see how she has sown, it will depend on you how she is to reap. \nAnd I made promises, but I suppose neither of us saw that she had already\nreaped.\n\nIn the night my mother might waken and sit up in bed, confused by what\nshe saw.  While she slept, six decades or more had rolled back and she\nwas again in her girlhood; suddenly recalled from it she was dizzy, as\nwith the rush of the years.  How had she come into this room?  When she\nwent to bed last night, after preparing her father s supper, there had\nbeen a dresser at the window: what had become of the salt-bucket, the\nmeal-tub, the hams that should be hanging from the rafters?  There were\nno rafters; it was a papered ceiling.  She had often heard of open beds,\nbut how came she to be lying in one?  To fathom these things she would\ntry to spring out of bed and be startled to find it a labour, as if she\nhad been taken ill in the night.  Hearing her move I might knock on the\nwall that separated us, this being a sign, prearranged between us, that I\nwas near by, and so all was well, but sometimes the knocking seemed to\nbelong to the past, and she would cry,  That is my father chapping at the\ndoor, I maun rise and let him in.   She seemed to see him and it was one\nmuch younger than herself that she saw covered with snow, kicking clods\nof it from his boots, his hands swollen and chapped with sand and wet.\nThen I would hear it was a common experience of the night my sister\nsoothing her lovingly, and turning up the light to show her where she\nwas, helping her to the window to let her see that it was no night of\nsnow, even humouring her by going downstairs, and opening the outer door,\nand calling into the darkness,  Is anybody there?  and if that was not\nsufficient, she would swaddle my mother in wraps and take her through the\nrooms of the house, lighting them one by one, pointing out familiar\nobjects, and so guiding her slowly through the sixty odd years she had\njumped too quickly.  And perhaps the end of it was that my mother came to\nmy bedside and said wistfully,  Am I an auld woman? \n\nBut with daylight, even during the last week in which I saw her, she\nwould be up and doing, for though pitifully frail she no longer suffered\nfrom any ailment.  She seemed so well comparatively that I, having still\nthe remnants of an illness to shake off, was to take a holiday in\nSwitzerland, and then return for her, when we were all to go to the\nmuch-loved manse of her much-loved brother in the west country.  So she\nhad many preparations on her mind, and the morning was the time when she\nhad any strength to carry them out.  To leave her house had always been a\nmonth s work for her, it must be left in such perfect order, every corner\nvisited and cleaned out, every chest probed to the bottom, the linen\nlifted out, examined and put back lovingly as if to make it lie more\neasily in her absence, shelves had to be re-papered, a strenuous week\ndevoted to the garret.  Less exhaustively, but with much of the old\nexultation in her house, this was done for the last time, and then there\nwas the bringing out of her own clothes, and the spreading of them upon\nthe bed and the pleased fingering of them, and the consultations about\nwhich should be left behind.  Ah, beautiful dream! I clung to it every\nmorning; I would not look when my sister shook her head at it, but long\nbefore each day was done I too knew that it could never be.  It had come\ntrue many times, but never again.  We two knew it, but when my mother,\nwho must always be prepared so long beforehand, called for her trunk and\nband-boxes we brought them to her, and we stood silent, watching, while\nshe packed.\n\nThe morning came when I was to go away.  It had come a hundred times,\nwhen I was a boy, when I was an undergraduate, when I was a man, when she\nhad seemed big and strong to me, when she was grown so little and it was\nI who put my arms round her.  But always it was the same scene.  I am not\nto write about it, of the parting and the turning back on the stair, and\ntwo people trying to smile, and the setting off again, and the cry that\nbrought me back.  Nor shall I say more of the silent figure in the\nbackground, always in the background, always near my mother.  The last I\nsaw of these two was from the gate.  They were at the window which never\npasses from my eyes.  I could not see my dear sister s face, for she was\nbending over my mother, pointing me out to her, and telling her to wave\nher hand and smile, because I liked it so.  That action was an epitome of\nmy sister s life.\n\nI had been gone a fortnight when the telegram was put into my hands.  I\nhad got a letter from my sister, a few hours before, saying that all was\nwell at home.  The telegram said in five words that she had died suddenly\nthe previous night.  There was no mention of my mother, and I was three\ndays  journey from home.\n\nThe news I got on reaching London was this: my mother did not understand\nthat her daughter was dead, and they were waiting for me to tell her.\n\nI need not have been such a coward.  This is how these two died for,\nafter all, I was too late by twelve hours to see my mother alive.\n\nTheir last night was almost gleeful.  In the old days that hour before my\nmother s gas was lowered had so often been the happiest that my pen\nsteals back to it again and again as I write: it was the time when my\nmother lay smiling in bed and we were gathered round her like children at\nplay, our reticence scattered on the floor or tossed in sport from hand\nto hand, the author become so boisterous that in the pauses they were\nholding him in check by force.  Rather woful had been some attempts\nlatterly to renew those evenings, when my mother might be brought to the\nverge of them, as if some familiar echo called her, but where she was she\ndid not clearly know, because the past was roaring in her ears like a\ngreat sea.  But this night was a last gift to my sister.  The joyousness\nof their voices drew the others in the house upstairs, where for more\nthan an hour my mother was the centre of a merry party and so clear of\nmental eye that they, who were at first cautious, abandoned themselves to\nthe sport, and whatever they said, by way of humorous rally, she\ninstantly capped as of old, turning their darts against themselves until\nin self-defence they were three to one, and the three hard pressed.  How\nmy sister must have been rejoicing.  Once again she could cry,  Was there\never such a woman!   They tell me that such a happiness was on the\ndaughter s face that my mother commented on it, that having risen to go\nthey sat down again, fascinated by the radiance of these two.  And when\neventually they went, the last words they heard were,  They are gone, you\nsee, mother, but I am here, I will never leave you,  and  Na, you winna\nleave me; fine I know that.   For some time afterwards their voices could\nbe heard from downstairs, but what they talked of is not known.  And then\ncame silence.  Had I been at home I should have been in the room again\nseveral times, turning the handle of the door softly, releasing it so\nthat it did not creak, and standing looking at them.  It had been so a\nthousand times.  But that night, would I have slipped out again, mind at\nrest, or should I have seen the change coming while they slept?\n\nLet it be told in the fewest words.  My sister awoke next morning with a\nheadache.  She had always been a martyr to headaches, but this one, like\nmany another, seemed to be unusually severe.  Nevertheless she rose and\nlit my mother s fire and brought up her breakfast, and then had to return\nto bed.  She was not able to write her daily letter to me, saying how my\nmother was, and almost the last thing she did was to ask my father to\nwrite it, and not to let on that she was ill, as it would distress me.\nThe doctor was called, but she rapidly became unconscious.  In this state\nshe was removed from my mother s bed to another.  It was discovered that\nshe was suffering from an internal disease.  No one had guessed it.  She\nherself never knew.  Nothing could be done.  In this unconsciousness she\npassed away, without knowing that she was leaving her mother.  Had I\nknown, when I heard of her death, that she had been saved that pain,\nsurely I could have gone home more bravely with the words,\n\n    Art thou afraid His power fail\n    When comes thy evil day?\n\nAh, you would think so, I should have thought so, but I know myself now.\nWhen I reached London I did hear how my sister died, but still I was\nafraid.  I saw myself in my mother s room telling her why the door of the\nnext room was locked, and I was afraid.  God had done so much, and yet I\ncould not look confidently to Him for the little that was left to do.   O\nye of little faith!   These are the words I seem to hear my mother saying\nto me now, and she looks at me so sorrowfully.\n\nHe did it very easily, and it has ceased to seem marvellous to me because\nit was so plainly His doing.  My timid mother saw the one who was never\nto leave her carried unconscious from the room, and she did not break\ndown.  She who used to wring her hands if her daughter was gone for a\nmoment never asked for her again, they were afraid to mention her name;\nan awe fell upon them.  But I am sure they need not have been so anxious.\nThere are mysteries in life and death, but this was not one of them.  A\nchild can understand what happened.  God said that my sister must come\nfirst, but He put His hand on my mother s eyes at that moment and she was\naltered.\n\nThey told her that I was on my way home, and she said with a confident\nsmile,  He will come as quick as trains can bring him.   That is my\nreward, that is what I have got for my books.  Everything I could do for\nher in this life I have done since I was a boy; I look back through the\nyears and I cannot see the smallest thing left undone.\n\nThey were buried together on my mother s seventy-sixth birthday, though\nthere had been three days between their deaths.  On the last day, my\nmother insisted on rising from bed and going through the house.  The arms\nthat had so often helped her on that journey were now cold in death, but\nthere were others only less loving, and she went slowly from room to room\nlike one bidding good-bye, and in mine she said,  The beautiful rows upon\nrows of books, ant he said every one of them was mine, all mine!  and in\nthe east room, which was her greatest triumph, she said caressingly,  My\nnain bonny room!   All this time there seemed to be something that she\nwanted, but the one was dead who always knew what she wanted, and they\nproduced many things at which she shook her head.  They did not know then\nthat she was dying, but they followed her through the house in some\napprehension, and after she returned to bed they saw that she was\nbecoming very weak.  Once she said eagerly,  Is that you, David?  and\nagain she thought she heard her father knocking the snow off his boots.\nHer desire for that which she could not name came back to her, and at\nlast they saw that what she wanted was the old christening robe.  It was\nbrought to her, and she unfolded it with trembling, exultant hands, and\nwhen she had made sure that it was still of virgin fairness her old arms\nwent round it adoringly, and upon her face there was the ineffable\nmysterious glow of motherhood.  Suddenly she said,  Wha s bairn s dead?\nis a bairn of mine dead?  but those watching dared not speak, and then\nslowly as if with an effort of memory she repeated our names aloud in the\norder in which we were born.  Only one, who should have come third among\nthe ten, did she omit, the one in the next room, but at the end, after a\npause, she said her name and repeated it again and again and again,\nlingering over it as if it were the most exquisite music and this her\ndying song.  And yet it was a very commonplace name.\n\nThey knew now that she was dying.  She told them to fold up the\nchristening robe and almost sharply she watched them put it away, and\nthen for some time she talked of the long lovely life that had been hers,\nand of Him to whom she owed it.  She said good-bye to them all, and at\nlast turned her face to the side where her best-beloved had lain, and for\nover an hour she prayed.  They only caught the words now and again, and\nthe last they heard were  God  and  love.   I think God was smiling when\nHe took her to Him, as He had so often smiled at her during those\nseventy-six years.\n\nI saw her lying dead, and her face was beautiful and serene.  But it was\nthe other room I entered first, and it was by my sister s side that I\nfell upon my knees.  The rounded completeness of a woman s life that was\nmy mother s had not been for her.  She would not have it at the price.\n I ll never leave you, mother. Fine I know you ll never leave me.   The\nfierce joy of loving too much, it is a terrible thing.  My sister s mouth\nwas firmly closed, as if she had got her way.\n\nAnd now I am left without them, but I trust my memory will ever go back\nto those happy days, not to rush through them, but dallying here and\nthere, even as my mother wanders through my books.  And if I also live to\na time when age must dim my mind and the past comes sweeping back like\nthe shades of night over the bare road of the present it will not, I\nbelieve, be my youth I shall see but hers, not a boy clinging to his\nmother s skirt and crying,  Wait till I m a man, and you ll lie on\nfeathers,  but a little girl in a magenta frock and a white pinafore, who\ncomes toward me through the long parks, singing to herself, and carrying\nher father s dinner in a flagon."
    },
    {
        "title": "The War of the Worlds",
        "author": "H.G. Wells",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "I.\nTHE EVE OF THE WAR.\n\n\nNo one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century\nthat this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences\ngreater than man s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied\nthemselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and\nstudied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might\nscrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of\nwater. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe\nabout their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire\nover matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do\nthe same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources\nof human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life\nupon them as impossible or improbable. It is curious to recall some of\nthe mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men\nfancied there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to\nthemselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the\ngulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the\nbeasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic,\nregarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their\nplans against us. And early in the twentieth century came the great\ndisillusionment.\n\nThe planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader, revolves about the\nsun at a mean distance of 140,000,000 miles, and the light and heat it\nreceives from the sun is barely half of that received by this world. It\nmust be, if the nebular hypothesis has any truth, older than our world;\nand long before this earth ceased to be molten, life upon its surface\nmust have begun its course. The fact that it is scarcely one seventh of\nthe volume of the earth must have accelerated its cooling to the\ntemperature at which life could begin. It has air and water and all\nthat is necessary for the support of animated existence.\n\nYet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no writer, up to\nthe very end of the nineteenth century, expressed any idea that\nintelligent life might have developed there far, or indeed at all,\nbeyond its earthly level. Nor was it generally understood that since\nMars is older than our earth, with scarcely a quarter of the\nsuperficial area and remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows that\nit is not only more distant from time s beginning but nearer its end.\n\nThe secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has already\ngone far indeed with our neighbour. Its physical condition is still\nlargely a mystery, but we know now that even in its equatorial region\nthe midday temperature barely approaches that of our coldest winter.\nIts air is much more attenuated than ours, its oceans have shrunk until\nthey cover but a third of its surface, and as its slow seasons change\nhuge snowcaps gather and melt about either pole and periodically\ninundate its temperate zones. That last stage of exhaustion, which to\nus is still incredibly remote, has become a present-day problem for the\ninhabitants of Mars. The immediate pressure of necessity has brightened\ntheir intellects, enlarged their powers, and hardened their hearts. And\nlooking across space with instruments, and intelligences such as we\nhave scarcely dreamed of, they see, at its nearest distance only\n35,000,000 of miles sunward of them, a morning star of hope, our own\nwarmer planet, green with vegetation and grey with water, with a cloudy\natmosphere eloquent of fertility, with glimpses through its drifting\ncloud wisps of broad stretches of populous country and narrow,\nnavy-crowded seas.\n\nAnd we men, the creatures who inhabit this earth, must be to them at\nleast as alien and lowly as are the monkeys and lemurs to us. The\nintellectual side of man already admits that life is an incessant\nstruggle for existence, and it would seem that this too is the belief\nof the minds upon Mars. Their world is far gone in its cooling and this\nworld is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they\nregard as inferior animals. To carry warfare sunward is, indeed, their\nonly escape from the destruction that, generation after generation,\ncreeps upon them.\n\nAnd before we judge of them too harshly we must remember what ruthless\nand utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only upon\nanimals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo, but upon its inferior\nraces. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely\nswept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European\nimmigrants, in the space of fifty years. Are we such apostles of mercy\nas to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit?\n\nThe Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing\nsubtlety their mathematical learning is evidently far in excess of\nours and to have carried out their preparations with a well-nigh\nperfect unanimity. Had our instruments permitted it, we might have seen\nthe gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century. Men like\nSchiaparelli watched the red planet it is odd, by-the-bye, that for\ncountless centuries Mars has been the star of war but failed to\ninterpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so\nwell. All that time the Martians must have been getting ready.\n\nDuring the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen on the illuminated\npart of the disk, first at the Lick Observatory, then by Perrotin of\nNice, and then by other observers. English readers heard of it first in\nthe issue of _Nature_ dated August 2. I am inclined to think that this\nblaze may have been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast pit sunk\ninto their planet, from which their shots were fired at us. Peculiar\nmarkings, as yet unexplained, were seen near the site of that outbreak\nduring the next two oppositions.\n\nThe storm burst upon us six years ago now. As Mars approached\nopposition, Lavelle of Java set the wires of the astronomical exchange\npalpitating with the amazing intelligence of a huge outbreak of\nincandescent gas upon the planet. It had occurred towards midnight of\nthe twelfth; and the spectroscope, to which he had at once resorted,\nindicated a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen, moving with an\nenormous velocity towards this earth. This jet of fire had become\ninvisible about a quarter past twelve. He compared it to a colossal\npuff of flame suddenly and violently squirted out of the planet,  as\nflaming gases rushed out of a gun. \n\nA singularly appropriate phrase it proved. Yet the next day there was\nnothing of this in the papers except a little note in the _Daily\nTelegraph_, and the world went in ignorance of one of the gravest\ndangers that ever threatened the human race. I might not have heard of\nthe eruption at all had I not met Ogilvy, the well-known astronomer, at\nOttershaw. He was immensely excited at the news, and in the excess of\nhis feelings invited me up to take a turn with him that night in a\nscrutiny of the red planet.\n\nIn spite of all that has happened since, I still remember that vigil\nvery distinctly: the black and silent observatory, the shadowed lantern\nthrowing a feeble glow upon the floor in the corner, the steady ticking\nof the clockwork of the telescope, the little slit in the roof an\noblong profundity with the stardust streaked across it. Ogilvy moved\nabout, invisible but audible. Looking through the telescope, one saw a\ncircle of deep blue and the little round planet swimming in the field.\nIt seemed such a little thing, so bright and small and still, faintly\nmarked with transverse stripes, and slightly flattened from the perfect\nround. But so little it was, so silvery warm a pin s head of light! It\nwas as if it quivered, but really this was the telescope vibrating with\nthe activity of the clockwork that kept the planet in view.\n\nAs I watched, the planet seemed to grow larger and smaller and to\nadvance and recede, but that was simply that my eye was tired. Forty\nmillions of miles it was from us more than forty millions of miles of\nvoid. Few people realise the immensity of vacancy in which the dust of\nthe material universe swims.\n\nNear it in the field, I remember, were three faint points of light,\nthree telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all around it was the\nunfathomable darkness of empty space. You know how that blackness looks\non a frosty starlight night. In a telescope it seems far profounder.\nAnd invisible to me because it was so remote and small, flying swiftly\nand steadily towards me across that incredible distance, drawing nearer\nevery minute by so many thousands of miles, came the Thing they were\nsending us, the Thing that was to bring so much struggle and calamity\nand death to the earth. I never dreamed of it then as I watched; no one\non earth dreamed of that unerring missile.\n\nThat night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the distant\nplanet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge, the slightest projection\nof the outline just as the chronometer struck midnight; and at that I\ntold Ogilvy and he took my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty,\nand I went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in the\ndarkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while Ogilvy\nexclaimed at the streamer of gas that came out towards us.\n\nThat night another invisible missile started on its way to the earth\nfrom Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after the first\none. I remember how I sat on the table there in the blackness, with\npatches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a\nlight to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam I\nhad seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy watched till\none, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern and walked over to his\nhouse. Down below in the darkness were Ottershaw and Chertsey and all\ntheir hundreds of people, sleeping in peace.\n\nHe was full of speculation that night about the condition of Mars, and\nscoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who were\nsignalling us. His idea was that meteorites might be falling in a heavy\nshower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was in\nprogress. He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic\nevolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets.\n\n The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a million to one,  he\nsaid.\n\nHundreds of observers saw the flame that night and the night after\nabout midnight, and again the night after; and so for ten nights, a\nflame each night. Why the shots ceased after the tenth no one on earth\nhas attempted to explain. It may be the gases of the firing caused the\nMartians inconvenience. Dense clouds of smoke or dust, visible through\na powerful telescope on earth as little grey, fluctuating patches,\nspread through the clearness of the planet s atmosphere and obscured\nits more familiar features.\n\nEven the daily papers woke up to the disturbances at last, and popular\nnotes appeared here, there, and everywhere concerning the volcanoes\nupon Mars. The seriocomic periodical _Punch_, I remember, made a happy\nuse of it in the political cartoon. And, all unsuspected, those\nmissiles the Martians had fired at us drew earthward, rushing now at a\npace of many miles a second through the empty gulf of space, hour by\nhour and day by day, nearer and nearer. It seems to me now almost\nincredibly wonderful that, with that swift fate hanging over us, men\ncould go about their petty concerns as they did. I remember how\njubilant Markham was at securing a new photograph of the planet for the\nillustrated paper he edited in those days. People in these latter times\nscarcely realise the abundance and enterprise of our nineteenth-century\npapers. For my own part, I was much occupied in learning to ride the\nbicycle, and busy upon a series of papers discussing the probable\ndevelopments of moral ideas as civilisation progressed.\n\nOne night (the first missile then could scarcely have been 10,000,000\nmiles away) I went for a walk with my wife. It was starlight and I\nexplained the Signs of the Zodiac to her, and pointed out Mars, a\nbright dot of light creeping zenithward, towards which so many\ntelescopes were pointed. It was a warm night. Coming home, a party of\nexcursionists from Chertsey or Isleworth passed us singing and playing\nmusic. There were lights in the upper windows of the houses as the\npeople went to bed. From the railway station in the distance came the\nsound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into\nmelody by the distance. My wife pointed out to me the brightness of the\nred, green, and yellow signal lights hanging in a framework against the\nsky. It seemed so safe and tranquil.\n\n\n\n\nII.\nTHE FALLING STAR.\n\n\nThen came the night of the first falling star. It was seen early in the\nmorning, rushing over Winchester eastward, a line of flame high in the\natmosphere. Hundreds must have seen it, and taken it for an ordinary\nfalling star. Albin described it as leaving a greenish streak behind it\nthat glowed for some seconds. Denning, our greatest authority on\nmeteorites, stated that the height of its first appearance was about\nninety or one hundred miles. It seemed to him that it fell to earth\nabout one hundred miles east of him.\n\nI was at home at that hour and writing in my study; and although my\nFrench windows face towards Ottershaw and the blind was up (for I loved\nin those days to look up at the night sky), I saw nothing of it. Yet\nthis strangest of all things that ever came to earth from outer space\nmust have fallen while I was sitting there, visible to me had I only\nlooked up as it passed. Some of those who saw its flight say it\ntravelled with a hissing sound. I myself heard nothing of that. Many\npeople in Berkshire, Surrey, and Middlesex must have seen the fall of\nit, and, at most, have thought that another meteorite had descended. No\none seems to have troubled to look for the fallen mass that night.\n\nBut very early in the morning poor Ogilvy, who had seen the shooting\nstar and who was persuaded that a meteorite lay somewhere on the common\nbetween Horsell, Ottershaw, and Woking, rose early with the idea of\nfinding it. Find it he did, soon after dawn, and not far from the\nsand-pits. An enormous hole had been made by the impact of the\nprojectile, and the sand and gravel had been flung violently in every\ndirection over the heath, forming heaps visible a mile and a half away.\nThe heather was on fire eastward, and a thin blue smoke rose against\nthe dawn.\n\nThe Thing itself lay almost entirely buried in sand, amidst the\nscattered splinters of a fir tree it had shivered to fragments in its\ndescent. The uncovered part had the appearance of a huge cylinder,\ncaked over and its outline softened by a thick scaly dun-coloured\nincrustation. It had a diameter of about thirty yards. He approached\nthe mass, surprised at the size and more so at the shape, since most\nmeteorites are rounded more or less completely. It was, however, still\nso hot from its flight through the air as to forbid his near approach.\nA stirring noise within its cylinder he ascribed to the unequal cooling\nof its surface; for at that time it had not occurred to him that it\nmight be hollow.\n\nHe remained standing at the edge of the pit that the Thing had made for\nitself, staring at its strange appearance, astonished chiefly at its\nunusual shape and colour, and dimly perceiving even then some evidence\nof design in its arrival. The early morning was wonderfully still, and\nthe sun, just clearing the pine trees towards Weybridge, was already\nwarm. He did not remember hearing any birds that morning, there was\ncertainly no breeze stirring, and the only sounds were the faint\nmovements from within the cindery cylinder. He was all alone on the\ncommon.\n\nThen suddenly he noticed with a start that some of the grey clinker,\nthe ashy incrustation that covered the meteorite, was falling off the\ncircular edge of the end. It was dropping off in flakes and raining\ndown upon the sand. A large piece suddenly came off and fell with a\nsharp noise that brought his heart into his mouth.\n\nFor a minute he scarcely realised what this meant, and, although the\nheat was excessive, he clambered down into the pit close to the bulk to\nsee the Thing more clearly. He fancied even then that the cooling of\nthe body might account for this, but what disturbed that idea was the\nfact that the ash was falling only from the end of the cylinder.\n\nAnd then he perceived that, very slowly, the circular top of the\ncylinder was rotating on its body. It was such a gradual movement that\nhe discovered it only through noticing that a black mark that had been\nnear him five minutes ago was now at the other side of the\ncircumference. Even then he scarcely understood what this indicated,\nuntil he heard a muffled grating sound and saw the black mark jerk\nforward an inch or so. Then the thing came upon him in a flash. The\ncylinder was artificial hollow with an end that screwed out! Something\nwithin the cylinder was unscrewing the top!\n\n Good heavens!  said Ogilvy.  There s a man in it men in it! Half\nroasted to death! Trying to escape! \n\nAt once, with a quick mental leap, he linked the Thing with the flash\nupon Mars.\n\nThe thought of the confined creature was so dreadful to him that he\nforgot the heat and went forward to the cylinder to help turn. But\nluckily the dull radiation arrested him before he could burn his hands\non the still-glowing metal. At that he stood irresolute for a moment,\nthen turned, scrambled out of the pit, and set off running wildly into\nWoking. The time then must have been somewhere about six o clock. He\nmet a waggoner and tried to make him understand, but the tale he told\nand his appearance were so wild his hat had fallen off in the pit that\nthe man simply drove on. He was equally unsuccessful with the potman\nwho was just unlocking the doors of the public-house by Horsell Bridge.\nThe fellow thought he was a lunatic at large and made an unsuccessful\nattempt to shut him into the taproom. That sobered him a little; and\nwhen he saw Henderson, the London journalist, in his garden, he called\nover the palings and made himself understood.\n\n Henderson,  he called,  you saw that shooting star last night? \n\n Well?  said Henderson.\n\n It s out on Horsell Common now. \n\n Good Lord!  said Henderson.  Fallen meteorite! That s good. \n\n But it s something more than a meteorite. It s a cylinder an\nartificial cylinder, man! And there s something inside. \n\nHenderson stood up with his spade in his hand.\n\n What s that?  he said. He was deaf in one ear.\n\nOgilvy told him all that he had seen. Henderson was a minute or so\ntaking it in. Then he dropped his spade, snatched up his jacket, and\ncame out into the road. The two men hurried back at once to the common,\nand found the cylinder still lying in the same position. But now the\nsounds inside had ceased, and a thin circle of bright metal showed\nbetween the top and the body of the cylinder. Air was either entering\nor escaping at the rim with a thin, sizzling sound.\n\nThey listened, rapped on the scaly burnt metal with a stick, and,\nmeeting with no response, they both concluded the man or men inside\nmust be insensible or dead.\n\nOf course the two were quite unable to do anything. They shouted\nconsolation and promises, and went off back to the town again to get\nhelp. One can imagine them, covered with sand, excited and disordered,\nrunning up the little street in the bright sunlight just as the shop\nfolks were taking down their shutters and people were opening their\nbedroom windows. Henderson went into the railway station at once, in\norder to telegraph the news to London. The newspaper articles had\nprepared men s minds for the reception of the idea.\n\nBy eight o clock a number of boys and unemployed men had already\nstarted for the common to see the  dead men from Mars.  That was the\nform the story took. I heard of it first from my newspaper boy about a\nquarter to nine when I went out to get my _Daily Chronicle_. I was\nnaturally startled, and lost no time in going out and across the\nOttershaw bridge to the sand-pits.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\nON HORSELL COMMON.\n\n\nI found a little crowd of perhaps twenty people surrounding the huge\nhole in which the cylinder lay. I have already described the appearance\nof that colossal bulk, embedded in the ground. The turf and gravel\nabout it seemed charred as if by a sudden explosion. No doubt its\nimpact had caused a flash of fire. Henderson and Ogilvy were not there.\nI think they perceived that nothing was to be done for the present, and\nhad gone away to breakfast at Henderson s house.\n\nThere were four or five boys sitting on the edge of the Pit, with their\nfeet dangling, and amusing themselves until I stopped them by throwing\nstones at the giant mass. After I had spoken to them about it, they\nbegan playing at  touch  in and out of the group of bystanders.\n\nAmong these were a couple of cyclists, a jobbing gardener I employed\nsometimes, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg the butcher and his little\nboy, and two or three loafers and golf caddies who were accustomed to\nhang about the railway station. There was very little talking. Few of\nthe common people in England had anything but the vaguest astronomical\nideas in those days. Most of them were staring quietly at the big table\nlike end of the cylinder, which was still as Ogilvy and Henderson had\nleft it. I fancy the popular expectation of a heap of charred corpses\nwas disappointed at this inanimate bulk. Some went away while I was\nthere, and other people came. I clambered into the pit and fancied I\nheard a faint movement under my feet. The top had certainly ceased to\nrotate.\n\nIt was only when I got thus close to it that the strangeness of this\nobject was at all evident to me. At the first glance it was really no\nmore exciting than an overturned carriage or a tree blown across the\nroad. Not so much so, indeed. It looked like a rusty gas float. It\nrequired a certain amount of scientific education to perceive that the\ngrey scale of the Thing was no common oxide, that the yellowish-white\nmetal that gleamed in the crack between the lid and the cylinder had an\nunfamiliar hue.  Extra-terrestrial  had no meaning for most of the\nonlookers.\n\nAt that time it was quite clear in my own mind that the Thing had come\nfrom the planet Mars, but I judged it improbable that it contained any\nliving creature. I thought the unscrewing might be automatic. In spite\nof Ogilvy, I still believed that there were men in Mars. My mind ran\nfancifully on the possibilities of its containing manuscript, on the\ndifficulties in translation that might arise, whether we should find\ncoins and models in it, and so forth. Yet it was a little too large for\nassurance on this idea. I felt an impatience to see it opened. About\neleven, as nothing seemed happening, I walked back, full of such\nthought, to my home in Maybury. But I found it difficult to get to work\nupon my abstract investigations.\n\nIn the afternoon the appearance of the common had altered very much.\nThe early editions of the evening papers had startled London with\nenormous headlines:\n\n A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS. \n\n\n REMARKABLE STORY FROM WOKING, \n\n\nand so forth. In addition, Ogilvy s wire to the Astronomical Exchange\nhad roused every observatory in the three kingdoms.\n\nThere were half a dozen flys or more from the Woking station standing\nin the road by the sand-pits, a basket-chaise from Chobham, and a\nrather lordly carriage. Besides that, there was quite a heap of\nbicycles. In addition, a large number of people must have walked, in\nspite of the heat of the day, from Woking and Chertsey, so that there\nwas altogether quite a considerable crowd one or two gaily dressed\nladies among the others.\n\nIt was glaringly hot, not a cloud in the sky nor a breath of wind, and\nthe only shadow was that of the few scattered pine trees. The burning\nheather had been extinguished, but the level ground towards Ottershaw\nwas blackened as far as one could see, and still giving off vertical\nstreamers of smoke. An enterprising sweet-stuff dealer in the Chobham\nRoad had sent up his son with a barrow-load of green apples and ginger\nbeer.\n\nGoing to the edge of the pit, I found it occupied by a group of about\nhalf a dozen men Henderson, Ogilvy, and a tall, fair-haired man that I\nafterwards learned was Stent, the Astronomer Royal, with several\nworkmen wielding spades and pickaxes. Stent was giving directions in a\nclear, high-pitched voice. He was standing on the cylinder, which was\nnow evidently much cooler; his face was crimson and streaming with\nperspiration, and something seemed to have irritated him.\n\nA large portion of the cylinder had been uncovered, though its lower\nend was still embedded. As soon as Ogilvy saw me among the staring\ncrowd on the edge of the pit he called to me to come down, and asked me\nif I would mind going over to see Lord Hilton, the lord of the manor.\n\nThe growing crowd, he said, was becoming a serious impediment to their\nexcavations, especially the boys. They wanted a light railing put up,\nand help to keep the people back. He told me that a faint stirring was\noccasionally still audible within the case, but that the workmen had\nfailed to unscrew the top, as it afforded no grip to them. The case\nappeared to be enormously thick, and it was possible that the faint\nsounds we heard represented a noisy tumult in the interior.\n\nI was very glad to do as he asked, and so become one of the privileged\nspectators within the contemplated enclosure. I failed to find Lord\nHilton at his house, but I was told he was expected from London by the\nsix o clock train from Waterloo; and as it was then about a quarter\npast five, I went home, had some tea, and walked up to the station to\nwaylay him.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\nTHE CYLINDER OPENS.\n\n\nWhen I returned to the common the sun was setting. Scattered groups\nwere hurrying from the direction of Woking, and one or two persons were\nreturning. The crowd about the pit had increased, and stood out black\nagainst the lemon yellow of the sky a couple of hundred people,\nperhaps. There were raised voices, and some sort of struggle appeared\nto be going on about the pit. Strange imaginings passed through my\nmind. As I drew nearer I heard Stent s voice:\n\n Keep back! Keep back! \n\nA boy came running towards me.\n\n It s a-movin ,  he said to me as he passed;  a-screwin  and a-screwin \nout. I don t like it. I m a-goin   ome, I am. \n\nI went on to the crowd. There were really, I should think, two or three\nhundred people elbowing and jostling one another, the one or two ladies\nthere being by no means the least active.\n\n He s fallen in the pit!  cried some one.\n\n Keep back!  said several.\n\nThe crowd swayed a little, and I elbowed my way through. Every one\nseemed greatly excited. I heard a peculiar humming sound from the pit.\n\n I say!  said Ogilvy;  help keep these idiots back. We don t know\nwhat s in the confounded thing, you know! \n\nI saw a young man, a shop assistant in Woking I believe he was,\nstanding on the cylinder and trying to scramble out of the hole again.\nThe crowd had pushed him in.\n\nThe end of the cylinder was being screwed out from within. Nearly two\nfeet of shining screw projected. Somebody blundered against me, and I\nnarrowly missed being pitched onto the top of the screw. I turned, and\nas I did so the screw must have come out, for the lid of the cylinder\nfell upon the gravel with a ringing concussion. I stuck my elbow into\nthe person behind me, and turned my head towards the Thing again. For a\nmoment that circular cavity seemed perfectly black. I had the sunset in\nmy eyes.\n\nI think everyone expected to see a man emerge possibly something a\nlittle unlike us terrestrial men, but in all essentials a man. I know I\ndid. But, looking, I presently saw something stirring within the\nshadow: greyish billowy movements, one above another, and then two\nluminous disks like eyes. Then something resembling a little grey\nsnake, about the thickness of a walking stick, coiled up out of the\nwrithing middle, and wriggled in the air towards me and then another.\n\nA sudden chill came over me. There was a loud shriek from a woman\nbehind. I half turned, keeping my eyes fixed upon the cylinder still,\nfrom which other tentacles were now projecting, and began pushing my\nway back from the edge of the pit. I saw astonishment giving place to\nhorror on the faces of the people about me. I heard inarticulate\nexclamations on all sides. There was a general movement backwards. I\nsaw the shopman struggling still on the edge of the pit. I found myself\nalone, and saw the people on the other side of the pit running off,\nStent among them. I looked again at the cylinder, and ungovernable\nterror gripped me. I stood petrified and staring.\n\nA big greyish rounded bulk, the size, perhaps, of a bear, was rising\nslowly and painfully out of the cylinder. As it bulged up and caught\nthe light, it glistened like wet leather.\n\nTwo large dark-coloured eyes were regarding me steadfastly. The mass\nthat framed them, the head of the thing, was rounded, and had, one\nmight say, a face. There was a mouth under the eyes, the lipless brim\nof which quivered and panted, and dropped saliva. The whole creature\nheaved and pulsated convulsively. A lank tentacular appendage gripped\nthe edge of the cylinder, another swayed in the air.\n\nThose who have never seen a living Martian can scarcely imagine the\nstrange horror of its appearance. The peculiar V-shaped mouth with its\npointed upper lip, the absence of brow ridges, the absence of a chin\nbeneath the wedgelike lower lip, the incessant quivering of this mouth,\nthe Gorgon groups of tentacles, the tumultuous breathing of the lungs\nin a strange atmosphere, the evident heaviness and painfulness of\nmovement due to the greater gravitational energy of the earth above\nall, the extraordinary intensity of the immense eyes were at once\nvital, intense, inhuman, crippled and monstrous. There was something\nfungoid in the oily brown skin, something in the clumsy deliberation of\nthe tedious movements unspeakably nasty. Even at this first encounter,\nthis first glimpse, I was overcome with disgust and dread.\n\nSuddenly the monster vanished. It had toppled over the brim of the\ncylinder and fallen into the pit, with a thud like the fall of a great\nmass of leather. I heard it give a peculiar thick cry, and forthwith\nanother of these creatures appeared darkly in the deep shadow of the\naperture.\n\nI turned and, running madly, made for the first group of trees, perhaps\na hundred yards away; but I ran slantingly and stumbling, for I could\nnot avert my face from these things.\n\nThere, among some young pine trees and furze bushes, I stopped,\npanting, and waited further developments. The common round the\nsand-pits was dotted with people, standing like myself in a\nhalf-fascinated terror, staring at these creatures, or rather at the\nheaped gravel at the edge of the pit in which they lay. And then, with\na renewed horror, I saw a round, black object bobbing up and down on\nthe edge of the pit. It was the head of the shopman who had fallen in,\nbut showing as a little black object against the hot western sun. Now\nhe got his shoulder and knee up, and again he seemed to slip back until\nonly his head was visible. Suddenly he vanished, and I could have\nfancied a faint shriek had reached me. I had a momentary impulse to go\nback and help him that my fears overruled.\n\nEverything was then quite invisible, hidden by the deep pit and the\nheap of sand that the fall of the cylinder had made. Anyone coming\nalong the road from Chobham or Woking would have been amazed at the\nsight a dwindling multitude of perhaps a hundred people or more\nstanding in a great irregular circle, in ditches, behind bushes, behind\ngates and hedges, saying little to one another and that in short,\nexcited shouts, and staring, staring hard at a few heaps of sand. The\nbarrow of ginger beer stood, a queer derelict, black against the\nburning sky, and in the sand-pits was a row of deserted vehicles with\ntheir horses feeding out of nosebags or pawing the ground.\n\n\n\n\nV.\nTHE HEAT-RAY.\n\n\nAfter the glimpse I had had of the Martians emerging from the cylinder\nin which they had come to the earth from their planet, a kind of\nfascination paralysed my actions. I remained standing knee-deep in the\nheather, staring at the mound that hid them. I was a battleground of\nfear and curiosity.\n\nI did not dare to go back towards the pit, but I felt a passionate\nlonging to peer into it. I began walking, therefore, in a big curve,\nseeking some point of vantage and continually looking at the sand-heaps\nthat hid these new-comers to our earth. Once a leash of thin black\nwhips, like the arms of an octopus, flashed across the sunset and was\nimmediately withdrawn, and afterwards a thin rod rose up, joint by\njoint, bearing at its apex a circular disk that spun with a wobbling\nmotion. What could be going on there?\n\nMost of the spectators had gathered in one or two groups one a little\ncrowd towards Woking, the other a knot of people in the direction of\nChobham. Evidently they shared my mental conflict. There were few near\nme. One man I approached he was, I perceived, a neighbour of mine,\nthough I did not know his name and accosted. But it was scarcely a time\nfor articulate conversation.\n\n What ugly _brutes_!  he said.  Good God! What ugly brutes!  He\nrepeated this over and over again.\n\n Did you see a man in the pit?  I said; but he made no answer to that.\nWe became silent, and stood watching for a time side by side, deriving,\nI fancy, a certain comfort in one another s company. Then I shifted my\nposition to a little knoll that gave me the advantage of a yard or more\nof elevation and when I looked for him presently he was walking towards\nWoking.\n\nThe sunset faded to twilight before anything further happened. The\ncrowd far away on the left, towards Woking, seemed to grow, and I heard\nnow a faint murmur from it. The little knot of people towards Chobham\ndispersed. There was scarcely an intimation of movement from the pit.\n\nIt was this, as much as anything, that gave people courage, and I\nsuppose the new arrivals from Woking also helped to restore confidence.\nAt any rate, as the dusk came on a slow, intermittent movement upon the\nsand-pits began, a movement that seemed to gather force as the\nstillness of the evening about the cylinder remained unbroken. Vertical\nblack figures in twos and threes would advance, stop, watch, and\nadvance again, spreading out as they did so in a thin irregular\ncrescent that promised to enclose the pit in its attenuated horns. I,\ntoo, on my side began to move towards the pit.\n\nThen I saw some cabmen and others had walked boldly into the sand-pits,\nand heard the clatter of hoofs and the gride of wheels. I saw a lad\ntrundling off the barrow of apples. And then, within thirty yards of\nthe pit, advancing from the direction of Horsell, I noted a little\nblack knot of men, the foremost of whom was waving a white flag.\n\nThis was the Deputation. There had been a hasty consultation, and since\nthe Martians were evidently, in spite of their repulsive forms,\nintelligent creatures, it had been resolved to show them, by\napproaching them with signals, that we too were intelligent.\n\nFlutter, flutter, went the flag, first to the right, then to the left.\nIt was too far for me to recognise anyone there, but afterwards I\nlearned that Ogilvy, Stent, and Henderson were with others in this\nattempt at communication. This little group had in its advance dragged\ninward, so to speak, the circumference of the now almost complete\ncircle of people, and a number of dim black figures followed it at\ndiscreet distances.\n\nSuddenly there was a flash of light, and a quantity of luminous\ngreenish smoke came out of the pit in three distinct puffs, which drove\nup, one after the other, straight into the still air.\n\nThis smoke (or flame, perhaps, would be the better word for it) was so\nbright that the deep blue sky overhead and the hazy stretches of brown\ncommon towards Chertsey, set with black pine trees, seemed to darken\nabruptly as these puffs arose, and to remain the darker after their\ndispersal. At the same time a faint hissing sound became audible.\n\nBeyond the pit stood the little wedge of people with the white flag at\nits apex, arrested by these phenomena, a little knot of small vertical\nblack shapes upon the black ground. As the green smoke arose, their\nfaces flashed out pallid green, and faded again as it vanished. Then\nslowly the hissing passed into a humming, into a long, loud, droning\nnoise. Slowly a humped shape rose out of the pit, and the ghost of a\nbeam of light seemed to flicker out from it.\n\nForthwith flashes of actual flame, a bright glare leaping from one to\nanother, sprang from the scattered group of men. It was as if some\ninvisible jet impinged upon them and flashed into white flame. It was\nas if each man were suddenly and momentarily turned to fire.\n\nThen, by the light of their own destruction, I saw them staggering and\nfalling, and their supporters turning to run.\n\nI stood staring, not as yet realising that this was death leaping from\nman to man in that little distant crowd. All I felt was that it was\nsomething very strange. An almost noiseless and blinding flash of\nlight, and a man fell headlong and lay still; and as the unseen shaft\nof heat passed over them, pine trees burst into fire, and every dry\nfurze bush became with one dull thud a mass of flames. And far away\ntowards Knaphill I saw the flashes of trees and hedges and wooden\nbuildings suddenly set alight.\n\nIt was sweeping round swiftly and steadily, this flaming death, this\ninvisible, inevitable sword of heat. I perceived it coming towards me\nby the flashing bushes it touched, and was too astounded and stupefied\nto stir. I heard the crackle of fire in the sand-pits and the sudden\nsqueal of a horse that was as suddenly stilled. Then it was as if an\ninvisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn through the heather\nbetween me and the Martians, and all along a curving line beyond the\nsand-pits the dark ground smoked and crackled. Something fell with a\ncrash far away to the left where the road from Woking station opens out\non the common. Forth-with the hissing and humming ceased, and the\nblack, dome-like object sank slowly out of sight into the pit.\n\nAll this had happened with such swiftness that I had stood motionless,\ndumbfounded and dazzled by the flashes of light. Had that death swept\nthrough a full circle, it must inevitably have slain me in my surprise.\nBut it passed and spared me, and left the night about me suddenly dark\nand unfamiliar.\n\nThe undulating common seemed now dark almost to blackness, except where\nits roadways lay grey and pale under the deep blue sky of the early\nnight. It was dark, and suddenly void of men. Overhead the stars were\nmustering, and in the west the sky was still a pale, bright, almost\ngreenish blue. The tops of the pine trees and the roofs of Horsell came\nout sharp and black against the western afterglow. The Martians and\ntheir appliances were altogether invisible, save for that thin mast\nupon which their restless mirror wobbled. Patches of bush and isolated\ntrees here and there smoked and glowed still, and the houses towards\nWoking station were sending up spires of flame into the stillness of\nthe evening air.\n\nNothing was changed save for that and a terrible astonishment. The\nlittle group of black specks with the flag of white had been swept out\nof existence, and the stillness of the evening, so it seemed to me, had\nscarcely been broken.\n\nIt came to me that I was upon this dark common, helpless, unprotected,\nand alone. Suddenly, like a thing falling upon me from without,\ncame fear.\n\nWith an effort I turned and began a stumbling run through the heather.\n\nThe fear I felt was no rational fear, but a panic terror not only of\nthe Martians, but of the dusk and stillness all about me. Such an\nextraordinary effect in unmanning me it had that I ran weeping silently\nas a child might do. Once I had turned, I did not dare to look back.\n\nI remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played\nwith, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this\nmysterious death as swift as the passage of light would leap after me\nfrom the pit about the cylinder, and strike me down.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\nTHE HEAT-RAY IN THE CHOBHAM ROAD.\n\n\nIt is still a matter of wonder how the Martians are able to slay men so\nswiftly and so silently. Many think that in some way they are able to\ngenerate an intense heat in a chamber of practically absolute\nnon-conductivity. This intense heat they project in a parallel beam\nagainst any object they choose, by means of a polished parabolic mirror\nof unknown composition, much as the parabolic mirror of a lighthouse\nprojects a beam of light. But no one has absolutely proved these\ndetails. However it is done, it is certain that a beam of heat is the\nessence of the matter. Heat, and invisible, instead of visible, light.\nWhatever is combustible flashes into flame at its touch, lead runs like\nwater, it softens iron, cracks and melts glass, and when it falls upon\nwater, incontinently that explodes into steam.\n\nThat night nearly forty people lay under the starlight about the pit,\ncharred and distorted beyond recognition, and all night long the common\nfrom Horsell to Maybury was deserted and brightly ablaze.\n\nThe news of the massacre probably reached Chobham, Woking, and\nOttershaw about the same time. In Woking the shops had closed when the\ntragedy happened, and a number of people, shop people and so forth,\nattracted by the stories they had heard, were walking over the Horsell\nBridge and along the road between the hedges that runs out at last upon\nthe common. You may imagine the young people brushed up after the\nlabours of the day, and making this novelty, as they would make any\nnovelty, the excuse for walking together and enjoying a trivial\nflirtation. You may figure to yourself the hum of voices along the road\nin the gloaming. . . .\n\nAs yet, of course, few people in Woking even knew that the cylinder had\nopened, though poor Henderson had sent a messenger on a bicycle to the\npost office with a special wire to an evening paper.\n\nAs these folks came out by twos and threes upon the open, they found\nlittle knots of people talking excitedly and peering at the spinning\nmirror over the sand-pits, and the newcomers were, no doubt, soon\ninfected by the excitement of the occasion.\n\nBy half past eight, when the Deputation was destroyed, there may have\nbeen a crowd of three hundred people or more at this place, besides\nthose who had left the road to approach the Martians nearer. There were\nthree policemen too, one of whom was mounted, doing their best, under\ninstructions from Stent, to keep the people back and deter them from\napproaching the cylinder. There was some booing from those more\nthoughtless and excitable souls to whom a crowd is always an occasion\nfor noise and horse-play.\n\nStent and Ogilvy, anticipating some possibilities of a collision, had\ntelegraphed from Horsell to the barracks as soon as the Martians\nemerged, for the help of a company of soldiers to protect these strange\ncreatures from violence. After that they returned to lead that\nill-fated advance. The description of their death, as it was seen by\nthe crowd, tallies very closely with my own impressions: the three\npuffs of green smoke, the deep humming note, and the flashes of flame.\n\nBut that crowd of people had a far narrower escape than mine. Only the\nfact that a hummock of heathery sand intercepted the lower part of the\nHeat-Ray saved them. Had the elevation of the parabolic mirror been a\nfew yards higher, none could have lived to tell the tale. They saw the\nflashes and the men falling and an invisible hand, as it were, lit the\nbushes as it hurried towards them through the twilight. Then, with a\nwhistling note that rose above the droning of the pit, the beam swung\nclose over their heads, lighting the tops of the beech trees that line\nthe road, and splitting the bricks, smashing the windows, firing the\nwindow frames, and bringing down in crumbling ruin a portion of the\ngable of the house nearest the corner.\n\nIn the sudden thud, hiss, and glare of the igniting trees, the\npanic-stricken crowd seems to have swayed hesitatingly for some\nmoments. Sparks and burning twigs began to fall into the road, and\nsingle leaves like puffs of flame. Hats and dresses caught fire. Then\ncame a crying from the common. There were shrieks and shouts, and\nsuddenly a mounted policeman came galloping through the confusion with\nhis hands clasped over his head, screaming.\n\n They re coming!  a woman shrieked, and incontinently everyone was\nturning and pushing at those behind, in order to clear their way to\nWoking again. They must have bolted as blindly as a flock of sheep.\nWhere the road grows narrow and black between the high banks the crowd\njammed, and a desperate struggle occurred. All that crowd did not\nescape; three persons at least, two women and a little boy, were\ncrushed and trampled there, and left to die amid the terror and the\ndarkness.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\nHOW I REACHED HOME.\n\n\nFor my own part, I remember nothing of my flight except the stress of\nblundering against trees and stumbling through the heather. All about\nme gathered the invisible terrors of the Martians; that pitiless sword\nof heat seemed whirling to and fro, flourishing overhead before it\ndescended and smote me out of life. I came into the road between the\ncrossroads and Horsell, and ran along this to the crossroads.\n\nAt last I could go no further; I was exhausted with the violence of my\nemotion and of my flight, and I staggered and fell by the wayside. That\nwas near the bridge that crosses the canal by the gasworks. I fell and\nlay still.\n\nI must have remained there some time.\n\nI sat up, strangely perplexed. For a moment, perhaps, I could not\nclearly understand how I came there. My terror had fallen from me like\na garment. My hat had gone, and my collar had burst away from its\nfastener. A few minutes before, there had only been three real things\nbefore me the immensity of the night and space and nature, my own\nfeebleness and anguish, and the near approach of death. Now it was as\nif something turned over, and the point of view altered abruptly. There\nwas no sensible transition from one state of mind to the other. I was\nimmediately the self of every day again a decent, ordinary citizen. The\nsilent common, the impulse of my flight, the starting flames, were as\nif they had been in a dream. I asked myself had these latter things\nindeed happened? I could not credit it.\n\nI rose and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the bridge. My\nmind was blank wonder. My muscles and nerves seemed drained of their\nstrength. I dare say I staggered drunkenly. A head rose over the arch,\nand the figure of a workman carrying a basket appeared. Beside him ran\na little boy. He passed me, wishing me good night. I was minded to\nspeak to him, but did not. I answered his greeting with a meaningless\nmumble and went on over the bridge.\n\nOver the Maybury arch a train, a billowing tumult of white, firelit\nsmoke, and a long caterpillar of lighted windows, went flying\nsouth clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it had gone. A dim group of\npeople talked in the gate of one of the houses in the pretty little row\nof gables that was called Oriental Terrace. It was all so real and so\nfamiliar. And that behind me! It was frantic, fantastic! Such things, I\ntold myself, could not be.\n\nPerhaps I am a man of exceptional moods. I do not know how far my\nexperience is common. At times I suffer from the strangest sense of\ndetachment from myself and the world about me; I seem to watch it all\nfrom the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out\nof space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all. This feeling was\nvery strong upon me that night. Here was another side to my dream.\n\nBut the trouble was the blank incongruity of this serenity and the\nswift death flying yonder, not two miles away. There was a noise of\nbusiness from the gasworks, and the electric lamps were all alight. I\nstopped at the group of people.\n\n What news from the common?  said I.\n\nThere were two men and a woman at the gate.\n\n Eh?  said one of the men, turning.\n\n What news from the common?  I said.\n\n Ain t yer just _been_ there?  asked the men.\n\n People seem fair silly about the common,  said the woman over the\ngate.  What s it all abart? \n\n Haven t you heard of the men from Mars?  said I;  the creatures from\nMars? \n\n Quite enough,  said the woman over the gate.  Thenks ; and all three\nof them laughed.\n\nI felt foolish and angry. I tried and found I could not tell them what\nI had seen. They laughed again at my broken sentences.\n\n You ll hear more yet,  I said, and went on to my home.\n\nI startled my wife at the doorway, so haggard was I. I went into the\ndining room, sat down, drank some wine, and so soon as I could collect\nmyself sufficiently I told her the things I had seen. The dinner, which\nwas a cold one, had already been served, and remained neglected on the\ntable while I told my story.\n\n There is one thing,  I said, to allay the fears I had aroused;  they\nare the most sluggish things I ever saw crawl. They may keep the pit\nand kill people who come near them, but they cannot get out of it. . .\n. But the horror of them! \n\n Don t, dear!  said my wife, knitting her brows and putting her hand on\nmine.\n\n Poor Ogilvy!  I said.  To think he may be lying dead there! \n\nMy wife at least did not find my experience incredible. When I saw how\ndeadly white her face was, I ceased abruptly.\n\n They may come here,  she said again and again.\n\nI pressed her to take wine, and tried to reassure her.\n\n They can scarcely move,  I said.\n\nI began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that Ogilvy had told\nme of the impossibility of the Martians establishing themselves on the\nearth. In particular I laid stress on the gravitational difficulty. On\nthe surface of the earth the force of gravity is three times what it is\non the surface of Mars. A Martian, therefore, would weigh three times\nmore than on Mars, albeit his muscular strength would be the same. His\nown body would be a cope of lead to him, therefore. That, indeed, was\nthe general opinion. Both _The Times_ and the _Daily Telegraph_, for\ninstance, insisted on it the next morning, and both overlooked, just as\nI did, two obvious modifying influences.\n\nThe atmosphere of the earth, we now know, contains far more oxygen or\nfar less argon (whichever way one likes to put it) than does Mars . The\ninvigorating influences of this excess of oxygen upon the Martians\nindisputably did much to counterbalance the increased weight of their\nbodies. And, in the second place, we all overlooked the fact that such\nmechanical intelligence as the Martian possessed was quite able to\ndispense with muscular exertion at a pinch.\n\nBut I did not consider these points at the time, and so my reasoning\nwas dead against the chances of the invaders. With wine and food, the\nconfidence of my own table, and the necessity of reassuring my wife, I\ngrew by insensible degrees courageous and secure.\n\n They have done a foolish thing,  said I, fingering my wineglass.  They\nare dangerous because, no doubt, they are mad with terror. Perhaps they\nexpected to find no living things certainly no intelligent living\nthings. \n\n A shell in the pit,  said I,  if the worst comes to the worst, will\nkill them all. \n\nThe intense excitement of the events had no doubt left my perceptive\npowers in a state of erethism. I remember that dinner table with\nextraordinary vividness even now. My dear wife s sweet anxious face\npeering at me from under the pink lamp shade, the white cloth with its\nsilver and glass table furniture for in those days even philosophical\nwriters had many little luxuries the crimson-purple wine in my glass,\nare photographically distinct. At the end of it I sat, tempering nuts\nwith a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy s rashness, and denouncing the\nshort-sighted timidity of the Martians.\n\nSo some respectable dodo in the Mauritius might have lorded it in his\nnest, and discussed the arrival of that shipful of pitiless sailors in\nwant of animal food.  We will peck them to death tomorrow, my dear. \n\nI did not know it, but that was the last civilised dinner I was to eat\nfor very many strange and terrible days.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\nFRIDAY NIGHT.\n\n\nThe most extraordinary thing to my mind, of all the strange and\nwonderful things that happened upon that Friday, was the dovetailing of\nthe commonplace habits of our social order with the first beginnings of\nthe series of events that was to topple that social order headlong. If\non Friday night you had taken a pair of compasses and drawn a circle\nwith a radius of five miles round the Woking sand-pits, I doubt if you\nwould have had one human being outside it, unless it were some relation\nof Stent or of the three or four cyclists or London people lying dead\non the common, whose emotions or habits were at all affected by the\nnew-comers. Many people had heard of the cylinder, of course, and\ntalked about it in their leisure, but it certainly did not make the\nsensation that an ultimatum to Germany would have done.\n\nIn London that night poor Henderson s telegram describing the gradual\nunscrewing of the shot was judged to be a canard, and his evening\npaper, after wiring for authentication from him and receiving no\nreply the man was killed decided not to print a special edition.\n\nEven within the five-mile circle the great majority of people were\ninert. I have already described the behaviour of the men and women to\nwhom I spoke. All over the district people were dining and supping;\nworking men were gardening after the labours of the day, children were\nbeing put to bed, young people were wandering through the lanes\nlove-making, students sat over their books.\n\nMaybe there was a murmur in the village streets, a novel and dominant\ntopic in the public-houses, and here and there a messenger, or even an\neye-witness of the later occurrences, caused a whirl of excitement, a\nshouting, and a running to and fro; but for the most part the daily\nroutine of working, eating, drinking, sleeping, went on as it had done\nfor countless years as though no planet Mars existed in the sky. Even\nat Woking station and Horsell and Chobham that was the case.\n\nIn Woking junction, until a late hour, trains were stopping and going\non, others were shunting on the sidings, passengers were alighting and\nwaiting, and everything was proceeding in the most ordinary way. A boy\nfrom the town, trenching on Smith s monopoly, was selling papers with\nthe afternoon s news. The ringing impact of trucks, the sharp whistle\nof the engines from the junction, mingled with their shouts of  Men\nfrom Mars!  Excited men came into the station about nine o clock with\nincredible tidings, and caused no more disturbance than drunkards might\nhave done. People rattling Londonwards peered into the darkness outside\nthe carriage windows, and saw only a rare, flickering, vanishing spark\ndance up from the direction of Horsell, a red glow and a thin veil of\nsmoke driving across the stars, and thought that nothing more serious\nthan a heath fire was happening. It was only round the edge of the\ncommon that any disturbance was perceptible. There were half a dozen\nvillas burning on the Woking border. There were lights in all the\nhouses on the common side of the three villages, and the people there\nkept awake till dawn.\n\nA curious crowd lingered restlessly, people coming and going but the\ncrowd remaining, both on the Chobham and Horsell bridges. One or two\nadventurous souls, it was afterwards found, went into the darkness and\ncrawled quite near the Martians; but they never returned, for now and\nagain a light-ray, like the beam of a warship s searchlight swept the\ncommon, and the Heat-Ray was ready to follow. Save for such, that big\narea of common was silent and desolate, and the charred bodies lay\nabout on it all night under the stars, and all the next day. A noise of\nhammering from the pit was heard by many people.\n\nSo you have the state of things on Friday night. In the centre,\nsticking into the skin of our old planet Earth like a poisoned dart,\nwas this cylinder. But the poison was scarcely working yet. Around it\nwas a patch of silent common, smouldering in places, and with a few\ndark, dimly seen objects lying in contorted attitudes here and there.\nHere and there was a burning bush or tree. Beyond was a fringe of\nexcitement, and farther than that fringe the inflammation had not crept\nas yet. In the rest of the world the stream of life still flowed as it\nhad flowed for immemorial years. The fever of war that would presently\nclog vein and artery, deaden nerve and destroy brain, had still to\ndevelop.\n\nAll night long the Martians were hammering and stirring, sleepless,\nindefatigable, at work upon the machines they were making ready, and\never and again a puff of greenish-white smoke whirled up to the starlit\nsky.\n\nAbout eleven a company of soldiers came through Horsell, and deployed\nalong the edge of the common to form a cordon. Later a second company\nmarched through Chobham to deploy on the north side of the common.\nSeveral officers from the Inkerman barracks had been on the common\nearlier in the day, and one, Major Eden, was reported to be missing.\nThe colonel of the regiment came to the Chobham bridge and was busy\nquestioning the crowd at midnight. The military authorities were\ncertainly alive to the seriousness of the business. About eleven, the\nnext morning s papers were able to say, a squadron of hussars, two\nMaxims, and about four hundred men of the Cardigan regiment started\nfrom Aldershot.\n\nA few seconds after midnight the crowd in the Chertsey road, Woking,\nsaw a star fall from heaven into the pine woods to the northwest. It\nhad a greenish colour, and caused a silent brightness like summer\nlightning. This was the second cylinder.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\nTHE FIGHTING BEGINS.\n\n\nSaturday lives in my memory as a day of suspense. It was a day of\nlassitude too, hot and close, with, I am told, a rapidly fluctuating\nbarometer. I had slept but little, though my wife had succeeded in\nsleeping, and I rose early. I went into my garden before breakfast and\nstood listening, but towards the common there was nothing stirring but\na lark.\n\nThe milkman came as usual. I heard the rattle of his chariot and I went\nround to the side gate to ask the latest news. He told me that during\nthe night the Martians had been surrounded by troops, and that guns\nwere expected. Then a familiar, reassuring note I heard a train running\ntowards Woking.\n\n They aren t to be killed,  said the milkman,  if that can possibly be\navoided. \n\nI saw my neighbour gardening, chatted with him for a time, and then\nstrolled in to breakfast. It was a most unexceptional morning. My\nneighbour was of opinion that the troops would be able to capture or to\ndestroy the Martians during the day.\n\n It s a pity they make themselves so unapproachable,  he said.  It\nwould be curious to know how they live on another planet; we might\nlearn a thing or two. \n\nHe came up to the fence and extended a handful of strawberries, for his\ngardening was as generous as it was enthusiastic. At the same time he\ntold me of the burning of the pine woods about the Byfleet Golf Links.\n\n They say,  said he,  that there s another of those blessed things\nfallen there number two. But one s enough, surely. This lot ll cost the\ninsurance people a pretty penny before everything s settled.  He\nlaughed with an air of the greatest good humour as he said this. The\nwoods, he said, were still burning, and pointed out a haze of smoke to\nme.  They will be hot under foot for days, on account of the thick soil\nof pine needles and turf,  he said, and then grew serious over  poor\nOgilvy. \n\nAfter breakfast, instead of working, I decided to walk down towards the\ncommon. Under the railway bridge I found a group of soldiers sappers, I\nthink, men in small round caps, dirty red jackets unbuttoned, and\nshowing their blue shirts, dark trousers, and boots coming to the calf.\nThey told me no one was allowed over the canal, and, looking along the\nroad towards the bridge, I saw one of the Cardigan men standing\nsentinel there. I talked with these soldiers for a time; I told them of\nmy sight of the Martians on the previous evening. None of them had seen\nthe Martians, and they had but the vaguest ideas of them, so that they\nplied me with questions. They said that they did not know who had\nauthorised the movements of the troops; their idea was that a dispute\nhad arisen at the Horse Guards. The ordinary sapper is a great deal\nbetter educated than the common soldier, and they discussed the\npeculiar conditions of the possible fight with some acuteness. I\ndescribed the Heat-Ray to them, and they began to argue among\nthemselves.\n\n Crawl up under cover and rush  em, say I,  said one.\n\n Get aht!  said another.  What s cover against this  ere  eat? Sticks\nto cook yer! What we got to do is to go as near as the ground ll let\nus, and then drive a trench. \n\n Blow yer trenches! You always want trenches; you ought to ha  been\nborn a rabbit Snippy. \n\n Ain t they got any necks, then?  said a third, abruptly a little,\ncontemplative, dark man, smoking a pipe.\n\nI repeated my description.\n\n Octopuses,  said he,  that s what I calls  em. Talk about fishers of\nmen fighters of fish it is this time! \n\n It ain t no murder killing beasts like that,  said the first speaker.\n\n Why not shell the darned things strite off and finish  em?  said the\nlittle dark man.  You carn tell what they might do. \n\n Where s your shells?  said the first speaker.  There ain t no time. Do\nit in a rush, that s my tip, and do it at once. \n\nSo they discussed it. After a while I left them, and went on to the\nrailway station to get as many morning papers as I could.\n\nBut I will not weary the reader with a description of that long morning\nand of the longer afternoon. I did not succeed in getting a glimpse of\nthe common, for even Horsell and Chobham church towers were in the\nhands of the military authorities. The soldiers I addressed didn t know\nanything; the officers were mysterious as well as busy. I found people\nin the town quite secure again in the presence of the military, and I\nheard for the first time from Marshall, the tobacconist, that his son\nwas among the dead on the common. The soldiers had made the people on\nthe outskirts of Horsell lock up and leave their houses.\n\nI got back to lunch about two, very tired for, as I have said, the day\nwas extremely hot and dull; and in order to refresh myself I took a\ncold bath in the afternoon. About half past four I went up to the\nrailway station to get an evening paper, for the morning papers had\ncontained only a very inaccurate description of the killing of Stent,\nHenderson, Ogilvy, and the others. But there was little I didn t know.\nThe Martians did not show an inch of themselves. They seemed busy in\ntheir pit, and there was a sound of hammering and an almost continuous\nstreamer of smoke. Apparently they were busy getting ready for a\nstruggle.  Fresh attempts have been made to signal, but without\nsuccess,  was the stereotyped formula of the papers. A sapper told me\nit was done by a man in a ditch with a flag on a long pole. The\nMartians took as much notice of such advances as we should of the\nlowing of a cow.\n\nI must confess the sight of all this armament, all this preparation,\ngreatly excited me. My imagination became belligerent, and defeated the\ninvaders in a dozen striking ways; something of my schoolboy dreams of\nbattle and heroism came back. It hardly seemed a fair fight to me at\nthat time. They seemed very helpless in that pit of theirs.\n\nAbout three o clock there began the thud of a gun at measured intervals\nfrom Chertsey or Addlestone. I learned that the smouldering pine wood\ninto which the second cylinder had fallen was being shelled, in the\nhope of destroying that object before it opened. It was only about\nfive, however, that a field gun reached Chobham for use against the\nfirst body of Martians.\n\nAbout six in the evening, as I sat at tea with my wife in the\nsummerhouse talking vigorously about the battle that was lowering upon\nus, I heard a muffled detonation from the common, and immediately after\na gust of firing. Close on the heels of that came a violent rattling\ncrash, quite close to us, that shook the ground; and, starting out upon\nthe lawn, I saw the tops of the trees about the Oriental College burst\ninto smoky red flame, and the tower of the little church beside it\nslide down into ruin. The pinnacle of the mosque had vanished, and the\nroof line of the college itself looked as if a hundred-ton gun had been\nat work upon it. One of our chimneys cracked as if a shot had hit it,\nflew, and a piece of it came clattering down the tiles and made a heap\nof broken red fragments upon the flower bed by my study window.\n\nI and my wife stood amazed. Then I realised that the crest of Maybury\nHill must be within range of the Martians  Heat-Ray now that the\ncollege was cleared out of the way.\n\nAt that I gripped my wife s arm, and without ceremony ran her out into\nthe road. Then I fetched out the servant, telling her I would go\nupstairs myself for the box she was clamouring for.\n\n We can t possibly stay here,  I said; and as I spoke the firing\nreopened for a moment upon the common.\n\n But where are we to go?  said my wife in terror.\n\nI thought perplexed. Then I remembered her cousins at Leatherhead.\n\n Leatherhead!  I shouted above the sudden noise.\n\nShe looked away from me downhill. The people were coming out of their\nhouses, astonished.\n\n How are we to get to Leatherhead?  she said.\n\nDown the hill I saw a bevy of hussars ride under the railway bridge;\nthree galloped through the open gates of the Oriental College; two\nothers dismounted, and began running from house to house. The sun,\nshining through the smoke that drove up from the tops of the trees,\nseemed blood red, and threw an unfamiliar lurid light upon everything.\n\n Stop here,  said I;  you are safe here ; and I started off at once for\nthe Spotted Dog, for I knew the landlord had a horse and dog cart. I\nran, for I perceived that in a moment everyone upon this side of the\nhill would be moving. I found him in his bar, quite unaware of what was\ngoing on behind his house. A man stood with his back to me, talking to\nhim.\n\n I must have a pound,  said the landlord,  and I ve no one to drive\nit. \n\n I ll give you two,  said I, over the stranger s shoulder.\n\n What for? \n\n And I ll bring it back by midnight,  I said.\n\n Lord!  said the landlord;  what s the hurry? I m selling my bit of a\npig. Two pounds, and you bring it back? What s going on now? \n\nI explained hastily that I had to leave my home, and so secured the dog\ncart. At the time it did not seem to me nearly so urgent that the\nlandlord should leave his. I took care to have the cart there and then,\ndrove it off down the road, and, leaving it in charge of my wife and\nservant, rushed into my house and packed a few valuables, such plate as\nwe had, and so forth. The beech trees below the house were burning\nwhile I did this, and the palings up the road glowed red. While I was\noccupied in this way, one of the dismounted hussars came running up. He\nwas going from house to house, warning people to leave. He was going on\nas I came out of my front door, lugging my treasures, done up in a\ntablecloth. I shouted after him:\n\n What news? \n\nHe turned, stared, bawled something about  crawling out in a thing like\na dish cover,  and ran on to the gate of the house at the crest. A\nsudden whirl of black smoke driving across the road hid him for a\nmoment. I ran to my neighbour s door and rapped to satisfy myself of\nwhat I already knew, that his wife had gone to London with him and had\nlocked up their house. I went in again, according to my promise, to get\nmy servant s box, lugged it out, clapped it beside her on the tail of\nthe dog cart, and then caught the reins and jumped up into the driver s\nseat beside my wife. In another moment we were clear of the smoke and\nnoise, and spanking down the opposite slope of Maybury Hill towards Old\nWoking.\n\nIn front was a quiet sunny landscape, a wheat field ahead on either\nside of the road, and the Maybury Inn with its swinging sign. I saw the\ndoctor s cart ahead of me. At the bottom of the hill I turned my head\nto look at the hillside I was leaving. Thick streamers of black smoke\nshot with threads of red fire were driving up into the still air, and\nthrowing dark shadows upon the green treetops eastward. The smoke\nalready extended far away to the east and west to the Byfleet pine\nwoods eastward, and to Woking on the west. The road was dotted with\npeople running towards us. And very faint now, but very distinct\nthrough the hot, quiet air, one heard the whirr of a machine-gun that\nwas presently stilled, and an intermittent cracking of rifles.\nApparently the Martians were setting fire to everything within range of\ntheir Heat-Ray.\n\nI am not an expert driver, and I had immediately to turn my attention\nto the horse. When I looked back again the second hill had hidden the\nblack smoke. I slashed the horse with the whip, and gave him a loose\nrein until Woking and Send lay between us and that quivering tumult. I\novertook and passed the doctor between Woking and Send.\n\n\n\n\nX.\nIN THE STORM.\n\n\nLeatherhead is about twelve miles from Maybury Hill. The scent of hay\nwas in the air through the lush meadows beyond Pyrford, and the hedges\non either side were sweet and gay with multitudes of dog-roses. The\nheavy firing that had broken out while we were driving down Maybury\nHill ceased as abruptly as it began, leaving the evening very peaceful\nand still. We got to Leatherhead without misadventure about nine\no clock, and the horse had an hour s rest while I took supper with my\ncousins and commended my wife to their care.\n\nMy wife was curiously silent throughout the drive, and seemed oppressed\nwith forebodings of evil. I talked to her reassuringly, pointing out\nthat the Martians were tied to the pit by sheer heaviness, and at the\nutmost could but crawl a little out of it; but she answered only in\nmonosyllables. Had it not been for my promise to the innkeeper, she\nwould, I think, have urged me to stay in Leatherhead that night. Would\nthat I had! Her face, I remember, was very white as we parted.\n\nFor my own part, I had been feverishly excited all day. Something very\nlike the war fever that occasionally runs through a civilised community\nhad got into my blood, and in my heart I was not so very sorry that I\nhad to return to Maybury that night. I was even afraid that that last\nfusillade I had heard might mean the extermination of our invaders from\nMars. I can best express my state of mind by saying that I wanted to be\nin at the death.\n\nIt was nearly eleven when I started to return. The night was\nunexpectedly dark; to me, walking out of the lighted passage of my\ncousins  house, it seemed indeed black, and it was as hot and close as\nthe day. Overhead the clouds were driving fast, albeit not a breath\nstirred the shrubs about us. My cousins  man lit both lamps. Happily, I\nknew the road intimately. My wife stood in the light of the doorway,\nand watched me until I jumped up into the dog cart. Then abruptly she\nturned and went in, leaving my cousins side by side wishing me good\nhap.\n\nI was a little depressed at first with the contagion of my wife s\nfears, but very soon my thoughts reverted to the Martians. At that time\nI was absolutely in the dark as to the course of the evening s\nfighting. I did not know even the circumstances that had precipitated\nthe conflict. As I came through Ockham (for that was the way I\nreturned, and not through Send and Old Woking) I saw along the western\nhorizon a blood-red glow, which as I drew nearer, crept slowly up the\nsky. The driving clouds of the gathering thunderstorm mingled there\nwith masses of black and red smoke.\n\nRipley Street was deserted, and except for a lighted window or so the\nvillage showed not a sign of life; but I narrowly escaped an accident\nat the corner of the road to Pyrford, where a knot of people stood with\ntheir backs to me. They said nothing to me as I passed. I do not know\nwhat they knew of the things happening beyond the hill, nor do I know\nif the silent houses I passed on my way were sleeping securely, or\ndeserted and empty, or harassed and watching against the terror of the\nnight.\n\nFrom Ripley until I came through Pyrford I was in the valley of the\nWey, and the red glare was hidden from me. As I ascended the little\nhill beyond Pyrford Church the glare came into view again, and the\ntrees about me shivered with the first intimation of the storm that was\nupon me. Then I heard midnight pealing out from Pyrford Church behind\nme, and then came the silhouette of Maybury Hill, with its tree-tops\nand roofs black and sharp against the red.\n\nEven as I beheld this a lurid green glare lit the road about me and\nshowed the distant woods towards Addlestone. I felt a tug at the reins.\nI saw that the driving clouds had been pierced as it were by a thread\nof green fire, suddenly lighting their confusion and falling into the\nfield to my left. It was the third falling star!\n\nClose on its apparition, and blindingly violet by contrast, danced out\nthe first lightning of the gathering storm, and the thunder burst like\na rocket overhead. The horse took the bit between his teeth and bolted.\n\nA moderate incline runs towards the foot of Maybury Hill, and down this\nwe clattered. Once the lightning had begun, it went on in as rapid a\nsuccession of flashes as I have ever seen. The thunderclaps, treading\none on the heels of another and with a strange crackling accompaniment,\nsounded more like the working of a gigantic electric machine than the\nusual detonating reverberations. The flickering light was blinding and\nconfusing, and a thin hail smote gustily at my face as I drove down the\nslope.\n\nAt first I regarded little but the road before me, and then abruptly my\nattention was arrested by something that was moving rapidly down the\nopposite slope of Maybury Hill. At first I took it for the wet roof of\na house, but one flash following another showed it to be in swift\nrolling movement. It was an elusive vision a moment of bewildering\ndarkness, and then, in a flash like daylight, the red masses of the\nOrphanage near the crest of the hill, the green tops of the pine trees,\nand this problematical object came out clear and sharp and bright.\n\nAnd this Thing I saw! How can I describe it? A monstrous tripod, higher\nthan many houses, striding over the young pine trees, and smashing them\naside in its career; a walking engine of glittering metal, striding now\nacross the heather; articulate ropes of steel dangling from it, and the\nclattering tumult of its passage mingling with the riot of the thunder.\nA flash, and it came out vividly, heeling over one way with two feet in\nthe air, to vanish and reappear almost instantly as it seemed, with the\nnext flash, a hundred yards nearer. Can you imagine a milking stool\ntilted and bowled violently along the ground? That was the impression\nthose instant flashes gave. But instead of a milking stool imagine it a\ngreat body of machinery on a tripod stand.\n\nThen suddenly the trees in the pine wood ahead of me were parted, as\nbrittle reeds are parted by a man thrusting through them; they were\nsnapped off and driven headlong, and a second huge tripod appeared,\nrushing, as it seemed, headlong towards me. And I was galloping hard to\nmeet it! At the sight of the second monster my nerve went altogether.\nNot stopping to look again, I wrenched the horse s head hard round to\nthe right and in another moment the dog cart had heeled over upon the\nhorse; the shafts smashed noisily, and I was flung sideways and fell\nheavily into a shallow pool of water.\n\nI crawled out almost immediately, and crouched, my feet still in the\nwater, under a clump of furze. The horse lay motionless (his neck was\nbroken, poor brute!) and by the lightning flashes I saw the black bulk\nof the overturned dog cart and the silhouette of the wheel still\nspinning slowly. In another moment the colossal mechanism went striding\nby me, and passed uphill towards Pyrford.\n\nSeen nearer, the Thing was incredibly strange, for it was no mere\ninsensate machine driving on its way. Machine it was, with a ringing\nmetallic pace, and long, flexible, glittering tentacles (one of which\ngripped a young pine tree) swinging and rattling about its strange\nbody. It picked its road as it went striding along, and the brazen hood\nthat surmounted it moved to and fro with the inevitable suggestion of a\nhead looking about. Behind the main body was a huge mass of white metal\nlike a gigantic fisherman s basket, and puffs of green smoke squirted\nout from the joints of the limbs as the monster swept by me. And in an\ninstant it was gone.\n\nSo much I saw then, all vaguely for the flickering of the lightning, in\nblinding highlights and dense black shadows.\n\nAs it passed it set up an exultant deafening howl that drowned the\nthunder Aloo! Aloo! and in another minute it was with its companion,\nhalf a mile away, stooping over something in the field. I have no doubt\nthis Thing in the field was the third of the ten cylinders they had\nfired at us from Mars.\n\nFor some minutes I lay there in the rain and darkness watching, by the\nintermittent light, these monstrous beings of metal moving about in the\ndistance over the hedge tops. A thin hail was now beginning, and as it\ncame and went their figures grew misty and then flashed into clearness\nagain. Now and then came a gap in the lightning, and the night\nswallowed them up.\n\nI was soaked with hail above and puddle water below. It was some time\nbefore my blank astonishment would let me struggle up the bank to a\ndrier position, or think at all of my imminent peril.\n\nNot far from me was a little one-roomed squatter s hut of wood,\nsurrounded by a patch of potato garden. I struggled to my feet at last,\nand, crouching and making use of every chance of cover, I made a run\nfor this. I hammered at the door, but I could not make the people hear\n(if there were any people inside), and after a time I desisted, and,\navailing myself of a ditch for the greater part of the way, succeeded\nin crawling, unobserved by these monstrous machines, into the pine\nwoods towards Maybury.\n\nUnder cover of this I pushed on, wet and shivering now, towards my own\nhouse. I walked among the trees trying to find the footpath. It was\nvery dark indeed in the wood, for the lightning was now becoming\ninfrequent, and the hail, which was pouring down in a torrent, fell in\ncolumns through the gaps in the heavy foliage.\n\nIf I had fully realised the meaning of all the things I had seen I\nshould have immediately worked my way round through Byfleet to Street\nCobham, and so gone back to rejoin my wife at Leatherhead. But that\nnight the strangeness of things about me, and my physical wretchedness,\nprevented me, for I was bruised, weary, wet to the skin, deafened and\nblinded by the storm.\n\nI had a vague idea of going on to my own house, and that was as much\nmotive as I had. I staggered through the trees, fell into a ditch and\nbruised my knees against a plank, and finally splashed out into the\nlane that ran down from the College Arms. I say splashed, for the storm\nwater was sweeping the sand down the hill in a muddy torrent. There in\nthe darkness a man blundered into me and sent me reeling back.\n\nHe gave a cry of terror, sprang sideways, and rushed on before I could\ngather my wits sufficiently to speak to him. So heavy was the stress of\nthe storm just at this place that I had the hardest task to win my way\nup the hill. I went close up to the fence on the left and worked my way\nalong its palings.\n\nNear the top I stumbled upon something soft, and, by a flash of\nlightning, saw between my feet a heap of black broadcloth and a pair of\nboots. Before I could distinguish clearly how the man lay, the flicker\nof light had passed. I stood over him waiting for the next flash. When\nit came, I saw that he was a sturdy man, cheaply but not shabbily\ndressed; his head was bent under his body, and he lay crumpled up close\nto the fence, as though he had been flung violently against it.\n\nOvercoming the repugnance natural to one who had never before touched a\ndead body, I stooped and turned him over to feel for his heart. He was\nquite dead. Apparently his neck had been broken. The lightning flashed\nfor a third time, and his face leaped upon me. I sprang to my feet. It\nwas the landlord of the Spotted Dog, whose conveyance I had taken.\n\nI stepped over him gingerly and pushed on up the hill. I made my way by\nthe police station and the College Arms towards my own house. Nothing\nwas burning on the hillside, though from the common there still came a\nred glare and a rolling tumult of ruddy smoke beating up against the\ndrenching hail. So far as I could see by the flashes, the houses about\nme were mostly uninjured. By the College Arms a dark heap lay in the\nroad.\n\nDown the road towards Maybury Bridge there were voices and the sound of\nfeet, but I had not the courage to shout or to go to them. I let myself\nin with my latchkey, closed, locked and bolted the door, staggered to\nthe foot of the staircase, and sat down. My imagination was full of\nthose striding metallic monsters, and of the dead body smashed against\nthe fence.\n\nI crouched at the foot of the staircase with my back to the wall,\nshivering violently.\n\n\n\n\nXI.\nAT THE WINDOW.\n\n\nI have already said that my storms of emotion have a trick of\nexhausting themselves. After a time I discovered that I was cold and\nwet, and with little pools of water about me on the stair carpet. I got\nup almost mechanically, went into the dining room and drank some\nwhisky, and then I was moved to change my clothes.\n\nAfter I had done that I went upstairs to my study, but why I did so I\ndo not know. The window of my study looks over the trees and the\nrailway towards Horsell Common. In the hurry of our departure this\nwindow had been left open. The passage was dark, and, by contrast with\nthe picture the window frame enclosed, the side of the room seemed\nimpenetrably dark. I stopped short in the doorway.\n\nThe thunderstorm had passed. The towers of the Oriental College and the\npine trees about it had gone, and very far away, lit by a vivid red\nglare, the common about the sand-pits was visible. Across the light\nhuge black shapes, grotesque and strange, moved busily to and fro.\n\nIt seemed indeed as if the whole country in that direction was on\nfire a broad hillside set with minute tongues of flame, swaying and\nwrithing with the gusts of the dying storm, and throwing a red\nreflection upon the cloud scud above. Every now and then a haze of\nsmoke from some nearer conflagration drove across the window and hid\nthe Martian shapes. I could not see what they were doing, nor the clear\nform of them, nor recognise the black objects they were busied upon.\nNeither could I see the nearer fire, though the reflections of it\ndanced on the wall and ceiling of the study. A sharp, resinous tang of\nburning was in the air.\n\nI closed the door noiselessly and crept towards the window. As I did\nso, the view opened out until, on the one hand, it reached to the\nhouses about Woking station, and on the other to the charred and\nblackened pine woods of Byfleet. There was a light down below the hill,\non the railway, near the arch, and several of the houses along the\nMaybury road and the streets near the station were glowing ruins. The\nlight upon the railway puzzled me at first; there were a black heap and\na vivid glare, and to the right of that a row of yellow oblongs. Then I\nperceived this was a wrecked train, the fore part smashed and on fire,\nthe hinder carriages still upon the rails.\n\nBetween these three main centres of light the houses, the train, and\nthe burning county towards Chobham stretched irregular patches of dark\ncountry, broken here and there by intervals of dimly glowing and\nsmoking ground. It was the strangest spectacle, that black expanse set\nwith fire. It reminded me, more than anything else, of the Potteries at\nnight. At first I could distinguish no people at all, though I peered\nintently for them. Later I saw against the light of Woking station a\nnumber of black figures hurrying one after the other across the line.\n\nAnd this was the little world in which I had been living securely for\nyears, this fiery chaos! What had happened in the last seven hours I\nstill did not know; nor did I know, though I was beginning to guess,\nthe relation between these mechanical colossi and the sluggish lumps I\nhad seen disgorged from the cylinder. With a queer feeling of\nimpersonal interest I turned my desk chair to the window, sat down, and\nstared at the blackened country, and particularly at the three gigantic\nblack things that were going to and fro in the glare about the\nsand-pits.\n\nThey seemed amazingly busy. I began to ask myself what they could be.\nWere they intelligent mechanisms? Such a thing I felt was impossible.\nOr did a Martian sit within each, ruling, directing, using, much as a\nman s brain sits and rules in his body? I began to compare the things\nto human machines, to ask myself for the first time in my life how an\nironclad or a steam engine would seem to an intelligent lower animal.\n\nThe storm had left the sky clear, and over the smoke of the burning\nland the little fading pinpoint of Mars was dropping into the west,\nwhen a soldier came into my garden. I heard a slight scraping at the\nfence, and rousing myself from the lethargy that had fallen upon me, I\nlooked down and saw him dimly, clambering over the palings. At the\nsight of another human being my torpor passed, and I leaned out of the\nwindow eagerly.\n\n Hist!  said I, in a whisper.\n\nHe stopped astride of the fence in doubt. Then he came over and across\nthe lawn to the corner of the house. He bent down and stepped softly.\n\n Who s there?  he said, also whispering, standing under the window and\npeering up.\n\n Where are you going?  I asked.\n\n God knows. \n\n Are you trying to hide? \n\n That s it. \n\n Come into the house,  I said.\n\nI went down, unfastened the door, and let him in, and locked the door\nagain. I could not see his face. He was hatless, and his coat was\nunbuttoned.\n\n My God!  he said, as I drew him in.\n\n What has happened?  I asked.\n\n What hasn t?  In the obscurity I could see he made a gesture of\ndespair.  They wiped us out simply wiped us out,  he repeated again and\nagain.\n\nHe followed me, almost mechanically, into the dining room.\n\n Take some whisky,  I said, pouring out a stiff dose.\n\nHe drank it. Then abruptly he sat down before the table, put his head\non his arms, and began to sob and weep like a little boy, in a perfect\npassion of emotion, while I, with a curious forgetfulness of my own\nrecent despair, stood beside him, wondering.\n\nIt was a long time before he could steady his nerves to answer my\nquestions, and then he answered perplexingly and brokenly. He was a\ndriver in the artillery, and had only come into action about seven. At\nthat time firing was going on across the common, and it was said the\nfirst party of Martians were crawling slowly towards their second\ncylinder under cover of a metal shield.\n\nLater this shield staggered up on tripod legs and became the first of\nthe fighting-machines I had seen. The gun he drove had been unlimbered\nnear Horsell, in order to command the sand-pits, and its arrival it was\nthat had precipitated the action. As the limber gunners went to the\nrear, his horse trod in a rabbit hole and came down, throwing him into\na depression of the ground. At the same moment the gun exploded behind\nhim, the ammunition blew up, there was fire all about him, and he found\nhimself lying under a heap of charred dead men and dead horses.\n\n I lay still,  he said,  scared out of my wits, with the fore quarter\nof a horse atop of me. We d been wiped out. And the smell good God!\nLike burnt meat! I was hurt across the back by the fall of the horse,\nand there I had to lie until I felt better. Just like parade it had\nbeen a minute before then stumble, bang, swish! \n\n Wiped out!  he said.\n\nHe had hid under the dead horse for a long time, peeping out furtively\nacross the common. The Cardigan men had tried a rush, in skirmishing\norder, at the pit, simply to be swept out of existence. Then the\nmonster had risen to its feet and had begun to walk leisurely to and\nfro across the common among the few fugitives, with its headlike hood\nturning about exactly like the head of a cowled human being. A kind of\narm carried a complicated metallic case, about which green flashes\nscintillated, and out of the funnel of this there smoked the Heat-Ray.\n\nIn a few minutes there was, so far as the soldier could see, not a\nliving thing left upon the common, and every bush and tree upon it that\nwas not already a blackened skeleton was burning. The hussars had been\non the road beyond the curvature of the ground, and he saw nothing of\nthem. He heard the Maxims rattle for a time and then become still. The\ngiant saved Woking station and its cluster of houses until the last;\nthen in a moment the Heat-Ray was brought to bear, and the town became\na heap of fiery ruins. Then the Thing shut off the Heat-Ray, and\nturning its back upon the artilleryman, began to waddle away towards\nthe smouldering pine woods that sheltered the second cylinder. As it\ndid so a second glittering Titan built itself up out of the pit.\n\nThe second monster followed the first, and at that the artilleryman\nbegan to crawl very cautiously across the hot heather ash towards\nHorsell. He managed to get alive into the ditch by the side of the\nroad, and so escaped to Woking. There his story became ejaculatory. The\nplace was impassable. It seems there were a few people alive there,\nfrantic for the most part and many burned and scalded. He was turned\naside by the fire, and hid among some almost scorching heaps of broken\nwall as one of the Martian giants returned. He saw this one pursue a\nman, catch him up in one of its steely tentacles, and knock his head\nagainst the trunk of a pine tree. At last, after nightfall, the\nartilleryman made a rush for it and got over the railway embankment.\n\nSince then he had been skulking along towards Maybury, in the hope of\ngetting out of danger Londonward. People were hiding in trenches and\ncellars, and many of the survivors had made off towards Woking village\nand Send. He had been consumed with thirst until he found one of the\nwater mains near the railway arch smashed, and the water bubbling out\nlike a spring upon the road.\n\nThat was the story I got from him, bit by bit. He grew calmer telling\nme and trying to make me see the things he had seen. He had eaten no\nfood since midday, he told me early in his narrative, and I found some\nmutton and bread in the pantry and brought it into the room. We lit no\nlamp for fear of attracting the Martians, and ever and again our hands\nwould touch upon bread or meat. As he talked, things about us came\ndarkly out of the darkness, and the trampled bushes and broken rose\ntrees outside the window grew distinct. It would seem that a number of\nmen or animals had rushed across the lawn. I began to see his face,\nblackened and haggard, as no doubt mine was also.\n\nWhen we had finished eating we went softly upstairs to my study, and I\nlooked again out of the open window. In one night the valley had become\na valley of ashes. The fires had dwindled now. Where flames had been\nthere were now streamers of smoke; but the countless ruins of shattered\nand gutted houses and blasted and blackened trees that the night had\nhidden stood out now gaunt and terrible in the pitiless light of dawn.\nYet here and there some object had had the luck to escape a white\nrailway signal here, the end of a greenhouse there, white and fresh\namid the wreckage. Never before in the history of warfare had\ndestruction been so indiscriminate and so universal. And shining with\nthe growing light of the east, three of the metallic giants stood about\nthe pit, their cowls rotating as though they were surveying the\ndesolation they had made.\n\nIt seemed to me that the pit had been enlarged, and ever and again\npuffs of vivid green vapour streamed up and out of it towards the\nbrightening dawn streamed up, whirled, broke, and vanished.\n\nBeyond were the pillars of fire about Chobham. They became pillars of\nbloodshot smoke at the first touch of day.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\nWHAT I SAW OF THE DESTRUCTION OF WEYBRIDGE AND SHEPPERTON.\n\n\nAs the dawn grew brighter we withdrew from the window from which we had\nwatched the Martians, and went very quietly downstairs.\n\nThe artilleryman agreed with me that the house was no place to stay in.\nHe proposed, he said, to make his way Londonward, and thence rejoin his\nbattery No. 12, of the Horse Artillery. My plan was to return at once\nto Leatherhead; and so greatly had the strength of the Martians\nimpressed me that I had determined to take my wife to Newhaven, and go\nwith her out of the country forthwith. For I already perceived clearly\nthat the country about London must inevitably be the scene of a\ndisastrous struggle before such creatures as these could be destroyed.\n\nBetween us and Leatherhead, however, lay the third cylinder, with its\nguarding giants. Had I been alone, I think I should have taken my\nchance and struck across country. But the artilleryman dissuaded me:\n It s no kindness to the right sort of wife,  he said,  to make her a\nwidow ; and in the end I agreed to go with him, under cover of the\nwoods, northward as far as Street Cobham before I parted with him.\nThence I would make a big detour by Epsom to reach Leatherhead.\n\nI should have started at once, but my companion had been in active\nservice and he knew better than that. He made me ransack the house for\na flask, which he filled with whisky; and we lined every available\npocket with packets of biscuits and slices of meat. Then we crept out\nof the house, and ran as quickly as we could down the ill-made road by\nwhich I had come overnight. The houses seemed deserted. In the road lay\na group of three charred bodies close together, struck dead by the\nHeat-Ray; and here and there were things that people had dropped a\nclock, a slipper, a silver spoon, and the like poor valuables. At the\ncorner turning up towards the post office a little cart, filled with\nboxes and furniture, and horseless, heeled over on a broken wheel. A\ncash box had been hastily smashed open and thrown under the debris.\n\nExcept the lodge at the Orphanage, which was still on fire, none of the\nhouses had suffered very greatly here. The Heat-Ray had shaved the\nchimney tops and passed. Yet, save ourselves, there did not seem to be\na living soul on Maybury Hill. The majority of the inhabitants had\nescaped, I suppose, by way of the Old Woking road the road I had taken\nwhen I drove to Leatherhead or they had hidden.\n\nWe went down the lane, by the body of the man in black, sodden now from\nthe overnight hail, and broke into the woods at the foot of the hill.\nWe pushed through these towards the railway without meeting a soul. The\nwoods across the line were but the scarred and blackened ruins of\nwoods; for the most part the trees had fallen, but a certain proportion\nstill stood, dismal grey stems, with dark brown foliage instead of\ngreen.\n\nOn our side the fire had done no more than scorch the nearer trees; it\nhad failed to secure its footing. In one place the woodmen had been at\nwork on Saturday; trees, felled and freshly trimmed, lay in a clearing,\nwith heaps of sawdust by the sawing-machine and its engine. Hard by was\na temporary hut, deserted. There was not a breath of wind this morning,\nand everything was strangely still. Even the birds were hushed, and as\nwe hurried along I and the artilleryman talked in whispers and looked\nnow and again over our shoulders. Once or twice we stopped to listen.\n\nAfter a time we drew near the road, and as we did so we heard the\nclatter of hoofs and saw through the tree stems three cavalry soldiers\nriding slowly towards Woking. We hailed them, and they halted while we\nhurried towards them. It was a lieutenant and a couple of privates of\nthe 8th Hussars, with a stand like a theodolite, which the artilleryman\ntold me was a heliograph.\n\n You are the first men I ve seen coming this way this morning,  said\nthe lieutenant.  What s brewing? \n\nHis voice and face were eager. The men behind him stared curiously. The\nartilleryman jumped down the bank into the road and saluted.\n\n Gun destroyed last night, sir. Have been hiding. Trying to rejoin\nbattery, sir. You ll come in sight of the Martians, I expect, about\nhalf a mile along this road. \n\n What the dickens are they like?  asked the lieutenant.\n\n Giants in armour, sir. Hundred feet high. Three legs and a body like\n luminium, with a mighty great head in a hood, sir. \n\n Get out!  said the lieutenant.  What confounded nonsense! \n\n You ll see, sir. They carry a kind of box, sir, that shoots fire and\nstrikes you dead. \n\n What d ye mean a gun? \n\n No, sir,  and the artilleryman began a vivid account of the Heat-Ray.\nHalfway through, the lieutenant interrupted him and looked up at me. I\nwas still standing on the bank by the side of the road.\n\n It s perfectly true,  I said.\n\n Well,  said the lieutenant,  I suppose it s my business to see it too.\nLook here to the artilleryman we re detailed here clearing people out\nof their houses. You d better go along and report yourself to\nBrigadier-General Marvin, and tell him all you know. He s at Weybridge.\nKnow the way? \n\n I do,  I said; and he turned his horse southward again.\n\n Half a mile, you say?  said he.\n\n At most,  I answered, and pointed over the treetops southward. He\nthanked me and rode on, and we saw them no more.\n\nFarther along we came upon a group of three women and two children in\nthe road, busy clearing out a labourer s cottage. They had got hold of\na little hand truck, and were piling it up with unclean-looking bundles\nand shabby furniture. They were all too assiduously engaged to talk to\nus as we passed.\n\nBy Byfleet station we emerged from the pine trees, and found the\ncountry calm and peaceful under the morning sunlight. We were far\nbeyond the range of the Heat-Ray there, and had it not been for the\nsilent desertion of some of the houses, the stirring movement of\npacking in others, and the knot of soldiers standing on the bridge over\nthe railway and staring down the line towards Woking, the day would\nhave seemed very like any other Sunday.\n\nSeveral farm waggons and carts were moving creakily along the road to\nAddlestone, and suddenly through the gate of a field we saw, across a\nstretch of flat meadow, six twelve-pounders standing neatly at equal\ndistances pointing towards Woking. The gunners stood by the guns\nwaiting, and the ammunition waggons were at a business-like distance.\nThe men stood almost as if under inspection.\n\n That s good!  said I.  They will get one fair shot, at any rate. \n\nThe artilleryman hesitated at the gate.\n\n I shall go on,  he said.\n\nFarther on towards Weybridge, just over the bridge, there were a number\nof men in white fatigue jackets throwing up a long rampart, and more\nguns behind.\n\n It s bows and arrows against the lightning, anyhow,  said the\nartilleryman.  They  aven t seen that fire-beam yet. \n\nThe officers who were not actively engaged stood and stared over the\ntreetops southwestward, and the men digging would stop every now and\nagain to stare in the same direction.\n\nByfleet was in a tumult; people packing, and a score of hussars, some\nof them dismounted, some on horseback, were hunting them about. Three\nor four black government waggons, with crosses in white circles, and an\nold omnibus, among other vehicles, were being loaded in the village\nstreet. There were scores of people, most of them sufficiently\nsabbatical to have assumed their best clothes. The soldiers were having\nthe greatest difficulty in making them realise the gravity of their\nposition. We saw one shrivelled old fellow with a huge box and a score\nor more of flower pots containing orchids, angrily expostulating with\nthe corporal who would leave them behind. I stopped and gripped his\narm.\n\n Do you know what s over there?  I said, pointing at the pine tops that\nhid the Martians.\n\n Eh?  said he, turning.  I was explainin  these is vallyble. \n\n Death!  I shouted.  Death is coming! Death!  and leaving him to digest\nthat if he could, I hurried on after the artillery-man. At the corner I\nlooked back. The soldier had left him, and he was still standing by his\nbox, with the pots of orchids on the lid of it, and staring vaguely\nover the trees.\n\nNo one in Weybridge could tell us where the headquarters were\nestablished; the whole place was in such confusion as I had never seen\nin any town before. Carts, carriages everywhere, the most astonishing\nmiscellany of conveyances and horseflesh. The respectable inhabitants\nof the place, men in golf and boating costumes, wives prettily dressed,\nwere packing, river-side loafers energetically helping, children\nexcited, and, for the most part, highly delighted at this astonishing\nvariation of their Sunday experiences. In the midst of it all the\nworthy vicar was very pluckily holding an early celebration, and his\nbell was jangling out above the excitement.\n\nI and the artilleryman, seated on the step of the drinking fountain,\nmade a very passable meal upon what we had brought with us. Patrols of\nsoldiers here no longer hussars, but grenadiers in white were warning\npeople to move now or to take refuge in their cellars as soon as the\nfiring began. We saw as we crossed the railway bridge that a growing\ncrowd of people had assembled in and about the railway station, and the\nswarming platform was piled with boxes and packages. The ordinary\ntraffic had been stopped, I believe, in order to allow of the passage\nof troops and guns to Chertsey, and I have heard since that a savage\nstruggle occurred for places in the special trains that were put on at\na later hour.\n\nWe remained at Weybridge until midday, and at that hour we found\nourselves at the place near Shepperton Lock where the Wey and Thames\njoin. Part of the time we spent helping two old women to pack a little\ncart. The Wey has a treble mouth, and at this point boats are to be\nhired, and there was a ferry across the river. On the Shepperton side\nwas an inn with a lawn, and beyond that the tower of Shepperton\nChurch it has been replaced by a spire rose above the trees.\n\nHere we found an excited and noisy crowd of fugitives. As yet the\nflight had not grown to a panic, but there were already far more people\nthan all the boats going to and fro could enable to cross. People came\npanting along under heavy burdens; one husband and wife were even\ncarrying a small outhouse door between them, with some of their\nhousehold goods piled thereon. One man told us he meant to try to get\naway from Shepperton station.\n\nThere was a lot of shouting, and one man was even jesting. The idea\npeople seemed to have here was that the Martians were simply formidable\nhuman beings, who might attack and sack the town, to be certainly\ndestroyed in the end. Every now and then people would glance nervously\nacross the Wey, at the meadows towards Chertsey, but everything over\nthere was still.\n\nAcross the Thames, except just where the boats landed, everything was\nquiet, in vivid contrast with the Surrey side. The people who landed\nthere from the boats went tramping off down the lane. The big ferryboat\nhad just made a journey. Three or four soldiers stood on the lawn of\nthe inn, staring and jesting at the fugitives, without offering to\nhelp. The inn was closed, as it was now within prohibited hours.\n\n What s that?  cried a boatman, and  Shut up, you fool!  said a man\nnear me to a yelping dog. Then the sound came again, this time from the\ndirection of Chertsey, a muffled thud the sound of a gun.\n\nThe fighting was beginning. Almost immediately unseen batteries across\nthe river to our right, unseen because of the trees, took up the\nchorus, firing heavily one after the other. A woman screamed. Everyone\nstood arrested by the sudden stir of battle, near us and yet invisible\nto us. Nothing was to be seen save flat meadows, cows feeding\nunconcernedly for the most part, and silvery pollard willows motionless\nin the warm sunlight.\n\n The sojers ll stop  em,  said a woman beside me, doubtfully. A\nhaziness rose over the treetops.\n\nThen suddenly we saw a rush of smoke far away up the river, a puff of\nsmoke that jerked up into the air and hung; and forthwith the ground\nheaved under foot and a heavy explosion shook the air, smashing two or\nthree windows in the houses near, and leaving us astonished.\n\n Here they are!  shouted a man in a blue jersey.  Yonder! D yer see\nthem? Yonder! \n\nQuickly, one after the other, one, two, three, four of the armoured\nMartians appeared, far away over the little trees, across the flat\nmeadows that stretched towards Chertsey, and striding hurriedly towards\nthe river. Little cowled figures they seemed at first, going with a\nrolling motion and as fast as flying birds.\n\nThen, advancing obliquely towards us, came a fifth. Their armoured\nbodies glittered in the sun as they swept swiftly forward upon the\nguns, growing rapidly larger as they drew nearer. One on the extreme\nleft, the remotest that is, flourished a huge case high in the air, and\nthe ghostly, terrible Heat-Ray I had already seen on Friday night smote\ntowards Chertsey, and struck the town.\n\nAt sight of these strange, swift, and terrible creatures the crowd near\nthe water s edge seemed to me to be for a moment horror-struck. There\nwas no screaming or shouting, but a silence. Then a hoarse murmur and a\nmovement of feet a splashing from the water. A man, too frightened to\ndrop the portmanteau he carried on his shoulder, swung round and sent\nme staggering with a blow from the corner of his burden. A woman thrust\nat me with her hand and rushed past me. I turned with the rush of the\npeople, but I was not too terrified for thought. The terrible Heat-Ray\nwas in my mind. To get under water! That was it!\n\n Get under water!  I shouted, unheeded.\n\nI faced about again, and rushed towards the approaching Martian, rushed\nright down the gravelly beach and headlong into the water. Others did\nthe same. A boatload of people putting back came leaping out as I\nrushed past. The stones under my feet were muddy and slippery, and the\nriver was so low that I ran perhaps twenty feet scarcely waist-deep.\nThen, as the Martian towered overhead scarcely a couple of hundred\nyards away, I flung myself forward under the surface. The splashes of\nthe people in the boats leaping into the river sounded like\nthunderclaps in my ears. People were landing hastily on both sides of\nthe river. But the Martian machine took no more notice for the moment\nof the people running this way and that than a man would of the\nconfusion of ants in a nest against which his foot has kicked. When,\nhalf suffocated, I raised my head above water, the Martian s hood\npointed at the batteries that were still firing across the river, and\nas it advanced it swung loose what must have been the generator of the\nHeat-Ray.\n\nIn another moment it was on the bank, and in a stride wading halfway\nacross. The knees of its foremost legs bent at the farther bank, and in\nanother moment it had raised itself to its full height again, close to\nthe village of Shepperton. Forthwith the six guns which, unknown to\nanyone on the right bank, had been hidden behind the outskirts of that\nvillage, fired simultaneously. The sudden near concussion, the last\nclose upon the first, made my heart jump. The monster was already\nraising the case generating the Heat-Ray as the first shell burst six\nyards above the hood.\n\nI gave a cry of astonishment. I saw and thought nothing of the other\nfour Martian monsters; my attention was riveted upon the nearer\nincident. Simultaneously two other shells burst in the air near the\nbody as the hood twisted round in time to receive, but not in time to\ndodge, the fourth shell.\n\nThe shell burst clean in the face of the Thing. The hood bulged,\nflashed, was whirled off in a dozen tattered fragments of red flesh and\nglittering metal.\n\n Hit!  shouted I, with something between a scream and a cheer.\n\nI heard answering shouts from the people in the water about me. I could\nhave leaped out of the water with that momentary exultation.\n\nThe decapitated colossus reeled like a drunken giant; but it did not\nfall over. It recovered its balance by a miracle, and, no longer\nheeding its steps and with the camera that fired the Heat-Ray now\nrigidly upheld, it reeled swiftly upon Shepperton. The living\nintelligence, the Martian within the hood, was slain and splashed to\nthe four winds of heaven, and the Thing was now but a mere intricate\ndevice of metal whirling to destruction. It drove along in a straight\nline, incapable of guidance. It struck the tower of Shepperton Church,\nsmashing it down as the impact of a battering ram might have done,\nswerved aside, blundered on and collapsed with tremendous force into\nthe river out of my sight.\n\nA violent explosion shook the air, and a spout of water, steam, mud,\nand shattered metal shot far up into the sky. As the camera of the\nHeat-Ray hit the water, the latter had immediately flashed into steam.\nIn another moment a huge wave, like a muddy tidal bore but almost\nscaldingly hot, came sweeping round the bend upstream. I saw people\nstruggling shorewards, and heard their screaming and shouting faintly\nabove the seething and roar of the Martian s collapse.\n\nFor a moment I heeded nothing of the heat, forgot the patent need of\nself-preservation. I splashed through the tumultuous water, pushing\naside a man in black to do so, until I could see round the bend. Half a\ndozen deserted boats pitched aimlessly upon the confusion of the waves.\nThe fallen Martian came into sight downstream, lying across the river,\nand for the most part submerged.\n\nThick clouds of steam were pouring off the wreckage, and through the\ntumultuously whirling wisps I could see, intermittently and vaguely,\nthe gigantic limbs churning the water and flinging a splash and spray\nof mud and froth into the air. The tentacles swayed and struck like\nliving arms, and, save for the helpless purposelessness of these\nmovements, it was as if some wounded thing were struggling for its life\namid the waves. Enormous quantities of a ruddy-brown fluid were\nspurting up in noisy jets out of the machine.\n\nMy attention was diverted from this death flurry by a furious yelling,\nlike that of the thing called a siren in our manufacturing towns. A\nman, knee-deep near the towing path, shouted inaudibly to me and\npointed. Looking back, I saw the other Martians advancing with gigantic\nstrides down the riverbank from the direction of Chertsey. The\nShepperton guns spoke this time unavailingly.\n\nAt that I ducked at once under water, and, holding my breath until\nmovement was an agony, blundered painfully ahead under the surface as\nlong as I could. The water was in a tumult about me, and rapidly\ngrowing hotter.\n\nWhen for a moment I raised my head to take breath and throw the hair\nand water from my eyes, the steam was rising in a whirling white fog\nthat at first hid the Martians altogether. The noise was deafening.\nThen I saw them dimly, colossal figures of grey, magnified by the mist.\nThey had passed by me, and two were stooping over the frothing,\ntumultuous ruins of their comrade.\n\nThe third and fourth stood beside him in the water, one perhaps two\nhundred yards from me, the other towards Laleham. The generators of the\nHeat-Rays waved high, and the hissing beams smote down this way and\nthat.\n\nThe air was full of sound, a deafening and confusing conflict of\nnoises the clangorous din of the Martians, the crash of falling houses,\nthe thud of trees, fences, sheds flashing into flame, and the crackling\nand roaring of fire. Dense black smoke was leaping up to mingle with\nthe steam from the river, and as the Heat-Ray went to and fro over\nWeybridge its impact was marked by flashes of incandescent white, that\ngave place at once to a smoky dance of lurid flames. The nearer houses\nstill stood intact, awaiting their fate, shadowy, faint and pallid in\nthe steam, with the fire behind them going to and fro.\n\nFor a moment perhaps I stood there, breast-high in the almost boiling\nwater, dumbfounded at my position, hopeless of escape. Through the reek\nI could see the people who had been with me in the river scrambling out\nof the water through the reeds, like little frogs hurrying through\ngrass from the advance of a man, or running to and fro in utter dismay\non the towing path.\n\nThen suddenly the white flashes of the Heat-Ray came leaping towards\nme. The houses caved in as they dissolved at its touch, and darted out\nflames; the trees changed to fire with a roar. The Ray flickered up and\ndown the towing path, licking off the people who ran this way and that,\nand came down to the water s edge not fifty yards from where I stood.\nIt swept across the river to Shepperton, and the water in its track\nrose in a boiling weal crested with steam. I turned shoreward.\n\nIn another moment the huge wave, well-nigh at the boiling-point had\nrushed upon me. I screamed aloud, and scalded, half blinded, agonised,\nI staggered through the leaping, hissing water towards the shore. Had\nmy foot stumbled, it would have been the end. I fell helplessly, in\nfull sight of the Martians, upon the broad, bare gravelly spit that\nruns down to mark the angle of the Wey and Thames. I expected nothing\nbut death.\n\nI have a dim memory of the foot of a Martian coming down within a score\nof yards of my head, driving straight into the loose gravel, whirling\nit this way and that and lifting again; of a long suspense, and then of\nthe four carrying the debris of their comrade between them, now clear\nand then presently faint through a veil of smoke, receding\ninterminably, as it seemed to me, across a vast space of river and\nmeadow. And then, very slowly, I realised that by a miracle I had\nescaped.\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\nHOW I FELL IN WITH THE CURATE.\n\n\nAfter getting this sudden lesson in the power of terrestrial weapons,\nthe Martians retreated to their original position upon Horsell Common;\nand in their haste, and encumbered with the debris of their smashed\ncompanion, they no doubt overlooked many such a stray and negligible\nvictim as myself. Had they left their comrade and pushed on forthwith,\nthere was nothing at that time between them and London but batteries of\ntwelve-pounder guns, and they would certainly have reached the capital\nin advance of the tidings of their approach; as sudden, dreadful, and\ndestructive their advent would have been as the earthquake that\ndestroyed Lisbon a century ago.\n\nBut they were in no hurry. Cylinder followed cylinder on its\ninterplanetary flight; every twenty-four hours brought them\nreinforcement. And meanwhile the military and naval authorities, now\nfully alive to the tremendous power of their antagonists, worked with\nfurious energy. Every minute a fresh gun came into position until,\nbefore twilight, every copse, every row of suburban villas on the hilly\nslopes about Kingston and Richmond, masked an expectant black muzzle.\nAnd through the charred and desolated area perhaps twenty square miles\naltogether that encircled the Martian encampment on Horsell Common,\nthrough charred and ruined villages among the green trees, through the\nblackened and smoking arcades that had been but a day ago pine\nspinneys, crawled the devoted scouts with the heliographs that were\npresently to warn the gunners of the Martian approach. But the Martians\nnow understood our command of artillery and the danger of human\nproximity, and not a man ventured within a mile of either cylinder,\nsave at the price of his life.\n\nIt would seem that these giants spent the earlier part of the afternoon\nin going to and fro, transferring everything from the second and third\ncylinders the second in Addlestone Golf Links and the third at\nPyrford to their original pit on Horsell Common. Over that, above the\nblackened heather and ruined buildings that stretched far and wide,\nstood one as sentinel, while the rest abandoned their vast\nfighting-machines and descended into the pit. They were hard at work\nthere far into the night, and the towering pillar of dense green smoke\nthat rose therefrom could be seen from the hills about Merrow, and\neven, it is said, from Banstead and Epsom Downs.\n\nAnd while the Martians behind me were thus preparing for their next\nsally, and in front of me Humanity gathered for the battle, I made my\nway with infinite pains and labour from the fire and smoke of burning\nWeybridge towards London.\n\nI saw an abandoned boat, very small and remote, drifting down-stream;\nand throwing off the most of my sodden clothes, I went after it, gained\nit, and so escaped out of that destruction. There were no oars in the\nboat, but I contrived to paddle, as well as my parboiled hands would\nallow, down the river towards Halliford and Walton, going very\ntediously and continually looking behind me, as you may well\nunderstand. I followed the river, because I considered that the water\ngave me my best chance of escape should these giants return.\n\nThe hot water from the Martian s overthrow drifted downstream with me,\nso that for the best part of a mile I could see little of either bank.\nOnce, however, I made out a string of black figures hurrying across the\nmeadows from the direction of Weybridge. Halliford, it seemed, was\ndeserted, and several of the houses facing the river were on fire. It\nwas strange to see the place quite tranquil, quite desolate under the\nhot blue sky, with the smoke and little threads of flame going straight\nup into the heat of the afternoon. Never before had I seen houses\nburning without the accompaniment of an obstructive crowd. A little\nfarther on the dry reeds up the bank were smoking and glowing, and a\nline of fire inland was marching steadily across a late field of hay.\n\nFor a long time I drifted, so painful and weary was I after the\nviolence I had been through, and so intense the heat upon the water.\nThen my fears got the better of me again, and I resumed my paddling.\nThe sun scorched my bare back. At last, as the bridge at Walton was\ncoming into sight round the bend, my fever and faintness overcame my\nfears, and I landed on the Middlesex bank and lay down, deadly sick,\namid the long grass. I suppose the time was then about four or five\no clock. I got up presently, walked perhaps half a mile without meeting\na soul, and then lay down again in the shadow of a hedge. I seem to\nremember talking, wanderingly, to myself during that last spurt. I was\nalso very thirsty, and bitterly regretful I had drunk no more water. It\nis a curious thing that I felt angry with my wife; I cannot account for\nit, but my impotent desire to reach Leatherhead worried me excessively.\n\nI do not clearly remember the arrival of the curate, so that probably I\ndozed. I became aware of him as a seated figure in soot-smudged shirt\nsleeves, and with his upturned, clean-shaven face staring at a faint\nflickering that danced over the sky. The sky was what is called a\nmackerel sky rows and rows of faint down-plumes of cloud, just tinted\nwith the midsummer sunset.\n\nI sat up, and at the rustle of my motion he looked at me quickly.\n\n Have you any water?  I asked abruptly.\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n You have been asking for water for the last hour,  he said.\n\nFor a moment we were silent, taking stock of each other. I dare say he\nfound me a strange enough figure, naked, save for my water-soaked\ntrousers and socks, scalded, and my face and shoulders blackened by the\nsmoke. His face was a fair weakness, his chin retreated, and his hair\nlay in crisp, almost flaxen curls on his low forehead; his eyes were\nrather large, pale blue, and blankly staring. He spoke abruptly,\nlooking vacantly away from me.\n\n What does it mean?  he said.  What do these things mean? \n\nI stared at him and made no answer.\n\nHe extended a thin white hand and spoke in almost a complaining tone.\n\n Why are these things permitted? What sins have we done? The morning\nservice was over, I was walking through the roads to clear my brain for\nthe afternoon, and then fire, earthquake, death! As if it were Sodom\nand Gomorrah! All our work undone, all the work  What are these\nMartians? \n\n What are we?  I answered, clearing my throat.\n\nHe gripped his knees and turned to look at me again. For half a minute,\nperhaps, he stared silently.\n\n I was walking through the roads to clear my brain,  he said.  And\nsuddenly fire, earthquake, death! \n\nHe relapsed into silence, with his chin now sunken almost to his knees.\n\nPresently he began waving his hand.\n\n All the work all the Sunday schools What have we done what has\nWeybridge done? Everything gone everything destroyed. The church! We\nrebuilt it only three years ago. Gone! Swept out of existence! Why? \n\nAnother pause, and he broke out again like one demented.\n\n The smoke of her burning goeth up for ever and ever!  he shouted.\n\nHis eyes flamed, and he pointed a lean finger in the direction of\nWeybridge.\n\nBy this time I was beginning to take his measure. The tremendous\ntragedy in which he had been involved it was evident he was a fugitive\nfrom Weybridge had driven him to the very verge of his reason.\n\n Are we far from Sunbury?  I said, in a matter-of-fact tone.\n\n What are we to do?  he asked.  Are these creatures everywhere? Has the\nearth been given over to them? \n\n Are we far from Sunbury? \n\n Only this morning I officiated at early celebration \n\n Things have changed,  I said, quietly.  You must keep your head. There\nis still hope. \n\n Hope! \n\n Yes. Plentiful hope for all this destruction! \n\nI began to explain my view of our position. He listened at first, but\nas I went on the interest dawning in his eyes gave place to their\nformer stare, and his regard wandered from me.\n\n This must be the beginning of the end,  he said, interrupting me.  The\nend! The great and terrible day of the Lord! When men shall call upon\nthe mountains and the rocks to fall upon them and hide them hide them\nfrom the face of Him that sitteth upon the throne! \n\nI began to understand the position. I ceased my laboured reasoning,\nstruggled to my feet, and, standing over him, laid my hand on his\nshoulder.\n\n Be a man!  said I.  You are scared out of your wits! What good is\nreligion if it collapses under calamity? Think of what earthquakes and\nfloods, wars and volcanoes, have done before to men! Did you think God\nhad exempted Weybridge? He is not an insurance agent. \n\nFor a time he sat in blank silence.\n\n But how can we escape?  he asked, suddenly.  They are invulnerable,\nthey are pitiless. \n\n Neither the one nor, perhaps, the other,  I answered.  And the\nmightier they are the more sane and wary should we be. One of them was\nkilled yonder not three hours ago. \n\n Killed!  he said, staring about him.  How can God s ministers be\nkilled? \n\n I saw it happen.  I proceeded to tell him.  We have chanced to come in\nfor the thick of it,  said I,  and that is all. \n\n What is that flicker in the sky?  he asked abruptly.\n\nI told him it was the heliograph signalling that it was the sign of\nhuman help and effort in the sky.\n\n We are in the midst of it,  I said,  quiet as it is. That flicker in\nthe sky tells of the gathering storm. Yonder, I take it are the\nMartians, and Londonward, where those hills rise about Richmond and\nKingston and the trees give cover, earthworks are being thrown up and\nguns are being placed. Presently the Martians will be coming this way\nagain. \n\nAnd even as I spoke he sprang to his feet and stopped me by a gesture.\n\n Listen!  he said.\n\nFrom beyond the low hills across the water came the dull resonance of\ndistant guns and a remote weird crying. Then everything was still. A\ncockchafer came droning over the hedge and past us. High in the west\nthe crescent moon hung faint and pale above the smoke of Weybridge and\nShepperton and the hot, still splendour of the sunset.\n\n We had better follow this path,  I said,  northward. \n\n\n\n\nXIV.\nIN LONDON.\n\n\nMy younger brother was in London when the Martians fell at Woking. He\nwas a medical student working for an imminent examination, and he heard\nnothing of the arrival until Saturday morning. The morning papers on\nSaturday contained, in addition to lengthy special articles on the\nplanet Mars, on life in the planets, and so forth, a brief and vaguely\nworded telegram, all the more striking for its brevity.\n\nThe Martians, alarmed by the approach of a crowd, had killed a number\nof people with a quick-firing gun, so the story ran. The telegram\nconcluded with the words:  Formidable as they seem to be, the Martians\nhave not moved from the pit into which they have fallen, and, indeed,\nseem incapable of doing so. Probably this is due to the relative\nstrength of the earth s gravitational energy.  On that last text their\nleader-writer expanded very comfortingly.\n\nOf course all the students in the crammer s biology class, to which my\nbrother went that day, were intensely interested, but there were no\nsigns of any unusual excitement in the streets. The afternoon papers\npuffed scraps of news under big headlines. They had nothing to tell\nbeyond the movements of troops about the common, and the burning of the\npine woods between Woking and Weybridge, until eight. Then the _St.\nJames s Gazette_, in an extra-special edition, announced the bare fact\nof the interruption of telegraphic communication. This was thought to\nbe due to the falling of burning pine trees across the line. Nothing\nmore of the fighting was known that night, the night of my drive to\nLeatherhead and back.\n\nMy brother felt no anxiety about us, as he knew from the description in\nthe papers that the cylinder was a good two miles from my house. He\nmade up his mind to run down that night to me, in order, as he says, to\nsee the Things before they were killed. He dispatched a telegram, which\nnever reached me, about four o clock, and spent the evening at a music\nhall.\n\nIn London, also, on Saturday night there was a thunderstorm, and my\nbrother reached Waterloo in a cab. On the platform from which the\nmidnight train usually starts he learned, after some waiting, that an\naccident prevented trains from reaching Woking that night. The nature\nof the accident he could not ascertain; indeed, the railway authorities\ndid not clearly know at that time. There was very little excitement in\nthe station, as the officials, failing to realise that anything further\nthan a breakdown between Byfleet and Woking junction had occurred, were\nrunning the theatre trains which usually passed through Woking round by\nVirginia Water or Guildford. They were busy making the necessary\narrangements to alter the route of the Southampton and Portsmouth\nSunday League excursions. A nocturnal newspaper reporter, mistaking my\nbrother for the traffic manager, to whom he bears a slight resemblance,\nwaylaid and tried to interview him. Few people, excepting the railway\nofficials, connected the breakdown with the Martians.\n\nI have read, in another account of these events, that on Sunday morning\n all London was electrified by the news from Woking.  As a matter of\nfact, there was nothing to justify that very extravagant phrase. Plenty\nof Londoners did not hear of the Martians until the panic of Monday\nmorning. Those who did took some time to realise all that the hastily\nworded telegrams in the Sunday papers conveyed. The majority of people\nin London do not read Sunday papers.\n\nThe habit of personal security, moreover, is so deeply fixed in the\nLondoner s mind, and startling intelligence so much a matter of course\nin the papers, that they could read without any personal tremors:\n About seven o clock last night the Martians came out of the cylinder,\nand, moving about under an armour of metallic shields, have completely\nwrecked Woking station with the adjacent houses, and massacred an\nentire battalion of the Cardigan Regiment. No details are known. Maxims\nhave been absolutely useless against their armour; the field guns have\nbeen disabled by them. Flying hussars have been galloping into\nChertsey. The Martians appear to be moving slowly towards Chertsey or\nWindsor. Great anxiety prevails in West Surrey, and earthworks are\nbeing thrown up to check the advance Londonward.  That was how the\n_Sunday Sun_ put it, and a clever and remarkably prompt  handbook \narticle in the _Referee_ compared the affair to a menagerie suddenly\nlet loose in a village.\n\nNo one in London knew positively of the nature of the armoured\nMartians, and there was still a fixed idea that these monsters must be\nsluggish:  crawling,   creeping painfully such expressions occurred in\nalmost all the earlier reports. None of the telegrams could have been\nwritten by an eyewitness of their advance. The Sunday papers printed\nseparate editions as further news came to hand, some even in default of\nit. But there was practically nothing more to tell people until late in\nthe afternoon, when the authorities gave the press agencies the news in\ntheir possession. It was stated that the people of Walton and\nWeybridge, and all the district were pouring along the roads\nLondonward, and that was all.\n\nMy brother went to church at the Foundling Hospital in the morning,\nstill in ignorance of what had happened on the previous night. There he\nheard allusions made to the invasion, and a special prayer for peace.\nComing out, he bought a _Referee_. He became alarmed at the news in\nthis, and went again to Waterloo station to find out if communication\nwere restored. The omnibuses, carriages, cyclists, and innumerable\npeople walking in their best clothes seemed scarcely affected by the\nstrange intelligence that the newsvendors were disseminating. People\nwere interested, or, if alarmed, alarmed only on account of the local\nresidents. At the station he heard for the first time that the Windsor\nand Chertsey lines were now interrupted. The porters told him that\nseveral remarkable telegrams had been received in the morning from\nByfleet and Chertsey stations, but that these had abruptly ceased. My\nbrother could get very little precise detail out of them.\n\n There s fighting going on about Weybridge  was the extent of their\ninformation.\n\nThe train service was now very much disorganised. Quite a number of\npeople who had been expecting friends from places on the South-Western\nnetwork were standing about the station. One grey-headed old gentleman\ncame and abused the South-Western Company bitterly to my brother.  It\nwants showing up,  he said.\n\nOne or two trains came in from Richmond, Putney, and Kingston,\ncontaining people who had gone out for a day s boating and found the\nlocks closed and a feeling of panic in the air. A man in a blue and\nwhite blazer addressed my brother, full of strange tidings.\n\n There s hosts of people driving into Kingston in traps and carts and\nthings, with boxes of valuables and all that,  he said.  They come from\nMolesey and Weybridge and Walton, and they say there s been guns heard\nat Chertsey, heavy firing, and that mounted soldiers have told them to\nget off at once because the Martians are coming. We heard guns firing\nat Hampton Court station, but we thought it was thunder. What the\ndickens does it all mean? The Martians can t get out of their pit, can\nthey? \n\nMy brother could not tell him.\n\nAfterwards he found that the vague feeling of alarm had spread to the\nclients of the underground railway, and that the Sunday excursionists\nbegan to return from all over the South-Western  lung Barnes,\nWimbledon, Richmond Park, Kew, and so forth at unnaturally early hours;\nbut not a soul had anything more than vague hearsay to tell of.\nEveryone connected with the terminus seemed ill-tempered.\n\nAbout five o clock the gathering crowd in the station was immensely\nexcited by the opening of the line of communication, which is almost\ninvariably closed, between the South-Eastern and the South-Western\nstations, and the passage of carriage trucks bearing huge guns and\ncarriages crammed with soldiers. These were the guns that were brought\nup from Woolwich and Chatham to cover Kingston. There was an exchange\nof pleasantries:  You ll get eaten!   We re the beast-tamers!  and so\nforth. A little while after that a squad of police came into the\nstation and began to clear the public off the platforms, and my brother\nwent out into the street again.\n\nThe church bells were ringing for evensong, and a squad of Salvation\nArmy lassies came singing down Waterloo Road. On the bridge a number of\nloafers were watching a curious brown scum that came drifting down the\nstream in patches. The sun was just setting, and the Clock Tower and\nthe Houses of Parliament rose against one of the most peaceful skies it\nis possible to imagine, a sky of gold, barred with long transverse\nstripes of reddish-purple cloud. There was talk of a floating body. One\nof the men there, a reservist he said he was, told my brother he had\nseen the heliograph flickering in the west.\n\nIn Wellington Street my brother met a couple of sturdy roughs who had\njust been rushed out of Fleet Street with still-wet newspapers and\nstaring placards.  Dreadful catastrophe!  they bawled one to the other\ndown Wellington Street.  Fighting at Weybridge! Full description!\nRepulse of the Martians! London in Danger!  He had to give threepence\nfor a copy of that paper.\n\nThen it was, and then only, that he realised something of the full\npower and terror of these monsters. He learned that they were not\nmerely a handful of small sluggish creatures, but that they were minds\nswaying vast mechanical bodies; and that they could move swiftly and\nsmite with such power that even the mightiest guns could not stand\nagainst them.\n\nThey were described as  vast spiderlike machines, nearly a hundred feet\nhigh, capable of the speed of an express train, and able to shoot out a\nbeam of intense heat.  Masked batteries, chiefly of field guns, had\nbeen planted in the country about Horsell Common, and especially\nbetween the Woking district and London. Five of the machines had been\nseen moving towards the Thames, and one, by a happy chance, had been\ndestroyed. In the other cases the shells had missed, and the batteries\nhad been at once annihilated by the Heat-Rays. Heavy losses of soldiers\nwere mentioned, but the tone of the dispatch was optimistic.\n\nThe Martians had been repulsed; they were not invulnerable. They had\nretreated to their triangle of cylinders again, in the circle about\nWoking. Signallers with heliographs were pushing forward upon them from\nall sides. Guns were in rapid transit from Windsor, Portsmouth,\nAldershot, Woolwich even from the north; among others, long wire-guns\nof ninety-five tons from Woolwich. Altogether one hundred and sixteen\nwere in position or being hastily placed, chiefly covering London.\nNever before in England had there been such a vast or rapid\nconcentration of military material.\n\nAny further cylinders that fell, it was hoped, could be destroyed at\nonce by high explosives, which were being rapidly manufactured and\ndistributed. No doubt, ran the report, the situation was of the\nstrangest and gravest description, but the public was exhorted to avoid\nand discourage panic. No doubt the Martians were strange and terrible\nin the extreme, but at the outside there could not be more than twenty\nof them against our millions.\n\nThe authorities had reason to suppose, from the size of the cylinders,\nthat at the outside there could not be more than five in each\ncylinder fifteen altogether. And one at least was disposed of perhaps\nmore. The public would be fairly warned of the approach of danger, and\nelaborate measures were being taken for the protection of the people in\nthe threatened southwestern suburbs. And so, with reiterated assurances\nof the safety of London and the ability of the authorities to cope with\nthe difficulty, this quasi-proclamation closed.\n\nThis was printed in enormous type on paper so fresh that it was still\nwet, and there had been no time to add a word of comment. It was\ncurious, my brother said, to see how ruthlessly the usual contents of\nthe paper had been hacked and taken out to give this place.\n\nAll down Wellington Street people could be seen fluttering out the pink\nsheets and reading, and the Strand was suddenly noisy with the voices\nof an army of hawkers following these pioneers. Men came scrambling off\nbuses to secure copies. Certainly this news excited people intensely,\nwhatever their previous apathy. The shutters of a map shop in the\nStrand were being taken down, my brother said, and a man in his Sunday\nraiment, lemon-yellow gloves even, was visible inside the window\nhastily fastening maps of Surrey to the glass.\n\nGoing on along the Strand to Trafalgar Square, the paper in his hand,\nmy brother saw some of the fugitives from West Surrey. There was a man\nwith his wife and two boys and some articles of furniture in a cart\nsuch as greengrocers use. He was driving from the direction of\nWestminster Bridge; and close behind him came a hay waggon with five or\nsix respectable-looking people in it, and some boxes and bundles. The\nfaces of these people were haggard, and their entire appearance\ncontrasted conspicuously with the Sabbath-best appearance of the people\non the omnibuses. People in fashionable clothing peeped at them out of\ncabs. They stopped at the Square as if undecided which way to take, and\nfinally turned eastward along the Strand. Some way behind these came a\nman in workday clothes, riding one of those old-fashioned tricycles\nwith a small front wheel. He was dirty and white in the face.\n\nMy brother turned down towards Victoria, and met a number of such\npeople. He had a vague idea that he might see something of me. He\nnoticed an unusual number of police regulating the traffic. Some of the\nrefugees were exchanging news with the people on the omnibuses. One was\nprofessing to have seen the Martians.  Boilers on stilts, I tell you,\nstriding along like men.  Most of them were excited and animated by\ntheir strange experience.\n\nBeyond Victoria the public-houses were doing a lively trade with these\narrivals. At all the street corners groups of people were reading\npapers, talking excitedly, or staring at these unusual Sunday visitors.\nThey seemed to increase as night drew on, until at last the roads, my\nbrother said, were like Epsom High Street on a Derby Day. My brother\naddressed several of these fugitives and got unsatisfactory answers\nfrom most.\n\nNone of them could tell him any news of Woking except one man, who\nassured him that Woking had been entirely destroyed on the previous\nnight.\n\n I come from Byfleet,  he said;  a man on a bicycle came through the\nplace in the early morning, and ran from door to door warning us to\ncome away. Then came soldiers. We went out to look, and there were\nclouds of smoke to the south nothing but smoke, and not a soul coming\nthat way. Then we heard the guns at Chertsey, and folks coming from\nWeybridge. So I ve locked up my house and come on. \n\nAt that time there was a strong feeling in the streets that the\nauthorities were to blame for their incapacity to dispose of the\ninvaders without all this inconvenience.\n\nAbout eight o clock a noise of heavy firing was distinctly audible all\nover the south of London. My brother could not hear it for the traffic\nin the main thoroughfares, but by striking through the quiet back\nstreets to the river he was able to distinguish it quite plainly.\n\nHe walked from Westminster to his apartments near Regent s Park, about\ntwo. He was now very anxious on my account, and disturbed at the\nevident magnitude of the trouble. His mind was inclined to run, even as\nmine had run on Saturday, on military details. He thought of all those\nsilent, expectant guns, of the suddenly nomadic countryside; he tried\nto imagine  boilers on stilts  a hundred feet high.\n\nThere were one or two cartloads of refugees passing along Oxford\nStreet, and several in the Marylebone Road, but so slowly was the news\nspreading that Regent Street and Portland Place were full of their\nusual Sunday-night promenaders, albeit they talked in groups, and along\nthe edge of Regent s Park there were as many silent couples  walking\nout  together under the scattered gas lamps as ever there had been. The\nnight was warm and still, and a little oppressive; the sound of guns\ncontinued intermittently, and after midnight there seemed to be sheet\nlightning in the south.\n\nHe read and re-read the paper, fearing the worst had happened to me. He\nwas restless, and after supper prowled out again aimlessly. He returned\nand tried in vain to divert his attention to his examination notes. He\nwent to bed a little after midnight, and was awakened from lurid dreams\nin the small hours of Monday by the sound of door knockers, feet\nrunning in the street, distant drumming, and a clamour of bells. Red\nreflections danced on the ceiling. For a moment he lay astonished,\nwondering whether day had come or the world gone mad. Then he jumped\nout of bed and ran to the window.\n\nHis room was an attic and as he thrust his head out, up and down the\nstreet there were a dozen echoes to the noise of his window sash, and\nheads in every kind of night disarray appeared. Enquiries were being\nshouted.  They are coming!  bawled a policeman, hammering at the door;\n the Martians are coming!  and hurried to the next door.\n\nThe sound of drumming and trumpeting came from the Albany Street\nBarracks, and every church within earshot was hard at work killing\nsleep with a vehement disorderly tocsin. There was a noise of doors\nopening, and window after window in the houses opposite flashed from\ndarkness into yellow illumination.\n\nUp the street came galloping a closed carriage, bursting abruptly into\nnoise at the corner, rising to a clattering climax under the window,\nand dying away slowly in the distance. Close on the rear of this came a\ncouple of cabs, the forerunners of a long procession of flying\nvehicles, going for the most part to Chalk Farm station, where the\nNorth-Western special trains were loading up, instead of coming down\nthe gradient into Euston.\n\nFor a long time my brother stared out of the window in blank\nastonishment, watching the policemen hammering at door after door, and\ndelivering their incomprehensible message. Then the door behind him\nopened, and the man who lodged across the landing came in, dressed only\nin shirt, trousers, and slippers, his braces loose about his waist, his\nhair disordered from his pillow.\n\n What the devil is it?  he asked.  A fire? What a devil of a row! \n\nThey both craned their heads out of the window, straining to hear what\nthe policemen were shouting. People were coming out of the side\nstreets, and standing in groups at the corners talking.\n\n What the devil is it all about?  said my brother s fellow lodger.\n\nMy brother answered him vaguely and began to dress, running with each\ngarment to the window in order to miss nothing of the growing\nexcitement. And presently men selling unnaturally early newspapers came\nbawling into the street:\n\n London in danger of suffocation! The Kingston and Richmond defences\nforced! Fearful massacres in the Thames Valley! \n\nAnd all about him in the rooms below, in the houses on each side and\nacross the road, and behind in the Park Terraces and in the hundred\nother streets of that part of Marylebone, and the Westbourne Park\ndistrict and St. Pancras, and westward and northward in Kilburn and St.\nJohn s Wood and Hampstead, and eastward in Shoreditch and Highbury and\nHaggerston and Hoxton, and, indeed, through all the vastness of London\nfrom Ealing to East Ham people were rubbing their eyes, and opening\nwindows to stare out and ask aimless questions, dressing hastily as the\nfirst breath of the coming storm of Fear blew through the streets. It\nwas the dawn of the great panic. London, which had gone to bed on\nSunday night oblivious and inert, was awakened, in the small hours of\nMonday morning, to a vivid sense of danger.\n\nUnable from his window to learn what was happening, my brother went\ndown and out into the street, just as the sky between the parapets of\nthe houses grew pink with the early dawn. The flying people on foot and\nin vehicles grew more numerous every moment.  Black Smoke!  he heard\npeople crying, and again  Black Smoke!  The contagion of such a\nunanimous fear was inevitable. As my brother hesitated on the\ndoor-step, he saw another newsvendor approaching, and got a paper\nforthwith. The man was running away with the rest, and selling his\npapers for a shilling each as he ran a grotesque mingling of profit and\npanic.\n\nAnd from this paper my brother read that catastrophic dispatch of the\nCommander-in-Chief:\n\n The Martians are able to discharge enormous clouds of a black and\npoisonous vapour by means of rockets. They have smothered our\nbatteries, destroyed Richmond, Kingston, and Wimbledon, and are\nadvancing slowly towards London, destroying everything on the way. It\nis impossible to stop them. There is no safety from the Black Smoke but\nin instant flight. \n\n\nThat was all, but it was enough. The whole population of the great\nsix-million city was stirring, slipping, running; presently it would be\npouring _en masse_ northward.\n\n Black Smoke!  the voices cried.  Fire! \n\nThe bells of the neighbouring church made a jangling tumult, a cart\ncarelessly driven smashed, amid shrieks and curses, against the water\ntrough up the street. Sickly yellow lights went to and fro in the\nhouses, and some of the passing cabs flaunted unextinguished lamps. And\noverhead the dawn was growing brighter, clear and steady and calm.\n\nHe heard footsteps running to and fro in the rooms, and up and down\nstairs behind him. His landlady came to the door, loosely wrapped in\ndressing gown and shawl; her husband followed, ejaculating.\n\nAs my brother began to realise the import of all these things, he\nturned hastily to his own room, put all his available money some ten\npounds altogether into his pockets, and went out again into the\nstreets.\n\n\n\n\nXV.\nWHAT HAD HAPPENED IN SURREY.\n\n\nIt was while the curate had sat and talked so wildly to me under the\nhedge in the flat meadows near Halliford, and while my brother was\nwatching the fugitives stream over Westminster Bridge, that the\nMartians had resumed the offensive. So far as one can ascertain from\nthe conflicting accounts that have been put forth, the majority of them\nremained busied with preparations in the Horsell pit until nine that\nnight, hurrying on some operation that disengaged huge volumes of green\nsmoke.\n\nBut three certainly came out about eight o clock and, advancing slowly\nand cautiously, made their way through Byfleet and Pyrford towards\nRipley and Weybridge, and so came in sight of the expectant batteries\nagainst the setting sun. These Martians did not advance in a body, but\nin a line, each perhaps a mile and a half from his nearest fellow. They\ncommunicated with one another by means of sirenlike howls, running up\nand down the scale from one note to another.\n\nIt was this howling and firing of the guns at Ripley and St. George s\nHill that we had heard at Upper Halliford. The Ripley gunners,\nunseasoned artillery volunteers who ought never to have been placed in\nsuch a position, fired one wild, premature, ineffectual volley, and\nbolted on horse and foot through the deserted village, while the\nMartian, without using his Heat-Ray, walked serenely over their guns,\nstepped gingerly among them, passed in front of them, and so came\nunexpectedly upon the guns in Painshill Park, which he destroyed.\n\nThe St. George s Hill men, however, were better led or of a better\nmettle. Hidden by a pine wood as they were, they seem to have been\nquite unsuspected by the Martian nearest to them. They laid their guns\nas deliberately as if they had been on parade, and fired at about a\nthousand yards  range.\n\nThe shells flashed all round him, and he was seen to advance a few\npaces, stagger, and go down. Everybody yelled together, and the guns\nwere reloaded in frantic haste. The overthrown Martian set up a\nprolonged ululation, and immediately a second glittering giant,\nanswering him, appeared over the trees to the south. It would seem that\na leg of the tripod had been smashed by one of the shells. The whole of\nthe second volley flew wide of the Martian on the ground, and,\nsimultaneously, both his companions brought their Heat-Rays to bear on\nthe battery. The ammunition blew up, the pine trees all about the guns\nflashed into fire, and only one or two of the men who were already\nrunning over the crest of the hill escaped.\n\nAfter this it would seem that the three took counsel together and\nhalted, and the scouts who were watching them report that they remained\nabsolutely stationary for the next half hour. The Martian who had been\noverthrown crawled tediously out of his hood, a small brown figure,\noddly suggestive from that distance of a speck of blight, and\napparently engaged in the repair of his support. About nine he had\nfinished, for his cowl was then seen above the trees again.\n\nIt was a few minutes past nine that night when these three sentinels\nwere joined by four other Martians, each carrying a thick black tube. A\nsimilar tube was handed to each of the three, and the seven proceeded\nto distribute themselves at equal distances along a curved line between\nSt. George s Hill, Weybridge, and the village of Send, southwest of\nRipley.\n\nA dozen rockets sprang out of the hills before them so soon as they\nbegan to move, and warned the waiting batteries about Ditton and Esher.\nAt the same time four of their fighting machines, similarly armed with\ntubes, crossed the river, and two of them, black against the western\nsky, came into sight of myself and the curate as we hurried wearily and\npainfully along the road that runs northward out of Halliford. They\nmoved, as it seemed to us, upon a cloud, for a milky mist covered the\nfields and rose to a third of their height.\n\nAt this sight the curate cried faintly in his throat, and began\nrunning; but I knew it was no good running from a Martian, and I turned\naside and crawled through dewy nettles and brambles into the broad\nditch by the side of the road. He looked back, saw what I was doing,\nand turned to join me.\n\nThe two halted, the nearer to us standing and facing Sunbury, the\nremoter being a grey indistinctness towards the evening star, away\ntowards Staines.\n\nThe occasional howling of the Martians had ceased; they took up their\npositions in the huge crescent about their cylinders in absolute\nsilence. It was a crescent with twelve miles between its horns. Never\nsince the devising of gunpowder was the beginning of a battle so still.\nTo us and to an observer about Ripley it would have had precisely the\nsame effect the Martians seemed in solitary possession of the darkling\nnight, lit only as it was by the slender moon, the stars, the afterglow\nof the daylight, and the ruddy glare from St. George s Hill and the\nwoods of Painshill.\n\nBut facing that crescent everywhere at Staines, Hounslow, Ditton,\nEsher, Ockham, behind hills and woods south of the river, and across\nthe flat grass meadows to the north of it, wherever a cluster of trees\nor village houses gave sufficient cover the guns were waiting. The\nsignal rockets burst and rained their sparks through the night and\nvanished, and the spirit of all those watching batteries rose to a\ntense expectation. The Martians had but to advance into the line of\nfire, and instantly those motionless black forms of men, those guns\nglittering so darkly in the early night, would explode into a\nthunderous fury of battle.\n\nNo doubt the thought that was uppermost in a thousand of those vigilant\nminds, even as it was uppermost in mine, was the riddle how much they\nunderstood of us. Did they grasp that we in our millions were\norganized, disciplined, working together? Or did they interpret our\nspurts of fire, the sudden stinging of our shells, our steady\ninvestment of their encampment, as we should the furious unanimity of\nonslaught in a disturbed hive of bees? Did they dream they might\nexterminate us? (At that time no one knew what food they needed.) A\nhundred such questions struggled together in my mind as I watched that\nvast sentinel shape. And in the back of my mind was the sense of all\nthe huge unknown and hidden forces Londonward. Had they prepared\npitfalls? Were the powder mills at Hounslow ready as a snare? Would the\nLondoners have the heart and courage to make a greater Moscow of their\nmighty province of houses?\n\nThen, after an interminable time, as it seemed to us, crouching and\npeering through the hedge, came a sound like the distant concussion of\na gun. Another nearer, and then another. And then the Martian beside us\nraised his tube on high and discharged it, gunwise, with a heavy report\nthat made the ground heave. The one towards Staines answered him. There\nwas no flash, no smoke, simply that loaded detonation.\n\nI was so excited by these heavy minute-guns following one another that\nI so far forgot my personal safety and my scalded hands as to clamber\nup into the hedge and stare towards Sunbury. As I did so a second\nreport followed, and a big projectile hurtled overhead towards\nHounslow. I expected at least to see smoke or fire, or some such\nevidence of its work. But all I saw was the deep blue sky above, with\none solitary star, and the white mist spreading wide and low beneath.\nAnd there had been no crash, no answering explosion. The silence was\nrestored; the minute lengthened to three.\n\n What has happened?  said the curate, standing up beside me.\n\n Heaven knows!  said I.\n\nA bat flickered by and vanished. A distant tumult of shouting began and\nceased. I looked again at the Martian, and saw he was now moving\neastward along the riverbank, with a swift, rolling motion.\n\nEvery moment I expected the fire of some hidden battery to spring upon\nhim; but the evening calm was unbroken. The figure of the Martian grew\nsmaller as he receded, and presently the mist and the gathering night\nhad swallowed him up. By a common impulse we clambered higher. Towards\nSunbury was a dark appearance, as though a conical hill had suddenly\ncome into being there, hiding our view of the farther country; and\nthen, remoter across the river, over Walton, we saw another such\nsummit. These hill-like forms grew lower and broader even as we stared.\n\nMoved by a sudden thought, I looked northward, and there I perceived a\nthird of these cloudy black kopjes had risen.\n\nEverything had suddenly become very still. Far away to the southeast,\nmarking the quiet, we heard the Martians hooting to one another, and\nthen the air quivered again with the distant thud of their guns. But\nthe earthly artillery made no reply.\n\nNow at the time we could not understand these things, but later I was\nto learn the meaning of these ominous kopjes that gathered in the\ntwilight. Each of the Martians, standing in the great crescent I have\ndescribed, had discharged, by means of the gunlike tube he carried, a\nhuge canister over whatever hill, copse, cluster of houses, or other\npossible cover for guns, chanced to be in front of him. Some fired only\none of these, some two as in the case of the one we had seen; the one\nat Ripley is said to have discharged no fewer than five at that time.\nThese canisters smashed on striking the ground they did not explode and\nincontinently disengaged an enormous volume of heavy, inky vapour,\ncoiling and pouring upward in a huge and ebony cumulus cloud, a gaseous\nhill that sank and spread itself slowly over the surrounding country.\nAnd the touch of that vapour, the inhaling of its pungent wisps, was\ndeath to all that breathes.\n\nIt was heavy, this vapour, heavier than the densest smoke, so that,\nafter the first tumultuous uprush and outflow of its impact, it sank\ndown through the air and poured over the ground in a manner rather\nliquid than gaseous, abandoning the hills, and streaming into the\nvalleys and ditches and watercourses even as I have heard the\ncarbonic-acid gas that pours from volcanic clefts is wont to do. And\nwhere it came upon water some chemical action occurred, and the surface\nwould be instantly covered with a powdery scum that sank slowly and\nmade way for more. The scum was absolutely insoluble, and it is a\nstrange thing, seeing the instant effect of the gas, that one could\ndrink without hurt the water from which it had been strained. The\nvapour did not diffuse as a true gas would do. It hung together in\nbanks, flowing sluggishly down the slope of the land and driving\nreluctantly before the wind, and very slowly it combined with the mist\nand moisture of the air, and sank to the earth in the form of dust.\nSave that an unknown element giving a group of four lines in the blue\nof the spectrum is concerned, we are still entirely ignorant of the\nnature of this substance.\n\nOnce the tumultuous upheaval of its dispersion was over, the black\nsmoke clung so closely to the ground, even before its precipitation,\nthat fifty feet up in the air, on the roofs and upper stories of high\nhouses and on great trees, there was a chance of escaping its poison\naltogether, as was proved even that night at Street Cobham and Ditton.\n\nThe man who escaped at the former place tells a wonderful story of the\nstrangeness of its coiling flow, and how he looked down from the church\nspire and saw the houses of the village rising like ghosts out of its\ninky nothingness. For a day and a half he remained there, weary,\nstarving and sun-scorched, the earth under the blue sky and against the\nprospect of the distant hills a velvet-black expanse, with red roofs,\ngreen trees, and, later, black-veiled shrubs and gates, barns,\nouthouses, and walls, rising here and there into the sunlight.\n\nBut that was at Street Cobham, where the black vapour was allowed to\nremain until it sank of its own accord into the ground. As a rule the\nMartians, when it had served its purpose, cleared the air of it again\nby wading into it and directing a jet of steam upon it.\n\nThis they did with the vapour banks near us, as we saw in the starlight\nfrom the window of a deserted house at Upper Halliford, whither we had\nreturned. From there we could see the searchlights on Richmond Hill and\nKingston Hill going to and fro, and about eleven the windows rattled,\nand we heard the sound of the huge siege guns that had been put in\nposition there. These continued intermittently for the space of a\nquarter of an hour, sending chance shots at the invisible Martians at\nHampton and Ditton, and then the pale beams of the electric light\nvanished, and were replaced by a bright red glow.\n\nThen the fourth cylinder fell a brilliant green meteor as I learned\nafterwards, in Bushey Park. Before the guns on the Richmond and\nKingston line of hills began, there was a fitful cannonade far away in\nthe southwest, due, I believe, to guns being fired haphazard before the\nblack vapour could overwhelm the gunners.\n\nSo, setting about it as methodically as men might smoke out a wasps \nnest, the Martians spread this strange stifling vapour over the\nLondonward country. The horns of the crescent slowly moved apart, until\nat last they formed a line from Hanwell to Coombe and Malden. All night\nthrough their destructive tubes advanced. Never once, after the Martian\nat St. George s Hill was brought down, did they give the artillery the\nghost of a chance against them. Wherever there was a possibility of\nguns being laid for them unseen, a fresh canister of the black vapour\nwas discharged, and where the guns were openly displayed the Heat-Ray\nwas brought to bear.\n\nBy midnight the blazing trees along the slopes of Richmond Park and the\nglare of Kingston Hill threw their light upon a network of black smoke,\nblotting out the whole valley of the Thames and extending as far as the\neye could reach. And through this two Martians slowly waded, and turned\ntheir hissing steam jets this way and that.\n\nThey were sparing of the Heat-Ray that night, either because they had\nbut a limited supply of material for its production or because they did\nnot wish to destroy the country but only to crush and overawe the\nopposition they had aroused. In the latter aim they certainly\nsucceeded. Sunday night was the end of the organised opposition to\ntheir movements. After that no body of men would stand against them, so\nhopeless was the enterprise. Even the crews of the torpedo-boats and\ndestroyers that had brought their quick-firers up the Thames refused to\nstop, mutinied, and went down again. The only offensive operation men\nventured upon after that night was the preparation of mines and\npitfalls, and even in that their energies were frantic and spasmodic.\n\nOne has to imagine, as well as one may, the fate of those batteries\ntowards Esher, waiting so tensely in the twilight. Survivors there were\nnone. One may picture the orderly expectation, the officers alert and\nwatchful, the gunners ready, the ammunition piled to hand, the limber\ngunners with their horses and waggons, the groups of civilian\nspectators standing as near as they were permitted, the evening\nstillness, the ambulances and hospital tents with the burned and\nwounded from Weybridge; then the dull resonance of the shots the\nMartians fired, and the clumsy projectile whirling over the trees and\nhouses and smashing amid the neighbouring fields.\n\nOne may picture, too, the sudden shifting of the attention, the swiftly\nspreading coils and bellyings of that blackness advancing headlong,\ntowering heavenward, turning the twilight to a palpable darkness, a\nstrange and horrible antagonist of vapour striding upon its victims,\nmen and horses near it seen dimly, running, shrieking, falling\nheadlong, shouts of dismay, the guns suddenly abandoned, men choking\nand writhing on the ground, and the swift broadening-out of the opaque\ncone of smoke. And then night and extinction nothing but a silent mass\nof impenetrable vapour hiding its dead.\n\nBefore dawn the black vapour was pouring through the streets of\nRichmond, and the disintegrating organism of government was, with a\nlast expiring effort, rousing the population of London to the necessity\nof flight.\n\n\n\n\nXVI.\nTHE EXODUS FROM LONDON.\n\n\nSo you understand the roaring wave of fear that swept through the\ngreatest city in the world just as Monday was dawning the stream of\nflight rising swiftly to a torrent, lashing in a foaming tumult round\nthe railway stations, banked up into a horrible struggle about the\nshipping in the Thames, and hurrying by every available channel\nnorthward and eastward. By ten o clock the police organisation, and by\nmidday even the railway organisations, were losing coherency, losing\nshape and efficiency, guttering, softening, running at last in that\nswift liquefaction of the social body.\n\nAll the railway lines north of the Thames and the South-Eastern people\nat Cannon Street had been warned by midnight on Sunday, and trains were\nbeing filled. People were fighting savagely for standing-room in the\ncarriages even at two o clock. By three, people were being trampled and\ncrushed even in Bishopsgate Street, a couple of hundred yards or more\nfrom Liverpool Street station; revolvers were fired, people stabbed,\nand the policemen who had been sent to direct the traffic, exhausted\nand infuriated, were breaking the heads of the people they were called\nout to protect.\n\nAnd as the day advanced and the engine drivers and stokers refused to\nreturn to London, the pressure of the flight drove the people in an\never-thickening multitude away from the stations and along the\nnorthward-running roads. By midday a Martian had been seen at Barnes,\nand a cloud of slowly sinking black vapour drove along the Thames and\nacross the flats of Lambeth, cutting off all escape over the bridges in\nits sluggish advance. Another bank drove over Ealing, and surrounded a\nlittle island of survivors on Castle Hill, alive, but unable to escape.\n\nAfter a fruitless struggle to get aboard a North-Western train at Chalk\nFarm the engines of the trains that had loaded in the goods yard there\n_ploughed_ through shrieking people, and a dozen stalwart men fought to\nkeep the crowd from crushing the driver against his furnace my brother\nemerged upon the Chalk Farm road, dodged across through a hurrying\nswarm of vehicles, and had the luck to be foremost in the sack of a\ncycle shop. The front tire of the machine he got was punctured in\ndragging it through the window, but he got up and off, notwithstanding,\nwith no further injury than a cut wrist. The steep foot of Haverstock\nHill was impassable owing to several overturned horses, and my brother\nstruck into Belsize Road.\n\nSo he got out of the fury of the panic, and, skirting the Edgware Road,\nreached Edgware about seven, fasting and wearied, but well ahead of the\ncrowd. Along the road people were standing in the roadway, curious,\nwondering. He was passed by a number of cyclists, some horsemen, and\ntwo motor cars. A mile from Edgware the rim of the wheel broke, and the\nmachine became unridable. He left it by the roadside and trudged\nthrough the village. There were shops half opened in the main street of\nthe place, and people crowded on the pavement and in the doorways and\nwindows, staring astonished at this extraordinary procession of\nfugitives that was beginning. He succeeded in getting some food at an\ninn.\n\nFor a time he remained in Edgware not knowing what next to do. The\nflying people increased in number. Many of them, like my brother,\nseemed inclined to loiter in the place. There was no fresh news of the\ninvaders from Mars.\n\nAt that time the road was crowded, but as yet far from congested. Most\nof the fugitives at that hour were mounted on cycles, but there were\nsoon motor cars, hansom cabs, and carriages hurrying along, and the\ndust hung in heavy clouds along the road to St. Albans.\n\nIt was perhaps a vague idea of making his way to Chelmsford, where some\nfriends of his lived, that at last induced my brother to strike into a\nquiet lane running eastward. Presently he came upon a stile, and,\ncrossing it, followed a footpath northeastward. He passed near several\nfarmhouses and some little places whose names he did not learn. He saw\nfew fugitives until, in a grass lane towards High Barnet, he happened\nupon two ladies who became his fellow travellers. He came upon them\njust in time to save them.\n\nHe heard their screams, and, hurrying round the corner, saw a couple of\nmen struggling to drag them out of the little pony-chaise in which they\nhad been driving, while a third with difficulty held the frightened\npony s head. One of the ladies, a short woman dressed in white, was\nsimply screaming; the other, a dark, slender figure, slashed at the man\nwho gripped her arm with a whip she held in her disengaged hand.\n\nMy brother immediately grasped the situation, shouted, and hurried\ntowards the struggle. One of the men desisted and turned towards him,\nand my brother, realising from his antagonist s face that a fight was\nunavoidable, and being an expert boxer, went into him forthwith and\nsent him down against the wheel of the chaise.\n\nIt was no time for pugilistic chivalry and my brother laid him quiet\nwith a kick, and gripped the collar of the man who pulled at the\nslender lady s arm. He heard the clatter of hoofs, the whip stung\nacross his face, a third antagonist struck him between the eyes, and\nthe man he held wrenched himself free and made off down the lane in the\ndirection from which he had come.\n\nPartly stunned, he found himself facing the man who had held the\nhorse s head, and became aware of the chaise receding from him down the\nlane, swaying from side to side, and with the women in it looking back.\nThe man before him, a burly rough, tried to close, and he stopped him\nwith a blow in the face. Then, realising that he was deserted, he\ndodged round and made off down the lane after the chaise, with the\nsturdy man close behind him, and the fugitive, who had turned now,\nfollowing remotely.\n\nSuddenly he stumbled and fell; his immediate pursuer went headlong, and\nhe rose to his feet to find himself with a couple of antagonists again.\nHe would have had little chance against them had not the slender lady\nvery pluckily pulled up and returned to his help. It seems she had had\na revolver all this time, but it had been under the seat when she and\nher companion were attacked. She fired at six yards  distance, narrowly\nmissing my brother. The less courageous of the robbers made off, and\nhis companion followed him, cursing his cowardice. They both stopped in\nsight down the lane, where the third man lay insensible.\n\n Take this!  said the slender lady, and she gave my brother her\nrevolver.\n\n Go back to the chaise,  said my brother, wiping the blood from his\nsplit lip.\n\nShe turned without a word they were both panting and they went back to\nwhere the lady in white struggled to hold back the frightened pony.\n\nThe robbers had evidently had enough of it. When my brother looked\nagain they were retreating.\n\n I ll sit here,  said my brother,  if I may ; and he got upon the empty\nfront seat. The lady looked over her shoulder.\n\n Give me the reins,  she said, and laid the whip along the pony s side.\nIn another moment a bend in the road hid the three men from my\nbrother s eyes.\n\nSo, quite unexpectedly, my brother found himself, panting, with a cut\nmouth, a bruised jaw, and bloodstained knuckles, driving along an\nunknown lane with these two women.\n\nHe learned they were the wife and the younger sister of a surgeon\nliving at Stanmore, who had come in the small hours from a dangerous\ncase at Pinner, and heard at some railway station on his way of the\nMartian advance. He had hurried home, roused the women their servant\nhad left them two days before packed some provisions, put his revolver\nunder the seat luckily for my brother and told them to drive on to\nEdgware, with the idea of getting a train there. He stopped behind to\ntell the neighbours. He would overtake them, he said, at about half\npast four in the morning, and now it was nearly nine and they had seen\nnothing of him. They could not stop in Edgware because of the growing\ntraffic through the place, and so they had come into this side lane.\n\nThat was the story they told my brother in fragments when presently\nthey stopped again, nearer to New Barnet. He promised to stay with\nthem, at least until they could determine what to do, or until the\nmissing man arrived, and professed to be an expert shot with the\nrevolver a weapon strange to him in order to give them confidence.\n\nThey made a sort of encampment by the wayside, and the pony became\nhappy in the hedge. He told them of his own escape out of London, and\nall that he knew of these Martians and their ways. The sun crept higher\nin the sky, and after a time their talk died out and gave place to an\nuneasy state of anticipation. Several wayfarers came along the lane,\nand of these my brother gathered such news as he could. Every broken\nanswer he had deepened his impression of the great disaster that had\ncome on humanity, deepened his persuasion of the immediate necessity\nfor prosecuting this flight. He urged the matter upon them.\n\n We have money,  said the slender woman, and hesitated.\n\nHer eyes met my brother s, and her hesitation ended.\n\n So have I,  said my brother.\n\nShe explained that they had as much as thirty pounds in gold, besides a\nfive-pound note, and suggested that with that they might get upon a\ntrain at St. Albans or New Barnet. My brother thought that was\nhopeless, seeing the fury of the Londoners to crowd upon the trains,\nand broached his own idea of striking across Essex towards Harwich and\nthence escaping from the country altogether.\n\nMrs. Elphinstone that was the name of the woman in white would listen\nto no reasoning, and kept calling upon  George ; but her sister-in-law\nwas astonishingly quiet and deliberate, and at last agreed to my\nbrother s suggestion. So, designing to cross the Great North Road, they\nwent on towards Barnet, my brother leading the pony to save it as much\nas possible. As the sun crept up the sky the day became excessively\nhot, and under foot a thick, whitish sand grew burning and blinding, so\nthat they travelled only very slowly. The hedges were grey with dust.\nAnd as they advanced towards Barnet a tumultuous murmuring grew\nstronger.\n\nThey began to meet more people. For the most part these were staring\nbefore them, murmuring indistinct questions, jaded, haggard, unclean.\nOne man in evening dress passed them on foot, his eyes on the ground.\nThey heard his voice, and, looking back at him, saw one hand clutched\nin his hair and the other beating invisible things. His paroxysm of\nrage over, he went on his way without once looking back.\n\nAs my brother s party went on towards the crossroads to the south of\nBarnet they saw a woman approaching the road across some fields on\ntheir left, carrying a child and with two other children; and then\npassed a man in dirty black, with a thick stick in one hand and a small\nportmanteau in the other. Then round the corner of the lane, from\nbetween the villas that guarded it at its confluence with the high\nroad, came a little cart drawn by a sweating black pony and driven by a\nsallow youth in a bowler hat, grey with dust. There were three girls,\nEast End factory girls, and a couple of little children crowded in the\ncart.\n\n This ll tike us rahnd Edgware?  asked the driver, wild-eyed,\nwhite-faced; and when my brother told him it would if he turned to the\nleft, he whipped up at once without the formality of thanks.\n\nMy brother noticed a pale grey smoke or haze rising among the houses in\nfront of them, and veiling the white fa ade of a terrace beyond the\nroad that appeared between the backs of the villas. Mrs. Elphinstone\nsuddenly cried out at a number of tongues of smoky red flame leaping up\nabove the houses in front of them against the hot, blue sky. The\ntumultuous noise resolved itself now into the disorderly mingling of\nmany voices, the gride of many wheels, the creaking of waggons, and the\nstaccato of hoofs. The lane came round sharply not fifty yards from the\ncrossroads.\n\n Good heavens!  cried Mrs. Elphinstone.  What is this you are driving\nus into? \n\nMy brother stopped.\n\nFor the main road was a boiling stream of people, a torrent of human\nbeings rushing northward, one pressing on another. A great bank of\ndust, white and luminous in the blaze of the sun, made everything\nwithin twenty feet of the ground grey and indistinct and was\nperpetually renewed by the hurrying feet of a dense crowd of horses and\nof men and women on foot, and by the wheels of vehicles of every\ndescription.\n\n Way!  my brother heard voices crying.  Make way! \n\nIt was like riding into the smoke of a fire to approach the meeting\npoint of the lane and road; the crowd roared like a fire, and the dust\nwas hot and pungent. And, indeed, a little way up the road a villa was\nburning and sending rolling masses of black smoke across the road to\nadd to the confusion.\n\nTwo men came past them. Then a dirty woman, carrying a heavy bundle and\nweeping. A lost retriever dog, with hanging tongue, circled dubiously\nround them, scared and wretched, and fled at my brother s threat.\n\nSo much as they could see of the road Londonward between the houses to\nthe right was a tumultuous stream of dirty, hurrying people, pent in\nbetween the villas on either side; the black heads, the crowded forms,\ngrew into distinctness as they rushed towards the corner, hurried past,\nand merged their individuality again in a receding multitude that was\nswallowed up at last in a cloud of dust.\n\n Go on! Go on!  cried the voices.  Way! Way! \n\nOne man s hands pressed on the back of another. My brother stood at the\npony s head. Irresistibly attracted, he advanced slowly, pace by pace,\ndown the lane.\n\nEdgware had been a scene of confusion, Chalk Farm a riotous tumult, but\nthis was a whole population in movement. It is hard to imagine that\nhost. It had no character of its own. The figures poured out past the\ncorner, and receded with their backs to the group in the lane. Along\nthe margin came those who were on foot threatened by the wheels,\nstumbling in the ditches, blundering into one another.\n\nThe carts and carriages crowded close upon one another, making little\nway for those swifter and more impatient vehicles that darted forward\nevery now and then when an opportunity showed itself of doing so,\nsending the people scattering against the fences and gates of the\nvillas.\n\n Push on!  was the cry.  Push on! They are coming! \n\nIn one cart stood a blind man in the uniform of the Salvation Army,\ngesticulating with his crooked fingers and bawling,  Eternity!\nEternity!  His voice was hoarse and very loud so that my brother could\nhear him long after he was lost to sight in the dust. Some of the\npeople who crowded in the carts whipped stupidly at their horses and\nquarrelled with other drivers; some sat motionless, staring at nothing\nwith miserable eyes; some gnawed their hands with thirst, or lay\nprostrate in the bottoms of their conveyances. The horses  bits were\ncovered with foam, their eyes bloodshot.\n\nThere were cabs, carriages, shop-carts, waggons, beyond counting; a\nmail cart, a road-cleaner s cart marked  Vestry of St. Pancras,  a huge\ntimber waggon crowded with roughs. A brewer s dray rumbled by with its\ntwo near wheels splashed with fresh blood.\n\n Clear the way!  cried the voices.  Clear the way! \n\n Eter-nity! Eter-nity!  came echoing down the road.\n\nThere were sad, haggard women tramping by, well dressed, with children\nthat cried and stumbled, their dainty clothes smothered in dust, their\nweary faces smeared with tears. With many of these came men, sometimes\nhelpful, sometimes lowering and savage. Fighting side by side with them\npushed some weary street outcast in faded black rags, wide-eyed,\nloud-voiced, and foul-mouthed. There were sturdy workmen thrusting\ntheir way along, wretched, unkempt men, clothed like clerks or shopmen,\nstruggling spasmodically; a wounded soldier my brother noticed, men\ndressed in the clothes of railway porters, one wretched creature in a\nnightshirt with a coat thrown over it.\n\nBut varied as its composition was, certain things all that host had in\ncommon. There were fear and pain on their faces, and fear behind them.\nA tumult up the road, a quarrel for a place in a waggon, sent the whole\nhost of them quickening their pace; even a man so scared and broken\nthat his knees bent under him was galvanised for a moment into renewed\nactivity. The heat and dust had already been at work upon this\nmultitude. Their skins were dry, their lips black and cracked. They\nwere all thirsty, weary, and footsore. And amid the various cries one\nheard disputes, reproaches, groans of weariness and fatigue; the voices\nof most of them were hoarse and weak. Through it all ran a refrain:\n\n Way! Way! The Martians are coming! \n\nFew stopped and came aside from that flood. The lane opened slantingly\ninto the main road with a narrow opening, and had a delusive appearance\nof coming from the direction of London. Yet a kind of eddy of people\ndrove into its mouth; weaklings elbowed out of the stream, who for the\nmost part rested but a moment before plunging into it again. A little\nway down the lane, with two friends bending over him, lay a man with a\nbare leg, wrapped about with bloody rags. He was a lucky man to have\nfriends.\n\nA little old man, with a grey military moustache and a filthy black\nfrock coat, limped out and sat down beside the trap, removed his\nboot his sock was blood-stained shook out a pebble, and hobbled on\nagain; and then a little girl of eight or nine, all alone, threw\nherself under the hedge close by my brother, weeping.\n\n I can t go on! I can t go on! \n\nMy brother woke from his torpor of astonishment and lifted her up,\nspeaking gently to her, and carried her to Miss Elphinstone. So soon as\nmy brother touched her she became quite still, as if frightened.\n\n Ellen!  shrieked a woman in the crowd, with tears in her\nvoice Ellen!  And the child suddenly darted away from my brother,\ncrying  Mother! \n\n They are coming,  said a man on horseback, riding past along the lane.\n\n Out of the way, there!  bawled a coachman, towering high; and my\nbrother saw a closed carriage turning into the lane.\n\nThe people crushed back on one another to avoid the horse. My brother\npushed the pony and chaise back into the hedge, and the man drove by\nand stopped at the turn of the way. It was a carriage, with a pole for\na pair of horses, but only one was in the traces. My brother saw dimly\nthrough the dust that two men lifted out something on a white stretcher\nand put it gently on the grass beneath the privet hedge.\n\nOne of the men came running to my brother.\n\n Where is there any water?  he said.  He is dying fast, and very\nthirsty. It is Lord Garrick. \n\n Lord Garrick!  said my brother;  the Chief Justice? \n\n The water?  he said.\n\n There may be a tap,  said my brother,  in some of the houses. We have\nno water. I dare not leave my people. \n\nThe man pushed against the crowd towards the gate of the corner house.\n\n Go on!  said the people, thrusting at him.  They are coming! Go on! \n\nThen my brother s attention was distracted by a bearded, eagle-faced\nman lugging a small handbag, which split even as my brother s eyes\nrested on it and disgorged a mass of sovereigns that seemed to break up\ninto separate coins as it struck the ground. They rolled hither and\nthither among the struggling feet of men and horses. The man stopped\nand looked stupidly at the heap, and the shaft of a cab struck his\nshoulder and sent him reeling. He gave a shriek and dodged back, and a\ncartwheel shaved him narrowly.\n\n Way!  cried the men all about him.  Make way! \n\nSo soon as the cab had passed, he flung himself, with both hands open,\nupon the heap of coins, and began thrusting handfuls in his pocket. A\nhorse rose close upon him, and in another moment, half rising, he had\nbeen borne down under the horse s hoofs.\n\n Stop!  screamed my brother, and pushing a woman out of his way, tried\nto clutch the bit of the horse.\n\nBefore he could get to it, he heard a scream under the wheels, and saw\nthrough the dust the rim passing over the poor wretch s back. The\ndriver of the cart slashed his whip at my brother, who ran round behind\nthe cart. The multitudinous shouting confused his ears. The man was\nwrithing in the dust among his scattered money, unable to rise, for the\nwheel had broken his back, and his lower limbs lay limp and dead. My\nbrother stood up and yelled at the next driver, and a man on a black\nhorse came to his assistance.\n\n Get him out of the road,  said he; and, clutching the man s collar\nwith his free hand, my brother lugged him sideways. But he still\nclutched after his money, and regarded my brother fiercely, hammering\nat his arm with a handful of gold.  Go on! Go on!  shouted angry voices\nbehind.  Way! Way! \n\nThere was a smash as the pole of a carriage crashed into the cart that\nthe man on horseback stopped. My brother looked up, and the man with\nthe gold twisted his head round and bit the wrist that held his collar.\nThere was a concussion, and the black horse came staggering sideways,\nand the carthorse pushed beside it. A hoof missed my brother s foot by\na hair s breadth. He released his grip on the fallen man and jumped\nback. He saw anger change to terror on the face of the poor wretch on\nthe ground, and in a moment he was hidden and my brother was borne\nbackward and carried past the entrance of the lane, and had to fight\nhard in the torrent to recover it.\n\nHe saw Miss Elphinstone covering her eyes, and a little child, with all\na child s want of sympathetic imagination, staring with dilated eyes at\na dusty something that lay black and still, ground and crushed under\nthe rolling wheels.  Let us go back!  he shouted, and began turning the\npony round.  We cannot cross this hell,  he said and they went back a\nhundred yards the way they had come, until the fighting crowd was\nhidden. As they passed the bend in the lane my brother saw the face of\nthe dying man in the ditch under the privet, deadly white and drawn,\nand shining with perspiration. The two women sat silent, crouching in\ntheir seat and shivering.\n\nThen beyond the bend my brother stopped again. Miss Elphinstone was\nwhite and pale, and her sister-in-law sat weeping, too wretched even to\ncall upon  George.  My brother was horrified and perplexed. So soon as\nthey had retreated he realised how urgent and unavoidable it was to\nattempt this crossing. He turned to Miss Elphinstone, suddenly\nresolute.\n\n We must go that way,  he said, and led the pony round again.\n\nFor the second time that day this girl proved her quality. To force\ntheir way into the torrent of people, my brother plunged into the\ntraffic and held back a cab horse, while she drove the pony across its\nhead. A waggon locked wheels for a moment and ripped a long splinter\nfrom the chaise. In another moment they were caught and swept forward\nby the stream. My brother, with the cabman s whip marks red across his\nface and hands, scrambled into the chaise and took the reins from her.\n\n Point the revolver at the man behind,  he said, giving it to her,  if\nhe presses us too hard. No! point it at his horse. \n\nThen he began to look out for a chance of edging to the right across\nthe road. But once in the stream he seemed to lose volition, to become\na part of that dusty rout. They swept through Chipping Barnet with the\ntorrent; they were nearly a mile beyond the centre of the town before\nthey had fought across to the opposite side of the way. It was din and\nconfusion indescribable; but in and beyond the town the road forks\nrepeatedly, and this to some extent relieved the stress.\n\nThey struck eastward through Hadley, and there on either side of the\nroad, and at another place farther on they came upon a great multitude\nof people drinking at the stream, some fighting to come at the water.\nAnd farther on, from a lull near East Barnet, they saw two trains\nrunning slowly one after the other without signal or order trains\nswarming with people, with men even among the coals behind the\nengines going northward along the Great Northern Railway. My brother\nsupposes they must have filled outside London, for at that time the\nfurious terror of the people had rendered the central termini\nimpossible.\n\nNear this place they halted for the rest of the afternoon, for the\nviolence of the day had already utterly exhausted all three of them.\nThey began to suffer the beginnings of hunger; the night was cold, and\nnone of them dared to sleep. And in the evening many people came\nhurrying along the road nearby their stopping place, fleeing from\nunknown dangers before them, and going in the direction from which my\nbrother had come.\n\n\n\n\nXVII.\nTHE  THUNDER CHILD .\n\n\nHad the Martians aimed only at destruction, they might on Monday have\nannihilated the entire population of London, as it spread itself slowly\nthrough the home counties. Not only along the road through Barnet, but\nalso through Edgware and Waltham Abbey, and along the roads eastward to\nSouthend and Shoeburyness, and south of the Thames to Deal and\nBroadstairs, poured the same frantic rout. If one could have hung that\nJune morning in a balloon in the blazing blue above London every\nnorthward and eastward road running out of the tangled maze of streets\nwould have seemed stippled black with the streaming fugitives, each dot\na human agony of terror and physical distress. I have set forth at\nlength in the last chapter my brother s account of the road through\nChipping Barnet, in order that my readers may realise how that swarming\nof black dots appeared to one of those concerned. Never before in the\nhistory of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered\ntogether. The legendary hosts of Goths and Huns, the hugest armies Asia\nhas ever seen, would have been but a drop in that current. And this was\nno disciplined march; it was a stampede a stampede gigantic and\nterrible without order and without a goal, six million people unarmed\nand unprovisioned, driving headlong. It was the beginning of the rout\nof civilisation, of the massacre of mankind.\n\nDirectly below him the balloonist would have seen the network of\nstreets far and wide, houses, churches, squares, crescents,\ngardens already derelict spread out like a huge map, and in the\nsouthward _blotted_. Over Ealing, Richmond, Wimbledon, it would have\nseemed as if some monstrous pen had flung ink upon the chart. Steadily,\nincessantly, each black splash grew and spread, shooting out\nramifications this way and that, now banking itself against rising\nground, now pouring swiftly over a crest into a new-found valley,\nexactly as a gout of ink would spread itself upon blotting paper.\n\nAnd beyond, over the blue hills that rise southward of the river, the\nglittering Martians went to and fro, calmly and methodically spreading\ntheir poison cloud over this patch of country and then over that,\nlaying it again with their steam jets when it had served its purpose,\nand taking possession of the conquered country. They do not seem to\nhave aimed at extermination so much as at complete demoralisation and\nthe destruction of any opposition. They exploded any stores of powder\nthey came upon, cut every telegraph, and wrecked the railways here and\nthere. They were hamstringing mankind. They seemed in no hurry to\nextend the field of their operations, and did not come beyond the\ncentral part of London all that day. It is possible that a very\nconsiderable number of people in London stuck to their houses through\nMonday morning. Certain it is that many died at home suffocated by the\nBlack Smoke.\n\nUntil about midday the Pool of London was an astonishing scene.\nSteamboats and shipping of all sorts lay there, tempted by the enormous\nsums of money offered by fugitives, and it is said that many who swam\nout to these vessels were thrust off with boathooks and drowned. About\none o clock in the afternoon the thinning remnant of a cloud of the\nblack vapour appeared between the arches of Blackfriars Bridge. At that\nthe Pool became a scene of mad confusion, fighting, and collision, and\nfor some time a multitude of boats and barges jammed in the northern\narch of the Tower Bridge, and the sailors and lightermen had to fight\nsavagely against the people who swarmed upon them from the riverfront.\nPeople were actually clambering down the piers of the bridge from\nabove.\n\nWhen, an hour later, a Martian appeared beyond the Clock Tower and\nwaded down the river, nothing but wreckage floated above Limehouse.\n\nOf the falling of the fifth cylinder I have presently to tell. The\nsixth star fell at Wimbledon. My brother, keeping watch beside the\nwomen in the chaise in a meadow, saw the green flash of it far beyond\nthe hills. On Tuesday the little party, still set upon getting across\nthe sea, made its way through the swarming country towards Colchester.\nThe news that the Martians were now in possession of the whole of\nLondon was confirmed. They had been seen at Highgate, and even, it was\nsaid, at Neasden. But they did not come into my brother s view until\nthe morrow.\n\nThat day the scattered multitudes began to realise the urgent need of\nprovisions. As they grew hungry the rights of property ceased to be\nregarded. Farmers were out to defend their cattle-sheds, granaries, and\nripening root crops with arms in their hands. A number of people now,\nlike my brother, had their faces eastward, and there were some\ndesperate souls even going back towards London to get food. These were\nchiefly people from the northern suburbs, whose knowledge of the Black\nSmoke came by hearsay. He heard that about half the members of the\ngovernment had gathered at Birmingham, and that enormous quantities of\nhigh explosives were being prepared to be used in automatic mines\nacross the Midland counties.\n\nHe was also told that the Midland Railway Company had replaced the\ndesertions of the first day s panic, had resumed traffic, and was\nrunning northward trains from St. Albans to relieve the congestion of\nthe home counties. There was also a placard in Chipping Ongar\nannouncing that large stores of flour were available in the northern\ntowns and that within twenty-four hours bread would be distributed\namong the starving people in the neighbourhood. But this intelligence\ndid not deter him from the plan of escape he had formed, and the three\npressed eastward all day, and heard no more of the bread distribution\nthan this promise. Nor, as a matter of fact, did anyone else hear more\nof it. That night fell the seventh star, falling upon Primrose Hill. It\nfell while Miss Elphinstone was watching, for she took that duty\nalternately with my brother. She saw it.\n\nOn Wednesday the three fugitives they had passed the night in a field\nof unripe wheat reached Chelmsford, and there a body of the\ninhabitants, calling itself the Committee of Public Supply, seized the\npony as provisions, and would give nothing in exchange for it but the\npromise of a share in it the next day. Here there were rumours of\nMartians at Epping, and news of the destruction of Waltham Abbey Powder\nMills in a vain attempt to blow up one of the invaders.\n\nPeople were watching for Martians here from the church towers. My\nbrother, very luckily for him as it chanced, preferred to push on at\nonce to the coast rather than wait for food, although all three of them\nwere very hungry. By midday they passed through Tillingham, which,\nstrangely enough, seemed to be quite silent and deserted, save for a\nfew furtive plunderers hunting for food. Near Tillingham they suddenly\ncame in sight of the sea, and the most amazing crowd of shipping of all\nsorts that it is possible to imagine.\n\nFor after the sailors could no longer come up the Thames, they came on\nto the Essex coast, to Harwich and Walton and Clacton, and afterwards\nto Foulness and Shoebury, to bring off the people. They lay in a huge\nsickle-shaped curve that vanished into mist at last towards the Naze.\nClose inshore was a multitude of fishing smacks English, Scotch,\nFrench, Dutch, and Swedish; steam launches from the Thames, yachts,\nelectric boats; and beyond were ships of larger burden, a multitude of\nfilthy colliers, trim merchantmen, cattle ships, passenger boats,\npetroleum tanks, ocean tramps, an old white transport even, neat white\nand grey liners from Southampton and Hamburg; and along the blue coast\nacross the Blackwater my brother could make out dimly a dense swarm of\nboats chaffering with the people on the beach, a swarm which also\nextended up the Blackwater almost to Maldon.\n\nAbout a couple of miles out lay an ironclad, very low in the water,\nalmost, to my brother s perception, like a water-logged ship. This was\nthe ram _Thunder Child_. It was the only warship in sight, but far away\nto the right over the smooth surface of the sea for that day there was\na dead calm lay a serpent of black smoke to mark the next ironclads of\nthe Channel Fleet, which hovered in an extended line, steam up and\nready for action, across the Thames estuary during the course of the\nMartian conquest, vigilant and yet powerless to prevent it.\n\nAt the sight of the sea, Mrs. Elphinstone, in spite of the assurances\nof her sister-in-law, gave way to panic. She had never been out of\nEngland before, she would rather die than trust herself friendless in a\nforeign country, and so forth. She seemed, poor woman, to imagine that\nthe French and the Martians might prove very similar. She had been\ngrowing increasingly hysterical, fearful, and depressed during the two\ndays  journeyings. Her great idea was to return to Stanmore. Things had\nbeen always well and safe at Stanmore. They would find George at\nStanmore....\n\nIt was with the greatest difficulty they could get her down to the\nbeach, where presently my brother succeeded in attracting the attention\nof some men on a paddle steamer from the Thames. They sent a boat and\ndrove a bargain for thirty-six pounds for the three. The steamer was\ngoing, these men said, to Ostend.\n\nIt was about two o clock when my brother, having paid their fares at\nthe gangway, found himself safely aboard the steamboat with his\ncharges. There was food aboard, albeit at exorbitant prices, and the\nthree of them contrived to eat a meal on one of the seats forward.\n\nThere were already a couple of score of passengers aboard, some of whom\nhad expended their last money in securing a passage, but the captain\nlay off the Blackwater until five in the afternoon, picking up\npassengers until the seated decks were even dangerously crowded. He\nwould probably have remained longer had it not been for the sound of\nguns that began about that hour in the south. As if in answer, the\nironclad seaward fired a small gun and hoisted a string of flags. A jet\nof smoke sprang out of her funnels.\n\nSome of the passengers were of opinion that this firing came from\nShoeburyness, until it was noticed that it was growing louder. At the\nsame time, far away in the southeast the masts and upperworks of three\nironclads rose one after the other out of the sea, beneath clouds of\nblack smoke. But my brother s attention speedily reverted to the\ndistant firing in the south. He fancied he saw a column of smoke rising\nout of the distant grey haze.\n\nThe little steamer was already flapping her way eastward of the big\ncrescent of shipping, and the low Essex coast was growing blue and\nhazy, when a Martian appeared, small and faint in the remote distance,\nadvancing along the muddy coast from the direction of Foulness. At that\nthe captain on the bridge swore at the top of his voice with fear and\nanger at his own delay, and the paddles seemed infected with his\nterror. Every soul aboard stood at the bulwarks or on the seats of the\nsteamer and stared at that distant shape, higher than the trees or\nchurch towers inland, and advancing with a leisurely parody of a human\nstride.\n\nIt was the first Martian my brother had seen, and he stood, more amazed\nthan terrified, watching this Titan advancing deliberately towards the\nshipping, wading farther and farther into the water as the coast fell\naway. Then, far away beyond the Crouch, came another, striding over\nsome stunted trees, and then yet another, still farther off, wading\ndeeply through a shiny mudflat that seemed to hang halfway up between\nsea and sky. They were all stalking seaward, as if to intercept the\nescape of the multitudinous vessels that were crowded between Foulness\nand the Naze. In spite of the throbbing exertions of the engines of the\nlittle paddle-boat, and the pouring foam that her wheels flung behind\nher, she receded with terrifying slowness from this ominous advance.\n\nGlancing northwestward, my brother saw the large crescent of shipping\nalready writhing with the approaching terror; one ship passing behind\nanother, another coming round from broadside to end on, steamships\nwhistling and giving off volumes of steam, sails being let out,\nlaunches rushing hither and thither. He was so fascinated by this and\nby the creeping danger away to the left that he had no eyes for\nanything seaward. And then a swift movement of the steamboat (she had\nsuddenly come round to avoid being run down) flung him headlong from\nthe seat upon which he was standing. There was a shouting all about\nhim, a trampling of feet, and a cheer that seemed to be answered\nfaintly. The steamboat lurched and rolled him over upon his hands.\n\nHe sprang to his feet and saw to starboard, and not a hundred yards\nfrom their heeling, pitching boat, a vast iron bulk like the blade of a\nplough tearing through the water, tossing it on either side in huge\nwaves of foam that leaped towards the steamer, flinging her paddles\nhelplessly in the air, and then sucking her deck down almost to the\nwaterline.\n\nA douche of spray blinded my brother for a moment. When his eyes were\nclear again he saw the monster had passed and was rushing landward. Big\niron upperworks rose out of this headlong structure, and from that twin\nfunnels projected and spat a smoking blast shot with fire. It was the\ntorpedo ram, _Thunder Child_, steaming headlong, coming to the rescue\nof the threatened shipping.\n\nKeeping his footing on the heaving deck by clutching the bulwarks, my\nbrother looked past this charging leviathan at the Martians again, and\nhe saw the three of them now close together, and standing so far out to\nsea that their tripod supports were almost entirely submerged. Thus\nsunken, and seen in remote perspective, they appeared far less\nformidable than the huge iron bulk in whose wake the steamer was\npitching so helplessly. It would seem they were regarding this new\nantagonist with astonishment. To their intelligence, it may be, the\ngiant was even such another as themselves. The _Thunder Child_ fired no\ngun, but simply drove full speed towards them. It was probably her not\nfiring that enabled her to get so near the enemy as she did. They did\nnot know what to make of her. One shell, and they would have sent her\nto the bottom forthwith with the Heat-Ray.\n\nShe was steaming at such a pace that in a minute she seemed halfway\nbetween the steamboat and the Martians a diminishing black bulk against\nthe receding horizontal expanse of the Essex coast.\n\nSuddenly the foremost Martian lowered his tube and discharged a\ncanister of the black gas at the ironclad. It hit her larboard side and\nglanced off in an inky jet that rolled away to seaward, an unfolding\ntorrent of Black Smoke, from which the ironclad drove clear. To the\nwatchers from the steamer, low in the water and with the sun in their\neyes, it seemed as though she were already among the Martians.\n\nThey saw the gaunt figures separating and rising out of the water as\nthey retreated shoreward, and one of them raised the camera-like\ngenerator of the Heat-Ray. He held it pointing obliquely downward, and\na bank of steam sprang from the water at its touch. It must have driven\nthrough the iron of the ship s side like a white-hot iron rod through\npaper.\n\nA flicker of flame went up through the rising steam, and then the\nMartian reeled and staggered. In another moment he was cut down, and a\ngreat body of water and steam shot high in the air. The guns of the\n_Thunder Child_ sounded through the reek, going off one after the\nother, and one shot splashed the water high close by the steamer,\nricocheted towards the other flying ships to the north, and smashed a\nsmack to matchwood.\n\nBut no one heeded that very much. At the sight of the Martian s\ncollapse the captain on the bridge yelled inarticulately, and all the\ncrowding passengers on the steamer s stern shouted together. And then\nthey yelled again. For, surging out beyond the white tumult, drove\nsomething long and black, the flames streaming from its middle parts,\nits ventilators and funnels spouting fire.\n\nShe was alive still; the steering gear, it seems, was intact and her\nengines working. She headed straight for a second Martian, and was\nwithin a hundred yards of him when the Heat-Ray came to bear. Then with\na violent thud, a blinding flash, her decks, her funnels, leaped\nupward. The Martian staggered with the violence of her explosion, and\nin another moment the flaming wreckage, still driving forward with the\nimpetus of its pace, had struck him and crumpled him up like a thing of\ncardboard. My brother shouted involuntarily. A boiling tumult of steam\nhid everything again.\n\n Two!  yelled the captain.\n\nEveryone was shouting. The whole steamer from end to end rang with\nfrantic cheering that was taken up first by one and then by all in the\ncrowding multitude of ships and boats that was driving out to sea.\n\nThe steam hung upon the water for many minutes, hiding the third\nMartian and the coast altogether. And all this time the boat was\npaddling steadily out to sea and away from the fight; and when at last\nthe confusion cleared, the drifting bank of black vapour intervened,\nand nothing of the _Thunder Child_ could be made out, nor could the\nthird Martian be seen. But the ironclads to seaward were now quite\nclose and standing in towards shore past the steamboat.\n\nThe little vessel continued to beat its way seaward, and the ironclads\nreceded slowly towards the coast, which was hidden still by a marbled\nbank of vapour, part steam, part black gas, eddying and combining in\nthe strangest way. The fleet of refugees was scattering to the\nnortheast; several smacks were sailing between the ironclads and the\nsteamboat. After a time, and before they reached the sinking cloud\nbank, the warships turned northward, and then abruptly went about and\npassed into the thickening haze of evening southward. The coast grew\nfaint, and at last indistinguishable amid the low banks of clouds that\nwere gathering about the sinking sun.\n\nThen suddenly out of the golden haze of the sunset came the vibration\nof guns, and a form of black shadows moving. Everyone struggled to the\nrail of the steamer and peered into the blinding furnace of the west,\nbut nothing was to be distinguished clearly. A mass of smoke rose\nslanting and barred the face of the sun. The steamboat throbbed on its\nway through an interminable suspense.\n\nThe sun sank into grey clouds, the sky flushed and darkened, the\nevening star trembled into sight. It was deep twilight when the captain\ncried out and pointed. My brother strained his eyes. Something rushed\nup into the sky out of the greyness rushed slantingly upward and very\nswiftly into the luminous clearness above the clouds in the western\nsky; something flat and broad, and very large, that swept round in a\nvast curve, grew smaller, sank slowly, and vanished again into the grey\nmystery of the night. And as it flew it rained down darkness upon the\nland.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK TWO\nTHE EARTH UNDER THE MARTIANS.\n\n\n\n\nI.\nUNDER FOOT.\n\n\nIn the first book I have wandered so much from my own adventures to\ntell of the experiences of my brother that all through the last two\nchapters I and the curate have been lurking in the empty house at\nHalliford whither we fled to escape the Black Smoke. There I will\nresume. We stopped there all Sunday night and all the next day the day\nof the panic in a little island of daylight, cut off by the Black Smoke\nfrom the rest of the world. We could do nothing but wait in aching\ninactivity during those two weary days.\n\nMy mind was occupied by anxiety for my wife. I figured her at\nLeatherhead, terrified, in danger, mourning me already as a dead man. I\npaced the rooms and cried aloud when I thought of how I was cut off\nfrom her, of all that might happen to her in my absence. My cousin I\nknew was brave enough for any emergency, but he was not the sort of man\nto realise danger quickly, to rise promptly. What was needed now was\nnot bravery, but circumspection. My only consolation was to believe\nthat the Martians were moving Londonward and away from her. Such vague\nanxieties keep the mind sensitive and painful. I grew very weary and\nirritable with the curate s perpetual ejaculations; I tired of the\nsight of his selfish despair. After some ineffectual remonstrance I\nkept away from him, staying in a room evidently a children s\nschoolroom containing globes, forms, and copybooks. When he followed me\nthither, I went to a box room at the top of the house and, in order to\nbe alone with my aching miseries, locked myself in.\n\nWe were hopelessly hemmed in by the Black Smoke all that day and the\nmorning of the next. There were signs of people in the next house on\nSunday evening a face at a window and moving lights, and later the\nslamming of a door. But I do not know who these people were, nor what\nbecame of them. We saw nothing of them next day. The Black Smoke\ndrifted slowly riverward all through Monday morning, creeping nearer\nand nearer to us, driving at last along the roadway outside the house\nthat hid us.\n\nA Martian came across the fields about midday, laying the stuff with a\njet of superheated steam that hissed against the walls, smashed all the\nwindows it touched, and scalded the curate s hand as he fled out of the\nfront room. When at last we crept across the sodden rooms and looked\nout again, the country northward was as though a black snowstorm had\npassed over it. Looking towards the river, we were astonished to see an\nunaccountable redness mingling with the black of the scorched meadows.\n\nFor a time we did not see how this change affected our position, save\nthat we were relieved of our fear of the Black Smoke. But later I\nperceived that we were no longer hemmed in, that now we might get away.\nSo soon as I realised that the way of escape was open, my dream of\naction returned. But the curate was lethargic, unreasonable.\n\n We are safe here,  he repeated;  safe here. \n\nI resolved to leave him would that I had! Wiser now for the\nartilleryman s teaching, I sought out food and drink. I had found oil\nand rags for my burns, and I also took a hat and a flannel shirt that I\nfound in one of the bedrooms. When it was clear to him that I meant to\ngo alone had reconciled myself to going alone he suddenly roused\nhimself to come. And all being quiet throughout the afternoon, we\nstarted about five o clock, as I should judge, along the blackened road\nto Sunbury.\n\nIn Sunbury, and at intervals along the road, were dead bodies lying in\ncontorted attitudes, horses as well as men, overturned carts and\nluggage, all covered thickly with black dust. That pall of cindery\npowder made me think of what I had read of the destruction of Pompeii.\nWe got to Hampton Court without misadventure, our minds full of strange\nand unfamiliar appearances, and at Hampton Court our eyes were relieved\nto find a patch of green that had escaped the suffocating drift. We\nwent through Bushey Park, with its deer going to and fro under the\nchestnuts, and some men and women hurrying in the distance towards\nHampton, and so we came to Twickenham. These were the first people we\nsaw.\n\nAway across the road the woods beyond Ham and Petersham were still\nafire. Twickenham was uninjured by either Heat-Ray or Black Smoke, and\nthere were more people about here, though none could give us news. For\nthe most part they were like ourselves, taking advantage of a lull to\nshift their quarters. I have an impression that many of the houses here\nwere still occupied by scared inhabitants, too frightened even for\nflight. Here too the evidence of a hasty rout was abundant along the\nroad. I remember most vividly three smashed bicycles in a heap, pounded\ninto the road by the wheels of subsequent carts. We crossed Richmond\nBridge about half past eight. We hurried across the exposed bridge, of\ncourse, but I noticed floating down the stream a number of red masses,\nsome many feet across. I did not know what these were there was no time\nfor scrutiny and I put a more horrible interpretation on them than they\ndeserved. Here again on the Surrey side were black dust that had once\nbeen smoke, and dead bodies a heap near the approach to the station;\nbut we had no glimpse of the Martians until we were some way towards\nBarnes.\n\nWe saw in the blackened distance a group of three people running down a\nside street towards the river, but otherwise it seemed deserted. Up the\nhill Richmond town was burning briskly; outside the town of Richmond\nthere was no trace of the Black Smoke.\n\nThen suddenly, as we approached Kew, came a number of people running,\nand the upperworks of a Martian fighting-machine loomed in sight over\nthe housetops, not a hundred yards away from us. We stood aghast at our\ndanger, and had the Martian looked down we must immediately have\nperished. We were so terrified that we dared not go on, but turned\naside and hid in a shed in a garden. There the curate crouched, weeping\nsilently, and refusing to stir again.\n\nBut my fixed idea of reaching Leatherhead would not let me rest, and in\nthe twilight I ventured out again. I went through a shrubbery, and\nalong a passage beside a big house standing in its own grounds, and so\nemerged upon the road towards Kew. The curate I left in the shed, but\nhe came hurrying after me.\n\nThat second start was the most foolhardy thing I ever did. For it was\nmanifest the Martians were about us. No sooner had the curate overtaken\nme than we saw either the fighting-machine we had seen before or\nanother, far away across the meadows in the direction of Kew Lodge.\nFour or five little black figures hurried before it across the\ngreen-grey of the field, and in a moment it was evident this Martian\npursued them. In three strides he was among them, and they ran\nradiating from his feet in all directions. He used no Heat-Ray to\ndestroy them, but picked them up one by one. Apparently he tossed them\ninto the great metallic carrier which projected behind him, much as a\nworkman s basket hangs over his shoulder.\n\nIt was the first time I realised that the Martians might have any other\npurpose than destruction with defeated humanity. We stood for a moment\npetrified, then turned and fled through a gate behind us into a walled\ngarden, fell into, rather than found, a fortunate ditch, and lay there,\nscarce daring to whisper to each other until the stars were out.\n\nI suppose it was nearly eleven o clock before we gathered courage to\nstart again, no longer venturing into the road, but sneaking along\nhedgerows and through plantations, and watching keenly through the\ndarkness, he on the right and I on the left, for the Martians, who\nseemed to be all about us. In one place we blundered upon a scorched\nand blackened area, now cooling and ashen, and a number of scattered\ndead bodies of men, burned horribly about the heads and trunks but with\ntheir legs and boots mostly intact; and of dead horses, fifty feet,\nperhaps, behind a line of four ripped guns and smashed gun carriages.\n\nSheen, it seemed, had escaped destruction, but the place was silent and\ndeserted. Here we happened on no dead, though the night was too dark\nfor us to see into the side roads of the place. In Sheen my companion\nsuddenly complained of faintness and thirst, and we decided to try one\nof the houses.\n\nThe first house we entered, after a little difficulty with the window,\nwas a small semi-detached villa, and I found nothing eatable left in\nthe place but some mouldy cheese. There was, however, water to drink;\nand I took a hatchet, which promised to be useful in our next\nhouse-breaking.\n\nWe then crossed to a place where the road turns towards Mortlake. Here\nthere stood a white house within a walled garden, and in the pantry of\nthis domicile we found a store of food two loaves of bread in a pan, an\nuncooked steak, and the half of a ham. I give this catalogue so\nprecisely because, as it happened, we were destined to subsist upon\nthis store for the next fortnight. Bottled beer stood under a shelf,\nand there were two bags of haricot beans and some limp lettuces. This\npantry opened into a kind of wash-up kitchen, and in this was firewood;\nthere was also a cupboard, in which we found nearly a dozen of\nburgundy, tinned soups and salmon, and two tins of biscuits.\n\nWe sat in the adjacent kitchen in the dark for we dared not strike a\nlight and ate bread and ham, and drank beer out of the same bottle. The\ncurate, who was still timorous and restless, was now, oddly enough, for\npushing on, and I was urging him to keep up his strength by eating when\nthe thing happened that was to imprison us.\n\n It can t be midnight yet,  I said, and then came a blinding glare of\nvivid green light. Everything in the kitchen leaped out, clearly\nvisible in green and black, and vanished again. And then followed such\na concussion as I have never heard before or since. So close on the\nheels of this as to seem instantaneous came a thud behind me, a clash\nof glass, a crash and rattle of falling masonry all about us, and the\nplaster of the ceiling came down upon us, smashing into a multitude of\nfragments upon our heads. I was knocked headlong across the floor\nagainst the oven handle and stunned. I was insensible for a long time,\nthe curate told me, and when I came to we were in darkness again, and\nhe, with a face wet, as I found afterwards, with blood from a cut\nforehead, was dabbing water over me.\n\nFor some time I could not recollect what had happened. Then things came\nto me slowly. A bruise on my temple asserted itself.\n\n Are you better?  asked the curate in a whisper.\n\nAt last I answered him. I sat up.\n\n Don t move,  he said.  The floor is covered with smashed crockery from\nthe dresser. You can t possibly move without making a noise, and I\nfancy _they_ are outside. \n\nWe both sat quite silent, so that we could scarcely hear each other\nbreathing. Everything seemed deadly still, but once something near us,\nsome plaster or broken brickwork, slid down with a rumbling sound.\nOutside and very near was an intermittent, metallic rattle.\n\n That!  said the curate, when presently it happened again.\n\n Yes,  I said.  But what is it? \n\n A Martian!  said the curate.\n\nI listened again.\n\n It was not like the Heat-Ray,  I said, and for a time I was inclined\nto think one of the great fighting-machines had stumbled against the\nhouse, as I had seen one stumble against the tower of Shepperton\nChurch.\n\nOur situation was so strange and incomprehensible that for three or\nfour hours, until the dawn came, we scarcely moved. And then the light\nfiltered in, not through the window, which remained black, but through\na triangular aperture between a beam and a heap of broken bricks in the\nwall behind us. The interior of the kitchen we now saw greyly for the\nfirst time.\n\nThe window had been burst in by a mass of garden mould, which flowed\nover the table upon which we had been sitting and lay about our feet.\nOutside, the soil was banked high against the house. At the top of the\nwindow frame we could see an uprooted drainpipe. The floor was littered\nwith smashed hardware; the end of the kitchen towards the house was\nbroken into, and since the daylight shone in there, it was evident the\ngreater part of the house had collapsed. Contrasting vividly with this\nruin was the neat dresser, stained in the fashion, pale green, and with\na number of copper and tin vessels below it, the wallpaper imitating\nblue and white tiles, and a couple of coloured supplements fluttering\nfrom the walls above the kitchen range.\n\nAs the dawn grew clearer, we saw through the gap in the wall the body\nof a Martian, standing sentinel, I suppose, over the still glowing\ncylinder. At the sight of that we crawled as circumspectly as possible\nout of the twilight of the kitchen into the darkness of the scullery.\n\nAbruptly the right interpretation dawned upon my mind.\n\n The fifth cylinder,  I whispered,  the fifth shot from Mars, has\nstruck this house and buried us under the ruins! \n\nFor a time the curate was silent, and then he whispered:\n\n God have mercy upon us! \n\nI heard him presently whimpering to himself.\n\nSave for that sound we lay quite still in the scullery; I for my part\nscarce dared breathe, and sat with my eyes fixed on the faint light of\nthe kitchen door. I could just see the curate s face, a dim, oval\nshape, and his collar and cuffs. Outside there began a metallic\nhammering, then a violent hooting, and then again, after a quiet\ninterval, a hissing like the hissing of an engine. These noises, for\nthe most part problematical, continued intermittently, and seemed if\nanything to increase in number as time wore on. Presently a measured\nthudding and a vibration that made everything about us quiver and the\nvessels in the pantry ring and shift, began and continued. Once the\nlight was eclipsed, and the ghostly kitchen doorway became absolutely\ndark. For many hours we must have crouched there, silent and shivering,\nuntil our tired attention failed. . . .\n\nAt last I found myself awake and very hungry. I am inclined to believe\nwe must have spent the greater portion of a day before that awakening.\nMy hunger was at a stride so insistent that it moved me to action. I\ntold the curate I was going to seek food, and felt my way towards the\npantry. He made me no answer, but so soon as I began eating the faint\nnoise I made stirred him up and I heard him crawling after me.\n\n\n\n\nII.\nWHAT WE SAW FROM THE RUINED HOUSE.\n\n\nAfter eating we crept back to the scullery, and there I must have dozed\nagain, for when presently I looked round I was alone. The thudding\nvibration continued with wearisome persistence. I whispered for the\ncurate several times, and at last felt my way to the door of the\nkitchen. It was still daylight, and I perceived him across the room,\nlying against the triangular hole that looked out upon the Martians.\nHis shoulders were hunched, so that his head was hidden from me.\n\nI could hear a number of noises almost like those in an engine shed;\nand the place rocked with that beating thud. Through the aperture in\nthe wall I could see the top of a tree touched with gold and the warm\nblue of a tranquil evening sky. For a minute or so I remained watching\nthe curate, and then I advanced, crouching and stepping with extreme\ncare amid the broken crockery that littered the floor.\n\nI touched the curate s leg, and he started so violently that a mass of\nplaster went sliding down outside and fell with a loud impact. I\ngripped his arm, fearing he might cry out, and for a long time we\ncrouched motionless. Then I turned to see how much of our rampart\nremained. The detachment of the plaster had left a vertical slit open\nin the debris, and by raising myself cautiously across a beam I was\nable to see out of this gap into what had been overnight a quiet\nsuburban roadway. Vast, indeed, was the change that we beheld.\n\nThe fifth cylinder must have fallen right into the midst of the house\nwe had first visited. The building had vanished, completely smashed,\npulverised, and dispersed by the blow. The cylinder lay now far beneath\nthe original foundations deep in a hole, already vastly larger than the\npit I had looked into at Woking. The earth all round it had splashed\nunder that tremendous impact splashed  is the only word and lay in\nheaped piles that hid the masses of the adjacent houses. It had behaved\nexactly like mud under the violent blow of a hammer. Our house had\ncollapsed backward; the front portion, even on the ground floor, had\nbeen destroyed completely; by a chance the kitchen and scullery had\nescaped, and stood buried now under soil and ruins, closed in by tons\nof earth on every side save towards the cylinder. Over that aspect we\nhung now on the very edge of the great circular pit the Martians were\nengaged in making. The heavy beating sound was evidently just behind\nus, and ever and again a bright green vapour drove up like a veil\nacross our peephole.\n\nThe cylinder was already opened in the centre of the pit, and on the\nfarther edge of the pit, amid the smashed and gravel-heaped shrubbery,\none of the great fighting-machines, deserted by its occupant, stood\nstiff and tall against the evening sky. At first I scarcely noticed the\npit and the cylinder, although it has been convenient to describe them\nfirst, on account of the extraordinary glittering mechanism I saw busy\nin the excavation, and on account of the strange creatures that were\ncrawling slowly and painfully across the heaped mould near it.\n\nThe mechanism it certainly was that held my attention first. It was one\nof those complicated fabrics that have since been called\nhandling-machines, and the study of which has already given such an\nenormous impetus to terrestrial invention. As it dawned upon me first,\nit presented a sort of metallic spider with five jointed, agile legs,\nand with an extraordinary number of jointed levers, bars, and reaching\nand clutching tentacles about its body. Most of its arms were\nretracted, but with three long tentacles it was fishing out a number of\nrods, plates, and bars which lined the covering and apparently\nstrengthened the walls of the cylinder. These, as it extracted them,\nwere lifted out and deposited upon a level surface of earth behind it.\n\nIts motion was so swift, complex, and perfect that at first I did not\nsee it as a machine, in spite of its metallic glitter. The\nfighting-machines were coordinated and animated to an extraordinary\npitch, but nothing to compare with this. People who have never seen\nthese structures, and have only the ill-imagined efforts of artists or\nthe imperfect descriptions of such eye-witnesses as myself to go upon,\nscarcely realise that living quality.\n\nI recall particularly the illustration of one of the first pamphlets to\ngive a consecutive account of the war. The artist had evidently made a\nhasty study of one of the fighting-machines, and there his knowledge\nended. He presented them as tilted, stiff tripods, without either\nflexibility or subtlety, and with an altogether misleading monotony of\neffect. The pamphlet containing these renderings had a considerable\nvogue, and I mention them here simply to warn the reader against the\nimpression they may have created. They were no more like the Martians I\nsaw in action than a Dutch doll is like a human being. To my mind, the\npamphlet would have been much better without them.\n\nAt first, I say, the handling-machine did not impress me as a machine,\nbut as a crablike creature with a glittering integument, the\ncontrolling Martian whose delicate tentacles actuated its movements\nseeming to be simply the equivalent of the crab s cerebral portion. But\nthen I perceived the resemblance of its grey-brown, shiny, leathery\nintegument to that of the other sprawling bodies beyond, and the true\nnature of this dexterous workman dawned upon me. With that realisation\nmy interest shifted to those other creatures, the real Martians.\nAlready I had had a transient impression of these, and the first nausea\nno longer obscured my observation. Moreover, I was concealed and\nmotionless, and under no urgency of action.\n\nThey were, I now saw, the most unearthly creatures it is possible to\nconceive. They were huge round bodies or, rather, heads about four feet\nin diameter, each body having in front of it a face. This face had no\nnostrils indeed, the Martians do not seem to have had any sense of\nsmell, but it had a pair of very large dark-coloured eyes, and just\nbeneath this a kind of fleshy beak. In the back of this head or body I\nscarcely know how to speak of it was the single tight tympanic surface,\nsince known to be anatomically an ear, though it must have been almost\nuseless in our dense air. In a group round the mouth were sixteen\nslender, almost whiplike tentacles, arranged in two bunches of eight\neach. These bunches have since been named rather aptly, by that\ndistinguished anatomist, Professor Howes, the _hands_. Even as I saw\nthese Martians for the first time they seemed to be endeavouring to\nraise themselves on these hands, but of course, with the increased\nweight of terrestrial conditions, this was impossible. There is reason\nto suppose that on Mars they may have progressed upon them with some\nfacility.\n\nThe internal anatomy, I may remark here, as dissection has since shown,\nwas almost equally simple. The greater part of the structure was the\nbrain, sending enormous nerves to the eyes, ear, and tactile tentacles.\nBesides this were the bulky lungs, into which the mouth opened, and the\nheart and its vessels. The pulmonary distress caused by the denser\natmosphere and greater gravitational attraction was only too evident in\nthe convulsive movements of the outer skin.\n\nAnd this was the sum of the Martian organs. Strange as it may seem to a\nhuman being, all the complex apparatus of digestion, which makes up the\nbulk of our bodies, did not exist in the Martians. They were\nheads merely heads. Entrails they had none. They did not eat, much less\ndigest. Instead, they took the fresh, living blood of other creatures,\nand _injected_ it into their own veins. I have myself seen this being\ndone, as I shall mention in its place. But, squeamish as I may seem, I\ncannot bring myself to describe what I could not endure even to\ncontinue watching. Let it suffice to say, blood obtained from a still\nliving animal, in most cases from a human being, was run directly by\nmeans of a little pipette into the recipient canal. . . .\n\nThe bare idea of this is no doubt horribly repulsive to us, but at the\nsame time I think that we should remember how repulsive our carnivorous\nhabits would seem to an intelligent rabbit.\n\nThe physiological advantages of the practice of injection are\nundeniable, if one thinks of the tremendous waste of human time and\nenergy occasioned by eating and the digestive process. Our bodies are\nhalf made up of glands and tubes and organs, occupied in turning\nheterogeneous food into blood. The digestive processes and their\nreaction upon the nervous system sap our strength and colour our minds.\nMen go happy or miserable as they have healthy or unhealthy livers, or\nsound gastric glands. But the Martians were lifted above all these\norganic fluctuations of mood and emotion.\n\nTheir undeniable preference for men as their source of nourishment is\npartly explained by the nature of the remains of the victims they had\nbrought with them as provisions from Mars. These creatures, to judge\nfrom the shrivelled remains that have fallen into human hands, were\nbipeds with flimsy, silicious skeletons (almost like those of the\nsilicious sponges) and feeble musculature, standing about six feet high\nand having round, erect heads, and large eyes in flinty sockets. Two or\nthree of these seem to have been brought in each cylinder, and all were\nkilled before earth was reached. It was just as well for them, for the\nmere attempt to stand upright upon our planet would have broken every\nbone in their bodies.\n\nAnd while I am engaged in this description, I may add in this place\ncertain further details which, although they were not all evident to us\nat the time, will enable the reader who is unacquainted with them to\nform a clearer picture of these offensive creatures.\n\nIn three other points their physiology differed strangely from ours.\nTheir organisms did not sleep, any more than the heart of man sleeps.\nSince they had no extensive muscular mechanism to recuperate, that\nperiodical extinction was unknown to them. They had little or no sense\nof fatigue, it would seem. On earth they could never have moved without\neffort, yet even to the last they kept in action. In twenty-four hours\nthey did twenty-four hours of work, as even on earth is perhaps the\ncase with the ants.\n\nIn the next place, wonderful as it seems in a sexual world, the\nMartians were absolutely without sex, and therefore without any of the\ntumultuous emotions that arise from that difference among men. A young\nMartian, there can now be no dispute, was really born upon earth during\nthe war, and it was found attached to its parent, partially _budded_\noff, just as young lilybulbs bud off, or like the young animals in the\nfresh-water polyp.\n\nIn man, in all the higher terrestrial animals, such a method of\nincrease has disappeared; but even on this earth it was certainly the\nprimitive method. Among the lower animals, up even to those first\ncousins of the vertebrated animals, the Tunicates, the two processes\noccur side by side, but finally the sexual method superseded its\ncompetitor altogether. On Mars, however, just the reverse has\napparently been the case.\n\nIt is worthy of remark that a certain speculative writer of\nquasi-scientific repute, writing long before the Martian invasion, did\nforecast for man a final structure not unlike the actual Martian\ncondition. His prophecy, I remember, appeared in November or December,\n1893, in a long-defunct publication, the _Pall Mall Budget_, and I\nrecall a caricature of it in a pre-Martian periodical called _Punch_.\nHe pointed out writing in a foolish, facetious tone that the perfection\nof mechanical appliances must ultimately supersede limbs; the\nperfection of chemical devices, digestion; that such organs as hair,\nexternal nose, teeth, ears, and chin were no longer essential parts of\nthe human being, and that the tendency of natural selection would lie\nin the direction of their steady diminution through the coming ages.\nThe brain alone remained a cardinal necessity. Only one other part of\nthe body had a strong case for survival, and that was the hand,\n teacher and agent of the brain.  While the rest of the body dwindled,\nthe hands would grow larger.\n\nThere is many a true word written in jest, and here in the Martians we\nhave beyond dispute the actual accomplishment of such a suppression of\nthe animal side of the organism by the intelligence. To me it is quite\ncredible that the Martians may be descended from beings not unlike\nourselves, by a gradual development of brain and hands (the latter\ngiving rise to the two bunches of delicate tentacles at last) at the\nexpense of the rest of the body. Without the body the brain would, of\ncourse, become a mere selfish intelligence, without any of the\nemotional substratum of the human being.\n\nThe last salient point in which the systems of these creatures differed\nfrom ours was in what one might have thought a very trivial particular.\nMicro-organisms, which cause so much disease and pain on earth, have\neither never appeared upon Mars or Martian sanitary science eliminated\nthem ages ago. A hundred diseases, all the fevers and contagions of\nhuman life, consumption, cancers, tumours and such morbidities, never\nenter the scheme of their life. And speaking of the differences between\nthe life on Mars and terrestrial life, I may allude here to the curious\nsuggestions of the red weed.\n\nApparently the vegetable kingdom in Mars, instead of having green for a\ndominant colour, is of a vivid blood-red tint. At any rate, the seeds\nwhich the Martians (intentionally or accidentally) brought with them\ngave rise in all cases to red-coloured growths. Only that known\npopularly as the red weed, however, gained any footing in competition\nwith terrestrial forms. The red creeper was quite a transitory growth,\nand few people have seen it growing. For a time, however, the red weed\ngrew with astonishing vigour and luxuriance. It spread up the sides of\nthe pit by the third or fourth day of our imprisonment, and its\ncactus-like branches formed a carmine fringe to the edges of our\ntriangular window. And afterwards I found it broadcast throughout the\ncountry, and especially wherever there was a stream of water.\n\nThe Martians had what appears to have been an auditory organ, a single\nround drum at the back of the head-body, and eyes with a visual range\nnot very different from ours except that, according to Philips, blue\nand violet were as black to them. It is commonly supposed that they\ncommunicated by sounds and tentacular gesticulations; this is asserted,\nfor instance, in the able but hastily compiled pamphlet (written\nevidently by someone not an eye-witness of Martian actions) to which I\nhave already alluded, and which, so far, has been the chief source of\ninformation concerning them. Now no surviving human being saw so much\nof the Martians in action as I did. I take no credit to myself for an\naccident, but the fact is so. And I assert that I watched them closely\ntime after time, and that I have seen four, five, and (once) six of\nthem sluggishly performing the most elaborately complicated operations\ntogether without either sound or gesture. Their peculiar hooting\ninvariably preceded feeding; it had no modulation, and was, I believe,\nin no sense a signal, but merely the expiration of air preparatory to\nthe suctional operation. I have a certain claim to at least an\nelementary knowledge of psychology, and in this matter I am\nconvinced as firmly as I am convinced of anything that the Martians\ninterchanged thoughts without any physical intermediation. And I have\nbeen convinced of this in spite of strong preconceptions. Before the\nMartian invasion, as an occasional reader here or there may remember, I\nhad written with some little vehemence against the telepathic theory.\n\nThe Martians wore no clothing. Their conceptions of ornament and\ndecorum were necessarily different from ours; and not only were they\nevidently much less sensible of changes of temperature than we are, but\nchanges of pressure do not seem to have affected their health at all\nseriously. Yet though they wore no clothing, it was in the other\nartificial additions to their bodily resources that their great\nsuperiority over man lay. We men, with our bicycles and road-skates,\nour Lilienthal soaring-machines, our guns and sticks and so forth, are\njust in the beginning of the evolution that the Martians have worked\nout. They have become practically mere brains, wearing different bodies\naccording to their needs just as men wear suits of clothes and take a\nbicycle in a hurry or an umbrella in the wet. And of their appliances,\nperhaps nothing is more wonderful to a man than the curious fact that\nwhat is the dominant feature of almost all human devices in mechanism\nis absent the _wheel_ is absent; among all the things they brought to\nearth there is no trace or suggestion of their use of wheels. One would\nhave at least expected it in locomotion. And in this connection it is\ncurious to remark that even on this earth Nature has never hit upon the\nwheel, or has preferred other expedients to its development. And not\nonly did the Martians either not know of (which is incredible), or\nabstain from, the wheel, but in their apparatus singularly little use\nis made of the fixed pivot or relatively fixed pivot, with circular\nmotions thereabout confined to one plane. Almost all the joints of the\nmachinery present a complicated system of sliding parts moving over\nsmall but beautifully curved friction bearings. And while upon this\nmatter of detail, it is remarkable that the long leverages of their\nmachines are in most cases actuated by a sort of sham musculature of\nthe disks in an elastic sheath; these disks become polarised and drawn\nclosely and powerfully together when traversed by a current of\nelectricity. In this way the curious parallelism to animal motions,\nwhich was so striking and disturbing to the human beholder, was\nattained. Such quasi-muscles abounded in the crablike handling-machine\nwhich, on my first peeping out of the slit, I watched unpacking the\ncylinder. It seemed infinitely more alive than the actual Martians\nlying beyond it in the sunset light, panting, stirring ineffectual\ntentacles, and moving feebly after their vast journey across space.\n\nWhile I was still watching their sluggish motions in the sunlight, and\nnoting each strange detail of their form, the curate reminded me of his\npresence by pulling violently at my arm. I turned to a scowling face,\nand silent, eloquent lips. He wanted the slit, which permitted only one\nof us to peep through; and so I had to forego watching them for a time\nwhile he enjoyed that privilege.\n\nWhen I looked again, the busy handling-machine had already put together\nseveral of the pieces of apparatus it had taken out of the cylinder\ninto a shape having an unmistakable likeness to its own; and down on\nthe left a busy little digging mechanism had come into view, emitting\njets of green vapour and working its way round the pit, excavating and\nembanking in a methodical and discriminating manner. This it was which\nhad caused the regular beating noise, and the rhythmic shocks that had\nkept our ruinous refuge quivering. It piped and whistled as it worked.\nSo far as I could see, the thing was without a directing Martian at\nall.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\nTHE DAYS OF IMPRISONMENT.\n\n\nThe arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our peephole\ninto the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the Martian\nmight see down upon us behind our barrier. At a later date we began to\nfeel less in danger of their eyes, for to an eye in the dazzle of the\nsunlight outside our refuge must have been blank blackness, but at\nfirst the slightest suggestion of approach drove us into the scullery\nin heart-throbbing retreat. Yet terrible as was the danger we incurred,\nthe attraction of peeping was for both of us irresistible. And I recall\nnow with a sort of wonder that, in spite of the infinite danger in\nwhich we were between starvation and a still more terrible death, we\ncould yet struggle bitterly for that horrible privilege of sight. We\nwould race across the kitchen in a grotesque way between eagerness and\nthe dread of making a noise, and strike each other, and thrust and\nkick, within a few inches of exposure.\n\nThe fact is that we had absolutely incompatible dispositions and habits\nof thought and action, and our danger and isolation only accentuated\nthe incompatibility. At Halliford I had already come to hate the\ncurate s trick of helpless exclamation, his stupid rigidity of mind.\nHis endless muttering monologue vitiated every effort I made to think\nout a line of action, and drove me at times, thus pent up and\nintensified, almost to the verge of craziness. He was as lacking in\nrestraint as a silly woman. He would weep for hours together, and I\nverily believe that to the very end this spoiled child of life thought\nhis weak tears in some way efficacious. And I would sit in the darkness\nunable to keep my mind off him by reason of his importunities. He ate\nmore than I did, and it was in vain I pointed out that our only chance\nof life was to stop in the house until the Martians had done with their\npit, that in that long patience a time might presently come when we\nshould need food. He ate and drank impulsively in heavy meals at long\nintervals. He slept little.\n\nAs the days wore on, his utter carelessness of any consideration so\nintensified our distress and danger that I had, much as I loathed doing\nit, to resort to threats, and at last to blows. That brought him to\nreason for a time. But he was one of those weak creatures, void of\npride, timorous, an mic, hateful souls, full of shifty cunning, who\nface neither God nor man, who face not even themselves.\n\nIt is disagreeable for me to recall and write these things, but I set\nthem down that my story may lack nothing. Those who have escaped the\ndark and terrible aspects of life will find my brutality, my flash of\nrage in our final tragedy, easy enough to blame; for they know what is\nwrong as well as any, but not what is possible to tortured men. But\nthose who have been under the shadow, who have gone down at last to\nelemental things, will have a wider charity.\n\nAnd while within we fought out our dark, dim contest of whispers,\nsnatched food and drink, and gripping hands and blows, without, in the\npitiless sunlight of that terrible June, was the strange wonder, the\nunfamiliar routine of the Martians in the pit. Let me return to those\nfirst new experiences of mine. After a long time I ventured back to the\npeephole, to find that the new-comers had been reinforced by the\noccupants of no fewer than three of the fighting-machines. These last\nhad brought with them certain fresh appliances that stood in an orderly\nmanner about the cylinder. The second handling-machine was now\ncompleted, and was busied in serving one of the novel contrivances the\nbig machine had brought. This was a body resembling a milk can in its\ngeneral form, above which oscillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from\nwhich a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below.\n\nThe oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one tentacle of the\nhandling-machine. With two spatulate hands the handling-machine was\ndigging out and flinging masses of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle\nabove, while with another arm it periodically opened a door and removed\nrusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of the machine.\nAnother steely tentacle directed the powder from the basin along a\nribbed channel towards some receiver that was hidden from me by the\nmound of bluish dust. From this unseen receiver a little thread of\ngreen smoke rose vertically into the quiet air. As I looked, the\nhandling-machine, with a faint and musical clinking, extended,\ntelescopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment before a mere\nblunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the mound of clay. In\nanother second it had lifted a bar of white aluminium into sight,\nuntarnished as yet, and shining dazzlingly, and deposited it in a\ngrowing stack of bars that stood at the side of the pit. Between sunset\nand starlight this dexterous machine must have made more than a hundred\nsuch bars out of the crude clay, and the mound of bluish dust rose\nsteadily until it topped the side of the pit.\n\nThe contrast between the swift and complex movements of these\ncontrivances and the inert panting clumsiness of their masters was\nacute, and for days I had to tell myself repeatedly that these latter\nwere indeed the living of the two things.\n\nThe curate had possession of the slit when the first men were brought\nto the pit. I was sitting below, huddled up, listening with all my\nears. He made a sudden movement backward, and I, fearful that we were\nobserved, crouched in a spasm of terror. He came sliding down the\nrubbish and crept beside me in the darkness, inarticulate,\ngesticulating, and for a moment I shared his panic. His gesture\nsuggested a resignation of the slit, and after a little while my\ncuriosity gave me courage, and I rose up, stepped across him, and\nclambered up to it. At first I could see no reason for his frantic\nbehaviour. The twilight had now come, the stars were little and faint,\nbut the pit was illuminated by the flickering green fire that came from\nthe aluminium-making. The whole picture was a flickering scheme of\ngreen gleams and shifting rusty black shadows, strangely trying to the\neyes. Over and through it all went the bats, heeding it not at all. The\nsprawling Martians were no longer to be seen, the mound of blue-green\npowder had risen to cover them from sight, and a fighting-machine, with\nits legs contracted, crumpled, and abbreviated, stood across the corner\nof the pit. And then, amid the clangour of the machinery, came a\ndrifting suspicion of human voices, that I entertained at first only to\ndismiss.\n\nI crouched, watching this fighting-machine closely, satisfying myself\nnow for the first time that the hood did indeed contain a Martian. As\nthe green flames lifted I could see the oily gleam of his integument\nand the brightness of his eyes. And suddenly I heard a yell, and saw a\nlong tentacle reaching over the shoulder of the machine to the little\ncage that hunched upon its back. Then something something struggling\nviolently was lifted high against the sky, a black, vague enigma\nagainst the starlight; and as this black object came down again, I saw\nby the green brightness that it was a man. For an instant he was\nclearly visible. He was a stout, ruddy, middle-aged man, well dressed;\nthree days before, he must have been walking the world, a man of\nconsiderable consequence. I could see his staring eyes and gleams of\nlight on his studs and watch chain. He vanished behind the mound, and\nfor a moment there was silence. And then began a shrieking and a\nsustained and cheerful hooting from the Martians.\n\nI slid down the rubbish, struggled to my feet, clapped my hands over my\nears, and bolted into the scullery. The curate, who had been crouching\nsilently with his arms over his head, looked up as I passed, cried out\nquite loudly at my desertion of him, and came running after me.\n\nThat night, as we lurked in the scullery, balanced between our horror\nand the terrible fascination this peeping had, although I felt an\nurgent need of action I tried in vain to conceive some plan of escape;\nbut afterwards, during the second day, I was able to consider our\nposition with great clearness. The curate, I found, was quite incapable\nof discussion; this new and culminating atrocity had robbed him of all\nvestiges of reason or forethought. Practically he had already sunk to\nthe level of an animal. But as the saying goes, I gripped myself with\nboth hands. It grew upon my mind, once I could face the facts, that\nterrible as our position was, there was as yet no justification for\nabsolute despair. Our chief chance lay in the possibility of the\nMartians making the pit nothing more than a temporary encampment. Or\neven if they kept it permanently, they might not consider it necessary\nto guard it, and a chance of escape might be afforded us. I also\nweighed very carefully the possibility of our digging a way out in a\ndirection away from the pit, but the chances of our emerging within\nsight of some sentinel fighting-machine seemed at first too great. And\nI should have had to do all the digging myself. The curate would\ncertainly have failed me.\n\nIt was on the third day, if my memory serves me right, that I saw the\nlad killed. It was the only occasion on which I actually saw the\nMartians feed. After that experience I avoided the hole in the wall for\nthe better part of a day. I went into the scullery, removed the door,\nand spent some hours digging with my hatchet as silently as possible;\nbut when I had made a hole about a couple of feet deep the loose earth\ncollapsed noisily, and I did not dare continue. I lost heart, and lay\ndown on the scullery floor for a long time, having no spirit even to\nmove. And after that I abandoned altogether the idea of escaping by\nexcavation.\n\nIt says much for the impression the Martians had made upon me that at\nfirst I entertained little or no hope of our escape being brought about\nby their overthrow through any human effort. But on the fourth or fifth\nnight I heard a sound like heavy guns.\n\nIt was very late in the night, and the moon was shining brightly. The\nMartians had taken away the excavating-machine, and, save for a\nfighting-machine that stood in the remoter bank of the pit and a\nhandling-machine that was buried out of my sight in a corner of the pit\nimmediately beneath my peephole, the place was deserted by them. Except\nfor the pale glow from the handling-machine and the bars and patches of\nwhite moonlight the pit was in darkness, and, except for the clinking\nof the handling-machine, quite still. That night was a beautiful\nserenity; save for one planet, the moon seemed to have the sky to\nherself. I heard a dog howling, and that familiar sound it was that\nmade me listen. Then I heard quite distinctly a booming exactly like\nthe sound of great guns. Six distinct reports I counted, and after a\nlong interval six again. And that was all.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\nTHE DEATH OF THE CURATE.\n\n\nIt was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I peeped for the last\ntime, and presently found myself alone. Instead of keeping close to me\nand trying to oust me from the slit, the curate had gone back into the\nscullery. I was struck by a sudden thought. I went back quickly and\nquietly into the scullery. In the darkness I heard the curate drinking.\nI snatched in the darkness, and my fingers caught a bottle of burgundy.\n\nFor a few minutes there was a tussle. The bottle struck the floor and\nbroke, and I desisted and rose. We stood panting and threatening each\nother. In the end I planted myself between him and the food, and told\nhim of my determination to begin a discipline. I divided the food in\nthe pantry, into rations to last us ten days. I would not let him eat\nany more that day. In the afternoon he made a feeble effort to get at\nthe food. I had been dozing, but in an instant I was awake. All day and\nall night we sat face to face, I weary but resolute, and he weeping and\ncomplaining of his immediate hunger. It was, I know, a night and a day,\nbut to me it seemed it seems now an interminable length of time.\n\nAnd so our widened incompatibility ended at last in open conflict. For\ntwo vast days we struggled in undertones and wrestling contests. There\nwere times when I beat and kicked him madly, times when I cajoled and\npersuaded him, and once I tried to bribe him with the last bottle of\nburgundy, for there was a rain-water pump from which I could get water.\nBut neither force nor kindness availed; he was indeed beyond reason. He\nwould neither desist from his attacks on the food nor from his noisy\nbabbling to himself. The rudimentary precautions to keep our\nimprisonment endurable he would not observe. Slowly I began to realise\nthe complete overthrow of his intelligence, to perceive that my sole\ncompanion in this close and sickly darkness was a man insane.\n\nFrom certain vague memories I am inclined to think my own mind wandered\nat times. I had strange and hideous dreams whenever I slept. It sounds\nparadoxical, but I am inclined to think that the weakness and insanity\nof the curate warned me, braced me, and kept me a sane man.\n\nOn the eighth day he began to talk aloud instead of whispering, and\nnothing I could do would moderate his speech.\n\n It is just, O God!  he would say, over and over again.  It is just. On\nme and mine be the punishment laid. We have sinned, we have fallen\nshort. There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were trodden in the dust,\nand I held my peace. I preached acceptable folly my God, what\nfolly! when I should have stood up, though I died for it, and called\nupon them to repent repent! . . . Oppressors of the poor and needy . .\n. ! The wine press of God! \n\nThen he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food I withheld from\nhim, praying, begging, weeping, at last threatening. He began to raise\nhis voice I prayed him not to. He perceived a hold on me he threatened\nhe would shout and bring the Martians upon us. For a time that scared\nme; but any concession would have shortened our chance of escape beyond\nestimating. I defied him, although I felt no assurance that he might\nnot do this thing. But that day, at any rate, he did not. He talked\nwith his voice rising slowly, through the greater part of the eighth\nand ninth days threats, entreaties, mingled with a torrent of half-sane\nand always frothy repentance for his vacant sham of God s service, such\nas made me pity him. Then he slept awhile, and began again with renewed\nstrength, so loudly that I must needs make him desist.\n\n Be still!  I implored.\n\nHe rose to his knees, for he had been sitting in the darkness near the\ncopper.\n\n I have been still too long,  he said, in a tone that must have reached\nthe pit,  and now I must bear my witness. Woe unto this unfaithful\ncity! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of the earth by\nreason of the other voices of the trumpet \n\n Shut up!  I said, rising to my feet, and in a terror lest the Martians\nshould hear us.  For God s sake \n\n Nay,  shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, standing likewise\nand extending his arms.  Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me! \n\nIn three strides he was at the door leading into the kitchen.\n\n I must bear my witness! I go! It has already been too long delayed. \n\nI put out my hand and felt the meat chopper hanging to the wall. In a\nflash I was after him. I was fierce with fear. Before he was halfway\nacross the kitchen I had overtaken him. With one last touch of humanity\nI turned the blade back and struck him with the butt. He went headlong\nforward and lay stretched on the ground. I stumbled over him and stood\npanting. He lay still.\n\nSuddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of slipping\nplaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was darkened. I looked\nup and saw the lower surface of a handling-machine coming slowly across\nthe hole. One of its gripping limbs curled amid the debris; another\nlimb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I stood\npetrified, staring. Then I saw through a sort of glass plate near the\nedge of the body the face, as we may call it, and the large dark eyes\nof a Martian, peering, and then a long metallic snake of tentacle came\nfeeling slowly through the hole.\n\nI turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and stopped at the\nscullery door. The tentacle was now some way, two yards or more, in the\nroom, and twisting and turning, with queer sudden movements, this way\nand that. For a while I stood fascinated by that slow, fitful advance.\nThen, with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery. I\ntrembled violently; I could scarcely stand upright. I opened the door\nof the coal cellar, and stood there in the darkness staring at the\nfaintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and listening. Had the Martian\nseen me? What was it doing now?\n\nSomething was moving to and fro there, very quietly; every now and then\nit tapped against the wall, or started on its movements with a faint\nmetallic ringing, like the movements of keys on a split-ring. Then a\nheavy body I knew too well what was dragged across the floor of the\nkitchen towards the opening. Irresistibly attracted, I crept to the\ndoor and peeped into the kitchen. In the triangle of bright outer\nsunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a handling-machine,\nscrutinizing the curate s head. I thought at once that it would infer\nmy presence from the mark of the blow I had given him.\n\nI crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and began to cover\nmyself up as much as I could, and as noiselessly as possible in the\ndarkness, among the firewood and coal therein. Every now and then I\npaused, rigid, to hear if the Martian had thrust its tentacles through\nthe opening again.\n\nThen the faint metallic jingle returned. I traced it slowly feeling\nover the kitchen. Presently I heard it nearer in the scullery, as I\njudged. I thought that its length might be insufficient to reach me. I\nprayed copiously. It passed, scraping faintly across the cellar door.\nAn age of almost intolerable suspense intervened; then I heard it\nfumbling at the latch! It had found the door! The Martians understood\ndoors!\n\nIt worried at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then the door\nopened.\n\nIn the darkness I could just see the thing like an elephant s trunk\nmore than anything else waving towards me and touching and examining\nthe wall, coals, wood and ceiling. It was like a black worm swaying its\nblind head to and fro.\n\nOnce, even, it touched the heel of my boot. I was on the verge of\nscreaming; I bit my hand. For a time the tentacle was silent. I could\nhave fancied it had been withdrawn. Presently, with an abrupt click, it\ngripped something I thought it had me! and seemed to go out of the\ncellar again. For a minute I was not sure. Apparently it had taken a\nlump of coal to examine.\n\nI seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my position, which had\nbecome cramped, and then listened. I whispered passionate prayers for\nsafety.\n\nThen I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping towards me again.\nSlowly, slowly it drew near, scratching against the walls and tapping\nthe furniture.\n\nWhile I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the cellar door\nand closed it. I heard it go into the pantry, and the biscuit-tins\nrattled and a bottle smashed, and then came a heavy bump against the\ncellar door. Then silence that passed into an infinity of suspense.\n\nHad it gone?\n\nAt last I decided that it had.\n\nIt came into the scullery no more; but I lay all the tenth day in the\nclose darkness, buried among coals and firewood, not daring even to\ncrawl out for the drink for which I craved. It was the eleventh day\nbefore I ventured so far from my security.\n\n\n\n\nV.\nTHE STILLNESS.\n\n\nMy first act before I went into the pantry was to fasten the door\nbetween the kitchen and the scullery. But the pantry was empty; every\nscrap of food had gone. Apparently, the Martian had taken it all on the\nprevious day. At that discovery I despaired for the first time. I took\nno food, or no drink either, on the eleventh or the twelfth day.\n\nAt first my mouth and throat were parched, and my strength ebbed\nsensibly. I sat about in the darkness of the scullery, in a state of\ndespondent wretchedness. My mind ran on eating. I thought I had become\ndeaf, for the noises of movement I had been accustomed to hear from the\npit had ceased absolutely. I did not feel strong enough to crawl\nnoiselessly to the peephole, or I would have gone there.\n\nOn the twelfth day my throat was so painful that, taking the chance of\nalarming the Martians, I attacked the creaking rain-water pump that\nstood by the sink, and got a couple of glassfuls of blackened and\ntainted rain water. I was greatly refreshed by this, and emboldened by\nthe fact that no enquiring tentacle followed the noise of my pumping.\n\nDuring these days, in a rambling, inconclusive way, I thought much of\nthe curate and of the manner of his death.\n\nOn the thirteenth day I drank some more water, and dozed and thought\ndisjointedly of eating and of vague impossible plans of escape.\nWhenever I dozed I dreamt of horrible phantasms, of the death of the\ncurate, or of sumptuous dinners; but, asleep or awake, I felt a keen\npain that urged me to drink again and again. The light that came into\nthe scullery was no longer grey, but red. To my disordered imagination\nit seemed the colour of blood.\n\nOn the fourteenth day I went into the kitchen, and I was surprised to\nfind that the fronds of the red weed had grown right across the hole in\nthe wall, turning the half-light of the place into a crimson-coloured\nobscurity.\n\nIt was early on the fifteenth day that I heard a curious, familiar\nsequence of sounds in the kitchen, and, listening, identified it as the\nsnuffing and scratching of a dog. Going into the kitchen, I saw a dog s\nnose peering in through a break among the ruddy fronds. This greatly\nsurprised me. At the scent of me he barked shortly.\n\nI thought if I could induce him to come into the place quietly I should\nbe able, perhaps, to kill and eat him; and in any case, it would be\nadvisable to kill him, lest his actions attracted the attention of the\nMartians.\n\nI crept forward, saying  Good dog!  very softly; but he suddenly\nwithdrew his head and disappeared.\n\nI listened I was not deaf but certainly the pit was still. I heard a\nsound like the flutter of a bird s wings, and a hoarse croaking, but\nthat was all.\n\nFor a long while I lay close to the peephole, but not daring to move\naside the red plants that obscured it. Once or twice I heard a faint\npitter-patter like the feet of the dog going hither and thither on the\nsand far below me, and there were more birdlike sounds, but that was\nall. At length, encouraged by the silence, I looked out.\n\nExcept in the corner, where a multitude of crows hopped and fought over\nthe skeletons of the dead the Martians had consumed, there was not a\nliving thing in the pit.\n\nI stared about me, scarcely believing my eyes. All the machinery had\ngone. Save for the big mound of greyish-blue powder in one corner,\ncertain bars of aluminium in another, the black birds, and the\nskeletons of the killed, the place was merely an empty circular pit in\nthe sand.\n\nSlowly I thrust myself out through the red weed, and stood upon the\nmound of rubble. I could see in any direction save behind me, to the\nnorth, and neither Martians nor sign of Martians were to be seen. The\npit dropped sheerly from my feet, but a little way along the rubbish\nafforded a practicable slope to the summit of the ruins. My chance of\nescape had come. I began to tremble.\n\nI hesitated for some time, and then, in a gust of desperate resolution,\nand with a heart that throbbed violently, I scrambled to the top of the\nmound in which I had been buried so long.\n\nI looked about again. To the northward, too, no Martian was visible.\n\nWhen I had last seen this part of Sheen in the daylight it had been a\nstraggling street of comfortable white and red houses, interspersed\nwith abundant shady trees. Now I stood on a mound of smashed brickwork,\nclay, and gravel, over which spread a multitude of red cactus-shaped\nplants, knee-high, without a solitary terrestrial growth to dispute\ntheir footing. The trees near me were dead and brown, but further a\nnetwork of red thread scaled the still living stems.\n\nThe neighbouring houses had all been wrecked, but none had been burned;\ntheir walls stood, sometimes to the second story, with smashed windows\nand shattered doors. The red weed grew tumultuously in their roofless\nrooms. Below me was the great pit, with the crows struggling for its\nrefuse. A number of other birds hopped about among the ruins. Far away\nI saw a gaunt cat slink crouchingly along a wall, but traces of men\nthere were none.\n\nThe day seemed, by contrast with my recent confinement, dazzlingly\nbright, the sky a glowing blue. A gentle breeze kept the red weed that\ncovered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently swaying. And oh! the\nsweetness of the air!\n\n\n\n\nVI.\nTHE WORK OF FIFTEEN DAYS.\n\n\nFor some time I stood tottering on the mound regardless of my safety.\nWithin that noisome den from which I had emerged I had thought with a\nnarrow intensity only of our immediate security. I had not realised\nwhat had been happening to the world, had not anticipated this\nstartling vision of unfamiliar things. I had expected to see Sheen in\nruins I found about me the landscape, weird and lurid, of another\nplanet.\n\nFor that moment I touched an emotion beyond the common range of men,\nyet one that the poor brutes we dominate know only too well. I felt as\na rabbit might feel returning to his burrow and suddenly confronted by\nthe work of a dozen busy navvies digging the foundations of a house. I\nfelt the first inkling of a thing that presently grew quite clear in my\nmind, that oppressed me for many days, a sense of dethronement, a\npersuasion that I was no longer a master, but an animal among the\nanimals, under the Martian heel. With us it would be as with them, to\nlurk and watch, to run and hide; the fear and empire of man had passed\naway.\n\nBut so soon as this strangeness had been realised it passed, and my\ndominant motive became the hunger of my long and dismal fast. In the\ndirection away from the pit I saw, beyond a red-covered wall, a patch\nof garden ground unburied. This gave me a hint, and I went knee-deep,\nand sometimes neck-deep, in the red weed. The density of the weed gave\nme a reassuring sense of hiding. The wall was some six feet high, and\nwhen I attempted to clamber it I found I could not lift my feet to the\ncrest. So I went along by the side of it, and came to a corner and a\nrockwork that enabled me to get to the top, and tumble into the garden\nI coveted. Here I found some young onions, a couple of gladiolus bulbs,\nand a quantity of immature carrots, all of which I secured, and,\nscrambling over a ruined wall, went on my way through scarlet and\ncrimson trees towards Kew it was like walking through an avenue of\ngigantic blood drops possessed with two ideas: to get more food, and to\nlimp, as soon and as far as my strength permitted, out of this accursed\nunearthly region of the pit.\n\nSome way farther, in a grassy place, was a group of mushrooms which\nalso I devoured, and then I came upon a brown sheet of flowing shallow\nwater, where meadows used to be. These fragments of nourishment served\nonly to whet my hunger. At first I was surprised at this flood in a\nhot, dry summer, but afterwards I discovered that it was caused by the\ntropical exuberance of the red weed. Directly this extraordinary growth\nencountered water it straightway became gigantic and of unparalleled\nfecundity. Its seeds were simply poured down into the water of the Wey\nand Thames, and its swiftly growing and Titanic water fronds speedily\nchoked both those rivers.\n\nAt Putney, as I afterwards saw, the bridge was almost lost in a tangle\nof this weed, and at Richmond, too, the Thames water poured in a broad\nand shallow stream across the meadows of Hampton and Twickenham. As the\nwater spread the weed followed them, until the ruined villas of the\nThames valley were for a time lost in this red swamp, whose margin I\nexplored, and much of the desolation the Martians had caused was\nconcealed.\n\nIn the end the red weed succumbed almost as quickly as it had spread. A\ncankering disease, due, it is believed, to the action of certain\nbacteria, presently seized upon it. Now by the action of natural\nselection, all terrestrial plants have acquired a resisting power\nagainst bacterial diseases they never succumb without a severe\nstruggle, but the red weed rotted like a thing already dead. The fronds\nbecame bleached, and then shrivelled and brittle. They broke off at the\nleast touch, and the waters that had stimulated their early growth\ncarried their last vestiges out to sea.\n\nMy first act on coming to this water was, of course, to slake my\nthirst. I drank a great deal of it and, moved by an impulse, gnawed\nsome fronds of red weed; but they were watery, and had a sickly,\nmetallic taste. I found the water was sufficiently shallow for me to\nwade securely, although the red weed impeded my feet a little; but the\nflood evidently got deeper towards the river, and I turned back to\nMortlake. I managed to make out the road by means of occasional ruins\nof its villas and fences and lamps, and so presently I got out of this\nspate and made my way to the hill going up towards Roehampton and came\nout on Putney Common.\n\nHere the scenery changed from the strange and unfamiliar to the\nwreckage of the familiar: patches of ground exhibited the devastation\nof a cyclone, and in a few score yards I would come upon perfectly\nundisturbed spaces, houses with their blinds trimly drawn and doors\nclosed, as if they had been left for a day by the owners, or as if\ntheir inhabitants slept within. The red weed was less abundant; the\ntall trees along the lane were free from the red creeper. I hunted for\nfood among the trees, finding nothing, and I also raided a couple of\nsilent houses, but they had already been broken into and ransacked. I\nrested for the remainder of the daylight in a shrubbery, being, in my\nenfeebled condition, too fatigued to push on.\n\nAll this time I saw no human beings, and no signs of the Martians. I\nencountered a couple of hungry-looking dogs, but both hurried\ncircuitously away from the advances I made them. Near Roehampton I had\nseen two human skeletons not bodies, but skeletons, picked clean and in\nthe wood by me I found the crushed and scattered bones of several cats\nand rabbits and the skull of a sheep. But though I gnawed parts of\nthese in my mouth, there was nothing to be got from them.\n\nAfter sunset I struggled on along the road towards Putney, where I\nthink the Heat-Ray must have been used for some reason. And in the\ngarden beyond Roehampton I got a quantity of immature potatoes,\nsufficient to stay my hunger. From this garden one looked down upon\nPutney and the river. The aspect of the place in the dusk was\nsingularly desolate: blackened trees, blackened, desolate ruins, and\ndown the hill the sheets of the flooded river, red-tinged with the\nweed. And over all silence. It filled me with indescribable terror to\nthink how swiftly that desolating change had come.\n\nFor a time I believed that mankind had been swept out of existence, and\nthat I stood there alone, the last man left alive. Hard by the top of\nPutney Hill I came upon another skeleton, with the arms dislocated and\nremoved several yards from the rest of the body. As I proceeded I\nbecame more and more convinced that the extermination of mankind was,\nsave for such stragglers as myself, already accomplished in this part\nof the world. The Martians, I thought, had gone on and left the country\ndesolated, seeking food elsewhere. Perhaps even now they were\ndestroying Berlin or Paris, or it might be they had gone northward.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\nTHE MAN ON PUTNEY HILL.\n\n\nI spent that night in the inn that stands at the top of Putney Hill,\nsleeping in a made bed for the first time since my flight to\nLeatherhead. I will not tell the needless trouble I had breaking into\nthat house afterwards I found the front door was on the latch nor how I\nransacked every room for food, until just on the verge of despair, in\nwhat seemed to me to be a servant s bedroom, I found a rat-gnawed crust\nand two tins of pineapple. The place had been already searched and\nemptied. In the bar I afterwards found some biscuits and sandwiches\nthat had been overlooked. The latter I could not eat, they were too\nrotten, but the former not only stayed my hunger, but filled my\npockets. I lit no lamps, fearing some Martian might come beating that\npart of London for food in the night. Before I went to bed I had an\ninterval of restlessness, and prowled from window to window, peering\nout for some sign of these monsters. I slept little. As I lay in bed I\nfound myself thinking consecutively a thing I do not remember to have\ndone since my last argument with the curate. During all the intervening\ntime my mental condition had been a hurrying succession of vague\nemotional states or a sort of stupid receptivity. But in the night my\nbrain, reinforced, I suppose, by the food I had eaten, grew clear\nagain, and I thought.\n\nThree things struggled for possession of my mind: the killing of the\ncurate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and the possible fate of my\nwife. The former gave me no sensation of horror or remorse to recall; I\nsaw it simply as a thing done, a memory infinitely disagreeable but\nquite without the quality of remorse. I saw myself then as I see myself\nnow, driven step by step towards that hasty blow, the creature of a\nsequence of accidents leading inevitably to that. I felt no\ncondemnation; yet the memory, static, unprogressive, haunted me. In the\nsilence of the night, with that sense of the nearness of God that\nsometimes comes into the stillness and the darkness, I stood my trial,\nmy only trial, for that moment of wrath and fear. I retraced every step\nof our conversation from the moment when I had found him crouching\nbeside me, heedless of my thirst, and pointing to the fire and smoke\nthat streamed up from the ruins of Weybridge. We had been incapable of\nco-operation grim chance had taken no heed of that. Had I foreseen, I\nshould have left him at Halliford. But I did not foresee; and crime is\nto foresee and do. And I set this down as I have set all this story\ndown, as it was. There were no witnesses all these things I might have\nconcealed. But I set it down, and the reader must form his judgment as\nhe will.\n\nAnd when, by an effort, I had set aside that picture of a prostrate\nbody, I faced the problem of the Martians and the fate of my wife. For\nthe former I had no data; I could imagine a hundred things, and so,\nunhappily, I could for the latter. And suddenly that night became\nterrible. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring at the dark. I\nfound myself praying that the Heat-Ray might have suddenly and\npainlessly struck her out of being. Since the night of my return from\nLeatherhead I had not prayed. I had uttered prayers, fetish prayers,\nhad prayed as heathens mutter charms when I was in extremity; but now I\nprayed indeed, pleading steadfastly and sanely, face to face with the\ndarkness of God. Strange night! Strangest in this, that so soon as dawn\nhad come, I, who had talked with God, crept out of the house like a rat\nleaving its hiding place a creature scarcely larger, an inferior\nanimal, a thing that for any passing whim of our masters might be\nhunted and killed. Perhaps they also prayed confidently to God. Surely,\nif we have learned nothing else, this war has taught us pity pity for\nthose witless souls that suffer our dominion.\n\nThe morning was bright and fine, and the eastern sky glowed pink, and\nwas fretted with little golden clouds. In the road that runs from the\ntop of Putney Hill to Wimbledon was a number of poor vestiges of the\npanic torrent that must have poured Londonward on the Sunday night\nafter the fighting began. There was a little two-wheeled cart inscribed\nwith the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden, with a smashed\nwheel and an abandoned tin trunk; there was a straw hat trampled into\nthe now hardened mud, and at the top of West Hill a lot of\nblood-stained glass about the overturned water trough. My movements\nwere languid, my plans of the vaguest. I had an idea of going to\nLeatherhead, though I knew that there I had the poorest chance of\nfinding my wife. Certainly, unless death had overtaken them suddenly,\nmy cousins and she would have fled thence; but it seemed to me I might\nfind or learn there whither the Surrey people had fled. I knew I wanted\nto find my wife, that my heart ached for her and the world of men, but\nI had no clear idea how the finding might be done. I was also sharply\naware now of my intense loneliness. From the corner I went, under cover\nof a thicket of trees and bushes, to the edge of Wimbledon Common,\nstretching wide and far.\n\nThat dark expanse was lit in patches by yellow gorse and broom; there\nwas no red weed to be seen, and as I prowled, hesitating, on the verge\nof the open, the sun rose, flooding it all with light and vitality. I\ncame upon a busy swarm of little frogs in a swampy place among the\ntrees. I stopped to look at them, drawing a lesson from their stout\nresolve to live. And presently, turning suddenly, with an odd feeling\nof being watched, I beheld something crouching amid a clump of bushes.\nI stood regarding this. I made a step towards it, and it rose up and\nbecame a man armed with a cutlass. I approached him slowly. He stood\nsilent and motionless, regarding me.\n\nAs I drew nearer I perceived he was dressed in clothes as dusty and\nfilthy as my own; he looked, indeed, as though he had been dragged\nthrough a culvert. Nearer, I distinguished the green slime of ditches\nmixing with the pale drab of dried clay and shiny, coaly patches. His\nblack hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark and dirty and\nsunken, so that at first I did not recognise him. There was a red cut\nacross the lower part of his face.\n\n Stop!  he cried, when I was within ten yards of him, and I stopped.\nHis voice was hoarse.  Where do you come from?  he said.\n\nI thought, surveying him.\n\n I come from Mortlake,  I said.  I was buried near the pit the Martians\nmade about their cylinder. I have worked my way out and escaped. \n\n There is no food about here,  he said.  This is my country. All this\nhill down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the edge of the\ncommon. There is only food for one. Which way are you going? \n\nI answered slowly.\n\n I don t know,  I said.  I have been buried in the ruins of a house\nthirteen or fourteen days. I don t know what has happened. \n\nHe looked at me doubtfully, then started, and looked with a changed\nexpression.\n\n I ve no wish to stop about here,  said I.  I think I shall go to\nLeatherhead, for my wife was there. \n\nHe shot out a pointing finger.\n\n It is you,  said he;  the man from Woking. And you weren t killed at\nWeybridge? \n\nI recognised him at the same moment.\n\n You are the artilleryman who came into my garden. \n\n Good luck!  he said.  We are lucky ones! Fancy _you_!  He put out a\nhand, and I took it.  I crawled up a drain,  he said.  But they didn t\nkill everyone. And after they went away I got off towards Walton across\nthe fields. But  It s not sixteen days altogether and your hair is\ngrey.  He looked over his shoulder suddenly.  Only a rook,  he said.\n One gets to know that birds have shadows these days. This is a bit\nopen. Let us crawl under those bushes and talk. \n\n Have you seen any Martians?  I said.  Since I crawled out \n\n They ve gone away across London,  he said.  I guess they ve got a\nbigger camp there. Of a night, all over there, Hampstead way, the sky\nis alive with their lights. It s like a great city, and in the glare\nyou can just see them moving. By daylight you can t. But nearer I\nhaven t seen them  (he counted on his fingers)  five days. Then I saw\na couple across Hammersmith way carrying something big. And the night\nbefore last he stopped and spoke impressively it was just a matter of\nlights, but it was something up in the air. I believe they ve built a\nflying-machine, and are learning to fly. \n\nI stopped, on hands and knees, for we had come to the bushes.\n\n Fly! \n\n Yes,  he said,  fly. \n\nI went on into a little bower, and sat down.\n\n It is all over with humanity,  I said.  If they can do that they will\nsimply go round the world. \n\nHe nodded.\n\n They will. But  It will relieve things over here a bit. And\nbesides  He looked at me.  Aren t you satisfied it _is_ up with\nhumanity? I am. We re down; we re beat. \n\nI stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this fact a fact\nperfectly obvious so soon as he spoke. I had still held a vague hope;\nrather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeated his words,\n We re beat.  They carried absolute conviction.\n\n It s all over,  he said.  They ve lost _one_ just _one_. And they ve\nmade their footing good and crippled the greatest power in the world.\nThey ve walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was an\naccident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. These green\nstars I ve seen none these five or six days, but I ve no doubt they re\nfalling somewhere every night. Nothing s to be done. We re under! We re\nbeat! \n\nI made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain to devise\nsome countervailing thought.\n\n This isn t a war,  said the artilleryman.  It never was a war, any\nmore than there s war between man and ants. \n\nSuddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.\n\n After the tenth shot they fired no more at least, until the first\ncylinder came. \n\n How do you know?  said the artilleryman. I explained. He thought.\n Something wrong with the gun,  he said.  But what if there is? They ll\nget it right again. And even if there s a delay, how can it alter the\nend? It s just men and ants. There s the ants builds their cities, live\ntheir lives, have wars, revolutions, until the men want them out of the\nway, and then they go out of the way. That s what we are now just ants.\nOnly \n\n Yes,  I said.\n\n We re eatable ants. \n\nWe sat looking at each other.\n\n And what will they do with us?  I said.\n\n That s what I ve been thinking,  he said;  that s what I ve been\nthinking. After Weybridge I went south thinking. I saw what was up.\nMost of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting themselves.\nBut I m not so fond of squealing. I ve been in sight of death once or\ntwice; I m not an ornamental soldier, and at the best and worst,\ndeath it s just death. And it s the man that keeps on thinking comes\nthrough. I saw everyone tracking away south. Says I,  Food won t last\nthis way,  and I turned right back. I went for the Martians like a\nsparrow goes for man. All round he waved a hand to the\nhorizon they re starving in heaps, bolting, treading on each other. .\n. . \n\nHe saw my face, and halted awkwardly.\n\n No doubt lots who had money have gone away to France,  he said. He\nseemed to hesitate whether to apologise, met my eyes, and went on:\n There s food all about here. Canned things in shops; wines, spirits,\nmineral waters; and the water mains and drains are empty. Well, I was\ntelling you what I was thinking.  Here s intelligent things,  I said,\n and it seems they want us for food. First, they ll smash us up ships,\nmachines, guns, cities, all the order and organisation. All that will\ngo. If we were the size of ants we might pull through. But we re not.\nIt s all too bulky to stop. That s the first certainty.  Eh? \n\nI assented.\n\n It is; I ve thought it out. Very well, then next; at present we re\ncaught as we re wanted. A Martian has only to go a few miles to get a\ncrowd on the run. And I saw one, one day, out by Wandsworth, picking\nhouses to pieces and routing among the wreckage. But they won t keep on\ndoing that. So soon as they ve settled all our guns and ships, and\nsmashed our railways, and done all the things they are doing over\nthere, they will begin catching us systematic, picking the best and\nstoring us in cages and things. That s what they will start doing in a\nbit. Lord! They haven t begun on us yet. Don t you see that? \n\n Not begun!  I exclaimed.\n\n Not begun. All that s happened so far is through our not having the\nsense to keep quiet worrying them with guns and such foolery. And\nlosing our heads, and rushing off in crowds to where there wasn t any\nmore safety than where we were. They don t want to bother us yet.\nThey re making their things making all the things they couldn t bring\nwith them, getting things ready for the rest of their people. Very\nlikely that s why the cylinders have stopped for a bit, for fear of\nhitting those who are here. And instead of our rushing about blind, on\nthe howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of busting them up, we ve\ngot to fix ourselves up according to the new state of affairs. That s\nhow I figure it out. It isn t quite according to what a man wants for\nhis species, but it s about what the facts point to. And that s the\nprinciple I acted upon. Cities, nations, civilisation, progress it s\nall over. That game s up. We re beat. \n\n But if that is so, what is there to live for? \n\nThe artilleryman looked at me for a moment.\n\n There won t be any more blessed concerts for a million years or so;\nthere won t be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds at\nrestaurants. If it s amusement you re after, I reckon the game is up.\nIf you ve got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating peas with\na knife or dropping aitches, you d better chuck  em away. They ain t no\nfurther use. \n\n You mean \n\n I mean that men like me are going on living for the sake of the breed.\nI tell you, I m grim set on living. And if I m not mistaken, you ll\nshow what insides _you ve_ got, too, before long. We aren t going to be\nexterminated. And I don t mean to be caught either, and tamed and\nfattened and bred like a thundering ox. Ugh! Fancy those brown\ncreepers! \n\n You don t mean to say \n\n I do. I m going on, under their feet. I ve got it planned; I ve\nthought it out. We men are beat. We don t know enough. We ve got to\nlearn before we ve got a chance. And we ve got to live and keep\nindependent while we learn. See! That s what has to be done. \n\nI stared, astonished, and stirred profoundly by the man s resolution.\n\n Great God!  cried I.  But you are a man indeed!  And suddenly I\ngripped his hand.\n\n Eh!  he said, with his eyes shining.  I ve thought it out, eh? \n\n Go on,  I said.\n\n Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready. I m\ngetting ready. Mind you, it isn t all of us that are made for wild\nbeasts; and that s what it s got to be. That s why I watched you. I had\nmy doubts. You re slender. I didn t know that it was you, you see, or\njust how you d been buried. All these the sort of people that lived in\nthese houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down\n_that_ way they d be no good. They haven t any spirit in them no proud\ndreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn t one or the other Lord!\nWhat is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to\nwork I ve seen hundreds of  em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild\nand shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they d\nget dismissed if they didn t; working at businesses they were afraid to\ntake the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn t\nbe in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the\nback streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because\nthey wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make\nfor safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world.\nLives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on\nSundays fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well,\nthe Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages,\nfattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing\nabout the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they ll come and be\ncaught cheerful. They ll be quite glad after a bit. They ll wonder what\npeople did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar\nloafers, and mashers, and singers I can imagine them. I can imagine\nthem,  he said, with a sort of sombre gratification.  There ll be any\namount of sentiment and religion loose among them. There s hundreds of\nthings I saw with my eyes that I ve only begun to see clearly these\nlast few days. There s lots will take things as they are fat and\nstupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it s all\nwrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things\nare so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the\nweak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always\nmake for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and\nsubmit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you ve seen\nthe same thing. It s energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside\nout. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those\nof a less simple sort will work in a bit of what is it? eroticism. \n\nHe paused.\n\n Very likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; train them\nto do tricks who knows? get sentimental over the pet boy who grew up\nand had to be killed. And some, maybe, they will train to hunt us. \n\n No,  I cried,  that s impossible! No human being \n\n What s the good of going on with such lies?  said the artilleryman.\n There s men who d do it cheerful. What nonsense to pretend there\nisn t! \n\nAnd I succumbed to his conviction.\n\n If they come after me,  he said;  Lord, if they come after me!  and\nsubsided into a grim meditation.\n\nI sat contemplating these things. I could find nothing to bring against\nthis man s reasoning. In the days before the invasion no one would have\nquestioned my intellectual superiority to his I, a professed and\nrecognised writer on philosophical themes, and he, a common soldier;\nand yet he had already formulated a situation that I had scarcely\nrealised.\n\n What are you doing?  I said presently.  What plans have you made? \n\nHe hesitated.\n\n Well, it s like this,  he said.  What have we to do? We have to invent\na sort of life where men can live and breed, and be sufficiently secure\nto bring the children up. Yes wait a bit, and I ll make it clearer what\nI think ought to be done. The tame ones will go like all tame beasts;\nin a few generations they ll be big, beautiful, rich-blooded,\nstupid rubbish! The risk is that we who keep wild will go\nsavage degenerate into a sort of big, savage rat. . . . You see, how I\nmean to live is underground. I ve been thinking about the drains. Of\ncourse those who don t know drains think horrible things; but under\nthis London are miles and miles hundreds of miles and a few days rain\nand London empty will leave them sweet and clean. The main drains are\nbig enough and airy enough for anyone. Then there s cellars, vaults,\nstores, from which bolting passages may be made to the drains. And the\nrailway tunnels and subways. Eh? You begin to see? And we form a\nband able-bodied, clean-minded men. We re not going to pick up any\nrubbish that drifts in. Weaklings go out again. \n\n As you meant me to go? \n\n Well I parleyed, didn t I? \n\n We won t quarrel about that. Go on. \n\n Those who stop obey orders. Able-bodied, clean-minded women we want\nalso mothers and teachers. No lackadaisical ladies no blasted rolling\neyes. We can t have any weak or silly. Life is real again, and the\nuseless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die. They ought to die.\nThey ought to be willing to die. It s a sort of disloyalty, after all,\nto live and taint the race. And they can t be happy. Moreover, dying s\nnone so dreadful; it s the funking makes it bad. And in all those\nplaces we shall gather. Our district will be London. And we may even be\nable to keep a watch, and run about in the open when the Martians keep\naway. Play cricket, perhaps. That s how we shall save the race. Eh?\nIt s a possible thing? But saving the race is nothing in itself. As I\nsay, that s only being rats. It s saving our knowledge and adding to it\nis the thing. There men like you come in. There s books, there s\nmodels. We must make great safe places down deep, and get all the books\nwe can; not novels and poetry swipes, but ideas, science books. That s\nwhere men like you come in. We must go to the British Museum and pick\nall those books through. Especially we must keep up our science learn\nmore. We must watch these Martians. Some of us must go as spies. When\nit s all working, perhaps I will. Get caught, I mean. And the great\nthing is, we must leave the Martians alone. We mustn t even steal. If\nwe get in their way, we clear out. We must show them we mean no harm.\nYes, I know. But they re intelligent things, and they won t hunt us\ndown if they have all they want, and think we re just harmless vermin. \n\nThe artilleryman paused and laid a brown hand upon my arm.\n\n After all, it may not be so much we may have to learn before Just\nimagine this: four or five of their fighting machines suddenly starting\noff Heat-Rays right and left, and not a Martian in  em. Not a Martian\nin  em, but men men who have learned the way how. It may be in my time,\neven those men. Fancy having one of them lovely things, with its\nHeat-Ray wide and free! Fancy having it in control! What would it\nmatter if you smashed to smithereens at the end of the run, after a\nbust like that? I reckon the Martians ll open their beautiful eyes!\nCan t you see them, man? Can t you see them hurrying, hurrying puffing\nand blowing and hooting to their other mechanical affairs? Something\nout of gear in every case. And swish, bang, rattle, swish! Just as they\nare fumbling over it, _swish_ comes the Heat-Ray, and, behold! man has\ncome back to his own. \n\nFor a while the imaginative daring of the artilleryman, and the tone of\nassurance and courage he assumed, completely dominated my mind. I\nbelieved unhesitatingly both in his forecast of human destiny and in\nthe practicability of his astonishing scheme, and the reader who thinks\nme susceptible and foolish must contrast his position, reading steadily\nwith all his thoughts about his subject, and mine, crouching fearfully\nin the bushes and listening, distracted by apprehension. We talked in\nthis manner through the early morning time, and later crept out of the\nbushes, and, after scanning the sky for Martians, hurried precipitately\nto the house on Putney Hill where he had made his lair. It was the coal\ncellar of the place, and when I saw the work he had spent a week\nupon it was a burrow scarcely ten yards long, which he designed to\nreach to the main drain on Putney Hill I had my first inkling of the\ngulf between his dreams and his powers. Such a hole I could have dug in\na day. But I believed in him sufficiently to work with him all that\nmorning until past midday at his digging. We had a garden barrow and\nshot the earth we removed against the kitchen range. We refreshed\nourselves with a tin of mock-turtle soup and wine from the neighbouring\npantry. I found a curious relief from the aching strangeness of the\nworld in this steady labour. As we worked, I turned his project over in\nmy mind, and presently objections and doubts began to arise; but I\nworked there all the morning, so glad was I to find myself with a\npurpose again. After working an hour I began to speculate on the\ndistance one had to go before the cloaca was reached, the chances we\nhad of missing it altogether. My immediate trouble was why we should\ndig this long tunnel, when it was possible to get into the drain at\nonce down one of the manholes, and work back to the house. It seemed to\nme, too, that the house was inconveniently chosen, and required a\nneedless length of tunnel. And just as I was beginning to face these\nthings, the artilleryman stopped digging, and looked at me.\n\n We re working well,  he said. He put down his spade.  Let us knock off\na bit  he said.  I think it s time we reconnoitred from the roof of the\nhouse. \n\nI was for going on, and after a little hesitation he resumed his spade;\nand then suddenly I was struck by a thought. I stopped, and so did he\nat once.\n\n Why were you walking about the common,  I said,  instead of being\nhere? \n\n Taking the air,  he said.  I was coming back. It s safer by night. \n\n But the work? \n\n Oh, one can t always work,  he said, and in a flash I saw the man\nplain. He hesitated, holding his spade.  We ought to reconnoitre now, \nhe said,  because if any come near they may hear the spades and drop\nupon us unawares. \n\nI was no longer disposed to object. We went together to the roof and\nstood on a ladder peeping out of the roof door. No Martians were to be\nseen, and we ventured out on the tiles, and slipped down under shelter\nof the parapet.\n\nFrom this position a shrubbery hid the greater portion of Putney, but\nwe could see the river below, a bubbly mass of red weed, and the low\nparts of Lambeth flooded and red. The red creeper swarmed up the trees\nabout the old palace, and their branches stretched gaunt and dead, and\nset with shrivelled leaves, from amid its clusters. It was strange how\nentirely dependent both these things were upon flowing water for their\npropagation. About us neither had gained a footing; laburnums, pink\nmays, snowballs, and trees of arbor-vitae, rose out of laurels and\nhydrangeas, green and brilliant into the sunlight. Beyond Kensington\ndense smoke was rising, and that and a blue haze hid the northward\nhills.\n\nThe artilleryman began to tell me of the sort of people who still\nremained in London.\n\n One night last week,  he said,  some fools got the electric light in\norder, and there was all Regent Street and the Circus ablaze, crowded\nwith painted and ragged drunkards, men and women, dancing and shouting\ntill dawn. A man who was there told me. And as the day came they became\naware of a fighting-machine standing near by the Langham and looking\ndown at them. Heaven knows how long he had been there. It must have\ngiven some of them a nasty turn. He came down the road towards them,\nand picked up nearly a hundred too drunk or frightened to run away. \n\nGrotesque gleam of a time no history will ever fully describe!\n\nFrom that, in answer to my questions, he came round to his grandiose\nplans again. He grew enthusiastic. He talked so eloquently of the\npossibility of capturing a fighting-machine that I more than half\nbelieved in him again. But now that I was beginning to understand\nsomething of his quality, I could divine the stress he laid on doing\nnothing precipitately. And I noted that now there was no question that\nhe personally was to capture and fight the great machine.\n\nAfter a time we went down to the cellar. Neither of us seemed disposed\nto resume digging, and when he suggested a meal, I was nothing loath.\nHe became suddenly very generous, and when we had eaten he went away\nand returned with some excellent cigars. We lit these, and his optimism\nglowed. He was inclined to regard my coming as a great occasion.\n\n There s some champagne in the cellar,  he said.\n\n We can dig better on this Thames-side burgundy,  said I.\n\n No,  said he;  I am host today. Champagne! Great God! We ve a heavy\nenough task before us! Let us take a rest and gather strength while we\nmay. Look at these blistered hands! \n\nAnd pursuant to this idea of a holiday, he insisted upon playing cards\nafter we had eaten. He taught me euchre, and after dividing London\nbetween us, I taking the northern side and he the southern, we played\nfor parish points. Grotesque and foolish as this will seem to the sober\nreader, it is absolutely true, and what is more remarkable, I found the\ncard game and several others we played extremely interesting.\n\nStrange mind of man! that, with our species upon the edge of\nextermination or appalling degradation, with no clear prospect before\nus but the chance of a horrible death, we could sit following the\nchance of this painted pasteboard, and playing the  joker  with vivid\ndelight. Afterwards he taught me poker, and I beat him at three tough\nchess games. When dark came we decided to take the risk, and lit a\nlamp.\n\nAfter an interminable string of games, we supped, and the artilleryman\nfinished the champagne. We went on smoking the cigars. He was no longer\nthe energetic regenerator of his species I had encountered in the\nmorning. He was still optimistic, but it was a less kinetic, a more\nthoughtful optimism. I remember he wound up with my health, proposed in\na speech of small variety and considerable intermittence. I took a\ncigar, and went upstairs to look at the lights of which he had spoken\nthat blazed so greenly along the Highgate hills.\n\nAt first I stared unintelligently across the London valley. The\nnorthern hills were shrouded in darkness; the fires near Kensington\nglowed redly, and now and then an orange-red tongue of flame flashed up\nand vanished in the deep blue night. All the rest of London was black.\nThen, nearer, I perceived a strange light, a pale, violet-purple\nfluorescent glow, quivering under the night breeze. For a space I could\nnot understand it, and then I knew that it must be the red weed from\nwhich this faint irradiation proceeded. With that realisation my\ndormant sense of wonder, my sense of the proportion of things, awoke\nagain. I glanced from that to Mars, red and clear, glowing high in the\nwest, and then gazed long and earnestly at the darkness of Hampstead\nand Highgate.\n\nI remained a very long time upon the roof, wondering at the grotesque\nchanges of the day. I recalled my mental states from the midnight\nprayer to the foolish card-playing. I had a violent revulsion of\nfeeling. I remember I flung away the cigar with a certain wasteful\nsymbolism. My folly came to me with glaring exaggeration. I seemed a\ntraitor to my wife and to my kind; I was filled with remorse. I\nresolved to leave this strange undisciplined dreamer of great things to\nhis drink and gluttony, and to go on into London. There, it seemed to\nme, I had the best chance of learning what the Martians and my\nfellowmen were doing. I was still upon the roof when the late moon\nrose.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\nDEAD LONDON.\n\n\nAfter I had parted from the artilleryman, I went down the hill, and by\nthe High Street across the bridge to Fulham. The red weed was\ntumultuous at that time, and nearly choked the bridge roadway; but its\nfronds were already whitened in patches by the spreading disease that\npresently removed it so swiftly.\n\nAt the corner of the lane that runs to Putney Bridge station I found a\nman lying. He was as black as a sweep with the black dust, alive, but\nhelplessly and speechlessly drunk. I could get nothing from him but\ncurses and furious lunges at my head. I think I should have stayed by\nhim but for the brutal expression of his face.\n\nThere was black dust along the roadway from the bridge onwards, and it\ngrew thicker in Fulham. The streets were horribly quiet. I got\nfood sour, hard, and mouldy, but quite eatable in a baker s shop here.\nSome way towards Walham Green the streets became clear of powder, and I\npassed a white terrace of houses on fire; the noise of the burning was\nan absolute relief. Going on towards Brompton, the streets were quiet\nagain.\n\nHere I came once more upon the black powder in the streets and upon\ndead bodies. I saw altogether about a dozen in the length of the Fulham\nRoad. They had been dead many days, so that I hurried quickly past\nthem. The black powder covered them over, and softened their outlines.\nOne or two had been disturbed by dogs.\n\nWhere there was no black powder, it was curiously like a Sunday in the\nCity, with the closed shops, the houses locked up and the blinds drawn,\nthe desertion, and the stillness. In some places plunderers had been at\nwork, but rarely at other than the provision and wine shops. A\njeweller s window had been broken open in one place, but apparently the\nthief had been disturbed, and a number of gold chains and a watch lay\nscattered on the pavement. I did not trouble to touch them. Farther on\nwas a tattered woman in a heap on a doorstep; the hand that hung over\nher knee was gashed and bled down her rusty brown dress, and a smashed\nmagnum of champagne formed a pool across the pavement. She seemed\nasleep, but she was dead.\n\nThe farther I penetrated into London, the profounder grew the\nstillness. But it was not so much the stillness of death it was the\nstillness of suspense, of expectation. At any time the destruction that\nhad already singed the northwestern borders of the metropolis, and had\nannihilated Ealing and Kilburn, might strike among these houses and\nleave them smoking ruins. It was a city condemned and derelict. . . .\n\nIn South Kensington the streets were clear of dead and of black powder.\nIt was near South Kensington that I first heard the howling. It crept\nalmost imperceptibly upon my senses. It was a sobbing alternation of\ntwo notes,  Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,  keeping on perpetually. When I\npassed streets that ran northward it grew in volume, and houses and\nbuildings seemed to deaden and cut it off again. It came in a full tide\ndown Exhibition Road. I stopped, staring towards Kensington Gardens,\nwondering at this strange, remote wailing. It was as if that mighty\ndesert of houses had found a voice for its fear and solitude.\n\n Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,  wailed that superhuman note great waves of\nsound sweeping down the broad, sunlit roadway, between the tall\nbuildings on each side. I turned northwards, marvelling, towards the\niron gates of Hyde Park. I had half a mind to break into the Natural\nHistory Museum and find my way up to the summits of the towers, in\norder to see across the park. But I decided to keep to the ground,\nwhere quick hiding was possible, and so went on up the Exhibition Road.\nAll the large mansions on each side of the road were empty and still,\nand my footsteps echoed against the sides of the houses. At the top,\nnear the park gate, I came upon a strange sight a bus overturned, and\nthe skeleton of a horse picked clean. I puzzled over this for a time,\nand then went on to the bridge over the Serpentine. The voice grew\nstronger and stronger, though I could see nothing above the housetops\non the north side of the park, save a haze of smoke to the northwest.\n\n Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,  cried the voice, coming, as it seemed to me,\nfrom the district about Regent s Park. The desolating cry worked upon\nmy mind. The mood that had sustained me passed. The wailing took\npossession of me. I found I was intensely weary, footsore, and now\nagain hungry and thirsty.\n\nIt was already past noon. Why was I wandering alone in this city of the\ndead? Why was I alone when all London was lying in state, and in its\nblack shroud? I felt intolerably lonely. My mind ran on old friends\nthat I had forgotten for years. I thought of the poisons in the\nchemists  shops, of the liquors the wine merchants stored; I recalled\nthe two sodden creatures of despair, who so far as I knew, shared the\ncity with myself. . . .\n\nI came into Oxford Street by the Marble Arch, and here again were black\npowder and several bodies, and an evil, ominous smell from the gratings\nof the cellars of some of the houses. I grew very thirsty after the\nheat of my long walk. With infinite trouble I managed to break into a\npublic-house and get food and drink. I was weary after eating, and went\ninto the parlour behind the bar, and slept on a black horsehair sofa I\nfound there.\n\nI awoke to find that dismal howling still in my ears,  Ulla, ulla,\nulla, ulla.  It was now dusk, and after I had routed out some biscuits\nand a cheese in the bar there was a meat safe, but it contained nothing\nbut maggots I wandered on through the silent residential squares to\nBaker Street Portman Square is the only one I can name and so came out\nat last upon Regent s Park. And as I emerged from the top of Baker\nStreet, I saw far away over the trees in the clearness of the sunset\nthe hood of the Martian giant from which this howling proceeded. I was\nnot terrified. I came upon him as if it were a matter of course. I\nwatched him for some time, but he did not move. He appeared to be\nstanding and yelling, for no reason that I could discover.\n\nI tried to formulate a plan of action. That perpetual sound of  Ulla,\nulla, ulla, ulla,  confused my mind. Perhaps I was too tired to be very\nfearful. Certainly I was more curious to know the reason of this\nmonotonous crying than afraid. I turned back away from the park and\nstruck into Park Road, intending to skirt the park, went along under\nthe shelter of the terraces, and got a view of this stationary, howling\nMartian from the direction of St. John s Wood. A couple of hundred\nyards out of Baker Street I heard a yelping chorus, and saw, first a\ndog with a piece of putrescent red meat in his jaws coming headlong\ntowards me, and then a pack of starving mongrels in pursuit of him. He\nmade a wide curve to avoid me, as though he feared I might prove a\nfresh competitor. As the yelping died away down the silent road, the\nwailing sound of  Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,  reasserted itself.\n\nI came upon the wrecked handling-machine halfway to St. John s Wood\nstation. At first I thought a house had fallen across the road. It was\nonly as I clambered among the ruins that I saw, with a start, this\nmechanical Samson lying, with its tentacles bent and smashed and\ntwisted, among the ruins it had made. The forepart was shattered. It\nseemed as if it had driven blindly straight at the house, and had been\noverwhelmed in its overthrow. It seemed to me then that this might have\nhappened by a handling-machine escaping from the guidance of its\nMartian. I could not clamber among the ruins to see it, and the\ntwilight was now so far advanced that the blood with which its seat was\nsmeared, and the gnawed gristle of the Martian that the dogs had left,\nwere invisible to me.\n\nWondering still more at all that I had seen, I pushed on towards\nPrimrose Hill. Far away, through a gap in the trees, I saw a second\nMartian, as motionless as the first, standing in the park towards the\nZoological Gardens, and silent. A little beyond the ruins about the\nsmashed handling-machine I came upon the red weed again, and found the\nRegent s Canal, a spongy mass of dark-red vegetation.\n\nAs I crossed the bridge, the sound of  Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,  ceased.\nIt was, as it were, cut off. The silence came like a thunderclap.\n\nThe dusky houses about me stood faint and tall and dim; the trees\ntowards the park were growing black. All about me the red weed\nclambered among the ruins, writhing to get above me in the dimness.\nNight, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me. But while\nthat voice sounded the solitude, the desolation, had been endurable; by\nvirtue of it London had still seemed alive, and the sense of life about\nme had upheld me. Then suddenly a change, the passing of something I\nknew not what and then a stillness that could be felt. Nothing but this\ngaunt quiet.\n\nLondon about me gazed at me spectrally. The windows in the white houses\nwere like the eye sockets of skulls. About me my imagination found a\nthousand noiseless enemies moving. Terror seized me, a horror of my\ntemerity. In front of me the road became pitchy black as though it was\ntarred, and I saw a contorted shape lying across the pathway. I could\nnot bring myself to go on. I turned down St. John s Wood Road, and ran\nheadlong from this unendurable stillness towards Kilburn. I hid from\nthe night and the silence, until long after midnight, in a cabmen s\nshelter in Harrow Road. But before the dawn my courage returned, and\nwhile the stars were still in the sky I turned once more towards\nRegent s Park. I missed my way among the streets, and presently saw\ndown a long avenue, in the half-light of the early dawn, the curve of\nPrimrose Hill. On the summit, towering up to the fading stars, was a\nthird Martian, erect and motionless like the others.\n\nAn insane resolve possessed me. I would die and end it. And I would\nsave myself even the trouble of killing myself. I marched on recklessly\ntowards this Titan, and then, as I drew nearer and the light grew, I\nsaw that a multitude of black birds was circling and clustering about\nthe hood. At that my heart gave a bound, and I began running along the\nroad.\n\nI hurried through the red weed that choked St. Edmund s Terrace (I\nwaded breast-high across a torrent of water that was rushing down from\nthe waterworks towards the Albert Road), and emerged upon the grass\nbefore the rising of the sun. Great mounds had been heaped about the\ncrest of the hill, making a huge redoubt of it it was the final and\nlargest place the Martians had made and from behind these heaps there\nrose a thin smoke against the sky. Against the sky line an eager dog\nran and disappeared. The thought that had flashed into my mind grew\nreal, grew credible. I felt no fear, only a wild, trembling exultation,\nas I ran up the hill towards the motionless monster. Out of the hood\nhung lank shreds of brown, at which the hungry birds pecked and tore.\n\nIn another moment I had scrambled up the earthen rampart and stood upon\nits crest, and the interior of the redoubt was below me. A mighty space\nit was, with gigantic machines here and there within it, huge mounds of\nmaterial and strange shelter places. And scattered about it, some in\ntheir overturned war-machines, some in the now rigid handling-machines,\nand a dozen of them stark and silent and laid in a row, were the\nMartians _dead_! slain by the putrefactive and disease bacteria against\nwhich their systems were unprepared; slain as the red weed was being\nslain; slain, after all man s devices had failed, by the humblest\nthings that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth.\n\nFor so it had come about, as indeed I and many men might have foreseen\nhad not terror and disaster blinded our minds. These germs of disease\nhave taken toll of humanity since the beginning of things taken toll of\nour prehuman ancestors since life began here. But by virtue of this\nnatural selection of our kind we have developed resisting power; to no\ngerms do we succumb without a struggle, and to many those that cause\nputrefaction in dead matter, for instance our living frames are\naltogether immune. But there are no bacteria in Mars, and directly\nthese invaders arrived, directly they drank and fed, our microscopic\nallies began to work their overthrow. Already when I watched them they\nwere irrevocably doomed, dying and rotting even as they went to and\nfro. It was inevitable. By the toll of a billion deaths man has bought\nhis birthright of the earth, and it is his against all comers; it would\nstill be his were the Martians ten times as mighty as they are. For\nneither do men live nor die in vain.\n\nHere and there they were scattered, nearly fifty altogether, in that\ngreat gulf they had made, overtaken by a death that must have seemed to\nthem as incomprehensible as any death could be. To me also at that time\nthis death was incomprehensible. All I knew was that these things that\nhad been alive and so terrible to men were dead. For a moment I\nbelieved that the destruction of Sennacherib had been repeated, that\nGod had repented, that the Angel of Death had slain them in the night.\n\nI stood staring into the pit, and my heart lightened gloriously, even\nas the rising sun struck the world to fire about me with his rays. The\npit was still in darkness; the mighty engines, so great and wonderful\nin their power and complexity, so unearthly in their tortuous forms,\nrose weird and vague and strange out of the shadows towards the light.\nA multitude of dogs, I could hear, fought over the bodies that lay\ndarkly in the depth of the pit, far below me. Across the pit on its\nfarther lip, flat and vast and strange, lay the great flying-machine\nwith which they had been experimenting upon our denser atmosphere when\ndecay and death arrested them. Death had come not a day too soon. At\nthe sound of a cawing overhead I looked up at the huge fighting-machine\nthat would fight no more for ever, at the tattered red shreds of flesh\nthat dripped down upon the overturned seats on the summit of Primrose\nHill.\n\nI turned and looked down the slope of the hill to where, enhaloed now\nin birds, stood those other two Martians that I had seen overnight,\njust as death had overtaken them. The one had died, even as it had been\ncrying to its companions; perhaps it was the last to die, and its voice\nhad gone on perpetually until the force of its machinery was exhausted.\nThey glittered now, harmless tripod towers of shining metal, in the\nbrightness of the rising sun.\n\nAll about the pit, and saved as by a miracle from everlasting\ndestruction, stretched the great Mother of Cities. Those who have only\nseen London veiled in her sombre robes of smoke can scarcely imagine\nthe naked clearness and beauty of the silent wilderness of houses.\n\nEastward, over the blackened ruins of the Albert Terrace and the\nsplintered spire of the church, the sun blazed dazzling in a clear sky,\nand here and there some facet in the great wilderness of roofs caught\nthe light and glared with a white intensity.\n\nNorthward were Kilburn and Hampsted, blue and crowded with houses;\nwestward the great city was dimmed; and southward, beyond the Martians,\nthe green waves of Regent s Park, the Langham Hotel, the dome of the\nAlbert Hall, the Imperial Institute, and the giant mansions of the\nBrompton Road came out clear and little in the sunrise, the jagged\nruins of Westminster rising hazily beyond. Far away and blue were the\nSurrey hills, and the towers of the Crystal Palace glittered like two\nsilver rods. The dome of St. Paul s was dark against the sunrise, and\ninjured, I saw for the first time, by a huge gaping cavity on its\nwestern side.\n\nAnd as I looked at this wide expanse of houses and factories and\nchurches, silent and abandoned; as I thought of the multitudinous hopes\nand efforts, the innumerable hosts of lives that had gone to build this\nhuman reef, and of the swift and ruthless destruction that had hung\nover it all; when I realised that the shadow had been rolled back, and\nthat men might still live in the streets, and this dear vast dead city\nof mine be once more alive and powerful, I felt a wave of emotion that\nwas near akin to tears.\n\nThe torment was over. Even that day the healing would begin. The\nsurvivors of the people scattered over the country leaderless, lawless,\nfoodless, like sheep without a shepherd the thousands who had fled by\nsea, would begin to return; the pulse of life, growing stronger and\nstronger, would beat again in the empty streets and pour across the\nvacant squares. Whatever destruction was done, the hand of the\ndestroyer was stayed. All the gaunt wrecks, the blackened skeletons of\nhouses that stared so dismally at the sunlit grass of the hill, would\npresently be echoing with the hammers of the restorers and ringing with\nthe tapping of their trowels. At the thought I extended my hands\ntowards the sky and began thanking God. In a year, thought I in a year.\n. . .\n\nWith overwhelming force came the thought of myself, of my wife, and the\nold life of hope and tender helpfulness that had ceased for ever.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\nWRECKAGE.\n\n\nAnd now comes the strangest thing in my story. Yet, perhaps, it is not\naltogether strange. I remember, clearly and coldly and vividly, all\nthat I did that day until the time that I stood weeping and praising\nGod upon the summit of Primrose Hill. And then I forget.\n\nOf the next three days I know nothing. I have learned since that, so\nfar from my being the first discoverer of the Martian overthrow,\nseveral such wanderers as myself had already discovered this on the\nprevious night. One man the first had gone to St. Martin s-le-Grand,\nand, while I sheltered in the cabmen s hut, had contrived to telegraph\nto Paris. Thence the joyful news had flashed all over the world; a\nthousand cities, chilled by ghastly apprehensions, suddenly flashed\ninto frantic illuminations; they knew of it in Dublin, Edinburgh,\nManchester, Birmingham, at the time when I stood upon the verge of the\npit. Already men, weeping with joy, as I have heard, shouting and\nstaying their work to shake hands and shout, were making up trains,\neven as near as Crewe, to descend upon London. The church bells that\nhad ceased a fortnight since suddenly caught the news, until all\nEngland was bell-ringing. Men on cycles, lean-faced, unkempt, scorched\nalong every country lane shouting of unhoped deliverance, shouting to\ngaunt, staring figures of despair. And for the food! Across the\nChannel, across the Irish Sea, across the Atlantic, corn, bread, and\nmeat were tearing to our relief. All the shipping in the world seemed\ngoing Londonward in those days. But of all this I have no memory. I\ndrifted a demented man. I found myself in a house of kindly people, who\nhad found me on the third day wandering, weeping, and raving through\nthe streets of St. John s Wood. They have told me since that I was\nsinging some insane doggerel about  The Last Man Left Alive! Hurrah!\nThe Last Man Left Alive!  Troubled as they were with their own affairs,\nthese people, whose name, much as I would like to express my gratitude\nto them, I may not even give here, nevertheless cumbered themselves\nwith me, sheltered me, and protected me from myself. Apparently they\nhad learned something of my story from me during the days of my lapse.\n\nVery gently, when my mind was assured again, did they break to me what\nthey had learned of the fate of Leatherhead. Two days after I was\nimprisoned it had been destroyed, with every soul in it, by a Martian.\nHe had swept it out of existence, as it seemed, without any\nprovocation, as a boy might crush an ant hill, in the mere wantonness\nof power.\n\nI was a lonely man, and they were very kind to me. I was a lonely man\nand a sad one, and they bore with me. I remained with them four days\nafter my recovery. All that time I felt a vague, a growing craving to\nlook once more on whatever remained of the little life that seemed so\nhappy and bright in my past. It was a mere hopeless desire to feast\nupon my misery. They dissuaded me. They did all they could to divert me\nfrom this morbidity. But at last I could resist the impulse no longer,\nand, promising faithfully to return to them, and parting, as I will\nconfess, from these four-day friends with tears, I went out again into\nthe streets that had lately been so dark and strange and empty.\n\nAlready they were busy with returning people; in places even there were\nshops open, and I saw a drinking fountain running water.\n\nI remember how mockingly bright the day seemed as I went back on my\nmelancholy pilgrimage to the little house at Woking, how busy the\nstreets and vivid the moving life about me. So many people were abroad\neverywhere, busied in a thousand activities, that it seemed incredible\nthat any great proportion of the population could have been slain. But\nthen I noticed how yellow were the skins of the people I met, how\nshaggy the hair of the men, how large and bright their eyes, and that\nevery other man still wore his dirty rags. Their faces seemed all with\none of two expressions a leaping exultation and energy or a grim\nresolution. Save for the expression of the faces, London seemed a city\nof tramps. The vestries were indiscriminately distributing bread sent\nus by the French government. The ribs of the few horses showed\ndismally. Haggard special constables with white badges stood at the\ncorners of every street. I saw little of the mischief wrought by the\nMartians until I reached Wellington Street, and there I saw the red\nweed clambering over the buttresses of Waterloo Bridge.\n\nAt the corner of the bridge, too, I saw one of the common contrasts of\nthat grotesque time a sheet of paper flaunting against a thicket of the\nred weed, transfixed by a stick that kept it in place. It was the\nplacard of the first newspaper to resume publication the _Daily Mail_.\nI bought a copy for a blackened shilling I found in my pocket. Most of\nit was in blank, but the solitary compositor who did the thing had\namused himself by making a grotesque scheme of advertisement stereo on\nthe back page. The matter he printed was emotional; the news\norganisation had not as yet found its way back. I learned nothing fresh\nexcept that already in one week the examination of the Martian\nmechanisms had yielded astonishing results. Among other things, the\narticle assured me what I did not believe at the time, that the  Secret\nof Flying,  was discovered. At Waterloo I found the free trains that\nwere taking people to their homes. The first rush was already over.\nThere were few people in the train, and I was in no mood for casual\nconversation. I got a compartment to myself, and sat with folded arms,\nlooking greyly at the sunlit devastation that flowed past the windows.\nAnd just outside the terminus the train jolted over temporary rails,\nand on either side of the railway the houses were blackened ruins. To\nClapham Junction the face of London was grimy with powder of the Black\nSmoke, in spite of two days of thunderstorms and rain, and at Clapham\nJunction the line had been wrecked again; there were hundreds of\nout-of-work clerks and shopmen working side by side with the customary\nnavvies, and we were jolted over a hasty relaying.\n\nAll down the line from there the aspect of the country was gaunt and\nunfamiliar; Wimbledon particularly had suffered. Walton, by virtue of\nits unburned pine woods, seemed the least hurt of any place along the\nline. The Wandle, the Mole, every little stream, was a heaped mass of\nred weed, in appearance between butcher s meat and pickled cabbage. The\nSurrey pine woods were too dry, however, for the festoons of the red\nclimber. Beyond Wimbledon, within sight of the line, in certain nursery\ngrounds, were the heaped masses of earth about the sixth cylinder. A\nnumber of people were standing about it, and some sappers were busy in\nthe midst of it. Over it flaunted a Union Jack, flapping cheerfully in\nthe morning breeze. The nursery grounds were everywhere crimson with\nthe weed, a wide expanse of livid colour cut with purple shadows, and\nvery painful to the eye. One s gaze went with infinite relief from the\nscorched greys and sullen reds of the foreground to the blue-green\nsoftness of the eastward hills.\n\nThe line on the London side of Woking station was still undergoing\nrepair, so I descended at Byfleet station and took the road to Maybury,\npast the place where I and the artilleryman had talked to the hussars,\nand on by the spot where the Martian had appeared to me in the\nthunderstorm. Here, moved by curiosity, I turned aside to find, among a\ntangle of red fronds, the warped and broken dog cart with the whitened\nbones of the horse scattered and gnawed. For a time I stood regarding\nthese vestiges. . . .\n\nThen I returned through the pine wood, neck-high with red weed here and\nthere, to find the landlord of the Spotted Dog had already found\nburial, and so came home past the College Arms. A man standing at an\nopen cottage door greeted me by name as I passed.\n\nI looked at my house with a quick flash of hope that faded immediately.\nThe door had been forced; it was unfast and was opening slowly as I\napproached.\n\nIt slammed again. The curtains of my study fluttered out of the open\nwindow from which I and the artilleryman had watched the dawn. No one\nhad closed it since. The smashed bushes were just as I had left them\nnearly four weeks ago. I stumbled into the hall, and the house felt\nempty. The stair carpet was ruffled and discoloured where I had\ncrouched, soaked to the skin from the thunderstorm the night of the\ncatastrophe. Our muddy footsteps I saw still went up the stairs.\n\nI followed them to my study, and found lying on my writing-table still,\nwith the selenite paper weight upon it, the sheet of work I had left on\nthe afternoon of the opening of the cylinder. For a space I stood\nreading over my abandoned arguments. It was a paper on the probable\ndevelopment of Moral Ideas with the development of the civilising\nprocess; and the last sentence was the opening of a prophecy:  In about\ntwo hundred years,  I had written,  we may expect  The sentence ended\nabruptly. I remembered my inability to fix my mind that morning,\nscarcely a month gone by, and how I had broken off to get my _Daily\nChronicle_ from the newsboy. I remembered how I went down to the garden\ngate as he came along, and how I had listened to his odd story of  Men\nfrom Mars. \n\nI came down and went into the dining room. There were the mutton and\nthe bread, both far gone now in decay, and a beer bottle overturned,\njust as I and the artilleryman had left them. My home was desolate. I\nperceived the folly of the faint hope I had cherished so long. And then\na strange thing occurred.  It is no use,  said a voice.  The house is\ndeserted. No one has been here these ten days. Do not stay here to\ntorment yourself. No one escaped but you. \n\nI was startled. Had I spoken my thought aloud? I turned, and the French\nwindow was open behind me. I made a step to it, and stood looking out.\n\nAnd there, amazed and afraid, even as I stood amazed and afraid, were\nmy cousin and my wife my wife white and tearless. She gave a faint cry.\n\n I came,  she said.  I knew knew \n\nShe put her hand to her throat swayed. I made a step forward, and\ncaught her in my arms.\n\n\n\n\nX.\nTHE EPILOGUE.\n\n\nI cannot but regret, now that I am concluding my story, how little I am\nable to contribute to the discussion of the many debatable questions\nwhich are still unsettled. In one respect I shall certainly provoke\ncriticism. My particular province is speculative philosophy. My\nknowledge of comparative physiology is confined to a book or two, but\nit seems to me that Carver s suggestions as to the reason of the rapid\ndeath of the Martians is so probable as to be regarded almost as a\nproven conclusion. I have assumed that in the body of my narrative.\n\nAt any rate, in all the bodies of the Martians that were examined after\nthe war, no bacteria except those already known as terrestrial species\nwere found. That they did not bury any of their dead, and the reckless\nslaughter they perpetrated, point also to an entire ignorance of the\nputrefactive process. But probable as this seems, it is by no means a\nproven conclusion.\n\nNeither is the composition of the Black Smoke known, which the Martians\nused with such deadly effect, and the generator of the Heat-Rays\nremains a puzzle. The terrible disasters at the Ealing and South\nKensington laboratories have disinclined analysts for further\ninvestigations upon the latter. Spectrum analysis of the black powder\npoints unmistakably to the presence of an unknown element with a\nbrilliant group of three lines in the green, and it is possible that it\ncombines with argon to form a compound which acts at once with deadly\neffect upon some constituent in the blood. But such unproven\nspeculations will scarcely be of interest to the general reader, to\nwhom this story is addressed. None of the brown scum that drifted down\nthe Thames after the destruction of Shepperton was examined at the\ntime, and now none is forthcoming.\n\nThe results of an anatomical examination of the Martians, so far as the\nprowling dogs had left such an examination possible, I have already\ngiven. But everyone is familiar with the magnificent and almost\ncomplete specimen in spirits at the Natural History Museum, and the\ncountless drawings that have been made from it; and beyond that the\ninterest of their physiology and structure is purely scientific.\n\nA question of graver and universal interest is the possibility of\nanother attack from the Martians. I do not think that nearly enough\nattention is being given to this aspect of the matter. At present the\nplanet Mars is in conjunction, but with every return to opposition I,\nfor one, anticipate a renewal of their adventure. In any case, we\nshould be prepared. It seems to me that it should be possible to define\nthe position of the gun from which the shots are discharged, to keep a\nsustained watch upon this part of the planet, and to anticipate the\narrival of the next attack.\n\nIn that case the cylinder might be destroyed with dynamite or artillery\nbefore it was sufficiently cool for the Martians to emerge, or they\nmight be butchered by means of guns so soon as the screw opened. It\nseems to me that they have lost a vast advantage in the failure of\ntheir first surprise. Possibly they see it in the same light.\n\nLessing has advanced excellent reasons for supposing that the Martians\nhave actually succeeded in effecting a landing on the planet Venus.\nSeven months ago now, Venus and Mars were in alignment with the sun;\nthat is to say, Mars was in opposition from the point of view of an\nobserver on Venus. Subsequently a peculiar luminous and sinuous marking\nappeared on the unillumined half of the inner planet, and almost\nsimultaneously a faint dark mark of a similar sinuous character was\ndetected upon a photograph of the Martian disk. One needs to see the\ndrawings of these appearances in order to appreciate fully their\nremarkable resemblance in character.\n\nAt any rate, whether we expect another invasion or not, our views of\nthe human future must be greatly modified by these events. We have\nlearned now that we cannot regard this planet as being fenced in and a\nsecure abiding place for Man; we can never anticipate the unseen good\nor evil that may come upon us suddenly out of space. It may be that in\nthe larger design of the universe this invasion from Mars is not\nwithout its ultimate benefit for men; it has robbed us of that serene\nconfidence in the future which is the most fruitful source of\ndecadence, the gifts to human science it has brought are enormous, and\nit has done much to promote the conception of the commonweal of\nmankind. It may be that across the immensity of space the Martians have\nwatched the fate of these pioneers of theirs and learned their lesson,\nand that on the planet Venus they have found a securer settlement. Be\nthat as it may, for many years yet there will certainly be no\nrelaxation of the eager scrutiny of the Martian disk, and those fiery\ndarts of the sky, the shooting stars, will bring with them as they fall\nan unavoidable apprehension to all the sons of men.\n\nThe broadening of men s views that has resulted can scarcely be\nexaggerated. Before the cylinder fell there was a general persuasion\nthat through all the deep of space no life existed beyond the petty\nsurface of our minute sphere. Now we see further. If the Martians can\nreach Venus, there is no reason to suppose that the thing is impossible\nfor men, and when the slow cooling of the sun makes this earth\nuninhabitable, as at last it must do, it may be that the thread of life\nthat has begun here will have streamed out and caught our sister planet\nwithin its toils.\n\nDim and wonderful is the vision I have conjured up in my mind of life\nspreading slowly from this little seed bed of the solar system\nthroughout the inanimate vastness of sidereal space. But that is a\nremote dream. It may be, on the other hand, that the destruction of the\nMartians is only a reprieve. To them, and not to us, perhaps, is the\nfuture ordained.\n\nI must confess the stress and danger of the time have left an abiding\nsense of doubt and insecurity in my mind. I sit in my study writing by\nlamplight, and suddenly I see again the healing valley below set with\nwrithing flames, and feel the house behind and about me empty and\ndesolate. I go out into the Byfleet Road, and vehicles pass me, a\nbutcher boy in a cart, a cabful of visitors, a workman on a bicycle,\nchildren going to school, and suddenly they become vague and unreal,\nand I hurry again with the artilleryman through the hot, brooding\nsilence. Of a night I see the black powder darkening the silent\nstreets, and the contorted bodies shrouded in that layer; they rise\nupon me tattered and dog-bitten. They gibber and grow fiercer, paler,\nuglier, mad distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold and\nwretched, in the darkness of the night.\n\nI go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet Street and the\nStrand, and it comes across my mind that they are but the ghosts of the\npast, haunting the streets that I have seen silent and wretched, going\nto and fro, phantasms in a dead city, the mockery of life in a\ngalvanised body. And strange, too, it is to stand on Primrose Hill, as\nI did but a day before writing this last chapter, to see the great\nprovince of houses, dim and blue through the haze of the smoke and\nmist, vanishing at last into the vague lower sky, to see the people\nwalking to and fro among the flower beds on the hill, to see the\nsight-seers about the Martian machine that stands there still, to hear\nthe tumult of playing children, and to recall the time when I saw it\nall bright and clear-cut, hard and silent, under the dawn of that last\ngreat day. . . .\n\nAnd strangest of all is it to hold my wife s hand again, and to think\nthat I have counted her, and that she has counted me, among the dead."
    },
    {
        "title": "When the Sleeper Wakes",
        "author": "H.G. Wells",
        "category": "Science Fiction",
        "EN": "PREFACE\n\n\nThe history of this novel (whose birth in its present shape has been\nmuch retarded by the necessities of periodical publication) is briefly\nas follows. The scheme was jotted down in 1890, from notes made in 1887\nand onward, some of the circumstances being suggested by the death of a\nwoman in the former year. The scenes were revisited in October, 1892;\nthe narrative was written in outline in 1892 and the spring of 1893,\nand at full length, as it now appears, from August, 1893, onward into\nthe next year; the whole, with the exception of a few chapters, being\nin the hands of the publisher by the end of 1894. It was begun as a\nserial story in HARPER S MAGAZINE at the end of November, 1894, and was\ncontinued in monthly parts.\n\nBut, as in the case of _Tess of the D Urbervilles_, the magazine\nversion was, for various reasons, abridged and modified in some degree,\nthe present edition being the first in which the whole appears as\noriginally written. And in the difficulty of coming to an early\ndecision in the matter of a title, the tale was issued under a\nprovisional name two such titles having, in fact, been successively\nadopted. The present and final title, deemed on the whole the best, was\none of the earliest thought of.\n\nFor a novel addressed by a man to men and women of full age, which\nattempts to deal unaffectedly with the fret and fever, derision and\ndisaster, that may press in the wake of the strongest passion known to\nhumanity, and to point, without a mincing of words, the tragedy of\nunfulfilled aims, I am not aware that there is anything in the handling\nto which exception can be taken.\n\nLike former productions of this pen, _Jude the Obscure_ is simply an\nendeavor to give shape and coherence to a series of seemings, or\npersonal impressions, the question of their consistency or their\ndiscordance, of their permanence or their transitoriness, being\nregarded as not of the first moment.\n\nT.H.\n\n\n_August_, 1895.\n\n\n\n\nPart First AT MARYGREEN\n\n\n_ Yea, many there be that have run out of their wits for women, and\nbecome servants for their sakes. Many also have perished, have erred,\nand sinned, for women  O ye men, how can it be but women should be\nstrong, seeing they do thus? _ ESDRAS.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nThe schoolmaster was leaving the village, and everybody seemed sorry.\nThe miller at Cresscombe lent him the small white tilted cart and horse\nto carry his goods to the city of his destination, about twenty miles\noff, such a vehicle proving of quite sufficient size for the departing\nteacher s effects. For the schoolhouse had been partly furnished by the\nmanagers, and the only cumbersome article possessed by the master, in\naddition to the packing-case of books, was a cottage piano that he had\nbought at an auction during the year in which he thought of learning\ninstrumental music. But the enthusiasm having waned he had never\nacquired any skill in playing, and the purchased article had been a\nperpetual trouble to him ever since in moving house.\n\nThe rector had gone away for the day, being a man who disliked the\nsight of changes. He did not mean to return till the evening, when the\nnew school-teacher would have arrived and settled in, and everything\nwould be smooth again.\n\nThe blacksmith, the farm bailiff, and the schoolmaster himself were\nstanding in perplexed attitudes in the parlour before the instrument.\nThe master had remarked that even if he got it into the cart he should\nnot know what to do with it on his arrival at Christminster, the city\nhe was bound for, since he was only going into temporary lodgings just\nat first.\n\nA little boy of eleven, who had been thoughtfully assisting in the\npacking, joined the group of men, and as they rubbed their chins he\nspoke up, blushing at the sound of his own voice:  Aunt have got a\ngreat fuel-house, and it could be put there, perhaps, till you ve found\na place to settle in, sir. \n\n A proper good notion,  said the blacksmith.\n\nIt was decided that a deputation should wait on the boy s aunt an old\nmaiden resident and ask her if she would house the piano till Mr.\nPhillotson should send for it. The smith and the bailiff started to see\nabout the practicability of the suggested shelter, and the boy and the\nschoolmaster were left standing alone.\n\n Sorry I am going, Jude?  asked the latter kindly.\n\nTears rose into the boy s eyes, for he was not among the regular day\nscholars, who came unromantically close to the schoolmaster s life, but\none who had attended the night school only during the present teacher s\nterm of office. The regular scholars, if the truth must be told, stood\nat the present moment afar off, like certain historic disciples,\nindisposed to any enthusiastic volunteering of aid.\n\nThe boy awkwardly opened the book he held in his hand, which Mr.\nPhillotson had bestowed on him as a parting gift, and admitted that he\nwas sorry.\n\n So am I,  said Mr. Phillotson.\n\n Why do you go, sir?  asked the boy.\n\n Ah that would be a long story. You wouldn t understand my reasons,\nJude. You will, perhaps, when you are older. \n\n I think I should now, sir. \n\n Well don t speak of this everywhere. You know what a university is,\nand a university degree? It is the necessary hallmark of a man who\nwants to do anything in teaching. My scheme, or dream, is to be a\nuniversity graduate, and then to be ordained. By going to live at\nChristminster, or near it, I shall be at headquarters, so to speak, and\nif my scheme is practicable at all, I consider that being on the spot\nwill afford me a better chance of carrying it out than I should have\nelsewhere. \n\nThe smith and his companion returned. Old Miss Fawley s fuel-house was\ndry, and eminently practicable; and she seemed willing to give the\ninstrument standing-room there. It was accordingly left in the school\ntill the evening, when more hands would be available for removing it;\nand the schoolmaster gave a final glance round.\n\nThe boy Jude assisted in loading some small articles, and at nine\no clock Mr. Phillotson mounted beside his box of books and other\n_impedimenta_, and bade his friends good-bye.\n\n I shan t forget you, Jude,  he said, smiling, as the cart moved off.\n Be a good boy, remember; and be kind to animals and birds, and read\nall you can. And if ever you come to Christminster remember you hunt me\nout for old acquaintance  sake. \n\nThe cart creaked across the green, and disappeared round the corner by\nthe rectory-house. The boy returned to the draw-well at the edge of the\ngreensward, where he had left his buckets when he went to help his\npatron and teacher in the loading. There was a quiver in his lip now\nand after opening the well-cover to begin lowering the bucket he paused\nand leant with his forehead and arms against the framework, his face\nwearing the fixity of a thoughtful child s who has felt the pricks of\nlife somewhat before his time. The well into which he was looking was\nas ancient as the village itself, and from his present position\nappeared as a long circular perspective ending in a shining disk of\nquivering water at a distance of a hundred feet down. There was a\nlining of green moss near the top, and nearer still the hart s-tongue\nfern.\n\nHe said to himself, in the melodramatic tones of a whimsical boy, that\nthe schoolmaster had drawn at that well scores of times on a morning\nlike this, and would never draw there any more.  I ve seen him look\ndown into it, when he was tired with his drawing, just as I do now, and\nwhen he rested a bit before carrying the buckets home! But he was too\nclever to bide here any longer a small sleepy place like this! \n\nA tear rolled from his eye into the depths of the well. The morning was\na little foggy, and the boy s breathing unfurled itself as a thicker\nfog upon the still and heavy air. His thoughts were interrupted by a\nsudden outcry:\n\n Bring on that water, will ye, you idle young harlican! \n\nIt came from an old woman who had emerged from her door towards the\ngarden gate of a green-thatched cottage not far off. The boy quickly\nwaved a signal of assent, drew the water with what was a great effort\nfor one of his stature, landed and emptied the big bucket into his own\npair of smaller ones, and pausing a moment for breath, started with\nthem across the patch of clammy greensward whereon the well\nstood nearly in the centre of the little village, or rather hamlet of\nMarygreen.\n\nIt was as old-fashioned as it was small, and it rested in the lap of an\nundulating upland adjoining the North Wessex downs. Old as it was,\nhowever, the well-shaft was probably the only relic of the local\nhistory that remained absolutely unchanged. Many of the thatched and\ndormered dwelling-houses had been pulled down of late years, and many\ntrees felled on the green. Above all, the original church, hump-backed,\nwood-turreted, and quaintly hipped, had been taken down, and either\ncracked up into heaps of road-metal in the lane, or utilized as pig-sty\nwalls, garden seats, guard-stones to fences, and rockeries in the\nflower-beds of the neighbourhood. In place of it a tall new building of\nmodern Gothic design, unfamiliar to English eyes, had been erected on a\nnew piece of ground by a certain obliterator of historic records who\nhad run down from London and back in a day. The site whereon so long\nhad stood the ancient temple to the Christian divinities was not even\nrecorded on the green and level grass-plot that had immemorially been\nthe churchyard, the obliterated graves being commemorated by\neighteen-penny cast-iron crosses warranted to last five years.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nSlender as was Jude Fawley s frame he bore the two brimming\nhouse-buckets of water to the cottage without resting. Over the door\nwas a little rectangular piece of blue board, on which was painted in\nyellow letters,  Drusilla Fawley, Baker.  Within the little lead panes\nof the window this being one of the few old houses left were five\nbottles of sweets, and three buns on a plate of the willow pattern.\n\nWhile emptying the buckets at the back of the house he could hear an\nanimated conversation in progress within-doors between his great-aunt,\nthe Drusilla of the sign-board, and some other villagers. Having seen\nthe school-master depart, they were summing up particulars of the\nevent, and indulging in predictions of his future.\n\n And who s he?  asked one, comparatively a stranger, when the boy\nentered.\n\n Well ye med ask it, Mrs. Williams. He s my great-nephew come since you\nwas last this way.  The old inhabitant who answered was a tall, gaunt\nwoman, who spoke tragically on the most trivial subject, and gave a\nphrase of her conversation to each auditor in turn.  He come from\nMellstock, down in South Wessex, about a year ago worse luck for  n,\nBelinda  (turning to the right)  where his father was living, and was\ntook wi  the shakings for death, and died in two days, as you know,\nCaroline  (turning to the left).  It would ha  been a blessing if\nGoddy-mighty had took thee too, wi  thy mother and father, poor useless\nboy! But I ve got him here to stay with me till I can see what s to be\ndone with un, though I am obliged to let him earn any penny he can.\nJust now he s a-scaring of birds for Farmer Troutham. It keeps him out\nof mischty. Why do ye turn away, Jude?  she continued, as the boy,\nfeeling the impact of their glances like slaps upon his face, moved\naside.\n\nThe local washerwoman replied that it was perhaps a very good plan of\nMiss or Mrs. Fawley s (as they called her indifferently) to have him\nwith her to kip  ee company in your loneliness, fetch water, shet the\nwinder-shetters o  nights, and help in the bit o  baking. \n\nMiss Fawley doubted it.    Why didn t ye get the schoolmaster to take\n ee to Christminster wi  un, and make a scholar of  ee,  she continued,\nin frowning pleasantry.  I m sure he couldn t ha  took a better one.\nThe boy is crazy for books, that he is. It runs in our family rather.\nHis cousin Sue is just the same so I ve heard; but I have not seen the\nchild for years, though she was born in this place, within these four\nwalls, as it happened. My niece and her husband, after they were\nmarried, didn  get a house of their own for some year or more; and then\nthey only had one till Well, I won t go into that. Jude, my child,\ndon t you ever marry.  Tisn t for the Fawleys to take that step any\nmore. She, their only one, was like a child o  my own, Belinda, till\nthe split come! Ah, that a little maid should know such changes! \n\nJude, finding the general attention again centering on himself, went\nout to the bakehouse, where he ate the cake provided for his breakfast.\nThe end of his spare time had now arrived, and emerging from the garden\nby getting over the hedge at the back he pursued a path northward, till\nhe came to a wide and lonely depression in the general level of the\nupland, which was sown as a corn-field. This vast concave was the scene\nof his labours for Mr. Troutham the farmer, and he descended into the\nmidst of it.\n\nThe brown surface of the field went right up towards the sky all round,\nwhere it was lost by degrees in the mist that shut out the actual verge\nand accentuated the solitude. The only marks on the uniformity of the\nscene were a rick of last year s produce standing in the midst of the\narable, the rooks that rose at his approach, and the path athwart the\nfallow by which he had come, trodden now by he hardly knew whom, though\nonce by many of his own dead family.\n\n How ugly it is here!  he murmured.\n\nThe fresh harrow-lines seemed to stretch like the channellings in a\npiece of new corduroy, lending a meanly utilitarian air to the expanse,\ntaking away its gradations, and depriving it of all history beyond that\nof the few recent months, though to every clod and stone there really\nattached associations enough and to spare echoes of songs from ancient\nharvest-days, of spoken words, and of sturdy deeds. Every inch of\nground had been the site, first or last, of energy, gaiety, horse-play,\nbickerings, weariness. Groups of gleaners had squatted in the sun on\nevery square yard. Love-matches that had populated the adjoining hamlet\nhad been made up there between reaping and carrying. Under the hedge\nwhich divided the field from a distant plantation girls had given\nthemselves to lovers who would not turn their heads to look at them by\nthe next harvest; and in that ancient cornfield many a man had made\nlove-promises to a woman at whose voice he had trembled by the next\nseed-time after fulfilling them in the church adjoining. But this\nneither Jude nor the rooks around him considered. For them it was a\nlonely place, possessing, in the one view, only the quality of a\nwork-ground, and in the other that of a granary good to feed in.\n\nThe boy stood under the rick before mentioned, and every few seconds\nused his clacker or rattle briskly. At each clack the rooks left off\npecking, and rose and went away on their leisurely wings, burnished\nlike tassets of mail, afterwards wheeling back and regarding him\nwarily, and descending to feed at a more respectful distance.\n\nHe sounded the clacker till his arm ached, and at length his heart grew\nsympathetic with the birds  thwarted desires. They seemed, like\nhimself, to be living in a world which did not want them. Why should he\nfrighten them away? They took upon more and more the aspect of gentle\nfriends and pensioners the only friends he could claim as being in the\nleast degree interested in him, for his aunt had often told him that\nshe was not. He ceased his rattling, and they alighted anew.\n\n Poor little dears!  said Jude, aloud.  You _shall_ have some\ndinner you shall. There is enough for us all. Farmer Troutham can\nafford to let you have some. Eat, then my dear little birdies, and make\na good meal! \n\nThey stayed and ate, inky spots on the nut-brown soil, and Jude enjoyed\ntheir appetite. A magic thread of fellow-feeling united his own life\nwith theirs. Puny and sorry as those lives were, they much resembled\nhis own.\n\nHis clacker he had by this time thrown away from him, as being a mean\nand sordid instrument, offensive both to the birds and to himself as\ntheir friend. All at once he became conscious of a smart blow upon his\nbuttocks, followed by a loud clack, which announced to his surprised\nsenses that the clacker had been the instrument of offence used. The\nbirds and Jude started up simultaneously, and the dazed eyes of the\nlatter beheld the farmer in person, the great Troutham himself, his red\nface glaring down upon Jude s cowering frame, the clacker swinging in\nhis hand.\n\n So it s  Eat my dear birdies,  is it, young man?  Eat, dear birdies, \nindeed! I ll tickle your breeches, and see if you say,  Eat, dear\nbirdies,  again in a hurry! And you ve been idling at the\nschoolmaster s too, instead of coming here, ha n t ye, hey? That s how\nyou earn your sixpence a day for keeping the rooks off my corn! \n\nWhilst saluting Jude s ears with this impassioned rhetoric, Troutham\nhad seized his left hand with his own left, and swinging his slim frame\nround him at arm s-length, again struck Jude on the hind parts with the\nflat side of Jude s own rattle, till the field echoed with the blows,\nwhich were delivered once or twice at each revolution.\n\n Don t  ee, sir please don t  ee!  cried the whirling child, as\nhelpless under the centrifugal tendency of his person as a hooked fish\nswinging to land, and beholding the hill, the rick, the plantation, the\npath, and the rooks going round and round him in an amazing circular\nrace.  I I sir only meant that there was a good crop in the ground I\nsaw  em sow it and the rooks could have a little bit for dinner and you\nwouldn t miss it, sir and Mr. Phillotson said I was to be kind to\n em oh, oh, oh! \n\nThis truthful explanation seemed to exasperate the farmer even more\nthan if Jude had stoutly denied saying anything at all, and he still\nsmacked the whirling urchin, the clacks of the instrument continuing to\nresound all across the field and as far as the ears of distant\nworkers who gathered thereupon that Jude was pursuing his business of\nclacking with great assiduity and echoing from the brand-new church\ntower just behind the mist, towards the building of which structure the\nfarmer had largely subscribed, to testify his love for God and man.\n\nPresently Troutham grew tired of his punitive task, and depositing the\nquivering boy on his legs, took a sixpence from his pocket and gave it\nhim in payment for his day s work, telling him to go home and never let\nhim see him in one of those fields again.\n\nJude leaped out of arm s reach, and walked along the trackway\nweeping not from the pain, though that was keen enough; not from the\nperception of the flaw in the terrestrial scheme, by which what was\ngood for God s birds was bad for God s gardener; but with the awful\nsense that he had wholly disgraced himself before he had been a year in\nthe parish, and hence might be a burden to his great-aunt for life.\n\nWith this shadow on his mind he did not care to show himself in the\nvillage, and went homeward by a roundabout track behind a high hedge\nand across a pasture. Here he beheld scores of coupled earthworms lying\nhalf their length on the surface of the damp ground, as they always did\nin such weather at that time of the year. It was impossible to advance\nin regular steps without crushing some of them at each tread.\n\nThough Farmer Troutham had just hurt him, he was a boy who could not\nhimself bear to hurt anything. He had never brought home a nest of\nyoung birds without lying awake in misery half the night after, and\noften reinstating them and the nest in their original place the next\nmorning. He could scarcely bear to see trees cut down or lopped, from a\nfancy that it hurt them; and late pruning, when the sap was up and the\ntree bled profusely, had been a positive grief to him in his infancy.\nThis weakness of character, as it may be called, suggested that he was\nthe sort of man who was born to ache a good deal before the fall of the\ncurtain upon his unnecessary life should signify that all was well with\nhim again. He carefully picked his way on tiptoe among the earthworms,\nwithout killing a single one.\n\nOn entering the cottage he found his aunt selling a penny loaf to a\nlittle girl, and when the customer was gone she said,  Well, how do you\ncome to be back here in the middle of the morning like this? \n\n I m turned away. \n\n What? \n\n Mr. Troutham have turned me away because I let the rooks have a few\npeckings of corn. And there s my wages the last I shall ever hae! \n\nHe threw the sixpence tragically on the table.\n\n Ah!  said his aunt, suspending her breath. And she opened upon him a\nlecture on how she would now have him all the spring upon her hands\ndoing nothing.  If you can t skeer birds, what can ye do? There! don t\nye look so deedy! Farmer Troutham is not so much better than myself,\ncome to that. But  tis as Job said,  Now they that are younger than I\nhave me in derision, whose fathers I would have disdained to have set\nwith the dogs of my flock.  His father was my father s journeyman,\nanyhow, and I must have been a fool to let  ee go to work for  n, which\nI shouldn t ha  done but to keep  ee out of mischty. \n\nMore angry with Jude for demeaning her by coming there than for\ndereliction of duty, she rated him primarily from that point of view,\nand only secondarily from a moral one.\n\n Not that you should have let the birds eat what Farmer Troutham\nplanted. Of course you was wrong in that. Jude, Jude, why didstn t go\noff with that schoolmaster of thine to Christminster or somewhere? But,\noh no poor or nary child there never was any sprawl on thy side of the\nfamily, and never will be! \n\n Where is this beautiful city, Aunt this place where Mr. Phillotson is\ngone to?  asked the boy, after meditating in silence.\n\n Lord! you ought to know where the city of Christminster is. Near a\nscore of miles from here. It is a place much too good for you ever to\nhave much to do with, poor boy, I m a-thinking. \n\n And will Mr. Phillotson always be there? \n\n How can I tell? \n\n Could I go to see him? \n\n Lord, no! You didn t grow up hereabout, or you wouldn t ask such as\nthat. We ve never had anything to do with folk in Christminster, nor\nfolk in Christminster with we. \n\nJude went out, and, feeling more than ever his existence to be an\nundemanded one, he lay down upon his back on a heap of litter near the\npig-sty. The fog had by this time become more translucent, and the\nposition of the sun could be seen through it. He pulled his straw hat\nover his face, and peered through the interstices of the plaiting at\nthe white brightness, vaguely reflecting. Growing up brought\nresponsibilities, he found. Events did not rhyme quite as he had\nthought. Nature s logic was too horrid for him to care for. That mercy\ntowards one set of creatures was cruelty towards another sickened his\nsense of harmony. As you got older, and felt yourself to be at the\ncentre of your time, and not at a point in its circumference, as you\nhad felt when you were little, you were seized with a sort of\nshuddering, he perceived. All around you there seemed to be something\nglaring, garish, rattling, and the noises and glares hit upon the\nlittle cell called your life, and shook it, and warped it.\n\nIf he could only prevent himself growing up! He did not want to be a\nman.\n\nThen, like the natural boy, he forgot his despondency, and sprang up.\nDuring the remainder of the morning he helped his aunt, and in the\nafternoon, when there was nothing more to be done, he went into the\nvillage. Here he asked a man whereabouts Christminster lay.\n\n Christminster? Oh, well, out by there yonder; though I ve never bin\nthere not I. I ve never had any business at such a place. \n\nThe man pointed north-eastward, in the very direction where lay that\nfield in which Jude had so disgraced himself. There was something\nunpleasant about the coincidence for the moment, but the fearsomeness\nof this fact rather increased his curiosity about the city. The farmer\nhad said he was never to be seen in that field again; yet Christminster\nlay across it, and the path was a public one. So, stealing out of the\nhamlet, he descended into the same hollow which had witnessed his\npunishment in the morning, never swerving an inch from the path, and\nclimbing up the long and tedious ascent on the other side till the\ntrack joined the highway by a little clump of trees. Here the ploughed\nland ended, and all before him was bleak open down.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nNot a soul was visible on the hedgeless highway, or on either side of\nit, and the white road seemed to ascend and diminish till it joined the\nsky. At the very top it was crossed at right angles by a green\n ridgeway the Ickneild Street and original Roman road through the\ndistrict. This ancient track ran east and west for many miles, and down\nalmost to within living memory had been used for driving flocks and\nherds to fairs and markets. But it was now neglected and overgrown.\n\nThe boy had never before strayed so far north as this from the nestling\nhamlet in which he had been deposited by the carrier from a railway\nstation southward, one dark evening some few months earlier, and till\nnow he had had no suspicion that such a wide, flat, low-lying country\nlay so near at hand, under the very verge of his upland world. The\nwhole northern semicircle between east and west, to a distance of forty\nor fifty miles, spread itself before him; a bluer, moister atmosphere,\nevidently, than that he breathed up here.\n\nNot far from the road stood a weather-beaten old barn of reddish-grey\nbrick and tile. It was known as the Brown House by the people of the\nlocality. He was about to pass it when he perceived a ladder against\nthe eaves; and the reflection that the higher he got, the further he\ncould see, led Jude to stand and regard it. On the slope of the roof\ntwo men were repairing the tiling. He turned into the ridgeway and drew\ntowards the barn.\n\nWhen he had wistfully watched the workmen for some time he took\ncourage, and ascended the ladder till he stood beside them.\n\n Well, my lad, and what may you want up here? \n\n I wanted to know where the city of Christminster is, if you please. \n\n Christminster is out across there, by that clump. You can see it at\nleast you can on a clear day. Ah, no, you can t now. \n\nThe other tiler, glad of any kind of diversion from the monotony of his\nlabour, had also turned to look towards the quarter designated.  You\ncan t often see it in weather like this,  he said.  The time I ve\nnoticed it is when the sun is going down in a blaze of flame, and it\nlooks like I don t know what. \n\n The heavenly Jerusalem,  suggested the serious urchin.\n\n Ay though I should never ha  thought of it myself.   But I can t see\nno Christminster to-day. \n\nThe boy strained his eyes also; yet neither could he see the far-off\ncity. He descended from the barn, and abandoning Christminster with the\nversatility of his age he walked along the ridge-track, looking for any\nnatural objects of interest that might lie in the banks thereabout.\nWhen he repassed the barn to go back to Marygreen he observed that the\nladder was still in its place, but that the men had finished their\nday s work and gone away.\n\nIt was waning towards evening; there was still a faint mist, but it had\ncleared a little except in the damper tracts of subjacent country and\nalong the river-courses. He thought again of Christminster, and wished,\nsince he had come two or three miles from his aunt s house on purpose,\nthat he could have seen for once this attractive city of which he had\nbeen told. But even if he waited here it was hardly likely that the air\nwould clear before night. Yet he was loth to leave the spot, for the\nnorthern expanse became lost to view on retreating towards the village\nonly a few hundred yards.\n\nHe ascended the ladder to have one more look at the point the men had\ndesignated, and perched himself on the highest rung, overlying the\ntiles. He might not be able to come so far as this for many days.\nPerhaps if he prayed, the wish to see Christminster might be forwarded.\nPeople said that, if you prayed, things sometimes came to you, even\nthough they sometimes did not. He had read in a tract that a man who\nhad begun to build a church, and had no money to finish it, knelt down\nand prayed, and the money came in by the next post. Another man tried\nthe same experiment, and the money did not come; but he found\nafterwards that the breeches he knelt in were made by a wicked Jew.\nThis was not discouraging, and turning on the ladder Jude knelt on the\nthird rung, where, resting against those above it, he prayed that the\nmist might rise.\n\nHe then seated himself again, and waited. In the course of ten or\nfifteen minutes the thinning mist dissolved altogether from the\nnorthern horizon, as it had already done elsewhere, and about a quarter\nof an hour before the time of sunset the westward clouds parted, the\nsun s position being partially uncovered, and the beams streaming out\nin visible lines between two bars of slaty cloud. The boy immediately\nlooked back in the old direction.\n\nSome way within the limits of the stretch of landscape, points of light\nlike the topaz gleamed. The air increased in transparency with the\nlapse of minutes, till the topaz points showed themselves to be the\nvanes, windows, wet roof slates, and other shining spots upon the\nspires, domes, freestone-work, and varied outlines that were faintly\nrevealed. It was Christminster, unquestionably; either directly seen,\nor miraged in the peculiar atmosphere.\n\nThe spectator gazed on and on till the windows and vanes lost their\nshine, going out almost suddenly like extinguished candles. The vague\ncity became veiled in mist. Turning to the west, he saw that the sun\nhad disappeared. The foreground of the scene had grown funereally dark,\nand near objects put on the hues and shapes of chimaeras.\n\nHe anxiously descended the ladder, and started homewards at a run,\ntrying not to think of giants, Herne the Hunter, Apollyon lying in wait\nfor Christian, or of the captain with the bleeding hole in his forehead\nand the corpses round him that remutinied every night on board the\nbewitched ship. He knew that he had grown out of belief in these\nhorrors, yet he was glad when he saw the church tower and the lights in\nthe cottage windows, even though this was not the home of his birth,\nand his great-aunt did not care much about him.\n\n\nInside and round about that old woman s  shop  window, with its\ntwenty-four little panes set in lead-work, the glass of some of them\noxidized with age, so that you could hardly see the poor penny articles\nexhibited within, and forming part of a stock which a strong man could\nhave carried, Jude had his outer being for some long tideless time. But\nhis dreams were as gigantic as his surroundings were small.\n\nThrough the solid barrier of cold cretaceous upland to the northward he\nwas always beholding a gorgeous city the fancied place he had likened\nto the new Jerusalem, though there was perhaps more of the painter s\nimagination and less of the diamond merchant s in his dreams thereof\nthan in those of the Apocalyptic writer. And the city acquired a\ntangibility, a permanence, a hold on his life, mainly from the one\nnucleus of fact that the man for whose knowledge and purposes he had so\nmuch reverence was actually living there; not only so, but living among\nthe more thoughtful and mentally shining ones therein.\n\nIn sad wet seasons, though he knew it must rain at Christminster too,\nhe could hardly believe that it rained so drearily there. Whenever he\ncould get away from the confines of the hamlet for an hour or two,\nwhich was not often, he would steal off to the Brown House on the hill\nand strain his eyes persistently; sometimes to be rewarded by the sight\nof a dome or spire, at other times by a little smoke, which in his\nestimate had some of the mysticism of incense.\n\nThen the day came when it suddenly occurred to him that if he ascended\nto the point of view after dark, or possibly went a mile or two\nfurther, he would see the night lights of the city. It would be\nnecessary to come back alone, but even that consideration did not deter\nhim, for he could throw a little manliness into his mood, no doubt.\n\nThe project was duly executed. It was not late when he arrived at the\nplace of outlook, only just after dusk, but a black north-east sky,\naccompanied by a wind from the same quarter, made the occasion dark\nenough. He was rewarded; but what he saw was not the lamps in rows, as\nhe had half expected. No individual light was visible, only a halo or\nglow-fog over-arching the place against the black heavens behind it,\nmaking the light and the city seem distant but a mile or so.\n\nHe set himself to wonder on the exact point in the glow where the\nschoolmaster might be he who never communicated with anybody at\nMarygreen now; who was as if dead to them here. In the glow he seemed\nto see Phillotson promenading at ease, like one of the forms in\nNebuchadnezzar s furnace.\n\nHe had heard that breezes travelled at the rate of ten miles an hour,\nand the fact now came into his mind. He parted his lips as he faced the\nnorth-east, and drew in the wind as if it were a sweet liquor.\n\n You,  he said, addressing the breeze caressingly  were in\nChristminster city between one and two hours ago, floating along the\nstreets, pulling round the weather-cocks, touching Mr. Phillotson s\nface, being breathed by him; and now you are here, breathed by me you,\nthe very same. \n\nSuddenly there came along this wind something towards him a message\nfrom the place from some soul residing there, it seemed. Surely it was\nthe sound of bells, the voice of the city, faint and musical, calling\nto him,  We are happy here! \n\nHe had become entirely lost to his bodily situation during this mental\nleap, and only got back to it by a rough recalling. A few yards below\nthe brow of the hill on which he paused a team of horses made its\nappearance, having reached the place by dint of half an hour s\nserpentine progress from the bottom of the immense declivity. They had\na load of coals behind them a fuel that could only be got into the\nupland by this particular route. They were accompanied by a carter, a\nsecond man, and a boy, who now kicked a large stone behind one of the\nwheels, and allowed the panting animals to have a long rest, while\nthose in charge took a flagon off the load and indulged in a drink\nround.\n\nThey were elderly men, and had genial voices. Jude addressed them,\ninquiring if they had come from Christminster.\n\n Heaven forbid, with this load!  said they.\n\n The place I mean is that one yonder.  He was getting so romantically\nattached to Christminster that, like a young lover alluding to his\nmistress, he felt bashful at mentioning its name again. He pointed to\nthe light in the sky hardly perceptible to their older eyes.\n\n Yes. There do seem a spot a bit brighter in the nor -east than\nelsewhere, though I shouldn t ha  noticed it myself, and no doubt it\nmed be Christminster. \n\nHere a little book of tales which Jude had tucked up under his arm,\nhaving brought them to read on his way hither before it grew dark,\nslipped and fell into the road. The carter eyed him while he picked it\nup and straightened the leaves.\n\n Ah, young man,  he observed,  you d have to get your head screwed on\nt other way before you could read what they read there. \n\n Why?  asked the boy.\n\n Oh, they never look at anything that folks like we can understand, \nthe carter continued, by way of passing the time.  On y foreign tongues\nused in the days of the Tower of Babel, when no two families spoke\nalike. They read that sort of thing as fast as a night-hawk will whir.\n Tis all learning there nothing but learning, except religion. And\nthat s learning too, for I never could understand it. Yes,  tis a\nserious-minded place. Not but there s wenches in the streets o  nights \nYou know, I suppose, that they raise pa sons there like radishes in a\nbed? And though it do take how many years, Bob? five years to turn a\nlirruping hobble-de-hoy chap into a solemn preaching man with no\ncorrupt passions, they ll do it, if it can be done, and polish un off\nlike the workmen they be, and turn un out wi  a long face, and a long\nblack coat and waistcoat, and a religious collar and hat, same as they\nused to wear in the Scriptures, so that his own mother wouldn t know un\nsometimes.   There,  tis their business, like anybody else s. \n\n But how should you know \n\n Now don t you interrupt, my boy. Never interrupt your senyers. Move\nthe fore hoss aside, Bobby; here s som at coming  You must mind that I\nbe a-talking of the college life.  Em lives on a lofty level; there s\nno gainsaying it, though I myself med not think much of  em. As we be\nhere in our bodies on this high ground, so be they in their\nminds noble-minded men enough, no doubt some on  em able to earn\nhundreds by thinking out loud. And some on  em be strong young fellows\nthat can earn a most as much in silver cups. As for music, there s\nbeautiful music everywhere in Christminster. You med be religious, or\nyou med not, but you can t help striking in your homely note with the\nrest. And there s a street in the place the main street that ha n t\nanother like it in the world. I should think I did know a little about\nChristminster! \n\nBy this time the horses had recovered breath and bent to their collars\nagain. Jude, throwing a last adoring look at the distant halo, turned\nand walked beside his remarkably well-informed friend, who had no\nobjection to telling him as they moved on more yet of the city its\ntowers and halls and churches. The waggon turned into a cross-road,\nwhereupon Jude thanked the carter warmly for his information, and said\nhe only wished he could talk half as well about Christminster as he.\n\n Well,  tis oonly what has come in my way,  said the carter\nunboastfully.  I ve never been there, no more than you; but I ve picked\nup the knowledge here and there, and you be welcome to it. A-getting\nabout the world as I do, and mixing with all classes of society, one\ncan t help hearing of things. A friend o  mine, that used to clane the\nboots at the Crozier Hotel in Christminster when he was in his prime,\nwhy, I knowed un as well as my own brother in his later years. \n\nJude continued his walk homeward alone, pondering so deeply that he\nforgot to feel timid. He suddenly grew older. It had been the yearning\nof his heart to find something to anchor on, to cling to for some place\nwhich he could call admirable. Should he find that place in this city\nif he could get there? Would it be a spot in which, without fear of\nfarmers, or hindrance, or ridicule, he could watch and wait, and set\nhimself to some mighty undertaking like the men of old of whom he had\nheard? As the halo had been to his eyes when gazing at it a quarter of\nan hour earlier, so was the spot mentally to him as he pursued his dark\nway.\n\n It is a city of light,  he said to himself.\n\n The tree of knowledge grows there,  he added a few steps further on.\n\n It is a place that teachers of men spring from and go to. \n\n It is what you may call a castle, manned by scholarship and religion. \n\nAfter this figure he was silent a long while, till he added:\n\n It would just suit me. \n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nWalking somewhat slowly by reason of his concentration, the boy an\nancient man in some phases of thought, much younger than his years in\nothers was overtaken by a light-footed pedestrian, whom,\nnotwithstanding the gloom, he could perceive to be wearing an\nextraordinarily tall hat, a swallow-tailed coat, and a watch-chain that\ndanced madly and threw around scintillations of sky-light as its owner\nswung along upon a pair of thin legs and noiseless boots. Jude,\nbeginning to feel lonely, endeavoured to keep up with him.\n\n Well, my man! I m in a hurry, so you ll have to walk pretty fast if\nyou keep alongside of me. Do you know who I am? \n\n Yes, I think. Physician Vilbert? \n\n Ah I m known everywhere, I see! That comes of being a public\nbenefactor. \n\nVilbert was an itinerant quack-doctor, well known to the rustic\npopulation, and absolutely unknown to anybody else, as he, indeed, took\ncare to be, to avoid inconvenient investigations. Cottagers formed his\nonly patients, and his Wessex-wide repute was among them alone. His\nposition was humbler and his field more obscure than those of the\nquacks with capital and an organized system of advertising. He was, in\nfact, a survival. The distances he traversed on foot were enormous, and\nextended nearly the whole length and breadth of Wessex. Jude had one\nday seen him selling a pot of coloured lard to an old woman as a\ncertain cure for a bad leg, the woman arranging to pay a guinea, in\ninstalments of a shilling a fortnight, for the precious salve, which,\naccording to the physician, could only be obtained from a particular\nanimal which grazed on Mount Sinai, and was to be captured only at\ngreat risk to life and limb. Jude, though he already had his doubts\nabout this gentleman s medicines, felt him to be unquestionably a\ntravelled personage, and one who might be a trustworthy source of\ninformation on matters not strictly professional.\n\n I s pose you ve been to Christminster, Physician? \n\n I have many times,  replied the long thin man.  That s one of my\ncentres. \n\n It s a wonderful city for scholarship and religion? \n\n You d say so, my boy, if you d seen it. Why, the very sons of the old\nwomen who do the washing of the colleges can talk in Latin not good\nLatin, that I admit, as a critic: dog-Latin cat-Latin, as we used to\ncall it in my undergraduate days. \n\n And Greek? \n\n Well that s more for the men who are in training for bishops, that\nthey may be able to read the New Testament in the original. \n\n I want to learn Latin and Greek myself. \n\n A lofty desire. You must get a grammar of each tongue. \n\n I mean to go to Christminster some day. \n\n Whenever you do, you say that Physician Vilbert is the only proprietor\nof those celebrated pills that infallibly cure all disorders of the\nalimentary system, as well as asthma and shortness of breath. Two and\nthreepence a box specially licensed by the government stamp. \n\n Can you get me the grammars if I promise to say it hereabout? \n\n I ll sell you mine with pleasure those I used as a student. \n\n Oh, thank you, sir!  said Jude gratefully, but in gasps, for the\namazing speed of the physician s walk kept him in a dog-trot which was\ngiving him a stitch in the side.\n\n I think you d better drop behind, my young man. Now I ll tell you what\nI ll do. I ll get you the grammars, and give you a first lesson, if\nyou ll remember, at every house in the village, to recommend Physician\nVilbert s golden ointment, life-drops, and female pills. \n\n Where will you be with the grammars? \n\n I shall be passing here this day fortnight at precisely this hour of\nfive-and-twenty minutes past seven. My movements are as truly timed as\nthose of the planets in their courses. \n\n Here I ll be to meet you,  said Jude.\n\n With orders for my medicines? \n\n Yes, Physician. \n\nJude then dropped behind, waited a few minutes to recover breath, and\nwent home with a consciousness of having struck a blow for\nChristminster.\n\nThrough the intervening fortnight he ran about and smiled outwardly at\nhis inward thoughts, as if they were people meeting and nodding to\nhim smiled with that singularly beautiful irradiation which is seen to\nspread on young faces at the inception of some glorious idea, as if a\nsupernatural lamp were held inside their transparent natures, giving\nrise to the flattering fancy that heaven lies about them then.\n\nHe honestly performed his promise to the man of many cures, in whom he\nnow sincerely believed, walking miles hither and thither among the\nsurrounding hamlets as the Physician s agent in advance. On the evening\nappointed he stood motionless on the plateau, at the place where he had\nparted from Vilbert, and there awaited his approach. The road-physician\nwas fairly up to time; but, to the surprise of Jude on striking into\nhis pace, which the pedestrian did not diminish by a single unit of\nforce, the latter seemed hardly to recognize his young companion,\nthough with the lapse of the fortnight the evenings had grown light.\nJude thought it might perhaps be owing to his wearing another hat, and\nhe saluted the physician with dignity.\n\n Well, my boy?  said the latter abstractedly.\n\n I ve come,  said Jude.\n\n You? who are you? Oh yes to be sure! Got any orders, lad? \n\n Yes.  And Jude told him the names and addresses of the cottagers who\nwere willing to test the virtues of the world-renowned pills and salve.\nThe quack mentally registered these with great care.\n\n And the Latin and Greek grammars?  Jude s voice trembled with anxiety.\n\n What about them? \n\n You were to bring me yours, that you used before you took your\ndegree. \n\n Ah, yes, yes! Forgot all about it all! So many lives depending on my\nattention, you see, my man, that I can t give so much thought as I\nwould like to other things. \n\nJude controlled himself sufficiently long to make sure of the truth;\nand he repeated, in a voice of dry misery,  You haven t brought  em! \n\n No. But you must get me some more orders from sick people, and I ll\nbring the grammars next time. \n\nJude dropped behind. He was an unsophisticated boy, but the gift of\nsudden insight which is sometimes vouchsafed to children showed him all\nat once what shoddy humanity the quack was made of. There was to be no\nintellectual light from this source. The leaves dropped from his\nimaginary crown of laurel; he turned to a gate, leant against it, and\ncried bitterly.\n\nThe disappointment was followed by an interval of blankness. He might,\nperhaps, have obtained grammars from Alfredston, but to do that\nrequired money, and a knowledge of what books to order; and though\nphysically comfortable, he was in such absolute dependence as to be\nwithout a farthing of his own.\n\nAt this date Mr. Phillotson sent for his pianoforte, and it gave Jude a\nlead. Why should he not write to the schoolmaster, and ask him to be so\nkind as to get him the grammars in Christminster? He might slip a\nletter inside the case of the instrument, and it would be sure to reach\nthe desired eyes. Why not ask him to send any old second-hand copies,\nwhich would have the charm of being mellowed by the university\natmosphere?\n\nTo tell his aunt of his intention would be to defeat it. It was\nnecessary to act alone.\n\nAfter a further consideration of a few days he did act, and on the day\nof the piano s departure, which happened to be his next birthday,\nclandestinely placed the letter inside the packing-case, directed to\nhis much-admired friend, being afraid to reveal the operation to his\naunt Drusilla, lest she should discover his motive, and compel him to\nabandon his scheme.\n\nThe piano was despatched, and Jude waited days and weeks, calling every\nmorning at the cottage post office before his great-aunt was stirring.\nAt last a packet did indeed arrive at the village, and he saw from the\nends of it that it contained two thin books. He took it away into a\nlonely place, and sat down on a felled elm to open it.\n\nEver since his first ecstasy or vision of Christminster and its\npossibilities, Jude had meditated much and curiously on the probable\nsort of process that was involved in turning the expressions of one\nlanguage into those of another. He concluded that a grammar of the\nrequired tongue would contain, primarily, a rule, prescription, or clue\nof the nature of a secret cipher, which, once known, would enable him,\nby merely applying it, to change at will all words of his own speech\ninto those of the foreign one. His childish idea was, in fact, a\npushing to the extremity of mathematical precision what is everywhere\nknown as Grimm s Law an aggrandizement of rough rules to ideal\ncompleteness. Thus he assumed that the words of the required language\nwere always to be found somewhere latent in the words of the given\nlanguage by those who had the art to uncover them, such art being\nfurnished by the books aforesaid.\n\nWhen, therefore, having noted that the packet bore the postmark of\nChristminster, he cut the string, opened the volumes, and turned to the\nLatin grammar, which chanced to come uppermost, he could scarcely\nbelieve his eyes.\n\nThe book was an old one thirty years old, soiled, scribbled wantonly\nover with a strange name in every variety of enmity to the letterpress,\nand marked at random with dates twenty years earlier than his own day.\nBut this was not the cause of Jude s amazement. He learnt for the first\ntime that there was no law of transmutation, as in his innocence he had\nsupposed (there was, in some degree, but the grammarian did not\nrecognize it), but that every word in both Latin and Greek was to be\nindividually committed to memory at the cost of years of plodding.\n\nJude flung down the books, lay backward along the broad trunk of the\nelm, and was an utterly miserable boy for the space of a quarter of an\nhour. As he had often done before, he pulled his hat over his face and\nwatched the sun peering insidiously at him through the interstices of\nthe straw. This was Latin and Greek, then, was it this grand delusion!\nThe charm he had supposed in store for him was really a labour like\nthat of Israel in Egypt.\n\nWhat brains they must have in Christminster and the great schools, he\npresently thought, to learn words one by one up to tens of thousands!\nThere were no brains in his head equal to this business; and as the\nlittle sun-rays continued to stream in through his hat at him, he\nwished he had never seen a book, that he might never see another, that\nhe had never been born.\n\nSomebody might have come along that way who would have asked him his\ntrouble, and might have cheered him by saying that his notions were\nfurther advanced than those of his grammarian. But nobody did come,\nbecause nobody does; and under the crushing recognition of his gigantic\nerror Jude continued to wish himself out of the world.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nDuring the three or four succeeding years a quaint and singular vehicle\nmight have been discerned moving along the lanes and by-roads near\nMarygreen, driven in a quaint and singular way.\n\nIn the course of a month or two after the receipt of the books Jude had\ngrown callous to the shabby trick played him by the dead languages. In\nfact, his disappointment at the nature of those tongues had, after a\nwhile, been the means of still further glorifying the erudition of\nChristminster. To acquire languages, departed or living in spite of\nsuch obstinacies as he now knew them inherently to possess, was a\nherculean performance which gradually led him on to a greater interest\nin it than in the presupposed patent process. The mountain-weight of\nmaterial under which the ideas lay in those dusty volumes called the\nclassics piqued him into a dogged, mouselike subtlety of attempt to\nmove it piecemeal.\n\nHe had endeavoured to make his presence tolerable to his crusty maiden\naunt by assisting her to the best of his ability, and the business of\nthe little cottage bakery had grown in consequence. An aged horse with\na hanging head had been purchased for eight pounds at a sale, a\ncreaking cart with a whity-brown tilt obtained for a few pounds more,\nand in this turn-out it became Jude s business thrice a week to carry\nloaves of bread to the villagers and solitary cotters immediately round\nMarygreen.\n\nThe singularity aforesaid lay, after all, less in the conveyance itself\nthan in Jude s manner of conducting it along its route. Its interior\nwas the scene of most of Jude s education by  private study.  As soon\nas the horse had learnt the road and the houses at which he was to\npause awhile, the boy, seated in front, would slip the reins over his\narm, ingeniously fix open, by means of a strap attached to the tilt,\nthe volume he was reading, spread the dictionary on his knees, and\nplunge into the simpler passages from Caesar, Virgil, or Horace, as the\ncase might be, in his purblind stumbling way, and with an expenditure\nof labour that would have made a tender-hearted pedagogue shed tears;\nyet somehow getting at the meaning of what he read, and divining rather\nthan beholding the spirit of the original, which often to his mind was\nsomething else than that which he was taught to look for.\n\nThe only copies he had been able to lay hands on were old Delphin\neditions, because they were superseded, and therefore cheap. But, bad\nfor idle schoolboys, it did so happen that they were passably good for\nhim. The hampered and lonely itinerant conscientiously covered up the\nmarginal readings, and used them merely on points of construction, as\nhe would have used a comrade or tutor who should have happened to be\npassing by. And though Jude may have had little chance of becoming a\nscholar by these rough and ready means, he was in the way of getting\ninto the groove he wished to follow.\n\nWhile he was busied with these ancient pages, which had already been\nthumbed by hands possibly in the grave, digging out the thoughts of\nthese minds so remote yet so near, the bony old horse pursued his\nrounds, and Jude would be aroused from the woes of Dido by the stoppage\nof his cart and the voice of some old woman crying,  Two to-day, baker,\nand I return this stale one. \n\nHe was frequently met in the lanes by pedestrians and others without\nhis seeing them, and by degrees the people of the neighbourhood began\nto talk about his method of combining work and play (such they\nconsidered his reading to be), which, though probably convenient enough\nto himself, was not altogether a safe proceeding for other travellers\nalong the same roads. There were murmurs. Then a private resident of an\nadjoining place informed the local policeman that the baker s boy\nshould not be allowed to read while driving, and insisted that it was\nthe constable s duty to catch him in the act, and take him to the\npolice court at Alfredston, and get him fined for dangerous practices\non the highway. The policeman thereupon lay in wait for Jude, and one\nday accosted him and cautioned him.\n\nAs Jude had to get up at three o clock in the morning to heat the oven,\nand mix and set in the bread that he distributed later in the day, he\nwas obliged to go to bed at night immediately after laying the sponge;\nso that if he could not read his classics on the highways he could\nhardly study at all. The only thing to be done was, therefore, to keep\na sharp eye ahead and around him as well as he could in the\ncircumstances, and slip away his books as soon as anybody loomed in the\ndistance, the policeman in particular. To do that official justice, he\ndid not put himself much in the way of Jude s bread-cart, considering\nthat in such a lonely district the chief danger was to Jude himself,\nand often on seeing the white tilt over the hedges he would move in\nanother direction.\n\nOn a day when Fawley was getting quite advanced, being now about\nsixteen, and had been stumbling through the  Carmen S culare,  on his\nway home, he found himself to be passing over the high edge of the\nplateau by the Brown House. The light had changed, and it was the sense\nof this which had caused him to look up. The sun was going down, and\nthe full moon was rising simultaneously behind the woods in the\nopposite quarter. His mind had become so impregnated with the poem\nthat, in a moment of the same impulsive emotion which years before had\ncaused him to kneel on the ladder, he stopped the horse, alighted, and\nglancing round to see that nobody was in sight, knelt down on the\nroadside bank with open book. He turned first to the shiny goddess, who\nseemed to look so softly and critically at his doings, then to the\ndisappearing luminary on the other hand, as he began:\n\n Ph be silvarumque potens Diana! \n\nThe horse stood still till he had finished the hymn, which Jude\nrepeated under the sway of a polytheistic fancy that he would never\nhave thought of humouring in broad daylight.\n\nReaching home, he mused over his curious superstition, innate or\nacquired, in doing this, and the strange forgetfulness which had led to\nsuch a lapse from common sense and custom in one who wished, next to\nbeing a scholar, to be a Christian divine. It had all come of reading\nheathen works exclusively. The more he thought of it the more convinced\nhe was of his inconsistency. He began to wonder whether he could be\nreading quite the right books for his object in life. Certainly there\nseemed little harmony between this pagan literature and the medi val\ncolleges at Christminster, that ecclesiastical romance in stone.\n\nUltimately he decided that in his sheer love of reading he had taken up\na wrong emotion for a Christian young man. He had dabbled in Clarke s\nHomer, but had never yet worked much at the New Testament in the Greek,\nthough he possessed a copy, obtained by post from a second-hand\nbookseller. He abandoned the now familiar Ionic for a new dialect, and\nfor a long time onward limited his reading almost entirely to the\nGospels and Epistles in Griesbach s text. Moreover, on going into\nAlfredston one day, he was introduced to patristic literature by\nfinding at the bookseller s some volumes of the Fathers which had been\nleft behind by an insolvent clergyman of the neighbourhood.\n\nAs another outcome of this change of groove he visited on Sundays all\nthe churches within a walk, and deciphered the Latin inscriptions on\nfifteenth-century brasses and tombs. On one of these pilgrimages he met\nwith a hunch-backed old woman of great intelligence, who read\neverything she could lay her hands on, and she told him more yet of the\nromantic charms of the city of light and lore. Thither he resolved as\nfirmly as ever to go.\n\nBut how live in that city? At present he had no income at all. He had\nno trade or calling of any dignity or stability whatever on which he\ncould subsist while carrying out an intellectual labour which might\nspread over many years.\n\nWhat was most required by citizens? Food, clothing, and shelter. An\nincome from any work in preparing the first would be too meagre; for\nmaking the second he felt a distaste; the preparation of the third\nrequisite he inclined to. They built in a city; therefore he would\nlearn to build. He thought of his unknown uncle, his cousin Susanna s\nfather, an ecclesiastical worker in metal, and somehow medi val art in\nany material was a trade for which he had rather a fancy. He could not\ngo far wrong in following his uncle s footsteps, and engaging himself\nawhile with the carcases that contained the scholar souls.\n\nAs a preliminary he obtained some small blocks of freestone, metal not\nbeing available, and suspending his studies awhile, occupied his spare\nhalf-hours in copying the heads and capitals in his parish church.\n\nThere was a stone-mason of a humble kind in Alfredston, and as soon as\nhe had found a substitute for himself in his aunt s little business, he\noffered his services to this man for a trifling wage. Here Jude had the\nopportunity of learning at least the rudiments of freestone-working.\nSome time later he went to a church-builder in the same place, and\nunder the architect s direction became handy at restoring the\ndilapidated masonries of several village churches round about.\n\nNot forgetting that he was only following up this handicraft as a prop\nto lean on while he prepared those greater engines which he flattered\nhimself would be better fitted for him, he yet was interested in his\npursuit on its own account. He now had lodgings during the week in the\nlittle town, whence he returned to Marygreen village every Saturday\nevening. And thus he reached and passed his nineteenth year.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nAt this memorable date of his life he was, one Saturday, returning from\nAlfredston to Marygreen about three o clock in the afternoon. It was\nfine, warm, and soft summer weather, and he walked with his tools at\nhis back, his little chisels clinking faintly against the larger ones\nin his basket. It being the end of the week he had left work early, and\nhad come out of the town by a round-about route which he did not\nusually frequent, having promised to call at a flour-mill near\nCresscombe to execute a commission for his aunt.\n\nHe was in an enthusiastic mood. He seemed to see his way to living\ncomfortably in Christminster in the course of a year or two, and\nknocking at the doors of one of those strongholds of learning of which\nhe had dreamed so much. He might, of course, have gone there now, in\nsome capacity or other, but he preferred to enter the city with a\nlittle more assurance as to means than he could be said to feel at\npresent. A warm self-content suffused him when he considered what he\nhad already done. Now and then as he went along he turned to face the\npeeps of country on either side of him. But he hardly saw them; the act\nwas an automatic repetition of what he had been accustomed to do when\nless occupied; and the one matter which really engaged him was the\nmental estimate of his progress thus far.\n\n I have acquired quite an average student s power to read the common\nancient classics, Latin in particular.  This was true, Jude possessing\na facility in that language which enabled him with great ease to\nhimself to beguile his lonely walks by imaginary conversations therein.\n\n I have read two books of the _Iliad_, besides being pretty familiar\nwith passages such as the speech of Ph nix in the ninth book, the fight\nof Hector and Ajax in the fourteenth, the appearance of Achilles\nunarmed and his heavenly armour in the eighteenth, and the funeral\ngames in the twenty-third. I have also done some Hesiod, a little scrap\nof Thucydides, and a lot of the Greek Testament  I wish there was only\none dialect all the same.\n\n I have done some mathematics, including the first six and the eleventh\nand twelfth books of Euclid; and algebra as far as simple equations.\n\n I know something of the Fathers, and something of Roman and English\nhistory.\n\n These things are only a beginning. But I shall not make much farther\nadvance here, from the difficulty of getting books. Hence I must next\nconcentrate all my energies on settling in Christminster. Once there I\nshall so advance, with the assistance I shall there get, that my\npresent knowledge will appear to me but as childish ignorance. I must\nsave money, and I will; and one of those colleges shall open its doors\nto me shall welcome whom now it would spurn, if I wait twenty years for\nthe welcome.\n\n I ll be D.D. before I have done! \n\nAnd then he continued to dream, and thought he might become even a\nbishop by leading a pure, energetic, wise, Christian life. And what an\nexample he would set! If his income were  5000 a year, he would give\naway  4500 in one form and another, and live sumptuously (for him) on\nthe remainder. Well, on second thoughts, a bishop was absurd. He would\ndraw the line at an archdeacon. Perhaps a man could be as good and as\nlearned and as useful in the capacity of archdeacon as in that of\nbishop. Yet he thought of the bishop again.\n\n Meanwhile I will read, as soon as I am settled in Christminster, the\nbooks I have not been able to get hold of here: Livy, Tacitus,\nHerodotus,  schylus, Sophocles, Aristophanes \n\n Ha, ha, ha! Hoity-toity!  The sounds were expressed in light voices on\nthe other side of the hedge, but he did not notice them. His thoughts\nwent on:\n\n Euripides, Plato, Aristotle, Lucretius, Epictetus, Seneca, Antoninus.\nThen I must master other things: the Fathers thoroughly; Bede and\necclesiastical history generally; a smattering of Hebrew I only know\nthe letters as yet \n\n Hoity-toity! \n\n but I can work hard. I have staying power in abundance, thank God!\nand it is that which tells  Yes, Christminster shall be my Alma Mater;\nand I ll be her beloved son, in whom she shall be well pleased. \n\nIn his deep concentration on these transactions of the future Jude s\nwalk had slackened, and he was now standing quite still, looking at the\nground as though the future were thrown thereon by a magic lantern. On\na sudden something smacked him sharply in the ear, and he became aware\nthat a soft cold substance had been flung at him, and had fallen at his\nfeet.\n\nA glance told him what it was a piece of flesh, the characteristic part\nof a barrow-pig, which the countrymen used for greasing their boots, as\nit was useless for any other purpose. Pigs were rather plentiful\nhereabout, being bred and fattened in large numbers in certain parts of\nNorth Wessex.\n\nOn the other side of the hedge was a stream, whence, as he now for the\nfirst time realized, had come the slight sounds of voices and laughter\nthat had mingled with his dreams. He mounted the bank and looked over\nthe fence. On the further side of the stream stood a small homestead,\nhaving a garden and pig-sties attached; in front of it, beside the\nbrook, three young women were kneeling, with buckets and platters\nbeside them containing heaps of pigs  chitterlings, which they were\nwashing in the running water. One or two pairs of eyes slyly glanced\nup, and perceiving that his attention had at last been attracted, and\nthat he was watching them, they braced themselves for inspection by\nputting their mouths demurely into shape and recommencing their rinsing\noperations with assiduity.\n\n Thank you!  said Jude severely.\n\n I _didn t_ throw it, I tell you!  asserted one girl to her neighbour,\nas if unconscious of the young man s presence.\n\n Nor I,  the second answered.\n\n Oh, Anny, how can you!  said the third.\n\n If I had thrown anything at all, it shouldn t have been _that_! \n\n Pooh! I don t care for him!  And they laughed and continued their\nwork, without looking up, still ostentatiously accusing each other.\n\nJude grew sarcastic as he wiped his face, and caught their remarks.\n\n _You_ didn t do it oh no!  he said to the up-stream one of the three.\n\nShe whom he addressed was a fine dark-eyed girl, not exactly handsome,\nbut capable of passing as such at a little distance, despite some\ncoarseness of skin and fibre. She had a round and prominent bosom, full\nlips, perfect teeth, and the rich complexion of a Cochin hen s egg. She\nwas a complete and substantial female animal no more, no less; and Jude\nwas almost certain that to her was attributable the enterprise of\nattracting his attention from dreams of the humaner letters to what was\nsimmering in the minds around him.\n\n That you ll never be told,  said she deedily.\n\n Whoever did it was wasteful of other people s property. \n\n Oh, that s nothing. \n\n But you want to speak to me, I suppose? \n\n Oh yes; if you like to. \n\n Shall I clamber across, or will you come to the plank above here? \n\nPerhaps she foresaw an opportunity; for somehow or other the eyes of\nthe brown girl rested in his own when he had said the words, and there\nwas a momentary flash of intelligence, a dumb announcement of affinity\n_in posse_ between herself and him, which, so far as Jude Fawley was\nconcerned, had no sort of premeditation in it. She saw that he had\nsingled her out from the three, as a woman is singled out in such\ncases, for no reasoned purpose of further acquaintance, but in\ncommonplace obedience to conjunctive orders from headquarters,\nunconsciously received by unfortunate men when the last intention of\ntheir lives is to be occupied with the feminine.\n\nSpringing to her feet, she said:  Bring back what is lying there. \n\nJude was now aware that no message on any matter connected with her\nfather s business had prompted her signal to him. He set down his\nbasket of tools, picked up the scrap of offal, beat a pathway for\nhimself with his stick, and got over the hedge. They walked in parallel\nlines, one on each bank of the stream, towards the small plank bridge.\nAs the girl drew nearer to it, she gave without Jude perceiving it, an\nadroit little suck to the interior of each of her cheeks in succession,\nby which curious and original man uvre she brought as by magic upon its\nsmooth and rotund surface a perfect dimple, which she was able to\nretain there as long as she continued to smile. This production of\ndimples at will was a not unknown operation, which many attempted, but\nonly a few succeeded in accomplishing.\n\nThey met in the middle of the plank, and Jude, tossing back her\nmissile, seemed to expect her to explain why she had audaciously\nstopped him by this novel artillery instead of by hailing him.\n\nBut she, slyly looking in another direction, swayed herself backwards\nand forwards on her hand as it clutched the rail of the bridge; till,\nmoved by amatory curiosity, she turned her eyes critically upon him.\n\n You don t think _I_ would shy things at you? \n\n Oh no. \n\n We are doing this for my father, who naturally doesn t want anything\nthrown away. He makes that into dubbin.  She nodded towards the\nfragment on the grass.\n\n What made either of the others throw it, I wonder?  Jude asked,\npolitely accepting her assertion, though he had very large doubts as to\nits truth.\n\n Impudence. Don t tell folk it was I, mind! \n\n How can I? I don t know your name. \n\n Ah, no. Shall I tell it to you? \n\n Do! \n\n Arabella Donn. I m living here. \n\n I must have known it if I had often come this way. But I mostly go\nstraight along the high-road. \n\n My father is a pig-breeder, and these girls are helping me wash the\ninnerds for black-puddings and such like. \n\nThey talked a little more and a little more, as they stood regarding\neach other and leaning against the hand-rail of the bridge. The\nunvoiced call of woman to man, which was uttered very distinctly by\nArabella s personality, held Jude to the spot against his\nintention almost against his will, and in a way new to his experience.\nIt is scarcely an exaggeration to say that till this moment Jude had\nnever looked at a woman to consider her as such, but had vaguely\nregarded the sex as beings outside his life and purposes. He gazed from\nher eyes to her mouth, thence to her bosom, and to her full round naked\narms, wet, mottled with the chill of the water, and firm as marble.\n\n What a nice-looking girl you are!  he murmured, though the words had\nnot been necessary to express his sense of her magnetism.\n\n Ah, you should see me Sundays!  she said piquantly.\n\n I don t suppose I could?  he answered\n\n That s for you to think on. There s nobody after me just now, though\nthere med be in a week or two.  She had spoken this without a smile,\nand the dimples disappeared.\n\nJude felt himself drifting strangely, but could not help it.  Will you\nlet me? \n\n I don t mind. \n\nBy this time she had managed to get back one dimple by turning her face\naside for a moment and repeating the odd little sucking operation\nbefore mentioned, Jude being still unconscious of more than a general\nimpression of her appearance.  Next Sunday?  he hazarded.  To-morrow,\nthat is? \n\n Yes. \n\n Shall I call? \n\n Yes. \n\nShe brightened with a little glow of triumph, swept him almost tenderly\nwith her eyes in turning, and retracing her steps down the brookside\ngrass rejoined her companions.\n\nJude Fawley shouldered his tool-basket and resumed his lonely way,\nfilled with an ardour at which he mentally stood at gaze. He had just\ninhaled a single breath from a new atmosphere, which had evidently been\nhanging round him everywhere he went, for he knew not how long, but had\nsomehow been divided from his actual breathing as by a sheet of glass.\nThe intentions as to reading, working, and learning, which he had so\nprecisely formulated only a few minutes earlier, were suffering a\ncurious collapse into a corner, he knew not how.\n\n Well, it s only a bit of fun,  he said to himself, faintly conscious\nthat to common sense there was something lacking, and still more\nobviously something redundant in the nature of this girl who had drawn\nhim to her which made it necessary that he should assert mere\nsportiveness on his part as his reason in seeking her something in her\nquite antipathetic to that side of him which had been occupied with\nliterary study and the magnificent Christminster dream. It had been no\nvestal who chose _that_ missile for opening her attack on him. He saw\nthis with his intellectual eye, just for a short fleeting while, as by\nthe light of a falling lamp one might momentarily see an inscription on\na wall before being enshrouded in darkness. And then this passing\ndiscriminative power was withdrawn, and Jude was lost to all conditions\nof things in the advent of a fresh and wild pleasure, that of having\nfound a new channel for emotional interest hitherto unsuspected, though\nit had lain close beside him. He was to meet this enkindling one of the\nother sex on the following Sunday.\n\nMeanwhile the girl had joined her companions, and she silently resumed\nher flicking and sousing of the chitterlings in the pellucid stream.\n\n Catched un, my dear?  laconically asked the girl called Anny.\n\n I don t know. I wish I had thrown something else than that! \nregretfully murmured Arabella.\n\n Lord! he s nobody, though you med think so. He used to drive old\nDrusilla Fawley s bread-cart out at Marygreen, till he  prenticed\nhimself at Alfredston. Since then he s been very stuck up, and always\nreading. He wants to be a scholar, they say. \n\n Oh, I don t care what he is, or anything about  n. Don t you think it,\nmy child! \n\n Oh, don t ye! You needn t try to deceive us! What did you stay talking\nto him for, if you didn t want un? Whether you do or whether you don t,\nhe s as simple as a child. I could see it as you courted on the bridge,\nwhen he looked at  ee as if he had never seen a woman before in his\nborn days. Well, he s to be had by any woman who can get him to care\nfor her a bit, if she likes to set herself to catch him the right way. \n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nThe next day Jude Fawley was pausing in his bedroom with the sloping\nceiling, looking at the books on the table, and then at the black mark\non the plaster above them, made by the smoke of his lamp in past\nmonths.\n\nIt was Sunday afternoon, four-and-twenty hours after his meeting with\nArabella Donn. During the whole bygone week he had been resolving to\nset this afternoon apart for a special purpose, the re-reading of his\nGreek Testament his new one, with better type than his old copy,\nfollowing Griesbach s text as amended by numerous correctors, and with\nvariorum readings in the margin. He was proud of the book, having\nobtained it by boldly writing to its London publisher, a thing he had\nnever done before.\n\nHe had anticipated much pleasure in this afternoon s reading, under the\nquiet roof of his great-aunt s house as formerly, where he now slept\nonly two nights a week. But a new thing, a great hitch, had happened\nyesterday in the gliding and noiseless current of his life, and he felt\nas a snake must feel who has sloughed off its winter skin, and cannot\nunderstand the brightness and sensitiveness of its new one.\n\nHe would not go out to meet her, after all. He sat down, opened the\nbook, and with his elbows firmly planted on the table, and his hands to\nhis temples, began at the beginning:\n\n     .\n\nHad he promised to call for her? Surely he had! She would wait indoors,\npoor girl, and waste all her afternoon on account of him. There was a\nsomething in her, too, which was very winning, apart from promises. He\nought not to break faith with her. Even though he had only Sundays and\nweek-day evenings for reading he could afford one afternoon, seeing\nthat other young men afforded so many. After to-day he would never\nprobably see her again. Indeed, it would be impossible, considering\nwhat his plans were.\n\nIn short, as if materially, a compelling arm of extraordinary muscular\npower seized hold of him something which had nothing in common with the\nspirits and influences that had moved him hitherto. This seemed to care\nlittle for his reason and his will, nothing for his so-called elevated\nintentions, and moved him along, as a violent schoolmaster a schoolboy\nhe has seized by the collar, in a direction which tended towards the\nembrace of a woman for whom he had no respect, and whose life had\nnothing in common with his own except locality.\n\n      was no more heeded, and the predestinate Jude sprang up\nand across the room. Foreseeing such an event he had already arrayed\nhimself in his best clothes. In three minutes he was out of the house\nand descending by the path across the wide vacant hollow of corn-ground\nwhich lay between the village and the isolated house of Arabella in the\ndip beyond the upland.\n\nAs he walked he looked at his watch. He could be back in two hours,\neasily, and a good long time would still remain to him for reading\nafter tea.\n\nPassing the few unhealthy fir-trees and cottage where the path joined\nthe highway he hastened along, and struck away to the left, descending\nthe steep side of the country to the west of the Brown House. Here at\nthe base of the chalk formation he neared the brook that oozed from it,\nand followed the stream till he reached her dwelling. A smell of\npiggeries came from the back, and the grunting of the originators of\nthat smell. He entered the garden, and knocked at the door with the\nknob of his stick.\n\nSomebody had seen him through the window, for a male voice on the\ninside said:\n\n Arabella! Here s your young man come coorting! Mizzle, my girl! \n\nJude winced at the words. Courting in such a businesslike aspect as it\nevidently wore to the speaker was the last thing he was thinking of. He\nwas going to walk with her, perhaps kiss her; but  courting  was too\ncoolly purposeful to be anything but repugnant to his ideas. The door\nwas opened and he entered, just as Arabella came downstairs in radiant\nwalking attire.\n\n Take a chair, Mr. What s-your-name?  said her father, an energetic,\nblack-whiskered man, in the same businesslike tones Jude had heard from\noutside.\n\n I d rather go out at once, wouldn t you?  she whispered to Jude.\n\n Yes,  said he.  We ll walk up to the Brown House and back, we can do\nit in half an hour. \n\nArabella looked so handsome amid her untidy surroundings that he felt\nglad he had come, and all the misgivings vanished that had hitherto\nhaunted him.\n\nFirst they clambered to the top of the great down, during which ascent\nhe had occasionally to take her hand to assist her. Then they bore off\nto the left along the crest into the ridgeway, which they followed till\nit intersected the high-road at the Brown House aforesaid, the spot of\nhis former fervid desires to behold Christminster. But he forgot them\nnow. He talked the commonest local twaddle to Arabella with greater\nzest than he would have felt in discussing all the philosophies with\nall the Dons in the recently adored university, and passed the spot\nwhere he had knelt to Diana and Ph bus without remembering that there\nwere any such people in the mythology, or that the sun was anything\nelse than a useful lamp for illuminating Arabella s face. An\nindescribable lightness of heel served to lift him along; and Jude, the\nincipient scholar, prospective D.D., professor, bishop, or what not,\nfelt himself honoured and glorified by the condescension of this\nhandsome country wench in agreeing to take a walk with him in her\nSunday frock and ribbons.\n\nThey reached the Brown House barn the point at which he had planned to\nturn back. While looking over the vast northern landscape from this\nspot they were struck by the rising of a dense volume of smoke from the\nneighbourhood of the little town which lay beneath them at a distance\nof a couple of miles.\n\n It is a fire,  said Arabella.  Let s run and see it do! It is not\nfar! \n\nThe tenderness which had grown up in Jude s bosom left him no will to\nthwart her inclination now which pleased him in affording him excuse\nfor a longer time with her. They started off down the hill almost at a\ntrot; but on gaining level ground at the bottom, and walking a mile,\nthey found that the spot of the fire was much further off than it had\nseemed.\n\nHaving begun their journey, however, they pushed on; but it was not\ntill five o clock that they found themselves on the scene, the distance\nbeing altogether about half-a-dozen miles from Marygreen, and three\nfrom Arabella s. The conflagration had been got under by the time they\nreached it, and after a short inspection of the melancholy ruins they\nretraced their steps their course lying through the town of Alfredston.\n\nArabella said she would like some tea, and they entered an inn of an\ninferior class, and gave their order. As it was not for beer they had a\nlong time to wait. The maid-servant recognized Jude, and whispered her\nsurprise to her mistress in the background, that he, the student  who\nkept hisself up so particular,  should have suddenly descended so low\nas to keep company with Arabella. The latter guessed what was being\nsaid, and laughed as she met the serious and tender gaze of her\nlover the low and triumphant laugh of a careless woman who sees she is\nwinning her game.\n\nThey sat and looked round the room, and at the picture of Samson and\nDelilah which hung on the wall, and at the circular beer-stains on the\ntable, and at the spittoons underfoot filled with sawdust. The whole\naspect of the scene had that depressing effect on Jude which few places\ncan produce like a tap-room on a Sunday evening when the setting sun is\nslanting in, and no liquor is going, and the unfortunate wayfarer finds\nhimself with no other haven of rest.\n\nIt began to grow dusk. They could not wait longer, really, for the tea,\nthey said.  Yet what else can we do?  asked Jude.  It is a three-mile\nwalk for you. \n\n I suppose we can have some beer,  said Arabella.\n\n Beer, oh yes. I had forgotten that. Somehow it seems odd to come to a\npublic-house for beer on a Sunday evening. \n\n But we didn t. \n\n No, we didn t.  Jude by this time wished he was out of such an\nuncongenial atmosphere; but he ordered the beer, which was promptly\nbrought.\n\nArabella tasted it.  Ugh!  she said.\n\nJude tasted.  What s the matter with it?  he asked.  I don t understand\nbeer very much now, it is true. I like it well enough, but it is bad to\nread on, and I find coffee better. But this seems all right. \n\n Adulterated I can t touch it!  She mentioned three or four ingredients\nthat she detected in the liquor beyond malt and hops, much to Jude s\nsurprise.\n\n How much you know!  he said good-humouredly.\n\nNevertheless she returned to the beer and drank her share, and they\nwent on their way. It was now nearly dark, and as soon as they had\nwithdrawn from the lights of the town they walked closer together, till\nthey touched each other. She wondered why he did not put his arm round\nher waist, but he did not; he merely said what to himself seemed a\nquite bold enough thing:  Take my arm. \n\nShe took it, thoroughly, up to the shoulder. He felt the warmth of her\nbody against his, and putting his stick under his other arm held with\nhis right hand her right as it rested in its place.\n\n Now we are well together, dear, aren t we?  he observed.\n\n Yes,  said she; adding to herself:  Rather mild! \n\n How fast I have become!  he was thinking.\n\nThus they walked till they reached the foot of the upland, where they\ncould see the white highway ascending before them in the gloom. From\nthis point the only way of getting to Arabella s was by going up the\nincline, and dipping again into her valley on the right. Before they\nhad climbed far they were nearly run into by two men who had been\nwalking on the grass unseen.\n\n These lovers you find  em out o  doors in all seasons and\nweathers lovers and homeless dogs only,  said one of the men as they\nvanished down the hill.\n\nArabella tittered lightly.\n\n Are we lovers?  asked Jude.\n\n You know best. \n\n But you can tell me? \n\nFor answer she inclined her head upon his shoulder. Jude took the hint,\nand encircling her waist with his arm, pulled her to him and kissed\nher.\n\nThey walked now no longer arm in arm but, as she had desired, clasped\ntogether. After all, what did it matter since it was dark, said Jude to\nhimself. When they were half-way up the long hill they paused as by\narrangement, and he kissed her again. They reached the top, and he\nkissed her once more.\n\n You can keep your arm there, if you would like to,  she said gently.\n\nHe did so, thinking how trusting she was.\n\nThus they slowly went towards her home. He had left his cottage at\nhalf-past three, intending to be sitting down again to the New\nTestament by half-past five. It was nine o clock when, with another\nembrace, he stood to deliver her up at her father s door.\n\nShe asked him to come in, if only for a minute, as it would seem so odd\notherwise, and as if she had been out alone in the dark. He gave way,\nand followed her in. Immediately that the door was opened he found, in\naddition to her parents, several neighbours sitting round. They all\nspoke in a congratulatory manner, and took him seriously as Arabella s\nintended partner.\n\nThey did not belong to his set or circle, and he felt out of place and\nembarrassed. He had not meant this: a mere afternoon of pleasant\nwalking with Arabella, that was all he had meant. He did not stay\nlonger than to speak to her stepmother, a simple, quiet woman without\nfeatures or character; and bidding them all good night plunged with a\nsense of relief into the track over the down.\n\nBut that sense was only temporary: Arabella soon re-asserted her sway\nin his soul. He walked as if he felt himself to be another man from the\nJude of yesterday. What were his books to him? what were his\nintentions, hitherto adhered to so strictly, as to not wasting a single\nminute of time day by day?  Wasting!  It depended on your point of view\nto define that: he was just living for the first time: not wasting\nlife. It was better to love a woman than to be a graduate, or a parson;\nay, or a pope!\n\nWhen he got back to the house his aunt had gone to bed, and a general\nconsciousness of his neglect seemed written on the face of all things\nconfronting him. He went upstairs without a light, and the dim interior\nof his room accosted him with sad inquiry. There lay his book open,\njust as he had left it, and the capital letters on the title-page\nregarded him with fixed reproach in the grey starlight, like the\nunclosed eyes of a dead man:\n\n     .\n\n\n*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *\n\nJude had to leave early next morning for his usual week of absence at\nlodgings; and it was with a sense of futility that he threw into his\nbasket upon his tools and other necessaries the unread book he had\nbrought with him.\n\nHe kept his impassioned doings a secret almost from himself. Arabella,\non the contrary, made them public among all her friends and\nacquaintances.\n\nRetracing by the light of dawn the road he had followed a few hours\nearlier under cover of darkness, with his sweetheart by his side, he\nreached the bottom of the hill, where he walked slowly, and stood\nstill. He was on the spot where he had given her the first kiss. As the\nsun had only just risen it was possible that nobody had passed there\nsince. Jude looked on the ground and sighed. He looked closely, and\ncould just discern in the damp dust the imprints of their feet as they\nhad stood locked in each other s arms. She was not there now, and  the\nembroidery of imagination upon the stuff of nature  so depicted her\npast presence that a void was in his heart which nothing could fill. A\npollard willow stood close to the place, and that willow was different\nfrom all other willows in the world. Utter annihilation of the six days\nwhich must elapse before he could see her again as he had promised\nwould have been his intensest wish if he had had only the week to live.\n\nAn hour and a half later Arabella came along the same way with her two\ncompanions of the Saturday. She passed unheedingly the scene of the\nkiss, and the willow that marked it, though chattering freely on the\nsubject to the other two.\n\n And what did he tell  ee next? \n\n Then he said  And she related almost word for word some of his\ntenderest speeches. If Jude had been behind the fence he would have\nfelt not a little surprised at learning how very few of his sayings and\ndoings on the previous evening were private.\n\n You ve got him to care for  ee a bit,  nation if you han t!  murmured\nAnny judicially.  It s well to be you! \n\nIn a few moments Arabella replied in a curiously low, hungry tone of\nlatent sensuousness:  I ve got him to care for me: yes! But I want him\nto more than care for me; I want him to have me to marry me! I must\nhave him. I can t do without him. He s the sort of man I long for. I\nshall go mad if I can t give myself to him altogether! I felt I should\nwhen I first saw him! \n\n As he is a romancing, straightfor ard, honest chap, he s to be had,\nand as a husband, if you set about catching him in the right way. \n\nArabella remained thinking awhile.  What med be the right way?  she\nasked.\n\n Oh you don t know you don t!  said Sarah, the third girl.\n\n On my word I don t! No further, that is, than by plain courting, and\ntaking care he don t go too far! \n\nThe third girl looked at the second.  She _don t_ know! \n\n Tis clear she don t!  said Anny.\n\n And having lived in a town, too, as one may say! Well, we can teach\n ee som at then, as well as you us. \n\n Yes. And how do you mean a sure way to gain a man? Take me for an\ninnocent, and have done wi  it! \n\n As a husband. \n\n As a husband. \n\n A countryman that s honourable and serious-minded such as he; God\nforbid that I should say a sojer, or sailor, or commercial gent from\nthe towns, or any of them that be slippery with poor women! I d do no\nfriend that harm! \n\n Well, such as he, of course! \n\nArabella s companions looked at each other, and turning up their eyes\nin drollery began smirking. Then one went up close to Arabella, and,\nalthough nobody was near, imparted some information in a low tone, the\nother observing curiously the effect upon Arabella.\n\n Ah!  said the last-named slowly.  I own I didn t think of that way!  \nBut suppose he _isn t_ honourable? A woman had better not have tried\nit! \n\n Nothing venture nothing have! Besides, you make sure that he s\nhonourable before you begin. You d be safe enough with yours. I wish I\nhad the chance! Lots of girls do it; or do you think they d get married\nat all? \n\nArabella pursued her way in silent thought.  I ll try it!  she\nwhispered; but not to them.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nOne week s end Jude was as usual walking out to his aunt s at Marygreen\nfrom his lodging in Alfredston, a walk which now had large attractions\nfor him quite other than his desire to see his aged and morose\nrelative. He diverged to the right before ascending the hill with the\nsingle purpose of gaining, on his way, a glimpse of Arabella that\nshould not come into the reckoning of regular appointments. Before\nquite reaching the homestead his alert eye perceived the top of her\nhead moving quickly hither and thither over the garden hedge. Entering\nthe gate he found that three young unfattened pigs had escaped from\ntheir sty by leaping clean over the top, and that she was endeavouring\nunassisted to drive them in through the door which she had set open.\nThe lines of her countenance changed from the rigidity of business to\nthe softness of love when she saw Jude, and she bent her eyes\nlanguishingly upon him. The animals took advantage of the pause by\ndoubling and bolting out of the way.\n\n They were only put in this morning!  she cried, stimulated to pursue\nin spite of her lover s presence.  They were drove from Spaddleholt\nFarm only yesterday, where Father bought  em at a stiff price enough.\nThey are wanting to get home again, the stupid toads! Will you shut the\ngarden gate, dear, and help me to get  em in. There are no men folk at\nhome, only Mother, and they ll be lost if we don t mind. \n\nHe set himself to assist, and dodged this way and that over the potato\nrows and the cabbages. Every now and then they ran together, when he\ncaught her for a moment and kissed her. The first pig was got back\npromptly; the second with some difficulty; the third a long-legged\ncreature, was more obstinate and agile. He plunged through a hole in\nthe garden hedge, and into the lane.\n\n He ll be lost if I don t follow  n!  said she.  Come along with me! \n\nShe rushed in full pursuit out of the garden, Jude alongside her,\nbarely contriving to keep the fugitive in sight. Occasionally they\nwould shout to some boy to stop the animal, but he always wriggled past\nand ran on as before.\n\n Let me take your hand, darling,  said Jude.  You are getting out of\nbreath.  She gave him her now hot hand with apparent willingness, and\nthey trotted along together.\n\n This comes of driving  em home,  she remarked.  They always know the\nway back if you do that. They ought to have been carted over. \n\nBy this time the pig had reached an unfastened gate admitting to the\nopen down, across which he sped with all the agility his little legs\nafforded. As soon as the pursuers had entered and ascended to the top\nof the high ground it became apparent that they would have to run all\nthe way to the farmer s if they wished to get at him. From this summit\nhe could be seen as a minute speck, following an unerring line towards\nhis old home.\n\n It is no good!  cried Arabella.  He ll be there long before we get\nthere. It don t matter now we know he s not lost or stolen on the way.\nThey ll see it is ours, and send un back. Oh dear, how hot I be! \n\nWithout relinquishing her hold of Jude s hand she swerved aside and\nflung herself down on the sod under a stunted thorn, precipitately\npulling Jude on to his knees at the same time.\n\n Oh, I ask pardon I nearly threw you down, didn t I! But I am so\ntired! \n\nShe lay supine, and straight as an arrow, on the sloping sod of this\nhill-top, gazing up into the blue miles of sky, and still retaining her\nwarm hold of Jude s hand. He reclined on his elbow near her.\n\n We ve run all this way for nothing,  she went on, her form heaving and\nfalling in quick pants, her face flushed, her full red lips parted, and\na fine dew of perspiration on her skin.  Well why don t you speak,\ndeary? \n\n I m blown too. It was all up hill. \n\nThey were in absolute solitude the most apparent of all solitudes, that\nof empty surrounding space. Nobody could be nearer than a mile to them\nwithout their seeing him. They were, in fact, on one of the summits of\nthe county, and the distant landscape around Christminster could be\ndiscerned from where they lay. But Jude did not think of that then.\n\n Oh, I can see such a pretty thing up this tree,  said Arabella.  A\nsort of a caterpillar, of the most loveliest green and yellow you ever\ncame across! \n\n Where?  said Jude, sitting up.\n\n You can t see him there you must come here,  said she.\n\nHe bent nearer and put his head in front of hers.  No I can t see it, \nhe said.\n\n Why, on the limb there where it branches off close to the moving\nleaf there!  She gently pulled him down beside her.\n\n I don t see it,  he repeated, the back of his head against her cheek.\n But I can, perhaps, standing up.  He stood accordingly, placing\nhimself in the direct line of her gaze.\n\n How stupid you are!  she said crossly, turning away her face.\n\n I don t care to see it, dear: why should I?  he replied looking down\nupon her.  Get up, Abby. \n\n Why? \n\n I want you to let me kiss you. I ve been waiting to ever so long! \n\nShe rolled round her face, remained a moment looking deedily aslant at\nhim; then with a slight curl of the lip sprang to her feet, and\nexclaiming abruptly  I must mizzle!  walked off quickly homeward. Jude\nfollowed and rejoined her.\n\n Just one!  he coaxed.\n\n Shan t!  she said.\n\nHe, surprised:  What s the matter? \n\nShe kept her two lips resentfully together, and Jude followed her like\na pet lamb till she slackened her pace and walked beside him, talking\ncalmly on indifferent subjects, and always checking him if he tried to\ntake her hand or clasp her waist. Thus they descended to the precincts\nof her father s homestead, and Arabella went in, nodding good-bye to\nhim with a supercilious, affronted air.\n\n I expect I took too much liberty with her, somehow,  Jude said to\nhimself, as he withdrew with a sigh and went on to Marygreen.\n\nOn Sunday morning the interior of Arabella s home was, as usual, the\nscene of a grand weekly cooking, the preparation of the special Sunday\ndinner. Her father was shaving before a little glass hung on the\nmullion of the window, and her mother and Arabella herself were\nshelling beans hard by. A neighbour passed on her way home from morning\nservice at the nearest church, and seeing Donn engaged at the window\nwith the razor, nodded and came in.\n\nShe at once spoke playfully to Arabella:  I zeed  ee running with\n un hee-hee! I hope  tis coming to something? \n\nArabella merely threw a look of consciousness into her face without\nraising her eyes.\n\n He s for Christminster, I hear, as soon as he can get there. \n\n Have you heard that lately quite lately?  asked Arabella with a\njealous, tigerish indrawing of breath.\n\n Oh no! But it has been known a long time that it is his plan. He s\non y waiting here for an opening. Ah well: he must walk about with\nsomebody, I s pose. Young men don t mean much now-a-days.  Tis a sip\nhere and a sip there with  em.  Twas different in my time. \n\nWhen the gossip had departed Arabella said suddenly to her mother:  I\nwant you and Father to go and inquire how the Edlins be, this evening\nafter tea. Or no there s evening service at Fensworth you can walk to\nthat. \n\n Oh? What s up to-night, then? \n\n Nothing. Only I want the house to myself. He s shy; and I can t get un\nto come in when you are here. I shall let him slip through my fingers\nif I don t mind, much as I care for  n! \n\n If it is fine we med as well go, since you wish. \n\nIn the afternoon Arabella met and walked with Jude, who had now for\nweeks ceased to look into a book of Greek, Latin, or any other tongue.\nThey wandered up the slopes till they reached the green track along the\nridge, which they followed to the circular British earth-bank\nadjoining, Jude thinking of the great age of the trackway, and of the\ndrovers who had frequented it, probably before the Romans knew the\ncountry. Up from the level lands below them floated the chime of church\nbells. Presently they were reduced to one note, which quickened, and\nstopped.\n\n Now we ll go back,  said Arabella, who had attended to the sounds.\n\nJude assented. So long as he was near her he minded little where he\nwas. When they arrived at her house he said lingeringly:  I won t come\nin. Why are you in such a hurry to go in to-night? It is not near\ndark. \n\n Wait a moment,  said she. She tried the handle of the door and found\nit locked.\n\n Ah they are gone to church,  she added. And searching behind the\nscraper she found the key and unlocked the door.  Now, you ll come in a\nmoment?  she asked lightly.  We shall be all alone. \n\n Certainly,  said Jude with alacrity, the case being unexpectedly\naltered.\n\nIndoors they went. Did he want any tea? No, it was too late: he would\nrather sit and talk to her. She took off her jacket and hat, and they\nsat down naturally enough close together.\n\n Don t touch me, please,  she said softly.  I am part egg-shell. Or\nperhaps I had better put it in a safe place.  She began unfastening the\ncollar of her gown.\n\n What is it?  said her lover.\n\n An egg a cochin s egg. I am hatching a very rare sort. I carry it\nabout everywhere with me, and it will get hatched in less than three\nweeks. \n\n Where do you carry it? \n\n Just here.  She put her hand into her bosom and drew out the egg,\nwhich was wrapped in wool, outside it being a piece of pig s bladder,\nin case of accidents. Having exhibited it to him she put it back,  Now\nmind you don t come near me. I don t want to get it broke, and have to\nbegin another. \n\n Why do you do such a strange thing? \n\n It s an old custom. I suppose it is natural for a woman to want to\nbring live things into the world. \n\n It is very awkward for me just now,  he said, laughing.\n\n It serves you right. There that s all you can have of me \n\nShe had turned round her chair, and, reaching over the back of it,\npresented her cheek to him gingerly.\n\n That s very shabby of you! \n\n You should have catched me a minute ago when I had put the egg down!\nThere!  she said defiantly,  I am without it now!  She had quickly\nwithdrawn the egg a second time; but before he could quite reach her\nshe had put it back as quickly, laughing with the excitement of her\nstrategy. Then there was a little struggle, Jude making a plunge for it\nand capturing it triumphantly. Her face flushed; and becoming suddenly\nconscious he flushed also.\n\nThey looked at each other, panting; till he rose and said:  One kiss,\nnow I can do it without damage to property; and I ll go! \n\nBut she had jumped up too.  You must find me first!  she cried.\n\nHer lover followed her as she withdrew. It was now dark inside the\nroom, and the window being small he could not discover for a long time\nwhat had become of her, till a laugh revealed her to have rushed up the\nstairs, whither Jude rushed at her heels.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nIt was some two months later in the year, and the pair had met\nconstantly during the interval. Arabella seemed dissatisfied; she was\nalways imagining, and waiting, and wondering.\n\nOne day she met the itinerant Vilbert. She, like all the cottagers\nthereabout, knew the quack well, and she began telling him of her\nexperiences. Arabella had been gloomy, but before he left her she had\ngrown brighter. That evening she kept an appointment with Jude, who\nseemed sad.\n\n I am going away,  he said to her.  I think I ought to go. I think it\nwill be better both for you and for me. I wish some things had never\nbegun! I was much to blame, I know. But it is never too late to mend. \n\nArabella began to cry.  How do you know it is not too late?  she said.\n That s all very well to say! I haven t told you yet!  and she looked\ninto his face with streaming eyes.\n\n What?  he asked, turning pale.  Not ? \n\n Yes! And what shall I do if you desert me? \n\n Oh, Arabella how can you say that, my dear! You _know_ I wouldn t\ndesert you! \n\n Well then \n\n I have next to no wages as yet, you know; or perhaps I should have\nthought of this before  But, of course if that s the case, we must\nmarry! What other thing do you think I could dream of doing? \n\n I thought I thought, deary, perhaps you would go away all the more for\nthat, and leave me to face it alone! \n\n You knew better! Of course I never dreamt six months ago, or even\nthree, of marrying. It is a complete smashing up of my plans I mean my\nplans before I knew you, my dear. But what are they, after all! Dreams\nabout books, and degrees, and impossible fellowships, and all that.\nCertainly we ll marry: we must! \n\nThat night he went out alone, and walked in the dark self-communing. He\nknew well, too well, in the secret centre of his brain, that Arabella\nwas not worth a great deal as a specimen of womankind. Yet, such being\nthe custom of the rural districts among honourable young men who had\ndrifted so far into intimacy with a woman as he unfortunately had done,\nhe was ready to abide by what he had said, and take the consequences.\nFor his own soothing he kept up a factitious belief in her. His idea of\nher was the thing of most consequence, not Arabella herself, he\nsometimes said laconically.\n\nThe banns were put in and published the very next Sunday. The people of\nthe parish all said what a simple fool young Fawley was. All his\nreading had only come to this, that he would have to sell his books to\nbuy saucepans. Those who guessed the probable state of affairs,\nArabella s parents being among them, declared that it was the sort of\nconduct they would have expected of such an honest young man as Jude in\nreparation of the wrong he had done his innocent sweetheart. The parson\nwho married them seemed to think it satisfactory too. And so, standing\nbefore the aforesaid officiator, the two swore that at every other time\nof their lives till death took them, they would assuredly believe,\nfeel, and desire precisely as they had believed, felt, and desired\nduring the few preceding weeks. What was as remarkable as the\nundertaking itself was the fact that nobody seemed at all surprised at\nwhat they swore.\n\nFawley s aunt being a baker she made him a bride-cake, saying bitterly\nthat it was the last thing she could do for him, poor silly fellow; and\nthat it would have been far better if, instead of his living to trouble\nher, he had gone underground years before with his father and mother.\nOf this cake Arabella took some slices, wrapped them up in white\nnote-paper, and sent them to her companions in the pork-dressing\nbusiness, Anny and Sarah, labelling each packet  _In remembrance of\ngood advice_. \n\nThe prospects of the newly married couple were certainly not very\nbrilliant even to the most sanguine mind. He, a stone-mason s\napprentice, nineteen years of age, was working for half wages till he\nshould be out of his time. His wife was absolutely useless in a\ntown-lodging, where he at first had considered it would be necessary\nfor them to live. But the urgent need of adding to income in ever so\nlittle a degree caused him to take a lonely roadside cottage between\nthe Brown House and Marygreen, that he might have the profits of a\nvegetable garden, and utilize her past experiences by letting her keep\na pig. But it was not the sort of life he had bargained for, and it was\na long way to walk to and from Alfredston every day. Arabella, however,\nfelt that all these make-shifts were temporary; she had gained a\nhusband; that was the thing a husband with a lot of earning power in\nhim for buying her frocks and hats when he should begin to get\nfrightened a bit, and stick to his trade, and throw aside those stupid\nbooks for practical undertakings.\n\nSo to the cottage he took her on the evening of the marriage, giving up\nhis old room at his aunt s where so much of the hard labour at Greek\nand Latin had been carried on.\n\nA little chill overspread him at her first unrobing. A long tail of\nhair, which Arabella wore twisted up in an enormous knob at the back of\nher head, was deliberately unfastened, stroked out, and hung upon the\nlooking-glass which he had bought her.\n\n What it wasn t your own?  he said, with a sudden distaste for her.\n\n Oh no it never is nowadays with the better class. \n\n Nonsense! Perhaps not in towns. But in the country it is supposed to\nbe different. Besides, you ve enough of your own, surely? \n\n Yes, enough as country notions go. But in town the men expect more,\nand when I was barmaid at Aldbrickham \n\n Barmaid at Aldbrickham? \n\n Well, not exactly barmaid I used to draw the drink at a public-house\nthere just for a little time; that was all. Some people put me up to\ngetting this, and I bought it just for a fancy. The more you have the\nbetter in Aldbrickham, which is a finer town than all your\nChristminsters. Every lady of position wears false hair the barber s\nassistant told me so. \n\nJude thought with a feeling of sickness that though this might be true\nto some extent, for all that he knew, many unsophisticated girls would\nand did go to towns and remain there for years without losing their\nsimplicity of life and embellishments. Others, alas, had an instinct\ntowards artificiality in their very blood, and became adepts in\ncounterfeiting at the first glimpse of it. However, perhaps there was\nno great sin in a woman adding to her hair, and he resolved to think no\nmore of it.\n\nA new-made wife can usually manage to excite interest for a few weeks,\neven though the prospects of the household ways and means are cloudy.\nThere is a certain piquancy about her situation, and her manner to her\nacquaintance at the sense of it, which carries off the gloom of facts,\nand renders even the humblest bride independent awhile of the real.\nMrs. Jude Fawley was walking in the streets of Alfredston one\nmarket-day with this quality in her carriage when she met Anny her\nformer friend, whom she had not seen since the wedding.\n\nAs usual they laughed before talking; the world seemed funny to them\nwithout saying it.\n\n So it turned out a good plan, you see!  remarked the girl to the wife.\n I knew it would with such as him. He s a dear good fellow, and you\nought to be proud of un. \n\n I am,  said Mrs. Fawley quietly.\n\n And when do you expect? \n\n Ssh! Not at all. \n\n What! \n\n I was mistaken. \n\n Oh, Arabella, Arabella; you be a deep one! Mistaken! well, that s\nclever it s a real stroke of genius! It is a thing I never thought o ,\nwi  all my experience! I never thought beyond bringing about the real\nthing not that one could sham it! \n\n Don t you be too quick to cry sham!  Twasn t sham. I didn t know. \n\n My word won t he be in a taking! He ll give it to  ee o  Saturday\nnights! Whatever it was, he ll say it was a trick a double one, by the\nLord! \n\n I ll own to the first, but not to the second  Pooh he won t care!\nHe ll be glad I was wrong in what I said. He ll shake down, bless\n ee men always do. What can  em do otherwise? Married is married. \n\nNevertheless it was with a little uneasiness that Arabella approached\nthe time when in the natural course of things she would have to reveal\nthat the alarm she had raised had been without foundation. The occasion\nwas one evening at bedtime, and they were in their chamber in the\nlonely cottage by the wayside to which Jude walked home from his work\nevery day. He had worked hard the whole twelve hours, and had retired\nto rest before his wife. When she came into the room he was between\nsleeping and waking, and was barely conscious of her undressing before\nthe little looking-glass as he lay.\n\nOne action of hers, however, brought him to full cognition. Her face\nbeing reflected towards him as she sat, he could perceive that she was\namusing herself by artificially producing in each cheek the dimple\nbefore alluded to, a curious accomplishment of which she was mistress,\neffecting it by a momentary suction. It seemed to him for the first\ntime that the dimples were far oftener absent from her face during his\nintercourse with her nowadays than they had been in the earlier weeks\nof their acquaintance.\n\n Don t do that, Arabella!  he said suddenly.  There is no harm in it,\nbut I don t like to see you. \n\nShe turned and laughed.  Lord, I didn t know you were awake!  she said.\n How countrified you are! That s nothing. \n\n Where did you learn it? \n\n Nowhere that I know of. They used to stay without any trouble when I\nwas at the public-house; but now they won t. My face was fatter then. \n\n I don t care about dimples. I don t think they improve a\nwoman particularly a married woman, and of full-sized figure like you. \n\n Most men think otherwise. \n\n I don t care what most men think, if they do. How do you know? \n\n I used to be told so when I was serving in the tap-room. \n\n Ah that public-house experience accounts for your knowing about the\nadulteration of the ale when we went and had some that Sunday evening.\nI thought when I married you that you had always lived in your father s\nhouse. \n\n You ought to have known better than that, and seen I was a little more\nfinished than I could have been by staying where I was born. There was\nnot much to do at home, and I was eating my head off, so I went away\nfor three months. \n\n You ll soon have plenty to do now, dear, won t you? \n\n How do you mean? \n\n Why, of course little things to make. \n\n Oh. \n\n When will it be? Can t you tell me exactly, instead of in such general\nterms as you have used? \n\n Tell you? \n\n Yes the date. \n\n There s nothing to tell. I made a mistake. \n\n What? \n\n It was a mistake. \n\nHe sat bolt upright in bed and looked at her.  How can that be? \n\n Women fancy wrong things sometimes. \n\n But ! Why, of course, so unprepared as I was, without a stick of\nfurniture, and hardly a shilling, I shouldn t have hurried on our\naffair, and brought you to a half-furnished hut before I was ready, if\nit had not been for the news you gave me, which made it necessary to\nsave you, ready or no  Good God! \n\n Don t take on, dear. What s done can t be undone. \n\n I have no more to say! \n\nHe gave the answer simply, and lay down; and there was silence between\nthem.\n\nWhen Jude awoke the next morning he seemed to see the world with a\ndifferent eye. As to the point in question he was compelled to accept\nher word; in the circumstances he could not have acted otherwise while\nordinary notions prevailed. But how came they to prevail?\n\nThere seemed to him, vaguely and dimly, something wrong in a social\nritual which made necessary a cancelling of well-formed schemes\ninvolving years of thought and labour, of foregoing a man s one\nopportunity of showing himself superior to the lower animals, and of\ncontributing his units of work to the general progress of his\ngeneration, because of a momentary surprise by a new and transitory\ninstinct which had nothing in it of the nature of vice, and could be\nonly at the most called weakness. He was inclined to inquire what he\nhad done, or she lost, for that matter, that he deserved to be caught\nin a gin which would cripple him, if not her also, for the rest of a\nlifetime? There was perhaps something fortunate in the fact that the\nimmediate reason of his marriage had proved to be non-existent. But the\nmarriage remained.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nThe time arrived for killing the pig which Jude and his wife had\nfattened in their sty during the autumn months, and the butchering was\ntimed to take place as soon as it was light in the morning, so that\nJude might get to Alfredston without losing more than a quarter of a\nday.\n\nThe night had seemed strangely silent. Jude looked out of the window\nlong before dawn, and perceived that the ground was covered with\nsnow snow rather deep for the season, it seemed, a few flakes still\nfalling.\n\n I m afraid the pig-killer won t be able to come,  he said to Arabella.\n\n Oh, he ll come. You must get up and make the water hot, if you want\nChallow to scald him. Though I like singeing best. \n\n I ll get up,  said Jude.  I like the way of my own county. \n\nHe went downstairs, lit the fire under the copper, and began feeding it\nwith bean-stalks, all the time without a candle, the blaze flinging a\ncheerful shine into the room; though for him the sense of cheerfulness\nwas lessened by thoughts on the reason of that blaze to heat water to\nscald the bristles from the body of an animal that as yet lived, and\nwhose voice could be continually heard from a corner of the garden. At\nhalf-past six, the time of appointment with the butcher, the water\nboiled, and Jude s wife came downstairs.\n\n Is Challow come?  she asked.\n\n No. \n\nThey waited, and it grew lighter, with the dreary light of a snowy\ndawn. She went out, gazed along the road, and returning said,  He s not\ncoming. Drunk last night, I expect. The snow is not enough to hinder\nhim, surely! \n\n Then we must put it off. It is only the water boiled for nothing. The\nsnow may be deep in the valley. \n\n Can t be put off. There s no more victuals for the pig. He ate the\nlast mixing o  barleymeal yesterday morning. \n\n Yesterday morning? What has he lived on since? \n\n Nothing. \n\n What he has been starving? \n\n Yes. We always do it the last day or two, to save bother with the\ninnerds. What ignorance, not to know that! \n\n That accounts for his crying so. Poor creature! \n\n Well you must do the sticking there s no help for it. I ll show you\nhow. Or I ll do it myself I think I could. Though as it is such a big\npig I had rather Challow had done it. However, his basket o  knives and\nthings have been already sent on here, and we can use  em. \n\n Of course you shan t do it,  said Jude.  I ll do it, since it must be\ndone. \n\nHe went out to the sty, shovelled away the snow for the space of a\ncouple of yards or more, and placed the stool in front, with the knives\nand ropes at hand. A robin peered down at the preparations from the\nnearest tree, and, not liking the sinister look of the scene, flew\naway, though hungry. By this time Arabella had joined her husband, and\nJude, rope in hand, got into the sty, and noosed the affrighted animal,\nwho, beginning with a squeak of surprise, rose to repeated cries of\nrage. Arabella opened the sty-door, and together they hoisted the\nvictim on to the stool, legs upward, and while Jude held him Arabella\nbound him down, looping the cord over his legs to keep him from\nstruggling.\n\nThe animal s note changed its quality. It was not now rage, but the cry\nof despair; long-drawn, slow and hopeless.\n\n Upon my soul I would sooner have gone without the pig than have had\nthis to do!  said Jude.  A creature I have fed with my own hands. \n\n Don t be such a tender-hearted fool! There s the sticking-knife the\none with the point. Now whatever you do, don t stick un too deep. \n\n I ll stick him effectually, so as to make short work of it. That s the\nchief thing. \n\n You must not!  she cried.  The meat must be well bled, and to do that\nhe must die slow. We shall lose a shilling a score if the meat is red\nand bloody! Just touch the vein, that s all. I was brought up to it,\nand I know. Every good butcher keeps un bleeding long. He ought to be\neight or ten minutes dying, at least. \n\n He shall not be half a minute if I can help it, however the meat may\nlook,  said Jude determinedly. Scraping the bristles from the pig s\nupturned throat, as he had seen the butchers do, he slit the fat; then\nplunged in the knife with all his might.\n\n Od damn it all!  she cried,  that ever I should say it! You ve\nover-stuck un! And I telling you all the time \n\n Do be quiet, Arabella, and have a little pity on the creature! \n\n Hold up the pail to catch the blood, and don t talk! \n\nHowever unworkmanlike the deed, it had been mercifully done. The blood\nflowed out in a torrent instead of in the trickling stream she had\ndesired. The dying animal s cry assumed its third and final tone, the\nshriek of agony; his glazing eyes riveting themselves on Arabella with\nthe eloquently keen reproach of a creature recognizing at last the\ntreachery of those who had seemed his only friends.\n\n Make un stop that!  said Arabella.  Such a noise will bring somebody\nor other up here, and I don t want people to know we are doing it\nourselves.  Picking up the knife from the ground whereon Jude had flung\nit, she slipped it into the gash, and slit the windpipe. The pig was\ninstantly silent, his dying breath coming through the hole.\n\n That s better,  she said.\n\n It is a hateful business!  said he.\n\n Pigs must be killed. \n\nThe animal heaved in a final convulsion, and, despite the rope, kicked\nout with all his last strength. A tablespoonful of black clot came\nforth, the trickling of red blood having ceased for some seconds.\n\n That s it; now he ll go,  said she.  Artful creatures they always keep\nback a drop like that as long as they can! \n\nThe last plunge had come so unexpectedly as to make Jude stagger, and\nin recovering himself he kicked over the vessel in which the blood had\nbeen caught.\n\n There!  she cried, thoroughly in a passion.  Now I can t make any\nblackpot. There s a waste, all through you! \n\nJude put the pail upright, but only about a third of the whole steaming\nliquid was left in it, the main part being splashed over the snow, and\nforming a dismal, sordid, ugly spectacle to those who saw it as other\nthan an ordinary obtaining of meat. The lips and nostrils of the animal\nturned livid, then white, and the muscles of his limbs relaxed.\n\n Thank God!  Jude said.  He s dead. \n\n What s God got to do with such a messy job as a pig-killing, I should\nlike to know!  she said scornfully.  Poor folks must live. \n\n I know, I know,  said he.  I don t scold you. \n\nSuddenly they became aware of a voice at hand.\n\n Well done, young married volk! I couldn t have carried it out much\nbetter myself, cuss me if I could!  The voice, which was husky, came\nfrom the garden-gate, and looking up from the scene of slaughter they\nsaw the burly form of Mr. Challow leaning over the gate, critically\nsurveying their performance.\n\n Tis well for  ee to stand there and glane!  said Arabella.  Owing to\nyour being late the meat is blooded and half spoiled!  Twon t fetch so\nmuch by a shilling a score! \n\nChallow expressed his contrition.  You should have waited a bit  he\nsaid, shaking his head,  and not have done this in the delicate state,\ntoo, that you be in at present, ma am.  Tis risking yourself too much. \n\n You needn t be concerned about that,  said Arabella, laughing. Jude\ntoo laughed, but there was a strong flavour of bitterness in his\namusement.\n\nChallow made up for his neglect of the killing by zeal in the scalding\nand scraping. Jude felt dissatisfied with himself as a man at what he\nhad done, though aware of his lack of common sense, and that the deed\nwould have amounted to the same thing if carried out by deputy. The\nwhite snow, stained with the blood of his fellow-mortal, wore an\nillogical look to him as a lover of justice, not to say a Christian;\nbut he could not see how the matter was to be mended. No doubt he was,\nas his wife had called him, a tender-hearted fool.\n\nHe did not like the road to Alfredston now. It stared him cynically in\nthe face. The wayside objects reminded him so much of his courtship of\nhis wife that, to keep them out of his eyes, he read whenever he could\nas he walked to and from his work. Yet he sometimes felt that by caring\nfor books he was not escaping common-place nor gaining rare ideas,\nevery working-man being of that taste now. When passing near the spot\nby the stream on which he had first made her acquaintance he one day\nheard voices just as he had done at that earlier time. One of the girls\nwho had been Arabella s companions was talking to a friend in a shed,\nhimself being the subject of discourse, possibly because they had seen\nhim in the distance. They were quite unaware that the shed-walls were\nso thin that he could hear their words as he passed.\n\n Howsomever,  twas I put her up to it!  Nothing venture nothing have, \nI said. If I hadn t she d no more have been his mis ess than I. \n\n Tis my belief she knew there was nothing the matter when she told him\nshe was \n\nWhat had Arabella been put up to by this woman, so that he should make\nher his  mis ess,  otherwise wife? The suggestion was horridly\nunpleasant, and it rankled in his mind so much that instead of entering\nhis own cottage when he reached it he flung his basket inside the\ngarden-gate and passed on, determined to go and see his old aunt and\nget some supper there.\n\nThis made his arrival home rather late. Arabella however, was busy\nmelting down lard from fat of the deceased pig, for she had been out on\na jaunt all day, and so delayed her work. Dreading lest what he had\nheard should lead him to say something regrettable to her he spoke\nlittle. But Arabella was very talkative, and said among other things\nthat she wanted some money. Seeing the book sticking out of his pocket\nshe added that he ought to earn more.\n\n An apprentice s wages are not meant to be enough to keep a wife on, as\na rule, my dear. \n\n Then you shouldn t have had one. \n\n Come, Arabella! That s too bad, when you know how it came about. \n\n I ll declare afore Heaven that I thought what I told you was true.\nDoctor Vilbert thought so. It was a good job for you that it wasn t\nso! \n\n I don t mean that,  he said hastily.  I mean before that time. I know\nit was not your fault; but those women friends of yours gave you bad\nadvice. If they hadn t, or you hadn t taken it, we should at this\nmoment have been free from a bond which, not to mince matters, galls\nboth of us devilishly. It may be very sad, but it is true. \n\n Who s been telling you about my friends? What advice? I insist upon\nyou telling me. \n\n Pooh I d rather not. \n\n But you shall you ought to. It is mean of  ee not to! \n\n Very well.  And he hinted gently what had been revealed to him.  But I\ndon t wish to dwell upon it. Let us say no more about it. \n\nHer defensive manner collapsed.  That was nothing,  she said, laughing\ncoldly.  Every woman has a right to do such as that. The risk is hers. \n\n I quite deny it, Bella. She might if no lifelong penalty attached to\nit for the man, or, in his default, for herself; if the weakness of the\nmoment could end with the moment, or even with the year. But when\neffects stretch so far she should not go and do that which entraps a\nman if he is honest, or herself if he is otherwise. \n\n What ought I to have done? \n\n Given me time  Why do you fuss yourself about melting down that pig s\nfat to-night? Please put it away! \n\n Then I must do it to-morrow morning. It won t keep. \n\n Very well do. \n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nNext morning, which was Sunday, she resumed operations about ten\no clock; and the renewed work recalled the conversation which had\naccompanied it the night before, and put her back into the same\nintractable temper.\n\n That s the story about me in Marygreen, is it that I entrapped  ee?\nMuch of a catch you were, Lord send!  As she warmed she saw some of\nJude s dear ancient classics on a table where they ought not to have\nbeen laid.  I won t have them books here in the way!  she cried\npetulantly; and seizing them one by one she began throwing them upon\nthe floor.\n\n Leave my books alone!  he said.  You might have thrown them aside if\nyou had liked, but as to soiling them like that, it is disgusting!  In\nthe operation of making lard Arabella s hands had become smeared with\nthe hot grease, and her fingers consequently left very perceptible\nimprints on the book-covers. She continued deliberately to toss the\nbooks severally upon the floor, till Jude, incensed beyond bearing,\ncaught her by the arms to make her leave off. Somehow, in going so, he\nloosened the fastening of her hair, and it rolled about her ears.\n\n Let me go!  she said.\n\n Promise to leave the books alone. \n\nShe hesitated.  Let me go!  she repeated.\n\n Promise! \n\nAfter a pause:  I do. \n\nJude relinquished his hold, and she crossed the room to the door, out\nof which she went with a set face, and into the highway. Here she began\nto saunter up and down, perversely pulling her hair into a worse\ndisorder than he had caused, and unfastening several buttons of her\ngown. It was a fine Sunday morning, dry, clear and frosty, and the\nbells of Alfredston Church could be heard on the breeze from the north.\nPeople were going along the road, dressed in their holiday clothes;\nthey were mainly lovers such pairs as Jude and Arabella had been when\nthey sported along the same track some months earlier. These\npedestrians turned to stare at the extraordinary spectacle she now\npresented, bonnetless, her dishevelled hair blowing in the wind, her\nbodice apart, her sleeves rolled above her elbows for her work, and her\nhands reeking with melted fat. One of the passers said in mock terror:\n Good Lord deliver us! \n\n See how he s served me!  she cried.  Making me work Sunday mornings\nwhen I ought to be going to my church, and tearing my hair off my head,\nand my gown off my back! \n\nJude was exasperated, and went out to drag her in by main force. Then\nhe suddenly lost his heat. Illuminated with the sense that all was over\nbetween them, and that it mattered not what she did, or he, her husband\nstood still, regarding her. Their lives were ruined, he thought; ruined\nby the fundamental error of their matrimonial union: that of having\nbased a permanent contract on a temporary feeling which had no\nnecessary connection with affinities that alone render a lifelong\ncomradeship tolerable.\n\n Going to ill-use me on principle, as your father ill-used your mother,\nand your father s sister ill-used her husband?  she asked.  All you be\na queer lot as husbands and wives! \n\nJude fixed an arrested, surprised look on her. But she said no more,\nand continued her saunter till she was tired. He left the spot, and,\nafter wandering vaguely a little while, walked in the direction of\nMarygreen. Here he called upon his great-aunt, whose infirmities daily\nincreased.\n\n Aunt did my father ill-use my mother, and my aunt her husband?  said\nJude abruptly, sitting down by the fire.\n\nShe raised her ancient eyes under the rim of the by-gone bonnet that\nshe always wore.  Who s been telling you that?  she said.\n\n I have heard it spoken of, and want to know all. \n\n You med so well, I s pose; though your wife I reckon  twas she must\nhave been a fool to open up that! There isn t much to know after all.\nYour father and mother couldn t get on together, and they parted. It\nwas coming home from Alfredston market, when you were a baby on the\nhill by the Brown House barn that they had their last difference, and\ntook leave of one another for the last time. Your mother soon\nafterwards died she drowned herself, in short, and your father went\naway with you to South Wessex, and never came here any more. \n\nJude recalled his father s silence about North Wessex and Jude s\nmother, never speaking of either till his dying day.\n\n It was the same with your father s sister. Her husband offended her,\nand she so disliked living with him afterwards that she went away to\nLondon with her little maid. The Fawleys were not made for wedlock: it\nnever seemed to sit well upon us. There s sommat in our blood that\nwon t take kindly to the notion of being bound to do what we do readily\nenough if not bound. That s why you ought to have hearkened to me, and\nnot ha  married. \n\n Where did Father and Mother part by the Brown House, did you say? \n\n A little further on where the road to Fenworth branches off, and the\nhandpost stands. A gibbet once stood there not onconnected with our\nhistory. But let that be. \n\nIn the dusk of that evening Jude walked away from his old aunt s as if\nto go home. But as soon as he reached the open down he struck out upon\nit till he came to a large round pond. The frost continued, though it\nwas not particularly sharp, and the larger stars overhead came out slow\nand flickering. Jude put one foot on the edge of the ice, and then the\nother: it cracked under his weight; but this did not deter him. He\nploughed his way inward to the centre, the ice making sharp noises as\nhe went. When just about the middle he looked around him and gave a\njump. The cracking repeated itself; but he did not go down. He jumped\nagain, but the cracking had ceased. Jude went back to the edge, and\nstepped upon the ground.\n\nIt was curious, he thought. What was he reserved for? He supposed he\nwas not a sufficiently dignified person for suicide. Peaceful death\nabhorred him as a subject, and would not take him.\n\nWhat could he do of a lower kind than self-extermination; what was\nthere less noble, more in keeping with his present degraded position?\nHe could get drunk. Of course that was it; he had forgotten. Drinking\nwas the regular, stereotyped resource of the despairing worthless. He\nbegan to see now why some men boozed at inns. He struck down the hill\nnorthwards and came to an obscure public-house. On entering and sitting\ndown the sight of the picture of Samson and Delilah on the wall caused\nhim to recognize the place as that he had visited with Arabella on that\nfirst Sunday evening of their courtship. He called for liquor and drank\nbriskly for an hour or more.\n\nStaggering homeward late that night, with all his sense of depression\ngone, and his head fairly clear still, he began to laugh boisterously,\nand to wonder how Arabella would receive him in his new aspect. The\nhouse was in darkness when he entered, and in his stumbling state it\nwas some time before he could get a light. Then he found that, though\nthe marks of pig-dressing, of fats and scallops, were visible, the\nmaterials themselves had been taken away. A line written by his wife on\nthe inside of an old envelope was pinned to the cotton blower of the\nfireplace:\n\n _Have gone to my friends. Shall not return._ \n\nAll the next day he remained at home, and sent off the carcase of the\npig to Alfredston. He then cleaned up the premises, locked the door,\nput the key in a place she would know if she came back, and returned to\nhis masonry at Alfredston.\n\nAt night when he again plodded home he found she had not visited the\nhouse. The next day went in the same way, and the next. Then there came\na letter from her.\n\nThat she had gone tired of him she frankly admitted. He was such a slow\nold coach, and she did not care for the sort of life he led. There was\nno prospect of his ever bettering himself or her. She further went on\nto say that her parents had, as he knew, for some time considered the\nquestion of emigrating to Australia, the pig-jobbing business being a\npoor one nowadays. They had at last decided to go, and she proposed to\ngo with them, if he had no objection. A woman of her sort would have\nmore chance over there than in this stupid country.\n\nJude replied that he had not the least objection to her going. He\nthought it a wise course, since she wished to go, and one that might be\nto the advantage of both. He enclosed in the packet containing the\nletter the money that had been realized by the sale of the pig, with\nall he had besides, which was not much.\n\nFrom that day he heard no more of her except indirectly, though her\nfather and his household did not immediately leave, but waited till his\ngoods and other effects had been sold off. When Jude learnt that there\nwas to be an auction at the house of the Donns he packed his own\nhousehold goods into a waggon, and sent them to her at the aforesaid\nhomestead, that she might sell them with the rest, or as many of them\nas she should choose.\n\nHe then went into lodgings at Alfredston, and saw in a shopwindow the\nlittle handbill announcing the sale of his father-in-law s furniture.\nHe noted its date, which came and passed without Jude s going near the\nplace, or perceiving that the traffic out of Alfredston by the southern\nroad was materially increased by the auction. A few days later he\nentered a dingy broker s shop in the main street of the town, and amid\na heterogeneous collection of saucepans, a clothes-horse, rolling-pin,\nbrass candlestick, swing looking-glass, and other things at the back of\nthe shop, evidently just brought in from a sale, he perceived a framed\nphotograph, which turned out to be his own portrait.\n\nIt was one which he had had specially taken and framed by a local man\nin bird s-eye maple, as a present for Arabella, and had duly given her\non their wedding-day. On the back was still to be read,  _Jude to\nArabella_,  with the date. She must have thrown it in with the rest of\nher property at the auction.\n\n Oh,  said the broker, seeing him look at this and the other articles\nin the heap, and not perceiving that the portrait was of himself,  It\nis a small lot of stuff that was knocked down to me at a cottage sale\nout on the road to Marygreen. The frame is a very useful one, if you\ntake out the likeness. You shall have it for a shilling. \n\nThe utter death of every tender sentiment in his wife, as brought home\nto him by this mute and undesigned evidence of her sale of his portrait\nand gift, was the conclusive little stroke required to demolish all\nsentiment in him. He paid the shilling, took the photograph away with\nhim, and burnt it, frame and all, when he reached his lodging.\n\nTwo or three days later he heard that Arabella and her parents had\ndeparted. He had sent a message offering to see her for a formal\nleave-taking, but she had said that it would be better otherwise, since\nshe was bent on going, which perhaps was true. On the evening following\ntheir emigration, when his day s work was done, he came out of doors\nafter supper, and strolled in the starlight along the too familiar road\ntowards the upland whereon had been experienced the chief emotions of\nhis life. It seemed to be his own again.\n\nHe could not realize himself. On the old track he seemed to be a boy\nstill, hardly a day older than when he had stood dreaming at the top of\nthat hill, inwardly fired for the first time with ardours for\nChristminster and scholarship.  Yet I am a man,  he said.  I have a\nwife. More, I have arrived at the still riper stage of having disagreed\nwith her, disliked her, had a scuffle with her, and parted from her. \n\nHe remembered then that he was standing not far from the spot at which\nthe parting between his father and his mother was said to have\noccurred.\n\nA little further on was the summit whence Christminster, or what he had\ntaken for that city, had seemed to be visible. A milestone, now as\nalways, stood at the roadside hard by. Jude drew near it, and felt\nrather than read the mileage to the city. He remembered that once on\nhis way home he had proudly cut with his keen new chisel an inscription\non the back of that milestone, embodying his aspirations. It had been\ndone in the first week of his apprenticeship, before he had been\ndiverted from his purposes by an unsuitable woman. He wondered if the\ninscription were legible still, and going to the back of the milestone\nbrushed away the nettles. By the light of a match he could still\ndiscern what he had cut so enthusiastically so long ago:\n\n[THITHER J. F. [with a pointing finger]]\n\nThe sight of it, unimpaired, within its screen of grass and nettles,\nlit in his soul a spark of the old fire. Surely his plan should be to\nmove onward through good and ill to avoid morbid sorrow even though he\ndid see uglinesses in the world? _Bene agere et l tari_ to do good\ncheerfully which he had heard to be the philosophy of one Spinoza,\nmight be his own even now.\n\nHe might battle with his evil star, and follow out his original\nintention.\n\nBy moving to a spot a little way off he uncovered the horizon in a\nnorth-easterly direction. There actually rose the faint halo, a small\ndim nebulousness, hardly recognizable save by the eye of faith. It was\nenough for him. He would go to Christminster as soon as the term of his\napprenticeship expired.\n\nHe returned to his lodgings in a better mood, and said his prayers.\n\n\n\n\nPart Second AT CHRISTMINSTER\n\n_ Save his own soul he hath no star. _ SWINBURNE.\n\n_ Notitiam primosque gradus vicinia fecit;\nTempore crevit amor. _ OVID.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nThe next noteworthy move in Jude s life was that in which he appeared\ngliding steadily onward through a dusky landscape of some three years \nlater leafage than had graced his courtship of Arabella, and the\ndisruption of his coarse conjugal life with her. He was walking towards\nChristminster City, at a point a mile or two to the south-west of it.\n\nHe had at last found himself clear of Marygreen and Alfredston: he was\nout of his apprenticeship, and with his tools at his back seemed to be\nin the way of making a new start the start to which, barring the\ninterruption involved in his intimacy and married experience with\nArabella, he had been looking forward for about ten years.\n\nJude would now have been described as a young man with a forcible,\nmeditative, and earnest rather than handsome cast of countenance. He\nwas of dark complexion, with dark harmonizing eyes, and he wore a\nclosely trimmed black beard of more advanced growth than is usual at\nhis age; this, with his great mass of black curly hair, was some\ntrouble to him in combing and washing out the stone-dust that settled\non it in the pursuit of his trade. His capabilities in the latter,\nhaving been acquired in the country, were of an all-round sort,\nincluding monumental stone-cutting, gothic free-stone work for the\nrestoration of churches, and carving of a general kind. In London he\nwould probably have become specialized and have made himself a\n moulding mason,  a  foliage sculptor perhaps a  statuary. \n\nHe had that afternoon driven in a cart from Alfredston to the village\nnearest the city in this direction, and was now walking the remaining\nfour miles rather from choice than from necessity, having always\nfancied himself arriving thus.\n\nThe ultimate impulse to come had had a curious origin one more nearly\nrelated to the emotional side of him than to the intellectual, as is\noften the case with young men. One day while in lodgings at Alfredston\nhe had gone to Marygreen to see his old aunt, and had observed between\nthe brass candlesticks on her mantlepiece the photograph of a pretty\ngirlish face, in a broad hat with radiating folds under the brim like\nthe rays of a halo. He had asked who she was. His grand-aunt had\ngruffly replied that she was his cousin Sue Bridehead, of the inimical\nbranch of the family; and on further questioning the old woman had\nreplied that the girl lived in Christminster, though she did not know\nwhere, or what she was doing.\n\nHis aunt would not give him the photograph. But it haunted him; and\nultimately formed a quickening ingredient in his latent intent of\nfollowing his friend the school master thither.\n\nHe now paused at the top of a crooked and gentle declivity, and\nobtained his first near view of the city. Grey-stoned and dun-roofed,\nit stood within hail of the Wessex border, and almost with the tip of\none small toe within it, at the northernmost point of the crinkled line\nalong which the leisurely Thames strokes the fields of that ancient\nkingdom. The buildings now lay quiet in the sunset, a vane here and\nthere on their many spires and domes giving sparkle to a picture of\nsober secondary and tertiary hues.\n\nReaching the bottom he moved along the level way between pollard\nwillows growing indistinct in the twilight, and soon confronted the\noutmost lamps of the town some of those lamps which had sent into the\nsky the gleam and glory that caught his strained gaze in his days of\ndreaming, so many years ago. They winked their yellow eyes at him\ndubiously, and as if, though they had been awaiting him all these years\nin disappointment at his tarrying, they did not much want him now.\n\nHe was a species of Dick Whittington whose spirit was touched to finer\nissues than a mere material gain. He went along the outlying streets\nwith the cautious tread of an explorer. He saw nothing of the real city\nin the suburbs on this side. His first want being a lodging he\nscrutinized carefully such localities as seemed to offer on inexpensive\nterms the modest type of accommodation he demanded; and after inquiry\ntook a room in a suburb nicknamed  Beersheba,  though he did not know\nthis at the time. Here he installed himself, and having had some tea\nsallied forth.\n\nIt was a windy, whispering, moonless night. To guide himself he opened\nunder a lamp a map he had brought. The breeze ruffled and fluttered it,\nbut he could see enough to decide on the direction he should take to\nreach the heart of the place.\n\nAfter many turnings he came up to the first ancient medi val pile that\nhe had encountered. It was a college, as he could see by the gateway.\nHe entered it, walked round, and penetrated to dark corners which no\nlamplight reached. Close to this college was another; and a little\nfurther on another; and then he began to be encircled as it were with\nthe breath and sentiment of the venerable city. When he passed objects\nout of harmony with its general expression he allowed his eyes to slip\nover them as if he did not see them.\n\nA bell began clanging, and he listened till a hundred-and-one strokes\nhad sounded. He must have made a mistake, he thought: it was meant for\na hundred.\n\nWhen the gates were shut, and he could no longer get into the\nquadrangles, he rambled under the walls and doorways, feeling with his\nfingers the contours of their mouldings and carving. The minutes\npassed, fewer and fewer people were visible, and still he serpentined\namong the shadows, for had he not imagined these scenes through ten\nbygone years, and what mattered a night s rest for once? High against\nthe black sky the flash of a lamp would show crocketed pinnacles and\nindented battlements. Down obscure alleys, apparently never trodden now\nby the foot of man, and whose very existence seemed to be forgotten,\nthere would jut into the path porticoes, oriels, doorways of enriched\nand florid middle-age design, their extinct air being accentuated by\nthe rottenness of the stones. It seemed impossible that modern thought\ncould house itself in such decrepit and superseded chambers.\n\nKnowing not a human being here, Jude began to be impressed with the\nisolation of his own personality, as with a self-spectre, the sensation\nbeing that of one who walked but could not make himself seen or heard.\nHe drew his breath pensively, and, seeming thus almost his own ghost,\ngave his thoughts to the other ghostly presences with which the nooks\nwere haunted.\n\nDuring the interval of preparation for this venture, since his wife and\nfurniture s uncompromising disappearance into space, he had read and\nlearnt almost all that could be read and learnt by one in his position,\nof the worthies who had spent their youth within these reverend walls,\nand whose souls had haunted them in their maturer age. Some of them, by\nthe accidents of his reading, loomed out in his fancy\ndisproportionately large by comparison with the rest. The brushings of\nthe wind against the angles, buttresses, and door-jambs were as the\npassing of these only other inhabitants, the tappings of each ivy leaf\non its neighbour were as the mutterings of their mournful souls, the\nshadows as their thin shapes in nervous movement, making him comrades\nin his solitude. In the gloom it was as if he ran against them without\nfeeling their bodily frames.\n\nThe streets were now deserted, but on account of these things he could\nnot go in. There were poets abroad, of early date and of late, from the\nfriend and eulogist of Shakespeare down to him who has recently passed\ninto silence, and that musical one of the tribe who is still among us.\nSpeculative philosophers drew along, not always with wrinkled foreheads\nand hoary hair as in framed portraits, but pink-faced, slim, and active\nas in youth; modern divines sheeted in their surplices, among whom the\nmost real to Jude Fawley were the founders of the religious school\ncalled Tractarian; the well-known three, the enthusiast, the poet, and\nthe formularist, the echoes of whose teachings had influenced him even\nin his obscure home. A start of aversion appeared in his fancy to move\nthem at sight of those other sons of the place, the form in the\nfull-bottomed wig, statesman, rake, reasoner, and sceptic; the smoothly\nshaven historian so ironically civil to Christianity; with others of\nthe same incredulous temper, who knew each quad as well as the\nfaithful, and took equal freedom in haunting its cloisters.\n\nHe regarded the statesmen in their various types, men of firmer\nmovement and less dreamy air; the scholar, the speaker, the plodder;\nthe man whose mind grew with his growth in years, and the man whose\nmind contracted with the same.\n\nThe scientists and philologists followed on in his mind-sight in an odd\nimpossible combination, men of meditative faces, strained foreheads,\nand weak-eyed as bats with constant research; then official\ncharacters such men as governor-generals and lord-lieutenants, in whom\nhe took little interest; chief-justices and lord chancellors, silent\nthin-lipped figures of whom he knew barely the names. A keener regard\nattached to the prelates, by reason of his own former hopes. Of them he\nhad an ample band some men of heart, others rather men of head; he who\napologized for the Church in Latin; the saintly author of the Evening\nHymn; and near them the great itinerant preacher, hymn-writer, and\nzealot, shadowed like Jude by his matrimonial difficulties.\n\nJude found himself speaking out loud, holding conversations with them\nas it were, like an actor in a melodrama who apostrophizes the audience\non the other side of the footlights; till he suddenly ceased with a\nstart at his absurdity. Perhaps those incoherent words of the wanderer\nwere heard within the walls by some student or thinker over his lamp;\nand he may have raised his head, and wondered what voice it was, and\nwhat it betokened. Jude now perceived that, so far as solid flesh went,\nhe had the whole aged city to himself with the exception of a belated\ntownsman here and there, and that he seemed to be catching a cold.\n\nA voice reached him out of the shade; a real and local voice:\n\n You ve been a-settin  a long time on that plinth-stone, young man.\nWhat med you be up to? \n\nIt came from a policeman who had been observing Jude without the latter\nobserving him.\n\nJude went home and to bed, after reading up a little about these men\nand their several messages to the world from a book or two that he had\nbrought with him concerning the sons of the university. As he drew\ntowards sleep various memorable words of theirs that he had just been\nconning seemed spoken by them in muttering utterances; some audible,\nsome unintelligible to him. One of the spectres (who afterwards mourned\nChristminster as  the home of lost causes,  though Jude did not\nremember this) was now apostrophizing her thus:\n\n Beautiful city! so venerable, so lovely, so unravaged by the fierce\nintellectual life of our century, so serene!   Her ineffable charm\nkeeps ever calling us to the true goal of all of us, to the ideal, to\nperfection. \n\nAnother voice was that of the Corn Law convert, whose phantom he had\njust seen in the quadrangle with a great bell. Jude thought his soul\nmight have been shaping the historic words of his master-speech:\n\n Sir, I may be wrong, but my impression is that my duty towards a\ncountry threatened with famine requires that that which has been the\nordinary remedy under all similar circumstances should be resorted to\nnow, namely, that there should be free access to the food of man from\nwhatever quarter it may come  Deprive me of office to-morrow, you can\nnever deprive me of the consciousness that I have exercised the powers\ncommitted to me from no corrupt or interested motives, from no desire\nto gratify ambition, for no personal gain. \n\nThen the sly author of the immortal Chapter on Christianity:  How shall\nwe excuse the supine inattention of the Pagan and philosophic world, to\nthose evidences [miracles] which were presented by Omnipotence?   The\nsages of Greece and Rome turned aside from the awful spectacle, and\nappeared unconscious of any alterations in the moral or physical\ngovernment of the world. \n\nThen the shade of the poet, the last of the optimists:\n\nHow the world is made for each of us!\n\n*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *\n\nAnd each of the Many helps to recruit\nThe life of the race by a general plan.\n\nThen one of the three enthusiasts he had seen just now, the author of\nthe _Apologia_:\n\n My argument was   that absolute certitude as to the truths of natural\ntheology was the result of an assemblage of concurring and converging\nprobabilities   that probabilities which did not reach to logical\ncertainty might create a mental certitude. \n\nThe second of them, no polemic, murmured quieter things:\n\nWhy should we faint, and fear to live alone,\nSince all alone, so Heaven has will d, we die?\n\nHe likewise heard some phrases spoken by the phantom with the short\nface, the genial Spectator:\n\n When I look upon the tombs of the great, every motion of envy dies in\nme; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire\ngoes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my\nheart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the parents\nthemselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must\nquickly follow. \n\nAnd lastly a gentle-voiced prelate spoke, during whose meek, familiar\nrhyme, endeared to him from earliest childhood, Jude fell asleep:\n\nTeach me to live, that I may dread\nThe grave as little as my bed.\nTeach me to die \n\nHe did not wake till morning. The ghostly past seemed to have gone, and\neverything spoke of to-day. He started up in bed, thinking he had\noverslept himself and then said:\n\n By Jove I had quite forgotten my sweet-faced cousin, and that she s\nhere all the time!   and my old schoolmaster, too.  His words about his\nschoolmaster had, perhaps, less zest in them than his words concerning\nhis cousin.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nNecessary meditations on the actual, including the mean\nbread-and-cheese question, dissipated the phantasmal for a while, and\ncompelled Jude to smother high thinkings under immediate needs. He had\nto get up, and seek for work, manual work; the only kind deemed by many\nof its professors to be work at all.\n\nPassing out into the streets on this errand he found that the colleges\nhad treacherously changed their sympathetic countenances: some were\npompous; some had put on the look of family vaults above ground;\nsomething barbaric loomed in the masonries of all. The spirits of the\ngreat men had disappeared.\n\nThe numberless architectural pages around him he read, naturally, less\nas an artist-critic of their forms than as an artizan and comrade of\nthe dead handicraftsmen whose muscles had actually executed those\nforms. He examined the mouldings, stroked them as one who knew their\nbeginning, said they were difficult or easy in the working, had taken\nlittle or much time, were trying to the arm, or convenient to the tool.\n\nWhat at night had been perfect and ideal was by day the more or less\ndefective real. Cruelties, insults, had, he perceived, been inflicted\non the aged erections. The condition of several moved him as he would\nhave been moved by maimed sentient beings. They were wounded, broken,\nsloughing off their outer shape in the deadly struggle against years,\nweather, and man.\n\nThe rottenness of these historical documents reminded him that he was\nnot, after all, hastening on to begin the morning practically as he had\nintended. He had come to work, and to live by work, and the morning had\nnearly gone. It was, in one sense, encouraging to think that in a place\nof crumbling stones there must be plenty for one of his trade to do in\nthe business of renovation. He asked his way to the workyard of the\nstone-mason whose name had been given him at Alfredston; and soon heard\nthe familiar sound of the rubbers and chisels.\n\nThe yard was a little centre of regeneration. Here, with keen edges and\nsmooth curves, were forms in the exact likeness of those he had seen\nabraded and time-eaten on the walls. These were the ideas in modern\nprose which the lichened colleges presented in old poetry. Even some of\nthose antiques might have been called prose when they were new. They\nhad done nothing but wait, and had become poetical. How easy to the\nsmallest building; how impossible to most men.\n\nHe asked for the foreman, and looked round among the new traceries,\nmullions, transoms, shafts, pinnacles, and battlements standing on the\nbankers half worked, or waiting to be removed. They were marked by\nprecision, mathematical straightness, smoothness, exactitude: there in\nthe old walls were the broken lines of the original idea; jagged\ncurves, disdain of precision, irregularity, disarray.\n\nFor a moment there fell on Jude a true illumination; that here in the\nstone yard was a centre of effort as worthy as that dignified by the\nname of scholarly study within the noblest of the colleges. But he lost\nit under stress of his old idea. He would accept any employment which\nmight be offered him on the strength of his late employer s\nrecommendation; but he would accept it as a provisional thing only.\nThis was his form of the modern vice of unrest.\n\nMoreover he perceived that at best only copying, patching and imitating\nwent on here; which he fancied to be owing to some temporary and local\ncause. He did not at that time see that medi valism was as dead as a\nfern-leaf in a lump of coal; that other developments were shaping in\nthe world around him, in which Gothic architecture and its associations\nhad no place. The deadly animosity of contemporary logic and vision\ntowards so much of what he held in reverence was not yet revealed to\nhim.\n\nHaving failed to obtain work here as yet he went away, and thought\nagain of his cousin, whose presence somewhere at hand he seemed to feel\nin wavelets of interest, if not of emotion. How he wished he had that\npretty portrait of her! At last he wrote to his aunt to send it. She\ndid so, with a request, however, that he was not to bring disturbance\ninto the family by going to see the girl or her relations. Jude, a\nridiculously affectionate fellow, promised nothing, put the photograph\non the mantel-piece, kissed it he did not know why and felt more at\nhome. She seemed to look down and preside over his tea. It was\ncheering the one thing uniting him to the emotions of the living city.\n\nThere remained the schoolmaster probably now a reverend parson. But he\ncould not possibly hunt up such a respectable man just yet; so raw and\nunpolished was his condition, so precarious were his fortunes. Thus he\nstill remained in loneliness. Although people moved round him he\nvirtually saw none. Not as yet having mingled with the active life of\nthe place it was largely non-existent to him. But the saints and\nprophets in the window-tracery, the paintings in the galleries, the\nstatues, the busts, the gargoyles, the corbel-heads these seemed to\nbreathe his atmosphere. Like all newcomers to a spot on which the past\nis deeply graven he heard that past announcing itself with an emphasis\naltogether unsuspected by, and even incredible to, the habitual\nresidents.\n\nFor many days he haunted the cloisters and quadrangles of the colleges\nat odd minutes in passing them, surprised by impish echoes of his own\nfootsteps, smart as the blows of a mallet. The Christminster\n sentiment,  as it had been called, ate further and further into him;\ntill he probably knew more about those buildings materially,\nartistically, and historically, than any one of their inmates.\n\nIt was not till now, when he found himself actually on the spot of his\nenthusiasm, that Jude perceived how far away from the object of that\nenthusiasm he really was. Only a wall divided him from those happy\nyoung contemporaries of his with whom he shared a common mental life;\nmen who had nothing to do from morning till night but to read, mark,\nlearn, and inwardly digest. Only a wall but what a wall!\n\nEvery day, every hour, as he went in search of labour, he saw them\ngoing and coming also, rubbed shoulders with them, heard their voices,\nmarked their movements. The conversation of some of the more thoughtful\namong them seemed oftentimes, owing to his long and persistent\npreparation for this place, to be peculiarly akin to his own thoughts.\nYet he was as far from them as if he had been at the antipodes. Of\ncourse he was. He was a young workman in a white blouse, and with\nstone-dust in the creases of his clothes; and in passing him they did\nnot even see him, or hear him, rather saw through him as through a pane\nof glass at their familiars beyond. Whatever they were to him, he to\nthem was not on the spot at all; and yet he had fancied he would be\nclose to their lives by coming there.\n\nBut the future lay ahead after all; and if he could only be so\nfortunate as to get into good employment he would put up with the\ninevitable. So he thanked God for his health and strength, and took\ncourage. For the present he was outside the gates of everything,\ncolleges included: perhaps some day he would be inside. Those palaces\nof light and leading; he might some day look down on the world through\ntheir panes.\n\nAt length he did receive a message from the stone-mason s yard that a\njob was waiting for him. It was his first encouragement, and he closed\nwith the offer promptly.\n\nHe was young and strong, or he never could have executed with such zest\nthe undertakings to which he now applied himself, since they involved\nreading most of the night after working all the day. First he bought a\nshaded lamp for four and six-pence, and obtained a good light. Then he\ngot pens, paper, and such other necessary books as he had been unable\nto obtain elsewhere. Then, to the consternation of his landlady, he\nshifted all the furniture of his room a single one for living and\nsleeping rigged up a curtain on a rope across the middle, to make a\ndouble chamber out of one, hung up a thick blind that nobody should\nknow how he was curtailing the hours of sleep, laid out his books, and\nsat down.\n\nHaving been deeply encumbered by marrying, getting a cottage, and\nbuying the furniture which had disappeared in the wake of his wife, he\nhad never been able to save any money since the time of those\ndisastrous ventures, and till his wages began to come in he was obliged\nto live in the narrowest way. After buying a book or two he could not\neven afford himself a fire; and when the nights reeked with the raw and\ncold air from the Meadows he sat over his lamp in a great-coat, hat,\nand woollen gloves.\n\nFrom his window he could perceive the spire of the cathedral, and the\nogee dome under which resounded the great bell of the city. The tall\ntower, tall belfry windows, and tall pinnacles of the college by the\nbridge he could also get a glimpse of by going to the staircase. These\nobjects he used as stimulants when his faith in the future was dim.\n\nLike enthusiasts in general he made no inquiries into details of\nprocedure. Picking up general notions from casual acquaintance, he\nnever dwelt upon them. For the present, he said to himself, the one\nthing necessary was to get ready by accumulating money and knowledge,\nand await whatever chances were afforded to such an one of becoming a\nson of the University.  For wisdom is a defence, and money is a\ndefence; but the excellency of knowledge is, that wisdom giveth life to\nthem that have it.  His desire absorbed him, and left no part of him to\nweigh its practicability.\n\nAt this time he received a nervously anxious letter from his poor old\naunt, on the subject which had previously distressed her a fear that\nJude would not be strong-minded enough to keep away from his cousin Sue\nBridehead and her relations. Sue s father, his aunt believed, had gone\nback to London, but the girl remained at Christminster. To make her\nstill more objectionable, she was an artist or designer of some sort in\nwhat was called an ecclesiastical warehouse, which was a perfect\nseed-bed of idolatry, and she was no doubt abandoned to mummeries on\nthat account if not quite a Papist. (Miss Drusilla Fawley was of her\ndate, Evangelical.)\n\nAs Jude was rather on an intellectual track than a theological, this\nnews of Sue s probable opinions did not much influence him one way or\nthe other, but the clue to her whereabouts was decidedly interesting.\nWith an altogether singular pleasure he walked at his earliest spare\nminutes past the shops answering to his great-aunt s description; and\nbeheld in one of them a young girl sitting behind a desk, who was\nsuspiciously like the original of the portrait. He ventured to enter on\na trivial errand, and having made his purchase lingered on the scene.\nThe shop seemed to be kept entirely by women. It contained Anglican\nbooks, stationery, texts, and fancy goods: little plaster angels on\nbrackets, Gothic-framed pictures of saints, ebony crosses that were\nalmost crucifixes, prayer-books that were almost missals. He felt very\nshy of looking at the girl in the desk; she was so pretty that he could\nnot believe it possible that she should belong to him. Then she spoke\nto one of the two older women behind the counter; and he recognized in\nthe accents certain qualities of his own voice; softened and sweetened,\nbut his own. What was she doing? He stole a glance round. Before her\nlay a piece of zinc, cut to the shape of a scroll three or four feet\nlong, and coated with a dead-surface paint on one side. Hereon she was\ndesigning or illuminating, in characters of Church text, the single\nword\n\n[A L L E L U J A]\n\n A sweet, saintly, Christian business, hers!  thought he.\n\nHer presence here was now fairly enough explained, her skill in work of\nthis sort having no doubt been acquired from her father s occupation as\nan ecclesiastical worker in metal. The lettering on which she was\nengaged was clearly intended to be fixed up in some chancel to assist\ndevotion.\n\nHe came out. It would have been easy to speak to her there and then,\nbut it seemed scarcely honourable towards his aunt to disregard her\nrequest so incontinently. She had used him roughly, but she had brought\nhim up: and the fact of her being powerless to control him lent a\npathetic force to a wish that would have been inoperative as an\nargument.\n\nSo Jude gave no sign. He would not call upon Sue just yet. He had other\nreasons against doing so when he had walked away. She seemed so dainty\nbeside himself in his rough working-jacket and dusty trousers that he\nfelt he was as yet unready to encounter her, as he had felt about Mr.\nPhillotson. And how possible it was that she had inherited the\nantipathies of her family, and would scorn him, as far as a Christian\ncould, particularly when he had told her that unpleasant part of his\nhistory which had resulted in his becoming enchained to one of her own\nsex whom she would certainly not admire.\n\nThus he kept watch over her, and liked to feel she was there. The\nconsciousness of her living presence stimulated him. But she remained\nmore or less an ideal character, about whose form he began to weave\ncurious and fantastic day-dreams.\n\nBetween two and three weeks afterwards Jude was engaged with some more\nmen, outside Crozier College in Old-time Street, in getting a block of\nworked freestone from a waggon across the pavement, before hoisting it\nto the parapet which they were repairing. Standing in position the head\nman said,  Spaik when he heave! He-ho!  And they heaved.\n\nAll of a sudden, as he lifted, his cousin stood close to his elbow,\npausing a moment on the bend of her foot till the obstructing object\nshould have been removed. She looked right into his face with liquid,\nuntranslatable eyes, that combined, or seemed to him to combine,\nkeenness with tenderness, and mystery with both, their expression, as\nwell as that of her lips, taking its life from some words just spoken\nto a companion, and being carried on into his face quite unconsciously.\nShe no more observed his presence than that of the dust-motes which his\nmanipulations raised into the sunbeams.\n\nHis closeness to her was so suggestive that he trembled, and turned his\nface away with a shy instinct to prevent her recognizing him, though as\nshe had never once seen him she could not possibly do so; and might\nvery well never have heard even his name. He could perceive that though\nshe was a country-girl at bottom, a latter girlhood of some years in\nLondon, and a womanhood here, had taken all rawness out of her.\n\nWhen she was gone he continued his work, reflecting on her. He had been\nso caught by her influence that he had taken no count of her general\nmould and build. He remembered now that she was not a large figure,\nthat she was light and slight, of the type dubbed elegant. That was\nabout all he had seen. There was nothing statuesque in her; all was\nnervous motion. She was mobile, living, yet a painter might not have\ncalled her handsome or beautiful. But the much that she was surprised\nhim. She was quite a long way removed from the rusticity that was his.\nHow could one of his cross-grained, unfortunate, almost accursed stock,\nhave contrived to reach this pitch of niceness? London had done it, he\nsupposed.\n\nFrom this moment the emotion which had been accumulating in his breast\nas the bottled-up effect of solitude and the poetized locality he dwelt\nin, insensibly began to precipitate itself on this half-visionary form;\nand he perceived that, whatever his obedient wish in a contrary\ndirection, he would soon be unable to resist the desire to make himself\nknown to her.\n\nHe affected to think of her quite in a family way, since there were\ncrushing reasons why he should not and could not think of her in any\nother.\n\nThe first reason was that he was married, and it would be wrong. The\nsecond was that they were cousins. It was not well for cousins to fall\nin love even when circumstances seemed to favour the passion. The\nthird: even were he free, in a family like his own where marriage\nusually meant a tragic sadness, marriage with a blood-relation would\nduplicate the adverse conditions, and a tragic sadness might be\nintensified to a tragic horror.\n\nTherefore, again, he would have to think of Sue with only a relation s\nmutual interest in one belonging to him; regard her in a practical way\nas some one to be proud of; to talk and nod to; later on, to be invited\nto tea by, the emotion spent on her being rigorously that of a kinsman\nand well-wisher. So would she be to him a kindly star, an elevating\npower, a companion in Anglican worship, a tender friend.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nBut under the various deterrent influences Jude s instinct was to\napproach her timidly, and the next Sunday he went to the morning\nservice in the Cathedral church of Cardinal College to gain a further\nview of her, for he had found that she frequently attended there.\n\nShe did not come, and he awaited her in the afternoon, which was finer.\nHe knew that if she came at all she would approach the building along\nthe eastern side of the great green quadrangle from which it was\naccessible, and he stood in a corner while the bell was going. A few\nminutes before the hour for service she appeared as one of the figures\nwalking along under the college walls, and at sight of her he advanced\nup the side opposite, and followed her into the building, more than\never glad that he had not as yet revealed himself. To see her, and to\nbe himself unseen and unknown, was enough for him at present.\n\nHe lingered awhile in the vestibule, and the service was some way\nadvanced when he was put into a seat. It was a louring, mournful, still\nafternoon, when a religion of some sort seems a necessity to ordinary\npractical men, and not only a luxury of the emotional and leisured\nclasses. In the dim light and the baffling glare of the clerestory\nwindows he could discern the opposite worshippers indistinctly only,\nbut he saw that Sue was among them. He had not long discovered the\nexact seat that she occupied when the chanting of the 119th Psalm in\nwhich the choir was engaged reached its second part, _In quo corriget_,\nthe organ changing to a pathetic Gregorian tune as the singers gave\nforth:\n\nWherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way?\n\nIt was the very question that was engaging Jude s attention at this\nmoment. What a wicked worthless fellow he had been to give vent as he\nhad done to an animal passion for a woman, and allow it to lead to such\ndisastrous consequences; then to think of putting an end to himself;\nthen to go recklessly and get drunk. The great waves of pedal music\ntumbled round the choir, and, nursed on the supernatural as he had\nbeen, it is not wonderful that he could hardly believe that the psalm\nwas not specially set by some regardful Providence for this moment of\nhis first entry into the solemn building. And yet it was the ordinary\npsalm for the twenty-fourth evening of the month.\n\nThe girl for whom he was beginning to nourish an extraordinary\ntenderness was at this time ensphered by the same harmonies as those\nwhich floated into his ears; and the thought was a delight to him. She\nwas probably a frequenter of this place, and, steeped body and soul in\nchurch sentiment as she must be by occupation and habit, had, no doubt,\nmuch in common with him. To an impressionable and lonely young man the\nconsciousness of having at last found anchorage for his thoughts, which\npromised to supply both social and spiritual possibilities, was like\nthe dew of Hermon, and he remained throughout the service in a\nsustaining atmosphere of ecstasy.\n\nThough he was loth to suspect it, some people might have said to him\nthat the atmosphere blew as distinctly from Cyprus as from Galilee.\n\nJude waited till she had left her seat and passed under the screen\nbefore he himself moved. She did not look towards him, and by the time\nhe reached the door she was half-way down the broad path. Being dressed\nup in his Sunday suit he was inclined to follow her and reveal himself.\nBut he was not quite ready; and, alas, ought he to do so with the kind\nof feeling that was awakening in him?\n\nFor though it had seemed to have an ecclesiastical basis during the\nservice, and he had persuaded himself that such was the case, he could\nnot altogether be blind to the real nature of the magnetism. She was\nsuch a stranger that the kinship was affectation, and he said,  It\ncan t be! I, a man with a wife, must not know her!  Still Sue _was_ his\nown kin, and the fact of his having a wife, even though she was not in\nevidence in this hemisphere, might be a help in one sense. It would put\nall thought of a tender wish on his part out of Sue s mind, and make\nher intercourse with him free and fearless. It was with some heartache\nthat he saw how little he cared for the freedom and fearlessness that\nwould result in her from such knowledge.\n\n\nSome little time before the date of this service in the cathedral the\npretty, liquid-eyed, light-footed young woman, Sue Bridehead, had an\nafternoon s holiday, and leaving the ecclesiastical establishment in\nwhich she not only assisted but lodged, took a walk into the country\nwith a book in her hand. It was one of those cloudless days which\nsometimes occur in Wessex and elsewhere between days of cold and wet,\nas if intercalated by caprice of the weather-god. She went along for a\nmile or two until she came to much higher ground than that of the city\nshe had left behind her. The road passed between green fields, and\ncoming to a stile Sue paused there, to finish the page she was reading,\nand then looked back at the towers and domes and pinnacles new and old.\n\nOn the other side of the stile, in the footpath, she beheld a foreigner\nwith black hair and a sallow face, sitting on the grass beside a large\nsquare board whereon were fixed, as closely as they could stand, a\nnumber of plaster statuettes, some of them bronzed, which he was\nre-arranging before proceeding with them on his way. They were in the\nmain reduced copies of ancient marbles, and comprised divinities of a\nvery different character from those the girl was accustomed to see\nportrayed, among them being a Venus of standard pattern, a Diana, and,\nof the other sex, Apollo, Bacchus, and Mars. Though the figures were\nmany yards away from her the south-west sun brought them out so\nbrilliantly against the green herbage that she could discern their\ncontours with luminous distinctness; and being almost in a line between\nherself and the church towers of the city they awoke in her an oddly\nforeign and contrasting set of ideas by comparison. The man rose, and,\nseeing her, politely took off his cap, and cried,  I-i-i-mages!  in an\naccent that agreed with his appearance. In a moment he dexterously\nlifted upon his knee the great board with its assembled notabilities\ndivine and human, and raised it to the top of his head, bringing them\non to her and resting the board on the stile. First he offered her his\nsmaller wares the busts of kings and queens, then a minstrel, then a\nwinged Cupid. She shook her head.\n\n How much are these two?  she said, touching with her finger the Venus\nand the Apollo the largest figures on the tray.\n\nHe said she should have them for ten shillings.\n\n I cannot afford that,  said Sue. She offered considerably less, and to\nher surprise the image-man drew them from their wire stay and handed\nthem over the stile. She clasped them as treasures.\n\nWhen they were paid for, and the man had gone, she began to be\nconcerned as to what she should do with them. They seemed so very large\nnow that they were in her possession, and so very naked. Being of a\nnervous temperament she trembled at her enterprise. When she handled\nthem the white pipeclay came off on her gloves and jacket. After\ncarrying them along a little way openly an idea came to her, and,\npulling some huge burdock leaves, parsley, and other rank growths from\nthe hedge, she wrapped up her burden as well as she could in these, so\nthat what she carried appeared to be an enormous armful of green stuff\ngathered by a zealous lover of nature.\n\n Well, anything is better than those everlasting church fallals!  she\nsaid. But she was still in a trembling state, and seemed almost to wish\nshe had not bought the figures.\n\nOccasionally peeping inside the leaves to see that Venus s arm was not\nbroken, she entered with her heathen load into the most Christian city\nin the country by an obscure street running parallel to the main one,\nand round a corner to the side door of the establishment to which she\nwas attached. Her purchases were taken straight up to her own chamber,\nand she at once attempted to lock them in a box that was her very own\nproperty; but finding them too cumbersome she wrapped them in large\nsheets of brown paper, and stood them on the floor in a corner.\n\nThe mistress of the house, Miss Fontover, was an elderly lady in\nspectacles, dressed almost like an abbess; a dab at Ritual, as become\none of her business, and a worshipper at the ceremonial church of St.\nSilas, in the suburb of Beersheba before-mentioned, which Jude also had\nbegun to attend. She was the daughter of a clergyman in reduced\ncircumstances, and at his death, which had occurred several years\nbefore this date, she boldly avoided penury by taking over a little\nshop of church requisites and developing it to its present creditable\nproportions. She wore a cross and beads round her neck as her only\nornament, and knew the Christian Year by heart.\n\nShe now came to call Sue to tea, and, finding that the girl did not\nrespond for a moment, entered the room just as the other was hastily\nputting a string round each parcel.\n\n Something you have been buying, Miss Bridehead?  she asked, regarding\nthe enwrapped objects.\n\n Yes just something to ornament my room,  said Sue.\n\n Well, I should have thought I had put enough here already,  said Miss\nFontover, looking round at the Gothic-framed prints of saints, the\nChurch-text scrolls, and other articles which, having become too stale\nto sell, had been used to furnish this obscure chamber.  What is it?\nHow bulky!  She tore a little hole, about as big as a wafer, in the\nbrown paper, and tried to peep in.  Why, statuary? Two figures? Where\ndid you get them? \n\n Oh I bought them of a travelling man who sells casts \n\n Two saints? \n\n Yes. \n\n What ones? \n\n St. Peter and St. St. Mary Magdalen. \n\n Well now come down to tea, and go and finish that organ-text, if\nthere s light enough afterwards. \n\nThese little obstacles to the indulgence of what had been the merest\npassing fancy created in Sue a great zest for unpacking her objects and\nlooking at them; and at bedtime, when she was sure of being\nundisturbed, she unrobed the divinities in comfort. Placing the pair of\nfigures on the chest of drawers, a candle on each side of them, she\nwithdrew to the bed, flung herself down thereon, and began reading a\nbook she had taken from her box, which Miss Fontover knew nothing of.\nIt was a volume of Gibbon, and she read the chapter dealing with the\nreign of Julian the Apostate. Occasionally she looked up at the\nstatuettes, which appeared strange and out of place, there happening to\nbe a Calvary print hanging between them, and, as if the scene suggested\nthe action, she at length jumped up and withdrew another book from her\nbox a volume of verse and turned to the familiar poem \n\nThou hast conquered, O pale Galilean:\nThe world has grown grey from thy breath!\n\nwhich she read to the end. Presently she put out the candles,\nundressed, and finally extinguished her own light.\n\nShe was of an age which usually sleeps soundly, yet to-night she kept\nwaking up, and every time she opened her eyes there was enough diffused\nlight from the street to show her the white plaster figures, standing\non the chest of drawers in odd contrast to their environment of text\nand martyr, and the Gothic-framed Crucifix-picture that was only\ndiscernible now as a Latin cross, the figure thereon being obscured by\nthe shades.\n\nOn one of these occasions the church clocks struck some small hour. It\nfell upon the ears of another person who sat bending over his books at\na not very distant spot in the same city. Being Saturday night the\nmorrow was one on which Jude had not set his alarm-clock to call him at\nhis usually early time, and hence he had stayed up, as was his custom,\ntwo or three hours later than he could afford to do on any other day of\nthe week. Just then he was earnestly reading from his Griesbach s text.\nAt the very time that Sue was tossing and staring at her figures, the\npoliceman and belated citizens passing along under his window might\nhave heard, if they had stood still, strange syllables mumbled with\nfervour within words that had for Jude an indescribable enchantment:\ninexplicable sounds something like these: \n\n _All hemin heis Theos ho Pater, ex hou ta panta, kai hemeis eis\nauton:_ \n\nTill the sounds rolled with reverent loudness, as a book was heard to\nclose: \n\n _Kai heis Kurios Iesous Christos, di hou ta panta kai hemeis di\nautou!_ \n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nHe was a handy man at his trade, an all-round man, as artizans in\ncountry-towns are apt to be. In London the man who carves the boss or\nknob of leafage declines to cut the fragment of moulding which merges\nin that leafage, as if it were a degradation to do the second half of\none whole. When there was not much Gothic moulding for Jude to run, or\nmuch window-tracery on the bankers, he would go out lettering monuments\nor tombstones, and take a pleasure in the change of handiwork.\n\nThe next time that he saw her was when he was on a ladder executing a\njob of this sort inside one of the churches. There was a short morning\nservice, and when the parson entered Jude came down from his ladder,\nand sat with the half-dozen people forming the congregation, till the\nprayer should be ended, and he could resume his tapping. He did not\nobserve till the service was half over that one of the women was Sue,\nwho had perforce accompanied the elderly Miss Fontover thither.\n\nJude sat watching her pretty shoulders, her easy, curiously nonchalant\nrisings and sittings, and her perfunctory genuflexions, and thought\nwhat a help such an Anglican would have been to him in happier\ncircumstances. It was not so much his anxiety to get on with his work\nthat made him go up to it immediately the worshipers began to take\ntheir leave: it was that he dared not, in this holy spot, confront the\nwoman who was beginning to influence him in such an indescribable\nmanner. Those three enormous reasons why he must not attempt intimate\nacquaintance with Sue Bridehead, now that his interest in her had shown\nitself to be unmistakably of a sexual kind, loomed as stubbornly as\never. But it was also obvious that man could not live by work alone;\nthat the particular man Jude, at any rate, wanted something to love.\nSome men would have rushed incontinently to her, snatched the pleasure\nof easy friendship which she could hardly refuse, and have left the\nrest to chance. Not so Jude at first.\n\nBut as the days, and still more particularly the lonely evenings,\ndragged along, he found himself, to his moral consternation, to be\nthinking more of her instead of thinking less of her, and experiencing\na fearful bliss in doing what was erratic, informal, and unexpected.\nSurrounded by her influence all day, walking past the spots she\nfrequented, he was always thinking of her, and was obliged to own to\nhimself that his conscience was likely to be the loser in this battle.\n\nTo be sure she was almost an ideality to him still. Perhaps to know her\nwould be to cure himself of this unexpected and unauthorized passion. A\nvoice whispered that, though he desired to know her, he did not desire\nto be cured.\n\nThere was not the least doubt that from his own orthodox point of view\nthe situation was growing immoral. For Sue to be the loved one of a man\nwho was licensed by the laws of his country to love Arabella and none\nother unto his life s end, was a pretty bad second beginning when the\nman was bent on such a course as Jude purposed. This conviction was so\nreal with him that one day when, as was frequent, he was at work in a\nneighbouring village church alone, he felt it to be his duty to pray\nagainst his weakness. But much as he wished to be an exemplar in these\nthings he could not get on. It was quite impossible, he found, to ask\nto be delivered from temptation when your heart s desire was to be\ntempted unto seventy times seven. So he excused himself.  After all, \nhe said,  it is not altogether an _erotolepsy_ that is the matter with\nme, as at that first time. I can see that she is exceptionally bright;\nand it is partly a wish for intellectual sympathy, and a craving for\nloving-kindness in my solitude.  Thus he went on adoring her, fearing\nto realize that it was human perversity. For whatever Sue s virtues,\ntalents, or ecclesiastical saturation, it was certain that those items\nwere not at all the cause of his affection for her.\n\nOn an afternoon at this time a young girl entered the stone-mason s\nyard with some hesitation, and, lifting her skirts to avoid draggling\nthem in the white dust, crossed towards the office.\n\n That s a nice girl,  said one of the men known as Uncle Joe.\n\n Who is she?  asked another.\n\n I don t know I ve seen her about here and there. Why, yes, she s the\ndaughter of that clever chap Bridehead who did all the wrought ironwork\nat St. Silas  ten years ago, and went away to London afterwards. I\ndon t know what he s doing now not much I fancy as she s come back\nhere. \n\nMeanwhile the young woman had knocked at the office door and asked if\nMr. Jude Fawley was at work in the yard. It so happened that Jude had\ngone out somewhere or other that afternoon, which information she\nreceived with a look of disappointment, and went away immediately. When\nJude returned they told him, and described her, whereupon he exclaimed,\n Why that s my cousin Sue! \n\nHe looked along the street after her, but she was out of sight. He had\nno longer any thought of a conscientious avoidance of her, and resolved\nto call upon her that very evening. And when he reached his lodging he\nfound a note from her a first note one of those documents which, simple\nand commonplace in themselves, are seen retrospectively to have been\npregnant with impassioned consequences. The very unconsciousness of a\nlooming drama which is shown in such innocent first epistles from women\nto men, or _vice versa_, makes them, when such a drama follows, and\nthey are read over by the purple or lurid light of it, all the more\nimpressive, solemn, and in cases, terrible.\n\nSue s was of the most artless and natural kind. She addressed him as\nher dear cousin Jude; said she had only just learnt by the merest\naccident that he was living in Christminster, and reproached him with\nnot letting her know. They might have had such nice times together, she\nsaid, for she was thrown much upon herself, and had hardly any\ncongenial friend. But now there was every probability of her soon going\naway, so that the chance of companionship would be lost perhaps for\never.\n\nA cold sweat overspread Jude at the news that she was going away. That\nwas a contingency he had never thought of, and it spurred him to write\nall the more quickly to her. He would meet her that very evening, he\nsaid, one hour from the time of writing, at the cross in the pavement\nwhich marked the spot of the Martyrdoms.\n\nWhen he had despatched the note by a boy he regretted that in his hurry\nhe should have suggested to her to meet him out of doors, when he might\nhave said he would call upon her. It was, in fact, the country custom\nto meet thus, and nothing else had occurred to him. Arabella had been\nmet in the same way, unfortunately, and it might not seem respectable\nto a dear girl like Sue. However, it could not be helped now, and he\nmoved towards the point a few minutes before the hour, under the\nglimmer of the newly lighted lamps.\n\nThe broad street was silent, and almost deserted, although it was not\nlate. He saw a figure on the other side, which turned out to be hers,\nand they both converged towards the crossmark at the same moment.\nBefore either had reached it she called out to him:\n\n I am not going to meet you just there, for the first time in my life!\nCome further on. \n\nThe voice, though positive and silvery, had been tremulous. They walked\non in parallel lines, and, waiting her pleasure, Jude watched till she\nshowed signs of closing in, when he did likewise, the place being where\nthe carriers  carts stood in the daytime, though there was none on the\nspot then.\n\n I am sorry that I asked you to meet me, and didn t call,  began Jude\nwith the bashfulness of a lover.  But I thought it would save time if\nwe were going to walk. \n\n Oh I don t mind that,  she said with the freedom of a friend.  I have\nreally no place to ask anybody in to. What I meant was that the place\nyou chose was so horrid I suppose I ought not to say horrid I mean\ngloomy and inauspicious in its associations  But isn t it funny to\nbegin like this, when I don t know you yet?  She looked him up and down\ncuriously, though Jude did not look much at her.\n\n You seem to know me more than I know you,  she added.\n\n Yes I have seen you now and then. \n\n And you knew who I was, and didn t speak? And now I am going away! \n\n Yes. That s unfortunate. I have hardly any other friend. I have,\nindeed, one very old friend here somewhere, but I don t quite like to\ncall on him just yet. I wonder if you know anything of him Mr.\nPhillotson? A parson somewhere about the county I think he is. \n\n No I only know of one Mr. Phillotson. He lives a little way out in the\ncountry, at Lumsdon. He s a village schoolmaster. \n\n Ah! I wonder if he s the same. Surely it is impossible! Only a\nschoolmaster still! Do you know his Christian name is it Richard? \n\n Yes it is; I ve directed books to him, though I ve never seen him. \n\n Then he couldn t do it! \n\nJude s countenance fell, for how could he succeed in an enterprise\nwherein the great Phillotson had failed? He would have had a day of\ndespair if the news had not arrived during his sweet Sue s presence,\nbut even at this moment he had visions of how Phillotson s failure in\nthe grand university scheme would depress him when she had gone.\n\n As we are going to take a walk, suppose we go and call upon him?  said\nJude suddenly.  It is not late. \n\nShe agreed, and they went along up a hill, and through some prettily\nwooded country. Presently the embattled tower and square turret of the\nchurch rose into the sky, and then the school-house. They inquired of a\nperson in the street if Mr. Phillotson was likely to be at home, and\nwere informed that he was always at home. A knock brought him to the\nschool-house door, with a candle in his hand and a look of inquiry on\nhis face, which had grown thin and careworn since Jude last set eyes on\nhim.\n\nThat after all these years the meeting with Mr. Phillotson should be of\nthis homely complexion destroyed at one stroke the halo which had\nsurrounded the school-master s figure in Jude s imagination ever since\ntheir parting. It created in him at the same time a sympathy with\nPhillotson as an obviously much chastened and disappointed man. Jude\ntold him his name, and said he had come to see him as an old friend who\nhad been kind to him in his youthful days.\n\n I don t remember you in the least,  said the school-master\nthoughtfully.  You were one of my pupils, you say? Yes, no doubt; but\nthey number so many thousands by this time of my life, and have\nnaturally changed so much, that I remember very few except the quite\nrecent ones. \n\n It was out at Marygreen,  said Jude, wishing he had not come.\n\n Yes. I was there a short time. And is this an old pupil, too? \n\n No that s my cousin  I wrote to you for some grammars, if you\nrecollect, and you sent them? \n\n Ah yes! I do dimly recall that incident. \n\n It was very kind of you to do it. And it was you who first started me\non that course. On the morning you left Marygreen, when your goods were\non the waggon, you wished me good-bye, and said your scheme was to be a\nuniversity man and enter the Church that a degree was the necessary\nhall-mark of one who wanted to do anything as a theologian or teacher. \n\n I remember I thought all that privately; but I wonder I did not keep\nmy own counsel. The idea was given up years ago. \n\n I have never forgotten it. It was that which brought me to this part\nof the country, and out here to see you to-night. \n\n Come in,  said Phillotson.  And your cousin, too. \n\nThey entered the parlour of the school-house, where there was a lamp\nwith a paper shade, which threw the light down on three or four books.\nPhillotson took it off, so that they could see each other better, and\nthe rays fell on the nervous little face and vivacious dark eyes and\nhair of Sue, on the earnest features of her cousin, and on the\nschoolmaster s own maturer face and figure, showing him to be a spare\nand thoughtful personage of five-and-forty, with a thin-lipped,\nsomewhat refined mouth, a slightly stooping habit, and a black frock\ncoat, which from continued frictions shone a little at the\nshoulder-blades, the middle of the back, and the elbows.\n\nThe old friendship was imperceptibly renewed, the schoolmaster speaking\nof his experiences, and the cousins of theirs. He told them that he\nstill thought of the Church sometimes, and that though he could not\nenter it as he had intended to do in former years he might enter it as\na licentiate. Meanwhile, he said, he was comfortable in his present\nposition, though he was in want of a pupil-teacher.\n\nThey did not stay to supper, Sue having to be indoors before it grew\nlate, and the road was retraced to Christminster. Though they had\ntalked of nothing more than general subjects, Jude was surprised to\nfind what a revelation of woman his cousin was to him. She was so\nvibrant that everything she did seemed to have its source in feeling.\nAn exciting thought would make her walk ahead so fast that he could\nhardly keep up with her; and her sensitiveness on some points was such\nthat it might have been misread as vanity. It was with heart-sickness\nhe perceived that, while her sentiments towards him were those of the\nfrankest friendliness only, he loved her more than before becoming\nacquainted with her; and the gloom of the walk home lay not in the\nnight overhead, but in the thought of her departure.\n\n Why must you leave Christminster?  he said regretfully.  How can you\ndo otherwise than cling to a city in whose history such men as Newman,\nPusey, Ward, Keble, loom so large! \n\n Yes they do. Though how large do they loom in the history of the\nworld?   What a funny reason for caring to stay! I should never have\nthought of it!  She laughed.\n\n Well I must go,  she continued.  Miss Fontover, one of the partners\nwhom I serve, is offended with me, and I with her; and it is best to\ngo. \n\n How did that happen? \n\n She broke some statuary of mine. \n\n Oh? Wilfully? \n\n Yes. She found it in my room, and though it was my property she threw\nit on the floor and stamped on it, because it was not according to her\ntaste, and ground the arms and the head of one of the figures all to\nbits with her heel a horrid thing! \n\n Too Catholic-Apostolic for her, I suppose? No doubt she called them\npopish images and talked of the invocation of saints. \n\n No  No, she didn t do that. She saw the matter quite differently. \n\n Ah! Then I am surprised! \n\n Yes. It was for quite some other reason that she didn t like my\npatron-saints. So I was led to retort upon her; and the end of it was\nthat I resolved not to stay, but to get into an occupation in which I\nshall be more independent. \n\n Why don t you try teaching again? You once did, I heard. \n\n I never thought of resuming it; for I was getting on as an\nart-designer. \n\n _Do_ let me ask Mr. Phillotson to let you try your hand in his school?\nIf you like it, and go to a training college, and become a first-class\ncertificated mistress, you get twice as large an income as any designer\nor church artist, and twice as much freedom. \n\n Well ask him. Now I must go in. Good-bye, dear Jude! I am so glad we\nhave met at last. We needn t quarrel because our parents did, need we? \n\nJude did not like to let her see quite how much he agreed with her, and\nwent his way to the remote street in which he had his lodging.\n\nTo keep Sue Bridehead near him was now a desire which operated without\nregard of consequences, and the next evening he again set out for\nLumsdon, fearing to trust to the persuasive effects of a note only. The\nschool-master was unprepared for such a proposal.\n\n What I rather wanted was a second year s transfer, as it is called, \nhe said.  Of course your cousin would do, personally; but she has had\nno experience. Oh she has, has she? Does she really think of adopting\nteaching as a profession? \n\nJude said she was disposed to do so, he thought, and his ingenious\narguments on her natural fitness for assisting Mr. Phillotson, of which\nJude knew nothing whatever, so influenced the schoolmaster that he said\nhe would engage her, assuring Jude as a friend that unless his cousin\nreally meant to follow on in the same course, and regarded this step as\nthe first stage of an apprenticeship, of which her training in a normal\nschool would be the second stage, her time would be wasted quite, the\nsalary being merely nominal.\n\nThe day after this visit Phillotson received a letter from Jude,\ncontaining the information that he had again consulted his cousin, who\ntook more and more warmly to the idea of tuition; and that she had\nagreed to come. It did not occur for a moment to the schoolmaster and\nrecluse that Jude s ardour in promoting the arrangement arose from any\nother feelings towards Sue than the instinct of co-operation common\namong members of the same family.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nThe schoolmaster sat in his homely dwelling attached to the school,\nboth being modern erections; and he looked across the way at the old\nhouse in which his teacher Sue had a lodging. The arrangement had been\nconcluded very quickly. A pupil-teacher who was to have been\ntransferred to Mr. Phillotson s school had failed him, and Sue had been\ntaken as stop-gap. All such provisional arrangements as these could\nonly last till the next annual visit of H.M. Inspector, whose approval\nwas necessary to make them permanent. Having taught for some two years\nin London, though she had abandoned that vocation of late, Miss\nBridehead was not exactly a novice, and Phillotson thought there would\nbe no difficulty in retaining her services, which he already wished to\ndo, though she had only been with him three or four weeks. He had found\nher quite as bright as Jude had described her; and what\nmaster-tradesman does not wish to keep an apprentice who saves him half\nhis labour?\n\nIt was a little over half-past eight o clock in the morning and he was\nwaiting to see her cross the road to the school, when he would follow.\nAt twenty minutes to nine she did cross, a light hat tossed on her\nhead; and he watched her as a curiosity. A new emanation, which had\nnothing to do with her skill as a teacher, seemed to surround her this\nmorning. He went to the school also, and Sue remained governing her\nclass at the other end of the room, all day under his eye. She\ncertainly was an excellent teacher.\n\nIt was part of his duty to give her private lessons in the evening, and\nsome article in the Code made it necessary that a respectable, elderly\nwoman should be present at these lessons when the teacher and the\ntaught were of different sexes. Richard Phillotson thought of the\nabsurdity of the regulation in this case, when he was old enough to be\nthe girl s father; but he faithfully acted up to it; and sat down with\nher in a room where Mrs. Hawes, the widow at whose house Sue lodged,\noccupied herself with sewing. The regulation was, indeed, not easy to\nevade, for there was no other sitting-room in the dwelling.\n\nSometimes as she figured it was arithmetic that they were working\nat she would involuntarily glance up with a little inquiring smile at\nhim, as if she assumed that, being the master, he must perceive all\nthat was passing in her brain, as right or wrong. Phillotson was not\nreally thinking of the arithmetic at all, but of her, in a novel way\nwhich somehow seemed strange to him as preceptor. Perhaps she knew that\nhe was thinking of her thus.\n\nFor a few weeks their work had gone on with a monotony which in itself\nwas a delight to him. Then it happened that the children were to be\ntaken to Christminster to see an itinerant exhibition, in the shape of\na model of Jerusalem, to which schools were admitted at a penny a head\nin the interests of education. They marched along the road two and two,\nshe beside her class with her simple cotton sunshade, her little thumb\ncocked up against its stem; and Phillotson behind in his long dangling\ncoat, handling his walking-stick genteelly, in the musing mood which\nhad come over him since her arrival. The afternoon was one of sun and\ndust, and when they entered the exhibition room few people were present\nbut themselves. The model of the ancient city stood in the middle of\nthe apartment, and the proprietor, with a fine religious philanthropy\nwritten on his features, walked round it with a pointer in his hand,\nshowing the young people the various quarters and places known to them\nby name from reading their Bibles; Mount Moriah, the Valley of\nJehoshaphat, the City of Zion, the walls and the gates, outside one of\nwhich there was a large mound like a tumulus, and on the mound a little\nwhite cross. The spot, he said, was Calvary.\n\n I think,  said Sue to the schoolmaster, as she stood with him a little\nin the background,  that this model, elaborate as it is, is a very\nimaginary production. How does anybody know that Jerusalem was like\nthis in the time of Christ? I am sure this man doesn t. \n\n It is made after the best conjectural maps, based on actual visits to\nthe city as it now exists. \n\n I fancy we have had enough of Jerusalem,  she said,  considering we\nare not descended from the Jews. There was nothing first-rate about the\nplace, or people, after all as there was about Athens, Rome,\nAlexandria, and other old cities. \n\n But my dear girl, consider what it is to us! \n\nShe was silent, for she was easily repressed; and then perceived behind\nthe group of children clustered round the model a young man in a white\nflannel jacket, his form being bent so low in his intent inspection of\nthe Valley of Jehoshaphat that his face was almost hidden from view by\nthe Mount of Olives.  Look at your cousin Jude,  continued the\nschoolmaster.  He doesn t think we have had enough of Jerusalem! \n\n Ah I didn t see him!  she cried in her quick, light voice.  Jude how\nseriously you are going into it! \n\nJude started up from his reverie, and saw her.  Oh Sue!  he said, with\na glad flush of embarrassment.  These are your school-children, of\ncourse! I saw that schools were admitted in the afternoons, and thought\nyou might come; but I got so deeply interested that I didn t remember\nwhere I was. How it carries one back, doesn t it! I could examine it\nfor hours, but I have only a few minutes, unfortunately; for I am in\nthe middle of a job out here. \n\n Your cousin is so terribly clever that she criticizes it\nunmercifully,  said Phillotson, with good-humoured satire.  She is\nquite sceptical as to its correctness. \n\n No, Mr. Phillotson, I am not altogether! I hate to be what is called a\nclever girl there are too many of that sort now!  answered Sue\nsensitively.  I only meant I don t know what I meant except that it was\nwhat you don t understand! \n\n _I_ know your meaning,  said Jude ardently (although he did not).  And\nI think you are quite right. \n\n That s a good Jude I know _you_ believe in me!  She impulsively seized\nhis hand, and leaving a reproachful look on the schoolmaster turned\naway to Jude, her voice revealing a tremor which she herself felt to be\nabsurdly uncalled for by sarcasm so gentle. She had not the least\nconception how the hearts of the twain went out to her at this\nmomentary revelation of feeling, and what a complication she was\nbuilding up thereby in the futures of both.\n\nThe model wore too much of an educational aspect for the children not\nto tire of it soon, and a little later in the afternoon they were all\nmarched back to Lumsdon, Jude returning to his work. He watched the\njuvenile flock in their clean frocks and pinafores, filing down the\nstreet towards the country beside Phillotson and Sue, and a sad,\ndissatisfied sense of being out of the scheme of the latters  lives had\npossession of him. Phillotson had invited him to walk out and see them\non Friday evening, when there would be no lessons to give to Sue, and\nJude had eagerly promised to avail himself of the opportunity.\n\nMeanwhile the scholars and teachers moved homewards, and the next day,\non looking on the blackboard in Sue s class, Phillotson was surprised\nto find upon it, skilfully drawn in chalk, a perspective view of\nJerusalem, with every building shown in its place.\n\n I thought you took no interest in the model, and hardly looked at it? \nhe said.\n\n I hardly did,  said she,  but I remembered that much of it. \n\n It is more than I had remembered myself. \n\nHer Majesty s school-inspector was at that time paying\n surprise-visits  in this neighbourhood to test the teaching unawares;\nand two days later, in the middle of the morning lessons, the latch of\nthe door was softly lifted, and in walked my gentleman, the king of\nterrors to pupil-teachers.\n\nTo Mr. Phillotson the surprise was not great; like the lady in the\nstory, he had been played that trick too many times to be unprepared.\nBut Sue s class was at the further end of the room, and her back was\ntowards the entrance; the inspector therefore came and stood behind her\nand watched her teaching some half-minute before she became aware of\nhis presence. She turned, and realized that an oft-dreaded moment had\ncome. The effect upon her timidity was such that she uttered a cry of\nfright. Phillotson, with a strange instinct of solicitude quite beyond\nhis control, was at her side just in time to prevent her falling from\nfaintness. She soon recovered herself, and laughed; but when the\ninspector had gone there was a reaction, and she was so white that\nPhillotson took her into his room, and gave her some brandy to bring\nher round. She found him holding her hand.\n\n You ought to have told me,  she gasped petulantly,  that one of the\ninspector s surprise-visits was imminent! Oh, what shall I do! Now\nhe ll write and tell the managers that I am no good, and I shall be\ndisgraced for ever! \n\n He won t do that, my dear little girl. You are the best teacher ever I\nhad! \n\nHe looked so gently at her that she was moved, and regretted that she\nhad upbraided him. When she was better she went home.\n\nJude in the meantime had been waiting impatiently for Friday. On both\nWednesday and Thursday he had been so much under the influence of his\ndesire to see her that he walked after dark some distance along the\nroad in the direction of the village, and, on returning to his room to\nread, found himself quite unable to concentrate his mind on the page.\nOn Friday, as soon as he had got himself up as he thought Sue would\nlike to see him, and made a hasty tea, he set out, notwithstanding that\nthe evening was wet. The trees overhead deepened the gloom of the hour,\nand they dripped sadly upon him, impressing him with\nforebodings illogical forebodings; for though he knew that he loved her\nhe also knew that he could not be more to her than he was.\n\nOn turning the corner and entering the village the first sight that\ngreeted his eyes was that of two figures under one umbrella coming out\nof the vicarage gate. He was too far back for them to notice him, but\nhe knew in a moment that they were Sue and Phillotson. The latter was\nholding the umbrella over her head, and they had evidently been paying\na visit to the vicar probably on some business connected with the\nschool work. And as they walked along the wet and deserted lane Jude\nsaw Phillotson place his arm round the girl s waist; whereupon she\ngently removed it; but he replaced it; and she let it remain, looking\nquickly round her with an air of misgiving. She did not look absolutely\nbehind her, and therefore did not see Jude, who sank into the hedge\nlike one struck with a blight. There he remained hidden till they had\nreached Sue s cottage and she had passed in, Phillotson going on to the\nschool hard by.\n\n Oh, he s too old for her too old!  cried Jude in all the terrible\nsickness of hopeless, handicapped love.\n\nHe could not interfere. Was he not Arabella s? He was unable to go on\nfurther, and retraced his steps towards Christminster. Every tread of\nhis feet seemed to say to him that he must on no account stand in the\nschoolmaster s way with Sue. Phillotson was perhaps twenty years her\nsenior, but many a happy marriage had been made in such conditions of\nage. The ironical clinch to his sorrow was given by the thought that\nthe intimacy between his cousin and the schoolmaster had been brought\nabout entirely by himself.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nJude s old and embittered aunt lay unwell at Marygreen, and on the\nfollowing Sunday he went to see her a visit which was the result of a\nvictorious struggle against his inclination to turn aside to the\nvillage of Lumsdon and obtain a miserable interview with his cousin, in\nwhich the word nearest his heart could not be spoken, and the sight\nwhich had tortured him could not be revealed.\n\nHis aunt was now unable to leave her bed, and a great part of Jude s\nshort day was occupied in making arrangements for her comfort. The\nlittle bakery business had been sold to a neighbour, and with the\nproceeds of this and her savings she was comfortably supplied with\nnecessaries and more, a widow of the same village living with her and\nministering to her wants. It was not till the time had nearly come for\nhim to leave that he obtained a quiet talk with her, and his words\ntended insensibly towards his cousin.\n\n Was Sue born here? \n\n She was in this room. They were living here at that time. What made\n ee ask that? \n\n Oh I wanted to know. \n\n Now you ve been seeing her!  said the harsh old woman.  And what did I\ntell  ee? \n\n Well that I was not to see her. \n\n Have you gossiped with her? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then don t keep it up. She was brought up by her father to hate her\nmother s family; and she ll look with no favour upon a working chap\nlike you a townish girl as she s become by now. I never cared much\nabout her. A pert little thing, that s what she was too often, with her\ntight-strained nerves. Many s the time I ve smacked her for her\nimpertinence. Why, one day when she was walking into the pond with her\nshoes and stockings off, and her petticoats pulled above her knees,\nafore I could cry out for shame, she said:  Move on, Aunty! This is no\nsight for modest eyes! \n\n She was a little child then. \n\n She was twelve if a day. \n\n Well of course. But now she s older she s of a thoughtful, quivering,\ntender nature, and as sensitive as \n\n Jude!  cried his aunt, springing up in bed.  Don t you be a fool about\nher! \n\n No, no, of course not. \n\n Your marrying that woman Arabella was about as bad a thing as a man\ncould possibly do for himself by trying hard. But she s gone to the\nother side of the world, and med never trouble you again. And there ll\nbe a worse thing if you, tied and bound as you be, should have a fancy\nfor Sue. If your cousin is civil to you, take her civility for what it\nis worth. But anything more than a relation s good wishes it is stark\nmadness for  ee to give her. If she s townish and wanton it med bring\n ee to ruin. \n\n Don t say anything against her, Aunt! Don t, please! \n\nA relief was afforded to him by the entry of the companion and nurse of\nhis aunt, who must have been listening to the conversation, for she\nbegan a commentary on past years, introducing Sue Bridehead as a\ncharacter in her recollections. She described what an odd little maid\nSue had been when a pupil at the village school across the green\nopposite, before her father went to London how, when the vicar arranged\nreadings and recitations, she appeared on the platform, the smallest of\nthem all,  in her little white frock, and shoes, and pink sash ; how\nshe recited  Excelsior,   There was a sound of revelry by night,  and\n The Raven ; how during the delivery she would knit her little brows\nand glare round tragically, and say to the empty air, as if some real\ncreature stood there \n\n Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven,\n    wandering from the Nightly shore,\nTell me what thy lordly name is\n    on the Night s Plutonian shore! \n\n She d bring up the nasty carrion bird that clear,  corroborated the\nsick woman reluctantly,  as she stood there in her little sash and\nthings, that you could see un a most before your very eyes. You too,\nJude, had the same trick as a child of seeming to see things in the\nair. \n\nThe neighbour told also of Sue s accomplishments in other kinds:\n\n She was not exactly a tomboy, you know; but she could do things that\nonly boys do, as a rule. I ve seen her hit in and steer down the long\nslide on yonder pond, with her little curls blowing, one of a file of\ntwenty moving along against the sky like shapes painted on glass, and\nup the back slide without stopping. All boys except herself; and then\nthey d cheer her, and then she d say,  Don t be saucy, boys,  and\nsuddenly run indoors. They d try to coax her out again. But  a wouldn t\ncome. \n\nThese retrospective visions of Sue only made Jude the more miserable\nthat he was unable to woo her, and he left the cottage of his aunt that\nday with a heavy heart. He would fain have glanced into the school to\nsee the room in which Sue s little figure had so glorified itself; but\nhe checked his desire and went on.\n\nIt being Sunday evening some villagers who had known him during his\nresidence here were standing in a group in their best clothes. Jude was\nstartled by a salute from one of them:\n\n Ye ve got there right enough, then! \n\nJude showed that he did not understand.\n\n Why, to the seat of l arning the  City of Light  you used to talk to\nus about as a little boy! Is it all you expected of it? \n\n Yes; more!  cried Jude.\n\n When I was there once for an hour I didn t see much in it for my part;\nauld crumbling buildings, half church, half almshouse, and not much\ngoing on at that. \n\n You are wrong, John; there is more going on than meets the eye of a\nman walking through the streets. It is a unique centre of thought and\nreligion the intellectual and spiritual granary of this country. All\nthat silence and absence of goings-on is the stillness of infinite\nmotion the sleep of the spinning-top, to borrow the simile of a\nwell-known writer. \n\n Oh, well, it med be all that, or it med not. As I say, I didn t see\nnothing of it the hour or two I was there; so I went in and had a pot\no  beer, and a penny loaf, and a ha porth o  cheese, and waited till it\nwas time to come along home. You ve j ined a college by this time, I\nsuppose? \n\n Ah, no!  said Jude.  I am almost as far off that as ever. \n\n How so? \n\nJude slapped his pocket.\n\n Just what we thought! Such places be not for such as you only for them\nwith plenty o  money. \n\n There you are wrong,  said Jude, with some bitterness.  They are for\nsuch ones! \n\nStill, the remark was sufficient to withdraw Jude s attention from the\nimaginative world he had lately inhabited, in which an abstract figure,\nmore or less himself, was steeping his mind in a sublimation of the\narts and sciences, and making his calling and election sure to a seat\nin the paradise of the learned. He was set regarding his prospects in a\ncold northern light. He had lately felt that he could not quite satisfy\nhimself in his Greek in the Greek of the dramatists particularly. So\nfatigued was he sometimes after his day s work that he could not\nmaintain the critical attention necessary for thorough application. He\nfelt that he wanted a coach a friend at his elbow to tell him in a\nmoment what sometimes would occupy him a weary month in extracting from\nunanticipative, clumsy books.\n\nIt was decidedly necessary to consider facts a little more closely than\nhe had done of late. What was the good, after all, of using up his\nspare hours in a vague labour called  private study  without giving an\noutlook on practicabilities?\n\n I ought to have thought of this before,  he said, as he journeyed\nback.  It would have been better never to have embarked in the scheme\nat all than to do it without seeing clearly where I am going, or what I\nam aiming at  This hovering outside the walls of the colleges, as if\nexpecting some arm to be stretched out from them to lift me inside,\nwon t do! I must get special information. \n\nThe next week accordingly he sought it. What at first seemed an\nopportunity occurred one afternoon when he saw an elderly gentleman,\nwho had been pointed out as the head of a particular college, walking\nin the public path of a parklike enclosure near the spot at which Jude\nchanced to be sitting. The gentleman came nearer, and Jude looked\nanxiously at his face. It seemed benign, considerate, yet rather\nreserved. On second thoughts Jude felt that he could not go up and\naddress him; but he was sufficiently influenced by the incident to\nthink what a wise thing it would be for him to state his difficulties\nby letter to some of the best and most judicious of these old masters,\nand obtain their advice.\n\nDuring the next week or two he accordingly placed himself in such\npositions about the city as would afford him glimpses of several of the\nmost distinguished among the provosts, wardens, and other heads of\nhouses; and from those he ultimately selected five whose physiognomies\nseemed to say to him that they were appreciative and far-seeing men. To\nthese five he addressed letters, briefly stating his difficulties, and\nasking their opinion on his stranded situation.\n\nWhen the letters were posted Jude mentally began to criticize them; he\nwished they had not been sent.  It is just one of those intrusive,\nvulgar, pushing, applications which are so common in these days,  he\nthought.  Why couldn t I know better than address utter strangers in\nsuch a way? I may be an impostor, an idle scamp, a man with a bad\ncharacter, for all that they know to the contrary  Perhaps that s what\nI am! \n\nNevertheless, he found himself clinging to the hope of some reply as to\nhis one last chance of redemption. He waited day after day, saying that\nit was perfectly absurd to expect, yet expecting. While he waited he\nwas suddenly stirred by news about Phillotson. Phillotson was giving up\nthe school near Christminster, for a larger one further south, in\nMid-Wessex. What this meant; how it would affect his cousin; whether,\nas seemed possible, it was a practical move of the schoolmaster s\ntowards a larger income, in view of a provision for two instead of one,\nhe would not allow himself to say. And the tender relations between\nPhillotson and the young girl of whom Jude was passionately enamoured\neffectually made it repugnant to Jude s tastes to apply to Phillotson\nfor advice on his own scheme.\n\nMeanwhile the academic dignitaries to whom Jude had written vouchsafed\nno answer, and the young man was thus thrown back entirely on himself,\nas formerly, with the added gloom of a weakened hope. By indirect\ninquiries he soon perceived clearly what he had long uneasily\nsuspected, that to qualify himself for certain open scholarships and\nexhibitions was the only brilliant course. But to do this a good deal\nof coaching would be necessary, and much natural ability. It was next\nto impossible that a man reading on his own system, however widely and\nthoroughly, even over the prolonged period of ten years, should be able\nto compete with those who had passed their lives under trained teachers\nand had worked to ordained lines.\n\nThe other course, that of buying himself in, so to speak, seemed the\nonly one really open to men like him, the difficulty being simply of a\nmaterial kind. With the help of his information he began to reckon the\nextent of this material obstacle, and ascertained, to his dismay, that,\nat the rate at which, with the best of fortune, he would be able to\nsave money, fifteen years must elapse before he could be in a position\nto forward testimonials to the head of a college and advance to a\nmatriculation examination. The undertaking was hopeless.\n\nHe saw what a curious and cunning glamour the neighbourhood of the\nplace had exercised over him. To get there and live there, to move\namong the churches and halls and become imbued with the _genius loci_,\nhad seemed to his dreaming youth, as the spot shaped its charms to him\nfrom its halo on the horizon, the obvious and ideal thing to do.  Let\nme only get there,  he had said with the fatuousness of Crusoe over his\nbig boat,  and the rest is but a matter of time and energy.  It would\nhave been far better for him in every way if he had never come within\nsight and sound of the delusive precincts, had gone to some busy\ncommercial town with the sole object of making money by his wits, and\nthence surveyed his plan in true perspective. Well, all that was clear\nto him amounted to this, that the whole scheme had burst up, like an\niridescent soap-bubble, under the touch of a reasoned inquiry. He\nlooked back at himself along the vista of his past years, and his\nthought was akin to Heine s:\n\nAbove the youth s inspired and flashing eyes\nI see the motley mocking fool s-cap rise!\n\nFortunately he had not been allowed to bring his disappointment into\nhis dear Sue s life by involving her in this collapse. And the painful\ndetails of his awakening to a sense of his limitations should now be\nspared her as far as possible. After all, she had only known a little\npart of the miserable struggle in which he had been engaged thus\nunequipped, poor, and unforeseeing.\n\nHe always remembered the appearance of the afternoon on which he awoke\nfrom his dream. Not quite knowing what to do with himself, he went up\nto an octagonal chamber in the lantern of a singularly built theatre\nthat was set amidst this quaint and singular city. It had windows all\nround, from which an outlook over the whole town and its edifices could\nbe gained. Jude s eyes swept all the views in succession, meditatively,\nmournfully, yet sturdily. Those buildings and their associations and\nprivileges were not for him. From the looming roof of the great\nlibrary, into which he hardly ever had time to enter, his gaze\ntravelled on to the varied spires, halls, gables, streets, chapels,\ngardens, quadrangles, which composed the ensemble of this unrivalled\npanorama. He saw that his destiny lay not with these, but among the\nmanual toilers in the shabby purlieu which he himself occupied,\nunrecognized as part of the city at all by its visitors and\npanegyrists, yet without whose denizens the hard readers could not read\nnor the high thinkers live.\n\nHe looked over the town into the country beyond, to the trees which\nscreened her whose presence had at first been the support of his heart,\nand whose loss was now a maddening torture. But for this blow he might\nhave borne with his fate. With Sue as companion he could have renounced\nhis ambitions with a smile. Without her it was inevitable that the\nreaction from the long strain to which he had subjected himself should\naffect him disastrously. Phillotson had no doubt passed through a\nsimilar intellectual disappointment to that which now enveloped him.\nBut the schoolmaster had been since blest with the consolation of sweet\nSue, while for him there was no consoler.\n\nDescending to the streets, he went listlessly along till he arrived at\nan inn, and entered it. Here he drank several glasses of beer in rapid\nsuccession, and when he came out it was night. By the light of the\nflickering lamps he rambled home to supper, and had not long been\nsitting at table when his landlady brought up a letter that had just\narrived for him. She laid it down as if impressed with a sense of its\npossible importance, and on looking at it Jude perceived that it bore\nthe embossed stamp of one of the colleges whose heads he had addressed.\n _One_ at last!  cried Jude.\n\nThe communication was brief, and not exactly what he had expected;\nthough it really was from the master in person. It ran thus:\n\nBIBLIOLL COLLEGE.\n\n\nSIR, I have read your letter with interest; and, judging from your\ndescription of yourself as a working-man, I venture to think that you\nwill have a much better chance of success in life by remaining in your\nown sphere and sticking to your trade than by adopting any other\ncourse. That, therefore, is what I advise you to do. Yours faithfully,\n\n\nT. TETUPHENAY.\n\n\nTo Mr. J. FAWLEY, Stone-mason.\n\nThis terribly sensible advice exasperated Jude. He had known all that\nbefore. He knew it was true. Yet it seemed a hard slap after ten years\nof labour, and its effect upon him just now was to make him rise\nrecklessly from the table, and, instead of reading as usual, to go\ndownstairs and into the street. He stood at a bar and tossed off two or\nthree glasses, then unconsciously sauntered along till he came to a\nspot called The Fourways in the middle of the city, gazing abstractedly\nat the groups of people like one in a trance, till, coming to himself,\nhe began talking to the policeman fixed there.\n\nThat officer yawned, stretched out his elbows, elevated himself an inch\nand a half on the balls of his toes, smiled, and looking humorously at\nJude, said,  You ve had a wet, young man. \n\n No; I ve only begun,  he replied cynically.\n\nWhatever his wetness, his brains were dry enough. He only heard in part\nthe policeman s further remarks, having fallen into thought on what\nstruggling people like himself had stood at that crossway, whom nobody\never thought of now. It had more history than the oldest college in the\ncity. It was literally teeming, stratified, with the shades of human\ngroups, who had met there for tragedy, comedy, farce; real enactments\nof the intensest kind. At Fourways men had stood and talked of\nNapoleon, the loss of America, the execution of King Charles, the\nburning of the Martyrs, the Crusades, the Norman Conquest, possibly of\nthe arrival of Caesar. Here the two sexes had met for loving, hating,\ncoupling, parting; had waited, had suffered, for each other; had\ntriumphed over each other; cursed each other in jealousy, blessed each\nother in forgiveness.\n\nHe began to see that the town life was a book of humanity infinitely\nmore palpitating, varied, and compendious than the gown life. These\nstruggling men and women before him were the reality of Christminster,\nthough they knew little of Christ or Minster. That was one of the\nhumours of things. The floating population of students and teachers,\nwho did know both in a way, were not Christminster in a local sense at\nall.\n\nHe looked at his watch, and, in pursuit of this idea, he went on till\nhe came to a public hall, where a promenade concert was in progress.\nJude entered, and found the room full of shop youths and girls,\nsoldiers, apprentices, boys of eleven smoking cigarettes, and light\nwomen of the more respectable and amateur class. He had tapped the real\nChristminster life. A band was playing, and the crowd walked about and\njostled each other, and every now and then a man got upon a platform\nand sang a comic song.\n\nThe spirit of Sue seemed to hover round him and prevent his flirting\nand drinking with the frolicsome girls who made advances wistful to\ngain a little joy. At ten o clock he came away, choosing a circuitous\nroute homeward to pass the gates of the college whose head had just\nsent him the note.\n\nThe gates were shut, and, by an impulse, he took from his pocket the\nlump of chalk which as a workman he usually carried there, and wrote\nalong the wall:\n\n _I have understanding as well as you; I am not inferior to you: yea,\nwho knoweth not such things as these?_ Job xii. 3.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nThe stroke of scorn relieved his mind, and the next morning he laughed\nat his self-conceit. But the laugh was not a healthy one. He re-read\nthe letter from the master, and the wisdom in its lines, which had at\nfirst exasperated him, chilled and depressed him now. He saw himself as\na fool indeed.\n\nDeprived of the objects of both intellect and emotion, he could not\nproceed to his work. Whenever he felt reconciled to his fate as a\nstudent, there came to disturb his calm his hopeless relations with\nSue. That the one affined soul he had ever met was lost to him through\nhis marriage returned upon him with cruel persistency, till, unable to\nbear it longer, he again rushed for distraction to the real\nChristminster life. He now sought it out in an obscure and low-ceiled\ntavern up a court which was well known to certain worthies of the\nplace, and in brighter times would have interested him simply by its\nquaintness. Here he sat more or less all the day, convinced that he was\nat bottom a vicious character, of whom it was hopeless to expect\nanything.\n\nIn the evening the frequenters of the house dropped in one by one, Jude\nstill retaining his seat in the corner, though his money was all spent,\nand he had not eaten anything the whole day except a biscuit. He\nsurveyed his gathering companions with all the equanimity and\nphilosophy of a man who has been drinking long and slowly, and made\nfriends with several: to wit, Tinker Taylor, a decayed\nchurch-ironmonger who appeared to have been of a religious turn in\nearlier years, but was somewhat blasphemous now; also a red-nosed\nauctioneer; also two Gothic masons like himself, called Uncle Jim and\nUncle Joe. There were present, too, some clerks, and a gown- and\nsurplice-maker s assistant; two ladies who sported moral characters of\nvarious depths of shade, according to their company, nicknamed  Bower\no  Bliss  and  Freckles ; some horsey men  in the know  of betting\ncircles; a travelling actor from the theatre, and two devil-may-care\nyoung men who proved to be gownless undergraduates; they had slipped in\nby stealth to meet a man about bull-pups, and stayed to drink and smoke\nshort pipes with the racing gents aforesaid, looking at their watches\nevery now and then.\n\nThe conversation waxed general. Christminster society was criticized,\nthe dons, magistrates, and other people in authority being sincerely\npitied for their shortcomings, while opinions on how they ought to\nconduct themselves and their affairs to be properly respected, were\nexchanged in a large-minded and disinterested manner.\n\nJude Fawley, with the self-conceit, effrontery, and _aplomb_ of a\nstrong-brained fellow in liquor, threw in his remarks somewhat\nperemptorily; and his aims having been what they were for so many\nyears, everything the others said turned upon his tongue, by a sort of\nmechanical craze, to the subject of scholarship and study, the extent\nof his own learning being dwelt upon with an insistence that would have\nappeared pitiable to himself in his sane hours.\n\n I don t care a damn,  he was saying,  for any provost, warden,\nprincipal, fellow, or cursed master of arts in the university! What I\nknow is that I d lick  em on their own ground if they d give me a\nchance, and show  em a few things they are not up to yet! \n\n Hear, hear!  said the undergraduates from the corner, where they were\ntalking privately about the pups.\n\n You always was fond o  books, I ve heard,  said Tinker Taylor,  and I\ndon t doubt what you state. Now with me  twas different. I always saw\nthere was more to be learnt outside a book than in; and I took my steps\naccordingly, or I shouldn t have been the man I am. \n\n You aim at the Church, I believe?  said Uncle Joe.  If you are such a\nscholar as to pitch yer hopes so high as that, why not give us a\nspecimen of your scholarship? Canst say the Creed in Latin, man? That\nwas how they once put it to a chap down in my country. \n\n I should think so!  said Jude haughtily.\n\n Not he! Like his conceit!  screamed one of the ladies.\n\n Just you shut up, Bower o  Bliss!  said one of the undergraduates.\n Silence!  He drank off the spirits in his tumbler, rapped with it on\nthe counter, and announced,  The gentleman in the corner is going to\nrehearse the Articles of his Belief, in the Latin tongue, for the\nedification of the company. \n\n I won t!  said Jude.\n\n Yes have a try!  said the surplice-maker.\n\n You can t!  said Uncle Joe.\n\n Yes, he can!  said Tinker Taylor.\n\n I ll swear I can!  said Jude.  Well, come now, stand me a small Scotch\ncold, and I ll do it straight off. \n\n That s a fair offer,  said the undergraduate, throwing down the money\nfor the whisky.\n\nThe barmaid concocted the mixture with the bearing of a person\ncompelled to live amongst animals of an inferior species, and the glass\nwas handed across to Jude, who, having drunk the contents, stood up and\nbegan rhetorically, without hesitation:\n\n _Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, Factorem coeli et terrae,\nvisibilium omnium et invisibilium._ \n\n Good! Excellent Latin!  cried one of the undergraduates, who, however,\nhad not the slightest conception of a single word.\n\nA silence reigned among the rest in the bar, and the maid stood still,\nJude s voice echoing sonorously into the inner parlour, where the\nlandlord was dozing, and bringing him out to see what was going on.\nJude had declaimed steadily ahead, and was continuing:\n\n _Crucifixus etiam pro nobis: sub Pontio Pilato passus, et sepultus\nest. Et resurrexit tertia die, secundum Scripturas._ \n\n That s the Nicene,  sneered the second undergraduate.  And we wanted\nthe Apostles ! \n\n You didn t say so! And every fool knows, except you, that the Nicene\nis the most historic creed! \n\n Let un go on, let un go on!  said the auctioneer.\n\nBut Jude s mind seemed to grow confused soon, and he could not get on.\nHe put his hand to his forehead, and his face assumed an expression of\npain.\n\n Give him another glass then he ll fetch up and get through it,  said\nTinker Taylor.\n\nSomebody threw down threepence, the glass was handed, Jude stretched\nout his arm for it without looking, and having swallowed the liquor,\nwent on in a moment in a revived voice, raising it as he neared the end\nwith the manner of a priest leading a congregation:\n\n _Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex Patre\nFilioque procedit. Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et\nconglorificatur. Qui locutus est per prophetas._\n\n _Et unam Catholicam et Apostolicam Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum Baptisma\nin remissionem peccatorum. Et exspecto Resurrectionem mortuorum. Et\nvitam venturi saeculi. Amen._ \n\n Well done!  said several, enjoying the last word, as being the first\nand only one they had recognized.\n\nThen Jude seemed to shake the fumes from his brain, as he stared round\nupon them.\n\n You pack of fools!  he cried.  Which one of you knows whether I have\nsaid it or no? It might have been the Ratcatcher s Daughter in double\nDutch for all that your besotted heads can tell! See what I have\nbrought myself to the crew I have come among! \n\nThe landlord, who had already had his license endorsed for harbouring\nqueer characters, feared a riot, and came outside the counter; but\nJude, in his sudden flash of reason, had turned in disgust and left the\nscene, the door slamming with a dull thud behind him.\n\nHe hastened down the lane and round into the straight broad street,\nwhich he followed till it merged in the highway, and all sound of his\nlate companions had been left behind. Onward he still went, under the\ninfluence of a childlike yearning for the one being in the world to\nwhom it seemed possible to fly an unreasoning desire, whose ill\njudgement was not apparent to him now. In the course of an hour, when\nit was between ten and eleven o clock, he entered the village of\nLumsdon, and reaching the cottage, saw that a light was burning in a\ndownstairs room, which he assumed, rightly as it happened, to be hers.\n\nJude stepped close to the wall, and tapped with his finger on the pane,\nsaying impatiently,  Sue, Sue! \n\nShe must have recognized his voice, for the light disappeared from the\napartment, and in a second or two the door was unlocked and opened, and\nSue appeared with a candle in her hand.\n\n Is it Jude? Yes, it is! My dear, dear cousin, what s the matter? \n\n Oh, I am I couldn t help coming, Sue!  said he, sinking down upon the\ndoorstep.  I am so wicked, Sue my heart is nearly broken, and I could\nnot bear my life as it was! So I have been drinking, and blaspheming,\nor next door to it, and saying holy things in disreputable\nquarters repeating in idle bravado words which ought never to be\nuttered but reverently! Oh, do anything with me, Sue kill me I don t\ncare! Only don t hate me and despise me like all the rest of the\nworld! \n\n You are ill, poor dear! No, I won t despise you; of course I won t!\nCome in and rest, and let me see what I can do for you. Now lean on me,\nand don t mind.  With one hand holding the candle and the other\nsupporting him, she led him indoors, and placed him in the only easy\nchair the meagrely furnished house afforded, stretching his feet upon\nanother, and pulling off his boots. Jude, now getting towards his sober\nsenses, could only say,  Dear, dear Sue!  in a voice broken by grief\nand contrition.\n\nShe asked him if he wanted anything to eat, but he shook his head. Then\ntelling him to go to sleep, and that she would come down early in the\nmorning and get him some breakfast, she bade him good-night and\nascended the stairs.\n\nAlmost immediately he fell into a heavy slumber, and did not wake till\ndawn. At first he did not know where he was, but by degrees his\nsituation cleared to him, and he beheld it in all the ghastliness of a\nright mind. She knew the worst of him the very worst. How could he face\nher now? She would soon be coming down to see about breakfast, as she\nhad said, and there would he be in all his shame confronting her. He\ncould not bear the thought, and softly drawing on his boots, and taking\nhis hat from the nail on which she had hung it, he slipped noiselessly\nout of the house.\n\nHis fixed idea was to get away to some obscure spot and hide, and\nperhaps pray; and the only spot which occurred to him was Marygreen. He\ncalled at his lodging in Christminster, where he found awaiting him a\nnote of dismissal from his employer; and having packed up he turned his\nback upon the city that had been such a thorn in his side, and struck\nsouthward into Wessex. He had no money left in his pocket, his small\nsavings, deposited at one of the banks in Christminster, having\nfortunately been left untouched. To get to Marygreen, therefore, his\nonly course was walking; and the distance being nearly twenty miles, he\nhad ample time to complete on the way the sobering process begun in\nhim.\n\nAt some hour of the evening he reached Alfredston. Here he pawned his\nwaistcoat, and having gone out of the town a mile or two, slept under a\nrick that night. At dawn he rose, shook off the hayseeds and stems from\nhis clothes, and started again, breasting the long white road up the\nhill to the downs, which had been visible to him a long way off, and\npassing the milestone at the top, whereon he had carved his hopes years\nago.\n\nHe reached the ancient hamlet while the people were at breakfast. Weary\nand mud-bespattered, but quite possessed of his ordinary clearness of\nbrain, he sat down by the well, thinking as he did so what a poor\nChrist he made. Seeing a trough of water near he bathed his face, and\nwent on to the cottage of his great-aunt, whom he found breakfasting in\nbed, attended by the woman who lived with her.\n\n What out o  work?  asked his relative, regarding him through eyes\nsunken deep, under lids heavy as pot-covers, no other cause for his\ntumbled appearance suggesting itself to one whose whole life had been a\nstruggle with material things.\n\n Yes,  said Jude heavily.  I think I must have a little rest. \n\nRefreshed by some breakfast, he went up to his old room and lay down in\nhis shirt-sleeves, after the manner of the artizan. He fell asleep for\na short while, and when he awoke it was as if he had awakened in hell.\nIt _was_ hell the hell of conscious failure,  both in ambition and in\nlove. He thought of that previous abyss into which he had fallen before\nleaving this part of the country; the deepest deep he had supposed it\nthen; but it was not so deep as this. That had been the breaking in of\nthe outer bulwarks of his hope: this was of his second line.\n\nIf he had been a woman he must have screamed under the nervous tension\nwhich he was now undergoing. But that relief being denied to his\nvirility, he clenched his teeth in misery, bringing lines about his\nmouth like those in the Laoco n, and corrugations between his brows.\n\nA mournful wind blew through the trees, and sounded in the chimney like\nthe pedal notes of an organ. Each ivy leaf overgrowing the wall of the\nchurchless church-yard hard by, now abandoned, pecked its neighbour\nsmartly, and the vane on the new Victorian-Gothic church in the new\nspot had already begun to creak. Yet apparently it was not always the\noutdoor wind that made the deep murmurs; it was a voice. He guessed its\norigin in a moment or two; the curate was praying with his aunt in the\nadjoining room. He remembered her speaking of him. Presently the sounds\nceased, and a step seemed to cross the landing. Jude sat up, and\nshouted  Hoi! \n\nThe step made for his door, which was open, and a man looked in. It was\na young clergyman.\n\n I think you are Mr. Highridge,  said Jude.  My aunt has mentioned you\nmore than once. Well, here I am, just come home; a fellow gone to the\nbad; though I had the best intentions in the world at one time. Now I\nam melancholy mad, what with drinking and one thing and another. \n\nSlowly Jude unfolded to the curate his late plans and movements, by an\nunconscious bias dwelling less upon the intellectual and ambitious side\nof his dream, and more upon the theological, though this had, up till\nnow, been merely a portion of the general plan of advancement.\n\n Now I know I have been a fool, and that folly is with me,  added Jude\nin conclusion.  And I don t regret the collapse of my university hopes\none jot. I wouldn t begin again if I were sure to succeed. I don t care\nfor social success any more at all. But I do feel I should like to do\nsome good thing; and I bitterly regret the Church, and the loss of my\nchance of being her ordained minister. \n\nThe curate, who was a new man to this neighbourhood, had grown deeply\ninterested, and at last he said:  If you feel a real call to the\nministry, and I won t say from your conversation that you do not, for\nit is that of a thoughtful and educated man, you might enter the Church\nas a licentiate. Only you must make up your mind to avoid strong\ndrink. \n\n I could avoid that easily enough, if I had any kind of hope to support\nme! \n\n\n\n\nPart Third AT MELCHESTER\n\n_ For there was no other girl, O bridegroom, like her! _\n SAPPHO (H. T. Wharton).\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nIt was a new idea the ecclesiastical and altruistic life as distinct\nfrom the intellectual and emulative life. A man could preach and do\ngood to his fellow-creatures without taking double-firsts in the\nschools of Christminster, or having anything but ordinary knowledge.\nThe old fancy which had led on to the culminating vision of the\nbishopric had not been an ethical or theological enthusiasm at all, but\na mundane ambition masquerading in a surplice. He feared that his whole\nscheme had degenerated to, even though it might not have originated in,\na social unrest which had no foundation in the nobler instincts; which\nwas purely an artificial product of civilization. There were thousands\nof young men on the same self-seeking track at the present moment. The\nsensual hind who ate, drank, and lived carelessly with his wife through\nthe days of his vanity was a more likable being than he.\n\nBut to enter the Church in such an unscholarly way that he could not in\nany probability rise to a higher grade through all his career than that\nof the humble curate wearing his life out in an obscure village or city\nslum that might have a touch of goodness and greatness in it; that\nmight be true religion, and a purgatorial course worthy of being\nfollowed by a remorseful man.\n\nThe favourable light in which this new thought showed itself by\ncontrast with his foregone intentions cheered Jude, as he sat there,\nshabby and lonely; and it may be said to have given, during the next\nfew days, the _coup de gr ce_ to his intellectual career a career which\nhad extended over the greater part of a dozen years. He did nothing,\nhowever, for some long stagnant time to advance his new desire,\noccupying himself with little local jobs in putting up and lettering\nheadstones about the neighbouring villages, and submitting to be\nregarded as a social failure, a returned purchase, by the half-dozen or\nso of farmers and other country-people who condescended to nod to him.\n\nThe human interest of the new intention and a human interest is\nindispensable to the most spiritual and self-sacrificing was created by\na letter from Sue, bearing a fresh postmark. She evidently wrote with\nanxiety, and told very little about her own doings, more than that she\nhad passed some sort of examination for a Queen s Scholarship, and was\ngoing to enter a training college at Melchester to complete herself for\nthe vocation she had chosen, partly by his influence. There was a\ntheological college at Melchester; Melchester was a quiet and soothing\nplace, almost entirely ecclesiastical in its tone; a spot where worldly\nlearning and intellectual smartness had no establishment; where the\naltruistic feeling that he did possess would perhaps be more highly\nestimated than a brilliancy which he did not.\n\nAs it would be necessary that he should continue for a time to work at\nhis trade while reading up Divinity, which he had neglected at\nChristminster for the ordinary classical grind, what better course for\nhim than to get employment at the further city, and pursue this plan of\nreading? That his excessive human interest in the new place was\nentirely of Sue s making, while at the same time Sue was to be regarded\neven less than formerly as proper to create it, had an ethical\ncontradictoriness to which he was not blind. But that much he conceded\nto human frailty, and hoped to learn to love her only as a friend and\nkinswoman.\n\nHe considered that he might so mark out his coming years as to begin\nhis ministry at the age of thirty an age which much attracted him as\nbeing that of his exemplar when he first began to teach in Galilee.\nThis would allow him plenty of time for deliberate study, and for\nacquiring capital by his trade to help his aftercourse of keeping the\nnecessary terms at a theological college.\n\n\nChristmas had come and passed, and Sue had gone to the Melchester\nNormal School. The time was just the worst in the year for Jude to get\ninto new employment, and he had written suggesting to her that he\nshould postpone his arrival for a month or so, till the days had\nlengthened. She had acquiesced so readily that he wished he had not\nproposed it she evidently did not much care about him, though she had\nnever once reproached him for his strange conduct in coming to her that\nnight, and his silent disappearance. Neither had she ever said a word\nabout her relations with Mr. Phillotson.\n\nSuddenly, however, quite a passionate letter arrived from Sue. She was\nquite lonely and miserable, she told him. She hated the place she was\nin; it was worse than the ecclesiastical designer s; worse than\nanywhere. She felt utterly friendless; could he come\nimmediately? though when he did come she would only be able to see him\nat limited times, the rules of the establishment she found herself in\nbeing strict to a degree. It was Mr. Phillotson who had advised her to\ncome there, and she wished she had never listened to him.\n\nPhillotson s suit was not exactly prospering, evidently; and Jude felt\nunreasonably glad. He packed up his things and went to Melchester with\na lighter heart than he had known for months.\n\nThis being the turning over a new leaf he duly looked about for a\ntemperance hotel, and found a little establishment of that description\nin the street leading from the station. When he had had something to\neat he walked out into the dull winter light over the town bridge, and\nturned the corner towards the Close. The day was foggy, and standing\nunder the walls of the most graceful architectural pile in England he\npaused and looked up. The lofty building was visible as far as the\nroofridge; above, the dwindling spire rose more and more remotely, till\nits apex was quite lost in the mist drifting across it.\n\nThe lamps now began to be lighted, and turning to the west front he\nwalked round. He took it as a good omen that numerous blocks of stone\nwere lying about, which signified that the cathedral was undergoing\nrestoration or repair to a considerable extent. It seemed to him, full\nof the superstitions of his beliefs, that this was an exercise of\nforethought on the part of a ruling Power, that he might find plenty to\ndo in the art he practised while waiting for a call to higher labours.\n\nThen a wave of warmth came over him as he thought how near he now stood\nto the bright-eyed vivacious girl with the broad forehead and pile of\ndark hair above it; the girl with the kindling glance, daringly soft at\ntimes something like that of the girls he had seen in engravings from\npaintings of the Spanish school. She was here actually in this Close in\none of the houses confronting this very west fa ade.\n\nHe went down the broad gravel path towards the building. It was an\nancient edifice of the fifteenth century, once a palace, now a\ntraining-school, with mullioned and transomed windows, and a courtyard\nin front shut in from the road by a wall. Jude opened the gate and went\nup to the door through which, on inquiring for his cousin, he was\ngingerly admitted to a waiting-room, and in a few minutes she came.\n\nThough she had been here such a short while, she was not as he had seen\nher last. All her bounding manner was gone; her curves of motion had\nbecome subdued lines. The screens and subtleties of convention had\nlikewise disappeared. Yet neither was she quite the woman who had\nwritten the letter that summoned him. That had plainly been dashed off\nin an impulse which second thoughts had somewhat regretted; thoughts\nthat were possibly of his recent self-disgrace. Jude was quite overcome\nwith emotion.\n\n You don t think me a demoralized wretch for coming to you as I was and\ngoing so shamefully, Sue? \n\n Oh, I have tried not to! You said enough to let me know what had\ncaused it. I hope I shall never have any doubt of your worthiness, my\npoor Jude! And I am glad you have come! \n\nShe wore a murrey-coloured gown with a little lace collar. It was made\nquite plain, and hung about her slight figure with clinging\ngracefulness. Her hair, which formerly she had worn according to the\ncustom of the day was now twisted up tightly, and she had altogether\nthe air of a woman clipped and pruned by severe discipline, an\nunder-brightness shining through from the depths which that discipline\nhad not yet been able to reach.\n\nShe had come forward prettily, but Jude felt that she had hardly\nexpected him to kiss her, as he was burning to do, under other colours\nthan those of cousinship. He could not perceive the least sign that Sue\nregarded him as a lover, or ever would do so, now that she knew the\nworst of him, even if he had the right to behave as one; and this\nhelped on his growing resolve to tell her of his matrimonial\nentanglement, which he had put off doing from time to time in sheer\ndread of losing the bliss of her company.\n\nSue came out into the town with him, and they walked and talked with\ntongues centred only on the passing moments. Jude said he would like to\nbuy her a little present of some sort, and then she confessed, with\nsomething of shame, that she was dreadfully hungry. They were kept on\nvery short allowances in the college, and a dinner, tea, and supper all\nin one was the present she most desired in the world. Jude thereupon\ntook her to an inn and ordered whatever the house afforded, which was\nnot much. The place, however, gave them a delightful opportunity for a\n_t te- -t te_, nobody else being in the room, and they talked freely.\n\nShe told him about the school as it was at that date, and the rough\nliving, and the mixed character of her fellow-students, gathered\ntogether from all parts of the diocese, and how she had to get up and\nwork by gas-light in the early morning, with all the bitterness of a\nyoung person to whom restraint was new. To all this he listened; but it\nwas not what he wanted especially to know her relations with\nPhillotson. That was what she did not tell. When they had sat and\neaten, Jude impulsively placed his hand upon hers; she looked up and\nsmiled, and took his quite freely into her own little soft one,\ndividing his fingers and coolly examining them, as if they were the\nfingers of a glove she was purchasing.\n\n Your hands are rather rough, Jude, aren t they?  she said.\n\n Yes. So would yours be if they held a mallet and chisel all day. \n\n I don t dislike it, you know. I think it is noble to see a man s hands\nsubdued to what he works in  Well, I m rather glad I came to this\ntraining-school, after all. See how independent I shall be after the\ntwo years  training! I shall pass pretty high, I expect, and Mr.\nPhillotson will use his influence to get me a big school. \n\nShe had touched the subject at last.  I had a suspicion, a fear,  said\nJude,  that he cared about you rather warmly, and perhaps wanted to\nmarry you. \n\n Now don t be such a silly boy! \n\n He has said something about it, I expect. \n\n If he had, what would it matter? An old man like him! \n\n Oh, come, Sue; he s not so very old. And I know what I saw him doing \n\n Not kissing me that I m certain! \n\n No. But putting his arm round your waist. \n\n Ah I remember. But I didn t know he was going to. \n\n You are wriggling out if it, Sue, and it isn t quite kind! \n\nHer ever-sensitive lip began to quiver, and her eye to blink, at\nsomething this reproof was deciding her to say.\n\n I know you ll be angry if I tell you everything, and that s why I\ndon t want to! \n\n Very well, then, dear,  he said soothingly.  I have no real right to\nask you, and I don t wish to know. \n\n I shall tell you!  said she, with the perverseness that was part of\nher.  This is what I have done: I have promised I have promised that I\nwill marry him when I come out of the training-school two years hence,\nand have got my certificate; his plan being that we shall then take a\nlarge double school in a great town he the boys  and I the girls as\nmarried school-teachers often do, and make a good income between us. \n\n Oh, Sue!   But of course it is right you couldn t have done better! \n\nHe glanced at her and their eyes met, the reproach in his own belying\nhis words. Then he drew his hand quite away from hers, and turned his\nface in estrangement from her to the window. Sue regarded him passively\nwithout moving.\n\n I knew you would be angry!  she said with an air of no emotion\nwhatever.  Very well I am wrong, I suppose! I ought not to have let you\ncome to see me! We had better not meet again; and we ll only correspond\nat long intervals, on purely business matters! \n\nThis was just the one thing he would not be able to bear, as she\nprobably knew, and it brought him round at once.  Oh yes, we will,  he\nsaid quickly.  Your being engaged can make no difference to me\nwhatever. I have a perfect right to see you when I want to; and I\nshall! \n\n Then don t let us talk of it any more. It is quite spoiling our\nevening together. What does it matter about what one is going to do two\nyears hence! \n\nShe was something of a riddle to him, and he let the subject drift\naway.  Shall we go and sit in the cathedral?  he asked, when their meal\nwas finished.\n\n Cathedral? Yes. Though I think I d rather sit in the railway station, \nshe answered, a remnant of vexation still in her voice.  That s the\ncentre of the town life now. The cathedral has had its day! \n\n How modern you are! \n\n So would you be if you had lived so much in the Middle Ages as I have\ndone these last few years! The cathedral was a very good place four or\nfive centuries ago; but it is played out now  I am not modern, either.\nI am more ancient than medi valism, if you only knew. \n\nJude looked distressed.\n\n There I won t say any more of that!  she cried.  Only you don t know\nhow bad I am, from your point of view, or you wouldn t think so much of\nme, or care whether I was engaged or not. Now there s just time for us\nto walk round the Close, then I must go in, or I shall be locked out\nfor the night. \n\nHe took her to the gate and they parted. Jude had a conviction that his\nunhappy visit to her on that sad night had precipitated this marriage\nengagement, and it did anything but add to his happiness. Her reproach\nhad taken that shape, then, and not the shape of words. However, next\nday he set about seeking employment, which it was not so easy to get as\nat Christminster, there being, as a rule, less stone-cutting in\nprogress in this quiet city, and hands being mostly permanent. But he\nedged himself in by degrees. His first work was some carving at the\ncemetery on the hill; and ultimately he became engaged on the labour he\nmost desired the cathedral repairs, which were very extensive, the\nwhole interior stonework having been overhauled, to be largely replaced\nby new. It might be a labour of years to get it all done, and he had\nconfidence enough in his own skill with the mallet and chisel to feel\nthat it would be a matter of choice with himself how long he would\nstay.\n\nThe lodgings he took near the Close Gate would not have disgraced a\ncurate, the rent representing a higher percentage on his wages than\nmechanics of any sort usually care to pay. His combined bed and\nsitting-room was furnished with framed photographs of the rectories and\ndeaneries at which his landlady had lived as trusted servant in her\ntime, and the parlour downstairs bore a clock on the mantelpiece\ninscribed to the effect that it was presented to the same\nserious-minded woman by her fellow-servants on the occasion of her\nmarriage. Jude added to the furniture of his room by unpacking\nphotographs of the ecclesiastical carvings and monuments that he had\nexecuted with his own hands; and he was deemed a satisfactory\nacquisition as tenant of the vacant apartment.\n\nHe found an ample supply of theological books in the city book-shops,\nand with these his studies were recommenced in a different spirit and\ndirection from his former course. As a relaxation from the Fathers, and\nsuch stock works as Paley and Butler, he read Newman, Pusey, and many\nother modern lights. He hired a harmonium, set it up in his lodging,\nand practised chants thereon, single and double.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\n To-morrow is our grand day, you know. Where shall we go? \n\n I have leave from three till nine. Wherever we can get to and come\nback from in that time. Not ruins, Jude I don t care for them. \n\n Well Wardour Castle. And then we can do Fonthill if we like all in the\nsame afternoon. \n\n Wardour is Gothic ruins and I hate Gothic! \n\n No. Quite otherwise. It is a classic building Corinthian, I think;\nwith a lot of pictures. \n\n Ah that will do. I like the sound of Corinthian. We ll go. \n\nTheir conversation had run thus some few weeks later, and next morning\nthey prepared to start. Every detail of the outing was a facet\nreflecting a sparkle to Jude, and he did not venture to meditate on the\nlife of inconsistency he was leading. His Sue s conduct was one lovely\nconundrum to him; he could say no more.\n\nThere duly came the charm of calling at the college door for her; her\nemergence in a nunlike simplicity of costume that was rather enforced\nthan desired; the traipsing along to the station, the porters   B your\nleave!,  the screaming of the trains everything formed the basis of a\nbeautiful crystallization. Nobody stared at Sue, because she was so\nplainly dressed, which comforted Jude in the thought that only himself\nknew the charms those habiliments subdued. A matter of ten pounds spent\nin a drapery-shop, which had no connection with her real life or her\nreal self, would have set all Melchester staring. The guard of the\ntrain thought they were lovers, and put them into a compartment all by\nthemselves.\n\n That s a good intention wasted!  said she.\n\nJude did not respond. He thought the remark unnecessarily cruel, and\npartly untrue.\n\nThey reached the park and castle and wandered through the\npicture-galleries, Jude stopping by preference in front of the\ndevotional pictures by Del Sarto, Guido Reni, Spagnoletto,\nSassoferrato, Carlo Dolci, and others. Sue paused patiently beside him,\nand stole critical looks into his face as, regarding the Virgins, Holy\nFamilies, and Saints, it grew reverent and abstracted. When she had\nthoroughly estimated him at this, she would move on and wait for him\nbefore a Lely or Reynolds. It was evident that her cousin deeply\ninterested her, as one might be interested in a man puzzling out his\nway along a labyrinth from which one had one s self escaped.\n\nWhen they came out a long time still remained to them and Jude proposed\nthat as soon as they had had something to eat they should walk across\nthe high country to the north of their present position, and intercept\nthe train of another railway leading back to Melchester, at a station\nabout seven miles off. Sue, who was inclined for any adventure that\nwould intensify the sense of her day s freedom, readily agreed; and\naway they went, leaving the adjoining station behind them.\n\nIt was indeed open country, wide and high. They talked and bounded on,\nJude cutting from a little covert a long walking-stick for Sue as tall\nas herself, with a great crook, which made her look like a shepherdess.\nAbout half-way on their journey they crossed a main road running due\neast and west the old road from London to Land s End. They paused, and\nlooked up and down it for a moment, and remarked upon the desolation\nwhich had come over this once lively thoroughfare, while the wind\ndipped to earth and scooped straws and hay-stems from the ground.\n\nThey crossed the road and passed on, but during the next half-mile Sue\nseemed to grow tired, and Jude began to be distressed for her. They had\nwalked a good distance altogether, and if they could not reach the\nother station it would be rather awkward. For a long time there was no\ncottage visible on the wide expanse of down and turnip-land; but\npresently they came to a sheepfold, and next to the shepherd, pitching\nhurdles. He told them that the only house near was his mother s and\nhis, pointing to a little dip ahead from which a faint blue smoke\narose, and recommended them to go on and rest there.\n\nThis they did, and entered the house, admitted by an old woman without\na single tooth, to whom they were as civil as strangers can be when\ntheir only chance of rest and shelter lies in the favour of the\nhouseholder.\n\n A nice little cottage,  said Jude.\n\n Oh, I don t know about the niceness. I shall have to thatch it soon,\nand where the thatch is to come from I can t tell, for straw do get\nthat dear, that  twill soon be cheaper to cover your house wi  chainey\nplates than thatch. \n\nThey sat resting, and the shepherd came in.  Don t  ee mind I,  he said\nwith a deprecating wave of the hand;  bide here as long as ye will. But\nmid you be thinking o  getting back to Melchester to-night by train?\nBecause you ll never do it in this world, since you don t know the lie\nof the country. I don t mind going with ye some o  the ways, but even\nthen the train mid be gone. \n\nThey started up.\n\n You can bide here, you know, over the night can t  em, Mother? The\nplace is welcome to ye.  Tis hard lying, rather, but volk may do\nworse.  He turned to Jude and asked privately:  Be you a married\ncouple? \n\n Hsh no!  said Jude.\n\n Oh I meant nothing ba dy not I! Well then, she can go into Mother s\nroom, and you and I can lie in the outer chimmer after they ve gone\nthrough. I can call ye soon enough to catch the first train back.\nYou ve lost this one now. \n\nOn consideration they decided to close with this offer, and drew up and\nshared with the shepherd and his mother the boiled bacon and greens for\nsupper.\n\n I rather like this,  said Sue, while their entertainers were clearing\naway the dishes.  Outside all laws except gravitation and germination. \n\n You only think you like it; you don t: you are quite a product of\ncivilization,  said Jude, a recollection of her engagement reviving his\nsoreness a little.\n\n Indeed I am not, Jude. I like reading and all that, but I crave to get\nback to the life of my infancy and its freedom. \n\n Do you remember it so well? You seem to me to have nothing\nunconventional at all about you. \n\n Oh, haven t I! You don t know what s inside me. \n\n What? \n\n The Ishmaelite. \n\n An urban miss is what you are. \n\nShe looked severe disagreement, and turned away.\n\nThe shepherd aroused them the next morning, as he had said. It was\nbright and clear, and the four miles to the train were accomplished\npleasantly. When they had reached Melchester, and walked to the Close,\nand the gables of the old building in which she was again to be immured\nrose before Sue s eyes, she looked a little scared.  I expect I shall\ncatch it!  she murmured.\n\nThey rang the great bell and waited.\n\n Oh, I bought something for you, which I had nearly forgotten,  she\nsaid quickly, searching her pocket.  It is a new little photograph of\nme. Would you like it? \n\n _Would_ I!  He took it gladly, and the porter came. There seemed to be\nan ominous glance on his face when he opened the gate. She passed in,\nlooking back at Jude, and waving her hand.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nThe seventy young women, of ages varying in the main from nineteen to\none-and-twenty, though several were older, who at this date filled the\nspecies of nunnery known as the Training-School at Melchester, formed a\nvery mixed community, which included the daughters of mechanics,\ncurates, surgeons, shopkeepers, farmers, dairy-men, soldiers, sailors,\nand villagers. They sat in the large school-room of the establishment\non the evening previously described, and word was passed round that Sue\nBridehead had not come in at closing-time.\n\n She went out with her young man,  said a second-year s student, who\nknew about young men.  And Miss Traceley saw her at the station with\nhim. She ll have it hot when she does come. \n\n She said he was her cousin,  observed a youthful new girl.\n\n That excuse has been made a little too often in this school to be\neffectual in saving our souls,  said the head girl of the year, drily.\n\nThe fact was that, only twelve months before, there had occurred a\nlamentable seduction of one of the pupils who had made the same\nstatement in order to gain meetings with her lover. The affair had\ncreated a scandal, and the management had consequently been rough on\ncousins ever since.\n\nAt nine o clock the names were called, Sue s being pronounced three\ntimes sonorously by Miss Traceley without eliciting an answer.\n\nAt a quarter past nine the seventy stood up to sing the  Evening Hymn, \nand then knelt down to prayers. After prayers they went in to supper,\nand every girl s thought was, Where is Sue Bridehead? Some of the\nstudents, who had seen Jude from the window, felt that they would not\nmind risking her punishment for the pleasure of being kissed by such a\nkindly-faced young man. Hardly one among them believed in the\ncousinship.\n\nHalf an hour later they all lay in their cubicles, their tender\nfeminine faces upturned to the flaring gas-jets which at intervals\nstretched down the long dormitories, every face bearing the legend  The\nWeaker  upon it, as the penalty of the sex wherein they were moulded,\nwhich by no possible exertion of their willing hearts and abilities\ncould be made strong while the inexorable laws of nature remain what\nthey are. They formed a pretty, suggestive, pathetic sight, of whose\npathos and beauty they were themselves unconscious, and would not\ndiscover till, amid the storms and strains of after-years, with their\ninjustice, loneliness, child-bearing, and bereavement, their minds\nwould revert to this experience as to something which had been allowed\nto slip past them insufficiently regarded.\n\nOne of the mistresses came in to turn out the lights, and before doing\nso gave a final glance at Sue s cot, which remained empty, and at her\nlittle dressing-table at the foot, which, like all the rest, was\nornamented with various girlish trifles, framed photographs being not\nthe least conspicuous among them. Sue s table had a moderate show, two\nmen in their filigree and velvet frames standing together beside her\nlooking-glass.\n\n Who are these men did she ever say?  asked the mistress.  Strictly\nspeaking, relations  portraits only are allowed on these tables, you\nknow. \n\n One the middle-aged man,  said a student in the next bed is the\nschoolmaster she served under Mr. Phillotson. \n\n And the other this undergraduate in cap and gown who is he? \n\n He is a friend, or was. She has never told his name. \n\n Was it either of these two who came for her? \n\n No. \n\n You are sure  twas not the undergraduate? \n\n Quite. He was a young man with a black beard. \n\nThe lights were promptly extinguished, and till they fell asleep the\ngirls indulged in conjectures about Sue, and wondered what games she\nhad carried on in London and at Christminster before she came here,\nsome of the more restless ones getting out of bed and looking from the\nmullioned windows at the vast west front of the cathedral opposite, and\nthe spire rising behind it.\n\nWhen they awoke the next morning they glanced into Sue s nook, to find\nit still without a tenant. After the early lessons by gas-light, in\nhalf-toilet, and when they had come up to dress for breakfast, the bell\nof the entrance gate was heard to ring loudly. The mistress of the\ndormitory went away, and presently came back to say that the\nprincipal s orders were that nobody was to speak to Bridehead without\npermission.\n\nWhen, accordingly, Sue came into the dormitory to hastily tidy herself,\nlooking flushed and tired, she went to her cubicle in silence, none of\nthem coming out to greet her or to make inquiry. When they had gone\ndownstairs they found that she did not follow them into the dining-hall\nto breakfast, and they then learnt that she had been severely\nreprimanded, and ordered to a solitary room for a week, there to be\nconfined, and take her meals, and do all her reading.\n\nAt this the seventy murmured, the sentence being, they thought, too\nsevere. A round robin was prepared and sent in to the principal, asking\nfor a remission of Sue s punishment. No notice was taken. Towards\nevening, when the geography mistress began dictating her subject, the\ngirls in the class sat with folded arms.\n\n You mean that you are not going to work?  said the mistress at last.\n I may as well tell you that it has been ascertained that the young man\nBridehead stayed out with was not her cousin, for the very good reason\nthat she has no such relative. We have written to Christminster to\nascertain. \n\n We are willing to take her word,  said the head girl.\n\n This young man was discharged from his work at Christminster for\ndrunkenness and blasphemy in public-houses, and he has come here to\nlive, entirely to be near her. \n\nHowever, they remained stolid and motionless, and the mistress left the\nroom to inquire from her superiors what was to be done.\n\nPresently, towards dusk, the pupils, as they sat, heard exclamations\nfrom the first-year s girls in an adjoining classroom, and one rushed\nin to say that Sue Bridehead had got out of the back window of the room\nin which she had been confined, escaped in the dark across the lawn,\nand disappeared. How she had managed to get out of the garden nobody\ncould tell, as it was bounded by the river at the bottom, and the side\ndoor was locked.\n\nThey went and looked at the empty room, the casement between the middle\nmullions of which stood open. The lawn was again searched with a\nlantern, every bush and shrub being examined, but she was nowhere\nhidden. Then the porter of the front gate was interrogated, and on\nreflection he said that he remembered hearing a sort of splashing in\nthe stream at the back, but he had taken no notice, thinking some ducks\nhad come down the river from above.\n\n She must have walked through the river!  said a mistress.\n\n Or drownded herself,  said the porter.\n\nThe mind of the matron was horrified not so much at the possible death\nof Sue as at the possible half-column detailing that event in all the\nnewspapers, which, added to the scandal of the year before, would give\nthe college an unenviable notoriety for many months to come.\n\nMore lanterns were procured, and the river examined; and then, at last,\non the opposite shore, which was open to the fields, some little\nboot-tracks were discerned in the mud, which left no doubt that the too\nexcitable girl had waded through a depth of water reaching nearly to\nher shoulders for this was the chief river of the county, and was\nmentioned in all the geography books with respect. As Sue had not\nbrought disgrace upon the school by drowning herself, the matron began\nto speak superciliously of her, and to express gladness that she was\ngone.\n\nOn the self-same evening Jude sat in his lodgings by the Close Gate.\nOften at this hour after dusk he would enter the silent Close, and\nstand opposite the house that contained Sue, and watch the shadows of\nthe girls  heads passing to and fro upon the blinds, and wish he had\nnothing else to do but to sit reading and learning all day what many of\nthe thoughtless inmates despised. But to-night, having finished tea and\nbrushed himself up, he was deep in the perusal of the Twenty-ninth\nVolume of Pusey s Library of the Fathers, a set of books which he had\npurchased of a second-hand dealer at a price that seemed to him to be\none of miraculous cheapness for that invaluable work. He fancied he\nheard something rattle lightly against his window; then he heard it\nagain. Certainly somebody had thrown gravel. He rose and gently lifted\nthe sash.\n\n Jude!  (from below).\n\n Sue! \n\n Yes it is! Can I come up without being seen? \n\n Oh yes! \n\n Then don t come down. Shut the window. \n\nJude waited, knowing that she could enter easily enough, the front door\nbeing opened merely by a knob which anybody could turn, as in most old\ncountry towns. He palpitated at the thought that she had fled to him in\nher trouble as he had fled to her in his. What counterparts they were!\nHe unlatched the door of his room, heard a stealthy rustle on the dark\nstairs, and in a moment she appeared in the light of his lamp. He went\nup to seize her hand, and found she was clammy as a marine deity, and\nthat her clothes clung to her like the robes upon the figures in the\nParthenon frieze.\n\n I m so cold!  she said through her chattering teeth.  Can I come by\nyour fire, Jude? \n\nShe crossed to his little grate and very little fire, but as the water\ndripped from her as she moved, the idea of drying herself was absurd.\n Whatever have you done, darling?  he asked, with alarm, the tender\nepithet slipping out unawares.\n\n Walked through the largest river in the county that s what I ve done!\nThey locked me up for being out with you; and it seemed so unjust that\nI couldn t bear it, so I got out of the window and escaped across the\nstream!  She had begun the explanation in her usual slightly\nindependent tones, but before she had finished the thin pink lips\ntrembled, and she could hardly refrain from crying.\n\n Dear Sue!  he said.  You must take off all your things! And let me\nsee you must borrow some from the landlady. I ll ask her. \n\n No, no! Don t let her know, for God s sake! We are so near the school\nthat they ll come after me! \n\n Then you must put on mine. You don t mind? \n\n Oh no. \n\n My Sunday suit, you know. It is close here.  In fact, everything was\nclose and handy in Jude s single chamber, because there was not room\nfor it to be otherwise. He opened a drawer, took out his best dark\nsuit, and giving the garments a shake, said,  Now, how long shall I\ngive you? \n\n Ten minutes. \n\nJude left the room and went into the street, where he walked up and\ndown. A clock struck half-past seven, and he returned. Sitting in his\nonly arm-chair he saw a slim and fragile being masquerading as himself\non a Sunday, so pathetic in her defencelessness that his heart felt big\nwith the sense of it. On two other chairs before the fire were her wet\ngarments. She blushed as he sat down beside her, but only for a moment.\n\n I suppose, Jude, it is odd that you should see me like this and all my\nthings hanging there? Yet what nonsense! They are only a woman s\nclothes sexless cloth and linen  I wish I didn t feel so ill and sick!\nWill you dry my clothes now? Please do, Jude, and I ll get a lodging by\nand by. It is not late yet. \n\n No, you shan t, if you are ill. You must stay here. Dear, dear Sue,\nwhat can I get for you? \n\n I don t know! I can t help shivering. I wish I could get warm.  Jude\nput on her his great-coat in addition, and then ran out to the nearest\npublic-house, whence he returned with a little bottle in his hand.\n Here s six of best brandy,  he said.  Now you drink it, dear; all of\nit. \n\n I can t out of the bottle, can I?  Jude fetched the glass from the\ndressing-table, and administered the spirit in some water. She gasped a\nlittle, but gulped it down, and lay back in the armchair.\n\nShe then began to relate circumstantially her experiences since they\nhad parted; but in the middle of her story her voice faltered, her head\nnodded, and she ceased. She was in a sound sleep. Jude, dying of\nanxiety lest she should have caught a chill which might permanently\ninjure her, was glad to hear the regular breathing. He softly went\nnearer to her, and observed that a warm flush now rosed her hitherto\nblue cheeks, and felt that her hanging hand was no longer cold. Then he\nstood with his back to the fire regarding her, and saw in her almost a\ndivinity.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nJude s reverie was interrupted by the creak of footsteps ascending the\nstairs.\n\nHe whisked Sue s clothing from the chair where it was drying, thrust it\nunder the bed, and sat down to his book. Somebody knocked and opened\nthe door immediately. It was the landlady.\n\n Oh, I didn t know whether you was in or not, Mr. Fawley. I wanted to\nknow if you would require supper. I see you ve a young gentleman \n\n Yes, ma am. But I think I won t come down to-night. Will you bring\nsupper up on a tray, and I ll have a cup of tea as well. \n\nIt was Jude s custom to go downstairs to the kitchen, and eat his meals\nwith the family, to save trouble. His landlady brought up the supper,\nhowever, on this occasion, and he took it from her at the door.\n\nWhen she had descended he set the teapot on the hob, and drew out Sue s\nclothes anew; but they were far from dry. A thick woollen gown, he\nfound, held a deal of water. So he hung them up again, and enlarged his\nfire and mused as the steam from the garments went up the chimney.\n\nSuddenly she said,  Jude! \n\n Yes. All right. How do you feel now? \n\n Better. Quite well. Why, I fell asleep, didn t I? What time is it? Not\nlate surely? \n\n It is past ten. \n\n Is it really? What _shall_ I do!  she said, starting up.\n\n Stay where you are. \n\n Yes; that s what I want to do. But I don t know what they would say!\nAnd what will you do? \n\n I am going to sit here by the fire all night, and read. To-morrow is\nSunday, and I haven t to go out anywhere. Perhaps you will be saved a\nsevere illness by resting there. Don t be frightened. I m all right.\nLook here, what I have got for you. Some supper. \n\nWhen she had sat upright she breathed plaintively and said,  I do feel\nrather weak still. I thought I was well; and I ought not to be here,\nought I?  But the supper fortified her somewhat, and when she had had\nsome tea and had lain back again she was bright and cheerful.\n\nThe tea must have been green, or too long drawn, for she seemed\npreternaturally wakeful afterwards, though Jude, who had not taken any,\nbegan to feel heavy; till her conversation fixed his attention.\n\n You called me a creature of civilization, or something, didn t you? \nshe said, breaking a silence.  It was very odd you should have done\nthat. \n\n Why? \n\n Well, because it is provokingly wrong. I am a sort of negation of it. \n\n You are very philosophical.  A negation  is profound talking. \n\n Is it? Do I strike you as being learned?  she asked, with a touch of\nraillery.\n\n No not learned. Only you don t talk quite like a girl well, a girl who\nhas had no advantages. \n\n I have had advantages. I don t know Latin and Greek, though I know the\ngrammars of those tongues. But I know most of the Greek and Latin\nclassics through translations, and other books too. I read Lempri re,\nCatullus, Martial, Juvenal, Lucian, Beaumont and Fletcher, Boccaccio,\nScarron, De Brant me, Sterne, De Foe, Smollett, Fielding, Shakespeare,\nthe Bible, and other such; and found that all interest in the\nunwholesome part of those books ended with its mystery. \n\n You have read more than I,  he said with a sigh.  How came you to read\nsome of those queerer ones? \n\n Well,  she said thoughtfully,  it was by accident. My life has been\nentirely shaped by what people call a peculiarity in me. I have no fear\nof men, as such, nor of their books. I have mixed with them one or two\nof them particularly almost as one of their own sex. I mean I have not\nfelt about them as most women are taught to feel to be on their guard\nagainst attacks on their virtue; for no average man no man short of a\nsensual savage will molest a woman by day or night, at home or abroad,\nunless she invites him. Until she says by a look  Come on  he is always\nafraid to, and if you never say it, or look it, he never comes.\nHowever, what I was going to say is that when I was eighteen I formed a\nfriendly intimacy with an undergraduate at Christminster, and he taught\nme a great deal, and lent me books which I should never have got hold\nof otherwise. \n\n Is your friendship broken off? \n\n Oh yes. He died, poor fellow, two or three years after he had taken\nhis degree and left Christminster. \n\n You saw a good deal of him, I suppose? \n\n Yes. We used to go about together on walking tours, reading tours, and\nthings of that sort like two men almost. He asked me to live with him,\nand I agreed to by letter. But when I joined him in London I found he\nmeant a different thing from what I meant. He wanted me to be his\nmistress, in fact, but I wasn t in love with him and on my saying I\nshould go away if he didn t agree to _my_ plan, he did so. We shared a\nsitting-room for fifteen months; and he became a leader-writer for one\nof the great London dailies; till he was taken ill, and had to go\nabroad. He said I was breaking his heart by holding out against him so\nlong at such close quarters; he could never have believed it of woman.\nI might play that game once too often, he said. He came home merely to\ndie. His death caused a terrible remorse in me for my cruelty though I\nhope he died of consumption and not of me entirely. I went down to\nSandbourne to his funeral, and was his only mourner. He left me a\nlittle money because I broke his heart, I suppose. That s how men\nare so much better than women! \n\n Good heavens! what did you do then? \n\n Ah now you are angry with me!  she said, a contralto note of tragedy\ncoming suddenly into her silvery voice.  I wouldn t have told you if I\nhad known! \n\n No, I am not. Tell me all. \n\n Well, I invested his money, poor fellow, in a bubble scheme, and lost\nit. I lived about London by myself for some time, and then I returned\nto Christminster, as my father  who was also in London, and had started\nas an art metal-worker near Long-Acre wouldn t have me back; and I got\nthat occupation in the artist-shop where you found me  I said you\ndidn t know how bad I was! \n\nJude looked round upon the arm-chair and its occupant, as if to read\nmore carefully the creature he had given shelter to. His voice trembled\nas he said:  However you have lived, Sue, I believe you are as innocent\nas you are unconventional! \n\n I am not particularly innocent, as you see, now that I have\n\n                                         twitched the robe\nFrom that blank lay-figure your fancy draped, \n\nsaid she, with an ostensible sneer, though he could hear that she was\nbrimming with tears.  But I have never yielded myself to any lover, if\nthat s what you mean! I have remained as I began. \n\n I quite believe you. But some women would not have remained as they\nbegan. \n\n Perhaps not. Better women would not. People say I must be\ncold-natured sexless on account of it. But I won t have it! Some of the\nmost passionately erotic poets have been the most self-contained in\ntheir daily lives. \n\n Have you told Mr. Phillotson about this university scholar friend? \n\n Yes long ago. I have never made any secret of it to anybody. \n\n What did he say? \n\n He did not pass any criticism only said I was everything to him,\nwhatever I did; and things like that. \n\nJude felt much depressed; she seemed to get further and further away\nfrom him with her strange ways and curious unconsciousness of gender.\n\n Aren t you _really_ vexed with me, dear Jude?  she suddenly asked, in\na voice of such extraordinary tenderness that it hardly seemed to come\nfrom the same woman who had just told her story so lightly.  I would\nrather offend anybody in the world than you, I think! \n\n I don t know whether I am vexed or not. I know I care very much about\nyou! \n\n I care as much for you as for anybody I ever met. \n\n You don t care _more_! There, I ought not to say that. Don t answer\nit! \n\nThere was another long silence. He felt that she was treating him\ncruelly, though he could not quite say in what way. Her very\nhelplessness seemed to make her so much stronger than he.\n\n I am awfully ignorant on general matters, although I have worked so\nhard,  he said, to turn the subject.  I am absorbed in theology, you\nknow. And what do you think I should be doing just about now, if you\nweren t here? I should be saying my evening prayers. I suppose you\nwouldn t like \n\n Oh no, no,  she answered,  I would rather not, if you don t mind. I\nshould seem so such a hypocrite. \n\n I thought you wouldn t join, so I didn t propose it. You must remember\nthat I hope to be a useful minister some day. \n\n To be ordained, I think you said? \n\n Yes. \n\n Then you haven t given up the idea? I thought that perhaps you had by\nthis time. \n\n Of course not. I fondly thought at first that you felt as I do about\nthat, as you were so mixed up in Christminster Anglicanism. And Mr.\nPhillotson \n\n I have no respect for Christminster whatever, except, in a qualified\ndegree, on its intellectual side,  said Sue Bridehead earnestly.  My\nfriend I spoke of took that out of me. He was the most irreligious man\nI ever knew, and the most moral. And intellect at Christminster is new\nwine in old bottles. The medi valism of Christminster must go, be\nsloughed off, or Christminster itself will have to go. To be sure, at\ntimes one couldn t help having a sneaking liking for the traditions of\nthe old faith, as preserved by a section of the thinkers there in\ntouching and simple sincerity; but when I was in my saddest, rightest\nmind I always felt,\n\n O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods! \n\n Sue, you are not a good friend of mine to talk like that! \n\n Then I won t, dear Jude!  The emotional throat-note had come back, and\nshe turned her face away.\n\n I still think Christminster has much that is glorious; though I was\nresentful because I couldn t get there.  He spoke gently, and resisted\nhis impulse to pique her on to tears.\n\n It is an ignorant place, except as to the townspeople, artizans,\ndrunkards, and paupers,  she said, perverse still at his differing from\nher.  _They_ see life as it is, of course; but few of the people in the\ncolleges do. You prove it in your own person. You are one of the very\nmen Christminster was intended for when the colleges were founded; a\nman with a passion for learning, but no money, or opportunities, or\nfriends. But you were elbowed off the pavement by the millionaires \nsons. \n\n Well, I can do without what it confers. I care for something higher. \n\n And I for something broader, truer,  she insisted.  At present\nintellect in Christminster is pushing one way, and religion the other;\nand so they stand stock-still, like two rams butting each other. \n\n What would Mr. Phillotson \n\n It is a place full of fetishists and ghost-seers! \n\nHe noticed that whenever he tried to speak of the schoolmaster she\nturned the conversation to some generalizations about the offending\nuniversity. Jude was extremely, morbidly, curious about her life as\nPhillotson s _prot g e_ and betrothed; yet she would not enlighten him.\n\n Well, that s just what I am, too,  he said.  I am fearful of life,\nspectre-seeing always. \n\n But you are good and dear!  she murmured.\n\nHis heart bumped, and he made no reply.\n\n You are in the Tractarian stage just now, are you not?  she added,\nputting on flippancy to hide real feeling, a common trick with her.\n Let me see when was I there? In the year eighteen hundred and \n\n There s a sarcasm in that which is rather unpleasant to me, Sue. Now\nwill you do what I want you to? At this time I read a chapter, and then\nsay prayers, as I told you. Now will you concentrate your attention on\nany book of these you like, and sit with your back to me, and leave me\nto my custom? You are sure you won t join me? \n\n I ll look at you. \n\n No. Don t tease, Sue! \n\n Very well I ll do just as you bid me, and I won t vex you, Jude,  she\nreplied, in the tone of a child who was going to be good for ever\nafter, turning her back upon him accordingly. A small Bible other than\nthe one he was using lay near her, and during his retreat she took it\nup, and turned over the leaves.\n\n Jude,  she said brightly, when he had finished and come back to her;\n will you let me make you a _new_ New Testament, like the one I made\nfor myself at Christminster? \n\n Oh yes. How was that made? \n\n I altered my old one by cutting up all the Epistles and Gospels into\nseparate _brochures_, and rearranging them in chronological order as\nwritten, beginning the book with Thessalonians, following on with the\nEpistles, and putting the Gospels much further on. Then I had the\nvolume rebound. My university friend Mr. but never mind his name, poor\nboy said it was an excellent idea. I know that reading it afterwards\nmade it twice as interesting as before, and twice as understandable. \n\n H m!  said Jude, with a sense of sacrilege.\n\n And what a literary enormity this is,  she said, as she glanced into\nthe pages of Solomon s Song.  I mean the synopsis at the head of each\nchapter, explaining away the real nature of that rhapsody. You needn t\nbe alarmed: nobody claims inspiration for the chapter headings. Indeed,\nmany divines treat them with contempt. It seems the drollest thing to\nthink of the four-and-twenty elders, or bishops, or whatever number\nthey were, sitting with long faces and writing down such stuff. \n\nJude looked pained.  You are quite Voltairean!  he murmured.\n\n Indeed? Then I won t say any more, except that people have no right to\nfalsify the Bible! I _hate_ such hum-bug as could attempt to plaster\nover with ecclesiastical abstractions such ecstatic, natural, human\nlove as lies in that great and passionate song!  Her speech had grown\nspirited, and almost petulant at his rebuke, and her eyes moist.  I\n_wish_ I had a friend here to support me; but nobody is ever on my\nside! \n\n But my dear Sue, my very dear Sue, I am not against you!  he said,\ntaking her hand, and surprised at her introducing personal feeling into\nmere argument.\n\n Yes you are, yes you are!  she cried, turning away her face that he\nmight not see her brimming eyes.  You are on the side of the people in\nthe training-school at least you seem almost to be! What I insist on\nis, that to explain such verses as this:  Whither is thy beloved gone,\nO thou fairest among women?  by the note:  _The Church professeth her\nfaith_,  is supremely ridiculous! \n\n Well then, let it be! You make such a personal matter of everything! I\nam only too inclined just now to apply the words profanely. You know\n_you_ are fairest among women to me, come to that! \n\n But you are not to say it now!  Sue replied, her voice changing to its\nsoftest note of severity. Then their eyes met, and they shook hands\nlike cronies in a tavern, and Jude saw the absurdity of quarrelling on\nsuch a hypothetical subject, and she the silliness of crying about what\nwas written in an old book like the Bible.\n\n I won t disturb your convictions I really won t!  she went on\nsoothingly, for now he was rather more ruffled than she.  But I did\nwant and long to ennoble some man to high aims; and when I saw you, and\nknew you wanted to be my comrade, I shall I confess it? thought that\nman might be you. But you take so much tradition on trust that I don t\nknow what to say. \n\n Well, dear; I suppose one must take some things on trust. Life isn t\nlong enough to work out everything in Euclid problems before you\nbelieve it. I take Christianity. \n\n Well, perhaps you might take something worse. \n\n Indeed I might. Perhaps I have done so!  He thought of Arabella.\n\n I won t ask what, because we are going to be _very_ nice with each\nother, aren t we, and never, never, vex each other any more?  She\nlooked up trustfully, and her voice seemed trying to nestle in his\nbreast.\n\n I shall always care for you!  said Jude.\n\n And I for you. Because you are single-hearted, and forgiving to your\nfaulty and tiresome little Sue! \n\nHe looked away, for that epicene tenderness of hers was too harrowing.\nWas it that which had broken the heart of the poor leader-writer; and\nwas he to be the next one?   But Sue was so dear!   If he could only\nget over the sense of her sex, as she seemed to be able to do so easily\nof his, what a comrade she would make; for their difference of opinion\non conjectural subjects only drew them closer together on matters of\ndaily human experience. She was nearer to him than any other woman he\nhad ever met, and he could scarcely believe that time, creed, or\nabsence, would ever divide him from her.\n\nBut his grief at her incredulities returned. They sat on till she fell\nasleep again, and he nodded in his chair likewise. Whenever he aroused\nhimself he turned her things, and made up the fire anew. About six\no clock he awoke completely, and lighting a candle, found that her\nclothes were dry. Her chair being a far more comfortable one than his\nshe still slept on inside his great-coat, looking warm as a new bun and\nboyish as a Ganymede. Placing the garments by her and touching her on\nthe shoulder he went downstairs, and washed himself by starlight in the\nyard.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nWhen he returned she was dressed as usual.\n\n Now could I get out without anybody seeing me?  she asked.  The town\nis not yet astir. \n\n But you have had no breakfast. \n\n Oh, I don t want any! I fear I ought not to have run away from that\nschool! Things seem so different in the cold light of morning, don t\nthey? What Mr. Phillotson will say I don t know! It was quite by his\nwish that I went there. He is the only man in the world for whom I have\nany respect or fear. I hope he ll forgive me; but he ll scold me\ndreadfully, I expect! \n\n I ll go to him and explain  began Jude.\n\n Oh no, you shan t. I don t care for him! He may think what he likes I\nshall do just as I choose! \n\n But you just this moment said \n\n Well, if I did, I shall do as I like for all him! I have thought of\nwhat I shall do go to the sister of one of my fellow-students in the\ntraining-school, who has asked me to visit her. She has a school near\nShaston, about eighteen miles from here and I shall stay there till\nthis has blown over, and I get back to the training-school again. \n\nAt the last moment he persuaded her to let him make her a cup of\ncoffee, in a portable apparatus he kept in his room for use on rising\nto go to his work every day before the household was astir.\n\n Now a dew-bit to eat with it,  he said;  and off we go. You can have a\nregular breakfast when you get there. \n\nThey went quietly out of the house, Jude accompanying her to the\nstation. As they departed along the street a head was thrust out of an\nupper window of his lodging and quickly withdrawn. Sue still seemed\nsorry for her rashness, and to wish she had not rebelled; telling him\nat parting that she would let him know as soon as she got re-admitted\nto the training-school. They stood rather miserably together on the\nplatform; and it was apparent that he wanted to say more.\n\n I want to tell you something two things,  he said hurriedly as the\ntrain came up.  One is a warm one, the other a cold one! \n\n Jude,  she said.  I know one of them. And you mustn t! \n\n What? \n\n You mustn t love me. You are to like me that s all! \n\nJude s face became so full of complicated glooms that hers was agitated\nin sympathy as she bade him adieu through the carriage window. And then\nthe train moved on, and waving her pretty hand to him she vanished\naway.\n\nMelchester was a dismal place enough for Jude that Sunday of her\ndeparture, and the Close so hateful that he did not go once to the\ncathedral services. The next morning there came a letter from her,\nwhich, with her usual promptitude, she had written directly she had\nreached her friend s house. She told him of her safe arrival and\ncomfortable quarters, and then added: \n\nWhat I really write about, dear Jude, is something I said to you at\nparting. You had been so very good and kind to me that when you were\nout of sight I felt what a cruel and ungrateful woman I was to say it,\nand it has reproached me ever since. _If you want to love me, Jude, you\nmay_: I don t mind at all; and I ll never say again that you mustn t!\n    Now I won t write any more about that. You do forgive your\n    thoughtless friend for her cruelty? and won t make her miserable by\n    saying you don t? Ever,\n\n\nSUE.\n\nIt would be superfluous to say what his answer was; and how he thought\nwhat he would have done had he been free, which should have rendered a\nlong residence with a female friend quite unnecessary for Sue. He felt\nhe might have been pretty sure of his own victory if it had come to a\nconflict between Phillotson and himself for the possession of her.\n\nYet Jude was in danger of attaching more meaning to Sue s impulsive\nnote than it really was intended to bear.\n\nAfter the lapse of a few days he found himself hoping that she would\nwrite again. But he received no further communication; and in the\nintensity of his solicitude he sent another note, suggesting that he\nshould pay her a visit some Sunday, the distance being under eighteen\nmiles.\n\nHe expected a reply on the second morning after despatching his\nmissive; but none came. The third morning arrived; the postman did not\nstop. This was Saturday, and in a feverish state of anxiety about her\nhe sent off three brief lines stating that he was coming the following\nday, for he felt sure something had happened.\n\nHis first and natural thought had been that she was ill from her\nimmersion; but it soon occurred to him that somebody would have written\nfor her in such a case. Conjectures were put an end to by his arrival\nat the village school-house near Shaston on the bright morning of\nSunday, between eleven and twelve o clock, when the parish was as\nvacant as a desert, most of the inhabitants having gathered inside the\nchurch, whence their voices could occasionally be heard in unison.\n\nA little girl opened the door.  Miss Bridehead is up-stairs,  she said.\n And will you please walk up to her? \n\n Is she ill?  asked Jude hastily.\n\n Only a little not very. \n\nJude entered and ascended. On reaching the landing a voice told him\nwhich way to turn the voice of Sue calling his name. He passed the\ndoorway, and found her lying in a little bed in a room a dozen feet\nsquare.\n\n Oh, Sue!  he cried, sitting down beside her and taking her hand.  How\nis this! You couldn t write? \n\n No it wasn t that!  she answered.  I did catch a bad cold but I could\nhave written. Only I wouldn t! \n\n Why not? frightening me like this! \n\n Yes that was what I was afraid of! But I had decided not to write to\nyou any more. They won t have me back at the school that s why I\ncouldn t write. Not the fact, but the reason! \n\n Well? \n\n They not only won t have me, but they gave me a parting piece of\nadvice \n\n What? \n\nShe did not answer directly.  I vowed I never would tell you, Jude it\nis so vulgar and distressing! \n\n Is it about us? \n\n Yes. \n\n But do tell me! \n\n Well somebody has sent them baseless reports about us, and they say\nyou and I ought to marry as soon as possible, for the sake of my\nreputation!   There now I have told you, and I wish I hadn t! \n\n Oh, poor Sue! \n\n I don t think of you like that means! It did just _occur_ to me to\nregard you in the way they think I do, but I hadn t begun to. I _have_\nrecognized that the cousinship was merely nominal, since we met as\ntotal strangers. But my marrying you, dear Jude why, of course, if I\nhad reckoned upon marrying you I shouldn t have come to you so often!\nAnd I never supposed you thought of such a thing as marrying me till\nthe other evening; when I began to fancy you did love me a little.\nPerhaps I ought not to have been so intimate with you. It is all my\nfault. Everything is my fault always! \n\nThe speech seemed a little forced and unreal, and they regarded each\nother with a mutual distress.\n\n I was so blind at first!  she went on.  I didn t see what you felt at\nall. Oh, you have been unkind to me you have to look upon me as a\nsweetheart without saying a word, and leaving me to discover it myself!\nYour attitude to me has become known; and naturally they think we ve\nbeen doing wrong! I ll never trust you again! \n\n Yes, Sue,  he said simply;  I am to blame more than you think. I was\nquite aware that you did not suspect till within the last meeting or\ntwo what I was feeling about you. I admit that our meeting as strangers\nprevented a sense of relationship, and that it was a sort of subterfuge\nto avail myself of it. But don t you think I deserve a little\nconsideration for concealing my wrong, very wrong, sentiments, since I\ncouldn t help having them? \n\nShe turned her eyes doubtfully towards him, and then looked away as if\nafraid she might forgive him.\n\nBy every law of nature and sex a kiss was the only rejoinder that\nfitted the mood and the moment, under the suasion of which Sue s\nundemonstrative regard of him might not inconceivably have changed its\ntemperature. Some men would have cast scruples to the winds, and\nventured it, oblivious both of Sue s declaration of her neutral\nfeelings, and of the pair of autographs in the vestry chest of\nArabella s parish church. Jude did not. He had, in fact, come in part\nto tell his own fatal story. It was upon his lips; yet at the hour of\nthis distress he could not disclose it. He preferred to dwell upon the\nrecognized barriers between them.\n\n Of course I know you don t care about me in any particular way,  he\nsorrowed.  You ought not, and you are right. You belong to Mr.\nPhillotson. I suppose he has been to see you? \n\n Yes,  she said shortly, her face changing a little.  Though I didn t\nask him to come. You are glad, of course, that he has been! But I\nshouldn t care if he didn t come any more! \n\nIt was very perplexing to her lover that she should be piqued at his\nhonest acquiescence in his rival, if Jude s feelings of love were\ndeprecated by her. He went on to something else.\n\n This will blow over, dear Sue,  he said.  The training-school\nauthorities are not all the world. You can get to be a student in some\nother, no doubt. \n\n I ll ask Mr. Phillotson,  she said decisively.\n\nSue s kind hostess now returned from church, and there was no more\nintimate conversation. Jude left in the afternoon, hopelessly unhappy.\nBut he had seen her, and sat with her. Such intercourse as that would\nhave to content him for the remainder of his life. The lesson of\nrenunciation it was necessary and proper that he, as a parish priest,\nshould learn.\n\nBut the next morning when he awoke he felt rather vexed with her, and\ndecided that she was rather unreasonable, not to say capricious. Then,\nin illustration of what he had begun to discern as one of her redeeming\ncharacteristics there came promptly a note, which she must have written\nalmost immediately he had gone from her:\n\nForgive me for my petulance yesterday! I was horrid to you; I know it,\nand I feel perfectly miserable at my horridness. It was so dear of you\nnot to be angry! Jude, please still keep me as your friend and\nassociate, with all my faults. I ll try not to be like it again.\n    I am coming to Melchester on Saturday, to get my things away from\n    the T. S., &c. I could walk with you for half an hour, if you would\n    like? Your repentant\n\n\nSUE.\n\nJude forgave her straightway, and asked her to call for him at the\ncathedral works when she came.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nMeanwhile a middle-aged man was dreaming a dream of great beauty\nconcerning the writer of the above letter. He was Richard Phillotson,\nwho had recently removed from the mixed village school at Lumsdon near\nChristminster, to undertake a large boys  school in his native town of\nShaston, which stood on a hill sixty miles to the south-west as the\ncrow flies.\n\nA glance at the place and its accessories was almost enough to reveal\nthat the schoolmaster s plans and dreams so long indulged in had been\nabandoned for some new dream with which neither the Church nor\nliterature had much in common. Essentially an unpractical man, he was\nnow bent on making and saving money for a practical purpose that of\nkeeping a wife, who, if she chose, might conduct one of the girls \nschools adjoining his own; for which purpose he had advised her to go\ninto training, since she would not marry him offhand.\n\nAbout the time that Jude was removing from Marygreen to Melchester, and\nentering on adventures at the latter place with Sue, the schoolmaster\nwas settling down in the new school-house at Shaston. All the furniture\nbeing fixed, the books shelved, and the nails driven, he had begun to\nsit in his parlour during the dark winter nights and re-attempt some of\nhis old studies one branch of which had included Roman-Britannic\nantiquities an unremunerative labour for a national school-master but a\nsubject, that, after his abandonment of the university scheme, had\ninterested him as being a comparatively unworked mine; practicable to\nthose who, like himself, had lived in lonely spots where these remains\nwere abundant, and were seen to compel inferences in startling contrast\nto accepted views on the civilization of that time.\n\nA resumption of this investigation was the outward and apparent hobby\nof Phillotson at present his ostensible reason for going alone into\nfields where causeways, dykes, and tumuli abounded, or shutting himself\nup in his house with a few urns, tiles, and mosaics he had collected,\ninstead of calling round upon his new neighbours, who for their part\nhad showed themselves willing enough to be friendly with him. But it\nwas not the real, or the whole, reason, after all. Thus on a particular\nevening in the month, when it had grown quite late to near midnight,\nindeed and the light of his lamp, shining from his window at a salient\nangle of the hill-top town over infinite miles of valley westward,\nannounced as by words a place and person given over to study, he was\nnot exactly studying.\n\nThe interior of the room the books, the furniture, the schoolmaster s\nloose coat, his attitude at the table, even the flickering of the fire,\nbespoke the same dignified tale of undistracted research more than\ncreditable to a man who had had no advantages beyond those of his own\nmaking. And yet the tale, true enough till latterly, was not true now.\nWhat he was regarding was not history. They were historic notes,\nwritten in a bold womanly hand at his dictation some months before, and\nit was the clerical rendering of word after word that absorbed him.\n\nHe presently took from a drawer a carefully tied bundle of letters,\nfew, very few, as correspondence counts nowadays. Each was in its\nenvelope just as it had arrived, and the handwriting was of the same\nwomanly character as the historic notes. He unfolded them one by one\nand read them musingly. At first sight there seemed in these small\ndocuments to be absolutely nothing to muse over. They were\nstraightforward, frank letters, signed  Sue B ; just such ones as\nwould be written during short absences, with no other thought than\ntheir speedy destruction, and chiefly concerning books in reading and\nother experiences of a training school, forgotten doubtless by the\nwriter with the passing of the day of their inditing. In one of\nthem quite a recent note the young woman said that she had received his\nconsiderate letter, and that it was honourable and generous of him to\nsay he would not come to see her oftener than she desired (the school\nbeing such an awkward place for callers, and because of her strong wish\nthat her engagement to him should not be known, which it would\ninfallibly be if he visited her often). Over these phrases the\nschool-master pored. What precise shade of satisfaction was to be\ngathered from a woman s gratitude that the man who loved her had not\nbeen often to see her? The problem occupied him, distracted him.\n\nHe opened another drawer, and found therein an envelope, from which he\ndrew a photograph of Sue as a child, long before he had known her,\nstanding under trellis-work with a little basket in her hand. There was\nanother of her as a young woman, her dark eyes and hair making a very\ndistinct and attractive picture of her, which just disclosed, too, the\nthoughtfulness that lay behind her lighter moods. It was a duplicate of\nthe one she had given Jude, and would have given to any man. Phillotson\nbrought it half-way to his lips, but withdrew it in doubt at her\nperplexing phrases: ultimately kissing the dead pasteboard with all the\npassionateness, and more than all the devotion, of a young man of\neighteen.\n\nThe schoolmaster s was an unhealthy-looking, old-fashioned face,\nrendered more old-fashioned by his style of shaving. A certain\ngentlemanliness had been imparted to it by nature, suggesting an\ninherent wish to do rightly by all. His speech was a little slow, but\nhis tones were sincere enough to make his hesitation no defect. His\ngreying hair was curly, and radiated from a point in the middle of his\ncrown. There were four lines across his forehead, and he only wore\nspectacles when reading at night. It was almost certainly a\nrenunciation forced upon him by his academic purpose, rather than a\ndistaste for women, which had hitherto kept him from closing with one\nof the sex in matrimony.\n\nSuch silent proceedings as those of this evening were repeated many and\noft times when he was not under the eye of the boys, whose quick and\npenetrating regard would frequently become almost intolerable to the\nself-conscious master in his present anxious care for Sue, making him,\nin the grey hours of morning, dread to meet anew the gimlet glances,\nlest they should read what the dream within him was.\n\nHe had honourably acquiesced in Sue s announced wish that he was not\noften to visit her at the training school; but at length, his patience\nbeing sorely tried, he set out one Saturday afternoon to pay her an\nunexpected call. There the news of her departure expulsion as it might\nalmost have been considered was flashed upon him without warning or\nmitigation as he stood at the door expecting in a few minutes to behold\nher face; and when he turned away he could hardly see the road before\nhim.\n\nSue had, in fact, never written a line to her suitor on the subject,\nalthough it was fourteen days old. A short reflection told him that\nthis proved nothing, a natural delicacy being as ample a reason for\nsilence as any degree of blameworthiness.\n\nThey had informed him at the school where she was living, and having no\nimmediate anxiety about her comfort, his thoughts took the direction of\na burning indignation against the training school committee. In his\nbewilderment Phillotson entered the adjacent cathedral, just now in a\ndirely dismantled state by reason of the repairs. He sat down on a\nblock of freestone, regardless of the dusty imprint it made on his\nbreeches; and his listless eyes following the movements of the workmen\nhe presently became aware that the reputed culprit, Sue s lover Jude,\nwas one amongst them.\n\nJude had never spoken to his former hero since the meeting by the model\nof Jerusalem. Having inadvertently witnessed Phillotson s tentative\ncourtship of Sue in the lane there had grown up in the younger man s\nmind a curious dislike to think of the elder, to meet him, to\ncommunicate in any way with him; and since Phillotson s success in\nobtaining at least her promise had become known to Jude, he had frankly\nrecognized that he did not wish to see or hear of his senior any more,\nlearn anything of his pursuits, or even imagine again what excellencies\nmight appertain to his character. On this very day of the\nschoolmaster s visit Jude was expecting Sue, as she had promised; and\nwhen therefore he saw the schoolmaster in the nave of the building,\nsaw, moreover, that he was coming to speak to him, he felt no little\nembarrassment; which Phillotson s own embarrassment prevented his\nobserving.\n\nJude joined him, and they both withdrew from the other workmen to the\nspot where Phillotson had been sitting. Jude offered him a piece of\nsackcloth for a cushion, and told him it was dangerous to sit on the\nbare block.\n\n Yes; yes,  said Phillotson abstractedly, as he reseated himself, his\neyes resting on the ground as if he were trying to remember where he\nwas.  I won t keep you long. It was merely that I have heard that you\nhave seen my little friend Sue recently. It occurred to me to speak to\nyou on that account. I merely want to ask about her. \n\n I think I know what!  Jude hurriedly said.  About her escaping from\nthe training school, and her coming to me? \n\n Yes. \n\n Well Jude for a moment felt an unprincipled and fiendish wish to\nannihilate his rival at all cost. By the exercise of that treachery\nwhich love for the same woman renders possible to men the most\nhonourable in every other relation of life, he could send off\nPhillotson in agony and defeat by saying that the scandal was true, and\nthat Sue had irretrievably committed herself with him. But his action\ndid not respond for a moment to his animal instinct; and what he said\nwas,  I am glad of your kindness in coming to talk plainly to me about\nit. You know what they say? that I ought to marry her. \n\n What! \n\n And I wish with all my soul I could! \n\nPhillotson trembled, and his naturally pale face acquired a corpselike\nsharpness in its lines.  I had no idea that it was of this nature! God\nforbid! \n\n No, no!  said Jude aghast.  I thought you understood? I mean that were\nI in a position to marry her, or someone, and settle down, instead of\nliving in lodgings here and there, I should be glad! \n\nWhat he had really meant was simply that he loved her.\n\n But since this painful matter has been opened up what really\nhappened?  asked Phillotson, with the firmness of a man who felt that a\nsharp smart now was better than a long agony of suspense hereafter.\n Cases arise, and this is one, when even ungenerous questions must be\nput to make false assumptions impossible, and to kill scandal. \n\nJude explained readily; giving the whole series of adventures,\nincluding the night at the shepherd s, her wet arrival at his lodging,\nher indisposition from her immersion, their vigil of discussion, and\nhis seeing her off next morning.\n\n Well now,  said Phillotson at the conclusion,  I take it as your final\nword, and I know I can believe you, that the suspicion which led to her\nrustication is an absolutely baseless one? \n\n It is,  said Jude solemnly.  Absolutely. So help me God! \n\nThe schoolmaster rose. Each of the twain felt that the interview could\nnot comfortably merge in a friendly discussion of their recent\nexperiences, after the manner of friends; and when Jude had taken him\nround, and shown him some features of the renovation which the old\ncathedral was undergoing, Phillotson bade the young man good-day and\nwent away.\n\nThis visit took place about eleven o clock in the morning; but no Sue\nappeared. When Jude went to his dinner at one he saw his beloved ahead\nof him in the street leading up from the North Gate, walking as if no\nway looking for him. Speedily overtaking her he remarked that he had\nasked her to come to him at the cathedral, and she had promised.\n\n I have been to get my things from the college,  she said an\nobservation which he was expected to take as an answer, though it was\nnot one. Finding her to be in this evasive mood he felt inclined to\ngive her the information so long withheld.\n\n You have not seen Mr. Phillotson to-day?  he ventured to inquire.\n\n I have not. But I am not going to be cross-examined about him; and if\nyou ask anything more I won t answer! \n\n It is very odd that  He stopped, regarding her.\n\n What? \n\n That you are often not so nice in your real presence as you are in\nyour letters! \n\n Does it really seem so to you?  said she, smiling with quick\ncuriosity.  Well, that s strange; but I feel just the same about you,\nJude. When you are gone away I seem such a coldhearted \n\nAs she knew his sentiment towards her Jude saw that they were getting\nupon dangerous ground. It was now, he thought, that he must speak as an\nhonest man.\n\nBut he did not speak, and she continued:  It was that which made me\nwrite and say I didn t mind your loving me if you wanted to, much! \n\nThe exultation he might have felt at what that implied, or seemed to\nimply, was nullified by his intention, and he rested rigid till he\nbegan:  I have never told you \n\n Yes you have,  murmured she.\n\n I mean, I have never told you my history all of it. \n\n But I guess it. I know nearly. \n\nJude looked up. Could she possibly know of that morning performance of\nhis with Arabella; which in a few months had ceased to be a marriage\nmore completely than by death? He saw that she did not.\n\n I can t quite tell you here in the street,  he went on with a gloomy\ntongue.  And you had better not come to my lodgings. Let us go in\nhere. \n\nThe building by which they stood was the market-house; it was the only\nplace available; and they entered, the market being over, and the\nstalls and areas empty. He would have preferred a more congenial spot,\nbut, as usually happens, in place of a romantic field or solemn aisle\nfor his tale, it was told while they walked up and down over a floor\nlittered with rotten cabbage-leaves, and amid all the usual squalors of\ndecayed vegetable matter and unsaleable refuse. He began and finished\nhis brief narrative, which merely led up to the information that he had\nmarried a wife some years earlier, and that his wife was living still.\nAlmost before her countenance had time to change she hurried out the\nwords,\n\n Why didn t you tell me before! \n\n I couldn t. It seemed so cruel to tell it. \n\n To yourself, Jude. So it was better to be cruel to me! \n\n No, dear darling!  cried Jude passionately. He tried to take her hand,\nbut she withdrew it. Their old relations of confidence seemed suddenly\nto have ended, and the antagonisms of sex to sex were left without any\ncounter-poising predilections. She was his comrade, friend, unconscious\nsweetheart no longer; and her eyes regarded him in estranged silence.\n\n I was ashamed of the episode in my life which brought about the\nmarriage,  he continued.  I can t explain it precisely now. I could\nhave done it if you had taken it differently! \n\n But how can I?  she burst out.  Here I have been saying, or writing,\nthat that you might love me, or something of the sort! just out of\ncharity and all the time oh, it is perfectly damnable how things are! \nshe said, stamping her foot in a nervous quiver.\n\n You take me wrong, Sue! I never thought you cared for me at all, till\nquite lately; so I felt it did not matter! Do you care for me, Sue? you\nknow how I mean? I don t like  out of charity  at all! \n\nIt was a question which in the circumstances Sue did not choose to\nanswer.\n\n I suppose she your wife is a very pretty woman, even if she s wicked? \nshe asked quickly.\n\n She s pretty enough, as far as that goes. \n\n Prettier than I am, no doubt! \n\n You are not the least alike. And I have never seen her for years  But\nshe s sure to come back they always do! \n\n How strange of you to stay apart from her like this!  said Sue, her\ntrembling lip and lumpy throat belying her irony.  You, such a\nreligious man. How will the demi-gods in your Pantheon I mean those\nlegendary persons you call saints intercede for you after this? Now if\nI had done such a thing it would have been different, and not\nremarkable, for I at least don t regard marriage as a sacrament. Your\ntheories are not so advanced as your practice! \n\n Sue, you are terribly cutting when you like to be a perfect Voltaire!\nBut you must treat me as you will! \n\nWhen she saw how wretched he was she softened, and trying to blink away\nher sympathetic tears said with all the winning reproachfulness of a\nheart-hurt woman:  Ah you should have told me before you gave me that\nidea that you wanted to be allowed to love me! I had no feeling before\nthat moment at the railway-station, except  For once Sue was as\nmiserable as he, in her attempts to keep herself free from emotion, and\nher less than half-success.\n\n Don t cry, dear!  he implored.\n\n I am not crying because I meant to love you; but because of your want\nof confidence! \n\nThey were quite screened from the market-square without, and he could\nnot help putting out his arm towards her waist. His momentary desire\nwas the means of her rallying.  No, no!  she said, drawing back\nstringently, and wiping her eyes.  Of course not! It would be hypocrisy\nto pretend that it would be meant as from my cousin; and it can t be in\nany other way. \n\nThey moved on a dozen paces, and she showed herself recovered. It was\ndistracting to Jude, and his heart would have ached less had she\nappeared anyhow but as she did appear; essentially large-minded and\ngenerous on reflection, despite a previous exercise of those narrow\nwomanly humours on impulse that were necessary to give her sex.\n\n I don t blame you for what you couldn t help,  she said, smiling.  How\nshould I be so foolish? I do blame you a little bit for not telling me\nbefore. But, after all, it doesn t matter. We should have had to keep\napart, you see, even if this had not been in your life. \n\n No, we shouldn t, Sue! This is the only obstacle. \n\n You forget that I must have loved you, and wanted to be your wife,\neven if there had been no obstacle,  said Sue, with a gentle\nseriousness which did not reveal her mind.  And then we are cousins,\nand it is bad for cousins to marry. And I am engaged to somebody else.\nAs to our going on together as we were going, in a sort of friendly\nway, the people round us would have made it unable to continue. Their\nviews of the relations of man and woman are limited, as is proved by\ntheir expelling me from the school. Their philosophy only recognizes\nrelations based on animal desire. The wide field of strong attachment\nwhere desire plays, at least, only a secondary part, is ignored by\nthem the part of who is it? Venus Urania. \n\nHer being able to talk learnedly showed that she was mistress of\nherself again; and before they parted she had almost regained her\nvivacious glance, her reciprocity of tone, her gay manner, and her\nsecond-thought attitude of critical largeness towards others of her age\nand sex.\n\nHe could speak more freely now.  There were several reasons against my\ntelling you rashly. One was what I have said; another, that it was\nalways impressed upon me that I ought not to marry that I belonged to\nan odd and peculiar family the wrong breed for marriage. \n\n Ah who used to say that to you? \n\n My great-aunt. She said it always ended badly with us Fawleys. \n\n That s strange. My father used to say the same to me! \n\nThey stood possessed by the same thought, ugly enough, even as an\nassumption: that a union between them, had such been possible, would\nhave meant a terrible intensification of unfitness two bitters in one\ndish.\n\n Oh, but there can t be anything in it!  she said with nervous\nlightness.  Our family have been unlucky of late years in choosing\nmates that s all. \n\nAnd then they pretended to persuade themselves that all that had\nhappened was of no consequence, and that they could still be cousins\nand friends and warm correspondents, and have happy genial times when\nthey met, even if they met less frequently than before. Their parting\nwas in good friendship, and yet Jude s last look into her eyes was\ntinged with inquiry, for he felt that he did not even now quite know\nher mind.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nTidings from Sue a day or two after passed across Jude like a withering\nblast.\n\nBefore reading the letter he was led to suspect that its contents were\nof a somewhat serious kind by catching sight of the signature which was\nin her full name, never used in her correspondence with him since her\nfirst note:\n\nMY DEAR JUDE, I have something to tell you which perhaps you will not\nbe surprised to hear, though certainly it may strike you as being\naccelerated (as the railway companies say of their trains). Mr.\nPhillotson and I are to be married quite soon in three or four weeks.\nWe had intended, as you know, to wait till I had gone through my course\nof training and obtained my certificate, so as to assist him, if\nnecessary, in the teaching. But he generously says he does not see any\nobject in waiting, now I am not at the training school. It is so good\nof him, because the awkwardness of my situation has really come about\nby my fault in getting expelled.\n    Wish me joy. Remember I say you are to, and you mustn t\n    refuse! Your affectionate cousin,\n\n\nSUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.\n\nJude staggered under the news; could eat no breakfast; and kept on\ndrinking tea because his mouth was so dry. Then presently he went back\nto his work and laughed the usual bitter laugh of a man so confronted.\nEverything seemed turning to satire. And yet, what could the poor girl\ndo? he asked himself, and felt worse than shedding tears.\n\n O Susanna Florence Mary!  he said as he worked.  You don t know what\nmarriage means! \n\nCould it be possible that his announcement of his own marriage had\npricked her on to this, just as his visit to her when in liquor may\nhave pricked her on to her engagement? To be sure, there seemed to\nexist these other and sufficient reasons, practical and social, for her\ndecision; but Sue was not a very practical or calculating person; and\nhe was compelled to think that a pique at having his secret sprung upon\nher had moved her to give way to Phillotson s probable representations,\nthat the best course to prove how unfounded were the suspicions of the\nschool authorities would be to marry him off-hand, as in fulfilment of\nan ordinary engagement. Sue had, in fact, been placed in an awkward\ncorner. Poor Sue!\n\nHe determined to play the Spartan; to make the best of it, and support\nher; but he could not write the requested good wishes for a day or two.\nMeanwhile there came another note from his impatient little dear:\n\nJude, will you give me away? I have nobody else who could do it so\nconveniently as you, being the only married relation I have here on the\nspot, even if my father were friendly enough to be willing, which he\nisn t. I hope you won t think it a trouble? I have been looking at the\nmarriage service in the prayer-book, and it seems to me very\nhumiliating that a giver-away should be required at all. According to\nthe ceremony as there printed, my bridegroom chooses me of his own will\nand pleasure; but I don t choose him. Somebody _gives_ me to him, like\na she-ass or she-goat, or any other domestic animal. Bless your exalted\nviews of woman, O churchman! But I forget: I am no longer privileged to\ntease you. Ever,\n\n\nSUSANNA FLORENCE MARY BRIDEHEAD.\n\nJude screwed himself up to heroic key; and replied:\n\nMY DEAR SUE, Of course I wish you joy! And also of course I will give\nyou away. What I suggest is that, as you have no house of your own, you\ndo not marry from your school friend s, but from mine. It would be more\nproper, I think, since I am, as you say, the person nearest related to\nyou in this part of the world.\n    I don t see why you sign your letter in such a new and terribly\n    formal way? Surely you care a bit about me still! Ever your\n    affectionate,\n\n\nJUDE.\n\nWhat had jarred on him even more than the signature was a little sting\nhe had been silent on the phrase  married relation What an idiot it\nmade him seem as her lover! If Sue had written that in satire, he could\nhardly forgive her; if in suffering ah, that was another thing!\n\nHis offer of his lodging must have commended itself to Phillotson at\nany rate, for the schoolmaster sent him a line of warm thanks,\naccepting the convenience. Sue also thanked him. Jude immediately moved\ninto more commodious quarters, as much to escape the espionage of the\nsuspicious landlady who had been one cause of Sue s unpleasant\nexperience as for the sake of room.\n\nThen Sue wrote to tell him the day fixed for the wedding; and Jude\ndecided, after inquiry, that she should come into residence on the\nfollowing Saturday, which would allow of a ten days  stay in the city\nprior to the ceremony, sufficiently representing a nominal residence of\nfifteen.\n\nShe arrived by the ten o clock train on the day aforesaid, Jude not\ngoing to meet her at the station, by her special request, that he\nshould not lose a morning s work and pay, she said (if this were her\ntrue reason). But so well by this time did he know Sue that the\nremembrance of their mutual sensitiveness at emotional crises might, he\nthought, have weighed with her in this. When he came home to dinner she\nhad taken possession of her apartment.\n\nShe lived in the same house with him, but on a different floor, and\nthey saw each other little, an occasional supper being the only meal\nthey took together, when Sue s manner was something like that of a\nscared child. What she felt he did not know; their conversation was\nmechanical, though she did not look pale or ill. Phillotson came\nfrequently, but mostly when Jude was absent. On the morning of the\nwedding, when Jude had given himself a holiday, Sue and her cousin had\nbreakfast together for the first and last time during this curious\ninterval; in his room the parlour which he had hired for the period of\nSue s residence. Seeing, as women do, how helpless he was in making the\nplace comfortable, she bustled about.\n\n What s the matter, Jude?  she said suddenly.\n\nHe was leaning with his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands,\nlooking into a futurity which seemed to be sketched out on the\ntablecloth.\n\n Oh nothing! \n\n You are  father , you know. That s what they call the man who gives\nyou away. \n\nJude could have said  Phillotson s age entitles him to be called that! \nBut he would not annoy her by such a cheap retort.\n\nShe talked incessantly, as if she dreaded his indulgence in reflection,\nand before the meal was over both he and she wished they had not put\nsuch confidence in their new view of things, and had taken breakfast\napart. What oppressed Jude was the thought that, having done a wrong\nthing of this sort himself, he was aiding and abetting the woman he\nloved in doing a like wrong thing, instead of imploring and warning her\nagainst it. It was on his tongue to say,  You have quite made up your\nmind? \n\nAfter breakfast they went out on an errand together moved by a mutual\nthought that it was the last opportunity they would have of indulging\nin unceremonious companionship. By the irony of fate, and the curious\ntrick in Sue s nature of tempting Providence at critical times, she\ntook his arm as they walked through the muddy street a thing she had\nnever done before in her life and on turning the corner they found\nthemselves close to a grey perpendicular church with a low-pitched\nroof the church of St. Thomas.\n\n That s the church,  said Jude.\n\n Where I am going to be married? \n\n Yes. \n\n Indeed!  she exclaimed with curiosity.  How I should like to go in and\nsee what the spot is like where I am so soon to kneel and do it. \n\nAgain he said to himself,  She does not realize what marriage means! \n\nHe passively acquiesced in her wish to go in, and they entered by the\nwestern door. The only person inside the gloomy building was a\ncharwoman cleaning. Sue still held Jude s arm, almost as if she loved\nhim. Cruelly sweet, indeed, she had been to him that morning; but his\nthoughts of a penance in store for her were tempered by an ache:\n\n                                          I can find no way\nHow a blow should fall, such as falls on men,\nNor prove too much for your womanhood!\n\nThey strolled undemonstratively up the nave towards the altar railing,\nwhich they stood against in silence, turning then and walking down the\nnave again, her hand still on his arm, precisely like a couple just\nmarried. The too suggestive incident, entirely of her making, nearly\nbroke down Jude.\n\n I like to do things like this,  she said in the delicate voice of an\nepicure in emotions, which left no doubt that she spoke the truth.\n\n I know you do!  said Jude.\n\n They are interesting, because they have probably never been done\nbefore. I shall walk down the church like this with my husband in about\ntwo hours, shan t I! \n\n No doubt you will! \n\n Was it like this when you were married? \n\n Good God, Sue don t be so awfully merciless!   There, dear one, I\ndidn t mean it! \n\n Ah you are vexed!  she said regretfully, as she blinked away an access\nof eye moisture.  And I promised never to vex you!   I suppose I ought\nnot to have asked you to bring me in here. Oh, I oughtn t! I see it\nnow. My curiosity to hunt up a new sensation always leads me into these\nscrapes. Forgive me!   You will, won t you, Jude? \n\nThe appeal was so remorseful that Jude s eyes were even wetter than\nhers as he pressed her hand for Yes.\n\n Now we ll hurry away, and I won t do it any more!  she continued\nhumbly; and they came out of the building, Sue intending to go on to\nthe station to meet Phillotson. But the first person they encountered\non entering the main street was the schoolmaster himself, whose train\nhad arrived sooner than Sue expected. There was nothing really to demur\nto in her leaning on Jude s arm; but she withdrew her hand, and Jude\nthought that Phillotson had looked surprised.\n\n We have been doing such a funny thing!  said she, smiling candidly.\n We ve been to the church, rehearsing as it were. Haven t we, Jude? \n\n How?  said Phillotson curiously.\n\nJude inwardly deplored what he thought to be unnecessary frankness; but\nshe had gone too far not to explain all, which she accordingly did,\ntelling him how they had marched up to the altar.\n\nSeeing how puzzled Phillotson seemed, Jude said as cheerfully as he\ncould,  I am going to buy her another little present. Will you both\ncome to the shop with me? \n\n No,  said Sue,  I ll go on to the house with him ; and requesting her\nlover not to be a long time she departed with the schoolmaster.\n\nJude soon joined them at his rooms, and shortly after they prepared for\nthe ceremony. Phillotson s hair was brushed to a painful extent, and\nhis shirt collar appeared stiffer than it had been for the previous\ntwenty years. Beyond this he looked dignified and thoughtful, and\naltogether a man of whom it was not unsafe to predict that he would\nmake a kind and considerate husband. That he adored Sue was obvious;\nand she could almost be seen to feel that she was undeserving his\nadoration.\n\nAlthough the distance was so short he had hired a fly from the Red\nLion, and six or seven women and children had gathered by the door when\nthey came out. The schoolmaster and Sue were unknown, though Jude was\ngetting to be recognized as a citizen; and the couple were judged to be\nsome relations of his from a distance, nobody supposing Sue to have\nbeen a recent pupil at the training school.\n\nIn the carriage Jude took from his pocket his extra little\nwedding-present, which turned out to be two or three yards of white\ntulle, which he threw over her bonnet and all, as a veil.\n\n It looks so odd over a bonnet,  she said.  I ll take the bonnet off. \n\n Oh no let it stay,  said Phillotson. And she obeyed.\n\nWhen they had passed up the church and were standing in their places\nJude found that the antecedent visit had certainly taken off the edge\nof this performance, but by the time they were half-way on with the\nservice he wished from his heart that he had not undertaken the\nbusiness of giving her away. How could Sue have had the temerity to ask\nhim to do it a cruelty possibly to herself as well as to him? Women\nwere different from men in such matters. Was it that they were, instead\nof more sensitive, as reputed, more callous, and less romantic; or were\nthey more heroic? Or was Sue simply so perverse that she wilfully gave\nherself and him pain for the odd and mournful luxury of practising\nlong-suffering in her own person, and of being touched with tender pity\nfor him at having made him practise it? He could perceive that her face\nwas nervously set, and when they reached the trying ordeal of Jude\ngiving her to Phillotson she could hardly command herself; rather,\nhowever, as it seemed, from her knowledge of what her cousin must feel,\nwhom she need not have had there at all, than from self-consideration.\nPossibly she would go on inflicting such pains again and again, and\ngrieving for the sufferer again and again, in all her colossal\ninconsistency.\n\nPhillotson seemed not to notice, to be surrounded by a mist which\nprevented his seeing the emotions of others. As soon as they had signed\ntheir names and come away, and the suspense was over, Jude felt\nrelieved.\n\nThe meal at his lodging was a very simple affair, and at two o clock\nthey went off. In crossing the pavement to the fly she looked back; and\nthere was a frightened light in her eyes. Could it be that Sue had\nacted with such unusual foolishness as to plunge into she knew not what\nfor the sake of asserting her independence of him, of retaliating on\nhim for his secrecy? Perhaps Sue was thus venturesome with men because\nshe was childishly ignorant of that side of their natures which wore\nout women s hearts and lives.\n\nWhen her foot was on the carriage-step she turned round, saying that\nshe had forgotten something. Jude and the landlady offered to get it.\n\n No,  she said, running back.  It is my handkerchief. I know where I\nleft it. \n\nJude followed her back. She had found it, and came holding it in her\nhand. She looked into his eyes with her own tearful ones, and her lips\nsuddenly parted as if she were going to avow something. But she went\non; and whatever she had meant to say remained unspoken.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nJude wondered if she had really left her handkerchief behind; or\nwhether it were that she had miserably wished to tell him of a love\nthat at the last moment she could not bring herself to express.\n\nHe could not stay in his silent lodging when they were gone, and\nfearing that he might be tempted to drown his misery in alcohol he went\nupstairs, changed his dark clothes for his white, his thin boots for\nhis thick, and proceeded to his customary work for the afternoon.\n\nBut in the cathedral he seemed to hear a voice behind him, and to be\npossessed with an idea that she would come back. She could not possibly\ngo home with Phillotson, he fancied. The feeling grew and stirred. The\nmoment that the clock struck the last of his working hours he threw\ndown his tools and rushed homeward.  Has anybody been for me?  he\nasked.\n\nNobody had been there.\n\nAs he could claim the downstairs sitting-room till twelve o clock that\nnight he sat in it all the evening; and even when the clock had struck\neleven, and the family had retired, he could not shake off the feeling\nthat she would come back and sleep in the little room adjoining his own\nin which she had slept so many previous days. Her actions were always\nunpredictable: why should she not come? Gladly would he have compounded\nfor the denial of her as a sweetheart and wife by having her live thus\nas a fellow-lodger and friend, even on the most distant terms. His\nsupper still remained spread, and going to the front door, and softly\nsetting it open, he returned to the room and sat as watchers sit on\nOld-Midsummer eves, expecting the phantom of the Beloved. But she did\nnot come.\n\nHaving indulged in this wild hope he went upstairs, and looked out of\nthe window, and pictured her through the evening journey to London,\nwhither she and Phillotson had gone for their holiday; their rattling\nalong through the damp night to their hotel, under the same sky of\nribbed cloud as that he beheld, through which the moon showed its\nposition rather than its shape, and one or two of the larger stars made\nthemselves visible as faint nebul  only. It was a new beginning of\nSue s history. He projected his mind into the future, and saw her with\nchildren more or less in her own likeness around her. But the\nconsolation of regarding them as a continuation of her identity was\ndenied to him, as to all such dreamers, by the wilfulness of Nature in\nnot allowing issue from one parent alone. Every desired renewal of an\nexistence is debased by being half alloy.  If at the estrangement or\ndeath of my lost love, I could go and see her child hers solely there\nwould be comfort in it!  said Jude. And then he again uneasily saw, as\nhe had latterly seen with more and more frequency, the scorn of Nature\nfor man s finer emotions, and her lack of interest in his aspirations.\n\nThe oppressive strength of his affection for Sue showed itself on the\nmorrow and following days yet more clearly. He could no longer endure\nthe light of the Melchester lamps; the sunshine was as drab paint, and\nthe blue sky as zinc. Then he received news that his old aunt was\ndangerously ill at Marygreen, which intelligence almost coincided with\na letter from his former employer at Christminster, who offered him\npermanent work of a good class if he would come back. The letters were\nalmost a relief to him. He started to visit Aunt Drusilla, and resolved\nto go onward to Christminster to see what worth there might be in the\nbuilder s offer.\n\nJude found his aunt even worse than the communication from the Widow\nEdlin had led him to expect. There was every possibility of her\nlingering on for weeks or months, though little likelihood. He wrote to\nSue informing her of the state of her aunt, and suggesting that she\nmight like to see her aged relative alive. He would meet her at\nAlfredston Road, the following evening, Monday, on his way back from\nChristminster, if she could come by the up-train which crossed his\ndown-train at that station. Next morning, according, he went on to\nChristminster, intending to return to Alfredston soon enough to keep\nthe suggested appointment with Sue.\n\nThe city of learning wore an estranged look, and he had lost all\nfeeling for its associations. Yet as the sun made vivid lights and\nshades of the mullioned architecture of the fa ades, and drew patterns\nof the crinkled battlements on the young turf of the quadrangles, Jude\nthought he had never seen the place look more beautiful. He came to the\nstreet in which he had first beheld Sue. The chair she had occupied\nwhen, leaning over her ecclesiastical scrolls, a hog-hair brush in her\nhand, her girlish figure had arrested the gaze of his inquiring eyes,\nstood precisely in its former spot, empty. It was as if she were dead,\nand nobody had been found capable of succeeding her in that artistic\npursuit. Hers was now the city phantom, while those of the intellectual\nand devotional worthies who had once moved him to emotion were no\nlonger able to assert their presence there.\n\nHowever, here he was; and in fulfilment of his intention he went on to\nhis former lodging in  Beersheba,  near the ritualistic church of St.\nSilas. The old landlady who opened the door seemed glad to see him\nagain, and bringing some lunch informed him that the builder who had\nemployed him had called to inquire his address.\n\nJude went on to the stone-yard where he had worked. But the old sheds\nand bankers were distasteful to him; he felt it impossible to engage\nhimself to return and stay in this place of vanished dreams. He longed\nfor the hour of the homeward train to Alfredston, where he might\nprobably meet Sue.\n\nThen, for one ghastly half-hour of depression caused by these scenes,\nthere returned upon him that feeling which had been his undoing more\nthan once that he was not worth the trouble of being taken care of\neither by himself or others; and during this half-hour he met Tinker\nTaylor, the bankrupt ecclesiastical ironmonger, at Fourways, who\nproposed that they should adjourn to a bar and drink together. They\nwalked along the street till they stood before one of the great\npalpitating centres of Christminster life, the inn wherein he formerly\nhad responded to the challenge to rehearse the Creed in Latin now a\npopular tavern with a spacious and inviting entrance, which gave\nadmittance to a bar that had been entirely renovated and refitted in\nmodern style since Jude s residence here.\n\nTinker Taylor drank off his glass and departed, saying it was too\nstylish a place now for him to feel at home in unless he was drunker\nthan he had money to be just then. Jude was longer finishing his, and\nstood abstractedly silent in the, for the minute, almost empty place.\nThe bar had been gutted and newly arranged throughout, mahogany\nfixtures having taken the place of the old painted ones, while at the\nback of the standing-space there were stuffed sofa-benches. The room\nwas divided into compartments in the approved manner, between which\nwere screens of ground glass in mahogany framing, to prevent topers in\none compartment being put to the blush by the recognitions of those in\nthe next. On the inside of the counter two barmaids leant over the\nwhite-handled beer-engines, and the row of little silvered taps inside,\ndripping into a pewter trough.\n\nFeeling tired, and having nothing more to do till the train left, Jude\nsat down on one of the sofas. At the back of the barmaids rose\nbevel-edged mirrors, with glass shelves running along their front, on\nwhich stood precious liquids that Jude did not know the name of, in\nbottles of topaz, sapphire, ruby and amethyst. The moment was enlivened\nby the entrance of some customers into the next compartment, and the\nstarting of the mechanical tell-tale of monies received, which emitted\na ting-ting every time a coin was put in.\n\nThe barmaid attending to this compartment was invisible to Jude s\ndirect glance, though a reflection of her back in the glass behind her\nwas occasionally caught by his eyes. He had only observed this\nlistlessly, when she turned her face for a moment to the glass to set\nher hair tidy. Then he was amazed to discover that the face was\nArabella s.\n\nIf she had come on to his compartment she would have seen him. But she\ndid not, this being presided over by the maiden on the other side. Abby\nwas in a black gown, with white linen cuffs and a broad white collar,\nand her figure, more developed than formerly, was accentuated by a\nbunch of daffodils that she wore on her left bosom. In the compartment\nshe served stood an electro-plated fountain of water over a\nspirit-lamp, whose blue flame sent a steam from the top, all this being\nvisible to him only in the mirror behind her; which also reflected the\nfaces of the men she was attending to one of them a handsome,\ndissipated young fellow, possibly an undergraduate, who had been\nrelating to her an experience of some humorous sort.\n\n Oh, Mr. Cockman, now! How can you tell such a tale to me in my\ninnocence!  she cried gaily.  Mr. Cockman, what do you use to make your\nmoustache curl so beautiful?  As the young man was clean shaven, the\nretort provoked a laugh at his expense.\n\n Come!  said he,  I ll have a cura ao; and a light, please. \n\nShe served the liqueur from one of the lovely bottles and striking a\nmatch held it to his cigarette with ministering archness while he\nwhiffed.\n\n Well, have you heard from your husband lately, my dear?  he asked.\n\n Not a sound,  said she.\n\n Where is he? \n\n I left him in Australia; and I suppose he s there still. \n\nJude s eyes grew rounder.\n\n What made you part from him? \n\n Don t you ask questions, and you won t hear lies. \n\n Come then, give me my change, which you ve been keeping from me for\nthe last quarter of an hour; and I ll romantically vanish up the street\nof this picturesque city. \n\nShe handed the change over the counter, in taking which he caught her\nfingers and held them. There was a slight struggle and titter, and he\nbade her good-bye and left.\n\nJude had looked on with the eye of a dazed philosopher. It was\nextraordinary how far removed from his life Arabella now seemed to be.\nHe could not realize their nominal closeness. And, this being the case,\nin his present frame of mind he was indifferent to the fact that\nArabella was his wife indeed.\n\nThe compartment that she served emptied itself of visitors, and after a\nbrief thought he entered it, and went forward to the counter. Arabella\ndid not recognize him for a moment. Then their glances met. She\nstarted; till a humorous impudence sparkled in her eyes, and she spoke.\n\n Well, I m blest! I thought you were underground years ago! \n\n Oh! \n\n I never heard anything of you, or I don t know that I should have come\nhere. But never mind! What shall I treat you to this afternoon? A\nScotch and soda? Come, anything that the house will afford, for old\nacquaintance  sake! \n\n Thanks, Arabella,  said Jude without a smile.  But I don t want\nanything more than I ve had.  The fact was that her unexpected presence\nthere had destroyed at a stroke his momentary taste for strong liquor\nas completely as if it had whisked him back to his milk-fed infancy.\n\n That s a pity, now you could get it for nothing. \n\n How long have you been here? \n\n About six weeks. I returned from Sydney three months ago. I always\nliked this business, you know. \n\n I wonder you came to this place! \n\n Well, as I say, I thought you were gone to glory, and being in London\nI saw the situation in an advertisement. Nobody was likely to know me\nhere, even if I had minded, for I was never in Christminster in my\ngrowing up. \n\n Why did you return from Australia? \n\n Oh, I had my reasons  Then you are not a don yet? \n\n No. \n\n Not even a reverend? \n\n No. \n\n Nor so much as a rather reverend dissenting gentleman? \n\n I am as I was. \n\n True you look so.  She idly allowed her fingers to rest on the pull of\nthe beer-engine as she inspected him critically. He observed that her\nhands were smaller and whiter than when he had lived with her, and that\non the hand which pulled the engine she wore an ornamental ring set\nwith what seemed to be real sapphires which they were, indeed, and were\nmuch admired as such by the young men who frequented the bar.\n\n So you pass as having a living husband,  he continued.\n\n Yes. I thought it might be awkward if I called myself a widow, as I\nshould have liked. \n\n True. I am known here a little. \n\n I didn t mean on that account for as I said I didn t expect you. It\nwas for other reasons. \n\n What were they? \n\n I don t care to go into them,  she replied evasively.  I make a very\ngood living, and I don t know that I want your company. \n\nHere a chappie with no chin, and a moustache like a lady s eyebrow,\ncame and asked for a curiously compounded drink, and Arabella was\nobliged to go and attend to him.  We can t talk here,  she said,\nstepping back a moment.  Can t you wait till nine? Say yes, and don t\nbe a fool. I can get off duty two hours sooner than usual, if I ask. I\nam not living in the house at present. \n\nHe reflected and said gloomily,  I ll come back. I suppose we d better\narrange something. \n\n Oh, bother arranging! I m not going to arrange anything! \n\n But I must know a thing or two; and, as you say, we can t talk here.\nVery well; I ll call for you. \n\nDepositing his unemptied glass he went out and walked up and down the\nstreet. Here was a rude flounce into the pellucid sentimentality of his\nsad attachment to Sue. Though Arabella s word was absolutely\nuntrustworthy, he thought there might be some truth in her implication\nthat she had not wished to disturb him, and had really supposed him\ndead. However, there was only one thing now to be done, and that was to\nplay a straightforward part, the law being the law, and the woman\nbetween whom and himself there was no more unity than between east and\nwest, being in the eye of the Church one person with him.\n\nHaving to meet Arabella here, it was impossible to meet Sue at\nAlfredston as he had promised. At every thought of this a pang had gone\nthrough him; but the conjuncture could not be helped. Arabella was\nperhaps an intended intervention to punish him for his unauthorized\nlove. Passing the evening, therefore, in a desultory waiting about the\ntown wherein he avoided the precincts of every cloister and hall,\nbecause he could not bear to behold them, he repaired to the tavern bar\nwhile the hundred and one strokes were resounding from the Great Bell\nof Cardinal College, a coincidence which seemed to him gratuitous\nirony. The inn was now brilliantly lighted up, and the scene was\naltogether more brisk and gay. The faces of the barmaidens had risen in\ncolour, each having a pink flush on her cheek; their manners were still\nmore vivacious than before more abandoned, more excited, more sensuous,\nand they expressed their sentiments and desires less euphemistically,\nlaughing in a lackadaisical tone, without reserve.\n\nThe bar had been crowded with men of all sorts during the previous\nhour, and he had heard from without the hubbub of their voices; but the\ncustomers were fewer at last. He nodded to Arabella, and told her that\nshe would find him outside the door when she came away.\n\n But you must have something with me first,  she said with great good\nhumour.  Just an early night-cap: I always do. Then you can go out and\nwait a minute, as it is best we should not be seen going together.  She\ndrew a couple of liqueur glasses of brandy; and though she had\nevidently, from her countenance, already taken in enough alcohol either\nby drinking or, more probably, from the atmosphere she had breathed for\nso many hours, she finished hers quickly. He also drank his, and went\noutside the house.\n\nIn a few minutes she came, in a thick jacket and a hat with a black\nfeather.  I live quite near,  she said, taking his arm,  and can let\nmyself in by a latch-key at any time. What arrangement do you want to\ncome to? \n\n Oh none in particular,  he answered, thoroughly sick and tired, his\nthoughts again reverting to Alfredston, and the train he did not go by;\nthe probable disappointment of Sue that he was not there when she\narrived, and the missed pleasure of her company on the long and lonely\nclimb by starlight up the hills to Marygreen.  I ought to have gone\nback really! My aunt is on her deathbed, I fear. \n\n I ll go over with you to-morrow morning. I think I could get a day\noff. \n\nThere was something particularly uncongenial in the idea of Arabella,\nwho had no more sympathy than a tigress with his relations or him,\ncoming to the bedside of his dying aunt, and meeting Sue. Yet he said,\n Of course, if you d like to, you can. \n\n Well, that we ll consider  Now, until we have come to some agreement\nit is awkward our being together here where you are known, and I am\ngetting known, though without any suspicion that I have anything to do\nwith you. As we are going towards the station, suppose we take the\nnine-forty train to Aldbrickham? We shall be there in little more than\nhalf an hour, and nobody will know us for one night, and we shall be\nquite free to act as we choose till we have made up our minds whether\nwe ll make anything public or not. \n\n As you like. \n\n Then wait till I get two or three things. This is my lodging.\nSometimes when late I sleep at the hotel where I am engaged, so nobody\nwill think anything of my staying out. \n\nShe speedily returned, and they went on to the railway, and made the\nhalf-hour s journey to Aldbrickham, where they entered a third-rate inn\nnear the station in time for a late supper.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nOn the morrow between nine and half-past they were journeying back to\nChristminster, the only two occupants of a compartment in a third-class\nrailway-carriage. Having, like Jude, made rather a hasty toilet to\ncatch the train, Arabella looked a little frowsy, and her face was very\nfar from possessing the animation which had characterized it at the bar\nthe night before. When they came out of the station she found that she\nstill had half an hour to spare before she was due at the bar. They\nwalked in silence a little way out of the town in the direction of\nAlfredston. Jude looked up the far highway.\n\n Ah   poor feeble me!  he murmured at last.\n\n What?  said she.\n\n This is the very road by which I came into Christminster years ago\nfull of plans! \n\n Well, whatever the road is I think my time is nearly up, as I have to\nbe in the bar by eleven o clock. And as I said, I shan t ask for the\nday to go with you to see your aunt. So perhaps we had better part\nhere. I d sooner not walk up Chief Street with you, since we ve come to\nno conclusion at all. \n\n Very well. But you said when we were getting up this morning that you\nhad something you wished to tell me before I left? \n\n So I had two things one in particular. But you wouldn t promise to\nkeep it a secret. I ll tell you now if you promise? As an honest woman\nI wish you to know it  It was what I began telling you in the\nnight about that gentleman who managed the Sydney hotel.  Arabella\nspoke somewhat hurriedly for her.  You ll keep it close? \n\n Yes yes I promise!  said Jude impatiently.  Of course I don t want to\nreveal your secrets. \n\n Whenever I met him out for a walk, he used to say that he was much\ntaken with my looks, and he kept pressing me to marry him. I never\nthought of coming back to England again; and being out there in\nAustralia, with no home of my own after leaving my father, I at last\nagreed, and did. \n\n What marry him? \n\n Yes. \n\n Regularly legally in church? \n\n Yes. And lived with him till shortly before I left. It was stupid, I\nknow; but I did! There, now I ve told you. Don t round upon me! He\ntalks of coming back to England, poor old chap. But if he does, he\nwon t be likely to find me. \n\nJude stood pale and fixed.\n\n Why the devil didn t you tell me last, night!  he said.\n\n Well I didn t  Won t you make it up with me, then? \n\n So in talking of  your husband  to the bar gentlemen you meant him, of\ncourse not me! \n\n Of course  Come, don t fuss about it. \n\n I have nothing more to say!  replied Jude.  I have nothing at all to\nsay about the crime you ve confessed to! \n\n Crime! Pooh. They don t think much of such as that over there! Lots of\n em do it  Well, if you take it like that I shall go back to him! He\nwas very fond of me, and we lived honourable enough, and as respectable\nas any married couple in the colony! How did I know where you were? \n\n I won t go blaming you. I could say a good deal; but perhaps it would\nbe misplaced. What do you wish me to do? \n\n Nothing. There was one thing more I wanted to tell you; but I fancy\nwe ve seen enough of one another for the present! I shall think over\nwhat you said about your circumstances, and let you know. \n\nThus they parted. Jude watched her disappear in the direction of the\nhotel, and entered the railway station close by. Finding that it wanted\nthree-quarters of an hour of the time at which he could get a train\nback to Alfredston, he strolled mechanically into the city as far as to\nthe Fourways, where he stood as he had so often stood before, and\nsurveyed Chief Street stretching ahead, with its college after college,\nin picturesqueness unrivalled except by such Continental vistas as the\nStreet of Palaces in Genoa; the lines of the buildings being as\ndistinct in the morning air as in an architectural drawing. But Jude\nwas far from seeing or criticizing these things; they were hidden by an\nindescribable consciousness of Arabella s midnight contiguity, a sense\nof degradation at his revived experiences with her, of her appearance\nas she lay asleep at dawn, which set upon his motionless face a look as\nof one accurst. If he could only have felt resentment towards her he\nwould have been less unhappy; but he pitied while he contemned her.\n\nJude turned and retraced his steps. Drawing again towards the station\nhe started at hearing his name pronounced less at the name than at the\nvoice. To his great surprise no other than Sue stood like a vision\nbefore him her look bodeful and anxious as in a dream, her little mouth\nnervous, and her strained eyes speaking reproachful inquiry.\n\n Oh, Jude I am so glad to meet you like this!  she said in quick,\nuneven accents not far from a sob. Then she flushed as she observed his\nthought that they had not met since her marriage.\n\nThey looked away from each other to hide their emotion, took each\nother s hand without further speech, and went on together awhile, till\nshe glanced at him with furtive solicitude.  I arrived at Alfredston\nstation last night, as you asked me to, and there was nobody to meet\nme! But I reached Marygreen alone, and they told me Aunt was a trifle\nbetter. I sat up with her, and as you did not come all night I was\nfrightened about you I thought that perhaps, when you found yourself\nback in the old city, you were upset at at thinking I was married, and\nnot there as I used to be; and that you had nobody to speak to; so you\nhad tried to drown your gloom as you did at that former time when you\nwere disappointed about entering as a student, and had forgotten your\npromise to me that you never would again. And this, I thought, was why\nyou hadn t come to meet me! \n\n And you came to hunt me up, and deliver me, like a good angel! \n\n I thought I would come by the morning train and try to find you in\ncase in case \n\n I did think of my promise to you, dear, continually! I shall never\nbreak out again as I did, I am sure. I may have been doing nothing\nbetter, but I was not doing that I loathe the thought of it. \n\n I am glad your staying had nothing to do with that. But,  she said,\nthe faintest pout entering into her tone,  you didn t come back last\nnight and meet me, as you engaged to! \n\n I didn t I am sorry to say. I had an appointment at nine o clock too\nlate for me to catch the train that would have met yours, or to get\nhome at all. \n\nLooking at his loved one as she appeared to him now, in his tender\nthought the sweetest and most disinterested comrade that he had ever\nhad, living largely in vivid imaginings, so ethereal a creature that\nher spirit could be seen trembling through her limbs, he felt heartily\nashamed of his earthliness in spending the hours he had spent in\nArabella s company. There was something rude and immoral in thrusting\nthese recent facts of his life upon the mind of one who, to him, was so\nuncarnate as to seem at times impossible as a human wife to any average\nman. And yet she was Phillotson s. How she had become such, how she\nlived as such, passed his comprehension as he regarded her to-day.\n\n You ll go back with me?  he said.  There s a train just now. I wonder\nhow my aunt is by this time  And so, Sue, you really came on my account\nall this way! At what an early time you must have started, poor thing! \n\n Yes. Sitting up watching alone made me all nerves for you, and instead\nof going to bed when it got light I started. And now you won t frighten\nme like this again about your morals for nothing? \n\nHe was not so sure that she had been frightened about his morals for\nnothing. He released her hand till they had entered the train, it\nseemed the same carriage he had lately got out of with another where\nthey sat down side by side, Sue between him and the window. He regarded\nthe delicate lines of her profile, and the small, tight, applelike\nconvexities of her bodice, so different from Arabella s amplitudes.\nThough she knew he was looking at her she did not turn to him, but kept\nher eyes forward, as if afraid that by meeting his own some troublous\ndiscussion would be initiated.\n\n Sue you are married now, you know, like me; and yet we have been in\nsuch a hurry that we have not said a word about it! \n\n There s no necessity,  she quickly returned.\n\n Oh well perhaps not  But I wish \n\n Jude don t talk about _me_ I wish you wouldn t!  she entreated.  It\ndistresses me, rather. Forgive my saying it!   Where did you stay last\nnight? \n\nShe had asked the question in perfect innocence, to change the topic.\nHe knew that, and said merely,  At an inn,  though it would have been a\nrelief to tell her of his meeting with an unexpected one. But the\nlatter s final announcement of her marriage in Australia bewildered him\nlest what he might say should do his ignorant wife an injury.\n\nTheir talk proceeded but awkwardly till they reached Alfredston. That\nSue was not as she had been, but was labelled  Phillotson,  paralyzed\nJude whenever he wanted to commune with her as an individual. Yet she\nseemed unaltered he could not say why. There remained the five-mile\nextra journey into the country, which it was just as easy to walk as to\ndrive, the greater part of it being uphill. Jude had never before in\nhis life gone that road with Sue, though he had with another. It was\nnow as if he carried a bright light which temporarily banished the\nshady associations of the earlier time.\n\nSue talked; but Jude noticed that she still kept the conversation from\nherself. At length he inquired if her husband were well.\n\n O yes,  she said.  He is obliged to be in the school all the day, or\nhe would have come with me. He is so good and kind that to accompany me\nhe would have dismissed the school for once, even against his\nprinciples for he is strongly opposed to giving casual holidays only I\nwouldn t let him. I felt it would be better to come alone. Aunt\nDrusilla, I knew, was so very eccentric; and his being almost a\nstranger to her now would have made it irksome to both. Since it turns\nout that she is hardly conscious I am glad I did not ask him. \n\nJude had walked moodily while this praise of Phillotson was being\nexpressed.  Mr. Phillotson obliges you in everything, as he ought,  he\nsaid.\n\n Of course. \n\n You ought to be a happy wife. \n\n And of course I am. \n\n Bride, I might almost have said, as yet. It is not so many weeks since\nI gave you to him, and \n\n Yes, I know! I know!  There was something in her face which belied her\nlate assuring words, so strictly proper and so lifelessly spoken that\nthey might have been taken from a list of model speeches in  The Wife s\nGuide to Conduct.  Jude knew the quality of every vibration in Sue s\nvoice, could read every symptom of her mental condition; and he was\nconvinced that she was unhappy, although she had not been a month\nmarried. But her rushing away thus from home, to see the last of a\nrelative whom she had hardly known in her life, proved nothing; for Sue\nnaturally did such things as those.\n\n Well, you have my good wishes now as always, Mrs. Phillotson. \n\nShe reproached him by a glance.\n\n No, you are not Mrs. Phillotson,  murmured Jude.  You are dear, free\nSue Bridehead, only you don t know it! Wifedom has not yet squashed up\nand digested you in its vast maw as an atom which has no further\nindividuality. \n\nSue put on a look of being offended, till she answered,  Nor has\nhusbandom you, so far as I can see! \n\n But it has!  he said, shaking his head sadly.\n\nWhen they reached the lone cottage under the firs, between the Brown\nHouse and Marygreen, in which Jude and Arabella had lived and\nquarrelled, he turned to look at it. A squalid family lived there now.\nHe could not help saying to Sue:  That s the house my wife and I\noccupied the whole of the time we lived together. I brought her home to\nthat house. \n\nShe looked at it.  That to you was what the school-house at Shaston is\nto me. \n\n Yes; but I was not very happy there as you are in yours. \n\nShe closed her lips in retortive silence, and they walked some way till\nshe glanced at him to see how he was taking it.  Of course I may have\nexaggerated your happiness one never knows,  he continued blandly.\n\n Don t think that, Jude, for a moment, even though you may have said it\nto sting me! He s as good to me as a man can be, and gives me perfect\nliberty which elderly husbands don t do in general  If you think I am\nnot happy because he s too old for me, you are wrong. \n\n I don t think anything against him to you dear. \n\n And you won t say things to distress me, will you? \n\n I will not. \n\nHe said no more, but he knew that, from some cause or other, in taking\nPhillotson as a husband, Sue felt that she had done what she ought not\nto have done.\n\nThey plunged into the concave field on the other side of which rose the\nvillage the field wherein Jude had received a thrashing from the farmer\nmany years earlier. On ascending to the village and approaching the\nhouse they found Mrs. Edlin standing at the door, who at sight of them\nlifted her hands deprecatingly.  She s downstairs, if you ll believe\nme!  cried the widow.  Out o  bed she got, and nothing could turn her.\nWhat will come o t I do not know! \n\nOn entering, there indeed by the fireplace sat the old woman, wrapped\nin blankets, and turning upon them a countenance like that of\nSebastiano s Lazarus. They must have looked their amazement, for she\nsaid in a hollow voice:\n\n Ah sceered ye, have I! I wasn t going to bide up there no longer, to\nplease nobody!  Tis more than flesh and blood can bear, to be ordered\nto do this and that by a feller that don t know half as well as you do\nyourself!   Ah you ll rue this marrying as well as he!  she added,\nturning to Sue.  All our family do and nearly all everybody else s. You\nshould have done as I did, you simpleton! And Phillotson the\nschoolmaster, of all men! What made  ee marry him? \n\n What makes most women marry, Aunt? \n\n Ah! You mean to say you loved the man! \n\n I don t meant to say anything definite. \n\n Do ye love un? \n\n Don t ask me, Aunt. \n\n I can mind the man very well. A very civil, honourable liver; but\nLord! I don t want to wownd your feelings, but there be certain men\nhere and there that no woman of any niceness can stomach. I should have\nsaid he was one. I don t say so _now_, since you must ha  known better\nthan I but that s what I _should_ have said! \n\nSue jumped up and went out. Jude followed her, and found her in the\nouthouse, crying.\n\n Don t cry, dear!  said Jude in distress.  She means well, but is very\ncrusty and queer now, you know. \n\n Oh no it isn t that!  said Sue, trying to dry her eyes.  I don t mind\nher roughness one bit. \n\n What is it, then? \n\n It is that what she says is is true! \n\n God what you don t like him?  asked Jude.\n\n I don t mean that!  she said hastily.  That I ought perhaps I ought\nnot to have married! \n\nHe wondered if she had really been going to say that at first. They\nwent back, and the subject was smoothed over, and her aunt took rather\nkindly to Sue, telling her that not many young women newly married\nwould have come so far to see a sick old crone like her. In the\nafternoon Sue prepared to depart, Jude hiring a neighbour to drive her\nto Alfredston.\n\n I ll go with you to the station, if you d like?  he said.\n\nShe would not let him. The man came round with the trap, and Jude\nhelped her into it, perhaps with unnecessary attention, for she looked\nat him prohibitively.\n\n I suppose I may come to see you some day, when I am back again at\nMelchester?  he half-crossly observed.\n\nShe bent down and said softly:  No, dear you are not to come yet. I\ndon t think you are in a good mood. \n\n Very well,  said Jude.  Good-bye! \n\n Good-bye!  She waved her hand and was gone.\n\n She s right! I won t go!  he murmured.\n\nHe passed the evening and following days in mortifying by every\npossible means his wish to see her, nearly starving himself in attempts\nto extinguish by fasting his passionate tendency to love her. He read\nsermons on discipline, and hunted up passages in Church history that\ntreated of the Ascetics of the second century. Before he had returned\nfrom Marygreen to Melchester there arrived a letter from Arabella. The\nsight of it revived a stronger feeling of self-condemnation for his\nbrief return to her society than for his attachment to Sue.\n\nThe letter, he perceived, bore a London postmark instead of the\nChristminster one. Arabella informed him that a few days after their\nparting in the morning at Christminster, she had been surprised by an\naffectionate letter from her Australian husband, formerly manager of\nthe hotel in Sydney. He had come to England on purpose to find her; and\nhad taken a free, fully-licensed public, in Lambeth, where he wished\nher to join him in conducting the business, which was likely to be a\nvery thriving one, the house being situated in an excellent, densely\npopulated, gin-drinking neighbourhood, and already doing a trade of\n 200 a month, which could be easily doubled.\n\nAs he had said that he loved her very much still, and implored her to\ntell him where she was, and as they had only parted in a slight tiff,\nand as her engagement in Christminster was only temporary, she had just\ngone to join him as he urged. She could not help feeling that she\nbelonged to him more than to Jude, since she had properly married him,\nand had lived with him much longer than with her first husband. In thus\nwishing Jude good-bye she bore him no ill-will, and trusted he would\nnot turn upon her, a weak woman, and inform against her, and bring her\nto ruin now that she had a chance of improving her circumstances and\nleading a genteel life.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nJude returned to Melchester, which had the questionable recommendation\nof being only a dozen and a half miles from his Sue s now permanent\nresidence. At first he felt that this nearness was a distinct reason\nfor not going southward at all; but Christminster was too sad a place\nto bear, while the proximity of Shaston to Melchester might afford him\nthe glory of worsting the Enemy in a close engagement, such as was\ndeliberately sought by the priests and virgins of the early Church,\nwho, disdaining an ignominious flight from temptation, became even\nchamber-partners with impunity. Jude did not pause to remember that, in\nthe laconic words of the historian,  insulted Nature sometimes\nvindicated her rights  in such circumstances.\n\nHe now returned with feverish desperation to his study for the\npriesthood in the recognition that the single-mindedness of his aims,\nand his fidelity to the cause, had been more than questionable of late.\nHis passion for Sue troubled his soul; yet his lawful abandonment to\nthe society of Arabella for twelve hours seemed instinctively a worse\nthing even though she had not told him of her Sydney husband till\nafterwards. He had, he verily believed, overcome all tendency to fly to\nliquor which, indeed, he had never done from taste, but merely as an\nescape from intolerable misery of mind. Yet he perceived with\ndespondency that, taken all round, he was a man of too many passions to\nmake a good clergyman; the utmost he could hope for was that in a life\nof constant internal warfare between flesh and spirit the former might\nnot always be victorious.\n\nAs a hobby, auxiliary to his readings in Divinity, he developed his\nslight skill in church-music and thorough-bass, till he could join in\npart-singing from notation with some accuracy. A mile or two from\nMelchester there was a restored village church, to which Jude had\noriginally gone to fix the new columns and capitals. By this means he\nhad become acquainted with the organist, and the ultimate result was\nthat he joined the choir as a bass voice.\n\nHe walked out to this parish twice every Sunday, and sometimes in the\nweek. One evening about Easter the choir met for practice, and a new\nhymn which Jude had heard of as being by a Wessex composer was to be\ntried and prepared for the following week. It turned out to be a\nstrangely emotional composition. As they all sang it over and over\nagain its harmonies grew upon Jude, and moved him exceedingly.\n\nWhen they had finished he went round to the organist to make inquiries.\nThe score was in manuscript, the name of the composer being at the\nhead, together with the title of the hymn:  The Foot of the Cross. \n\n Yes,  said the organist.  He is a local man. He is a professional\nmusician at Kennetbridge between here and Christminster. The vicar\nknows him. He was brought up and educated in Christminster traditions,\nwhich accounts for the quality of the piece. I think he plays in the\nlarge church there, and has a surpliced choir. He comes to Melchester\nsometimes, and once tried to get the cathedral organ when the post was\nvacant. The hymn is getting about everywhere this Easter. \n\nAs he walked humming the air on his way home, Jude fell to musing on\nits composer, and the reasons why he composed it. What a man of\nsympathies he must be! Perplexed and harassed as he himself was about\nSue and Arabella, and troubled as was his conscience by the\ncomplication of his position, how he would like to know that man!  He\nof all men would understand my difficulties,  said the impulsive Jude.\nIf there were any person in the world to choose as a confidant, this\ncomposer would be the one, for he must have suffered, and throbbed, and\nyearned.\n\nIn brief, ill as he could afford the time and money for the journey,\nFawley resolved, like the child that he was, to go to Kennetbridge the\nvery next Sunday. He duly started, early in the morning, for it was\nonly by a series of crooked railways that he could get to the town.\nAbout mid-day he reached it, and crossing the bridge into the quaint\nold borough he inquired for the house of the composer.\n\nThey told him it was a red brick building some little way further on.\nAlso that the gentleman himself had just passed along the street not\nfive minutes before.\n\n Which way?  asked Jude with alacrity.\n\n Straight along homeward from church. \n\nJude hastened on, and soon had the pleasure of observing a man in a\nblack coat and a black slouched felt hat no considerable distance\nahead. Stretching out his legs yet more widely, he stalked after.  A\nhungry soul in pursuit of a full soul!  he said.  I must speak to that\nman! \n\nHe could not, however, overtake the musician before he had entered his\nown house, and then arose the question if this were an expedient time\nto call. Whether or not he decided to do so there and then, now that he\nhad got here, the distance home being too great for him to wait till\nlate in the afternoon. This man of soul would understand scant\nceremony, and might be quite a perfect adviser in a case in which an\nearthly and illegitimate passion had cunningly obtained entrance into\nhis heart through the opening afforded for religion.\n\nJude accordingly rang the bell, and was admitted.\n\nThe musician came to him in a moment, and being respectably dressed,\ngood-looking, and frank in manner, Jude obtained a favourable\nreception. He was nevertheless conscious that there would be a certain\nawkwardness in explaining his errand.\n\n I have been singing in the choir of a little church near Melchester, \nhe said.  And we have this week practised  The Foot of the Cross, \nwhich I understand, sir, that you composed? \n\n I did a year or so ago. \n\n I like it. I think it supremely beautiful! \n\n Ah well other people have said so too. Yes, there s money in it, if I\ncould only see about getting it published. I have other compositions to\ngo with it, too; I wish I could bring them out; for I haven t made a\nfive-pound note out of any of them yet. These publishing people they\nwant the copyright of an obscure composer s work, such as mine is, for\nalmost less than I should have to pay a person for making a fair\nmanuscript copy of the score. The one you speak of I have lent to\nvarious friends about here and Melchester, and so it has got to be sung\na little. But music is a poor staff to lean on I am giving it up\nentirely. You must go into trade if you want to make money nowadays.\nThe wine business is what I am thinking of. This is my forthcoming\nlist it is not issued yet but you can take one. \n\nHe handed Jude an advertisement list of several pages in booklet shape,\nornamentally margined with a red line, in which were set forth the\nvarious clarets, champagnes, ports, sherries, and other wines with\nwhich he purposed to initiate his new venture. It took Jude more than\nby surprise that the man with the soul was thus and thus; and he felt\nthat he could not open up his confidences.\n\nThey talked a little longer, but constrainedly, for when the musician\nfound that Jude was a poor man his manner changed from what it had been\nwhile Jude s appearance and address deceived him as to his position and\npursuits. Jude stammered out something about his feelings in wishing to\ncongratulate the author on such an exalted composition, and took an\nembarrassed leave.\n\nAll the way home by the slow Sunday train, sitting in the fireless\nwaiting-rooms on this cold spring day, he was depressed enough at his\nsimplicity in taking such a journey. But no sooner did he reach his\nMelchester lodging than he found awaiting him a letter which had\narrived that morning a few minutes after he had left the house. It was\na contrite little note from Sue, in which she said, with sweet\nhumility, that she felt she had been horrid in telling him he was not\nto come to see her, that she despised herself for having been so\nconventional; and that he was to be sure to come by the\neleven-forty-five train that very Sunday, and have dinner with them at\nhalf-past one.\n\nJude almost tore his hair at having missed this letter till it was too\nlate to act upon its contents; but he had chastened himself\nconsiderably of late, and at last his chimerical expedition to\nKennetbridge really did seem to have been another special intervention\nof Providence to keep him away from temptation. But a growing\nimpatience of faith, which he had noticed in himself more than once of\nlate, made him pass over in ridicule the idea that God sent people on\nfools  errands. He longed to see her; he was angry at having missed\nher: and he wrote instantly, telling her what had happened, and saying\nhe had not enough patience to wait till the following Sunday, but would\ncome any day in the week that she liked to name.\n\nSince he wrote a little over-ardently, Sue, as her manner was, delayed\nher reply till Thursday before Good Friday, when she said he might come\nthat afternoon if he wished, this being the earliest day on which she\ncould welcome him, for she was now assistant-teacher in her husband s\nschool. Jude therefore got leave from the cathedral works at the\ntrifling expense of a stoppage of pay, and went.\n\n\n\n\nPart Fourth AT SHASTON\n\n_ Whoso prefers either Matrimony or other Ordinance before the Good of\nMan and the plain Exigence of Charity, let him profess Papist, or\nProtestant, or what he will, he is no better than a Pharisee. _ J.\nMILTON.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nShaston, the ancient British Palladour,\n\nFrom whose foundation first such strange reports arise,\n\n(as Drayton sang it), was, and is, in itself the city of a dream. Vague\nimaginings of its castle, its three mints, its magnificent apsidal\nabbey, the chief glory of South Wessex, its twelve churches, its\nshrines, chantries, hospitals, its gabled freestone mansions all now\nruthlessly swept away throw the visitor, even against his will, into a\npensive melancholy, which the stimulating atmosphere and limitless\nlandscape around him can scarcely dispel. The spot was the burial-place\nof a king and a queen, of abbots and abbesses, saints and bishops,\nknights and squires. The bones of King Edward  the Martyr,  carefully\nremoved hither for holy preservation, brought Shaston a renown which\nmade it the resort of pilgrims from every part of Europe, and enabled\nit to maintain a reputation extending far beyond English shores. To\nthis fair creation of the great Middle-Age the Dissolution was, as\nhistorians tell us, the death-knell. With the destruction of the\nenormous abbey the whole place collapsed in a general ruin: the\nMartyr s bones met with the fate of the sacred pile that held them, and\nnot a stone is now left to tell where they lie.\n\nThe natural picturesqueness and singularity of the town still remain;\nbut strange to say these qualities, which were noted by many writers in\nages when scenic beauty is said to have been unappreciated, are passed\nover in this, and one of the queerest and quaintest spots in England\nstands virtually unvisited to-day.\n\nIt has a unique position on the summit of a steep and imposing scarp,\nrising on the north, south, and west sides of the borough out of the\ndeep alluvial Vale of Blackmoor, the view from the Castle Green over\nthree counties of verdant pasture South, Mid, and Nether Wessex being\nas sudden a surprise to the unexpectant traveller s eyes as the\nmedicinal air is to his lungs. Impossible to a railway, it can best be\nreached on foot, next best by light vehicles; and it is hardly\naccessible to these but by a sort of isthmus on the north-east, that\nconnects it with the high chalk table-land on that side.\n\nSuch is, and such was, the now world-forgotten Shaston or Palladour.\nIts situation rendered water the great want of the town; and within\nliving memory, horses, donkeys and men may have been seen toiling up\nthe winding ways to the top of the height, laden with tubs and barrels\nfilled from the wells beneath the mountain, and hawkers retailing their\ncontents at the price of a halfpenny a bucketful.\n\nThis difficulty in the water supply, together with two other odd facts,\nnamely, that the chief graveyard slopes up as steeply as a roof behind\nthe church, and that in former times the town passed through a curious\nperiod of corruption, conventual and domestic, gave rise to the saying\nthat Shaston was remarkable for three consolations to man, such as the\nworld afforded not elsewhere. It was a place where the churchyard lay\nnearer heaven than the church steeple, where beer was more plentiful\nthan water, and where there were more wanton women than honest wives\nand maids. It is also said that after the Middle Ages the inhabitants\nwere too poor to pay their priests, and hence were compelled to pull\ndown their churches, and refrain altogether from the public worship of\nGod; a necessity which they bemoaned over their cups in the settles of\ntheir inns on Sunday afternoons. In those days the Shastonians were\napparently not without a sense of humour.\n\nThere was another peculiarity this a modern one which Shaston appeared\nto owe to its site. It was the resting-place and headquarters of the\nproprietors of wandering vans, shows, shooting-galleries, and other\nitinerant concerns, whose business lay largely at fairs and markets. As\nstrange wild birds are seen assembled on some lofty promontory,\nmeditatively pausing for longer flights, or to return by the course\nthey followed thither, so here, in this cliff-town, stood in stultified\nsilence the yellow and green caravans bearing names not local, as if\nsurprised by a change in the landscape so violent as to hinder their\nfurther progress; and here they usually remained all the winter till\nthey turned to seek again their old tracks in the following spring.\n\nIt was to this breezy and whimsical spot that Jude ascended from the\nnearest station for the first time in his life about four o clock one\nafternoon, and entering on the summit of the peak after a toilsome\nclimb, passed the first houses of the aerial town; and drew towards the\nschool-house. The hour was too early; the pupils were still in school,\nhumming small, like a swarm of gnats; and he withdrew a few steps along\nAbbey Walk, whence he regarded the spot which fate had made the home of\nall he loved best in the world. In front of the schools, which were\nextensive and stone-built, grew two enormous beeches with smooth\nmouse-coloured trunks, as such trees will only grow on chalk uplands.\nWithin the mullioned and transomed windows he could see the black,\nbrown, and flaxen crowns of the scholars over the sills, and to pass\nthe time away he walked down to the level terrace where the abbey\ngardens once had spread, his heart throbbing in spite of him.\n\nUnwilling to enter till the children were dismissed he remained here\ntill young voices could be heard in the open air, and girls in white\npinafores over red and blue frocks appeared dancing along the paths\nwhich the abbess, prioress, subprioress, and fifty nuns had demurely\npaced three centuries earlier. Retracing his steps he found that he had\nwaited too long, and that Sue had gone out into the town at the heels\nof the last scholar, Mr. Phillotson having been absent all the\nafternoon at a teachers  meeting at Shottsford.\n\nJude went into the empty schoolroom and sat down, the girl who was\nsweeping the floor having informed him that Mrs. Phillotson would be\nback again in a few minutes. A piano stood near actually the old piano\nthat Phillotson had possessed at Marygreen and though the dark\nafternoon almost prevented him seeing the notes Jude touched them in\nhis humble way, and could not help modulating into the hymn which had\nso affected him in the previous week.\n\nA figure moved behind him, and thinking it was still the girl with the\nbroom Jude took no notice, till the person came close and laid her\nfingers lightly upon his bass hand. The imposed hand was a little one\nhe seemed to know, and he turned.\n\n Don t stop,  said Sue.  I like it. I learnt it before I left\nMelchester. They used to play it in the training school. \n\n I can t strum before you! Play it for me. \n\n Oh well I don t mind. \n\nSue sat down, and her rendering of the piece, though not remarkable,\nseemed divine as compared with his own. She, like him, was evidently\ntouched to her own surprise by the recalled air; and when she had\nfinished, and he moved his hand towards hers, it met his own half-way.\nJude grasped it just as he had done before her marriage.\n\n It is odd,  she said, in a voice quite changed,  that I should care\nabout that air; because \n\n Because what? \n\n I am not that sort quite. \n\n Not easily moved? \n\n I didn t quite mean that. \n\n Oh, but you _are_ one of that sort, for you are just like me at\nheart! \n\n But not at head. \n\nShe played on and suddenly turned round; and by an unpremeditated\ninstinct each clasped the other s hand again.\n\nShe uttered a forced little laugh as she relinquished his quickly.  How\nfunny!  she said.  I wonder what we both did that for? \n\n I suppose because we are both alike, as I said before. \n\n Not in our thoughts! Perhaps a little in our feelings. \n\n And they rule thoughts  Isn t it enough to make one blaspheme that the\ncomposer of that hymn is one of the most commonplace men I ever met! \n\n What you know him? \n\n I went to see him. \n\n Oh, you goose to do just what I should have done! Why did you? \n\n Because we are not alike,  he said drily.\n\n Now we ll have some tea,  said Sue.  Shall we have it here instead of\nin my house? It is no trouble to get the kettle and things brought in.\nWe don t live at the school you know, but in that ancient dwelling\nacross the way called Old-Grove Place. It is so antique and dismal that\nit depresses me dreadfully. Such houses are very well to visit, but not\nto live in I feel crushed into the earth by the weight of so many\nprevious lives there spent. In a new place like these schools there is\nonly your own life to support. Sit down, and I ll tell Ada to bring the\ntea-things across. \n\nHe waited in the light of the stove, the door of which she flung open\nbefore going out, and when she returned, followed by the maiden with\ntea, they sat down by the same light, assisted by the blue rays of a\nspirit-lamp under the brass kettle on the stand.\n\n This is one of your wedding-presents to me,  she said, signifying the\nlatter.\n\n Yes,  said Jude.\n\nThe kettle of his gift sang with some satire in its note, to his mind;\nand to change the subject he said,  Do you know of any good readable\nedition of the uncanonical books of the New Testament? You don t read\nthem in the school I suppose? \n\n Oh dear no! twould alarm the neighbourhood  Yes, there is one. I am\nnot familiar with it now, though I was interested in it when my former\nfriend was alive. Cowper s _Apocryphal Gospels_. \n\n That sounds like what I want.  His thoughts, however reverted with a\ntwinge to the  former friend by whom she meant, as he knew, the\nuniversity comrade of her earlier days. He wondered if she talked of\nhim to Phillotson.\n\n The Gospel of Nicodemus is very nice,  she went on to keep him from\nhis jealous thoughts, which she read clearly, as she always did. Indeed\nwhen they talked on an indifferent subject, as now, there was ever a\nsecond silent conversation passing between their emotions, so perfect\nwas the reciprocity between them.  It is quite like the genuine\narticle. All cut up into verses, too; so that it is like one of the\nother evangelists read in a dream, when things are the same, yet not\nthe same. But, Jude, do you take an interest in those questions still?\nAre you getting up _Apologetica_? \n\n Yes. I am reading Divinity harder than ever. \n\nShe regarded him curiously.\n\n Why do you look at me like that?  said Jude.\n\n Oh why do you want to know? \n\n I am sure you can tell me anything I may be ignorant of in that\nsubject. You must have learnt a lot of everything from your dear dead\nfriend! \n\n We won t get on to that now!  she coaxed.  Will you be carving out at\nthat church again next week, where you learnt the pretty hymn? \n\n Yes, perhaps. \n\n That will be very nice. Shall I come and see you there? It is in this\ndirection, and I could come any afternoon by train for half an hour? \n\n No. Don t come! \n\n What aren t we going to be friends, then, any longer, as we used to\nbe? \n\n No. \n\n I didn t know that. I thought you were always going to be kind to me! \n\n No, I am not. \n\n What have I done, then? I am sure I thought we two  The _tremolo_ in\nher voice caused her to break off.\n\n Sue, I sometimes think you are a flirt,  said he abruptly.\n\nThere was a momentary pause, till she suddenly jumped up; and to his\nsurprise he saw by the kettle-flame that her face was flushed.\n\n I can t talk to you any longer, Jude!  she said, the tragic contralto\nnote having come back as of old.  It is getting too dark to stay\ntogether like this, after playing morbid Good Friday tunes that make\none feel what one shouldn t!   We mustn t sit and talk in this way any\nmore. Yes you must go away, for you mistake me! I am very much the\nreverse of what you say so cruelly Oh, Jude, it _was_ cruel to say\nthat! Yet I can t tell you the truth I should shock you by letting you\nknow how I give way to my impulses, and how much I feel that I\nshouldn t have been provided with attractiveness unless it were meant\nto be exercised! Some women s love of being loved is insatiable; and\nso, often, is their love of loving; and in the last case they may find\nthat they can t give it continuously to the chamber-officer appointed\nby the bishop s licence to receive it. But you are so straightforward,\nJude, that you can t understand me!   Now you must go. I am sorry my\nhusband is not at home. \n\n Are you? \n\n I perceive I have said that in mere convention! Honestly I don t think\nI am sorry. It does not matter, either way, sad to say! \n\nAs they had overdone the grasp of hands some time sooner, she touched\nhis fingers but lightly when he went out now. He had hardly gone from\nthe door when, with a dissatisfied look, she jumped on a form and\nopened the iron casement of a window beneath which he was passing in\nthe path without.  When do you leave here to catch your train, Jude? \nshe asked.\n\nHe looked up in some surprise.  The coach that runs to meet it goes in\nthree-quarters of an hour or so. \n\n What will you do with yourself for the time? \n\n Oh wander about, I suppose. Perhaps I shall go and sit in the old\nchurch. \n\n It does seem hard of me to pack you off so! You have thought enough of\nchurches, Heaven knows, without going into one in the dark. Stay\nthere. \n\n Where? \n\n Where you are. I can talk to you better like this than when you were\ninside  It was so kind and tender of you to give up half a day s work\nto come to see me!   You are Joseph the dreamer of dreams, dear Jude.\nAnd a tragic Don Quixote. And sometimes you are St. Stephen, who, while\nthey were stoning him, could see Heaven opened. Oh, my poor friend and\ncomrade, you ll suffer yet! \n\nNow that the high window-sill was between them, so that he could not\nget at her, she seemed not to mind indulging in a frankness she had\nfeared at close quarters.\n\n I have been thinking,  she continued, still in the tone of one brimful\nof feeling,  that the social moulds civilization fits us into have no\nmore relation to our actual shapes than the conventional shapes of the\nconstellations have to the real star-patterns. I am called Mrs. Richard\nPhillotson, living a calm wedded life with my counterpart of that name.\nBut I am not really Mrs. Richard Phillotson, but a woman tossed about,\nall alone, with aberrant passions, and unaccountable antipathies  Now\nyou mustn t wait longer, or you will lose the coach. Come and see me\nagain. You must come to the house then. \n\n Yes!  said Jude.  When shall it be? \n\n To-morrow week. Good-bye good-bye!  She stretched out her hand and\nstroked his forehead pitifully just once. Jude said good-bye, and went\naway into the darkness.\n\nPassing along Bimport Street he thought he heard the wheels of the\ncoach departing, and, truly enough, when he reached the Duke s Arms in\nthe Market Place the coach had gone. It was impossible for him to get\nto the station on foot in time for this train, and he settled himself\nperforce to wait for the next the last to Melchester that night.\n\nHe wandered about awhile, obtained something to eat; and then, having\nanother half-hour on his hands, his feet involuntarily took him through\nthe venerable graveyard of Trinity Church, with its avenues of limes,\nin the direction of the schools again. They were entirely in darkness.\nShe had said she lived over the way at Old-Grove Place, a house which\nhe soon discovered from her description of its antiquity.\n\nA glimmering candlelight shone from a front window, the shutters being\nyet unclosed. He could see the interior clearly the floor sinking a\ncouple of steps below the road without, which had become raised during\nthe centuries since the house was built. Sue, evidently just come in,\nwas standing with her hat on in this front parlour or sitting-room,\nwhose walls were lined with wainscoting of panelled oak reaching from\nfloor to ceiling, the latter being crossed by huge moulded beams only a\nlittle way above her head. The mantelpiece was of the same heavy\ndescription, carved with Jacobean pilasters and scroll-work. The\ncenturies did, indeed, ponderously overhang a young wife who passed her\ntime here.\n\nShe had opened a rosewood work-box, and was looking at a photograph.\nHaving contemplated it a little while she pressed it against her bosom,\nand put it again in its place.\n\nThen becoming aware that she had not obscured the windows she came\nforward to do so, candle in hand. It was too dark for her to see Jude\nwithout, but he could see her face distinctly, and there was an\nunmistakable tearfulness about the dark, long-lashed eyes.\n\nShe closed the shutters, and Jude turned away to pursue his solitary\njourney home.  Whose photograph was she looking at?  he said. He had\nonce given her his; but she had others, he knew. Yet it was his,\nsurely?\n\nHe knew he should go to see her again, according to her invitation.\nThose earnest men he read of, the saints, whom Sue, with gentle\nirreverence, called his demi-gods, would have shunned such encounters\nif they doubted their own strength. But he could not. He might fast and\npray during the whole interval, but the human was more powerful in him\nthan the Divine.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nHowever, if God disposed not, woman did. The next morning but one\nbrought him this note from her:\n\nDon t come next week. On your own account don t! We were too free,\nunder the influence of that morbid hymn and the twilight. Think no more\nthan you can help of\n\n\nSUSANNA FLORENCE MARY.\n\nThe disappointment was keen. He knew her mood, the look of her face,\nwhen she subscribed herself at length thus. But, whatever her mood, he\ncould not say she was wrong in her view. He replied:\n\nI acquiesce. You are right. It is a lesson in renunciation which I\nsuppose I ought to learn at this season.\n\n\nJUDE.\n\nHe despatched the note on Easter Eve, and there seemed a finality in\ntheir decisions. But other forces and laws than theirs were in\noperation. On Easter Monday morning he received a message from the\nWidow Edlin, whom he had directed to telegraph if anything serious\nhappened:\n\nYour aunt is sinking. Come at once.\n\nHe threw down his tools and went. Three and a half hours later he was\ncrossing the downs about Marygreen, and presently plunged into the\nconcave field across which the short cut was made to the village. As he\nascended on the other side a labouring man, who had been watching his\napproach from a gate across the path, moved uneasily, and prepared to\nspeak.  I can see in his face that she is dead,  said Jude.  Poor Aunt\nDrusilla! \n\nIt was as he had supposed, and Mrs. Edlin had sent out the man to break\nthe news to him.\n\n She wouldn t have knowed  ee. She lay like a doll wi  glass eyes; so\nit didn t matter that you wasn t here,  said he.\n\nJude went on to the house, and in the afternoon, when everything was\ndone, and the layers-out had finished their beer, and gone, he sat down\nalone in the silent place. It was absolutely necessary to communicate\nwith Sue, though two or three days earlier they had agreed to mutual\nseverance. He wrote in the briefest terms:\n\nAunt Drusilla is dead, having been taken almost suddenly. The funeral\nis on Friday afternoon.\n\nHe remained in and about Marygreen through the intervening days, went\nout on Friday morning to see that the grave was finished, and wondered\nif Sue would come. She had not written, and that seemed to signify\nrather that she would come than that she would not. Having timed her by\nher only possible train, he locked the door about mid-day, and crossed\nthe hollow field to the verge of the upland by the Brown House, where\nhe stood and looked over the vast prospect northwards, and over the\nnearer landscape in which Alfredston stood. Two miles behind it a jet\nof white steam was travelling from the left to the right of the\npicture.\n\nThere was a long time to wait, even now, till he would know if she had\narrived. He did wait, however, and at last a small hired vehicle pulled\nup at the bottom of the hill, and a person alighted, the conveyance\ngoing back, while the passenger began ascending the hill. He knew her;\nand she looked so slender to-day that it seemed as if she might be\ncrushed in the intensity of a too passionate embrace such as it was not\nfor him to give. Two-thirds of the way up her head suddenly took a\nsolicitous poise, and he knew that she had at that moment recognized\nhim. Her face soon began a pensive smile, which lasted till, having\ndescended a little way, he met her.\n\n I thought,  she began with nervous quickness,  that it would be so sad\nto let you attend the funeral alone! And so at the last moment I came. \n\n Dear faithful Sue!  murmured Jude.\n\nWith the elusiveness of her curious double nature, however, Sue did not\nstand still for any further greeting, though it wanted some time to the\nburial. A pathos so unusually compounded as that which attached to this\nhour was unlikely to repeat itself for years, if ever, and Jude would\nhave paused, and meditated, and conversed. But Sue either saw it not at\nall, or, seeing it more than he, would not allow herself to feel it.\n\nThe sad and simple ceremony was soon over, their progress to the church\nbeing almost at a trot, the bustling undertaker having a more important\nfuneral an hour later, three miles off. Drusilla was put into the new\nground, quite away from her ancestors. Sue and Jude had gone side by\nside to the grave, and now sat down to tea in the familiar house; their\nlives united at least in this last attention to the dead.\n\n She was opposed to marriage, from first to last, you say?  murmured\nSue.\n\n Yes. Particularly for members of our family. \n\nHer eyes met his, and remained on him awhile.\n\n We are rather a sad family, don t you think, Jude? \n\n She said we made bad husbands and wives. Certainly we make unhappy\nones. At all events, I do, for one! \n\nSue was silent.  Is it wrong, Jude,  she said with a tentative tremor,\n for a husband or wife to tell a third person that they are unhappy in\ntheir marriage? If a marriage ceremony is a religious thing, it is\npossibly wrong; but if it is only a sordid contract, based on material\nconvenience in householding, rating, and taxing, and the inheritance of\nland and money by children, making it necessary that the male parent\nshould be known which it seems to be why surely a person may say, even\nproclaim upon the housetops, that it hurts and grieves him or her? \n\n I have said so, anyhow, to you. \n\nPresently she went on:  Are there many couples, do you think, where one\ndislikes the other for no definite fault? \n\n Yes, I suppose. If either cares for another person, for instance. \n\n But even apart from that? Wouldn t the woman, for example, be very\nbad-natured if she didn t like to live with her husband; merely her\nvoice undulated, and he guessed things merely because she had a\npersonal feeling against it a physical objection a fastidiousness, or\nwhatever it may be called although she might respect and be grateful to\nhim? I am merely putting a case. Ought she to try to overcome her\npruderies? \n\nJude threw a troubled look at her. He said, looking away:  It would be\njust one of those cases in which my experiences go contrary to my\ndogmas. Speaking as an order-loving man which I hope I am, though I\nfear I am not I should say, yes. Speaking from experience and unbiased\nnature, I should say, no.   Sue, I believe you are not happy! \n\n Of course I am!  she contradicted.  How can a woman be unhappy who has\nonly been married eight weeks to a man she chose freely? \n\n Chose freely! \n\n Why do you repeat it?   But I have to go back by the six o clock\ntrain. You will be staying on here, I suppose? \n\n For a few days to wind up Aunt s affairs. This house is gone now.\nShall I go to the train with you? \n\nA little laugh of objection came from Sue.  I think not. You may come\npart of the way. \n\n But stop you can t go to-night! That train won t take you to Shaston.\nYou must stay and go back to-morrow. Mrs. Edlin has plenty of room, if\nyou don t like to stay here? \n\n Very well,  she said dubiously.  I didn t tell him I would come for\ncertain. \n\nJude went to the widow s house adjoining, to let her know; and\nreturning in a few minutes sat down again.\n\n It is horrible how we are circumstanced, Sue horrible!  he said\nabruptly, with his eyes bent to the floor.\n\n No! Why? \n\n I can t tell you all my part of the gloom. Your part is that you ought\nnot to have married him. I saw it before you had done it, but I thought\nI mustn t interfere. I was wrong. I ought to have! \n\n But what makes you assume all this, dear? \n\n Because I can see you through your feathers, my poor little bird! \n\nHer hand lay on the table, and Jude put his upon it. Sue drew hers\naway.\n\n That s absurd, Sue,  cried he,  after what we ve been talking about! I\nam more strict and formal than you, if it comes to that; and that you\nshould object to such an innocent action shows that you are\nridiculously inconsistent! \n\n Perhaps it was too prudish,  she said repentantly.  Only I have\nfancied it was a sort of trick of ours too frequent perhaps. There, you\nmay hold it as much as you like. Is that good of me? \n\n Yes; very. \n\n But I must tell him. \n\n Who? \n\n Richard. \n\n Oh of course, if you think it necessary. But as it means nothing it\nmay be bothering him needlessly. \n\n Well are you sure you mean it only as my cousin? \n\n Absolutely sure. I have no feelings of love left in me. \n\n That s news. How has it come to be? \n\n I ve seen Arabella. \n\nShe winced at the hit; then said curiously,  When did you see her? \n\n When I was at Christminster. \n\n So she s come back; and you never told me! I suppose you will live\nwith her now? \n\n Of course just as you live with your husband. \n\nShe looked at the window pots with the geraniums and cactuses, withered\nfor want of attention, and through them at the outer distance, till her\neyes began to grow moist.  What is it?  said Jude, in a softened tone.\n\n Why should you be so glad to go back to her if if what you used to say\nto me is still true I mean if it were true then! Of course it is not\nnow! How could your heart go back to Arabella so soon? \n\n A special Providence, I suppose, helped it on its way. \n\n Ah it isn t true!  she said with gentle resentment.  You are teasing\nme that s all because you think I am not happy! \n\n I don t know. I don t wish to know. \n\n If I were unhappy it would be my fault, my wickedness; not that I\nshould have a right to dislike him! He is considerate to me in\neverything; and he is very interesting, from the amount of general\nknowledge he has acquired by reading everything that comes in his way.\n  Do you think, Jude, that a man ought to marry a woman his own age, or\none younger than himself eighteen years as I am than he? \n\n It depends upon what they feel for each other. \n\nHe gave her no opportunity of self-satisfaction, and she had to go on\nunaided, which she did in a vanquished tone, verging on tears:\n\n I I think I must be equally honest with you as you have been with me.\nPerhaps you have seen what it is I want to say? that though I like Mr.\nPhillotson as a friend, I don t like him it is a torture to me to live\nwith him as a husband! There, now I have let it out I couldn t help it,\nalthough I have been pretending I am happy. Now you ll have a contempt\nfor me for ever, I suppose!  She bent down her face upon her hands as\nthey lay upon the cloth, and silently sobbed in little jerks that made\nthe fragile three-legged table quiver.\n\n I have only been married a month or two!  she went on, still remaining\nbent upon the table, and sobbing into her hands.  And it is said that\nwhat a woman shrinks from in the early days of her marriage she shakes\ndown to with comfortable indifference in half a dozen years. But that\nis much like saying that the amputation of a limb is no affliction,\nsince a person gets comfortably accustomed to the use of a wooden leg\nor arm in the course of time! \n\nJude could hardly speak, but he said,  I thought there was something\nwrong, Sue! Oh, I thought there was! \n\n But it is not as you think! there is nothing wrong except my own\nwickedness, I suppose you d call it a repugnance on my part, for a\nreason I cannot disclose, and what would not be admitted as one by the\nworld in general!   What tortures me so much is the necessity of being\nresponsive to this man whenever he wishes, good as he is morally! the\ndreadful contract to feel in a particular way in a matter whose essence\nis its voluntariness!   I wish he would beat me, or be faithless to me,\nor do some open thing that I could talk about as a justification for\nfeeling as I do! But he does nothing, except that he has grown a little\ncold since he has found out how I feel. That s why he didn t come to\nthe funeral  Oh, I am very miserable I don t know what to do!   Don t\ncome near me, Jude, because you mustn t. Don t don t! \n\nBut he had jumped up and put his face against hers or rather against\nher ear, her face being inaccessible.\n\n I told you not to, Jude! \n\n I know you did I only wish to console you! It all arose through my\nbeing married before we met, didn t it? You would have been my wife,\nSue, wouldn t you, if it hadn t been for that? \n\nInstead of replying she rose quickly, and saying she was going to walk\nto her aunt s grave in the churchyard to recover herself, went out of\nthe house. Jude did not follow her. Twenty minutes later he saw her\ncross the village green towards Mrs. Edlin s, and soon she sent a\nlittle girl to fetch her bag, and tell him she was too tired to see him\nagain that night.\n\nIn the lonely room of his aunt s house, Jude sat watching the cottage\nof the Widow Edlin as it disappeared behind the night shade. He knew\nthat Sue was sitting within its walls equally lonely and disheartened;\nand again questioned his devotional motto that all was for the best.\n\nHe retired to rest early, but his sleep was fitful from the sense that\nSue was so near at hand. At some time near two o clock, when he was\nbeginning to sleep more soundly, he was aroused by a shrill squeak that\nhad been familiar enough to him when he lived regularly at Marygreen.\nIt was the cry of a rabbit caught in a gin. As was the little\ncreature s habit, it did not soon repeat its cry; and probably would\nnot do so more than once or twice; but would remain bearing its torture\ntill the morrow when the trapper would come and knock it on the head.\n\nHe who in his childhood had saved the lives of the earthworms now began\nto picture the agonies of the rabbit from its lacerated leg. If it were\na  bad catch  by the hind-leg, the animal would tug during the ensuing\nsix hours till the iron teeth of the trap had stripped the leg-bone of\nits flesh, when, should a weak-springed instrument enable it to escape,\nit would die in the fields from the mortification of the limb. If it\nwere a  good catch,  namely, by the fore-leg, the bone would be broken\nand the limb nearly torn in two in attempts at an impossible escape.\n\nAlmost half an hour passed, and the rabbit repeated its cry. Jude could\nrest no longer till he had put it out of its pain, so dressing himself\nquickly he descended, and by the light of the moon went across the\ngreen in the direction of the sound. He reached the hedge bordering the\nwidow s garden, when he stood still. The faint click of the trap as\ndragged about by the writhing animal guided him now, and reaching the\nspot he struck the rabbit on the back of the neck with the side of his\npalm, and it stretched itself out dead.\n\nHe was turning away when he saw a woman looking out of the open\ncasement at a window on the ground floor of the adjacent cottage.\n Jude!  said a voice timidly Sue s voice.  It is you is it not? \n\n Yes, dear! \n\n I haven t been able to sleep at all, and then I heard the rabbit, and\ncouldn t help thinking of what it suffered, till I felt I must come\ndown and kill it! But I am so glad you got there first  They ought not\nto be allowed to set these steel traps, ought they! \n\nJude had reached the window, which was quite a low one, so that she was\nvisible down to her waist. She let go the casement-stay and put her\nhand upon his, her moonlit face regarding him wistfully.\n\n Did it keep you awake?  he said.\n\n No I was awake. \n\n How was that? \n\n Oh, you know now! I know you, with your religious doctrines, think\nthat a married woman in trouble of a kind like mine commits a mortal\nsin in making a man the confidant of it, as I did you. I wish I hadn t,\nnow! \n\n Don t wish it, dear,  he said.  That may have _been_ my view; but my\ndoctrines and I begin to part company. \n\n I knew it I knew it! And that s why I vowed I wouldn t disturb your\nbelief. But I am _so glad_ to see you! and, oh, I didn t mean to see\nyou again, now the last tie between us, Aunt Drusilla, is dead! \n\nJude seized her hand and kissed it.  There is a stronger one left!  he\nsaid.  I ll never care about my doctrines or my religion any more! Let\nthem go! Let me help you, even if I do love you, and even if you \n\n Don t say it! I know what you mean; but I can t admit so much as that.\nThere! Guess what you like, but don t press me to answer questions! \n\n I wish you were happy, whatever I may be! \n\n I _can t_ be! So few could enter into my feeling they would say  twas\nmy fanciful fastidiousness, or something of that sort, and condemn me \nIt is none of the natural tragedies of love that s love s usual tragedy\nin civilized life, but a tragedy artificially manufactured for people\nwho in a natural state would find relief in parting!   It would have\nbeen wrong, perhaps, for me to tell my distress to you, if I had been\nable to tell it to anybody else. But I have nobody. And I _must_ tell\nsomebody! Jude, before I married him I had never thought out fully what\nmarriage meant, even though I knew. It was idiotic of me there is no\nexcuse. I was old enough, and I thought I was very experienced. So I\nrushed on, when I had got into that training school scrape, with all\nthe cock-sureness of the fool that I was!   I am certain one ought to\nbe allowed to undo what one had done so ignorantly! I daresay it\nhappens to lots of women, only they submit, and I kick  When people of\na later age look back upon the barbarous customs and superstitions of\nthe times that we have the unhappiness to live in, what _will_ they\nsay! \n\n You are very bitter, darling Sue! How I wish I wish \n\n You must go in now! \n\nIn a moment of impulse she bent over the sill, and laid her face upon\nhis hair, weeping, and then imprinting a scarcely perceptible little\nkiss upon the top of his head, withdrawing quickly, so that he could\nnot put his arms round her, as otherwise he unquestionably would have\ndone. She shut the casement, and he returned to his cottage.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nSue s distressful confession recurred to Jude s mind all the night as\nbeing a sorrow indeed.\n\nThe morning after, when it was time for her to go, the neighbours saw\nher companion and herself disappearing on foot down the hill path which\nled into the lonely road to Alfredston. An hour passed before he\nreturned along the same route, and in his face there was a look of\nexaltation not unmixed with recklessness. An incident had occurred.\n\nThey had stood parting in the silent highway, and their tense and\npassionate moods had led to bewildered inquiries of each other on how\nfar their intimacy ought to go; till they had almost quarrelled, and\nshe said tearfully that it was hardly proper of him as a parson in\nembryo to think of such a thing as kissing her even in farewell as he\nnow wished to do. Then she had conceded that the fact of the kiss would\nbe nothing: all would depend upon the spirit of it. If given in the\nspirit of a cousin and a friend she saw no objection: if in the spirit\nof a lover she could not permit it.  Will you swear that it will not be\nin that spirit?  she had said.\n\nNo: he would not. And then they had turned from each other in\nestrangement, and gone their several ways, till at a distance of twenty\nor thirty yards both had looked round simultaneously. That look behind\nwas fatal to the reserve hitherto more or less maintained. They had\nquickly run back, and met, and embracing most unpremeditatedly, kissed\nclose and long. When they parted for good it was with flushed cheeks on\nher side, and a beating heart on his.\n\nThe kiss was a turning-point in Jude s career. Back again in the\ncottage, and left to reflection, he saw one thing: that though his kiss\nof that aerial being had seemed the purest moment of his faultful life,\nas long as he nourished this unlicensed tenderness it was glaringly\ninconsistent for him to pursue the idea of becoming the soldier and\nservant of a religion in which sexual love was regarded as at its best\na frailty, and at its worst damnation. What Sue had said in warmth was\nreally the cold truth. When to defend his affection tooth and nail, to\npersist with headlong force in impassioned attentions to her, was all\nhe thought of, he was condemned _ipso facto_ as a professor of the\naccepted school of morals. He was as unfit, obviously, by nature, as he\nhad been by social position, to fill the part of a propounder of\naccredited dogma.\n\nStrange that his first aspiration towards academical proficiency had\nbeen checked by a woman, and that his second aspiration towards\napostleship had also been checked by a woman.  Is it,  he said,  that\nthe women are to blame; or is it the artificial system of things, under\nwhich the normal sex-impulses are turned into devilish domestic gins\nand springs to noose and hold back those who want to progress? \n\nIt had been his standing desire to become a prophet, however humble, to\nhis struggling fellow-creatures, without any thought of personal gain.\nYet with a wife living away from him with another husband, and himself\nin love erratically, the loved one s revolt against her state being\npossibly on his account, he had sunk to be barely respectable according\nto regulation views.\n\nIt was not for him to consider further: he had only to confront the\nobvious, which was that he had made himself quite an impostor as a\nlaw-abiding religious teacher.\n\nAt dusk that evening he went into the garden and dug a shallow hole, to\nwhich he brought out all the theological and ethical works that he\npossessed, and had stored here. He knew that, in this country of true\nbelievers, most of them were not saleable at a much higher price than\nwaste-paper value, and preferred to get rid of them in his own way,\neven if he should sacrifice a little money to the sentiment of thus\ndestroying them. Lighting some loose pamphlets to begin with, he cut\nthe volumes into pieces as well as he could, and with a three-pronged\nfork shook them over the flames. They kindled, and lighted up the back\nof the house, the pigsty, and his own face, till they were more or less\nconsumed.\n\nThough he was almost a stranger here now, passing cottagers talked to\nhim over the garden hedge.\n\n Burning up your awld aunt s rubbidge, I suppose? Ay; a lot gets heaped\nup in nooks and corners when you ve lived eighty years in one house. \n\nIt was nearly one o clock in the morning before the leaves, covers, and\nbinding of Jeremy Taylor, Butler, Doddridge, Paley, Pusey, Newman and\nthe rest had gone to ashes, but the night was quiet, and as he turned\nand turned the paper shreds with the fork, the sense of being no longer\na hypocrite to himself afforded his mind a relief which gave him calm.\nHe might go on believing as before, but he professed nothing, and no\nlonger owned and exhibited engines of faith which, as their proprietor,\nhe might naturally be supposed to exercise on himself first of all. In\nhis passion for Sue he could not stand as an ordinary sinner, and not\nas a whited sepulchre.\n\nMeanwhile Sue, after parting from him earlier in the day, had gone\nalong to the station, with tears in her eyes for having run back and\nlet him kiss her. Jude ought not to have pretended that he was not a\nlover, and made her give way to an impulse to act unconventionally, if\nnot wrongly. She was inclined to call it the latter; for Sue s logic\nwas extraordinarily compounded, and seemed to maintain that before a\nthing was done it might be right to do, but that being done it became\nwrong; or, in other words, that things which were right in theory were\nwrong in practice.\n\n I have been too weak, I think!  she jerked out as she pranced on,\nshaking down tear-drops now and then.  It was burning, like a\nlover s oh, it was! And I won t write to him any more, or at least for\na long time, to impress him with my dignity! And I hope it will hurt\nhim very much expecting a letter to-morrow morning, and the next, and\nthe next, and no letter coming. He ll suffer then with suspense won t\nhe, that s all! and I am very glad of it! Tears of pity for Jude s\napproaching sufferings at her hands mingled with those which had surged\nup in pity for herself.\n\nThen the slim little wife of a husband whose person was disagreeable to\nher, the ethereal, fine-nerved, sensitive girl, quite unfitted by\ntemperament and instinct to fulfil the conditions of the matrimonial\nrelation with Phillotson, possibly with scarce any man, walked fitfully\nalong, and panted, and brought weariness into her eyes by gazing and\nworrying hopelessly.\n\nPhillotson met her at the arrival station, and, seeing that she was\ntroubled, thought it must be owing to the depressing effect of her\naunt s death and funeral. He began telling her of his day s doings, and\nhow his friend Gillingham, a neighbouring schoolmaster whom he had not\nseen for years, had called upon him. While ascending to the town,\nseated on the top of the omnibus beside him, she said suddenly and with\nan air of self-chastisement, regarding the white road and its bordering\nbushes of hazel:\n\n Richard I let Mr. Fawley hold my hand a long while. I don t know\nwhether you think it wrong? \n\nHe, waking apparently from thoughts of far different mould, said\nvaguely,  Oh, did you? What did you do that for? \n\n I don t know. He wanted to, and I let him. \n\n I hope it pleased him. I should think it was hardly a novelty. \n\nThey lapsed into silence. Had this been a case in the court of an\nomniscient judge, he might have entered on his notes the curious fact\nthat Sue had placed the minor for the major indiscretion, and had not\nsaid a word about the kiss.\n\nAfter tea that evening Phillotson sat balancing the school registers.\nShe remained in an unusually silent, tense, and restless condition, and\nat last, saying she was tired, went to bed early. When Phillotson\narrived upstairs, weary with the drudgery of the attendance-numbers, it\nwas a quarter to twelve o clock. Entering their chamber, which by day\ncommanded a view of some thirty or forty miles over the Vale of\nBlackmoor, and even into Outer Wessex, he went to the window, and,\npressing his face against the pane, gazed with hard-breathing fixity\ninto the mysterious darkness which now covered the far-reaching scene.\nHe was musing,  I think,  he said at last, without turning his head,\n that I must get the committee to change the school-stationer. All the\ncopybooks are sent wrong this time. \n\nThere was no reply. Thinking Sue was dozing he went on:\n\n And there must be a rearrangement of that ventilator in the\nclass-room. The wind blows down upon my head unmercifully and gives me\nthe ear-ache. \n\nAs the silence seemed more absolute than ordinarily he turned round.\nThe heavy, gloomy oak wainscot, which extended over the walls upstairs\nand down in the dilapidated  Old-Grove Place,  and the massive\nchimney-piece reaching to the ceiling, stood in odd contrast to the new\nand shining brass bedstead, and the new suite of birch furniture that\nhe had bought for her, the two styles seeming to nod to each other\nacross three centuries upon the shaking floor.\n\n Soo!  he said (this being the way in which he pronounced her name).\n\nShe was not in the bed, though she had apparently been there the\nclothes on her side being flung back. Thinking she might have forgotten\nsome kitchen detail and gone downstairs for a moment to see to it, he\npulled off his coat and idled quietly enough for a few minutes, when,\nfinding she did not come, he went out upon the landing, candle in hand,\nand said again  Soo! \n\n Yes!  came back to him in her voice, from the distant kitchen quarter.\n\n What are you doing down there at midnight tiring yourself out for\nnothing! \n\n I am not sleepy; I am reading; and there is a larger fire here. \n\nHe went to bed. Some time in the night he awoke. She was not there,\neven now. Lighting a candle he hastily stepped out upon the landing,\nand again called her name.\n\nShe answered  Yes!  as before, but the tones were small and confined,\nand whence they came he could not at first understand. Under the\nstaircase was a large clothes-closet, without a window; they seemed to\ncome from it. The door was shut, but there was no lock or other\nfastening. Phillotson, alarmed, went towards it, wondering if she had\nsuddenly become deranged.\n\n What are you doing in there?  he asked.\n\n Not to disturb you I came here, as it was so late. \n\n But there s no bed, is there? And no ventilation! Why, you ll be\nsuffocated if you stay all night! \n\n Oh no, I think not. Don t trouble about me. \n\n But  Phillotson seized the knob and pulled at the door. She had\nfastened it inside with a piece of string, which broke at his pull.\nThere being no bedstead she had flung down some rugs and made a little\nnest for herself in the very cramped quarters the closet afforded.\n\nWhen he looked in upon her she sprang out of her lair, great-eyed and\ntrembling.\n\n You ought not to have pulled open the door!  she cried excitedly.  It\nis not becoming in you! Oh, will you go away; please will you! \n\nShe looked so pitiful and pleading in her white nightgown against the\nshadowy lumber-hole that he was quite worried. She continued to beseech\nhim not to disturb her.\n\nHe said:  I ve been kind to you, and given you every liberty; and it is\nmonstrous that you should feel in this way! \n\n Yes,  said she, weeping.  I know that! It is wrong and wicked of me, I\nsuppose! I am very sorry. But it is not I altogether that am to blame! \n\n Who is then? Am I? \n\n No I don t know! The universe, I suppose things in general, because\nthey are so horrid and cruel! \n\n Well, it is no use talking like that. Making a man s house so unseemly\nat this time o  night! Eliza will hear if we don t mind.  (He meant the\nservant.)  Just think if either of the parsons in this town was to see\nus now! I hate such eccentricities, Sue. There s no order or regularity\nin your sentiments!   But I won t intrude on you further; only I would\nadvise you not to shut the door too tight, or I shall find you stifled\nto-morrow. \n\nOn rising the next morning he immediately looked into the closet, but\nSue had already gone downstairs. There was a little nest where she had\nlain, and spiders  webs hung overhead.  What must a woman s aversion be\nwhen it is stronger than her fear of spiders!  he said bitterly.\n\nHe found her sitting at the breakfast-table, and the meal began almost\nin silence, the burghers walking past upon the pavement or rather\nroadway, pavements being scarce here which was two or three feet above\nthe level of the parlour floor. They nodded down to the happy couple\ntheir morning greetings, as they went on.\n\n Richard,  she said all at once;  would you mind my living away from\nyou? \n\n Away from me? Why, that s what you were doing when I married you. What\nthen was the meaning of marrying at all? \n\n You wouldn t like me any the better for telling you. \n\n I don t object to know. \n\n Because I thought I could do nothing else. You had got my promise a\nlong time before that, remember. Then, as time went on, I regretted I\nhad promised you, and was trying to see an honourable way to break it\noff. But as I couldn t I became rather reckless and careless about the\nconventions. Then you know what scandals were spread, and how I was\nturned out of the training school you had taken such time and trouble\nto prepare me for and get me into; and this frightened me and it seemed\nthen that the one thing I could do would be to let the engagement\nstand. Of course I, of all people, ought not to have cared what was\nsaid, for it was just what I fancied I never did care for. But I was a\ncoward as so many women are and my theoretic unconventionality broke\ndown. If that had not entered into the case it would have been better\nto have hurt your feelings once for all then, than to marry you and\nhurt them all my life after  And you were so generous in never giving\ncredit for a moment to the rumour. \n\n I am bound in honesty to tell you that I weighed its probability and\ninquired of your cousin about it. \n\n Ah!  she said with pained surprise.\n\n I didn t doubt you. \n\n But you inquired! \n\n I took his word. \n\nHer eyes had filled.  _He_ wouldn t have inquired!  she said.  But you\nhaven t answered me. Will you let me go away? I know how irregular it\nis of me to ask it \n\n It is irregular. \n\n But I do ask it! Domestic laws should be made according to\ntemperaments, which should be classified. If people are at all peculiar\nin character they have to suffer from the very rules that produce\ncomfort in others!   Will you let me? \n\n But we married \n\n What is the use of thinking of laws and ordinances,  she burst out,\n if they make you miserable when you know you are committing no sin? \n\n But you are committing a sin in not liking me. \n\n I _do_ like you! But I didn t reflect it would be that it would be so\nmuch more than that  For a man and woman to live on intimate terms when\none feels as I do is adultery, in any circumstances, however legal.\nThere I ve said it!   Will you let me, Richard? \n\n You distress me, Susanna, by such importunity! \n\n Why can t we agree to free each other? We made the compact, and surely\nwe can cancel it not legally of course; but we can morally, especially\nas no new interests, in the shape of children, have arisen to be looked\nafter. Then we might be friends, and meet without pain to either. Oh\nRichard, be my friend and have pity! We shall both be dead in a few\nyears, and then what will it matter to anybody that you relieved me\nfrom constraint for a little while? I daresay you think me eccentric,\nor super-sensitive, or something absurd. Well why should I suffer for\nwhat I was born to be, if it doesn t hurt other people? \n\n But it does it hurts _me_! And you vowed to love me. \n\n Yes that s it! I am in the wrong. I always am! It is as culpable to\nbind yourself to love always as to believe a creed always, and as silly\nas to vow always to like a particular food or drink! \n\n And do you mean, by living away from me, living by yourself? \n\n Well, if you insisted, yes. But I meant living with Jude. \n\n As his wife? \n\n As I choose. \n\nPhillotson writhed.\n\nSue continued:  She, or he,  who lets the world, or his own portion of\nit, choose his plan of life for him, has no need of any other faculty\nthan the apelike one of imitation.  J. S. Mill s words, those are. I\nhave been reading it up. Why can t you act upon them? I wish to,\nalways. \n\n What do I care about J. S. Mill!  moaned he.  I only want to lead a\nquiet life! Do you mind my saying that I have guessed what never once\noccurred to me before our marriage that you were in love, and are in\nlove, with Jude Fawley! \n\n You may go on guessing that I am, since you have begun. But do you\nsuppose that if I had been I should have asked you to let me go and\nlive with him? \n\nThe ringing of the school bell saved Phillotson from the necessity of\nreplying at present to what apparently did not strike him as being such\na convincing _argumentum ad verecundiam_ as she, in her loss of courage\nat the last moment, meant it to appear. She was beginning to be so\npuzzling and unstateable that he was ready to throw in with her other\nlittle peculiarities the extremest request which a wife could make.\n\nThey proceeded to the schools that morning as usual, Sue entering the\nclass-room, where he could see the back of her head through the glass\npartition whenever he turned his eyes that way. As he went on giving\nand hearing lessons his forehead and eyebrows twitched from\nconcentrated agitation of thought, till at length he tore a scrap from\na sheet of scribbling paper and wrote:\n\nYour request prevents my attending to work at all. I don t know what I\nam doing! Was it seriously made?\n\nHe folded the piece of paper very small, and gave it to a little boy to\ntake to Sue. The child toddled off into the class-room. Phillotson saw\nhis wife turn and take the note, and the bend of her pretty head as she\nread it, her lips slightly crisped, to prevent undue expression under\nfire of so many young eyes. He could not see her hands, but she changed\nher position, and soon the child returned, bringing nothing in reply.\nIn a few minutes, however, one of Sue s class appeared, with a little\nnote similar to his own. These words only were pencilled therein:\n\nI am sincerely sorry to say that it was seriously made.\n\nPhillotson looked more disturbed than before, and the meeting-place of\nhis brows twitched again. In ten minutes he called up the child he had\njust sent to her, and dispatched another missive:\n\nGod knows I don t want to thwart you in any reasonable way. My whole\nthought is to make you comfortable and happy. But I cannot agree to\nsuch a preposterous notion as your going to live with your lover. You\nwould lose everybody s respect and regard; and so should I!\n\nAfter an interval a similar part was enacted in the class-room, and an\nanswer came:\n\nI know you mean my good. But I don t want to be respectable! To produce\n Human development in its richest diversity  (to quote your Humboldt)\nis to my mind far above respectability. No doubt my tastes are low in\nyour view hopelessly low! If you won t let me go to him, will you grant\nme this one request allow me to live in your house in a separate way?\n\nTo this he returned no answer.\n\nShe wrote again:\n\nI know what you think. But cannot you have pity on me? I beg you to; I\nimplore you to be merciful! I would not ask if I were not almost\ncompelled by what I can t bear! No poor woman has ever wished more than\nI that Eve had not fallen, so that (as the primitive Christians\nbelieved) some harmless mode of vegetation might have peopled Paradise.\nBut I won t trifle! Be kind to me even though I have not been kind to\nyou! I will go away, go abroad, anywhere, and never trouble you.\n\nNearly an hour passed, and then he returned an answer:\n\nI do not wish to pain you. How well you _know_ I don t! Give me a\nlittle time. I am disposed to agree to your last request.\n\nOne line from her:\n\nThank you from my heart, Richard. I do not deserve your kindness.\n\nAll day Phillotson bent a dazed regard upon her through the glazed\npartition; and he felt as lonely as when he had not known her.\n\nBut he was as good as his word, and consented to her living apart in\nthe house. At first, when they met at meals, she had seemed more\ncomposed under the new arrangement; but the irksomeness of their\nposition worked on her temperament, and the fibres of her nature seemed\nstrained like harp-strings. She talked vaguely and indiscriminately to\nprevent his talking pertinently.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nPhillotson was sitting up late, as was often his custom, trying to get\ntogether the materials for his long-neglected hobby of Roman\nantiquities. For the first time since reviving the subject he felt a\nreturn of his old interest in it. He forgot time and place, and when he\nremembered himself and ascended to rest it was nearly two o clock.\n\nHis preoccupation was such that, though he now slept on the other side\nof the house, he mechanically went to the room that he and his wife had\noccupied when he first became a tenant of Old-Grove Place, which since\nhis differences with Sue had been hers exclusively. He entered, and\nunconsciously began to undress.\n\nThere was a cry from the bed, and a quick movement. Before the\nschoolmaster had realized where he was he perceived Sue starting up\nhalf-awake, staring wildly, and springing out upon the floor on the\nside away from him, which was towards the window. This was somewhat\nhidden by the canopy of the bedstead, and in a moment he heard her\nflinging up the sash. Before he had thought that she meant to do more\nthan get air she had mounted upon the sill and leapt out. She\ndisappeared in the darkness, and he heard her fall below.\n\nPhillotson, horrified, ran downstairs, striking himself sharply against\nthe newel in his haste. Opening the heavy door he ascended the two or\nthree steps to the level of the ground, and there on the gravel before\nhim lay a white heap. Phillotson seized it in his arms, and bringing\nSue into the hall seated her on a chair, where he gazed at her by the\nflapping light of the candle which he had set down in the draught on\nthe bottom stair.\n\nShe had certainly not broken her neck. She looked at him with eyes that\nseemed not to take him in; and though not particularly large in general\nthey appeared so now. She pressed her side and rubbed her arm, as if\nconscious of pain; then stood up, averting her face, in evident\ndistress at his gaze.\n\n Thank God you are not killed! Though it s not for want of trying not\nmuch hurt I hope? \n\nHer fall, in fact, had not been a serious one, probably owing to the\nlowness of the old rooms and to the high level of the ground without.\nBeyond a scraped elbow and a blow in the side she had apparently\nincurred little harm.\n\n I was asleep, I think!  she began, her pale face still turned away\nfrom him.  And something frightened me a terrible dream I thought I saw\nyou  The actual circumstances seemed to come back to her, and she was\nsilent.\n\nHer cloak was hanging at the back of the door, and the wretched\nPhillotson flung it round her.  Shall I help you upstairs?  he asked\ndrearily; for the significance of all this sickened him of himself and\nof everything.\n\n No thank you, Richard. I am very little hurt. I can walk. \n\n You ought to lock your door,  he mechanically said, as if lecturing in\nschool.  Then no one could intrude even by accident. \n\n I have tried it won t lock. All the doors are out of order. \n\nThe aspect of things was not improved by her admission. She ascended\nthe staircase slowly, the waving light of the candle shining on her.\nPhillotson did not approach her, or attempt to ascend himself till he\nheard her enter her room. Then he fastened up the front door, and\nreturning, sat down on the lower stairs, holding the newel with one\nhand, and bowing his face into the other. Thus he remained for a long\nlong time a pitiable object enough to one who had seen him; till,\nraising his head and sighing a sigh which seemed to say that the\nbusiness of his life must be carried on, whether he had a wife or no,\nhe took the candle and went upstairs to his lonely room on the other\nside of the landing.\n\nNo further incident touching the matter between them occurred till the\nfollowing evening, when, immediately school was over, Phillotson walked\nout of Shaston, saying he required no tea, and not informing Sue where\nhe was going. He descended from the town level by a steep road in a\nnorth-westerly direction, and continued to move downwards till the soil\nchanged from its white dryness to a tough brown clay. He was now on the\nlow alluvial beds\n\nWhere Duncliffe is the traveller s mark,\nAnd cloty Stour s a-rolling dark.\n\nMore than once he looked back in the increasing obscurity of evening.\nAgainst the sky was Shaston, dimly visible\n\nOn the grey-topp d height\nOf Paladore, as pale day wore\nAway [1]\n\n\n [1] William Barnes.\n\nThe new-lit lights from its windows burnt with a steady shine as if\nwatching him, one of which windows was his own. Above it he could just\ndiscern the pinnacled tower of Trinity Church. The air down here,\ntempered by the thick damp bed of tenacious clay, was not as it had\nbeen above, but soft and relaxing, so that when he had walked a mile or\ntwo he was obliged to wipe his face with his handkerchief.\n\nLeaving Duncliffe Hill on the left he proceeded without hesitation\nthrough the shade, as a man goes on, night or day, in a district over\nwhich he has played as a boy. He had walked altogether about four and a\nhalf miles\n\nWhere Stour receives her strength,\nFrom six cleere fountains fed,[2]\n\n\n [2] Drayton.\n\nwhen he crossed a tributary of the Stour, and reached Leddenton a\nlittle town of three or four thousand inhabitants where he went on to\nthe boys  school, and knocked at the door of the master s residence.\n\nA boy pupil-teacher opened it, and to Phillotson s inquiry if Mr.\nGillingham was at home, replied that he was, going at once off to his\nown house, and leaving Phillotson to find his way in as he could. He\ndiscovered his friend putting away some books from which he had been\ngiving evening lessons. The light of the paraffin lamp fell on\nPhillotson s face pale and wretched by contrast with his friend s, who\nhad a cool, practical look. They had been schoolmates in boyhood, and\nfellow-students at Wintoncester Training College, many years before\nthis time.\n\n Glad to see you, Dick! But you don t look well! Nothing the matter? \n\nPhillotson advanced without replying, and Gillingham closed the\ncupboard and pulled up beside his visitor.\n\n Why you haven t been here let me see since you were married? I called,\nyou know, but you were out; and upon my word it is such a climb after\ndark that I have been waiting till the days are longer before lumpering\nup again. I am glad you didn t wait, however. \n\nThough well-trained and even proficient masters, they occasionally used\na dialect-word of their boyhood to each other in private.\n\n I ve come, George, to explain to you my reasons for taking a step that\nI am about to take, so that you, at least, will understand my motives\nif other people question them anywhen as they may, indeed certainly\nwill  But anything is better than the present condition of things. God\nforbid that you should ever have such an experience as mine! \n\n Sit down. You don t mean anything wrong between you and Mrs.\nPhillotson? \n\n I do  My wretched state is that I ve a wife I love who not only does\nnot love me, but but  Well, I won t say. I know her feeling! I should\nprefer hatred from her! \n\n Ssh! \n\n And the sad part of it is that she is not so much to blame as I. She\nwas a pupil-teacher under me, as you know, and I took advantage of her\ninexperience, and toled her out for walks, and got her to agree to a\nlong engagement before she well knew her own mind. Afterwards she saw\nsomebody else, but she blindly fulfilled her engagement. \n\n Loving the other? \n\n Yes; with a curious tender solicitude seemingly; though her exact\nfeeling for him is a riddle to me and to him too, I think possibly to\nherself. She is one of the oddest creatures I ever met. However, I have\nbeen struck with these two facts; the extraordinary sympathy, or\nsimilarity, between the pair. He is her cousin, which perhaps accounts\nfor some of it. They seem to be one person split in two! And with her\nunconquerable aversion to myself as a husband, even though she may like\nme as a friend,  tis too much to bear longer. She has conscientiously\nstruggled against it, but to no purpose. I cannot bear it I cannot! I\ncan t answer her arguments she has read ten times as much as I. Her\nintellect sparkles like diamonds, while mine smoulders like brown\npaper  She s one too many for me! \n\n She ll get over it, good-now? \n\n Never! It is but I won t go into it there are reasons why she never\nwill. At last she calmly and firmly asked if she might leave me and go\nto him. The climax came last night, when, owing to my entering her room\nby accident, she jumped out of window so strong was her dread of me!\nShe pretended it was a dream, but that was to soothe me. Now when a\nwoman jumps out of window without caring whether she breaks her neck or\nno, she s not to be mistaken; and this being the case I have come to a\nconclusion: that it is wrong to so torture a fellow-creature any\nlonger; and I won t be the inhuman wretch to do it, cost what it may! \n\n What you ll let her go? And with her lover? \n\n Whom with is her matter. I shall let her go; with him certainly, if\nshe wishes. I know I may be wrong I know I can t logically, or\nreligiously, defend my concession to such a wish of hers, or harmonize\nit with the doctrines I was brought up in. Only I know one thing:\nsomething within me tells me I am doing wrong in refusing her. I, like\nother men, profess to hold that if a husband gets such a so-called\npreposterous request from his wife, the only course that can possibly\nbe regarded as right and proper and honourable in him is to refuse it,\nand put her virtuously under lock and key, and murder her lover\nperhaps. But is that essentially right, and proper, and honourable, or\nis it contemptibly mean and selfish? I don t profess to decide. I\nsimply am going to act by instinct, and let principles take care of\nthemselves. If a person who has blindly walked into a quagmire cries\nfor help, I am inclined to give it, if possible. \n\n But you see, there s the question of neighbours and society what will\nhappen if everybody \n\n Oh, I am not going to be a philosopher any longer! I only see what s\nunder my eyes. \n\n Well I don t agree with your instinct, Dick!  said Gillingham gravely.\n I am quite amazed, to tell the truth, that such a sedate, plodding\nfellow as you should have entertained such a craze for a moment. You\nsaid when I called that she was puzzling and peculiar: I think you\nare! \n\n Have you ever stood before a woman whom you know to be intrinsically a\ngood woman, while she has pleaded for release been the man she has\nknelt to and implored indulgence of? \n\n I am thankful to say I haven t. \n\n Then I don t think you are in a position to give an opinion. I have\nbeen that man, and it makes all the difference in the world, if one has\nany manliness or chivalry in him. I had not the remotest idea living\napart from women as I have done for so many years that merely taking a\nwoman to church and putting a ring upon her finger could by any\npossibility involve one in such a daily, continuous tragedy as that now\nshared by her and me! \n\n Well, I could admit some excuse for letting her leave you, provided\nshe kept to herself. But to go attended by a cavalier that makes a\ndifference. \n\n Not a bit. Suppose, as I believe, she would rather endure her present\nmisery than be made to promise to keep apart from him? All that is a\nquestion for herself. It is not the same thing at all as the treachery\nof living on with a husband and playing him false  However, she has not\ndistinctly implied living with him as wife, though I think she means\nto... And, to the best of my understanding, it is not an ignoble,\nmerely animal, feeling between the two: that is the worst of it;\nbecause it makes me think their affection will be enduring. I did not\nmean to confess to you that in the first jealous weeks of my marriage,\nbefore I had come to my right mind, I hid myself in the school one\nevening when they were together there, and I heard what they said. I am\nashamed of it now, though I suppose I was only exercising a legal\nright. I found from their manner that an extraordinary affinity, or\nsympathy, entered into their attachment, which somehow took away all\nflavour of grossness. Their supreme desire is to be together to share\neach other s emotions, and fancies, and dreams. \n\n Platonic! \n\n Well no. Shelleyan would be nearer to it. They remind me of what are\ntheir names Laon and Cythna. Also of Paul and Virginia a little. The\nmore I reflect, the more _entirely_ I am on their side! \n\n But if people did as you want to do, there d be a general domestic\ndisintegration. The family would no longer be the social unit. \n\n Yes I am all abroad, I suppose!  said Phillotson sadly.  I was never a\nvery bright reasoner, you remember.   And yet, I don t see why the\nwoman and the children should not be the unit without the man. \n\n By the Lord Harry! Matriarchy!   Does _she_ say all this too? \n\n Oh no. She little thinks I have out-Sued Sue in this all in the last\ntwelve hours! \n\n It will upset all received opinion hereabout. Good God what will\nShaston say! \n\n I don t say that it won t. I don t know I don t know!   As I say, I am\nonly a feeler, not a reasoner. \n\n Now,  said Gillingham,  let us take it quietly, and have something to\ndrink over it.  He went under the stairs, and produced a bottle of\ncider-wine, of which they drank a rummer each.  I think you are rafted,\nand not yourself,  he continued.  Do go back and make up your mind to\nput up with a few whims. But keep her. I hear on all sides that she s a\ncharming young thing. \n\n Ah yes! That s the bitterness of it! Well, I won t stay. I have a long\nwalk before me. \n\nGillingham accompanied his friend a mile on his way, and at parting\nexpressed his hope that this consultation, singular as its subject was,\nwould be the renewal of their old comradeship.  Stick to her!  were his\nlast words, flung into the darkness after Phillotson; from which his\nfriend answered  Aye, aye! \n\nBut when Phillotson was alone under the clouds of night, and no sound\nwas audible but that of the purling tributaries of the Stour, he said,\n So Gillingham, my friend, you had no stronger arguments against it\nthan those! \n\n I think she ought to be smacked, and brought to her senses that s what\nI think!  murmured Gillingham, as he walked back alone.\n\nThe next morning came, and at breakfast Phillotson told Sue:\n\n You may go with whom you will. I absolutely and unconditionally\nagree. \n\nHaving once come to this conclusion it seemed to Phillotson more and\nmore indubitably the true one. His mild serenity at the sense that he\nwas doing his duty by a woman who was at his mercy almost overpowered\nhis grief at relinquishing her.\n\nSome days passed, and the evening of their last meal together had\ncome a cloudy evening with wind which indeed was very seldom absent in\nthis elevated place. How permanently it was imprinted upon his vision;\nthat look of her as she glided into the parlour to tea; a slim flexible\nfigure; a face, strained from its roundness, and marked by the pallors\nof restless days and nights, suggesting tragic possibilities quite at\nvariance with her times of buoyancy; a trying of this morsel and that,\nand an inability to eat either. Her nervous manner, begotten of a fear\nlest he should be injured by her course, might have been interpreted by\na stranger as displeasure that Phillotson intruded his presence on her\nfor the few brief minutes that remained.\n\n You had better have a slice of ham or an egg, or something with your\ntea? You can t travel on a mouthful of bread and butter. \n\nShe took the slice he helped her to; and they discussed as they sat\ntrivial questions of housekeeping, such as where he would find the key\nof this or that cupboard, what little bills were paid, and what not.\n\n I am a bachelor by nature, as you know, Sue,  he said, in a heroic\nattempt to put her at her ease.  So that being without a wife will not\nreally be irksome to me, as it might be to other men who have had one a\nlittle while. I have, too, this grand hobby in my head of writing  The\nRoman Antiquities of Wessex,  which will occupy all my spare hours. \n\n If you will send me some of the manuscript to copy at any time, as you\nused to, I will do it with so much pleasure!  she said with amenable\ngentleness.  I should much like to be some help to you still as\na f-f-friend. \n\nPhillotson mused, and said:  No, I think we ought to be really\nseparate, if we are to be at all. And for this reason, that I don t\nwish to ask you any questions, and particularly wish you not to give me\ninformation as to your movements, or even your address  Now, what money\ndo you want? You must have some, you know. \n\n Oh, of course, Richard, I couldn t think of having any of your money\nto go away from you with! I don t want any either. I have enough of my\nown to last me for a long while, and Jude will let me have \n\n I would rather not know anything about him, if you don t mind. You are\nfree, absolutely; and your course is your own. \n\n Very well. But I ll just say that I have packed only a change or two\nof my own personal clothing, and one or two little things besides that\nare my very own. I wish you would look into my trunk before it is\nclosed. Besides that I have only a small parcel that will go into\nJude s portmanteau. \n\n Of course I shall do no such thing as examine your luggage! I wish you\nwould take three-quarters of the household furniture. I don t want to\nbe bothered with it. I have a sort of affection for a little of it that\nbelonged to my poor mother and father. But the rest you are welcome to\nwhenever you like to send for it. \n\n That I shall never do. \n\n You go by the six-thirty train, don t you? It is now a quarter to\nsix. \n\n You  You don t seem very sorry I am going, Richard! \n\n Oh no perhaps not. \n\n I like you much for how you have behaved. It is a curious thing that\ndirectly I have begun to regard you as not my husband, but as my old\nteacher, I like you. I won t be so affected as to say I love you,\nbecause you know I don t, except as a friend. But you do seem that to\nme! \n\nSue was for a few moments a little tearful at these reflections, and\nthen the station omnibus came round to take her up. Phillotson saw her\nthings put on the top, handed her in, and was obliged to make an\nappearance of kissing her as he wished her good-bye, which she quite\nunderstood and imitated. From the cheerful manner in which they parted\nthe omnibus-man had no other idea than that she was going for a short\nvisit.\n\nWhen Phillotson got back into the house he went upstairs and opened the\nwindow in the direction the omnibus had taken. Soon the noise of its\nwheels died away. He came down then, his face compressed like that of\none bearing pain; he put on his hat and went out, following by the same\nroute for nearly a mile. Suddenly turning round he came home.\n\nHe had no sooner entered than the voice of his friend Gillingham\ngreeted him from the front room.\n\n I could make nobody hear; so finding your door open I walked in, and\nmade myself comfortable. I said I would call, you remember. \n\n Yes. I am much obliged to you, Gillingham, particularly for coming\nto-night. \n\n How is Mrs. \n\n She is quite well. She is gone just gone. That s her tea-cup, that she\ndrank out of only an hour ago. And that s the plate she  Phillotson s\nthroat got choked up, and he could not go on. He turned and pushed the\ntea-things aside.\n\n Have you had any tea, by the by?  he asked presently in a renewed\nvoice.\n\n No yes never mind,  said Gillingham, preoccupied.  Gone, you say she\nis? \n\n Yes  I would have died for her; but I wouldn t be cruel to her in the\nname of the law. She is, as I understand, gone to join her lover. What\nthey are going to do I cannot say. Whatever it may be she has my full\nconsent to. \n\nThere was a stability, a ballast, in Phillotson s pronouncement which\nrestrained his friend s comment.  Shall I leave you?  he asked.\n\n No, no. It is a mercy to me that you have come. I have some articles\nto arrange and clear away. Would you help me? \n\nGillingham assented; and having gone to the upper rooms the\nschoolmaster opened drawers, and began taking out all Sue s things that\nshe had left behind, and laying them in a large box.  She wouldn t take\nall I wanted her to,  he continued.  But when I made up my mind to her\ngoing to live in her own way I did make up my mind. \n\n Some men would have stopped at an agreement to separate. \n\n I ve gone into all that, and don t wish to argue it. I was, and am,\nthe most old-fashioned man in the world on the question of marriage in\nfact I had never thought critically about its ethics at all. But\ncertain facts stared me in the face, and I couldn t go against them. \n\nThey went on with the packing silently. When it was done Phillotson\nclosed the box and turned the key.\n\n There,  he said.  To adorn her in somebody s eyes; never again in\nmine! \n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nFour-and-twenty hours before this time Sue had written the following\nnote to Jude:\n\nIt is as I told you; and I am leaving to-morrow evening. Richard and I\nthought it could be done with less obtrusiveness after dark. I feel\nrather frightened, and therefore ask you to be sure you are on the\nMelchester platform to meet me. I arrive at a little to seven. I know\nyou will, of course, dear Jude; but I feel so timid that I can t help\nbegging you to be punctual. He has been so _very_ kind to me through it\nall!\n    Now to our meeting!\n\n\nS.\n\nAs she was carried by the omnibus farther and farther down from the\nmountain town the single passenger that evening she regarded the\nreceding road with a sad face. But no hesitation was apparent therein.\n\nThe up-train by which she was departing stopped by signal only. To Sue\nit seemed strange that such a powerful organization as a railway train\nshould be brought to a stand-still on purpose for her a fugitive from\nher lawful home.\n\nThe twenty minutes  journey drew towards its close, and Sue began\ngathering her things together to alight. At the moment that the train\ncame to a stand-still by the Melchester platform a hand was laid on the\ndoor and she beheld Jude. He entered the compartment promptly. He had a\nblack bag in his hand, and was dressed in the dark suit he wore on\nSundays and in the evening after work. Altogether he looked a very\nhandsome young fellow, his ardent affection for her burning in his\neyes.\n\n Oh Jude!  She clasped his hand with both hers, and her tense state\ncaused her to simmer over in a little succession of dry sobs.  I I am\nso glad! I get out here? \n\n No. I get in, dear one! I ve packed. Besides this bag I ve only a big\nbox which is labelled. \n\n But don t I get out? Aren t we going to stay here? \n\n We couldn t possibly, don t you see. We are known here I, at any rate,\nam well known. I ve booked for Aldbrickham; and here s your ticket for\nthe same place, as you have only one to here. \n\n I thought we should have stayed here,  she repeated.\n\n It wouldn t have done at all. \n\n Ah! Perhaps not. \n\n There wasn t time for me to write and say the place I had decided on.\nAldbrickham is a much bigger town sixty or seventy thousand\ninhabitants and nobody knows anything about us there. \n\n And you have given up your cathedral work here? \n\n Yes. It was rather sudden your message coming unexpectedly. Strictly,\nI might have been made to finish out the week. But I pleaded urgency\nand I was let off. I would have deserted any day at your command, dear\nSue. I have deserted more than that for you! \n\n I fear I am doing you a lot of harm. Ruining your prospects of the\nChurch; ruining your progress in your trade; everything! \n\n The Church is no more to me. Let it lie! _I_ am not to be one of\n\n    The soldier-saints who, row on row,\nBurn upward each to his point of bliss,\n\nif any such there be! My point of bliss is not upward, but here. \n\n Oh I seem so bad upsetting men s courses like this!  said she, taking\nup in her voice the emotion that had begun in his. But she recovered\nher equanimity by the time they had travelled a dozen miles.\n\n He has been so good in letting me go,  she resumed.  And here s a note\nI found on my dressing-table, addressed to you. \n\n Yes. He s not an unworthy fellow,  said Jude, glancing at the note.\n And I am ashamed of myself for hating him because he married you. \n\n According to the rule of women s whims I suppose I ought to suddenly\nlove him, because he has let me go so generously and unexpectedly,  she\nanswered smiling.  But I am so cold, or devoid of gratitude, or so\nsomething, that even this generosity hasn t made me love him, or\nrepent, or want to stay with him as his wife; although I do feel I like\nhis large-mindedness, and respect him more than ever. \n\n It may not work so well for us as if he had been less kind, and you\nhad run away against his will,  murmured Jude.\n\n That I _never_ would have done. \n\nJude s eyes rested musingly on her face. Then he suddenly kissed her;\nand was going to kiss her again.  No only once now please, Jude! \n\n That s rather cruel,  he answered; but acquiesced.  Such a strange\nthing has happened to me,  Jude continued after a silence.  Arabella\nhas actually written to ask me to get a divorce from her in kindness to\nher, she says. She wants to honestly and legally marry that man she has\nalready married virtually; and begs me to enable her to do it. \n\n What have you done? \n\n I have agreed. I thought at first I couldn t do it without getting her\ninto trouble about that second marriage, and I don t want to injure her\nin any way. Perhaps she s no worse than I am, after all! But nobody\nknows about it over here, and I find it will not be a difficult\nproceeding at all. If she wants to start afresh I have only too obvious\nreasons for not hindering her. \n\n Then you ll be free? \n\n Yes, I shall be free. \n\n Where are we booked for?  she asked, with the discontinuity that\nmarked her to-night.\n\n Aldbrickham, as I said. \n\n But it will be very late when we get there? \n\n Yes. I thought of that, and I wired for a room for us at the\nTemperance Hotel there. \n\n One? \n\n Yes one. \n\nShe looked at him.  Oh Jude!  Sue bent her forehead against the corner\nof the compartment.  I thought you might do it; and that I was\ndeceiving you. But I didn t mean that! \n\nIn the pause which followed, Jude s eyes fixed themselves with a\nstultified expression on the opposite seat.  Well!  he said   Well! \n\nHe remained in silence; and seeing how discomfited he was she put her\nface against his cheek, murmuring,  Don t be vexed, dear! \n\n Oh there s no harm done,  he said.  But I understood it like that  Is\nthis a sudden change of mind? \n\n You have no right to ask me such a question; and I shan t answer!  she\nsaid, smiling.\n\n My dear one, your happiness is more to me than anything although we\nseem to verge on quarrelling so often! and your will is law to me. I am\nsomething more than a mere selfish fellow, I hope. Have it as you\nwish!  On reflection his brow showed perplexity.  But perhaps it is\nthat you don t love me not that you have become conventional! Much as,\nunder your teaching, I hate convention, I hope it _is_ that, not the\nother terrible alternative! \n\nEven at this obvious moment for candour Sue could not be quite candid\nas to the state of that mystery, her heart.  Put it down to my\ntimidity,  she said with hurried evasiveness;  to a woman s natural\ntimidity when the crisis comes. I may feel as well as you that I have a\nperfect right to live with you as you thought from this moment. I may\nhold the opinion that, in a proper state of society, the father of a\nwoman s child will be as much a private matter of hers as the cut of\nher underlinen, on whom nobody will have any right to question her. But\npartly, perhaps, because it is by his generosity that I am now free, I\nwould rather not be other than a little rigid. If there had been a\nrope-ladder, and he had run after us with pistols, it would have seemed\ndifferent, and I may have acted otherwise. But don t press me and\ncriticize me, Jude! Assume that I haven t the courage of my opinions. I\nknow I am a poor miserable creature. My nature is not so passionate as\nyours! \n\nHe repeated simply!  I thought what I naturally thought. But if we are\nnot lovers, we are not. Phillotson thought so, I am sure. See, here is\nwhat he has written to me.  He opened the letter she had brought, and\nread:\n\n I make only one condition that you are tender and kind to her. I know\nyou love her. But even love may be cruel at times. You are made for\neach other: it is obvious, palpable, to any unbiased older person. You\nwere all along  the shadowy third  in my short life with her. I repeat,\ntake care of Sue. \n\n He s a good fellow, isn t he!  she said with latent tears. On\nreconsideration she added,  He was very resigned to letting me go too\nresigned almost! I never was so near being in love with him as when he\nmade such thoughtful arrangements for my being comfortable on my\njourney, and offering to provide money. Yet I was not. If I loved him\never so little as a wife, I d go back to him even now. \n\n But you don t, do you? \n\n It is true oh so terribly true! I don t. \n\n Nor me neither, I half-fear!  he said pettishly.  Nor anybody perhaps!\nSue, sometimes, when I am vexed with you, I think you are incapable of\nreal love. \n\n That s not good and loyal of you!  she said, and drawing away from him\nas far as she could, looked severely out into the darkness. She added\nin hurt tones, without turning round:  My liking for you is not as some\nwomen s perhaps. But it is a delight in being with you, of a supremely\ndelicate kind, and I don t want to go further and risk it by an attempt\nto intensify it! I quite realized that, as woman with man, it was a\nrisk to come. But, as me with you, I resolved to trust you to set my\nwishes above your gratification. Don t discuss it further, dear Jude! \n\n Of course, if it would make you reproach yourself  but you do like me\nvery much, Sue? Say you do! Say that you do a quarter, a tenth, as much\nas I do you, and I ll be content! \n\n I ve let you kiss me, and that tells enough. \n\n Just once or so! \n\n Well don t be a greedy boy. \n\nHe leant back, and did not look at her for a long time. That episode in\nher past history of which she had told him of the poor Christminster\ngraduate whom she had handled thus, returned to Jude s mind; and he saw\nhimself as a possible second in such a torturing destiny.\n\n This is a queer elopement!  he murmured.  Perhaps you are making a\ncat s paw of me with Phillotson all this time. Upon my word it almost\nseems so to see you sitting up there so prim! \n\n Now you mustn t be angry I won t let you!  she coaxed, turning and\nmoving nearer to him.  You did kiss me just now, you know; and I didn t\ndislike you to, I own it, Jude. Only I don t want to let you do it\nagain, just yet considering how we are circumstanced, don t you see! \n\nHe could never resist her when she pleaded (as she well knew). And they\nsat side by side with joined hands, till she aroused herself at some\nthought.\n\n I can t possibly go to that Temperance Inn, after your telegraphing\nthat message! \n\n Why not? \n\n You can see well enough! \n\n Very well; there ll be some other one open, no doubt. I have sometimes\nthought, since your marrying Phillotson because of a stupid scandal,\nthat under the affectation of independent views you are as enslaved to\nthe social code as any woman I know! \n\n Not mentally. But I haven t the courage of my views, as I said before.\nI didn t marry him altogether because of the scandal. But sometimes a\nwoman s _love of being loved_ gets the better of her conscience, and\nthough she is agonized at the thought of treating a man cruelly, she\nencourages him to love her while she doesn t love him at all. Then,\nwhen she sees him suffering, her remorse sets in, and she does what she\ncan to repair the wrong. \n\n You simply mean that you flirted outrageously with him, poor old chap,\nand then repented, and to make reparation, married him, though you\ntortured yourself to death by doing it. \n\n Well if you will put it brutally! it was a little like that that and\nthe scandal together and your concealing from me what you ought to have\ntold me before! \n\nHe could see that she was distressed and tearful at his criticisms, and\nsoothed her, saying:  There, dear; don t mind! Crucify me, if you will!\nYou know you are all the world to me, whatever you do! \n\n I am very bad and unprincipled I know you think that!  she said,\ntrying to blink away her tears.\n\n I think and know you are my dear Sue, from whom neither length nor\nbreadth, nor things present nor things to come, can divide me! \n\nThough so sophisticated in many things, she was such a child in others\nthat this satisfied her, and they reached the end of their journey on\nthe best of terms. It was about ten o clock when they arrived at\nAldbrickham, the county town of North Wessex. As she would not go to\nthe Temperance Hotel because of the form of his telegram, Jude inquired\nfor another; and a youth who volunteered to find one wheeled their\nluggage to the George farther on, which proved to be the inn at which\nJude had stayed with Arabella on that one occasion of their meeting\nafter their division for years.\n\nOwing, however, to their now entering it by another door, and to his\npreoccupation, he did not at first recognize the place. When they had\nengaged their respective rooms they went down to a late supper. During\nJude s temporary absence the waiting-maid spoke to Sue.\n\n I think, ma am, I remember your relation, or friend, or whatever he\nis, coming here once before late, just like this, with his wife a lady,\nat any rate, that wasn t you by no manner of means jest as med be with\nyou now. \n\n Oh do you?  said Sue, with a certain sickness of heart.  Though I\nthink you must be mistaken! How long ago was it? \n\n About a month or two. A handsome, full-figured woman. They had this\nroom. \n\nWhen Jude came back and sat down to supper Sue seemed moping and\nmiserable.  Jude,  she said to him plaintively, at their parting that\nnight upon the landing,  it is not so nice and pleasant as it used to\nbe with us! I don t like it here I can t bear the place! And I don t\nlike you so well as I did! \n\n How fidgeted you seem, dear! Why do you change like this? \n\n Because it was cruel to bring me here! \n\n Why? \n\n You were lately here with Arabella. There, now I have said it! \n\n Dear me, why  said Jude looking round him.  Yes it is the same! I\nreally didn t know it, Sue. Well it is not cruel, since we have come as\nwe have two relations staying together. \n\n How long ago was it you were here? Tell me, tell me! \n\n The day before I met you in Christminster, when we went back to\nMarygreen together. I told you I had met her. \n\n Yes, you said you had met her, but you didn t tell me all. Your story\nwas that you had met as estranged people, who were not husband and wife\nat all in Heaven s sight not that you had made it up with her. \n\n We didn t make it up,  he said sadly.  I can t explain, Sue. \n\n You ve been false to me; you, my last hope! And I shall never forget\nit, never! \n\n But by your own wish, dear Sue, we are only to be friends, not lovers!\nIt is so very inconsistent of you to \n\n Friends can be jealous! \n\n I don t see that. You concede nothing to me and I have to concede\neverything to you. After all, you were on good terms with your husband\nat that time. \n\n No, I wasn t, Jude. Oh how can you think so! And you have taken me in,\neven if you didn t intend to.  She was so mortified that he was obliged\nto take her into her room and close the door lest the people should\nhear.  Was it this room? Yes it was I see by your look it was! I won t\nhave it for mine! Oh it was treacherous of you to have her again! _I_\njumped out of the window! \n\n But Sue, she was, after all, my legal wife, if not \n\nSlipping down on her knees Sue buried her face in the bed and wept.\n\n I never knew such an unreasonable such a dog-in-the-manger feeling, \nsaid Jude.  I am not to approach you, nor anybody else! \n\n Oh don t you _understand_ my feeling? Why don t you? Why are you so\ngross? _I_ jumped out of the window? \n\n Jumped out of window? \n\n I can t explain! \n\nIt was true that he did not understand her feelings very well. But he\ndid a little; and began to love her none the less.\n\n I I thought you cared for nobody desired nobody in the world but me at\nthat time and ever since!  continued Sue.\n\n It is true. I did not, and don t now!  said Jude, as distressed as\nshe.\n\n But you must have thought much of her! Or \n\n No I need not you don t understand me either women never do! Why\nshould you get into such a tantrum about nothing? \n\nLooking up from the quilt she pouted provokingly:  If it hadn t been\nfor that, perhaps I would have gone on to the Temperance Hotel, after\nall, as you proposed; for I was beginning to think I did belong to\nyou! \n\n Oh, it is of no consequence!  said Jude distantly.\n\n I thought, of course, that she had never been really your wife since\nshe left you of her own accord years and years ago! My sense of it was,\nthat a parting such as yours from her, and mine from him, ended the\nmarriage. \n\n I can t say more without speaking against her, and I don t want to do\nthat,  said he.  Yet I must tell you one thing, which would settle the\nmatter in any case. She has married another man really married him! I\nknew nothing about it till after the visit we made here. \n\n Married another?   It is a crime as the world treats it, but does not\nbelieve. \n\n There now you are yourself again. Yes, it is a crime as you don t\nhold, but would fearfully concede. But I shall never inform against\nher! And it is evidently a prick of conscience in her that has led her\nto urge me to get a divorce, that she may remarry this man legally. So\nyou perceive I shall not be likely to see her again. \n\n And you didn t really know anything of this when you saw her?  said\nSue more gently, as she rose.\n\n I did not. Considering all things, I don t think you ought to be\nangry, darling! \n\n I am not. But I shan t go to the Temperance Hotel! \n\nHe laughed.  Never mind!  he said.  So that I am near you, I am\ncomparatively happy. It is more than this earthly wretch called Me\ndeserves you spirit, you disembodied creature, you dear, sweet,\ntantalizing phantom hardly flesh at all; so that when I put my arms\nround you I almost expect them to pass through you as through air!\nForgive me for being gross, as you call it! Remember that our calling\ncousins when really strangers was a snare. The enmity of our parents\ngave a piquancy to you in my eyes that was intenser even than the\nnovelty of ordinary new acquaintance. \n\n Say those pretty lines, then, from Shelley s  Epipsychidion  as if\nthey meant me!  she solicited, slanting up closer to him as they stood.\n Don t you know them? \n\n I know hardly any poetry,  he replied mournfully.\n\n Don t you? These are some of them:\n\nThere was a Being whom my spirit oft\nMet on its visioned wanderings far aloft.\n\n\n*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *\n\n\nA seraph of Heaven, too gentle to be human,\nVeiling beneath that radiant form of woman \n\nOh it is too flattering, so I won t go on! But say it s me! Say it s\nme! \n\n It is you, dear; exactly like you! \n\n Now I forgive you! And you shall kiss me just once there not very\nlong.  She put the tip of her finger gingerly to her cheek; and he did\nas commanded.  You do care for me very much, don t you, in spite of my\nnot you know? \n\n Yes, sweet!  he said with a sigh; and bade her good-night.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nIn returning to his native town of Shaston as schoolmaster Phillotson\nhad won the interest and awakened the memories of the inhabitants, who,\nthough they did not honour him for his miscellaneous acquirements as he\nwould have been honoured elsewhere, retained for him a sincere regard.\nWhen, shortly after his arrival, he brought home a pretty\nwife awkwardly pretty for him, if he did not take care, they said they\nwere glad to have her settle among them.\n\nFor some time after her flight from that home Sue s absence did not\nexcite comment. Her place as monitor in the school was taken by another\nyoung woman within a few days of her vacating it, which substitution\nalso passed without remark, Sue s services having been of a provisional\nnature only. When, however, a month had passed, and Phillotson casually\nadmitted to an acquaintance that he did not know where his wife was\nstaying, curiosity began to be aroused; till, jumping to conclusions,\npeople ventured to affirm that Sue had played him false and run away\nfrom him. The schoolmaster s growing languor and listlessness over his\nwork gave countenance to the idea.\n\nThough Phillotson had held his tongue as long as he could, except to\nhis friend Gillingham, his honesty and directness would not allow him\nto do so when misapprehensions as to Sue s conduct spread abroad. On a\nMonday morning the chairman of the school committee called, and after\nattending to the business of the school drew Phillotson aside out of\nearshot of the children.\n\n You ll excuse my asking, Phillotson, since everybody is talking of it:\nis this true as to your domestic affairs that your wife s going away\nwas on no visit, but a secret elopement with a lover? If so, I condole\nwith you. \n\n Don t,  said Phillotson.  There was no secret about it. \n\n She has gone to visit friends? \n\n No. \n\n Then what has happened? \n\n She has gone away under circumstances that usually call for condolence\nwith the husband. But I gave my consent. \n\nThe chairman looked as if he had not apprehended the remark.\n\n What I say is quite true,  Phillotson continued testily.  She asked\nleave to go away with her lover, and I let her. Why shouldn t I? A\nwoman of full age, it was a question of her own conscience not for me.\nI was not her gaoler. I can t explain any further. I don t wish to be\nquestioned. \n\nThe children observed that much seriousness marked the faces of the two\nmen, and went home and told their parents that something new had\nhappened about Mrs. Phillotson. Then Phillotson s little maidservant,\nwho was a schoolgirl just out of her standards, said that Mr.\nPhillotson had helped in his wife s packing, had offered her what money\nshe required, and had written a friendly letter to her young man,\ntelling him to take care of her. The chairman of committee thought the\nmatter over, and talked to the other managers of the school, till a\nrequest came to Phillotson to meet them privately. The meeting lasted a\nlong time, and at the end the school-master came home, looking as usual\npale and worn. Gillingham was sitting in his house awaiting him.\n\n Well; it is as you said,  observed Phillotson, flinging himself down\nwearily in a chair.  They have requested me to send in my resignation\non account of my scandalous conduct in giving my tortured wife her\nliberty or, as they call it, condoning her adultery. But I shan t\nresign! \n\n I think I would. \n\n I won t. It is no business of theirs. It doesn t affect me in my\npublic capacity at all. They may expel me if they like. \n\n If you make a fuss it will get into the papers, and you ll never get\nappointed to another school. You see, they have to consider what you\ndid as done by a teacher of youth and its effects as such upon the\nmorals of the town; and, to ordinary opinion, your position is\nindefensible. You must let me say that. \n\nTo this good advice, however, Phillotson would not listen.\n\n I don t care,  he said.  I don t go unless I am turned out. And for\nthis reason; that by resigning I acknowledge I have acted wrongly by\nher; when I am more and more convinced every day that in the sight of\nHeaven and by all natural, straightforward humanity, I have acted\nrightly. \n\nGillingham saw that his rather headstrong friend would not be able to\nmaintain such a position as this; but he said nothing further, and in\ndue time indeed, in a quarter of an hour the formal letter of dismissal\narrived, the managers having remained behind to write it after\nPhillotson s withdrawal. The latter replied that he should not accept\ndismissal; and called a public meeting, which he attended, although he\nlooked so weak and ill that his friend implored him to stay at home.\nWhen he stood up to give his reasons for contesting the decision of the\nmanagers he advanced them firmly, as he had done to his friend, and\ncontended, moreover, that the matter was a domestic theory which did\nnot concern them. This they over-ruled, insisting that the private\neccentricities of a teacher came quite within their sphere of control,\nas it touched the morals of those he taught. Phillotson replied that he\ndid not see how an act of natural charity could injure morals.\n\nAll the respectable inhabitants and well-to-do fellow-natives of the\ntown were against Phillotson to a man. But, somewhat to his surprise,\nsome dozen or more champions rose up in his defence as from the ground.\n\nIt has been stated that Shaston was the anchorage of a curious and\ninteresting group of itinerants, who frequented the numerous fairs and\nmarkets held up and down Wessex during the summer and autumn months.\nAlthough Phillotson had never spoken to one of these gentlemen they now\nnobly led the forlorn hope in his defence. The body included two cheap\nJacks, a shooting-gallery proprietor and the ladies who loaded the\nguns, a pair of boxing-masters, a steam-roundabout manager, two\ntravelling broom-makers, who called themselves widows, a\ngingerbread-stall keeper, a swing-boat owner, and a\n test-your-strength  man.\n\nThis generous phalanx of supporters, and a few others of independent\njudgment, whose own domestic experiences had been not without\nvicissitude, came up and warmly shook hands with Phillotson; after\nwhich they expressed their thoughts so strongly to the meeting that\nissue was joined, the result being a general scuffle, wherein a black\nboard was split, three panes of the school windows were broken, an\ninkbottle was spilled over a town-councillor s shirt front, a\nchurchwarden was dealt such a topper with the map of Palestine that his\nhead went right through Samaria, and many black eyes and bleeding noses\nwere given, one of which, to everybody s horror, was the venerable\nincumbent s, owing to the zeal of an emancipated chimney-sweep, who\ntook the side of Phillotson s party. When Phillotson saw the blood\nrunning down the rector s face he deplored almost in groans the\nuntoward and degrading circumstances, regretted that he had not\nresigned when called upon, and went home so ill that next morning he\ncould not leave his bed.\n\nThe farcical yet melancholy event was the beginning of a serious\nillness for him; and he lay in his lonely bed in the pathetic state of\nmind of a middle-aged man who perceives at length that his life,\nintellectual and domestic, is tending to failure and gloom. Gillingham\ncame to see him in the evenings, and on one occasion mentioned Sue s\nname.\n\n She doesn t care anything about me!  said Phillotson.  Why should\nshe? \n\n She doesn t know you are ill. \n\n So much the better for both of us. \n\n Where are her lover and she living? \n\n At Melchester I suppose; at least he was living there some time ago. \n\nWhen Gillingham reached home he sat and reflected, and at last wrote an\nanonymous line to Sue, on the bare chance of its reaching her, the\nletter being enclosed in an envelope addressed to Jude at the diocesan\ncapital. Arriving at that place it was forwarded to Marygreen in North\nWessex, and thence to Aldbrickham by the only person who knew his\npresent address the widow who had nursed his aunt.\n\nThree days later, in the evening, when the sun was going down in\nsplendour over the lowlands of Blackmoor, and making the Shaston\nwindows like tongues of fire to the eyes of the rustics in that vale,\nthe sick man fancied that he heard somebody come to the house, and a\nfew minutes after there was a tap at the bedroom door. Phillotson did\nnot speak; the door was hesitatingly opened, and there entered Sue.\n\nShe was in light spring clothing, and her advent seemed ghostly like\nthe flitting in of a moth. He turned his eyes upon her, and flushed;\nbut appeared to check his primary impulse to speak.\n\n I have no business here,  she said, bending her frightened face to\nhim.  But I heard you were ill very ill; and and as I know that you\nrecognize other feelings between man and woman than physical love, I\nhave come. \n\n I am not very ill, my dear friend. Only unwell. \n\n I didn t know that; and I am afraid that only a severe illness would\nhave justified my coming! \n\n Yes  yes. And I almost wish you had not come! It is a little too\nsoon that s all I mean. Still, let us make the best of it. You haven t\nheard about the school, I suppose? \n\n No what about it? \n\n Only that I am going away from here to another place. The managers and\nI don t agree, and we are going to part that s all. \n\nSue did not for a moment, either now or later, suspect what troubles\nhad resulted to him from letting her go; it never once seemed to cross\nher mind, and she had received no news whatever from Shaston. They\ntalked on slight and ephemeral subjects, and when his tea was brought\nup he told the amazed little servant that a cup was to be set for Sue.\nThat young person was much more interested in their history than they\nsupposed, and as she descended the stairs she lifted her eyes and hands\nin grotesque amazement. While they sipped Sue went to the window and\nthoughtfully said,  It is such a beautiful sunset, Richard. \n\n They are mostly beautiful from here, owing to the rays crossing the\nmist of the vale. But I lose them all, as they don t shine into this\ngloomy corner where I lie. \n\n Wouldn t you like to see this particular one? It is like heaven\nopened. \n\n Ah yes! But I can t. \n\n I ll help you to. \n\n No the bedstead can t be shifted. \n\n But see how I mean. \n\nShe went to where a swing-glass stood, and taking it in her hands\ncarried it to a spot by the window where it could catch the sunshine,\nmoving the glass till the beams were reflected into Phillotson s face.\n\n There you can see the great red sun now!  she said.  And I am sure it\nwill cheer you I do so hope it will!  She spoke with a childlike,\nrepentant kindness, as if she could not do too much for him.\n\nPhillotson smiled sadly.  You are an odd creature!  he murmured as the\nsun glowed in his eyes.  The idea of your coming to see me after what\nhas passed! \n\n Don t let us go back upon that!  she said quickly.  I have to catch\nthe omnibus for the train, as Jude doesn t know I have come; he was out\nwhen I started; so I must return home almost directly. Richard, I am so\nvery glad you are better. You don t hate me, do you? You have been such\na kind friend to me! \n\n I am glad to know you think so,  said Phillotson huskily.  No. I don t\nhate you! \n\nIt grew dusk quickly in the gloomy room during their intermittent chat,\nand when candles were brought and it was time to leave she put her hand\nin his or rather allowed it to flit through his; for she was\nsignificantly light in touch. She had nearly closed the door when he\nsaid,  Sue!  He had noticed that, in turning away from him, tears were\non her face and a quiver in her lip.\n\nIt was bad policy to recall her he knew it while he pursued it. But he\ncould not help it. She came back.\n\n Sue,  he murmured,  do you wish to make it up, and stay? I ll forgive\nyou and condone everything! \n\n Oh you can t, you can t!  she said hastily.  You can t condone it\nnow! \n\n _He_ is your husband now, in effect, you mean, of course? \n\n You may assume it. He is obtaining a divorce from his wife Arabella. \n\n His wife! It is altogether news to me that he has a wife. \n\n It was a bad marriage. \n\n Like yours. \n\n Like mine. He is not doing it so much on his own account as on hers.\nShe wrote and told him it would be a kindness to her, since then she\ncould marry and live respectably. And Jude has agreed. \n\n A wife  A kindness to her. Ah, yes; a kindness to her to release her\naltogether  But I don t like the sound of it. I can forgive, Sue. \n\n No, no! You can t have me back now I have been so wicked as to do what\nI have done! \n\nThere had arisen in Sue s face that incipient fright which showed\nitself whenever he changed from friend to husband, and which made her\nadopt any line of defence against marital feeling in him.  I _must_ go\nnow. I ll come again may I? \n\n I don t ask you to go, even now. I ask you to stay. \n\n I thank you, Richard; but I must. As you are not so ill as I thought,\nI _cannot_ stay! \n\n She s his his from lips to heel!  said Phillotson; but so faintly that\nin closing the door she did not hear it. The dread of a reactionary\nchange in the schoolmaster s sentiments, coupled, perhaps, with a faint\nshamefacedness at letting even him know what a slipshod lack of\nthoroughness, from a man s point of view, characterized her transferred\nallegiance, prevented her telling him of her, thus far, incomplete\nrelations with Jude; and Phillotson lay writhing like a man in hell as\nhe pictured the prettily dressed, maddening compound of sympathy and\naverseness who bore his name, returning impatiently to the home of her\nlover.\n\nGillingham was so interested in Phillotson s affairs, and so seriously\nconcerned about him, that he walked up the hill-side to Shaston two or\nthree times a week, although, there and back, it was a journey of nine\nmiles, which had to be performed between tea and supper, after a hard\nday s work in school. When he called on the next occasion after Sue s\nvisit his friend was downstairs, and Gillingham noticed that his\nrestless mood had been supplanted by a more fixed and composed one.\n\n She s been here since you called last,  said Phillotson.\n\n Not Mrs. Phillotson? \n\n Yes. \n\n Ah! You have made it up? \n\n No  She just came, patted my pillow with her little white hand, played\nthe thoughtful nurse for half an hour, and went away. \n\n Well I m hanged! A little hussy! \n\n What do you say? \n\n Oh nothing! \n\n What do you mean? \n\n I mean, what a tantalizing, capricious little woman! If she were not\nyour wife \n\n She is not; she s another man s except in name and law. And I have\nbeen thinking it was suggested to me by a conversation I had with\nher that, in kindness to her, I ought to dissolve the legal tie\naltogether; which, singularly enough, I think I can do, now she has\nbeen back, and refused my request to stay after I said I had forgiven\nher. I believe that fact would afford me opportunity of doing it,\nthough I did not see it at the moment. What s the use of keeping her\nchained on to me if she doesn t belong to me? I know I feel absolutely\ncertain that she would welcome my taking such a step as the greatest\ncharity to her. For though as a fellow-creature she sympathizes with,\nand pities me, and even weeps for me, as a husband she cannot endure\nme she loathes me there s no use in mincing words she loathes me, and\nmy only manly, and dignified, and merciful course is to complete what I\nhave begun  And for worldly reasons, too, it will be better for her to\nbe independent. I have hopelessly ruined my prospects because of my\ndecision as to what was best for us, though she does not know it; I see\nonly dire poverty ahead from my feet to the grave; for I can be\naccepted as teacher no more. I shall probably have enough to do to make\nboth ends meet during the remainder of my life, now my occupation s\ngone; and I shall be better able to bear it alone. I may as well tell\nyou that what has suggested my letting her go is some news she brought\nme the news that Fawley is doing the same. \n\n Oh he had a spouse, too? A queer couple, these lovers! \n\n Well I don t want your opinion on that. What I was going to say is\nthat my liberating her can do her no possible harm, and will open up a\nchance of happiness for her which she has never dreamt of hitherto. For\nthen they ll be able to marry, as they ought to have done at first. \n\nGillingham did not hurry to reply.  I may disagree with your motive, \nhe said gently, for he respected views he could not share.  But I think\nyou are right in your determination if you can carry it out. I doubt,\nhowever, if you can. \n\n\n\n\nPart Fifth AT ALDBRICKHAM AND ELSEWHERE\n\n_ Thy aerial part, and all the fiery parts which are mingled in thee,\nthough by nature they have an upward tendency, still in obedience to\nthe disposition of the universe they are over-powered here in the\ncompound mass the body. _ M. ANTONINUS (Long).\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nHow Gillingham s doubts were disposed of will most quickly appear by\npassing over the series of dreary months and incidents that followed\nthe events of the last chapter, and coming on to a Sunday in the\nFebruary of the year following.\n\nSue and Jude were living in Aldbrickham, in precisely the same\nrelations that they had established between themselves when she left\nShaston to join him the year before. The proceedings in the law-courts\nhad reached their consciousness, but as a distant sound and an\noccasional missive which they hardly understood.\n\nThey had met, as usual, to breakfast together in the little house with\nJude s name on it, that he had taken at fifteen pounds a year, with\nthree-pounds-ten extra for rates and taxes, and furnished with his\naunt s ancient and lumbering goods, which had cost him about their full\nvalue to bring all the way from Marygreen. Sue kept house, and managed\neverything.\n\nAs he entered the room this morning Sue held up a letter she had just\nreceived.\n\n Well; and what is it about?  he said after kissing her.\n\n That the decree _nisi_ in the case of Phillotson _versus_ Phillotson\nand Fawley, pronounced six months ago, has just been made absolute. \n\n Ah,  said Jude, as he sat down.\n\nThe same concluding incident in Jude s suit against Arabella had\noccurred about a month or two earlier. Both cases had been too\ninsignificant to be reported in the papers, further than by name in a\nlong list of other undefended cases.\n\n Now then, Sue, at any rate, you can do what you like!  He looked at\nhis sweetheart curiously.\n\n Are we you and I just as free now as if we had never married at all? \n\n Just as free except, I believe, that a clergyman may object personally\nto remarry you, and hand the job on to somebody else. \n\n But I wonder do you think it is really so with us? I know it is\ngenerally. But I have an uncomfortable feeling that my freedom has been\nobtained under false pretences! \n\n How? \n\n Well if the truth about us had been known, the decree wouldn t have\nbeen pronounced. It is only, is it, because we have made no defence,\nand have led them into a false supposition? Therefore is my freedom\nlawful, however proper it may be? \n\n Well why did you let it be under false pretences? You have only\nyourself to blame,  he said mischievously.\n\n Jude don t! You ought not to be touchy about that still. You must take\nme as I am. \n\n Very well, darling: so I will. Perhaps you were right. As to your\nquestion, we were not obliged to prove anything. That was their\nbusiness. Anyhow we are living together. \n\n Yes. Though not in their sense. \n\n One thing is certain, that however the decree may be brought about, a\nmarriage is dissolved when it is dissolved. There is this advantage in\nbeing poor obscure people like us that these things are done for us in\na rough and ready fashion. It was the same with me and Arabella. I was\nafraid her criminal second marriage would have been discovered, and she\npunished; but nobody took any interest in her nobody inquired, nobody\nsuspected it. If we d been patented nobilities we should have had\ninfinite trouble, and days and weeks would have been spent in\ninvestigations. \n\nBy degrees Sue acquired her lover s cheerfulness at the sense of\nfreedom, and proposed that they should take a walk in the fields, even\nif they had to put up with a cold dinner on account of it. Jude agreed,\nand Sue went up-stairs and prepared to start, putting on a joyful\ncoloured gown in observance of her liberty; seeing which Jude put on a\nlighter tie.\n\n Now we ll strut arm and arm,  he said,  like any other engaged couple.\nWe ve a legal right to. \n\nThey rambled out of the town, and along a path over the low-lying lands\nthat bordered it, though these were frosty now, and the extensive\nseed-fields were bare of colour and produce. The pair, however, were so\nabsorbed in their own situation that their surroundings were little in\ntheir consciousness.\n\n Well, my dearest, the result of all this is that we can marry after a\ndecent interval. \n\n Yes; I suppose we can,  said Sue, without enthusiasm.\n\n And aren t we going to? \n\n I don t like to say no, dear Jude; but I feel just the same about it\nnow as I have done all along. I have just the same dread lest an iron\ncontract should extinguish your tenderness for me, and mine for you, as\nit did between our unfortunate parents. \n\n Still, what can we do? I do love you, as you know, Sue. \n\n I know it abundantly. But I think I would much rather go on living\nalways as lovers, as we are living now, and only meeting by day. It is\nso much sweeter for the woman at least, and when she is sure of the\nman. And henceforward we needn t be so particular as we have been about\nappearances. \n\n Our experiences of matrimony with others have not been encouraging, I\nown,  said he, with some gloom;  either owing to our own dissatisfied,\nunpractical natures, or by our misfortune. But we two \n\n Should be two dissatisfied ones linked together, which would be twice\nas bad as before  I think I should begin to be afraid of you, Jude, the\nmoment you had contracted to cherish me under a Government stamp, and I\nwas licensed to be loved on the premises by you Ugh, how horrible and\nsordid! Although, as you are, free, I trust you more than any other man\nin the world. \n\n No, no don t say I should change!  he expostulated; yet there was\nmisgiving in his own voice also.\n\n Apart from ourselves, and our unhappy peculiarities, it is foreign to\na man s nature to go on loving a person when he is told that he must\nand shall be that person s lover. There would be a much likelier chance\nof his doing it if he were told not to love. If the marriage ceremony\nconsisted in an oath and signed contract between the parties to cease\nloving from that day forward, in consideration of personal possession\nbeing given, and to avoid each other s society as much as possible in\npublic, there would be more loving couples than there are now. Fancy\nthe secret meetings between the perjuring husband and wife, the denials\nof having seen each other, the clambering in at bedroom windows, and\nthe hiding in closets! There d be little cooling then. \n\n Yes; but admitting this, or something like it, to be true, you are not\nthe only one in the world to see it, dear little Sue. People go on\nmarrying because they can t resist natural forces, although many of\nthem may know perfectly well that they are possibly buying a month s\npleasure with a life s discomfort. No doubt my father and mother, and\nyour father and mother, saw it, if they at all resembled us in habits\nof observation. But then they went and married just the same, because\nthey had ordinary passions. But you, Sue, are such a phantasmal,\nbodiless creature, one who if you ll allow me to say it has so little\nanimal passion in you, that you can act upon reason in the matter, when\nwe poor unfortunate wretches of grosser substance can t. \n\n Well,  she sighed,  you ve owned that it would probably end in misery\nfor us. And I am not so exceptional a woman as you think. Fewer women\nlike marriage than you suppose, only they enter into it for the dignity\nit is assumed to confer, and the social advantages it gains them\nsometimes a dignity and an advantage that I am quite willing to do\nwithout. \n\nJude fell back upon his old complaint that, intimate as they were, he\nhad never once had from her an honest, candid declaration that she\nloved or could love him.  I really fear sometimes that you cannot,  he\nsaid, with a dubiousness approaching anger.  And you are so reticent. I\nknow that women are taught by other women that they must never admit\nthe full truth to a man. But the highest form of affection is based on\nfull sincerity on both sides. Not being men, these women don t know\nthat in looking back on those he has had tender relations with, a man s\nheart returns closest to her who was the soul of truth in her conduct.\nThe better class of man, even if caught by airy affectations of dodging\nand parrying, is not retained by them. A Nemesis attends the woman who\nplays the game of elusiveness too often, in the utter contempt for her\nthat, sooner or later, her old admirers feel; under which they allow\nher to go unlamented to her grave. \n\nSue, who was regarding the distance, had acquired a guilty look; and\nshe suddenly replied in a tragic voice:  I don t think I like you\nto-day so well as I did, Jude! \n\n Don t you? Why? \n\n Oh, well you are not nice too sermony. Though I suppose I am so bad\nand worthless that I deserve the utmost rigour of lecturing! \n\n No, you are not bad. You are a dear. But as slippery as an eel when I\nwant to get a confession from you. \n\n Oh yes, I am bad, and obstinate, and all sorts! It is no use your\npretending I am not! People who are good don t want scolding as I do \nBut now that I have nobody but you, and nobody to defend me, it is very\nhard that I mustn t have my own way in deciding how I ll live with you,\nand whether I ll be married or no! \n\n Sue, my own comrade and sweetheart, I don t want to force you either\nto marry or to do the other thing of course I don t! It is too wicked\nof you to be so pettish! Now we won t say any more about it, and go on\njust the same as we have done; and during the rest of our walk we ll\ntalk of the meadows only, and the floods, and the prospect of the\nfarmers this coming year. \n\nAfter this the subject of marriage was not mentioned by them for\nseveral days, though living as they were with only a landing between\nthem it was constantly in their minds. Sue was assisting Jude very\nmaterially now: he had latterly occupied himself on his own account in\nworking and lettering headstones, which he kept in a little yard at the\nback of his little house, where in the intervals of domestic duties she\nmarked out the letters full size for him, and blacked them in after he\nhad cut them. It was a lower class of handicraft than were his former\nperformances as a cathedral mason, and his only patrons were the poor\npeople who lived in his own neighbourhood, and knew what a cheap man\nthis  Jude Fawley: Monumental Mason  (as he called himself on his front\ndoor) was to employ for the simple memorials they required for their\ndead. But he seemed more independent than before, and it was the only\narrangement under which Sue, who particularly wished to be no burden on\nhim, could render any assistance.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nIt was an evening at the end of the month, and Jude had just returned\nhome from hearing a lecture on ancient history in the public hall not\nfar off. When he entered, Sue, who had been keeping indoors during his\nabsence, laid out supper for him. Contrary to custom she did not speak.\nJude had taken up some illustrated paper, which he perused till,\nraising his eyes, he saw that her face was troubled.\n\n Are you depressed, Sue?  he said.\n\nShe paused a moment.  I have a message for you,  she answered.\n\n Somebody has called? \n\n Yes. A woman.  Sue s voice quavered as she spoke, and she suddenly sat\ndown from her preparations, laid her hands in her lap, and looked into\nthe fire.  I don t know whether I did right or not!  she continued.  I\nsaid you were not at home, and when she said she would wait, I said I\nthought you might not be able to see her. \n\n Why did you say that, dear? I suppose she wanted a headstone. Was she\nin mourning? \n\n No. She wasn t in mourning, and she didn t want a headstone; and I\nthought you couldn t see her.  Sue looked critically and imploringly at\nhim.\n\n But who was she? Didn t she say? \n\n No. She wouldn t give her name. But I know who she was I think I do!\nIt was Arabella! \n\n Heaven save us! What should Arabella come for? What made you think it\nwas she? \n\n Oh, I can hardly tell. But I know it was! I feel perfectly certain it\nwas by the light in her eyes as she looked at me. She was a fleshy,\ncoarse woman. \n\n Well I should not have called Arabella coarse exactly, except in\nspeech, though she may be getting so by this time under the duties of\nthe public house. She was rather handsome when I knew her. \n\n Handsome! But yes! so she is! \n\n I think I heard a quiver in your little mouth. Well, waiving that, as\nshe is nothing to me, and virtuously married to another man, why should\nshe come troubling us? \n\n Are you sure she s married? Have you definite news of it? \n\n No not definite news. But that was why she asked me to release her.\nShe and the man both wanted to lead a proper life, as I understood. \n\n Oh Jude it was, it _was_ Arabella!  cried Sue, covering her eyes with\nher hand.  And I am so miserable! It seems such an ill omen, whatever\nshe may have come for. You could not possibly see her, could you? \n\n I don t really think I could. It would be so very painful to talk to\nher now for her as much as for me. However, she s gone. Did she say she\nwould come again? \n\n No. But she went away very reluctantly. \n\nSue, whom the least thing upset, could not eat any supper, and when\nJude had finished his he prepared to go to bed. He had no sooner raked\nout the fire, fastened the doors, and got to the top of the stairs than\nthere came a knock. Sue instantly emerged from her room, which she had\nbut just entered.\n\n There she is again!  Sue whispered in appalled accents.\n\n How do you know? \n\n She knocked like that last time. \n\nThey listened, and the knocking came again. No servant was kept in the\nhouse, and if the summons were to be responded to one of them would\nhave to do it in person.  I ll open a window,  said Jude.  Whoever it\nis cannot be expected to be let in at this time. \n\nHe accordingly went into his bedroom and lifted the sash. The lonely\nstreet of early retiring workpeople was empty from end to end save of\none figure that of a woman walking up and down by the lamp a few yards\noff.\n\n Who s there?  he asked.\n\n Is that Mr. Fawley?  came up from the woman, in a voice which was\nunmistakably Arabella s.\n\nJude replied that it was.\n\n Is it she?  asked Sue from the door, with lips apart.\n\n Yes, dear,  said Jude.  What do you want, Arabella?  he inquired.\n\n I beg your pardon, Jude, for disturbing you,  said Arabella humbly.\n But I called earlier I wanted particularly to see you to-night, if I\ncould. I am in trouble, and have nobody to help me! \n\n In trouble, are you? \n\n Yes. \n\nThere was a silence. An inconvenient sympathy seemed to be rising in\nJude s breast at the appeal.  But aren t you married?  he said.\n\nArabella hesitated.  No, Jude, I am not,  she returned.  He wouldn t,\nafter all. And I am in great difficulty. I hope to get another\nsituation as barmaid soon. But it takes time, and I really am in great\ndistress because of a sudden responsibility that s been sprung upon me\nfrom Australia; or I wouldn t trouble you believe me I wouldn t. I want\nto tell you about it. \n\nSue remained at gaze, in painful tension, hearing every word, but\nspeaking none.\n\n You are not really in want of money, Arabella?  he asked, in a\ndistinctly softened tone.\n\n I have enough to pay for the night s lodging I have obtained, but\nbarely enough to take me back again. \n\n Where are you living? \n\n In London still.  She was about to give the address, but she said,  I\nam afraid somebody may hear, so I don t like to call out particulars of\nmyself so loud. If you could come down and walk a little way with me\ntowards the Prince Inn, where I am staying to-night, I would explain\nall. You may as well, for old time s sake! \n\n Poor thing! I must do her the kindness of hearing what s the matter, I\nsuppose,  said Jude in much perplexity.  As she s going back to-morrow\nit can t make much difference. \n\n But you can go and see her to-morrow, Jude! Don t go now, Jude!  came\nin plaintive accents from the doorway.  Oh, it is only to entrap you, I\nknow it is, as she did before! Don t go, dear! She is such a\nlow-passioned woman I can see it in her shape, and hear it in her\nvoice!\n\n But I shall go,  said Jude.  Don t attempt to detain me, Sue. God\nknows I love her little enough now, but I don t want to be cruel to\nher.  He turned to the stairs.\n\n But she s not your wife!  cried Sue distractedly.  And I \n\n And you are not either, dear, yet,  said Jude.\n\n Oh, but are you going to her? Don t! Stay at home! Please, please stay\nat home, Jude, and not go to her, now she s not your wife any more than\nI! \n\n Well, she is, rather more than you, come to that,  he said, taking his\nhat determinedly.  I ve wanted you to be, and I ve waited with the\npatience of Job, and I don t see that I ve got anything by my\nself-denial. I shall certainly give her something, and hear what it is\nshe is so anxious to tell me; no man could do less! \n\nThere was that in his manner which she knew it would be futile to\noppose. She said no more, but, turning to her room as meekly as a\nmartyr, heard him go downstairs, unbolt the door, and close it behind\nhim. With a woman s disregard of her dignity when in the presence of\nnobody but herself, she also trotted down, sobbing articulately as she\nwent. She listened. She knew exactly how far it was to the inn that\nArabella had named as her lodging. It would occupy about seven minutes\nto get there at an ordinary walking pace; seven to come back again. If\nhe did not return in fourteen minutes he would have lingered. She\nlooked at the clock. It was twenty-five minutes to eleven. He _might_\nenter the inn with Arabella, as they would reach it before closing\ntime; she might get him to drink with her; and Heaven only knew what\ndisasters would befall him then.\n\nIn a still suspense she waited on. It seemed as if the whole time had\nnearly elapsed when the door was opened again, and Jude appeared.\n\nSue gave a little ecstatic cry.  Oh, I knew I could trust you! how good\nyou are! she began.\n\n I can t find her anywhere in this street, and I went out in my\nslippers only. She has walked on, thinking I ve been so hard-hearted as\nto refuse her requests entirely, poor woman. I ve come back for my\nboots, as it is beginning to rain. \n\n Oh, but why should you take such trouble for a woman who has served\nyou so badly!  said Sue in a jealous burst of disappointment.\n\n But, Sue, she s a woman, and I once cared for her; and one can t be a\nbrute in such circumstances. \n\n She isn t your wife any longer!  exclaimed Sue, passionately excited.\n You _mustn t_ go out to find her! It isn t right! You _can t_ join\nher, now she s a stranger to you. How can you forget such a thing, my\ndear, dear one! \n\n She seems much the same as ever an erring, careless, unreflecting\nfellow-creature,  he said, continuing to pull on his boots.  What those\nlegal fellows have been playing at in London makes no difference in my\nreal relations to her. If she was my wife while she was away in\nAustralia with another husband, she s my wife now. \n\n But she wasn t! That s just what I hold! There s the absurdity! \nWell you ll come straight back, after a few minutes, won t you, dear?\nShe is too low, too coarse for you to talk to long, Jude, and was\nalways! \n\n Perhaps I am coarse too, worse luck! I have the germs of every human\ninfirmity in me, I verily believe that was why I saw it was so\npreposterous of me to think of being a curate. I have cured myself of\ndrunkenness I think; but I never know in what new form a suppressed\nvice will break out in me! I do love you, Sue, though I have danced\nattendance on you so long for such poor returns! All that s best and\nnoblest in me loves you, and your freedom from everything that s gross\nhas elevated me, and enabled me to do what I should never have dreamt\nmyself capable of, or any man, a year or two ago. It is all very well\nto preach about self-control, and the wickedness of coercing a woman.\nBut I should just like a few virtuous people who have condemned me in\nthe past, about Arabella and other things, to have been in my\ntantalizing position with you through these late weeks! they d believe,\nI think, that I have exercised some little restraint in always giving\nin to your wishes living here in one house, and not a soul between us. \n\n Yes, you have been good to me, Jude; I know you have, my dear\nprotector. \n\n Well Arabella has appealed to me for help. I must go out and speak to\nher, Sue, at least! \n\n I can t say any more! Oh, if you must, you must!  she said, bursting\nout into sobs that seemed to tear her heart.  I have nobody but you,\nJude, and you are deserting me! I didn t know you were like this I\ncan t bear it, I can t! If she were yours it would be different! \n\n Or if you were. \n\n Very well then if I must I must. Since you will have it so, I agree! I\nwill be. Only I didn t mean to! And I didn t want to marry again,\neither!   But, yes I agree, I agree! I do love you. I ought to have\nknown that you would conquer in the long run, living like this! \n\nShe ran across and flung her arms round his neck.  I am not a\ncold-natured, sexless creature, am I, for keeping you at such a\ndistance? I am sure you don t think so! Wait and see! I do belong to\nyou, don t I? I give in! \n\n And I ll arrange for our marriage to-morrow, or as soon as ever you\nwish. \n\n Yes, Jude. \n\n Then I ll let her go,  said he, embracing Sue softly.  I do feel that\nit would be unfair to you to see her, and perhaps unfair to her. She is\nnot like you, my darling, and never was: it is only bare justice to say\nthat. Don t cry any more. There; and there; and there!  He kissed her\non one side, and on the other, and in the middle, and rebolted the\nfront door.\n\n\nThe next morning it was wet.\n\n Now, dear,  said Jude gaily at breakfast;  as this is Saturday I mean\nto call about the banns at once, so as to get the first publishing done\nto-morrow, or we shall lose a week. Banns will do? We shall save a\npound or two. \n\nSue absently agreed to banns. But her mind for the moment was running\non something else. A glow had passed away from her, and depression sat\nupon her features.\n\n I feel I was wickedly selfish last night!  she murmured.  It was sheer\nunkindness in me or worse to treat Arabella as I did. I didn t care\nabout her being in trouble, and what she wished to tell you! Perhaps it\nwas really something she was justified in telling you. That s some more\nof my badness, I suppose! Love has its own dark morality when rivalry\nenters in at least, mine has, if other people s hasn t  I wonder how\nshe got on? I hope she reached the inn all right, poor woman. \n\n Oh yes: she got on all right,  said Jude placidly.\n\n I hope she wasn t shut out, and that she hadn t to walk the streets in\nthe rain. Do you mind my putting on my waterproof and going to see if\nshe got in? I ve been thinking of her all the morning. \n\n Well is it necessary? You haven t the least idea how Arabella is able\nto shift for herself. Still, darling, if you want to go and inquire you\ncan. \n\nThere was no limit to the strange and unnecessary penances which Sue\nwould meekly undertake when in a contrite mood; and this going to see\nall sorts of extraordinary persons whose relation to her was precisely\nof a kind that would have made other people shun them was her instinct\never, so that the request did not surprise him.\n\n And when you come back,  he added,  I ll be ready to go about the\nbanns. You ll come with me? \n\nSue agreed, and went off under cloak and umbrella letting Jude kiss her\nfreely, and returning his kisses in a way she had never done before.\nTimes had decidedly changed.  The little bird is caught at last!  she\nsaid, a sadness showing in her smile.\n\n No only nested,  he assured her.\n\nShe walked along the muddy street till she reached the public house\nmentioned by Arabella, which was not so very far off. She was informed\nthat Arabella had not yet left, and in doubt how to announce herself so\nthat her predecessor in Jude s affections would recognize her, she sent\nup word that a friend from Spring Street had called, naming the place\nof Jude s residence. She was asked to step upstairs, and on being shown\ninto a room found that it was Arabella s bedroom, and that the latter\nhad not yet risen. She halted on the turn of her toe till Arabella\ncried from the bed,  Come in and shut the door,  which Sue accordingly\ndid.\n\nArabella lay facing the window, and did not at once turn her head: and\nSue was wicked enough, despite her penitence, to wish for a moment that\nJude could behold her forerunner now, with the daylight full upon her.\nShe may have seemed handsome enough in profile under the lamps, but a\nfrowsiness was apparent this morning; and the sight of her own fresh\ncharms in the looking-glass made Sue s manner bright, till she\nreflected what a meanly sexual emotion this was in her, and hated\nherself for it.\n\n I ve just looked in to see if you got back comfortably last night,\nthat s all,  she said gently.  I was afraid afterwards that you might\nhave met with any mishap? \n\n Oh how stupid this is! I thought my visitor was your friend your\nhusband Mrs. Fawley, as I suppose you call yourself?  said Arabella,\nflinging her head back upon the pillows with a disappointed toss, and\nceasing to retain the dimple she had just taken the trouble to produce.\n\n Indeed I don t,  said Sue.\n\n Oh, I thought you might have, even if he s not really yours. Decency\nis decency, any hour of the twenty-four. \n\n I don t know what you mean,  said Sue stiffly.  He is mine, if you\ncome to that! \n\n He wasn t yesterday. \n\nSue coloured roseate, and said,  How do you know? \n\n From your manner when you talked to me at the door. Well, my dear,\nyou ve been quick about it, and I expect my visit last night helped it\non ha-ha! But I don t want to get him away from you. \n\nSue looked out at the rain, and at the dirty toilet-cover, and at the\ndetached tail of Arabella s hair hanging on the looking-glass, just as\nit had done in Jude s time; and wished she had not come. In the pause\nthere was a knock at the door, and the chambermaid brought in a\ntelegram for  Mrs. Cartlett. \n\nArabella opened it as she lay, and her ruffled look disappeared.\n\n I am much obliged to you for your anxiety about me,  she said blandly\nwhen the maid had gone;  but it is not necessary you should feel it. My\nman finds he can t do without me after all, and agrees to stand by the\npromise to marry again over here that he has made me all along. See\nhere! This is in answer to one from me.  She held out the telegram for\nSue to read, but Sue did not take it.  He asks me to come back. His\nlittle corner public in Lambeth would go to pieces without me, he says.\nBut he isn t going to knock me about when he has had a drop, any more\nafter we are spliced by English law than before!   As for you, I should\ncoax Jude to take me before the parson straight off, and have done with\nit, if I were in your place. I say it as a friend, my dear. \n\n He s waiting to, any day,  returned Sue, with frigid pride.\n\n Then let him, in Heaven s name. Life with a man is more businesslike\nafter it, and money matters work better. And then, you see, if you have\nrows, and he turns you out of doors, you can get the law to protect\nyou, which you can t otherwise, unless he half-runs you through with a\nknife, or cracks your noddle with a poker. And if he bolts away from\nyou I say it friendly, as woman to woman, for there s never any knowing\nwhat a man med do you ll have the sticks o  furniture, and won t be\nlooked upon as a thief. I shall marry my man over again, now he s\nwilling, as there was a little flaw in the first ceremony. In my\ntelegram last night which this is an answer to, I told him I had almost\nmade it up with Jude; and that frightened him, I expect! Perhaps I\nshould quite have done it if it hadn t been for you,  she said\nlaughing;  and then how different our histories might have been from\nto-day! Never such a tender fool as Jude is if a woman seems in\ntrouble, and coaxes him a bit! Just as he used to be about birds and\nthings. However, as it happens, it is just as well as if I had made it\nup, and I forgive you. And, as I say, I d advise you to get the\nbusiness legally done as soon as possible. You ll find it an awful\nbother later on if you don t. \n\n I have told you he is asking me to marry him to make our natural\nmarriage a legal one,  said Sue, with yet more dignity.  It was quite\nby my wish that he didn t the moment I was free. \n\n Ah, yes you are a oneyer too, like myself,  said Arabella, eyeing her\nvisitor with humorous criticism.  Bolted from your first, didn t you,\nlike me? \n\n Good morning! I must go,  said Sue hastily.\n\n And I, too, must up and off!  replied the other, springing out of bed\nso suddenly that the soft parts of her person shook. Sue jumped aside\nin trepidation.  Lord, I am only a woman not a six-foot sojer!   Just a\nmoment, dear,  she continued, putting her hand on Sue s arm.  I really\ndid want to consult Jude on a little matter of business, as I told him.\nI came about that more than anything else. Would he run up to speak to\nme at the station as I am going? You think not. Well, I ll write to him\nabout it. I didn t want to write it, but never mind I will. \n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nWhen Sue reached home Jude was awaiting her at the door to take the\ninitial step towards their marriage. She clasped his arm, and they went\nalong silently together, as true comrades oft-times do. He saw that she\nwas preoccupied, and forbore to question her.\n\n Oh Jude I ve been talking to her,  she said at last.  I wish I hadn t!\nAnd yet it is best to be reminded of things. \n\n I hope she was civil. \n\n Yes. I I can t help liking her just a little bit! She s not an\nungenerous nature; and I am so glad her difficulties have all suddenly\nended.  She explained how Arabella had been summoned back, and would be\nenabled to retrieve her position.  I was referring to our old question.\nWhat Arabella has been saying to me has made me feel more than ever how\nhopelessly vulgar an institution legal marriage is a sort of trap to\ncatch a man I can t bear to think of it. I wish I hadn t promised to\nlet you put up the banns this morning! \n\n Oh, don t mind me. Any time will do for me. I thought you might like\nto get it over quickly, now. \n\n Indeed, I don t feel any more anxious now than I did before. Perhaps\nwith any other man I might be a little anxious; but among the very few\nvirtues possessed by your family and mine, dear, I think I may set\nstaunchness. So I am not a bit frightened about losing you, now I\nreally am yours and you really are mine. In fact, I am easier in my\nmind than I was, for my conscience is clear about Richard, who now has\na right to his freedom. I felt we were deceiving him before. \n\n Sue, you seem when you are like this to be one of the women of some\ngrand old civilization, whom I used to read about in my bygone, wasted,\nclassical days, rather than a denizen of a mere Christian country. I\nalmost expect you to say at these times that you have just been talking\nto some friend whom you met in the Via Sacra, about the latest news of\nOctavia or Livia; or have been listening to Aspasia s eloquence, or\nhave been watching Praxiteles chiselling away at his latest Venus,\nwhile Phryne made complaint that she was tired of posing. \n\nThey had now reached the house of the parish clerk. Sue stood back,\nwhile her lover went up to the door. His hand was raised to knock when\nshe said:  Jude! \n\nHe looked round.\n\n Wait a minute, would you mind? \n\nHe came back to her.\n\n Just let us think,  she said timidly.  I had such a horrid dream one\nnight!   And Arabella \n\n What did Arabella say to you?  he asked.\n\n Oh, she said that when people were tied up you could get the law of a\nman better if he beat you and how when couples quarrelled  Jude, do you\nthink that when you must have me with you by law, we shall be so happy\nas we are now? The men and women of our family are very generous when\neverything depends upon their goodwill, but they always kick against\ncompulsion. Don t you dread the attitude that insensibly arises out of\nlegal obligation? Don t you think it is destructive to a passion whose\nessence is its gratuitousness? \n\n Upon my word, love, you are beginning to frighten me, too, with all\nthis foreboding! Well, let s go back and think it over. \n\nHer face brightened.  Yes so we will!  said she. And they turned from\nthe clerk s door, Sue taking his arm and murmuring as they walked on\nhomeward:\n\nCan you keep the bee from ranging,\nOr the ring-dove s neck from changing?\nNo! Nor fetter d love \n\nThey thought it over, or postponed thinking. Certainly they postponed\naction, and seemed to live on in a dreamy paradise. At the end of a\nfortnight or three weeks matters remained unadvanced, and no banns were\nannounced to the ears of any Aldbrickham congregation.\n\nWhilst they were postponing and postponing thus a letter and a\nnewspaper arrived before breakfast one morning from Arabella. Seeing\nthe handwriting Jude went up to Sue s room and told her, and as soon as\nshe was dressed she hastened down. Sue opened the newspaper; Jude the\nletter. After glancing at the paper she held across the first page to\nhim with her finger on a paragraph; but he was so absorbed in his\nletter that he did not turn awhile.\n\n Look!  said she.\n\nHe looked and read. The paper was one that circulated in South London\nonly, and the marked advertisement was simply the announcement of a\nmarriage at St. John s Church, Waterloo Road, under the names,\n CARTLETT DONN ; the united pair being Arabella and the inn-keeper.\n\n Well, it is satisfactory,  said Sue complacently.  Though, after this,\nit seems rather low to do likewise, and I am glad. However, she is\nprovided for now in a way, I suppose, whatever her faults, poor thing.\nIt is nicer that we are able to think that, than to be uneasy about\nher. I ought, too, to write to Richard and ask him how he is getting\non, perhaps? \n\nBut Jude s attention was still absorbed. Having merely glanced at the\nannouncement he said in a disturbed voice:  Listen to this letter. What\nshall I say or do? \n\nTHE THREE HORNS, LAMBETH.\n\n\nDEAR JUDE (I won t be so distant as to call you Mr. Fawley), I send\nto-day a newspaper, from which useful document you will learn that I\nwas married over again to Cartlett last Tuesday. So that business is\nsettled right and tight at last. But what I write about more particular\nis that private affair I wanted to speak to you on when I came down to\nAldbrickham. I couldn t very well tell it to your lady friend, and\nshould much have liked to let you know it by word of mouth, as I could\nhave explained better than by letter. The fact is, Jude, that, though I\nhave never informed you before, there was a boy born of our marriage,\neight months after I left you, when I was at Sydney, living with my\nfather and mother. All that is easily provable. As I had separated from\nyou before I thought such a thing was going to happen, and I was over\nthere, and our quarrel had been sharp, I did not think it convenient to\nwrite about the birth. I was then looking out for a good situation, so\nmy parents took the child, and he has been with them ever since. That\nwas why I did not mention it when I met you in Christminster, nor at\nthe law proceedings. He is now of an intelligent age, of course, and my\nmother and father have lately written to say that, as they have rather\na hard struggle over there, and I am settled comfortably here, they\ndon t see why they should be encumbered with the child any longer, his\nparents being alive. I would have him with me here in a moment, but he\nis not old enough to be of any use in the bar nor will be for years and\nyears, and naturally Cartlett might think him in the way. They have,\nhowever, packed him off to me in charge of some friends who happened to\nbe coming home, and I must ask you to take him when he arrives, for I\ndon t know what to do with him. He is lawfully yours, that I solemnly\nswear. If anybody says he isn t, call them brimstone liars, for my\nsake. Whatever I may have done before or afterwards, I was honest to\nyou from the time we were married till I went away, and I remain,\nyours, &c.,\n\n\nARABELLA CARTLETT.\n\nSue s look was one of dismay.  What will you do, dear?  she asked\nfaintly.\n\nJude did not reply, and Sue watched him anxiously, with heavy breaths.\n\n It hits me hard!  said he in an under-voice.  It _may_ be true! I\ncan t make it out. Certainly, if his birth was exactly when she says,\nhe s mine. I cannot think why she didn t tell me when I met her at\nChristminster, and came on here that evening with her!   Ah I do\nremember now that she said something about having a thing on her mind\nthat she would like me to know, if ever we lived together again. \n\n The poor child seems to be wanted by nobody!  Sue replied, and her\neyes filled.\n\nJude had by this time come to himself.  What a view of life he must\nhave, mine or not mine!  he said.  I must say that, if I were better\noff, I should not stop for a moment to think whose he might be. I would\ntake him and bring him up. The beggarly question of parentage what is\nit, after all? What does it matter, when you come to think of it,\nwhether a child is yours by blood or not? All the little ones of our\ntime are collectively the children of us adults of the time, and\nentitled to our general care. That excessive regard of parents for\ntheir own children, and their dislike of other people s, is, like\nclass-feeling, patriotism, save-your-own-soul-ism, and other virtues, a\nmean exclusiveness at bottom. \n\nSue jumped up and kissed Jude with passionate devotion.  Yes so it is,\ndearest! And we ll have him here! And if he isn t yours it makes it all\nthe better. I do hope he isn t though perhaps I ought not to feel quite\nthat! If he isn t, I should like so much for us to have him as an\nadopted child! \n\n Well, you must assume about him what is most pleasing to you, my\ncurious little comrade!  he said.  I feel that, anyhow, I don t like to\nleave the unfortunate little fellow to neglect. Just think of his life\nin a Lambeth pothouse, and all its evil influences, with a parent who\ndoesn t want him, and has, indeed, hardly seen him, and a stepfather\nwho doesn t know him.  Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the\nnight in which it was said, There is a man child conceived!  That s\nwhat the boy _my_ boy, perhaps, will find himself saying before long! \n\n Oh no! \n\n As I was the petitioner, I am really entitled to his custody, I\nsuppose. \n\n Whether or no, we must have him. I see that. I ll do the best I can to\nbe a mother to him, and we can afford to keep him somehow. I ll work\nharder. I wonder when he ll arrive? \n\n In the course of a few weeks, I suppose. \n\n I wish When shall we have courage to marry, Jude? \n\n Whenever you have it, I think I shall. It remains with you entirely,\ndear. Only say the word, and it s done. \n\n Before the boy comes? \n\n Certainly. \n\n It would make a more natural home for him, perhaps,  she murmured.\n\nJude thereupon wrote in purely formal terms to request that the boy\nshould be sent on to them as soon as he arrived, making no remark\nwhatever on the surprising nature of Arabella s information, nor\nvouchsafing a single word of opinion on the boy s paternity, nor on\nwhether, had he known all this, his conduct towards her would have been\nquite the same.\n\n\nIn the down train that was timed to reach Aldbrickham station about ten\no clock the next evening, a small, pale child s face could be seen in\nthe gloom of a third-class carriage. He had large, frightened eyes, and\nwore a white woollen cravat, over which a key was suspended round his\nneck by a piece of common string: the key attracting attention by its\noccasional shine in the lamplight. In the band of his hat his\nhalf-ticket was stuck. His eyes remained mostly fixed on the back of\nthe seat opposite, and never turned to the window even when a station\nwas reached and called. On the other seat were two or three passengers,\none of them a working woman who held a basket on her lap, in which was\na tabby kitten. The woman opened the cover now and then, whereupon the\nkitten would put out its head, and indulge in playful antics. At these\nthe fellow-passengers laughed, except the solitary boy bearing the key\nand ticket, who, regarding the kitten with his saucer eyes, seemed\nmutely to say:  All laughing comes from misapprehension. Rightly looked\nat, there is no laughable thing under the sun. \n\nOccasionally, at a stoppage, the guard would look into the compartment\nand say to the boy,  All right, my man. Your box is safe in the van. \nThe boy would say,  Yes,  without animation, would try to smile, and\nfail.\n\nHe was Age masquerading as Juvenility, and doing it so badly that his\nreal self showed through crevices. A ground-swell from ancient years of\nnight seemed now and then to lift the child in this his morning-life,\nwhen his face took a back view over some great Atlantic of Time, and\nappeared not to care about what it saw.\n\nWhen the other travellers closed their eyes, which they did one by\none even the kitten curling itself up in the basket, weary of its too\ncircumscribed play the boy remained just as before. He then seemed to\nbe doubly awake, like an enslaved and dwarfed divinity, sitting passive\nand regarding his companions as if he saw their whole rounded lives\nrather than their immediate figures.\n\nThis was Arabella s boy. With her usual carelessness, she had postponed\nwriting to Jude about him till the eve of his landing, when she could\nabsolutely postpone no longer, though she had known for weeks of his\napproaching arrival, and had, as she truly said, visited Aldbrickham\nmainly to reveal the boy s existence and his near home-coming to Jude.\nThis very day on which she had received her former husband s answer at\nsome time in the afternoon, the child reached the London Docks, and the\nfamily in whose charge he had come, having put him into a cab for\nLambeth and directed the cabman to his mother s house, bade him\ngood-bye, and went their way.\n\nOn his arrival at the Three Horns, Arabella had looked him over with an\nexpression that was as good as saying,  You are very much what I\nexpected you to be,  had given him a good meal, a little money, and,\nlate as it was getting, dispatched him to Jude by the next train,\nwishing her husband Cartlett, who was out, not to see him.\n\nThe train reached Aldbrickham, and the boy was deposited on the lonely\nplatform beside his box. The collector took his ticket, and, with a\nmeditative sense of the unfitness of things, asked him where he was\ngoing by himself at that time of night.\n\n Going to Spring Street,  said the little one impassively.\n\n Why, that s a long way from here; a most out in the country; and the\nfolks will be gone to bed. \n\n I ve got to go there. \n\n You must have a fly for your box. \n\n No. I must walk. \n\n Oh well: you d better leave your box here and send for it. There s a\n bus goes half-way, but you ll have to walk the rest. \n\n I am not afraid. \n\n Why didn t your friends come to meet  ee? \n\n I suppose they didn t know I was coming. \n\n Who is your friends? \n\n Mother didn t wish me to say. \n\n All I can do, then, is to take charge of this. Now walk as fast as you\ncan. \n\nSaying nothing further the boy came out into the street, looking round\nto see that nobody followed or observed him. When he had walked some\nlittle distance he asked for the street of his destination. He was told\nto go straight on quite into the outskirts of the place.\n\nThe child fell into a steady mechanical creep which had in it an\nimpersonal quality the movement of the wave, or of the breeze, or of\nthe cloud. He followed his directions literally, without an inquiring\ngaze at anything. It could have been seen that the boy s ideas of life\nwere different from those of the local boys. Children begin with\ndetail, and learn up to the general; they begin with the contiguous,\nand gradually comprehend the universal. The boy seemed to have begun\nwith the generals of life, and never to have concerned himself with the\nparticulars. To him the houses, the willows, the obscure fields beyond,\nwere apparently regarded not as brick residences, pollards, meadows;\nbut as human dwellings in the abstract, vegetation, and the wide dark\nworld.\n\nHe found the way to the little lane, and knocked at the door of Jude s\nhouse. Jude had just retired to bed, and Sue was about to enter her\nchamber adjoining when she heard the knock and came down.\n\n Is this where Father lives?  asked the child.\n\n Who? \n\n Mr. Fawley, that s his name. \n\nSue ran up to Jude s room and told him, and he hurried down as soon as\nhe could, though to her impatience he seemed long.\n\n What is it he so soon?  she asked as Jude came.\n\nShe scrutinized the child s features, and suddenly went away into the\nlittle sitting-room adjoining. Jude lifted the boy to a level with\nhimself, keenly regarded him with gloomy tenderness, and telling him he\nwould have been met if they had known of his coming so soon, set him\nprovisionally in a chair whilst he went to look for Sue, whose\nsupersensitiveness was disturbed, as he knew. He found her in the dark,\nbending over an arm-chair. He enclosed her with his arm, and putting\nhis face by hers, whispered,  What s the matter? \n\n What Arabella says is true true! I see you in him! \n\n Well: that s one thing in my life as it should be, at any rate. \n\n But the other half of him is _she_! And that s what I can t bear! But\nI ought to I ll try to get used to it; yes, I ought! \n\n Jealous little Sue! I withdraw all remarks about your sexlessness.\nNever mind! Time may right things  And Sue, darling; I have an idea!\nWe ll educate and train him with a view to the university. What I\ncouldn t accomplish in my own person perhaps I can carry out through\nhim? They are making it easier for poor students now, you know. \n\n Oh you dreamer!  said she, and holding his hand returned to the child\nwith him. The boy looked at her as she had looked at him.  Is it you\nwho s my _real_ mother at last?  he inquired.\n\n Why? Do I look like your father s wife? \n\n Well, yes;  cept he seems fond of you, and you of him. Can I call you\nMother? \n\nThen a yearning look came over the child and he began to cry. Sue\nthereupon could not refrain from instantly doing likewise, being a harp\nwhich the least wind of emotion from another s heart could make to\nvibrate as readily as a radical stir in her own.\n\n You may call me Mother, if you wish to, my poor dear!  she said,\nbending her cheek against his to hide her tears.\n\n What s this round your neck?  asked Jude with affected calmness.\n\n The key of my box that s at the station. \n\nThey bustled about and got him some supper, and made him up a temporary\nbed, where he soon fell asleep. Both went and looked at him as he lay.\n\n He called you Mother two or three times before he dropped off, \nmurmured Jude.  Wasn t it odd that he should have wanted to! \n\n Well it was significant,  said Sue.  There s more for us to think\nabout in that one little hungry heart than in all the stars of the sky \nI suppose, dear, we must pluck up courage, and get that ceremony over?\nIt is no use struggling against the current, and I feel myself getting\nintertwined with my kind. Oh Jude, you ll love me dearly, won t you,\nafterwards? I do want to be kind to this child, and to be a mother to\nhim; and our adding the legal form to our marriage might make it easier\nfor me. \n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nTheir next and second attempt thereat was more deliberately made,\nthough it was begun on the morning following the singular child s\narrival at their home.\n\nHim they found to be in the habit of sitting silent, his quaint and\nweird face set, and his eyes resting on things they did not see in the\nsubstantial world.\n\n His face is like the tragic mask of Melpomene,  said Sue.  What is\nyour name, dear? Did you tell us? \n\n Little Father Time is what they always called me. It is a nickname;\nbecause I look so aged, they say. \n\n And you talk so, too,  said Sue tenderly.  It is strange, Jude, that\nthese preternaturally old boys almost always come from new countries.\nBut what were you christened? \n\n I never was. \n\n Why was that? \n\n Because, if I died in damnation,  twould save the expense of a\nChristian funeral. \n\n Oh your name is not Jude, then?  said his father with some\ndisappointment.\n\nThe boy shook his head.  Never heerd on it. \n\n Of course not,  said Sue quickly;  since she was hating you all the\ntime! \n\n We ll have him christened,  said Jude; and privately to Sue:  The day\nwe are married.  Yet the advent of the child disturbed him.\n\nTheir position lent them shyness, and having an impression that a\nmarriage at a superintendent registrar s office was more private than\nan ecclesiastical one, they decided to avoid a church this time. Both\nSue and Jude together went to the office of the district to give\nnotice: they had become such companions that they could hardly do\nanything of importance except in each other s company.\n\nJude Fawley signed the form of notice, Sue looking over his shoulder\nand watching his hand as it traced the words. As she read the\nfour-square undertaking, never before seen by her, into which her own\nand Jude s names were inserted, and by which that very volatile\nessence, their love for each other, was supposed to be made permanent,\nher face seemed to grow painfully apprehensive.  Names and Surnames of\nthe Parties (they were to be parties now, not lovers, she thought).\n Condition (a horrid idea) Rank or Occupation Age Dwelling\nat Length of Residence Church or Building in which the Marriage is\nto be solemnized District and County in which the Parties\nrespectively dwell. \n\n It spoils the sentiment, doesn t it!  she said on their way home.  It\nseems making a more sordid business of it even than signing the\ncontract in a vestry. There is a little poetry in a church. But we ll\ntry to get through with it, dearest, now. \n\n We will.  For what man is he that hath betrothed a wife and hath not\ntaken her? Let him go and return unto his house, lest he die in the\nbattle, and another man take her.  So said the Jewish law-giver. \n\n How you know the Scriptures, Jude! You really ought to have been a\nparson. I can only quote profane writers! \n\nDuring the interval before the issuing of the certificate, Sue, in her\nhousekeeping errands, sometimes walked past the office, and furtively\nglancing in saw affixed to the wall the notice of the purposed clinch\nto their union. She could not bear its aspect. Coming after her\nprevious experience of matrimony, all the romance of their attachment\nseemed to be starved away by placing her present case in the same\ncategory. She was usually leading little Father Time by the hand, and\nfancied that people thought him hers, and regarded the intended\nceremony as the patching up of an old error.\n\nMeanwhile Jude decided to link his present with his past in some slight\ndegree by inviting to the wedding the only person remaining on earth\nwho was associated with his early life at Marygreen the aged widow Mrs.\nEdlin, who had been his great-aunt s friend and nurse in her last\nillness. He hardly expected that she would come; but she did, bringing\nsingular presents, in the form of apples, jam, brass snuffers, an\nancient pewter dish, a warming-pan, and an enormous bag of goose\nfeathers towards a bed. She was allotted the spare room in Jude s\nhouse, whither she retired early, and where they could hear her through\nthe ceiling below, honestly saying the Lord s Prayer in a loud voice,\nas the Rubric directed.\n\nAs, however, she could not sleep, and discovered that Sue and Jude were\nstill sitting up it being in fact only ten o clock she dressed herself\nagain and came down, and they all sat by the fire till a late\nhour Father Time included; though, as he never spoke, they were hardly\nconscious of him.\n\n Well, I bain t set against marrying as your great-aunt was,  said the\nwidow.  And I hope  twill be a jocund wedding for ye in all respects\nthis time. Nobody can hope it more, knowing what I do of your families,\nwhich is more, I suppose, than anybody else now living. For they have\nbeen unlucky that way, God knows. \n\nSue breathed uneasily.\n\n They was always good-hearted people, too wouldn t kill a fly if they\nknowed it,  continued the wedding guest.  But things happened to thwart\n em, and if everything wasn t vitty they were upset. No doubt that s\nhow he that the tale is told of came to do what  a did if he _were_ one\nof your family. \n\n What was that?  said Jude.\n\n Well that tale, ye know; he that was gibbeted just on the brow of the\nhill by the Brown House not far from the milestone between Marygreen\nand Alfredston, where the other road branches off. But Lord,  twas in\nmy grandfather s time; and it medn  have been one of your folk at all. \n\n I know where the gibbet is said to have stood, very well,  murmured\nJude.  But I never heard of this. What did this man my ancestor and\nSue s kill his wife? \n\n Twer not that exactly. She ran away from him, with their child, to\nher friends; and while she was there the child died. He wanted the\nbody, to bury it where his people lay, but she wouldn t give it up. Her\nhusband then came in the night with a cart, and broke into the house to\nsteal the coffin away; but he was catched, and being obstinate,\nwouldn t tell what he broke in for. They brought it in burglary, and\nthat s why he was hanged and gibbeted on Brown House Hill. His wife\nwent mad after he was dead. But it medn t be true that he belonged to\nye more than to me. \n\nA small slow voice rose from the shade of the fireside, as if out of\nthe earth:  If I was you, Mother, I wouldn t marry Father!  It came\nfrom little Time, and they started, for they had forgotten him.\n\n Oh, it is only a tale,  said Sue cheeringly.\n\nAfter this exhilarating tradition from the widow on the eve of the\nsolemnization they rose, and, wishing their guest good-night, retired.\n\nThe next morning Sue, whose nervousness intensified with the hours,\ntook Jude privately into the sitting-room before starting.  Jude, I\nwant you to kiss me, as a lover, incorporeally,  she said, tremulously\nnestling up to him, with damp lashes.  It won t be ever like this any\nmore, will it? I wish we hadn t begun the business. But I suppose we\nmust go on. How horrid that story was last night! It spoilt my thoughts\nof to-day. It makes me feel as if a tragic doom overhung our family, as\nit did the house of Atreus. \n\n Or the house of Jeroboam,  said the quondam theologian.\n\n Yes. And it seems awful temerity in us two to go marrying! I am going\nto vow to you in the same words I vowed in to my other husband, and you\nto me in the same as you used to your other wife; regardless of the\ndeterrent lesson we were taught by those experiments! \n\n If you are uneasy I am made unhappy,  said he.  I had hoped you would\nfeel quite joyful. But if you don t, you don t. It is no use\npretending. It is a dismal business to you, and that makes it so to\nme! \n\n It is unpleasantly like that other morning that s all,  she murmured.\n Let us go on now. \n\nThey started arm in arm for the office aforesaid, no witness\naccompanying them except the Widow Edlin. The day was chilly and dull,\nand a clammy fog blew through the town from  Royal-tower d Thame.  On\nthe steps of the office there were the muddy foot-marks of people who\nhad entered, and in the entry were damp umbrellas. Within the office\nseveral persons were gathered, and our couple perceived that a marriage\nbetween a soldier and a young woman was just in progress. Sue, Jude,\nand the widow stood in the background while this was going on, Sue\nreading the notices of marriage on the wall. The room was a dreary\nplace to two of their temperament, though to its usual frequenters it\ndoubtless seemed ordinary enough. Law-books in musty calf covered one\nwall, and elsewhere were post-office directories, and other books of\nreference. Papers in packets tied with red tape were pigeon-holed\naround, and some iron safes filled a recess, while the bare wood floor\nwas, like the door-step, stained by previous visitors.\n\nThe soldier was sullen and reluctant: the bride sad and timid; she was\nsoon, obviously, to become a mother, and she had a black eye. Their\nlittle business was soon done, and the twain and their friends\nstraggled out, one of the witnesses saying casually to Jude and Sue in\npassing, as if he had known them before:  See the couple just come in?\nHa, ha! That fellow is just out of gaol this morning. She met him at\nthe gaol gates, and brought him straight here. She s paying for\neverything. \n\nSue turned her head and saw an ill-favoured man, closely cropped, with\na broad-faced, pock-marked woman on his arm, ruddy with liquor and the\nsatisfaction of being on the brink of a gratified desire. They jocosely\nsaluted the outgoing couple, and went forward in front of Jude and Sue,\nwhose diffidence was increasing. The latter drew back and turned to her\nlover, her mouth shaping itself like that of a child about to give way\nto grief:\n\n Jude I don t like it here! I wish we hadn t come! The place gives me\nthe horrors: it seems so unnatural as the climax of our love! I wish it\nhad been at church, if it had to be at all. It is not so vulgar there! \n\n Dear little girl,  said Jude.  How troubled and pale you look! \n\n It must be performed here now, I suppose? \n\n No perhaps not necessarily. \n\nHe spoke to the clerk, and came back.  No we need not marry here or\nanywhere, unless we like, even now,  he said.  We can be married in a\nchurch, if not with the same certificate with another he ll give us, I\nthink. Anyhow, let us go out till you are calmer, dear, and I too, and\ntalk it over. \n\nThey went out stealthily and guiltily, as if they had committed a\nmisdemeanour, closing the door without noise, and telling the widow,\nwho had remained in the entry, to go home and await them; that they\nwould call in any casual passers as witnesses, if necessary. When in\nthe street they turned into an unfrequented side alley where they\nwalked up and down as they had done long ago in the market-house at\nMelchester.\n\n Now, darling, what shall we do? We are making a mess of it, it strikes\nme. Still, _anything_ that pleases you will please me. \n\n But Jude, dearest, I am worrying you! You wanted it to be there,\ndidn t you? \n\n Well, to tell the truth, when I got inside I felt as if I didn t care\nmuch about it. The place depressed me almost as much as it did you it\nwas ugly. And then I thought of what you had said this morning as to\nwhether we ought. \n\nThey walked on vaguely, till she paused, and her little voice began\nanew:  It seems so weak, too, to vacillate like this! And yet how much\nbetter than to act rashly a second time  How terrible that scene was to\nme! The expression in that flabby woman s face, leading her on to give\nherself to that gaol-bird, not for a few hours, as she would, but for a\nlifetime, as she must. And the other poor soul to escape a nominal\nshame which was owing to the weakness of her character, degrading\nherself to the real shame of bondage to a tyrant who scorned her a man\nwhom to avoid for ever was her only chance of salvation  This is our\nparish church, isn t it? This is where it would have to be, if we did\nit in the usual way? A service or something seems to be going on. \n\nJude went up and looked in at the door.  Why it is a wedding here too, \nhe said.  Everybody seems to be on our tack to-day. \n\nSue said she supposed it was because Lent was just over, when there was\nalways a crowd of marriages.  Let us listen,  she said,  and find how\nit feels to us when performed in a church. \n\nThey stepped in, and entered a back seat, and watched the proceedings\nat the altar. The contracting couple appeared to belong to the\nwell-to-do middle class, and the wedding altogether was of ordinary\nprettiness and interest. They could see the flowers tremble in the\nbride s hand, even at that distance, and could hear her mechanical\nmurmur of words whose meaning her brain seemed to gather not at all\nunder the pressure of her self-consciousness. Sue and Jude listened,\nand severally saw themselves in time past going through the same form\nof self-committal.\n\n It is not the same to her, poor thing, as it would be to me doing it\nover again with my present knowledge,  Sue whispered.  You see, they\nare fresh to it, and take the proceedings as a matter of course. But\nhaving been awakened to its awful solemnity as we have, or at least as\nI have, by experience, and to my own too squeamish feelings perhaps\nsometimes, it really does seem immoral in me to go and undertake the\nsame thing again with open eyes. Coming in here and seeing this has\nfrightened me from a church wedding as much as the other did from a\nregistry one  We are a weak, tremulous pair, Jude, and what others may\nfeel confident in I feel doubts of my being proof against the sordid\nconditions of a business contract again! \n\nThen they tried to laugh, and went on debating in whispers the\nobject-lesson before them. And Jude said he also thought they were both\ntoo thin-skinned that they ought never to have been born much less have\ncome together for the most preposterous of all joint ventures for\n_them_ matrimony.\n\nHis betrothed shuddered; and asked him earnestly if he indeed felt that\nthey ought not to go in cold blood and sign that life-undertaking\nagain?  It is awful if you think we have found ourselves not strong\nenough for it, and knowing this, are proposing to perjure ourselves, \nshe said.\n\n I fancy I do think it since you ask me,  said Jude.  Remember I ll do\nit if you wish, own darling.  While she hesitated he went on to confess\nthat, though he thought they ought to be able to do it, he felt checked\nby the dread of incompetency just as she did from their peculiarities,\nperhaps, because they were unlike other people.  We are horribly\nsensitive; that s really what s the matter with us, Sue!  he declared.\n\n I fancy more are like us than we think! \n\n Well, I don t know. The intention of the contract is good, and right\nfor many, no doubt; but in our case it may defeat its own ends because\nwe are the queer sort of people we are folk in whom domestic ties of a\nforced kind snuff out cordiality and spontaneousness. \n\nSue still held that there was not much queer or exceptional in them:\nthat all were so.  Everybody is getting to feel as we do. We are a\nlittle beforehand, that s all. In fifty, a hundred, years the\ndescendants of these two will act and feel worse than we. They will see\nweltering humanity still more vividly than we do now, as\n\nShapes like our own selves hideously multiplied,\n\nand will be afraid to reproduce them. \n\n What a terrible line of poetry!   though I have felt it myself about\nmy fellow-creatures, at morbid times. \n\nThus they murmured on, till Sue said more brightly:\n\n Well the general question is not our business, and why should we\nplague ourselves about it? However different our reasons are, we come\nto the same conclusion: that for us particular two, an irrevocable oath\nis risky. Then, Jude, let us go home without killing our dream! Yes?\nHow good you are, my friend: you give way to all my whims! \n\n They accord very much with my own. \n\nHe gave her a little kiss behind a pillar while the attention of\neverybody present was taken up in observing the bridal procession\nentering the vestry; and then they came outside the building. By the\ndoor they waited till two or three carriages, which had gone away for a\nwhile, returned, and the new husband and wife came into the open\ndaylight. Sue sighed.\n\n The flowers in the bride s hand are sadly like the garland which\ndecked the heifers of sacrifice in old times! \n\n Still, Sue, it is no worse for the woman than for the man. That s what\nsome women fail to see, and instead of protesting against the\nconditions they protest against the man, the other victim; just as a\nwoman in a crowd will abuse the man who crushes against her, when he is\nonly the helpless transmitter of the pressure put upon him. \n\n Yes some are like that, instead of uniting with the man against the\ncommon enemy, coercion.  The bride and bridegroom had by this time\ndriven off, and the two moved away with the rest of the idlers.\n No don t let s do it,  she continued.  At least, just now. \n\nThey reached home, and passing the window arm in arm saw the widow\nlooking out at them.  Well,  cried their guest when they entered,  I\nsaid to myself when I zeed ye coming so loving up to the door,  They\nmade up their minds at last, then! \n\nThey briefly hinted that they had not.\n\n What and ha n t ye really done it? Chok  it all, that I should have\nlived to see a good old saying like  marry in haste and repent at\nleisure  spoiled like this by you two!  Tis time I got back again to\nMarygreen sakes if tidden if this is what the new notions be leading us\nto! Nobody thought o  being afeard o  matrimony in my time, nor of much\nelse but a cannon-ball or empty cupboard! Why when I and my poor man\nwere married we thought no more o t than of a game o  dibs! \n\n Don t tell the child when he comes in,  whispered Sue nervously.\n He ll think it has all gone on right, and it will be better that he\nshould not be surprised and puzzled. Of course it is only put off for\nreconsideration. If we are happy as we are, what does it matter to\nanybody? \n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nThe purpose of a chronicler of moods and deeds does not require him to\nexpress his personal views upon the grave controversy above given. That\nthe twain were happy between their times of sadness was indubitable.\nAnd when the unexpected apparition of Jude s child in the house had\nshown itself to be no such disturbing event as it had looked, but one\nthat brought into their lives a new and tender interest of an ennobling\nand unselfish kind, it rather helped than injured their happiness.\n\nTo be sure, with such pleasing anxious beings as they were, the boy s\ncoming also brought with it much thought for the future, particularly\nas he seemed at present to be singularly deficient in all the usual\nhopes of childhood. But the pair tried to dismiss, for a while at\nleast, a too strenuously forward view.\n\nThere is in Upper Wessex an old town of nine or ten thousand souls; the\ntown may be called Stoke-Barehills. It stands with its gaunt,\nunattractive, ancient church, and its new red brick suburb, amid the\nopen, chalk-soiled cornlands, near the middle of an imaginary triangle\nwhich has for its three corners the towns of Aldbrickham and\nWintoncester, and the important military station of Quartershot. The\ngreat western highway from London passes through it, near a point where\nthe road branches into two, merely to unite again some twenty miles\nfurther westward. Out of this bifurcation and reunion there used to\narise among wheeled travellers, before railway days, endless questions\nof choice between the respective ways. But the question is now as dead\nas the scot-and-lot freeholder, the road waggoner, and the mail\ncoachman who disputed it; and probably not a single inhabitant of\nStoke-Barehills is now even aware that the two roads which part in his\ntown ever meet again; for nobody now drives up and down the great\nwestern highway dally.\n\nThe most familiar object in Stoke-Barehills nowadays is its cemetery,\nstanding among some picturesque medi val ruins beside the railway; the\nmodern chapels, modern tombs, and modern shrubs having a look of\nintrusiveness amid the crumbling and ivy-covered decay of the ancient\nwalls.\n\nOn a certain day, however, in the particular year which has now been\nreached by this narrative the month being early June the features of\nthe town excite little interest, though many visitors arrive by the\ntrains; some down-trains, in especial, nearly emptying themselves here.\nIt is the week of the Great Wessex Agricultural Show, whose vast\nencampment spreads over the open outskirts of the town like the tents\nof an investing army. Rows of marquees, huts, booths, pavilions,\narcades, porticoes every kind of structure short of a permanent\none cover the green field for the space of a square half-mile, and the\ncrowds of arrivals walk through the town in a mass, and make straight\nfor the exhibition ground. The way thereto is lined with shows, stalls,\nand hawkers on foot, who make a market-place of the whole roadway to\nthe show proper, and lead some of the improvident to lighten their\npockets appreciably before they reach the gates of the exhibition they\ncame expressly to see.\n\nIt is the popular day, the shilling day, and of the fast arriving\nexcursion trains two from different directions enter the two contiguous\nrailway stations at almost the same minute. One, like several which\nhave preceded it, comes from London: the other by a cross-line from\nAldbrickham; and from the London train alights a couple; a short,\nrather bloated man, with a globular stomach and small legs, resembling\na top on two pegs, accompanied by a woman of rather fine figure and\nrather red face, dressed in black material, and covered with beads from\nbonnet to skirt, that made her glisten as if clad in chain-mail.\n\nThey cast their eyes around. The man was about to hire a fly as some\nothers had done, when the woman said,  Don t be in such a hurry,\nCartlett. It isn t so very far to the show-yard. Let us walk down the\nstreet into the place. Perhaps I can pick up a cheap bit of furniture\nor old china. It is years since I was here never since I lived as a\ngirl at Aldbrickham, and used to come across for a trip sometimes with\nmy young man. \n\n You can t carry home furniture by excursion train,  said, in a thick\nvoice, her husband, the landlord of The Three Horns, Lambeth; for they\nhad both come down from the tavern in that  excellent, densely\npopulated, gin-drinking neighbourhood,  which they had occupied ever\nsince the advertisement in those words had attracted them thither. The\nconfiguration of the landlord showed that he, too, like his customers,\nwas becoming affected by the liquors he retailed.\n\n Then I ll get it sent, if I see any worth having,  said his wife.\n\nThey sauntered on, but had barely entered the town when her attention\nwas attracted by a young couple leading a child, who had come out from\nthe second platform, into which the train from Aldbrickham had steamed.\nThey were walking just in front of the inn-keepers.\n\n Sakes alive!  said Arabella.\n\n What s that?  said Cartlett.\n\n Who do you think that couple is? Don t you recognize the man? \n\n No. \n\n Not from the photos I have showed you? \n\n Is it Fawley? \n\n Yes of course. \n\n Oh, well. I suppose he was inclined for a little sight-seeing like the\nrest of us.  Cartlett s interest in Jude whatever it might have been\nwhen Arabella was new to him, had plainly flagged since her charms and\nher idiosyncrasies, her supernumerary hair-coils, and her optional\ndimples, were becoming as a tale that is told.\n\nArabella so regulated her pace and her husband s as to keep just in the\nrear of the other three, which it was easy to do without notice in such\na stream of pedestrians. Her answers to Cartlett s remarks were vague\nand slight, for the group in front interested her more than all the\nrest of the spectacle.\n\n They are rather fond of one another and of their child, seemingly, \ncontinued the publican.\n\n _Their_ child!  Tisn t their child,  said Arabella with a curious,\nsudden covetousness.  They haven t been married long enough for it to\nbe theirs! \n\nBut although the smouldering maternal instinct was strong enough in her\nto lead her to quash her husband s conjecture, she was not disposed on\nsecond thoughts to be more candid than necessary. Mr. Cartlett had no\nother idea than that his wife s child by her first husband was with his\ngrandparents at the Antipodes.\n\n Oh I suppose not. She looks quite a girl. \n\n They are only lovers, or lately married, and have the child in charge,\nas anybody can see. \n\nAll continued to move ahead. The unwitting Sue and Jude, the couple in\nquestion, had determined to make this agricultural exhibition within\ntwenty miles of their own town the occasion of a day s excursion which\nshould combine exercise and amusement with instruction, at small\nexpense. Not regardful of themselves alone, they had taken care to\nbring Father Time, to try every means of making him kindle and laugh\nlike other boys, though he was to some extent a hindrance to the\ndelightfully unreserved intercourse in their pilgrimages which they so\nmuch enjoyed. But they soon ceased to consider him an observer, and\nwent along with that tender attention to each other which the shyest\ncan scarcely disguise, and which these, among entire strangers as they\nimagined, took less trouble to disguise than they might have done at\nhome. Sue, in her new summer clothes, flexible and light as a bird, her\nlittle thumb stuck up by the stem of her white cotton sunshade, went\nalong as if she hardly touched ground, and as if a moderately strong\npuff of wind would float her over the hedge into the next field. Jude,\nin his light grey holiday-suit, was really proud of her companionship,\nnot more for her external attractiveness than for her sympathetic words\nand ways. That complete mutual understanding, in which every glance and\nmovement was as effectual as speech for conveying intelligence between\nthem, made them almost the two parts of a single whole.\n\nThe pair with their charge passed through the turnstiles, Arabella and\nher husband not far behind them. When inside the enclosure the\npublican s wife could see that the two ahead began to take trouble with\nthe youngster, pointing out and explaining the many objects of\ninterest, alive and dead; and a passing sadness would touch their faces\nat their every failure to disturb his indifference.\n\n How she sticks to him!  said Arabella.  Oh no I fancy they are not\nmarried, or they wouldn t be so much to one another as that  I wonder! \n\n But I thought you said he did marry her? \n\n I heard he was going to that s all, going to make another attempt,\nafter putting it off once or twice  As far as they themselves are\nconcerned they are the only two in the show. I should be ashamed of\nmaking myself so silly if I were he! \n\n I don t see as how there s anything remarkable in their behaviour. I\nshould never have noticed their being in love, if you hadn t said so. \n\n You never see anything,  she rejoined. Nevertheless Cartlett s view of\nthe lovers  or married pair s conduct was undoubtedly that of the\ngeneral crowd, whose attention seemed to be in no way attracted by what\nArabella s sharpened vision discerned.\n\n He s charmed by her as if she were some fairy!  continued Arabella.\n See how he looks round at her, and lets his eyes rest on her. I am\ninclined to think that she don t care for him quite so much as he does\nfor her. She s not a particular warm-hearted creature to my thinking,\nthough she cares for him pretty middling much as much as she s able to;\nand he could make her heart ache a bit if he liked to try which he s\ntoo simple to do. There now they are going across to the cart-horse\nsheds. Come along. \n\n I don t want to see the cart-horses. It is no business of ours to\nfollow these two. If we have come to see the show let us see it in our\nown way, as they do in theirs. \n\n Well suppose we agree to meet somewhere in an hour s time say at that\nrefreshment tent over there, and go about independent? Then you can\nlook at what you choose to, and so can I. \n\nCartlett was not loath to agree to this, and they parted he proceeding\nto the shed where malting processes were being exhibited, and Arabella\nin the direction taken by Jude and Sue. Before, however, she had\nregained their wake a laughing face met her own, and she was confronted\nby Anny, the friend of her girlhood.\n\nAnny had burst out in hearty laughter at the mere fact of the chance\nencounter.  I am still living down there,  she said, as soon as she was\ncomposed.  I am soon going to be married, but my intended couldn t come\nup here to-day. But there s lots of us come by excursion, though I ve\nlost the rest of  em for the present. \n\n Have you met Jude and his young woman, or wife, or whatever she is? I\nsaw  em by now. \n\n No. Not a glimpse of un for years! \n\n Well, they are close by here somewhere. Yes there they are by that\ngrey horse! \n\n Oh, that s his present young woman wife did you say? Has he married\nagain? \n\n I don t know. \n\n She s pretty, isn t she! \n\n Yes nothing to complain of; or jump at. Not much to depend on, though;\na slim, fidgety little thing like that. \n\n He s a nice-looking chap, too! You ought to ha  stuck to un,\nArabella. \n\n I don t know but I ought,  murmured she.\n\nAnny laughed.  That s you, Arabella! Always wanting another man than\nyour own. \n\n Well, and what woman don t I should like to know? As for that body\nwith him she don t know what love is at least what I call love! I can\nsee in her face she don t. \n\n And perhaps, Abby dear, you don t know what she calls love. \n\n I m sure I don t wish to!   Ah they are making for the art department.\nI should like to see some pictures myself. Suppose we go that way? \nWhy, if all Wessex isn t here, I verily believe! There s Dr. Vilbert.\nHaven t seen him for years, and he s not looking a day older than when\nI used to know him. How do you do, Physician? I was just saying that\nyou don t look a day older than when you knew me as a girl. \n\n Simply the result of taking my own pills regular, ma am. Only two and\nthreepence a box warranted efficacious by the Government stamp. Now let\nme advise you to purchase the same immunity from the ravages of time by\nfollowing my example? Only two-and-three. \n\nThe physician had produced a box from his waistcoat pocket, and\nArabella was induced to make the purchase.\n\n At the same time,  continued he, when the pills were paid for,  you\nhave the advantage of me, Mrs.  Surely not Mrs. Fawley, once Miss Donn,\nof the vicinity of Marygreen? \n\n Yes. But Mrs. Cartlett now. \n\n Ah you lost him, then? Promising young fellow! A pupil of mine, you\nknow. I taught him the dead languages. And believe me, he soon knew\nnearly as much as I. \n\n I lost him; but not as you think,  said Arabella dryly.  The lawyers\nuntied us. There he is, look, alive and lusty; along with that young\nwoman, entering the art exhibition. \n\n Ah dear me! Fond of her, apparently. \n\n They _say_ they are cousins. \n\n Cousinship is a great convenience to their feelings, I should say? \n\n Yes. So her husband thought, no doubt, when he divorced her  Shall we\nlook at the pictures, too? \n\nThe trio followed across the green and entered. Jude and Sue, with the\nchild, unaware of the interest they were exciting, had gone up to a\nmodel at one end of the building, which they regarded with considerable\nattention for a long while before they went on. Arabella and her\nfriends came to it in due course, and the inscription it bore was:\n Model of Cardinal College, Christminster; by J. Fawley and S. F. M.\nBridehead. \n\n Admiring their own work,  said Arabella.  How like Jude always\nthinking of colleges and Christminster, instead of attending to his\nbusiness! \n\nThey glanced cursorily at the pictures, and proceeded to the\nband-stand. When they had stood a little while listening to the music\nof the military performers, Jude, Sue, and the child came up on the\nother side. Arabella did not care if they should recognize her; but\nthey were too deeply absorbed in their own lives, as translated into\nemotion by the military band, to perceive her under her beaded veil.\nShe walked round the outside of the listening throng, passing behind\nthe lovers, whose movements had an unexpected fascination for her\nto-day. Scrutinizing them narrowly from the rear she noticed that\nJude s hand sought Sue s as they stood, the two standing close together\nso as to conceal, as they supposed, this tacit expression of their\nmutual responsiveness.\n\n Silly fools like two children!  Arabella whispered to herself\nmorosely, as she rejoined her companions, with whom she preserved a\npreoccupied silence.\n\nAnny meanwhile had jokingly remarked to Vilbert on Arabella s hankering\ninterest in her first husband.\n\n Now,  said the physician to Arabella, apart;  do you want anything\nsuch as this, Mrs. Cartlett? It is not compounded out of my regular\npharmacop ia, but I am sometimes asked for such a thing.  He produced a\nsmall phial of clear liquid.  A love-philtre, such as was used by the\nancients with great effect. I found it out by study of their writings,\nand have never known it to fail. \n\n What is it made of?  asked Arabella curiously.\n\n Well a distillation of the juices of doves  hearts otherwise\npigeons is one of the ingredients. It took nearly a hundred hearts to\nproduce that small bottle full. \n\n How do you get pigeons enough? \n\n To tell a secret, I get a piece of rock-salt, of which pigeons are\ninordinately fond, and place it in a dovecot on my roof. In a few hours\nthe birds come to it from all points of the compass east, west, north,\nand south and thus I secure as many as I require. You use the liquid by\ncontriving that the desired man shall take about ten drops of it in his\ndrink. But remember, all this is told you because I gather from your\nquestions that you mean to be a purchaser. You must keep faith with\nme? \n\n Very well I don t mind a bottle to give some friend or other to try it\non her young man.  She produced five shillings, the price asked, and\nslipped the phial in her capacious bosom. Saying presently that she was\ndue at an appointment with her husband, she sauntered away towards the\nrefreshment bar, Jude, his companion, and the child having gone on to\nthe horticultural tent, where Arabella caught a glimpse of them\nstanding before a group of roses in bloom.\n\nShe waited a few minutes observing them, and then proceeded to join her\nspouse with no very amiable sentiments. She found him seated on a stool\nby the bar, talking to one of the gaily dressed maids who had served\nhim with spirits.\n\n I should think you had enough of this business at home!  Arabella\nremarked gloomily.  Surely you didn t come fifty miles from your own\nbar to stick in another? Come, take me round the show, as other men do\ntheir wives! Dammy, one would think you were a young bachelor, with\nnobody to look after but yourself! \n\n But we agreed to meet here; and what could I do but wait? \n\n Well, now we have met, come along,  she returned, ready to quarrel\nwith the sun for shining on her. And they left the tent together, this\npot-bellied man and florid woman, in the antipathetic, recriminatory\nmood of the average husband and wife of Christendom.\n\nIn the meantime the more exceptional couple and the boy still lingered\nin the pavilion of flowers an enchanted palace to their appreciative\ntaste Sue s usually pale cheeks reflecting the pink of the tinted roses\nat which she gazed; for the gay sights, the air, the music, and the\nexcitement of a day s outing with Jude had quickened her blood and made\nher eyes sparkle with vivacity. She adored roses, and what Arabella had\nwitnessed was Sue detaining Jude almost against his will while she\nlearnt the names of this variety and that, and put her face within an\ninch of their blooms to smell them.\n\n I should like to push my face quite into them the dears!  she had\nsaid.  But I suppose it is against the rules to touch them isn t it,\nJude? \n\n Yes, you baby,  said he: and then playfully gave her a little push, so\nthat her nose went among the petals.\n\n The policeman will be down on us, and I shall say it was my husband s\nfault! \n\nThen she looked up at him, and smiled in a way that told so much to\nArabella.\n\n Happy?  he murmured.\n\nShe nodded.\n\n Why? Because you have come to the great Wessex Agricultural Show or\nbecause _we_ have come? \n\n You are always trying to make me confess to all sorts of absurdities.\nBecause I am improving my mind, of course, by seeing all these\nsteam-ploughs, and threshing-machines, and chaff-cutters, and cows, and\npigs, and sheep. \n\nJude was quite content with a baffle from his ever evasive companion.\nBut when he had forgotten that he had put the question, and because he\nno longer wished for an answer, she went on:  I feel that we have\nreturned to Greek joyousness, and have blinded ourselves to sickness\nand sorrow, and have forgotten what twenty-five centuries have taught\nthe race since their time, as one of your Christminster luminaries\nsays  There is one immediate shadow, however only one.  And she looked\nat the aged child, whom, though they had taken him to everything likely\nto attract a young intelligence, they had utterly failed to interest.\n\nHe knew what they were saying and thinking.  I am very, very sorry,\nFather and Mother,  he said.  But please don t mind! I can t help it. I\nshould like the flowers very very much, if I didn t keep on thinking\nthey d be all withered in a few days! \n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nThe unnoticed lives that the pair had hitherto led began, from the day\nof the suspended wedding onwards, to be observed and discussed by other\npersons than Arabella. The society of Spring Street and the\nneighbourhood generally did not understand, and probably could not have\nbeen made to understand, Sue and Jude s private minds, emotions,\npositions, and fears. The curious facts of a child coming to them\nunexpectedly, who called Jude  Father,  and Sue  Mother,  and a hitch\nin a marriage ceremony intended for quietness to be performed at a\nregistrar s office, together with rumours of the undefended cases in\nthe law-courts, bore only one translation to plain minds.\n\nLittle Time for though he was formally turned into  Jude,  the apt\nnickname stuck to him would come home from school in the evening, and\nrepeat inquiries and remarks that had been made to him by the other\nboys; and cause Sue, and Jude when he heard them, a great deal of pain\nand sadness.\n\nThe result was that shortly after the attempt at the registrar s the\npair went off to London it was believed for several days, hiring\nsomebody to look to the boy. When they came back they let it be\nunderstood indirectly, and with total indifference and weariness of\nmien, that they were legally married at last. Sue, who had previously\nbeen called Mrs. Bridehead now openly adopted the name of Mrs. Fawley.\nHer dull, cowed, and listless manner for days seemed to substantiate\nall this.\n\nBut the mistake (as it was called) of their going away so secretly to\ndo the business, kept up much of the mystery of their lives; and they\nfound that they made not such advances with their neighbours as they\nhad expected to do thereby. A living mystery was not much less\ninteresting than a dead scandal.\n\nThe baker s lad and the grocer s boy, who at first had used to lift\ntheir hats gallantly to Sue when they came to execute their errands, in\nthese days no longer took the trouble to render her that homage, and\nthe neighbouring artizans  wives looked straight along the pavement\nwhen they encountered her.\n\nNobody molested them, it is true; but an oppressive atmosphere began to\nencircle their souls, particularly after their excursion to the show,\nas if that visit had brought some evil influence to bear on them. And\ntheir temperaments were precisely of a kind to suffer from this\natmosphere, and to be indisposed to lighten it by vigorous and open\nstatements. Their apparent attempt at reparation had come too late to\nbe effective.\n\nThe headstone and epitaph orders fell off: and two or three months\nlater, when autumn came, Jude perceived that he would have to return to\njourney-work again, a course all the more unfortunate just now, in that\nhe had not as yet cleared off the debt he had unavoidably incurred in\nthe payment of the law-costs of the previous year.\n\nOne evening he sat down to share the common meal with Sue and the child\nas usual.  I am thinking,  he said to her,  that I ll hold on here no\nlonger. The life suits us, certainly; but if we could get away to a\nplace where we are unknown, we should be lighter hearted, and have a\nbetter chance. And so I am afraid we must break it up here, however\nawkward for you, poor dear! \n\nSue was always much affected at a picture of herself as an object of\npity, and she saddened.\n\n Well I am not sorry,  said she presently.  I am much depressed by the\nway they look at me here. And you have been keeping on this house and\nfurniture entirely for me and the boy! You don t want it yourself, and\nthe expense is unnecessary. But whatever we do, wherever we go, you\nwon t take him away from me, Jude dear? I could not let him go now! The\ncloud upon his young mind makes him so pathetic to me; I do hope to\nlift it some day! And he loves me so. You won t take him away from me? \n\n Certainly I won t, dear little girl! We ll get nice lodgings, wherever\nwe go. I shall be moving about probably getting a job here and a job\nthere. \n\n I shall do something too, of course, till till  Well, now I can t be\nuseful in the lettering it behoves me to turn my hand to something\nelse. \n\n Don t hurry about getting employment,  he said regretfully.  I don t\nwant you to do that. I wish you wouldn t, Sue. The boy and yourself are\nenough for you to attend to. \n\nThere was a knock at the door, and Jude answered it. Sue could hear the\nconversation:\n\n Is Mr. Fawley at home?   Biles and Willis, the building contractors,\nsent me to know if you ll undertake the relettering of the ten\ncommandments in a little church they ve been restoring lately in the\ncountry near here. \n\nJude reflected, and said he could undertake it.\n\n It is not a very artistic job,  continued the messenger.  The\nclergyman is a very old-fashioned chap, and he has refused to let\nanything more be done to the church than cleaning and repairing. \n\n Excellent old man!  said Sue to herself, who was sentimentally opposed\nto the horrors of over-restoration.\n\n The Ten Commandments are fixed to the east end,  the messenger went\non,  and they want doing up with the rest of the wall there, since he\nwon t have them carted off as old materials belonging to the contractor\nin the usual way of the trade. \n\nA bargain as to terms was struck, and Jude came indoors.  There, you\nsee,  he said cheerfully.  One more job yet, at any rate, and you can\nhelp in it at least you can try. We shall have all the church to\nourselves, as the rest of the work is finished. \n\nNext day Jude went out to the church, which was only two miles off. He\nfound that what the contractor s clerk had said was true. The tables of\nthe Jewish law towered sternly over the utensils of Christian grace, as\nthe chief ornament of the chancel end, in the fine dry style of the\nlast century. And as their framework was constructed of ornamental\nplaster they could not be taken down for repair. A portion, crumbled by\ndamp, required renewal; and when this had been done, and the whole\ncleansed, he began to renew the lettering. On the second morning Sue\ncame to see what assistance she could render, and also because they\nliked to be together.\n\nThe silence and emptiness of the building gave her confidence, and,\nstanding on a safe low platform erected by Jude, which she was\nnevertheless timid at mounting, she began painting in the letters of\nthe first Table while he set about mending a portion of the second. She\nwas quite pleased at her powers; she had acquired them in the days she\npainted illumined texts for the church-fitting shop at Christminster.\nNobody seemed likely to disturb them; and the pleasant twitter of\nbirds, and rustle of October leafage, came in through an open window,\nand mingled with their talk.\n\nThey were not, however, to be left thus snug and peaceful for long.\nAbout half-past twelve there came footsteps on the gravel without. The\nold vicar and his churchwarden entered, and, coming up to see what was\nbeing done, seemed surprised to discover that a young woman was\nassisting. They passed on into an aisle, at which time the door again\nopened, and another figure entered a small one, that of little Time,\nwho was crying. Sue had told him where he might find her between\nschool-hours, if he wished. She came down from her perch, and said,\n What s the matter, my dear? \n\n I couldn t stay to eat my dinner in school, because they said  He\ndescribed how some boys had taunted him about his nominal mother, and\nSue, grieved, expressed her indignation to Jude aloft. The child went\ninto the churchyard, and Sue returned to her work. Meanwhile the door\nhad opened again, and there shuffled in with a businesslike air the\nwhite-aproned woman who cleaned the church. Sue recognized her as one\nwho had friends in Spring Street, whom she visited. The church-cleaner\nlooked at Sue, gaped, and lifted her hands; she had evidently\nrecognized Jude s companion as the latter had recognized her. Next came\ntwo ladies, and after talking to the charwoman they also moved forward,\nand as Sue stood reaching upward, watched her hand tracing the letters,\nand critically regarded her person in relief against the white wall,\ntill she grew so nervous that she trembled visibly.\n\nThey went back to where the others were standing, talking in\nundertones: and one said Sue could not hear which She s his wife, I\nsuppose? \n\n Some say Yes: some say No,  was the reply from the charwoman.\n\n Not? Then she ought to be, or somebody s that s very clear! \n\n They ve only been married a very few weeks, whether or no. \n\n A strange pair to be painting the Two Tables! I wonder Biles and\nWillis could think of such a thing as hiring those! \n\nThe churchwarden supposed that Biles and Willis knew of nothing wrong,\nand then the other, who had been talking to the old woman, explained\nwhat she meant by calling them strange people.\n\nThe probable drift of the subdued conversation which followed was made\nplain by the churchwarden breaking into an anecdote, in a voice that\neverybody in the church could hear, though obviously suggested by the\npresent situation:\n\n Well, now, it is a curious thing, but my grandfather told me a strange\ntale of a most immoral case that happened at the painting of the\nCommandments in a church out by Gaymead which is quite within a walk of\nthis one. In them days Commandments were mostly done in gilt letters on\na black ground, and that s how they were out where I say, before the\nowld church was rebuilded. It must have been somewhere about a hundred\nyears ago that them Commandments wanted doing up just as ours do here,\nand they had to get men from Aldbrickham to do  em. Now they wished to\nget the job finished by a particular Sunday, so the men had to work\nlate Saturday night, against their will, for overtime was not paid then\nas  tis now. There was no true religion in the country at that date,\nneither among pa sons, clerks, nor people, and to keep the men up to\ntheir work the vicar had to let  em have plenty of drink during the\nafternoon. As evening drawed on they sent for some more themselves;\nrum, by all account. It got later and later, and they got more and more\nfuddled, till at last they went a-putting their rum-bottle and rummers\nupon the communion table, and drawed up a trestle or two, and sate\nround comfortable and poured out again right hearty bumpers. No sooner\nhad they tossed off their glasses than, so the story goes, they fell\ndown senseless, one and all. How long they bode so they didn t know,\nbut when they came to themselves there was a terrible thunder-storm\na-raging, and they seemed to see in the gloom a dark figure with very\nthin legs and a curious voot, a-standing on the ladder, and finishing\ntheir work. When it got daylight they could see that the work was\nreally finished, and couldn t at all mind finishing it themselves. They\nwent home, and the next thing they heard was that a great scandal had\nbeen caused in the church that Sunday morning, for when the people came\nand service began, all saw that the Ten Commandments wez painted with\nthe  nots  left out. Decent people wouldn t attend service there for a\nlong time, and the Bishop had to be sent for to reconsecrate the\nchurch. That s the tradition as I used to hear it as a child. You must\ntake it for what it is wo th, but this case to-day has reminded me o t,\nas I say. \n\nThe visitors gave one more glance, as if to see whether Jude and Sue\nhad left the  nots  out likewise, and then severally left the church,\neven the old woman at last. Sue and Jude, who had not stopped working,\nsent back the child to school, and remained without speaking; till,\nlooking at her narrowly, he found she had been crying silently.\n\n Never mind, comrade!  he said.  I know what it is! \n\n I can t _bear_ that they, and everybody, should think people wicked\nbecause they may have chosen to live their own way! It is really these\nopinions that make the best intentioned people reckless, and actually\nbecome immoral! \n\n Never be cast down! It was only a funny story. \n\n Ah, but we suggested it! I am afraid I have done you mischief, Jude,\ninstead of helping you by coming! \n\nTo have suggested such a story was certainly not very exhilarating, in\na serious view of their position. However, in a few minutes Sue seemed\nto see that their position this morning had a ludicrous side, and\nwiping her eyes she laughed.\n\n It is droll, after all,  she said,  that we two, of all people, with\nour queer history, should happen to be here painting the Ten\nCommandments! You a reprobate, and I in my condition  O dear!    And\nwith her hand over her eyes she laughed again silently and\nintermittently, till she was quite weak.\n\n That s better,  said Jude gaily.  Now we are right again, aren t we,\nlittle girl! \n\n Oh but it is serious, all the same!  she sighed as she took up the\nbrush and righted herself.  But do you see they don t think we are\nmarried? They _won t_ believe it! It is extraordinary! \n\n I don t care whether they think so or not,  said Jude.  I shan t take\nany more trouble to make them. \n\nThey sat down to lunch which they had brought with them not to hinder\ntime and having eaten it, were about to set to work anew when a man\nentered the church, and Jude recognized in him the contractor Willis.\nHe beckoned to Jude, and spoke to him apart.\n\n Here I ve just had a complaint about this,  he said, with rather\nbreathless awkwardness.  I don t wish to go into the matter as of\ncourse I didn t know what was going on but I am afraid I must ask you\nand her to leave off, and let somebody else finish this! It is best, to\navoid all unpleasantness. I ll pay you for the week, all the same. \n\nJude was too independent to make any fuss; and the contractor paid him,\nand left. Jude picked up his tools, and Sue cleansed her brush. Then\ntheir eyes met.\n\n How could we be so simple as to suppose we might do this!  said she,\ndropping to her tragic note.  Of course we ought not I ought not to\nhave come! \n\n I had no idea that anybody was going to intrude into such a lonely\nplace and see us!  Jude returned.  Well, it can t be helped, dear; and\nof course I wouldn t wish to injure Willis s trade-connection by\nstaying.  They sat down passively for a few minutes, proceeded out of\nthe church, and overtaking the boy pursued their thoughtful way to\nAldbrickham.\n\nFawley had still a pretty zeal in the cause of education, and, as was\nnatural with his experiences, he was active in furthering  equality of\nopportunity  by any humble means open to him. He had joined an\nArtizans  Mutual Improvement Society established in the town about the\ntime of his arrival there; its members being young men of all creeds\nand denominations, including Churchmen, Congregationalists, Baptists,\nUnitarians, Positivists, and others Agnostics had scarcely been heard\nof at this time their one common wish to enlarge their minds forming a\nsufficiently close bond of union. The subscription was small, and the\nroom homely; and Jude s activity, uncustomary acquirements, and, above\nall, singular intuition on what to read and how to set about\nit begotten of his years of struggle against malignant stars had led to\nhis being placed on the committee.\n\nA few evenings after his dismissal from the church repairs, and before\nhe had obtained any more work to do, he went to attend a meeting of the\naforesaid committee. It was late when he arrived: all the others had\ncome, and as he entered they looked dubiously at him, and hardly\nuttered a word of greeting. He guessed that something bearing on\nhimself had been either discussed or mooted. Some ordinary business was\ntransacted, and it was disclosed that the number of subscriptions had\nshown a sudden falling off for that quarter. One member a really\nwell-meaning and upright man began speaking in enigmas about certain\npossible causes: that it behoved them to look well into their\nconstitution; for if the committee were not respected, and had not at\nleast, in their differences, a common standard of _conduct_, they would\nbring the institution to the ground. Nothing further was said in Jude s\npresence, but he knew what this meant; and turning to the table wrote a\nnote resigning his office there and then.\n\nThus the supersensitive couple were more and more impelled to go away.\nAnd then bills were sent in, and the question arose, what could Jude do\nwith his great-aunt s heavy old furniture, if he left the town to\ntravel he knew not whither? This, and the necessity of ready money,\ncompelled him to decide on an auction, much as he would have preferred\nto keep the venerable goods.\n\nThe day of the sale came on; and Sue for the last time cooked her own,\nthe child s, and Jude s breakfast in the little house he had furnished.\nIt chanced to be a wet day; moreover Sue was unwell, and not wishing to\ndesert her poor Jude in such gloomy circumstances, for he was compelled\nto stay awhile, she acted on the suggestion of the auctioneer s man,\nand ensconced herself in an upper room, which could be emptied of its\neffects, and so kept closed to the bidders. Here Jude discovered her;\nand with the child, and their few trunks, baskets, and bundles, and two\nchairs and a table that were not in the sale, the two sat in meditative\ntalk.\n\nFootsteps began stamping up and down the bare stairs, the comers\ninspecting the goods, some of which were of so quaint and ancient a\nmake as to acquire an adventitious value as art. Their door was tried\nonce or twice, and to guard themselves against intrusion Jude wrote\n Private  on a scrap of paper, and stuck it upon the panel.\n\nThey soon found that, instead of the furniture, their own personal\nhistories and past conduct began to be discussed to an unexpected and\nintolerable extent by the intending bidders. It was not till now that\nthey really discovered what a fools  paradise of supposed unrecognition\nthey had been living in of late. Sue silently took her companion s\nhand, and with eyes on each other they heard these passing remarks the\nquaint and mysterious personality of Father Time being a subject which\nformed a large ingredient in the hints and innuendoes. At length the\nauction began in the room below, whence they could hear each familiar\narticle knocked down, the highly prized ones cheaply, the unconsidered\nat an unexpected price.\n\n People don t understand us,  he sighed heavily.  I am glad we have\ndecided to go. \n\n The question is, where to? \n\n It ought to be to London. There one can live as one chooses. \n\n No not London, dear! I know it well. We should be unhappy there. \n\n Why? \n\n Can t you think? \n\n Because Arabella is there? \n\n That s the chief reason. \n\n But in the country I shall always be uneasy lest there should be some\nmore of our late experience. And I don t care to lessen it by\nexplaining, for one thing, all about the boy s history. To cut him off\nfrom his past I have determined to keep silence. I am sickened of\necclesiastical work now; and I shouldn t like to accept it, if offered\nme! \n\n You ought to have learnt classic. Gothic is barbaric art, after all.\nPugin was wrong, and Wren was right. Remember the interior of\nChristminster Cathedral almost the first place in which we looked in\neach other s faces. Under the picturesqueness of those Norman details\none can see the grotesque childishness of uncouth people trying to\nimitate the vanished Roman forms, remembered by dim tradition only. \n\n Yes you have half-converted me to that view by what you have said\nbefore. But one can work, and despise what one does. I must do\nsomething, if not church-gothic. \n\n I wish we could both follow an occupation in which personal\ncircumstances don t count,  she said, smiling up wistfully.  I am as\ndisqualified for teaching as you are for ecclesiastical art. You must\nfall back upon railway stations, bridges, theatres, music-halls,\nhotels everything that has no connection with conduct. \n\n I am not skilled in those  I ought to take to bread-baking. I grew up\nin the baking business with aunt, you know. But even a baker must be\nconventional, to get customers. \n\n Unless he keeps a cake and gingerbread stall at markets and fairs,\nwhere people are gloriously indifferent to everything except the\nquality of the goods. \n\nTheir thoughts were diverted by the voice of the auctioneer:  Now this\nantique oak settle a unique example of old English furniture, worthy\nthe attention of all collectors! \n\n That was my great-grandfather s,  said Jude.  I wish we could have\nkept the poor old thing! \n\nOne by one the articles went, and the afternoon passed away. Jude and\nthe other two were getting tired and hungry, but after the conversation\nthey had heard they were shy of going out while the purchasers were in\ntheir line of retreat. However, the later lots drew on, and it became\nnecessary to emerge into the rain soon, to take on Sue s things to\ntheir temporary lodging.\n\n Now the next lot: two pairs of pigeons, all alive and plump a nice pie\nfor somebody for next Sunday s dinner! \n\nThe impending sale of these birds had been the most trying suspense of\nthe whole afternoon. They were Sue s pets, and when it was found that\nthey could not possibly be kept, more sadness was caused than by\nparting from all the furniture. Sue tried to think away her tears as\nshe heard the trifling sum that her dears were deemed to be worth\nadvanced by small stages to the price at which they were finally\nknocked down. The purchaser was a neighbouring poulterer, and they were\nunquestionably doomed to die before the next market day.\n\nNoting her dissembled distress Jude kissed her, and said it was time to\ngo and see if the lodgings were ready. He would go on with the boy, and\nfetch her soon.\n\nWhen she was left alone she waited patiently, but Jude did not come\nback. At last she started, the coast being clear, and on passing the\npoulterer s shop, not far off, she saw her pigeons in a hamper by the\ndoor. An emotion at sight of them, assisted by the growing dusk of\nevening, caused her to act on impulse, and first looking around her\nquickly, she pulled out the peg which fastened down the cover, and went\non. The cover was lifted from within, and the pigeons flew away with a\nclatter that brought the chagrined poulterer cursing and swearing to\nthe door.\n\nSue reached the lodging trembling, and found Jude and the boy making it\ncomfortable for her.  Do the buyers pay before they bring away the\nthings?  she asked breathlessly.\n\n Yes, I think. Why? \n\n Because, then, I ve done such a wicked thing!  And she explained, in\nbitter contrition.\n\n I shall have to pay the poulterer for them, if he doesn t catch them, \nsaid Jude.  But never mind. Don t fret about it, dear. \n\n It was so foolish of me! Oh why should Nature s law be mutual\nbutchery! \n\n Is it so, Mother?  asked the boy intently.\n\n Yes!  said Sue vehemently.\n\n Well, they must take their chance, now, poor things,  said Jude.  As\nsoon as the sale-account is wound up, and our bills paid, we go. \n\n Where do we go to?  asked Time, in suspense.\n\n We must sail under sealed orders, that nobody may trace us  We mustn t\ngo to Alfredston, or to Melchester, or to Shaston, or to Christminster.\nApart from those we may go anywhere. \n\n Why mustn t we go there, Father? \n\n Because of a cloud that has gathered over us; though  we have wronged\nno man, corrupted no man, defrauded no man!  Though perhaps we have\n done that which was right in our own eyes. \n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nFrom that week Jude Fawley and Sue walked no more in the town of\nAldbrickham.\n\nWhither they had gone nobody knew, chiefly because nobody cared to\nknow. Any one sufficiently curious to trace the steps of such an\nobscure pair might have discovered without great trouble that they had\ntaken advantage of his adaptive craftsmanship to enter on a shifting,\nalmost nomadic, life, which was not without its pleasantness for a\ntime.\n\nWherever Jude heard of free-stone work to be done, thither he went,\nchoosing by preference places remote from his old haunts and Sue s. He\nlaboured at a job, long or briefly, till it was finished; and then\nmoved on.\n\nTwo whole years and a half passed thus. Sometimes he might have been\nfound shaping the mullions of a country mansion, sometimes setting the\nparapet of a town-hall, sometimes ashlaring an hotel at Sandbourne,\nsometimes a museum at Casterbridge, sometimes as far down as Exonbury,\nsometimes at Stoke-Barehills. Later still he was at Kennetbridge, a\nthriving town not more than a dozen miles south of Marygreen, this\nbeing his nearest approach to the village where he was known; for he\nhad a sensitive dread of being questioned as to his life and fortunes\nby those who had been acquainted with him during his ardent young\nmanhood of study and promise, and his brief and unhappy married life at\nthat time.\n\nAt some of these places he would be detained for months, at others only\na few weeks. His curious and sudden antipathy to ecclesiastical work,\nboth episcopal and noncomformist, which had risen in him when suffering\nunder a smarting sense of misconception, remained with him in cold\nblood, less from any fear of renewed censure than from an\nultra-conscientiousness which would not allow him to seek a living out\nof those who would disapprove of his ways; also, too, from a sense of\ninconsistency between his former dogmas and his present practice,\nhardly a shred of the beliefs with which he had first gone up to\nChristminster now remaining with him. He was mentally approaching the\nposition which Sue had occupied when he first met her.\n\nOn a Saturday evening in May, nearly three years after Arabella s\nrecognition of Sue and himself at the agricultural show, some of those\nwho there encountered each other met again.\n\nIt was the spring fair at Kennetbridge, and, though this ancient\ntrade-meeting had much dwindled from its dimensions of former times,\nthe long straight street of the borough presented a lively scene about\nmidday. At this hour a light trap, among other vehicles, was driven\ninto the town by the north road, and up to the door of a temperance\ninn. There alighted two women, one the driver, an ordinary country\nperson, the other a finely built figure in the deep mourning of a\nwidow. Her sombre suit, of pronounced cut, caused her to appear a\nlittle out of place in the medley and bustle of a provincial fair.\n\n I will just find out where it is, Anny,  said the widow-lady to her\ncompanion, when the horse and cart had been taken by a man who came\nforward:  and then I ll come back, and meet you here; and we ll go in\nand have something to eat and drink. I begin to feel quite a sinking. \n\n With all my heart,  said the other.  Though I would sooner have put up\nat the Chequers or The Jack. You can t get much at these temperance\nhouses. \n\n Now, don t you give way to gluttonous desires, my child,  said the\nwoman in weeds reprovingly.  This is the proper place. Very well: we ll\nmeet in half an hour, unless you come with me to find out where the\nsite of the new chapel is? \n\n I don t care to. You can tell me. \n\nThe companions then went their several ways, the one in crape walking\nfirmly along with a mien of disconnection from her miscellaneous\nsurroundings. Making inquiries she came to a hoarding, within which\nwere excavations denoting the foundations of a building; and on the\nboards without one or two large posters announcing that the\nfoundation-stone of the chapel about to be erected would be laid that\nafternoon at three o clock by a London preacher of great popularity\namong his body.\n\nHaving ascertained thus much the immensely weeded widow retraced her\nsteps, and gave herself leisure to observe the movements of the fair.\nBy and by her attention was arrested by a little stall of cakes and\nginger-breads, standing between the more pretentious erections of\ntrestles and canvas. It was covered with an immaculate cloth, and\ntended by a young woman apparently unused to the business, she being\naccompanied by a boy with an octogenarian face, who assisted her.\n\n Upon my senses!  murmured the widow to herself.  His wife Sue if she\nis so!  She drew nearer to the stall.  How do you do, Mrs. Fawley?  she\nsaid blandly.\n\nSue changed colour and recognized Arabella through the crape veil.\n\n How are you, Mrs. Cartlett?  she said stiffly. And then perceiving\nArabella s garb her voice grew sympathetic in spite of herself.\n What? you have lost \n\n My poor husband. Yes. He died suddenly, six weeks ago, leaving me none\ntoo well off, though he was a kind husband to me. But whatever profit\nthere is in public-house keeping goes to them that brew the liquors,\nand not to them that retail  em  And you, my little old man! You don t\nknow me, I expect? \n\n Yes, I do. You be the woman I thought wer my mother for a bit, till I\nfound you wasn t,  replied Father Time, who had learned to use the\nWessex tongue quite naturally by now.\n\n All right. Never mind. I am a friend. \n\n Juey,  said Sue suddenly,  go down to the station platform with this\ntray there s another train coming in, I think. \n\nWhen he was gone Arabella continued:  He ll never be a beauty, will he,\npoor chap! Does he know I am his mother really? \n\n No. He thinks there is some mystery about his parentage that s all.\nJude is going to tell him when he is a little older. \n\n But how do you come to be doing this? I am surprised. \n\n It is only a temporary occupation a fancy of ours while we are in a\ndifficulty. \n\n Then you are living with him still? \n\n Yes. \n\n Married? \n\n Of course. \n\n Any children? \n\n Two. \n\n And another coming soon, I see. \n\nSue writhed under the hard and direct questioning, and her tender\nlittle mouth began to quiver.\n\n Lord I mean goodness gracious what is there to cry about? Some folks\nwould be proud enough! \n\n It is not that I am ashamed not as you think! But it seems such a\nterribly tragic thing to bring beings into the world so\npresumptuous that I question my right to do it sometimes! \n\n Take it easy, my dear  But you don t tell me why you do such a thing\nas this? Jude used to be a proud sort of chap above any business\nalmost, leave alone keeping a standing. \n\n Perhaps my husband has altered a little since then. I am sure he is\nnot proud now!  And Sue s lips quivered again.  I am doing this because\nhe caught a chill early in the year while putting up some stonework of\na music-hall, at Quartershot, which he had to do in the rain, the work\nhaving to be executed by a fixed day. He is better than he was; but it\nhas been a long, weary time! We have had an old widow friend with us to\nhelp us through it; but she s leaving soon. \n\n Well, I am respectable too, thank God, and of a serious way of\nthinking since my loss. Why did you choose to sell gingerbreads? \n\n That s a pure accident. He was brought up to the baking business, and\nit occurred to him to try his hand at these, which he can make without\ncoming out of doors. We call them Christminster cakes. They are a great\nsuccess. \n\n I never saw any like  em. Why, they are windows and towers, and\npinnacles! And upon my word they are very nice.  She had helped\nherself, and was unceremoniously munching one of the cakes.\n\n Yes. They are reminiscences of the Christminster Colleges. Traceried\nwindows, and cloisters, you see. It was a whim of his to do them in\npastry. \n\n Still harping on Christminster even in his cakes!  laughed Arabella.\n Just like Jude. A ruling passion. What a queer fellow he is, and\nalways will be! \n\nSue sighed, and she looked her distress at hearing him criticized.\n\n Don t you think he is? Come now; you do, though you are so fond of\nhim! \n\n Of course Christminster is a sort of fixed vision with him, which I\nsuppose he ll never be cured of believing in. He still thinks it a\ngreat centre of high and fearless thought, instead of what it is, a\nnest of commonplace schoolmasters whose characteristic is timid\nobsequiousness to tradition. \n\nArabella was quizzing Sue with more regard of how she was speaking than\nof what she was saying.  How odd to hear a woman selling cakes talk\nlike that!  she said.  Why don t you go back to school-keeping? \n\nShe shook her head.  They won t have me. \n\n Because of the divorce, I suppose? \n\n That and other things. And there is no reason to wish it. We gave up\nall ambition, and were never so happy in our lives till his illness\ncame. \n\n Where are you living? \n\n I don t care to say. \n\n Here in Kennetbridge? \n\nSue s manner showed Arabella that her random guess was right.\n\n Here comes the boy back again,  continued Arabella.  My boy and\nJude s! \n\nSue s eyes darted a spark.  You needn t throw that in my face!  she\ncried.\n\n Very well though I half-feel as if I should like to have him with me!\n  But Lord, I don t want to take him from  ee ever I should sin to\nspeak so profane though I should think you must have enough of your\nown! He s in very good hands, that I know; and I am not the woman to\nfind fault with what the Lord has ordained. I ve reached a more\nresigned frame of mind. \n\n Indeed! I wish I had been able to do so. \n\n You should try,  replied the widow, from the serene heights of a soul\nconscious not only of spiritual but of social superiority.  I make no\nboast of my awakening, but I m not what I was. After Cartlett s death I\nwas passing the chapel in the street next ours, and went into it for\nshelter from a shower of rain. I felt a need of some sort of support\nunder my loss, and, as  twas righter than gin, I took to going there\nregular, and found it a great comfort. But I ve left London now, you\nknow, and at present I am living at Alfredston, with my friend Anny, to\nbe near my own old country. I m not come here to the fair to-day.\nThere s to be the foundation-stone of a new chapel laid this afternoon\nby a popular London preacher, and I drove over with Anny. Now I must go\nback to meet her. \n\nThen Arabella wished Sue good-bye, and went on.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nIn the afternoon Sue and the other people bustling about Kennetbridge\nfair could hear singing inside the placarded hoarding farther down the\nstreet. Those who peeped through the opening saw a crowd of persons in\nbroadcloth, with hymn-books in their hands, standing round the\nexcavations for the new chapel-walls. Arabella Cartlett and her weeds\nstood among them. She had a clear, powerful voice, which could be\ndistinctly heard with the rest, rising and falling to the tune, her\ninflated bosom being also seen doing likewise.\n\nIt was two hours later on the same day that Anny and Mrs. Cartlett,\nhaving had tea at the Temperance Hotel, started on their return journey\nacross the high and open country which stretches between Kennetbridge\nand Alfredston. Arabella was in a thoughtful mood; but her thoughts\nwere not of the new chapel, as Anny at first surmised.\n\n No it is something else,  at last said Arabella sullenly.  I came here\nto-day never thinking of anybody but poor Cartlett, or of anything but\nspreading the Gospel by means of this new tabernacle they ve begun this\nafternoon. But something has happened to turn my mind another way\nquite. Anny, I ve heard of un again, and I ve seen _her_! \n\n Who? \n\n I ve heard of Jude, and I ve seen his wife. And ever since, do what I\nwill, and though I sung the hymns wi  all my strength, I have not been\nable to help thinking about  n; which I ve no right to do as a chapel\nmember. \n\n Can t ye fix your mind upon what was said by the London preacher\nto-day, and try to get rid of your wandering fancies that way? \n\n I do. But my wicked heart will ramble off in spite of myself! \n\n Well I know what it is to have a wanton mind o  my own, too! If you\non y knew what I do dream sometimes o  nights quite against my wishes,\nyou d say I had my struggles!  (Anny, too, had grown rather serious of\nlate, her lover having jilted her.)\n\n What shall I do about it?  urged Arabella morbidly.\n\n You could take a lock of your late-lost husband s hair, and have it\nmade into a mourning brooch, and look at it every hour of the day. \n\n I haven t a morsel! and if I had  twould be no good  After all that s\nsaid about the comforts of this religion, I wish I had Jude back\nagain! \n\n You must fight valiant against the feeling, since he s another s. And\nI ve heard that another good thing for it, when it afflicts volupshious\nwidows, is to go to your husband s grave in the dusk of evening, and\nstand a long while a-bowed down. \n\n Pooh! I know as well as you what I should do; only I don t do it! \n\nThey drove in silence along the straight road till they were within the\nhorizon of Marygreen, which lay not far to the left of their route.\nThey came to the junction of the highway and the cross-lane leading to\nthat village, whose church-tower could be seen athwart the hollow. When\nthey got yet farther on, and were passing the lonely house in which\nArabella and Jude had lived during the first months of their marriage,\nand where the pig-killing had taken place, she could control herself no\nlonger.\n\n He s more mine than hers!  she burst out.  What right has she to him,\nI should like to know! I d take him from her if I could! \n\n Fie, Abby! And your husband only six weeks gone! Pray against it! \n\n Be damned if I do! Feelings are feelings! I won t be a creeping\nhypocrite any longer so there! \n\nArabella had hastily drawn from her pocket a bundle of tracts which she\nhad brought with her to distribute at the fair, and of which she had\ngiven away several. As she spoke she flung the whole remainder of the\npacket into the hedge.  I ve tried that sort o  physic and have failed\nwi  it. I must be as I was born! \n\n Hush! You be excited, dear! Now you come along home quiet, and have a\ncup of tea, and don t let us talk about un no more. We won t come out\nthis road again, as it leads to where he is, because it inflames  ee\nso. You ll be all right again soon. \n\nArabella did calm herself down by degrees; and they crossed the\nridge-way. When they began to descend the long, straight hill, they saw\nplodding along in front of them an elderly man of spare stature and\nthoughtful gait. In his hand he carried a basket; and there was a touch\nof slovenliness in his attire, together with that indefinable something\nin his whole appearance which suggested one who was his own\nhousekeeper, purveyor, confidant, and friend, through possessing nobody\nelse at all in the world to act in those capacities for him. The\nremainder of the journey was down-hill, and guessing him to be going to\nAlfredston they offered him a lift, which he accepted.\n\nArabella looked at him, and looked again, till at length she spoke.  If\nI don t mistake I am talking to Mr. Phillotson? \n\nThe wayfarer faced round and regarded her in turn.  Yes; my name is\nPhillotson,  he said.  But I don t recognize you, ma am. \n\n I remember you well enough when you used to be schoolmaster out at\nMarygreen, and I one of your scholars. I used to walk up there from\nCresscombe every day, because we had only a mistress down at our place,\nand you taught better. But you wouldn t remember me as I should\nyou? Arabella Donn. \n\nHe shook his head.  No,  he said politely,  I don t recall the name.\nAnd I should hardly recognize in your present portly self the slim\nschool child no doubt you were then. \n\n Well, I always had plenty of flesh on my bones. However, I am staying\ndown here with some friends at present. You know, I suppose, who I\nmarried? \n\n No. \n\n Jude Fawley also a scholar of yours at least a night scholar for some\nlittle time, I think? And known to you afterwards, if I am not\nmistaken. \n\n Dear me, dear me,  said Phillotson, starting out of his stiffness.\n _You_ Fawley s wife? To be sure he had a wife! And he I understood \n\n Divorced her as you did yours perhaps for better reasons. \n\n Indeed? \n\n Well he med have been right in doing it right for both; for I soon\nmarried again, and all went pretty straight till my husband died\nlately. But you you were decidedly wrong! \n\n No,  said Phillotson, with sudden testiness.  I would rather not talk\nof this, but I am convinced I did only what was right, and just, and\nmoral. I have suffered for my act and opinions, but I hold to them;\nthough her loss was a loss to me in more ways than one! \n\n You lost your school and good income through her, did you not? \n\n I don t care to talk of it. I have recently come back here to\nMarygreen. I mean. \n\n You are keeping the school there again, just as formerly? \n\nThe pressure of a sadness that would out unsealed him.  I am there,  he\nreplied.  Just as formerly, no. Merely on sufferance. It was a last\nresource a small thing to return to after my move upwards, and my long\nindulged hopes a returning to zero, with all its humiliations. But it\nis a refuge. I like the seclusion of the place, and the vicar having\nknown me before my so-called eccentric conduct towards my wife had\nruined my reputation as a schoolmaster, he accepted my services when\nall other schools were closed against me. However, although I take\nfifty pounds a year here after taking above two hundred elsewhere, I\nprefer it to running the risk of having my old domestic experiences\nraked up against me, as I should do if I tried to make a move. \n\n Right you are. A contented mind is a continual feast. She has done no\nbetter. \n\n She is not doing well, you mean? \n\n I met her by accident at Kennetbridge this very day, and she is\nanything but thriving. Her husband is ill, and she anxious. You made a\nfool of a mistake about her, I tell  ee again, and the harm you did\nyourself by dirting your own nest serves you right, excusing the\nliberty. \n\n How? \n\n She was innocent. \n\n But nonsense! They did not even defend the case! \n\n That was because they didn t care to. She was quite innocent of what\nobtained you your freedom, at the time you obtained it. I saw her just\nafterwards, and proved it to myself completely by talking to her. \n\nPhillotson grasped the edge of the spring-cart, and appeared to be much\nstressed and worried by the information.  Still she wanted to go,  he\nsaid.\n\n Yes. But you shouldn t have let her. That s the only way with these\nfanciful women that chaw high innocent or guilty. She d have come round\nin time. We all do! Custom does it! It s all the same in the end!\nHowever, I think she s fond of her man still whatever he med be of her.\nYou were too quick about her. _I_ shouldn t have let her go! I should\nhave kept her chained on her spirit for kicking would have been broke\nsoon enough! There s nothing like bondage and a stone-deaf taskmaster\nfor taming us women. Besides, you ve got the laws on your side. Moses\nknew. Don t you call to mind what he says? \n\n Not for the moment, ma am, I regret to say. \n\n Call yourself a schoolmaster! I used to think o t when they read it in\nchurch, and I was carrying on a bit.  Then shall the man be guiltless;\nbut the woman shall bear her iniquity.  Damn rough on us women; but we\nmust grin and put up wi  it! Haw haw! Well; she s got her deserts now. \n\n Yes,  said Phillotson, with biting sadness.  Cruelty is the law\npervading all nature and society; and we can t get out of it if we\nwould! \n\n Well don t you forget to try it next time, old man. \n\n I cannot answer you, madam. I have never known much of womankind. \n\nThey had now reached the low levels bordering Alfredston, and passing\nthrough the outskirts approached a mill, to which Phillotson said his\nerrand led him; whereupon they drew up, and he alighted, bidding them\ngood-night in a preoccupied mood.\n\nIn the meantime Sue, though remarkably successful in her cake-selling\nexperiment at Kennetbridge fair, had lost the temporary brightness\nwhich had begun to sit upon her sadness on account of that success.\nWhen all her  Christminster  cakes had been disposed of she took upon\nher arm the empty basket, and the cloth which had covered the standing\nshe had hired, and giving the other things to the boy left the street\nwith him. They followed a lane to a distance of half a mile, till they\nmet an old woman carrying a child in short clothes, and leading a\ntoddler in the other hand.\n\nSue kissed the children, and said,  How is he now? \n\n Still better!  returned Mrs. Edlin cheerfully.  Before you are\nupstairs again your husband will be well enough don t  ee trouble. \n\nThey turned, and came to some old, dun-tiled cottages with gardens and\nfruit-trees. Into one of these they entered by lifting the latch\nwithout knocking, and were at once in the general living-room. Here\nthey greeted Jude, who was sitting in an arm-chair, the increased\ndelicacy of his normally delicate features, and the childishly\nexpectant look in his eyes, being alone sufficient to show that he had\nbeen passing through a severe illness.\n\n What you have sold them all?  he said, a gleam of interest lighting up\nhis face.\n\n Yes. Arcades, gables, east windows and all.  She told him the\npecuniary results, and then hesitated. At last, when they were left\nalone, she informed him of the unexpected meeting with Arabella, and\nthe latter s widowhood.\n\nJude was discomposed.  What is she living here?  he said.\n\n No; at Alfredston,  said Sue.\n\nJude s countenance remained clouded.  I thought I had better tell you? \nshe continued, kissing him anxiously.\n\n Yes  Dear me! Arabella not in the depths of London, but down here! It\nis only a little over a dozen miles across the country to Alfredston.\nWhat is she doing there? \n\nShe told him all she knew.  She has taken to chapel-going,  Sue added;\n and talks accordingly. \n\n Well,  said Jude,  perhaps it is for the best that we have almost\ndecided to move on. I feel much better to-day, and shall be well enough\nto leave in a week or two. Then Mrs. Edlin can go home again dear\nfaithful old soul the only friend we have in the world! \n\n Where do you think to go to?  Sue asked, a troublousness in her tones.\n\nThen Jude confessed what was in his mind. He said it would surprise\nher, perhaps, after his having resolutely avoided all the old places\nfor so long. But one thing and another had made him think a great deal\nof Christminster lately, and, if she didn t mind, he would like to go\nback there. Why should they care if they were known? It was\noversensitive of them to mind so much. They could go on selling cakes\nthere, for that matter, if he couldn t work. He had no sense of shame\nat mere poverty; and perhaps he would be as strong as ever soon, and\nable to set up stone-cutting for himself there.\n\n Why should you care so much for Christminster?  she said pensively.\n Christminster cares nothing for you, poor dear! \n\n Well, I do, I can t help it. I love the place although I know how it\nhates all men like me the so-called self-taught how it scorns our\nlaboured acquisitions, when it should be the first to respect them; how\nit sneers at our false quantities and mispronunciations, when it should\nsay, I see you want help, my poor friend!   Nevertheless, it is the\ncentre of the universe to me, because of my early dream: and nothing\ncan alter it. Perhaps it will soon wake up, and be generous. I pray so!\n  I should like to go back to live there perhaps to die there! In two\nor three weeks I might, I think. It will then be June, and I should\nlike to be there by a particular day. \n\nHis hope that he was recovering proved so far well grounded that in\nthree weeks they had arrived in the city of many memories; were\nactually treading its pavements, receiving the reflection of the\nsunshine from its wasting walls.\n\n\n\n\nPart Sixth AT CHRISTMINSTER AGAIN\n\n_  And she humbled her body greatly, and all the places of her joy she\nfilled with her torn hair. _ ESTHER (Apoc.).\n\n    _ There are two who decline, a woman and I,_\n    _And enjoy our death in the darkness here. _\n                 R. BROWNING.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nOn their arrival the station was lively with straw-hatted young men,\nwelcoming young girls who bore a remarkable family likeness to their\nwelcomers, and who were dressed up in the brightest and lightest of\nraiment.\n\n The place seems gay,  said Sue.  Why it is Remembrance Day! Jude how\nsly of you you came to-day on purpose! \n\n Yes,  said Jude quietly, as he took charge of the small child, and\ntold Arabella s boy to keep close to them, Sue attending to their own\neldest.  I thought we might as well come to-day as on any other. \n\n But I am afraid it will depress you!  she said, looking anxiously at\nhim up and down.\n\n Oh, I mustn t let it interfere with our business; and we have a good\ndeal to do before we shall be settled here. The first thing is\nlodgings. \n\nHaving left their luggage and his tools at the station they proceeded\non foot up the familiar street, the holiday people all drifting in the\nsame direction. Reaching the Fourways they were about to turn off to\nwhere accommodation was likely to be found when, looking at the clock\nand the hurrying crowd, Jude said:  Let us go and see the procession,\nand never mind the lodgings just now. We can get them afterwards. \n\n Oughtn t we to get a house over our heads first?  she asked.\n\nBut his soul seemed full of the anniversary, and together they went\ndown Chief Street, their smallest child in Jude s arms, Sue leading her\nlittle girl, and Arabella s boy walking thoughtfully and silently\nbeside them. Crowds of pretty sisters in airy costumes, and meekly\nignorant parents who had known no college in their youth, were under\nconvoy in the same direction by brothers and sons bearing the opinion\nwritten large on them that no properly qualified human beings had lived\non earth till they came to grace it here and now.\n\n My failure is reflected on me by every one of those young fellows, \nsaid Jude.  A lesson on presumption is awaiting me to-day! Humiliation\nDay for me!   If you, my dear darling, hadn t come to my rescue, I\nshould have gone to the dogs with despair! \n\nShe saw from his face that he was getting into one of his tempestuous,\nself-harrowing moods.  It would have been better if we had gone at once\nabout our own affairs, dear,  she answered.  I am sure this sight will\nawaken old sorrows in you, and do no good! \n\n Well we are near; we will see it now,  said he.\n\nThey turned in on the left by the church with the Italian porch, whose\nhelical columns were heavily draped with creepers, and pursued the lane\ntill there arose on Jude s sight the circular theatre with that\nwell-known lantern above it, which stood in his mind as the sad symbol\nof his abandoned hopes, for it was from that outlook that he had\nfinally surveyed the City of Colleges on the afternoon of his great\nmeditation, which convinced him at last of the futility of his attempt\nto be a son of the university.\n\nTo-day, in the open space stretching between this building and the\nnearest college, stood a crowd of expectant people. A passage was kept\nclear through their midst by two barriers of timber, extending from the\ndoor of the college to the door of the large building between it and\nthe theatre.\n\n Here is the place they are just going to pass!  cried Jude in sudden\nexcitement. And pushing his way to the front he took up a position\nclose to the barrier, still hugging the youngest child in his arms,\nwhile Sue and the others kept immediately behind him. The crowd filled\nin at their back, and fell to talking, joking, and laughing as carriage\nafter carriage drew up at the lower door of the college, and solemn\nstately figures in blood-red robes began to alight. The sky had grown\novercast and livid, and thunder rumbled now and then.\n\nFather Time shuddered.  It do seem like the Judgment Day!  he\nwhispered.\n\n They are only learned Doctors,  said Sue.\n\nWhile they waited big drops of rain fell on their heads and shoulders,\nand the delay grew tedious. Sue again wished not to stay.\n\n They won t be long now,  said Jude, without turning his head.\n\nBut the procession did not come forth, and somebody in the crowd, to\npass the time, looked at the fa ade of the nearest college, and said he\nwondered what was meant by the Latin inscription in its midst. Jude,\nwho stood near the inquirer, explained it, and finding that the people\nall round him were listening with interest, went on to describe the\ncarving of the frieze (which he had studied years before), and to\ncriticize some details of masonry in other college fronts about the\ncity.\n\nThe idle crowd, including the two policemen at the doors, stared like\nthe Lycaonians at Paul, for Jude was apt to get too enthusiastic over\nany subject in hand, and they seemed to wonder how the stranger should\nknow more about the buildings of their town than they themselves did;\ntill one of them said:  Why, I know that man; he used to work here\nyears ago Jude Fawley, that s his name! Don t you mind he used to be\nnicknamed Tutor of St. Slums, d ye mind? because he aimed at that line\no  business? He s married, I suppose, then, and that s his child he s\ncarrying. Taylor would know him, as he knows everybody. \n\nThe speaker was a man named Jack Stagg, with whom Jude had formerly\nworked in repairing the college masonries; Tinker Taylor was seen to be\nstanding near. Having his attention called the latter cried across the\nbarriers to Jude:  You ve honoured us by coming back again, my friend! \n\nJude nodded.\n\n An  you don t seem to have done any great things for yourself by going\naway? \n\nJude assented to this also.\n\n Except found more mouths to fill!  This came in a new voice, and Jude\nrecognized its owner to be Uncle Joe, another mason whom he had known.\n\nJude replied good-humouredly that he could not dispute it; and from\nremark to remark something like a general conversation arose between\nhim and the crowd of idlers, during which Tinker Taylor asked Jude if\nhe remembered the Apostles  Creed in Latin still, and the night of the\nchallenge in the public house.\n\n But Fortune didn t lie that way?  threw in Joe.  Yer powers wasn t\nenough to carry  ee through? \n\n Don t answer them any more!  entreated Sue.\n\n I don t think I like Christminster!  murmured little Time mournfully,\nas he stood submerged and invisible in the crowd.\n\nBut finding himself the centre of curiosity, quizzing, and comment,\nJude was not inclined to shrink from open declarations of what he had\nno great reason to be ashamed of; and in a little while was stimulated\nto say in a loud voice to the listening throng generally:\n\n It is a difficult question, my friends, for any young man that\nquestion I had to grapple with, and which thousands are weighing at the\npresent moment in these uprising times whether to follow uncritically\nthe track he finds himself in, without considering his aptness for it,\nor to consider what his aptness or bent may be, and re-shape his course\naccordingly. I tried to do the latter, and I failed. But I don t admit\nthat my failure proved my view to be a wrong one, or that my success\nwould have made it a right one; though that s how we appraise such\nattempts nowadays I mean, not by their essential soundness, but by\ntheir accidental outcomes. If I had ended by becoming like one of these\ngentlemen in red and black that we saw dropping in here by now,\neverybody would have said:  See how wise that young man was, to follow\nthe bent of his nature!  But having ended no better than I began they\nsay:  See what a fool that fellow was in following a freak of his\nfancy! \n\n However it was my poverty and not my will that consented to be beaten.\nIt takes two or three generations to do what I tried to do in one; and\nmy impulses affections vices perhaps they should be called were too\nstrong not to hamper a man without advantages; who should be as\ncold-blooded as a fish and as selfish as a pig to have a really good\nchance of being one of his country s worthies. You may ridicule me I am\nquite willing that you should I am a fit subject, no doubt. But I think\nif you knew what I have gone through these last few years you would\nrather pity me. And if they knew he nodded towards the college at\nwhich the dons were severally arriving it is just possible they would\ndo the same. \n\n He do look ill and worn-out, it is true!  said a woman.\n\nSue s face grew more emotional; but though she stood close to Jude she\nwas screened.\n\n I may do some good before I am dead be a sort of success as a\nfrightful example of what not to do; and so illustrate a moral story, \ncontinued Jude, beginning to grow bitter, though he had opened serenely\nenough.  I was, perhaps, after all, a paltry victim to the spirit of\nmental and social restlessness that makes so many unhappy in these\ndays! \n\n Don t tell them that!  whispered Sue with tears, at perceiving Jude s\nstate of mind.  You weren t that. You struggled nobly to acquire\nknowledge, and only the meanest souls in the world would blame you! \n\nJude shifted the child into a more easy position on his arm, and\nconcluded:  And what I appear, a sick and poor man, is not the worst of\nme. I am in a chaos of principles groping in the dark acting by\ninstinct and not after example. Eight or nine years ago when I came\nhere first, I had a neat stock of fixed opinions, but they dropped away\none by one; and the further I get the less sure I am. I doubt if I have\nanything more for my present rule of life than following inclinations\nwhich do me and nobody else any harm, and actually give pleasure to\nthose I love best. There, gentlemen, since you wanted to know how I was\ngetting on, I have told you. Much good may it do you! I cannot explain\nfurther here. I perceive there is something wrong somewhere in our\nsocial formulas: what it is can only be discovered by men or women with\ngreater insight than mine if, indeed, they ever discover it at least in\nour time.  For who knoweth what is good for man in this life? and who\ncan tell a man what shall be after him under the sun? \n\n Hear, hear,  said the populace.\n\n Well preached!  said Tinker Taylor. And privately to his neighbours:\n Why, one of them jobbing pa sons swarming about here, that takes the\nservices when our head reverends want a holiday, wouldn t ha \ndiscoursed such doctrine for less than a guinea down. Hey? I ll take my\noath not one o   em would! And then he must have had it wrote down for\n n. And this only a working-man! \n\nAs a sort of objective commentary on Jude s remarks there drove up at\nthis moment with a belated Doctor, robed and panting, a cab whose horse\nfailed to stop at the exact point required for setting down the hirer,\nwho jumped out and entered the door. The driver, alighting, began to\nkick the animal in the belly.\n\n If that can be done,  said Jude,  at college gates in the most\nreligious and educational city in the world, what shall we say as to\nhow far we ve got? \n\n Order!  said one of the policemen, who had been engaged with a comrade\nin opening the large doors opposite the college.  Keep yer tongue\nquiet, my man, while the procession passes.  The rain came on more\nheavily, and all who had umbrellas opened them. Jude was not one of\nthese, and Sue only possessed a small one, half sunshade. She had grown\npale, though Jude did not notice it then.\n\n Let us go on, dear,  she whispered, endeavouring to shelter him.  We\nhaven t any lodgings yet, remember, and all our things are at the\nstation; and you are by no means well yet. I am afraid this wet will\nhurt you! \n\n They are coming now. Just a moment, and I ll go!  said he.\n\nA peal of six bells struck out, human faces began to crowd the windows\naround, and the procession of heads of houses and new Doctors emerged,\ntheir red and black gowned forms passing across the field of Jude s\nvision like inaccessible planets across an object-glass.\n\nAs they went their names were called by knowing informants, and when\nthey reached the old round theatre of Wren a cheer rose high.\n\n Let s go that way!  cried Jude, and though it now rained steadily he\nseemed not to know it, and took them round to the theatre. Here they\nstood upon the straw that was laid to drown the discordant noise of\nwheels, where the quaint and frost-eaten stone busts encircling the\nbuilding looked with pallid grimness on the proceedings, and in\nparticular at the bedraggled Jude, Sue, and their children, as at\nludicrous persons who had no business there.\n\n I wish I could get in!  he said to her fervidly.  Listen I may catch a\nfew words of the Latin speech by staying here; the windows are open. \n\nHowever, beyond the peals of the organ, and the shouts and hurrahs\nbetween each piece of oratory, Jude s standing in the wet did not bring\nmuch Latin to his intelligence more than, now and then, a sonorous word\nin _um_ or _ibus_.\n\n Well I m an outsider to the end of my days!  he sighed after a while.\n Now I ll go, my patient Sue. How good of you to wait in the rain all\nthis time to gratify my infatuation! I ll never care any more about the\ninfernal cursed place, upon my soul I won t! But what made you tremble\nso when we were at the barrier? And how pale you are, Sue! \n\n I saw Richard amongst the people on the other side. \n\n Ah did you! \n\n He is evidently come up to Jerusalem to see the festival like the rest\nof us: and on that account is probably living not so very far away. He\nhad the same hankering for the university that you had, in a milder\nform. I don t think he saw me, though he must have heard you speaking\nto the crowd. But he seemed not to notice. \n\n Well suppose he did. Your mind is free from worries about him now, my\nSue? \n\n Yes, I suppose so. But I am weak. Although I know it is all right with\nour plans, I felt a curious dread of him; an awe, or terror, of\nconventions I don t believe in. It comes over me at times like a sort\nof creeping paralysis, and makes me so sad! \n\n You are getting tired, Sue. Oh I forgot, darling! Yes, we ll go on at\nonce. \n\nThey started in quest of the lodging, and at last found something that\nseemed to promise well, in Mildew Lane a spot which to Jude was\nirresistible though to Sue it was not so fascinating a narrow lane\nclose to the back of a college, but having no communication with it.\nThe little houses were darkened to gloom by the high collegiate\nbuildings, within which life was so far removed from that of the people\nin the lane as if it had been on opposite sides of the globe; yet only\na thickness of wall divided them. Two or three of the houses had\nnotices of rooms to let, and the newcomers knocked at the door of one,\nwhich a woman opened.\n\n Ah listen!  said Jude suddenly, instead of addressing her.\n\n What? \n\n Why the bells what church can that be? The tones are familiar. \n\nAnother peal of bells had begun to sound out at some distance off.\n\n I don t know!  said the landlady tartly.  Did you knock to ask that? \n\n No; for lodgings,  said Jude, coming to himself.\n\nThe householder scrutinized Sue s figure a moment.  We haven t any to\nlet,  said she, shutting the door.\n\nJude looked discomfited, and the boy distressed.  Now, Jude,  said Sue,\n let me try. You don t know the way. \n\nThey found a second place hard by; but here the occupier, observing not\nonly Sue, but the boy and the small children, said civilly,  I am sorry\nto say we don t let where there are children ; and also closed the\ndoor.\n\nThe small child squared its mouth and cried silently, with an instinct\nthat trouble loomed. The boy sighed.  I don t like Christminster!  he\nsaid.  Are the great old houses gaols? \n\n No; colleges,  said Jude;  which perhaps you ll study in some day. \n\n I d rather not!  the boy rejoined.\n\n Now we ll try again,  said Sue.  I ll pull my cloak more round me \nLeaving Kennetbridge for this place is like coming from Caiaphas to\nPilate!   How do I look now, dear? \n\n Nobody would notice it now,  said Jude.\n\nThere was one other house, and they tried a third time. The woman here\nwas more amiable; but she had little room to spare, and could only\nagree to take in Sue and the children if her husband could go\nelsewhere. This arrangement they perforce adopted, in the stress from\ndelaying their search till so late. They came to terms with her, though\nher price was rather high for their pockets. But they could not afford\nto be critical till Jude had time to get a more permanent abode; and in\nthis house Sue took possession of a back room on the second floor with\nan inner closet-room for the children. Jude stayed and had a cup of\ntea; and was pleased to find that the window commanded the back of\nanother of the colleges. Kissing all four he went to get a few\nnecessaries and look for lodgings for himself.\n\nWhen he was gone the landlady came up to talk a little with Sue, and\ngather something of the circumstances of the family she had taken in.\nSue had not the art of prevarication, and, after admitting several\nfacts as to their late difficulties and wanderings, she was startled by\nthe landlady saying suddenly:\n\n Are you really a married woman? \n\nSue hesitated; and then impulsively told the woman that her husband and\nherself had each been unhappy in their first marriages, after which,\nterrified at the thought of a second irrevocable union, and lest the\nconditions of the contract should kill their love, yet wishing to be\ntogether, they had literally not found the courage to repeat it, though\nthey had attempted it two or three times. Therefore, though in her own\nsense of the words she was a married woman, in the landlady s sense she\nwas not.\n\nThe housewife looked embarrassed, and went downstairs. Sue sat by the\nwindow in a reverie, watching the rain. Her quiet was broken by the\nnoise of someone entering the house, and then the voices of a man and\nwoman in conversation in the passage below. The landlady s husband had\narrived, and she was explaining to him the incoming of the lodgers\nduring his absence.\n\nHis voice rose in sudden anger.  Now who wants such a woman here? and\nperhaps a confinement!   Besides, didn t I say I wouldn t have\nchildren? The hall and stairs fresh painted, to be kicked about by\nthem! You must have known all was not straight with  em coming like\nthat. Taking in a family when I said a single man. \n\nThe wife expostulated, but, as it seemed, the husband insisted on his\npoint; for presently a tap came to Sue s door, and the woman appeared.\n\n I am sorry to tell you, ma am,  she said,  that I can t let you have\nthe room for the week after all. My husband objects; and therefore I\nmust ask you to go. I don t mind your staying over to-night, as it is\ngetting late in the afternoon; but I shall be glad if you can leave\nearly in the morning. \n\nThough she knew that she was entitled to the lodging for a week, Sue\ndid not wish to create a disturbance between the wife and husband, and\nshe said she would leave as requested. When the landlady had gone Sue\nlooked out of the window again. Finding that the rain had ceased she\nproposed to the boy that, after putting the little ones to bed, they\nshould go out and search about for another place, and bespeak it for\nthe morrow, so as not to be so hard-driven then as they had been that\nday.\n\nTherefore, instead of unpacking her boxes, which had just been sent on\nfrom the station by Jude, they sallied out into the damp though not\nunpleasant streets, Sue resolving not to disturb her husband with the\nnews of her notice to quit while he was perhaps worried in obtaining a\nlodging for himself. In the company of the boy she wandered into this\nstreet and into that; but though she tried a dozen different houses she\nfared far worse alone than she had fared in Jude s company, and could\nget nobody to promise her a room for the following day. Every\nhouseholder looked askance at such a woman and child inquiring for\naccommodation in the gloom.\n\n I ought not to be born, ought I?  said the boy with misgiving.\n\nThoroughly tired at last Sue returned to the place where she was not\nwelcome, but where at least she had temporary shelter. In her absence\nJude had left his address; but knowing how weak he still was she\nadhered to her determination not to disturb him till the next day.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nSue sat looking at the bare floor of the room, the house being little\nmore than an old intramural cottage, and then she regarded the scene\noutside the uncurtained window. At some distance opposite, the outer\nwalls of Sarcophagus College silent, black, and windowless threw their\nfour centuries of gloom, bigotry, and decay into the little room she\noccupied, shutting out the moonlight by night and the sun by day. The\noutlines of Rubric College also were discernible beyond the other, and\nthe tower of a third farther off still. She thought of the strange\noperation of a simple-minded man s ruling passion, that it should have\nled Jude, who loved her and the children so tenderly, to place them\nhere in this depressing purlieu, because he was still haunted by his\ndream. Even now he did not distinctly hear the freezing negative that\nthose scholared walls had echoed to his desire.\n\nThe failure to find another lodging, and the lack of room in this house\nfor his father, had made a deep impression on the boy a brooding\nundemonstrative horror seemed to have seized him. The silence was\nbroken by his saying:  Mother, _what_ shall we do to-morrow! \n\n I don t know!  said Sue despondently.  I am afraid this will trouble\nyour father. \n\n I wish Father was quite well, and there had been room for him! Then it\nwouldn t matter so much! Poor Father! \n\n It wouldn t! \n\n Can I do anything? \n\n No! All is trouble, adversity, and suffering! \n\n Father went away to give us children room, didn t he? \n\n Partly. \n\n It would be better to be out o  the world than in it, wouldn t it? \n\n It would almost, dear. \n\n Tis because of us children, too, isn t it, that you can t get a good\nlodging? \n\n Well people do object to children sometimes. \n\n Then if children make so much trouble, why do people have  em? \n\n Oh because it is a law of nature. \n\n But we don t ask to be born? \n\n No indeed. \n\n And what makes it worse with me is that you are not my real mother,\nand you needn t have had me unless you liked. I oughtn t to have come\nto  ee that s the real truth! I troubled  em in Australia, and I\ntrouble folk here. I wish I hadn t been born! \n\n You couldn t help it, my dear. \n\n I think that whenever children be born that are not wanted they should\nbe killed directly, before their souls come to  em, and not allowed to\ngrow big and walk about! \n\nSue did not reply. She was doubtfully pondering how to treat this too\nreflective child.\n\nShe at last concluded that, so far as circumstances permitted, she\nwould be honest and candid with one who entered into her difficulties\nlike an aged friend.\n\n There is going to be another in our family soon,  she hesitatingly\nremarked.\n\n How? \n\n There is going to be another baby. \n\n What!  The boy jumped up wildly.  Oh God, Mother, you ve never a-sent\nfor another; and such trouble with what you ve got! \n\n Yes, I have, I am sorry to say!  murmured Sue, her eyes glistening\nwith suspended tears.\n\nThe boy burst out weeping.  Oh you don t care, you don t care!  he\ncried in bitter reproach.  How _ever_ could you, Mother, be so wicked\nand cruel as this, when you needn t have done it till we was better\noff, and Father well! To bring us all into _more_ trouble! No room for\nus, and Father a-forced to go away, and we turned out to-morrow; and\nyet you be going to have another of us soon!    Tis done o \npurpose! tis tis!  He walked up and down sobbing.\n\n Y-you must forgive me, little Jude!  she pleaded, her bosom heaving\nnow as much as the boy s.  I can t explain I will when you are older.\nIt does seem as if I had done it on purpose, now we are in these\ndifficulties! I can t explain, dear! But it is not quite on purpose I\ncan t help it! \n\n Yes it is it must be! For nobody would interfere with us, like that,\nunless you agreed! I won t forgive you, ever, ever! I ll never believe\nyou care for me, or Father, or any of us any more! \n\nHe got up, and went away into the closet adjoining her room, in which a\nbed had been spread on the floor. There she heard him say:  If we\nchildren was gone there d be no trouble at all! \n\n Don t think that, dear,  she cried, rather peremptorily.  But go to\nsleep! \n\nThe following morning she awoke at a little past six, and decided to\nget up and run across before breakfast to the inn which Jude had\ninformed her to be his quarters, to tell him what had happened before\nhe went out. She arose softly, to avoid disturbing the children, who,\nas she knew, must be fatigued by their exertions of yesterday.\n\nShe found Jude at breakfast in the obscure tavern he had chosen as a\ncounterpoise to the expense of her lodging: and she explained to him\nher homelessness. He had been so anxious about her all night, he said.\nSomehow, now it was morning, the request to leave the lodgings did not\nseem such a depressing incident as it had seemed the night before, nor\ndid even her failure to find another place affect her so deeply as at\nfirst. Jude agreed with her that it would not be worth while to insist\nupon her right to stay a week, but to take immediate steps for removal.\n\n You must all come to this inn for a day or two,  he said.  It is a\nrough place, and it will not be so nice for the children, but we shall\nhave more time to look round. There are plenty of lodgings in the\nsuburbs in my old quarter of Beersheba. Have breakfast with me now you\nare here, my bird. You are sure you are well? There will be plenty of\ntime to get back and prepare the children s meal before they wake. In\nfact, I ll go with you. \n\nShe joined Jude in a hasty meal, and in a quarter of an hour they\nstarted together, resolving to clear out from Sue s too respectable\nlodging immediately. On reaching the place and going upstairs she found\nthat all was quiet in the children s room, and called to the landlady\nin timorous tones to please bring up the tea-kettle and something for\ntheir breakfast. This was perfunctorily done, and producing a couple of\neggs which she had brought with her she put them into the boiling\nkettle, and summoned Jude to watch them for the youngsters, while she\nwent to call them, it being now about half-past eight o clock.\n\nJude stood bending over the kettle, with his watch in his hand, timing\nthe eggs, so that his back was turned to the little inner chamber where\nthe children lay. A shriek from Sue suddenly caused him to start round.\nHe saw that the door of the room, or rather closet which had seemed to\ngo heavily upon its hinges as she pushed it back was open, and that Sue\nhad sunk to the floor just within it. Hastening forward to pick her up\nhe turned his eyes to the little bed spread on the boards; no children\nwere there. He looked in bewilderment round the room. At the back of\nthe door were fixed two hooks for hanging garments, and from these the\nforms of the two youngest children were suspended, by a piece of\nbox-cord round each of their necks, while from a nail a few yards off\nthe body of little Jude was hanging in a similar manner. An overturned\nchair was near the elder boy, and his glazed eyes were slanted into the\nroom; but those of the girl and the baby boy were closed.\n\nHalf-paralyzed by the strange and consummate horror of the scene, he\nlet Sue lie, cut the cords with his pocket-knife and threw the three\nchildren on the bed; but the feel of their bodies in the momentary\nhandling seemed to say that they were dead. He caught up Sue, who was\nin fainting fits, and put her on the bed in the other room, after which\nhe breathlessly summoned the landlady and ran out for a doctor.\n\nWhen he got back Sue had come to herself, and the two helpless women,\nbending over the children in wild efforts to restore them, and the\ntriplet of little corpses, formed a sight which overthrew his\nself-command. The nearest surgeon came in, but, as Jude had inferred,\nhis presence was superfluous. The children were past saving, for though\ntheir bodies were still barely cold it was conjectured that they had\nbeen hanging more than an hour. The probability held by the parents\nlater on, when they were able to reason on the case, was that the elder\nboy, on waking, looked into the outer room for Sue, and, finding her\nabsent, was thrown into a fit of aggravated despondency that the events\nand information of the evening before had induced in his morbid\ntemperament. Moreover a piece of paper was found upon the floor, on\nwhich was written, in the boy s hand, with the bit of lead pencil that\nhe carried:\n\n_Done because we are too menny._\n\nAt sight of this Sue s nerves utterly gave way, an awful conviction\nthat her discourse with the boy had been the main cause of the tragedy,\nthrowing her into a convulsive agony which knew no abatement. They\ncarried her away against her wish to a room on the lower floor; and\nthere she lay, her slight figure shaken with her gasps, and her eyes\nstaring at the ceiling, the woman of the house vainly trying to soothe\nher.\n\nThey could hear from this chamber the people moving about above, and\nshe implored to be allowed to go back, and was only kept from doing so\nby the assurance that, if there were any hope, her presence might do\nharm, and the reminder that it was necessary to take care of herself\nlest she should endanger a coming life. Her inquiries were incessant,\nand at last Jude came down and told her there was no hope. As soon as\nshe could speak she informed him what she had said to the boy, and how\nshe thought herself the cause of this.\n\n No,  said Jude.  It was in his nature to do it. The Doctor says there\nare such boys springing up amongst us boys of a sort unknown in the\nlast generation the outcome of new views of life. They seem to see all\nits terrors before they are old enough to have staying power to resist\nthem. He says it is the beginning of the coming universal wish not to\nlive. He s an advanced man, the Doctor: but he can give no consolation\nto \n\nJude had kept back his own grief on account of her; but he now broke\ndown; and this stimulated Sue to efforts of sympathy which in some\ndegree distracted her from her poignant self-reproach. When everybody\nwas gone, she was allowed to see the children.\n\nThe boy s face expressed the whole tale of their situation. On that\nlittle shape had converged all the inauspiciousness and shadow which\nhad darkened the first union of Jude, and all the accidents, mistakes,\nfears, errors of the last. He was their nodal point, their focus, their\nexpression in a single term. For the rashness of those parents he had\ngroaned, for their ill assortment he had quaked, and for the\nmisfortunes of these he had died.\n\nWhen the house was silent, and they could do nothing but await the\ncoroner s inquest, a subdued, large, low voice spread into the air of\nthe room from behind the heavy walls at the back.\n\n What is it?  said Sue, her spasmodic breathing suspended.\n\n The organ of the college chapel. The organist practising I suppose.\nIt s the anthem from the seventy-third Psalm;  Truly God is loving unto\nIsrael. \n\nShe sobbed again.  Oh, oh my babies! They had done no harm! Why should\nthey have been taken away, and not I! \n\nThere was another stillness broken at last by two persons in\nconversation somewhere without.\n\n They are talking about us, no doubt!  moaned Sue.  We are made a\nspectacle unto the world, and to angels, and to men! \n\nJude listened No they are not talking of us,  he said.  They are two\nclergymen of different views, arguing about the eastward position. Good\nGod the eastward position, and all creation groaning! \n\nThen another silence, till she was seized with another uncontrollable\nfit of grief.  There is something external to us which says,  You\nshan t!  First it said,  You shan t learn!  Then it said,  You shan t\nlabour!  Now it says,  You shan t love! \n\nHe tried to soothe her by saying,  That s bitter of you, darling. \n\n But it s true! \n\nThus they waited, and she went back again to her room. The baby s\nfrock, shoes, and socks, which had been lying on a chair at the time of\nhis death, she would not now have removed, though Jude would fain have\ngot them out of her sight. But whenever he touched them she implored\nhim to let them lie, and burst out almost savagely at the woman of the\nhouse when she also attempted to put them away.\n\nJude dreaded her dull apathetic silences almost more than her\nparoxysms.  Why don t you speak to me, Jude?  she cried out, after one\nof these.  Don t turn away from me! I can t _bear_ the loneliness of\nbeing out of your looks! \n\n There, dear; here I am,  he said, putting his face close to hers.\n\n Yes  Oh, my comrade, our perfect union our two-in-oneness is now\nstained with blood! \n\n Shadowed by death that s all. \n\n Ah; but it was I who incited him really, though I didn t know I was\ndoing it! I talked to the child as one should only talk to people of\nmature age. I said the world was against us, that it was better to be\nout of life than in it at this price; and he took it literally. And I\ntold him I was going to have another child. It upset him. Oh how\nbitterly he upbraided me! \n\n Why did you do it, Sue? \n\n I can t tell. It was that I wanted to be truthful. I couldn t bear\ndeceiving him as to the facts of life. And yet I wasn t truthful, for\nwith a false delicacy I told him too obscurely. Why was I half-wiser\nthan my fellow-women? And not entirely wiser! Why didn t I tell him\npleasant untruths, instead of half-realities? It was my want of\nself-control, so that I could neither conceal things nor reveal them! \n\n Your plan might have been a good one for the majority of cases; only\nin our peculiar case it chanced to work badly perhaps. He must have\nknown sooner or later. \n\n And I was just making my baby darling a new frock; and now I shall\nnever see him in it, and never talk to him any more!   My eyes are so\nswollen that I can scarcely see; and yet little more than a year ago I\ncalled myself happy! We went about loving each other too much indulging\nourselves to utter selfishness with each other! We said do you\nremember? that we would make a virtue of joy. I said it was Nature s\nintention, Nature s law and _raison d tre_ that we should be joyful in\nwhat instincts she afforded us instincts which civilization had taken\nupon itself to thwart. What dreadful things I said! And now Fate has\ngiven us this stab in the back for being such fools as to take Nature\nat her word! \n\nShe sank into a quiet contemplation, till she said,  It is best,\nperhaps, that they should be gone. Yes I see it is! Better that they\nshould be plucked fresh than stay to wither away miserably! \n\n Yes,  replied Jude.  Some say that the elders should rejoice when\ntheir children die in infancy. \n\n But they don t know!   Oh my babies, my babies, could you be alive\nnow! You may say the boy wished to be out of life, or he wouldn t have\ndone it. It was not unreasonable for him to die: it was part of his\nincurably sad nature, poor little fellow! But then the others my _own_\nchildren and yours! \n\nAgain Sue looked at the hanging little frock and at the socks and\nshoes; and her figure quivered like a string.  I am a pitiable\ncreature,  she said,  good neither for earth nor heaven any more! I am\ndriven out of my mind by things! What ought to be done?  She stared at\nJude, and tightly held his hand.\n\n Nothing can be done,  he replied.  Things are as they are, and will be\nbrought to their destined issue. \n\nShe paused.  Yes! Who said that?  she asked heavily.\n\n It comes in the chorus of the _Agamemnon_. It has been in my mind\ncontinually since this happened. \n\n My poor Jude how you ve missed everything! you more than I, for I did\nget you! To think you should know that by your unassisted reading, and\nyet be in poverty and despair! \n\nAfter such momentary diversions her grief would return in a wave.\n\nThe jury duly came and viewed the bodies, the inquest was held; and\nnext arrived the melancholy morning of the funeral. Accounts in the\nnewspapers had brought to the spot curious idlers, who stood apparently\ncounting the window-panes and the stones of the walls. Doubt of the\nreal relations of the couple added zest to their curiosity. Sue had\ndeclared that she would follow the two little ones to the grave, but at\nthe last moment she gave way, and the coffins were quietly carried out\nof the house while she was lying down. Jude got into the vehicle, and\nit drove away, much to the relief of the landlord, who now had only Sue\nand her luggage remaining on his hands, which he hoped to be also clear\nof later on in the day, and so to have freed his house from the\nexasperating notoriety it had acquired during the week through his\nwife s unlucky admission of these strangers. In the afternoon he\nprivately consulted with the owner of the house, and they agreed that\nif any objection to it arose from the tragedy which had occurred there\nthey would try to get its number changed.\n\nWhen Jude had seen the two little boxes one containing little Jude, and\nthe other the two smallest deposited in the earth he hastened back to\nSue, who was still in her room, and he therefore did not disturb her\njust then. Feeling anxious, however, he went again about four o clock.\nThe woman thought she was still lying down, but returned to him to say\nthat she was not in her bedroom after all. Her hat and jacket, too,\nwere missing: she had gone out. Jude hurried off to the public house\nwhere he was sleeping. She had not been there. Then bethinking himself\nof possibilities he went along the road to the cemetery, which he\nentered, and crossed to where the interments had recently taken place.\nThe idlers who had followed to the spot by reason of the tragedy were\nall gone now. A man with a shovel in his hands was attempting to earth\nin the common grave of the three children, but his arm was held back by\nan expostulating woman who stood in the half-filled hole. It was Sue,\nwhose coloured clothing, which she had never thought of changing for\nthe mourning he had bought, suggested to the eye a deeper grief than\nthe conventional garb of bereavement could express.\n\n He s filling them in, and he shan t till I ve seen my little ones\nagain!  she cried wildly when she saw Jude.  I want to see them once\nmore. Oh Jude please Jude I want to see them! I didn t know you would\nlet them be taken away while I was asleep! You said perhaps I should\nsee them once more before they were screwed down; and then you didn t,\nbut took them away! Oh Jude, you are cruel to me too! \n\n She s been wanting me to dig out the grave again, and let her get to\nthe coffins,  said the man with the spade.  She ought to be took home,\nby the look o  her. She is hardly responsible, poor thing, seemingly.\nCan t dig  em up again now, ma am. Do ye go home with your husband, and\ntake it quiet, and thank God that there ll be another soon to swage yer\ngrief. \n\nBut Sue kept asking piteously:  Can t I see them once more just once!\nCan t I? Only just one little minute, Jude? It would not take long! And\nI should be so glad, Jude! I will be so good, and not disobey you ever\nany more, Jude, if you will let me? I would go home quietly afterwards,\nand not want to see them any more! Can t I? Why can t I? \n\nThus she went on. Jude was thrown into such acute sorrow that he almost\nfelt he would try to get the man to accede. But it could do no good,\nand might make her still worse; and he saw that it was imperative to\nget her home at once. So he coaxed her, and whispered tenderly, and put\nhis arm round her to support her; till she helplessly gave in, and was\ninduced to leave the cemetery.\n\nHe wished to obtain a fly to take her back in, but economy being so\nimperative she deprecated his doing so, and they walked along slowly,\nJude in black crape, she in brown and red clothing. They were to have\ngone to a new lodging that afternoon, but Jude saw that it was not\npracticable, and in course of time they entered the now hated house.\nSue was at once got to bed, and the Doctor sent for.\n\nJude waited all the evening downstairs. At a very late hour the\nintelligence was brought to him that a child had been prematurely born,\nand that it, like the others, was a corpse.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nSue was convalescent, though she had hoped for death, and Jude had\nagain obtained work at his old trade. They were in other lodgings now,\nin the direction of Beersheba, and not far from the Church of\nCeremonies Saint Silas.\n\nThey would sit silent, more bodeful of the direct antagonism of things\nthan of their insensate and stolid obstructiveness. Vague and quaint\nimaginings had haunted Sue in the days when her intellect scintillated\nlike a star, that the world resembled a stanza or melody composed in a\ndream; it was wonderfully excellent to the half-aroused intelligence,\nbut hopelessly absurd at the full waking; that the First Cause worked\nautomatically like a somnambulist, and not reflectively like a sage;\nthat at the framing of the terrestrial conditions there seemed never to\nhave been contemplated such a development of emotional perceptiveness\namong the creatures subject to those conditions as that reached by\nthinking and educated humanity. But affliction makes opposing forces\nloom anthropomorphous; and those ideas were now exchanged for a sense\nof Jude and herself fleeing from a persecutor.\n\n We must conform!  she said mournfully.  All the ancient wrath of the\nPower above us has been vented upon us, His poor creatures, and we must\nsubmit. There is no choice. We must. It is no use fighting against\nGod! \n\n It is only against man and senseless circumstance,  said Jude.\n\n True!  she murmured.  What have I been thinking of! I am getting as\nsuperstitious as a savage!   But whoever or whatever our foe may be, I\nam cowed into submission. I have no more fighting strength left; no\nmore enterprise. I am beaten, beaten!    We are made a spectacle unto\nthe world, and to angels, and to men!  I am always saying that now. \n\n I feel the same! \n\n What shall we do? You are in work now; but remember, it may only be\nbecause our history and relations are not absolutely known  Possibly,\nif they knew our marriage had not been formalized they would turn you\nout of your job as they did at Aldbrickham! \n\n I hardly know. Perhaps they would hardly do that. However, I think\nthat we ought to make it legal now as soon as you are able to go out. \n\n You think we ought? \n\n Certainly. \n\nAnd Jude fell into thought.  I have seemed to myself lately,  he said,\n to belong to that vast band of men shunned by the virtuous the men\ncalled seducers. It amazes me when I think of it! I have not been\nconscious of it, or of any wrongdoing towards you, whom I love more\nthan myself. Yet I am one of those men! I wonder if any other of them\nare the same purblind, simple creatures as I?   Yes, Sue that s what I\nam. I seduced you  You were a distinct type a refined creature,\nintended by Nature to be left intact. But I couldn t leave you alone! \n\n No, no, Jude!  she said quickly.  Don t reproach yourself with being\nwhat you are not. If anybody is to blame it is I. \n\n I supported you in your resolve to leave Phillotson; and without me\nperhaps you wouldn t have urged him to let you go. \n\n I should have, just the same. As to ourselves, the fact of our not\nhaving entered into a legal contract is the saving feature in our\nunion. We have thereby avoided insulting, as it were, the solemnity of\nour first marriages. \n\n Solemnity?  Jude looked at her with some surprise, and grew conscious\nthat she was not the Sue of their earlier time.\n\n Yes,  she said, with a little quiver in her words,  I have had\ndreadful fears, a dreadful sense of my own insolence of action. I have\nthought that I am still his wife! \n\n Whose? \n\n Richard s. \n\n Good God, dearest! why? \n\n Oh I can t explain! Only the thought comes to me. \n\n It is your weakness a sick fancy, without reason or meaning! Don t let\nit trouble you. \n\nSue sighed uneasily.\n\nAs a set-off against such discussions as these there had come an\nimprovement in their pecuniary position, which earlier in their\nexperience would have made them cheerful. Jude had quite unexpectedly\nfound good employment at his old trade almost directly he arrived, the\nsummer weather suiting his fragile constitution; and outwardly his days\nwent on with that monotonous uniformity which is in itself so grateful\nafter vicissitude. People seemed to have forgotten that he had ever\nshown any awkward aberrancies, and he daily mounted to the parapets and\ncopings of colleges he could never enter, and renewed the crumbling\nfreestones of mullioned windows he would never look from, as if he had\nknown no wish to do otherwise.\n\nThere was this change in him; that he did not often go to any service\nat the churches now. One thing troubled him more than any other; that\nSue and himself had mentally travelled in opposite directions since the\ntragedy: events which had enlarged his own views of life, laws,\ncustoms, and dogmas, had not operated in the same manner on Sue s. She\nwas no longer the same as in the independent days, when her intellect\nplayed like lambent lightning over conventions and formalities which he\nat that time respected, though he did not now.\n\nOn a particular Sunday evening he came in rather late. She was not at\nhome, but she soon returned, when he found her silent and meditative.\n\n What are you thinking of, little woman?  he asked curiously.\n\n Oh I can t tell clearly! I have thought that we have been selfish,\ncareless, even impious, in our courses, you and I. Our life has been a\nvain attempt at self-delight. But self-abnegation is the higher road.\nWe should mortify the flesh the terrible flesh the curse of Adam! \n\n Sue!  he murmured.  What has come over you? \n\n We ought to be continually sacrificing ourselves on the altar of duty!\nBut I have always striven to do what has pleased me. I well deserved\nthe scourging I have got! I wish something would take the evil right\nout of me, and all my monstrous errors, and all my sinful ways! \n\n Sue my own too suffering dear! there s no evil woman in you. Your\nnatural instincts are perfectly healthy; not quite so impassioned,\nperhaps, as I could wish; but good, and dear, and pure. And as I have\noften said, you are absolutely the most ethereal, least sensual woman I\never knew to exist without inhuman sexlessness. Why do you talk in such\na changed way? We have not been selfish, except when no one could\nprofit by our being otherwise. You used to say that human nature was\nnoble and long-suffering, not vile and corrupt, and at last I thought\nyou spoke truly. And now you seem to take such a much lower view! \n\n I want a humble heart; and a chastened mind; and I have never had them\nyet! \n\n You have been fearless, both as a thinker and as a feeler, and you\ndeserved more admiration than I gave. I was too full of narrow dogmas\nat that time to see it. \n\n Don t say that, Jude! I wish my every fearless word and thought could\nbe rooted out of my history. Self-renunciation that s everything! I\ncannot humiliate myself too much. I should like to prick myself all\nover with pins and bleed out the badness that s in me! \n\n Hush!  he said, pressing her little face against his breast as if she\nwere an infant.  It is bereavement that has brought you to this! Such\nremorse is not for you, my sensitive plant, but for the wicked ones of\nthe earth who never feel it! \n\n I ought not to stay like this,  she murmured, when she had remained in\nthe position a long while.\n\n Why not? \n\n It is indulgence. \n\n Still on the same tack! But is there anything better on earth than\nthat we should love one another? \n\n Yes. It depends on the sort of love; and yours ours is the wrong. \n\n I won t have it, Sue! Come, when do you wish our marriage to be signed\nin a vestry? \n\nShe paused, and looked up uneasily.  Never,  she whispered.\n\nNot knowing the whole of her meaning he took the objection serenely,\nand said nothing. Several minutes elapsed, and he thought she had\nfallen asleep; but he spoke softly, and found that she was wide awake\nall the time. She sat upright and sighed.\n\n There is a strange, indescribable perfume or atmosphere about you\nto-night, Sue,  he said.  I mean not only mentally, but about your\nclothes, also. A sort of vegetable scent, which I seem to know, yet\ncannot remember. \n\n It is incense. \n\n Incense? \n\n I have been to the service at St. Silas , and I was in the fumes of\nit. \n\n Oh St. Silas. \n\n Yes. I go there sometimes. \n\n Indeed. You go there! \n\n You see, Jude, it is lonely here in the weekday mornings, when you are\nat work, and I think and think of of my  She stopped till she could\ncontrol the lumpiness of her throat.  And I have taken to go in there,\nas it is so near. \n\n Oh well of course, I say nothing against it. Only it is odd, for you.\nThey little think what sort of chiel is amang them! \n\n What do you mean, Jude? \n\n Well a sceptic, to be plain. \n\n How can you pain me so, dear Jude, in my trouble! Yet I know you\ndidn t mean it. But you ought not to say that. \n\n I won t. But I am much surprised! \n\n Well I want to tell you something else, Jude. You won t be angry, will\nyou? I have thought of it a good deal since my babies died. I don t\nthink I ought to be your wife or as your wife any longer. \n\n What?   But you _are_! \n\n From your point of view; but \n\n Of course we were afraid of the ceremony, and a good many others would\nhave been in our places, with such strong reasons for fears. But\nexperience has proved how we misjudged ourselves, and overrated our\ninfirmities; and if you are beginning to respect rites and ceremonies,\nas you seem to be, I wonder you don t say it shall be carried out\ninstantly? You certainly _are_ my wife, Sue, in all but law. What do\nyou mean by what you said? \n\n I don t think I am! \n\n Not? But suppose we _had_ gone through the ceremony? Would you feel\nthat you were then? \n\n No. I should not feel even then that I was. I should feel worse than I\ndo now. \n\n Why so in the name of all that s perverse, my dear? \n\n Because I am Richard s. \n\n Ah you hinted that absurd fancy to me before! \n\n It was only an impression with me then; I feel more and more convinced\nas time goes on that I belong to him, or to nobody. \n\n My good heavens how we are changing places! \n\n Yes. Perhaps so. \n\nSome few days later, in the dusk of the summer evening, they were\nsitting in the same small room downstairs, when a knock came to the\nfront door of the carpenter s house where they were lodging, and in a\nfew moments there was a tap at the door of their room. Before they\ncould open it the comer did so, and a woman s form appeared.\n\n Is Mr. Fawley here? \n\nJude and Sue started as he mechanically replied in the affirmative, for\nthe voice was Arabella s.\n\nHe formally requested her to come in, and she sat down in the window\nbench, where they could distinctly see her outline against the light;\nbut no characteristic that enabled them to estimate her general aspect\nand air. Yet something seemed to denote that she was not quite so\ncomfortably circumstanced, nor so bouncingly attired, as she had been\nduring Cartlett s lifetime.\n\nThe three attempted an awkward conversation about the tragedy, of which\nJude had felt it to be his duty to inform her immediately, though she\nhad never replied to his letter.\n\n I have just come from the cemetery,  she said.  I inquired and found\nthe child s grave. I couldn t come to the funeral thank you for\ninviting me all the same. I read all about it in the papers, and I felt\nI wasn t wanted  No I couldn t come to the funeral,  repeated Arabella,\nwho, seeming utterly unable to reach the ideal of a catastrophic\nmanner, fumbled with iterations.  But I am glad I found the grave. As\n tis your trade, Jude, you ll be able to put up a handsome stone to\n em. \n\n I shall put up a headstone,  said Jude drearily.\n\n He was my child, and naturally I feel for him. \n\n I hope so. We all did. \n\n The others that weren t mine I didn t feel so much for, as was\nnatural. \n\n Of course. \n\nA sigh came from the dark corner where Sue sat.\n\n I had often wished I had mine with me,  continued Mrs. Cartlett.\n Perhaps  twouldn t have happened then! But of course I didn t wish to\ntake him away from your wife. \n\n I am not his wife,  came from Sue.\n\nThe unexpectedness of her words struck Jude silent.\n\n Oh, I beg your pardon, I m sure,  said Arabella.  I thought you were! \n\nJude had known from the quality of Sue s tone that her new and\ntranscendental views lurked in her words; but all except their obvious\nmeaning was, naturally, missed by Arabella. The latter, after evincing\nthat she was struck by Sue s avowal, recovered herself, and went on to\ntalk with placid bluntness about  her  boy, for whom, though in his\nlifetime she had shown no care at all, she now exhibited a ceremonial\nmournfulness that was apparently sustaining to the conscience. She\nalluded to the past, and in making some remark appealed again to Sue.\nThere was no answer: Sue had invisibly left the room.\n\n She said she was not your wife?  resumed Arabella in another voice.\n Why should she do that? \n\n I cannot inform you,  said Jude shortly.\n\n She is, isn t she? She once told me so. \n\n I don t criticize what she says. \n\n Ah I see! Well, my time is up. I am staying here to-night, and thought\nI could do no less than call, after our mutual affliction. I am\nsleeping at the place where I used to be barmaid, and to-morrow I go\nback to Alfredston. Father is come home again, and I am living with\nhim. \n\n He has returned from Australia?  said Jude with languid curiosity.\n\n Yes. Couldn t get on there. Had a rough time of it. Mother died of\ndys what do you call it in the hot weather, and Father and two of the\nyoung ones have just got back. He has got a cottage near the old place,\nand for the present I am keeping house for him. \n\nJude s former wife had maintained a stereotyped manner of strict good\nbreeding even now that Sue was gone, and limited her stay to a number\nof minutes that should accord with the highest respectability. When she\nhad departed Jude, much relieved, went to the stairs and called\nSue feeling anxious as to what had become of her.\n\nThere was no answer, and the carpenter who kept the lodgings said she\nhad not come in. Jude was puzzled, and became quite alarmed at her\nabsence, for the hour was growing late. The carpenter called his wife,\nwho conjectured that Sue might have gone to St. Silas  church, as she\noften went there.\n\n Surely not at this time o  night?  said Jude.  It is shut. \n\n She knows somebody who keeps the key, and she has it whenever she\nwants it. \n\n How long has she been going on with this? \n\n Oh, some few weeks, I think. \n\nJude went vaguely in the direction of the church, which he had never\nonce approached since he lived out that way years before, when his\nyoung opinions were more mystical than they were now. The spot was\ndeserted, but the door was certainly unfastened; he lifted the latch\nwithout noise, and pushing to the door behind him, stood absolutely\nstill inside. The prevalent silence seemed to contain a faint sound,\nexplicable as a breathing, or a sobbing, which came from the other end\nof the building. The floor-cloth deadened his footsteps as he moved in\nthat direction through the obscurity, which was broken only by the\nfaintest reflected night-light from without.\n\nHigh overhead, above the chancel steps, Jude could discern a huge,\nsolidly constructed Latin cross as large, probably, as the original it\nwas designed to commemorate. It seemed to be suspended in the air by\ninvisible wires; it was set with large jewels, which faintly glimmered\nin some weak ray caught from outside, as the cross swayed to and fro in\na silent and scarcely perceptible motion. Underneath, upon the floor,\nlay what appeared to be a heap of black clothes, and from this was\nrepeated the sobbing that he had heard before. It was his Sue s form,\nprostrate on the paving.\n\n Sue!  he whispered.\n\nSomething white disclosed itself; she had turned up her face.\n\n What do you want with me here, Jude?  she said almost sharply.  You\nshouldn t come! I wanted to be alone! Why did you intrude here? \n\n How can you ask!  he retorted in quick reproach, for his full heart\nwas wounded to its centre at this attitude of hers towards him.  Why do\nI come? Who has a right to come, I should like to know, if I have not!\nI, who love you better than my own self better far better than you have\nloved me! What made you leave me to come here alone? \n\n Don t criticize me, Jude I can t bear it! I have often told you so.\nYou must take me as I am. I am a wretch broken by my distractions! I\ncouldn t _bear_ it when Arabella came I felt so utterly miserable I had\nto come away. She seems to be your wife still, and Richard to be my\nhusband! \n\n But they are nothing to us! \n\n Yes, dear friend, they are. I see marriage differently now. My babies\nhave been taken from me to show me this! Arabella s child killing mine\nwas a judgement the right slaying the wrong. What, __ shall I do! I am\nsuch a vile creature too worthless to mix with ordinary human beings! \n\n This is terrible!  said Jude, verging on tears.  It is monstrous and\nunnatural for you to be so remorseful when you have done no wrong! \n\n Ah you don t know my badness! \n\nHe returned vehemently:  I do! Every atom and dreg of it! You make me\nhate Christianity, or mysticism, or Sacerdotalism, or whatever it may\nbe called, if it s that which has caused this deterioration in you.\nThat a woman-poet, a woman-seer, a woman whose soul shone like a\ndiamond whom all the wise of the world would have been proud of, if\nthey could have known you should degrade herself like this! I am glad I\nhad nothing to do with Divinity damn glad if it s going to ruin you in\nthis way! \n\n You are angry, Jude, and unkind to me, and don t see how things are. \n\n Then come along home with me, dearest, and perhaps I shall. I am\noverburdened and you, too, are unhinged just now.  He put his arm round\nher and lifted her; but though she came, she preferred to walk without\nhis support.\n\n I don t dislike you, Jude,  she said in a sweet and imploring voice.\n I love you as much as ever! Only I ought not to love you any more. Oh\nI must not any more! \n\n I can t own it. \n\n But I have made up my mind that I am not your wife! I belong to him I\nsacramentally joined myself to him for life. Nothing can alter it! \n\n But surely we are man and wife, if ever two people were in this world?\nNature s own marriage it is, unquestionably! \n\n But not Heaven s. Another was made for me there, and ratified\neternally in the church at Melchester. \n\n Sue, Sue affliction has brought you to this unreasonable state! After\nconverting me to your views on so many things, to find you suddenly\nturn to the right-about like this for no reason whatever, confounding\nall you have formerly said through sentiment merely! You root out of me\nwhat little affection and reverence I had left in me for the Church as\nan old acquaintance  What I can t understand in you is your\nextraordinary blindness now to your old logic. Is it peculiar to you,\nor is it common to woman? Is a woman a thinking unit at all, or a\nfraction always wanting its integer? How you argued that marriage was\nonly a clumsy contract which it is how you showed all the objections to\nit all the absurdities! If two and two made four when we were happy\ntogether, surely they make four now? I can t understand it, I repeat! \n\n Ah, dear Jude; that s because you are like a totally deaf man\nobserving people listening to music. You say  What are they regarding?\nNothing is there.  But something is. \n\n That is a hard saying from you; and not a true parallel! You threw off\nold husks of prejudices, and taught me to do it; and now you go back\nupon yourself. I confess I am utterly stultified in my estimate of\nyou. \n\n Dear friend, my only friend, don t be hard with me! I can t help being\nas I am, I am convinced I am right that I see the light at last. But\noh, how to profit by it! \n\nThey walked along a few more steps till they were outside the building\nand she had returned the key.  Can this be the girl,  said Jude when\nshe came back, feeling a slight renewal of elasticity now that he was\nin the open street;  can this be the girl who brought the pagan deities\ninto this most Christian city? who mimicked Miss Fontover when she\ncrushed them with her heel? quoted Gibbon, and Shelley, and Mill? Where\nare dear Apollo, and dear Venus now! \n\n Oh don t, don t be so cruel to me, Jude, and I so unhappy!  she\nsobbed.  I can t bear it! I was in error I cannot reason with you. I\nwas wrong proud in my own conceit! Arabella s coming was the finish.\nDon t satirize me: it cuts like a knife! \n\nHe flung his arms round her and kissed her passionately there in the\nsilent street, before she could hinder him. They went on till they came\nto a little coffee-house.  Jude,  she said with suppressed tears,\n would you mind getting a lodging here? \n\n I will if, if you really wish? But do you? Let me go to our door and\nunderstand you. \n\nHe went and conducted her in. She said she wanted no supper, and went\nin the dark upstairs and struck a light. Turning she found that Jude\nhad followed her, and was standing at the chamber door. She went to\nhim, put her hand in his, and said  Good-night. \n\n But Sue! Don t we live here? \n\n You said you would do as I wished! \n\n Yes. Very well!   Perhaps it was wrong of me to argue distastefully as\nI have done! Perhaps as we couldn t conscientiously marry at first in\nthe old-fashioned way, we ought to have parted. Perhaps the world is\nnot illuminated enough for such experiments as ours! Who were we, to\nthink we could act as pioneers! \n\n I am so glad you see that much, at any rate. I never deliberately\nmeant to do as I did. I slipped into my false position through jealousy\nand agitation! \n\n But surely through love you loved me? \n\n Yes. But I wanted to let it stop there, and go on always as mere\nlovers; until \n\n But people in love couldn t live for ever like that! \n\n Women could: men can t, because they won t. An average woman is in\nthis superior to an average man that she never instigates, only\nresponds. We ought to have lived in mental communion, and no more. \n\n I was the unhappy cause of the change, as I have said before!   Well,\nas you will!   But human nature can t help being itself. \n\n Oh yes that s just what it has to learn self-mastery. \n\n I repeat if either were to blame it was not you but I. \n\n No it was I. Your wickedness was only the natural man s desire to\npossess the woman. Mine was not the reciprocal wish till envy\nstimulated me to oust Arabella. I had thought I ought in charity to let\nyou approach me that it was damnably selfish to torture you as I did my\nother friend. But I shouldn t have given way if you hadn t broken me\ndown by making me fear you would go back to her  But don t let us say\nany more about it! Jude, will you leave me to myself now? \n\n Yes  But Sue my wife, as you are!  he burst out;  my old reproach to\nyou was, after all, a true one. You have never loved me as I love\nyou never never! Yours is not a passionate heart your heart does not\nburn in a flame! You are, upon the whole, a sort of fay, or sprite not\na woman! \n\n At first I did not love you, Jude; that I own. When I first knew you I\nmerely wanted you to love me. I did not exactly flirt with you; but\nthat inborn craving which undermines some women s morals almost more\nthan unbridled passion the craving to attract and captivate, regardless\nof the injury it may do the man was in me; and when I found I had\ncaught you, I was frightened. And then I don t know how it was I\ncouldn t bear to let you go possibly to Arabella again and so I got to\nlove you, Jude. But you see, however fondly it ended, it began in the\nselfish and cruel wish to make your heart ache for me without letting\nmine ache for you. \n\n And now you add to your cruelty by leaving me! \n\n Ah yes! The further I flounder, the more harm I do! \n\n O Sue!  said he with a sudden sense of his own danger.  Do not do an\nimmoral thing for moral reasons! You have been my social salvation.\nStay with me for humanity s sake! You know what a weak fellow I am. My\ntwo arch-enemies you know my weakness for womankind and my impulse to\nstrong liquor. Don t abandon me to them, Sue, to save your own soul\nonly! They have been kept entirely at a distance since you became my\nguardian-angel! Since I have had you I have been able to go into any\ntemptations of the sort, without risk. Isn t my safety worth a little\nsacrifice of dogmatic principle? I am in terror lest, if you leave me,\nit will be with me another case of the pig that was washed turning back\nto his wallowing in the mire! \n\nSue burst out weeping.  Oh, but you must not, Jude! You won t! I ll\npray for you night and day! \n\n Well never mind; don t grieve,  said Jude generously.  I did suffer,\nGod knows, about you at that time; and now I suffer again. But perhaps\nnot so much as you. The woman mostly gets the worst of it in the long\nrun! \n\n She does. \n\n Unless she is absolutely worthless and contemptible. And this one is\nnot that, anyhow! \n\nSue drew a nervous breath or two.  She is I fear!   Now\nJude good-night, please! \n\n I mustn t stay? Not just once more? As it has been so many times O\nSue, my wife, why not? \n\n No no not wife!   I am in your hands, Jude don t tempt me back now I\nhave advanced so far! \n\n Very well. I do your bidding. I owe that to you, darling, in penance\nfor how I overruled it at the first time. My God, how selfish I was!\nPerhaps perhaps I spoilt one of the highest and purest loves that ever\nexisted between man and woman!   Then let the veil of our temple be\nrent in two from this hour! \n\nHe went to the bed, removed one of the pair of pillows thereon, and\nflung it to the floor.\n\nSue looked at him, and bending over the bed-rail wept silently.  You\ndon t see that it is a matter of conscience with me, and not of dislike\nto you!  she brokenly murmured.  Dislike to you! But I can t say any\nmore it breaks my heart it will be undoing all I have begun!\nJude good-night! \n\n Good-night,  he said, and turned to go.\n\n Oh but you shall kiss me!  said she, starting up.  I can t bear ! \n\nHe clasped her, and kissed her weeping face as he had scarcely ever\ndone before, and they remained in silence till she said,  Good-bye,\ngood-bye!  And then gently pressing him away she got free, trying to\nmitigate the sadness by saying:  We ll be dear friends just the same,\nJude, won t we? And we ll see each other sometimes yes! and forget all\nthis, and try to be as we were long ago? \n\nJude did not permit himself to speak, but turned and descended the\nstairs.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nThe man whom Sue, in her mental _volte-face_, was now regarding as her\ninseparable husband, lived still at Marygreen.\n\nOn the day before the tragedy of the children, Phillotson had seen both\nher and Jude as they stood in the rain at Christminster watching the\nprocession to the theatre. But he had said nothing of it at the moment\nto his companion Gillingham, who, being an old friend, was staying with\nhim at the village aforesaid, and had, indeed, suggested the day s trip\nto Christminster.\n\n What are you thinking of?  said Gillingham, as they went home.  The\nuniversity degree you never obtained? \n\n No, no,  said Phillotson gruffly.  Of somebody I saw to-day.  In a\nmoment he added,  Susanna. \n\n I saw her, too. \n\n You said nothing. \n\n I didn t wish to draw your attention to her. But, as you did see her,\nyou should have said:  How d ye do, my dear-that-was? \n\n Ah, well. I might have. But what do you think of this: I have good\nreason for supposing that she was innocent when I divorced her that I\nwas all wrong. Yes, indeed! Awkward, isn t it? \n\n She has taken care to set you right since, anyhow, apparently. \n\n H m. That s a cheap sneer. I ought to have waited, unquestionably. \n\nAt the end of the week, when Gillingham had gone back to his school\nnear Shaston, Phillotson, as was his custom, went to Alfredston market;\nruminating again on Arabella s intelligence as he walked down the long\nhill which he had known before Jude knew it, though his history had not\nbeaten so intensely upon its incline. Arrived in the town he bought his\nusual weekly local paper; and when he had sat down in an inn to refresh\nhimself for the five miles  walk back, he pulled the paper from his\npocket and read awhile. The account of the  strange suicide of a\nstone-mason s children  met his eye.\n\nUnimpassioned as he was, it impressed him painfully, and puzzled him\nnot a little, for he could not understand the age of the elder child\nbeing what it was stated to be. However, there was no doubt that the\nnewspaper report was in some way true.\n\n Their cup of sorrow is now full!  he said: and thought and thought of\nSue, and what she had gained by leaving him.\n\nArabella having made her home at Alfredston, and the schoolmaster\ncoming to market there every Saturday, it was not wonderful that in a\nfew weeks they met again the precise time being just after her return\nfrom Christminster, where she had stayed much longer than she had at\nfirst intended, keeping an interested eye on Jude, though Jude had seen\nno more of her. Phillotson was on his way homeward when he encountered\nArabella, and she was approaching the town.\n\n You like walking out this way, Mrs. Cartlett?  he said.\n\n I ve just begun to again,  she replied.  It is where I lived as maid\nand wife, and all the past things of my life that are interesting to my\nfeelings are mixed up with this road. And they have been stirred up in\nme too, lately; for I ve been visiting at Christminster. Yes; I ve seen\nJude. \n\n Ah! How do they bear their terrible affliction? \n\n In a ve-ry strange way ve-ry strange! She don t live with him any\nlonger. I only heard of it as a certainty just before I left; though I\nhad thought things were drifting that way from their manner when I\ncalled on them. \n\n Not live with her husband? Why, I should have thought  twould have\nunited them more. \n\n He s not her husband, after all. She has never really married him\nalthough they have passed as man and wife so long. And now, instead of\nthis sad event making  em hurry up, and get the thing done legally,\nshe s took in a queer religious way, just as I was in my affliction at\nlosing Cartlett, only hers is of a more  sterical sort than mine. And\nshe says, so I was told, that she s your wife in the eye of Heaven and\nthe Church yours only; and can t be anybody else s by any act of man. \n\n Ah indeed?   Separated, have they! \n\n You see, the eldest boy was mine \n\n Oh yours! \n\n Yes, poor little fellow born in lawful wedlock, thank God. And perhaps\nshe feels, over and above other things, that I ought to have been in\nher place. I can t say. However, as for me, I am soon off from here.\nI ve got Father to look after now, and we can t live in such a hum-drum\nplace as this. I hope soon to be in a bar again at Christminster, or\nsome other big town. \n\nThey parted. When Phillotson had ascended the hill a few steps he\nstopped, hastened back, and called her.\n\n What is, or was, their address? \n\nArabella gave it.\n\n Thank you. Good afternoon. \n\nArabella smiled grimly as she resumed her way, and practised\ndimple-making all along the road from where the pollard willows begin\nto the old almshouses in the first street of the town.\n\nMeanwhile Phillotson ascended to Marygreen, and for the first time\nduring a lengthened period he lived with a forward eye. On crossing\nunder the large trees of the green to the humble schoolhouse to which\nhe had been reduced he stood a moment, and pictured Sue coming out of\nthe door to meet him. No man had ever suffered more inconvenience from\nhis own charity, Christian or heathen, than Phillotson had done in\nletting Sue go. He had been knocked about from pillar to post at the\nhands of the virtuous almost beyond endurance; he had been nearly\nstarved, and was now dependent entirely upon the very small stipend\nfrom the school of this village (where the parson had got ill-spoken of\nfor befriending him). He had often thought of Arabella s remarks that\nhe should have been more severe with Sue, that her recalcitrant spirit\nwould soon have been broken. Yet such was his obstinate and illogical\ndisregard of opinion, and of the principles in which he had been\ntrained, that his convictions on the rightness of his course with his\nwife had not been disturbed.\n\nPrinciples which could be subverted by feeling in one direction were\nliable to the same catastrophe in another. The instincts which had\nallowed him to give Sue her liberty now enabled him to regard her as\nnone the worse for her life with Jude. He wished for her still, in his\ncurious way, if he did not love her, and, apart from policy, soon felt\nthat he would be gratified to have her again as his, always provided\nthat she came willingly.\n\nBut artifice was necessary, he had found, for stemming the cold and\ninhumane blast of the world s contempt. And here were the materials\nready made. By getting Sue back and remarrying her on the respectable\nplea of having entertained erroneous views of her, and gained his\ndivorce wrongfully, he might acquire some comfort, resume his old\ncourses, perhaps return to the Shaston school, if not even to the\nChurch as a licentiate.\n\nHe thought he would write to Gillingham to inquire his views, and what\nhe thought of his, Phillotson s, sending a letter to her. Gillingham\nreplied, naturally, that now she was gone it were best to let her be,\nand considered that if she were anybody s wife she was the wife of the\nman to whom she had borne three children and owed such tragical\nadventures. Probably, as his attachment to her seemed unusually strong,\nthe singular pair would make their union legal in course of time, and\nall would be well, and decent, and in order.\n\n But they won t Sue won t!  exclaimed Phillotson to himself.\n Gillingham is so matter of fact. She s affected by Christminster\nsentiment and teaching. I can see her views on the indissolubility of\nmarriage well enough, and I know where she got them. They are not mine;\nbut I shall make use of them to further mine. \n\nHe wrote a brief reply to Gillingham.  I know I am entirely wrong, but\nI don t agree with you. As to her having lived with and had three\nchildren by him, my feeling is (though I can advance no logical or\nmoral defence of it, on the old lines) that it has done little more\nthan finish her education. I shall write to her, and learn whether what\nthat woman said is true or no. \n\nAs he had made up his mind to do this before he had written to his\nfriend, there had not been much reason for writing to the latter at\nall. However, it was Phillotson s way to act thus.\n\nHe accordingly addressed a carefully considered epistle to Sue, and,\nknowing her emotional temperament, threw a Rhadamanthine strictness\ninto the lines here and there, carefully hiding his heterodox feelings,\nnot to frighten her. He stated that, it having come to his knowledge\nthat her views had considerably changed, he felt compelled to say that\nhis own, too, were largely modified by events subsequent to their\nparting. He would not conceal from her that passionate love had little\nto do with his communication. It arose from a wish to make their lives,\nif not a success, at least no such disastrous failure as they\nthreatened to become, through his acting on what he had considered at\nthe time a principle of justice, charity, and reason.\n\nTo indulge one s instinctive and uncontrolled sense of justice and\nright, was not, he had found, permitted with impunity in an old\ncivilization like ours. It was necessary to act under an acquired and\ncultivated sense of the same, if you wished to enjoy an average share\nof comfort and honour; and to let crude loving kindness take care of\nitself.\n\nHe suggested that she should come to him there at Marygreen.\n\nOn second thoughts he took out the last paragraph but one; and having\nrewritten the letter he dispatched it immediately, and in some\nexcitement awaited the issue.\n\n\nA few days after a figure moved through the white fog which enveloped\nthe Beersheba suburb of Christminster, towards the quarter in which\nJude Fawley had taken up his lodging since his division from Sue. A\ntimid knock sounded upon the door of his abode.\n\nIt was evening so he was at home; and by a species of divination he\njumped up and rushed to the door himself.\n\n Will you come out with me? I would rather not come in. I want to to\ntalk with you and to go with you to the cemetery. \n\nIt had been in the trembling accents of Sue that these words came. Jude\nput on his hat.  It is dreary for you to be out,  he said.  But if you\nprefer not to come in, I don t mind. \n\n Yes I do. I shall not keep you long. \n\nJude was too much affected to go on talking at first; she, too, was now\nsuch a mere cluster of nerves that all initiatory power seemed to have\nleft her, and they proceeded through the fog like Acherontic shades for\na long while, without sound or gesture.\n\n I want to tell you,  she presently said, her voice now quick, now\nslow,  so that you may not hear of it by chance. I am going back to\nRichard. He has so magnanimously agreed to forgive all. \n\n Going back? How can you go \n\n He is going to marry me again. That is for form s sake, and to satisfy\nthe world, which does not see things as they are. But of course I _am_\nhis wife already. Nothing has changed that. \n\nHe turned upon her with an anguish that was well-nigh fierce.\n\n But you are _my_ wife! Yes, you are. You know it. I have always\nregretted that feint of ours in going away and pretending to come back\nlegally married, to save appearances. I loved you, and you loved me;\nand we closed with each other; and that made the marriage. We still\nlove you as well as I _know_ it, Sue! Therefore our marriage is not\ncancelled. \n\n Yes; I know how you see it,  she answered with despairing\nself-suppression.  But I am going to marry him again, as it would be\ncalled by you. Strictly speaking you, too don t mind my saying it,\nJude! you should take back Arabella. \n\n I should? Good God what next! But how if you and I had married\nlegally, as we were on the point of doing? \n\n I should have felt just the same that ours was not a marriage. And I\nwould go back to Richard without repeating the sacrament, if he asked\nme. But  the world and its ways have a certain worth  (I suppose),\ntherefore I concede a repetition of the ceremony  Don t crush all the\nlife out of me by satire and argument, I implore you! I was strongest\nonce, I know, and perhaps I treated you cruelly. But Jude, return good\nfor evil! I am the weaker now. Don t retaliate upon me, but be kind. Oh\nbe kind to me a poor wicked woman who is trying to mend! \n\nHe shook his head hopelessly, his eyes wet. The blow of her bereavement\nseemed to have destroyed her reasoning faculty. The once keen vision\nwas dimmed.  All wrong, all wrong!  he said huskily.  Error perversity!\nIt drives me out of my senses. Do you care for him? Do you love him?\nYou know you don t! It will be a fanatic prostitution God forgive me,\nyes that s what it will be! \n\n I don t love him I must, must, own it, in deepest remorse! But I shall\ntry to learn to love him by obeying him. \n\nJude argued, urged, implored; but her conviction was proof against all.\nIt seemed to be the one thing on earth on which she was firm, and that\nher firmness in this had left her tottering in every other impulse and\nwish she possessed.\n\n I have been considerate enough to let you know the whole truth, and to\ntell it you myself,  she said in cut tones;  that you might not\nconsider yourself slighted by hearing of it at second hand. I have even\nowned the extreme fact that I do not love him. I did not think you\nwould be so rough with me for doing so! I was going to ask you \n\n To give you away? \n\n No. To send my boxes to me if you would. But I suppose you won t. \n\n Why, of course I will. What isn t he coming to fetch you to marry you\nfrom here? He won t condescend to do that? \n\n No I won t let him. I go to him voluntarily, just as I went away from\nhim. We are to be married at his little church at Marygreen. \n\nShe was so sadly sweet in what he called her wrong-headedness that Jude\ncould not help being moved to tears more than once for pity of her.  I\nnever knew such a woman for doing impulsive penances, as you, Sue! No\nsooner does one expect you to go straight on, as the one rational\nproceeding, than you double round the corner! \n\n Ah, well; let that go!   Jude, I must say good-bye! But I wanted you\nto go to the cemetery with me. Let our farewell be there beside the\ngraves of those who died to bring home to me the error of my views. \n\nThey turned in the direction of the place, and the gate was opened to\nthem on application. Sue had been there often, and she knew the way to\nthe spot in the dark. They reached it, and stood still.\n\n It is here I should like to part,  said she.\n\n So be it! \n\n Don t think me hard because I have acted on conviction. Your generous\ndevotion to me is unparalleled, Jude! Your worldly failure, if you have\nfailed, is to your credit rather than to your blame. Remember that the\nbest and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly\ngood. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted\nfail   Charity seeketh not her own. \n\n In that chapter we are at one, ever beloved darling, and on it we ll\npart friends. Its verses will stand fast when all the rest that you\ncall religion has passed away! \n\n Well don t discuss it. Good-bye, Jude; my fellow-sinner, and kindest\nfriend! \n\n Good-bye, my mistaken wife. Good-bye! \n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nThe next afternoon the familiar Christminster fog still hung over all\nthings. Sue s slim shape was only just discernible going towards the\nstation.\n\nJude had no heart to go to his work that day. Neither could he go\nanywhere in the direction by which she would be likely to pass. He went\nin an opposite one, to a dreary, strange, flat scene, where boughs\ndripped, and coughs and consumption lurked, and where he had never been\nbefore.\n\n Sue s gone from me gone!  he murmured miserably.\n\nShe in the meantime had left by the train, and reached Alfredston Road,\nwhere she entered the steam-tram and was conveyed into the town. It had\nbeen her request to Phillotson that he should not meet her. She wished,\nshe said, to come to him voluntarily, to his very house and\nhearthstone.\n\nIt was Friday evening, which had been chosen because the schoolmaster\nwas disengaged at four o clock that day till the Monday morning\nfollowing. The little car she hired at the Bear to drive her to\nMarygreen set her down at the end of the lane, half a mile from the\nvillage, by her desire, and preceded her to the schoolhouse with such\nportion of her luggage as she had brought. On its return she\nencountered it, and asked the driver if he had found the master s house\nopen. The man informed her that he had, and that her things had been\ntaken in by the schoolmaster himself.\n\nShe could now enter Marygreen without exciting much observation. She\ncrossed by the well and under the trees to the pretty new school on the\nother side, and lifted the latch of the dwelling without knocking.\nPhillotson stood in the middle of the room, awaiting her, as requested.\n\n I ve come, Richard,  said she, looking pale and shaken, and sinking\ninto a chair.  I cannot believe you forgive your wife! \n\n Everything, darling Susanna,  said Phillotson.\n\nShe started at the endearment, though it had been spoken advisedly\nwithout fervour. Then she nerved herself again.\n\n My children are dead and it is right that they should be! I am\nglad almost. They were sin-begotten. They were sacrificed to teach me\nhow to live! Their death was the first stage of my purification. That s\nwhy they have not died in vain!   You will take me back? \n\nHe was so stirred by her pitiful words and tone that he did more than\nhe had meant to do. He bent and kissed her cheek.\n\nSue imperceptibly shrank away, her flesh quivering under the touch of\nhis lips.\n\nPhillotson s heart sank, for desire was renascent in him.  You still\nhave an aversion to me! \n\n Oh no, dear I have been driving through the damp, and I was chilly! \nshe said, with a hurried smile of apprehension.  When are we going to\nhave the marriage? Soon? \n\n To-morrow morning, early, I thought if you really wish. I am sending\nround to the vicar to let him know you are come. I have told him all,\nand he highly approves he says it will bring our lives to a triumphant\nand satisfactory issue. But are you sure of yourself? It is not too\nlate to refuse now if you think you can t bring yourself to it, you\nknow? \n\n Yes, yes, I can! I want it done quick. Tell him, tell him at once! My\nstrength is tried by the undertaking I can t wait long! \n\n Have something to eat and drink then, and go over to your room at Mrs.\nEdlin s. I ll tell the vicar half-past eight to-morrow, before anybody\nis about if that s not too soon for you? My friend Gillingham is here\nto help us in the ceremony. He s been good enough to come all the way\nfrom Shaston at great inconvenience to himself. \n\nUnlike a woman in ordinary, whose eye is so keen for material things,\nSue seemed to see nothing of the room they were in, or any detail of\nher environment. But on moving across the parlour to put down her muff\nshe uttered a little  Oh!  and grew paler than before. Her look was\nthat of the condemned criminal who catches sight of his coffin.\n\n What?  said Phillotson.\n\nThe flap of the bureau chanced to be open, and in placing her muff upon\nit her eye had caught a document which lay there.  Oh only a funny\nsurprise!  she said, trying to laugh away her cry as she came back to\nthe table.\n\n Ah! Yes,  said Phillotson.  The licence  It has just come. \n\nGillingham now joined them from his room above, and Sue nervously made\nherself agreeable to him by talking on whatever she thought likely to\ninterest him, except herself, though that interested him most of all.\nShe obediently ate some supper, and prepared to leave for her lodging\nhard by. Phillotson crossed the green with her, bidding her good-night\nat Mrs. Edlin s door.\n\nThe old woman accompanied Sue to her temporary quarters, and helped her\nto unpack. Among other things she laid out a night-gown tastefully\nembroidered.\n\n Oh I didn t know _that_ was put in!  said Sue quickly.  I didn t mean\nit to be. Here is a different one.  She handed a new and absolutely\nplain garment, of coarse and unbleached calico.\n\n But this is the prettiest,  said Mrs. Edlin.  That one is no better\nthan very sackcloth o  Scripture! \n\n Yes I meant it to be. Give me the other. \n\nShe took it, and began rending it with all her might, the tears\nresounding through the house like a screech-owl.\n\n But my dear, dear! whatever.... \n\n It is adulterous! It signifies what I don t feel I bought it long\nago to please Jude. It must be destroyed! \n\nMrs. Edlin lifted her hands, and Sue excitedly continued to tear the\nlinen into strips, laying the pieces in the fire.\n\n You med ha  give it to me!  said the widow.  It do make my heart ache\nto see such pretty open-work as that a-burned by the flames not that\nornamental night-rails can be much use to a  ould  ooman like I. My\ndays for such be all past and gone! \n\n It is an accursed thing it reminds me of what I want to forget!  Sue\nrepeated.  It is only fit for the fire. \n\n Lord, you be too strict! What do ye use such words for, and condemn to\nhell your dear little innocent children that s lost to  ee! Upon my\nlife I don t call that religion! \n\nSue flung her face upon the bed, sobbing.  Oh, don t, don t! That kills\nme!  She remained shaken with her grief, and slipped down upon her\nknees.\n\n I ll tell  ee what you ought not to marry this man again!  said Mrs.\nEdlin indignantly.  You are in love wi  t  other still! \n\n Yes I must I am his already! \n\n Pshoo! You be t  other man s. If you didn t like to commit yourselves\nto the binding vow again, just at first,  twas all the more credit to\nyour consciences, considering your reasons, and you med ha  lived on,\nand made it all right at last. After all, it concerned nobody but your\nown two selves. \n\n Richard says he ll have me back, and I m bound to go! If he had\nrefused, it might not have been so much my duty to give up Jude. But \nShe remained with her face in the bed-clothes, and Mrs. Edlin left the\nroom.\n\nPhillotson in the interval had gone back to his friend Gillingham, who\nstill sat over the supper-table. They soon rose, and walked out on the\ngreen to smoke awhile. A light was burning in Sue s room, a shadow\nmoving now and then across the blind.\n\nGillingham had evidently been impressed with the indefinable charm of\nSue, and after a silence he said,  Well: you ve all but got her again\nat last. She can t very well go a second time. The pear has dropped\ninto your hand. \n\n Yes!   I suppose I am right in taking her at her word. I confess there\nseems a touch of selfishness in it. Apart from her being what she is,\nof course, a luxury for a fogey like me, it will set me right in the\neyes of the clergy and orthodox laity, who have never forgiven me for\nletting her go. So I may get back in some degree into my old track. \n\n Well if you ve got any sound reason for marrying her again, do it now\nin God s name! I was always against your opening the cage-door and\nletting the bird go in such an obviously suicidal way. You might have\nbeen a school inspector by this time, or a reverend, if you hadn t been\nso weak about her. \n\n I did myself irreparable damage I know it. \n\n Once you ve got her housed again, stick to her. \n\nPhillotson was more evasive to-night. He did not care to admit clearly\nthat his taking Sue to him again had at bottom nothing to do with\nrepentance of letting her go, but was, primarily, a human instinct\nflying in the face of custom and profession. He said,  Yes I shall do\nthat. I know woman better now. Whatever justice there was in releasing\nher, there was little logic, for one holding my views on other\nsubjects. \n\nGillingham looked at him, and wondered whether it would ever happen\nthat the reactionary spirit induced by the world s sneers and his own\nphysical wishes would make Phillotson more orthodoxly cruel to her than\nhe had erstwhile been informally and perversely kind.\n\n I perceive it won t do to give way to impulse,  Phillotson resumed,\nfeeling more and more every minute the necessity of acting up to his\nposition.  I flew in the face of the Church s teaching; but I did it\nwithout malice prepense. Women are so strange in their influence that\nthey tempt you to misplaced kindness. However, I know myself better\nnow. A little judicious severity, perhaps \n\n Yes; but you must tighten the reins by degrees only. Don t be too\nstrenuous at first. She ll come to any terms in time. \n\nThe caution was unnecessary, though Phillotson did not say so.  I\nremember what my vicar at Shaston said, when I left after the row that\nwas made about my agreeing to her elopement.  The only thing you can do\nto retrieve your position and hers is to admit your error in not\nrestraining her with a wise and strong hand, and to get her back again\nif she ll come, and be firm in the future.  But I was so headstrong at\nthat time that I paid no heed. And that after the divorce she should\nhave thought of doing so I did not dream. \n\nThe gate of Mrs. Edlin s cottage clicked, and somebody began crossing\nin the direction of the school. Phillotson said  Good-night. \n\n Oh, is that Mr. Phillotson,  said Mrs. Edlin.  I was going over to see\n ee. I ve been upstairs with her, helping her to unpack her things; and\nupon my word, sir, I don t think this ought to be! \n\n What the wedding? \n\n Yes. She s forcing herself to it, poor dear little thing; and you ve\nno notion what she s suffering. I was never much for religion nor\nagainst it, but it can t be right to let her do this, and you ought to\npersuade her out of it. Of course everybody will say it was very good\nand forgiving of  ee to take her to  ee again. But for my part I\ndon t. \n\n It s her wish, and I am willing,  said Phillotson with grave reserve,\nopposition making him illogically tenacious now.  A great piece of\nlaxity will be rectified. \n\n I don t believe it. She s his wife if anybody s. She s had three\nchildren by him, and he loves her dearly; and it s a wicked shame to\negg her on to this, poor little quivering thing! She s got nobody on\nher side. The one man who d be her friend the obstinate creature won t\nallow to come near her. What first put her into this mood o  mind, I\nwonder! \n\n I can t tell. Not I certainly. It is all voluntary on her part. Now\nthat s all I have to say.  Phillotson spoke stiffly.  You ve turned\nround, Mrs. Edlin. It is unseemly of you! \n\n Well, I knowed you d be affronted at what I had to say; but I don t\nmind that. The truth s the truth. \n\n I m not affronted, Mrs. Edlin. You ve been too kind a neighbour for\nthat. But I must be allowed to know what s best for myself and Susanna.\nI suppose you won t go to church with us, then? \n\n No. Be hanged if I can  I don t know what the times be coming to!\nMatrimony have growed to be that serious in these days that one really\ndo feel afeard to move in it at all. In my time we took it more\ncareless; and I don t know that we was any the worse for it! When I and\nmy poor man were jined in it we kept up the junketing all the week, and\ndrunk the parish dry, and had to borrow half a crown to begin\nhousekeeping! \n\nWhen Mrs. Edlin had gone back to her cottage Phillotson spoke moodily.\n I don t know whether I ought to do it at any rate quite so rapidly. \n\n Why? \n\n If she is really compelling herself to this against her\ninstincts merely from this new sense of duty or religion I ought\nperhaps to let her wait a bit. \n\n Now you ve got so far you ought not to back out of it. That s my\nopinion. \n\n I can t very well put it off now; that s true. But I had a qualm when\nshe gave that little cry at sight of the licence. \n\n Now, never you have qualms, old boy. I mean to give her away to-morrow\nmorning, and you mean to take her. It has always been on my conscience\nthat I didn t urge more objections to your letting her go, and now\nwe ve got to this stage I shan t be content if I don t help you to set\nthe matter right. \n\nPhillotson nodded, and seeing how staunch his friend was, became more\nfrank.  No doubt when it gets known what I ve done I shall be thought a\nsoft fool by many. But they don t know Sue as I do. Though so elusive,\nhers is such an honest nature at bottom that I don t think she has ever\ndone anything against her conscience. The fact of her having lived with\nFawley goes for nothing. At the time she left me for him she thought\nshe was quite within her right. Now she thinks otherwise. \n\nThe next morning came, and the self-sacrifice of the woman on the altar\nof what she was pleased to call her principles was acquiesced in by\nthese two friends, each from his own point of view. Phillotson went\nacross to the Widow Edlin s to fetch Sue a few minutes after eight\no clock. The fog of the previous day or two on the low-lands had\ntravelled up here by now, and the trees on the green caught armfuls,\nand turned them into showers of big drops. The bride was waiting,\nready; bonnet and all on. She had never in her life looked so much like\nthe lily her name connoted as she did in that pallid morning light.\nChastened, world-weary, remorseful, the strain on her nerves had preyed\nupon her flesh and bones, and she appeared smaller in outline than she\nhad formerly done, though Sue had not been a large woman in her days of\nrudest health.\n\n Prompt,  said the schoolmaster, magnanimously taking her hand. But he\nchecked his impulse to kiss her, remembering her start of yesterday,\nwhich unpleasantly lingered in his mind.\n\nGillingham joined them, and they left the house, Widow Edlin continuing\nsteadfast in her refusal to assist in the ceremony.\n\n Where is the church?  said Sue. She had not lived there for any length\nof time since the old church was pulled down, and in her preoccupation\nforgot the new one.\n\n Up here,  said Phillotson; and presently the tower loomed large and\nsolemn in the fog. The vicar had already crossed to the building, and\nwhen they entered he said pleasantly:  We almost want candles. \n\n You do wish me to be yours, Richard?  gasped Sue in a whisper.\n\n Certainly, dear; above all things in the world. \n\nSue said no more; and for the second or third time he felt he was not\nquite following out the humane instinct which had induced him to let\nher go.\n\nThere they stood, five altogether: the parson, the clerk, the couple,\nand Gillingham; and the holy ordinance was resolemnized forthwith. In\nthe nave of the edifice were two or three villagers, and when the\nclergyman came to the words,  What God hath joined,  a woman s voice\nfrom among these was heard to utter audibly:\n\n God hath jined indeed! \n\nIt was like a re-enactment by the ghosts of their former selves of the\nsimilar scene which had taken place at Melchester years before. When\nthe books were signed the vicar congratulated the husband and wife on\nhaving performed a noble, and righteous, and mutually forgiving act.\n All s well that ends well,  he said smiling.  May you long be happy\ntogether, after thus having been  saved as by fire. \n\nThey came down the nearly empty building, and crossed to the\nschoolhouse. Gillingham wanted to get home that night, and left early.\nHe, too, congratulated the couple.  Now,  he said in parting from\nPhillotson, who walked out a little way,  I shall be able to tell the\npeople in your native place a good round tale; and they ll all say\n Well done,  depend on it. \n\nWhen the schoolmaster got back Sue was making a pretence of doing some\nhousewifery as if she lived there. But she seemed timid at his\napproach, and compunction wrought on him at sight of it.\n\n Of course, my dear, I shan t expect to intrude upon your personal\nprivacy any more than I did before,  he said gravely.  It is for our\ngood socially to do this, and that s its justification, if it was not\nmy reason.  Sue brightened a little.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nThe place was the door of Jude s lodging in the out-skirts of\nChristminster far from the precincts of St. Silas  where he had\nformerly lived, which saddened him to sickness. The rain was coming\ndown. A woman in shabby black stood on the doorstep talking to Jude,\nwho held the door in his hand.\n\n I am lonely, destitute, and houseless that s what I am! Father has\nturned me out of doors after borrowing every penny I d got, to put it\ninto his business, and then accusing me of laziness when I was only\nwaiting for a situation. I am at the mercy of the world! If you can t\ntake me and help me, Jude, I must go to the workhouse, or to something\nworse. Only just now two undergraduates winked at me as I came along.\n Tis hard for a woman to keep virtuous where there s so many young\nmen! \n\nThe woman in the rain who spoke thus was Arabella, the evening being\nthat of the day after Sue s remarriage with Phillotson.\n\n I am sorry for you, but I am only in lodgings,  said Jude coldly.\n\n Then you turn me away? \n\n I ll give you enough to get food and lodging for a few days. \n\n Oh, but can t you have the kindness to take me in? I cannot endure\ngoing to a public house to lodge; and I am so lonely. Please, Jude, for\nold times  sake! \n\n No, no,  said Jude hastily.  I don t want to be reminded of those\nthings; and if you talk about them I shall not help you. \n\n Then I suppose I must go!  said Arabella. She bent her head against\nthe doorpost and began sobbing.\n\n The house is full,  said Jude.  And I have only a little extra room to\nmy own not much more than a closet where I keep my tools, and\ntemplates, and the few books I have left! \n\n That would be a palace for me! \n\n There is no bedstead in it. \n\n A bit of a bed could be made on the floor. It would be good enough for\nme. \n\nUnable to be harsh with her, and not knowing what to do, Jude called\nthe man who let the lodgings, and said this was an acquaintance of his\nin great distress for want of temporary shelter.\n\n You may remember me as barmaid at the Lamb and Flag formerly?  spoke\nup Arabella.  My father has insulted me this afternoon, and I ve left\nhim, though without a penny! \n\nThe householder said he could not recall her features.  But still, if\nyou are a friend of Mr. Fawley s we ll do what we can for a day or\ntwo if he ll make himself answerable? \n\n Yes, yes,  said Jude.  She has really taken me quite unawares; but I\nshould wish to help her out of her difficulty.  And an arrangement was\nultimately come to under which a bed was to be thrown down in Jude s\nlumber-room, to make it comfortable for Arabella till she could get out\nof the strait she was in not by her own fault, as she declared and\nreturn to her father s again.\n\nWhile they were waiting for this to be done Arabella said:  You know\nthe news, I suppose? \n\n I guess what you mean; but I know nothing. \n\n I had a letter from Anny at Alfredston to-day. She had just heard that\nthe wedding was to be yesterday: but she didn t know if it had come\noff. \n\n I don t wish to talk of it. \n\n No, no: of course you don t. Only it shows what kind of woman \n\n Don t speak of her I say! She s a fool! And she s an angel, too, poor\ndear! \n\n If it s done, he ll have a chance of getting back to his old position,\nby everybody s account, so Anny says. All his well-wishers will be\npleased, including the bishop himself. \n\n Do spare me, Arabella. \n\nArabella was duly installed in the little attic, and at first she did\nnot come near Jude at all. She went to and fro about her own business,\nwhich, when they met for a moment on the stairs or in the passage, she\ninformed him was that of obtaining another place in the occupation she\nunderstood best. When Jude suggested London as affording the most\nlikely opening in the liquor trade, she shook her head.  No the\ntemptations are too many,  she said.  Any humble tavern in the country\nbefore that for me. \n\nOn the Sunday morning following, when he breakfasted later than on\nother days, she meekly asked him if she might come in to breakfast with\nhim, as she had broken her teapot, and could not replace it\nimmediately, the shops being shut.\n\n Yes, if you like,  he said indifferently.\n\nWhile they sat without speaking she suddenly observed:  You seem all in\na brood, old man. I m sorry for you. \n\n I am all in a brood. \n\n It is about her, I know. It s no business of mine, but I could find\nout all about the wedding if it really did take place if you wanted to\nknow. \n\n How could you? \n\n I wanted to go to Alfredston to get a few things I left there. And I\ncould see Anny, who ll be sure to have heard all about it, as she has\nfriends at Marygreen. \n\nJude could not bear to acquiesce in this proposal; but his suspense\npitted itself against his discretion, and won in the struggle.  You can\nask about it if you like,  he said.  I ve not heard a sound from there.\nIt must have been very private, if they have married. \n\n I am afraid I haven t enough cash to take me there and back, or I\nshould have gone before. I must wait till I have earned some. \n\n Oh I can pay the journey for you,  he said impatiently. And thus his\nsuspense as to Sue s welfare, and the possible marriage, moved him to\ndispatch for intelligence the last emissary he would have thought of\nchoosing deliberately.\n\nArabella went, Jude requesting her to be home not later than by the\nseven o clock train. When she had gone he said:  Why should I have\ncharged her to be back by a particular time! She s nothing to me nor\nthe other neither! \n\nBut having finished work he could not help going to the station to meet\nArabella, dragged thither by feverish haste to get the news she might\nbring, and know the worst. Arabella had made dimples most successfully\nall the way home, and when she stepped out of the railway carriage she\nsmiled. He merely said  Well?  with the very reverse of a smile.\n\n They are married. \n\n Yes of course they are!  he returned. She observed, however, the hard\nstrain upon his lip as he spoke.\n\n Anny says she has heard from Belinda, her relation out at Marygreen,\nthat it was very sad, and curious! \n\n How do you mean sad? She wanted to marry him again, didn t she? And he\nher! \n\n Yes that was it. She wanted to in one sense, but not in the other.\nMrs. Edlin was much upset by it all, and spoke out her mind at\nPhillotson. But Sue was that excited about it that she burnt her best\nembroidery that she d worn with you, to blot you out entirely. Well if\na woman feels like it, she ought to do it. I commend her for it, though\nothers don t.  Arabella sighed.  She felt he was her only husband, and\nthat she belonged to nobody else in the sight of God A mighty while he\nlived. Perhaps another woman feels the same about herself, too! \nArabella sighed again.\n\n I don t want any cant!  exclaimed Jude.\n\n It isn t cant,  said Arabella.  I feel exactly the same as she! \n\nHe closed that issue by remarking abruptly:  Well now I know all I\nwanted to know. Many thanks for your information. I am not going back\nto my lodgings just yet.  And he left her straightway.\n\nIn his misery and depression Jude walked to well-nigh every spot in the\ncity that he had visited with Sue; thence he did not know whither, and\nthen thought of going home to his usual evening meal. But having all\nthe vices of his virtues, and some to spare, he turned into a public\nhouse, for the first time during many months. Among the possible\nconsequences of her marriage Sue had not dwelt on this.\n\nArabella, meanwhile, had gone back. The evening passed, and Jude did\nnot return. At half-past nine Arabella herself went out, first\nproceeding to an outlying district near the river where her father\nlived, and had opened a small and precarious pork-shop lately.\n\n Well,  she said to him,  for all your rowing me that night, I ve\ncalled in, for I have something to tell you. I think I shall get\nmarried and settled again. Only you must help me: and you can do no\nless, after what I ve stood  ee. \n\n I ll do anything to get thee off my hands! \n\n Very well. I am now going to look for my young man. He s on the loose\nI m afraid, and I must get him home. All I want you to do to-night is\nnot to fasten the door, in case I should want to sleep here, and should\nbe late. \n\n I thought you d soon get tired of giving yourself airs and keeping\naway! \n\n Well don t do the door. That s all I say. \n\nShe then sallied out again, and first hastening back to Jude s to make\nsure that he had not returned, began her search for him. A shrewd guess\nas to his probable course took her straight to the tavern which Jude\nhad formerly frequented, and where she had been barmaid for a brief\nterm. She had no sooner opened the door of the  Private Bar  than her\neyes fell upon him sitting in the shade at the back of the compartment,\nwith his eyes fixed on the floor in a blank stare. He was drinking\nnothing stronger than ale just then. He did not observe her, and she\nentered and sat beside him.\n\nJude looked up, and said without surprise:  You ve come to have\nsomething, Arabella?   I m trying to forget her: that s all! But I\ncan t; and I am going home.  She saw that he was a little way on in\nliquor, but only a little as yet.\n\n I ve come entirely to look for you, dear boy. You are not well. Now\nyou must have something better than that.  Arabella held up her finger\nto the barmaid.  You shall have a liqueur that s better fit for a man\nof education than beer. You shall have maraschino, or cura ao dry or\nsweet, or cherry brandy. I ll treat you, poor chap! \n\n I don t care which! Say cherry brandy  Sue has served me badly, very\nbadly. I didn t expect it of Sue! I stuck to her, and she ought to have\nstuck to me. I d have sold my soul for her sake, but she wouldn t risk\nhers a jot for me. To save her own soul she lets mine go damn!   But it\nisn t her fault, poor little girl I am sure it isn t! \n\nHow Arabella had obtained money did not appear, but she ordered a\nliqueur each, and paid for them. When they had drunk these Arabella\nsuggested another; and Jude had the pleasure of being, as it were,\npersonally conducted through the varieties of spirituous delectation by\none who knew the landmarks well. Arabella kept very considerably in the\nrear of Jude; but though she only sipped where he drank, she took as\nmuch as she could safely take without losing her head which was not a\nlittle, as the crimson upon her countenance showed.\n\nHer tone towards him to-night was uniformly soothing and cajoling; and\nwhenever he said  I don t care what happens to me,  a thing he did\ncontinually, she replied,  But I do very much!  The closing hour came,\nand they were compelled to turn out; whereupon Arabella put her arm\nround his waist, and guided his unsteady footsteps.\n\nWhen they were in the streets she said:  I don t know what our landlord\nwill say to my bringing you home in this state. I expect we are\nfastened out, so that he ll have to come down and let us in. \n\n I don t know I don t know. \n\n That s the worst of not having a home of your own. I tell you, Jude,\nwhat we had best do. Come round to my father s I made it up with him a\nbit to-day. I can let you in, and nobody will see you at all; and by\nto-morrow morning you ll be all right. \n\n Anything anywhere,  replied Jude.  What the devil does it matter to\nme? \n\nThey went along together, like any other fuddling couple, her arm still\nround his waist, and his, at last, round hers; though with no amatory\nintent; but merely because he was weary, unstable, and in need of\nsupport.\n\n This is th  Martyrs burning-place,  he stammered as they dragged\nacross a broad street.  I remember in old Fuller s _Holy State_ and I\nam reminded of it by our passing by here old Fuller in his _Holy State_\nsays, that at the burning of Ridley, Doctor Smith preached sermon, and\ntook as his text _ Though I give my body to be burned, and have not\ncharity, it profiteth me nothing. _ Often think of it as I pass here.\nRidley was a \n\n Yes. Exactly. Very thoughtful of you, deary, even though it hasn t\nmuch to do with our present business. \n\n Why, yes it has! I m giving my body to be burned! But ah you don t\nunderstand! it wants Sue to understand such things! And I was her\nseducer poor little girl! And she s gone and I don t care about myself!\nDo what you like with me!   And yet she did it for conscience  sake,\npoor little Sue! \n\n Hang her! I mean, I think she was right,  hiccuped Arabella.  I ve my\nfeelings too, like her; and I feel I belong to you in Heaven s eye, and\nto nobody else, till death us do part! It is hic never too late hic to\nmend! \n\nThey had reached her father s house, and she softly unfastened the\ndoor, groping about for a light within.\n\nThe circumstances were not altogether unlike those of their entry into\nthe cottage at Cresscombe, such a long time before. Nor were perhaps\nArabella s motives. But Jude did not think of that, though she did.\n\n I can t find the matches, dear,  she said when she had fastened up the\ndoor.  But never mind this way. As quiet as you can, please. \n\n It is as dark as pitch,  said Jude.\n\n Give me your hand, and I ll lead you. That s it. Just sit down here,\nand I ll pull off your boots. I don t want to wake him. \n\n Who? \n\n Father. He d make a row, perhaps. \n\nShe pulled off his boots.  Now,  she whispered,  take hold of me never\nmind your weight. Now first stair, second stair \n\n But are we out in our old house by Marygreen?  asked the stupefied\nJude.  I haven t been inside it for years till now! Hey? And where are\nmy books? That s what I want to know? \n\n We are at my house, dear, where there s nobody to spy out how ill you\nare. Now third stair, fourth stair that s it. Now we shall get on. \n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nArabella was preparing breakfast in the downstairs back room of this\nsmall, recently hired tenement of her father s. She put her head into\nthe little pork-shop in front, and told Mr. Donn it was ready. Donn,\nendeavouring to look like a master pork-butcher, in a greasy blue\nblouse, and with a strap round his waist from which a steel dangled,\ncame in promptly.\n\n You must mind the shop this morning,  he said casually.  I ve to go\nand get some inwards and half a pig from Lumsdon, and to call\nelsewhere. If you live here you must put your shoulder to the wheel, at\nleast till I get the business started! \n\n Well, for to-day I can t say.  She looked deedily into his face.  I ve\ngot a prize upstairs. \n\n Oh? What s that? \n\n A husband almost. \n\n No! \n\n Yes. It s Jude. He s come back to me. \n\n Your old original one? Well, I m damned! \n\n Well, I always did like him, that I will say. \n\n But how does he come to be up there?  said Donn, humour-struck, and\nnodding to the ceiling.\n\n Don t ask inconvenient questions, Father. What we ve to do is to keep\nhim here till he and I are as we were. \n\n How was that? \n\n Married. \n\n Ah  Well it is the rummest thing I ever heard of marrying an old\nhusband again, and so much new blood in the world! He s no catch, to my\nthinking. I d have had a new one while I was about it. \n\n It isn t rum for a woman to want her old husband back for\nrespectability, though for a man to want his old wife back well,\nperhaps it is funny, rather!  And Arabella was suddenly seized with a\nfit of loud laughter, in which her father joined more moderately.\n\n Be civil to him, and I ll do the rest,  she said when she had\nrecovered seriousness.  He told me this morning that his head ached fit\nto burst, and he hardly seemed to know where he was. And no wonder,\nconsidering how he mixed his drink last night. We must keep him jolly\nand cheerful here for a day or two, and not let him go back to his\nlodging. Whatever you advance I ll pay back to you again. But I must go\nup and see how he is now, poor deary. \n\nArabella ascended the stairs, softly opened the door of the first\nbedroom, and peeped in. Finding that her shorn Samson was asleep she\nentered to the bedside and stood regarding him. The fevered flush on\nhis face from the debauch of the previous evening lessened the\nfragility of his ordinary appearance, and his long lashes, dark brows,\nand curly back hair and beard against the white pillow completed the\nphysiognomy of one whom Arabella, as a woman of rank passions, still\nfelt it worth while to recapture, highly important to recapture as a\nwoman straitened both in means and in reputation. Her ardent gaze\nseemed to affect him; his quick breathing became suspended, and he\nopened his eyes.\n\n How are you now, dear?  said she.  It is I Arabella. \n\n Ah! where oh yes, I remember! You gave me shelter  I am\nstranded ill demoralized damn bad! That s what I am! \n\n Then do stay here. There s nobody in the house but father and me, and\nyou can rest till you are thoroughly well. I ll tell them at the\nstoneworks that you are knocked up. \n\n I wonder what they are thinking at the lodgings! \n\n I ll go round and explain. Perhaps you had better let me pay up, or\nthey ll think we ve run away? \n\n Yes. You ll find enough money in my pocket there. \n\nQuite indifferent, and shutting his eyes because he could not bear the\ndaylight in his throbbing eye-balls, Jude seemed to doze again.\nArabella took his purse, softly left the room, and putting on her\noutdoor things went off to the lodgings she and he had quitted the\nevening before.\n\nScarcely half an hour had elapsed ere she reappeared round the corner,\nwalking beside a lad wheeling a truck on which were piled all Jude s\nhousehold possessions, and also the few of Arabella s things which she\nhad taken to the lodging for her short sojourn there. Jude was in such\nphysical pain from his unfortunate break-down of the previous night,\nand in such mental pain from the loss of Sue and from having yielded in\nhis half-somnolent state to Arabella, that when he saw his few chattels\nunpacked and standing before his eyes in this strange bedroom,\nintermixed with woman s apparel, he scarcely considered how they had\ncome there, or what their coming signalized.\n\n Now,  said Arabella to her father downstairs,  we must keep plenty of\ngood liquor going in the house these next few days. I know his nature,\nand if he once gets into that fearfully low state that he does get into\nsometimes, he ll never do the honourable thing by me in this world, and\nI shall be left in the lurch. He must be kept cheerful. He has a little\nmoney in the savings bank, and he has given me his purse to pay for\nanything necessary. Well, that will be the licence; for I must have\nthat ready at hand, to catch him the moment he s in the humour. You\nmust pay for the liquor. A few friends, and a quiet convivial party\nwould be the thing, if we could get it up. It would advertise the shop,\nand help me too. \n\n That can be got up easy enough by anybody who ll afford victuals and\ndrink  Well yes it would advertise the shop that s true. \n\nThree days later, when Jude had recovered somewhat from the fearful\nthrobbing of his eyes and brain, but was still considerably confused in\nhis mind by what had been supplied to him by Arabella during the\ninterval to keep him, jolly, as she expressed it the quiet convivial\ngathering, suggested by her, to wind Jude up to the striking point,\ntook place.\n\nDonn had only just opened his miserable little pork and sausage shop,\nwhich had as yet scarce any customers; nevertheless that party\nadvertised it well, and the Donns acquired a real notoriety among a\ncertain class in Christminster who knew not the colleges, nor their\nworks, nor their ways. Jude was asked if he could suggest any guest in\naddition to those named by Arabella and her father, and in a saturnine\nhumour of perfect recklessness mentioned Uncle Joe, and Stagg, and the\ndecayed auctioneer, and others whom he remembered as having been\nfrequenters of the well-known tavern during his bout therein years\nbefore. He also suggested Freckles and Bower o  Bliss. Arabella took\nhim at his word so far as the men went, but drew the line at the\nladies.\n\nAnother man they knew, Tinker Taylor, though he lived in the same\nstreet, was not invited; but as he went homeward from a late job on the\nevening of the party, he had occasion to call at the shop for trotters.\nThere were none in, but he was promised some the next morning. While\nmaking his inquiry Taylor glanced into the back room, and saw the\nguests sitting round, card-playing, and drinking, and otherwise\nenjoying themselves at Donn s expense. He went home to bed, and on his\nway out next morning wondered how the party went off. He thought it\nhardly worth while to call at the shop for his provisions at that hour,\nDonn and his daughter being probably not up, if they caroused late the\nnight before. However, he found in passing that the door was open, and\nhe could hear voices within, though the shutters of the meat-stall were\nnot down. He went and tapped at the sitting-room door, and opened it.\n\n Well to be sure!  he said, astonished.\n\nHosts and guests were sitting card-playing, smoking, and talking,\nprecisely as he had left them eleven hours earlier; the gas was burning\nand the curtains drawn, though it had been broad daylight for two hours\nout of doors.\n\n Yes!  cried Arabella, laughing.  Here we are, just the same. We ought\nto be ashamed of ourselves, oughtn t we? But it is a sort of\nhousewarming, you see; and our friends are in no hurry. Come in, Mr.\nTaylor, and sit down. \n\nThe tinker, or rather reduced ironmonger, was nothing loath, and\nentered and took a seat.  I shall lose a quarter, but never mind,  he\nsaid.  Well, really, I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked in!\nIt seemed as if I was flung back again into last night, all of a\nsudden. \n\n So you are. Pour out for Mr. Taylor. \n\nHe now perceived that she was sitting beside Jude, her arm being round\nhis waist. Jude, like the rest of the company, bore on his face the\nsigns of how deeply he had been indulging.\n\n Well, we ve been waiting for certain legal hours to arrive, to tell\nthe truth,  she continued bashfully, and making her spirituous crimson\nlook as much like a maiden blush as possible.  Jude and I have decided\nto make up matters between us by tying the knot again, as we find we\ncan t do without one another after all. So, as a bright notion, we\nagreed to sit on till it was late enough, and go and do it off-hand. \n\nJude seemed to pay no great heed to what she was announcing, or indeed\nto anything whatever. The entrance of Taylor infused fresh spirit into\nthe company, and they remained sitting, till Arabella whispered to her\nfather:  Now we may as well go. \n\n But the parson don t know? \n\n Yes, I told him last night that we might come between eight and nine,\nas there were reasons of decency for doing it as early and quiet as\npossible; on account of it being our second marriage, which might make\npeople curious to look on if they knew. He highly approved. \n\n Oh very well, I m ready,  said her father, getting up and shaking\nhimself.\n\n Now, old darling,  she said to Jude.  Come along, as you promised. \n\n When did I promise anything?  asked he, whom she had made so tipsy by\nher special knowledge of that line of business as almost to have made\nhim sober again or to seem so to those who did not know him.\n\n Why!  said Arabella, affecting dismay.  You ve promised to marry me\nseveral times as we ve sat here to-night. These gentlemen have heard\nyou. \n\n I don t remember it,  said Jude doggedly.  There s only one woman but\nI won t mention her in this Capharnaum! \n\nArabella looked towards her father.  Now, Mr. Fawley be honourable, \nsaid Donn.  You and my daughter have been living here together these\nthree or four days, quite on the understanding that you were going to\nmarry her. Of course I shouldn t have had such goings on in my house if\nI hadn t understood that. As a point of honour you must do it now. \n\n Don t say anything against my honour!  enjoined Jude hotly, standing\nup.  I d marry the W  of Babylon rather than do anything\ndishonourable! No reflection on you, my dear. It is a mere rhetorical\nfigure what they call in the books, hyperbole. \n\n Keep your figures for your debts to friends who shelter you,  said\nDonn.\n\n If I am bound in honour to marry her as I suppose I am though how I\ncame to be here with her I know no more than a dead man marry her I\nwill, so help me God! I have never behaved dishonourably to a woman or\nto any living thing. I am not a man who wants to save himself at the\nexpense of the weaker among us! \n\n There never mind him, deary,  said she, putting her cheek against\nJude s.  Come up and wash your face, and just put yourself tidy, and\noff we ll go. Make it up with Father. \n\nThey shook hands. Jude went upstairs with her, and soon came down\nlooking tidy and calm. Arabella, too, had hastily arranged herself, and\naccompanied by Donn away they went.\n\n Don t go,  she said to the guests at parting.  I ve told the little\nmaid to get the breakfast while we are gone; and when we come back\nwe ll all have some. A good strong cup of tea will set everybody right\nfor going home. \n\n\nWhen Arabella, Jude, and Donn had disappeared on their matrimonial\nerrand the assembled guests yawned themselves wider awake, and\ndiscussed the situation with great interest. Tinker Taylor, being the\nmost sober, reasoned the most lucidly.\n\n I don t wish to speak against friends,  he said.  But it do seem a\nrare curiosity for a couple to marry over again! If they couldn t get\non the first time when their minds were limp, they won t the second, by\nmy reckoning. \n\n Do you think he ll do it? \n\n He s been put upon his honour by the woman, so he med. \n\n He d hardly do it straight off like this. He s got no licence nor\nanything. \n\n She s got that, bless you. Didn t you hear her say so to her father? \n\n Well,  said Tinker Taylor, relighting his pipe at the gas-jet.  Take\nher all together, limb by limb, she s not such a bad-looking\npiece particular by candlelight. To be sure, halfpence that have been\nin circulation can t be expected to look like new ones from the mint.\nBut for a woman that s been knocking about the four hemispheres for\nsome time, she s passable enough. A little bit thick in the flitch\nperhaps: but I like a woman that a puff o  wind won t blow down. \n\nTheir eyes followed the movements of the little girl as she spread the\nbreakfast-cloth on the table they had been using, without wiping up the\nslops of the liquor. The curtains were undrawn, and the expression of\nthe house made to look like morning. Some of the guests, however, fell\nasleep in their chairs. One or two went to the door, and gazed along\nthe street more than once. Tinker Taylor was the chief of these, and\nafter a time he came in with a leer on his face.\n\n By Gad, they are coming! I think the deed s done! \n\n No,  said Uncle Joe, following him in.  Take my word, he turned rusty\nat the last minute. They are walking in a very unusual way; and that s\nthe meaning of it! \n\nThey waited in silence till the wedding-party could be heard entering\nthe house. First into the room came Arabella boisterously; and her face\nwas enough to show that her strategy had succeeded.\n\n Mrs. Fawley, I presume?  said Tinker Taylor with mock courtesy.\n\n Certainly. Mrs. Fawley again,  replied Arabella blandly, pulling off\nher glove and holding out her left hand.  There s the padlock, see \nWell, he was a very nice, gentlemanly man indeed. I mean the clergyman.\nHe said to me as gentle as a babe when all was done:  Mrs. Fawley, I\ncongratulate you heartily,  he says.  For having heard your history,\nand that of your husband, I think you have both done the right and\nproper thing. And for your past errors as a wife, and his as a husband,\nI think you ought now to be forgiven by the world, as you have forgiven\neach other,  says he. Yes; he was a very nice, gentlemanly man.  The\nChurch don t recognize divorce in her dogma, strictly speaking,  he\nsays:  and bear in mind the words of the service in your goings out and\nyour comings in: What God hath joined together let no man put asunder. \nYes; he was a very nice, gentlemanly man  But, Jude, my dear, you were\nenough to make a cat laugh! You walked that straight, and held yourself\nthat steady, that one would have thought you were going  prentice to a\njudge; though I knew you were seeing double all the time, from the way\nyou fumbled with my finger. \n\n I said I d do anything to save a woman s honour,  muttered Jude.  And\nI ve done it! \n\n Well now, old deary, come along and have some breakfast. \n\n I want some more whisky,  said Jude stolidly.\n\n Nonsense, dear. Not now! There s no more left. The tea will take the\nmuddle out of our heads, and we shall be as fresh as larks. \n\n All right. I ve married you. She said I ought to marry you again, and\nI have straightway. It is true religion! Ha ha ha! \n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nMichaelmas came and passed, and Jude and his wife, who had lived but a\nshort time in her father s house after their remarriage, were in\nlodgings on the top floor of a dwelling nearer to the centre of the\ncity.\n\nHe had done a few days  work during the two or three months since the\nevent, but his health had been indifferent, and it was now precarious.\nHe was sitting in an arm-chair before the fire, and coughed a good\ndeal.\n\n I ve got a bargain for my trouble in marrying thee over again! \nArabella was saying to him.  I shall have to keep  ee entirely that s\nwhat  twill come to! I shall have to make black-pot and sausages, and\nhawk  em about the street, all to support an invalid husband I d no\nbusiness to be saddled with at all. Why didn t you keep your health,\ndeceiving one like this? You were well enough when the wedding was! \n\n Ah, yes!  said he, laughing acridly.  I have been thinking of my\nfoolish feeling about the pig you and I killed during our first\nmarriage. I feel now that the greatest mercy that could be vouchsafed\nto me would be that something should serve me as I served that animal. \n\nThis was the sort of discourse that went on between them every day now.\nThe landlord of the lodging, who had heard that they were a queer\ncouple, had doubted if they were married at all, especially as he had\nseen Arabella kiss Jude one evening when she had taken a little\ncordial; and he was about to give them notice to quit, till by chance\noverhearing her one night haranguing Jude in rattling terms, and\nultimately flinging a shoe at his head, he recognized the note of\ngenuine wedlock; and concluding that they must be respectable, said no\nmore.\n\nJude did not get any better, and one day he requested Arabella, with\nconsiderable hesitation, to execute a commission for him. She asked him\nindifferently what it was.\n\n To write to Sue. \n\n What in the name do you want me to write to her for? \n\n To ask how she is, and if she ll come to see me, because I m ill, and\nshould like to see her once again. \n\n It is like you to insult a lawful wife by asking such a thing! \n\n It is just in order not to insult you that I ask you to do it. You\nknow I love Sue. I don t wish to mince the matter there stands the\nfact: I love her. I could find a dozen ways of sending a letter to her\nwithout your knowledge. But I wish to be quite above-board with you,\nand with her husband. A message through you asking her to come is at\nleast free from any odour of intrigue. If she retains any of her old\nnature at all, she ll come. \n\n You ve no respect for marriage whatever, or its rights and duties! \n\n What _does_ it matter what my opinions are a wretch like me! Can it\nmatter to anybody in the world who comes to see me for half an\nhour here with one foot in the grave!   Come, please write, Arabella! \nhe pleaded.  Repay my candour by a little generosity! \n\n I should think _not_! \n\n Not just once? Oh do!  He felt that his physical weakness had taken\naway all his dignity.\n\n What do you want _her_ to know how you are for? She don t want to see\n ee. She s the rat that forsook the sinking ship! \n\n Don t, don t! \n\n And I stuck to un the more fool I! Have that strumpet in the house\nindeed! \n\nAlmost as soon as the words were spoken Jude sprang from the chair, and\nbefore Arabella knew where she was he had her on her back upon a little\ncouch which stood there, he kneeling above her.\n\n Say another word of that sort,  he whispered,  and I ll kill you here\nand now! I ve everything to gain by it my own death not being the least\npart. So don t think there s no meaning in what I say! \n\n What do you want me to do?  gasped Arabella.\n\n Promise never to speak of her. \n\n Very well. I do. \n\n I take your word,  he said scornfully as he loosened her.  But what it\nis worth I can t say. \n\n You couldn t kill the pig, but you could kill me! \n\n Ah there you have me! No I couldn t kill you even in a passion. Taunt\naway! \n\nHe then began coughing very much, and she estimated his life with an\nappraiser s eye as he sank back ghastly pale.  I ll send for her, \nArabella murmured,  if you ll agree to my being in the room with you\nall the time she s here. \n\nThe softer side of his nature, the desire to see Sue, made him unable\nto resist the offer even now, provoked as he had been; and he replied\nbreathlessly:  Yes, I agree. Only send for her! \n\nIn the evening he inquired if she had written.\n\n Yes,  she said;  I wrote a note telling her you were ill, and asking\nher to come to-morrow or the day after. I haven t posted it yet. \n\nThe next day Jude wondered if she really did post it, but would not ask\nher; and foolish Hope, that lives on a drop and a crumb, made him\nrestless with expectation. He knew the times of the possible trains,\nand listened on each occasion for sounds of her.\n\nShe did not come; but Jude would not address Arabella again thereon. He\nhoped and expected all the next day; but no Sue appeared; neither was\nthere any note of reply. Then Jude decided in the privacy of his mind\nthat Arabella had never posted hers, although she had written it. There\nwas something in her manner which told it. His physical weakness was\nsuch that he shed tears at the disappointment when she was not there to\nsee. His suspicions were, in fact, well founded. Arabella, like some\nother nurses, thought that your duty towards your invalid was to pacify\nhim by any means short of really acting upon his fancies.\n\nHe never said another word to her about his wish or his conjecture. A\nsilent, undiscerned resolve grew up in him, which gave him, if not\nstrength, stability and calm. One midday when, after an absence of two\nhours, she came into the room, she beheld the chair empty.\n\nDown she flopped on the bed, and sitting, meditated.  Now where the\ndevil is my man gone to!  she said.\n\nA driving rain from the north-east had been falling with more or less\nintermission all the morning, and looking from the window at the\ndripping spouts it seemed impossible to believe that any sick man would\nhave ventured out to almost certain death. Yet a conviction possessed\nArabella that he had gone out, and it became a certainty when she had\nsearched the house.  If he s such a fool, let him be!  she said.  I can\ndo no more. \n\nJude was at that moment in a railway train that was drawing near to\nAlfredston, oddly swathed, pale as a monumental figure in alabaster,\nand much stared at by other passengers. An hour later his thin form, in\nthe long great-coat and blanket he had come with, but without an\numbrella, could have been seen walking along the five-mile road to\nMarygreen. On his face showed the determined purpose that alone\nsustained him, but to which has weakness afforded a sorry foundation.\nBy the up-hill walk he was quite blown, but he pressed on; and at\nhalf-past three o clock stood by the familiar well at Marygreen. The\nrain was keeping everybody indoors; Jude crossed the green to the\nchurch without observation, and found the building open. Here he stood,\nlooking forth at the school, whence he could hear the usual sing-song\ntones of the little voices that had not learnt Creation s groan.\n\nHe waited till a small boy came from the school one evidently allowed\nout before hours for some reason or other. Jude held up his hand, and\nthe child came.\n\n Please call at the schoolhouse and ask Mrs. Phillotson if she will be\nkind enough to come to the church for a few minutes. \n\nThe child departed, and Jude heard him knock at the door of the\ndwelling. He himself went further into the church. Everything was new,\nexcept a few pieces of carving preserved from the wrecked old fabric,\nnow fixed against the new walls. He stood by these: they seemed akin to\nthe perished people of that place who were his ancestors and Sue s.\n\nA light footstep, which might have been accounted no more than an added\ndrip to the rainfall, sounded in the porch, and he looked round.\n\n Oh I didn t think it was you! I didn t Oh, Jude!  A hysterical catch\nin her breath ended in a succession of them. He advanced, but she\nquickly recovered and went back.\n\n Don t go don t go!  he implored.  This is my last time! I thought it\nwould be less intrusive than to enter your house. And I shall never\ncome again. Don t then be unmerciful. Sue, Sue! We are acting by the\nletter; and  the letter killeth ! \n\n I ll stay I won t be unkind!  she said, her mouth quivering and her\ntears flowing as she allowed him to come closer.  But why did you come,\nand do this wrong thing, after doing such a right thing as you have\ndone? \n\n What right thing? \n\n Marrying Arabella again. It was in the Alfredston paper. She has never\nbeen other than yours, Jude in a proper sense. And therefore you did so\nwell Oh so well! in recognizing it and taking her to you again. \n\n God above and is that all I ve come to hear? If there is anything more\ndegrading, immoral, unnatural, than another in my life, it is this\nmeretricious contract with Arabella which has been called doing the\nright thing! And you too you call yourself Phillotson s wife! _His_\nwife! You are mine. \n\n Don t make me rush away from you I can t bear much! But on this point\nI am decided. \n\n I cannot understand how you did it how you think it I cannot! \n\n Never mind that. He is a kind husband to me And I I ve wrestled and\nstruggled, and fasted, and prayed. I have nearly brought my body into\ncomplete subjection. And you mustn t will you wake \n\n Oh you darling little fool; where is your reason? You seem to have\nsuffered the loss of your faculties! I would argue with you if I didn t\nknow that a woman in your state of feeling is quite beyond all appeals\nto her brains. Or is it that you are humbugging yourself, as so many\nwomen do about these things; and don t actually believe what you\npretend to, and only are indulging in the luxury of the emotion raised\nby an affected belief? \n\n Luxury! How can you be so cruel! \n\n You dear, sad, soft, most melancholy wreck of a promising human\nintellect that it has ever been my lot to behold! Where is your scorn\nof convention gone? I _would_ have died game! \n\n You crush, almost insult me, Jude! Go away from me!  She turned off\nquickly.\n\n I will. I would never come to see you again, even if I had the\nstrength to come, which I shall not have any more. Sue, Sue, you are\nnot worth a man s love! \n\nHer bosom began to go up and down.  I can t endure you to say that! \nshe burst out, and her eye resting on him a moment, she turned back\nimpulsively.  Don t, don t scorn me! Kiss me, oh kiss me lots of times,\nand say I am not a coward and a contemptible humbug I can t bear it! \nShe rushed up to him and, with her mouth on his, continued:  I must\ntell you oh I must my darling Love! It has been only a church\nmarriage an apparent marriage I mean! He suggested it at the very\nfirst! \n\n How? \n\n I mean it is a nominal marriage only. It hasn t been more than that at\nall since I came back to him! \n\n Sue!  he said. Pressing her to him in his arms, he bruised her lips\nwith kisses.  If misery can know happiness, I have a moment s happiness\nnow! Now, in the name of all you hold holy, tell me the truth, and no\nlie. You do love me still? \n\n I do! You know it too well!   But I _mustn t_ do this! I mustn t kiss\nyou back as I would! \n\n But do! \n\n And yet you are so dear! and you look so ill \n\n And so do you! There s one more, in memory of our dead little\nchildren yours and mine! \n\nThe words struck her like a blow, and she bent her head.  I _mustn t_ I\n_can t_ go on with this!  she gasped presently.  But there, there,\ndarling; I give you back your kisses; I do, I do!   And now I ll _hate_\nmyself for ever for my sin! \n\n No let me make my last appeal. Listen to this! We ve both remarried\nout of our senses. I was made drunk to do it. You were the same. I was\ngin-drunk; you were creed-drunk. Either form of intoxication takes away\nthe nobler vision  Let us then shake off our mistakes, and run away\ntogether! \n\n No; again no!   Why do you tempt me so far, Jude! It is too merciless!\n  But I ve got over myself now. Don t follow me don t look at me. Leave\nme, for pity s sake! \n\nShe ran up the church to the east end, and Jude did as she requested.\nHe did not turn his head, but took up his blanket, which she had not\nseen, and went straight out. As he passed the end of the church she\nheard his coughs mingling with the rain on the windows, and in a last\ninstinct of human affection, even now unsubdued by her fetters, she\nsprang up as if to go and succour him. But she knelt down again, and\nstopped her ears with her hands till all possible sound of him had\npassed away.\n\nHe was by this time at the corner of the green, from which the path ran\nacross the fields in which he had scared rooks as a boy. He turned and\nlooked back, once, at the building which still contained Sue; and then\nwent on, knowing that his eyes would light on that scene no more.\n\nThere are cold spots up and down Wessex in autumn and winter weather;\nbut the coldest of all when a north or east wind is blowing is the\ncrest of the down by the Brown House, where the road to Alfredston\ncrosses the old Ridgeway. Here the first winter sleets and snows fall\nand lie, and here the spring frost lingers last unthawed. Here in the\nteeth of the north-east wind and rain Jude now pursued his way, wet\nthrough, the necessary slowness of his walk from lack of his former\nstrength being insufficent to maintain his heat. He came to the\nmilestone, and, raining as it was, spread his blanket and lay down\nthere to rest. Before moving on he went and felt at the back of the\nstone for his own carving. It was still there; but nearly obliterated\nby moss. He passed the spot where the gibbet of his ancestor and Sue s\nhad stood, and descended the hill.\n\nIt was dark when he reached Alfredston, where he had a cup of tea, the\ndeadly chill that began to creep into his bones being too much for him\nto endure fasting. To get home he had to travel by a steam tram-car,\nand two branches of railway, with much waiting at a junction. He did\nnot reach Christminster till ten o clock.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nOn the platform stood Arabella. She looked him up and down.\n\n You ve been to see her?  she asked.\n\n I have,  said Jude, literally tottering with cold and lassitude.\n\n Well, now you d best march along home. \n\nThe water ran out of him as he went, and he was compelled to lean\nagainst the wall to support himself while coughing.\n\n You ve done for yourself by this, young man,  said she.  I don t know\nwhether you know it. \n\n Of course I do. I meant to do for myself. \n\n What to commit suicide? \n\n Certainly. \n\n Well, I m blest! Kill yourself for a woman. \n\n Listen to me, Arabella. You think you are the stronger; and so you\nare, in a physical sense, now. You could push me over like a nine-pin.\nYou did not send that letter the other day, and I could not resent your\nconduct. But I am not so weak in another way as you think. I made up my\nmind that a man confined to his room by inflammation of the lungs, a\nfellow who had only two wishes left in the world, to see a particular\nwoman, and then to die, could neatly accomplish those two wishes at one\nstroke by taking this journey in the rain. That I ve done. I have seen\nher for the last time, and I ve finished myself put an end to a\nfeverish life which ought never to have been begun! \n\n Lord you do talk lofty! Won t you have something warm to drink? \n\n No thank you. Let s get home. \n\nThey went along by the silent colleges, and Jude kept stopping.\n\n What are you looking at? \n\n Stupid fancies. I see, in a way, those spirits of the dead again, on\nthis my last walk, that I saw when I first walked here! \n\n What a curious chap you are! \n\n I seem to see them, and almost hear them rustling. But I don t revere\nall of them as I did then. I don t believe in half of them. The\ntheologians, the apologists, and their kin the metaphysicians, the\nhigh-handed statesmen, and others, no longer interest me. All that has\nbeen spoilt for me by the grind of stern reality! \n\nThe expression of Jude s corpselike face in the watery lamplight was\nindeed as if he saw people where there was nobody. At moments he stood\nstill by an archway, like one watching a figure walk out; then he would\nlook at a window like one discerning a familiar face behind it. He\nseemed to hear voices, whose words he repeated as if to gather their\nmeaning.\n\n They seem laughing at me! \n\n Who? \n\n Oh I was talking to myself! The phantoms all about here, in the\ncollege archways, and windows. They used to look friendly in the old\ndays, particularly Addison, and Gibbon, and Johnson, and Dr. Browne,\nand Bishop Ken \n\n Come along do! Phantoms! There s neither living nor dead hereabouts\nexcept a damn policeman! I never saw the streets emptier. \n\n Fancy! The Poet of Liberty used to walk here, and the great Dissector\nof Melancholy there! \n\n I don t want to hear about  em! They bore me. \n\n Walter Raleigh is beckoning to me from that\nlane Wycliffe Harvey Hooker Arnold and a whole crowd of Tractarian\nShades \n\n I _don t want_ to know their names, I tell you! What do I care about\nfolk dead and gone? Upon my soul you are more sober when you ve been\ndrinking than when you have not! \n\n I must rest a moment,  he said; and as he paused, holding to the\nrailings, he measured with his eye the height of a college front.  This\nis old Rubric. And that Sarcophagus; and up that lane Crozier and\nTudor: and all down there is Cardinal with its long front, and its\nwindows with lifted eyebrows, representing the polite surprise of the\nuniversity at the efforts of such as I. \n\n Come along, and I ll treat you! \n\n Very well. It will help me home, for I feel the chilly fog from the\nmeadows of Cardinal as if death-claws were grabbing me through and\nthrough. As Antigone said, I am neither a dweller among men nor ghosts.\nBut, Arabella, when I am dead, you ll see my spirit flitting up and\ndown here among these! \n\n Pooh! You mayn t die after all. You are tough enough yet, old man. \n\n\nIt was night at Marygreen, and the rain of the afternoon showed no sign\nof abatement. About the time at which Jude and Arabella were walking\nthe streets of Christminster homeward, the Widow Edlin crossed the\ngreen, and opened the back door of the schoolmaster s dwelling, which\nshe often did now before bedtime, to assist Sue in putting things away.\n\nSue was muddling helplessly in the kitchen, for she was not a good\nhousewife, though she tried to be, and grew impatient of domestic\ndetails.\n\n Lord love  ee, what do ye do that yourself for, when I ve come o \npurpose! You knew I should come. \n\n Oh I don t know I forgot! No, I didn t forget. I did it to discipline\nmyself. I have scrubbed the stairs since eight o clock. I _must_\npractise myself in my household duties. I ve shamefully neglected\nthem! \n\n Why should ye? He ll get a better school, perhaps be a parson, in\ntime, and you ll keep two servants.  Tis a pity to spoil them pretty\nhands. \n\n Don t talk of my pretty hands, Mrs. Edlin. This pretty body of mine\nhas been the ruin of me already! \n\n Pshoo you ve got no body to speak of! You put me more in mind of a\nsperrit. But there seems something wrong to-night, my dear. Husband\ncross? \n\n No. He never is. He s gone to bed early. \n\n Then what is it? \n\n I cannot tell you. I have done wrong to-day. And I want to eradicate\nit  Well I will tell you this Jude has been here this afternoon, and I\nfind I still love him oh, grossly! I cannot tell you more. \n\n Ah!  said the widow.  I told  ee how  twould be! \n\n But it shan t be! I have not told my husband of his visit; it is not\nnecessary to trouble him about it, as I never mean to see Jude any\nmore. But I am going to make my conscience right on my duty to\nRichard by doing a penance the ultimate thing. I must! \n\n I wouldn t since he agrees to it being otherwise, and it has gone on\nthree months very well as it is. \n\n Yes he agrees to my living as I choose; but I feel it is an indulgence\nI ought not to exact from him. It ought not to have been accepted by\nme. To reverse it will be terrible but I must be more just to him. O\nwhy was I so unheroic! \n\n What is it you don t like in him?  asked Mrs. Edlin curiously.\n\n I cannot tell you. It is something  I cannot say. The mournful thing\nis, that nobody would admit it as a reason for feeling as I do; so that\nno excuse is left me. \n\n Did you ever tell Jude what it was? \n\n Never. \n\n I ve heard strange tales o  husbands in my time,  observed the widow\nin a lowered voice.  They say that when the saints were upon the earth\ndevils used to take husbands  forms o  nights, and get poor women into\nall sorts of trouble. But I don t know why that should come into my\nhead, for it is only a tale  What a wind and rain it is to-night!\nWell don t be in a hurry to alter things, my dear. Think it over. \n\n No, no! I ve screwed my weak soul up to treating him more\ncourteously and it must be now at once before I break down! \n\n I don t think you ought to force your nature. No woman ought to be\nexpected to. \n\n It is my duty. I will drink my cup to the dregs! \n\nHalf an hour later when Mrs. Edlin put on her bonnet and shawl to\nleave, Sue seemed to be seized with vague terror.\n\n No no don t go, Mrs. Edlin,  she implored, her eyes enlarged, and with\na quick nervous look over her shoulder.\n\n But it is bedtime, child. \n\n Yes, but there s the little spare room my room that was. It is quite\nready. Please stay, Mrs. Edlin! I shall want you in the morning. \n\n Oh well I don t mind, if you wish. Nothing will happen to my four old\nwalls, whether I be there or no. \n\nShe then fastened up the doors, and they ascended the stairs together.\n\n Wait here, Mrs. Edlin,  said Sue.  I ll go into my old room a moment\nby myself. \n\nLeaving the widow on the landing Sue turned to the chamber which had\nbeen hers exclusively since her arrival at Marygreen, and pushing to\nthe door knelt down by the bed for a minute or two. She then arose, and\ntaking her night-gown from the pillow undressed and came out to Mrs.\nEdlin. A man could be heard snoring in the room opposite. She wished\nMrs. Edlin good-night, and the widow entered the room that Sue had just\nvacated.\n\nSue unlatched the other chamber door, and, as if seized with faintness,\nsank down outside it. Getting up again she half opened the door, and\nsaid  Richard.  As the word came out of her mouth she visibly\nshuddered.\n\nThe snoring had quite ceased for some time, but he did not reply. Sue\nseemed relieved, and hurried back to Mrs. Edlin s chamber.  Are you in\nbed, Mrs. Edlin?  she asked.\n\n No, dear,  said the widow, opening the door.  I be old and slow, and\nit takes me a long while to un-ray. I han t unlaced my jumps yet. \n\n I don t hear him! And perhaps perhaps \n\n What, child? \n\n Perhaps he s dead!  she gasped.  And then I should be _free_, and I\ncould go to Jude!   Ah no I forgot _her_ and God! \n\n Let s go and hearken. No he s snoring again. But the rain and the wind\nis so loud that you can hardly hear anything but between whiles. \n\nSue had dragged herself back.  Mrs. Edlin, good-night again! I am sorry\nI called you out.  The widow retreated a second time.\n\nThe strained, resigned look returned to Sue s face when she was alone.\n I must do it I must! I must drink to the dregs!  she whispered.\n Richard!  she said again.\n\n Hey what? Is that you, Susanna? \n\n Yes. \n\n What do you want? Anything the matter? Wait a moment.  He pulled on\nsome articles of clothing, and came to the door.  Yes? \n\n When we were at Shaston I jumped out of the window rather than that\nyou should come near me. I have never reversed that treatment till\nnow when I have come to beg your pardon for it, and ask you to let me\nin. \n\n Perhaps you only think you ought to do this? I don t wish you to come\nagainst your impulses, as I have said. \n\n But I beg to be admitted.  She waited a moment, and repeated,  I beg\nto be admitted! I have been in error even to-day. I have exceeded my\nrights. I did not mean to tell you, but perhaps I ought. I sinned\nagainst you this afternoon. \n\n How? \n\n I met Jude! I didn t know he was coming. And \n\n Well? \n\n I kissed him, and let him kiss me. \n\n Oh the old story! \n\n Richard, I didn t know we were going to kiss each other till we did! \n\n How many times? \n\n A good many. I don t know. I am horrified to look back on it, and the\nleast I can do after it is to come to you like this. \n\n Come this is pretty bad, after what I ve done! Anything else to\nconfess? \n\n No.  She had been intending to say:  I called him my darling Love. \nBut, as a contrite woman always keeps back a little, that portion of\nthe scene remained untold. She went on:  I am never going to see him\nany more. He spoke of some things of the past, and it overcame me. He\nspoke of the children. But, as I have said, I am glad almost glad I\nmean that they are dead, Richard. It blots out all that life of mine! \n\n Well about not seeing him again any more. Come you really mean this? \nThere was something in Phillotson s tone now which seemed to show that\nhis three months of remarriage with Sue had somehow not been so\nsatisfactory as his magnanimity or amative patience had anticipated.\n\n Yes, yes! \n\n Perhaps you ll swear it on the New Testament? \n\n I will. \n\nHe went back to the room and brought out a little brown Testament.  Now\nthen: So help you God! \n\nShe swore.\n\n Very good! \n\n Now I supplicate you, Richard, to whom I belong, and whom I wish to\nhonour and obey, as I vowed, to let me in. \n\n Think it over well. You know what it means. Having you back in the\nhouse was one thing this another. So think again. \n\n I have thought I wish this! \n\n That s a complaisant spirit and perhaps you are right. With a lover\nhanging about, a half-marriage should be completed. But I repeat my\nreminder this third and last time. \n\n It is my wish!   O God! \n\n What did you say  O God  for? \n\n I don t know! \n\n Yes you do! But   He gloomily considered her thin and fragile form a\nmoment longer as she crouched before him in her night-clothes.  Well, I\nthought it might end like this,  he said presently.  I owe you nothing,\nafter these signs; but I ll take you in at your word, and forgive you. \n\nHe put his arm round her to lift her up. Sue started back.\n\n What s the matter?  he asked, speaking for the first time sternly.\n You shrink from me again? just as formerly! \n\n No, Richard I I was not thinking \n\n You wish to come in here? \n\n Yes. \n\n You still bear in mind what it means? \n\n Yes. It is my duty! \n\nPlacing the candlestick on the chest of drawers he led her through the\ndoorway, and lifting her bodily, kissed her. A quick look of aversion\npassed over her face, but clenching her teeth she uttered no cry.\n\nMrs. Edlin had by this time undressed, and was about to get into bed\nwhen she said to herself:  Ah perhaps I d better go and see if the\nlittle thing is all right. How it do blow and rain! \n\nThe widow went out on the landing, and saw that Sue had disappeared.\n Ah! Poor soul! Weddings be funerals  a b lieve nowadays. Fifty-five\nyears ago, come Fall, since my man and I married! Times have changed\nsince then! \n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nDespite himself Jude recovered somewhat, and worked at his trade for\nseveral weeks. After Christmas, however, he broke down again.\n\nWith the money he had earned he shifted his lodgings to a yet more\ncentral part of the town. But Arabella saw that he was not likely to do\nmuch work for a long while, and was cross enough at the turn affairs\nhad taken since her remarriage to him.  I m hanged if you haven t been\nclever in this last stroke!  she would say,  to get a nurse for nothing\nby marrying me! \n\nJude was absolutely indifferent to what she said, and indeed, often\nregarded her abuse in a humorous light. Sometimes his mood was more\nearnest, and as he lay he often rambled on upon the defeat of his early\naims.\n\n Every man has some little power in some one direction,  he would say.\n I was never really stout enough for the stone trade, particularly the\nfixing. Moving the blocks always used to strain me, and standing the\ntrying draughts in buildings before the windows are in always gave me\ncolds, and I think that began the mischief inside. But I felt I could\ndo one thing if I had the opportunity. I could accumulate ideas, and\nimpart them to others. I wonder if the founders had such as I in their\nminds a fellow good for nothing else but that particular thing?   I\nhear that soon there is going to be a better chance for such helpless\nstudents as I was. There are schemes afoot for making the university\nless exclusive, and extending its influence. I don t know much about\nit. And it is too late, too late for me! Ah and for how many worthier\nones before me! \n\n How you keep a-mumbling!  said Arabella.  I should have thought you d\nhave got over all that craze about books by this time. And so you\nwould, if you d had any sense to begin with. You are as bad now as when\nwe were first married. \n\nOn one occasion while soliloquizing thus he called her  Sue \nunconsciously.\n\n I wish you d mind who you are talking to!  said Arabella indignantly.\n Calling a respectable married woman by the name of that  She\nremembered herself and he did not catch the word.\n\nBut in the course of time, when she saw how things were going, and how\nvery little she had to fear from Sue s rivalry, she had a fit of\ngenerosity.  I suppose you want to see your Sue?  she said.  Well, I\ndon t mind her coming. You can have her here if you like. \n\n I don t wish to see her again. \n\n Oh that s a change! \n\n And don t tell her anything about me that I m ill, or anything. She\nhas chosen her course. Let her go! \n\nOne day he received a surprise. Mrs. Edlin came to see him, quite on\nher own account. Jude s wife, whose feelings as to where his affections\nwere centred had reached absolute indifference by this time, went out,\nleaving the old woman alone with Jude. He impulsively asked how Sue\nwas, and then said bluntly, remembering what Sue had told him:  I\nsuppose they are still only husband and wife in name? \n\nMrs. Edlin hesitated.  Well, no it s different now. She s begun it\nquite lately all of her own free will. \n\n When did she begin?  he asked quickly.\n\n The night after you came. But as a punishment to her poor self. He\ndidn t wish it, but she insisted. \n\n Sue, my Sue you darling fool this is almost more than I can endure!  \nMrs. Edlin don t be frightened at my rambling I ve got to talk to\nmyself lying here so many hours alone she was once a woman whose\nintellect was to mine like a star to a benzoline lamp: who saw all _my_\nsuperstitions as cobwebs that she could brush away with a word. Then\nbitter affliction came to us, and her intellect broke, and she veered\nround to darkness. Strange difference of sex, that time and\ncircumstance, which enlarge the views of most men, narrow the views of\nwomen almost invariably. And now the ultimate horror has come her\ngiving herself like this to what she loathes, in her enslavement to\nforms! She, so sensitive, so shrinking, that the very wind seemed to\nblow on her with a touch of deference  As for Sue and me when we were\nat our own best, long ago when our minds were clear, and our love of\ntruth fearless the time was not ripe for us! Our ideas were fifty years\ntoo soon to be any good to us. And so the resistance they met with\nbrought reaction in her, and recklessness and ruin on me!   There this,\nMrs. Edlin, is how I go on to myself continually, as I lie here. I must\nbe boring you awfully. \n\n Not at all, my dear boy. I could hearken to  ee all day. \n\nAs Jude reflected more and more on her news, and grew more restless, he\nbegan in his mental agony to use terribly profane language about social\nconventions, which started a fit of coughing. Presently there came a\nknock at the door downstairs. As nobody answered it Mrs. Edlin herself\nwent down.\n\nThe visitor said blandly:  The Doctor.  The lanky form was that of\nPhysician Vilbert, who had been called in by Arabella.\n\n How is my patient at present?  asked the physician.\n\n Oh bad very bad! Poor chap, he got excited, and do blaspeam terribly,\nsince I let out some gossip by accident the more to my blame. But\nthere you must excuse a man in suffering for what he says, and I hope\nGod will forgive him. \n\n Ah. I ll go up and see him. Mrs. Fawley at home? \n\n She s not in at present, but she ll be here soon. \n\nVilbert went; but though Jude had hitherto taken the medicines of that\nskilful practitioner with the greatest indifference whenever poured\ndown his throat by Arabella, he was now so brought to bay by events\nthat he vented his opinion of Vilbert in the physician s face, and so\nforcibly, and with such striking epithets, that Vilbert soon scurried\ndownstairs again. At the door he met Arabella, Mrs. Edlin having left.\nArabella inquired how he thought her husband was now, and seeing that\nthe Doctor looked ruffled, asked him to take something. He assented.\n\n I ll bring it to you here in the passage,  she said.  There s nobody\nbut me about the house to-day. \n\nShe brought him a bottle and a glass, and he drank.\n\nArabella began shaking with suppressed laughter.  What is this, my\ndear?  he asked, smacking his lips.\n\n Oh a drop of wine and something in it.  Laughing again she said:  I\npoured your own love-philtre into it, that you sold me at the\nagricultural show, don t you re-member? \n\n I do, I do! Clever woman! But you must be prepared for the\nconsequences.  Putting his arm round her shoulders he kissed her there\nand then.\n\n Don t don t,  she whispered, laughing good-humouredly.  My man will\nhear. \n\nShe let him out of the house, and as she went back she said to herself:\n Well! Weak women must provide for a rainy day. And if my poor fellow\nupstairs do go off as I suppose he will soon it s well to keep chances\nopen. And I can t pick and choose now as I could when I was younger.\nAnd one must take the old if one can t get the young. \n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nThe last pages to which the chronicler of these lives would ask the\nreader s attention are concerned with the scene in and out of Jude s\nbedroom when leafy summer came round again.\n\nHis face was now so thin that his old friends would hardly have known\nhim. It was afternoon, and Arabella was at the looking-glass curling\nher hair, which operation she performed by heating an umbrella-stay in\nthe flame of a candle she had lighted, and using it upon the flowing\nlock. When she had finished this, practised a dimple, and put on her\nthings, she cast her eyes round upon Jude. He seemed to be sleeping,\nthough his position was an elevated one, his malady preventing him\nlying down.\n\nArabella, hatted, gloved, and ready, sat down and waited, as if\nexpecting some one to come and take her place as nurse.\n\nCertain sounds from without revealed that the town was in festivity,\nthough little of the festival, whatever it might have been, could be\nseen here. Bells began to ring, and the notes came into the room\nthrough the open window, and travelled round Jude s head in a hum. They\nmade her restless, and at last she said to herself:  Why ever doesn t\nFather come? \n\nShe looked again at Jude, critically gauged his ebbing life, as she had\ndone so many times during the late months, and glancing at his watch,\nwhich was hung up by way of timepiece, rose impatiently. Still he\nslept, and coming to a resolution she slipped from the room, closed the\ndoor noiselessly, and descended the stairs. The house was empty. The\nattraction which moved Arabella to go abroad had evidently drawn away\nthe other inmates long before.\n\nIt was a warm, cloudless, enticing day. She shut the front door, and\nhastened round into Chief Street, and when near the theatre could hear\nthe notes of the organ, a rehearsal for a coming concert being in\nprogress. She entered under the archway of Oldgate College, where men\nwere putting up awnings round the quadrangle for a ball in the hall\nthat evening. People who had come up from the country for the day were\npicnicking on the grass, and Arabella walked along the gravel paths and\nunder the aged limes. But finding this place rather dull she returned\nto the streets, and watched the carriages drawing up for the concert,\nnumerous Dons and their wives, and undergraduates with gay female\ncompanions, crowding up likewise. When the doors were closed, and the\nconcert began, she moved on.\n\nThe powerful notes of that concert rolled forth through the swinging\nyellow blinds of the open windows, over the housetops, and into the\nstill air of the lanes. They reached so far as to the room in which\nJude lay; and it was about this time that his cough began again and\nawakened him.\n\nAs soon as he could speak he murmured, his eyes still closed:  A little\nwater, please. \n\nNothing but the deserted room received his appeal, and he coughed to\nexhaustion again saying still more feebly:  Water some\nwater Sue Arabella! \n\nThe room remained still as before. Presently he gasped again:\n Throat water Sue darling drop of water please oh please! \n\nNo water came, and the organ notes, faint as a bee s hum, rolled in as\nbefore.\n\nWhile he remained, his face changing, shouts and hurrahs came from\nsomewhere in the direction of the river.\n\n Ah yes! The Remembrance games,  he murmured.  And I here. And Sue\ndefiled! \n\nThe hurrahs were repeated, drowning the faint organ notes. Jude s face\nchanged more: he whispered slowly, his parched lips scarcely moving:\n\n_ Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was\nsaid, There is a man-child conceived. _\n\n( Hurrah! )\n\n_ Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither\nlet the light shine upon it. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no\njoyful voice come therein. _\n\n( Hurrah! )\n\n_ Why died I not from the womb? Why did I not give up the ghost when I\ncame out of the belly?   For now should I have lain still and been\nquiet. I should have slept: then had I been at rest! _\n\n( Hurrah! )\n\n_ There the prisoners rest together; they hear not the voice of the\noppressor  The small and the great are there; and the servant is free\nfrom his master. Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and\nlife unto the bitter in soul? _\n\n\nMeanwhile Arabella, in her journey to discover what was going on, took\na short cut down a narrow street and through an obscure nook into the\nquad of Cardinal. It was full of bustle, and brilliant in the sunlight\nwith flowers and other preparations for a ball here also. A carpenter\nnodded to her, one who had formerly been a fellow-workman of Jude s. A\ncorridor was in course of erection from the entrance to the hall\nstaircase, of gay red and buff bunting. Waggon-loads of boxes\ncontaining bright plants in full bloom were being placed about, and the\ngreat staircase was covered with red cloth. She nodded to one workman\nand another, and ascended to the hall on the strength of their\nacquaintance, where they were putting down a new floor and decorating\nfor the dance.\n\nThe cathedral bell close at hand was sounding for five o clock service.\n\n I should not mind having a spin there with a fellow s arm round my\nwaist,  she said to one of the men.  But Lord, I must be getting home\nagain there s a lot to do. No dancing for me! \n\nWhen she reached home she was met at the door by Stagg, and one or two\nother of Jude s fellow stoneworkers.  We are just going down to the\nriver,  said the former,  to see the boat-bumping. But we ve called\nround on our way to ask how your husband is. \n\n He s sleeping nicely, thank you,  said Arabella.\n\n That s right. Well now, can t you give yourself half an hour s\nrelaxation, Mrs. Fawley, and come along with us?  Twould do you good. \n\n I should like to go,  said she.  I ve never seen the boat-racing, and\nI hear it is good fun. \n\n Come along! \n\n How I _wish_ I could!  She looked longingly down the street.  Wait a\nminute, then. I ll just run up and see how he is now. Father is with\nhim, I believe; so I can most likely come. \n\nThey waited, and she entered. Downstairs the inmates were absent as\nbefore, having, in fact, gone in a body to the river where the\nprocession of boats was to pass. When she reached the bedroom she found\nthat her father had not even now come.\n\n Why couldn t he have been here!  she said impatiently.  He wants to\nsee the boats himself that s what it is! \n\nHowever, on looking round to the bed she brightened, for she saw that\nJude was apparently sleeping, though he was not in the usual\nhalf-elevated posture necessitated by his cough. He had slipped down,\nand lay flat. A second glance caused her to start, and she went to the\nbed. His face was quite white, and gradually becoming rigid. She\ntouched his fingers; they were cold, though his body was still warm.\nShe listened at his chest. All was still within. The bumping of near\nthirty years had ceased.\n\nAfter her first appalled sense of what had happened, the faint notes of\na military or other brass band from the river reached her ears; and in\na provoked tone she exclaimed,  To think he should die just now! Why\ndid he die just now!  Then meditating another moment or two she went to\nthe door, softly closed it as before, and again descended the stairs.\n\n Here she is!  said one of the workmen.  We wondered if you were coming\nafter all. Come along; we must be quick to get a good place  Well, how\nis he? Sleeping well still? Of course, we don t want to drag  ee away\nif \n\n Oh yes sleeping quite sound. He won t wake yet,  she said hurriedly.\n\nThey went with the crowd down Cardinal Street, where they presently\nreached the bridge, and the gay barges burst upon their view. Thence\nthey passed by a narrow slit down to the riverside path now dusty, hot,\nand thronged. Almost as soon as they had arrived the grand procession\nof boats began; the oars smacking with a loud kiss on the face of the\nstream, as they were lowered from the perpendicular.\n\n Oh, I say how jolly! I m glad I ve come,  said Arabella.  And it can t\nhurt my husband my being away. \n\nOn the opposite side of the river, on the crowded barges, were gorgeous\nnosegays of feminine beauty, fashionably arrayed in green, pink, blue,\nand white. The blue flag of the boat club denoted the centre of\ninterest, beneath which a band in red uniform gave out the notes she\nhad already heard in the death-chamber. Collegians of all sorts, in\ncanoes with ladies, watching keenly for  our  boat, darted up and down.\nWhile she regarded the lively scene somebody touched Arabella in the\nribs, and looking round she saw Vilbert.\n\n That philtre is operating, you know!  he said with a leer.  Shame on\n ee to wreck a heart so! \n\n I shan t talk of love to-day. \n\n Why not? It is a general holiday. \n\nShe did not reply. Vilbert s arm stole round her waist, which act could\nbe performed unobserved in the crowd. An arch expression overspread\nArabella s face at the feel of the arm, but she kept her eyes on the\nriver as if she did not know of the embrace.\n\nThe crowd surged, pushing Arabella and her friends sometimes nearly\ninto the river, and she would have laughed heartily at the horse-play\nthat succeeded, if the imprint on her mind s eye of a pale, statuesque\ncountenance she had lately gazed upon had not sobered her a little.\n\nThe fun on the water reached the acme of excitement; there were\nimmersions, there were shouts: the race was lost and won, the pink and\nblue and yellow ladies retired from the barges, and the people who had\nwatched began to move.\n\n Well it s been awfully good,  cried Arabella.  But I think I must get\nback to my poor man. Father is there, so far as I know; but I had\nbetter get back. \n\n What s your hurry? \n\n Well, I must go  Dear, dear, this is awkward! \n\nAt the narrow gangway where the people ascended from the riverside path\nto the bridge the crowd was literally jammed into one hot mass Arabella\nand Vilbert with the rest; and here they remained motionless, Arabella\nexclaiming,  Dear, dear!  more and more impatiently; for it had just\noccurred to her mind that if Jude were discovered to have died alone an\ninquest might be deemed necessary.\n\n What a fidget you are, my love,  said the physician, who, being\npressed close against her by the throng, had no need of personal effort\nfor contact.  Just as well have patience: there s no getting away yet! \n\nIt was nearly ten minutes before the wedged multitude moved\nsufficiently to let them pass through. As soon as she got up into the\nstreet Arabella hastened on, forbidding the physician to accompany her\nfurther that day. She did not go straight to her house; but to the\nabode of a woman who performed the last necessary offices for the\npoorer dead; where she knocked.\n\n My husband has just gone, poor soul,  she said.  Can you come and lay\nhim out? \n\nArabella waited a few minutes; and the two women went along, elbowing\ntheir way through the stream of fashionable people pouring out of\nCardinal meadow, and being nearly knocked down by the carriages.\n\n I must call at the sexton s about the bell, too,  said Arabella.  It\nis just round here, isn t it? I ll meet you at my door. \n\nBy ten o clock that night Jude was lying on the bedstead at his lodging\ncovered with a sheet, and straight as an arrow. Through the partly\nopened window the joyous throb of a waltz entered from the ball-room at\nCardinal.\n\n\nTwo days later, when the sky was equally cloudless, and the air equally\nstill, two persons stood beside Jude s open coffin in the same little\nbedroom. On one side was Arabella, on the other the Widow Edlin. They\nwere both looking at Jude s face, the worn old eyelids of Mrs. Edlin\nbeing red.\n\n How beautiful he is!  said she.\n\n Yes. He s a  andsome corpse,  said Arabella.\n\nThe window was still open to ventilate the room, and it being about\nnoontide the clear air was motionless and quiet without. From a\ndistance came voices; and an apparent noise of persons stamping.\n\n What s that?  murmured the old woman.\n\n Oh, that s the Doctors in the theatre, conferring Honorary degrees on\nthe Duke of Hamptonshire and a lot more illustrious gents of that sort.\nIt s Remembrance Week, you know. The cheers come from the young men. \n\n Aye; young and strong-lunged! Not like our poor boy here. \n\nAn occasional word, as from some one making a speech, floated from the\nopen windows of the theatre across to this quiet corner, at which there\nseemed to be a smile of some sort upon the marble features of Jude;\nwhile the old, superseded, Delphin editions of Virgil and Horace, and\nthe dog-eared Greek Testament on the neighbouring shelf, and the few\nother volumes of the sort that he had not parted with, roughened with\nstone-dust where he had been in the habit of catching them up for a few\nminutes between his labours, seemed to pale to a sickly cast at the\nsounds. The bells struck out joyously; and their reverberations\ntravelled round the bed-room.\n\nArabella s eyes removed from Jude to Mrs. Edlin.  D ye think she will\ncome?  she asked.\n\n I could not say. She swore not to see him again. \n\n How is she looking? \n\n Tired and miserable, poor heart. Years and years older than when you\nsaw her last. Quite a staid, worn woman now.  Tis the man she can t\nstomach un, even now! \n\n If Jude had been alive to see her, he would hardly have cared for her\nany more, perhaps. \n\n That s what we don t know  Didn t he ever ask you to send for her,\nsince he came to see her in that strange way? \n\n No. Quite the contrary. I offered to send, and he said I was not to\nlet her know how ill he was. \n\n Did he forgive her? \n\n Not as I know. \n\n Well poor little thing,  tis to be believed she s found forgiveness\nsomewhere! She said she had found peace!\n\n She may swear that on her knees to the holy cross upon her necklace\ntill she s hoarse, but it won t be true!  said Arabella.  She s never\nfound peace since she left his arms, and never will again till she s as\nhe is now! "
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